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em1i2a3 · 1 month ago

Text

Detonate

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!/New Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: Move in day is happening at the Thunderbolts/New Avengers Compound, and Bob is having a hard time dealing with the changes.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Angst, Smut, and Fluff (the triforce of fun!), Reader and Bob are very close friends, Bob is still coming down from the Sentry medical trial he went through (going through a bit of a rough time), Bob is nervous and a bit scarred, but he’s super comfortable with the reader, they’re very close.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex, Bob is a darn yearner in this (but that’s just how it is), would I say this is hot hot sex? Yeah. Oral (fem receiving), Fingering, Hair Pulling, Body Worship (like in general), Praise Kink on full display here, Overstimulation Kink, Cock Warming (kind of…The vibes are there lol)

Author’s Note: This was a request made by an anon, I did kinda insert smut in this but I thought it kinda fit nicely into the landscape of the story! I hope everyone enjoys it! It’s a long one!

Word Count: 22,288 (holy fuck)

“Okay! Car is packed! You sure you got everything, Bob?” You asked, straightening up from where you’d just wrestled your final duffel bag into the trunk, the zipper half-stuck from being too full. A strand of hair clung to your cheek in the early morning heat, and you swiped it away with the back of your hand. The hatch creaked shut with a groan of protest– and your poor car was now packed to the brim with what felt like your entire life.

Labeled boxes overflowing with tech gear, your clothes crammed into vacuum-sealed bags that had slowly started to reinflate. Half a dozen posters rolled into tubes. A shoebox full of knick knacks, mismatched cords, and pins from old missions. And of course, the plastic bin of tangled charging cables that had somehow followed you from dorms to safehouses to apartments since 2020 without ever being untangled.

You turned, squinting into the sun, and found Bob exactly where he’d been standing for the last five minutes–rooted by the passenger door like he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to get in yet.

His hoodie sleeves were tugged down past his wrists, hands fidgeting near the frailed seams of it. His hair was still a little damp at the edges from his shower, and the morning light caught in the light brown locks that draped around his face, framing it and caressing it so nicely it was as if someone was holding his cheeks.

At his feet sat two cardboard boxes and that was it.

One was a store-bought shipping box, pristine and almost too clean, like it hadn’t been lived in yet. The other was older, more worn, marked in thick black Sharpie with your handwriting: Books for Bob.

He gave a sheepish shrug, his voice small.

“D-Didn’t really have m-much to bring. Just had those t-two boxes, remember?”

You paused.

It wasn’t the first time he’d said something like that. Not the first time he’d gestured vaguely to the corner of your shared living space with that soft, self-deprecating shrug–two boxes and a borrowed life. But it still hit you low and hard in the chest, like it always did, because he wasn’t being dramatic.

That really was all he had.

Two boxes.

One was filled with clothes you’d helped him pick out on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, just a week after he’d admitted–haltingly, almost ashamed–that the threadbare scrubs Valentina gave him weren’t actually his. Just something someone had tossed his way after the Void incident, like a temporary name tag slapped on a stranger. You’d taken him shopping that day not because he asked, but because you noticed. Because the way he tugged at his sleeves and kept checking if his shirt covered the scars on his wrists said more than any words ever could.

The other box…Well, it hadn’t started out as his. The books inside were yours. Dog-eared, tea-stained, a few with notes scrawled in the margins. But slowly–so slowly you almost didn’t notice–they’d migrated across the apartment. From your nightstand to the coffee table. From the coffee table to the arm of the couch. Until they found a home at the far end of the sectional, right next to the blanket he always folded the same way and the chipped mug he used whether it was clean or not.

That corner had become his sanctuary.

He didn’t say much when he read–just curled in on himself, long legs tucked up beneath him, blanket pulled over his knees, tea going cold in his hands while the soft lamplight pooled around his shoulders. He read them again and again, like the words were anchors. Like they reminded him that he existed. That he was still here. Still allowed to take up space.

And every time he said it–this is all I have–you felt the weight of how much he meant it.

And how badly you wanted to give him more.

Because you remembered the day where you agreed to take him in.

Not in the vague, hazy way people recall calendar events or checkmarks on a to-do list–but in the bone-deep, clear-cut way that memories get branded when they’re born from moments that matter.

It had been the night after the last press conference. The final gauntlet of public statements, forced smiles, and tightly controlled answers. Cameras flashing. Journalists circling like vultures around roadkill. Words like “recovery,” “reform,” and “containment” were getting tossed around like they meant something, like they could undo what The Void had done in New York.

And through it all, Bob had stood just behind Valentina’s shoulder–silent, unmoving, eyes glassy like he was watching it all from underwater. Like his body was there, but he wasn’t.

When the cameras finally shut off and the world stopped demanding things from him, it was like watching a puppet go slack. His shoulders caved. His posture buckled. Whatever thin thread that had been holding him together snapped the moment no one was looking.

Then, for the first time in what felt like weeks, the team finally had the opportunity to sit down and talk. No comms in their ears. No missions ticking like time bombs in the background. Just silence, pure uninterrupted attention, and a problem that none of you had the answer for.

Bob was still in the compound, still alive and kicking, but he was barely present. He spoke in short bursts, when prompted, and gave mechanical answers–like he was on a scripted loop with a shaky voice. His eyes never focused on the person in front of him. He ate only when someone put something in his hands, and even then, it was minimal–just enough to pass as functioning. Barely enough to keep him upright. He slept too much for days on end, then not at all for a stretch so long that the medical aides started whispering about sedatives again.

He hadn’t even been given a proper room, he was just tucked-away in a corner bed in the medical wing, hidden behind a curtain that never fully closed. The air in there always smelled antiseptic and medicinal in a nauseating way. The lights were always buzzing faintly, like they needed to be replaced but nobody would do it. And the nurses assigned to check in on him swapped out too fast for him to learn anyone’s name.

You had passed by his bed once that morning, and you had caught him sitting upright with the sleeves of his scrubs tugged down over his hands, staring blankly at the white wall. His tray of food was untouched, and the plastic fork had been snapped in half.

And because of you Valentina called that meeting.

The conference room was too cold and too bright, the overhead fluorescents were a jarring contrast to the hollow, silent fatigue hanging in the air. You sat near the end of the long, mahogany conference table, with a dull ache still pulsing under your ribs–healing fractures from fighting the Sentry that hadn’t quite fused. Every time you shifted in your seat, the pain reminded you of why you weren’t on active rotation anymore, and why you were the only one not running logistics or field reports.

Valentina stood at the head of the table with her clipboard. Yelena paced around because she couldn’t keep still, sharp eyes flicking toward the window every few seconds because she thought something was going to fly through it. Bucky leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched–stone-faced, but simmering beneath because he had other things to do and this was just another thing he needed to deal with. Walker was on edge, a spitfire as you would call him, always loaded up with something to say, but for once, he kept his mouth shut. Ava stood beside you in total silence, and Alexei…Well, even he had stopped trying to lighten the mood, because he knew how serious the situation had become.

The air was thick, and palpable, heavy with everything that was unspoken between the group. Everyone was waiting for someone else to offer a solution.

Because the homing of Bob Reynolds–The Sentry, The Void–was a question none of you knew how to answer.

Until you said it…

”I’ll take him.”

The words slipped out before you’d fully thought them through, though you had been mulling it over for a bit.

The room had gone still in those moments, and Valentina’s eyes lifted from her clipboard to look at you, she seemed caught off guard that you were willing to take him in–especially after all he had done.

You could feel Yelena stop pacing behind you, the sudden absence of motion louder than her footsteps.

”I’ve got the space,” You said, quieter now, “And I’m not on active rotation right now because of…Y’know…” You gestured vaguely to your side, where your ribs were still taped under your shirt, “So I can keep an eye on him until the Tower’s ready. Just a few weeks. It’ll give him some place quieter and less…Sterile.”

For a moment, nobody responded, it was as if you had sucked all the air out of the room like a vacuum seal.

Then Bucky gave you a slow, almost unrecognized nod.

Yelena muttered something under her breath in Russian that you were pretty sure meant “Of course it’d be you.”

Valentina tilted her head and scribbled something onto her notes without comment.

Walker shifted like he wanted to object, but thought better of it.

And everyone else…Had nothing better to offer up, so they had to agree to it.

That night, when you pushed open the curtain to the medical wing, you found Bob was already awake.

He was sitting on the edge of the cot, motionless, elbows balanced on his knees, hands limp between them like they’d forgotten how to hold anything. His hoodie–one he must’ve asked for or found from the pile of clothes Valentina handed him weeks ago–was bunched at the wrists, the frayed threads twisted around his fingers. He hadn’t put the hood up, but his hair had fallen over his face in soft, uneven strands, just enough to shadow his eyes.

He wasn’t looking at anything. Not the wall, not the bed. Just…Out. Like the space in front of him was wide open, endless, and empty.

You stepped in quietly. No sudden moves. Just a presence, steady and real.

“Hey,” You said, your voice a hush in the too-bright room.

His head lifted a little. Not all the way. But just enough for you to catch a flicker of blue under the fall of his hair. You took a few steps closer, not touching, but close enough that your presence could be felt in the air between you.

“Thought you might want to get out of here.” He didn’t speak, didn’t nod. But he didn’t shrink away either. His gaze found yours–and for a second, just a second, you saw the faintest crack in the fog.

“I–I don’t…” He started, voice barely audible, rough like it had been unused for too long. “I don’t know w-where to go.” You felt your heart swell slightly, hearing the way he croaked out the words, how timid he sounded, how scared he was.

”You’ll be coming with me just for a little while…Until the Tower’s ready.” You explained softly, keeping your distance still. You could see his jaw tighten, and he shook his head.

”I–I can’t…What if…What if he comes back?” His voice cracked on he. It was barely a whisper, thick with dread and self-loathing.

And your heart fractured a little at the way he said it–not like a warning, but a confession. Like he believed The Void was a thing still inside him, curled in the corner of his chest, waiting to be let out. Like he believed he wasn’t safe.

”Well,” You started, voice quiet but sure, “Then I guess we’ll just have to figure it out. Hmm?” You let the words hang there–soft but certain. It wasn’t a dismissal, nor a sugar-coated promise, it was just a truth from you to him.

And then you held out your hand.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just…Open. Steady. Waiting.

It was a gesture to show you weren’t afraid of him or his touch. You weren’t bracing for him to break something or bolt or pull away. You simply stood there with your palm outstretched, and your eyes on his.

It took him a second to truly process what was happening, but then, with the hesitance of a person who was afraid of themselves, he reached out and wrapped his boiling hot hand around yours. You immediately gave it a small squeeze of reassurance, and gave him the warmest smile you could muster.

And that’s how it all began.

The first few days weren’t quiet.

They were full of soft noises, background ones–drawers opening, kettle whistling, the low static of the TV at night. Bob didn’t talk much those first couple of days, but he hovered around you, and he listened when you would talk to yourself. You never pushed for conversation, you just offered him space, and food…Lot’s of it.

You hadn’t realized how deeply the Sentry serum had affected him until the end of day one, when you caught him standing in front of your open fridge like he was looking into a portal.

”Are you hungry?” You asked, causing him to jump ten feet into the air–literally–with guilt flashing through his expression.

“I–I didn’t want to ask, I–I know we just ate two hours ago…I–I just…I’m starving. It feels like my stomach is e-eating itself…I–It really hurts.” Your brain immediately jumped to the conclusion that his metabolism had gone haywire after the serum, which caused him to have this unresolved hunger–you couldn’t imagine the pain he had been experiencing throughout the time in the medical wing of the compound, especially with food that was not too appetizing. So in an instant you were there to help, shuffling around him to look into the abyss that was your fridge, grabbing a stack of Tupperware and piling them onto the kitchen island.

“Let’s get you something to eat then…” He had pasta, leftover chicken and rice, cold soup, some roasted vegetables, and half a loaf of bread.

He ate and ate and ate and you sat nearby, flipping idly through your phone but mostly just watching him out of the corner of your eye. He wasn’t rushing, it was just a constant conveyor belt of his fork travelling to his mouth. His hands didn’t tremble–but his shoulders stayed tense, like he was waiting for you to tell him to stop.

You didn’t though…You just kept refilling his water and asking if he wanted anything else.

By the time he finished his second bowl of rice and reached sheepishly for the rest of your peanut butter with a spoon, you knew what the rest of the week would look like.

Thankfully Val had given you her credit card, because you had restocked the fridge twice in four days, and he apologized every time you brought a new bag of groceries inside the apartment.

“You’re not eating too much,” You said flatly on day three, unloading yogurt and apples and protein bars onto the counter while he slowly restocked the fridge, looking guilty, “Your body’s catching up, just let it.” You added. He bit the inner part of his cheek.

“But–“

”Bob.” You interrupted gently, giving him one of your looks, the one that encompassed all the words of reassurance. He stopped and nodded, surrendering.

Though he still apologized the very next morning when he finished all your maple cinnamon oatmeal–which had eight packs left last time you had checked.

By the end of the first week, the fog started to lift–just enough for you to really notice the change.

You had caught him lingering in the hallway after his first night of catching two full hours of uninterrupted sleep. He looked confused and unsure. Like he didn’t know what to do with the energy that began to vibrate through him again. Like he was afraid that if he overdid himself things would happen again.

So you handed him a basket of laundry and asked if he wanted to help, and almost in an instant he took the offer. It was an easy pastime, and he didn’t mind helping you, especially with everything you had been doing for him.

By the second week, you finally managed to drag him to Target in the early hours of the morning–when there wouldn’t be chaos, or crowds, just the hum of employees and muffled pop music.

The mission was to get him some clothes. Just an array of hoodies, sweatshirts, sweatpants, boxers and undershirts, and of course socks. He didn’t ask for any of it, but you had guided him aisle by aisle, nudging his elbow to encourage him to pick out whatever he wanted.

Once you reached the bath and body care section you helped him pick through scents.

”Get what you want,” You said, “Do you like lavender? Mint? Vanilla?” He shrugged, popping one of the caps open to sniff, before returning it to the shelf. He ended up picking one that reminded him of your conditioner–a mix of coconut oil, sage, and grapefruit.

You didn’t call him out on it, but he knew you noticed just by the smirk that came up on your lips, and how you gently bumped shoulders with him on the way to checkout.

That week, he finally showered alone.

The week prior, you had to sit on the floor of the washroom with your back turned towards the door, and knees drawn up to your chest. You listened to him closely, and heard him take shaking breaths behind the curtain as the steam curled around you.

When he asked you to stay in the washroom with him he knew it was an awkward request, but you listened intently to his reasoning, even though you had already made up your mind to do it regardless. If it helped him, the awkwardness was secondary to you.

”I don’t w-want to be alone…I’m afraid I’ll…I’ll see him…W-Whatever I was.” And you had been there every time, until day eleven, when he said he wanted to try to be on his own. You gave him that privacy, and closed the door. He came out fifteen minutes later, wrapped in the towels you had left on the radiator smelling like a whole citrus section in a grocery store.

By the third week, the apartment smelled like lemon zest and something faintly burning at least once a day.

You had started waking up to the faint clatter of mixing bowls and the low creak of cabinet doors. The first time it happened, you walked into the kitchen at 2:43 in the morning, to find Bob standing at the stove barefoot, sleeves rolled up, squinting at a dog-eared page in one of your long-forgotten cookbooks,

You startled him when you padded in.

”S–Sorry–I didn’t mean to wake y-you,” He whispered, glancing over his shoulder, “I–I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d try s-something.” You looked at the mess—sugar scattered across the counter, a cracked egg leaking beside a whisk, flour dusting the air like snowfall. It should’ve felt chaotic, but it didn’t. It felt like motion. Like healing, somehow.

“Want company?” You asked, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes with your knuckles.

He hesitated for only a second before giving you a tiny, grateful nod.

That happened again the next night.

And the one after.

He made banana pancakes at 1 a.m., grilled cheese at 3:00, and once attempted a souffle with comically disastrous results.

Eventually, you offered a different solution.

“How about we try watching a boring movie instead?” You asked as he stood in the living room one night, holding a bowl of half-mixed muffin batter. “Might help wind your brain down a bit more than cooking and baking.” He pursed his lips, looked down at the bowl, then back up at you.

”…O-Okay.”

You didn’t put on anything exciting, just some old obscure movie. It was the kind of film where nothing really happens, you didn’t need to observe and you certainly didn’t have to pay attention to it.

Bob settled onto the couch beside you, knees tucked up, arms wrapped loosely around them.

Halfway through, his head started to dip sideways.

You felt the soft weight of it first–hesitant but real–when he let it rest on your lap.

You froze. Not because it startled you, but because it meant something. The trust in that gesture was palpable. Heavy.

His hair, now finally growing out in soft, tousled waves, was thick and slightly uneven—darker at the roots, lighter where the sun had kissed it through your windows. A little unkempt, curling faintly behind his ears. You let your fingers hover over it for a second, unsure…

Then you touched him.

Gently.

You threaded your fingers into the locks at the crown of his head, letting your nails lightly scratch his scalp, slow and rhythmic. He didn’t pull away.

He sighed.

A soft, long exhale. And then–you felt it happen.

His breathing evened out. His shoulders softened. The tension in his jaw unclenched. He didn’t just rest his head on your lap–he slept.

It was the first time he’d truly let go.

The first time he’d let you hold him without flinching from the weight of being seen.

You stayed there for hours, barely moving, running your fingers gently through his hair while the muted light from the screen flickered across his cheekbones.

You didn’t dare wake him.

The next morning, you didn’t mention it.

Neither did he.

But something had shifted. A soft, invisible thing between you. A comfort that didn’t need words.

And when the email finally came through a few days later–Tower’s ready. Moving in next Friday–he was the one who walked into the kitchen holding a roll of tape and a stack of folded boxes.

“I can help you pack,” He said, and you let him.

Now after the weeks bonding with him you found yourselves in front of the car staring at the boxes that had defined his stay with you. You shrugged and opened the passenger door for him.

“Well, now you’ve also got the car full of my chaos to babysit with your boxes,” You teased, “Congratulations, you’ve been promoted to co-pilot-slash-box guardian.” Bob blushed at your comment and shook his head, stepping into the car with ease as you handed him both of his boxes.

“A-At least the ride is only half an hour. P-Please don’t drive like a m-maniac.” He commented, watching you place a hand on your chest, feigning offence.

”I follow the rules of the road…It’s everyone else’s fault that I have to drive the way I do.”

——————

The Tower loomed like a monument to a future neither of you were quite ready for yet.

All glass and steel, the building glittered in the late morning sun–its reflection cutting across the sky line in clean, perfect angles. The closer you drove, the more you felt the tension shift in the air. A pressure. Something expectant. It was the kind of silence that clings to the edge of change.

The security gate recognized your plates on approach, and the barrier lifted with a hiss, allowing you to pull into the underground parking garage that smelled like burning concrete. Your tires glided across the laneway, as you found your assigned spot–Bay 21A, right beneath the elevator hub.

With straight precision you backed into the spot, putting it between the lines perfectly without cheating–Bob liked challenging you by covering the screen that showed the footage of your review cameras, and every time you somehow managed to impress him with your pure skill of parking like an expert.

You let out a soft sigh and cut the engine, letting the silence envelop the car completely.

Bob sat quietly in the passenger seat, picking at the lid of one of the boxes in his lap. He was nervous to see everyone again–he had told you that multiple times when he was helping you roll up your posters in your room–and every time he said it you tried to reassure him there was nothing to worry about. This was another one of those times where his nerves were coming out to haunt him, along with guilt for what he had done to everyone.

Slowly, you reached over and covered one hand with yours, giving it the faintest squeeze, which brought him out of his trance.

”They’re not expecting anything from you,” You said quietly, “You being there is enough…Okay?” He nodded once, but didn’t look at you. His gaze was locked on the glossy dashboard, eyes wide with the kind of dread that sinks its claws in and pretends to be logic. You gave him a moment, then gently opened your door.

The air in the underground garage was cooler than the heat outside, but still held the faint echo of gasoline and ozone. You circled the car, popping the trunk and pulling out the first set of bags while Bob slowly emerged on the other side with his boxes in his arms. You could feel his nerves in the way he hovered, shifting his weight from foot to foot, watching you slowly empty your trunk and mentally checking off the things that you labeled.

Bob crouched down carefully, setting his two boxes on the smooth concrete with a quiet thud. You didn’t even have to ask what he was doing—because you already knew. It was in the set of his shoulders, the way he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows with precise movements, knuckles cracking once like a silent warm-up. You arched a brow as you slung one of your overstuffed bags onto the ground beside him.

“You’re gonna try to carry all of it, aren’t you?” He gave you a small, sheepish look as he reached for the nearest vacuum sealed bag.

“J-Just want to get it done in one trip…I-I can handle it.”

You didn’t doubt that he could. You’d seen what he was capable of–really capable of–once.

It had been during your second week together, when he’d sneezed of all things. A completely ordinary, human, unremarkable sneeze. But when he braced his palm against the edge of the counter, you heard the wood crack. Split straight down to the support beam. The look on his face afterward had been sheer horror. He apologized for an hour. Then he avoided touching anything solid for the rest of the day.

He hadn’t used his strength since.

Not until now.

You watched silently as he lined up the boxes like a game of cautious engineering. He braced your backpack against the top of the stack with his knee, then reached for the plastic bin full of tangled cords. You winced.

“You’re gonna throw your back out before we even get to the lobby,” You muttered, crouching beside him. But when you reached for one of the smaller bags, he stopped you with a gentle touch to your wrist.

“I got it.” He said firmly, with no stammer or nerves. You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Bob…” He didn’t look at you–just adjusted the bin one more time on top of the pile, his arms curling around the whole absurd tower of your combined belongings like it weighed nothing. And maybe it didn’t–not to him.

But the stillness in his face made you pause.

Without thinking, you stepped closer and gently reached out, fingers curling around his jaw to turn his face toward you. He resisted at first, a quiet kind of resistance–not physical, but instinctual. Like he didn’t want to be looked at too closely. But he didn’t stop you either. His eyes were closed tightly, as if he was shielding something from you.

“Hey,” You said softly, thumb brushing just beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone. “Open your eyes.”

He let out a soft sigh and blinked, once.

The gold shimmered faintly through the blue–just a soft hue, like the sun glinting off metal buried under water. You smiled, small and knowing, a breath of fond exasperation curling from your lips.

“Knew it,” You murmured, tracing the warmth of his cheekbone gently, “You better shake the gold outta those eyes before the elevator doors open, or Yelena’s gonna throw a knife at you on instinct.” He huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been nerves. But it was something. And then he nodded, clutching the tower of boxes tighter as you stepped back and popped the trunk closed with a gentle slam. You locked the car with a chirp, then turned and motioned with your head.

“C’mon, Hercules. Eightieth floor, express ride.” Bob followed you closely, his steps careful but somehow steady beneath the weight of everything he carried. You led the way into the sleek glass elevator at the far end of the garage, pressing your palm against the biometric scanner until the panel lit up green. The numbers climbed on the display, fast and smooth, the elevator doors sliding open to reveal a surprisingly quiet car.

“Eighty,” you said aloud, and the panel blinked in acknowledgement.

The doors closed. The hum of the lift filled the silence.

You glanced over at him. “Still with me?”

“Y-Yeah,” He whispered. “Just…Trying not to break anything.”

“You’re doing great,” You said, and reached out to squeeze his elbow. His knuckles were white around the box edges, but his jaw was unclenched. That was progress.

The numbers blinked in rapid succession, each floor a soft ding that echoed in the space like a countdown. Bob stood beside you, arms wrapped around the towering stack of boxes and bags, the gold in his eyes dimmed now to a whisper. You could feel the nervous energy vibrating off him—not in any visible way, but like static on the skin. His chest rose and fell a little too fast. His fingers shifted to tighten their hold around the base box. You glanced up at him and gave his elbow another quick squeeze.

“Hey,” you murmured, “Deep breath. This isn’t the press room. It’s home…Kind of.”

And then–ding.

EIGHTIETH FLOOR.

The doors slid open.

And chaos hit like a brick wall.

“DUDE, THAT WAS MINE!”

“It was not, I CALLED DIBS!”

“I tagged it with my name!”

“Your name is not ‘BOOG’, Walker, it’s not exactly an ironclad claim!”

The common area was a battlefield of cardboard boxes, scattered shoes, half-assembled IKEA furniture, and rogue throw pillows that looked like they’d been used in an actual skirmish. Somewhere between the couch and the kitchenette, Walker and Ava were tangled in a tug-of-war over a branded coffee machine neither of them had apparently paid for.

Alexei was shirtless, inexplicably, perched on top of the breakfast bar with a screwdriver in his mouth and a kitchen cabinet door in one hand.

Alpine was sitting in the center of the chaos like some smug, unbothered little queen, tail flicking as if supervising the disarray, licking her paws and wiping her face.

Bucky stood a little ways back, arms crossed, eyes scanning the scene like he was trying to calculate how quickly he could disappear before anyone roped him into it. His hair was tied back messily and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing his polished vibranium arm.

Yelena whipped around the corner, sleek boots scuffing across the hardwood, hair cropped into the fluffy bob you remembered but now styled back with deliberate, greasy charm. It looked like she’d stolen a page out of Bucky’s post-pardon playbook: part assassin, part disgruntled congressman. The effect was wildly successful. She froze mid-step the second she saw you.

Her eyes bounced from you to Bob.

To the boxes.

To Bob’s arms.

To Bob’s face.

“…Holy shit,” She muttered.

The noise didn’t die instantly, but it dropped. Just enough for everyone to glance up from their various ridiculous activities and follow her stare.

Ava blinked twice.

Walker’s brows lifted in slow, dramatic awe.

Alexei whispered something in Russian that definitely sounded reverent.

Even Alpine paused her paw licking, like she knew something was off in the room suddenly.

Because Bob Reynolds didn’t look like the man they’d last seen sitting glassy-eyed behind Valentina at that press conference. He didn’t look hollow anymore.

He looked solid. Stronger in more ways than one. It was evident he had been eating well with how broad his shoulders had become. In addition, the group could see the slight confidence in the way he stood beside you–like he wasn’t a disappearing act anymore.

His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows, forearms flexed under the absurd weight of what he carried, jawline more defined, face not quite as sunken in. The faint sun-kissed warmth of his skin, the way his hair curled slightly at the base of his neck from the shower, the steadiness of how he stood–all of it painted a picture none of them were expecting.

Bob stood there frozen for a breath, blinking like the elevator had transported him to another dimension instead of the eighty-fifth floor of the most secure building in the country. The silence that followed was thick, stunned, and oddly reverent.

Then, without fully realizing he was doing it, Bob crouched down and gently eased the tower of boxes to the floor, careful not to drop or jostle a single thing. He took a step back, pushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead, and gave the room the smallest, most hesitant wave imaginable.

“H-Hey,” He said, his voice quieter than it had been all morning. It wasn’t shaky, but it wasn’t loud either–just a soft offering. “Uh…Hi.”

There was a beat of silence before the reaction hit like a slow-building wave.

Walker, never one to play things subtle, gave a long whistle and crossed his arms. “Damn, Y/N has really been feedin’ you, huh?”

“You’ve grown into the size of a house.” Ava muttered, almost in disbelief.

“You look better,” Yelena said simply, “Much better,” Then she paused, a rare smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “We’re glad you’re here Bob.”

“Da,” Alexei added from his perch atop the counter, “We thought you would show up glowing from the eyes shooting laser beams…This is better.” Bucky stepped forward at last, the quiet anchor among the chaos. He met Bob’s gaze evenly.

“You look good, man.” There was no flourish to it. Just truth. And it hit harder than any of the jokes or smirks.

Alpine leapt gracefully off the couch and padded over to Bob like she was the real authority of the floor, circling him once before rubbing up against his leg like she approved. That–more than anything–made Bob let out a shaky little exhale. You saw it in his shoulders. A sliver of tension released.

“I…Th-Thanks,” Bob said softly, pushing his sleeves back down and tugging them past his wrists again. “It’s good to see you guys. I-I didn’t think…you know…”

“We’d all be here together under one roof?” Yelena offered helpfully.

“I was gonna say ‘still like me,’ but–yeah, that too.”

“We’ve all had our Void moments,” Walker said, slinging an arm lazily around Ava’s shoulder, who ducked out from under it immediately. “Just glad you’re back. For real this time.” You gave Bob a small nudge with your elbow, and he glanced at you like he still wasn’t sure if he was dreaming this part. Yelena stepped forward, clapping her hands once.

“Alright, you two. You’re both in the south wing–rooms 804 and 805. Hopefully you two are okay with sharing the washroom.” You snorted softly.

”We’ve been sharing a washroom for the past four weeks, I’m sure we will manage just fine.” Bob’s ears turned pink, but the faint grin tugging at his lips told you he didn’t mind.

The others returned to their chaotic unpacking–Walker trying to assemble a lamp with brute force, Ava muttering about WiFi passwords, Alexei still shirtless for absolutely no reason–and Yelena waved you and Bob off with a lazy salute, “Go get settled!”

You nodded and turned down the hall with Bob trailing just behind you, his eyes darting over the sleek white walls and polished wood trim like it all felt too new to touch. When you reached the south wing, the hallway widened. Soft LED lights glowed inlaid against the baseboards. You reached two adjacent doors labeled 804 and 805.

“This one’s you,” You murmured, thumbing the pad on 804 until the panel clicked green. The door slid open, soundless.

Bob stepped in.

And stopped.

The room was huge. High ceilings stretched up, a soft echo already present in the sterile quiet. White walls. Pale oak flooring. A twin-size mattress resting on a raised platform bed frame with no sheets. A basic black desk and chair in one corner. A minimalist bookshelf built into the wall with three empty shelves, and natural sunlight beaming through the large window panes that lined the walls with a cityscape. That was it.

No color. No lightbulbs warm enough to feel like home. No blankets tossed over couch arms. No ceramic mug sitting on a coaster. No smell of your lemon-ginger tea or vanilla candles. Just newness. Cold and clean and…Blank.

You didn’t miss the way his body language changed. His shoulders didn’t drop. They stayed stiff. His mouth twitched–not with a smile, but with something like confusion and disappointment carefully stitched together.

Because sure he was back, but he’d lost something in the return.

The cozy warmth of your living room–the worn grey sectional with the throw pillows that never matched. The bookshelf bursting with novels stacked sideways and double-layered. The corner where the floor lamp glowed gold at night. The soft scent of cinnamon, lemon, and fresh laundry that clung to the fabric. The hum of your voice talking to yourself in the kitchen while he sat curled under the blanket with a book cracked open across his knees.

This place didn’t have any of that. This place was a reset button. And Bob–after weeks of slow, careful healing–was suddenly standing in an empty room with nothing that looked like it remembered him.

You stepped in beside him quietly.

“You okay?” You asked, voice soft. He nodded, but it was the kind of nod that didn’t carry truth behind it. His eyes were scanning the walls like he was waiting for them to close in.

“It’s just…Quiet,” He said finally. “Too clean…It kind of reminds me of the lab in Malaysia.” You touched his elbow, giving it a gentle stroke, a comforting smile appearing on your face.

“We’ll fix that.” He turned to look at you, brow furrowed, like there was no way that would be possible, “You’ve got your books. Your mugs. The blanket. We’ll get your lamp and your tea, and I’ll buy one of those weird lemon candles if you miss the smell.”

That got the tiniest laugh out of him. Barely there. But his eyes softened.

“I miss the couch,” He admitted.

“I miss it too.” You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “But we’ll make this work, Bob. Just give it time.” Bob gave you a small nod, slow and silent, eyes lingering on the bare bookshelf now, like he was trying to will it into holding memories that didn’t exist yet. You let out a small sigh and reached up to touch his warm smooth cheek to draw his attention down to you.

“Tomorrow, we’ll go out,” You started gently but firmly, like it was already decided, “And we’ll pick out paint, plants, decorations, throw blankets, dumb little desk trinkets…Whatever it takes to make this place feel like it’s yours okay?” Your thumb brushed just beneath the curve of his eye, and his lashes fluttered like he wasn’t used to being held this gently.

His eyes were glassy–not with tears, but something close. That strange shimmer of overwhelm that comes when your heart is too full of quiet things. When someone sees you exactly where you are. For a long second, he didn’t say anything. Then he sighed, low and quiet, and leaned into the touch–not all the way, but enough to press his cheek into your palm, like he was absorbing it.

“…Okay,” He whispered.

The single word carried a thousand more underneath it. Agreement. Gratitude. Hope. A soft kind of surrender.

You let your hand fall away gently, not wanting to make it weird, not wanting to overstep–but you caught the way his eyes followed the movement like he wasn’t quite ready for it to end. So you cleared your throat lightly and nudged him with your shoulder again.

“Alright. Enough brooding. Come help me set up my room before I lose my mind trying to untangle all those extension cords I packed like an idiot.”

Bob blinked, then let out a small breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

There wasn’t a single second of hesitation. No pause to overthink it. He just followed–like he always did with you now. Like he wanted to be where you were, because that was the only place that made sense anymore.

Bob went back to where he had left your boxes and gathered everything into his arms again, balancing everything with pure precision, cradling the whole mess in his arms as he walked down back to your room. You tapped the panel on your own door–805–and it opened with the same quiet hiss.

He followed you slowly making sure he didn’t bump into you in the process as the door closed behind the both of you once he stepped in fully. The quiet that settled over the space was immediate and unforgiving.

The room was the exact same as his. White walls, pale oak floors, empty shelves, the bed frame with no warmth, the desk, and the wonderful view of the cityscape. You stood there for a moment, expression unreadable, then sighed, letting your shoulders relax.

“Well,” You muttered, stepping into the room a little more fully and crossing to the wide, clean-lined windows. You pressed your thumb to the side panel, and with a soft click, the glass slid open, letting in a breeze that stirred your hair and carried in the smell of the city: hot concrete, wind, and faint smoke from a food truck somewhere below. Bob set everything down in a neat row near the foot of the bed–the vacuum sealed bags, and the labeled boxes with generic scrawl ‘Desk Stuff + Nightstand’, followed by ‘Y/N’s Books,’ and ‘THIS HAS BREAKABLE STUFF IN IT DON’T DROP!’. He set that one down with exaggerated care, like it contained lit dynamite.

You put your hands on your hips.

”Guess we’ll start with whichever box is first.”

Bob gave a soft huff of acknowledgement, already crouching down and slicing open the tape on the topmost one with the side of a key he pulled from his pocket.

The first item out was your worn, pilled blanket. Fleece, with a weird faded pattern of crescent moons and stars and old Sharpie stains you swore were from high school. You plucked it from the box and immediately tossed it across the bed, smoothing it out with a flick of your wrists. The effect was instant. The sterile mattress looked lived in now.

Bob handed you the next item without comment–your bedside lamp. An old brass thing with a twisted base and a shade that looked like it had been mauled by a cat in a past life. You plugged it in and clicked it on. The bulb flickered once, then glowed with a soft amber hue that made the whole corner of the room feel warmer.

“Better,” you said softly.

Next came a small cluster of mismatched mugs–two chipped ones with cartoon characters, one heavy ceramic thing that looked handmade, and one novelty mug that said ‘Running on Coffee’. You lined them up on the desk next to your portable kettle and stash of teas and hot chocolate packets–something that you also had in your old room in your apartment as well, it was just for convenience, especially if you were enthralled in whatever you were doing and didn’t want to leave your room.

Bob unpacked your books with care, handing you each one like it was fragile. You stacked them on the shelf haphazardly: poetry first, then science fiction, then a tiny shrine to emotionally devastating literary fiction. You placed your favorite–Never Let Me Go–face-out on the middle shelf like it was sacred. Bob didn’t question it.

There was a box of trinkets and sentimental chaos next. You fished out a tiny figure of a goat in a superhero cape–a gift from Ava–a tarnished lucky coin, a broken watch you hadn’t had the heart to throw away, a photo strip of you and Bob from the CVS kiosk. You pinned that to the corkboard on your desk without a word, right above your calendar–like it was something you wanted to remember, especially because it was one of Bob’s good days during the four weeks of staying together.

Soon, the space began to fill.

Your flannel was tossed over the desk chair. A plant was set by the window–half-dead, but stubborn. You arranged your pens in a clay cup. Bob found your spare set of fairy lights and handed them over without being asked, and you looped them around the headboard, twisting the cord to keep it tight.

And then…Came the collection of posters.

You pulled the long cardboard tube free from the box with a reverent sort of care and twisted the cap until it popped with a quiet snap. Bob glanced over as you began to slide the rolled posters out, one at a time–each print carefully preserved with tissue paper and worn edges. There were no fold lines. These weren’t flimsy college dorm reprints. These were theatrical releases.

Real ones.

Bob crouched down beside you looking at them closely with curiosity. You could imagine the questions going through his head.

“I used to work at a theatre during my internship,” You said, peeling the tissue from the first one and holding it up against the light. “Whenever we’d change the marquee, they’d let the staff take whatever we wanted from the promo bin. I fought for this one.”

The poster was tall and dramatic–Vertigo by Hitchcock. Bright swirls of orange and red, the silhouettes locked in that spiraling, dangerous fall. It was striking. You stood slowly, angling it toward the wall above your bed.

“They’re all long like this,” you added. “Old school sizing. And I want them to start high and cascade down like a film reel.” You grinned to yourself. “I know it’s excessive.”

Bob stood up behind you, brushing off his hands. “It’s you.”

You turned to glance at him.

He looked a little sheepish. “I mean…You love movies…So…The r-room wouldn’t be yours if you didn’t have s-something dedicated to it…” You rolled your eyes with a quiet laugh, grabbing the removable adhesive tabs from the supply pile and peeling one open between your teeth. But when you hopped up onto the mattress and tried stretching, the top corner still sat a full foot out of reach.

You frowned and leaned on your tiptoes, paper flopping awkwardly in your hands.

“Damn it…Maybe I could get a stool or so–.”

“I could, uh–“ Bob cut in, voice low and a little unsure, “I–I could…Put you on my shoulders?” You paused mid-stretch, glancing back over your shoulder.

He was standing just behind the edge of the mattress now, hands half-lifted like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you or if he’d made some kind of grave error by suggesting it. His eyes flicked up to yours and then back down to the floor, as if it might open up to eat him alive to give him a better alternative.

You turned the rest of the way around, brows lifting, poster still in hand. “You’re offering to carry me like one of those boxes over there?” You asked, motioning to the discarded cardboard.

“No! I-I mean–not like that, I wouldn’t–” He flinched a little at himself, then groaned softly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not like a box. I wouldn’t treat you like a box.”

You couldn’t help but grin at the way he stumbled awkwardly through his explanation.

“So, not like a box,” You teased gently, stepping closer to the edge of the mattress and letting the poster droop at your side. “You sure you’ve got me? Because I’m not exactly made of foam peanuts, and I just recovered from my broken ribs��” Bob looked up at you then, really looked, and something in his face shifted. Softened. You weren’t sure if it was the golden glint rising behind his blue eyes again or just the quiet steadiness that lived somewhere deep in his chest now—but it was enough.

He swallowed once and nodded “I–I know he’ll be c-careful…You’re…You.”

Your heart gave a traitorous little flip.

And then you held out your hands.

“Alright, alright…What’s the worst that could happen? Let’s do it…” He stepped close and braced his warm, soft palms at your calves, waiting for you to climb onto his shoulders with careful movements that bordered on meekness. You perched cautiously, gripping the top of his head gently for balance as you settled on the muscles shifting a bit to make sure you weren’t hurting him. His hands moved instinctively–large and steady–one resting just above the backs of your knees to keep you stable, the other hovering in case you swayed.

From your new height, the top of the wall was suddenly accessible. You could reach it easily now, the edges of the Vertigo poster fluttering against your chest in the soft breeze from the window.

“This…Is weirdly effective,” you murmured, peeling the backing off the adhesive tabs. “If anything fails with the Thunderbolts…Or New Avengers…Whatever we’ll be named…I think we could go do circus work.”

“Don’t tempt me…” Bob said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, even if you couldn’t see it. You turned the poster and pressed the top corners to the wall with slow precision, smoothing the paper down with practiced hands. The steadiness in him was almost soothing–warm and solid and unshakable. Bob shifted slightly beneath you as you pressed the last corner flat, moving his hands to the tops of your thighs–strong, but gentle. Always gentle. You could feel the warmth of his palms through the fabric of your shorts, and every so often, you caught the subtle rise and fall of his breath, steady like the rhythm of an old song you didn’t know you’d memorized.

“There,” you said softly, leaning back just enough to take in the full image of the Vertigo poster now secured high on the wall. It looked perfect–like it belonged. “One down, five to go.” Bob let out a quiet laugh, almost a breath more than a sound, and gently backed away from the wall to give you space. His hands never left your legs until the very last second–he steadied you instinctively as he shifted, his palms ghosting along your thighs before slipping away like the weight of a blanket being pulled off in slow motion.

You wobbled slightly, still perched up high, but Bob crouched at your side before you could even flinch. With practiced precision, he reached into the pile of still-rolled posters and plucked the next one out of the tube without looking. He offered it to you with both hands like it was sacred.

You took it with a quiet “Thanks,” but he didn’t move right away.

Instead, he tilted his head back to look up at you.

And in that moment, something flickered behind his eyes again–the soft, golden, like glow of a late summer sun cresting through the clouds. It wasn’t bright. It wasn’t overwhelming. Just there. Lurking in the blue like a memory half-awake. His mouth parted, barely.

You looked down at him and saw it immediately. That faint shimmer. That quiet power. That strange, ancient thing that gave him the ‘power of a million exploding suns’ as Val had coined.

Your free hand moved without thought. You reached down, ran the side of your thumb along the sharp line of his cheekbone with a featherlight touch, and felt him still completely beneath you, his eyes still locked on yours.

“Does he know me?” You asked softly.

Bob blinked once, then twice.

His lips parted again, and this time, sound came—barely more than a whisper, shaped around hesitation.

“H-He does,” He said, voice caught somewhere between himself and something deeper. “B-But he…he doesn’t remember what he did. When we all fought…” You felt his breath catch just slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say it aloud in this space. Like voicing it would make the memory real again. But he kept going.

”I think…He remembers you from the night that Val’s people gunned me down…” His eyes scanned over yours, unreadable, searching, “But I don’t know for sure…It’s like–like flashes.” Your thumb stilled against his cheek. You could feel the muscles in his jaw shift beneath the skin, tense and taut like he was trying to hold the rest of it back. His pulse was hammering against your inner thigh, you could feel it radiating into his muscles.

“W-We aren’t fully c-connected anymore,” He admitted. “At least…Not the way we used to be. It’s quieter. But also…Stranger.”

You didn’t speak. Just listened.

Bob swallowed hard, then added in a low, almost guilty murmur, “I can still do the whole s-super strength thing–I mean, clearly,” He gestured halfheartedly to where you were still balanced comfortably on his shoulders, “But I d-don’t know where he begins and I-I end anymore. It’s not like flipping a switch. It’s not that clean.”

You brushed his cheek again with the pad of your thumb. “Does it scare you?” He shakes his head immediately.

”I-It used to…A l-lot but I think I can manage it a bit b-better. You’ve been able to help w-with that.” You were about to say something–something honest, something warm, something just for him.

Maybe it was going to be “You’re doing better than you think.” Or maybe “I see you, Bob. All of you.”

But the words caught on the edge of your tongue like a thread snagging in fabric–because the door hissed open with a hydraulic sigh, and Walker’s voice cut through the room before you even had time to turn your head.

“Jesus Christ–”

Bob stiffened instinctively beneath you.

You both turned at the same time–which was unavoidable due to the position.

Walker was frozen in the doorway, one hand still braced against the panel, his eyes squinting like he couldn’t quite compute what he was seeing. His gaze flicked from you–perched high on Bob’s shoulders, one hand still cradling his face like a lover’s whisper–to Bob, who was blushing so hard it looked like he might actually combust on the spot.

Walker blinked. Once. Twice. Then gave a slow, amused whistle.

“Well…That is not what I expected to walk in on.”

“Walker,” You deadpanned, not moving from your place. “Knock next time.”

“You don’t even have a real door,” He said, walking in like he owned the place, arms crossed and boots heavy on the floor.

“I was just–s-she needed help with the posters,” He mumbled, carefully lowering his arms to begin letting you slide down. “I w-wasn’t–It’s not what it–”

”No need to explain yourselves….It’s all good.” You finally slid off Bob’s shoulders, landing with a soft thud on the hardwood, your hands brushing his shoulders gently on your way down. Bob looked like he wanted to retreat into the nearest drawer.

Walker, mercifully, spared him further commentary.

“Anyway,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Lunch just got here. Got delivered a bit late, but it’s hot. Couple boxes of noodles, some dumplings, and that weird green juice that Yelena keeps pretending she likes. If either of you want in, better grab a plate before Alexei eats everything but the box liners again.”

“Thanks,” You said simply, brushing your hand on your shorts. “We’ll be there in a few.”

Walker gave Bob a wink that made him flinch like he’d been hit with a spotlight. “Don’t take too long.”

Then he was gone, the door whispering closed behind him like nothing had happened.

The silence that followed was thick with whatever had just almost happened–suspended, tender, delicate like breath on glass.

You glanced over at Bob.

His face was still flushed. His lashes low. But there was the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Embarrassed, yes. But not retreating.

You let the silence stretch for another beat, just long enough to let the moment settle without breaking it.

Then you turned to him, voice soft, but sure.

“We’ll finish after lunch,” You said, like a gentle nudge. “I don’t trust Alexei not to start sampling the furniture if we wait too long.”

Bob exhaled a short, nervous breath through his nose–half a laugh, half relief–and nodded.

“Y-Yeah…Okay.” You reached down to the scattered pile of posters and gathered them into a neat stack, tucking them carefully into the cardboard tube like you were handling film reels from an archive. Bob crouched beside you to help without being asked, his fingers brushing yours briefly as he adjusted the cap and clicked it back into place.

“Thanks,” You murmured. You meant it for the posters. And everything else.

He just nodded, eyes flicking up to meet yours, then back down again with a faint flush still clinging to his cheeks.

You rose to your feet first, offering him a hand to stand. He took it without hesitation, his palm warm and steady in yours. You didn’t let go right away–even once he was upright again. Not until you had squeezed once, just barely, and let it go as if you hadn’t done it at all.

As you both turned toward the door, Bob hesitated–just for a second–and looked back at the Vertigo poster on the wall. The first thread of something new stitched into this blank place.

His voice was low when he spoke. “It looks good up there.”

You glanced at him with a quiet smile.

“Yeah,” You said. “It does.”

And then you left together–out into the bright hallway, toward the sounds of laughter and clattering chopsticks, and the smell of soy sauce and scorched dumplings

———————

The next morning rose slowly, spilling honeyed light across the edge of the skyline just beyond your window. It kissed the walls in soft amber streaks, warming the pale wood floors and the flannel still slung over your desk chair. The city was just beginning to wake–quiet traffic below, a distant horn, the hush of wind curling through the slight crack in your window.

You stirred beneath the weight of your fleece moon blanket, legs tangled and one arm draped across your stomach. The pillow beneath your cheek was the same one from the apartment, the cotton worn soft from too many washes, still faintly infused with the scent of lemon detergent and something unmistakably Bob–clean, warm, a little tangy from that body wash he never bothered to read the label of. You turned your face into it without thinking, breathing in deeper, letting the scent settle in your chest as you thought about yesterday.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at you. Head tilted back, lips parted slightly, eyes wide and gold-touched like he was seeing something divine.

Your chest tightened a little as the image flickered back to life behind your eyes.

You could still feel the curve of his hands on your thighs, the way they held you steady–not possessive, not hesitant, just… Sure. Like you belonged there. Like he couldn’t imagine you anywhere else.

You’d meant to say something.

You had–right before Walker burst in and shattered the moment with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

But you hadn’t forgotten.

Neither had your body. Your pulse thudded low in your belly, not urgent, but present. Like the idea of him had taken root in your blood and was now blooming slowly, quietly, just beneath the surface.

You turned onto your back with a soft sigh, eyes tracing the ceiling for a few slow seconds before throwing the blanket off and sitting up. The floor was cool beneath your feet as you padded across the room, pushing your hair out of your face to cool yourself down.

You crossed into the shared bathroom, the silence between your quarters familiar now, softened by the faint scent of mint toothpaste and warm skin left behind in the air. You knocked lightly on the frame–habitual, gentle–before stepping through into his room.

Bob was already awake, bent slightly at the waist as he tugged the drawstring of his dark sweatpants into a loose knot. The hem of his maroon sweater had ridden up with the movement.

Your mouth went a little dry.

It wasn’t even that much skin. Just a sliver. A glimpse of pale muscle right beneath his navel, the edge of the soft line that led lower, disappearing into the fabric of his waistband. But there was something about the way it caught the light–casual, unbothered, unknowing–that made your pulse jump traitorously against your ribs.

It was too early for this. Too early to feel like your skin was buzzing with the ghost of his hands. Too early for your brain to short-circuit over a slouchy sweater and a knot being tied.

Bob straightened slowly, letting his sweater fall back into place. He reached up and raked a hand through his hair, tousling it gently between his fingers, like he hadn’t bothered to check the mirror yet–maybe he didn’t need to though. A few strands stuck up stubbornly, and his palm lingered for a second at the crown of his head, like he was debating whether it was worth taming.

Then his gaze slid over to you.

His eyes lit up the second they landed on your face–gentle and warm, crinkling slightly at the corners, and you felt it hit you low and soft in the chest.

“M-Morning,” he said with a small, sheepish smile. It was the kind of smile that curled just a little to one side and took its time settling in like it had nowhere else to be. “You, uh…Slept okay?”

“Yeah,” You said, and you meant it. Then, after a beat: “You?” He shrugged, rubbing at the back of his neck.

”I got…Maybe an h-hour or two, b-but it’s a new place, so any sleep is good sleep.” You gave him a small nod, agreeing with him. Bob’s eyes flicked over you–just for a second. There was a blink of hesitation before they dropped down, tracing the loose hem of your sleep shirt where it hung just past the tops of your thighs. You were still warm from sleep, hair mussed from your pillow, collar stretched just enough to show the slope of your shoulder. Nothing scandalous. Nothing intentional. But his breath still caught.

You saw it.

The way his throat flinched with a quiet gulp as he tried–bless him–to return his gaze to your face like he hadn’t just nearly lost it at the sight of your bare legs and bed-warmed skin.

His ears pinked, and he gave a small, nervous chuckle–like he had been caught red handed stealing something, “Uh…W-we’re still doing the shopping thing, right? F-for the room and all?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” You said, smiling as you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe. “Of course. I’ll go get ready.”

You turned, heading back toward your room before either of you could combust from the tension curling quietly between you. Just before you slipped out of view, you looked over your shoulder.

”Oh, make sure you eat something by the way,” You added softly, “We may lose track of time…Don’t want to risk you passing out or something.” He let out a breath that was probably meant to be a laugh, eyes following you with something tender, almost awestruck.

“R-Right, I’ll d-do that.” You gave him a small smirk, then disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind you with a quiet click, letting the buzz in the air ebb.

—————————

The store was massive.

That was the first thing Bob said–softly, under his breath–as the automatic doors whooshed open in front of the two of you and the sheer overwhelming scale of the home decor superstore revealed itself like a cathedral of curated domesticity. Neatly stacked rugs, end caps of throw pillows arranged by season, hanging plants suspended like jungle chandeliers from industrial beams. It smelled like eucalyptus, lemon oil, and waxed wood floors. Music played somewhere overhead—something instrumental, cheerful, and entirely ignorable.

“Stick close,” You teased, brushing his elbow with yours. “You get lost in the storage section and I’m not coming to rescue you. That place is a labyrinth.”

“I-I won’t,” He muttered, eyes wide as they took in the sheer number of lamps.

Despite his nerves, Bob was easy to lead. You grabbed a cart–he insisted on pushing it–and you moved together aisle by aisle, your steps steady, his just a half beat behind. He didn’t say much at first. Just sort of…Hovered. Eyeing everything like he wanted to throw it in the cart. You gave him space to acclimate, letting your fingers trail over textured blankets and woven baskets until, eventually, his hand reached out too.

The first thing he touched was a throw pillow.

It was simple–soft knit, goldenrod yellow with a stitched sun on the front. He ran his thumb over the embroidered rays like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

You watched him for a moment, then smiled.

“That’s a good one,” You said. “Warm. Soft…And the design suits you.”

“M-Me?” He asked, pointing at himself.

”Yeah…It’s the sun…And you…Y’know…Have the power of a million exploding suns…Remember?” You murmured, nudging him gently, watching his ears turn pink as he looked down at the pillow again with a sheepish smile on his face.

Bob held the golden sun pillow a second longer, running his thumb along the stitched rays like he was trying to memorize the texture. Then, after a beat, he placed it gently in the cart.

From there, it got easier.

The two of you drifted down the aisles in quiet tandem, picking out what felt right and skipping what didn’t. In the paint section, Bob stood still in front of the wall of color swatches for a long moment, brows knit as he scanned shade after shade of white-gray-beige. You could see the hesitation brewing in his eyes–too many choices, too many wrong ones.

You touched his arm lightly, drawing his gaze.

“What are you drawn to?”

He hesitated, then reached toward a swatch a few rows up. It was a soft, cloud gray with the faintest cool undertone. It looked almost blue in some light, depending on how Bob held the little tile. You took it from his fingers and read the name.

“Cathedral.” You muttered.

“L-Little dramatic for a p-paint swatch.” Bob replied, his eyebrows crinkling together slightly.

“It’s fitting I think…Could’ve been named anything though, Dolphin Gray even.” That got the smallest smile out of him. The kind that tilted the corner of his mouth before he looked away like he hadn’t meant to do it.

The employee at the counter mixed the paint while you grabbed a tray, rollers, edging tape, and a drop cloth Bob insisted was overkill because he wouldn’t make a mess, but you threw it in anyway. While the shaker did its thing, you pulled him back into the decor section. That’s when he stopped at the string lights.

“Warm white,” He murmured, almost to himself, fingers brushing the edge of the box. “Not too bright.” You nodded and added two sets to the cart.

Next aisle over, you spotted a small section of candles on a recessed shelf–there were only a few options, and they were all tucked into recycled glass jars. Your fingers drifted over a few of them until you settled on one that caught your eye. You slid it off the shelf and popped the lid off before inhaling slowly. Vanilla. Lemon. Something faintly earthy beneath it all, like ginger or roots. It wasn’t exact, but it was close. You turned and held it out to him

“This one smells like my apartment.” He took it from you immediately, cradling it in both hands like it was something fragile. He slowly lifted it to his nose, and closed his eyes, as if he was absorbing every inch of the scent. You couldn’t help but smile at the moment, at the gentleness, the calm that invaded his face, like he was remembering your living room. When he opened his eyes again, they were soft and relaxed.

“I-It really does…” He responded before slipping it into the cart without any explanation.

A few minutes later, in a section of half-price indoor plants, Bob paused in front of a small hanging basket. A trailing pothos, lush and green, leaves curling over the edge like ivy from a fairy tale. He crouched slightly to get a better look, brushing the soil gently with his knuckle.

“I-I think I’ll get this one,” He said after a moment. “Room’s got a lot of light…Feels like something should grow in it, y’know?” You smiled at his train of thought, looking down at the greenery.

“I think it’s perfect.”

He picked it up, holding the pot carefully against his chest like he was already invested in keeping it alive. It suited him more than you could’ve imagined. This gentle care. The quiet desire to nurture something in his own space. To bring life into a place that had once only held silence.

By the time you circled back to pick up the paint, the cart was full: the sun pillow, the plant, the candle, two boxes of lights, a gray fleece throw blanket, a small framed print of an old seaside map Bob claimed reminded him of something he couldn’t quite place, and a wooden picture frame you nudged into the pile without comment. For the extra photo strip you had–just in case he ever wanted it on his nightstand.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

And when you caught Bob glancing down into the cart, his eyes tracing over the soft, mismatched collection of items, you saw it: the slow, quiet realization that this wasn’t just stuff.

It was the beginning of something that could finally feel like his.

He looked over at you, his hair slightly mussed from where he’d run his fingers through it too many times, and smiled–really smiled this time.

“Thanks for helping,” He said softly.

”Don’t thank me yet, we still have to paint and get all this stuff set up.”

——————————

Back at the compound, the city traffic gave way to the familiar hush of the underground lot as you pulled into Bay 21A. Bob unbuckled quickly, murmuring something about “not letting you carry anything,” before slipping out of the car and circling to the back. You barely had time to pop the hatch before he was already stacking the bags in careful tiers against his chest, paint can balanced on top with the plant cradled like a fragile infant in the crook of one elbow.

“I can help, you know…I’m not a piece of glass,” You said, raising a brow as he adjusted the throw blanket and tucked the bag with the candle under his arm like a seasoned pro.

“I-I got it,” He insisted, cheeks already pink with effort and pride. “B-Besides…This stuff’s important. I don’t wanna j-jostle it.” He glanced down at the plant with something bordering on reverence.

You rolled your eyes fondly, grabbing only the receipt and the keys before trailing behind him toward the elevator.

Back on the eightieth floor, the moment the door hissed open to the hallway, Bob adjusted the box of lights with his forearm and moved with quiet precision down the hall like a man on a mission. You tapped the panel for his room, and as the door slid open, he stepped inside and finally exhaled.

Everything was still as it had been the day before–blank walls, stripped bed, faint echo in the corners. But the weight of your shared errand buzzed in the air like something alive now. Potential. Comfort waiting to be built.

You breezed across the room and tapped the window control again, letting the breeze rush in.

“Not getting high off paint fumes today,” You said over your shoulder. “If we pass out mid-coat, Alexei will probably assume we were huffing it.” Bob let out a breathy laugh and carefully lowered the mountain of bags to the floor.

“I’m gonna change,” You added, already backing toward the door. “Don’t want to ruin my decent street clothes.” Bob gave a little nod, brushing the back of his hand across his brow where a stray curl had fallen.

“Y-Yeah, I’ll probably do the s-same,” He murmured, already toeing off his shoes by the entryway. You ducked out with a small smile and padded back into your room, flicking on the light. The process didn’t take long, you pulled on a pair of sleep shorts–soft and worn from years of laundering–and a baggy, sun-faded t-shirt, with the Stark Industries intern logo barely visible across the chest. The hem hung loose past your hips, and the neckline was wide and flimsy. A small smear of old red paint still clung to one of the sleeves from a project you’d long forgotten.

You grabbed a few bobby pins from your nightstand and pulled your hair back loosely, pinning the front sections away from your face, before returning back to Bob’s room soon after.

He was standing by the window, adjusting the drop sheet with one hand, the soft gray fleece blanket already tossed over the desk chair behind him. The sweatpants were still the same–dark, loose, slung a little low on his hips–but the sweater was gone now, and in its place…

A white undershirt.

And not just any undershirt. The kind that clung.

It clung to him like a second skin–thin cotton stretched just slightly across his chest and shoulders, outlining the sharp lines of his upper body like someone had sketched him in soft charcoal and left the strokes unfinished. The fabric hugged the slope of his collarbones and dipped gently over the muscles in his arms–biceps carved like they’d been sculpted by Phidias. You could see the outline of every ridge, and every subtle shift as he moved. The shirt was just snug enough across his stomach to trace the flat plane there, but loose enough around the hem to flutter when he bent slightly at the waist to grab the roller tray. The light from the window hit the curve of his deltoids, casting shadows you didn’t know cotton could catch.

He looked like a man carved from warmth. Golden light bled across his skin, tracing the veins in his forearms as he flexed his grip on the tray, veins that twisted like poetry across the backs of his hands and up toward the cuffs of his sleeves. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this–but God, it still felt like it.

Every time felt like the first.

Bob looked over his shoulder and caught you standing in the doorway, his mouth parting slightly when he saw you in your baggy shorts and oversized shirt, your hair pushed back with a few stray wisps curling around your temple. His gaze flicked over you slowly–hesitantly–like he didn’t mean to look but couldn’t stop.

“Y-You, uh…Look ready,” He said finally, his voice a little rougher than before. “G-Good shirt for painting.” He added, motioning to the outfit. You stepped in slowly, trying not to stare. But he looked like something out of a sun-drenched dream. Still gentle. Still Bob. But the kind of quiet you wanted to trace with your hands.

“Same to you,” You murmured, voice soft. “Didn’t know we were modeling for a Carhartt commercial today.”

He flushed instantly, tugging the hem of the shirt like it might somehow hide the obvious breadth of him.

“I-It’s just an undershirt,” He replied, his face turning a deep red–even though his lips were twitching into a smile that was a slow bloom of nerves.

Bob’s hands moved with care as he peeled the lid off the paint can, the soft metallic creak cutting through the quiet of the room. The scent hit immediately–sharp and chemical, softened only slightly by the breeze curling in through the open windows. He crouched to pour the soft gray paint into the tray with slow, deliberate control, letting it pool into the rigid plastic until it settled into a smooth, mirrored surface.

You stood beside him, your roller already in hand, trying hard not to stare at the way the muscles in his arms tensed as he steadied the can. He looked…Absurdly good. The undershirt hugged his frame like it had been designed with reverence, clinging to every dip and line and curve that his oversized sweaters usually swallowed whole. The light caught the pale sweat glistening at his temple, and when he reached back to set the can down, his shirt pulled just tight enough across his back that you had to actually will yourself to blink.

“You ready?” he asked gently, offering you your tray like he didn’t know he looked like a golden-age painting of ‘boy-next-door who also bench presses cars for fun.’

“Born ready,” you murmured, grateful your voice came out steady.

You dipped your roller into the tray and began to work, and Bob followed without hesitation, starting from the opposite wall. The gray went on smooth and clean. It was a quiet shade–not dull, not harsh–something in-between that felt like soft stone or the sky right before a storm. It caught the light well, turning the blank sterility of the walls into something deeper. Something lived in.

You painted in tandem, the rhythm of your movements syncing without you even realizing it–dip, roll, sweep, and stretch. You didn’t speak much at first. Just worked. Occasionally you’d catch him glancing at your section, making sure your coverage was even, and you’d glance over a beat later and find that he had already finished another wall and was patiently waiting for you to catch up, roller dripping, his shirt sticking slightly to the curve of his spine.

After about thirty minutes, you both stepped back, breathing a little heavier now, speckled with the first coat and faint dots of gray flecked on your arms and calves.

“It’s… Already better,” Bob said softly, wiping his hands with a rag he’d found in the bag. His eyes were on the wall, but they flicked to you after a second. “It doesn’t feel so…Blank anymore.” You nodded, brushing a stray streak of paint off your wrist.

“Yeah. Kinda feels like a place a person might actually live now.” You both stood there in the middle of the room for a moment, shoulders relaxed, the hum of the city outside brushing the edge of the silence. And then he sat–right on the floor, cross-legged in his paint-streaked sweatpants, undershirt rumpled slightly at the waist. You followed, easing down beside him, knees knocking once before settling close.

Conversation stirred back up–light, easy and in hushed tones.

But you weren’t really listening. Not completely.

Because Bob was…Glowing.

Not in the Sentry way. Not that raw cosmic glare that split the sky. No–this was something else. Something low and golden and warm. It lived in the curl of his laugh, the tiny streak of gray on his collarbone where he’d bumped the roller against himself and hadn’t noticed. It shimmered in the way he looked at you–really looked at you, like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of your smile every time it curved. And when he talked, it wasn’t just words–it was an offering. A thread pulled between you. One you both kept holding.

You realized then that you hadn’t stopped watching him for the last five minutes.

And based on the way his eyes dropped to your mouth mid-sentence–lingered there, soft and stunned like it wasn’t on purpose–you weren’t the only one.

Bob blinked once–slowly–and then again, like he was trying to recalibrate his vision. His gaze kept flicking down from your eyes to your mouth, like he couldn’t help it, like something in him had given up on pretending not to notice the way you looked sitting there beside him, sun-drenched and soft and glowing in the afterglow of effort.

Then he cleared his throat, but it came out more like a gulp. A quiet hitch of breath that gave him away.

“You, uh…” His voice barely rose above the quiet in the room. He reached up and gestured with two fingers, a small motion toward your cheek. “Y-You’ve got paint… Right here.” His hand hovered near his own cheekbone, mirroring the spot. “Can I…?”

You didn’t answer with words. You just leaned forward, heart suddenly pressing against your ribs like it wanted to rip out of you and escape. Bob’s hand moved slowly as if rushing might ruin the moment that was simmering between the two of you. His fingertips grazed your skin with a featherlight touch, his thumb brushing the smear of gray just below your eye.

He didn’t pull away when it was gone.

Neither did you.

The hush that settled between you was different now. It wasn’t silence. It was a sound held gently between two people on the edge of something too big to name. His hand lingered against your face, thumb tracing the faintest curve of your cheek like he needed to memorize the texture. And when you looked up at him you saw it.

That same light.

Not the blinding kind. Not the kind that cracked the sky and split atoms. But the kind that came just before dawn. Soft. Resolute. The kind that touched everything gently and asked nothing in return. It lived in the blue of his eyes now, threaded through with something honey-warm.

“Y/N…” He whispered, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say your name like that–soft and aching, like it meant something he hadn’t dared admit aloud yet.Your hand found his cheek the way it always did. That familiar path of comfort, of care. The one place he always let you touch, even when everything else in him trembled. Your thumb brushed just beneath the apple of it–soft and supple–and his eyes fluttered at the contact, lashes dark against flushed skin.

He leaned into it, just a little. Just enough to let you feel how much he needed it–how much he needed you.

And then the air changed.

It was subtle. A breath caught in a hush. A tremble at the edge of stillness. Like the second before rain kisses the ground. Bob’s eyes held yours–not with uncertainty, not with apology–but with care so tender it undid you. As if this–your hand on his face, your knees pressed close to his, the light painting silver across your bare shoulder–was the holiest thing he’d ever known.

“I–” he started, voice barely a sound, and then stopped. His throat moved around the words he didn’t have yet. Instead, he reached up–slowly, slowly–and covered your hand with his own, pressing it further into his cheek like he didn’t ever want it to leave.

You could feel the tremor in him.

Not fear. Not anymore.

Just the weight of everything he was finally ready to let you see.

Your other hand rose without thinking, fingertips tracing the edge of his jaw, then curving around the back of his neck where soft curls dampened with heat. You pulled him closer–just enough for your foreheads to touch. Just enough to feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across your lips.

“Bob…” You whispered.

Your lips were almost touching now, but you continued to let the moment swell, and ache.

His mouth hovered a whisper away from yours, the barest sliver of air separating you–shared breath, warm and trembling. You could feel the curve of his bottom lip brush yours when he exhaled, and that smallest touch–so light, so accidental–made your stomach coil with heat. You leaned forward instinctively, but he didn’t move back.

He didn’t move forward either.

Not yet.

You felt it when his lips parted. When the tip of his tongue darted out, barely grazing your bottom lip in an attempt to taste you. It wasn’t a kiss, it was a question. A pull. And it made your breath catch so sharply that your chest almost forgot how to fall.

Then he whispered it.

Something small.

Something that cracked your ribs open with its softness.

“…I-I’ve daydreamed about t-this moment.”

His voice was low and shaken, like a confession whispered in a church pew. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he inched just closer–his nose brushing yours now, and the tremble in his hands telling you this was costing him something to say aloud.

everything in you was focused on the man in front of you—on the tremble in his voice, on the way his breath feathered across your lips, on the reverence in his eyes like he was standing at the altar of something holy.

His confession lingered between you like incense—soft and heavy, curling into your ribs. You could feel it there, warm and aching, as your thumb swept the line of his jaw. His hand was still covering yours like it was a lifeline, like if he let go, the whole world might collapse inward.

So you didn’t let him fall.

You leaned in first.

Just a little.

Just enough that your lips brushed his again—deliberately this time.

A whisper of a kiss. A promise made in the hush between heartbeats.

He shuddered the moment you touched him, and you felt it everywhere—in the curl of his fingers at your jaw, the way his breath hitched low in his chest, the quiet gasp he let out like the wind had been knocked clean from his lungs.

And then—

He kissed you back.

Not rushed. Not greedy. But slow.

So slow it made your skin prickle.

His lips moved against yours with the kind of aching reverence usually reserved for relics and prayers. It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t unsure. It was careful—like every second of it mattered. Like he didn’t just want to taste you—he wanted to remember you. Your shape. Your breath. The way your lips parted for him like a secret being told for the first time.

It was holy.

You tilted your head, deepening it slightly–your hand sliding from the back of his neck to tangle in the curls at his nape, anchoring him to you. His hands curved along your hips, firm and trembling all at once, like he wanted to pull you closer but didn’t dare.

And God–you wanted closer.

So you shifted.

One slow, smooth motion.

You moved into his lap, straddling his thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world–your knees pressing into the paint-flecked floor, your body fitting against his like you were meant to be there. Bob inhaled sharply against your mouth, and you swallowed the sound with a kiss deeper than the one before.

He melted beneath you.

You felt it–every inch of tension releasing from his body like a dam giving way to floodwaters. His arms wrapped around your waist now, strong and warm, pulling you in with a groan so quiet you could’ve mistaken it for a plea of mercy. His hands splayed at your lower back, fingers flexing like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to hold you like this.

Your lips danced together, slow and consuming, mouths parting just enough to breathe the same air, to taste the softness in each other’s sighs. His tongue brushed against yours in the subtlest question–timid but wanting–and you answered him by tilting your hips forward ever so slightly, deepening the kiss until your whole body was singing with it.

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

There was nothing else.

No city outside the window. No walls still half-painted. No ghosts of past lives or broken silences.

Just the quiet miracle of his mouth on yours–every kiss a verse in a psalm neither of you had ever dared to read aloud until now.

When the kiss finally broke, it was slow. Lingering. His lips chased yours for one last brush, like he didn’t want to stop. Like the parting itself was unbearable.

You pressed your forehead to his again, your breaths mingling, your chest rising and falling in time with his. He looked at you and his eyes were liquid sunlight, the warm glow invading the ocean blue of his irises–but they were unbearably tender.

And then he closed them tightly.

Like it was too much for him. Like having you this close was triggering something in him he needed to get control over. His hands at your waist tightened ever so slightly, as if anchoring himself. Bracing for impact.

You leaned in.

Not to tease. Not to rush. Just to give.

And with aching care, you pressed your lips to one of his eyelids.

A whisper of contact. A kiss that was less about passion and more about trust. You felt his breath stutter–his body going still beneath yours like he’d just been blessed. Like no one had ever done this to him. Not like this.

You kissed the other eyelid just as slowly.

And when you pulled back, his breath trembled out of him—ragged and low, laced with something that made your stomach tighten and your hands ache for more.

Then–

He surged forward, finally.

His mouth found yours again, harder this time. Still gentle, still reverent, but charged now. A hum of electricity laced through the softness. The kind of kiss that made your toes curl and your hands instinctively fist into the fabric of his shirt. You clung to him—not out of desperation, but out of instinct. Because of course you would hold onto him. There was nothing else in the room. Nothing else in the world.

Your fingers curled at his shoulders, dragging across the thin cotton, feeling every flex of muscle beneath it. He groaned softly against your lips when you tugged just slightly–his hands slipping lower, cradling the curve of your spine like you were something breakable and divine all at once.

You kissed him like you meant it.

And he kissed you like he couldn’t believe it.

When he finally pulled back–barely, just enough to breathe–his forehead pressed to yours again, his breath hot against your cheek. His lips brushed the edge of your mouth with every word.

“I–uh…” He murmured, voice cracked and raw around the edges, “I think maybe we should go to your room.”

You blinked, still catching your breath.

He swallowed, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. “I mean–just ‘cause–there’s a lot of paint fumes in here,” He added, clearly flustered, clearly not thinking about paint at all, “A-And I don’t wanna get dizzy and…Fall over or something while you’re…O-On my lap…”

The way he looked at you then–flush blooming down his throat, hands still cradling you like he didn’t want to let go–it was too soft to be funny. Too vulnerable to mock. You leaned in, brushing your nose against his and letting your lips ghost across his jaw.

“Right,” You whispered. “Wouldn’t want to pass out while kissing or anything.”

His breath caught again–so beautifully–and he nodded.

“Y-Yeah,” He murmured, dazed, “That would be…A tragedy.” Your lips hovered just over his skin, brushing the warmth of his jaw with a breathless smile. His hands stayed firm at your waist like he was still trying to convince himself you were real–that this was real–that you were really curled into his lap with paint on your legs and want in your eyes.

You let your mouth ghost lower, just to the edge of his neck.

Then, softly–like a secret–

“Take me to my room,” You instructed gently.

Bob inhaled sharply through his nose, fingers twitching at your hips like the words had struck something sacred in him. He blinked once, as if to double-check he’d heard you right, and then nodded–so small it was barely noticeable.

He rose with you in his arms, like it was nothing. Like you weighed less than air.

And he didn’t hesitate.

Instead of going through the hall like any rational person might have, he turned and headed straight for the bathroom that adjoined your quarters and his–taking the shortcut–the private path. You giggled under your breath at the way he moved with such gentle urgency, like the act of walking was suddenly too slow. Like he needed to get you there now.

You nuzzled into the crook of his neck as he carried you, your lips brushing the delicate skin just beneath his jaw, sucking gently at the faint stubble there. His steps faltered for a second when he felt your lips there–nothing more than a soft press of your mouth to his pulse and a little pull–but it was enough to make him grunt softly and pick up the pace.

“Y-You’re really not helping,” He muttered, breath shaky and hot, his fingers tightening just slightly around your thighs where he held you. You kissed his neck again, smiling against him.

“Didn’t realize I was supposed to be,” You replied.

He let out something that might’ve been a laugh, or maybe a groan–then fumbled with the bathroom door, kicked it open a little too fast, and spun the both of you through it like a man possessed.

By the time he reached your side of the quarters, he was a little breathless, and completely flushed–enough that you could’ve sworn you saw blush peeking through his white undershirt. You kissed his throat again, and that was it.

You felt his hands shift as he bent forward, setting you gently on the bed, your back sinking into the familiar comfort of your duvet. Bob hovered over you for a breathless moment, suspended between want and worship. His chest rose and fell above yours, his curls shadowing his forehead, damp from the warmth blooming beneath his skin. Your legs were still loosely looped around his waist, cradling him there, holding him in that weightless space between everything you were and everything you were about to become.

Then he leaned in.

And kissed you.

Not on the mouth this time. But everywhere else.

Soft, fluttering presses of lips to skin. A brush at your cheekbone. Another to the edge of your brow. A third to the tip of your nose, which made you let out the kind of breathy laugh that pulled something tight in his chest.

He kissed your forehead last, and lingered there, just long enough to let you feel the shape of it. When he finally pulled back, his hands slid gently to your thighs. He rubbed slow, reverent circles into your skin–paint-flecked, warm from effort, bare from mid-thigh down. His thumbs pressed into the dip just above your knees, and then, with a soft inhale, he murmured–

“Let me go lock the door…So we don’t get interrupted.”

His voice was low. Still frayed around the edges with awe.

You nodded, your legs loosening around his waist as he coaxed them gently down with the flats of his palms. You let them drop to either side of him, feet brushing the floor now, knees parted slightly around where he still knelt between them.

He rose with quiet care, and you sat up slowly onto your elbows, the hem of your oversized shirt falling back into place, bunched slightly around your hips. The cotton was thin and soft and stretched with sleep, one side still slipping off your shoulder. You shifted your weight just slightly, legs swinging idly off the edge of the mattress, watching him.

The room glowed with the kind of light that only happened at dusk.

Evening had begun to settle behind the skyline just outside your windows–cool shadows bleeding slowly across the hardwood floor. But the city’s sunset didn’t reach this far into your quarters. Not fully.

Instead, the soft amber glow of your nightstand lamp lit the space.

It cast everything in a warm, golden haze.

The bulb was shielded behind a woven linen shade, diffusing the light until it looked like honey melting through gauze. It hit the edges of the room with a quiet softness–just enough to turn skin to candlelight and shadows to velvet. The kind of light that made everything feel slow and sacred. That turned every breath into something you wanted to hold.

You watched him walk across the room barefoot, his white undershirt clinging to his frame like it was woven from sunlight and tension. The muscles in his back flexed beneath it, pulling at the thin fabric just slightly with every movement. His hand reached for the sleek panel on the wall near the entryway and pressed his thumb to the edge of the glass.

A quiet chime confirmed it. The soft swoosh of magnetic locks sliding into place.

And still–he stood there for a second longer, his hand lingering against the door panel.

You saw it, even from across the room.

The rise and fall of his shoulders.

The silent inhale. The weight of the moment catching up to him in the hush between the lock and the turning back.

Then he did turn.

And when he looked at you, it was like gravity itself had shifted–like you were the axis now.

That soft glow from your bedside lamp painted amber along the edges of his jaw, spilling gold into the hollow of his throat and casting his frame in the kind of warmth usually reserved for cathedral windows or old film reels. His undershirt clung to him in the most unfair way–ribbons of cotton stretched delicately over muscle and tension, bunched slightly at the waist from where your legs had wrapped around him only moments ago. And yet, he looked…Hentle. Steady. Like something you could pray to if you didn’t know better.

He came back to you slowly.

Each step measured.

Deliberate.

His gaze never left you–not once–as he returned to where you sat on the edge of the bed, your thighs parted just enough, feet brushing the hardwood, shirt draped long over your hips. You shifted as he approached, moving like you meant to scoot farther up the mattress, to lay back and make room. But his hand stopped you. Gentle. Firm.

“N-No,” He said, voice soft but sure. “I…I want to stay here. L-Like this…Trust me.” Bob leaned down, hunching slightly to meet your mouth where you sat at the edge of the bed–legs parted, eyes glowing in the lamplight, waiting for him like gravity waited for stars. His hands braced on either side of your thighs, and then he kissed you again–slow and a little clumsy this time, the angle not quite perfect, his spine bending to reach you. But it didn’t matter.

You moaned into it anyway.

Because he was right there. All of him. The weight of his chest against yours, the tension in his arms, the way his breath hitched as your hand slid back up beneath the hem of that cruel little undershirt.

Your fingers clawed at it. Not delicately. Not with patience. Like you needed it gone. And Bob–sweet, reverent Bob–broke the kiss just long enough to whisper,

“Y-Yeah, okay–hang on–”

His voice cracked as he tugged the shirt over his head in one rushed motion. The cotton caught briefly on the back of his neck, then slipped free with a quiet shh of static and landed somewhere near your feet.

And then there he was.

Bare.

Bathed in lamplight.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You had imagined this. Of course you had. It was always in flickers and flashbacks–like when his scrubs had been practically shot off him when he distracted Val’s special ops so you, Walker, Ava, and Yelena could escape the vault. But this–seeing him like this, lit in soft honey gold, the shadows of his body sloping into the hollow of his ribs and the rise of his chest—this was different.

He wasn’t chiseled. He wasn’t flawless. But God, he was real.

The kind of real that could wreck you again and again and you would say thank you.

His skin was flushed, warm from exertion, and his arms flexed where they framed you–long and lean, thick in the right places, his veins peeking just beneath the surface like scripture written under skin. His shoulders were broad, with scattered beauty marks kissing his skin, and all you could do was bite the inside of your cheek.

Your eyes drank in every inch.

And then your hand followed.

You reached for him–almost reverently–palm sliding flat against his stomach. The skin there was soft, but the muscle underneath twitched, hard and sudden, at your touch. His hips jolted the barest bit, a sharp inhale escaping through parted lips.

You let your fingers drift up.

Across the ridge of his abs, over the slight dip between his pecs, tracing a slow, steady line up the center of his chest.

“You look like a god,” You whispered.

And he hummed.

Low. From somewhere deep in his chest. Like the compliment vibrated straight through him and he couldn’t contain it.

His head dipped as he let out a breathless sound against your cheek–half a laugh, half a groan. “Th-That’s… That’s not true…”

You pressed your hand flat over his heart.

“It is,” You murmured, voice soft but insistent. “You’re the sun, Bob. You shine.”

And he hummed again–longer this time.

The sound of it curled between your legs like silk.

He shuddered a little, then kissed you again–harder this time, deeper, like he didn’t know what else to do with the feeling. You moaned into it and dragged your nails lightly down his ribs just to feel the way his body reacted to you–twitching and shifting a bit.

And when you whispered, “God, I could worship you like this,” His breath hitched so hard he nearly stumbled.

His breath was ragged now–hot and uneven where it puffed against your cheek, like every single thing you said was costing him control he barely knew how to hold onto in the first place.

“You…” He rasped, voice frayed and unsteady, like it was coming from somewhere much deeper than his throat, “You don’t… You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

You smiled against his jaw.

“Yes, I do.”

His hands gripped the blanket–white-knuckled, grounding himself in the cotton and not the way your voice made his muscles twitch beneath your touch.

“You don’t understand,” He whispered, eyes squeezed shut, like he couldn’t even look at you without giving something away. “I… I can’t keep–if you keep saying things like that–if you look at me like that–I don’t know if I’ll be able to—”

His voice broke off with a shuddering inhale. His whole body trembled slightly over yours, caught between restraint and desire, and God, it was glorious.

You lifted your hand again–slow, gentle–and brushed your knuckles along his cheek. The scruff there was warm and soft, velvet over steel. He turned his face toward the touch before he could stop himself.

“Look at me,” You whispered.

He hesitated.

But only for a second.

Then he opened his eyes.

And it confirmed everything.

That glow wasn’t just a metaphor. It wasn’t poetic. It was real. His irises shimmered like molten honey shot through with starfire–like something barely leashed beneath the surface had opened a single, trembling eye.

The Sentry.

You saw it flicker there. Just enough.

Not violent. Not threatening. But watching.

And you smiled.

“I was right,” You murmured. “You really are the sun.”He tried to look away again. His throat bobbed with another hard swallow, his arms trembling where he held himself over you.

“You’re playing a d-dangerous game,” He warned, voice hoarse. “I don’t think you…I-I don’t think you know what you’re asking for.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking for,” You breathed, sliding your hand down the curve of his ribs, across his waist, back to the firm plane of his abdomen. He flinched under your palm, hips jerking forward slightly before he caught himself. “I want all of it. I want both of you…And I know you can control it.”

Bob let out a sound then–something low and wrecked, somewhere between a moan and a growl, like the words had reached some part of him buried deep and sacred.

“Y-You don’t understand,” he whispered again, almost begging this time. “You don’t u-understand what you’re doing.”

You cupped his jaw and kissed him again, slow and hot and certain, your tongue sweeping into his mouth like a vow. His hands flew to your thighs, fingers gripping tight now, anchoring himself there as he kissed you back with everything he had. Desperate. Consuming.

And when you pulled back just enough to speak again, lips brushing his as you said it–

“I do understand.”

You leaned in and dragged your teeth lightly along his bottom lip, and his whole body shuddered.

“And I want it anyway.”

He groaned–loud this time. No holding back. No shame. Just the pure, guttural sound of a man unraveling.

And when he kissed you next, it wasn’t careful.

It was devotional. No longer the soft, trembling offering it had been moments prior. This one was hungry. A little rough around the edges. A gasp swallowed. A whimper chased. Bob’s hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt like he couldn’t stop himself, and you arched up instinctively, giving him the space–giving him everything.

The fabric lifted slowly, dragged over your ribs, baring warm skin to cooler air. You raised your arms, and he pulled it over your head in one fluid motion. His breath caught when he saw you in the golden light, chest rising with something close to reverence.

Then his hand slid behind you, trembling but sure, fingers working the clasp of your bra. It came undone with a quiet snap, and he slipped the straps down your arms with a gentleness that made your throat tighten. He let it fall to the floor like something holy, something he would not dare to crumple.

And then you laid back.

Slow, easy.

Your shoulders met the mattress first, followed by the curve of your spine, the arch of your hips, and the duvet puffed beneath you, soft and sun-warmed from the light still pouring through the linen lamp shade. Your chest was bare now, rising and falling with anticipation, skin kissed in shadows and gold.

Bob just stared.

And for a second, he didn’t move.

Because you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

The way the light painted across your collarbones, soft and sloped. The subtle curve of your breasts, rising with every breath. The softness of your belly, the delicate line of your ribs. You looked like art. Like a myth. Like something that should’ve only existed in dreams.

He swallowed hard. His eyes shimmered.

And then, slowly, he sank to his knees between your thighs again.

His hands slid up your sides–warm, large, trembling just slightly. He mapped every inch of you like he needed to learn it by heart. His palms ghosted over your waist, up the softness of your ribs, and then…

He cupped your breasts carefully.

And let out a sound so low, so shattered, it made you ache.

“You’re…” He whispered, voice catching, “You’re s-so soft… So—God—beautiful.”

His thumbs brushed over your nipples, and the contact sent a ripple through you—sharp, electric. Your back arched slightly, and he leaned in without thinking, mouthing gently at the swell of one breast while his hand continued to cradle the other. His lips were warm. Open. His breath huffed against your skin as he kissed, sucked, nuzzled—like he couldn’t decide what to do first.

“You’re perfect,” He whispered again, voice rougher now–lower, tinged with something molten that flickered beneath the surface.

His mouth closed around your nipple–slow and hot–and you gasped aloud, your fingers threading into his curls as your thighs shifted on either side of him. He moaned into you. Soft. Almost desperate. His tongue flicked gently, again and again, drawing it into his mouth with a devotion that bordered on worship.

“You d-don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured between kisses, dragging his mouth across your chest to give equal attention to the other. “Y-You’re everything… Every fucking thing–”

His voice cracked again, and this time there was no mistaking it.

That tone.

Just slightly deeper. Not quite his. Not quite the Sentry either–but something born of both.

It vibrated through his chest, warm and unsteady, like two frequencies overlapping. He kissed you again–lower now–over your ribs, then your navel. Every press of his lips was filled with awe. His hands stayed at your waist, holding you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable.

“I c-could die right here,” He whispered, his voice still shaking, still fighting to stay human. “You…You’d be the last thing I see and I’d be okay with it. I swear, I—”

His mouth found your stomach, trailing down with the heat of his breath and the brush of his lips, his hands never stopping their gentle, grounding rhythm. Circling. Worshipping.

You reached down, fingers finding his jaw, guiding him up for another kiss. And when he kissed you again, it was with more hunger. More heat. But still careful–still Bob. Even when his hands roamed again–up, over your ribs, back to your breasts, where he cupped them and whispered broken praise between kisses.

“So soft… Fuck, you’re so soft…Please let me… Let me love you–let me remember all of this–”

His voice shook with restraint, with reverence, with want so deep it nearly broke you. Your fingers still cradled his jaw when you whispered it.

“I’m yours.”

You didn’t even realize the words were leaving your mouth until they’d already cracked the air between you open like a vow, and Bob stilled like you’d just spoken the incantation that undid him.

His breath caught, sharp and audible–like his lungs didn’t know whether to inhale or collapse. His eyes fluttered shut. And when they opened again, they glowed. Not bright. Not blinding. But deeper. Gold laced in blue. A quiet surrender written in starlight.

His hands clenched at your waist, and his voice came out low. Lower than before. The edges rasped with something rough, barely reined in. Like the Sentry had pressed just behind his teeth, watching from the shadows of his throat.

“Can I…” His voice broke. He swallowed hard. “Can I take these off?”

His fingertips brushed just beneath the waistband of your shorts–trembling, reverent, barely there.

“Yes,” You breathed, hips tilting upward in offering.

He let out a sound like a prayer and leaned forward to kiss your mouth again–deep, slow, aching–before pulling back and sliding down the bed. His hands rose to your hips, and with careful fingers, he began to peel your shorts and underwear down your thighs. Inch by inch. Like unwrapping something sacred.

He didn’t rush. Not for a second.

He took his time baring you to the honey-colored light. His gaze never left your skin–like he was memorizing every inch, every curve. Like this was the moment he’d waited his entire life for.

And then, when the cotton hit your knees, he paused.

He bent forward.

And kissed the top of your thigh.

Soft. Open-mouthed. Warm, and wet. Doing the same to the other.

His breath stuttered, and he sank lower–kneeling now. Fully. Both palms spread wide across your thighs, grounding himself there. And it made sense then, why he had stopped you from crawling back on the bed. Why he kept you on the edge like this.

Because it let him kneel. It let him worship. He kissed your thighs like they were holy. Lips brushing up toward where you ached for him most, the anticipation a silk-wrapped noose around your lungs. He looked up once, just once, and the heat in his gaze nearly burned you alive.

“I-I’ve wanted this,” He whispered, breath trembling against your skin. “I’ve dreamed of this–of you–just like this…”

He didn’t finish the thought.

He didn’t have to.

Because his mouth descended, slow and devastating.

A kiss–directly over your folds.

Tender. Lingering. His breath was warm. His lips parting against you in something deeper than intention.

You gasped–soft and sharp–as his tongue followed, slow and exploratory, dragging upward with a pressure that made your whole body seize. He moaned into you. Like the taste of you had broken something open inside him.

And then he did it again.

And again.

Until your hips were arching. Until your hands were in his hair. Until all you could hear was the wet, reverent sounds of him worshiping you like you were his only tether to the world.

He kissed every part of you like it mattered. Like he could feel your heartbeat in his mouth. His hands slid beneath your thighs, lifting, spreading, cradling you wider. His thumbs pressed into the crease where thigh met hip, holding you open for him, and he groaned–deep, low, wrecked–as his mouth found your clit.

He sucked gently, lips sealing around it, and your whole body jerked. A breathless cry ripped from your chest, and you felt his hands tighten, grounding you. His tongue circled, slow and sure, his lips sliding against you in worshipful rhythm.

“Bob–” You gasped, the name slipping out like a plea. “Oh, my God–”

He moaned again–vibrating against you–and the sensation made your head fall back. The edge of the mattress bit into your spine, your legs trembling where they hung over his shoulders, and still–he didn’t stop. He didn’t even falter.

His mouth moved like it was built for this.

Slow. Devoted. Intoxicating.

You felt the tension coil–tight and deep–in your belly, in your spine, in the backs of your knees. And Bob felt it too. You could tell by the way his hands gripped tighter. The way his tongue flicked just a little faster, more precise now, teasing and coaxing as he devoured you. He drank your sounds like nectar. Like every moan was oxygen. His own breath was ragged now, and still–he praised.

“You taste like heaven,” He whispered, lips brushing you wet and wanting, voice thick and torn in two. “So fucking sweet–so good–God, you’re everything–”

You were shaking.

You were unraveling.

Your thighs clenched around his shoulders, and still–he stayed locked in place, mouth relentless and full of worship. One hand slid up your belly to your chest, grounding you again, his fingers curling over your ribs while the other stayed hooked beneath your thigh.

And then–

He flattened his tongue and dragged it up the center of you, slow and hard, and sealed his mouth around your clit one last time–sucking, flicking, groaning into you with a desperation so tender it broke you wide open.

The orgasm hit like sunrise.

Warm. Blinding. Slow at first—and then fast and full, like light spilling over the edge of your bones. Your whole body arched into him. You cried out–his name, the stars, everything–and his arms locked around your hips, holding you steady as he worked you through it, mouth still worshipping, still licking, still kissing every quake of pleasure like it was a gift he’d been waiting a lifetime to receive.

And when you finally collapsed–boneless and glowing, chest heaving, eyes wet with aftershocks–Bob pulled back slowly, lips slick, face flushed, and looked up at you like a man reborn.

He was breathless.

Shaking.

But his eyes were molten gold.

“You’re…Everything,” He whispered again, voice reverent. “Everything.” The words melted into your skin like heat, and when he spoke next–his lips still brushing just above your knee—it wasn’t just Bob.

“I want to give you another one…”

His voice was wrecked. Darker. Threaded with something molten and greedy.

“I want to feel you fall apart again, just for me…”

Before you could speak–before you could even breathe–his hand slid up the inside of your thigh. His fingers were slow, wet from where he’d worshiped you moments ago, and when they reached your center, he groaned softly at the heat still there.

“So warm,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Still trembling for me.”

Then—you felt it.

The press of two fingers, thick and slow, gliding through your slick folds, parting you with devastating precision.

You gasped—legs twitching from the aftershocks still fluttering through your body. “B-Bob—wait—”

But he didn’t pull away.

He looked up at you, eyes glowing—lit with starlight and hunger—and smiled. Soft. But feral.

“I know, baby,” he whispered, fingers still dragging gently through your folds. “I know you’re sensitive. But I promise—I’ll be so gentle.”

And he was.

Even when he slipped the first finger in, and then the second—stretching you slow, curling inside you with aching care—his touch was worship. His breath shook with restraint, with reverence, with something barely caged beneath his ribs.

You cried out—half from pleasure, half from overstimulation—as his fingers began to move. A steady rhythm. In and out, in and out, curling at the top each time until sparks flared up your spine.

“You’re doing so good,” he rasped, eyes locked on yours. “So fucking good for me.”

The pace never quickened. But the pressure built. And built.

He pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to the inside of your thigh with every stroke, like he was timing his mouth to your unraveling. Your hands fisted in the duvet, your hips twitching every time his fingers brushed that devastating spot inside you—and still, he moved like a man being fed by your pleasure. Like this—wrecking you gently—was salvation.

“I can feel you,” he whispered, voice thick. “You’re clenching around me already, aren’t you? You’re so close…”

You whimpered, nodding, barely able to hold yourself up.

He pulled his fingers nearly all the way out—then pushed them back in, slow and deep, curling them harder this time. You choked on a sob.

“I want it,” he murmured. “Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go again—one more. Just one more for me.”

Your thighs shook. Your lips parted on a gasp as the pressure bloomed hard and fast this time—your body raw and exposed and aching for him.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your inner thigh as he worked you open on his fingers. “I want to see your soul when you come. Please, baby, show it to me.”

The second orgasm hit like a wave breaking against rock.

Rougher. Hungrier. You cried out again, back arching clean off the mattress, thighs locking around his wrist as you shattered all over him. The sound that tore from you wasn’t pretty–it was real. It was desperate. It was a gift.

Bob groaned–deep and guttural–as you pulsed around his fingers, your release soaking him, your voice ragged and broken as you whispered his name again and again.

He didn’t stop until your body finally slumped back against the sheets, spent and shaking, your skin glistening with sweat and devotion.

Only then did he slide his fingers free slowly, and lift them to his mouth.

He sucked them clean.

Eyes locked on yours.

And when he finally stood–shoulders heaving, sweat dripping down the curve of his throat–he looked like a god descending from whatever mythical place they belonged to

The Sentry was still there in the golden flicker of his eyes. Greedy. Glowing. Waiting.

“Now,” He said, voice low and reverent as he reached for his waistband, “I’m going to make love to you.” You were still gasping, chest rising in sharp, uneven waves, your limbs spread across the bed like they’d melted into the duvet. Your fingers twitched where they gripped the sheets. The light from the nightstand made everything feel golden and close, like time had slowed just for the two of you.

Bob moved carefully.

Softly.

You barely noticed at first–only the shift of pressure beneath your thigh, the way his hand skimmed under your back. But then he was there, lifting you just enough to guide you farther up the bed. His touch was trembling but sure, all Bob again–no flicker, no pulse of divinity. Just the man. The hands that had brushed paint onto your walls, the voice that had whispered to you in the dark when nightmares clawed through the silence.

“L-Lay back,” He murmured, eyes searching your face like he needed permission again. “J-Just wanna get you comfortable…”

You nodded, boneless and warm, your heart still fluttering in your chest.

He kissed your neck as he helped you settle, lips brushing right where your pulse fluttered. It wasn’t sexual, not yet. It was grounding. Anchoring. The kind of kiss that said you’re safe. That said I’ve got you.

You sighed against him.

And when he pulled back just enough to stand again, his hands went to his waistband.

He hesitated.

Only for a second.

But then–he slipped his thumbs beneath the edge of his sweatpants and boxers, and pushed them down slowly, hips rolling just slightly as the fabric slid over his thighs.

And there he was.

His erection stood proud and flushed, the head a soft blush red, glistening at the tip, his length thick and veined–aching and heavy with want. It wasn’t just beautiful–it was intimate. Unfiltered. Bob, exposed. Unhidden. And yet… utterly perfect.

You inhaled softly, lips parting around a soundless gasp. He looked vulnerable like this, not in shame, but in reverence. He wasn’t flaunting it. He wasn’t posing. He was present.

Breath stuttering slightly, Bob stepped out of the bunched fabric around his ankles and nudged it aside with his foot before crawling onto the bed, careful not to jostle you too fast. He kissed your knee first, then your hip, then the soft underside of your ribcage, working his way up your body with aching, deliberate slowness.

You reached for him without thinking, needing to touch all of him now. Your hands slid across his chest, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your fingers, the little tremors in his arms. He nestled between your thighs as he reached you fully, bracing himself on one forearm while the other arm hooked gently beneath your thigh, guiding it up and around his waist. Then–

He slipped one arm behind your neck.

Cradling you.

Like you were the most precious thing in the world.

His hips rested just above yours, the heat of him brushing your center, not yet aligned–but enough to make you both moan at the contact. His body blanketed yours, but not heavily. He held himself up with care, like every ounce of pressure he applied was measured, considered.

His lips found your throat again, this time pressing just below your jaw. “Y/N…” He whispered, voice cracking. “T-This is all I’ve e-ever wanted.”

You turned your head, your lips brushing his temple, then his cheek.

“Bob,” You breathed. “You’re so good. You’re so perfect…I want you so bad.”

He let out a shuddering sound. A whimper, almost. And when he kissed you again–open-mouthed, lips dragging along your collarbone–you felt him whisper something against your skin.

“I’m gonna go slow… I–I wanna feel all of you. I want you to feel me.”

His voice stuttered again, and that alone almost undid you. Because it was him.

Not the Sentry.

Not the glowing power that had shimmered behind his irises. Just Bob–soft, trembling, and wrecked with love, and holding you like you were divine.

Bob shifted just slightly–allowing his hand to slip between your bodies, low and slow, until he wrapped his fingers around himself. You could feel the tremble in his arm as he lined himself up, the heat of him pressing right where you were still soaked and aching for him.

“Okay?” he whispered, eyes searching your face.

You nodded–barely, breath caught in your throat–and lifted your hips just enough to meet him.

His hand slipped to your thigh, guiding it back up around his waist, and then–

He kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Tongue brushing yours like it was a prayer. And as your mouths moved together, slick and open and gasping, he began to press in.

The stretch stole your breath.

The head of him pushed into you, thick and hot and slow, and your lips parted with a gasp that he swallowed greedily. His whole body shuddered over you as he sank deeper–inch by inch–your walls fluttering around him, still trembling from the afterglow of the orgasms he’d already given you. Every nerve ending felt raw and alight, turned inside out by pleasure, by sensation, by him.

“Oh my God,” you whimpered, nails digging lightly into his back.

He moaned into your mouth–long and low and desperate–and pushed in further, your body yielding for him, stretching to accommodate the full length of him. His hips trembled with restraint, his hand never leaving your thigh, thumb brushing small circles into your skin to soothe you as he sank deeper and deeper.

You felt full.

You felt wrecked.

You felt like you were being split open in the most perfect, intimate way–and still, he didn’t stop. Not until he bottomed out completely, hips flush against yours, his chest heaving above you like he couldn’t believe it was real.

And then…

He stilled, breathless, inside you.

His forehead dropped to yours, and you could feel the sweat on his skin, the warmth of it, the shiver still running through him as he tried not to move. He kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then your temple–his lips brushing each place like a whispered offering.

“You feel…” He choked, “You feel so good–so warm–so soft–”

Your hands slid up his back, anchoring there, and he kissed the corner of your mouth again.

“I don’t ever wanna move,” He whispered, voice wrecked and thick and glowing at the edges. “I just wanna stay right here. Inside you. Forever.”

You whimpered, barely holding onto your breath, your hips twitching slightly beneath his.

”Bob…I’m all yours and…My god you’re amazing.” He groaned against your skin–low and needy–and kissed the tip of your nose, your eyelids, your throat.

Then, softer–

“Tell me when,” he whispered. “I won’t move until you’re ready.”

You breathed in slowly, body still adjusting to the stretch of him, to the heat and fullness and sheer beauty of having him this close. His thumb was still brushing lazy circles against your thigh, the other hand stroking your hair back from your temple.

And then you nodded.

You turned your face to his, kissed him slowly, and whispered:

“Now.”

He moved.

Just a little.

Just enough for you both to feel it–just enough for the glide to send a shudder through your spine. His hips drew back, slow and measured, and then pressed forward again with aching care. Your mouth dropped open around a moan—his name falling from your lips—and he echoed it with a broken sound of his own.

Every thrust was deliberate.

Every movement was a confession.

Every time he sank back into you, he gasped–like the sensation was too much, like he still couldn’t believe you were real beneath him, taking him in, holding him so tight and perfect and wet.

“You’re perfect,” He rasped, hips rocking into you slow and deep, his lips never straying far from your skin. His hips rolled into you slowly filling you with each deep, reverent thrust like he couldn’t bear to pull away too far. His lips trailed up your jaw, brushing your cheek, then your temple, and every time he bottomed out, he moaned like your body had answered a question he hadn’t dared to ask.

You gasped again–sharp, breathless–your back arching into him. The motion pressed your chest to his, and your nails curled slightly into his back. Just enough to drag. Just enough to leave a faint trace.

Bob shuddered. His breath hitched, and he groaned–low and ragged–into your skin.

“D-Do that again,” He begged, voice breaking, “God–please–do that again.”

You did. Fingertips digging a little deeper this time, dragging down his spine, and the reaction was immediate–his hips stuttered, rhythm faltering with a gasp that sounded possessed with pleasure.

His head dropped into the crook of your neck, his voice muffled against your skin.

“Fuck–you feel like heaven–you are heaven–” He breathed, hips beginning to move again. A little faster now. Still deep. Still careful. But urgent.

His hand cupped the side of your face, brushing hair from your cheek, and the other remained locked at your thigh, holding it high around his waist. You could feel every inch of him–the stretch, the heat, the connection–and God, it was unbearable how good it felt.

“I’m not hurting you a-am I?” he whispered, just barely audible. “T-Tell me if I am, tell me–”

“No,” You gasped. “No, Bob, it’s perfect–you’re perfect–please don’t stop–”

That made him whimper. His whole body shivered above you, and you felt the light from the lamp begin to shift. It had been warm and muted before–but now, it pulsed. Like a heartbeat. Like something responding to the heat in the room. Each time he thrust into you, it grew just a little brighter.

Neither of you noticed at first–too lost in each other, in the intimacy coiling tight between your bodies–but you felt it. That warmth. That power building in the air. The glow of something just beneath the surface.

Bob kissed you again–messy, deep, almost broken–and your hips rolled up to meet his. You were moving with him now, chasing the friction, your body writhing beneath his, needing it. Needing him.

“I-I can feel all of you,” He moaned, pulling back just enough to look down at where your bodies met, his voice wrecked. You keened at the words, thighs tightening around him, heels pressing into the backs of his legs. He was fully inside you now with every stroke, and you could feel another orgasm building, hotter and faster than before–simmering low in your belly, pulsing in time with the light around you.

His face hovered over yours, sweat clinging to his temple, lips trembling with restraint.

And his eyes–

They glowed.

Bright now.

The Sentry wasn’t gone.

But he wasn’t in control, either.

Just there. Watching. Letting Bob feel it all. Letting him worship you with everything he had—every thrust, every kiss, every broken praise.

His voice dropped, deeper than before. Still Bob. But laced with something else.

“Where do you want me?” He asked, his breath hot against your cheek. “Where do you want me to come, sweetheart?”

You met his eyes–gold and blue and glowing–and you moaned through clenched teeth, your whole body beginning to tremble again.

“Inside me,” You gasped. “Please, Bob–I want you to come inside–I want to feel it–want to feel you fill me up–”

He snapped.

His rhythm faltered. His hips ground against you harder now—still deep, but no longer controlled. There was hunger now. Desperation. He chased it with everything he had, every stroke punctuated by breathless moans and praise, his mouth dragging along your skin like he couldn’t stop kissing you, couldn’t stop telling you how perfect you were.

“Gonna give it to you,” He choked out. “Gonna give you all of it—fuck—you’re mine—”

The light in the room brightened to a crescendo–gold washing over every surface, turning the walls to fire and your skin to sun-kissed silk. And just as you felt your orgasm snap again–fast and hard and all-consuming, your body tightening and convulsing around him–

Bob let out a broken moan, that sounded like he was on the brink of crying. He was out of breath, and so hot it felt like he had fallen from the sun.

And then the lightbulb burst.

Glass popped with a sharp, cracking sound, shards raining harmlessly inside the shade as the room flickered and dimmed.

And he poured into you.

Thrusting deep one last time–hips locked against yours, arms shaking, his name echoing from your mouth as his pleasure hit–blinding and endless. He held you through it, his body shaking over yours, gasping your name like it was the only word he knew.

And somewhere–distant, muffled–you heard raised voices. Muffled arguing, like yelling.

But it was all far away.

Because your ears were ringing.

Like someone had struck a tuning fork behind your ribs and sent the vibration through your entire body. You could feel the aftershocks echoing in your spine, down your legs, across your fingertips still curled in his back.

Bob’s body trembled against yours, skin damp with sweat, chest heaving like he’d run miles through a sunstorm just to get to you. He didn’t move—not right away. He stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tight around your waist, his forehead resting against the curve of your shoulder as he whispered your name again. Softer this time. Wrecked. Worshipful.

Your hands were still in his hair, fingers brushing through the damp curls at the base of his neck, your heartbeat thudding in your throat. Your whole body felt molten—boneless and glowing, like you’d been struck by lightning but kissed by it too. And the warmth between your legs, the slow throb where he still pulsed inside you, grounded it all in something sacred.

You shifted slightly—just enough to feel him twitch as he began to soften, still deep inside, your bodies tangled like ivy in the low light of the room.

He kissed your collarbone. Then your jaw. Then your lips—slow and trembling, a thank-you in every brush.

“I-I love th-that I get to call y-you mine…” He breathed, barely audible against your lips.

One of your hands cupped the side of his face, thumb stroking his flushed cheek, and he leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut.

But then…

The sound of shouting finally cut through the quiet.

Your eyes opened.

Bob’s head lifted slightly, brow furrowing. Somewhere down the hallway—muffled through the compound walls—came the unmistakable sound of bickering. Loud. Confused. Walker’s voice, sharp and irritated. Yelena’s voice following with something distinctly Russian and exasperated.

“…I’m telling you that wasn’t the oven–” Walker yelled.

“Then what was it, genius? Light bulbs don’t just explode like that!” Ava screamed.

“Maybe you sneeze too hard–” Alexei chimed in.

“Oh my God, shut up, all of you–there’s glass in the hallway–”Bucky interrupted.

Bob pulled back slowly, just enough to look at you. His eyes were still a little dazed, his hair curling at the temples from sweat, and his cheeks were flushed pink from effort and something more vulnerable, and then he glanced over at the remains of your lamp's lightbulb. The connection was immediate.

”Oh…O-Oh Jesus Christ…” He whispered, and you watched his face go a deeper red. “Oh god…T-They’re gonna know it’s me…W-What the hell is wrong w-with me?” You let out a soft and breathless laugh, before reaching out to caress his face.

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.” You leaned in and gave him a gentle is on the lips, as he groaned.

”I just b-blew every lightbulb on this level…God o-only knows what e-else I did.” You snorted, now picturing every level of the Tower needing replacement light bulbs and tears of laughter began prickling at your eyes.

And Bob, still buried inside you, still flushed and glowing, started laughing too. Quietly at first. Then louder. The kind of laugh that shook through his chest and softened everything. Like the sound of guilt melting into joy. Like sunlight cracking through the last remnants of a storm.

”We’re definitely going to need a really good excuse.” You murmured, leaning forward to steal another kiss, earning a soft hum from Bob.

”I k-know…But that’s f-for future us t-to worry about I think…”

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httpsxarien · 3 months ago

Text

my hero | dante x reader

(dante sparda x reader | can be set in DMC'S game universe or anime! inspired by re4.)

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

When Dante was hired to rescue the daughter of a powerful, fortune-telling family, he expected someone pristine. Proper. Maybe soft-spoken, mysterious, and grateful to be saved.

Not... this.

He had slayed demons—multiple demons, mind you, just to reach the creepy, crumbling church where you were kept. Solved a ridiculously hard puzzle, nearly got impaled by a swinging axe trap, and had to put up with the scent of brimstone and rotting pews the whole way.

And this is how you greeted him?

With a candlestick. To the chest.

Dante staggered slightly, looking down at the now-bent bronze stick protruding from his jacket. His eyes flicked up to the girl standing in front of him, panting, your expression twisted in panic. Her eyes were wide. He could practically hear your heart racing.

“Not the hello I was expecting,” he muttered, yanking the candlestick out of his chest and tossing it aside with a clatter. The wound was already closing.

Honestly, you were kind of a sight, even if your first impression was... intense. He glanced between you and the photo your had given him. Same eyes. Same pouty lips.

Definitely her.

“Who... the hell are you?!” you snapped, stumbling back and dropping to the floor, scurrying away like a terrified cat.

He placed a hand on his hip, unimpressed.

“I’m Dante. I’m here to save you.”

“No, you’re not! You’re-you're one of those things! You’re here to finish the job!”

Dante sighed. “Your father hired me to save you, princess. You can chill.”

But you weren’t having it. You grabbed a piece of broken wood like a sword and aimed it at him, still shaking.

“That’s it.”

Before you could react, he darted forward with lightning speed, hoisted you up like you weighed nothing, and threw you over his shoulder.

“Put me down! I swear to God - let go of me! This is kidnapping! You animal!”

“Yeah, yeah. Screaming won’t help your case.”

You flailed and kicked and pounded your fists against his back.

“I’m going to curse you! I’m going to curse your entire bloodline!”

“Aw, that’s cute,” he said with a smirk. “You think I haven’t already been cursed.”

And with that, Dante walked out of the church, the echo of your outraged shrieking following behind him as he carried you straight into your unwanted rescue.

He already knew this mission was going to be a pain.

But hell if it wasn’t going to be entertaining.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

Okay... maybe you weren’tthat bad.

After he explained the situation to you—albeit while covering your mouth mid-scream—you started to calm down. A little. And after he saved you from, oh, multiple demon attacks, you finally stopped stabbing him with random objects.

Now, you followed his lead like a wary cat, tiptoeing behind him through the ruins of a quiet village. At first glance, it looked abandoned. Peaceful. But you knew better. Dante had warned you, some of the villagers weren’t villagers at all.

Demons. Disguised. Watching.

You stuck close, barely breathing.

Suddenly, Dante stopped and motioned toward a metal trash can.

You blinked. Confused. “What?”

He kept his voice low. “Hide.”

You looked from him… to the trash can… then back again.

“Seriously?” you hissed.

He turned to face you, clearly baffled. “Yes. Seriously. No choice, princess.”

You groaned and dragged your feet toward the bin like it was your destiny.

“This is so disgusting,” you muttered under your breath. “Ew. Ew. Ew.”

Dante smirked as he heard the faint, pitiful complaints from within. Then, without missing a beat, he drew Ebony and Ivory from his holsters.

“It’s showtime, baby.”

Gunfire erupted just as you hunkered down. Inside the trash can, you flinched at every bang, every crack, every roaring screech from the demon horde. Then you heard it:

“WOOHOO!”

You couldn’t help it,you laughed. A wacky wohoo pizza man saving your life? Not exactly what your cards had predicted. But fate clearly had a wild sense of humor.

The noise outside started to fade. Silence crept back in. Your heartbeat rose.

What if it wasn’t Dante who opened the lid next?

But a moment later, the top popped open and there he was—grinning like a devil who just cleaned house.

“You good there, princess?” he teased, but there was something softer in his tone now. A flicker of concern.

You sighed, brushing your hair from your face.

“Not the best, but it can do.”

He chuckled and offered a hand, easily lifting you out and carrying you from the filth like a damn knight in blood-stained leather.

“You don’t have to worry,” he said over his shoulder. “We’re near the castle. We’re almost out. I’ll have you back to your pops in no time.”

You looked up at him, something warm blooming in your chest. You clasped your hands together.

“Dante?”

He glanced back. “Hmm?”

“Thank you. For saving my life.”

He paused. Just for a moment.

“No need,” he said casually, turning away again. “It’s my job. Come on now—time’s valuable.”

And off you went.

You, the trash-can princess.

And him, the demon-slaying, woohoo-yelling knight.

Yeah… maybe you guys were a nice team.

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

You were cursed, a demon’s blood was injected inside you while you were unconscious.

One moment, you were walking beside Dante through the castle’s silent halls, chatting about exit plans and the next, your feet froze.

Your body stilled.

“Hey,” Dante called casually from ahead. “You good there, Princess?”

He turned, eyebrow raised. But when he took a step toward you, your hand shot up, swift and deadly. Before either of you could react, your fingers wrapped tightly around his throat.

The grip was monstrous. Not yours. Not truly.

“The girl… is mine,” a voice growled through your lips. Hollow. Unrecognizable. You watched in horror, unable to scream, to cry, to stop.

Dante choked beneath your hold, eyes never leaving yours even as he struggled. He could’ve fought back. He should’ve. But he didn’t. He was afraid of hurting you.

Then just as suddenly, the grip loosened. Your knees buckled and you collapsed, only to be caught by warm, steady arms.

“W-What… happened?” you gasped, blinking rapidly.

Dante smiled at you gently. “Nothin’ much, princess. It’s good to have you back.”

Now, the two of you were in the underground levels, taking a breather in one of the rare safe zones. A “save point” you called it, after one of the video games you played. A friendly mercenary from above had set up a dummy shooting range and Dante took to it like a kid at an arcade, blasting each target with confident ease.

And your cheers? They only made him better.

“Woo! Ten in a row!” “Nice shot, cowboy!” “Is this your secret stress relief?”

Your laughter echoed off the stone walls and Dante couldn’t stop the smirk tugging at his lips. He never thought babysitting a rich girl would be this… fun.

He wasn’t gonna lie, it felt nice, having you around.

But behind your claps and witty quips… something was stirring.

As he reloaded for another round, he noticed the silence. No clapping. No teasing remarks.

He turned, and there you were, staring at your hands. Your expression was distant. Haunted. The veins beneath your skin looked darker. Angrier. Your smile was gone.

“Hey,” Dante called softly, walking toward you. “You good, princess?”

You looked up at him, guilt swimming in your eyes.

“I hurt you,” you whispered.

“You had no control over that.”

“But still!” you snapped, frustration breaking through. “What if I do lose control? What then?”

You looked around the area, eyes glassy. Tears were beginning to pool, and you hated it.

“I’m sorry, Dante…” Your voice cracked. “I’m just… so scared.”

His eyes softened instantly.

“When that happened… I was there. Inside my body. Screaming, but no one could hear me. It was like… like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from!”

You stumbled forward, leaning into his chest. He didn’t hesitate—his arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly, protectively.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Just the sound of your quiet sobs, and the steady beat of his heart.

Then he smiled into your hair and whispered:

“You’re the strongest girl I’ve known, (Y/N). What you did back in the castle while I was trapped and unable to reach you? You handled yourself like a damn pro. You’re gonna beat this. I know you will.”

He gently pulled back to look at you, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“I’m gonna bring you home safe.”

Your eyes met his.

For once, the fear inside you faded just a little, replaced by something warm. Trust. Hope. Maybe even something more.

“Now come on, don’t you wanna try this shooting game?”

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

It had taken over.

Veronica. It was the name of the demon that had fully consumed your body, turning you into a twisted mirror of yourself. Black veins streaked across your face, eyes glowing an unnatural red, your voice dripping with venom as she mocked Dante with every word.

But the hardest part wasn’t the speed of her attacks. It wasn’t the razor-sharp accuracy or the maddening, taunting laugh echoing in the chamber.

It was you.

You,whose body Veronica now wore like a trophy, was why Dante hesitated. Each bullet, each strike, each blow brought him closer to ending the fight… and possibly hurting the one person he didn’t want to lose.

You, who had laughed with him in the darkest of places. You, who was the clear representation of why he saves humans. You, who made even a devil feel a little more human.

Then came the moment.

Veronica, grinning wickedly, spotted the flicker of hesitation.

“Jackpot,” she hissed. “So this is the weakness of Sparda’s son…”

She lunged for him—fangs bared, blade raised—but she stopped.

She froze.

From inside the shell, you fought. Screaming in silence. Pushing against the darkness. Your hands trembled mid-strike, and your knees gave out. Her control faltered.

“No… no!!” Veronica howled in rage.

As Dante effortlessly slices through the demons, his eyes never leave you. He could feel it, too, the pull, the connection, even though you were trapped inside that monster. But now, he had you back. You were fighting for control, resisting the demon’s urges to hurt him, and damn, if that didn’t make him proud.

The demon smirked, but it faltered when it realized you weren’t backing down. Dante grinned, his confidence returning like a wave crashing over him. "That’s my girl," he muttered under his breath. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he entered his Devil Trigger, the power surging through him.

The demon howled in defiance. “NO! I am the queen of everything! I WILL NOT FALL!”

Dante shot a look full of cocky confidence. "Yeah? Well, guess what? You’re about to get dethroned."

With one final slash, the demon’s body was sliced in half. You fell, but before you could hit the ground, Dante was already there, catching you in his arms. You blinked, your vision blurry, then you smiled up at him, warmth flooding your chest.

“D-Dante…?”

He smiled. “Gotcha.”

You blinked at him, dazed, but safe. Then you grinned weakly. “My hero.”

“Good to have you back, princess. I missed you.”

You looked up at him with a teasing smile. “Yeah?”

Before he could answer, static crackled through his comm. Lady’s voice cut in.

“You’ve got exactly five minutes before this place goes boom. Underground tunnel. Vehicle’s waiting. Move your asses.”

Dante rolled his eyes. “Buzzkill.”

He looked down at you again, cocky grin back in place.

“Well, what do you say, princess? Care for one last ride?”

You smirked, brushing hair from your face. “I’d be honored.”

𐙚 ‧₊˚ ⋅

The jet ski roared across the water, moonlight shimmering off the waves. You screamed in exhilaration, clinging to Dante’s back as the wind whipped through your hair.

Finally, he slowed, stopping right in the middle of the vast, open sea. The stars above were glittering. Everything was still.

Dante leaned back slightly, looking over his shoulder.

“Not bad, huh?” he said with that familiar cocky lilt.

You chuckled breathlessly, cheeks flushed.

“What a crazy first date.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You consider this a date?”

You hummed. “Mm… yeah. I mean, you picked me up, saved my life, took me for a ride—kinda romantic.”

Dante chuckled, low and smooth. “Damn. Guess I’ve still got it.”

Then you leaned forward, close to his ear.

“You’ve been putting in work all day, Dante. How about some overtime? I’m sure you’ll enjoy this shift a lot more.”

He tilted his head slightly, that cocky smirk growing.

“I don’t think that’s in the company handbook... but to hell with it.” His eyes sparkled with mischief as he twisted the throttle, sending the jet ski speeding ahead. “Hang on tight, princess.”

The engine roared, and the two of you shot forward, the water crashing around you as your arm found its way on his waist. Dante’s grin widened, his satisfaction palpable, especially when he glanced at you, a loving look in his eyes.

So this is what his father felt when he fell in love with his mother, Eva.

And Dante knew it all too well..

He hit the jackpot with you.

#dmc dante #dmc x reader #dmc tag #devil may cry x reader #dante #dante sparda #dante devil may cry #dante x reader #dante sparda x reader #dante dmc x reader #dmc anime #devil may cry anime #game #devil may cry

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yuutryingtowrite · 11 months ago

Text

Yandere!Barista x reader

A/N: If you wanna know more about the levels, check this post : )

Danger level: ★ ★ ☆ ☆ ☆

Submissive level: ♥︎ ♥︎ ♥︎ ♡ ♡

Yandere!Barista who is the “poster boy”of the coffee shop he works at. It is honestly deserved: he has a pretty face, a charming smile and a playful yet sweet attitude. He is especially popular among the girls…who he keeps rejecting. He is just not looking for something casual, you know? He dates to marry, not to be someone’s eye-candy.

Yandere!Barista who, one day, sees you walk into the store. Is that a Corroded Coffin shirt you have on ? He loves that band! This is what he tells you when it is your turn to order. What do you mean he looks too much like a goody two-shoes to be a fan? Alright, Miss “I am so dark and edgy”, what do you want to order? Black coffee? The banter goes on until he has to shoo you away, with an amused smile, as the other people in line are starting to get impatient.

Yandere!Barista who glances your way every chance he gets. Not only are you fun to talk to, but you also look really cute. Sometimes, between orders, he gets to converse with you. He eagerly returns your small wave when it is time for you to leave. As he goes to your table to collect the receipt, he finds your cup still there. On it, there is a small doodle of him along with your number. A pink hue dusts his cheeks as he brings a hand to cover the side of his face. He is definitely keeping that cup.

Yandere!Barista who saved your number under “Cutie <3”. The more you text each other, the more you hang out together, the more he becomes obsessed. It is honestly starting to scare him. The other night, he had your cup in his hands to look at the doodle. Next thing he knew, he had his lips where yours had been when you were drinking from it. It flustered him so much, he threw the cup in the trash bin afterwards…only to go get it back five minutes later…He is asking you out on a date for sure next time he sees you.

Yandere!Barista who does your coffee with trembling hands. He really doesn’t want to do this, but you didn’t leave him a choice. Today, on your usual table, you are sitting with a man other than him. He can’t possibly lose the only person who took the time to get to know him beyond his looks. The drug should work in about fifteen minutes, five minutes after closing time. This should be perfect, you always wait for him to close the shop and walk home together. He can do this, he can do this, he can do this…You will be happy at his house, you will be happy with him. It is with a heavy mind and painful heart that he gives you your order.

Yandere!Barista who you got pinned against the wall of the storage room, one hand beside his head and the other one holding your cup. He is as white as a ghost. He keeps looking around. He is sweating all over. This couldn’t be. You couldn’t possibly know- You firmly grab his jaw and turn his face towards you. “Drink”, you say coldly. What are you gonna do to him after he becomes unconscious? Will you report him to the police? Will you hurt him? He closes his eyes tightly as you bring the cup to his lips. The moment it reaches them, you drop it on the floor and replace it with your lips. His eyes open in shock as you give him a small, tender kiss. “That was my cousin, idiot”, you tell him affectionately. You look at him for a couple more seconds before putting on your bag. He is still frozen in place as you add: “Tomorrow, 6pm, at my house. Alright?”. You leave before he can answer.

Yandere!Barista who slides down the wall until he is sitting on the floor. All that is left of him is a blushing, quivering mess. With shaky fingers, he touches his lips; a small whimper involuntarily comes out his mouth. He is about to combust. He feels so weak, he can’t get up. You scared the shit out of him, but that was so hot ahh…He didn’t know you could be this assertive. And that kiss…he buries his face in his hands and groans. Kissing you is all he has ever dreamed of, yet he stayed still like a dumbass when it finally happened. He is so lame-you make him so lame. Guess tomorrow would be his chance to redeem himself.

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machveil · 8 months ago

Note

I can't resist the siren call

Roommate!Simon Riley that low-key enjoys fucking with your friends Y/N

subtle foreshadowing… I suppose I can dip into my nsfw Roommate!Simon Riley thoughts

Roommate!Simon Riley who shares a laundry bin with you, it had been agreed a long time ago that just doing a big load would be easier. you takes turns, knowingly stealing each other’s clothes every couple days when the laundry is fresh out the machine. you know Simon took an oversized t-shirt you owned, but that’s okay, you took his favorite gym hoodie

Roommate!Simon Riley who doesn’t get embarrassed about his underwear being in the bin with yours, it’s all going in the machine anyways. that doesn’t stop him from raising an eyebrow though when his favorite boxers go missing. he was sure he put them in with the dirties, well, the cleans now. he figures the machine ate it, or maybe they’ll show up some day by chance - he shrugs it off and separates his clothes from yours, snagging one of your oversized sweaters to lounge in later

Roommate!Simon Riley who freezes when he sees you on the couch that night. eyes wide and jaw slack, he can’t bring himself to move. sat watching something on the tv - he can’t be bothered to acknowledge whats playing - he stares at you, wearing his boxers as shorts. “Hey, come watch this— I’ll catch you up since it just started. I’m not pausing it though so you better pay attention.”, your words are all in one ear and out the other. suddenly his legs are moving on their own, stopping in front of you. he doesn’t register what you’re saying, telling him to move because you can’t see the tv, but then he speaks

Roommate!Simon Riley whose voice is deliciously deep, a little raspy from how his throat suddenly feels dry, “S’that mine?”, he asks, eyeing his boxers. he’s never had such a hard time swallowing before, heartbeat erratic as you casually respond, “Huh— oh, yeah. They’re really comfy, the fabrics nice.”. fabrics nice, yeah, he knows. “You— ya know those are boxers, right love?”, he asks, hands twitchy as you reply, “Mhm, just borrowin’ them.”

CW: guilty wank, man is hopeless [kisses his cheek]

Roommate!Simon Riley who’s a mess after that interaction. you wouldn’t be able to tell by looking at him, but he’s losing it on the inside. he’s seen you be audacious with stealing his clothes before, taking his loose-fit tank tops that left little to the imagination on you, stealing clothes you knew he favored and parading around in them, but his boxers? that had him stalking back to his room, quick to turn on his heel before you could see his pants tent

he’s sweating, closes the door to his room a little harder than he meant to. god, he wants to go back out there and see you again, get an eyeful of how comfortable you looked - wearing his boxers like they were yours. you wouldn’t know, and he can’t help but think about it, but you had stolen his favorite pair. they’re plain, a simple black pair, something he bought at the store because he needed new underwear. but when you wear them? they suddenly looked different, makes his heart hammer against his chest. it feels like he walked out into the living room and you wearing lingerie, not something he got for fifteen pounds

he feels a little guilty, shoving his jeans down his thighs as he sits down on his bed. you’re home, sat in the living room just down the hall, and here’s Simon fishing his leaky cock out of his underwear. he really shouldn’t, he should sneak into the bathroom for a cold shower, think about war and blood and bullets to get his boner down. but he isn’t, he’s spitting into his palm and groaning, bringing his free hand up to cover his mouth - he’s never been good about keeping quiet. it’s not his fault you were out there wearing his clothes, you were the one that decided to look so— so cozy and content in your makeshift shorts. domestic

when that word settles at the forefront of his brain Simon’s hips jerk, you looked domestic, wanting to watch some show with him. his leg jolts slightly, hand moving to shallowly pump his weeping head. maybe your friends are right, Simon does take care of you - could bend you over and make you sob his name - he’s basically your boyfriend, often mistaken for your husband. his thighs tense when he imagines a ring on your finger— no, his dog tags hanging from your neck— god, holding you at night as an actual couple—

he’s choking out a moan, muffled and hoarse, as he coats his hand. eyes fluttering shut and breathing heavily, all his thoughts fly out the window as his cum drips down his fingers - all his thoughts except for one. he’s going to have to go back out there later to eat dinner with you, and oh, fuck, he sucks in a deep breath as he chubs up again

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biteyoubiteme · 1 year ago

Text

pretty boy; bloody nose

fem!reader x bangchan

synopsis: you're a doctor at a hospital where Chan comes after a fight.

warnings: 🔞!!! boxer!chan, blood, broken bones, bruises, praise, unprotected sex, creampie, thigh riding if you squint, 'pretty girl' used once, choking (m!rec), prob forgot some sorry

wc: 4k

an: all the photos of chan at or for the Fendi show have me gagged lol feedback is appreciated!! :)) [m.list] check out my other chan fic :)) [am/pm]

It was your starting shift when Chan came in. clutching his bloody nose with one bruised hand and pressing his other one to his wounded side. “my savior,” he smiled, dimpled cheek prominent even through the pain. He had blood in his mouth, teeth tinted pink with it.

“Someone had a good night,” you laugh flipping open his chart, “says some minor pain but you seem to have lied seeing as you are currently bleeding right in front of me and you didn’t log it,”

“my nose is fine, it was checked out by my coach, it should stop bleeding soon,” the rag he has to his face soaked through with red. “and I’m not a liar it’s only a bit painful and I wouldn’t have come in if I wasn’t contractually supposed to,”

“uh huh,” you nod, tapping your pen against the clipboard you held. “So your nose doesn’t need to be set because your coach, who may or may not have any medical background, said so?”

his smile widened and the cut on his eyebrow started to leak again from the movement. “exactly,”

“and I don’t need to see what you’re hiding right there,” you point with your pen to his fingers cupping his hip.

“nope, I’m mainly a bit sore around the arms, so minor pain. I am not a liar,” he shrugs and you let yourself fully take him in past his injuries. He's slouched back against the hospital bed, his white tank splattered with his blood, gray sweatpants slouchy on his hips. if you could see his whole face without his hand in the way you’re sure he’s gorgeous essentially with a smile like that. what you didn’t like was to watch someone's cocky ass waltz in and say they aren’t hurt when it’s obvious they are.

“well I am also contractually obligated to give you the best care I can offer and as your doctor, I’m here to say I can’t let you go without an exam,”

“full body?” his tongue running across his teeth as you roll your eyes. it wasn’t exactly professional to let your annoyance show but you didn’t think he would run and tell someone.

“let's start with your nose,” you turn placing your clipboard down and picking up a pair of gloves, “lean your head back,”

Chan follows your orders as you walk around the bed to his side.

“How did you end up here?” you ask, lifting the rag from his face. His nose wasn’t bleeding as much as it must have been earlier but it was still messy. And even with blood smeared all over, he was one of the most beautiful people you’ve ever seen especially as he grinned up at you.

“fighting,” he shrugs.

“Is this the part where you tell me that I should see the other guy?” you reach over to grab some clean gauze before cleaning up his upper lip.

“Maybe,” he dragged out the word, the smile as flirty as ever.

you lightly press your finger to his nose to check if it’s broken but only feel a little swelling. “keep your head back to stop the bleeding. let's now see your side and then we will tape up your eyebrow,”

“I’m perfectly fine,”

“Not unless I say you are, come on let me see,”

Chan is slow to lift his shirt but when he does his side is covered in deep purple bruises. “you're going in for a CT,”

“what? no, I'm fine it was a few hits nothing I haven't felt before,”

“better safe than sorry I'm sure you've heard that saying before. next time don't go getting into fights,”

“It's kinda my job,”

“pretty boys like you shouldn't be fighters, and they shouldn't be putting their perfectly healthy bodies in distress, we need to check for any internal bleeding,” you peel your gloves off tossing them in the bin along with any bloodied gauze, chan's head still laid back as he watches you, “a nurse will be in to take care of your eyebrow and take you for the CT,” you pick up his chart, penning in the request.

“You're not going to take me?”

“I'll be back in to discuss the results it shouldn't be too long a wait it's slow tonight,” you didn't look up from his chart as you said it but you did when he said, “I want you to take me,” it's not suggestive in any way but the way that he says it is, deep and throaty like an invitation. his head lobbed to one side watching you, eyes leaving a trail of heat up your body as they trace your figure.

“I will see you after your results come back,” you say, rushing to get out as fast as possible. it was frowned upon to flirt with patients no matter how hot they looked or how willing they seemed to flirt back. you went on your rounds before getting Chan's results, the nurse bringing them to you with a smile.

“he will not stop talking about you,”

“What?” but you can feel your heart thumping all of a sudden.

“asking questions and whatnot,” she giggles as you pull out his scans. “Does she usually work Thursdays? Is she seeing someone? going on and on,”

“about me?” You're a little shocked but trying to play it off.

“if you don't give him your number I will hand mine over,”

“We cannot give our numbers out to patients,” but your blush is hot on your face. who would know you gave him your number? no one. “we will both be out shortly please have his discharge paperwork ready,”

“Should I put your number on it?” she jokes and you roll your eyes before pushing his room door open.

“no internal bleeding,” you say once you close the door. “but you should ice your side the swelling will go down soon,”

“I told you nothing was wrong, he couldn’t hit hard enough to cause internal bleeding anyways,” Chans sitting up now with his legs off the bed.

“you should be getting checked regularly for damage that is visible, especially if you have pain,”

“It was only a little pain,” he rolls his shoulders back making his tank top stick to his pecks.

“you should take an over the counter pain med and then try to avoid fighting,”

“Now where’s the fun in that? if I hadn’t been sent here I wouldn’t have met you,” dimples on display just for you.

“uh huh sure,” you wave at him to stand, “Let's get you out of here before you steal the hearts of the nurses,”

“the only heart I’m interested in is yours,” it’s cheesy but you can’t help the smile it gives you. “Let's go,” you laugh, pulling open the door for him. when he walks out he turns to face you moving backwards.

“if I got into another fight would I be able to ask for you specifically or would you need to give me a number to hold onto just in case?”

“flirty and shameless,” you say, walking him to the front desk to check out.

“that did not answer my question,”

“I’m sure you could find me in the hospital directory if you looked hard enough,”

“and if you’re not working? will it go straight to voicemail or will I somehow be able to get you over to take care of me?”

“for someone who didn’t need my help at all for his little bit of pain, he sure is worried for his safety now,”

“I was told by a gorgeous doctor that I should be concerned with putting my perfect body and pretty face in the line of fire,”

“I said you had a perfectly healthy body,” you shake your head at him.

“You did say my face was pretty tough,” he leans against the desk elbow propped up to the perfect height to flex. “And I'm sure I can show you how perfect my body can be,”

“goodbye Chan,” you wave your fingers in his direction walking away before you embarrass yourself in front of your coworkers.

It's only a week later when you see Chan's chart in front of you again. “This one was asking for you by name,” the nurse comments.

“of course he was,” but even as you say the words you can't help but feel the fluttering in your stomach. most people who came in you didn't see again and if they flirted you were happy to see them gone but Chan wasn't making you feel that way.

he was alone in his room when you went in. laid out on the bed with his hand to his nose. It was like deja vu only now his tank was black instead of white. blood dripping down to his lips that smile directed at your heart. his eyebrow looked better but was still slightly discolored from last week.

“I think this time it's broken,” but he's not showing any pain if it's the truth.

“your nose again? you’re too pretty to be taking punches to the face,” you pull on a pair of gloves walking over to inspect him.

“That's why they do it, they are jealous,” he lifts away the gauze the nurse must have given him.

His nose is clearly broken and needs to be set. you press your finger lightly to the bridge checking out the bone. Chan's eyes flutter shut and he lets out a weak moan, so soft that you probably wouldn't have heard it if you weren't so close to his face. you try to ignore the sound feeling along his cheekbones but when you press to the corner of his eye he lets out another soft whine.

“I'm going to have to reset it,” you say pulling your hands away from him, “you can set up an appointment-“

“can't you just do it now? I don't think I'll need all the fuss of local anesthetic i think I can handle it,”

“It's going to hurt,”

“it didn't hurt much when I was hit I'm sure it won't be too bad the other way around,”

“You know it's okay to admit when it's painful,” you say, prodding again at his nose, he gives another soft moan at the touch, shifting his hips and leaning further back.

“I like it, so even when it's a little painful I don't mind,”

you move to grab a splint for his nose before preparing him, “I'll be quick so you shouldn't feel much but it will still hurt,” this wasn't the first time you've had to fix someone's broken nose but it would be the first time you were worried about messing up someone's face. you had full trust in your abilities but your anxiety was not helping.

Chan crossed his arms nodding before you pressed the heel of your palm to his nose, “Deep breath,” he followed your instructions and without warning you reset his nose. He flinched knuckles bleached from holding on so tight to himself, moaning as you pulled your hands back. you grabbed the split to finish the job, “see quick and easy,” his voice thick before he clears it. “I think I need a minute,”

“I can get something for the pain real fast,” you say tugging off your gloves already moving to get the meds.

“no no I don't need that, I just need a second,” his head is leaned back, throat exposed, arms still crossed while he shifts his hips again drawing your attention to his waist. you can clearly see the outline of his hard bulge through his gray sweatpants.

“Oh!” you turn around fast to try and give him some form of privacy feeling your face get hot. “I um- I'll just-“ you cut yourself off picking up his chart and moving to the door. you close the door as he tries to say something but you’re already down the hall trying not to think about what you saw. you don’t really care it’s not the first time you’ve seen someone turned on in the hospital although all the other times you rolled your eyes. Now you’re stuttering and trying not to think of Chan in a way that could get you into trouble.

but it’s all you can think about.

how long would he need? would he be actively trying to get rid of his problem mentally or physically? what would have happened if you had stayed? would it have been beyond awkward or would you officially have to resign for having sex while on shift?

you give Chan's chart to another doctor to check over your work and send him off. you didn’t want to go in and embarrass him or embarrass yourself for that matter. so you hid like a coward.

it was a rare night off for you and you took the opportunity to spend it with your old friends.

at a nightclub on a busy strip downtown your friends decide to bar hop. you had a late shift tomorrow anyway and didn’t care about sleeping in. At the third bar, your friend's boyfriend starts talking about a fight happening across the street. “the guy's undefeated I swear I just wanna see the end,”

“If you’re dragging us along you’re paying the entrance fee,” your friend says before another pipes up, “and a drink each!”

“Fine, fine let’s go, it's already started!” all of you rush across the street joining the moving queue as people file into the building.

You can hear the cheering already, the announcer shouting over the speakers, your shoes sticking to the floor as if you were still at the bar. but this is far from it, people are jostling each other around, and the seats all first come already full. it’s not until you’re making your way up the steps of the bleachers that you see who’s in the ring.

Chan is shirtless and glistening with sweat, hair stuck down across his forehead, lip bleeding around his mouth guard. muscles rippling as he delivers a blow to his opponent.

you’re almost shocked still and unmoving in your walk up to a seat. someone behind you tries to move past you and you stumble, unaware of your surroundings.

Chan doesn’t know why he looks up because he always tries to focus solely on the person in front of him determined to beat him. but he does let his eyes flicker up to the stands to see you apologizing to someone moving past you. He's caught off guard by your presence and the right hook that makes his head snap away from you.

the crowd shouts in disapproval as you take your seat. Chan is now bleeding from his nose like every other time you’ve seen him. The droplets of blood fell to his toned stomach each breath pushing the trail of blood further down.

you’ve never been into fighting, not watching or participating but now you’re fully invested. you don’t even want a drink when your friends ask if you need anything. your eyes follow Chan as he delivers hit after hit to the man in front of him. and when they call a winner you’re up out of

your seat cheering along with the rest of the watchers.

“omg is he looking at us? I swear he’s looking right at us,” your friend laughs next to you.

Chan is in fact looking up the stands at you. That dimpled smile on full display after he’s taken his mouth guard out. when he sees you looking back he mouths ‘Wait for me’ and you’re putty. you don’t even try to think that he could have been talking to someone else because you’re delusional enough not to give a fuck.

when you make it down to where Chan is signing autographs you’re a little nervous after how you left things. but that goes away when he grins, split lip reopening. “my favorite medical professional,”

“I thought I warned you not to get your pretty face in the way of someone’s fist?”

“How else am I supposed to see you if I don’t come in needing your assistance?”

the crowd around you is clearing and you’ve already told your friends not to wait on you so when Chan asks, “Can we talk?” nodding his head in the direction of the locker rooms, you don’t turn him down.

He leads you to the hallway just out of the way from everyone else. “I wanted to apologize for the last time I saw you,”

“no no, I should apologize I shouldn’t have given you someone else to work with,”

“no really I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable I swear I was trying really hard not to have any kind of reaction I just-“

“It's okay truly I wasn’t uncomfortable it’s natural although I've never reset someone’s bones and had that happen-“

“I'm sorry,” he chuckles, rubbing at the back of his neck, arm flexing and you realize he’s still shirtless. all finely toned muscles on display the damp towel used to wipe away any blood and sweat thrown over his shoulder. but a spot of blood had been missed right at the band of his shorts. without thinking you reached out to brush it away with your thumb.

Chan and you stood frozen, his breath shallow as he watched your finger wipe at his skin just low enough to send a shiver down his spine.

“Are you doing anything else tonight?” he asks when you pull away.

“you were just in a fight and you still want to go out?”

“with you? yes. With anyone else? no,” you’re standing close together and when someone walks past to reach the locker room door Chan moves in blocking you against the wall. your hand comes up and rests on his ribs, his bruises gone from his first visit only now to be replaced with fresh ones.

he’s leaning down close to you as another person moves around you two to enter the locker room. Chan's breath fanning your ear before he whispers, “We don’t have to go out, we could stay in…”

he technically was not your patient, you weren’t at work and you weren’t obligated to deny yourself anymore. not when Chan was standing here willing and you were wet from just watching him win his match.

“Okay,” your voice was low and weak but all the confirmation Chan needed to pull you along after him.

past the locker rooms are a few offices and Chan knows there’s a secluded restroom right by there. you don’t even think twice as he shuts the door behind you locking it. you’re both on each other the second Chan turns around. hot and heavy kisses down your neck and over your collar as Chan palms your ass over your short skirt. your hands tugging at his hair but not the way Chan likes, “harder,” he breathes between kisses, “I want it to hurt,” and when you do his moan is music to your ears.

Chan walks you back into the wall pressing you against the tile next to the sink.

“When I thought about fucking you I never imagined you dressed like this,” Chan lifts your leg to his hip, hot hand running under your thigh and up under your skirt.

“disappointed we can’t play doctor?”

“I don’t care as long as I finally get to have you,” Chan's free hand slides up under

your shirt palming you over your bra. his mouth is back on yours as he wedges his knee between your legs. his thigh placed right against your clothed clit.

Chan's hand fits right in the pit between your hip and thigh, fingers digging in as he pulls you forward on his thigh.

your hips start to move against him, moaning into his mouth as you rock back and forth against him. “My pretty girl wants me so bad,” he breathes, planting kisses down your jaw. “I can already feel how wet you are for me,”

with anyone else you would have been embarrassed about how needy you were but you didn’t care with Chan. not when he had been on your mind for weeks now, when every time you got off recently you had been imagining Chan's fingers doing the job instead of your own.

Chan taps your other leg muttering, “Jump,” and you follow his orders, Chan moving to set you down on the sink’s countertop. He pulls away, hooking his fingers in your panties and tugging them down your legs. He stays on his knees leaning over to kiss you on your inner thigh. you tug off your shirt tossing it on the counter next to you.

you cup Chan's jaw letting your thumb run over his bruised bottom lip, your finger moves over his nose brushing down the slope. Chan's smile is lazy, his gaze pouring over you. “you’re healing nicely,”

“to have your hands all over me I’d make a million more visits, and,” he lifts himself until his lips are brushing yours, “I love the pain,”

you slip your hand into the waistband of Chan's shorts wrapping your fingers around his stiff length. He moans loudly against your cheek as you stroke him. Chan's hand pushes under your skirt pressing his thumb into your clit, circling slowly.

“I can’t wait anymore,” Chan grunts pushing your skirt up higher around your hips, dragging you closer to the edge of the counter before you remove your hands from his already leaking cock.

Chan pushes down his pants to free himself before he’s lining up with your entrance.

he doesn’t hesitate to thrust in fully pressing his pelvis to yours. both of you moan out your arms wrapping around his shoulders. chan inches out before slowly pushing back in. You whine, laying your head back until it’s laid against the mirror.

you wrap one of your hands around Chan's neck, “is this okay?”

Chan nods, “Harder please harder,” you squeeze enough to make his eyes flutter, the same way they had when you were back in the hospital fixing his nose, his hips finally picking up pace. every drag of his cock makes a bolt travel down from your spine to your knees. your back arching, Chan drags his teeth down your throat.

your free hand scratches down Chan's back and you move your hips to meet his, trying to build any friction.

“you feel so deep,” your voice not sounding like you as Chan angels himself up brushing against your g-spot. your legs wrapped around him shake at the contact, your walls squeezing around his cock.

“I wanna hear you cum for me,” Chan moves his fingers between you rubbing your clit until you see spots, knowing exactly what you needed.

Chan picks up his thrusting pace, punishing you with his cock, tip pressed right against the deepest part of you. “cum inside me please,” you beg, your nails usually nicely kept for work scratching him like they weren’t shortened.

His thrusts falter at your words, his moan in your hair loud and echoing in the small room. “please I want it, I want to feel it,” your fingers around his throat give a squeeze and Chan knows he won’t be able to deny you.

with a few sloppy thrusts, Chan is coming hard enough that his upper half gives out, laying on you. your hands leaving his throat and twisting in his hair as he shoots out ropes of hot cum inside you, hips jerking.

The feeling of his release and his fingers on your clit send you over the edge, your legs locking around him as you cry out his name. Chan's slow thrusts help you ride out your high. both of you panting arms wrapped around each other not wanting to let the other go.

clarity starts to set in as you catch your breath, your hair sticking to the back of

your neck. chan pulls out, the slick sound making you pulse around nothing. Chan watches as your combined cum slides out. He lifts your leg under your thigh using his thumb to spread your pussy lips apart watching as more comes out. “Next time I’m at the hospital I won't be able to forget this,” he drags his thumb up to your clit making you jump. spreading the slick around, “I might even ask for you to treat me this well again,”

#bangchan x reader #bangchan smut #bang chan #stray kids #stray kids smut #stray kids bang chan #changbin #hyunjin #lee felix #lee know #i.n skz #seungmin #kpop smut #skzsmut #han jisung #chan x reader #skz bang chan

4K notes · View notes

hyabbstay · 7 months ago

Text

just a little bit - c.s.b. & c.y.j.

yeonjun x afab!reader x soobin

genre: smut (minors DO NOT INTERACT!)

content warning: porn without plot, threesome, afab!reader, jun and soob take turns, penetrative sex, unprotected sex (WRAP it before u tap it pLS) oral sex (m & f receiving), masturbation (m), voyeurism, lots of bodily fluids, sloppy seconds, pussy slapping, recording, choi soobin has a big dick, slight objectification, soobin calls reader a slut while yeonjun calls reader sweetheart LOL, lmao yeonjun is more romantic than soob here he might be a little in love, pussydrunk!soob, yeonbin bickering, sexual tension if you squint, probably forgot some just let me know, NOT PROOFREAD it's like 5am here and im tired

wc: 3.1k

song rec: just a little bit by kids of 88 (hello teen wolf fans!)

･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ────── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ────── ･｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ.

"That's it, take Yeonjun's cock like a good slut."

"F-fuck," the older man threw his head back at the way you clenched around his girthy cock, hot, slick, and greedy. He rolled his hips into yours, making you cry out through your panties stuffed in your mouth to muffle your moans. "Seriously, we can't just be friends anymore after this - ah - I'll lose my shit thinking about your pussy all day."

From his seat by the dresser, Soobin tightened his grip on his stiff cock, already leaking precum. He watched Yeonjun's cock slam in and out of your pussy. The older man liked to pull out completely, drag his length along your clit until you whined helplessly, then ram it back in, punching a cry out of you. Soobin licked his lips and listened to the symphony of his best friends' sweat slicked skin smacking against each other, the squelches each time Yeonjun's cock pummeled your wet hole, your muffled whining, and Yeonjun's pornographic moans.

Soobin found it delicious to watch, but he couldn't deny he wanted to ruin you just as badly as Yeonjun did, too. Raw you like an animal in heat, abuse your wet pussy and fill it deep, dripping with a mix of his and Yeonjun's hot semen.

You ripped the panties from your mouth and began gasping loudly. Yeonjun could feel your hot cavern pulsate around his length, locking him in a vice-like grip. His hips began to stutter, erratic in his movement. Soobin leaned forward just slightly. He knew what was coming and decided to edge himself a little bit, letting go of his dripping cock. As he slowly licked the slick off of his palm, Soobin suppressed his eyes from rolling back, watching the scandalous scene unfold in front of him.

Yeonjun’s mouth hung open in ecstasy, eyes shut tight, reveling in the sensation of your pussy clenching around him.

“So,” pant, “fucking,” pant, “good.” Your best friend punctuated each word with a powerful thrust, allowing streak after thick streak of cum to coat your walls. You could’ve sworn the intensity of your orgasm drove you insane. Warm and sticky fluid flooded your hole, covering his cock and meeting his release. Your legs and thighs buzzed with pleasure, and your hole felt so raw. The sensation in your womb was both sensual and dirty. So filthy.

“What a filthy slut,” Soobin groaned, sucking in air through clenched teeth. “You like being pounded by your best friend’s cock?”

Lost in pleasure while Yeonjun fucks the remainder of his semen into you, you manage to let out a weak “Yeah.”

The man behind you slows his thrusts and eventually slips out of you. Soobin looks up at him, and they exchange sly looks. Soobin stands up, shucking off the rest of his clothes, leaving his cock proudly on display. You were in huge trouble.

“Wanna make it two of your best friends’ cocks? Gonna let me fill you up with my cum, too?” Soobin leaned in close, eyes dark, and spanked your ass. You screamed in surprise, feeling Yeonjun’s cum drip out of you and onto the sheets.

“Answer me, slut.”

“Y-yes,” you groaned, glassy eyes begging him to cream inside you, “I w-want all your cum in m-my pussy, Bin-ah.”

Yeonjun was spent. He moved to the chair and reached for his phone. You had an inkling of what was going to happen next.

“Jun-ah,” Soobin called while manhandling you onto your back, not caring about the cum that poured out of your hole, “get back here and take a video of your mess first.”

Yeonjun hummed and sauntered over, phone in hand with the flash on. Both men pushed your thighs apart, leaving your dripping snatch exposed. “So wet and full of my cum,” the older man watched the screen closely as three of Soobin’s fingers invaded your hole, fucking the slick back inside. He slapped your pussy, earning a moan from you. Smrking, he did it again, watching the strings of your arousal stretch out as he pulled his hand away. You whined out his name, embarrassed by the wet sounds coming from your folds.

“Bin, I ate her out earlier before you walked in,” Yeonjun smirked. “She’s so fucking tasty, exactly like we imagined.”

Shit, how long have these two been planning to get in your pants? Since you started coming over to their apartment? Since you accidentally flashed them at the pool? That one spin the bottle game where you had to make out with Yeonjun?

Or that incident at the movie theater where you caught Soobin touching himself through his pants during a sex scene? You moaned, remembering that smirk he gave you back then and the way he continued palming his cock.

If you’d gotten the hint back then, you could’ve been cumming on their cocks much sooner.

“‘M gonna eat this pussy out first, dyin’ to taste you.” Soobin hasn’t gotten started yet, but his words slightly slurred together, as if he was already pussydrunk by the thought of drowning in your arousal. He flattened his tongue and licked a fat stripe from your hole to your clit. He hummed as he savored your slick fluids coating his tongue, while you cried out like a bitch in heat. Fuck their neighbors; you were getting the best head of your life tonight.

“Still dripping so much after being used as Junnie’s cumdump?” Soobin tutted, “You’re insatiable.”

His head disappeared between your legs as he began sucking on your hole, as if trying to drink up the filthy mixture of yours and Yeonjun’s cum. You screamed when he stuck his tongue inside and forced the wet muscle to explore your pussy. Yeonjun had to switch hands to hold the camera steady and place the other hand on your abdomen to keep you from thrashing around in pleasure. His best friend was too pussy-drunk to mind you pulling his hair, thirsty for more of his tongue action.

“Y/N’s so greedy,” Yeonjun remarked. “Soobin, wanna teach her a lesson?”

The younger man only responded by withdrawing his tongue and laving it over your clit before sucking wetly.

He scooped up the dripping mix of arousal from your hole and pulled out his soaked digits to hold them up for his friend, all the while keeping his hot tongue on you. Yeonjun hungrily wrapped his plump lips around Soobin’s fingers, suckling on them lightly to get a taste of yours and his own cum. Admittedly, you would’ve enjoyed the erotic scene of the two men if it weren't for Soobin’s relentless attack on your folds. Each stripe that he pressed onto your sensitive snatch brought you closer to the edge.

Yeonjun let go of the other’s fingers with a lewd pop and resumed filming the same fingers plunging inside you again.

The older man watched in amusement, eyes drifting to see your fucked out expression, body covered in sweat from fucking him earlier. You met his piercing gaze. He slowly moved the phone towards you, recording your sorry state for them to beat their cocks to later. Much to your surprise, he delicately brushed a strand of hair away from your sweaty forehead. The loving gesture reminded you for a split second that you were close friends.

Close friends that somehow ended up this way.

The sweet gesture was quickly swept away by the sight of Yeonjun licking his lips. He watched you with blown pupils and spoke.

“Who’s making you feel this good, baby? Hm?” He asked in a low voice, tongue grazing the shell of your ear.

“Y-you!" you moaned, hips grinding into Soobin’s face. His moan sent vibrations through your pussy. “You and S-Soobin-ah! So good I’m gonna cum!”

“Then cum.”

At that, Soobin, who had been carefully tracing little circles on your bundle of nerves, latched his lips onto your clit and resumed his frenzied sucking while pounding his fingers into your slick. He shook his head from side to side, the movement intensifying the rough drag of his tongue on you. The salacious squelching, lewd moans, and smell of sex permeated the air again. You screamed brokenly while creaming all over his mouth. Yeonjun held the camera right above the both of you, capturing the sexual act in all its glory.

You tried to make eye contact with the camera, but Soobin’s persistent licking at your spent folds kept your eyes rolling back so much you thought they would get stuck that way.

You came down from your high, and Soobin polished off his meal, greedily sucking every last drop from your hole and his own fingers. Fuck, your best friends could keep your legs twitching for days on end. You wouldn’t mind that one bit.

Damn, you need both of them in you.

Soobin was a mess. His bangs stuck to his forehead from the sweat and juices on his face, but his gaze was eager, showing no signs of fatigue from your earlier activities.

“Time for my cock, babe. Take it like the slut you are, alright? I’ll make it fit.” He gripped his length and pumped it, lining it up with your hole before entering you.

The stretch was incredible. Without a doubt, he was thicker than Yeonjun. It was as if you felt every ridge, every vein that bulged from his dick as he sank further and further into you. When he bottomed out, Soobin could hardly hold himself back from pulling back and slamming in.

Embarrassingly, you heard the squelch of your juices as Soobin adjusted his position while you got accustomed to the size of his cock.

“Fuck,” he groaned “Gonna fuck you stupid on my cock, slut.”

And he began pummeling into you a lot more forcefully than Yeonjun did. His technique was desperate, messy, and a little insane. You had half a mind to be a little scared that he might break you.

“Fuck! S’big and so good, Soobin!”

Still sensitive, you moaned out his name. He satisfied his oral fixation by sealing his lips over your tit, moaning into your burning flesh. His thrusts were fast and harsh, barely giving you time to breathe, so you had no choice but to bask in the sensation of Soobin’s dick abusing your pussy.

The wet sounds of your skin meeting were also affecting Yeonjun, who began groaning like a pornstar again. His other hand traveled to his now fully hard cock and began stroking again, his eyes flickering between the scene recorded on the screen and reality. The older man fixed his gaze on the sight of you and Soobin’s hips meeting. He watched it all—the way his cock disappeared into your cunt, the wetness that accumulated around his friends’ lower halves as you both kept meeting each other's thrusts.

The way Soobin speared you on his cock like a toy, he treated you like his personal cumdump. He released your tits from his mouth and joined Yeonjun in watching his dick plunging into your heat, each time emerging a lot wetter than the last.

In between pants, Soobin said something that made you clench harder around his pulsating length, “Yeonjunnie, fuck her mouth. Make her take both of us at once.”

At least Yeonjun had the decency to ask you, “Would you like that, baby? Want me to cum down your throat, too?”

Halfway through a moan, you nodded furiously. It took too much energy to form coherent words, but you tried for him.

“P-please,” you choked out, “Wan’ it in my m-mouth.”

“Good girl,” Yeonjun praised, positioning your head so you hung slightly from the edge of the bed. You watched with lidded eyes as he collected his arousal from the tip with the hand that wasn’t holding the phone and stroked himself with it. He tapped his veiny cock against your waiting lips. “Gonna pump my cum down your throat now, beautiful.”

Eagerly, you wrapped your lips around the older man’s tip, giving it a little suck before allowing him to thrust the rest of his length down your hot mouth. Both the taste of your cum and his from earlier still lingered on his skin, and you moaned around him as you realized this. You took into your hands what your mouth couldn’t take, twisting them while relaxing your muscles to take him deeper.

Yeonjun barely captured your sinful position on camera before he dropped his phone, sending it clattering to the floor.

They should really set up a tripod next time.

Next time.

He quickly became erratic in his movements. He couldn’t believe his wettest, wildest dreams came true tonight. He threw his head back in ecstasy while you swallowed him whole, sweat running down his chest and the sides of his face.

Fuck, fuck, and what if he looked at his best friend right now-

Soobin, still pummeling relentlessly into your battered cunt, stared right back at him. They held eye contact while thrusting into both your holes, chests heaving from the pleasure that drowned their hot bodies and addled their lust-ridden minds. For them, nothing else existed in this moment except for the sound of their skin repeatedly coming in contact with your holes, the squelch of juices and spit, the scent of sex, the buzz that lit their lower halves on fire, and the humid air that sent perspiration dripping down their bodies to your equally spent one.

“Think you can last longer than me, Jun-ah?” The younger challenged, pulling out almost completely then slamming back into you forcefully. You whined around Yeonjun’s cock.

“Huh,” the older huffed, “I’ll even let her ride me after this, then I’ll fuck her in front of that mirror Y/N and I bought together over there.”

Soobin spared the dirty floor-length mirror a glance, “Yeah? You’re nasty. I could guess how many times your conceited ass came all over that thing.”

Yeonjun’s hand found its way to your throat, groaning when he saw the slight outline of his cock. “You’re nastier, Bin-ah. You hide Y/N’s sweaters whenever she comes over and cum all over them at night, dirty perv.”

Again, you let out another moan and desperately humped against Soobin’s hips, trying to get his dick deeper into you. All the dirty confessions they’re making in front of you made you gush out more juices. Soobin clicked his tongue and suddenly pulled out of you, taking a moment to appreciate the sticky strings of arousal that connected his member to your cunt. You whined at the loss of contact and Yeonjun was quick to thrust that down your throat again.

Meanwhile, Soobin pushed your knees up to your chest and aligned his cock with your entrance.

“Little slut wants more?” He sneered, “I’ll give you more, then. We’ve got all night.”

He sheathed his cock in the deepest he could go, invading your folds once more and pushing your juices in. Soobin let out the hottest, most desperate moan he’s made so far and began panting again. His hips moved at a rapid pace, causing clear-white fluid to form around where the base of his cock and your pussy met. You could feel the wetness spread further on your thighs and pour onto Yeonjun’s sheets.

The older man watched this development greedily, pulling out of you momentarily to give you room to rest and moan loudly as Soobin abused your leaking hole. Seeking leverage, you felt around until your hand found Yeonjun’s thigh. He grabbed your tits, pinching your nipples and rolling them in his fingers, causing them to harden. You sobbed, grasping at his thigh tighter.

“Yeonjunnie,” you gasped, “c-cock…”

He quickly complied, pushing his hips back into your mouth to receive the pleasure your tongue and cheeks gave him.

You moaned around Yeonjun’s cock, but you could hear the latter scoff at the statement.

Soobin delivered a harsh slap to your ass, making you impossibly tighter, your juices and tightness simultaneously sucking him in and pushing him out.

“Fuck, baby, your cunt’s so greedy ‘n hot.” He groaned, “Gonna stuff this pussy day and night so it’ll never be empty, you like that?”

It’s always a competition between these two, you thought.

“I’m close, sweetheart,” Yeonjun panted, pushing back his sweaty hair to bask in the feeling of you swallowing his dick. “Take it like the good girl you are, hm? Give me another thing to think about every night.”

Soobin’s mouth hung open in pleasure, but he still had the energy to roll his eyes at the older man. He began to indulge you in more dirty talk.

“What a complete slut. Already came around Junnie and me several times but can still give us more, hm? Gonna fucking pound this pussy until all you can cum around is our cocks, right?”

He laid his palm on your abdomen and used his thumb to draw figures on your clit. You keened.

Coupled with his erratic thrusts, thumb motions, and Yeonjun’s fingers on your pebbled nipples, you were suddenly flooded with a white-hot pleasure. Your body thrashed around to no avail as your two best friends held you in place.

The three of you were a sight to behold. Yeonjun’s cock twitched in your mouth, and he released thick spurts of cum in you as you moaned around him, letting him coat your tongue with his essence. You did your best to swallow, although you began to choke from the pleasure Soobin was giving you below.

The younger man ruthlessly snapped his hips into your wetness, ropes of cum shooting into your hole and kissing your cervix for the second time that night, filling you up with his hot semen. His moans came from deep within his chest, and you found that incredibly hot. You couldn’t see his face but imagined his blissed-out expression from emptying his balls in you.

In the middle if it all, your cunt met Soobin’s cum with your own, clenching uncontrollably while struggling to take in the semen Yeonjun spilled in your mouth. Each spurt into both your holes brought you closer to blacking out from the sheer pleasure.

The three of you relished in the sounds and sensations of your orgasms, the room a mess of moans and cries and squelches. Once they pulled out, your exhausted bodies went slack. Both men fell to either side of you on the bed, heaving deep breaths. Still abuzz with the effects of your orgasm, you became aware of yours and Soobin’s cum seeping out of your abused pussy. You could still feel the warm cum smeared on your chin, courtesy of Yeonjun.

On your left, the culprit quietly laughed and reached over to stroke your hair, “That was intense, baby. You okay?” he whispered, “Soobin did a number on you.”

You grinned weakly, “Says the one who first pulled me in here to eat me out.”

“Hey,” Soobin suddenly said, “We should do this again.”

“How soon?” Yeonjun smirked, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You felt Soobin’s hand on your thigh, getting closer to your still-sensitive core.

There’s your answer.

#txt hard hours #txt hard thoughts #tomorrow x together #choi soobin x reader #choi soobin smut #soobin hard hours #soobin hard thoughts #txt smut #yeonjun x reader #yeonjun hard thoughts #yeonjun hard hours #yeonjun smut #choi yeonjun smut #choi yeonjun x reader #soobin smut #hyabbstay timestamps

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peascribbles · 3 days ago

Text

sylus x gn!reader, menstruating reader, domestic fluff, sfw

Operation: defend your ice cream stash from Sylus begins today.

You've had enough of finding a barren desert in the freezer, devoid of sweet treats. He always leaves the evidence of his crimes for you to uncover. Bowl and spoon in the sink, slick with the melting remnants. Discarded tub peeking out the trash bin. The occasional note with a devilish winky face on the countertop. Each a cruel twist of the knife.

Your grief is doubly felt when he deprives you of life's one joy during your period. No, it doesn't matter that he always restocks the freezer til it struggles to close right after. It's the principle of the robbery in the first place that incenses you.

Luke and Kieran sneak in a clandestine package under the cover of morning, while he's still asleep. Inside is a world class, custom built, state-of-the-art safe you've commissioned for this express purpose; constructed using antimatter coated steel to dissuade him from blasting it open with his Evol.

You have no doubts about his ability to break into things the normal way, so you've designed the safe to have multiple doors which protect its contents.

For appearances only, the outer door is a mundane dial lock. He'll crack it in maybe two seconds flat. What it should do is ping your phone and alert you to the imminent break in attempt. Behind it are a series of increasingly difficult cryptographic puzzles that must be solved within a minute to proceed.

The safe's final bulwark is a stroke of genius, if you say so yourself; a singing test with an inbuilt microphone where he must stay reasonably in pitch. An assuredly insurmountable trial for him, and therefore, an impenetrable defense for your precious desserts from his bottomless gluttony.

With the twins' help, you manoeuvre the safe into the freezer. You place your last tub of ice cream into it and perform the necessary double- and triple checks. Bolts are secured. Puzzles are set and ready to go. Microphone tested to ensure it's functional.

You leave for work daring to hope for the best.

—

Hours teetering on the edge of your seat. Paranoia mounting with the radio silence. You should be happy. It could be he's decided to leave your treat alone, but it can't be that easy. You're well aware of just how tenacious and greedy he can be.

Your phone pings during your lunch break.

Determined to catch Sylus red handed, you leap into action, pulling it out of your pocket. Your finger is a millimetre away from pressing the speed dial when you notice that the notification isn't from the safe's alarm system.

It's a message from him.

The food you just ate lurches in your stomach. That can't be good. You tap to view it, the stirrings of trepidation and resignation joining your barely-digested meal.

He's sent an image of the safe. The dial lock is busted open, all the cryptographic puzzles solved. Both outcomes within the realm of possibilities you considered. Your piece de resistance, the singing challenge, is still intact, so why..?

Ah. A perfect circle has been cut into the side of the safe. Its contents empty. You spot the tub in the foreground, also empty.

Cut off in the corner of the picture is a perplexing device you don't quite recognise. From what you can tell, it looks like a gun without a barrel or a trigger.

His accompanying voice message plays.

Nice try, sweetie. He sounds breathless, as if he's been laughing too hard. The mirth that brightens his voice is infectious, and though you want to be mad right now, a pleasant warmth and the beginnings of a smile tugs at your cheeks. I do wonder where you found a manufacturer willing to do antimatter coating for a... personal project such as this. Flipping through his business contacts while he was away, of course. That thing is a gold mine.

Ringing sharp through your speaker, two solid objects clink together. Teeth against a spoon. However, the microphone you installed must not be working. No matter how well I performed, it never let me in. A pleased noise from the back of his throat. This flavour's delicious, by the way.

How shameless of him to eat your ice cream while he recorded this—this declaration of victory, you realise. He's gloating. Feasting on his bounty. Oh, when you get home, you're going to—

Before you plan your revenge, let me propose a moratorium, his voice message continues, reading your mind. Why does he always do that? I've seen your sincere efforts to protect what's valuable to you. So, I won't touch your ice cream for a month. Use it to refine your defenses.

I'll give you a few hints to start: find better quality antimatter next time. And you did forget about the extensive tools in the workshop.

You finally recognise the object on the counter.

The freezer's already been refilled. See you at home, sweetie. The message ends with an indulgent chuckle.

His words don't register for a solid minute. You're reeling from this latest revelation. Just to steal your ice cream—

He used a fucking laser gun to cut a hole in the safe?

If a puny laser was able to penetrate the coating, then his Evol would have torn it like paper. Which means he went out of his way to go to the basement workshop, retrieve the laser gun, and cut a hole in it, because he could.

You're doing two things when you get home.

One, send a complaint to the manufacturer for a shoddy product.

And two, have some of that ice cream when he's not looking.

This operation has been a failure of unimaginable proportion, but no matter; you have a month to plot and plan. You'll come back stronger than ever.

go read @blessdunrest's continuation here!

#sylus #sylus x reader #lads sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #love and deepspace #sylus x you #sylus fluff #pea.snax #inspired by the iconic lockpicking lawyer vs wife's ben & jerry's video #was thinking about how she completely bulldozed through the lock he put on it and lightbulb dinged with how utterly sylus coded that is #very quickly and loosely written

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vivwritesfics · 17 days ago

Text

Baby, baby

You are fucking both Max and Charles at the same time. You think neither man know about the other. But they know. They know and they want you. And they're gonna do anything to get you

Max Verstappen x Reader, Charles Leclerc x Reader, Lestappen x Reader

Warnings: DARK FIC! BABY TRAPPING! TAMPERING WITH DIFFERENT FORMS OF BIRTH CONTROL! Smut, non descript, cream pie.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck."

She stared at the positive test on the sink in front of her. Six of the seven tests had fallen into the bowl of the sink, all reading the same thing.

Positive.

Fucking positive.

"I know, honey. I know," her best friend said, stroking her hair away from her face. "Do you know who the father is?"

Her breath caught in her throat. From the floor, her phone lit up, almost as if they knew she was thinking about them. But she ignored it, kicked the phone away.

She looked at her friend, met her gaze. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening!

But it was fucking happening. "I got two ideas."

In hindsight, maybe sleeping around with two F1 drivers wasn't the best idea. But this was Monaco, she was bored, and they were hot. It wasn't supposed to be anything serious. Just a bit of casual sex.

It wasn't a relationship, it wasn't monogamous in any way. Just three people who's sexual partners just so happened to overlap. (She wasn't aware of just how much they overlapped, that they were also fucking each other).

Pregnancy wasn't on the cards for them. It wasn't an option, wasn't a possibility with how careful they were being (she thought they were being careful. Condoms, other forms of birth control, pulling out. She thought they were being so damn safe).

"I can't tell them yet," she mumbled to her friend as she cleared away the pregnancy tests. Her phone buzzed again, the two men texting her at the same time.

A quick hey, from Max.

Are you sure? I can pick up takeout, from Charles.

"Not until I know who the father is," she finished, dumping a load of tissues in the bin. It covered up the evidence of what had happened.

Her friend grabbed her arm before she could rush out of the bathroom. "You can't just ignore this," she said, trying to keep her voice sweet.

"Watch me."

She picked her phone up from the floor and unlocked it. Ok, bring the takeout, she texted Charles as she sat on her sofa. Face blank as she stared at her television, as she waited for her friend to leave, for Charles to arrive.

"Baby girl, I'll only go if you'll be okay," she said, already grabbing her keys from the kitchen table.

She looked away from the television for a second, her eyes shining with a certain sadness that her friend hadn't seen before. But she said, "I'll be okay," and sent her on her way.

She only had ten minutes alone before Charles knocked on her door, takeout in hand. She plastered a happy smile on her face and welcomed him into her apartment.

***

"Who's that?" Max asked Charles as he went through the pictures on his phone, looking for a particularly cute one of Leo. He clicked on the picture he had been pointing to, watched as it filled the screen.

A familiar face, one he was used to keeping pressed against a pillow.

Charles shrugged his shoulders. "Just this girl I've been seeing," he mumbled and swiped down. Part of him didn't want Max know about her, wanted to keep her for himself.

"Seriously?" Max asked. "You've been seeing her, too?"

Too. The word stuck out to him like a sore thumb. Max knew he and Charles weren't exclusive, knew Charles could see other people. Just as Max could see other people. And he was.

Well, he was seeing one other person. He hadn't ventured very far, sticking to just the two people.

And, fuck, he was pretty sure he loved them both. Loved her, loved Charles. But they were part of two separate worlds, worlds that weren't supposed to collide.

Charles's eyes widened in sudden realisation. "Fuck," he hissed as he put his phone down, abandoning the picture of Leo he had so desperately been trying to find. "You're the other man she's been seeing aren't you?" He asked.

Rolling his eyes, Max put his hands behind his head, abandoning the post sex cuddling position he and Charles had been so fond of. "I wouldn't call only having sex 'seeing' her," he mumbled bitterly.

Charles raised his eyebrows at him. "Do you want to be seeing her?" He asked, "like, in the way I wanna be seeing her?"

Solemnly, Max nodded his head. But he knew it wasn't a possibility, wasn't something she wanted.

"So," Charles began, his voice shaking with hesitation. "Why should we give her the choice?"

***

Things had been quiet, weird, since Charles had gotten to her apartment. "You okay?" He asked, his arm around her shoulders.

Normal, she would be on him by now. In his lap or on her knees, freeing him from his trousers.

But she was still, silent.

"Yeah," she mumbled and leaned back. The smile she painted on her lips was forced, Charles could tell. It wasn't right.

Or, maybe, it was.

Standing up, Charles slipped his phone into his pocket. "I'll be back, ma belle," he mumbled and walked around the sofa.

All the time Charles had been sat with her, Max had been blowing up his phone. Constant texts, asking for updates about her.

He checked the pills in her bathroom cabinet. Still the sugar pills Max had swapped them to a month ago, a slightly off white a dead giveaway.

The condoms, too. She hadn't bought a new packet since the last time, and all of had holes poked into them.

There was no way she wasn't going to get pregnant.

Charles ignored the multitude of texts Max had sent to send his own. Gonna see if she'll let me hit it raw.

There was a moment before Max responded. Several thumbs up, the egg plant emoji and the wet emoji. Gross.

But then, Charles spotted it. The clump of tissues in her bathroom bin. He grabbed a piece of toilet roll, used it to pick up the other tissues and remove them.

Seven pregnancy tests. Seven positive pregnancy tests. Charles felt his breath catch in his throat. He picked one up, turned up over in his fingers. Yep, definitely positive.

We might have something here.

Pocketing his phone, he ignored the constant buzzing and left the bathroom. He just had to know, just had to know it was one of there's. But she was pregnant. She was fucking pregnant!

"Ma belle," Charles mumbled as he walked towards her. "What is this?"

The second she saw the pregnancy test, her breath caught in her throat. "Shit, Charles," she whispered as she stood from the sofa. "Y-you weren't meant to see that!"

He moved his finger over the plus. "Is it mine?" He asked, choosing his words carefully.

He didn't expect you to start crying. "I don't know," you confessed. "I'm not sleeping around! But there is someone else."

Sitting beside her, Charles's hand found her back. "Who?" He asked gently, his hand moving in a circle.

"Max Verstappen."

***

We've done it.

Ever since Max received that text, he couldn't stop his mind from working in overdrive.

She was pregnant. Just like they had planned, she was pregnant. Carrying on of their babies. Would the baby have green eyes or blue eyes? Blonde hair or brown? Charles's or his?

And then he started thinking more.

What was the time that did it? The time Max had her bent at the waist, gripping her hips as he pounded into her, a condom on his cock. But Charles had poked a hole in said condom on his last time at her place.

Or was it the time that Charles had her ride him until he was spilling inside of her, another case of broken condom.

Or was it the time Max convinced her to take the condom off. "You're on the pill anyway, Lieverd," he said, ready to roll it off. "Besides, it's gonna feel so fucking good."

It was so easy to get her to agree. So easy to push his cock through her folds, rut into her like an animal until he came, spilling so deep inside of her. Even then, he kept going. Fucking into her until it had no choice but to stick.

All they had to do now was get her to agree to be theirs. Their girl, carrying their baby. That was the plan, wasn't it? Get her pregnant, get her to move in, get her to love them.

Step one was complete, all they had to do now was convince her to love them back, convince her to be theirs.

A piece of cake.

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timmydraker · 10 months ago

Text

CW: use of R word

Tim who, as much as he doesn’t want it to be true, is a poster boy for typical Neurodivergence. He’s more logically thinking that emotionally and needs obvious signs of someone’s emotional state that he can put together to understand how he should respond to help them.

But that’s not what bothers him because that doesn’t bother his parents.

Instead it’s his passion, though not in technology and detective work as they quickly found use for that in their business, but for bugs.

Ever since he was a kid Tim has been enamoured by insects and arachnids and even fungi. He would only read books that talked about bugs or had one on the cover, but since it helped him learn to read at a steady pace his parents didn’t mind.

At least, not at first.

When Tim got into coding just so he could make his own little web-journal for all his bug finds, they were happy he was learning how to organise and structure at just six years old, but when he only did those things regarding bugs…

Tim had his first panic attack when he watched his father pick up his terrarium filled with Diapheromera Femorata (Stick bugs) and chucked it into the bin. The glass shattered as the corner his something hard and he was forced to watch his bugs struggle to navigate the glass and rubbish, most of them injured.

His mother had gagged when she saw them and demanded the whole bin be burnt with the bugs still inside.

Tim had been so heart broken, but mostly confused. His parents traveled the world to dig up dirt and old items that were mostly the same yet they didn’t like bugs?

When he asked one his Nanny’s she gave him an answer that he would never forget, “Well, you see… only those people like bugs, y’know? The… special ones, like re-“

Tim never even let himself think of the last word she spoke and from then only forced himself to only focus on his computer work. He still loved photography but now he took photos of skylines and trees, not the beautiful beehive a few yards behind his house or the spider webs that sat between branches like art works. He took photos of Batman and Robin and for a long time that was enough to make his longing bearable.

If he still followed several pages and articles about bugs either a secret email account, that didn’t matter.

His parents were happy with him even if they still made remarks about his ‘stupid little fixation’.

It’s when they are going over the paper work for Bruce to be Tim’s legal guardian while they weren’t home with Tim’s older brothers hanging around as moral support (bodyguards) that his parents mock him.

Janet is signing some paper with a stupidly expensive pen and chatting to no one in particular when she says, “You’re all lucky we killed this nasty little bugs of his so you don’t have to deal with them.”

Everyone else in the room freezes, beside Jack who huffs a laugh and adds, “Good thing we did, he’d probably be more of a retard otherwise- talking about ‘habitats’ and bloody spiders.”

All of the members of the Wayne family are dead quiet as Tim sits there with a clear look of disassociation coming into his eyes. Alfred has a calm look on his face that tells all who know him that he’s furious and Bruce is strikingly similar.

Jason looks ready to attack and Dick isn’t even moving to stop his brother or calm anyone down.

Damian is holding onto Titus’s collar like a lifeline but seems to give the hound some kind of silent order as the usually calm dog begins to growl low and dangerous.

Jack and Janet tense and stare at both dog and master, Jack ordering him to control his dog.

Bruce stands, letting Titus growl and taking the half signed papers and throwing them in the bin, “I changed my mind, I will be taking you to court for full custody of my son. Leave my house now so I may obtain a restraining order.”

Janet genuinely flounders for a moment and begins to shout about outrage and audacity but when Dick sees that Tim is starting to cry he stands up and reminds them that he is a cop before moving to pick up his second youngest brother and leaving the room.

Tim doesn’t hear much else, only muffled shouting and the sound of a door slamming.

He distantly realises he’s in the family room, not the one they use to have guest but the real one with beanbags and a snack draw, and is being cradled by his brothers. Even Damian is beside him, holding onto his hand tightly as they wait for Bruce and Alfred.

Tim sobs into Dicks chest for Alamos a whole hour before settling more, Bruce coming into the room and Jason and Dick reluctantly hand him over to he can be held by their father.

“Tim, chum, it’s alright. We’ve got you.”

The boy in question shakes his head, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t talk about the bugs I promise-“

Bruce squeezes him tighter and kisses his head, “I don’t want that. What I want is to hear about your bugs.”

Stunned, Tim looks up at him with confusion and barely gets his mouth to move enough to ask what he means.

Dick coos from beside him on the next couch and runs a hand through his hair lovingly, “My sweet baby brother we love you, and you love bugs! So of course we want to hear about it. I’m so sorry we didn’t know how they had been treating you but it was wrong. There’s nothing wrong with you, I swear it.”

Tim sniffled, nodding absentmindedly. They gave him a moment for their words to sink in before Damian spoke up, “Timothy, I demand you tell me about your bugs.”

Jason makes a noise and elbows Damian as if to tell him to shut up, probably thinking the other was being rude, but Tim knows his brother well and just smiles. “I can do that, Dami. I… I don’t think you’ll be very interested though.”

Damian scoffs, “I will ignore that statement as it implies I would waste my time with something I don’t care for.”

Bruce smiles at his youngest and holds Tim’s hand, “I agree. Could you maybe tell us about why you like them? Or your favourites?”

It takes him a moment to respond, but when he looks at all their open expressions and gets an encouraging nod from Alfred, he stutters out a response before gradually gaining confidence as they ask genuine questions to his facts and descriptions.

They each make an effort to ask him about bugs, Jason asking a few times if he wants to check out some books that he knows use bugs as symbolism’s and Dick asking if he can tell him the difference between insects and arachnids several times. Damian and Bruce are both a bit more subtle with their support at first, but after a month Tim enters his room to find a giant terrarium with several different sections so he can have multiple bugs that might not get along with each other.

Bruce and Alfred don’t even make any comments or give disapproving looks when Dick and Jason reveal they each got a tattoo of the bug that Tim said he associates with them.

#batfam #tim drake #bat family #dc comics #batfamily #dc universe #tim drake is red robin #dc #tim drake is a menace #damian wayne #jason todd #dick grayson #alfred pennyworth #bruce wayne #autistic tim drake #bugs

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demie90s · 16 days ago

Text

Motivation

Paige Bueckers x Older!Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: After twisting her ankle during practice, Paige ends up in your office—alone—on a quiet Friday afternoon. You’re the team’s physical therapist.

Genre: Smut, switch dynamics, slow burn, age gap, teasing, tension release, locked-door energy

Warnings: Explicit sexual content (18+), dom/sub switching, oral (f. receiving/giving), fingering, use of praise/degradation, light restraint, teasing, swearing, age gap (Paige 21+, reader mid-30s)

Word Count ~ 4.6k

It was always the young ones who didn’t know when to quit. She came in late. Jersey barely on, shorts halfway down her hips, and that stupid smirk already on her face. One shoe in her hand, the other dragging across the floor like she forgot how to walk. I didn’t even bother to look up when the door opened.

“You limping for real this time, or is this just your dramatic ass needing attention?” She laughed. Loud and careless like she knew she could get away with it.

“Damn,” she grinned. “Can’t a girl come see her favorite PT?”

I marked the time—3:47—and finally gave her a glance. She was leaning against the doorframe like it was a performance, tall and golden, hair tied up in that messy bun she swears is effortless. Her lip was split, maybe from a screen, maybe from running her mouth. Probably both.

“You twist your ankle?” I asked, motioning toward the table.

“Yup.”

“Before or after your bullshit?”

She smirked again and shrugged. “During.”

She didn’t sit on the table. She climbed. Legs dangling, arms behind her, watching me like she wanted to turn this into something else. I was used to attention. I wasn’t used to twenty-three-year-olds thinking they could flirt their way out of rehab.

But Paige had always been different. Too relaxed. Too mouthy. Always had a smart comment and a smirk. She was reckless, and I didn’t entertain girls who didn’t understand the consequences of their behavior.

“You could’ve just iced it,” I said, snapping on gloves.

“Could’ve,” she echoed, “but then I wouldn’t have seen you.”

That earned her a pause. I raised a brow but didn’t respond. That was the problem with girls like Paige—they threw lines out without understanding who they were baiting.

“Put your foot up,” I told her.

She obeyed, but slowly. One leg bent, the other stretched toward me with just enough effort to remind me how long those legs were. She didn’t look away while I worked. I rotated her ankle, testing the response. She hissed but didn’t flinch.

I pressed a little deeper into the tendon. “You feel that?”

“Yeah.” She sucked in a breath. “Kinda like how it felt when I first—”

“Shut up.”

She blinked. “Damn. Alright.”

I didn’t mean it cruel. But she needed to know—this wasn’t a game.

“You’re not here to flirt, Paige.”

“Maybe not. But I am here.” She smiled slower this time.

I pulled back. Took off the gloves. Tossed them in the bin and met her gaze directly.

“You think you’re all that because you hit twenty-three. Because people scream your name in the stands. But you’re not. You’re just reckless and I don’t have time to fix more than what’s on your ankle.”

She didn’t speak for a second. “You always talk to your patients like this?”

“Only the ones who try too hard.” That shut her up. For a while.

She sat back, still watching me, but this time she didn’t speak. Her smile faded just a little. Her eyes stayed on me. Studying. Curious but unsure. I leaned against the counter, arms folded.

“Anything else hurting?” I asked. She shook her head.

“Good. Go home.” She hesitated.

“You always this strict?”

“You always this messy?” I reply quickly.

She bit her lip, held my stare for just a moment too long, then hopped off the table.

“See you Monday?” she asked.

I didn’t answer. She left anyway.

“You don’t have an appointment.”

She walked in like she lived here—blue sweats hanging low on her hips, Dallas Wings long sleeve a size too big, sleeves covering most of her hands. Her bun was low, clean, not a hair out of place. No limp. No brace. No ice. Just vibes and nerve. She shut the door gently behind her and sat down in the chair across from mine like we were picking up a conversation we never finished.

“I’m resting.”

Her voice was quiet, not smug like usual, but not embarrassed either. She looked tired—bored, maybe. Her face was neutral, unreadable, except for that tiny flicker in her eyes when I met them. Like she knew she was pushing something.

I sighed and leaned back in my chair, folding my arms. “Is this how you rest now? Storm into my space on your day off and take my chair?”

“I’m not storming.”

She sat back, spreading her legs the way athletes do when they’re trying too hard to look casual, arms still crossed like she needed a barrier between us. But her eyes never left mine, and her voice stayed low. Controlled. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t trying to be cute. And that made it worse.

“You got something to say?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Thought you might.”

She was poking at me again, in that smartass, roundabout way she always did. But this time she wasn’t grinning after it. She was still. Waiting. And maybe a little nervous. Not scared, just unsure. Like she finally figured out I wasn’t going to play this little game the way she wanted.

“You’re not limping. You’re not hurt. You’re not even scheduled to be here.” I gave her a long look, let my voice drop just a little. “So why are you in my office, Paige?”

She stared at me a second too long before answering. “Because I don’t wanna be anywhere else.”

That was honest. It hit a little too clean. I let the silence hang just long enough to make her shift in her seat.

“You know I’m not here for that,” I said quietly.

“I know.” She blinked once, slow. “I just needed to see you.”

“You needed to see me… or you needed to see if I’d finally give in?”I narrowed my eyes.

She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it. Her eyes dropped for the first time since she walked in, just briefly, before snapping back to mine. “Both.”

I watched her for a long moment. She wasn’t acting like the same Paige from last week—no jokes, no smirk, no big personality. This wasn’t cocky. This was a confession. And I wasn’t gonna let her get away with thinking this was sweet.

“..I’m too old for you” I said, pushing my chair back slowly. “You think because you made it to the league, you know what you’re doing. You don’t.”

“I’m not stupid.”Her legs tensed under the sweats.

“No,” I agreed, walking over until I was standing in front of her chair. “You come in here looking like you need something you don’t know how to ask for, and then stare at me like I’m supposed to give it.”

She sat up straighter, her throat flexing with a swallow. “I know what I want.”

“Then say it.” My gaze never left hers.

She took a breath like she was bracing herself. “I want you to touch me.”

“That’s not how you ask.”I leaned down, just enough to brush a knuckle under her chin.

Paige’s voice dropped, rough around the edges now. “Please.”

I didn’t respond right away. Just ran my fingers down the side of her neck and watched her breathe. Her pulse jumped against my fingertips, and I felt her thighs shift again.

She didn’t move when I stepped closer. Didn’t blink when I leaned down beside her, bracing myself on the arms of her chair, one on each side. I watched her eyes flick up to mine, wide and unsure now, like the air shifted and she couldn’t figure out how to breathe right.

“You look nervous,” I murmured, my voice warm and low against the curve of her cheek.

“I’m not.”

“You sure hon?” I tilted my head and let my lips brush the sharp edge of her jaw. “You shaking a little.”

She didn’t say a word. Just exhaled slow through her nose, chest rising in a soft stutter. I kissed her there—right below the hinge of her jaw—and her eyes fluttered. I didn’t rush it. Just took my time, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses down her neck, tongue flicking once, humming deep when I tasted her skin. I could feel her hands twitch in her lap, desperate to touch, to grab, to pull me in.

I didn’t let her.

I pulled back and watched her—her lips parted, her eyes dazed, her body already leaning forward like she didn’t mean to. Like I broke something open.

Then I turned, walked away like nothing happened, and sat down on the edge of my desk. I leaned back on my palms, legs parted just enough, gaze locked on her.

She stood up slow, like her legs weren’t working right, and crossed the room in silence. Not because she was being careful—but because she needed me more than she knew how to say.

She didn’t speak when she stepped between my legs, eyes locked on me like she was scared I’d change my mind. But I didn’t move. I leaned back on my elbows, legs parted just enough for her to step in. I gave her the smallest nod, and that was all she needed.

Paige dropped to her knees like her body had been begging her to do it all week.

Her palms slid up my thighs slow, like she was touching silk, not skin. I felt her breath before I felt her mouth—warm and shaky, like she couldn’t believe I was letting her this close again. I expected her to fumble. She didn’t. Her lips brushed my inner thigh first, soft and reverent. Then my hipbone. Then the other. She wasn’t rushing.

But when her mouth finally landed where I needed her, I gasped like I wasn’t ready. It started as kisses—soft, open-mouthed, just shy of my clit. And then one right on it. A whimper slipped out of me before I could swallow it. She moaned too, like tasting me lit something up in her chest. And then it changed.

She didn’t lick like a girl guessing. She licked like someone who studied.

Tongue flat and slow at first, then circling, then pulling back to kiss me again. She was shaking a little, breathing hard, hands gripping my thighs like she needed the anchor. I felt her whimper against me, felt the tremble in her arms as her mouth worked, soft and messy, mouth wet and greedy.

“Fuck,” I whispered, my hips twitching up against her face. “Don’t stop—”

She didn’t. God, she didn’t.

She sucked my clit with her whole mouth, tongue flicking in little pulses until I was moaning for real, gripping the desk, eyes rolling back. I wasn’t calm anymore. Wasn’t in control. My thighs were trembling, grinding against her face, and she just took it. Let me move, let me moan, let me chase it.

“Paige—” I gasped. “Baby, I—”

She groaned into me like that name did something to her and kept licking, faster now, almost feverish. I came with my hand over my mouth, thighs squeezing around her head, and she moaned like she was the one getting off.

She kept going, licking slower now, messier, like she wanted to taste every drop. She was grinning when she finally looked up at me. Her mouth slick, her eyes bright, proud like she just passed a test I didn’t know I was giving.

I was still breathing heavy, legs still open, body limp, and she just stood up between my legs and leaned in to kiss me. Deep. Wet. Letting me taste myself on her tongue while she slid her hands under my thighs and pulled me higher onto the desk like I weighed nothing.

“You good, mama?” she whispered, lips dragging down my neck.

I didn’t even have the breath to answer. But that moment didn’t last. There was a knock—two hard taps at the door that made both our heads snap toward it. I panicked. Skirt down. Shirt pulled. Wiped my mouth, wiped my neck, heart racing.

Paige? She just licked her lips, wiped her chin with the sleeve of her Dallas tee, and smirked.

“Door’s unlocked,” she called, already halfway past me. She brushed her hand over my shoulder like nothing happened and walked out the room calm as hell—smelling like sex and satisfaction.

I was still sitting there trying to remember how to breathe.

I hadn’t touched her in weeks.

Ever since that night in my office—the one where I lost my damn mind and let Paige Bueckers make me come on my own desk—I’d been keeping my distance. Letting the other PTs take her appointments. Letting her sit across the room during postgame stretches. Letting her miss me.

I told myself it was for her own good. She was young. Newly pro. Figuring herself out. She didn’t need to get attached to someone like me—older, steady, not interested in playing with girls who didn’t know what they wanted.

But every time I looked at her, I saw the difference.

The way she didn’t laugh as much during taping. The way she avoided eye contact. The way her gaze would trail toward my station like it physically hurt her not to speak.

She wasn’t sulking. She was simmering.

So when we hit the road for our three-game trip, I thought maybe she’d cool off. That being around her teammates would distract her. That she’d move on.

But tonight? The way she looked after the game—quiet, locked in, not even talking shit like she usually did? That was a different kind of focused. I should’ve known then. Should’ve locked my door.

I’d already showered. My suitcase was tucked open near the wall, and my hoodie still smelled like eucalyptus and clean linen. I had my legs propped up on the desk by the window, scrolling, earbuds in. It was late—past eleven. Lights low. City noise humming outside the thick glass.

I didn’t even hear her knock. I heard the click of the door unlocking from the inside.

I turned, confused, only to see her—standing in the entryway in those loose navy sweats and a gray Wings long-sleeve that hung off one shoulder. Her hair was pulled into a low bun, barely tamed, face clean and tired but still stupidly beautiful.

I took out one earbud.

“Paige—”

She shut the door behind her. No words. No smile. Just walked in like she had every right to. Her eyes never left mine.

“I tried to wait,” she said finally. Her voice was soft. Calm. Dead serious. “I gave you space. I did the professional thing. I let the other staff touch me. Work on me. But none of it helped.”

She moved closer.

“You won’t talk to me. You won’t look at me. And I’m trying real hard to be respectful here, but it’s getting hard as fuck to breathe without you.”

I blinked. Swallowed. My chest was tight.

“Paige—”

“No,” she cut in, firmer this time. “You don’t get to say my name like that. Like I’m still some kid. Like I didn’t have you shaking for me the last time I touched you.”

She reached me then—slow but sure—and pulled the other earbud out herself. My legs dropped from the desk on instinct. Her fingers grazed my thigh, but she didn’t push. Just stood between my knees, eyes dark with need.

“I know what I want,” she said. “And it’s you.”

I could’ve said something. Anything. But the moment dragged, and I didn’t stop her when she leaned down and kissed me. Not gentle. Not rushed. Just right.

Her tongue brushed mine slow, letting me taste the heat she’d been holding back all trip. I didn’t even remember standing until she was walking me backward toward the bed, pulling my hoodie off like it never belonged on me.

“Lay down,” she whispered, hands on my waist. I did.

She crawled over me like she was taking her time unwrapping a gift. No need for hurry. No fear. Just a calm sort of possession that felt hotter than anything we’d done before. Her mouth went to my neck, dragging heat along my collarbone, her hand sliding up the inside of my thigh.

“Still wet for me?” she asked against my skin.

I didn’t answer.

She kissed lower. My chest. My stomach. Her hands hooked under my shorts, and I lifted my hips without being told. They were gone in one pull, and her eyes dropped between my legs like she was starving.

Her mouth was on me before I could blink—hot, wet, focused. Her tongue moved slow at first, just enough to make me gasp. Then she sucked, soft and open, before dragging her tongue right across my clit and moaning into me.

“you’re not running.” She murmured,

I damn near arched off the bed. She was warm, wet, steady. Her tongue moved in deep strokes—no teasing, no hesitation. I gripped the sheets as her mouth worked me over, slow and filthy, eyes locked on mine the whole time.

“Keep looking at me,” she whispered, her voice low between licks. “I want to see you cum.”

She sucked my clit gently, then hard enough to make me moan and grind into her face. I felt her arms tighten around my thighs, holding me in place like she needed the pressure just as bad. Her tongue flicked, circled, pressed until my legs were shaking and my chest was rising in short, uneven gasps.

“Shit, Paige—baby—”

She groaned against me at the sound of her name, speeding up, grinding her face into me like she couldn’t get close enough. I came hard, mouth open, body trembling beneath her, and she didn’t stop. She just kept licking, kissing, moaning softly like she was addicted.

Then she climbed up slowly, settled her weight between my legs, and leaned down to kiss me. Deep. With tongue. Letting me taste myself on her lips like it was nothing. She grinned against my mouth, hands sliding under my shirt.

“Don’t go quiet now,” she whispered, dragging the hem up.

She was gone for maybe four minutes.

And in those four minutes, I paced the room, half-naked, my thighs still wet, nerves lighting up like warning signs. I could still feel her mouth on me. Still taste her kisses on my tongue. I should’ve pulled my damn shorts back on. I should’ve locked the door. I should’ve—

Click.

The door opened like a shift in gravity. She walked in with her hoodie sleeves pushed up, eyes heavy, calm, and lethal. In her left hand? A small black duffel bag she dropped on the bed without saying a word.

I stared.

“You packed that?” I asked, breath shallow.

“I had a feeling.”She nodded once, digging inside.

That was all she said before she pulled out the harness—black, adjustable, already laced with confidence. My lips parted, but no sound came. I was still barefoot, still damp between the legs, and suddenly so still.

“You done running?” she asked, quiet.

I couldn’t answer. I didn’t have it in me. So I sat on the edge of the bed, heart pounding, and watched her strip her sweats like she was just getting comfortable. Nothing slow. Nothing showy. Just stripped down to black briefs and muscle memory, then stepped into the harness like she’d been doing it her whole life.

And I swear—when she buckled it low on her hips and adjusted the base with practiced fingers? My knees damn near buckled.

She didn’t flex. She didn’t rush. She just crawled onto the bed with that same deadly focus she always had on the court. Except this time? Her target was me.

“Come here,” she said, voice low.

I moved before she finished the sentence. Climbed into her lap, straddling her thighs, arms loosely hanging on her shoulders as the tip of the strap pressed between us. She leaned back against the pillows, her hands gripping my waist, steadying me.

I dragged against her, slow, testing the length of it. My breath hitched.

“You good?” she asked, one brow lifted.

I nodded, too gone to speak. She watched me—patient but smug. I rocked once, dragging my clit along the base, and her eyes locked on mine like she could feel every twitch in my hips.

“Damn,” she murmured. “You really needed this, huh?”

I tried to say no. I really did. But I rolled my hips again—slow, then deeper—and my moan betrayed me. She smiled, and her grip on my waist tightened.

“You look so good like this,” she said, lifting into me. “So fuckin’ pretty when you let me take care of you.”

And then she angled her hips up, one smooth thrust until the strap pushed inside me, hot and perfect. I gasped. My nails scraped down her back.

“Oh fuck—Paige.”

She didn’t answer. Just kissed me. Deep. Greedy. Her tongue sliding into my mouth like she owned me now, like this was her win. And it was.

She started slow, guiding my hips, letting me adjust. Every time I sank back down, her hands flexed on my ass, her mouth dragging along my jaw.

“You feel so good,” she breathed. “So wet for me.”

I moaned. Loud. Sloppy. She pulled back just enough to see my face.

“Ride it.”

I did. I moved, hips circling slow, then bouncing, gasping as the strap dragged against every sweet spot inside me. Paige didn’t move at first. She let me work, let me lose rhythm, let me fuck myself on her lap while her hands stayed right there—holding, watching, proud.

When I started to tremble again, when the heat started building too fast, too soon, I grabbed her shoulders for balance.

“Paige—shit—”

She snapped her hips up into me, fucking me from under, making me cry out.

“That’s it,” she whispered, her lips grazing my throat. “Take it. Show me who you belong to.”

I broke. Legs shaking, arms tightening around her neck as I came hard—moaning into her chest, thighs locked around her hips like I was afraid she’d stop.

She kept fucking me through it, slow now, soft groans slipping from her mouth.

“Can’t stop now,” she said, sweat on her chest. “You said you could go more rounds, right?” I whimpered, barely able to nod.

The lights were off. Curtains drawn. AC low and humming. The only sound in the hotel room was the low bass of a playlist still looping from your phone on the nightstand—soft, slow, something sensual that had no business setting the tone the way it did.

I was sprawled out, legs open, hips barely hanging off the edge of the bed, still catching my breath from the last round.

Paige stood at the foot of the bed—sweat on her jaw, strap slick and glistening, still in the harness. Her long-sleeved tee had been peeled off hours ago, discarded somewhere by the door. The sports bra underneath was soaked through, clinging to her chest like she’d been running drills, not fucking me through the mattress.

I tried to move. Shift a little. Pull myself up. But Paige stepped forward and pressed her hand to my sternum, palm flat, keeping me down.

“You not done,” she said quietly. Her voice was calm. Even. But her pupils were blown wide and her lips were still swollen from kissing me breathless.

I blinked up at her, exhausted, raw. “Paige…”

“You said you could handle it.”

I didn’t remember saying that, but at this point, I’d believe her if she told me I asked for this in writing.

She leaned forward, slid her hands under my thighs, and flipped me—one smooth motion until I was on my stomach, arms braced under me, legs pulled up just enough.

And then she climbed on top. Her chest pressed to my back, one hand pinning my wrists above my head, her other guiding the strap back inside me. I gasped, arching.

“No, no,” she murmured into my neck. “You stay right here.”

She fucked me from behind, hips rolling slow, angle deep. Every stroke had purpose. Every movement was like she’d studied me. I couldn’t breathe right. Couldn’t speak. I was already gone.

“You like that?” she whispered, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

I nodded, mouth open against the sheets.

She kissed the back of my neck. “Use your words, baby.”

“I like it,” I breathed, hips rocking back into her. “I like it so much.”

Her grip on my wrists tightened slightly, grounding me while her other hand slipped under me—fingers finding my clit, rubbing slow as she kept stroking deep.

“You close again?” she asked, her breath hot and steady.

“Yes—fuck—Paige—”

She hummed, low and satisfied. “Good. Don’t hold back. I want it all.”

And when I came this time, it wasn’t soft. It was sharp, back-arching, gut-punching. I screamed her name. My legs trembled so bad she had to hold me up, keep me from crumbling beneath her.

She kept grinding into me slow, the base of the strap dragging against her own clit, her moans ghosting across my spine.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you fall apart,” she said. I whimpered into the pillow.

Then she pulled out, slow and gentle, helped me turn over, and guided me back into her lap. My legs hung over her thighs, arms around her neck, head on her shoulder.

“You good?” she whispered, kissing my jaw.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

She chuckled, hands tracing lazy circles along my thighs.

“Good,” she said, voice smug and warm.

The curtains were cracked just enough for the sun to sneak through—streaks of soft gold cutting across the hotel room like a spotlight on all the wrong decisions. My mouth was dry. My thighs were sore. My body felt heavy, like I’d been hit by a truck. A very specific, Paige-shaped truck.

I was slumped on my stomach, sheets barely clinging to my waist, one leg kicked out of the covers like my whole body had clocked out mid-shift. I groaned into the pillow.

From across the room, I heard a low laugh. That cocky, way too satisfied for someone who should still be sleeping laugh.

“Damn,” Paige said, voice husky with sleep and smug with pride. “You really folded like that?”

I cracked one eye open and tried to lift my head. Tried.

“Don’t talk to me,” I muttered, jaw barely moving.

She padded over—barefoot, in those damn Dallas Wings shorts and nothing else—and sat on the edge of the bed. Her fingers ran gently along the back of my thigh, slow and featherlight. Teasing.

“You alright, grandma?”

“Paige.”

“Yes, ma’am?”

I opened one eye and glared. She just grinned wider, teeth flashing like she wasn’t the exact reason I couldn’t feel my hip bones.

“I hope your little rookie ass pulls a hamstring at practice,” I muttered.

She leaned down, kissed the back of my shoulder, and whispered, “Still worth it.”

I couldn’t help it—I smiled. Just a little. The nerve of her.

“Bet you won’t ignore me again,” she added, crawling up beside me, her body warm against mine.

“I might. Just to see if you do it twice.”

She kissed my temple, then flopped beside me with a soft oof, her arm slung across my back like we weren’t both wrong for this.

“You couldn’t handle this young buck,” she murmured, face buried in my neck.

I rolled my eyes, too tired to argue. “Next time I’m on top.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, already laughing.

@xxsnowxx213 @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog

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stargirlygirl · 1 month ago

Text

how they react to your new top

xavier/caleb x bubbly!fem!reader

summary: you bought a fitting pink henley top and show it to your bf

contains: nsfw, second base (titty sucking), implied sex, 1.8k words

xavier

Xavier groans lightly from his sprawled-out position on the couch as the front door thuds shut. His eyes are closed, the world pinkish to him when the overhead light flicks on. He smirks slightly as he hears you curse beneath your breath about interrupting his nap. Fluttering his eyes open, he listens to your soft footsteps and the rustling of bags.

You do your best to move around your apartment quietly, but you freeze in place as your sleepy bunny sits up groggily, those dopey blues on you. Giggling, you waltz over to him and set your shopping bags on the coffee table.

“Hi, baby,” you coo sweetly as you stand over him, pushing back his soft, dishevelled locks. His veiny hands come to your hips, and he holds them loosely while you cup his cheeks.

Xavier grins lazily, “Hi.” You lean down and peck his lips.

Straightening up, you turn around and grab one of your bags, rambling, “Honey, do you wanna see the new top I got?”

“Mhmm, sure,” he yawns, covering his mouth with one hand. You pull out a pink top from the brown bag and hold it up to show your boyfriend.

“Look. It’s a henley! Remember how I was saying that I wanted one of these as it’s getting colder,” you babble. He blinks slowly, and for a moment, you think he didn’t catch any of what you just said. He nods, his silvery tendrils falling back in his eyes after all your hard work.

Xavier suggests, “Why don’t you try it on?” Squealing excitedly, you scamper off to your bedroom to throw it on

In your absence, your boyfriend pulls the other items you got out of the remaining bags. A vanilla candle, some skincare products, condoms— the essentials. He sets them out on the table and chucks the paper bags into the recycling bin.

When you walk back in, he’s sitting on the sofa, sniffing the vanilla candle. His eyes widen, and he places the candle back down on the table with a clank.

You’re not wearing a bra. That’s the first thing he notices. The second thing: the fabric of your new top is terribly thin.

Dashing over to him, Xavier’s gaze can’t help but follow the bouncing of your breasts. His thoughts are anything but good-natured as you come to stand in front of him again.

Hands on your waist, you grin, “So, what do you think?” He gulps, eyes flickering between your face and your chest. For the first ten seconds, he doesn’t respond, making your shoulders slump.

“Do you not like it?” You pout. He shakes his head curtly and glances down at his knees.

“No, that’s not it,” he mutters. Tilting your head to the side, you notice the pink spreading across his pale cheeks.

“Xaviieerrrrr,” you coo. “What is it then?” Glancing back up, he pats the space next to him.

“Come sit,” he says quietly. You plop down beside him, arms flopping on your lap as you stare at him expectantly. His hand lifts and extends toward you, but stops mid-air. It hovers, close yet so far. You grab his wrist and place his palm on your shoulder. His fingers are cold as he traces the v-neckline, eventually thumbing the ribbed edge beneath your collarbone.

“It’s,” he starts. After a few seconds, he goes on, “Thin. Are you sure this is going to be warm enough for winter?”

You shrug, “Well, I was thinking I could wear it underneath, you know? Like I’d pair it with a sweater, coat, and scarf.” He hums in agreement, his fingertips dusting your smooth skin. They trail lower, his knuckles brushing the top of your breast.

“It’s also a bit revealing,” he states.

You grin, “Well, yeah! That’s kinda the point, baby.”

“A bit too revealing,” your boyfriend remarks as he tugs the fabric down, revealing more of your tit.

You grab his hand as you squeal, “Xavier! What’re you doing?!” He smirks, just a little, as you stare at him with eyes the size of saucers. Being the menace he is, your boyfriend pulls your shirt further down, deaf to your complaints. Letting go, the neckline sits below one breast.

Instantly, your nipple hardens from the cool breeze flowing into the living room from an open window. He cups your boob like it’s the most natural thing to do in this situation, pinching your erect peak between his fingers and rolling it from side-to-side. And he dares to meet your shocked gaze with the most innocent look in his starry blues and a sweet smile on his face.

“Oh, look. It slipped,” he murmurs while his free hand snakes around your waist and pulls you into his firm body. Your hands fly up to his chest, a small whine escaping your lips as he leans down and leaves sloppy kisses along your neck.

“Xav,” you mewl, your breath hitching in your throat. Down your clavicle and sternum, he kisses, all the way to your exposed breast. He nips at the delicate fat gently before sucking on it. Your moans are broken as your hands slide up and fingers tangle in his silky locks.

“X-Xav,” you moan, your back arching as he takes your nipple into his hot mouth. He looks up at you with doe eyes, intent on seeing your every reaction while his tongue circles the sensitive bud.

Pulling off with a wet pop, he murmurs, “I think you should only wear this top at home, my dear.” You nod enthusiastically, guiding his mouth back to your breast.

“F-fuck, yeah, baby,” you whine, tugging on his hair as he sucks on your nipple. Tracing your neckline again with those long fingers, he shoves the top down. Your other breast falls out, and your boyfriend switches to pleasuring it with his mouth. All the while, he kneads at your already spit-covered nipple with his fingers. The cold air makes you hiss, but it’s his tongue that makes your thighs clench.

Biting your lip, you glance at the packet of condoms on the coffee table. You smirk. He unpacked your bags. Your head tips back for a moment, lost in the pleasure of this moment, when Xavier’s hand slithers up your chest to your nape. He pushes your head back down so he can stare at you as he drags your pink nub through his teeth.

“Ah! Babe—”

“Do you want to keep going?” He mumbles into your breast.

“Mhmm. Yes, please,” you sigh.

Pulling back, Xavier trails feverish kisses up the column of your neck to your awaiting lips. You moan into his mouth, cupping his jaw as you angle your head. His tongue darts across your lower lip, and when you open wider, he tastes you hungrily. His hands roam down to your hips as he presses you flush against his body; your soft curves are the perfect contrast to his defined contours.

Much to your delight, it doesn’t take long for your lover to rip into that new box of condoms.

caleb

You bound up to Caleb, who’s currently chopping carrots. Wrapping your arms around his torso, you nuzzle your face into his back. He laughs, the sound so carefree it puts you at ease as it reverberates through your body.

“Miss me, pips?” He teases. Pulling back, you peek out from behind him, trying to catch his attention at his side. Your boyfriend places the knife down and turns to face you. His violet eyes drop from yours to your chest in a second, noticing the new shirt and your stiff nipples poking through it.

“New top?” He asks, his large hands already grabbing at your hips and drawing you in close.

You chirp, “Mhm-hm. I just got it today. Do you like it?” Caleb leans down and kisses your forehead for a long moment. He holds your hands as he steps back and takes in how fitting this thin top is.

“’Course I do, honey. It looks great,” he smirks. You jump up a little, positively perked up by his approval.

“Really?” You grin as you sway his hands.

He chuckles, “Yeah. I just think you should wear it around me only, okay?” You frown at his words, your lips looking all kissable as you pout. And kiss them, Caleb does, after tugging you into his broad frame. You clutch his white tank tightly as he sucks on your tongue. Your back arches, his hands shifting from your low back down to your ass. He gives your cheeks a playful squeeze, making you gasp into his mouth.

Pulling back, he nips at your jaw and scatters love bites across your bare neck.

Your hands squeeze his muscular shoulders as you mewl, “Baby, what-what’s wrong with my top? Why can’t I wear it out?”

He chuckles darkly into the crook of your neck, “I think you know why, honey.” One of his hands shifts to your collarbone. Scrunching the flimsy fabric in his fist, he yanks your top down far enough that it gets stuck beneath one breast.

“Caleb!” You shriek. His smirk widens as he squishes your exposed tit, his other hand pressing you firmly into his hard body and tilting you back. You catch a glimpse of that signature grin before he licks a strip up from the bottom of your breast to the top, right over your nipple. His mouth is so warm, and his tongue slimy as it rolls around your sensitive bud.

Your moans bounce off the kitchen counter while you tug on his dark brown locks. Blood rushes up to your face, tinting your cheeks pink as your heart beats rapidly. It’s so loud, you wonder if your boyfriend can hear it with how close he is.

Yanking down the second half of your top, your other breast springs free.

Caleb moves to pleasure it, mumbling into the fat between sucks, “Top’s so thin. Leaves nothing to the imagination. And you look so good in pink. I can’t have anyone else seeing you in this.” You gnaw on your lower lip, stifling your whines as he doesn’t hold back in teasing and tasting your tits. They’re slightly red and tender from his consuming affection as he shifts back.

His nose brushes up your neck as he adjusts your henley, covering up his handiwork. Placing one last kiss on your lips, he lets go of you and returns to the chopping board. You stand there, breathless and feeling unbearably hot in a certain region. Pawing at his side, you give him those puppy eyes he often gives you.

With a sly grin, his cooking is abandoned in favour of another delicacy only you can offer him.

masterlist

star's final words: literally bought one of these tops the other day and my boobs look good in it, so i cooked this up.

#★’s works #love and deepspace #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x reader #xavier x reader #xavier love and deepspace #lads caleb #lnds caleb #lads xavier #lnds xavier

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criminalyapping · 17 days ago

Text

due for trouble | boxes

the pitt masterlist main masterlist

pairing: jack abbot x f!reader

a/n: writing done time to go hang out by the pool. i hope you guys enjoy!!! anything you want to see, thoughts, suggestions, whatever; my inbox is open and i would love to hear from you hehe

yay for the purposely misleading title I couldn’t think of anything else

warnings: unplanned pregnancy, language, age gap, probably medical inaccuracy

< part 7 | part 9 >

You’re pacing around Jack’s apartment, feeling like you’re going to throw up, and for once it’s not the nutrient-sucking gremlin inside of you that’s making you feel that way; it’s much worse.

Jack had invited Robby over to meet you. Well, it wasn’t as formal as that. Robby was in the middle of moving and asked Jack to store some bins in his garage while he figured out where they needed to go in his new townhome. Now, he was coming to pick them up.

You think that Jack must have invited you over on purpose while rubbing his grubby, conniving hands together like a maniac, carefully pulling strings so that Robby would get to meet you.

If you were able to think more critically, you might have thought that Jack probably forgot he was coming, or it was an impromptu ask from Robby, but you’re anxious and want to take it out on him, just a little

“Hey, it’ll be fine,” Jack soothes, “we’ll just say hi, I’ll help him pack up his stuff, and he’ll go.”

“What if he wants a drink?” you panic, “what if he sticks around, Jack, what if he hates me?”

Jack sighs with a knowing smile.

“He won’t. I promise.” he assures. “He was shocked when I told him, like your friends were,” he emphasizes, “but at the end of the day he’s happy that I’m happy. And I’m very happy.” he tells you with a smile, pulling you in and kissing your forehead.

You’re 15 weeks pregnant now, your belly just slightly curved outwards but easily covered by tops that aren’t skin tight. You’re still throwing up, despite the internet telling you that that should have stopped, and all of a sudden your fucking gums are bleeding and sore. Pregnancy sucks.

Jack says it’s all par for the course, but did freak out a little bit last week when you texted him about sharp pains on the sides of your stomach. After a flurry of texts, he comes back with ‘Probably round ligament pain. We’ll ask at the next appointment. But if they get worse or more frequent we’ll go sooner.’

It’s crazy, both to you and Jack, that in 5 weeks you’ll be halfway done.

“Technically,” Jack had told you with a smirk, “37 weeks is full term, so you’re closer than you think.”

You return to pacing a hole in Jack’s floor, dreading his friends’ arrival. You don’t know why exactly you’re so scared. Scratch that, you do, but you know Jack would shut you down immediately if you expressed them. Not in a dismissive way, but he would say that ‘no, Robby won’t think you’re young and stupid and messing up my life,’

So you keep that part to yourself. To Robby, you will do your best to be a mature, career-oriented woman who is excited to have a baby and totally has everything figured out.

Pulling you out of your thoughts, there’s a knock at the door.

Jack smiles reassuringly at you and goes to answer it. He claps Robby on the back after a handshake and lets him in.

The first thing that strikes you about him is that he’s tall. It could be imposing, but he has a soft smile on his face as he takes you in that puts you at ease.

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” you greet, holding out a hand for a handshake. Robby ignores the hand and pulls you in to a hug.

“Oh!” you squeal as his arms find their way around you.

“Hi,” he greets as he pulls back, “it’s so nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too!” you return with a smile.

“Well, do you want to get the stuff into your car?” Jack asks by the door that he hasn’t closed.

“Yeah, let’s do it,” Robby agrees.

“I can help!” you offer.

“No,” Jack and Robby say in unison with a smile shared in unison.

“I know,” you laugh, “just thought I’d offer.”

“Shouldn’t be long,” Jack tells you as he and Robby step outside.

You find yourself alone in Jack’s living room, twiddling your thumbs. To fill the time, you find your way into his kitchen and think about pulling out some snacks for them. You nod to yourself and get to work laying out some stuff. You lose track of time, and soon enough the two met return.

“Wow, that didn’t take long at all,” you comment from the kitchen.

“He only had a few bins out there.” Jack says.

“Well, come have some snacks.” you tell them. Jack smiles and makes his way into the kitchen where you hand him a sparkling water and point at the snacks.

“Thank you,” he smiles, kissing you on the forehead. As he pulls back, you catch a glimpse of the smile on Robby’s face as he observes.

“Robby, do you want something to drink?” you ask him. “We have water, Diet Coke, sparkling water, or like, I can make you a coffee?” you list.

Robby smiles even bigger, catching the ‘we’ in your sentence that neither you nor Jack catch.

“I’ll take some water, thank you.” he requests. You quickly pour him a glass and hand it over.

You make some meaningless small talk about his move for a few minutes, watching them chomp on some celery sticks and crackers.

“How has the pregnancy been going?” Robby asks you.

“It’s been fine,” you tell him, “I’ve been pretty sick but the doctor said it isn’t the hyper… something,” you trail off, looking to Jack to finish your thought.

“Hyperemesis gravidarum,” he finishes for you around a mouthful.

“It’s not that, so I guess other people have it worse. I can’t imagine,” you shiver.

“Yeah, pregnancy can be kind of the Wild West,” Robby agrees, “a bunch of stuff happens and we’re not totally sure why.”

“Yeah, why are my gums bleeding?!” you laugh. “Baby’s down here,” you point at your stomach, “why does my mouth have to be involved?”

“Hormones,” Jack says. You roll your eyes.

“Yeah, hormones is the answer to everything.”

Robby laughs. “Do you guys know the gender yet?”

“Not yet, a few more weeks for that one.” you tell him.

“Any thoughts, premonitions?” Robby inquires.

“Well, I know what I want but I don’t have any significant feelings about what I think it is.” you express.

“And what do you want?” he asks.

“A girl,” you say with a dreamy smile. “You better be a girl,” you say to your stomach.

“Well, an old wives tale says that if your skin gets worse, it’s a girl because she’s stealing your beauty.” Jack comments.

You slap him lightly on the shoulder while he and Robby laugh.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding, you’re gorgeous.” Jack laughs.

“Whatever,” you gripe, “as long as it is actually a girl.”

“And what do you want, Jack?” Robby asks.

“A healthy baby,” he grins.

“Ok, that makes me sounds like a dick,” you whine, “of course we want a healthy baby.”

“Yeah, Jack, of course. What gender would you want?” Robby clarifies.

“I really don’t care much one way or the other.” Jack says with a smile. He turns to you, looking in your eyes, “but a girl would be fun.”

“Alright, both want a girl,” Robby comments. “I hope you guys get what you want.”

“Are you going to have a party?” he asks.

“Like a gender reveal?” you clarify. Robby nods.

“I don’t know,” you waffle, “I want to find out with Jack, but for telling other people it might be fun. I don’t know if I want that and a baby shower, though, that seems like a lot of party planning.”

“More gifts,” Jack comments.

“We don’t need gifts, Jack.” you tell him.

“Well, if you want party planning help, I’m always available.” Robby offers.

“Thanks, man.” Jack says, clapping him on the shoulder with a smile.

“Well,” Robby says, standing up straight, “I’ve got some boxes to unpack,”

“Alright brother, well, thanks for coming.” Jack says as he walks Robby to the door.

“It was nice meeting you.” you say, this time initiating the hug between the two of you.

“You too. Congratulations.” he says. “I hope to see you around more often.”

“I’m sure you will.” you tell him with a smile.

tagging: @michasia24 @veggieburgerwrites @bruher @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @catmomstyles3 @qardasngan @fuckalrighty @rae4725 @beebeechaos @thatssomebadhat89 @cari87 @livingdeadblondequeen @wowitsafemale @neonpurplestars89-blog @starswin @celiacallsitcausal @vinceelser @glamorizethechaos

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#the pitt #the pitt imagine #the pitt x reader #dr abbot x reader #jack abbot x female reader #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot

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kilojulietsierra · 3 months ago

Text

Send Me An Angel - Chapter Two (Dr Jack Abbot x nursewife!ofc)

Summary : What do you do after a night like that?

If you missed Chapter One CLICK HERE

(Seriously, I can’t thank y’all enough for the love that chapter one received! Made my whole week!)

Warnings: 18+ content, depiction of a PTSD episode/panic attack, also depiction of two people who love each other handling the situation appropriately, angst, fluff, smut, just a tiny hint of kink mentioned if you know where to look (competency, d/s role play), dark humor, heathy communication, they talk a little shit but they love each other so much

~~~~~~~

The Next Day

Sam knelt down in front of the woman in the wheelchair, "Ok hon, that should kick in here in a second and you'll feel better okay?"

The woman nodded, her whole body still trembled, but her breaths were a little more even. "Thank," she gasped in a breath with a stutter, "You."

"Of course." Sam gave her hand a squeeze and stood up, "Keep breathing okay, deep breaths, and we'll have you out of here soon." She looked over the lacerations on her leg one more time before she moved on.

Bridget met her in the hallway, and they exchanged a look as they both surveyed the ED. "We're starting to get 'em cleared out."

Sam nodded as she snapped her gloves off. The whole department was still a disaster, dozens of patients remained and the EVS staff was busy mopping up as much of the blood as they could. "What else do you need?"

The night shift charge nurse, put her hands on her hips, "I need you to go home."

"There's still…"

"Honey, you don't even work here. They have a relief shift coming in, they'll be here by seven. Go home."

"Did Dana get out of here?" Sam asked as she stripped off her trauma gown and shoved it in one of the overflowing bins.

"I sent her home too, every nurse on the floor now is night shift. Students are gone, I even saw Abbot walk Robby out earlier." Bridget wasn't going to back down.

With a glance at her watch she saw it was in fact almost 7am. "Let me help 'till next shift comes in."

The two nurses stared each other down. Bridgett sighed, "You are the worst." She said it with a smile though, "I have Tina and Shad making a lap to check IVs, you can help with that."

Which is exactly what she was doing at 7:33am when Jack found her. "Let's go home."

She looked over her shoulder and then back to the kid in the gurney, "They are gonna come get you in a bit okay." When the kid nodded she gave him a smile and turned around to see Jack. "How are you doing?" She wanted to reach out and touch him but restrained herself.

He nodded, looked her up and down and nodded again, "Relief shift is here. Let's go home."

Sam nodded and went to follow him down the hall.

Bridgett met them at the counter and before she could say anything Jack held up a hand, "We're going. Which means you are too." He gave her a pointed look.

She snorted out a laugh, like she hadn't been trying for half an hour to get him to leave. "Right behind you."

Jack held an arm out to wrap her in a one armed hug. "Go home and get some sleep. Give the kids a hug."

"Mhmm." She wrapped her own arm around his middlle and squeezed. Then she moved to Sam and the two of them exchanged a hug of their own. "Love you, sweetie."

"Love you too." Sam held onto the hug a little longer. "Thank you for always taking care of him." She whispered.

Bridgett hummed and gave her another squeeze, "You know it."

When they pulled apart Jack was standing to the side with his backpack on one shoulder, and hers in his hand. "Ready?"

"Yeah." She grabbed her pack from him, "You grab the duffles?

"There in there. Night Bridge."

"Good night." She called after them as they headed for the ambulance bay.

It was jarring to see the nurses and doctors that had just arrived, not covered in blood, no goggles, no trauma gowns, just ready to work a regular-ish shift.

When Sam went to take the corner Jack grabbed the back of her scrub top and pulled her towards him.

"I had to park in visitor parking."

He just tugged her again and held out his hand, "We'll come get it later." Sam blinked and after a moment nodded. She smiled and let him take her hand. Jacks face was still stoic, but he gave her hand a squeeze and led her out to the MD parking lot.

As they approached the truck he dug the keys out of his pocket and hit the remote start, then pulled Sam's bag off her shoulder. While she walked around to the passenger side he tossed their stuff in the back seat. "Don't even think about it." He called to her as he saw her move to open the passenger door.

She made a face at him when he came around to open her door for her. Rather than say anything she just stepped up and gave him a kiss, then climbed inside.

~~~~~

Jack held her hand the whole drive home and didn't let go until he had parked the truck. The drive home had been silent except for the music. When they got inside they undressed in the laundry room in silence and climbed into the shower together in silence.

One of the things Jack had always appreciated about Sam was that the silence was never awkward or uncomfortable. It never had been. He found just as much pleasure, just as much comfort in her company regardless if either of them had anything to say or not.

At some point Sam had leaned back into him, her eyes closed and her skin flushed from the scalding hot water, and he wrapped his arms around her. It had been quiet for so long he almost felt bad to be the one that broke the silence. So, he tipped his head to the side and kept his voice soft and low as he spoke beside her ear, "Want me to help wash your hair, or want me to go find us something to eat?"

Sam groaned, conflicted by the choices he had offered, "Both?"

He chuckled, pressed a kiss to the side of her neck, "Gotta pick one." Then let his chin rest against her shoulder while he waited for her answer.

She took her time, apparanently more content to stand under the hot water and simply exist.

Jack smirked, too tired to smile, and kissed her bare shoulder, "Pick or I will."

His wife just groaned and grumbled again, let more of her weight settle against him.

"Ok," He kissed her shoulder, her temple, allowed himself one selfish caress of his hands over her naked body and told her, "Stay here long as you need to. I'll go make some dinner."

~~~~

When Sam had finally drug herself out of the shower, she threw on a pair of shorts and one of Jacks hoodies, and headed into the kitchen. She found Jack there shirtless in a pair of sweats with his back to her as he made two plates of spaghetti. Before she went into the kitchen she took a second to stop and be grateful for him. The reasons why where too many for her brain to process at that moment, but she was beyond grateful for him. Every day, but especially today.

"Quit staring, come eat."

She smiled and joined him to eat at the counter. As always Jack cleared his plate like it would disappear if he didn't. Something that he'd never grown out of even after more than a decade out of the Army. His choice of second career just as inhospitable to sit down meals as his first. For awhile he sat there with her, then got up and tidied up the kitchen and the small mess he'd made.

When Sam still hadn't finished her plate he grabbed his phone and kissed her on the top of her head as he walked by, "I told Robby I'd call when we got home."

Sam nodded and went back to her food. Chose not to acknowledge outloud that the call was a thinly veiled check in. He'd made a threat, or a promise, to Robby on the roof of the hospital early that morning. "I'm going to call you when I get home, and you better fucking answer."

~~~~~

By the time they made it to bed Jack threw the covers back and dropped into the middle of the mattress with a groan, "Jesus Christ, I'm getting too old for this."

Sam went to the closet and stripped the hoodie off over head and traded it for a UC Davis t-shirt. She didn't respond to him right away. Instead she shut the closet and sat on the foot of the bed. She sat there a long time, only half turned towards him, mostly her gaze stayed on her hands, "Am I a bad person?"

Jack groaned again as he turned on his side, propped up on an elbow, "Not usually." He waited for her to look his way, to give him some sarcastic remark, but she did neither. "Can I have some context?

She took a breath, still didn't look his way, but she did turn a little closer towards him, "Tonight was… a terrible thing. I'm exhausted… but, part of me… part of me feels like a shitty person…" She couldn't finish the thought out loud. She didn't need to.

"Felt good didn't it?" Jack kept his voice soft, compassionate. "It felt good to be knee deep in the shit again. To have a different life literally in the palm of your hands every five minutes. Down and dirty, think on your feet medicine. Save this guy, if you can't save this guy then save the next one." He paused to study her face closely, tried again to catch her eye. "To be one of the ones keeping your shit together, when people around you are spinning out."

When she looked up at him finally her eyes were a little glassy, but he knew she wouldn't cry.

"No Sam, you're not a bad person. You're someone that thrives in that chaos, and that is an incredible thing." He reached for her shirt and gave it a gentle tug, "C'mere."

She stared at him for a minute and then moved. First she stretched to switch off the light and then she rolled onto her side to cuddle up as close as physically possible to her husband.

He wrapped her up in his arms and pulled the blankets up over them. Jack tugged her closer, guided her leg over his and tucked her head against his chest. With his left hand he traced aimless patterns over her lower back and with the right he held her hand over his chest. Where they could both feel the steady rhythm of his heart. After a minute he added, "That was one of the first things I found sexy about you."

When she scoffed and pressed a kiss to his chest he knew he had her back from that dark place.

She chuckled a little bit and her fingers flexed over his chest, "Is it bad that I found it sexy watching you do that field crike on the cop?"

Jack smiled and tipped his head towards her, "Is it bad I think it's sexy that you found that sexy?"

That earned him a giggle and it was like suddenly they could both breath again. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and she snuggled close as they settled in to try and get some sleep. It didn't take long before Sam broke the silence again, her voice a little softer, "Jack?"

"Hmm?"

"Can you, can we keep talking? It feels good to talk?"

He gave her a squeeze and moved his right hand down to stroke over her thigh where it was hitched over his. "Something specific?"

Fingers tracing patterns on his chest she hummed, "No, just… listen to you talk." She sounded almost sheepish.

So, he talked. He started with arriving at the hospital and then talked through each patient he saw, one by one. What they came in with, how they treated it. The whole time her fingers flexed against his bare chest, her thumb stroked back and forth as she listened.

Jack smiled to himself eventually. "DId you hear one of the med students IOed a guy while he was awake and talking?"

"Like on purpose?"

"Yep."

"Ohhh, no…poor kid."

"Poor guy that got drilled in the arm you mean." He pinched her thigh. "Then the Santos girl did fucking Reboa on her own."

"Yeah I heard that, and I heard you gave her an 'atta girl'."

"Like you never stepped out of your depths to save a patient."

"This isn't Afghanistan."

He paused before he responded, "Felt a little like it tonight." Jack pulled her thigh higher up over his waist and held her there, "I think she's got what it takes though, Santos, just needs reined in a little."

"Oh, gee wonder who has a favorite already?" She teased him. "Samira's got it too."

"Yeah she does." He nodded and twisted his head to look down at her, "Worst fucking circumstances," Jack started as he moved the arm around her up so he could play with her hair, "But it was fun to work with you tonight." He kissed the top of her forehead.

Sam tipped her head up to look at him, "Yeah it was," She moved her hand up to his jaw, "Forgot I was married to a badass for a minute there."

Jack huffed out a laugh and closed the distance between them. "Damn right you are." He kissed her even a she rolled her eyes. He pulled back just enough to speak, "So am I." He kissed her softer and slower. "Should get some sleep baby."

"Ok." Her answer was a whisper against his lips and she smiled when Jack kissed her again, "Love you."

"Love you too."

Sam woke up a few hours later with a start, her heart racing and her chest tight, she had to fight to breathe and clear her head. In the split second between asleep and awake she felt Jack jerk in bed beside her and then sit bolt upright. That was when she realized what had startled her awake. "Jack, babe… hey, it's okay."

Jack kicked at the blankets, sucking in air and shaking, one hand clutched as his chest, as his whole body trembled.

"Oh fuck, Jack, hey listen to me." She sat up on her knees and moved to his side of the bed as fast as she could and off the edge to kneel on the floor in front of him.

"Fuck," He was sucking in air, in shallow, uneven, breaths that rattled his chest and he repeated the curse over and over, "Fuck. Fuck."

"Hey, baby i'm right here." Knelt on the floor in front of him she braced one hand on his thigh as it nearly vibrated under her touch, "Jack. Jack, listen to me, look at me okay." His eyes jumped over the room all around them, but never to her. "You're home. You are home, with me, right?" She gave him an exaggerated nod and put her other hand over his on his chest where it still clawed over his sternum like if he tried hard enough he could rip a hole in his chest to breath.

Sam swallowed thick, her mouth dry and her own chest still tight. "You're safe, you're home, with me. You have to breathe. Right? Have to slow down and breathe baby."

He finally gave her a nod and tried for a shaky breath but he almost immediatly started to hyperventilate again as he started to rock back and forth on the bed.

"Hey… hey, hey, hey, nope. Deep and slow, right? Deep and slow?"

He lurched forward and Sam panicked briefly that he might be sick, but clung to the feeling of one of his hands as it wrapped around the back of her neck. "I'm right here, right here, with you. You're home. We are home. You're not there. You're here." She said it over and over again in the softest, calmest voice she could muster, as she moved closer to him and cupped the back of his head and brought it down to her shoulder. Careful to leave some distance, she'd learned the hard way, he could sit up suddenly and catch her in the face. Which hurt like hell and made him feel guilty later.

"You're right here with me, just gotta breathe Jack. Okay? Breathe." Sam drew in a long, deep, audible, breath through her nose as she counted in her head; 1,2,3,4. Then she held that breath and blew it out through pursed lips. Strong and steady to the same count; 1,2,3,4.

The whole time she stroked her fingers through his hair and continued to breathe with him, give him the rythym to follow.

In, 1,2,3,4. Hold, 1,2,3,4. Out, 1,2,3,4 Hold, 1,2,3,4

She felt and heard him fight for it. Fight for the air, for the control over his own mind and body.

She began to count it out loud for him, her voice soothing but firm in his ear.

In, 1,2,3,4. Hold, 1,2,3,4. Out, 1,2,3,4 Hold, 1,2,3,4

Jack spit out a shaky, 'Fuck…me…" His grip on the back of her neck tightened and released through the tremors.

"You're good baby, you got this. Just breath for me, you got this."

His trembling had slowed, his breathing had regulated some. Progress. Sam moved her hand from his hair down to the base of his skull and began to tap out the count and breathe along with him. In. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Hold. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Out. Tap, tap, tap, tap.

"I'm, sh-, shit." He fought through a breath, "I'm," His whole body racked with a tremor. "Fuck, I'm sorry." His voice was strained, painful even. "I'm s-sorry."

"Stop that. You're fine, you got this. We got this. Just keep breathing."

He nodded against her shoulder, his body still trembled almost constantly, but each breath got him closer and closer.

Sam didn't relax until she felt the majority of her husbands weight collapse against her and he let out what sounded like the last of the shaky breaths.

"Hey, you with me?" She whispered it into his ear and finally took a deep breath of her own when his fingers relaxed at the back of her neck and what had been a death grip softened to a gentle caress.

"I'm sorry, Sam. Baby…I'm sorry." Another shaky breath as he sat up straight. "Jesus…" He shoved a hand back through his hair. "Came out of nowhere."

Sam watched, still knelt on the floor in front of him, as his hand reached up to rub over the scar on his left shoulder. A nervous tick that he kept such a lock on that she would be the only one to recognize it. "Don't say sorry." She stroked her hand up and down his thigh in long firm strokes in an attempt to keep him steady, keep him grounded. "What you did today, what you had to do today," She ducked her head to try and catch his gaze in the dark of their room, "Of course it hits home."

He looked at her, hand still rubbed over the scar over and over again. "I was fine. Everything was fine."

"I know." She stood and stepped between his legs so she could tip his face up towards hers. "What do you need now?"

Jack didn't respond right away, he looked exhausted all the sudden.

"What time is it?"

"It's early yet," She glanced at the clock, "Not even noon."

He nodded, scrubbed at his face for a second, "You have to work tonight." When he looked up at her he looked sad, like he'd let her down somehow.

Sam shook her head, "I traded with Remi, for next Saturday. They're going to take the kids to the lake. I'm off all weekend." The relief on his face both made her heart flutter and broke it a little. "Let's go back to bed."

Almost immediately he shook his head, "No, I'm not going to be able to sleep."

"Okay, well, go take a quick shower," He was drenched in sweat, "And then we can go watch TV or something."

With a nod Jack stood up which brought them close together and she kept her hands on his face. He looked like he wanted to say something.

"Do you want your phone? Call Shane or TJ?" More than once she'd had to make a call on his phone in the middle of the night, her hand trembling, so one of his battle buddies could talk him down when she couldn't. More than once they'd woken up to his phone when it rang in the middle of the night so he could do the same for one of them.

Jack shook his head, "No, no I'm good." Still a little shaky as the adrenaline dumped out of his system, he put his hands on her waist and stared over her shoulder at the wall. "Just, give me a minute."

"Ok. I'll go make some coffee."

~~~~~

It was the middle of the afternoon, but the house was dark. They'd left the blackout curtains drawn so the only source of light was the TV on the wall as it played whatever show Sam had put on before she dozed off on the couch beside him. He honestly wasn't sure what it was, she knew he didn't care, that he just needed the distraction.

She shifted a little under the blanket, her legs stretched across his lap and her face buried in a throw pillow. Part of him wished he could go back to sleep like her. He'd spent the first twelve minutes on the couch with her feet in his lap, one thumb stroking back and forth over the arch of her foot while he stared blankly at the TV. It had calmed him down some, enough, and it had put her to sleep.

Jack shook his head and tried to focus on the show. He hated the feeling of the imbalance, the aftermath. It was like his thoughts were marbles on a perpetually rocking surface and he had no control over either.

Sam shifted again, "How are you feeling?" Her voice was soft and sleepy.

At first he just nodded, knew that anyone but her would see the scowl on his face and leave it alone. Then he rubbed a hand over his eyes and nodded again, "Better." He gave her calf a squeeze through the blanket. "Why don't you go back to bed."

"Comfy here." There was no hesitation in her response and she twisted slightly so she could see him better. "Need anything?"

He shook his head. Then for the first time since the day before he thought about the young vet, how he'd ended up on the roof of the hospital. He took a deep breath, his voice quieter, "The vet I lost, yesterday, the drunk driver hit and run victim. He was the same age as you." He didn't know why it mattered. He didn't know if he'd even registered it at the time.

She was quiet for a long minute, "I'm right here Jack."

He moved his hands under the blanket so he could feel her skin, warm and smooth, under his hands. He set one hand on her ankle, searched out that faint thrum of a pulse, and the other brushed lightly up her calf then down again. "I know."

For long enough he thought she might have dozed off his wife was silent. Then she let out a little laugh, "You know what I always think of? When we sit like this."

"In Kandahar when I'd go sneak into your hooch?" He gave her an honest grin at the memory.

"Mhmm. Every chance you got." She hummed happily and gave him one of her sleepy little smiles.

"Blame me?" He gave her a smile of his own and shifted on the couch so he could stretch out behind her.

She shuffled around for a minute until she could make room for him and then he pulled the blanket over them both.

He pulled her back, flush with his chest and wrapped his arms around her tight. Once she was settled she chuckled softly. "What?" Jack squeezed her tight and buried his face in the back of her neck.

"Just thinnking. Imagining if I could go back and tell 22 year old me that she does get to marry the sexy Army medic with the pretty eyes and the angry face." She giggled a little then continued, "That he loves her and treats her so much better than she'd ever imagined and she's going to be so fucking happy."

For a moment that tight feeling in his chest returned. but it was not the PTSD this time. He had to swallow a couple of times before he could respond without a lump in his throat and when he did he mumered it so soft and earnest it felt like the first time, "I love you." He pressed his lips to the spot behind her ear and left a kiss there that made her shiver. "So fucking much."

~~~~~

He did fall back asleep, they both did, and when he finally woke up it was nearly midnight and the weight on his chest was long gone. The dread and the darkness at bay. They hadn't moved at all in their sleep. Sam was still wrapped up in his arms, her back to his chest. His shoulder ached from laying on it but he wouldn't move. He pressed his forehead into the back of hers and breathed deep and easy.

"Awake?" She sounded barely so herself, but her fingers curled over his forearm. It was like their internal clocks were synchronized, or that she was just so intune with him after all these years her body knew when he woke.

"Yeah baby." He squeezed her tight.

So tight that she let out a little groan and the breath of a giggle, "How you feel?"

"Good." He tipped his head to drop a kiss on top of her sleep tangled hair. "We slept a long time."

"Mhmm," She shifted and wiggled around closer to him and sunk deeper into his arms. "Felt good."

"Yes it did." He moved his free hand down to her hip and gave it a squeeze. Under the blanket his hand moved from her hip under the shirt she slept in. He stroked over her waist, her soft, smooth stomach and then up to cup her breast.

"Jack," She didn't stop him but her tone was clear.

He smirked, kissed the back of her head again as he swiped the pad of his thumb over her nipple, "Told you, I feel fine." Jack tipped his head so he could whisper into her ear, "Better than fine."

His wife hummed and then twisted around to look at him over her shoulder. She stared at him for a moment, studied him closely in the dark.

While she looked he pulled his hand out from under the blanket and moved it up to cup the side of her neck. "Sam, I'm fine." He traced his thumb up her throat, "Promise." He tipped her face up to give her a quick kiss. His thumb brushed over her pulse and he smirked when she arched up into it, "Trust me, I'm a doctor."

She rolled her eyes, "Oh, ok Doctor Abbot."

"Watch the tone." He kissed her again, "Nurse Abbot."

His wife laughed into the kiss and nipped at his top lip, "Don't push your luck." Sam moaned as his thumb pressed a little firmer on the next pass and she turned onto her back. She nearly melted into the couch as Jack continued to kiss and caress her.

HIs hand slid from her throat, over her chest and then pushed the blanket aside so he could reach more of her. Jack swept his tongue through her mouth and the sweet little groan it earned him went straight to his cock. He kissed her harder and deeper, slid one hand back under her shirt and groaned a little himself when she angled her hips up off the couch. When he pulled back from her lips, a dangerous grin on his face he whispered, "What do you want baby?"

Sam shifted again, this time to wrap her arms up around his neck and pull him back, "Just don't stop."

The hand under her shirt slid up over her sternum and he stopped when his middle finger dipped into the suprasternal notch. He felt her swallow and then he trailed the tip of the middle finger down, slowly, as it barely ghosted over her sternum, down her stomach and dipped it into her naval. When she giggled and her stomach fluttered Jack leaned back in to kiss her. Her giggle turned into a moan as he slipped his hand into the waistband of her shorts.

He didn't stop. He moved until he felt her and only pulled his lips from hers to murmer, "Fuck baby." Then slammed his lips down over hers again as his fingers found the warmth and wetness between her legs. With one hand he dragged her shorts down her legs and smiled wide as she kicked them rest the way off herself and dug her hand into the hair on back of his head. As he pushed himself up onto his elbow, the hand beneath her cradled her neck, he used his other hand to pull her leg up over his hip. "Stay right here." He kissed her cheek, "Just like that." Jack whispered the last part against her ear before he sucked the lobe into his mouth.

The little shiver that rolled through her when he did that never fucking got old, so he did it again and again until she tugged on his hair. Hard. When he pulled back he could tell he was smiling, an honest to God smile, because she looked like she fell a little more in love.

"There's my smile." Sam leaned up to kiss him, a smile of her own pressed to his as they did.

It was her smile Jack thought. She was the only one that ever saw it anymore. She was the only one he gave it to. The first time she'd seen it, she'd smiled so wide herself it looked like it might hurt, then she had leaned in close and whispered, "Those dimples are dangerous." He smiled a little wider at the memory and then let his hand slip from the inside of her thigh down to her core.

"Jesus." Her breath caught, voice somewhere between relief and desperation, as he so very gently ghoted the pad of his finger over her lower lips. Her whole body trembled as he did it a second time. The third featherlight stroke earned him a whiny, "Ja-ack." as she raised her hips up to try and get him where she wanted him.

With a quick brush of his lips over hers he responded, "I said stay remember?"

Her hips returned to lay flat against the couch, but the whine she let out let him know she was annoyed. Jack smiled and kissed her again, Then because he felt alive again for the first time in days, he licked his lips and pulled back enough to see her face. He stroked that same, barely there touch over her again and whispered, "Be a good nurse and do as your doctor says." Then he waited that split second it took for her eyes to flash just beyond annoyance and then before she could argue or snap back at him he slid his middle finger knuckle deep and stroked that hidden spot that made her whole body tremble and her eyes roll back in her head.

"Ohh I'm," Her breath caught as he caressed that little spot again, "I'm gonna fucking," A second finger stretched her a little wider and she had to fight back a moan to finish, "I'm going to get you for that."

Jack just smiled, the one just for her. The big one with the dimples and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and he pressed his forehead to hers as he continued to pump his fingers in and out of her, "I know you will baby." He kissed her and laughed, because every now and then she'd play that game with him. She'd be his good little nurse and it drove him fucking crazy on the right day. Today though she was his feisty little wife and he wanted to get that rise out of her. See that attitude flash in her eyes and then bring her back.

The grip she had on his hair told him he wasn't quite forgiven just yet, but the rush of wetness and the quiver of her pussy around his fingers told him he wasn't far off. She kept trying to twist and turn, to press her thighs together, anything to get what she wanted, but Jack just kept her there on her back beside him as he played with her. "Jack, please…"

Jack sped up his movements and she arched up off the couch, chasing his touch. "Going to cum for me baby?"

She nodded and the hand in his hair jumped to his back where her nails dug in and reminded him he was hard as a fucking rock and he needed to be inside her, soon.

He moved his fingers slick with her wetness up to draw a lazy circle around her clit. "Goin' to be a good girl and come for me?"

Sam whined but her nails dug into his back and fuck it felt good. He knew they were on that dangerous line where if he wassn't careful, didn't play it just right, she'd turn on him. Then he would be the one on his back with her teasing him until his balls ached. That's not what he wanted tonight and neither did she, because she nodded. She nodded and whined so pretty and pushed into his fingers and he gave her that smile again. Just for her as he watched her, his fingers on her clit moved in hard, fast circles. The kind that always gave her just enough relief to feel good, but left her craving more.

When she came her mouth fell open in a gasp and her eyes snapped shut, Her hips arched towards him and this time he let her. "Good girl." He murmered it into her ear as he coaxed her through that first orgasm. He kissed her cheek, her ear, her throat and felt the rumble of a happy, satisfied moan as she relaxed.

Once her eyes focused he was there, with the smile he kept for her and a kiss that resonated down into their bones.

She wrapped her arms around him again and lost herself in it. "You're too good at that." She whispered as they finally pulled apart. By the time her brain had focused enough to notice Jack had her tshirt pushed up to her breasts and had kissed his way over her hip bone, "Jack," The whine carried more than his name with it. "What're you doing?"

Jack couldn't help but smirk into the soft, silky skin of her inner thigh, "Something else I'm very good at." And then with a wink he ducked his head and his tongue made the first firm swipe through her still wet and quivering pussy, ready to show her time and time again, just how good he was. That he was happy, he was alive, as long as he was with her.

~~~~

Chapter Three

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