#Thick Trunk Tuesday

[roentarre]

Lamington National Park Queensland

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

[cuppa-and-a-view]

Thick Trunk Tuesday 30th April 2024

look at this mossy beauty.

It's wild garlic season. The flowers are out, and the smell is pungent! When the woods smell like the kitchen of an Italian restaurant, you know it's spring. And you know it's time to stock up on the good stuff while it's fresh!

You have never tasted garlic bread like it.

The farmer has replaced the barbed wire fence. Maybe that means there will be cattle in this pasture this year. In a previous year they had the most beautiful cows, white-faced like Herefords, but their bodies in all shades of chestnut and blonde and soft blue-grey.

I heard a cuckoo this morning.

[wolfnowl]

An arbutus (two views) for #ThickTrunkTuesday

[em1i2a3]

Detonate

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

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

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

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

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

Word Count: 22,288 (holy fuck)

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gave a sheepish shrug, his voice small.

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

You paused.

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

That really was all he had.

Two boxes.

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

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

That corner had become his sanctuary.

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

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

And how badly you wanted to give him more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And because of you Valentina called that meeting.

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

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

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

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

Until you said it…

”I’ll take him.”

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

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

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

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

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

Then Bucky gave you a slow, almost unrecognized nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you held out your hand.

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

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

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

And that’s how it all began.

The first few days weren’t quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But–“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That week, he finally showered alone.

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

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

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

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

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

You startled him when you padded in.

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

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

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

That happened again the next night.

And the one after.

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

Eventually, you offered a different solution.

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

”…O-Okay.”

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

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

Halfway through, his head started to dip sideways.

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

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

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

Then you touched him.

Gently.

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

He sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t dare wake him.

The next morning, you didn’t mention it.

Neither did he.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

——————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hadn’t used his strength since.

Not until now.

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

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

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

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

But the stillness in his face made you pause.

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

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

He let out a soft sigh and blinked, once.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then–ding.

EIGHTIETH FLOOR.

The doors slid open.

And chaos hit like a brick wall.

“DUDE, THAT WAS MINE!”

“It was not, I CALLED DIBS!”

“I tagged it with my name!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her eyes bounced from you to Bob.

To the boxes.

To Bob’s arms.

To Bob’s face.

“…Holy shit,” She muttered.

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

Ava blinked twice.

Walker’s brows lifted in slow, dramatic awe.

Alexei whispered something in Russian that definitely sounded reverent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bob stepped in.

And stopped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stepped in beside him quietly.

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

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

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

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

“I miss the couch,” He admitted.

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

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

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

“…Okay,” He whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You put your hands on your hips.

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

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

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

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

“Better,” you said softly.

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

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

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

Soon, the space began to fill.

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

And then…Came the collection of posters.

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

Real ones.

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

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

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

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

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

You turned to glance at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart gave a traitorous little flip.

And then you held out your hands.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Does he know me?” You asked softly.

Bob blinked once, then twice.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t speak. Just listened.

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

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

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

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

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

“Jesus Christ–”

Bob stiffened instinctively beneath you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Walker, mercifully, spared him further commentary.

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

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

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

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

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

You glanced over at Bob.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glanced at him with a quiet smile.

“Yeah,” You said. “It does.”

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

———————

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

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

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

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

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

You’d meant to say something.

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

But you hadn’t forgotten.

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

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

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

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

Your mouth went a little dry.

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

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

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

Then his gaze slid over to you.

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

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

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

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

You saw it.

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

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

You didn’t hesitate.

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

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

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

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

—————————

The store was massive.

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

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

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

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

The first thing he touched was a throw pillow.

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

You watched him for a moment, then smiled.

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

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

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

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

From there, it got easier.

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

You touched his arm lightly, drawing his gaze.

“What are you drawn to?”

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

“Cathedral.” You muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I think it’s perfect.”

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

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

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

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

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

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

“Thanks for helping,” He said softly.

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

——————————

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A white undershirt.

And not just any undershirt. The kind that clung.

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

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

Every time felt like the first.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you weren’t really listening. Not completely.

Because Bob was…Glowing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t pull away when it was gone.

Neither did you.

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

That same light.

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

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

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

And then the air changed.

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

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

You could feel the tremor in him.

Not fear. Not anymore.

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

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

“Bob…” You whispered.

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

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

He didn’t move forward either.

Not yet.

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

Then he whispered it.

Something small.

Something that cracked your ribs open with its softness.

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

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

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

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

So you didn’t let him fall.

You leaned in first.

Just a little.

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

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

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

And then—

He kissed you back.

Not rushed. Not greedy. But slow.

So slow it made your skin prickle.

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

It was holy.

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

And God–you wanted closer.

So you shifted.

One slow, smooth motion.

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

He melted beneath you.

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

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

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

There was nothing else.

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

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

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

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

And then he closed them tightly.

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

You leaned in.

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

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

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

You kissed the other eyelid just as slowly.

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

Then–

He surged forward, finally.

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

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

You kissed him like you meant it.

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

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

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

You blinked, still catching your breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, softly–like a secret–

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

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

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

And he didn’t hesitate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he leaned in.

And kissed you.

Not on the mouth this time. But everywhere else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It cast everything in a warm, golden haze.

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

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

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

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

You saw it, even from across the room.

The rise and fall of his shoulders.

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

Then he did turn.

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

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

He came back to you slowly.

Each step measured.

Deliberate.

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

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

You moaned into it anyway.

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

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

“Y-Yeah, okay–hang on–”

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

And then there he was.

Bare.

Bathed in lamplight.

Your breath caught in your throat.

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

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

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

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

Your eyes drank in every inch.

And then your hand followed.

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

You let your fingers drift up.

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

“You look like a god,” You whispered.

And he hummed.

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

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

You pressed your hand flat over his heart.

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

And he hummed again–longer this time.

The sound of it curled between your legs like silk.

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

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

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

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

You smiled against his jaw.

“Yes, I do.”

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

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

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

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

“Look at me,” You whispered.

He hesitated.

But only for a second.

Then he opened his eyes.

And it confirmed everything.

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

The Sentry.

You saw it flicker there. Just enough.

Not violent. Not threatening. But watching.

And you smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do understand.”

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

“And I want it anyway.”

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

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

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

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

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

And then you laid back.

Slow, easy.

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

Bob just stared.

And for a second, he didn’t move.

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

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

He swallowed hard. His eyes shimmered.

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

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

He cupped your breasts carefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That tone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m yours.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t rush. Not for a second.

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

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

He bent forward.

And kissed the top of your thigh.

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

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

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

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

He didn’t finish the thought.

He didn’t have to.

Because his mouth descended, slow and devastating.

A kiss–directly over your folds.

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

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

And then he did it again.

And again.

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

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

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

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

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

His mouth moved like it was built for this.

Slow. Devoted. Intoxicating.

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

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

You were shaking.

You were unraveling.

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

And then–

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

The orgasm hit like sunrise.

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

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

He was breathless.

Shaking.

But his eyes were molten gold.

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

“I want to give you another one…”

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

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

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

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

Then—you felt it.

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

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

But he didn’t pull away.

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

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

And he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The second orgasm hit like a wave breaking against rock.

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

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

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

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

He sucked them clean.

Eyes locked on yours.

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

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

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

Bob moved carefully.

Softly.

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

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

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

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

You sighed against him.

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

He hesitated.

Only for a second.

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

And there he was.

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

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

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

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

He slipped one arm behind your neck.

Cradling you.

Like you were the most precious thing in the world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not the Sentry.

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

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

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

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

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

He kissed you.

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

The stretch stole your breath.

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

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

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

You felt full.

You felt wrecked.

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

And then…

He stilled, breathless, inside you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, softer–

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

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

And then you nodded.

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

“Now.”

He moved.

Just a little.

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

Every thrust was deliberate.

Every movement was a confession.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And his eyes–

They glowed.

Bright now.

The Sentry wasn’t gone.

But he wasn’t in control, either.

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

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

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

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

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

He snapped.

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

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

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

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

And then the lightbulb burst.

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

And he poured into you.

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

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

But it was all far away.

Because your ears were ringing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then…

The sound of shouting finally cut through the quiet.

Your eyes opened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[thefreakandthehair]

I am a river / I am your river

written for ‘pool’ | wc: 442 | rated: m | cw: fake drowning (for training purposes) | @steddiemicrofic

It’s stupid. 

Steve’s been a lifeguard every summer since landing his teaching gig four years ago. He was co-captain of the swim team in high school, he’s spent more time in the water than he has on land since he was old enough to doggy-paddle, and he teaches basic CPR to the junior lifeguards. It makes no sense, then, that he’s wasting a valuable mid-summer Tuesday at the community pool for his biennial CPR certification class. At what point does experience trump arbitrary certification renewals? 

It’s stupid– until it’s not. 

Steve sees the fake-victim he’s supposed to pretend-rescue walking toward the pool and his own heart skips a few beats. Long, dark, curly hair sits in a messy bun on top of his head, tattoos litter his arms, chest, and torso visible with no shirt to cover them, and his swim trunks are just short enough to tease Steve with defined, hairy thighs. 

His immediate thought is a desperate need to bite them but he doesn’t have time to unpack that before the instructor starts barking instructions. 

“Rescuer, ready?”

“Ready.” Steve replies, trying to focus on the goal here. The goal being Rescue the fake drowning victim as much as Do not pop a boner mid-pool.

“Victim, ready?” 

“As ever.” Fake Victim’s voice is deeper than Steve expects and that does Steve zero favors in the way of his secondary goal.

“Go ahead and get ready to submerge, all the way to the bottom.”

“Alright,” the instructor turns to Steve. “Get him out onto the concrete and start CPR procedures. Thirty seconds. On my whistle.”

The whistle blows and Steve reacts immediately. It’s second nature, jumping into the pool and into action. He’s done this dozens of times between training and real emergencies, so swimming out to the center and pulling Fake Victim up onto his back at the surface takes no time at all. 

He must be an actor, or maybe a former theater kid, because he’s limp in Steve’s hands, complete dead weight. Steve would be concerned he’s actually nearly drowned if not for the one eye that cracks open and smirk that stretches across his face. 

“Hi handsome, come here often?” He teases with a wink before Steve reaches the edge and hauls him up onto the concrete, laying him on his back. 

Steve leans over and tries to focus, water falling from his hair in thick droplets as he gets in position for faux chest compressions and grins. “Oh, you know, just when I need to rescue pretty boys.”

Fake Victim’s eyebrows shoot up beneath his bangs as he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. “I’m Eddie.”

[snowball-doie]

✮⋆˙ 𝐨𝐟𝐟 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐬, 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟐 ˙⋆✮

| pairing: johnny x manager!oc

| warnings: 18+ MDNI. Mentions of lots of sex lmao. Mentions of sasaengs.

Back on Johnny’s birthday, he promised Aurora that they would find time to go on a roadtrip to see other parts of South Korea that she hadn’t gotten the chance to explore yet. Because of work and all that, there really wasn’t a “good time” to go on a vacation like that, but Johnny tried his best. He talked to Seyeon about stealing Aurora away after work on a Friday and returning her by Tuesday, and all he asked was that Seyeon spared giving Aurora any work over that weekend… because it was their anniversary… and he wanted to surprise Aurora by taking her to Busan. Seyeon laughed. Aurora was always the one giving herself extra work— Seyeon hardly ever told Aurora to work through the weekend! “That girlfriend of yours works like a Korean, Yeongho-ya.” Regardless, she promised to make sure Aurora wouldn’t even take her work laptop with her on the trip that weekend, and if she got so much as a text from Aurora it would be a write up.

So of course Aurora was confused when Seyeon walked into her office one random Friday afternoon and asked her to hand over her computer for the weekend. “What? Why?” Aurora had questioned, tightening her grip on it like it was her own lifeline. Seyeon lied the best she could. She used her title as Aurora’s boss to trick her into believing that I.T. needed to do some kind of update— It didn’t matter, her boss was telling her to hand over her work laptop, she needed to obey!

Aurora felt naked without her work. Walking home to her apartment with her backpack lighter, her phone silent without any fires to put out at the office, wondering why Seyeon insisted that she just relax for the weekend. Obviously Aurora knew that it was hers and Johnny’s anniversary— She wasn’t stupid— but the whole weekend? There was work to be done! The boys would probably run around like headless chickens without her being able to work properly. As far as she knew, she and Johnny didn’t even have any big plans for their anniversary, anyhow. She thought they were just spending the night in, like they used to when they first started dating and were absolutely terrified to be seen together anywhere outside of their apartments.

Pack a weekend bag for cold weather. I’ll be around to pick you up in thirty.

Johnny Suh… Aurora was hardly settled in her apartment before he sent the text, prompting her to rush to grab her pink carry-on suitcase from under her bed and pack it full of things she would need. Did she know where they were going? Nope. Did she know what she was supposed to be packing for? Absolutely not. Her best guess was that they were going somewhere cold, and it wasn’t far enough to warrant more than a weekend bag— Johnny knew her well, she liked to pack a lot of things, so if they were leaving the country, he would’ve warned her properly— and he didn’t mention a thing about planes, which he also would’ve warned her about even while trying to be all secretive.

Sure enough, thirty minutes later, she got a text that he was waiting outside, but she could take another few minutes to pack if she needed to. Silly Johnny. He should’ve known better because whenever Aurora was given a deadline, she was sure to be early instead of on time, or the unthinkable: Being late. Johnny sent his text, yet Aurora was already waiting in the lobby of her apartment building to hide from the cold until she saw Johnny backing his car in one of the front spots so the trunk was facing her, making it more efficient to quickly load her luggage then dive into the warm car before the snow would seep into her thick, frizzy blonde hair and frail, pale skin.

“I would’ve helped you if you told me you were there,” Johnny scolded her after she sat in the car, the trunk filled and closed. He was looking down at his phone to wait for her reply text, likely begging for more time, or letting him know that she was actually heading down to meet him, when she scurried to his car and opened the trunk herself. “Did you have enough time?”

“Barely.”

She was teasing him, based on the way she tried to hold back a smile in reaction to his disappointed scowl. He tried his best. He tried so hard not to give into her adorableness, but he ultimately cracked under the pressure of her life that she let out first, prompting him to chuckle too.

“I take it you’re responsible for Seyeon confiscating my work this weekend.”

As they began driving out of the parking lot, Johnny grabbed her hand to hold it as they both rested their elbows on the middle console between them. “Sorry if I overstepped—”

“Thank you.”

Even while driving, he paused to look at her, baffled. “Really?”

“Yeah. I even turned off my email and told Yuta and Taeyong to leave me out of any issues— Tell one of the other managers or something.”

“Who are you and what have you done with my girlfriend?”

“I’m the cooler version of her or whatever. The boring version’s stuffed in the trunk.”

Johnny laughed.

“Are you going to tell me what this is all about now?”

Johnny hummed a thought. “Maybe if we play twenty questions.”

“Are you ten years old?”

He chuckled. “No. That’s a terrible first question, baby, you need to think before you ask or else you’re going to waste the other nineteen.”

Oh, so that was how he was going to be. Alright, fine, Aurora could play along; She could be a fun girlfriend. So she carefully calculated her line of questioning before rapidly firing them out to Johnny Legally Blonde style in the hopes of catching him off guard, but it didn’t work because he was always faster and wittier than she was. Were they going on a plane? No. Train? No. Boat? No. Alright, so she figured out that they were staying in the car, which meant that they were likely staying in mainland South Korea. Next: Was it just the two of them? Yes. Would she be allowed to work— AKA, were they going somewhere with internet access? No to working, yes to WiFi. Would they do touristy things? Only if she wanted to. Were they going to visit someone in particular? No. Was there something specific he wanted to do wherever they were going? Not really… Just relax with her, do whatever she wanted, even if that meant staying inside all day. Were they staying in a hotel? No, he rented out an Airbnb. Countryside? Kind of. Seaside? Kind of.

“Busan?”

“Ding ding ding! Proud of you, baby, you got it in fifteen or under.” He kissed her knuckles lightly.

He explained thoroughly that he remembered his promise to show her around Korea since she didn’t have the chance to do it on her own. They were going on a road trip down to Busan, stopping in random cities and villages that Johnny liked or anywhere that caught Aurora’s attention, eating delicious food, buying stupid little trinkets they probably didn’t need but it could be adorable to have as keepsakes. He got an Airbnb for them to stay in— He refused to tell her anything about it because he wanted it to be a surprise. Though they were headed down there for the weekend, Johnny was really fine with taking her anywhere in the country that she wanted to visit— Even if it required them to get a flight somewhere to make it easier. He just wanted her to explore. There was no way that she lived in South Korea yet hardly saw any of it. He wouldn’t stand for that!

“Is Jeju too far to drive?” she asked shyly, hoping that they wouldn’t have to fly because she felt like it would be an inconvenience.

Johnny smiled. “Not too far. We could roadtrip tomorrow, if you want. Wake up early, drive down to Wando, catch the ferry, spend the afternoon in Jeju, come back in the night.”

“How long would that take?”

“Eh, give or take six hours each way.”

Aurora nearly choked on spit. “Six?”

“We could fly, if you’d prefer.”

Aurora sank in her seat. “Maybe we’ll just go another weekend…”

Johnny grinned slightly, pursing his lips together to try to keep it on the down-low, then he reached over to caress her thigh. “We’ll find a good weekend where we can pick oranges and visit the stone park. We can even make Jungwoo jealous by visiting the Snoopy Garden.”

The what? Why on Earth was there a Snoopy Garden— Actually, why was Aurora questioning that in the first place after living in both Japan and Korea where they made parks out of everything. Regardless of any absurdities, Aurora entertained the idea of yet another weekend getaway without any work following her around, leaving her to only worry about Johnny and how she would keep him entertained during that time. Oranges and a stone park… It sounded nice. She could already imagine a cliche scenario where she would reach up for an orange and Johnny, as tall as he was, would sneak up behind her until he was pressed against her backside before reaching up to grab the orange for her. She really, really liked that idea.

Hours later, when they arrived at the Airbnb, Aurora couldn’t bring herself to get out of the car for the first few minutes as she sat staring out the window in awe of her surroundings. The house was beautiful. It was bigger than just the two of them would ever need, but it was a damn good place to spend a long weekend away from the big city where work was all they really concerned themselves with. Beyond the house was the beach. It was so close Aurora could practically feel it in between her toes even from where she sat. There was a shed to the right of the house, a few feet behind it, close to the beach itself, for all the beach day necessities— Surfboards, paddleboards, swim floaties for kids, sandcastle toys, swim toys, and so much more; but Aurora didn’t care about those while the waves crashed against the shore.

It was music to her ears. She had grown so used to the sound of cars honking at each other, trains rattling the underground belly of Seoul, men speaking loudly while blocking the front doors to restaurants as they smoked carelessly, and the boys she worked with… They were the loudest of all. None of that was to be found at their little getaway in Busan. Obviously if they moved closer to the heart of the city where the tourist attractions were, they would meet the same vibe as Seoul. Aurora didn’t want to go. She wanted the ocean. Even though it was freezing, she wanted to sleep with the window open to hear the waves all night, lulling her to sleep in tandem with Johnny’s adorable snoring in her ear.

Johnny took the bags and set them just inside the front door of the house before he reached for Aurora’s hand to guide her excitedly towards the beach that she’d clearly been yearning for. Because it was the middle of winter, they couldn’t go in the water since it was too cold and an icecap was slightly forming over the surface; but that was okay because both Johnny and Aurora had to hide their identities anyhow, so bundling up in lots of clothes rather than wearing bathing suits where they ran the risk of someone recognizing Johnny’s tattoos was preferable.

Once they were down at the oceanside, Johnny and Aurora paused to take in the view. The sun was going down, so it was getting colder, but damn was it beautiful. Johnny stepped behind Aurora to hold her from behind, his chin resting on her shoulder. She smirked. It was a nice evening in Busan. She couldn’t understand how she hadn’t been there before— But maybe it was fate that she would visit with Johnny so that she could have a perfect trip.

“Don’t mind me,” he said, as if she cared at all, “I just want to keep you warm since you get cold easily.”

She rolled her eyes. Johnny was obviously showing off and trying to pry her attention away from the horizon and onto him. She decided to indulge him regardless.

“Thank you for bringing me out here.”

As she reached out to touch his cheek, he leaned more of his weight into her lovingly. Everything felt so perfect. Johnny was warm… The air was as clear as it ever would be in Korea because they weren’t in the heart of Seoul, but also because it was the winter months when things cleared up. The sun was beautiful, the horizon a view far different than the city— Or even what she would see around the mountains back in the U.S. She inhaled deeply to fill her lungs with the cold air. Oh, she felt like she was in heaven.

Johnny noticed and chuckled quietly in her ear, “Just enjoy your weekend, darling. Whatever you want to do, we’ll do it together.”

She pecked his cheek. “I love you.”

He turned to smile at her before stealing a kiss from her lips, muttering against them, “I love you too.”

“And if I said I wanted to stay in bed all weekend, then what?”

“Well, I’m not opposed to it, of course, but do you really want to be a hermit crab?”

She hummed a thought. “No… But an evening inside doesn’t sound too bad— Oh! Tomorrow, can we get hotteok?”

“Duh.”

“Dwaeji gukbap?”

“Sounds yummy.”

“You’re going say ‘yes’ to everything, aren’t you?”

“Yup.” He kissed her again with a little more passion than before.

After they went back inside, Aurora and Johnny… explored the house together… Well, in their own way, which included Johnny peeling Aurora out of all of her winter clothes and vice versa as they did just about everything they could think of in every room. The living room was about the size of Johnny’s back in Seoul— Big enough for two couches, a table, a lamp, a TV hung on the wall, and a fireplace built in beneath said TV. It was painted white and blue to match the summer beach aesthetic of Busan. The kitchen was fully stocked with a big stainless steel fridge and freezer, microwave, oven, stovetop, rice cooker, dishwasher. They didn’t really have to leave if they just wanted to hunker down for the weekend, but that would’ve been a waste realistically after driving down for so long just to not go see anything. There were stairs that led to a second floor where the bedrooms and bathrooms were. The place was bigger than the two of them needed, truthfully, but Johnny didn’t seem upset about it after getting head in one room then bending Aurora over a desk in another. Their bedroom that they elected as their home for the weekend was the biggest one. There was a king bed in a corner that hugged both the far wall and a large window that overlooked the beach, it was decorated with white sheets and a light blue comforter to match the rest of the house’s aesthetic. Across from the bed was another wall-mounted TV, a dresser beneath it for their clothes, a walk-in closet beside it for shirts and their winter coats.

Johnny unpacked the bags. Wearing nothing but boxers, he dug out every item of clothing Aurora brought along with her then either hung it up in the closet or neatly folded it before placing it in a drawer. Meanwhile, Aurora rested. The only thing that kept her warm was the blue comforter Johnny pulled up over her naked body as she laid on her stomach, her arms cradling the pillow that she had her left cheek pressed against so she could watch the waves continue to roll up onto the beach.

“You’re tempting me,” he cooed suddenly, finally finished with unpacking their belongings.

She turned to press her right cheek against the pillow to look at him. “I’m just laying here.”

“Looking perfect.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Doesn’t matter… You’re still perfect.”

“Shut up…” She hid her face in the pillow.

Johnny was silent for a moment, which caught Aurora’s attention because she half expected him to crawl on top of her once more, but he didn’t move or speak for a second too long. She perked up to look at him again. He was on his phone, frantically texting someone with his brows furrowed together with confusion, frustration, and annoyance. What was wrong with him? What was going on? She sat up to question him, but before she could start her interrogation, Johnny huffed and went into the closet to put on some real winter clothes again.

“I forgot I have a thing to do,” he explained.

“What?”

“Mark’s live streaming on Weverse tonight, and he asked me to join a couple of days ago, and I said yes at the time, not really thinking about it.” He came back into the bedroom. “He’s waiting for me, apparently.”

“I thought we weren’t working this weekend,” Aurora protested with a pout.

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, I totally forgot I promised to do this— Just give me, like, ten minutes, okay? Fifteen, max.”

Aurora was getting a taste of her own medicine. How many times had she and Johnny been hanging out together only for Aurora to get distracted by some email that she felt the urge to respond to right then and there instead of leaving it for later? It wasn’t like Aurora could argue with him. Honestly, it felt like a pointless argument, but on top of that, Aurora understood that whenever one of the boys asked for something from Johnny, he was always running to help because that was the type of person he was. Kind. He just wanted to support everyone in his life, the same way Aurora wanted to. So she let him go.

Mark was already a few minutes into the stream when Johnny went outside to the car to join— Just because he didn’t want fans to read into the fact that he was in a different location than the office or his home. A car seemed the least suspicious. Meanwhile, Aurora watched from the comfort of the couch in the living room with the electric fireplace running to keep her warm as she wore pajamas that weren’t exactly fit for winter: One of Johnny’s oversized t-shirts and a pair of shorts that practically disappeared under the shirt. She watched on her phone since it was the laziest way to go about it. Just as she began watching, Mark invited Johnny to join the stream, and as Johnny’s camera loaded so did a filter that made him look like an alien. Aurora sighed to herself, embarrassed by her own boyfriend; But Mark was entertained, so Johnny seemed happy with his successful joke.

Honestly, they talked about a whole bunch of nothing, which Aurora could tell was mostly because of Johnny who was trying to be funny in a short amount of time to hurry up and find a good excuse to leave. Mark took notice. He kept trying to pry into what Johnny was doing sitting in a dark car, why he wouldn’t talk about anything specific about life or even work for that matter— Then he began questioning where Johnny was, what he was up to for the weekend, why he was being so mysterious. Aurora was mentally face palming throughout the entire conversation because Mark should’ve known better than to pester Johnny about his private life, especially after they made it clear both of them were going to be unavailable for the weekend. He should’ve gotten the hint. Thankfully Johnny was smarter than that, so he kept avoiding the question by changing the topic again and again until Mark eventually got bored and gave up.

Eventually, Johnny found a good out. The fans were content with the amount of clips they got of Johnny and Mark, Mark himself was grateful that his eldest hyung stopped by to joke around with him for a few minutes, so Johnny politely finished his conversation up by wishing Mark a restful long weekend before ending his side of the call on the live stream.

Aurora heard the car door outside open then slam shut before the house front door flew open suddenly. Johnny really was in a hurry to finish up that stream.

“Oh, welcome back,” Aurora said with disappointment, but it was meant teasingly. “Do I finally get your attention?”

“I had to go entertain my son.”

“Someone else could’ve just as easily done that.”

Johnny climbed onto the bed on all fours so that he was hovering over Aurora. “Sure, but I wanted to do my work duty one last time before I’d fall off the face of the Earth. Otherwise my manager might kill me.”

“Are you going back to space or something?”

He laughed and leaned down slightly. “Yeah, with my pretty girlfriend…” He slowly kissed Aurora while her eyes fell shut. “It’ll just be us for the next three days.” He drifted one of his hands down to her thighs which he then began caressing. “And I have no intention of letting you out of my sight.”

“We have to sleep eventually.”

“That comes later.”

And once Johnny’s fingers discovered that they could easily work their way under Aurora’s sleep shorts through the bottom where her pudgy thighs were spilling out, he took full advantage of that information. Aurora was so caught up in the way Johnny was kissing her desperately that she didn’t realize what he was doing until his index finger and thumb pinched her clit gently. She gasped lightly. Johnny let his breath hover over her lips as she stared at them, anticipating the next kiss which never came, even as she tried to initiate by leaning up but he moved away and retaliated by pinching her clit again.

“Don’t tease me, Johnny.”

“As you wish.”

They laid silently in bed together for about a good hour or so without talking or moving. It was a slow and steady race to regain their stamina. After going for as long as they had, Johnny had completely crashed onto the mattress— Which hadn’t stopped Aurora at one point because she was still capable of sitting on his lap while he held her hips and watched her with a fucked-out grin as she rode him— But now Aurora was just as tired as he was. Not tired enough to sleep, of course. They knew that within a few minutes they would surely get back to it, but in the meantime, Johnny held Aurora in his arms while combing her long, blonde hair with his fingers while she traced her fingers over his abs that were loosening the more relaxed he got.

“Would you move in with me?” Johnny asked.

Aurora froze, her index finger hovering just over his belly button. “What?”

“I’d move in with you, but I just feel like your place is a little small… And you’re already at my place most nights…”

Aurora slowly moved her hand to his hip and she let it lay there, her palm resting comfortably over his V-line. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“You don’t want to?” he asked, sounding disappointed.

“I didn’t say that.”

“So you do want to move in with me.”

“Absolutely. But I’m worried about the sasaengs…”

And also the fact that they were not even supposed to be dating in the first place, according to SM’s rules. Johnny, despite being a foreigner, had to abide by the same rules as the rest of NCT, which meant that he wasn’t allowed to officially date until after his military years would pass, which would have been in 2025 if he were to ever do it. But aside from the rules for idols, Aurora was an employee of SM, she was his fucking manager— Their relationship shouldn’t have happened in the first place, and she should have pinched herself back to reality a year ago before they got so far as saying “I love you” to each other every day and having him ask if her wanted to move in with him. In a perfect, ideal world, she would have immediately said yes and had everything moved into his place before Tuesday; but the reality they lived in was scary. The fans were scary. SM was scary. She couldn’t afford to lose her job, and she couldn’t have Johnny facing backlash because of her.

“We’ve managed to keep it a secret from the fans so far, I’m not worried about them. As for the execs, if they really have a bone to pick with us, then I’ll face it, I’ll take responsibility for it, and I’ll gladly accept whatever punishments they would give me.”

“That’s not fair to you.”

“I don’t care…” He leaned in to kiss her gently. “I don’t care what anyone says or thinks… I just want you.”

Aurora kissed him back, mumbling against his lips, “What happens if we lose our jobs?”

“We’ll figure it out.”

“What happens if someone threatens you?”

“Why are you worrying so much? All I did was ask you to move in…”

She nodded, kissing him again more passionately. She wanted to move in with him— Really, truly. Thinking of sharing a home with him where their belongings were mixed together even more than they already were made Aurora’s stomach buzz with excitement. She liked the idea of going home to him every single day after work, both of them worn out, both of them eager to spend quality time together before falling asleep in each other’s arms. Eating every meal together, sleeping together every night, going to work together every morning, sharing everything. “Can I borrow your toothpaste?” “Can you grab my Switch from the office?” “Do you want chapagetti for dinner?” “I’m heading to konbini, do you want anything?” Oh, her future looked bright with him in it, even if she was incredibly terrified.

It wasn’t like they hadn’t been dating a while. If anything, they waited too long to consider the idea of moving in together— But that was because Johnny respected the fact that he was Aurora’s first boyfriend, so he didn’t dare to rush things before she was ready for big changes like not having her own apartment to go to whenever she needed some time alone or they would get in an argument. It was only once they were both ready for such a big decision that Johnny asked; and knowing Aurora, he fully anticipated a little bit of pushback on it, but he wasn’t discouraged. If anything, he seemed relieved that she didn’t immediately say yes. She wouldn’t have been Aurora if she just gave in without considering every little possibility, no matter how ridiculous. But that was a part of her that he adored. She was the overthinker and he was the nonchalant one who could kiss her worries away— And it worked every damn time.

taglist: @tiredlittlevirgo , @henderysposts , @trash-number-one , @mystverse

@vrak-co , @sxmnc , @nctdreamchaser , @luvsooby

[persephone-writes]

A Diviner's Guide to James Potter

Chapter Thirty-Two: The Brothers

James Potter x Fem!Gryffindor!Reader

Chapter Thirty-One ☆ Series Masterlist

Description: Quattlebaum's methods are questionable at best, though things still seem to be looking up after all.

Word Count: 6.8k

You woke up late, ripping the curtains open to see Marlene and Lily already up, the latter brushing her teeth in the lavatory. Marlene was pulling on a pair of socks, completely unaffected by the copious amount of alcohol she consumed the night before. 

Already with a mild headache and eyes squinting against the sun, you said her name. Is this how she felt all that time?

“Hm?” she said, glancing up. 

“What was that?” you said, half laughing though still deathly serious. 

“What was what?”

“Sirius!” you said, hopping out of bed. “He said you two talked, but I didn’t think you were together.”

Marlene shrugged, a sly, girlish smile peeking out on her lips. “We weren’t, not until yesterday, I guess. He asked me out—properly this time, but that doesn’t mean we’re together-together.”

Lily laughed, spitting into the sink. After she rinsed out her mouth she sauntered back into the room, her brows raised. “Well, it seems like he thinks you’re together.”

“What else did he say?” you asked, realizing for a moment how much you truly sounded the same way Marlene had a month ago, the thought making you chuckle. 

“Some of it was sort of personal, but he feels like a dick for what happened before,” Marlene began, smiling up at you. “And he says you called him thick.”

“I didn’t use those exact words,” you said, tilting your head, “but I’m glad he caught my meaning.”

Marlene laughed, standing from the bed to grab her shoes. “We agreed to take things slow, just be normal for a while. I don’t know if he’s ever really done that before,” she added, almost absentmindedly. “Ugh, it’s gonna be so hard not to pull him into the Astronomy Tower to—”

“Okay, okay, we get it,” Lily laughed, cutting her off. 

“Taking it slow, how mature,” you teased, turning to open your trunk. You felt something hit your back, likely another one of Marlene’s socks. When you stood again, clothes in hand, you gave her a blank look, walking to the lavatory. “I take it back.”

“At least we didn’t wait a year to declare our undying—!”

You closed the door, rolling your eyes even if she couldn’t see you, all with a smile on your face. 

•-—✼.o○☆———☆○o.✼.o○☆———☆○o.✼—-•

On Tuesday afternoon the clouds hung low, thunder rumbling in the distance. Rain was already splattering against the windows of the corridor, and as you walked you watched the water streak across the panes like tears, shimmering against the grey of the sky. 

It had taken convincing to get James to stay behind, though you needed to do this alone. The last thing you wanted was two people in your ear telling you something you didn’t believe. Yesterday, you’d told Quattlebaum after class that you’d give him one session, and if nothing came of it, you were out. You were almost certain nothing would come of it, so while the prospect of going through whatever tutoring he had in mind was not gripping, getting it all over with was a great motivator. 

Quattlebaum was in the classroom when you popped up through the hatch, waiting for you at his desk. He stood up as you walked inside, smiling softly. 

“Welcome, Miss L/N. Lovely to see you.”

“Yeah, you too,” you said, standing awkwardly in the center of the room. 

“Come, come,” he said, moving back towards his desk. He motioned for you to sit, and once you’d settled he clasped his hands, sprightly as usual. “Last week was quite the event. I apologize for my demeanor—it’s very rare a student receives a genuine prophecy in class.”

“It wasn’t a prophecy, sir,” you said a bit sadly. It’d been six days and to your knowledge, Regulus had yet to answer any of Sirius’s letters. It was the only way he could meet up with Regulus alone without the help of the map, leaving him at his brother's mercy. The whole thing made no sense to you, forcing you to question the validity of your prediction. For all the theatrics of last Wednesday, Regulus appeared to be pulling away, not following. “My interpretation of what I saw doesn’t seem to be occurring. The opposite is happening, actually.”

He hummed curiously. “I find that difficult to believe. It hasn’t yet been a week! A prediction proving wrong in such a short period of time is odd, that is unless you’re sure it only had to do with the short term,” he paused, gaining a more serious expression. “May I ask what it is that you saw?”

“It has to do with someone else, sort of a secret of theirs,” you said, your mouth pressing. “It’s not mine to tell.”

“Ah, I understand. It’s very honorable of you to keep the secrets of others even under such conditions. Let me ask instead: are you sure it is incorrect, or is more time needed for a definitive answer?”

“I’m not sure,” you began. “More time, I suppose. But, it’s not looking good, professor. You can’t really understand without me telling you. I’m sorry.”

A look of kindness crossed his face, almost fond. “You would be surprised at how much the tides can turn without warning. In almost all circumstances, it’s been far too short a time to give up entirely. In fact, you shouldn’t give up at all—though this is not my choice to make. Still, I’d like to work with you. What I saw during last week's class was not typical, but you know that as well as I. With some effort, I think you might make a fine Diviner—a fine Diviner, indeed.”

You let out a long, tired sigh, surrendering with a nod. “Okay. How do we start?”

During your meeting, Quattlebaum had you do some of the oddest things in your life, and you had no clue how they were meant to help. First, he had you close your eyes and pick tarot cards off the deck and hold them to your forehead to “feel their meaning”. You’d gotten some correct, but it was purely by chance. Next, you had to read tea leaves while standing on one foot, then read twigs while standing on the other. It all seemed utterly ridiculous and entirely pointless, though at the end, Quattlebaum told you how excellent you had done and sent you on your way with a grin. 

When you returned to the common room, you threw yourself into the chair next to James at one of the tables with a huff, shoulders slumped and head scrambled. The others were there as well, Remus and Marlene engrossed in a game of wizards chess at the little table pushed against the wall. 

Lily looked up from her schoolwork, frowning. “Didn’t go well?”

“It went fine—I think. He said it did, anyway.”

“What’d you do?” James asked. 

You slowly shook your head, letting out a breathy, dazed laugh. “Couldn’t tell you.”

Marlene furrowed her brows, the game forgotten. “Do you not remember anything?” 

“No, I remember,” you groaned, rubbing your eyes. When you took your hands away you saw spots, suddenly feeling like you needed a nap. “It was all so weird. I don’t know how any of it is supposed to make me better.”

Remus leaned closer to the table, his chair tilting. “What’d he have you do?”

You filled them in, feeling silly all over again. When you finished, you saw Peter holding in a laugh, scowling at him from across the table. Sirius seemed amused as well, though he was smart enough to conceal it beneath a flat expression.

“Don’t start, Peter. I’m not in the mood.”

“I didn’t say anything!”

You shot him another annoyed look, slumping back into your chair. What little irritation you felt was whisked away as your mind returned to Divination, the idea of going back for another session beginning to give you a headache. 

“Maybe there's a method to it,” said Lily with a supportive smile. 

You tried to return it, coming up rather short. “Maybe."

James placed his hand on your shoulder, his palm warm even through your shirt. He squeezed you a bit, shaking you out of your restless mediations. 

“Give it another shot,” he said, almost too tenderly for the company surrounding you. It was a voice he used when you were alone, the one that made your heart swell. 

Your mouth lifted into a glum, dreary smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You were silently begging him to give you his blessing to quit, though you saw quite clearly that there was nothing you could do to change his mind. He wouldn’t force you, though his encouragement wouldn’t cease unless you forbid it outright. 

“I don’t know, James,” you began, your gaze drifting away. “If I had the sight then maybe this would all make sense, but right now…”

“That shite wouldn’t make sense to anyone,” Sirius said with a small scoff.

Lily gave him a disapproving look, turning to you with an expression that made you worry about what she might say. “Sight or not, I don’t think Quattlebaum’s expecting you to understand it all right from the start. The whole point of the exercises is to strengthen your skills. When you first begin learning anything, lots things don’t make sense.”

“Until they do,” James added. 

“Did you make anything out with the tea leaves?” Marlene asked.

“Yeah, it pointed to the end of something. We have less than a month left of school, so it’s not exactly a hard-hitting prediction.”

“It’s something,” Lily said.  

“I could’ve done that without the help, though,” you countered. “It’s simple—you learn that in third year.”

“I don’t get this resistance,” Dorcas said, clearly trying to mask her rising exasperation. “Why find every excuse not to have the sight? If your professor thinks you might, that's a pretty good sign.”

James made a noise, motioning to Dorcas with wide eyes as he stared at you, as if proving some point. He’d been saying the same thing to you since Wednesday, and each time you gave him your answer, it left him entirely dissatisfied. Maybe it wasn’t the sort of thing you could explain, or perhaps it was so irrational there was no explanation to begin with. 

You didn’t know what to tell her, the room seeming to close in on you as you felt their eyes trained upon your face. You looked down into your lap, rubbing at your forehead and wishing you were just about anywhere else. 

“I just don’t want it,” you said, the words pouring out of you in a single, hard breath. “I don’t want to have to deal with it—not when I’m leaving Hogwarts and going off to, y’know—It’s just one more thing to make my life more complicated than it already is. It’s like nothing can ever just be normal,” you stopped, realizing you’d been speaking a tad too loud. No one in the common room seemed to notice, and if they had, they’d already looked away. 

When you glanced back at your friends, it was like you’d poured a bucket of water over all their heads. Dorcas’ mouth was parted in surprise, seeming sorry she’d asked. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled, your eyes dropping down. 

“Don’t be,” Lily said, shaking her head. “We understand.”

“No, it’s stupid.” You dropped your voice to a whisper, glaring at the table top, “I should be happy about it, anyone else would be. Sometimes, it just feels like everything was better when things were normal, like before the winter holiday."

When you looked back up you saw James’s face, hurt and trying to hide it. You didn’t understand at first, furrowing your brows as you tried to figure out what you’d said wrong. When you did, you began a frenzied, frantic apology. 

“I didn’t mean before—I just meant simple—but of course I’d never wish—”

“I know,” he interrupted, trying to calm you down. “I didn’t think you meant that.”

You clamped your mouth shut, unable to bring your eyes from his. Swallowing down a nervous lump in your throat, you nodded, feeling your pulse slowing once again. 

“You don’t have to go, not if you don’t want to,” James said, something poignant to his voice that hadn’t been there before. He hadn’t been upset over a presumption you meant things were better without him, you realized, only saddened by the fact you were stumbling over another unexpected hurdle. 

“I will,” you said, calmer now. “I should.”

“James is right. You don’t need to do it unless you want to,” Lily said softly. 

“Yeah,” Dorcas agreed, Marlene nodding along. 

Resolve pulled at your chest, a reminder to be brave. The melody was building, coming to a great crescendo, and it was time to face the music. 

“No. Tomorrow, I’m telling him I want to come back for another lesson,” you said, leaving no room to argue with yourself, no room to back out. “I’ll just have to suck it up and be weird.”

“Won’t be that big of a change,” Remus said with that subtle, proud smirk that was hidden enough for plausible deniability. 

You smiled against your will, brought out of your wallowing by the surprised laughter of your friends. Maybe you were all finding it far funnier than it truly was, though Remus’s dry wit had slashed through the weightiness you’d accidentally brought down upon them. Lily chided him, though she was fighting back giggles herself, allowing her laughter to bubble up when she saw you doing the same. The sounds of your silliness blended with the chorus of the common room, making you believe that perhaps, in some strange way, your odd new life could still feel pleasantly ordinary.

•-—✼.o○☆———☆○o.✼.o○☆———☆○o.✼—-•

The sight of Sirius sauntering through the Library on Friday afternoon was nearly enough to throw you from your chair. Friday and library did not often interact in Sirius's schedule, despite his good grades, and you very much doubted it was going to change any time soon. 

Lily was facing the other way, not noticing your look of surprise as you watched him approach your table, his thumb hanging from the pocket of his black uniform trousers. You raised your brows as he stood over you, Lily finally lifting her head to look up at him. 

“Can I help you?” you asked, a weak attempt at baiting him. 

Sirius remained unimpressed, walking behind you to take the free chair to your right. He leaned an elbow on the table, speaking close. “The little prick finally answered by owls. He wants to talk to you.”

Your eyes widened. “Me?”

He seemed just as baffled as you were by his brother's request, though resigned not to question it. “S’what he said.”

“Why?” you whispered, finding yourself leaning closer. 

Lily had since dropped her quill, her schoolwork forgotten as she listened in. “Did you tell him about what she saw on Wednesday?” she asked him. 

Sirius’s eyes flickered over to her, biting the inside of his cheek. 

“Yeah,” he paused, dropping his hand onto the table with a thump. “It has something to do with that, but I didn’t push it.”

“Okay,” you said. “When does he want to talk? Right now?”

“No, tomorrow. He said he’ll be in classroom 4D at eight. That’s the one we always meet in.”

To your knowledge, classroom 4D had been left unused for years, perhaps the entire time you were at Hogwarts. You weren’t sure if it was simply unneeded or the subject of a horrid curse, though either way, it was unsurprising Sirius would have them meet there. He wouldn’t risk telling him about the RoR, nor would he give up the locations of any of the passages only known to your small group, at least not until Regulus officially tossed in his Death Eater towel. 

“In the morning?” you asked, a bit peeved you’d have to be so bright-eyed at eight am on a Saturday. 

“Yeah,” he replied, glancing out into the rest of the library. “He might be coming around, but I don’t know. He’s not too hot on the spooky stuff. For all I know he wants to tell you to fuck off.”

You shook your head. “No, this seems like a good sign. He would’ve confronted me the first time if he really felt strongly enough about it.”

“He’s not exactly the confrontational type,” Sirius said, tapping his fingers on the table. After a moment he got that teasing look in his eyes that you’d learned to detest, and you knew what was coming even before it arrived. “So, going in for another lesson tomorrow?”

“You think it’s just as stupid as I do,” you said, waving him off. “Now, stop distracting me. I’m trying to get work done.”

“Testy,” he snickered, standing up. “See you guys later.”

You made a face as he walked away, turning to Lily once he’d gone. You had equal looks of intrigue, likely thinking the same thing. 

Lily bit her lip, nodding to herself. “This is good, really good.”

“I think so, too,” you whispered, leaning across the table a bit. “Maybe I was wrong about being wrong. This feels like he's following him, right?”

“I think you right,” she said, beginning to grin.

“Huh. Right about thinking I was wrong about being wrong. That’s a new one.”

•-—✼.o○☆———☆○o.✼.o○☆———☆○o.✼—-•

You checked your watch. Bright sun was peeking through white, fluffy clouds on its face, the little hand reaching eight just as the bell tower chimed. You could see the door to 4D up ahead, scurrying towards it before the eighth bell rang. The corridor was vacant save for yourself, Regulus nowhere in sight. You reached your fist up to knock with a distinct sense of purpose, along with a good deal of nerves. Yesterday, you hadn’t quite caught up to how much was riding on this single conversation, how much Sirius was counting on you. How so much power was suddenly thrust into your hands was beyond your comprehension. All you were sure of was how much you didn’t like it. You supposed you brought a lot of it on yourself, though you could cast a decent amount of blame onto Snape for telling you about Regulus in the first place. You were happy he did, of course, though piling some of the fault onto him did nothing to lessen your jitters.

After your third knock you stopped, trying to hear if there was any movement behind the door. Before your mind could even catch up to the footsteps it cracked open, a pair of grey eyes staring at you through the space. After a beat Regulus opened it wider, glancing nervously over your shoulder before stepping out of the way. 

You hurried inside, Regulus closing it behind you. For a few seconds neither of you spoke, looking at one another in a tense limbo. 

“Hey,” was the brilliant greeting you came up with, cringing as it left your mouth. 

“Hi,” he said back, his lips tight as he studied you further. He seemed suspicious and edgy, though not entirely cold. He’d asked you here to begin with, after all. 

You briefly turned to survey the rest of the classroom, if just to fill some time. It was on the smaller side, the desks still in their rows. You walked over to one, leaning against the edge. It put some space between you, and you hoped your demeanor would put him more at ease—as much as it could, anyway. 

“I guess Sirius must have told you about me.”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice still small. “You’re the, uh, Divination one.”

You chuckled, not expecting the title. You supposed it was fitting, and likely something Sirius might call you. “Yep, that's me.”

He shifted his weight, his gaze flickering towards the floor. “He told me what you saw in class.” You could tell he was still on guard, continuing his assessment of all the risks and rewards, every implication and consequence of speaking with you. “How did you know what my patronus was?”

You pushed down the rush of happiness that flooded into your chest at his admission. So, I was right. 

“I didn’t,” you began. “I saw a lion and then a fox, and then your brother’s patronus, and I just put two and two together. Your name comes from a star in Leo, which was a clue.”

Regulus did well at keeping his face neutral, offering you a barely distinguishable nod. 

“I guess that means I was right,” you continued. “About it being you, I mean.”

“Did you—” he cut himself off, looking away again. He fiddled with his shirtsleeve, almost identical to the white one every student wore as a part of their uniform. The collar was a bit larger on this one, though, and it was tucked into a pair of jeans. You tried to recall a time in which you’ve ever seen him wear a tee shirt or a dirty pair of trainers, but you came up empty. 

You waited for him to go on, and when he did, he still hadn’t turned back to you, “Sirius said you saw me, or my patronus, following his.” You nodded, and he finally looked at you again. “Did you see anything else?”

A dull ache formed within your chest, spurred on by the glimmer of something just behind his eyes. It was dim and hidden, but there nonetheless. 

“No, I’m sorry,” you said softly. “I can try to, if you want.”

He shook his head, meek with obvious disappointment. “That’s okay.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Nothing,” he said, a bitterness making its way into his voice that wasn’t there before. You couldn’t be sure if it was directed at your lack of helpfulness or the abysmal family life he had found himself in, but you couldn’t blame him either way.

“I know I’m just a stranger and it doesn’t mean much,” you began hesitantly, “but I wanted to thank you for what you’re doing for Sirius. I know he blames himself for part of what happened—leaving you, not talking for all that time—and all of this, it means a lot to him. I know it’s not…easy.”

His mouth was pressed, his jaw tight, yet something melancholy and unhardened lingered beneath it all. It was the kind of hurt that lived within Sirius, always like the dark, rolling sea in the moments before the tempest came, in a state of constant brewing. You wished he knew, you wished someone could show him exactly how lovely it would be once the knife could finally come out of the wound. It would be enough for him to make the leap, you thought, if only he could see the future.

“You don’t even know me,” he said under his breath, a strand of hair falling onto his forehead as he dropped his face enough to hide his eyes in shadow.

“I don’t need to, not to care,” you said with a great, unyielding conviction. “I know Sirius, and you’re his brother. That’s enough.”

You knew he meant you didn’t know him enough to understand, and it was true in part, though anyone with an ounce of empathy could tell how much suffering his family had caused him. Perhaps he wasn’t used to that, though—empathy. 

His shoulders rose with a breath, filled with what seemed to be a harrowing unease. For a moment you thought he might flee the classroom, though he stayed where he was. 

“What about in September?” he asked, knowing he found the single crack in yours and Sirius’s argument, something you were sure he’d pressed his brother about before.

You smiled solemnly. “It’s nine and a half months of hell against a lifetime of it.”

“Easy for you to say,” he muttered. 

“I know, but that doesn’t change it.”

The storm in his eyes raged, though it seemed disconnected from yourself, off in another thought that had nothing to do with yourself or your predictions. After a long pause, he spoke again, “How did you find out about me?”

“What did Sirius tell you?” you asked.

“That you were nosey,” he said without an ounce of humor. 

You couldn’t help but snort, crossing your arms. “Sounds like him,” you paused, rubbing your lips together as you thought of what to say. “I found out you were going to join before Sirius did. Then, I was nosey and tried to read your future. After I saw the hourglass, he found you in Hogsmeade—you knew the rest better than I do. He never asked me to do that, though, read your future.”

“How?” his question came out like a sharp whisper, so much like the way Severus might ask it. 

Speaking of, you wondered if you should reveal his involvement. Snape was still cuddled up with the same people as before, lurking with the Slytherins that Regulus had also attached himself to. How far Snape was willing to go, you did not know, though you still weren’t sure how much you wanted to put him at risk. Was Snape a traitor, or was he just playing the game?

“I can’t tell you,” you began, apology lacing your words. “Someone told me, and if you don’t leave with Sirius…”

“You think I’ll turn them in,” he finished.

“You’d do the same if you were me,” you said through a low, sullen sigh. “You don’t need to worry about me telling, though, no matter what. No one else will, either. If I was going to, I would’ve when I first found out.”

Unlike some of his classmates, Regulus did not appear to treat the subject of his involvement in the Death Eaters so lightly. No one went around advertising their loyalties, though it functioned more like an open secret, an unspoken knowledge shared by almost everyone. However, Regulus kept to himself, and you were sure that you being aware of some of the more intimate details of his life was uncomfortable at best and horrifying at worst. You wanted him to understand that despite your recent act of accidental heroism, you were not looking to spread rumors, nor was any one of your friends. Sirius must have said the same thing before, though hearing it from your lips was another affair. 

Again, he gave you a small nod, relaxing a bit for the first time since you entered the room.

You didn’t say anything else for a moment, looking at him and seeing someone you wished you knew better, someone who likely saw things much differently than you. Some of that would have come from a world you could not easily imagine, a world of archaic tradition and rules, though much of it was also his own. “Let us know you” you wanted to tell him, though you said something else instead.

“Think about it, Regulus.” You stood from the desk, making a move to leave. “It’ll be one of the hardest things you’ll ever have to do, but it’ll also be one of the best.”

He almost looked guilty, standing there watching as you put your hand on the doorknob. You gave him a small smile, opening it and walking out. He didn’t follow, though you hardly expected him to. Still, you carried him with you all the way back down the corridors and to the common room, unwilling to let go of his ghost. 

“I’m sure it went fine.”

James’s assurances did not stop you from pacing across the bridge, his eyes following you from where he was leaning against the stone rail. You could hear the frown in his voice, seeing it when you spun on your heels to walk in the other direction. You had about fifty cups of tea in your system and were teetering on the edge of a panic attack, trying to find some comfort in the breeze brushing against your cheeks. 

“I like your shirt,” he offered, motioning to it. 

You weren’t in the mind to make fun of the comically awful attempt to distract you, dismissing him with a look as you spun around again. “Thanks.”

“I mean it!” he said, walking towards you. He put his hand on your shoulder, forcing you to stop and face him. “Padfoot isn’t even as nervous as you. Everything will be fine, I promise. And, you do look nice.”

You deflated, giving him a measly smile of abundant appreciation. “Thank you, James.”

“It was just this morning,” he began gently. “Give him some time. He’ll come around.”

You nodded, swallowing down some of your worry. “Yeah, okay.”

When he seemed satisfied that you’d calmed down he leaned up against the railing again, crossing his ankles. “Is that new?”

“No,” you said, glancing down at your shirt. “I’ve had it for a year. You’re very unobservant.”

“Are you sure?” he said with a teasing smile. “I think I would’ve noticed something you look so ravish—”

“Shut it,” you snapped, laughing against your better judgement. You shot him a look, lowering your voice, “I thought we were keeping this a secret. We are very much in public right now, I’ll remind you.”

He grinned, bright and carefree, standing up with a small skip in his step. “Let's get in private, then.”

“You’re such an arse,” you groaned, moving back down the bridge towards the main castle. “The guys are probably looking for you. I think they resent me for stealing you away so much.”

“Au contraire—they’re happy to get rid of me.”

“Maybe I should make them pay me a salary,” you mused, delighting by his offended scoff. “Don’t worry,” you said, mockingly sweet, “you’re the best job in the world.”

He smiled again, just the way you loved. “I’ll take it.”

•-—✼.o○☆———☆○o.✼.o○☆———☆○o.✼—-•

“Where’s Marls?” Dorcas asked, throwing an Every Flavour Bean up into the air before catching it in her mouth. Almost immediately after she began to chew she spit it into the lawn, grimacing at the taste. “Ugh! Sausage.”

“Probably with Sirius,” you said through a laugh, looking up from your textbook. “Aren’t they supposed to go out on a date or something?”

You were sprawled out under a tree in the courtyard with Dorcas, James, Remus, and Peter. Lily was in her Tuesday afternoon Alchemy, and Marlene and Sirius were nowhere to be found. 

“If only we had the bloody map,” Peter mumbled. 

“He borrowed the cloak,” James whispered, seeming none too happy to part with it. “Don’t know where they’re planning to go with it since every shop owner in Hogsmeade knows who he is.”

“Did you tell them to get any Firewhiskey? We’re running low,” Dorcas said, popping another bean into her mouth. 

“Knowing them, they’ll get a whole case,” you joked, though it wasn’t totally out of the realm of possibility.

James looked over at you, lying on his back with a book propped on his chest. “Are you still meeting with Quattlebaum tomorrow?”

“Yes, for the fifteenth time,” you said, feigning annoyance. Still, he had asked you three times now. It was difficult to stay too upset with him, though, watching the leaves cast patterns across his cheeks, sunlight dappling his hair like a painting. 

“Sorry,” he droned, dropping his book onto his stomach. “You should be patient with me. I have permanent brain damage.”

“Yeah, you do,” Dorcas said with a snort, making Peter snicker. 

“Watch it, Meadowes. You too, Wormtail.”

“You brought up! Besides, you don’t have laps to hold over my head anymore,” Dorcas taunted. “I’m a free woman.”

James scoffed, picking up his book again with a small shake of his head. “Not if you don’t want to wake up with webbed fingers tomorrow.”

Dorcas rolled her eyes. “You don’t know how to do that.”

“Wanna test your theory?”

As she leaned forward, ready to argue, you shoved her shoulder, her gaze soon following yours. Regulus was walking across the grass towards you, his jacket hanging over his leather bag. It should have looked entirely unremarkable, though you could tell he was already uncomfortable, making him stick out against the other students dotting the courtyard, all leisurely in the mild weather of late spring.

James had since sat up, Peter’s eyes slightly wide. Regulus came up to your little group, standing a meter or so away, shifting from foot to foot. 

“Hey, Regulus,” you said, offering him a small, friendly smile. “What’s up?”

“Do you guys know where Sirius is?” 

“No, we think he’s with Marlene,” you answered, briefly glancing around at the others. James had his elbow over his knee, looking as if he was about to stand—to do what, you couldn’t tell.

Regulus nodded. His fingers twitched where they were wrapped around the strap of his bag, taking a small step back. 

“Okay, thanks.”

You smiled again. “No problem.” 

You watched him walk off, though he only got a few feet away before you called out his name. Dorcas and Peter looked at you with matching expressions of befuddlement, though you didn’t acknowledge their confusion. Regulus faced you again, just as puzzled as your friends. 

“Do you have anything you need to get to right now?” you asked. 

It took him a moment to answer, his mouth pulling to the side. “No.”

“You can stay here and wait for him, if you want,” you said as if it were something he did all the time.

He took a wary step towards you. “I don’t know. They might not be back for a while.”

It sounded as if Sirius may have told him about Marlene, at least a bit, and the thought almost made you smile. You held it down, not wanting Regulus to think you were poking fun at him. 

“You don’t have to,” you said with a shrug, having no clue if your performance on nonchalance was coming off as natural in the slightest. 

“You’d be missing out, though,” said Remus with an amiable expression; not quite a smile, but something close. “This is the lucky oak. If you study under it, you’ll get an O.”

“Just ask Y/N,” Dorcas said with a sly grin. “She was hopeless before we discovered it.”

Vaguely, you heard James say something to her, though you weren’t paying attention, knocking her shoulder again, this time a little harder. She had to catch herself from tipping, cackling at your sour face. 

“They’ll be back soon, anyway,” Peter said, his tone ordinary, but his smirk devilish. 

“How do you know?” Dorcas asked, obviously with great doubts as to his reliability.

Peter’s smile grew, impish delight sparkling in his eyes. “I replaced his fags with the exploding ones I got in January,” he said, barely able to contain himself. James let out a single bark of booming laughter, sharing in Peter’s enthusiasm. 

Remus looked up at Regulus, who had since become a silent audience member to your mutual insults. “He will be back soon.”

Again, Regulus looked around as if someone was watching, though the unusual situation had still gone unnoticed by your classmates. Clearly struggling to make a decision, you tried not to watch him, glancing down at your books. 

“Okay,” he said finally, so small you hardly noticed over the soft chatter surrounding you. 

You smiled, Regulus taking a seat a few feet away, dropping his bag onto the grass. 

“Hey, Black,” said Dorcas, holding out her box of Every Flavour Beans. “Do you want some?”

“No—thank you, though,” he answered, stumbling a bit over his words. No one acknowledged the nervous misstep, going back to doing what they had been before. Regulus pulled out an Arithmancy textbook, his chin resting in his palm as he placed it in his lap to read. Every so often, your gaze drifted over to him, happiness still blooming in your chest. Even though Sirius was sure to show up livid, he couldn’t be for long, not when his brother chose to wait for him in the courtyard with his friends. 

You were already feeling a bit smug, wondering how much your chat had to do with the change. If everything worked out, years down the road you might be able to tell Sirius I told you so, rubbing it in as payback for all the times he’s made you want to hex him into next week.

It was only ten minutes later when you saw a flash of something moving in the open air corridor across the courtyard, glancing up to see a figure running through, skidding around the corner. The face was a blur, though his black hair was enough to tell you who it was. Sirius weaved between a few students, making his way over to the archway. Beside you, Dorcas began to laugh. 

“Pet-er,” she sang, grinning at him. 

Immediately he popped up, reaching down to scoop up his wand lying on the grass. How Peter always ended up here you did not know, though he was prepared by the time Sirius entered the courtyard, already seeing where you all were. 

You couldn’t help but snort, covering your mouth with your hands. From his chin to just below his eyes, Sirius’s face was blackened by what looked to be a powder of some sort, which you could only assume was immune to whatever cleaning spell he’d certainly tried already. 

“Wormtail, you twat!” Sirius took another long stride to reach you, whipping his wand at Peter. 

Peter blocked his spell, face red as he howled in a fit of laughter. “It wasn’t me!” 

“I was with you when you bought them, c—” Sirius stopped, standing as if someone had used the freezing charm on him. He had finally noticed his brother off to the side, not even a smile on his face as he looked at Sirius’s current state. Sirius slowly lowered his wand, swallowing as he turned to face him fully. Neither spoke for a beat, nor did anyone else. 

“Looks nice,” Regulus said flatly, breaking the stretch. 

“What’re you doing here?” Sirius asked, seeming just as amazed as you were when Regulus first sat down. There was a carefulness to the way he said it, only letting a sliver of his joy peek through. 

“I was waiting for you,” he answered, the corner of his lips pulling up, just slightly. “They said you’d be back.”

Sirius took in his brother's meaning with a nod, turning back to Peter with blazing eyes. “Count your fucking blessings.” He then looked down at James, who still had an amused smirk on his face. “You too, Prongs.”

“What about Moony,” James whined, pointing to his friend. Remus had been snickering quietly, stopping once James had singled him out, though he was unable to rid himself of his smile. 

“I don’t need to tell him,” Sirius said, glaring at James. “He knows he’s lucky.”

Watching the exchange, you hadn’t noticed Regulus stand up until he went over to his brother, taking his wand from his pocket. 

“Did you try the cleaning spell?”

Sirius stared at him with raised brows, clearly a bit offended by the question. “Obviously.”

“I was just asking,” Regulus huffed, pointing his wand at Sirius. He said an incantation you’d never heard before, the black powder blasted off Sirius’s face as if a narrow gust of wind had blown straight from Regulus’s wand. 

“Thanks,” Sirius said, rubbing a hand over his now clean cheek. “You better return my cigarettes, Wormtail.”

“It’s only fifteen knuts,” Peter said, brushing him off. 

“By tonight.”

Before the brothers left, Sirius informed you that Marlene went to your room and would probably be down in a minute. When asked if she was with him when the incident occurred, he only grumbled, meaning that the answer was certainly a yes. 

Like proud parents, you all watched them walk off into the castle, waiting until you could no longer see them to speak. 

“Merlin's saggy balls, that was weird,” Peter said, still staring at the empty space in the archway. 

“I told you it went well,” James whispered to you, beaming. 

“Did he tell you guys they’re not meeting in secret anymore?” Dorcas asked, glancing between James, Peter, and Remus.

Remus shook his head. “No. I think this is a first.”

“Godric,” you began, a grin forming as you looked between your friends. “Do you think that this means—?"

“Maybe,” Remus said, more hopeful than not. 

“I’m telling you, by the N.E.W.T.s he’s gonna agree to stay with Padfoot,” James said, quite sure of himself. 

Dorcas hummed. “I’m saying by this time next week.”

James’s eyes twinkled, his lips stretching around his teeth in a playful smile. “Wanna bet?”

“Great,” you mumbled, sharing a weary look with Remus, who seemed more amused by your discontent than anything.

“Five galleons,” Dorcas offered. 

“Ten.”

“Fine, rich boy,” she said, sticking out her hand, “give me as much of your allowance as you want.”

Notes: again, not a lot of James :( sorry I really didn't mean to I promise!

•-—✼.o○☆———☆○o.✼.o○☆———☆○o.✼—-•

Tag List: @floverisland @ilovejamespottersomuch @googie-jeon @tvnile @eli-com @lovelyteenagebeard @letssee2468 @abhootghiihii @iamawkwardandshy @fangirl-swagg

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Devils' Triangle Part 10

A Yandere Tex Johnson x Witness!Reader x John Wick (& now John Constantine too) Imagine by:

@treedaddymcpuffpuff @sweetwolfcupcake @johnwickb1tsch (@tammykelly on hiatus) (with honorary dream weavers / shit stirrers @lilspookymeh & @kurai-hono-blog 😘) --> ALL CHAPTERS

Warnings: So many dead doves! Do not eat! Unless you like dead doves, that is. You're in good company here. 😘 Violence, sexual content, blood, murder, kidnapping, possessive behavior, dubcon, succubus magic, yandere sh!t...it's all here! Please take care! 😘 *divider by firefly-graphics

That's the thing about Midnite's. There is no shortage of cloistered nooks and crannies in which to stage a debauchery. John Wick already seems to have scoped this, as he carries you like you weigh nothing to the nearest shadowed booth, settling in with you on his lap like you never parted ways and it's just another Tuesday in the club. Even now, he will not give his back to the room. You try to turn but he holds you fast with one of those big hands around your throat, and the other already sliding up your thigh, under your skirt.

"John, I need–”

"Hush," he tells you, quiet but firm. "We've done things your way. Now, we're doing it mine."

As his long fingers dip past your pantyline you whimper and writhe back against him, that delicious hard bulge already pressing into your bottom. You've  never been so determined to be a good good girl for this very bad man.

"Please…" It's all you can manage, with his thick fingers exploring your wet slit, and this clawing, excruciating magic singing through your veins, wanting sex with every fibre of your being, undoubtedly made worse by your forbidden longing.

"What are you on, honey? Don't lie to me." His breath against your ear is just gasoline on the fire.

You laugh, and it comes out as a sob. "Succubus shit." It's all you can really think to call it.

You feel him pause behind you, a rare moment in which the legendary assassin isn't really sure what to do. Maybe he's seemed to take the eldritch aspects of your new world in stride, but it's still all pretty fucking weird to him.

"Ok, baby. We'll deal with it. I've got you."

“Call…Constantine,” you beg him, even as your hips are bucking against his hand. You should feel guilty. You should stop, because Constantine deserves better than you grinding on your ex in the den of your boyfriend’s enemies…but you can’t. You just can’t, and you are sure that bitch demoness planned it that way, but right now you are a slave to the magick she infected you with.

John, however, just snorts behind you. “I don’t think I will,” he replies, before snaking a hand into your hair, pulling your neck at an almost painful angle for a kiss. He devours you, and somewhere in the back of your mind you wonder if the magic has infected him too. His strong fingers between your legs are as merciless as his mouth, remembering maybe not how you like to be touched, but how to make you cum in spite of yourself. 

That howling need rises inside you, fierce as a hurricane, pleasure so intense it borders on pain. Thank God & gods for John, for the inexorable strength in his arms–a lesser man couldn’t handle you, in this state. As it is, he struggles to hold on as you writhe against him, utterly, hopelessly desperate for relief. Surely that will break the spell? Sate whatever arcane magick the succubus filled you with?

In the end it is hard to say who is claiming whom, as you manage to turn in John’s lap so that you can straddle those tree trunks for thighs, and press your aching center to the hard bulge in his trousers without a care for who or what might be watching. 

And at Midnite’s, there is always someone watching.

You’ve never really got off on exhibitionism before, but now you are too power-drunk to care, having managed to loosen John’s tie and undo some of his shirt buttons in your ravenous craving for bare skin. “I need you.”

He slides down in the booth, giving you access to his belt while his paws for hands continue to roam under your skirt, his thumb never leaving your clit. He makes you work for it, smirking up at you, maybe taking some revenge for having to watch you in the arms of another man these past weeks. But when you free his impressive member into your hand, giving that thick velvety-smooth flesh an appreciative squeeze, you see it in his eyes. How badly he’s missed you–and he needs you too.

With zero patience left to your name you push your panties to the side and impale yourself upon him, taking him nearly to the hilt in your drenching wet cunt. This wins you a groan that feels like a victory, and you ride him at the pace you need. He can come along if he wants–but he’ll have to catch up.

“Fuck, baby…” He loops one arm around your waist, holding you against him, angling deeper.

“Make me cum, John,” you half beg, half taunt him. “I feel like I’ll die if I don’t cum.” The magick is riding you, filling you like searing hot lava beneath a volcano–if you don’t find a way to release it, it’s going to burn you alive.

“I’ve got you, y/n. My pretty girl, my perfect little one, still so tight for me.” He finds your nipple through the bodice of your dress, pinching and rubbing as he thrusts his hips for you. It’s all so good, and you know you’re done for a moment before it takes you, mind-numbing pleasure curling through your loins and up your spine with such force you feel like a tree split in two by lightning. The violence of it brings him with you, filling you with the hot rush of his seed. That is when you feel it–his very life essence, so proud and strong, and some of it passes into you, absorbed as your rightful due. 

This man has the heart of a wolf, and somehow you know, somewhere in the hindbrain where the seed of this ancient magick dwells, that he could feed you for days.

As though somehow he senses something of your new predatory nature, maybe even that you took something more from him besides his blown load, he meets your eyes, so defiant even while he sits beneath you with his hair still tangled in your fingers. “Alright, princessa. You want to play? We’ll play.”

Dark laughter spills from your lips that does not sound like you at all. Something is changing in you, and you don’t know how to stop it. You need Constantine. The thought surfaces and sinks again like a tiny toy boat whipped amongst stormy waves, scuttled to the depths by the weight of this ravenous magick coursing through you.

You’ve barely managed to right yourselves again, before he is bundling you out of the club through a side entrance, half carrying you with a firm arm about your waist. A vintage mustang awaits down the street, a sleek black ‘69 that purrs like a jungle cat when he turns the key.

If you were in your right mind, you would have noticed that John took off in the absolute opposite direction of the humble house your share with John Constantine. He goes north, up, up through the winding roads of the Hills, until it feels as though you are on top of the world.

If you were in your right mind, you would have been worried about the fact that you are in John Wick’s power again, and the formidable assassin seemingly has zero interest in returning you to your home or your chosen partner in life. He pulls up to a modern style mansion perched precariously on the peak of a mountain.

“What’s this?” you ask, lounging back in your seat, unconcerned as a cat.

“Rental,” he answers. “Got tired of that shack you're calling home.”

You find this amusing, reaching across the seats to run your hand up his thigh. “Does it make you mad, that I like my little house, John, with my wizard boy?”

The mention of John Constantine should absolutely fill you with guilt, but the grip of the succubus magic still doesn’t allow for it.

“You deserve better.”

“I deserve what makes me happy,” you answer cheekily. “It’s nice, not being totally poor,” you admit. “I do thank you for that. But the greed in this town is nothing but a rat race.”

“Money is power, malushka. I learned that a long time ago. So did you.”

“Maybe. But maybe it’s just a means to an end.” You climb into his lap, and he doesn’t stop you, kissing you with those long fingers twined in your hair. “Does all your money keep you warm at night?”

“Cruel. You know you’re the only woman I’ve wanted.”

“Do I?” you ask, tugging on his hair. “Then why’d you let me go?”

“No fucking idea anymore.”

Then he is guiding you out of the car, leading you by the hand through the front door, eager as a child on Christmas. The space is big. Luxurious. Modern. Huge banks of windows that look over the glittering city below. You only vaguely take it all in, because John’s mouth is on yours, and he is sweeping you off your feet in a bridal carry, porting you up the stairs like you are nothing but a feather. The magick has awoken in you again, no longer sated, ready for a second course. Something very far in the back of your brain is alarmed by this, afraid of what you will do to John, if this goes on without intervention.

For maybe the first time ever, you have this feeling that John Wick is not, in fact, in charge here, no matter the outward appearances.

He carries you to a bedroom, sets you onto a mattress that is soft as a cloud. Immediately he is on you, his hands and his mouth, pulling your sundress over your head and dragging your panties down your thighs. “I missed you. So. Fucking. Much.” Every word is punctuated with a wet kiss upon your skin, traveling higher and higher until he is so close to your center. His dark gaze rakes up your body, and something gives him pause.

“What’s wrong?”

“Your eyes are glowing.”

You smirk, even when you should be alarmed. 

“Rethinking calling the calvary?” you challenge, this time knowing Wick will never admit he can’t handle you himself.

“No,” he answers, his voice low and rough with desire. “I don’t feel like sharing you tonight.” He touches his tongue to your clit, licking lightly, tickling you the way he knows you can’t stand. You try to squirm away, but he holds you down with one big hand upon your belly, licking you harder, making you melt. He smirks up at you again, a dark glint in those polished jet irises that raises the hairs all across your skin, the magick surging to an unbearable prickling, an army of angry fire ants doing their worst to your tender flesh unless he touches you. “Tonight,” he tells you, “you belong to me.”

It may be true, but it’s a double edged sword, and he has no idea how sharp this supernatural blade can be.

***

You are killing him. 

You can feel it, every time you bring him to yet another luscious climax, some of his life force passes into you. This man, so indomitable in his strength, has finally met his match in this strange succubus magick that infects you.

You are sure it does not help, the fact that he is in love with you, has longed for you while watching you in the arms of another man. He cannot keep his hands off you, even past the point where even he would be dead asleep usually. It’s ironic, that his legendary stamina may prove to be the death of him. 

In the twilight just before dawn, the sated beast that dwells inside you grants you a moment of your own lucidity, a rare chance to regroup before you need his cock ramming inside you again. “John…” you urge him, kissing his chest because you cannot help yourself. “You have got to call them. Please.”

He strokes your hair with that careful tenderness that always filled your heart, made it so difficult to hate him when you had every fucking right to.

“Tired of me already, baby?” he teases sleepily. You can tell he is bone tired–utterly exhausted, almost haggard in a way you’ve never seen him. Spent and drained, in a way that is concerning to his health. There are dark circles under his eyes, a hollowness to his cheeks.

“You know something weird is going on. Please? I’m scared. That succubus did something to me.”

“Why were you there, anyway?” he asks lazily, slowly turning to rifle through his discarded clothing on the floor for his phone. Relief floods you as he produces the device.

“I had to talk to Midnite.”

“About?”

“It’s personal.”

He snorts at that. “How many times have I been inside you tonight?”

Touché.

“Ok fine. I think I’m cursed.”

“How so?”

“It’s like…I’m some kind of magnet.”

“For?”

Bad men. 

Looking at him like this, rumpled from your lovemaking, those soulful dark eyes fixed on you–something shifts in your heart, and you can’t bring yourself to say it. This swell of emotion in you begins to call up other things, and you recognize the first signs of the demononic sex magic kindling inside you once more, lust stirring in your loins. You bow your head, your fingers clenching in the high-threadcount sheets.

“John. Call them. Now.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, tapping his screen with his thumb. It only rings once before you hear Tex’s voice on the other side of the line. “Where the hell are you?”

“Been a wild night,” John answers with a smirk. 

“The fuck does that mean?”

There’s a tussle, Constantine in the background trying to get the phone. You hear him demand, “Did he find her?”

“I’ve got her,” says Wick, sounding unbelievably smug. “Come to this address. Bring Wizard Boy.”

He gives the address and hangs up before they can ask for more details, or in Constantine’s case, sling more threats.

Hearing Constantine’s voice should absolutely inspire direst guilt within you, but at the moment all you feel is excitement. Tex and John are on their way, and you can’t wait to see them.

“We’ve got just enough time,” he muses, rolling on top of you with that half smile that always short circuited your brain.

“John…” you protest, even as you are twining your legs with his, rolling your hips against his growing hardness. Your clit pulses and purrs with approval, as his thick tip kisses your wet entrance.

“You worried about me, sweetheart?”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Don’t worry, y/n. I’d die a happy man in your arms.”

As his mouth claims yours you let the wave of scintillating magick wash over the both of you, losing yourself yet again to this insatiable lust, and your last real thought is that Constantine better hurry.

Sweetwolfcupcake: 

"Slow down wizard boy, I don't think we've got extra lives stacked up in your fridge."

"What is he even doing there with her? When did he even buy that house?" Constantine is fuming, yes. But more than that, he is concerned.

Tex's words do little to deter Constantine as he pushes on the accelerator firmer.

If a man like John Wick is asking for HIS help, he knows that something is awfully wrong. There is this feeling in his stomach...

"He's John Wick. What did ya expect? He'll wait and watch you parading your relationship with our girl."

"She isn't your woman anymore." He snaps, glancing at Tex briefly before focusing on the road again.

Constantine pushes on the accelerator harder, speeding through the isolated roads towards the given address. The fact that it is by the woods makes him anxious. Those woods have some tales he would rather not think of. You see, darkness lurks at every corner.

"We'll see about that when we reach their Wizard Boy."  Constantine knows that Tex knows John better, and his confidence in John unsettles him.

"How are you so chill about it all?"

"What's the matter Wizard boy, afraid to lose?"

This man...

"I wasn't the one who abandoned her, you know, I found her, she found me. We rebuilt each other."

"Careful there."

He won't admit it, but the way Tex's voice drops, it makes a man like Constantine straighten up a bit. Tex is a seasoned assassin after all. He and John, both are bad news to you, in Constantine's eyes, but it is ultimately up to you to decide. Hailing from a world people like him would rather not deal with.

You and Constantine were doing fine, were happy even. In his mind, he could trick himself into believing that happily ever after, or at least something akin to that existed. His happily ever after, if, he can dare to dream, was and is with you. But then, the night your past came knowing at his door. And everything changed.

Looking at Tex right now, there is something selfish in Constantine that likes to imagine what if the two of them---Tex and John never came back. It would have been just you and him.

But whom is he kidding? He sees it in your eyes, he feels it. Your love for them runs deeper than it is apparent. But there is something else at play. He hasn't been able to focus or put a pin on it but...He can feel it. it's like a faint smell at some corner that he hasn't been able to figure out.

The rest of the ride passes in tense silence before his car reaches the place. The closer Constantine gets, the faster his heart beats.

He presses on the doorbell desperately, and his hold on his took box tightens in anticipation. Oh, he is familiar with this energy. He knows this energy. Something demonic.

John answers the door with dishevelled hair and tired eyes.

"Where's she?"

Even before John can answer, Constantine pushes past him, letting his intuition take the lead. He opens the bedroom door to see you sprawled on the bed. You are every bit of a seductive painting from a classic and the room is vibrating with the energy, the spell that pulses in your veins at the moment.

"Oh boy..."

The box drops from his hold as soon as your gleaming, blown-out eyes meet his.

"What's wrong with her?" Tex comes up behind him, his voice lacks the usual playful tinge as he eyes you.

"It's killing her. Consuming her, getting hold of her. Her body, mind, now her soul."

Constantine whispers out, pushing Tex behind him. He is the most vulnerable out of the three at the moment.

"I found her at the club. Some succubus spell I guess." John runs his fingers through his wild mane, telling Constantine what he knows and can decipher.

"Gear up,"

Constantine warns before reaching for his box on the floor. Perhaps, this is his true test.

Treedaddymcpuffpuff:

“Watcha doin Johnny?” You ask, stretching like a lazy cat, eyes dulled pink and wide, the length of your body novel and vintage all in the same. His cock is already much, much harder than it should be.

“Fuck.” Tex leans on the doorway. “Look at you.” 

John’s T-shirt rides up your thighs as you scooch to the end of the bed, smiling and glowing, imbued with wicked sex magic that even Constantine is having trouble thinking past. 

“Tex,” Constantine warns, “I wouldn’t. This type of magic puts a whole new meaning to the phrase, “fuck the life out of you.””

“Doesn’t sound so bad,” Tex murmurs, stepping a little further into the room. 

The part of you that cares whether or not you drain the life from each of them through their cocks is dwindling terrifyingly fast. You’ve never felt so powerful, or horny. Salivating for Tex’s broad frame and big, veiny hands that you know the capabilities of. 

“It’s not bad at all,” Wick agrees, kneeling down next to Constantine. “A great way to die.”

Constantine glares at both of them. “How about back the fuck up?” He thinks for a minute, putting his sweaty head in his hands, trying to shake some of this raw, possessive feeling clouding his mind. It’s hard to do, especially when you’re fucking his. His girl. His. They lost their chance a long time ago. 

“Too late for that,” John says, watching him rummage through the confines of his suitcase for something useful. It’s a bit like trying to focus on reading while at a Metallica concert. 

“John,” you say, before he can wrap his hand around Wick’s throat, “I’m sorry, please don’t be mad. I just needed—“

“Angel,” he interrupts, eyes soft milk chocolate for you, Adam’s apple bobbing in that way it does when you have him tied to bed, slowly nipping and sucking your way down his tummy to his leaking cock. “It’s alright, it’s not your fault. I’m gonna fix this.” 

“I know I just…I missed you so much. Can you hold me?” It’s the most convincing argument he’s ever heard, especially when you stretch out your arms to him with those big candy pink eyes. 

“Christ,” he grits. 

“Fuckface,” Tex is saying to Wick. They are toe to toe. “How long were you planning on keeping her all to yourself, huh?” 

Wick smiles, pretending to think about it. “It wasn’t my idea to call you.” 

You put yourself between them, fast and agile, like little Catwoman sliding into a 1v1 with Batman and Superman. “Stop it,” you tell Tex, leaning up on tiptoes to thread your arms around his neck. 

John’s hands wrap around your hips, and you lean back against him while Tex eyes the kiss bruised skin of your throat. It doesn’t take long for his teeth to sink in. 

“Stop,” Constantine commands, trying to get you out from between them. John grabs him by the collar while Tex licks and kisses down your sternum, into the valley of your breasts, saliva coating John’s shirt. 

“Gonna fuck you stupid,” Tex says against the pert flesh of your nipple. 

“Let me go, you fucking idiot,” Constantine hisses, as Wick backs him up against the wall, nearly removing his feet from the ground with the force of his body. Even drained of his eight lives and clinging weakly to the ninth, John’s strength is un-fucking-matched. It makes you throb. 

No, you’re already past throbbing. Convulsing, as Tex sucks on your nipples and kneads your ass. 

“John,” you call, and the low whiny pant of your voice stops this testosterone quarrel dead in its tracks. “Please don’t fight.”

“Angel…” Constantine says, while Wick just grins at you. 

“Just…C’mere.” 

As far as these men are concerned, you might as well be a famous lawyer with the way you win that fight before it can even start.

You’re not sure whose hands or mouth is whose. Only that they are all over you, and you are ending and beginning all at once. A fire in you, blazing so fully it consumes and destroys everything you are or want to be. Just a fucktoy, a cocksleeve, a desperate fucking whore who gets on her knees and licks and sucks and swallows. 

John’s lucky he has a big enough bed to fit all of you. Lucky he can devour your tits while Tex lets a big glob of saliva fall from his tongue onto your pulsing pussy, then dives in. You’re not sure where Constantine is, until you feel his mouth on yours, kissing you like you mean something to him. Like you’re the only thing in this fucking world that matters. 

He pulls away, hand on your chin, pushing your sweaty hair back from your face, and you know that he loves you. That they all do. But it’s not enough. You need more. Need something that transcends love and devotion. 

Wick is right, money is power, and so is sex. You look up at Constantine, hand threaded through Tex’s hair, chest red and swollen from John’s tongue, panting and heaving and drooling after losing yourself and finding God so many times already. “John,” you call, “come to me.” 

“We’re fucked,” he says, before descending back into your mouth.

tbc...

[filedunderspoilers]

📖 "The Librarian's Discovery"

It was a rainy Tuesday when I stumbled across the chest.

Tucked behind stacks of forgotten chronicles and under a thick coat of dust in the restricted wing of the Shadow Archives, it looked ordinary—just a battered leather trunk with tarnished brass fittings. But as a librarian in the Old Library of Darillium, I’ve learned that the most extraordinary things hide in plain sight.

Inside were one delicate, water-damaged journal—faintly humming with residual temporal energy—and a series of astonishing illustrations. I gasped. I knew these faces. River Song. The Doctor.

Their love story had always been a whispered legend, drifting through time like smoke. Most scholars dismissed it as a romantic fabrication. But here, in my hands, was her diary.

The first entry began with the familiar handwriting I’d only seen on scattered fragments:

“Hello, sweetie…”

A warm shiver ran down my spine. The page was filled with heartfelt words—her final message to the Doctor. It ended with: "Know that we will love you. Always." Tears smudged the ink where someone—maybe even him—had once touched the page.

As I flipped through the diary, I found poems etched beside a sketch of the TARDIS, and a bittersweet verse:

"Ask Donna, ‘Where’s the Doctor?’

She’ll reply, ‘Doctor Who?’..."

River had chronicled not just their moments, but the echoes of all his companions—ghosts of friendships that had shaped him across centuries.

One page held a prophecy:

“Demons run when a good man goes to war…”

A familiar phrase in Gallifreyan riddles, but this time paired with vivid drawings: a battlefield, the stars ablaze, and River standing tall with her vortex manipulator glowing.

Behind the journals were portraits—drawn with aching love and longing. River comforting Eleven Doctor. Her dancing with the Twelfth Doctor beneath a starlit sky. The caption in her swirling script read:

“…and he was hers, and this was their world.”

I spent hours poring over every word, every brushstroke. These were not just relics. They were evidence. Proof of a love that defied linear time.

I’ve since catalogued them under a new designation: Archive R.S.24—but I keep the key. Because some stories aren’t meant to be locked away.

They’re meant to be remembered.

[lauriemarch]

i've been an older sister for eighteen years now– you'd think that i'd have a grasp on it by now. but the truth is, i'm terrible at it, i'm the kind of terrible that would get you fired from an understaffed fast food joint in the middle of a lunch rush; i'm bad at texting them back and i forget if they're seventeen or sixteen now and when i was little i would get so mad that i would cry and rage and wish they would just stop being so terrible for once in their puny little lives.

and when i was a freshman in college i saw a play about a sister and brother coming together for the anniversary of their youngest brother's death; and the characters danced and twirled around the hardness of it all but i felt it in my teeth, like a wild and rabid dog, and i knew that if one of my brothers died it could never be something i lived through. i'd have to lay down in the grave beside them and beg them to seal the tomb, cover me in dirt and let me grow wild and gnarled. i know when bad things happen to them like a distant alarm whirling around in wind thick with dust and locusts. i never see them cry anymore and i almost miss it, the tender weeping of an eleven year old.

i close my eyes and i can still see them, ten and eight, round cheeks and missing teeth, covered in fingerpaint, riding scooters, swim trunks and s'mores, clifford and the wiggles. blue and green. easter egg hunts and six in the morning on christmas day. baseball glove, wiffle ball.

i'm nothing like my brothers, i tell people. if we weren't related, we wouldn't be friends. and we're not friends, not really, but we're the same in our bones. we have the same morals and beliefs, we have the same noses when you squint, we cry over the same things and we all miss our grandma. i love you, have a good day! i text one. how'd the game go? i text the other. Yeah we just smacked them. It’s good, so far it’s been pretty fun. Love you. Thank you. Thank you tho. Morning J love you. It's going good.

Love you more.

if you could time travel to anywhere, when would you pick? i'd pick a random tuesday in 2007. i'd see the toddler legs ambling around on tan shag carpet. i'd see the toys underfoot, smell the spaghetti on the stove, i'd hear myself reciting multiplication tables like they'll save my life. i'd relish in the fact that we're all living under the same roof, safe and whole, none of our hearts have been broken and we don't understand pain that doesn't pour from bloody knees and hangnails. i'd pick up my brothers one last time, give them the piggyback rides they wanted and play airplanes all around the living room. i'd say i love you just to hear the choir sing it back.

[roentarre]

Alfred Nicholas Garden Tree

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

[cuppa-and-a-view]

Thick Trunk Tuesday

Cuppa: iced barley tea with honey.

View: the Iris Garden of the Imperial Palace, Tokyo.

Back on Twitter, among the nature appreciation community, we used to observe Thick Trunk Tuesday, on which we would post particularly girthy, lofty, gnarly or otherwise remarkable trees.

Well today, when I saw this beauty on the lawns of the Imperial Palace grounds in Tokyo, I said "that would have been a good one for Thick Trunk Tuesday".

And I felt a little sad.

But then I thought, you know what? If Thick Trunk Tuesday isn't already a thing on Tumblr, I'll MAKE it a thing. So here we are, happy Thick Trunk Tuesday everyone! And here are a selection of girthy, lofty, gnarly or otherwise notable trees (and a few not-technically-trees) from the Imperial Palace grounds:

The world is very big, and very beautiful. Take a moment and join me on this shady bench, while the cicadas sing about summer.

[wolfnowl]

Ancient Cedar, Tofino, BC

[spatheandspadix]

Thick Trunk Tuesday: me and a very large oak stump at Ridley Creek, pointing out how much it grew in its last 36 years

[captainswan-kellie]

Whumptober

My second piece for @ouatprompts Whumptober.

15th - Tortured Tuesday! Psychological Trick - False Hope - “I don’t want to be alone.’

I’m a day late because I’ve been ill but we’re here now!

Just like last time, a drawing with an extract to go with it.

Emma’s breath came in ragged gasps as the cold pressed against her skin, her legs trembling beneath her. The Neverland forest felt alive, a shadowy mass that breathed and whispered in her ears. Figures flickered in the periphery of her vision—images of her past, wounds she thought had healed but now bled fresh again. Her heart breaking. Over and over. The weight of the memories suffocated her, pulling her into a despair so thick she felt it in her bones.

Then came the visions of the future—faces she recognized but marred by pain and betrayal. Everyone she had yet to lose, every failure that awaited her. The weight of it was unbearable, the noise of it all swirling inside her head, a relentless tide of misery.

She crouched by the gnarled trunk of a tree, curling inward as if she could shut the world out. She tried to drown everything out around her but something was forcing her eyes to stare. “Stop. Please, stop. I don’t want to be alone.” But the visions pressed closer, their voices louder, and the air felt heavy with her despair.

Then, faintly, a sound drifted through the madness. A soft melody, fragile but clear, cutting through the chaos. Emma’s heart slowed, her breaths steadied. The music was comforting, like a lullaby she hadn’t realized she needed. It cradled her mind, pulling her deeper into its calm.

As her eyelids drooped, the last thing she saw was the glint of moonlight on Pan’s flute. The notes floated gently toward her, wrapping her in their cold embrace.

Despite everything, her companions, her newfound connections. Emma still felt like that lost, lonely girl, wandering through an endless night. Pan knew that, and now, so did she.

[mjonthetrack]

vice queen v

Chapter 13: Cards, Candy, and Consequences

The garage was thick with tension, engines rumbling faintly in the background like the heartbeat of a city ready to explode. Lo pushed through the heavy steel doors like she owned the place, Prada-clad and cool as hell, a blunt tucked behind one ear and long acrylics tapping the steel toolbox beside her.

The room was packed — three Cruz affiliates sitting around a fold-out table, casually tossing cards, laughing like they’d already won. One of them, the target, sat chained to a chair in the middle, defiant but cornered.

Lo’s eyes swept the room, sharp and calculating.

“Sup, fellas? Y’all got room for a couple more?” she said with a grin that didn’t reach her eyes.

Hands twitched toward guns.

Before anyone could move, Jacob appeared in the shadows, pistol low and ready, cold as ice.

Lo stepped forward, snatching a handful of M&Ms from the table’s candy bowl, popping them in her mouth with the kind of chill that screams, I run this shit.

“See, I only got room for two in my trunk,” Lo said slowly, “which means one of y’all is gonna play dead real quick ‘cause I ain’t making room for three tonight.”

The third guy’s grin vanished, eyes flicking between Lo and Jacob.

Jacob’s voice cut the silence like a knife. “We taking the affiliate and his backup. The third? He ain’t lucky enough to ride.”

Before the man could react, a sharp crack echoed—the sound of a gunshot hitting metal, the man collapsing with a startled grunt.

Lo tossed another M&M into her mouth, eyeing the fallen man without a flicker of sympathy.

“Next time you wanna play kingpin, bring more than two bodyguards, baby.”

Jacob clipped cuffs on the target and his backup, hauling them to their feet.

“Let’s roll,” Lo said, already moving toward the door like this was just another Tuesday.

The remaining Cruz affiliates glanced at each other, swallowing hard, knowing the war was just beginning.

Chapter 14: Crawling or Bust

The Cruz affiliate was wildin’ — snarling, thrashing like a cornered beast as Jacob tried to force him and his backup toward the car. The guy’s rage was pure fire, fighting like his life depended on it. Problem was, it did.

Jacob gritted his teeth, muscles tight as steel cables, pulling and pushing with everything he had. The backup guy kept his head down, compliant, but the main dude? Nah, he was in full defiance mode.

Lo let out a sharp groan from the passenger side, crossing her arms before she sighed hard.

“This shit ain’t gonna work,” she muttered, already unholstering her steel with a fluid motion that made it clear she wasn’t here for games.

The gun clicked loud in the cold night air — one precise shot tore through the silence and slammed into the affiliate’s knee like a thunderclap.

He screamed, the sound raw and broken, dropping to one leg immediately, clutching his ruined joint like it betrayed him.

Lo’s eyes were ice cold as she spat out, “The fuck you ain’t get about move? Now you gone crawl to the trunk.”

Jacob’s grip didn’t loosen, but he let the man fall, dragging the other by the collar.

The crippled Cruz affiliate snarled through gritted teeth, eyes wild with pain and fury, dragging himself forward with his good leg and hands, crawling like the boss he still thought he was.

Lo rolled her eyes, then shrugged one shoulder.

“Fuckin’ crawl or die here. Your call.”

Jacob just shook his head, muttering, “That’s why she’s the boss.”

The ride back to the bunker was tense — the affiliate’s low growls mixing with the heavy hum of the engine.

Lo and Jacob sat side by side, the air thick with danger and silent respect.

Chapter 15: Delivery and Drama

The Dodge rolled smoothly into the bunker’s underground garage, Lo’s eyes narrowing as she surveyed the spotless concrete floor.

She clicked her tongue with a sharp tsk and muttered, “You gone get blood on my concrete? Ion’ like that.”

Jacob smirked, stepping out and cracking his knuckles, while Lo hopped out, moving a heavy-duty cart on wheels toward the car.

With a practiced jerk, she hauled the bleeding Cruz affiliate onto the cart, no hesitation, no gentleness. The man hissed through clenched teeth, trying to resist but the steel grip didn’t budge.

Jacob grabbed the other guy—quiet but tense—and tossed him onto the cart like a sack of bricks.

The two men looked trapped, helpless beneath the harsh fluorescent lights.

Lo pushed the cart down the concrete hall with an easy but determined shove, Jacob pacing alongside her, his eyes scanning for any sign of threat.

They reached the warehouse door where the core crew was gathered—Camille, Ariel, Marissa, Courtney, Sefa, Jey, Jimmy, Zilla—all pausing mid-conversation.

Lo knocked twice sharply, then swung the door open with a confident shove from her trademark Timberlands.

“Delivery,” she said, voice flat but deadly bored.

The group’s chatter died instantly, eyes flicking between the two women and the metal cart that carried the captured affiliate tied directly to the rare exhaust system Lo had busted earlier.

Jacob let his presence fill the room, standing tall beside Lo.

Everyone knew this wasn’t just some run-of-the-mill catch—this was the next big lead, and Lo and Jacob had handled it with their usual cold precision.

Camille’s brow lifted. “Bout damn time.”

Jey nodded silently, already scheming.

Marissa cracked her knuckles, eyes gleaming with lethal promise.

Lo leaned back on the cart, watching the room. “Let’s get this shit right.”

Chapter 16: Interrogation & Intensity

The war room hummed with low tension, the kind only a room full of cartel sharp minds can hold. The metal cart clanked as Lo rolled the captive affiliate inside, the man’s bruised face twisting with anger and fear.

Jey stood by the door, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Camille, Marissa, Courtney, Ariel, and the rest circled the room like a pack of wolves, silent but ready.

Lo gave the man a once-over and spat, “You got two choices: talk, or get introduced to Marissa’s Glock. And trust me, she ain’t bluffin’.”

Marissa cracked her knuckles and pulled the Glock from her holster, the cold metal gleaming. Her grin was ice.

The captive swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead. “I—I don’t know shit! I swear! Cruz—he don’t want no war. We keep it quiet!”

Camille stepped forward, voice silk wrapped in steel. “You will talk. Because the Fatu family don’t do quiet.”

Jacob leaned against the wall, watching Lo with a smirk. Lo caught his eye and nodded once—silent communication, electric with years of trust.

Ariel crossed her arms, eyes sharp as knives. “Start talking before we make this a long night.”

The man’s eyes flicked nervously between the squad. “Okay—okay! There’s a shipment coming in next week, near the docks. Cruz said it’s heavy, could change the whole game. Guns, drugs—the works.”

Jey’s jaw clenched. “Location?”

“East pier, Warehouse 27. Midnight. But… there’s a snitch. Someone’s feeding info to you, I swear.”

Marissa’s finger twitched on the trigger. “That snitch won’t be breathing much longer.”

Lo flicked her blunt from her mouth, eyes never leaving his. “Who is it?”

The man’s face twisted, voice dropping to a whisper, “I don’t know. Just a rat in the Cruz crew.”

Camille barked out, “That ain’t good enough. We find the rat, we make an example.”

Jacob’s voice cut through the room, steady and low, “We’re tightening the net. No slip ups.”

The captive swallowed, terror clear. Lo took a step forward, voice low but cutting. “You want to live? You’ll tell us everything.”

Marissa stepped in, gun aimed. “Starting with the shipment’s contents and the crew running it.”

The captive nodded frantically, sweat now streaming. “Guns. Big shipment. Five men guarding it. New recruits, but dangerous. Don’t trust the snitch either.”

Lo exchanged a glance with Jacob. “Good. You just bought yourself a chance.”

Jey stepped forward, voice calm but commanding, “Get him secured and prep for extraction. We move fast and hard. No mistakes.”

The room snapped into coordinated movement—discipline drilled into every Fatu member.

As they led the captive away, Lo and Jacob caught each other’s gaze. Silent understanding passed between them — this was far from over, but the family had the edge now.

Chapter 17: No Spittin’, No Slippin’ — OG Edition (Revised)

The captive spat at Lo, bold as hell.

Jacob’s head snapped to him, eyes sharp and cold as ice.

Before anyone could blink, Jacob’s hand shot out, yanking the man’s jaw to the side, clamping his mouth shut with a sharp crack.

His voice low and deadly: “Try that shit again, I’ll bury you where nobody finds you.”

The captive’s wide eyes begged for mercy, but it was too late.

Jacob’s fist slammed the man’s head against the steel table—BAM—blood and teeth splattered.

The room dropped into a thick silence.

Lo stepped forward, moving close to Jacob. Her long acrylic nails slid lightly over his waistband, grazing his skin in a slow, deliberate motion as she pulled his FN Five-Seven free.

Jacob’s breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t pull away.

Lo leveled the pistol at the captive, voice smooth but venomous: “Fuck ass bitch got spit on my damn timbs.”

BANG.

The bullet tore into the man’s chest.

Lo lowered the gun with cool precision and glanced back at Jacob, raising one brow.

“That’s how we handle disrespect.”

Jacob exhaled, eyes on Lo, a faint smirk ghosting his lips.

“That’s my woman.”

No warnings. No second chances. Just raw power, respect, and a silent promise: no one disrespects the Fatu family.

Chapter 18: Power Moves and Quiet Flames

The war room buzzed with a charged energy as Lo and Jacob rolled in, the captive—now bruised and broken—slumped on the cart behind them.

Camille was the first to break the silence, eyes sharp as she took in the scene. “Damn, y’all don’t play.”

Sefa nodded, folding his arms, a smirk tugging at his lips. “That’s how you set the tone real quick.”

Marissa, perched on the edge of the table, flicked a look at Lo and Jacob. “You sure know how to welcome guests.”

Courtney crossed her arms, eyebrows raised, impressed despite herself. “Guess that’s why they all scared to come through.”

Meanwhile, Jey and Jimmy were already off, dragging the affiliate through the bunker’s underground interrogation room. The brothers worked in sync, their years running the empire showing in every move.

Jey’s voice was steady but sharp. “You gonna talk, or we make this last real short?”

Jimmy smirked, cracking his knuckles. “Either way, you’re not leaving this bunker anytime soon.”

Back in the war room, Lo stepped close to Jacob, sliding the pistol smoothly back into his waistband. Her fingertips lingered just a beat longer, deliberately grazing the skin beneath his shirt.

“Thanks for the tool, Old Head,” she said, voice low, almost a whisper, eyes locked on his.

Jacob’s lips twitched, the corner of a smirk breaking free. “Anytime, Boss Lady.”

The room fell back into its rhythm, but between those two, the air crackled—silent, but electric.

Chapter 19: Casual Fire

Lo stepped out of her garage office, fresh change from the grease-stained coveralls she’d been rocking all day. She flexed in her tight Nike shorts—like booty shorts but with enough stretch to hug every curve—her toned midriff on display under a cropped tank that showed off her belly button ring and the swirling tattoos along her waist. Gucci slides clicked softly as she stepped out, the blunt perched behind her ear flickering with the first spark.

She took a slow drag, eyes catching movement.

There, leaning against the edge of the garage bay, was Jacob—arms crossed, that ever-serious look softening just a bit as he watched her.

Lo flicked her blunt and squinted, voice low but direct. “You need something, J?”

Jacob straightened, stepping closer, voice steady but easy. “Just checking if my boss lady’s ready to quit work and let the real fun start.”

She rolled her eyes, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “You know I’m never really off the clock.”

He laughed, deep and warm, eyes locking on hers. “Then I’ll just have to make sure the clock’s worth watching.”

Lo leaned back against the wall, blowing smoke rings lazily. “Bold talk for a man who’s been trying to steal my time for three years.”

Jacob’s grin widened, unapologetic. “’Cause stealing time from you? Best heist I ever planned.”

Chapter 20: Real Talk in the Garage

Lo stepped off her wall lean, gliding closer with that confident stride only she had. She stopped right in front of Jacob, arms crossed, eyes sharp like she was sizing him up. “You ain’t rolling with Zilla and the boys tonight? That whole married-or-coupled-up bro shit?”

Jacob smirked, shifting his weight but keeping his gaze locked on her. “Nah, I’m good. Figured I’d see if the one woman actually free for once wants some company.”

Lo raised a brow, a teasing edge creeping into her voice. “Well, lucky for you, none of the girls got me on baby-sitting duty tonight. I’mma just head back to the crib, stare at the ceiling, and probably plot my next ‘don’t ask me no questions’ move.”

Jacob chuckled, stepping just a bit closer, lowering his voice. “Staring at the ceiling sounds lonely. Could use a little company for that.”

Lo’s eyes softened for a second before she smirked again. “Don’t get all soft on me now, Old Head. I’m still boss lady here.”

Jacob grinned wide, his voice dropping to a playful whisper. “Boss lady or not, I’m coming for my cut of that time.”

Chapter 21: Midnight Drives & Murky Lines

Lo raised a brow, her lip curled just slightly as she tapped ash from her blunt with a flick of those long, perfect acrylics.

“Your cut?” she echoed, walking backwards slowly toward her Impala, her tone dripping in sarcasm. “Didn’t realize I was portioning out my time like Sunday plates.”

Jacob opened his mouth, a grin creeping up, but before he could get a word in, she tossed something through the air—

Clink.

He caught the keys to her prized ride midair, and blinked.

The 1969 Chevy Impala SS, blacked out like a funeral with a growl that made men flinch and women stare, sat waiting like it knew it was about to be disrespected by someone not named Lo behind the wheel.

She tilted her head toward the car and smirked, already walking to the passenger side. “You know the way, big dog?” she tossed over her shoulder, her gold hoops swinging, “’Cause I don’t feel like driving right now.”

Jacob looked down at the keys like they were holy. “You letting me touch this?” he asked, damn near reverent.

Lo was already leaning in the open door, one leg still out, still dragging that blunt. “I let you carry my food, didn’t I? Don’t crash my shit, Old Head. I’ll leave you in the trunk with a love note and no teeth.”

He laughed, low and deep, walking to the driver’s side with swagger to match. “I ain’t ever crashed a thing I cared about.”

Lo raised her brow again, but this time with a softer curve. “Well, let’s hope you don’t start tonight.”

He slid in, adjusted the seat, and started the engine.

VROOOOMMMMM.

That growl shook the garage. She exhaled smoke slowly, nodding in satisfaction. “Alright, Daddy Daytona. Let’s ride.”

Chapter 22: Stone, Smoke, and Concrete Queens

The Impala pulled up smooth, the deep purr of the engine echoing off the cliffside walls like a warning shot. The driveway lights kicked on in slow sequence, one by one, illuminating a house that didn’t whisper wealth—it growled it.

Lo’s crib wasn’t just big. It was a statement piece. Concrete and glass, three stories perched dangerously over the edge of the ocean, like it was daring God to knock it off. The five-car garage doors were seamless in the wall like a military base. Black glass windows. No flowers. No welcome mat. Just a long-ass palm tree and silence.

Jacob whistled low as he pulled into the garage. “This what you be retreatin’ to? You live in a damn Bond villain lair.”

Lo rolled her eyes, already flicking her blunt in the ashtray. “It’s quiet, it’s gated, and ain’t no HOA to snitch when I test engines at two a.m.”

As they parked, a loud, guttural bark exploded on the other side of the interior garage door.

BOOM. BOOM. WOOF.

Jacob jumped slightly.

“Damn. Is that a dog or a demon?”

Lo was already out the car, snatching her tank top down a bit like it was the dog’s fault her midriff was showing.

She popped the garage door open and snapped, “Stone, I know you ain’t making all that damn noise!”

The barking stopped immediately.

A massive gray-and-white XL Bully Pit came trotting into view like he paid bills and had a gym membership. His wide chest and fat paws slapped the concrete, thick neck swinging with his chain collar as he slowed down, sniffed Jacob—then did a lil’ wiggle and plopped straight on his side.

Lo smirked. “Look atchu, showin’ out like you ain’t just tried to scare somebody.”

Stone huffed and wagged his tail like “yes ma’am.”

Jacob was still standing by the Impala. The dog turned his head, sniffed in his direction—then barked once.

Not loud. Not aggressive. Just one bark. “Aight, you cool.”

Lo raised a brow. “Well damn. You must be special. Stone don’t rock with nobody but me, Camille, and my old homegirl Raye. And even then, he side-eyes everybody that’s got a Y chromosome.”

Jacob finally stepped into the house, crouching to scratch Stone’s neck, grinning at the weight of the dog’s head.

Stone licked his hand, then leaned all his weight on Jacob’s foot like “this my cousin now.”

Lo watched, arms folded. “…That dog got better judgment than me.”

Jacob stood back up, brushing his hand off on his jeans. “Man got good taste.”

She snorted. “Let’s see how long that lasts.”

As she turned to head deeper into the house, Jacob took in the high ceilings, the ocean air wafting in through the cracked patio door, and the heavy masculine-feminine energy that dripped off everything—from the sleek gunmetal couch to the floor-to-ceiling bookcase with a damn samurai sword mounted beside it.

He followed, Stone trailing behind them like security.

“You always this dramatic with the architecture?” he asked.

Lo glanced over her shoulder, her slides whispering across polished floors. “Yeah. But the real drama,” she said, unlocking a sleek black bar fridge and tossing him a lemonade, “is upstairs.”

He caught it, cracked the top, and grinned.

“Lead the way, Boss Lady.”

Chapter 23: Welcome to Hell, Captain

Jacob had his shoulders loose and a smirk playing on his mouth as he followed her up the black steel staircase. The lemonade in his hand was still cold, but the rest of him? Heated anticipation. The sway of her hips. The flex of her thighs in those Nike shorts. The way the house smelled like money and rebellion. Yeah, he thought he knew where this night was going.

Hell, he even popped a mint in his mouth, just in case.

Lo didn’t say much on the way up—just looked over her shoulder once, her locs falling like a damn crown around her face, and smirked like she already knew he was fighting the urge to lay her across the nearest piece of furniture.

At the top of the stairs, she reached into her pocket, pulled out a key fob, and tapped a sleek matte panel beside the tallest black double door in the hallway.

Jacob licked his lips, stepping up close behind her. “So you just keepin’ the main bedroom behind lock and key like a vault now?”

Lo didn’t even turn around.

The doors clicked open with a mechanical hiss.

She pushed one open and stepped inside, flipping a switch. Jacob followed…

…and stopped dead in his tracks.

A thick wave of humidity and the strong, unmistakable scent of high-grade marijuana hit him like a damn uppercut. Bright UV grow lights blinked on above rows and rows of lush, green plants in pristine hydroponic setups. Shelves of jars lined the far wall—every one of them labeled with handwritten names like “God’s Left Hook,” “Sour Texas Heat,” and “Beyoncé’s Elbow.”

The room was easily the size of a two-car garage. Clean. Organized. Professional. A damn weed paradise.

Jacob’s mouth opened slightly. “Yo…”

Lo turned to him, all grins and gold hoops, hands on her hips like a proud mama showing off her babies.

“Welcome to hell, Captain.”

Jacob blinked. “This ain’t a bedroom.”

She scoffed. “No shit, Sherlock. Why the hell would I sleep with all that ocean noise when I could sleep in peace on the couch downstairs with my blunt and peace lily? This right here? This my sanctuary.”

Jacob took another slow step in, surveying the perfectly tended grow ops, the hanging lights, the shelves with pH testing kits and mason jars like they were holding the cure for sadness. “You really got a full-on grow room in your house?”

Lo cracked her neck and stepped beside him, pointing with her long acrylics to a row of glistening buds. “Bout five strains are mine personally. The rest? Favors, debts, investments, experiments. One of these? Got a sleep terp so heavy it’ll make a grown man call his mama and apologize for shit he did at twelve.”

Jacob dragged his hand down his face, laughing softly. “I thought you was finna throw me on a bed or something, not in a hotbox from heaven.”

Lo stepped in front of him, her tank top clinging just right, lemonade still in hand. “What, you disappointed?”

Jacob gave her a once-over, slow and intentional. Then he leaned down slightly, voice low and teasing.

“I mean… I’m impressed. But I ain’t forget that text you sent earlier. ‘They pressin’ me about relationship BS again, old head 🙄’ —I figured that meant you was gon’ let me press a little too.”

Lo tilted her head. “And who said I ain’t?”

She leaned in, barely a breath between them. Jacob’s eyes darkened just a bit.

Then—

She shoved a jar into his chest. “But first, pick a strain. I need a second opinion on this new cross I cooked up.”

Jacob looked down at the jar. Up at her. Back down.

“This what we doin’?”

Lo winked, sauntering past him into the aisle of plants. “That’s what we always doin’, old head.”

Jacob stood there for a moment, trying not to laugh as Stone huffed at the doorway like, get used to it, bro.

He called out, “You know I ain’t goin’ nowhere, right?”

Lo, halfway into the rows of green, called back without missing a beat: “Didn’t think you would. That’s why I let you in.”

Chapter 24: Loft Views & Lit Reviews

The door sealed behind them with that smooth, mechanical hiss again—like the fortress was closing ranks. Lo moved ahead without a word, hips swaying just enough to make Jacob rethink every life decision that hadn’t led him to her sooner.

Her blunt was already lit, perched at the side of her mouth like a crown jewel of rebellion. She rolled his with muscle memory, fingers quick and clean, and held it out behind her without even glancing back.

“Go ‘head, OG,” she muttered, smoke curling from her lips. “What you think?”

Jacob took it with a grin, eyes dragging slow up the back of her thighs as they climbed the stairs to the loft space.

The woman had the audacity to walk like sin and smell like salvation. Fried rice, lemon pepper, Prada and pressure.

“Y’all got names for these strains,” he said, lifting the blunt to his lips, “this one got one?”

Lo paused on the last step, tossed a look over her shoulder, smirk playing on her lips. “Yeah. That one’s called ‘Truth Serum.’ Let me know if you start confessin’ feelings.”

Jacob laughed low, spark flaring as he lit the blunt and took a drag. Smooth. Heavy. That good-good—hit like a velvet hammer.

He blew the smoke up toward the high ceiling as they stepped into the open, moody luxury of Lo’s loft space. It was all blacks, charcoals, and warm amber tones. Exposed concrete. Velvet drapes. Gold accents. A wall of windows opened the room up to ocean views, moonlight shimmering on the water like it owed her something.

The bed? Massive. King-size, low to the floor, pillows and throws tossed across it like a magazine shoot. One side was chaos—records, hoodies, books about engine repair and world history—and the other was military neat. The contradiction made sense. It was her.

Lo plopped down on the edge of the bed, legs spread just slightly, blunt in one hand as she leaned back on the other.

“You ain’t said shit yet,” she said, watching him from under her lashes. “Don’t make me think you can’t handle ‘Serum.’”

Jacob took another pull, exhaled, and let it settle in his chest before he spoke.

“I think,” he said, stepping closer, “you been hiding this whole world in here, and I’m just now gettin’ the invite.”

Lo smirked. “I had to make sure you ain’t a snitch first.”

He stopped in front of her, tilting his head. “That why you been keepin’ distance for three years?”

She blew smoke out the side of her mouth. “That, and you a lot to handle, Fatu. Big, quiet, always lurking. Most women would fold for that. I like my odds clean.”

Jacob reached out, ran a thumb across her jaw, rough and reverent all at once. “Ain’t folded once, boss lady. But you best believe I been waitin’.”

Lo’s eyes flickered. For a second, the armor cracked. Just a second.

Then she stood up, stubbed her blunt out, and stepped into his space, voice soft but confident.

“Well, now you in. So whatchu gon’ do with it?”

Jacob kissed her.

Right then, right there, no warning—just heat and years of unspoken hunger. His hand went to her waist, pulling her flush against him, and hers curled in his shirt like she’d been holding that need too long.

When they broke apart, breathless and buzzed, Lo grinned against his mouth. “That blunt working too good.”

Jacob chuckled, voice husky. “Told you. Truth Serum.”

She licked her lips, eyes dancing. “Then you better tell me the rest, old head. Start with how long you been wantin’ to kiss me like that.”

Jacob grinned, the kind that showed his grills and none of his mercy.

“Three years,” he said. “And I’m just gettin’ started.”