#close quarters fic

[cleo-fox]

Close Quarters

Part 1 of 2

Summary: “You don’t have to like it,” says Fury, “you just have to do your job.”

Your job, as it turns out, is to go undercover at a luxury resort.

The only problem? Your fake husband is Loki Laufeyson—the infuriatingly handsome Norse god turned Avenger who delights in making you flustered. What could go wrong?

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: Smut, 18+ (Minors DNI), dirty talk, praise kink, fingering, elevator sex, semi-public sex, multiple orgasms, a hint of dom/sub, Dom Loki.

A/N: there will be a part 2. Also have a handful of related one shot ideas, so if people like this, I may post those. This is also posted on AO3.

Your self-sufficiency has always been a point of pride for you, both personally and professionally. The highlight of your career was overhearing Nick Fury say that he didn’t need to send in a team of people for a mission so long as he had you on the payroll. You are calm, competent, and ruthlessly efficient; you are used to relying only on yourself.

So it comes as something of a surprise when Fury informs you that Loki Laufeyson will not only be accompanying you on this undercover mission, but will also be taking the lead.

It takes a lot to render you speechless these days, but this does it. You gape at Fury for a moment before you’re able to speak.

“You never send me in with anyone,” you say.

“This mission requires a unique skillset.”

You scoff. “He can’t do anything that I can’t.”

Fury raises an eyebrow and folds his arms across his chest. “Really? How’s your conversational Sokovian?”

There’s, of course, no argument to be made with this. Your lips press into a thin, hard line. “I still don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it,” says Fury, “you just have to do your job.”

*

Your job, as it turns out, is to play the part of Nina Pine.

Nina Pine is bubbly and vivacious, the sort of person you’d see in the society pages. She wears designer clothes and owns jewelry that is so ostentatious and expensive that it looks like it must be fake. She is not particularly bright or talented; she is the product of good luck and generational wealth.

Three weeks ago, Nina married Jonathan Pine, who she met six months ago at the home of a mutual friend. Jonathan does something in finance that sounds like it’s just a tarted up version of gambling, but with more complicated rules and less oversight. It is Jonathan’s higher tolerance for risk (and healthy trust fund assets) that has him considering an investment in KorolCo, a company owned by Ivan Litvinchuk. Litvinchuk uses KorolCo as a front to launder money from illegal arms deals.

Loki would be going undercover as Jonathan. Your new husband.

You are not particularly happy about this little detail (a detail that Fury mysteriously failed to mention when you met with him), in no small part because Loki has already started leveraging it to annoy the shit out of you.

“How are you already this annoying when we’re still in prep?” you say after a particularly exasperating meeting.

“I’m simply overcome by my love for you,” says Loki with a cloying faux sincerity that makes you yearn for the sweet release of death.

Fury, you note, is suspiciously unavailable during all of this. After ignoring three of your (admittedly lengthy) emails on the subject, he sends you a frustratingly short reply:

Do your job, Agent.

Maybe you’ll take up meditation.

If there’s a bright side to what appears to be a massive clusterfuck in the making, it’s that you’ll at least get a free vacation of sorts

The mission will be taking place at The Indigo, an absurdly expensive and exclusive hotel on a private beach not far from La Jolla Cove. The Indigo is the sort of place that you’d only read about—the kind of hyper exclusive resort that is only ever mentioned in damning Pro Publica reports about the questionable actions of high ranking public officials. Rooms start at fifty thousand a night and you are staying in one of the suites, which likely costs more. Your room information was included in your briefing materials and it all sounds too good to be true: a soaking tub and waterfall shower. Private terrace with an infinity pool. Private bar. In-suite chef and spa services by appointment. Ocean view.

One Norse god who delights in irritating you (non-negotiable).

You suppose you’ll try and make the best of it.

*

The first problem is your sleeping arrangements: there’s only one bed. Granted, it’s a big bed, but still—it suggests a level of intimacy that you had not thought about and are not at all prepared for.

“Well, Agent, this isn’t how I envisioned taking you to my bed, but I suppose it’ll have to do,” says Loki on your first evening there.

You chuck a pillow at him, which he easily dodges.

“Keep it up and you can magic yourself a pillow and sleeping bag and sleep in the hall,” you say.

“Even if that were an appropriate accommodation for someone of my rank and title, I rather think it would do some damage to our cover.”

He has a point and you don’t like it. You decide to ignore him and start getting ready for bed.

The pajamas that had been packed for you are a little fancier than what you’re used to—satin and lace instead of cotton tees and shorts. Normally, you’d relish the opportunity to feel a little fancy—it’s an unexpected indulgence, a splurge on the company dime.

But with Loki now thrown into the equation, you are suddenly hyper aware of the fact that the fabric will likely cling to your curves, that the hem of the skirt is just a little too high. You choose the most demure one of the lot—a pale rose colored thing hemmed with lace—and head to the bathroom to change.

Even with the matching robe, you still feel a little awkward and oddly nervous. You avoid looking at Loki—if his gaze is lingering on your legs or your hips, you don’t want to know about it right before you hop into bed with him—and go about your normal routine. You manage to have a relatively normal conversation about your plan for tomorrow and you read a couple chapters of your book before you start to drift off.

It’s a king sized bed with plenty of room, but somehow you wake up perched near the edge of the bed with Loki pressed up against your back.

He’s got one arm wrapped around your waist so that you’re pinned against him and the deep, even breaths brushing against the back of your neck tell you he’s still asleep. You’re pretty sure this must have been unintentional on his part: Loki doesn’t seem like the sort to willingly allow himself to be seen seeking out human contact. It’s too vulnerable, too soft for the sharp and sarcastic veneer he presents to the world.

He shifts slightly in his sleep, his grip on you tightening. Something hard pokes against the curve of your ass.

You can’t help the responding ache between your legs. You should feel embarrassed—and you do, just a little—but there’s a competing feeling of warm curiosity that makes you press your thighs together. It’s been a while and you miss being held like this. The silk of your nightgown is cool and slippery against your skin, and you feel oddly restless and alert despite the early hour.

You should put a stop to this—that is the professional and sensible thing to do. So you carefully lift his arm from your waist and gently extricate yourself from his embrace. You pad to the bathroom, leaving the light off to spare your eyes.

In the bathroom, you run the tap as cold as it will go. You cup your hands and drink before splashing some water on your face in an effort to quell the restless heat building between your thighs.

It doesn’t really work. You’re not entirely surprised—if you were by yourself, you would simply take care of it, but that’s obviously not an option now. Out of curiosity, you slip your fingers between your thighs to assess the state of things and you immediately regret it: you’re soaked and just the feeling of your index finger glancing against your clit is enough to undo the admittedly minimal effect of the cold water.

You splash your face again and shut off the tap, taking a few deep breaths and smoothing your hands against your hair.

You exit the bathroom and slide back into bed. Loki reaches for you in his sleep and you are only half surprised when you let him wrap his arms around your waist and pull you to him. The throbbing ache between your thighs intensifies and before you can think about it, your back is arching and your breath is hitching.

He pulls you closer and suddenly his breath is warm on your ear. “You know, if you wanted me, all you had to do was ask,” he says, his voice deep and smooth, only a little husky with sleep.

“This is a bad idea,” you say, even as your back arches again and you press yourself against him.

Lips press against where your neck and shoulder meet. “But you want it.” His fingers toy with the hem of your nightgown. “Yes?” he asks, his voice husky against your ear.

“Yes,” you breathe.

“Agent.”

“Yes. Please.”

“Agent.”

Your eyes flutter open. Loki is standing at the foot of the bed, hair wet, and wearing only a towel wrapped around his waist.

“It’s eight o’clock,” he says. “You need to shower and dress if we’re to make it to breakfast on time.”

It takes you a moment to process this information. Partly because he just woke you up from a sex dream about him and partly because wearing only a towel should be fucking illegal when you look like that. You try to keep your eyes trained on his and not let them drift to his flat stomach where you can see a faint smattering of chest hair that gathers in a line that trails directly to his cock. And definitely not to any of the muscles that are on tantalizing display and dotted by drops of water that are begging to be licked away. Nope. Not looking at any of that. Just at his devastatingly handsome face. 

Fuck.

“Agent?”

You shake your head. “Sorry. Bit groggy this morning. Finish up what you were doing and I’ll go jump in the shower.”

He gives you a bit of an odd look, but mercifully walks away without further comment. 

This gives you an opportunity to stare at his broad back as he walks away. Goddammit, even his ass looks good in that towel.

Fuck.

You have a feeling this is going to be a long week.

*

It’s only day one and it’s becoming clear to you that you are not really prepared for some of the practicalities of being Loki’s wife.

Specifically: being the primary focus of his flirtations and little gestures of affection. His hand on the small of your back, his fingers lacing with yours, the brush of his lips against the back of your hand or the shell of your ear—it’s all a little overwhelming in a way you don’t expect. It was one thing when he was razzing you in your prep meetings—he was quite clearly doing it to be irritating. But at The Indigo, he has to appear sincere for your cover and that particular detail makes it a different beast entirely. 

The fact that both his regular appearance and the blond-haired, blue-eyed glamor he’s adopted for the mission are both devastatingly handsome certainly doesn’t help. Nor does the additional baggage of your sex dream this morning.

Unfortunately for you, Loki quickly ascertains that he now has a great and novel way to fluster you. Equally unfortunate is the fact that he seems to find this as hilarious as he did back in prep meetings, which prompts him to be only more outlandish.

“Are you trying to sabotage this?” It’s later that afternoon and you’ve gone down to the pool with the plan of schmoozing with Litvinchuk and his associates. Loki has clearly decided that this needs to be more difficult than it is and has fully committed to the bit, as they say.

(You’ve also gotten very good at whispering threats under your breath and making it look like you’re flirting; the timing of this is not a coincidence).

“I don’t know why you’re so distraught about sunscreen,” says Loki, rubbing a generous amount between his palms.

“It’s not the sunscreen, it’s that you’re going to find some way to be inappropriate about it.”

“I’d never.”

“You are so full of shit.”

“You wound me.” He places his hands on your shoulders and begins rubbing in the sunscreen, going much slower than you think is strictly necessary. “Perhaps this trip is merely bringing out our natural chemistry.”

“You wish.”

“Is it the hair that does it for you, Mrs. Pine? Do you have a particular fondness for blonds?”

“Do you have a fondness for being murdered in broad daylight? Because that’s the fate you’re headed towards, buster.”

He tuts at you as his hands slide to the small of your back. “Temper, temper. You really need to work on that.”

“Have you considered working on not annoying the ever-loving shit out of me?”

His breath is suddenly warm against your ear. “Now where’s the fun in that? And before you answer, be advised that Tarasevich is looking right at us.”

Fuck. Tarasevich is the most suspicious and paranoid of the lot—years in the Sokovian mafia paired with recreational drug use will do that to a guy. You turn so that you’re facing Loki. He looks at you fondly, looking for all the world like a loved up newlywed just smitten with his new wife.

“One of these days, I’m going to drop kick you into the motherfucking sun,” you say in the sweetest voice that you can muster.

“Now, now, Mrs. Pine, let’s keep the foreplay in the bedroom.” He rests his forehead against yours, reaching up to stroke your cheek. “There’s such a thing as public indecency laws, you know.”

You sigh heavily. “Why are you like this?”

“Oh, because it’s so much fun.”

“Is he still looking?”

“Yes and I’m going to kiss you to put him off, so do try to contain yourself.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll manage.”

You catch a flicker of a smile before he leans in and brushes his lips against yours. You intend for this to be brief, but his mouth is so warm and inviting and before you know it, he’s gently coaxing your lips open and leading your tongue in a slow and seductive caress that has your mind drifting straight to the gutter.

His hand slides to your thigh and you can’t bring yourself to be mad about it.

“Ah, Pine. Mixing business and pleasure, I see.”

You pull back from Loki to find Ivan Litvinchuk standing in front of you, wearing the smug, congratulatory smirk that you often see men like him trading with one another when they think they’re getting somewhere with a woman.

“Normally I try not to, but I’ve found it rather impossible these last three weeks, haven’t I, darling?” Loki takes the opportunity to loop his arms around your waist and pull you into his lap, nuzzling your neck.

You give a good natured laugh. “You’re insatiable.”

“Oh, I don’t think anyone would fault me when I have such a tempting little wife.”

This, paired with the squeeze of his hand on your thigh, sends an unexpected rush of heat to your cunt. Fortunately, the effects of this are quickly tempered when you notice that Litvinchuk is eyeing you rather appreciatively. The wardrobe team has really outdone themselves with your clothes, but the swimsuits they’ve sent are definitely more revealing than you are used to—today’s choice is a bikini with a split sweetheart neckline that dips a lot lower than you’d like and a fucking underwire in the top. Underwire! The bottom is no better—it’s both low rise and high cut, the perfect way to ensure that half of your ass is exposed at any given time. Even in the matching translucent cover up—which of course you’ve left on the chair that Litvinchuk is standing in front of—you feel a little more bare than you’d like, a fact that Litvinchuk seems to be appreciating, if the path of his gaze is any indication.

“You’re a lucky man, Mr. Pine,” he says, his eyes flicking briefly to your cleavage.

You expertly tamp down your disgust and smile at Litvinchuk before turning around to bat your eyes at Loki.

“You are, aren’t you?” you say, twining your arms around his neck and planting a brief, chaste kiss on his lips.

He gives you a dazzling smile that’s so sincere it makes your stomach flip. “Very much so.”

Another squeeze of your thigh, more heat to your cunt. Fuck.

“Well, Pine, when you are ready to discuss more business—” Here he switches to Sokovian.

This is the part you dislike the most about this particular mission: whenever anything of substance comes up, Litvinchuk and his cronies immediately switch to Sokovian, leaving you in the dark.

To add insult to injury, Litvinchuk still seems infatuated by your cleavage.

Litvinchuk says goodbye a few minutes later and you manage to bite your tongue until he’s out of earshot.

“I really don’t love the fact that he spent half of that conversation sneaking looks at my boobs,” you say quietly.

“Well, to be fair, they do look spectacular,” says Loki. “I’ll have to send a thank you note to the wardrobe team for that.”

Heat stirs hopefully and unhelpfully in your hips at that comment.

“This is what I meant by being inappropriate, you know. Did he have anything interesting to say?”

“He’s invited me to a game of cards this afternoon.”

“Do you need me for that? I could go try and talk to the wives, see what I can find out.”

“Originally, I’d thought no, but since dear Ivan seems so enamored of your assets, it might not be a bad idea to have you come along.”

You sigh. “How am I now at the point in my life where letting an illegal arms dealer stare at my tits is a fucking mission objective?”

Loki laughs quietly. “We’ll keep that out of the final report.”

*

The card game ends up being a lot worse than you thought it would be. And not because of Litvinchuk’s wandering eyes.

They’ve set up the game on the pool deck tables and chairs. As best as you can tell, it’s a Sokovian twist on a combination of rummy and poker. You’re not the only woman at the table: a few of the other men have their girlfriends or mistresses draped over them like strange human scarves, though their roles seem to be largely decorative.

Loki makes a big show of pulling you into his lap, saying how he just can’t bear to be apart from his new wife for terribly long.

“Ah, young love,” says Mikhnevich. “I remember when my Irina and I were like this.”

“Now she begs for him to leave the house!” says Litvinchuk. There’s a hearty round of laughter—it’s not a particularly funny joke, but you suppose that’s one of the benefits of moving up in the world of crime: people will laugh at your jokes because they’re afraid you’ll kidnap their families or something. It’s all very dysfunctional.

Loki makes an effort to teach you the game, but Nina is not the sort who pays very close attention to that kind of thing, so you find yourself giggling and letting him steal kisses or whisper in your ear as he explains some strategy or another.

There are several problems with this arrangement. The first is that you are positioned on his lap in such a way that you can feel his cock nudging your ass or your thigh, depending on how he’s sitting. And it’s close enough proximity for you to ascertain that he is long, thick, and semi-erect.

The second problem is his thigh; specifically, how it presses against your cunt, how every time Loki leans forward to draw a card, he inadvertently rocks you against the firm muscle. Each time, it feels better than the last; each time, you clench and ache and talk yourself out of riding his thigh until you have a screaming orgasm right on the pool deck. Each time, the idea becomes more and more tempting.

The third problem is his hands. Specifically, where and how they are wandering. He plays it off like it’s unintentional, like he’s just absently fidgeting with the part of your suit that lays against your hip or idly drawing lazy circles on your thigh. You can’t help but think that it must be calculated. He’s spent the last twenty-four hours intentionally trying to drive you crazy–there’s no way that he would pass up an opportunity to play his little games without you scolding him or rolling your eyes.

The fourth problem is that the first three problems are turning you on a lot.

Your clit seems to swell with every pass of his fingertips on your bare skin, no matter how casual. It drags against the slick material of your swimsuit every time you shift on Loki’s muscular thigh. You can feel yourself growing slicker and slicker with every moment. Eventually, it becomes too much and you try to shift in his lap, crossing your legs to give yourself a little relief.

This does exactly nothing useful. Instead, your movement causes his cock to twitch against you, which only escalates your growing arousal. He hooks the elastic of your suit at your hip onto his thumb and pulls, letting it snap back against your skin. His expression is playful when you look up at him, but there’s a fire in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

You are throbbing, your cunt practically weeping with slickness. And you’re pretty sure he knows.

And you’re pretty sure you don’t mind.

You lick your lips.

He hooks his thumb back into your suit at the hip, and this time he leaves it there, his fingers splayed along the curve of your hip. It’s casually possessive and ridiculously hot and the polar opposite of helpful.

He definitely knows.

Your heart is pounding. Can you go into cardiac arrest from being too turned on? You wish you could use Google. At a minimum, some sort of visual equivalent of a cold shower would be helpful. Pictures of Henry Kissinger or something. Budget reports. Taxes. Anything to get your mind off your aching cunt and the mess that you’re making in your swimsuit.

“I think you could do with a bit of a lie down, Mrs. Pine.” Loki's voice is low in your ear. “You seem…warm.”

You would have thought that Loki knowing about your current state of arousal would be cause for humiliation, if not irritation. Instead, it only seems to add fuel to the fire, especially with the way he’s talking to you. You’re not sure how he’s doing this, but it feels like his fucking voice is vibrating in the cradle of your hips, sending a fresh wave of slick arousal to your dripping cunt.

“Yeah,” you say. “Very warm.”

It’s perhaps a testament to your current state of mind that you can only manage this sentence and not some smart remark.

“Would you like my help with that, darling?” he asks. The phrasing is innocent, but the question is loaded. And sincere. You take in a shaky breath. You know all the reasons why this is a bad idea, but you also can’t bring yourself to say no. He may be wildly irritating, but you suspect he’s likely a good fuck…and you really need to be fucked.

You nod. “Yeah…I’d like that.”

“We’ll go up to the room after this game ends,” he says. “And then I’ll take very good care of you.”

It takes everything in you not to whine. Fuck. You didn’t think it was possible to be this wet, this turned on. 

Loki shifts slightly, pulling you close against him, his cock now fully erect and pressing hard and thick against your ass. 

“Do you feel me?” he asks, his lips grazing your ear. “Do you feel what you’ve done?”

You nod and wiggle your hips slightly, partly to situate yourself and partly because you want a little bit of payback. His grip on your hip tightens.

“I’d advise you not to play games, little wife,” he rasps in your ear.

More heat builds in your hips. You can’t remember the last time you were this turned on. Maybe never. You throw a look at Loki over your shoulder. “It’s not a game,” you say. “I’m just very warm.”

His eyes are dark. “Burning up, I suspect.”

“You have no idea.” You lean back against him, turning so you can nuzzle your face against his neck. God, he smelled good. “Please,” You say it so quietly that only he can hear, “I’m aching.”

He sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth and you feel his cock throb. He clears his throat. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I’m going to have to take my leave a little early—Mrs. Pine is feeling quite unwell.”

Fuck yes.

If Litvinchuk and his men suspect there’s anything untoward about your departure, they don’t say so—and you imagine you must look a little unsteady anyway. Loki slides an arm around your waist as you leave.

“Now Mrs. Pine,” he says once you’re out of earshot, “tell me exactly what ails you.”

You let out a shaky sigh. “Are you seriously going to do this?”

“I only want to ensure that we are on the same page,” he says with a smirk.

“Like hell you do. I already told you, you just want to hear—” You cut yourself off, realizing that you’re playing right into his hands.

He smiles like a cat with a bowl full of cream. “What do I want to hear, darling?”

You press your lips together. This is infuriating.

“I’m waiting…”

You blow out a shaky breath. Fuck it. “You just want to hear me say that I’m fucking soaked because you’ve been rubbing me against your thighs and touching me for the last two hours and if I don’t come soon, I’m going to lose my goddamn mind.”

He smirks as you approach the hotel lobby. “Well, I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear you say all that.”

“You absolutely were.”

The air conditioned air in the hotel lobby feels extra icy against your sunwarmed skin and your sandals seem to clack particularly loudly against the marble floors.

“You have a smart mouth, do you know that?”

“You like it,” you say as you approach the bank of elevators. “That’s the reason why you pull half of this shit with me.”

“Perhaps.” He gives you a smile that feels a little dangerous and sends even more heat to your aching cunt. “But do you know what my favorite part of your smart mouth is, Mrs. Pine?”

“I’m sure you’re about to tell me.”

The elevator door opens. It’s empty and your cunt clenches at the possibilities this presents.

“My favorite part about your smart mouth,” says Loki in a low voice as you step into the elevator, “is that it will sound that much sweeter when I make you beg for me.”

The elevator door slides closed and you barely have a chance to react before he’s backing you up against the wall and pressing his thigh between your legs.

“You’re a disobedient, wicked tease, Mrs. Pine,” he growls, sending a thrill through you. “I think you could benefit from a firm hand.”

“You like it,” you breathe, rocking your hips against his thigh, trying to capture some of the same friction that was driving you wild earlier.

“Rutting yourself against my thigh in public like a common slut,” he purrs. “You must be desperate.” He slides a hand between your legs, slipping his fingers under your bathing suit. His expression changes the moment his fingers dip past the fabric—almost like he expected you to be wet, but not this wet.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he purrs as you keen. “You’ve made a mess of yourself, haven’t you?”

“I need to come so bad,” you gasp.

“I know you do.” He reaches over and slams the emergency stop button and the elevator shudders to a halt. “And you’re going to. Right now.”

“I can wait until we get to the ro—”

He spins you around and pulls you to him so your back is pressed against his chest.

“No, you can’t.” He curls his big frame over yours, sliding his hand back into your bathing suit and stroking the full length of your sex and making you cry out again. “You need it too badly.” He starts rubbing your clit with his middle and index fingers. “And I don’t think it’s going to take all that long, darling,” he growls, sucking your earlobe into his mouth, “because you’re already so fucking wet.”

There’s a small, distant part of you that resents the fact that he’s right about anything, let alone anything pertaining to your orgasms.

The larger part of you is focused on the fact that he’s right: you’re going to come and you’re going to come hard.

Your legs are shaking and you brace your arms against the elevator wall to hold yourself up. You moan loudly and arch your back as the feeling starts building in your hips.

“You need this so badly, don’t you?” He nips hard at your earlobe. “You’re desperate for it. I felt you tense up every time your sopping cunt rubbed against my thigh, every time I touched you just right.”

You whimper, pressure rising in your hips as you rock with his hands.

“You’re so close,” Loki purrs in your ear. His hips are thrusting mindlessly against your ass, like he can’t wait to be inside you.

“Fuck, I need to come,” you whimper.

“Oh, I’m going to make you come, darling, but I think what you really need is to be fucked.”

You moan as your orgasm starts to crest.

“You need to be fucked properly and hard,” he murmurs. “You need me to take care of your sopping wet, needy little cunt. You need to be filled to the brim with my cock and my come like the good girl that you are. You need to come over and over on my cock until you can’t take it anymore.”

This is what pushes you over the edge. The muscles of your cunt clench and then pleasure is blooming in your belly as the tension of the last two hours comes to a peak and you come hard. You cry out, your hips rocking against Loki’s hand, chasing the shimmery aftershocks.

“There she is, that’s my good girl,” he purrs. He holds you as you shudder and shake, his fingers still moving, still coaxing out those final waves of pleasure. But just when you think he’s about to pull his hand away, he starts massaging your clit again, one long finger slipping inside you.

“You don’t think you’re going to be satisfied with just one, do you?” he growls in your ear. “Not a needy girl like you, not when you’ve been dripping for hours. You need more, don’t you?”

“Oh fuck—” You can feel that pressure growing again and you know it’s going to be different this time.

“You’re going to come for me again, pretty girl,” he purrs. “And this time, I want to hear you scream.”

Everything is coiling up so tight and tense and suddenly two of his fingers are inside of you and they’re curling just right and the edges of your vision go white as everything inside you fizzes and releases and a sharp cry falls from your lips as you come.

“Good girl,” his voice rumbles low over the sound of your heart pounding in your ears.

His hand finally stills once the final aftershocks roll through you. Your legs are shaking, but his grip on you is still firm. Boneless, you turn to him and he presses his slick fingers past your lips. You suck and lick his fingers clean and then he’s kissing you, sucking your own essence from your lips and tongue.

“Fuck,” you breathe as the elevator shudders to life. “Fuck, that was so good.”

Loki laughs quietly and scoops you up into his arms as the elevator arrives at your floor.

“Oh, we’re nowhere near done, darling.”

Continued in Part 2

[imogenkol]

ok on the bright side…… Imogen x Bix farming era confirmed. they had a year of relative peace, which is more than I thought they’d get 🥺

[ladystardust-7]

Fic: A Cloak and a Crisis

Title: A Cloak and a Crisis

Rating: Mature

Words: 1,781

Description: Remus Lupin has three priorities: keep his cool, do his job, and make sure his body doesn’t react while pressed against Tonks under an invisibility cloak.

He fails.

🔗 Read on AO3

[mdzsxchange]

Chapters: 8/8 Fandom: 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV), 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Jiang Yanli/Wen Ruohan, Madam Wen/Wen Ruohan - Past Characters: Jiang Yanli, Wen Ruohan, Wen Qing (Modao Zushi), Wen Xu (Modao Zushi), Wen Xu's Wife (Modao Zushi), Wen Ning | Wen Qionglin Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Forced Marriage, No Sunshot Campaign (Módào Zǔshī), Politics, Older Man/Younger Woman, jianghu politics, Jiang Yanli-centric, Jiang Yanli is having a bad time, but at least there's soup, medically inaccurate depictions of chronic illness, Qi related handwavy illness, internalized ableism, Self-Esteem Issues, Wen Ruohan is probably his own warning, Warning: Wen Ruohan, Beauty and the Beast Elements, handing out corruption arcs again, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping Summary:

Jiang Yanli’s engagement is broken. In the wake of this, Wen Ruohan senses an opportunity.

Jiang Yanli, who is still standing there, a lotus seed pod between her fingers, silent as the grave, thinks that perhaps this is how a fish felt, in a woven rush trap — not yet dead, but already on its way to dying.

Not yet dead, but certainly trapped within the small boundaries that had reduced its world to nothing, alone with panic until someone comes to strike the killing blow.

Jiang Yanli is a child of Yunmeng's waters. She has, in the past, been the one to put her hand in the rush trap and drag the fish from its final prison.

She had, in the past, been one to gut said fish in a single stroke along its belly and pull out its innards.

She knew how to not spoil the meat.

[amrv-5]

Finals Season Affirmations for the quarter system experiencer. i will not give myself the mia farrow rosemarys baby haircut unless I can determine it is a genuine act of Will and Desire. Experiencing February temperatures is fine and does not bother me. I enjoy anxiety and stressful situations and putting myself in them voluntarily. Protein bar is a beloved friend and close relative of gummy vitamin

[sashketter]

Close Quarters - Part 2

Summary: Riyo gives Echo a blowjob. Rex returns from the fresher, and the men attend to the Senator, taking turns eating her out.

Pairings: Echo x Riyo Chuchi (Echiyo), Captain Rex x Riyo Chuchi (Rexiyo)

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: Smut. Porn without Plot. Threesome. Oral (M and F receiving), fingering. Mention of Foxiyo.

Notes: FOREPLAY IS IMPORTANT. That is all.

Parts 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7

Riyo smiles and pushes his shoulders back. “Relax.”

Echo remains upright. “I want to watch.”

She keeps his gaze as she wraps her lips around his angry head and sucks lightly. He groans deeply, the head on his shoulders feeling lighter with every suction of her warm mouth. Saliva floods the insides of her cheeks and sucking sounds fill the air as she bobs and inches him along her tongue.

Between Rex, Fox, and a handful of the Coruscant Guard, Riyo had grown familiar with clone cocks, their weight and tastes and textures. She had concluded long ago that while the men were undoubtedly cut from the same cloth, their varying shades of brown all unmistakably of the same warm hue, no two cocks, much like the clones themselves, were alike. She quickly places Echo somewhere along the lengthier end of the spectrum, with Rex somewhere near the thicker end.

Echo falls back onto the bed in a fit of deep moans and choked chuckles. His arms come up and wrap around his head as it’s emptied of all thought except for those related to the sensations on his shaft. He’d forgotten, nearly written off ever feeling this warm and wet and wanted again. He sits up on his elbows and watches Riyo lave his shaft with the attention he had scarcely allowed himself to imagine. She meets his gaze with soft eyes and dislodges with a pop.

“Feel good?” 

Echo chuckles at her thoughtfulness. It’s been so long. Unable to gather enough breath to answer, he smiles and nods furiously.

She smiles back and switches tack. She dips her head lower and sucks on his balls, twisting her wrist with each swipe of his shaft and sending Echo back onto the bed. He closes his eyes and focuses on Riyo’s tongue and hand on him. Heat reaches his skin as the volume of his moans increases. His orgasm starts to crest when the door opens.

Rex enters quietly, a towel wrapped low on his hips as he rubs another on his head. He stops behind Riyo and huffs. “You were supposed to warm her up, not the other way around.”

Echo comes back up on his elbows and answers in tight breaths. “I was going to— oh, kark! You shower too fast.” Riyo pulls a long groan out of him as she drags her tongue along his underside. “Besides— unh— I’m not sure I can—” Her lips wrap around his shaft and reach his base. He bucks lightly. “Ungh, yes, that’s it!” He’s nearly doubled over, fighting to keep his eyes open.

Rex laughs and chucks both towels aside. He kneels behind Riyo, pressing his knees against her thighs. He unties her robe and works the silk off her limbs with gentle fingertips across her skin. She leans forward and bobs, keeping Echo in her mouth, as her arms come down to her sides. Rex throws her robe behind him and leans down to press his front to her back, his hands to the sides of her waist, and kisses from her shoulder to her neck.

When he reaches her ear, he purrs, “Ready for me?”

She lets Echo fall from her mouth and turns her head to find Rex’s lips. She pumps Echo with both hands, her slide eased by the slick of her saliva, as Rex steals her breath and snakes his arms around her torso. One hand lands on her breast, the other in between her legs. She moans and writhes in his grip while tightening hers on Echo.

“Ungh! Riyo, please. I-I-I’m…” Echo grits his teeth and tries to hold back.

Her mouth breaks from Rex and dives deeply onto Echo. He feels the pinch of her throat around his frenulum and comes forcefully, loudly. His abs clench, and his moans punch the air. He thrusts shallowly into Riyo’s face. She sucks as he releases, swallowing until he’s flaccid in her mouth. Only then, with a satisfied smile, does she remove herself and let him flop back onto the bed.

“Such a talented mouth for a talented Senator,” Rex croons between kisses to the other side of her neck and shoulder. He keeps his arms tight on her. He dips a gentle fingertip between her folds and finds her nearly dripping. He announces loud enough for Echo to hear through his lingering moans and giggles, “She’s soaking wet.” He brings the wet digit to his lips and sucks it clean before whispering in her ear, “But I can make you wetter.”

Riyo hums and presses her back into Rex. She reaches a careful hand underneath and finds his half-hard head not far from her aching core. She gently lifts and slides him along her slick slit, wrenching a moan from Rex that rumbles down her back. She rocks her hips and coats his length with her moisture. Echo sits up and watches them.

Rex clenches his jaw and growls like a predator closing in on his prey. “So needy, Senator.”

Riyo tilts her chin up and breathes, “I need you, Rex, please.”

In a flash, he scoops her up in his arms bridal style and deposits her on the bed next to Echo, her head inches from his thigh. She laughs as she bounces on her back. Rex kneels by the right side of the bed and pulls her by the ankles to close the few inches between them. He nudges the backs of her thighs onto his shoulders before catching Echo’s heated stare.

He nods and gives the order. “Take care of her up there while I work down here.”

Riyo’s giggle turns into a moan as Rex dives in, sucking and licking her labia. Her heels find his shoulder blades and push, pressing him impossibly farther into her. He laughs and tuts. “So needy,” he teases over her mound before pressing his tongue to her slit and finding her inner lips. She arches her back and moans deeply. Her hands claw Rex’s scalp, and he responds by brushing his nose against the hood of her clit. She keens and squeezes her breasts as he wraps his arms around her thighs.

Echo stands and watches, quickly doffing his trousers and slowly pumping himself. His eyes land on the blue expanse of her abdomen, arching and undulating and beginning to spasm. He kneels down and mouths at her stomach. Her skin tastes like salty blueberries and smells faintly of summer rain and the soap he had used earlier. He starts a trail of wet kisses up her torso. Riyo rubs his upper back and the base of his neck, careful not to catch on his cybernetic implant. She arches her back as he reaches her breastbone, pressing herself firmly on his lips. He licks and kisses each soft breast before sucking on each purple nipple. Riyo’s moans reach for the ceiling.

As he reaches her collarbone, Echo tucks his hand underneath her neck and finds her lips. Their tongues dance as his fingers comb through her soft hair. She reaches for his right arm, pressed carefully to his side, and brings it across her chest and abdomen. Echo starts to pull back, worried that he might hurt her with his sharp edges, but Riyo wraps her right arm around his neck and anchors him. She grips the narrow end of his scomp link and presses her front to his right arm, the cool alloy of his prosthetic refreshing on her heated skin. Echo feels her smile on his lips, and he presses a little harder.

It’s not lost on Riyo that she has two clones kneeling before her and working both sets of lips. They work in tandem, seemingly in sync. As Rex dips his tongue deeper between her inner lips, Echo does the same with her mouth and finds the back of her tongue. As Rex pumps two fingers into her dripping folds, Echo stands and presents his leaking cock to her eager mouth. She sucks the precum off his head as Rex sucks on her clit and nearly brings Echo’s base to her lips as her moan opens her throat and rumbles around his shaft. They dive into her like explorers of a new ocean, finding more pressure the deeper they push and coming back more breathless than before. 

Echo turns his head from Riyo’s mouth to look down her torso. He finds Rex mirroring his gaze, his lips attached to her clit as he keeps pumping his two fingers — not hard enough to make her come, but firm enough to keep her writhing and moaning. They lock eyes and share a nod, communicating wordlessly. Rex removes himself, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand and bringing in one of Riyo’s legs with the palm of the other.

“On your knees, baby.” His baritone vibrates on her skin and produces goosebumps.

She sits up and follows orders. She starts to back up towards Rex until he stops her with a hand to her lower back.

“Mm-mm, other way around. I want a turn with your mouth.”

She giggles and swivels around on her hands and knees. 

Rex juts his chin towards Riyo’s backend as he mirrors Echo’s movements and pumps his shaft steadily. “Got her plenty wet and loose for you.” He looks down and starts to say, “You ready— ungh!” Riyo cuts him off with a gentle suck of his engorged head.

Echo looks down at Rex’s handiwork. She glistens from cleft to mound. Her lips are swollen, and a gentle tap of his cockhead wrenches a moan from Riyo’s other end. He bends down, kisses and licks her soft rump, and presses his thumb firmly over her clit. Riyo pulls her mouth off Rex as her arms buckle.

“Echo, please,” she whines, “I need more.”

Rex laughs. “Stop teasing her, trooper. Show her what you’ve got.”

“In a minute.” Riyo squeals as Echo wiggles his thumb and watches her lips release more moisture. “I want a taste, too.”

Rex moves away from Riyo’s grip and gets comfortable at the head of the bed, turning the pile of pillows into a throne and watching Echo wrench more moans and moisture from the Senator with his mouth. She arches her back to give him more purchase. He dives between her folds and works his tongue through her inner lips. Her hands bunch the bedsheets into her mouth, her toes curl, and her feet dance in the air. Echo keeps his thumb on her clit and his licks quick and long until her moans drop an octave lower and his spit and her juices drip from his chin onto the bed.

Rex groans and pumps harder at the sight. “That’s it, trooper. Ungh, nice and wet.”

Echo pulls away and laughs, his mouth and chin soaked. “Kark, she’s sweet. Want another go?”

Before Rex can answer, Riyo takes advantage of the reprieve and cries, “I need to come, you two, please!” Her eyes land on Rex’s motions. He catches her gaze and pinches his base, presenting his erection to her.

His voice oozes in her ears. “This what you want, Senator?”

She’s wrecked by their mouths, her eyes dark and wild and her hair askew. In lieu of an answer, she crawls between Rex’s legs and grabs his shaft, shoving off his hand and pumping firmly. Her knees touch his inner thighs, and she sits on her heels to meet Rex’s heated gaze. They pant in unison.

Echo watches them standoff. He makes a note of how they get off on vying for control, Rex the battle-hardened Captain and Riyo the seasoned Senator. He’s not sure how he fits into their power play, but he figures he could at least temper the tension. His cock had become uncomfortably hard again and needed Riyo’s attention.

He slots himself behind her, his knees hugging her thighs, and wraps his arms around her waist. He kisses her shoulders and gently nips at the crook of her neck. Her eyes close, and her shoulders drop, diffusing the deadlock. He presses his front to her back and his cock along her cleft. She smiles and giggles as she tilts her head back onto his left shoulder.

Rex comes forward, keeping Riyo’s hands on his shaft, and kisses the left side of her neck. His knees sandwich one each of theirs. Echo cups her right breast while Rex massages her left with his right hand and her folds with his left hand. They fit like a puzzle and work like a dream.

The heat radiating off the clones sends Riyo to dizzying heights. Her hands rub the sides of their faces as she pants praises into the air. “So good, feels so good.” “Such good soldiers.” “My brave men, my protectors.”

“Beautiful,” Rex croons before laying his tongue flat on her pert nipple. She writhes and squeals in Echo’s arms.

Previous - Next

[thatmexisaurusrex]

Close Quarters

This is for @sumbacky who I told over a month ago that I was inspired by their art and finally got around to writing the dang fic 😂 This is also for @samsseptember's Day 10 "Mission" prompt. Enjoy! 🥰

Close Quarters

| Pairing: SamBucky | Rated: T | WC: 1.4K |

Summary: Sam and Bucky hide in a closet until the coast is clear. Based on Lynette's "stuck in a tight space" SamBucky art.

Excerpt:

Bucky couldn’t help but feel the heat rushing to his cheeks; the blush bloomed and spread as he watched the adorable gap in Sam’s teeth while Sam talked to Joaquín over comms; at Sam’s glistening lips as Sam smiled; gazed into Sam’s deep, rich brown eyes, like two bouquets of True Love Hellebores. “What?” Sam whispered. Cutting through the drum concert in Bucky’s chest. A curious hitch to Sam’s voice. A big smile. A quirk of Sam’s eyebrow. Sam. Watching Bucky. Waiting for Bucky to say something, anything back.

READ THE REST ON AO3!

[mdzsxchange]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV), 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Nie Huaisang/Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji/Nie Huaisang, Nie Huaisang/Wen Ning | Wen Qionglin, Jiang Cheng | Jiang Wanyin & Nie Huaisang Characters: Nie Huaisang, Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji, Wen Ning | Wen Qionglin, Jiang Cheng | Jiang Wanyin, Brief Luó "Mián Mián" Qīngyáng Additional Tags: Summer Camp, Qishan Wen Indoctrination (Modao Zushi), Implied/Referenced Torture, Spies & Secret Agents, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Canon-Typical Violence, Fake/Pretend Relationship(s), Developing Relationship(s), Homework, Fix-It of Sorts, Instant Plot Derailment Just Add Polyamory, everyone is poly, Background Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī/Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Dubcon Kissing, Caught Smooching, Consensual Sex, Open Relationships, character attempts Black Widow style spywork and accidentally achieves a polycule, forward momentum, manipulation at its finest, Friendship/Love, Solidarity, Minor Jiāng Chéng | Jiāng Wǎnyín/Niè Huáisāng, I kinda wrote it queerplatonically but take it however u want, slight suggestion of bdsm, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Characters Are Adults, adhd nie huaisang, mentions of wangxian but not yet established, Trapped In A Closet, Have to hide a body, Rooming (Imprisoned) Together at Wen Evil Summer Camp, Hurt/Comfort, this probably counts as crack, Poisoning, sprinkle of betrayal, Background Character Death, Sabotage, Infiltration, kinda psychological warfare?? but sexy, implied ace jiang cheng, allergies as a plot device, nie huaisang has a plan, And Then It Got Out of Hand, Coming of Age vibes too I think, life in a prisoner of war camp, Canon Typical Hostage Situation, Daring escape plans, Pre-Xuanwu of Slaughter Scene (Modao Zushi), Totally Successful Seduction, some spicy espionage, Huaisang is a fantastic manipulator of emotions, NHS you vixen hehe, brief explicit sexual content, Oral Sex, Frottage, ADHD King Nie Huaisang, Borders of Infinity, the most rom com thing ive ever tried to write, idiots to found family, this is very much the Nie Huaisang show, fuck around and find out, breaking news: actions have consequences Summary:

Nie Huaisang's Boyfriend(s) at Evil Summer Camp. Starring Nie Huaisang. Co-starring Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji, and Wen Ning. Also featuring appearances by Jiang Cheng and Mianmian.

[inkedmoth]

no one, absolutely no one

me: hey you know what this fic needs, a masquerade ball

[allatariel]

@spectral-musette, thank you, I love it so much! Stunning work as ever, I absolutely adore your style <3 <3 <3

Some Jyn and Cassian tall and small cuteness for @allatariel

[lolab4t]

off duty - fluff

18 + part two

pairing: avenger!bucky barnes x fem!avenger!younger!reader summary: after a rare night off, you stumble back into avengers tower at 2 am.. tipsy, feet hurting, and definitely not expecting to run into bucky barnes on the couch. word count: 5.8k warning(s): light cursing, alcohol consumption/intoxication, fluff, use of nicknames, humor, age gap, mild suggestive language, reader is a young adult avenger, reader is described as wanting to party a/n: here's my first fic! it's a throwback to the avengers before the infinity war. i really hope you enjoy :) and if you do, please like, comment, or reblog! <3

cherry - lana del rey

being a young adult and an avenger at the same time wasn't easy. you wanted to be like others your age... party, stay out late, maybe dance with a random guy you found mildly attractive under the dim nightclub lighting, then bolt when you actually saw his face in the light. hell, you would settle for just shopping or grabbing lunch with your friends, however mundane that sounded.

but, as a full-time avenger, you weren't privy to this lifestyle. the main issue was your schedule. being an avenger isn't exactly a 9–5 job... it's more 24/7. you're meant to always be ready to jump into a mission when needed. with your time mainly consisting of training, meetings, and missions, you didn't exactly have free time.

this didn't stop your friends from pushing, though, and they eventually got through. so, after a few long conversations of begging stark, here you are, stumbling into the elevator of the avengers tower at like 2 in the morning, ever so slightly intoxicated. who can blame you? it was your first night off in a while; of course you took advantage of this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and got shitfaced. you might regret it during training later that day, but for now, all that mattered was that you had fun with your friends.

you did regret wearing heels, though. you wanted to trade in your boots for something more fun tonight, but god, did your feet hurt. you were also dying to get out of your minidress. considering your wardrobe now reflects your job and only consists of suits and very little casual clothes, you had to borrow this dress from your friend. you were beginning to remember why you never liked to wear dresses even before joining the avengers.

the elevator dinged, and the door opened to the top floor, the avengers' quarters. you dragged yourself out, hair messy, dress slightly hiked up, and feet already blistering. your makeup made it clear you had been sweating on a dancefloor not long ago. you headed to your room when a voice stopped you in your tracks.

"where ya been?"

you turned to the source, shocked to see bucky barnes sitting on the sofa. he was laid back, one arm draped lazily on the backrest, and the other on his knee. he was almost smirking, likely having a good idea of your whereabouts based on your appearance.

you and the winter soldier weren't exactly close. he was a very quiet and reserved guy, usually a man of few words. your interactions mainly consisted of short conversation and sometimes catching him staring at you on the quinjet or in meetings. you never really thought much of it.

but his tone... his expression right now was different. it was weird, but a good weird.

"why're you awake?" you huffed, walking toward the couch.

"couldn't sleep," he stated simply, scanning your form with that smug look on his face. "you have a fun night?" he chuckled to himself a bit.

"yeah, i went out with some friends," you replied, sitting on the couch. you began fiddling with your heels, wanting to go ahead and relieve yourself of the pain. however, the alcohol was messing with your coordination, and you were struggling rather pathetically.

noticing the pout forming on your lips and the clear trouble you were having, bucky snickered, speaking in his gruff voice, "need some help?"

you looked up at him and nodded, still pouting. without a word, he moved a bit closer to you and curled his fingers around your ankles, a soft gasp escaping your lips as he rested them across his lap. you were reclining into the corner of the sofa now, watching him in shock. he hummed as his fingers slipped through the straps of the heels, sliding them off your feet gently. he set them down carefully, his free hand absentmindedly rubbing your calves.

"i've never seen you in anything but your boots," he grinned, turning his head toward you. "so, how much did you drink?" his grin turned into a knowing smirk.

you scoffed, pulling your legs away, drawing your knees to your chest. the short dress wasn’t doing you any favors, and you were probably flashing him, but bucky never looked. he was a gentleman... at least in the ways that mattered. you groaned, rubbing your face sleepily. no point in pretending.

"too much," you muttered.

"yeah, i can tell. you practically stumbled out of the elevator," he chuckled, eyes following your every move.

you let out a half-laugh, sheepish. your head dropped to rest on your knee as you sighed.

"kill me."

"not tonight, doll. i’m off duty."

your head lifted slightly, an eyebrow raising. "did you just call me ‘doll’?" you snickered at the old-fashioned nickname, trying to hide how much it made your heart beat faster.

he smirked, leaning back again with that maddening ease. "i dunno. you kinda look like one."

was he flirting? surely not. he probably saw you as some annoying kid.

"alright, old man. what do you call natasha then? sugar? darling?" you smiled lazily, thinking of more old-timey terms of endearment.

"hell no. she’d break my jaw," he grinned.

"and you think i won’t break your jaw?" you smirked, raising a brow.

bucky scoffed out a laugh. "oh, i'm sure you can, but i don't think you would."

"if i wasn't tipsy, i might've. you're getting off easy this time, grandpa," you giggled, starting to slur your words. your eyelids were beginning to feel heavy, and you found your head resting on your knee again.

bucky laughed at your slurred speech, not sure if it was the alcohol or just exhaustion. "you okay, doll?"

"mhm," you hummed, obviously dozing off.

"alright, i guess i'll babysit the lightweight," he joked, his grin never faltering.

you eventually drifted off, and so did bucky not long after. you both slept better than you had in a while. that was, until you awoke to the stunned faces of the other avengers. they definitely weren't expecting to find you in bucky's arms on the sofa. hell, you weren't expecting it either.

thanks so much for reading <3

18+ part two

[sashketter]

Close Quarters - Part 1

Summary: Frustrated by the difficulty of gathering intel for the Clone Underground, Captain Rex finds comfort in Senator Riyo Chuchi and her bedroom on Coruscant. The two persuade Echo to join them.

Pairings: Captain Rex x Riyo Chuchi (Rexiyo), Echo x Riyo Chuchi (Echiyo)

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings: Smut. Porn without Plot. PiV, oral (F receiving). Implied established relationship between Rex and Riyo. Mention of Foxiyo.

Notes: The total word count for the whole fic is around 15k. I hadn’t intended to divide it into parts, but even I had trouble keeping it straight as I was writing it in one giant doc. And given these aren’t popular pairings, I want to keep it short for anyone who wants to dip in without committing to a 10k+ fic. No disrespect meant to Foxiyo, I included it because I prefer the idea of Riyo and the clones as sexually experienced, so a little history helps, and I genuinely believe it motivated The Bad Batch writers to characterize Riyo as a clone rights advocate, i.e. they couldn’t give her Fox because canonically, he’s dead by the time “The Clone Conspiracy” takes place, so they gave her every other clone in the galaxy instead lolol And so, in honor of the Senator’s de facto status as mistress protector of clones, I give you this. I am both deeply sorry for and profoundly proud of it.

Parts 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7

Rex hurls his helmet across the room. It bounces off the transparisteel and lands between the sofa and the coffee table. He follows after it and sits with a groan on the lounge chair by the windows.

“Feel better?” Riyo stands on the other side of the room and quirks an eyebrow.

Rex looks up, his anger beginning to burn out, and shakes his head. He rests his elbows on his knees, one bouncing to the beat of his heart, and rubs his scalp with both hands.

The passage of the Defense Recruitment Bill had accelerated the clones’ obsolescence. Disgruntled troopers were leaving the Empire in droves, and Rex and Echo were having trouble reaching them. Public assurances from the Imperial Information Bureau maintained that the clones were free to leave and retire peacefully, but Howzer’s intel suggested otherwise.

Rex needed more information before he could decide on a course of action, which meant he and Echo were spending more time on Coruscant than they had planned. They insisted that Trace’s garage was secure, but after witnessing the violent deaths of Slip and her guards, Riyo was convinced that the only safe place for them was her apartment where no one would dare attempt another attack topside. The clones, for their part, thought it best to stay close to their new ally and protect her from any more assassination attempts. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Echo stands in the doorway and turns to the Pantoran guards flanking it. “Why don’t you two get some grub? Rex and I will be up for a while.” He seals the door shut and keys the lock on the panel as they leave.

Riyo kneels in front of Rex. She brings his wrists down and meets his furrowed face with a gentle gaze. “It was never going to be easy, Rex.”

He searches her soft features for comfort and finds it instantly. He sighs, closes his eyes, and leans forward to meet her forehead. She follows suit and finds his cheek with hers, their noses slotting next to each other. She massages his jaw with both hands and presses her lips to his temples, his cheeks, and his nose before lingering on his lips and finding an open-mouthed kiss. 

Rex and Riyo had spent enough nights together that she knew how to soothe him.

Echo looks down, unsure of what to do. He clears his throat to remind them he’s there. “We need to rethink our strategy,” he announces to the air.

Rex moves his lips to Riyo’s cheek with a sigh, steadying his breath. “We need to rest.” A full standard year of building a covert network on his own had started to weigh on the Captain.

“Echo,” Riyo, still kneeling, swivels around to face him while Rex buries his face in her hair and his hands in her waist, “why don’t you take a shower? Rex and I need to—”

“Understood.” Echo eyes the floor and heads down the hall. He’d gotten used to making himself scarce while Rex and Riyo “talked.” Not that he begrudged them their time together — he was happy his brother could find relief with someone like the Senator — but he wishes he could find something similar elsewhere. As it is, his one good hand wasn’t providing nearly enough comfort, and he didn’t dare venture out into the lower levels while clone deserters were still being hunted down.

Echo takes his time in the fresher. He’s giving the Captain and the Senator their space, but he’s also enjoying the clean facilities. The Marauder wasn’t equipped with a lavatory, and the Batch rarely stayed at any one location long enough to secure ready washrooms. They often had to make do with the sink at Cid’s Parlor or otherwise incur another charge per hour to use her shower. Echo was just glad he didn’t have to rush.

When he finishes and exits the fresher, he finds the usual arrangement: pillows and blankets piled on the lounge chair by the window, a tray of food on the dining table, and Rex and Riyo confined behind her bedroom door. The apartment is quiet for now, but Echo knows their muffled sounds will float down the hall soon. Rex always assures him that they try to keep quiet, and Echo always assures Rex that Fives had been worse. They both know that all clones are accustomed to being within sight and earshot of each other’s trysts — unpredictable leaves and voracious appetites had often made every nook and cranny of every Republic base a hotbed for all kinds of sexual activity — but they make the effort to respect each other’s privacy anyway.

After eating quickly, Echo arranges his bed on the lounge chair, lies down, and stares at the lights dancing across the ceiling, the low drone of Coruscant’s nightlife speeding past in shadows. He hopes he falls asleep soon, but a part of him waits for the telltale sounds of the Senator. He’d gotten to know her moans well in the past few weeks, and given Rex’s agitated state tonight, Echo knows she’ll sound especially pleased. And sure enough, her moans reach his ears not long after his hand had found his shaft and started pumping. He closes his eyes and pieces together several scenes.

Riyo on her hands and knees as Rex slams his hips into her haunches. Rex flat on his back as Riyo grinds her hips into his pelvis. Riyo on her back and Rex letting his full weight fall into her with each thrust. Riyo writhing with Rex’s head buried between her thighs.

Echo loses himself in his fantasies. He spits in his hand and finds a rhythm to match Riyo’s moans. He tries to contain his breath, but low groans escape. He’s so focused on release that he misses the sounds from the bedroom stop minutes ago.

“Need a hand?” Riyo’s voice floats soft and light from the end of the hallway.

Echo’s eyes snap open, his hand flies to his side, and he sits up to face her. His feet find the floor, and he tilts forward to hide his erection. “Senator, I-I was, uh… mmm…” He clears his throat, looking for creative inspiration, and finds none.

Rex appears behind Riyo. He’s bare-chested with a Pantoran guard’s purple pants hanging loosely around his waist. He squeezes her side through her silk robe and kisses her cheek before heading towards the kitchen. “Everything alright?” The lilt in his voice and the spring in his step announce his lighter mood.

Echo’s trapped motionless by Riyo’s gaze. She smirks and offers a modicum of relief.

“I apologize, Echo. It must be har— difficult,” embarrassment flashes momentarily on her face, “for you to be here while Rex and I—”

“I-It��s nothing, Senator, really. I-I’m used to it.” He rubs his knee, trying to disperse some of his heat through the cool titanium. “Most clones are.”

“All the same, is there anything I can do?”

Rex chimes in as he crosses from the kitchen, a glass of water in hand. “When was the last time you got any action? You can’t get much time away from Omega and the rest of the squad.” He hands Riyo the glass and extends an arm to the wall, framing her as they face the windows.

The clones had never broached the subject before — their mutual reassurances had always been hurried — and to do so in front of the Senator felt like a slap to Echo’s ego. He’s sure that Rex already knows the answer and is just flexing his newly released frustrations and, evidently along with them, inhibitions. Rex watches him expectantly, waiting for a response. Echo looks down, his face starting to warm red, and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I haven’t had much free time since Skako Minor.”

Riyo looks up at Rex who smirks and nods. She crosses the floor, setting the glass down on the corner of the coffee table, and kneels in front of Echo. She looks up and holds his gaze. “Tell me what you want, Echo.”

His eyes go wide, and his face heats up. “I-I just need some sleep.”

Riyo looks down in his lap and back up to his eyes. “Are you sure that’s all you want?”

“Echo, it’s fine.” Rex sits in the armchair on the other end of the coffee table. “We’ve talked about it. Besides, it wouldn’t be my first time sharing someone with a brother.”

Echo shifts as if slapped, shocked less by Rex’s admission — valuable currency among troopers of the 501st were stories of catching glimpses of the Captain's liaisons — and more by Riyo’s calm demeanor. She watches him carefully. Her face betrays no surprise or apprehension, only a warm and steadying openness.

He had had his fair share of exploits before his capture by the Separatists — his promotion to ARC trooper had been accompanied by an increased interest in his downtime — but never with a politician, someone with enough power to render his life moot with a few well-placed words. He pries his eyes from the Senator and addresses the Captain. “Fives?”

Rex nods. “Mm-hmm, a few times. I’m surprised he never roped you into—”

“He tried, but I could never get it up.” Echo matches Rex’s candor, his annoyance flaring into bravado. Rex clocks the shift and smirks.

“If it makes you feel any better, Echo,” Riyo rests her hands on his knees, “it wouldn’t be my first time with a few clones. I got to know Commander Fox and a few others from the Coruscant Guard pretty well.”

Rex scoffs. “What do you say, trooper? Let’s show her how the 501st did things better than the Corries ever could.”

Without averting her eyes from the clone in front of her, Riyo speaks up. “Rex, why don’t you clean up while I play with Echo for a while? Join us when we’re ready.”

Rex hums and stands up, giving a curt two-finger salute to Riyo’s back. “Sir, yes, sir.” He disappears down the hall.

“Think you can warm me up for our Captain, Corporal?” Her hands start to travel up his thighs.

Echo tries to smile but is still unconvinced. He raises his scomp link. “Not sure I’ll be up to the task with this.”

Riyo wraps her fingers around his rotating end and shakes her head. “That’s not a problem.” She leans up and meets his mouth with a kiss that knocks Echo breathless.

It had been longer than he could remember since he last met lips as soft as the Senator’s. He yields to her pressure, her motions sure and firm. She brings gentle hands to his jaw and prods her tongue to the seam of his lips. He groans at the contact, opening his mouth and melting instantly into hers. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed just the simple act of kissing, damp and balmy and inviting. He wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her up into his lap. He breaks from her mouth and groans when she lands on his hard shaft.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” she puts her weight on her knees and backs up to sit on his, “did I hurt you?”

“No, it’s just,” he tries to shift their bodies but to no avail, “uncomfortable.” 

Not that the sensations of his hardening cock or tingling skin at the Senator’s touch had changed with his cybernetics and prostheses. Those still felt the same and were all the more comforting for their familiarity. He’d had enough time in his new body by now to know its weight and movements and limitations, but he hadn’t tested out sex with his new shins and scomp link. The few times the Batch had had enough downtime to entertain their appetites all occurred during the war when he was still unsure of himself. Rex was right: Omega had shifted their priorities in ways he hadn’t anticipated and prepared for. He could fight his way through countless battle droids and bounty hunters without hesitation, but he faltered at the thought of sex with the Senator.

Riyo giggles, her cheeks turning lilac, and stands up, taking his hand. “Let’s get more comfortable in the bedroom.”

Echo hears the shower running as they pass the fresher. The bedroom ahead glows blue and white in the darkness, Coruscant’s nightlife continuing to cast its fluorescence through the large windows. The bedsheets are strewn, and as the door hisses shut, he can smell the faint scent of sex lingering in the air, a mix of sweat and cum and Rex’s musk and Riyo’s perfume. She turns around and guides Echo by the hand to sit at the foot of the bed. She kneels between his legs and starts to run her hands up the insides of his thighs.

“S-Senator, I’m not sure—”

“You can call me Riyo, Echo, please.”

“Riyo,” he swallows hard, “I-I’m not sure I can,” he inhales deeply and steadies his breath, “perform a-as well as I used to. I haven’t— since the war, I-I haven’t…”

“It’s okay,” she soothes, pressing her forehead to his and ghosting the rest over his lips. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. I’ll take whatever you give. But,” her hands had found their way to Echo’s fly and freed his turgid cock from his trousers, “can I at least help you with this?” She gives him two slow pumps, and he heaves a long, satisfied sigh.

“Yes, please,” he growls desperately.

Next

[thatmexisaurusrex]

I have a really cute SamBucky stuck-in-a-tight-space mission fic I'm going to post either later tonight or early tomorrow 😆 be on the lookout for it 🥰

[dollfacefantasy]

MAKE HIM DO WHAT I SAY ♡

pairing: older bf!!logan howlett x fem!reader

summary: you and logan make a little bet. who can last longer without sex? as much as he wants to deny it, he's starting to think the answer might be you.

cw: nsfw (18+), smut, p in v, brief daddy kink (one mention)

a/n: a commission for my sweet @sleepyluxe who i love so very much <33 this fic takes place after the events of dofp when things are fixed.

Seven days. One week. A quarter of a month. That's how long it had been since Logan and you had fucked.

It was brutal. Some may say he's being dramatic, but that's because they've never had the luxury of you. They couldn't understand losing a paradise they've never experienced. The past several days he's felt like a man wandering through a barren desert, the oasis in sight but never close enough to drink from. Absolute torture.

Unfortunately, this situation came about because he couldn't keep his mouth shut.

You'd been getting some work done late last Sunday evening. Just a few plans for the upcoming school week. Your fingers punched away at your computer while Logan lay on the bed twirling a stray cigar between his fingers.

"How many more pages you got?" he asked, boosting his head up to glance at you.

At the sound of his voice, you spun your chair around to face him. "Not that many. Just finalizing a few details for the field trip they're taking the kids on next weekend," you said.

"You're not even going. Why're they making you do that?"

The fat stick of tobacco continued to glide between his digits. One of your legs crossed over the other as you watched him.

"I'm not going because I offered to do all the planning," you reminded him. 

Your eyes stayed on the tantalizing movements of his fingers.

"You know you can't smoke in here, so don't even think about it," you said.

He rolled his eyes and puffed air through his pursed lips as if that was an outrageous warning. Sitting up, he put the cigar back in the drawer on his side of the bed. He rose to his feet and began to cross the room in your direction.

"Maybe you should give me something else to do with my mouth then," he teased, his voice lowering to the octave that reverberated with want for you.

Then it was your turn to roll your eyes. You turned your chair back toward the desk and continued grazing your fingertips over the raised letters.

It didn't deter him though. He kept on in your direction, stopping only when he was directly behind the backing of your seat.

His hands landed on your shoulders, fingers massaging the tight muscles fanning out from your neck. He leaned forward so his head hovered beside yours. You could hear each breath he took. The smell of that cigar lingered around his form even if he hadn't lit up tonight.

"C'mon, babydoll. You've been working so hard. A little break won't hurt you," he murmured, lips pressing against your cheekbone.

"I have to have these done by tomorrow morning. Just give me a few minutes, and then I'll be done for the night and completely focused on you," you'd rebuffed him gently.

But that didn't satisfy Logan. When he wanted you, he got you. He proceeded with his tender touches and luring pecks. You remained focused on your work though. He figured he should vary his approach.

"Just let me make you feel good then, honey. Give you some extra motivation," he whispered. His dedicated hands drifted to your waist, squeezing in a way that teased the idea of lifting you up and putting you on his lap. As good as it would've felt to be full of him, you knew you had to get this done.

"You're so bad," you said with a smile, head falling back a little as his mouth moved to your neck, "You act like you haven't gotten any in decades."

"Is that your way of telling me you're getting tired of me?" he teased.

"No. I'm just saying you're insatiable. It's getting to the point where I don't think you could live without me," you responded with a tone matching his in arrogance.

His eyebrow raised, and he pulled back a little to laugh. "That so?"

"Mhm," you nodded. Your sweet eyes stared him down, begging him to disagree.

Looking back, he wishes he could travel through time again to slap any further words out of his mouth. He should've just agreed! Should've told you that you were absolutely right. That he can't live without you, can't survive this life if he doesn't get to slip inside of you at the end of each day. He should've waited the fifteen minutes it would've taken you to finish your paperwork and then gotten laid.

But he didn't do any of that. He had to keep going and dig himself into a deeper hole.

"Don't act so innocent, princess. You're just as bad as me," he'd said.

"No way," you'd huffed, smirking with amusement, "I want you a totally normal amount. You want me like every second of the day. If you could, I don't think you'd ever let me do anything. You'd probably keep me chained to the bed, yours for the taking at all times of the day.

"Like you wouldn't love that. I'm not the one pawing at you every morning, whining about how bad I need it," he taunted.

"Oh shut up, that's happened like a couple times. Every day you're right in my ear, feeling me up. You practically drag me away from what I'm doing when you wanna fuck," you fired back, "I am nowhere near as bad as you."

And then he'd spoken the three cursed words that launched him into this predicament.

"You wanna bet?"

You laughed more at that and nodded again. "Sure. Because I know I'll win."

And that unofficial vow of celibacy was why the two of you had been dancing around each other for the past week. He was starting to feel like that old love song counting the amount of time it'd been since he had you beneath him last. Fifteen hours and seven days or however it went.

You didn't make this trying time any easier for him either. That night he went to sleep with blue balls. The next morning, he woke up to you getting ready. You weren't dressed in your usual style of clothing though. Instead, you had on a dress, Logan's favorite dress of yours. You'd styled your hair real pretty too, letting it compliment your features in the best way.

As his heavy lids blinked open to consciousness, he watched you fasten a shimmering necklace over your collarbone. It sat just above the neckline of the chiffon fabric that adorned your bust.

You caught his waking eyes with your own in the reflective glass, turning to look at him with a bright smile. 

Despite his bleary vision, he could hear the light steps of you prancing over to him. The mattress dipped with your weight as you sat down and leaned in to kiss his forehead. Your fingers slid through his dark hair just the way he likes, with your nails scratching his scalp a little. Worst of all, that close, the scent of your perfume became all consuming. It hit him harder than normal. He wasn't sure if he should blame you or himself for predicting the trials of the coming days.

He hummed in acknowledgement of your presence and nuzzled into your palm.

"Hey, sleepyhead," you cooed, your voice extra soft and sweet. It was too caring to be seductive, but of course, that's where his mind went anyways.

"Hey, baby," he'd mumbled.

"I gotta go drop off that paperwork, but I'll see you later. I love you," you whispered in return before laying one more column of kisses from the tip of his nose back to his forehead.

Then you'd left, leaving him half-hard and yearning for you. A pattern that would plague him over the next week.

Each day it was some new form of torture. The day after that, you'd worked extra hard in the danger room, coming back to him at night covered in a light sheen of sweat. Your heady natural scent filled the bedroom in moments.

The following afternoon, you wanted to cuddle when you both had some free time. The fact that you draped your leg over his torso, slotting your clothed cunt right against his hip, inches away from his cock, was pure accident of course.

Over the last few days, your games have become less specific. You peppered your speech with innuendo. Looked at him with your fuck-me eyes and spoke in the tone you always used seconds before he ended up bending you over the nearest surface.

He tried to fight back, he really did. He stopped wearing a shirt in your shared room. Every time he talked to you, he made sure to rub your ass or stroke your cheek. He was so desperate he stooped to embarrassing levels of lovey-dovey when the two of you were alone. But no matter what he tried, it seemed like you'd been right. Of your pair, you had the superior restraint.

With each passing hour, his frustration grew.

Today, it reaches its zenith.

The mansion is empty because it's Sunday. All the students and other teachers are out on the trip to the observatory today. You and Logan are the only remaining residents in the school. He ended up not having to tag along with the rest of the group after volunteering to fix the sprinklers bordering the school's patio. Babysitting kids had never been his forte even with all the practice he gets at it now. Simple handiwork he could do no problem.

The two of you take the morning to sleep in. This was a rare occasion where no early meetings or classes occupied your schedules. You stay tangled up together well past sunrise.

Logan is the first to leave the warmth and comfort of your embrace. He pulls himself from the nest of pillows and blankets, stretching his limbs out as he does. He rubs the tiredness from his features before rising and heading to the wardrobe to pull on some clothes.

In addition to his normal black t-shirt and jeans, he grabs the tool belt on his way out to the lawn. He slings it around his hips before walking through the back door. Heading past the basketball court and rows of hedges, he finds the line of leaking sprinklers besides them. It would probably take him a while given that he had to first identify the source of the problem and then recalibrate all of them with the adjustment.

He sighs but gets to work. At least he'd have a distraction from the desires haunting him.

Crouching in the dewy grass next to the little faucets, he begins examining the hard plastic shells. To his surprise, scanning for breaks does attach his mind to the task and give him a brief reprieve. It's quiet outside. Besides a small chirp from a distant bird or a grunt out of him, no other sounds echo over the open space. The sun shines in the sky, but it's not beating down on him. The air tickles his skin with warmth but not to the point of being miserably humid.

All the conditions meet in the perfect middle to keep him calm. It's the most peace he's had since he agreed to this bet between the two of you.

But all that tranquility is shattered about a half hour later when he hears the patter of footsteps against the stone pathway. From around the tall thicket of green foliage, comes you. Your face breaks out into a smile the second you burst into his vision. He would look the same if not for what you'd decided to wear.

You trot over to him across the grass in a pair of tiny black shorts with lacy frills on the hems. They sway with each of your movements, highlighting the shape of your legs. A gray camisole graces your upper half; a delicate white bow sits at the center of the collar, dead center between your breasts. The fit of the garment displays the contour of your chest just right. He feels like he's gonna start drooling before you make it near.

Despite his reaction, the outfit wasn't that provocative. It wasn't like you'd strutted out in lingerie. But he was so pent up that a flash of your ankle in the proper lighting could probably get him hard.

Bounding up to him, you wrap his body in a tight hug. Every curve of your form presses up against him.

"Look at you, working so hard," you praise playfully with a kiss to his cheek.

He laughs it off, returning the hug in an attempt to be normal, so you wouldn't see how vulnerable he was right now, how this was the perfect opportunity to strike. He couldn't let you know that in this moment, he could easily become the prey.

"Were you missing me already?" he asks, rubbing his free hand up and down your spine.

"Mhm. Woke up and you were gone," you reply. You nuzzle the crook of his neck, planting a few electric kisses on his skin.

"I didn't wanna wake you. You're pretty cute when you're sleeping," he mutters.

"Well now I'm gonna be cute out here with you," you say and pull back. You peck his lips one more time before plopping down in the grass behind him.

He glances back at you to see what that means. All you're doing is sitting there. Your legs extend out in front of you, straightened for his eyes to rake over. You lean back with your palms against the moist greenery below you.

"You don't got anything better to do with your day off?" he asks.

That earns him a small pout. "If you want me to leave, I will. I just wanna spend time with you."

He can tell by your tone that your intentions aren't so innocent. You're leading him into allowing your presence. But denying his girlfriend has never been one of the wolverine's strengths so of course, he acquiesces.

"Relax. I'm not telling you to go anywhere," he says as he turns back to his work, "I just don't think this will be that interesting to you."

"Watching you do anything is interesting to me," you joke back.

He rolls his eyes and gets back to work.

At first, things are smooth as before. He continues messing with the small, bendy pipes. You're quiet behind him. Almost too quiet, but he lets it go for now since he thinks he's found the source of the malfunction.

It doesn't take long to patch up. The more difficult part is going to each individual head and fixing the tightness. His fingers twist the little knobs to the correct settings. He then turns to you when he's finally done.

The sight of you feels like a gust of fresh air filling his lungs. You're laid out where you were before, but you've reclined across the ground. One of your arms is sprawled outwards, soaking up the sunlight while the other lazily covers your eyes. Your shadow outlines your figure against the emerald blades below you.

You look luscious and ripe, like a precious fruit ready to be picked and devoured. In any other circumstance, that's exactly what he'd do. He'd spread you out further for him and take you apart piece by piece. He wanted your nectar running down his chin with each savoring lap of his tongue. He craved the feeling of your heat wrapped around him, your walls massaging his shaft during every punishing thrust.

Imagining it now only gets the blood pumping down South to his hardening length.

He runs a hand over his hair and sighs. Why didn't he do that now? What was the point of this stupid fucking contest? It's not like there was anything on the line. The only stake was his pride, which to be honest, he'd already compromised for you multiple times over the course of your relationship.

Unbuckling the leather from his waist, he discards the tool belt. Next he peels his shirt from his body and tosses it to the side.

He makes his way to you on the grass. He drops to his knees and leans forward. His muscular frame cages you in against the ground. Starting at your navel, he drags his nose up your body. He coasts over the valley between your breasts and past your collar bone. His soft exhales breeze across your throat before he finally reaches your cheek. With a gentle pull, he clears your arm from your face.

Your eyes flutter to adjust to the sunlight beaming down on them again. They take in the vision of him so close to you and the way he gazes down with adoration.

"Hey, pretty girl," he says, his voice much softer than it'd been before, "You falling asleep on me?"

His thumb rubs over your jawline while the other strokes the crown of your head. A smile blooms across your lips. You can't help it with how he's behaving.

"No... well, maybe a little. I think you were right. Sprinklers are pretty boring," you say.

He grins and leans in to kiss your lips. With the exchange he hopes to communicate everything he doesn't want to say. I give up. You win.

You reach up and cup his scruffy cheeks. Your tongue swipes against his lips, sensing his longing for intimacy. He allows you in, and you deepen the connection. A long breath oozes from your nostrils.

He presses you down against the ground further as your hands slide over the little white streaks in his hair. Your fingers embed themselves in his locks. You feel his hands sliding down your body. They stop at your hips and give the plush flesh a squeeze.

It's obvious what he wants, but in case there was any doubt, his digits then hook around the top of your shorts and give them a tug.

A giggle bubbles up out of you against his mouth. You pull back to look at him with smug eyes.

"Is that your way of admitting I was right?" you ask.

He grumbles and ducks his head down to start kissing your neck. "Don't get cocky or I'll change my mind."

That makes you laugh more. You yank on his hair and pull him back up to look at you. 

"No you won't," you tease and brush your noses together. Looking into his eyes again, you can see how bad he wants this. "Just say it."

"Say what?"

"Say you're giving in. And that I win. And that you can't live without me."

He gives you a blank stare. Silently, he contemplates if there's any way around this. He wonders if there's a way he can avoid utter humiliation.

"C'mon, baby. Throw an old dog a bone," he grumbles.

Giggling, you shake your head. "Nuh uh. I wanna hear you say it."

He sighs and rolls over, pulling you on top of him. You straddle his hips with learned ease. Your smile glows from this angle. The sunlight above cascades over your frame and only further accentuates your body in your tight clothes. He rubs his hands up and down your sides. His dick is already at half-mast under the denim that covers his lower body. Your heat rests right on top of it, teasing him through the barriers of cloth. It dangles what he could have if he gives you what you want right before him.

The words that challenged you and created this trap for himself came out so easy. Why couldn't these be the same?

To coax him along, you grind down the slightest bit. The pressure's so light and gentle, a mere graze of your mound on the outline of his growing bulge. He hisses at the feeling.

"Just admit it," you say, planting your palms on his chest, "Just say I was right and you were wrong."

He watches you above him, knowing you're not going to drop this. If he wanted this self-invoked dry spell to end, he'd have to make it happen.

You roll your hips down with more force, impatient to hear him comply with your request. A small whimper leaks out of you. He can tell from that sound alone that you're getting worked up. That arousal is beginning to collect between your thighs.

The thought of it makes his need for you almost biological. His hands clamp around your waist and press you down harder. He rocks his up a little to meet your own movements.

"I need you so bad, princess," he sighs, his eyes shutting as he takes in the dull pleasure of you on top of him.

"Then you can say what I told you," you tease.

"What was it again?" he asks as he continues dragging your covered pussy back and forth along his now fully hard shaft.

"Say you're giving in. That I win. And that you can't live without me," you remind him, visibly proud of your victory.

With a sigh, he repeats, "I'm giving in. You win. I can't live without you."

You smile and laugh as if it was the best thing you'd ever heard. Your head falls back with glee before coming up so you can see his face again.

"Actually, can you say that again? I'm gonna grab my phone. That way I can film it this time. I just wanna have a record-" you continue to tease, but you're cut off by your own squeal when he grabs you and flips you back over onto your back. He keeps you quiet by smashing his lips against yours as your back thuds against the grass.

This kiss burns hotter than the last one. His mouth moves with bruising passion as he pulls your shorts down your legs for real. You help him by kicking them loose. His hands roam around over your smooth skin.

He glances down and finds what he thought he felt. No panties.

Eyes flitting back up to you, he shakes his head. "You were gonna give in anyways," he accuses.

"Yeah, but you gave in first," you giggle.

A small growl rumbles in his chest, but he still leans in to pull your tank top up. He brings it across your stomach, letting your breasts fall free as he bunches the material above them. He cups the plump flesh, taking a look at the beauty he holds in his palms. You watch him in the fleeting interval in which you're forced to separate.

"So... since I win, what do I get?" you continue to gloat.

"My dick inside you," he answers as his fingers yank his zipper open and shove down his pants in a similar fashion to your shorts.

"But I'm gonna get that anyways. I think I should get a real prize," you say, aiming to stoke the flames higher.

Your hips get hauled closer across the grass, so fast that you're in danger of having green smeared across your skin.

"I don't think you'll be complaining in a few minutes, ya little brat," he mumbles.

His fist pumps over his cock as he lines it up between your legs. The leaky tip smears some precum over your folds before he slides inside. He groans as he sinks in, cherishing the feeling after the week of its absence.

You're quick to adjust to the stretch. With a sharp breath, your back arches off the grass. He had already snapped back and slammed in again. You knew he wouldn't be patient after being deprived of this. Watching him above you, your eyes study how his chest puffs in and out with harsh breaths. His strong arms extend down on either side of your head, his fists holding clumps of grass between them. 

It's a gorgeous view, but you know it can't beat the feeling.

"Closer..." you whine and grab at his shoulders, pulling him down so he's right on you and smothering your body against the turf, "Missed you, old man."

"How many times have I told you to quit it with that?" he asks as his pelvis begins setting a rhythm.

"Enough to know that I'm never gonna," you say. It's the last thing you can get out before moans shatter your plans to speak.

His warm flesh pounds against yours over and over. Your body rocks with the bounce of him on top of you. It feels so good. The world feels bright again, like you'd transitioned from an existence of black and white to living in color. It was so open out here but also so empty. Like you and him were the only two people on earth.

Your voice tapers off. Words become second to whimpers of pleasure. His hands grope the swell of your ass before returning to your sides for steady leverage.

"We'll have to work on that then," he grunts, "If you're not gonna stop, I'll just have to make sure you can't speak at all."

You preen at the idea, clutching at his muscular shoulders and back. He pants right next to your ear. Each stroke drives deep into you, brushing a spot that had ached for him to touch it again.

"Never wanna go that long again," you babble around whines.

"Me neither, baby. Think you were right. Not being able to feel this pretty little pussy every day almost killed me," he says.

A rush of euphoria flows through you upon hearing that. Your moans become more breathy, more full of need for him. You grab one of his wrists and tug his hand off your hip, pushing it in between your legs.

He knows what you want. His fingers apply some pressure and rub at your swollen bundle of nerves. Immediately, he's rewarded with a whine out of you and a buck from your hips.

"Impatient," he huffs between a set of deep thrusts.

"I won," you retort, "I get to do what I want."

Even in the heat of the moment, he chuckles at your petulant tone. His hips keep rutting against you on the grass. He's sure his next task of yard-work will be covering the mysterious indents in the soil out here.

"I needa cum, Logan," you whine several seconds later, "So close."

"Yeah? You need it, sweetheart? Need to let it out after keeping it from me for so long?"

Your head bobs up and down in an enthusiastic nod. "Please, please, please."

"Well, it's like you said. You won. So I think you can finish when you're ready."

"Mmmm- o- ok..." you whimper out.

Your hips roll up and down to reciprocate the fast pace of his own. He's battering right up against that special spot inside you that makes your mind blank and your eyes gloss up.

With a handful of whimpers, you cum. Your face scrunches as your cunt tightens around him. His fingers keep up the same rhythm on your clit, swirling around the little bud through your pleasure high.

"That's my girl," he praises, "Let it all out for daddy."

Your body seizes up at that command. Every cell of your being somehow knows to obey. You stumble over words and let them leave your lips half formed.

He keeps driving into you as you're coming down, chasing his own release. You're well into the territory of overstimulation now, all parts of you fizzling like a lit sparkler.  Your thighs quiver against his sides violently. They lock around his waist when you finally feel him slam in and drain himself.

A loud groan erupts from him. He makes no effort to restrain it given that only the two of you are here to hear it. He fucks it into you, ricocheting himself against your center a couple more times and letting every last drop pour into your dripping hole.

When he feels sated, at least for the moment, he reluctantly pulls out. He takes a couple deep breaths as he watches a bit of his cum ooze out of you. It didn't matter though. That wouldn't be the last load you took today.

His body topples over next to yours on the natural ground. You both lie there for a few moments catching your breath before you roll onto your side to look at him.

You just stare for a few moments. Your eyes roam along the shape of his face to the slope of his jaw and the curve of his chest. Leaning in, you kiss the space below his ear.

He responds to the touch by curling his arm around your waist and pulling you to his side.

His head turns to meet your loving gaze.

"I think we have some more time to make up for," he says.

You respond with an eager nod and hop up to your feet. Both of you pull on the basics of the clothes you'd been wearing before and rush back into the mansion, giggling as you stumble through the halls like a couple of lovesick teenagers.

The door to your room stays shut for the rest of the day. You spend the remaining hours you have enmeshed in each other; intertwined with him enough to recover from the lack you'd put yourself through.

Logan doesn't venture beyond the barrier of your shared sanctuary until the sun has gone down and darkness coats the halls of the mansion.  He walks quietly, taking his steps carefully to ensure none of the wooden planks beneath him creak.

All he had to do was go downstairs and grab you some water. In and out. Five minutes. But as he rounds the turn into the room, Scott's already there, looking through the fridge. He freezes and stands there awkwardly in his black tank top and loose sweatpants.

Having heard the sounds of his footsteps, the other man glances over at him. 

"There you are. Didn't see you around when I got back," he says simply.

Logan shrugs, trying to play it casual. He walks across the room toward the cupboard that holds the glasses. The other man's eyes follow him. He can feel that even through the scarlet shades on his face.

"Haven't seen your other half either," Scott continues.

Logan can tell from the tone of his voice where this is going. 

"Don't call her that," he scoffs, forever downplaying his attachment to you, "She's tired. She's upstairs sleeping."

"On her day off? I wonder what would have her so drained," Scott replies. His tone is flat in contrast to the little smirk on his face.

"Don't start," Logan says. He goes to the fridge to fill your cup with water. The trickle of the fluid is the only sound in the room until Scott keeps going.

"I didn't say anything," he says, raising his hands in surrender, "Only that this is the best mood you've been in all week."

"A couple hours without you around does wonders for me," Logan grumbles, wishing the liquid would pour a little faster.

"I'm sure. A couple hours with no one else around. Just the two of you after you've both been stiff the whole week," he taunts, "It's ok to admit you're whipped."

Finally, the cup is full. Logan takes it and turns away, holding one finger up as he walks from the kitchen.

"See you tomorrow, Scott."

"Yeah. Tell her if she's feeling sore, she can skip the early meeting," he says with a little laugh.

[cynicalmusings]

i’ve barely written any hmc today, which suffice to say isn’t great. i thought chapter sixteen would be easy to write, but that is not the case. the main thing holding me up is how to slip details, foreshadowing, exposition, etc. into the dialogue without it coming across as too obvious or unnatural. i’ll get it done eventually, but unless the writing gods shine every ounce of their power on me, it definitely won’t be by the end of the weekend.

[husbandjoel]

we can’t be friends | bob reynolds

read pt. 2 here!

summary: bob always wondered why you didn’t favour him over the rest of your team. until he learned that you had unsettled the bones of the tva.

pairing: bob reynolds x fem!reader

word count: 4.1k

content: just a silly fic! heaaaavy amount of dialogue. bob is a yearner for readers attention, yelena being a menace, tva mentioned (not entirely accurate for the sake of the plot), a little bit of angst between two lost soulmates. finding nemo mcu crossover if u look into it

a/n: inspo taken from the we can’t be friends mv! i love a good invisible string soulmate trope. i have an idea for a pt 2 but idk if this is a good read to start off with

Bob didn’t understand.

There he was, swaddled in self-conscious agony, hands wrung when he stammered out to you to ‘break a leg’ for the upcoming mission that he and — on this occasion — Yelena Belova had been benched for. The widow sat at the alcove in the Living Quarters with her eyes glued to the New York City skyline when Bob queried if she would wave the rest of the team off.

She did not.

Courageous enough, Bob waited on the sidelines for you to finish the prep of your tactical gear, a faint smile on his features when you returned his gaze. It was on the cold side, your fleeting glance, that is, and Bob swallowed the lump of shyness in his throat to just talk to you.

The conversation concluded how it always had. You thanked Bob for his well wishes, a strained smile that never met your eyes and Bob couldn’t quite pinpoint what your problem with him was. You were never inherently mean to the guy, relatively polite in minimal conversation before scarpering off to the other end of the room before Bob could finish his sentence. He started to joke that you were his own version of an Irish Goodbye.

He awkwardly waved at your back, quick to make it look as if he was catching a fleck of dust when he noticed you didn’t spare him a look over your shoulder.

There was something niggling in the bones of his body about you. A magnetic force that kept drawing him to you, and yet, you would repel in the opposite direction and Bob was left gluttonous, the need to around you was much greater than any embarrassment he momentarily felt when you stepped away to leave him high and dry.

Of course, Bob wasn’t harassing you. In fact, you had your own little quirks that explained to him that you were happy to be situated in proximity to him; just not long enough to delve deeper into each other’s personal lives.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine had recruited you out of the blue, and the Thunderbolts* — now reclaimed as the New Avengers — were left scratching their heads at the newest addition after New York Times had printed the heroes cemented in the group in black and white. She had hinted that you were potentially a temp, community service if you read between the lines.

Nobody had heard of another vigilante scouring the streets of New York. Yelena, naturally, wanted to peek at the cards close to your chest. Albeit a fond friendship that blossomed between Yelena and you, she hadn’t quite cracked the code to opening Pandora’s Box.

Whilst the perplexity of you weighed heavy on Bob’s shoulders, he retreated back to the Living Quarters to spend the time benched with his nose in a book for distraction. He supposed Yelena would still be brooding in the alcove, the injury sustained caused her to be seen as a liability when Bucky Barnes discussed tactics for their mission. Either way, Bob encouraged quiet time, even if he was in the same room as his friend.

“I’m bored.” Yelena spoke freely after thirty minutes of silence. Bob pinched the sentence he had read up to and looked up to the blonde. She exhaled deeply, knife twirled in her hand, “Can we do something fun?”

He’d bookmark the page for now.

Bob closed the book, “Are—Is this not fun?”

“No.” Yelena was truthful, he’d give her that. Her temple pressed against the glass of the window, “I want to move my limbs, Bob. You should to.”

“I did. I washed the dishes.” Bob said obliviously and Yelena scoffed. He added quickly, “What, uh, what do you wanna do then?”

Yelena sat up, “A little birdie told me there are a stack of confidential files in Valentina’s office. She’s not here. I say, let’s go have a look.” Bob shook his head and Yelena threw her hands up, “Come on, Bob. This is exposure therapy to adrenaline. Minimal chance of us getting caught but if we do, I’ll take the hit.”

The peer pressure was all too soul consuming and that led to Bob jittering behind Yelena whilst she picked the lock to Valentina’s office. He bounced on the balls of his feet, head almost turning 360 degrees at any sudden noises that alerted him of being caught red-handed. Yelena seemed to be taking her sweet time for being a trained assassin, although Bob knew it was partly to make him squirm.

Just as he began to form a sentence to usher Yelena along, he looked back to see the door click and the handle go down with ease — Yelena quick to throw a smug look over her shoulder. They crept in, Bob bumping into the back of Yelena with a mutter of an apology for not paying attention.

“Stop being so twitchy.” Yelena whispered, “It’s OK.”

“Sorry.” He apologised again and his eyes scanned the office for any obvious sign of stacked files that screamed confidential.

Yelena spotted it first. Manilla folders atop of the glass table she would occasionally sit at if genuinely required within the Watchtower, — much to John Walker’s dismay — Yelena pounced at the opportunity to have them in her grasp, fingers smoothed over the red stamp: CONFIDENTIAL.

Quick to open, she handed a random one carelessly to Bob as she flipped the first file in her hand open, eyes dropped down the page before scoffing and throwing it to the side.

“Boring.” She muttered continuously.

Bob stared down at the manilla file in his hand, hesitant to open it. There was something about a breach of privacy that made Bob’s skin crawl. Whoever, and whatever was within these files weren’t meant to be seen for his eyes. His sense of anxiety washed up to the feet of Yelena who halted her actions to stare up at him.

“You only have the one file, Bob.” Yelena explained the obvious, “You’re practically innocent with just one file. Read it and we can go.” Bob went to argue his case and Yelena held up a finger, “Uh-uh. Exposure therapy.”

“Right. . .” Bob heeded instruction and delicately opened to the front page. His throat constricting to see an image of you — no — a mugshot of you brandished in a beige jumpsuit with the letters TVA stamped across the right-side of the clothing. Your face struck with confusion in the photo, eyes wide with a collar round your neck. His brows pinched, “Yelena, what is the TVA?”

Yelena repeated, “The TVA? No idea.”

He went to look at your file again, your name typewritten along with other details of your being, your arrest ID and ultimately, your charge. It read: sequence violation and that meant nothing to Bob. Suddenly, he felt rather protective of your file, lifting his gaze to where Yelena sat with her feet up on the desk, invested in whomever it was in the sixth file she had picked up.

He went back to scanning the thick wad of pages in your file, counting his lucky stars that he was an avid reader and could retain information without dwelling on the page for too long at any given time.

Turns out, you had been arrested four times. For the same reason, a sequence violation. Page flipped, Bob felt his mouth run dry at what he could presume was a recitation of your words from the moment you had arrived at the facility where you had been arrested. It started off with questions, you were worried coated with confusion as to where you were. Then, like a sucker punch into his chest, the wind was knocked out of Bob when he read over the sentence in which you asked to be returned to him.

“Have you got anything good?” Bob slammed the file shut when Yelena snapped him back to reality.

A vigorous shake of his head, he stammered, “Uh, no. No I don’t. Just a low level criminal.” The file slowly went behind his back as he talked, “Why do you think Valentina has all these files?”

“I don’t know. I was kind of hoping I’d find something on you know who.” Yelena wiggled her brows and stood, the files slapped against the desk carelessly. Bob gulped as she rounded the desk, “Oh well. I’m going to go eat. . . You coming?”

“Sure.” Bob followed the blonde out, his eyes drifted back to the office as he fidgeted with your file tucked into the back of his pants.

Successful in not being caught, it had been hours since Yelena and Bob’s escapade with the Confidential Files which led Bob, to well, petty theft — but rightfully so — and three hours of endless reading of your script whilst contained at the so-called TVA facility. Things didn’t add up, you were talking in circles, begging to see Bob one more time before they pruned you. He didn’t know what any of it meant. It looked as if it were a knockoff time travel script for a television show.

He would have to ask you.

Once he returned the files to you.

That was also the other complication he faced. He had invaded your privacy, even if you didn’t have knowledge toward the said file. It would be a given that you wouldn’t welcome his questions with exceedingly overwhelming enthusiasm, but as Yelena Belova had boldly put it; it would be exposure therapy.

On the second last page, the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. The selected team bottle-necked out with nonchalant expressions, Alexei going to greet his daughter whilst the rest of you dispersed.

Bob caught you trudging alongside Bucky Barnes, your voices low before you split. On queue, you caught Bob’s attention aimed toward you and offered a meek smile that once again didn’t meet your eyes. He stood, file still tucked into the band of his pants. He was going to do it. Bob had to do it.

Feet shuffling, his body felt aflame when it came close to you. The air thickened with a tension that only he was aware of. Bob was so concentrated on achieving a subtle beeline to you, that his brain stopped sending signals to the movement of his feet, sending him flying across the floor after he tripped over his own foot.

Hands came out to brace the impact, a lot softer than anticipated, Bob looked up to see Alexei who gripped onto the collar of his favoured blue sweater, exposing his midriff and ultimately, the files hidden beneath the fabric.

Curiosity killed the cat and Alexei plucked the folder from Bob’s waistband.

“Now, what do we have here?” Alexei boomed as he held the folder that Bob had pickpocketed from the locked room. Pinched between two fingers, it dangled in front of Bob like bait. Alexei shook it a little and one sheet of paper floated to the floor.

Chaos ensued as Walker, Yelena and Bob went to grab the paper, two for inspection, one for protection. Bob felt Yelena push on him, her teeth grit from the force it took. Walker managed to grab the paper from Yelena’s weakened grasp, his hand crumpled it slightly as he snatched it; grunting as he stood tall with pride.

Bob immediately let Yelena out of his grasp, a protest formed on his lips when Walker smoothed out the page, his brows furrowed as he drank in the contents of the paper.

Blue eyes shot up from the page and to you.

You let out a nervous laugh and set your mug down on the countertop just as Yelena snatched it from Walker and scanned it briefly; her eyes matched John’s to stare at you.

“Have I got something on my face?” Your joke was weak, unnerved by the silence that was met after reading a bit of paper. Anxiety coiled up in your stomach, “Seriously guys, you’re starting to freak me out.”

Yelena plucked the page out, her glance not missing Bob as he cowered in shame when she passed. You watched her with worry as she crossed the gap and extended her hand, the crumpled page flimsy in structure as it exposed its contents to you with ease. Brows pinched, you took the paper and read through it, a flash of realisation crossed your face before it dissolved; replaced with a confident streak.

You huffed a falsified laugh, handing the paper back to Yelena, hands clasped around your mug — Bob not missing the way it shook — as you took a large swig of scolding hot tea, not phased.

“Are you going to explain that?” Walker prodded at your nonchalance.

“There is nothing to explain.” You replied, eyes flicked to Bob for a brief millisecond, “It’s a fake document. Valentina called it some Witness Protection decoy — I don’t know.”

“It’s quite specific.” Yelena added.

“Right. Specific in nonsense.” You slipped off of the barstool, “They’ll come up with anything these days—Bob? Can I speak to you about that Monstera plant you’re taking care of for me? I found some Classical music I’d like you to play it.”

“I don’t, I don’t have a Monstera—”

You spoke with urgency, “Shostakovich’s 11th Symphony.”

Bob didn’t get your reference, but he sensed it had some underlying code word for ‘We need to talk. Now’ and he adhered, muttering about how he did in fact have a Monstera plant and followed you out of the kitchen and into the hallway, where you were quick to yank him into the Cleaners cupboard.

Door slammed shut, you tugged at the light string and Bob jumped at the rage in your face illuminated by the weakened lightbulb above.

“What the fuck are you playing at, Bob?” You seethed in a whisper, your face red hot as you tried to comprehend the implications of your exposed files.

Bob held his hands up in surrender, “I—Yelena said it was exposure therapy. Breaking into Valentina’s office and looking through files.” He watched as your eyes nearly popped out of your skull, “I didn’t know your file was in there!”

“Why did you take it?”

“I don’t know!” Bob pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes. “I—I panicked when I saw that it was you. It felt wrong that anyone else had it aside from you. I was going to give it to you, I promise.”

You stared at him for a long minute. Eyes pinned him to the spot as you sussed his honesty. Bob, from what you had known, was a man of the incapability to lie. To you, that is. Weakened by your presence, in every Timeline, you could disarm the man with a minute long stare and he would fold easily.

Bob shifted from one foot to the other, lips pulled into a thin line as he awaited your response. Awkward under your gaze.

“OK.”

Bob repeated, “OK.”

“This is fine.” You breathed.

Bob nodded for reassurance. “Fine.” He felt himself emphasise the nod, “Could you maybe explain what it means?”

“Oh god, this is not fine!” The palm of your hand slapped to your forehead as panic weaved through your voice. You began to mutter incoherently and Bob tried to reign you back in which only flared your panic more. “You weren’t supposed to find out, Bob. I promised.”

“Promised who? Hey—That doesn’t matter.” Bob shook his head, “Hey, look at me. It’s OK. This is my fault. If you don’t want to explain it, then I can live with that.” You nodded along to Bob’s words, hanging onto every syllable. He smiled genuinely, “You don’t owe me an explanation.”

Your panic soothed, “I will explain it.” That took Bob by surprise as you added, “I can explain it to you.”

“OK. Great.”

“. . . I’m not explaining it in the Cleaners Cupboard, Bob.”

Bob felt his face grow hot, “Yeah, of course. That makes sense.” He caught your eye, “In your room?”

“The kitchen, preferably. I’d rather a neutral ground when I tell you.”

Foreboding. But, Bob respected your request. Head peered out of the Cleaners Cupboard, Bob ensured that the coast was clear before he ushered you out and he watched the back of your frame scarper off to your bedroom, head down as you ignored John Walker speaking directly to you on your way.

Neither of you peeked your heads from your rooms until much later after endless pacing performed by the pair of you, in every square footage of your bedrooms.

The sky grew dark, your ear pressed against the wood of your door as you heard the rest of the team retreat to their rooms for an early night after the escapades on the mission — minus Yelena who still went to bed early in a sulk. Once you had heard Ava’s door click shut, your door swung open at the same time as Bob’s; the pair of you warmed with embarrassment.

“Tea?” You offered once you had reached the kitchen in hushed tones and tip-toes.

Bob sat at the counter, ankles crossed as he tapped his index fingers against the marbled surface.

“No. Thanks.” He declined, his head crammed full with an abundance of questions to ask you. Tea was last on his list of priorities.

Once finished with your brew, the chair scraped against the flooring next to Bob and you took your perched with a weak smile — this is the longest you had spent within close proximity of Bob Reynolds.

It felt unnatural.

“Where do I even start?” You asked rhetorically, breaking the silence and Bob was quick to respond with ‘The beginning.’ with attentive wide eyes. Chest constricted with the weight of your woes, you exhaled and began your explanation, “OK. I suppose you read a lot of the—my files?” Bob nodded, “To water it down, the TVA, Time Variance Authority, preserve what they call the Sacred Timeline. There is one designated Timeline that exists and, on the occasion that it alternates, they enforce arrests and erasure of that said branched timeline for restoration purposes.”

You continued, “Something happened to me, that was viewed as a threat to the Sacred Timeline, and the next thing I know, people armed to the teeth appeared through a portal and took me with them where I was arrested on the charge of a sequence violation.”

“Which was?” Bob encouraged.

“Which was, after the Blip, I had found a company that could wipe memories. Wonder Inc. The Blip haunted me for years after. There was this impending doom that it would happen again, and I desperately wanted to erase those five years.” You paused as Bob slid your mug of hot tea toward you, “I went in, they made me sign a waiver and next thing I knew, the Blip never happened in my head. I came home—bang—TVA were in the house and I was taken away. From my life. And, from you.”

“I have spent years in this endless cycle with the TVA. They took my life away from me and I have chased it back down to where they can’t find me.” It was tedious to explain, but you maintained for Bob’s sake more than anything.

Bob cleared his throat, his heart thumping in his chest, “When you say your life, do you mean—” He gestured between you two and you nodded with a wince. Bob hummed his attention drifting beyond the existence between the pair of you, in the kitchen of the Watchtower at two in the morning.

It was a lot to digest. Even having read the pages — front to back — within your file. It seemed more palatable to Bob when he could read it in black and white. As if it were some conjured up fantasy that stretched beyond the limitations of his own imagination. There you were, explicitly beautiful under the warmth of the candlelight, mapping out a scenario that was far fetched but Bob drank every word you spoke dry.

There had been a life. You and Bob. Intertwined in a daily life and more to the point in love from what Bob assumed. It made his head spin as the steam from the tea you had made him made his face perspire. At least, that’s what he put it down to.

He was brought back when you waved a hand in front of his face. Features expressed concern, a little regret for unfolding a complex situation on a staggering level.

“We can leave it there.” You mumbled and Bob was quick to jump to your defence, his hands reached for yours in a plea, warmth spread through your body from his touch; as if you had been shocked.

“Please.” He almost begged, “I want to hear it.”

“OK. . .” You scratched your brow bone with your thumbnail, “Cruelly, they showed me tapes of my life from the Sacred Timeline, my What If. I was told that, in every lifetime, we are thread together. Defined as soulmates in the entirety of the universe. Every Variant of me, has a Variant of you.”

“Really?”

“We were—are Clownfish in one reality.” You shrugged, “Lifelong mates, with our first batch of eggs. They pruned me, and, well I suppose you’re having to raise a bunch of kids.” You blew into your hot mug of tea with a casualness that brought wonder to Bob. Actually; you sounded insane.

A memory bubbled to the front of his thoughts, “Is that why you got me that Clownfish mug for that holiday?”

“Yes.” As if you sensed his thoughts, you added, “This can all remain hypothetical to you.”

“How many, uh, Timelines, did you—did you go through to find this one?” He ignored your remark. He didn’t want to run on hypothesis. You held five fingers up and Bob swallowed, “And, how did you know this one would work?”

You kissed your teeth, “I didn’t.”

“But, this is as far as you’ve gotten to get back to. . . Me?” Bob pulled at his earlobe.

“Yes.” You leant back in your seat, “I guess — my idea is — there’s been no physical intimacy between us and that means we haven’t branched from the Sacred Timeline. Because, from what I’ve been shown, whenever one of my Variants has kissed you, the screens of the TVA almost blow out.”

Bob could feel himself sweat.

“Oh.” Kissed. You and him. Kissing.

The delicate subject thickened the air and you tapped at the ceramic of your mug, “Which is great news for you. You don’t have to kiss me—Yay!”

“Yay.” Bob stuttered. Was it great news? A little blurred on that one.

Regret filled your chest.

“On that note. I think I’m going to turn in. You should too after that overload of information.” You dropped from the stool and took your favoured mug to the sink. Bob stared at the back of your head, unable to make himself move from his cemented spot. You turned on your heel with a brow quirked, “Bob? You OK?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I’m—I’m OK.” He huffed out.

The pair of you said nothing else. A comfortable silence blanketed over your shoulders as you walked in unison through the darkened halls of the Watchtower — muffled snores heard from multiple rooms. Arms bumped as you walked, you let a soft smile grace your features from the relief of being able to finally speak to someone about your precarious circumstances.

You hadn’t anticipated that said person to be the very core of your being. Longed for from a distance, perhaps more cruel now that, plagued with the knowledge of your love in every lifetime; you could never fully pledge yourself to Bob Reynolds on Earth-616.

Hand on your door handle, you heard the faintest of clicks to inform you that your bedroom door was now unlocked. Door creaked open just a crack, your actions halted when Bob’s voice cut through the silent air.

“Hey—” He spoke your name and your heart jumped. You turned to look at him, his hair disheveled and eyes bright under the moonlight tones. Just as you remembered him in every lifetime. Bob continued with your devoted attention, “What did you mean by Shostakovich’s 11th Symphony?”

You let out a laugh, “Oh. It’s a piece of music that has slight restless urgency to it. I needed to speak to you urgently. It just coincided with the whole Classical music punch I threw at you.”

“Right. Smart.” Bob was impressed. His mouth moved before his brain, “Have we ever been Classical music lovers?”

“Goodnight, Bob.”

“OK. Goodnight.”

The pair of you beamed on the other side of your closed doors.