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mydearzero · 18 hours ago

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My Person : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x Thunderbolts!Reader

Summary: Neither you nor Bob ever dared to fully cross the line of friendship or more, walking it like a tightrope instead. All it takes is one undercover mission for that tightrope to snap.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI, SMUT (unprotected p in v, dirty talk, praise, might be a slight hint of a breeding kink in there, slight bit of superpower usage), porn with a LOT of plot, fluff, friends to lovers, lots of pining, sort of a fake marriage trope, one bed trope, language, some mental health talk, female reader, alcohol consumption, some Agents of SHIELD spoilers actually, Thunderbolts spoilers obviously

Word Count: 16,400 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here A/N: special thanks to @briseisgone for checking my French in this!!!!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

"W-Wait...you want to send Bob and me on an undercover mission?"

Valentina let out an aggravated sigh, the same one she typically gave her rag-tag team of new Avengers. She stood at the head of the conference room table, perfectly manicured hand, as always, tapping incessantly on the glass tabletop. The look in her eyes displayed boredom, maybe even a hint of exasperation, as she looked directly at you.

“God–am I speaking Russian? Have I been spending too much time around the mall Santa over here?” her hand gestured out in the direction of Alexei. When no one spoke up, she continued. “Yes, Viper, I’m sending you and the man-child on this mission.”

“An undercover mission, that’s the part you’re glossing over that I-I really don’t think you should be,” you tried to reason with the woman, but she simply held her hand in the air to stop you.

“It’s the fastest mission of your life, Viper, it’s a single day: get in, get the information, get out. And if I remember correctly–well if Mel read the paperwork correctly–it was you that signed off on Robert’s combat forms and said he was fieldwork and combat ready,”

Well, she wasn’t wrong. That was your signature on those papers, signing off to approve Bob Reynolds for actual combat with the team on missions. You had been the one to hand-train him yourself for months on end, three hours a day in the training center, helping him to understand that his powers were a part of him and that he didn’t need to play the part of “The Sentry” to use them.

Hand-to-hand combat and the power of a thousand exploding suns were vastly different from undercover field work, though.

“Valentina, you’re missing the part where you’re sending them on an undercover mission,” Yelena chimed in, leaning her elbows forward on the table next to you as she voiced your own concerns out loud. “He’s combat cleared, we’ve taken him on small missions here and there-”

“He was very helpful with the gang problem last month!” Alexei cut in with a boisterous laugh. “They were such funny little men, looked like they were fake Russians. He made quick work of them, even if he apologized when he sent that one flying across the room-”

“The point is, undercover work is different,” it was Bucky who cut in this time, sitting directly across from you and Yelena, looking around at the group before his gaze cut back to Valentina. “Undercover work takes a certain level of care. It’s a lot of quick thinking in fast-paced environments, and it requires the ability to remain calm and adapt to anything that could happen. I just…I don’t think Bob is cut out for that kind of work yet.”

You hated agreeing with your team, but they were right. Bob brought a value to this team that sometimes couldn’t be accurately quantified, and you didn’t like talking down on him in any sort of way. He was valuable, he was helpful…he was your best friend, but he just wasn’t cut out for undercover work, at least not right now.

Valentina took one look around the room, scoffing with a mutter of “unbelievable” under her breath. With a snap of her fingers, Mel was by her side in a second to pass her a manila folder, shooting the rest of you an apologetic look as she stepped away. Valentina flicked the folder open, gaze rising to settle on you.

“Oh, look what we have here: SHIELD Special Agent 19, codename Viper,” the deep sigh you let out was inevitable as Valentina paced the front of the conference room, reading straight from your file. “A liaison for the original Avengers, looks like you did some work with Yelena’s sister. Let’s see, notable missions–ah! Project TAHITI, Project Deathlok, a mission to Puerto Rico that ended in the deaths of three HYDRA leaders. Need I list off more?”

You mumbled something under your breath about how much you loved this “walk down memory lane” that drew a short chuckle out of Yelena, before Valentina continued to read through the file.

“Over 37 different undercover missions spanning the likes of Berlin, São Paulo, Mumbai, and even Osaka: all successful, by the way. There’s even a review section about your superb skills with an FN SCAR-H, MGC M-16, and your favorite, the Nemesis Arms Vanquish. Oh, and your lethal little twin daggers, all coupled with this glowing review about how you were one of the best agents to ever step foot in SHIELD,” Valentina flipped the manila folder closed, tossing it onto the table with pursed lips. “Let’s not forget that all of that? Yeah, it’s all personally signed off by Nick Fury.”

“I love reading time with Valentina, it’s so fun,” Walker huffed out a bitter laugh, leaning back in his chair with arms folded behind his head. “Can you read my file next? I’m dying to relive my short few weeks as Captain America.”

As much as Walker could be a dick at times, his humor in moments like these was much appreciated. Except to Valentina, who only shot him another glare.

“My word is final. I have one of SHIELD’s best special agents on my team, and I’m using her. And yeah, you’re taking Robert with you,” with a snap of her fingers once more, Mel passed her another manila folder that was slid in your direction. You had barely stopped it under your hand before Val had slid the large pair of expensive sunglasses on top of her head over her face, shooting a fake grin around the room. “Now, I have a meeting with the Senator, followed by a stint on a beach in Fiji. I trust you all can handle this: try not to call!”

The sound of her heels clicking against the linoleum floor echoed through the room, before the large conference door swung shut with a heavy click.

Silence hung in the air between the team for a moment before all hell broke loose.

“He’s just not cut out for a mission like this. I’m sorry, I have to say it,”

“Bobby apologized to that gang member last month when he threw him across a room. We want to send this guy undercover?”

“Ah, but he is The Sentry! He is most equipped to protect our stabby-stabby friend, Miss Viper,”

With another sigh, you flipped the manila folder in front of you over. With a quick skim down the page, you got the gist of the mission: HYDRA, possibly regrowing, attempting to get their hands on Adamantium.

Just the word HYDRA had a pang of hurt hitting you straight in the chest. Great. Just great.

“We can argue as much as we want, but we aren’t the ones assigned to a mission with him,” your ears perked up at Yelena’s voice, turning your head to look at her. She was already looking toward you. “Do you think he can handle this?”

“Personally? I’m terrified that undercover work is going to be a lot on him. He’s gotten more comfortable with letting his Sentry powers show at times and with hand-to-hand, but undercover is different,” you explained, treading carefully around what you said. “It’s taken months for him to feel comfortable on his medication, especially after Dr. Kim changed his dosage at least four times. Undercover work…it’s intense, I don’t want him to get overwhelmed.”

Ava leaned forward on the table, drawing your attention to her.

“Viper, while it’s a valid concern…Valentina hasn’t left us with much of a choice,”

You sighed, flipping the manila folder closed once again.

“No. No, she didn’t,”

You didn’t speak another word, and the team took it as the official end of the meeting. All but Yelena, who stayed behind even as the conference room doors shut again. She sat quietly for a moment before speaking.

“So…you’re totally not nervous about being alone with Bob, right?”

“Why would I be?” you questioned, and Yelena just looked at you expectantly. “Oh god–Lena, don’t start this again–”

“The heart eyes you two give each other make me sick,” she faked throwing up, laughing as she dodged the kick you sent toward her chair while shaking your head, trying to rid yourself of the heat crawling into your skin. “Always looking at one another, he’s always stumbling over his words–more than usual–around you, always being so touchy touchy together, and so on and so forth with the cuteness overload day in and day out.”

She took the manila folder from your hands, skimming over the mission details as you scoffed in her direction.

“So we spend a lot of time together, so we can be a little touchy, what’s wrong with that? Friends are like that all the time!”

“Um, except Bob is notoriously not touchy with anyone, given the whole interconnected shame room incident,” Yelena simply stared at you, blinking multiple times in succession. You stared back, before she simply threw the manila folder down with a sigh. “Fine, fine, don’t listen to me and solve the glaringly obvious romantic–and slightly sexual–tension, wallow in it for all I care. I wish you luck in Paris, of all places, ignoring that.”

The mission weighed heavily on your mind later that night. Yelena’s thoughts lingered, too, in the back of your head.

The tower’s kitchen was quiet, except for the playlist currently playing out of your phone’s speaker from where it sat plugged in on the counter. The sun had already set, and the team was all off on their own set schedules.

Walker was finally making a supervised visit with his estranged wife and child, like you’d been hounding him to do for months. Ava had said something about catching a movie at the theater down the road, while Alexei had roped Yelena into ‘father-daughter bonding’ at a Broadway show (you were sure they’d be home soon and Alexei would somehow get them kicked out). Bucky had simply retired to his room, leaving you to your own thoughts in the kitchen.

Two pots were boiling on the stove. You had just added the spaghetti sauce into one and half of the box of noodles into another, humming under your breath as some song that Tony used to play around this very tower played off your phone.

“S-Smells good,”

You jumped slightly, heart rate spiking, before you turned. The sight of Bob leaning against the kitchen doorway, clad in a white t-shirt and one of his many pairs of grey sweatpants, had your guard back down in a second. With a quick stir of the noodles, you pointed the now-soaked utensil in Bob’s direction with a grin.

“Haven’t you been warned not to sneak up on dangerous agents anymore? After the last time Yelena almost stabbed you?”

The blush coating his cheeks at the simple mention of the incident had you laughing, nodding your head toward him to beckon him over. He crossed the room without hesitation, feet shuffling across the cold floor until he was leaning on the counter next to the stove.

“Well…you’re different. I-I hope you wouldn’t try to stab me,”

“On purpose? No. Scare me like that again? Maybe,” you added the rest of the box of noodles to the boiling water without having to ask, not missing the tiny quirk of his lips as you did.

Without having to ask, he took another large spoon from the utensil holder, lazily stirring around the sauce in the pot next to him. You shot him a grateful smile, keeping your eyes on the noodles in your own pot.

“Homemade garlic bread?” Bob questioned, gesturing down to the lit oven below you both. You could see his smile stretch just the tiniest bit wider. “You know I-I love your homemade garlic bread.”

“I know, that’s why I made it,” you teased him, bumping your hip lightly against his own as he let out a short laugh. “I figured you would come crawling out of your room eventually and get hungry tonight.”

The kitchen went quiet for another moment. Bob backed out of the way, letting you open the oven to a rush of warm air and check on the bread.

He took your spoon from you without having to be asked, stirring the noodles and the sauce as you crossed the kitchen to the fridge. With a wine glass and a normal tall glass placed before you, you poured him a cup of water before pouring yourself a generous amount of sangria from your favorite bottle in the fridge–it still had a sticky note on the side to tell Ava to keep her hands off of it.

“I had a dream last night. B-But…I think it was more like a memory,”

Bob’s sudden comment had you pausing, placing the wine bottle back down on the counter carefully, and turning. His back was to you, still focused on the stovetop, but even you could see the tension suddenly riddled throughout his body, in the subtle flex of his arms.

“What was it?”

“New York, the…the incident,” he struggled to explain that day, but you knew what he was talking about. “D-Do you remember what you said to me that day? When you…pulled me out of there?”

Of course you did. You remembered the shame room incident like it was yesterday. Reliving the day you thought you lost your mentor, the crumbling of SHIELD, the comforting hand of your mentor on your shoulder when you learned the man you thought you loved and trusted had really been-

You remembered Bob. Jumping into those shame rooms to find him, to break through every wall until you found Yelena, and until you both found Bob. Wrapping him in your arms after fighting tooth and nail across the room until you got to him, holding him as he cried.

I’ve got you. I’m not leaving, not now, not ever. You don’t have to carry it alone; I’ll carry it with you.

With both glasses in hand, you placed them on the island counter. You placed two plates beside them before you rejoined Bob’s side. He handed you back your own utensil without a word, and you took it, fingers just barely brushing his. You could see those little bumps rise on his skin where you touched him, and it brought a soft smile to your face.

“That I wasn’t leaving, that I’d carry your burdens with you,” you spared him a glance from the corner of your eyes, and he was already looking at you. “It was a memory, Bob. That’s what I told you, and I meant it.”

God, when you said you would carry his burdens with him, did you mean it. Every therapy session Valentina had ordered for him, you were at his side–at his request, of course. He refused to sit through the first few without you, and after that, he was just too used to you being around for them.

Those therapy sessions turned into late-night conversations on the couch when his insomnia took over. Walks around Central Park in the middle of the day. Visits to his favorite local bookstore to find something new to read.

It was hard not to become someone’s person when you spent every moment with them.

“Okay, good. Would be kind of awkward if it was just a dream,” you sputtered out a short laugh, leaning into his side with another small nudge to his hip. “You know, t-the same goes for you, right? That I’m here, that uh…that I have your back. Especially if we’re, you know, on missions or something…”

In the middle of stirring your pot, you hung your head with an audible sigh.

“Let me guess, Yelena told you about the mission we’re assigned?” he gave you a small nod. “I promise I was going to tell you, probably after dinner, after I had time to fully think about the logistics of it all.”

Bob took the pot off the stove as you switched it off, swinging it over to the sink and helping you empty the contents into the strainer, the excess water rushing off down the drain.

“She wanted to warn me, given that it’s undercover and all,” Bob explained, putting the empty pot back on one of the burners that was cooled off as you shook the rest of the water from the strainer. “I just…I want you to know that I-I can do this. That I won’t let you down o-or make it worse.”

Bob’s negative self-talk always caught your attention. Even when it wasn’t as glaringly obvious, when it was just hidden in his little comments, you always picked up on it. He seemed to know you did, already looking at you when you turned to give him a knowing look.

“Bob-”

“Yeah, I know, ‘replacing my negative thoughts with positive thoughts will lead to positive results’ or whatever it is Dr. Kim keeps telling me,” Bob tore the spoon stirring the sauce out of the pot and waved it around, flinging little bits of sauce everywhere. You couldn’t help your laughter as some of it splattered across his face, but he paid no attention to it. “I-I know undercover work is different from the little work that I-I have done, but I can do it, especially if it’s with you. I know I can.”

There was a beat of silence before you reached forward, fingers just barely grazing along his skin to wipe the little bit of spaghetti sauce from his cheeks. It was noticeable, the little way that Bob leaned into your touch, the only touch on the team that he actively allowed and didn’t shy away from all the time.

One strand of that dark brown hair fell in front of his eyes as he leaned into you, and you didn’t hesitate to swipe it back. Those striking blue eyes never looked away from you, and you found yourself lost in those ocean-like eyes and the softness they held. They were beautiful…Bob was beautiful, inside and out, and you had always known it. That flutter of your heart and that warm feeling that pooled in your stomach all but screamed it at you.

“I just worry that it could overwhelm you, bring up negative memories, that’s all. But I trust you. So, if you say you can do it, then I believe you. As long as you promise me that you’ll tell me the second something doesn’t feel right, if you feel overwhelmed.”

Bob’s smile quirked just slightly into that slightly smug little smirk you’d seen just a few times before, mainly when he managed to make a dig at Walker that always set the super soldier off. He held his hand up, pinky outstretched, and you laughed wholeheartedly before wrapping your own around his.

“I promise I’ll tell you,”

“Good. Do we need a secret code word if it comes up?” you teased.

“I mean…’cucumber’ works for many moments,”

You both laughed, pinkies still intertwined.

“Cucumber it is,”

❤︎

“The mission basics are simple: it’s been confirmed that remnants of HYDRA are still scattered across the globe, and they’re trying to regroup and gain momentum again. Somewhere in that rebuild, they’re trying to get their hands on Adamantium, that metal harvested from that Celestial body in the ocean. Intel suggests their plan is to get it from a French arms dealer by the name of Damien Jacquemin. His company runs out of the United States; it’s based somewhere in Texas, but he conducts his personal business as far from his company as he can. Not a guy we want to tussle with, Stark knew him well back in his heyday of weapons manufacturing,”

Valentina’s team had recreated the old SHIELD and Avengers quinjets fairly accurately, with their own additions. The cockpit was separated from the rest of the jet to offer more privacy, a more spacious backend area than what you were used to in the past. A large conference table sat in the middle of the room, big enough to seat your team of seven around. Bob was sitting at that conference table now, flicking through the holopad you’d set in front of him, while you paced the open space behind him as you spoke.

“He’s hosting a one-day conference of sorts in Paris, but it’s a ruse to distract him from meeting with his potential HYDRA clients. This conference will consist of high-profile arms dealers and investors from around the globe,” you leaned down over Bob’s shoulder, flicking the holopad to the next screen. “He’s rented out this entire little hotel for the conference. It’s a boutique hotel, only 25 rooms, so the guest list is small and the conference room is small, meaning this is going to be an intimate event. It’s at least got nice views of the Eiffel Tower, so at least we have a view.”

“Okay…” Bob breathed out the word, sitting up straighter in his chair as he turned around to face you. You couldn’t help but smile at those eyes that were as wide as a deer’s in headlights, his hand tugging at the collar of the white button-down he was donning, tucked into his black pants. “S-So what are we doing?”

“We are guests of the conference, much like all the others in attendance. This conference is only a day long, so we have a short timeframe to work with to get this information,” you crossed the room over to the expensive designer purse waiting for you, digging out the fake passport and license for each of you, and passing Bob’s over to him. “These are our identities. If you can’t remember, just let me do most of the talking. Our job is to avoid as much direct contact with Mr. Jacquemin as we can, as he is the most likely to sniff us out as undercover. We are to determine which guests are the HYDRA agents in disguise, and be close enough to determine if a sale of Adamantium is happening and where it will happen, so we can alert our team. All while…not getting caught, of course.”

Bob examined the passport and license in his hand, and you could see the tiny shake in them. It brought a frown to your face as he turned it to you, smiling just a bit.

“M-My name is Mr. Aidan Gray?” you laughed lightly, seeing Bob look between you and that terrible photo of him with his hair slicked back for the fake ID.

“For this weekend? Yes,” you flashed him your own ID and license, before stalking back over to your purse to put them away where they’d stay safe. “You’re the extremely wealthy son of a former American arms dealer, Russell Gray, who did work with Stark Industries back in the day. Now, you own Gray Enterprises. I’m your loving and adoring wife, Mrs. Eloise Gray.”

“W-Wait, we’re…we’re married for this?”

You paused, cheeks heating up as you remembered that little, yet big, detail of the mission. Turning on your heel, Bob was now standing from his seat, eyes blown wide again and cheeks flushed the deepest shade of red you had ever seen on him.

“W-Well, statistically, these missions go smoother when marriage is used as a cover,” you stumbled a bit, trying to find the right words to explain a decision of the mission that had been entirely your call. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with this-”

“No! No y-you didn’t,”

Something hung in the quiet space between you both just then, something you had been avoiding for months. You avoided it in every therapy session when Bob took your hand in his, in every late-night talk on the common room couch while rain pattered against the tower windows until you fell asleep with your head on his shoulder, and in every look and gentle touch you exchanged.

The brush of hands, Bob’s hand always brushing against your lower back when he moved past you, the times when he’d wake up after you in the morning and wrap himself around you from behind in the kitchen in greeting, never fully understanding his actions so early in the morning with sleep still in his eyes. All moments that fluttered your heart in ways you tried to ignore.

“We just have to play it up at the conference, is all,” you reassured him, hands gliding down the sides of your dress as if brushing off non-existent dust.

Bob’s eyes were still blown wide, but he couldn’t help but let laughter flow from him, still slightly breathy. You quirked your head, smiling nonetheless at his actions, shoving that stupid heat pooling within you away.

“I-It’s just funny…Walker always jokes that we act like a married couple. Now he’s, like, k-kind of right,”

Okay, maybe Yelena had a point. There was a glaringly obvious rope of romantic tension that was hanging between you and Bob. It was a feeling you were aware of, that you tried to ignore for many reasons, but in moments like this it was more prevalent and obvious than usual.

That softness in his eyes, reserved just for you. It conveyed trust, complete and total trust, something Bob didn’t feel with many people. You were one of the lucky ones, if not the only lucky one.

The red light by the door to the cockpit blinked twice, illuminating the room: the signal that you would be landing. A secure location just outside of Paris, where an arranged car would pick you both up and transport you to your hotel.

“Well, you know how Walker can be. Always joking,” you did your best to laugh, even if it was slightly strained. An awkward smile crossed his lips before you walked past him, giving him a quick pat on the arm. “Get ready, we’re landing in a moment.”

The landing went off without a hitch, the sleek, black car awaiting you with Valentina’s personnel picking you up without an incident.

The drive into Paris city limits took an hour, a quiet hour. There was some channel playing through the car, a revolving slate of French songs. But neither you nor Bob spoke.

You watched him instead, as the sun set throughout the drive and the city lights lit up. The way the yellow of the lights reflected through the car windows, painting Bob in their soft light. The way the yellow reflected off the blue of his eyes, reminding you of the gold that shimmered through them when the Sentry serum took hold.

That tiny smile on his face, those wide eyes as he took in every street, every building, every group of people lining the street. It took a lot to stop the flutter of your heart at the sight.

“Bienvenue à Paris, Monsieur et Madame Gray! Nous attendions votre arrivée, veuillez me suivre,” the young man waiting in the lobby of your hotel greeted you enthusiastically, accent heavy, the second you and Bob stepped through the doors. Bob’s hand was wrapped in yours, and the second you were greeted in a language he couldn’t understand with fake names, you felt his grip tighten. You gave him what you hoped was a comforting squeeze back, giving the greeter a kind smile as you fell into step beside him, your bags taken by the bellhop at Bob’s other side. “Souhaitez-vous être accompagné jusqu'à votre chambre?”

“Non, mais merci de votre offre,” you responded in kind, the language rolling off your tongue with a practiced ease. You could see Bob’s head shoot up to look at you from the corner of your eye as you waved the greeter’s offer to escort you both to your room off. “Mon mari et moi avons eu un long vol, nous voulons juste nous reposer.”

“Bonne nuit, Madame,”

The keycard to your room was passed to you with another kind smile from the man. Bob stepped into the elevator first, pulling you along with him, before the bellhop placed your bags in the room with you and pressed the fifth floor button for you both. He bid you both another goodnight before the doors shut, leaving the two of you alone once more.

“Y-You speak French?”

There was a smirk on your face as you glanced at Bob, who looked astonished and impressed by what he had just seen.

“And Spanish, they were both taught to us during my SHIELD special training,”

“I liked the way you spoke it,” Bob’s voice dropped just slightly lower, slightly softer. “It…it was pretty.”

Heat was crawling through your skin as you slipped your hand from his, wiping it along your dress with a nervous laugh.

“W-Well, like they say…it is the language of love, and whatnot. Elegant and…all that,”

Silence fell between you both again as the elevator doors swung open on your floor. The room, 512, was just barely down the hallway, opening with a single flick of the keycard. Bob went to take a step forward, but you placed a hand on his chest, pulling him back and stepping into the room first, pulling the concealed gun from your thigh holster with a practiced ease as you did.

“First step of undercover, Bob: always assume you’re one step behind so that you never walk in blind,”

The hotel room was small: a tiny door that led to the bathroom to the right of the main door, a king-sized bed spread out along the entire wall with just enough space for the dresser, and floor-to-ceiling windows that opened up onto the skinny balcony.

A quick sweep of the room and the typical spots confirmed that it wasn’t bugged and that no one besides housekeeping had stepped foot in there within the last few hours, so you gave Bob a nod to enter the room as you slotted your gun back into its holster.

“N-Never been in a hotel this nice,” Bob muttered as he entered the room, looking around the room with a look in his eyes that you could only compare to childlike glee. He took a seat on the edge of the bed, letting out a sigh as he fell back against the quilt and practically sank into it. “Or a city so pretty.”

You smiled to yourself, moving to lock the door to the room. Reaching into your purse, you slid a small, circular device onto the door, one that would alert you if there was any unauthorized breach of the door. You reentered the main room, placing a similar device beside the window to the balcony, this one scrambling outside interference with the room so that anything said within your four walls would stay private information.

“You went to Malaysia, I’ve been there. It’s a beautiful country,”

“I went there to score drugs, I-I wasn’t staying in five-star hotels like this one,”

Bob sat up on the bed as he spoke, looking over to you. You leaned against the wall by the window, arms folded over your chest as you watched him, laughing lightly at his comment.

“Alright, you got me there, Reynolds. Fair point,”

Silence hung for a second before Bob finally looked around the room, glancing down to the bed under his fingertips before looking up at you with wide eyes once again.

“Um…t-there’s only one bed?”

“Oh…”

Yeah, oh. That thought hadn’t exactly crossed your mind when Valentina’s team sent you the booking for the room, or when you did the initial sweep of the room moments ago.

Okay, this wasn’t a problem. There were plenty of pillows, and you could easily make up a place to sleep on the floor. This also wasn’t your first rodeo with an undercover mission; you had done plenty in the past and made do with a lot less to work with. Sleeping in a bathtub wasn’t the most uncomfortable thing in the world, depending on the size of it-

“We could…we could share?”

That comment snapped you out of your thoughts. Bob looked at your sheepishly, his hands wringing together in a way you’d come to know well, but there was a spark of something in his eyes. Something that looked a lot like hope.

Your teeth gnawed at your bottom lip, the thought flickering through your head, before you gave him a hesitant nod.

“As long as you’re okay with it,”

“W-We fall asleep sitting on the couch together all the time. This is the same thing, just…horizontal,”

Bob may have hated his social awkwardness, but you were thankful for it. Especially in moments like this, where it broke tension so effortlessly. A laugh sputtered from your lips as you quickly covered it with your hand, and a tiny grin stretched across Bob’s face at the sound.

“Well, how can I argue with logic like that? Let me just…get changed,”

You spent too long in the bathroom, and you knew it. You had changed ten minutes ago into your sleep shorts and oversized t-shirt that you had stolen from Bucky weeks ago after he’d stained one of yours during a Walker and Ava-initiated food battle in the middle of dinner over a pointless argument.

The ten minutes since changing had been spent staring into the mirror in the pristine bathroom, trying to ground yourself.

Bob was right, you had essentially slept with each other multiple times before. This time, though, was different. Yeah, as Bob so expertly put it, you were horizontal this time, but you were in a bed and alone in Paris, not on a couch in the middle of the tower common room where any of your early riser teammates could walk in unannounced. It was such a mundane thing, sleeping next to someone, when you thought about it, but a much more intimate thing for Bob to feel comfortable enough to let you do with him.

He trusted you, completely. You tried to remind yourself of that when your mind drifted to how much or how little clothing he possibly wore to bed, or the fact that his body naturally functioned like a furnace because of the serum running through his veins. Or the impure fantasies that flicked through your head late at night when you were alone in your room in the tower, imagining how his lean and taut muscles and soft skin would feel under the touch of your wandering hand.

Bob was already tucked into one side of the bed by the time you finally entered the room. Just the bedside lamp remained on, bathing the room in a tiny bit of a yellow glow. You didn’t look at him directly as you shut the curtains to the balcony, but you could see the hint of bare skin peaking just above the covers from where he lay.

Without a word, you crawled in beside him, tucking yourself in with your head resting on the soft pillow on your side. You turned on your side, gaze trailing over the side of his face and his jawline, before Bob turned to face you too.

Nothing was said for a moment. You could faintly smell that body soap that Bob used, that hint of rosemary and sage invading your senses. His feet were moving back and forth under the covers, as if fidgeting when his hands couldn’t, and his body heat was prevalent in the sheets and in the air between you.

“S-Sorry,” he mumbled out, glancing down just barely at his own torso as you tried to keep your eyes trained on his face. “I run hot–you know that–and if I uh, if I wear shirts to bed I usually sweat r-right through them.”

“It’s okay,” was all you could manage to reply.

“I’ve never done this before,” Bob spoke again, vulnerability laced in his tone. “Never…slept in a bed with someone.”

You shifted, pulling your pillow down further as you tucked your hands under it.

“Never? Not even with a girlfriend?”

“Well, there was a girl…once,” Bob seemed to hesitate for a moment, but you didn’t push him. He’d come close to telling this story once before, about this girl, in therapy, but always stopped himself short. “I-I was younger, it was sometime after I dropped out of high school. Things were good, but she…she didn’t realize I was an addict. Once she knew, that was it. S-So, no, no bed sharing for me.”

“Well, I’m glad the first time you’re sharing a bed with someone, it’s with your wife,” the comment lightened the mood almost immediately, a genuine laugh tumbling from Bob’s lips. Your own pulled into a smile at the sight, seeing the tension that had been strewn throughout his features at the memory of this girl dissipating almost immediately. “It’s been a while since I’ve shared a bed with anyone, too. A long time.”

“How long?”

“Years. Way before Thanos, that’s for sure,” you chuckled to yourself. Bob watched you intently, hanging on your every word. “He was a SHIELD agent, too, a few years older than me. We were here in Paris…haven’t been back here since.”

You knew the melancholy was clear in your tone, memories flickering back to you in pieces. Bob shifted just slightly on the bed, his body moving just slightly closer to yours.

“What, uh, what happened to him?”

“He turned out to be HYDRA. My mentor killed him, so don’t worry, he’s a distant memory now. Became a full-time liaison for the Avengers after that all went down,”

“W-Well…it all worked out, didn’t it?” there was a hint of a sheepish smile on Bob’s face. “I…don’t think I would’ve met you if you didn’t work with them.”

Bob Reynolds didn’t make it easy. Whether the comment was meant to be flirty or just sweet in general, it had your stomach twisting in knots and heat flaring in your cheeks.

“Yeah…I guess everything works out for a reason,” you turned away from him then, back to him, as you flicked the bedside lamp out, plunging the room into darkness. “Goodnight, Bob,”

“G-Goodnight,”

The silence in the dark had only lasted for a few minutes. You hadn’t shut your eyes once, simply staring at the curtains covering the window in front of you, listening to the sound of Bob’s breathing fill the room. Any ounce of sleep that your body needed had evaded you suddenly, your body and mind wide awake.

“Can…can I ask you a favor?”

“Always,”

The bed sheets ruffled for a moment as Bob moved himself around.

“When I sleep, I tend to…I-I usually hold something. Like, my pillow. Do you–you can say no–but do you think-”

“Come here,”

You said it without hesitation, before you even fully realized what you agreed to. You didn’t need to think about it, though, because Bob Reynolds could ask you anything, and you weren’t sure you could ever really tell him no.

The sheets shuffled around again, before that warmth radiating from his skin was more prevalent than it was before. Gently, as if you were some wounded little animal he was scared to spook, Bob’s arm slowly slid around your waist from behind. His hand lay against your stomach, splayed out on top of the fabric, before his body molded to the back of yours.

One shaky breath left your lips the second his body was fully molded to the shape of your own. His other arm slid under the pillow beneath your head, and you could feel the heat from it on the other side of the pillowcase. Bob’s fingers twitched back and forth, as if hesitating, his warm breath ghosting over the back of your neck. In this close proximity, the sage scent in his bodywash was stronger, a hint of his minty toothpaste wafting through the air along with it.

Neither of you moved for a moment before you finally sank back into him, letting yourself embrace the feeling of being wrapped in his arms for the first time. Bob let out another shaky breath, his arm tightening around you the second you relaxed, as if realizing that you weren’t going to run away from his touch. Suddenly, tiredness finally found you again, your body being lulled into sleep.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear.

“Goodnight, Bob,”

As sleep finally overtook you, Yelena’s words floated through your mind once again.

❤︎

The dress Valentina’s team had picked was simple: a deep navy blue satin, floor-length, and column fit to hug you just right but provide enough mobility in case of a fight. The halter neckline tied around the back of your neck, the zipper up the back of the dress stopping right at your lower back, exposing the expanse of your spine in the cool air of the hotel room. A comfortable pair of black heels, ones easy enough to discard if, once again, a fight ensued. A single slit up the side of the dress, stopping right at the middle of your right thigh to barely hide the holster strapped to your upper thigh with your knives.

Simple, elegant, and befitting of a woman supposedly married to a rich and powerful weapons manufacturer.

“H-Here, let me help,”

Not a single muscle in your body moved as Bob stepped into view behind you, fingers taking firm hold of the dress’s zipper to conform it to your body.

Your eyes watched him in the floor-length mirror behind you, dressed up in a way you had never seen him before. His suit was a deep, rich brown color, with a matching jacket and dress pants with just a slightly darker shade of brown shoes on his feet. Bob’s hair was slicked back, held behind his ears with the pomade packed for him. It was strange, seeing him like this, but not unwelcome. It gave you the chance to fully see his face, no longer shrouded by stray strands of hair.

The zipper hooked into place at the top of your dress, Bob’s fingertips just lightly ghosting over your spine as a shiver ran straight through your bones and showed in the bumps along your skin. You turned on your heel, reaching out without a word to adjust the crinkled white button-up beneath his jacket so it lay flat. With the collar in place, you let your hand rest on his chest for just a moment, touch light, as you looked up at him. Bob’s eyes hadn’t left yours, nervousness written clear across his face, before you pulled your hand away to retrieve your clutch across the room.

“Alright, Mr. and Mrs. Gray need to have their stories straight,” you cleared your throat, explaining to him as you dug through your clutch, crossing the room back to his side. “In case we’re questioned on how we met, fell i-in love, that type of thing.”

Bob was silent for a moment as you continued to rummage through your clutch. As the silence stretched, you glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Bob, did you hear me-”

“Maybe…m-maybe we met in a bookstore. I saw you, but y-you were just too pretty to talk to. Then you came up to me, I was reading my favorite book, and you quoted it. And…the rest w-was history,”

Something about those words hit you like a hurricane, and suddenly, you were back in that Vault all those months ago.

“W-What exactly are you doing?”

“Rerouting power away from their security systems so they can’t get the drop on us,” Bob hummed in response to your comment, going quiet, but him being quiet worried you more than him talking. “Just stay behind me when the fight comes, okay? Because we’re going to have to fight our way out of here, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I can help, though! At least, I-I want to,” there was enthusiasm in his words for a moment, before that negative self-talk worked itself back in. “The medical trial was supposed to make me better, so I don’t know, I-I feel like I could help.”

The wires were finally rerouted, the little blinking green light indicating power to their security system flashing red. Your dagger was placed back in its loop on your belt, the electrical box slammed shut, before you looked back at Bob with raised eyebrows.

“I thought you didn’t remember much about this trial?”

“I don’t, just that it was for people who wanted to make something of themselves, to be better. To do good,” your gaze dropped to his hands, partially obscured by the long sleeves of his hospital uniform, as his fingers twisted together. “I don’t know, I-I just feel like I did something…bad, if that makes sense?”

“We all have, that’s why we’re in this vault,”

“This feels different,” he gave a short laugh. “I-I’ve always had these episodes since I was a kid. There’s a…there’s a high, then there’s a big low, and then my memory just goes blank. This time, it feels like I-I did something bad. I don’t know, it just feels like every time I try to move forward and do something good, the past comes back to haunt me.”

There was a tug in your chest at the comment, like recognition in your soul for the way he hurt, for the pain he carried.

“And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” you shrugged a little at your own response, a splash of red coating your neck and cheeks. “Sorry, you just reminded me of this quote from a book I love about the past haunting you-”

“The Great Gatsby,” Bob’s smile was just a tad bit brighter now, and it tugged on your heart in a different way. “Y-Yeah, I know it. It’s my favorite book.”

“Mine too,” you offered him softly, with a smile of your own, before the lights flickered for just a moment before popping back on, indicating that Yelena’s plan had failed.

His own fake story for your fake relationship had traces of that first conversation you’d really had with him strewn throughout it. You couldn’t help the way your heart fluttered at the thought.

Suddenly, your head was back in bed this morning, just hours before. Wrapped in his arms as if it were the most usual thing in the world, his heat wrapping around you and shielding you from the cold of the room. The way his arms tightened around you the second you tried to leave the bed, his subconscious holding tighter to you even in the quiet of the morning.

The moments you had sat on the balcony, freshly showered in a bathrobe, enjoying a plate of fresh croissants and coffee. One hand flicked through the screen of your holopad, tapped into the security system of the hotel just down the street, monitoring the setup of the conference. But your eyes drifted back to Bob every now and then. The way the quilt rested around his hips, his slightly tanned skin and taut muscles visible in the smattering of sunlight that streamed through the window and painted his body in shades of gold.

“How’d we get engaged?” you found yourself asking after a moment, shaking yourself out of your head. Bob let out a soft laugh, hands wringing together in front of him.

“If I worked up the courage, ever…a picnic, by the beach. M-Maybe the sun setting in the background, little sandwiches, some music. I-I’d…I’d tell you that…you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. Inside and out,”

If he’d meant it, if it had been a real marriage proposal, you would probably have said yes right in that moment without another thought.

Bob watched as you slipped your hand from your clutch, tucking it under your arm, before taking his left hand in yours. Your palm opened, two gold bands glinting in the overhead light.

“Sorry to rain on your engagement parade, but we’re in a time crunch. Looks like we have to skip straight to the ring ceremony,”

His shaky hand lay in yours as you slipped the ring onto his finger, a new kind of tension charging the air between you both. Bob took your hand next, and you could feel your chest tighten and your stomach flip a thousand different ways as his shaky hands slipped your own ring onto your left hand.

It all felt so right, so natural. But there was no time to dwell on it, as the mission was truly about to begin.

The streets of Paris in the late afternoon near your hotel weren’t overcrowded, but still busy. Bob had taken your hand from his arm, wrapping it in his own as he squeezed it firmly, but gently, twice. It was the same squeeze he would always give you in the middle of his therapy sessions when a moment felt like too much.

The rented hotel was just two streets away, and the wall of bodyguards standing outside was a clear sign that you were in the right place. You gave Bob’s hand a light squeeze back, leaning over so that your lips just barely brushed his ear.

“Tonight, you aren’t Bob Reynolds. You’re Aiden Gray, a wealthy CEO, someone people respect. They don’t look down on you, they respect you, because you are powerful and you are important. I’ll be right here the whole time, I won’t leave your side. You can do this, I believe in you,”

Bob didn’t get to respond before you were standing before the front door of the hotel. The looming presence of the bodyguards waited until you pulled out the ornately decorated slip of paper from your clutch, flashing them your invitation with Damien Jacquemin’s personal signature. They looked at one another, nodded, and parted to let you and Bob enter.

The hotel’s ground floor was spacious, yet still small. Shades of blue, beige, and deeper browns coated the room from head to toe, matching perfectly with the deep brown wooden floors and the beige columns around the room. The ornate lights hanging from the ceiling glowed in a warm white, bathing the room in soft light. There were maybe fifty guests littering the room, leaning against walls or cocktail tables, or even sitting in plush chairs and couches, already locked into conversations.

“That man over there is Herman Schultz, a known associate of Adrian Toomes that got released from custody during the blip,” you whispered into Bob’s ear once more, gesturing with a single flick of your finger toward a tall man across the room, laughing with a group of women. You tugged him slightly, pointing in another direction at a table where a group sat. “Over there? That’s the head of Cybertek Corporation, they’re speaking with a distant cousin of Aldrich Killian, trying to restart his defunct company, A.I.M.”

“S-So a lot of really important and powerful people,” Bob mumbled back. You squeezed his hand once, bringing his nervous gaze to you, and shot him a teasing smile.

“Darling, you have the power of a thousand exploding suns. You could take them all out with a single look,”

Whether it was the pet name or the compliment, something about what you had said made Bob almost preen under your words. He straightened just slightly, shoulders squared back, an air with a hint of confidence filling the space around him.

“Where’s the host for the evening?”

Damien Jacquemin wasn’t hard to spot. He had a way of commanding a room with charm and poise, leaving no one any wiser to the fact that he was three steps away from stabbing you in the back to get what he wanted at all times. He towered above most people in the room, even Bob, his salt-and-pepper hair sticking out like a marker for him. He laughed at something the young men around him said, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as a flash of the Rolex on his wrist glinted in the light.

“He’ll be giving a speech soon, followed by some other key presenters he has lined up. Keep your eyes peeled for our potential targets,” you muttered just low enough for Bob to hear, hand still grasping his as you found your way to a table seated on the edge of the room as Mr. Jacquemin moved toward the makeshift stage and podium, giving you both a vantage point of the entire room. “They’ll stick out: clothing not up to par with the rest of the crowd, shifty body language, maybe even an identifying mark.”

The clink of a glass across the room had those in attendance seating themselves, attention brought to the charming French man standing behind the podium, a wide smile shining over his guests, who clapped for him. Bob clapped along while you took the chance to survey the room as Mr. Jacquemin began his speech to welcome everyone into the conference.

As the speech droned on, as other speakers stood to address the crowd, your eyes continued to scan the room. If your HYDRA agents were hiding in here, they were blending in well among the sea of expensive suits, high-end perfume, and designer dresses.

The seat across the table from you and Bob was pulled out suddenly, a younger man in what you recognized as a Dior suit taking his place across from you both. He didn’t turn to listen to the speeches, though; his gaze stayed locked on you–hungry, like a predator watching his prey. You squirmed slightly in your seat as the man’s tongue dipped out to run over his bottom lip-

A warm hand placed itself on your bare thigh, uncovered by the high slit running up your dress. A shot of heat bloomed under the already warm touch, while a contrasting shiver shot straight down your spine. Your gaze flickered to Bob, heat pooling within your abdomen at the look stretched across his face.

Gone was that softness he always wore, or that slight blush that always sat in the apples of his cheek. His gaze had hardened, eyes narrowed, and jaw clenched as he fixed his sights on the man across the table. It was enough to force the man to look away, but Bob’s hand didn’t leave your leg. His fingers drifted further in, digging into the flesh of your inner thigh as he practically pulled you flush to his side. Still, then, his hand never left, his thumb drawing circles into your skin as heat bloomed under every inch of his touch, stroking the fire that was now blazing in your abdomen.

“Table by the front door. Two guys, they look off,”

His voice had dropped slightly. It was more gruff, akin to the way it sounded when he groaned and dragged himself from the hotel room bed early in the morning hours ago. Still Bob, still the man you adored, but with an edge to it–harder, almost protective. As if you were something that belonged to him, something for his eyes only, and the man sitting across from you had set him off. It had you swallowing the lump you hadn’t realized had even formed and following his directions to the table near the door, suddenly remembering the mission you were currently here to complete.

Bob was right. Young men, maybe their late twenties, seated at a table closest to the front door where bodyguards still stood on guard. They wore suits, but even from here you could see the wrinkles in the fabric, the knock-off watch on the wrist of one of them. One’s eyes shifted around the room every few seconds, never staying in one place too long. The other watched the podium, eyes shifting down to the table every other moment, his body shifting in his seat to readjust as if he couldn’t get quite comfortable.

“Good eye, think those are our guys,” you tucked your chin onto Bob’s shoulder with a grin on your lips, making it seem to the room as if you were simply speaking in hushed tones with your husband, while you whispered the praise back to him. The corners of his lips quirked at your praise, his hand giving your thigh yet another squeeze, before he settled back to ‘listen’ to the speeches at the podium. You tried to get a peek at his eyes, but he’d turned his head from you.

Those speeches droned on for two hours. A collection of talks on the importance of ever-evolving weapons in the current state of the world, fear-mongering over politics to push the need for enchanted weaponry, and more bullshit that had you wondering in your seat how Tony Stark used to attend conferences such as this.

Those speeches were hard to focus on when your mind was zeroed in on Bob Reynolds' hand that wouldn’t leave your thigh. The feelings that you had buried deep beneath your platonic feelings for your best friend had existed for a long time, but you never pushed them. Bob never seemed to be someone who would push boundaries such as this, too afraid to cross any lines with you. But this mission, this room full of important people, seemed to go straight to his head and fill him with a confidence that you had never truly seen him wear before, at least not to the extent that he’d willingly leave his hand splayed across your bare thigh for two hours drawing circles into your skin.

Part of you didn’t want him to let go, the other part of you was begging him to move his hand. The middle of a mission was the worst time for a coil of heat that you weren’t able to satisfy to be building in your core. Even when your meals were served, speeches continuing on at the podium, Bob hadn’t removed his hand once.

“I must say, I was not aware of Gray Enterprises. It seems you hold a good portion of the weapons market across the United States now. Tell me, did Stark Industries ending their weapons division help boost your market value?”

Champagne glasses had been thrust into your hands, though Bob had kindly refused his. A German arms dealer and his wife, Kaleb Hettinger and Rosalina Hettinger, had quickly crossed the room and pulled you both into a discussion the second that the speeches had wrapped up, dying to learn more about two of the few Americans littering the room.

“Well, my husband’s late father, I’m sure, was excited when the late Mr. Stark shut down his weapons division,” you gave a simple laugh, resting a hand on Bob’s chest. You could feel his own nervous laughter run through him, one of his hands curling around your waist to rest on your hip hesitantly, a stark contrast to how easily that same hand had gripped your thigh minutes ago. “Given the events of the last few years, including during the blip, we’ve found it most profitable to focus on enhanced weaponry.”

“Lord knows we need it,” Rosaline laughed, German accent thick, shaking her head at a thought of her own. “We all know those…New Avengers, I think they’re calling them, won’t be of much help. But besides that, I love seeing a powerful couple in our world! Tell me, how did you two meet?”

You went to speak, but Bob beat you to it, squeezing your hip just slightly.

“W-We were teenagers. I saw her in a bookstore, but…she was too pretty to talk to. She came up t-to me, quoted my favorite book…” Bob’s gaze turned to you, and you glanced up at him. “I-It was love at first sight.”

Something about those words twisted around your heart: the sincerity of it. The soft look in his eyes, the tiny smile coupled with that hint of truth in your first meeting…it felt real. His words felt real, like it was Bob saying it to you, not Aiden Gray saying it to his adoring wife.

“Oh, mein Schatz! Look at them! That’s true love if I’ve ever seen it,”

Rosaline’s voice cut through the air again. Heat bloomed across Bob’s face, and you felt it on your own, gazes averting from one another almost immediately. Kaleb let out a hearty laugh, giving his wife a kiss on the cheek.

“Truly, it is wonderful to see a man love his wife like I love my own. I have a lot of respect for a man like you, Mr. Gray, who continues to shower the woman he loves in affection,”

There it was again, that straightening of Bob’s posture, the tightening of his hand at the comment, as if the words had gone straight to his head again.

“She deserves nothing but the best, and only I’m capable of offering it to her,” that usual stutter in his words was gone, replaced by an air of confidence as he turned his head, his lips ghosting over your temple in a gentle yet firm kiss. You tried not to falter under the notion, giving the pair in front of you the strongest smile you could, even as your stomach flipped upside down.

Your potential HYDRA agents caught your eye once more, moving across the expanse of the room just behind the Germans standing in front of you.

“Oh, Mr. Gray, I think you would be very interested in this new design my company has been working on. It’s an addition that can be added onto solar panels–well, it makes more sense if I show you. I brought the blueprints, they’re just over here at our table if you would like to see?”

Bob’s head turned to look at you, catching sight of your gaze following those two men across the room. You turned back to him, giving him a short nod. He hesitated for a moment before nodding back to you, letting his arm slip from your hips as he followed the Hettingers back to their table just a few feet away.

It was like being able to breathe again, the second Bob was gone, even if you missed the feel of his arm sitting around your waist as if it had been molded to sit there. This wasn’t the time for hidden feelings; you were in the middle of a mission.

You moved across the room elegantly, casually leaning yourself against one of the beige columns on the edge of the room, passing smiles to those who passed by you. The suspected agents stood just on the other side of the column you were leaning against, speaking in hushed whispers. With a sip of your champagne, you strained to overhear their conversation.

“He won’t sell it to us here,”

“It makes sense, too many people. He give you anything else?”

“One of his assistants will send me the location soon. He didn’t want to risk sending it himself in the middle of the conference,”

A smirk spread across your lips as you took another sip of your champagne, a single word running through your mind: gotcha. Sometimes, they made it all too easy, especially HYDRA agents. So lazy.

“Regardez ce que nous avons ici. A beautiful woman, all alone,”

A chill ran through your blood at that French accent, your head whipping around. Damien Jacquemin stood at your side in all his glory, perfectly pressed and tailored suit. He stood way too close, the hint of alcohol wafting off his breath and invading your senses.

“Mr. Jacquemin, a pleasure to finally meet you,” you put on the lightest, airiest, most polite tone that you could while trying not to grit your teeth. This was the exact man you didn’t want to be alone with. In the interest of maintaining your cover, you held your hand out in his direction to clink your glass to his.

Damien didn’t waste a second, whisking your champagne glass from your hand and setting both of your glasses on the tray of a server walking past. His hand enveloped yours: skin cool, nothing like the warmth of Bob’s. His lips pressed to your knuckles, eyes never leaving yours: his gaze didn’t hold the warmth that Bob’s did when he looked at you, his lips didn’t leave a trail of tingling through your skin like Bob’s did.

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Gray. S'il vous plaît, come and spare me a single dance,”

There wasn’t any place to argue with the man as he whisked you off into the middle of the hotel lobby without another word. Soft music played from the live string quartet the French arms dealer had hired for the evening, and couples here and there had cleared the middle of the lobby to fashion a makeshift dance floor.

Mr. Jacquemin pulled you in, a huff leaving your lips as your front was pressed to his. One of his hands splayed across your lower back, pressing you closer, while the other held your left hand up beside you both dancing you softly around the floor in circles.

The hand didn’t feel like Bob’s; it didn’t engulf your hand like his did, his thumb didn’t draw little circles into your skin. The hand on your lower back was firm, almost controlling; it wasn’t comforting like Bob’s touch. Even pressed to his chest, you couldn’t feel the inhuman warmth that Bob radiated, and it left you feeling cold without it.

You never knew just how much you craved that closeness with Bob, how much you craved his touch, until you’d felt it in the way you had only ever dreamed of feeling it. You had masked these feelings for months in the guise of platonicness, when in reality, you were as much his person as he was yours.

You didn’t want to be in this dance if it wasn’t with Bob.

“A beautiful ring you have, ma chérie,” his gaze was settled on the simple gold band on your ring finger, poking and prodigy at it with his own index finger as you both spun. “Very…simple, though, isn’t it? I expect more from a man such as Mr. Gray, though maybe his personality and taste matches the rest of him…painfully drab.”

The comment made you bristle in his hold. It didn’t feel like a jab at the fictitious character of Mr. Aiden Gray, it felt like a jab at Bob Your grip on the man’s forearm tightened, nails digging into the fabric.

“Well, I didn’t choose my husband based on the gifts he gives me,” you grit your teeth, forcing a smile as you shot the comment at him. “He may not buy me the flashiest of jewelry, but he’s worth more than anyone in this room in heart alone.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Gray, I’m sure he is. It’s hard to quantify you and your husband’s net worth, and the worth of your company, when there’s simply…not much to search about you online…”

In all your years of undercover missions, you’d never failed on. Your alibis, your identities for the missions, had always been airtight and remained intact. But Damien Jacquemin had found a crack somewhere; he’d found a missing piece in the concoction of Gray Enterprises, and he knew who you were. Your cover was blown. It felt as if your heart was going to stop: if your cover was blown, then so was Bob’s. Bob, who you had allowed to leave your side, who you couldn’t find from where you stood on the makeshift dancefloor-

“...I’m not surprised I didn’t find much, though. Your father-in-law seemed to do a good job of moving his dealings under the table and to the black market in the years following the collapse of Stark Industries' weapons sector. I’m, frankly, quite impressed by how you and your husband have managed to operate so under the radar. I’m quite interested in the idea of a partnership.”

It took every ounce of strength you had not to let out a relieved breath: he didn’t know. Your cover wasn’t blown. You were safe, Bob was safe, and that was all that mattered. You let out a slight laugh, brushing a strand of air behind your ear before resting your hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder again. He was none the wiser to the minuscule, circular device that you slipped under the collar of his suit jacket in the moment.

“Partnerships can be discussed, but with my husband, of course,” you managed to speak. “As long as your company isn’t engaging in any… under-the-table deals with unfavorable organizations, I’m sure a partnership can be on the table.”

He laughed, accent thick, as his breath brushed your ear and he whispered.

“Where is the fun in that, darling?”

Someone cleared their voice from directly behind you, a hand catching the forearm of Damien Jacquemin where you had been holding it before. That familiar bodywash scent invaded your senses in an instant: rosemary and sage.

“I believe it’s my turn to dance with my wife,”

Bob’s voice almost growled on the final word: wife. It had that cord of heat coiling up even further in your stomach. You could visibly see the wince in Mr. Jacquemin’s face as Bob’s hand on his forearm squeezed tighter and tighter every second, no doubt leaving indents in his skin as the veins running down the back of Bob’s hand almost throbbed.

The Frechman’s hands were off you within a moment, a tight-lipped smile sent your way, before he whisked himself back off through the room. It was like the little moment on the dance floor had never happened, a smile lighting up his face as he was whisked off into another conversation with investors.

Bob’s hand suddenly had a tight hold of your hip, spinning you around until your chests were pressed together, your body molded into his. You relaxed into that familiar grip, into the warmth it provided, your head placing itself on his chest. Bob took up the same position Damien had held moments before, one hand on the small of your back and the other lifting your left arm into the air, dancing softly back and forth with you. His grip tightened over so slightly, the firm grip around your waist hugging you to him in a way that was just the slightest bit uncomfortable.

“I’m okay, Bob, you don’t have to hold me so tight-”

“He shouldn’t have been touching you,”

His words were so final, so precise. His tone was laced with a hint of anger, that same gruffness from earlier present again. It had you furrowing your eyebrows, glancing around the room as his grip tightened ever so slightly again.

“He didn’t hurt me, I promise, I’m okay-”

“He shouldn’t have been touching you because you’re my wife,” he snapped back. “He thinks he’s above me? You’re my wife, he should respect me.”

Respect. That word shot up a wave of red flags in your head, as well as the flicker of the overhead lights of the room that sent a murmur through the conference crowd.

You racked your brain for memories of every therapy session of Bob’s you’d been with him on, trying to find that missing puzzle piece. His depression, his anxiety…his delusions of grandeur. Suddenly, it made sense when you’d heard him talk like this before, where you’d heard this overconfident tone before: just once, in The Watchtower months ago.

You can call me The Sentry.

You pulled your head from his chest, craning your neck back to look at him. Bob’s eyes were already looking down at you, as if waiting for you to look at him, and that’s when you saw it: that sparkle of gold in the blue of his eyes.

His eyes didn’t leave you as you hand left his, curling around the back of his neck as you moved back and forth across the makeshift dance floor, holding his gaze.

“You should be respected…but because you’re Bob,” you kept your voice soft, just loud enough for him to hear among the murmurings and music in the room. “Bob Reynolds deserved to be respected.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. You’re my Bob,” the smile you gave him was as soft and full of affection as it could be. “My Bob, who always asks me to read his favorite book because he says he likes hearing the sound of my voice. My Bob, who likes it when the rain hits the windows of the tower late at night. My Bob, who doesn’t even realize the way he hugs me so early in the morning when he’s fresh out of bed. My Bob? I respect him. My person…my favorite person.”

It wasn’t instantaneous; it took a few moments of simply holding him, but that gold slowly faded from Bob’s eyes. His features softened, his lips pulled into a slight frown, and then those blue eyes were frantically glancing around the room. You watched as the Adam’s apple of his throat bobbed, before his eyes found yours again: frantic, nervous.

“...cucumber?”

You let out a short laugh, and nodded, taking his hands in your own and leading him through the crowds as quickly as you could. There was an unguarded door behind the concierge desk leading into a backroom, L-shaped hallway for employees. You quickly shut the door behind both of you.

Bob leaned against the wall, running his hands through his hair so many times that the gel no longer held it down, letting those soft brown strands fall in front of his face again. He tugged incessantly at the collar of his button-down, his frantic gaze catching yours.

“I-I can’t believe I just did…any of that. God–I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t ruin the mission, did I?”

You let out a soft chuckle, taking another step toward him to stand directly in front of him.

“I overheard our guys; they made a deal with Jacquemin for the sale and are waiting on details. Also, planted a tracker in his suit while he was dancing with me, so we’ve got just about everything we need to nail them. So, no, you didn’t ruin the mission,”

“O-Okay, good, good,” his Adam’s apple bobbed again, his breath coming out in short pants. “Is it really hot in here for you? I-I feel like I can’t breathe, like my chest is going to explode, a-and like everything just…hurts.”

“Bob, honey, I think you’re having a panic attack,”

“How do I stop having a-a panic attack?”

A single thought flickered through your head for a moment as you watched him, watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he almost clawed at his throat in a desperate plea for air. And before you could stop yourself, to think about your thought, you stepped forward.

Your hands cradled his cheeks, and you kissed him.

Bob’s lips almost trembled beneath yours with the first press, his entire body freezing up under that simple movement. Then, after just a moment of holding yourself in place, they moved. Slow, hesitant, but they moved.

You could taste the small remnants of the punch Bob had opted to drink in place of champagne on his lips. His lips parted just barely, letting your head tilt slightly to the side to let your mouth move firmly against him, pouring every ounce of feeling into the kiss that you could manage. You’d dreamt of this moment in secret for so long, and now that it was here, that coil of heat within you was seconds from bursting, and your own chest was the one tightening.

Bob’s hands found your hips, settling there–hesitant but firm, holding you close. His lips pushed back against yours finally, the pieces of hair broken free of the gel brushing against the skin of your cheek. The need for air rushed into your lungs as you reluctantly pulled away with a soft smack of your lips, leaving one another, almost breathless pants filling the air.

Bob Reynolds looked wrecked, more out of breath than he had been before. Those eyes you loved so dearly were blown wide, the blue almost sparkingly in the light. His lips were still parted, but slightly upturned on the side in what you could only assume was wonder.

“I-”

“You were having a panic attack,” you spoke quickly, voice like a whisper. “I saw it in a tv show once, that holding your breath stops a panic attack. And that…kissing can make you hold your breath.”

“...uh huh,”

“Did it work?”

“Um…not sure. I-I might be about to have a panic attack over something else,”

Laughter bubbled out of your lips at that, Bob’s smile growing, before you were frozen in place. Voices, down the hall and around the L bend of the hallway, getting closer. Bob went to speak again before you placed a finger to his lips, focusing to try and hear down the echoey hallway.

“Coordinates, time, and place. Should make this an easy sale,”

“Yeah, as long as we don’t forget the money,”

Back straightening out, remembering you were on a mission, you reached into the front pocket of Bob’s pants and tugged your clutch from it. Digging through, you pulled out a rectangular device that looked like a normal cellphone, tucking your clutch under your arm and taking Bob’s hand in your own.

You pulled the two of you to a stop right at the corner of the bed, waiting a moment, before swinging you both around. The pair of you crashed directly into your targets, cell phones and items in your hands crashing to the floor.

“Hey-!”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, gentlemen!” you put on an overly fake voice, crouching down to the ground before either of them could. You grabbed your device, moving it discreetly over the top of both of the men’s cellphones, before gathering everything and rising back to your feet. The men basically snatched their phones back from your arms as you let out an overexaggerated giggle. “My husband and I weren’t watching where we were going! We were looking for the elevators, hoping to head upstairs and find a…private room.”

Both of the men muttered something in disgust, shoving past you and Bob without another word. You turned, watching them leave through the door you and Bob had come through with a triumphant grin, while Bob just watched you in confusion.

“Old Stark tech,” you flashed him the device in your hand. “I just swiped all the data off their phones without them even knowing it. Now, we know everything about this Adamantium sale.”

It was Bob’s turn to laugh, cocking his head at you with a grin.

“Have I mentioned that y-you’re kind of amazing?”

You grinned, and you pulled him back into another kiss without a word.

Sweeter, but still tender, laced with every bit of adoration and affection you held for him in your soul, that made the moment all the more intimate. Bob only hesitated for half a second this time before he pressed back into you with just as much force, his fingertips barely gracing the edges of your arms. You pulled back almost immediately, then, your brain finally caught up with your actions.

Well, you didn’t have any excuse for kissing him that time.

“Um…” you licked your lips, heat rising in your cheeks. “We…we should head back. Let the team know we got everything-”

“Right! Yeah, yeah, r-right, we should…do that. Finish the mission, and all that…”

The walk back under the cover of night was quiet. Those same soft yellow lights cast that same glow you’d seen before over Bob’s face, and your heart tugged in your chest at the sight.

But neither of you spoke. Not on the walk down the quiet streets. Not in the elevator. Not even when you entered the room together.

You could feel his eyes, watching you, burning a hole into your back as you secured the room. The silent alarm on the door, the device on the wall by the closed balcony window. They watched you still as you uploaded all of your information into the holopad, settled on top of your suitcase, transferring your information directly back to New York, knowing Yelena would likely receive the information in moments and alert Valentina of your successful mission.

Not a word was exchanged as you entered the bathroom like you had the night before, changing into a similar pair of sleep shorts. Discarded on the bathroom floor, though, was one of Bob’s white t-shirts, one he had slipped into early on that morning. You slipped it on without a second thought, wrapping yourself in the scent of that bodywash, before slipping back into the room.

Bob had already turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. You slipped into your side of the bed without a word, your backs facing one another as you lay there under the covers in the dark, the only sound being the ticking of the analog clock on the wall across from the bed.

“When you kissed me,” Bob finally spoke, voice just loud enough to be heard in the quiet of the room. “It…it was to stop the panic attack, right?”

You paused for a moment, then spoke, “Yes,”

The sheets shuffled, and you could feel the shift as his body turned, facing your back now.

“W-What…what about the second kiss?”

There was a brief moment of hesitation before you turned, too. You faced him now, mere inches away, looking into those blue eyes you adored.

“That one…was because I wanted to,”

Bob didn’t waste a second before leaning in, like your words had reassured him that he didn’t have to hesitate. Your lips welcomed the press of his, your body inviting the feel of his hand gripping at your waist–nothing hard, nothing too firm, but just present, grounding. His lips were as warm as the rest of his body, and they trembled just slightly as they moved just barely against your own, as if still unsure how to do this. So, you did it for him, hand wrapping around his neck and into his hair to thread through the strands, molding your body to his as you kissed him with every inch of passion you had been holding back for months.

Even as your mouths moved together, there was still a softness in their movements, no matter the growing passion. Even when they moved faster, when a broken moan slipped out of Bob’s mouth and a whine left your own when his hand tugged your hip even closer, it was still soft. Passionate but adoring, pouring every ounce of care into each movement as if to remind the other that this wasn’t just a moment of fun, this was the culmination of months of secret wanting, months of pining and hidden feelings buried underneath platonic words and affirmations.

You shifted just slightly, and a hint of confidence flowed through Bob. He used that moment to move, pressing your back flush against the bed as he hovered above you, his lips never breaking from yours for a second. Your legs fell open for him, inviting him into your space, and he took it without question.

As if it pained him, he tore his lips from yours, trailing them down your jaw and to your neck as he buried himself into the space. His kisses there were gentle, loving, but still burning with heat and passion. He kissed right above your pulse point, able to feel the fervent beat of your heart, and he groaned again into your skin.

“I-I think about you, like this, a lot,” he whispered into your skin. Bob’s arms were braced on either side of you, while one of yours placed itself on his bare chest, drawing shapes into the heated and flushed skin. “I’ve always thought of you like this. The prettiest girl, m-my best friend…my person. The one person who makes that darkness a little lighter. God, I…I love you.”

There it was. Those four little words that tore your heart open, that cracked open the cage that held every hidden desire of your heart locked up for months.

You pulled his face from your shoulder, fingers gently swiping at the silent tears that swept down his cheeks. You pulled him in this time, angling your lips against him, sighing into his mouth as you pushed every ounce of love in your body into him. He sighed back, practically putty in your hands, the weight of his body falling against you.

“I love you too,” you whispered against his lips like a promise. “I’ve always loved you. My best friend…my person.”

He didn’t get to speak before you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling every inch of his body against yours. A broken moan was choked out of his throat, breath ghosting your lips as his kiss swallowed the moan that left your own throat. Pressed against you now, you could feel it: thick, bigger than anything you’d ever had, and throbbing with heat and need.

With your words, with a confirmation of your love, Bob’s kiss grew more confident. Drowning you in every ounce of love, his hands roamed over every inch of you that they possibly could. Your neck, exploring the bare skin of your abdomen and leaving a trail of heat in every stroke of his fingers. You tugged the shirt over your head without another thought, leaving you bare to the world as you fell back against the pillows once more. You tried to tug Bob back to your lips, but he paused, eyes transfixed on your body, roaming every inch of it.

“Beautiful…” he whispered. His fingers traced lines from your abdomen to your ribs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. They traced right around the swell of your breasts, before he leaned in closer. “So beautiful.”

A cry of pure pleasure left your lips the second Bob’s curled around your nipple, teeth just barely grazing and tugging ever so gently. A heavy pant left your lips as your fingers curled into his hair, tugging ever so gently on his slightly dampened hair strands. The heat grew in the room, radiating off his body, and you could see the thin, sheer layer of sweat that coated his skin. His lips moved against your breast, tongue flicking out over the sensitive bud he was wrapped around as your hands tightened just barely in his hair, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“Sorry,” he whispered again as his mouth popped off your breast, a thin string of saliva connecting him to the place he’d lavished in love. He placed a gentle kiss on your sternum, hands gliding down your sides. “Got eager. I-It’s been a while since I’ve…done this.”

“In all seriousness? I couldn’t tell,” he laughed, crawling back up your body till his face hovered over yours. Your hand left his hair, trailing down until it cupped his cheek, and he turned to press a kiss to your palm. “We don’t have to do anything-”

“I want to,” he was quick to answer with a shake of his head. “I-I’ve never wanted someone more. You’re all I want. Lying together on the couch, those trips through the city, sleeping next to you…I-I just want you. I just want to feel you. I want to be yours.”

His lips met yours again, the second his last word died on his lips. He peppered kiss after kiss to your lips, never lingering long enough, and you couldn’t help the breathless giggle you let out.

“I want to feel you, too,”

Your confession lingered in the quiet of the room. It was visible, the way Bob’s pupils seemed to dilate at those words alone. With one hand, he unhooked your legs from his waist, sliding back down the bed and taking the quilt along with him, bearing your bare chest to the cold air.

You watched with hooded eyes as his fingers trailed over the edge of your sleep shorts, barely dipping past the waistband. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your right thigh, and then your left, before leaning forward to press one right above the waistband of your shorts. Then, he tugged, just barely. They gave way without a second of hesitation, slipping down over your hips and over your thighs without hesitation. You just barely caught the soft whisper of “fuck” that fell from Bob’s mouth when you laid bare before him, panties forgotten in the haste of dressing for sleep.

Those shorts were discarded somewhere across the room, finding the small heap that your shirt was in, and Bob just observed for a moment. You watched the way his eyes trailed up your legs, to your hips, and back down again. His hands did the same, starting from your knees and splaying out over your hips, before going back down to your thighs. He pushed gently, and you followed, spreading your thighs before him. Your breath caught, choking back a moan as he leaned forward, pressing a kiss directly to your core, before trailing the kisses back up your abdomen.

“I love you,” he whispered with every kiss. “I love you.”

You leaned up, forcing Bob to sit up, before pulling him into another kiss, catching his bottom lip just barely between your teeth.

“I love you, too,” you murmured against his lips, before your hands trailed down his chest to the waistband of his boxers, and his breath hitched.

It was like throwing him into overdrive, reminding him of where he was. Bob tugged those boxers off in a tangle of limbs, stumbling slightly on top of the sheets. You laughed, smile giddy, as you fell back against the pillows, just watching the man before you as he rid himself of his boxers and threw them across the room. Your eyes trailed down, seeing his throbbing length for the first time, and that heat that flushed through your body screamed for his skin to be pressed against yours.

A thick cord of tension hung in the air as Bob kneeled over you, bracing himself around your head. His nose brushed yours, breath fanning over your skin. You didn’t hesitate to wrap your arms back around his waist, tugging him toward you, as the heat of his bare length pressed against the heat of your bare core, a breathless moan falling from each of your lips in unison.

Bob rolled his hips forward just barely, throbbing cock dragging along the length of your core and ghosting over your clit as a shot of pleasure shot through every nerve on your body. Your hands found the back of Bob’s head, tangling in his hair once more and tugging him down into a kiss–messy, hot, and slick with saliva.

His hips rolled again, and you rolled back, his tip catching just barely against your opening before gliding through your lips once more.

“A-Are you sure?” Bob muttered into your lips. You nodded, kissing him once more.

“So sure,” you muttered back, hand tugging in his hair as your other trailed down his shoulder, his back, over his hips, before finally holding his heated and flushed length in your own hand. “Please, Bob–I need you–please.”

He nodded, catching your lips in another kiss, as you guided his cock down, catching the head against your opening.

You held it there, before Bob pushed ever so slightly.

Moans in unison fell from both of your lips once again as every inch of his heated, flushed, throbbing cock made its way into your walls, stretching you apart in a mix of part pain and pleasure. Your breath caught in your throat at every inch that pushed into your body, your name falling from Bob’s lips with every drag of your heated walls against him. Your teeth caught his bottom lip again the moment that his hips stuttered, pressing firmly against your hips, as every inch of him sat inside of you, buried within you to the hilt.

The lights of the entire room flickered on for a moment, glowing bright, before turning off once again. Your gaze trailed over them, as did Bob's, before you locked eyes once again.

“W-Well…” he choked out, a tiny laugh bubbling over. “That’s new.”

You laughed with him, arms wrapping around his neck to tug him down to you in yet another kiss, before you ground your hips up into his. A broken moan fell past his lips before he moved.

He set the pace, slow and sensual at first, dragging himself almost all the way out before pushing himself the entire way back in. Each time he settled deep within you, filling you out in every manner of the word, a choked moan spilled from your lips as you dragged them against his time and time again, nails scraping against his scalp.

Bob’s eyes met yours, dazed and glassy, filled with passion and every ounce of love he felt for you. Love, a look you’d seen in his eyes so many times when you looked at him, a look you’d ignored for so long. But there was no time to focus on it, not with every snap of his hips against yours, not with the feeling within your gut of fullness, and not with every ripple of pleasure that coursed through you with the feel of his heated skin molded to yours.

“You feel so good–oh god–so good,” he choked out against your lips. Your hands left his hair, trailing down his arms, but he took advantage of that. His hands caught yours, tugging your hands up above your head and holding them there, gripping you just tightly enough that you could feel the superhuman strength within him holding you down. “So, so, so good–Jesus–so perfect. So beautiful–my girl. Tell me, tell me that–my girl–tell me you’re my girl.”

“Y-Yours,” you stuttered out over every snap of his hips against yours, every slight scrape of his pubic hair against the sensitive bud of your core.

That simple word spurred him: yours. All his, always his. His hips snapped faster, harder, his lips trailing off of yours as he buried his face into your neck, teeth scraping just slightly over your skin as another moan broke through.

Desperation filled every snap of his hips against yours, your name falling from his lips like it was the only word he knew, like it was the only word he wanted to know. His ragged breathing, ghosting over your skin in hot waves. Your skin felt like it was on fire, burning beneath his touch, heat and want and need coiling with every throbbing drag of him against your walls–squelching and wet.

“I can’t-” Bob barely managed to cry against your skin, hips somehow driving into you faster than they had before, the pace in which his hips met yours and the superhuman force sure to bruise your skin, to leave you aching in the best way. “I can’t–please–I can’t hold it. You’re too good, you feel too good.”

“It’s okay,” you shook your head, one of his hands leaving yours to grip onto the wooden headboard behind you. “It’s okay–God, you feel so good–it’s okay, Bob, let go-”

CRACK. SNAP.

You could hear it, loud and clear: the splintering of the wooden headboard. It took every ounce of your strength, rolling your head back to fully see the damage behind you. Bob’s hand was white knuckling the splinted wood, having dragged down through half the headboard, leaving splintered wooden pieces decorating the pillows above your head as his hips pistoned into you at a superhuman pace, one you were barely sure you could handle.

God, you didn’t think there was anything Bob could do to make him hotter in your eyes. Apparently, splintering an entire headboard out of sheer passion and need was something that could.

“I can’t–oh God–I can’t-”

One. Two. Three. His hips drove into you just three more times before that sat flush against your hips, pressing himself as deeply into you as humanly possible before he let go. A rush of warmth filled you, every drop of him filling you, gushing warmth through you, and your own floodgates flew open.

Your hands were freed from his hold, wrists sore from where he dug into them, wrapping around his neck, curling into his hair, and cradling him to you as you trembled and gushed in his hold. Your walls fluttered around him with every wave of pleasure, with every twitch of his cock still sitting within your walls, and his shaky breath ghosted over your skin.

The comedown was quiet, your shaky breaths the only sound filling the air. Bob collapsed on you fully, his heated and sweat-covered skin lying on top of yours. You welcomed the feeling, fingers carding through the sweat dripping strands of his hair, taking in the scent of the air: sex, mainly, with hints of your perfume and that damn bodywash of his laced in between.

Bob raised his head finally, a blissful smile on his lips as he looked down at you. He tried to move his hips back, to pull away, but your legs locked around him with a whine, holding him in place against you.

“Not yet,” you managed to breathe out, shaking your head with a giddy little smile of your own. “Too sensitive, and…I just want to feel you.”

“Okay,” Bob didn’t put up a single fight, his hand coming up to push the strands of hair that stuck to your face away. His eyes trailed, finally, to the destruction behind you, and they shot wide. “Oh–Jesus Christ, d-did I do that?”

“You did, but don’t worry, it was hot,” you both laughed at your comment, noses brushing in the quiet, intimate moment. “Don’t worry, Valentina bought the room. It’s her problem.”

“True…hey, d-do you think cucumber could be used as a safe word too?”

Laughter sputtered out of your mouth, lips brushing his, and Bob laughed with you. All you could do was look at him, heart bursting open with a love that you had kept quiet for so long, and pull him into another soft kiss.

37 successful undercover missions became 38 that night, but this one had been your biggest success. It gave you Bob, in ways you had only ever dreamed of having him…it gave you your person.

#robert reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x reader #fic recs

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mydearzero · 2 days ago

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Polar Opposites | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: When you joined the team, it was very evident to the others that you and Spencer may not get along the best. You were water and he was oil — but when working on a team, the repelling can be dangerous. Themes & Warnings: Ummm violence, hurt/comfort with Reid!, enemies to lovers

You were raised in New York. Alone. No siblings or mother.

Learning independence was quick for you. By the time you were eight, you were walking yourself to school, a keychain with the apartment key and a bottle of pepper spray dangling from it. You were tough, bull-headed, but not completely absent of warmth.

Your father was a good man. A strong one. He was on the NYPD, a conductor of justice, yet a fair one. You idolized him, even when he came home with blood on his knuckles and exhaustion in his bones. You learned early that justice wasn't always clean, and rarely kind.

You quickly learned from him.

When you were old enough, he put you into self defense classes. It wasn't much of a surprise to him that you immediately excelled.

He watched proudly as you took down grown men twice your size in the ring, never once hesitating. “You fight like your mother,” he told you once. You didn’t remember her, not really, but something about the way he said it made your chest swell.

You lived by his rules. Protect others. Never back down. Trust your gut, even when it got you in trouble.

By the time you were a teenager, you were patrolling with a police scanner on in the background of your homework, studying both algebra and 10-codes. While other girls wore lip gloss and whispered about boys, you were memorizing the NY penal code and learning how to hold a Glock.

As soon as you could, you joined your father on the force. Not quite where he was. He was pretty far up. But you made him proud, which is all you wanted.

Every commendation, every collar, every time you kept your cool when things went sideways — he’d clap a firm hand on your shoulder and say, “That’s my girl.” And that was enough. It had always been enough.

Until it wasn’t.

The night he didn’t come home changed everything.

You were the one who got the call. Not the captain. Not some rookie liaison. You. Because you were his emergency contact. Because they knew you’d want to hear it straight, from the mouth of someone who cared.

Officer down. Ambush. Three men. Two with priors, one on a vendetta. He died fighting, they said. Died protecting his partner.

You didn’t cry.

You didn’t speak for almost twenty-four hours.

Instead, you scrubbed his blood out of his badge chain, boxed up his medals, and sat for hours in his worn recliner with your service pistol in your lap, staring into nothing.

The grief didn’t crush you. It carved you.

By the time you left the NYPD, you weren’t the same person. And maybe that was the point. You needed something new. Somewhere that didn’t hold his shadow in every alley, every precinct, every call sign on the radio.

The BAU wasn’t your first choice. Behavioral analysis wasn’t your strength. You didn’t have three PhDs or a mind built for chess moves and statistics. But they recruited you anyway. Hotch said your field instincts were unmatched, that you had a gut that couldn't be taught.

You were strong. Your suffering had hardened you into a diamond. But you did have a flaw. Sometimes, you rushed into things without strategy, relying on strength and impulse. You were more physically lead than others on the team, opting for the take-down rather than the talk-down.

This was what made you so different from the team's boy genius, Spencer Reid.

He wasn't the softest anymore himself. He was hardened by his abduction by Tobias Hankel, his drug addiction, his prison time, the loss of his first lover. But he didn't let it change him completely. He was still warm, like he'd been before. Still sweet. And he still did his job the same; in the same calculating, analyzing Reid way. He was more logic based than aggression based.

And that’s where you clashed.

Where you were storm and instinct, Spencer was method and measure. He needed answers before action. You needed action before the body count climbed. He quoted psychological journals; you trusted a gut that had never failed you. It was oil and water from the very beginning.

The team noticed it immediately — the sharp way you challenged his statistics, the way his mouth drew tight every time you went off-book, the way both of you refused to yield. Rossi called it "professional tension." Morgan called it "foreplay." Hotch just warned you both not to let it interfere in the field.

Of course, it did anyway.

It had been a difficult case.

A serial killer, targeting women, as was typical. It was a sensitive situation, requiring delicate action and careful steps.

The investigation went fine — smooth actually. It was easy enough to profile and find the man, but the hostage situation needed to be handled much softer.

He was holding a young woman in a cage, down below his house in a bunker. You, Reid, Prentiss, and Morgan were sent to do the confrontation.

The four of you approached the property quietly. The woods surrounding the cabin were thick and silent, the late afternoon sun bleeding orange through the trees. Reid had his tablet out, blueprints of the house and rough sketches of the underground bunker on display. You barely glanced at it.

“We can’t spook him,” Prentiss said, voice low. “If he thinks he’s cornered—”

“He might kill her,” Reid finished grimly. “He’s already escalated twice. He’s unpredictable under pressure.”

That was Spencer’s way — anticipate the worst, measure every variable. Your jaw clenched.

“Then we don’t give him time to react,” you said, cocking your weapon. “He’s not expecting a full team yet. We move fast, controlled. Get in, get her out.”

Spencer’s head shot up. “No. We stick to the protocol. We make contact, distract him, and—”

“There is no protocol for a man holding a girl in a fucking cage, Reid.”

Your voice was sharper than it needed to be, but you didn’t care. The thought of that girl locked up like an animal made your skin crawl. Every second wasted was another scar, another trauma she’d carry forever.

“Exactly. Which is why we don’t risk charging in blind,” he snapped back, stepping in front of you. “You go in there guns blazing and he could slit her throat before you even get your second step down that ladder.”

Morgan’s hand landed on your shoulder, a warning. “Both of you — not the time.”

But you weren’t done.

“Then what? We just talk to him? Offer him therapy? Hope he suddenly sees the light?”

Reid’s eyes blazed. “No. But we don’t rush in and make it worse. You want to save her? Then don’t be the reason she dies.”

It hit harder than you expected. Maybe because deep down, you knew he was right. Maybe because you hated being wrong in front of him.

The plan went Spencer’s way. At first.

You reached them. The man was sweaty, eyes wild. The girl moaned quietly in front of him, wrestling around in the heavy chains she was bound by.

Reid and Prentiss attempted a talk-down.

The unsub paced behind the girl like a panicked animal, holding a long hunting knife inches from her throat. His eyes flicked between Prentiss and Reid, twitchy and erratic, the delusion already thick in the air.

“I didn’t hurt her!” he barked. “I fed her, didn’t I?! She’s mine now — I chose her!”

You could practically feel the tension radiating off Spencer. He stood just a step in front of Prentiss, hands raised, calm as ever — but you knew him well enough to see the strain in his jaw, the slight tremble in his fingers.

“You’re not in trouble,” Spencer said gently, voice even. “You’ve been through a lot. No one wants to hurt you, we just want to help her. Let her go. We can talk, just you and me.”

The unsub twitched. “She loves me,” he muttered, jabbing the blade toward the girl’s collarbone. She whimpered again, and your own hand inched toward your holster.

“Reid,” you said quietly. A warning.

But he held up one hand. Not yet.

“You’re right,” he said to the unsub. “You did choose her. You saw something in her. That’s important. That means you care about her, right?”

The man’s breathing hitched — confused. Hopeful.

Then it happened.

She whimpered again — too loud. Too broken. Something in her tone must have snapped the illusion in his head. Because suddenly he screamed, pulled her tighter, and raised the knife.

You moved before anyone else could.

Gun drawn, aim steady, you crossed the space in two steps and tackled him. Your shoulder collided with his ribs, knocking him clean off the girl. You wrestled the knife from his hand and had him on the ground in seconds, arm wrenched behind his back.

You barely heard the girl sobbing as Prentiss rushed to her side. Barely heard Morgan’s footsteps pounding down the stairs. All you could hear was the pounding of your own pulse.

“God damn it,” Reid muttered from behind you. Not angry. Not even frustrated.

Worried.

The rest was a blur.

Back at the precinct, the girl had been taken to the hospital. The unsub was in custody. Everyone was safe.

But Spencer didn’t say a word to you until you were alone.

The motel hallway was dim and quiet, carpet patterned with decades of wear. You turned when you heard his door click shut behind him.

“You weren’t supposed to go in,” he said. Quiet. Low.

You crossed your arms. “And if I hadn’t, she might be dead.”

“She might be,” he agreed. “Or you might be. We all might've been. You can’t keep putting yourself in the line like that without thinking. You don’t get to be the only one who carries the risk. Not to mention what risk it puts on the other teammates.”

You blinked. Something about the way he said it — like you'd selfishly put everyone in danger.

Your eyes narrowed.

"How come you're always shitting on my busts, Reid? You ever think that one of these times, you might wait too long and get someone killed?"

He swallowed, his face tightening.

"Don't turn this around on me. You continuously stray from protocol like you're above the rest of us. If you just followed directions, I wouldn't have to complain."

You felt the flare of heat in your chest — insult, frustration, maybe even guilt. But underneath all of it, something deeper: hurt.

"Above the rest of you?" you repeated, voice low. Dangerous. "Is that really what you think of me?"

Reid held your stare, but there was a flicker of regret in his eyes now. He hadn’t meant to cut that deep. Or maybe he had. Maybe it had built up between you for so long, he hadn’t realized the blade was that sharp.

“I think you act like you don’t need us,” he said. “Like you don’t trust anyone but yourself. And in this job, that’s not just frustrating, it’s fatal.”

You laughed once, dryly. “Well, maybe I don’t trust anyone else. Maybe I learned a long time ago that trust doesn’t keep you alive.”

That landed. His expression cracked. Because if there was one thing Spencer Reid understood, it was the cost of trusting the wrong people. Or worse, not trusting the right ones until it was too late.

"You need to ease up. Trusting someone besides yourself might keep you alive one day," He hissed, leaning into your face. "You act like a stubborn, impulsive fool."

You scoffed, a snide smirk curling onto your face.

"That's better than constant fear and anxiety. I'd rather be too quick than too slow, Reid," your cold voice biting into him. "You're so busy tucking back into your turtle shell that you don't realize how much time you waste being afraid."

His eyes darkened, a flicker of something fierce igniting behind the calm intellect you knew so well.

“Being cautious doesn’t mean I’m afraid,” he snapped back, voice low but sharp. “It means I’m trying to think. Something you never do until after the damage is done.”

You stepped closer, your breath mingling with his in the tight hallway. “Yeah, well maybe it’s better to act first and think later than to be paralyzed by what-ifs. At least I move.”

You stood face to face, a silent snarl shared between the two of you. Spencer took another breath to snap back, but you were interrupted.

"Guys. Enough. The jet is about to take off." Prentiss said, placing a hand on your shoulder. You shrugged her off, slinging your bag over it instead.

"It's cool. I was done being questioned about my successful take-down anyways." You muttered, walking away.

Spencer watched you go, the frustration still simmering beneath his calm exterior. His jaw clenched as he ran a hand through his hair, the weight of unspoken words pressing down on him. He wanted to say more; to tell you that beneath his caution was a desperate hope you’d be safe, that he cared more than he knew how to show.

But for now, he let the silence stretch, knowing this was just one battle in a longer war between you. And maybe, just maybe, there was a way to bridge the gap, if only you’d both lower your guards.

The jet ride was tense. You didn't even look at Spencer, opting to pretend he wasn't there. He couldn't help but glance at you, the brooding look always on your face no different than usual. He sighed, returning to his book.

Back at the office, you shoved your go-bag back into your locker. The photo of your father glinted at you, stuck to the back of the door. You knew what he would've said.

You traced the edges of the photo with a tired finger, the worn image of your father — a man who’d always been your anchor in chaos — reminding you of the rules he drilled into you:

"Protect others."

"Never back down."

"Trust your gut."

"I'm so proud of you, kid."

You swallowed the lump rising in your throat, the weight of those words settling deep inside you. You’d carried his lessons like armor all these years — tough, unyielding, sometimes too sharp to wield without cutting yourself.

You stared at his image for a few more seconds, before turning away.

You jumped. Morgan, standing behind you.

"Jesus." You said, taking a deep breath. "Don't sneak up on me like that, dude."

Morgan chuckled, his usual easy grin softening the tension in the room. “Yeah, well, somebody’s gotta keep you on your toes.”

He glanced at the photo taped inside your locker. “Your old man sounds like a hell of a guy.”

You nodded, voice quieter now. “He was. Still is… in a way.”

Morgan leaned against the lockers, folding his arms. “You know, you don’t always have to carry all that weight alone. Not here. Not with us.”

You met his eyes, the sincerity there catching you off guard. For a moment, the walls you’d built felt a little less necessary.

"... Thank you."

Morgan nodded, leaning against the lockers.

"I heard you and Reid had a little spat in the hotel earlier."

You rolled your eyes, grumbling. Of course, Prentiss would've squealed.

Morgan’s grin widened, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “Yeah, I heard. Something about Spencer getting a little too in your space?”

You sighed, crossing your arms. “He’s got a knack for pushing buttons. Doesn’t know when to quit.”

Morgan shook his head, chuckling low. “That guy’s all brain and nerves. Sometimes he forgets there’s a person behind all that genius.”

You glanced away, feeling a mix of irritation and something softer beneath it. “I get it, but I’m not exactly easy to handle either.”

He leaned against the locker beside yours, eyes steady. “Look, I get it. You did what you had to do back there. You saved that girl.”

Your jaw tightened. “You think I don’t know that?”

Morgan shook his head. “No, I’m saying I see it. You’re a damn good agent. One of the best. But sometimes being the best means knowing when to slow down.”

You scoffed, bitterness creeping into your voice. “Slowing down gets people killed.”

Morgan didn’t flinch. “It’s not about slowing down all the time. It’s about picking your moments. You got guts, no doubt. But guts without control? That’s a problem.”

You finally met his gaze, raw and honest. “So what am I supposed to do, Morgan? Wait around for the bad guy to slit her throat? Let the clock run out?”

He studied you for a beat, then responded slowly. “No. But you gotta trust the team. Not just yourself. We got your six. We all do. Even Reid. You don’t have to carry this alone.”

You swallowed hard. The weight of his words settled in your chest. It was easier said than done. You were used to standing on your own — had been for as long as you could remember.

Morgan clapped a hand on your shoulder, solid and reassuring. “Your dad taught you to protect others, right?”

Your eyes flickered to the photo taped inside your locker, the man who was everything steady in your world.

Morgan smiled softly. “Yeah. And that means sometimes you gotta step back, watch the angles, think a few moves ahead. That’s how you protect the team and yourself.”

The tension between you seemed to ease, just a little. You weren’t used to advice that didn’t come with judgment, but this was different. It was real.

Morgan gave you a wink. “You’re a hell of a cop. Don’t forget, sometimes the smartest move is patience. Not just power.”

You nodded, the edges of your defenses softening just enough for a flicker of respect. “Thanks, Morgan. I’ll try.”

“Try?” He grinned. “No try. You’ll do it.”

You smirked back. “Yeah? You confident in me?”

“Hell yeah. Just gotta let the team catch up sometimes. And don't forget,” he said, nudging your shoulder. "We could all learn some things from you too. Even Reid, when he decides to get his head out of his ass."

You snickered, rolling your eyes and turning back to your locker, shutting it.

“Thanks for the reality check.”

“Anytime,” he said, before turning and walking away, leaving you with something you didn’t realize you needed — a little hope.

The next case came quickly. You almost weren't ready for it.

Your headphones blared into your ears as you trained in the sparring room, sweating as you bounced around a punching bag. Your gloves squeaked with every moment you made, punching into the bag with preciseness and toughness.

Your phone rang.

You yanked a glove off with your teeth and fumbled for your phone, the sweat on your fingers making it harder to swipe. The name on the screen — Hotch — made your stomach tighten. You were still riding the edge of your last conversation with Morgan, and now, here came another case.

“Yeah?” you answered, a little breathless.

Hotch’s voice was calm, clipped. “Briefing room. Twenty minutes.”

You wiped your brow with the back of your forearm. “Copy that.”

He hung up without another word.

You stood there for a beat, the bass of your music still thumping in one ear. The punching bag rocked gently beside you, evidence of your focused aggression. But the tension in your shoulders hadn’t eased. If anything, it pulled tighter.

Another case. Another town. Another family ruined. You loved this job but sometimes, it felt like it never let you breathe.

With a grunt, you unwrapped your gloves, tossing them in your gym bag. As you pulled your hoodie over your damp sports bra and headed for the showers, Morgan’s words echoed back in your head:

“Sometimes the smartest move is patience. Not just power.”

You smirked faintly to yourself, voice muttering under your breath, “Yeah, well... I hope patience works on serial killers too.”

You had no idea what you were walking into, but you knew this much: you'd face it head-on.

Just like always.

You pulled your work clothes on quickly and headed for the bullpen, tossing your hair into a ponytail.

The rest of the team was already there, relieved to see you walk in.

"Sorry. I was training." You said quietly, joining them at the table.

Hotch gave you a nod — his version of “no problem.” Reid glanced up from the file in his hands, his eyes catching yours for a moment before flicking back down. You weren’t sure what that look meant, but you didn’t have time to dwell on it.

“Victim number three was found this morning,” Hotch began, passing a photo across the table. “Female, early thirties. Same MO. Ligature marks, posed postmortem, and a red ribbon tied around the wrist.”

You leaned forward, studying the image. “Same as the others. No signs of forced entry?”

JJ shook her head. “Nothing. It’s like they let the killer in willingly.”

You crossed your arms, thoughts already sharpening like blades. “So he’s charming, disarming. Makes them feel safe… until he doesn’t.”

Morgan pointed at the map. “All victims lived alone, all in a five-mile radius. He’s hunting in a comfort zone.”

Spencer cleared his throat, hesitant but determined. “Geographical profiling supports that. He’s probably familiar with the area -- might even live or work nearby.”

You glanced at him again, this time holding the look for a second longer. “Then we start knocking on doors.”

Prentiss gave a wry smile. “I like it when you get fired up.”

You shrugged, grabbing a file. “Better than sitting on our hands.”

Hotch raised a brow. “Let’s keep it focused. Morgan, you and (Y/N) check in with local businesses. Reid, JJ, and Prentiss, canvass the neighborhood. I’ll coordinate with local PD.”

You nodded.

"I know that PD pretty well. My dad and I worked with them for a couple of years. I'll pitch in with the communications."

Hotch gave a curt nod, clearly appreciating the initiative. “Good. Familiarity could speed things up. Just make sure they loop everything back to me.”

You gave him a short, respectful salute. “You got it, boss.”

Morgan shot you a quick grin as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “You sure you’re not trying to take Hotch’s job?”

You smirked. “Please. I’d make a terrible brooding authority figure.”

Hotch didn’t even look up from the map he was marking. “I’m standing right here.”

You and Morgan exchanged a glance, both biting back laughter.

As the team filed out, Reid hesitated at the edge of the room. He glanced at you, like he wanted to say something, but then just gave a slight nod and walked away with JJ and Prentiss.

Your eyes lingered on his back for a second before you turned and fell into step beside Morgan.

“So,” he said as you headed for the SUV, “you and local PD go way back?”

You nodded. “Yeah. My dad and I used to consult on cases when I was younger. He was training me even before I joined the Bureau. Some of those officers were practically family for a while.”

Morgan nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth tugging up in a thoughtful smile. “That explains a lot.”

“What does?”

“You move like someone who’s been doing this their whole life. It’s in your blood.”

You paused at the passenger door, his words landing heavier than he probably intended.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “It is.”

Morgan didn’t push. He just clapped a hand on your shoulder. “Then let’s go show ‘em how it’s done.”

You gave him a small smile. “Hell yeah.”

You slid into the seat, heart steadier than it had been in days. Maybe the next few hours would be hell. Maybe this case would crack something raw in you. But with Morgan’s support at your side and your father’s instincts still pulsing through your veins, you weren’t going in blind.

You were ready to hunt.

No sooner had you and Morgan hit the pavement than the scent of tension in the air thickened, like something dark had just passed through and left its mark. The PD station felt different now than it did when you were younger. Familiar faces looked more worn, more guarded.

“Agent (L/N),” one of the lieutenants greeted you with a surprised smile. “Heard you were coming in. Damn, you look more and more like your old man every time I see you.”

You gave him a short nod, your voice quiet. “Thanks, Lieutenant. Wish it were under better circumstances.”

Morgan stood back slightly, letting you take the lead. He watched as you moved through the room with purpose; calm, steady, authoritative in your own way. You weren’t trying to be your father, but his legacy lingered around you like armor.

“We’ve already pulled security cam footage from nearby businesses,” the lieutenant explained. “We can have it queued up for you in five.”

“Perfect. Let’s get started.”

Morgan leaned over to you as they set things up in the back room. “You’ve got them listening to you like you’re already in charge.”

You gave a tired shrug. “My dad never tolerated anyone doing half a job. I guess that stuck.”

He studied your face for a moment — sharp, focused, a little worn around the eyes. Then he said, “You know, you don’t always have to be the one holding it all together.”

You glanced at him, surprised.

“You said that already,” you reminded him.

He shrugged. “You didn’t listen the first time.”

You laughed under your breath, but your eyes softened. “I’m listening now.”

Before either of you could say more, an officer called you over. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

The footage was grainy but clear enough: a figure pacing outside a bakery at midnight. Twitchy. Darting glances. Then dragging something — someone — down an alley.

Morgan muttered under his breath. “Looks like our guy.”

Your expression shifted instantly. Calm became alert. You pointed to the timestamp. “That’s two hours before the last body was found. He was still escalating.”

The lieutenant nodded grimly. “He’s getting bolder.”

Morgan stepped beside you, already scanning the angle, escape routes, signage. “What do you want to do?”

You took a breath, already forming a plan.

“We start there,” you said, pointing to the alley. “We follow the trail. And this time, we end it before he escalates again.”

Morgan gave a sharp nod. “Now that’s the kind of leadership I can get behind.”

You smirked faintly. “Don’t get used to it.”

He grinned back. “Too late.”

You quickly phoned the rest of the team, getting them in on it. It was decided.

You'd be bait — the youngest on the team. The prettiest, Prentiss had claimed. But it would take something you weren't exactly versed in.

Patience. Calculation. Thought before decision.

You, of course, had too look like less than an agent. That night, you had to get prepared, dressing down from your usual slacks and dress shirt and opting for a more.. casual.. look.

Garcia, JJ, and Prentiss just couldn't wait to get their hands on you. It was a once in a life time opportunity.

You barely made it into the hotel room before the ambush.

“There she is!” Prentiss announced, arms crossed with a smug grin. JJ was already holding up two hangers, each with an outfit. Garcia was seated cross-legged on the bed with a massive makeup bag splayed open in front of her like a battlefield.

You blinked. “Did you guys.. Were you waiting for me?”

JJ smirked. “Garcia brought supplies.”

Garcia didn’t even look up. “Sweet cheeks, I have been dreaming of this day since you joined the team. And now… finally…” She lifted a compact like a weapon forged in heaven. “The day has come.”

“This isn’t a makeover montage,” you muttered.

“Oh, but it is,” Prentiss said, grabbing your wrist and tugging you into the middle of the room. “You’re going undercover as vulnerable, off-duty eye candy. We’re making sure you sell it.”

“Guys,” you sighed. “This isn’t Clueless. I’m bait for a serial killer, not a Tinder date.”

“Exactly,” JJ said, tossing a pair of stockings onto the bed. “So you need to look like someone who doesn’t know she’s being watched. Not like someone who could break someone’s nose with two fingers.”

The scene was a bar. Wasting some time inside of it, sipping on a few prop drinks all alone, before stumbling out into the alley where he'd most likely take his chances on you.

You had to look the part. The mysterious, lonely temptress who would go quietly if grabbed.

You were forced into a short, red dress, one that hugged your curves and showed off the length of your smooth legs. Your hair was curled, natural makeup on your already pretty face.

You were gorgeous. Not that you weren't usually. But this was much different than your slick-back ponytail and business only outfit, a gun hanging from your holster.

Garcia let out a dramatic gasp when you stepped out of the bathroom.

“Oh. My. God.” she breathed, eyes widening. “You’re not just bait, you're irresistible temptation. Marry me.”

Prentiss gave a low whistle. “Remind me to never stand next to you in public again.”

JJ smirked. “He won’t stand a chance. Poor bastard.”

You tugged at the hem of the red dress, fidgeting. It was shorter than anything you usually wore. Hell, it was shorter than anything Garcia usually wore. “I feel like a walking target.”

“That’s the point,” Prentiss said, coming up behind you to fix a loose curl. “But don’t forget. You’re still the most dangerous one in the room.”

Garcia handed you a tiny clutch with your wire and phone inside. “And just in case he gets any ideas before the alley, Reid and Morgan will be watching from the bar. Hotch and I are set up in the surveillance van. You’re never alone.”

You looked at yourself in the mirror again. It was surreal, like staring at a version of yourself that only existed in smoke and mirrors. A version soft enough to lure in a killer. A version smart enough to trap him.

You took a breath. Deep. Steady.

“I can do this,” you muttered.

“You will do this,” JJ corrected firmly, her voice resolute. “And when you bring this guy down, I want my red dress back.”

You laughed softly, the nerves settling into something colder, more useful. “You got it.”

As the three women saw you off, Prentiss stopped you with a hand on your arm. “Hey. You’re more than bait. You’re the one drawing him out. That makes you the one in control.”

You stepped outside, meeting Morgan and Reid at the undercover vehicle, a sleek black SUV. They stood talking by the passenger's door, only noticing you approaching when you got close.

Morgan was the first to look up; and his reaction was immediate.

His brows rose, a low whistle slipping out as he took in your appearance. “Damn. Remind me what we’re trying to catch again? Because I think you just stunned me.”

Reid, less composed, blinked rapidly. His mouth opened, closed, then opened again. “Y-You, uh, wow. You look…” His brain clearly short-circuited.

You raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Careful, boys. I’m armed.”

Morgan laughed, clapping Reid on the back as if to snap him out of his stupor. “You good, pretty boy? Need a second to reboot?”

Reid cleared his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets and very intentionally looking at the SUV instead of you. “I’m fine. Let's move out.”

Without another word, Reid hopped into the car, leaving you and Derek in silence. You rolled your eyes as Derek opened the door to let you get in.

Morgan held the door open with a crooked grin. “You know, I’ve seen you break a man’s nose with the butt of your Glock… but somehow, this might be the most dangerous I’ve ever seen you.”

You scoffed, climbing into the SUV. “Save it for Garcia.”

In a few short minutes, you were at your destination. You got out, securing the wire into a hidden place as Reid and Morgan looked around. You tossed your curls behind your shoulder and cleared your throat.

"Alright. In the bar for fifteen minutes, twenty at most. If he approaches you, play coy. If he doesn't, we still have a chance to lure him in the back alley," Morgan explained, securing his own wire and tucking his gun. "We're more likely to see him out there. He's struck in that area quite a few times."

You nodded.

"Don't be afraid. We'll be right there with you, just at a distance. If you're ever too uncomfortable to stand it, call for us."

You made a gesture of agreement to Morgan before finally glancing at Reid, who cleared his throat.

"Just.. Don't jump the gun." He said. He somewhat failed to keep the entitlement in his voice. You wondered what was plaguing him, but nonetheless, you ignored it, rolling your eyes.

"I got it, Reid. Don't worry. Your teachings will be on my psyche the whole time."

Reid’s jaw ticked slightly, clearly unsatisfied with your response but unwilling to push further — at least not in front of Morgan.

Morgan, on the other hand, was watching the two of you like he was sitting court-side. “Alright, kids,” he said, breaking the tension with a raised brow. “Let’s not make this a pissing contest. We’ve got a predator to catch, not egos to babysit.”

You smirked, giving Morgan a thumbs up as you reached for the bar door. But before you could step out, Reid finally spoke again, softer this time, less sharp.

“Just… be careful. Please.”

You paused, turning slightly to look at him. There it was. Underneath all the attitude and irritation — the worry. The fear. The unspoken something that had been simmering between you both since that stupid hotel argument.

You gave a nod. “I will.”

And then you stepped out, heels clicking against the pavement, shoulders square, mask slipping into place.

You weren’t the agent now. You were the bait.

For a while, it was dead.

You sat at the bar, sipping on a "vodka soda," looking around. You tried your best to keep your emotions off from your face, opting for a more bored look. Your legs were crossed. People filtered in, people filtered out. The music changed. Drinks were poured, people surrounded you. A few approached, but not the one you needed.

You checked the time subtly, tilting your wrist just enough to catch the glint of the watch Garcia had modified for comms. Seventeen minutes. A little longer than planned, but not enough to call it yet. You could feel their eyes on you, Morgan’s and Reid’s from their respective vantage points, watching every shift of your posture like hawks.

The bartop was sticky, the lighting dim, casting sultry shadows that you knew looked calculated from afar. You took another slow sip, letting your eyes drift across the room again. A man at the end of the bar caught your gaze, held it for a beat too long.

But he turned away. Not him.

Your fingers tapped lightly against your glass, nails clicking in a slow rhythm.

Patience. Not just power.

You breathed out through your nose, subtle and quiet. You could play this game.

Just when your boredom began to feel a little too real, movement in your periphery made your eyes flick. A man near the jukebox — tall, late 30s, scruffy beard, not quite drunk but deliberately slow in his movements. Alone. Observing. Not playing music.

He looked at you.

You tilted your head slightly, uncrossing and recrossing your legs. Deliberate. Casual. Vulnerable.

He didn’t move.

But now you knew.

That was him.

And he was watching.

You cleared your throat, turning away and looking disinterested, until you felt his presence get closer and closer. Then, he was right beside you.

"Out here all alone?"

You didn’t look at him right away. You let the question hang for a beat, took a slow sip of your drink, kept your eyes ahead like someone unsure whether to entertain the voice or pretend they hadn’t heard it.

Then you turned, just a little. Just enough for your lashes to lift slowly, eyes finding his. Soft. Unassuming.

You gave a half-smile. “Depends who’s asking.”

He chuckled lowly, like he’d practiced it. Like he wanted it to sound charming but didn’t quite have the tone right. “Just someone who hates to see a pretty girl looking so bored.”

You glanced around the room lazily, then back at him. “Well. Not exactly a thrilling place to be alone.”

His eyes scanned you too thoroughly. It made your skin crawl, but you didn’t flinch.

He leaned on the bar beside you. “Maybe I could change that.”

You shifted, letting your knee graze his thigh — accidentally, on purpose. “Maybe you could.”

From the comms in your ear, you could barely catch Morgan’s low voice: “He’s on her. Stay ready.”

You gave the stranger one last smile before looking down into your glass. “Buy me a refill?”

He motioned to the bartender. “Vodka soda, right?”

You nodded. “Good memory.”

He grinned, and that time it reached his eyes. Just a flash. Something darker.

Bingo.

Your heart kicked up. But your face never betrayed it. You leaned in, just slightly, pretending to laugh at something he hadn’t said.

You held a conversation easily, as if you'd been doing this forever. You barely nursed your drink, immersing yourself into fooling him more than anything else. You crossed your fingers.

And soon, it came. The question you needed.

"You wanna get out of here?" He asked gruffly, a hand coming up to stroke your exposed collar bone. You wanted to throw up. You wanted to snap his arm, slam him to the floor and cuff him immediately.

But you thought about what Spencer had said.

Contemplation. Patience. The art of being cautious. It was just as useful as the fire you usually lit onto anyone you apprehended.

You took a slow breath through your nose, keeping your smile soft, a little shy. You let your eyes flick down, like you were considering it. Like you hadn’t just felt bile rise in your throat at the weight of his hand.

This was the moment. The danger curled just beneath your skin, thrumming like a second pulse.

“Yeah,” you said, voice a little breathier, like nerves. “I could use some air.”

He smiled — victory, hunger, maybe both — and slid off his stool, his hand brushing down your arm as if he had the right.

Morgan’s voice was calm but firm in your earpiece. “She’s moving. Everyone hold position. Reid, keep visual.”

You followed him toward the door, a little slower than necessary, stumbling just enough to play into it. “Sorry,” you muttered with a nervous laugh. “Maybe I had one too many.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he murmured, holding the door open. “I’ll take care of you.”

The night hit you like a slap of reality — cold, quiet, real. Your heels clicked against pavement as he guided you down the sidewalk, toward the alley behind the bar.

Your breath hitched. Not from fear. From instinct. The part of you that was still an agent. Still ready to fight, to break him, to stop this before he could touch another woman.

But you stayed in character. You stayed the part.

“Reid,” Morgan’s voice came again. “Do you have eyes?”

There was a long beat before Spencer replied, voice low, strained. “Yes. He’s guiding her down the alley. Don’t move yet.”

You felt it in his voice. You'd felt it since your argument. The tension. The fear. The anticipation. There was something different about the way Reid talked to you, talked about you, ever since your moment in the hotel.

You turned to the man, letting yourself wobble just enough, brushing against him like you needed balance. His hand found your waist too easily.

“You okay?” he asked.

You gave him a soft laugh. “Yeah. Just… a little dizzy.”

“Don’t worry.” His grip tightened. “I’ve got you.”

And then, just like that, he started to lead you into the dark.

Any second now.

Then, moments later, his grip on you became stronger. More direct. Less friendly.

"What are you—"

Without another word, you were slammed up against the brick, his dirty hands all over you. Frantically searching for something. Pain echoed through your body as he continued ruffling your clothes, pulling at your hair.

You frowned, struggling.

"Please, don't—"

"Shut up, bitch! I know you're a cop." He snapped, jerking you slightly.

Your jaw dropped. You felt as though you had cold water thrown over you, dripping down your spine into your heels.

"But I'm not." You attempted meekly.

Cautious. Don't fight yet. Contemplate your choices.

He snickered snidely.

"Officer L/n. I know your father, sweetheart. Or knew him," He said, his clammy breath fanning into your face. "He got my friends put away for life. And then there you were, following right in his footsteps."

He dragged you away from the brick wall, grabbing you by your face. A knife glinted in his other hand.

The cold edge of the blade caught the faint glow of the alley light, flickering like a warning. Your breath caught in your throat. Your hands were still raised — not in surrender, but in precision. Timing.

"Where's the fuckin' wire? Tell me or I'm slitting your throat and dropping you right here."

You swallowed hard, keeping your voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. “I don’t have a wire on me.”

His eyes flashed with suspicion, narrowing dangerously. “Bullshit.”

"Please.." You muttered.

Wait. Wait. Wait.

"Where. Is. The. Wire?!" He snapped, pressing the knife into you.

You froze for a heartbeat as the knife pressed sharper against your skin, a searing line of cold fire that threatened to break through your calm. Your breath hitched but you forced it back down, steady and slow, every nerve screaming for you to act.

“Wait,” you whispered, eyes locking with his — steady, unflinching. “You want the wire? I'll give it to you. I'm begging you not to do this.”

His grip tightened, but there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes, just a flash. Then, the knife pressed harder, enough to nick you, enough to cause a drop of blood to drizzle down. You hissed, tears collecting in your eyes.

Before the knife could press deeper, Reid sprang forward in a sudden burst of strength and precision — the kind of controlled force you usually wielded yourself.

He grabbed the man’s wrist, wrenching the knife away in one smooth motion. The blade clattered to the ground.

Without hesitation, Reid twisted the man’s arm behind his back and slammed him face-first against the brick wall with a sharp grunt.

The attacker struggled, but Reid’s grip was ironclad. He never did take-downs. He never felt like it was time. He valued a talk-down, a chance for the Unsub to see the light without an altercation. But something had snapped.

Reid’s breathing was heavier, eyes sharp and fierce — something you’d never seen in him before. The usual hesitation and quiet intellect gave way to raw, unyielding force. It was like watching a different side of him come alive, the side you’d been expecting all along but had never truly witnessed until now. The others had claimed to see it since he'd come home from prison, but it had never been revealed to you.

He hissed quietly, “Don’t move.”

You slumped against the wall, breathing heavily with a hand clutched to your neck. Blood flowed steadily, but not at a dangerous rate. Just enough to need a med team, but not enough to be scared. You stared up at the sky, frowning.

Morgan and Hotch came after, taking the Unsub from Reid, who was pressing him harder and harder against the wall every second as if he'd personally offended him with his existence.

Hotch immediately stepped in, his voice calm but authoritative. “Easy, Reid. Let him breathe.”

Morgan was already pulling out a medical kit, kneeling beside you quickly. “You good? That cut’s nasty, we can’t patch it up on-site.”

You gave a stiff nod, biting back the sting. “I’m fine. Just… keep him away.”

Reid’s jaw clenched, but he finally loosened his grip, stepping back reluctantly as the cuffs clicked shut around the Unsub’s wrists.

Your eyes met his, a quiet understanding passing between you both— raw tension still lingering, but also something deeper. You’d both taken a page from each other’s book tonight: your strength and resolve, his patience and calculated caution.

Morgan glanced at the three of you, breaking the moment with a grin. “Alright, bait and backup — that’s how we bring down monsters."

You rolled your eyes as you pressed the gauze to the side of your neck. "All in a day's work."

Morgan hummed.

"You need a hospital. I can drive—"

"I can do it." Reid interrupted quietly, looking at you more than he was Morgan.

You cleared your throat, nodding.

Reid’s eyes softened just a fraction as he reached out, carefully taking your hand to steady you. “Let’s get you patched up properly.”

Morgan gave you both a teasing smirk, but wisely kept his distance as Reid helped you into the SUV.

The ride was silent. The quick treatment in the hospital was silent, too. You allowed them to clean and stitch you up, flinching every few moments, before your eyes met Reid's again.

There was something different. There was no irritation or arrogance in his brown eyes like what he normally directed towards you. It was only softness. Just simply watching you, like it was a normal habit of his that he could do all day. Thick with tension. Words unsaid.

You couldn't lie. It made you blush. You looked away.

The conversation didn't ensue until the ride back to the hotel.

The engine hummed low as the SUV slipped down the dark road, headlights casting long, sweeping shadows across the pavement. Reid drove slower than usual: cautious, thoughtful. His fingers gripped the wheel with a quiet intensity, knuckles pale.

You sat beside him, your body angled slightly toward the window, but your eyes drifted, again and again, to his face. To the way his jaw tensed and relaxed like he was chewing on words. Like he couldn’t hold them in much longer.

He broke the silence.

"You did perfectly." He said quietly.

Your eyes flicked to him, surprised by the softness in his tone.

“Didn’t feel perfect,” you muttered, fingers brushing the gauze at your neck. “I let him get too close.”

“That was the point,” Reid said, glancing at you before returning his gaze to the road. “You had him completely. You waited. You didn’t react too soon. That’s what saved your life.”

You gave a small, dry laugh. “I thought I’d be the one snapping his wrist and pressing his face into the wall. Guess we traded roles.”

Reid’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, something more fragile. “You’ve always been better at brute force. I just never thought I’d actually need to use it.”

You leaned back in your seat, watching him. “So what changed?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept driving, eyes steady, lips parted slightly like the words were there, just hesitant to form.

Finally, he spoke, voice barely audible. “The second I saw him touch you, I didn’t think. I didn’t weigh the risk or the outcomes. I just… moved.”

Your throat tightened. “Why?”

He inhaled slowly. “Because if something had happened to you, if I had waited even a second longer, I wouldn’t have forgiven myself. It's hard enough to accept that you were hurt at all.”

You looked down at your lap, quiet for a beat. “I didn’t think you liked me that much.”

Reid frowned, squeezing the wheel.

"Name.. I don't dislike you." He said hoarsely. "I admire you, to be truthful. You're brave. Strong. Everything I want to be and have struggled to be my whole life," his voice was just above a whisper as he stole a glance your way.

"But I worry. All the time. I worry that something will go wrong and I'll lose another person. Another member of the team. And someone that I.." He trailed off.

Your heart thudded painfully in your chest.

“Someone that you…?” you echoed gently, coaxing the rest out of him.

Reid’s jaw clenched. He exhaled shakily through his nose, like the truth physically hurt to say aloud.

“Someone that I like. Someone I care about,” he said at last, voice quiet but unwavering. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t want it to. You make me insane, half the time. You drive me completely up the wall.”

You smiled faintly, despite the tension thick in the car.

“But then I watch you work. Or I hear you laugh. Or you look at me like I’m not broken, like I’m not damaged goods. And I—I can’t unfeel it.”

Silence blanketed the car once more, but this time it was full of unsaid things that didn’t need words. It buzzed with the gravity of what had finally cracked open between you.

He pulled into the parking lot of the hotel, putting the car in park. His eyes slid over to yours again.

You reached out slowly, resting your fingers gently over his. He looked down at your hand, then up into your eyes, as if trying to make sure this was real.

You gave a soft, knowing smile. “Took you long enough to admit it.”

Reid huffed a breath, almost a laugh, though his eyes were still glassy with everything he hadn’t said before tonight. “I thought you hated me.”

“I thought you were too good for me.”

His gaze flicked to your neck, then back to your eyes. “No one’s too good for you.”

"You are." You snorted. "I'm mean. Closed off. I don't listen."

Reid shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re protective,” he corrected gently. “You carry the weight for everyone else so they don’t have to. And you listen more than you think — not always to words, but to people. To their actions, their patterns. That’s why you’re good at this.”

You looked away, swallowing hard, your throat tight. “Still. You’re… kind. And soft. And patient. You make people feel safe just by being in the room. I make people flinch.”

Reid’s hand turned beneath yours, his fingers slipping between yours with quiet certainty. “I don't flinch.”

Your eyes snapped back to his, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in his voice. There was no teasing, no hesitation, no irritation in his tone — just truth. Solid and unwavering.

You stared at him for a beat, breath shallow. “No,” you whispered. “You don’t.”

Reid tilted his head slightly, his gaze dipping to your lips for just a second before returning to your eyes. “I see you. All of you. And I don’t flinch.”

The weight of his words settled in your chest like an anchor: grounding, calming, terrifying in the best way. No one had ever looked at you like this. Not with fear. Not with judgment. But with… something gentler. Something that threatened to undo every wall you’d ever built.

“You’re not scared of me,” you said quietly, like you were still trying to convince yourself.

“I’m scared for you, every time you throw yourself into harms' way,” he admitted, voice barely above a breath. “But never of you.”

There was a pause. Heavy. Electric.

And then, in the dark hush of the SUV, with the sounds of the city and the glow of the streetlights casting soft shadows across his face, you leaned in.

"Reid?"

"Call me Spencer."

You snorted softly, rolling your eyes.

"Spencer?"

His name lingered on your tongue, warm and unfamiliar in that intimate kind of way, like a secret finally spoken aloud.

He gave the faintest nod, eyes flicking down to your lips again, and this time he didn’t look away.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice rough around the edges, like he already knew what you were going to say but needed to hear it anyway.

Your breath caught, lips parting slightly. “You’re not as subtle as you think.”

He blinked. “What?”

You tilted your head, your smile barely there. “The staring. The tension. The way you act like I’m a walking risk assessment.”

Spencer’s lips tugged up, sheepish but unrepentant. “I didn’t want to cross a line.”

“You didn’t.” Your voice softened, fingers still tangled with his. “You didn’t cross anything.”

He leaned in a little closer, enough for his breath to ghost across your cheek.

“Then can I?” he whispered.

Your heart thudded once, hard, before you nodded.

“Yes. Please.”

And then, he kissed you.

Slow. Intentional. Like he’d waited a lifetime for permission.

And you, well, for once, you didn’t think. You didn’t fight.

You just let yourself feel.

You knew your father would've liked him.

#Spencer reid x reader

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mydearzero · 2 days ago

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hii i changed my username (chimchoom) to this now, is it possible to tag me in The Babysitter please? thanks!

Yesss I got u!

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mydearzero · 3 days ago

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Sorry for the slow updates people, haven’t found much time to write these last 2 weeks. Currently working on the next chapter of The Babysitter and a Reed Richards x reader smut that will hopefully be out this weekend!

#nik talks ✶#just a small update

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mydearzero · 3 days ago

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“Without a gun, I look like a teacher’s assistant.”

#art

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mydearzero · 3 days ago

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I’m a mad fuckin’ freak for sex pollen fics atp i dont care who its about or if i’m in the actual fandom i’m just here for the damn pollen i love it idk how to describe it like YEAH CARNAL DESIRE ANIMALISTIC WANT AND HOT CHARACTERS BEING PATHETIC OVER HOW HORNY THEY ARE

#me too #writing one as we speak

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mydearzero · 3 days ago

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i might not really fw john but i do fw this...

Sweet Dreams Of Otherness

Pairing: John Walker (U.S. Agent) x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Walker are sent on a mission to recover some tech at an abandoned HYDRA facility that’s buried deep in the Sonoran Desert. The two of you absolutely despise each other and can’t stand being in the same room together, but when a dire situation comes up, all things must be pushed aside to help your fellow teammate, whether you like it or not.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Variation of a Sex Pollen Trope (pollen isn’t in a flower, it’s in fruit), Smut, Enemies to Reluctant Lovers (at first at least), Some Fluff, Reader is typically at Walkers’ throat (Walker tries his best to not let that get to him, but he slips a lot), Mentions of throwing up

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (yeah yeah, I know.), Rough Sex, Hair Pulling, Fingering, Fingers Sucking, Biting, Scratching, Putting Hands Over Mouths, Is It A Bit Awkward At First? Yep, but just go with it lol, Rubbing through clothes, I don’t think I missed anything.

Author’s Note: Jeeeeez, first John Walker Fic and I’ve been indoctrinated by the system lol. I loved writing this, and it was really different to write a totally different character. Anyways, hope y’all enjoy my first stab at writing Walker. <3

Word Count: 11,380

You hated John Walker.

That wasn’t an exaggeration. It wasn’t some mild annoyance you brushed off during missions or a tolerable personality clash you could wave away with professionalism. No. You hated him.

Maybe it was the knock-off Captain America suit–stitched to mimic valor but worn by a man who had never earned the weight behind the star that Steve wore. It was too clean. Too polished. And too fake. Like it was a whole PR stunt to make people forget about what Steve had foraged while wearing the suit. Or maybe it was the way he always had to be the one leading the charge, barking orders with that square jaw clenched beneath his helmet like he was still playing soldier on a stage meant for legends.

He never listened, and always thought he had the answer to everything–every intel breach, every tactical glitch, and every goddamn conversation during debrief that didn’t go his way. His confidence wasn’t earned; it was manufactured, inflated by ego and absolute delusion, straining at the seams of his self-importance.

And the worst part was that he returned your disdain in equal measure.

Walker was the type who matched other people’s energy with force–sarcasm for sarcasm, sharp glances for sharp words. You couldn’t stand him, and he couldn’t stand you, and that dynamic never changed. Not through group missions or close calls, not even through the quiet tension of mandatory team-building exercises. Not once.

So when you were told that the two of you were being paired up–alone–for a mission in the goddamn Sonoran Desert, your blood pressure practically spiked through the roof. No one else was available, and you couldn’t refuse the assignment. There was HYDRA tech that was reportedly hidden at a facility so deep in the desert it didn’t even exist on updated satellite maps, and they needed the two of you to go and scavenge the place.

——————

The HYDRA compound revealed itself slowly, half-sunken in the sand like a ruin the earth itself had tried to erase. The midday heat shimmered off rusted steel and scorched cement, and the sunlight was unrelenting as it bled into the sky–everything was a haze of orange, white, and bone-dry heat. Thorny mesquite curled around collapsed fencing, and weather-worn “NO TRESSPASSING” signs flapped weakly against the chain-links like the building was attempting to hide something while being a beacon of suspicion.

The facility itself was carved into the side of a low mesa, it was concrete and reinforced with steel paneling that had long since warped and peeled. Faded HYDRA insignias were barely visible on the corroded doors–faded off from the sun and from the time that had passed between being abandoned and rediscovered. There were old roots that crept over shattered vents, and every inch of the space reeked of disuse staleness, expired chemicals, and ozone.

Walker cracked the heavy steel door open with a loud creak, the hinges shrieking in protest after years of sunbaked neglect. His body shifted as he used his weight to hold it steady, his muscles flexing in his suit, rippling with the effort as he glanced back at you with a silent tilt of his head that said, Well?

You stepped past him without a word, ducking through the partially jammed frame and brushing your shoulder against the wall’s blistered edge. You felt rust bite at the tactical gear that lined your suit, scraping against the skin tight fabric, as you slipped into the shadows beyond. He followed a beat later, wedging the door wider with his taco-shaped shield so he could slide in behind you–because he knew damn well you weren’t about to stand there and hold it open for him.

The second the door slammed shut behind you, the desert heat that had been clinching to your skin like a wet blanket vanished.

Cool, climate-controlled air kissed the back of your neck and seeped into your sleeves. It smelled of filtered metal and aged antiseptic, a sterile coldness preserved in time. The hallway ahead sloped downward, the lights overhead flickering under layers of desert dust and age. You both unholstered your sidearms and moved wordlessly, your boots making muffled thuds against the concrete floor.

You didn’t hear any machinery humming, or any additional footsteps, it was just pure silence. The stairs that led down to the lab were cracked and slick with sand that had blown through the broken ventilation panels, and when you reached the bottom, the space opened up before you like the aftermath of a storm.

It was chaos–frozen in amber.

The lab was wide and low-ceilinged, lined with shattered containment chambers, broken glass, and desks covered in forgotten paperwork. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly in uneven intervals, painting the space in pulses of cold white light that caught the jagged edges of shattered beakers and tools.

Tables were overturned. Lockers were pried open and left gaping like rib cages. One wall had been half-blasted through, the steel reinforcement melted into curls like scorched ribbon. Chemical residue stained the floor beneath cracked Bunsen burners and mangled containment vats. And despite the years of abandonment, some of the terminals still flickered faintly–screens frozen on half-written formulas, the final lines of code interrupted mid-command.

Whoever had been here last hadn’t packed up. They hadn’t even tried to clean.

They had fled.

With a sharp glance between you, you and Walker instinctively split directions, guns raised and shoulders tense. You swept left, hugging the shadows along a row of overturned shelves while he cut a path along the right, stepping over debris like he’d done this a thousand times. You checked corners. Cleared doorways. Searched for movement in the stillness.

After a few minutes, the two of you circled back toward the main lab space and gave each other a nod. Weapons were returned to their holsters.

“You stay on your side. I’ll stay on mine,” You instructed, already turning your attention to a nearby filing cabinet.

You crouched beside it, the metal warped with heat but still intact enough to pull open. The drawers resisted with a groan, but gave way to reveal yellowed documents and rough-edged folders thick with dust. You flipped through them with gloved fingers, scanning for anything tagged with keywords–biotech, neurochemistry, mutagenic flora.

Across the room, Walker exhaled with a put-upon sigh and dragged his helmet off his head. His short, sweat-damp blond hair fell forward, a few stubborn strands sticking to his forehead before he ran a hand through them in frustration.

“Whatever you say,” He muttered under his breath.

You didn’t bother responding.

He moved toward the far wall of lab stations, setting his shield down against a broken chair and picking through scattered tools and abandoned datapads. The lab lights flickered again, casting long shadows over his broad shoulders and the deep furrow in his brow. You watched out of the corner of your eye as he moved slowly, his body flexing in the uniform, shaking his head like he was trying to exude some of the adrenaline that coursed through his veins, letting out a little huff.

The silence stretched.

You turned back to the drawer, pulling out a thick folder marked with a Hydra insignia that had bled into the paper with age. Its contents were more scientific than you expected–botanical diagrams, field notes in Russian and English, chemical breakdowns that included bizarre hormone pathways and neural reaction patterns. One particular document made your eyes narrow.

“Reactional pheromonal stimuli observed within 7-10 minutes of exposure. Compounds trigger sensory hypersensitivity, behavioural fixation, glandular spike in oxytocin and dopamine receptors. The subject displays signs of heightened arousal, increased aggression, and intense desire to imprint on the nearest organic source of stimulus. Compound variant D-324. Extracted from hybrid flora found near contaminated grounds. USE WITH CAUTION.”

You were just about to flip to the next page when a sharp crash split through the silence like a bullet.

Glass shattered and metal clanged.

You flinched, body tensing on instinct as your hand went to your holster–but it was just Walker. You snapped your head up and locked eyes with him from across the lab. You could’ve shot him right then and there and wrote in the mission reports that it was an accident, but you withheld your frustration.

He stood frozen in front of a tilted shelving unit, jagged-edged beakers and shattered Petri dishes in glittering ruin at his feet. One of the heavier drawers from the workstation had slipped off entirely, landing with a loud thud that echoed through the steel-and-concrete space.

Your hands curled into fists.

”Jesus Christ, Walker,” You barked, rising to your feet, “Will you be careful for fuck’s sake? Are you a child? Do I need to tell you to keep your hands to yourself?!” He raised one hand in exaggerated surrender, while bracing the other lazily against the edge of his tactical belt.

”For god’s sake,” He muttered, clearly annoyed, “You don’t have to snap at me like I did it on purpose. It was a fucking accident. Ever heard of them?” The lab lights buzzed overhead, casting cold strobing shadows across his face. He was flushed from the heat, his jaw tight with irritation, sweat collecting at his temple just beneath the mess of damp blond hair.

You shot him a glare so sharp it felt like your eyes were burning holes into his skull.

”Go do a perimeter sweep outside. I can handle this myself.” Walker scoffed, pushing off the bench as he reached down to snatch his shield from where it leaned against the broken chair. He slipped the strap over his arm with practiced ease, flexing his forearm as it locked into place.

“Gladly. Hopefully your hot head will be cooled down by the time I get back,” He commented as he turned and stalked toward the hallway. Your jaw clenched so tight your molars ached. You resisted the urge to hurl a paperweight at the back of his skull and instead stood perfectly still, watching him disappear around the corner, his boots crunching softly over debris until the sound faded into silence.

Only once he was gone did you exhale sharply through your nose and turn your attention back to the folder in your hands, then you flipped the page to look at more chemical diagrams. Your gaze caught on a series of rough sketches–floral structures, seed pods, and bulbous, ocular fruits. The rendering was hand-drawn but detailed, each vein and spine delicately inked in colour with obsessive precision. It looked like a prickly pear cactus–but wrong. A little more rounded, with the outer flesh marked with pale orange freckles. From the diagram the person who drew and coloured it made it seem like there was a golden sheen on the skin, like it was supposed to attract people to pluck one and eat it. There was a note paper clipped to the drawings.

“Variant D-324. Unstable. Field tested on rodents. Significant behavioural alteration. Strong bonding behaviour. Reproductive fixation. Terminal trial recommended after Stage III symptoms manifest. Effects vary by subject physiology. Cross-species transmission likely via ingestion. Tested Subject killed mate.”

Your eyes trailed back to the drawn cross section of the fruit. Inside, the pulp was a deep reddish purple–smooth and glossy like syrup–surrounded by a fibrous membrane and glistening orange seeds.

”What kind of mad scientist bullshit is this?” You muttered under your breath. It wasn’t even a question to answer. Just an exhausted observation at the absurdity of what you were holding–botanical aphrodisiacs with cross-species imprinting behaviour? HYDRA had clearly never gotten tired of playing god. You flipped through another few pages, scanning the margins for legible notes. There were little scribbles in different inks–some frantic, some neat, one simply read “FAILED–DO NOT INGEST” next to a blood-stained fingerprint. The file practically radiated do not touch, which of course made it all the more dangerous, and all the more important.

You closed the folder and set it carefully on the nearest metal counter, brushing a layer of dust off the surface before placing it down flat. You would be bringing that back to the compound for sure. Even if it wasn’t related to the mission objectives, this was the kind of file that needed deeper analysis–and the team back home would want to know exactly what had been left behind out there in the half-rotted tomb of a lab, especially Bucky.

Turning away from the counter, you made your way further into the heart of the facility.

The containment area was cooler, and darker. The light there was more finicky, flickering overhead like it was on the brink of dying out. You moved past cracked display cases and sealed cabinets. Most were empty, their contents long removed or destroyed. A few still had test vials filled with discolored liquids that clung to the glass like they were alive, shifting slowly with gravity as you passed.

You rifled through drawers. Pulled at rusted handles. Tugged open sample trays and flipped through brittle paperwork. You found coded USB drives, decayed documentation, even an old lab coat still hanging from a hook that was burned at the bottom. Your curiosity got the better of you–you were in your element, entirely focused on the hunt. The quiet hum of machinery under your fingertips as you attempted to reboot a terminal. The delicate turn of a dial on an old refrigeration unit. The satisfying clack of a drawer sliding open to reveal its secrets.

You were so focused, in fact, that you didn’t hear the footsteps returning. Didn’t hear the approach behind you or the shift in air pressure. Nor did you catch the scent of something faintly sweet–like a juicy type of citrus and pepper–until a voice cut clean through the silence and made your heart jerk.

”Want a cactus berry?” You jolted violently, head snapping over your shoulder as adrenaline surged through your chest. Walker was standing behind you. Relaxed. His stance was easy, almost boyish in the set of his shoulders–except there was something in the way he looked at you that made your gut clench. His lips were stained a faint, dusty pink. Barely noticeable unless you were looking. But your eyes were looking–tracking every detail with sniper-like precision now.

There were a few drops of juice tangled in the hairs of his beard, catching the lab light in a soft shimmer. His tongue darted out to swipe the corner of his mouth as he lifted one of the small, alien-looking fruits toward you–half-sliced, its interior gleaming a vibrant, syrupy purple. The missing section was clearly in his stomach now. He held up a second one like a peace offering, his eyes trying to settle somewhere between your mouth and your expression.

A little smile pulled at his lips–hesitant, but there. Almost sheepish. Almost…Apologetic. Like this was his version of saying sorry. Like this was an olive branch wrapped in thorns.

You didn’t reach for it, you just stared at him, before your eyes dropped to the fruit. The pulp. The orange freckles…

The skin of the fruit gleamed faintly–just like the drawing in the file. A golden sheen, too perfect to be natural. Almost seductive in how ripe and rich it looked.

“Walker…” You said slowly, your voice losing all the heat you were going to meet him with, “Where did you get those?” He glanced down at them like he hadn’t realized they were significant. Then, with zero sense of urgency, he brought the half-eaten slice back to his mouth and shoved another juicy wedge between his teeth, chewing loudly.

”From outside,” He replied around the bite, his voice muffled and wet. Juice trickled over his lip and down his chin, catching in the hairs of his beard, “Few clicks past the perimeter. There was a whole cluster of them. Nice and ripe. Way better than the shit you find in stores.” He continued, with absolutely no sense of awareness of what was going on.

Your mouth opened–but no words came out.

Because what could you even say?

You had just read a declassified Hydra file about that exact fruit. About its neurochemical effects. Its impact on bonding behavior. Its ability to override basic inhibition. Its tendency to push reproductive drives to the forefront of cognition.

And here this idiot was, standing in front of you, cheeks flushed, pupils wide, tongue stained pink with chemical poison, acting like he’d found a damn trail snack.

You took one step back, your mind whirring, trying to calculate how long it had been since his first bite. Seven minutes? Eight?

“Walker…” You started, firmer this time. “You need to stop eating that right now. Spit it out. Wash your mouth. I’m serious. That’s not safe. That’s–” He looked at you like you were overreacting. That familiar smug edge crept back into his tone.

“Relax…It’s just a cactus berry, not a HYDRA bomb. I’ve eaten worse in the field.” He licked the juice from his fingers like it was honey, lips shining faintly under the lab’s sickly flickering lights. The sound of each indulgent pop of his fingertips leaving his mouth echoed through the cavernous stillness like a slap.

And then he swallowed the wedge you had just told him to spit out. You stared at him, stunned, a sound of pure exasperation tearing from your chest like it was dragged from the deepest part of your lungs.

“For the love of god, why can’t you just listen to me for once?” You snapped, stepped forward without hesitation now, “They’re not cactus berries, John, you idiot!” You didn’t wait for his response. You stormed across the space, closed the distance between you in three sharp strides, and smacked the other fruit clean out of his hand. It hit the ground with a wet thud, rolling beneath a scorched lab table and leaving a dark purple smear across the cracked tile.

Walker blinked in shock both still parted slightly, juice clinging to his lips like a bruise. You didn’t give him time to argue. Your hand found the crevasse of his shield–right where the taco formed– and you yanked him with you, dragging him toward the workstation where you’d left the folder, flipping it open.

”Read it, you dumbass.” You said, slamming your palm down beside the open file for emphasis. Walker leaned over, brows furrowed, still panting a little from the sudden movement. His hair, slightly damp with sweat, had started to fall loose again from where he’d slicked it back–tufts falling forward over his forehead as he squinted at the pages.

His blue eyes darted back and forth for a few moments.

You could practically see the exact moment his brain caught up to reality. His jaw ticked, then slowly dropped slack.

“Oh…Fuck.” He muttered under his breath, like it hurt to say aloud. He stepped back from the workstation like the file had burned him.

And then, without another word, he rushed over to one of the lab sinks–nearly slipping on a broken clipboard in his path-and shoved the old, rust-speckled tap on full blast.

The water came out brown at first, then clear, and he didn’t hesitate. He bent low and shoved his mouth directly beneath the flow, spluttering as the cold stream smacked his face. He cupped his hand around the flow so it went into his mouth, swished it hard, spat into the deep metal basin, then repeated the motion twice more–his shoulders heaving.

”Should’ve fucking known it was too good to be true,” He hissed out, voice rough, lips pink and wet now as he looked around the room in frantic desperation. “I need a trash bin–I’m gonna try to throw it up.” You were already moving, grabbing the one closest to the bench with the file, fixing the inner bag and handing the whole bin to him with one sharp motion. His eyes flicked up toward yours for half a second–less gratitude, more raw panic–before he dug his teeth into his gloves and slipped them off, turning his back to you quickly.

You heard the gag reflex almost immediately when he shoved his fingers into his mouth. A sharp, wet retch.

The sound of his knuckles forcing his throat to convulse.

He choked again–and this time, you heard the sickening splash of liquid filling the liner of the bin. Bitter-smelling fruit, stomach acid, and bile hit the air almost instantly.

You winced. Not from disgust–though it was disgusting–but from the growing realization that it might not matter if he made himself throw up, because if the timing was remotely accurate in the file…He had missed his opportunity. You heard him spit again–harsh and wet–the sound accompanied by another low gag that scraped out of his chest like he was trying to exorcise it. More liquid hit the bag with a slap, and a few raged breaths followed. His boots scuffed against the tile as he lowered the trash bin to the ground and shoved his face beneath the running stream once more, gasping as the cold water hit him again.

He spat hard–twice–before panting between swishes.

“Fuck…”

His voice was raspy, bordering on hoarse.

“Fuck’s sake.”

You stayed rooted where you were, back near the workstation, still watching him cautiously from across the room, eyes narrowed. You didn’t move. You weren’t sure if you should.

“Are you feeling anything?” You asked, voice firm but low, trying not to betray the knot tightening in your throat from the nerves that plagued you. Walker’s head snapped up from the stream. He shook it almost immediately, droplets of water flying from his damp hair and beading across the sink’s edge.

“No…No, not yet.” He swallowed thickly, “But I don’t think it’s gonna stay that way.” He pushed himself upright, wiping a slick hand down his face as he turned toward you–and that’s when you saw it.

The first sign.

His skin. It was already flushing.

Not just at the cheeks or the neck from exertion–but spreading low, beneath the collar of his uniform. It was a warm, creeping pink that suggested something deeper than physical strain. You weren’t sure if it was from the vomiting or from the fruit–yet–but you didn’t like the odds either way. You crossed your arms and leaned your hip against the workstation, watching him cautiously.

“Didn’t anyone teach you not to eat random fruit around abandoned Hydra facilities?” You asked, tone dry, bitter with disbelief and slight amusement. He groaned audibly, dragging both hands down his face.

“Please don’t fucking start with me.” The sound of his shield hitting the floor echoed hard and metallic–he’d unstrapped it from his forearm and tossed it aside with a thunk that made the overhead lights tremble. The bounce echoed in the cavernous quiet. “Now is not the fucking time.” He added, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. You stepped back automatically, hands lifting in passive surrender.

“Sorry,” You mumbled, though it barely felt necessary. He was already unraveling. Walker stood there, shoulders heaving like his lungs couldn’t quite keep up. His forehead glistened beneath the mess of damp blond hair now curling slightly at the edges. He rubbed the sweat away, dragging his palm across his temple and then freezing–staring at the beads of moisture that pooled on his skin.

Then, slowly, with barely concealed discomfort, he began to unbuckle his gear.

You didn’t say anything. You just…Watched. Quietly. Carefully. In small, stolen glances, as if acknowledging it too directly might escalate something you couldn’t walk back. He moved methodically.

Snapped open a buckle. Loosened a strap. Peeled back a thick shoulder pad that clattered against the bench.

Another groan, this one deeper, vibrating through his throat as he reached for his chest rig and began unclipping the front latch.

His breathing was getting heavier.

You could hear it now–ragged, uneven, pulling in short through his nose and puffed out through parted lips. Like he was hot from the inside out, trapped in a body that was slowly catching fire.

He ripped the velcro at his side and slipped out of the gear, the stiff bulk of it landing with a heavy drop on the floor. One hand found the back of his neck, fingers curling against the muscle there, pressing like he could rub the tension out–but you could see it wasn’t helping.

”Shit…” He muttered to himself, rubbing harder now. You saw the muscles in his back shift beneath the fabric of his training shirt. Every motion was more urgent now. Like he was being driven forward by instinct, rather than reason.

“You need to find something to tie me up with,” Walker rasped, voice low and strained, the words pushed between clenched teeth like he was holding back more than speech. “Or a room to lock me in. I can’t be walking around freely–this doesn’t feel right…” He let out a harsh breath, his chest rising and falling beneath the damp stretch of his training shirt. It clung to him now, soaked with sweat–darkened along his collarbones, down the deep line between his pecs, and beneath the sharp angles of his arms where the fabric stuck like a second skin. He dragged one palm across his jaw, then fanned himself with it in a feeble attempt to cool off, jaw ticking as another wave of internal heat rolled through him.

You looked around the lab, scanning for anything that could act as a restraint, heart kicking up speed despite your attempt to stay calm. Your eyes skipped over overturned chairs, scorched equipment, loose wires–and then caught on the lab coat. The one still hanging, burned at the bottom hem but structurally intact.

“Give me a second,” You said quickly. Walker grunted in response, the sound halfway between pained and resigned. He bent forward with a groan, bracing his palms on his knees as if just standing upright had become too much.

“Okay,” He panted. “Okay, just…Hurry.” You darted to the coat, fingers fumbling as you yanked it off the hook. The scent of char and chemical dust puffed into the air, but the sleeves were intact. Strong enough. You moved fast, crossing the distance back to him. Your boots clicked across the tile and skidded slightly on some scattered glass, but you didn’t slow down.

Walker had dropped to his knees now, his back pressed to the cool tile wall, close to one of the thick, metal pipes that ran along the base of the sink. He looked up at you with a flash of something wild behind his eyes–dilated pupils swallowing the color, jaw clenched so hard you thought he might shatter a molar.

“Sit over there,” you said firmly, motioning toward the pipe.

Without argument–without a single smartass comment–he crawled over on his hands and knees, shoulders hitching with each breath, and slumped back against the wall. The movement was almost desperate. Animalistic even.

You moved to him quickly, folding the sleeves of the lab coat into twisted restraints. His arms were thick, warm beneath your fingers. Radiating heat. You could feel his pulse hammering at his wrists as you wrapped the sleeves around them and tied him to the pipe behind him–tight and secure, double-knotting it despite the way your hands trembled.

He let out a groan that curled somewhere between agony and pleasure in your gut.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” He hissed, his head dropping back against the wall with a soft thud. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, throat flexing with a swallow so hard it looked painful. “You have to get away from me.” You stepped back a little, breathing hard despite yourself.

“I’m trying to do what you told me to, Walker. You said to tie you up.”

“I know,” He gritted out, nostrils flaring. “Yes. I know. But…Fuck.” His hips shifted slightly, knees spreading as he tried to stretch out, panting hard through his nose. “Are you…Wearing perfume or something?”

You blinked. “No.” He exhaled sharply, eyes opening–and the look in them made your stomach knot. It was raw. Frantic.

“You…” He started, then stopped himself, sucking in another shallow breath. His voice dropped to a whisper, hoarse with restraint. “Oh Jesus Christ, get away from me, Y/N.” His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t commanding. It was pleading.

You backed away instinctively, giving him space, stepping behind the perimeter of an overturned lab bench. Your pulse was roaring in your ears now–hot and fast and heavy–and your skin buzzed with adrenaline as you leaned one hand on the cool steel counter, trying to center yourself.

From across the room, you heard the thunk-thunk-thunk of his head as it gently bumped back against the pipe behind him.

“I can feel it kicking in,” He muttered, more to himself than to you. “I can feel it.”

Your gaze snapped to him.

You gulped a bit, your throat working around the dry tightness that had taken hold there, as if your body was instinctively reacting to the heat bleeding off him in waves. You could see the strain in his posture, the way the veins in his forearms bulged beneath the restraint of the lab coat, every muscle pulled taut like a bowstring on the verge of snapping. His chest heaved, each breath dragged in through gritted teeth, sweat slicking his brow and darkening the fabric of his shirt in a way that made it cling to the ridges of his torso.

“Are you in pain?” You asked, voice soft but edged with urgency, stepping just a little closer. His eyes snapped to yours, pupils nearly blown, and you could feel the answer in the way his gaze raked over you before he even opened his mouth.

“Of course I’m in pain,” He bit out, his voice raw and fraying at the edges. “I feel like I’m going to break out of my fucking skin.” His head tipped back with a soft thunk against the pipe again, like he was trying to ground himself, like the cold metal might be enough to anchor him to cool him down–but it didn’t. Not even close. You watched his throat bob with another swallow, the tendons straining as he let out a whimper–quiet, involuntary, and more desperate than anything you’d ever heard from him before. It lodged something tight and uneasy in your chest.

“How long is this going to last?” He asked, his voice breaking on the tail end, like the question physically hurt to speak. His fingers twitched, curling against the binds as though some part of him was still fighting the instincts flooding his system. You hesitated, your eyes darting back to the file, then to him again. His jaw was flexing, his knees shifting restlessly. The look on his face was enough to send a chill down your spine–part agony, part something else entirely. Something hungrier.

“You want me to check?” You said, carefully, trying to confirm. He hummed, eyes slamming shut again like the act of keeping them open was too much.

“Yes…Oh fuck,” He groaned, the sound drawn up from his gut, laced with a rasp that sounded far too much like want. You grabbed the folder with trembling fingers, flipping back through the pages, skimming for anything that might give you a definitive timeframe. The diagrams blurred for a moment–your hands were shaking, your mind running a mile a minute.

“Reactional pheromonal stimuli observed within 7-10 minutes… Symptoms persist for 4-6 hours depending on physiology…”You swallowed audibly.

“Well?” He barked, voice cracking, his body visibly shaking, “How long?”

“Four to six hours,” You said quietly, the words hitting the air like a death sentence. A strained laugh–short, bitter, disbelieving–escaped him.

“It’s probably going to be longer than that…” He rasped. His body flexed suddenly, jerking hard against the restraints. The fabric of the lab coat sleeves dug into his wrists, and his biceps swelled under the strain. He let out a guttural grunt, one that vibrated all the way up your spine. His head tipped forward, damp strands of blond hair falling over his brow as he sucked in a shaky breath through his teeth, “The Super Soldier Serum is going to make it worse…” He added, voice shredded and barely coherent, like every word was dragged through gravel.

”My heart is fucking beating so hard out of my chest I think it’s…It’s going to explode…I think I’m gonna die.” He groaned again, and this time the sound came from somewhere deep, primal. His body jerked once more against the restraints, and you heard it–clear as day.

The creak of the metal pipe bolted to the wall behind him.

It whined beneath the force of his flexed arms, the strain of his super-soldier-enhanced body tightening like a loaded spring. His biceps bulged, sweat running in rivers down his face, and his legs kicked slightly as if resisting the instinct to crawl forward toward you, to reach. You watched his jaw tremble, eyes squeezed shut, chest shuddering under the weight of whatever hell he was trying to hold inside.

It wasn’t going to be long now.

Your breath hitched as you realized it–Walker wasn’t just fighting off heat or confusion anymore. His whole system was boiling over. His skin glowed pink with fever. His hands twitched, aching to grab. His spine arched like his bones themselves were begging to act. And once that pipe gave way–and it would–you were going to be the closest living thing in range.

The primary target.

You bit your bottom lip hard, trying to focus, to breathe through the way your pulse was thundering in your ears. Your eyes fluttered shut for a second, searching for clarity in the blur of adrenaline and dread. And then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you said it.

“I have a solution,” You started, voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s not going to be fun for either of us.” For a moment, all you could hear was the stuttering sound of his breath–then a low, hoarse gasp.

“What’s the solution?” He breathed out, his voice breaking in two like it hurt to even speak. His eyes opened, glassy and blown wide, and locked on you. There was no trace of smugness or arrogance in them now–only sheer agony. He looked absolutely wrecked. You hesitated, swallowing thickly. Then slowly, carefully, you stepped out from behind the lab bench, folder still clutched in your hand.

“The cactus berries are basically…Aphrodisiacs on crack,” You explained, each word leaving your mouth heavier than the last. “It seems like they wanted to use them for reproductive purposes–at least, that’s where it looks like the research was going before they bailed. Rapid hormone flooding, biological imprinting, instinctive bonding. It’s…Extreme.” Walker’s breath was ragged, his body trembling with strain as he yanked against the restraints again–harder this time. The pipe behind him screamed.

“Just get to the fucking point, Y/N,” He growled through clenched teeth. “What do I have to do to stop this?” You let out a huff, sharp and shaky, then met his eyes.

“You need to have sex,” You said flatly, like pulling a trigger. “Your body is in reproductive overdrive. That’s why you’re in pain. That’s why–”

“That’s why I can smell you through your tactical suit?” He snapped, voice strained, cutting you off before you could finish. You froze. Just for a second. Then looked away, heart hammering in your chest.

“…Yeah,” You murmured, voice low, almost ashamed. “Yeah, pretty much.” Walker groaned, letting his head thunk back against the pipe with a dull, defeated sound. He exhaled through his nose like a bull, nostrils flaring, the heat radiating off him in waves so strong you could feel it from across the room. He didn’t say anything for a moment–just let the suggestion settle like smoke between you, thick and suffocating.

Then–quietly, hoarsely–he rasped, “I’m not going to ask you to do that for me.” You looked at him, blinking, brows furrowed. “I’m serious,” He added, struggling to lift his head again, his jaw flexing like it was taking everything he had just to hold himself together. “I’m not gonna ask. I might be a lot of things, but I’m not crossing that line.” You stood still for a moment, spine taut, before taking in a breath.

“If you get out of those restraints…” You began, voice cool and even, “I’m the only thing here that can actually provide relief. So it’ll happen either way.” He flinched like the words hit him square in the chest, and then he thrashed against the pipe. The metal shrieked. The sleeves pulled tight around his wrists. His shoulders rolled forward like he was trying to physically crawl out of his skin.

“Y/N–” He gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of something feral just beneath the surface. “We fucking hate each other, I–”

“I may hate you, Walker,” You interrupted, your voice sharp enough to cut through the haze that clouded him, “But I don’t want to watch you die in some rotting lab in the middle of the goddamn desert.” He fell silent. Breathing like he’d just run a marathon. Sweat poured down his temples, soaking the front of his shirt. His body shook–with effort, with need, with the unbearable weight of what you’d just laid out.

“I also don’t want to have to explain how it happened. Because we both know the team will blame me first.” You added bitterly. Walker closed his eyes. Tensed his jaw. And breathed–slow and harsh and uneven. You could see the war going on inside him. The battle between pride and survival. Hatred and heat. You and him. The sharp lines between enemies, blurring. There was a long, heavy silence. The kind that stretched out between heartbeats, between decisions you couldn’t take back. His breathing was a raw, uneven rasp–his chest rising and falling like he was drowning in the air around him. His hands strained in the bindings, knuckles flexing, arms trembling. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Not until you saw the faintest tremble in his jaw…And then his voice, low and broken, barely audible over the hum of the flickering fluorescents:

“…Are you sure?” You stared at him. Watched the war behind his eyes. Watched the sweat trickle down his temple, the tension in his arms, the split-second flashes of something vulnerable flickering beneath the pain. His body was betraying him–flooded with chemicals he couldn’t fight–and the worst part was that he knew it. You bit the inside of your cheek. Hard.

“If I was in your position,” You started slowly, your voice steady despite the whirlwind in your chest, “I’m sure you’d help me.”

His eyes locked onto yours, sharp and wide. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t blink. Knowing the look said it all.

“So I’m sure,” You added firmly, tugging at the hem of your gear.

“But we will never talk about this.” You punctuated each word like a promise, like a threat, like a sacred rule of survival. “Ever again. You understand me, Walker?”

He swallowed, his throat bobbing visibly. His eyes flicked down for a heartbeat, then dragged back up to your face as he rasped, “I understand.” Your fingers moved quickly, unbuckling the clasps of your tactical vest and shrugging it off your shoulders. It hit the ground with a thud beside his discarded shield and gear. You peeled the long-sleeved top over your head, revealing the sweat-slicked cling of your black training tank beneath.

You could feel him watching you.

His gaze followed every movement–heavy, desperate, hungry in spite of itself. But he didn’t say a word. Didn’t dare breathe too loud.

You reached for the belt at your waist and undid it with a swift twist of your fingers, the metal clinking as it came loose. You shimmied out of your cargo pants slowly, pushing them down your legs and letting them pool at your feet before taking off your boots and kicking the pants aside, leaving you in your black panties. The lab air was cool on your thighs, brushing against your skin like ghost fingers. His eyes trailed up the exposed skin, seeing scars and old battle wounds scattered around on the surface.

You moved toward him, slow and deliberate, the concrete cool beneath your bare feet. Every step closed the distance between you and the raw, trembling thing he’d become. You crouched down in front of him, your knees brushing against the dark tile, and you saw it–the way he flinched now that you were in his space. His entire body recoiled and leaned forward at once, caught between wanting to run and wanting to lunge.

And from this angle, from this proximity, you finally noticed it.

His cock was straining hard against the fabric of his pants, pressing tight against the zipper like it had no more room left to give. The outline was unmistakable, painfully prominent, the fabric darkened slightly with what you assumed was pre-cum. Your breath caught–just for a moment–and his let out a low, wounded groan at your reaction, his eyes flickering shut like just being seen like this was too much.

He didn’t say anything as you climbed over his lap.

You moved slow, careful not to jostle him too hard as you straddled the thick muscles of his thighs. His body was hot beneath yours, pulsing with tension, every part of him vibrating just under the skin. You leaned in, close enough for his forehead to tip forward and press against your bare shoulder with a tremble. His breath hit your skin–wet, hot, and desperate–and he inhaled deeply like he couldn’t help himself, taking in your scent now that you were so close to him.

“I’m gonna untie you…” You whispered, your voice soft but unwavering. Walker nodded once against your shoulder, and the movement was sharp, frantic, like holding still was getting harder by the second. His nose brushed your collarbone as he breathed in again, longer this time, and you heard the soft, broken exhale that followed. You hesitated–just for a beat.

“Control yourself,” You warned, voice firm despite the undeniable heat building between you.

His hands didn’t twitch, but you felt the tension in them as you reached back. Slowly, methodically, you untied the makeshift restraints, your fingers working the lab coat sleeves loose. First one wrist. Then the other. They were red, and raw from straining–hot to the touch and trembling as they dropped to the floor, free. He didn’t move right away, didn’t reach for you like some part of him still remembered what was coursing through his body.

You leaned back just slightly to look at him, and his eyes met yours. Blue. Blown wide and shimmering, drunk on the haze from the cactus fruit. He was breathing heavily, keeping eye contact.

And then he surged forward.

His mouth crashed into yours with a heat that knocked the breath out of your lungs. You let out a muffled groan at the first contact, startled but not resisting–his lips were warm, slick from spit and sweat, his beard scraping roughly against your chin as his hands found your waist. They clutched you like he needed to anchor himself or he’d float right out of his skin. You responded without hesitation, resting your hands on his shoulders, gripping tight, grounding both of you.

The kiss was awkward at first.

It was all teeth and too much pressure–his lips crashing into yours like he was trying to win a fight instead of sharing a breath. It was messy, desperate, driven by the chemical storm brewing in his veins. He was battling you for dominance, kissing like it was the only way he could stave off the fire beneath his skin, and your mouth struggled to match the frantic rhythm. Your lips were softer, more searching–trying to navigate the overwhelming force behind his desperation, trying to find a place where tension didn’t have to mean violence.

His nose bumped yours. Your teeth clicked once. His beard scraped hard across your chin and jaw, leaving a burn in its wake. But neither of you stopped.

He groaned into your mouth, low and broken, like the taste of you was making it worse, not better. His hands gripped your waist tighter, fingers pressing into the flesh–like your body was the only real thing in a world that had dissolved into hunger and heat. His hips jerked once beneath you, like instinct was already pulling the strings.

Then–something shifted.

The frantic edge dulled just enough for your mouths to meet at a better angle. He eased back slightly, panting against your lips for half a second before his mouth found yours again–slower this time, fuller. His lips dragged against yours with heat but less pressure, like he was learning your shape now, giving you room to answer. Your tongue slipped forward to meet his, testing, brushing–searching for rhythm. He groaned again, deeper this time, and responded by sucking your bottom lip between his teeth. It was sloppy still, yes–but it was working. His hands flexed at your waist as he pulled you tighter into his lap, pressing you flush to the hardened line of his cock beneath his pants.

The groan that tore from his throat was almost feral.

You felt it before you heard it–the tremble of his chest as it rattled through him, and the way his whole body tensed as he pulled back from your lips, panting like he’d just run miles.

“Don’t think I’ll be able to control myself, Y/N…” He rasped, his voice hoarse and soaked in restraint, like it was physically painful to hold back. His pupils were blown wide, his cheeks flushed, lips swollen from the kiss and glistening with your spit. He looked wrecked. And he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

You didn’t get a chance to reply.

His hand left your waist, the fingers trailing a path up your body with the kind of reverence that felt violently out of place in the middle of so much urgency. He brought them to your face, calloused pads brushing your cheek before they moved lower. Two fingers dragged along your bottom lip, gently, almost tenderly.

“Open,” He breathed, his voice guttural, tight with need. His jaw clenched, like he was barely holding back a snarl. “Let me get my fingers wet…So I can at least do something for you before I lose my mind.” Your heart stuttered in your chest at the contradiction laced in his voice–that brutal, aching desperation colliding with the unexpected gentleness in his request. Even now, even wired with synthetic hunger and burning from the inside out, he was thinking about you. Your pleasure. Your comfort.

Not just what he needed.

You lifted your eyes to his, and something in you softened–just enough to take the edge off the fear thrumming through your body like static. He looked so wrecked. Pupils blown wide, sweat slicking his hairline, jaw clenched tight like he was chewing on every shred of restraint he had left. But his hand trembled where it hovered near your face, fingers open in quiet request rather than demand.

So you leaned forward and took his fingers into your mouth.

Warm and solid against your tongue, the pads of them rough with calluses and scar tissue. You sucked them deep, hollowing your cheeks as your lips sealed around them, saliva slicking the digits in slow, deliberate strokes. You could feel the tremor run down his spine at the sensation–heard the sharp hiss of breath he dragged through his teeth, the flex of his thighs beneath you as his cock twitched against the inside of your leg.

“Fuck…” He groaned, voice breaking against your shoulder. “That’s not helping, sweetheart.” You hummed around his fingers, dragging your tongue over the creases of his knuckles, your eyes locked to his until finally he pulled them from your mouth with a slick pop. And then you felt it–his hand slipping down, knuckles dragging along your stomach until they dipped beneath the waistband of your panties.

You adjusted without thinking, shifting your hips forward, parting your thighs over his lap to give him better access. And when his fingers reached your core–hot, swollen, slick with arousal–it was like all the air left his lungs.

“Oh my god…” He whispered, like a confession, “You’re wet…” He said it like he was shocked. You bit your bottom lip, but it didn’t stop the little gasp that escaped when the pads of his fingers glided through your folds–his saliva mixing with your arousal in a perfect, messy cocktail that let him slide easily through the heat of you.

He groaned again. Sharper. Desperate.

And then–without warning–his other hand left your waist and gripped the back of your neck, not hard, not rough, but with a kind of trembling urgency as he pulled you down and kissed you again.

It was filthy this time.

Sloppy and fast, his tongue slipping between your lips before they even met fully. His mouth was hot and insistent, panting into yours, lips parted like he was drinking you in. His fingers pressed more firmly between your thighs, finding your clit with almost surgical precision, and when he started to rub tight, aching circles, your hips jerked forward into his hand.

Your moan caught in his mouth–raw and breathy.

And then your hand dropped between you, fumbling for the heavy bulge straining in his pants. The fabric was damp and sticky with his pre-cum, and you could feel the sheer size of him beneath your palm as you cupped him fully, pressing the heel of your hand into the length of his cock. He bucked up into your touch so hard it knocked your chest into his. The kiss faltered for a second–just enough for him to let out a muffled, feral groan into your mouth.

His fingers immediately mirrored the pace you set on his cock–rubbing your clit faster, harder, like your touch lit a fuse in him.

“Jesus–” He gasped, his lips breaking from yours for half a second to suck in air, “–gonna lose it if you keep doing that.”

You didn’t stop. You palmed him again, dragging your hand along the ridge of his cock through the damp fabric, and he whined against your lips.

His breath was hot against your cheek as he pressed his face into the curve of your jaw, rutting up into your hand with quick, desperate thrusts while his fingers danced between your folds. Each flick against your clit felt more precise, more hungry, like he was attuned to every tremble in your thighs, every stutter in your breath. He slipped two fingers inside you without warning, and your breath hitched–shallow and sharp–right against the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck,” You whispered, the word barely more than a gasp as your thighs instinctively tightened around his lap. His fingers were thick and warm, coated in slick and spit, curling as they sank deeper into you. The sound of it was obscene–wet and rhythmic as he began thrusting them with sharp, practiced movements, dragging against the spot inside you that made your vision blur.

“Jesus Christ,” Walker hissed, like the feel of you around his fingers was short-circuiting his brain. You could barely focus–your hand still palmed the heat of his cock through the fabric of his pants, and the pressure of him rutting up into your palm made the friction even filthier, desperate, hot. You pressed your other hand to his shoulder, then tangled your fingers into his sweat-damp blond hair, tugging hard enough to make him grunt.

He bucked into your hand again, shameless now, grinding up into your palm like he didn’t give a shit about control anymore.

And then he bit your collarbone.

His teeth sank into the soft flesh where your neck met your shoulder–not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark. Your entire body jolted at the sensation, a strangled moan slipping free as your walls fluttered around his fingers.

You could feel the sweat dripping off his face now, beading where your bodies met, sliding between your ribs and over the curve of your chest. He was panting, shaking, his fingers working you fast, relentless, and soaked.

“Oh god, Walker–” You moaned, your breath hitching again as your thighs started to tremble. He growled into your skin, licking where he’d bitten, his stubble scraping over your flushed flesh.

“Come on, sweetheart,” He rasped. “Soak my fucking fingers. I can feel how close you are…Don’t hold it.”

You let out a whimper as your stomach clenched and the pressure burst—your orgasm crashing over you in a wave that ripped through every inch of your body. Your hips jerked, thighs quaking around his, as your core pulsed around his fingers and your panties grew damp with the spill of your release. His fingers didn’t stop, working you through every second of it, stroking and curling and milking every twitch from you until you were gasping into his shoulder.

“Shit…John–” You cried out, your voice cracking.

You yanked at his hair as it happened–your grip tight, near vicious, as the climax wracked through you. His head tipped back with a groan, and then he surged forward and kissed you again, mouth hot and slick and panting against yours.

“I really need to fuck you now,” He breathed against your lips, voice ragged and hoarse, “because I feel like I’m being edged over here.” You let out a laugh–breathy, dazed, still twitching from the aftershocks.

“Driving you crazy?” He shook his head, jaw tightening, cheeks flushed.

“In any other situation, I honestly would’ve finished in my pants just from you doing that to me…” His tone was deadly serious, but then he added, with a breathless huff: “Don’t let that get to your head by the way.” You rolled your eyes, still breathless, and reached for the waistband of his pants, snapping the damp fabric against his hip with a sharp flick.

“Don’t worry,” You teased, voice low and wicked. “I know you haven’t gotten any since the incident.” His breath caught–and you felt it, sharp and full in his chest, like you’d punched through the last bit of his restraint.

He exhaled slowly, bitterly. “Not a good time to bring up my ex-wife, Y/N.”

“I’ll admit,” You muttered, breath still shaky as you braced a palm on his chest, “That one was a little below the belt… Sorry.” Walker let out a breathless laugh–half grunt, half exhale, the corner of his mouth twitching despite the strain in his eyes.

“It’s fine…Now can you sit up a bit so I can take these stupid fucking pants off before my cock breaks in half.” You let out a huffed laugh–half in disbelief, half because the image he painted was a little too vivid. You pushed yourself upright, your thighs still trembling faintly from the aftershocks, and watched as he worked quickly to undo his fly, movements urgent, frantic with need.

The second the button popped and zipper came down, his cock sprang free–angry red and leaking heavily, the flushed head smearing a wet line across the front of his shirt as it slapped up against his stomach. Your breath caught in your throat.

He was thick. Veiny. Long enough that you could see the throb in him, the pulse of desperation rippling under his skin like it had a heartbeat of its own. And fuck, he looked pained–like every second he wasn’t inside you was another mile stretched across a desert with no water. His jaw clenched as he looked down between your bodies.

“Jesus Christ,” You muttered under your breath, unable to stop yourself. His eyes flicked up to yours, sharp and glazed with lust.

“You see what you fucking did to me?” He ground out, his hands already moving–one dragging your soaked panties to the side, the other wrapping around the base of his cock to guide himself through the slick heat between your folds. You shifted instinctively, rolling your hips just enough to coat him in your wetness, the head of his cock catching on your clit and making both of you flinch. You bit your lip. He hissed through his teeth.

“Don’t fucking tease me right now, Y/N.” His voice was fraying at the seams.

“Then stop talking and do something about it.”

He didn’t hesitate.

His hand found your hip, fingers bruising as he gripped tight–and then he pushed you down. Hard. The head of his cock breached you with a stretch that bordered on too much, but the slide was fast, brutal, and so fucking deep. You both cried out–separate, messy sounds of relief and overload that echoed through the hollow lab space like some primal duet.

Your head dropped forward with a whimper. “Oh my god–”

“Fuck–” he bit out, his hands digging into your hips now, pulling you fully down onto him, burying every inch until your thighs were flush against his and your cunt was fluttering around his cock like it couldn’t decide if it wanted more or less. “You’re so fucking tight, Jesus–how are you this fucking tight?”

You couldn’t answer.

Couldn’t think past the burn and stretch and the way he throbbed inside you like a live wire. He was so deep it felt like he was in your fucking stomach.

He leaned his forehead against your collarbone, shuddering violently, his body twitching beneath you like he was trying to hold back from just railing you into the tile right then and there. You felt him grit his teeth.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” He whispered, his voice soaked with strain, with heat, with that cracked desperation that came from having no choice but to fuck or die. “I’m gonna ruin this smart mouth of yours. Gonna make you forget how to insult me. Gonna fuck you so hard the only thing you’ll remember is my name in your throat.”

You inhaled sharply at the sound of it–at the pure, unfiltered possession dripping from his words.

And then you slapped your hand over his mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” You panted, eyes wild as you looked down at him. “You talk too much.”

His eyes went wide, but his cock twitched violently inside you like the shame turned him on harder. He let out a growl behind your palm and then snapped his hips up into you with such force your breath stuttered.

You didn’t remove your hand. You just held it firm over his mouth, pressing his head back against the pipe, riding him now with slow, grinding movements–circling your hips, letting him feel every flutter and pulse inside your core as it clenched around him, dragging tight and wet along the thick length of him. His eyes rolled back for a second.

“See?” You whispered, voice dark and shaking, your other hand pressing into his chest. “You’re better like this. Mouth shut. With nothing to fucking say.” He groaned against your palm, biting at your skin but not hard enough to break it. His hands gripped your hips like vices, guiding your movements now, pushing you down harder, faster–trying to get deeper, even though he was already bottomed out.

The rhythm built fast. Frantic. His hips snapped up to meet every roll of yours, filthy slaps echoing in the sterile room. You bounced on him harder, sweat dripping between your breasts, thighs burning from the pace–but you didn’t stop.

You were both panting. Sweating. Grinding into each other like the world had collapsed and this was the only thing left. There was nothing tender about it–but there was something desperate. Intimate in its violence. Two enemies finding solace in each other’s destruction.

He slipped his palms under the hem of your tank top, dragging them up along your sides with a rough edge that made you shiver. His fingers were hot and trembling as they scratched the bare skin of your hips, nails digging in hard enough to leave angry crescents in your flesh. His mouth was still covered by your hand, but the grunt that rattled in his throat was pure feral. He bit you again–this time harder–sinking his teeth into your palm like he was trying to brand you.

“Shit–” You hissed, yanking your hand away. “Jesus Christ, Walker!”

He looked up at you through dark lashes, chest heaving, and smirked.

“Told you I was gonna ruin you,” He rasped, his voice low and wrecked with heat, “But fuck, sweetheart…You already feel so good around my cock, I might just fucking die right here.”

You let out a breathy, incredulous laugh, half-moan, half-disbelief, “Don’t worry, if you don’t die here, I’ll kill you after this.” he groaned, grabbing your hips and slamming you down onto him again with a strength that made your spine arch and your head fall back.

Your thighs quivered with the force of it.

“Fuck…John–” You gasped, the name torn from your throat like it didn’t belong there.

His hands left your hips only long enough to shove beneath the waistband of your panties, gripping your ass so tight it made you jerk. His fingers were everywhere–digging, spreading, grabbing at you like he didn’t care what he got as long as it was skin. He gave one cheek a sharp slap, and the wet sound of palm against flesh cracked through the lab like thunder.

You choked on a moan. “Oh my god.”

“You like that?” He growled, biting at your jaw now, dragging his stubble down your neck as he thrust up into you again. “God, I knew you were a fucking brat under all that tactical shit. Always mouthing off to me, acting like you don’t want this dick. Bet you think about it when we fight, don’t you? Fucking bet you do.”

You whimpered–sharp and high–and he did it again. Another slap. Rougher. Meaner.

“Say it,” He snapped, one hand gripping the meat of your ass while the other shoved your tank top up over your chest. “Say you wanted it.” You dug your nails into the thick muscle of his chest, dragging downward hard enough to make him hiss, then leaned up just enough to slam your hips down onto him harder, matching his thrusts.

“I wanted it,” you spat. “I fucking hate you, but I wanted it.”

His eyes rolled back like that was the hottest thing you could’ve said.

“Jesus fuck, you’re unreal,” he groaned, then gripped your hips with bruising force and started rutting up into you like a man possessed. “Take it. You take every fucking inch, sweetheart. You’re so fucking wet for me—so goddamn warm—”

Your body was melting around him, your thighs trembling from the brutal pace, sweat glistening on your skin as your moans pitched louder. The slap of your bodies echoed in time with each guttural grunt from him—fast, sharp, relentless. It wasn’t even sex anymore. It was war.

And then you felt him twitch inside you.

“Y/N…Fuck…I’m gonna cum–” He growled, voice broken and desperate. “Shit…Shit, I’m gonna–” He grabbed you hard and slammed you down onto him one last time, burying himself to the hilt. His hips jerked once, then twice, and the heat of his release hit you so hard it nearly stole your breath.

You gasped–whimpered–as you felt him fill you. The sudden warmth of it spread through your core, thick and hot and raw. He groaned low and deep, like it was being torn out of him, his head pressed to your collarbone as his cock pulsed inside you, ropes of cum spilling against your fluttering walls.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he panted, still holding you tight. “You’re squeezing me so goddamn good…Fuck.”

Your nails dug into his arms, anchoring yourself as he thrust up into you a few more times, slower now, each one drawn out and shaky, like he couldn’t bear to stop yet. His breath was ragged against your skin, his hands still cradling your ass as he rocked his hips up, pushing his cum deeper inside you.

You were both trembling. Gasping. Slick with sweat and breathless from the crash.

And he didn’t let go.

He kept you seated fully on his cock, his forehead pressed against the side of your neck, his fingers twitching slightly as you both tried to catch your breath in the silence that followed. His cum was seeping out of you slowly, slick and hot, and the only thing you could do was hold onto his shoulders as your body pulsed around him in the afterglow.

After a long, quiet beat, he murmured against your neck:

“Still hate your guts by the way…But…Thank you for doing this…I don’t feel like I’m going to fucking die of horniness anymore.” It was almost said like an afterthought. But it wasn’t cruel. It was dry. Tired. Honest. There was even the faintest trace of amusement buried under the exhaustion in his tone. Your fingers twitched where they curled against his neck.

”Well…That’s a relief. Cause I still hate you too…” You hesitated just a second longer–then added under your breath, barely above a whisper, “And I hope we never have to do this again.” The words hung heavy for a moment. But the silence that followed wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t even fully honest. And he heard it. You felt the way his breath caught. The subtle way his fingers twitched against your back like he’d noticed the tonal shift. Like he heard what you hadn’t said. He let out a quiet exhale.

”…I mean…We don’t have to write it off completely, though.” He murmured near your ear. Your brows furrowed slightly, confused. His hand brushed your lower back, featherlight now, not rough or demanding. Just…Resting there. Casual. Like he wasn’t feeling like the end of the world was coming anymore.

“We could arrange a hate fuck here and there, couldn’t we?” He added, a faint smirk curling into the words, like he was testing you. Testing the boundary. Poking at the embers to see if they were still warm.

You lifted your head and leaned back, just enough to look him in the eye.

His hair was damp and sticking up in unruly angles, his cheeks still flushed, lips swollen and pink from your teeth, from your spit, from everything you’d done to each other in the span of minutes that would never exist again in normal daylight. His pupils were still wide, but less feral now. More…Grounded. Curious.

You stared at him for a long moment. Letting the weight of the suggestion settle.

Then your lips curved–just barely.

“Maybe,” You said, voice low, eyes gleaming. You slid a hand down his sweat-slicked chest, over the wrecked tactical shirt still bunched beneath you.

“We’ll see.”

And just like that, the truce was drawn.

Fragile. Tense. Unspoken.

But it was there.

Right there between your thighs, and somewhere deeper than either of you were willing to admit.

#john walker x reader

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mydearzero · 3 days ago

Text

Study Sessions

Pairing: Reed Richards x You

Summary: Your grades are slipping, but Reed thinks he knows the solution.

Warnings/tags: Coercion, student x teacher relationship, dubcon but you want it, creepy behaviour, power dynamics, Reed is a bit of a dick, manipulation, voyeurism, cock warming, deepthroating, throat bulge, penis size play ie Reed is a stretchy dude, deep fucking, belly bulge, oral sex, squirting, Reed typical superpowers, noncon elements, age gap

Word count: 3.3K

My masterlist

My AO3

This isn't the first time Professor Richards has asked you to stay back after class.

It is the first time he's locked the door though.

He flicked the lock shut after the last student out was halfway down the hall, rolling his sleeves up as he crossed the room to his desk, sitting in his chair and gesturing for you to sit opposite. His hand came up to his chin, rubbing at the stubble there. He looked deep in thought, and your curiosity spiked.

“Professor Richards? Is something wrong?”

“I've noticed your grades have been slipping lately. What's going on? Is there a problem at home?”

He was right; your GPA had slipped this year. It had little to do with the course content and everything to do with the fact that last year, your teacher was an old unattractive man. This year was the first year you'd had Professor Richards as your teacher. He made it difficult to focus on the coursework.

You flushed, embarrassed that your crush on him had gone so out of control that he'd noticed your slipping grades. “No, Professor. Nothing is wrong at home.”

“Is it the course content, then? Is there something I can help you with?” He looked at you with concern, eyes kind and understanding.

You hesitated. Professor Richards stood, rounding the desk to lean against it, next to you.

“I'm here to help, and I want you to succeed. If there's anything I can do to help you, I want you to tell me. You're going into astrophysics, right?”

“You remembered that?” You asked, surprised. On the first day of class, Professor Richards had you all stand up and introduce yourself and talk a bit about your career goals. You hadn’t thought he'd been paying attention.

“Of course. Like I said, I want my students to succeed. I want you to succeed. I see something special in you, and I'd hate to see this opportunity slip through your fingers if I could help you.”

“Wow, I don't know what to say. I feel even worse now for letting my grades slip.” Your gaze settled on the floor, focusing on a knot in the wooden flooring.

“Hey,” he said softly, urging you to look at him. “Tell me what's going on.”

“I've just been a little distracted in class. I swear nothing is going on. I'm just having trouble staying focused during lectures.”

“Hmm,” he hummed, watching you with perceptive eyes as you felt skin heat at the scrutiny. “Perhaps what you need are some one on one intensive lessons.”

“You'd do that for me? I know you're a busy man. I don't want to create more work for you.”

“Hey, it's my job to give my students what they need. I'm sure we could work something out.” Professor Richards said, resting a hand on your knee and squeezing gently. “Would you like that?”

Your cunt clenched involuntarily, the heat of his hand resting on your knee sparking a fire in your belly. Was he insinuating…? Why else would he put his hand on your knee like this?

“Oh.” You were at a loss for words. “Um...”

He tilted his head to the side slowly, sliding his hand up your leg a little, his thumb rubbing circles on your inner thigh. “You're a smart girl, aren't you sweetheart? A good girl, who cares about her grades.”

Oh. Holy shit. You'd fantasised about this man for months on end, to the point your grades were slipping, and he wanted to help you with your grades in return for sex?

A no-brainer if you'd ever seen one.

“Yes, Professor.” You nodded demurely. He obviously got off on the power play of this scenario, so you'd play along. You were a smart girl, after all. You shifted your legs slightly, parting your thighs under your pencil skirt. “I care.”

“Knew you were a clever girl.” He smiled, sliding his hand higher, fingers skirting against the gusset of your panties. “Huh. You want this, don't you?” He pressed down with nimble fingertips, stroking your seam through the damp fabric. “Yeah, you want this.”

You nodded.

“I want you. Been so distracted by you, professor. But what about your wife?”

He chuckled darkly. “Believe me, my wife gets as much out of this as I do.” His gaze flicked across the room for a moment, before returning to your face, watching your reaction as he slipped a finger underneath the fabric of your panties, brushing against the slick wetness of your lips. “Oh she's weeping for it, isn't she?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “How long since someone's taken care of this pretty little pussy?”

“Uh,” you tried to think, as his fingers gently stroked the shape of your lips, spreading the slick around inside your panties. “A-almost a year.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “Well no wonder you're so distracted in class, huh sweetheart? Gotta take care of this pretty pussy. She's meant to be stuffed full. I bet if we take care of her, we can get you paying attention in class again. Think she's gonna need weekly appointments.”

“Weekly?” Your voice betrayed your interest.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Are you ready to commit to your education?”

“Yes, Professor.”

“While we're doing these tutoring sessions, you can call me Reed. Or Sir.” He said with a wink, withdrawing his hand from your panties and bringing it to his mouth. “Mmm, you taste so good, sweet girl. Are you ready for our first lesson?”

“Yes Sir.”

He smiled, loosening his tie. “Good girl. Go ahead and strip off for me. Don't go making a mess, though. I expect your clothes to be folded neatly and placed on your chair when our lessons begin. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Sir.” You said, fingers trembling a little with excitement as arousal flared through you, and you began to undress. His gaze never left your body, heating your skin as he watched you strip, folding your clothes and placing them on your chair. Then, you were standing bare in front of him, waiting for his next instruction.

“Get on your knees.” He said, reaching down to palm himself through his slacks.

Your head was spinning with arousal as you followed his order, kneeling in front of him. You were scant inches away from his crotch, you could practically smell the musky scent of his arousal through the fabric. The bulge was impressive, the bulk of his length sitting to the left side of the zipper, resting against his leg.

“What now?” You asked softly, and he braced his hands against the desk behind him, shifting his hips closer to you.

“You're a smart girl, aren't you? How about you take some initiative.”

Your unsteady hands came up to his waistband, flicking open the button of his slacks and lowering the zipper. To your surprise, he'd foregone underwear, and you could see the leaking tip of his cock drooling a wet spot onto the black fabric. Your hand was immediately drawn to it, swiping a finger through it and bringing it to your mouth. He groaned, and you looked up at him through your lashes, pulling his slacks down til they pooled at his ankles.

“Oh, you're a naughty fucking girl too, huh?” He looked down at you, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Look at you, on your knees for a married man.”

Hot shame and arousal washed over you, and you wanted nothing more than to shut him up; to change his scathing words into moans and whimpers. You looked him in the eye, licked your palm and took him in your hand.

He felt like velvet wrapped steel in your hand, his uncut dick flushed a pretty pink, his foreskin sliding with a slick noise as you jerked him a few times before bringing the tip to your mouth. You wrapped your lips around the head, swirling and slurping, tongueing the slit as you shifted yourself closer, resting your palm on his bare thigh. He was deceptively muscular, you noticed, feeling the bulk of him under your hand.

“Look at you, kissing on him like that.” He breathed, bringing his hand to grip your head, winding through your hair. “He’s feeling real cold. How about you warm him up for me, hmm?”

The thumb of his other hand rested on your lower lip, encouraging you to open your mouth wide as he fed you his cock. It felt like he kept going and going further into your throat, but your mouth hadn’t yet reached the base of him.

He must’ve noticed your confusion, and he hummed sympathetically. “Oh yeah, he’s a grower, baby. Let’s see how much you can handle. You gonna take what I give you?”

You hummed in assent, nodding as best as you could.

“Atta girl.” He grinned, thickening in your throat. “You tap my leg if you need to stop.” He told you, elongating one arm so he could feel you, thumb rolling your nipple as his fingers stretched down to toy with your cunt.

You moaned around him, reedy and desperate as he used his abilities to tease you. You’d seen him use his abilities occasionally, reaching to write on the far end of the blackboard, or stretching to reach something out of reach. You’d imagined how he might use them in the bedroom, and so far, the reality was surpassing your expectations.

“Sit still for me now. There you go.” He said gently, caressing your face. “You’re gonna keep him nice and warm while I read these papers. If you behave, I’ll fuck you after.”

He didn’t even wait for your response, picking up the essay on his desk and reading it, his other hand still teasing you. When he slipped a finger inside you, you moaned, shifting a little.

“Be still.” He reminded you disapprovingly, not even looking up from his reading. “You want this cock inside you, you have to earn it. I don’t go giving just anyone a ride, sweetheart.”

He was deliberately making it hard for you to stay still, and you both knew it. Still, you made an effort to be completely still. Your throat bulged with the size of him; he’d left just enough room for oxygen to pass through, so he could sit heavy inside the wet heat of your throat until he was ready to leave. You thanked the universe for your lack of a gag reflex; you needed that special skill now more than ever.

Time seemed to fade as you knelt in front of him silently, under the onslaught of his wandering fingers. You slipped into a relaxed state as best you could. It would have been almost meditative if you weren’t being teased by nimble fingers massaging your g spot, stretching and pushing in all the right spots to make you see stars.

Reed finally finished his reading, withdrawing his fingers from you. His arm shrunk back to normal, and he brought his fingers to his mouth. “Mmm, so fucking sweet. Looks like even naughty girls can be good with the right incentive.” He set the paper down on the desk, reaching down to give you a hand up as he shrunk himself back to normal, pulling out of your mouth. You noted that even back to normal, he was above average.

He winced sympathetically when he saw your knees, flattened and unhappy from kneeling for so long. “Aww, sweetheart. Hop up on the desk. Let me kiss them better.”

He helped you settle onto his desk, bending to kiss your left knee. His whiskery facial hair tickled you as he pressed a gentle kiss to the tender skin there, then the other, before focusing his eyes on your glistening cunt.

“Look at you. So fucking wet.” He inhaled deeply, trailing his nose up your thigh. “I need to have a proper taste.”

“Fuck, please, I need to come.” You begged, letting your legs fall open further.

“Oh, baby, no. I never said anything about making you come. You gotta earn that, too.”

“How? What do you want me to do?” You asked desperately, watching his slow journey to your pussy.

“You can start by playing with those pretty tits of yours while I have a taste.” He commanded, watching with darkened eyes as you did what he asked, cupping yourself and rolling your nipples, eliciting a gasp from your throat. He nodded once, approvingly, bringing his thumbs to your cunt lips to spread it nice and wide so he could get a proper look at you. His nose led the way, delving into your folds and smearing the slick around, dragging it up to your clit, nuzzling into the swollen peak of flesh there and making you moan.

“Not too loud, sweetheart. Don’t want everyone to know you’re fucking your professor, do we?”

You pant out an apology, but his focus is already elsewhere, his tongue licking a broad, flat stripe up your cunt. You moan again, softer, and he chuckles. “Can’t help it, can you? So responsive, and it’s been so long. You need something in that mouth?”

You nod, and quick as anything, he has two fingers pressing down on your tongue, ordering you to suck.

Satisfied with your noise level now, he starts eating your cunt in earnest, showing you the off-label uses of his abilities. His tongue, now buried in you elongated and focused an attack on your g spot, pressing and twisting and curling against you in a way that had you throwing your head back, arching your back and doing everything in your power not to bite his fingers.

He licked the nectar from your walls, chasing the flavour of you until your cunt was soaked with your slick and his saliva, bringing you to the edge of the desk with one strong hand.

You were impossibly close when he stopped, his tongue returning to normal. He pressed a final kiss to your clit, before leaning over you on the desk, guiding himself to your entrance.

“Ready?” He asked, sliding his tip through your slick, nudging your clit and making you gasp. You nodded, and he pushed inside you, fully seating himself, his balls hitting your ass. “Took me so well, baby. Are you ready for more?” He raised an eyebrow, and you nodded desperately. You weren’t sure how much you could take, but you’d give it your best shot. You wanted him to ruin you; wanted to feel him tomorrow.

“I’m ready.”

“Say when.” He said, smirking at his own joke, and you felt him swell inside you. “Do you prefer it real long, or real thick?”

You were too busy processing the sensations inside of you to respond in a timely manner, and he just nodded, like you’d answered anyway.

“Oh, that’s right. Naughty girl like you likes both, huh?”

He gained a look of focus on his face as you felt him swell inside you, pressing against nerves you didn’t know you had and making you shake and moan.

“Fuck, would you look at that.” His eyes settled on your belly, and you looked down to see a distinct bulge there, long and thick and twitching below your belly button. He pressed his palm down firmly, making you both moan.

“You’ve got to feel this.” He took your hand, pressed it down against your belly, and held it there. Then, he started to move.

You could feel him sliding around in your cunt, pushing your cervix high into your guts as he pounded into you, could feel the length of his dick retreating and returning under your hand. You were still playing with your tits with your free hand, your arousal building dizzyingly. You hoped he’d let you come, because no toy you owned was going to compare to this. Hell, you weren't sure anything could compare to this. He was ruining you for everything and everyone else, and he knew it.

He stilled for a second, changing the rhythm. His movements were slower now, rolling into you. His hands gripped your legs, slinging them over his shoulders as he leaned into you. You could've sworn you felt a brush of a fingertip across your ankle, followed by a warm breath, but when you looked, his hands were nowhere near your ankles. You were so overstimulated you didn’t know what was what anymore.

“Have I been good, Sir? Have I earned it? I want to come, please.” You babbled, walls tightening around his dick. He was gritting his teeth in pleasure now, brows knitting together.

“Fuck, so good. Right there.” He moaned, hand pressing down on your stomach again. “I’m close, baby.” He opened his eyes, gaze meeting yours. “You come on this dick or not at all. You wanna come, you do it now.”

His hands were gripping your hips now, and he levelled a sharp smack against your ass, making you clench around him.

A ghostly sensation trailed across your cunt, soft fingertips pinching at your clit even though his hands were occupied, and you wondered just how many powers he had that you didn’t know about.

Before you could question it any further, you were tumbling over the edge. Something felt different this time, and a feeling of panic spiked in your gut as the feeling spiralled out of control. It almost felt like you had to pee, and you tried to stop it but it was no use. The most intense orgasm of your life crashed over you, turbulent and wet, soaking Reed’s belly and his pubic hair, dripping down to his balls.

His jaw dropped, a moan slipping out unbound. “God, look at you. Did you know you could do that, sweetheart?”

You shook your head no, and he grinned.

“We’re gonna have some fun with that later.”

He thumbed at your clit, fucking into you faster, a focused determination pounding at your g-spot until you were practically howling with pleasure. Your whole body tingled, set alight as you had your second orgasm, cunt clenching and squeezing helplessly around his massive cock as you squirted all over him again.

The combined image and sensation had Reed grunting, turning to bite down on your calf to avoid making too much noise, filling you with hot bursts of cum, his hips stuttering and abdominal muscles clenching against the backs of your thighs as he filled you until it leaked onto the desk.

Before you could even catch your breath, he was tucking himself back into his slacks. He wiped the desk with his handkerchief, then sat back into his chair with a satisfied look on his face.

You got dressed, feeling his cum pooling in your panties as you straightened yourself up.

“Same time next week?” He asked, watching you lecherously as you buttoned your blouse back up.

“Yes, sir.” You answered, legs wobbly as you said goodbye and left the room, closing the door behind you.

The door locked shut behind you almost immediately. You heard the quiet snick and you assumed he’d used his long reach to do it.

What you didn't hear was his wife's voice on the other side of the door as she made herself visible again.

“So, what did you think?” Reed asked, pulling his wife into his arms and settling her on his lap.

“She was a good one.” Sue said, grinding down on her husband’s lap. “Hot little thing. Obedient.”

He was hard again already, rolling his hips up into her. “Mmm, she was.”

“Ready for more already?” She asked, pressing a kiss to his lips. He grinned, popping open his pants again, shoving them down just enough to free himself.

“For you? Always.” He said, guiding her down onto his cock, still covered with your combined spend.

That’s how she liked it.

#reed richards x reader

1K notes · View notes

mydearzero · 3 days ago

Text

absolutely magnificent

STIMULI AND RESPONSE: A STUDY IN CHEMISTRY…

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｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Reed Richards x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 6k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, spoiler free, age gap (unspecified), intern reader, divorced reed (sorry sue), swearing, sexy science, first kiss, lots of data talk but it’s just filth, sex pollen, fingering, p in v, dr. reed ‘any size you want’ richards, finger sucking, nipple play, creampie, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: well this was extremely inevitable…we all knew this was coming. i loved fantastic four and i love marvel’s first family, the avengers don’t have SHIT on them. i can’t believe this is my very first (1st) sex pollen fic, like i’ve really been dropping the ball but that ends right now. hope y’all love it, mwah!

dividers by lovely @saradika-graphics & reed pic by angel @iamasaddie!

dr. richards asks a favor of you…

The Baxter Building laboratory always smells faintly of motor oil and hot circuity, like the very air itself has been charged.

You've long since gotten used to the smell after all these months spent hard at work in your internship.

You're used to the low hum of oscilloscopes, the spotless glimmer of all the different chrome instruments strewn about the room, the tick of Dr. Richards' watch when he's hunched over his workbench with the kind of single minded focus that never fails to make your chest ache.

It’s well past midnight, another day of you staying far beyond the allotted time, but it’s hardly out of the ordinary by now. Dr. Richards research—and mind quite frankly—has no regard for any kind of normal office hours. It’s almost as if he exists in a different realm, tethered only loosely to the rest of humanity by his work.

That’s another thing you’ve become accustomed to. The clipped speech, the crisp white lab coats always just a bit rumpled from long days, and the air of a man who thinks faster than anyone could follow.

You were supposed to be here for observation, honing in on the delicate skills needed to work in a lab as complex as this one. It started off as just another internship credit. Two semesters of assistance. What it’s slowly morphed into is something more like a full time job, if not a full on fixation with your boss.

You’ve become the one person Dr. Richards doesn’t mind in his peripheral vision. Always quiet, always ready, always watching him with eyes a little too attentive, voice a little too eager each time he speaks to you.

It’s something you never let yourself think about too closely. The one thing you’d never stick under the dozens of highly advanced microscopes just beneath your fingertips.

It’s not plausible.

You’re halfway through labeling a series of glass slides when the door softly hisses open behind you.

“Ah, there you are. Wonderful.”

You swivel around on your stool, standing almost automatically—like Dr. Richards' mere presence demands it. At this point, you’re sure that it does.

He’s standing at the threshold of the lab—tall, thoughtful, thin glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose. In the bright, sterile fluorescent lights, Reed Richards looks less like a man and more an idea given form. All poised intellect, sharp eyes, and a mind clearly three steps ahead.

“Dr. Richards,” you greet, smoothing your skirt out of habit, because no matter how hard you try, you always feel like a nervous schoolgirl around him. “I was just logging the slides from the blood pressure data–”

“Excellent.” He cuts in gently, like he always does when your words are just a little slower than his. “However, I have a far more pressing matter at hand.”

Dr. Richards strides past you to his desk, flipping open one of the many notepads cluttering the space. It was quiet for a few beats, only the sounds of pages turning and muted mumbling as he read over the flurry of sporadically scrawled notes and equations.

You stay in your spot a few feet away, hands clasped in front of you as you wait patiently for him to speak again. He isn’t the kind of man you dare to interrupt when he gets lost in his work.

He picks up a stray pencil to scribble one final note in the margin, then straightens and turns his sharp gaze on you. “I need your assistance with a controlled trail,” he says simply, like he’s requesting something as routine as a full body scan.

“A trial?” You blink, taken aback. Your eyes cut to the clock hanging on the opposite wall, noting the time before returning your gaze to his passive expression. “Tonight?”

“Yes,” he says without hesitation, waving you over and turning back to his work. The quiet clinking of glass rings out as he cards his fingers through a test tube rack full to bursting with a different array of brightly colored chemicals. “It’s Compound 83. A strain I synthesized last week from the pollen of a Peruvian orchid."

You cross the short distance obediently, perching yourself on the spare stool next to him just as he plucks out a tube filled with a viscous pink liquid.

Dr. Richards swirls the tube gently, brow furrowed as he watches it splash up against the sides. “Genus Cattleya venusta. Extremely rare. Hyper stimulating. A short half life. I’ve…refined it recently.”

You nod, still confused but refusing to let it show. You pick up your own notebook from the pile, the one with a small atom sticker he placed in the top right corner to mark as yours. “What does it do?”

He hesitates, just long enough for you to notice. But the moment is gone just as fast as it came, giving you no time to think on it.

“It’s a neurological accelerator targeting oxytocin, dopamine, and a few obscure hypothalamic pathways we’ve only begun mapping. Thus, when administered in a controlled environment, should trigger an amplified parasympathetic response.”

Dr. Richards’ voice is calm, measured, full of the kind of certainty that makes people believe anything he says. He adjusts his glasses with his free hand as though to punctuate the statement.

You slip the pencil resting behind your ear out and begin dutifully recording his dictations on a fresh page. “Amplified parasympathetic response,” you repeat, as though saying it out loud will cement the idea in your mind. “Meaning…relaxation?”

“Relaxation, certainly. But more specifically…” He trailed off as his long fingers drum along the glass tube. “...heightened sensitivity, increased blood flow to erogenous zones, accelerated dopamine release, and a…well, a state of arousal far surpassing the body’s baseline capacity. Think of it as a neurological catalyst. A kind of–hm–sexual amplifier, for lack of a better term.”

You blink. Your pencil abruptly stills against the paper. “Dr. Richards…” you begin carefully, dreading the answer you were sure to receive. “Are you saying this is…an aphrodisiac?"

“Yes,” he says, dryly. “But I’d prefer we didn’t reduce it to that.”

Your pulse quickens before you can stop it. You try to disguise the sudden dryness of your mouth with a stunted laugh void of all humor. You’re unsure if this is a joke, some elaborate scientific prank to weed out the weak interns—or if Dr. Richards is really asking what you think he is.

He takes a step closer, peering at you over the frame of his glasses. “I need data on its physical, behavioral, and cognitive effects. In vivo. A live trial. Unfortunately, none of the team are suitable candidates due to immunogenic complications. Johnny had a reaction. Ben refused.”

You don’t bring up the obvious member missing from his apparent previous failed trails. The divorce was none of your business, it never will be. You’ve seen Sue and Reed interact less than a handful of times since the news broke to the press and then to the general public. They seem to be working together quite well despite what one might think, still cordial and professional with each other in every facet within the team.

Your grip on your pencil tightens, lips parting. “And you want me to…test it?”

“Yes.” Dr. Richards nods once, deliberate. “Your physiology is well suited to controlled observation. You’re young, in excellent health, no known endocrine disorders. Statistically ideal.”

Your stomach sinks, a flush of warmth creeping up the back of your neck. It’s hardly a compliment, practically the furthest thing from one. It still has arousal sparking deep in your belly, the idea that he’s looked at you. He’s cataloged you. He’s thought about this moment carefully, crunched the numbers and deemed you the best candidate for this experiment.

You don’t realize that you’ve gone quiet, the silence stretching out in the spotless lab as your brain tries to process all the input you’ve received in the last five minutes.

“I wouldn’t ask,” he says quickly, taking your silence as a negative. “if I didn’t think you capable. You’ve shown remarkable composure under pressure. And I assure you—if at any point you wish to stop, you only need to say so. Consent, of course, is paramount.” His gaze finally softens, just enough for you to see the man behind the scientist. “I’d never want to harm you.”

You swallow stiffly, your throat dry. “What about you?”

Dr. Richards brows furrow slightly, like you asked him an extremely stupid question. “It would be irresponsible to not include myself. The biochemical pathways are interactive, and I must assess the shared impact.” He raises the test tube to the light, the liquid shimmers under the bright white rays. He glances at you again, eyes unreadable. “To be perfectly clear, the study would involve direct physical contact.”

It’s the most clinical way anyone has ever told you we’d be having sex.

Heat flares under your skin, like thousands of tiny pinpricks breaking out all along your body. “So, what you’re really asking me is to–”

“Copulate,” he supplies matter of factly, as if he’s describing the weather. “Us, under the influence of the compound.”

He says it like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like the simple word us doesn’t rearrange your entire nervous system. Like you haven't spent months wondering if Reed Richards—brilliant, remote, obsessively precise—even thinks about you at all when he’s not assigning you lab reports.

You try to find the words, but they all tangle in your throat. “Um, what–what exactly would the study entail?” you finally manage.

“Simple,” he replies, turning fully toward you now. His deep brown eyes pin you to your seat with clinical intensity. “Oral intake of the compound, both subjects will report on their individual symptoms as they manifest. I’ll monitor physiological changes as it begins to take effect—heart rate, body temperature, pupil dilation. Eventually, I’ll…well.” His voice trails off, as if only now realizing the inevitable conclusion. “We’ll engage in various sexual activities to evaluate its full efficacy, at which point I’d assess how, if at all, the effects might be mitigated or resolved.”

“Resolved,” you echo, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” he says softly. “Achieving climax would, in theory, alleviate the overstimulation.”

Your breath catches, sharp and shallow. Once again, he says it like it’s nothing—like sex with him is just another variable on a spreadsheet.

Your heart pounds hard against your ribcage, your palms sweaty. The logic is sound, of course it is. The delivery is methodical, careful. You hear the question Dr. Richards isn’t voicing beneath it all clearly despite all that.

Would you let him touch you?

You should say no.

You really should.

This could complicate everything, in a myriad of different ways. Dr. Richards is your boss, your mentor. The possible legal ramifications alone should be enough to scare you out of the lab and all the way back to the safety of your apartment.

Instead, you hear yourself whisper, “I’ll do it.”

The relief on Dr. Richards face was subtle but unmistakable. His shoulders relax, dropping a beat of tension you didn't realize was there. You have the inexplicable urge to laugh, at how ridiculous this all is. Or maybe, it was because he thought you'd ever be able to say no to him.

"Very good." He nodded once, his face already set with determination. He swept the notebook from his desk, the test tube still secure in his other hand. "Follow me."

You have no choice but to obey.

The isolation room is a sea of crisp white.

White walls. White floors. A single chair is bolted to ground right in the center, padded with spotless white leather.

It's sterile in nature, it was designed that way. Silent except for the low electrical hum of the halogen lights shining overhead. There’s a faint antiseptic tang in the air, like bleach diluted with something floral. Faint enough to almost be pleasant.

You know for a fact there's a camera somewhere, disguised in the ceiling tiles. It's for safety purposes, to monitor subjects from afar when they're deemed to dangerous for an in person encounter.

You wonder idly if Dr. Richards disabled the camera, or if he's kept it on.

The latter seems extremely likely. If you know him at all, he'll want the footage to be available for later use. To review the trial as more of a fly on the wall when all is said and done.

The idea of him re-watching this encounter has your chest tightening, something like embarrassment and arousal churning together sickly somewhere deep in your stomach.

Dr. Richards enters behind you, his footsteps soft against the tile as he passes you and stops next to the chair. "If you'll sit, we can begin."

You lower yourself down into the chair, it was made to cradle the spine and ensure maximum muscular relaxation. You've cleaned it before, wiped it down countless times. Logged its maintenance just as much. You never thought you'd be perched on it like this, legs pressed together nervously, arms resting primly at your sides.

"I'll begin with a baseline assessment." He clicks his pen, flipping his notebook open with brisk precision. "Pulse, temperate, pupil reactivity." His voice is calm, steady. As though he isn't about to feed you something that will make you ache for him.

He doesn't look nervous—he never does—but the faint tightening at the corners of his mouth betrays just how carefully he's bracing himself for what's about to happen.

Dr. Richards leans in closer, and for a moment the clinical facade fades. His scent—clean linen, aftershave, the acrid note of lab alcohol—floods your senses. He takes your wrist gently, sliding his fingers over the delicate skin of your wrist until the press against the throb of your pulse.

"Eighty beats per minute," he murmurs to himself, eyes narrowing as he counts under his breath. "Slightly elevated. Presumably caused by anticipation."

"You think?" You speak before you can think better of it, tone laced with the barest hint of sarcasm.

"I know," he replies matter of factly, jotting the number down. His fingertips linger on your skin for a bit longer than necessary before falling away. "Measuring pupil dilation now."

He plucks a small penlight from the breast pocket of his lab coat. Without warning, he reaches forward and takes your chin between gentle fingers, steadying you. His thumb brushes your check as he shines the small light back and forth over your eyes.

You hope he can't feel the warmth rising beneath your skin. The beam stings, but you hold still, because he expects you to.

"Pupils responsive," he notes, close enough that you feel the fan of his breath. He clicks the pen light off, slipping it back in his pocket before his hand moves up and presses against your forehead.

It takes every bit of will in your mortal body not to lean into his touch.

"Temperature is normal." He nods, dropping his hand to scribble more information into his notebook. "Ninety eight point four."

You fight the urge to laugh. You feel like your skin's blistering.

"All right." Dr. Richards takes a step back, placing his notebook on the tray. "We can proceed."

Your heart skip three times over in your chest as you watch him retrieve the test tube. He unscrews the cap, and a sweet, heady scent drifts through the air between you. It hits your nose like perfume. Your mouth waters against your will.

"Compound 83 has been calibrated to a micro-dose." He picks a pipette off the metal tray resting on the table beside you, sliding the dull tip inside of the test tube and carefully measuring a few milliliters of the liquid. It shimmers rosy pink in the light, filmy and iridescent like the surface of a bubble. "Oral administration. It should take approximately three minutes to cross the blood-brain barrier."

You nod once, jerky and tense. You don't trust your voice enough to speak.

"Tongue out," he instructs softly, taking a step closer.

The command makes your stomach twist.

You part your lips, tipping your head back slightly. The first drop lands on your tongue, and the taste is shockingly sweet—like sugared fruit with bitter, chemical bite beneath. Dr. Richards tilts the pipette, letting the measured dose coat your taste buds.

"Swallow." His tone leave to room for hesitation.

You obey, throat working as you take it down. His eyes track it the movement with the subtle air of fascination. For your apparent bravery? For your insistent need to please? You're not entirely sure.

"Good," he whispers, reeling back to take his own dose. He sets the tube and the pipette down, checking his watch. "Note the taste."

You roll the few drops left around in your mouth, absentmindedly chasing the flavor. "Sweet. Slightly bitter."

Dr. Richards nods in agreement. "Any tingling? Metallic aftertaste? Olfactory shifts?"

You shake your head, wringing your hands nervously. "No. Not yet."

"Good," he repeats, eyes sharp as he keeps his gaze trained on his watch, recording the time down to the second. "Now, describe the sensation. Do you feel warm?"

You do, now that he's brought it up. A pleasant heat thrumming just beneath your skin, like the hot spray of a shower head beating down on overworked muscle. Nothing you can't handle.

You nod, tongue coming out to sweep along your bottom lip. "Yes. If baseline temperature was determined as normal, I'd estimate it's climbed approximately six degrees."

"Fascinating," Dr. Richards mumbles, reaching out yet again. Long fingers catch your wrist, gently circling it to find your radial pulse point. "Pulse is elevated, one hundred and thirteen beats per minute."

Your thighs shift slightly, the hem of your skirt creeping up with the movement. His eyes track it, his gaze feels like a physically caress on the newly exposed skin.

He drags his eyes back up slowly, really looking at you, studying your face. "Pupillary dilation at…remarkable. Nearly thirty percent increase already."

Your hands fall to the armrest on either side of you. "Dr. Richards-"

He cuts you off. "Subject B experiencing similar symptoms to Subject A. Internal temperate is rising steadily."

He sheds his lab coat then, draping it over the back of the chair. He unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeve with deft fingers, rolling them up to expose the corded muscle of his tan forearms. The collar of his shirt is askew, just enough to show off the hairy skin of his chest. His undershirt is thin enough that you can see the slight clench of his abdomen.

He looks more inviting this way, more approachable. Devastatingly handsome.

You try not to notice the way his suspenders hang loosely around his hips. You fail.

White hot heat unfurls low in your belly, sharp and sudden, like the spark of a match catching dry paper. Your skin prickles, sweat beading at your hair line. Every inch of you is hyper aware of Dr. Richards nearness radiating the same warmth.

Your breath hitches, hands squeezing the chair's armrests. "Dr. Richards, I-"

"Reed," he interrupts, his tone tighter than before—strained. "Please, call me Reed."

Your chest heaves, lips slick and parted as you suck in greedy lungfuls of air. Your thighs clench, pressing together tightly. There's an unmistakable dampness spreading over the thin cotton fabric of your panties.

“Breathe normally,” he instructs, eyes glued to your chest, to the hard peaks of your nipples straining against your shirt. “The compound should take effect within-”

You don't hear the rest.

The compound spreads faster now, thrumming in a way that's inescapable. The room feels like someone cranked up the heat as high as it goes, your skin sings under every brush of air. You shift again, and a needy sound escapes before you can catch it.

Blood rushes through your ears, a mess of white noise. Your heart pounds in your chest, adrenaline coursing through your veins to light them up like you took an injection of kerosene.

"Reed…" You breathe, voice gone airy and taut. "It's-it's getting stronger."

"Wonderful." It's almost as if the word is pulled from him before he can think better of how lewd it sounds. "Describe the sensation in your lower abdomen."

He means your pussy—your brain supplies unhelpfully. The thought alone has another humiliating sound falling from your lips.

"Pressure," you admit softly, eyes never straying from his. "Heat. A kind of almost…pulling sensation."

Reed's eyes darken, it's unmistakable. "Touch sensitivity?"

You blink. "I-I don't know."

"Then let's determine."

Before you can respond, he steps forward. Your thighs part instinctively, giving him the room he needs to loom over you.

You can hardly sit still beneath the intensity of his gaze. Your thighs part further, and he notices—of course he notices. His sharp brown eyes flick down, linger, then return to your face.

Reed reaches up slowly, being sure to let you see the path his hand takes through the air. Gently, so gently, he cups the side of your face.

The touch is featherlight. Measured. His skin is warm, callused. Your eyes flutter shut, a soft moan falling from your lips. His skin feels scorching, burning a plane of heat along the side of your face.

“You’re—extremely sensitive,” he observes. “Marked increase in reactivity. Pupils dilation increased to 100%. Body language—shifting. Seeking friction.” His fingers trace down your neck, just barely ghosting over your pulse.

You suck in a sharp breath.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, his own hand shaking. “Very responsive to light contact.”

You want to deny it, but the data is undeniable. Your breath is quick, thighs pressing tight together, nipples showing through the thin fabric of your blouse.

Another wave hits you hard. Your hips shift against the chair involuntarily, and Reed watches. “Pelvic tension. Motor restlessness. Onset confirmed at three minutes, thirty seconds.”

Your back arches off the chair, sweat dripping down the length of your spine. You finally let yourself lean into his touch, panting at the contact.

“I can feel it as well,” he says quietly, breath hot against your ear. “My palms are sweating. Heart rate elevated. There’s a persistent ache behind my eyes. Blood flow redistribution—predictable.”

You glance down.

There's a very pronounce tent in straining behind the fly of his slacks. A patch of wetness darkens the khaki fabric, spreading and so inviting.

You moan at the sight of it, your hands twitching with the need to touch.

"This will be for data," he says, like he's convincing himself the words are true.

You nod, dragging your eyes back up to his own. Your gaze is dazed like you've been spun in circles.

Reed kisses you.

Your hands fly to the lapels of his lab coat, dragging him down as he leans into the chair with you.

It's not romantic. Not soft. Not scientific. It's hungry, searching. A filthy mess of spit and something delicate and layered shattering like sugar glass between the two of you.

He's trying to map you, to gauge your reaction. His tongue slides into your parted lips and you whimper, aching. Reed swallows the sound, returning one of his own. A deep, low groan that wracks through your body like thunder.

When he pulls back, you chase him.

"Extraordinary," he breathes against your mouth, more to himself than to you. "The compound is creating extreme dopaminergic reinforcement."

"Touch me," you gasp, past the point of desperation. "Please, Reed. Touch me. I need-"

Reed's mouth crashes against yours, hard enough to clack your teeth together roughly. He's more gone than you thought, the careful man who handles each and every lab instrument like they're made of blown glass long gone as he claims your mouth. His hands slide up you body—along your waist, up over your ribs, until they cup your breasts.

You cry into his mouth when his thumbs brush over your nipples. The stimulation is immediate, electric. Explosive.

He pinches them between long, nimble fingers—caution lost in the whirlwind of arousal.

You keen.

“Heightened sensitivity confirmed,” he murmurs against your jaw, now completely wrecked. His voice is hoarse. “God—you're responding faster than anticipated. It's remarkable.”

You gasp when he yanks your blouse open with a sharp tug. Buttons scatter across the floor, clinking against the tile. His hands are on your bare skin now, mouth following. You arch as he sucks a nipple into his mouth, his fingers teasing the other.

Reed groans like he's in pain, panting against your breast. “Where are you experiencing the most acute sensation?”

Your tongue is too thick in your mouth. You try to swallow, try to answer, but it comes out wrong.

He leans closer, resting his forehead against yours. “You’ll need to verbalize, please.”

“Between my legs,” you manage, barely audible. “It—it’s extremely sensitive.”

A low sound rings out in the minuscule space between your lips. It takes your molasses drenched thoughts a few beats to realize it's coming from Reed. From somewhere deep in his chest, clawing its way out.

“Understood.” His touch travels, skating down lower until his fingers are trailing up the inside of your trembling thigh. “Do I have your permission to proceed with physical contact?”

"Yes," you whisper, and it comes out far too fast. Too eager. You can't find it in you to care. "Yes, Reed."

Reed slips his hand under your skirt, seeking out the damp plane of your pussy.

You jolt at the contact, hips twitching forward before you can help it.

Through the cotton, he traces the outline of your cunt, every shift of pressure measured, every reaction recorded in the keen flick of his eyes. He presses just slightly against your clit and watches the way you squirm, the way your breath stutters.

“Fascinating,” he repeats, eyes fixed on you as you start to writhe beneath him. “Clitoral response is heightened. You’re…exquisite. Perfect. Responding exactly as hypothesized—no, better—God, better.”

Two fingers spread you wide, and the slick sound is nothing but downright obscene. Your hand flies to his forearm, gripping it tightly as his index finger teases along your entrance.

You whimper, taking your bottom lip between your teeth.

“Remove your underwear,” Reed instructs, not unkindly—but without pause. “I’d like to confirm those measurements manually.”

You scramble to do exactly as he says. You lift your hips, fingers fumbling with the hem of your skirt and dragging the soaked panties down your thighs. You can’t bring yourself to look at him as you set them aside on the tray. The air hits your bare cunt like a slap—wet and exposed and throbbing.

Reed sinks to his knees.

It’s the first truly shocking thing he’s done all night.

He doesn’t say anything about it, not at first. He just positions himself between your legs, face level with your cunt, and exhales once. A long, slow breath. It's ragged at the edges, tormented.

It makes you shiver.

“Excellent visibility,” he mutters, seemingly unbothered by the fact that your folds are glistening and swollen inches away from the front of his face. You can still hear the slight termor of his voice all the say. “Subject appears to be fully engorged. Labia minora are visibly distended. Vulvar tissue is flushed.”

His first finger enters you with barely any resistance. You’re so wet, the stretch is effortless, obscene. He watches the way you swallow him in, his jaw flexing once as if trying not to react.

“Incredible,” he says, voice low. “Increased elasticity. Temperature is elevated. Constriction around the first phalanx…tight. Responsive.”

He curls his finger experimentally.

You choke on a gasp.

He adds another.

The stretch has your thighs clenching automatically around his wrist. You’re wet enough to hear it—the slick, filthy sound of your cunt sucking him in. Reed doesn’t blink.

“Two digits…full insertion.” He speaks as if he’s trying to distance himself from it. But his breath is shallower now. His cheeks are flushed. “Subject is—remarkably reactive.”

Reed scissors his fingers gently, eyes trained on the place where they disappear into you. “You’re pulsing around me,” he murmurs, full of awe. “That’s…beautiful.”

You’re past the point of embarrassment now. Your hips rock helplessly into the rhythm he sets—slow, firm pumps, angled just slightly until—

“Oh my god—”

“There,” he breathes, and there’s an almost feral edge in his voice. Not clinical. Not detached. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

You nod desperately, your free hand flying to your mouth to muffle the pathetic noises spilling out.

“Dampness-Jesus Christ,” he rasps, voice barely intelligible now. “Lubrication ratio also surpasses hypothesized maximum. You’re absolutely soaked. I—God, I need—I have to be inside you. Now.”

He slips his hand from between your legs and frees himself from his trousers with the same kind of focus you’ve seen him use to construct a fusion coil. Efficient, but trembling at the edges. His cock is flushed a deep red, thick, the tip shiny with precome as it presses against the heat of your cunt.

You moan at the sight. Your mouth waters as your cunt throbs with the raw, visceral need to be filled.

Reed stands, cock sways in the air, hard and heavy, pressing insistently against the slick seam of your cunt. Your body jerks at the contact, thighs twitching open wider, a helpless invitation.

The heat of him is almost unbearable, the swollen head nudging against your entrance like he’s testing the resistance.

His eyes are wild now, pupils blown wide, but his voice is still that low, steady baritone, though it trembles with restraint. “Lubrication is more than sufficient,” he says, breath ghosting over your lips as his hand fists at the base of his shaft. “Your body is prepared to accommodate penetration.”

Prepared—like you’re a lab experiment instead of a dripping mess beneath him. The words shouldn’t make you whimper, but they do.

Reed drags the head through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, collecting every drop. You keen, desperate for him to breach you, hips canting forward as if your body could take him in by force.

And then, without warning, he presses inside you.

The stretch punches the air from your lungs. Reed’s cock slides in slow, thick, impossibly deep, the sweet burn of it making your spine arch off the chair.

It's everything you've imagined it and more. All the guilty nights spent after lab hours with your fingers stuffed inside yourself as you let yourself indulge in the plethora of dirty thoughts floating around your brain couldn't have prepared you.

Nothing in the universe, this one and all the others, could have prepared you for the feeling of Reed Richards cock craving your cunt open like it belongs there.

You cry out his name, hands flying to his shoulders so your nails can dig crescent moons into the muscle there.

His head tips back, a guttural groan tearing from his throat. “Ah—constriction exceeds expectation. Warmth is—” He cuts himself off with a shudder. “You’re perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

There's no easing into it, no letting you get used to stretch. Your whole pelvis burns. The perfect mix of pain and pleasure intertwined together as one.

Reed fucks you with a single minded intensity, the same focus he gives to his equations, except now it's your body under his meticulous study, your cries the data points, your rapidly approaching orgasm the undeniable proof.

Your body arches off the chair, legs wrapped tight around his waist. He sets a brutal rhythm, each thrust deeper than the last, his hands braced on either side of your head.

“God,” you cry, nails clawing at his shoulders. “It’s—it’s too much—”

“It’s the compound,” he pants, his hair damp and curling against his forehead. “It’s magnifying everything. Every nerve. I can feel your heartbeat around me—Jesus—” Reed watches you through half lidded eyes, his expression wrecked, fevered. “Your walls are…milking me,” he mutters, reverent. Worshipful. “Constriction’s incredible. God, you feel—unreal.”

You moan louder when he adjusts his angle, the thick head of his cock rubbing against the sweet spot inside you. Your hand flies to your mouth, trying to muffle the noise.

“Don’t,” Reed growls, catching your wrist. He guides your fingers away from your lips and replaces them with his own. “Open and suck. Need to test oral fixation. S-salivary response.”

You suck greedily, tongue swirling over his fingers. The broken sound he makes only spurs you on. He moans when you suck harder, when you glide your tongue along the pads of his fingers like you want to devour him whole.

“You’re—fuck—you’re responding to every variable,” he says, voice cracked wide open, losing composure fast. “You’re better than anything I could’ve projected.”

You gag softly around his knuckles when his pace picks up, each thrust deep and punishing. Your nipples rub against his shirt, swollen and desperate for friction.

“Good girl,” he breathes, hips slamming harder into you. “God, you look so beautiful—sucking my fingers while I fuck you.”

Reed pauses, trembling, as if his own body is trying to calibrate to yours. “Is the stretch too much?” he manages, voice frayed with strain.

Your answer is a desperate whine, your hips bucking as his fingers slip out of your mouth so his hands can grip your hips tightly. “More. Please, Reed—”

His lips press hard to your ear, and you feel the words rumble out of him. “I can make it better. Adjust dimensions.”

It takes a second for your brain to process. And then he shifts.

You feel him thicken inside you, the stretch intensifying deliciously as his cock grows, swelling to fill you more completely. Your cry is broken and raw, your cunt clenching around him like a vice.

You’re dizzy, trembling, barely holding on. The friction is unbearable, the way his cock drags against your walls like he was designed for you. Reed leans back just enough to watch your face, his own expression wrecked. His cheeks are flush, curls plastered to his sweaty forehead.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your skin. “Your body’s pulsing, clenching—I can feel it, how bad you need it. You’re going to—God, you’re going to come so beautifully.”

Your hands scramble to sink into his salt and pepper hair, holding him against you, desperate. He growls low in his throat, hips picking up speed, driving into you harder, faster. The lewd slap of skin on skin echoes off the pristine white walls, obscene and unrelenting.

When his free hand slides down to rub your clit, your vision whites out.

“Reed—!”

Your orgasm hits like a tidal wave, ripping through you so violently you sob. Your cunt spasms around him, sucking him deeper, milking him. You’re shaking uncontrollably, tears sliding down your temples as Reed groans against your breast.

His thrusts turn erratic, his composure breaking. “Constriction—fuck, so tight—I can’t—” He slams in deep, burying himself to the hilt.

With one last broken groan of your name, he’s coming inside you—flooding you—his cock stretching slightly, growing thicker as if his body wants to stay buried in you. You feel the warmth of it spread, thick and hot and unstoppable, deep inside where no one else has ever reached.

His forehead drops to yours, sweat slick, breath ragged. “Perfect,” he whispers, almost delirious. “Absolutely…perfect data set.”

Reed places a sweet kiss over your slack lips, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles along the skin of your hips.

You’re still trembling when he pulls back enough to watch the way his come leaks out of you around the base of his cock to drip down onto the leather, eyes dark with awe. His thumb swipes gently along your clit again, just to watch you jolt.

“Reaction remains heightened post-climax,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “I’ll need…further confirmation.”

The look in his eyes tells you he isn’t nearly finished.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: this man is autistic and literally no one can convince me otherwise. i was sitting in that theater like, he’s my people…anyway i need that. those little slutty grey patches? yeah. that’s some good goddamn fucking food.

also, who knew all the hate i spewed on my chem lecture last semester would come back to bite me hard in the ass writing this. i mean i'm really in my chemistry bag with this one. that and a&p. can you tell i’m a stem major? i know all my professors would be proud.

thank you so much for reading, love you!

#reed richards x reader #fic recs

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