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spectral-devotee · 7 days ago

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Scentless

It's very late at my place but I wanted to put this out tonight! This is a commissioned piece :D

WARNINGS: A/B/O set in normal HXH setting, Dubious Consent (both parties), Yandere, Yandere! Feitan x Reader, Female! Reader, Violence, Blood, Biting, NSFW, Home Invasion

Feitan walked with purpose, a ghost slipping between bodies on the busy city street. Streetlights cast his shadow on the ground before losing him again.

The pavement, slick and reflective from an earlier rainstorm, showed the chaos of the streets: passing headlights, flashing billboards, the hurried shapes of people probably too absorbed in their own heads to truly notice him passing by.

The air was thick with the usual scents of the city. The usual suspects of concrete and gasoline, sweat and perfumes. But then, Feitan noticed as he neared his destination, something worse. Cloying, sweaty floral with a heap of artificial alcoholic notes on top. Too much perfume masking something delicate and loud. He barely twitched, but his nose curled slightly in distaste as a woman passed, her scent dragging in the air behind her like a net. Feitan adjusted his cowl higher over his face and kept moving.

He made a turn into an alleyway and jumped from the creaking fire escape stairs onto the rooftop of a nearby building. A homeless woman sitting by a dumpster had seen his movement up the side of the building and had accompanied his ascent with an amazed sounding ‘huh?!’. Feitan started running, jumping from building to building.

Better.

The job was one of subterfuge, something he didn’t exactly excel in, so he probably wouldn’t get to do much, but Chrollo disliked doing jobs with no heavy-hitters there to be sent in if things went wrong, especially when he wouldn’t be there himself. Uvogin, Nobunaga and Franklin were off doing something on the other side of the continent, Bonolenov had a concert he didn’t want to miss if it could be helped, and Phinks had some omega he wanted to break in.

None of the absences bothered him- he had no reason to care, since he only came because he was nearby and no one else wanted to- but he hoped to god Hisoka wouldn’t show up. Feitan barely had the patience to deal with the magician to begin with, but to be cooped up for days with him, Shalnark and the remaining female members who disliked Hisoka nearly as much as him (save for Shizuku, but she seemed to hold no strong negative feelings on anyone) seemed like an annoying way to spend a week.

Descending back into an alleyway and joining the commuters, Feitan neared the address he’d been given and entered. There were three large revolving doors and a large middle manual door, manned by a widely smiling man in a crisp suit, greeting the guests heartily, his eyes following the backside of every woman he let pass.

The hotel was the kind of place that reeked of wealth—clean, crisp air-conditioning laced with golden filigree on each piece of decoration, chandeliers casting soft golden light over polished marble floors, littered with the same kind of horribly well-meaning staff smiling widely at each passer-by. Feitan stepped through the revolving door, his eyes flicking over the main hall.

He didn't belong here, but then again, neither did she.

Pakunoda sat in the foyer like she owned it. One leg crossed over the other, posture effortlessly poised, she barely glanced up from her newspaper as he approached. A half-finished glass of red wine rested on the small table beside her. Her eyes finally lifted from the page as he approached, meeting his unimpressed expression with a vaguely amused tilt of her lips.

"You’re late," she murmured, flicking the newspaper closed with a sharp rustle.

Feitan ignored the remark, his gaze darting briefly to the headlines. Nothing interesting. He shifted his weight, coat rustling as he slid into the chair across from her. "Traffic," he said flatly, though they both knew he hadn’t taken a car.

Pakunoda smirked, tilting her glass slightly. "Mm. And here I thought you got distracted."

Feitan only scoffed. “Do I look like Phinks?”

“At least insult him when he’s present.” Paku said, placing the glass on the side-table, a brown-haired girl filling up the glass up to the rim immediately without being indicated in any way. “How is he supposed to defend himself?”

“He could not even if he was here.” Feitan said, avoiding eye-contact with the waiter who seemed desperate to know if he wanted something to drink as well. “Who choose this place?”

“Not me, if that’s what you’re thinking. Turns out Shalnark objected to the usual place.” The usual place around these parts being an underground sewage pipe turned shelter for Meteor City citizens. “I think he was still upset about that leak into his room.”

“Heh.”

The waiter girl passed by him again, once more sneaking a glance. Feitan tried to ignore the needy wave of servitude he felt her exude, not needing anything. And even if he did, he wouldn’t call on her, and would instead walk to the bar himself, if only to be left alone.

So, he ignored her entirely, but her proximity sent a wave of eucalyptus and musk crashing into his senses, making his lip curl in irritation. The combination was sharp and cloying, like someone had tried to drown themselves in an herbal bath and failed. His fingers twitched against his knee. What would it take for some people to just walk around with scent blockers?

Pakunoda must have noticed his expression shift, because she leaned slightly forward, resting her chin on one gloved hand.

Feitan exhaled sharply through his nose but said nothing.

He had grown up in filth—actual filth. Rotting garbage, the stench of sewage thick in the air, bodies pressed together in cramped spaces, all of it so constant that it dulled his senses over the years. His nose had adjusted to the putrid, to the rancid, until it was nothing more than background noise.

The second they’d gotten out, his sense of smell had gotten sharper, but after a lifetime of scent being a useless sense, he’d found out that he disliked nearly every scent out there. Every omega smelled like a honeytrap, disgusting him with their scents that screamed ‘look at me! I’m here!’. Alpha’s were more of the same, just as loud with their body odor, filling up every room they came in.

It was the reason why, when working, the first thing he cut out of a person was their scent glands.

He was usually better at dealing with it, though, even his annoyance fading after a few weeks in highly populated areas, but he’d just come from a woodland area, having been occupying his own time with some training. The last fight he’d been in should’ve been easy, but he’d gotten nicked with some third grade kitchen knife on a lucky strike, and Shizuku and Uvogin had been there to witness it, saying nothing but giggling like small children.

For that, he needed to train, if only to make sure that never happened again.

But like always, when he was by himself for some time, away from others polluting the air, he always underestimated how much he hated pheromones until he got back to society.

But he could get used to it, it just took a while. This place would serve as a trial by fire, as in places like this, everything was filled to the brim. It was offensive. Scents that were supposed to be "pleasant" felt intrusive, overwhelming, like being suffocated under layers of artificial sweetness, bleach and thousands of cries for attention.

Pakunoda hummed, tapping a finger against the rim of her glass. "You’d think you'd get used to it."

Feitan shot her a sharp glance. "You get used to bad things," he muttered. "Not good ones."

Pakunoda chuckled at that. She didn't press further. She never did when he got like this.

As he left Paku to her drink to unpack his bag in his room and wait for the remaining orders to come in (Shalnark was hidden away in one of the rooms and was doing intel, it was unlikely Feitan would even see him before the job was finished) and so far the set-up had been going as expected, the only hick-up being one of Chrollo’s pet nen-users lurking around the site Machi and Pakunoda were going to infiltrate.

It was all going well, but still, Feitan didn’t like how loud this setup was. An entire floor rented out? Not inconspicuous. Even if the staff didn’t ask questions, too much space meant too many places for annoyances to lurk.

The elevator slowed. A chime. Doors sliding open.

Feitan stepped out—

And choked.

The stench hit him like a punch to the throat, thick and sickly sweet, curling into his lungs before he could stop it. He immediately noticed the source and felt a hint of killing intent leave his body, which was a frustrating lack of control. Frustration seized him as he stared at the origin.

Footsteps. The lazy kind, drawn out, deliberate.

Hisoka rounded the corner, and Feitan’s nose was once again assaulted by a suffocating blast of bubblegum, so aggressively sweet it made his throat seize.

DisgustingDisgustingDisgusting—

He barely swallowed down the urge to gag. His grip tightened around his bag, and for a fleeting moment, he considered hurling it at Hisoka’s smug face.

“Oh, Feitan,” Hisoka drawled, tilting his head with that insufferable smile. “Didn’t see you there.”

The bastard even had the audacity to reel back his scent, as if that did anything to erase the crime he had just committed against Feitan’s senses.

“Forgive me.”

Feitan didn’t hesitate. “Die.”

“Oh my,” Hisoka said, his face smug as he pretended to be the picture of innocence.

Only one person in the world was allowed to smell that strongly, and it wasn’t the fake weak magician that for some reason had been forced into his life.

(Phinks)

(He was familiar.)

“Stay away from my room.” Feitan hissed as he passed Hisoka.

Like expected, Feitan didn’t get to do too much.

It was a lot of waiting around for a call that was unlikely to occur. Usually that meant just sitting around, reading or training, but the overcast weather made Feitan want to walk around a bit, close enough to act if something happened, but just to get out and away from the hotel.

If they ever had a job here again, Feitan would be sure to appeal to the boss that the sewage pipe was better.

Feitan spent the next few hours weaving through crowds, slipping between packed alleyways and busy intersections. The neon glow of shopfronts and the distant hum of traffic blurred into a constant, mind-numbing background. He hadn't meant to be out this long, but the longer he walked, the calmer he felt.

Eventually, he stopped at a small market tucked away from the main streets, a place that didn’t reek of overpriced perfumes and clashing pheromones. The air here was better. Raw vegetables, fresh herbs, the faint scent of soil clinging to produce that hadn’t been drowned in sterilization. He stole whatever he needed, which wasn’t much. A few vegetables, some simple ingredients. Enough to make something edible.

By the time he returned, the halls were quiet, save for the distant murmur of voices behind closed doors. He stepped into his room, already shrugging off his coat, when he noticed movement inside.

You froze, caught in the middle of wiping down the desk.

For a split second, there was only silence.

Then, you started to talk.

“Oh! I’m so sorry, sir—I forgot to put the cleaning sign up.” You fumbled with the rag, eyes wide as you backed away from his space, hands raised in apology. He realised immediately why you were so flustered, as his sword was askew and partially unsheathed on the table, and you’d clearly picked it up to look at it. “I’m done anyway, I’ll leave you be!”

Feitan barely looked at you, irritation flickering across his face before dulling into something more neutral. His grip tightened on the bag in his hand, debating whether this was worth being annoyed over, but he realized he was partly to blame. He should’ve put on the ‘no cleaning’ sign.

Still, he’d remember your face, just in case he sensed something off about the sword. Nothing about you looked like a nen-user, so he tried to drown out the paranoid part of his mind that told him that if you were dead, it was even unlikely that you’d put something odd on his sword.

Then you moved past him, and something strange happened.

Nothing.

No cloying perfume. No overwhelming musk. No sharp, headache-inducing pheromones. It was like walking past a blank space in the air. The absence of a scent was so unfamiliar, so starkly different from the rest of the world, that he almost turned his head to check.

Despite the lack of scent, you were clearly an omega, everything about you signing off ticks in his mind.

You were already at the door, bowing slightly in a rushed, awkward manner. “I really am sorry, sir. It won’t happen again.”

Feitan watched you for a beat longer than necessary. His nose twitched, testing the air. Still nothing.

“…Hn,” was all he said in response. Then he turned away, walking further into the room as if you weren’t there at all. Either you had scent blockers stronger than his, or his walk in the city had dulled his senses completely. Unlikely, as he’d been holding his breath the entire walk through the hallway, damned Hisoka once again for acting like a set of nails on a chalkboard by stifling the entire floor.

The door shut behind you with a quiet click.

Feitan continued to look after the closed door longer than he could justify, before unpacking his groceries.

Feitan didn’t bother hanging up the sign the next day, nor did he go for a walk.

He told himself it was out of laziness—nothing more. He just didn’t care enough to dig it out and hook it onto the door. If someone came in, they came in. Not his problem.

And yet, when morning came, he found himself waiting.

Not obviously, of course. He still went about his routine, eating what he’d stolen the night before, sharpening and putting his sword away properly this time, flipping through the newspaper he’d nicked off Pakunoda. But when the faint sound of a keycard slotting into the door echoed through the room, he didn’t move.

You stepped in cautiously, clearly remembering yesterday’s mistake. But when you saw him sitting there—very much present, very much watching—you froze again.

“Good morning.” You hesitated, gripping the cleaning supplies in your hands. “I can come back later.”

Feitan barely glanced up from the book in his hands. “No need.” His voice was flat, dismissive, like he barely cared. Which, of course, he didn’t.

You blinked. “You want me to clean while you’re here?”

A short, noncommittal hum was his only response. He turned a page.

It took you a moment, but eventually, you nodded and stepped further in. He could hear you working—the soft clatter of supplies being set down, the gentle sweep of fabric over surfaces. The usual chemical-clean smell that came with these hotels was there, but it didn’t cling to you the way it did to others. It was faint. Background noise.

He kept reading.

The quiet stretched between the two of you, broken only by the occasional rustle of fabric and the soft clatter of items being put back into place. Feitan flipped another page, eyes scanning the words without really reading them. His attention had settled elsewhere.

You were still moving through the room, wiping down the dresser, dusting the shelves. It wasn’t just subtle—it was nothing.

After another long moment, Feitan spoke, voice as flat as ever. “Why don't you stink?”

You paused mid-wipe, turning slightly toward him. “…Excuse me?”

He didn’t bother looking up. “You have no scent,” he clarified. “Not normal.”

There was a beat of silence. Then, slowly, you went back to cleaning, though your movements were more careful now, like you weren’t sure if you should answer.

“…I use scent blockers,” you said after a moment, your voice slightly lower. “It’s a hotel policy. We’re required to wear them.”

Feitan hummed, absorbing this information. He supposed that made some sense. But most people still had something lingering underneath. You didn’t. Which meant you were lying.

A curious part of him wanted the answers immediately, to stand up and threaten you with things worse than you ever could’ve encountered in those daytime shows most people watched, but he refrained. The troupe was trying to be inconspicuous in a place that was definitely not that, and he doubted Chrollo would be happy to hear they had to move locations because he couldn’t help but torture a random cleaning lady.

Maybe after the job was over.

Once the rest had left.

Maybe.

He turned another page in his book, then finally glanced up, watching as you wiped down the nightstand. He’d go along with you for now. “It work well.”

You blinked, looking briefly startled, as if unsure whether that was a compliment. Then you simply nodded. “Thank you…?”

Feitan said nothing else, letting the silence return.

On day four, a thought came to him whilst you were dragging a wet cloth across a mirror and he was once again pretending to be reading.

(He’d made a bit of a mess. Yesterday you’d been done too quickly.)

A part of him was getting paranoid. This felt like a honey trap, one specifically designed for his tastes. What if you’d been placed in his room for this very reason, to entice him and lead him somewhere. It was all a bit coincidental, that someone fit for his exact preferences would have cleaned his room, while they were in the midst of a job, to distract him while-

He exhaled.

He looked over the edge of the book, a ripple of dark nen surging to life around him. It crackled, swirling with malice and deadly intent. You froze, wide-eyed, your teeth almost chattering from the sheer weight of the energy he was radiating, the cloth in your hands falling to the floor.

Feitan’s gaze was unyielding. His presence seemed to crush the air, the pressure in the room making it harder to breathe. He wasn’t just watching you; he was studying every inch of you. Your body language, the way your eyes flickered, every slight twitch in your muscles. He was looking for any sign of deception, any indication that you weren’t as afraid as you claimed to be.

Your heart pounded in your chest, and you could feel the gnawing fear crawl up your spine. This was it. His nen swirled around you, and for a split second, it felt as though the very air around you was being sucked out.

But then, Feitan stopped.

The nen stopped.

You were clear.

For now.

Slowly, cautiously, you turned to face him, still rattled. “Did—did you feel that?”

Feitan didn’t even look up, casually flipping a page. “What?”

Your fingers trembled as you reached down to grab the cloth, the unease still coiled tight in your chest.

“Oh. Never mind.” You hurriedly gathered your cleaning supplies. “I… I need to go. I’m already late.”

Feitan tutted. You clearly weren’t above a little lie. First trying to get away with playing with his sword, and now this.

“Bathroom.”

“…Okay.”

He’d never seen anyone scrub a bathroom so fast.

Feitan was careful. He always was.

The Troupe knew his habits, but they didn’t question him. If he wanted to disappear for a few hours, no one pried. Still, he took extra precautions—choosing the least conspicuous exits, taking indirect paths through the city, shifting into the background like a ghost. If any of them saw him slipping out of the hotel at this hour, they’d assume he was on some personal errand, something bloody, something useful.

Instead, he was watching her.

He had expected something dull. A straight path home, maybe a stop at some forgettable store. Something mundane and simple. But instead, you led him somewhere unexpected. A hospice.

Feitan watched from the rooftops, crouched against the cool metal railing, his sharp eyes tracking every movement. You didn’t just clean there. You weren’t paid for this. You stayed longer than necessary, speaking softly to the sick and dying, adjusting blankets, listening, nodding. He watched you squeeze an old man’s frail hand before leaving, watched the way a woman smiled at you as you tucked her pillows properly.

Disgusting.

He clenched his jaw, fingers flexing against his knee. What was it with people and their constant need to be good? As if it meant anything. As if the world rewarded that kind of useless, bleeding-heart sentiment with anything other than a shot to the back of the head.

Feitan was already unimpressed, but then you had to go and make it worse.

On your way home, you stopped in a quiet alley, crouching down beside a stray dog—a ragged thing, fur patchy, ribs slightly visible beneath thin skin. A pathetic, filthy, creature. Yet you reached out without hesitation, scratching behind its ears, murmuring something under your breath as it wagged its tail weakly.

Feitan’s fingers twitched, exasperation clawing at his chest.

Of course. Of course you were like this. As if voluntary work and politeness wasn’t already some kind of moral superiority. No. You had to do this too. Next you’d read to some children in a hospital and protest for the environment, if your current track record was any indication. It was so nauseating it made his teeth grind.

Still, he didn’t leave.

He remained in the shadows.

Maybe he had been wrong about her. Maybe she wasn’t what he thought she was after all. Maybe she was just another one of them.

At this point, he kinda hoped for it.

Feitan slipped into your apartment as easily as stepping through an open door. Locks meant nothing to him. Shadows clung to him like a second skin, making his movements silent, seamless.

The space was small—modest, clean, and lived-in. It smelled faintly of detergent.

He moved through the rooms without a sound, eyes flicking over everything, cataloging details. Nothing out of place. No hidden weapons, no secret compartments, no signs of anything remotely interesting.

Then he found the pictures.

They lined the walls in small frames, tucked into bookshelves, pinned to a corkboard near the kitchen. Feitan stared, unmoving.

You with the elderly patients at the hospice, some laughing, some frail but smiling. You with friends at a café, mid-laughter, a drink in hand. You in different places—on a beach, in the mountains, in a busy market somewhere foreign.

A good person.

His fingers twitched at his sides.

Exasperation curled in his chest, sharp and unwanted. He had been hoping—half-expecting—to find something else. Some secret that explained why you’d caught his attention. A trace of something darker, something real beneath all the selfless, unassuming nonsense. But no. There was nothing. Just more of the same.

Feitan exhaled through his nose, forcing his irritation down.

What did this say about him? That he’d left his post for what? A sudden urge to see if his cleaning lady was up to anything interesting? There was something off with him lately, and these kinds of actions didn’t help. Feitan looked at himself in a hallway mirror, trying to decipher what he had been thinking coming here.

The frustrated glare he sent himself through the reflection didn’t clear up anything.

It didn’t matter. This was just a test. Whether you were an exception or just another fool meant nothing in the end.

The apartment was quiet when you arrived, save for the faint jingle of keys and the soft hum of a tune under your breath. Feitan had been waiting- why?- while shrouded in Zetsu, his presence smothered into nothingness. He could stand right next to you, breathe the same air, and you’d still be oblivious.

You kicked off your shoes, setting your things down with the heavy sigh of someone shaking off the day. The mundanity of it all was oddly fascinating—the way you rolled your shoulders, the way you peeled off your jacket with an absentminded flick of your wrist.

From the shadowed corner of your room, he didn’t bother to move when you undressed. There was no need; you wouldn’t see him. You stripped out of your work uniform, shedding the day’s exhaustion with each discarded piece of fabric. When your bra came off, you barely even thought about it, tossing it across the room with a tired, careless huff.

It landed right at his feet.

Feitan’s fingers twitched.

Without another moment’s hesitation, he turned on his heel and left, slipping out as quietly as he had come.

The entire walk home Feitan tried to convince himself his heart wasn’t beating rapidly. It shouldn’t.

When Feitan went to sleep later in the night, having spent too long just staring at the wall even for his own mind to justify, he tried to finally make up his mind on what was happening.

You.

It was your fault.

His frustration, his absent-mindedness lately, his debasing one-track mind when it concerned you. He’d even pondered asking around for more intel on you, and while he could probably get away with it without others guessing it was for… unseemly reasons, the sheer possibility of someone knowing he was pawing after an omega woman angered him intensely.

He was supposed to be better than that.

And yet.

Feitan had always been a curious individual. The human body fascinated him—its limits, its weaknesses, the way it reacted to pain, to fear. He liked figuring things out, breaking things down. The world was a puzzle, and he enjoyed taking it apart piece by piece. His work for the Troupe was just another extension of that. Whatever the boss assigned, he did. No hesitation.

But sex? That was different.

The idea of it felt… wrong. Not because of inexperience, or uncertainty—Feitan had neither, as he didn’t want his dislike to become a weakness—but because it disgusted him. The thought of being tangled up with another person, flesh against flesh, drowned in their filth—it made his stomach twist. Like it would be debasing. Like it would drag him down to something lesser. He had seen the way people clung to each other, weak and desperate, and it made his skin crawl.

It wasn't a popular way for alpha's to think.

He preferred his only 'touching' to be done when he was killing someone, when all that remained was blood on his hands. Blood, so filled with iron, never let him down in its unanimous scent and appearance. Once you’d killed one person, it was the same for any other.

And yet.

His fingers twitched slightly against the sheets. His mind flickered back, unbidden, to the past few days. To the silence of the room while you worked. To the way you passed by him, how you’d moved through your room, rolled your shoulders and hummed to yourself. How he was now able to spot the slight panic in your eyes when you lied to him about menial things he asked you, a fact that equally aroused and angered him.

You could work.

The thought came suddenly, sharply, and yet it settled in his mind like it had always been there, waiting to be acknowledged. If he had to entertain the concept of physical closeness, it would have to be like this. With you.

He exhaled softly through his nose, shifting onto his side.

Tomorrow, then. He would test it. See if the thought held weight.

Feitan didn’t put on his scent blockers the next day.

There was no need. You were no longer a threat—just a curiosity. Something to toy with. And now that he had moved past the initial phase of assessing you, he could move on to the next part of his plan.

Not that he had fully decided what that was yet.

Sex, probably. That seemed the most likely outcome. But if that was the case, why hadn’t he acted already? One answer was that he was simply being cautious.

The other was that he enjoyed this.

A game of cat and mouse, where you weren’t even sure you were being hunted. Every day, you had to come up into his rented floor, moving stiffly around his space, clearly uneasy but unable to acknowledge why. You were always careful not to look at him for too long, careful to keep a professional distance, but that only made it more obvious.

You felt him, and while he was disgusted by the effect himself, he doubted you were similar to him in that regard. You probably felt what every omega felt when they encountered an alpha. Worse probably, since nen-users’ scents tended to be far more effective than just a regular person. Even the first time he’d met you, he remembered how at one point you’d done a double take while walking past him.

And that was even before he stopped wearing his blockers.

Now, there was no filter between you and the oppressive weight of his presence. It was fascinating to watch you try to push through it—how you held your breath at odd intervals, how your fingers fumbled just slightly as you wiped down surfaces. He could practically hear your thoughts scrambling for a distraction, anything to focus on besides him.

You even attempted small talk once or twice. He shot it down immediately.

Your discomfort was amusing.

But more than that, it was telling.

He had been reading—at least, that’s what he let you think. His eyes followed the lines of his book, but his attention was elsewhere. He could see you in the reflection of a full-length mirror, kneeling on the bathroom tiles, scrubbing diligently.

Then, suddenly, you looked up.

And your eyes met his in the mirror.

For a single, stretched-out second, neither of you moved.

Then—color bloomed across your face. You dropped your gaze almost instantly, fingers gripping the cloth a little too tightly.

Feitan turned a page, slow and deliberate.

Interesting.

Maybe you were less opposed to the idea than he’d been imagining.

Room 1509 was a fucking creep.

You’d told your supervisor, told your colleagues, even told Mrs. Brownston while you’d readied her evening fruit cup. 1509 stared, made weird comments, dressed like he was from a weird metal band, and made your skin break out in hives with the odd way his scent would swirl around you. It smelled good, of course it did, he was an alpha, but why did he have to be so creepy about it?!

On Wednesday you’d forced through it, showering the second you got home because you could still smell the remnants of that scent on you.

On Thursdays you wanted to call in sick so bad, but then you’d seen in the groupchat that four cleaners had already called in sick, and you could just already hear the lecture if you came in tomorrow looking right as rain while the rest was still recovering. You went in, hated it, tried to pawn off 1509 to someone else, but since you’d been complaining too much they refused.

On Friday, Paul stepped up and offered to take 1509 for the day if you’d take over a shift when he wanted to visit his uncle’s birthday. Fine by you.

Saturday. 1509 had made a complaint. Supervisor mad, since of course a diamond card client had made the reservation for the creep. No more switching.

You hated this job.

Sunday was your day off, but you still dreamt about that fucking room.

The scent of it stuck in your mind, thick and cloying, something between cedarwood and dark spice, the kind of thing that should’ve been nice but instead wrapped around your throat like a noose. You woke up sweating, heart pounding, convinced for half a second that you could hear 1509’s door clicking open in the hallway outside your apartment.

Monday came too soon.

You dragged yourself in, armed with the strongest deodorizer the supply closet had to offer, and nearly gagged when you saw the itinerary. Deep clean. Full linens. Bathroom scrub.

For some reason, 1509 had decided to let housekeeping in today. Again.

You tried to swap. Again.

"Not a chance," Nina snorted, tapping her acrylic nails against the check-in list. "Besides, you’re the expert now."

Ugh.

By the time you reached the fifteenth floor, your nerves were shot. The hallway was too quiet, the gold sconces casting weird, flickering shadows. Every floor was identical, but lately, you swore this floor felt off. Something was weird, especially since nearly every room on the floor had a no-cleaning sign hanging on the doorknob. Only one didn’t.

Room 1509’s door loomed at the end like a goddamn horror movie set piece.

You knocked.

No answer.

You knocked again, louder.

Still nothing.

Policy said you had to wait at least two full minutes before entering an occupied room, just in case. You checked your watch, forced your breath steady, tried not to think about the weird way your skin felt electric every time you got near this place.

And then—

The lock clicked.

And the door swung open.

1509 stood there, barefoot, shirtless, his too-pale skin catching the light like something inhuman. Like usual, he seemed unwilling to indulge in some base pleasantries like ‘hello’ or ‘how are you’, instead just stoically waiting until you said something.

Internally you just groaned. Why did he have to be shirtless.

…And ripped?

Huh.

Not the body you’d imagined.

1509 had the kind of body that looked carved, muscles shifting under his pale skin like something out of a Renaissance painting—if Renaissance paintings featured creepy weirdos with too-intense eyes and a scent that curled around you like a living thing.

You forced your gaze up. Eyes. Look at his eyes. Not at the shoulders.

"Housekeeping," you said, voice as flat as you could make it.

1509 didn't move.

"Yeah," he murmured, like he was tasting the word, slow and thoughtful. "Come in."

Every instinct screamed at you not to.

But your supervisor had already given you hell for the complaint, and you were not about to get written up over this. You squared your shoulders, gripped your cart, and stepped inside.

Immediately, the scent hit you harder. Stronger than before, like stepping into a wall of it, which was getting to be a problem on the fifteenth floor lately. Alpha scent, dense and dizzying, but this wasn’t your first day on the job. You’d been through worse, and you always came home.

You kept moving, pretending you didn’t feel it. "I’ll start with the bathroom."

"No," 1509 said suddenly.

You froze, fingers still curled around your supply bag.

"...Hm?"

He tilted his head, something almost curious in the way he studied you. "Come here first."

Your stomach dropped.

“Why?”

He made a come hither motion.

"That’s not how this works," you said, forcing a laugh you didn’t feel. "I do my job, and then I leave."

He smiled unkindly, and it felt like he was mocking you. 1509 took a slow step closer, head tilting just a little too much, like some weird bird watching its next meal squirm. Another gust of his scent wafted your way, and your eyes widened in recognition.

"Do you—"

"Nope."

You turned on your heel, grabbed your cart, and walked out.

Didn’t explain. Didn’t look back. Just dragged the cart down the hall, hit the button for the service elevator, and stared at the doors like your life depended on it.

Screw the write-up. You’d deal with it later.

That was not in your contract.

Feitan stood there, completely still.

For a second, his brain didn’t seem to process what had just happened.

You’d left. Just left. No reaction, no fear, no argument—just a flat nope before walking out like he was some inconvenience. Like he wasn’t even worth acknowledging. Like he’d misread your looks yesterday.

His eye twitched.

No hesitation, no stammering excuse, not even the usual, nervous glances that you always gave him. Just that short, clipped nope and then the sound of the cart’s wheels squeaking away like he was nothing.

Nothing.

The pressure in his chest expanded, thick and suffocating, rage bubbling up with nowhere to go. His nen, usually sharp and controlled, bled out in an ugly pulse.

A lightbulb in the bedside lamp burst.

Glass cracked, a sharp, high-pitched snap, and tiny shards sprinkled onto the nightstand. The scent of burnt filament filled the air.

Feitan exhaled through his nose, steadying himself, but his body remained rigid, his mind cycling through a thousand different ways to erase this feeling.

Embarrassment. Humiliation.

His tongue flicked over his teeth, sharp and annoyed.

A knock on his door.

Feitan’s head snapped up instantly, body already in motion before his brain could catch up. He crossed the room in a few quick, soundless steps, something electric curling in his chest—anticipation, irritation, something else.

You came back?

He schooled his expression into something neutral, fingers tightening around the door handle before pulling it open—

Only to be met with Hisoka.

Standing there like an absolute menace, one hip cocked, that insufferable smirk already tugging at his lips.

Feitan slammed the door shut immediately.

Hard.

The loud thud and crack was deeply satisfying.

From the other side, Hisoka let out a low chuckle. “Rude~”

Feitan didn’t answer. He didn’t even move. Just stood there, fingers still curled around the handle, jaw locked so tight it ached. The irritation that had been simmering beneath his skin flared into something sharper, nastier.

Of course it wasn’t you.

Why would he have even though you would return?

For what?

He inhaled slowly, deeply, forced his grip to relax before he crushed the handle in his palm.

Behind the door, Hisoka hummed. “Oh my, don’t tell me you were expecting someone else~?”

Feitan twitched.

He debated opening the door again just to stab him.

Feitan hadn’t meant to come here.

Yet here he was.

Standing at the edge of your street, watching the familiar glow of your window in the distance, the weight of realization settled over him like an iron chain. His route shouldn’t have led him here. He knew the city’s layout well enough to know that. He’d been leaving, having decided to ignore his own anger and frustration before he imploded and destroyed the entire hotel.

So why had he taken this path?

His fingers twitched at his side, restless.

Feitan wasn’t the type to linger. Yet, he stood in the quiet parking lot outside your flat, jaw tight, fingers twitching at his sides. The same old frustration kept bubbling up—how you’d lied to him, walked away, embarrassed him—all while tempting him like the honey pot you were. It was pathetic to punish you for something so small, but Feitan wasn’t the type to let anger simmer away. It needed a target.

Without another thought, he leapt upward, using the railings to climb higher until he reached your floor. Nearly spotted by one of your neighbors, he moved before they could blink, vanishing into the shadows as his shoulders tensed. He was off his game—slow and distracted. He hadn’t even been on the lookout on the way here. Unacceptable.

And yet, before he could stop it, the thought slithered in, insidious and persistent: I could kill them all.

Quick. Easy. He’d go door to door, slicing off the heads of anyone who’d made the mistake of living close to you. A few minutes of work, and you’d feel unsafe for months, knowing how close you’d been to death. By morning, your building would be quieter, but in the days after, you’d be interrogated for hours. The sole door untouched, you’d be hounded for months—years—after he’d gone.

No one left in the building but you.

His fingers flexed, and for a moment, he just stood there, still and calculating. It wouldn��t be difficult—he could be in and out before anyone noticed. You wouldn’t even know—just wake up tomorrow to find the world a little more empty, a little more terrifying.

The thought was tempting.

Feitan tilted his head, considering. Then he exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as if physically shaking the notion off. Pointless. A waste of time. There was no reason to be standing here, letting his thoughts spiral down this path. The vividness of the urge unsettled him—usually his instincts made sense. Usually, his violence had purpose.

Breaking in and fantasizing about killing everyone else in the building didn’t fit that category. If anything, it sounded almost possessive, like he was trying to clear the vicinity and lock—

Oh.

The second he realized what was happening, his pace slowed. So that was it. It’d been a while, after all.

The restlessness, the odd decisions, the damned obsession.

The norm was once every six months for a full week, but Feitan had come into contact with so many product numbing scent blockers that one of the side-effects (namely irregular ruts) had settled into his routine. In his specific situation, irregular meant uncommon. The last one had been two years ago, and he’d locked himself into a bunker using nen-enhanced locks. If he was having sex, it was on his terms, not out of some full-force bodily desperation.

It was already too late for any of that now.

Feitan didn’t bother with subtlety when he slipped into your apartment. The window latch was pathetic—barely a barrier—and the lock gave way with a quiet click under his deft fingers. Inside, he hesitated, just for a moment, one foot still on the windowsill.

He hated how his pulse quickened, how his jaw clenched tighter despite himself. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. Before realizing whatw as happening, he’d intended to confront you, maybe lash out, make you regret every stupid choice you’d made. But now, standing in your space, surrounded by remnants of you—your coat tossed over a chair, half-finished tea on the counter, the quiet hum of your fridge in the background—he felt something close to nausea creeping up his throat.

Ridiculous. He had no business feeling anything. Especially not something this... volatile.

He slipped off the windowsill and moved through the room like a shadow, his eyes tracing every detail. It was quiet. Too quiet. You weren’t here. For some reason, that fact scraped against his nerves, and he gritted his teeth, resisting the urge to knock something over just to break the suffocating stillness.

His fingers twitched at his side, flexing and clenching as he stalked deeper into the space, senses on high alert. You’d been here recently—your keys were on the side table, your jacket still damp from the rain. Probably just out on some errand.

The ache in his chest dug in deeper. Why the hell was he even here? He should’ve left the second he realized what his body was doing. Instead, he was pacing your apartment like some feral animal, waiting for you to come back. His control was slipping, crumbling into fractured impulses that made his hands curl into fists just to keep them steady.

Feitan huffed out a breath, forcing himself to slow down and reassess. There was no reason for this. No reason to let your absence bother him, to feel like he needed to punish you for not being here when he decided to show up.

But the thought crept back, sharper now, needling at him like a thorn lodged under his skin: If you were here, he could make sense of it. He’d know what to do with all this energy.

He felt his jaw tighten again, an unspoken snarl building in his throat. Pathetic.

Feitan turned sharply, moving to the window again, fingers brushing the glass as he stared out into the night. He should leave before you got back. Get his head straight. The second he lost control around you would be the second he lost his edge—and that was unacceptable.

But even as he tried to convince himself to go, he didn’t move. Instead, he stayed rooted in your apartment, still and seething, waiting for the familiar sound of your footsteps on the stairs.

It took an hour.

Feitan hadn’t moved a muscle.

The sound of keys in the door. Feitan turned around slowly, muscles coiled and ready. The door creaked open, and you barely had time to react before he was on you—swift and silent, one hand closing around your wrist and yanking you inside. The door slammed shut behind you, and in a blur, you found yourself pressed against the wall, his body caging you in.

Your breath hitched, and a scream lodged itself in your throat, strangled and dying before it could escape. Wide-eyed and trembling, you went completely still under the weight of his gaze—the sheer threat of death holding you captive. You couldn’t scream, but the frantic, uneven gasps spilling from your lips betrayed your panic, teetering on the edge of hyperventilation.

His grip was ironclad, not enough to hurt but enough to keep you from moving. You swallowed hard, and he caught the motion, his gaze flicking down to your throat.

He didn’t say anything at first—just stared, unblinking, his face inches from yours. His aura was suffocating, heavy and oppressive. He noticed every singular detail. The fact you were still in uniform, the small dots of mascara that had smudged under your eyes, the stray strands of hair.

You couldn’t even muster the nerve to speak.

Feitan’s eyes narrowed, and his hand shifted from your wrist to your shoulder, pushing you down. Your legs gave out under the pressure, and you sank to your knees, back sliding down the wall. His hand left your shoulder, but his aura stayed, pressing down on you, making it hard to breathe. Your hands trembled against your thighs.

Silence stretched out, suffocating and tense. When he finally spoke, it was low, almost a growl.

“Stay.”

One word. Commanding. Final. You didn’t dare move, didn’t even consider disobeying, the earlier ease with which you’d walked away from him, still 1509 in your mind, a far off memory.

His gaze stayed locked on you, sharp and assessing. "Why are you scentless?"

You stammered in confusion at the familiar question, words spilling out in a mess before his stare cut through your rambling, forcing you to swallow down the panic. You hesitated, then managed to mutter, “I told you—we’re forced to wear scent blockers.”

His hand shot out, slapping the back of your head—quick and precise. “Don’t lie.”

“I’m not lying,” you snapped, mind reeling with the fact that you’d not even seen him raise his hand. Your words came out sharper than you meant to, but it was clear he didn’t buy it.

“You are.” He’d normally tear off something for the audacity of lying to him so frequently, but stopped himself. “One more chance.”

“It’s a medical thing. The glands kept getting infected,” you began, your voice barely above a whisper. “They were removed when I was twelve.”

You could feel the change in the atmosphere before it even happened. Feitan’s eyes flashed with annoyance, and before you could even react, he slapped the back of your head again—harder this time, frustration evident in his motion.

“Ouch!” You hissed, leaning forward instinctively, even though you couldn’t move. “I told you the truth, didn’t I?”

“Took too long,” he said flatly. “And you are comfortable lying.”

You didn’t reply to that.

Feitan glared down at you, as if blaming you for every issue in the world. You didn’t dare move or speak, staying rooted to the floor where he’d forced you to sit, instinctively knowing that your life could be over in an instant if he decided it should be. His gaze flicked down to your trembling hands, and his lips twitched like he wanted to sneer, but he kept silent.

You knew you had to do something—say something—anything to break the suffocating tension. You didn’t want to die. Swallowing hard, you tried to sound calmer than you felt. “You’re... clearly in a rut, but you don’t seem to want to be. If that makes sense?”

He didn’t respond right away, just stared at you like he was deciding whether to shut you up for good or let you keep digging your own grave. When you didn’t immediately take the hint, he scoffed, lips curling into a bitter sneer. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Your hands clenched at your sides, fighting back the urge to flinch. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Shut up.”

You didn’t. “There’s... there’s suppressants,” you said carefully. “In the cabinet, above the sink. I keep them in case—”

“You think I’d take pills from you?” Feitan said icily, his finger tapping against his upper thigh, the urge to fidget, do anything other than stand still. Revulsion in his own desires and the desires itself warred inside him. It’d be weak to give in, but at the same time he didn’t know how manageable the current situation was.

One thing was certain, and that was that he wouldn’t take any kind of suppressants.

That would be admitting defeat.

You sat on the floor of the narrow hallway, the painted walls of your own home pressing in on you like they were closing in with every breath you took. Your throat felt tight, and you forced yourself to breathe evenly, even as the sting of tears burned in your eyes. Your options were shrinking, the weight of your helplessness sinking deeper with each passing second. The thought of 1509—of him—hurting you made your entire body panic. All you’d done this year was work and volunteer. That couldn’t be how your life ended. You still had so much left to do.

Your voice wavered despite your best effort to keep it steady. “If... if I help you—if I do this for you... will you let me live?”

If anything, your offer further angered him

He closed the distance in a single step, his hand shooting out to grab your jaw again—rougher this time, fingers digging into your skin. You yelped softly, but he didn’t give you a chance to speak.

“You think that’s what I want from you?” he hissed, his voice low and lethal. “Pathetic. Offering your body like it’s some kind of bargaining chip.”

Your breath hitched, and you tried to shake your head, but his grip was too tight. His eyes burned with a furious intensity, and you couldn’t tell if he was angry at you, himself, or both.

“That’s why you’re acting like this, right?” you managed to choke out, barely able to get the words past his grip. “You’re... you’re in a rut, and I thought—”

“Shut up,” he snapped, squeezing harder for a moment before forcing himself to ease off. His lips curled back in a sneer, but there was something almost bitter in the way his gaze bored into you. “You think I’m that weak? That desperate?”

You swallowed thickly, trying not to tremble under his touch. “I-I didn’t mean it like that. I just... I thought it would help.”

He let out a harsh, humorless laugh, clearly unimpressed. “Your help is useless,” he spat. “You’d let me do anything just to save your own skin. Disgusting.”

The words hit like a slap, and your eyes stung with tears again, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look away. Despite his anger, he didn’t move—just stayed close, breathing hard and clearly fighting with himself. His fingers loosened a little, no longer digging into your jaw, but he didn’t let go entirely.

Feitan internally felt like he was going insane.

The thought of taking you like that—using you when you were scared out of your mind—made his stomach churn. He wasn’t some mindless animal. His instincts didn’t rule him. He wasn’t one of those desperate, weak things who let ruts tear their minds to shreds.

(...right?)

But it wasn’t just that. It wasn’t just the need that clawed at him like it would never be satisfied, his pants tightening beneath his coat and his mind constantly spewing vivid imagery of how good you’d feel. It was this gnawing, uncomfortable urge to make you stop looking so pitiful, to make you stop crying and shaking and acting like he’d break you in half just for speaking. It was possessive and softer than anything he knew how to deal with, and it made his head spin with anger and confusion.

He hated it. It didn’t make sense, and it infuriated him that he couldn’t just shut it off.

The entire apartment felt too small, too cramped with you in it, and every breath you took made him twitch like he wanted to close the distance and either kiss you until you stopped crying or just put his hands around your throat and end the problem entirely.

His fists clenched tighter, and he forced himself to glare at the wall instead of you, his voice rough and low when he finally spoke. “You’re making this worse.”

Your head snapped up at that, wide-eyed and wary, and he hated how seeing you like that made him feel even more unsteady. But no matter how hard he tried to stamp it down, the thought kept circling back—tight and vicious and undeniable. Mine.

The thought made his teeth grind even harder. It was disgusting. He didn’t need that. Didn’t need to feel anything like that for someone like you. Someone who’d lied to him, embarrassed him, tried to manipulate him just to stay alive.

He wasn’t going to let himself feel this way for a random cleaning lady.

He wasn’t going to let himself get so weak from a mere omega.

He was going to kill you.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. The idea made his chest feel too tight, his breathing too sharp. He wasn’t supposed to care. He wasn’t supposed to want to keep you safe, even from himself. The silence stretched out, suffocating, and he felt your gaze on him—hesitant and unsure, like you didn’t know whether to speak or stay quiet.

He couldn’t stand it.

Unbeknownst to Feitan, who was unable to do anything but stare directly at you, his internal agonizing made his fingers tense just a little bit more, making the hold on your jaw just that much more painful.

You couldn’t help it. The noise slipped out before you even realized, a tiny, breathy whimper that broke the tense silence. You saw his shoulders stiffen instantly, the air around him going razor-sharp.

He surged forward, lips crashing against yours with a force that stole your breath. The kiss wasn’t hesitant or gentle. Nothing about it was soft or careful. It was raw and unrestrained, his teeth scraping your bottom lip, tongue forcing its way past your lips like he couldn’t stand being denied.

A muffled sound escaped you, half-surprise, half-need, and his hand moved from your chin to cup the back of your head, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

When he finally pulled back, you were gasping for air, and he didn’t move far, just hovered there, forehead almost touching yours, his breath fanning over your mouth.

Feitan’s harsh glare had glazed over somewhat, the earlier frustration and anger abiding, losing to his own instincts.His fingers didn’t leave your hair, and his grip didn’t loosen. You didn’t dare move, just barely managing to keep your breathing steady as you waited for whatever came next.

Feitan’s gaze dropped to your mouth again, his thumb brushing lightly against your jaw as his lips parted, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. His eyes darkened, and you felt his grip tighten just enough to make your heart skip.

“Quiet,” he finally muttered, voice low and gravelly, almost like he was talking to himself more than to you. “Don’t make that sound again.”

You nodded faintly, unsure if you even could make another noise with your heart hammering in your chest.

He stayed like that, barely an inch away, his lips brushing yours with every shallow breath. You could feel the tension still radiating off him, but it wasn’t the same furious energy as before. It was heavier, like the desire had finally settled into his bones and refused to let him move away.

And despite his warning, despite the danger still thick in the air, you couldn’t help the soft, shaky breath that slipped out when his finger traced over your jugular. The moment it did, his mouth was on yours again.

The air felt thick. You’d noticed it immediately, but you’d been too caught up in his rage and the violent way he’d broken into your house to pay attention to it, but now that he was so so so close, it was impossible to ignore. The scent was rich and intoxicating.

Faintly, you remembered having likened it to a noose.

Your head spun, and it took everything in you not to sway. It was like nothing you’d ever experienced before: dark, heady, and laced with something sharp that made your pulse race faster than it should. It didn’t help that he was kissing you again, his presence overwhelming and his scent saturating the air around you, making your thoughts blur together into a hazy mess.

You didn’t even realize you were leaning into him, instinctively drawn closer, until his hand tightened in your hair. He didn’t say anything. You swallowed hard, trying to clear the fog from your brain, but it only made it worse. The scent was in your lungs, coating your tongue, making your mouth dry and your skin tingle.

His mouth found your neck, sharp teeth scraping against your pulse point, and you shivered, a soft gasp escaping you despite your best efforts to stay quiet. He didn’t like that—didn’t like how you tried to smother your reactions—so he bit down, just enough to make you jolt

“Pathetic,” he muttered, voice rough and low against your skin.

Instead of scare you, as his harsh words had done before, now all it did was send tremors of lust coursing down your body.

Both of you were breathing heavily, eyes glazed over and hanging by a thread, on the verge of breaking. When you cast a quick glance toward the door, the fragile thread snapped. His hands roamed across your body, and in a daze of your own lack of control, you tried to mirror his movements, your hands tugging at his coat, silently pleading for it to come off already.

He grabbed your wrist before you could touch him.

“Thats not how this is happening.” He hissed, dragging you on your feet and to your bedroom, where you were pushed onto the bed, distantly noticing the window opened and the lock on the floor. “You. Undress.”

The second you hit the mattress, you scrambled to prop yourself up on your elbows, eyes glued to him as he stood at the edge of the bed, practically vibrating with tension. His command lingered in the air.

Your hands shook as you moved to comply, tugging at the fabric of your clothes with clumsy, desperate fingers. Feitan didn’t move, just stood there watching you, his sharp eyes tracking every inch of skin you revealed. To have him so threateningly watching you made your whole body feel like it was on fire, and the urge to cover yourself was only held back by the instinctive knowledge that he’d just rip your hands away if you tried.

When your shirt hit the floor, his lips twitched in something that wasn’t quite a smirk, but close enough to make your stomach twist with nerves. You hesitated, but his eyes flicked up to yours, warning clear in his glare. Without a word, you continued, peeling away the last of your clothing until you sat there exposed, vulnerable under his predatory stare.

He finally shed his coat, tossing it aside without care, and your pulse quickened.

His hands moved to his shirt, but he didn’t break eye contact, as if testing your reaction. You swallowed hard, unable to tear your gaze away as he pulled the fabric over his head and discarded it just as carelessly. His lean, toned frame was littered with scars and what should’ve been horror at his clear familiarity with violence turned to excitement.

He circled around you slowly, like a shark scenting blood in the water. You felt his eyes on your back, your sides, your legs, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

The tension was almost suffocating, and your hands fisted in the sheets as he moved closer, finally settling onto the mattress with a knee on either side of your hips. His fingers traced along your jaw, rough but deliberate, and he let out a low, almost frustrated sound when you couldn’t hold back a soft whimper. His lips grazed your ear, his voice low and threatening, but there was a rasp to it that betrayed his own unraveling control.

“You’ll be so easy to break,” he murmured, and despite the venom in his words, there was a hint of something almost reverent beneath it that made your inner omega very happy.

His mouth trailed down to your collarbone, teeth scraping just enough to make you flinch, and he laughed cruelly at the way your body tensed under him.

“You’re the one that wants this,” he sneered, his tone dripping with contempt, but his hands moved lower, tracing over your sides in a way that contradicted his words. You swallowed back a retort, too overwhelmed to think straight, and his eyes narrowed as if daring you to deny it. “I’m just obliging.”

You hummed affirmatively, knowing you’d say or do anything to make him continue.

Feitan's hand slid lower, fingers skimming over the curve of your breast, tracing the swell of your hip. His thumb brushed over your nipple and you moaned.

“Pathetic,” he muttered against your skin, but his voice was hoarse, lacking the usual bite, as if your reactions were unraveling him just as much as they were you. He didn’t give you a chance to recover before his mouth moved to your breasts. The feeling of his teeth scraping over your nipple made you gasp, your fingers curling into his shoulders, nails digging in just to ground yourself.

He bit down harder, making you cry and try to pull away from him, which he didn’t seem keen on.

“That hurts…” You said, despite hating the fact that he pulled away from your nipple.

By silent apology, his tongue flicked over the abused skin, soothing the ache before his lips moved lower, trailing rough, open-mouthed kisses down your torso. Each press of his mouth sent a shiver racing through you, and you couldn’t stop the way your legs shifted restlessly, caught between the instinct to close them and the undeniable urge to spread them instead.

His hands slid down to your thighs, squeezing hard enough to leave marks, and you couldn’t hold back the soft whimper that escaped your lips. Before you could process it, he was spreading your legs apart with a single, rough motion, his digits ghosting over your cunt.

You tried to catch your breath, tried to hold onto some semblance of composure, but it was impossible when his hands were tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, brushing so close to where you needed him but never quite giving you what you wanted.

When his fingers finally dipped lower, grazing over your clit, your hips jerked up instinctively, a strangled moan escaping your throat. Feitan’s lips twisted into a mocking smirk as he pressed down just enough to make your vision blur, the pressure light and teasing despite the roughness of his earlier touches.

“What’s that?” he sneered, clearly enjoying the way you writhed beneath him, struggling to hold back the sounds threatening to spill out. “Didn’t you want me to use suppressants? I think you could use them more, don’t you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer—just pushed his fingers inside your pussy, curling them in a way that made your back arch off the bed, another broken moan escaping your lips despite yourself. His other hand kept your hips pinned down, forcing you to take everything he gave without escape.

His thumb traced rough circles, coaxing more desperate sounds from your lips.

Your vision was starting to blur, overwhelmed by the way his hands seemed to know exactly how to undo you, rough and relentless but so perfectly controlled that you couldn’t think straight. An insane part of your mind repeated the same idea over and over again.

If you’d known it’d be like this.

You wouldn’t have left earlier today.

Feitan chuckled, clearly pleased, and his lips found yours again, devouring your mouth with bruising intensity as his fingers continued to work you over, determined to leave you a trembling mess beneath him.

Your body tightened around his fingers, the way they plunged into you relentlessly, and the tension that had been building finally snapped. A wave of pleasure crashed through you, so intense it left you gasping for air, your body arching up into him as shudders wracked your frame. Feitan didn’t let up—he rode you through it, fingers relentlessly pumping inside you as he milked every last tremor from you, watching with a twisted, satisfied smirk as you came undone beneath him.

Your mind was hazy, still trying to catch up with your own body, and you barely noticed when he pulled his hand away, wiping your slick from his fingers on your thighs with a detached sort of efficiency. The absence of his touch left you aching, but that thought barely had time to form before his hands were on your thighs again, spreading them wider.

Your breath hitched when you felt the press of the tip of his cock against your entrance. He hadn’t taken off his pants, merely pushed it down to free his cock, and it felt unfair.

Feitan didn’t give you much warning before pushing his cock inside, the stretch sudden and overwhelming, and you couldn’t stop the cry that tore from your throat. He paused, just for a heartbeat, staring up at the ceiling.

“Please, please, please can you-”

“Please what.” Feitan replied, his gaze snapping down again, irritated you were interrupting him now that he was finally inside you.

“Move!” You begged, your body so overheated it felt like you’d burn up if you didn’t get what you wanted right this instance. A part of you knew your heat had been triggered by his scent, but that thought didn’t hold any power anymore, not like it mattered. “Please just fuck me, I need it!”

He scoffed softly, almost like he couldn’t believe how easily you’d given in, and his fingers dug into your skin as he pulled back just enough before slamming forward again, forcing another broken moan from your lips.

He set a punishing rhythm, each thrust hard and deliberate, like he was trying to drive out every coherent thought from your mind. You couldn’t stop the way your body moved with his, desperate to meet him halfway despite the bruising pace. Feitan’s mouth found yours again, messy and uncoordinated, more teeth than lips.

There was something almost feverish in the way he moved, like he couldn’t get close enough, couldn’t get enough of you no matter how hard he pushed. The desperation in his movements was foreign, but it drove him faster, deeper, and your hands scrambled for purchase against his shoulders, unsure whether to pull him closer or push him away.

The room was filled with the sounds of your gasps and his harsh breathing, mingled with the rhythmic slap of skin on skin. The heat between your bodies was suffocating, leaving you lightheaded and completely at his mercy. You could feel the tension building again, winding tight in your core, and the way he shifted his angle, hitting deeper and making your vision blur with the force of it.

Feitan cursed under his breath, his rhythm faltering just for a moment before he picked it back up, even rougher than before. You were barely holding on, unable to think, unable to do anything but cling to him as he drove you closer and closer to the edge once again.

Time seemed to blur, each moment melding into the next as Feitan's relentless pace continued—shifting and changing, never quite letting you catch your breath.

You lost count of how many times he repositioned you—fucking you pressed against the wall, sprawled over the edge of the bed, pulled onto his lap having you ride his cock with his hands digging into your waist. Every new angle brought a fresh wave of heat crashing through your body, each touch rough and unapologetic. He barely gave you time to recover before pushing you further.

Your body ached, skin flushed and sensitive, and yet every time you thought you couldn’t take any more, he’d lean in close and tell you to stop being pathetic, which unfortunately did turn you on tremendously. His need seemed insatiable, and even having heard about ruts plenty in your life, you couldn’t imagine it was like this with everybody.

Hours passed, marked only by the gradual shift from moonlight to the first hints of dawn creeping through the window. Your body was heavy with fatigue, limbs trembling and skin glistening with sweat, but Feitan showed no signs of stopping

By the time the sky began to lighten, his movements had finally slowed, the tension in his shoulders loosening as his breathing evened out. You could barely move, every inch of you feeling worn out and thoroughly claimed, but there was a strange sense of peace settling over the room, the air finally cooling as the feverish heat subsided.

Clarity crept back in slowly, cutting through the haze like a knife. You were drained and felt disgusting- your entire body covered in cum, a little bit of blood–1509 really loved biting–and sweat, but your thoughts were finally starting to piece themselves together.

Fuck.

Reality hit hard, and you couldn’t help but curse inwardly. This was just a break—nothing more. Both of you knew it. Ruts didn’t just end after one night; they lasted at least a week, sometimes more, with only brief windows of rest in between. You’d never shared one with anyone before, and now here you were, trapped with the guy from work who’d broken into your apartment and taken you apart like he owned you.

1509 wasn’t lying next to you. He’d shoved your hands away when you (overcome with hormones and post-orgasmic affection) tried to cuddle, snapping at you to quit being clingy. Instead, he sat cross-legged next to you, reading a book he’d swiped from your shelf. The lamplight cast shadows over his face, and his attention seemed entirely fixed on the pages, but you knew better. He noticed the second your breathing shifted from the slow rhythm of sleep to the shallow breaths of regret.

You pressed a hand to your forehead, trying to force down the panic bubbling up. “Oh god,” you mumbled, covering your eyes. “This is... You don’t even know my name.”

“False. I know your name. You just don’t know mine.”

You hesitated, unsure whether you actually wanted to know, but curiosity won out. “...Which is?”

He turned a page slowly, the faintest hint of irritation creeping into his tone. “Irrelevant. For now.”

A shaky breath left your lips, and you swallowed thickly before forcing yourself to ask the question gnawing at the back of your mind. “Are you... gonna kill me when this is over? You know, just in case I... tell someone?”

Feitan huffed, a dark, humorless laugh slipping through his lips.

When his mind had finally cleared, a part of him had been disappointed in himself, but the other part felt a strange, newfound control. Every inch of his body had been sated, and even the lingering scent of sex only served to further satisfy him. Perhaps denying himself for so long had been a foolish endeavor. Starvation only dulled the senses.

Now that he had you, there was no need for restraint.

“No.” His gaze finally flickered over to you, a cruel glint dancing in his eyes. Every bit of earlier apprehension was gone, his frustration at his own lack of control having shifted into satisfaction. “By then you’ll know better.”

#HOW DID I MISS THIS???#omg your Feitan has me on a chokehold -literally-#going feral rn just so u know #feitan x reader #hxh #abo

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spectral-devotee · 8 days ago

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I saw your requests are back on and I've been holding out for this one:

Bob in lingerie. That's all, that's the msg. Send.

Nah but like, imagine Bob waiting for you after you went out shopping (he's kinda sad you told him to stay back at the tower, he wanted to come with you but you're still trying to get him out of the habit of following after you like a shadow) and noticing you bought a lingerie set.

He's so excited to see it on you... Only it's a tad too big?

That's when you tell him it's not for you, but for him

Bonus: the panties being a little too tight for all that he's packing

anon… youre so real for this because i think about this more than i should. bob in lingerie is so devastating because he’d be so shy about it at first, all blushy and squirmy.

bob in lingerie is dangerous so cause he doesn’t even mean to be so fucking sinful in it.

he’d be a little nervous at first — the kind of boy who tugs at the hem of the sheer little babydoll top you made him wear, muttering under his breath abot how it feels tight, that he doesn’t know if it even fits right. his skin would be flushed all the way down to his chest, lips slick and bitten pink, eyes flicking anywhere but your face.

but it’s the panties that really do it.

because they’re too tight, way too fucking small for everything he’s packing. you can see the outline of his cock through the delicate satin, the fabric stretched so thin over the fat, weeping head that there’s already a dark, wet patch blooming at the front before you’ve even laid a hand on him.

and poor bob, he can’t stop squirming.

keeps shifting his hips, thighs pressed together, trying to adjust himself but it’s no use — the snug little thing just digs in deeper, cutting into the soft skin of his hips and leaving angry pink lines you’re gonna kiss beter later. he whines when you make him turn around, ass perfectly framed by the lace trim, cheeks peeking out beneath the hem, trembling just a little because he knows what you’re thinking.

and he knows he can’t hide it, not with how hard he’s getting.

“it’s too tight,” he mumbles, breath hitching when your hand slides between his thighs to palm at the wet, sticky fabric. his cock twitches so hard it nearly slips out the side of the panties, straining against the fragile lace like it’s about to tear.

and he’s so fucking needy for it.

shaky little gasps every time you trace your fingertips up the slit in the fabric, teasing him through the ruined satin, watching how he bucks his hips into your hand like he can’t help it. every touch makes him let out these soft, choked sounds — half-embarrassed, half-desperate, hips stuttering when you brush over the soaked tip.

and the best part?

the second you so much as suggest he keeps the lingerie on while you fuck him, he nearly sobs.

“please — please, don’t take it off, wanna—wanna be good, wanna look pretty for you,” voice cracking, face buried against your shoulder like he’s ashamed to even say it.

and fuck, does he ever.

the prettiest thing you’ve ever seen — flushed and trembling in his too-tight panties, cock leaking so much it’s practically dripping down his thigh, begging you to let him come in his ruined little set like the sweet, fucked-out thing he is

#ok now let's make sure we reblog things to the blogs they're meant to be in right? Right.#now on to the tags before i realised i was being horny on main #i just knew you would love this one!!! this is for all the nasties out there missing out on bob in lingerie #he looks v pretty i must say #its me the anon teehee #lovelovelove this response tysm #this will live in my head for eons to come #robert reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x reader

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spectral-devotee · 8 days ago

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ngl the purebreed!reader x bob ramblings wormed into my head in ways beyond my power to do anything about them so I wanna share some Toughts™ What about Bob asking for your bite on his neck? I can imagine him rutting, no rhythm, just pure unadulterated pistoning into reader, babbling about wanting proof of your mating. He wants the world to know he has a mate, but you just refuse to give him a bite, even a teeny tiny little hickey is out of the question. usually you wouldn't even give a second thought to those horny ramblings of his (he always babbles nonsense when you have sex), but this time the mutt is actually getting you close to cumming over his knot. You try to dissuade him, telling him you'll give him one some day, that you're so close, so so fucking close But he just full on stops. Your orgasm fucking got away because the mutt is throwing a tantrum. You can see him quivering, clearly just as devastated because of your missing orgasm (of not more than you). Tears spill from his eyes, red and glassy. He's drooling all over you asking for a bite, telling you he won't give you his know if you don't bite him.

damn take the keys imma need u to drive now

but yesss he would 100% do this

w: reader says a hurtful thing in the spur of the moment without thinking

(i dont mean all these hurtful things Bob i love u sm but purebreed!reader holds grudges 💔🥀)

You're pissed because you never even thought of the possibility that this horny mutt who only has you on his mind and wanting to feel you on his knot (as he has mentioned MULTIPLE times) would stop right before you cum because of a bite.

Was clawing at his skin not enough to satisfy him anymore? Did it have to be a bite? A bite he gave you without your permission? A bite he has the nerve to ask for like it didn't screw with your life goals? And now he's holding your pleasure hostage over it.

You give a tiny nibble, not enough for it to even leave a hickey.

“N-No, has to be here, be-be deeper. Like this…” He gives a slow thrust, purposely stopping before hitting that sweet spot. You throw your head into the pillow wanting to scream. This fucking mutt has to know what he's doing. Does he think he can treat you like this? After forcing you to come out to your team about the mark because he cried like a suckling pup when you covered it? He's whining into your neck now, sobbing as he slowly pulls his cock out until only the tip remains. Is he really going to stop?

You thought it'd be a good way to let out some steam, even let him do it raw and whispered how you want him to come deep inside so you'd feel his love for days. All this walking on eggshells around him is getting annoying. Even if he were to unknowingly admit that he wasn't bitten yet, the team would think HE was taken advantage of. You could say Val would hate it as it'd affect The Sentry image but there's makeup and photoshop that can hide it.

“I hate you. If I knew you'd do this to me, I'd have left you in the vault!”

Bob felt pure bliss when he finally felt your teeth sink into the front of his throat like you were going to rip it out. He moaned, thanking you, and even saying he forgives you for saying such hurtful things. “You're on–You start your heat soon right? Emotions can cloud judgment–oh my god!” He roughly slammed his entire length, knot included, into your warm heat. The sudden stretch and pain mixed with pleasure nearly made you let go, but your jaw was locked on his jugular.

It would take a god to pry you off him, but the closest one wanted you to stay connected, to consume him like he consumes you. You didn't move when he came deep inside, blabbering about how he fulfilled your wish about feeling his love for days. You didn't move when he started back up again, thrusting into you with a new purpose. You didn't move when the blood mixed with the sweat on your bodies.

You fell for his trap. You gave into his tantrum.

“So good, s’much better now that– now that we're bonded! M sorry for denying you before, now I'll– My beautiful omega can have it all night!” Bob licked at your ears as it was the only part of you his mouth could get on before you flattened them. He finds it so cute how sensitive they are. Your tail too…it feels so good to entwine them together while breeding you like this! He knows how much you care for grooming, it's important after all! Like the dutiful mate he is, Bob will happily lick you clean, even if you cum a couple times he'll keep going until you can't. He loves cleaning up any mess you make!

You starting to wish you stayed in the vault.

#this one goes to the sideblog bc the gud sawse stays there #amazing content tysm #haiii its me the anon i forgorrr how to write sorryyyy #but also GYAAAAAT love this v much Bob is so pathetic here #This NEEDS to be studied #bob reynolds x reader

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spectral-devotee · 1 month ago

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pairing: robert reynolds x reader cw: smut, afab reader, phone sex, pillow humping, faint overstimulation, mentions of nursing, mentions of breeding.

this had been your third away mission this month.

you and ava—who still didn’t talk much unless it was necessary—had been flown out to mazar-i-sharif, a city currently red-flagged in quiet backchannels between the cia and what was left of stark intelligence. there were reports of reality seams warping in the industrial district, things slipping through and slithering back—too fast to record, too quiet to leave proper trace. the initial scout team sent out—disguised, civilian—had stuck out like fucking neon in a blackout. none made it back. one body was recovered, bloated and arched backwards like it had been hit with a concussive blast inside its own skull. a single tooth embedded in the inner cheek.

being part of the so-called “new avengers” made your gut churn with something like betrayal. not just guilt. the name “new” carried a kind of sacrilege in it, like pissing on an open grave and calling it progress. it was a marketing team’s word—something valentina must have approved while chewing her way through a cocktail olive and a classified kill list. natasha. steve. even sam had ghosted off radar, half the team scattered or dead or morally gutted. “new” meant hollow.

you and ava tried not to talk about that. you blended as best you could. ava knew how to disappear; you knew how to talk. it worked.

by the seventh club of the night—a collapsed-looking industrial rave wedged into a half-burnt bakery—you were raw-eyed and bone-tired. the music had teeth. the air reeked of cheap rum, cannabis tar, and that too-sweet, too-human scent of sweat and sex. the man wasn’t there. neither of you had even a quarter ounce of faith in the blurry polaroid that had come paper-clipped to the mission folder. ava didn’t even look at it. you had stared at it until you swore it moved.

you called it a night. no leads. nothing but phantom static and whispered names: “the gold man,” “shining eyes,” “godflesh.”

once you’d gotten back to the hotel—an over-warm maze of marble and carpets worn to threads—you muttered a soft “goodnight, ava,” and she returned it without looking at you.

you peeled out of your mission gear like shedding skin. the hot water from the shower felt criminally good. you wrapped yourself in a towel that smelled faintly of bleach and cigarette smoke, then finally dropped into bed. the hotel’s linen was too soft, luxurious in a way that felt untrustworthy. like it had been cleaned too well. like it had something to hide.

you reached for your phone without thinking.

and then you froze.

the screen lit up, casting a cold white glow over your face—and what stared back at you made your stomach drop. a few texts from bob earlier that morning, just the usual: updates, soft check-ins, his quiet way of saying he missed you without actually using the word. but then—beginning at 10:47 pm and flooding up until three minutes ago—your entire notifications tab was nothing but his name. call after call. message after message. some in all lowercase, your name typed out like a chant. others blank. just missed connections. pleas, maybe. the sheer volume of it made your skin prickle.

you glanced at the hotel clock. 11:52.

you didn’t even bother scrolling through the texts. the knot forming in your chest was too tight, too familiar. you hit “call” immediately, heart crawling up your throat with the kind of panic you usually reserved for the aftermath of gunfire or something moving behind your reflection.

it rang once.

then—his voice.

not even his full voice. just a breathy, broken whisper of your name, dragged out and trembling like it hurt to say. a soft whine that slipped through the line like he was trying to crawl through it.

in the background, something wet echoed faintly—too loud, too slick, unmistakable in its rhythm. the kind of sound you knew couldn’t be faked. there was too much of it.

“‘m sorry—couldn’t help it.”

the desperation in his voice was so thick it lodged in your chest, cracked open something you weren’t ready to look at too closely. warmth stirred low in your belly, sharp and immediate.

“tell me what’s the matter, baby,” you cooed, soft and coaxing, a slow sweetness that you knew would ruin him. you heard the stutter of breath, the shudder on the other end of the line—and then a choked, broken sob.

“need—more,” he gasped. “need you, please.”

your fingers tightened around the phone.

“are you touching yourself the way i taught you to?” the question came out hushed, threaded with something tender beneath the heat.

it had taken time—real time—for bob to even see masturbation as something other than a task. something he rushed through with clinical detachment, like brushing his teeth. just another way to get his body to shut up. before you, it was never pleasure. it was barely release. just something to get over with, to check off in silence before staring at the ceiling again and wondering if he still belonged to himself.

“mhm,” he breathed.

you heard the shift of fabric, the rustle of movement as he repositioned. his voice came through again, this time soaked in shame and need both: “i wanna touch you—please, can i use your pillow? mine won’t feel the same… it—it doesn’t smell like you.”

you sighed, deep and indulgent. as if you weren’t already aching. as if your thighs weren’t already pressing together.

of course you were going to say yes. you always did. bob using your pillow as a makeshift toy wasn’t exactly a surprise anymore. it had become a habit. one you were still trying to break him of—not because you didn’t like the thought, but because it was a nightmare to clean. you’d caught him more than once trying to sneak it into the laundry pile like it hadn’t been completely soaked through the night before.

but what did catch you off guard—what dragged a small, stunned exhale from your lips—was the sudden flicker of movement on your screen.

his camera had turned on.

the phone had been propped up against the lamp on his nightstand in a rush, tilted just enough for you to see the full, devastating picture: bob, flushed and panting, his boxers shoved halfway down those strong thighs. a plain white t-shirt clenched between his teeth, his jaw tight from biting down. his chest heaved. his arms were braced on either side of your pillow, caging it in like it was alive—like it was you.

his hair was damp and curling against his forehead, clinging in slick strands. his hips were moving in slow, desperate grinds. the pillow beneath him was already soaked.

“you’re such a pretty boy, bob,” the words tumbled from your lips unfiltered, thick with heat. you didn’t even realize you’d spoken until you heard the tiny, helpless whimper he gave in response.

you shifted under the covers, already sinking down into them. your hand slipped beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts without hesitation. your body answered for you.

patience.

but just barely.

“oh—oh! fuck—”

bob’s voice pitches up, ragged, cracking in a way that sounds like it’s being wrenched out of him, not spoken. you hear the slap of skin against fabric and the low, animal creak of the bedframe with every thrust. the rhythm’s brutal now, desperate and without elegance—he’s fully rutting against the pillow like something that forgot how to be human, all survival and instinct and you.

tiny, pitiful 'uh-huh's slip from his throat like affirmations, little nods to some fantasy playing out behind his glassy eyes. your name gets lost in there too, choked on the back of each whine like it’s the only word he knows anymore. you can’t even tell if he’s aware he’s saying it, or if it’s just muscle memory now—etched into him like scar tissue, something old and automatic, something holy.

and despite the slight tilt of the camera—angled just-so against the lamp, like he couldn’t even wait to set it properly—you can see it. all of it.

his cock, flushed and leaking, glistening wet in the low yellow light of his room, absolutely soaking the pillow beneath him. the precome is everywhere—slicking down the shaft in thick ropes, pooling at the head, gluing soft chestnut curls to his pelvis in damp little tufts. a dark, spreading circle blooms on the pillowcase like a halo, obscene and devotional, a shrine made of mess.

the cotton’s clinging to him now. you can tell it’s started to catch—too saturated to offer any friction anymore, but still he grinds against it like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. like if he stops, he’ll fall off the planet completely.

“fuck, fuck—please,” he keens, voice cracking, “are you… are you touching yourself? please, just wanna make you feel good, ‘jus wanna—”

his words dissolve into a hitching moan, his hips stuttering.

the way he says it—make you feel good—it’s not about control. not with bob. it’s always been about purpose. something to do with his hands that isn’t destruction. something to be useful for, other than ripping the sky in half. it’s service. it’s worship. he wants your pleasure like a man wants salvation, like maybe if he brings you there, he’ll be pulled from the pit too.

and it hits you then—how much of bob exists in this exact moment. every part of him that doesn’t know how to exist quietly. every ugly, wanting corner he doesn’t show the others. not to walker. not to bucky. not even val. none of them would believe this part of him even existed—the part that mewls your name while soaking through your pillow, raw and exposed and beautiful in a way that would terrify them.

you let your fingers dip lower, slipping through your own wetness, and it’s instant. a spike of pleasure that borders on pain, aching and hot as it shoots up your spine. you groan low, and the sound must’ve carried through the speaker because bob freezes, chest heaving.

then—

“are you—are you really?” his voice is breathless, full of awe, like the idea of you actually touching yourself for him is some miracle. he groans, hunching deeper into the pillow, fucking it harder. “jesus, oh my god—thank you—thank you—”

as if you’d gifted him something sacred. as if your body was an answered prayer.

your thumb brushes your clit and your legs jerk. a slick wet sound rises between your thighs, echoing faintly through the call—and bob sobs. sobs.

he keeps swallowing—again and again, compulsively—his throat working like it hurts, like the absence of you is something stuck in it. you can see the way his adam’s apple bobs with each gulp, frantic and shallow, as if he’s trying to tamp something down but it keeps rising, flooding.

you know what it is.

he’s used to having something in his mouth—you. his tongue, his lips, his whole desperate mouth always latched somewhere: your tits, your shoulder, the inside of your thigh. nursing. nuzzling. mouthing. needing. it’s never been about sex, not just—not only. it’s something older, more infantile, more devout. a craving that doesn’t end at climax. a part of him that needs to cling. to suck. to soothe.

and now?

now he’s alone. no skin to mouth. no nipple to drink from. nothing to suck between his flushed, spit-slick lips except air, which he swallows like a starving man pretending it’s soup. you can see the gloss at the corners of his mouth, how they twitch like they’re trying to shape around your name again. it’s almost sad. it’s almost holy.

then it hits him—fast, like he didn’t see it coming. like his body made the decision before his brain could catch up.

“i’m—cummin’!”

the words rip from his throat like a gunshot, fast and panicked and soaked in relief. his whole body seizes—a full-body convulsion like his bones are short-circuiting. he hunches deeper into the pillow, the muscles in his back flexing so hard you can see them ripple even under the shitty lighting.

his fingers claw at the sides of the pillow, gripping so hard you swear you hear it tear, the fabric giving under his strength with a muted ripping noise that makes your breath catch.

“fuck, fuck, fuck—gonna get you pregnant—fuck, gonna fill you up,” he’s babbling now, coming so hard he’s barely even conscious of the words leaving his mouth. “make you warm, make it stick, i—ohhh—”

and then it happens.

you watch it happen.

the pillow’s already soaked, but now it’s worse—somehow wetter. the flood of come from his cock is viscous, obscene, splattering thick into the ruined fabric like he’s pouring himself into it. it’s leaking from the tip in heavy, twitching spurts, trailing down the plush cotton and sticking to his thighs, the base of his cock smeared in creamy slick and sweat and saliva from where he’d drooled earlier without noticing.

you swear you can hear it—the wet sound of him milking himself against your ghost. the cum doesn’t even soak in fully anymore; it pools, thick and syrupy, catching the yellow glow of the lamp in a way that makes your stomach twist with hunger.

your own fingers stutter.

he’s still grinding, even through it, rutting forward like he doesn’t know he’s finished. his hips have a mind of their own, cock pushing against the hot mess he’s made like he wants to fuck it in deeper, like he believes if he presses hard enough, it’ll reach you.

he’s letting out plaintive little cries now, weaker, softer, like his body’s finally started to register that it’s empty. that the release didn’t fix it. that even in the wreckage—come-sticky, thighs trembling, pillow soaked and unusable—he’s still hungry for something he can’t reach through a screen.

still, he rocks lazily against the pillow in slow aftershocks, hips twitching like muscle memory won’t let go just yet. it’s less about getting off now and more about staying close to the feeling of you. the last trace. the last pulse.

then he turns his face toward the phone—his cheek pink, wet with sweat and saliva—and smiles.

it’s a dreamy, breathless little thing. a laugh spills from him, all shaky and sugar-sick, like he doesn’t even know what he’s feeling anymore. he just knows it was for you. that it meant something.

it doesn’t matter, though.

not when he lets himself melt across the bed like butter left out too long, one arm sliding off the mattress, his legs spread open and useless. his boxers are barely clinging to one ankle now, and there’s a damp patch on the sheets beneath him where the mess finally leaked through the pillow.

his eyes flutter shut.

“love you ‘s much,” he murmurs, voice thick and blurred at the edges. “miss you ‘s much.”

he says something else, low and soft, words smudged like watercolor. you don’t catch it, but it doesn’t really matter. you get the shape of it. the feeling.

you pause for a second, letting the sound of his breathing settle into you—deep and rhythmless, the kind of sleep that only comes after something raw. then you slip out of bed, padding softly toward the bathroom.

there’s the brief rush of water, the soft hush of skin meeting towel, the familiar ritual of cleaning up under sterile hotel light. you avoid the mirror. avoid looking at your own flushed face. not out of shame—no, never that. just reverence. quiet.

when you return, you glance down at the phone still glowing on your bedside table. the screen’s dim, but the call hasn’t ended. bob’s still there. his camera’s tipped just slightly now—angled toward his chest, rising and falling, slow and steady. his mouth is slack in sleep. he’s beautiful in the way aftermath is beautiful—ruined and soft and done.

you smile.

sliding back under the covers, you nestle the phone beside you like a second heartbeat. you don’t even bother turning it off. just let the weight of his presence settle into the bed with you, real as anything. real as warmth.

you fall asleep to the sound of bob’s breathing.

(bob now has such a nasty habit of sending you the most filthiest things while your away, from little voice messages of breathless whimpers to full on videos of him fucking himself into his fist.

always paired with a message under it reading; 'love you so much, look at the mess i made' all while you're seated on a plane right next to ava on your way back home)

#this got me walking in circles like a feral tiger #blushing and twirling my hair btw #amazing writing #robert reynolds x reader #bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #smut

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spectral-devotee · 1 month ago

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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…”

#im not even exaggerating this top tier bob #literally such a way with words and comparisons that feel so very real #you have no idea how good this has healed my need for bob #tysm #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds #bob x reader #robert reynolds x reader

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spectral-devotee · 1 month ago

Text

the morning after

pairing: robert ‘bob’ reynolds x reader

summary: giving your boyfriend his daily dose of reassurance.

warning: implied sex, established relationship, reader is sooooo whipped

author’s note: thank you so much for 250+ likes <3

the morning after, you woke up feeling the most relaxed you had ever been- too relaxed even. you wanted to move and possibly stretch your body around but with the way he looked as he was sleeping peacefully, you decided that you shouldn’t move and disturb his peace. instead choosing to caress and give soft, sloppy morning kisses to his body.

a soft, sleepy sigh escaped him as he felt his body being caressed and kissed, stirring him out of his peaceful slumber. his eyes fluttered open, his brain still feeling sleep-addled and disoriented. his gaze fell on you first, and his expression softened immediately.

“hi…” he murmured, his voice still hoarse and gravelly from sleep. he shifted his limbs, stretching the kinks out of his body. “did you stay here all night..?”

“hi, good morning, love. didn’t mean to wake you up” you said softly, taking the opportunity to stretch your limbs as well, “of course i did, loved every second of it, too”

his heart fluttered at your words, and he reached out, his fingertips gently tracing the lines of your face. he looked at you with a warm, sleepy gaze, enjoying the way the sun was hitting your features.

“i… i don’t know what to say,” he admitted, with a hint of vulnerability in his voice. “no one’s ever… no one’s ever stayed with me before…”

“you don’t have to say a thing..” you said as you leaned into his touch, “and you better get used to it, cause i don’t plan on leaving you. seriously, with mornings like this? i could just stay here forever”

he chuckled softly at that, his fingertips moving from your face to your hair, running through it softly. he was still in a bit of shock- the idea that someone wanted to stay with him, wanted to be close to him, was hard for him to wrap his head around.

”i... i’d really like that,” he admitted, a smile tugging at his lips. “just laying here with you… forever… i want that a lot.”

“so do i” you hummed, admitting back to him. “i’m so lucky to have you… i wonder what’d i do in my previous life to be here with you in this one.” you whispered with a smile to her face.

he let out a soft laugh at that, shaking his head gently. he was still taking it all in- the fact that you were here, in his arms, saying all these wonderful things to him. he felt both overwhelmed and completely content, and he wasn’t sure what to do with all of these emotions. ”i… honestly don’t know what i did to deserve you…. but i’m damn glad you’re here with me now,” he murmured, his eyes never leaving your face.

“you deserve much more than you think you do, love. you deserve the whole world” you said, reassuring him.

he didn’t answer to that, instead he reached out, gently running his fingers through your hair, marveling at how soft it was.

“if i hadn’t met you that day…” he murmured, his gaze still fixed on you. he trailed off, his expression growing sad for a moment.

”…i honestly don’t know where i’d be right now.”

you thought for a few seconds before answering, trying to come up with the right words to say, “i think that even if you hadn’t met me that day... fate would bring us together anyway, don’t you think?”

he took a second to digest your words, his expression turning thoughtful. for a moment, he almost looked like he was somewhere else- lost in thought. but then he came back to reality, his gaze focused solely on you once again.

”you know…” he murmured slowly, his finger tracing mindless patterns against your skin.

“i think you might be right about that…”

#BOOM SHAKALAKA #give this man more loving #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds #robert reynolds

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spectral-devotee · 1 month ago

Text

like real people do

content/warnings: gn!reader, fluff, kissing because i like it, slow dancing, sleepy fluff

wc: 1.1k

masterlist b. r. masterlist

you were reading on your bed, listening to music when you heard him knock on your door. you checked the time, and it was half past nine o’clock. you were used to bob coming by your room at night. he as coming by more often than not nowadays; you weren’t complaining though.

you had been staying in the tower with the rest of the team, and you had gotten to know bob quite well over the time you had stayed. you contemplated moving to an apartment complex nearby just to have your own space, but you didn’t want to have to find excuses to drop by and see him.

you set your book down and walked over to the door. when you opened it, he had a soft, almost nervous smile on his face. you moved to the side and let him in. “i couldn’t sleep,” he said quietly. the only light you had on was your lamp on your nightstand, and it lit his features beautifully.

nodding, you replied, “i figured you’d come by so i didn’t go to bed yet.” you smiled back at him. you were standing close to him, but you weren’t touching quite yet. the warmth from his skin radiated off of him, and you silently rebelled in his heat. you had gotten into the habit of setting your thermostat to a chilly temperature so you wouldn’t overheat at night.

bob reached a finger forward and poked at your hand ever so slightly. you turned your palm around and grabbed his hand, as you suspected that was what he wanted. “i like this song,” he noted. you nodded back at him.

“so do i.” hozier was what was playing now, his melodic voice serenading you into a blissful state. bob grabbed your other hand and stepped a tiny bit closer to you. you could feel the brush of his exhale on your cheeks as he looked into your eyes.

his smile still remained, but any trepidation had dissipated. you loved having him like this: soft, gentle, and something completely your own. when you could have your own space where you both knew you were safe.

you leaned forward and put your forehead against his chest. he let go of one of your hands and wrapped his arm around you. you smiled at the contact, always grateful to be close to him. “i’m glad you’re here,” you said through your smile. whenever you felt thankful for bob you would tell him. you felt it was necessary and important to let the people around you know that you loved them.

you felt bob sigh, so you looked up at him. “everything alright?” you asked. you watched him intently as he thought for a few seconds.

he met your gaze and nodded. “yeah,” he started, “just haven’t been sleeping well lately, is all.” you scanned his face to try and read his expression, but you couldn’t quite get an accurate picture. bob had gotten quite good at hiding how he felt, everything considered. even with your little safe haven you’d created he struggled to be open with you, even though it wasn’t intentional.

you lifted a hand to his cheek and swiped your thumb over his cheekbone. bob leaned into the touch, his lashes fluttering closed. you ran your thumb over his lips, and you felt him smile. “i won’t fall asleep until you do. i promise,” you murmured.

bobs eyes opened, and his brow scrunched together. “no, you don’t have to-“

you cut him off, “bob, it’s fine. don’t worry about it.” you leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth. “we don’t even have to sleep. i just want to be with you.” you kissed the bridge of his nose.

bob grasped your hand that was on his face and placed it on his neck, and took the other and mirrored the movement. he wrapped his arms around you, placing his hands on the small of your back. he pulled you impossibly close to him and swayed gently to the music.

you ran your fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck. he tucked his face into your neck, and you swore he left a few light kisses there. you were shocked at first with the levels of physical affection bob craved, but you were never upset with it.

as time passed and you got to know him better, it made plenty of sense. but at the very beginning you wouldn’t have pegged him as that type of guy. after a while you had to reassure him that he could hold you whenever he wanted.

bob untucked his head from your shoulder and looked into your eyes. something swam in them, but you couldn’t place it. he inched his face closer to yours; you could feel his breath against your lips. you closed your eyes and waited for it, and then he finally kissed you.

previously when you two had kissed, it had been nothing like this. they had been quick and maybe even a little bashful, but this was anything but. bob tilted his head and deepened the kiss. you could feel his nose nudging your cheek.

he pulled away from yours for a brief moment, his pupils blown out. his tongue darted out and wet his lips and he dove into you again. the warmth of his tongue made your face heat in a pink, hot blush, and you tightened your fingers around his hair slightly.

you smiled into him and felt him smile back. when you accidentally pulled a lock of his hair a little too hard, he grunted playfully. “ow,” he mumbled. you rubbed over the spot in a soothing manner. he snorted at your action and you could feel the rumble of his laugh.

“sorry,” you whispered back, and he met you with another kiss. “didn’t mean to.” you brushed hair out of his eyes. you paused for a moment, abd then spoke again. “let’s go to bed.” bob nodded in response and woefully let go of you.

you reached for you phone on the nightstand and turned off the music and the lamp. you sat on the mattress, pulled the sheets back, and waited for him to get in. bob reached over and pulled you onto the bed so that you were laying down with him. bob kissed your forehead once, briefly before lying his head on the pillow beneath him.

bob’s face was close to yours once more. he placed one of his legs between yours and tugged your body so that it was flush against him. you looked over his features one more time before falling asleep.

#sososo sweet #v cute #robert reynolds #bob reynolds x reader

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spectral-devotee · 1 month ago

Text

The Greatest Light Is The Greatest Shade

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

Summary: You return back to the compound a week early from an initial two week-long mission, only to find Bob asleep in your bed.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob and everyone else are in this story. Fluff and Smut, that’s it, that’s the tweet lol Oh and also Reader and Bob have an established friends with benefits relationship.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it before you tap it…or don’t I mean…All up to y’all lol), Biting/Marking, Praise/Worship Kinks (because sometimes we all need that), Bob gets a little dominant in this fic, Dirty Talk, Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Scratching, Choking (if you squint, it’s not extreme though, like just holding), Breast Worship.

Author's Note: This is like a combination of two requests because it made a lot of sense to just combine them in a nice little wrap. Both were from anon users so if these were your requests, thank you! (Requests were: Bob getting a confidence boost in bed, and Bob liking the act of marking the reader/biting the reader)

Word Count: 9,119

You and Yelena weren’t supposed to be back at the compound for another week.

But missions had a way of unraveling differently when the two of you were left to your own devices–strategic, relentless, and just a little bit impatient. You didn’t linger. You didn’t overcomplicate. You didn’t sleep much, either, which probably explained the record time.

You’d cleared the final objective in less than forty-eight hours, ghosted the cleanup crew, and caught the first unmarked flight back to the States before anyone could slap a new assignment on your desk.

Efficiency had its perks, and so did chronic sleep issues.

Because the truth was–if you’d stayed another night in that motel with its scratchy sheets and the whine of traffic bleeding through the windows, you might’ve clawed your skin off. You hadn’t slept more than two hours in a row the entire time you were gone. The bed was too stiff and the air was too stale. You’d tried your usual tricks–white noise, stretching, sleeping pills stolen from the med kit–but nothing worked.

Your body just didn’t settle when you weren’t home.

And it wasn’t even just about your own bed–though you missed the way the pillow fluffed perfectly around your head, the subtle citrus-and-cotton scent of your detergent lingering in the sheets, the familiar groove in the mattress where your weight naturally settled.

It was about his bed, too.

Bob’s.

Because the only real, uninterrupted sleep you’d gotten in the last few months had been tangled up in him–skin warm, limbs heavy, his breath soft against your neck as he pulled you closer and laced your fingers with his beneath the covers. You remembered the way he kissed the dip beneath your ear just before he fell asleep, how he always muttered something quiet against your bare shoulder, like he didn’t want you to know he needed this as much as you did.

But you did know. Because you needed it too.

That was the problem with the whole friends-with-benefits arrangement–it had rules, boundaries, expectations. But somewhere along the way, you stopped following the fine print. Somewhere along the way, you started looking forward to him more than the orgasm. You started memorizing the shape of his hands, the way he curled into you when he thought you were asleep, the sound he made when you ran your fingers through his hair just right. The pillow talk that both of you would have post sex, tangled up within one another–joking about another round before giving in.

You missed him.

Not just the sex, not just the heat of his mouth or the way he whispered your name when he came–you missed all of him. His nervous smiles. His soft voice. His quiet steadiness. You missed the way he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you wanted him back. The way he understood that the only reason you weren’t in a relationship with him was because you hated the pressure that it came with, and how you just wanted to be–because labels just complicated things.

And you hadn’t told anyone–at least not willingly. But Yelena knew. She always knew. The girl could sniff out repressed feelings like a bloodhound, and her raised eyebrow and pointed remarks whenever Bob entered a room had gotten more pointed with time. And Bucky…Bucky didn’t say anything, but he watched. You could feel it in the weight of his gaze when you sat next to Bob at the kitchen counter, or when you reappeared from ‘relaxing in your bedroom’ wearing a hoodie that definitely wasn’t yours.

Still. None of them had said a word. Not directly at least, and the both of you were immensely grateful for that.

The elevator doors hissed open at 2:04 a.m., depositing you and yelena into the compound’s dim, and mostly-silent common room.

The air inside was nice and cool against your burning hot skin, it was crisp with the faint scent of fresh laundry. Everything felt still, as if the whole building itself had decided to turn in for the night completely.

Except for Bucky Barnes, apparently.

He was sunk deep into the corner of the oversized grey sectional, one arm slung over the back, the other nursing a steaming mug of coffee–you could tell because of the lingering odor of the roasted beans that stuck to the air. He didn’t even flinch at the sound of your boots–just glanced up, eyes cutting over the rim of his mug as the glow of the television flickered across his face. The screen was playing something low-budget, or at least it looked like it–judging by the terrible stick on mustaches and the VHS tracking lines.

”You’re back early,” Bucky said, sipping from his mug.

“No, you’re just up late,” Yelena shot back, dropping her bag on the ground before veering toward the kitchen without missing a beat. Your suit–a cross between tactical armor and a flight suit– creaked with each step you took, the joints still tight from hours of wear. You felt grimy and stiff, a little windburned, and very much like a human shaped knot of fatigue.

”What’d they do, drop you into a war zone or the sun?” Bucky muttered, looking you over. You gave him a half-smile.

”Maybe a little bit of both, it was terrible over there.” You replied, turning your attention to the television.

Yelena yanked the fridge open, her movements sharp with leftover adrenaline. She pulled something out, and tossed one blindly at you without even checking if you were paying attention.

You caught it without turning, fingers wrapping around the chilled plastic in mid-air.

”Still got it,” Bucky said with a low chuckle, grabbing the bowl of popcorn beside him as Yelena walked around you and dropped herself onto the open space he had made for her.

”I never lost it Barnes.” You replied, cracking open the cherry flavoured electrolyte drink, hearing it fizzle. Yelena chugged half of it in one go, before reaching for the remote that was on the armrest.

”What is this?” She asked, pressing a few buttons absentmindedly, flipping through the menu with obvious disdain, “This is what you stay up late watching? Are you eighty-five?”

”No, I’m a hundred and ten thank you.” Bucky shot back, yanking the remote from her hands, “It’s also a classic.” He mumbled.

”It had bad editing and worse acting,” She retorted, lunging across him to snatch the remote again.

You smirked, shaking your head as they dissolved into bickering over how insufferable Yelena is when she hasn’t gotten enough sleep. The whole room felt hazy, soft-edged in that post-mission, too-tired-to-function way, but it also was safe and familiar, and you were grateful to be home.

You adjusted your bag over your shoulder, taking a sip from your bottle, before turning toward the hall.

”Where you headed?” Bucky called after you, half-distracted by Yelena’s attempt to reach his outstretched hand that had the remote in it.

”Shower, and sleep. Maybe pretend to be dead for a few hours.”

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Yelena chirped, before throwing herself over Bucky who let out a yelp, as you left him to his own demise.

Your mind was already elsewhere. You were thinking about Bob.

Mulling over the fact that this was the longest you’d been apart–almost a full week without seeing him, touching him, or hearing him. Without the little comforts you weren’t supposed to be attached to. His voice low in the dark, his fingers tracing letters into your stomach and asking what he was spelling. The stupid way he whispered your name before nuzzling himself into your neck and peppering kisses along your skin.

You had planned on surprising him in the morning. Maybe knock once on his door, and slip inside without saying anything. Maybe you’d crawl into his bed beside him and wake him up with your mouth on his neck just to see if he’d pull you in close and wrap those long muscular arms around you like he always did.

Because a week was just too long, and you’d missed him more than you were ready to admit.

You padded softly down the hall, the compound’s hush closing in behind you like a slow exhale. Even the low chatter of Yelena and Bucky was swallowed by the distance, replaced by the click of your boots and the faint buzz of the overhead fluorescents.

Your hand grazed the cool metal of your doorknob.

You were still smiling to yourself, still replaying the plan in your head—how you’d toss your gear on the floor, shower off the grime of the last two days, slip into something barely-there, and sneak into Bob’s room just after sunrise. You’d press your lips to the warm edge of his jaw and whisper something teasing just to feel the way he twitched beneath you, sleepy and flustered and already halfway gone before he could even open his eyes.

You turned the knob and pushed the door open, and froze dead in your tracks.

The first thing that hit you was the heat. Your room always ran a few degrees warmer than the rest of the compound–partly because of the old HVAC in this wing, and partly because you liked it that way. It was cozy.

The second thing that got you was the sight of Bob.

He was asleep on his stomach, sprawled across the middle of your bed like he had slowly melted into it. His broad shoulders stretched across the mattress one arm tucked under your pillow, the other draped loosely across it like he had purposely fallen asleep like this–with his face smushed into the corner of it. The sheets had twisted around his hips–barely clinging to the edge of the dark grey boxer briefs he was wearing, the elastic just visible beneath the soft crease of his lower back. His hair was a mess of light brown, mussed-up locks, pointing out every which way like he had run his fingers through them a few times.

The soft glow of your bedside lamp–the kind that automatically flicked on to its lowest setting when you entered–cast him in warm amber. His skin looked almost sun-kissed in it, flushed faintly at the back of his neck and the slope of his spine. He was breathing slow and deep, so still and peaceful it almost felt wrong to look at him too long.

Your hand was still curled around the doorknob, but your heart had already stepped into the room.

Bob was here. Asleep in your bed, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And something about that–about the ease of it–unraveled you more than anything else had all week.

You slowly eased the door shut behind you, careful not to let the latch click too loudly, and took one silent step inside. The scent hit you next. Not just the familiar blend of your detergent and body wash–but something softer, earthier.

Sage.

You turned your head slightly, and there it was–your little ceramic humidifier, the one shaped like a curled-up fox, softly misting by the dresser. The blue glow around its base was steady and calm, casting soft shadows across the wall behind it. You hadn’t used it in weeks. But now it was on. Filled. Set to the exact setting you always used when you had a headache or couldn’t sleep.

Your brows knit gently together.

Your gaze drifted lower–to the corner of the room where you normally threw your clean laundry in a pile you meant to fold but never did. But the pile looked…Different. Smaller. Neater. Not folded, exactly, but gathered. Arranged in the exact order you usually pulled from. Undergarments on top. Tanks and sleep shorts just beneath. Even your favorite oversized tee–the threadbare Stark Expo 2019 one–was sitting on top, freshly laundered and smelling faintly of lavender-softener.

”Well…I’ll be damned.” You whispered to yourself, because you didn’t remember doing all of that before you left. You slowly shrugged your bag from your shoulder and set it down near the desk, careful not to make a sound. Your eyes lingered on the little details around the room–how the cord for your phone charger had been looped up neatly instead of left in a nest on the floor, how your glass of water had been refilled with ice and placed beside your nightstand book, how even the trash can had been emptied.

He hadn’t just been waiting for you.

He’d been looking after you.

You toed off your boots and unzipped your suit with aching, quiet fingers, each movement deliberate. You peeled it off your body, layer by layer, until you were left in just a sports bra and a thin pair of cotton briefs. You crossed the room slowly, the floor cool under your bare feet, and slipped into the en suite with a practiced ease, fingers grazing the wall as you flicked on the light.

You immediately noticed the warmth–thick and faintly humid, clinging to the corners of the tile like the room had been wrapped in a blanket not long ago. It smelled like steam and soap and something else. Something sweeter.

You stepped towards the shower and breathed it in more fully.

Raspberry and basil.

Your shampoo. It was a weird scent combo, one you’d picked half on a whim and half because it somehow stuck in your head every time you used it–bright and green, but soft, with just enough fruit to make someone lean in and ask what it was. You hadn’t brought any with you on the mission.

But now… it was definitely lower than you remembered leaving it.

Your fingers brushed the bottle on the corner shelf. Same with the conditioner. Same with the body wash. All just slightly more empty than they should’ve been. The labels slick with residual condensation, freshly handled.

Your gaze flicked to the sink.

There were tiny flecks of stubble around the drain–barely noticeable unless you were looking for them. Not quite enough to be careless. Just enough to suggest he’d shaved in a rush and hadn’t cleaned up every last piece. Bob always got a little flustered around mirrors. Too many thoughts. Too many selves. You didn’t blame him for not scrubbing them all away.

You leaned on the counter, steadying yourself, and your eyes landed on something else.

His toothbrush, tucked neatly beside yours, with the bristles still wet. You stood there in the bathroom for a long moment, staring at the two toothbrushes resting side by side like they’d always been meant to share that ceramic cup.

Bob hadn’t just been sleeping in your room.

He’d been living in it.

Showering here. Shaving here. Moving around your space with the kind of familiarity you only afforded yourself. Like he hadn’t just been borrowing your room–he’d been waiting in it. Curling himself into the folds you left behind. Slipping quietly into the corners of your routine without disturbing the rhythm, like he’d always known how to match your pace.

And maybe that was what made your chest ache the most.

The realization that he must’ve missed you just as much as you missed him.

Maybe more.

You reached for the shower handle before the weight of it could settle too deep in your bones. The pipes didn’t groan like they normally did, the water just rushed out hot and steady from the spout, steam blooming instantly against the mirror. You peeled off your sports bra and underwear, letting the warmth wrap around your tired limbs as you stepped under the stream.

You tilted your head back, letting the water run down your scalp and over your face, washing away the grime of the last forty-eight hours in one long exhale. Your fingers found the raspberry and basil shampoo, and you worked it into your hair, the scent unfurling in the steam like something sacred. You scrubbed until your scalp tingled, until your shoulders started to loosen under the weight of water and familiarity.

Then came the conditioner, and the bodywash. Each ritual was a little slower than usual, like you were moving through molasses. Your body still felt heavy, but your mind was beginning to quiet. The mission was over. You were home. And Bob was here.

You turned off the water and stepped onto the warm tile, steam curling off your skin in soft ribbons. The mirror was almost completely fogged now, but you wiped a space clear with your palm, squinting slightly at your reflection.

Right at your hip you could see the faint marks of where Bob had bit before you had left, he had said it was something for you to look at when you wanted to think of him. He had this weird thing nowadays where he liked seeing and making little marks on you so you thought about him more than you already did.

A few fresh cuts traced the edge of your shoulder and collarbone–scrapes from the last scuffle, nothing major. A deeper bruise bloomed under your ribs, the kind you’d probably feel more tomorrow. You touched it lightly, then imagined what Bob’s face would look like when he saw it.

He wouldn’t say much. He’d just look. Quiet, brows drawn. Probably reach for you and press his hand there with too much care, like he thought touching it too firmly might break something else.

You grabbed a towel and wrapped it around your body, using a smaller one to pat your hair dry until it stopped dripping. Then you fluffed it with your fingers–messy and soft, but clean–and stepped out into the bedroom.

He was still sleeping, curled around your pillow, the sheet tugged a little lower now, just enough to reveal the defined line of his waist and the way his spine curved like a comma. You let your eyes linger for a breath longer, then padded quietly to the corner of the room where he’d left your clothes.

The sleep shorts were exactly where he knew you liked them. The old blue t-shirt–the one that had started out as his and somehow ended up permanently yours–was still warm from the dryer.

You slipped the cotton over your head and let it fall just past your hips, then tugged the shorts on. The waistband sat soft against your skin, familiar and easy.

You stood there for a second, just breathing, before folding up your towels and stacking them neatly on the edge of your desk.

Without another sound, you padded across the room and eased onto the bed beside him, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. The familiar dip of it welcomed your weight, and you tucked yourself close to his side, your knees brushing the outside of his thigh.

For a long moment, you just watched him.

His lashes cast faint shadows against his cheeks, and there was a tiny crease between his brows like even in sleep he was thinking too hard. The slope of his nose was soft from this angle, and the corner of his mouth was slack, open just enough to let out the faintest exhale.

You leaned forward slowly, and bit his shoulder, gently.

Right on that spot you knew was sensitive–where the muscle met bone, where he always twitched a little whenever your lips lingered there too long.

“Mmph–Ow?” He groaned, more confused than hurt, shifting with a sluggish twist beneath your mouth.

You grinned and pressed a soft kiss to the spot. “Hey, Robert.”

Bob flinched at the sound of his full name, then jolted upright halfway before fully processing–head lifting, eyes wide and blinking blearily through the low amber light. His arm buckled slightly beneath him as he tried to catch himself, sheet slipping further down his waist.

“Wh–What the hell–Y-You’re—you’re back?” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

You laughed, hushed and breathy, and cupped his shoulder to steady him. “Careful, you’re about to fall off the bed.”

He blinked again, jaw slack, still halfway tangled in the blankets and now completely upright. “You–you weren’t supposed to b-be back ‘til Friday.”

“I wasn’t,” You murmured, leaning in closer, brushing your nose along the line of his neck. “But I couldn’t sleep.”

His breath hitched as your lips ghosted over his pulse point.

“Jesus,” He whispered, his hand finally rising–tentatively–to cup your waist like he needed to ground himself in the fact that you were real and he wasn’t hallucinating that you were here. You kissed his shoulder again, then nudged your nose against his ear

“Missed me?” Bob let out a short, almost disbelieving laugh–still breathless, still flustered.

“I–I’ve been sleeping in your room like some sad l-lost dog for four nights.” You smiled against his skin.

“I noticed.”

“I wasn’t trying to–like–move in or anything, I just–your pillow still smelled like you and I–” He cut himself off with a quiet groan and buried his face in your neck. “God, this is embarrassing.” You smoothed your hand along his spine, fingertips dragging lightly through the dip of his lower back.

“It’s not embarrassing. It’s sweet.” He went still at that, and then returned his eyes to you, his blue irises shimmering in the dim lighting.

”Yeah?” You smirked, nodding.

”Very sweet.” Bob’s cheeks flushed with that familiar, helpless shade of pink, as he ducked his head slightly, eyes dropping, but you reached for him before he could retreat into himself again. Your fingers curled gently under his smooth chin, coaxing his gaze back to yours, and then, with the softest pressure, you turned his face fully toward you.

His eyes searched yours for the briefest second–barely a breath–before you leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rushed or careless or clumsy. It was deliberate. Slow at first. Lips brushing lips, once–then again. The kind of kiss that says I remember how to do this. I missed this. I missed you. You angled your mouth against his, deepening it with a quiet sigh that tasted like relief and heat and the week you’d spent without him.

And Bob–God, Bob melted.

Like every bone in his body gave up the fight.

He kissed you back with this kind of overwhelmed gentleness, like he didn’t know how he’d gone a week without this and now he never wanted to let go. His hands found your hips–tentative at first, then a little more sure. He took the pillow and threw it off the side of the bed, before tugging you closer across the bed until you were flush against him, your thigh slotted between his legs.

His lips parted, and yours followed.

Tongues brushing, slow and wet and warm, the kiss deepening with each pass. You felt his breath stutter against your cheek when you nipped at his lower lip, felt the quiet rumble of a groan that built low in his chest and echoed into your mouth.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging gently–just enough for him to gasp into you.

And then he pulled back, barely. His forehead resting against yours, his mouth still parted, pupils blown wide.

“D-Don’t you wanna get some sleep?” He asked, voice rough and frayed at the edges. “You’ve gotta be–exhausted.” You gave a slow smile, your lips still ghosting his.

”I’ll sleep once I’ve got your hands all over me again.” Bob barely registered the words before instinct overtook him.

Your breath had just finished ghosting over his lips when his hands suddenly clutched your hips tighter, and he moved–rolling fully over you with a low, needy groan, pressing you flat against the mattress in one fluid, desperate motion. The way his body stretched over yours, warm and solid and half-draped in nothing but those threadbare grey boxer briefs, made your breath catch with something between a gasp and a laugh.

He was already panting softly, like he hadn’t realized how much he needed this until the second it was offered. His mouth crushed against yours, wetter now, hungrier–kisses landing messily on your lips, your cheek, your jaw, like he couldn’t decide where to start. His hands roamed beneath your shirt without hesitation, dragging up from your hips to your waist, thumbs skating along your ribs like he knew exactly where you wanted to be touched–because he did.

“Y-You’re too dressed,” He mumbled against your mouth, voice ragged and impatient. “How’re y-you still dressed?”

You giggled, tilting your chin back as his lips moved down your neck. “You’re not exactly making it easy to take anything off.”

“’Cause I missed you,” He whined, shameless now, fingers curling around the hem of your shirt and tugging it up in soft, slow inches. “God, I-I missed you and y-you smell like–” You ran your hands down his back, nails grazing his spine.

“Like my shampoo that you’ve been using?” You teased breathlessly, interrupting him. Bob froze for half a heartbeat, then nuzzled deeper into your neck with a groan that was far too pleased.

“Told you I missed you,” He whispered. “You were everywhere in this room but not in it and I just–crap, I needed something.”

His hands slid fully under the shirt now, palms spreading wide over your stomach, smoothing over old scars, faint bruises, soft skin. And then, as gentle as ever, he pulled the shirt up and over your head with one smooth motion and tossed it aside onto the floor.

Lit only by the bedside lamp, his eyes roamed your bare skin like he hadn’t seen it in years. His hands followed his gaze, mapping every familiar slope like he was making sure nothing had changed while you were gone. He cupped your chest with a low, smooth sigh, brushing his thumbs gently over your nipples until you arched into him.

“Still like that?” He murmured, teasing and a little breathless.

“Always,” You whispered. Bob leaned in slow–eyes still dark and wide, lips slightly wet and parted–and pressed a kiss right between the swell of your breasts, leaving a little saliva mark. Then he put another just a little lower, and another.

Your breath hitched as his mouth found the delicate skin at the top curve of your breast, and he sucked gently–just enough for you to feel the sting start to bloom beneath his tongue. His hands cradled you, thumbs brushing under your ribs as he worked his way over the flesh, kissing, mouthing, biting just lightly until you were arching beneath him.

Then he took your nipple into his mouth.

A low, broken moan spilled from him the second his tongue flicked over it–like he couldn’t believe how good it felt to be this close again. He sucked slowly, then a little harder, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, to make your back bow and your fingers tangle in his hair. His hips rutted forward–slow and clumsy at first, then more deliberate. You felt the hot, heavy pressure of his cock through his briefs as it ground against your core, the friction heady and frustrating in the best way.

“God…” He gasped against your skin, mouthing down the side of your breast now. “I-It’s like y-you’ve been gone for y-years.”

His breath was ragged now, teeth sinking into the underside of your breast to leave another mark–deeper this time, and you could feel it purpling as he pulled off. You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders.

He finally pulled back, lips swollen, pupils blown, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. His gaze roamed down your body again–hungry, frantic, and impossibly tender all at once–until it landed on your hip. His thumb skated over the spot.

”I-It’s gone,” He murmured, almost to himself. Your brows furrowed faintly, pushing his hair out of his face.

”What is?”

“The mark I left.” He glanced up at you, a little shy, a little sheepish. “The one I bit into you before you left. I thought maybe it’d still be there…”

You let out a soft laugh, cupping his hot and flushed cheek. “Well, yeah, it healed. It’s not like you can’t give me another one.”

That made his breath hitch.

His eyes darkened just slightly as they dropped back down to your body. “Yeah?” He murmured.

You nodded slowly. “I liked looking at it when I missed you.”

That shy smirk tugged at his lips, the kind that said he was blushing way harder on the inside than he was letting show. Then, without another word, he slid down your body, pressing a few scattered kisses along your stomach until he reached the dip of your hip. He nudged your sleep shorts just enough to expose the skin he wanted, the cotton bunched under his thumbs as he settled between your thighs, his breath fanning warm over your bare skin.

“I’ll make you another one,” He whispered, lips hovering. “Same spot. So you remember.”

The words were almost respectful–but the way he said “remember” made your stomach clench. Like he wanted to brand the memory into you.

Then his mouth sealed over your hip with purpose.

You felt the wet press of his tongue first, lapping softly at the curve of your hip. Then his lips closed over the spot, sucking gently at first–just enough to make your breath catch–before his teeth scraped down with delicate precision. A faint sting bloomed beneath his mouth as he bit just a little harder, pulling the skin between his lips and sucking until heat flared beneath the surface. His hands held you steady by your hips, thumbs pressing into the sensitive dips beside the bones as his mouth worked the mark deeper.

It wasn’t just about the pain–it was the way his tongue soothed the sting after, the way he breathed against you like he was trying to worship this piece of you. Your fingers slid into his hair, jaw slack, body arching into his hold as a slow whimper slipped from your throat. Just like him you enjoyed the process, it was something Bob found out he took pride in doing, it was something only the two of you knew about and that was just scripture at this point.

Then, finally, he pulled back.

Your breath stuttered. His eyes were glassy with heat, lips slick and swollen, pupils wide.

“L-Look,” He whispered hoarsely, leaning aside just enough for you to lift your head and follow the trace of his finger. The mark was already starting to darken–a perfect bloom of bruised skin, flushed deep and raw at the center, fading at the edges like a watercolor stain. Right over your hipbone, exactly where the last one had been.

Your mouth curved into a smug, breathless smile.

And Bob looked absolutely wrecked by it.

You could feel him throbbing against your thigh–hard, heavy, leaking precum in his boxer briefs–and you swore his pupils dilated even more when he saw you smile. His hands trembled just slightly on your hips, the press of his fingers tightening like he wanted to sink into you then and there.

Then, his voice–raspy, shy, so damn sweet it made your chest ache:

“C-Can I take these off?” His fingers tugged lightly at the waistband of your sleep shorts. “W-Wanna…Wanna u-use my mouth. I mean–on you. Go down on you. I–God, I just wanna taste you, I missed you so bad I–” You nodded before he could combust, your hand cupping his cheek again as your thumb brushed across his flushed skin.

“Yes,” You murmured. “Please, Bob.” He exhaled like he’d been punched in the gut. His hands slid lower, slow and reverent, thumbs catching beneath the waistband as he eased your shorts down your legs.

The cotton left your skin with the softest whisper of friction, and then he hooked them around your ankles, slow and careful like he was undressing something sacred.

He didn’t throw them right away. He held them for a second—bunched in his hand—before finally letting them slip from his fingers and fall somewhere behind him with a soft thud. His gaze flicked up.

You’d opened your legs for him.

And that alone nearly broke him.

His breath hitched audibly, chest rising sharp as his hands found your thighs and pushed them open further—just enough for him to settle between them. His pupils were blown wide, lashes fluttering as he took you in, lips slightly parted like he wanted to say something and couldn’t quite remember how to form the words.

But then he did speak.

Barely louder than a whisper.

“F-Fuck… you’re already wet…”

His eyes were locked on the slick sheen between your thighs, his voice shaking with awe and arousal. “I-I didn’t even touch you yet.”

You smiled, breathless, threading your fingers into his hair. “You don’t have to, Bob. I’ve been thinking about this since I left.”

A groan caught in the back of his throat. He dipped his head low, kissing your inner thigh with reverence, lips soft and warm as he moved closer. Another kiss, higher now. Then another. A gentle scrape of teeth. He sucked lightly at the skin just above your knee, then further up–just below the edge of your heat–where he bit down softly and hummed against you.

“G-Gonna mark you here,” He murmured, voice raspy. “Only I’ll know it’s there.”

You felt the nip, the suction, and the soothing stroke of his tongue right after. A shiver ran through your whole body.

He moved higher, lips brushing the crease where your thigh met your pelvis, then gently slid your legs up–guiding them over his shoulders with hands that couldn’t stop shaking. He adjusted slightly, nestling his chest between your thighs, the warmth of him blanketing everything.

And then he looked up at you, utterly flushed, breath unsteady, eyes glassy with lust.

”I-I’m gonna take my t-time…I w-wanna s-savor you.” You nodded, unable to speak, and then he lowered his mouth.

The first lick was slow. Flat and deliberate, his tongue dragging up your folds with aching precision. His groan vibrated into you, low and desperate, like your taste knocked the air from his lungs.

He did it again, slower this time–parting you with careful fingers, exposing your clit, and flicking his tongue over it with gentle laps that made your hips twitch. His hands slid up under your thighs, holding you down, anchoring you as his mouth worked with focused hunger.

He kissed your folds like he loved them–soft and wet, teasing swirls of his tongue punctuated by firmer, sloppier sucks to your clit that had you gasping and writhing. He moaned into you every time your hips jerked against his mouth, like your pleasure was feeding him.

And then–his fingers joined the fray.

He eased one inside you slowly, watching your face the whole time, the stretch just right as you clenched around him.

”Mmm…P-Perfect…” He whispered, barely audible over your breathless moan. He added a second, curling them expertly. You felt the exact spot he was searching for as he pressed deeper, stroking in tandem with the suck of his mouth on your clit. The pace built gradually, maddeningly patient. He knew your body too well. Knew the rhythm that made your thighs start to tremble, knew when to ease off just a little to keep you right on the edge.

He licked you like he was starving, but careful. Worshipful. Like every stroke of his tongue was another way of telling you he missed you, needed you, belonged to you.

One of your hands gripped the pillow behind your head, and the other continued to tangle in his hair, fingers twisting in his soft curls as you gasped out his name.

“B-Bob–”

He groaned again, rutting slightly into the mattress, his own arousal completely unchecked.

“T-That’s it,” He rasped between licks, voice wrecked. “S-Say it again. Lemme h-hear it while I’ve got you falling apart on my mouth.”

And you did.

Because he earned it.

And you were already so close, the coil in your stomach burning with every wet, deliberate flick of his tongue, every curl of his fingers pressing into that perfect spot again and again–

Until everything snapped.

Your back arched. Your thighs shook around his head. His name spilled from your lips again and again like a prayer as your climax crashed over you–hot, electric, and overwhelming.

But Bob didn’t stop.

He moaned into you deeply, slowing only enough to ride out every pulse, every shudder, licking you through it with open-mouthed reverence until you were trembling under him, breathless and overstimulated.

Bob stayed nestled between your legs for a long moment, his cheek resting against your thigh like he couldn’t bear to be apart from you just yet. His chest heaved softly, trying to catch up with the rhythm your body had demanded from him.

And then—still dazed, still breathless—he lifted his head.

His fingers slipped from you slowly, soaked and trembling. He held them up for a second, watching the wet glisten in the low light like he still couldn’t believe how much of you he had, how deeply you let him in.

Then–slowly, modestly–he brought those fingers to his mouth and licked them clean.

One at a time.

He sucked the taste of you from his knuckles with a low, helpless groan, like he was starving, like your pleasure was some kind of sustenance he hadn’t been able to live without all week. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes fanning his cheeks as his lips sealed over the pads of his fingers and pulled back with a soft, slick pop.

Then he looked up at you again–totally flushed, lips wet, curls wild and clinging to his forehead. And he smiled. Just a little. Like he couldn’t help it.

“God, you taste so good,” He rasped, voice nearly broken from the effort of holding back. “Y-You always do. I c-could stay down here forever…”

Your heart gave an answering throb–not just at the words, but the way he said them. Like he meant it. Like it wasn’t just about lust or pleasure or instinct. It was something needful, something devotional.

He pressed one more kiss to your thigh. Then another. His mouth moved slowly, lips soft against your overstimulated skin, kissing up toward the inside of your knee. He nuzzled into the crease where your thigh met your hip, resting there again like he was grounding himself.

“You’re…You’re s-so beautiful,” He whispered, almost shy. “I-I missed every inch of you. E-Every sound, every taste, every time you grab my hair like that–I missed all of it.”

Your fingers stayed tangled in his curls as his eyes met yours–blue and wide and still a little dazed, pupils rimmed with something darker, deeper. You stroked his scalp gently, thumb brushing just behind his ear.

“You’re perfect, you know that?” You said softly. Bob blinked like he didn’t understand the language.

“You’re so fucking good to me, Bob. That mouth of yours should be illegal.” You tugged his hair lightly for emphasis. “You take your time. You listen. You always make me feel like I’m the only thing you’ve ever needed.”

He whimpered at the comment, his cheeks going a deeper shade of red..

Then, quietly, with that fragile edge still in his voice: “C-Can I…Can I be inside you now?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes. God, yes. I want you.” He didn’t say anything after your “yes”—he didn’t have to. The air shifted the second the words left your lips. Almost in a trance, he pushed himself up on trembling arms, body sliding from between your legs just enough for his hands to tug down the waistband of his boxer briefs. He hooked his thumbs beneath the elastic, dragged them over the swell of his hips, and pushed them past his thighs. They caught for a moment on the curve of his ass, then fell to the floor with a soft thud. You could feel your mouth water at the sight of how hard he was–thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, his cock curved toward his belly with a kind of desperate heaviness.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t ask if you were sure again. Didn’t stutter.

He just moved.

Climbed up over you with deliberate grace, his skin flushed and hot, his mouth parted as he kissed a slow trail up your body. Over your thighs, your stomach, your ribs. Each kiss was lingering, lips wet and reverent, like he was soaking you in. He kissed the underside of your breast, then the curve of your collarbone. Then your jaw. Then–

Your mouth.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed. It was hot. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss you don’t come back from.

His lips opened against yours, his tongue brushing yours, breath catching like he couldn’t get close enough. One of his hands cradled your cheek, thumb stroking just beneath your eye, and the other curled beneath your knee, hitching your leg up around his waist until your hips aligned.

Your hand slid down his back, dragging your nails softly along the ridge of his spine. “You’re so beautiful like this,” you whispered between kisses. “So hard for me already. God, I missed feeling you like this.”

He moaned–full-throated, broken–and rutted into you once, the tip of his cock slipping along your slick folds, just barely brushing your clit.

“I’ve got you,” You whispered, cupping his face. “You’ve always been mine.”

That did something to him. You saw it in his eyes–the shift.

The way the stutter disappeared. The way his jaw set. The way his gaze sharpened like lightning behind glass, the little shimmer of gold behind the ring of blue.

It wasn’t just Bob now, it was also the Sentry.

When he looked at you now, it wasn’t uncertainty. It was awe. Command. Like he could tear through the world but would rather be on his knees between your legs, or buried inside you, trembling with the effort of holding himself back just enough not to worship you into pieces.

“Please,” You breathed. “Need you inside me.”

His voice was lower now. Clear. Quiet. Controlled.

“Spread your legs a little more.”

You did, instantly. The commanding tone–still soft, still reverent, but sure–went straight to your core.

He guided himself forward with one hand, the other still cradling your thigh. And then–slow, deliberate–he pressed in.

The stretch was perfect. Your mouth dropped open in a gasp, and his eyes fluttered shut, forehead dipping down to press against yours. He groaned, low and long and helpless as your walls clenched around him, welcoming him home.

“Mmm… So tight… So wet… I forgot how good this felt,” He whispered, his voice wrecked but steady. “You feel like you were made for me.”

”I am…” You responded, your hands threading through his hair, “No one fucks me like you do. No one fills me like you do, Bob. You’re so deep already and you’re not even close to bottoming out…You’re just so fucking perfect.” Bob’s eyes fluttered closed at your words, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he pushed a deeper inside you, until he was fully seated–hips flush against yours, breath shuddering like he was trying not to lose it.

His voice came out strained, barely above a whisper.

“You know that’s gonna get to his head, right?”

Your breath caught, and a slow, knowing smile curled on your lips. You didn’t pretend to misunderstand. You just tilted your head slightly, brushed your nose against his, and played it innocent.

“Hmm?” You asked softly, letting your hips roll up ever so slightly against him, just enough for both of you to feel the perfect stretch again. “What will?”

Bob groaned–deep, desperate–and dropped his forehead against your shoulder for a second like he was trying to physically hide from the pull inside him.

“The way you talk,” He rasped. “The way you say I’m perfect. T-That I fill you just right. You know what that does to him…”

You kissed the curve of his jaw, slowly. “Do I?”

He pulled back to look at you, his eyes now shimmering with something gold at the edges, flickering like lightning underwater. That flicker. That edge. The Sentry wasn’t in control–not yet–but he was listening. And Bob knew it. Felt it.

“I-I don’t think you realize how close he is sometimes,” He murmured, one of his hands sliding up your side, over your ribs, until it cupped your throat. He didn’t squeeze. Just held you there–warm and firm, like a tether. “It’s like…Like you say the right thing and it just flips a switch.”

You blinked up at him, breath catching as his thumb brushed under your jaw.

“Maybe I like flipping it,” You whispered. “Maybe I want both of you.”

That broke something.

Bob’s pupils blew even wider, mouth dropping open slightly as he stared at you like you were the most dangerous thing he’d ever seen.

And then he moved.

In one swift motion, he slid your legs over his shoulders, folding you tighter beneath him. The new angle had his cock hitting deeper–hot and full and unbearable in the best way. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders for purchase as he drove forward with a slow, powerful thrust that made your back arch off the mattress.

He groaned, long and low, hips beginning to snap into you with more force now, still controlled–but rougher. Needier. His grip on your neck stayed steady, anchoring you, his other hand gripping the edge of the mattress like he needed it to keep from breaking apart entirely.

The kiss that followed was messy–hungry and open-mouthed, more teeth than lips. His tongue was everywhere, licking into your mouth with urgency, nipping your lower lip between groans that sounded more like growls now. His hair was falling into his face, damp with sweat, and your nails dug into his shoulders, raking down his back when he hit just the right spot again.

“Oh my–fuck, Bob–” You cried out, legs trembling where they were braced on his shoulders. He was fucking you deeper now, each thrust dragging moans from your throat that echoed in the warm, hazy dimness of the room.

“You wanted this,” He gritted out against your lips. “Y-You wanted him. This is what happens—fuck—w-when you tease him.”

You moaned at the words, high and desperate, your nails leaving crescents in his skin.

“God, yes, that’s what I wanted–want both of you–don’t hold back—”

That lit something behind his eyes.

His hand squeezed your throat gently and he kissed you again, rougher this time, teeth catching your lip before dragging it between his.

“Then you’re gonna take everything,” He growled against your mouth, “Everything…You hear me?” You nodded, gasping, legs clenching around his shoulders.

“Yes–yes, Bob–please—”

And he gave it to you.

All of it.

The Sentry’s strength and language. Bob’s tenderness. That perfect, devastating mix that only you seemed able to call forward.

His thrusts slowed for just a second—just enough for him to look down at you again, to see the way your mouth hung open, the way your eyes fluttered, the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed a breath. His hand was still resting there, warm and firm around your neck, and now he adjusted—his fingers splaying wider across your pulse point, thumb brushing up to trace your jaw, not to control you, but to feel you. To feel the way you beat under his touch. To know you were alive beneath him, trembling and taking everything he gave.

“Feel that,” he whispered, voice hoarse, lips inches from yours. “Your pulse…fuck… it’s so fast.” His thumb pressed just slightly beneath your ear, right where your heartbeat thrummed the loudest. “You do that to me too. Every time.”

Then he kissed you.

Not sweet. Not soft.

Dirty. Starved.

His tongue slid over yours, wet and insistent, lips parted wide as he devoured the sounds you made. He kissed you like he was drowning and your mouth was the only place he could breathe. It wasn’t clean—there was nothing neat about it. It was spit-slick, breathless, interrupted by moans and the shiver of his hips driving into yours. His body pressed you deep into the mattress, your legs still curled up over his shoulders as he leaned forward to pin you there—completely under him, beneath him, owned by him.

His hand never left your neck. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t tight. But it was grounding. Possessive. Like he needed that connection as much as he needed to be inside you.

“Y-You feel so fuckin’ good,” He panted into your mouth, hips jerking deeper, the head of his cock nudging places inside you that made your vision blur. “Clenching so tight around me—so fucking warm—I c-can’t…”

His voice cracked.

And then his hand slid down your body.

Still shaking, still careful. He found your clit with two fingers, thumb slipping low, and began to rub tight, perfect circles–just like he knew you needed.

“Come for me,” He whispered. “Please. Please come for me—I-I need to feel it.”

You whimpered, your body jerking beneath his, the stimulation dizzying—too much and just right at the same time. The stretch of him. The wet heat of his mouth still ghosting your lips. The slow, brutal way his fingers worked your clit with focused desperation.

And then it hit you.

The orgasm ripped through you like a lightning strike–sudden and overwhelming. You cried out, voice cracked and strangled, legs tightening around his shoulders as you pulsed around him. Your entire body arched, back bowed off the mattress, hips lifting to meet every thrust with frantic desperation as pleasure shattered through your core.

“Oh…Oh my–” Bob choked, the way your walls spasmed around him making his rhythm falter. “God–you’re s-so perfect–I can’t–”

He buried himself to the hilt one final time and came with a deep, broken groan, his whole body shuddering.

His forehead collapsed to your shoulder, hand still clutching your throat, not tight–just present. Just there. His hips jerked twice, thrice–instinct driving him as he moaned into your neck, hot and helpless. His cock throbbed inside you, spilling deep with every ragged, breathless cry he let out, each one softer than the last.

He didn’t move for a long moment–just stayed there, trembling, his full weight settling over you. His lips pressed into your throat. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

Still inside you.

Still hard.

Still shaking.

And then–you felt it.

Another slow thrust.

Not desperate. Not sharp.

Just a gentle roll of his hips, pressing his cum deeper inside you, pushing it further with quiet reverence.

“J-Just wanna…Make sure you keep it in you for a bit,” He whispered hoarsely, breath hitching as your body clenched again around the overstimulated head of his cock. “You feel so good when you come…” You moaned softly, your fingers stroking through his hair as he pulled back just slightly–just enough to look at you. His eyes were glassy. Blue and clear, with no gold in sight. Just Bob. Just yours. You grinned, breath still coming in short, shallow waves as he looked down at you–his hair tousled, skin flushed, lips kiss-bitten and wet. You reached up, cupped his jaw gently, and traced your thumb across the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t suppose that means you’re trying to knock me up, huh?” Bob’s eyes widened instantly, that unmistakable Bob expression washing over his features—equal parts scandalized, panicked, and completely enamored.

“Wh–I–I didn’t–I mean–was that–oh my God.” You burst into a soft laugh, biting your lip as he stammered, his face flushing deeper with every attempt at forming a coherent sentence.

“I’m kidding, Bob, you know I’m on birth control,” You whispered, giggling, dragging your fingers slowly through the sweat-damp curls at the nape of his neck. “Jesus, you’re cute when you malfunction.”

He gave a low, breathless groan and shook his head like he was trying to will his brain back into function, but then he leaned down and kissed you again–this time slow, warm, melting into the shape of you with that unmistakable Bob tenderness.

It was his kind of kiss.

Not the Sentry’s. Not some thunderous, desperate thing.

But soft. Full. Devoted.

Like you were something he’d missed every second of the week you’d been gone and needed to relearn with his mouth–your taste, your sighs, the way your bottom lip always trembled just slightly when he kissed you slow enough.

You sighed into it, and his hand slid from your throat to cradle your cheek again, thumb brushing just beneath your eye as his forehead touched yours.

“I–I could’ve said something better than ‘don’t you wanna sleep,’” He mumbled, sheepish, his lips still ghosting yours. “That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever said.”

You chuckled again and nudged his nose with yours. “You say a lot of dumb things when you’re half asleep and hard.”

Bob gave a mortified little noise in his throat and hid his face in your neck, but not before you caught the faint smile tugging at his lips.

You felt his hand drift down your arm, then settle on your waist as he drew small, grounding circles against your skin. His voice was quieter now, steadier–like the heat had cooled just enough for the weight of it all to settle in.

“Do you need anything?” He asked gently. “Water? A warm towel? Another orgasm?” He said it half-teasing, half-hopeful, with a lopsided grin you could feel against your skin.

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed, your fingers lazily dancing across his spine.

“Just this….This is perfect” You whispered.

And Bob–sweet, sincere, utterly yours–wrapped his arms tighter around you and whispered back, “Okay.”

#AMAZING OMGGG #marvel fanfiction #bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob x reader

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spectral-devotee · 3 months ago

Note

Hey just so you know I'm in love with your writing and it's just so JSHDUEHEUFHEMWAH.

I. Don't know if this is allowed. But I wanted to know if you could write like, poly! Jayvik and reader where reader has just been like. Fucked stupid. No thoughts head empty. And aftercare if you please 🥹

𝐁𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐮𝐬

𝐉𝐚𝐲𝐕𝐢𝐤 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

⇢ 𝐟𝐞𝐦! 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐭 (𝐦𝐝𝐧𝐢), 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 (𝐝𝐮𝐡), 𝐜𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞, 𝐩𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐞/𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠

𝐏𝐨𝐫𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐧𝐨 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭, 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐭 + 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞

The room is sweltering. The sheets are damp, clinging to your overheated skin, the air thick with the scent of sex—heady, intoxicating. Every breath you take is labored, broken with little whimpers and gasps as you’re sandwiched between them, caught in the push and pull of pleasure that never seems to end.

Jayce is on top of you, his massive frame caging you in, pressing you deep into the mattress as he fucks into you with slow, deep thrusts. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, keeping you spread wide for him. Every roll of his hips has his cock grinding against that sweet spot inside you, sending sharp jolts of pleasure up your spine.

“So fucking good” he groans, voice thick with arousal. His dark eyes are locked onto where your bodies meet, watching the way his cock disappears inside you over and over again, the way you suck him in so greedily. “Taking me so well, baby. Fuck—like you were made for this.”

Behind you, Viktor’s presence is just as overwhelming. He’s pressed flush against your back, his breath hot against your ear, his hands never still. His fingers trace over your sweat-slick skin, mapping every shiver, every twitch. One hand is curled around your throat, just firm enough to keep you grounded, while the other toys with your aching clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that have you shaking in Jayce’s hold.

“You are so beautiful like this” Viktor murmurs, his voice smooth, velvety, dripping with indulgence. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to your shoulder, dragging his teeth over your skin before licking over the mark, soothing it. “So helpless.”

Jayce groans at his words, his grip tightening on your thighs as his pace stutters for a moment. His eyes flick up, meeting Viktor’s over your trembling body. There’s something heated in the way they look at each other, something that sends another wave of arousal straight to your core.

Jayce swallows thickly, his voice rough. “You like watching, don’t you?”

Viktor hums, a lazy smirk pulling at his lips. “I do.” His fingers press down on your clit, and you wail, your body jolting from the sudden jolt of pleasure. Viktor’s smirk widens. “I love seeing her like this”

Jayce groans, his hips snapping forward harder, his strokes turning rough, desperate. You can feel how much he loves hearing that, how much Viktor’s words fuel him. He’s always been so easy to wind up, so weak when it comes to praise—especially from Viktor.

He leans forward, his hand sliding up Jayce’s chest, fingers curling around the back of his neck, tugging him down—kissing him.

It’s messy, desperate. Their lips part immediately, tongues tangling, breaths heavy, muffled groans swallowed between them. Jayce shudders into it, his cock twitching inside you as he kisses Viktor back just as hungrily, tilting his head, deepening it.

It’s so obscene—so hot—the sight of them kissing above you, Jayce’s hips still rolling into yours, Viktor’s fingers still circling your clit.

It’s too much.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, knocking the breath from your lungs. You convulse between them, your body locking up, back arching as you cry out, a broken sob of pleasure. Your cunt clenches down on Jayce’s cock, squeezing him so tight he chokes on a moan, breaking away from Viktor’s lips.

“Fuck—fuck—” His thrusts turn frantic, erratic, his entire body trembling as he slams in one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go. His cock throbs, hot spurts of cum filling you up, spilling out around his thick length, dripping onto the sheets below.

You’re still shaking, your body twitching with aftershocks, your mind completely blank, floating in a haze of pleasure.

But they’re not done with you yet.

Viktor’s hands are already moving, turning you onto your side, shifting you into his arms now. His fingers trace over the mess between your thighs, collecting the slick mixture of your arousal and Jayce’s cum, spreading it around, pushing some of it back inside you.

“So messy” he murmurs, almost affectionate as he presses a kiss to your temple. “But you like that, don’t you?”

Jayce, still panting, still catching his breath, groans at the sight. His hand finds Viktor’s waist, pulling him in, kissing him again—slower, this time. Deeper. His other hand smooths over your trembling thigh, spreading you open for Viktor.

Viktor chuckles against Jayce’s lips before pulling back, his cock nudging against your entrance, pushing in—slow, deliberate, making you feel every inch as he buries himself inside you.

And just like that, it starts all over again.

⸻

The room is quiet now, save for the slow, steady breathing of the three of you, tangled together in the sheets. The heat of the moment has long since passed, replaced by something softer, warmer—a lingering, unspoken love that settles deep in your bones.

You’re exhausted, completely spent, your body heavy and deliciously sore in the best way. Every inch of you still tingles with the remnants of pleasure, oversensitive and raw, but it’s comforting, grounding. It keeps you tethered to them—to the warmth of Jayce’s broad chest pressed against your side, Viktor’s lean frame curled up against your back, both of them holding you close like they never want to let go.

Jayce is the first to break the silence. He shifts slightly, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you, his dark eyes still hazy with exhaustion, but so incredibly soft. His hand comes up, brushing sweat-damp hair away from your face before he leans in, pressing the gentlest kiss to your forehead.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice deep, thick with lingering satisfaction. “You okay?”

You hum softly in response, not quite able to form words yet, and Jayce smiles. God, he looks so lovesick, so unbelievably smitten, like he could spend forever just looking at you.

Viktor chuckles behind you, his fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns along your hip. “She is completely gone,” he muses, amused but so fond. His lips brush against the nape of your neck, lingering there, warm and feather-light. “I cannot say I blame them.”

Jayce grins. “Yeah, we kinda did a number on her?”

His voice is teasing, but there’s something deeply affectionate beneath it. His hand drifts down, smoothing over your side, tracing the curves of your body before he leans in again—another kiss, this time to your cheek, soft and lingering.

Viktor hums, and his own lips find your shoulder, pressing a kiss there, slow and deliberate. Then another one, just a little lower. Then another. It’s like neither of them can stop kissing you, can’t get enough of you even now, after everything.

And it’s so much, all this warmth, this quiet, undemanding love pouring over you in soft caresses and lingering kisses. It makes something in your chest ache, something tender and raw and so full.

Jayce watches Viktor for a moment, his gaze flickering between him and you. Then, with a sleepy grin, he leans over you, capturing Viktor’s lips in a kiss of his own. It’s slow, unhurried—sweet, in a way that makes your heart flutter. Viktor sighs into it, his hand reaching up to cup Jayce’s jaw, pulling him in just a little closer.

The kiss lingers, slow and deep, before Jayce pulls back with a breathless chuckle. “God, I love you,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking over Viktor’s cheek. Then he turns back to you, his expression utterly soft. “Both of you.”

Viktor hums again, his fingers still tracing over your skin, mapping the shape of you like he never wants to forget it. “We know,” he says, amusement lacing his voice. Then, quieter, warmer: “We love you too.”

Jayce beams. He kisses you again, slow and deep, tilting your chin up so he can kiss you properly. His lips are warm, a little chapped but so familiar, so full of affection that it makes your breath hitch.

And then Viktor shifts, pressing up against you from behind, his lips finding your shoulder, then the curve of your neck, then the space just beneath your ear. You shiver at the sensation, utterly surrounded by them, drowning in their warmth, their affection.

Jayce grins against your lips. “Think we can get them to pass out just from kissing alone?”

Viktor laughs, his breath warm against your skin. “It is a worthy experiment.”

And just like that, it continues—the slow, indulgent exchange of kisses, the soft, whispered affections, the gentle hands smoothing over your skin.

By the time exhaustion finally pulls you under, you’re utterly cocooned in them—Viktor’s arms wrapped around your waist, Jayce’s hand cradling the back of your head, their warmth lulling you into the deepest, most peaceful sleep imaginable.

#YESSSSSSS #arcane viktor x reader #viktor x reader #jayce talis x reader #smut

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spectral-devotee · 4 months ago

Text

Birds of a Feather

Link to AO3 Here

Word count: 6.4k

Chapter 07: Threading

Summary:

Eda leaves the Alpha before things get more complicated and starts planning her next steps to make Hextech come to life, but before that she pays a visit to Sky to clear things up.

Jayce goes to Eda’s dorm room expecting to find her there. With no such luck, he sets out to find her, but not before leaving another letter for her to find telling her about their new partner and their upcoming trial.

Viktor starts reconnecting to his Alpha nature, finding a strange feeling when thinking about the possibility of living in a pack, but sets those ideas to the side while he figures out this ‘Hextech dream’

An all encompassing heat surrounded Eda at that instant. Her bare body was warm, boiling, melting against the cold nest underneath her.

Something ached inside of her. There was an urge, a quivering sensation that did nothing but remind her of her denomination.

Omega.

Not weak, but nurturing. Not strong, but protective. Not level-headed, but intuitive.

It was an omega’s strength to keep a pack united.

She remembered that one time one of her philosophy professors recalled how many wars had been fought and ended not by omegas, but for them. Yes, his commentary was somewhat sexist and even unnecessary, but it got her thinking.

Never before did she give herself time to be an Omega. She had obligations, work to do.

Her heats were usually spent in her nest, far away from the harsh, cold, gritty, insensitive world that had stomped down on her since the beginning.

Then again, all her previous heats paled to the one happening right at this moment.

Eda extended her arms to feel the man next to her.

Though he was not the archetype of an Alpha he still made her feel safe. His fingers ran up and down her back in a soothing manner, barely even touching her bra.

He pulled her even closer and wrapped his arm around her figure.

They hugged.

Now she understood why bonded pairs could not take their hands off of each other. The feeling was intoxicating, addictive even.

For a split second there she really did consider riding him to oblivion, but as soon as his scent filled her nostrils, she was out. The stress of the day left her when his arms pulled her even closer, just perfectly aligned to his scent gland.

The heavy weight of her worries banished without a second thought and instantly she knew everything would be alright.

And even if it wasn’t, she would make it right.

…

Eda woke up at around 6am, just in time to gather her bearings.

She stretched over the nest, shaking the stiffness off her body.

The quietness of the villa almost disturbed her. It’s not like the dorms were full of noise or in a constant state of havoc, but the occasional sounds of people passing by, the flicking of lights being turned off and on, or even the distant murmurs of people talking in the common areas were a welcome reminder of life happening all around her.

In the villa, however, the noises were more akin to what would be expected of a residence in the rural area near the city walls.

Everything that happened the day prior came to her in pieces. She remembered talking to Councilor Medarda and her heat starting… then she remembered running to the Masters villa, hiding in a room, waking up and–

She lifted the covers and discovered a very handsome and, fortunately, very dressed man.

So they did not go all the way… He just stayed put next to her and that was enough to quell her heat.

She scrambled over to her belongings and took out the notebook she kept in her purse, her hand scribbling as fast as her pencil allowed. Sky did tell her the suppressant was still in the trial phase, maybe she’d appreciate a report on the symptoms experienced during and after the ‘semi-heat’.

It was too early for the birds to sing yet. The sun gave way to a pale blue color in the sky, indicating it was about to rise.

The only sounds were those of the water running in the fountain outside and the quiet breeze of air seeping through the bathroom window. The silence, even if strange to her, was an appreciated change of pace.

Now, with a little more peace and quiet, Eda noticed many details in the man’s face she had failed to do previously.

Firstly, he was not much older than her, unlike what she had suspected from his musings and vocabulary. His features were sharp, yet they kept some young-ish traits that told her he had to be in his 20-somethings, not even late 20’s, 26 years tops.

Eda’s hand caressed his cheek and his only reaction was a slight twitch, he must have been very tired. People don’t usually make it a habit to get home by midnight, less so to sleep next to the stranger that broke into their home.

Her eyes kept drifting over his handsome features. He was not tall as far as she could tell and was skinnier than her first assessment suggested. Ah, yes, she did see those beauty marks that beautifully framed his face. She would definitely miss those because…

Her second observation in her post-heat clarity would be that he had to be a teacher or, at the very least, a professor’s assistant. The latter would be the least likely due to how selective the academy was regarding the Master’s villa in an effort to make it more exclusive. Not that she blamed them, the houses here could almost be considered national heritage.

Eda caught herself in her usual mental rambings again as she put on her clothes. Either way, the situation at hand could only bring more trouble for them. She was a student and, if he was not a professor himself, he could only be an assistant. If rumors of a High house member messing around with a teacher from her university were to spread, it would certainly set back many of her plans. She had to keep her reputation squeaky clean from now on to make Hextech a reality.

At last her shirt was on and Eda stalked over to the kitchenette only leaning on the wall for support a few times.

The entire set of kitchen furniture, save the dinner table, were somewhat rustic. Its design reminded her of the one she had back at home, that is her real home in Zaun. It brought her many memories of how she and her dad used to go to the downtown market early in the morning to buy fresh ingredients for their meals every weekend.

He made the best pancakes, his trick was to use honey instead of sugar and only greasing up the pan once or twice during the whole ordeal. That way all the pancakes would come out evenly browned and fluffy.

Setting aside her nostalgia, she filled a pot about three quarters full of water and turned on the flame of the two top-side burners of the stove. On the left she put the pot of water, eventually tea, and on the right she set a medium-sized pan she found hanging over the breakfast-bar.

While those two heated up, she picked out some eggs and meat to make a simple dish of… you guessed it, eggs and bacon. She put the bacon on the pan while she chopped some fruit she had seen on his fruit bowl yesterday. By the time she was done the bacon was just the right kind of fried and the pan was coated in grease, perfect for the next step.

The secret to cracking an egg, Eda mused to herself, is to do it on a flat surface. Which, for her, meant on the counter next to her work area. She even added a little bit of extra butter to make the egg’s edges crispier.

Whatever was left of grease on the pan was used up when she put the bread slices on the same pan and toasted them.

About an hour had passed since she woke up. The first half she spent waking up and admiring the Alpha, the other half of that hour had gone by while making their meal, forty-five minutes if Eda had to account for the time she spent eating it. He must have been really tired not to wake up to the noise she made.

At around 7 am she was ready to leave. Just in time for her third observation to come to mind: he offered a place to stay during a vulnerable moment and did not attempt to push things further. She, at least, owed him compensation for that.

Eda tore a piece of paper from her notebook and wrote a simple message for him to read whenever he woke up.

In that letter she wrote neither her name nor how to find her. It may have seemed like an oversight, but it was completely intentional. She had to keep her reputation squeaky clean for the time being, this brought up many risks she was not willing to take at the moment. Besides, she knew where to find the Alpha.

All the while Eda expected another heat wave or any sign of her suppressants not working, but none came. Either her proximity to the Alpha or Sky’s suppressants had rendered her symptoms nonexistent.

She thought for a moment. It would be a safer bet to stay until the Alpha woke up, but she had very little time to spare and she had to meet up with Jayce and get back on planning their next steps. She didn’t know if her attempt at a pitch was enough to get the Councilor to consider giving Hextech another chance.

There was no other option, Eda had to make her way back to her dorm room now. She opened the door and walked out, giving one last glance behind.

She took notice of the colorful patch of flowers growing through the cracks just outside his door. None of the other houses had them. The Alpha must have taken care of them.

Using what little cover the morning offered, she made her way back to her place.

The walk from the villa to the school was a short one, as one would expect. Stone slabs paved the way to a discreet entrance near the west wing of the main building.

Before she realized she was already in the common area of her dorm. Only a few students were present in the common area helping themselves to a hearthy cup of coffee. She hurried up before anyone else could witness her arrival.

Striding up to the elevator and then down the hallway, Eda reached her door in record time when a familiar scent made itself known. She gave the door another whiff just to be sure.

Jayce had been there.

Had he tried to pay her a visit during the night?

She quickly opened her door, expecting to see any trace of him either on the couch or her own bedroom, but found nothing.

His oaky scent was fresh, very fresh. Just her luck to go search for him only for him to have gone searching for her too.

Then a piece of paper caught her attention. It had Jayce’s messy handwriting all over it.

‘To my loveliest most gracious partner,

Are you alright, I’m wor Eda, you conniving little menace.

How did you even

I can’t thank you enough for whatever trick you pulled this time. Councilor Mel Medarda convinced Dr. Heimerdinger to give us another chance. It was crazy. I’ll tell you the details when I get to see you. Here’s what you need to know right now:

We had a breakthrough! Finally the crystals reacted positively to the oscillations and we found a way to make the runes syntonize with the equipment AND the crystals AT THE SAME TIME. Even Heimerdinger was surprised we managed to pull it off!

They did say we’d need another hearing to make our case. More on that later.

And yes, I said ‘we’. You won’t believe this, but Heimerdinger’s assistant (yes, THAT one) recognized our notes on Hextech and its uses before they were sent to be burnt and decided to help! Turns out he’s a pretty decent guy outside the classroom, he’s just a bit serious sometimes (might I add he is also very interested in your project?)

Don’t be mad, but I did offer him to be our new partner. Trust me on this one, you’re gonna love him. His name is Viktor, I’ve told him lots about you. He’s eager to meet you.

We scheduled a reunion today at 1pm in lab 1-E in the west building, next to the classroom you used to walk me to after your classes ended. I hope to see you there.

I understand if you can’t make it because of, please do let me know if you’re alright. I can help you thr I’ll be at your dorm as fast as possible just in case you need anything.

Love, Jayce-boy’

Eda clutched the letter to her chest and slowly fell to her knees.

He was fine, more than fine even. That was a huge relief, she didn’t expect things to turn out that well. She couldn’t help but smile at the scribbled out opening of the letter. He cared for her deeply, even if he tried to seem nonchalant about it.

Another thing that caught her attention was the mention of a new partner. She hadn’t considered the possibility of adding someone else to the mix. She always envisioned Jayce and herself at the front of the operation, even if they didn’t understand each other all of the time. Miscommunication between Architects and Engineers was nothing new in their departments.

Adding someone made sense at the end of the day, Jayce needed another point of view regarding the technical side of Hextech, and she herself was not able to give him all the answers to their projects. If anything she gave him more ideas than solutions.

Yet something kept poking at the back of her mind; as smart as Jayce was, he was too trusting at times. It was like he could only see the best in every person. Even after being proven wrong, he still chose to try and be positive. The complete opposite of herself, who decided to proceed with caution, only deciding to confide in very few people. She’d have to see this ‘Viktor’ guy in person, make sure he was in it for the right reasons.

The oaky fragrance of Jayce’s scent was starting to get distracting, though.

The fact that she could still smell him in her apartment meant she was not out of the woods yet. Then her own scent reached her nose. Definitely still in heat, just not noticeably.

While the heatwaves and general sexual appetite were gone, the heightened sense of smell was still a clear symptom of heat in Omegas. She would have to pay Sky a visit before heading to see her partners.

She sighed, but headed for a quick shower nonetheless. Thankfully she didn’t have any classes on saturday or it would’ve made things unnecessarily more complicated

While walking to her bathroom Eda noticed the little clues of Jayce’s presence. He had taken one of the shirts she stole from him a while ago. Damn.

His scent was most present in the shower. Did he take a shower just before heading out? He must have, he always turned up to the lab with his hair still wet and his face freshly shaved.

Eda stepped under the showerhead, the warm water enveloped her and suddenly she was not so sure her ‘appetite’ had disappeared at all.

She had a few minutes to spare, didn’t she?

The steam partially clouded the mirror, making her silhouette barely visible in the fog. She could almost picture Jayce’s reflection pressed against her and his perfect hands roaming up and down her body before settling on her hips. In her daydream Jayce kissed her neck, skimming over her scent gland.

Then another pair of hands appeared, now in front of her. The man from yesterday, with his chestnut locks dripping water and his accented voice whispering sweet nothings to her ear. The Alpha musk he emanated was mixing perfectly with Jayce’s. He opened his mouth, his canine teeth now about to bite down on her neck.

The only sounds coming from them were a cacophony of whimpers and moans until–

That’s it. Too much imagination. She had to get Sky ASAP, this was definitely not her normal self. Eda grabbed a towel and ran for her room, quickly stepping into a more becoming attire before heading out.

Luckily for her, Sky was usually at her lab.

…

As much as Viktor tried to get his mind off the Omega, he couldn’t. Had she gotten back to her dorm safe? What if she felt pressured to leave because of something he did?

Was he not a fit Alph–

At that he stopped his mind in its tracks.

He did not usually want to be an Alpha, if anything he tried to ignore his denomination and pass as a Beta, just as he had done since he was young. While the doctors insisted on him going through a normal rut cycle, he had postponed it as much as possible to the point were it may start affecting his health again.

The initial treatment did improve his health significantly, his leg did not bother him as much and his pain decreased from what it used to be, yet his endocrine system was still affected due to his hormones not quite following the biological expectations which, by proxy, facilitated a whole myriad of other health concerns.

As expected, he would avoid people in general out of fear of his Alpha latching onto a compatible mate, be it a Beta or an Omega. He did not need a pack holding him back from making something out of himself.

Yesterday had changed that.

There was something strange about the pair he had met. Almost like a force pulling him to them, maybe akin to destiny. Many coincidences had led him to the place he was at the moment, yet none of them seemed as… fortuitous as the one that took place in the last fifteen hours.

First Jayce, the young Beta, about to jump off the building. Thank gods he was there to stop him.

After their initial talk about Hextech and their subsequent breakthrough, they continued their conversation on the way to the villa. Jayce talked non stop about his, now their, partner. His admiration was palpable, and even contagious.

During this exchange there were also moments of silence.

They exchanged glances then, none of them said a word about what could’ve happened had Viktor not been there snooping around, but they knew. That highly sentimental connection was not lost on him.

Then that Omega happened. Viktor had always been disgusted by the stereotypical figure of Alphas who abused their denomination deep in the fissures. It was well-known that, more often than not, Alphas were the ones to rule over the others thanks to their biological advantages. He had suspected he might not have been a Beta long ago, but did not give it any more thought.

Yes, he had many… desires typical of his Alpha nature, but he made sure to keep them in check. That night had tested his limits and, at the same time, proven them useless.

The absolute faith the Omega put on him irritated him at first.

How could she have been so calm, so… trusting, in such a perilous situation?

Yet, she had a way of making each and every one of his worries fly out the window. By the time he realized what was going on, she was already combing her fingers through his hair. They were talking as if nothing was wrong because, really, nothing was.

He found himself falling for his instincts in a way he had not ever dreamt possible. While his sexual urges were present, his need to make sure she was safe far exceeded any other impulse. He only got to relax when he was sure she had dozed off first.

A thought crossed his mind: he wouldn’t mind a pack if it were to be with them.

Was it even in his plans? Long ago he concluded he didn’t want, nor need, a pack.

That was also around the time he decided to ignore the part of him that desired the impossible.

Viktor stopped the intrusive thoughts on their tracks and fixed his tie, looking for any fuzz or wrinkles in his perfectly ironed uniform. None were there, but he had to make sure for the umpteen time that day. He wanted to look presentable, now more than ever.

Something about this reunion had him restless and he had to take his mind off… everything.

Certainly he’d arrive early, far too early for either of them to be there, but he would not be able to sit around and do nothing with his home still smelling like Her.

A fire within was already burning and he had to do something before he combusted in flames.

He fixed his hair once more and stepped out of his house, a book on alchemy and runes in his left hand and his cane on the right one.

He was ready to, formally, meet his partners at last.

…

Eda opened the door and peeked into the second chemistry lab on the third floor of the building, the one Sky frequented due to its natural light and easy access from her own dorm room (or so she said) She saw little to no students, as one would expect to see on a weekend.

None of them had seemed to notice her so she made her way to the back of the room, where she had noticed a very familiar messy bun hard at work.

A pair of hands hovered over Sky’s glasses, mindful not to touch them.

“Guess who,” A very familiar voice said.

“Glad to see you did not lose your sense of humor on your way to the dorm” Sky answered. Eda noticed the dark spots under her eyes and the various cups of coffee scattered over her desk. Had Sky not slept at all?

“Huh. How did you know I didn’t make it to my room? You have spies or something?” Eda put down her hands, grabbed a hold of a stool next to Sky, and plumped down on it, now worried about her friend.

“As if. No, I– ” Sky put a hand to her forehead “I’m sorry, let me start again. Are you alright? Last night I noticed you didn’t make it to your room and I panicked. I swear I would’ve told Jayce or something, but I know you don’t like me worrying about–” She turned to look at Eda.

“Woah, what?” Sky stared at her, worry written all over her face “No, I’m perfectly fine. I did get to mask my heat. The effect only lasted a couple of hours, not four by the way, before it came in full force right in front of Councilor Medarda. I ran away, yes. That was embarrassing, yes. I didn’t make it to my room, but I… managed. I found a place to stay for the night. Don’t look at me like that, I swear I’m fine” Sky’s tense posture relaxed slightly “Now tell me what has you all stressed out. Please”

“Yesterday I– I was planning on coming to visit you after I finished up some of my lab reports here. I even bought some of those little tarts you love, but when I got there you were nowhere to be seen” Sky hid her face for a moment before continuing “I waited for you for… a while, I was really worried you might’ve presented some secondary effects and gotten lost somewhere out there. Then,” She turned to look at her again “As I was leaving I saw Jayce approach your door and knock a few times”

Sky hugged her once more. “I was worried sick. What if something went wrong?”

“I can– ”

“Don’t give me that ‘I can take care of my own’ crap right now, Eda. I know you can,” Eda patted her back softly. “It’s just that you were my responsibility then. I was supposed to make sure you made it home safe”

“Well… I did make it into a home safe, yes” Sky looked at her quizzically. “Let’s just say I met someone who took good care of me– NO. Not like that! Geez, get your mind out of the gutter. No, he…”

“Oh, so it’s a he” A devilish smile formed in Sky’s face. “Interesting”

“Please, he was just a nice Alpha. He let me stay in his room for the night and no, nothing happened.” Eda paused “Actually that’s why I came here to talk”

“To tell me all about your heat escapade with a mysterious Alpha man? By all means do continue. I’m intrigued” Sky rested her chin on her hand, clearly entertained.

“N– well, yes, partially, but uhm, ” Eda stumbled on her words, but took out a piece of paper from her bag nonetheless. “I wrote down all of the symptoms and effects I presented after drinking your suppressant”

“It’s not a suppressant” Eda looked at her quizzically and Sky elaborated. “It’s more of a ‘scent masker’, if we were to be technical. It didn’t suppress anything, you’re still… yeah”

“Well, that explains a lot of things. I still feel somewhat… y’know”

“Somewhat… what, Eda? I don’t know what you’re talking about” Sky smiled, feigning ignorance.

“You little shit! You know exactly what I mean –but… I’ve got to say, I was surprised at the result. It did help a lot, thank you”

Sky looked at her for a minute, no words exchanged. Eda was about to ask her what was wrong before her voice interrupted her “When I made this I was hoping to create something meaningless, just some scent-tech that would never be used”

“Only you would desire to create a useless invention”

“I wish. Turns out my thesis advisor spoke to Councillor Shoola and she’s interested in it, which got me concerned. Why would she want to sponsor this if it was meant to be useless?” Sky paused. “Well, turns out Omegas disappearing while they are in their heat is not as uncommon as one might think, apparently”

“What?”

“Statistics have shown a small increase in reported Omegan disappearances in the last year. Usually it wouldn’t be given more significance, but given… new intel from the sheriff it may be cause for concern” Sky looked over to the window. “The undercity has never been safe, not even for Alphas, but there is something new going on. You have to tread carefully, Eda”

“Well, that wasn’t ominous at all” Eda dispersed the tension. “It would’ve been nice to know this beforehand,” Sky turned to look at her, almost as if saying ‘try to guess why I couldn’t tell you’ “-nevermind, I get it. This stays between us. Another secret added to our little collection, alright”

“With that out of the way…” Sky smiled again. “Tell me everything”

The pair continued talking about last night’s events. Eda was sure to include the symptoms and Sky, now with renewed scientific curiosity, took note of them. The conversation ranged from their respective projects to the next steps Eda would need to take for Hextech to come true, and finally the conversation shifted to the nameless Alpha, all in good fun.

That is until they reached a certain topic.

“Just so you know, for research purposes I’ve had to study many cases of Alpha and Omega courting” Sky’s words caught her by surprise.

Eda choked on her own saliva “O- Hmm. Alright?”

“It’s not normal for an Omegan heat to be sated so easily”

The air became thick with Eda’s silence. She gave Sky a doubtful glare, recalling a similar situation a few months back. “I don’t know about that, Sky. Aside from suppressants, during my last heat I just got some used clothes and they worked just as well”

“From what I gather, that usually means high compatibility among courting pack mates. It’s the Omega system slowing you down to be more easily bit, and therefore, mated. Soulmates don’t exist, but that connection is as biologically close as we can get to the concept”

“--but that has only happened with Jayce before”

“I’m gonna let you connect the dots on that one”

…

Viktor arrived early at the lab. Way too early. Maybe even too soon to be early.

The lab was lent to him specially by Dr. Heimerdinger in hopes of putting it into good use after near abandonment. It proved too cramped to give lectures in and too spacious for personal use of faculty staff. The only condition Cecil put was to keep it clean and, knowing Viktor, that was a given.

As fast as Viktor got inside, he hurried over to his desk, not even bothering to close the door behind him. He opened the book he carried and got on to jotting down the symbols described in it along their supposed effects.

Admittedly, it had been a while since he got so worked up over basically nothing. As Jayce said ‘Hextech is the easy part’. Last night, they discovered how to stabilize the nucleus enough to receive commands in the shape of runes. The next logical step was figuring out what exactly the runes translate to.

Though, that would take quite some time. Viktor eyed to book next to him, full to the brim with ancient sigils and runes, all possible combinations of commands for their nucleus.

Really, today would mostly consist of getting a hang on the nucleus, its possible uses, and overall brainstorm of ideas on how to implement it into “Eda’s” masterplan (Jayce had been very adamant on that last part), but little else aside from the mere formalities of getting to meet his new partners.

Or so he assumed.

He could only hope his brilliance could make up for his lacking social skills. Networking had never been his strength, not even when it was crucial. The very few times he had a chance to meet possible sponsors for his independent projects, he had gravely misused them, instead opting for his work to speak for itself.

It was a wonder how Dr. Heimerdinger had even come across him in that little stand downtown.

He absentmindedly touched his neck, right where the Omega had scented him.

She was a student in the academy yet they hadn’t crossed paths. In all likelihood, she was probably in another program, something related to design if he had to take a guess.

He would need to look for her some time in the near future, maybe.

The distant clicking of boot heels brought him back to reality. Viktor turned his gaze just in time to see Jayce entering the lab with a book and some pieces of paper in his arms.

“Hey there, Vik. I thought I’d see you here early”

“Jayce, a pleasure seeing you again”

“You’re working already? Oh my god, I’m sorry for getting here late. Let me help you” He Beta made his way to Viktor in a rush. As he got closer the Alpha noticed there was something different about him. Not physically, but… something was amiss.

Jayce filled the silence as he came to expect “You wouldn't believe how hard it was to leave the dorms–”

“I was not aware exiled students had assigned dorm rooms” Viktor then realised how badly he had phrased his observation “I’m sorry, I did not mean-”

Jayce managed to stifle a chuckle “Oh, no, you’re not wrong. I did not have a dorm even when I was a student. The costs were far too high!” Viktor paused his writing. He had assumed that Lower Houses had access to those kinds of services. Maybe he had been too wishful. “-- No, I slept at Eda’s. She gave me a key a while ago. I don’t make it a habit to sleep there, but seeing as she wasn’t there, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to crash on her sofa for the night”

“That explains why you’re so… clean” Jayce couldn’t help but actually laugh at that.

“Oh, yeah. I guess you have only seen me at the brink of utter desperation. No, I’m usually like this” He signaled to himself, his shirt seemingly spotless under the school’s dress jacket and the same pants as yesterday. “Though I did use her shampoo, maybe that’s why my hair is extra fluffy today”

Something kept bothering Viktor about Jayce’s appearance, not in the wrong way; he just couldn’t point out what it was that kept screaming for his attention. It was not the shirt, nor the shoes. Something about his scent…

Then it hit him. That fragrance. He had smelled it somewhere before, but where?

He decided to ignore it until he could pin where he had smelled it before “I see. Well, uhm. Jayce, I must say, I kept thinking about what you said yesterday about how we only needed to ‘crack the code’ to make your Hextech work”

“Our Hextech”

A warm feeling bloomed in Viktor’s chest once more “Our Hextech, yes. About that-” He moved to the side, allowing Jayce to see what he had been writing for the past several hours. It was a comparison chart of sorts between the runes written in the book and in Jayce’s notes side to side with their supposed effects when given to the nucleus.

Immediately Jayce understood what he was doing. “This is amazing, V. Let me just– ” He moved closer to the notebook and, therefore, Viktor. He rested his arm against the Alpha’s while writing down a few of his observations. Viktor took this time to make a few of his own regarding his partner.

Jayce’s oakwood scent was fainter than one might think; he did not need to flaunt to be noticed, any room could be illuminated with his presence alone. That much was obvious by the way he conducted himself. He was not gracious nor elegant, but a whole other thing. He was earnest, very intelligent, hardworking and trusting. Maybe too trusting to give him this much access to his, and Eda’s, project while knowing practically nothing about Viktor.

“Hey, V. Could you come check this out for a second?”

Jayce had stood up and started writing, drawing and solving equations on the blackboard. When exactly did that happen? Viktor was not sure. He had been lost in his own thoughts.

The Alpha grabbed his cane and stood up next to the Beta. They went through their shared annotations. Several minutes went by before Viktor realized how close Jayce had gotten, absentmindedly leaning over to him.

During their brief time together, Viktor took notice of Jayce’s distaste for the ‘awkward’ silences partially due to the fact that he kept trying to make small talk. However, at some point the conversation shifted to last night’s events.

“-and then that’s when I decided to go inside, but found no one. Is it weird that she wasn’t there? I feel like something is missing. I don’t even know if she got my letter. I’m certain she moved her stuff into her dorm room, so she’s not living at her house right now” He shifted unconsciously “but where was she last night if not there? Do you think she’s avoiding me because her project was compromised? I’d hate to-”

“I think you might be reading too much into it” Viktor cut Jayce’s nervous ramblings “Councilor Medarda made sure to let us know it was thanks to Eda’s intervention that she even considered giving Hextech another chance”

Jayce’s whole body language remained just as uneasy, so Viktor continued.

“Had your friend been upset, I’m not certain she would’ve been so gracious as to pull some strings in your favor”

“I- yeah. I hope you’re right. It’s just that the thought of her being distressed makes me feel like I’m burning alive” Jayce opened his eyes wide in surprise “Did I say that out loud?”

“Indeed” Viktor faced him momentarily, taking in how much Eda meant to Jayce. A whole lot, by the looks of it. Jayce hadn’t mentioned they were a bonded pair nor did he correct him whenever he called them ‘friends’, but their closeness didn’t make sense any other way. Still, his neck did not bear a mating bite.

“I need to get my mind off that. You’re right, I’m just worried” His callused hands rubbed his eyes “Did you get any sleep last night, V? You look ‘clean’ too”

Viktor’s hand stopped suddenly, leaving a rune’s description half written across the board. His mind flooded with all the events that took place in his house. Specifically in his bedroom. All he could manage to blurt out was “Now that you bring it up, something did happen”

“What was it? Did someone break into your home?” He said jokingly, but Viktor remained serious. “Are you kidding? Viktor, if someone broke into your home I swear-”

“Nothing bad came of it. It was an Omega, she needed help. Nothing else”

“Still, that could’ve gone horribly wrong. Did you get her name, address or something?”

But before he could elaborate, a woman ran to Jayce’s arms and hugged him, almost sending him tumbling down to the floor.

…

After her little chat with Sky, Eda was now more determined to get back with Jayce and plan out the steps to follow before, during, and after their trial with the Council members. That would be the turning point for them. Everything depended on the majority of the members to agree, and Eda had just the right pitch to make for them.

Even then, they still had the Innovators Competition to look forward to after that. She had no doubt they’d win this time around. There were only two months left before they had to submit their projects and get to the finalists round. During three days the finalists would be invited to select parties meant to let possible sponsors get to know the geniuses they would be exploiting working alongside with soon enough.

The more she thought about the possibilities, the more her step fastened. They would need to replace the materials and equipment lost either to the explosion or to the legal intervention of the sheriff.

Eda found herself rushing through the Engineering department looking for the lab Jayce had described in his letter. She vaguely remembered it, but it had been a while since she had last accompanied him to that specific classroom.

Suddenly she saw him, clear as day. He looked serious, his thick brows almost touching in focus. Surely he had already gotten to work already.

She ran towards him with a desperation she didn’t even know she was capable of, and jumped to his arms. The mere force of it almost sent them straight to the floor.

“That’s her”

…

Notes:

Hello againnnn! I’m so sorry for taking so long to push out this chapter. This whole thesis thing has been kicking my ass lately. I hope you enjoy this humble offering. I promise to keep updating as soon as I possibly can fr fr.

Finally we are (almost) done with the canon-compliant chapters before the timeskip between acts I and II of the first season! Only a few more chapters and the more radical artistic freedom is back on!!!! As you may have noticed, yes, Viktor’s backstory is completely different from the one implied in the series/described by the creators, but I will be sure to include the excerpts shown from when he was a child. Yes, that includes Singed.

I think Jayce’s desire to be an Alpha and Viktor’s to be a Beta gives ground for personal conflicts and an interesting storyline for my boys. I will try to elaborate in further chapters. In most ABO universes sexual freedom is the norm, I think, so I will run with that. Adults talk about heats and ruts, but it's usually kept on the down-low for properties sake.

As you’d expect, I’ve never written for polycules. Please let me know if I’m overstepping or making it confusing at times. In these few chapters I’d like to make apparent the attraction Viktor, Jayce and Eda feel for each other without creating a conflict of interests. They are all open to the idea of attraction to more than one person at the same time, yet their desire to act upon it will vary. They all have individual goals that may or may not be held back by a pack, and I want to give them time to realise they can have it all, if they can manage it.

Also, a quick announcement. Yes, the fic description, as well as chapter 4 have been edited! This fic started as a way to explore Viktor’s feelings through a reader insert, but somewhere in the middle it turned into a political drama with an actual plot! I’m so sorry if you came here not expecting that change, but I promise to try and make it interesting.

Don’t worry, I will continue to develop the characters, established plotlines and Eda’s project alongside the JayVik+Reader ABO aspect of the whole thing.

As always, thank you very much for reading up to here.

#a/b/o dynamics #jayce talis #jayce x reader #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #pekkwrites #jayce arcane #reader insert #omegaverse

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