#Strength Testing Machine | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

em1i2a3 · 28 days ago

Text

Entombed

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

Summary: The aftermath of your night with The Void is weighing heavy on you and things start to change. (This is a continuation of ‘Test Drive’)

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts as there is Bob in this…And The Void There is Angst, Smut, and Fluff in this. There are dark elements/themes in this that are explored. Bob and the reader are going through it, and it’s quite rough. There is a lot of emotions and tons of tension happening in this story and honestly it was a whole lotta fun writing it because jeez, there was so much that could happen in the aftermath of this! The Void is obsessed/bonded to the reader, and there are elements of the supernatural in this we lean into it just a bit but it’s not a huge part of the story (y’all will see, I kind of took a little bit of lore from the comics but nothing too crazy). Guilt and Regret kinda plays a role in this too.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up my peeps please), Body Worship/Praise Kink, Reader is in Control (not in a dominant way), Cockwarming, Grinding, Heavy Makeout (which involves a lot of heavy petting), Very Light Choking, Marking/Biting/Reclaiming, Oral Sex (Fem! Receiving), Super Intimate Sex, Aftercare Galore, Discussions/References to sex

Authors Note: Well, I hope this part 2 satisfies, I made some choices here that leave things open for a part 3 if people truly want it but hopefully y’all enjoy this one first :)) I was on the fence on where I wanted this to go but hopefully my creative decisions paid off.

Word Count: 16,464

Peeps Who Wanted To Be Tagged For Part 2: @millercontracting @avengersinitiative2012 @dark-silhouette @kurayamifairy @houseofaegon @vanguardlady @sentryluvs @simp-sentral @impoeticbeauty

Bob loved watching you train.

It wasn’t the flash of your skill set or the brutality you were capable of unleashing when pushed. It was your agility. The grace that was threaded into every step, every twist, and every perfectly executed takedown. You moved like you were born for the fight–but never to dominate. You weren’t the kind of person that demanded attention. You were the kind that earned it, silently, relentlessly, and over time.

That’s what had first drawn Bob to you. Not the danger, but the discipline. Not the strength, but the control…And the way you smiled, soft and easy, when you would push your hair back and look over your shoulder with a quiet little smirk that said ‘watch me’.

He could watch you for hours.

But today…Today you weren’t moving. You weren’t even training. You were sitting on the edge of the mat, sweater drawn tight around your shoulders, sleeves swallowing past your wrists, with your legs tucked up in a way that didn’t look relaxed. You looked…Small. Uncharacteristically withdrawn, and it worried him, because from the viewing deck all he could think about was how you were acting at breakfast.

You hadn’t smiled once this morning. Not when Ava made a dumb joke about the broken coffee machine. Not when Alexei spilled hot sauce on his shirt and cursed in Russian. Not even when Bob had caught your eye–or tried to–and offered you that quiet half-smile you usually returned without hesitation. It was like you were actively avoiding him, you didn’t sit beside him, and you didn’t even look at him.

It was like watching someone wearing your skin–your gestures, your face–but none of you was there. And now, down on the mat, wrapped up in your pool of clothes, you looked like you were trying to disappear.

The clang of a metal clasp echoed as Walker dropped his sparring gear. Ava stretched, rolled her shoulders, and tossed a half-empty water bottle across the room, nailing Alexei in the chest. Training was winding down with the usual noise and chaos, but none of it touched you–it looked like you had been released from prison.

You stood slowly, stretching out your back, and Bob caught the faint grimace that flickered across your face as your body resisted the motion. You winced–barely–but it was enough to make his chest tighten. He thought maybe you were injured, or that you pulled something yesterday during your high intensity training. That would explain the sitting out. Maybe even the outfit. But it didn’t explain the way you’d barely spoken to anyone that morning nor the way you looked through him at breakfast like he was a piece of glass. Like he did something…

You turned toward the hallway, and immediately he moved towards the exit.

He came down from the observation deck, taking the stairs two at a time. His hoodie sleeves were bunched at his elbows and he wiped his palms on the sides of his sweatpants, the nerves were pulsing through his skin. He wasn’t good at this–at confrontation, even soft ones–but the ache in his chest told him he wouldn’t sleep if he didn’t at least try to figure out what was wrong.

“H-Hey,” He called gently, catching up to you just as you reached the doorway to the locker rooms. You paused, and he could see the way your shoulders tensed at his voice before you turned to him. You wrapped your arms over yourself, almost like you were bracing for something.

”I, um…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting between your face, then away, “C-Can I talk to you for a s-second.” Instantly you could feel your heart begin to race, the idea that he might have actually remembered last night almost made you ill, you could feel the bile begin to rise in the back of your throat, as you forced yourself to answer.

”O-Okay.” You were bracing yourself.

”I just–“ He fumbled for words, “I wanted t-to check in…You’ve been acting k-kind of…Distant t-today. At breakfast, d-during training…Even right n-now. I thought maybe s-something was wrong…Or I-I did something.” You swallowed hard, a little too hard to have it be unnoticed. The sound caught in your throat like a stone, and you could feel the weight of his worry pressing into the narrow space between you. Bob wasn’t loud. Wasn’t pushy. But the way his voice trembled, the way his hands fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve–it was enough to make your chest cave in.

You shook your head before he could finish his next sentence.

“No,” You said quickly, “You didn’t do anything.”

His mouth opened slightly, like he wanted to ask if you were sure, but he didn’t. He just nodded, brows still knit in concern.

“I…I just didn’t sleep well,” You added, hoping it would sound casual, feeling this dread slowly building up inside of you, because all you could think about was his hands, and his lips, and his mouth, or the scratch marks on your back that were burning as you spoke to him, almost like they were calling for your attention.

“O-Oh…” He replied, softly, “O-Okay…I just t-though maybe you were upset with m-me or something…But I-I know you would d-definitely tell m-me if that was the case…” You offered the smallest smile, feeling your throat tightening at the way he was speaking to you, like he knew what happened last night but he was waiting for you to say something.

“We’re okay…” Bob nodded at your weak reassurance–we’re okay–but he didn’t look convinced. He chewed at the inside of his cheek, like there was something else he wanted to say, something gnawing at him. But instead, he cleared his throat and forced a smile.

“R-Right,” He murmured. “I was also g-gonna ask if, uh…If we’re still doing our little b-bodega thing? I figured we could g-get your usual, sit by the fountain like always…” It was your routine. Quiet and private and safe. After training, just the two of you would head down the street to that tiny corner bodega with the cracked tile floor and the sleepy cat in the window. You always got the same thing–egg salad, extra pickles, Bob always forgot to ask for napkins–and then you’d walk a block over and sit by the fountain near the old courthouse. Sometimes you talked about training. Sometimes you talked about everything else, or you just watched people and mumbled about what they must be doing or where they must be going.

During these times it felt like he was yours.

And now?

You couldn’t even look him in the eye.

“I don’t think I can today…” You said quietly, your voice barely carrying over the hum of the hallway light. “I think I may just go to my room after I change... To lay down.”

His expression flickered–something between worry and disappointment, but not the selfish kind. The kind that hurt because he cared. Because he knew there was something wrong, or that you were hiding something from him at the very least. Because he didn’t understand why it suddenly felt like you were slipping out of his hands and he couldn’t stop it.

“Oh. Y-Yeah. Of course,” He replied quickly, tucking his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie to stop them from fidgeting. “That makes sense. You should rest. That’s good. Rest is–good.” You offered him a faint, aching smile–like something carved out of stone.

“Yeah…Should help a bit.” Your voice was so soft, and gentle he could barely hear it.

“Can I…D-Do anything for you? I could bring you some tea? O-Or I could just stay close, in case you–”

You shook your head before he could finish.

“No,” You murmured. “I just need to be alone.”

He nodded again. Slower this time. The corner of his mouth lifted in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Okay. I’ll, uh… I’ll see you later, then.”

You gave him a small nod of acknowledgement, and quickly slipped into the locker room without another word.

Once the door clicked softly behind you, it felt like you could finally let go of the breath you’d been holding since breakfast. But the exhale didn’t bring relief–it only left you emptier. The weight in your chest didn’t ease; it tightened. Pressed in. Like your ribs were folding inward. Like your lungs were trying to collapse around a scream you couldn’t afford to let out.

Tears gathered before you could stop them.

Hot. Stinging. Blurring your vision before they ever reached your lashes. You tried to blink them away. You clenched your jaw until it ached. But the pressure building behind your sternum was too sharp, too real, too loud. The ache had dug in sometime between last night and now, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

You weren’t sure if it was regret. Not in the traditional sense. Because it hadn’t felt like a mistake in the moment–it had felt like inevitability. Like gravity. Like a need that had grown too large to hold back. And the way he had touched you–reverently, ruinously–had shattered something you didn’t even know was intact.

But now?

Now it felt like you’d made a deal with the devil in the dark and woken up in someone else’s skin.

You wrapped your arms around yourself tightly, nails digging into the sleeves of your sweater.

The guilt crawled in like rot. Not loud. Just constant. Creeping through your bones. Worming into the cracks between your thoughts. Because the worst part wasn’t what he’d done.

It was that you let him.

You’d let the Void in.

You invited him.

And maybe that would’ve been survivable–maybe–if it had been just about you and him. But it wasn’t. Not even close.

Because now Bob…Sweet, trembling, gentle Bob–your Bob…Had no idea what had happened. He had no memory of what his own body had done. Of what you had allowed. Of what he’d whispered in your ear in that almost-voice that sounded so much like him your heart broke under it. And that was the part that was ripping you apart.

The betrayal wasn’t his.

It was yours.

Because it felt like you’d taken advantage of a piece of him he couldn’t control��used a part of him he’d been trying to suppress. And now you were walking around with the memory of him in your skin, in your bones, in the place where he’d left something behind–and he was walking around clueless. Still smiling at you like he would do anything to protect you. Still offering to bring you tea. You pressed your hand to your abdomen as the guilt twisted deeper, sharper.

Because even now, a part of you was aching for what happened. Craving the touch. The voice. The power. And that was the cruelest truth of all.

You hadn’t just said yes. You’d wanted it.

You sniffed and wiped at your eyes with the sleeves of your sweater, but it didn’t help. The tears had already left hot streaks along your cheeks, and your mouth tasted like metal–like the guilt had started seeping in from the inside out.

And then, suddenly, it burned.

It wasn’t sharp. Not like a cut or a bruise. It was deep. Molten. Like someone had sunk hot iron into your spine and lit a match inside your skin. Your whole body jolted. You reached for the edge of the bench to steady yourself, breath catching as the burn surged again–up your back, down your hips, around the sides of your ribs.

You grabbed at the hem of your sweater and yanked it over your head with a shaky, desperate motion, casting it aside onto the bench like it was soaked in gasoline.

And then you turned to the mirror.

Your stomach dropped.

The marks were worse.

So much worse.

What had once been faint purpling around your hips, vague red lines across your shoulder blades, were now vivid. Raised. Angry. Like they’d grown. They were more defined–claws, unmistakably. Four long, precise gouges across your back, etched in perfect arcs like someone had gripped you and dragged you down to hell.

The bruise on your collarbone had deepened into a bruise-black imprint of teeth. Not sharp like fangs. Just possessive.

There were fingerprints on your thighs, your waist. His fingerprints.

But worse–

They were pulsing. The skin around each mark glowed faintly. Subtle. Like an ember tucked just beneath your flesh, blinking with your pulse.

“What the fuck…” Was all you could manage to say, as your fingers traced over the marks.

The mirror flickered, and you froze.

The overhead lights stayed on, but the mirror–just for a second–shivered like a ripple passed through it. The color leached from your reflection, and the air shifted. Heavier. Sharper.

Then, that voice.

“You must be pretty confused right now, hm?” Your mouth parted and your throat went dry.

You didn’t turn around. You didn’t need to, because he was there.

In the mirror.

The Void stood in the glass like a phantom with substance, wearing Bob’s shape again like it was tailored for him, but darker–more real than anything had a right to be. His jaw was sharp. His shoulders held the same broadness as Bob's, only he stood confidently. His eyes…The ones you had looked into last night when you had called him by Bob’s name…The twin void stars. He looked like a dark hole in the middle of the room. Your lips parted.

“I…” You blinked. “Bob’s awake.” The words came out flat, panicked. A statement of fact–as if saying it aloud would force the universe to correct itself. “He’s awake. He’s walking around. He–He talked to me just a few minutes ago. He–he was right outside. You’re not supposed to be here…How the fuck are you here?”

He smiled at you through the glass, and you saw teeth.

Not sharp. Not jagged. Worse.

Perfect. Like the kind of teeth a man shows when he knows the whole room belongs to him. It looked almost the exact same as last night, only it was clearer now, more visible to your eye.

“Oh, sweetheart,” He purred, stepping forward–closer to the edge of the mirror. The room didn’t darken, but your reflection dimmed behind his, as though you were no longer the main inhabitant of your own body. “I don’t disappear that quickly.”

A chill bloomed across your shoulders.

You hadn’t moved. But your breath hitched.

Because you felt it.

The air shifted behind you. The warmth of your skin turning ice-cold–just behind the base of your neck. Like someone was standing inches from you. Like someone was breathing against your spine.

Your voice trembled. “You lied to me…”

The Void’s smile widened.

From the mirror, he watched you–head tilted, eyes glowing.

“Now, now, I didn’t lie,” He murmured.

And then–

His breath touched your skin, and your whole body locked.

You felt it–real, present, inside the room now. The cold exhale that brushed the nape of your neck like silk. Your shoulders flinched inward, but you couldn’t move away. Not from him. Not from the thing that had touched you from within the dark and now moved around you like a ghost in daylight.

“I just omitted information,” He finished softly, like it was the punchline of a private joke. Your heartbeat thundered in your ears. Your hands trembled at your sides.

“W-What did you do to me?” Your voice cracked.

The Void didn’t answer. Not directly.

Instead, he stepped closer in the mirror again, and your body moved–not of your own accord–tilting slightly toward the glass. Your reflection leaned forward. But you hadn’t moved. Your reflection wasn’t matching anymore. The air behind you felt too dense now, like you could reach behind yourself and grab a fistful of it–thick and chilled and humming faintly like static against your skin. Your knees nearly gave out when you felt it again.

A touch.

Not a full press of fingers. Just the brush of ice sliding along your spine–right over one of the claw marks, as though retracing his own work.

In the mirror, the Void tilted his head.

“Don’t assume I did something permanent,” He said softly. There was a mocking gentleness in his voice, like he was humoring your panic. “Please…I’m not that evil.” You watched your own mouth tremble in the glass. Your reflection was still not syncing to your movements–there was a subtle delay, like a puppet lagging behind its strings.

“Though,” He continued, dragging his fingers down your back again as if he was petting you, “I really could’ve done worse…” Your breath hitched when his nail grazed the base of your spine, and the marks pulsed, almost like he was slowly bringing something to the surface of your skin.

“But…Let’s just say,” He drawled, his smile deepening, “I’ll be around for a little while longer. Just until you…Recover from our little night together.”

You turned your head slightly–not fully, not enough to break eye contact with the mirror–but your voice came through hoarse. “It doesn’t make any sense…I still don’t understand h-how you’re even here?”

The Void gave an exasperated sigh, like you were being deliberately naive.

“I’m an entity, sweetheart. A force.” He stepped closer, and your reflection blurred again, feeling his chest gently pressing against your back. “Not a man. Not a ghost. Not a shadow. I tether to people. I’m tethered to Bob permanently…But…” His voice dipped, curling against your ear like a gust of wind, “You let me in. You let me finish inside you. Did you really think there wouldn’t be some sort of…Consequence?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“Sperm,” He murmured, almost lazily, like the word itself was a spell. “Can live for…What is it… Three to five days inside a reproductive system, give or take?”

Your knees buckled, and you gripped the counter in front of you to stay upright. The burn across your back flared again, and your skin felt too tight, too hot, like it was struggling to contain something underneath.

“Give it time,” He whispered, dragging his fingernail over the topmost mark. “After that… I’ll be gone. Probably. Unless you invite me in again.”

He hummed, amused by your silence, and his fingers–impossibly cold and real–smoothed gently along the curve of your ribs, ghosting over bruised skin like it belonged to him.

“Only you can see me, by the way,” He added kindly. “So maybe keep your voice down a bit when you answer me…Hm?” You were just about to say something–anything–when the door behind you banged open.

The sound crashed through the room like a gunshot, and you flinched violently, heart seizing in your chest.

“–I’m telling you, it was the worst latte I’ve ever had,” Ava’s voice carried in before she even cleared the doorway, followed closely by Yelena��s sharp scoff of agreement. “It tasted like someone put chalk in a sock and let it steep for twenty minutes–”

They both froze.

The silence that followed was instant, sucked tight like vacuum-sealed air.

You turned toward them too slowly.

You could feel their eyes on you before you even lifted your head–feel them taking in the angry red claw marks that wrapped around your ribs, the bruises blooming like warpaint down your sides, the purple-black bite mark stark against your collarbone.

“Y/N?” Yelena’s voice was clipped. Low. Already shifting into something sharp and protective.

Ava blinked once. Then twice. “What the actual fuck?”

You tried to move–tried to step back or grab the sweater or explain something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come.

Because he was still there.

Still behind you.

Still breathing cold down your spine like a promise.

“Jesus Christ,” Yelena stepped in first, boots hitting the tile hard, like she was ready to start a fight with whoever did this. “Who did this to you? Are you okay? Are you bleeding?”

“I–I’m fine.” You said it too fast. Too flat. It didn’t sound like you.

“No, you’re not,” Ava said, her voice unusually steady as she followed behind, crouching slightly like she was trying to check your balance. “Y/N, that’s not a training injury. That’s…That’s not even human-looking. That’s…” Her eyes flicked to the claw marks, her brow creasing. “Were you attacked?” You could feel the nerves building up in your chest.

”N-No! I wasn’t attacked.”

“Gotta be a little better at lying to your friend's sweetheart.” The Void whispered mockingly, as you felt his fingers on your back again.

”Shut up!” You exclaimed out of nowhere, catching what you had just done the moment it happened. Yelena and Ava both froze in place at your sudden outburst.

The echo of your voice clapped back off the tile, too loud, too frantic–and too obviously directed at someone who wasn’t there.

You watched their eyes shift. Not just to the claw marks. Not just to the bruises. But to your face now–your wide, panicked eyes. Your trembling mouth. The sweat clinging to your hairline.

“Y/N…” Ava’s voice softened, like she was approaching a wild animal. “Tell us what’s going on.” Yelena didn’t say anything. Not yet. But she took another step forward, slow and steady, like she was preparing for you to bolt. Or break.

“Who did this to you?” Ava asked again, her eyes flicking back to the bite mark. “Was it someone on the team? Because if it was, I swear to God–”

“It wasn’t anyone on the team, I–I wasn’t attacked. Not like that.”

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “Then what happened?” You stared at them both. Ava with her brows knit, hand twitching like she wanted to touch you but didn’t dare. Yelena looked like she might murder someone if you gave her a name.

”And start from the beginning.” Ava added.

–��–––––––––––

The water ran hot.

Too hot.

It scalded down Bob’s back in long, blistering sheets, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, braced against the shower wall, head bowed under the stream, letting it burn. Letting it wash over the tension twisted through his spine like a knot of wire.

His hands twitched every now and then–restless, nervous, like they were searching for something they couldn’t find. Something they swore had been there before.

Something soft. Warm. Familiar.

He blinked slowly, eyes hazy beneath the steam.

After he spoke to you in front of the locker room images had begun to flicker in and out of his brain. Not memories exactly. But…Something. Echoes. Flashbulb imprints behind his eyes. A mouth. A sound. Nails biting across his shoulders. A voice–soft and breathless, gasping his name like it was a sin.

”Bob.” It was you–or your voice at least. He could feel his breath stop in his throat. It felt like a dream. But the kind that lingered. The kind that pressed fingerprints into your skin and refused to fade.

He exhaled and reached up to scrub at his face, hoping the pressure might clear his head. But then–

A sting.

Sharp and sudden. Low on his shoulders.

He winced.

His hand dropped to his shoulder, then curled around the top of his back. His fingers traced lightly–grazing over his skin until–

He froze.

Marks.

Four of them.

Long, raised lines carved into his shoulder blade. He twisted toward the mirror just outside the glass shower, blinking steam away as he leaned, trying to see over his own shoulder. It wasn’t easy, but when the fog cleared, he caught it.

Four scratches. They were faintly red, like someone had dragged their nails across the ridges of his shoulder blade. His stomach turned at the sight, and there was a cold weight that settled behind his ribs.

“What the hell…” He muttered, voice hoarse from the heat and whatever this was.

The scratches didn’t look accidental. They looked like grip marks. Like someone had clawed at him, held on tight, dug in as if riding out–

His stomach flipped violently.

He hadn’t had sex. He would remember that. Right?

Right?

The back of his neck prickled with cold, even as the water beat down on him, too hot.

And then–

That voice.

Slick. Amused. Familiar in a way that made his skin crawl.

“Wasn’t that a great dream you had last night?”

Bob’s entire body went rigid.

He didn’t respond at first–didn’t even breathe. Just stood there, eyes wide, steam curling around him like mist curling off a cliff, and that’s when things began to slowly fall into place.

The dream…The dream he had of you last night.

“…No,” He whispered eventually, shaking his head. “No, no, no…”

“Oh come on,” The Void drawled. “Don’t be shy. You liked it. That little fantasy with her chest against yours, riding you, moaning your name like a hymn. She looked so pretty when she came, didn’t she?”

Bob’s vision swam. He gripped the edge of the shower wall so hard his knuckles turned white.

“It wasn’t real,” He said through clenched teeth. “It was just a dream.”

A low, velvet chuckle unfurled in the base of his skull.

“Sure it was.”

The water suddenly felt too loud–like static screaming in his ears.

Memories weren’t supposed to feel like this. They weren’t supposed to echo in his skin, or pull on the muscle of his thighs like a ghost still touching him. He felt raw–stretched thin from the inside out. His breath came ragged now–short, sharp gasps that barely made it past his lips as flashes began to tear across his mind like lightning, split-second visions, and sensations.

Your thighs bracketing his hips, your voice breaking around his name, your tears streaming down your cheeks. The way your back arched towards him.

His eyes snapped shut and he stumbled backward, one palm flying to the wall like it could keep him upright. But the weight was inside him now. The wrongness. The knowing.

“No,” He gasped. “No, I didn’t–I wouldn’t–”

“You didn’t,” The Void answered smoothly, his voice curling inside Bob’s skull like smoke through a vent. “I did.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Bob staggered back against the shower wall, blinking against the sting of hot water and bile rising in his throat.

“She said yes, you know,” The Void continued. “Every time. She said your name while I was inside her. Cried for you. Pretended it was you.”

Bob’s stomach lurched. He pressed a hand over his mouth, like that could keep the nausea down. “Stop. Just shut up–”

“You think she didn’t know it wasn’t you?” The Void whispered. “She did. She just wanted you so badly, she was willing to close her eyes and let me wear your skin. And you know what, Bob?”

A pause.

A cruel silence.

“She loved it.”

Bob let out a broken, wounded sound. Something between a sob and a growl. His body was trembling violently now–his breath a stuttered panic trapped in his lungs.

“You’re lying,” He choked.

“You don’t feel it?” The Void murmured. “The tension in your shoulders? The ache in your hips? The ghost of her still gripping you? I don’t dream, Bob. But you do. And I left you the best parts.”

Bob staggered out of the shower, dripping and wild-eyed. He stumbled, half slipping across the wet tile, as he reached out and wrapped a towel around his hips while the other scrambled for the edge of the counter. His knees hit the floor hard, but the pain didn’t register–not over the white-hot coil twisting in his gut. He lurched forward.

The sound that came out of him was ugly–guttural and gasping–as he vomited into the basin. His body convulsed, throat straining, the acidic bile burning up his esophagus. His arms shook as he braced himself, knuckles whitening on the marble.

It felt endless.

Each heave dragged something deeper out of him–not just from his stomach but from somewhere more primal. Something soul-level. Shame. Horror. Guilt. The knowledge that something had been done to her. With his body. While he was unaware.

His chest heaved with dry sobs now, water still dripping off his hair and jaw, his face flushed red from the heat and the nausea. He clutched the edge of the basin and lifted his head slowly, eyelids fluttering.

And froze.

The steam on the mirror had cleared just enough to reflect two figures.

His own…

And him.

The Void stood to his left–closer than he should’ve been. Closer than Bob could feel, and yet, somehow his presence pressed into the room like a second atmosphere. His arms were folded loosely, one shoulder resting against the bathroom wall as if this were casual. As if he had every right to stand there, real and solid, in Bob’s space. In Bob’s skin.

“Don’t feel too bad,” The Void said lightly, tilting his head as if studying his twin in the mirror. “I was good to her. Tender, even. You should’ve heard the way she begged. So soft. So sweet.”

Bob’s fingers curled into fists on the edge of the sink.

“Stop talking,” He rasped. “Just fucking stop.”

“You really think I’m lying?” The Void arched a brow, a little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Then go talk to her.”

Bob’s breath hitched.

The Void pushed off the wall now, taking a step forward–not menacing, not fast, but slow and deliberate. His reflection moved with him. His voice softened with mock sympathy.

“I’m sure if you ask her gently, she’ll tell you the truth. What she felt. What she saw. What she said.”

Bob shook his head. “She didn’t know. She couldn’t have–”

“She did.” The Void’s tone sharpened just enough to cut. “And if you’re still not convinced…”

He paused in front of Bob–so close now Bob could see the way the light gleamed off his collarbone, the faint shimmer of something bruised beneath the skin–and slowly lifted his hand.

One long finger tapped just beneath his throat, where his jugular notch was–or is– supposed to be.

“Check right here on her…I left a little something there.” Bob didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because the part that shattered him wasn’t the evidence. It wasn’t the dream, or the bite, or even the voice curling like poison through his mind.

It was the truth he already knew.

He had felt it.

In his skin. In his bones.

In the aching echo of a night he hadn’t lived–but now he had to carry with him anyway.

“She trusted me,” He whispered, barely audible. “She trusted me to protect her from you.”

The Void tilted his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Mmm. And you did such a good job, didn’t you? You didn’t warn her how convincing I would be, hmm?” The Void’s grin widened.

It wasn’t malicious in the way monsters grinned in stories–it was worse. It was familiar. Worn like skin. Like something Bob might’ve seen in the mirror if he were just a little colder, a little more broken, a little more hungry.

“You didn’t warn her,” He repeated softly. “Not about the way I move. The way I sound. The way I feel.”

Bob’s breath stuttered. His knuckles were white against the sink.

“You manipulated her…” The Void let out a soft laugh.

“How did I manipulate her?” The Void’s voice was velvet now. Soothed, indulgent. “She wanted you, Bob. So I gave her that. I gave her what you never had the courage to.”

“I would never–” Bob choked, eyes burning, voice cracking around the protest.

“You wouldn’t,” The Void agreed, stepping closer until he could look directly into Bob’s eyes through the mirror. “You’re too good. Too gentle. Too afraid. You keep saying she trusts you–but she was starving, Bob. And I knew exactly how to feed her.”

Bob swayed on his feet.

He didn’t know how he was still standing.

Didn’t know how the ground hadn’t already cracked open beneath him.

The Void tapped the mirror glass once–right where Bob’s reflection was trembling–and leaned in, his next words a breath against the shell of Bob’s mind:

“If you want answers, ask her what she saw when she looked at me. Ask her whose name she really used when I was fucking her to the point of tears, then ask if she liked it…Or better yet…Asked why she liked it…Then maybe you’ll realize…It really wasn’t me who she wanted…It was you the entire time.”

Bob’s stomach twisted so violently he thought he might be sick again.

But there was nothing left to throw up. Only the bile in his throat, and the grief coiling around his ribs like iron wire. He gripped the edge of the sink harder, shoulders hunched like he could fold in on himself, like he could collapse inward and disappear entirely.

The Void’s final words lingered in the air like smoke, choking, clinging, true in a way that made Bob feel like a thief in his own skin.

It really wasn’t me who she wanted…

It was you the entire time.

Bob let out a sound–broken, wet, somewhere between a gasp and a sob. His reflection looked ruined. Face pale, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes bloodshot and glassy. The marks on his shoulders stung like accusations. The steam around him had started to dissipate, but the chill that slid down his spine was internal now. Bone-deep. Then before he could say anything else…

The Void was gone.

Of course he was…Because he always left the mess behind for Bob to clean up. Bob stood there for a moment longer–motionless, towel clinging to his hips, breath hitching with the kind of silence that didn’t feel empty at all. It felt like the aftermath of something horrific.

Like an echo waiting to settle into bone.

Eventually, he moved.

Slow.

Mechanic.

He reached for the toothbrush on the counter, fumbling the cap of the toothpaste like his fingers didn’t belong to him anymore. He brushed his teeth with shaking hands, hard enough to make his gums sting–desperate to scrape away the taste of bile, the phantom flavor of everything that had just spilled out of him.

Bob spat into the sink. Rinsed. Again. And again.

He swiped at his mouth with the towel and turned away without looking at the mirror.

Back in his room, the air felt heavier. Dimmer. Like the walls were holding their breath.

He shed the damp towel, grabbed the first pair of sweatpants from his drawer–charcoal gray, worn thin at the cuffs–and pulled them on with sluggish hands. His skin still felt too hot in places and too cold in others, like his body couldn’t decide if it was sweating or shivering.

A navy sweater came next. One you’d once teased him about because the material was so soft and gentle. It smelled like detergent and memory. He yanked it over his head and stood there for a second, hands resting at his sides, eyes unfocused.

Then he moved out the door, making his way down the hall quickly.

The floor was cold under his bare feet, but he barely felt it. The lights overhead buzzed low, flickering once–barely noticeable–but it was enough to make his stomach clench.

He stopped in front of your room.

The door was closed, and he stared at it for a moment.

His knuckles hovered just shy of the surface. His breath trembled out of him. He didn’t know what he’d say. Didn’t know how to ask. Didn’t know what you would see in his face.

But he had to see you, and he had to know.

–––––––––––––-

Inside your room, the world was steeped in dusky gold.

Sunset spilled through the sheer curtains like liquid amber, casting soft lines across the ceiling and walls. The sky beyond was fading into a bruised gradient–lavender, orange, blue–and it painted your skin in light that didn’t feel like yours to hold. You were lying on your back, one arm draped limply across your stomach, the other resting palm-up beside you like you were waiting for something. Your eyes were locked on the ceiling, unblinking. Still.

The blankets were tangled around your ankles. Your shirt clung to your side, damp from sweat, collar askew. You hadn’t moved in hours. Couldn’t. Not since you, Ava and Yelena spoke about what happened last night, and you came back to your room with the weight of that discussion on your shoulders.

You’d told them everything, every detail about what happened, what he looked like, what he sounded like., what he felt like, what you let him do…And you told them why.

Because you wanted him so badly it hurt. Because The Void allowed you to picture Bob’s face and his voice and his gentleness for one night… Just so you could let yourself pretend.

You told them how he held your face when you came. How he kissed your chest like it meant something, how he promised that Bob would never find out…But now you were riddled with guilt and it was eating away at your mind. You also told them that The Void was there with all of them listening, but only you were able to see him.

Yelena hadn’t said much, not at first. She just listened, jaw tense, thumb tapping restlessly against her thigh, she thought the situation was unbelievable, she chalked it up to a vivid nightmare...But the more details you divulged, the harder it got to believe that assumption. Ava had crouched in front of you, brow furrowed, voice soft.

“You need to tell him,” She said. “You have to tell him.”

“I don’t want to hurt him.”

“You already did,” Yelena said bluntly. “Not telling him only makes it worse.”

Her words weren’t cruel. They were honest. Like a bone being set back in place. It stung. But it was necessary.

“You don’t have to confess to be punished,” Ava added gently. “You have to confess to be free. If you keep hiding this, The Void wins twice. Once for using you…And again for keeping you.”

You didn’t argue.

Because they were right.

You weren’t afraid of Bob hating you. That would’ve been easier.

You were afraid he’d understand. That he’d forgive you. That he’d still want you after everything–and that you wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself.

You rolled onto your side slowly now, breath shallow, as the golden haze across your bedroom began to fade deeper into blue.

Then there was a knock.

You didn’t need to ask who it was, because it was evident that it could only be one person.

“…Come in,” You said, and the door creaked open slowly.

Bob stood there–backlit by the hallway’s sterile overhead glow. Dressed in his usual getup of a sweater and sweatpants. His light brown hair was still damp and fluffed from a quick towel dry. His eyes were rimmed red. His posture was stiff, like he didn’t trust his legs to carry him if he stepped too fast, and he looked at you like he’d been walking through hell and finally found the fire’s source.

You sat up slowly, your mouth parting–but no words came.

Bob lingered in the doorway for a second longer, like stepping into your room might unmake him.

Then–quietly–he closed the door behind him.

The latch clicked with a finality that made your chest tighten.

His eyes swept across the room once, slow, heavy. And then–without meaning to–they landed on your legs. Bare. Tangled loosely in the sheets. Skin kissed by amber light and bruised shadow.

He blinked. Looked away.

“W-We need to talk,” He said softly. His voice cracked at the edges.

You swallowed. “Okay.”

His eyes found yours again–shining but unreadable–and then he asked, “Can I… S-Sit?”

You nodded.

And he crossed the room.

Every step felt measured. Like he was walking through something sacred or cursed, you weren’t sure which. His hand brushed the edge of the mattress as he sat, careful not to get too close, sinking onto the same spot where The Void had touched you last night.

The same place where you’d said yes, where your fingers had curled into that blanket, and his hair as your hips lifted off the bed in pure ecstasy. Where you had clung to The Void and screamed Bob’s name in pleasure as you pictured him instead of the vantablack shadow that was invading you and your senses.

Now, in a tragically poetic way, Bob sat there, in living colour. He rested his elbows on his knees, rubbing his palms slowly together like he was trying to warm himself from the inside out. He didn’t look at you yet.

“What happened last night?” He asked finally, turning his head towards your figure. When his eyes met yours everything in him stilled. There was something in your face that made the air in the room feel sharper. Like it had teeth. Like even breathing might cut too deep. Your eyes were glassy like you had been on the brink of tears for hours, and your lips were parted like you wanted to say something but couldn’t find the start of it. Your body was tense, and curled in on itself like you were bracing for impact…And right then and there…He knew.

Bob’s eyes searched your face for a long moment, but whatever he was hoping to find there–certainty, relief, understanding–wasn’t present. Just the quiet tremble of your shoulders. Just the way your fingers picked at the hem of your shirt like you were trying to feel something real beneath your nails.

He swallowed, voice barely above a whisper this time.

“Did he hurt you?”

You blinked, slow. Shallow.

Your throat moved like the word was caught halfway up.

“No,” You said finally, “He didn’t hurt me…” Bob’s gaze didn’t waver.

His whole body had stilled–like even the breath in his lungs was holding itself hostage, waiting for what you’d say next. And you could feel it–the trembling edge of his restraint, the desperate ache of a man trying not to crumble.

“Then…” He asked, quieter now, like the words hurt to push out. “Then w-why didn’t you tell me?”

You closed your eyes. Just for a second. Just long enough to stop the sting from spilling over your waterline. When you looked back at him, your voice came out raw. Truthful. Like it had been scraped up from the bottom of something buried deep.

“Because I wanted it,” You whispered.

Bob flinched.

Not because he misunderstood. But because he understood too well.

You kept going. Slow. Careful. Like the words were glass you were trying not to shatter between your teeth.

“He said…He said he could let me experience you. Just once. Without you knowing. Without consequences. Without ruining everything.”

Bob didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His hands had gone still in his lap.

“And I…” Your throat closed up again, but you forced the words through it. “I took the deal. Because neither of us were brave enough to say anything. Because I didn’t want to cross the line and destroy what we had. Because I knew you were still healing. I knew you weren’t ready and I didn’t want to push you.”

Bob’s face twisted slightly, like something inside him was breaking not from anger–but from love.

You pressed your lips together hard before continuing, voice barely audible now.

“But I was selfish, and I wanted you so badly it made me stupid…And he…He made it so easy. He let me pretend, and when I closed my eyes all I could see and feel was you…” Bob swallowed thickly.

”Was that enough though…?” A tear slid down your cheek.

”No…Not even close.” You whispered. Another pause plagued the room. This one was longer. Bob didn’t reach for you yet, even though he was desperate to comfort you. He just watched you like you were saying the words he had been afraid to hear his entire life.

“I thought I could live with it,” you said. “But this morning…When I saw you walk out of your room… It was the real you. And I realized I didn’t have that last nightI had a shadow. A performance. And my imagination.” You shook your head, voice breaking, “And I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About what I did. About how it’ll never go away now, and the guilt is…It’s fucking crushing me Bob…And I’m so so fucking sorry…I’ve destroyed everything.”

The corners of his mouth trembled slightly like he was trying not to cry. Then slowly, he reached out and slid his hand across the bedspread. His fingers brushed against yours, then gently curled around them. It wasn’t a bold gesture. It was reverent. Anchoring. Like he wanted you to know he was still here.

“Hey,” He murmured, voice rough. “You didn’t destroy anything.”

You blinked at him, vision swimming again, and he gave your hand the faintest squeeze.

“I swear,” He said just above a whisper, “You haven’t ruined a single thing I feel for you.”

That was when the air in the room shifted.

A low, familiar voice rippled across the space like smoke.

“Well isn’t this tender…”

Your eyes snapped to the corner of the room. Bob flinched–he hadn’t said a word out loud, but you both reacted the same way.

“Shut up,” You and Bob snapped in unison, turning to each other immediately, startled–and then frozen–because the surprise in his eyes was a perfect mirror of your own.

”Did…D-Did you hear him?” He asked, his voice hoarse, you nodded.

”Since this morning in the locker room.” There was a long beat of silence between you, thick and charged, like the air had stretched tight between your bodies and dared either of you to move.

Bob’s eyes searched yours again, more carefully this time–like he was trying to read something between the lines. You didn’t flinch away from it. You didn’t have it in you anymore. Not after everything.

“He didn’t really give me a fine print to that deal he offered…” You said dryly despite the ache in your chest, “Apparently the aftereffects of sleeping with a dark entity include…Temporary tethers of the psychic kind…Or something like that. Whatever bullshit he told me I don’t know at this point.” You exhaled, rubbing your face with your free hand, “Point is…I can hear what you hear evidently.” Bob let out a slow, shaky breath–like he’d been holding it in all day. Maybe he had. Maybe this was the first time his lungs could even remember what air felt like.

”And you’re sure it’s temporary?” He asked, almost not believing it. Like he needed you to say it again just to be sure, as you gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

”Yeah…Ava thinks it’ll fade in a few days…Maybe sooner. Once everything is passed, I won’t be able to hear him anymore, or feel anything else he left behind.” Bob’s jaw clenched, not in anger–just in quiet relief. Like something in his chest finally let go.

“I-I didn’t know he c-could do that,” He admitted softly. “Then again… I-I’ve never been around when he’s having s-sex…” He hesitated, then offered a sheepish, almost self-deprecating shrug. “M-More because I haven’t had sex in a long time…But I-I guess that doesn’t matter a-anymore somehow…” Your brows lifted, but only slightly. The tension between you had shifted–not gone, but thickened, warmer now, laced with something else. Something closer to awareness.

“Guess we both crossed new frontiers this week,” You murmured, a sad smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth.

Bob huffed out a dry breath that might’ve been the start of a laugh if it weren’t so exhausted.

“But seriously…Hearing him yap all day has definitely made me admire you more. I mean, you put up with that on a daily basis?” You gave your head a slight shake. “He’s quite the character to deal with constantly. And honestly? It’s really weird interacting with him when there’s actual light in the room. Just feels…Wrong.” That earned you a real smile. Small, but there. The kind that pulled one side of Bob’s mouth higher than the other. Bob leaned his weight more fully into the edge of the bed, his thumb brushed over your knuckles once–nervous, tender.

“Well,” He said, voice low, rough with the remains of grief and disbelief, “O-On the bright side… A-At least you got a preview of what it’s like if you w-wanted to date me. C-Comes with crippling guilt, a psychic parasite, a-and an eternal inner monologue that sounds like a B-Bond villain.”

You blinked, and then, somehow–despite everything–you laughed. Just a breath, just a flicker of sound, but it cracked through the tension like sunlight behind storm clouds. You shook your head, squeezing his hand a little tighter.

“That’s not what dating you would be like.”

“O-Oh no?” Bob asked softly, a ghost of amusement tugging at his lips. “What w-would it be like, then?” You held his gaze for a beat too long. Your voice dropped to a hush, vulnerable and real.

“It’d be kind,” You said. “It’d be quiet and steady. You’d make tea without asking, and hold my hand even when we weren’t talking. You’d fold your sweaters next to mine and leave post-it notes with dumb facts on my mirror just to see me smile.”

Bob’s breath hitched, and you could see the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed. The tips of his ears flushed, soft pink blooming beneath the collar of his sweater.

“You’d hold me like I wasn’t fragile but precious,” You added, voice thick now, “Like I was worth something. And when you kissed me, it wouldn’t feel like you wanted to own me–it would feel like you’d been waiting your whole life to give me that part of you.”

His eyes darted away, shy and overwhelmed, but they drifted back slowly–like gravity had pulled them to you. He let out a shaky breath, a soft huff through his nose that might’ve been a laugh if he weren’t so painfully stunned.

“S-Shit,” He murmured, almost under his breath, eyes dropping to your joined hands. “W-Why does that s-sound so much better than anything I-I ever thought I’d be worth?”

You leaned forward slightly, scooting yourself closer to him, almost getting into his space. You could feel his hand twitch in yours, like he wasn’t sure whether to hold tighter or let go for your sake. You made the decision for him, lacing your fingers together and tugging them gently into your lap.

“You’re worth every part of that and more.” You whispered, “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that…It could’ve saved us both a lot of trouble…”

Bob blinked rapidly, a quiet tremor in his chin before he exhaled and gave a small shake of his head–half in disbelief, half in surrender

“It’s m-my fault…I-I should’ve seen it coming,” He replied back. You opened your mouth to speak, but he shook his head before you could.

“No, I–I should’ve seen it. Felt it. I could tell he was…L-Lurking more than usual. I-I knew he was pushing, I could feel it in my bones, I just didn’t know why. D-Didn’t know he was waiting for the right moment to…To use me a-against you like that.” He swallowed hard, and his voice cracked on the next line. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. You trusted me to keep you safe. To protect you from him. And I–” He blinked fast, like he could flush the images from behind his eyes. “I keep seeing pieces of it. Bits. Flashes. Your voice. Your tears. Your legs around me. I didn’t even get to choose to look–I just saw. And I can’t even imagine what else I did.” You inhaled slowly, lips parting to soothe, to reassure–but your voice caught on a different thought. A softer one. An honest one.

“He said…” You began, hesitating for only a second, “He said it was a lot of stuff you’d fantasized about.”

That made Bob go still. Really still.

The kind of stillness that wasn’t absence, but weight.

His breath came slow and uneven, his lashes lowering just slightly before he whispered–

“Yeah…Well, that could mean a lot of things.”

You searched his face, but he didn’t lift his eyes yet. His hand stayed in yours. His thumb rubbed along the dip between your knuckles, slow and deliberate, like he could map out penance across your skin.

“What kinds of things?” You asked, gentle but deliberate. Not teasing–just present. Open. Wanting to hear the truth from him.

Bob let out a slow, shaky breath through his nose.

“I’ve thought about you,” He said, voice barely more than a breath. “I’ve thought about you on top of me more times than I care to admit. But it was never just about what you were doing–it was always about how you looked doing it. Like you were letting go for once. Like you were safe. Like you trusted me with that.”

You blinked.

He kept going, because now it was pouring out of him.

“And I used to think–if I ever got that close to you, if I ever had you like that, I’d earn it. I’d work for it. I’d deserve it. Not…” His voice hitched, his jaw tightening. “Not like this.”

You reached for him with your free hand, your palm resting against his cheek. He leaned into it instantly, like he hadn’t realized he’d been starving for touch until that very moment.

“You still deserve it,” You said quietly. “We just…Got lost along the way.”

Bob’s brow furrowed, his breath catching, and you felt the tremble run through his whole body. Your thumb brushed the edge of his jaw.

“I didn’t want him,” you whispered. “I wanted you. And I still do. All of you. Every version. Even the parts you think aren’t safe.”

He exhaled, and it sounded like a prayer. His hand came up to cover yours on his cheek, pressing it closer, grounding himself in your warmth. His eyes fluttered shut beneath your touch. For a second, it was just silence between you. That stretched, heavy kind–the kind that holds the breath of something inevitable.

Then he whispered–

“We shouldn’t do this…Not right now.”

The words stung more than they should have. You felt your hand hesitate slightly on his cheek, just a tremble of doubt. Your breath caught in your throat as your brows drew inward.

“…Why?” You asked, voice barely audible.

Bob opened his eyes again. They were glassy. Gentle. Fractured in that soft, self-protective way he always got when he thought he was saving someone else by denying himself.

“B-Because you went through e-enough last night,” He murmured. “And I don’t–I don’t want to be one more thing you have to recover from.”

You searched his face–every line of tension around his mouth, the delicate tremble in his voice, the way he still hadn’t pulled away from your hand.

“I don’t care,” You said, firm but aching. “I want the real thing. The real Bob.”

His breath stuttered. He looked at you like he wanted to believe you. Like he was afraid to.

“What about The Void…” he asked. Quiet. Uncertain. “He’s… H-he’s still in here with us. In me. What if–” You leaned in a bit, and he could feel your breath gently fanning over his face.

”He can watch for all I care.” Bob’s breath hitched hard. His whole body trembled like you’d cracked something open with just those words. Like the part of him that had been trying so hard to hold back finally didn’t know how to stay locked anymore.

You leaned in just a little more, tilting your head, your voice a murmur against his mouth now.

“I don’t want shadows anymore. I don’t want to pretend. I want you. All of you. Here. With me.” Bob’s eyes dropped to your lips like he couldn’t help it. Like gravity had shifted just enough to make every thought he’d tried to suppress pull straight toward your mouth. He didn’t even blink. Just stared–hungry and unsure and so visibly overwhelmed it made your chest ache.

His breath was shallow now. His thumb trembled just slightly over your skin. And then, softly, like the words were being dragged out of him from the depths of his chest:

“J-Jesus, Y/N…”

It came out like a prayer. Or a plea. Or maybe both. And then you closed the distance. His mouth met yours in an instant–desperate, shaking, unbearably real.

There was nothing slow about it. No tentative brushing or hesitant rhythm.

This kiss devoured both of you in lust and heat.

His hand slipped from your cheek into your hair as he pulled you in like he was afraid you’d vanish if he didn’t touch every inch of you at once. Your mouths moved against each other in frantic tandem–open, heated, relentless. Tongues brushing, breath tangling, his gasp lost against your teeth.

He kissed like a man unhinged by longing.

Like every second he’d spent holding back had become fuel for this very moment. You let out a soft moan against his lips as your fingers slipped from his hand and rose instead to his face, cupping both cheeks with trembling reverence, the heat of his skin branding your palms like something sacred. His lips parted around a gasp, and you kissed him again–rougher this time, dragging his mouth back to yours like it had always belonged there. Like you’d gone lifetimes starving for this one taste.

Then you broke the kiss–just barely–your breaths crashing into each other between parted mouths, lips grazing but not quite touching. Your hands slid up into his hair, tugging gently as you leaned back against the mattress, guiding him with you, eyes never leaving his.

“Come here,” You whispered.

And Bob followed.

He moved like he was surrendering–like gravity wasn’t just pulling him down but into you. His forearms braced on either side of your head, the stretch of his sweater pulled tight across his back, the heat of his body pressing into yours as he hovered above you, trembling. His knees sank into the mattress and you felt him–all of him–settle over you like a stormcloud full of thunder barely held at bay.

Your hands gripped his jaw again, thumbs brushing his cheeks, and you surged up to kiss him once more. Hard. Wet. Desperate. Your mouth opened for him completely, and he didn’t hesitate this time–he gave you everything. His tongue swept into your mouth, slow at first, then with more certainty, tasting, taking. You moaned into him as your teeth scraped his lower lip, and he groaned like the sound was ripped from his spine.

He kissed like he was burning. Like he didn’t know what part of you to worship first.

You sucked gently on his tongue, dragging it deeper into your mouth with a low, aching moan, and that was when his hips moved.

Just once at first.

A tentative, trembling roll of his pelvis down against yours. He gasped into your mouth, eyes flying open only to flutter shut again as your thighs spread more beneath him, welcoming the pressure. You were both fully clothed still, but that did nothing to dull the heat–the drag of his hardened length against your core through thin layers of your cotton shorts and his sweatpants sent a shock through your body like lightning cracking straight through your ribs.

Bob’s breath stuttered against your mouth as your hand slid down, skimming over the slope of his side, fingertips pressing into the warm cotton at his waist. You felt him twitch above you, his whole body tensing as your palm curved over his hip and guided him–gently, deliberately–down into you again. The grind was slower this time, dragged out and deep, and it ripped a soft, guttural moan from somewhere inside his throat.

“God…” he whispered, voice wrecked, barely holding shape between panting breaths. “Y-You feel so–” His hips rocked again, caught in the rhythm you’d started, “–you feel so good…”

Your hand tightened slightly at his waist, grounding him, coaxing more friction with each press. The fabric between you was damp and thin and completely useless against the heat pooling low in your stomach. His forehead dropped against yours, nose brushing yours, breath catching as he whispered again:

“I–I’ve wanted this for so long. I used to dream about this… Us. Just like this.”

You whined softly at his words, dragging your mouth back to his in a bruising kiss, your lips parting wide for him as your tongue licked into his mouth again, shameless, hungry. He met it with equal desperation–messy and wet and gasping. When he broke the kiss next, it was only to drag his mouth across your cheek to your jaw, then lower, toward your neck. His nose brushed your pulse point before he whispered, almost reverently:

“Y-You’re everything. You’re everything.”

Your eyes fluttered shut at that, hips lifting into his in time with the motion he was starting to lose control over. His rhythm was breaking apart. Unraveling. He was grinding into you now with barely concealed desperation, hips jerking in small, needy circles, chasing the friction with soft, strangled moans caught in his throat.

You arched up into him, letting your other hand slide from his cheek to thread through his hair again. His lips grazed your throat as you breathed:

“Keep going, Bob… Don’t stop…”

He groaned at that, the sound guttural and hoarse, as he pushed against you harder. The pressure, the heat, the way his breath shook as he rocked against your soaked shorts–it all blended into a high, aching tension that pulsed between your bodies like a heartbeat.

Then kissed you again, sloppier now. His lips were swollen, spit-slick, and desperate. Your tongues slid together in a wet, dizzying tangle, and you sucked on his again, drawing out a sound so obscene from him you swore you felt it echo in your chest.

His hips jerked against yours again and again, more erratic now, and his hands were clinging to you–one tangled in your hair, the other fisted in the bedsheets beside your head like if he let go he’d fly apart completely.

“You have–you have no idea what you do to me,” He gasped. “You have so much control over me. I’d give you anything. I’d let you ruin me.”

“I’d never ruin you,” You breathed, threading your fingers through his hair as you guided another slow, hard grind into your core. “You’re mine.” Bob let out a broken noise at that–a sound torn straight from the center of him–and buried his face in your neck as he rocked into you again, harder this time. The friction was sharp, overwhelming, a storm with no space to breathe between strikes. He wasn’t just grinding anymore–he was rutting, trembling, gasping, desperate.

His breath shuddered against your neck as he ground into you again, and then–like he couldn’t bear not touching more of you–his hand slipped beneath your shirt.

It was slow. Almost reverent. The backs of his fingers brushed up the curve of your stomach, over the warmth of your ribs, and then he flattened his palm over your sternum, splaying his fingers like he needed to feel every inch of your heartbeat to believe this was real.

At the same time, your hand slid beneath his sweater, fingers finding the warm skin of his back, and he let out a gasp at the contact, hips stuttering as he pushed into you harder, needier. You dragged your hand higher, feeling the dips and contours of his spine, the slight tremble in his muscles. And then he pulled back just enough to look at you–eyes dark, lips parted, chest heaving.

“We–We should…” He murmured breathlessly, fingers already curling around the hem of your shirt, “I wanna see you.”

You nodded, pupils blown wide, and reached for the hem of his sweater at the same time.

Clothes came off in a breathless tangle.

Your shirt peeled away with a soft rustle, and Bob’s sweater followed, pulled over his head in one quick motion. Both were discarded somewhere beside the bed, forgotten. But then–

Bob stilled.

Because he saw them.

The marks.

Long, thin bruises like fingerprints along your hips. A faint bite above your breastbone. The shadow of darkened skin on your ribs. Not violent… but unmistakable. The Void hadn’t marked you in rage. He’d marked you in possession. Claimed you like a canvas. A monument.

“Holy crap…” Bob whispered, his voice punched out of him like he’d taken a hit to the stomach.

His eyes moved over your skin slowly–no, not just your skin. The memory of what happened. The evidence of what he hadn’t done but had felt. And suddenly the weight of it was choking him.

You froze beneath him, heart lurching.

“Bob,” You said gently. Then again, a little firmer, fingers curling around his wrist, grounding him. “Bob…It’s okay.”

He blinked down at you, breath still stuttering, eyes wide with pain. You could see it–all the things he wanted to say but didn’t know how to shape. The guilt, the disbelief, the raw ache of seeing you marked by something like The Void.

“Come back down here and kiss me,” You whispered, running your free hand along his chest. Bob’s breath hitched. His hand–still trembling–hovered just above your ribs, as if afraid that touching the bruises might make them worse. But when your fingers ghosted along his chest, steady and warm, he finally exhaled. A long, shaking breath, like the guilt, was something living in his lungs.

He touched one of the marks gently, his fingertip grazing it like it might dissolve beneath too much pressure. His eyes stayed on the shape of it, lips parted, voice low and cracking as he whispered–

“O-Okay.”

Then he leaned down, kissed you again–softer this time.

There was no desperation in it now. Only reverence.

It felt like an apology. Like a promise.

His hand cupped your cheek as his mouth moved against yours, slow and wet and open. He kissed you like he was trying to speak through it, like every flick of his tongue and every shared breath was meant to say I’m here. I’m real. I’ll never hurt you.

Then he broke the kiss just long enough to murmur, lips brushing your jaw, “I’m gonna be more gentle than he ever was…”

His kisses trailed down to your throat. Slow. Patient. You felt them like electricity threading down your spine–each press of his mouth was careful, intentional. He kissed the hollow beneath your ear, your collarbone, the curve where your shoulder met your neck. And then–

“I want to take my time,” He whispered, voice thick. “I want to worship every inch of this body. I want you to feel safe with me, loved by me…And not used.”

Your breath caught.

His lips brushed over a fading mark near your sternum, and he paused there–kissed it once, twice, so softly it nearly undid you before returning to your lips.

“You’re in control,” He added. His thumb stroked along your cheekbone. “Everything is up to you. We go as far as you want. Nothing more. I just…” His throat worked as he swallowed. “I just want to be close to you. I just want to deserve you.” Tears pricked your lashes. Not out of sadness. But out of how much he meant every word. You nodded, reaching up to brush his hair back from his forehead.

“I want this,” You whispered. “With you. However slow, however soft… Just don’t stop touching me.” Bob nodded, a quiet, trembling breath slipping past his lips like he was grounding himself in the gravity of your words. He leaned in again, slower this time, and kissed you with a new kind of hunger–less desperate, more deliberate. You could feel it in the way his lips lingered, in the way he savored every brush, every breath, like he needed to memorize the shape of your mouth all over again.

Then he began to trail lower.

His lips ghosted along your collarbone–soft, reverent kisses that made your skin ache. His hand, warm and steady now, slid up from your ribs to the swell of your breast. He hesitated there only for a second, like he was asking wordlessly for permission, and when you arched into him, breath hitching, he exhaled like he’d been granted a miracle.

His mouth followed his hand.

He pressed a kiss to the top of your breast–slow and open-mouthed–and you swore you could feel it pulse all the way to your spine. Another kiss, lower now. Then his tongue flicked out to taste you, wet and soft, and your fingers curled in the sheets.

When he finally wrapped his lips around your nipple, you gasped.

It was tender at first–gentle suction, his mouth warm and soft as his tongue stroked slow circles over the sensitive peak. His hand cradled the underside of your breast, thumb stroking rhythmically across your skin. He moaned softly against you, the sound vibrating through his mouth and into your chest, making your back arch, hips lifting off the mattress in a slow, unconscious grind.

“Bob,” You breathed, the sound broken and aching.

He didn’t answer. Not with words. He just groaned low in his throat and sucked a little harder, a little deeper, and your hands flew to his hair, threading through the soft strands as you held him close to you. His other hand came up to cup your free breast now, kneading it gently, carefully, like you were something too precious to rush. His fingers brushed across your other nipple, teasing it to hardness before his mouth left its twin and moved over–wet and hot and aching for more.

He gave the same attention to the other side, lips parting to take you in, tongue swirling around your nipple with languid strokes, then sucking deep, like he couldn’t get enough. You gasped again, legs shifting restlessly beneath him as your thighs pressed together for friction. You could feel the wet heat of your arousal soaking through your shorts now, the friction maddening, but you didn’t ask him to stop. Couldn’t. His mouth on you felt too good. Too right.

Bob moaned again as your hips lifted, and his hand slid lower, fingers tracing the soft dip of your waist before gliding up again to cup the side of your breast, massaging it slowly as he kept his mouth latched to your nipple.

When he finally pulled back, lips slick and parted, his eyes lifted to meet yours.

“You’re so beautiful,” He whispered, voice wrecked, “So so beautiful…“ Your chest rose and fell under his praise, breath catching hard, and your voice trembled when it finally broke free.

“I need you,” you gasped, your hand sliding into his hair, tightening gently. “Bob–I’m so wet it hurts.”

His breath hitched. His eyes–already dark–dilated further, and you felt the shiver ripple down his spine.

But then he shook his head, slow and dazed, like he was in a trance.

“No,” He said, voice hoarse, almost reverent. “Not yet. I need to taste you first.”

You blinked down at him, heat coiling in your core so hard you thought you might come undone just from that alone.

“Please…Anything…” You whispered, barely able to say it.

He surged up to kiss you again–hungry, open-mouthed, the kind of kiss that made your legs tremble around his waist. And then he pulled back just enough to press his lips to your jaw, your neck, your chest–leaving a wet trail downward, his hands sliding reverently over your hips. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your shorts and dragged them down slowly, kissing every inch of skin as it was revealed. When he reached the damp cotton of your panties, he paused–just long enough to press his mouth against the soaked fabric.

“O-Oh god,” He whispered, voice shaking. “You’re dripping for me.”

You moaned, hips twitching, fingers curled in the sheets.

Then–without hesitation–he dragged your panties down, kissing the inside of your thigh as they came off. He eased you open with steady hands, and the moment he saw you laid bare for him, his breath left him in a ragged exhale.

“G-God, you’re perfect,” He said, his voice thick with awe and hunger. “So p-perfect.” He kissed the soft skin there, just at the edge of where you ached, breathing in deep like the scent of you alone could ruin him.

Then he exhaled slowly, and leaned in.

The first touch of his tongue was gentle. A single, slow stripe from the base of your entrance to the swollen peak of your clit, wet and unhurried. You shivered violently beneath him, fingers already reaching for his hair. He groaned softly against you, the sound vibrating through his mouth and into your core. And then he did it again–slower this time. More deliberate. Tongue flat and warm, dragging through your folds with the kind of focus that made your toes curl.

He didn’t rush.

There was no frenzy in him.

Only patience. Devotion. Worship.

He circled your clit with the tip of his tongue, barely-there touches that made your thighs twitch around his head. Then he flicked softly–once, twice–and looked up at you.

His eyes were already half-lidded. Glassy. Like the taste of you had undone something deep inside him. And then he closed them again, like savoring the feel of you was a prayer.

You moaned when his nose nudged your clit, the angle forcing it against the sensitive bud as his tongue dipped lower, gently licking at your entrance. You were soaked. Bob groaned at the taste, tongue working you open with trembling reverence, and you gasped, your hips bucking up without meaning to.

He pressed his hands to your thighs, holding you down firmly but not forcefully, his fingers splayed wide like he needed the contact to keep himself grounded. His mouth moved slowly, methodically, lavishing every part of you. When he dragged the flat of his tongue up your slit again and wrapped his lips around your clit for the first time, you cried out, head thrown back against the pillow, fingers tightening in his hair.

Bob moaned again–deep and low–as he sucked, gentle at first, then firmer. His tongue circled, flicked, pressed. He moved with a rhythm that was impossibly focused, like he was studying you, learning every breath, every twitch, every gasp, and adjusting his pressure like a master of his craft.

You were panting now, whimpering, rolling your hips up into his mouth without shame. There was nothing detached or cruel in his touch. No domination. No edge of control. Just a man falling apart over the taste of you, letting himself be consumed by the act of giving.

He pulled back for a moment, lips glistening, breath ragged.

“C-Can I…?” he rasped, eyes blown wide. “Can I use my fingers too?”

You nodded frantically. “Yes, yes–God, please–”

Bob didn’t waste a second.

His mouth dropped back to your clit instantly, tongue circling it again as two fingers slipped into your entrance. The stretch was perfect. The angle just right. He moved them slowly, curling deep inside you with a tenderness that had you keening.

And when he moaned around your clit as your walls fluttered around his fingers, the vibration shot through your whole body like lightning.

You were unraveling. Quickly.

And all you could think was this is what The Void could never give me.

Warmth. Presence. Safety.

Bob groaned into you again, pressing soft kisses between strokes of his tongue. His nose nudged your clit with every stroke of his mouth against your folds. His fingers moved in perfect rhythm–slow, deep, patient–curling up and stroking the spot inside you that made stars flicker at the edges of your vision.

You looked down through the haze of your pleasure and saw him.

Face buried between your thighs.

Lashes fluttering.

Cheeks flushed.

His brow was furrowed in concentration, like this was sacred. Like pleasing you was the only thing in the world that mattered. He sucked your clit into his mouth again, softly but completely, and swirled his tongue as he fucked you deeper, harder with his fingers–and you cried out.

“Bob–Bob, I’m–” You couldn’t finish. Your voice cracked on a sob of pleasure as your body seized beneath him.

Your climax hit like a wave crashing into shore. Your thighs trembled around his head, your hands fisted in the sheets, and your back arched as you came with a broken, shuddering moan. He didn’t stop. He slowed, easing you through it, his tongue moving gently now, soothingly, like he was kissing the aftershocks from your body one by one.

You collapsed back onto the bed, panting, fingers slipping weakly from his hair. Your body was humming, oversensitive, but sated in a way it never had been before. When Bob finally pulled back, his lips were red and slick, chin glistening. His eyes were wide and awe-filled. And he looked…Wrecked.

But in the most beautiful way.

“Was that okay?” He asked, voice hoarse, shy again now, like he hadn’t just brought you to heaven and back.

You laughed, breathless, tears of overstimulation prickling at your eyes.

“It was perfect,” you whispered. “So much better than anything I ever imagined. So much better than him.”

His expression softened, and he leaned up to kiss you. You could taste yourself against his lips–hot, slick, faintly sweet and obscene. It hit you like a jolt. The knowledge that he’d been buried between your legs only moments ago, devouring you like a man starved, and now you were tasting the evidence of it on his tongue. He kissed you deeper, filthier, letting you feel the way his mouth was still soaked with you. His tongue pushed past your lips, slow and deliberate, and you moaned into him like the sensation alone was enough to make you spiral all over again.

Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, pulling him closer, and he groaned–long and low–as his hips bucked instinctively against you.

The thick press of his erection, still confined in those useless sweatpants, dragged against your bare, sensitive core. You gasped at the contact. He hissed between clenched teeth, rutting once, twice–shallow, desperate grinds that made you both tremble.

And then he broke the kiss.

Barely.

Foreheads pressed, his breath crashed against your lips as he whispered, voice hoarse, wrecked:

“I’m g-gonna take these off…”

He reached down with one hand, already tugging at the waistband of his sweats. The movement was slow, breathless. Then his voice dropped even lower–richer, rougher.

“…A-And you’re gonna get on top.”

Your breath caught.

His hand cupped the side of your face again, thumb brushing over your flushed cheek like he was grounding himself even now.

“I-I want you to do whatever you want to me,” He said, voice cracking with the weight of his need. “I just w-want you to be in control.”

You stilled.

Not because you doubted him–but because that sentence hit something primal. It was surrender in the truest sense of the word. The most powerful man you’d ever met–the man who could turn people into shadows and who held galaxies in his chest–was offering you everything. No fear. No condition. Just Bob. Letting you lead.

”I have to say…That’s so hot…” You whispered, your voice rough with awe and heat. A slow, shaky smile pulled at his lips, and his hands moved again—sliding his sweatpants down his hips and kicking them off. His cock was flushed, hard, thick where it curved up toward his stomach, tip already wet with precum. Your breath caught again.

Bob looked…Divine.

Raw. Unshielded. And still trembling under the weight of how badly he wanted this to be yours. Bob shifted back against the headboard, legs bent slightly, hands braced on the mattress at his sides. His chest was rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. He looked ruined already. Completely at your mercy. And he liked it.

He watched you with parted lips, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. The flushed curve of his cock stood proud between his thighs, wet at the tip, twitching with every heartbeat. But he didn’t touch himself. Didn’t even dare. He just waited.

For you.

You rose onto your knees and crawled toward him slowly, deliberately. Each movement was precise. Controlled. Letting him feel the weight of your intent with every inch you claimed. When you reached him, you straddled his hips and felt him go still–completely, reverently still–beneath your thighs.

Your knees bracketed his hips, bare and hot, and you sat up fully. Spine long, hair falling around your shoulders, your hands resting lightly on his chest as you steadied yourself. Bob looked up at you like you were holy. Like you were something he’d dreamed of for years but never believed he’d get to worship this way.

And then–eyes locked with his–you reached down between your bodies.

Bob gasped as your fingers curled around the base of his cock, firm but slow, and you gave him one long, aching stroke. His hips twitched, a strangled sound caught in his throat. But he still didn’t move. He was giving you everything.

You dragged the head of his cock through your folds–once, twice, again–coating him in your slick, letting him feel how wet you were. How ready.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped, head tipping back slightly against the wood. “Y-You’re gonna kill me…”

You smiled, breathless. Then, without breaking eye contact, you angled him perfectly beneath you–and slowly, so slowly, you began to sink down.

The stretch was…Devastating.

Thick. Full. Hot.

You let out a broken sound from deep in your throat as you took him inch by inch. Bob’s hands gripped the sheets at his sides like he was trying to anchor himself to reality. His head dropped forward to watch, pupils blown wide, chest heaving, a string of half-whispered praises tumbling from his lips.

“God, you’re–” His voice fractured, shaking, “–you feel so good, s-so perfect…”

You settled fully into his lap, and the moment you did, Bob let out a shuddering moan–quiet but guttural, like the sound had been lodged somewhere in his ribs.

He was buried deep inside you. All of him. The stretch still pulsed through your core like a heartbeat, throbbing and full, but you didn’t move. Not yet.

Instead, you reached for his hands.

“Hold me,” You whispered.

Bob obeyed instantly.

His hands slid from the bedsheets to your hips, then around your waist, arms wrapping tightly around you as if he could mold his body to yours. His palms splayed wide across your back, holding you so carefully, so reverently, like you might drift away if he didn’t anchor you down.

Your chest pressed against his. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.

You could feel the way he trembled. The tension in his thighs. The shallow rise and fall of his breath as he clung to you like salvation. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and his mouth opened against your neck, breath searing hot.

But still–you didn’t move.

You stayed seated fully on him, body wrapped around his, and just…Let yourself exist like that. Connected. Claimed. In control.

Bob whimpered.

Not from pain, not from frustration—but from the sheer intensity of it. Of being inside you, of being held still, of having to surrender to your pace. His cock throbbed inside you, twitching helplessly with every pulse of your walls, and he moaned when he felt it.

“This…O-Oh Y/N….Y-You’re so perfect.” He whispered, leaning forward so his lips could find your neck. He dragged his mouth over your pulse point, breath warm and uneven. He nuzzled the skin there, pressing one long kiss just beneath your jaw before scraping his teeth gently across your flesh.

You gasped.

He moaned.

“I love the way you taste,” He whispered, voice low and wrecked. “I’d mark you if you let me… Kiss every inch of your skin ‘til you couldn’t tell where I ended and you started…”

You pulsed around him again.

Bob choked on a gasp, forehead falling to your shoulder.

“I’d let you ruin me if it meant I got to stay like this. Inside you. Wrapped up in you. Y-You don’t even have to move, I’ll still come like this if you keep squeezing me like that.”

Your fingers found his neck, the column of it slick with sweat, the pulse there fluttering like a hummingbird’s wings beneath your palm. You held him gently—not tight, not possessive, just enough to anchor him. To guide him.

“Bob,” you whispered, breath brushing the shell of his ear. “Look at me.”

He obeyed, slow and trembling. His forehead lifted from your shoulder, lashes fluttering as he met your gaze. His eyes were blown wide, the deepest shade of blue, glassy and brimming. There was so much there—longing, awe, fear, surrender—and you held it all with your hand on his throat and your body wrapped around his.

You moved first.

It was a subtle grind of your hips, a slow press down and forward that sent his cock dragging deliciously against your walls and his pelvis flush against your clit. Your breath caught in your throat at the friction, the heat, the closeness. Bob gasped—his mouth falling open in a broken moan, hands tightening slightly on your back.

“F-Fuck,” he whispered. “Oh my God…”

You did it again. A slow, rolling grind that pressed you right there, and he felt every trembling inch of it. His head dropped forward with a choked sound, mouth brushing your collarbone.

“No,” you whispered, your thumb brushing his jaw, lifting his chin. “Keep looking at me.”

His eyes opened again, wrecked and obedient, and you gave him another slow, deep grind–your slick walls pulling around him as your clit rubbed in firm circles against the ridge of his pelvis. Bob trembled under you, his chest heaving, arms holding you tighter like you were the only thing keeping him from coming apart.

“I need you to stay right here,” You said softly. “I need to feel all of you.”

“I-I’m right here,” he choked. “I swear–I’m not going anywhere.”

You kissed him.

God, you kissed him like it was your last chance. Your mouth was soft and open, your tongue slow and sweet, like you were trying to breathe life back into both of you. And Bob melted into it—completely, utterly. His hands curved up your spine, not to control but to cradle. To keep you close.

Your hips found a rhythm. A deep, rolling grind that pressed you into him again and again—smooth and slow and so fucking full. You weren’t riding him for speed. You weren’t chasing anything. You were claiming him. Letting him exist inside you like he belonged there. Like this was always how it was supposed to be.

Bob’s breath hitched, and then–barely a whisper–

“I-I can’t believe you want me like this…”

“I do,” you said, voice thick. “So much.”

Your clit rubbed in perfect friction against him now with each roll of your hips. The wet sound of it was quiet but present, the heat building low in your belly again as you rocked in smooth, delicious circles. His eyes fluttered shut for a second–just one–but you gave a warning squeeze around his cock and he gasped, eyes flying open.

“Eyes on me,” You murmured, voice like velvet and lightning all at once. “I need you to see me when I come.”

Bob’s breath broke. He whimpered–a sound you’d never thought you’d hear from a man like him–and it made your walls flutter around him again. You moved your hand from his throat to cup his jaw now, brushing your thumb over the tear that had slipped free onto his cheekbone.

“Oh, Bob,” You whispered. “Don’t cry.”

“I can’t—I can’t help it,” He choked, another tear slipping free. “I-It’s just… you’re so close, you’re right here, and I don’t deserve it, and I–”

“You do,” You said firmly, kissing the tears from his cheeks, one after the other. “You do. I promise you do.”

His arms tightened around you and he pressed his forehead to yours as your hips kept moving. Your clit rubbed harder against his pelvis now, your body slick and hot and trembling with the mounting tension. You could feel your orgasm coming–slow and powerful, cresting like a tide inside you–and Bob felt it too.

“You’re shaking,” He whispered, voice thick with awe. “You’re gonna come like this? F-From just…Grinding on me?”

“With you inside me,” You breathed. “With your arms around me. With you crying for me.”

Bob moaned, helpless and high. His fingers dug into your waist, but he didn’t speed you up. He let you keep control. And that was what made it so fucking perfect.

Your breath broke first.

A gasp. A cry. Your head tipped back as your orgasm swept through you, deep and slow and overwhelming. Your walls clenched hard around him and your clit rubbed perfectly against his skin as you rode it out, sobbing against his mouth as he held you tighter, kissing your cheeks, your jaw, whispering praise in a broken voice.

“So perfect, so perfect, oh my God, you feel like heaven–”

Then you felt him twitch inside you. His whole body locked, breath caught on a desperate moan.

“C-Can I–Y/N–please, I need–can I come?”

“Come inside me,” You whispered. “Let go, you’re safe.”

That broke him.

Bob cried out, shuddering, hips jerking once, twice, then grinding deep as he spilled inside you–warm and thick, pulsing against your walls as he sobbed into your neck. His arms held you tight, breath shaking like every part of him was unraveling in your hands.

And it was beautiful.

You stayed like that–wrapped around each other, trembling, kissed in sweat and tears and come–until the shaking slowed, until the only sound in the room was your breathing, synced.

Then Bob pulled back, barely, and looked at you.

His cheeks were flushed. His lips swollen. His eyes still wet.

“I love you,” He said hoarsely, like it was the only thing he had left. “I’ve loved you for so long.”

Your heart cracked wide open.

And you kissed him again.

Soft. Tender. Final.

“I know,” You whispered. “I love you too.” His arms wrapped tighter around your back, his hand curling protectively over your spine as if to shield the last remaining fragments of you from the world outside your shared warmth. His other hand cradled the back of your head, fingers tangled softly in your hair, holding you close to him.

”A-Are you okay?” He asked gently, and you nodded.

”Let’s just stay like this for a little while…Please.” Bob nodded, and buried his face into your shoulder, breathing you in heavily. His body trembled under yours. Not from exertion now, but from something gentler. Something raw. You could feel his heart hammering against your chest in steady, staggering bursts. His cock was still inside you, softening slowly, but neither of you cared. The sweat between your skin clung like sealant. Like gravity. Like home.

You tilted your head and pressed a kiss to his cheek–just beneath the smudge of drying tear salt.

He didn’t speak again until a long, quiet minute later.

“…I didn’t hear him.”

Your breath caught.

“What?”

Bob pulled back just slightly, just enough to look you in the eye. His fingers brushed over your jaw. His voice was softer now. More certain.

“The Void,” He whispered. “I didn’t hear him… Not once. Not when I kissed you. Not when I touched you. Not even when I came.” His brow furrowed gently, like the realization had just fully settled in his chest. “He wasn’t there. Not at all.”

Your heart thudded so hard it hurt.

“…Me neither,” You replied, blinking. “I didn’t hear him either.”

You both paused.

Then Bob cupped your cheek and leaned in, pressing a soft, reverent kiss to your mouth. This one wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t claiming. It was the kind of kiss that thanked you for every piece of what came before. The kind that whispered: we made it.

When you finally parted, your foreheads rested together again.

“I think he’s gone,” You said, voice shaking with disbelief. “I think–just for now–it’s quiet.”

Bob nodded slowly, eyes still closed.

“It’s just you in my head right now,” He said quietly. “You’re the only thing I hear.” You felt the tears prick your eyes again, but this time, they weren’t sharp. They didn’t ache. They flowed soft and steady as you pulled back slightly, looked him in the eyes, and brushed a lock of damp hair from his forehead.

“Let’s clean up,” You murmured. “Let me take care of you.”

Bob blinked slowly, then offered a dazed smile–half-exhausted, half-stunned.

“You just did.”

“I’m not done,” You said, gently shifting off his lap. He gasped quietly at the loss of contact, but didn’t resist as you helped him stretch out against the pillows.

You moved slowly.

Your body ached–in the best way–and you padded quietly across the room to retrieve a soft towel and the glass of water by your bedside. When you returned, Bob was watching you like he didn’t know how to stop.

You sat beside him and wiped him down with gentle strokes–starting at his chest, dabbing along the flushed trail of sweat down his sternum, then moving lower, cleaning his softening length with quiet care. His breath hitched when you did, but he didn’t flinch. He let you take your time.

When you finished tending to him, you leaned forward to press one last kiss to the center of his chest. His skin was still warm and flushed, the thudding of his heart echoing just beneath your lips. But before you could shift away, Bob’s hand gently wrapped around your wrist.

“Wait,” he murmured softly, eyes steady and shining. “M-My turn…”

You blinked at him, surprised. “Bob, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he whispered. “Please. Let me.”

There was a depth to his voice that left no room for refusal—soft, reverent, as if this was as important to him as any kiss or confession. You nodded slowly.

And Bob moved carefully.

He sat up with you, then gently coaxed you to lay back down, easing you onto the pillows with trembling hands. You watched him with quiet wonder as he reached for the towel you’d just used on him and dipped the clean edge into the water glass, wringing it out carefully. His movements were so tender, like touching you now required an entirely different kind of strength–one that didn’t come from the Sentry.

It came from love.

He knelt between your legs and brushed his fingers softly along the inside of your thigh, his eyes flicking up to yours. You gave a small nod, breath catching slightly, and let your legs fall open for him.

He swallowed hard.

The sight of you–still glistening from him, swollen and pink, your inner thighs kissed with the aftermath of pleasure–made him blink slowly like he was afraid he’d miss something if he looked away for even a second. You expected him to begin right away with the towel, but instead, Bob leaned in first.

And kissed the inside of your thigh.

Just once. Then again. And again.

Soft, open-mouthed kisses trailed up the curve of your leg, each one slower than the last, lips warm and gentle as he nuzzled and worshipped the skin just inches from your core. Your breath hitched as his mouth pressed a kiss just beside your entrance–like he was blessing the part of you that held him, loved him, trusted him.

“Thank y-you,” He whispered, voice hoarse. “F-For letting me have this. For… C-Choosing me…After what happened…”

You reached down, hand threading through his hair, and Bob looked up at you as he finally brought the towel to your center.

He was gentle. So incredibly gentle.

The cloth was warm, and the strokes were slow–he cleaned you with the care of someone handling sacred glass, careful not to press too hard, not to rush, not to do anything that might make you flinch. You didn’t. Not once. If anything, your body softened further under his touch.

When he was done, he set the towel aside and pressed another kiss–right above your mound this time, reverent and trembling. Then he looked up at you again. His eyes were still wet.

“You’re perfect,” You whispered. “I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you.”

Bob exhaled hard, like the words shook something loose inside his chest. Then he crawled back up beside you, pulling the comforter up and over your bodies with one hand as the other cupped the back of your head. He tucked you in against him slowly, protectively, until your cheek was resting over his heart.

You could hear it beating fast.

“I don’t know what comes next,” you murmured against his skin.

His fingers traced soft shapes along your spine. “Me neither.”

There was a silence that followed–but it wasn’t heavy.

It was full.

Full of something new. Something unspoken. Something earned.

Bob kissed the top of your head, lips lingering like a promise.

And you closed your eyes against his chest, listening to the rhythm of a heart that, for the first time in a long time, was quiet.

No voices.

No shadows.

1K notes · View notes

screaminglygay · 2 months ago

Text

No way back

pairing: natasha romanoff x reader

summary: you and natasha joined S.H.I.E.L.D. at the same time, but you're the only one who feels truly at home. while you find your footing, natasha struggles with the unfamiliarity of it all - new people, new rules, and the overwhelming sense that she doesn’t quite belong, but you try your best to make her feel like she´s at home

warnings: slow burn, teasing, kissing, fighting, swearing, light angst, overthinking, Natasha feeling out of place, mentions of a brother's passing, emotional vulnerability

word count: 9.6k

an: thank you for the request!! i had fun writing it, once again sorry it took me forever, the next two parts will be even more angsty!!

part one I part two I part three

The air in the S.H.I.E.L.D. training facility was thick with unspoken words. Conversations lowered to hushed tones whenever she walked past. The few who didn’t bother whispering let their disapproval show in glances, in the way their shoulders stiffened when she entered a room.

Natasha Romanoff was used to isolation. But this? This was different. It wasn’t just suspicion, it was hatred.

The KGB had collapsed, and the Red Room along with it. She was one of the lucky few who got a second chance, but the agents here didn’t see it that way. To them, she wasn’t just a recruit, she was an enemy, a traitor, a remnant of something they wanted erased. They didn’t see a woman trying to rebuild herself, only the ghost of something they despised.

And yet, there was you.

Bright-eyed and eager, just another fresh recruit with no bloodstained history weighing you down. You weren’t a Widow. You weren’t special. But you were kind. And unlike everyone else, you didn’t look at her like she was something vile.

Natasha noticed it from the start, the way your gaze didn’t linger with wariness, the way your voice didn’t lower when she was near. And when she entered the training room that afternoon, she noticed you again.

The training mats were filled with recruits testing their combat skills. You were off to the side, holding pads for another agent, excitement lighting up your features as you explained something with your hands moving animatedly.

Natasha didn’t care for small talk, but something about the way you smiled… so open, so easy, made her pause.

Moments later, she was called up for testing. Evaluating abilities, strengths, weaknesses. Seeing where she fit. She knew how they expected her to perform, like a ruthless machine. So she did. She made quick work of her opponents, every strike precise, efficient. No wasted movement. No hesitation. When she finally stepped off the mat, there was silence. Not admiration, not respect, just discomfort. A reminder that she wasn’t one of them.

And then you spoke.

"That was insane." Your voice cut through the tension, bright and impressed, not a hint of unease. "How the hell did you move like that?"

Natasha blinked. People didn’t usually direct questions at her unless they had to.

You took her silence as an invitation to continue, unfazed. "I mean, I know it’s years of training and all, but-" you gestured vaguely, still catching your breath from your own sparring match. "That was like some ninja stuff ."

She just stared, unsure what to do with the unexpected enthusiasm directed her way. You were still looking at her, waiting, expecting an answer. No hostility, no apprehension.

She exhaled sharply. "Practice."

You grinned. "Yeah? Guess I should be practicing a hell of a lot more, then." You chuckle. You are not a bad at this, no. You are fast and quick, but these moves, that Natasha made… they were something else.

Natasha almost smirked, but before she could respond, your instructor called for a break. The recruits scattered, finding their usual groups.

She didn’t have one. She was used to sitting alone. It didn’t bother her.

But then-

"Hey, uh, you good?" Your voice again. You were standing in front of her now, holding two water bottles, offering one out. "You kinda just wrecked everyone, figured you might need this."

She eyed the bottle warily before taking it. "Thanks."

You sat down beside her without invitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Natasha waited for the hesitation, the awkward excuse to leave, but it didn’t come.

After many days of training, it became more harsher and more exhausting, you knew it was S.H.I.E.L.D. testing you, trying to sort just the best one, but it was a lot, but not for her, at least it didn´t look like it.

Natasha sat in the corner of the training room, carefully adjusting the bandages wrapped around her hand. It wasn’t a bad injury, just a scrape from earlier drills, but the fabric had stuck to the wound. She barely reacted to the discomfort, her expression cold as ever.

You noticed, though. "Hey, looks like that’s stuck. You need help?" you asked, crouching beside her.

Natasha didn’t even look up. "No."

You grinned, undeterred. "I wasn’t really asking." Before she could pull away, you were already untying the bandages with quick, precise fingers. The fabric peeled away from her skin, and Natasha finally looked at you, her sharp green eyes studying you, not with anger, but with something closer to surprise. She didn’t say anything. Just watched.

"There," you said, satisfied. "That’s better, right?"

Natasha flexed her fingers slightly, testing. "I suppose."

You took that as a win.

From that moment, you made it your mission to include Natasha, whether she wanted it or not. It wasn’t hard, everyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. liked you. You were warm, helpful, and easy to talk to. Even the most hardened agents softened in your presence. But when it came to Natasha, people kept their distance, speaking in hushed tones when she passed by, leaving her to sit alone during briefings.

You weren’t having it.

Every conversation, every briefing, every group training, if you were there, you made sure Natasha was a part of it. When you laughed at a joke, you turned to see if she was listening. When you partnered up for drills, you dragged her into the mix. If she tried to stay in the background, you pulled her forward. At first, people didn’t know what to do with it. Some just stared. Some whispered. But you? You smiled at Natasha like she was just another teammate, not the ex-KGB assassin everyone was afraid of. And eventually, even if she didn’t say it, you could tell, she appraciated it.

She appraciate you.

You weren’t exactly sure when things started to shift. Maybe it was during that one mission, the first time you and Natasha had to rely on each other for real. A simple recon op that went sideways, forcing you and her to fight back-to-back. It was the first time she saw you as more than just the kind recruit who wouldn’t leave her alone. The first time she saw that you could handle yourself.

By the time you both got back to base, bruised but victorious, something had changed. It wasn’t big, not yet. Just small moments.

The way Natasha sat closer during briefings, the way her gaze lingered when you spoke. Like she was watching, waiting, trying to figure you out.

So you decided to push things a little further, trying to make her feel more… comfortable and safe. Make her feel more like she belongs here.

"Come with me," you said one evening, right after dinner.

Natasha raised a brow. "Where?"

"The shooting range." You said simply.

She studied you for a long moment. "At this hour? There won’t be anyone else."

"Nope," you grinned. "Just us. I wanted to see the real things you can do with a gun. And I want you to teach me."

Natasha folded her arms, the corner of her lips twitching. "You don’t think it’s- "

"Scary?" you interrupted. "No. Badass? Yup."

She blinked, surprised, before shaking her head with something dangerously close to amusement. "You’re ridiculous."

"And you’re avoiding the question." You smiled at her, knowing she will say yes, but won´t go down without looking like a scary person.

Which is funny, because not even after bunch of stories you heard, not a single time did you think she was scary. Interesting and strong, definetly, but never scary.

Natasha sighed, but there was no real resistance. She stood up, rolling her shoulders. "Fine. But don’t embarrass yourself."

You grinned. "No promises."

The range was quiet at night, the fluorescent lights casting a cool glow over the empty stalls. You handed Natasha a pistol, watching as she inspected it with the kind of precision that could only come from years of training.

"So, what do you wanna learn?" she asked, slipping into that calm, focused state that made her so lethal in the field.

You thought about it for a second. "Everything."

Natasha let out a short laugh, a real one. "That’s ambitious."

"You´re good with guns, so…"

Her expression faltered, just for a second. She wasn’t used to compliments. Not the genuine kind. But she recovered quickly, loading the gun and placing it in your hands.

"Alright then," she murmured, stepping behind you. "Let’s start with your grip."

Her hands covered yours, adjusting your fingers, pressing against your back to fix your stance. Her touch was careful but firm, her voice smooth as she explained each movement. You weren’t sure if it was the warmth of her body so close or the sheer focus in her tone, but your pulse quickened.

And when you fired the first shot, dead center on the target, you swore you heard a quiet hum of approval.

"Not bad," Natasha admitted.

You smirked. "Told you I wouldn’t embarrass myself. But why is the grip so important? It´s just the shot, no?"

She rolled her eyes, but this time, she didn’t pull away so fast. "Is your gun loaded?"

"No. I had only one bullet in-" before you could finish that sentence, Natasha not so harshly bumped into your wrist and the gun you were holding fell easily down. "Oh… I see now." You turned your head so you can look at her, you smiled a bit, even though you can feel your heart in your throat.

After that bonding the smiles started. They weren’t much at first - hesitant, uncertain - but they were there. Agents who once ignored her were now nodding in acknowledgment. Some even started greeting her by name. It wasn’t lost on Natasha that this shift had everything to do with you.

You had always been easy to like, weaving yourself effortlessly into the cracks of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s cold walls. You helped agents with their reports, sparred with them without making it a competition, and always - always - made sure Natasha was included.

At first, people didn’t know how to react. They weren’t sure if you were just being polite or if you really meant it. But then, in the middle of a late-night training session, you made sure to give Natasha the credit, she didn´t think was even there.

"Damn, how did you pull that off?" one of the agents asked after you had effortlessly flipped them onto the mat.

You grinned, wiping sweat from your forehead. "Natasha taught me." Silence. A few skeptical glances were exchanged. "…Romanoff?" someone finally muttered.

"Yeah," you said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

For a moment, no one knew what to say. But then, one of the agents turned to Natasha, hesitant but genuinely curious. "Wait… you actualy train others?"

Natasha, who had been leaning against the wall watching the interaction unfold, tilted her head slightly. "When I feel like it."

You rolled your eyes. "Don’t listen to her. She does and she’s actually great at it."

A few agents exchanged glances before someone hesitantly asked, "Can you show us?"

Natasha hesitated. It wasn’t fear. It was just… unfamiliar. People looking at her with interest instead of distrust.

You gave her a little nudge. "C’mon, show off a little." And once again you chuckle, pushing Natasha´s buttons a bit more. Making her open more and show others, that she´s not so cold and scary looking lady.

A beat passed. Then, Natasha sighed and stepped forward. "Fine."

That was the moment everything truly changed. The next few weeks, more agents started joining in. What started as casual observations turned into genuine respect. They saw how skilled she was, how efficient her movements were.

"Oh my god, who taught you that?" someone asked you after another sparring session.

"Natasha did," you answered with a smirk.

And instead of the usual shock or discomfort, the response was different this time. "Damn," one agent muttered. "She’s really good."

"She really is," another admitted.

It was subtle, but Natasha noticed it. The way people started sitting next to her in meetings. The way conversations didn’t immediately die when she entered a room. The way people started listening. For the first time since joining S.H.I.E.L.D., she didn’t feel like an outsider, at least not that much, she felt like this could really be a new beggining for her.

As the days comes by Natasha finally catch you after a training, finally being able to talk to you properly. The gym was empty now, except for the two of you. Sweat clung to your skin, muscles sore from sparring, but neither of you seemed in a hurry to leave today. Natasha had been improving fast, not just physically, but in how she carried herself around the others. She was more comfortable now, less guarded. It was something you had noticed gradually, and honestly, you were proud of her.

That’s why it caught you off guard when she suddenly said, "Thanks."

You blinked. "For what?"

Natasha exhaled, running a hand through her damp hair before leaning against the wall. "For making me look friendly. Helping me fit in."

You shook your head with a small smile. "Zero idea what you’re talking about."

She shot you a dry look. "Oh, shut up."

You chuckled. "That was all you, Nat. They just needed a little push. So did you."

Natasha didn’t argue with that. She let the words settle between you before glancing down at her hands, quiet for a long moment. Then, almost hesitantly, she said, "I don’t blame them, you know."

You frowned at her, letting her speak.

"The others. For being wary of me." She sighed. "I was trained in the Red Room. Worked for the KGB. I know what people like me have done." She hesitated, then her voice dropped slightly. "I know what I’ve done, I know who I am..."

She didn’t say it, but you heard the word she left unsaid.

Monster.

Your chest ached for her.

"We all make mistakes," you said softly. "But you’re here for a reason, aren’t you? You want to change. To do something good. What happened… happened. You can’t change the past, but you can choose who you want to be."

Natasha let out a breath, something shifting in her expression. "You ate a wisdom, hm?" she muttered.

You grinned, "that’s my daily bread."

A small chuckle escaped her lips, quiet but real. It was rare to hear her laugh, but when she did, it was worth it.

After that, things between you and Natasha just… clicked. Wherever she was, you weren’t far behind. And wherever you were, she was right there with you. People started joking about it. "If we need to find Romanoff, just look for (Y/N)."

"I swear, they come as a set," another agent laughed at that.

You started doing things together outside of training. Natasha would drag you to the shooting range at odd hours, testing out different weapons while you tried (and often failed) to match her skill. In return, you convinced her to join you in normal, non-mission-related activities - grabbing coffee, watching movies, playing pool in the rec room.

And then there were the missions. You worked better together than anyone expected. It was seamless, almost instinctive. The way you covered each other’s backs, how one glance was enough to understand what the other was thinking. You weren’t just teammates. You were a duo.

Time goes by, and it was the one-year celebration of you being in S.H.I.E.L.D. The same goes for Natasha. The party was in full swing, the usually serious S.H.I.E.L.D agents actually let loose, drinks in hand, music a little too loud for a facility, and even the higher-ups seem to have abandoned their usual stiff posture. For once, the atmosphere was light, warm. You had a good time, chatting with everyone, laughing at dumb jokes, even letting yourself get a little tipsy.

But even you had limits, your social battery is wearing thin, and the heat of the crowded room got to you. So, without much thought, you slipped out of the main hall and made your way up the stairs, pushing open the door to the training center’s rooftop. The night air was cool against your skin, refreshing after the stuffy warmth of the party. The city lights stretched out in the distance, flickering like a thousand little stars, and you sighed, leaning against the railing.

Peace. At least for a moment.

Because not long after, the door creaked open again. You didn´t have to turn around to know who it was. Natasha stepped forward, her footsteps light, almost silent. She stopped beside you, resting her arms on the railing. You glanced at her, she looked the same as always, calm, composed.

"You’re not drunk," you observed.

She huffed out something like a chuckle. "Of course not."

"Why? Afraid of letting loose?" you teased, nudging her with your elbow.

She didn´t respond immediately, just watched the city below. Then, with a small shrug, she said, "I grew up in Russia. Tolerance to alcohol is kind of in my blood."

You raised an eyebrow. "Then why you’re not even slightly tipsy?"

"Would take a hell of a lot more than what they’re serving in there," she said, nodding towards the party. "It’s a little pathetic, honestly."

You laughed softly, shaking your head.

"Maybe I should teach you... you look like you would need it," she teased.

"Excuse you, I have some tolerance." You glanced at her, "besides I did have my own growing up experience with drinking."

Natasha looked at you, silent, waiting.

"My brother taught me how to drink," you chuckled, "at least tried to." You exhaled, looking down at your hands. “His names is Thomas.” A pause. “Was.”

She didn´t say anything, but she turned fully toward you, giving you her full attention.

"He was in the Navy," you continued. "One of the best. Smart, strong… better than me in everything, really. But he was also the kind of guy who couldn’t sit back if someone needed help." You took a breath. "There was an accident. A mission gone wrong. He saved his teammate… but he didn’t make it."

You swallowed, feeling the familiar ache in your chest. Even after all this time, it didn´t go away. It´s the alcohol that made your shiny personality, to get a little cloudy.

Natasha was still quiet, but she watched you with something soft in her expression. Understanding.

"That’s why I trained," you said finally. "Why I kept pushing myself. My biggest dream was to work for the CIA, actually." You chuckled, shaking your head. "And I almost made it. Passed all the tests, was about to get in, until a guy with one eye came in and basically stole me."

Natasha’s lips quirked. "Fury?"

You nodded, "Fury."

There was a comfortable silence between you after that. Just the sound of the wind, the faint music from the party below, and the distant hum of the city.

Then, quietly, Natasha said, "I’m sorry about your brother."

You glanced at her, giving her a small smile. "Yeah. Me too."

Another beat of silence. Then, in a rare, quiet admission, she added, "He sounds like a nice guy."

You chuckled, tilting your head. "He would’ve liked you."

Natasha raised an eyebrow, "even though I’m Russian?"

You nudged her shoulder. "Even though you’re Russian." It was very easy to talk to you, to joke with you and to let her guards down, she liked this... she liked spending time with you.

You let out a soft chuckle, leaning your elbows on the railing as you gaze out over the cityscape. The cool night air does little to sober you up, but you didn´t mind the warmth in your cheeks. It was a nice buzz, one that made you loosen up, talk more freely.

"He actually was really into women who could take care of themselves," you said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence between you and Natasha. "His captain was a woman. I remember how head over heels he was for her… it was crazy. He was thirteen again, having a crush like a little boy."

You laughed at the memory, shaking your head. "I swear, he would talk about her like she walked on water. All serious and professional when she was around, but then the second she left? He’d go on and on about how badass she was."

Natasha chuckled at your rambling, a rare amusement flickering in her expression. You were slightly tipsy, your words a little looser than usual, but she didn´t mind. There was something… nice about it. About you just talking, sharing pieces of your life like they were meant to be told.

She watched as you grin to yourself, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the railing. There was a soft flush to your cheeks, not just from the alcohol, but from the warmth of the memory. It made her hesitate, just for a moment, before she spoke.

"I get it," Natasha finally said, exhaling softly. "Having someone you admire like that."

You glanced at her, intrigued. "Yeah?" And Natasha just hummed.

After few minutes of just silence once again, her gaze fell back on the city. “I had a sister.” A pause. "Have a sister."

Your head tilted slightly, your attention sharpening. "You do?"

Natasha nodded again. "Yelena. She’s younger than me. Stubborn as hell, always had something to prove." A small, almost fond smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "We grew up together… well, as much as we could. The Red Room didn’t exactly allow for normal childhoods."

You didn´t push, just let her talk, sensing the weight of her words.

"I haven’t seen her in years," Natasha continued, fingers flexing slightly against the railing. "Not since I left." There’s a flicker of something in her expression - guilt, longing. "I don’t even know where she is. If she’s okay. But I still think about her."

You were quiet for a moment, letting her words settle between you. Then, gently, you asked, "What was she like? Back then?"

Natasha exhaled a short laugh. "A menace."

You grined at that. "Sounds about right for a younger sibling."

"She always had this way of getting under my skin," Natasha admited, shaking her head slightly. "Always trying to prove she could be better, faster, stronger. But she was also… kind. Not in the traditional way, but in the way that mattered. She cared… deeply. Even when she tried to hide it."

You watched Natasha’s expression shift, soft in a way you don’t see often. It was different from her usual guarded demeanor, there was something raw in it. Something real.

"I hope she’s okay," Natasha murmured.

You reached out, hesitating for only a second before gently placing your hand on hers. "If she’s anything like you, I’d bet she is."

Natasha looked at you then, her green eyes flickering at your hand on hers, then back at you. But after a moment, she just huffed out a quiet breath, shaking her head. "You’re really bad at this whole tough S.H.I.E.L.D. agent thing, you know?" she said.

You grined, "yeah, well. Someone’s gotta balance you out."

She didn´t argue. Instead, she just let out another soft chuckle, turning her gaze back toward the city. And for a while, the two of you just stayed like that. Side by side, watching the world move below, the weight of past and present settling comfortably between you.

One second, you were just standing there, glancing at Natasha, enjoying her presence - the next, her lips were on yours. Soft. Warm.

A little hesitant at first, like she wasn’t sure she should be doing this, but then firmer, more certain.

Your breath hitched, heart slamming against your ribs as your brain caught up with what was happening. Natasha Romanoff - Natasha - was kissing you.

And then, just as suddenly as it started, she pulled away, eyes wide, looking more startled than you felt. "Oh, shit," she breathed. "I- I didn’t mean to-"

You blinked at her, still processing, still feeling the ghost of her lips on yours. Butteflies flying everywhere.

"I mean, I did, but I- I don’t know why I-" She took a half-step back, running a hand over her face. "That was- I wasn’t thinking, I just-"

She was spiraling. Natasha Romanoff was spiraling. And honestly? It was kind of adorable.

You grinned, heart still racing, but in the best way. "Nat."

"I shouldn’t have-"

"Natasha."

She shut up, blinking at you.

"Don’t apologize," you said softly, still feeling the warmth of her lips lingering on yours. "That was nice."

She blinked again. "Nice?"

"Very nice." You nodded and as Natasha looked at you fully so she could notice the blush on your cheeks. Knowing very well it wasn´t from the alcohol.

Her brows furrowed, like her brain was still struggling to process the fact that you weren’t mad, weren’t pulling away. "But I just- I didn’t even ask, I just-"

"Yeah, I noticed," you teased, a giddy little laugh bubbling up. "Not that I’m complaining."

Natasha groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. "This is not how I wanted to do this."

You tilted your head, biting back a smile. "Oh? So you wanted to kiss me?"

Her lips parted, then closed, then parted again. "I- That’s not- I mean-"

You couldn’t help it. You laughed. A bright, breathless, happy sound.

"I knew it," you teased, poking her arm.

Natasha scowled, but the way her ears were turning pink betrayed her, "you did?"

"Nope, but I wanted you to do it so badly, so… manifestation." You smiled widely at her.

"You’re insufferable," she muttered, though there was no real heat behind it.

"And you just kissed me," you pointed out, grinning.

She groaned again, looking up at the sky like it might save her. You just smiled, reaching for her hand and giving it a small squeeze.

"Hey," you said softly. She looked at you, and there was still a little hesitation there, a little uncertainty.

You squeezed her hand again. "This is nice," you repeated, gentler this time. "You are nice. To me. And that’s all that matters."

Natasha stared at you for a long moment, like she was still trying to find a way out of this. But then, finally, finally, she let out a breath. "You’re really something else," she murmured, shaking her head.

You grinned. "Took you long enough to figure that out."

She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t let go of your hand.

…

From the moment that kiss happened on the rooftop, something between you and Natasha changed.

Not in a way that was overwhelming or scary - no, it was easy, like flipping a switch that was waiting to be turned on. You still trained together, ate lunch at the same table, sat beside each other in meetings, but now there was an added something to it all. A kind of warmth, a softness.

Like how Natasha would nudge your arm when she passed by, or how she’d steal your drink without asking, giving you a smirk when you huffed at her. Or how she’d lean into your side when you sat next to each other, casually draping her arm over the back of your chair, fingers sometimes brushing your shoulder absentmindedly.

Little things. Easy things.

Dating Natasha Romanoff was surprisingly not some impossible, larger-than-life thing. It was waking up and getting coffee together before morning drills, where she’d always roll her eyes but still make sure you had your favorite one.

It was stealing quick, hidden moments in hallways when no one was looking, Natasha rolling her eyes at how obvious you were, only to pull you in for a kiss when she thought no one was around. It was training together, still pushing each other, but now with teasing smirks and stolen kisses. It was, you had to admit, kind of perfect.

Natasha was perfect. And everyone was noticing.

Once word got out, because of course it got out, that you, arguably the kindest person in S.H.I.E.L.D., chose Natasha, something shifted in how people treated her.

Not in a bad way, though.

Before, people had been friendly enough, mostly because you kept bringing Natasha into group activities and conversations, but there had always been a kind of caution. A distance. They still saw her as Black Widow, the woman who had red in her ledger, who had a history drenched in violence.

But now?

Now, people looked at her differently.

If you, the person who always went out of their way to help others, who saw the best in everyone, liked Natasha, then maybe she wasn’t someone to be feared. Maybe she deserved a second chance. And Natasha? Oh, she noticed.

People started smiling at her more in the hallways.

They started asking for her help with things - small tasks, not only minor training exercises, more little things they never would have approached her for before.

And the flirting?

The flirting was insane.

It was like the moment people saw Natasha through your eyes, they realized she wasn’t just a deadly assassin… she was hot.

You’d never seen her ego this big before. Training days became something else entirely.

"Alright, everyone, partner up." Maria Hill, Fury´s right hand yelled, so everyone can hear her.

Immediately, half the room turned to Natasha. You watched as agents practically scrambled to be the first to get to her, some subtly and not so subtly bumping into each other in their rush. Natasha smirked.

"Oh," she mused, glancing at you from across the room. "Guess I’m popular now."

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms. "You’re impossible." Not thinking about it as a big deal.

She gave you a smug little smile, tilting her head. "Jealous?" You scoffed, trying not to let her entirely correct assumption show on your face.

She chuckled, then turns to some random rookie, “sorry, but I already have a partner," she said simply, jerking her head toward you.

The rookie looked both disappointed and terrified.

You, however, were fighting back a grin. She is yours and you are hers.

Natasha made her way over, stopping just in front of you. "You don’t mind, do you?"

You huffed, "like you’d let me say no."

She smirked, leaning in just enough for her voice to drop, “exactly."

You swallowed, because god, she knew what she was doing.

"Alright, alright," Maria called, clapping her hands. "Let’s get started."

You were going to kill her.

Or kiss her.

Possibly both.

And Natasha? She knew exactly what she was doing.

After training wrapped up, you and Natasha made your way to the locker room. The adrenaline was still thrumming in your veins, your body buzzing with the remnants of sparring.

Or maybe it was just her. Who knows?

Natasha was grinning, that signature, smug little smirk plastered on her lips as she leaned against the lockers with her arms crossed. "See how much people wanted to spar with me today?" she teased, tilting her head as she looked at you.

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Oh, please. It was a little desperate if you ask me."

Natasha gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. "Desperate? They chose me.”

You huffed, turning away to open your locker. "Yeah, well, I think I’m gonna have to start charging them if they want to breathe the same air as my girlfriend." There was a tiny hint of jealousy and of course she noticed it.

Natasha let out a delighted laugh. "Oh? So I’m yours now?"

You turned to her, lifting a brow. "You were always mine."

That shut her up, momentarily.

Then, she grinned, stepping closer. "Oh, is someone turning green?"

You turned away quickly, but Natasha was faster. Before you could even think of hiding, she had you pinned against the lockers, her hands firm on either side of your head as she leaned in.

"I think you are," she murmured, her lips brushing against yours as she spoke.

"I am not," you mumbled, though your resolve was very quickly dissolving.

Natasha chuckled. "Mhm." And then she kissed you. It was soft at first, just a slow, teasing press of her lips against yours. Then, it grew deeper, her hands sliding down to your waist, pulling you closer. You sighed against her mouth, your hands moving to cup her face, fingers tracing the curve of her jaw.

She was being so affectionate. Touching you like she needed to, kissing you like she wanted to pour everything she felt into you. When she pulled back, just enough to look into your eyes, you found yourself whispering, "We’re together… together."

She smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth. "We are…" Another kiss to your cheek, "…together." Another to your jaw, "…which is why you should move in with me."

You blinked, your mind short-circuiting. "Wait. What?"

She pulled back slightly, her hands still on your waist. "Move in with me."

You stared at her.

She tilted her head. "What?"

You blinked again. "You just said- wait. Are you serious?"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Of course I’m serious. We basically spend all our time together anyway."

You hesitated, your heart pounding. "But we-"

"You want to." She grinned, leaning in again, her lips brushing over yours. "I know you do."

You huffed, narrowing your eyes at her. "…I hate how well you know me."

She smirked, "so?"

You sighed, dramatically, "fine."

"Fine? Just fine?" She can´t help, but chuckle again.

You chuckled as well, "fine, I’ll move in."

Natasha grinned, "good," and then she kissed you again.

The only thing left to do was tell Fury. So you did the next day, since the word travels fast in this facility. You weren’t nervous, per se, but still… this was Fury. You stood in front of his desk, back straight, hands clasped behind you. Natasha was waiting outside, mostly because she didn’t want to hear Fury’s inevitable sarcasm firsthand.

Fury looked at you over the rim of his coffee cup, unimpressed. "You want to what?"

"Move in with agent Romanoff, sir."

He blinked, setting his cup down, "you’re already living in headquarters."

"Yes, sir."

"And now you want to live together?"

"…Yes, sir."

He exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. "I’m happy for you." He said that with total blank expression, so it was hard to tell if he meant it or not.

You blinked, "wait, really?"

"But," Fury continued, leveling you with a look, "don’t you dare let it affect your work."

You swallowed, “it won’t, sir."

"You and Romanoff are my top agents," he said firmly. "I don’t have time for relationship drama messing with my missions. So don’t you dare."

You straightened, "I understand. Don’t worry, sir."

Fury eyed you for a moment before sighing. "Good. Now get out of my office."

You tried not to smile as you turned on your heel and walked out.

Natasha was waiting in the hallway, arms crossed. "Well?"

You grinned. "He said yes."

"Told you he would" Natasha smirked.

You rolled your eyes, nudging her. "Come on, roomie."

She chuckled, draping an arm over your shoulders as you walked away together. Words can´t describe how happy you felt, in this moment… there is nothing more you wish for, maybe more free time, but you´re not gonna push Fury´s buttons. Not yet at least

Each morning from that moment the first thing you registered was warmth. The second was the scent of Natasha, something sweet and faintly floral, mixed with the crispness of freshly washed sheets. The third was movement. Something was shifting beside you, and before you could even react, a hand brushed over your hair, fingers lightly threading through it.

"Mhm," you grumbled, burying your face deeper into the pillow.

A chuckle, "good morning, sweetheart."

You groaned in response, curling further into the blankets.

"Come on, wake up." Natasha’s voice was far too cheerful for this time of day.

You pried one eye open, glaring at her, or at least, attempting to. It probably looked more like a squint. "It’s six in the morning."

"It is."

"Six, Natasha." Ugh. How you hated mornings, early mornings to be exact.

"I heard you the first time."

You groaned again, flopping onto your back and rubbing your face. "This is cruel. I thought you liked me."

Natasha laughed, stretching her arms above her head, the muscles in her back flexing beneath the soft fabric of her tank top. "I do like you."

You pouted up at her. "Then why are you waking me up at an ungodly hour?"

She grinned, leaning on her elbow beside you. "Because you’re adorable when you’re grumpy."

You narrowed your eyes at her, "I hate you." And you mumble something else.

"No, you don’t," she poked your cheek. "But everyone should see this. Our lovely, happy, kind little sunshine is currently wishing me all the worst just because I woke her up."

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. "That is not true," maybe it was… a little.

"Oh?" Natasha teased, nudging you playfully. "What was it you just mumbled? Something about me rotting in hell?"

You peeked at her through your fingers, "…maybe."

She laughed, and God, it was the best sound in the world. Even though it´s six in the morning, you don´t really mind the reason you´re awake now.

"You’re an agent, baby," she said, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"Not in the next five minutes," you mumbled, reaching for her hand and intertwining your fingers with hers, "Cuddles?"

Natasha let out a dramatic sigh, "fine, but only for five minutes."

You grinned sleepily, tugging her down into your arms. She didn’t resist, in fact, she melted into you, resting her head against your chest, her fingers idly tracing shapes against your arm.

"This is nice," she murmured.

You hummed, pressing a lazy kiss to the top of her head, "told you."

She chuckled, pressing a kiss to your collarbone. "Alright, I’ll admit it. You might have been right."

"Might have been?" You smirked at her.

She sighed, "alright, fine, you were right."

You grinned triumphantly, hugging her tighter. Natasha chuckled, tilting her head up to look at you. Her green eyes softened, and she reached up to brush her thumb over your cheek.

"I love you," she murmured.

Oh my god.

For a moment, all you could do was stare. Your sleep-addled brain scrambled to catch up, to process that Natasha Romanoff had just said I love you for the first time. The room was still, the only sound the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the soft rustling of the sheets as Natasha shifted slightly beside you. Your heart pounded against your ribs, like it knew the weight of those words before your brain could fully register them. She had said it so softly, so easily, like she wasn’t even afraid of it. Like it wasn’t some impossible, unreachable thing.

Natasha looked at you, her green eyes searching yours, and for the second time ever, she looked nervous. Like she thought maybe she had messed up. Like she thought maybe you wouldn’t say it back. Which was insane, because of course you would.

Of course, you did.

"Say it again," you whispered, barely realizing the words had left your mouth.

Natasha blinked. "What?"

"Say it again." Your voice was a little stronger this time, but still breathless, like you’d just been hit with a wave of something so big it knocked the air from your lungs.

Natasha's lips twitched into the faintest smile. And then quieter, but with no less certainty-

"I love you."

Something in your chest burst. You let out a breathless, almost disbelieving laugh, before grabbing her face and kissing her senseless. Natasha let out a surprised sound but melted into it instantly, her arms winding around your waist as if she had been waiting for this exact moment. When you finally pulled back, just enough to look at her, you were grinning like an absolute fool.

"You-" You shook your head, pressing another quick kiss to her lips, "you love me."

"I do." Natasha’s voice was amused now, a little lighter, a little happier.

"You love me," you repeated, as if testing the words in your mouth.

Natasha chuckled. "Is that really so surprising?"

"Yes! No! I mean-" You laughed again, completely overwhelmed, "I just- God, I love you so much."

Natasha's expression softened, and you swore you saw her eyes shine just a little. "Yeah?" she murmured.

"Yeah," you breathed. "So much."

She smiled, the kind of smile that made your knees weak, even though you were already lying down.

Since Natasha had told you she loved you, everything had been amazing. She had never been an overly affectionate person before, but now? Now she was. She kissed you in the hallways of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters.. She pulled you into her lap when you both sat on the couch, arms wrapped around you like she needed to physically anchor herself to you. She always, always held your hand whenever you were walking together.

She made you feel loved. And in return, you loved her hard. You loved her with your touch, with the way you reached for her first thing in the morning, still groggy but always needing her close. You loved her with your words, whispering soft things against her skin late at night, telling her all the reasons she was good, she was worthy. You loved her with your patience, never pushing when she got quiet, never demanding more than she was ready to give.

But still…

Still, something lingered in her.

Although things were better, although she had you and people were being nicer, there was something inside her that just wouldn't settle. A restlessness. Some nights, when you were fast asleep, Natasha would sit at the edge of the bed and just watch you. She would grip the blanket tight in her fists, pressing the fabric to her face just so she could smell you, so she could drown herself in something warm, something real.

She didn’t know why she did it. Or maybe she did.

Maybe it was because she was still trying to believe it.

Trying to believe that this was real. That you were real. That the love you gave her wasn’t something temporary, wasn’t something that would be ripped away the moment she blinked too long. She wanted to believe she belonged here. That this - this bed, this warmth, this person - was home.

But… what was home, really?

The Red Room? Moscow? The cold walls of S.H.I.E.L.D.? The battlefield?

Was she the assassin, the spy, the Black Widow capable of having a home?

Sometimes, she would stare at you, watching the way your lips would part slightly when you slept, the way your brows would furrow if she shifted too much.

And she would wonder… does she love the real me?

The real her. The one with blood-stained hands. The one who had taken lives, who had done horrible things. The one who, despite everything, still questioned whether she was anything more than a killer. Maybe you loved the version of her that you saw. The one who teased you in the mornings, who kissed you breathless in empty hallways, who pulled you into her arms without hesitation.

Maybe you loved that Natasha.

But what about the other one?

What about the Natasha who had once followed orders without question? The Natasha who had ended lives with a steady hand and an empty heart? The Natasha who still, even now, sometimes felt like she was nothing more than a weapon?

Did you love her, too?

Would you still love her if you knew, if you really knew, what she had done?

She didn't know. And she was scared to find out.

So after some time she just thought that faking till you make it sounded like a great idea. It started small. The lingering glances. The playful smirks. The way Natasha would lean in just a little too close when someone was talking to her, her eyes sharp and inviting in a way that made people stumble over their words.

At first, you brushed it off.

You knew Natasha. You knew she wasn’t the type to cheat, not even close. But it was hard to ignore how much she entertained it. The winks she threw back. The way she’d chuckle at comments that were a little too flirtatious. The way she let people’s hands linger on her arm or shoulder when they spoke.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That it was just her way of fitting in, showing people she wasn’t the cold, untouchable Black Widow they once thought she was.

And you got it. You did. For so long, she had felt unwanted, feared, alone.

And now, for the first time, people were seeing her differently. They were choosing her. Not because she was a weapon or a threat, but because they liked her.

And it made her feel… valued.

So you let it go.

Until you couldn’t.

It was one night in your shared room, Natasha sitting at the small desk while cleaning one of her knives, humming softly to herself. You sat on the bed, playing with the hem of your shirt, thoughts swirling too fast in your mind.

"Nat?"

She hummed in response but didn’t look up.

You took a breath. "I love you."

That made her pause. Her hands stilled, and she turned her head to look at you, brows furrowing slightly. "I know," she said softly with a small smile.

But you weren’t really saying it to her. You were saying it to yourself. Like some kind of reassurance. A desperate attempt to convince yourself that everything was okay. That she loved you… that she wanted you.

That this didn’t mean anything. Because it didn’t, right? But still, something gnawed at you. Something bitter and heavy, curling in your stomach, whispering thoughts you didn’t want to listen to.

Am I enough?

Maybe the others were more fun. Maybe they weren’t as serious. Maybe they made her laugh more.Maybe they didn’t come with the weight of whispered confessions in the dark, the burden of knowing all her scars, inside and out. Maybe it was easier with them.

Maybe-

"Hey," Natasha’s voice pulled you back, soft but firm. She was kneeling in front of you now, her hands gently resting on your thighs, brows drawn together in concern, "what’s wrong?”

You swallowed, shaking your head, "nothing."

She didn’t believe you. Of course, she didn’t. She tilted her head slightly, studying you the way she did when analyzing an opponent in a fight, like she was picking apart every little movement, every hesitation, every weakness. "Talk to me," she said quietly.

And you wanted to. You really wanted to.

But how could you?

How could you tell her that while she was struggling with believing she belonged, you were struggling with believing you were enough? You sighed, rubbing your palms over your face. "It’s nothing serious. I’ve just been overthinking a lot."

Natasha didn’t move from her spot in front of you, still kneeling, her hands now tracing slow circles over your thighs. "Overthinking what?"

You hesitated. You weren’t lying, not really. But you weren’t saying everything either. Because if you did, if you voiced all the thoughts racing through your mind it might make them real.

So instead, you forced a small smile, shaking your head. "Just… if what I’m doing now is enough."

Natasha’s brows furrowed. "Enough?"

You exhaled, "like… as an agent, as a person, in-" Your voice wavered. "In us." It slipped out.

Her grip on you tightened slightly. "Of course, you’re enough." And the way she said it, so fiercely, so certainly, made your chest ache. She shifted, lifting herself up to sit beside you on the bed, her hand finding yours. "What’s making you feel this way?"

You shrugged, staring down at your intertwined fingers. "I don’t know. I think it’s just… everything."

Natasha was quiet for a moment, and you could almost see the gears turning in her head, the way her mind dissected every little piece of information you gave her. Finally, she sighed, leaning in and pressing her lips softly to your temple. "I love you," she murmured against your skin.

It sent a warmth through your chest, but it didn’t erase the lingering thoughts completely.

And maybe Natasha knew that.

Maybe that’s why, as she pulled back, she searched your face so intently, as if trying to see past whatever walls you were keeping up.

But then something shifted in her own expression. Something almost unreadable. She glanced away, exhaling slowly.

And that’s when you realized-

She was thinking, too.

Overthinking.

You squeezed her hand. "Nat?"

She didn’t answer right away, staring at a spot on the floor like it had the answers to something she didn’t even know how to ask. "I just…" she started, but then shook her head, letting out a quiet laugh that lacked any humor.

"Now you’re overthinking," you pointed out gently.

Natasha exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. "Yeah, well… you’re not the only one who does it."

Your brows knit together. "What are you overthinking?"

Her lips pressed into a thin line. And for the first time in a while, Natasha looked uncertain. She was always so sure, so sharp, so steady. But now, there was something hesitant in the way she held herself. Like she wasn’t sure if she was standing on solid ground anymore.

You turned to face her fully, giving her the same patience she had given you. "Talk to me."

She scoffed softly, "that’s my line."

You smiled, nudging her lightly, "it can be mine, too."

Natasha sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I just…” She swallowed, "I´m not sure if I fit in."

Your breath hitched. "What?"

She ran a hand through her hair, her voice quieter now. “I mean, what if people like the fun me, not the weird killer one, but the one that´s…” she gestured vaguely, "normal."

Your chest tightened. "Nat-" You stared at her, heart aching. Because you understood. You understood the weight she carried, the doubt that gnawed at her, the fear of being seen as something she wasn’t sure she could escape. "People like you for who you are, right now. They enjoy your presence, I enjoy your presence. All the time."

To you, there was no version of Natasha to love. There was just her. And maybe… maybe you both needed to figure that out together. So after your talk you just spend cuddling tighter than usual, not talking at all, just enjoying your time together.

Over the days, Natasha had been even more open to others, for some reason, which didn´t help you with the "overthinking" part. It wasn’t just the occasional banter anymore, it was something more. The teasing smirks, the way she leaned in just a little too close when speaking, the way her fingers ghosted over arms, her laugh coming a little softer, a little sweeter.

You wanted to understand this, but the only think you could do was to stend back and watch. She joked with Maria Hill in the training center, standing a little too close, her fingers lingering on Maria’s wrist just a beat longer than necessary as they laughed about something. You weren’t even sure what had been said, but it didn’t really matter. It was the pattern that was beginning to form. It wasn’t just Maria. Natasha was always surrounded by someone now, their attention drawn to her like moths to a flame. And she let them. Agents who barely looked at her months ago now jumped at the chance to train with her, to sit with her in the cafeteria, to find excuses to be near her.

And Natasha? She basked in it.

You didn´t said anything… but days turned to weeks, and it never stopped. If anything it got worse.

It was after training when you finally said something. The adrenaline still thrummed in your veins from sparring, your muscles sore in the best way, but all of it was overshadowed by the tight knot in your chest.

Natasha was drinking from her water bottle, wiping sweat from her forehead when you finally broke the silence.

"The flirting is too much."

She froze mid-motion, brow raising slightly as she looked at you, "wha- baby, you know I would never"

"I know," you sighed, running a hand through your hair. "I know you wouldn’t do anything, but… I just don’t like them thinking they have a chance, you know?"

For a second, something flickered in Natasha’s expression, something uncertain, but then it was gone, replaced with that easy, confident smirk that had charmed so many people lately.

"You’re the only girl in my sight," she murmured, stepping closer, her voice dropping into something lower, something smoother. Your lips pressed into a thin line. She was doing it again. The charming words, the flirtation, the teasing little game she played when things got too close, too real. And then her fingers traced down your arm, light, deliberate, the heat of her touch sending shivers up your spine.

"You don’t need to worry," she whispered, pressing a kiss just below your ear. "I only want you."

You wanted to stay firm. You wanted to keep pushing, to tell her that wasn’t the point. But then her hands were on you, guiding, coaxing, pulling you into her orbit like she always did. Natasha had always been a master of control, of knowing exactly what to say, what to do, to pull someone under. And she knew exactly how to make you forget.

Natasha led you through the hallways of the compound, her fingers interlaced with yours, her touch grounding, magnetic. You weren’t fighting it anymore. Maybe you should have. Maybe you should have pressed harder, but right now, in this moment, you just wanted her.

"Our room," she murmured, glancing at you from the corner of her eye, a small smirk playing at her lips, "we can shower together." Her voice was low, inviting, and there was no point in pretending you didn’t want that too.

By the time you reached her room, Natasha was already peeling off her shirt, throwing it onto the chair in the corner without care. She turned back to you, stepping close, her fingers immediately finding your waist, tracing over your skin like she needed to remind herself you were real.

She kissed you - slow, deliberate, her lips moving over yours like she had all the time in the world. And then she whispered against your lips, "You’re mine." Her hands slid up, her palms warm against your skin.

"I’m yours," she murmured, pressing another kiss just beneath your jaw. "You’re amazing." The words kept coming, soft and steady, an anchor against the storm of thoughts that had been brewing in your mind for weeks. "You’re everything," she breathed.

Your fingers curled against her back, holding onto her, feeling the way her muscles tensed and relaxed beneath your touch. You wanted to believe her. You wanted to hold onto these words and let them fill the cracks that had started to form inside you.

Natasha rested her forehead against yours, her hands still tracing slow, soothing patterns against your sides. "No overthinking. Not right now," she whispered. "Just me and you."

She kissed you again, and for a little while, you let yourself believe her.

The steam curled around both of you, thick and warm, as the water cascaded down, soaking into your skin. Natasha’s hands never left you, not for a second. They traced along your arms, your waist, the curve of your back, as if she was mapping you out, committing you to memory, ensuring you were still here, still hers.

The shower wasn’t just a shower… it was something else entirely. A quiet space where the world didn’t exist, where doubts couldn’t reach, where words weren’t needed because her touch spoke louder than anything she could say.

Her forehead pressed against yours, water dripping between you, and she whispered it again, "I love you". Over and over again. It was reverent, almost fragile, like she was convincing herself just as much as she was convincing you.

Your hands found her, fingers threading through damp strands of red as she kissed you, deep and slow, like she was breathing you in. Every touch, every movement, felt like a plea - don’t doubt me, don’t doubt this, don’t leave.

She held you like you were something precious. Like you were something she wasn’t sure she deserved but was too afraid to let go of. Her lips brushed over your shoulder, her breath warm against your skin as she murmured, "you´re everything to me."

The weight of those words settled deep in your chest. She didn’t say it often, definetly not like this. Not stripped down to its rawest form, with no teasing, no distractions. Just her, open and vulnerable, asking for something she didn’t quite know how to name. So you gave it to her.

Your fingers trailed along her spine, tracing invisible lines over old scars, new ones, the history of everything she had endured and survived. "I love you too, so much," you whispered, barely audible over the steady rush of water.

Natasha exhaled, a shaky breath against your skin, and then she held you tighter, as if grounding herself in your warmth. She kissed you again, not rushed, not desperate. Just deep. Meaningful. Like she was pouring everything into it, everything she didn’t know how to say.

taglist: @starrycherie, @esposadejoyhuerta

#adele writes #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x y/n #natasha romanoff x female #natasha romanoff fluff #natasha romanoff angst #natasha x reader #natasha romanoff

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