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[kassy-djomunson]

johnny & bob

made by raychelwho on insta ✨

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Ignore how disgustingly ugly these r I just figured out how to make them and its 4 am

[em1i2a3]

Spanish Sahara

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

Summary: After a rough week at the Thunderbolts Compound, the team goes out for some drinks to wind down and enjoy themselves.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob and other characters from the movie are in here. Fluff, and Smut are the main warnings here, Bob and Reader have an established friendship.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all), Praise/Worship Kink, Breast Play, …Something involving a mirror, Very light choking, Oral Sex (f! And m! receiving), Fingering, Swallowing, Bob is a frickin softie as usual because that’s hot but he definitely has his moments in this, Overstimulation, Teasing, Aftercare to the max because being taken care of after hot sex is…Wheew lol. I don’t think I missed anything

Author’s Note: I saw a lot of people requesting more smut and I thought as a nice little break from the super long fics that I’m working on (that request box has a lot of them and I’m chipping away at it as much as possible!) I’d write a nice little one-shot for y’all to celebrate a random Friday in May 😂 enjoy!! (Side note, I also had a funny little ask about how I name my posts lol, I literally just picture the songs in what I’m writing, the title changes like three times by the time I post it lol)

Word Count: 13,796

The bar was loud, crowded, and hazy with cheap smoke and too many conversations happening at once–but Bob was only paying attention to you, and attempting to look normal in his surroundings, which was always a complicated feat for him.

You sat across from him in the booth, your body framed in golden lamplight and neon beer signs like some half-lit portrait in an art museum. You looked too good to be real–flushed with warmth from your second tequila pineapple of the night, bare-legs crossed just enough to make his brain short-circuit, lips glossed a cherry red like you’d done it just to ruin him.

And maybe, somewhere deep down, he thought you had.

The others were scattered across the bar like background noise–Ava and Yelena flanking the bar with their usual chaotic grace, Walker and Alexei pounding back shots and shouting about God-knows-what, and Bucky leaning over the pool table, unknowingly feeding lines to a group of women who didn’t care if he could shoot or not.

But Bob hadn’t looked away from you in nearly half an hour.

Not when you uncrossed and re-crossed your legs beneath the table, the movements slow and fluid, like you wanted to give him something to look at. Bob’s eyes had followed the motion instinctively–drawn to the soft slide of skin, to the way your thighs shifted beneath the hem of your black tailored shorts. They were high-waisted and fitted, hugging the dip of your waist and the curve of your hips, cinched with a single gold button that glinted every time you moved.

You’d paired them with that wicked bodysuit–the one that clung to your body like second skin, high-cut at the hips and daringly low in the front, just enough to frame the soft curve of your cleavage without giving away too much. It was backless, sleeveless, and made of some silky, matte fabric that shimmered faintly in the bar light. You wore it like armor, like a challenge.

Your legs were bare, golden under the dim glow, crossed at the knee with one foot tucked behind the other–long, lean, and deliberate in how they were presented. Every detail about your look tonight felt curated–not in a fake way, but in the kind of way that said I know exactly what I’m doing to you. And Bob? Poor Bob looked like he was under your spell.

He couldn’t stop looking.

Every time your drink got dangerously low and you leaned forward–elbows resting on the table, cleavage pressing softly together–you dragged the last sip from your straw with a slow, teasing pull that made something in him twist. He watched the way your lips curled around it, how a single droplet of condensation slid down the side of the glass and clung to your fingers. He was transfixed.

You laughed at something the waitress said–he didn’t even register what–and it echoed in his chest like a bell. That sound always got to him.

And tonight, he wasn’t hiding it. Not well, anyway.

His eyes kept drifting–over your mouth, the curve of your collarbone, the smooth stretch of your exposed shoulders, down to the shadowed dip between your breasts. Then he’d catch himself and flick his gaze up like he could undo what he just saw. Like he was trying to remind himself that he respected you too much to stare, even though he’d been staring for months.

He was trying so hard to be polite. His hands were clenched in his lap, fingers tangled and twitching like they were holding back something much stronger than impulse. His posture was rigid, like his own body was betraying him one muscle at a time.

He was always like that around you–reserved, yes. But it wasn’t just shyness. It was respect. Fear. Like every thought he had about you was too big to name out loud. Like if he touched you, he’d never forgive himself for crossing that line.

But he’d already crossed it, hadn’t he? Not physically–but emotionally, because Bob Reynolds had been in love with you for a long, long time.

And you knew it.

You saw it in the way he always noticed when you were tired after a mission, the way he made you tea without asking, or stayed behind in training sessions he wasn’t even involved in just so you’d have someone to spot you. You saw it in the way he flinched when someone else made you laugh, or how his voice went into a cracked whisper only when he said your name.

He was putty in your hands. And you loved it. Not because it gave you power–but because he let you have it. Because he trusted you with it.

And as much as the friendship meant to you–deeply, intimately–you’d stopped lying to yourself months ago. Your brain was always a few steps ahead, mapping the timeline of how you’d get from here–from this bar booth and his helpless eyes–to there. To a place where Bob Reynolds was no longer just your best friend, but something closer. Something that meant yours.

So you didn’t say anything. You just watched him.

Watched how his breath caught every time you shifted. How he wet his lips nervously when you leaned forward. How the pulse in his neck jumped like he could feel your eyes on him.

His fingers twitched again, folded too tight in his lap. You followed the motion, noted the way his knuckles went white.

There was a sheen of sweat on his temple now–barely noticeable unless you were looking for it, which you were.

And poor Bob didn’t even realize how obvious he was.

So you decided to make it worse for him.

You slipped off your shoe under the table and slowly–very slowly–ran your foot up the length of his shin. A gentle drag, barely a touch, but intentional. Controlled. The kind of touch that said I see you. And I want you flustered.

Bob jolted like you’d zapped him with a live wire.

His leg knocked the underside of the table with a hollow thunk, and his hand shot out, sloshing his Coke Zero just short of the edge. His knuckles were white around the glass. His jaw dropped slightly like he meant to say something but forgot what language was.

His cheeks–already pink from the warmth of the room and the low buzz that he was getting from just being around you–flushed deeply, the color spreading up his neck and painting his ears red. You swore even his throat blushed. He pushed his light brown hair out of his face nervously, like he was afraid it would cloud his vision of you.

You tilted your head, smirking. “Cold in here?”

He blinked like he’d just come out of a trance. His lashes fluttered rapidly over wide blue eyes–those eyes, impossibly pale and clear, glassy with surprise and something raw beneath it. Want, maybe. Or fear.

“Y-Yeah,” He stammered, voice cracking slightly. “A–A little drafty.”

“Mmm.” You stretched in your seat, arms rising lazily above your head, making sure the movement pulled the neckline of your bodysuit lower. The fabric shifted with you, stretching softly across your chest, exposing a bit more of the delicate skin he’d been trying so hard not to look at.

His gaze dropped like he didn’t even mean to let it.

And then he swallowed–hard–his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat.

But Bob didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His breathing had gone shallow, his tongue caught against the roof of his mouth like he’d forgotten how to form words. He looked like he was choking on air.

You didn’t let up.

Your foot moved again–slow, deliberate, and this time it brushed higher, just right on the inside of his thigh, where the heat of his body was more noticeable. Where he was trembling.

His breath hitched instantly, and a soft, involuntary sound escaped him–a sharp exhale, half-panic, half-arousal. His fingers dug into the wooden edge of the booth like he was bracing for impact.

You leaned forward again, closing some of the distance between you, letting your arms rest on the table and your chest push together ever so slightly in the low light. He couldn’t look away.

“You’ve been looking at me like that all night, Bob,” You said, your voice velvet-soft, the tone curling up his spine.

His head snapped up like you’d struck him–eyes wide and wild with guilt, pupils dilated in the low light. His brows pinched upward with alarm, his mouth parting in a panicked breath.

“I… I didn’t mean to–” He rushed out, but it came out broken.

You reached across the space between you, wrapping your hand around his wrist before gently cutting him off

“I want you to look.”

He froze.

His whole body went still, like he was afraid to breathe. His eyes–so ocean-bright and boyishly soft–flicked over your face with disbelief, feeling your thumb run over the exposed skin of his wrist.

You smiled at him again, slower this time. Not to tease. But to reassure.

“I like that it’s you,” You said, your voice dipping into something quiet and unshakably sincere.

He blinked, slow and stunned. His lashes cast little shadows under the low-hung light, and you saw the exact moment something cracked in his chest.

“You’re the only one,” You continued, “Who’s never looked at me like I’m a game to win. Or a body to take. You look at me like I’m something you’re afraid to break. Like I’m something you cherish.”

His lips parted again–slightly dry, slightly trembling.

And you saw it. The shimmer in his eyes. That wide, overwhelmed expression he wore when you said something that hit too close to the truth. He looked like he might cry. Or faint. Or bolt. But instead…He stayed.

Frozen, but present.

You reached for your drink again with your free hand and took the last sip, dragging the straw into your mouth with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact.

Bob’s eyes tracked every inch of the motion. You could see the subtle twitch in his jaw, the little hitch in his shoulders, like he was physically holding himself back.

Then you licked a drop from your bottom lip.

And that did him in.

His breath faltered again, and his eyes–so blue, so open, so obviously in love with you–looked at you like he’d forgotten where he was. Like the world had narrowed down to just your lips, your voice, your body framed in shadow and gold light.

You tilted your head, gaze gentle now. That look you always gave him when he was spiraling. When he needed to know he was safe. That he was wanted.

He looked like he didn’t deserve it.

But you knew better.

And finally, after a long, shaky breath–his lashes fluttering like he was about to pass out—he leaned forward.

His voice barely rose above the din of the bar, cracked and breathless and close enough to touch.

“I…I think about y–you.”

The words came out like a confession. Like a sin.

He didn’t stop.

“More than I should,” He said, gaze darting to the table, then back up again like it physically hurt him to hold your eyes. “More than…What’s okay.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t interrupt. You let him say it.

“I just…” His throat worked again. “If I ever got to touch you–I don’t think I’d want to stop.”

Your chest ached at how sincerely he meant it. Like it wasn’t just about sex. Like it was everything, like it meant everything.

Your hand on his wrist slid down so your palm was over his, feeling the warmth of him–the quiet trembling, the softness of his skin.

“Bob,” You said softly. “What would you do if I didn’t want you to stop?”

His lashes fluttered at you–confused, hopeful, scared–but he didn’t pull away, not like he would normally. If anything, he leaned in like you had said something that brought him closer.

Your hand stayed where it was, palm against palm, but your fingers began to move–softly tracing the lines in his hand like you were reading him. Like you were studying a map only you had permission to follow. You let your fingertip trail along the length of his lifeline, then up the curve of his thumb, dipping gently between the web of his fingers. He flinched–barely–but you felt it. Saw the way his breath shuddered quietly through his nose, the way his fingers twitched like they wanted so badly to close around yours but didn’t quite dare.

He was holding himself back.

Even now, even here.

Your gaze lifted, meeting his–they were wide and glossy, pupils blown wide now, eating away at the blue, and there was something deeply aching in the way he looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize every second of this moment in case it vanished.

“Don’t look at me like that,” You murmured, your thumb ghosting over the calloused edge of his ring finger. “Like you’re not allowed to want this.” Bob swallowed hard–again. It was the only thing he could do that didn’t give him away. His breath stuttered. His fingers twitched. His mouth opened like he might say something, but no words came.

He looked at you like you were everything he’d ever prayed for and was terrified to touch.

You watched the war inside him–want versus restraint. It played out in the flicker of his lashes, the shake in his hand, the tension braced through his shoulders like he was trying to keep himself from combusting.

So you let go of his hand, and moved your foot away from his inner thigh.

For a heartbeat, his face dropped–just a flicker of devastation in his expression.

Until you stood up, and moved around the table.

Bob’s head turned like he couldn’t believe you were really coming to him, like some part of him had convinced himself this was all a hallucination brought on by too many Coke Zeros–cause he couldn’t drink–and too many nights thinking about your hands, your mouth, and your voice in his ear. But then you slid into the booth beside him, your thigh pressing flush to his. He was still frozen, spine straight, hands in his lap like they might betray him if he moved them. Your perfume radiated off of you, the one that you always modestly sprayed on yourself, the one that he loved sneaking in your room to smell when you weren’t at the compound or out on a mission–the one that smelled like sugar, berries, and ripe oranges, like a succulent dessert…Made just for him.

You leaned in slowly, brushing your arm against him. You didn’t have to look at him, you didn’t have to…You knew he was already looking at you, or trying to look at you.

When he was finally able to feel your hot breath curl over his cheek he could immediately smell the pineapple juice on your tongue. It made him want to lean in right then and there just to get a taste, just to suck the essence off of it, to drink from you, but he needed to hold himself back, to stay in control of himself before he did something prematurely.

Then–with the grace of an angel–you reached up and touched him.

Your fingers found the side of his jaw, the pads of them smoothing against his freshly shaven cheek, tilting his face gently toward you. He followed the motion like a man possessed–like you had pulled him by a leash tied to his soul. He closed his eyes at the sensation, parting his lips slightly to take in a small breath–a quiet plea.

Slowly, you leaned in, your mouth resting just close enough to graze his ear, and you whispered–low, and sultry:

”Every time I touch myself, I imagine it’s you…” Bob shattered. A noise escaped him–broken and breathless. A half-gasp, half-whimper that he couldn’t contain if he tried. His body went tense beside you, his thigh flexing under yours, his fingers twitching like they were about to snap.

But you didn’t stop there.

“I imagine your fingers,” You murmured, your lips brushing his ear, “Big and clumsy and desperate, the way they always look when you’re nervous. I imagine them moving inside me while I ride your hand, while I beg you to kiss me like you mean it.” Bob exhaled–hard. His jaw clenched under your touch, his breath fogging hot against your forearm. You could feel how close he was to breaking–how close he was to falling apart in front of a whole bar full of people he couldn’t even look at in the eyes. Your fingertips moved slowly across his cheek, your nails didn’t scratch–they ghosted, mapped, and worshipped. You traced the slope of his cheekbone, then slid down to the soft dip beside his mouth, like you were learning his face the way others learn scripture.

Bob was unraveling. Every word from your mouth was gasoline on the fire he’d been trying to smother for months. His breath caught in his chest like a prayer that didn’t know how to end, and he stared at you—lips parted, lashes trembling–like he couldn’t tell if this was heaven or the moment before he burned.

And then your other hand came to rest on his shoulder, grounding him–and pushing him closer to the edge all at once.

He was breathing too hard now. Too fast. His chest rising in shallow, shaking swells. And all he could do was sit there, hands fisted in his lap, as you leaned in and whispered into his ear again–closer this time, like you were whispering to his soul.

“I think about tasting you,” You said softly. “So achingly slow, until you lose your mind.”

Bob’s knees went weak beneath the table. He didn’t even know how he was still upright. The only thing keeping him tethered to the earth was the press of your thigh against his, the weight of your palm on his shoulder and face, and the sound of your voice curling into his bloodstream like silk-wrapped sin.

He tried to speak–tried to gather some string of thought that could resemble language–but all he managed was a broken, desperate breath. “I–” He rasped, his voice shredded at the edges.

But you didn’t let him finish.

You shushed him. Gently. Sweetly. Your thumb swept across his cheek.

“Don’t,” You murmured, so close your lips touched his ear, “Don’t talk. Just feel it.”

And God, he felt it.

Every molecule of you.

The heat of your breath melting against his skin. The sweetness of your perfume, dizzying and intimate. The way your hands touched him like he was more than a body. Like he was a secret. A sacred thing you’d been aching to unwrap.

His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to move, to reach for you, but he didn’t dare–not unless you asked for it. He’d give you anything, everything, but he didn’t want to take a single thing you didn’t offer first.

Still, he couldn’t help it–his head tilted toward your touch, his eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted in something so tender it almost hurt to witness. His throat flexed as he swallowed another breath that wouldn’t steady.

You moved even closer–until your mouth nearly brushed his. Until the distance between you was a lie.

“I want to make you lose control,” You whispered. “I want to feel how much you’ve been holding back.”

That did it.

Bob’s whole body trembled under your hands–his restraint hanging by a thread, his jaw clenched like he was trying not to whimper. He turned his head slowly, just enough to look at you, and his eyes–those soft, wrecked, worshipful eyes–were completely undone.

“Y-You don’t know what you’re d-doing to me,” He breathed, but you smiled, soft and knowing.

“Then maybe we should go back to the compound so you could show me.” You whispered back, your thumb stroking the corner of his mouth like you’d been dying to touch him there. Bob’s breath hitched.

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath your thumb like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to shape it into a sentence. His brow knit–tight, anxious–as if he were on the edge of a precipice and could already feel the wind pulling at his shirt.

“I…” His voice cracked. He turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing your palm, but his eyes–those trembling, desperate eyes–held yours like you were the only thing anchoring him to the floor. “I don’t… know w-what happens if I lose control…I h-haven’t had s-sex since before the S-Sentry serum…”

Your chest softened at the vulnerability in his tone–raw, boyish, torn straight from the deepest part of him.

“I’ve felt it before. The…Shift. T-That moment before it gets too much.” His throat worked hard around the next words. “The Sentry, he–he comes through w-when I feel too much. When I want too much. A-And I want you so badly it terrifies me.”

Your thumb stroked over his jaw again, slow and reverent, like you were trying to soothe the trembling just beneath his skin. He didn’t pull away.

“Bob,” You whispered, voice like velvet heat, “I’m not scared of him.”

His breath caught, but you didn’t stop.

“I don’t care if the Sentry shows up. I don’t care if he tries to carry me off into the sky or crack the moon in half because I kissed you too hard.” You smiled gently, your nose brushing his. “Because it’s still you. All of it. The fear, the ache, the power–none of it changes the fact that it’s your heart underneath. And I want all of it. I want all of you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, lashes wet. His chest heaved like he’d just exhaled something he’d been holding in for years. Like you’d opened a dam inside him and now he couldn’t stop it–he didn’t want to anyways.

“Y-You don’t know w–what that means to me,” He whispered, voice trembling like glass on the verge of breaking. “To not be t-the golden boy in your eyes…To just b-be me.”

You leaned in then–so close he could taste your breath, taste the sweetness of pineapple and something far more sacred.

“You were never a monster,” You said, lips brushing his. “You’re the kindest thing I’ve ever touched.”

And that broke something open in him.

His shoulders sagged forward, like a weight had slid off them, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his hands finally–finally–lifting from his lap to ghost up your sides, hesitant and aching. You felt the way they trembled as they settled on your waist, as if touching you too firmly might shatter the moment.

But you didn’t shatter. You melted. Right into him.

“Take me home,” You whispered, your hand curling around the back of his neck. “And let me be yours.”

Bob let out a shaky breath–half-sob, half-surrender–and nodded.

“O–Okay…”

—————————————

The moment the two of you stepped out of the elevator and the doors slid shut behind you, the weight of what was about to happen descended over you like dusk spilling into a quiet room–slow and golden and thick with gravity. It wrapped around your shoulders, soaked into your skin. Each step down the quiet hallway felt amplified, padded in the hush of possibility. The compound, usually so full of voices and footfalls, now felt sacred. Empty in a way that invited something tender to unfold.

You glanced over at Bob beside you–his hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff beneath his shirt like he didn’t know how to hold his own body anymore. His eyes flicked toward you, then away again. You could see it in the twitch of his fingers, in the slow rise and fall of his breath: he was fighting the urge to run and the urge to fall into you all at once.

“Whose room?” You asked softly, your voice barely more than a breath as you stopped just shy of your doors, which were across from one another.

Bob turned to face you, and for a moment he just looked at you. Really looked. As if the question was too big to answer all at once. But then he shook his head and murmured, without hesitation, “Yours.”

Your brows lifted a fraction, surprised by the immediacy of it.

His voice came again, quieter now, barely able to hold its own weight: “I want to be surrounded by everything that’s you.”

And God, he meant it. You could see it all over his face–that quiet, overwhelmed awe. That whisper of longing woven into his breath. Like being near you wasn’t just about want–it was about safety.

You opened your door with a hush of hinges and warmth poured out–soft and golden like it had been waiting for you both. Bob hesitated on the threshold just for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step into something so intimate. But you reached back and curled your fingers around his, pulling him through gently, and he followed without a sound.

Your room welcomed him like a heartbeat.

The lights were low, softened to a muted amber by the shade of your bedside lamp, and the shadows cast across the walls were familiar, worn-in. The kind of quiet you could only earn by living in a space long enough to leave parts of yourself tucked into the corners.

There were little signs of you everywhere.

A cardigan draped over the back of your chair, still shaped by your shoulders. A couple mismatched mugs on the windowsill, half-full of dried flowers and pens that had long since run out of ink. A battered paperback with your thumb pressed into the spine, abandoned on the edge of the bed. The faintest scent of that sugary sweet skin-warm perfume. He could taste it in the silence.

And then there was the window.

It stretched across nearly half the far wall, a wide mouth of glass looking out over the city, where the skyline pulsed like a living organism–silver and gold lights blinking in lazy succession, cars reflecting off the windows threading down the streets like blood through veins. Bob walked toward it like he was drawn by gravity itself, like it called to the aching part of him that had spent too long looking at the world from above and never this close.

His reflection caught in the tall mirror near the bed–a fractured echo of himself, backlit by the skyline, a man made of longing and light. If he laid down, he realized, he’d be able to see you both in that mirror. Your bodies. Your faces. The way you might look reaching for each other.

He swallowed hard.

Behind him, you closed the door.

The soft click of it sealing shut sent a shiver down his spine–final and quiet and full of promise. He turned toward you, and that’s when he saw you undoing your leather jacket, slow and unhurried. The matte black of it peeled away from your shoulders like a second skin, and the way you moved–fluid, unfazed, and sure–made the air around him feel charged, like static clinging to cotton.

You stood in front of him now, illuminated by citylight and the low lamplight behind you. The bodysuit clung to your frame, catching the warm glow across your collarbones, your throat, the tender curve of your chest. You shrugged the jacket the rest of the way off, and it hit the floor with the softest thud.

Bob was frozen in place. Watching you like a man watching lightning hit the ocean.

He looked around your room again, slower this time. You saw it in his eyes–how he drank in the soft mess of your sheets, the collection of little rings in a porcelain dish, the stack of notes taped to your wall with scribbled to-dos and song lyrics and scraps of thought. It was chaotic and real and you, and he loved every single thing about it.

You were standing so close now that he could feel the warmth radiating off of your skin. The glow of your room wrapped around the two of you like a whispered secret.

You tilted your head slightly and whispered, “You okay?”

And Bob–whose hands were clenched at his sides, whose chest was rising like a tide he couldn’t hold back–nodded, barely. His voice was a whisper scraped raw:

“I-I don’t think I’ve ever been t-this okay.”

Your smile broke like a sunrise, and you reached up for him, touching his face. Just your fingertips at first, featherlight against the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing along the corner of his mouth like it was something precious to you. Bob’s breath stilled at the contact, lips parting slightly, his chest fluttering with anticipation. He leaned into your palm like a man starved for warmth, even though he was burning up as he stood in front of you.

You pulled him gently toward you.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t desperate. It was something softer—something built from all the times you’d brushed hands in passing, or caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was built from every whispered laugh, every longing silence, every moment the world made you ache for one another without saying a thing.

And now it was here. Finally.

Bob bent to meet you, slow and hesitant, his breath brushing yours like a question. Your noses bumped slightly, awkward and tender, and he let out the smallest nervous laugh—one you swallowed as you tilted your chin and brought your lips to his.

The first kiss was a hum. A hush. A held breath.

His lips were soft, unsure at first, warm and slightly parted like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to kiss you back–until he did. Until he melted into it. You felt the exact moment the tension in his shoulders unraveled, when he stopped hovering on the edge and let himself fall. His arms came around your waist–slowly, carefully–as if he was still afraid to hold too tightly.

But he did hold you.

God, did he hold you.

One hand splayed wide against the small of your back, the other settling higher, thumb grazing the edge of your exposed skin where your bodysuit dipped low. His palm was hot. Too hot. Like he was burning just from touching you, and yet couldn’t bring himself to pull away. The feel of your skin against his fingertips made his knees go weak.

You kissed him deeper.

Not rushed, not rough–just more. More pressure. More presence. You tilted your head and sighed softly into him, and Bob exhaled like you’d opened a door in his chest he didn’t know had been locked. His mouth was gentle but eager, tasting you in little swells, lips moving with hesitant gentleness as if trying to memorize the shape of you. He breathed you in like you were air after drowning.

You pulled back slightly–not apart, just enough to rest your forehead to his. The two of you stood there in that golden hush, breathing each other’s breath. Bob’s chest rose and fell against yours, and you felt it–every tremble. Every ounce of his restraint.

He looked at you with eyes half-lidded and dazed, lips flushed and glistening from your kiss–and from the remnants of your lip glass–the faintest tremor in his breath like he couldn’t quite believe it had happened.

Your voice was soft, just above a whisper. “Still okay?”

He let out a broken laugh–full of wonder, full of you–and nodded.

You leaned in again–gentler this time, slower–not because you were unsure, but because you wanted to savor the way his breath hitched when your lips brushed his. You wanted to draw it out. To feel every shiver he tried and failed to suppress.

Bob met you halfway with a soft, aching sound–something between a sigh and a whisper of your name. His hands flexed slightly at your waist, his fingers pressing just a little deeper into the curve of you. You felt how he trembled. Not because he didn’t want this. But because he wanted it so much he was afraid he might burst.

You kissed him again–deeper, slower this time, mouth parting just enough to taste him. His lips were warm and sweet with nerves, and he kissed like someone who had thought about this a thousand times but never believed it would happen. There was a reverence to it, a hush in the way he moved his mouth against yours, like he was still halfway convinced he might wake up at any moment.

Your hands left his face, drifting down–slow, steady, and full of quiet intention. You traced the slope of his neck, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse, then down the broad plane of his chest. You felt every breath he took, shallow and aching, beneath the soft cotton of his sweater.

Bob, always layered like he needed something between himself and the world, was wrapped in a slightly oversized charcoal crewneck, its fabric thinned from wear and faintly scented like detergent and something uniquely him. Beneath it, you could feel the ridges of another layer–a t-shirt, soft and well-worn, probably one he slept in or hid in on quiet mornings when the world was too loud.

You slid your hands beneath the hem of the sweater and pushed upward, your palms skimming the warm skin of his stomach as the fabric lifted. Bob made a quiet, broken sound into your kiss–like the feeling of your hands on his skin short-circuited something vital inside him. He froze for a moment, his breath catching like he wasn’t sure he could survive the sensation.

You pulled back just far enough to speak, your lips brushing his. “Can I?”

His nod was immediate. Frantic. “Y-Yeah. God, yeah.”

So you tugged the sweater up slowly, watching the way his arms lifted, watching the exposed inch of his abdomen rise with it–the pale skin dusted with soft little beauty marks, the gentle definition carved by years of holding tension. As the fabric cleared his chest, he flinched slightly, sucking in a breath like cold air had touched him, though your hands were warm.

He helped you the rest of the way, dragging the sweater and t-shirt off over his head with trembling fingers, slipping away like the last layer of armor. And then he was bare from the waist up, bathed in citylight and lamplight, all golden and blushing and unsure.

He stood there, chest bare and breathless, as if you’d peeled back the sky and found the sun trembling underneath.

Bob’s body wasn’t sculpted in the way of soldiers or statues. It was something softer, something more human. But there was strength in it, undeniable–earned. It was the kind of build that came from holding onto things that were out of his control. Broad shoulders that carried guilt and gentleness in equal measure. A solid chest dusted with faint hair and the occasional mark of time–tiny clusters of faded scars, blemishes, and bruises the world had forgotten but his skin remembered.

His collarbones were sharp under the golden lamplight, framed by muscle that swelled and dipped like lines in a poem you wanted to memorize. His arms, strong and thick, looked like they were made to hold someone through the storm–and right now, they twitched faintly at his sides like he didn’t know how to be held himself. There were scattered freckles on his biceps, a pale crescent scar on one rib that curved like the moon, and small, raised knots near the shoulder from training or trauma–you weren’t sure which. Maybe both.

He looked like a map of ache and effort and quiet resilience.

And you adored every inch of him.

You stepped forward slowly and pressed a kiss to the center of his chest–just over his sternum. His breath stuttered at the contact, sharp and startled, like he’d never been kissed there before. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe no one had thought to.

You trailed your fingers down the plane of his stomach, the muscle there tense and trembling, then lower–toward the waistband of his pants. They were a pair of charcoal slacks, slightly loose around his waist, cinched just right at the hips, but soft and comfortable like he’d chosen them to blend in. Like he’d never expected to be undressed in them.

Your fingers hovered over the button, and you looked up at him. Bob nodded once–barely, but enough–and you slipped the button free. His breath hitched, and his hands flexed at his sides again like he didn’t know what to do with them.

You dragged the zipper down slowly, deliberately, your eyes never leaving his. He looked dazed–like he was being unwrapped for the very first time, and the air itself might sear him.

The fabric fell down his thighs with a soft whisper, pooling at his feet, before he moved out of them, kicking his shoes off in the process.

Bob stood in front of you in nothing but his black boxer-briefs, backlit by the shimmer of the skyline and the amber hum of your bedroom lamp. His chest rose and fell like the sea—steady, but stirred by undercurrent. His eyes hadn’t left you since you touched him. Not once.

And now, it was his turn.

He lifted his hands slowly, reverently, like he was reaching out to something holy. His palms hovered over your hips, not quite touching, until you gave him the smallest nod. That was all he needed.

His fingertips brushed the waistband of your shorts, undoing the golden button in the front of them.

You kicked off your shoes, one at a time, and let the silence stretch between you as he hooked his fingers through the belt loops–slow, hesitant, like he was afraid of doing too much too quickly. He eased them down your legs inch by inch, watching the fabric surrender to gravity. You stepped out of them delicately, and for a beat, he just stood there, looking at you like he didn’t know how to survive the sight of you standing in nothing but that black bodysuit and a pair of simple underwear.

He swallowed hard.

His hands returned to your sides, smoothing over the dip of your waist where the fabric clung tight. You watched his throat flex as his eyes flicked over you—your curves, your bare legs, the way your body caught the light like it had been painted for his gaze alone.

When he moved to the clasp of your bodysuit, his fingers trembled. You could feel it. The concentration in him. The hesitation. Like he was unhooking something precious, something secret.

You reached up and touched his jaw gently. “It’s okay,” You whispered.

And Bob, poor, wrecked Bob, nodded like he needed your permission to breathe.

The clasp gave with a soft snap. The bodysuit loosened instantly, slackening at your shoulders. His eyes met yours again, searching, silent, and then he helped ease the fabric down your arms, over your chest–slowly, like he was undressing a memory he wanted to savor for the rest of his life.

You stood there, bare from the waist up.

Bathed in citylight and lamplight. Breasts soft and exposed, skin flushed and dappled in gold. Your breath was steady, open, trusting.

And Bob… Bob stared like he’d never seen anything so sacred. His lips parted. His chest rose, shallow and quiet, as his eyes drifted over every inch of you—your collarbones, the curve of your sternum, the soft line of your stomach. His hands didn’t touch right away. He just looked. Like the act of looking was too intimate already.

But when he did touch you–finally, gently–his hands moved with such aching care. They rose to cradle your waist, thumbs brushing just below your ribs. You watched his pupils expand, the breath he tried to hold leaking out of him in slow, reverent exhales.

“You’re…” His voice cracked. He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because he didn’t have to.

You stepped into him again, bringing your bodies closer, the warmth of his skin against yours. Your breasts brushed his chest and he nearly gasped, his head dipping low, lips brushing your shoulder like he needed a place to put all this overwhelming wonder.

Bob’s lips were trembling against your skin before you even realized he’d moved. Gentle, searching–he kissed the place where your shoulder curved into your neck, just beneath your collarbone. His mouth was warm and wet, like each kiss was a vow he didn’t know how to speak aloud. He moved slowly, dragging his lips along your skin like he was painting devotion in brushstrokes–across the dip of your clavicle, up the slope of your throat, back to your jaw.

You let out the softest sigh. A sound full of breath and want. It made him shudder.

Your hand slid into his hair, curling at the nape of his neck, guiding him until his lips found yours again. This time the kiss felt hungrier–not in haste, but in depth. In need. Like the space between you could never be close enough. He kissed you with a kind of desperation laced in awe, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. And maybe you felt the same way, because your heart was stammering against your ribs, and the heat blooming between your thighs was dizzying.

You pulled back slowly, just enough to look into his eyes–flushed and wide and soft around the edges, pupils blown so far they nearly swallowed the blue whole.

“Come here,” You whispered, voice like silk unraveling in candlelight.

You took his hand and led him gently around the side of your bed, the sheets still rumpled from a day that no longer mattered. The mirror caught both of your reflections in passing–your bare back, his bare chest, the golden curve of lamplight gilding the two of you like you were something from a dream neither of you dared name.

“Lay down,” You said, and Bob obeyed without a word. He eased himself back across the mattress, exhaling like the air had been caught in his lungs for hours. The sheets crinkled beneath him, warm with your scent, his chest rising in uneven waves as he stared up at the ceiling like it held some sort of answer for how to survive this moment without coming apart entirely.

You climbed onto the mattress after him—slow, certain, fluid like breath moving into lungs. Bob turned his head just in time to see you crawl toward him, and God, the look on his face—pure wonder, trembling with reverence—made your heartbeat skip off rhythm.

You straddled him gently, knees bracketing his hips, your hands finding their way to his chest again, palms splayed flat over the warmth of him. You felt the stutter of his breath beneath your touch, the tight coil of tension building under your thighs.

He looked up at you like you were everything.

You bent down and kissed him again—deeper this time. Your lips claimed him slow and full, your mouth parting just enough to taste his sigh as it melted into yours. One of his hands slid up your thigh, barely daring to grip, while the other cupped your hip like he was anchoring himself.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard and hot, nestled beneath you. The growing swell of him pressed against the soaked fabric of your underwear, separated from your heat only by the thin stretch of your panties and his boxers. He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound involuntary, and it made your whole body pulse with want.

You rolled your hips forward–just once, a slow grind–and Bob gasped. His head tipped back, throat arched, lips parted as his eyes fluttered shut. His fingers tightened on your waist as if bracing against the force of it.

You did it again–deliberately, letting your clothed center slide against the length of him. The friction was hot, barely enough, almost unbearable in its precision. You could feel the tremor in his thighs, the desperate way his breath stammered in his chest.

“O-Oh m-my,” He whispered, almost like a prayer. “You’re…Oh God–”

You smiled softly against his cheek, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “You feel that?”

He nodded, barely, eyes dazed.

“I’m soaked,” You whispered, dragging your hips once more, pressing down just enough to make him bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut, “And it’s all for you…” You kissed the line of his jaw And then you started to move down.

His hands twitched when you kissed his throat—soft, slow, trailing heat with your mouth as you shifted backward, kissing lower, following the pulse at his neck to the center of his chest. You paused there, pressed your lips to the spot where his heart beat fastest.

He stared down at you, dazed and helpless and holy.

You kept going.

Kissed his sternum. The soft dip beneath it. The slight rise of his stomach where the muscles tightened beneath your breath. Your mouth was tender, open, slow as silk. You licked a soft line down his abdomen and felt him shiver violently. His hands moved into your hair without thinking, not pulling–just holding.

Just needing something to hold.

You reached the waistband of his boxer-briefs, and looked up.

His lips were parted, his cheeks pink with heat, his pupils huge and swallowing. He nodded without needing to be asked, lifting his hips slightly as you hooked your fingers into the band and drew it down—inch by inch, like you were unwrapping a gift meant only for you.

Bob was flushed, hard, and trembling. His cock stood against the plane of his stomach, thick and aching and already leaking from the tip. You watched the way it twitched when the cool air touched it, watched how he tried to stifle a gasp and failed.

“O-Oh god,” He breathed, like it physically hurt. “I don’t–I don’t even k-know what to do with myself–”

“You don’t have to do anything,” You murmured, pressing a kiss to the sharp line of his hip. “Just let me take care of you.” His breath hitched–shallow and wild–and his hands gripped the sheets.

And then you bent your head.

And licked a slow, deliberate stripe up the length of him–base to tip.

Bob choked on a gasp, hips jolting before he stilled himself with sheer force of will. His hands flew to his forehead like he was trying to cover his eyes, but he couldn’t stop watching.

You flattened your tongue along the underside of him again slowly feeling the way he twitched under your touch, the way his breath hitched like it was caught in the delicate space between need and disbelief.

His hand found yours blindly–grasping, desperate for something to hold on to. You laced your fingers with his without hesitation, anchoring him as you opened your mouth and took him in.

The weight of him on your tongue was dizzying, intoxicating. He was warm and already leaking, the taste of him faintly salty as your lips sealed around him and began to move–slow, deliberate strokes of your mouth, your hand curled around the base of him in rhythm.

“Y-you’re…” His voice broke, breath catching, almost like a sob. “You’re really… Oh…”

The sound he made when you took him deeper went straight to your core. It was soft, wrecked–an overwhelmed whimper that made your thighs clench and heat spill low in your belly. You moaned around him, low and throaty, and he gasped your name like it physically stunned him.

You glanced up through your lashes and saw him–his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted in disbelief. His free hand was fisted in the sheets now, his chest rising and falling in frantic waves.

You hollowed your cheeks and twisted your wrist just slightly, dragging your mouth back and then sliding down again, slower this time. You could feel every tremor in his thighs, the way his hips flexed involuntarily and then stilled, fighting the instinct to thrust. He was trying so hard to be good for you. To be still. To savor.

You let your hand drift lower, stroking him in time with your mouth, the slick sounds of your lips meeting his flushed skin only driving you further into the heat building between your own legs. You could feel how wet you were through your panties—soaked from the way he whispered your name, from the way he whimpered when you gave him just a little more.

“Oh,” Bob whispered again, breathless. “You feel so good. I don’t… I didn’t... I…” You moaned softly again, taking him deeper, loving the way his voice cracked, the way his fingers squeezed yours like he was hanging on by a thread.

And you didn’t stop.

You licked and sucked and worshipped him, letting the tension build, letting him teeter right there on the edge. His legs were shaking now. His hips stuttered once, and then again.

“I—I think I’m gonna…” He gasped. “I don’t know if I can…P-Please don’t stop—please—please—”

You didn’t.

You kept going. Swirling your tongue around the tip, easing him deeper again, moaning softly just to feel the way it made his whole body jolt.

He came with a sound like he was breaking—high and soft and breathless. A shattered gasp of your name, followed by a long, trembling whine as he spilled into your mouth.

You swallowed it all. Every last drop.

And even then–you didn’t stop.

You licked him gently, slowly, carefully–savoring him through the aftershocks. His body twitched beneath you, overstimulated and undone, his voice going quiet and airy.

“I-it’s too much,” He breathed, eyes wide and wet with disbelief. “Oh God—it’s so much…”

You finally pulled back, lips glistening, your breath ragged. You kissed the inside of his thigh tenderly, then wiped the corner of your mouth with your fingers and gave him the softest smile.

Bob looked at you like you’d just handed him a piece of the universe he never thought he deserved.

You crawled back up the bed and laid beside him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder, letting your hand fall to the center of his chest. His heart was pounding beneath your palm, like it had forgotten how to slow down.

He turned to face you.

And then he kissed you–without thinking, without pause.

His mouth was hungry, lips moving against yours like he wanted to pour his gratitude and longing into every stroke of your tongue. You let out a soft hum into the kiss, and his hand found your waist, curling around you like he needed you against him. All of you. Bob kissed you like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

His hand tightened at your waist as he deepened the kiss, his mouth warm and earnest, his tongue slow against yours—like he was trying to memorize the taste of your breath and the taste of himself on your tongue. Then he shifted his weight just slightly, moving over you, and your body followed without hesitation.

He rolled smoothly, gently, so that your back met the mattress and his body hovered above yours. His thigh slid between yours, his chest flush to your own, and his face hovered just inches from yours–eyes wide and wild with something more than lust. Something closer to awe.

You let out a surprised giggle, breathless beneath him, one hand slipping up to brush back the messy strands of his light brown hair. It stuck up in every direction from your earlier touch, and now it framed his flushed face like a halo that couldn’t decide if it belonged to a saint or a sinner.

He gave a small, dazed laugh too, his lips curving in wonder as he looked down at you.

And then he murmured, soft as velvet:

“It’s your turn.”

His voice sent a shiver straight through you–because it wasn’t just desire in his tone. It was reverence. Like this was sacred. Like you were sacred.

He dipped his head and kissed your throat, slow and sweet, and you tilted your head to give him more. His hand slid up your side, warm and sure, until it cupped your breast. He paused there, looking at you–asking, even now. Even after everything.

You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

And Bob leaned down to worship.

His mouth wrapped around the swell of your breast, lips so soft, tongue teasing the peak until it pulled a soft sound from the back of your throat. He groaned at the noise, like it physically did something to him. He kissed across your chest–open, adoring–then sucked gently at the other nipple, swirling his tongue in slow circles until your fingers curled in his hair. You felt his teeth graze the sensitive skin just around your nipple–just enough to make your breath hitch and your hips twitch slightly beneath him.

You gasped, soft and surprised, and his mouth pulled back with a small, wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His breath was warm against your damp skin, and then he exhaled slowly–cool air brushing across the nipple he’d just teased, and your whole body shivered in response.

Bob chuckled under his breath–low and breathless. Not cocky. Amazed. Like your reactions lit up something inside him he never even knew he needed.

Then he kept going.

His lips traced a winding path down your body–each kiss like a benediction pressed into skin. The slope of your ribs. The softness of your belly. The place just beneath your navel where you felt everything coil tight with anticipation.

You shifted slightly, drawing your knees up, thighs falling open to make space for him as he reached the waistband of your underwear. The fabric was soaked with you–already clinging, already begging to be removed. Bob looked up once, eyes wide and full of silent question, fingers brushing your hips.

You nodded. Your breath was caught somewhere behind your teeth, but your legs were already parting further, your spine already arching to help him slide them down.

He pulled the underwear off slowly, taking his time with you, watching the way the fabric peeled away from your slick heat. Your body practically glistened in the amber light, folds swollen and flushed with need. He swallowed thickly, the sound audible even in the hush of your room, and let the underwear fall to the floor like a silk offering.

Bob settled between your thighs like he’d found the center of the universe.

His hands slid up the insides of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin as he leaned forward, mouth trailing open kisses along the tender flesh–first one thigh, then the other. You twitched at the contact, gasping as his lips dragged up the curve of your leg, warm and wet and wanting. He paused just at the crease where thigh met hip, and then–without warning–bit gently, sucking until the skin flushed pink and bloomed with a bruise.

Bob smiled into your skin. “S–Sorry,” He murmured, clearly not sorry at all, his voice thick with breath and worship. “N–Needed to leave s-something to remember me b-by.”

And then–finally–he kissed your core.

His tongue swiped through your folds in one long, slow motion, and your whole body jolted like he’d reached inside your chest and rung out your soul. You felt the flat press of his tongue against your clit, the deliberate drag upward, the way his lips wrapped around you and sucked–soft, rhythmic, maddening.

Your back arched off the bed.

Your hand flew down and found his wrist–one of the hands bracing you open–and you held onto it like a lifeline, anchoring yourself to the feeling. His other hand splayed across your stomach, warm and grounding, fingers spread wide over trembling muscles.

He licked you again–deeper now. More intentional. His tongue moved like he was mapping you, learning every reaction, every twitch, every soft cry like it was sacred text. He flicked the tip of his tongue in slow, focused circles, then flattened it again, pressure building just right, just there–

“Fuck—Bob,” ¥ou breathed, voice high and frayed. “Jesus Christ…”

He moaned against you, the sound vibrating through your body and sending another jolt through your spine.

And then you tilted your head back.

The mirror caught everything.

Your body sprawled across the bed–glowing, undone, your knees spread wide and your hair wild pointing every which way. Bob’s shoulders bracketed your thighs, his face buried between them, dark hair mussed and damp with sweat and your slick. You saw the way your stomach rose and fell beneath his hand, how your hips bucked slightly with each flick of his tongue.

And then–God–

You looked down at him.

And he was looking up at you.

Eyes glassy and wide, pupils blown with hunger. His mouth was still moving, still lapping at you with slow swirls–but his gaze stayed locked on yours like it anchored him. His brow was pinched in concentration, his cheeks flushed, his lips glistening.

It was intimate in a way that felt deeper than skin. Like he was beholding you, not just touching you. Like the act of pleasuring you was its own kind of worship–and he couldn’t look away from the way your body bloomed beneath him.

You whimpered, your hand tightening around his wrist.

He groaned softly, and the sound reverberated through you.

And then–without breaking eye contact–he slid two thick fingers inside you.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent gasp, spine arching. The stretch was slow, sweet, perfect. He curled them just right, finding that place inside you that made your breath stutter and your thighs twitch.

“Y-Yeah,” he rasped against your core, voice hoarse, lips brushing your clit between licks. “There. T-That’s it, I–I feel you…”

You clenched around them while his tongue kept moving—never stopping. His fingers pumped slow and deep, curling with every pass, and your legs started to shake.

The sight in the mirror was unholy–your head thrown back, his mouth buried between your legs, fingers working you open while your body writhed beneath him.

“Bob—Bob I’m gonna—”

“I–I know,” He whispered. “I’ve got you..Y-Y/N.”

With a sharp cry and a desperate buck of your hips, you came–shattering like glass under floodlight. Your walls clamped down around his fingers, your thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hand crushing his wrist as you pulsed around him.

Bob didn’t stop until you whined, breathless and broken, hips twitching from oversensitivity. Even then, he pulled back slowly, mouth flushed, chin slick with you. He pressed one last kiss to your thigh, and looked up at you again.

Completely wrecked.

Completely in awe.

You let out a laugh of disbelief–shaky, breathless, still caught in the afterglow of everything Bob had just pulled from you. Your body was humming, twitching with sensitivity, your thighs trembling around nothing now as he lifted his head from between them.

Bob looked like he had just witnessed a modern day miracle, a sheepish grin plastered on his face.

Then he started to move slowly, crawling back up your body on his elbows, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses into your skin as he went. The curve of your hip. Your stomach, still fluttering beneath the aftershocks of your orgasm. Each kiss was a brushstroke of heat and devotion, like he wanted to taste every inch of what he’d done to you.

When he reached your chest, he paused, nuzzled into the soft swell of your breast and pressed the gentlest kiss there too. Then higher–your collarbone, your throat, the corner of your jaw. You turned your head slightly and met him as his mouth finally reached yours again.

The kiss was warm, a little messy, but full of affection. Your taste was still on his lips, and he didn’t hide it–he kissed you like he wanted you to know he’d savor every drop.

“Y-You’re unreal,” He mumbled against your cheek. And then he gave a shy, breathless laugh. “I think I–I forgot how to breathe.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through the soft mess of his hair, and he leaned into the touch like it grounded him.

“I’m already ready again,” He admitted sheepishly, pressing his forehead to yours. You felt it him hard and warm again between your thighs, flush against your soaked center. Your breath hitched.

But then Bob hesitated. You felt it in the shift of his weight, the tremor in his next breath.

“We could leave it at that for tonight,” He said softly. His voice was a whisper of restraint, even though his hips twitched against yours like his body was begging him not to stop. “If you don’t want to have sex—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You kissed him–deep and sure and full of heat.

When you pulled back, your voice was firm and breathless. “I want you.”

Bob’s eyes widened slightly, lips still parted in surprise. “S-Should I run and grab a condom?” You tilted your left arm back slightly, resting it behind your head on the mattress, and with your free hand, pointed to the small, barely visible scar just beneath the skin of your inner arm.

“Implant,” You said softly. “We’re good.” His breath caught audibly and his hand hovered near your arm for a second, then settled gently over it–thumb brushing once over your skin.

“Y-You’re sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, like he couldn’t bear to assume. Like he was terrified of doing the wrong thing when he finally had the chance to do this right. You nodded, soft but certain, caressing his cheek gently.

”I’m sure.” Bob exhaled like it physically knocked the air from his lungs. Then he kissed you again–and this time, it was different.

There was no hesitation. No soft buildup. Just need and wonder colliding all at once.

His mouth crushed against yours, urgent and hungry, and you met him just as fiercely. Tongues brushed and tangled in wet, open kisses, teeth grazing lips, breath caught between mouths like smoke. You could feel the way he breathed you in between every kiss–little shaky exhales pressed into your cheeks, your jaw, your mouth–as if you were the air keeping him alive.

“God, y-you taste like heaven,” He murmured hoarsely into your mouth, and then kissed you again, harder.

You moaned against his lips, your body arching into his, and he groaned right back–his hand sliding from your hip to the side of your neck, fingers splayed out over your pulse point like he needed to feel the rhythm of you.

The head of his cock brushed against your slick entrance–hot and heavy and trembling with anticipation–and he froze just a moment, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were blown wide, lips flushed, chest rising and falling like a wave cresting.

He lined himself up with a breathless stammer of your name, “J-Just tell me i-if I do anything wrong okay?” You nodded–soft, breathless, legs flinching around him slightly as he started to push in–inch by inch. Your mouth dropped open around a gasp.

”Oh–“ You breathed, hips twitching up towards him, “Bob…” He bit his bottom lip hard, trying to hold it together, closing his eyes at the sensation of you slowly taking him in.

“You’re s-so warm,” He choked out, “I can feel all of you, I–”

And then he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, both of you trembling.

You were wrapped around him, stretched and full and gasping through the intensity of it, and Bob just hovered there, buried deep, his forehead resting against yours like he needed the anchor. You cupped his cheek, kissed him once–soft, shaky–and whispered,

“I need you to move…” He nodded at your request, dragging his hips back only to press in again with a quiet groan that vibrated against your chest. His thrusts weren’t rough—but they had weight. Depth. Like he couldn’t help but want to be as far inside you as he could get.

Each time he rocked forward, your bodies met with a soft, slick sound, heat rising like steam between your tangled limbs. He kissed you through it, messy and desperate, lips parting and pressing and dragging over yours like he never wanted to come up for air. You kissed him just as hard–your tongue sliding against his, teeth nipping his bottom lip, your hands gripping his shoulders like you didn’t want him to go anywhere.

Your fingers tangled into the back of his hair, tugging gently–not to pull him closer, but to hold. To ground. The strands were damp with sweat and heat, and he gasped into your mouth when you did it, his hips stuttering in response.

Bob groaned low and soft, the sound caught between reverence and ache. Then his hand slid up, warm and sure, and cupped the side of your throat—not tight, just enough to feel the flutter of your pulse beneath his palm. His thumb tilted your chin up, guiding your gaze back to him.

“L-Look at me,” He breathed, voice ragged with want. “I…I need to see you.”

You did. Eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed and heated. You were so open for him, so undone and radiant in the lamplight–and it broke something in him, seeing you like this, needing him like this.

Then he hooked his arms under your knees and lifted.

The change in angle dragged a gasp from your throat so sharp it bordered on a cry. He slid deeper—so deep it felt like he was in your chest, like he was part of the ache and the breath and the heartbeat of you. Your mouth dropped open around a broken moan, and your eyes went glassy.

“F-Fuck,” You choked, your head falling back. “Bob–oh my God–”

Bob whimpered softly, overwhelmed by the sound of his name on your lips, by the clench of your body around him. His breath was hot and frantic, his face flushed and slack with awe.

“You feel…” He started, then trailed off, swallowing hard. “You feel s-so good–so warm–you’re perfect, I–” He kissed your cheek once. Then again. Then again, softer each time, like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t know how else to worship you.

And then, he saw it.

The mirror.

The two of you–tangled together, sweat-slicked and flushed with heat, your body curled around him like it was built to fit. His eyes snapped to it–and for a moment, he just stared. Breathless. Dazed. He could see the way your hands gripped his shoulders, the way your breasts bounced softly with each deep thrust. The sight of it–the raw, real closeness–wrecked him.

Your gaze flicked over his and followed where he was looking and you caught the reflection too.

“I want to watch us,” You whispered, breath ragged and full of heat. “Please.”

Bob’s breath caught hard. His hips stilled, his eyes wide, his mouth parting with something like awe and disbelief.

“Y-Yeah?” he stammered.

You nodded.

That was all it took.

He pulled out slowly–deliberately, as if the act of leaving your body was a loss he needed to mourn–and helped guide you onto your stomach, careful even through the haze of want. You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes fixed on your reflection, hair messy, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten.

He moved behind you, one knee between yours, and dragged his hand down the length of your spine in one long, aching stroke, watching goosebumps rise on your flesh before peppering a few kisses along the bare skin of your back. Then he gripped your hips and lined himself up again.

The first thrust back in was brutal in its beauty.

You let out a ragged groan–half gasp, half cry–as he sank back into you. The angle was different now. Deeper. Fuller. It felt like he was rooted inside you, like he could reach the very center of you.

Bob’s groan was wrecked.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “You’re so…This is…Y-You’re tight–so deep, I—”

He leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, and you felt the press of his mouth against the side of your neck–just beneath your ear. Then his arm slid around your neck from behind, not choking, not tight—just holding. Anchoring. His breath spilled hot across your skin, and he kissed your jaw again, reverently, trembling against you.

Your eyes locked in the mirror.

You. Spread out. Eyes heavy, mouth open, skin flushed and glowing. Bob–bare and trembling behind you, lips parted, face slack with wonder, arm curled protectively around you like he was trying to keep you from slipping away.

The reflection made your breath catch.

He looked just as wrecked as you felt.

“I’ve n-never…” He choked out, hips still rolling slow and deep, “Never seen anything so beautiful—so fuckin’ real–“ Your breath stuttered, your chest dragging in air like your lungs were trying to keep up with the sheer intimacy of his voice in your ear, his body inside you, the way his eyes stayed locked to yours in the mirror.

And then you turned your head.

Just a little.

Enough to find his lips.

Your mouths met in a kiss that shattered the edges of everything soft and safe. It wasn’t delicate this time. It was molten. You sucked gently on his tongue when he pushed into your mouth, and the noise Bob made was nearly inhuman–a muffled, desperate moan swallowed by your kiss.

The arm around your neck tightened just slightly, his palm flattening against your shoulder to hold you a little closer. He kissed you like he needed your breath to survive, and with every stroke of his tongue against yours, he thrust a little deeper, a little harder, losing the last shred of distance between you.

The sounds filled the room now.

Slippery, wet, rhythmic. The soft slap of skin meeting skin. Your gasps–broken, high, open. His moans–low, breathy, whispered things like “fuck” and “please” and your name like it was a prayer he’d never been brave enough to say out loud until now. The creak of the mattress. The rustle of the sheets. The hum of the city just outside the window, as if the whole world had gone quiet to listen.

His hips were moving faster now, not pounding but full of momentum. Urgency laced with awe. You felt every inch of him with every push, your body keening beneath him, his cock dragging against that tender spot inside you again and again.

And still–his mouth kept finding yours.

Messy kisses. Tongue and teeth and hot breath shared like something sacred. You whimpered into him, and he swallowed it, moaning in return, his pace growing more erratic with each roll of his hips.

“G-God,” he gasped into your mouth. “You feel so–so perfect–I c-can’t–” He pressed his forehead against yours, sweat-slick and shivering, his voice unraveling into something raw. “I’m gonna–Y/N–I c-can’t hold back–please come with me–please–”

You nodded, frantic, the pleasure building low in your spine like a storm. Your thighs trembled, your mouth fell open, and you barely managed a whispered, “Yes–yes, I’m close, Bob, I’m right there–”

His arm tightened around you again, holding you together as he watched your reflection–watched your mouth fall open, your eyes flutter shut, your body writhing beneath him.

“I see you,” He whispered. “I see you, I’ve got you, just–just let go, I’m right here–”

You did.

Your orgasm hit you so fast it felt like your entire body was going to give out. It was brilliant, consuming, and it had every nerve ending singing with heat. Your body pulsed around him, clenching and fluttering in frantic waves, and the cry that tore from your throat was almost too much to bear.

Soon after Bob twitched deep inside you, thick and hot, and you felt him spill–pulse after pulse of heat filling you, his hips jerking in short, erratic thrusts as he buried himself as far as he could go. His moan was wrecked–raw and full–and it tumbled from him as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. It wasn’t loud. It was low. Shaky. The sound a man makes when he’s completely undone. A whimper edged with disbelief, like he was giving you the very last piece of himself.

And just then–like the world exhaled around you–you heard it.

A faint, hairline crack.

Barely a sound.

Your gaze flicked up, dazed and hazy through the aftermath, and there it was: a thin fracture running across the mirror. A small, pale lightning bolt etched in glass, splitting right where your bodies met in reflection.

You blinked.

And then you tightened your hold on him.

Your hand clutched at the arm that held you–his forearm still locked gently around your chest–and your other reached blindly to touch his shoulder. You turned your head just enough to feel the hot tremble of his breath against your skin, the way it stuttered and hitched through parted lips still struggling to return to earth.

His entire body was shaking against yours. Not violently–just overwhelmed. The way a dam trembles after it’s burst.

“Shh,” you whispered, kissing the edge of his cheek. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He moaned again–quiet this time, muffled against your skin, and full of something so deep it almost hurt. His arm loosened slightly from around your neck and slid lower, wrapping fully around your torso as he exhaled one long, shivering breath. His body collapsed slowly over yours, his chest pressed against your back, both of you trembling, covered in sweat and each other.

He didn’t pull out.

He couldn’t–not yet.

You could still feel him twitching softly inside you, still half-hard, still pulsing faintly from the intensity of it all. His cum was already starting to leak back down between your thighs, warmth slicking your folds, but neither of you moved to clean it up. Not yet.

He kissed your shoulder.

Then your neck.

Then the curve of your spine.

Each one slow and breathless. A vow, a thank you, a grounding touch.

You tilted your head back toward him, catching his lips with your own. The kiss was soft now. Lingering. Your mouths moved lazily together, wet and tender and full of exhaustion.

“Jesus,” He whispered against your mouth. “I–I didn’t mean to… I think I…”

“I know,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over the damp nape of his neck. “I saw it.”

His breath caught. “I–I cracked the mirror, didn’t I?”

You nodded once, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Just a little.”

A silence stretched between you, warm and golden and full of breath.

Then he laughed–quiet and stunned–and buried his face into your shoulder again.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered. “I–I didn’t mean to lose control.” You let out a soft sigh.

”It’s okay Bob…You were overwhelmed and feeling good…Let’s just hope Sentry is the one that gets seven years bad luck.” You both laughed–low and loose and breathless, the sound catching in the honey-thick air between your bodies. Bob’s chest vibrated softly against your back as he let out another stifled chuckle, nuzzling his nose into the space just beneath your ear.

“Only you,” He murmured, his voice warm and worn down, “C–Can make light of me literally c-cracking your mirror mid-orgasm.” You tilted your head slightly, grinning despite the ache still thrumming between your thighs.

“I mean… If you’re gonna break something,” You said, glancing back at him with a playful glint in your eyes, “At least it wasn’t my pelvis.”

That made him snort and he buried his face deeper into your shoulder, completely wrecked by laughter now. You felt the full ripple of it through his chest, the way his arms tightened around you just a little as if he could keep this moment stitched to the skin.

You turned your head, kissed him again–slow and sweet. No rush. Just the warm slide of lips and breath. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking your skin as he kissed you back with the kind of quiet that said I never want to stop doing this.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly, his voice rough with affection. “I should, uh… I should pull out.”

You nodded softly. “Okay.”

He moved slowly, gently easing out of you with a quiet gasp at the sensitivity. You both hissed a little–his from overstimulation, yours from the sticky stretch of release leaving your body. He lingered there for a beat, fingers brushing your hip, as if he hated the idea of not being connected to you anymore.

He stayed close even after he pulled out, one hand resting lightly on your lower back, the other brushing your hip like he needed to reassure himself you were still there. The room was warm, quiet, the mirror fractured but the world around you whole.

“W–We should get cleaned up,” He murmured, his voice still dazed but laced with care. “D–Do you wanna…Maybe shower? With me?” His fingers twitched gently where they touched your side. “Only if you want to. I just—I don’t really wanna let you go yet…”

Your heart melted.

You turned slowly beneath him, shifting onto your back so you could face him fully. His hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly at the ends, cheeks still flushed, lips swollen. But it was his eyes that undid you. Wide and soft and full of affection. Still a little glassy. Still glowing slightly from the shock of Sentry.

“Of course,” You whispered, brushing your fingers through his hair, a soft blush rose to his cheeks, as you leaned up to kiss the tip of his nose, “I kinda wanna be held under hot water for like…An hour. Minimum.”

Bob gave you the softest grin. “I-I can do that. I’m good at holding.” His tone was still tentative, but there was pride there too. A glimmer of purpose. “You’ll be the cleanest, most held person in the entire compound.”

You sat up slowly, wincing slightly at the soreness blooming in your thighs and core. Bob immediately reached to steady you, his hands finding your waist, his brows pinched in concern.

“I’m okay,” You promised him with a soft smile, “Just a bit sore.”His ears turned red.

“S-Sorry.” He whispered.

“Don’t be,” You said gently, leaning in to press your forehead to his. “I liked being yours.”

His breath caught at that, his hands tightening gently on your sides. Then he kissed you–slow and soft and grateful. And when you pulled back, his hand brushed along your arm as he helped you out of bed.

You led the way to your en suite bathroom, flicking on the light that glowed soft and golden. The room was warm, fogged slightly from earlier use, and your spare towels were already folded neatly on the rack. You reached for two, tossed one onto the nearby counter for later, and handed Bob the other to keep nearby.

He looked at it like it was some sacred token.

You turned the water on and waited for it to warm while he stepped behind you, wrapping his arms gently around your waist and nuzzling the back of your neck.

“I could get used to this,” He whispered.

“What, showering?” You teased, smiling as you leaned back into his chest.

“No,” He said, shaking his head slightly. “Just…Being with you. Like this.”

You turned in his arms, heart thudding, and kissed him slow and sure. “Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The water turned to steam.

You stepped in first, guiding him in with you. It was small, a bit cramped–but it didn’t matter. You made room for each other. Bob pressed close, arms winding gently around your back as the water poured down over you both. His mouth found your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your lips, peppering you with soft, adoring kisses as the heat melted the soreness from your limbs.

He helped you wash your entire body. His fingers in your hair, gentle and careful as they massaged your scalp with your favorite shampoo. His palms smoothing body wash over your skin like you were something precious and breakable, his lips brushing your shoulder every few seconds just to stay close.

You did the same for him, trailing your hands down his chest, watching the way he shivered beneath your touch even now. You cleaned him carefully, quietly, the lather sliding down both your bodies in pearled rivulets. Every time you looked up at him, he was already looking at you. Eyes soft. Lips parted. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

At one point, you turned under the spray and leaned your back into his chest. Bob immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush to him beneath the stream of water. His chin came to rest atop your head, his breath steadying.

“I—I feel like I’m gonna cry,” He admitted quietly, after a long silence.

You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “Why?”

“Because…” He swallowed. “B-Because I’ve never felt this safe. And that’s… Not something I ever thought I’d get.”

You reached up, touched his jaw, and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “Then I’ll just have to keep giving it to you.”

His arms tightened around you, and he let out a long, trembling breath.

“Promise?” He whispered.

“Always,” You said. And meant it.

In the shower’s warmth, with your bodies tangled and your hearts steadying into one rhythm, nothing else in the world existed.

Just you and Bob. Soft skin. Steam. And the quiet knowledge that everything had changed.

[houseofaegon]

Don't Let Go ✩ Bob Reynolds

Pairings: Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolt!Reader

Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. rough sex, emotional sex, public sex, mental health themes (trauma, guilt, PTSD), depictions of breakdowns, emotional, angst, praise kink, possessiveness, aftermath of violence, unprotected p in v, guilt, self-loathing, established trauma bond.

Summary: The mission was supposed to be clean. Routine. But nothing is simple when the Sentry is involved, when Bob loses control, and the Void takes over. And when he does, you're the only one who can pull him back.

Word Count: 4658

Author's Note: don't even ask me if I'm okay cause the answer is no. I'm destroyed. completely destroyed and emotionally wrecked. i am ruined. bob reynolds ruins me. if you finished this and also felt like your heart's been pulled out and kissed back to life, welcome to the club. my inbox is open if you want to send me your therapy bill—just know I’m probably gonna have to come with you cause what the fuck. i love you bobby you're everything to me!!! if you want to be added to my taglist just comment below!! <333 feel free to cry with me in the comments and scream in the reblogs. i need to go outside and touch some grass, reconnect with nature and breathe cause my heart is destroyed after this one. i literally can't stop writing for bob what the hell!! bucky is jealous cause bob's taking up space in my mind that used to belong to bucky. lewis pullman you babygirlllllllllllll

masterlist.

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The mission was supposed to be simple. In and out. Detain the targets, secure the entire facility, and minimize civilian casualties. Standard Thunderbolts cleanup. You'd done this dance before—storm in, assert dominance, extract data and bodies. Easy.

But you knew the moment Bucky said, "Bob's on this one," everything in your chest went cold.

The tower was quiet, too quiet, until it wasn't. Until the entire place was filled with hurried footsteps, shouts bouncing off the walls, and orders being thrown like grenades, gear bags being slammed open, weapons loaded with sharp clicks, and comms lighting up with rapid-fire intel. The whole floor shifted into emergency mode.

You'd barely finished gearing up when Yelena grabbed your arm and dragged you toward the elevator, her expression tight, mouth set in that grim, no-bullshit line that only ever meant bad news.

"Valentina wants all of us on-site," she muttered, pressing the call button with enough force to crack the panel. "Right now. Facility breach. Something about biotech. Hostages."

"Since when do we scramble before briefing?" you asked, yanking the zipper of your new tactical suit closed, holster strap still half-loose dangling on your hip. "Do we even have a plan?"

Yelena didn't answer. She didn't have to.

When the elevator doors opened, Bucky was already inside, pacing back and forth. His jaw clenched, comms piece buzzing with chatter. He looked up when he saw you—but he didn’t smile. Didn’t nod.

Jeez, so much for a good morning.

"Let me guess," you said, stepping into the elevator next to him. "Valentina's stunt?"

"She pulled Bob in last minute," Bucky said, his voice laced with frustration. "Didn't even care to fucking tell me. I found out when I saw his name on the team feed. Walker's there with him, Ava too."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you froze. "She put him first? With Walker?"

“She wants to see if he's still 'field-capable.'" Bucky's voice dripped sarcasm. "Her exact words. She thinks this is some kind of game. Like we're testing out a new drone, not a man who nearly blacked out half of a city six months ago."

“Is she out of her fucking mind?” you hissed. “Bob’s not—he’s not ready. He shouldn't be anywhere near this.”

“No shit,” Yelena muttered from the other side, crossing her arms. “And we’re the ones who’ll have to clean up if he loses it again.”

You exhaled slowly, trying to damp down the rolling anger in your chest. Not at Bob—of course not, this wasn't his fault. You were mad at Valentina and her fucking need to push him to the edge. "Great," you muttered, rubbing your face with a hand. "Let's all just hold hands and pray he doesn't crack."

The VTOL sliced through the clouds like a blade, engines humming low and tense. Rain battered the sides in sharp bursts.

You sat strapped between Yelena and Alexei, your harness tight across your chest, heart beating even tighter beneath it. Across from you, Bucky was locked in, jaw clenched, staring out the side window with a look that could shatter the glass any moment. When he finally looked away from the window, he fixed his gaze directly on you.

"I need you to be ready," he said, voice low and rasped. "In case Void—" He paused, breathing raggedly. "In case Bob snaps."

You blinked. "Bucky—"

"If it happens," he cut you off, "if he breaks... don't wait for an order. Do not hesitate. You hit him with everything you've got."

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

Because you hesitated.

Not because you didn't understand the danger. Not because you didn't know what Bob was capable of when the Void took hold. You'd seen it. Firsthand. The devastation. The aftermath. The look in his eyes—those dark, endless eyes—when he realized what he’d done.

But you'd also seen something else. You'd also seen the other side of him. The guilt

You'd been there the last time. When the Void clawed its way up his throat like poison, he dropped to his knees, shaking, burning with power, guilt, and fear. You were the only one who could get through to him. The only one who could touch him without him recoiling like he might shatter.

You'd whispered his name and watched his fist unclench slowly. You'd put your hand on his chest and feel his heartbeat slow. You'd seen how the black storm slowly evaporated, leaving a broken man sobbing against your chest.

That night was the worst for Bob.

You remember it vividly—his body trembling against yours, eyes wide and hollow after the Void had finally disappeared. He hadn't said a word. Just sank to the ground, hands fisting in his hair, like he was trying to hold his skull together.

You’d dropped down beside him, pulled him close, felt the heat radiating off his skin like a fever breaking. And when he finally clung to you—arms wrapped around your waist, face buried in your shoulder—it wasn’t just desperation. It was terror. Like if he let go, he’d fall into some pit that never ended.

He cried.

God, he cried so hard.

And you didn’t say anything. You didn’t try to soothe it away. You just held him. Let him shake. Let him break.

That night, you stayed with him.

He pulled you into bed like he didn’t even realize he was doing it—just moved toward your body like it was instinct, like your presence was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. His fingers curled in your shirt, his face buried in your chest, breath hiccuping between exhausted sobs.

You thought he’d fall asleep eventually.

He didn’t. Not right away.

He kept whispering, voice barely audible: “Don’t leave. Please. Just… don’t leave.”

And how could you?

You didn’t.

So you stayed.

And when he finally passed out—curled around you like a second skin, little soft snores slipping past parted lips—you just watched him. His face was peaceful for once. Almost boyish. His lashes fluttered when he dreamed, but he didn’t cry out. Not with you there.

You tried to slip out once.

Just to stretch. To breathe. But the second your body shifted away, his arms tightened like a vice, dragging you back in, even in his sleep. Like his subconscious couldn’t bear the thought of you disappearing.

From that night on, it became… a thing.

Every time he had a nightmare. Every time the Void started to whisper again. Every time he needed quiet but didn’t know how to ask for it—he came to you.

He never knocked loud. Just a soft tap on your door, barely audible. You’d open it to find him standing there, shoulders hunched, hair messy, eyes big and guilty and so shy. Like he hated himself for needing you but couldn’t help it.

“Can I…?” he’d start to ask, voice barely above a whisper.

And you’d always let him in.

Always.

God, you loved it. Loved being the one person he came to. The one place he felt safe. The way he melted into you the second the door shut. The way he’d sleep tangled in your arms, legs hooked with yours like he needed as many points of contact as possible to stay grounded.

You never told anyone.

You never wanted to ruin it.

It was quiet. Sacred. Yours.

And now, strapped into this VTOL, Bucky’s words still echoing in your ears—“Don’t hesitate. Hit him with everything you’ve got”—all you could think about was how peaceful he looked in your bed. How tightly he held you. How terrified he was of being alone.

Because what if you could reach him again?

What if hitting him wasn’t the answer? What if all he needed was someone to see him before he disappeared completely?

Bucky must’ve seen the flicker in your expression, because his voice dropped lower.

“I know you’re close to him. I know he listens to you more than anyone else. But if that stops—if he doesn’t hear you this time... don’t let him take you down with him.”

He’ll hear me, you thought, jaw clenched.

He has to.

Yelena’s hand reached over, slow and steady, her fingers brushing against yours before curling around them. Her grip was warm, firm—anchoring. You turned slightly, meeting her eyes.

She gave you a small, quiet smile. The kind that didn’t promise everything would be okay, just that you wouldn’t be alone when it wasn’t.

“It’ll be alright,” she whispered. "We'll be right behind you."

You squeezed her hand back, once.

"Visuals confirm contact inside the facility," the pilot’s voice crackled through the comms. "We’ve got movement near the lab sector. Hostiles engaged. Sentry’s already on-site."

You looked up sharply. "Already?"

He wasn’t supposed to engage alone.

Bucky swore under his breath, ripping the earpiece out and jamming it back in. "Why the fuck didn’t you wait for us—"

Ava spoke through the comms, her voice shivering. “He didn’t wait. I told him to stand down, and he just… went in.”

Then the ground came into view through the viewport—flames licking up from the roof of the biotech facility, smoke pluming into the sky, the perimeter in total disarray.

"Doors open in twenty seconds," the pilot called.

You shivered. You could feel it. That humming tension in your bones, the kind that only came right before everything went to hell.

He's already slipping.

"Get ready," Bucky barked, snapping his rifle into place as he stood. "Move fast, eyes sharp. We don't know how bad it is yet."

Yelena stood up, nodding once, checking her gear. You followed closely behind.

“Hostiles are still active inside,” came another voice—Walker’s, sharp and panicked over comms. “But it’s—fuck, it’s a massacre down here. I don’t know what the hell he’s doing. I can't see him. He’s not fucking responding.”

Your heart clenched.

“Bob,” you whispered, barely audible.

Then: a boom.

A section of the lower level erupted in a plume of golden-white light, fire tearing up through the concrete as the building shook from the force of it. A pulse of energy rippled outward, flattening a chunk of the south wall like paper.

The VTOL lurched slightly from the shockwave.

“Doors opening!” the pilot shouted. “Deploy, deploy—go, go!”

The ramp dropped—and the storm hit you in the face.

Rain. Smoke. Sirens. And somewhere beneath it all, a familiar hum.

You ran.

Boots pounding against the rooftop, leaping the last few feet to the access hatch. Bucky and Yelena flanked you, weapons drawn, slicing through the chaos with practiced precision.

You barely had time to adjust before Bucky grabbed your arm, spinning you toward him. His face was grim, soaked, eyes blazing.

“Go!” he shouted over the roar. “You need to find him!”

“What about—?”

“We’ll handle the rest!” he cut in, already moving, already aiming down the chaos below. “If anyone can reach him before he turns this whole goddamn place to ash—it’s you. Yelena will be right behind you. Walker and Ava are already inside. Go!”

Your breath hitched.

Then you nodded, once, sharp and sure.

And you ran—straight into the smoke, straight into the fire.

Straight toward him.

The inside of the facility was a warzone. Emergency lights flickered through thick smoke. Sparks rained from broken ceiling panels. The walls were scorched, the tile beneath your boots cracked and slick with blood and water. You passed fallen bodies—some hostiles, some just gone, disintegrated into scorched outlines and ash.

He’d been here.

You ran faster. Your breath became shorter. Your fingers twitched at your sides.

And then you saw him.

Floating.

Just inches off the ground, his body trembling with power barely held in check. His suit was torn, soaked, blood-slick. His hair clung to his forehead in damp curls. His hands hung at his sides, fingers curled in like claws.

He hand't noticed you yet. He was talking to himself, low and frantic, like he didn't even realize sound was coming out of his mouth.

“I didn’t mean to—I tried, I tried, they didn’t listen—I told them not to run—why did they run—”

Your heart clenched. You took a breath, steady and slow. Lifted your hands, palms open, non-threatening. Stepped forward, one careful step at a time.

"Bob," you whispered.

His head jerked up like a struck animal. His eyes were pitch black. Not just his pupils. Everything. You could see the Void slowly taking over control of his entire body. Crawling across his skin in veins of shadow, threading through him like poison, claiming more and more by the second. There was nothing human in his face.

Then he saw you.

You took another step forward, heart hammering against your ribs.

"Bob," you said again, softer now.

His lips parted. The black in his eyes shimmered, like something beneath it was trying to break through, trying to remember.

You took another step.

"I'm here," you said, voice steady despite the tremble in your hands. "It's me."

"GET DOWN!" a voice screamed behind you.

You barely turned in time to see the soldier—young, shaken, finger already tightening on the trigger of his rifle, aimed straight at Bob.

“No!” you shouted, throwing a hand out. “Don’t—don’t shoot him!”

But it was too late.

You whipped back toward Bob—and his hand was already rising. Not fast. Slow. Deliberate.

Eyes locked on the soldier, face blank and unreadable, voice low and distant.

“Mine.”

“Bob!” you screamed, adrenaline tearing through your veins like lightning. You rushed toward him, arm outstretched. “STOP! STOP!”

A pulse of black energy burst from his palm. It didn’t make a sound. It didn’t explode. It just erased. The soldier was there—and then he wasn’t.

No scream. No blood. Just a curling wisp of smoke, and a blackened shadow scorched into the tile where he’d stood. Like reality itself had been scrubbed clean.

Your breath caught. Your body froze.

The soldier was gone. Just like that. And Bob? He didn't move. Didn't even flinch. Just stood there, hand still raised, void energy curling around his fingers like it wanted more.

You moved before you even realized it.

You ran.

“BOB!” you screamed, voice hoarse with panic.

You slammed into him, hands flying up to grab his face—rough, desperate, grounding. Your fingers dug into his jaw, into his cheeks, trying to feel him, shake him loose from the darkness overtaking his body.

“Bob! Look at me!” you yelled, tears already slipping down your face. “Fuck—look at me, please!"

His head twitched in your grip, eyes still black, but they widened. Like he didn’t know how you got so close. Like he didn’t even recognize his own name.

“You promised,” you choked out, forehead pressed against his. “You promised you wouldn’t let this happen again. You said I could help you. You let me in. Bob, please, I know you can hear me. Let me in. Let me help you."

And then—

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

The black void in his eyes gone, replaced by fear. Replaced by gut-wrenching guilt.

And suddenly his hands were on you—gripping your arms, trembling hard. Holding you like you were the only thing keeping him from flying apart.

“I didn’t mean to,” he rasped, voice splintering in his throat. “I just… he—he pointed that gun at you. I—”

His knees buckled.

You caught him.

“I didn’t mean to,” he rasped again, clinging like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady, fingers stroking through his hair, down his back. “I know, it’s okay. You’re okay—I got you. I'm right here."

You could feel it under your hands—the tension building again. The static crawling across his skin. He was shaking harder now, like he was trying to hold himself together with bare hands and sheer will, and it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

“I told them,” he growled, voice rising, wild and hoarse. “I told them not to send me. I told them—I told them!”

“Bob,” you tried again, your hands cradling his face, trying to ground him. “Stop—just breathe, okay? Look at me. Just look at me. It’s over. You’re okay. I’m here.”

“Bob—”

“Holy shit,” someone gasped.

You turned. Too fast. The team stood there. Yelena’s eyes were wide. Ava’s mouth hung open. Alexei looked stunned. Bucky was frozen mid-step.

And Walker? Walker’s gaze went straight to the scorched mark on the floor, and his lip curled.

“What the fuck did he do?”

That was it.

You snapped.

“You were supposed to look out for him!” you roared, your voice echoing down the hall like a whipcrack. “You knew he wasn’t ready! You knew, and you left him in there anyway—what the fuck were you thinking?!”

“Don’t yell at me because your little pet project finally snapped—”

You stepped toward him so fast Yelena actually reached out to stop you.

“Say that again, Walker.” you dared, low and deadly. “Say it. Fucking say it again.”

“Guys—” Ava started.

“Oh my god,” Yelena whispered behind you.

And that’s when you realized—Bob wasn’t in your arms anymore.

You turned, panic already in your throat. He was standing a few feet away, eyes locked on the floor, fists clenched. His shoulders were shaking, his jaw tight, like he was about to split open.

The way they were all looking at him. Like he was a monster.

And he saw it. He saw everything.

“No, no, wait—” you started.

But he was already moving. He shoved past you, not roughly—never roughly—but like he couldn’t stand to be touched anymore. Like he didn’t deserve it. And then he ran.

You didn’t hesitate.

You ran after him.

You found him down a back alley, drenched in rain, his back pressed to the wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His fists were clenched, jaw tight, chest heaving like he couldn’t catch his breath. He hadn’t looked at you yet, but you could see it—how close he was to falling apart, how the power still surged beneath his skin, barely contained. His body shook with it, with guilt, with the kind of rage that didn’t know where to go.

You took a step closer and he shifted like he was going to bolt again, eyes flicking to the shadows like he could vanish into them.

You grabbed his wrist. Tight. “Don’t run.”

That stopped him. His breath hitched, but he didn’t turn.

“Bob,” you said, softer now, over the pounding rain. “Please. Look at me.”

He turned slowly—and god, the look on his face broke you wide open. Soaked, shattered, eyes full of guilt and too many unsaid things. He looked like he didn’t believe he deserved to stand in front of you. Like just being seen by you hurt.

Then he kissed you.

Hard. Desperate.

Like he needed your mouth to remind him he was still real.

The kiss came out of nowhere. Teeth. Tongue. Desperation. You collided like two storms, all sharp edges and soaked skin. His mouth crushed yours, messy, uncoordinated, bruising. You dragged your hands through his rain-slick hair, pulled him closer until your bodies slammed together. He groaned your name like it hurt to say it, like it ripped something open inside him just to speak it.

You kissed him back with everything you had, dragging your fingers through his soaked curls, pulling him closer, crushing your lips to his until your teeth clacked and your breath fogged the air between you. He whimpered into it, raw and broken, hands clutching your waist through your suit like he didn’t know where to touch, like he needed to touch everywhere.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped against your lips, voice already hoarse. “I’m so fucking sorry—please, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—” His words cut off with a sob. You shushed him with another kiss, slower this time, lips brushing his like a promise.

“I need you,” he breathed, voice broken. “God—I need you, I need you so bad—I can’t—fuck—don’t let go—please, don’t let go—”

Your gear hit the wall behind you, water slapping between you like applause. His mouth was on your throat, biting, sucking, moaning, as your hands worked beneath his already ripped suit, shoving it aside, frantic to get to skin. His hips rocked into yours like he couldn’t stand being apart from you even for a second.

“Please,” he groaned again, breath hot against your ear. “I’ll do anything. Anything. Just—fuck—just let me have you.”

You gasped, arching against him, letting him press you tighter to the bricks. You were already soaked—skin flushed, thighs shaking—and the way he clung to you like you were the only real thing left in his world snapped something open inside you.

You grabbed his face, kissed him hard, desperate. “Take it,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Take anything. Everything. I’m all yours, Bob.”

He whimpered—actually whimpered—and that was it.

Your suit came undone in ragged pieces, his hands tearing at fastenings with trembling fingers, your legs wrapping around his waist as he shoved your soaked underwear aside. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, grinding his cock against your slick center until you cried out, nails raking down his back.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re so wet,” he gasped. “You want it, don’t you? You want me to lose it for you—inside you—?”

“Yes,” you sobbed, tilting your head back as he pushed in. “Yes, yes—please—”

He thrust into you in one deep, brutal stroke and you screamed, fingers clawing at his soaked suit, legs tightening around his hips. He was so deep, so hot, so real, and the way he fucked you—fast, rough, relentless—was like he didn’t know if he’d survive without this. Without you.

Every thrust hit something raw, something needy, his voice ragged against your ear. “You’re mine—you’re mine, say it—fuck, say it—”

“I’m yours,” you cried, body shaking. “I’m yours, Bob—fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

He sobbed against your throat, thrusting harder, faster, panting between curses and broken prayers. “You’re perfect—so perfect—god, you feel so good—you make everything quiet. You make it all fucking stop—”

And when you came, it hit like a shockwave—your whole body convulsing around him, mouth open in a wordless scream as he slammed into you, burying himself deep and coming hard, spilling inside you with a desperate cry of your name like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane.

He held you afterward like he might never let go, still shaking, still breathing like he’d run through hell. His forehead pressed to yours, voice wrecked.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered. “Please don’t ever leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered back, and this time, it was a vow.

His breathing was ragged.

Shallow gasps against your neck, chest rising and falling like he was still trying to outrun something only he could see. The rain hadn’t let up. It fell in heavy sheets around you, but neither of you moved. You stayed wrapped around him, trembling, your back against the soaked alley wall, his body still buried in yours, shaking with the aftershocks.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t even lift his head.

His arms stayed locked around your waist like a vise, like if he let go even a little, you’d disappear. You felt him swallow, once, twice—and then his shoulders began to shake in a different way.

“Bob?” you whispered, hand sliding up to the back of his head, fingers weaving through his soaked hair. “Hey. Hey, I’m here.”

He sobbed.

Quiet at first. Just a ragged breath that stuttered out of him like it had been waiting for too long. Then another. And another. His whole body trembled, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he finally—finally—let himself fall apart.

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” he choked out. “I tried—I tried so fucking hard—I just wanted to be useful, I wanted to help—and I killed him—”

You shushed him softly, rocking him gently where you stood, your hands stroking down his back.

“You came back to me,” you said, voice low. “That’s all that matters. You came back.”

“I don’t deserve this,” he rasped, holding you tighter. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Shut up,” you whispered, tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. “You do. You do. You’re still here. You’re still you. That’s all I care about.”

You stayed like that for what felt like forever—him wrapped around you like a lifeline, your bodies still locked together, breathing in sync. The heat between you slowly cooled, but the weight of it all stayed heavy, real.

Eventually, his head lifted, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks wet.

He looked at you like he didn’t believe you were real. Like maybe you were the only thing left in the world that hadn’t abandoned him.

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

You cupped his face, thumb brushing over the scar just below his eye.

“I know,” you said. “But I’ve got you.”

And he leaned into your hand like a man starved for touch.

Back at the tower, everything was chaos—shouting, agents scrambling to do damage control, the team fighting with each other, trying to put the blame on someone—but none of it touched you. Not when you had him. Not when he never once let go of your hand.

You didn't go to the infirmary. Didn't sit through the debrief. Bucky tried to say something, but you just shook your head. Bob didn't even look at him. At no one.

You led him straight to your room.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, his body sagged like the air had left him entirely. You helped him out of the rest of his suit, piece by piece, your fingers gentle even when your heart still ached from the weight of it all. He did the same for you, so soft, so gentle, like he was afraid to hurt you.

You pulled him into your bed without a word.

He followed like he always did. Like he couldn’t not.

He wrapped around you the way he always did—legs tangled, arms tight around your waist, face buried against your neck. But this time it wasn’t just comfort.

It was clinging.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Just held on.

You stroked his hair, tracing slow patterns into his scalp, letting your breath match his until he calmed, until that tremble in his shoulders finally stilled.

But he still didn’t sleep.

You felt him shift closer, nose brushing your collarbone. His voice, when it came, was wrecked and so, so quiet.

“Do you think they’ll ever look at me the same?” he asked, voice barely more than a breath.

You didn’t answer right away. You could feel how tightly he was holding his breath, like he was bracing for the worst. You pulled him closer, your fingers threading through the back of his hair, your lips brushing against his forehead.

“It’s not your fault,” you whispered. “They know it. Even if they won’t say it out loud. This—what happened—you didn’t want this. And they know that.”

He didn’t reply, not at first. But you felt it—the way his chest stuttered, how he finally let himself breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, broken.

“I know.”

“I was so close,” he said, voice cracking like glass. “I could feel it. Like I was right there. One more second and I wouldn’t have come back.”

“But you did,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to his. “You came back to me.”

He shuddered, breath hitching again as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Leaving a soft kiss that made your heart clench. “You’re the only one that brings me back,” he whispered. “The only one.”

You didn’t say anything else.

You just held him tighter.

And finally—finally—he started to drift.

It wasn’t peaceful. He twitched. Mumbled things you couldn’t make out. Flinched like his dreams were still trying to drag him under.

But he didn’t wake.

Because you were still there.

And he knew it.

taglist ⊱☆⊰ @notreallythatlost @mandoalorian @urfavfakeblonde @sunday-bug @ruexj283 @mylifeofcalculatedchaos

[callsign-swan]

No Dick Sucking In The Communal Areas

18+, smut, oral (male!receiving), I just wanna suck his dick, okey?

Navi

"Bob," she said sweetly as she approached him.

He glanced up from his book, slipped his finger between the pages to hold his place.

The rest of the New Avenger(z) had spent the last few weeks watching as she and Bob grow closer and closer. The both of them left behind with the others went on missions, left to do nothing but enjoy each others company.

She caught him up with the limited (and rather shitty) media he had missed out on during Project Sentry. It was the two of them, late in the evenings on the sofa. Starting at one end but slowly migrating closer until her thigh was pressed against his and his arm was around her shoulder.

The first time he kissed her head was monumental. It had her giggling and kicking her feet in the privacy of her bedroom (something she could never admit to the rest of the Thunderbolts (the new avengers name was taking some getting used to)).

But it didn't stop at head kisses. They became a regular thing. But the both of them pushed boundaries until she had Bob pinned to the kitchen counter, pastries cooking in the oven as she kissed him.

This, though? This was a first. A new boundary pushed.

Bobs hand found her hip. "Whats up?" He asked. Despite his words, he didn't sound concerned, didn't look at her like he was worried. Just looked at her with his pretty blue eyes.

Just three nights before, she had him in the bathroom, head tipped back as she watched it in the sink. She had cut it already, insisted on watching it (just so she could watch it curl as it dried). There was something about him that just gave of soften.

She was about to ruin that.

Everybody else was on a mission, a big one that took everybody, all of their skills. She'd taken her time to disable a few of the cameras, giving them total privacy.

She dropped to her knees and Bobs eyes went wide. "What're you doing?" He asked, putting his book to one side.

She swallowed around the lump in her throat. "Tell me to stop and I will," she said. "Tell me to stop, push me away and I'll go. You just need to say the word."

Moving slowly, she settled her hands on his thighs. Unassuming beneath the material of his trousers, but strong once she got her hands on him.

Power of a thousand exploding sun, but this was just Bob. Her Bob.

Blue eyes wide, he watched her. But he didn't stop her, didn't push her away.

"Wanna make you feet good, Bob," she mumbled, prying his legs apart. He moved them willingly, his breath catching in his throat when she crawled between them.

He watched with baited breath as she rested her hand over his bulge. "What're you doing?" He asked.

She popped the button on his trousers. Bob brought husband to the back of head. He didn't push her away, just held it there.

"Wanna suck your cock, Bob."

He sucked in a breath. Meeting his gaze, she blinked. "Is this okay?" She asked gentle, her thumb rubbing over the button. All she needed to do was pull down the zipper.

"T-This is okay," he answered.

She tugged down the zipper and let her hand travel inside. Her fingers curled around him, feeling the girth of him in her hands.

Finally, she freed him from the confines of his underwear.

Bob released a hiss as she squeezed him. When she moved her thumb over her tip, he bucked his hips up. But she didn't do much more than that, than exploring him.

She ran her fingers over the underside of him, over the vein running up the side. She traced her fingers over his tip and back down towards the thatch of hair at his base.

"Jesus," he hissed as she repeated the motion.

Head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, Bob let out a moan. It echoed around the room, enough to make Bob open his eyes with pink cheeks.

But then she took him into her mouth. Wrapping her lips around him, she took him in inch by inch until her nose was against his pubic hair and he was nestled comfortably in throat.

(Now, he wasn't actually in her throat. But he was so far in that, had she been anyone else, had she not been psyching herself up and readying herself for this moment, she would have gagged.)

"Holy Jesus fuck!" Bob cried when she swallowed around him. His hands clawed at the arm if his chair, as if he was gonna tear it in two.

But then she began moving. The sound he released she could have listened to on a loop all day. A deep groan from the base of his throat that seemed to wrap around her and spur her on.

She worked him, head bobbing up and down, tongue swirling around him. Each noise Bob released she could have records to keep forever.

He bucked his hips up. It wasn't aggressive, wasn't the kind of move that had her gagging around him. But she moaned and the sound went straight to his head.

"I'm gonna-"

Bob did all he could to hold back, to prolong the feeling. But the mental image of her painted in him, swallowing down all he had to offer.

It was salty as it hit her tongue. She moved like she flinched but it was simply surprise. Head thrown back, eyes still shut, Bob came in her mouth.

And she swallowed every last drop.

The elevator doors used to be silent, when it was the Avengers tower. Something about Tony Stark and hangovers. But now, they dinged. And thank god they did.

As soon as they dinged, she was shoving him back into his underwear. Both of them were wide eyed as they rushed to make everything look normal.

In a last ditch effort to conceal what they had been doing, Bob pulled her onto his lap and began reading.

It was almost like they forgot who they lived with.

"What've you been doing?" Yelena asked slowly, brows furrowed as if she suspected something.

The moment she saw her ruined makeup, she knew.

"Alright, new rule!" She shouted, nose crinkling in disgust. "No dick sucking in the communal areas!"

[endofthelinegang]

terms and conditions (apply)

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  bob reynolds  x  stark!fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  you storm back into Avengers Tower when Valentina de Fontaine dares to relaunch the team—with Bob Reynolds, the unstable Sentry, at its core. Old secrets, god-like power, and a name that still echoes through the halls collide in a confrontation that could tear everything apart—again.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ none besides bad words

You didn’t knock.

You kicked open the reinforced side entrance of Avengers Tower like you owned the place—and technically, part of you still did. The guards didn’t even have time to react. Two shouted, one reached for his comm, and the last instinctively stepped back when your eyes locked on him with that signature Stark glare that could curdle milk. You were a storm in designer boots and a vintage Stark Industries jacket. You felt vintage walking in and seeing things being torn apart and redone. 

“Where is she?” you barked standing in the middle of the entry way. “Where the hell is Valentina Allegra de Fontaine?” You looked around as all eyes made contact with you, no one sure how or when they should speak. Your eyebrows raised as you finally picked one person to hone in on. Clearly an intern, not dressed in the same attire as everyone else, looking at you like you were the most amazing thing to step into this place, and breathing so heavy 

The nervous intern muttered something about the 40th floor, and you were already moving—your heels a steady clack-clack-clack of fury across polished glass floors. The elevator doors tried to close politely. You shoved them open and punched the panel like it owed you money. By the time you reached the conference floor, you were practically vibrating.

Valentina turned at the sound of your footsteps. She was standing just outside the boardroom with her arms folded, talking to a man you didn’t recognize. Her eyes narrowed the moment she saw you.

“Not now,” she said coldly, turning back to talk to the man that was staring at you in horror. 

“Too damn bad,” you snapped, storming toward her shooeing away the man that she was talking to.. “You don’t get to relaunch the Avengers without telling me. What the hell are you doing?”

Valentina sighed and turned back toward the glass doors. “I don’t have time for one of your little episodes, sweetheart.”

“Oh, you don’t have time?” You followed her, voice sharp as broken glass. “That’s rich, considering you just revived a ticking time bomb and called it a team. You think Bob Reynolds is a good idea? Are you out of your mind?” You pulled one of your many devices from your pocket and began to pull up his file that included The Void and the idea of The Sentry as the only time the world had seen that was in the mountains. 

Valentina kept walking, ignoring you. You followed her into the long hallway that led toward the upper-level strategy rooms.

“I’m not here for permission,” she said without looking at you, pictures and videos of Robert Reynolds surrounded the two of you as you kept up with her more than furious. Yes all of them were a bad idea, but they at least knew what they were doing. This new guy was seriously going to be an issue. 

“You should be,” you growled. “Because I know what happens when people start playing gods again. You can put a fresh coat of paint on this place, call it a new era, but this is the same old Tower, the same old risks, and you’re walking around like you’re not dragging the entire world back into a void—literally.”

That stopped her. She did not know that anyone had yet connected Bob and The Void. Then she saw the file you were building around her head and  Valentina turned, her expression flat and unreadable. “You done?”

You stared at her, seething. “If it’s so safe, if you’re so sure of this, then explain this.”

You hit buttons on the flat screen to zoom in on the video. The panel lit up: chaos. A newsreel — from before the Tower fell the first time. Footage of the Void, wild and unfathomable, rippling through air like a tear in reality itself. Streets swallowed. Sky blackened. Heroes screaming in the comms. Tony’s voice, briefly, trying to redirect the fight before the feed cuts out.

Valentina didn’t blink. She simply sighed and started walking again, “We’ve accounted for that.”

You scoffed. “You don’t account for a black hole wearing a man’s skin. You bury it.”

Valentina’s voice dropped, razor-sharp. “You don’t get to lecture me. You vanished when Tony died. You let the tower rot. Now we’re rebuilding it with people who show up.”

The blow landed. You had truly been MIA, you mostly spent time with Morgan teaching her things, and helping out your mother. Valentina had reached out to you previously to help her with projects in Malaysia to which you declined.  You stiffened. Then you smiled bitterly. “You really think Reynolds is gonna stay Reynolds?”

“I think Bob deserves a chance. Just like your father did.” You inhaled sharply, before you could say anything the double doors to the strategy room opened. Voices echoed—low, measured. You could hear the faint whir of holograms booting up. The meeting had begun.

“Fine,” you muttered. “Let’s meet your new golden boys.”

Valentina’s voice cut the air like a scalpel as she stood staring at you putting her hands on the door, “Don’t go in there.”

You turned slowly. “Watch me.”

“This briefing is classified,” she said, now fully stepping in front of the doors like she actually thought she could stop you.

“That’s cute,” you snapped. “You think I haven’t had full access to every inch of this place since I was old enough to spell ‘repulsor.’ Classified doesn’t mean jack when my last name’s still on the damn tower.”

“(Y/N), I’m warning you.” She tried pulling one of her classic faces as a warning, that maybe a little flash of her possible power would ward you off. 

“Oh please. What are you going to do? Threaten to uninvite me to the apocalypse you just reignited?” You pushed past her.

The double doors flew open before she could reach for your arm, and the room full of mismatched government-chosen Avengers froze mid-brief. They looked like an HR violation waiting to happen.

Your voice cut through them as you slammed your hands down onto the table, “Which one of you geniuses is gonna stand in the way of me talking to Mr. Reynolds?”

Confused glances bounced around the room like startled birds. Bucky Barnes was leaning back in a chair with his arms folded, a half-eaten protein bar forgotten in his hand. He stared at you like you’d just crashed a funeral with a flamethrower.

“Who the hell—” the one nearest to you, the agent with the misshappen shield whispered looking around the table. 

Bucky squinted. “...Stark.”

A pause. That landed. Now the attention was sharper—measured. Heavy with names they couldn’t say out loud. All of them were just staring at you unsure of what to say, other than Alexei who was genuinely just confused. 

Bob Reynolds straightened slowly from where he sat near the end of the long, curved table. His hands, folded neatly just a moment before, opened like he wanted to surrender before the war even started. Your eyes locked with his. Unflinching. There was no way you were letting him sit through this meeting like some hero.

You jabbed a finger toward the door behind you, Val had walked away from the doors with a phone up to her ear. “Come with me.”

He blinked taking in a big deep breath. “I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Now, Reynolds.” You spoke over him not really caring what all he had to say.

The air shifted. Awkward silence blanketed the room. Bob looked to Bucky considering he was the only one brave enough to point you out, not to mention the only one who knew who you were. He didn’t say a word—just pressed her lips together and sighed. Then Bob looked back at you.

And you didn’t move. You weren’t bluffing. You weren’t going to leave. He saw it in your stance, in your eyes, in the electric coil of tension behind your expression like you were two seconds from dragging him out by the collar if he hesitated.

Bob rose from his seat and walk around to where you took your hands off the table patting them off of John Walker’s back before holding the door open for Mr. Reynolds to walk out of.  Everyone watched him leave with you like he was being taken to his own execution. Which—honestly—wasn’t that far from the truth.

The walk to his quarters was silent. Uncomfortably so. The corridor stretched long and sterile, fluorescent lights humming softly overhead. His footsteps were muted, measured — each step echoing faintly against the polished floor. He led the way, careful to keep his gaze fixed somewhere ahead, but every few seconds, a flicker of tension made him glance back at you, as if you might vanish—or worse, explode—between steps. His jaw clenched tightly, lips pressed thin.

When you stepped inside the room the government had decided was good enough for Bob Reynolds, a bitter laugh threatened to escape. It was a sterile prison masquerading as accommodation: walls washed in cold white, the kind of lighting that felt more interrogative than comforting. The bed was untouched—linen pristine, corners sharp—like a shrine that no one dared disturb. No personal touches softened the space. No photos smiled back at you from the nightstand. Not even a half-empty glass of water perched on its surface.

He hovered near the desk, awkward and unsure, fiddling nervously with the hem of his sleeve. His movements were small, controlled, like a man carefully trying to keep the weight of the world from bursting free through his skin. Shoulders hunched in a protective arc.

You crossed your arms, the silence thick between you.

He turned slowly, eyes hesitant, voice low. “You can sit if you want.”

You didn’t. You stayed rooted, standing tall.

Bob’s gaze flicked to the chair—then back to you—before he lowered himself stiffly onto it, as if sitting too quickly might trigger some catastrophic event. The chair creaked under his weight, breaking the stillness like a single gunshot in an empty hall.

Your eyes swept the room again. This wasn’t a room. It was a holding cell dressed up with throw pillows. Stainless steel walls closed in coldly. A lone, thin bed with sheets pulled tight. An armchair that had never cradled a living soul. The light was harsh, unforgiving, casting shadows sharp enough to slice through the tension.

“I didn’t think anyone would come,” he said, voice barely above a whisper, swallowed almost entirely by the silence.

“You think I had a choice?” Your words cut sharp, voice cracking the quiet like a whip. You crossed your arms and stared him down. 

He tilted his head, surprised by the fire in your tone. You gestured at the stark walls, your voice rising. “You do realize people died, right? That you blacked out Manhattan. No tech, no backup generators, no communications. For six hours. Do you even know what that did to hospital patients? To air traffic? To kids stuck in elevators?!”

Bob flinched, shoulders jerking slightly, hands clenching tighter until his knuckles blanched.

“They’re calling it a freak grid failure on the news,” you pressed, voice sharp with accusation. “But I’ve seen the files. That wasn’t a blackout. That was you. The Void.” You had not told anyone but you had accessed what records you were given access to when she first invited you to the projects and kept up with them, you knew this would happen. 

His breath hitched audibly. His gaze fell hard to the floor, as if it might somehow carry the weight of his shame. He looked dead, like he wasn’t even breathing as he shifted his weight around in his chair. You didn’t relent.

“You turned the most alive city on Earth into a tomb. And now they’ve put you in a cape. Put you on a team. And I’m supposed to trust that decision?” You could tell that no one had given him the second degree about this, that no one had even really achknowdlged to him directly what had happened. 

“I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered, voice thin, fragile. 

“Then say no,” you snapped, eyes blazing, head shaking. 

“I did,” Bob whispered back, barely audible. “They said it was already done.”

You paused. Just a beat. He looked up then—and for the first time, you truly saw him. His face was stripped bare of anger or defense. Instead, it was raw and scared. Not the kind of fear someone shows when cornered, but the kind that lives beneath the surface—held tight, pressed down, like a powder keg waiting for a spark.

“I told Valentina I wasn’t ready to be involved,” he said, voice trembling slightly. “I told her what it felt like… after New York. What I saw in my head. How quiet it was. How good it felt.”

Your breath caught. The words hung in the air, fragile and impossible.

“You’re saying it felt good?” you repeated, disbelief thick in your voice leaning forward to look at him a little better and to show him that this shit was no joke.

He shook his head quickly, eyes darting away like he feared your judgment. “Not happy. Not good good. Just… right. Like the universe was finally quiet enough for me to breathe.”

You said nothing. He swallowed hard, throat bobbing visibly. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. But the second it did, everything stopped hurting.”

Suddenly, your voice broke the tension. “I blipped,” you said, steady despite the tremble beneath your skin. “Five years. Gone in a snap. One second I’m walking beside Happy talking about new safety features in the Iron Man suit that should help my dad stay alive, in fact I wasn’t even sure where he was, and then... dust.”

His posture changed again, this time more to face you fully rather than turn away.

“I came back to a world where my best friend—my dad—was dead. My mom had a daughter I’d never met. A five-year-old who barely knew who I was. Everyone else moved on. I didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t even get to be there when he died.” You blinked hard, staring at Bob like he owed you an explanation.

“Tony Stark died saving the universe, and now you’re sitting here in his tower, part of the team that’s replacing the one he built.” You hit him hard again with your words watching as he nodded his head. 

His face crumpled, tight lines folding across his forehead and around his mouth. “I didn’t ask for this.”

“Neither did I.”  Another beat. The silence stretched taut.

You fixed him with a hard look, arms crossed tighter. His eyes were too bright—unnatural blue, sharp like shards of carved light trapped inside a man who barely contained them.

“I saw your father on TV,” he said suddenly, voice quieter, softer. “After Sokovia. After Titan. At the compound with Steve Rogers, back when they tried to make peace. I remember thinking he looked like someone who didn’t know what silence felt like.”

You said nothing, the weight of that statement sinking into the space between you. You untangled your arms and looked at the plain wall nearest your head. 

“I’m sorry he’s gone,” Bob added, voice genuine, careful. Not pity, but understanding. Like he knew what it was to lose someone the world expected to be invincible.

Your throat tightened. You blinked slow, heavy.

“Yeah,” you finally said. “It is.” 

Bob looked like he wanted to step forward, maybe reach out, but he stayed rooted. Instead, his fingers gripped the desk, digging in like if he let go he might simply disappear.

“I didn’t want to be an Avenger,” he admitted. “I wanted help.”

You tilted your head, skeptical, but he was being honest, you could tell this guy really was not sure of what any of this menat.  “So you thought signing up for Valentina’s pet death squad would help you get that?”

“She said the team could give me structure. Control. That they’d watch me.” He shrugged his shoulders just repeating what information he had been fed. 

“That’s not help. That’s a cage.” You whispered gritting your teeth thinking about how she could do this to someone in the first place and then trap them again. 

Bob’s mouth twitched, a flicker of agreement struggling to surface but trapped.

“You walked into the Avengers Tower five minutes after blacking out half of New York,” you said, voice low but unyielding. “That’s not rehabilitation. That’s PR cleanup.”

His jaw flexed, silent. Then, finally, a breath: “I didn’t feel human after it happened.”

Your gaze locked with his. This time, he didn’t look away.

“I thought maybe if I wore the suit,” he continued quietly, “if I stood next to real heroes, I might be able to be one.”

“You’re not your suit,” you said coldly, you felt like your mom. You remembered all of the arguments they had about that exact sentence. It felt thick in your mouth and spitting it out at this stranger felt almost painful. 

“I know. But you came in here today and now I feel like maybe I am a mistake that needs fixing.” His voice rose, not in a way that would be argumentative but in a way that gave confidence. 

“You say that like it’s a compliment.” You scoffed and gave him a side smile. 

“It is.”  You stared. The tension tightening up your spine like a coil.

“So?” You weren’t sure where this was going, but he was suddenly standing. 

“I want you to stay because you’re the only one smart enough not to lie to me.” Your face snapped into shock and your stomach twisted.

“I’ve spent every day since New York waking up and wondering if I’m still me,” he confessed, voice breaking. “Or if the Void’s just pretending.” 

Your heart hammered in your chest. He shifted half a step forward.

“I look around and all I see are people trying to contain me, or use me. Not understand me. You came in here, told me I was dangerous, and didn’t sugarcoat a damn thing.” He exhaled slowly, almost like relief. “You’re the first person who made me feel like I might still have a choice.”

You turned away, fingers dragging slowly down your face. “God. I must be out of my mind.” 

“You’re not,” Bob said gently, voice steady like a lifeline. “You’re just the only one here who still believes in consequences.”

You looked back at him. He looked fragile—nothing to do with size—but like a man holding back a hurricane with bare hands. If he were being honest and you were the only person willing to actually help him then you couldn’t leave. You knew enough to be asked to create him you just hadn’t been stupid enough to fall for it and it was not her asking this time. It was him. The patient. The test subject. 

“I’m not your friend,” you warned.

“I don’t need a friend,” he said quietly. “I need someone who doesn’t flinch.”

Silence hung heavy again he really wanted this, and he was not going to take no for an answer. 

Then—finally—you sighed.

“Fine,” you muttered. “But this isn’t a team-up. I’m not getting a badge, and I’m not wearing a damn vest.” You were being serious, this was not a mess you wanted attached to your name. You were already going over how to create something that could stop him and you hadn’t even told Valentina of your sudden cooperation. 

“You don’t have to.” He sighed a breath of relief hearing that you were in agreement. 

“I’m here to make sure you don’t wipe out another city.” You pulled your phone out of your pocket and started texting Valentina letting her know a few important things, like the lab you would need and the room you would like to occupy. 

“That’s all I want too.” Your eyes narrowed, sharp and watchful.

“If I even sense that thing in your head pushing out, I pull the plug. Hard.” You opened his door again and dialed another number your little helpers that needed to start moving your equipment and stuff around. 

Bob nodded slowly. “Understood.”

You took one last look.For the first time, he wasn’t fidgeting. Just still. Watching you like the first sliver of light in a sky that’s been black too long.

[iovesentry]

hit me with your best shot!

robert reynolds/bob x reader

summary: you were assigned by Walker to train Bob. you thought things were going smoothly until you accidentally hit him hard. woops….

warning(s): Bucky and reader have a special platonic bond, reader is reminiscing about the avengers, you accidentally punched Bob oopsies!

A/N: hi everyone! this is the second story i’ve written. i’m so so glad you guys are enjoying “something in my eye”. if you guys have any requests, feel free to lmk! <3

you were woken up by the sound of your alarm at 8AM, remembering that you were gonna train Bob at 9AM. you immediately washed your face and changed into your workout clothes, making your way to the kitchen to get something to eat. you were greeted by the presence of Walker, also eating breakfast.

“good morning, y/n. don’t forget you have to train Bobby at 9AM. after that, you’re free to go.” he reminded you and continued to eat his bowl of cereal. “gotcha. has he gotten up yet?” you asked Walker, just in case you needed to wake him up yourself. “uh yeah, he has eaten already, i think he’s ready to go. just look for him alright?” you nodded. since you still had time to do other things, you made yourself a cup of coffee and a sandwich. you recently discovered that sparring with an empty stomach is the worst idea imaginable.

“i’m gonna go look for him Walker, see ya later!” you waved him goodbye, taking your cup of coffee and your sandwich in each hand. you pressed the elevator button with your elbow and decided to go to the Gym floor, maybe Bob was already there.

walking down the hall made you emotional, remembering your time with the Avengers here. a tower filled with memories. it suddenly made you feel very nostalgic, remembering the last time you were here, it was when Ultron happened. that night went by like a blur, remembering the time you all tried to pick up Mjolnir from the table. night filled of drinks, laughter, and bonding.

you got to the sparring room and your assumption was correct. He was by the seat near the window, a book in his hand, and a cup of coffee on the table.

“hi bob, good morning. are you ready for today?” you greeted him, sitting down on the sofa opposite him. you placed down your cup and finished the rest of your sandwich.

“Yeah, how long are we training for?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee and closed his book.

“for as long as you want. as long as we reach an hour. just tell me if you’re tired or you need a break, okay?” you knew Bob wasn’t as capable in sparring unlike the rest of the team, since he can’t really use his powers as Bob yet. You’ve seen him as Sentry and The Void— fought him as Sentry and The Void—and safe to say that he has the build and strength, just not the control.

after about 45 minutes, you decided to teach Bob how to improve his punches.

“so, to improve your punches, you gotta put in some work into your hips. don’t always rely on your arm strength only, okay?” you instructed him, facing your padded palms towards him.

“go on, try it.” encouraging him helped a lot during this session. you knew he trusted you as his training buddy, since you didn’t make fun of him for not knowing how to fight.

his fist made contact with your palm, not the best punch but he was getting there.

“okay, not bad. still need a little more improvement but not bad. you want me to demonstrate?”

he nodded so you both switched. he was now the one wearing the pads on his hands, while you with your bare hands.

“like this,” you swung at his hands too harshly, resulting to you losing your balance, and your fist making contact with his jaw instead.

“oh my goodness! Bobby, i’m so so sorry!” you cupped his face to examine the result of your punch. he looked okay, his face as beautiful as ever.

“it’s okay, y/n. i’m okay, see?” he pointed at his face, so far no bruises yet. “ack, i’m so sorry Bob. i lost balance and punched you instead.”

“okay you know what, training sesh done. let’s go to the kitchen and get you an ice pack, okay?” you told him. you grabbed your used cup from earlier, you and Bob making your way to the kitchen.

“hey sweetheart.” you were immediately greeted by Bucky as you exited the elevator with Bob. you and Bucky grew closer after the battle with Thanos. losing the same people who were special to you, especially Steve. so it was nice to have someone you knew for a while on the same team.

“hi bucky. excuse me for a sec, alright?” you grabbed Bobs arm and hurried to the fridge, opening the freezer compartment and getting an ice pack.

“you alright, Bob?” you held the ice pack on his jaw, looking at his face that looked perfectly fine. “yeah, i feel fine.” he flashed you a small smile, letting you hold the ice pack even though he could hold it himself. he liked it though, when you took care of him. but that’s something he’ll never admit outloud, he can’t let you know about his feelings.

after 5 minutes, you removed the ice pack from his jaw and grabbed a kitchen towel to wipe his face. his breath hitched, suddenly growing nervous due to the closeness of you both. he admired your face, seeing the seriousness on you. he thought you looked cute.

you noticed him examining your face, suddenly growing shy under his gaze.

“you know staring is bad, right?” you told him, keeping your voice low. you had a small grin on your face, your palm still cupping the other side of his jaw. you finished wiping his face, meeting his gaze on you that made you feel small and shy.

“can’t help it when the woman who just punched me happens to be so beautiful.” he told you, noticing the red tint on your cheeks.

“if i punch you again, will you call me beautiful once more?”

he chuckled at that, “no punch needed. i can call you beautiful, pretty, and cute anytime.”

“well… i’d love that.” you suddenly grew so shy, always feeling so small underneath his gaze. Bob was a very charismatic and beautiful guy, and you were glad to be on the same team as him.

[tf2-ask]

red engi, have you ever tried to affix a mini sentry or something similiar onto your robot hand?

artist: @wackarat

to ask quesion hit the ASK button!

[hwizou]

space themed graphics

[moon-poe]

Blond hair and feelings

Bob Reynolds x reader

Word Count: 1034

Summary: Bob still has the blond hair after he and the team gets out of the Void and he’s a bit insecure about it, but you tell him that you love it. But you guys end up cuddling on the couch and telling each other how you feel. (Sorry for those who didn’t like the blond hair lol)

N/n = Nickname

—--------------------------------------

The team was in the old Avengers tower, facing the Sentry for the first time. “Did you dye your hair?” Ava asks, pointing at her head. Bob, well, Sentry, nodded. “Yeah, it was Val’s idea… I thought it would look good.” Bob was still kind of with us as he looked around anywhere but the team. 

Valentina was getting annoyed,”Sentry, your first mission is to destroy these vigilanties.” Bob looks at you and the others,”I don’t wanna hurt you guys. Why don’t you just turn yourselves in?” And that’s when the fighting started. Everyone took their turn, trying to attack Sentry but he wasn’t affected at all.

You backed off a bit near the corner, refusing to fight him… He fought everyone back like it was nothing, and he looks at you for a moment, but doesn’t go for you. Sentry knew better than to hurt you, he refused to touch you. He cares about you. Even in the short time you’ve known each other. Bob cares… and even Void… 

The team is scattered across the floor after Sentry rips off Bucky’s arm and they run to the elevator. Except you. You’re the closest to the elevator so you press the button. It opens and you all escape.

—--------------------------------------

After getting stuck in the void with Bob and hugging him until he came back, 6 months had passed. And Bob still had blond hair. Though he wasn’t exactly happy with it. But you did. Yes, you loved the soft brown hair on him as well, but blond also made him look good. Especially with that suit of his. 

Over the past 6 months, you and Bob have gotten a lot closer. Helping him with his nightmares, training him with the powers he was still getting used to, and never judging him for small or big mistakes. 

You’re on the couch, watching your favorite movie with popcorn in your hand. You notice Bob coming into the room, sitting next to you. You smile,”Hi Bob.” He smiles back softly and reaches for some of your popcorn, but frowns when you move it away from him playfully. “I’m just kidding, have as much as you want,” You laugh a little, handing him the bowl. Bob takes it and starts eating a few pieces. 

Your eyes are no longer on the movie, but on him. Bob’s staring at the television, watching the movie you put on. You smile a little in awe of him, a few pieces of his blond hair in his cute face that you want to push out of the way. So you do. You move your hand up slowly and brush your fingers through his hair. 

Bob immediately turns to look at you, his face reddening a little bit. But he doesn’t stop you. You run your fingers through one more time,”The blond looks really good on you.” Bob laughs a little bit, hands still gripping the bowl of popcorn, looking at it. “Really? Because I don’t know if I like it that much anymore,” Bob says, looking up at you. You place your hand back in your lap and move closer to him.

“I think both colors suit you, brown and blond. It makes you look hot,” You say, which makes Bob’s face heat up. “T-thank you,” He quietly says. “Anytime sweetheart,” You smile. You turn your head back to watch the movie and you feel Bob move a bit closer to you as well, then leans his head on your shoulder. 

When the movie ends, you both are cuddled up to each other, him lying down on the couch with you lying on top of him, your head resting on his chest. “Hey Bob?” He looks down at you,”Yeah N/n?”

You move up slightly so you're fully looking at him. “I like you” You ask nervously. Bob moves his hand to cup your cheek,”Y-yeah? I like you too.” His thumb caresses the skin as he cheekily smiles at you. “But I don’t mean in a friendly way, I mean it in a-” You’re cut off immediately.

He pulls you even closer and touches his lips to yours, kissing you. You kiss back and your hand goes to his hair while the other one is on his chest, while you’re still on top. He pulls back slightly and you see a slight glow in his eyes before it flashes away. “I know. Been wondering what your lips would feel like on mine,” Bob says, his voice a little deeper than before.

Suddenly, Bob flips you over to the other side of the couch, you now lying below him. “Wanna feel them again?,” You ask. He leans down and kisses you with force, his tongue running along your lower lip. You open your mouth, letting his tongue explore. 

After a few minutes, you both pull back, smiling at each other. “I want to take you out tonight, I have the perfect spot,” Bob says, smiling cheekily. “Oh yeah?” He nods and he stands up, bringing you with him. “I wanna choose your outfit too,” He says, and you nod, giggling. You two head to your room. 

That evening, Bob took you to a cute little restaurant and somehow snuck around you to get your flowers, which made you smile and kiss his cheek. “I’m glad you came into my life Bob,” You say as he opens the door for you as you both exit the restaurant. You’re still holding the flowers, smelling them every few minutes because you can’t get enough of them.

“I’m glad you came into my life too, baby,” Bob says. Once he let’s go of the door, he places his finger under your chin and kisses you softly, before you both walk back to the tower.

[whoretan]

ARK 45 | 03

Summary: One misstep spirals into chaos. An "audition," a quiet dinner—and suddenly, you’re in the lion's den, with secrets unraveling faster than you can catch your breath.

WC: 11.4k

Play me while you read.

Pairing: Club Owner/Mafia!Jungkook, Hitman!Reader (ft. Jimin)

tags: um, this is long af, shit is getting INTEEEENSE, everyone is up to no good, does this bitch have a degradation kink?

Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 (ur here)

Your heels click against the marble floor, each step echoing like a gunshot in your skull. The security guard barely glances up as you flash your ID, probably because you look like death warmed over. 

You'd spent an hour in the shower trying to scrub away the feeling of Jimin's hands, his mouth against your skin. The memory burns through your mind like acid, making your stomach clench.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding that feels too cheerful for your current state of mind. You step inside, jabbing the button for the executive floor harder than what was necessary. Your reflection stares back at you from the mirrored walls, and you note with grim satisfaction that at least the bruises on your cheeks have faded to a dull pink. The ones on your shoulders, hidden beneath your crisp white blouse, are a different story.

The massive oak doors leading to Jimin's office loom at the end of the hallway like sentries. You force yourself to look away, focusing instead on the mundane task of settling into your desk and powering up your computer.

Your phone vibrates in your purse, making you jump. Unknown number. Odd. You consider letting it go to voicemail, but something makes you answer.

"Hello?"

"Joanna Webb?" A smooth female voice asks. Your stomach drops at the fake name. No fucking way. "This is Jessica from ARK 45. Mr. Jeon would like you to come in for a second interview tonight at 11."

Your throat goes dry. Jimin's office doors seem to mock you from down the hall, holding secrets you'd rather forget.

"Miss Webb?" The woman prompts. "Are you there?"

"Yes," you hear yourself say. "I'll be there."

You end the call, fingers trembling slightly as you lower the phone. The familiar ding of your email draws your attention to the screen.

Dear Park Incorporate, This is the Goutman Courier Services, regarding Shipment 401928 to the Terrero region has been successfully delivered.

The blood in your veins turns to ice. Jungkook's shipments. The very thing that started this whole mess.

You stand from your desk, legs unsteady. The walk to Jimin's office feels like a death march. Each step brings you closer to facing him, to pretending last night never happened while discussing business that could— probably will— get you both killed.

Your knuckles rap against the solid wood before you can lose your nerve.

"Come in."

Jimin's voice carries through the door, professional and detached. As if he hadn't left bruises on your skin just hours ago. As if you weren't still feeling the ghost of his touch with every breath.

You turn the handle, stepping into the lion's den.

The first thing you notice is the sound– rain beating against the floor-to-ceiling windows that line the back wall of his office. The second is the scent of his cologne, stronger now, mixing with the rich leather of his chair and something else. Coffee, maybe. Black, no sugar, like always.

Jimin doesn't look up from the stack of papers on his desk. His shoulders are rigid beneath his tailored suit jacket, an unusual tension in his normally fluid posture. A strand of black hair falls across his forehead as he signs something with careful precision.

"You received an email," you say, voice steady despite the way your pulse quickens when his pen stills. "Goutman Courier Services. The shipment to Terrero was delivered."

His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Still, he doesn't look up. "Close the door."

You turn, giving him your back as you push the heavy door shut. The soft click of the latch feels too loud in the quiet office. When you face him again, his eyes are fixed on the papers before him, but his pen hasn't moved.

"Anything else?" he asks, tone professionally distant. As if he hadn't left marks all over your body mere hours ago. As if you couldn't still feel the ghost of his fingers wrapped around your throat.

Thunder rolls outside, making the windows tremble. You take a measured step forward, heels sinking into the plush carpet. "ARK 45 called. They want me to come in tonight."

Now he looks up. His dark eyes find yours, and for a moment, that careful mask of indifference slips. Something hungry flashes across his features before he can catch it, gone so quickly you might have imagined it.

"Interesting." He leans back in his chair, finally abandoning the pretense of working. His fingers drum once against the leather armrest – the only tell that he's affected at all. "What time?"

"Eleven."

His gaze drifts to your neck, lingering just behind your ear. A slight furrow appears between his brows. "You missed one."

Heat crawls up your spine as his meaning registers. The hickey. You resist the urge to touch the spot, to cover it like a guilty teenager. Instead, you maintain eye contact, watching as his pupils dilate slightly.

"I'll take care of it," you say, voice low. Professional. Even as your skin burns under his scrutiny.

He nods once, sharp and dismissive. "That's all."

You turn to leave, focusing on keeping your steps measured, unhurried. The weight of his stare follows you across the room like a physical touch. Just as your fingers brush the door handle, his voice stops you.

"And ___?"

You pause, not turning around. "Yes?"

A beat of silence, filled only by the steady drumming of rain. Then, so quiet you almost miss it: "Be careful."

The words settle between your shoulder blades like a blade.

The handle feels like ice beneath your palm as you pull the door shut behind you. Your heels click against the marble with each step back to your desk, mind racing behind your carefully blank expression.

Be careful.

The words replay in your mind as you sink into your chair. Coming from Jimin, they may as well be a death sentence. He doesn't tell you to be careful– not when you're tracking targets, not when you're disposing of bodies, not even when you're playing with fire in the form of Richard Ricci's empire.

Why would Jungkook want you back?

The question pulses through your mind as you stare unseeing at your computer screen. He'd made it crystal clear what he thought of you. Called you a whore before walking away like you were nothing more than a mild inconvenience in his night.

But he'd known who you were.

He'd known, and he'd still let you grind against him, his hands guiding your hips like he owned them. Like he wasn't fully aware that those same hips had been positioned over his father's body weeks before.

Rain continues to pour outside your window, the sky growing darker as evening approaches. You spend the rest of the day moving through the motions of being a secretary, all while your mind dissects every possible angle. Every potential trap. Every way this could end with you in a body bag.

Your reflection catches in one of ARK 45's tinted windows as you approach. The black dress hugs every curve, falling just below your knees, the off-shoulder neckline exposing enough skin to be enticing without looking desperate. 

You'd curled your hair, letting it fall in waves behind your shoulders, and painted your lips the exact shade of red that coats the bottoms of your Louboutins.

The neon sign bleeds red through the rain, and the bouncer simply nods, same from before, pulls the door open without a word. No clipboard. No questions.

They're expecting you.

The main floor of ARK 45 pulses with a different energy tonight. Gone are the typical strobe lights and pounding bass, replaced by something deeper, darker. The air is thick with expensive cologne, cigar smoke, and worn leather- the scent of old money and even older sins.

Red velvet drapes frame the main stage, and crystal chandeliers cast shadows that dance across the walls like wandering spirits. The usual poles have vanished, leaving an expanded platform dotted with vintage microphones and elaborate props.

Men in tailored suits crowd the tables, drinking amber liquid from crystal glasses while their eyes follow the girls who weave between tables in elaborate costumes - corsets dripping with jewels, feathers that trail behind them like oil spills.

"This way," the hostess says, leading you toward one of the elevated booths that line the upper level.

A voice like honey and smoke fills the space, drawing your attention to the stage. A woman in a black corset trails her fingers down the microphone stand, her red lips forming words that make the men below her lean forward in their seats. The backing track builds slowly, promising something sinful.

"You must be the new girl."

You turn to find a woman leaning against the railing beside you. Her costume- if you can call it that - consists mainly of strategically placed crystals and black lace. A snake tattoo winds up her thigh, disappearing beneath the lace.

"I'm Angelina," she says, eyes scanning you with the kind of attention usually reserved for identifying weaknesses. Her gaze lingers on your shoes, your dress, calculating something behind her practiced smile. "Haven't seen you around before."

You take her offered hand. "Joanna."

"Hmm." She tilts her head, studying you like a cat who's found something interesting to play with. "Private booth on your first night? That's... unusual."

The word carries weight, a warning wrapped in curiosity. On stage, the singer's voice builds to a crescendo, and Angelina's smile sharpens.

"Enjoy the show, honey. And remember,” she leans in close enough that her breath tickles your ear, "not everyone survives their first night here."

You watch Angelina sashay away, cataloging every detail with the same precision you use before a kill. The slight favor of her left leg when she walks- old injury, probably a torn ACL. The way her eyes dart periodically to the VIP section as if she's waiting for someone's attention. The calculated swing of her hips doesn't match the nervousness in her fingers as they tap against her thigh.

She's scared of something. Or someone.

The realization brings a familiar thrill to your spine, the same one you'd felt watching John squirm in his chair. People are always so easy to read when they're afraid. Like now, watching the way Angelina keeps glancing over her shoulder, the slight tremor in her practiced smile.

You could break her in half without smudging your lipstick.

The thought brings a smile to your face as the hostess gestures to the booth. You slide into the plush leather seat, letting the elevation give you a better vantage point of the club. The strategic positioning isn't lost on you- perfect view of the stage, but your back exposed to the door. 

The opening notes of "Fever" fill the air as the curtains part. Three dancers emerge, their movements liquid and practiced. You force yourself to appear engaged even as your mind dissects every possible exit route. Two through the main floor, one through the kitchen if you cut through the service corridor, and, if things get really ugly, the large windows could work with enough momentum.

The leather seat dips beside you.

"I was starting to think you wouldn't show."

Your blood turns to ice in your veins. You don't need to turn to know who's joined you, his presence alone sets every instinct on high alert. But you do turn because that's what an innocent wannabe dancer would do.

Jungkook lounges against the leather like he was born to it, one arm draped across the back of the seat. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kill. His dark eyes find yours, and his lips curve into that same arrogant smile that had haunted you all day.

"I always keep my appointments, Mr. Jeon."

The lights from the stage catch on his Patek Philippe watch, the kind that costs more than most people make in a year. His black suit is perfectly tailored, each line custom cut to his frame, making him look like sin personified. The fabric shifts like liquid shadow as he moves, revealing the crisp white shirt beneath. His hair is slicked back tonight, showcasing the sharp angle of his jaw, the dangerous curve of his lips.

A heavy silver ring adorns his right hand as he signals for service, the same hand that had gripped your hips days ago. You notice there's an engraving on it, but can't make out the details in the dim lighting.

"Champagne," he tells the server without taking his eyes off you. "The Armand de Brignac."

His voice carries that same arrogant lilt from before, but there's something else there now. Something predatory lurking beneath the polished surface. You've heard that tone before, in your own voice, right before you go for the kill.

"Expensive taste," you comment, watching his reaction. Testing.

His lips quirk upward, and he shifts slightly closer. The movement is subtle, calculated. Like a snake coiling before it strikes. "I only invest in things that interest me."

On stage, the dancers move through their routine, all glitter and grace. But you're hyperaware of every micro-expression that crosses Jungkook's face. The slight tightening around his eyes when he smiles. The controlled way he breathes. The steady rhythm of his thumb taps against his knee.

He's studying you just as intently.

"Tell me about your dance experience," he says, accepting two crystal flutes from the returning server. The champagne glows golden in the low light as he hands you a glass. "You seem... experienced in movement."

Your fingers brush his as you take the glass, and you swear you feel him tense for a fraction of a second. "I'm versatile," you reply, matching his tone. "I adapt to whatever the situation requires."

Something dark flashes behind his eyes. He takes a slow sip of champagne, and you watch his throat work as he swallows. When he lowers the glass, his tongue darts out to catch a stray drop on his bottom lip.

"Adaptability is crucial in this line of work." His gaze drops to your neck, lingering on the spot where you'd covered the hickey. "Things can get... intense here. Not everyone can handle the pressure."

The implications hover in the air between you, sharp as razor wire. Below, the music swells to a crescendo, but all you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears as he leans closer.

"Are you sure you can handle it, Joanna?"

The way he says your fake name makes your skin crawl. Like he's savoring some private joke.

You meet his gaze over the rim of your glass, letting the champagne sit untouched. "I've handled more intense situations than you could imagine, Mr. Jeon."

The corner of his mouth twitches. He shifts again, angling his body toward yours, and the expensive fabric of his suit brushes against your bare shoulder. The contact sends electricity racing down your spine.

"Have you?" His eyes are impossibly dark in the low light. "Tell me about them."

On stage, one of the dancers lets out a sultry laugh that echoes through the club. Jungkook doesn't even blink. His attention is laser-focused on you, waiting for your next move like this is all some elaborate game of chess.

"My last position was..." you pause, watching his ring catch the light as his fingers tighten infinitesimally around his glass, "particularly demanding. The kind of job that keeps you up at night."

His smile grows wider, showing teeth. "I can imagine. But that's what I appreciate in my employees— dedication. The willingness to do whatever it takes."

The music shifts to something slower, heavier with bass. Jungkook's knee brushes yours under the table, and this time it doesn't feel accidental.

"Even if it means getting your hands dirty?" you ask, the words escaping before you can stop them.

Something flashes in his eyes, triumph, maybe. Or hunger. He leans in close enough that you can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body.

"Especially then," he murmurs, voice dropping an octave. "Though I have to admit, you don't strike me as someone afraid of a little mess."

Your heart pounds against your ribs as he reaches across you, arm brushing your collarbone as he sets his empty glass on the table. The movement brings his lips close to your ear.

"Tell me, Joanna," your false name drips from his tongue like honey-coated poison, "what exactly are you willing to do for this position?"

The question hangs between you like a blade. You turn your head slightly, meeting his gaze at close range. This close, you can see flecks of gold in his dark eyes, the faint scar above his eyebrow. Can count his individual lashes.

"Whatever's necessary," you breathe, watching his pupils dilate. "I'm very... thorough in my work."

His exhale ghosts across your lips. "Are you?" One hand slides from the back of the booth to rest on your bare shoulder, fingers tracing patterns that feel like threats. "Even when it gets messy?"

The touch burns through your skin, but you hold still. Like facing down a predator. "The messier the better, Mr. Jeon."

His grip tightens fractionally on your shoulder. "Call me Jungkook."

On stage, the music builds to something primal, all bass and breathy moans. The dancer's silhouette writhes against the backdrop of red velvet. But in your booth, time seems to stop, crystallizing around the dangerous game you're playing.

"You know," his thumb brushes your collarbone, "I had someone look into your background."

Your pulse skips, but you don't flinch. Can't flinch. "Find anything interesting?"

His laugh is low, dark. The kind of sound that promises violence. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing before six months ago." His fingers trail up to the spot behind your ear where Jimin's mark had been. "It's like you appeared out of thin air."

"Maybe I did."

"Or maybe," he leans impossibly closer, lips brushing your ear, "you're very good at covering your tracks."

Heat pools in your stomach, warring with the ice in your veins. Every instinct screams to put distance between you, to run. But you're trapped between his body and the leather seat, his cologne filling your lungs with each breath.

"Tell me, Jungkook," you turn your head, letting your lips brush his jaw as you speak, "do you always investigate your dancers so thoroughly?"

His other hand finds your knee beneath the table, fingers splaying across bare skin. "Only the interesting ones." His grip tightens, thumb stroking slow circles that make your breath catch. "Only the ones with secrets."

You feel his smile against your temple. "And you, Joanna? You seem like you're full of them."

His thumb continues its torturous path along your knee, each circle drawing slightly higher. The touch burns through your skin like a brand, setting every nerve ending alight. You can't remember the last time someone made you feel this unraveled, this desperate to maintain control while your body betrays every attempt at composure.

"So many secrets," he murmurs against your skin, and you can feel his smile widening. His cologne fills your lungs with each shortened breath, making your head spin. Or maybe that's from the heat of his palm sliding higher up your thigh, fingers splaying possessively across bare skin.

The rational part of your brain screams that this is dangerous, that you're losing control of the situation. But your treacherous body leans into his heat like a moth to flame. Your eyes flutter shut as his other hand traces patterns on your shoulder that feel like ownership, like promises of violence wrapped in silk.

His breath fans across your neck, lips barely grazing your pulse point. "I wonder what other surprises you're hiding."

A small sound escapes your throat- half gasp, half surrender. Your fingers grip the leather seat beneath you, nails digging in deep enough to leave crescents in the expensive material. The music from the stage feels distant, muffled under the sound of blood rushing in your ears.

Then. A shift.

The pressure of his fingers lessens incrementally. His breath moves away from your neck, the loss of heat making you suppress a shiver. When you force your eyes open, he's leaning back slightly, watching you with dark satisfaction.

"Tell me something," he says, voice dropping lower as his hand stills on your thigh. "Do you always get this... affected during job interviews?"

The question cuts through the haze like ice water. You watch as he withdraws completely, each movement deliberate and controlled. He straightens his perfect suit jacket, adjusts the heavy silver ring on his finger. All trace of intimacy bleeds from his expression, replaced by cool professionalism, except his eyes. His eyes still burn with dark amusement at your flushed state, at the way your chest still rises and falls too quickly.

"Well," he says, tone shifting to something lighter, almost casual. But there's a edge underneath, sharp as a razor. "I think you'll make an excellent addition to ARK 45."

You force your breathing to steady, trying to ignore how your skin still tingles where he touched you. How your body aches at the sudden loss of contact. His calculated withdrawal feels like another form of torture, knowing he can affect you this way and simply choose to stop, like flipping a switch.

"The position is yours, if you want it." Each word is crisp, businesslike. But the slight quirk of his lips betrays his satisfaction at your struggle to compose yourself. "You'll start tomorrow night. Eight sharp."

The smirk playing at the corners of his mouth grows wider as he watches you process this shift. This is what he wanted: to prove he could unmake you with a touch, then sit there looking perfectly composed while you try to piece yourself back together.

His eyes gleam in the low light, and the message is clear: he owns this game.

"I should check on the other girls." He glances at his Patek Philippe, the gesture unnecessarily theatrical. "Busy night."

You watch him stand, every movement fluid and precise. Like a predator who's finished playing with his food for now. The leather of his shoes catches the stage lights as he steps back from the booth, giving him just enough space to button his suit jacket with practiced ease.

"Oh, and Joanna?" The fake name rolls off his tongue like a threat wrapped in velvet. "Wear red tomorrow. It suits you."

His eyes drift pointedly to your lips, then lower, and the weight of his gaze feels like a physical touch. You know he's remembering the other night - you in that red dress, grinding against him to The Weeknd while he played along with your charade.

He turns without waiting for a response, without a second glance. Like you're already forgotten. The dismissal stings more than it should.

The leather seat still holds his warmth, a ghost of his presence that makes your skin prickle. Through the crowd below, you catch glimpses of him, the broad line of his shoulders, the predatory grace in his movements. Bodies part for him instinctively, and you notice how the other dancers' eyes follow his movement, some with hunger, others with barely concealed fear. Even Angelina straightens her spine when he passes.

He stops at the bar, and even from here, you can see how the bartender's hands shake slightly as she pours his drink. Everyone in his orbit seems to vibrate at a different frequency. Like planets circling a black hole, both drawn to and terrified of getting too close.

You press your own trembling fingers against the cool glass table, watching condensation gather beneath your skin. Your thigh still burns where he touched you, each point of contact a silent reminder of how easily he'd played you.

You're supposed to be better than this. You've tortured men twice his size without breaking a sweat. Have ended lives with the same hands that are now unsteady against the table's surface. The Viper doesn't get rattled by pretty boys in expensive suits.

Except Jungkook isn't just a pretty boy, is he?

The way he'd touched you, like he knew exactly how it would affect you. How he'd pulled back at the precise moment you started to lose control. Each word, each gesture calculated for maximum impact.

Wear red tomorrow.

Your lip catches between your teeth as you watch him disappear into his office. The entire interaction plays on loop in your mind: his fingers on your skin, that dangerous smile, the sudden shift to cool professionalism. Like a choreographed dance where you'd somehow missed half the steps.

On stage, the dancers transition into something slower, more sensual. The spotlight catches on their jewels, sending fractured light across the walls like broken glass. Like the shattered pieces of your usually impeccable composure.

What kind of game is he really playing?

The champagne bubbles mock you from their crystal prison, and you resist the urge to knock the glass over. To create some small chaos in his perfectly controlled world. Instead, you dig your nails deeper into your palms, using the sharp pain to center yourself.

Two can play at whatever this is. Tomorrow night, you'll be ready for him.

At least, you hope.

The untouched champagne mocks you as you finally push yourself up from the booth. Your legs feel steadier now, the trembling in your hands replaced by something more familiar: determination. Tomorrow, you'll be ready for whatever game Jungkook's playing. Tonight, you just need to get the fuck out of here.

The music thrums through your bones as you navigate the upper level, each step carefully measured in your Louboutins. The red soles flash with every movement, reminding you of his parting words. 

Wear red tomorrow.

Your heel catches on the last step down from the VIP section when a solid wall of expensive fabric collides with you. The sound of glass shattering cuts through the music, followed by a string of creative expletives.

"What the fuck?"

You steady yourself against the railing, taking in the man before you. Honey-blonde hair, sharp features twisted in fury, and a white button-down now soaked through with what smells like top-shelf whiskey. The liquid darkens the fabric, making it cling to what's clearly an expertly muscled frame.

"Watch where you're fucking walking," he snarls, accent thick with anger. His eyes flash dangerously as he assesses the damage to his clothes.

Something hot and familiar rises in your chest. The same feeling you get right before you make someone bleed. Your body shifts automatically, weight transferring to the balls of your feet. You catalog his weaknesses with practiced ease - the slight favor of his left side, the exposed tendons in his neck, the way his anger makes him drop his guard.

Three moves. That's all it would take to put him on his knees. Heel to instep, elbow to throat, knee to solar plexus. You can almost taste the violence, feel the satisfying crunch of cartilage beneath your hands.

"Maybe you should watch where you're going," you snap back, straightening to your full height. "Or is spatial awareness not a requirement for whatever it is you do here?"

His eyes narrow, jaw clenching. "Do you have any idea who I am?"

Your fingers curl into a fist, nails biting crescents into your palm. The urge to hurt him pulses through your veins like poison. You imagine grabbing the broken glass at his feet, showing him exactly who you are by opening his throat right here on the club floor.

He notices your stance, the predatory stillness that's overtaken your body, and his lips curve into something cruel. "Go ahead, sweetheart. Try it."

You're moving before you can think better of it, body coiling like a spring. The distance between you closes to inches, and you can smell the whiskey on his breath, see the moment his eyes widen as he realizes his mistake in challenging you.

But then you catch it— movement in your peripheral vision. In the VIP section above, Jungkook lounges against the railing, watching the scene unfold with undisguised amusement. His dark eyes meet yours, and that familiar smirk plays at his lips.

The reminder of where you are, who you're supposed to be, hits like cold water.

You force your body to relax, untangling yourself from the knife's edge of violence. The smile you plaster on feels like broken glass in your mouth. "I'm so sorry about your shirt. Send me the cleaning bill?"

The blonde's eyebrows shoot up at your sudden shift in demeanor. He opens his mouth to respond, but Jungkook's voice cuts through the tension.

"Taehyung." Just the one word, but it carries weight. A warning, maybe. Or a command.

Taehyung's posture changes instantly, though the anger still simmers in his eyes. "We're not done," he mutters, low enough that only you can hear.

You watch him stalk toward the VIP section, those expensive shoes crushing broken glass beneath them. When you glance back up, Jungkook is still watching you. His grin widens like you've just confirmed something he suspected.

Like you've just played right into his hands.

The broken glass crunches beneath your heels as you turn away, forcing yourself to maintain an easy stride despite the adrenaline still coursing through your veins. You can feel Jungkook's eyes following your movement, heavy as a physical touch. But you don't look back. Won't give him the satisfaction.

The main floor feels suffocating now, with too many bodies, and too much perfume mixed with smoke and expensive liquor. Your skin prickles with awareness, hyperconscious of how many of these faces might report back to him. How many are watching your exit, cataloging every micro-expression?

The cool night air hits your face like salvation when you finally push through the entrance doors. Rain still falls in sheets, casting halos around the street lights and turning the sidewalk into a mirror of neon reflections. Your hair will be ruined, but you welcome the excuse to duck your head as you navigate to your car.

It's only when you're safely behind the wheel, rain drumming against the roof, that you let out the breath you've been holding. Your hands shake slightly as you pull out your phone, droplets of water falling from your hair onto the screen.

You stare at Jimin's contact for a long moment before typing:

Need to meet. Now.

The response comes before you can even set the phone down. One word, like a command:

Côte.

Of fucking course. Trust Jimin to pick the most pretentious restaurant in the city after the night you've had. The kind of place where the waiters look down their noses if you can't pronounce 'bouillabaisse' with the proper French inflection. Where they serve portions that wouldn't satisfy a toddler and charge more than your monthly ammunition budget for the privilege.

He's probably already there, sipping some overpriced wine and charming the staff with his perfect pronunciation while you sit here in rain-soaked designer wear, still trembling with the urge to break Taehyung's pretty face.

You start the engine, watching rain cascade down the windshield. In the rearview mirror, ARK 45's red glow bleeds into the night like an open wound.

Time to find out just how deep this one goes.

Côte buzzes with the quiet murmur of New York's elite, the soft clink of crystal, the whisper of expensive fabric, the gentle scrape of silver against bone china. Every table draped in pristine white cloth, every surface reflecting the warm glow of crystal chandeliers.

Jimin sits at a table dead center in the dining room, positioned like a king holding court. His suit is different from this morning, a black Tom Ford that probably costs more than a car. The rosary still hangs at his throat, catching light with each breath.

He doesn't look up from his wine when you approach, just gestures to the chair across from him with two fingers. The movement is elegant, casual. Terrifying.

"You're late," he says, voice pitched just loud enough to carry across the table. A waiter materializes beside you, pulling out your chair with practiced efficiency.

"Traffic." You slip into the seat, hyperaware of the other diners. A couple to your left celebrating an anniversary. Business meeting three tables over. Everyone within earshot of whatever game Jimin wants to play.

His eyes finally meet yours as he sets down his wine glass. "How was your evening?"

The question sounds innocent enough, but his gaze is sharp as a blade. Testing.

"Productive." You accept the wine list from the hovering waiter, not bothering to open it. "My interview went well."

"Wonderful." He smiles, the kind that makes people think of angels instead of demons. "The Château Latour, François. The 1982, I think."

The waiter's eyes widen slightly at the casual mention of a wine that costs more than he makes in a month. "Excellent choice, monsieur."

Jimin waits until François retreats before speaking again. "And the entertainment? Up to standard?"

You think of Jungkook's hands on your skin, of Taehyung's fury, of the violence you'd barely contained. "Exceptional. Though I had a small wardrobe malfunction."

His finger traces the rim of his glass, the motion hypnotic. Deliberate. "Nothing that can't be fixed, I hope?"

"No permanent damage." You hold his stare, refusing to look away first. "Though I might need to adjust my approach."

"Hmm." The sound is noncommittal, but his eyes darken fractionally. "The clientele can be... demanding. Particularly the regulars."

François returns with the wine, going through the elaborate ritual of presentation and pouring. Jimin maintains perfect posture, the picture of refined wealth, while you fight the urge to drain your glass in one go.

"I noticed," you say once the waiter disappears again. "One seemed particularly interested in my qualifications."

Jimin's lips curve slightly. "Natural talent tends to draw attention."

"The foie gras to start," Jimin tells François without consulting the menu. "For both of us." His eyes never leave your face, studying every micro-expression like he's reading a book written in your skin. "And perhaps you could tell me more about these... qualifications they found so fascinating."

You watch him take another sip of wine, the motion deliberately slow. The crystal catches the light, sending prisms across the white tablecloth between you. "Standard interview questions. Experience, availability, flexibility."

"Flexibility," he repeats, setting down his glass with precise care. "Essential in any new position."

A couple at the next table laughs at something, the sound jarring against the tension coiling between you and Jimin. He leans forward slightly, elbows resting on either side of his place setting. The position looks casual, but you recognize the predatory intent behind it.

"And the dress code?" His voice drops lower, intimate. "Did they have any specific requirements?"

Heat crawls up your neck as you remember Jungkook's parting words. Wear red tomorrow. "They seem to have strong opinions about color."

"Red, perhaps?" The corner of his mouth twitches. "It does suit you. Particularly when it's fresh."

Your wine glass freezes halfway to your lips. The double meaning hits like a slap, red like the dress he'd given you, red like the blood you spill for him. You force yourself to take a measured sip instead of throwing the contents in his perfect face.

"They also seemed interested in my... previous work experience."

"Did they?" Something dangerous flashes behind his eyes. "And how deep did that conversation go?"

François appears with the foie gras, arranging the plates with flourish. Jimin sits back, that angelic smile returning as he thanks the waiter in perfect French. But the moment François retreats, his expression shifts back to something hungrier.

"Every detail," he says softly, cutting into the foie gras with surgical precision. "I want to know every detail of how interested they were."

You mirror his movements, cutting into your own foie gras with deliberate care. "The owner took a particular interest."

"Did he?" Jimin's voice remains light, conversational, but his knuckles whiten slightly around his fork. "How hands-on of him."

The foie gras turns to ash in your mouth as you remember Jungkook's fingers on your thigh, that calculated intimacy. Jimin watches you swallow, his dark eyes catching every tell you're trying to hide.

"Very." You take another sip of wine to wash away the memory. "He has an interesting approach to personnel management."

The businessman three tables over laughs too loudly at something his companion says. Jimin doesn't even blink, his focus razor-sharp on your face. "I imagine he does. Did he share his management philosophy?"

Your thigh burns with phantom heat where Jungkook had touched you. Where Jimin had marked you the night before. "He believes in testing boundaries."

"Testing?" His tongue catches the word like it's something sweet. "Or crossing them?"

A waiter passes too close to your table, and you wait until the footsteps fade before responding. "Both, I think."

Jimin sets down his fork with careful precision, the small clink against fine china somehow ominous. "And did you let him?" 

The question hangs between you like a blade. You know he's not really asking about Jungkook's tests, not entirely. The marks he left on your skin throb beneath your dress, a reminder of boundaries already crossed.

"I played my part," you say carefully, watching his eyes darken. "Though there was a small... incident with one of his associates."

His eyebrow raises a fraction. "Oh?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle."

"I'm sure." He reaches for the wine bottle, refilling your glass with practiced ease. The motion brings him closer, and his cologne mingles with the rich scent of the food. "Though handling things isn't always the wisest course of action, is it?"

"Depends on the situation," you say, watching him settle back into his chair. "Some things require a... delicate touch."

"Ah yes." His smile is razor-sharp. "And you're known for your delicacy. Like a bull in a china shop." His eyes flick to something over your shoulder. "Speaking of which, François? We'll take the lamb. Rare."

The waiter appears to clear your plates, and Jimin's expression shifts seamlessly into practiced charm. The transition is terrifying, the way he can slip between masks like trying on clothes.

"Though I have to admit," he continues once François disappears, "I'm curious about this associate. The one you handled so delicately."

You think of Taehyung's fury, the whiskey soaking his shirt. The way Jungkook had watched it all unfold like it was a show put on for his entertainment. "Just a minor misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding." He tastes the word like the wine, letting it roll over his tongue. "The way a hurricane is a minor weather event?"

Heat crawls up your neck. "He started it."

"What are you, twelve?" But there's something almost fond in his mockery. It vanishes as quickly as it appears, replaced by that calculating stare. "Tell me, did our friend upstairs seem amused by your little display?"

The memory of Jungkook's knowing smirk makes your stomach clench. "Extremely."

"Mm." Jimin's fingers drum once against the stem of his wine glass. "How fascinating. The mighty Viper, reduced to bar room brawls and schoolyard excuses."

Your nails dig into your palm beneath the table. "Would you prefer I'd killed him instead? Made a scene? Blown my cover on the first—"

The word dies in your throat as Jimin's eyebrow arches a fraction. The subtle movement is more effective than a slap, reminding you of the couples dining nearby, the waiters hovering within earshot. Your voice had risen just enough to draw a curious glance from the businessman two tables over.

"What I prefer," Jimin says, voice dropping to barely above a whisper, "is precision. Control." His smile remains perfectly pleasant, but his eyes promise consequences. "Perhaps we should discuss your methods of subtlety instead? Besides attempting to assault his inner circle?"

The weight of his stare makes you reach for your wine glass, needing something to do with your hands. Something besides imagining how satisfying it would be to wipe that controlled expression off his face.

"Well?" He leans back slightly as François approaches with the lamb, switching seamlessly into the role of gracious diner. "Merci, François. C'est parfait."

The meat on your plate is exactly as he ordered, blood red in the center. You wonder if he's trying to make a point.

"The owner," you say once François retreats, keeping your voice carefully modulated. "He had questions about my background."

"I'm sure he did." Jimin cuts into his lamb with surgical precision. "And did our thorough friend find what he was looking for?"

The memory of Jungkook's words echoes in your mind: It's like you appeared out of thin air. "He seemed... satisfied with the interview."

"Satisfied enough to hire you, apparently." Something dangerous flashes behind his eyes. "Though I have to wonder what kind of performance earned such a quick decision."

The double meaning in his words makes your chest tight. You watch him take a deliberately slow bite of lamb, the crystal chandelier above casting shadows across his features that make him look almost demonic.

"I maintained my cover," you say carefully. "Like you asked."

His laugh is soft, barely a breath. "Did you? Because from what I hear, you gave quite the... private audition."

Your wine glass freezes halfway to your lips. How does he—

"I do love," he continues, dabbing his mouth with his napkin, "how dedicated you are to your roles. Tell me, did he request the same song as last time? Or did you choose something new for the occasion?"

Your fingers tighten around the crystal stem until you're half afraid it might shatter. Around you, the restaurant continues its elegant dance of clinking silverware and murmured conversations, oblivious to the way your world tilts on its axis.

"Don't look so shocked," Jimin says, cutting another piece of lamb with meticulous care. "Did you really think I wouldn't have eyes in his club? That I wouldn't hear about my secretary grinding against New York's most eligible bachelor to The Weeknd?"

Heat crawls up your neck, but you force yourself to maintain eye contact. "You sent me in there to get information."

"Information." He lets the word hang between you, sharp as a blade. "Is that what you were getting when he had his hands on your hips? When you were putting on a show for him in that pretty red dress I bought you?"

A waiter passes too close to your table, and you both pause, masks of polite dinner conversation sliding seamlessly into place. But the moment he's gone, Jimin's eyes turn predatory again.

"Tell me," he says, voice dropping lower, "did you enjoy it? Playing dress up for him? Letting him touch what's mine?"

The possession in his tone makes your stomach flip. You think of last night, of his hands on your skin, his teeth in your shoulder. Of how quickly he'd switched to cold professionalism this morning.

"What I am," you say carefully, "is whatever you need me to be for the job. Isn't that what you pay me for?"

His smile is all teeth. "Oh, sweetheart. I pay you to kill people. Everything else?" He takes a slow sip of wine, eyes never leaving yours. "That's just you getting carried away with your performance."

"Getting carried away?" The words taste like battery acid on your tongue. "Like last night, you mean? Was that part of the job too?"

His expression doesn't change, but something dark flashes behind his eyes. "Careful."

"Why?" You lean forward slightly, voice barely above a whisper. "Afraid someone might overhear how you bent your secretary over your windows? Or is it only a problem when Jungkook's the one touching me?"

François materializes at your elbow with dessert menus, and Jimin's face shifts into that perfect smile. "The crème brûlée, I think. Two." He waits until the waiter disappears before continuing, "You're playing a very dangerous game right now."

"I learned from the best." You watch his jaw tick at your tone. "Tell me something— did you plan it? Send me to his club in that dress, knowing what would happen?"

"And what exactly happened?" His fingers trace the base of his wine glass, the motion hypnotic and threatening all at once. "Besides you spreading your legs for the man who's trying to kill us both?"

"You're one to talk about spreading—"

"I own you." The words are soft, precise, but they hit like a physical blow. "Every breath, every move, every drop of blood you spill— it's all mine. Or did you forget that while you were auditioning for your new position?"

The businessman at the next table signals for his check. A woman laughs somewhere behind you. The normal sounds of the restaurant feel surreal against the electricity crackling between you and Jimin.

"How could I forget?" You smile, sweet as arsenic. "You make sure to remind me every time you send me to kill someone. Every time you dress me up like a doll and point me at your enemies. Tell me, is that what last night was? Another reminder of ownership?"

His pupils dilate slightly. "Would you like another one?"

The crème brûlée arrives in pristine white ramekins, the caramelized sugar gleaming like amber in the low light. You watch Jimin crack through the surface with his spoon, the sound sharp as breaking bones.

"You haven't answered my question." His voice is velvet-soft, lethal. "Would you like another reminder of who you belong to?"

"Here?" You gesture subtly to your surroundings with your own spoon. "In front of all these nice people? How scandalous, Mr. Park."

His eyes flash at your mocking tone. "You didn't seem concerned about scandal when you were putting on a show in Jungkook's office. Tell me, did he make you beg for the job? Or did you offer that up freely?"

"Jealousy doesn't suit you."

"Jealousy?" He laughs, the sound cutting through you like glass. "Why would I be jealous of him playing with what's already mine?"

Your spoon clinks against the ramekin harder than necessary. "Is that what I am? Your toy?"

"No, sweetheart." He leans forward, close enough that his breath fans across your face. "You're my weapon. And weapons don't get to choose where they're aimed."

"But they can misfire." The words slip out before you can stop them, sharp and dangerous in the space between you.

His smile grows slowly, predatory. "Is that a threat?"

"A reminder." You meet his gaze steadily. "Since you're so fond of those."

Something shifts in his expression, a crack in that perfect control. His hand moves under the table, and suddenly his fingers are wrapping around your knee, right where Jungkook had touched you hours before.

"Careful," he says again, but this time it sounds like a promise. His grip tightens just shy of painful. "You're forgetting yourself."

"Am I?" You don't pull away from his touch, even as his fingers slide higher. "Or am I just reminding you that weapons can cut both ways?"

"You know what I think?" Jimin reaches for the wine bottle between you, his movements liquid and precise. "A good vintage is all about control." 

He stands slightly, leaning across the table to refill your glass. The motion brings him close enough that his cologne mingles with the wine's bouquet, close enough that you can see the dangerous glint in his eyes.

"Too much pressure," he continues, angling the bottle with practiced ease, "and everything spills over."

The elderly couple at the next table glances over with polite interest, and Jimin's smile widens. He turns to them, bottle still poised above your glass.

"The '82 Latour," he says conversationally, like he isn't in the middle of threatening you. "Have you tried it? The tannins can be quite... overwhelming if not handled properly."

The woman practically preens under his attention. "Oh, how lovely. Richard, didn't we have that at the Bennett's last summer?"

"Indeed." Jimin's hand is perfectly steady as he finishes pouring your wine. "Though personally, I find it's best to let it breathe. Some things require patience to reach their full potential." His eyes lock with yours as he settles back into his seat. "Wouldn't you agree?"

You take a deliberate sip of wine to avoid responding, watching him over the rim of your glass. The elderly couple continues to eye him appreciatively, completely unaware of the game he's playing.

"The key," he says, loud enough for them to hear, "is knowing exactly how much pressure to apply." His fingers drum once against the stem of his own glass. "Too little, and you waste its potential. Too much..." He trails off, smile sharpening. "Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?"

The elderly woman - who introduces herself as Margaret, practically glows under his attention. Her husband Richard nods along, completely taken in by Jimin's performance. You watch him work, recognizing this for what it is - another form of torture, drawn out in public where you can't do anything but sit and take it.

"Take my colleague here," he says, gesturing to you with his wine glass. "She has quite the... refined palate. Always willing to try new things."

Your fingers tighten around your own glass as Margaret turns her interest your way. "Oh, how wonderful! Are you in the wine business as well?"

"She's my secretary," Jimin answers before you can speak. "Though she's recently taken on some additional responsibilities. Haven't you, darling?"

The endearment drips like poison from his lips. You force a smile, playing your part in his little show. "I like to stay busy."

"She's being modest." Jimin swirls the wine in his glass, watching the light play through the dark liquid. "She's quite talented at... handling delicate situations. In fact, she has a new position starting tomorrow night."

Richard perks up at this. "Congratulations! Where will you be working?"

Your mouth goes dry as Jimin's eyes meet yours over the rim of his glass. He's really going to do this, discuss your cover job at a strip club with this sweet elderly couple in the middle of Côte.

"A very exclusive establishment," Jimin answers smoothly. "Members only. The owner is quite particular about his employees." His smile sharpens. "Especially the ones who perform."

Margaret claps her hands together. "Oh, how exciting! Is it that lovely new theater in Manhattan? Richard, what's it called? The one with the red lights?"

You nearly choke on your wine.

"Not quite," Jimin says, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "Though there are certainly theatrical elements involved. The costumes alone are quite memorable."

Your heel connects with his shin under the table— hard. His only reaction is a slight tightening around his eyes, but you feel a savage satisfaction at the contact.

"Speaking of memorable," he continues, not missing a beat, "you simply must try this vintage. François?" He signals the waiter with two fingers. "Please bring our friends here a taste of the Latour. On me."

Margaret tries to protest, but Jimin waves her off with practiced charm. "I insist. After all, some pleasures are best shared, wouldn't you agree?" This last part he directs at you, voice laden with meaning.

François arrives with fresh glasses, and you're forced to watch as Jimin guides the couple through the proper tasting technique. His voice is hypnotic as he describes the notes of black fruit, the hint of tobacco, the way it opens up on the palate.

"The true art," he tells them, "is in the finish. The way it lingers." His eyes find yours again. "Some things are designed to leave a lasting impression."

You think of the bruises hidden beneath your dress, of the marks he'd left on your skin. Of how he's marking you again now, in a completely different way.

"Of course," he adds, "not everyone appreciates such refinement. Some prefer their pleasures more immediate. Raw." He takes another slow sip. "But those tend to leave a bitter aftertaste."

The threat in his words is clear. Jungkook is beneath you. Beneath us.

"More wine?" He's already reaching for the bottle again, standing slightly to lean across the table. The motion brings his face close to yours, and his next words are pitched low enough that only you can hear them. "Since you seem so thirsty tonight."

Your pulse jumps at his proximity, at the dangerous edge in his voice that their audience can't detect. Margaret and Richard are too busy savoring their wine to notice the way Jimin's hand trembles slightly as he pours, the only sign that his perfect control might be slipping.

"Tell me," he says, loud enough for the table to hear again, "what do you think of the finish? Does it satisfy your particular tastes?"

The conversation is cut short with a ring erupting from Jimin’s suit pocket. 

Namjoon's call lasts exactly thirty-seven seconds. You count them, watching Jimin's face remain perfectly composed as he listens. Only the slight whitening of his knuckles around the phone betrays anything amiss.

"When?" A pause. "I see."

He ends the call with the same precision he uses to end lives, clean, efficient, and final. The elderly couple barely notices when he signals François, too engrossed in their wine to catch the predatory shift in his movements.

As the valet brings his Bentley around, rain starting to fall in earnest now, he tells you Jiwon is missing. One of his most trusted men— gone. At the snap of a finger. This will be an issue for tomorrow.

You're already stepping toward your car when his voice cuts through the humid air.

"Get in."

Two words, soft as a bullet before it's fired.

The leather seat is cold against your back as you slide in beside him. He doesn't speak, doesn't even look at you as he pulls away from the curb. The engine purrs beneath you as he takes the first corner too fast, tires squealing against wet asphalt.

You watch him from the corner of your eye, cataloging each micro-expression like you would a mark before a kill. His jaw clenches and unclenches in a rhythm that matches the windshield wipers. The tendons in his neck stand out like rope under skin. His breathing comes slightly too quick, slightly too shallow.

A red light bathes the interior in crimson. He runs it.

Then another.

The city blurs past in streams of neon and shadow. You count his breaths, twenty-three too fast, fifteen too shallow. His fingers adjust on the steering wheel every forty-five seconds, like he's trying to maintain that last thread of control.

The elevator to his penthouse opens with a soft ding that feels too cheerful for the electricity crackling beneath his skin. An elderly woman with a small dog gets in on the thirty-fourth floor. You watch Jimin's mask slide seamlessly into place, perfect smile, perfect posture, perfect lie.

"Evening, Mrs. Chen."

His voice doesn't waver. Doesn't betray how his left hand trembles slightly at his side, how the muscle in his jaw jumps arrhythmically. The woman chatters about building maintenance as you climb higher, oblivious to the bomb ticking beside her.

Nintey-six floors have never felt so long.

The moment his door closes behind you, something shifts in the air. You can feel it - that last thread of control starting to fray. He stands perfectly still in the center of his living room, staring at nothing. At everything.

The first crack appears when he loosens his tie. The motion isn't smooth like usual - it's jerky, aggressive. He tears the silk from his throat like it's choking him.

Then his suit jacket. The fabric whispers against his shirt as he shrugs it off, letting it fall to the marble floor. You've never seen him treat clothing so carelessly.

His chest rises and falls too quickly now, each breath slightly more ragged than the last. You watch him rake fingers through his perfectly styled hair, destroying hours of careful grooming in seconds.

The lamp goes first.

The Tiffany piece you'd admired that night against his windows becomes a constellation of crystal across marble. The sound of its destruction seems to awaken something in him - something primitive and raw that's been lurking beneath his perfect surface.

You don't move when he disappears into his office. Don't flinch when he emerges with a baseball bat that looks wrong in his manicured hands. Just analyze the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders as he takes the first swing.

The glass coffee table explodes. 

Then his flat screen, expensive and pristine like everything else in his life. The screen spiders with cracks before sparks fly from its dying circuits.

The grand piano becomes kindling under his methodical swings. Each string snaps with a discordant scream, like the instrument is dying. The sound mingles with his ragged breathing, creating a symphony of destruction.

His aim never wavers. Even in this, he maintains a terrible precision. The bat connects with his drink cart, sending bottles of thousand-dollar liquor cascading across marble. The scent of alcohol fills the air, bourbon and scotch and wine mixing with the ozone smell of destroyed electronics.

You catalog every detail with professional detachment. The way his white shirt darkens with sweat. How his perfectly pressed slacks tear slightly at the knee as he kicks through the wreckage. The precise angle of each swing, like he's conducting an orchestra of chaos.

When he finally stops, chest heaving and surrounded by destruction, you understand. This isn't about Jiwon disappearing. This isn't about business or territory or power.

This is about control slipping through his fingers like water.

Like you, dancing in Jungkook's office.

"He knew," Jimin says finally, voice raw. The bat clatters to the floor beside what used to be a Versace vase. "He fucking knew about Jiwon. About the ports. About—" 

He cuts off, running shaking fingers through his ruined hair. You step carefully through the wreckage, glass crunching beneath your heels. He doesn't move as you approach, just stares at the devastation he's created like he's seeing it for the first time.

"This isn't about Jiwon," you say quietly.

His laugh is ugly, sharp enough to cut. "No." His eyes finally meet yours, and they're black holes in his too-pale face. "No it fucking isn't."

Liquor seeps into the hem of your dress as you stand in the wreckage, watching him piece himself back together. His chest still heaves with each breath, shirt clinging to his frame with sweat and effort. The perfectly styled hair you'd watched him ruin now falls across his forehead in damp strands.

He looks wild. Dangerous. More like the man who marks your skin than the one who signs your checks.

"You should go." The words come out rough, like they've been dragged across broken glass.

You don't move. Can't move. Something tells you this moment matters, that walking away now would shift something irreparable between you.

His eyes snap to yours, dark and feral. "I said—"

"No."

The word hangs in the air between you, sharp as the crystal shards beneath your feet. You watch his jaw clench, watch the muscle jump beneath skin that's too pale.

"You don't give the orders here." But his voice wavers slightly, betraying the cracks in his armor.

"Then give me one." You take another step closer, glass crunching beneath your heels. "Tell me what you need."

His laugh is all edges. "What I need?" He runs a hand through his ruined hair again, the gesture almost violent. "I need Jungkook's head on a fucking platter. I need to know how deep his reach goes. I need—"

He cuts off, throat working as he swallows whatever confession was about to spill out.

You're close enough now to smell his cologne mixed with sweat and spilled alcohol. Close enough to see the barely contained tremors in his hands, the wild pulse at his throat.

"Tell me." Your voice comes out softer than intended. "Tell me what you need."

His eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment you think he might grab you. Might press you against the wall and fuck you right here among the wreckage of his perfect life. Instead, he does something worse.

"Kill her."

The words slip out like a caress, barely above a whisper. You watch his face transform. the wild thing in his eyes crystallizing into something colder, more familiar.

"Miranda?" Your voice remains steady even as your pulse quickens. "She's not involved in this."

"Developing a conscience?" His smile is perfectly crafted to cut. "How disappointing. You've gotten too comfortable behind that desk, haven't you? Started believing your own cover story?"

The air feels thick, heavy with spilled alcohol and the ozone scent of destroyed electronics. A bead of sweat trails down your spine, making your dress cling uncomfortably.

"You're upset," you say carefully, watching his eyes darken at the observation.

"No, darling." He steps closer, glass crunching beneath his feet. "I'm just remembering what you really are. What I made you to be." His perfectly pressed shirt clings to his chest, dark with sweat. "A weapon. Nothing more."

"This isn't about me."

"Isn't it?" His breath comes quicker now, shallow. "You walk around my building like you belong there. Playing secretary, playing normal." He runs a hand through his ruined hair. "Have you forgotten what those hands are for? What you are?"

Heat prickles at the back of your neck. "I know exactly what I am."

"Do you?" He's close enough now that you can smell his cologne mixed with sweat and rage. "Because from where I'm standing, you look like someone who's forgotten their purpose. Who's started thinking they're more than just a tool."

"And you look scared."

The words hit like a physical blow. His chest stills mid-breath, eyes going dark as pitch.

"What did you say?"

A drop of sweat rolls down your temple. The air crackles between you, heavy with violence and something else. Something rawer.

"You're terrified," you press on, even as your pulse races. "Jungkook's in your head and you can't stand it. So you're here, breaking your own things, trying to break me too."

"Get out." His voice drops to something dangerous, something barely controlled.

"No."

"Get. Out." Each word comes with a step forward, backing you against the wall. "Before I remind you exactly what you are. What you're for."

You hold his stare, even as your heart threatens to break through your ribs. "You mean before you remind yourself that you're losing control?"

His hand slams into the wall beside your head, making you flinch. His breathing comes in harsh pants now, chest heaving with barely contained violence.

"Leave," he grits out, voice raw. "Now. Before I do something we'll both regret."

You can feel the heat radiating off him, see the muscle jumping in his jaw. The perfect mask has cracked completely, leaving something wild and desperate in its wake.

Around you, his perfect life lies in ruins. 

So you go, leaving him alone in his destroyed kingdom, both of you pretending not to notice how his hands shake as you walk away.

The elevator descends in artificial silence, only the subtle whir of machinery accompanying your reflection in the mirrored walls. Your hair slightly mussed, lipstick somehow still perfect. Like the confrontation upstairs was just a nightmare your body hasn't woken from yet.

Forty-seven floors to ground level. You count each one, using the numbers to steady your pulse. To push down the urge to go back up there and show him exactly what his weapon can do.

The lobby stretches before you in shadow and marble, empty except for the night security guard who barely glances up from his crossword. Your heels mark time against the floor, each step echoing your thundering heartbeat - too fast, too hard, everything threatening to spill over.

Night air hits your face when you exit the building, carrying the metallic tang of recent rain. The city spreads before you in sharp contrasts - neon bleeding across wet pavement, shadows pooling between towers of steel and glass. You inhale slowly, tasting ozone and exhaust and that particular Manhattan mixture of ambition and decay.

Bass thuds from an upscale bar ahead, all crystal chandeliers visible through floor-to-ceiling windows. You catalog the exits reflexively, the cameras, the blind spots. Old habits.

"Well, look what we have here."

The voice slides through the darkness like oil. Taehyung leans against a sleek black Mercedes, all dangerous grace in expensive clothes. His white button-down is rolled to his elbows, exposing ink that maps stories across his skin.

You catalog his stance with professional detachment, the same way you'd studied John strapped to that chair. Weight slightly forward, shoulders loose, that same arrogant tilt to his head that says he has no idea what's coming.

"Not tonight." You move to pass him, but he shifts, blocking your path.

"What's wrong, sugar?" Smoke curls from his mouth as he speaks. "ARK not hiring tonight? Or did they finally realize what kind of trash they were letting through the door?"

Fuuuuuuck it.

The first hit is pure precision, heel of your palm to his solar plexus, angled up and in. Just like you'd done to that businessman in Dubai last year. The cigarette falls from his lips as he doubles over, giving you the perfect angle to bring your knee up into his face.

The crunch of cartilage under your kneecap sends electricity down your spine. It's different from torture, faster, rawer. No time to savor each break and tear. But there's something beautiful in this too, in letting the violence flow through you like water.

He swings wild, trained but sloppy. You duck under his arm, noting how his stance betrays formal training. Boxing maybe, some Muay Thai. Everything too clean, too structured. Not like you, you were taught to end things.

Your elbow finds his kidney with surgical precision. The same spot you'd pushed the knife into that politician in Seoul. His grunt of pain is poetry, the way he tries to protect his side leaving his throat exposed for another strike.

The Mercedes alarm wails as you slam him against it, but you're already moving, letting momentum carry you both into the shadows of the alley beside the bar. This is what you're good at, making violence look like a dance, like something beautiful instead of brutal.

He tries to grab you, to use his size advantage, but you're already inside his guard. Your knee finds his liver, your elbow his temple. Each point of impact chosen with the same care you use when selecting knives for a job.

Your dress rides up as you move, but you don't care. This is what you are, not the secretary in designer clothes, not the dancer in red. This is your true face, painted in someone else's blood.

When he finally drops, you follow him down. One hand fists in his honey-blonde hair while the other draws back. His face is a masterpiece of destruction, nose crushed, lip split, eye already swelling shut. The kind of methodical damage that comes from years of practice.

You lean in close, letting him smell the Chanel on your breath mixed with his own blood. "Next time you decide to threaten me," your voice drops to barely above a whisper, "make sure you're ready for what comes after."

You leave him there, crumpled among garbage bags and broken glass. Your knuckles throb as you smooth your dress, check your reflection in a darkened window. A single drop of blood mars your cheek, you wipe it away with your thumb, watching it disappear into your skin like all evidence of violence eventually does.

The city swallows you back into its rhythm, the pulse of music from nearby clubs, the whisper of tires on wet asphalt, the steady beat of your heels against concrete. You rejoin the flow of normal people living their normal lives, carrying your savage satisfaction like a secret beneath your skin.

This is what you are. What you're for.

And for once, that doesn't feel like a curse.

[brookghaib-blog]

Silence between hearts - IV

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: After Project SENTRY fails, Robert Reynolds is declared dead and sealed in a glass coffin to be hidden by O.X.E. Y/N, a doctor who secretly fell in love with him after a complicated path between them, refuses to believe he’s gone—fighting to save what’s left of him while grief and denial consume her, the path to look for him would ruin her, but to what extreme.

Word count: 7,1k

Warning: self-esteem issues, parental negligence, death

Chapter III

--

Y/N had barely slept.

She’d left Bob’s room without another word. Just a soft parting glance. The kind you give when you’ve already said too much, and anything more might make you crumble.

Now, she stood in the sterile bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror, her toothbrush hanging loosely from her mouth. Her lips still tingled faintly. Not from the pressure. From the meaning.

She turned the faucet on too hard. The water splashed.

She told herself to stop thinking about it. About him.

But the lie didn’t stick.

He’d held her like she was something he’d never been allowed to touch before. And it wasn't lust—not the kind she was used to. It was... longing. Slow, cautious. Honest.

It terrified her.

Bob hadn’t slept either.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall like it might provide some answers. His shirt was on now. Pants too. But he still felt bare. Exposed.

She kissed him.

And he kissed her back.

His heart had hurt. Not in a bad way. In a way he hadn’t let it feel in years.

No. Longer.

And now?

Now he didn’t know what the hell to do.

They saw each other again just after seven.

Y/N entered the lab with her tablet in hand, her hair tied back, white coat buttoned up to the collar like usual. On the surface, everything looked normal.

But the second their eyes met, something invisible passed between them.

Bob was already seated on the medical bed, legs swinging slightly, waiting like he always did for the morning checkup.

“Morning,” she said, casual. Maybe too casual.

“Hey.” His voice was low, quieter than usual.

She looked down at the file in her hands. “You slept?”

“No.”

“Yeah. Me neither.”

A pause.

She stepped closer, reached out to take his pulse like she did every morning. Her fingers touched the inside of his wrist, and for a second, it was like last night had never ended. Her hands stilled.

He looked at her—not intensely, but gently.

Like he was asking: Are we going to pretend that didn’t happen?

But Y/N didn’t meet his gaze. Not yet. Her throat tightened slightly. She cleared it and moved to take his temperature instead.

Bob said nothing.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he knew. If he said the wrong thing now, she might retreat completely. And she was already slipping into her walls again.

Instead, he offered her something soft. Something careful.

“I, uh…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “I liked talking with you last night.”

That was all.

Her hands paused. A beat of silence.

Then she finally looked up at him. And she nodded—just once.

“Me too.”

The day moved on. Tests. Readings. Silence broken by clinical terms and scribbled notes. But every now and then, something shifted:

—She handed him a glass of water and their fingers brushed just a little longer than necessary. —He cracked a joke about the ECG machine stuttering whenever she got close—and she didn’t deny it. —She sat closer than usual during their conversation at lunch. Not touching. Just... there. Present.

They didn’t talk about the kiss.

But everything had changed.

Their laughter was warmer. The silences were heavier. The space between them—the physical distance—felt charged now, like the air between magnets waiting to click.

And maybe they didn’t know what they were yet.

But they were something.

--

It began with a kiss. And then it kept going.

Not in declarations or confessions—those were too loud for the world they lived in. Their affection became a shadow, slipping between the cracks of duty and responsibility. Quiet, but constant. Never acknowledged in daylight, but always there—undeniable.

For days on end, Y/N and Bob carried on their secret like glass between their fingers.

It started subtly: she’d check his vitals longer than she needed to, her fingers brushing over his skin like she couldn’t help herself. Bob’s eyes would follow her when she walked across the room, his gaze soft, reverent, like she was some painting he was still trying to understand. At night, when the lab was dark and cold, they began to meet in secret.

Y/N had quietly programmed a five-minute camera loop override. It wasn’t perfect. It was dangerous. But it gave them enough time.

She never said why she did it.

And Bob never asked.

The first few nights, they only talked. Sitting across from each other, knees barely touching. Her hair would be down by then, her face stripped of the formal steel mask she wore during the day. Bob always looked at her like he couldn’t believe she was real. Like if he blinked, she might disappear.

Sometimes he would just stare at her in silence, then apologize.

“I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t,” she always said. Even if it did. Even if the way he looked at her made her feel things she wasn’t supposed to feel here.

One night, she turned off the cameras and walked into his room, and instead of sitting on the couch, she sat beside him on the bed. It was small. Cold. Not built for comfort.

But it became theirs.

He reached for her hand like he’d done it a thousand times. Her fingers hesitated—then laced through his.

No words.

They weren’t ready for words. They didn’t talk about what they were doing. Not really.

To speak it into existence might make it too real—might make it vulnerable, and they couldn’t afford that. Not when everything else in their lives was clinical and cold. Not when the world around them was full of white walls and threat analysis and the smell of antiseptic in the air.

So they built a world inside the silence.

In that world, he told her things he didn’t know he remembered: about the time he was six and fell off a tree and cried because his dad didn’t care, about the first time he tried meth in a motel bathroom. About the months before Malaysia when he’d stayed in an abandoned building, waiting to die, waiting for his powers to consume him or the drugs to finally dull it all for good.

And she listened. She didn’t look away. She didn’t flinch.

She held his hand tighter.

She told him things too—though never as easily. She told him about the university lab where she used to work, where her theories got mocked until her father stepped in and suddenly everything she did was "a gift from a legacy." She hated how they never saw her. Just a replica of a man she didn’t even trust.

“I didn’t want to use his methods,” she whispered one night, curled under a blanket beside him. “But I didn’t believe in my own enough to stand on them.”

Bob touched her hair, brushing it behind her ear like it was instinct. “Then why did you keep going?”

Her voice cracked when she said it: “Because when I found you, I had a feeling I wasn’t wrong.”

During the day, they went back to playing roles. Doctor. Subject.

Cold. Professional.

But it wasn’t clean anymore.

Sometimes her hand would linger just a little too long when checking a reading. Sometimes he’d lean too close when answering a question. Sometimes they’d lock eyes in the middle of a room and both forget where they were for a split second.

Dr. Ilari noticed the change. He never said anything directly, but the way his eyes lingered on her longer than usual after team briefings told her he was starting to suspect. One afternoon, he passed her in the hall and said, “You seem… lighter.”

She only nodded. Didn’t offer more.

He didn’t press.

But she could feel the edge of danger now. The tightrope between what was growing and what would happen if anyone found out.

And yet she kept going back.

They were sitting in his bed again. No camera, no clipboard, no reason. Her head was on his shoulder. One of his hands played absentmindedly with the hem of her shirt. Neither of them had spoken in almost ten minutes.

“Why do you keep coming back?” he asked softly.

She lifted her head. Looked at him. “I don’t know.”

He turned his face toward hers, so close now their noses brushed.

“I think I do,” he whispered.

Their mouths hovered.

He kissed her again. Slower this time. Gentler.

The kiss deepened, and time lost all meaning.

Bob's hands, careful and trembling, held the back of Y/N’s neck like he was afraid she’d break—or worse, pull away. But she didn’t. She leaned in. Pressed harder.

Her shoes had already dropped to the floor, and now her fingers were splayed across his chest, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin shirt the lab had issued him. She could feel his heartbeat—it wasn’t steady. Neither was hers.

When they finally pulled apart, the silence was heavy. Not awkward. Just... fragile.

Bob searched her face like he was trying to read a language he didn’t speak.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he whispered, voice rough with something that wasn’t just shock—it was self-doubt, buried shame. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Y/N exhaled shakily. Her fingers lingered near the collar of his shirt.

“I know,” she said softly. “I wanted to.”

He stepped back slightly, like he needed to be sure. “Why?”

Her voice caught for a second. Then, after a pause:

“Because I think I’m starting to feel something. And I don’t know what to do with it.”

Bob blinked.

“I understand,” he said. “I thought after a couple days you go grow tired, part of him thought that maybe this...was just another psychological experiment from you.”

She shook her head. “I was scared.”

His brows drew together. “Of me?”

“No. Of this.” She gestured between them. “I don’t know what we are. I don’t know what this means. But… when I’m with you, I feel like myself. And I don’t remember the last time I felt like that.”

He looked at her, stunned. Like someone had handed him something too valuable to touch.

“I thought I ruined it,” he admitted quietly. “After what I did that day. Hurting you.”

“You didn’t,” she said, her voice breaking just slightly. “That wasn’t you. And I knew that. I just didn’t know how to separate the parts yet.”

He stepped closer again, cautiously. “And now?”

“I see you, Bob,” she whispered. “And you make it easy to forget everything else when I do.”

Something shifted in him. His hand found hers again, tentative and reverent. “So what do we do?”

She let out a breath, half a laugh, half a sigh. “We keep quiet. We don’t name it. We don’t plan ahead. Not yet.”

“And if it grows?” he asked, almost afraid to ask.

“Then we let it,” she said. “One moment at a time.”

He nodded, then leaned forward again—his forehead gently resting against hers.

“I’ve never had anything like this,” he said. “I didn’t think I’d be allowed to.”

Y/N’s hand slid up to his face, her thumb brushing across the stubble on his jaw. “Me neither.”

And then—slowly, tenderly—they kissed again.

How could everything go down so easily.

--

2 weeks after - New York

The heavy oak door creaked closed behind her, muffling the hum of the Manhattan street outside. The air inside the townhouse was still—unchanged from her childhood years. The scent of aged books, old leather, and her father’s cologne clung to the air like ghosts she never quite escaped.

She walked slowly down the hallway, her heels echoing against the hardwood. Every step forward brought memories she had long buried—standing by the doorway after school with trembling hands, waiting for him to ask about her grades, to see if she had earned his approval or punishment. The hallway was still lined with framed articles, academic degrees, newspaper clippings of her father’s accolades. Not a single photo of her.

“Y/N.” His voice rang from the study down the corridor. Crisp. Controlled.

She straightened her spine, walked through the doorway of the room that had once terrified her, and saw him—Dr. Marcus L/N—sitting at his desk, papers spread before him, a glass of scotch half-full in his hand. He didn’t rise to greet her. He never did.

“Father,” she said curtly.

“About time,” he muttered, not looking up yet. “You were supposed to be here yesterday.”

“There were weather delays in Singapore,” she lied. “I came as soon as I could.”

His eyes flicked up at her then. Piercing, familiar, and devoid of warmth. “Excuses. You always had those.”

Y/N’s jaw tensed. She walked forward and placed a black folder on the desk between them.

“These are the results of the latest testing. Neural response time, muscle adaptation, cognitive expansion. He’s stabilizing. The uncontrolled episodes have decreased in frequency and strength since I took over the project.”

Her father snorted, flipping through the pages with practiced speed. “Stabilizing,” he repeated mockingly. “After how long? Two months and he’s still barely showing what the serum was designed for.”

“It’s not just a serum. It’s psychological conditioning. Emotional triggers. This is a different approach.”

“A soft one,” he muttered, setting the folder down. “That’s what I read between the lines. You’ve been coddling him.”

“I’ve been rehabilitating him,” she said firmly.

“And how does sleeping in his room fit into rehabilitation?”

Y/N froze.

Her breath hitched—barely, but enough that he noticed.

“I have eyes everywhere, Y/N,” he said, with a smug look. “You really thought Valentina wouldn’t mention the inconsistencies in your schedule? The missing footage logs? You think you’re smarter than us now?”

“No,” she said, calmer than she felt. “I think I’m better than the methods you forced down everyone’s throats. You turned every subject into a corpse. I'm trying to create something alive.”

“You were always too emotional,” he said. “Too delicate. You want them to like you. That’s your weakness.”

She felt her fists clench at her sides. “He’s not just them. He’s not like the others. He’s surviving—he’s responding to this. He’s not disposable.”

Her father stood up, slowly walking around the desk. Towering, still. His voice lowered.

“And what happens when he turns on you again? When he snaps your neck in his sleep? He doesn’t love you, Y/N. He’s addicted to whatever comfort you’re giving him. You’re playing nursemaid to a weapon.”

“I don’t want him to love me,” she lied, trying not to let it crack in her voice. “I want him to live.”

Her father scoffed. “That’s why you’ll fail. Again.”

She bit down on the anger. The shame. The way his words always cut too deep.

“I’m going back in a few days,” she said. “I’ll be done with the supplementary files and analysis by then.”

“Good,” he replied coldly, already walking back behind the desk. “Try not to lose sight of your purpose, Y/N. You weren’t hired to fix broken men. You were trained to make them useful.”

She didn’t answer.

She turned and walked away, her chest tight, heart heavier than when she arrived. The house felt smaller now. Colder. She passed by the childhood photos stored in drawers.

Y/N moved up the familiar staircase slowly, her fingers trailing over the polished mahogany railing. Her father’s words still echoed in her head—cold and clinical, weaponizing every inch of her life’s work and threading it back to her old insecurities. But it wasn’t over. Not in this house.

She hesitated outside the guest room at the end of the hall—her mother’s room now. A soft classical tune filtered through the door, piano-heavy, somber. She raised her hand to knock, but before she could, the door flew open.

“Y/N!” her mother cried out, eyes wide, arms outstretched.

Y/N didn’t have time to prepare. The woman nearly crushed her in a perfume-heavy embrace—familiar and suffocating. Her mother’s touch had always been too much, clinging like guilt.

“Oh my baby, finally. I was told you arrived hours ago! You didn’t think to see me first?”

Y/N gave a tight, awkward smile, her arms barely reciprocating the hug. “I had to meet with Dad. Project work.”

Her mother pulled back, holding her face between her manicured fingers like she was inspecting a glass figurine. “Mmm. You’re pale. Not sleeping, are you?”

“I’m fine.”

Her mother clicked her tongue, eyes trailing down. “Your hair’s dull. And what are you wearing?” She stepped back slightly, waving her hands at Y/N’s plain blouse and slacks. “You look like a secretary. Not a researcher.”

Y/N resisted the urge to roll her eyes a second time. “I didn’t come here to walk a runway.”

“Well, clearly. You could’ve at least done your lips. Or something with that hair.”

“Mom,” Y/N sighed, shifting her weight. “Can we not start this?”

Her mother blinked, feigning innocence. “I’m just saying, you used to be so pretty when you tried. You used to turn heads in this house.”

Y/N gave a dry smile. “Yeah. I remember. It’s probably why Dad ignored my science awards and only mentioned my prom dress.”

Her mother laughed lightly, missing—or ignoring—the venom in the words. “He’s old-fashioned, you know that. But you were always my little star. You could’ve done anything with that face. TV, fashion, even modeling.”

“I didn’t want to be looked at,” Y/N said under her breath, almost too soft.

Her mother didn't hear—or didn’t care. “But now?” She touched Y/N’s shoulder lightly, like she was brushing off dust. “There’s still time. You just need to take better care of yourself. A few spa days, maybe a personal stylist. You could still be stunning.”

Y/N stepped back, her smile completely gone now. “I'm working. I’m building something. That’s what I care about.”

Her mother tilted her head. “Working so hard you forgot how to be a woman?”

Y/N clenched her jaw and looked away, biting back the sudden rise of heat in her chest.

She’d come here for a week. A handful of days. And she was already fighting the ghosts that raised her.

“I’m going to bed,” she said abruptly.

“Oh, don’t be so sensitive—”

“I’m not,” Y/N cut in. “Just tired. Of being dissected like one of my subjects.”

And without waiting for a response, she turned and walked out of the room.

--

The sun hadn't even reached its peak when Y/N sat curled on the old study chaise, papers spread around her like fallen leaves. Her laptop hummed quietly as she updated her final findings to send to the board—gene response patterns, neurological baselines, all the data from the last month. Her fingers moved mechanically over the keyboard, but her mind was elsewhere. On gold eyes. On the way his voice changed when he was tired. On the way they hadn't said a single word about what was happening between them, but couldn't seem to stop touching.

Then the screen lit up.

Dr. Ilari - Incoming Call

She blinked. Clicked. “Doctor?”

His voice came in strained, shaky. “Y/N. How fast can you get back to Malaysia?”

She paused, blinking. “Uh, I don’t know—maybe two or three days. I’m finishing the reports now—why?”

There was a long, breathless silence on the other end. Then—

“Bob lost control.”

Y/N froze.

Ilari’s voice cracked through the line like broken glass. “It just—happened. We don’t know what triggered it. Two of the doctors are dead. He—Y/N, he tore through the lab like a storm. We barely got him contained. He’s locked in his room. Still not responding. His vitals are erratic. Whatever’s inside of him... it's awake. We need you here now.”

She was already moving before the call ended.

Y/N slammed her laptop shut and scrambled to her feet, swiping all the papers off the table into her bag. Her mind was racing. This couldn’t be happening—not now. Not after everything. You promised to keep this one alive.

She grabbed her phone, throwing open her bedroom door.

Down the hallway—her parents' voices.

“Y/N?” her mother called as she appeared in the doorway, startled. “What’s going on?”

“Why are you packing like this?” her father followed behind, voice sharp. “What happened?”

“I have to go. There was an emergency—back at the facility,” Y/N said, yanking open drawers, stuffing clothes into a suitcase with frenzied hands. “Something went wrong. Bob—he—” Her voice caught for a second. “He lost control.”

Her mother gasped. “Isn’t he the subject you said—?”

“I don’t have time,” Y/N snapped. “I have to be there. Now.”

Her father stepped into the room, arms crossed. “You’ll send me the research before you go, then.”

She stopped, mid-zipper.

“I’ll email it to your lab by tomorrow. I’m done here.”

“You know that’s not how we do things. I expect a full debrief. In person.”

Y/N turned to him, eyes blazing. “You want me to sit across from you while you rip it all apart? While you tell me I failed—again?”

“You can’t run every time—”

“I’m not running,” she snapped. “I’m choosing. For once.”

He glared at her. She didn’t care.

“You’ll get your report. You always do,” she said bitterly, hoisting the bag onto her shoulder. “But this time? I’m not giving you the satisfaction of killing it in front of me.”

“You’re being dramatic,” her father said, exasperated.

Y/N looked him in the eye. Cold. Certain. “And you’re still pretending you understand what I’m building.”

She turned to the door.

“I’ll tell you I failed over the phone. That’s what you want anyway.”

And without another word, she pushed past them and ran down the stairs—out of the house, out of her childhood, out of the old world that never saw her worth—and into the storm she was now part of.

Bob needed her.

She doesn't recall how many hours she was there stuck on that plane full of anxiety, her gut was telling that everything would be okay, but at the same time, she had only gone by two days how could this happen, she would only be gone by a week.

Her mind is foggy, going on autopilot, doing all of her ride and hours it took thinking about Bob and how he's suffering. Her team had received strict orders on what to do, but she had only schedule some trainning for him, knowing even if they wanted, they could hurt him, but could understand how to make his powers manifest and how strong he was getting.

The car ride from the airstrip blurred past her window like a dream she didn’t want to remember. The moment the vehicle stopped outside the hidden entrance of the facility, she was already sprinting. Her ID badge barely scanned before she was storming through the corridors like a hurricane, ignoring greetings, ignoring protocol, ignoring everything.

Lab coats turned as she passed. Some stepped back. They knew better than to get in her way.

“He’s in Operating Room 3,” a nurse called out. “Still unstable.”

Y/N’s throat tightened. Her legs pushed harder. Faster.

When the automatic doors hissed open, her heart nearly stopped.

Bob was strapped to the operating table, wires and sensors taped to his chest, arms, and head. His body was shaking—convulsing—his veins glowing faintly gold like molten cracks in stone. His skin was slick with sweat, chest heaving erratically. He looked half there. Half gone.

A team of doctors stood around him, frantically typing into tablets, adjusting IVs, shouting measurements. Panic radiated through the room.

“What the hell are you doing to him?!” Y/N screamed.

Heads turned. Her voice cracked the sterile silence like lightning.

She stormed across the room, pushing through the cluster of scientists without care.

“Move! Move!” she shouted, yanking a man away from Bob’s side. “You’re scaring him! You’re hurting him—get the hell away!”

“Y/N, he’s seizing—” someone said.

“He’s confused!” she barked. “None of you even know what’s happening—he’s not a machine! He doesn’t respond like one!”

She grabbed Bob’s face with both hands. His eyes were fluttering open and shut, dazed. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

“Hey. Hey, it’s me,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I’m here. I’m here now, Bob. You’re okay.”

She stroked the side of his cheek. “I got here as fast as I could.”

His fingers twitched.

Then—

Flatline.

The monitor behind her let out a sharp, deafening wail.

A long, straight line stretched across the heart rate monitor.

“No.”

Y/N turned, frozen.

“Get the defibrillator!” someone yelled.

People rushed forward—but Y/N held up a hand, stepping between Bob and the rest.

“Don’t touch him!”

“Y/N, we have to restart his heart!”

“No!” she screamed, her voice cracking in agony. “He’s in there—I know he is. Just—give him a second. Please.”

“His heart stopped—”

“I SAID WAIT!”

She turned back to him, leaning down until their foreheads touched. Her tears slipped onto his skin.

“You promised me,” she whispered. “You told me I gave you a reason to live. You don’t get to leave me now. You don’t.”

She pressed her lips to his temple, desperate, trembling. “Come back to me, Bob. Please. Please, come back.”

A cold, crushing silence fell. Time seemed to freeze.

“Bob... no.” Her voice was barely a whisper, broken.

Tears welled unbidden, blurring her vision.

The team scrambled to restart him, but Y/N felt frozen, her hands still on his cold skin.

He was gone.

The man she had begun to care for, the man she promised to keep alive... was dead.

Y/N’s world felt like it shattered into a thousand pieces, the sterile walls closing in around her as she stared at Bob’s lifeless form. The frantic beeping of the defibrillator ceased, replaced by an eerie, suffocating silence.

Suddenly, the heavy doors swung open with a sharp clang.

Valentina entered, her presence commanding and cold, eyes scanning the scene with clinical detachment.

She had arrived just as the finality settled in, her heels clicking sharply against the floor, slicing through the heavy air.

Dr. Ilari had called her as soon as Bob spiraled out of control, and now, standing before the still form of the man they all feared and pitied, she wasted no time.

Valentina’s voice was low but sharp, slicing through Y/N’s panic like a blade.

“Protocol 6X. Initiate termination.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, her body trembling with disbelief and rage.

“No,” she whispered, her voice cracked and desperate. “You can’t just—he’s still—”

Valentina’s eyes narrowed, her tone unwavering.

“Bob is unstable, uncontrollable. The risks outweigh any potential benefit. You know this, Doctor. The project’s safety comes first.”

Y/N’s hands clenched into fists, nails digging into her palms, fighting the overwhelming wave of helplessness crashing down on her.

Tears burned her eyes, but her voice was steadier now, fierce with unspoken defiance.

“He was more than an experiment. He was a person... someone I cared about.”

Valentina’s gaze flicked coldly to Y/N, unyielding.

“Feelings don’t change facts. The termination will prevent further loss.”

The lab team moved quickly, cold and efficient, beginning preparations to remove Bob’s body from the room, as if he were nothing more than a failed project to be discarded.

Y/N stumbled back, her heart breaking anew with every step they took away from her.

She wanted to scream, to fight, but the weight of the moment pinned her down, crushing hope beneath the sterile lights.

She runs, trying to stop everyone, someone, took him away from them, there's no way Bob was dead.

--

The glass was thicker than it needed to be. Reinforced, sealed with polymer layers, and bolted into an alloy cradle designed to survive a small war. But none of that mattered to Y/N. All she could see was him inside it.

Bob.

Still.

Cold.

Lying there like a man who’d simply fallen asleep with no promise of waking.

The O.X.E. lab—once bright, bustling, and full of scientific ambition—now reeked of sterilizer and silence. They were shutting everything down. His project had failed, they said. Too unstable. Too dangerous. Too powerful. And now—too dead.

“Project SENTRY has been terminated. Containment protocol 6X is in effect,” droned a voice over the speakers. The kind of voice that never wavered. Not for ethics. Not for grief. Not even for love.

Y/N stood frozen as technicians fastened the final clamps onto the glass coffin. Her coat, still stained with dried blood from trying to stabilize him, hung limp around her. Her hands trembled. Her face was pale. Her lips parted, as if to speak, but no sound came out.

Two security guards hovered behind her.

“Dr. L/N,” one of them said gently. “You need to let them take him.”

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she stepped forward, eyes locked on the body within. Bob’s chest didn’t rise. His face was pale, serene—eerily calm for a man who had been made of light and rage. His golden hair framed a face that once radiated warmth, now drained of it entirely.

“No,” she whispered. Her voice cracked like splintered glass. “You don’t get to box him up. You don’t get to just erase him.”

“Doctor—”

“He’s not dead!” she snapped, finally spinning on the guards. Her voice echoed through the corridor, sharp and broken. “He’s not dead, he’s not—he’s not—”

But her knees buckled before her words could finish. She collapsed to the floor, her hands catching her barely an inch above the cold tile. Her breath came in shallow gasps, each one scraping her throat like rusted nails.

The guards hesitated, unsure whether to comfort her or restrain her.

Valentina didn’t.

Her heels clicked against the floor as she approached—always polished, always calculated. “This isn’t a romantic tragedy, Doctor,” she said, arms crossed. “This is containment. He was compromised. If you’d like to keep your clearance and your career, I suggest you walk away now.”

Y/N lifted her head slowly, tears streaking her face.

“I don’t care about clearance,” she hissed. “I cared about him.”

Valentina’s expression didn’t change. “Then you’re a liability.”

The moment stretched like wire pulled too tight.

And then, Valentina gave a cold nod.

“Seal it,” she ordered.

Technicians obeyed.

Y/N watched as a final hiss of hydraulic steam sealed the edges of the glass. The lighting inside dimmed, bathing Bob in a faint blue glow, like he was being buried beneath a glacier.

They strapped the coffin to a magnetic dolly, preparing to roll him out—out of the lab, out of history, out of her reach. Like he’d never existed. Like the nights they’d spent in quiet corners of the lab, whispering about the sky and everything he’d forgotten about being human, had never happened.

Like she hadn’t kissed his trembling hands after his first breakdown.

Like he hadn’t told her he was scared of the darkness inside him.

Like he hadn’t looked at her the night before the meltdown and said, “If I lose myself, don’t let them lock me away. Just tell me you loved me once. That it mattered.”

She scrambled up, stumbling toward the coffin, arms outstretched. She never told him that loved him. Once.

“Wait!” she cried.

The guards tried to intercept her, but she ducked around them, slamming her palms against the glass.

Her voice cracked as she spoke, forehead resting against the cold surface. “Bob. I’m here. I didn’t leave. I—I couldn’t save you, I’m sorry. But I remember you. Do you hear me? I remember everything. I do love you.”

No response.

She pressed her hand over his heart, her eyes tracing the shape of his closed eyelids, the curve of his lips. She could almost believe he was sleeping. Almost.

“Please,” she whispered, softer now. “Please come back. Just open your eyes. Just—just breathe. I’ll take all of it, everything I did to you. Just come back to me. I'm sorry I went away, I'm sorry I wasn't here, I'm sorry I never told you.”

Silence.

Valentina made a gesture. The guards pulled her away, gently but firmly.

“NO!” Y/N screamed, kicking and fighting. “You don’t get to take him! He’s not—he’s not a thing! He’s a person! He was mine! He didn't get to live what...what I promised, no, we didn't have our time yet Pleasee!”

But Bob remained still, and the glass began to fog slightly with the temperature shift as the containment unit rolled toward the freight elevator.

Valentina didn’t look back.

And Y/N—struggling in the arms of men who didn’t know who Bob was, what he had become, what he meant—finally went limp.

Her voice, barely a breath now, rasped, “Please don’t leave me here without you…”

The elevator closed with a heavy clang.

Then he was gone.

--

The days after Bob’s death passed like smoke. Thick. Suffocating. Fleeting. Y/N found herself moving through them without weight, her steps soundless on the cold tile floors of the lab, her hands numb even as they gripped report files, tablets, clipboards—anything to feel tethered to something.

His room remained sealed, but sometimes she still stood outside of it, pressing her fingers to the keypad even though she knew the access had been revoked, even though she knew he wasn’t inside. Not anymore. The air still felt like him. The silence was heavier than when he was there. And every time she blinked, she could see his face again—bright-eyed the night she’d kissed him first, tired and grateful the mornings after their stolen moments, hollow and terrified in that final room.

She didn’t sleep. Nights had become tormenting. The moment the lab’s synthetic lights dimmed and the halls emptied, her mind rushed back to them. Sitting cross-legged on the floor of his room, laughing about stupid things. Her curled under his arm while they watched old movies from a pirated USB. Him whispering into the shell of her ear that he didn’t deserve her, and her telling him to shut up and just let it be good for once. Just let it be soft.

The bed was too big now. She hadn’t noticed how small she was until she tried to lie still, pretending it was his arm wrapped around her waist. His warmth. His breathing slowing. Her hand still clutched the bracelet he gave her one night—a silly little leather band he found during one of their “raids” of the storage closet, where they'd been looking for snack rations and instead ended up wrestling on the floor like teenagers. She had scolded him for acting like a child. He had kissed her like it was the last time.

But she hadn’t told him she loved him.

And now it was too late.

Every hallway held a ghost. Every chair, every lab monitor, every sample. There were notes in her drawer still written in his handwriting, things like: Don’t forget your coffee, boss. You get mean without it. She used to roll her eyes. Now she kept that note folded in her pocket, as if maybe, by having it on her, she could pretend he was still here. Still smirking behind her.

Dr. Ilari had tried to talk to her. Repeatedly. She hadn’t said a word. Not since the day of Protocol 6X.

Valentina had stood over Bob’s body like it was a failed machine. Cold. Ready to dispose. She hadn’t cried then. Not in front of her. Not even when she’d screamed that he wasn’t an object to terminate—that he was a man. That she loved him.

The tears only came when she was alone, curled in front of the door of Bob’s room, replaying the sound of his heartbeat disappearing from the monitors. Now she uses them to help her go to sleep, listenning to them as if he's there, somewhere. A sound that cut through her more violently than anything she’d ever known.

She hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye.

She would never again hear him laugh. Never again feel his hand in hers. Never again hear that shy, broken voice asking her, “Why would you care about someone like me?”

And now, all she had was the answer she never got to give him. That he made her feel alive. That he reminded her she had a heart. That maybe, just maybe, broken things could still love, and be loved, and heal.

She didn’t tell him. And she would regret that for the rest of her life.

The lab hummed around her like a distant storm. The world was moving on.

But she wasn’t.

And she didn’t know if she ever could.

The lights in the lab had never felt so sterile.

Y/N stood in the same office she had once stormed into, full of confidence and bright-eyed ambition. The walls hadn’t changed. The old monitor still flickered faintly on the far desk, and the whiteboard behind Dr. Ilari was still covered with scrawled calculations, doodles from late nights when they’d been too tired to keep their minds on science, but too stubborn to give in to sleep.

But now, all of it felt like an echo of someone else’s dream.

Dr. Ilari leaned back in his chair, watching her. He wasn’t smiling this time. His usual warm humor was gone, replaced by something quieter. Sadder.

“So,” he said, softly, “you’re really leaving.”

Y/N nodded, arms folded across her chest like she was holding herself together. “I already booked my flight. I should be back in New York by tomorrow evening. My father... he’s expecting me. There’s a position open in his lab.”

Ilari sighed, his eyes narrowing slightly. “Of course he is. And I’m sure he’s thrilled to hear his daughter’s project failed. He always struck me as the ‘told you so’ type.”

A hollow smile tugged at her lips. “He said he’d keep the seat warm.”

“Is that really what you want, Y/N? To go back to him? To... that lab?” Ilari’s voice was still gentle, but the concern in it was unmistakable. “After everything, after what you built here... you’re really going to let him pull you back?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers dug into her sleeves as she looked down at the floor, her voice strained. “The project’s done. Labeled ‘infeasible’ and ‘dangerously unstable.’ It’s over. And honestly, I can’t... I don’t have it in me to start over. Not again.”

Ilari’s brows knit. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I do,” she replied quickly. “I know.”

He waited. Gave her space to speak if she wanted. And for a moment, she almost told him everything. About the nights. The stolen time. The kisses, the laughter, the soft way Bob used to look at her like she was the only person on earth who hadn’t given up on him.

But instead, she only said, “He was the first subject I chose myself. The first time I felt like the project was mine. And I ruined it. I used my father’s methods. I treated Bob like a blueprint, not a person. I was so focused on proving myself that I forgot he wasn’t just data. He was...”

Her throat closed. Her eyes burned.

Ilari didn’t push her. He just waited, his silence louder than anything he could have said.

Y/N turned away from him, pacing toward the window that overlooked the jungle canopy outside. She watched the birds in the distance—free, weightless. The opposite of everything she felt. “Bob made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time,” she said, finally. “Alive. Like I wasn’t just surviving for someone else’s legacy. Like I mattered. To someone.”

Ilari rose slowly from his chair, stepping around his desk. “You loved him.”

She turned to him. Didn’t confirm it. She didn’t have to. Her eyes did the talking.

“I suspected,” he added quietly, “when the cameras started glitching every night at the same time. I didn’t say anything because... I figured it was the only joy either of you were getting in that place.”

She let out a soft, broken breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He placed a hand on her shoulder—steady, kind. “I just wish you’d told me sooner. I wouldn’t have stopped it. Hell, I might’ve encouraged it. God knows that man needed someone in his corner.”

Y/N’s lip trembled, and she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter now.”

“Yes, it does,” Ilari said firmly. “Because you loved. You risked it. That’s more than most people can say by the time they retire. And it meant something. Even if it ended.”

Y/N dropped her eyes. “It didn’t just end. It was ripped away.”

She hadn’t cried in front of anyone—not since the room. Not since his body went still under the operating light, while she screamed for someone to do something. But now, in front of Ilari, the tears came. Silent, hot, unapologetic.

Ilari wrapped her in a gentle hug, like an older brother or uncle—safe, understanding. “You don’t have to go back to him, Y/N. Not your father. Not that place. You can do something else. Something you want. Anything. Just... don’t let this grief turn into a cage.”

She nodded into his shoulder but said nothing.

When she pulled back, she wiped her face and gave him a crooked, sad smile. “You were always the best part of this lab.”

“Damn right I was.” He chuckled, but his eyes were misted, too. “You’ll always have a place here. If ever you decide to stop letting your dad control your career—or your life. Just say the word. I’ll make room.”

She laughed softly. “If I ever come back, it’ll be for the mango tea and your terrible jokes.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” He grinned, but it faltered at the edges. “Goodbye, Y/N.”

“Goodbye, Ilari.”

She turned toward the door, suitcase in hand. But before leaving, she paused in the hallway, just once, and looked back over her shoulder—like maybe, just maybe, he’d come walking through one more time. Laughing. Teasing. Kissing her softly like the world outside didn’t exist.

But it was just silence.

And she left.

Back to New York. Back to the city that raised her. Back to the legacy she never asked for. But this time, something in her heart had changed. Because even if she never said it out loud, she had loved someone—truly, deeply. And now that love would live in her like a scar.

[em1i2a3]

Lovers

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

Summary: The Thunderbolts go to a club downtown for the night, and while there Bob and Sentry are having a tough time watching you flirt with a guy.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, and Jealousy (the spicy triforce). Bob and reader are both aware of each other's feelings but want to remain friends to not ruin the team dynamic in case things go sour. Sentry is extremely jealous in this, and we love jealous Sentry I say…He’s also a bit possessive but…That’s him lol, Bob is just trying to be a good guy and keep things calm, but Sentry is really ripping into him for fumbling the ball.

Smut Warnings: Semi-Public Sex (happens in a private washroom, but it’s inside a club), Unprotected P in V (hahahaha…please wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), and a Praise/Worship Kink cause Sentry and Bob are pleasers just trying to stake their claim lol, there’s also light choking, and some dirty talk….And Overstimulation to a degree. And some aftercare.

Author’s Note: Jesus lord, I loved this request, and I loved the ideas that came from it, and thank you so much for requesting it! It was so fun to write this possessive type of Sentry, and I loved writing the clashing dialogue between Bob and Sentry too. Whew, thank you again @leopard-skin-pillbox-hat-ok for such a fun little thing!

Word Count: 10,244

The music was thrumming like a heartbeat Low, slow, and thick with heat. Everything in the club was moving like smoke–dark, senseless, and breathless. The lights stuttered across the floor like strobe-starved lightning, painting bodies in quick colourful flashes of red, violet, blue, and green.

But Bob wasn’t looking at the lights, or the crowd, or the Coke Zero he hadn’t touched, or even his teammates–who were scattered around the booth behind him, too caught up in cheap liquor, bottles of beer, and loud conversation to notice the slow-motion train wreck unraveling across the club floor.

His attention was on you, and it felt like he was two minutes away from being pronounced dead.

You were standing at the bar with your back turned slightly to him, talking to some guy with a drink in his hand and too much confidence in his stance. It looked like he had forgotten to button his shirt up completely and his chest was puffed out and exposed like he was a bird trying to perform a mating call of sorts. It was easy to spot how he was flirting with you, he would lean in close and say something, and you would return the favour by doing the same. Bob swore every time you moved closer to him it felt like the world was shifting beneath his feet.

Because your dress was–

”God made flesh.” That’s what Sentry had called it the moment he saw you walk out of your room tonight, and he hadn’t shut up since.

It was satin, maybe. Something dark and indulgent and soft. It hugged you like heat and spilled ink–clinging to every line of your body like it had been painted there. The hemline flirted with your thighs as you shifted your weight, fluttering like it was in love with your legs.

And those legs–Bob was going to have a stroke. They were crossed casually at the ankle, and the muscle of your calves were perfectly defined in heels that made your whole stance shift in the kind of way that rewired his brain chemistry. They pushed your hips out just enough to make his breath catch. Your waist cinched so elegantly it looked like it had been sculpted. And your skin–which was shimmering in the club lights–looked like something a god would ruin themselves to touch.

And that’s exactly what was happening.

“Look at her,” Sentry hissed from somewhere behind Bob’s ribs. Every syllable was thick with acid, and pure, unobstructed worship, “She’s glowing…And so fucking open tonight. She should be at our side. In our lap. Not fawning over that little man-child with mousse in his hair.” Bob’s jaw clenched at the rage that echoed through his head.

”S-She’s not fawning,” He muttered under his breath, his knuckles going white around the glass of Coke Zero he was holding, “She’s j-just being friendly.” He added, fluttering his lashes in the strobed haze.

“Look at her. She’s leaning in! He touched her hip when she laughed, did you happen to miss that part?” Bob let out a huff.

”I didn’t miss anything.” He replied, bringing the rim of the glass up to his lips to cover the way his mouth was slightly moving.

“Then explain why you’re sitting here doing nothing while he tries to take what’s ours.” Bob exhaled through his nose, slow and shaky, taking a fake sip of the carbonated beverage, feeling his grip tightening around it slightly, like he was going to possibly break it. “You made the choice. Not me. I would’ve taken her in our bed by now. I would’ve lit the fucking sky gold with the sound of her voice.” Bob dropped his hand to his thigh, fingers digging into the loose denim of his jeans–the ones you had convinced him to buy–like he could claw the heat out of his skin.

Across the club, you tilted your head back to laugh. That kind of laugh. The one Bob had heard a hundred times–but never when it wasn’t his words that caused it.

And you looked–God, you looked like every dream he wasn’t allowed to have anymore. One hand resting lightly on the bar, nails painted in something subtle that caught the colored lights like stardust. Your other hand gestured as you spoke, animated and bright, your shoulder dipping as you leaned in again, saying something to the guy–who took it as an invitation to move closer. He was smiling. He was saying something back.

You nodded at him, smiling with the widest one you had, and tapped your glass against his before taking a sip.

Bob’s eyes followed the movement of your throat as you swallowed, his heart beating too loud in his ears.

“She’s not even thinking about us.”

“S-Shut up,” Bob hissed quickly, but it was loud enough to make Walker glance over briefly before going back to his beer and the conversation the rest of the group were having behind him.

“You think you were noble, don’t you? Waiting, respecting her and the team…You think that means something when someone else can just step in and touch her like that?” Bob wiped the sweat off his brow, as the heat began to curl within him, but it didn’t seem to help. He could feel it–the static under his skin, like something golden and furious was trying to claw its way out from inside him.

“You said no to her. You told her she was too important to risk. Now look at her.” You pushed your hair out of your face with a laugh and turned just enough to give Bob a partial view of your profile. The lips gloss he watched you apply at the beginning of the evening in the reflection of someone’s car window glistened. The lights behind the bar lit up your eyes like candlelight through amber glass, and you still didn’t see him looking.

That hurt worse than anything.

He shifted in the booth, uncomfortable in his own skin, and burning hot. His foot tapped against the sticky floor beneath the table, a stuttering rhythm that matched the beat of the music–or maybe it was matching his panic.

“This is when I wish I had my own fucking body,” Sentry growled, “At least then I could make my own decisions instead of running them by a human who’s afraid of his own fucking heartbeat.” Bob flinched. It was small. Barely a tremor across his shoulders. But the heat that followed was almost unbearable, as it sunk into his bloodstream. It pulsed beneath his skin like magma, like light trying to find the cracks in his weak mental armour. His fingers twitched against the table, then he curled them into a fist before dropping it into his lap, trying to hide the shaking in his hand.

“She should be with us,” Sentry snapped, “I’d be on my knees every night for her, I’d hold her in my arms and love her the way she deserves, and she certainly wouldn’t be pressed against some arrogant fuck like that.” Bob’s eyes flicked back to you, just in time to see it. The guy’s hand moved to your waist, sliding around to pull you in closer. His mouth was way too close to your ear, and your face tipped slightly toward him, smile still soft, lips parted.

And Bob–snapped.

His body lurched forward like something had yanked him by the ribs, and the booth creaked. The table shook when his knee slammed into the bottom of it.

Walker and Ava both turned their heads at the sound, but Bob didn’t move forward again.

He sat back down, hard, chest heaving. His elbows braced on the table. His hands pressed flat to the surface to steady himself, shaking. And the golden light beneath his skin flickered–just for a second–visible, crawling like electricity beneath his veins.

“Bob?” Yelena’s voice cut through the haze like a blade. Her brows were drawn, beer still in hand. She leaned across the table. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer, he didn’t even try to look up at her. He was staring at the floor, like it was safer than looking back up at you.

“Tell her to back off. Tell her we’re in the middle of planning out how to quietly rip the arm off that guy touching Y/N…”

“Bob.” Yelena’s voice sharpened, knocking on the table in front of him, “Hey.” His jaw clenched.

”I’m fine. I-I’m fine.” He responded, feeling a bead of sweat dripping down his temple.

”Bullshit.” She shot back. Then she was moving around the table, boots scuffing the floor. Bob tried to avoid her, turning his face away, but she caught him by the jaw fast, fingers sharp and rough, twisting his head toward her. The moment her eyes met his, she immediately connected the dots.

”Oh Jesus Christ.” She hissed, realizing his eyes weren’t just blue anymore, they were streaked with little tendrils of gold exploding in the irises and hazing over the pupils.

“Let me take it from here,” Sentry whispered, “Clearly you’re not handling it.”

“I-I said I’ve got it.” Bob groaned, squeezing his eyes shut like he could shove Sentry back down by sheer willpower.

“Got what?” Walker called from across the table, leaning his arm along the backrest, “What’s going on with him tonight?” He asked, motioning to Bob. Yelena didn’t answer. She was too busy calculating how far they were from the nearest exit. Bob rubbed a hand over his face, trying to cool the flush from his cheeks, trying to breathe through the pulse climbing in his throat.

”I’m controlling him,” He muttered, “He’s pissed but I’m controlling it.” Walker leaned forward a bit, catching the gold that began to shimmer even more in Bob’s irises.

”Doesn’t look like it,” He commented, eyes narrowing at the shimmer that caught in the strobe lighting, then slowly Walker's gaze drifted across the club, over the pulsing bodies, and past the sharp glow of the bar lights–landing on you.

You were still tucked close to that guy, still laughing, and still glowing in that dress, like the universe was trying to punish Bob through you. Walker’s face twisted in understanding, his lips twitching up with cruel amusement.

”Oh,” He drawled, “Ohhhhhh.” Yelena didn’t even look up to him, she kept her eyes trained on Bob.

”Walker, I swear to god.” She warned, already hearing the chaos brewing in his tone.

“You guys look parched. I’m gonna get another beer,” He said, grabbing a spare glass off the table, “And maybe a water for Bob before his brain starts draining out of his ears.” Walker added, pushing himself up from the booth, stretching like he had all the time in the world.

”Walker!” Yelena snapped, but it was too late, he was already moving.

“Oh good,” Sentry crooned inside him, smug and mocking, “Walker. A real man. Watch and learn, Bob. A simple waltz up to the bar, a charming line, a hand on her arm–easy extraction.” Bob let out a long, agonizing groan, pressing a trembling hand to his temple to try and ease the headache that was starting to bloom.

Meanwhile, Walker was on the move. He weaved through the crowd with a practiced ease, long strides–relaxed in the most approachable way possible–glass in one hand, beer bottle in the other. The lights flickered across his white t-shirt and a few girls near the edge of the dance floor gave him lazy once-overs as he passed. He smiled–small, effortless–and tipped his head in greeting, before continuing his journey. He didn’t stop until he was directly beside you.

You didn’t notice him at first, you were too wrapped up in whatever your bar companion was saying. But the moment Walker’s shoulder nudged yours gently, you turned–surprised–and the guy’s arm slipped from behind your back, falling away like it had never belonged there to begin with.

”Hey,” Walker said casually, setting the beer and the empty glass down on the bar, “Fancy seeing you still upright. Thought you’d be buried in that guy’s awful smelling cologne by now.” You raised an eyebrow at him, confused and slightly amused.

”Excuse me?” You said, watching Walker lean in just enough for the crowd and the music to blur around you both, his voice low and loaded with too much amusement to be harmless.

”You might want to ease up on the flirting…Bob’s halfway to going supernova back at the booth.” He said, propping his elbow onto the bar. He smelled like strong wheat from the beer he was nursing, but he still seemed levelheaded enough to know what he was saying to you.

“Bob?” You questioned.

”Yeah,” Walker nodded toward the table, where Bob sat with his head in his hands. From where you stood you could see the faint glow of the veins in his forearms, like someone had poured sunlight into them, with the crown of his hair fluffed and messy–probably from him ruffling it in his hands. “You know–your broody golden retriever…The one who’s got the sleeper build of a house?”

“He’s not–“ You huffed, “He’s not mine…” Walker snorted at the comment.

”Could’ve fooled me. Pretty sure you own at least seventy percent of his emotional stability and sanity at this point.” Your eyes narrowed at him as you took a sip from your diluted tequila pineapple.

”We agreed, okay? It was mutual. We said it would be a bad idea–if things went wrong–“ Walker held up a finger.

”Right, right. Let me stop you there, Professor Logic. Because right now Bob’s glowing like a fucking star over there and Sentry has been pacing inside his skull, dying to come out. So clearly this little ‘mutual’ agreement is not really holding up.” You stiffened.

”He hasn’t;’t said anything.” Walker laughed under his breath.

”Of course not. It’s Bob. He’d rather implode than inconvenience anyone. But maybe you should go get your sight checked, sweetheart, because you’re acting absolutely blind if you think feelings just vanish because you both agreed to not ‘ruin the team’.”

“Hey, that's not fair.” You muttered.

”Isn’t it?” He shot back, standing a little straighter, “You’re over here flirting up a storm while Bob’s swallowing the sun god. He wanted you. He still wants you, and just because he respects the boundaries you two have, it doesn’t mean y’all are fully over things. Get what I’m saying?” You glanced again toward the booth–just in time to see Bob brace his hands against the table like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence. Even across the room, you could see the way his chest was rising and falling too fast. The light beneath his skin had intensified–glimmering like heat lightning under the surface of his forearms.

Your voice dropped low. “What do you expect me to do?”

Walker blinked at you, incredulous. “I don’t know, go over there and calm the guy down? Maybe take him somewhere private and talk to him before he fucking levels the building?” He leaned in a little closer, his tone dropping into something more serious, less flippant. “Y/N, it’s Sentry. He doesn’t particularly have a track record for waiting or being nice about things that don’t go his way…God complex. Remember?”

You swallowed, nerves climbing up your throat like vines. “And you think I have that kind of power?”

Walker didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk. He just looked at you with the flattest, most terrifyingly honest expression you’d ever seen on him.

“I’m very sure you’ve got his soul in your hands by this point,” He said, voice sharp and quiet. “Now go. Before the floor starts vibrating.”

You hesitated, looking back at Bob again–he was shaking. Hands trembling like static was crawling up his arms, light flaring under his skin in pulses that didn’t sync to the music anymore. His jaw was clenched. His whole body coiled like a live wire seconds from snapping.

Walker’s hand landed briefly on your shoulder, grounding. “Go, Y/N.”

You didn’t need to hear anything else.

You set your glass down with a soft clink, the condensation from the cup already dampening your fingertips. Then you moved–shoulders squared, eyes locked, heart racing harder than the music pulsing through the club’s foundation.

The crowd pressed around you like water, dense and shifting. Heat clung to your skin, sticky with sweat and perfume–an overwhelming blend of cheap gin, sugar-rimmed cocktails, body spray, smoke, and that faint metallic tang of overstimulation. Neon light sliced through the dark like a broken kaleidoscope–flickering greens, bleeding reds, and deep violet strobes that stained everything in shadow-glow and fleeting brilliance.

You pushed past a couple tangled together mid-dance, the woman’s laugh sharp and high-pitched, her partner’s cologne a cloud of amber and pine that made your nose twitch. Your heels stuck momentarily to the floor in patches–spilled beer or soda underfoot–but you didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Because you could see him now.

Bob.

He looked like he was breaking open.

Yelena was still in front of him, tense and braced with her arms folded, her whole body coiled like she was trying to intercept a detonation. You reached her, placed your hand firmly on her shoulder. She looked up at you, eyebrows already drawn–but one glance at your face was all it took. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight, and stepped aside to return to her original spot in the booth.

And then–Bob.

His head lifted, slowly.

And when his eyes found yours–it was like gravity halted in his mind.

The gold in his irises was brighter now, sparking outward like little sunbursts, threads of molten light veining toward his pupils. But it was the look on his face that undid you. The moment he realized it was you, standing there, reaching for him. All of that raw, volatile tension melted into something that looked like disbelief. Like hope.

His shoulders dropped a fraction. Not relaxed–no, he was never fully relaxed when he was like this–but the storm behind his eyes shifted, just enough to make room for something else. Something softer. The glow faltered like a candle wick flicked by breath, almost like it was a display of relief.

Slowly you reached forward–not grabbing, not pulling, but touching–and let your fingertips drag over his forearms, before your hands found his wrists. You could feel his skin burning, damp from sweat, and his pulse was bounding against your touch, as if something was ready to snap beneath the surface. You curled your fingers around his wrists with deliberate gentleness, and leaned forward.

The light behind you turned gold for a moment–just a flare, like the universe was echoing the chaos inside him. Then the shadows returned, and it was just you in front of him, wrapped in heat and pulse and light. Then your scent hit him–it wasn’t perfume in the traditional sense. Not heavy. It was perfectly you.

It was citrus first–sharp, bright, alive. Like cracked-open blood orange rinds in summer. Zest clinging to skin. Tangy and awakening. Then came the softer notes. Something warmer underneath. A trace of sugar and salt and skin–like sunlight on bare shoulders and the faintest whisper of crushed mint leaves. It was dizzying. It was you. The way you always smelled when you were flushed and warm and a little too close. Bob inhaled like he was starved of it, and Sentry sucked it in like it gave him a new life source.

Then you leaned even closer.

Your body was just shy of touching him, but he felt the heat of you radiating off your skin. Like you were burning through your dress, through the space between you. He could see the outline of your shoulder rising and falling with each breath–too fast. Just like his.

Then–your voice.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was spoken directly into the space beside his neck, close enough that he could feel the shape of the words before he could understand them. Your breath was warm, and carried the scent of alcohol on it–sweet, sharp, sticky.

Pineapple juice. Cool and sugary. The bite of cheap tequila clinging to the edge. And something cooler than that–mint, from whatever cocktail you’d been nursing. It made the air between you feel electric.

“Come with me,” You said, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear, voice low, tight. Bob’s pulse stuttered. His mouth parted on instinct, like he wanted to say your name, or please, or thank you, or yes, but nothing came out.

Only a nod.

His whole body moved like it wasn’t his own–shoulders curving toward you, the heat in his veins recalibrating, his spine straightening just enough to stand.

You didn’t let go of his wrist as you pulled him through the crowd.

He followed behind like a shadow tethered to your spine–quiet, massive, burning with a light that wasn’t fully human. Every step sent heat crawling along your skin, your grip on him like a lifeline.

You moved fast, past the dance floor and toward the back hallway lined with faux-industrial brick and flickering sconces trying too hard to mimic candlelight. The music was muffled here, pulsing through the drywall like a heartbeat trapped behind ribs.

The private washroom door stood at the end of the hall–sleek, black, and marked with a gold “STAFF ONLY” plaque. You didn’t hesitate. Just reached for the handle, shoved it open, and dragged Bob in after you.

The door shut with a click that sounded louder than a gunshot. Then the lock turned under your fingers–decisive, final.

It was dim inside.

Not in the way that suggested filth or neglect–but in a way that almost felt…deliberate. The club had clearly spared no expense here. There were soft amber bulbs tucked behind frosted glass sconces, casting a faint, honeyed glow that made the marble counters shimmer faintly. The walls were a deep slate gray, matte and textured, broken only by a massive, ornately framed mirror that stretched across the length of the main wall above the sink. The countertop was pristine, black quartz polished to a gleam. A vase of dried eucalyptus sat beside the soap, filling the air with a clean, herbal sharpness that cut through the lingering sweat and smoke on your skin.

The moment you turned to face him, Bob was already braced near the sink, one hand gripping the edge like he needed it to keep standing. His chest was heaving. The golden veins beneath his skin were glowing more than ever–flickering like wire left too long in the fire.

You crossed the room, slow but steady, until you were standing just in front of him–barely breathing–with a bit of space between the two of you so you weren’t crowding him.

“What the hell is going on with you tonight?” Your voice was a mix of caution and heat. Not cold. Not scolding. But demanding in a way only someone who knows the truth of a person could manage.

Bob didn’t answer. His eyes flicked up to yours, and for a second, it wasn’t just him.

It was both of them. Bob and Sentry.

That glow behind his irises was too alive. Too bright. His jaw was locked, his pulse hammering visibly in his throat, the cords in his neck drawn tight like wires on the verge of snapping. When he didn’t speak, you stepped closer.

“I thought we agreed,” You said, softly. “We said it was a bad idea. That it could ruin everything.”

Bob finally opened his mouth, but the voice that came out was not fully his.

“That wasn’t my agreement.” His tone was deeper. Not menacing, but vast. Like something old and radiant had peeled up from beneath the surface of his soul. His shoulders twitched like he was trying to contain something stretching underneath his skin.

You stared at him, mouth parted slightly.

“I didn’t get a say,” Sentry added through him, his tone thick with restrained hunger. “He locked me out of that conversation. Said it wasn’t safe. Said you deserved better than both of us. But I’ve been watching him crumble over you every night since…And it’s not fair to me that I need to watch that when I have no choice but to follow whatever he says!” Bob jerked his head slightly, like he was trying to shake the voice off, but you saw it–the way his pupils dilated, the way his hand on the counter tightened until the stone cracked faintly under his palm.

“That guy–” Bob’s voice finally surfaced, raw and hoarse. “T-The way he touched you–your waist–your shoulder–” His throat bobbed. “I couldn’t breathe.”

You stepped closer to him, still not enough to invade his space.

“I wasn’t going to do anything with him.”

“That doesn’t matter,” He croaked. “Y-You were smiling like that. You were laughing. Not at my words. A-And he got to touch you.” His hands curled, trembling, and you realized then: he wasn’t angry at you. He was in agony.

“Bob…” You breathed.

“I told myself I could handle this. I thought–I thought staying away w-would make it easier,” He whispered, forehead bowing like he was seconds away from collapse. “But then I s-saw you tonight, and you were just–fucking perfect–and all I could think was how badly I-I wanted to touch you. Not Sentry. Not the god. Just me.”

Your breath hitched.

The air in the room shifted–less like breathlessness now, and more like a burn. A shared ache. The kind you only ever get from not touching someone you need.

“You think I don’t want you too?” You whispered, eyes locked on his, not daring to move. “You think that was easy for me either? You think I don’t go back to my room every night and have to lie in a bed that smells like you from your laundry detergent leaking into my sheets?” Bob’s breath hitched–his whole chest trembling with it. His lips parted like he might say something, but he didn’t. He just stared at you with that look. Like you were the only thing keeping him stitched together. Like if he blinked, you might vanish.

Your next breath barely made it out. “I want you. Even when I try not to. Even when I say I don’t.” There was a long pause in the room, just the sound of your breaths and the thumping bass of the music outside the enclosure of the washroom.

Then suddenly, Bob moved.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t even rough. But it was immediate. Like something inside him snapped loose and came tearing to the surface. His hands were on your face in less than a second—big and hot and trembling at the edges. One cupped your cheek, the other cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as his forehead dipped to yours. The air between you ignited.

And then he kissed you.

It was not sweet.

It was not soft.

It was desperate–an open-mouthed, spine-scorching, knee-buckling kind of kiss that tasted like panic and longing and gold-lit hunger all poured into one unsteady breath. His mouth slanted over yours like he was trying to carve your shape into his bones, like he was afraid he’d never get another chance. And God, he kissed like he needed you to keep existing–like he’d die if he didn’t.

You gasped into it, just once–surprised not by the kiss, but by the heat behind it–and the second your knees gave a tremble under your heels, Bob caught you.

He growled low against your mouth, not Sentry, not quite Bob–just that middle place where desire lives. His arm locked around your waist, and he spun you with frightening ease. Your back hit the cool edge of the quartz sink counter, and then his hands were everywhere–gripping your hips, dragging them flush to his, his fingers digging into the hem of your dress like he couldn’t figure out whether to lift it or tear it.

You moaned into his mouth–quiet, bitten off–and he groaned back, kissing you harder, deeper, messier.

It was sloppy. Wet. Your lips sliding together again and again as your breaths came sharp and heated. His tongue brushed yours and it felt like fire jumped between your ribs. You couldn’t even think. You were clinging to his shirt like it was the only thing holding you upright.

Bob pulled back just a fraction–just enough to pant against your lips, his breath catching on every syllable.

“You’re not stopping me,” He whispered, voice shredded with disbelief, “You’re not telling me to stop–”

You kissed him again before he could finish, grabbing his jaw, tilting him into you, dragging your teeth across his bottom lip as his hips pressed tighter against yours. And God, the way he reacted–his fingers twitching against your waist, his hips stuttering forward like he couldn’t help himself.

“G-God,” He hissed, and the heat of it pulsed out of him like an aftershock.

His hands dropped to the backs of your thighs, slowly despite the chaos. His palms swept up your legs–warm, wide, shaking–until he was holding you just beneath the curve of your ass. Then he lifted. You gasped as he hoisted you effortlessly up onto the counter, the cold stone biting against your skin through the dress, the sensation making your spine arch.

Bob stepped between your knees and immediately pressed himself against you again, lips finding yours in a kiss so deep it tilted your head back. His hand slid up the column of your neck, cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing just beneath your ear like he needed to memorize every inch of you.

And then–he moaned.

Not loud, but raw. Pained. Like the taste of you was killing him and healing him at the same time. His tongue swept into your mouth, slow and slick, and your hands tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again–deeper this time, almost guttural.

His hips rocked once into yours, slow and hot, grinding into the space between your thighs, and you gasped against his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders. It felt like every part of him was begging for contact, like he was trying to melt into your skin. His fingertips dug into your waist as he pressed his hips forward again, slower this time, savouring the way your body responded to him, how your thighs widened even more to cradle his body.

Your fingers untangled from his hair, reached down to curl your fingers around the wrist of the hand that held your waist, guiding him toward the skin of your thigh, skin to skin–your dress had ridden up high enough that he could feel the heat of you radiating through the minimal barrier you still wore. His breath caught. You pulled back from the kiss just enough to whisper.

”Touch me.” The syllables broke him open immediately. He didn’t ask if you were sure. Bob’s hand slid upward–slow, shaking–and then it was there. The pad of his fingers brushed the damp, sheer fabric stretched over your aching core, and he gasped so sharply his forehead thudded softly against yours.

“Oh–God–” He whispered, voice breaking on the edges. “You’re already–J-Jesus, you’re so wet.”

You whined, head tilting back slightly, lips brushing his jaw, and Bob nearly lost it right then.

“Is it for me?” He breathed, fingers still resting there, just barely pressing into the heat between your legs. His voice trembled, and it wasn’t just Bob anymore. Sentry laced every syllable with awe and hunger.

“Tell me it’s for me,” He begged.

You nodded, lashes fluttering, as heat crept up onto your cheeks. “Always for you.”

He let out a noise–half groan, half prayer–and his hand moved. Gentle at first, like he was afraid to break you. His thumb found your clit through the soaked fabric, rubbing in slow, languid circles. Just enough pressure to tease, not enough to satisfy. Your thighs tensed around his hips, your fingers curling into his shirt.

“Oh my god, Bob–”

That shattered him.

His mouth dropped to your neck, open and hot, breath thick against your pulse as he worked you with growing intensity. He mouthed at your skin–kissed and nipped his way up to the underside of your jaw while his fingers kept moving, pressing deeper now, sliding the soaked fabric aside with a gentle kind of desperation. His fingertips met your slick heat, and the soft, wet sound of it made him moan like he was being touched instead of you.

“Y/N,” He rasped, “You’re d-dripping… I h-haven’t even done anything to you yet–Jesus”

He slipped two fingers between your folds, not inside–just gliding through the mess you’d already made for him. His thumb resumed its rhythm on your clit, and your whole body jolted in response, a soft cry leaving your lips. Bob was panting.

“I wanna drop to my knees. I wanna taste you. Right here. Right now. Please.” The words were guttural. Frantic. Worshipful. Sentry was behind them, clawing upward like holy fire, but Bob was still there–guiding him with restraint, grounded by the weight of your body in his hands.

You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him towards you, crashing your mouth into his again. He kissed you like he was drowning and your breath was the only oxygen that could save him.

Without breaking the kiss, without warning, two of his fingers slipped inside you–slow, thick, and deliberate.

You gasped into his mouth–sharp and shuddering–your spine bowing against the sink as your thighs clamped tighter around his hips. The stretch made your legs tremble. You fluttered around him, hot and soaked and so desperate for him it almost hurt.

Bob groaned like the feel of you was enough to knock him out cold.

“Oh–God,” He hissed against your mouth, his forehead dropping to yours as he stilled his hand for just a moment, overwhelmed by how tight and wet you were. “Jesus Christ… You’re so perfect inside. So warm–clenching around me like you need it.”

His fingers curled inside you.

You moaned–loud and broken–your body jerking in his grip. The sound echoed in the marble and tile of the washroom, obscene and beautiful.

“Y-Yes,” You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulder blades, “Don’t stop–Bob–please don’t stop–”

His mouth kissed down your jaw, hot and open, and his other hand slid up your throat–giving it a gentle squeeze, holding you steady like he didn’t trust anything else in the room to support you. His fingers began to move inside you–deep and slow, keeping them curled just right, searching for that perfect spot. His thumb stayed at your clit, rubbing in firm, tight circles, coaxing more slick from your body with every grind of his palm. Every stroke was deliberate. Precise. Designed to make you fall apart for him.

“So good for me,” he breathed against your neck, his voice cracking with need, “So fucking pretty like this. Dripping for me, clenching around me—fuck, baby, you’re singing for it.”

You whimpered again, your thighs shaking.

“I knew you’d be like this,” He groaned, thrusting his fingers deeper, harder now, the wet sounds of it nearly enough to make you come on their own. “So fucking sensitive. I bet you could come just like this–on my hand–if I kept going. You want that? You wanna soak my fingers?”

You couldn’t even speak. You nodded, breath hitching, your mouth open in a silent plea.

Sentry surfaced again in his voice–darker, deeper, reverent.

“She was made for this,” He growled from behind Bob’s teeth. “For us. Look at how she falls apart–so soft for us. So fucking holy between her legs–”

Bob kissed your cheekbone, your temple, your jaw, between every ragged syllable, his fingers never stopping their rhythm, driving deeper, stroking harder.

“I’d worship you every day if you let me,” He whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “I’d wake you up with my mouth, I’d pray at your thighs–I’d give up the sky if it meant I could die with you wrapped around my fingers like this.”

Your breath hitched violently, knowing it was still Sentry projecting through Bob’s mouth.

He kissed the hinge of your jaw, and then the corner of your mouth, his thumb pressing firmer against your clit as he felt you start to pulse harder around him.

“Y-You’re close, aren’t you?” He panted, his voice breathless and holy, “I can feel it. God, I-I can feel it. Let go for me, Y/N. Let go–come for us–please.”

And with a soft, choked sob, you did.

You shattered around his hand, back arched, mouth parted in a desperate cry as your orgasm slammed through you like a wave of white-hot electricity. Your walls fluttered and clenched around his fingers as your thighs shook and your hands clawed for purchase against his shoulders, his chest–him.

Bob groaned like your orgasm was something he could feel.

He didn’t pull away.

He kept his fingers deep inside you, slowly working you through it, coaxing every last tremor from your body with soft murmurs against your throat.

“That’s it…You’re such a good girl.” He rasped. The voice had shifted–richer now. Darker. It vibrated behind your ear like a drumbeat made of light and thunder. Reverent. Possessive. Starved.

Sentry, of course it was him.

You barely had time to react before his hand slowly slipped free from you–slick, trembling, and soaked. You gasped as he dragged his fingers up, just enough for the cool air to kiss your wetness and make your thighs twitch. And then–

He lifted them to his lips.

He licked you off himself with obscene patience, tongue flattening to savor the taste, eyes fluttering shut for just a second like he was drinking in divinity.

A low, broken moan rumbled in his chest. “Mmm–fuck, you taste like you were made for me.”

When his eyes opened again, they weren’t just Bob’s anymore.

Still blue–but ringed in a molten glow so vivid it felt like looking at the edge of the sun. Gold flecked and shimmering. Two forces inside one gaze, breathing in sync. Worship and hunger, restraint and ruin.

Both of them.

“You feel that?” He murmured, pressing his forehead to yours as his still-wet fingers traced the curve of your jaw, smearing your slick along your cheek like a mark. “That was you. That light in me. That burn. You’re what keeps us sane.” Another kiss–softer, gentler, but so hot it made your breath hitch.

“I need more,” Sentry groaned, voice rasping like smoke and lightning. “I need to taste it from the source.”

You swallowed thickly, still panting, your thighs twitching as aftershocks rolled through you. He kissed the corner of your mouth again, and then dropped his lips to your throat, mouthing at your pulse point as he whispered, “Help me. Help me take these off you.”

Your panties.

His hands were already sliding beneath the hem of your dress, brushing along the backs of your thighs as he began to drag the soaked fabric of your underwear down inch by inch, reverent as a priest unwrapping holy cloth. It clung to you–drenched, ruined–and Sentry groaned when you lifted yourself up slightly so the fabric slipped past the curve of your ass. You wiggled around, as he slid the underwear off you completely, crumpling them up in his hand, like he was planning on holding them the entire time–or to steal them so he could have them as a keepsake to remember this night.

He dropped to his knees in front of you like a man possessed, the dress bunched up at your hips now, your bare thighs spread on either side of his broad shoulders.

The sight of him down there–gold-flecked eyes wide, flushed lips parted, hair wild from your hands–it was nearly enough to make you come again.

“You’re the altar,” Sentry said, voice low and trembling with need, “And I’m the fucking disciple.”

And then his mouth was on you.

No hesitation.

No teasing this time.

Just devotion.

His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your dripping slit, and he moaned–loudly–like he was finally allowed to breathe again. Then he latched onto your clit with a kind of desperate reverence, flicking it, sucking it, licking it in the exact rhythm he’d found with his fingers.

His hands slid up your thighs–warm and huge and trembling–and gripped your hips, holding you in place as he worshipped you with his mouth. Every movement, every wet sound echoed in the marble air. His groans blended with your broken moans, his tongue devouring you like he was starving.

You threw your head back, one hand flying to the counter behind you, the other tangling in his hair.

“Sentry–Bob–fuck…Both of you…Please–”You begged, panting like you were in heat. Your voice only fueled the hunger.

He growled into you, the vibration sending another jolt through your spine, and his hands tightened on your hips.

“I can’t get enough,” He groaned between strokes, voice wrecked and thick. “I could die here. Right between your thighs. Heaven and hell, all at once.”

You felt another orgasm building–fast, blinding–your breath catching with each wet circle of his tongue, each drag of his mouth over your clit, each filthy moan he spilled against your folds like worship.

And just before you shattered again, he looked up at you.

Eyes glowing gold. Lips soaked in you. His voice broke the last thread of restraint you had:

“Come for me again, goddess.”

And you did.

Violently. Beautifully. Every nerve ending setting alight with the crash.

You cried out his name–or maybe both their names–as the pleasure crashed through you, seizing your thighs around his head, dragging his mouth deeper as your body gave out.

But he didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, past it, deeper–drinking from the source like he’d promised, moaning like your taste rewrote his soul. When your body finally slumped against the mirror, still trembling, still slick and wide open for him, he rose slowly from his knees.

His lips were red. Glossed in your slick. His breath was heavy.

And when he leaned in again, cupping your face with one hand, you leaned into his touch like your neck had melted, jelly-soft and pliant beneath his palm. Your body still trembled in the aftermath of your orgasm–nerves frayed, thighs twitching, your breath a ghost of what it once was. His touch grounded you, burned you, and worshipped you all at the same time.

His gaze drank you in—lips wet, pupils blown wide and gold, voice dipped into something low and wicked as his mouth ghosted the edge of yours.

“What a great introduction, hm?” he murmured, the words dragging across your pulse like velvet-wrapped sin. “You’ve never really met me before… not like this.”

The tone in his voice was soft. Sweet, even. But beneath it was the weight of something divine. The kind of reverence that made your spine ache and your thighs twitch all over again. He kissed you before you could respond–slow and consuming, dragging the taste of yourself across your tongue as if to remind you what he’d just done.

You whimpered into it, and he smiled against your mouth, a low hum vibrating from his chest.

“But I’m not done yet,” He whispered into your lips–so soft, so sensual, it made you clench reflexively around nothing. His hand slid from your cheek to your throat again, not to grip–just to feel your pulse. To feel how hard it was racing beneath his palm.

“I’ve barely begun to show you what it’s like,” He added, nuzzling his mouth along your jaw, the edge of your ear. His voice was molten honey, golden and dripping into every breath. “To be worshipped by a god.”

His hand on your thigh curled inward again, slowly dragging up the bare, damp skin until his fingers slid between your folds once more. You gasped, your hips twitching against the marble counter as he stroked you lazily, like he was testing to see just how sensitive you were now. His lips ghosted over your jaw, kissing along your cheek until he reached your temple.

“You’re shaking again,” He murmured, tongue peeking out to taste the salt-sweet sweat clinging to your skin. “You gonna fall apart for me one last time, sunshine? Hm?”

You nodded without hesitation, breathless and dazed.

“Good,” He breathed, curling his fingers over your thigh again, dragging your legs open wider. You were still trembling when your hand reached down between your bodies, fumbling with the buckle of his belt.

He hissed quietly, the sound a shudder against your skin as you worked it open. The clink of the metal was deafening in the quiet of the washroom. You felt the tension in his body ripple the moment the leather slid free of the clasp—his hips pressing forward involuntarily as you popped the button of his jeans.

“W-We’re still in the club,” you whispered against his mouth, panting lightly, tasting yourself on his tongue. “People are gonna wonder where we are… I–we should deal with this and then go home. You can fuck me properly at the compound. I’ll let you take me apart in the shower. You’ll have me screaming your name all night, Bob, I promise–”

But he shook his head before you could finish.

One hand came up and cupped the side of your face, the other curled under your thigh again, holding you open with trembling reverence. He leaned in–kissed you hard, deep, so full of hunger it felt like he wanted to swallow your words down and burn them into ash.

“No,” He breathed against your lips. “No more waiting. We’ve waited long enough.” You felt the bulge in his jeans throb against your thigh as he growled, low and full of restrained power.

“I’m gonna fill you right here,” He whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then lower–your cheek, your throat, your collarbone–every word pressed into your skin like a brand. “I’m gonna fuck you so slow and so deep, you’ll be leaking with me when you walk back out into that club.” His fingers brushed your jaw again, holding you steady, trembling. “And you won’t be able to do a thing about it.” You gasped as he said it, your fingers slipping under the waistband of his boxers, finding the velvet heat of him–hard, pulsing, so heavy in your hand.

“I’ll make you wait to clean up,” He murmured, kissing beneath your ear now, voice dark and golden, “Let you walk around soaked in me until we get back to the compound. Then I’ll take you again in the shower. I’ll fuck you slow under the water with your thighs shaking around my hips, and I’ll do it just to remind you…”

He kissed you–hard. Deep. With teeth clacking together, and tongues battling, before pulling back.

“…Who you belong to now.”

The words sent a sharp, hot pulse through your spine.

You could barely breathe.

He nudged his jeans down just enough, and you helped–sliding the fabric down over his hips with frantic hands until he was free. The thick length of him brushed your thigh, hot and pulsing, and when you looked down, your breath caught.

The tip glistened in the light from the pre-cum dripping out of it, the head was flushed a blush red as if it was dying to be inside you. He looked unreal–godlike–and you were dizzy from the sight of him alone.

Your thighs spread wider, instinctive. Wanton.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” He whispered hoarsely, his hand gripping the base of himself, guiding the tip to your slick folds. “So many fucking nights. I thought I’d die with the taste of you on my tongue and never get to feel this.”

And then–slowly–he pressed in.

The stretch made your breath catch, your spine arch, your thighs tighten. He was careful. Controlled. Like the act of entering you was a ceremony. You whimpered, body pulsing around him as the thick head of his cock breached your entrance, and then more. Inch by glorious inch. So slow it hurt. So perfect it made your eyes sting.

“Dear l-lord…” Bob groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the sensitive flesh there. “You’re–God–you’re gripping me like you were made for this…” You cupped his jaw, pulled his face up to look at you as he sank deeper, until your bodies were fully joined. Chest to chest. Heart to heart.

And that’s when you saw it.

His eyes.

The constant battle.

Blue–bright, tender, full of reverent awe. But flickering beneath? Gold. Liquid fire. Sentry. The god…Aching for more. Needing to lose control again. And for a moment–just one–Bob blinked like he was trying to hold them both together for you.

“Bob…” You whispered, stroking your thumbs over his cheeks. “I see you.”

He choked on a breath. His hips rolled, slow and trembling, dragging himself out an inch before sliding back in–smooth, deep, deliberate. His eyes fluttered shut and then open again, barely able to hold your gaze. You cupped his face tighter, grounding him. His body shook with restraint.

“You’re both here,” You moaned, barely audible. “And I want all of it.”

Bob groaned into your mouth and kissed you–so slow this time. Like he was memorizing the shape of your lips with his own. Then his hips began to move again. Long, fluid strokes. Deep, sensual. Every grind sent heat coiling through your belly, and every time he slid inside you, the air in your lungs thinned.

Your legs wrapped around his hips.

Your hands held his face like prayer.

And his thrusts grew stronger.

Still aching.

But with that edge.

That divine, desperate edge.

The god was surfacing through every roll of his hips, every whispered groan, every broken syllable of your name. You could feel it in the way he filled you–perfectly. Over and over. Each time deeper. Each time just a little more heated. His body coiled like a storm, the breath behind his moans glowing brighter with every thrust.

“Mine,” He groaned, forehead pressed to yours, “You’re mine. Always been mine…”

You nodded, clinging to him. “Yours.”

His hands gripped your hips tighter.

And the light in the room began to flicker.

As if the whole club could feel what was happening in the dark.

In the holy quiet, where gods and mortals broke together.

His thrusts became less measured–still deep, still slow, but trembling at the edges with something close to ruin. The kind of surrender that came from months of restraint finally breaking. Each roll of his hips ground deeper into you, filling you so completely you swore you could feel him in your chest. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting echoed in the marble air, obscene and beautiful.

You clung to him, fingers dug into the muscles of his back, your thighs tightening around his hips with every thrust. Your foreheads pressed together. Noses brushed. Breaths mingled.

And then his mouth found yours again.

You gasped into it–sharp and high as a particularly deep thrust hit the spot inside you that made your toes curl–and Bob moaned into your mouth like it tore something sacred from him. His tongue slipped between your lips, slick and hungry, tasting you with a reverence that made your chest ache.

You kissed him back like you were trying to memorize every second.

Tongue against tongue. Teeth catching lips. Moans swallowed between gasps.

“Y-Y/N,” He groaned, barely audible. “You feel so good. So fucking good around me–so tight. You’re pulling me in like you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” You whimpered, voice cracking with need. “I want to keep you. All of you.”

And that broke something in him.

His thrusts deepened–slower, but harder now. Grinding into you so completely you could barely breathe. The counter beneath you shook. The mirror behind your spine rattled faintly with each rhythm, like even the room couldn’t hold this kind of heat.

You could feel him trembling–every muscle drawn tight beneath your hands, his hips beginning to stutter with every roll forward. His breath came out in harsh bursts against your cheek, and when he buried his face in the crook of your neck again, he let out the rawest moan you’d ever heard from him.

“I’m close,” He gasped. “Y/N–I’m gonna come. I’m gonna fill you–fuck–I wanna know that you’re going to be dripping me all night.”

You cried out, tightening around him. Your own orgasm was on the brink again–high, searing, right there at the edge.

“Do it,” You begged, voice breaking. “Come inside me, Bob. Please–need to feel it. Need to feel you lose control.”

His hips faltered–just once–and he groaned through gritted teeth, his body coiled like it couldn’t decide whether to detonate or dissolve.

And then–he reached between you again, his thumb finding your clit one last time.

“Come with me,” he whispered, voice burning gold and low and full of promise. “Let go, sunshine. Let go with me.”

You clung to him. Kissed him.

And you shattered.

Your cry tore from your mouth and into his as he kissed you again–hot, open, gasping. Your orgasm hit hard and fast, convulsing through your body as your walls squeezed around him like you never wanted to let him go.

And that’s when he followed.

His hips stuttered, slammed in deep one last time, and then he was moaning into your mouth–loud, guttural, his tongue still tasting you as he spilled inside you. You felt every thick, hot pulse of him, the way his body shook against yours, how he trembled through it like the pleasure was too much, too full, too holy.

You stayed like that.

Locked together.

Mouths still joined, breath shallow, bodies twitching in the aftermath.

When he finally pulled back just an inch, his lips ghosted over yours. His forehead dropped against yours again, and you felt him shake–every exhale breaking against your cheeks.

”J-Jesus…I-I think I was blacking out during that.” Bob laughed softly–still breathless, still inside you, his face pressed into the crook of your neck like it was the only place he knew how to breathe. You could feel him twitch inside you, still hard, still so achingly present even in the aftermath of all that heat. His breath was warm and sticky against your throat.

You laughed, too–just a little–low and shaken but real.

“I couldn’t tell who was in control,” you murmured, dragging your fingers gently through the sweaty strands at the back of his neck. “Hopefully he’s not mad I called him Bob.”

Bob pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, lips curling in a crooked grin that barely held together at the corners. He kissed you once–soft, quick, like a punctuation mark–before resting his forehead against yours.

“I’m sure h-he doesn’t care,” He said, voice hoarse and honey-warm, “He’s definitely shut his mouth now…H-He’s been talking my ear off all night. Especially when you were with that guy.”

You smirked, brushing your thumb along the curve of his cheek. “Sentry… The god of jealousy.”

Bob hummed a low, amused sound in his throat. “We were both jealous. He just…H-Has a really bad w-way of handling it.”

Then he turned slightly–still inside you, and you gasped at the movement—his body shifting as he reached out and slapped the silver button on the paper towel dispenser with the side of his palm. The mechanical whir filled the room in a way that felt both hilarious and wildly surreal.

“What are you doing?” You asked, brows furrowed in amused disbelief. Bob grinned, pressing a kiss to your neck, then leaned forward again to turn the faucet on with one hand.

“Making sure we don’t stain that pretty little dress,” He murmured, grabbing the paper towel and wetting it under the warm water. “It’s p-probably already ruined…But we shouldn’t make it worse, and w-we should at least do some damage control on it…I’ll pay for the d-dry cleaning.”

You laughed–really laughed this time–and he smiled into your skin like it was the best sound he’d ever heard. Bob gently wrung out the warm paper towel over the sink, his body still braced between your thighs, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The faucet murmured behind him as he turned it off, and the only other sound was the distant thud of club music vibrating faintly through the floorboards beneath your heels.

Then he leaned back slightly, his hands moving to rest lightly on your hips as he looked down between your bodies to assess the aftermath.

He sucked in a quiet breath, eyes narrowing slightly. “Huh.”

You blinked at him, trying not to laugh. “What?”

Bob tilted his head, considering. “It’s not t-too bad,” He said, voice still rough and fond, “But I might have to ask you to c-clench a bit when I pull out–just so I can press this t-there and stop the cum from dripping out before you get your underwear on.”

Your brows lifted. “Sounds like a plan…Speaking of my underwear though…Where are they?”

Bob glanced around like he was replaying the last thirty minutes in his head, then leaned over your shoulder and reached for something just behind the soap dispenser.

“T-Thought they got lost,” He muttered with sheepish relief as he picked up the damp, balled-up fabric, still slightly warm from your skin. “Thank goodness t-that’s not the case… Would’ve been pretty bad if it w-was.”

You bit back a grin, your voice teasing. “Would’ve had to walk back out to the club bare underneath this dress, huh?”

Bob groaned softly, burying his face in your neck for a beat. “Don’t t-tempt me.” Then he pulled back again, lips brushing your cheek as he met your eyes. “Ready?”

You nodded once, steady, and clenched instinctively around him–tight, holding him for one last second. Bob hissed quietly at the sensation, groaned, and then slowly, gently pulled out.

The loss of him made you gasp–a subtle ache, a sudden emptiness–but he was already moving, already bringing the warm, damp towel between your thighs with a kind of reverent tenderness that made your breath hitch. His touch wasn’t clinical or rushed. It was slow. Careful. Like he was scared he’d hurt you if he moved too fast.

You watched him.

Watched the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his lower lip was caught between his teeth as he wiped you clean with the warm wet paper towel. It brushed between your folds with gentle pressure, catching his release as it began to spill out of you. He dabbed and swept delicately, making sure not to press too hard, his other hand holding your hip, grounding both you and him to the moment.

And the whole time, he was glancing up at you, watching your face–checking, silently, for any sign of discomfort.

Your chest swelled.

The intensity of it hit you like a fourth climax, softer this time–emotional instead of physical. This was Bob. Always Bob. The way he cared, the way he noticed, the way he never made you feel like you were too much.

You reached up, both hands rising to cradle his jaw as he finished, and his gaze flicked up to you just in time for your mouth to catch his.

You kissed him slowly–no hunger, no urgency. Just tenderness. Just that aching, quiet thing that had been living in both of you for months.

When you pulled back, your voice was hushed, but it carried all the weight of truth behind it.

“So…” You whispered, brushing your thumb over the very very light stubble along his jaw, “I guess we’re throwing that whole ‘no dating for the team’ thing out the window, huh?” Bob’s lips curled into the softest smile, something crooked and reverent and completely undone.

“S-Seems like it,” He murmured.

And then he kissed you again–gold-lit, warm, and entirely his.

[itsreallynotriri]

The adventures of Danny and Hazzy

Harry and Danny growing up in the Potter-Black household.

[Regulus Black x fem Potter! reader}

word count: 4.1k

warnings: a lot of fluff, Y/N and Regulus kissing at the end

6 MONTH OLD DANNY AND FOUR-YEAR-OLD HARRY 

The Black-Potter household was filled with soft giggles and the occasional delighted squeal. Six-month-old Danica or Danny as Harry fondly called her, sat propped up with pillows on a blanket spread across the living room floor. Her dark curls were already forming wild ringlets, and her bright gray eyes tracked her big brother's every movement.

"Look, Danny! It's a flying hippogriff!" Harry declared, holding a stuffed hippogriff in the air and zooming it around with exaggerated whooshing noises. He had charmed it to hover slightly, the wings flapping as it circled Danny's head.

Danny blinked, then let out a squeal of laughter, her tiny hands reaching up to grasp at the toy. When the hippogriff dipped low enough, she latched on with surprising strength, pulling it down and gnawing on the soft beak with a satisfied coo.

"You're a natural beast-tamer," Harry said, lying down next to her. He tapped her nose gently. "But you can't eat a hippogriff, Danny. That's rude."

Danny babbled in response, releasing the toy to pat Harry's cheek with a slobbery hand. Harry made a dramatic choking sound. "Ah! Baby drool! My one weakness!"

He flopped backward with a groan, limbs sprawled dramatically. Danny stared at him for a moment, then let out a delighted shriek, her tiny body bouncing with excitement.

From the doorway, Y/N and Regulus watched the scene unfold. Y/N's arms were crossed, a smile softening her face. "I give it three seconds before she crawls after him," she whispered.

"Two," Regulus corrected.

As if on cue, Danny tipped forward, arms wobbling as she pushed herself toward her brother. Her movements were clumsy but determined, her little fists digging into the blanket.

"She's doing it!" Y/N breathed.

"Go, Danny!" Regulus encouraged softly.

Harry peeked through one eye when he heard the rustling. His mouth dropped open. "You're crawling!" he gasped, sitting up. "Go, Danny, go!"

Danny let out a gurgling laugh as she reached Harry's knee and promptly face-planted into his leg. Unbothered, she turned her head to grin up at him, her cheeks flushed with effort.

"You're the best little sister ever," Harry said, scooping her into his arms. He stood and turned toward their parents. "Mama! Baba! Did you see? She crawled!"

"We saw, sweetheart," Y/N said, wiping away a tear with the back of her hand.

Regulus stepped forward and ruffled Harry's hair. "Good job, big brother. Looks like she's trying to keep up with you already."

Danny babbled happily from Harry's arms, then stuck her thumb in her mouth and leaned against his chest, suddenly exhausted from her grand adventure.

"She's gonna be unstoppable," Harry said proudly.

Y/N wrapped an arm around Regulus's waist and smiled. "She already is."

TWO-YEAR-OLD DANNY AND FIVE-YEAR-OLD HARRY

The Black-Potter household was rarely quiet these days, not with a curious, toddling two-year-old exploring every corner and a protective big brother trailing after her like a miniature sentry.

"Hazzy!" Danny's delighted voice rang through the sitting room as she toddled across the rug on unsteady legs. Her chubby arms were outstretched toward her brother, who knelt with his arms wide open.

"That's me!" Harry said with a grin, scooping her up and twirling her around. "Hazzy is here to save the day!"

Danny squealed with laughter, her dark curls bouncing with each spin. "Hazzy! Hazzy!"

From the armchair, Y/N smiled over her cup of tea. "Still not calling you Harry, huh?"

"Nope," Harry said, plopping down on the couch with Danny nestled against him. "I've tried to teach her, but she just keeps saying 'Hazzy.'"

"It's cute," Y/N said softly, watching as Danny poked at the buttons on Harry's sweater.

The sound of the front door opening interrupted their moment. Danny's eyes lit up, and she scrambled out of Harry's lap, nearly tripping over her own feet.

"Baba!" she cried, sprinting toward the hallway.

"Danny!" Regulus's voice answered with equal enthusiasm.

By the time he entered the room, he had Danny perched on his hip, her tiny hands clinging to his collar. His usually composed expression was softened into a rare, tender smile.

"And how's my little morning star today?" he asked, brushing her curls away from her face.

"Hazzy play!" she announced proudly.

"Ah, yes. The famous Hazzy." Regulus's gray eyes flicked to Harry with a smirk. "How are you handling your new identity, son?"

Harry shrugged. "I've accepted my fate."

Danny giggled and buried her face in Regulus's neck.

"She's been chasing him around all day," Y/N said with a laugh.

"Hazzy run fast," Danny agreed, peeking out with wide grey eyes. "Danny run too!"

"Oh, do you now?" Regulus asked, raising an eyebrow. "Well, maybe Baba will have to race you later."

"Race!" Danny pumped her fists in the air.

Regulus sat beside Y/N, his arm resting along the back of the couch. Danny squirmed until she was back on the floor, wobbling over to Harry.

"Hazzy, run!" she commanded.

Harry gave his parents an exaggerated sigh. "Duty calls," he said before launching into a playful chase.

Y/N leaned her head on Regulus's shoulder, watching them with a soft smile.

"She's getting so big," she murmured.

"Too big," Regulus agreed. "And that name's going to stick, isn't it?"

"Absolutely," Y/N said, laughing as Harry darted around the coffee table with Danny hot on his heels. "Hazzy's here to stay."

And as Danny's delighted laughter echoed through the house, it was hard to imagine life any other way.

The soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting golden patterns across the bedroom floor. Y/N stirred, her eyes fluttering open just as the door creaked. She turned her head and smiled softly at the sight of Harry and Danny standing in the doorway, hand-in-hand.

Harry's chesnut hair stuck up in every direction, defying gravity as usual, while Danny's black curls were tangled into an impressive bird's nest. The two siblings were still in their pajamas: Harry's covered in faded Quidditch brooms, Danny's patterned with tiny moon and stars.

"Hazzy," Danny whispered, tugging on her brother's hand. "Mama wake?"

"Yeah, Danny," Harry reassured her, squeezing her fingers. "See? Mama's awake."

Y/N sat up, tucking the blanket around her legs. "Good morning, my loves," she greeted softly.

Danny beamed, revealing the gap where her front tooth had recently fallen out. "Mama!" She let go of Harry's hand and barreled across the room, climbing clumsily onto the bed. "I had dream 'bout dragon!"

"Did you?" Y/N caught her daughter and pulled her into her lap. "Was it scary?"

Danny shook her head fiercely. "No! Big dragon, nice dragon! Hazzy say it like Uncle Charlie's dragon."

"Ah," Y/N chuckled, glancing toward Harry as he shuffled into the room. "Your brother knows a lot about dragons."

Harry gave a sheepish smile and climbed onto the bed beside them. "I just told her about Norberta," he said, leaning into his mother's side. "Danny likes dragons now."

"I see," Y/N mused, brushing Danny's wild curls with her fingers. "Maybe one day we'll visit Uncle Charlie in Romania and see real dragons."

Danny gasped. "We go? See dragon?"

"One day," Y/N promised.

The sound of footsteps interrupted them. Regulus appeared in the doorway, hair tousled and wand in hand, eyes sharp until he took in the sight before him. "Merlin," he exhaled, lowering his wand. "I thought I heard an intruder."

"Hazzy and Danny," Danny said proudly, throwing her arms wide. "Not 'truder!"

Regulus grinned and crossed the room, sliding his wand into his pajama pocket. "No, you and your brother are definitely not intruders." He sat on the edge of the bed and ruffled Harry's hair, not that it made any difference. "Why are you two up so early?"

"Danny had a dragon dream," Harry answered, tilting his head toward his sister. "Wanted Mama and Baba to know."

Regulus nodded solemnly. "Dreams about dragons are very important. Good thing you told us, Danny."

Danny's eyes sparkled. "I 'member the dragon name!"

"Oh?" Y/N asked. "What's its name, sweetheart?"

Danny scrunched her nose in thought, then declared, "Spork!"

There was a beat of silence before Harry snorted with laughter. "Spork? That's not a dragon name!"

"Is too!" Danny huffed.

"Spork the Dragon," Regulus said with mock seriousness. "A fearsome creature is known across the land for its...sporkiness."

Harry collapsed into giggles, and Danny clapped her hands in delight. Y/N just shook her head fondly. "You're encouraging her."

"Absolutely," Regulus said, reaching out to pull Y/N closer. "She gets her creativity from you."

Danny snuggled into Y/N's lap, thumb slipping into her mouth as the excitement wore off. Harry stretched and leaned against Regulus's shoulder.

"Family nap?" Y/N suggested.

"Family nap," Regulus agreed, flicking his wand to dim the sunlight.

Soon, tangled curls and messy hair were nestled together in a cozy, sleepy pile of warmth and love.

The snow had fallen thick and heavy overnight, blanketing the Black-Potter garden in a pristine, shimmering layer of white. From the warmth of the living room, three-year-old Danica Potter-Black pressed her nose against the frosted window, her wide gray eyes sparkling with excitement.

"Hazzy! Hazzy!" she squealed, spinning around and racing toward her brother. Her curls bounced wildly with each step. "Look! Snow! Lots and lots!"

Harry, now seven years old and quite proud of his 'big brother' status, looked up from the enchanted chessboard where his pieces were grumbling about his last move. He followed her pointing finger to the window and grinned. "You wanna go build a snowman?"

"Yes! Yes! Snowman!" Danny clapped her hands, hopping in place.

"Okay, okay! Let's get our coats."

The two of them bundled up under Y/N's watchful eye. Harry wriggled into his green scarf while Danny impatiently thrust her tiny arms into her puffy coat. Her mittens dangled from strings through the sleeves, and Harry helped her tug them on properly.

"Be careful out there, you two," Y/N called from the door. "And don't eat the snow unless you're sure it's clean!"

"Mama!" Danny giggled. "I'm not gonna eat snow!"

"We'll be careful!" Harry promised.

The garden was a winter wonderland. Their boots crunched on the fresh snow, and their breath clouded in the crisp air. Harry immediately started rolling a ball for the base of their snowman. Danny tried to mimic him, but her ball mostly crumbled.

"Hazzy," she pouted, "mine's not workin'."

"Here, like this." Harry knelt beside her, guiding her hands to press the snow gently and roll it across the ground. "See?"

"Ooooh! I do it!" Danny's face lit up as her snowball grew.

Together, they built a lopsided but proud snowman. Danny insisted he needed a 'silly face,' so Harry found sticks for the arms while she stuck stones into the snow in a haphazard grin. Harry placed his own scarf around its neck and stepped back. "What do you think?"

Danny squinted critically at their creation. "Hazzy, he's cold."

"Well...yeah," Harry said, puzzled. "He's a snowman."

"Needs a hat," she declared. "For warm!"

"Okay, let's get one."

The door opened before they reached the house. Regulus stood there, holding a knitted hat with a bemused expression. "I heard we have a cold snowman in need of a hat?"

"Baba!" Danny ran to him, wrapping her arms around his leg. "We made a snowman! Hazzy helped!"

"I saw," Regulus said, placing the hat on her head for a moment before transferring it to the snowman's icy head. "Looks like a very happy snowman."

Danny beamed and turned back to the snowman. "Now he's warm," she said with satisfaction.

Harry ruffled her hair. "Good job, Snow Queen."

Danny giggled, reaching for a handful of snow. Without warning, she flung it at Harry. It splattered against his coat.

"Oh, you're in for it now!" Harry scooped up snow in both hands.

Screaming with laughter, Danny tried to dodge but ended up flat on her back in the snow, her curls dusted white. "Hazzy! Noooo!"

Regulus shook his head with a smile, leaning against the doorframe as his children tumbled about in the snow. Y/N appeared beside him, slipping her hand into his.

"They're growing up so fast," she murmured.

"They are," Regulus agreed, squeezing her fingers. "But right now, they're exactly where they should be."

A snowball suddenly splattered against Regulus's chest. He looked down in shock to find Danny standing there, cheeks pink with cold and triumph.

"Baba!" she shrieked with glee.

Y/N burst into laughter as Regulus grabbed a handful of snow and raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you started it now, little star."

The snowy battle that followed became a memory they'd cherish for years to come.

FOUR-YEAR-OLD DANY AND EIGHT-YEAR-OLD HARRY

The Black-Potter household was quiet, the warm glow of the hearth casting faint shadows along the walls. Outside, the moon hung low in the sky, bathing the snowy ground in silver light. Inside, however, two little figures shuffled across the carpeted hallway, their steps careful and hushed.

"Shh, Danny," whispered eight-year-old Harry, glancing back at his sister. "You're being loud."

"I'm not!" Danny pouted, her black curls bouncing as she clutched her stuffed dragon tightly. "Hazzy, my feet are just squeaky."

Harry stifled a laugh. "Okay, just...less squeaky feet, alright?"

Danny nodded solemnly and adjusted her grip on her dragon. Together, they tiptoed toward the kitchen.

The kitchen door creaked as Harry slowly pushed it open. He froze, holding his breath. Danny copied him, her wide eyes fixed on his face. After a long moment of silence, they exchanged triumphant grins and slipped inside.

"Alright," Harry whispered, "the cookies should be in the blue tin."

Danny squinted at the counter. "That's really high," she said, voice heavy with skepticism.

"That's why we have teamwork," Harry declared, dragging a chair across the floor with a low screech. They both winced, then stared at the doorway. No footsteps. No Baba with his scary frown. No Mama with her disappointed head shake.

Harry climbed onto the chair, balancing with practiced ease. "Okay," he murmured, stretching toward the cookie tin. His fingers brushed the lid. "Almost...got it..."

Danny watched, her dragon tucked under her arm, her curls falling in her face. "Hazzy, careful!"

"I'm fine," Harry assured her. With a final stretch, he snagged the tin and pulled it toward him.

The tin wobbled. Harry's heart stopped. The container tilted and tumbled off the edge.

"No!" Danny gasped.

Harry lunged and caught it mid-air. "Ha! Got it!"

Danny clapped her hands silently. "You're the bestest," she whispered.

Harry hopped down and opened the tin. The rich scent of chocolate-chip cookies drifted into the air. "Okay, Danny, take one."

Danny's eyes lit up as she reached in and grabbed the biggest cookie she could find. Harry took one for himself, then replaced the lid and carefully slid the tin under the table.

They turned toward the door just as the kitchen light snapped on.

"And what do we have here?"

The siblings froze mid-chew.

Regulus Black stood in the doorway, arms crossed, dark hair mussed from sleep. His grey eyes were sharp, but his lips twitched at the corners.

Danny let out a muffled squeak and ducked behind Harry. "Uh-oh," she whispered.

"Uh-oh is right," Regulus said, stepping forward. "Midnight cookie thieves, I see."

"We're not thieves," Harry said quickly. "We're...we're taste testers."

"Yeah," Danny piped up, peeking around Harry. "Mama said cookies gotta be tasted."

Regulus arched a brow. "Did she?"

Harry gulped. "Well, not these cookies. But...cookies in general."

"Mmm." Regulus knelt down so he was eye-level with them. "Do taste testers usually sneak around in the dark?"

"Only when it's a secret mission," Danny whispered.

Regulus pressed his lips together, trying not to smile. "Well, in that case," he said softly, "I guess you'll need a lookout next time."

Harry's mouth fell open. "Wait...you're not mad?"

"Oh, I'm mad," Regulus said, though his voice lacked any bite. "But I'll let it slide this time. Now, off to bed, you two."

"Yes, Baba," they chorused.

As he herded them back to their rooms, Regulus glanced up and met Y/N's amused gaze from the top of the stairs.

"Told you they'd go for the cookies," she whispered.

"You set us up!" Harry exclaimed.

Danny gasped. "Mama!"

Y/N laughed softly. "What can I say? I know my little cookie monsters." She leaned down to kiss the tops of their heads. "Now, go to sleep. We'll discuss your sneaky skills in the morning."

As Harry and Danny shuffled into their rooms, Regulus smiled to himself. Nights like these made every sleep-deprived morning worth it.

FIVE-YEAR-OLD DANNY AND NINE-YEAR-OLD HARRY

The Black-Potter household was rarely quiet, especially with an energetic four-year-old like Danny and a lively eight-year-old like Harry running about. Laughter, footsteps racing down hallways, and the occasional magical mishap filled the air with a warmth that made Grimmauld Place feel more like home than it ever had before. But today, the usual harmony was broken by the sharp crack of a slammed door.

"You're mean, Hazzy!" Danny's tiny voice, thick with tears, echoed down the hall.

Harry stood frozen just outside his bedroom door, his chest tight with guilt. Moments ago, they'd been playing with his toy broomstick. Danny had begged for a turn, but Harry had refused, insisting she was too little and would just break it. When she'd tried to grab it anyway, he'd snapped at her.

"You're just a baby," he'd said. "You don't know how to fly right."

The words had hit harder than any hex. Danny's face had crumpled, her big gray eyes filling with tears. Then she'd run to her room and slammed the door, leaving Harry with the broomstick in his hands and regret in his heart.

From downstairs, Y/N heard the door slam and exchanged a knowing look with Regulus, who was levitating a stack of books onto a high shelf.

"Sounds like trouble," she said.

"Sounds like our children," Regulus replied, lowering the last book into place. "Shall I play the terrifying father figure?"

Y/N arched an eyebrow. "Terrifying? You?"

"I was once a Death Eater."

"Mm-hmm," she said, amused. "Why don't you try the compassionate father figure instead?"

"I'll give it my best shot," Regulus said, following her up the stairs.

They found Harry slumped against the wall outside Danny's door, twirling the toy broom in his hands. His shoulders sagged under the weight of his remorse.

"Rough day, kiddo?" Y/N asked gently as she crouched beside him.

Harry's bottom lip jutted out slightly, though he tried to hide it. "I made Danny cry."

Regulus sat down on Harry's other side. "Yeah, we heard," he said softly. "Want to tell us what happened?"

"She wanted to fly my broom," Harry mumbled. "I said no because she's little. And then she tried to take it anyway, and I... I said she was a baby."

Y/N winced. "Ah," she said. "Calling your sister a baby? That'll sting."

"She is a baby," Harry muttered, but even he didn't sound convinced.

"She doesn't see it that way," Regulus said. "She looks up to you, Harry. She wants to do what you do. Be like you. So when you said she was a baby, she probably felt like...you thought she wasn't good enough."

Harry's eyes widened. "I didn't mean that."

"I know," Regulus reassured him. "But sometimes, what we say doesn't match what we feel."

Y/N brushed Harry's hair back fondly. "Being a big brother is hard sometimes. You have to find a way to teach her without making her feel small."

"So...what do I do now?" Harry asked.

"Start with an apology," Y/N said.

Harry took a deep breath, then knocked on Danny's door. "Danny? Can I come in?"

There was a long silence. Then a muffled "Go 'way."

"Please?" Harry tried again. "I'm really sorry. I was mean, and I didn't mean to be."

The door creaked open an inch. One gray eye peeked through the gap.

"You called me a baby," Danny said, voice wobbly.

"I know," Harry said, his heart aching at the sight of her tear-streaked face. "I'm sorry. You're not a baby. You're my sister, and you're really brave and smart. I was just scared you'd fall and get hurt."

Danny opened the door a bit more. "You scared for me?"

"Yeah," Harry said. "'Cause I love you."

Danny's lips trembled. Then, with a tiny sniff, she launched herself at Harry, wrapping her arms around his waist. "I love you too, Hazzy," she mumbled into his shirt.

From their spot down the hall, Y/N and Regulus exchanged smiles.

"Think they'll remember this the next time they fight?" Y/N asked softly.

"Not a chance," Regulus replied with a chuckle. "But we'll be here to remind them."

And as Harry pulled Danny into his room to give her a broomstick-flying lesson, the warmth of family settled back into the house once more.

SIX-YEAR-OLD DANNY AND TEN-YEAR-OLD HARRY

The smell of buttery toast and sizzling bacon filled the cozy kitchen of the Black-Potter household. ten-year-old Harry sat at the table, munching on a piece of toast, while six-year-old Danica, her wild dark curls sticking in every direction, gleefully smashed her scrambled eggs with her spoon.

"Danny, you're supposed to eat that," Harry said, raising an eyebrow.

Danica grinned, her green eyes twinkling with mischief. "I am! But first, I have to make it flat. Flat eggs taste better."

Harry sighed dramatically but couldn't help smiling. His little sister always had a very particular way of doing things. "Whatever you say, munchkin."

As Danica resumed her egg-flattening mission, footsteps echoed from the hallway. Harry glanced up just in time to see his father, Regulus, stroll into the kitchen. His hair was slightly damp from a shower, and he wore his usual elegant but relaxed expression. Without a word, Regulus walked straight to where Y/N stood at the stove, flipping pancakes.

"Good morning, my love," Regulus murmured, slipping his arms around her waist from behind. He dipped his head and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.

"Morning," Y/N replied with a smile, leaning into his embrace.

Regulus, however, wasn't content with just one kiss. He trailed a series of gentle kisses along her jawline, then down to the curve of her neck. Y/N giggled softly as he nuzzled the sensitive spot near her ear.

"Regulus Black," she scolded half-heartedly, "the kids are right there."

"Let them learn what true love looks like," Regulus replied with a smirk before pressing a kiss to her temple.

Across the table, Harry froze mid-chew. Danica stopped smashing her eggs. The siblings locked eyes, and without a word, both scrunched their noses and made loud, exaggerated gagging noises.

"Blech! Gross!"

"Ewwwww! Baba's kissing Mama!" Danica squealed, dropping her spoon and covering her eyes with sticky fingers. "Hazzy, make it stop!"

Harry clutched his chest dramatically. "I think I'm gonna be sick," he groaned, slumping over the table.

Regulus lifted his head and arched a single eyebrow at his children. "You two are impossible," he drawled, though amusement danced in his gray eyes.

Y/N laughed, turning to face him. "Told you," she teased.

"Kissing's gross!" Danica declared from behind her tiny hands.

"Yeah, Baba," Harry agreed, sitting back up with an exaggerated shudder. "Keep the mushy stuff private, will you?"

"Private?" Regulus echoed, feigning offense. "This is my home, my kitchen, and my wife. I can kiss her whenever I want."

"Not in front of us!" Danica insisted, peeking through her fingers.

Y/N leaned her head against Regulus's chest and laughed. "Maybe we should tone it down," she said.

"Hmm," Regulus hummed as if considering it. Then, with a devilish grin, he planted a loud, exaggerated kiss on Y/N's cheek.

"EWWWW!" Harry and Danica chorused.

Danica dramatically slid off her chair and collapsed onto the floor. "I've been poisoned!" she moaned, splaying her limbs across the tiles.

Harry followed suit, flopping onto the ground beside her. "We're doomed! Doomed by parental affection!"

Y/N pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter while Regulus smirked down at his children. "Ah, well," he said. "If you're both doomed, that means more pancakes for me and your mother."

Danica's eyes popped open. "Wait! I'm not doomed! I'm hungry!"

Harry sat up immediately. "Me too!"

"Mysterious recovery," Regulus mused as he helped them both back into their chairs.

Y/N plated the pancakes and set them on the table. As everyone dug in, Regulus reached for Y/N's hand under the table and squeezed it.

Harry saw the gesture but let it slide this time. Mostly because there were pancakes. And pancakes always came first.

previous chapter <--> next chapter

[callsign-swan]

Alone Together

For the last few years, Tony's daughter has been living out in the tower basement. She doesn't realise when Valentina buys the tower, not until she's being choked out by Sentry (turns out Sentry is a really sweet guy called Bob, who knew?)

Warnings: Slight thunderbolts spoilers

The last few years had been... content.

Everybody thought she disappeared, off the grid once her dad died. Some people tried to look; Happy, Pepper, some guy she was sure she knew but couldn't remember.

They didn't find her, she made sure of that. Wiped her name from every record, lived off of the small fortune her father had left her.

She wasn't a great engineer like her father, didn't spend her time making useful stuff like he did. She still made stuff, it just wasn't useful.

Spare parts, the basement was full of them. Scraps her father disregarded, that he didn't need. She was desperately trying to turn the scraps into something useful, but it wasn’t that easy.

So far, she'd built a computer. Well, she more rebuilt an old computer and used scrap metal to hide the wires. It was one of her proudest accomplishments.

Nobody knew she was in the basement. But it didn’t matter, since the old Avengers Tower had been vacant. If someone bought, she would have known.

(No, she didn't know that the tower had been bought. She didn't know that Valentina was moving in).

All of her details were still in the tower system; it was easy enough to hack into the intercom. She didn't do much with it, isolated it to the basement to play her music while she worked.

It was hard, trying to live up to greatness. It was even harder knowing you'll never be able to achieve it.

Rarely did she travel to other floors. If she did, she would have known about Valentina. If she did, she would have been arrested on the spot.

No daddy to bail her out this time. And Pepper wouldn't bother, she thought.

Maybe if she knew, she would have stayed in the basement, gathered up her things and moved out. She wouldn't have gotten in the elevator to get parts out of the floor. Parts her dad used to make machines to take off the Iron Man suite the second he stepped into the building.

Stepping into the elevator with an empty box in her hand and a screwdriver in her pocket, she pressed the necessary button. The doors slid closed and she began travelling up.

So many floors, but it took no time at all. That was her dad's doing. This entire place was her dad's doing. (Maybe that's why she couldn't leave it behind).

The elevator doors should have slid open to reveal nothing. An empty floor, exactly how the Avengers had left it. The bar her dad left nearly fully stocked before they moved to the compound.

But that wasn't the sight that greeted her.

People in the tower. There shouldn't have been people in the tower. Oh, she had fucked up.

They were mid fight, that much was obvious. The blonde guy in the ridiculous suit held Bucky's fist in his hand like he wasn't fighting a super soldier with a vibranium arm.

But the fight had stopped as everybody in the room stared at her. Goldilocks, discount Steve Rogers, blonde bombshell, soviet santa, mystery person and Bucky.

"You've got to be kidding me."

It was Bucky that said it, pulling his fist out of Goldilock's grip. In the moment of confusion, Goldilocks let him go, his gaze on her.

She resisted the urge to step back into the elevator. "I..." But she couldn't find the words. "What're you doing in my house?"

"Your house?"

She hadn't noticed the woman until now. Dark hair, grey in the front so pretty that it looked silver. Definitely dyed, but it looked good.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, but I bought this property and you are trespassing."

Her eyes went wide, grip on her empty cardboard box growing tighter. "Oh," she said, the air in the room becoming uncomfortable. But then she furrowed her brows. "Really? Because I've been living here for a while."

The woman's mouth dropped open. "How long- You know what? I don't care." She snapped her fingers. "Sentry."

Suddenly, she was moving through the air. Not of her own volition, she had no sort of power. In less than seconds, she was in front of Goldilocks, his fingers wrapping around her neck.

In her struggle, she gripped his wrist, tried to get out of his grip. But he was impossibly, terrifyingly strong.

There was something in his blue gaze that was soft. Suddenly, he let go of her. Her feet hit the floor and he stepped away from her. "Sorry, I... you don't deserve this," he mumbled.

Her hand found her own neck. He didn't have her in a strong grip, but it still hurt so damn much.

But she couldn't stop staring at him. Sentry. She had no doubt he had the potential to look terrifying, but he didn't in that moment. Regret shined in his blue eyes.

A hand grabbed her, pulling her back. She, along with Bucky, Discount Steve Rogers, Mystery Person, Blonde Bombshell, and Soviet Santa, ran towards the elevator.

They squeezed in and travelled down.

"What the fuck?" Bucky called as he pulled her out of the building. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

She pulled her hand out of Bucky's grip. "I've been living here, Barnes," she called back, shoving her hands into her pockets. The screwdriver still sat there, the cardboard box back in the tower.

"Why aren't you with Pepper?"

A scoff left her lips, sounding more like a child than the adult she actually was. But that was one of the reasons she was in the tower in the first place, because she was sick of everyone treating her like a kid.

She released a breath and looked back towards the tower. "What the hell was that?" She asked, completely changing the subject.

Bucky let her. He didn't have it in himself to argue. But he wasn't going to answer her.

"That was Bob," came a new voice.

Her eyebrows went up. "Bob?"

"Bob."

She swallowed thickly. "What the hell is Bob?"

***

The New Avengers.

The name had her stomach rolling. The world didn't need the Avengers, did it? The only reason they'd needed the New Avengers was Valentina's own doing.

But here they were, in the Avengers - no - Watchtower. Bucky let her stay. He gave her conditions to her stay, but he didn't kick her out, didn't drag her kicking and screaming back to Pepper.

As long as she pulled her weight. As long as she worked, did the necessary repairs when they were needed. Sure, she was nothing like her father, but she had her own skills.

Bob was just Bob. Hair now brown, soft sweaters, books. No more blonde hair, no more shadow monster man (yes, she knew Sentry is more than that, but that was her way of referring to it. That was of referring to it sometimes pulled a smile from Bob).

No super soldier serum, no specialised training, no... whatever Ava was. Sure, he had incredibly strong powers, but they were safely tucked away and Bob was happy.

The two didn't immediately find themselves drawn to each other. She was curious, sure, but Bob didn't remember. He didn't have the answers for her.

But they found themselves left behind during missions. There was nothing wrong with that - how were they supposed to help the team?

The first few times, they kept to themselves. She didn't mind the isolation, that was how she lives when the tower was empty. But she watched Bob. Just what he was doing, how he entertained himself. His life had been full of tragedy, just like hers had been. Individual tragedies, but it made her curious about him.

On the teams third mission, their third time alone in the Watchtower together, she sat beside Bob.

"Whatcha reading?" She asked as she toed off her shoes and tucked her legs beneath her body.

Bob showed her the cover of his book, his finger slipped between the pages.

She patted her thighs, her fingers drumming against her skin. "Is it good?" She asked and Bob gave a nod.

Bob was a quiet guy. She'd learnt this through their limited interactions. But he wasn't usually this quiet. He at least had an answer for her.

So, she kept talking.

"You know, I lived here as a kid," she mumbled, laying back. Everything was different now it was the Watchtower. The bar her father so lovingly put in place was gone (but that was definitely a good thing).

Bob closed his book. "You're Tony Starks kid, right?" Her asked, one leg folded beneath the other, the other hanging off the edge of the sofa.

She gave a nod. "Yeah, grew up around the first round of Avengers," she mumbled.

Turning his head slightly, Bob let his hand rest in his wrist. He'd had a haircut since everything happened, him and Yelena in the bathroom with a pair of scissors. His hair was still a little bit wild, but it suited him.

"Why'd you live in the basement?"

Not the question she was expecting, but she didn't shy away from it. "Spent a lot of time in there as a kid," she answered. "Just felt right being in there."

It was more than that, clearly more than that, but Bob didn't pry.

He stood up. "Hungry?" He asked, watching as her eyebrows went up.

"You cook?" She couldn't help but ask.

Bob went to nod, but he stopped himself. "How hard can it be?" He tried, releasing a breath that suggested he didn't think it was going to be very easy at all.

She pushed herself up from the sofa. "I'll help," she said and went to follow him into the kitchen.

But Bob didn't move. "You cook?" He parroted.

A grin came across her face. "How hard can it be?"

Turns out, pretty fucking hard. Neither of them knew what they were cooking, and that was the first issue. The both of them were just pulling things out of the fridge and trying to decide what to do with it.

Chicken in a pan (plain and neither of them quite knew how to flavour it), spaghetti in boiling water (neither of them knew what to do for sauce), and a garlic bread pizza in the oven (the only promising part of the meal).

Bob pulled salt from the cupboard and seasoned the spaghetti.

"Fuck," she suddenly cried, fridge door open.

Bob raised his head, eyes wide as he looked at her. "What?" He asked, panicking slightly.

"This is John's boring chicken," she said, pushing the fridge door shut. Like she could hide the evidence if she just shut the fridge door.

"Shit," Bob replied as he turned it in the pan (one side finally looked cooked, but both of them knew not to trust it. Just a few more minutes and they'd check the inside).

"He's gonna kill us."

Bob nodded. "We're gonna die."

But then, they laughed. "If John really does try and kill us, you gotta protect me, okay?" She muttered, stirring the spaghetti in the boiling water. "All I got is this." She pulled the screwdriver from her pocket. She was never seen without it now.

"I'll protect you," he assured her, "I'll keep you safe."

Fear of John Walker was a great foundation for a friendship, as it turned out.

part one maybe?