ethansluv

[ethansluv]

tyler galpin, who gets jealous so easily over his human partner — you’re conversing with someone from nevermore while being unaware of your boyfriend’s predicament and you’re so enthralled by the repository of information that’s being divulged to you. you’re talking to everyone and anyone whenever they come into his coffee shop and he can’t focus on working, can’t focus on keeping his contrived amicable facade up because the second he sees you smiling at someone, his grip tightens on the handle of a pot and loosens on reality. his pupils are dilating, he looks like a man possessed, eyebrows furrowed deeply. he thinks he must have blacked out because he doesn’t remember how he’s got you in a headlock, chest pressed skin-to-skin against your back, the crook of his elbow resting in the hollow of your throat and panting your name against your ear as he fucks into you. but when you’re whining out his name and your pretty cunt feels like it’s made for nobody else but him — his mind goes blank all over again.

“yeah?” he murmurs, his voice rough, slowing down with shallow strokes that have your eyes rolling to the back of your head and when you try to lift your hips to meet his, he retracts, withholding his dick from you until he hears his name on your lips again. “say it again. tell me who makes you feel this good.”

[ethansluv]

Possessive (2) || Tyler Galpin x Reader || (18+)

Outline: You’re supposed to be researching monsters in the safety of your library, but the real monster is already under your desk, feral, filthy, and determined to ruin you while your ex-boyfriend hovers just inches away.

Word Count: 4'052

Warnings: aged up characters. Mild spoilers for season 2A. (This is a fictional continuation to episode 4). Mentions of bullying. Filthy, feral smut that includes oral, unprotected sex, spit play, biting, bruises, marking (and cum marking), drip kink, public risk, humiliation, and obsessive energy. Read at your own risk (or pleasure).

(( Part 1 - Obsessive )) - (( Part 3 - If I catch you... (WIP) )) - (( Masterlist ))

You wake to the weight of him before you even open your eyes. Tyler’s arm is heavy across your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck. For one split, disoriented second you forget everything, until the ache between your thighs reminds you exactly what happened.

Your whole body is sore and bruised in places you can’t even see yet. Bite marks burn along your throat, your chest, your thighs. The memory makes your stomach flip with both dread and something far darker.

Then the clock on your nightstand catches your eye. You bolt upright.

“Shit…” you breathe, ignoring the protest of your muscles as you swing your legs off the bed. “I’m late. I’m so late.”

Behind you, Tyler groans lazily and stretches like he’s got nowhere in the world to be. “Late for what?”

“My job,” you snap, rifling through drawers in panic. “The library. If I don’t show up, they’ll definitely know something’s not right.”

That gets his attention. He props himself up on one elbow, watching you with that sharp, predatory amusement you remember from high school, except now it’s worse. Darker. “You can barely walk straight, and you think you’re gonna fool anyone?”

Heat creeps up your face. “Shut up.”

You fumble through your dresser, grabbing the first clean blouse you can find. Your hands are shaking, not from fear but from the ache in your body, the soreness that makes every movement feel like a reminder of him.

He lounges back against your pillows, watching you like it’s a show. His hair is a mess, his chest bare, and he looks completely at ease, like your bed was always his.

“You’re really gonna get dressed in front of me?” he drawls, voice thick with sleep and smugness.

“You’ve already seen everything,” you snap, yanking your blouse over your head.

He hums low in his throat, a sound that makes you falter for just a second. “Yeah. I have.”

You pull your skirt up, wincing as the waistband presses against bruises you know will bloom purple by noon. His eyes darken, just for a heartbeat, that feral flash again, the same one that tore the air apart last night. The same one that made you forget everything.

But it’s gone the second you finish buttoning your blouse. His smirk slides back into place like it never left.

“You actually do look like a librarian.” he says, flicking his gaze down your outfit.

Heat rushes to your face again, and you busy yourself with your bag, ignoring him. “Which is exactly the point, because I am one.”

 “And here I thought librarians were boring. Guess I was wrong.” You swallow hard, fighting not to look at the marks he left on your skin, the ones he’s not bothering to hide the satisfaction of. He swings his legs off the bed and leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, eyes locked on you like you’re still trapped under him. “That’s why I came here to see you anyway.”

Your heart stutters. “What do you mean?”

He smirks, running a hand through his messy hair. “Didn’t expect you to be so… entertaining last night.” His gaze flicks over you, lingering too long. He stands slowly, moving closer until you have to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes, “But what I really need is you letting me into the library.”

Your stomach drops. “Why?”

His smile sharpens, all teeth. “Because I want you to show me some books... about me.”

The library smells the same as always; paper, dust and faint lemon polish from yesterday’s halfhearted cleaning. Usually the mornings are dead quiet, and you count on that silence to ground you. Today, it only makes the echo of your heels on the linoleum louder, sharper. Every step is a reminder of the ache between your thighs.

You unlock the door, flick on the lights, and glance over your shoulder. Tyler is right behind you, hands shoved into the pockets of the hoodie you gave him like he’s out for a stroll, not breaking into the place you work.

“You don’t even look nervous,” you mutter.

He smirks, leaning close as you punch in the alarm code. “That’s because I’m not the one who’s limping.”

Heat floods your cheeks once again, but you don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. You shove the keys back into your bag and move quickly toward the shelves.

“Monsters,” you whisper, scanning spines, pulling a few likely candidates. “That’s what you wanted, right?”

He follows, brushing dust from a volume you hand him, flipping it open with lazy fingers. You’re about to hand him another tome when a flash of movement outside the front window makes you freeze.

Blue and white.

Sheriff’s car.

Your breath catches. “Shit.”

Tyler doesn’t even look panicked. He just closes the book in his hands with a quiet thud. 

“You deal with her. I’ll keep myself entertained.” he whispers on his way past you, as he slips deeper into the rows of shelves, and vanishes like smoke. 

You glance toward the window again, heart pounding, as the sheriff’s boots crunch across the gravel lot. She tips her hat as she climbs the steps, already reaching for the handle. By the time the bell above the door jingles, Tyler is gone, hidden somewhere among the stacks. Watching. Waiting. And you’re alone to face the sheriff, sore and shaking, with secrets written all over your skin.

Sheriff Santiago steps in, her dark hair pulled back tight, her uniform crisp. She looks like someone who notices everything.

Her sharp gaze lands on you immediately. “Morning. You opened late.”

You swallow hard, clutching the shelf like it might keep you steady. “I… overslept.”

Her eyes narrow slightly, scanning your face, your too-flushed cheeks, the faint bite marks you tried to cover with your collar. The air feels suddenly thick, every sound too loud; your own breath, the ticking clock, the faint scuff of Tyler shifting behind the shelves.

“Uh-huh, you sure everything’s alright here?” She lingers by the doorway, hand on her belt. Her gaze flicks across the empty aisles, then settles back on you.

“Of course. Can I help you with anything ?”

“Well, considering all the complaints you filed against him when you both attended Jericho High,” she says, her voice steady but cutting, “I thought you’d want to know that Tyler Galpin’s out there again.”

Your throat goes dry. You glance down quickly, pretending to shuffle papers on the cart. “I’m surprised those complaints still exist. Sheriff Galpin never did anything about them…”

“Well, I’m not him.” Santiago’s boots click as she steps further into the library, each sound making your pulse spike. “And I’m taking this very seriously. This guy is dangerous. He might be out of control, feral…”

Behind the books, just out of her sightline, you can feel his presence like a dark weight. You know he’s crouched low, probably grinning that infuriating grin, taking pleasure in every second of your panic.

Santiago’s eyes fix on you again. “So if he tries to approach you, contact us immediately.”

You force yourself to meet her gaze, even as heat burns up the back of your neck. “I will.”

A beat of silence.

Her eyes narrow, like she’s searching for something beneath your answer. Then she leans one arm on the counter, glancing around the space again. “It’s funny. Thought I heard something when I came in. You sure you’re here alone?”

Your pulse quickens. 

 “Yes.” You manage to smile but it’s brittle and shaky. “It’s just me and the books.”

Her gaze lingers a moment longer, hard and unreadable. Then she exhales slowly, straightening. “Alright. But keep the doors locked after hours, you hear me? The last thing you need is him showing up here.”

She turns and pushes the door open, stepping back into the sunlight. The bell chimes again, painfully loud in the silence she leaves behind.

The moment the cruiser pulls away, a low chuckle breaks out behind the shelves. Tyler rises from his hiding place, his hair a little mussed, his grin wide.

“Feral, huh?” he drawls. “Guess she knows me pretty well.”

Your hands grip the edge of the cart, still trembling. “She almost saw you…”

“But she didn’t.” He prowls closer, slow and deliberate. “Know why?”

You swallow. “Because you got lucky.”

“No.” He shakes his head, smirking. “Because you lied for me. You had your big chance to rat me out, to get me locked up again, and what did you do?” He leans down over you, voice dropping low. “You protected me.”

Your throat works. “I just didn’t want a scene in the library.”

“Bullshit.” He chuckles, a low, dangerous sound. “You didn’t say a word because part of you wants this… Wants me.” His gaze flicks down your body, lingering on the faint stiffness in your walk, the way your skirt shifts over sore thighs. “Hell, maybe you’re even hoping I’ll ruin you again before the day ends.”

Heat floods your face. “That’s not…”

He cuts you off with a raised eyebrow and a laugh. He turns, wandering into the stacks, running a hand along the spines of books like he’s choosing fruit at a market while you stay frozen next to the same shelf for a beat too long, still reeling from the sheriff, and from him.

The morning drags on in tense silence. You move through the aisles, pulling down volumes you’d never thought anyone would bother asking for; dusty psychology texts, old case studies, folklore collections. Tyler follows close behind, too close, brushing your shoulder ever so often as if reminding you he’s still there, still in control.

By the time you both settle at the front desk, the stack between you is high. He slouches in the chair opposite you, flipping a book open with casual ease, while you keep half an eye on the front windows, watching for shadows that might mean another visitor.

Every car that passes outside makes your stomach lurch. Every crunch of gravel has you half-expecting Santiago to return. Tyler notices, of course. He notices everything.

“Relax,” he says without looking up, smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. “You look like you saw a ghost.”

You glare at him across the pile of books. “This isn’t funny.”

“Sure it is,” he says, eyes skimming the page. “You, sitting there all proper, pretending like you’re not covered in my marks under that skirt.” His gaze flicks up briefly before dropping back to the text.

Your cheeks burn. You bend your head toward your own book, hoping the words will drown him out but the line staring back at you is worse than his teasing: Manifestations of the Hyde are often violent, unpredictable, feral in nature.

A shiver runs down your spine. You quickly slide the book across to him. “Here, this one.”

He leans forward, eyes catching yours before he reads aloud:

“Hydes… prone to loss of control, destructive tendencies, consumed by impulses they can’t suppress.” He looks up, grin spreading slow. “Sound familiar?”

You close your eyes for a beat, forcing yourself to breathe. Outside, a truck rumbles past, making you flinch. He chuckles, amused by your nerves.

“Keep reading,” he says, tapping the next page with one long finger. “Tell me what else I am.”

You take the book again, throat dry. The words blur for a moment before you force yourself to focus.

“Hydes are often described as unpredictable. Their shifts can be triggered by extreme emotions like anger, fear…”

“Or lust,” He interrupts smoothly. He leans forward on his elbows, eyes locked on you. “Don’t leave that one out.”

Your cheeks heat. You glance toward the window, anywhere but at him. “It doesn’t say that.”

“Doesn’t need to.” 

You snap the page over, trying to ignore the way your body stirs at the reminder.

“Some believe Hydes are unable to form meaningful relationships due to their violent tendencies.” He chuckles darkly. Your pulse jumps. You read faster, as if rushing might get you through this intact. “Hydes are notorious for their obsession with those they fixate on. Once a bond is formed, it can border on the compulsive…”

You slam the book shut, too loudly. Dust puffs into the air. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t stop smiling. “Keep going. I like the way it sounds when you read about me.”

You shake your head, but your hand betrays you, flipping to another volume in the pile, one older, its pages yellowed. You skim quickly and then freeze at a passage. Against your better judgment, you read it aloud:

“Attempts to suppress or deny the Hyde are futile. The more one resists, the more violently the Hyde will break through, often with devastating results.”

The silence afterward is deafening.

Slowly, Tyler rises from his chair and gets close enough that you can smell the faint mix of pines and your own perfume still clinging to him. He sets a hand on the back of your chair, bending down until his mouth is by your ear.

“See?” His whisper is hot, dangerous. “You can’t suppress me, can’t deny me and when you try…” his teeth catch your earlobe, gentle but sharp enough to make you shiver, “I get what I want anyway.”

You squeeze the book shut, heart hammering. Outside, a car door slams somewhere down the street, making you jolt.

“Company,” he whispers, already moving. Before you can react, he crouches low and slides under the desk, his shoulders brushing your knees. You grab at your skirt instinctively, pulling it down, just as your ex-boyfriend enters and his familiar voice fills the space.

“Hey. I thought I’d check on you. Did you hear the news? Tyler escaped…”

Your throat locks up. “I’ve been told, yeah,” you answer quickly.

He studies you, brows furrowing. “Are you okay? What’s that bruise on your neck?”

Under the desk, Tyler’s palm slides up your calf, slow and taunting, fingers tracing the back of your knee. Your lips part but before you can answer, his mouth latches onto your inner thigh, hot and wet. You nearly gasp.

“I… I fell against the shelves in the back,” you stammer, knuckles white on the counter. “You know me, clumsy as ever.”

“That looks pretty bad.”

Teeth sink into your skin and fingers shove your panties aside, slipping between your folds without warning, finding you embarrassingly wet. You choke on a moan, swallowing it so hard it burns your throat.

“It’s alright,” you breathe, smiling a little too wide.

“Is it painful?”

“Barely.” Your voice cracks as Tyler’s tongue flicks higher, dangerously close.

Your ex shifts awkwardly. “I wanted to see if you were still up to go to the Harvest Festival with me tonight?”

Your head jerks, your reply tangling in your mouth as two fingers slip inside you, into slick heat. Your legs twitch violently under the desk.

“Oh right. I… I think I’ll pass,” you force out, your voice strangled. “I’m feeling a bit… I have my period.”

Tyler muffles his laugh against your skin, low and cruel, before sucking a mark into your inner thigh. You almost whimper.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Your nails dig into the wood of the counter. “I’m okay. Just… cramping.”

Two fingers drive into you, rough and relentless. You arch in the chair as he curls them just right, and your whole body shakes enough to make your breath stutter out of you in a half-moaned syllable.

“Maybe some cotton candy could make you feel better, it usually does...”

Tyler’s mouth replaces his hand, his tongue sliding against you while his fingers keep pumping, curling deeper. His teeth graze your clit in a warning: answer him, or else. You’re trembling, every muscle locked against the chair, breath hissing out in broken gasps. You can’t stop it, your hips rock helplessly into his face, chasing the pressure.

“Yes,” you moan before you can stop yourself, clamping your lips shut too late.

His face brightens. “Perfect! Let’s meet up after you close the library. By the ferris wheel? I’m glad you’re still okay to give us a second chance.”

The bell jingles again, and then he’s gone.

Tyler moans into you, obscene and guttural, and you shatter, your orgasm crashing over you so hard you nearly sob, your hands fisting in his hair as he keeps going, keeps licking, keeps claiming.

When you finally collapse back against the chair, trembling, he drags his mouth up your body, until he’s breathing against your ear.

“God, you’re fucking perfect.” He drags your chair back and wipes his chin with the back of his hand, then licks it clean, grinning like the devil. “Smiling at him, lying for me… all while I was under here, ready to eat you alive. Seems like this poor bastard doesn’t even know what sound you make when you’re enjoying yourself.”

You’re still slumped in the chair, your breath ragged and your skin flushed but he isn’t done, not even close. His hand fists in your blouse, hauling you up so fast your knees buckle.

Before you can find your footing, he’s dragging you toward the nearest aisle of shelves, one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. Books rattle in their places as he slams you against the stacks, the smell of old paper thick in the air.

“Tyler…” you plead, weakly.

He places himself behind you. His hand shoves your skirt up around your waist and pulls your panties down to your knees, exposing you completely, thighs glistening with his spit. You squeeze your eyes shut. The bell above the door hangs in silence like a threat. He spits in his hand, rubs it along his cock, and without hesitation he’s sliding into you, brutal and claiming. Your cry echoes through the library, muffled by the books around you, but it only spurs him on.

You grip the shelves desperately, spines biting into your palms, as he pounds into you. Every thrust sends books shuddering, a few toppling to the floor with heavy thuds. You’re shaking, overstimulated, wrecked but your body can’t help but yield to him, hungry despite the humiliation.

He bites your shoulder, hard, marking you again, his hips snapping hard. Your voice breaks into a cry as he ruts into you, faster, deeper, animalistic. “Please…”

“Please what?” he sneers, one hand sliding up from behind to grip your throat, squeezing just enough to make you dizzy. “Please stop? Or please never stop?”

You sob out a broken, “Don’t stop,” and his laugh is dark and triumphant.

“Good girl.” he snarls, slamming into you again, your body pressed against the shelves.

His thrusts grow rougher, filthier. The sound of the slap of skin, the creak of the shelves, it’s overwhelming, a desecration of the quiet space. His other hand fists in your skirt, yanking it higher until it’s bunched at your waist. You’re bare, spread, completely exposed to the front doors.

“Look up,” he orders. You hesitate, and he slaps your ass hard enough to sting. “Look up.”

You obey, eyes lifting toward the wide front windows. The sunlight spills across the floor, the street outside calm, the possibility of footsteps always there.

“Now keep your eyes on that door. Imagine someone walking in. Imagine them seeing you bent over, dripping, my cock buried inside you.” 

You whimper, body clenching hard around him. The shelves shake beneath you, every thrust jolting the structures, every impact threatening to knock more books and papers to the floor. You can’t stop glancing at the glass front doors, terrified someone might see.

“What about your boyfriend walking in? What would he say if he saw you like this?”

Your whole body tightens at the thought. He feels it immediately.

“Oh, you like that idea.” He laughs, biting the back of your neck as he pounds into you. “Maybe we should let him see then.”

His teeth sink into your shoulder through your blouse, biting hard enough to leave a bruise that makes your knees buckle. His thrusts get faster, sloppier, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the walls.

"I’m gonna come,” he says, voice raw, hips slamming against yours. “And when I do, I’m not pulling out. I want you leaking with me when you see him tonight. I want him smelling me on you. Every step you take, every word you say, you’ll feel it dripping down your thighs.”

Your breath catches, panic and desire colliding until you’re spiraling. The fear of discovery, the brutal rhythm, the filthy promise, it’s too much. Your orgasm rips through you, violent and uncontrollable, your nails clawing the shelf as you shake and convulse around him.

“Fuck, yes,” he groans, his thrusts losing rhythm as he buries himself deep, spilling into you with a guttural snarl. His grip on your hips tightens, holding you in place as he pumps every last drop into you, filling you so completely you feel it pulse through every nerve. He doesn’t let go, not even when you sag against the shelves.

You choke on a breath, your whole body burning with shame and want. He holds you there, buried, panting into your ear.

“You’re mine,” he rasps. “Mine in this library. Mine at your house. Mine wherever I want you.”

You can’t answer. You’re wrecked, trembling, still clinging to the shelves like they’ll keep you upright. He pulls back just enough to look down at you, at your ruined state, your skirt bunched around your waist, his cum already dripping down your thighs. His smirk is twisted.

He zips himself up. “Look at you… Fuck, you’re beautiful like this.” You start to reach for your skirt, to fix yourself, but his hand shoots out, catching your wrist. “No, don’t cover up. Stand up, and let me see it first.”

Shaking, you push yourself upright. Your skirt slides down a little, but it’s useless, the mess between your legs is obvious. His cum runs in hot rivulets down your thighs, glistening in the light.

He leans back against the shelves, arms crossed, eyes hungry as he watches a drop slide down your skin. Your cheeks burn. Then his hand snakes down, quick as a whip, grabbing the damp scrap of fabric still dangling around your knees. He crouches and peels your panties the rest of the way down, slow, savoring it, before straightening with them balled in his fist.

“These are mine now.” Your breath catches. He smirks, tucking them into his back pocket like a prize, patting the bulge possessively. “Souvenir. Something to keep me company if I get bored.”

Your mouth falls open, scandalized. “You can’t just…”

“Shhh.” He steps forward, one hand sliding between your thighs. He smears the wet mess higher, dragging it across your skin, up your stomach. You tremble as his fingers trace up your sternum, leaving streaks of him across your blouse. Then he brings his hand to your face, pressing two cum-slick fingers against your lips.

“Open.”

Your lips part, and he pushes them inside, dragging the taste across your tongue. He groans, low and guttural, watching you swallow. When he pulls his fingers free, he wipes the last glistening smear across your cheekbone, like a mark only he can see. His mouth is at your ear a second later, hot and rough.

“You’re gonna go to the Festival tonight,” he growls. “You’re gonna smile at him, maybe even let him buy you cotton candy. But the whole time, you’ll feel me dripping down your thighs. You’ll taste me every time you swallow. And when the lights go out and the crowds thin…” He bites your ear, sharp enough to sting. “I’ll corner you in some dark alley and fuck you all over again, but much harder.”

Links:

(( Part 1 - Obsessive )) - (( Part 3 - If I catch you... )) - (( Masterlist ))

[ethansluv]

there’s something so special to me about the idea of being the person who breaks steve harrington’s dry spell.

and he’s so whiny and pathetic about it, cramped up with you on your twin bed, because heaven knew college dorms didn’t have space for a queen — his hips pushing up in little aborted thrusts almost uncontrollably as your spit-and-pre slick hand works him up and down. he’s soaking, blurting out sticky beads with every squeeze of your hand at his sensitive tip.

“fuuuuuck,” he’s moaning, dry throat clicking as the words stumble out, gravelly and desperate, “feels so good, need more— babygirl, please.”

it’s so easy to slide down the length of him, your hot insides taking him inch by inch like it’s nothing, like he’s not so thick that you can feel him pulsing in you, like one clench will set him off with no stopping. you throw your head back, moaning quietly as you begin bouncing up and down, rocking on him with a feverish desperation.

it’s like steve can’t control himself, head thrown back and that gorgeous, mole-flecked neck bared as he bites back on choked up moans, his massive hands gripping onto the fat of your waist to keep you moving. he’s using you as leverage to thrust his hips up into yours, the wet clicking sounds of soaked bodies filling the space left between agonised moans.

he’s all-consuming, the bitten off cries that spill from steve’s plush lips as he finally opens his eyes to look at you, watches you in awe with those fucking eyes that made you melt for him in the first place, “oh fuck,” he groans, watches where your bodies meet like he’s hungry for it, “lemme cum inside, please, baby i can’t stop it.”

it’s violent, the way your orgasm is ripped from you at those very words, the way he looks at you in some sort of ecstasy as you shudder and cry out, deep heat blooming in your core and making your body shake.

“yeah, yeah, so hot, god baby—“ steve rocks your hips back and forth with a grip so hard that you know his fingers will leave bruises, grinding up into you so filthy and deep that you feel the way his length jerks as he spills inside of you, gasping like he can’t catch a breath — forcing you down so you can’t wiggle away from the overstimulation.

[ethansluv]

Obsessive || Tyler Galpin x Reader || (18+)

Outline: The guy who made high school hell for you just escaped Willow Hill and now he’s in your home. He’s dangerous, obsessive, and very, very out of control… but maybe you’ve been just as twisted all along.

Word Count: 5005

Warnings: aged up characters. Mild spoilers for season 2A. (This is a fictional continuation to episode 4) Filthy, feral, possessive smut that includes choking, spit play, biting, bruises, degradation, and obsessive “you’re mine” energy. Mentions of bullying. Read at your own risk (or pleasure).

Author's note: This is unhinged. I’ve been reading way too many feral monster romances lately and it shows.

Nights were always the same in your house.

Books stacked in uneven towers around the living room. Quiet music humming from a scratched record in the corner. Tea cooling too quickly in your chipped mug, forgotten while you read the same page for the third time. Outside, only the occasional hoot of an owl or the low hum of wind pushing through brittle trees...

But something feels off. You hear the crash before you hear the door. Something hits it, hard. Once.

You stand up, mug half-raised, eyes flicking to the dark hallway. Your fingers tighten around the ceramic.

A second crash, louder, like whatever’s out there isn’t just knocking… It’s coming in.

The third hit splits the air with a brutal crack and the door gives out completely, slamming against the inside wall with a violent snap of wood and metal. A burst of cold air rushes in with it, slapping your skin, carrying the scent of wet earth and something... sharp.

You don’t move. You can’t. You’re still holding your tea like a shield, your free hand presses instinctively against your chest, like it might hold your heart in place. And then he’s there.

Tyler Galpin.

Soaked by rain, barefoot and shirtless. Blood streaks his skin in clotted half-moons, dirt smudges his collarbones. His chest rises and falls like he’s outrun hell, and maybe he has. Dark hair plastered to his forehead, jaw tight, lips split and bleeding and those eyes, they are haunted, feral, unmistakable... They find you instantly and they don’t let go.

He doesn’t speak, he just leans against the inside of your shattered doorway and turns the lock like he still believes it works, like he’s claimed this space now.

You haven’t seen him in years. Not since you graduated High School, not since he was dragged away, eyes dead and wrists bound, not since the last time he ruined something that mattered to you.

You take a single, cautious step backward.

His body goes taut, something flashes in his expression… Panic? Instinct? It’s gone too fast to catch.

“Don’t,” he growls, his voice low and cracked from disuse — or screaming — you can’t tell. “Just... don’t.”

You want to run. You want to scream until your lungs rip open but you remember how fast he used to be on the field, in the woods, in the halls of Jericho High, where he used to grab your backpack just to unzip it and let the contents spill.

“Oops,” he’d smirk, stepping over your glasses like trash. Once, he crushed a limited edition of Wuthering Heights beneath his boot like it was a joke.

You didn’t know then that he had a monster inside him. You're still not sure of what he is now.

“What… what do you want?” Your voice doesn’t feel like your own.

He licks blood from his lip and gives you a slow, shaky smile, too wide and too familiar. Something twisted and boyish in it, like he’s trying it on after years in storage.

“What do you think, nerd?” The word is a slap, it lands in the hollow of your ribs like it still belongs there. “Let me guess, you still live alone, still read by candlelight, still got all your little rules and rituals…“ he continues, dragging himself away from the door, limping toward your kitchen like he’s done this before. 

You don’t answer. Your eyes are locked on the blood painting his side. His skin glows pale in the low light, broken only by bruises and grit and the faintest shimmer of sweat. He smells like pine needles and violence.

You should run, but you stay rooted to the floor like a frightened animal, spine stiff and limbs too slow to matter.

He flings the fridge open like he owns it, snorts at the contents, then yanks out a Tupperware of leftover pizza. He eats it cold, no hesitation, no questions, no shame. Then he drinks your milk straight from the carton.

You wonder how many people are dead.

You wonder if you’re next.

When he turns back to you, something in his face shifts, softens maybe, though it’s impossible to say where Tyler ends and the Hyde begins. His head tilts, wolf-like. He breathes in.

“You’re scared.” It’s not a question, it’s a delight.

“I should be,” you murmur.

He shrugs, his hand leaving a red smear on the fridge door as he leans against it.

“Yeah.” he smiles. 

And for a second — just a second — you forget how to breathe. Then his legs falter. He catches himself on the counter with a grunt, knuckles white. His ribs seize visibly under the bruises, and suddenly, the shimmer on his skin isn't rain. It’s blood.

“Tyler,” you whisper, your voice thin, too soft, too caring. “You’re…”

“Bleeding?” He huffs, not quite a laugh. “No shit.”

He turns slowly, lifting his arm to inspect the gash across his side. The skin beneath is torn, deep, slick with half-dried blood and something darker.

Then, with unsettling calm, he looks at you. “You're gonna fix it.”

Your stomach knots. “I’m not a nurse.”

“You took a first aid class in High School.”

You hate that he remembers. Your eyes flick toward the bathroom cabinet and he notices. His gaze sharpens, tracking the subtle shift in your body like a predator clocking a twitch in wounded prey.

“You're not gonna make me ask again, are you?” His tone shifts, dangerous and tired all at once. “Because I'm not in the mood to beg, not tonight.”

You nod once, slowly backing toward the hallway. His blood is still wet on the floor, his side is still torn open. He won’t chase you.

He can’t.

You make it halfway to the bathroom before you pivot and run, not toward the cabinet but toward the back door. The deadbolt slams open under your hand but not fast enough… he’s already moving. You hear the hiss of pain in his breath as he lunges, the drag of his foot against the wood. You’re almost through the door when his hand wraps around your arm and yanks.

You crash backward into his chest with a gasp, shoulder slamming into the doorframe. He shoves it closed with the flat of his palm and you jolt at the sound. The lock clicks. He doesn’t let go of your arm.

You twist. “Let me go…”

“I said don’t,” he snaps, dragging you back into the hallway.

You struggle against him, wild, stupid, panicked.

“You’re hurt…” you gasp. “You’re bleeding…”

“Not enough to stop me from breaking every door in this place,” he growls, slamming your back against the wall. His forearm braces your shoulder, not crushing but strong enough that you feel how easy it would be for him to really hurt you. He doesn’t but his face is inches from yours now. His voice is ragged. “You really think you’re gonna outrun me? After everything?”

“I had to try,” you reply.

His lips curl. “Yeah, you always run when it gets real.”

You open your mouth to spit back something, anything, but the way he’s looking at you makes the words choke in your throat. He’s staring through you like he knows every version of you you’ve tried to build since high school and doesn’t buy a single one.

His hand slides up the door beside your head, not touching you, but blocking any chance you have of slipping past.

“I’m bleeding all over your floor,” he snaps, stepping even closer, his breath grazing your cheek. So you’re gonna patch me up, and you’re gonna do it now.”

You flinch at his tone, but something in your body responds to the command before your mind catches up.

He pulls back a little, just enough to look down at himself and at the red streaks drying over his ribs. You stare at him for a beat too long. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t move, so you nod. You push past him stiffly, heart still racing, and disappear into the hallway. He doesn’t follow but you can feel his eyes on your back the whole way.

You grab the first aid box from beneath the sink with trembling hands and return, half-expecting him to be gone.

He isn’t.

He’s sitting on a chair in the kitchen, slouched but alert, blood still painting his skin in angry smears. Still shirtless, still terrifying… And still waiting for you.

You kneel beside him. He doesn’t speak but watches you unsnap the kit. Your hands still shaking. You reach for the antiseptic, the gauze, the tweezers… the routine familiar and comforting in the worst possible way.

When you press the gauze against the deep slash just under his ribs, he hisses so you pause.

“Keep going,” he demands.

You clean the wound in silence, your breath shallow, his eyes pinned to your face. Not your hands, not the blood, but your face. It makes your skin prickle.

“You always flinched when I touched you,” he says suddenly. You freeze and his voice lowers, almost curious. “Still do.”

You don’t look up. “I was scared of you.”

He leans forward just slightly, voice dark and unreadable. “You still are.”

You tape the bandage down, too rough on purpose. He doesn’t even wince.

“You’re not going to say thank you, are you?”

His smile is slow, crooked and dangerous.

“No,” he replies. “But I’ll let you live.”  And that, apparently, is enough.

Your knees are still weak when you rise, your hands stained with blood — his blood — the sticky warmth drying in smudges across your palms. You don’t look at him when you speak. You can’t.

“I’ll… I’ll get you something to wear,” you say, barely louder than your pulse. “It’s cold.”

You can feel his gaze on your back, heavy and unrelenting, but he says nothing, just lets you walk away.

You move like a sleepwalker down the hall, past the broken front door and the dark smear on the wall where he caught you mid-escape. Up the stairs. Each step is deliberate, slow and quiet, as if noise might remind him to follow.

You shut your bedroom door behind you with a soft click, not quite a lock — you wouldn’t dare — but a boundary... Fragile and pointless. Your back hits the door as you exhale for the first time in what feels like hours. And then you see it. Your phone is right where you left it, on the nightstand. It’s a lifeline, a chance.

You cross the room fast, heartbeat stuttering in your throat as your fingers close around it. The screen lights up instantly, casting your pale face in cold blue. No signal, of course, but maybe a text could send when the bars flicker back. You don’t need much, just one word. You start to type.

HELP. 

The bedroom door creaks open behind you. You freeze. Not because of the sound — soft and slow, not violent — but because you didn’t hear him coming up the stairs. He’s just there. You turn, breath caught halfway in your chest.

Tyler stands in the doorway, his expression unreadable, not angry, just calm... Too calm. He looks at your hand, at the phone glowing in your grip and then, finally, his eyes meet yours.

Your throat goes dry. He takes one step into the room. You don’t move. He takes another. Your spine finds the dresser behind you. You feel the edge of the wood bite into your back.

“Give it to me,” he says, extending his hand like he’s asking for something harmless like a book or a pen.

You hesitate and that’s all it takes. He’s on you before you can blink, not violent but inevitable. He moves with eerie precision, stepping into your space like it belongs to him, like you belong to him. His body presses close, not touching but looming, a solid wall of heat and blood and sweat-slick skin. His hand slides between you and the dresser, his fingers curl around your phone.

You don’t resist. He lifts it between you both, studying it, then, without a word, without effort, he snaps it clean in half. The sound is sharp, a vicious crack of plastic and glass that echoes off the walls.

You flinch. He lets the pieces fall to the floor in a final, careless gesture. Then he looks at you and you don’t realize you’re holding your breath until you start to feel lightheaded.

He doesn’t step back, doesn’t ease the pressure. He just watches you, his eyes dragging over your face, down your throat, to the frantic rise and fall of your chest. He’s drinking in your fear, your submission, your fury. It makes something in him relax, not soften, just… settle, like now, finally, things are exactly how they’re supposed to be.

“Where are the clothes ?” he asks, voice low.

You blink. “What?”

He smiles, darkly. “You came up here to dress me, remember?”

You swallow. Your hand brushes the closet door as if by instinct. You open it and pull a folded hoodie from the shelf. You don’t even look at him when you toss it his way.

He catches it one-handed, lifts it to his face, sniffs and smirks.

“Smells like that asshole who took you to prom and that you let kiss you under the bleachers.”

Your cheeks go hot. “He’s not…”

“You’re still seeing him?”

“No.”

He stares at you a long moment, then pulls the hoodie on slowly, wincing as it stretches over his shoulder. He exhales through his nose, then mutters, low, disgusted: “It reeks like cheap cologne and insecurity”

Your chest is tight. You don’t want to hear him anymore, not his voice, not the memories, not how easily he slips back into your life like a nightmare on repeat. Without a word, you walk across the room, past the bookshelf, straight to your desk.

You grab your perfume from the top shelf and spin around, sharp and quick, before he can get another word out. He raises an eyebrow just as you lift the bottle.

Pshht.

You spray him once, directly across his chest. A quick burst, meant to shut him up. The scent blooms instantly in the warm air, floral, amber and something darker underneath. It’s yours and it’s so familiar that it makes your throat catch.

He inhales, startled and then stills. You turn away without meeting his eyes… But you brought his attention to this side of your room. You see it happen in the mirror, the moment he notices what’s pinned to the wall.

You try to move, to step between him and the view but he’s already stepping closer.

“Wait,” you say, too late.

He limps forward, shoulder brushing past you. You grab the bottle tighter, knuckles white. Your shame, your obsession was there, exposed in cheap printer ink and curling edges. Articles, clippings and handwritten notes, circles around words like “Hyde” and “Willow Hill“ and his mugshot, front and center.

He doesn’t move for a long time but his eyes trail over your shoulder, scanning the fragmented headlines like he’s reading his own eulogy.

“Local Sheriff’s Son Declared Unfit.” “Victim Identified in Woods Near Jericho.”

When he finally turns, his eyes rake over you. You wish he looked angry but he doesn’t. He looks... satisfied.

“It’s not what it looks like, it’s research.” you start, voice thin. 

He laughs, not amused, just sharp. “You think this is research? You think cutting out articles about the guy who made your life hell qualifies as some kind of academic project?”

“I needed answers,” you snap.

His voice drops. “No. You needed me. You thought about me every night, didn’t you?” His voice is quiet, but mocking and dangerous. “You looked me up, imagined how I looked locked in that place, wondered if I’d come back for you.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.” He steps toward you. You don’t move. “You probably sat on this floor reading articles about me, while your sweet little boyfriend thought you were reading some harmless books.”

His gaze drops to his mugshot, lingers there before he looks back at you.

“Do you get off looking at that photo?” Your breath catches… not because it’s true, but because it isn’t a no either. He smiles and there’s no warmth in it. “You were always into those dark romance paperbacks in high school… What was it? Brooding vampires? Abusive fae? Criminals who couldn’t be tamed?”

“Tyler…”

“You spent your nights with your thighs squeezed tight, reading about dangerous monsters and wishing they’d pick you?” He moves again, closer, each step pushes the air from your lungs. “And now, you have me.”

You stumble backward — only one step — and hit the edge of your desk. Your hands land behind you, fingers gripping the wood, grounding yourself in anything that’s not him.

He follows, doesn’t touch you but just looms, close enough that your perfume clings to the space between your bodies.

He nods toward the wall of printouts.

“You made a shrine.” You open your mouth — to deny it, to lie, to scream, you don’t know — but no words come. “Why? Why would you care like this? After everything I did to you? All the names I called you? The pranks I pulled? I ruined your books, your grades, your life…”

You make a sound, wounded, half a sob, half a moan. His hand lifts. He presses two fingers under your chin, tilts your face to his. His eyes are fire. Your breath stutters. The words hit low and they burn.

You should push him away, you should scream, you should run… But instead you rise on your toes and surge forward, your mouth colliding with his, not soft, not tentative, but furious. A slap disguised as a kiss. You pour every unsaid thing into it: the years of confusion, the nightmares, the twisted ache he left behind.

You’re the one who closes the space. You’re the one who grips the front of the hoodie and pulls. You’re the one who opens your mouth first.

For a breath, he doesn’t move. Then his hand fists in your hair and he devours you in return, he growls, low and guttural, and the kiss deepens like something snapping inside him. His hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you there, while the other finds your waist, fingers digging in, claiming, demanding.

“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth. “You have no idea what you just started.”

You break the kiss, panting. “Then shut up and show me.”

Your breath mingles with his, trembling, not with fear anymore, but with something far more dangerous. His thumb brushes your cheek, rough and reverent all at once. He’s breathing hard, chest rising and falling like he’s barely holding something back.

The scent of him hits you again, earthy, wild, tinged with sweat and blood and the ghost of your perfume.

His mouth crashes on yours again, no hesitation this time, all teeth and heat and years of tension snapping like a live wire between you. He lifts you easily, your ass hitting the desk with a dull thud, sending papers fluttering to the floor. You gasp into his mouth, but it’s not from pain. It’s the shock of him — all of him — so real, so solid, after years of being nothing but a nightmare in your mind.

He pulls back just enough to drag his gaze down your body, eyes dark with something primal. He groans low in his throat — a sound like fury and hunger and disbelief all at once — and then his hands are on you again, sliding up beneath the fabric, finding skin, heat, need, his mouth open and ravenous, kissing like it’s not just lust but hunger, like he wants to devour you.

Then his hand slides to your jaw, rough and controlling, and suddenly his fingers are pushing into your mouth, two, maybe three, thick and deep. He watches your eyes blow wide as you gag a little, lashes fluttering, and he groans.You whimper around his fingers, spit already dripping from the corner of your mouth, and he grins, wide and sharp and absolutely unhinged. His thumb drags your jaw open wider, forcing your head back to expose your throat, and he leans in like a predator. His eyes flare dark with something that’s not human.

Then it’s a blur; your clothes being ripped, teeth against skin, your name hissed through clenched teeth as he shoves your legs apart with bruising force.

“You wanted a monster? You fucking got him.”

He fumbles with your pants, desperate and impatient, until you lift your hips to help him, and then they’re gone, kicked away and forgotten, and his hand is right there, sliding between your thighs without hesitation, without apology. His fingers find how ready you are for him and he lets out a vicious little laugh.

“Wet for me already?” he remarks, middle finger sliding through the slick heat. “Didn’t take much, did it?”

His finger thrusts deep, then another, stretching you, and it’s not gentle, it’s frantic, punishing and filthy. You rock against his hand, chasing the friction, and he watches you unravel with something close to awe... Or madness.

He doesn’t finger you gently. He fucks you with his hand, two fingers deep and pumping rough, thumb grinding your clit while his other hand clamps around your throat. He watches you choke on a moan and he smiles before biting your neck hard enough to bruise, hard enough to mark. Then your shoulder. Your chest. Anywhere he can reach. And every sound you make, every gasped whimper, every shattered plea, feeds him.

“You're shaking already?” he sneers, dragging his slick fingers down to slap your pussy once, twice, the sound obscene. “And I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

He undoes his pants with one hand, the other still gripping your throat like a leash. And when he finally lines himself up, it’s with a dark look that dares you to tell him no but you won’t. You can’t. You want him to ruin you.

He pushes in with a groan so deep it vibrates in your chest, slow just for the stretch, then he slams the rest of the way, burying himself to the hilt. Your cry echoes off the walls, not of pain but relief.

He doesn’t stop. The desk creaks beneath you, the rhythm brutal and raw and perfect. His mouth is on your shoulder, your collarbone, your lips, biting, bruising, like he needs to mark you everywhere, prove you’re real, that this isn’t just another dream that will vanish when the cell door slams shut. You can feel him everywhere. Thick and unrelenting, every inch of him dragging against your walls, pushing you open, fucking you like he doesn’t care who hears or how much the desk rocks beneath you.

“Fuck, yes…” you gasp, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes as your body starts to shatter around him, your first orgasm building fast and vicious, like it’s being ripped from you.

He feels the way you tighten, the way your moans break and he loses what little control he had. One hand fists in your hair, the other still choking you, not enough to stop you from breathing, but enough to remind you who owns you now. His rhythm is brutal, savage, the kind of fucking meant to leave bruises on your hips and teeth marks on your collarbone. He fucks you like a man possessed, like he’s trying to burn the past from his skin and bury it in you. 

He grunts as he slams into you again, harder than before, so deep you swear he hits something that makes your vision spark. One of your hands flies to the edge of the desk, gripping hard, the other tangling in his hair as if you can anchor yourself there, like you can survive this without falling apart… But he’s not going to let you survive this intact. He wants to see you undone.

“That’s it,” he snarls, watching your eyes roll back, your mouth falling open with a silent cry. “Take it.”

Your legs tighten around him as he starts to pound into you, no rhythm, no finesse, just need. The desk slams into the wall with every thrust, papers long forgotten, and somewhere in the chaos you register the sting of his nails digging into your hips, dragging you back onto his cock every time he drives forward.

Your moan is wrecked, desperate, and it only drives him further off the rails. He loves it. Loves how ruined you sound, how you’re already trembling around him, clenching like your body’s trying to drag him deeper as if you’re scared he’ll leave before it’s over. Every brutal thrust drags you closer to that cliff’s edge, the pleasure so violent it borders on pain; the best kind. You’re soaked, dripping, a mess beneath him and he’s relentless, fucking you like he wants to leave his mark inside you.

Then his fingers slide between you again, rough and sure, rubbing tight circles against your clit as he slams up into you. Your body jerks, the cry ripped from your throat not even human anymore. You try to hold it, try to stay in control, but when he slaps your clit once, sharp and filthy, you break.

The orgasm crashes into you like a wave hitting stone. Your body arches off the desk, mouth open in a silent scream, muscles clenching so violently you see white. You don’t know what sounds are coming out of you — gasps, sobs, broken little moans — but he doesn’t stop, he fucks you through it, riding every aftershock, chasing his own release now with brutal, desperate thrusts, biting your lip until it bleeds.

He pulls out just in time to fist himself once, twice and groans deep, head thrown back as he comes all over your stomach, your thighs, marking you like it means something, like it’s a claim. He’s panting, shuddering, leaning over you with his arms braced on either side. His eyes are wild, blown wide, and there’s sweat sliding down his temple.

He brings his mouth on your neck again but this time, it doesn’t bite. It lingers, open-mouthed and hot, breathing against the bruises he just made.

“Still breathing?” he asks, voice wrecked, lips dragging along your jaw. You don’t answer. Your voice is a ruined thing, somewhere between a sob and a moan, your body shaking from aftershocks, from the mess, from the sheer violence of how hard he fucked you but your legs shift just slightly, just enough to show you’re still here and he grins with something possessive and feral burning in his eyes. “Good.”

He bends down and licks a drop of sweat from your neck. It’s not sensual, it’s animal, marking you again in the filthiest way he can, like tasting the salt on your skin is another form of possession. He kisses your bruised shoulder, not gently, but deeply, like an oath.

His other hand drags up your stomach still smeared with his cum and he wipes his fingers across your skin, then shoves two of them into your mouth.

“Suck.”

You do, instinctively. Desperately. His eyes roll back for a second. He breathes like he’s holding something dangerous back and pulls your head back with a fist in your hair, forcing you to look up at him. Your lips are red, your eyes glassy, bite marks blooming across your neck, your collarbone, your shoulders.

“Look at you, so pretty like this, ruined for anyone else.” Then — as if that wasn’t enough — he spits into your open mouth and you swallow it without blinking. “Good girl,” he breathes, eyes full of madness and worship.

He grabs your discarded shirt and uses it to wipe between your thighs, slow and deliberate. You flinch.

“Sensitive?” he asks, smug. 

You whimper. It’s the only sound you can make.

He tosses the shirt aside, doesn’t care where it lands. Then, without warning, he pulls you against him, your body still a trembling mess, and wraps his arms around you like a vice. One hand snakes up to grip your jaw again, tilting your head to the side so he can mouth at your throat, tasting skin, sweat, salt and spit.

It’s not a cuddle, it’s a claim.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he murmurs, dragging his teeth down your neck. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

Your voice finally breaks free, hoarse, barely a whisper. “I wasn’t planning to.”

He hums a low, pleased sound and then his hand slides down to your collarbone to touch one of the bite marks he left there.

“You’ll bruise here, and you’ll feel me every time you walk tomorrow.” he says, almost like a promise. Then he kisses that mark slowly, almost reverent.

“You’re mine now,” he murmurs against your lips, quieter than before but just as deadly. “No one else is ever gonna touch you again, I’ll fucking kill them if they try.”

You don’t even question it because you don’t want anyone else to. You swallow hard, still dazed and his grin is slow… And dangerous.

Other stories:

[ethansluv]

evil hayfever

pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds x fem civilian gf!reader synopsis: when Bob comes home from a mission covered in pollen and racked with fever, you try to take care of him as best you can. content: mdni!! 18+. established relationship, porn with (a little) plot, sex pollen trope, bob is hella greedy in this one, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, bob makes reader squirt, mutual masturbation, unprotected pinv (wrap before you tap folks), cowgirl, doggy, mating press, hair pulling, a little biting, scratching, dry humping, bob is a yapper word count: 7.6k notes: hi y'all this is my first time writing a reader insert, and also my first time writing smut. I just needed to put Bob in a situation so bad I didn't even finish building my blog smh. I tried to keep reader descriptions minimal, but I hope y'all enjoy!! Likes and reblogs are obviously appreciated and also feedback is always welcome :) Enjoy!!

You’re halfway through a rigorous deep clean of the kitchen when the front door slams open.

“Bob?”

“Expecting anyone else?”

“Be nicer to my door, dummy,” you say. You pause your wiping to go out and greet him, but before you can get too close you hear him yelling.

“Stop! Don’t come near me yet, okay I’m not sure I’m safe so just… stay there.”

He rounds the corner, and the sight of him is enough to make you laugh out loud. He’s covered head to toe in a fine yellow powder. You can barely make out the blue of his Sentry suit beneath the substance.

“Mission was a bust then?”

He grimaces, then shrugs.

“What was the mission anyways, or is that classified.” You know it doesn’t matter because you’ll find out anyway, whether it’s from him, or Yelena or (god forbid) Alexei once he’s three fruity cocktails in.

“Illegal lab, synthesising hormones so they could test them on people, see if they could control the types of powers they gave them.”

“So I guess you got into a fight with a plant and got your ass handed to you,” you say, the corners of your mouth pulling into a grin when he fixes you with a glare.

“I didn’t get my ass handed to me. I’m an environmentalist I don’t fight plants.”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes at his weak excuse, and you just hum instead.

“So why are you tracking evil pollen all over my freshly vacuumed carpet instead of the beautiful tiles of Avengers Tower?”

You take a step towards him and you see his fingers twitch at his side, before he takes a careful step back. There’s a blank look in his eyes, like his mind’s gone foggy, but it’s gone in a blink.

“Don’t know. Just felt like I had to.”

“You okay? I was joking about the evil pollen, but you’re not having any side effects right? Do you know what the plant was meant to do?”

He just shakes his head, more pollen falling around him. “Unidentified. I feel fine, nose is a bit stuffy maybe. Evil hayfever. Not sure why I came here though, maybe I missed you too much.”

He says the last part softly and it pulls at something in your chest. You sigh. The rest of your housework will have to get done tomorrow, or whenever Bob goes back to the Tower.

“How about you get showered and I rustle up some dinner and we can watch a movie, yeah,” you say turning around. You miss the way he stares at you, eyes dragging down your body and landing on your ass. You miss the way his jaw clenches and he has to rub at his face to snap himself out of it. When you turn back around he looks dazed and when he looks back up at you he’s blinking rapidly.

“Bob, honey. Shower. No evil pollen on my couch okay?”

There’s a light chuckle and you’re not sure he can actually hear you, but before you can repeat yourself he’s trudging off towards the bathroom. There’s something mechanical about the way he walks, as if he’s on autopilot, but you decide not to push it. Instead you get your vacuum and work on cleaning up the spots where the pollen has fallen off his body.

You aren’t sure how long he’s in the shower for, but you manage to get the kitchen clean while he’s gone, all promises of dinner forgotten when you open your fridge and realise you have nothing in there. You’re leaning against the counter with aching muscles and the persistent smell of bleach wafting off of you when you feel strong arms around your waist.

“So pretty,” Bob mumbles into your hair, arms strong around you, pulling you flush to his chest.

“Jesus. Don’t sneak up on me.”

“Sorry, just look so pretty right now,” he’s still mumbling into your hair, pushing you further into the counter. His hands are sliding under your shirt, thumbs pressing into the flesh underneath your ribs.

You snort, trying to pry his arms from around your waist. He doesn’t budge, but he does let you turn around and look up at him.

Your heart falters for a minute when you see him. Freshly showered, hair still damp, being swallowed up by the ugliest Christmas sweater you’ve ever seen and some grey sweats, he looks every bit like your boyfriend and nothing like Valentina’s Golden Guardian. He’s looking down at you, eyes still slightly unfocused, but he’s smiling.

“I smell like bleach and I’m in the rattiest clothes I own. I’m pretty sure I have grease from the oven on my cheeks. You’re nuts. Are you feeling better though?”

He leans down, pressing his nose to your hair.

“Smell fine to me, look great. I’m in the kitchen with my hot girlfriend, I’m great.”

His voice is low, almost dangerous. You put your hands on his chest, pushing him away slightly so you can look at him.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

His eyes still look far away, and it feels like his grip is tightening with every passing second.

“Head feels a bit funny, hazy. Still fine though.”

“Maybe you really do have evil hayfever,” you laugh, poking him in the stomach. You’re always surprised by how solid he is under his sweaters. You let your hand rest on his abs as you look into his eyes.

His lips twitch.

“Beautiful and funny.”

He ducks down, nose brushing yours and his lips ghost over yours, his eyes fluttering closed, but you push his chest a little harder. You must catch him off-guard because he stumbles backwards a little, his arms loosening enough for you to duck underneath. He furrows his brow, fingers toying with the ends of his sleeves.

“I thought you said dinner after I shower,” he pouts, taking a step towards you arms reaching out automatically.

“Bad news. Nothing in my fridge, and now I need to shower. I’ll be quick okay, how about you use that sweet sweet Avengers money to get us some cheap takeout, and then you can touch and kiss me all you want, okay?”

You see his jaw tense, but for the first time tonight you think you see his eyes focus.

“What do you mean you have nothing in your fridge?”

He’s pushing past you before you can explain, opening your fridge. You see his shoulder drop in a sigh.

“I get paid in a couple days,” you say sheepishly. He turns around, hand on his hips.

“Next time tell me, so I can use my sweet sweet Avengers money to buy you real food. Take your time in the shower I’ll go out and get some food for us. I need the air anyways,” he mumbles.

“You don’t need to, just DoorDash some pizza. Or does the Sentry only eat woowoo health foods?”

You cock an eyebrow at him. He fixes you with an unimpressed stare, but your smart mouth seems to be forgotten as his eyes drag down your body, a full sweep at first and then stopping where your shirt has slid down over your shoulder exposing a bit of your collarbone. His gaze lingers. The air in the kitchen shifts and you find yourself squirming a little bit. You can see his jaw working; tensing and untensing. You stand there in silence pinned under his gaze before he snaps out of it.

“I need the walk,” he says. His voice sounds strained and he breezes past you like he can’t get out of the kitchen fast enough, the lingering scent of his shower gel being the only reminder that he was there at all.

By the time he gets back you’ve managed to shower, and get a decent way into a new book. You almost consider checking if he is coming back when you hear your front door opening, and the smell of pizza wafting in.

“You could have just DoorDashed!”

“DoorDash has shitty pizza. I brought you good pizza, because I love you and don’t want you filling your body up with Domino’s bullshit.”

You hear him shuffling around in the kitchen, and then he’s in the living room, placing the pizza on the coffee table with some glasses and a bottle of soda. He does this without looking at you once and when he finally turns you hear him inhale. Deep. Slow. Pained.

“Are you trying to kill me?”

“Sorry?”

He motions to you with his eyes, and that faraway look is back. You watch as he worries his bottom lip with his teeth, eyes locked on where the birthmark on your thigh is peeking out from the hem of his shirt. “Any shorts on underneath that?”

You shake your head, closing your book.

“Fuck. Honey, you can’t do that. I can’t focus.”

“What is with you. It’s a shirt,” you snort. You reach over to open the pizza box, and you hear Bob inhale as the shirt rides up slightly. You don’t need to look at him to know that he’s clenching his jaw.

“It’s not me, it’s you. You look so good today. I don’t… I don’t understand it’s like you’re trying to kill me.”

You can’t help preening a little at the compliment, smiling to yourself as you pull a slice of pizza from the box, almost moaning as you take the first bite.

“Did the evil pollen give you CTE? I look the same as I always do,” you say around a mouth full of pizza. You’re looking at him now and he looks… frazzled, jaw clenching and his hands gripping his hair.

“No you- you’ve done something, baby. You look different, I don’t know.”

He’s still running his hands through his hair when he moves to sit next to you on the couch. “You just look so fucking beautiful right now.”

“Oh I must be a complete uggo every other day then,” you tease as you lean over for another slice of pizza. You hear him exhale, and then feel him move next to you, inching closer, hand resting on your thigh. His hand is hot enough to make you ignore the way something stirs deep within you. You abandon your pizza, leaning over to place a hand on his forehead instead, basically climbing into his lap in the process. You try to ignore the way his hand creeps under the shirt, gently cupping the bottom of your ass.

“Jesus, babe. Are you sure you’re okay? I think you have a fever.”

He uses his other hand to grab the hand you have on his forehead, giving it a kiss.

“Can’t get sick. Sentry Serum,” he mumbles into your wrist. When he pulls your hand away from his lips, it’s to place a soft kiss at the base of your throat. You sigh, pizza forgotten as his other hand moves underneath your (his) shirt. It roams over your stomach, ghosts over your breast and then settles on your ass with his other hand. He’s squeezing a little harder now as his kisses grow hungrier. He nips at the skin of your neck, groaning as he does and it takes everything in you not to give in as you push his shoulders into the back of the couch.

“I need you to listen to me.”

“I am,” he insists, still trying to get at your neck.

“Properly honey. Please.”

He sighs, leaning back to look at you. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes have darkened.

“I think you have a fever okay.”

“It’s fine. Sentry Serum will deal with it,” he’s leaning in again, and his hands move to the back of your thighs pulling you flush against him. “So beautiful,” he murmurs into your neck. “So so beautiful, baby.”

You grab his face — one last attempt at getting him to really listen to you, and you swear your heart’s going to give out when he looks up at you, eyes pleading, pupils blown out. You put a hand to his cheek and lean your forehead against his and try really hard to ignore how his hands knead the flesh of your thighs.

“Honey, you can’t ‘Sentry Serum’ your way out of everything.” He opens his mouth to argue, but it dies in his throat when you raise an eyebrow at him. “You have a fever, Bob. I don’t want you to overexert yourself. Valentina would kill me anyways.”

“I’d never let Valentina touch you,” he says, ignoring everything else. “I’ll always keep you safe, angel.” He shifts as he says this, making you sit down properly in his lap, pressing his nose against yours. Feeling him underneath you, so solid and broad makes your brain short circuit for a moment. That’s all the opening he needs, he leans forward and slots his mouth over yours, soft at first then hungrier and harder. His grip on you tightens and you know he’s going to leave bruises. You pull away, breathing heavy.

“And what about the other thing.”

“Won’t overexert, I promise. Please, honey,” he pleads. His hands move from your thighs to your hips and he grinds you down into him. “We’ll just do this okay. Just this, nothin’ else, I promise sweet girl.”

“You promise?”

“Yeah,”

“Pinky promise me,” you say, peeling your hands away from his face to interlock your pinkies.

“Pinky promise, now come here,” he says, pulling your face to his. When your lips connect this time there’s no softness. He’s practically devouring you, teeth pulling at your bottom lip. His hands are everywhere, like he doesn’t know where to land. One moment, they’re kneading your thighs, the next your breast, the next cupping your ass. All through this he’s rutting up into you, and you can’t help but whine when you feel how hard he is in his sweats. He pulls away abruptly when you do, breathing heavy.

“Don’t do that.”

“Huh?” You breathe, confused.

“Don’t make that sound. You’re driving me insane. You’re tryna kill me.”

He doesn’t give you time to respond, latching on to the spot where your neck meets your jaw and sucking hard. You buck your hips into him and you have to bite your lip hard to stop from whining again when you feel the hard length of him against you. When you slip your hands under his shirt he pulls away like he’s been burned. He pulls you off his lap, putting you back on the couch, then he’s standing, arms in front of him. He has a frenzied look in his eye, and his lips are plump from kissing.

“Honey,” you stand, meaning to go to him.

“Stay over there.” His voice comes out firm and commanding and it roots you to the spot where you stand. “I think I need to leave. You can’t touch me, honey. I’ll explode.”

“Do you mean literally, or…” you look down, eyeing the very obvious and probably painful hard on he has.

“Literally. Or both. I don’t know. Just stay over there while I figure this out okay,” he pleads with you, hands over his face.

“Figure what out?”

“I wanna fuck you angel.”

“Sounds like you have it figured out then?”

You start moving towards him again. “Is this because you pinky promised me earlier?”

He moves back, skittish, eyes looking you up and down frantically.

“No this is different. I feel like I can’t control myself. I feel like I’m gonna hurt you, okay. Stay there,” he grits out when you keep moving towards him.

You put your hands up in surrender throwing yourself back on the couch.

“One moment you’re all over me, the next you’re telling me I can’t touch you because you wanna fuck me? Am I missing something?”

“You don’t get it. When you touched me just then… I wanted to tear your panties off.”

“You’ve done that before.”

“Okay well I wanted to pin you down and fuck you into the couch.”

“Done that too,” you point out, ignoring the way you have to clench your thighs together when he says it.

“Different. Like skip all the other stuff just straight to fucking you. I need to feel you around me so bad I’m scared I won’t be able to control myself. I don’t wanna make you feel good. I wanna make me feel good,” he admits and it’s like a weight has lifted off his shoulders. This is new. Bob had always prioritised your pleasure and comfort over his even if it meant he had to finish himself off. So to hear him admit that he wants to use you? It’s new. It’s refreshing. It’s so fucking hot.

“So then come over here and do it.”

Now it’s his turn to get frustrated because you’re not listening. “You don’t get it. I wanna fuck you until you can’t feel your legs. ‘Til you forget everything but what it feels like to be wrapped around me. Maybe even more than that. You’ll be so sore honey, I’m not doing that to you.” Your thighs clench again and you know he notices because the lights above you flicker.

“Bob-”

“No. It’s not happening.”

“I’m a big girl, I can take it.”

“Not the way I wanna do it.”

You stop talking, opting to slip your fingers into the waistband of your (ruined) underwear and slide it down your legs. You ball it up and toss it to him. You watch in awe as he brings it up to his nose almost like it’s muscle memory and takes a deep whiff, his eyes never leaving yours. You watch one of his hands disappear down the front of his sweats, and you watch as he palms himself, pushing your underwear against his nose so hard you think he’s gonna hurt himself. You watch as he works himself faster, brows furrowed as he struggles to keep his eyes open, still looking at you in his shirt. Knowing you really have nothing on underneath seems to spur him on and you watch his sweats move as he keeps going. He’s panting, trying his hardest to stop his desperate little moans from escaping. You have to physically keep yourself from moaning when he holds them between his teeth, freeing up his other hand so he can push his sweats down just enough so he can pull out his aching cock. You feel your pussy clench around nothing at the sight. You can feel your skin getting hotter and your breathing picking up as he pulls it out almost clumsily. He looks like he’s so hard it hurts, tip red and leaking. You feel yourself practically drooling when he uses his free had to smear his precum all over it and then start bucking into his fist, desperate. You move on autopilot really, when you bring your ring and middle finger to your mouth and suck on them. His eyes are still locked on yours and it makes you feel so shy, but so desperate. Your thighs are clenched together but you release your fingers with a popping sound and drag your hand down your body, settling it right between them. The lights flicker above you as he opens his mouth to speak, your panties falling to the floor.

“Spread ‘em pretty girl,” he manages to choke out, still bucking desperately into his fist. “C’mon, lovely lemme see. It’s- it’s gonna help me. Please, baby,” he moans desperately.

You don’t make him beg. Still holding eye contact you spread your thighs. You can’t help but giggle when you hear him let out a low whistle.

“So wet f’me honey. Go on.” He’s pleading. His hips never stop moving and you’re seriously scared he’s gonna hurt himself with the way he tugs at his cock. You circle your clit with your fingers, nearly twitching without how sensitive you are and when you slide your fingers down down your slit. Bob is panting in front of you, sweat matting his bangs down. He’s still struggling to keep his eyes open.

“C’mon gorgeous. You’re so wet, bet you’ll slide right in huh. That’s all for me?”

You don’t know why he asks, the answer’s always yes. And he’s right. When you push against your entrance, there’s basically no resistance. It almost shocks you how easily they push in. You get to work immediately, pumping your fingers at first and when that does little to sooth the ache deep inside you, you start curling them, trying to reach that spot inside you that will really have you seeing stars. You’re grinding the heel of your hand into your clit and you’re getting so close. You dig your toes into the fabric of the couch as you ride your own hand, desperately chasing your own release. You can’t stop the little whines that escape from your mouth.

“There you go sweet girl, you’re so close, I can see it. Show me you can do it, please, baby. C’mon honey let go,” Bob grits out. You feel your eyes flutter shut as the coil in your stomach tightens and tightens and tightens some more and just when you feel like you can’t get anymore wound up you feel it snap, suddenly and hard. You feel like you’ve had the air knocked out of you, and you have to slow your hand down. You open your eyes as the pleasure subsides, just to come face to face with Bob looking more pained than ever.

“Sweetheart, it’s not working. I’m trying so hard, baby it’s not enough.”

“So come over here then,” you manage to eke out.

There’s no argument this time. He steps out of his sweatpants and walks over to you. When he gets to you it’s like his eyes are glued to the spot where your fingers disappear into your pussy, glistening like they’re mocking him. Gently, he pulls your fingers out, running them over his cock first, then he puts them in his mouth. You clench around nothing as his tongue run over them, and he hollows his cheeks. His hips buck when you moan, and you feel his tip brush up against your hole, making you jolt away from him a little bit. His grip is firm as he pulls your fingers out and leans his forehead against yours. His eyes have gone a stormy shade of blue, and he holds your gaze a little before he peels them back down your body to your hole, fluttering and spasming around nothing.He drags you up from the couch, swapping your positions so that he’s the one sitting. He puts his hand around the back of your thigh, pulling you to him, manhandling you into straddling him.

“Go slow, but fuck, you need to make it quick. Can’t take much more.” His hands are on your hips, string but steady. You tease him a little more, running the head up and down your slit.

“I’m getting mixed messages, baby.”

“Please don’t play with me right now, honey. Not got much restraint left.” He squeezes your hip as he says this. Truth be told you don’t have much left in you either, so before he can ask you again, you sink down in one swift motion, your pelvis meeting his. It’s a stretch. You can never forget how much of him there is, but every single time you guys have sex the stretch feels brand new. There’s no longer that sting, but it’s still a tight fit. You rest your forehead against his, but he doesn’t give you a single moment to recover. You feel him shift underneath you as he plants his feet on the ground. And then he’s fucking up into you, rough, hard and fast.

“Bob—” you choke out, hands instinctively resting on his shoulders.

“I know. I’m sorry. I told you, fuck, that I was running out of restraint. I’m so sorry honey.” He’s kissing his apologies into your hairline, on your cheeks, on your neck. He’s lapping at the skin where your neck meets your jaw and all you can do is hold on when he keeps fucking up into you, relentless. “You feel so good, honey, so wet and hot for me. So tight. This is what I needed, you’re all I need, baby, fuck!” He wraps an arm around you to keep still, and the other on comes round your front, pushing you back a little, changing the angle. You ball up his sweater in your hands, so hard you feel your arms shaking but he keeps going. “She’s so good to me,” he whispers in your ear, “so eager, she’s made for me isn’t she. She’s mine forever,” he groans. The sound your hips make when they meet echoes obscenely around the living room and it’s taking all you have not to scream when his hand slips under your t-shirt again kneading your tits. “Gonna take this off ‘kay. Wanna see all of you.” He slows down enough to help you pull the shirt over your head and then he’s right back to his punishing pace. He watches, practically drooling as your tits bounce with every thrust. His free hand rests on one , slowly massaging it as he leans down and pops the other in his mouth. You don’t know what to focus on, his hands, or his mouth as sucks and nips and soothes with his tongue, or his cock; hard, hot, heavy, and punishing as he drives into you.

“Can feel you fluttering around me angel. You got another one f’me so soon? You gonna cum around this cock? Fuck, it’s like she wants to swallow me up, keep me inside forever. Is that what my baby wants? To have me inside forever?” he babbles. He’s lavishing kisses all over your chest now and his free hand moves down your body, reaching into the space where the of you connect. His fingers have barely grazed your clit when you feel yourself snap again, thighs quivering as another wave of pleasure knock into you. You rest your head on his chest, too tired to do anything except ride it out with him. “I’ve got you, don’t worry. ‘M right here for you, pretty. C’mon, I’m right here,” he’s cooing in your ear as you relax in his arms.

He slows down for a little bit, but you can still feel him, hard as ever, snug inside you. You whine when he pulls out, still sensitive. “I know, I know, sweetie I just need to do somethin’ real quick okay?” he mutters, more to himself than you. He maneuvers you both so that you’re lying on the couch chest down, pushing his hand between your shoulder blades to get you to arch. He pushes back in, and you feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty like this. She’s so wet for me baby, I wish you could see, wish you could feel how she’s still so tight just fuckin’ made for me.” He’s slamming into you again, and you have to bite into the couch cushion to stop yourself from crying out. You can hear Bob panting above you, fingers digging into your hips so hard it’s almost painful.

“Bob, fuck,” you cry out, muffled by the couch.

“I know, I know. Feels so good. So soft, baby.” The hand that was between your shoulder blades moves into your hair, gripping tight as he pushes your head further into the couch. You clench hard and it rips a groan out of him so desperate you’re surprised he doesn’t cum right then.

“You like that honey? Squeezing me so tight like that, you’re killing me here,” he whines. You can’t reply. You’re too full, too sensitive. He leans down, pressing a wet kiss between your shoulder blades. “So perfect like this, baby. Taking me so well.” Your thighs are sticky with a mix of sweat and your arousal, and you can feel that tell-tale heat creeping up on you again. “Doing so well for me,” he whispers into your ear, chest flush against your back, “taking it so so well, you’re made for this aren’t ya. Made to take me.” His pace is unrelenting, and his grip on your tightens. You can feel yourself fluttering around him, and you screw your eyes shut trying to delay the inevitable. “Again, sweet girl? You’re spoilin’ me tonight aren’t ya. So good to me, always so good to me, I’m… I’m sorry fuck baby, you’re doing so well, just give me another one please,” he’s mumbling into the nape of your neck. The hand that was guiding your hips into him goes round to your front, finding your clit instantly. He moves his fingers in lazy circles, like he has all the time in the world. You don’t know when you start, but you can hear yourself babbling, begging him for more. “My sweet girl wants more?” He asks, and you just nod, not trusting yourself to say anything coherent. He chuckles into your skin and then he does something he’s never done before: he bites you, right where your neck and shoulder meet. Not hard enough to hurt, but it sends a shock through your body so strong it pushes you over the edge. Your fingers dig into the couch cushion beneath you as you try to ground yourself.

“fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,” Bob groans out, the hand in your hair moving to couch’s armrest. You’re about to complain when you hear a loud crack and a rip. You lift your head and open your eyes just in time to see your armrest separate from the rest of your couch. Bob stills, and you turn your head to face him. He’s panting, and there’s a look of mild surprise in his eyes.

“Dude, I just got this couch.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I told you I can’t- can’t control myself right now. I’m sorry baby. I’ll buy you a new one exactly like it.” He presses a kiss to your jaw, and you feel him move both his hands to your hips.

“Bob honey I can’t,” you moan when you feel him twitch inside you.

“You can, you’re my good girl. Fuck, please gimme more, I need more… I need you pleasepleaseplease. Just one more okay, one more should do it.” He presses a kiss to the spot where he just bit you. “C’mon angel. You’re so good, baby. Fuck I can still feel her squeezing me. Real tight like. Baby please.”

He’s rolling his hips against you, desperate.

“Alright, alright, just not here okay. Bedroom.”

He’s up before you can blink, throwing you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. You swear he flies to your room, ripping the door off its hinges. You have to reinforce your apartment before he tears the whole damn thing down, you think. He wastes no time laying you on your bed, placing a pillow under your hips. He’s on top of you, knees on either side of your hips, hands hooking under your thighs so he can press your knees to your chest. You take him in, hair absolutely stuck down with sweat and eyes still stormy. His cheeks and neck are flushed and he looks ravenous as he stares down at you. You start giggling and he frowns.

“What’s so funny?”

“You look like freaky Pooh bear right now,” you giggle unable to contain it. Your giggles die in your throat as he takes his hands off of you and hooks his fingers into the collar of his sweater, pulling it over his head. You hear it land with a soft thud somewhere on your floor. You let yourself take him in, the broad planes of his shoulders, the scattering of freckles across his chest. Your eyes wander down to the hard lines of his abs and down lower to where his cock still stands at attention; red and angry and leaking. He presses his forehead to yours and forces you to look into his eyes instead.

“You were saying?” he asks, as he lowers his hips, sandwiching himself between your bodies. “Fuck, you’re wet. This what you like baby? Being treated like this, hm?”

He’s pressing his chest to yours, rocking his hips and dragging his cock along your slit. You try to turn your head, but he uses his hand to keep your head still.

“Look at me, angel. Let me see you,” he pants out, breath fanning over your face. He keeps rocking, and your toes curl every time his head drags over your clit.

“Bob, please. Give it to me please,” you whine, hands reaching around, nails digging into the muscle of his back. He pushes into you achingly slow, and you feel yourself fluttering as you take every inch he has to give, stomach tightening when he bottoms out with his hips flush against yours. You close your eyes and grit your teeth to stop the absolutely pathetic sound you know is gonna escape and Bob ghosts his lips over yours.

“Stop doing that, lemme hear you, beautiful,” he mumbles against your lips. “Lemme hear how I make you feel gorgeous please, I need it.” He’s thrusting into you hard and when you let those first couple of moans escape he crushes his lips over yours. He pushes his tongue into yours, hot and eager and desperate. “That’s better, fuck you listen so well. You’re such a good girl f’me, always baby.”

You’re buzzing beneath him, and you can’t help the tears that run down your face as he continues to press himself into you. He pushes his chest down into you, pinning you beneath his weight, keeping you folded in half. He pulls his lips away from yours, and then his thumbs are wiping your tears so gently it surprises you.

“No need to cry, baby you’re doing so well. It’s okay, angel I’m here.” He’s kissing your cheeks, so tenderly it almost tears your focus away from the way his hips are slamming into yours . “Fuck, honey can you feel that? I’m so deep, you feel so good. You’re so good like this, wanna stay like this forever, don’t wanna go anywhere else.” He stops thrusting to grind his hips into yours, making you twitch against him when he moves over your clit. You’re breathing heavy, not sure what to focus on anymore when he starts up again, the wet sound of your hips slamming together filling up the room. His lips are at your jaw, alternating between short kisses and nipping at the skin there, then he’s moving down your neck, sucking and licking his way down to your chest. He pulls his head up, but he doesn’t look at you. His eyes stay locked on your stomach.

“Oh honey, look at that,” he says, and you do. Every time he thrusts you see his tip poking at your lower stomach, pushing more gasps and moans out of you. “That’s me, baby . Oh my god, you’re so hot taking me like this. I’ll never be able to get enough of this, you feel amazing.”

You feel your walls start fluttering again, and Bob reattaches his lips to your neck.

“That’s it sweet girl,” he puts his forearms on either side of your head, bracing himself as he pushes in harder, “one more for me, just like before okay?”

You just nod, the pressure in your stomach building with each thrust.

“Bob it’s too much,” you choke out, scratching down his back.

“Never too much angel, it’s fine, you’re fine, I promise.”He lifts up, bracing a hand against your headboard, his other hand keeping your knees folded into your chest. “Oh my god, you should see her baby, she’s so greedy for me she wants more. Is that what you need? More? She’s fucking, d-drooling all over me, oh my god you’re so fucking hot like this,” he blabbers, just pounding into you. You’re pulsing around him, clenching and unclenching and somewhere in the kitchen you swear you hear glass shatter. “Please let go for me, you can do it, I know you can.”

You’re shaking your head, trying to take deep breaths but he’s unrelenting. You can hear your bed creaking dangerously, the headboard ramming against the wall.

“Bob, honey, wait—”

“Can’t stop, I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry honey. Fuck please I just need another one okay. I know you can,” he mutters into the crook of your neck.

“I don’t know—”

“You can, baby.”

You can feel the pressure building, like a spring being wound tighter and tighter and tighter until suddenly your vision goes blurry and you’re gushing out all over him soaking his thighs, your thighs, your sheets. Somewhere in your brain you register a loud crack! and you just know your headboard’s done for.

“Warn me before you do that,” he practically growls out, staring at the small mess you’ve made. “I can’t handle it, you know it drives me crazy,” he says already repositioning you, getting ready to go again.

You lose track of how many times he manhandles into you different positions, how many times he pulls another orgasm out of you— always with the promise that it’s the last one. Every time you think you’re done and you can’t possibly give him any more he takes it anyways. You’re a sweaty, panting, writhing mess by the time Bob’s thrusts start to get sloppy and erratic and he’s whispering in your ear about how he’s so close this time and it really is the last time and he’s begging you to come with him.

“C’mon sweetheart, you really wanna I can feel it. Cum for me, milk me dry baby I need this.”

You oblige, thighs spasming. He gives you a few more sloppy thrusts before he pushes in all the way, a guttural groan ripping through his chest as your lights blow out and he empties himself inside of you, cock twitching against your walls.

“There we go, oh that feels so good,” he gasps out, collapsing onto you in a sweaty, sticky heap. He brings his hand up to your face, cupping it gently.

“Need to pull out okay? Hold on,” he says as he pulls out, torturously slow. “There we go, good girl. Wait here alright?”

You nod. It’s not like you have much choice. Every muscle in your body feels like it’s been turned to jelly. You can feel Bob leaking out of you, and you think briefly about the fact that you’re probably gonna need a new mattress. You manage to push yourself up to seated and then you look around. Your bed-frame is a goner, and there are dents in your wall from where the headboard slammed into it before Bob destroyed it.

“I’m back,” Bob says. He’s put his sweats back on and he’s got a glass of water— which he hands to you— and a towel. He lowers himself onto the mattress, gently spreading your legs apart so he can use the towel to wipe between them. You sigh in relief as he tidies you up. When he’s done there he looks you up and down taking stock. You’re covered in reddish-purple marks that you don’t even remember him sucking onto you and you see his eyes widen when he reaches the bite mark on your shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbles, running his fingers over the bite. Then his hand moves, cradling your head, turning your head this way and that as he feels around the scalp.

“What are you doing?”

“Making sure I didn’t pull out any hair. Shit, baby, I’m so sorry.”

“Mhhmmm, you said that already. I’m fine, I knew you wouldn’t hurt me.”

You nuzzle your cheek into his hand closing your eyes at the warmth.

“I bit you.”

“I know and I liked it. Stop worrying about me.” You put a hand to his forehead. “Huh, It looks like your fever’s gone.”

“Told you, Sentry Serum,” he mumbles as he presses a kiss into your hairline. He pulls you in tight to his chest, kissing your forehead.

“You were so good, made me feel so good. Promise I’ll make it up to you next time,” he mumbles against your forehead.

“You wanna make it up to me?”

“Yeah of course, honey.”

He’s tracing little doodles on your back. You push away from him so you can look him in the eye.

“You can start by replacing my furniture. And changing my lights. And putting my door back on it’s hinges,” you list off. You’re teasing but you see the flush that creeps up his neck.

“Another thing I can use my sweet sweet Avengers money for,” he deadpans.

You laugh, getting ready to stand so you can put your clothes back on when you feel his hand wrap around your wrist.

“Stay with me like this,” he says pulling you into his chest. And you do. You cuddle up to him, let him kiss the top of your head and trace circles into your lower back.

You’re not sure how long you’re lying there like that, but the buzzing of your cellphone pulls you out of the moment.

“It’s Yelena,” Bob says, handing you the phone. You let him answer it pushing yourself up. You find the sweater he was wearing earlier and pull it on, basking in Bob’s scent.

“Bob? Where have you been, we’ve been trying to get a hold of you! And why isn’t your girlfriend answering her phone we called like ten times,” Yelena yells when the call connects.

Bob grimaces as he pulls it away from his ear.

“Hello to you too, Yelena,” you mumble. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t near my phone,” you say as you settle in next to Bob.

“Okay well are you guys okay?”

“Tell them to turn on video,” you hear Alexei yell.

“Alexei said turn on your video,” Yelena relays, even though Bob is already doing it. When both of you are in frame, you see Yelena visibly relax.

“See, I told you, Lena you worry for nothing,” Alexei bellows from somewhere in the Tower kitchen.

“He’s okay everyone!” you hear Yelena tell the rest of the team.

“I’m not sure it’s him you need to be worried about,” you hear Bucky say as he takes the phone from Yelena. “Bob do you even know what you got hit with earlier?”

“Evil pollen. But I’m fine now, had a bit of a … of a fever earlier, but it’s broken. I’m okay.”

“Our Golden Guardian strong as bull! No need for babysitting,” Alexei whoops. You suspect he’s a couple of drinks in, and your suspicion is confirmed when he squishes himself into frame, a bright pink looking cocktail with a little umbrella clutched in his hand. You see Bucky’s face twitch, before he turns the phone so he is the only one in frame.

“No, Bob. We read through some of the files. That plant was for… reproductive purposes.” Bucky can’t look at the camera when he says this.

“What do you mean?”

“He means that the pollen is like if Viagra and an aphrodisiac had a baby and pumped it full of steroids. Apparently it was making subjects crazy horny man, like just aching for it the entire time it was in their system. A tablespoonful could take a whole man down apparently and you were covered in it.” Walker this time, a lazy smirk pasted across his face. “How are you not completely laid out right now?” Walker asks, but you suspect he knows the answer.

“I was trying to check on her discreetly,” Bucky grits out through his teeth, turning the camera back to himself.

“Maybe the Sentry Serum just worked it out of my system,” Bob tries to lie.

Bucky just narrows his eyes. “Look I don’t need details. Just tell me we won’t be getting a hospital bill,” he sighs in exasperation.

“No hospital bill,” you confirm. You don’t tell him about the incoming furniture bill.

“That’s all I need to know. Bob, we’ll see you in the morning for the debrief,” and then he hangs up.

“Some pollen huh,” you tease, nudging him with your elbow.

“Please don’t, that’s so embarassing. I got hit by evil sex pollen and everyone knows.”

“Do you think they’ll make you, like, actually debrief… you know… what just happened?”

You’re thinking out loud, but you hear him groan even louder.

“Kill me. Just kill me right now. I’m never going back to work again,” he whines.

He’s cut off by a knock at your door, and both of you get up to go check it out. Your neighbour Anna is on the other side, looking a bit flustered.

“Listen, we think it’s like, soooooo cool that the Sentry is your boyfriend nothing against you guys at all,” she drawls, eyes flicking to where Bob stands behind you, still topless, “it’s just. It would be really cool, if you guys could be just a liiiiiittle more gentle. You knocked some of my picture frames off the wall, and now I gotta replace them—”

“I’ll replace them,” Bob rushes out, “just tell her how much they cost and I’ll replace them we’re so sorry, have a good night.” He almost slams the door in her face.

“I can’t show my face here again,” he pouts. “Your neighbours hate me now!”

You snort. “Please. You give them one good fly around the neighbourhood, they’ll forgive you.”

“I’m serious. And I’m always gentle. It was just today, it’s never gonna happen again!”

“Oh let’s not be so hasty,” you rush out. “Maybe next time, let’s go to yours?”

“Next time? You liked that? You wanna do it again?”

He’s incredulous when you nod shyly, but you don’t miss the way he has to adjust himself.

You would definitely be getting a next time.

[ethansluv]

clark meets another super, who he can fuck the way he really wants to.

cw: 18+, smut, villain!reader, enemies to lovers, hate fucking, unprotected p-in-v, mentions of blood & violence, clark has a massive cock (ofc), sexual tension, tummy bulge, multiple orgasms, dub con, clark fucks HARD in this (2.4k wc)

𖤓 david corenswet masterlist | main masterlist | inbox 𖤓

clark kent had only ever dreamt of days where he'd meet his match.

he'd accepted that he was physiologically different that the humans that he kept company with. and that meant compromising. which was a multitude of things. he could only every use one percent of his actual strength in his daily tasks for starters — taking a boatload of mental fortitude to contain himself.

that applied to his sex life. an act he indulged in often.

maybe it was written in his DNA, or maybe having a significantly larger body to muscle mass meant your sex drive left you unbelievably insatiable. he couldn't tell. there wasn't much of a reference point he could compare to.

even then, it was…unfulfilling.

the women he fucked weren't to blame for it. truly. he'd learned after a couple of partners that his cock was disconcertingly massive in 'human' standards. to quote the most recent, he had a 'monster cock.' something he took literal offence to initially, but later learned that was a generic term for far exceeding 9 inches. and that meant only ever being able to fuck barely halfway in before most of them tapped out.

it was okay. he was okay with it. being superman had perks, doing good, keeping people safe. being sexually fulfilled wasn't on the forefront of his mind at all. but that didn't mean he couldn't dream of meeting someone who could keep up with him.

and that was why, clark kent was obsessed with you from the second you threw the first punch to his jaw.

"are you — … are you freakin' smiling?"

you had your knee pinned to his pulse point, knuckles flexed with clark's dried blood. other hand squishing his jaw when his smile tenses against your thumb. bloodied pearly whites peeking through. that wasn't the expression you expected from a man who was panting, bruised, and bleeding from cuts on his lips and nose.

"it hurts," he manages through a laughter of amusement, "like, actually hurts." your brows raise quizzically. it was a no shit sort of moment, because well, you'd swung at his face. repeatedly. but the crooked smile he was giving you, made your cunt clench. "okay. i do not have time to figure out what bullshit you're on. stay out of my goddamn way, superman."

he doesn't chase you when you'd gotten up, free-falling off the museum's building, thumb drive in hand.

after that, getting rid of him was near impossible. he was everywhere you were, disrupting your plans. and for some absurd reason — taking hit after hit, as if testing how much you could deal, and how much he could endure.

the next time you see him, he's skulking in your apartment, rotating a relic that didn't seem like it was from this earth.

"do you have a death wish?"

clark doesn't turn when he hears you approach him, tossing the armored headpiece up and down in his palms. "you're hera," he muses, eyes glinting when your footsteps cease where you stop short of him. the mention of your past alter-ego, sends a dreadful chill down your spine. his gaze drags over your civilian state, formal, a lanyard around your neck, pencil skirt, and a thin black rectangular framed glasses.

you snatch the item from him. dusting it off before putting it back in its' place. "i don't go by that anymore." clark stumbles backward when you shoulder past him. you don't wait before you swipe him clean off his legs, the cement floors crackling beneath his fall. "i'm giving you about twenty seconds to get out before i fuck you up, supershit."

clark reacts to that nickname instantaneously, pointing at you accusatory. "do not —" he grumbles. shaking his head before pulling himself up to his feet. you weren't paying attention to him, wrist twisted to look at the second hand tick on your watch.

"look. miss hera, i'm here to talk —"

"times up."

the force that sends him crashing into your bookshelf cracks the walls of your converted loft. you sigh, unwinding your wrist from hitting that brick wall-like chest. he doesn't want to attack you, and you see it in the way he's standing up, not getting into a defensive stance.

clark raises his palms to surrender. "please, i'm really not here to turn you in." you listen to him for a second, but you wind up to throw another. this time, he catches your fists, a crackle heard before he twists you around, pressing your fist to your back. "would you listen?" you swallow thickly, his voice blooming a warmth in you.

he grunts at you headbutting him, and you take the moment to loop your arm around his, throwing him in the direction of your television console. you briefly hear him mutter a quick 'oh geez that one hurt' in a tired boyish tone. clark looks up to the figure already charging at him. he catches you by your hips when you pounce on him, legs locked around his chest. "ow, ow, ow — i'm serious! just let me talk!"

you huff, holding him in a tight headlock where you were straddled. in the split second you hesitate, he blindly grabs around your back, holding you by the scruff of your neck before slamming you down like he was getting a feral cat off of him.

"that does it." gritting through your teeth, your heels meet the base of his jaw, and it cracks beneath the weight behind the kick. clark whines out loudly, stumbling back. his senses are attuned now, your head whips to the side when he strikes you for real, the glasses you had on flying right off.

"i really don't want to hurt you. " he pants, wiping the blood off his lips with the back of his hand. you attempt to knee him, but he catches you, the whiplash of him grabbing you by your throat has your hand grasping around his wrists. his cape flutters when clark catapults onto the other side. you let out a yelp when your back slams into the paintings behind you. he's close now, your chest heaving hard enough to graze his.

you spit out the blood that collects in your mouth, sizing him with a deadly look, "as if you can." clark looks at you intently, gaze flicking to the smear of scarlet on your lips. his jaw tightens, trying to figure out how he could get you to listen to him.

and then — he licks a stripe over your sliced bottom lip.

your whimper ghosts his jaw, and clark holds you still in place by the neck. large hands spanning your entire throat. your eyes dart to his, flitting left and right. his thumbs shift, just slightly, your pulse slowing beneath.

"you done?" he's close enough that you can feel the hum in his voice. your eye twitches at the smug tone.

"the nerve you've got…" you mutter, your own tongue catching your lower lips. he tenses at the sight of you licking over the glossiness he left.

the thrum in your chest is palpable. he feels it, and doesn't let go. the adrenaline of both the pain and closeness turning into something much more twisted.

"you're strong." clark leans close and you tip your head to the side to avoid him. he takes the opportunity to drag his nose down your neck. "as strong as i am." your breath stutters, thighs thrashing helplessly next to his hips.

"so?" you feel him sigh into your collar bone, his forehead rested on the shifted painting behind you.

"so…you can take it. take…me."

your brows furrow at that, but the answer comes in the form of the monstrosity pressed up against your abdomen, that was twitching. "is…is that what this is about? you needed a super-powered criminal fuck buddy?" the deliriousness in your tone is evident, and it seems to embarrasses him.

"this isn't ideal," he snaps in a hushed whisper. pulling back enough to turn your jaw to face him. "i know you want it too. i can…i can feel your heart rate picking up." he points out.

his face is laughably apologetic considering the span of events so far. "well, it's a given with you humping me."

clark's jaw flexes, "gosh you — the mouth on you." he sputters, the grip around your neck tightening a fraction. "you're so damn crass. this is ridiculous. what am i doing?"

you laugh in his face, and he perks up, staring blankly at just how pretty you looked when you smiled. "are you joking? you have your dick pressed onto me and you're questioning my language?"

clark winces, hips bucking into you when you point out the irony in the situation. "don't…talk like that," he's trying not to acknowledge the fact that he was quickly hardening, but your entire presence was a catalyst. "talk like what?"

he's almost certain you're being obtuse on purpose, but in the off-chance you weren't, "saying stuff like dick, and…humping so brazenly." a smile curls at the corner of your lips, and your hand drops, two of your fingers spreading apart to trace over the outline of his bulge.

"o-oh geez," he gasps, followed by a breathless "give-me-a-goddamn-warning."

the hold on your throat loosens. so you grab around his cock firmly, thumbing where his tip would be. "you're here to fuck me, right? so act like it."

clark looks to you, brows pressed into a knit. his arm snakes around your hip, "…very well, then."

you gasp at the shift in positions, where he now had you pinned on your unmade bed.

his hand curls around your wrist, slipping them underneath his suit bottom. clark jumps when your softer hands grip his bare length, it surprises you "oh."

"i-it's…not exactly small," he grits, panting into the side of your head when you stroke him with his guidance.

"no kidding. you're hung, big blue."

clark grunts at that, breaths turning heavier the more you're dry rubbing his cock. "like that. yeah... that's good."

you hum, lifting your hips to accommodate his bigger frame while he tugs his suit off. the impressive size of him comes to your view, and you let out a stuttered breath. your pussy clench almost as a pre-warning.

he drags your skirt up, bunching it at your hips. "g..osh.." he mutters, looking up to see that you've unbuttoned yourself enough to reveal the curvature of your tits beneath a lacy blue bra.

"like that we're matching?"

clark huffs out a strained laughter, head dropping lower. "that's not funny."

the smirk on you turns to a gasp when he drags his thumb over your panties, wetness slowly blooming where your slit would be. your hips tilt to his touch, and he hooks his thumb around the edge of the fabric, letting his finger dip into you just enough. you moan brokenly, looking down at the erotic sight before you.

his body was definitely as formidable as his cock, biceps visibly flexing at your ministrations. "the point…of this is so you can do what you want. right? just stick it in then."

the tremble in your voice gives away your nervousness.

clark rolls his shoulder, pushing a finger into your cunt, sounding unintentionally smug, "to fuck you…without tearing you. i need you to take at least four fingers." you clench, on instinct, when he says that. it seems to draw a cocky smile from him.

you aren't sure how long had passed.

somewhere between your second and third orgasm, you lost track of time. clark had his mouth latched around your breast, plunging his fingers deep into you, relentlessly pulling whimpers out of you.

"enough — fuck." you claw at his back, slick with sweat sticking to your cheeks. "just do it already." clark's still diligently stretching you out, marvelling at how your pussy accommodates his digits.

"okay, okay…"

you feel the loss of him all at once and with a flutter, his thighs pushes yours further apart where they were hoisted beneath your thighs. clark angles his thick tip at your entrance. "take a deep breath for me" he whispers, easing himself into you while thumbing at your clit. the reaction was immediate, you squeeze around him, hips already attempting to squirm away.

clark holds you down, feeding you his cock inch by inch and all you can do is brace yourself. "you feel — so.." he groans out, lips pressed at the corner of your parted ones. you're letting out choked, heavy breaths into his mouth, rendered mute, "so soft, a-and wet." you're teary, blinking through the blur that prickle the corner of your eyes. he feels your it wet his cheek, and he pulls back, like he'd been burnt.

"sorry, i'm sorry." his hip still. and somehow, the sting grows even more painful when he isn't moving. "are you okay? should i stop?"

your nails dig into clark's arms, dragging them down his bicep, leaving angry red marks behind. he doesn't expect it, when you grab around his neck, flipping him beneath you. you steady yourself on his chest and fully sheath yourself. the two of you groaning out in unison.

"fuck. oh fuck." clark gasps when your hips lift, and snap back down. he grabs around your thighs, stabilising you as you bounce on his cock.

"god, oh my god, it's like, you're in my…throat.." you're whimpering into his mouth, body falling limp after your brave showing of just having him fully in you. clark holds you up your jaw, drowning your moans in his mouth. his other hand slides down your ass, parting them with a finger, hold firmly around the fat. he takes takes charge to thrust up into you, deep.

"mm—ff..i-i know. it's a lot." he's blabbering in your lips, securing his hold, feeling your tight hole clenching when fingers spanning enough to graze past it, the tip of his finger rubbing where his cock meets your pussy.

it's too much, and clark knows. "y..ou're doing so g-good."

your breath stutters in his mouth, drooling into him helplessly. fuelled by the praise he gives. "so goddamn good." your cheeks presses onto his, panting when the white hot flashes take you to what's now your fourth orgasm.

it comes with no warning. he jolts once, heaving, thick spurts of his cum shooting deep into you. never-ending, seemingly. clark turns you over in a fluid motion, cock still pulsing into you with deep spurts. he presses his hand flat onto your abdomen, where the outline of him pokes at your belly.

he's in awe, fully in the depths of a newfound pleasure. a heavy palm swiping the sweaty strands of your cheeks.

clark readjusts his hold on you, a finger tearing your blouse fully apart. you jolt when the buttons clatter to the ground. you gasp out when he presses deeper into you. his palm cradling your jaw.

"wait...what are you…—" he tuts, pressing a kiss on your parted lips.

"i haven't even begun fuckin' you yet."

[ethansluv]

‘bandaids.’ bob reynolds.

summary: bob reeeeeeeaaaaaalllllyyyyy likes your new suit.

pairing: bob reynolds x thunderbolts!reader

insp by: @opheliabbarnes perv bucky. i also JUST watched a bob edit with the song ayo technology by 50 cent and wow… boner city

word count: 3.3k

cw: very suggestive themes, bob is super pervy and super dirty minded, reader has a semi skin-tight suit, mentions of erections, mentions of public sex, mentions of wanting to die, mentions of sex, mentions of masturbation, mentions of just lots of stuff.

a/n: this is my first ever slightly saucy fic guys… be kind to me world… thank you opi for proofreading love you my day one

minors dni 😠

"hey, do you have a band-aid? ava mentioned you have a stash— oh."

bob's hand freezes on your door handle. his sentence dies in his throat, like he had hit a wall mid-sentence— the wall being you, halfway into your suit, bare back turned, zipper still undone. your arms are stuffed halfway into the sleeves, suggesting that you've been struggling with it for a while now.

you're not exactly naked, but there's a considerable amount of skin on display for bob to see— shoulder blades, spine, the soft curve of your lower back— stretching all the way down to where the suit is bunched and clinging desperately to your hips, caught on a zipper that refuses to budge.

"oh hey." you smile as you greet him, watching him in the reflection of your mirror, "great timing. can you zip me up?"

bob pauses in the doorway. he wasn't expecting you to welcome him in. he wasnt expecting you to be smiling at him as if he had walked in on a normal day— like your back wasn't half-bare and your suit wasn't clinging to you in all of the right places.

but he's not complaining. not even a little. there's a small part of him that feels like he should be ashamed of entering your room without knocking, but when has it ever failed him? it was only last week when he had come knocking to ask if you had seen his missing sock and walked in on you pulling on a pair of tight jeans.

they had no business being that tight, and you had no business squeezing into jeans a size smaller than you really needed.

you had just looked up at him and raised an eyebrow, and all he could do was nod and stammer as he backed out of your room. sock be damned. he had thought about it for three days straight, and then every so often when he closes his eyes.

but this? he would never forget this. this was jerk-off material.

"yeah." he licks his lip. his voice is calm— casual— but he can't hide how his eyes trail down the length of your legs, "yeah, i can do that."

he steps further inside your room, making sure to let the door click softly behind him. he tells himself it's because you wouldn't want anyone else to see you like this, but he knows it's because he doesnt want anyone else to see you like this— not when you look so guarded, so unbothered, like it means nothing to you when it's tearing him apart in real time.

you turn slightly as you pull your hair back for him, and bob swears he could combust right then and there. the sunlight streaming in from your window hits your back with the utmost precision, highlighting every line and every dip of your skin that the suit doesn't cover.

his fingers twitch at his side. he's not even touching you yet and his mouth has gone dry— completely, humiliatingly bone dry. tongue stuck against the roof of his mouth, breath immensely shallow, and his heart pounding in that pathetic traitorous way it always does around you.

"you're not..." he blinks, faltering for a moment as his eyes catch the curve of your back. his voice drops, barely audible, "wearing anything under it?"

"under what?” you raise a brow at him, “my suit?"

bob hums. it’s quiet, like he regrets it but can’t bring himself to take it back. what the hell possessed him to ask that.

and you laugh. "i'm wearing underwear." you answer like it’s just an innocent and genuine question— like bob isnt imaging your boobs pressing flush against your suit, or that he isn’t hoping you get a little cold and your nipples peek against the fabric.

you're so close that he can smell you. warm skin, the faint sweat that sits idly on your neck, and the subtle smell of something that lingers in your clothes.

and then bob reaches out. his finger tips graze the zipper where it rests against your lower back, and for a second, he just... pauses. not because he doesn't know how to do it, but because the the contact alone is enough to completely unravel him. you're so warm.

he starts to pull the zipper up. as his knuckles drag against your skin, he watches as goosebumps trail up your spine.

"your hands are cold." you laugh, light and easy, like you don't care. like you don't feel how low he reaches down your back.

he wants to die. right there. on the spot. just collapse and never get up so he doesn't have to deal with the awful humiliation of how bad he's holding himself together. you dont say anything, just raise a brow like you know, and that's somehow worse.

"sorry." he mumbles, "it's, uh— a little cold in here."

it's a dirty white lie. the room is fine. he's the problem.

bob's fingers fiddles with the zipper, pulling it up. he tries to ignore the way the suit tightens around your body, like it was tailored specifically to ruin him. every inch he closes seems to draw the fabric tighter, wrapping around you like a second skin.

the suit shrinks around the curve of your ass and the dip of your hip, and all he can do is watch shamelessly in the mirror as you slide your arms in, the fabric slotting perfectly under the swell of your breasts, sculpted around them in a way that should be illegal.

"who's hurt?" you quietly ask as you smooth the sleeves of your suit, taking a look at yourself in the mirror.

“oh, uh…” bob finishes the zipper with a satisfying click. he lets his hands fall to the front of his lap, interlocked to hide the growing bulge in his pants, "mel."

"she's still here?"

bob hums, "val wants to see the suits. she put her hand on the counter where alexei dropped a glass earlier. yelena got all the glass out of her hand... but.." he licks his lips, "she's still bleeding pretty bad.”

your lips curl into a smile and you look up at him as you strap your utility belt on, and oh god, bob wants to die, "is that what that noise was?"

bob hums, but his mind is far away. he wishes you wouldn’t look at him like that. like you aren’t even surprised that it was him that showed up at your door. like you knew he’d come with a flimsy excuse like val and a cut that isn’t even his.

you just look so good, and not even because your suit is skin tight. don't get him wrong— being skin tight definitely helps, but there's another reason why he's hiding his lower half behind his hands. its because you look strong. bob almost wants to ask you to throw him onto your bed just to see if you can.

he watches as you walk over to your closet and reach up to the highest shelf— your suit straining against your waist and ass— and pull out a small tin of band aids. bob watches you unscrew it, your gloved hands moving easily over the can.

"you um... you have so many." he swallows, eyes flicking from your hands to your face.

"yeah.” you let out a breathy laugh as you pull two out, “turns out you don't really need them when you live with assassins who don't even cry when they get stabbed."

you hand them to him and he takes them without a word. his fingers brush against yours— not even for a second— and it short-circuits something in his chest.

you dont walk back to your closet and reach for the highest shelf like he wants you to. you dont stretch on your toes and give bob the agonising view of your suit riding up your back and give him an excuse for staring like an idiot.

instead, you place the tin on your desk— simple, casual, and thoughtless. and somehow its worse, because now bob knows you’re not doing it on purpose. youre not stuck in the same tormenting spiral like he is, and you’re certainly not hot for him like he is for you.

and then he watches you walk to the door, too enamoured— hypnotised, really— by the way the fabric of your suit clings to your thighs, how every step you take stretches it just right, tight and smooth and totally unfair.

he doesn’t even realise you’re leaving under your hand shifts on the door knob, pulling the door open. you turn back to him— real slow— and smile at him like you hadn’t just rearranged every single thought in his brain.

“you coming or what?” you ask as you hold the door open.

and god help him, he doesn’t even think. he just surges forwards towards you like you’ve got a leash around his neck and all you have to do is tug.

you and bob walk into the living room. it’s already chaos— the team standing around in front of valentina like they’re being strip-searched, and mel standing off to the side typing down all of valentina’s complaints into her ipad.

“i mean, if i wanted someone to look like they’d just crawled out of an arsenal, i’d have asked alexei.” valentina drawls as she circles yelena like a hawk, eyeing the bits and bobs on her suit, “this doesn’t scream hero. it screams… assassin.”

yelena doesnt even blink, “that’s because i am one.”

then valentina sees you and bob walk in. her eyes drag over you first— dissecting your suit choice with critical eyes— and then she cocks her head at bob, who’s holding mel’s bandaids.

“ah, there you are.” valentina pivots mid monologue, her heels clicking against the linoleum as she beelines towards you two. she makes a grabbing motion for bob, who holds the bandaids out, and she takes them. “there’s your bandaids, mel.”

mel scuttles forwards with a small smile and takes them with a small ‘thank you’. valentina barely acknowledges it and turns back to you.

"it's a bit... skimpy... don't you think?" she says, lips turning like she’s being generous with her wording, “i did give you two options, didnt i?”

bob wants to disagree. he wants to say no, the suit fits perfectly— or maybe something worse, something honest— like it almost fits too well, and that you look so good that he hasn’t looked away from you ever since he stepped foot in your room. but he doesn’t.

you dont miss a beat— "i'm a stealth specialist, valentina. did you expect me to choose the one that sounded like maracas every time i walked?"

bob lets out a small sigh of relief at your words. he likes your suit just the way it is. he really likes your suit. more than he should. its actually kind of a problem.

valentina doesnt try to argue with you. instead, she just exhales sharply through her nose and waves you off like youre an annoying fly in her orbit. “whatever. natasha romanoff wore something similar and look how popular she was— and bonus, you’re the only one who doesn’t look like a linebacker!”

yelena, from across the room, scoffs under her breath.

valentina ignores her. “oh, and don’t get it all destroyed or anything. your suit isn’t cheap and i dont want to have to buy you spares if i don’t need to.”

“i’ll try not to.” you give her a half-assed smile and turn on your heel, already walking towards the elevator, “wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

valentina’s voice follows you, “where are you going?”

“to test out the new suit.” you call over your shoulder as the elevator doors slide open for you, “gotta make sure it holds up before i go out and destroy it.”

valentina opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, but surprisingly— for the first time in her life— she has nothing to say.

you step inside and give your team a smile, but catch bob rooted into the ground like he’s deciding whether or not he’s allowed to follow. you press a hand against the doors to stop them from closing.

“you wanna join me, bob?”

bob doesn’t answer. he just moves— fast and clumsy, almost tripping over his own foot in his rush to get to you. when he slips into the elevator next to you, you pretend not to notice that he’s smiling like a complete idiot.

“honestly? its not that bad. a little tight on the thighs, but i’m not exactly complaining.”

bob hums in agreement.

“apparently it’s bullet resistant, heat-resistant, stab-resistant… basically every-resistant you can think of. that’s probably why val said it wasn’t cheap.”

bob nods.

“i mean, she called it skimpy, but if you think about it, it’s way more tactical. less fabric equals less drag. it’s simple physics, bob.”

you're talking to him— about how the suit can fit accessories and weapons if needed, and how it feels sleeker and way lighter than your old suit— but bob isn't listening.

bob is good at fake listening. it's a bad habit that’s become a skill. he knows how to nod at all of the right times, and sometimes even bothers to give a half-asses reply if he knows you're not paying close enough attention.

he hears you— he thinks he does— but the words just mesh together into a big pile of alphabet soup. all he can focus on is the curve of your mouth, the shine of sweat on your temple, and god, the way your suit clings to you every time you move.

right now, he's more preoccupied on how your suit stretches thin against the curve of your ass rather than the bullseye you just hit with your dagger. he's chewing on his thumbnail as a vice, barely resisting the urge to just reach out and pull you in by your thighs. his spot on the floor helps hide the bulge in his pants, and his arm is stuffed under his shirt, pinching the skin on his stomach to at least try to hold back.

it’s even harder when you’re showing him these awesome new parts of the suit and dragging your hands against your body like it isn’t driving him absolutely insane. he really would be interested and pay attention if you didn’t look look like that.

he swears he could drop to him knees right now and worship the ground you walk on. kiss the space between your shoulder blades. say something stupid and reckless that destroys all the respect you have for him. he would grab you and crazy passionate love to you right in front of everyone if you had asked him to.

“you’re staring.”

bob blinks— caught. you’re looking down at him like youre about to discover every thought he’s been thinking for the past hour, and his stomach drops. his mouth opens and then shuts again.

“i was just trying to…” he scratches the back of his neck, nodding like he knows what he’s talking about, “y’know… focus. on your form.”

you raise a brow, “my form?”

“yeah.” he nods, “it’s really, uh… efficient.”

you’re so close that he can feel the heat radiating off of your skin, and if it was even possible, he feels his dick strain even harder against his pants. he has to bite his lip to keep himself from making a sound.

“okay.” you shrug.

bob’s not really giving you much to work with, but he’s good company. instead, you turn around and point at a strap across your back. it’s twisted and digging into your skin, and no amount of reaching behind you is fixing it. “you mind helping with this harness? i can’t reach it.”

bob doesnt want to get up. not because he doesn’t want to help— he wants nothing more than to help you— but because his entire body has betrayed him. he’s been sitting on the floor the entire hour acting like he’s simply keeping you innocent company— but there’s nothing innocent about the building, burning tension pressing against his pants.

he didn’t know what he expected. if anything, he had done this to himself. you’ve been moving around the training room in that damn suit, stretching and working out and talking to him while he sits there and ogles you. he could’ve solved this hours ago with a quick bathroom fix, but no, bob had to be selfish and have you all to himself by sticking himself to you like glue.

and now you’re asking him to come and touch you?

bob thinks he might be cursed. or he’s being tested. or both.

he gets up. he hopes— prays— that you dont suddenly turn around and look at him, because then you’d see it— all of it. by the time he’s behind you, he feels rabid. he’s almost afraid he might drool on you.

“it’s digging in kind of weird.” you tell him as you pull your hair out of the way, “just needs to be untwisted.”

his finger slips under the strap, sliding down against your back and grazing against your spine. you know he’s just trying to untangle it, but you don’t expect him to be breathing down your neck.

“this one?” he murmurs, dazed out of his fucking mind.

“mm-hm..” you don’t flinch or move. if anything, you lean into his touch.

you don’t mean to, and neither does he— but somewhere between his hands brushing against your harness and your shoulder dipping to give him more access, you both start to lean into each other— just slightly, just enough— and the space between you disappears like it was never there to begin with.

and then you shift. just a little. just enough to feel it. the press of something firm against the small of your back. its barely a second, but it feels like years for bob. the press of your back against his cock wrings out a small whimper from his mouth.

he wants to die.

he freezes behind you. his hands are still working clumsily at the twisted strap, and suddenly every ounce of his blood is either pooling in his cheeks or rising to the tip of his dick.

did you notice? did you hear him? you must’ve. there’s no way you didn’t hear his pathetic whimper. it was right there—

his finger slips from your back and he steps away. you start to turn around, and he’s convinced this is it. he expects you to look at him with disgust, or tell him that you think he’s a gross pervert and that you never want to see him again. he wouldn’t blame you.

but no— you’re smiling at him like he’s just done you the biggest favour. like you hadn’t just accidentally bumped into the biggest and most humiliating problem that was currently ruining his entire life.

“thanks, bobby.” you beam like you hadn’t just reset all of the chemistry in his bloodstream, “you mind getting me some water? i’m exhausted.”

bob swallows so hard that it hurts, “yeah. no—no problem.”

he turns, and practically scampers away like a disgraced rat— head down, footsteps clumsy, still trying to hide the absolute mess he’s become underneath your presence— and then he hears you.

“hey bob?” you call.

he freezes and turns. his eyes are so wide and guilty, and his hands fumble with the front of his sweater like it’ll shield him from the absolute humiliation bleeding through his entire body.

“you might wanna…” you tilt your head, your lip tucked between your teeth like you’re resisting the urge to laugh, “sort that out before anyone else sees.”

bob stops.

oh. my. god.

[ethansluv]

𝗱𝗶𝗳𝗳𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗸𝗶𝘀𝘀

You realise nobody’s ever gone down on Clark before and aim to change that. (Or, Clark gets spoiled.) fem, 3k

established relationship, oral sex, messy gentle blowjob, a helping hand, mildly inexperienced clark. requested here

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

Clark strokes the back of your neck gently. He has nice fingers. He’s tall, so his arms are long and his hands are wide, but they’re pretty, too, with trimmed cuticles and light hairs at the knuckles. You squint with an eye smushed close in his chest, daytime TV the only discernible sound beyond Clark’s breathing. You time your inhales to his, then your exhales. Clark probably hears it, but he doesn’t say anything. His touching grows softer still. 

You shift in his hold some and wrap an arm around his waist. Under your arm, you can feel the bite of his denim jeans. They’re a good fit. They… accentuate things. 

You try to pay attention. Clark put the cooking channel on because he knows that’s what you like. He is earnestly sweet, and likely heartily bored. 

You let your hand fall to his thigh. His skin is warm even through the denim, heat seeping through your hand and his thigh, back and forth.

If your face were to fall a little further down, if his hand slipped higher, guiding your head…

You slide your hand up to his hip and feel at it accordingly. “Clark?” you ask, voice croaky with disuse. 

“Mm?” 

“Can I ask you somethin’?” 

“Sure, baby. Ask me something.” 

You could fall asleep like this if heat weren’t stirring in your stomach at even the idea. Clark calling you ‘baby’ with his Friday-night-tired voice doesn’t hurt the fantasy. Your knees hot against the hardwood, braced, Clark’s stuttering pleasure.  

He must find a tell in your expression, going quiet and smiley. “What?” he asks. 

“You don’t have to answer.” 

“I doubt I’ll mind. I’d tell you anything.” 

You let your thumb stray toward the inside of his thigh. Feel the muscles there twitching. “I know I’m not your first girlfriend, but you told me you aren’t… totally experienced.”

“Right. What, do you want to know what I meant?” he asks. 

You know Clark’s fucked girls. Has gone down on girls, just not many. Clark has fucked and gone down on you, and he did it beautifully, but he’s never let you blow him: you’ve never asked. And it isn’t because you don’t want to, only, Clark seems to have a want to do things in his order and you’d been happy to follow his lead this whole time. 

“Has anyone ever gone down on you?” you ask quietly. 

Clark goes slightly stiff, despite best intentions. “No,” he answers, scratching at the nape of your neck. “No one’s ever gone down on me.” 

“You don’t want to try?” 

“No one’s ever offered, and I guess I’ve never wanted to ask.”

“How come?” you ask, to gauge where he is with it. 

“It’s different, to ask. Girls– women are expected to do certain things, but I’ve never expected anything of you. I still don’t. I figure if you want to, you’ll ask me, and if you don’t want to, it’ll never hurt anyone that you don’t.” 

He’s so, so sweet. The thought of him being too shy or too unwilling to be that guy makes you want to do it more. There is an expectation in contemporary culture, but it doesn’t mean the act itself between you and Clark has to have that connotation. 

“Can I blow you?” 

Clark huffs a quiet laugh. “You don’t have to, honey.” 

“Please?” 

Clark can’t hide the heat of his skin under your hands, but he’s putting up a convincing front otherwise. His hair has fallen into his eyes again, sweet knocked curls kissing a pale forehead. “I don’t wanna hurt you,” he says.

“It doesn’t have to hurt anyone,” you say. You’ve both fallen into the quiet voices you use before you fuck, and he’s wearing an expression you’d find mirrored if you could see your own face, like he’s waiting for the next move, and then the next. “Okay? It’s not rough. Not unless you want it that way.” 

“Uh– I–” And while you’d like to say there’s something in him turned on at the notion, you genuinely believe that Clark Kent is astonished at the idea of hurting you on purpose. 

“You can tell me exactly what to do, or I could,” —you let your hand rest at his belt buckle— “do what I think you’d like. I can make you feel good, Clark.” 

Clark’s eyes fill with knowing. You’re seducing him and he’s being pulled in, but going willingly doesn’t mean he’s unaware. “Is that what you want? You wanna make me feel good?” he asks, teasing and testing. 

“Will you return the favour?” 

“I can lay you out right here,” he promises simply. Which is why getting on your knees in front of him is easy work. The eagerness on his face turns to worry, “Hey, you don’t have to kneel down there, we can move.” 

“It’s easier like this. Can see everything.” 

“Oh.” His mouth tightens.

“Not so easy, being seen up close,” you murmur. “But I know you’re pretty, Clark.” 

He’s hardening in his jeans. You readjust your position and use your weight to spread his thighs some, which helps to send a little more blood to his cock. You watch the fabric tighten a touch, watch Clark’s cheek dimple as he bites the inside of his mouth. 

“You okay?” you ask. 

“Hey,” he says, taking your elbows into his hands, “I’m fine, just trying to act like a gentleman.” 

Straightforward when he isn’t telling the flimsiest lies ever. You rally at his eagerness, holding his arms in tandem, fingers spread over curved biceps. 

“You really are something,” you mumble, letting your fingers trail down his arms. 

“Should I– can I take my belt off?” 

“Yeah, honey, open it up. Or I can?” 

He nods tightly. 

You slip the leather of his belt from the buckle, heat pooling in your abdomen at the clink it makes, and the quiet shush as you free it from a belt loop on either side. Your fingers are steady as you unbutton him, as you take the zipper between your fingers and pull it down. His legs widen to let you in, and you slide into the space as well as you can. His thighs are muscled, solid around you, squeezing you gently as you push his shirt up his stomach. 

“Lay back a li’l,” you murmur. 

Clark lays back. 

The erotica of his open jeans and his trimmed, dark tummy hair makes your eyes warm. Standing, you could rap your knuckles against his waist and hear it like stone, but there’s a new softness to his stomach when he slouches. 

You work your hand up to his bulge. 

“Are we done?” Clark asks, tipping his head back with a groan. There’s redness climbing his neck. “Fuck, let’s– let me take you to bed.” 

He’s mostly kidding. Careful, you slip your hand up his cock and back down again, marvelling the rigidity of it already, saliva pooling right behind your teeth. “Can I move these outta the way?” 

“Honey, don’t,” he says. Which means Honey, don’t tease.

“Baby,” you say, he’d felt it coming, but he still drags his head up to stare at you like you’re a dream, “do you want this?”

“Yes,” he says. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

He’s not so pale in the face now. “Yeah,” he says, “please.” 

You take the length of his cock into a tentative hand and lean downwards. Clark makes a noise before you’ve so much as breathed on it, the red head of his cock dry but so full of blood it looks bruised as your fingers close at the shaft. You look up at him, and you feel his weight in your hand, angling yourself down to touch his cock to your cheek. Then you turn your face to brush it over your lips, and any cool Clark held swiftly dissipates. 

It’s slow to begin with, just kissing a mouthing at the length of his cock, feeling it twitch on your tongue, the heat of his blood in your palm as you drag it up and down. With enough kissing the skin is slick, and stripping it makes a sound that’s almost as lewd as his shudder when you take the head against your tongue for the first time. He smells so fucking good, he smells clean, and he smells like his skin and that sweat scent before it has time to sour, like he’s overheating under your hands, and he smells like precum as it begins to dribble from his slit. You press your nose to his cock, drinking up the gasp he makes, his thighs tensing under your touch. And it’s perfect, but he needs to relax.

“Baby, take your pants off,” you say, drawing back from his cock, spit wet on your bottom lip. 

“What?” 

“I can’t kiss all of you–”

“I don’t think–”

“Clark, I’m not going to break your trust, baby,” you say, giggling lightly, not gonna kiss anywhere he doesn’t what, “just– just get undressed. I can– I can be naked, too.” 

He’s better convinced. Clark shimmies his jeans off, then his shirt when you laugh. You strip out of your shirt and reach back for your bra, but Clark clasps your wrist and insists that the jeans be the first thing to go. 

“Idiot,” you murmur without heat, standing off your achy knees to unbutton your jeans. You roll them down your hips. 

Clark’s once over isn’t half as salacious as it could be. “Beautiful,” he says. 

“Thank you. You like the set?” you ask, turning to the side to show him your blue underwear. The panties have see-through lace squares at the sides and the bra’s slightly too tight at the band, but his gaze doesn’t linger anyplace. He finds your face. 

His eyes flicker to your panties and then back again. “Beautiful,” he says again. “Come and sit up here with me, sweet girl. Can’t do that to your knees anymore.” 

“It’s easier–”

“I can move, but you can’t sit down there anymore.” 

You love when Clark uses his voice like that. It’s like it’s not him anymore. It’s not, totally. Threads of his other half wrap you up, have you crawling onto the couch next to him to set yourself down across his thighs, left arm and shoulder leaning on his legs, right arm guiding the head of his cock back into your mouth. 

“Guide my head,” you murmur around him. 

He gives his sharpest pant yet. “What?”

You grab his hand and press it to your neck. “Move me onto it.” 

“I don’t want to choke you.” 

“Then be gentle,” you advise softly. “I won’t let you choke me, babe, I just need help finding a rhythm.” 

For some reason, that’s what gets him most. Clark dissolves back into the cushions with his hand grasping your neck, guiding your head as you take his cock into your mouth. It’s all hot and humid and his crotch is quickly wetted, spit under your nose and on your chin, eyes misty as he brushes the back of your mouth with his cock. You refuse to choke and scare him off, so whenever he guides you down too close, you pull away. 

You hold the swell of him rather sweetly, rubbing a thumb over them each time you pull off his cock. He’s eager to fuck against your warm tongue, just a little too much, and you’re staring up at him with your mouth full and your nose wet when his eyes go silver. 

“That’s perfect,” he says, his pelvis flexing, “just like that– just– you’re perfect, I swear–”

“Love you,” you say, sniffing the heat that’s gathered in your nose away gently. 

“I love you.” He grabs your cheek in his hand. “I love you more, honey, you look insane like this, I didn’t realise…” 

“This is why people like it so much.” 

He adores the hint of shyness he hears in your voice, you can see it in his smile. You can almost see his teeth. But behind his smile there’s a need there, something anxious, so you lean your face against his hip and begin pumping his cock in a slick hand. “Let me make you cum,” you say softly. 

Clark doesn’t answer. He gives you this besotted leap-of-faith kiss pressed to top of your head and nudges your mouth back toward his cock. “Kiss, please,” he begs. 

You press tens of little kisses into his cock, letting precum bead up and drip onto the tip of your tongue. 

“Clark,” you say, licking the salt from your lips as his breath starts to stagger, “you can cum, honey, do you want to? You can cum in my mouth.” 

He shakes his head vehemently and covers your hand where it’d been pumping his cock. For a second, things are stopped, but then he drops his head back against the cushions and uses your hand under his to jerk his full length, sticky heat pressed into each finger, the pressure of each strip like a lick until he’s suddenly over the edge. He brings your hand up and tugs at the tip of his cock, cum dripping down your knuckles in fat rivulets. 

You give an experimental pull.

“Fucking–” He moans your name like an afterthought. “Ah, baby, baby–”

“Sorry,” you say. 

Clark catches his breath for so long you worry you’ve permanently maimed him. He’s still holding your sticky hand to his cock, letting it drip down his front and his hip the longer he leaves it alone, but who are you to judge? You force him to free your hand in search of a discarded t-shirt. 

When you’ve managed to clean off your hands and Clark’s abdomen, he lifts his head from the couch to deliver a suspicious glare. “What the hell, babe?” 

You startle. “What?” 

“How’m I ever supposed to get off by myself now? I think you just ruined me forever.” 

“I’m sure you’ll be okay. Idiot.” 

He wipes his hands again and before he takes your face into both hands. “Kiss, okay?” he asks, pulling you forward. 

“Mm,” you affirm against his lips. A kiss is sorely needed. 

It’s an unashamed kiss that spans a half-second too long, like he’s forgotten you need to breathe to survive, but he says sorry with a chaste peck pressed to the very corner of your eye and one of his great groaning sighs as he gets an arm around you and manhandles you into his lap. 

“Watch your dick, baby,” you mumble, ready for the quiet, dizzy afterparty that comes whenever you both fuck. 

Clark just laughs under his breath. “It’ll be fine. Now let me see these,” he says, tipping you back enough to bring his free hand to your thighs. His thumb brushes the bump of your cunt. “I don’t think you can take these off. That’s, like, not even federal at that point. It’s international.” 

“Crime to undress me?” you ask, not bothering to click into the conversation fully. Clark’s barely any better, all mumbly and sluggish as he brushes a hair off of your cheek.

“Mm, no, I don’t think so. That wouldn’t bode well for me, would it, beautiful?” 

You wrap your arms around his neck to nuzzle under his jaw. 

And Clark? He lets his head fall back again, sighing with the same dizzying pleasure he’d shown with his cock pressed to the roof of your mouth, as though he finds your affection just as heavenly.

“I owe you a debt,” he says to the ceiling. 

You kiss his Adam’s apple, unhurried. As far as you’re concerned, he’s paid it forward greatly, 

˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚

[ethansluv]

clark hears it—he does. that sharp, elastic snap that cuts clean through the haze of heat and slick skin. he hears it the way he hears everything. crystal-clear, too in tune with the world around him for his own good. he knows what it means, too—knows exactly what just happened, what that sound was.

but still, he doesn’t stop. doesn’t even flinch. because clark kent is so insanely needy

instead, he shifts just slightly, dragging you further down the bed, arms bracketing your head as he drives himself back into your soaked, clenching cunt with a sound you’ve never heard from him before—something sticky-throated and low, a groan cut with the telltale rasp of desperation. “fuck—baby,” he gasps, and you don’t even realize what just happened, too full, too caught up in the burn of his cock dragging against your walls and the way your own arousal’s soaked all over your thighs and his pelvis. “g-god, you’re—so fucking wet. it’s—s’too much…” his voice shakes. he’s drooling, literally, a thin thread slipping down from the corner of his lips onto the pillow beside your cheek as he leans closer—his brows all drawn together, those sweet blue eyes foggy with effort.

he’s still going. like the condom didn’t just give out halfway through. like you’re not both sticky with the combination of your slick and his precum now steadily pulsing against your overstretched insides. you moan, back arching instinctively, and his hips stutter “feels s’good—feels too good—baby, i can’t—” you’re whining now, the words slipping from your mouth on instinct, barely even thinking. “clark—clark, f-fuck, it’s—i feel everything. you’re too—” you can’t even finish the sentence. he shudders above you, and you feel his cock twitch deep inside, sticky and hot and bare, so bare it’s sinful—like nothing between you two at all. he’s grinding now. not thrusting, not fucking—grinding, hips rolling deeper and deeper, trying to find that perfect spot that has your walls fluttering, that makes your toes curl and your mouth fall open in a gasp of his name. you whimper when his mouth lands on yours. he’s sloppy with it, tongue pushing between your lips in a kiss that tastes like sweat and sex and need. his hips keep moving, slower now, but firmer—more intentional.

he swallows again. there’s more drool trailing down his chin now, eyes glassy, pupils blown wide. he looks like a man half-drunk on your cunt and his own need. and when he cums inside you—bare, heavy, and endless—it’s with a strangled cry of your name, head buried in your neck, and his whole body trembling from restraint gone completely to hell.

you don’t even realize you’re crying until he’s kissing the tears off your cheeks, cock still deep inside, twitching with aftershocks. you’re both panting. slick. ruined. and full.

he doesn’t pull out. not yet.

instead, he just hums—low, almost reverent—like he’s proud. like he just made something sacred. “you’re gonna take all of it, right?” he asks, his voice breathy and so, sooo soft. “gonna keep it in for me, baby?”

[ethansluv]

gold - bob reynolds

summary: you don't realize you're not fucking bob anymore.

cw: ummm smut. p in v. this is more praise than anything. size kink obv!! umm slam-fucking. cocky bob since he's literally sentry in this. bob/sentry is recording. (dunno if this makes sense but yolo🤞) minors dni

a/n: for @54nboo pls send me more bob edits. also this really isn't that long, i feel like it could be a drabble BUTTT whatevs AND it's based off this song. sort of.

not proofread so ignore my spelling/grammar mistakes LOL.

"that’s it, sweetheart," bob murmurs as he holds the phone steady. his other hand grips your hip hard, guiding you. you're convinced he doesn't even realize how hard he's truly gripping. "c’mon, show me how bad you want it."

you whine, trying to rock back onto him as his cock stretches you to the limit. the burn almost feels too much, like you're gonna split into two. "bob—"

"i know, i know," he coos, but there’s something tight in his voice and it shows you that the smirk on his face doesn't match his voice. his eyes flash gold, the only sign of how much this is getting to him. "you take me so fuckin’ good. made for taking cock, weren't you?"

you whimper, nails digging into his thighs as you try to move, but he’s too big, too thick, and you can barely manage it.

"what’s wrong?" he teases, tilting the phone to catch your expression as he rocks slightly. "thought you could handle me."

but then, for a second, his grip falters. his breath hitches. and when you whine again, his free hand caresses your ass. "shhh, i got you," he murmurs, in softer tone now, almost like he’s reassuring himself. "just—just like that, baby. you’re doin’ so good."

his eyes flicker gold again. he doesn’t let you see the way his throat works when you clench around him.

"fuck, you feel perfect, that’s it," he groans, fingers digging in as he guides your hips, forcing you to take him deeper. "fuck yourself back onto my cock—yes, just like that—"

you gasp, head falling forward to the bed, but he leans forwaed, catching your chin, forcing your gaze to the side where the phone is. "look, look at the fucking camera," he demands. "wanna see those pretty eyes when you come."

you squirm under hisbtouch, but he holds you firm. "fuck, you’re so tight—gonna ruin me, sweetheart—" his composure slips for just a second, his hips jerking up into you with a broken groan. "fuck, yes—fuck—"

then he’s pulling you down harder, his voice dropping to a whisper against your ear. "gonna make sure you remember who you belong to."

when you peer over your shoulder, his eyes burn gold.

[ethansluv]

mdni! thinking sentryagent x reader thoughts

warnings: mention of infertility, creampie, unprotected piv, breeding kink, fem!reader, mommy kink (as always with our girl bob)

john walker refuses to finish inside you, always. it doesn’t matter if you’re on birth control, have an iud, or even if you’re infertile. he won’t do it.

it’s not about not wanting children. not exactly. it's a deep, gnawing, and relentless fear. he already has a child. a son. and he knows, with a hollow kind of shame, that he’s failed him.

his ex-wife, olivia, still doesn’t trust him when it comes to parenting. he barely sees his son. he’s more of a ghost than a father.

so even if he could be better this time, be present, be whole, he can’t let it happen. he can’t create new life knowing how much he botched the first. to him, it wouldn’t be redemption. it would be betrayal.

bob reynolds, on the other hand, can’t help himself — he has to finish inside you. it’s compulsive, primal. he needs to be buried in you, tied to you, claimed by you in some twisted, desperate way that he doesn't even try to explain.

birth control or not, he doesn’t care. that part doesn’t register. it’s not about children; it never was.

like john, he wants nothing to do with fatherhood. the idea of passing on his father’s violence, his own broken wiring, terrifies him. he knows what kind of damage lives in his blood.

but none of that matters in the moment. what matters is you. full of him, leaking from him, marked by him. he needs to see it spill out, just to push it back in with his fingers, like he’s trying to make it permanent. like he’s trying to root himself inside you and never leave.

which is why john loves watching bob come inside you instead.

he’s seated beside you, one hand gently combing through your sweat-damp hair, the other lazily stroking his cock. while bob is on top of you, rutting into you with a desperate, primal need.

you’re looking up at john, eyes half-lidded, mouth parted, a thin trail of drool slipping from the corner of your lips. soft, mindless moans spill out of you. bob’s face is buried in your neck, breath hitching, fingers bruising your hips as he fucks you deeper, cock twitching inside.

“n-need t’come,” bob mumbles, lifting his head to look at John, voice unsteady, on the verge.

john’s hand slips from your hair and grips bob’s instead, firmly. “ask her, bobby.”

bob lets out a needy whine, so close, so undone. but he knows the rules. he has to be good. he wants to be good.

“please — fuck — please, momma,” he stammers, turning his eyes to you. “been s’good... lemme come. please.”

you nod, barely there. too fucked-out to speak. you’ve come three times already. you don’t need another. you just want to feel.

bob’s rhythm falters. his hips stutter, and then he’s coming, hard. his hands clamped on your waist as he spills inside you, filling you, shaking as he gasps through it. painting your walls like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

john, still beside you, mutters low praise meant for both of you, his voice thick with heat and approval. “doin' such a good job, baby... letting him come inside you like that.”, “good boy, bobby. gonna make her a real momma.” and “see that, sweetheart? gonna give you a swollen belly... full tits... all for him.”

bob barely hears it. he’s floating, dazed, hands still locked on your hips even as his grip starts to ease. he doesn’t move, doesn’t pull out, not even when he softens inside you. he just stays there, like leaving would undo something sacred.

only when john finally tells him, “c'mon, baby,” does bob obey, albeit slowly and reluctantly. he watches, mesmerised, as his cum slips out of you in a slow, heavy trail. it’s about to drip onto the mattress.

he doesn’t let it.

in a flash, two fingers slide back inside you, pushing it deep, fucking it back in with a kind of reverent desperation.

“gonna make you a real momma,” he murmurs, eyes locked on the mess he’s burying inside you, fingers still working it deeper, deeper.

john watches all of it with a crooked smirk, his eyes flicking from your overstimulated face — twitching, tightening — to bob’s unwavering hand. he doesn’t intervene. not yet. even when he should have stopped, bob doesn’t. he keeps going, caught in something too raw to name.

john finally reaches out, wraps his hand around bob’s wrist, and eases his fingers out of you slowly but firmly.

he knows you’re on birth control.

still... god, he hopes you don’t get pregnant.

[ethansluv]

mr. bedtime - CK. ── .✦

You're curled under the covers, screen glowing in your face, finger mid-scroll. Clark shifts beside you, already in his usual sleeping position: one arm tucked under his head, the other reaching for you blindly like a sleepy sea creature.

"Baby," he mumbles, voice low and warm from sleep. "Put the phone down."

"In a sec," you murmur. "Just one more thing."

“Mhm.” He doesn’t believe you. He never does.

Instead of arguing, he does what he always does — rolls over slowly and wraps himself around you like a human weighted blanket. Big chest pressed to your back. One leg thrown over yours. A soft kiss behind your ear.

“Five more minutes,” you promise.

Clark lets out the smallest dramatic sigh. “That’s what you said twelve scrolls ago.”

You snort. “Are you counting now?”

“Yes,” he says. “Because I’m being ignored. Neglected. Replaced by a tiny glowing rectangle.”

He nuzzles into your neck like a needy puppy. “I’m cold. And alone. And possibly dying.”

“You’re 6'4" and 200 pounds of cuddle,” you giggle, leaning into him.

“Exactly,” he says, smug now. “You’re lucky I haven’t suffocated you with affection yet.”

With that, he gently but firmly grabs your phone and sets it on the nightstand. The room dims immediately, leaving only the soft yellow hue of your bedside lamp.

“Hey!” you whine.

“No more blue light, sweetheart. It’s time for cuddles.”

And then he tucks you into him. Tight. Chin over your shoulder, arms around your belly, one hand petting slow, sleepy circles into your hip.

“See?” he whispers. “Way better than doomscrolling.”

You huff, but you’re already melting. The warmth of him, the rhythm of his breath, the safety of his arms — it’s your favorite place on Earth.

“You’re annoying,” you mumble, pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

“I’m Mr. Bedtime,” he corrects, smiling against your skin.

You roll your eyes. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

And before you can argue, he whispers:

“Sleep, baby. I’ve got you.”

You fall asleep five minutes later. Phone forgotten. Heart full. Clark already snoring softly into your hair like the big bedtime menace he is.

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

[ethansluv]

♡. ⤷ your weird heteroerotic friendship with dick grayson.

❤︎──── ❛❛you'd known dick since you two were just preteens and by the time you were twenty-something, the two of you had become inseparable in so many ways that made people around you very, very uncomfortable. your room was his room. your closet had his shirts and boxers. his dresser had your sleep shorts and panties. you'd see him naked constantly. scars and all. you'd stepped into his bathroom once while he was shaving, towel slung low on his hips. his abs were still slick from the hot shower. on the bathroom shelf, you noticed your sanitary pads, some of your favorite painkillers, and even products from the skincare routine you both shared.

you made a noise of disapproval and reached over to fix the way he was holding the razor.

"you're gonna nick yourself, pretty boy."

"then fix it, dove."

so you did. you reached up, cupped his jaw, and carefully guided the blade against his skin, the intimacy of it heavy in the steam-clouded mirror. he kept his eyes on you the entire time, those soft, pretty blues watching you with quiet trust.

"thanks. you always take care of me."

"of course i do," you whispered, brushing your thumb along his cheek. "you're fucking useless without me."

you said it with a teasing smile, like he hadn't been leading teams and saving lives since he was thirteen. he smiled anyway. but your closeness didn't stop at helping him shave. you'd eaten from the same fork, shared water bottles, gum, deodorant—even a toothbrush. you literally farted on him once when he tickled you too hard during a sparring session. you'd seen him throw up more times than you cared to.

and it gets weirder.

one time, during a particularly rough mission, you lost all your clothes. literally everything, including your underwear. so you borrowed his. every last piece. shirt, pants, even his boxers. you walked around the block wearing fabric that had been in direct contact with his dick and sweaty balls, and you didn't even blink. yikes, girl.

and when people asked what you were to each other, you'd both laugh. loud. like the question was fucking ridiculous. you were best friends. duh. but then he'd hand-feed you fries across the table while hanging out with your mutual friends. you'd adjust his waistband before going out and he wouldn't even flinch when your fingers brushed too low. he'd adjust the strap of your bra in public, and people would act like it was some kind of spectacle. for some reason.

one time, after a shower in the batcave locker room, you walked out drying your hair. dick was there too, getting dressed after some random training session. and he looked. really looked. right at your uncovered boobs. then, completely unfazed, he just went back to putting on his pants and belt.

"you know your left titty is bigger than the other, right?"

"it's not like your balls are very symmetrical either."

"touché."

[ethansluv]

Sex pollen - Clark Kent x reader

Word count: 3.2k

Description: When Clark gets poisoned with sex pollen, he tries everything in his power to stay away from you. Until he ends up crashing into your living room, and you have a god on his knees, with your name in his mouth and your body at his will.

Tags/warnings: smut, established relationship, clark is sorry, he gets freaky with his powers, consent kink, breaks you and worships you at the same time, begging, praising, hovering (yes hovering👀), so much dirty talk (he’s feral but sweet), overstimulation.

Note: Guess who watched superman today and got a new man to obsess about🙂‍↕️ honestly I don’t even know what took over me when I wrote this but all I can say is go ahead, live your best life and enjoy the sweet filth 🫶🏼

archive / masterlist

━━━━━━━━━━━ ⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆ ━━━━━━━━━━

You wake up with a loud crash coming from your living room. You jolt upright from your bed as you hear glass shatter, sprinting toward the noise. You curse as your body, only covered by Clark’s giant shirt, gets hit with the crisp midnight air as wind gushed through your apartment like a hurricane just passed by.

A figure stood where your glass door used to be, leaning weakly on what was left of the frame. You turned on the lamp next to you, illuminating your boyfriend’s stumbling body.

“Clark!?” you exclaim, confused by his abrupt arrival.

He doesn’t look up, just stands there against the frame, chest heaving, fists clenched. Like he is barely holding himself together.

Worry washes your features, something must be really wrong. You start making way over to him, but as soon as you take a step forward he puts a warning hand in front of him.

“Stop! Don’t move,” his deep voice comes out strangled, like he’s been screaming for hours. “Don’t come closer… please. Just–just stay there.”

He keeps his hand up to stop you, panting heavily as he swallowed to try to soothe his dry throat. He slowly looks up, and groans when he meets your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, dry lips parted, his breath ragged like he’s been flying across the globe. His usually perfect wavy hair is now flat, messy, sticking to his sweaty forehead.

“I didn’t want to come here,” he whines. “I–I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“What happened to you?” You ask from your spot, fighting the urge to run to his aid.

“I’ve been infected,” he chokes out, and your brows furrow more. “Some kind of … alien pollen. It hit me out there. I flew straight into it and fuck ... It’s messing with my head, my body, I…”

He suddenly turns away, pacing in small frantic circles on your balcony like he’s trying to shake something off. His hands tremble as he fights to not make eye contact, like just looking at you hurts.

“What do you need? D-do you have the antidote?” You ask, scared as hell. He never acts like this.

He just shakes his head first with a bitter laugh, only to nod frantically afterwards.

God, if only you knew.

“I tried to wait it out,” he groans, fists now in his hair. “I swear I did, my love, I locked myself away for hours … tried to fly as far as I could but I kept turning back because I could smell you.”

Your breath catches in your throat, somehow understanding what this was about.

“I can smell you, sweetheart. Even from across the city … I can hear you breathing … your heartbeat. I didn’t want to hurt you but right now I have you in front of me and I can see–dammit … I’m sorry–“

He stumbles backward like he’s ashamed of himself, like he can’t even look at you.

“You know can’t turn it off,” he whispers. “I never mean to look, I swear, but I can see you now. Everything.”

Of course you know what he means. You know he can see right past his giant shirt covering your body. And the guilt on his face is gutting. He looks like he’s trying to claw his own powers out of his skin.

“Clark… it’s okay. You don’t have to explain, ”you step forward, slowly, gently. “It’s not like we haven’t–“

“No you don’t get it!” He snaps, his voice booming through your walls so loud you were sure everyone on the block heard him. He instantly feels worse with the way you flinched to his volume. “S-sorry darling … you just don’t get it … you have no idea what it’s like to smell you and know how soft you are, how warm. My instincts are going crazy. I just need to be inside you … I need to touch you, mark you, fill you up until I can’t think straight,” he just rambles, eyes raking through your body.

You take a deep breath, his words making you clench your thighs together and he noticed. Of course you’ve had sex before. You know what he sounds like when he’s needy. But this? This is feral. You’ve never seen him like this.

But you’re willing to do anything to help him. Always.

“Clark… you don’t even have to ask,” you speak softly, your own eyes darkening with desire.

He shakes his head. You don’t even understand the amount of restraint he’s having right now.

“I do … I always do. Especially now. Because I’m not going to touch you like I should. I’m not going to make it about you. I’m going to use you. Because you’re the only one who can fix me … you are the antidote and I hate it. I hate that I can’t even think straight unless I’m inside you … I need you so bad, darling, I’m shaking–“ He cries, an actual tear comes out his desperate eyes.

You’re watching a god fall apart in front of you.

Because of you.

You finally cross the space left, and he doesn’t stop you this time. You grab his face between your hands, and kiss him without hesitation. His arms immediately cling to your frame, cold hands slipping under your shirt to roam every inch of your warm skin.

You moan into his lips, when you taste the salty tears on his face. His hands land on your ass, and he squeezes hard, bruising, making you squeal. He immediately pulls back, apologizing. Like he still can’t let himself go.

“I love you, I’m sorry–” he blurts out immediately, hands soothing the skin he pinched while he fought the urge to do it again, harder. “God I love you … and I would never hurt you. Never. I swore I’d never touch you like this. Unless you asked me to. Unless you wanted me to. So please … tell me you want this too. Say yes, or I’ll leave. I swear I will.”

He nods, frantically, like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.

“I’ll leave if you tell me to,” he breathes. “I’ll fly through a mountain. I’ll bury myself in the ocean. Just don’t say yes unless you want this. I’m barely holding on– if you say it, I won’t be able to stop.”

You want him. God you always want him.

The way he keeps asking makes you want him even more. Even if he’s not your Clark now. Even if he won’t take care of you like he always does. Even if you can’t breathe or move after. Because you love him too.

“I want it,” you whisper against his lips, nodding. “I want you. You need me? Use me. Take all you want … I can take it.”

It’s over.

The moment you say yes there’s no going back. He lunges forward, tightening his grip on you as he lifts you off the ground to fly you towards the wall, knocking the lamp when your back hit the wall, leaving you both in complete darkness. Only the moonlight left to shine over his hungry eyes.

His massive hand cradles the back of your head to protect it from the hit, while the other tears off your shirt like he needs your skin on his or he’ll die. Your panties don’t even last two seconds before they fly away too.

His lips hit yours. Tongue desperate, hands everywhere, so large, so shaky, everywhere at once. He groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst finally tasting water.

“Thank you,” he gasps between kisses. “Thank you sweetheart … I’m so sorry I can’t help you first … but I need you … I need to feel you inside, please just let me…”

He knows it hurts you when he doesn’t prepare you properly, when he doesn’t make you cum at least twice on his fingers before he fucks you …but he can’t right now. Not when he can smell how soaked you are already, not when he swears it’s dripping on the carpet.

“Do it,” you pant, hungry for him. “Clark just do it … please.”

He doubts only for a second, and then without thinking he rips the suit. Literally tears it at the waist, tugging it to get rid of it completely. He’ll care about that later.

Right now he is just muscle in front of you.

His painful cock springs up, and he presses himself to you with a wet slap, your back hitting the wall again. Your pussy throbs at how impossibly huge he is over your stomach.

You’ve had him before. You’ve barely made it. You still want him to rearrange your guts.

“Feel that?” he groans. “That’s what you do to me, that’s what’s been driving me insane all day, darling.”

He’s not even pretending anymore, his cock is throbbing, massive, already leaking. He aligns himself between your soaked folds, rutting the tip against your pussy a few times like he’s lost control of his body entirely. You moan at the friction. Every nerve ending screaming.

You know he’s gonna wreck you. You weren’t ready. But at the same time you’ve never been more ready.

He grabs your thigh and lifts it against the wall, before whispering against your lips. “I’m sorry…”

He pushes his hips forward, and when he finally slides home with a snap … raw, hard, you let out a strangled scream.

One long, broken sound, high pitched and helpless, because he stretches you brutally, all at once, bottoming out with a growl. An actual growl. Like he finally felt some type of relief since he got hit with the pollen.

You fight back a cry, lunging forward to bite his shoulder. He starts fucking you into the wall as he whispers ‘I love you’ ‘thank you’ ‘sorry’ like some sort of chant. Like it’s the only thing keeping him rooted to the version of him that is still careful with you when you have sex.

Your breath leaves you in a gasp, your bare back against the cold plaster, legs around his waist, and arms clinging to his biceps for dear life. All you can do is moan as you get adjusted to his unfairly thick cock slamming in and out of you.

“Just like that … you’re taking me so well,” he pants. “You can do it, sweetheart … you’re doing so good … fuck, you were made for this … made for me.”

His hands grip your thighs. He fucks you like he’s possessed, no rhythm, no thought into it, just deep, hard thrusts that hit something devastating every time, shaking the wall with every slam of his hips.

And the whole time, he keeps whimpering into your neck.

“I love you … I’m sorry … I love you …I’m gonna ruin you …I need it…”

You think you’re about to white out when the room starts moving, but you quickly realize what’s happening.

He’s lifting your bodies off the ground.

Still fucking you.

Going up as much as your ceiling allowed him too. He pins you high on the wall when his head touches the roof, like gravity doesn’t apply anymore. It never does, not to you, not to him.

So now you’re fucking hovering. Literally. Unable to do anything but take it.

And you feel him like never before. A complete moaning mess. Nails dragging down his back, mouth open in shock as you look down to the floor. Your whole body is a live wire, and he’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

His cock twitches inside you. He’s already close. Has been since he walked through that window. But he’s holding it, fighting it, because he needs to stay inside. Needs to keep taking. You can’t.

“Fuck Clark … I’m gonna–“

“Yes? do it … darling please, you’re doing so well. I’ve got you … cum all over this cock baby I got you.”

Your body breaks before you can breathe. Your first climax of the night hits hard, clenching down on him, while you pant into his chest. Your whole body goes limp and he feels it.

He fucks you through it. Rough thrusts with his hand stroking your back and the other wrapped under your thighs. He keeps thanking you as his cock splits you open over and over.

“I wanna give you everything,” he groans, voice cracking. “Fill you up, stuff you full of me … Can I? Please? Let me finish inside you …. let me have you–“

“Yes, yes, fill me up,” you blurt out, still seeing stars.

He slams in once more and chokes, hips locked, whole body shuddering as he comes with a moan so broken it feels like it came from his soul. He shakes as he fills you, mouth pressed to your neck.

He doesn’t pull out yet. He holds you there, trembling, pressed against the wall like he knows you’ll fall if he loosens his grip.

Even after the first wave passes, after the groans, the shaking, the desperate I love you’s, he holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this planet.

“…Are you okay?”

You just nod, breathless, a blissed out smile in your face. He smiles too. And then, slowly, he lowers you back down to the floor.

But he’s not soft for long. He doesn’t even give you a minute to recover. He can’t. The second round starts before the first one even finishes sinking in.

You’re still trembling in his arms, leaking down your thighs, whimpering his name into the crook of his neck. And he’s still inside you. Still painfully hard.

Still needing you.

“One more, please. Just–just one more,” he begs. “Let me have you again. Please, darling I need it.”

“Take it Clark, take all you need,” you nod, absolutely wrecked.

But what’s a few more rounds with your unearthly strong boyfriend?

He melts.

You usually go multiple rounds, but he’s softer, he gives you downtime, even brings you water in between orgasms. But right now he can’t believe the way he fucked you and you still let him have more. But he needs more. The pollen is fogging his brain.

He finally pulls out, just to set you down on the floor. The second your back hits the rug, he’s on top of you again. And god he’s heavy. Solid. He doesn’t even hold his weight like he usually does because all he’s thinking about is fucking you senseless.

He buries himself deep again, groaning, cursing under his breath. You close your eyes, nails digging the carpet, back arching when you feel him deeper from this angle. You pant small whines from the feeling.

“Shhh … don’t–“ he coos, he wants to be slow, but he can’t. His hips snap hard without even thinking. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart … so good for me… just need one more.”

You know it’s not just one more. And he fucking knows that too.

None of you cares.

“You’re so wet … so perfect” he groans, the filthy sound gushing loudly every time he thrusted. “I didn’t even give you time to come down … didn’t even let you breathe and you still take me so well”

He praises. Worships. He looks down to where your bodies meet, and he sees right through your skin. He can see his huge cock filling you with every thrust. He can see your walls clenching around him. And he looses it.

You’re suddenly running out of air when he presses his chest to yours, pining you tighter to the floor with his body as he pushes harder. And you feel all of him. The broadness of his chest against your ribs. The strain of his thighs bracketing yours. His cock still buried deep, rock hard.

You hit his bicep with your hand first, but he’s not paying attention, he’s too caught up on the way your pussy takes him to notice.

It’s not smooth. Not rhythmic. Just sharp, ragged thrusts that hit you so hard your body jerks on impact, tits bouncing, nails clawing at his back as he crushes you into the floor with every rut of his hips.

Your head starts spinning.

“Clark,” you choke out, hitting his bicep again. “I can’t–can’t breathe…”

His head finally snaps at you, eyes going wide. He lifts up a bit, but he doesn’t pull out, he just … can’t.

You finally gasp for air as he shushes you softly, tucking away the hair sticking to your sweaty forehead.

“I’m sorry … I can’t … can’t stop. I tried, I swear I tried,” his forehead presses to yours, without crushing you alive this time.

His hips don’t stop moving. You pant between moans. You’re close again, you can feel it.

“It’s okay, you’re just … you’re so big …so heavy.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry, I know. I just … I don’t want to let you go–”

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t let me go.”

His expression breaks. Because he knows. And you know. He’s not really letting you go. Not all the way. He’s still pressing his weight into you, even as he tries not to. Because he needs to. Because letting go means losing you, even just for a second.

He doesn’t know what takes over him, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head. Watching you sob, moan, eyes rolling back, skin already bruising in multiple places by his grip. He’s not like this. He should be apologizing. Begging. But you just feel so damn good.

And you like it, god you love it.

“I–I love it when you fuck me like this,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper, dumb smile on your face as he hits that spot repeatedly. “I just- I can’t…”

“I know darling, I know … just a little more,” he groans. “One more please. You can take it …you’re doing so good.” He soothes, but he can’t slow down, not when you’re clenching him like that.

He picks up the pace.

“C-Clark … please, I’m gonna-“

“I’ve got you, darling …I’ve got you, let yourself go for me.”

You see white this time. You’re not even moaning anymore. Just gasping. Twitching. Letting him take what he needs because you want to. Because this is Clark, your Clark, and you’d give him your whole body a thousand times if he needed it.

And he does.

He fucks you like you’re his last breath.

Even after you’re wrecked, limp, twitching … he keeps going.

You don’t even remember the next time he finishes. Or the time after that. Or where it happened. Your body is a mess, trembling and raw and wet and full. Marked. Praised.

All while he keeps saying, “Just one more … just let me stay inside you a little longer… please sweetheart, I’m still hard I know you can take it … this is the last time I promise…”

Again and again. You’ve never heard him lie so much before.

Yet still, with your hair splayed, legs shaking, literal tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from the pleasure, the pain, the strain, the goddamn pollen he pumps into your body every time he comes…

You are having the time of your life being drunk on his cock.

“Fuck me harder.”

You beg, even when you can’t feel it anymore. Maybe that’s why you need it harder … deeper.

And because you knew that once he came back to normal he wouldn’t fuck you like this again. And he makes sure to let you know.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry I’m hurting you. I just need you so fucking much … I love you I love you I love you—”

You just nod, because it hurts embarrassingly good.

You lose count of how many times he comes in total. How many times you come. You only know time’s passed when the sky starts to lighten outside your broken window, and Clark is rocking into you so slowly it’s more like he’s just holding you in place, his mouth pressed to your shoulder, whispering thank you with every lazy thrust.

By the time he finally slows down, finally wears the substance out of his body after dumping it all inside you … you can’t move. You’re limp in his arms, boneless and dripping and his.

Your bed feels incredibly soft in contrast to all the spots he fucked you on last night.

You’re draped across his chest, tracing the muscles under his bare skin. His fingers are in your hair. Barely moving, just tracing small patterns. Soothing you like he didn’t cause all the pain in your body.

You’re still trembling a little. Just from… after. Your body’s still echoing with everything he gave you. Everything he took.

Worth it.

Clark kisses your temple. He hasn’t stopped kissing you every few minutes. It’s like he’s trying to apologize without saying it. Like he’s trying to prove that he’s still the man you love, the man who flinches when he bumps your head by accident, who picks you flowers and gets flustered when you kiss him in public. The one who always put you first in bed.

Not the one who just broke the sound barrier flying to your apartment because his cock told him to.

“…I broke your window,” he finally breaks the silence, a chuckle makes his chest vibrate against your ear.

“Clark … you broke a lot more than my window.”

You both start giggling … glowing. Your throat hurts, you’re sore, probably can’t even walk today or the whole week, and somehow, it feels like the safest place on Earth.

“I love you,” he whispers. “So much.”

“I know,” you whisper back. “You said it like 87 times while destroying me.”

⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆

I created a blog dedicated to Superman, where I’ll be posting my writing for him from now on 🫶🏼 so if you wanna check it out, go to -> @404superman

Feedback and sharing is always appreciated, thank you so much for reading <3

[ethansluv]

Bob doesn’t want to be apart from you, like at all. That man will find any way to get his grip on you, his hands around your waist - at the table he’ll start playing footsie, keeping his knee pressed to yours on the couch.

But when you fuck, its a whole different story. Once he’s in, he never wants to leave. Barely moving, just small minuscule movements of his hips grinding in - even though he’s already buried to the hilt. Rutting inside like theres still room, trying to get right inside, be perfect just for you.

And afterwards, he’s still buried deep, cock soft, slick with his own spend and your slick, but he doesn’t leave, he keeps it in despite your protests. Holding you close to his chest, arms wrapped around you, head buried in the crook of your neck, warm breath on your skin, “s’just a little longer, baby, please.” - the guy’s strong, so even if you try to wiggle your way out, he’s got you pinned onto his skin like a blanket. Sometimes if he does come out, in the middle of the night he wakes up to put it back in, a soft whimper catching in his throat, another small rut of his hips, careful not to wake you but a little voice in his head almost wants you to.

You drive him so crazy he can barely speak, slurring words, most of the time it’s just mumbled babbles - so pathetic it makes you almost feel bad for the man, but it still sends shocks to your core, uncontrollably squeezing around him, making him buck up into you and finish too fast.

He gets embarrassed, of course, but he makes it up to you so, so good

[ethansluv]

Spoiled

Pairing: Touch Starved!Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Escort!Fem!Reader

Summary: In an act of desperation Bob calls up an escort service to help him with his touch starvation, only to find out that maybe it was more than he bargained for. (Sequel: Plainsong)

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! (To be on the safe side because of the content of escorting being involved in this) Fluff, Angst, Reader is an escort (for reasons that will be revealed of course), Bob is super touch starved in this, Reader has a bit of a traumatic past.

Author’s Note: I may or may not make a part two to this, I found this to be a really interesting concept (I listened to a few podcasts recently where they interviewed escorts and I kind of got this idea.) I really enjoyed how it turned out, and I hope you guys enjoy it as well <3, this is Part One BTW

Word Count: 9,449

You were used to getting all kinds of emails and messages.

Some were short and crude–no greeting, no name, just a timestamped demand from someone who thought money gave them the right to speak to you as if you were an object…A product of some sort. A very stark: “I want to fuck you. When, where, and how much?” Those were the messages you deleted without hesitation, the ones that made your stomach twist because there was a high chance that someone more desperate would respond to it and possibly get hurt–they were the ones you tried to report whenever you got them just because you had a gut feeling that the person sending it was looking to do something bad to the receiver.

Then there were the verbose types–the clients who treated your inbox like it was a confessional booth, flooding it with elaborate fantasies, personal grievances, and attaching expectations to every word like you owed them an experience just because they took the time to justify why they wanted to book you in the first place.

Worse still were the transitional poets–the men who tried to hide the objectification with romance. Who talked about your femininity, while asking for a discount if they booked more than one hour. Those always made you cringe.

You had read it all before. Nothing surprises you anymore. But now that you had your own website, and you were your own boss, you could afford to be a little more picky, a bit more…Selective

You didn’t always have that luxury. There had been a time when you had to take whoever came in–the requests that sent your gut twisting into knots, the agreements that blurred lines, the sessions that left you feeling numb, embarrassed, and in a morally compromising headset for hours after. But now? You were cautious. You had a screening form, a secondary phone number, a separate bank account, a fake name, and a security guard on call if things did go wrong–even though technically you were your own security, and that meant you had sharpened your own instincts over time.

There weren't any dire moments anymore. Not scraping the bottom of your savings or dreading every grocery run. But sometimes, when you wanted a bigger savings buffer, or when your cat had a surprise vet visit, you dipped back into your old habits, even though you were attempting to pull away from it. There were still some clients–a very select few–who made things a little easier and made it worth the couple of hours. The ones who respected you, and the ones who didn’t just expect sex–the ones who truly just wanted a connection without the end goal being sex.

One night though, you were curled up on your second hand couch, with a faded blanket tucked around your legs, and the soft flicker of your television playing out in a low murmur across the room. The news anchor’s voice buzzed beneath your attention as you scrolled half-heartedly through your phone, idly listening to a heated congressional hearing replay. The camera panned to two men mid-argument, both leaning into their microphones as their voices rose.

“They’ve completely dismissed the Veteran Integration Act for the third time this quarter,” The anchor reported, “And it appears tensions are running high–especially with the representative from New York.” The cameras cut to one of them as he leaned back, jaw tight, his metal hand catching the light beneath his navy suit jacket as he adjusted his cuff. His eyes–piercing, exhausted, a bright blue–looked like they could level a room. You tilted your head at the image, humming thoughtfully to yourself.

”I’d also be pissed off if nobody listened to me,” You muted, half to the screen, half to yourself. The faint buzz from your second phone then caught your attention, drawing your eyes away from the images that the anchors continued to show of the mysterious representative from New York.

You shifted your blanket down, sitting up a little bit to reach for it. A flurry of notifications greeted you on the Lock Screen: A scam alert from your phone provider, a confirmation from one of your regulars–someone who typically just wanted to take you to dinner–and one new message with a subject line that made you pause for a moment.

‘Non-Sexual Booking Inquiry?’

Your brows pulled together slightly, your thumb hovering over the screen. The subject line alone wasn’t unusual–people asked about platonic companion sessions often. but the question mark at the end gave you a little bit of a hint that they were hesitant, or nervous, or they hadn’t messaged an escort.

The jingling of your cat’s collar pulled your attention just as she meowed softly and kept onto the couch beside you. Her nails clawed at the cushion before curling up against your hip, her warm orange fur clinging to your sweater instantly, purring loudly like she wanted to distract you.

”You here to approve the new client with me, Luna?’ You murmured, voice soft with amusement as you scratched the top of her head, right behind your ears, “Hmm? Gonna help me screen them?” You added, clicking the email with your free thumb.

From: Bob R.

To: Onyxbookings@gmail.com

Subject: Non-Sexual Booking Inquiry?

Sent: 2:03 AM

Hello,

I hope this email finds you well. I discovered your website earlier this week…I’ve never reached out to anyone like this before, so I’m not sure if I’m doing this the right way, if I’m not, I’m sorry. Please feel free to ignore this message if it’s out of line.

I saw on your info page that you offer overnight sessions, and I wanted to ask about something that’s maybe a bit unusual. I’m not really looking for anything sexual. I don’t want to cross a boundary or make you feel uncomfortable.

I’ve just been having a hard time, and I don’t feel like I can reach out to the people I know for this. I saw that you offer companion hours where you just stay. That’s what I’m kind of looking for.

If you’re available, I’d like to ask if I could book you for a full night and the morning after. I’ll pay your full rate for overnights, and I’ll cover the cost of the room and stuff. I’m happy to meet any security measures or screenings you need, and I’ll pay upfront if that helps ease your worries.

I understand it might not be something that you do often, or maybe not at all, but I thought I’d ask.

Also…I read your About Me page, and saw you quoted a line from The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I wasn’t sure if that was a coincidence or not, but…If it wasn’t, I guess I wanted to say that I love that book.

Thank you for your time, and I hope I hear from you soon.

- Bob.

You blinked at the screen, your mouth softening with a small breath and a smile. Luna let out a sleepy mrrp beside you.

There were always people who claimed they weren’t looking for sex. You were used to reading between the lines, tracking their use of language like little breadcrumbs. But this…This didn’t really read like a trick.

You tapped the edge of the phone against your thigh, thinking, contemplating what to do next. Your eyes scanned over the info you had.

The name wasn’t familiar–just Bob R. No photo. No burner address. The domain looked real enough. You could trace it if you wanted. Everything was cautious, the words seemed to emit the nervousness that plagued him.

Your fingers found the keyboard instinctively, tapping into a rhythm you’d perfected over time. Professional. Calm. Gentle. But this one? This one had a little softness curled beneath every word.

To: Bob R.

From: onyxbookings@gmail.com

Subject: Re: Non-Sexual Booking Inquiry?

Sent: 2:23 AM

Hi Bob,

Thank you for your email. No need to apologize.

I do still offer non-sexual overnight sessions, and what you’re describing falls within the scope of what I provide during those things. Companion hours are meant to be whatever you’d like them to be, for example we can talk if you want, and typically during these sessions people want to be held, stuff like that.

I’ve attached my new client intake form to this message. It’s a simple thing that outlines a few safety requirements and gives me a better idea of how I can best support you during a session, and it helps me get to know you more too, and get a feel for who you are. A background check will also be conducted, I hope you don’t mind.

Once that’s filled out, we can talk about scheduling and choosing a location. Your comfort also matters too, so we can figure out logistics together.

I typically ask for at least 48 hours’ notice for overnight sessions, just to ensure everything is booked properly and there’s no scheduling conflicts. I’ll be happy to answer any questions you have along the way.

Good catch on the book quote, by the way. I really like it too :)

Looking forward to hearing from you,

Onyx

Attachment: intake_form.pdf

You clicked send, then stared at the screen for a moment, watching your outbox refresh. The nervous flutter in your stomach wasn’t about fear. It was something quieter. Lighter. The curiosity that came with someone who didn’t come at you swinging with demands or masks–the mystery of who they were.

You glanced down at Luna, “What an interesting character…” You murmured, nudging her gently. She stretched her back legs and rolled onto her side, belly exposed, tail flicking.

Then your phone buzzed again, and just like that, the email chain grew with quick succession. The both of you were up until dawn sending messages back and forth.

————————

The zipper of your overnight bag rasped quietly through the stillness of your bedroom, breaking the soft hum of the heater that was ticking in the corner. You folded a spare t-shirt and tucked it in next to the worn sweatpants you always travelled with–both items were already dusted with orange fur from Luna, clinging in thin curls that no lint roller could ever fully remove, not for a lack of trying of course. You tried to sweep them off absently with your hand, muttering under your breath, “Hope Bob isn’t severely allergic or something…”

Your room smelled like dried flowers and indistinguishable heat–warmed wood floors steeped in the scent of the pine oil you’d used earlier, mixed with the sweet, heady cling of a melted soy candle you had lit–smoky votives and honeyed chamomile, like a summer evening breeze drifting through a half-open window in the countryside. Earthy, rich, and quiet. Soothing even.

Your second phone buzzed again on the bed beside your bag, the screen flashing briefly.

Bob: Front desk says there’s an extra key for you. I’m going to order room service, would you like me to get you anything?

There was something disarming about how nice he was, like he was always trying not to inconvenience you–even though he was the one paying for all of this.

You didn’t hesitate to reply.

You: Thanks Bob, I’ll pick up the spare key. I’ve eaten so no need to order anything for me, enjoy your food xx.

You slipped the phone into your back pocket and gave a final once-over to your bag. The essentials were all there. Toiletries in their travel pouches, the backup pepper spray tucked in its dedicated side pocket, and a small pouch containing your ID, a burner card, and cash tucked behind a decoy wallet.

You were always prepared for the worst.

Even now–after three days of emailing back and forth with Bob–you were still a bit wary. You’d been catching yourself checking your inbox more often than usual. Not for work, not for confirmations. Just to see if he’d sent another message. They were never long. Just little snapshots of his day, thoughts he seemed almost embarrassed to share, like he didn’t have anyone else to say them to.

“I passed a bakery today and stood outside for five minutes smelling the bread. Didn’t go in. Just stood there like a weirdo. It smelled like rosemary and garlic. You ever get memories from smells?”

They were mundane, and in a strange, unexpected way, you looked forward to them.

Sometimes you needed to remind yourself he was a client. One who probably didn’t even realize how rare it was that you were letting him speak to you so freely, outside billable time. You weren’t even sure when you started seeing him as more than a client. But something about his awkwardness, his transparency–it made you soften. Against your better judgment.

A knock on your apartment door pulled you from your thoughts.

You walked briskly out of your room, and through the living room–feeling the worn wood creaking slightly beneath your socks. Your apartment was a small second-floor walk-up in an older building that smelled like peeled paint–but you had made it your own.

A long patchwork curtain hung over your front window, filtering the streetlamp glow into warm amber streaks across the floor. On the shelf beside the couch sat a worn incense dish, still warm from a burned-out stick of cedarwood and sweet orange peel. The scent mingled with Luna’s presence–cat fur, clean litter, a faint whiff of the treats you kept in a mason jar near the TV. It was a little messy, but thoroughly lived in.

You opened the door.

”About time,” Alana said, smirking as she breezed in, kicking the door shut with her heel, letting her oversized tote bag thump against the floor by the entryway as she pulled you in for a hug. She smelled like peppermint gum and luxury perfume layered over late-night city grit–spiced fig, amber resin, a little hit of something musky and warm that clung to her hoodie like a memory of velvet. Her sunglasses were pushed up into her messy blonde hair, and her sweatpants were rolled twice at the waist to show a faded logo from a wellness retreat you both used to laugh at when clients offered to send you there as a “gift.”

“Where’s my niece?” She asked brightly. Before you could reply, there was a soft thump from the hallway and then the telltale tap-tap-tap of claws on hardwood. Luna trotted out from her designated hiding spot in your closet with regal purpose, her orange tail curled like a plume, like she heard a familiar voice.

”Aww, there’s my baby!” Alana gasped, immediately bending down and opening her arms. Luna let out a pleased trill and leapt up gracefully, settling into her embrace with the spoiled contentment of a lap cat who knew she was adored.

You raised a brow. “Well, you’re never that excited to see me. That’s disappointing.”

Alana turned to face you, cradling Luna like a newborn. The cat’s paw was curled possessively around her shoulder. “Hun, I gave you a hug. You want me to hold you like a baby, too?”

You let out a quiet laugh. “Never mind.”

You moved back toward the bedroom, the floorboards groaning faintly under your weight as you reached for your overnight bag on the bed. You slung it over your shoulder and gave the room one last glance–candles out, phone charger packed, windows locked. Still, there was that tug in your chest, the same one you always felt before a booking. A strange blend of readiness and reservation.

���I hope you didn’t have to reschedule anyone for this,” you called over your shoulder as you walked back out into the living room.

Alana flopped onto the couch, Luna now sprawled across her legs like a queen. “No, I’ve got one tomorrow in the afternoon, but you’ll be back by then I’m assuming.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Bob’s got me till eleven in the morning tomorrow. I’ll be back in time to let you off the hook.” You reached down and gave Luna a scratch beneath her chin. She purred like a small engine, then lazily rolled onto her side and pressed her paws into Alana’s hoodie.

Alana looked at you again, lips pursed. “You haven’t sent me a photo of this guy. Do you have one?”

You hesitated for a beat. “Thank you for reminding me,” You said softly. “I’ll send you the one from his intake form. It’s not great–kind of looks like it was taken in a DMV waiting room–but it’s clear. And I’ll send you the full intake info too. Alias, emergency contact, the works. I ran the background myself–he checks out.”

Alana sat up a little straighter, her brow arching. “You don’t usually do all this before a booking, don’t you usually have Manny run everything?” You shrugged, selecting the intake files on your burner with a few practiced taps.

“Maybe I was a little curious to know the results right away,” you muttered, pressing ‘Send.’ “You know how Manny is. Background checks take him hours. I’ve got more experience.”

“Mm-hmm,” Alana hummed, already pulling out her phone as the message came through. Her thumb scrolled, then paused. “Wait…This is him?” You nodded, watching her reaction closely.

Her eyes lingered on the screen. “He’s definitely not what I was expecting… Definitely cute though.”

You tilted your head. “Cute and lonely, apparently.” Alana turned the phone around to show you again, as if to confirm–like maybe you hadn’t gotten a good enough look. The photo wasn’t flattering, not really–just Bob in what looked like a blurry office lobby, standing stiff in front of a glass wall. His light brown hair was a little too neat, as though someone else had combed it for him. His posture was awkward, shoulders drawn tight under a plain gray jacket. But it was his face that stuck with you.

He had the kind of expression you only caught when someone thought they weren’t being seen–his blue eyes too open, a bit too tired, like he carried something heavy behind them and didn’t know where to put it down. His features were soft in a strange way. Boyish, even. Slight freckles dusted the bridge of his nose. His mouth looked like it wanted to smile, but didn’t quite know how. You had seen a lot of faces. But Bob’s was one you found yourself staring at longer than you meant to.

Alana gave you a pointed look. “It’s always the quiet ones you have to look out for…” You rolled your eyes at her comment.

”Really? You have to say that?” You questioned.

”I’m serious,” She shot back, holding Luna a little tighter, “Did you pack your pepper spray?”

You nodded, deadpan. “Of course I did. You know I would never forget that.”

She sighed, shoulders sagging. “And you’re gonna share your location with me, and send me a text when you get there?”

You let out a soft laugh. “Alana…You’re really overthinking right now. You know I’m gonna do everything I normally do. Don’t worry about me.”

But her lips pressed into a hard, unreadable line. Her gaze flicked downward–then up again, landing squarely on your bicep. You didn’t need to ask what she was looking at. You already knew.

The scars were old now–faded, but still visible beneath your skin when the light hit just right. Three long slashes that twisted like torn fabric. They’d healed, but not quietly.

You didn’t cover them anymore. But you still hated how people stared, or made reference to them in silence, like you didn’t live with the memory of what happened everyday, even if it was just little glimpses of it.

“I’ll always worry,” She said quietly.

You exhaled slowly. “I know,” You murmured. “I know…” Silence sat between you for a second, heavy but not unfriendly. Luna stretched across her lap, one paw still touching your friend’s arm, her nails sticking out slightly. You glanced over at the clock.

”Shit, I’m gonna be late.” You exclaimed, leaning down to kiss Luna on the head, giving her one last scratch between the ears.

“Be nice to your auntie, and don’t climb the fridge again.” You warned.

”She’ll do it anyway, she likes stressing me out.” Alana huffed. You snorted and grabbed your windbreaker off the coat hook, sliding your arms into the sleeves and tugging it snug over your shoulders. Your shoes were by the door–scuffed but reliable–and you slipped them on just as you pulled out your phone to order an Uber.

A soft ping confirmed your ride was two minutes away.

You turned back to Alana, holding her gaze for one more beat. “I’ll see both of you tomorrow.”

“Text me,” She reminded gently.

You nodded once, then stepped out into the dim hallway, the door clicking shut behind you with a quiet finality. The warmth of your apartment–the incense, the faded wood, Alana’s perfume–lingered in your coat like a memory.

—————————

The drive had been quiet. The city blurred past your window in a stretch of headlights, puddles, and red taillights, and for once, traffic hadn’t fought back. Your driver kept to himself, classical music humming faintly through the speakers. You rested your head against the window for most of it, watching as Brooklyn gave way to midtown, the streets glinting wet under the drizzle that had just started up again.

When the car slowed to a stop in front of the hotel, you straightened in your seat, blinking yourself back to the present.

It wasn’t luxurious, not in the gilded, chandelier-studded kind of way–but the building stood tall with clean, modern lines and a confidence that came from being quietly expensive. Wide steps led up to a double-doored entrance set between two columns of warm brass lighting. The name was etched into a slate-gray stone plaque near the awning–no backlight, no flashing sign, just understated serif font: The Winslow.

“Thank you,” You murmured to the driver, putting a tip in on the uber app before leaving. He nodded without looking up, the quiet music still playing.

You opened the door and stepped out, adjusting the strap of your overnight bag as the chilled air immediately kissed up your arms, threading beneath your coat. It was that sharp early spring bite–wet and clean, scented faintly with car exhaust and the lingering echo of someone’s nearby cigarette.

The doorman opened one of the glass doors for you with a smooth nod and a polite “Good evening, miss.”

You offered a kind smile and a quiet “Good evening, thank you,” in return, stepping inside.

Warmth bloomed instantly across your skin.

The lobby was tastefully designed–modern, but not sterile. The floors were polished stone, a deep marbled charcoal with hints of green veining that glimmered beneath the soft downlighting. The walls were a blend of matte slate and warm oak panels, arranged in sleek vertical slats that stretched up toward the ceiling, which was high and open with recessed lighting fixtures casting everything in a muted golden glow.

At the center of the lobby sat a large, low arrangement of fresh flowers–dark red lilies, white orchids, and soft trailing eucalyptus branches nestled in a ceramic bowl the color of river clay. The floral scent drifted subtly through the air, mingling with something richer–coffee, maybe, or the faint perfume of someone who had just passed through. A few plush velvet chairs dotted the seating area beside a gas fireplace, where a couple sat murmuring over two glasses of wine. Behind them, tall windows overlooked the city street below.

The front desk was tucked along the left wall, made of dark walnut with a granite countertop. A clean-cut young man stood behind it, tapping lightly at his keyboard. His name tag read David.

You approached slowly, taking in the details, the smell, the way your shoes echoed faintly against the stone as you crossed the floor, clearing your throat before stepping up to the desk.

“Hi there,” You began, polite and practiced. “My partner is here already. The reservation should be under Reynolds. He said there’s a spare key down here for our room.” It was a lie of course, an easy one that you usually used so it didn’t raise suspicion of what you were doing, even though it was harmless. You always wanted to be cautious. David nodded, the soft click of his keyboard filling the momentary pause.

”Ah, yes,” He said, giving a small smile to you, perfectly straight, and stark white, “Room 505.” He turned and pulled a keycard from a slot behind him, sliding it across the counter. “Enjoy your stay.”

You took the card out of his hands with a smile of your own draped across your lips, “Thank you.”

The card was matte white with a thin copper border, and the room number was handwritten in smooth black ink across the top: 505.

You took a slow breath, steadying your heartbeat with the little rituals of movement–tightening the strap of your bag, brushing your hand over your windbreaker, checking your burner phone for the time. Then you turned and made your way toward the elevators, heels clicking softly on the stone as the lobby murmured behind you.

The elevator bay was nestled in a corner alcove. Brushed metal doors gleamed under warm downlighting, and a simple brass plate beside them displayed a list of floor amenities. You pressed the up button, the cool metal dimpling beneath your finger. You quickly messaged Alana that you got there safely and you’d message if anything was happening.

The doors slid open and you stepped inside, the scent inside faintly lavender from whatever air freshener they used. The space was clean, lined in a mixture of steel and warm paneling, with soft jazz playing through a hidden speaker.

You tapped the 5 with the corner of the keycard and leaned against the back wall, staring at your reflection in the faint sheen of the mirrored panel opposite you.

Out of nervous habit, you ran your hands over the rough fabric of your coat again, soothing yourself. Typically–right before you meet a client–your nerves were always on edge, your adrenaline put you on high alert and it was like your senses were tuned into everything. It was a fight or flight response, even though you knew you weren’t in any danger.

The elevator slowed and dinged softly.

Level five.

The doors opened with a hush, revealing a quiet hallway lined with soft gray carpet and cream wallpaper, broken up every few feet by wall sconces that cast a mellow golden glow. The air smelled faintly like linen and whatever rich, clean fragrance the hotel pumped through its vents–subtle, noninvasive.

You walked slowly down the hall, scanning the numbers.

501. 503. 505.

You stopped.

The numbers were printed in dark brass, etched into a rectangular plaque mounted beside the door. The hallway was hushed, distant from the buzz of the city outside.

You adjusted your grip on your bag and took a long breath, letting it ease out slowly through your nose.

Then you smiled.

Small. Steady, and slightly forced.

You lifted the keycard and slid it into the lock, hearing a gentle click.

You pushed yourself through the threshold, as the quiet hum of the hallway was replaced by the soft murmur of the television inside.

“Hello?” You called softly, your voice easing into the space like a polite knock. There was a pause.

Then, the unmistakable scrape of a fork against porcelain.

A clink.

You moved forward slowly, kicking off your shoes as you passed the narrow entryway. The carpet was plush beneath your socked feet. The lights inside were dimmed low, casting a warm, amber wash over the room. There was a soft pine scent in the air–faint, like someone had lit a candle an hour ago and forgotten to blow it out.

As you turned the corner, the full suite came into view.

A kitchenette sat tucked into the left wall, minimal but well-equipped—shiny appliances, a marble backsplash, a sleek coffee maker. A small dining table took up the space near the window, where thick curtains had been half-drawn. That was where he stood.

Bob.

He was still holding his fork, mid-step away from his plate like he’d been heading toward the door before you surprised him. The television behind him was playing some muted wildlife documentary–snow leopards moving across a mountain slope–but the sound had faded into the background.

His hair was windblown, a little messy like he’d run his fingers through it on repeat. And in the low golden light, his pale skin looked warm–kissed by something soft, like the late-day sun. He wore a loose, oversized green sweater, and a pair of slate grey sweatpants that matched the understated comfort of the room.

He looked younger than you expected. Not in age, but in vulnerability. His hands were twisting at the hem of his sweater before they dropped to wipe nervously at his thighs, palms flattening against the cotton like he was grounding himself.

When he saw you, he froze–eyes wide, like a deer in headlights.

“Hey…” He said, startled. “I–I didn’t know you were here.” You smiled gently, slipping the strap of your overnight bag from your shoulder and letting it rest quietly on the floor beside your feet.

“Yeah, sorry,” You murmured. “I should’ve messaged you. I was running a bit late and completely forgot to warn you.” He shook his head, stepping away from the table with a nervous laugh, one hand motioning vaguely in the air like he was trying to brush away your apology.

“No worries…No–no worries, totally understandable. Tr–traffic must’ve been bad.” You toed your bag closer to the wall and glanced at him, the soft corners of your mouth tugging upward.

“Not as bad as you’d think, honestly. I was even surprised.” Your hand found the zipper of your windbreaker, tugging it down with practiced ease. The fabric made a soft sound as you slipped out of it, turning toward the coat rack near the door to hang it beside his–a dark, long-sleeved jacket that looked worn-in and well-loved. When you turned back around, he was still watching you. His palms had resumed their nervous fidget, dragging against the front of his sweatpants again. His lips parted like he had to remind himself to speak.

“I’m… Bob, by the way,” He said, his voice soft as he lifted a hand toward you, the gesture tentative. You glanced down at it, surprised for a moment by the earnestness of the offer. Then you moved toward him slowly, your own hand rising to meet his.

Your fingers slid into his palm, and for a beat, everything in the room seemed to narrow into that simple point of contact.

His grip was gentle. Not loose, but not insistent either–careful in a way that told you he wasn’t used to holding anyone at all. You could feel the texture of his skin beneath your own: calloused in some places–like he’d worked with tools, or something heavier–and softer in others. His thumb twitched slightly, like he was trying to stay composed. Your own thumb drifted along the curve of his knuckles, more out of instinct than anything else.

“O–Onyx,” You said, stumbling slightly over your fake name. You had almost said your real one, but you caught the syllable before it escaped fully, feeling the heat crawl up your neck at how close it had been. But Bob didn’t flinch. He just held your gaze with those open, tired eyes, the kind that felt like they’d seen too much and still tried to be gentle.

“It’s nice to meet you fi–finally,” He murmured, voice catching briefly on the word.

You nodded once, a quiet breath leaving your lips. “Same.”

The handshake lasted longer than it probably should have. Neither of you seemed in a rush to let go. When you finally pulled your hand back, you felt how slightly damp your palm had become from his–nerves clinging like condensation. His hand hovered for a second before falling to his side again, like he didn’t quite know where to put it.

He stepped aside awkwardly, motioning towards the table. “I–I was just finishing dinner. I didn’t mean to be rude for not…Not coming to greet you at the door.”

You shook your head, waving your hand gently in the air, voice light. “It’s okay. I’m not…Royalty or anything. You don’t have to get up to greet me.”

That made him laugh–soft, sheepish, with the corners of his mouth tugging upward almost like he wasn’t used to the feeling. His shoulders slumped slightly in relief. You glanced down at his plate. It was about half-empty–neatly arranged like he didn’t want to eat messily. There were a few fries left untouched, some salad off to the side, and several small pieces of steak cut into almost comically even squares. You could tell he was the type of person who didn’t want things to go to waste.

“I–I don’t really know how to do things like this…So.” You shifted on the balls of your feet.

”Well, you’re definitely doing fine so far.” Bob looked up, a flicker of something warm–something close to disbelief–passing across his face. “You can sit and finish eating,” You added, nodding toward the table. “I really don’t mind. We can just…Chat while you do.” He blinked at you for a moment, like you’d offered something he hadn’t realized he needed. Then he nodded, lowering himself back into the chair with a kind of careful, deliberate motion, the wood creaking slightly under him.

You slid into the seat across from him and leaned forward just enough to rest your elbows on the table, folding your hands beneath your chin in a relaxed way. The soft light from the ceiling warmed the lines of his face as he looked down at his plate again, fork shifting through a patch of greens.

“So…What did you get up to today?” You asked gently, tone light, coaxing–trying to ease the residual stiffness in his posture. Bob’s lashes fluttered a bit, poking a piece of lettuce gently.

“No–Not much…My roommates weren’t really ho–home,” he murmured, his words stumbling a little, like they hadn’t stretched much today. “They were doing their own…Th-Things. So I just kind of lingered around until now pr–pretty much.”

You hummed, nodding slowly as you tilted your head. “How many roommates do you have?”

He brought the fork to his mouth and chewed, covering it politely with his hand as he replied between bites, “Um… A few…” He didn’t elaborate, and it seemed like something you shouldn’t push for answers on.

“Do–Do you have roommates?” He asked a moment later, like he was reminding himself this was a two-way conversation, and he actually wanted to know a bit more about you.

”Unless you count my cat Luna…No, no I don’t.” That coaxed a quiet laugh from him–surprised and slightly breathless, like it snuck up on him.

”A ca–cat definitely counts as a roommate.” He reached for his phone instinctively, thumb unlocking it with practiced ease as he swiped through his photos.

”M–My roommate brought his ca–cat when he moved in. Her name’s Alpine.” He turned the screen toward you, and you leaned in to see. The photo showed a fluffy white cat sitting primly in a patch of sunlight, staring into the camera with unmistakable disdain. Blue eyes like little chips of polished ice.

You pouted at the photo. “Oh, she’s a cutie. Look at that little judgmental stare.” Bob let out a tiny snort, ducking his head as if even that small little noise embarrassed him.

”Sh–She takes after her owner…” You arched a brow at him, amused by the comment.

”So what I’m hearing is your roommate is quietly judgemental?” He smiled, bashful but genuine.

”Pr–Pretty accurate.” Your eyes flicked to his sweater then becoming hyper aware that he was covered in a smattering of white fur that caught the light. The contrast made it look almost silver in the soft glow of the room.

”Wh–What does Luna look like?” He asked quickly, like he was afraid the conversation might falter if he didn’t keep tossing little threads toward you. You reached for your second phone and tapped the screen awake.

“She’ll definitely put up a stiff competition to Alpine,” You said, turning it around to show him your lock screen–Luna, sprawled out like royalty in a sunbeam, belly up and eyes half-closed like she was squinting at the light. Bob’s whole face softened. His smile widened with something close to delight.

“Oh sh–she’s very majestic,” He whispered. You laughed, a warm sound that seemed to ease the remaining stiffness in his shoulders. He swiped through his phone again, showing you another photo of Alpine, this time curled in a blanket like a little marshmallow. As he angled the screen toward you, a notification slid down from the top.

Bucky: Bob, are you out for the night? If you are can you pick up a carton of milk before you come home? I forgot to buy some on my way back from the office.” You blinked, reading it aloud before you could stop yourself.

Bob made a startled little sound in his throat, quickly flipping the phone back toward himself. “Sp–Speak of the owner,” He said, eyes wide, then gave you a shy smile as he typed a quick reply, before setting his phone down with a soft clink. He picked up his fork again, poking through the remnants of his dinner, then looked up at you almost shyly.

“Di–Did you get up to anything interesting?” he asked, a little hopeful, like he wanted to keep the rhythm going. Keep you talking. Keep the space between you filled with something gentle.

You shook your head with a faint smile. “Not really. I don’t do much with my spare time, honestly. Usually just mundane stuff. Grocery runs. Laundry. Replying to emails and stuff, scheduling if I need to.” He gave a quiet, understanding hum, chewing slowly. His gaze dropped to the edge of the plate again, like he was building up to something.

“D-Do you get…A lot of bookings?” He asked after a pause, the words coming slower, more hesitant now–carefully chosen like he was trying not to offend you. You met his eyes for a moment, just long enough for him to feel seen, then glanced away thoughtfully.

“I create my own schedule, technically. So…Not as many as I used to,” You explained gently, folding your arms across the table. “It’s more of a casual thing now.” You caught the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed. His fork stalled mid-air as his voice dipped softer.

“Is… Is there a reason why you’ve made it more of a ca–casual thing?” He asked, eyes flicking up to you, then down again just as quickly. His blush deepened when he brought another small piece of steak to his lips, chewing as if the question might be too much.

You took a slow breath, pressing your tongue to the inside of your cheek for a moment before speaking, like the answer needed a filter you hadn’t quite settled on.

“Um…” Your hand drifted to your phone instinctively, slipping it into your back pocket so you could focus fully. “It’s definitely a long story…But I guess the short version would be that I just…Wanted to have more control over myself. My time. My boundaries.” You didn’t say the word safety outright, but it hovered between your sentences, unspoken but unmistakably there. The weight of it settled into the air like a hush.

Bob didn’t answer right away. His fork dragged gently against the plate, pushing a piece of lettuce toward the side.

“It… It mu–must’ve been very dangerous,” He said quietly, his voice barely louder than a breath. He didn’t look up. Just stared at the food, hands still. His jaw ticked slightly. Your eyes softened, watching him carefully. The way his fingers started to curl around the edge of his plate, the way he blinked like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say that.

“Well,” You started, voice low, and warm, just enough to draw his attention back to you, “Let’s just say everyone is as kind as you are, Bob…You’re definitely one of the rare ones.” He gulped, hard this time, and nodded, still avoiding your eyes. His fork stilled in his hand completely, and he let it rest against the edge of the plate. His fingers shifted, curling and uncurling slowly like he was working through something quietly.

“I–I don’t know if I should ta–take that as a compliment or feel really bad about that…” He glanced at you, just briefly. “You don’t…De–Deserve to be in those situations.” Your lips pressed together slightly. You let the moment linger–quiet but not cold. Then your voice softened around the edges as you spoke.

“I do my best to not get in those situations now. Hence the…Schedule change.”

He nodded, almost too quickly. “Guess that makes a bit more se–sense.” Then, without a word, he gently pushed his plate away. The soft scrape of ceramic on wood filled the space between you. He looked down at it for a beat longer, then let out a quiet sigh. His gaze drifted to the bed behind you, then quickly darted away again, like he’d only just remembered it was part of the night.

“So…” He started, hesitant. His fingers tapped the table once, then curled back into his palm. “How…Ho–How does this work? If I want to cuddle now…”

You followed his glance toward the bed and then turned back to him, your tone calm, grounded. “You just climb on and tell me what you want me to do,” You explained, voice soft but confident. “But I’m just going to change first. I don’t really like wearing my street clothes to bed.” You pushed your chair back and rose from the table, padding over to your overnight bag in the corner near the coat rack. Your fingers curled around a folded shirt and a pair of soft sweatpants, the fabric already faintly scented with home–chamomile and cedar and something that still clung from Luna’s fur. Behind you, Bob nodded, slow and thoughtful.

“You can get ready too, if you’d like,” You added, glancing at him as you straightened up.

He took a short breath, then asked, almost too quietly, “Do you ha–have a preference as to how much clothing I should wear?” You turned to him, one brow lifting slightly in surprise–though not judgment. You let the pause breathe for just a moment before replying.

“No… Not really,” You said honestly. Then your mouth tugged into a small, curious smile. “Do you have one for me?”

He shook his head immediately, almost too fast. “I don’t re–really mind what you wear. I just don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.” That answer hit you a little deeper than it should’ve. It was simple. Plain spoken. But sincere in a way that felt unfamiliar coming from someone you’d only just met in person.

Your lips curved again–softer now, gentler. “You paid for this booking,” You reminded him quietly. “You can do whatever you want…”

Bob bit the inside of his bottom lip at that, his brows twitching just slightly like the sentence didn’t sit entirely right with him. And then he said–quiet, clear:

“Yeah…Bu–But you’re still a human being who deserves to be treated nicely.”

Your throat tightened just a little.

You nodded once, more to yourself than to him, trying to keep the emotion from rising too visibly to the surface.

“I guess you’re right,” You murmured. With that, you stepped into the washroom and gently clicked the door shut behind you, the soft latch of it closing sounding louder than it was.

Inside, the bathroom was warmly lit, clean, and minimal, with a few mini bottles of soap and shampoo lining the countertop. You could still hear the faint hum of the television through the wall, and it gave you something to focus on while you changed. You peeled off your top and pants, folding them neatly on the counter before pulling on the soft shirt and sweatpants over your bare skin. You glanced at yourself briefly in the mirror, wiping off the slight sweat that had plagued your neck and collarbones, feeling the way your pulse thrummed gently beneath your skin.

Bob was, without a doubt, the softest booking you’d ever taken, and it made your heart ache that somehow he needed to turn to you for this type of comfort. There were always moments–fleeting, quiet ones–where you felt something for your clients. Not attraction. Not pity. Just a kind of…Recognition. A flicker of ache. And this was one of those times.

He seemed like someone who had people around him–roommates, a stable enough job, the means to book a hotel like this. By all accounts, he led a normal life. But something about him–the way he avoided eye contact, the way he apologized for things that didn’t need apologies–made you think he’d faced more rejection than anyone ever deserved. Or maybe he was just scared to put himself out there. He seemed shy. Guarded. Soft in a world that didn’t know what to do with softness.

It would make sense if he couldn’t find someone the natural way.

You let out a slow breath and shook your head, trying not to let it sit too heavy in your chest. You turned the faucet on and splashed your face with cold water, letting it ground you. The chill cut through the warmth that had settled in your skin, and for a brief second, it steadied your heartbeat. You reached for one of the folded white towels and dried your face, dragging the cotton gently across your cheekbones before taking a deeper breath and switching off the light.

The door clicked shut behind you, and the soft hush of the bathroom was replaced by the low murmur of the television.

When you rounded the corner, you saw he’d already slipped beneath the sheets, propped up against the headboard in a black t-shirt now–his silhouette faintly lit by the flickering screen. The nature documentary had been replaced by the news, a muted reel of late-night headlines washing the room in pale blue light. His head turned toward you, a small smile tugging at his mouth. You gave him one back.

”How do you want me?” You asked, motioning to yourself. Clearly you caught him off guard with the question just by his eyes widening a bit. He shifted a little to the side, peeling back the corner of the blanket so you could climb in beside him.

“I was…” He started, voice low and careful, “…Th–Thinking maybe we could be on our sides, and you could ho–hold me.” He hesitated, eyes flicking to yours, then down again. “Like…You wrap your arms around my neck or something. Like we’re hugging.” There was something so achingly innocent in the way he phrased it–like he hadn’t been held like that in years, or maybe ever. You gave him a soft smile and nodded.

“Alright,” You said gently. “That’s doable.” You slipped under the covers, the fabric warm from his body heat and the lingering scent of him–clean cotton, and something faintly like cedar soap. He turned onto his side to face you, and you mirrored the motion, slipping one arm beneath his pillow and bringing the other one over him, sliding over his torso, pulling him in close just a bit. He tensed under your arm. Not sharply, not like fear–but more like hesitation, like his body wasn’t used to being in this position. His shoulders went tight, his breath shallow, and his eyes flicked everywhere but yours.

You shifted just slightly to create a little space–enough to show him you’d meet him wherever he was.

“You okay?” You asked, voice low, just for him. Your fingertips stilled on his side, waiting.

The pale blue light from the television danced across his cheek, highlighting the warmth that had started to bloom there. His mouth opened, then closed again before he managed to speak.

“It’s re–really been a long time since someone held me like this…” He whispered, his voice cracking halfway through. “Just ge–getting used to it again.”

You nodded, the motion slow, calm–like you were trying to offer your steadiness as something he could lean against.

“That’s okay,” You murmured. “Take your time. There’s no rush.”

He let out a shaky breath–barely a sound, really. But you felt it leave him. The smallest release of pressure. Your hand began to move again, a slow, even rhythm up and down the line of his back–just enough to soothe, to ground him.

“How long has it been?” You asked gently, barely above a whisper. Bob’s eyes flicked upward, then down again. He gave the smallest shake of his head.

“I–I can’t even remember, honestly…”

The answer made your throat tighten.

It wasn’t the kind of thing you were supposed to let get to you–not this deep, not this personally. But there was something in his voice, in the sheer honesty of it…Like a cut that hadn’t been cleaned in years, and only now was starting to sting from the open air. He wasn’t saying it to make you feel anything. He wasn’t performing. He was just admitting it because no one had asked in a long time–maybe ever.

He shifted closer, the warmth of his body gradually replacing the last bits of tension in the air between you. You could feel it before he even spoke–the way his chest moved with hesitant breath, the small twitch of his hand against your side, like he was building the courage up behind his ribs.

Then, his voice came—quiet, tender, and cracking just slightly as he tried to keep it even.

“C–Can I pu–put my head on your chest? And…Put my arms around you?”

Your heart tugged, slow and aching.

You nodded before he even finished the sentence.

“Of course,” You said, your voice soft like flannel–gentle, welcoming. “Come here.”

He moved with a kind of careful urgency, not rushed but deeply intentional, like the moment mattered more than he could afford to let on. His strong arms slid around your waist first, wrapping fully around you like he was trying to keep something in–his own composure, maybe. His hands splayed wide across your back, firm and hesitant all at once. Then he shifted downward slightly, cheek brushing along your collarbone as he found the center of your chest and rested his head there–right over your heart.

His whole frame pressed into you, his legs drawing close under the blankets as if instinct had taken over and told him: stay warm. Stay safe. Stay here.

And then, the sound.

A shaky inhale.

You felt it before you heard it, the uneven breath catching in the hollow space between one heartbeat and the next. His nose brushed your shirt. His shoulders trembled, just barely. Not crying. But certainly close. You looked down at the crown of hair he had, up close it was fine but thick at the same time, messier than he probably would’ve liked if he’d known you’d be looking at it so closely. You dipped your chin slightly toward him, your voice just above a hushed whisper.

“Can I touch your hair?”

He nodded against you, and his voice was tight–barely held together by thread and hope.

“Pl–Please.”

The word fell out of him, brittle with restraint.

You smiled, even though he couldn’t see it–something gentle tugging at the corners of your mouth, carved out of understanding and warmth.

Your hand rose slowly, sliding up the curve of his shoulder until your fingers found hie hairline. You threaded through the strands with deliberate care, brushing them back from his face. His breath hitched the second your nails grazed his scalp–not in fear, not in discomfort, but in something deeper. Something like relief.

He melted into you a little more.

His arms tightened. Not possessively. Just…Like he didn’t want to lose the shape of this.

The pads of your fingers moved slowly, stroking through his hair again, letting your touch map his skull like it mattered. Because it did. You let your palm flatten and slide once, twice, before your nails gently dragged back again. Bob let out a sound–half-sigh, half-murmur–and his grip on you relaxed slightly, like the weight on his chest was easing under the rhythm of your breathing.

“This okay?” You asked quietly, lips close to his head.

He nodded against your sternum, his voice so faint it was nearly swallowed by your skin.

”Yes.” You felt it first–not the sound, but the subtle warmth blooming through the fabric of your shirt. A dampness that hadn’t been there a moment ago. His breathing was uneven now, pulled in sharp little huffs like he was trying to stay composed but couldn’t quite rein it in anymore.

Then his voice came, small and cracked.

“I…I didn’t know ho–how much I was really needing this…Un–Until now. It’s… It’s overwhelming.”

Your heart ached.

Your hand didn’t stop moving. You stroked through his hair with the same steady tenderness, letting the motion anchor him as you whispered,

“It’s okay to be overwhelmed by it, Bob.”

He let out a small, broken sound against your chest and pressed his face deeper into your shirt–like he wanted to disappear, to hide the evidence of how much it was affecting him. His nose nudged your sternum, breath catching again, more fragile this time.

“I’m…I’m an adult,” He choked out. “I sh–shouldn’t be crying about stuff like th–this.”

You let out a quiet laugh–not mocking, not light. Just…Gentle.

“Bob…Trust me,” You said, your voice warm and firm. “It’s okay to show your emotions. I’m not going to judge.”

His head shook against you, the movement small, trembling.

“I…I hope th–this doesn’t ruin your first impression of me…”

Your hand paused briefly at the crown of his head. Then you leaned down, resting your chin there, letting the weight of it settle over him like a promise.

“No,” You murmured. “It definitely hasn't. You’ve actually given me some hope in humanity again, so…That’s a good thing.” There was a long pause–a beat where the air felt softer, the shape of the silence not heavy, but full.

Then a quiet, sniffled,

“Re–Really?”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see it, your voice quiet but certain.

“Really. You’re a very kind person, Bob. And you have a big heart… I can tell.”

His arms shifted slightly around your waist, pulling you closer–not like he needed to prove something, but like he needed to hold on to the truth of that.

He let out a shuddering breath, voice rough with emotion.

“I ru–ruin a lot of things… My heart ge–gets me in trouble a lot.”

You hummed, slow and low, your hand continuing to thread through his hair, pushing a few strands back gently as you replied,

“I doubt it. I’m sure if I asked your friends, they would say something different.”

Bob gave a watery laugh–barely there, but it trembled up from his chest like he couldn’t help it.

”I th–think most people would disagree.” You smirked into his hair, whispering just loud enough for him to register your words.

”Well…If most people don’t see how lucky they are to have you around, then clearly they haven’t seen what I’m seeing right now.” Bob didn’t respond–not with words. Just a quiet, warm breath against your chest…And a slow, aching squeeze of your waist.

By morning time, Bob would be rebooking you again, asking if he could see you twice a week and you would be scheduling him two months out, starting the tumultuous journey of healing him, and healing yourself too.

[ethansluv]

soulmate ; bob reynolds

fandom: marvel

pairing: bob x reader

summary: you're engaged to bucky when you find out that not only are fated mates real, but you have one... and it's not your fiancé (soulmate au)

notes: okay, listen, this was never supposed to see the light of day... this was what i would write between other fics when i felt blocked or wanted to be dramatic and wax lyrical about loving lewis pullman... so basically, this is me not-so-subtly saying i would abandon everything i know and love for him... please be kind! this one feels weirdly personal because it's so emo??? but regardless, i hope you enjoy and would love, love, love to hear what you think! (p.s. happy birthday to me!)

warnings: swearing, angst, mention of slight age gap (with bucky), heartbreak (lots), crying, fainting, the void (almost), alcohol consumption, acotar reference (if you squint), so many metaphors, nudity, and horniness very slightly bordering on smut (yes, i still managed to make it horny) so 18+ ONLY MDNI!

word count: 14951

Mates. 

It’s not something you hear about often—and it happens even less. 

Centuries ago, it was something creatures hungered for. Something that drove them. Compelled them to find their one true mate and, well… mate. 

But that was long ago. Now, it’s rare. Fabled. Forgotten by most. Even fewer still are lucky enough to have one. 

There are other words for it now—soulmate, twin flame, kindred spirit, true love. Softened, romanticised. Colloquial terms thrown around like confetti at a wedding. Used to describe someone you choose to love. Not someone you’re bound to by something older than time. 

Because mates? Real mates? They aren’t chosen. They’re fated. Selected by some ancient magic. A gift from the gods—or whatever existed before gods. Two souls born within the same lifetime, tethered by something invisible and unbreakable. And if they meet? 

Well... no one really knows what happens then. 

You see, with a world this big, teetering on the edge of collapse, stuffed to the brim with people all trying to survive—who has time to go chasing destiny? Who’s got the energy to scour the globe in hopes of locking eyes with some cosmic stranger? 

Sure, the sex would probably be mind-blowing. But sex can be plenty good without a soul-deep connection plucking the strings of your orgasm. 

Which is exactly why no one really cares about mates anymore. Most people don’t even believe they exist. And those who do? They’re usually just lonely—reaching for hope, not magic. 

And you? Well, you’re more than happy in the arms of your sex god super soldier fiancé. 

Or at least… you were. 

- 

“Do we have to?” Bucky sighs, his face buried in the crook of your neck, stubble grazing your skin. 

You giggle and squirm beneath the weight of his body—his very naked body. 

“Come on,” you say, half-heartedly shoving at his chest. “We’re already going to be late. Besides, you can’t possibly be ready to go again.” 

He lifts his head, blue eyes glittering with mischief. “Sure about that, doll?” 

He shifts, and you feel it—thick and heavy, pressing insistently against your hipbone. 

Your eyes go wide, heat pooling between your thighs. “Aren’t you supposed to be like... over a hundred?” 

He chuckles, sliding down a little, clearly aiming for your breasts. 

“Technically, yes. Biologically, no.” 

You hum, enjoying the rasp of his beard as it brushes against your skin. “Still,” you tease, “even biologically, you’re almost an old man.” 

His head snaps up, eyes wide in mock offense. “Excuse me?” 

You giggle again, trying to wriggle free. As much as you’d love to stay tangled up with him all morning, you really don’t want to be late—again—and keep his teammates waiting. They’re not exactly the warm-and-fuzzy type, but not in a bad way. More like the sarcastic, sharp-eyed, chaos crew who’d never let you live it down if you showed up looking freshly ravished. And honestly? You’re not in the mood to be roasted before coffee. 

“For that little comment,” Bucky says, shifting to straddle you as the blankets fall away, “I’m cutting you off.” 

You try to look up at his face, but your attention is… elsewhere. More specifically, the part of him that obviously doesn’t agree with this whole cutting you off plan. It’s hard—painfully hard—and staring right at you, begging to be touched. 

You lick your lips, eyes wide with feigned innocence. “Cutting me off?” 

He nods, sliding off the bed and taking his gorgeous body with him. “Mhm. You’re cut off. For at least twenty-four hours.” 

You scramble after him, following him into the ensuite like a woman on a mission. “Twenty-four hours?!” 

His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a grin, but he keeps it together. “Yep.” He turns to you, leveling you with a mock-stern look. “You called me old.” 

You jut your bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout. “It was just a joke.” 

He leans in and kisses your pouty lips. “Well,” he murmurs, “maybe next time you’ll think twice.” 

Then he turns to the shower and cranks on the hot water, leaving you standing there like a sulking child who’s just been denied dessert. 

As the two of you shower and dress in companionable silence, a twinge of guilt starts to settle in your chest. Maybe you shouldn’t have made that crack about his age. 

He didn’t seem offended—but still. The age gap is real. It’s not something either of you acknowledges often, but maybe you should be a little more mindful. He is the older one. The one in the public eye. The one who constantly fields backlash from idiot reporters and politicians, all desperate to dig up something to use against him. 

And now that you’re engaged—engaged—right as he’s stepping into this whole New Avengers thing? The spotlight on him is brighter than ever. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to pick your playful jabs a little more carefully. Just for a while. 

“Hey,” you murmur, lacing your fingers through his as you step into the tower elevator. “Sorry about before.” 

He hits the button for the main floor, then glances at you with a puzzled little frown. “For what, doll?” 

You shrug. “Calling you old.” 

He chuckles—low, rough, and unfairly attractive. “Don’t be sorry. I’m a big boy. I can take a joke.” 

There’s a beat of quiet as the elevator hums around you. Then, he leans in, lips near your ear, breath warm on your skin. 

“I’ll just have to punish you for it later.” 

Anticipation sizzles beneath your skin, adrenaline zipping down your spine before settling between your legs—a place Bucky’s words have a habit of landing. 

Before you can fire back something smart—or filthy—the doors slide open, and you're greeted by the wide, sunlit expanse of the New Avengers common room. 

“Finally!” Yelena calls, her head popping up over the back of the couch. “You’re like… twenty minutes late.” 

“It’s not my fault,” you say quickly, slipping away from Bucky toward the kitchen. “All Barnes.” 

He shoots you a look, lips twitching, then turns back to his teammates, moving toward where most of them are crowded around the living room setup in the centre of the huge space. Everyone is here except their newest specially-abled member—Bob. 

You haven’t met him yet, and honestly, you’re not exactly eager. You know he’s got… issues, to say the least. And with all the other complications this group brings, you’re already close enough to being overwhelmed. How they came to be Earth’s Mightiest Heroes 2.0? You’ll never understand. 

You busy yourself in the kitchen, fixing coffee and some breakfast while Bucky and his team dive into their meeting. You don’t live at the tower—you and Bucky have a small apartment a few blocks away—but you’re more than comfortable here. At first, coming along to all the meetings and mission briefings felt like a drag, but eventually you got to know everyone, and now, it doesn’t bother you so much. 

An hour later, the meeting slips into something more casual. Bucky excuses himself to take a phone call, and Ava disappears—literally—so you take the opportunity to settle onto the couch, half-listening as John and Alexei bicker over what to watch on TV. 

John wins, and you’re stuck watching college sports. 

“I read your book,” Alexei announces, turning to you with a proud smile—his back now to John. 

You tilt your head, frowning. “My book?” 

“Yes, yes.” He slings an arm over the back of the lounge, turning fully toward you. “The one you told me to read.” 

You stare at him, confused, for a beat longer than you’d like—until realisation dawns, followed swiftly by mortification. 

“Oh my God, no,” you mutter, face burning. “No, Alexei, you didn’t—” 

“The one about the faeries,” he says proudly. “It is a little naughty, but it is good.” 

“You!” Yelena gasps from across the room. “You’re the one who told him to read those books!” 

You sink deeper into the plush couch, hands flying up in surrender. “No, I swear—I didn’t tell him to! He asked what I was reading, and I... I told him. That’s it. I never told him to read them!” 

John groans. “He hasn’t shut up about those porn books all week.” 

From the kitchen, Bucky turns sharply, halfway through his phone call. His eyes land on you—wide with amusement, brows lifted in mock surprise, the phone still pressed to his ear. 

“They’re not all naughty,” Alexei says with a small frown—and you’re not sure if he’s defending himself or you. “There is fighting and magic too. They are good books.” 

You can’t help but let a quiet giggle slip past your lips. “Which one are you up to?” 

His eyes sparkle with excitement. “I just finished the second book.” 

You sit up and lean toward him, ignoring the dirty looks from Yelena and John. “Oh my God, did you love it? The second one is my favourite.” 

Alexei nods eagerly. “I loved it. They are perfect together. Much better than the blond man.” 

“Much better,” you agree with another soft laugh. 

“I have question, though,” he says, his smile faltering into a curious frown. “How can they be mates if they are born hundreds of years apart?” 

Yelena scoffs. “The book has soulmates too?” 

You turn to her with a playful smile. “They’re mates, not soulmates. Like, fated mates. It’s not as lame as it sounds.” 

“It sounds very lame,” she deadpans. 

“It is not lame,” Alexei argues. “It is beautiful.” 

Yelena rolls her eyes and John lets out a disbelieving laugh, still focused on the TV. 

“You know,” you say slowly, leaning forward to catch John’s eye on the other side of Alexei, “some people actually believe in mates. Like real soulmates.” 

“Yeah—desperate people,” John quips. 

You roll your eyes. “No—I mean, yeah, but not just lonely people. Some still think fated mates are real. Rare, but real. Like some kind of ancient, sleeping magic. Most people won’t find theirs, because the world is too crowded now. But centuries ago, it used to matter. In some cultures, it still does.” 

Yelena snorts. “Still sounds lame.” 

You’re just about to respond when Ava phases in beside you, startling you. 

“It’s true,” she says plainly. “I’ve heard stories.” 

You ignore your spiked pulse and tilt your head. “You have?” 

She nods. “Yeah. You know, when I was stuck in a lab for most of my childhood. I read a lot. Learned a lot. There are a few different versions, but some cultures still believe in real mates.” 

Yelena frowns, but leans in—clearly intrigued. “This is ridiculous. There is no way every person has someone they are destined to be with. If that were true, we’d know more about it.” 

“Not everyone has one,” you say. “It’s actually pretty rare.” 

Ava raises a sceptical brow. “So, you believe in mates?” 

You shrug, your cheeks warming with a touch of embarrassment. “I don’t know.” 

“How do you know so much about it?” Yelena asks, a small smirk tugging at her lips. 

You press your lips together, buying a moment to decide whether or not to tell them your story. But really—why not? It’s not like you have anything to hide. Mate or not, you’re happy with Bucky. And you know you will be for the rest of your life. 

“Okay,” you begin, leaning forward, elbows resting on your knees. “A few years ago, I was at this gala—something for work—and this woman approached me…” 

- Five Years Ago - 

You tip the champagne flute to your lips, emptying it in one gulp. 

“Wow,” you mutter to yourself. “These fancy events are stingy with the refreshments.” 

An older couple nearby gives you a dirty look, but you ignore it and wander off in search of another waiter with another tray of tiny, unsatisfying champagne flutes. 

“Excuse me?” 

A woman steps into your path before you can reach the next tray. She’s older, with a lined face and silver-grey hair that falls almost to her hips. Her floral dress flows a little too gracefully for a ballroom with no breeze, and the many pieces of jewellery adorning her neck and arms clink softly as she moves. 

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” she says with a small, serene smile. “But I had to speak to you.” 

You tear your eyes away from the waiter retreating with your drink. 

“That’s okay,” you reply, turning to meet her gaze—only to falter when you notice her eyes. They’re not hazel or green or brown. They’re gold. Entirely gold. 

“Sorry, I—uh, I don’t think we’ve met?” 

You offer your hand, which she takes gently, though her eyes never leave your face. They scan your features like she’s searching for something—something buried. Something you’re not sure is even there. 

“No, we haven’t,” she says, stepping a little closer. It’s invasive, but her strange energy keeps you frozen in place. “I don’t normally do this. I usually keep my… visions to myself.” 

Oh, God. She’s a fucking loon. 

You let out a soft, awkward laugh. “Visions?” 

She nods. “I’m not crazy.” 

Sure, lady. 

“My family is gifted—well, some of us are,” she continues. “I prefer to keep to myself, but when I saw you, I had to say something.” 

You frown. “Say what?” 

“You have the mark.” 

“The… mark?” 

“Yes,” she says, and you realize she’s still holding your hand as she gently places her other over it. “In your fate lines.” 

Your eyes dart around the room. Why is no one noticing this weird little encounter? 

You glance back at her—into those strange gold eyes. “My what, now?” 

Her brows pull together slightly. “You don’t believe in fate?” 

“I believe in free will.” 

She smiles. “The two aren’t so different. Fate offers the door. Free will decides whether you open it.” 

“Okay...” you murmur. “So I’m marked?” 

“You have the mark,” she corrects. “The mark of a mate. Your other half. The dark to your light. You’ll know him when you feel the pull. It won’t be gentle—it never is, for ones like you.” 

Your brow creases. “Ones like me?” 

She studies you again—longer this time. Her smile is faint, but her eyes are deep, unblinking. She’s not looking at you. She’s looking through you. Still searching for something beneath your skin. 

“You’re not ordinary,” she says softly. “Neither is he—at least, he won’t be when you meet. That’s why it matters. You two were made for something bigger. Together, you’ll either shift the course of something… or break it entirely.” 

Okay. Definitely time to find that waiter. And take the whole damn tray. 

She leans closer, her voice a whisper now—but somehow heavier. “This isn’t about belief. It’s about design. You can walk away—fate gives the door, not the hand that turns the knob. But when the moment comes, it won’t feel like a choice. Not to you. Not to him. Because something in the marrow of your bones will know.” 

You swallow hard, the hairs on your neck standing straight. 

She glances around once, then leans in—like she’s sharing a secret. “There will come a time when everything depends on whether you hold onto each other. Or let go. And if you let go…” Her lips press together, almost regretful. “Well. I suppose the universe will just have to adjust. Somehow.” 

And then, like smoke in a breeze, she slips into the crowd—leaving your pulse racing and the taste of stardust on the back of your tongue. 

- Present - 

“Were you on drugs?” Yelena asks—not accusing, just curious. 

You shoot her an unimpressed glare. “No.” 

Of all the faces in the room, Alexei’s is the most excited—his eyes practically sparkling. 

“Did you go after the mysterious woman?” he asks, leaning in. 

You shake your head. “No. I went after the waiter and took his tray.” 

Yelena snorts. “So you were drunk.” 

“I wasn’t drunk,” you argue. “Yet, at least.” 

Ava tilts her head, eyes narrowed. “Did you believe her?” 

You shrug. “I don’t know. It sounds far-fetched, but… look at the last ten years. Super-people, aliens, sorcerers, magic. It’s not that hard to believe in the grand scheme of things.” 

Alexei leans closer, dropping his voice. “Do you believe Barnes is your mate?” 

No—but you’re not saying that out loud. 

“Sure,” you say, your voice just a little too high. “I mean, assuming I believe the woman—which I never said I did—” 

“You do,” Yelena cuts in. “I can see it in your eyes.” 

You shoot her a look. “Whether or not I believe her... I love Bucky. He’s my person. I don’t care if he’s my cosmically assigned soul partner or not. I want him. Only him. End of story.” 

Yelena breaks into a cheesy smile. “Aw, you are so cute. Sappy, and a little gross, but cute.” 

You roll your eyes as she pushes off the lounge and heads toward the kitchen, where Bucky is still muttering into the phone. John’s attention is glued to the TV—you’re not even sure he heard your story. And Ava phases out again, disappearing somewhere into the tower. 

After a moment, Alexei turns to you, voice lowered. “Are you scared?” 

You frown. “Scared of what?” 

“If you meet your mate.” 

You laugh—softly, uneasily—ignoring the sharp twist of anxiety in your chest. “I don’t even know if I believe in that. So why would I be scared?” 

“Because,” he says, glancing toward the kitchen, “you’ll either have to break his heart, or break your own by refusing fate.” 

His words hit harder than they should. For a moment, it’s like your lungs forget how to work—air punched right out of your chest, heart pounding hard and fast against your ribs. 

You’ve never thought about it like that—because you’ve never truly believed the strange woman’s prophecy. You met Bucky nearly a year later, and the thought never crossed your mind. 

Not until now. Not until you had to retell that bizarre encounter out loud. 

And sure, you could keep telling yourself you don’t believe in it. But there’s always that one question that lingers. 

What if? 

What if what she said was real? 

What if Bucky isn’t your mate? 

What if you find him? 

What if she was right—and you can’t stay away? 

What if the choice comes down to breaking Bucky’s heart… or your own? 

- 

“You okay?” Bucky asks, his fingers laced with yours as you walk down the corridor toward the elevator. 

You’d spent the last few hours watching TV with Alexei and John—mostly talking about books—while Bucky worked. You tried to push all the weird questions and swirling doubts out of your mind, but it wasn’t easy with Alexei’s constant interrogation. 

“Yeah,” you reply quietly. “Just tired.” 

He squeezes your hand. “You sure?” 

You glance up and meet his baby blues—so sincere it makes guilt creep up your spine. You can’t just tell him you’re scared he’s not your person... That would break his heart. And for what? Some cryptic message from a strange woman about a mark you’ve never even seen? Or believed in. 

“Shit,” Bucky mutters, his eyes snapping away from yours. 

You frown and follow his gaze, eyes widening when you see the end of the hallway swallowed in black. 

“Um,” you lean into him, “what the fuck?” 

“It’s Bob,” he says, slowly backing away. “He’s having a nightmare.” 

You glance up at your fiancé. “He’s still sleeping?” 

“Yeah, he has trouble actually sleeping,” Bucky replies. “That’s why he’s in his room all the time. He’s trying to sleep, and then whenever he does... it’s this shit. I thought I had nightmares, but this kid…” 

Your heart thuds heavy in your chest—but not fast. Not panicked. You should be panicked. But you feel calm. Strangely calm. Even as the darkness creeps across the floor and walls, inching toward you as you back away. 

“What happens if we touch it?” you ask, hesitating mid-step. 

Bucky tugs your hand, urging you to keep moving. “Nothing good.” 

Your head tilts as you watch the inky mass crawl, swallowing everything in its path. Your fingers twitch with the urge to reach out—but you know better. 

“Is it cold?” you ask, eyes still fixed on the darkness. 

Bucky frowns. “What?” 

“The darkness,” you say, glancing up at him. “Is it cold? It doesn’t seem cold.” 

He stares at you like you’ve just asked if it tastes like chicken. “It doesn’t really... feel like anything,” he says, eyes darting between you and the growing shadow. “Now, come on. We’ll take the stairs and warn the others.” 

You stop short, frowning. “You’re just going to leave him?” 

He looks at you like you’ve lost your damn mind. “Well, no. We’ll go in if we have to, but it’s usually better to wait it out. He’s getting better at managing it. It usually stops before it spreads too far. So, we try not to interfere unless we need to.” 

“He shouldn’t have to deal with it by himself,” you argue. 

“I know that,” Bucky says, tipping his head slightly as he studies you. “We all know that. And he knows we’re here for him. But we can’t sleep beside him every night—if we do, we get pulled in the second he starts dreaming. He knows we’ll help him if he needs it, but he’s trying to learn how to control it on his own.” 

You feel an ache to run in after him—a man you barely know—to dive into that abyss. But you know it’d be stupid. You’re not like Bucky or the others. Not enhanced. Not particularly special. You probably wouldn’t last a second inside whatever hellscape awaits you in that darkness. 

“Okay,” you mutter, squeezing Bucky’s hand. “Let’s go.” 

You backtrack through the tower to the common area and give the others a heads-up. Then, taking the route furthest from Bob’s room, the group filters out. Yelena and Ava decide to hang back and keep watch, while Alexei and John head off in search of lunch. 

You and Bucky say your goodbyes—for the second time today—before heading down the street toward your shared apartment. 

“What was all that, hm?” Bucky asks gently, his voice soft but his eyes sharp with concern. 

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t still want to go back. The darkness hadn’t scared you—it hadn’t even really deterred you. All you could think about was the man trapped inside it—scared and alone. Gifted with powers like a god, but still powerless against his own demons. 

“Nothing,” you say, keeping your tone light. “Just feeling a little extra empathetic today.” 

He studies you a beat longer, but you keep your eyes fixed ahead. After a minute or two, he sighs, letting go of your hand and wrapping his arm around your shoulders instead. He pulls you in close and presses a kiss to the top of your head, murmuring something too quiet for you to catch—but you’re pretty sure it’s an I love you. 

Once back at your apartment, you curl up on the couch together and start watching a movie—one you insist Bucky has to see, since he missed out on so many years of excellent pop culture. About an hour in, the pressure in your chest finally starts to lift—the weird heaviness that had been stopping you from telling Bucky what was really wrong. But instead of relief, guilt settles in, and you quickly turn to him. 

“Buck,” you say softly. 

His eyes are on his phone. “Bob’s fine now. Yelena said he woke up and wasn’t even rattled. Said the nightmare was bad, but he found it easier to stop.” 

“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s good. I’m glad.” 

He locks his phone and tosses it onto the couch beside him, giving you his full attention. “Sorry, what were you saying?” 

You nod slowly. “Yeah—um, about before. I’m sorry for not listening to you. For arguing. It was weird, and I was kind of lost in my own head.” 

He leans forward, takes both of your hands in his, and doesn’t speak—just laces your fingers together and watches how his hands swallow yours. 

You clear your throat, hesitating. “Do you remember when I told you about that strange woman who came up to me at The Vantage Summer Gala a few years ago?” 

His gaze lifts to yours, steady. “Of course. The lady who told you about your soulmate.” 

“Well,” you begin, “I was telling the others about it—Alexei brought up those books I supposedly told him to read, and... I don’t know, we ended up talking about soulmates, or whatever. And after I told them the story, Alexei started asking weird questions. Like if I believed her. If I think you’re my soulmate. And then... what if you’re not? And—and—” Your voice catches, throat thickening. “And w-what if—” 

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, scooting closer and wrapping his arms around you. “You’re not about to cry over something dumb Alexei said, are you?” 

You let out a watery laugh, your eyes welling as you press your cheek to his shoulder. 

“I knew something was eating at you, doll,” he whispers into your hair, breath warm against your skin. 

You sniffle, blinking fast. “It just feels so stupid.” 

“Nothing’s stupid if it hurts you,” he says firmly. “And you don’t ever have to keep things from me. I don’t care how small it feels—if it’s bothering you, I want to know.” 

“Okay,” you mumble into his shirt. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” he sighs, pulling back just enough to look at you, still holding you close. “Don’t ever be sorry for being upset.” 

You swipe the back of your hand beneath your nose. 

“Now listen, okay?” He takes your hands again, holding them tight. “This might not help, but I need to say it.” 

You frown but stay quiet, holding your breath like it might help hold back the tears. 

“I know you’re unsure about what that woman told you,” he starts, “and I don’t know if soulmates are real or if fate really gives a damn about people like us. But I know what I feel when I look at you, and when you look at me.” He pauses, just for a beat. “I love you. And not because the universe says I should. I love you because you’re kind, and sharp, and stubborn as hell. I love the way you get quiet when you’re overthinking, and the way you look at me like I’m someone worth staying for.” 

A few tears slip down your cheeks as he takes a shaky breath. 

“But if one day, you find out there is someone else—if that soulmate thing is real, and you meet him and your whole world shifts—then I won’t hold you back. Even if it kills me, I won’t be the reason you’re not happy.” 

The tears start falling faster. 

“Do I want that? Hell no. I want you. Here. With me. Always. But loving someone means putting them first, even when it hurts. So if it ever comes to that… I’ll let you go. But until then… I’m all in. Every part of me is yours. No marks. No fate. Just choice. And I choose you.” 

His voice wobbles as he finishes, his eyes shining with unshed tears. 

You swallow a sob and take a deep breath, willing your voice to work. 

“I love you too,” you whisper, a little pitiful after his brilliant speech. 

He grins—and you barely get a second to appreciate it before he’s on you. His lips crash into yours, his hands gripping your body as he presses you back on the couch. The movie is long forgotten as he kisses you like you're the only place he’s ever felt at home. 

You start fumbling with his shirt, trying to undress him, but barely make it far before his phone starts buzzing. 

He groans and pushes up, and you let him go—his line of work is literally life or death. 

“Everything okay?” you ask. 

He nods, tapping out a quick reply before locking his phone again. “Yeah. Just John asking about tomorrow night.” 

“The foundation ball thing?” 

“Yep,” he sighs. “Can’t wait.” 

You lean in until your lips are just inches from his. “Can I come?” 

He frowns. “I thought you didn’t want to?” 

“I didn’t,” you say. “But now I do. I think I need to be there.” 

His expression softens as he leans in to kiss you again, murmuring, “Of course you can come.” 

- 

You feel strange under the glowing lights of the lavishly decorated ballroom. You haven’t even stepped foot in a place like this since your encounter with the fate lady—which isn’t helping that nagging anxiety that hasn’t let up since yesterday. But you’re still here, dressed to the nines and sipping champagne, because you knew you had to be. You just felt it. In your bones. 

“Wow, you clean up nice,” Yelena says, her eyes sparkling as she approaches. 

You’re at a high table near the back of the room, conveniently close to the bar. 

“And excellent choice in location,” she adds with a wink. 

You laugh quietly. “Yeah, I’m not a fan of these kinds of functions unless there’s copious amounts of alcohol involved.” 

“I’m not a fan of much without copious amounts of alcohol,” she says dryly. “But I imagine you’ve got a little PTSD from this kind of thing. Especially after the voodoo lady read your palms.” 

Her tone is teasing, but her words still prick your chest like tiny needles full of panic. 

“Very funny,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll meet a crazy woman tonight who can tell you all about your future.” 

She scoffs. “No thank you. I am perfectly happy keeping that a mystery.” 

You snort softly into your glass and take a generous sip of champagne. 

“I’m pretty sure the only reason Alexei came tonight was in hopes of getting his fortune told,” she says, glancing across the room to where he’s talking to Bucky. “You know he hasn’t shut up about it for the past twenty-four hours? He even asked me to help him use a computer so he could research.” 

“Oh my God,” you giggle. “I’m so sorry.” 

Before either of you can say anything else, Alexei catches your eye and his face splits into a grin. He waves enthusiastically, then quickly excuses himself and begins weaving through the crowd. 

“Oh, great,” Yelena sighs. “He’s coming over here.” 

“You are here!” he exclaims, earning a few curious glances from nearby guests. “I am so excited to see you. We have much to talk about.” 

You can’t help the laugh that escapes your lips. “Hey, Alexei. Yelena was just telling me you’ve been doing some research.” 

“Lots of research,” he confirms, setting his beer down on the table. “I know everything about mates. Ask me anything.” 

Ignoring the sting of nerves rushing through your veins, you start to search for a safe question—something that won’t set your anxiety on fire. 

“How do you know if you’ve met them?” Yelena cuts in before you can speak. 

Alexei’s eyes light up. “Ah, good question. It is obvious. You cannot deny it once you meet them. It feels like gravity is gone, and they become your only tether to the earth. You don’t need oxygen. You don’t need water. You just need them.” He smiles proudly and nods at both of you. “Now ask me what happens when you touch them.” 

You frown, curiosity getting the better of you. “What’s the difference? Between simply meeting them and touching them?” 

“There is all the difference,” he says, frowning like you’ve just asked the dumbest question imaginable. “You see them, and yes, you know—but you still have choice. When you touch them, you cannot change mind. You can try, but it is too painful.” 

You tilt your head. “Like... it actually hurts? Or it’s just emotionally difficult?” 

“It physically hurts,” Yelena answers, and your gaze snaps to her. “You’ve acknowledged the connection, so you can’t go back to being without them. It feels like you’re being torn apart the further you try to get away.” 

You raise your brows, surprised by her sudden expertise. 

“What?” she snaps. “I was helping him use the computer, okay?” 

You press your lips together to stifle a laugh and turn back to Alexei. “Okay, so what happens if you don’t like your mate?” 

He scoffs, throwing his head back dramatically. “It is not possible. These two people are designed to be together, from birth. It is deeper than souls or magic. You cannot even describe it. There is no way two beings created for each other could possibly dislike one another.” 

“Okay...” you say softly, “but what if you deny it?” 

“Deny it?” he echoes. “You cannot—because you will not want to. The second you find them, you will ache for them in ways you cannot explain. No one else will ever fit. No one else will ever satisfy. You will crave them in your blood, in your breath. Denying it would be like trying to unmake the sky.” 

His words knock the breath out of you for the second time in twenty-four hours. You nearly stumble back at their weight—at the way they land straight in your chest. 

“This part is interesting too,” Alexei continues, ignoring the way your face has paled. “Before you meet them, you feel it.” 

John appears beside you, setting his drink down on the table and eyeing Alexei with a frown. “What do you mean, feel it?” 

“When you are close to meeting them, everything shifts,” he says. “Just a little. Sometimes it feels like anxiety. Sometimes it feels like peace. But always, it feels like something is happening—something inevitable. You start going places without knowing why, saying yes to things you would normally refuse. There is a pull in your gut, something telling you where to go. Like the universe is nudging you to where you are supposed to be.” 

The words hang in the air, humming like static before a storm—until Yelena’s voice slices through the tension. 

“Walker,” she snaps, frowning. “Where the hell is Bob?” 

John blinks, taken aback. “I don’t know. I thought Ava was with him.” 

You glance between the two blondes, blinking slowly. “Wait—Bob is here?” 

“Yes,” Yelena says, clearly irritated. “He asked to come. Said he needed to be here—I don’t know. I felt bad saying no, he never leaves the tower.” 

John exhales sharply. “I’ll go find him.” 

Yelena turns to Alexei. “Can you go track down Ava? Let us know if she’s with him.” 

“I’ll tell Bucky,” you say quickly, already moving as you slip away from the table and into the crowd. 

You move through the crowd with steady purpose, weaving between glittering gowns and polished tuxedos, eyes scanning for that familiar face. 

Bucky. You’re looking for Bucky. 

The ballroom thrums behind you—laughter, clinking glasses, the low swell of music—but it all begins to blur. Your heartbeat picks up, not with panic, but with something else. Something you can’t name. A shift beneath your skin. 

You slip through a side door, into a wide corridor draped in golden light. The hush is immediate, swallowing the noise of the party like a dream closing over waking thought. The silence buzzes in your ears, and the air feels... heavier. Thicker. Like the world had been holding its breath, and you just stepped into the exhale. 

You walk slowly, drawn forward without thought. Each step echoes, like it belongs to someone else. 

And then—you see him. 

At the far end of the hallway, half-turned as if he wasn’t sure whether to leave or stay, stands a man. Tall. Tousled brown curls. Shoulders hunched just slightly in a way that says he doesn’t quite know how to fit inside his own skin. His head lifts as if sensing you, like a string inside him just snapped taut. 

His eyes meet yours. 

It’s not a lightning bolt. It’s not an explosion. It’s worse—or better. It’s everything. The moment stretches, distorts. A pressure builds in your chest, like gravity has decided to anchor you only to him. 

You can’t breathe. 

The world doesn’t blur—it sharpens. Every detail. The rise of his chest as he inhales, the exact shade of his deep blue eyes, the way his fingers twitch like they know something his mind hasn’t caught up to yet. You feel it in your bones, in your blood, like a long-lost note finally striking true. 

Your mouth parts, but there’s nothing to say. 

He takes a step forward, unsure. Almost afraid. 

And you realise—you weren’t searching for Bucky. Not really. 

You were being led to him. 

“D-Do I know you?” His voice carries down the corridor—low, deep, wrapping around you like silk and smoke. 

“No,” you whisper, even as every part of you screams yes. 

He’s still a few feet away, and you’re not even sure he heard you—but his head tilts, just slightly, like he did. Then he takes a step. And another. 

Drawn forward like the tide answering the moon. 

His movements are slow, deliberate—like he’s caught in the pull of something he doesn’t understand, only knows he has to follow. Eyes locked to yours, wide and dark, shimmering with a quiet awe you can’t name. 

He doesn’t stop until he’s standing right in front of you—close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Close enough to forget how to breathe. But you don’t need to breathe. Not now. Not when he’s here. 

He is your oxygen. Your gravity. 

He is everything you will ever need. 

Everything you want. 

He is everything. 

“Hey—there you are.” The voice crashes into you like a wave shattering glass. 

You jolt, snapping your head toward Bucky as he rounds the corner, a sheepish grin on his face, completely unaware of the world he’s just torn apart. 

“Bucky,” you mutter, as if reminding yourself of his name. 

Bucky frowns, curiosity sharpening his gaze as it flicks between you and the man beside you. “Bob?” 

You whip back to Bob, eyes widening at his outstretched hand—fingertips hovering just a breath from your arm. 

You flinch as if burned, stepping back before he can touch you—and his eyes snap up, darkening with something raw and wounded. The crack in your chest widens, because you feel it too. The sting of refusal. The ache of distance. The desperate, inexplicable need to feel his skin against yours—a need neither of you understands, but both feel deep in your bones. 

“What’s going on?” Bucky’s voice is tight as his eyes settle on you. 

You meet his gaze, a sharp pang of guilt slicing through your chest—because the face you love isn’t the one your heart seeks anymore. Your eyes? They’re drawn only to Bob. To memorise every line, to trace every curve. To know him more intimately than your own reflection, more deeply than the shadows behind your closed eyelids. 

“I was—I, uh—looking for you,” you say, forcing your gaze to stay with him. 

His posture stiffens, guarded—something you know all too well after years together. His brow furrows as his sharp eyes dart between you and Bob. He can sense it—whatever it is. The shift in gravity, the subtle movement beneath the earth. He knows there’s something more, but he doesn’t know what. Or maybe he doesn’t want to. 

He fixes his gaze on you. “Are you okay?” 

You nod slowly, then glance at Bob—you can’t help yourself—and it feels like surfacing from deep underwater, finally able to breathe. “Bob,” you whisper. 

Bucky clears his throat. “Right. Of course. You two haven’t met yet.” 

He wraps an arm around your waist and Bob’s eyes flare with heat—anger. He moves as if to shove Bucky away, but you find his gaze and silently plead for restraint. 

You swear his eyes darken a shade, but he holds back. Jaw clenched, shoulders rigid—tense—but no longer coiled to strike.  

“Bob,” Bucky says, eyes flickering between the two of you—clearly not missing the silent exchange or the way Bob’s body tensed. “This is my fiancé.” 

Time stops—or at least, it feels that way. Bob’s eyes don’t leave yours, that same wounded look returning—only now, it’s splintered into something far more devastating. Like he’d caught a glimpse of heaven—just for a moment—before being ripped from the sky and cast down. Down through the clouds, through the earth, all the way into fire. 

He was so close. So close to having everything. To having you. 

Now all that’s left is ash in his mouth, and a slow, burning fury aimed at the man standing beside you. A man he calls a friend. A teammate. 

“I need to go,” you whisper. “I—I feel sick.” 

Bucky’s arm tightens protectively around you. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

You shake your head, eyes stinging. “I need to leave. Can we go—” your voice breaks as you glance up at him, wide-eyed and pleading, “—please.” 

He doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll take you home, doll.” Then he turns to Bob. “Yelena’s looking for you. Come on.” 

Bucky guides you back through the same door you’d slipped through earlier, back into the chaos of the ballroom. The music, the chatter, the laughter—it all feels like it’s coming from underwater. The world keeps spinning, blissfully unaware that your axis has tilted. 

A few guests nod or greet Bucky as he passes, but he doesn’t stop. He can feel the way you’re swaying beside him, the way your weight leans harder against him with every step. He’s moving fast now. He knows something���s wrong. 

So do you. 

Your vision swims. The lights blur into streaks of gold and silver, voices folding into one another like crashing waves. 

Somewhere in the distance, you hear Yelena. Then Alexei. Then—Bob. 

Bob. 

You spot him behind Yelena, eyes wide and wounded, standing like a ghost at the edge of your unravelling world. 

He’s the only thing that makes sense in the chaos. 

The only thing that’s clear. 

And all you want to do is reach for him. 

But you can’t. 

Not here. Not now. 

Not ever. 

Because you love Bucky. 

Because you chose Bucky. 

“Bucky,” you murmur, barely audible, “Need t’ go…” 

His arm tightens again. “I’ve got you.” 

“Is she okay?” Yelena’s voice cuts through the noise. 

“I don’t know,” Bucky answers, urgency creeping into his tone. “I need to get her out of here—now.” 

You try to blink, but your eyes don’t open again. 

The music and chatter twist into a storm—deafening, chaotic, pounding against your skull. 

You try to move, to breathe, to see—but nothing works. 

Your eyelids are too heavy. 

Your lungs feel like they’re filling with water. 

Your chest is caving in under the weight of it. 

Everything is too heavy. Too loud. Too much. 

Then— 

The world cuts out. 

Everything stops. 

- 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Yelena’s voice is muffled, but still clear. 

“Keep it down,” Bucky hisses, his voice low—laced with urgency and… grief.  

“I came here to ask if you knew what happened to Bob last night, because he’s been acting weirder than usual,” Yelena snaps, no softer than before. “But I did not come here for bullshit—I get enough of that from Alexei.” 

Bucky exhales a long, tired breath. “Maybe we need to talk to Alexei.” 

“Why the hell would we do that?” Yelena demands. “Whatever he’s been on about these past few days isn’t real. He’s off with the fairies—literally. Do not tell me you actually believe in all that stupid soulmate crap.” 

There’s a pause. A thick, heavy silence as you try to peel your eyelids open. But you can’t. They’re too heavy. 

“You didn’t see what I saw, Yelena,” Bucky says, voice strained. “The way they looked at each other... it felt—I don’t know. Like something cracked open. They were just standing there, but it was like all the air got sucked out of the room. I could feel it—the whole world shifting.” 

“You sound like Alexei,” Yelena replies, deadpan. “So you’re either on drugs, hit your head, or you’re trying to be funny.” 

“Why would I joke about the woman I love being inextricably bound to another man?” 

Your eyes snap open. Heat licks up your spine and burns behind your eyes as your vision adjusts to the harsh morning sun. 

“Okay. So, drugs. Or you bumped your head,” Yelena says, voice carrying through your bedroom door. 

“Yelena,” Bucky pleads, voice cracking. “Please. I don’t know what happened, but I know something did. I need your help.” 

She sighs. “Okay, fine. But you asked for this.” There’s a pause before she adds, “I’ll call Alexei.” 

Your mouth is dry and your whole body aches with stiffness as you sit up, rubbing at your burning eyes. The sun through the window is too low and too bright for it to be your usual wake-up time—so you know you’ve overslept. 

You throw back the duvet and swing your legs over the edge of the bed, curling your toes into the plush carpet you and Bucky picked out together. You’d chosen it the second you stepped into the flooring store. The saleswoman warned you off it—something about loose threads and visible tread marks—but it was just so unbelievably soft, you couldn’t imagine choosing anything else. 

The day it was installed, you and Bucky spent the first fifteen minutes making carpet angels, laughing like idiots, and revelling in the feel of it beneath your skin. Then you spent the next hour defiling the brand-new flooring. There’s still a stain you never managed to get out—thankfully hidden beneath the bed. 

Your stomach twists with nausea, bile climbing your throat until you gag. You scramble to your feet and rush into the ensuite, gripping the basin for dear life as you cough up nothing but stomach acid. 

Tears well up, spilling hot and fast down your cheeks before your mind can even catch up. 

You feel wrecked. Totally and utterly ruined. Chewed up and spat out by the universe. 

You don’t understand anything. It’s like you’ve been dropped into the centre of the labyrinth without a torch. But there’s a rope inside your gut—tugging, steady and sure—pulling you in a direction that promises escape. Only, it’s not leading you toward where you should be going. Not to Bucky. 

No, the rope is dragging you toward someone else. Your mate. The man from last night. Bob. The only thing your body seems to crave. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, letting your heavy eyelids fall shut as you slowly straighten. 

You avoid your reflection in the mirror as you strip off and step into the shower. You can’t look at yourself right now. You’re not just confused—you’re scared. Something inside you has changed, irrevocably. And you know that the moment you admit it, you’ll lose the power to stop it. 

Once you’re showered and slightly less of a wreck, you wrap yourself in a comfortable pair of sweats and an old hoodie—one you haven’t worn in a while, since you usually prefer to steal Bucky’s. But not today. You tried to put on one of his sweaters, but the smell made you gag. And then you started crying again. Because yesterday, his scent was one of the most comforting things in the world to you. But not anymore. 

Now, all you can think about is Bob—where he is, what he’s doing. And you know he’s thinking about you too. You can feel it. 

After another few minutes of tears, you dry your cheeks and take a deep breath before stepping out of the bedroom and padding down the hall. When you reach the lounge room, the low chatter dies instantly, and three pairs of eyes turn to you—wide and full of concern. 

“Hey,” Bucky murmurs, brows drawn tight. “How are you feeling?” 

“Great,” you mutter sarcastically, avoiding his gaze. 

“You do not look great,” Alexei says flatly. 

Yelena rolls her eyes. “Thank you, Alexei. She knows.” 

You curl up on the far end of the three-seater lounge, putting as much distance as possible between you and Yelena. Bucky is on the two-seater, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and Alexei is perched on one of the dining room chairs with his back to the TV. 

It’s on, but the volume is muted. 

“So,” your eyes flick toward Yelena, “what’s all this about?” 

She sighs, her gaze darting to Bucky before settling back on you. “I came over to ask Barnes if he knew what happened to Bob last night, because he was acting strange—stranger than usual. But instead, I get told a bunch of bullshit about this ridiculous soulmates thing that Alexei has been going on about. And now I’m being forced to entertain the idea that it might be real. So... explain.” 

You frown. “Explain what?” 

“Whatever happened with you and Bob last night,” she says, waving a hand like the answer should be obvious. 

You blink a few times, brows pulling tighter as you glance down. The room thickens with silence, tension rising in the air. The only sound is Alexei’s heavy breathing. 

“What do you mean... he was acting strange?” you ask softly. 

Yelena sighs again, tipping her head as if searching for the right words. “He was... weirdly calm. And not the kind of quiet, anxiety-ridden, dissociative ‘calm’ he usually is. He was actually peaceful. It was kind of alarming. So Ava stayed up all night to keep watch. We thought it might be the ‘calm before the storm’—you know, before one of his other personalities came out to play—but... nothing. He went to bed and slept. No noise, no darkness. Ava even phased into his room to check he was still there. And he was—sleeping peacefully.” She pauses. “He was... talking, though. Kept saying your name.” 

You swallow—hard. “My name?” 

She nods. 

“Okay,” you mutter. “That doesn’t really mean... anything.” You glance at Alexei, like he might save you. “Right?” 

“Doll,” Bucky says softly, voice tight, eyes still locked on the floor. “You were sayin’ his name all night too.” 

You choke on nothing. Your chest tightens, lungs aching, heart leaping into an erratic rhythm. 

“Alexei,” Yelena says sharply, turning toward her father. “Assuming this ridiculousness is real—how do we know for sure?” 

Alexei raises his brows, eyes fixed on you. “She knows. And so does Bob. There is no magical way of asking the universe. They just know.” 

Yelena’s head snaps back to you, her eyes wide, expectant. “So?” 

A few silent tears slip down your cheeks, and you blink quickly, trying to keep the whole dam from breaking. 

“Oh,” she murmurs, rearing back slightly. “I’m sorry.” 

You let out a weak, watery laugh. “Why are you sorry?” 

She shrugs. “For being harsh, I guess? I don’t know. I’m just... confused. It’s hard to believe any of this is real, but—” 

“Why else would it affect them so much?” Alexei cuts in, gesturing toward you. “Whether or not you believe it, you cannot deny something has happened. Look at her. You think this is what happens when she simply meets someone new? Of course not—that would be crazy.” 

“Couldn’t it be something else?” Yelena presses, brows knit. “Like, maybe Bob’s powers just—” 

“You said it yourself,” Bucky interrupts, “he’s been better lately—especially last night. You really think that’s a coincidence?” 

“Did not the crazy lady say it to you?” Alexei asks, eyes locking on you. “That you and your mate were something special?” 

You nod slowly, sniffing and wiping the wetness from your cheeks. A beat of silence stretches between the four of you as you try to compose yourself, pressing down the guilt and that strange new sensation pulling you toward your mate. 

“So... what do we do?” you ask, your voice hoarse as it slices through the quiet. “How do we stop it?” 

“Stop it?” Alexei echoes. “You do not stop it. It’s not possible.” 

Your bottom lip quivers. “But Bucky—” 

“This isn’t about me,” Bucky says, eyes dark as he finally looks up. “If Bob could control himself after just meeting her, then this could be—this could help him control his powers. He might be able to use them without the other two showing up.” 

You frown, narrowing your eyes. “What are you talking about?” 

He doesn’t answer you. Instead, he turns to Yelena. “She could help him. This could help the whole the team.” 

Frustration bubbles beneath your skin, spreading like wildfire through your veins and making your heart pound. “This isn’t about the team, Bucky,” you snap. “This is about you and me.” 

Nausea swirls low in your gut, your body physically rebelling at your own words—this attempt to reject your mate. Because you don’t want to. Not really. But you know you should. You chose Bucky. And you’re going to stick with that. 

Even if it kills you. 

“Barnes...” Yelena says softly. “I’m not sure if—” 

“This isn’t about me!” he exclaims, turning toward her sharply, his expression stormy. “Not anymore.” 

You watch him with wide, watery eyes. “Bucky. Please. I don’t—I don’t want this... I don’t—” Your voice catches, breath halting as you fight for the words. “I don’t want... him.” It burns to say it, but you know it’s what Bucky needs to hear. “I want you. I choose you.” 

His face softens, blue eyes turning almost cerulean—the way they do when he’s close to tears. 

You turn to Alexei. “Couldn’t I just... help Bob? Be there for him to help control his powers and—and still be with Bucky?” 

Alexei chuckles—low and soft, full of quiet contrition. “You could try. But it would be difficult... being so close to him, wanting him in a way you cannot explain, and holding yourself back. Not to mention the physical and emotional pain you would put him through.” 

“So,” Yelena pipes up, “this could make Bob worse?” 

Alexei shrugs. “Theoretically, yes.” 

“Can’t we just try it?” you ask, your voice cracking halfway through as more tears spill down your cheeks. 

Yelena scoots closer and gently places her hand on your knee. She’s not entirely sure what to do—your body language is still guarded—but you offer her a soft smile as her thumb begins to trace small, calming circles. 

“We can try it,” she says quietly. 

Bucky nods, watching you with a heavy expression and the faintest spark of hope behind his eyes. “It’s worth a shot.” 

Alexei leans forward, his eyes crinkled and mouth pulling into an awkward grimace. “Well... there is one more thing.” 

You all turn toward him, frowning. 

“Do you remember what I said last night? About... it being different when you touch?” 

You nod slowly. 

“If you want to try just being his friend, then you cannot touch him,” he says. “Not at all. And you will want to—badly. But you cannot.” 

Yelena lifts a brow. “Why?” 

There’s a pause—an awkward silence while Alexei searches for the right words. 

“You will not be able to... resist, as you say. When you first see him, it is all spiritual. Like fate. An invisible string pulling you together, but...” he hesitates, brow furrowed. “When you touch, it is more... physical.” 

You suck in a sharp breath. “Physical?” 

“Yes.” He nods. “Like... sexual. You will not be able to—” 

“No, no,” Yelena cuts in, eyes wide as they flick toward Bucky. “We do not need to unpack this. She just won’t touch him.” She looks at you pointedly. “Right?” 

You nod. “Exactly.” 

Never mind that your fingertips are already burning. That your whole body is buzzing, restless with the ache to be near Bob again. The idea of his skin against yours sparks like a live wire and makes every nerve ending flare to life. You feel lit up—like something dormant inside you has snapped awake. Like a part of you was missing, and now that you’ve found it—felt it—you can’t breathe without it. 

Yeah... this is going to be fine. 

- 

The day has been long. Maybe the longest you’ve ever lived through. 

You tried to read. You tried watching TV. You even went for a run—which turned into a walk, which turned into a slow lap around the block before you forced yourself back inside. Because all you really wanted to do was find Bob. Go to him. Be near him. 

It’s strange. Unlike anything you’ve ever felt. You know him—somehow. Like he already belongs to you, and you to him, even though you’ve only met once. Barely exchanged a handful of words. 

Your whole body aches for him in a way you don’t understand. You feel like you’re fading without him, like staying away too long might cause you to unravel entirely. The idea of never seeing him again makes your stomach churn. 

But you can’t let it show. You have to remember you chose Bucky. He’s your person—not this stranger with eyes that feel like home. You gave your word. You said yes. 

So you’re going to marry Bucky. 

Even if it’s not what you want anymore. 

Even if he’s not what you want anymore. 

“You sure you’re feeling better?” Bucky asks, stopping at the door to the bathroom. 

You’ve been standing in a towel, staring at your reflection for at least five minutes now, trying to will yourself into being stronger. To shake this feeling. To silence the strange, restless hum beneath your skin—like stardust catching fire. Like gravity itself has shifted, bending around you, pulling your soul toward Bob’s with a force so fierce it almost hurts. 

You clear your throat. “Much better, I promise.” 

He gives you a small smile—weak, but still there. 

There’s a beat of silence. A stretch of unfamiliar energy between you, tense and fraying at the edges. As if the universe itself is rejecting the bond you once believed was written in the stars. 

But the stars had nothing to do with you and Bucky. Not really. 

Now you know what it truly feels like when the stars choose. When they bind one soul to another. 

“I love you,” he says softly, his voice hoarse. “Regardless of everything. Whatever you choose—I love you. I always will.” 

Your eyes fill with tears—easily, instantly. 

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper. “I wish I could—” 

“Don’t,” he cuts in, nearly choking on the word. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for.” 

“But—” 

“Doll, I’m serious.” He steps forward, hesitating before reaching out with his flesh hand. You take it, and he gently pulls you a step closer. 

“I know what I said before—about the team. That shouldn’t have been what I was worried about. But it was easier, you know? Easier to focus on something practical than to face the truth. Which is… I think I’m going to lose you.” 

You shake your head, tears already spilling. “No, you’re not—” 

“It’s okay,” he whispers, forcing a tight, sad smile. “Maybe it’s meant to happen. Like… literally written in the stars, right? And if being away from him is hurting you, I won’t be the one who makes you stay. That’s the last thing I want.” 

He looks away, jaw working, before he meets your eyes again. “So just… forgive me. If I shut down. If I don’t know how to deal with this. If I can’t always stick around when—if—you choose him.” His voice trembles. “Because it’s going to hurt, doll. More than I probably know how to handle. But I meant what I said—I’ll let you go.” 

He blinks fast, but a few tears escape anyway, carving slow trails across his cheeks. “If that’s what’s right—for you, for him, for fate or the universe or whatever this is—then I won’t fight it.” 

He pauses, breathing deep.  

“But you have to promise me something.” His voice steadies, just a little. “Don’t hurt yourself for me. Don’t hold back. Don’t settle. Don’t lie to yourself just because you made a promise before everything changed. Before you knew what this really was. Can you promise me that?” 

You swallow hard, your breath catching in short, shallow gasps as you try not to scream. All you can do is nod. 

“Good,” he whispers, his fingers brushing the ring on your left hand. 

Then he leans in, eyes fluttering shut as he presses a soft kiss to your damp cheek. 

A sob breaks free from your chest, more tears falling fast as he slowly turns and walks away—leaving you standing there, crying for what feels like the thousandth time today. 

Not because you don’t love him. 

But because you don’t want him. 

And you hate yourself for that. Hate that you’re doing this to him.  

But there’s nothing in you strong enough to stop it. So all you can do now is try not to hurt him more than you already have. Try to make it work. 

Which is exactly why you’re going to the tower tonight. 

To see Bob. To talk to Bob. 

Because this thing—whatever it is—it involves him too. 

And that’s something everyone else seems to have forgotten. 

After drying your eyes—and then your body—you change into a fresh pair of sweats and another old hoodie. You pull on a pair of sneakers, run a brush through your hair, and head out the door. You don’t care about looking good right now. You don’t even care about looking decent. You just want to see Bob. 

The walk to the tower is quiet. Bucky doesn’t try to hold your hand, and you don’t notice until you’re standing outside the looming building—when nerves start to creep in and you suddenly wish you had something to hold on to. 

You glance his way, mouth parting—to ask for his hand, for comfort—but then you feel it. 

That pull. 

It threads through you like a live current, drawing you forward, calling to you like a heartbeat echoing in someone else’s chest. Like the ache of a memory you’ve never lived. 

“You ready?” Bucky asks softly. 

But his voice barely reaches you. It sounds distant, like he’s speaking from another room—or underwater. Muffled beneath the steady thrum of your pulse. 

You nod, eyes fixed ahead as you step through the doors. Into the elevator. 

You wait—still, silent—breath caught in your chest. 

Then the doors open. 

The moment you step into the common room, the air changes. 

Alexei, Yelena, Ava, and John are gathered near the TV, the low hum of a movie playing as they speak in hushed tones—careful, like they’re trying not to break something fragile. But none of them are the first thing you see. 

It’s Bob. 

He’s sitting alone on the far couch, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers laced loosely as he stares at nothing in particular. Like he’s been waiting in stillness. Like he knew. 

His head lifts before you even take a full step into the room. 

The moment your eyes meet, the rest of the world exhales. Or maybe it holds its breath—you can’t tell. All you know is that everything inside you goes quiet. The noise, the ache, the confusion—it all stills beneath the gravity of him. The pull. 

You don’t move at first. Neither does he. It’s like your souls got there before your bodies could catch up. Like the space between you is still catching fire. 

And then, gently, you walk toward him. Just a few steps. He rises slowly, hands by his sides, eyes locked on yours with a look so open, so raw, it nearly undoes you. 

No one speaks. 

Not until Ava lets out a soft, wide-eyed breath from the couch. “Holy shit.” 

The others glance between you and Bob, exchanging looks, but no one interrupts. No jokes. No commentary. Just the quiet understanding of people who have just witnessed something that feels... bigger. 

You stop in front of him. Close, but not touching. His breath hitches. Yours does too. 

Still, neither of you says a word. 

You don’t need to. 

Because whatever this is—this ancient, aching thing that lives between your ribs and beneath your skin—it’s speaking loud enough for both of you. 

Yelena clears her throat, gaze lingering on Bucky. “Okay… yeah. I get it now.” 

You blink rapidly, like you’ve just slammed back into your body after falling out of it. Slowly, you step back, eyes flicking toward the rest of the team—but refusing to snap straight back to Bob. 

“This is crazy,” Alexei says, his grin so wide and his eyes so bright it looks like he might actually combust. 

John pulls a face, nose wrinkled, confusion and mild disgust written all over him. “I can, like… feel it too.” He looks at you, alarmed. “Why?” 

You shrug, breath caught in your throat, your voice nowhere to be found. 

There’s a beat of silence, thick and humming with the weight of unspoken words and the flood of questions swirling through everyone’s minds. 

Then John claps his hands together, loud and abrupt. “Okay, so… how do we figure out if she can control him?” 

That snaps the room back into motion. 

“I don’t think it works like that,” Ava mutters, folding her arms. 

“How the hell would you know?” John fires back. 

Alexei lifts a brow. “She is not here to control Bob.” 

“Oh. Okay. Did you read that in one of your magic manuals?” John scoffs. 

“Walker, please,” Yelena sighs. “Now is not the time to argue.” 

They start talking over one another, voices rising and overlapping like a wave about to crash. 

And then— 

“Wait.” 

The single word is soft. Barely audible. 

Bob. 

Everyone turns, and the room falls back into a heavy silence. 

He shifts slightly on his feet, shoulders drawn tight, eyes fixed on the floor for a beat before flickering up to you. His voice is uncertain, but steady enough. “I… I’m confused.” 

There’s a pause. 

“What do you mean?” Yelena asks gently. 

Bob swallows, glancing around the room before his gaze returns to you. 

“Well… whatever this is, I feel it. I know it. I know—” His voice falters as he looks at you again, softer now, “I know you. You’re… mine.” 

You don’t flinch. You don’t look away. 

He blinks, grounding himself. 

“But… I don’t understand what’s happening. Why it’s happening. Or… what you’re all talking about.” 

You open your mouth, but Bucky speaks first, stepping forward. 

“She’s not staying,” he says quietly, almost scared to say it out loud. “Not really. She’s… choosing me.” 

Bob’s brows pull together, dark blue eyes widening. 

“I mean… she’s here to help,” Yelena jumps in, a little too quickly. “Just to help. While we figure things out.” 

“Help,” Bob repeats, like he’s trying to fit the word into a sentence that doesn’t quite work. 

You finally speak, voice low. “I’m not leaving you. Not completely. But I also… I made a promise. And right now, I’m trying to keep it.” 

Bob’s eyes search yours—not angry. Not desperate. Just… aching with the effort of holding something too big for his hands. 

And somehow, that’s what hurts the most. 

Because those words taste like acid in your mouth. Burning your tongue like white-hot lies. 

You don’t want to keep your promise—not now. Not when he is standing there, looking at you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this world. You don’t want to walk away to protect someone else, even if that someone else has your heart in his hands too. 

All you want is this. Him. The man in front of you. 

You want to hold him. To reach across the impossible space between you and wrap your fingers around his and never let go. To tell him that whatever force carved your souls from the same star had it right. That you don’t care about the plan or the past or the path you promised to walk. 

You just want to stay. 

You want to lace your soul into words and place them in his hands. 

To tell him that you’ll keep him safe. 

That you’ll be the light when his world goes dark. 

That you’ll be steady when everything else shakes apart. 

That he doesn’t have to be alone anymore. 

That you’re his. 

Because you are. You always were. Even before you knew. 

And walking away from that feels like trying to cut the sky in half and pretend the stars won’t notice. 

“I—I don’t understand,” Bob says, his voice firmer now, edged with something darker. Something dangerous. “She doesn’t want this.” 

You exhale sharply, his name slipping from your lips like a prayer. “Bob, please.” 

His eyes snap to you, wide and shining with everything he can’t bring himself to say. But you don’t need words. You don’t need promises. You just need him. 

“You don’t want this,” he repeats, softer now. Almost broken. 

You swallow hard. “I do. This is what I’m… choosing.” 

His brow pulls tight. “Why?” 

“I made a promise,” you say again, as if saying it enough times might make it true. “And I want to keep it.” 

You don’t. 

“But I’ll still be here when you need me. We can still… be together. Just… not completely.” 

Bob’s eyes shift to Bucky, dark blue bleeding into molten silver. “She’s choosing you?” 

The energy in the room changes again. 

The air goes still. No static hum. No crackle of power. Just… silence. 

Heavy and unnatural—like being buried underwater. A crushing pressure that squeezes your lungs until you forget how to breathe. 

Bob’s jaw tightens. You can see it—feel it—in the tension radiating off him. In the flicker of silver that sharpens, flares, then fades again in his eyes. 

“You’re lying,” he says quietly. 

Your breath catches. 

“I can feel you,” he continues, voice raw, trembling just beneath the surface. “That’s what this is, right? This connection? I feel you, and you feel me. So I know you don’t want this.” 

“Bob—” 

His hands clench into fists at his sides. “No. Don’t say it again. Don’t say it’s your choice. Don’t say it’s a promise. Because that’s not what you’re feeling.” His voice cracks, then drops into something lower. Rougher. “You want me. I know you do.” 

A faint pulse of cold slips through the room—sharp and unnatural, like a draft from somewhere that shouldn’t exist. It kisses your skin, raises every hair on your arms, and sinks deeper, like ice threading through bone. 

Ava shifts her weight uneasily. John glances toward Bucky, tense. 

“I don’t understand,” Bob says again, and this time his voice is breaking. “Why are you lying to me? Why are you choosing something that hurts you? That hurts us?” 

You open your mouth, but the words aren’t there. They’ve drowned somewhere in your throat, tangled in the ache behind your ribs. 

“I can feel your heart,” he whispers, silver light blooming behind his irises again. “And it’s breaking.” 

There’s a pause. A beat where no one dares to speak. No one breathes. 

Then Yelena steps forward, her voice steady. “Bob, please. You need to—” 

But he cuts her off, eyes flashing silver as his anger sharpens, gaze snapping to Bucky. “Why won’t you let her go?” 

Bucky swallows and takes a step back, his blue eyes wide and watery, flicking between you and Bob. “I—” 

“She’s not yours,” Bob says, his voice so deep it echoes through the room—through your mind. “You can’t keep her.” 

The room tenses. Silence coils thick around you, something ethereal seeping into the air like gasoline waiting for a spark. 

“Bob,” Yelena tries again, louder now, more urgent. “You need to calm down. Now.” 

You glance at the floor—at Bob’s feet. Shadows crawl across them, creeping upward, inch by inch, slowly consuming him. 

Panic flickers across his face. He knows he’s slipping. The power inside him swells—cold, fierce, pressing outward. 

His breath comes faster, fists trembling. “I’m… I’m sorry—” 

The air snaps, taut like a wire pulled too tight. His power spirals, wild and uncontained, slicing through the room in jagged bursts like shards of ice. 

The darkness creeps higher with every breath, swallowing him slow—leaving nothing in its wake but shadow, nothing but void.  

“This was supposed to help,” John snaps. “She was supposed to help him, not make it worse!” 

Alexei steps forward, eyes locked on you. “You need to go to him.” 

You shake your head, slow and small, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I—I can’t.” 

Ava backs away, her body flickering as she prepares to phase. 

“Bob, look at me,” Yelena says, steady but firm. “Breathe. You are not alone.” 

But his eyes stay on you. That look—raw heartbreak etched into every line of his face, love twisted with fear and confusion— 

It fractures something inside of you. 

“We need to get out of here,” Ava calls from a few feet away. 

John starts backing up, his eyes wide and locked on Bob—as if waiting for a sign to turn and run. 

“We cannot leave him,” Alexei says. “We go in, if we have to.” 

“Bob,” Yelena pleads. “You’ve got this. Please. You can control this.” 

Everything starts to blur. 

The shouting becomes a wall of noise, voices crashing over each other, words slurring until they’re nothing but static—a low, violent hum in your ears. The blood rushes louder. Your head throbs, a sickening, rhythmic pounding like your skull is splitting apart from the inside out. 

You want to scream. 

You want to tear at your skin just to feel something real, to make the pain physical—tangible—because at least that would make sense. You want to tell them all to shut up. To stop talking. To just let you breathe. 

You want to drop to your knees and scream into the void until it spits him back out. 

Bob. 

Bob, whose body is almost completely swallowed by shadow. 

Bob, whose eyes—silver and scared—are locked on yours, pleading. Begging. 

Bob, who holds your heart in his shaking hands. Who owns your soul, even now. Even as you’re walking away from him. 

The one thing you need… and the one thing you’re denying yourself. 

And for what? 

For the heart of someone else? For a promise that was never meant to cost this much? 

You would burn the whole damn world to save him. 

You’d tear the universe apart just to keep from breaking that heart. 

But this? This is breaking yours too. 

Bucky’s voice cuts through the chaos—barely louder than a whisper, but somehow it reaches you. Steady, but breaking. 

“It’s okay,” he says, eyes locked on yours even as his own brim with tears. “Go to him. I’ll be okay.” 

You shake your head, lips trembling, a silent protest caught in your throat. But deep down, you know he means it. You feel it—the weight of his acceptance, the way he's choosing love over possession. Choosing you, even if it breaks him. 

“I don’t want to let you go. God, I don’t. But I can’t be the reason he breaks.” 

Your chest aches so deeply it nearly folds you in half. But there’s something else there too—something small and warm and unspeakably grateful. You don’t deserve this kind of kindness. But he’s giving it anyway. 

“You still have a part of me. Always will.” His voice falters, but his eyes stay soft. “But he needs all of you right now. And I… I just want you to be safe.” 

A sound escapes your throat, half a sob, half his name. You take a shaky breath, tears sliding down your cheeks as you step toward him—not to stay, but to say thank you without words. 

His smile is soft. Cracked around the edges. Brave in the way only someone who’s breaking can be. 

“It’s okay. I promise.” 

You nod once. Swallow hard. Squeeze your eyes shut—steadying yourself. Then turn back toward him. 

Bob, who’s almost gone—his form nearly swallowed by the creeping dark, his features carved in flickers of silver and shadow. He stands there like a man on the edge of oblivion, barely tethered to this world. Just a silhouette of the boy you love, wrapped in light and ruin. 

His eyes find yours, and for a second, everything stills. 

Even now, almost lost to the void, he sees you. Only you. 

You take a step forward, your body trembling with the weight of it all—the fear, the guilt, the unbearable ache of loving something you might be too late to save. 

“Bob,” you whisper, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, like a lifeline. 

The darkness claws higher, curling up his neck like smoke. But his eyes—those bright, breaking eyes—shine through it all. The fear in them cuts through you like a blade. Not fear of what’s happening to him. 

Fear that you won’t come. 

That you’ll leave. 

That he’ll lose you, too. 

“It’s okay,” you say—to him or yourself, you’re not sure. 

You lift your hand and move forward, closing the space with slow and careful steps—like one wrong move could shatter the world. 

One step, then another—until you’re standing toe to toe with him. The shadow writhes beneath your feet, hungry and alive, but the moment you enter his space, it curls back. Like it knows you. Like it fears you. 

Or maybe it just recognises what he loves. 

The air is ice. He’s trembling. His face—barely visible now—flickers in and out of shadow like a dying flame. You reach for him, slow and sure, your fingers brushing the centre of his chest. 

Right over his heart. 

And the darkness parts. 

Just slightly—splitting like oil pulled from water, leaving a sliver of fabric beneath your touch. His heart stutters. Yours lurches. 

Then you press your palm flat. 

And a soft light blooms. 

Not blinding, not loud—just a soft, golden glow that seeps from beneath your hand like a memory. Gentle and warm. It spreads slow, steady. The shadow recoils, peeling back inch by inch, retreating from the light, from you. 

Everything stops. 

The void is gone. 

Your ears are filled with the sound of your own pulse as you stare into those dark blue eyes—like the ocean kissed the sky and gave birth to this colour just for him. 

He looks so fragile now. So tired. Wrecked not just by the strain of his powers, but by the weight of you. Of your touch. Your choice. 

You, choosing him. 

For a moment, you just stare at each other—memorising every line, every flicker of emotion—though you already know his face by heart. You’ve always known him. In dreams. In shadows. In the quiet corners of your mind. Drifting through memories and half-sleep, like your souls were stitched together before time ever started. 

Always there. Always waiting. 

“You okay?” you whisper, your voice faint, barely real. 

He nods. 

Then you collapse into him, arms winding around his waist, clinging like you’ll never let go. 

And you won’t. 

Not ever. 

There’s still guilt. A lingering ache for the hurt you’ve caused. A hollow echo of someone else’s heart breaking. 

But right now, all you feel is Bob. His arms around you, pulling you in like a lifeline. His face tucked into your neck, curls brushing your skin like a secret only he gets to know. 

All you want is Bob. 

All you need is Bob. 

You can’t believe you ever thought you could live without this. 

Without him. 

Trying to choose someone else would’ve destroyed you. You see that now. 

You feel it. 

At some point, you shift to the couch. The others are gone—when exactly, you’re not sure—but you’re grateful. You need space. Time. And Bob needs rest. 

Which he finally gets. For a few hours. 

You settle at one end, sinking into the soft cushions, with Bob’s head resting in your lap. His arms wrap around your thigh like a vice—steady strength even in sleep. You play with his curls, trace the line of his jaw, and rub gentle circles along his back as he drifts. 

You’re exhausted, but sleep eludes you. You don’t want to waste a single second with him. Never before have you wanted someone so fiercely. All you need is to feel him here—safe, alive, with you. 

So you stay awake. Occasionally you shift, easing pins and needles or aching muscles, but Bob barely stirs. He nuzzles into your lap, your lower belly, holding on as if you’re the only thing keeping him from unravelling. 

It should feel strange, wrong even. But nothing has ever felt more right. 

You know this man better than you know yourself—of that, you are certain—and no part of you hesitates or doubts. This is real. The most real thing you’ve ever known. 

You know it’ll be complicated. Awkward with the team, even more so with Bucky. You’ll have to hide it from the world for a while. But none of it matters—not one bit—when the boy in your lap breathes softly against your skin. His lashes dark on flushed cheeks, lips parted with a stray drop of drool on your thigh, and that aching, desperate pull in your chest growing stronger with every breath. 

He sleeps until the sun starts to set, and you stay with him. At one point, you turn on the TV and pick a random movie, but your eyes rarely leave Bob. You don’t need him to wake—you’re perfectly content just being near him—but when his lashes finally flutter open, your breath still catches. 

He stretches slowly, shifting against you like a cat basking in the sun all day. Then he rubs his eyes and sits up, blinking blearily, a soft smile curling at the edges of his lips. 

“You stayed,” he murmurs. 

You nod. 

Without him, your body feels cold, but you resist the urge to cling to him. He needs space to wake fully, to stretch his limbs and shake off the last vestiges of sleep. 

“Where are the others?” he asks. 

You shrug. “Not sure. They’ve been gone all day.” 

He nods slowly. “Did you—Did you leave at all?” 

“No,” you say softly. “Stayed right here.” 

He shifts closer, one hand finding yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world—as if his hands have known yours for years. 

His brow creases. “You must be starving.” 

You bite your bottom lip, weighing up your next response. Because yes, you’re hungry—but there’s something else you’re craving. Something more urgent, more raw than anything you’ve ever known. Something you need more than you want. Something Alexei warned you about, and you didn’t quite believe—until now. Now it claws at your chest, primal and fierce, relentless and aching. 

“There’s… something else,” you say slowly. “I don’t know if you—” 

“I do,” he cuts in. 

Your lips part, breath catching in quick, uneven gasps as you hold his gaze—captivated, utterly pinned by the raw hunger burning in his eyes. 

His brows lift ever so slightly, a subtle twitch—a silent question hanging in the air. You nod. 

Then he moves forward, hands cupping your jaw—careful but urgent, as if he can’t quite believe you’re real. 

The world fractures—time fractures—and everything narrows to a single, blazing point where your lips slam together with the force of a thousand storms. 

It’s raw. Fierce. Like the universe just exploded inside your chest. 

His mouth devours yours—claiming, desperate—fingers tangling in your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. You burn and tremble, caught in a tidal wave of need and relief that steals your breath. 

The air hums with electricity, silence shattered by ragged gasps and the wild pounding of your hearts—syncing, breaking, snapping together like a sacred, unspoken vow breaking free. 

Every nerve screams alive, every touch sending sparks crashing like fireworks. It’s hot, heavy, frantic—a beautiful chaos that feels like coming home after being lost forever. 

You taste everything—fire, desperation, the sharp tang of longing—and drown in it, surrendering to the moment where nothing else exists but this. 

When you finally pull back, your foreheads collide, breaths mingling in ragged gasps. His eyes are dark, wild, shattered open, and in that look, you know this bond has broken through every barrier, every shadow, every doubt. 

You’re his. 

And he’s yours. 

“I need you,” he whispers, voice rough, cracking, as his hands slip beneath your shirt. 

“I know,” you breathe, arching into him, trembling. “I need you too.” 

- 

“Do we have to?” Bob sighs, face buried in the crook of your neck, his curls tickling your bare skin. 

You giggle, placing a kiss to his shoulder, perfectly content beneath the weight of his body—his completely naked body. 

“I mean,” you murmur, fingers trailing down the dip of his spine, “you’re already late. Is there really any point in going at all?” 

He lifts his head, deep blue eyes shining with adoration as he looks at you. “Exactly,” he says, soft lips twitching. “Besides, I can think of a thousand other things I’d rather do.” 

He shifts, and you feel it—hard and heavy, pressing insistently against your lower belly. 

Your lips curl into a smirk, heat blooming low and hot between your thighs. “And what exactly might these other things entail?” 

He chuckles, sliding down slightly, tracing his tongue between the valley of your breasts. 

“So many things,” he murmurs against your skin, “all of them involving me inside of you… in one way or another.” 

You hum, eyes fluttering shut as his mouth wraps around your nipple, drawing a breathy sigh from your lips. “That sounds…” you gasp when his teeth graze the sensitive bud, “very good.” 

He looks up again, lips parting from your skin as he gives you a soft, boyish smile. His eyes are bright—almost pale blue in the morning light spilling through the windows—and he looks so damn pretty. His curls are mussed, his cheeks are pink, and his skin is pressed flush against yours in the most delicious way. Even after weeks of having him—weeks of giving yourself to him in every possible way—you still can’t get enough. 

“Does that mean we’re staying?” he asks, hands gliding up your ribs toward your breasts. 

You giggle, flinching at the ticklish drag of his fingertips across your bare skin. There’s nothing you want more than to stay right here with him—forever. You don’t care if his teammates are waiting. You don’t even care if they blame you for holding him hostage. All you want is to stay tangled up with Bob until something human forces you to stop devouring each other—either sleep or hunger, the usual culprits. 

“Yeah,” you whisper, a dopey, lovesick smile curling your lips, “we’re staying… but on one condition.” 

His brow furrows, and he sits up a little further, his hard cock grinding against you in the most distracting way. 

“Bob,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut, hands flying to his shoulders to hold him still. 

He laughs softly, low and cheeky. “Yes?” 

“I need you to fuck me,” you say, cheeks flushing pink—despite the fact that he literally just did, not five minutes ago. “Again,” you add. “And again, until I can’t walk.” 

When your eyes open, you find his—dark and hungry, a stark contrast to the sweet, boyish softness from just seconds ago. 

“And then I want pancakes,” you say with a small smirk. 

His lips curve before he surges up and crushes his mouth to yours. Your chest aches. Your stomach swirls. Every coherent thought in your head vanishes. You’ve kissed Bob hundreds—maybe thousands—of times by now, and still, every kiss is earth-shattering. Every kiss steals your breath, stops your heart, and reminds you that this man was made for you. 

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips. 

You let out a breathless sigh as he trails kisses down your jaw, his mouth sucking a bruise into the soft skin of your neck. “I love you too.” 

- 

Mates are rare. They're not just lovers or partners—they’re soul-deep bonds that tilt the earth, shatter reality, and leave everything else dull by comparison. They’re not easy. They break hearts just as easily as they heal them. But when you find yours, there’s no doubt. No fear. No force on earth strong enough to pull you away. 

Because despite everything—despite the hurt, the heartache, and the chaos—you know with absolute certainty that you’re exactly where you’re meant to be. 

With Bob. 

END.