comsiclvsh

[comsiclvsh]

riri sleeps so heavy.

almost nothing can awake her. a vacuum? no. someone outside cutting grass? nah. clanging pots? nope.

doesn’t stir her one bit.

but when it comes to you? it’s a whole different story.

even when she’s in the bed unconscious, she knows when your presence is near. if you come in through the door and she’s sleeping on the couch her eyes immediately open at the jangle of your keys.

“baby, that you?”

or when you two are in the bed together and you move positions, riri would begin to stir, her also moving positions as well, pulling you closer making it known that your moving woke her just a little.

when it’s the middle of the night and you wake up having to pee and riri has you trapped in her arms, you know exactly what’s about to happen.

you try to pry yourself out of her arms but it results in a deep breath leaving from her nose and making her hold tighter.

“where you going?”

“i have to pee, ri.” you spoke tired and softly.

she didn’t say anything, but she surely let go of you, allowing you to make it to the bathroom.

“hurry up.”

taglist— @mitchesmoon @onyxstones-world @pvnks0ul @shuririsart @newctrll @mariquitaaa (comment to be added)

[comsiclvsh]

"f-ffuck... clark!" you moaned out as he slammed your twitching back down with his forearm, his mouth devoring you inside-out ferociously.

clark needed this more than you did. he gave the world his all to save it one more time, and right now, all he wanted was to suck on his girlfriend's clit and watch her squirm.

oh, how he loved the endless strings of "clark! shit–yes, p-please—yes!!" that you mindlessly let out, eyes rolling back and grip tightening in his hair. you tried to tug, to pull him away, to beg for mercy, but he didn't even feel it.

right when his tongue started pressing against your entrance, an unfamiliar scratching noise caught your attention.

"d-did you hea- oh my god!" the reasonable part of your brain completely shut off when his tongue penetrated you, the tip of it toying with the texture of your sticky walls.

he swallowed obnoxiously loud before sighing and pulling up slightly. "ignore it." was all he said in that husky, desperate voice of his, before he dived back into business. his tongue landed back on your clit this time, flicking it while two of his digits slipped inside seamlessly.

clark kent was focused on one thing, one current goal—making you cum. atleast thrice, for good measure.

but that thought, that fantasy, was cut short when a sudden boom echoed throughout the room, the bedroom door shattering. both of you jumped up, looking out for any danger until... another scratching sound... and a bark.

"krypto!" you shouted, your chest heaving. (because of your nearing orgasm or because of the shock ? no one knows...) meanwhile, clark hadn't pulled out but went still inside you before he burst out laughing, making you whip your head and glare.

"I think the-... I think the moaning alerted him.." he was weak with how much he was giggling and you sighed, flopping back down. "alright. sex is over."

"what!?" that was enough to get him serious again. "no, baby ill– I'll it make up to you. let me show you, let me make you feel good." he started thrusting his fingers again, increasing his pace as he shooed krypto away. "b-but the... the door, clark..!" you could barely speak since his fingers were knocking the wind out of you with each push.

"sweetie, who needs a door to feel good?"

bonus : "doors are overrated anyway." you breathed out, panting as he cleaned you up (the creampie was insane). he chuckled, "damn right they are."

[comsiclvsh]

happy juneteenth♥️🤍🩵

read a Black American's fic today

support some Black American artists

send your Black American friends some money and listen to some Chaka Khan!!♥️🔱🖤

[comsiclvsh]

Fluffy Remmick taking care of you during a paticularly rough shark week, you know like running you hot baths, warming up your pjs for you to wear after you bathe or shower, maybe gifting you a plushie, a bat squishmallow of sorts to cheer you up? Maybe getting ya chocolate🥹🩷🦇🙏🥺

I'm going through a shark week and I need some comfort!🥺

YESSS MY SHARK WEEKS IN 14 DAYS THIS SHIT IS NEEDED

Housewife remmick bc...yes. a lil inspiration from the shade between us when drunk remmick got Estelle eggs from across town @astoldbyaja.

Warnings: nothing, remmicks hands on you tummy to relieve cramps. (I prefer cold on it then hot..sorry.) Vampy reader (bc I'm writing this for my partner in smut @snuggle-fangs DUHHH) a bit of Btvs laws rn (if a vampire alr let in it can forever enter unless you cast a spell revoking their rights to enter)

Remmick was ecstatic to find out you were on your period. The second he smelt your monthly, he was already at the door peering in, like an axe murderer from a horror movie. Just waiting for you to allow him a taste, his crimson eyes wide, like the ones of a begging child.

However, when he heard you whining, and thrash around under the covers, as he heard Christopher Lee's deep voice illuminating the messy, but cozy bedroom. He frowned, and slowly crept into the room.

"Awe, im s'sorry, love?" He tutted as he sat at the edge of the bed, stroking your soft legs from bellow the cover, he kissed your décolleté area, affectionately and gently, as he sniffed the scent of perfume on your pressure point. You whined cuddling into him as he pressed his icy hands on your warm tummy, giving you a little massage while slowly kissing your shoulder and shushing you.

His frozen body, was extremely refreshing to you, especially in the heat of the summer season. He watched the movie with you as he moved counter clock wise on your tummy, you calmed down a bit, and exhaled. After the movie finished he got up, and went to the master bathroom, nonchalantly, as you flicked through to find something else to watch, you body ached without your glacial lover holding you, you sighed as you turned up the volume, masking the loud sound of the water gushing into the tub.

Around 10 or so minutes later, he steps out and leads you to the bathroom. You look down to see the tub filled with bubbles and roses and it reeked of your favourite body products. You smiled as you kissed him on the cheek and peeled off your clothes, as soon as you sunk into the bath he kissed your forehead.

"Now, I'm bout to run a few errands. Be back in a jiffy." He whispered lowly as he left the bathroom, you sunk into the bath and inhaled the deep scent. You relaxed as you looked at the little set up, Remmick made you. The wooden board laid flat as it supported a laptop, snacks, and tea.

You smiled, you loved your little housewife of a husband, Remmick.

After you were satisfied you drained the water to find fresh, silk pajamas nice and toasty for you, a pad already in your underwear waiting for you to just put it on. Your man made sure you were playing life on easy mode, since you've married him. You smiled as you put on your pajamas and smelt the freshly washed blankets and sheets, you let out a little giggle as you saw an old princess blanket underneath, to prevent the mattress from messing up.

Now, what does Remmick know about the princess blankets.

You shook your head before cuddling underneath the sheets as you waited for Remmick, it was rainy and you were a little worried. You bit your lip, as you conjured up the worst possible scenarios to happen. You heard the sound of keys jingling and exhaled. He was back. You heard him cough a bit, and bags crinkle.

He ran to the bedroom, looking like he just went through a typhoon, you cocked your head as you inhaled sharply looking at him, he was in bad shape. He set the bags down, and handed you a bar of chocolate.

They didn't have that brand at your local grocery store. At all.

"Baby?"

"Hm?"

"Where'd you get this?" You questioned examining the bar of sweetened cacao.

"Oh, I drove downtown." He said changing out of his wet clothes, shivering slightly, your eyes widened as you played with your new bat squishmello.

"Pardon?" You said in disbelief, he just looked at you like it was nothing.

You smiled as he got closer to the bed, you pulled him in by his shirt and kissed him. He smiled kissing back, crawling on top of you a bit. You giggled, as he jokingly took little bites of you. Like a parent playing with their child. You smiled kissing his soft lips.

"You know, it pains me how much pain you feel durin' your monthly sweetheart." He frowns, massaging your belly once more. "You know, I have a deal to cut with you, I can make it dissappear for 9 months, maybe longer I'd your willin' but with a few gaps. You could be having the menstrual cycle of a medieval lady, honestly. No strings attached." He said nibbling on your shoulder. You giggled and pushed him away.

"It's fine...not everyone accepts good deals." He whispered, before sitting up.

[comsiclvsh]

Pretty Little Thing

Remmick x Black Female Reader

Reuploaded, edited and proofread

Tags and Warnings: Chicago 1930s Au, Mafia Au, Remmick is in an Irish mafia, Remmick is still a vampire, Reader is 22 years old, everyone is up North from the South, Age gaps, slow burn, eventual smut, dub-con, (maybe—non-con), lengthy fanfic

Summary: At the twins new night club in Chicago, you give an opening performance and among the crowd of onlookers a certain Irish man from the other side of the Southside eyes linger a little too long on you.

A/N: ⚠️ Hi, everyone!! Before diving deeper to read this story, I ask that you throughly read the tags and know what you’re about to read. This contains dub-con and maybe non-con. Please be aware of those factors if you’re uncomfortable with that. If not please proceed and enjoy! ⚠️

I put this extra warning because someone on ao3 felt it had non-con in it in later chapters, i apologize profusely for that because it wasn’t what I thought I was writing and I don’t want anyone else to have to same experience as that person, so please tread carefully and be warned!!

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི ⁺‧

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི ⁺‧

“Well, little lady, you ready to show off that voice of yours?” A raspy, dried out voice croaks.

In the mirror’s reflection your eyes catch a glimpse of an old tall man peeking his head through the crack of the dressing room door. Still applying makeup, you give him a silent nod, heart racing wildly.

Profusely you begged your older twin cousins from down south to let you sing at their new night club in Chicago. Persistently without an ounce of sympathy they denied you, specifically the more firm, mean one—Smoke.

The only reason you’re set to put on a show tonight is because little ole Sammy from down south came all the way up north to escape the hot fields of crop sharing and is putting on a show himself. He’ll perform right after you, singing the blues whilst playing his fancy little guitar.

You two are the same age—twenty-two and you made sure to bring it up to make your case against Smoke. Stack took your side and convinced his brother and that’s how you ended up in their club’s dressroom.

“Okay, well make the dolling up quick, Smoke says you're on in five minutes, little lady.” His southern accent drips from his words, old and raw. He too came up north to support the twins' new night club.

“I’ll be out soon, Slim.”

With that said, Slim leaves and the door clicks shut softly. You continue finishing your last step of putting on the makeup–lipstick. Careful and docile, you apply a dark cherry red lipstick before twirling in the mirror. The pale purple flapper dress dances in the air, shining from the light's reflection. You always wanted to wear this type of dress, but never had the money to afford one. Stack has taste since he’s the one who brought you the dress for tonight.

You join Slim on the main stage excited but nervous. From his piano he looks up and smiles. “My, my, little lady, you are breathtaking tonight.”

You blow the old man a kiss. “Why thank you!” You giggle, eyes bright.

People pool into the establishment, wearing all sorts of expensive attire for tonight’s event. The sight of so many people nearly makes you want to dash off stage to the dressing room and stay there the entire night. But you refuse to back out. Not after all that convincing you did. Nope, no going back now.

Sammy strolls on the stage, guitar in hand as usual. “Good luck out there.” He smiles ear to ear.

“Same to you!” You chirp, as Slim begins to play the piano and other musicians on stage join him.

Soon the night club is buzzing with folks from all around Chicago’s southside. Brown faces of all shades fill the room leaving no space for any lighter tones. Though the city wasn’t legally segregated, it’s still separated by redlining. The closest you’ve been to white people are the ones also residing in the southside as well but in different neighborhoods–Irish white folk.

Lately there’s been rumors of tensions growing between the Black and Irish gangs for territories and things you really didn’t know about. It’s also rumored tonight an irish gang will join tonight's grand opening, settling tensions or come to some sort of compromise.

Whatever, it doesn’t concern you so you don’t mind it. On the main level where the dance floor is Smoke and Stack stand side by side welcoming their guests. Stack displays a bubbly face and his brother, an intimidating frown, stoic as always.

Stack takes a drag of a thick cigar. “Welcome, good folk of chicago! How y’all doing tonight?” His voice booms, southern drawl rich.

The crowd hoots and whistles among multiple claps.

“Tonight our little cousin, raised and born here in the sweet ole windy city will be our opening performance.” Smoke chucks a thumb over his shoulder to the stage facing his backside and takes his turn with the cigar.

The crowd cheers louder this time as the showlights shine brightly on your frame at the center of the stage. It nearly blinds you, but you remain stiff, not daring to move an inch.

“She got the voice of an angel y’all, but let’s get this shit started!” Stack hypes the people up once more before blending into the sea of tables with his older brother trailing behind.

The lights everywhere else in the large club fade to a dimmer glow, and only the bright light on the stage shines. You feel like you could throw up at any given second with so many eyes glued on you. At the side of the stage Delta Slim begins playing the piano and other musicians on stage follow suit.

Deep among the multiple faces of strangers, Sammy gives you a reassuring smile and mouths, “you got this!” He flicks up a thumb.

You gulp, giving moisture to your gritty, dry throat and start singing. Slowly your body loosens up, that stiffness melting off. As the song goes on your body moves with the flow dancing around the stage and the crowd springs to life. People cheer for you and others groove to the rhythm themselves.

As you’re distracted, absorbed in the world of music, you miss the glowing red eyes far off at a table with Smoke and Stack. The eyes latch onto your body, watching your every move on stage.

Curiosity turns to interest.

Interest to fascination.

Fascination to lust and desire.

“Hey, Irish man, eyes on me,” Smoke demands, eyes grave as his palm rests on the gun buried in his hip holster. “Not on my baby cousin on stage.”

Stack joins in, a cocky smirk pulls at his full lips. “I know, she a diamond ain’t she? But you ain’t come here for that. So, you best keep those wanderin’ eyes on us.”

The Irish man grins himself, eyes slick. “Can’t help admiring pretty things,” he drifts off, eyes daring to sneak a peek at you once more. “And I’m the type of man that loves pretty things.”

His words tick the twins off. Between the both of them it enrages Smoke the most. It takes every ounce in his body to stop the itch in his hand not to aim the gun at the cheeky Irish man.

“You better watch that filthy fuckin’ mouth of yours, motherfucker,” Smoke growls.

The Irish man’s goons around him grow tense at his offensive words. Ready to start a bloodbath, hands ghosting over their guns too but their boss’ voices freezes them.

“Be calm, this ain’t nothing.” And as if it’s a command their muscles relax. “Right, me and my men are gathered here for business. So let’s talk business, fellars.”

On stage you huff, panting, light sweat pooling at your temples. The crowd goes wild, clapping and cheering your name.

“You did amazing,” Slim says and takes a swig from a flask.

You shoot him a smile too tired to use your voice. When the cheers die down you gain the club’s attention. “Cousin Smoke and Stack, cheers to a wonderful night tonight!” Your hands point to them and then at Sammy. “And everyone give it up for little ole Sammy from the deep south!”

Like before, cheers shake the club as you leave the stage. Behind stage Sammy squeezes you in a tight hug. He applauds your performance before rushing to the stage to sing his blues. Before he completely disappears to the stage he halts, head peering over his shoulder.

“Oh also, Smoke said to stay in the back rooms cause you ain’t allowed up front.” He sharply inhales, eyes glinting with guilt. “Sorry about that!”

You blink. His words take a minute to sink and soak in your brain and before they register he’s already bolted on stage. The booming sounds from the crowds tell it all as it practically shakes the walls. You want to ask him why, but seeing it’s too late you just listen.

Salty and disappointed, you walk through the short dimly lit hall. Fingers trailing along the blood red walls as you pass by. The backroom is empty of people. Fancy expensive couch chairs surrounding a polished wooden table with a candle on top centers the room.

Mirroring the halls outside, the walls inside here are red with painted portraits of long black figures dancing and playing the blues. Left to the wooden table is a brick built in fireplace and to the right is a small bar with pricey booze bottles.

Illegal booze.

Plopping down on a tall stool, back slouched, you snatch a liquor bottle.

How ironic, blues music whispers in the backroom as you’re feeling quite blue.

After tonight you’ll make sure to give Smoke and even Stack a piece of your furious mind. This sudden unpromised treatment is petty and unfair. After your performance you expected to be out on the dance floor dancing and mingling. Not locked away back here for no one to see.

You slide a nearby shot glass to you and pop the bottle open. The top goes clacking on the cocktail table. Filling the small glass to the brim, you take a swig of the bitter poison. It burns, slipping down your throat. You repeat the process once more.

You sigh and bury your face in your palms, both elbows propped on the table. “Fuck you Smoke…and fuck you Stack.”

Your vision blurs as you sniffle.

As if they planned it, the twins burst through the door and you jolt upright on the tool. Behind them a pale white man follows after. His eyes are quick to find you and a sly smirk carves on his face. The twins however fail to notice you until they're on the cushion red couches. Smoke's face is quick, flashing anger and irritation while Stack is dumbfounded.

Stack stands. “What the fuck are you doin’ back here?”

Your eyes widen, appalled at his words. “Why am I back here,” you pause. A glare pulls your brows together. “You two jerks sent me back here, that’s what I’m doing back here!”

Your little feisty attitude makes the Irish man lean forward. Elbows resting on his legs, callused hands entwined as his face ghosts above them. A low chuckle rumbles in his throat. His mind races, ideas of how he’d have fun breaking you in. He never did like the obedient type of women.

Smoke remains seated, legs crossed. “Watch your damn mouth in front of company, girl.”

The word girl makes you flinch as the three men watch you. Smoke rarely speaks to you in such a tone let alone call you girl. It makes you wonder who spit in his drink tonight.

“Don’t mind him, he’s just a bit moody,” Stack says lightly, but you still don’t buy it.

You shift on the stool, feeling a bit shaky at your older cousin’s brutal demeanor. “Whatever,” you mumble, but no one but your ears hear it.

“But really, why’re you back here, Sammy didn’t tell you to come here.”

Confusion flickers upon your features. “With all due respect, yes he did.”

A long exhale falls from Smoke’s mouth. “Damn boy, can’t even listen right.”

The Irish man sitting between both twins is silent and patient as he watches the scene unravel. His eyes sparkle with greed and mischief as his eyes linger longer over at the bar.

“Well, gone on home. Find Sammy and Slim so they can take you.”

“Wait.”

All of your eyes fall on the Irish man. You stand on your feet, hand idly resting on the bar table.

He tilts his head towards the bar and you swear you can see steam seething from Smoke.

“Don’t,” Smoke grits out. His eyes glint doused in bloodlust as he leans forward on the couch.

The Irish man keeps going, regardless of Smoke’s threatening tone.

“Is that my open booze over there by the pretty little thing?” His eyes remain on the twins.

Smoke and Stack heads whip to the bar. The younger twin eyes grow wide and his brother’s face twists in rage. Smoke curses under his breath, lost for words.

“Remmick, you leave her out of this. She had no idea it was yours,” Stack says, brows furrowed.

You stand frozen, mind dizzy, stomach sinking. Did you do something wrong? Yes, and you know it, but you just don’t know what exactly it is. You do figure it’s got something to do with the open booze bottle on the cocktail table.

It might be the wrong decision to say something right now, but you speak anyway.

“Okay, Smoke. Stack. I’m gonna head home now.”

“Don’t move.”

Remmick’s voice freezes your body in place.

“I think you owe me, darlin.” He smirks, eyes growing wide.

“How much money for the bottle?” Smoke jumps from the couch.

“I’m not talking to you,” Remmick says, voice stale and dry. His deep brown irises burn holes through you. “What was it again?” His fingers caress his chin, licking at his sharp canines that resemble more that of fangs than regular human teeth.

Finally, he says your name as if he’s won the lottery, snapping his fingers. He turns to you and sighs, still smiling like a maniac.

“How are you gonna pay me back for drinking my booze, pretty little thing?”

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧⁺ ⁺‧₊˚ ཐི ⁺‧

[comsiclvsh]

𝕿𝖗𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝕸𝖊

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: ᴅᴏᴍᴇꜱᴛɪᴄ!ᴘᴇᴛ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ x ꜰ!ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴘᴏʀɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴘʟᴏᴛ, ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ, ʜᴜʀᴛ/ᴄᴏᴍꜰᴏʀᴛ, ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜰʀᴇᴀᴋʏ-ɴᴇᴇᴅʏ-ᴘᴀᴛʜᴇᴛɪᴄ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜱᴜʙ ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ, ꜰ!ᴅᴏᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ, ᴍᴏᴅᴇʀɴ ᴇʀᴀ, ᴏʀᴀʟ (ᴍ ʀᴇᴄᴇɪᴠɪɴɢ), ᴘ ɪɴ ᴠ, ᴍᴏᴀɴɪɴɢ, ᴡʜɪɴɪɴɢ, ᴘʀᴀɪꜱɪɴɢ, ᴄᴜᴍ ᴇᴀᴛɪɴɢ, ᴅʀᴏᴏʟɪɴɢ, ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ, ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ꜱᴇx, ꜱᴡᴇᴀʀɪɴɢ, ᴇxᴘʟɪᴄɪᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ, ꜱʟɪɢʜᴛ ᴅɪʀᴛʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋ, ᴇxᴄᴇꜱꜱɪᴠᴇ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴘᴇᴛ ɴᴀᴍᴇꜱ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ.

𝘼/𝙣: 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙢𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙧 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙢𝙪𝙘𝙝 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙣 𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙠𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙨. 𝙇𝙚𝙩’𝙨 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙖 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠.

𝔹𝕒𝕤𝕖𝕕 𝕠𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕄𝕒𝕚𝕟 𝕊𝕥𝕠𝕣𝕪

ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ: 9,1ᴋ

It’s not even noon when you hear the doorbell ring for the fourth time in ten minutes.

Mondays were always bustling with customers because of the early weekend closure. The business complex was small compared to the big chains downtown, but older folks and local regulars much preferred stopping by a small center rather than driving miles to reach a larger one and stand in endless checkout lines.

You barely lift your gaze from near the stockroom, where you’re logging invoices to send to your trusted accountant at the end of the month. An elderly woman leaves with a polite smile and a bag that jingles.

You hurry to thank her, and she responds with a slow, gentle nod before disappearing into the gray street.

Outside, the sun is scorching the pavement even though it’s only early spring. When the door opens, the smell of freshly baked pizza from the bakery next door makes you sigh with pleasure. But no—you had to hold out until the evening. Remmick was surely cooking something while shut in at home, far from the sunlight.

You smile at the thought of how essential he had become in your life. When you came home from a hard day, he was always there—waiting, comforting you—and like magic, all the fatigue would melt from your shoulders.

His cooking skills were slowly improving, and even though he had no real need to eat, he still did it for fun. He was dead, and normal food didn’t satisfy him, but that didn’t mean he lacked taste buds.

You close the folder and slide it onto the shelf. Then you stretch your arms above your head, yawning slightly. The morning had been calm—aside from the usual parade of indecisive customers and two men asking where to find the most ‘aesthetically pleasing’ toilet paper.

Your coworker, Iwan, is lost somewhere between the shelves. He’s stocking boxes full of new kitchenware—bamboo spoons, decorative cutting boards, all those cute and useful things people buy when they need a little comfort.

Your boss had decided to hire another employee due to the increasing customer flow, and you were grateful—it was getting hard to keep up with everything alone. It hadn’t been a difficult selection. The guy showed up with politeness and precision, a university student, perfect for a part-time role. And you were always happy to help young people who, even while studying, rolled up their sleeves to become independent.

You’re about to dive back into bookkeeping when you hear him arrive.

Fast steps. A thud. Then a low, almost choked voice calling your name.

You’re distracted by a paper your boss left under the register and only look up when he knocks twice on the counter with his knuckles and adds:

“Something happened.”

You frown. Iwan was always a nosy gossip. He knew everything about everyone, and the old ladies loved hanging around the shop to chat with him and whisper the latest news. Of course, he always rushed back to tell you everything—even though you were never much for gossip—and he always had that excited look.

But not today.

Iwan has a face you’ve never seen on him before. Not scared.

More… hollowed out. As if reality had gently taken the words out of his mouth.

“Go on,” you say, concerned. “What is it?”

He removes his baseball cap, holding it in his hands, twisting and turning it like there’s something alive inside.

“Have you heard the news?”

You shake your head, as usual. Ever since you started living with Remmick, your world had shrunk into a bubble.

“No. Why should I?”

“Because… they found a body. In the river. Early this morning. Right behind the spillway, under the small bridge—the one near here.”

You feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. It wasn’t unusual news, especially in recent decades with the whole hunt for night creatures and everything else, but the fact that it happened in the little suburb where you lived—where nothing much had happened in a long time—sets off alarm bells.

“A body?”

Iwan lowers his voice and leans over the counter, getting closer. He looks left, then right, like some browsing customer might overhear and eavesdrop.

“It was one of the guys who came here often. A man around thirty, thirty-five. The one who always had his shirt unbuttoned and wore sunglasses even when it rained.”

You freeze. Your hands stiffen on the counter. A small knot forms at the base of your throat.

“Oh…”

Iwan nods.

No names needed. You remember him perfectly.

He’d come in at least five times over the last few weeks. He’d stand between the shelves, staring at you. Asked dumb questions. Always tried to get closer than necessary. One time he even asked if you lived alone.

You told him: “Just with my pets.”

He had laughed.

You hadn’t.

“A guy from the police said it at the café next door. They found him at dawn. Floating face-down. But the weird part is… the neck. It’s not just broken. It was torn.”

He continues, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I think it won’t be long before the Custodians show up around here.”

A cold, slimy shiver runs down your spine.

“What do you mean… torn?”

You try to sound skeptical. But your voice already drops lower.

“I don’t know. They didn’t explain it clearly. Just that it wasn’t an injury from a fall. It’s something… unnatural. Like he was bitten—”

Iwan stops, noticing the expression frozen on your face.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

You snap out of it, erasing the look from your face and shaking your head.

“No, it’s fine. It’s just… a big thing to hear.”

You step away from the counter. Your hands tingle.

Part of you wants to ignore it all. Close your ears. Say you don’t care, that the guy was deeply creepy and whatever happened to him, he probably deserved it.

But that’s not true.

A man died.

And in circumstances that seep into your skin and your mind, feeding your unease.

At 1:43 pm, you step out of the shop with a weight pressing on you that you can’t shake off.

You asked Iwan if he could extend his shift today, said you weren’t feeling well and didn’t feel up to continuing, and he only nodded, his face locked in that silent kind of concern that kind people wear when they’re unsure whether they should ask more.

You didn’t let him.

You politely greet the people you know and the customers heading into the shop as you walk toward your home. The sun is still high in the sky. There’s no wind, but the air has that sticky, heavy quality that comes before slow thunderstorms—the kind that simply weep melancholy onto the sidewalks.

You cross the bridge that separates your shop from the river, and for a moment, you stop.

Down there.

Exactly down there.

Dark green water. Murky. Slow.

And in the center of that unremarkable canal… early this morning… there was a body.

The body. You knew that man. You’d rung up his groceries, talked to him, looked him in the eyes.

Now his neck is broken. And not because he tripped.

No. Iwan said that part clearly.

Like it had been torn.

You inhale.

The smell of the river hits your nose—iron and moss, with a tired trace of mold. The kind of smell no one really notices anymore around here.

But today, it stings your throat. Clings to you.

You turn away quickly and head down the plane tree-lined boulevard, walking straight home.

Every step feels heavy.

Not because you’re tired—physically, you’re not at all—but because of that feeling in your gut. That feeling that things are starting to line up.

And you’re just pretending not to notice.

A subtle tension walks beside you like a shadow—unseen, but constant.

You grip your shoulder strap tightly. Your headphones dangle from your bag. You don’t feel like listening to music. Not today.

Your phone buzzes in your pocket—just once. A notification, maybe your boss, maybe Iwan, maybe the police.

You don’t check.

Beneath your feet, the cobblestones are damp with moisture.

Now and then your heel slips a little, but you don’t stop.

And then you remember that conversation.

Not yesterday. No. More than a week ago. One of those evenings when Remmick had come to see you for no apparent reason. He was sitting by the radiator in the shop—even though he didn’t need it. Legs drawn up, hands resting on his knees, eyes fixed on you like he was studying your existence in quiet sips.

You had mentioned the guy to him, just in passing. To fill the silence. To include him in your day—usually uneventful, but not entirely that one.

You had said it lightly, almost joking.

“The idiot with the snake face tried again today. He never gives up.”

Remmick had lifted his gaze slowly.

“Did he lay a hand on ya?”

“Nah. Just talked. Doesn’t seem like the type. And I’ve got you to protect me, if anything ever did happen.”

And he had smiled. A smile that, now, days later, comes back to you with a different shade.

Not sweet.

Not tender.

It felt like a promise.

But it was just a joke, right?

Remmick had caught your sarcasm. He must have. He knew you by now.

You cross a small square where pigeons have taken over the benches.

The river’s no longer visible, but you still feel it at your back, as if the water is following you.

Each step toward home brings you closer to a possibility you’ve been trying not to name:

That Remmick knew.

That he didn’t let it go.

That he acted.

And no, not because you asked him to.

But because you’re his.

In that ancient, animal, visceral way, in which certain creatures look at you and don’t see a person—they see a reason to live.

And if someone threatens that reason…

Well.

You’re not entirely sure how it ends.

You reach your front door with your heart beating a little too fast.

You drop the key the first time. You pick it up and slide it into the lock as if nothing happened.

Open.

Close the door behind you.

The cat watches you from the living room window, looking satisfied, lying on a blanket that Remmick has probably folded with geometric precision just for him.

You hear a sound coming from the kitchen: the clink of a ladle, a cabinet closing gently, the soft rush of water.

It’s not an unusual scene.

Remmick often does things for you.

Small things. Careful. Almost invisible—unless you know how he tries to earn his place under your roof.

When you step around the hallway corner and into the kitchen, you see him.

From behind.

A loose t-shirt and a pair of jeans. He looks so normal, so human.

He’s standing in front of the stove, which is turned off. In his hand, a wooden spoon. In the pot—sauce. Simple, fragrant. Like the kind made on good Sundays.

He turns at the sound of your footsteps.

And for a moment… he looks surprised. Then instantly happy.

A flash. Like a dog that wags its tail without thinking—pure instinct.

“Oh—!”

His voice is a breath, suddenly full of enthusiasm.

“I didn’t know you were coming home for lunch, sweetheart.”

You usually never came back before evening. Your shift was continuous, but you couldn’t stay in the shop with that knot in your throat making it hard to swallow.

He sets the spoon in the sink, wipes his hands on his apron—yes, he’s wearing the light linen apron you folded for summer—and comes closer.

“Did you forget something? Or… are you feeling unwell?”

Then he stops.

His eyes fix on your face.

You’re looking down.

Not smiling.

Keys still clenched in your hand.

Your shoulders stiff.

You didn’t come home because you were hungry. You didn’t come home out of affection. You came home with a thought that’s been eating you from the inside out.

Remmick understands it before you even open your mouth.

His face changes.

He doesn’t fall apart. But he slows. Becomes more careful. He studies you as if searching for new cracks that weren’t there before.

“What is it?”

His voice is low now. Concerned, but still gentle.

It’s not an interrogation.

It’s an offering.

You stand a few feet away from him.

The kitchen sounds—the drip of the tap, the sauce gently simmering, the cat stretching on the couch—form a normal frame.

But you two are not normal right now.

“They found a body this morning,” you say, finally.

Remmick doesn’t answer right away.

“Who?”

He looks at you.

You look at him.

Then you add: “It was someone who used to come to the shop. An annoying customer, but nothing serious. They found him in the canal.”

A pause.

And then: “I… I told you about him.”

Remmick nods. Slowly.

“I do, yeah. I remember. You said he was botherin' you. And you said you felt safe when I was there, didn't ya?”

His voice is flat. Not defensive. Just… linear.

As if he’s stating a fact. With the same honesty he’d use to tell you how many dishes he washed.

You stare at him—and for the first time since you’ve lived with him, you don’t see him as a tender, gentle creature, hungry only for your love.

And he notices. Something flickers in his gaze. A trace of red drowns in the gray sea of his irises.

A pain that arrives before any word.

Remmick stiffens.

“No…” he says, speaking with that thin voice he uses when he’s afraid he might break. “No, hang on. You don’t think… you’re not seriously thinkin' that…”

He takes a step toward you.

Not threatening—definitely unsure. As if approaching a flame that might collapse or suddenly burn brighter.

His eyes widen, like he’s just seen the fear in you.

“I didn’t do it.”

His tone is broken now. Full of anguish.

“I swear on it, I didn’t. I promised you, the very day you let me stay here. I swore—”

His voice cracks.

His claws (still kept beneath the skin) seem to press against the flesh.

“I swore I’d never do it. Not even if someone was hurtin' you… not even if I was tempted. Not even if I was starvin'. I… I’ve learned to keep my hunger quiet. For ya.”

His chest rises and falls. He doesn’t need to breathe—but he does it anyway. To mimic life. Or maybe to soothe his soul.

You don’t answer right away. You’re not accusing him, but your gaze doesn’t soften.

And he can’t take it.

His eyes flicker. Not because he’s guilty—but because he no longer knows how to look innocent in your eyes.

He suddenly turns, and the transformation flashes through him like lightning:

His eyes turn red.

His hands stretch and twist.

Claws emerge.

His canines sharpen like knives.

A vase on the cabinet shatters with a single swipe—a violent blow.

The shards scatter across the floor, and you instinctively take a step back to avoid being hit, a startled gasp slipping from your lips a second too late.

Remmick freezes.

He turns to you.

And he sees it. Your frightened expression.

You bring a hand to your chest, your heart pounding—but you’re not sure if it’s truly fear of him or just the raw instinct from his sudden outburst.

But for him… for him, it’s worse than any sentence.

He stands there.

Mouth slightly open.

Looking like someone who’s lost everything in a single moment.

“Darlin'…”

His voice is barely a whisper. The tone unfamiliar—like it doesn’t even belong to him.

You don’t move. You don’t know if your heart is racing or has stopped altogether.

He takes a step back.

Then another.

As if every inch between you could somehow redeem him.

“I didn’t mean to. Please. Don’t—”

His hands tremble as he tries to retract the claws, his fingers flexing convulsively as if trying to push them back under his skin.

The nails retreat slowly. One by one. His hands return to their normal size.

Then his jaw tightens.

His teeth… retract. But there’s blood on his lip. He bit himself in the process.

The red in his eyes lingers a few seconds longer.

They stare at you, lost. As if they can’t look away from the face they love—a face that now fears him.

Then that too fades.

Back to gray. Liquid. Desperate.

You haven’t said a word.

Remmick drops to his knees. There, beside the shards. Not to pick them up. But to lower himself. To take away the weight of you looking down at him.

“Don’t be lookin' at me like that,” he murmurs.

“Not like… like I’m somethin' that'd touch you when you don't want it. Not like I could ever hurt you, really.”

You swallow.

But still, you say nothing.

Remmick leans forward, hands on the floor. You see him trying to slow his breathing, shoulders trembling.

“I lost control, love. Just for a second. Didn’t mean to frighten you, but…”

He stops. The words stick in his throat.

“It felt like… you weren't believin' in me anymore.”

His tone is low, full of something breaking without making a sound.

“And I… I don’t know how… I don’t know what to do if you don’t look at me the same way anymore.”

There’s a nakedness in that sentence that leaves you breathless.

Not physical. Not theatrical. Real.

As if every gesture he made — every touch, every laugh, every kiss — hovered around the way you look at him. And if that vanishes, he disappears.

You can’t breathe properly. Not yet. But you look at him. This time, truly.

And you see everything.

The pale skin still glistening slightly with sweat, as if it retained the traces of transformation. Hands resting on the floor, fingers curled but human again, lined with thin red trails — maybe from the shards, maybe from himself. Lips drawn tight, bruised. Eyes locked on you, glassy, swollen. As if holding back tears.

“I'd never hurt you,” he whispers. “I wouldn’t even lay a finger on you. Not at you. Never at you.”

He takes a breath, broken and ruined, and lowers his head.

The silence weighs like concrete between you.

You standing, him on his knees.

And between you… the fracture.

Remmick doesn’t move for long seconds. He stays there, frozen, as if afraid that even the act of standing might make you disappear. But then he looks at you again. More slowly. And slides a little closer. Cautious, silent. He moves like water searching for a crack, like a wounded animal with nowhere to go.

He drags himself forward on his knees. One hand brushes the floor. The other stays raised halfway, as if offering itself. He doesn’t dare touch you. But he gets closer. A little more.

And you— You lift your hand. Stopping him.

“No.”

The word is small. Not harsh. But final.

Remmick freezes instantly. As if your voice were a thin blade that just carved into his breath.

You look at him. Finally, with firmness.

“I need to… think.”

Your hand stays raised, between you. A gesture more powerful than any word.

“Alone.” you add.

He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t justify.

His face lowers, his eyes drift back to the floor. It’s as if every unsaid word slipped into the cracks of silence and dimmed him a little more.

You don’t wait for him to say anything else. You turn your face. And you leave.

You walk slowly toward the hallway. Every step is dense. Every breath heavy. You don’t turn back. You don’t want to see if he’s watching you leave. You don’t want to know if he’s crying, or praying, or simply waiting.

You cross the bedroom threshold and close the door.

Then lean against it, back to the wood, as if holding out a storm.

The cat must have jumped down from its spot at the window after Remmick broke down, and is now curled up on the bed. It lifts one ear. Then recognizes you, stretches, and meows in a tired voice.

You don’t go to it immediately.

Your heart is still pounding too hard.

You move slowly through the room. Run a hand through your hair. Slip off the hoodie that clung to your skin from anxious sweat. You sit on the bed and the cat slides closer, sensing your agitation, rubbing against your thigh.

You take a deep breath. Trying to push everything away. But the image is still there.

Him.

Standing beside the broken vase. The red eyes. The sharp fingers. The mouth full of teeth not meant for speaking.

You try to recall everything he said. His voice, the plea, the ruined tone with which he tried to ask for forgiveness.

“I swore to you.”

“I'd never hurt you. Never you.”

“I don’t know what to do if you don’t look at me the same way anymore.”

You know. You know he loves you. Or whatever distorted, deep, trembling form of love a creature like him can feel. You know he’s devoted to you. That he would never harm you.

But— But.

You saw something. Something that can’t be unseen. That can’t be ignored.

And you wonder if love, by itself, is enough to hold certain things back.

You lie down. The cat jumps up beside you, curls against your shoulder. Its body warm, heavy, familiar. You bury your face in the pillow.

You try to tell yourself: “It was just a moment. He’s sorry. You know him. You’ve seen him vulnerable, humble, small.”

But the mind…the mind doesn’t agree.

Your home. Your safe space. Shaken. Altered.

You close your eyes. The cat shifts, purring softly into your ear. It knows nothing, but senses something.

Your heartbeat slows only after long, weary, suspended minutes. And as your body finally gives in to exhaustion, as your hands relax, as the cat stretches out along your stomach…the image returns.

Not the outburst.

But his other version. The gentle one, the tame one, the domestic one. The one of a creature who loves you enough to die.

With that thought, with great difficulty, you fall asleep.

You wake up at dusk.

Your eyes struggle to adjust to the dim light. The glow filtering through the window is dark blue, thick, sunless. It’s not the middle of the night. But it’s late. Maybe seven, maybe eight. You don’t know. Your body feels heavy, like a stone sunk underwater.

You turn slowly in bed, searching for something to hold onto. The cat is gone — probably found a new cozy spot or a place on the cold radiator.

You move to sit up, and something slips from your shoulders and gathers in your lap.

A blanket.

You don’t remember wrapping yourself in a blanket. Sleep must have taken you before you could do anything.

It was placed over you, gently.

Your fingers touch it, lightly grip it, and a soft smile comes to your lips.

There’s no need to wonder who put it there.

Remmick.

A thought crosses your mind. He must have come in quietly, while you were sleeping. He must have looked at you. Maybe knelt beside the bed. Maybe he just wanted… to do something for you, even without forgiveness.

You get up, finally. Your muscles are stiff. You wrap the blanket around yourself like a cloak and open the bedroom door.

The house is dark, silent. The kitchen light is still on, faint and yellow. Just one bulb — the one above the stove. There’s no sign of him.

No bowl out of place, no cup, no note.

You search for him out of habit: the chair where he always sits, the window where he reads, the hallway where he follows you in the morning to ask if you need anything.

But he’s not there.

He must have gone out to feed, you think. He never goes out this early, but after a day like that…

Then another question comes to mind.

One you can’t bring yourself to say aloud.

What was he feeding on tonight?

You don’t want to think about it.

And yet, you can’t stop yourself.

He often stayed in for days to spend time with you after work, but the next morning he always had that distant look. You always knew he was holding himself back. Even now… your mind keeps circling back to that sentence Iwan said, back at the shop.

“The neck… not broken. Torn.”

You move into the kitchen, slowly. On the stove, the sauce he had probably finished that afternoon still sits. Next to it, a plate and a portion of uncooked pasta had already been laid out. Your stomach tightens with sorrow.

You’re not hungry, but you cook anyway. To distract yourself. To pretend it’s an ordinary evening. You reheat everything in a pan. The steam fogs your eyes. You wait until the pasta is ready, drain the water into the pot, and pour a ladle of sauce over the serving.

You eat standing up, like you only do when you’re nervous. The spoon taps softly against the rim of the bowl.

The silence in the house is a crouching beast.

He should be here. Not to talk. Not even to ask for forgiveness. Just…be here.

Because Remmick, despite everything, has always been there. Even when it wasn’t needed. Even when you didn’t want him.

You finish eating. Put the dishes in the sink. Then you return to the bedroom.

You don’t think of him with anger. Not anymore. But you wonder what he’s doing, where he is.

You get back into bed. The blanket he left draped over you is still warm. You pull it over yourself again. You turn toward the pillow.

This time, sleep comes without asking permission. But it’s not peaceful sleep. It’s a sleep of waiting.

When morning comes and you wake up, you head to the bathroom to wash. You get ready for the workday, and as you leave the bedroom, you expect to see him behind the kitchen counter. However, as you pass through the hallway, sunlight floods the house through the open shutters.

And then you know. Remmick didn’t come home.

The morning light is clear, merciless. There’s no fog today, only cold, transparent air that makes everything sharper than necessary.

You hear your footsteps on the cobblestones. The echo bounces inside your chest.

You arrive at the shop a few minutes early. Iwan isn’t there yet. You open up. You pull up the shutters. Turn on the lights. Open the cash register, put on background music. A gentle playlist, full of guitars and female voices singing about love as if it weren’t something that tears people apart.

Everything seems normal. But it’s not.

The morning drags on slowly. Customers come in, ask stupid questions, impatiently flip through decorative catalogs. You answer everything. Smile. Sell. Assist. But the thought… remains.

Where is he hiding? Where did he sleep? How did he not burn?

Remmick, without your roof over his head, is just a shadow in the world. An ancient, fragile fragment that could be lost — or worse, found.

Because there are the Custodians. After the recent event, they must have split across the outskirts. You know they patrol the cities after sundown, hunting those who don’t conform. Those who show too much hunger, too much threat. And Remmick, even if he’s always obeyed you, is still a walking threat.

You lean on the counter, checking your phone for the umpteenth time. No messages. Not even a shadow of his name.

Maybe he’s tired. Maybe he just found a good hiding place. Maybe he’s under an abandoned church. Maybe he found shelter in the library’s underground levels, where no light reaches.

You hope.

And meanwhile, your heart pulses in your ears every time the shop bell rings.

Until…

At a quarter to noon, Iwan walks in.

He throws open the door with the excitement of someone who’s just seen an explosion.

“Did you see the news?” he asks, without even greeting you.

You shoot upright. Your heart stops. It truly stops.

He drops the newspaper on the table and the words pour out: “They caught the monster! They got him last night!”

You don’t breathe. You don’t move. The universe pulls back.

Iwan smiles, thrilled. He talks, but you don’t hear at first. There’s a ringing in your ears.

“They caught the monster.”

The phrase cuts you in two.

For a moment, you see only him. Remmick. Cold hands. Shaking voice. Eyes full of guilt. His pleading whispers.

And now... Caught.

Maybe tied up. Maybe burned. Maybe — God, no — maybe dismembered in a basement by hands that don’t know the difference between what’s dangerous and what’s merely… different.

You can’t breathe.

“Iwan…” you manage to say. “Who? Who did they catch?”

“Oh, right!” he laughs, not noticing anything. “No, wait — it wasn’t a real monster. I mean, not one of those night creatures. It was some guy. A drunkard. You know, the one we’d sometimes see passed out outside the pub down the street?”

You don’t understand. You’re still holding your breath.

“Turns out it wasn’t a mauling, no. They discovered the victim started a fight with him on the bridge. Apparently, he was out of his mind. The drunk guy smashed a bottle over his head and stabbed it into his neck.”

It hits you like a punch to the gut.

“He fell off the bridge, they say. Hit the bottom. Broken neck. Then the current…you know. They found him later. But the bottle shattered his throat. They only figured that out afterward.”

Iwan sighs like he’s relieved, like he couldn’t wait to talk to someone about it.

“A cyclist saw the scuffle and called it in late. It’s all written down. The papers are saying it. They blew the story up at the bar last night, as usual.”

Iwan shrugs, flipping through the newspaper in front of you.

You stay completely still. Not a single muscle moves.

Your heart starts again suddenly, like it had been held underwater for hours. You grip the counter. Inhale. Hold.

And then the truth slaps you in the face.

Remmick didn’t lie. He didn’t do anything. He didn’t snap a neck. He didn’t kill. He kept his word.

And now…now you have no idea how to find him.

It’s late afternoon when you return home, walking like someone who’s been moving all day without really knowing where they were going. You’re no longer hungry. Not sleepy. Just tired—A kind of tiredness no pillow can fix.

You open the door. The apartment is just as you left it. Silent. Tidy. Empty.

You take off your jacket and let it fall over a chair. Then you hold a mug in your hands out of habit, but don’t fill it. You step out onto the porch.

Outside, the sky is a dirty orange fading slowly into blue. The approaching evening air is cool. Damp. The fig tree’s branches barely move, but they seem to be watching you.

You sit on the wooden step, facing the small garden you’d tried to keep in order—and that Remmick had offered to tend to, even though he couldn’t tell a weed from an herb.

Still, it’s thanks to him the garden is still green. Last summer, he was always outside watering with the hose. You remember how you used to watch him silently from the porch chair, and how he once sprayed you completely with water just because you’d pointed out a spot he’d missed.

You rest your elbows on your knees and let yourself slump forward, like your head is too heavy and pulling you toward the ground.

Where could I look for him?

Under bridges, maybe. In abandoned depots. In the crypts of that ruined church—the one where he once told you the silence was so complete it hurt his ears. Maybe in a library. Or maybe…

The thought ends there. You have no idea where to begin. You bury your face in your arms and sigh—loudly.

Then something moves.

A soft thump.

You lift your head suddenly and turn toward the sound.

Your cat.

It’s jumped down from the window ledge and now walks casually down the stone path, heading toward the old garden shed. You haven’t opened it in months. It had basically become Remmick’s space. He made you buy all kinds of tools for the garden and had stored them in there.

The cat stops right in front of it. Rubs against the bottom of the door. Purring.

You freeze.

Then you notice something. The lock. It’s closed.

Not slightly ajar. Not gently pushed shut. Locked.

Just like that rainy night.

Your blood freezes. Your legs tremble beneath you, but you stand up anyway.

You cross the garden in a few steps, ignoring anything in your way, and approach the door. The cat watches you, meows, then steps aside—as if making space.

You raise your hand. Heart in your throat.

Turn the handle. Pull hard.

The door creaks open with difficulty. The warm light of sunset pours into the dark shed—and you see him.

Curled up near the door, arms wrapped around his knees. He’s pale. Paler than usual. He looks like a ghost. The light hits him full on and he hisses—a low, sharp sound, like a wounded cat.

He recoils instantly, dragging himself back into the darkness. The skin on his arms smokes where the light touched him. It doesn’t burn. But it marks. Small cracks, like dried leaves.

You freeze. Just for a moment.

Then, without hesitation, you step inside and shut the door behind you. The light disappears.

You watch Remmick’s red eyes flicker in the dark as he blinks. But you’re no longer afraid. You hear him breathing heavily, and then he speaks.

“Please. Please, just let me stay, will ya? I only want to be close. Even if it's just....even just to watch you from afar.”

His voice isn’t desperate. It’s exhausted. Worn down. Like someone who’s cried all night and all day and has nothing left.

You stay standing by the door.

He keeps talking, as if your silence might become another sentence.

“I didn’t want to go, but you were all shook up. I didn’t know what you’d do. I just—”

A broken breath.

“Just wanted to see if you were alright. If you could get a bit of sleep.”

You bring a hand to your mouth. You can’t speak. The relief hits so hard it bursts inside you like pain.

He was here. In your garden. Two meters away. Slowly dying in silence, like an abandoned dog waiting for autumn.

And you didn’t see him.

You sit down on the ground, back against the shed wall, knees pulled to your chest. The first tears fall without a sound. Just warmth. Silent streaks sliding down your cheeks. Then—a sob escapes your lips, dragging everything with it. Every ounce of pain. Every thread of guilt.

Remmick, probably misreading your tears, speaks again. Whispers.

“Let me stay. I won’t come out. I won’t say a word. I won’t go near the house again. Just let me be close to ya. That's all.”

You close your eyes and finally, strength returns to your voice, powered by pure relief.

“I’m sorry…”

Remmick’s red eyes go wide. He listens, not even breathing.

“I’m really sorry, Remmick. I’m an idiot. No, worse… I’m a selfish bitch.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve. Breathe deep, trying to make room in your chest.

“I should have believed you. I should have. I was standing there with all the proof in front of me, and I looked at you like—” You stops, your throat tight. “Like you were something to fear. When you’ve only ever been… good. Kind.”

You hear him shift—barely. A soft, scraping movement.

“I treated you like you were guilty. You were right here and I didn’t know. So close. So alone.”

A sob cuts your breath. You can’t speak anymore. Your throat tightens more.

The voice that answers isn’t the same cracked one from before. It’s fuller. More alive.

“You’re not an idiot.”

Still faint, yes, but there’s something pulsing in it now. As if your tears had started to heal him.

“Don’t be sayin' that,” he repeats. “You’re not. You’re not.”

You see him now. His body barely emerges from the darkest corner. His eyes swollen, cheeks streaked with something not quite tears, but close. Hair a mess. Hands shaking. He looks at you, but doesn’t take that final step. He waits.

Like he always does.

So it’s you who makes the move. Small, but clear.

You reach out a hand toward him and Remmick moves instantly.

In a moment—just one—he’s there.

His arms wrap around you, anchoring to your back and pulling you against him. Your body slides into his, fitting perfectly, like puzzle pieces. He leans into your neck and stays there, breathing in your scent. Yesterday, you would’ve been afraid. You would’ve pushed him away. Today, you just feel stupid.

You let him hold you. Give in to the contact. Close your eyes.

The sigh he lets out is the sound of someone who’s been held underwater for days and is finally breathing again.

He touches you with almost childlike devotion. Fingers gently combing through your hair, across your nape, down your spine.

“I thought I’d never get to hold ya like this again.”

His warm breath brushes your neck, and you feel him nuzzle there. You hold him tighter. Afraid he might change his mind and pull away for having been hurt. Your chin rests on his shoulder and you smile. The scent of his skin—that faint, cool note of night and wax—fills your lungs.

He rocks you slightly. As if to soothe you. But also, himself. As if just touching you brings him back to the world. His world.

“I won’t scare ya again, sweetheart. I promise.”

Your eyes soften. You sit up a little straighter, pressing your hands to his shoulders. At first, he resists. He doesn’t want to let you go. But then, sensing you’re not pulling away, just grounding him—he relaxes. You take his face in your hands, fingertips tracing small, delicate caresses and you guide his gaze to meet yours.

“I know, Remmick.” And you say nothing more.

You stay in the shed for hours still, giving the sun time to vanish from the horizon, letting night fall around you once again.

This time peaceful. Together.

When the sky turns a deep blue and the sun is finally low enough not to hurt his skin anymore, you decide it’s time to bring him back inside.

Gently, you disentangle yourself from his embrace and stand up. He looks at you, still a little lost in the tangle of emotions.

You hold out your hand without speaking. He looks at it as if it were a sacred offer, then slowly takes it with both his hands and lets himself be helped up. He walks beside you in silence. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t look for words. He simply trusts.

The house is warm. When you enter, the cat watches you from the armchair with the air of someone who has been on guard, and accepts Remmick’s return without any hostile gesture, as if it understood. You close the door behind you and guide him down the hallway to the bathroom.

You turn on the light and sit on the edge of the bathtub. Remmick stays still at the threshold, as if unsure whether he can really cross it.

“Come here,” you say, motioning with your hand, and he obeys.

He moves slowly, like something fragile, as if afraid to break something just by walking. He passes by you and stops in front of the tub, silently. You bend down, turn on the warm water, and let it run until you find the right temperature. He raises his hands over his shirt but then stops. His eyes search for yours. There is no shame, not really. There is only… hesitation. As if he’s afraid of making a mistake again.

You say nothing. You move closer, take the edges of his shirt, and lift it over his head, pulling it off. Then the pants, slowly, without hurry. As if you were undoing, piece by piece, the tension that had stuck to him.

He stays naked there, full and clear like wax. His skin is dusty, knees scratched, hair stuck to the nape of his forehead. Yet he seems beautiful to you. Because he has come back. Because he is here.

You help him into the tub. The water wraps around his legs, wets his pubic area, belly, chest. He takes a deep breath—not necessary, but freeing. He sits and stretches out his legs. His back relaxes for the first time. His chin lowers to his chest and he stays like that, silently.

You kneel beside him. Take a bowl from the cabinet and pour warm water over his hair. He closes his eyes without protest, and you repeat the gesture two, three, four times until his hair clings to his forehead like black silk threads.

Then you open the shampoo, pour some liquid into your hands, and begin massaging it gently onto his head. Your fingers move carefully: roots, nape, temples. He doesn’t speak, but you feel his breath deepen. He lets go. You understand this from how he slightly tilts his head, from how he trusts your hands like an animal cared for after days of rain.

“Have you ever let someone wash you?” you ask softly, wanting to fill the silence.

He makes a guttural sound, a mix between a moan and a stifled smile.

“Never. Never like this…”

“You could get used to it, huh?” you say with a little smile, to break the emotion.

“If you’re offerin', I’m not sayin' no, that's for sure.”

You laugh softly, and he smiles without opening his eyes.

You pour more water until all the foam disappears. Then you take a soft towel and wipe his face, ears, and the back of his neck. His eyes now look for yours, no longer uncertain. Only full. Of unspoken things. Of silent gratitude. Of a calm you’d seen slip away.

You take the liquid soap and pour it onto the soft glove. Then you start washing his shoulders. The touch is slow, respectful. There is no desire, but something more silent and deep. You wash him like you would wash a beloved body that has suffered too much. Without hurry. Without speaking.

The shoulder blades, the arms, the hands.

Then you slide down the ribs, following the shape of his lean back, the hollow side, the flat belly.

His breath changes, becomes longer, more held. At first, you don’t pay much attention.

“You’re treatin' me like a precious ornament, love,” he says at some point, his voice suddenly tense.

“You are. A bit dusty, though.”

“Still sittin' on a shelf in your mental livin'' room, I am.”

“Sometimes above the fridge, along with glasses I don’t use.”

He laughs. It’s a low, soft sound, echoing lightly against the tiles. It seems like the first real laugh in days.

The sponge reaches his lower belly but you turn and move to his thighs, pressing there. His pelvis shifts a few centimeters but you feel it. You feel the erection pressing firmly against the inside of your wrist.

It makes you smile. Always so sensitive to your touch, even after you almost kicked him out of the house.

Your fingers nestle among the wet hairs at the base of his penis like a tease, and this pulls a new sigh of pleasure from him.

It’s what you want to hear for the rest of your life. Him enjoying your attention.

His hand closes on your wrist and you stop, uncertain.

When you lift your gaze, his gray eyes are fixed on your face. For a moment you think you’ve made a mistake. That you misunderstood and he didn’t want all this.

“I can stop if you—”

He shakes his head and takes your hand out of the water to give a tender kiss on the inside of your wrist.

“Ah, fuck, darlin', no. It’s…,” his voice vibrates in a sound like your cat’s purring, “It’s grand but… let me get out of here first…”

You sigh in relief and continue washing him.

Piece by piece, while the water turns lukewarm, then cool. Only then do you help him stand up.

You take the towel from the small hook and wrap it around his torso. He stays still, arms open to be wrapped. He lets you dry his hands, fingers, even the backs of his knees. When you finish, kneeling, you lift your chin and look him in the face, smiling slightly.

His cock is still erect, pressing against the base of his abs with a slight spasm as if to catch your attention.

“Do you want to go to bed?”

He just nods, not trusting his own voice.

You stand up and take his hand. You walk down the corridor and when you catch sight of your cat from the corner of your eye, you decide to close the door behind you once you reach the bedroom. You didn’t want any conflicts tonight, of any kind.

Tonight was for him.

“Sit down.”

He does it, without thinking twice. He sits on the mattress but as he does, his hands rise and rest on your hips, making you collapse into his lap.

You blink confusedly but he looks at you intensely.

His fingers move away from your hips and go up to your face, tenderly brushing your cheeks.

The way he looks at you, the way he touches you…

You had been so blind.

His lips press on yours. The kiss is neither demanding nor hurried. There is gratitude in it, a feeling of infinite ease and safety. His thumb traces circles on your cheek, making you part your lips for him and pulling you closer.

His beard scratches your face but it’s fine; it was a pleasant pain to bear. Surely less debilitating than what he had been through.

He moves his hips just enough to press his erect cock against your inner thigh, covered by leggings, and moans into your mouth.

You push him back by the shoulders, making his back hit the mattress and the soft fabric of the sheets. You leave his lips and slide down his body, showering him with kisses and touches, enjoying the small needy sounds he didn’t intend to hold back.

When you reach his cock and your fingers carefully circle it, feeling the warmth and weight against your palm, Remmick groans hoarsely.

“Fuck, darlin'. You don’t have to do this…” he says cautiously.

“I know.” Your eyes gleam mischievously and you squeeze just a little tighter. “But I want to.”

Remmick swallows and looks down at you, one arm placed behind his head so as not to miss a second.

“My boy is always so good. So attentive. He would never disobey me.”

You whisper, deliberately sliding your hand along his shaft, pressing your fingertip against the prominent vein running along the underside.

The vampire’s hips jerk involuntarily, seeking more friction, chasing your hand and pressing into your clenched fist, clearly affected by your words.

“I think you deserve a reward for being so good. Don’t you think?”

Remmick nods and a thin trail of saliva drips from his mouth, sliding down his chin.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

A shiver runs down your spine realizing the power you have over this creature, and slowly you lower your mouth where he needs it most.

You start by kissing the tip of his cock, spreading the viscosity of his pre-cum over your red lips.

That alone is enough to break him. His hands clutch the sheets because he doesn’t trust putting them on you, and he whispers your name like a prayer but doesn’t move his hips. He controls himself, like the good boy he is.

You open your mouth and take him slowly, getting used to his size without hurry. The warmth floods you and he moans a sound not very manly but that makes you rub your legs to ease that throbbing pain of restrained desire.

“Yer mouth...is so hot…”

His voice fades into a new moan that can only be filled with despair as you hollow your cheeks and start sucking him, tongue pressed at the base as you go down and circling the tip as you go up.

“Ma’am… hold on… hold on a sec…”

You hum satisfied and feel him writhe beneath you, as if wanting to move away but not wanting to at the same time.

You take more and more, trying to adapt and take him fully, and when you hit the back of your throat you feel his legs tremble strongly under your hands.

“Sugar, please…” he whines pathetically, eyes glowing red again against his will. “I’m close… I'm fuckin' close—”

Remmick brings a hand to his mouth to stifle the deep sound and bites, breaking skin and flesh.

The taste of him starts to fill your mouth in torrents and you have to close your throat to keep the liquid from flowing down. You climb back onto him and, unbothered by the blood and drool that was running down his cheeks, you took his chin in your fingers and opened his mouth. The seed slips from your mouth to his in a wet, messy sound. The white liquid slid over his sharp teeth and tongue and he swallowed it all before he rose and took your lips with his again.

He sucks your tongue and plunders your mouth, searching for more of his sperm and holds your head still so he has plenty of time to do so. You taste his blood but for some reason it doesn’t disgust you. Nothing about him does.

“You’ll be the death of me, so ya will.” He whispers against your cheeks when he pulls away a little.

“You’re already dead.” You laugh as he slides your shirt and bra off with masterly skill.

“Then you’d finish me a second time.”

His hands rest on your waist, helping you stand between his spread legs and you slide the rest of your clothes down yours. You toss everything in the corner of the room. You’d have to think about it the next morning.

His cock is still hard, as if it hadn’t just exploded in your mouth and you shake your head. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to it. You think he’s going to grab you, throw you under him, line up and enter you in one move given how agitated he is. But no.

He looks up at you, hands pressed to the mattress for support and gasps a couple of times. It looks like he wants to say something but he doesn’t.

You frown.

“Remmick-”

“Iloveya.”

He says it quickly, like it’s a curse. As if he wasn’t allowed to say it but he wanted to anyway.

Your lips part slightly. The heart in your chest jumps and you think that if your mouth had been slightly wider, it would have fallen into his lap.

Sarcasm, as always, is your best defense.

“Are you saying that because I just made you come or…?”

“I fucking love ya.” He almost growls at him and rests his forehead against your knees. “It’s alright if ya…if ya don’t feel the same. I've love enough in me for the both of us. I can-”

Your hand presses to his head and before he can say anything else, you muffle his words with your mouth, leaning into him and wrapping your legs around his hips. You taste the saltiness of tears in your kiss and you’re not sure if they’re yours or his. But you don’t care.

“My poor pretty boy. Of course I love you.”

Remmick shivers as the tip of his cock breaks the confines of your entrance, collecting all your wetness and sliding into your cavern.

“You’re soaking wet, love…” he moans as your arms wrap around his neck to keep both of you in a comfortable position. “I’ve missed ya so much…”

His hands settle on your butt and he lifts you up, letting his length leave you before bringing you back down and impaling you again. His drool runs down your collarbone, pooling where you’re joined and you shiver at the sensation.

When your walls have softened enough for him, you feel him push a faster pace and his hips stutter into yours in pursuit of pleasure. He’s panting against you and you want to watch him. You want to watch what you do to him.

Your fingers close in his hair and you pull him back enough to look into his eyes. The image of the bloodthirsty creature is before your eyes, its fangs wet with his blood and his eyes fiery red, but as much as you want to, he doesn’t scare you. Not anymore.

“There he is, my good boy. You fuck me so good.” you tried to keep your voice steady but it still shook.

Your thumb nestles in his mouth, presses against his tongue, grazing his fangs but he doesn’t bite. He doesn’t dare.

“Who’s my good boy, Remmick?”

“I…fuck, it’s me, baby. I’m yer good boy.”

His eyes roll back in his head as you clench your walls around him and his lips close around your thumb, muffled by his whimpers. You see the muscles in his arms tense as he continues to lift you up and down on his cock, and it makes your mouth water.

You feel your orgasm approaching faster and faster, and you reach down to stroke your clit in tandem with his thrusts. It overwhelms you almost immediately, and your hand tightens convulsively on his shoulder as you come around his thick cock, screaming his name.

This seems to push him over the edge, and he pulls you down hard as he buries himself in you all the way to your balls. His seed fills you up and you’re pressed against his chest as he makes shallow, thrust thrusts to pump him deep into you, every last drop.

When his breathing calms but he doesn’t let go of you, you caress the back of his head with little scratches.

“Is everything okay?”

“Forgive me…”

You smile again and kiss the top of his head.

“No more apologizing. But I’m warning you…”

He pulls back at the stiff tone of your voice. His puppy eyes all wide and waiting at you, dreading your next words.

You grin. “Next time you break something I’ll spray you with garlic water.”

[comsiclvsh]

papa remmick headcanons pleaseee 🥸🥺

ᴘᴀᴘᴀ!ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ ʜᴀɴᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ

ᴀ/ɴ: these have been floating around in my head since i saw the movie so it'd be an understatement to say just how excited i am to share them! for simplicity's sake i only wrote about one daughter but let's be real remmick would have like 4. i genuinely have so many more ideas than this so if i get a lot of traction i'm def doing like 5 parts. tried to go in a chronological-ish order! if imagining hot fictional characters as fathers is my favorite pasttime does that make me crazy? i don't do taglists personally, so just follow me if you want to be updated when i post c:

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: none, enjoy the cutest vampire mass murderer as the most devoted father in the world! i even made the setting and time period very vague because i absolutely refuse to terrorize this adorable family.

first and foremost, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ could only be a girl dad. it is physically, spiritually, and cosmically impossible for this man to have sons. don't argue with me, argue with the universe.

from the start, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ was incredibly attentive. if his baby girl so much as shifted lightly in her crib, he was already standing over her before you could even stir.

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ insisted on skin-to-skin contact at every opportunity. didn't care if he had to stay still for HOURS. and he would too.

“she’s settlin’ her heart,” he'd whisper, “and mine’s the drum she’s gonna know first.”

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ took her babbling dead seriously. would fold his arms, listen with furrowed brows, and nod as if absorbing the meaning of life.

talked to her constantly. about everything. you'd catch ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ engaging in full-on conversations with an infant.

“this right here’s nutmeg. we don’t touch that, ‘cause it’s strong. like your mama. now this is thyme. it teaches ya patience.” (he was very proud of that joke)

best believe ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ is singing to her if she won't go to sleep. real songs, not lullabies. low and soft. a little off key. a little too slow. and always with her name in the chorus.

if she trips over air, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ's already crouched beside her like a medic on a battlefield.

“where’s it hurt, baby? show me. papa’s got you.”

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ let her paint his nails. once. now it’s every saturday. sits there dead serious with one hand outstretched and the other holding a towel so she doesn’t drip.

says “gentle, baby” every time she pets a flower, every time she touches your face, every time she hugs his neck. because that’s how ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ taught her. love is gentle.

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ never hid his vampiric features at home. she adores them. pokes at his fangs, tugs at his claws, stares into his eyes with not even a hint of fear. because there's no need to.

if she calls for ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ in the night, even once, he’s at her side with a glass of water, a fresh blanket, and at least four “ya okay, sugar?” before he even sits down.

when she gets sick, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ holds her all night with one hand pressed to her forehead and the other on her back like he can make her feel better just by staying still enough.

do not ever ask ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ to discipline his daughter. ten minutes later, you'll find the two of them on the porch swing sharing a pint of ice cream and laughing like nothing happened.

“i talked to her,” he’d say, mouth full of rocky road (🤭). “we came to an understandin’.” they did not.

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ is a constant bragger. constant. mentions her name in every single conversation, so avoid casually talking to him at all costs.

“my baby just got straight a’s. first grade, top of her class. can ya believe that?”

does not play when it comes to styling her hair. to learn, ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ sat on a little wooden stool for an entire afternoon under the careful eye of mama, focused like it was life of death. now he does them every sunday morning, and always ends with three sweet kisses.

“prettiest girl in the world. prettiest head of curls, too.”

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ felt left out of not having a bonnet (literally made this :( face) so he wears one too. unironically loves it.

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ always needs a picture of his family. first day of school, new dress, vacation, playing in the yard, doesn't matter. wallet’s full of folded photos and his side of the bedroom’s a shrine. framed memories everywhere. his girls, always.

y'all ain't never met a man who throws down in the kitchen more than ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ does. bakes, grills, fries, sautés, and seasons like nobody's business. he's been alive for over a millennium, so half the meals he makes have long been forgotten by the world. and of course he's teaching his baby girl all his skills.

girl ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ runs the pta like it's the navy. absolutely zero tolerance for slackers. despite his authoritarian, almost hivemindlike (🤭) style, every event and fundraiser ends up being a major success

he's never and will never miss a single recital, play, spelling bee, science fair, honor roll ceremony, or any other event involving his baby. ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ will fight his way to the front row if he has to, and records the whole thing with his favorite video camera. every tape is labeled, dated, and stored with care. if the house is too quiet, he'll be watching reruns.

ʀᴇᴍᴍɪᴄᴋ ends every night the same. “ya know who loves ya?” he asks, real low.

and she says, every time, “you do, papa.”

and he answers, “damn right i do.” with his hand over his heart.

[comsiclvsh]

admit it. | stack x reader blurb (sinners)

"stack, what happend last night," you paused, fidgeting with your fingernails, "i-it was a mistake."

stack turned his head to you, your meek confession left him furrowing his brow in confusion, but a smirk slowly grew on his face, his grills gleaming. he knew you was lying, your body gave it away. you crossed your arms, looking down at your feet, trying your best not to melt at the spot you stood.

“it wasn’t no damn mistake when you were sittin’ on my face.”

"thats not fair stack, you told me to do that." you argued, you felt your ears heating up. stack chuckled, he always thought you were so cute when you tried to argue. you turned your back to him, not wanting to look at him anymore. you can hear stack hum from afar, followed by the sound of shoes shuffling. you believd stack was leaving, until you felt something against your rump.

fingers laced with golden rings, gently moving stray curls from your face and behind your ear, “but you still liked it.” he whispers, his breath cools your already heated ears. his free hand grabbing onto your waist. your bottom lip disappeared between your teeth, trying not to let out a moan.

"go on, say you liked it."

you slowly shook your head, resisting. you wanted to move but his touch made you froze in your place. all the memories from that night replays in your mind. no man has ever touched you the way he did.

oh stack~

and in your mind, no man ever will.

stack..right there- oh god!

that's it. give it to me pretty girl.

"i liked it." you admitted, feeling stack chuckle vibrating against your ear.

this is so bad, but i needed to write this before i never do. i was on the longest writer's block, and i have sinners to thank for breaking me out of that.

[comsiclvsh]

less "preacher's daughter" readers and other christianity based sinners fics.. more spiritual reader.. rootwork/hoodoo practitioner reader.. witch reader.. medicine woman reader.. chief's daughter.. idfk.. pls

[comsiclvsh]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 | bob reynolds

( gif credits to @springseventeen )

—summary: bob loves you so much that he slowly begins to transform into a house-husband for you. and he loves it. —pairing: bob reynolds x female!avenger!reader —word count: 5k (wow) —content: ultimate husband material boss. pure fluff tbh, bob's insecurity and low self-esteem, his need to be loved and approved. he is literally starting to act like your house-husband. he wears an apron!!! you reassure him as he deserves. bucky is such a dad. love confessions, some intense make-out session but nothing more than that. bob loves the reader so much it's crazy.

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

Bob.

He had been quite special since you had met him, really. 

Yelena had told you that he liked you. Then Bucky had told you so too. And so had Ava. And Alexei. And John.

But how could Bob not like you, in all honesty? You'd been unnecessarily nice to him since you'd met. You didn't know him, he was a complete stranger, and yet you still showed him compassion and kindness. You stood by his side when you all together escaped the death trap that Valentina had set for you, and you defended him when Walker was getting especially mean to him. 

How could anyone not like you? That was the real question. You were perfect. In every sense of the word. Both figurative and literal. From your soul to your mind. You seemed to be an angel fallen from heaven. Something ethereal, something crafted by his own mind, made in the most beautiful dreams.

Bob would normally think of himself as a big idiot, a loser. That he could never have you. A part of him insisted that never, not even in a million other universes could he ever deserve you. He wanted you as his lover or his friend? It didn't really matter, he just wanted you in his life.

And yet, he was flirting with you anyway. Or at least that's what he thought he was doing.

“Here,” he'd told you every morning since you'd set up at the tower as the New Avengers... you insisted that you all should think of a new name. In his hand he held a cup of coffee, your favorite coffee, and on his face there was a sheepish little smile, your favorite smile. His eyes held that softness all over, that slight, hardly visible gleam, that you could always see it anyway, always, you caught a glimpse of it. Every time he looked at you. As if stars were hung from your hands. Well, technically they did, due to your superpower, that is.

“Thank you, Bobby,” you would say, offering him a warm smile, pronouncing that nickname so fondly and gently, that it had become a favorite nickname for his name. After so long hating it, after having caused him so much pain. Sure, now, his heart pounded when he heard it, his breathing quickened as well, but his chest swelled with tenderness. It was a good emotion, coming from a nice place. It didn't make him feel pain or sadness. Quite the opposite.

Bob was used to being an alien, isolated, left behind, to be hurt and broken. But you, you never left him behind. You always turned to look for him, to walk beside him, to gaze at him with those pretty eyes filled with concern and caring. You owed him nothing, you barely knew him, and yet, you were willing to walk in the void, in the darkness that concealed his heart and illuminate through with your light. You had saved him. And since then, you were his anchor.

You were patient. With his mood swings, his stuttering, his lack of confidence and his self-proclamation to inclination to ruin everything. He could never ruin you, you always assured him.

Love.

Bob had never even thought that he would ever have love in his life. That he would never truly grasp the concept of love, of loving. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve you.

You were the closest thing to love he will ever know. There was love in everything you did, in everything you said, in the way you called his name and in the way you looked at him.

He loved you.

“Relax, kid. You miss your Romeo that much?” Bucky blurted out in a tone that bordered near teasing, giving you an amused glance as you both walked over to the entrance of the Watchtower of the (New) Avengers, your home.

A mission had been assigned to the both of you as a duo. To locate the position of a small but potentially dangerous group of terrorists in the suburbs of New York city. There was an indication of where their base might have been. With your super senses it had been easy enough to just stumble upon it and with Bucky covering your back, you had arrested them all in less than twenty minutes.

It had been a successful mission. But the anxiety of being out in public had never really been something you could ignore, so the urge to go home was always lurking in the back of your mind.

To return to Bob, as well. Bob was a lingering thought in your mind now, an incessant remembrance. Something worth coming home safe and sound for.

“Drop it, Barnes,” you replied to your old friend, mumbling softly.

Bucky cracked a little chuckle, pressing the button to the top floors on the elevator once you were both inside. You could feel his intent gaze on your face and you could also sense all that he was trying to talk to you about.

“Look, I've never seen you like this before, okay? In all the years I've known you." He began to lecture you in a 'fraternal speech' mode, turning around so he could look at you, noticing how your cheeks were slightly flushed. “You're happy. It's been months since I've seen you as happy as you are now. You've been smiling and laughing more, you even started playing the piano again. And that's good, sweetheart,” he offered you a small smile, completely sincere and gentle, “You deserve to be, you know? Happy. You've been through a lot. And you have helped to protect this world longer than all of us. You deserve everything you want.”

You smiled back, but it soon twisted more into an apprehensive grimace, “Yeah, I just—” you heaved a sigh of concern, sensing that Bucky wanted you to talk to him, not from the exterior, but from your inner self, about how you felt. “It scares me....”

Bucky shook his head lightly, extending his flesh-and-blood hand to rest it on your shoulder, expressing sympathy. His fraternal demeanor always managed to make you feel comforted.

“It's normal to feel fear” then he cocked his head, narrowing his eyes as his face grew full of playfulness, “But, sweetheart, have you seen him? He's the strongest guy currently on planet Earth. What I know is that anyone who would try to hurt him or you is the one who should be afraid. He almost wiped out all of us together at once. It was kind of humiliating...”

“That wasn't him” you immediately replied using a low tone, remembering how chaotic and painful that day had been. You had had to fight the Void, you were the strongest among all the others, after Bob of course.

“I know,” Bucky replied, sighing softly, “What I'm trying to say is that you both deserve to be happy. Shit, the guy looks at you as if the stars hung from your hands. You both deserve to have something to fight for and protect. How are you going to protect a place that has nothing to protect?”

“That doesn't even—”

Bucky rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue disapprovingly, “Makes sense, I know—” he shook his head, frowning and gesturing with his hands in exaggerated fashion, “You know what I mean, kid.”

“Yeah... I know” you smiled softly at him, thoughtfully.

Once you had entered into your floor, you had gone straight to your room. You took off your suit, tossed it in the laundry basket, and then changed into more comfortable clothes.

You were combing your hair when you heard three soft knocks on your door. You didn't have to look to know who it was, you had already recognized his racing heartbeat from the moment he had turned around the corner.

“Come in!” you exclaimed, concentrating on combing your hair, letting it loose.

The door opened to reveal Bob. He was wearing a chef's apron, with an adorable cat pattern design. And his face was even more adorable. His cheeks were slightly flushed, his eyes were soft all over, and a sheepish smile graced his thin lips. 

He was wearing that beanie again. 

He had been wearing it for more than two days now, for some unknown reason, making it impossible for you to see his hair. It wasn't even cold in there, the building's heating system was perfect.

“Hi,” he greeted you, raising his hand to wave at you with it, making you smile, “I cooked for you”

He watched you put the hair comb on your vanity desk, his blue eyes fleetingly roaming over all of you. 

Bob thought you always looked beautiful. In the suit or in a shirt of some really old band you'd never heard in your life. But the suit truly looked good on you. The colors were perfect and even though you said the cape was ridiculous and over the top, it made you look magnificent when you flew.

It was like a second skin, the fabric clinging tightly to your body, molding your curves so perfectly. He never thought he would be jealous of a piece of fabric.

Before he kept picturing you in your suit, he let his gaze wander across your room, falling on your record player, playing a Jeff Buckley song, from your favorite albums, he knew. Many times he had listened to it with you, sitting right there on the bed next to you.

His eyes then fell on the pair of small pictures you had on your nightstand next to your bed. In one of the pictures, he could see himself sleeping with his head resting on your shoulder, your self also sleeping on the couch, just having a Disney movie marathon. Alexei had taken the picture, of course, and you had begged him to give him a copy. Bob had also asked for one, keeping the picture next to his bed. It was a cute photo, you looked so cute in it.

“You cooked for me, Bob?” you asked back, your face expressing the tenderness you felt inside. “Again? You know you shouldn't—”

He turned back to you and nodded his head, interrupting you, “I know you like tacos, you said so the other time. I thought you might like to eat them after the mission.”

Realizing you weren't saying a word back and just stared at him, he grew even more nervous under your powerful gaze, his fingers fidgeting at his sides and his gaze dropped to the floor, puffing out a small awkward chuckle.

“But— uh— if you don't want to eat them, it's okay‒ you must‒ you must be tired. I don't think I cook very well either—”

“Why are you wearing that beanie again?” you interrupted his rambling, genuinely confused. 

You had noticed the way he was pulling the edges of the fabric down his forehead, preventing any strands of his hair from slipping out and being seen.

“Uh?” he stammered, his brow furrowing slightly, “Oh, this? It's nothing, it's just—” he gestured with his hands anxiously, making it impossible for him to look you directly in the eye, “It's a bit chilly in here. I don't want to catch a cold.”

You sighed softly, looking at him with concerned eyes, “Bobby, I can literally sense you're lying to me.” You then slightly shook your head, “You can't catch a cold since Project Sentry, honey. And it's almost twenty degrees in here.”

He shifted his body weight down between his two feet, still staring at the ground, resembling a child who was being scolded. When he eventually looked up from the floor, his eyes held a dull, sad look.

“It's just...”

This time he interrupted himself, growing quiet and letting the silence carry his words away. It took him a few moments to reflect on an answer for you, sorting through the words and phrases that were rushing through his head.

You waited so patiently for him. As always.

“The bleach is wearing off and I have a horrible mix of colors. My hair is just a mess now,” he was finally able to express, motioning with his hands, in some way to detract from what he was talking about, but you could see beyond that. You understood that this was something important to him, something that had been troubling him.

You patted the bed, sitting down on it and inviting him to sit down as well, “Come here, Bobby." 

He obeyed you, of course, making his way to your bed, awkwardly tripping over his own feet on the path.

Once he was seated next to you, he made an effort to maintain eye contact with you, but just couldn't, casting his eyes down to his lap, where his hands were fidgeting, revealing sheer nervousness and anxiety.

“You don't want to be seen with your brown hair?” you asked him in a soft tone, intending to seek his gaze and attempting as well to let him allow you to let you see beyond his mask and beyond what he usually pretended to be. “I like your natural hair color.”

“Brown?” he questioned back, appearing genuinely troubled, even more gloomy now. His brow was furrowed and his voice wavered into disbelief, “But it's so.... lame.”

“Let me see” you pleaded and Bob immediately gave in, sighing shakily before raising his hands to his head, tugging the cap off and allowing you to see the, as he put it, mess that was his hair. But it wasn't at all.

Sure, the ends were still affected by the bleach, they were mainly burned and dehydrated, and now most of his hair was brown, gradually returning to its natural color. A couple of wavy strands fell on his forehead, contrasting so beautifully with the color of his skin.

Bob looked embarrassed now. Still gazing down at his lap, his hands clenching the beanie between his fingers. He was expecting you to make fun of him, to make some joking remark about how ugly his hair was or how ridiculous he was for even giving so much thought to how it looked in the first place.

But you, you just offered him a gentle smile. And then your hand ran down the side of his head, picking up a brown lock and brushing it back away from his forehead. That's when he finally looked back up at you, awestruck.

“Your hair is so pretty just the way it is, Bob” you began to tell him and your voice delivered so much reassurance and comfort, it was so soothing. The way you pronounced his name made him feel his heart flip in his chest. “You don't need to change anything about it. You don't have to prove anything. You're not him.”

“I know,” he whispered, holding your gaze, pressing his face against the palm of your hand, clawing desperately for your touch. He didn't want to beg. He didn't have to. He knew you could feel it, his longing, the aching, the need for love, for your love. “I just thought that.... well, they all said that blond was better, to be the Sentry, to look stronger and— and‒ and attractive. I thought, that way you'd like me better—blond, I mean.”

“Does the opinion of others matter much to you?”

Bob shook his head, just barely, so as to avoid under any circumstances straying far out of your hand, and then murmured, shyly, “Only yours.”

“I like you in any way, Bob” you replied, assuring him, and when he placed a kiss on the palm of your hand, you felt your heart halt, “Every side of you. The good side, the bad side. I like you. All of you.”

Bob swallowed saliva, parting his lips to let out a soft shaky sigh, “With you it's only the good side. You bring out the best in me.”

“Can I kiss you?” you even had the audacity to ask. When he was looking at you like that, as if you were the most precious creature in the entire universe. When you had never felt or known love as pure as the love Bob was extending to you through his mere gaze.

“Y‒yes, p‒please” he begged.

You kissed him. 

And the world stopped. All the noise muffled around him, the voices whispering that he'd made a mistake once again hushed. The darkness was succumbing to the light. Your light.

His lips followed yours like an instinct, like something they had been used to in another life, in another universe. Like picking up an old habit. Like second nature, his hands landed on your waist, a tentative but yearning touch.

Your mouth connected with his like old pieces of a puzzle finally coming together, fitting as if they were made for each other. Now, everything seemed to make sense, the whole universe, all the pain, all the suffering, all the mistakes, everything that had brought you there, to that very moment.

“You're everything I've dreamed of” he whispered against your lips once the kiss was over, still with his eyes closed, like it was all a dream, if he dared to open them, you would disappear from his arms. So he held you close, pulling you desperately against him.

You kissed him again. 

Eventually Bob opened his eyes and they instantly softened as they found yours looking back at them. It wasn't a dream, no. It was reality. This was really happening.

He had kissed you- well, you had kissed him. But you were there, in his arms, his hands molding the curve of your waist as if they were made to hold you. All of a sudden, he realized he wasn't really meant to be anyone in this life, not some superhero, some weapon, some asset, no, Bob was meant for you. He was made to be yours. 

His hands were not made to destroy, they were made to hold you. To protect you.

His whole being was made to love you.

Bob loved you.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asks, his eyes lowering from yours to your lips again, and again, and again....

His fingers caressed your hips, nudging your bare skin below the hem of your shirt, and the very touch sent shivers down your spine.

“Don't hesitate, just kiss me” you assured him back in a whisper and he savored the breath of your utterance, kissing you again, most passionately this time. 

Your hands embraced his neck and you pulled him close to you, leaning back against one of the many pillows on your bed. He kept kissing you, like a starving man, careful not to crush you with his weight, one of his hands rested on the side of your body against the bed.

His hair brushed against your face, tickling you.

“I'm bad at this, I'm sorry—” he suddenly apologized, as if he just was coming back down to the ground and snapping back to reality, detaching himself from you, only barely, just enough to be able to look at you. Above you he looked like a god. Looking down at you with those eyes, darkened by love and longing. His face was all red and his pupils dilated. Up close, you could distinguish the tiny greenish shades within all the light blue of his orbs. “I haven't kissed anyone in— God, I can't even remember— I'm sorry.”

“Hey, it's okay” you tried to reassure him, looking up at him with doting, soft eyes. He took the moment to just admire you, his lips parted, reddened from all the kissing. “Me neither.”

“What?” Bob displayed his incredulity at your words, his brow furrowing faintly, barely a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. His unoccupied hand trailed up your body, tracing your curves, all the way to your jaw, his fingers fondly caressing your skin, looking down at you with adoration, not even missing a chance to marvel at you to blink, “That makes no sense— You're a good kisser. The best kisser.”

Now it was your turn to blush, shifting your gaze down to his chest, avoiding his, feeling flushed and really hot all of a sudden. But Bob didn't let you stray too far from him, as he kept his hand on your chin, lifting your face so he could gaze directly into your eyes.

“Don't look at me like that” you pleaded in a quiet whisper, locking your gaze with his again. The blue of his eyes sparkled in reflection of yours, all threatening to surround you entirely and pull you into the serene indigo sea they held within them.

Bob soaked his lips with his tongue, catching a glimpse of your gaze dropping to them for just a second. His finger nuzzled up against your cheek, tracing a tender caressing line across your skin. The touch struck an earthquake inside you and your heart thumped unquietly in your chest, menacing to leap out to join his.

“I always look at you like this,” he uttered your name as if it were his own religion, “You are so pretty...”

You are incomparable in his eyes. His love for you is unconditional, even on bad days. His loyalty relies on you blindly, unbreakable.

“Y‒you make me happy” he murmured after a comfortable and serene silence, full of emotions, good emotions. “I'd forgotten what that felt like. But you gave it to me again. Happiness. Belonging. Love.” He breathed out a chuckle, appearing incredulous, “God, I even started cooking. I mean, w‒when had I ever done that?”

You kissed him again, devastatingly gentle, tender, loving, just the way you always addressed him and only him. 

And he drank in everything you gave him, every kiss, every caress and every touch, as if you were the reason he existed, the reason he breathed.

He breathed out a raspy whimper against your lips when you pulled his hair at the nape of his neck, your fingers sinking through the brown locks, pressing him closer to you.

“Do that again, please” Bob pleaded in a husky whisper, in between kisses, nearly in despair, breathing out in a cracked voice.

You tugged on his hair once more and Bob's voice broke into a groan, his eyes squinting, gazing into yours as if they were the center of the universe.

“Can I touch you?” you asked him before kissing his lips once more and you could almost feel him vibrate against you as he nodded his head in a frenzy.

He kissed you again, uttering your name like a prayer, “Please touch me, do whatever you want to me, but don't ever stop touching me.”

You breathed out a little giggle as when you realized that he was in fact wearing an apron. He looked so cute in it.

“The apron looks good on you.” he blushed furiously at your words, if it was even more possible. His skin was now crimson, as red as a tomato. “You would be a fine house husband”

The lights in your room flickered just as you pronounced the words, and you knew it had been him. So powerful, so strong, yet he was melting apart under your touch, completely at your mercy.

His skin was warm, it felt like porcelain under your touch.

The lights faded in and out again.

“I'm d-doing okay?” Bob asked, his hands settled on your hips, digits sinking into the fabric of your shorts. His lips quivered, forming a hint of a nervous smile, looking down at you, searching for your approval,

“You're perfect, baby” you assured him, kissing his chest one last time before beginning to make a path of kisses through all his face, making him smile.

“Perfect, perfect, perfect” you murmured several times against his warm skin.

Bob gasped shakily, his hands groping as much of you as they could, slipping under the thin fabric of your shirt, “Fuck-- you drive me crazy. You're so pretty, so good to me... You make me so happy, baby”

And then you hugged him, pressing him against you close, impossibly close. He carefully rolled you both over on the bed, with him now under you, so that he could hold your whole body, feel your full weight pressed against his.  

Your eyes filled with tears at his statement, fully understanding that it was difficult for him to express his emotions, to say out loud what he was feeling and what was going on inside his head. But anyway, he had done all that for you.

“You make me happy too” you whispered to him, reassured him, promised him back. He hugged you tightly, snuggling close to you, locking his body to yours.

Bob placed a tentative but loving kiss on your shoulder just as you were pulling away from him, gently tugging on his shoulders to make him sit up on the bed as well, in front of you, with your legs entangled.

“You must be tired. Your mission went well?” he asked curiously, releasing one of your hands to run it up the side of your face and you pressed it against his palm as an instinct, closing your eyes and letting yourself feel the warmth and reassurance his touch provided, “I missed feeling you here.”

He was looking at you in awe. The way you pressed yourself against his hand, the same hand that had hurt so many people, that had caused so much pain and destruction. And now it was holding your face as if it were the whole world.

“Feeling me?” you raised your eyebrows, tone of voice growing teasing.

Bob blushed, and let go of your hand to pass it through his hair, “Y‒your presence, your heartbeat, your breathing, y‒you know.”

“My heartbeat?” you asked him another question just to tease him.

He became even more nervous, his hand returned to yours, interlacing his fingers with yours and giving you a gentle squeeze, asking for silent mercy, but you looked at him attentively with a smirk, “All I can think about is you, h‒honestly.” he watched as your smile quivered with his words, “You're everywhere. I just... feel you.”

He left you speechless once again, looking up at him, holding your breath.

“I'm sorry—I'm just saying what comes to mind” Bob rushed to apologize once again, lowering his gaze to your joined hands, feeling your warmth engulf him all over, as your thumb stroked his knuckles soothingly. His own thumb traced your cheekbone as if he were brushing the most magnificent shape in the world. You were. In his eyes. “I'm not being polite right now. It's nothing—”

“Bob,” you called his name, interrupting him and causing him to look up at you, both of your hands going to cup his face. He fell silent, gawking at you, in utter awe, roaming his eyes over every inch of your face, intending to remember every single detail, every fragment of your complexion, “You're everything. Everything.”

His eyes glistened, crystallizing with a couple of tears, not out of sadness or pain, no, they were from happiness, from feeling complete, from feeling that he finally belonged somewhere. By your side.

“Thank you” he then breathed a few times, kissing the palms of your hands pressed against his face, cupping them with his own.

Your fingers caught a lock of his hair that had fallen over his face, brushing it back once again.

“I like it better this way” you commented, smiling sweetly.

“Yeah?” he asked gently, so happy he could leap.

You nodded your head, humming approvingly, “Blond looks good on you too. But I met you with brown hair, so I like you better that way.”

Bob kissed the palm of your hand once more, looking at you tenderly, “You met me at my worst.”

“We all have bad days, Bobby,” you murmured, trying to reassure him, “You've been through so much. And you're still here, still standing. You're so strong”

“Thanks to you,” he replied and hurried to add, blushing, “And to the others— of course. Anyway, you must be hungry. Your stomach is growling.”

He took your hand, and waited for you to put on your shark slippers, still blushing. Then he led you out of your room, 'Lover, you should've come over' playing from your record player as you closed the door behind you. You smiled affectionately, walking beside him.

But your smile was washed off your face once you passed through the threshold of the kitchen, encountering Alexei and John, devouring the tacos that Bob had cooked, especially for you.

Seeing you appear in the kitchen, with both of you looking absolutely terrorized, Alexei took a big sip of his beer, raising his eyebrows, “What happened to you, kids?”

John, sitting next to him, burped, just finishing munching on the last remaining taco, “These were really good.” he wiped his mouth with a napkin and made his way towards the kitchen doorway, patting Bob's shoulder as he passed by him, “Thanks, Bobby.”

Alexei nodded his head enthusiastically, showing agreement, following John, with his half-drunk beer in his hand, “You should be the team cook.”

You turned your face toward Bob, who was staring at the plate, now empty of tacos, with a frown on his face and a small pout curving his lips.

You gave his hand a squeeze, tugging him to walk into the kitchen with you.

“Come on, honey, we can do more tacos” you tried to encourage him, holding back the urge to laugh at the sight of his face all pouty.

“I hope they don't have sex in the kitchen, that would be gross” you heard John say to Alexei with your super hearing.

“I heard that!” you exclaimed, looking toward the open kitchen door.

Then you heard Alexei's guffaw as you turned to look at Bob, pouty and blushing now.

[comsiclvsh]

Cherry Waves

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: You’ve been sick for a few days, so while the rest of the team goes out to do a recon mission, you’re on your own watching over Bob. One morning he comes to your room with a weird request.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Minor Spoilers for Thunderbolts! Fluff, Mentions of low self-esteem/ self-deprecation, Smut

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (Y’all…You know the drill…Protect yourselves lol), Some hair pulling (very light hair pulling), Reader is being a little bit dominant (if you squint), Bob is being a softie (and it’s hot as shit), Fingering, Squirting, Teasing, Biting, and Some marks are left.

Author's Note: Had this boy lined up and really wanted to post it. Loved the little hint that Bob was not liking the blonde that Sentry had lol so this is definitely something that would probably have happened if he didn’t return back to normal in the movie 😅Also, y’all are awesome and I appreciate you guys for enjoying my little blurbs!❤️ Thank you.

Word Count: 14,094

You were buried under layers of sweat and crumpled tissues when the knock came against your bedroom door.

Three soft taps.

So quiet, they could’ve been the compound settling. It was hesitant–polite almost. It was the kind of knock someone does when they’re not sure if they’re allowed to be asking for anything at all.

You barely stirred in your bed. The flu had you pinned to the mattress like a paper doll, aching and clammy and convinced the walls were breathing in sync with you. Hallucinations had become your new roommates–so when you heard the knock, you assumed it was just one of them, wandering through your mind again.

But then came a fourth tap. Just one. Sharp enough to make your headache throb like it was answering.

”Y/N…It’s Bob…Can I come in?” You winced at the sound of his voice, even though it was always super gentle and timid.

Bob.

Of course it was Bob.

You’d almost forgotten in the haze of your sickness that you were technically on Bob duty. Because apparently being half-dead with the flu made you the least threatening option to keep an eye on the world’s most powerful man while the rest of the team went on recon. Bucky had said it so casually, like the fate of the planet couldn’t possibly unravel while you were tucked under three blankets with a thermometer hanging out of your mouth.

“All you gotta do is check in on him every hour or so,” He’d told you. “Make sure he eats. Make sure he’s not spiraling, and doing something to keep himself occupied. Y’know. Normal people stuff.”

It had been simple, at first. When the worst symptoms you were experiencing was a runny nose and a dull headache, you’d shuffle past Bob every so often with a thumbs up and a mumbled “You good?” While he nodded earnestly over his book, asking you the same thing back.

But once you started coughing so hard you felt like your ribs were breaking, and the chills that you were experiencing gave way to night sweats and dry heaving, keeping tabs on Bob Reynolds fell hard to the bottom of your to-do list–somewhere below “don’t die” and “get a new tissue”.

“…It’s open,” You rasped, your voice raw and thin from all the coughing you had been doing.

The doorknob turned slowly, like he was still asking permission even after you gave it. Then Bob stepped inside with that careful kind of energy that people only reserved for hospital rooms or museums–like one wrong step might unplug or break something important.

He hovered in between the doorway, not coming too close–being mindful that you had told him a few times to keep his distance because you didn’t want him getting sick, even though it was nearly impossible for him to catch anything. His baggy navy sweater hung off him like a weighted blanket, and the sleeves were stretched over his knuckles, worn from the way he would always pick at the fabric. He looked small in it–even though he was quiet muscular underneath all the layers. His posture was slouched, and his shoulders were drawn up like he was nervous about something. On top of all that though, he was wearing his new wardrobe staple–a dark brown beanie that he shoved his bleach-blonde hair under, he never came out of his room without it.

You stared at his figure through half-lidded eyes, watching as he avoided looking directly at you.

”You okay?” You croaked, reaching up to your face to rub the sleep off your face, attempting to sit up to get a better look at him. He glanced over at you, nodding quickly.

”Yeah. Of course…I mean…I’m good, I just…” He trailed off, the sentence losing momentum halfway through as his gaze drifted around the room.

He wasn’t just avoiding your eyes anymore, it was like his attention had been dragged elsewhere–behind you, beside you, and all around you. His brows twitched slightly as he took in your space for the first time, and slowly you connected the dots that Bob had never actually been inside your room before– the first time was always an experience for people who didn’t know you were a secret collector of everything.

His eyes swept over the cluttered desk in the corner that sported wires, pliers, circuit boards and half built gadgets, before going to the large overstuffed bookshelf beside it, which was packed tight with thrifted novels and comic books that were still in their original plastic sleeves. There was a milk crate of vinyls on the floor near your speaker, with the old record player you insisted on fixing instead of replacing, even though you would complain every few days about it.

There was a flicker in his expression–surprise, maybe. Or something quieter, like he’d just stumbled into a part of you that he didn’t expect to find. You saw it in the way his jaw went still and the way his shoulders shifted slightly, like he was dying to ask you questions about everything you had, but he was holding himself back.

”…Bob,” You said hoarsely, trying to draw his attention back to you. He didn’t blink, his eyes were fixated on something in the far corner where your posters were. You reached your hand up over your head, waving slightly, and snapping your fingers, “Earth to Bob. Are you sure everything’s okay?” He shook himself out of his trance, and glanced over at you.

”Sorry…Sorry,” He said quickly, his voice a little higher than usual, as he cleared his throat, “Didn’t mean to, uh…Y’know, snoop or anything. I’ve just never seen your room before, you’ve got a lot of cool stuff.” You raised your eyebrows at him with a small smile on your face.

”You’re lucky I feel like death. Otherwise I’d be giving you the grand tour right now…I also include a quiz at the end.” Bob let out a nervous laugh and looked down, picking at the loose thread on his sleeve.

“I’d definitely fail…So I’m kind of glad…Well I’m not glad you’re sick, I’m just glad I don’t have to do a quiz.” Your lips twitched, amused despite the ache that was still clawing at your skull.

”Very smooth recovery Bob, very smooth.” Bob made a quiet noise–somewhere between a breathy laugh and a groan–keeping his eyes pinned to the floor as his cheeks turned a soft pink. You pushed yourself up a little more than before, elbows trembling from the effort of holding yourself up.

”So…What’s going on? Why’d you knock on my door at…” You paused, glancing over at your alarm clock, “Seven fifty three in the morning?” Bob sighed.

”Well…I need to go to the drug store,” He admitted, his voice sheepish, “And I know Bucky’s not really a fan of me going out alone so…Thought I’d ask my babysitter.” You squinted at him through your blurred vision, feeling the room tilt slightly, as you brought your hand up to your face, pressing gently at your temples.

”Are you getting sick or something?” He immediately shook his head.

”No, no it’s nothing like that. I haven’t really gotten sick since I took the Sentry serum…” You quirked your brow at him.

”So…What’s the reason for the drug store trip then?” Bob shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the floor creaking under him loudly as he did so.

“I um…I need to buy something. For myself.” He responded, dancing around the truth. You stared at him.

”Is it serious?”

”No,” He said quickly, “It’s not like…Health-serious or anything, I’m fine physically, I just…” He paused, clamming up again, not knowing how to explain himself. You narrowed your eyes at him, coughing into your arm, clutching your ribs when a dull ache pulsed through the area.

”You do realize I’m gonna find out anyway if I go with you , right?” Bob sighed and dragged his hand down the side of his face, like he was physically wiping the resistance off of himself, letting his hand drop down to the hem of his sweater.

”Fine…Fine…I need to buy…Hair dye.” He mumbled under his breath. You tilted your head slightly, blinking through the fevered haze that clouded your vision.

”Hair dye?” Bob winced at the way the words left your mouth, even though you didn’t mean for it to sound like you were judging him.

”Mhm…” You stared at him for a second longer than he could handle, as his eyes began to wander again, his hands wringing the fabric of his shirt, wrinkling it.

“You woke me up at seven-fifty-three in the morning…For hair dye?” You asked again, trying to confirm what you were hearing once more, hoping that you weren’t experiencing an odd version of delirium at this point.

”It’s not just–“ He started, then shut his mouth again, biting the inside of his cheek, shaking his head, “I mean…It is…But I just…” The sentence fell apart in his throat, as his cheeks began to heat up. He looked genuinely embarrassed, and you could see himself curling even more into his sweater, “I just don’t like what it looks like anymore.” There was something raw about the way he said it, and you couldn’t help but feel empathy for him, your heart clenching at the way his words cracked in the air.

“The bleach… The whole look,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor, “It was for him. For the Sentry. That’s what they said, anyway– they said that it would help. That it would make people see someone new. Something brighter…Like it would somehow separate us…But I still have to live in this body when he’s not around.” Bob continued, his throat swelling with a lump, “I still have to see myself…And the longer I look like him, the harder it is to remember who I am when I’m just…Bob.” You didn’t say anything at first–not because you didn’t want to, but because there was something about the way he was talking about himself that made your chest cave in a little. The words hung in the air like mist, as he bowed his head even lower, keeping his eyes on the floor, not daring to look at you or anything else in the room.

“It’s not stupid.” You could see his hands stop moving at your words, watching his eyes glance up at you hesitantly. You gave him a tired but sincere look, hoping that it was enough for him to understand that what you were saying was coming from a place of care, “Wanting to see yourself again isn’t stupid Bob…It’s just you trying to cling to the one thing you have control of…I get it.” His mouth parted, like he was going to thank you, but no sound came out. He was relieved that someone was finally understanding what he meant, it was like he had been running around talking to walls when he would speak about how he was feeling, but with you in this moment…It was like he felt seen.

”So I’ll help…But I need to see what we’re working with first.” You added, motioning to his head. Bob looked like a deer in the headlights when you said it, caught off guard by your suggestion, but also scared to even follow through with it.

”W-What?” You sighed.

”That hat Bob…Just take it off…I haven’t seen your hair since we moved you in here and you’ve been hiding it like it’s some sort of radioactive test subject.” He felt his heart gallop in his chest a little bit, as the nerves began to build up in him.

”I-I really don’t think that’s necessary,” He stammered, already figuring out a way to retreat out of the conversation, eyeing the hallway that was in the far corner of his vision.

”Bob, you dragged me out of a flu coma to ask me for help…So let me help you…Let me see it.” The gentleness in your voice was always something that got to him. Even on your toughest days you would use that tone with him, and for some reason it was the only thing that truly had him melting like putty in your hands.

You could see the conflict playing out within him, like he was weighing out the risks, until a look of resolve appeared on his face, a small sigh escaping his lips as he gave in to your request.

Bob’s fingers trembled as he slipped them beneath the edge of his beanie, hesitating for a second before slowly tugging it off his head. The static cling made the knit fabric resist him just a little, like even the hat itself didn’t want to let go of the safety it provided him.

The moment it came off, a curtain of hair fell across his face. You blinked through your fevered haze, eyes widening slightly–not in shock, but in recognition. His hair was longer than you remembered–shaggy, uneven, the ends fried from months of bleach. The top was still harshly pale, the yellow-white of it stark under the low morning light, but underneath, near the roots, his real hair was coming back in–soft, and light brown, just like you recalled from the brief glimpses you got of him before it all got changed. But the line where bleach met natural color was harsh and jarring, cutting across his scalp like a bad decision frozen in time.

He looked like someone in between versions of himself, not quite Bob, not quite Sentry–just…Stuck. You studied him for a moment, your body heavy with exhaustion but your chest buzzing with quiet sympathy. There was something so tender about the way he stood there, hair falling into his eyes, his beanie clutched in his hands like a comfort object. He looked younger somehow. Not in age, but in vulnerability–like this was the version of himself that never got the chance to just be soft and carefree.

“It’s not that bad,” You started, the rasp still thick in your throat, “Really. It just needs some love, patience…Maybe a deep condition…And the right shade of brown.” Bob’s head immediately shot up to look at you, like he couldn’t believe what you were saying.

”S-So you’re actually going to help? Y-You didn’t just try to trick me into showing you my hair right?” You shifted yourself down to the edge of your mattress, groaning at the way your bones protested and pulsed with each movement.

”No I didn’t try to trick you… I’m going to help, but first, I’m gonna need you to come here and make sure I don’t fall, because I think my legs are going to wiggle like they’re made of jelly.” For a split second Bob wasn’t sure if you were serious or not about needing actual help, but he moved anyway, shuffling towards you with his socked feet sliding across the floor. He opened his arms hesitantly, elbows bending like he wasn’t sure where they were supposed to go, offering himself up into your space.

”Alright…Whenever you’re ready I g-guess.” He said softly, his voice cracking a bit on the ‘guess’ like he was more nervous about touching or dropping you than you were about falling on your own.

Your hands found his forearms instantly, fingers curling into the soft, worn cotton of his sleeves, watching him brace himself. He looped one arm under yours, while steadying the other against your back as you pushed off the mattress, feeling your knees buckling beneath you like a baby deer on ice.

“Woah–woah, okay.” Bob muttered quickly, tightening his arms around you without a second thought. He adjusted himself accordingly, trying his best to be gentle while still being secure enough to hold you upright. You ended up closer than either of you really expected, with his chest pressed against yours, and your cheek inches away from his shoulder.

Despite everything—the fever baking your skin, the chills clinging to your limbs, and the flu that had knocked you down hard enough to rattle the walls—you still smelled…Good.

Bob noticed it the moment you got within his arms reach.

It wasn’t some kind of artificial, pampered scent. It wasn’t perfume or lotion or anything curated. No, it was just you–fresh soap, soft worn cotton, and that barely-there trace of eucalyptus from the body wash and shampoo combo you swore by. He heard you muttering something about it being the only thing strong enough to trick your sinuses into opening, and Bob had thought it was actually going to work because the sniff you gave him from the bottle made him have a sneezing fit, but he heard your frustrated grunt in the shower when it had not been the case.

”You alright Bob?” You asked, feeling the tension in his body against yours. He let out a short breath, which fanned across the crown of your head. He didn’t say anything right away, he just gave you a quick nod.

”Yeah, yeah I’m okay.” You could feel how careful he was being, feeling his arms flexing around you, not too tight, and not too loose. He was warm, and steady, while trying so hard not to be in the way, even though you requested his help. You couldn’t help but think about how strangely nice it was to be close to him, despite the situation.

You stood like that for another moment longer, your body leaning against his, the rhythm of your fevered breathing matching the rise and fall of his chest. Even through the blocked sinuses you had you could smell his laundry detergent on his sweater–fresh from the dryer, another thing you seemed to like about the moment.

Though you snapped yourself out of your self-induced daze once the floor felt less like a rocking ship beneath your feet. You pulled back just enough to glance up at him.

”You can let go now,” You whispered, startling Bob with the cue. Quickly he stepped back, like he just realized he was touching a hot stove or something, trying not to seem like he had been enjoying the odd moment of closeness. Despite the warmth of his body leaving yours, his hands still hovered around you just in case.

”I’m good,” You reassured, wobbling slightly but managing to keep yourself upright, “Just give me a few minutes to brush my teeth and get my bearings so I don’t scare the public by looking like a corpse.” Bob nodded immediately.

”Yeah, of course, I’ll just…I’ll wait in the hallway. There’s no rush or anything, uh…Just take your time. Seriously, I mean it.” He said, backing away while he clutched his beanie in his hand, “Just call me if you need anything.” He added, slipping out of your room and pulling the door shut behind him.

The moment he was gone, you sat back down on the edge of the bed with a slow, rattling breath. God. Your whole body felt like it had been microwaved–sweaty, sore, and buzzing with leftover adrenaline. You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes for a second, trying to reboot your nervous system. Not just from the fever, but from how close Bob had been. How soft he’d been. How good it had felt to be held with such warmth and gentleness even if it was for a fleeting moment.

You let out a sigh, before getting up again, dragging yourself into the ensuite bathroom you shared with Yelena, flicking on the bright fluorescent light. You let out a hiss, catching your reflection in the mirror. Surprisingly, the damage was minimal, sure your hair was an absolute mess from spending the night tossing and turning, but you looked half-awake at least.

Quickly, you got yourself ready, brushing your teeth, splashing some water on your face, fixing up your hair, and changing into a fresh set of clothes. By the time you were done, only fifteen minutes had passed–your new personal best. You cracked the door to your bedroom open, finding Bob sitting on the floor waiting with his back against the wall and knees drawn up. He looked up quickly when he heard the creak, and gave you a soft smile.

“Let’s get outta here.”

——————

Twenty minutes later, you found yourselves shoulder to shoulder in front of the painfully fluorescent wall of boxed hair dye in your local CVS.

It was still early, so thankfully not a lot of people were in the store. You actually thought that it was just you and Bob who were customers and the rest of the people there were employees and managers. On the overhead speakers there was a faint crackle of old 2000s music groaning throughout the store. The air smelled like plastic and dryer sheets, which was an odd mix for a drugstore of all places.

Bob stood stiffly beside you, his hands jammed into the front pocket of his jacket, eyes wide as he took in the absurd variety of brands and colours in front of him. His mouth was parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t decide on what panic stricken sentence he was going to go with. So you spoke first.

“Well…We know what row we need to look at.” You said, motioning toward the more natural leaning colours–rows of caramel, ash, chestnut, and espresso–pushing the cart gently in that direction as Bob trailed behind you like a nervous shadow. Your eyes scanned over the various boxes and brands, trying to find ones that would do minimum damage to his hair while actually doing the job.

“I didn’t think it was going to be so complicated…” He murmured from behind you, “I just thought there would be straight forward choices…” You looked up from the boxes, seeing the way his jaw was clenched.

”It’s just overwhelming because all the companies who make this stuff create different versions of the same thing. See…” You pointed at one box “This one is ammonia free, and is semi-permanent,” Then pointed to the other one right beside it,”While this one is permanent and has argan oil infused in it so it doesn’t do a lot of damage, but they’re the same colour.” Bob squinted at the wall of labels, then back to the boxes you had motioned to, visibly confused, shaking his head.

“Alright…But what if I just want…Normal dye?” You looked up at him, one brow arching in mild amusement.

”Bob…This is normal dye.” He turned a sharp shade of red, as the heat rose to his cheeks, taking over the paleness.

“W-Well yeah but–but you know what I mean don’t you? It doesn’t have to be so complicated, just have one of every colour.” You let out a small laugh.

”Welcome to the wonderful world of capitalism, Bob. You want brown? Well, first you gotta pick from thirty-seven kinds of brown. Do you want cocoa chestnut or honey almond toast? Because those are apparently different.” Bob took his hand out of his pocket, rubbing the back of his neck.

”Okay…I guess you’re right.” He replied nervously.

”We’ll find your colour, I promise.” You said calmly, continuing to look over the boxes in front of you.

“Should I, uh…Take my hat off? Would that help?” You tilted your head at him, and nodded.

”It would definitely make this a much quicker process…But if it really bothers you, I’m pretty sure I could go off of memory.” Bob shrugged a little, his eyes flicking around the store for a moment.

”I don’t mind, it’s basically just us in here anyway.” You nodded, watching him remove the beanie again, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. He tried to not make a big deal out of it, but you could tell he felt exposed, so you were going to attempt to make things quick.

”Alright,” You said, stepping a little closer to him, grabbing a few boxes from the shelf, “Bend down a bit, I need to get a good look at the roots so I can compare.” He obeyed, ducking his head so you could see the top of his hair properly. In doing so, he stepped closer than you expected—closer than he expected, probably. Your foreheads were nearly aligned, noses maybe a breath apart. He was tall enough that you had to tilt your chin slightly to get the right angle, and Bob found himself frozen there, inches from you, not sure where to look. So, he looked at you.

You smelled like cherry cough drops–sickly sweet and medicinal—and it hit him instantly, like a quiet little exhale in the space between you. He remembered the moment you popped one into your mouth earlier, halfway to CVS, saying it was the only thing keeping your throat from giving out. And now the scent lingered on your breath, mingling with the warmth of your skin and the faint trace of eucalyptus from before. Bob swore his brain short-circuited for a second.

You were focused, eyes narrowing slightly, as you held one box up beside his roots, then another. Your fingers brushed through the longer strands near his crown, gently separating pieces to get a clearer view of where the bleach ended and his real colour began. You were so precise about it, so tender, and Bob didn’t know where to put his hands or how to keep breathing without accidentally inhaling you.

Then you paused, lips turning up as you caught the way his chest rose a little faster, how his fingers curled and uncurled in his sleeves

A soft rattling sound reached your ears then–the kind of nervous, involuntary vibration that sometimes came from him when he was overwhelmed. You smirked slightly, brushing your thumb against his temple on purpose as you pushed a few more strands aside.

“Is the Sentry getting a bit flustered?” You teased, your voice still raspy from the flu but still playful. “Or is that just you rattling like a soda can?”

Bob made a noise–half sigh, half laugh–ducking his head a little more like it would hide the warmth that continued to spread over his skin, all the way down his neck. “It’s definitely just me. He’s, uh…He’s fine.”

“Good,” You hummed, still close, eyes flicking between the swatch and his roots. “Because I don’t think he’d let me manhandle his hair like this.”

“You’re not…Manhandling anything,” He mumbled, trying to cover up the wavering tone. “Feels…Kinda nice, actually.” You paused at that comment, your eyes glancing down to his, seeing little glints of sparkling orange through the sea blue that his irises normally sported. For a second, neither of you said anything. The store had faded by that point and all that was left was the faint scent of cherry and the feel of your fingers still resting lightly in his hair.

“…This is your shade,” You said finally, voice soft, motioning to the box in your hand. He didn’t move at first, it was as if his brain hadn’t caught up to the moment yet, or his ears were ringing so much he didn’t hear what you had said. Then you shifted your weight, easing back slightly, giving him some space as you cleared your throat, dropping the box into the cart with a clunk. He quickly slipped the beanie back on, shoving his hair up into it, sealing away the moment beneath it.

“Now we need to get you one of those conditioning treatments, and after that I’m grabbing some snacks, cause I’m getting hungry.” He looked away from you, nodding.

”Yeah, okay…Conditioner and snack. Got it.” You glanced up at him, seeing the way he was avoiding you eyes again, before turning back to the cart, pushing it down the aisle with him following close behind. You turned into the next section without fanfare–the shampoo and conditioner area–and skimmed over a wide array of labels until your eyes landed on the exact jar you were looking for: the rich brown packaging, the heavy text that scrawled out all the promises of repairing and restoring.

“This one,” You muttered, reaching up for it and dropping it into the cart with a soft thunk, “Will do miracles for the damage, you’re gonna love it, smells like sweet coconuts.” Bob glanced at the package.

”Does it…Sting?” Your eyebrows drew together.

”Bob…It's conditioner, not acid.” He bit his inner lip.

”No, I-I know, I’m just asking cause when they bleached my hair it really really burned…Then my head was super sensitive for like a whole week after, j-just don’t want to go through that again.” You could hear the way his voice tapered off, like he didn’t really want to talk about it, but he just wanted to let you know.

“I promise this will be way less abrasive.” You said, with a small smile tugging at your lips, nudging the cart forward again, “Now let’s get to that snack aisle before my stomach eats itself.” Bob chuckled softly at your words, following you again as you turned into the next section, noticing the sharp fluorescent lights had dimmed just slightly. The sterile smell of the store had completely faded by that point, being replaced with sweet confectionery items; gummy snacks, granola bars, marshmallows, anything you could think of really. You stopped your cart, feeling Bob’s chest bump into your back, as your eyes began to skim over the shelves, squinting at the shimmering bags, the look of contemplation drawing up into your eyebrows.

“So…What’re you craving?” He asked softly, watching your eyes dart around the wide variety, “Sweet? Salty?” You hummed.

”Might buy the whole aisle to be honest…” He laughed under his breath, the sound quieter than the store’s staticky music, but warmer than anything you’d heard in days.

”Seems like your appetite has come back.” You turned to look at him, letting your body sway slightly toward the cart to brace yourself.

”Yeah, I think the fresh air has put me on the road to recovery…Just don’t touch my lower back…It’s a little sweaty.” There was a beat of silence, before you continued “My stomach might also be trying to fool me into a false sense of security and I’ll end up throwing it all up after I eat it.”

“Well that took a turn…” You shrugged, plucking a bag of sweet chili chips, throwing it mindlessly into the cart.

”I like to keep you on your toes Bob.” You replied with a smirk.

—————-

Back at the compound, you retreated into your room to change, making quick work even though you were feeling a faint headache coming back, but it was more manageable than your prior ones.

You swapped out your clothes for a pair of beat-up black compression shorts and an old t-shirt from your days at training camp–frayed at the collar and speckled with faded bleach stains from when you touched up Yelena’s hair. The crooked letters on the shirt were faded but you could make out the words “I SURVIVED CAMP HAMMOND” on the front of it, a great memory of how long it’s been since you were actually training.

You grabbed your dye bowl and one of the brushes from under your bathroom sink, tucking them against you as you headed down the hall. Your bare feet padded softly against the cool flooring of the compound, reaching the bathroom that Bob shared with Bucky, seeing the door was already cracked open. You gave it a slow push with your knuckles, poking your head in.

Bob stood in the middle of the tiled space like he wasn’t sure where he was going to sit, clutching the CVS bag with both hands, wringing it in his grip, the sound crinkling plastic echoing off the walls. He already had taken off the beanie, fully prepared for what was coming.

“Alright,” You announced as you stepped inside, “Your hair hero has arrived.” Bob looked over at you quickly, his shoulders dropping slightly when he laid eyes on you and your outfit. The tension in him bleeding out of him in small waves.

”You brought your own bowl?” He asked, trying to cover up the fact he was staring at your bare legs for longer than he intended.

“Of course I brought my own bowl,” You replied, holding it up slightly before setting it down on the porcelain counter, “What kind of amateur do you think I am?” You asked jokingly, earning a small smile from Bob, motioning for him to hand you the bag.

You unpacked the contents onto the sinks edge–the dye, the conditioner, the gloves, and a couple of CVS coupons that the cashier had stapled to the receipt.

“Okay,” You said, flipping the box of dye around to double-check the instructions even though you were seasoned enough to know what you were doing without them, “Let’s get you situated hm?” Bob hovered behind you awkwardly, watching your hands move with precise, and practiced ease. You pointed at the closed toilet lid.

”Go sit on the makeshift barber chair, hope you like stiff seats.” You joked, watching him go over to where you pointed, sitting down without protest, seeing the way his long frame compressed itself into the small space. He looked over at you with a soft smile, his hands clasping together, as you slid on a pair of gloves.

“Uh…Just wanted to say thank you for doing this, especially with being sick and everything…I didn’t mean to be a bother.” You cracked open the box of dye, flipping the flaps back and pulling out the developer bottle and aluminum tube of colour, the gloves squeaking slightly as you did so. You opened the cap with a satisfying pop and reached for the dye bowl beside you.

”You’re not a bother Bob.,” You said, glancing over at him as you squeezed the thick brown sludge into the bowl, “I don’t mind.” He blushed a bit at the softness in your voice, letting out a sheepish laugh, nodding before taking his eyes off you, his fingers finding the hem of his sweater.

You turned and flipped the small ceiling fan on, letting it whirl to life with a soft click and hum, it was your little attempt to keep the room from smelling like a chemical spill before you started stirring in the developer with the dye.

It was quiet for a moment–peaceful almost. Just the faint humming of the fan and the soft scrape of the plastic bristles rubbing against the inside of the bowl. Bob’s eyes drifted down toward your shirt absentmindedly, reading the faded words that were scrawled over the fabric that was clinging to your frame.

”What’s…Camp Hammond?” He asked quietly, with genuine curiosity in his voice, as he looked down to his hands. You didn’t look over at him immediately–still focused on making sure the mixture reached that perfect pudding-like texture–but your mouth twitched slightly.

”Did you think I was born with the skills of a mercenary?” You asked, glancing over at him with a teasing glint in your eye, “Hate to burst your bubble, but I wasn’t that cool.” Bob felt his cheeks heat up as it spread to his ears and down his neck.

”So what is it? Like…A boot camp or something?” You shrugged, looking down at the bowl again.

”Kind of. It was a training facility for recruits who showed promise in their assigned roles. I was a teenager when I got scouted, actually. They stuck us in bunk beds and we ran drills at five in the morning. Sometimes we were able to go home to see our families but I spent about three years there just learning the ropes and honing my skills.” He leaned forward a bit.

”Was it…Bad?” You paused the stirring for a moment, biting the inside of your cheek when you heard the way he asked.

”No. Not always. It was intense, but not all of it was horrible. I met my first team there actually, so that should tell you something about the experience.” At the mention of your first team, the conversation had faded, because true to Bob’s nature he was observant enough to catch on that you weren’t going to answer any questions about them. He just nodded, and sat still, with worry tucked beneath his lashes. You cleared your throat, breaking the silence.

”Before I forget–you should probably take that sweater off. This stuff is probably going to stain it and there’s a really low chance you’re going to be able to get it out.” You said, motioning with the brush, “Unless you actually want brown splatters all over it.” You added, seeing him look down at himself.

“Oh…Uh…” He said, curling his fingers into the hem of it, hesitating, “I’m not…Wearing anything under it.” You paused.

”You could go find something you don’t mind ruining, I can wait.” Bob shook his head, not looking at you, avoiding your eyes.

”I don’t really have anything…I wear pretty much all of my clothes, and donate the ones I don’t.” You put your hands on your hips, biting the inner side of your cheek.

”Guess we have a dilemma then.” You said jokingly, looking around the bathroom for a towel–a solution of sorts.

”I mean…I could take it off, I just…Just promise me you won’t laugh.” You stopped your movements immediately, looking back at him, raising your eyebrows.

”Okay. I won’t laugh.” You said, feeling your chest tighten. Bob nodded once, his fingers finally tugging up the hem of the sweater. It caught slightly on the undersides of his arms—he had to peel it upward with a bit of a twist—and then suddenly, it was gone, crumpled in his hands and resting in his lap.

You froze.

The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding caught somewhere in your throat, stalling completely as you took him in.

The heat that burned inside your body hit you like a second fever.

He was…Lean. But solid. Not showy or overly built, but undeniably strong. His chest and shoulders were broad in a way that looked natural. There were fine lines of definition that carved down his sternum and stomach, soft traces of light and shadow where his muscles rested. His skin was fair, with scattered freckles that dotted across his collarbones and shoulders like sunspots. A small scar cut just under his left rib–thin and silvery and healed long ago–and there was a faint stretch of color along his ribs, a faded birthmark maybe, or it was the aftermath from the serum he was given. Tying it all together though were the very very small stretch marks that were scattered around the expanse of skin, which made your brows raise a bit in admiration…

And his arms–Jesus Christ, his arms–were gently corded with strength, biceps not flexed but still clearly shaped beneath smooth skin, dusted with barely-there hair in the hollows of his elbows. The veins on his forearms sat just under the surface, pale blue and almost glowing under the harsh light of the bathroom.

He wasn’t perfect. But you didn’t want perfect. This–this was so much better.

The heat rushed up your neck and onto your cheeks so fast it was like your body had short-circuited, and you were suddenly very aware that your own shirt was threadbare and clinging to your frame. You tried to clear your throat quietly, to ground yourself, but the sound came out shakier than you liked. Bob caught it immediately, and his cheeks went a dark hue of pink. Now you were able to see the pale skin of his chest matching the same colour.

You felt nauseous looking at him, but for all the right reasons. How the hell were you supposed to get close to this man now without passing out? And how the hell was he able to hide this so well from you– Or anybody else for that matter?

“Wow…” Was all you could say, and you didn’t even mean for it to come out of your mouth. Bob’s head tilted up at you, noticing the way your eyes were glued to him like he was some sort of museum exhibit. He clutched the sweater in his lap a little tighter, curling in on himself a bit as if he was trying to hide, looking down at himself.

”Yeah I know…” He muttered, tone awkward and clipped, like he was attempting to defuse the silence before it got worse, “I know it’s bad…The serum kinda…I don’t know made me grow a little too quickly, and-.” You raised your hand to stop him.

”Woah woah…Don’t even go there Bob. I wasn’t saying wow in a bad way.” He looked up at you instantly, his eyes glistening in the lighting, the soft blue still shimmering with those little flecks of orange.

”…You weren’t?” He questioned, his lips parting a bit.

”Bob…You’re built like a fucking house.” You said bluntly, the edge in your voice softening from the next wave of nausea that sloshed in your stomach. Bob made a noise like he was suppressing a laugh, his throat closed a bit.

”That’s…A very generous interpretation, but you don’t have to lie to me…” Your expression twisted slightly, not in offense, but in something rawer than that. It was as if his words scratched at a place in you that was already tender.

”Bob, I’ve never lied to you…And I’m certainly not starting now.” Bob’s lashes fluttered like he was processing your words, like no one had ever said something so plainly true to him in a long time. You could see the way he swallowed hard, almost like he was choking back his words, “You look amazing, and I mean it.” That was when you heard it again–the faint rattling sound, you assumed he was shaking something in one of the cabinets, it didn’t really matter at this point though. He drew in a shaky breath to quiet it, his fingers tightening around the bunched-up sweater.

Then you stepped towards him, taking up the space between his knees. You were close enough to feel the warmth coming off his bare chest, to see the smallest cluster of freckles that laid just beneath his collarbone, and to feel his breath against you. Bob tilted his head up, slow and steady, his eyes finding yours immediately, seeing more orange taking over his irises.

“…You’re really not going to laugh at me?” He asked, almost like he truly couldn’t believe it. You sighed, tucking a piece of bleached hair behind his ear.

”Bob, the only thing I’m going to be doing right now is wondering how I’m supposed to function with you sitting in front of me like this…Does that make you feel any better?” Bob let out a soft, startled breath–almost like a laugh or like he didn’t know what to do with the surge of warmth that spread through his chest.

His hands, still knotted around the sweater in his lap, flexed–then unclenched. The tension there began to melt, bit by bit.

“I…” He started, then stopped. His voice caught, his tongue wetting his bottom lip like he was trying to steady himself. His eyes searching your face, shining under the light “I think that makes it so much worse, actually.”

“Worse?” Bob nodded faintly.

“Yeah…Because now I’m trying really hard not to kiss you...” His voice was barely above a whisper when he said it, and all consideration for the flu you had been battling was thrown to the curb.

The rattling came back. Louder this time. Almost a tremor that ran through his chest–not violent, not dangerous, but charged. Like there was a wire humming under his skin that was just barely holding.

And still, somehow, he smiled.

The kind of smile that only showed up when he was trying to hide how badly he wanted something.

You swallowed. Your hand was still in his hair, fingers brushing at the soft edge of his temple. You could feel his warmth, his nerves, the small, careful gravity that existed between his body and yours. You let your gaze drop to his mouth, just for a second, and then back to his eyes.

“Well,” You said, keeping your voice low and playful, in an attempt to mask your heart beating out of your chest “You’re gonna have to wait until after your hair’s done. I’m not making out with someone mid-dye job–this stuff stains.” You added innocently, a smirk drawing up on your lips. You could hear Bob’s breath catching in his throat at the sheer mention of making out.

”Right, right, of course.” He said, trying to cover up the excitement that bloomed in him.

”Now, be a give boy and stay still, so I can work my magic.” You whispered tilting his chin up even more with your gloved hand.

”Y-Yes, ma’am.” He responded breathlessly, without even thinking–so soft, and so automatic that it made your pulse spike. You cleared your throat a bit before dipping the brush into the bowl, letting the creamy dye coat the bristles, then gently you began to cover the stark blonde lengths of his hair in the dark brown colouring. The scent of it—chemical but faintly sweet—mingled with the warm air drifting down from the little ceiling fan, and you tried to keep your breathing steady as you worked. Bob’s hair was softer than you expected, silken even after all the damage. And the way he tilted his head just slightly to give you better access made your chest ache.

He closed his eyes at the first touch, his jaw going slack as you parted the strands with careful fingers, keeping your brush strokes slow and methodical. You could see his throat move as he swallowed, the faintest tremble still present in his frame–but now it was quiet, more soothed than shaken.

You worked in silence for a little while. It wasn’t awkward—just thick with the kind of tension that lingers when two people are trying not to break a moment that’s humming with too much energy. You kept your movements fluid, coating each section with care, your free hand occasionally grazing the side of his neck or the curve of his temple to steady him.

Bob let out a slow, shaky breath.

“…Can I touch you?”

The question barely made it past his lips. His eyes were still shut, but his lashes fluttered like he wasn’t sure if he should open them yet. You paused, brush hovering midair.

“Touch me?” You asked, like you were confirming what he just said. He nodded, just once.

“Not in a weird way I just–I need to…To do something with my hands.”Your lips parted, the heat returning in full force, knowing that he was probably making an excuse to put his hands on you, to feel you, to take you in, but deep down inside, you didn’t mind one bit.

“Yeah,” You said quietly. “You can touch me.”

The second you said it, you felt his hands move. Slow, careful. The sweater slipped from his lap and landed with a soft thump on the tile floor. Then his palms came to rest on the sides of your thighs, just above the hem of your compression shorts.

They were warm. Gentle. And a bit shaky.

Bob exhaled like the contact untied something in him, his fingers curling lightly around your skin as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to hold you like that. His thumbs swept slow arcs along the fabric, and then you saw it–his bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyes still closed like he was savoring every inch of sensation, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you beneath his palms.

You could barely focus on the hair in front of you. Your hands just kept moving, but your entire body was tuned to him–how he sighed when your knee brushed his, how he flexed his hands slightly when your knuckles grazed his cheek. How he chased what little touch he was getting from you.

“You okay down there?” You asked, voice low, and tinged with amusement. His eyes finally opened–heavy-lidded, and flushed with emotion, as his fingers stayed firm on your legs.

“Yeah,” He breathed. “Just…I think this is the most relaxed I’ve felt in weeks.” You couldn’t help but smile at the softness of his voice.

“Well, I’m glad I could contribute to that…Even though now you’re going to have to wait thirty minutes for this to set in.” He wet his bottom lip with his tongue, nibbling on the inside of it, as you placed the empty bowl and stained brush onto the counter, taking off your gloves and letting them drop in the garbage all while staying in the space between his knees. You set a timer for yourself on the speaker radio that was near the conditioner.

“…What could we possibly do to make the time go by faster?” He asked shyly, almost like he already knew the answer, but he just wanted you to initiate it, because he was too nervous to do it himself.

You weren’t going to give in that easily though.

“Oh I’m sure we could think of something.” Allowing your voice to be a bit more breathier than before. He blinked up at you, hopeful and unsure all at once, but he still didn’t say anything, he Just kept holding you like he was afraid that any sudden shift he did would scare you off.

You didn’t move much at first–just enough to lean a fraction closer. Just enough to let your shirt brush his bare chest as you planted your palms on the edge of the shelf behind him, caging him in without pressure, while also being mindful of his dye coated hair. Bob inhaled, and you felt the tremble of it, the way his breath shuddered as your faces moved closer.

You dipped in–slow, and teasing–until your lips were just above his. A hair’s breadth away from connecting.

But then you stopped.

Bob was dazed. His lips parted, breath warm in anticipation, waiting for you to do it…But you just stayed there, close enough for him to swallow the air you breathed out into him, and to smell the faint hint of cherry that was still clinging to your lips from the cough drop.

“…Y/N.” He whispered, his voice almost breaking off into a whimper. You tilted your head with a knowing smirk.

“What?” You asked quietly.

“Y-You know what…You’re driving me crazy…” He tried to lean up but you moved back just enough for him to lose the air you were giving him.

“That’s the point.” You replied, brushing the tip of his nose with yours. His fingers tightened a little on your thighs, but he didn’t move you closer, even though he could’ve. He stayed obedient. Soft. The way he was in his everyday life and you smiled down at him, leaning in again to brush your lips across his bottom one, feeling him shiver against you.

Bob let out a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering half-shut from the close proximity of your mouth. His palms on your thighs shifted upward, sliding under your baggy top so they could rest against the waistband of your compression shorts, his fingers brushing the skin of your hips.

“…You don’t know what you’re doing to me…God…You have no idea.” He said, his voice aching and on the verge of spilling over into begging.

”I think I have a pretty good idea,” You murmured back, trailing your lips across his again, feeling the wetness of his saliva this time before going to the shell of his ear “You’re the one shaking, Bob.” You whispered, your breath hitting against his skin.

”I’m t-trying my best to be good for you…But you’re making this so hard.” The heat between you curled together, tightening in your belly. You drew back just enough so you could look him in the eyes again. “…You can do whatever you want to me…” He whispered, “Just please…Please don’t stop touching me.” Your breath caught at his word, not just because of the desperation that laced them, but because of the truth that hung below them.

It was the kind of truth people usually only say in the dark, or when they were half-asleep or drunk, but Bob was fully sober, wide-eyed, and trembling beneath your hands as if he couldn’t hold himself back any longer. It was like you were pulling a loose thread from a shirt and it was completely unraveling the whole thing. You stared at him for a long moment.

”…The timer is going to go off in about twenty minutes,” You said softly, “And I think we’re both a little overheated, aren’t we?” Bob’s eyebrows knitted together, almost like he was preparing himself for you to stop this from going any further.

”W–What do you–“

”I think we should take a shower together when the timer goes off,” You interrupted, tilting your head to the side, “That okay with you?” There was a beat of stunned silence. Then a choked little nod, as Bob’s fingers gently pressed into your hips on reflex.

“I’ll rinse out your hair, get the dye out…Then maybe–“ Your voice dropped into a whisper, “–I’ll let you kiss me…Think you can manage to wait?” Bob let out a small broken sound–between a laugh and a groan.

”I-I can try,” He whispered, not even sounding convinced by his own voice.

The next fifteen minutes passed in a kind of suspended quiet. You didn’t step away from him entirely–just retreated enough to clean the brush, rinse out the bowl, organize the conditioner and the towel you’d need for later. But the whole time you felt his eyes on you. And every time you glanced over at him out of the corner of your eye, he was still perched on the makeshift barber chair, elbows on his knees, trying not to look like he was counting the seconds.

With five minutes left on the clock, you went over to the shower and reached in, twisting the handle on the built-in panel. The pipes groaned quietly as the water surged out, spraying onto the shower floor. Within seconds steam was curling out from behind the frosted glass enclosure. The room warmed fast, the mirror fogging slightly at the edges, the air heavy with moisture and the faint scent of developer and dye.

The heat from the shower stuck to your skin as you turned your head back to look at him–still seated, trying to play it cool like he wasn’t about to explode from the anticipation. Bob leaned back against the tank, making room for you without hesitation, his knees parting instinctively like muscle memory, like his body already knew what was coming. You crossed the tiled floor with quiet, deliberate steps, the steam from the shower weaving between you both, making the bathroom feel smaller, more intimate–like the air itself was folding in to watch.

You stepped between his knees again, standing tall in front of him, the light of the ceiling fan casting a warm haze on your skin.

Your hands found his shoulders again, fingertips skating lightly along the curve of them.

“Want to undress me?” You asked, your voice like a secret you were offering just to him. No teasing this time–just heat, thick and warm and sweet in your chest. He exhaled like you punched the breath out of him.

”Y-Yeah, o-of course I do.” He said, barely above a whisper. You took his wrists into your hands, and guided him to the hem of your shirt, giving him the signal to do it.

He took his time with it–not from hesitation but from wanting to tease you back just a little. His knuckles brushed against your stomach as he gathered the worn fabric up, pausing briefly just beneath your ribs, looking up at you just to make sure you were still okay with this. You gave him a nod.

He peeled it up off you, slow and careful, taking in the way the shirt slowly revealed everything he wanted to see in short increments. Your ribs, the soft swell of your breasts, your collarbones, your shoulders, all the way up until he was able to take the shirt off entirely. He let it drop to the floor behind you.

Bob’s gaze dropped before he could stop it, letting his eyes roam over you like he was witnessing something holy–like he wouldn’t blink in case you suddenly vanished. His mouth parted for a moment as he audibly gulped. He was silent, his expression flickering between awe and hunger, tangling up in the open and stunned way he drank you in.

He was memorizing every inch of your skin. The gentle rise and fall of your chest, the soft curves and defined edges. Every freckle, birthmark, scar, or stretch of the skin, it was all there in his head, committed like it was a sacred text. You were completely unhidden, and you trustingly offered yourself to him with nothing but openness, and it was breathtaking to him.

“Jesus…” He said quietly, like your body was rewriting something inside him. He reached up and touched the soft skin of your stomach, the tips of his fingers tracing along your navel, before his eyes met yours again, revealing the beautiful haze of blue blurring together with the specks of orange that lived there. You brought your hand up to his face, caressing his cheek carefully, running your thumb just below his eye.

“You’re so beautiful…” You whispered, feeling Bob’s fingers curling beneath the waistband of your shorts.

“And you’re immaculate…” He responded, slowly tugging your shorts down, his eyes never leaving yours as he did it. He just wanted to look at you, to take you in, to hold you close until you didn’t want to be held by him anymore. He wanted you so bad he felt like he was going to explode, and the heat in the washroom wasn’t helping him control that. The shorts dropped around your ankles with a soft flutter, and you stepped out of them slowly, brushing your hand down to his jaw.

“I’ll meet you in the shower,” Your voice was low and soft like a promise. Then you turned, and walked behind the frosted glass, sliding the door shut in one swift movement. Steam swirled around you like a second skin as you stepped fully beneath the stream of water. It hit your scalp first, then your shoulders, pouring down your body in comforting waves. The warmth soaked into your tense muscles and melted along your spine, rinsing away the leftover ache of your fever and the lingering hum of restraint you’d been nursing for the last hour.

From beyond the frosted glass, you saw movement. Bob had gotten up and walked over to the alarm, clicking it off with a single beep–because what was a minute going to do for him. Then you heard the shuffle of bare feet on tile, followed by the soft rustling of clothes dropping. You could see his shadow moving, leaning down then straightening up again, seeing him step out of his sweatpants and his underwear before reaching for the handle.

He slid the door open and stepped into the steam. You could see him squinting at the change in scenery, until his eyes caught yours. Under the dimmed lighting that the shower had you looked ethereal, like a siren calling to him to come closer. You tilted your head at him.

”Remember, we gotta wash your hair out first.” Bob nodded silently, too stunned to speak or protest, and stepped closer to you until he was right against you, letting the water cascade down his body. You reached up without hesitation, brushing your fingers along the slope of his neck as you cupped his jaw gently, feeling the very faint stubble against your fingertips.

”Close your eyes,” You murmured, and he obeyed immediately, trusting you with all of him. You reached for the bottle of shampoo, flipping the cap open with a soft click. The scent was clean, crisp–something like cedar and citrus–and you poured a generous amount into your palm before lathering it between your fingers. He hunched forward slightly to help you because of the height difference, the muscles in his back bunching as he bent, his hands braced loosely on his thighs.

Your fingers found his scalp and began to move, slow and deliberate, massaging through the dye-stiffened strands with practiced ease. His breath hitched at the first touch–soft and barely audible over the rush of water–but he relaxed into you, the tension easing from his shoulders as you worked through his hair, your nails dragging along his scalp gently, sending shivers down his spine despite the warmth of the shower that was smothering him.

He tried to peek down at you through his lashes, but flinched the moment some suds landed on his brow. You caught the twitch of frustration in his mouth and grinned faintly to yourself.

”No peeking,” You teased, your voice low and sultry, “You’ll get soap in your eyes, and that’ll just prolong the process.” You added, with a smirk.

”I-I’m not peeking,” He muttered back, clearly lying.

But while he couldn’t see you, you saw everything.

Your eyes dropped as your fingers moved through his hair, and your gaze caught on the rest of him–completely, gloriously bare under the water’s fall. And it hit you like a weight to the chest.

He was hard. Completely, achingly hard.

It curved upward from between his thighs, thick and flushed and dripping from the spray. Your breath caught in your throat involuntarily. He was…Big. The kind of big that made your pulse thrum deep in your core, the kind that made something flutter behind your ribcage. The kind of big that made you a bit nervous. His thighs were braced, strong and trembling slightly as the water poured down over both of you, and yet he stayed still–eyes closed, waiting, unaware of just how deeply you were watching him.

You swallowed, trying not to stare too long–but your fingers slowed in his hair for just a beat before you lathered more shampoo and brought it back to the roots, working it all through. You focused on your task, rinsing gently, letting the water carry away the suds and the last traces of harsh dye. As the dark rivulets streamed down and swirled at your feet, the natural color beneath began to reveal itself.

The soft brown, the colour that belonged to him, and only him. Not the Sentry.

You smoothed your hands through the damp strands with a smile on your face, and you could feel him relax further at the calmness of your touch.

”There you are,” You whispered, more to yourself than to him, “Back to you…” You could see his brows lift slightly at your words, still not opening his eyes.

”…W-What does it look like?” He asked softly.

”Like it’s all you…It’s perfect Bob…” You responded, seeing his eyes slowly flutter open, the soft blue still burning with those beautiful flecks of orange from the Sentry. When they locked on yours, something in him snapped completely, and he blinked a few times, steadying himself against you.

”…Can I kiss you now?” He whispered, breath catching in his throat.

You nodded.

And the second you did, he surged forward, his hands finding your face like he’d been aching to hold you there for days. His palms were warm and a little shaky, fingers threading gently into the damp strands of your hair as he tilted your head just right. He kissed you like it was the only thing that would quiet the trembling in his chest–deep, and full of the kind of hunger that had nowhere else to go.

His lips parted against yours with a soft sigh, molding to your mouth like he already knew every shape of it. You responded in kind, letting your hands press flat to his chest before sliding up, feeling the slick heat of his skin, the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms. One hand drifted upward to cradle the back of his neck, the other anchoring at his side.

Bob shifted, pulling you flush against him, his hands sliding down to your waist, gripping gently as he tilted his head and deepened the kiss. There was nothing hesitant about it anymore–only quiet desperation, the need to be close, the need to feel you pressed against every inch of him. His thumbs rubbed slow, anchoring circles against your ribs as he kissed you over and over, his breath catching between each one like he couldn’t quite get enough.

You felt your knees wobble when he sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, and he steadied you instantly, one hand sliding down to the back of your thigh, coaxing your leg to lift so he could hold you open against him.

You gasped softly into his mouth when he did it–because now you could feel all of him. His length, hot and heavy, brushing between your thighs. But he didn’t push it. He just held you there, breathing hard through his nose as his mouth broke from yours for a second, bumping his forehead with yours.

”I-I have to touch you…Can I p-please touch you?” His words vibrated against your chest, shaky from the kiss he had just pulled away from. Immediately you nodded, drunk off of the way he held you, the way he kissed you so desperately. You were his, and you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you.

He dropped his hand from your thigh, keeping his eyes locked on yours as he guided you back, each step careful, like he was afraid to rush a single second of this. The warm tile met your spine gently, as the steam curled around your shoulders–like it was dying to be part of the moment too. Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, the anticipation tugging at you like a puppet.

Bob’s hand, still curled gently around your hip, gave it one reassuring squeeze before sliding away. The loss of his hand made you let out a desperate sigh, wanting to feel him again. He looked down at you as he brought his fingers up to his lips, his tongue darting out of his mouth to coat the tips of them slowly, not for show, but for purpose. For you. His gaze never dropped from yours as he did it, and when his hand fell again between the both of you, he didn’t hesitate.

His knee eased your thighs apart gently, and then his fingers found your clit. The first contact made your knees buckle slightly, and he caught it, pressing in with his knee to steady you, his free hand braced against the wall beside your head. His touch was gentle at first–soft circles, slow and attentive. You gasped, head tipping back, exposing your throat without thinking.

That was all the invitation Bob needed.

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the base of your neck, just where your collarbone met your shoulder. The kiss was wet and open-mouthed, like he needed to taste you and the saltiness of your skin. He breathed in like he could anchor himself in your scent. Another kiss, and another, working up the side of your neck as his fingers circled your clit with more confidence now, slick from the water and his spit, moving with practiced pressure.

”So…So soft,” He whispered into your skin, voice shaking, “So goddamn soft…” Your breath caught as his pace shifted. You could feel your body responding–arching into him, a wet heat building between your legs. You whimpered, and that sound nearly undid him. His teeth grazed your neck but didn’t bite, his lips returning to kiss it better as if he could soothe the tremble in your body.

Then his fingers dipped lower, and he felt it immediately.

You were soaked–slick, warm, and pulsing beneath his touch. His breath hitched at the sensation, at the way your body welcomed him without hesitation. And when he eased two fingers inside of you ever so slowly you gasped, arching into his hand like your body had been waiting for that very moment.

“F-fuck,” You breathed, the word slipping out as your nails found purchase in his shoulders. You clawed at him instinctively, dragging across the muscle there, needing something to anchor you while he pushed them in deeper. He didn’t flinch at the scratch–he moaned. A soft, broken sound that came from the back of his throat like he liked the way it felt, like it made him feel wanted in the most primal sense.

His forehead dropped against your shoulder, his mouth kissing along your collarbone with a tenderness that contrasted the stretch of his fingers inside you. He mouthed at the skin there–kissed it, licked it, sucked until it was sensitive and bruised. He pulled back looking at the little love bites, each one tinged with hunger. Bob wasn’t the possessive type but there was this ache in his chest to mark you as his, and even if the water washed it away, he wanted to be sure he left something on your skin.

“Y-You feel so warm…” He said, his voice fraying at the edges. His fingers curled gently inside you, causing your knees to buckle again. Your body shuddered as the pads of his fingers dragged against that spot inside of you that made your entire frame light up. Bob’s hand moved to your hip, keeping you steady as his other hand worked in smooth, slow thrusts, each one more confident than the last. He found a rhythm, watching you, studying every moan and gasp like it was gospel.

And when you whimpered his name, when your body clenched around him so tight he had to grit his teeth, he gave a quiet, shaky laugh–utterly wrecked by how responsive you were.

“You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?” he asked, lips brushing your ear, breath heavy and hot. “I can feel it…God, I can feel you squeezing me…”

You nodded, unable to form a word, your nails biting into his shoulders again as your hips rocked against his hand.

Bob adjusted his angle, changing the pressure, and that’s when you saw stars.

Your head dropped forward, forehead against his collarbone, the air thick with steam and the sharp scent of him—clean, masculine, tinged with desperation. His fingers moved faster, wetter, the slick sounds between your legs obscene and perfect, echoing between the tiles. He was muttering praise now—soft, reverent things that fell from his lips like prayers.

“Just like that, baby—so good for me… You’re doing so good—feels like heaven—fuck, I want to see you fall apart…”

You felt it hit like a wave rolling up your spine.

A tight, burning coil of pleasure twisted inside you and then snapped. You gasped—loud, broken, as the climax ripped through you. You trembled, back arching hard into him as your thighs clenched and a rush of wetness gushed out around his fingers.

Bob stilled for a second in awe.

“…Oh my God,” He breathed, stunned, his eyes wide as he held you through it. You collapsed into him, breath heaving, skin flushed and shining under the steam. He kept his fingers buried inside you, not moving, just holding you close, letting you ride it out as you trembled against his chest.

He looked down between you both, seeing the slick mess on his hand, the way your body had responded so violently to him–and his mouth dropped open slightly. Not because of shock, but because of wonder and awe.

”You…You did so good.” He praised, his voice barely holding together under the weight of what he just experienced with you. His lips brushed your temple first, then your cheek, before finally reaching your mouth.

The kiss wasn’t hungry nor urgent, it was adoration in its purest form. His lips moved like they were tasting something he’d only ever imagined–careful and soft, like he was trying not to overwhelm you. He trembled against you, being crushed from everything unspoken between you. His hand was still between your thighs, cradling you like something precious, and you could feel how hard he was, pressed just barely against you, restrained only by the shivering line of self-control that hadn’t yet broken.

When he finally, carefully, slipped his fingers out of you, you let out the tiniest gasp from the absence–but before he could fully draw away, you grabbed his wrist.

He was still in his movements.

Your eyes met his, holding steady as you lifted his hand–and then you took his soaked fingers into your mouth.

Bob made a sound that almost didn’t make it out of him–a soft, wrecked sigh that died at the back of his throat. His lips parted slightly, eyes darkening as he watched you suck him clean, your mouth warm and wet, tongue dragging along the pads of his fingers slowly, like you were claiming every last drop of yourself from his skin.

He could barely breathe.

You kept eye contact the whole time. It wasn’t a power play–it was intimacy. Connection. And it unraveled him.

Once you were done, you let his fingers slip from your mouth with a soft pop, and he dragged them–slow and reverent–down your chin. Then your throat. The hollow of your chest. His fingertips were wet with saliva, and he trailed it down like he was painting you–smearing it across your sternum, over your ribs, and finally down to your hips.

“Y/N…You’re so…So perfect,” He whispered, in disbelief, shaking his head as his hands ran down your waist, going straight to your thighs, before lifting you effortlessly. You let out a soft breath as your legs bracketed around his hips instinctively, your arms wrapping around his shoulders for balance.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the middle of your chest, and his voice came out barely above the noise of the shower

”Do you want to…Still have sex with me?” You looked down at him, caressing the side of his neck.

”Of course I do,” You responded instantly.

Your lips found his right after–soft and sure. You kissed him with everything you had, as if answering his question with your entire body. His breath caught, his hands clutching at your thighs with a startled need, grounding himself in the reality that you weren’t going to vanish, that you really did want this–want him.

As the kiss deepened, you felt one of his hands slowly slide down your thigh, tickling the skin, but this time there was a purpose in his touch. He shifted beneath you slightly, and then you felt it–the soft brush of his tip against you. Hot. Heavy. And trembling in his grasp.

You broke the kiss for just a breath, resting your forehead against his, your eyes fluttering shut as he lined himself up. His hand shook slightly, like he couldn’t believe this was happening. Like he was terrified of getting it wrong. But he didn’t rush. And neither did you.

“I want you,” You said, your breath warm against his mouth. “All of you.” Bob let out a wrecked whimper from his mouth, before kissing you once more.

Then slowly he began to push in, moving his hips gently.

Your mouth parted in a silent gasp, your eyes flying open as your body stretched to take him. It was so much–thick and deep and slow. He paused when he was just a couple inches in, his forehead still pressed to yours, panting.

“Is that okay?” He asked, voice cracking. “I—I can stop if it’s too much…”

You shook your head immediately, curling your fingers into his shoulders, drawing him closer.

“No. Please don’t stop.”

Bob exhaled a breath that shook all the way down to his spine, then kissed you again–slow, sweet–before sinking deeper inside.

You both moaned at the same time, and your tongues met in between the space your mouths made.

It was like he was imprinting himself into every inch of you. His hands gripped your hips with the kind of gentleness that made your chest ache, guiding your body until he was fully seated inside you, hips pressed flush against yours.

“Oh…God.” He whispered, eyes squeezed shut, trembling as he held still. “You’re so…So perfect… I can’t–God–”

You kissed his jaw, whispering against the sensitive skin just beneath his ear. “You’re okay, Bob. You’re doing so good…”

He began to move–shallow at first, rocking his hips into you in slow, reverent strokes. Each one pulled a quiet gasp from your lips. The water cascaded around you both, steam curling at your shoulders as you clung to him, your body humming in time with his.

He found a slow and steady rhythm, thrusting as deep as possible with each movement of his hips.

He kissed you everywhere he could reach–your cheek, your mouth, your jaw, the slope of your shoulder and his praise was neverending. Whispered fragments between kisses and gasps.

“You’re so beautiful…”

“You feel so good around me…”

“I want to make you feel everything…”

Your hands were tangled in his hair, your body arching to meet every thrust, until your forehead was pressed to his again and your breaths mingled in the tight space between you. Each slow movement of his hips sent sparks crawling up your spine and you rocked against him, chasing every moment, trying to keep it from ending too soon.

Bob looked completely undone in front of you though. His mouth open, cheeks flushed, hands gripping your waist like you were his lifeline.

Then his thrusts started to falter.

You felt it in the way he gasped–sharp and helpless–the way his hold on you tightened and his voice pitched higher.

“I—Y/N, I—oh God, I’m—”

You kissed him, hard, your voice hot against his mouth. “It’s okay. Let go. I’ve got you.”

He came with a broken gasp.

The lights flickered.

Just once–flicker, flicker, black–and then back on again. The overhead bulb buzzed faintly, a hum that matched the pulse of his release as his hips jerked forward, holding deep inside you while his whole body tensed. You could feel the warmth filling you in thick ropes, his body instinctively pushing up into you as if he was trying to keep it from spilling out.

And then he went still.

Completely, and utterly still.

He stayed buried in you, face tucked into the crook of your neck, breath hot and ragged as the water pounded softly over your bodies. You felt the way he trembled, felt the heat of his skin and the wild thud of his heart against yours.

He didn’t move for a long time, he just stayed there, clutching you like you were the one thing that was bringing him down slowly.

And then you felt it–the slow exhale against your neck, the soft tremor that followed. His voice came out low, cracked with embarrassment.

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispered, still breathless. “That was so fast. I didn’t mean to-God, I just couldn’t hold it…”

You pulled back, just enough to see his face, his brows drawn together with worry, his mouth still parted from the weight of what just passed between you. And yet, even flushed and wrecked, he looked beautiful. Lit up from the inside out, like he still couldn’t believe any of this was real.

You shook your head gently and brought your hand up to brush a damp lock of hair off his forehead, tucking it behind his ear with the same tenderness he gave you. “You didn’t finish too fast, Bob.”

He blinked, lips parting like he didn’t believe you.

You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then whispered against his skin, “You were perfect. I loved every second of it…Because it was with you.” His features softened at your word, that shy smile blooming across his lips, one you felt in your ribs. You saw the glow of it before you felt his body move. He kissed you again, this time gentler, slower–like he wanted to say thank you with his whole mouth.

Then, carefully, he pulled out of you. You both shivered a bit at the sensitivity, and you caught the way his brows knit together, like he didn’t want to stop touching you. But your body welcomed the shift, and your legs dropped from his hips as the moment passed, leaving behind only warmth and steam.

He reached for you instinctively, his hands skimming your waist like he was still trying to keep you close, like he couldn’t quite accept that you were separate again. You smiled at him, brushing your fingers along his jaw, watching the way he leaned into the contact, like it was his oxygen.

”You really like touching me, huh?” You teased lightly, watching his cheeks turn a deeper red, the corners of his mouth curling up shyly.

”…Yeah…I really do.” He admitted. You let out a soft laugh, then looked toward the water still streaming from the showerhead behind him.

“As much as I’d love to stay in here and get all wrinkly,” You said, thumb brushing the hollow of his cheek, “If we don’t rinse off soon, the compound’s water bill is gonna bankrupt Valentina.” Bob let out a breathy laugh, head dropping against your shoulder for a second.

“I guess you’re right, but once we get cleaned up…I want to just lay on the couch with you and hold you for a little while…If that’s okay?” You nodded.

”Of course it’s okay.” You replied, guiding him under the steady stream of water. You each took turns, helping the other wash up. He was gentle when he touched your body as if you hadn’t just taken him completely inside you minutes ago, and he ran his hands over the marks he had made on you, smiling proudly at his work. You matched his care, running soapy fingers down his spine, over his shoulders, through the strands of his newly darkened hair, rinsing the last of the evidence down the drain.

And when the water finally cooled, you stepped out first, digging around the towel closet for a spare. Bob followed right after, grabbing the one that he usually used, with steam rolling off his shoulders, making the air thick and warm as he wrapped the towel around his waist, pausing by the foggy mirror, wiping it off with his hand.

You watched from the side, pulling your towel around you gently, as he lifted his gaze slowly–like he wasn’t sure what would be staring back at him. When he caught his own reflection, something shifted in his expression.

A smile. One of relief. Like a weight had been lifted off his chest.

You stepped behind him, and gently kissed his shoulder, looking at the small little scratch marks you had left on him.

He turned toward you slightly, reached out, and pressed a soft, grateful kiss to your lips–barely more than a breath, but brimming with emotion.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

You smiled into him, nose brushing his. “Don’t thank me yet,” You whispered. “I hope you don’t get the flu from all of this.”

He laughed, his eyes shining as he bumped his forehead against yours.

“If I do,” He said, “It’ll be worth every damn minute.”

And then he kissed you again.

[comsiclvsh]

🪽 BO CHOW HEADCANONS.

warnings: none i think.

a/n: my first real post. i frequently update my posts until i'm satisfied with the aesthetic. part two?

so gentle with you. he'll talk crazy to anyone else but with you he's very careful about what he says. especially when you're upset; the last thing he wants to do is aggravate you even more.

you often work in his grocery store, usually at the register. but he's keeping an eye on you at all times in case a customer tries to be snappy or flirtatious. bo doesn't mind other people admiring your lovely face, but they should keep their hands and words to themselves for their own good.

loves it when you lather yourself in cocoa butter lotion and hug him because the smell sticks to his clothes for a while, ensuring that he always has a piece of you with him.

chronic ass slapper, even in public. he just can't help himself.

you sitting on his lap is his absolute favorite thing ever.

calls you a variety of nicknames. chocolate kiss, hot chocolate, ma'am, miss, etc. i think that's so cute.

loves to spoil you. he got a few extra tips? he's taking you to the juke joint to get some drinks and dance. or he'll buy you those pretty shoes you've been eyeing on display in that one pretty boutique. he enjoys seeing his woman dressed up; it makes him feral.

acts of service and affirmations. will take off your heels after a long day, put your hair up, and bathe you in the tub, all while telling you how much he adores you. you literally suffocate his brain; when he awakens, the first thing he thinks about is you. and when he falls asleep, you are the last thing on his mind. he even dreams about you frequently.

he only eats what you cook; he will never eat another woman's food. especially not spaghetti. (iykyk.)

given that it's the 1930s, if you face discrimination because you're a mixed race couple, bo will defend you fiercely. he carries that pistol in his holster for a reason. he always tells you that love has no racial boundaries, which it doesn't.

[comsiclvsh]

𐙚⋆.˚ tailor-made lovin’ | annie moore oneshot.

cw | suggestive. black fem!reader. wlw. MEN DNI. she’s not with smoke. tiny mention of homophobia. allusions to cunnilingus. lowk reader act like preacher boy @ the end oops :3 word count: 1.4K

The Mississippi sun had been tucked away in the thick clouds, and a hush rolled over the shop, creating a soft, illuminated look to the room. The familiar scent of sandalwood incense clung to the fabrics surrounding you. Business has been slow this week, ain’t no orders. Ain't a wandering eye in the windows. The scuff marks on the floor reminded you that it would get busy again; time just needed to stretch its legs.

And maybe it heard you.

Because just as you turned your back toward the counter, the bell chimed. “Welcome in.” You nodded, the once furrowed brow lifting with curiosity.

"You the seamstress that I'm always hearing good things about?" Her eyes stayed on yours, letting the calm energy speak words she didn't need to.

“I’m hopin’ I can be that seamstress fo' you! What you need?” A tingle ran through you, realizing your service was essential. You needed the money for sewing materials, food, and a roof over your own head.

“The chest area on this dress here, s’a little tight. I just need it to be expanded or somethin'. You think that could be done?”

“I don't see why not! That’ll be ten.”

“Ten?” The woman laughed, not cruel but knowing. “Naw baby, I ain’t rich.”

Usually, you don’t make deals with clients, but you understood the struggle. She looked like someone who worked hard for every dollar in her pocket— She knew labor.

“Alright, seven fifty?” You tried a lower number, but tried not to play yourself.

“I can make that work.”

A smile had been crafted on her face when you took the deal. The lady unfolded the item that needed altering, a well-sewn, orange, cotton-rayon dress.

"If you don't mind, I need to take a few measurements." You grabbed the measuring tape from the small coffee table that rested behind the register, placing it around your neck.

"I don't mind at all. You gon need me to put it on right? There's a zipper on here that I always tussle wit'. I'm gon' need a bit of help."

You took in a sharp breath, your body beginning to buzz, thinking about helping her slide on that beautiful dress. You remembered the old ladies in the church, whispering about women like you-- folk they said were sinful, unnatural. Folk they pretended didn't belong.

“That’s fine by me.” You nodded your head. “I just need you to sign your name here!” Your hands snatched the loose paper and pen, placing the notepaper facing her, handing the pen to her faithfully.

She leaned onto the counter to write her name. You hoped the gulp wasn't audible. Your eyes gazed down at her chest; you were no better than a man. "Thank you, ma'am." The once blank paper had a soft signature that read 'Annie'. That name sounded familiar, and now that you thought about it, so was her face. You had seen her before. When the mundane smell of incense had been introduced to your senses once again, that's when it clicked.

"You the one wit’ that Hoodoo shop? Down on Terrance Road?" When she heard you realized who she was, those big brown eyes found a sparkle in them. "Mhm," Her head nodded with the syllables.

"I was waitin’ on you to notice, I ‘member you coming in and buyin’ that sandalwood not too long ago." That nostalgic feel to the way she spoke only made the memory clearer.

"That's right! Usually I’m good wit' rememberin' faces. Everythin’ going well down there?" You started up conversation.

“As well as it could.”

Her shoulders fell after shrugging, she most likely didn’t want to speak about work when she was off. So you didn’t impede. “I ain’t tryna rush you, Miss Annie, but whenever you’re ready, the dressing room is that white door.” You tilted your head in the direction of it.

When Annie turned to see where she needed to go, you stole sinful glances at her. Her frame was perfect, the plaid sundress complimented her complexion. “Alright then.” She nodded and made her way to the dressing room. She didn’t spare any time trying to get the dress on. You didn’t want to ask because quite frankly, you weren’t sure if you could hide the desire to see her undraped. Then you began to hear her grunt, shuffling herself around into the dress.

“Miss Annie, you need help now?”

“Yes please.”

Slowly dragging in air, you headed towards to room. You carefully opened the door. “Zipper always givin’ me sum trouble.”

“S’alright,” Your jaw clenched, that orange against her brown skin could make flowers bloom in the winter. You began to tug at the dress’s zipper. it was almost as if it was glued in place.

“Damn, this zipper ‘bout stubborn as hell.”

“Ain’t it.” Annie huffed as you yanked continuously until it zipped up.

“Okay, let’s hurry up and get your measurements so you won’t be uncomfortable for long.” You held the door open for her. “You can gon ‘head ‘n step on that platform fo' me.”

She got on the podium, standing in front of the mirror. You were too busy staring at her to notice her looking at you through the reflection. Her lips curled as she noticed that lingering look.

“Do you mind liftin’ your arms?”

Without a word she raised her arms, keeping her sight set on you to hold eye contact. You told her what to do but she was in control. The flimsy measuring tape had made a quiet flick as you quickly took it off your neck.

You wrapped it around her bust, and the tape gently stretched around her body. You met the ends of the tape and pulled it snug.

“Thirty-eight and a half.” You muttered under your breath as you went to write her bust measurement right next to her name. “You can go back and change! I got a hanger waitin’”

You tidied up the register, throwing away wrappers and old receipts. You hadn’t heard that much movement from Annie. “Ma’am, you can—”

She was turned to you, one hand perched on her hip.

“Don’t you think I’m gon need some help gettin’ it off?” With one raise of her brow, you were quick to your feet. You followed behind her, acting like the sinful shadow. No mojo bag could keep you from her.

She walked into the dressing room, waiting for you to get yourself situated. Another breath was taken from the atmosphere when your hands found the zipper again. “Lemme know if this hurt, Miss Annie.”

You made sure to not yank the zipper, keeping every moment more gentle than the last. You got it down to where she could pull it on her own, but she wanted you to do it. She led you to the water; she just needed you to drink.

And you did.

You swiftly unzipped the rest for her. “Um— Anythin’ else I can do for ya’?”

“Mm’, I don’t think so.” She shook her head, the sundress slung around her shoulders. Annie kept her modesty in check, holding it by a thread. “You always this sweet?” A chuckle left her lips, and she toyed with the beads on her necklace.

“Um… I dunno ma’am.”

She turned to face you, her stare seductive and dominant. “You’ve been staring at me like that the entire time I done been in here.”

Your throat went dry.

“Annie— I ain’t mean nothin’ by it.” Your eyes widened as she stated the obvious fact: you were staring. More than you should’ve. And if she slapped you across the face right now, you wouldn’t even be surprised.

“Ain’t nobody say I had a problem wit’ it.”

Annie’s hand moved to your chin, tilting your head so your eyes had nothing else to do but meet hers. "You gon' keep starin'," she hummed, her thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, "or you gon' do somethin' 'bout it?"

Your breath hitched. You leaned into her warmth. The kiss was careful, you were getting a feel of the shape of her lips, something that you would never forget. But when she kissed you back, she gave you all the permission you needed.

Soon enough, your hands were resting on her waist. Her mouth opened just slightly and you sighed into it, near dizzy from how sweet she tasted. "Don't start somethin' you can't finish now." Annie rushed her words in between the sentences, hungry to get her lips back onto yours.

"I know the way of a woman." You became bold in a blink, her presence was intoxicating. Then you lowered down onto your knees, you looked up at her through your eyelashes.

"Can I show you?"

[comsiclvsh]

Closet Munch

Summary: While dancing with your husband at the opening night of the twins' juke joint, you get needy for him.

Pairing: bo chow x reader

Warnings: grinding, dancing, dirty talk, kissing, oral(fem receiving), Bo being a munch, fingering, porn with little plot

"Annie, have you seen Bo?" You scan the room for your husband but find no sight of him. Your fingers were itching to hold him. Your body was calling to feel his against you.

"I think he's in there playing cards with some of the guys." She points to one of the more secluded rooms with tables. You thank her with a smile and squeeze through the crowd of dancing bodies to reach your husband. You smile when you finally spot him at one of the tables.

You walk up to him with a sway of your hips. When he sees you, all interest in the game moves solely onto you. You grasp the collar of his shirt and pull him up, his body towering above yours. "Dance with me Bo," you say in a seductive tone. He puts out his cigarette and follows you mindlessly to the dance floor, much to his opponent's dismay.

You press your back against his chest and sway your bodies along with the music. His hands settle on your hips, guiding you to the rhythm. One of your hands reach up to thread through his hair as he kisses your neck. You tilt your head back on his shoulder and turn to nibble on his ear, causing his grip on your hips to tighten.

"I want you," you whisper in his ear. He lets out a grunt when you grind your ass against him. He steps back for a moment to scan the joint in search for any empty rooms. He grabs your hand and pushes past the sweaty bodies towards an empty storage closet.

He locks the door before slamming his lips onto yours. You shove him against the door as you greedily make out. His hands move down to squeeze at your ass, making you let out a whine. You gasp against his lips when he switches places with you so you're now pinned against the door.

He leans down to lift you up into his arms. Your arms wrap tight around his neck for better grip. You pull back from his lips out of breath and fight the urge to kiss him again when he chases your lips. "I need to feel your tongue...please." You shamelessly beg him.

He smirks and gently lowers you onto the wooden floor. His hand rests behind your head, careful not to hurt it on the hard wood. When your back is fully rested against the floor, he lowers his body a bit, letting you feel how hard you've made him. "You want my tongue huh?"

You bite your lip and nod. "You always make me feel so good."

"Don't I know it. I know how my pretty lady likes to be licked." He leans down and licks a trail up your neck, causing your breath to hitch. He smiles against your skin, loving the effect he has on you.

His hand trails down your dress as he continuously makes out with your neck. His touch sends shivers down your spine as it lingers up your thigh to the spot you crave him most. His movements are too slow for your liking. Your body burns with anticipation and need.

"Bo, please!" You helplessly beg.

He pauses his kisses on your exposed cleavage and looks up at you with a raised brow. "Patience darlin'. You interrupted my game, least you can do is let me enjoy this." He chuckles when you groan with an eye roll.

He pulls back and you frown at the loss of his body heat. He pulls up the skirt of your dress and smiles as if he discovered some secret hidden treasure. In all honesty, he felt like he had. "You wanted me that bad huh?" He looks at you with a prideful smirk.

"I did... I do! I need you so bad Bo!"

"That's what I like to hear." He leans down but pauses to give you one last look before disappearing under your skirt. You throw your head back when you feel his tongue lick a stripe from your entrance up to your clit before sucking on the bundle of nerves. He repeats that action, driving you crazy.

You search for anything to grab onto for support. Normally you'd bury your fingers in his dark hair but it was hidden under your skirt. Sensing your growing frustration, Bo offers his hand while the other squeezes your thigh.

You don't hesitate to squeeze down on his hand, his wedding ring feeling cool against your hot burning skin. Your mind thinks back to the night you put that ring on his finger and said "I do." You think to how good he made you feel that night too just like he's doing right now. All these years later and he never once lost his magic touch that made you a puddle in his strong hands.

You clench on his finger as he slowly opens you up wider. He curls it just right, gently massaging your g spot. Before you could beg him for more, he inserts another finger. He knows your body so well. He knows you so well.

"Bo!" You scream so loud, the guests of the joint could probably hear you over Slim and Sammie's music.

"You gonna cum for me darlin'?" He mutters against you.

"Uh huh!"

"Uh huh? Do it then!" He speeds up his fingers while his tongue frantically flicks against your sensitive clit. "Soak my fuckin' face baby like I know you can!"

Your legs spasm out of control around his head. Your whole body shutters as you reach the peak he flew you to. As you float back down to the juke joint here on earth, you loosen your tight grip on him.

He removes himself from under your shirt with a wide grin covered in your juices. "You think you can give me some more?"

You let out a defeated sigh, "I'd probably need a minute after what you did to me." You end your sentence with a breathless chuckle, one that he copies.

"You can rest in the car. That'll be enough time for you to recover before I fuck you in our bed." He leans down to kiss you, allowing you to taste yourself on his tongue. "How does that sound? Good plan?"

"Mhm," you hum back before reconnecting your lips with his. He offers you a hand and helps you straighten yourself out to look presentable before you go back out to the crowd.

He has to keep an arm around your waist to help keep you upright as your legs are sore and achy. "You two headed home already?" Cornbread asks seeing you two walk out.

"I gotta get the missus back home. She hurt herself dancing and I don't want her makin' it worse." Bo blatantly lies.

"Oh I'm sorry to hear that. I hope you feel better Y/n." He waves with a smile.

"Thanks Cornbread, you have a nice night."

Cornbread does a double take when the two of you start speeding your pace towards the car. He furrows his eyebrows, you don't seem in pain. He scoffs when he sees Bo pinch your butt while you get in the car. "Those two, always fuckin' around."

[comsiclvsh]

Grace and Bo Chow both being infatuated with you 💌 ₊˚⊹⋆

a/n: I hope you guys enjoy reading this just as much as I enjoyed writing this! This post contains nsfw content/slightly obsessive behavior so proceed with caution. This is also quite long so I apologize for that. Look out for a part two!

currently listening to: Cupid by Sam Cooke

You met Bo first. You applied for a job at the shop and proved yourself to be incredibly dependable. He allowed you to count the money in the register, keep logs of what was going in & out of the store, and take care of client records and accounts. The two of you had a purely professional relationship, but if a professional relationship consisted of longing glances, lingering touches, and endearing nicknames.

You knew he was married, the golden band around his ring finger didn't let you forget the fact that he was. You felt horrible for even entertaining the nicknames and the close contact he kept with you, but you considered yourself to be on the safe side of things. As long as the two of you kept the touchiness to a minimum and didn't take your affection for one another to the bedroom, everything was fine.

His wife, Grace, tended to their shared store on the white side of town. She'd occasionally pop into the store to check in on Bo & their daughter, making sure she completed her tasks for the day. Afterwards, she'd never fail to make her way up to you and ask about your day.

"How are ye doin? Bo been treatin' you well?"

"You're doin' a good job around 'ere, girl. We gotta keep you here, don't want the other stores to try an' take ye from us."

Bo would affirm her praise by nodding his head and adding in his own little two cents. Grace wouldn't shy away from rubbing your arm or placing a delicate finger underneath your chin while saying "you're a real pretty girl, y'know that?". Her physical touch could be disguised as something playful and sweet, something between two women that were fond of one another. But, as the two of them made eye contact over your head they knew that what they had in store for you was anything but playful.

The playful banter between the three of you continued for weeks after that. You didn't expect anything more to blossom from your friendship with the married couple, but the clueless cloud you had over your head was quickly blown away one night. It was usual for them to invite you over to have dinner at their shared home. It was a common occurrence that even Lisa looked forward to as you were never anything but kind to her.

If you try to tell them that you wouldn't be able to make it due to a packed schedule, they'd do everything in their power to convince you to show anyway.

"Oh, we promise we won't keep you long. C'mon ya could just come on over for some dinner and make your way home after that. promise."

"awe are ya sure? Lisa was really lookin' forward to seeing ya again."

Sure, it was common for them to invite you over for dinner. However, it wasn't all too common for them to invite you into their bedroom. They'd usually keep you past midnight to have conversation going in the kitchen, but Bo offered to move the late night ritual into their bedroom. The conversation went on as normal and the wine in your glass disappeared by the minute. You sat with your legs crossed on their wooden-framed bed, the couple sat right in front of you. Bo's hand made a home for itself on the skin of your thigh that peaked from underneath your dress, he rarely ever showed such explicit affection like this. You expected Grace to become angry with the two of you, rightfully so, and have the night come to an end. Instead, she moved towards you and swept your hair out of your face with those delicate fingers of hers you've come to admire.

"I don't think ya know just how pretty ya are. I mean, jus' look at that face, baby. You just might be the prettiest damn thing I've ever seen." Bo's hand moved towards the inside of your thigh and a small smile stretched across his lips. "s'true, sweetheart", both of his hands eventually moved towards the inside of your thighs, spreading you open for him, Grace shuffling behind you before positioning your head to lay on her lap.

The night ended with your legs curved around Bo's slender waist as he pumped his cock into you, the coarse hair at the base of his cock stimulating your pulsing clit once he finally bottomed out. Grace kept herself busy, too. She rubbed your throbbing clit with her middle & ring finger, occasionally cradling your flushed cheeks and encouraging you to "take that cock, baby. s'so big, ain't it? I know, I know", shushing your whines and cooing at your fucked out expression. She couldn’t help but smile when you let out a surprised squeal at the feeling of her fingers tweaking and pinching your sensitive nipples.

Your relationship with the Chow's was never made public to the town, I mean, why would it be? Everyone in your close circle knew that the three of you were quite the close bunch of friends, but they didn't know the rest of it.

I can definitely see the both of them being possessive over you. They could see you talking with a friend of yours outside of the store and immediately interrogate you about it.

"She's just a good friend of mine! What's this all about?"

"Y'know damn well what this is all about. She looked like she was imaginin' what ya looked like without your clothes on."

It'd make them inexplicably upset to see you in a relationship with anyone that isn't them. They'd never allow you to do so without putting up a fight, though. It'd be foolish for you to think they'd let you go so easily. Even if you did get romantically involved with anyone else, you'd never be truly satisfied. Grace and Bo raised your standards to the damn moon and it'd be impossible for anyone to try and fill their shoes. Whenever your partner did anything wrong, you couldn't help but think "they'd never do that to me."

Helping Grace whenever she's working on a sign for a client. She doesn't hold back on sharing just how proud she is of you when you finish up a paint job.

Sharing many passion filled nights with the couple at the Juke Joint. You spend so much time sat at the bar without ordering anything just to talk to Grace. Bo pulls you in to dance with him and no one around bats an eye. What's wrong with two friends sharing a dance together? However, the way his glistening eyes gaze into yours with such intense passion behind them is anything but platonic.

It's incredibly easy for you and Grace to hide the true nature of your relationship. Nobody suspects anything even when her arm is firmly wrapped around your waist, or when her lips graze your cheek in a sweet peck. That's just how good friends celebrate one another.

They always find themselves on your front porch with gifts and they hardly ever show up empty handed. The gifts range from sundresses perfect for the southern heat, pastries they know you'll enjoy, savory treats the both of them worked on.

You're constantly heading over to their home and being convinced to stay the night by the sweet-talking couple. They don't entertain the possibility of you staying in a spare room, they want you to make yourself familiar & comfortable with their bedroom. Their spare room is honestly quite useful in having visitors believe that's where you stay, assisting in avoiding any questions about the true nature of your 'friendship'.

Bo wraps himself around your body like a koala and Grace curls herself into a fetal position in front of you, relishing in the feeling of your warm arms around her.

taglist: @officialthrad @bochowswife @thegr33nc0met @missroro @mjwhis @foreid let me know if you'd like to be added!

[comsiclvsh]

Sweet Love, All Night Long . ݁₊ ⊹

nsfw & sfw headcanons for Grace and Bo Chow

a/n: These headcanons aren’t separated by character, you’re basically a third in their marriage. I was stressed the hell out today but I had to get this out for ya’ll <3. Read part one here 💌.

Currently listening to: Come Get To This by Marvin Gaye

SFW

Everyone in town knows you by your name, your incredible work ethic, and as a good friend of The Chows. You stayed even after your shift was over to assist Bo around the store, bringing in new imports and placing them in their assigned aisles. It was sweet how dedicated you were to helping him around the store and giving extra hours. It was even sweeter just how willing you were to help him in the storage room for minutes on end.

They never fail to invite you to family/friend centered events. It's not like they need to make up a reason to see you, not anymore at least. They just see it as an opportunity to spend even more time with you. You already see a lot of the couple since you practically live at their home despite it not being your permanent residence.

Grace is the conscientious one of the two, while Bo is down for anything as long as it means he'll have you near. This attitude translates into the lengthy friendship he shares with the Moore twins. Bo is open to participate in anything you're interested in, whether that be enjoying a lively night out at the juke joint or having you sit near him (close enough for him to drape your thigh over his leg) as he dominates a game of poker.

Now, Grace isn't exactly opposed to having a good time but she'll hesitate before doing so. Her hesitation is never long lived but she has a habit of making sure you and her husband aren't putting yourself in harms way while going out. She always accompanies the two of you when the opportunity for a night out on the town arises.

"Don't let 'im get into too much trouble with the twins, alright? Y'know how grumpy he gets in tha mornin' after he drinks too much", she says while sending you off with Bo before pressing a chaste kiss to your awaiting lips.

These two are a pair of smooth talkers. They know just how much their flirtatious nature gets to you and they take advantage of that. Not only do they compliment you to the point where it's almost overwhelming, they're so touchy on top of that. Grace will trace her eyes over your face as she applies her lipstick to your lips, wiping off any excess with the pad of her thumb before saying:

"There ya go, baby. Ya look so pretty, dontcha? What were ya sayin' about red not bein' your color?"

Bo lovesss to look you right in the eye while fixing your hair before saying something that he knows is gonna make you look away, face flushed with heat.

“Why are ya gettin’ all shy? C’mon look at me, wanna see that pretty face.”

It doesn't matter if you're in the middle of hanging the clothes up to dry or working on dinner, that will not stop them from hugging you from behind or pulling you by your cheek to face them so they can kiss you as if you have all the time in the world.

They're both incredibly protective over you and their mouths can get really smart when it comes to defending you. Grace can break people down with just a simple glance. It never fails to surprise you just how easy it is for her to detect someone's weakness and use it against them.

Bo is childhood friends with the Moore twins, so this man knows how to defend himself and the people he cares about. He’ll get really agitated at the mere thought of somebody speaking about you in any way that’s not positive. He’s not above getting in their face and asking them can’ya repeat that? He’s not the type of man to hide away when confrontational conversations turn physical. He makes the other person feel stupid for even opening their mouth in the first place.

They care about you so intensely it can get a bit overwhelming at times. Please don't make them worry about you because they'll loom over your shoulder and follow you around to make sure you're actually taking care of yourself. They understand that you can get busy and that certain tasks can get in the way of you sleeping and maybe even eating, but they won't let you get used to depriving your body of what it needs.

In a modern au they're definitely the type of people to text you in order to remind you to eat.

You cannot hide anything from them. They know when someone's upset you and not even a second passes before they demand to know the person's name. It's really easy for them to read your mannerisms and expressions,. Even if you're not upset, they know when you're excited/happy about something and are waiting to tell them the good news.

"I knew you had somethin' going on with that little smile ya had on your face. It's not that hard to know what's goin' on in that head of yours."

NSFW

Grace doesn't have any sexual experience with women, so she's learning your body just as you're learning hers. She'll settle herself in between your thighs, holding them with such a tight grip you're convinced she thinks you'll disappear at any second. She'll flick her tongue over your throbbing clit while peering up at you to gauge your reaction. The pauses she makes to look at your flushed face make you feel as though she's teasing you, drawing it out on purpose. Bo has his hand tangled in her dark locks, guiding her head deeper into your thighs and acting as a coach of some sorts.

"There ya go, baby, jus' like that. Suck on that clit, theree you go good girl. maybe bite it if you wanna. She likes that."

He notices the tears of impatience welling up in your eyes from your orgasm being denied for far too long, and reaches a hand out to caress your cheek.

"Oh don't cry, baby. She's still learnin', ya gotta be patient with her, okay?"

As always, Bo was right. Grace was a fast learner and you knew that, but what you didn't know was just how obsessed she'd become with eating you out. Bo was an obsessed man on his own but you were shocked at how quickly she picked up that trait of his. She'd crawl over to you after Bo was done with you, plugging your pussy that was leaking with his cum using her tongue and holding your hands in hers as an attempt to soothe your overstimulated cries.

Bo has you ride him with his back against the headboard, you're facing forward with Grace twisting, pinching, and pulling at your sensitive nipples while latching her lips onto yours with feverish urgency. She takes one of her hands away from your chest as one of them remains tweaking & toying with your nipples. She licks her index and middle finger before reaching down and rubbing your clit with such a delicate touch it almost makes you want to scream.

The three of you make an effort to keep things exciting in the bedroom. Grace comes out of the washroom with her hair down and face bare wearing a silk nightgown traced with delicate lace, a tiny slit running up her thigh. Their tongues nearly lolled out of their mouths when you surprised them by wearing an entire lingerie set that consisted of a suspender belt, silk underwear to match, a basque that enhanced your curves that they loved oh so much, and nylon stockings.

Grace loves toying with your clit while Bo presses his hips flush with yours. You can't help but cry from all of the sensations you're experiencing at the hands of the beloved couple. Bo has you nearly folded in half with his sturdy hands placed on the back of your thighs, and Grace has her ring and middle finger circling your pulsing clit that is due for a break. Bo buries his face into your neck when he finally cums inside of you and moves his hips in a circular motion that makes your legs kick out and wrap themselves even tighter around his waist, similar to a snake trapping it's prey. When your moans grow a bit too loud, Grace swallows your cries by pulling you into a sloppy kiss that ends with drool spilling out from your connected lips.

"shh I know, I know. Feels so good don't it, baby? Y'look so pretty like this. Ya can't be shy right now, honey, c'mon. Look at 'im while you take that cock."

Bo is just as mouthy as his wife when it comes to getting you to look at him while he fucks you into the bed/overstimulates your pussy.

"yer so wet f'me, baby, do ya hear that? Ya hear how good your wet little pussy is takin' me?"

"we're gonna fuck ya so good yer not gonna want nobody else. I'll be damned if anybody else sees ya like this."

taglist: @bochowssinner @bochowswife @mjwhis @officialthrad @missroro @thegr33nc0met @warfaredoll and i think that's it!

[comsiclvsh]

I believe Cassie. I believe Halle. I believe Megan. And I believe every other survivor who never got a headline.