#reader x scream

[zephilyr]

I’M SO NORMAL ABOUT THIS

[em1i2a3]

The Greatest Light Is The Greatest Shade

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

Summary: You return back to the compound a week early from an initial two week-long mission, only to find Bob asleep in your bed.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob and everyone else are in this story. Fluff and Smut, that’s it, that’s the tweet lol Oh and also Reader and Bob have an established friends with benefits relationship.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it before you tap it…or don’t I mean…All up to y’all lol), Biting/Marking, Praise/Worship Kinks (because sometimes we all need that), Bob gets a little dominant in this fic, Dirty Talk, Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Scratching, Choking (if you squint, it’s not extreme though, like just holding), Breast Worship.

Author's Note: This is like a combination of two requests because it made a lot of sense to just combine them in a nice little wrap. Both were from anon users so if these were your requests, thank you! (Requests were: Bob getting a confidence boost in bed, and Bob liking the act of marking the reader/biting the reader)

Word Count: 9,119

You and Yelena weren’t supposed to be back at the compound for another week.

But missions had a way of unraveling differently when the two of you were left to your own devices–strategic, relentless, and just a little bit impatient. You didn’t linger. You didn’t overcomplicate. You didn’t sleep much, either, which probably explained the record time.

You’d cleared the final objective in less than forty-eight hours, ghosted the cleanup crew, and caught the first unmarked flight back to the States before anyone could slap a new assignment on your desk.

Efficiency had its perks, and so did chronic sleep issues.

Because the truth was–if you’d stayed another night in that motel with its scratchy sheets and the whine of traffic bleeding through the windows, you might’ve clawed your skin off. You hadn’t slept more than two hours in a row the entire time you were gone. The bed was too stiff and the air was too stale. You’d tried your usual tricks–white noise, stretching, sleeping pills stolen from the med kit–but nothing worked.

Your body just didn’t settle when you weren’t home.

And it wasn’t even just about your own bed–though you missed the way the pillow fluffed perfectly around your head, the subtle citrus-and-cotton scent of your detergent lingering in the sheets, the familiar groove in the mattress where your weight naturally settled.

It was about his bed, too.

Bob’s.

Because the only real, uninterrupted sleep you’d gotten in the last few months had been tangled up in him–skin warm, limbs heavy, his breath soft against your neck as he pulled you closer and laced your fingers with his beneath the covers. You remembered the way he kissed the dip beneath your ear just before he fell asleep, how he always muttered something quiet against your bare shoulder, like he didn’t want you to know he needed this as much as you did.

But you did know. Because you needed it too.

That was the problem with the whole friends-with-benefits arrangement–it had rules, boundaries, expectations. But somewhere along the way, you stopped following the fine print. Somewhere along the way, you started looking forward to him more than the orgasm. You started memorizing the shape of his hands, the way he curled into you when he thought you were asleep, the sound he made when you ran your fingers through his hair just right. The pillow talk that both of you would have post sex, tangled up within one another–joking about another round before giving in.

You missed him.

Not just the sex, not just the heat of his mouth or the way he whispered your name when he came–you missed all of him. His nervous smiles. His soft voice. His quiet steadiness. You missed the way he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you wanted him back. The way he understood that the only reason you weren’t in a relationship with him was because you hated the pressure that it came with, and how you just wanted to be–because labels just complicated things.

And you hadn’t told anyone–at least not willingly. But Yelena knew. She always knew. The girl could sniff out repressed feelings like a bloodhound, and her raised eyebrow and pointed remarks whenever Bob entered a room had gotten more pointed with time. And Bucky…Bucky didn’t say anything, but he watched. You could feel it in the weight of his gaze when you sat next to Bob at the kitchen counter, or when you reappeared from ‘relaxing in your bedroom’ wearing a hoodie that definitely wasn’t yours.

Still. None of them had said a word. Not directly at least, and the both of you were immensely grateful for that.

The elevator doors hissed open at 2:04 a.m., depositing you and yelena into the compound’s dim, and mostly-silent common room.

The air inside was nice and cool against your burning hot skin, it was crisp with the faint scent of fresh laundry. Everything felt still, as if the whole building itself had decided to turn in for the night completely.

Except for Bucky Barnes, apparently.

He was sunk deep into the corner of the oversized grey sectional, one arm slung over the back, the other nursing a steaming mug of coffee–you could tell because of the lingering odor of the roasted beans that stuck to the air. He didn’t even flinch at the sound of your boots–just glanced up, eyes cutting over the rim of his mug as the glow of the television flickered across his face. The screen was playing something low-budget, or at least it looked like it–judging by the terrible stick on mustaches and the VHS tracking lines.

”You’re back early,” Bucky said, sipping from his mug.

“No, you’re just up late,” Yelena shot back, dropping her bag on the ground before veering toward the kitchen without missing a beat. Your suit–a cross between tactical armor and a flight suit– creaked with each step you took, the joints still tight from hours of wear. You felt grimy and stiff, a little windburned, and very much like a human shaped knot of fatigue.

”What’d they do, drop you into a war zone or the sun?” Bucky muttered, looking you over. You gave him a half-smile.

”Maybe a little bit of both, it was terrible over there.” You replied, turning your attention to the television.

Yelena yanked the fridge open, her movements sharp with leftover adrenaline. She pulled something out, and tossed one blindly at you without even checking if you were paying attention.

You caught it without turning, fingers wrapping around the chilled plastic in mid-air.

”Still got it,” Bucky said with a low chuckle, grabbing the bowl of popcorn beside him as Yelena walked around you and dropped herself onto the open space he had made for her.

”I never lost it Barnes.” You replied, cracking open the cherry flavoured electrolyte drink, hearing it fizzle. Yelena chugged half of it in one go, before reaching for the remote that was on the armrest.

”What is this?” She asked, pressing a few buttons absentmindedly, flipping through the menu with obvious disdain, “This is what you stay up late watching? Are you eighty-five?”

”No, I’m a hundred and ten thank you.” Bucky shot back, yanking the remote from her hands, “It’s also a classic.” He mumbled.

”It had bad editing and worse acting,” She retorted, lunging across him to snatch the remote again.

You smirked, shaking your head as they dissolved into bickering over how insufferable Yelena is when she hasn’t gotten enough sleep. The whole room felt hazy, soft-edged in that post-mission, too-tired-to-function way, but it also was safe and familiar, and you were grateful to be home.

You adjusted your bag over your shoulder, taking a sip from your bottle, before turning toward the hall.

”Where you headed?” Bucky called after you, half-distracted by Yelena’s attempt to reach his outstretched hand that had the remote in it.

”Shower, and sleep. Maybe pretend to be dead for a few hours.”

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Yelena chirped, before throwing herself over Bucky who let out a yelp, as you left him to his own demise.

Your mind was already elsewhere. You were thinking about Bob.

Mulling over the fact that this was the longest you’d been apart–almost a full week without seeing him, touching him, or hearing him. Without the little comforts you weren’t supposed to be attached to. His voice low in the dark, his fingers tracing letters into your stomach and asking what he was spelling. The stupid way he whispered your name before nuzzling himself into your neck and peppering kisses along your skin.

You had planned on surprising him in the morning. Maybe knock once on his door, and slip inside without saying anything. Maybe you’d crawl into his bed beside him and wake him up with your mouth on his neck just to see if he’d pull you in close and wrap those long muscular arms around you like he always did.

Because a week was just too long, and you’d missed him more than you were ready to admit.

You padded softly down the hall, the compound’s hush closing in behind you like a slow exhale. Even the low chatter of Yelena and Bucky was swallowed by the distance, replaced by the click of your boots and the faint buzz of the overhead fluorescents.

Your hand grazed the cool metal of your doorknob.

You were still smiling to yourself, still replaying the plan in your head—how you’d toss your gear on the floor, shower off the grime of the last two days, slip into something barely-there, and sneak into Bob’s room just after sunrise. You’d press your lips to the warm edge of his jaw and whisper something teasing just to feel the way he twitched beneath you, sleepy and flustered and already halfway gone before he could even open his eyes.

You turned the knob and pushed the door open, and froze dead in your tracks.

The first thing that hit you was the heat. Your room always ran a few degrees warmer than the rest of the compound–partly because of the old HVAC in this wing, and partly because you liked it that way. It was cozy.

The second thing that got you was the sight of Bob.

He was asleep on his stomach, sprawled across the middle of your bed like he had slowly melted into it. His broad shoulders stretched across the mattress one arm tucked under your pillow, the other draped loosely across it like he had purposely fallen asleep like this–with his face smushed into the corner of it. The sheets had twisted around his hips–barely clinging to the edge of the dark grey boxer briefs he was wearing, the elastic just visible beneath the soft crease of his lower back. His hair was a mess of light brown, mussed-up locks, pointing out every which way like he had run his fingers through them a few times.

The soft glow of your bedside lamp–the kind that automatically flicked on to its lowest setting when you entered–cast him in warm amber. His skin looked almost sun-kissed in it, flushed faintly at the back of his neck and the slope of his spine. He was breathing slow and deep, so still and peaceful it almost felt wrong to look at him too long.

Your hand was still curled around the doorknob, but your heart had already stepped into the room.

Bob was here. Asleep in your bed, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And something about that–about the ease of it–unraveled you more than anything else had all week.

You slowly eased the door shut behind you, careful not to let the latch click too loudly, and took one silent step inside. The scent hit you next. Not just the familiar blend of your detergent and body wash–but something softer, earthier.

Sage.

You turned your head slightly, and there it was–your little ceramic humidifier, the one shaped like a curled-up fox, softly misting by the dresser. The blue glow around its base was steady and calm, casting soft shadows across the wall behind it. You hadn’t used it in weeks. But now it was on. Filled. Set to the exact setting you always used when you had a headache or couldn’t sleep.

Your brows knit gently together.

Your gaze drifted lower–to the corner of the room where you normally threw your clean laundry in a pile you meant to fold but never did. But the pile looked…Different. Smaller. Neater. Not folded, exactly, but gathered. Arranged in the exact order you usually pulled from. Undergarments on top. Tanks and sleep shorts just beneath. Even your favorite oversized tee–the threadbare Stark Expo 2019 one–was sitting on top, freshly laundered and smelling faintly of lavender-softener.

”Well…I’ll be damned.” You whispered to yourself, because you didn’t remember doing all of that before you left. You slowly shrugged your bag from your shoulder and set it down near the desk, careful not to make a sound. Your eyes lingered on the little details around the room–how the cord for your phone charger had been looped up neatly instead of left in a nest on the floor, how your glass of water had been refilled with ice and placed beside your nightstand book, how even the trash can had been emptied.

He hadn’t just been waiting for you.

He’d been looking after you.

You toed off your boots and unzipped your suit with aching, quiet fingers, each movement deliberate. You peeled it off your body, layer by layer, until you were left in just a sports bra and a thin pair of cotton briefs. You crossed the room slowly, the floor cool under your bare feet, and slipped into the en suite with a practiced ease, fingers grazing the wall as you flicked on the light.

You immediately noticed the warmth–thick and faintly humid, clinging to the corners of the tile like the room had been wrapped in a blanket not long ago. It smelled like steam and soap and something else. Something sweeter.

You stepped towards the shower and breathed it in more fully.

Raspberry and basil.

Your shampoo. It was a weird scent combo, one you’d picked half on a whim and half because it somehow stuck in your head every time you used it–bright and green, but soft, with just enough fruit to make someone lean in and ask what it was. You hadn’t brought any with you on the mission.

But now… it was definitely lower than you remembered leaving it.

Your fingers brushed the bottle on the corner shelf. Same with the conditioner. Same with the body wash. All just slightly more empty than they should’ve been. The labels slick with residual condensation, freshly handled.

Your gaze flicked to the sink.

There were tiny flecks of stubble around the drain–barely noticeable unless you were looking for them. Not quite enough to be careless. Just enough to suggest he’d shaved in a rush and hadn’t cleaned up every last piece. Bob always got a little flustered around mirrors. Too many thoughts. Too many selves. You didn’t blame him for not scrubbing them all away.

You leaned on the counter, steadying yourself, and your eyes landed on something else.

His toothbrush, tucked neatly beside yours, with the bristles still wet. You stood there in the bathroom for a long moment, staring at the two toothbrushes resting side by side like they’d always been meant to share that ceramic cup.

Bob hadn’t just been sleeping in your room.

He’d been living in it.

Showering here. Shaving here. Moving around your space with the kind of familiarity you only afforded yourself. Like he hadn’t just been borrowing your room–he’d been waiting in it. Curling himself into the folds you left behind. Slipping quietly into the corners of your routine without disturbing the rhythm, like he’d always known how to match your pace.

And maybe that was what made your chest ache the most.

The realization that he must’ve missed you just as much as you missed him.

Maybe more.

You reached for the shower handle before the weight of it could settle too deep in your bones. The pipes didn’t groan like they normally did, the water just rushed out hot and steady from the spout, steam blooming instantly against the mirror. You peeled off your sports bra and underwear, letting the warmth wrap around your tired limbs as you stepped under the stream.

You tilted your head back, letting the water run down your scalp and over your face, washing away the grime of the last forty-eight hours in one long exhale. Your fingers found the raspberry and basil shampoo, and you worked it into your hair, the scent unfurling in the steam like something sacred. You scrubbed until your scalp tingled, until your shoulders started to loosen under the weight of water and familiarity.

Then came the conditioner, and the bodywash. Each ritual was a little slower than usual, like you were moving through molasses. Your body still felt heavy, but your mind was beginning to quiet. The mission was over. You were home. And Bob was here.

You turned off the water and stepped onto the warm tile, steam curling off your skin in soft ribbons. The mirror was almost completely fogged now, but you wiped a space clear with your palm, squinting slightly at your reflection.

Right at your hip you could see the faint marks of where Bob had bit before you had left, he had said it was something for you to look at when you wanted to think of him. He had this weird thing nowadays where he liked seeing and making little marks on you so you thought about him more than you already did.

A few fresh cuts traced the edge of your shoulder and collarbone–scrapes from the last scuffle, nothing major. A deeper bruise bloomed under your ribs, the kind you’d probably feel more tomorrow. You touched it lightly, then imagined what Bob’s face would look like when he saw it.

He wouldn’t say much. He’d just look. Quiet, brows drawn. Probably reach for you and press his hand there with too much care, like he thought touching it too firmly might break something else.

You grabbed a towel and wrapped it around your body, using a smaller one to pat your hair dry until it stopped dripping. Then you fluffed it with your fingers–messy and soft, but clean–and stepped out into the bedroom.

He was still sleeping, curled around your pillow, the sheet tugged a little lower now, just enough to reveal the defined line of his waist and the way his spine curved like a comma. You let your eyes linger for a breath longer, then padded quietly to the corner of the room where he’d left your clothes.

The sleep shorts were exactly where he knew you liked them. The old blue t-shirt–the one that had started out as his and somehow ended up permanently yours–was still warm from the dryer.

You slipped the cotton over your head and let it fall just past your hips, then tugged the shorts on. The waistband sat soft against your skin, familiar and easy.

You stood there for a second, just breathing, before folding up your towels and stacking them neatly on the edge of your desk.

Without another sound, you padded across the room and eased onto the bed beside him, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. The familiar dip of it welcomed your weight, and you tucked yourself close to his side, your knees brushing the outside of his thigh.

For a long moment, you just watched him.

His lashes cast faint shadows against his cheeks, and there was a tiny crease between his brows like even in sleep he was thinking too hard. The slope of his nose was soft from this angle, and the corner of his mouth was slack, open just enough to let out the faintest exhale.

You leaned forward slowly, and bit his shoulder, gently.

Right on that spot you knew was sensitive–where the muscle met bone, where he always twitched a little whenever your lips lingered there too long.

“Mmph–Ow?” He groaned, more confused than hurt, shifting with a sluggish twist beneath your mouth.

You grinned and pressed a soft kiss to the spot. “Hey, Robert.”

Bob flinched at the sound of his full name, then jolted upright halfway before fully processing–head lifting, eyes wide and blinking blearily through the low amber light. His arm buckled slightly beneath him as he tried to catch himself, sheet slipping further down his waist.

“Wh–What the hell–Y-You’re—you’re back?” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

You laughed, hushed and breathy, and cupped his shoulder to steady him. “Careful, you’re about to fall off the bed.”

He blinked again, jaw slack, still halfway tangled in the blankets and now completely upright. “You–you weren’t supposed to b-be back ‘til Friday.”

“I wasn’t,” You murmured, leaning in closer, brushing your nose along the line of his neck. “But I couldn’t sleep.”

His breath hitched as your lips ghosted over his pulse point.

“Jesus,” He whispered, his hand finally rising–tentatively–to cup your waist like he needed to ground himself in the fact that you were real and he wasn’t hallucinating that you were here. You kissed his shoulder again, then nudged your nose against his ear

“Missed me?” Bob let out a short, almost disbelieving laugh–still breathless, still flustered.

“I–I’ve been sleeping in your room like some sad l-lost dog for four nights.” You smiled against his skin.

“I noticed.”

“I wasn’t trying to–like–move in or anything, I just–your pillow still smelled like you and I–” He cut himself off with a quiet groan and buried his face in your neck. “God, this is embarrassing.” You smoothed your hand along his spine, fingertips dragging lightly through the dip of his lower back.

“It’s not embarrassing. It’s sweet.” He went still at that, and then returned his eyes to you, his blue irises shimmering in the dim lighting.

”Yeah?” You smirked, nodding.

”Very sweet.” Bob’s cheeks flushed with that familiar, helpless shade of pink, as he ducked his head slightly, eyes dropping, but you reached for him before he could retreat into himself again. Your fingers curled gently under his smooth chin, coaxing his gaze back to yours, and then, with the softest pressure, you turned his face fully toward you.

His eyes searched yours for the briefest second–barely a breath–before you leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rushed or careless or clumsy. It was deliberate. Slow at first. Lips brushing lips, once–then again. The kind of kiss that says I remember how to do this. I missed this. I missed you. You angled your mouth against his, deepening it with a quiet sigh that tasted like relief and heat and the week you’d spent without him.

And Bob–God, Bob melted.

Like every bone in his body gave up the fight.

He kissed you back with this kind of overwhelmed gentleness, like he didn’t know how he’d gone a week without this and now he never wanted to let go. His hands found your hips–tentative at first, then a little more sure. He took the pillow and threw it off the side of the bed, before tugging you closer across the bed until you were flush against him, your thigh slotted between his legs.

His lips parted, and yours followed.

Tongues brushing, slow and wet and warm, the kiss deepening with each pass. You felt his breath stutter against your cheek when you nipped at his lower lip, felt the quiet rumble of a groan that built low in his chest and echoed into your mouth.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging gently–just enough for him to gasp into you.

And then he pulled back, barely. His forehead resting against yours, his mouth still parted, pupils blown wide.

“D-Don’t you wanna get some sleep?” He asked, voice rough and frayed at the edges. “You’ve gotta be–exhausted.” You gave a slow smile, your lips still ghosting his.

”I’ll sleep once I’ve got your hands all over me again.” Bob barely registered the words before instinct overtook him.

Your breath had just finished ghosting over his lips when his hands suddenly clutched your hips tighter, and he moved–rolling fully over you with a low, needy groan, pressing you flat against the mattress in one fluid, desperate motion. The way his body stretched over yours, warm and solid and half-draped in nothing but those threadbare grey boxer briefs, made your breath catch with something between a gasp and a laugh.

He was already panting softly, like he hadn’t realized how much he needed this until the second it was offered. His mouth crushed against yours, wetter now, hungrier–kisses landing messily on your lips, your cheek, your jaw, like he couldn’t decide where to start. His hands roamed beneath your shirt without hesitation, dragging up from your hips to your waist, thumbs skating along your ribs like he knew exactly where you wanted to be touched–because he did.

“Y-You’re too dressed,” He mumbled against your mouth, voice ragged and impatient. “How’re y-you still dressed?”

You giggled, tilting your chin back as his lips moved down your neck. “You’re not exactly making it easy to take anything off.”

“’Cause I missed you,” He whined, shameless now, fingers curling around the hem of your shirt and tugging it up in soft, slow inches. “God, I-I missed you and y-you smell like–” You ran your hands down his back, nails grazing his spine.

“Like my shampoo that you’ve been using?” You teased breathlessly, interrupting him. Bob froze for half a heartbeat, then nuzzled deeper into your neck with a groan that was far too pleased.

“Told you I missed you,” He whispered. “You were everywhere in this room but not in it and I just–crap, I needed something.”

His hands slid fully under the shirt now, palms spreading wide over your stomach, smoothing over old scars, faint bruises, soft skin. And then, as gentle as ever, he pulled the shirt up and over your head with one smooth motion and tossed it aside onto the floor.

Lit only by the bedside lamp, his eyes roamed your bare skin like he hadn’t seen it in years. His hands followed his gaze, mapping every familiar slope like he was making sure nothing had changed while you were gone. He cupped your chest with a low, smooth sigh, brushing his thumbs gently over your nipples until you arched into him.

“Still like that?” He murmured, teasing and a little breathless.

“Always,” You whispered. Bob leaned in slow–eyes still dark and wide, lips slightly wet and parted–and pressed a kiss right between the swell of your breasts, leaving a little saliva mark. Then he put another just a little lower, and another.

Your breath hitched as his mouth found the delicate skin at the top curve of your breast, and he sucked gently–just enough for you to feel the sting start to bloom beneath his tongue. His hands cradled you, thumbs brushing under your ribs as he worked his way over the flesh, kissing, mouthing, biting just lightly until you were arching beneath him.

Then he took your nipple into his mouth.

A low, broken moan spilled from him the second his tongue flicked over it–like he couldn’t believe how good it felt to be this close again. He sucked slowly, then a little harder, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, to make your back bow and your fingers tangle in his hair. His hips rutted forward–slow and clumsy at first, then more deliberate. You felt the hot, heavy pressure of his cock through his briefs as it ground against your core, the friction heady and frustrating in the best way.

“God…” He gasped against your skin, mouthing down the side of your breast now. “I-It’s like y-you’ve been gone for y-years.”

His breath was ragged now, teeth sinking into the underside of your breast to leave another mark–deeper this time, and you could feel it purpling as he pulled off. You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders.

He finally pulled back, lips swollen, pupils blown, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. His gaze roamed down your body again–hungry, frantic, and impossibly tender all at once–until it landed on your hip. His thumb skated over the spot.

”I-It’s gone,” He murmured, almost to himself. Your brows furrowed faintly, pushing his hair out of his face.

”What is?”

“The mark I left.” He glanced up at you, a little shy, a little sheepish. “The one I bit into you before you left. I thought maybe it’d still be there…”

You let out a soft laugh, cupping his hot and flushed cheek. “Well, yeah, it healed. It’s not like you can’t give me another one.”

That made his breath hitch.

His eyes darkened just slightly as they dropped back down to your body. “Yeah?” He murmured.

You nodded slowly. “I liked looking at it when I missed you.”

That shy smirk tugged at his lips, the kind that said he was blushing way harder on the inside than he was letting show. Then, without another word, he slid down your body, pressing a few scattered kisses along your stomach until he reached the dip of your hip. He nudged your sleep shorts just enough to expose the skin he wanted, the cotton bunched under his thumbs as he settled between your thighs, his breath fanning warm over your bare skin.

“I’ll make you another one,” He whispered, lips hovering. “Same spot. So you remember.”

The words were almost respectful–but the way he said “remember” made your stomach clench. Like he wanted to brand the memory into you.

Then his mouth sealed over your hip with purpose.

You felt the wet press of his tongue first, lapping softly at the curve of your hip. Then his lips closed over the spot, sucking gently at first–just enough to make your breath catch–before his teeth scraped down with delicate precision. A faint sting bloomed beneath his mouth as he bit just a little harder, pulling the skin between his lips and sucking until heat flared beneath the surface. His hands held you steady by your hips, thumbs pressing into the sensitive dips beside the bones as his mouth worked the mark deeper.

It wasn’t just about the pain–it was the way his tongue soothed the sting after, the way he breathed against you like he was trying to worship this piece of you. Your fingers slid into his hair, jaw slack, body arching into his hold as a slow whimper slipped from your throat. Just like him you enjoyed the process, it was something Bob found out he took pride in doing, it was something only the two of you knew about and that was just scripture at this point.

Then, finally, he pulled back.

Your breath stuttered. His eyes were glassy with heat, lips slick and swollen, pupils wide.

“L-Look,” He whispered hoarsely, leaning aside just enough for you to lift your head and follow the trace of his finger. The mark was already starting to darken–a perfect bloom of bruised skin, flushed deep and raw at the center, fading at the edges like a watercolor stain. Right over your hipbone, exactly where the last one had been.

Your mouth curved into a smug, breathless smile.

And Bob looked absolutely wrecked by it.

You could feel him throbbing against your thigh–hard, heavy, leaking precum in his boxer briefs–and you swore his pupils dilated even more when he saw you smile. His hands trembled just slightly on your hips, the press of his fingers tightening like he wanted to sink into you then and there.

Then, his voice–raspy, shy, so damn sweet it made your chest ache:

“C-Can I take these off?” His fingers tugged lightly at the waistband of your sleep shorts. “W-Wanna…Wanna u-use my mouth. I mean–on you. Go down on you. I–God, I just wanna taste you, I missed you so bad I–” You nodded before he could combust, your hand cupping his cheek again as your thumb brushed across his flushed skin.

“Yes,” You murmured. “Please, Bob.” He exhaled like he’d been punched in the gut. His hands slid lower, slow and reverent, thumbs catching beneath the waistband as he eased your shorts down your legs.

The cotton left your skin with the softest whisper of friction, and then he hooked them around your ankles, slow and careful like he was undressing something sacred.

He didn’t throw them right away. He held them for a second—bunched in his hand—before finally letting them slip from his fingers and fall somewhere behind him with a soft thud. His gaze flicked up.

You’d opened your legs for him.

And that alone nearly broke him.

His breath hitched audibly, chest rising sharp as his hands found your thighs and pushed them open further—just enough for him to settle between them. His pupils were blown wide, lashes fluttering as he took you in, lips slightly parted like he wanted to say something and couldn’t quite remember how to form the words.

But then he did speak.

Barely louder than a whisper.

“F-Fuck… you’re already wet…”

His eyes were locked on the slick sheen between your thighs, his voice shaking with awe and arousal. “I-I didn’t even touch you yet.”

You smiled, breathless, threading your fingers into his hair. “You don’t have to, Bob. I’ve been thinking about this since I left.”

A groan caught in the back of his throat. He dipped his head low, kissing your inner thigh with reverence, lips soft and warm as he moved closer. Another kiss, higher now. Then another. A gentle scrape of teeth. He sucked lightly at the skin just above your knee, then further up–just below the edge of your heat–where he bit down softly and hummed against you.

“G-Gonna mark you here,” He murmured, voice raspy. “Only I’ll know it’s there.”

You felt the nip, the suction, and the soothing stroke of his tongue right after. A shiver ran through your whole body.

He moved higher, lips brushing the crease where your thigh met your pelvis, then gently slid your legs up–guiding them over his shoulders with hands that couldn’t stop shaking. He adjusted slightly, nestling his chest between your thighs, the warmth of him blanketing everything.

And then he looked up at you, utterly flushed, breath unsteady, eyes glassy with lust.

”I-I’m gonna take my t-time…I w-wanna s-savor you.” You nodded, unable to speak, and then he lowered his mouth.

The first lick was slow. Flat and deliberate, his tongue dragging up your folds with aching precision. His groan vibrated into you, low and desperate, like your taste knocked the air from his lungs.

He did it again, slower this time–parting you with careful fingers, exposing your clit, and flicking his tongue over it with gentle laps that made your hips twitch. His hands slid up under your thighs, holding you down, anchoring you as his mouth worked with focused hunger.

He kissed your folds like he loved them–soft and wet, teasing swirls of his tongue punctuated by firmer, sloppier sucks to your clit that had you gasping and writhing. He moaned into you every time your hips jerked against his mouth, like your pleasure was feeding him.

And then–his fingers joined the fray.

He eased one inside you slowly, watching your face the whole time, the stretch just right as you clenched around him.

”Mmm…P-Perfect…” He whispered, barely audible over your breathless moan. He added a second, curling them expertly. You felt the exact spot he was searching for as he pressed deeper, stroking in tandem with the suck of his mouth on your clit. The pace built gradually, maddeningly patient. He knew your body too well. Knew the rhythm that made your thighs start to tremble, knew when to ease off just a little to keep you right on the edge.

He licked you like he was starving, but careful. Worshipful. Like every stroke of his tongue was another way of telling you he missed you, needed you, belonged to you.

One of your hands gripped the pillow behind your head, and the other continued to tangle in his hair, fingers twisting in his soft curls as you gasped out his name.

“B-Bob–”

He groaned again, rutting slightly into the mattress, his own arousal completely unchecked.

“T-That’s it,” He rasped between licks, voice wrecked. “S-Say it again. Lemme h-hear it while I’ve got you falling apart on my mouth.”

And you did.

Because he earned it.

And you were already so close, the coil in your stomach burning with every wet, deliberate flick of his tongue, every curl of his fingers pressing into that perfect spot again and again–

Until everything snapped.

Your back arched. Your thighs shook around his head. His name spilled from your lips again and again like a prayer as your climax crashed over you–hot, electric, and overwhelming.

But Bob didn’t stop.

He moaned into you deeply, slowing only enough to ride out every pulse, every shudder, licking you through it with open-mouthed reverence until you were trembling under him, breathless and overstimulated.

Bob stayed nestled between your legs for a long moment, his cheek resting against your thigh like he couldn’t bear to be apart from you just yet. His chest heaved softly, trying to catch up with the rhythm your body had demanded from him.

And then—still dazed, still breathless—he lifted his head.

His fingers slipped from you slowly, soaked and trembling. He held them up for a second, watching the wet glisten in the low light like he still couldn’t believe how much of you he had, how deeply you let him in.

Then–slowly, modestly–he brought those fingers to his mouth and licked them clean.

One at a time.

He sucked the taste of you from his knuckles with a low, helpless groan, like he was starving, like your pleasure was some kind of sustenance he hadn’t been able to live without all week. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes fanning his cheeks as his lips sealed over the pads of his fingers and pulled back with a soft, slick pop.

Then he looked up at you again–totally flushed, lips wet, curls wild and clinging to his forehead. And he smiled. Just a little. Like he couldn’t help it.

“God, you taste so good,” He rasped, voice nearly broken from the effort of holding back. “Y-You always do. I c-could stay down here forever…”

Your heart gave an answering throb–not just at the words, but the way he said them. Like he meant it. Like it wasn’t just about lust or pleasure or instinct. It was something needful, something devotional.

He pressed one more kiss to your thigh. Then another. His mouth moved slowly, lips soft against your overstimulated skin, kissing up toward the inside of your knee. He nuzzled into the crease where your thigh met your hip, resting there again like he was grounding himself.

“You’re…You’re s-so beautiful,” He whispered, almost shy. “I-I missed every inch of you. E-Every sound, every taste, every time you grab my hair like that–I missed all of it.”

Your fingers stayed tangled in his curls as his eyes met yours–blue and wide and still a little dazed, pupils rimmed with something darker, deeper. You stroked his scalp gently, thumb brushing just behind his ear.

“You’re perfect, you know that?” You said softly. Bob blinked like he didn’t understand the language.

“You’re so fucking good to me, Bob. That mouth of yours should be illegal.” You tugged his hair lightly for emphasis. “You take your time. You listen. You always make me feel like I’m the only thing you’ve ever needed.”

He whimpered at the comment, his cheeks going a deeper shade of red..

Then, quietly, with that fragile edge still in his voice: “C-Can I…Can I be inside you now?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes. God, yes. I want you.” He didn’t say anything after your “yes”—he didn’t have to. The air shifted the second the words left your lips. Almost in a trance, he pushed himself up on trembling arms, body sliding from between your legs just enough for his hands to tug down the waistband of his boxer briefs. He hooked his thumbs beneath the elastic, dragged them over the swell of his hips, and pushed them past his thighs. They caught for a moment on the curve of his ass, then fell to the floor with a soft thud. You could feel your mouth water at the sight of how hard he was–thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, his cock curved toward his belly with a kind of desperate heaviness.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t ask if you were sure again. Didn’t stutter.

He just moved.

Climbed up over you with deliberate grace, his skin flushed and hot, his mouth parted as he kissed a slow trail up your body. Over your thighs, your stomach, your ribs. Each kiss was lingering, lips wet and reverent, like he was soaking you in. He kissed the underside of your breast, then the curve of your collarbone. Then your jaw. Then–

Your mouth.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed. It was hot. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss you don’t come back from.

His lips opened against yours, his tongue brushing yours, breath catching like he couldn’t get close enough. One of his hands cradled your cheek, thumb stroking just beneath your eye, and the other curled beneath your knee, hitching your leg up around his waist until your hips aligned.

Your hand slid down his back, dragging your nails softly along the ridge of his spine. “You’re so beautiful like this,” you whispered between kisses. “So hard for me already. God, I missed feeling you like this.”

He moaned–full-throated, broken–and rutted into you once, the tip of his cock slipping along your slick folds, just barely brushing your clit.

“I’ve got you,” You whispered, cupping his face. “You’ve always been mine.”

That did something to him. You saw it in his eyes–the shift.

The way the stutter disappeared. The way his jaw set. The way his gaze sharpened like lightning behind glass, the little shimmer of gold behind the ring of blue.

It wasn’t just Bob now, it was also the Sentry.

When he looked at you now, it wasn’t uncertainty. It was awe. Command. Like he could tear through the world but would rather be on his knees between your legs, or buried inside you, trembling with the effort of holding himself back just enough not to worship you into pieces.

“Please,” You breathed. “Need you inside me.”

His voice was lower now. Clear. Quiet. Controlled.

“Spread your legs a little more.”

You did, instantly. The commanding tone–still soft, still reverent, but sure–went straight to your core.

He guided himself forward with one hand, the other still cradling your thigh. And then–slow, deliberate–he pressed in.

The stretch was perfect. Your mouth dropped open in a gasp, and his eyes fluttered shut, forehead dipping down to press against yours. He groaned, low and long and helpless as your walls clenched around him, welcoming him home.

“Mmm… So tight… So wet… I forgot how good this felt,” He whispered, his voice wrecked but steady. “You feel like you were made for me.”

”I am…” You responded, your hands threading through his hair, “No one fucks me like you do. No one fills me like you do, Bob. You’re so deep already and you’re not even close to bottoming out…You’re just so fucking perfect.” Bob’s eyes fluttered closed at your words, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he pushed a deeper inside you, until he was fully seated–hips flush against yours, breath shuddering like he was trying not to lose it.

His voice came out strained, barely above a whisper.

“You know that’s gonna get to his head, right?”

Your breath caught, and a slow, knowing smile curled on your lips. You didn’t pretend to misunderstand. You just tilted your head slightly, brushed your nose against his, and played it innocent.

“Hmm?” You asked softly, letting your hips roll up ever so slightly against him, just enough for both of you to feel the perfect stretch again. “What will?”

Bob groaned–deep, desperate–and dropped his forehead against your shoulder for a second like he was trying to physically hide from the pull inside him.

“The way you talk,” He rasped. “The way you say I’m perfect. T-That I fill you just right. You know what that does to him…”

You kissed the curve of his jaw, slowly. “Do I?”

He pulled back to look at you, his eyes now shimmering with something gold at the edges, flickering like lightning underwater. That flicker. That edge. The Sentry wasn’t in control–not yet–but he was listening. And Bob knew it. Felt it.

“I-I don’t think you realize how close he is sometimes,” He murmured, one of his hands sliding up your side, over your ribs, until it cupped your throat. He didn’t squeeze. Just held you there–warm and firm, like a tether. “It’s like…Like you say the right thing and it just flips a switch.”

You blinked up at him, breath catching as his thumb brushed under your jaw.

“Maybe I like flipping it,” You whispered. “Maybe I want both of you.”

That broke something.

Bob’s pupils blew even wider, mouth dropping open slightly as he stared at you like you were the most dangerous thing he’d ever seen.

And then he moved.

In one swift motion, he slid your legs over his shoulders, folding you tighter beneath him. The new angle had his cock hitting deeper–hot and full and unbearable in the best way. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders for purchase as he drove forward with a slow, powerful thrust that made your back arch off the mattress.

He groaned, long and low, hips beginning to snap into you with more force now, still controlled–but rougher. Needier. His grip on your neck stayed steady, anchoring you, his other hand gripping the edge of the mattress like he needed it to keep from breaking apart entirely.

The kiss that followed was messy–hungry and open-mouthed, more teeth than lips. His tongue was everywhere, licking into your mouth with urgency, nipping your lower lip between groans that sounded more like growls now. His hair was falling into his face, damp with sweat, and your nails dug into his shoulders, raking down his back when he hit just the right spot again.

“Oh my–fuck, Bob–” You cried out, legs trembling where they were braced on his shoulders. He was fucking you deeper now, each thrust dragging moans from your throat that echoed in the warm, hazy dimness of the room.

“You wanted this,” He gritted out against your lips. “Y-You wanted him. This is what happens—fuck—w-when you tease him.”

You moaned at the words, high and desperate, your nails leaving crescents in his skin.

“God, yes, that’s what I wanted–want both of you–don’t hold back—”

That lit something behind his eyes.

His hand squeezed your throat gently and he kissed you again, rougher this time, teeth catching your lip before dragging it between his.

“Then you’re gonna take everything,” He growled against your mouth, “Everything…You hear me?” You nodded, gasping, legs clenching around his shoulders.

“Yes–yes, Bob–please—”

And he gave it to you.

All of it.

The Sentry’s strength and language. Bob’s tenderness. That perfect, devastating mix that only you seemed able to call forward.

His thrusts slowed for just a second—just enough for him to look down at you again, to see the way your mouth hung open, the way your eyes fluttered, the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed a breath. His hand was still resting there, warm and firm around your neck, and now he adjusted—his fingers splaying wider across your pulse point, thumb brushing up to trace your jaw, not to control you, but to feel you. To feel the way you beat under his touch. To know you were alive beneath him, trembling and taking everything he gave.

“Feel that,” he whispered, voice hoarse, lips inches from yours. “Your pulse…fuck… it’s so fast.” His thumb pressed just slightly beneath your ear, right where your heartbeat thrummed the loudest. “You do that to me too. Every time.”

Then he kissed you.

Not sweet. Not soft.

Dirty. Starved.

His tongue slid over yours, wet and insistent, lips parted wide as he devoured the sounds you made. He kissed you like he was drowning and your mouth was the only place he could breathe. It wasn’t clean—there was nothing neat about it. It was spit-slick, breathless, interrupted by moans and the shiver of his hips driving into yours. His body pressed you deep into the mattress, your legs still curled up over his shoulders as he leaned forward to pin you there—completely under him, beneath him, owned by him.

His hand never left your neck. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t tight. But it was grounding. Possessive. Like he needed that connection as much as he needed to be inside you.

“Y-You feel so fuckin’ good,” He panted into your mouth, hips jerking deeper, the head of his cock nudging places inside you that made your vision blur. “Clenching so tight around me—so fucking warm—I c-can’t…”

His voice cracked.

And then his hand slid down your body.

Still shaking, still careful. He found your clit with two fingers, thumb slipping low, and began to rub tight, perfect circles–just like he knew you needed.

“Come for me,” He whispered. “Please. Please come for me—I-I need to feel it.”

You whimpered, your body jerking beneath his, the stimulation dizzying—too much and just right at the same time. The stretch of him. The wet heat of his mouth still ghosting your lips. The slow, brutal way his fingers worked your clit with focused desperation.

And then it hit you.

The orgasm ripped through you like a lightning strike–sudden and overwhelming. You cried out, voice cracked and strangled, legs tightening around his shoulders as you pulsed around him. Your entire body arched, back bowed off the mattress, hips lifting to meet every thrust with frantic desperation as pleasure shattered through your core.

“Oh…Oh my–” Bob choked, the way your walls spasmed around him making his rhythm falter. “God–you’re s-so perfect–I can’t–”

He buried himself to the hilt one final time and came with a deep, broken groan, his whole body shuddering.

His forehead collapsed to your shoulder, hand still clutching your throat, not tight–just present. Just there. His hips jerked twice, thrice–instinct driving him as he moaned into your neck, hot and helpless. His cock throbbed inside you, spilling deep with every ragged, breathless cry he let out, each one softer than the last.

He didn’t move for a long moment–just stayed there, trembling, his full weight settling over you. His lips pressed into your throat. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

Still inside you.

Still hard.

Still shaking.

And then–you felt it.

Another slow thrust.

Not desperate. Not sharp.

Just a gentle roll of his hips, pressing his cum deeper inside you, pushing it further with quiet reverence.

“J-Just wanna…Make sure you keep it in you for a bit,” He whispered hoarsely, breath hitching as your body clenched again around the overstimulated head of his cock. “You feel so good when you come…” You moaned softly, your fingers stroking through his hair as he pulled back just slightly–just enough to look at you. His eyes were glassy. Blue and clear, with no gold in sight. Just Bob. Just yours. You grinned, breath still coming in short, shallow waves as he looked down at you–his hair tousled, skin flushed, lips kiss-bitten and wet. You reached up, cupped his jaw gently, and traced your thumb across the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t suppose that means you’re trying to knock me up, huh?” Bob’s eyes widened instantly, that unmistakable Bob expression washing over his features—equal parts scandalized, panicked, and completely enamored.

“Wh–I–I didn’t–I mean–was that–oh my God.” You burst into a soft laugh, biting your lip as he stammered, his face flushing deeper with every attempt at forming a coherent sentence.

“I’m kidding, Bob, you know I’m on birth control,” You whispered, giggling, dragging your fingers slowly through the sweat-damp curls at the nape of his neck. “Jesus, you’re cute when you malfunction.”

He gave a low, breathless groan and shook his head like he was trying to will his brain back into function, but then he leaned down and kissed you again–this time slow, warm, melting into the shape of you with that unmistakable Bob tenderness.

It was his kind of kiss.

Not the Sentry’s. Not some thunderous, desperate thing.

But soft. Full. Devoted.

Like you were something he’d missed every second of the week you’d been gone and needed to relearn with his mouth–your taste, your sighs, the way your bottom lip always trembled just slightly when he kissed you slow enough.

You sighed into it, and his hand slid from your throat to cradle your cheek again, thumb brushing just beneath your eye as his forehead touched yours.

“I–I could’ve said something better than ‘don’t you wanna sleep,’” He mumbled, sheepish, his lips still ghosting yours. “That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever said.”

You chuckled again and nudged his nose with yours. “You say a lot of dumb things when you’re half asleep and hard.”

Bob gave a mortified little noise in his throat and hid his face in your neck, but not before you caught the faint smile tugging at his lips.

You felt his hand drift down your arm, then settle on your waist as he drew small, grounding circles against your skin. His voice was quieter now, steadier–like the heat had cooled just enough for the weight of it all to settle in.

“Do you need anything?” He asked gently. “Water? A warm towel? Another orgasm?” He said it half-teasing, half-hopeful, with a lopsided grin you could feel against your skin.

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed, your fingers lazily dancing across his spine.

“Just this….This is perfect” You whispered.

And Bob–sweet, sincere, utterly yours–wrapped his arms tighter around you and whispered back, “Okay.”

[rissouu]

“the fuck are you doing, woman? you keep wakin’ me up,” sukuna woke up to your tossing and turning in bed. you’d been rolling around for the past hour now, not finding much comfort in the small breeze coming from the window. it was so god damn hot you felt like you were on fire.

the irritation in your boyfriends voice was clear, you almost felt bad for keeping him up, even if it wasn’t intentional. “‘m in pain ryo. i told you i started my period yesterday, my cramps are jus’ now showing up.”

your body was sprawled across the edge of the bed, a shaking mess. you couldn’t stop moving or the pain in your lower stomach would get even worse. you learned that over the many years of being cursed by this cycle all woman had to go through.

“tch,” he took one look at your shaking body through the darkness. the demon would never admit it, but he actually felt bad. he knew about women and how they usually endure this torture every month, but yours had never been this bad— from what he’s seen at least.

“y’think you’d feel better if i..” sukuna trailed off while staring at the pitch black ceiling. “cuddled you? i think that’s what they call it,” his hand played with the hem of your shirt. even though it was dark, he could still feel the gaze of your addicting eyes.

“you don’t have to ryo! i know that’s not your type of-”sukuna cut you off so quick, almost as if he already knew what you were going to say, and he didn’t want to hear it.

within a blink of an eye he gripped at your waist and pulled you closer to him, hands wrapped around you so tight that there was no room for escape. “shut up brat, n’ just let me do this for you.”

you gasped at the quick change in position, still shocked by how fast he moved. sukuna’s body heat was enough to put you at ease and before you knew it, the shaking had finally stopped.

it was probably because of the rather large hand rubbing at the skin of your lower stomach, or the soft hint of cologne engulfing your senses. you didn’t know what it was, but sukuna fixed your problem in an instant. the cramps were still there, coming and going here and there but they weren’t as painful anymore.

maybe now he could finally get some damn sleep.

©rissouu 2024 :D

[euaphora]

Do you have twt links of the girl ridding the guy and the guy being a moaning mess ???

most are just guided masturbation, hope you enjoy regardless!

one | two | three | four|five| six |seven |eight | nine| ten |eleven| twelve | thirteen |fourteen |fifteen

[xitsensunmoon]

"Old habits die hard"

[gutsby]

Father Figure

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Parents’ Weekend looks a little different this year with Joel showing up in the place of your father.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Dad[dy] kink. Age gap. Oral (m!receiving). Premature ejaculation (Joel cums in his pants while he’s kissing you AS REAL LOVERS DO). Drinking and drug use. Gratuitous dad rock references.

Note: We all saw that video. This was begging to be written.

Another note: For a more immersive read of the pregame, listen to my freshman year Kegs & Eggs playlist (yes, it sucks).

Word count: 19.0k

Read on AO3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

Freud would’ve had a field day with this shit.

Really, there was no sane explanation for the obsession that seized you and your friends come Parents’ Weekend every year. But there it went. Again. Like clockwork, all the forty- to fifty-something fathers arrived for their first meal on campus. Like the cock-starved coed she was, your roommate bumped your shoulder as you walked and nodded to the first set of families approaching the dining hall. Out of the pack, you spotted four grey heads.

“Would, would, would, and would,” Aly observed, almost clinically. Her strides were long and resolved in their path

“That one could get it.” Her brother shrugged on your other side. He tipped his chin up, then added: “Look.”

And look you did. The batch of men, women, and all their college-aged children struck you as little more fun to ogle than your average wall of paint waiting to dry. Though the moms and dads were, admittedly, the kind of attractive you rarely saw outside an L.L. Bean magazine—as were all the rest of the kempt and polished crowd that populated your school—you were hungry as fuck. You’d agreed to join your roommate’s family for the kickoff banquet of the weekend, and you needed food. On top of that, you’d sworn off middle-aged men forever.

Aly and her brother didn’t know that, though, so you played the game and trudged ahead. When a handsome blue-eyed man born in 1970-something stood back and held the door open for your trio going in, you had to fight back a smirk at the look Aly gave him after thanking him.

“Oh, he wanted me bad,” she hissed once safely inside.

“Looks a bit like Rob Lowe,” you offered noncommittally.

“What about your dad? Is he gonna be here tonight?”

That last fragment of conversation had come from Aly’s brother, and the curiosity in it was sincere. Then he’d wiggled two dark brows your way and said he bet your dad was a silver fox like no other, and you’d had to roll your eyes before strolling into the wide open dining area. You were late; the food, evidently, was all already served.

“My dad’s at home with a broken femur, so…no,” you answered slowly. Starting to weave your way through a sea of round tables and following Aly’s lead as you did, “Probably not your type. Just old. Very embarrassing.”

You stuck your index in your mouth and pantomimed gagging, and the sophomore beside you just laughed.

“Yeah? Desperate, too?” he challenged.

“Pathetic, really,” you replied.

For a second, you felt a pang of guilt at the way you were describing your father. Surely he couldn’t deserve being characterized like that. Then you recalled how he’d boned your mom’s best friend while he was married, had never really made amends after the fact, and was still fucking said mistress’s brains out on the reg to this day.

You’d done plenty of wrong behind his back, to be sure, but that kind of took the cake for fucked up betrayals. He could stand for a little bit of ribbing every now and then.

Presently, Aly was paving the way straight toward a pair of bright and beaming faces at a table near the back.

“Our parents named us after a goddamn Grateful Dead song and the city they first saw the band in concert. Nobody does pathetic better than Scott and Michelle.” She waved her arm in a wide arc and grinned over there.

And you would’ve gladly countered that no, that actually makes them very fucking funny and cool, but the chance to do that was gone in a moment—the next had you approaching their table and meeting with big hugs.

Even for you, who had never seen these people before in your life, there was a warm welcome. You got long, suffocating embraces and cheery greetings of, ‘Oh, you must be Aly’s roommate!’ and ‘We’re sorry you got stuck with our shithead kid’ before you had a grin plastered on again and were being ushered to sit down.

You took note of the little placards opposite each chair, counted four, five, six of them altogether, with an empty spot beside your own, per usual, and you took your seat.

“Dallas, honey, I love you,” the woman across the table, Michelle, said with all the restraint she could conjure up, “I love you to pieces, but what the hell are you wearing?”

That steered the conversation in a decidedly light, playful direction from the start, with Aly’s brother defending his decision to be decked out in full school-sponsored athleisure tooth and nail. He’d been recruited to play lacrosse, so naturally, wearing the far-too-tight crimson lycra was all part of the deal. Aly insisted that he just wanted to show off the biceps he didn’t have, Scott hypothesized it was the crisp, wintry Boston air that had made his son dress like a total douche, and Dallas tried bringing the inquisition to a speedy end by lifting one middle finger up and flipping his napkin into his lap.

“Fuck you guys, I’m hungry,” he declared, emphatic. Fighting the urge to laugh along then grabbing a fork.

Just as fast as he’d picked it up to dig in, though, his mom was slapping the silver utensil out of his hand.

“Not yet,” she chided.

“Why? We’re all here,” Dallas groaned.

“Because,” his father returned, scrubbing at the stubble on his chin before casting a quick look around him, “We’re still waiting on one more to join us. See?”

With that, Scott nodded toward the card next to you, and immediately, your cheeks warmed. You shook your head, mouth working a little less fluidly than you would’ve liked as you piped up and told them—assured them all, rather:

“My dad’s not coming. He got a little, uh…hurt at work.”

And you were certain that would be the end of it. You’d just moved to grab a fork yourself, eyeing the plate full of food in front of you then, when another hand stopped you on the spot. It was Aly beside you, grip insistent as she gave your wrist a little shake, and in your periphery, you could see her tilt her head the opposite direction.

She was staring, silent—totally unlike herself.

Normally when something crossed her path nearby to make her twist her whole fucking neck to get a glimpse, it was followed by a dry remark. A comment, a compliment, or a lewd invitation to fuck me, please.

While the last of the three clearly wasn’t an option to use around her parents, you at least would’ve expected to hear something. When nothing came, you turned your head too, having just snagged a bite of roast beef on your fork and shoveled it in before looking that way.

You followed her gaze and nearly inhaled the food.

With a startled gasp and a ‘Christ!’, your eyes widened to find a man who wasn’t your father at all—just his best friend and your ex-fuckbuddy, Joel Miller, walking over.

It was a sight you weren’t prepared to see in a million years. What the everliving fuck this man was doing two thousand miles from Austin, Texas, on your college campus, striding into the very first meal of Parents’ Weekend, looking like that, was so far beyond your comprehension you couldn’t speak. You just stared and sucked in the sharpest, strangled breath, fought back a cough, and tried not to die swallowing a cube of meat.

From the way that man was approaching you now, asphyxiation might not be the worst, you thought idly.

Joel’s here.

Joel’s here, and he’s wearing slacks and a button-up.

Joel’s wearing business casual, and he’s walking over.

Who the fuck does this man even think he’s trying to—

“Sorry I’m late,” Joel cut in, smile bright and easy on his face. Then, stepping behind your chair, leaning down:

“Hey, sweetie. How are ya?”

He kissed the top of your head.

The tone sealed his fate completely.

Joel was pretending to be your father.

This wasn’t his brightest idea.

Call him sick, insane, selfish, besotted, or rotten straight down to his core, Joel Miller was no longer one to care. He had a goal in his head. Less than a week ago, you’d left him high and dry in Austin after having told him you loved him—in the middle of climax, but aloud, no less—and the month before that, you’d left him again. Back to college, where you could happily pretend he didn’t exist.

Tonight, he wasn’t letting that happen. This weekend, Parents’ Weekend, was of course reserved for families, but Joel knew your father wasn’t coming. He knew you wouldn’t be expecting your dad or anyone else to be there, and since you’d taken to the usual course of ignoring all his calls and texts, he felt he’d had no choice.

You couldn’t stay closed off like this forever.

Eventually, you’d both have to reckon with what this was and how to move forward, or the mess of the last month would never change. You would never believe he saw you any differently from a one-off hookup or a taboo outlet of pleasure. And if that was all you saw him as, so be it. But he had to get the truth of it out now, one way or another.

Even if he had to roleplay the father figure and play the most fucked up game of paternal charades known to man, he’d get the answers he needed this weekend.

You were good at games. Unfortunately, Joel was better.

He’d take this fake-out to the max and be the best faux father you’d never asked for. Maybe you’d hate him for it.

As he’d squeezed your shoulder and sat down beside you at the table, felt your gaze heavy and stunned on his, he also couldn’t help but hope you might still love him after.

“Scott Ingram. Pleasure to meet you.” The broad hand had been extended his way before he was even fully seated. The face across from him was kind. Intrigued. Tinged with a faint trace of curiosity, “So you’re dad?”

“Stepdad, yeah.” Joel had had to leave a bit more room for plausibility before he’d made his formal introduction.

Then he’d met Michelle. Aly. Dallas. The latter two more piqued with interest than the first, as though unsure of what they’d just been told, but willing to go on anyway.

“Old and pathetic my ass,” Dallas had murmured your way, low enough for Joel to know those words were meant for only you to hear. You stiffened in response.

“So glad you could make it up! Is your leg doing better?”

Aly had smiled warmly over at him, and Joel had only hesitated a second. Then he remembered his friend.

“Oh, my— yeah. Just…peachy. Yeah. All healed up.”

He didn’t flit a look to you; he could feel the searing imprint of your gaze and the way you hadn’t bothered to hide your frown when he’d referenced the leg he’d never broken. The way you could’ve pulverized the napkin in your lap to dust from how hard you were squeezing it in your fist—you didn’t like to admit it, but that was your nervous tic, and Joel knew it well. He propped his elbows on the table and didn’t miss the way a head turned his way from a neighboring group. Then another. He hated every starch white button-up he owned with a burning passion, but he couldn’t deny this one was eye-catching.

Not that it mattered, really, because the only glossy gaze he cared to snag was presently nailing him with daggers in its path. Still, it was a comfort to know he’d make a good-looking corpse if that look of yours ever did kill him

“Oh, my, my, oh hell YES—”

The sing-song trill of a baritone beside him roused him from his trance. He looked over and saw Scott grinning.

“—honey put on that pa-a-a-a-a-arty dress!”

It was Michelle that finished the line for him, while they both bobbed their heads along to the Tom Petty song blasting overhead. Evidently, dad rock would be alive and well all weekend. Joel wasn’t mad to see that happen.

“You a Tom Petty fan?” Scott jerked his chin up to him.

Before he could answer, though, Michelle interjected:

“I’d say he’s more of a Simon & Garfunkel guy.”

Whatever the hell that meant. Joel smiled.

“Mom, Dad. Please stop,” Aly moaned.

“Seriously.” Dallas’s mouth was full.

And, just as he fought to swallow the heaping glob of food he’d just crammed in, his dad snapped his fingers.

“No, I know it! You’re a Billy Joel man, Joel. No doubt.”

Joel blanched as white as the shirt on his back. You coughed. He hadn’t even noticed you’d chanced a bite of food beside him, but now you were sputtering—choking on a morsel of beef or mashed potatoes or something—and he didn’t think twice. He pivoted right to you and dropped a hand on your back in the space between your shoulder blades. He patted you twice, eyes a little wider.

“Hey, you OK?”

Fleeting memories of a night not too long ago flashed through his mind: driving town by town, state after state, blaring Billy Joel extra loud in his Bronco with you riding shotgun. It had been something special between you then. Now, your gaze was on him like you despised him.

“I’m fine,” you answered, tone clipped.

You shrugged his touch away. Joel blinked back to Scott.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he said, thoughts occupied by you all the while, but he reckoned it was something his neighbor had wanted to hear, because he saw a satisfied little smile cross his lips, ‘I told you, Michelle.’

“Everybody likes Billy Joel, dad.” Aly rolled her eyes.

And Joel would’ve liked to look your way again. Maybe dropped the fatherly moue for half a second and flashed an apologetic look shared just between you and him. But then the conversation shifted; the whole table began to eat, more pleasantries and questions about home life and backgrounds followed, and all the talk from there converged on where they were planning to go out after dinner—how they’d make the very most of Parents’ Weekend. You sat back and ate in silence, mostly. You wouldn’t meet his gaze for even a moment, and when you rose from your seat to get another drink, Joel felt himself stand too, as if out of habit. He hadn’t meant to.

It hadn’t been his intention to follow you out of the dining area, strides swift to try and keep up, but he did.

It hadn’t been his goal to corner you by the soda dispenser, either. Away from the eyes of everyone else, or at least in a private enough space not to be seen by too many people, Joel felt a little more at liberty to talk. He lowered his voice and drew even closer then to speak.

“Sweetheart—”

You’d filled a cup halfway with water. As soon as he’d said that word, ‘sweetheart,’ you turned and chucked its contents directly in his face. Liquid splashed up at him, and for a second, Joel had only to stand there with his eyes closed and his body completely frozen in place.

Water dripped in silence before he wiped at his chin.

At the same time, you were tossing your cup aside.

“Don’t you dare fuckin’ call me that,” you growled.

Then, shortly: “What the fuck is your problem?!”

Honestly, he didn’t know. He opened his eyes.

And, just as he raised both hands in a semi-conciliatory kind of gesture, you scowled and backed away from him.

“You’re sick, Joel. Pretending to be my goddamn da—”

“I know. I know,” Joel winced as he spoke, wrinkles no doubt creasing even deeper along his face as he saw yours fall. You weren’t happy to see him in the slightest. “I know it’s fucked up. I just…needed to talk to you, hon.”

“About what?!”

He could feel the heat rising to your cheeks. He wanted to cup them in his hands, or else kiss the frown off your lips in a way that would be totally inappropriate for a stepdad to do, but already, he sensed his resolve was eroding. It didn’t matter, anyway, because you weren’t letting him get within an inch of you, based off your look.

“Darlin’,” Joel sighed, “There’s just so much—”

Of course, the next moment was punctured by a voice. His words were cut short; you were both forced to turn.

“It’s all settled now,” Aly declared with cheery conviction. She snagged a cup and started filling it up with Sprite, “Pregame at Dallas’. Seven Oaks after. Lucky’s after that. Maybe a brief intermission at The Alley, if you’re up for it. Afters at A.J.’s, probably. Depends what the vibe is like.”

Joel had barely processed half of what was said, and it still sounded like a lot from where he stood. He blinked.

Then Aly’s eyes fell to his collar, and she lifted a brow.

“You got a little…drinking problem there, Joel?”

He glanced down at the mess on his shirt and tried to smile with her. It was hard to fight the color jumping to his cheeks simultaneously. He scrambled for the words.

“Oh, uh—”

“Dad’s real smooth with it,” you cut in, suddenly, like the paternal moniker was nothing at all. You didn’t look back, “I’m fine drinking wherever. Your parents coming, too?”

Aly’s grin stretched even wider. It looked devious.

“They wouldn’t miss this bingefest for the world.”

At just the intonation of those words, Joel’s pulse sped up. He saw a knowing look pass between you and your roommate, and in a second, he sensed he was fucked.

He really shouldn’t be drinking tonight.

A hundred shots probably wouldn’t have been enough to kill it—this ringing in your head hurt like a motherfucker.

Joel wanted to talk.

Of course he wanted to talk.

Just on his terms, on his time, with your closest friends and their family members all assuming he was your dad.

Because that made a lot of fucking sense.

You’d meant to split from Joel the second you showed up. Dallas’ off-campus house was many things, but small and quiet were not among those descriptors, and you planned to use all of its space to your advantage tonight.

Simply put, the place was a glorified playground for college degenerates. Afforded the distinct honor of housing eight members of the Pi Kappa Alpha fraternity in 2,700 square feet for over fifty years, the Craftsman home was no small wonder to anyone who saw it standing today: the house was shit. Dallas loved it.

You’d enjoyed it, too, for at least the first year or two of college. Then you’d wisened up to the antics of a few too many numb-skulled Pikes, got tired of listening to the same ten tracks being blasted in your ears every other weekend, and decided you’d just stick to the bar scene, where at least patrons were prohibited from standing on elevated surfaces and breaking bottles over their heads.

When Dallas rushed, and eventually joined the fold last year, you’d been hesitant to go back. Then, when he’d promptly decked the first guy who tried dragging you up onto a table with him, you figured you could safely visit again and not have to worry while your friend was there. The kid did a pretty good job of weeding out assholes.

“My lady.” He stood and bowed before presenting you with a fifth of Pink Whitney like it was the finest wine.

The bottle was half empty. You’d been passing it back and forth for the last hour in between rounds of pong.

“Been sayin’ shit like that ever since he saw Gladiator II.” His housemate Cory called from closeby. He flicked his wrist once and sank his shot in the second to last cup.

“You are not General Acacius, brother,” Cory’s teammate Pete chimed in. With a lucky throw of his own, he hit the final Red Solo cup and shook his head like it was nothing.

You were all on the third floor, away from the noise downstairs. While the so-called ‘pregame’ surged ahead on first, in the basement, and outdoors, you’d managed to find relative quiet among eight or nine friends and acquaintances, plus a guy railing lines off a frisbee in the corner. Nobody knew where the fuck he’d gotten it from.

“I like to pretend,” Dallas said with a shrug. Then, once you’d taken a swig of the pink drink and handed it back: “My parents play next. Gavin, put the coke away, please.”

Gavin sniffed the air at least four times like he had a cold. Then he tucked his credit card back in his wallet, put the wallet in his pocket, and knocked the frisbee on the floor.

‘Yessir’ was all you heard before he was leaning back contentedly. The girls Cory and Pete had just played seemed equally indifferent as they sauntered off—likely looking to get their hands on whatever the hell else the redhead had in his jeans and quick to forget about the game. Blow was way too easy to spread at these parties, and clearly, no one gave a shit about redemption round.

“Gavin.” Dallas’ tone was a warning.

At the same time, his housemate had just snagged an ID where it was left on the table and held it up to the light.

“Hang on, it looks like this guy, uh…” Cory squinted to read the text on an apparently too-old driver’s license. “Looks like he called dibs on next round…Joel Miller.”

Your grip tightened on the spot. You said nothing. Cory was just then starting to remark that this dude’s the spittin’ fuckin’ image of that one guy from Game of Thrones, Dallas, come look, when the door to the room swung open, and in walked the man of the hour himself.

Joel was joined by Scott, Michelle, and a horde of others.

Well, maybe five in total. They were all freshmen girls.

Giggling, grinning freshmen girls who were quite literally hanging off his body on either side, or else trailing behind him, admiring him like he was the single greatest thing.

Where were all their fathers? That was your fake dad.

Christ, that sounded bad, and you hadn’t even said it.

When Dallas offered you the bottle again, you declined. You were more than just buzzed. And Joel was drunk.

Apparently.

And was he—well shit, were they trying to strip him?

One of the bubbliest girls from the group was tugging on Joel’s shirt. Three buttons were already undone, and a smooth, tanned patch of flesh glistened through the ‘V’ in the fabric. He’d been working up a sweat downstairs.

A sea of black-and-grey hairs peeking out through the trough of cotton was the last thing you saw before you had to look away. It was too familiar. And there you saw some girl fresh out of high school, feeling him, teasing at the material while she bounced on the balls of her feet.

“You are so lying!” she slurred, voice pitchy and shrill.

What was worse, you couldn’t even fault the girl for it. That had been you just a few short years ago, hadn’t it?

Beside her, her friend snagged his sleeve: “Show ussss!”

Scott and Michelle had approached the table where Dallas was setting up the cups for the next round and you were trying not to stare. You reckoned you were failing pretty miserably at the task when the next thing Mrs. Ingram did was lean in closer to you and whisper.

“Real hot commodity with the girls, isn’t he?” It was soft.

She was right.

You forced your gaze to your feet, pretending to assess the wet and sticky mess underneath them. You hummed.

“Yup. Real ladies’ man,” you answered quietly. Strained.

“They’re convinced he’s got some ink hidden under his shirt. That’s a creative way to get a man topless if I’ve ever seen one.” Scott chuckled next to you, tone teasing.

Something twisted in your chest, though you couldn’t quite place what it was. It hardly felt like jealousy at all—but that was worse, somehow. Joel was your stepfather in every other mind but yours and his, and here he was, soaking in all this attention that you couldn’t give to him.

Maybe that was for the best.

Joel deserved a woman he didn’t have to love in secret.

“OK, who’s up—Joel or mom and dad?” Dallas asked.

“I’m out. Joel can take my place. And don’t we—”

Pete snapped his fingers, then pointed at Cory.

“We forgot to grab the other keg, didn’t we?”

“Fuck me.”

“Let’s go.”

They were gone in a second. That left Joel, Scott, Michelle, plus one open spot. Dallas set the last cup.

“Who’s gonna be Joel’s partn—”

“ME!”

That had to have come from three girls, at least. One on the couch and two more on either side of Joel, along with a slew of hopeful looks from others in his orbit.

They’d dispersed some, thankfully. Though not physically clinging to your pseudo-stepfather and begging him to peel off his shirt, they stayed close.

One of them giggled and nudged her friend: “Maya can!”

The girl who’d just been playing tug-of-war with the front of Joel’s button up waved her hand in mock indignation.

“I suck at pong. You go, Claire,” she crooned.

It was clear from the sideways glance the first girl had flashed that she wanted Joel to protest. Maybe insist that she play anyway, if you had to guess. It was all so confusing—what with how this group was flirting, and fighting, and insisting simultaneously that they couldn’t possibly play, even though they’d like to, but maybe…

Your skull started ringing again.

You were just about to turn to leave, when Dallas cut in:

“Sorry, ladies. Gonna be a Daddy-Daughter duo tonight.”

Then he gestured to you, beckoned to Joel, and grinned. Your stomach could’ve plunged to that floor you’d just been pretending to study. You quickly jerked your head.

Even Joel, for all his calm and unaffected dealings, the pretty damp mop of hair hanging in ringlets against the sides of his face, and the way he kept pretending not to be concerned by the flock of girls, had to pause a beat. You saw his throat work. Before you could try and decipher the look that was crawling up his face, you made the split-second decision to interject yourself.

“No, Dallas. I’m not playing again.”

You tried to avoid grinding your molars.

This time, the tone he heard wasn’t one of a thinly veiled acceptance—something begging to be disputed when it tried to decline the offer—but instead an emphatic ‘no.’

No way were you playing another game with this man.

Joel already had your head fucked ten ways to Sunday by being here at all, and now you had to pretend to be platonic, his goddamn beer pong partner, while a gaggle of freshmen girls sat frothing at the mouth for his dick?

Yeah, but no.

Hard fucking pass.

You didn’t care what it looked like. You shot Dallas a look, grabbed a stray Solo off the table, and made your way to the door, calling something over your shoulder about being too tired to play, and offering your spot to Maya.

That should make your old man happy enough.

It wasn’t like he could do anything here with you.

And then you left. Before you did, though, you passed Gavin and the mysterious white bag he was starting to fish out of his pants, and without thinking, you grabbed his hand. You didn’t like doing coke, had never seen the point in taking your level of intoxication that far out on an ordinary night, but, all things considered, this evening was anything but normal. You deserved some relief. If that couldn’t come in the form of Joel packing all his shit and leaving, then so be it. But you weren’t about to hang around and play the nice and polite stepdaughter when all you wanted to do was scratch your fucking eyes out.

A few lines wouldn’t be the worst way to start the night.

Joel wasn’t drunk.

He wasn’t tipsy, either.

And even if he had been, he wouldn’t have appreciated the way this hazel-eyed firecracker had nearly crushed his toes from how hard she’d jumped up and down at hearing you abdicate your position. Maya had shrieked, and Scott and Michelle hadn’t been able to fight back smiles, and trying not to wince too hard, Joel had politely excused himself. He’d claimed that he needed some air.

The oxygen he found down the hallway a few minutes later was stale as shit, but he couldn’t exactly complain.

He’d asked for this, after all: the thumping bass, shaking floors, passageways that reeked of weed and cheap perfume, and girls that refused to let go of his neck.

Well. He hadn’t asked for that last thing.

Thirty years ago, he might’ve found it cute—what Maya and Claire and every other glossy-gazed Phi Mu seemed to be offering with every bat of their lashes. Now, if the arms latched around his throat weren’t yours, the idea just made him sick. He cleared his throat and walked.

And before long, his feet had carried him to the end of the hallway. Where in the hell had you gotten off to?

Would you be back soon?

And why had you taken that kid with you?

Joel’s palms were sweaty by his sides. He didn’t like being kept in the dark—didn’t think traveling some 2,000 miles to be closer to you would still leave him wondering like a fucking idiot if he would see you again.

Then he reached for the nearest door. A bathroom.

The door was just cracked, allowing a sliver of light to shine through and a peek at a sea of tile flooring to greet him. Joel pushed on the knob without thinking to knock.

When he stepped inside, he had to stop.

It was too much to process and walk at once.

For the first time in his life, he felt shell-shocked.

You were on your knees in front of that red-haired fucker. Stabilizing one hand on a denim-clad leg in front of you, patting his thigh, having him murmur something back—probably words of encouragement for how nice your mouth felt around him—and then tilting your head up.

Joel could only see you from behind. His vision was red.

“What the fuck are you DOING?!” he bellowed out.

The two of you leapt apart, your head jerking back.

He wasn’t thinking. Joel blew straight past you and went for him, the little pencil-dicked Pike who’d just had his dick down his stepdaughter’s throat, presumably, and he grabbed him by the shirt. He shoved him hard against the bathtub on the wall, watched him flail a few steps, and then, before the kid could recover his balance, Joel shoved him again. He might’ve tripped further back and fallen into the tub, had the older man not reached for him again—and reared back to punch him square in the face.

That blow never landed.

In the next instant, a smaller body was forcing itself in between him and the kid, and the only other thing Joel could see through his own blinding rage were your two eyes—wide and panicked and horror-stricken, clearly.

“JOEL.”

Still not prepared to retreat, Joel reached out again.

Your hand knocked his down in a blink. Hard.

“J— Dad. Dad. Stop. Please don’t hit him.”

Suddenly, that tone was approaching a plea. You must’ve caught a glimpse of the rage pulsing through his veins and sensed it might’ve been too much for him to control—but of course, Joel knew better. He could always stop.

He stepped off and turned to you at once, teeth bared.

“How the fuck could you even—” he started again.

“I’m sorry, dad,” you broke in, words sounding like a sob, “It’s not his fault. Really. I— I didn’t mean for you to see.”

Sucking some other guy’s cock. Yeah, of course not.

Joel’s face flared with an anger unlike anything he’d felt in years, and if it weren’t for the skittish sack of shit stumbling away, and the warning that was starting to radiate off your skin, he would’ve liked to knock him out.

He might’ve, if the kid hadn’t run out of the room.

If you hadn’t turned slightly, he might’ve yelled again.

And then he saw it, from where you’d pivoted—the toilet.

Sitting on the smooth white porcelain lid in three thick stripes, the sight greeted him like a punch in the gut.

He wasn’t sure what it meant for an excruciating second. He stared. Then he processed what that substance was.

You’d been crouched over the toilet doing a line of coke.

He wanted to feel relief. For a moment, maybe, he did.

When your eyes narrowed on his and you shook your head in a scowl, it didn’t feel like he should be happy. Or ready to celebrate this latest discovery. Instead, realizing that you hadn’t been blowing a guy in this bathroom but were simply doing drugs in front of him, Joel felt bile jump up his throat. It was like a knot the size of his fist, and he wasn’t sure how to react, but he couldn’t stand that look on your face. You were just as angry as him.

“What the hell was that all about, Joel?!” you snapped.

He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut back in:

“Sorry, sorry—I mean ‘dad.’ You fucking asshole.”

“And this is why you up and left?” Joel hissed.

“I just—”

“Do you realize how dangerous that is?”

“I didn’t—”

“What that could’ve been laced with?”

He pointed to the cocaine on the lid of the toilet—apparently there hadn’t been enough space on the skinny porcelain sink to set up your lines—and at the same time, to Joel’s amazement, you sank to your knees.

“Well, I don’t know, dad, why don’t we test some out?”

And then you swiped a casual touch through a line and lifted your index to your mouth. With your other hand, you pulled at your bottom lip a little, and were evidently about to test your drugs the old fashioned way: by rubbing the powder against your gums to see if it made them numb. Joel swatted at your wrist before you did.

“Don’t,” he growled. Without even realizing it, he reached and grabbed your chin. His fingers engulfed half your face in an authoritative, upward-tilting grip. “Put that stuff anywhere near your mouth, and you will regret it.”

That didn’t seem to stir you, but your hand stayed put.

Joel stepped away just as quickly. He went to the door.

He shut it.

And when he returned, you hadn’t moved from where you’d been knelt. He was glad. Something quiet and dull throbbed between his ears, though he wasn’t recovered enough from the shock of the last few minutes to really investigate that. He just stood back over you, frowning.

His voice was lower when he spoke again:

“What am I gonna do with you, honey?”

It was a question as much for himself as it was for you, and your lips twitched at the end of it. You shrugged, and you sank back onto your heels, peering up as you did.

“You thought—” you started, soft.

“I thought you were in here blowin’ that little shit.”

Your smile split into a grin. Your eyes glistened.

“Is that so?”

Joel didn’t have the strength or the presence of mind to answer, so instead, he just nodded. His scowl deepened.

“You and me,” he resumed, having just exhaled a breath, “We’re gonna have ourselves a little chat later. Got that?”

And he meant it. Not just about drugs and other men and the dangers of accepting cocaine from strangers. He had more to tell you tonight than his overwrought mind was likely capable of sharing right now, but he’d say it.

Soon.

Eventually.

Once he got this bulge in his slacks sorted out.

With you, it was never a conscious decision, and it rarely ever occurred at times it was appropriate to happen. Like when your friends and their family and half of the Pike fraternity weren’t all milling about around this house. When he hadn’t almost decked a kid for giving you coke.

When you weren’t shuffling on your knees to greet the growing erection in his pants with a grin on your face.

“Will this ‘chat’ come before or after you fuck Maya?”

That was it.

Joel seized hold of your head again—this time, from the back. One palm rounded the base of your skull and yanked your face forward, mushing your nose and your lips against the fabric of his pants in an obscene sort of kiss. He made you rub your face against the hardened tent there, and he groaned when you whimpered. The reverberations of it traveled from his groin to his brain in two milliseconds flat and made him think insane things.

Like having your mouth right now.

Taking from you here what he thought he’d almost lost.

The sight of your head hovering anywhere near another man’s crotch made it crystal-clear to him, though he’d known it well before: he wanted you. He needed to have you. How you could even crack the joke about a shred of his attention being elsewhere had him tightening his hand in a fist in your hair. He didn’t care if it felt wrong.

“You know what girls like Maya can do for me?” he said.

He tilted your head back so your gaze could find his. He didn’t let you answer, but he let you stare for a second, and then he worked your pretty parted lips over the front of his slacks again. He let the taut grey fabric tease the cusp of that opening, tasting a bit, before drawing back.

“That’s right,” Joel went on as if you’d just responded, “Nothing. Absolutely fuckin’ nothing. Open your mouth.”

And you did. Wider. From the look of it, there was spit pooling inside, and your tongue hovered just within it when your lips met the front of his pants. You cupped your mouth around his clothed erection and kissed it.

Your eyes were locked on his as you did. The sight felt extra obscene—Joel couldn’t ignore the fact that he was dressed in near-formal attire, and you had on jeans and a tight cropped tank. He looked polished and professional; you were a beaming pretty thing making space between his legs to kneel. You felt like a dream with your lips over his swollen, aching cock; Joel felt old. Paternal, almost.

Was it wrong to think you needed to be taught a lesson?

Of course it was. He wasn’t your dad. He didn’t do that.

But when you smiled up at him with your lips still brushing his straining bulge, Joel couldn’t resist the smallest impulse to wonder—what if he showed you?

What if he let you know exactly what he wanted, how he needed it done, and that he only ever craved it from you? If he couldn’t say it outright in words, he could guide you.

Teach you.

Your tongue traced the seam of his zip, and he groaned.

“Damn near gave your old man a stroke, y’know that?”

“I know,” you said softly. Kindly, “I’m sorry, daddy.”

His cock throbbed at that last affectionate word.

His hands couldn’t help themselves: one stayed planted on the back of your head, and the other made its way to his belt. He undid his buckle, button, and zip in a blink.

“And what was that prick’s name?” Joel grumbled.

“Gavin.”

Your mind seemed two million miles away from any shit-brained fratboy at the moment as your gaze fixed itself on the length he was working out of his pants just then.

When it bobbed out and got within an inch of your rapt expression, your lips parted on instinct; you leaned in.

Swiftly, Joel’s hand on your head halted the movement.

“Gavin, huh,” he returned, tone treading on patronizing. He knew you were salivating for that little pearl on his tip. He gripped your hair hard. “This what you’d do for him?”

You whimpered.

“No, daddy. No, just— just you.”

Joel hummed his approval but didn’t let you move. He watched you eye the head of his cock like there was no single sight more appetizing in the world, and then he saw you lick your lips. You’d get positive reinforcement.

He would take things slow, and by the end of it all, he hoped to have made it clear that this was what he wanted: you, and only you. That he didn’t want you doing this with anyone else other than him. Here, now, or ever.

The last was a lot to say, so he fed you an inch instead.

He let his cock slide between your lips and stretch them.

You breathed something soft and sweet at the first intrusion of his tip; your mouth cushioned that inch, and his head was immediately enveloped in warmth. Your tongue darted out to greet him in a gentle lick. Joel groaned again, and his fingers constricted in your hair.

“That’s it, honey,” he told you, “Suck on daddy.”

His hips hadn’t meant to jump, but the pleasure from just the cusp of your mouth was too much for him not to flinch a little. He stabbed another couple inches in that pliant ‘o’ and felt you work your jaw open to take him whole. You looked so obedient. You were doing so good.

You bobbed your head gently, and his hand didn’t need to coax you at all. You were hungry, mouth sliding up and down his thick, throbbing dick and leaving trails of spit in its wake. You wanted to please him now; he could feel it.

You had no idea what you did to him. All he wanted now. It was like trying to explain a color in words, and all the man could do was just hold your head in place and watch you take him. When your back straightened and one palm braced itself up against his thigh, the other about to curl around the base of his length, he shook his head.

He brushed that hand away and made it rest on his other leg, so you were left with just your mouth around him.

You peered up, confused. Joel was, too.

He wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to do, but he knew he had to lead the way. Make you see what he wanted you to by guiding your motions and filling your mouth the way he needed. He tried as much by shifting his left hand to meet the right at the back of your head. Gently, he pushed your face forward to suck more in.

“Breathe through your nose, baby. Wanna feel you.”

Feel you deeper, he should’ve said. Either way, it made for a slow and painstaking slide down your tongue—sensing you flatten it and inhale a shallow breath as he worked his way in—and at the stretch, you gagged a bit.

Joel eased up, just enough to let you flit your gaze to his.

“You wanna feel me, too, sweetheart?” he asked gently.

You nodded, mouth still full of cock. Your eyes glistened in a way that said you might’ve guessed there was more to it, but you weren’t exactly in a position to ask just what. You let the fingers of both his big hands splay against the back of your head, and your jaw slackened more. Your gaze stayed on his as his cock slid deeper.

In that, there was wordless, tranquil reprieve. The sight of his spit-soaked length stuffing your mouth, skin all shiny and wet, and the way he kept going further and further and further, until your soft pert nose grazed the hairs of his belly, made Joel’s member swell harder still. There was scarcely an inch in between your lips and his heft of stomach. Your eyes were still fixed on him, and as the seconds ticked by, there was moisture welling at the corners. Joel moved his hands to thumb at those tears.

“Good girl. You’re doin’ so good for daddy,” he praised.

And something stirred in the depths of his body when he felt you try to nod again, like you were thrilled to be giving him pleasure and wanted to show it in some way.

Joel could’ve stayed like that for hours if his dick would only have let him. As it was, though, he felt the stir in his stomach accompanied by something else—a familiar pinch, and a warning jolt of pleasure. He cursed quietly.

You’d just started. He’d barely got an inch down your—

“Fuck,” he cursed again, when he sensed you swallow around his dick. The head of himself was breaching somewhere deep within your throat, and he felt it.

This wasn’t what he’d planned. You’d taken him deep before—at your father’s birthday bash last month, actually—but then you’d been blowing him under a table. He couldn’t hold your gaze or watch your throat open around him, couldn’t see the minuscule wince in your eyes or try to brush that discomfited look aside with his thumbs in the way he could now. He felt it in the pit of his gut, though: he would burst if he didn’t slow down.

With that one grounding thought, Joel tried pulling out.

Your body below him responded in sharp protest.

‘Daddy, no’ seemed almost to jump off your tongue, though it was presently weighted down by his cock. Your nails worked deeper into the fabric of his pants, like the tight, possessive grip was all you could manage to let your intentions be known to him. Then the look flared in your irises, too. They were begging him to stay in place.

Joel obeyed. Though it was you on your knees for him, lips, tongue, and throat pulsing and sucking to give him the utmost pleasure, he felt pangs of powerlessness, too.

He couldn’t help it when your lips stretched more, when your mouth opened wider, and your throat took him in all the way. He was fucked. He let out a sharp, hoarse grunt to let you know as much, and he cursed out loud again.

And then, completely axing his every well-laid plan, Joel felt the first rope of cum unload from his throbbing tip. Then another. And another. And another hot flurry of pleasure cropped up from that place your mouth was presently attached to him, and this time, the wave was too much to be overcome. The whole thing flooded him.

Without a hope of beating out that primal instinct, Joel just cupped your face in his palms and let his climax fill your throat. He couldn’t think, and while you seemed a tad surprised at how early it came, you didn’t fight it, either. You simply sat back, peered up, and let him fuck your mouth in the gentlest, most desperate thrusts, mind likely eager to feel his spend paint your open throat.

You hardly had to swallow at all—hardly could swallow, with how deep he’d gone. His cum jetted in milky strings through your plush, wet channel, and Joel could feel it gliding down with just a moment’s hitch of resistance.

Impaled as you were, you gagged once, and he withdrew in the next instant. He didn’t wait for you to catch your breath or for his cum to get down inside you. He felt too much to be troubled now; he yanked you to your feet and drew you into him. He pushed you back against the sink.

Your legs latched around the backs of his, and your body was thrust against the mirror. It was tender, somehow. Joel didn’t fight to claim your lips or invade your mouth with stifling kisses; he just pressed you to the reflective glass and hedged you in under him. He kissed you gently.

In between movements against your body, he mumbled:

“I’m sick of missin’ you all the damn time, sweet pea.”

He wasn’t sure where it came from. It just came.

Much like he had, except the stringy ropes of cum that had spurted from his dick seemed far less of a mess than whatever the fuck was coming out of his mouth right now. He felt exposed as soon as he’d spoken it you.

Then he saw your lips twitch. You kissed him back.

Someplace within where your mouth slotted over his, you were able to get out a couple murmured words yourself.

“I wish you didn’t have to,” you returned in a whisper.

You snaked your arms around the back of his neck and kept kissing him, over and over again, like your body was just starting to melt, and the heat was making you dizzy.

Joel could relate. Every time you touched him, he felt it.

He gripped your legs where they were still curled around his sides, and he held you tighter to him. He pressed his torso to yours until he was half-sure he was hampering your breaths, and then he pulled back. Briefly. Panting.

When he opened his mouth to speak, you cut in for him:

“I wish you could…be here. I wish we didn’t have to…”

Hide.

Your mouth seemed to have your mind and your usual reservations beat by a mile. It was moving fast, like his. Before you could stop yourself, your thighs constricted around his hips, you pulled him in closer, and just as you were about to finish that last quick, splintered thought—

“We’re leeeeeeeeav—OH! Shit!”

Aly Ingram’s sing-song tone was shortly supplanted by a shriek. She’d thrown open the door, unannounced, and when she saw the two of you collapsed against the sink, Joel’s undone pants hanging precariously over his hips and your mouths scarcely two inches apart, she jolted.

Or jumped, really.

She almost leapt through her skin, it seemed, and before she could even begin to recover, she just slapped her hands over her eyes and stumbled back. She was drunk.

“I didn’t see that! I did not seeee—”

“Aly!” you half-hissed, half-groaned.

“I literally didn’t see shit. You’re all g—”

Before either you or Joel could utter another sound, or attempt to split apart, Aly let out a second shrill yelp. This time, it was because she’d just tripped over a trash can backing out. She’d only very narrowly regained her bearings, had grabbed hold of the doorknob and was dragging the door shut, when the girl all but sang again:

“Have fun, be safe! Don’t make babies!!”

Joel scarcely knew how to react to that.

As it turned out, your roommate was open-minded.

Ply her with four or five shots of tequila and a couple High Noons, and she’d probably believe the moon was made of cheese if you told her in a serious enough tone.

But your goal tonight hadn’t been to convince her of a lie—it was to get a big, ugly truth off your chest that you’d been hoping to keep under wraps this entire weekend.

Now, after getting caught with your fake stepfather’s jizz drying in your throat, you had had to come clean about this thing. It wasn’t a story you’d wanted to tell, but it was one that needed sharing given the circumstances.

Aly had laughed her ass off when you told her everything.

Blame it on the strobe lights, the thumping music, or the thick, fetid air of the bar you’d just arrived at, but Aly had laughed a lot. She’d squeezed her eyes shut and slapped the tabletop beside her, like that was the single most insane thing she’d ever heard, and why don’t you write her a How-To? She’d love some tips on boning old men.

“He’s not that old!” you’d protested over your beverage.

She’d bought the drink. She said news like this was cause for celebration, and you couldn’t deny that. Smiling as you spoke, you figured this was good.

In fact, you thought getting caught by your closest friend was one of the best things that could’ve happened, all things considered, because now you knew at least one person was supportive and in your corner regarding Joel. On top of that, you had someone to help cover your ass—if a touch or a look between you two was too suspect, she’d tell you. From the second your group had Ubered to the bar, she’d been keen to see you close…though not too close. Presently, she grinned and squeezed your leg.

“I think you two would make a damn cute couple.”

“Huh?” You had to shout over the music to be heard.

“A cute couple!”

“Come again?”

You were really trying your best, but the blare of Bon Jovi overhead was a bit too much. You leaned in closer to her.

“YOU AND JOEL WOULD MAKE A CUTE COUPLE!”

And, as if on cue, Joel and Aly’s father reappeared at the table, holding the drinks they’d left to buy. Thankfully, the volume in the room was near-deafening, and neither seemed to have heard a word of hers. Scott was nursing some bottom shelf whiskey concoction while Joel double-fisted two shitty beers beside him. You had to admit, the latter looked good from where you sat: one more button was popped on his icy white shirt and a smile was plastered on his face, eyes straying to you more often than they should. The moment after that, you were doubly grateful for the blast of ‘You Give Love a Bad Name’ in this bar—the next thing you knew, Joel was dropping his head casually and murmuring in your ear,

“Aly sure likes to stare, doesn’t she?”

Followed shortly by:

“Wanna give her somethin’ to watch?”

He was clearly joking. Your cheeks warmed anyway. Then, when he started to lift his head, he left a quick, parting kiss to your temple that could’ve been construed as a paternal gesture. To anyone else but you, him, and Aly, it likely was. Your gaze slid from Joel’s face to his forearms, where the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. He smelled like pine, sweat, and Natty Light, and you were just about to tell him that somehow that combo worked for him, when Scott interposed, loud as hell.

“You ask her yet?!” he bellowed.

He knocked shoulders with Joel in a playful way, and the pair nearly stumbled sideways. Scott elbowed his ribs.

“He’s drunk as shit,” Dallas observed idly.

“Well, what’s he—” you began to say.

Before you’d even finished the question, your answer came in the form of Joel nodding, visibly pretty buzzed himself, as he waved his friend off with a shove and a laugh. Scott just grinned bigger as Bon Jovi gave way to Steely Dan over the speakers. Joel leaned back to you.

“Scott invited us to go skiing out in Jackson, Wyoming.”

“He loves planning trips drunk,” Michelle added.

“Like they’re best friends,” Dallas chuckled.

You ignored Aly’s half-concealed smirk on hearing that; you were too stuck on the look Joel was giving you. Like he was drunk, but dead serious—like he’d agreed to this.

Something set for a future date, however nebulous and far-fetched and stupid the idea may have been, made your insides stir a little all the same. You tried tamping it down with another sip of your drink, but you still shared a glance with Joel. He was watching you more intently.

“Is that something you’d wanna do, hon?” he asked.

You might’ve liked to warn him that he was drawing too close—that his breaths were too warm on your cheek and Aly was straightening in her chair, blinking harder—but anything even approaching a remonstrance was evidently never meant to leave your mouth, as the next second had you nudged off your barstool, taken by the hand, and dragged toward the bustling crowd at the center of the room. Scott had suggested dancing; his son had readily agreed and was now leading you out to the crowd himself. You snagged one fleeting look at Joel.

Mr. Ingram had been dying to get out there, apparently. Behind you, the man spun his wife the best he could through the jam-packed dance floor of students and parents bumping their way through the very best of the ‘70s and ‘80s. He took a few graceless turns himself; while Bob Seger, Bruce Springsteen, and AC/DC reigned supreme over the wide open space, he pulled some mildly impressive moves. More importantly, though, he didn’t give a shit how he looked. This encouraged your group to let loose a little, too, and you somehow found yourself burrowing even further into the sea of people.

Your arms were compressed on either side of you. Your shoulders were bumped, and nudged, and given little more than a quarter of an inch for your chest to expand in the shallowest of breaths. Every pull of your lungs was an effort, and still, you couldn’t help but smile as you ran a quick look over the heads of everyone around. This was fun. Private, even. With dozens of nameless, faceless bodies gyrating in time with the music, you could blend right in. You could pretend that everything was normal.

Even with the press of a familiar form at your back, you could pretend it was just the crowd forcing him there—that Joel had just sauntered in behind you by accident.

It was risky, to be sure. The lights above flashed in bright white bursts, undulating with every pulse of the song being played, and it wasn’t too far from you that Aly and all the rest of them were strewn throughout the crowd.

But Joel hadn’t seemed to have noticed. Beneath the myriad limbs of the bargoers around you and him, he moved a hand to your waist. It hovered precariously for half a second, then tightened. It drew you closer to him.

You tried to push it away on instinct, heart jumping in your throat: what if Scott or Michelle or anyone else turned their heads at that moment and found him touching you there? What if the grasp their eyes caught wasn’t the wholesome, blameless kind that was meant to be shared between stepfather and stepdaughter? Who the hell was supposed to do the explaining to them then?

Clearly Joel wasn’t all that concerned about it; he slid his palm back up your side and gripped your hip hard after you’d nudged him off. He took a daring step forward, and you could feel him shake his head behind you. Smiling.

“And if I made a joke about father-daughter dances—”

“I would kill you with my two bare hands, Miller.”

Your backside glanced off his front. It wasn’t so much a deliberate move on your part but a byproduct of the rhythm. Some soft rock song was coming to an end, and your body rolled gently with his. The friction was minimal. This kind of proximity was easy to be explained away, if Dallas ever happened to look in your direction—

“Joel!”

Something hard pushed into your ass. You had to steel yourself quick, eyes darting furtively about to make sure no one had seen what you’d just felt between your legs. Then you tried wriggling away, off of him, and were rewarded with another hand on your side. It gripped the flesh just above your hipbone with a tender conviction.

Joel’s lips grazed your cheek briefly. His grip loosened.

“See what you do to me?” he murmured, and the fingers that he’d eased around your waist were turning you back.

Facing him now, away from your group. More bodies filled in between you and them, and the force of that influx pushed you closer to Joel. It shoved you together. It almost couldn’t be helped—that was what you kept telling yourself, anyway—when your frame melded to his, and his hands lowered to your hips, and one finger worked its way through your taut, denim belt loop in a manner completely unbecoming of a normal stepfather.

That callused finger held you firm to him with your jeans. It didn’t give an inch, and his eyes on yours did the same.

You were drifting further out. This didn’t matter as much. Anyone who saw you now would just have to guess that you were Joel’s, and Joel’s was yours—if only for now.

Your lips and his were gravitating closer then, too. You were just about to part yours to speak, when one soft, opening sequence broke out in the air, and you groaned.

No fucking way.

An all-too-familiar mid-tempo tune flooded the room and coursed in and out of your skull with a low, rhythmic tick.

It was eerie. Dreamy. Nearly haunting in the way it rang out right here, right now, with Joel’s hold on your sides tightening more and more with every passing second.

You hoped like hell he didn’t know this song, though you were half-certain this was a big hit from back in his day.

When Joel tipped his head back and fell right in step with the swaying cadence, you weren’t left guessing for long. Of course this slick bastard liked George Michael.

Of course he did.

What more of an appropriate song to be dancing to now, other than fucking ‘Father Figure’ of all the throwbacks?

Joel lifted both arms in a half-shimmy, half-slide and flashed a shit-eating grin down at you. It was smug.

‘For one moment, to be warm and naked at my side.’

Joel raised his brows with it, as if hearing the lyrics for the first time and being shocked. He wasn’t, clearly, as he rolled his shoulders in a stupid and seductive way, and dragged you closer to meet his body’s movements.

‘Sometimes I think that you’ll never understand me.’

Right. You would likely never understand Joel Miller.

‘But something tells me together we’d be happy.’

Well…as long as your father didn’t kill him first.

Emboldened by the pre-chorus beat and the ever-increasing swell of people around him, Joel snaked an arm around your waist. He let your body fall in line with his, rolling in gentle sorts of motions until he could find what kind suited you two the best, and he led the way.

When his head dipped to yours, you could feel it coming.

‘I will be your father figure. Put your tiny hand in mine.’

This time Joel was singing along, grin wide on his face. As if to mirror the lyrics, he took your hand and squeezed it. You might’ve rolled your eyes or pulled away when the man leaned down and slid his touch to your wrist. He kissed your palm. Then he kissed it again, sponging his lips to the skin in time with the rhythm of the song. It was both innocent and lewd. Wholesome and sensual.

Something trapped between perverted and polite, like Joel was testing the waters while trying not to make it seem that way at all. You kept moving in time together.

Joel’s other hand held you to him. His fingers flexed.

“You can’t…”

When his grip slid to your ass, you shook your head.

As much as you would’ve liked to indulge the urge that was currently flooding your system, the timing was off. The choice to give in now was wrong, and risky to make.

Your roommate and her family were no more than fifteen feet away. No matter how many strangers stood between you and them, Joel was toeing a dangerous line with his hand lowered to where it was. With his face only inches away and a sly grin spreading on his lips, it was clear he knew better than this. But he was eager to talk.

“You feel that, sweetheart?” he asked softly.

Where that single term of endearment had once made you bristle, you now sensed it warming your insides.

You nodded but were quick to add: “Joel, we can’t.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because…”

You found yourself trailing off again, just as you felt Joel’s erection grind into your front, somewhere close to the space between your legs. It rubbed right where you needed him. While another stream of airy, dreamlike notes floated out and a tenor’s voice crooned if you ever hunger, hunger for me, you peered up to find Joel deep in contemplation. He didn’t blink when you met his gaze.

Instead, he nudged you sideways. You inhaled a breath, and not long after that, you felt your back pressed to one of the lone barstools sitting at the outskirts of the room. You’d strayed far. And now, away from all the people that you’d come here with, you had two big hands sliding up the sides of your body. Cupping your face. Guiding your mouth to meet a warmer, more desperate set of lips than you’d ever been expecting to find. Joel’s kiss was rough.

It was open and aching—a wound not willing to be soothed by anything other than your tongue on his. Swiftly, he coaxed your jaw open and slid in. He licked in. He practically panted into your mouth, fingertips carving crescents in your cheeks from just how hard he was holding your face. He didn’t let up, and that hunger bled from his lips to yours. You felt a heady wave wash over your brain, and at the same time, your thighs tensed.

You pulled away.

Your lips were bitten numb. Your cunt was throbbing.

While your pulse thundered through your ears like a fucking kickdrum, your grip loosened on the front of Joel’s shirt, and you started to turn yourself from him.

What you needed to do was leave. What you couldn’t stand was getting caught again, and risk it being someone who wouldn’t take to it as kindly as Aly had.

But even as you walked, you felt a pulsing in your skull.

Between your legs, the feeling was worse, like there was something thrumming a frantic beat in that precious and defenseless place that you knew was needing him most. You were weak. You swiped a hand over your mouth like that would do anything, and you kept walking, knowing how closely Joel would be following you all the way out.

On such a clear, frigid night, the air outside should’ve been a relief. Instead, your pulse hammered and swelled. Your cheeks burned. You could’ve ground your teeth so hard that you cracked enamel, and it still wouldn’t have been enough to bite back the words inside your throat.

You turned to Joel wanting to tell him no. The expression that met yours said he was expecting as much—and was preparing to object—when you swiftly cut him off again.

It should end there. Nothing good ever came of you shedding your inhibitions or clothes with Joel Miller.

He reached out; you winced. You shouldn’t say it.

“Let’s go home, Joel.”

You were running again.

You’d nearly knocked him to the floor the second he’d turned the key in the door of his dingy little motel room, lips frantic over his and hands making fists in his shirt. It was exactly what he’d been hoping to see—part of why he’d booked this place and made the drive that weekend, to have you cradled in his arms again—but as he crossed the threshold with you all over him, Joel grew unsettled.

He couldn’t quite place the feeling, but something told him that you were only here to escape an unsavory urge. Like he was a bad habit to be flooded from your system.

You seemed to say it with every motion of your hands: skating down his front, clawing at the buttons, busying themselves with quickly trying to rid him of the fabric while your eyes stayed trained anywhere but on his face. It stung. Normally Joel wasn’t the type to ruminate on the reasons why a girl might be tearing his clothes off, but tonight, with you, this wasn’t what he usually did.

The ache unfurling in his chest wasn’t the kind to be imparted by just anyone, he kept reminding himself.

Which was why he took hold of both your wrists. Tightly. Just as you were about to try and peel his shirt from his shoulders and expose the whole naked expanse of his chest, he stopped you. He swallowed as you groaned.

“Joel.”

“You didn’t want me kissin’ you at all back there.”

In the bar, outside the building, in the car ride over here. You’d scarcely let him hold you for half a minute before begging to be taken home, and now that you were inside this room, alone, now you wanted to be touched by him.

Joel tried not to feel stupid saying it aloud, but hell, he felt pretty fucking pathetic peering down at you then.

You shook your head. Took a small step back from him.

“Yeah. Trying not to get us caught again, remember?”

And when you backed off, you stayed off, if only to start unfastening the little straps of your top and kick your shoes off your feet. You made your way over to the king-sized bed at the center of the room and sat down. Joel took off his own shoes but didn’t follow, opting instead to rest his weight on the old TV stand across from you.

He planted his hands on the hardwood surface on either side of him, watched you shuffle to the edge of the bed, and had to steel himself when the next pieces of clothing came sliding off your body. You were lifting your shirt over your head, then dragging your jeans down your legs.

Before you were stripped bare, Joel cleared his throat.

“I said we were gonna have a little chat later, too.”

He sounded like a dad. This really had to stop.

Instead of following his lead, you only kicked your pants off at your feet and leaned back. Joel approached the bed, and you greeted him with a coquettish look, like you already knew where this was going. But you couldn’t.

Joel made sure that you wouldn’t when he cupped your chin in his hand and made you tilt your face up to him.

“Honey,” he started, stern, while you reached for his belt.

You’d almost succeeded in threading your fingers through the leather and tugging it loose when Joel’s grip drew tighter. He jerked your chin up in a pinch, ignoring the roll of your eyes, and for yet another beat, he felt that obscure urge to discipline you again. Like you needed it.

If he could just control himself and play things right…

“Listen, I’m not trying to be your father.”

Wait. No. That came out wrong.

Your eyes widened some.

“Oh, really, daddy?”

Well, shit.

Joel straightened where he stood and tried not to puff out his chest like an old father-type might do, but the effort was useless—everything the man said and did was like the fucking calling card of a patriarch. He scrubbed a hand over his face and pretended not to see you grin up at him, your gaze bright and fiery as the Fourth of July.

He could hold important conversations and still not try to jump your bones immediately. He could control himself. He could slap on a semi-austere look and just tell you.

“I love you, you know that, right?” he blurted out.

Your eyes widened again, this time in alarm.

“Christ, Joel.”

You were sliding back on the bed. Shaking your head and pursing your lips in a grimace like this wasn’t happening.

“We’re not doing this again,” you added in a grave voice.

Joel was already making his way up after you—again, like a fucking moron, he felt—crawling on hands and knees across the moth-eaten, coral-colored bedspread and trying not to panic and failing miserably, per usual.

“‘S’alright if you don’t wanna say it back, I just—”

“I didn’t mean to say it in the first place, Joel!”

But there was a strain in your words. Denial.

You were working in earnest not to expose that sliver of self that wanted him, too. Joel could feel it. He planted his knees on the mattress and met you closer to the headboard, where your breaths were coming in faster. You shook your head, but you also didn’t stop him when he drew in even closer and lowered his body to yours.

He was hovering, almost.

Just as he’d been poised above your soft, beaming face all those weeks back in some little podunk town—at Balmaceda’s Mountain Lodge, where you’d been stuck together, only to fuck each other for the first time that night—he pressed a touch to your side. He rubbed his thumb just over your hipbone, where the panties you had on still clung to your skin, and he watched you tense up.

It was like before, only worse: now you knew his touch, and he knew yours, but there was a dread in your eyes.

As if you couldn’t stand to be under him, you slid back.

“Joel, please…don’t,” you murmured hoarsely.

“Don’t what?” His stomach dropped.

“Don’t ever say that again.”

That he loved you?

Joel never thought one string of words could hurt him so much, but there it was. While his heart unwound and his ego met with a swift and unceremonious death, he felt something like agitation twist inside him, too. Cruelly.

This was what he’d come this whole way to tell you.

The man could handle rejection; that wasn’t the problem. What bothered him now was how unflinchingly committed you seemed to misunderstand his intentions. Something surged in his chest again, and this time, it wasn’t all hurt—it was anger, too. Why you refused to accept that someone might love you was beyond him.

He didn’t reach for you again or crowd you further, but he raked a hand through his hair and heaved a hard sigh.

“Why won’t you believe me?” This time pleading.

“It’s not that I won’t—I just can’t, Joel. I can’t.”

“Why can’t you?”

You started to speak, but then that balloon of rage swelled bigger in his chest, and it wasn’t meant to be directed at you—it was only meant for himself, why wasn’t he enough—and he spit the words like venom.

“Haven’t I shown you that I mean it? That I— I— I care? I’m here. I came to see you. I’m telling you that I love you. How else am I supposed to show the woman I love that I care when you won’t let me in an inch, except when—”

“Except when you’re seven deep in me?” you scoffed.

It was bitter and derisive, and you slid farther back.

“For Christ’s sake,” Joel gritted through his teeth.

He didn’t even wait for you to interject, as he came back: “Is that all you think of me? Is that what I am to you?”

His voice was loud, and he hadn’t meant for it to be.

He was pushing off the bed, watching you sit back.

“I just think it’s real convenient,” you snapped again, “Betraying my trust by not telling me about dad’s affair, finding me in a weak moment, letting me believe you feel the same so you don’t have to deal with this…this…guilt.”

Joel couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“You think I did all of this out of pity?”

“I think you’re trying to be a—”

“That I would lie about it?”

His heart rate was spiking. He felt his pulse thudding in his ears as he stalked around the footboard and scowled.

“Joel, I—”

“No.” He shook his head hard. He was sincerely trying not to fit the bill for ‘hot-headed, explosively angry father,’ but the efforts he made seemed all in vain. Joel could hardly talk now without raising his voice to a shout.

“I have—” he started, only to stop himself, swallowing.

His throat ached, and he almost choked on his words.

“I have been in love with you this whole fuckin’ time!”

His eyes burned. The sound came out angry, hoarse. Maybe he was; he just couldn’t contain it anymore. Silence filled the open space, and time distended.

He couldn’t stand the way you wouldn’t believe him, even now, as you straightened and shook your head.

“No, you haven’t.”

“I have.”

“You don’t mean—”

“You don’t get to tell me what I mean!”

He stared back and watched your gaze erupt in ire. Indignation. Lips drawing tight and teeth baring and hands gripping the bedspread beside you, as if enraged.

“I do. I can. You’re— you’re full of shit.”

Your words made him want to hurl something at a wall.

“Am I?!” he bellowed.

“Yes!” you spat.

“How can you say that?!”

And, without meaning to, Joel’s knee hit the side of the nightstand while he turned abruptly from you. The whole thing shook; the lamp nearly toppled, and the man immediately reached for it, then out to you. The gesture was a reflexive apology, but you responded by shoving his hands off. An angry sound racked through your body as you moved from him—“You—you don’t mean it, Joel.”

“I do. I mean it. Believe me, I do.”

That sound from his chest could’ve been half a sob.

He reached for you again, knees sinking with the springs of the mattress beneath him, and you shuffled further back. Your movements slowed. Suddenly, Joel’s stopped.

He couldn’t see it without a wince—your hands shaking. Your fingers tried making fists but failed, and in an effort to conceal the fear they held, you seized the comforter.

His throat ached, and that pain only soared in a second.

“You can’t…you can’t mean it if I’m just a secret to you.” Your tone was a rasp. The lips that spoke it were curled, revealing teeth still gritted. Eyes filling with more tears, “You can’t say you love me if…if you’re just gonna leave.”

By the end of it, your words were ground to a murmur. Your voice was hushed and slow and begging to be spared notice, as though every syllable hurt to say.

Your bottom lip was quivering too. He knew you were kicking yourself for it—could see the embarrassment etched into your gaze as you blinked back nothing, then one, then two, then a barrage of slow, hot tears—but no matter what you did to fight it off, your body trembled.

The whole thing was practically vibrating with hurt. Humiliation and anger had evidently joined the mix, and before he could even think to speak, you mumbled again:

“You’re gonna leave me, Joel.”

The hurt wouldn’t stop.

“You don’t love me.”

Your voice cracked to continue, pain clinched with a sob.

“You can’t.”

In the look that met his, he saw a wall of warring fears. It wasn’t all for him, either. There were wounds that were the work of years beneath the surface of your skin, ones entrenched in flesh since long before he’d ever known you or laid a finger on that part himself. It started young.

Your lashes battled to keep the tears at bay, but the floodgates had opened. Your secret was gone. There was no sense in feigning indifference when the truth was laid bare—that you didn’t deem yourself worthy of love, and likely never had. Regardless, you worked hard not to cry. You scrunched your nose, mashed your lips together, and stared anywhere but him, and the tears kept flowing. Gently, but without slowing, they streaked down in turn.

“No, sweet pea, I love you. I love you. I ain’t leavin’.”

It was all Joel could do to keep his own vision clear.

He already knew you wouldn’t believe him, but that didn’t stop him from saying the words all the same.

“I— I said it first,” he went on, words tumbling out.

You turned wet, sad eyes to him in utter silence, and that made him want to ramble on forever. As long as it took.

“At the fair, a month before you ever said it, I was trying to tell you I loved you then. You ran off before I could.”

That was the truth.

If Joel had any hope of regaining your trust, it would need to start there. And out of one truth came another.

“I already knew I loved you before that. I would’ve said it, except it just felt wrong, with all that…that stuff I knew.”

He meant knowing about his best friend, your father, and his little rekindled romance with his former mistress. It wasn’t right, keeping you in the dark about something like that, but he also hadn’t wanted to hurt you. There was more to the story that complicated things further, and frankly, Joel had been too swept up in the novelty of this thing you two had had to choose the smarter path.

That didn’t excuse what he did. Hell, it only hurt him worse seeing your eyes gloss over and stay fixed on his.

Knowing you’d trusted him not to hurt you—and he had.

If you didn’t accept what he told you now, he wouldn’t fault you for it. All he could do was slide off the bed and pull you to a perch on the edge, while he planted himself on the carpeted floor and kneeled in between your legs.

Cupping your tear-stained face in his hands, pleading:

“Baby.”

You blinked back at him but ventured nothing.

“Sweet pea, I am not keeping you a secret.”

A beat.

“I’m not leavin’. I want more—need more.”

And for some reason, that felt like a weightier admission than he’d even thought possible. He wasn’t good at this.

He wasn’t quite cut of a cloth to know just how to soothe you and make things right, but he did know that holding you felt right to him. So he did. He rubbed his thumbs in little circles over your warm, wet, puffy cheeks, and he pulled your face closer to his. He held your gaze and watched an internal war wage somewhere far behind your eyes as you tried to contend with this new feeling—that of being wanted and needed and loved as you were.

You sniffled between his two broad palms.

“I want you to stay,” you said softly.

Joel’s heart hammered at that.

He couldn’t hope to leave out the rest. He let go of your face then and felt an irresistible urge to go on, even if it was much too soon and he had meant to show you later. As stupid as the idea had been, he’d already made it, and there was no going back anyhow. He would tell you here.

He reached in his pocket for his wallet. He broke your gaze momentarily to take it out, flip it open, and then card his fingers through the bills a few aching moments before pulling it out—the thing he’d wanted to show you.

When he held it up, a set, he flitted a quick look to what he’d lifted between you and him, as if the sight might give him answers on what to say. Sadly, nothing came.

Joel was totally on his own in explaining what this was. Lucky for him, though, you didn’t seem keen to judge.

“They’re…they’re tickets,” he started. Stupid.

You raised a brow, trying to read, and he forged ahead. Just as the words first appeared to register in your mind, and the faintest look of shock took shape, he hurried out:

“Billy Joel’s got a show comin’ up in Austin this June. I…I thought— well, I hoped, I guess, that maybe we could…”

Spit it out, Miller.

Spit. It. Out.

He frowned.

“I’m no good at this. Sorry. I wanted us to go…together.”

And then…

“And I want your dad to know about us before then.”

There it is.

The last lynchpin in the man’s resolve was gone. He’d said it. There was no turning back from what he’d offered, or what it required, and now you knew he wanted things to be real and committed. Serious.

Terrifying.

Your eyes remained fixed on his. For a second, that look, and your whole upper half, appeared so still Joel thought you might’ve stopped breathing altogether. You blinked. Glancing down at the tickets in his hand and batting your lashes again, as if you weren’t quite sure how to answer.

Then, at last, he heard a sharp inhale—Or was it an exhale? He couldn’t tell—and before he could blink back or wonder so much as a thought, the breath was battered out of his own chest. You rushed him.

You’d moved so fast, hugged him so quick, Joel scarcely knew what was what until he felt your arms snake around his neck. You joined him on the filthy, soiled floor and dropped your knees on either side of his body in a kind of straddling hug. It was as swift as it was unexpected, and it took him a second to adjust. But no longer than that.

Joel was relieved to feel your warmth. Squeezing him. Choking him, almost. He didn’t think you’d ever held him that hard in his life, so he did all he could to soak it in.

It was only when he heard another sob that he paused.

“You…you want to?” Your voice was tiny against him.

“‘Course I do, darlin’,” Joel answered in a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He cupped the back of your head to him and held you tighter, “Of course I do.”

Then, because the impulse struck again: “I love you.”

He didn’t need you to say it back; a look was enough. When you drew back and met his gaze, eyes still doused with tears but smiling faintly at him, Joel was content to see your acceptance. Allowing love in in some small way.

And when your lips succeeded that look, meeting his in a soft kiss, and your body shifted up toward the bed, he didn’t protest. He kissed you back. Joel didn’t have to have love spelled out in words for him to feel what you meant. You said it gently, but somehow with even more force than when you’d stumbled into this room together, touch beckoning him in as you laid back on the mattress.

Admittedly, every inch of this place was seedy. On such short notice Joel hadn’t had much of a pick among his choice of accommodations, and the shortage showed. Still, when you slid up that old, worn bed and stretched yourself in wordless welcome, he couldn’t have asked for more. He only wished that he could give you more, but for right now, at least, that was out of the question. He leaned in and found your lips like second nature, slotting between your thighs and kissing you harder. The concert tickets had shortly been cast aside on the night stand.

“I love you.”

It slipped out again, and Joel didn’t care. His tongue chanced past the seam of your lips and, once inside, explored every contour, ridge, and crevice it could find.

While he did, a touch palmed your breasts over your bra. Your skin was warm; gaze soft, the last he’d seen of it. The scent of you rose to greet him like a mist of some wild intoxicant: citrus, mint, a tinge of sweat, and a liter of your favorite fruity drink, if he’d had to guess. You flooded his senses. It wasn’t enough for him simply to hold flesh in his hands and explore your body with his lips and tongue; Joel wanted to consume something more, though he hardly had the words to articulate it.

You unclasped your bra just as his mouth slid down to your neck. There was a beat—your sharp intake of breath when his teeth met skin and marked it with the tenderest bite—and then your arms reached out. You discarded your bra and bared yourself to him, and when Joel tilted his head to take in the view, he had to groan your name.

There was no other logical route for him to go.

You’d just begun to wind your fingers through his hair when he slid down to greet that newly-exposed place.

“I love you,” he repeated against your skin before drawing one nipple between his lips. He kissed it.

Your grip grew tighter.

“Joel, please.”

His teeth had only reappeared a second to tug the pebbled flesh between them, tongue hungry and wet and laving gently across that hardened peak, when your legs wound around him too. You pulled his body into you.

Joel was helpless to the inducement. His torso fell more heavily to yours and his lips suckled with a vigor that betrayed sheer desperation. He felt it strain in his pants. When he moved from one breast to the other, he heard a wet pop, and the whimper when he re-attached himself was enough to make the bulge he felt swell even bigger. His tongue caressed in laving, measured motions along the curve, and he tried not to grow overly eager from it.

Don’t get too excited. You need time. Lots and lots of—

“Joel,” you exhaled on a particularly harsh press of his mouth. Your ribs heaved with it. “Come— come here.”

He was clambering back up in an instant. The ministrations of his lips that had practically engulfed your skin and smeared it with his saliva were swapped in a blink with them returning to your chin, jaw, and cheeks, planting kisses in between the words he murmured next.

“Yeah? Every—” To the side of your mouth. “Everything OK, sweet pea?” Feeling guilty but also simply needing to calm himself down. “Too fast?” Another to your cheek.

It wasn’t like the two of you hadn’t gone too far, too soon before. In fact, it was a pretty regular occurrence with the sex you had. Joel just needed a reset—had to make sure this was alright, and that he could cool down if needed.

He felt a pinch in his groin but ignored it.

Suddenly, your gaze was on his again.

Fingers carded through the sweat-damp, striated tufts of black and silver hair at the sides of his head, and you leaned in closer until your nose and his were touching.

“Here,” you pressed him, low. Need crept into those words, and your grasp constricted. “Stay here, please.”

It was clear you were inviting him back to your lips, to kiss them, so Joel did just that. He bracketed his arms on either side of your head and let his mouth explore as it had before. Where he resumed at equal force, you met him with still more warmth and wanting and open fervor, tongue curling around his in some soft and wordless plea

Below the belt, Joel was throbbing. He didn’t need to reflect long at all to know what that meant. Then your lips parted wider, your ankles dug deeper in the backs of his calves, and your hips started grinding against him.

Dry humping.

Whining at the friction.

“Feels…feels so good, Joel,” you told him breathlessly.

“You like that?” His lower half mimicked the motions.

Need blossomed across your face as the ridge of his cock rubbed in just the right way through his slacks. Something harder than he meant—a thrust, like he was fucking you into the bed—shook your frame, as well as the mattress underneath it. Springs creaked. Metal groaned. Warmth spread, from the pit of his stomach to where your body met his. The movements kept going.

You were slick beneath him. You must have been. Your whines had heightened to punctured gasps and your hips were so desperate, rubbing your barely-clothed core to the front of his pants and brows pinching as if—

You were already expecting this to end.

You didn’t think that he would stay.

“Baby,” Joel panted again.

By now, desire consumed him, but the urge to smooth that tiny crease of worry was coursing just as powerfully. He swallowed, gripped the linens beside your head in one hand a little harder, and opened his mouth to speak.

Another flick of your hips. Another sigh. Another whine.

Another pinch somewhere deep within him, and a groan.

Suddenly, your hands were on his shoulders, sliding up and toward his neck. Your fingers clawed for his hair.

“Joel,” you panted back.

Joel had tried to slow the motions of his lower half to talk, but yours had only sped up to grind yourself against him. He could feel the heat bleeding from you now. Wetness formed and expanded in a patch through your pink cotton panties and likely stained his front, or would.

His cock was swollen stiff and throbbing. Precum pearled at the tip of him, no doubt, and with every jerk of your body, he could feel it smearing and aching to slip in.

He wanted to be inside you. His balls twitched, his stomach ached, and his senses were suffused with you, a white-hot desire to paint your mouth, your skin, or your insides with his cum nearly as strong. But he had to stop.

Then you kissed him.

Joel’s lips were still parted when your mouth found his, kissing him sweetly and without reserve. Your fingers that had threaded through his hair pulled taut. Hard.

Your center slid up the length of his fully clothed cock, and with one more press of your legs, Joel felt you.

He’d never wanted anything more in his life, and still, he fought to speak—to reassure you that he wasn’t leaving.

“Joel—”

“I know, I know. Baby, I—fuck.” His breath hitched in his throat when his bulge pulsated again. His head swam.

With what meager resolve the man still possessed, he ventured another kiss, then drew back. His eyes dropped and searched your expression, half-crazed, and just when the words were taking shape again, you parted your lips and brought them to his. You rolled your hips, balled your fingers into fists through his hair, and with your mouth and his a quarter-inch apart in puckered, pretty ‘O’s, panting with every thrust that shook the bed:

“I love you, Joel.”

It was a breath, and the taste had never felt sweeter.

One more jerk of his hips and you were drawing in once again, panting in his mouth as if to make sure he heard.

“I— I love you. I love you so much,” you murmured, low.

His cum unloaded in thick, hot ropes. He couldn’t stop it.

Joel Miller, at the age, maturity, and level of experience he could boast, had never cum virtually untouched and in his own fucking pants since…he couldn’t remember when. But he was. His spend pulsed out from the head of his cock in dizzying bursts, and his stomach clenched. He gripped the bedspread and let out a guttural groan while he soaked the front of his boxers from inside them.

His dick throbbed and leaked, and his breathing slowed. He mumbled something back, quietly—‘I love you, too.’

Then he pushed up and off of you, out of the bed.

Seconds stretched; he didn’t feel it. Stars burst behind his eyes with every step, and he staggered that path to the bathroom like his life or his pride might depend on it.

As a matter of fact, the damage was already done. He’d jizzed in his pants like an overeager teen getting his dick touched or sucked for the very first time. What was worse, you hadn’t been doing either when he came; you’d told him you loved him, and that was enough.

Enough to make him look like a goddamn idiot, Joel thought without blinking. He kicked the door shut behind him and reached for the zip of his pants.

Sticky. Wet. A whole fucking shitshow below the belt.

He ran the tap. He had his undone slacks and boxers pulled down past his hips, and he was facing the sink in seconds, assessing the extent of the damage. Then his face flushed red at the sight of the sticky, milky mess swarming his groin and he could’ve kicked himself. He settled for yanking a towel out from one of the cubbies beneath the counter and running it under the water. He daubed quick and without much precision, gaze darting to find dozens more clumps of his spend strewn about than he thought possible. He’d cum an absurd amount.

Before he chastised himself, though, he had to pause.

“Joel?”

Your voice was soft. Sometime since he’d unzipped and started scrubbing his crotch in vicious circles, you’d appeared at the door, head peeking around curiously.

You must not have been standing there for long, because you actually drew closer to join him. Feeling comfortable enough in roughly thirty square feet of space, you shut the door again and leaned your hip against the counter.

If Joel didn’t know you better, and he wasn’t already occupied with wiping cum off of his cock and balls, he might’ve searched your face for a smile. A smirk, maybe.

It wasn’t like teasing each other was suddenly off-limits now that Joel was brimming with embarrassment. Half your communication was giving the other shit for little mishaps and quirks, and he expected that his last accident in the bedroom would be no different.

He flinched when you reached out instead.

Hooking your fingers under the waistband of his pants and his plaid boxers, you shuffled in closer to him and let out a breath. You tugged once, twice—gently, so as not to further disrupt the mess or make him wince—and then coaxed the fabric down his legs, lower and lower.

When you peered up at him, Joel couldn’t find so much as a trace of amusement in your eyes or on your lips. You just nudged his slacks to the tiled floor and hummed.

“It’ll be easier if we wash it off in there.”

You nodded to the shower behind him.

Joel turned slightly, as if considering or trying to get a glimpse of the freestanding shower with its wide-open, mildewed curtain seeming to beckon him in, then stopped. He turned back and chucked his towel.

“Alright,” he said while kicking his pants off at the ankles. Talking softly and not meeting your gaze, “That’s fine.”

He pivoted once more to peel his shirt off and make toward the shower by himself, and you surprised him, again, when you bypassed his much larger frame and hopped in first. You slid your panties off and tossed them into the pile of clothes by the sink, and you twisted the knob on the wall. You sidestepped the first stuttered sprays and drew the curtain back in wordless invitation.

Joel hovered, eyes scanning the cramped space.

“I don’t think we’re both gonna fit in here.”

Then, as though to emphasize his point:

“I can wash off by myself. It’s…fine.”

He hadn’t meant it to sound so stilted, but that was just how he felt: stiff and awkward and raw with feelings of recent embarrassment. He tilted his head to the side.

Your head tipped right back, and you raised a brow.

“Just get in, Miller. Freezin’ my fuckin’ ass off.”

And there was a smile: the first one. Faint.

Not mocking, snide, or condescending. Just the kind to usher him in and drag the curtain behind his hulking body, wipe a slick, wet hand over your mouth and grin—‘You do know I’ve seen you naked before, right?’—and that set his mind at ease. He almost smiled himself.

“So you remember that I’m a grower, not a shower.”

Joel cupped his hands over his softening length in faux protective fashion, as if you hadn’t seen the thing dozens of times by now. When he sidled up and cornered you between the soap tray and the shower stream, he found the edges of his lips kicking up a little, unable to help it.

You’d seen him hard, soft, and everything in between—mostly hard when near you. Maybe it wasn’t the worst thing that you were getting to experience him like this.

That made him lean in closer. Chance another joke.

“Looks like your old man’s stamina has taken a hit, too.”

Joel had meant it to sound playful. Suggestive, even. Instead, it came out dismal and gruff, like he was trying to overcompensate for something he was sorely lacking.

He might’ve wanted to kick himself again, were it not for the next move you pulled on him, which was enough to pluck his thoughts—and his breath—out of his body.

Without wasting a second to pretense or teasing, you simply brushed your hand down his front and touched him, gently. He was softer, smaller, and almost wholly spent from his last exertion; still, you reached and wrapped your fingers around his length with care.

Sparks ignited from the place where you trailed. Joel had to swallow a groan, oversensitive and fairly stunned, and his palm came to rest on the wall behind your head. His chin dipped toward his chest while his gaze dropped too.

He watched you stroke him once, rub your thumb along the tender skin, then bring your left hand to join the mix, carrying a bar of soap with it. You started from the base.

“Baby,” Joel rasped. The muscles of his stomach clenched while you drew circles to spread the soap.

“My old man,” you repeated affectionately.

It was artless and kind. Friendly and gentle. Most every other time he’d been touched where you had him, the hands had meant to arouse, and seek something else. Here, you were trying to help. Clean him sweetly and without concern for yourself while also drawing him in, like you always did. It made his chest hurt—and not in a way totally unconcerning for a man his age. Nonetheless, he leaned into that feeling and shifted his body to yours.

His head and your head were now doused with water, his hovering above so close that little droplets streaked from his chin down your slightly upturned face. Joel could feel you watching him. He flicked his own gaze back to meet yours, and as he did, your palm stroked him from root to tip. His hips jerked involuntarily; he swelled in your grip.

His cock stiffened but still remained far from fully erect. Joel swallowed, anchored his hand harder on the wall, and wished himself a decade or three younger, at least.

“You alright with this?” he muttered.

“With what?” you mumbled back.

Joel sucked in a breath just as your hand, and the soap, slid back down his length, and rubbed casually around it. You assumed a leisurely pace and scrubbed his tummy.

“My body ain’t what it was—”

“And it’s more than enough.”

Suddenly, your eyes weren’t just resting on his but pressing. Piercing. The circles working to clean his skin increased in pace and force, and you set the soap aside. You nudged him closer to the water, but all Joel felt was the urge to draw you with him. The shower stream pelted his chest, his belly, his freshly soaped lower half, and past the suds, a gradually hardening cock. Gradually.

You had him in your hand; you were rinsing him clean. Joel should’ve extended some murmured thanks, a calm and uncalculating touch coming to rest on one of your shoulders while you did him this innocent favor. Your lips twitched. His cock hardened. Then your back was flat on the shower wall, and Joel was hovering over your drenched and naked frame again, only his touch was descending to your hip instead. He held it firmly.

“You could have your pick of any guy—”

“Good thing I only want you.”

Your grip tightened too. Now that you’d scrubbed him clean, you seemed ready to let go in the next second, but old habits died hard. Joel leaned in to nose your cheek.

“That so?” His hand moved from your hip to what he knew would be a scorching heat between your thighs.

Two thick fingers glided through your folds and forced a whimper out of your throat. You were soaking wet, and not just from the shower’s spray. Joel rubbed that slick, delicate seam with all the self-control he could muster in the moment, and he kissed your cheek. Every inch he could feel of you was brimming with warmth and need.

You tilted your chin and caught his lips. You parted your legs and held his almost-fully erect length in your grasp.

“I— I mean it, Joel,” you answered him, surprisingly soft then. You kissed the sides of his mouth while you continued to stroke up and down. “I want you.”

Joel’s hips shifted involuntarily. As if moving of its own volition, his lower half stirred beneath your touch, and shortly, he had your legs spread wider and his body slotting in the gap between. His fingers pushed deeper.

And, just as his hand was all but cupping your mound and the wet heat of your cunt was pulsing against him, Joel slowed. He sucked in a breath and met your gaze.

“How do you want me, sweetheart?” he murmured.

In reply, you gripped his base and guided him closer. Flicked your thumb over the fat, leaking tip and sighed.

“Right…here.”

“Right here?”

Joel hadn’t meant to move you so quickly, but one blink and your hand was off him completely; your back was turned to him, and your ass was pressed flush with his groin. He had to hunch in the tight, wet, fog-infested enclosure with his chin jutting in over your shoulder and his palm splayed over your tummy. He spoke softly again:

“You want daddy in here, pretty girl?”

Your whine was all he needed to hear.

And perhaps it would’ve been wise to wait a beat or two. Work two fingers in and out of your aching cunt, drag his tongue through your folds, or else use his throbbing tip to ease you open for him. Before he could even think to make use of his hands, mouth, or head, though, you were reaching behind and taking him yourself. You pressed a palm to the wall and pushed up on the tips of your toes, and with impatience bleeding through your every movement, you slid back onto him. You did it quickly.

In the absence of adequate foreplay, entry wasn’t swift. Joel almost choked at the feeling of how tight you were around him—how rigid and warm and narrow you felt on that first slide. He planted a grounding hand next to your own out of sheer necessity. He held your hip in his other and swallowed a groan that seemed fit to nearly kill him.

“Sweetheart,” he panted against your neck, “Easy. Easy.”

You tried to nod your understanding but slid up just as fast. From a glimpse of your profile, Joel could make out some consternation fanning out. Your brows pinched.

The pretty, slick ‘o’ encircling his cock clenched again, and it was evident you were trying to force the motion back down against your body’s wishes. You whimpered a little and dropped your free hand between your legs.

Joel kissed your jaw. Your cheek. Your ear. Partly to remind you that he was fine to take things slow and partly to quiet his own hammering heart inside him.

It wasn’t working.

You were just so. fucking. tight.

“I— you gotta slow down, sweet pea,” he hissed through gritted teeth. Your walls pulsed again, and it nearly sent him spiraling. The second your ass met his hips and he was buried to the hilt, he stifled a groan into your neck.

“But I need you, daddy,” you whined, “Need you inside.”

Another grunt. Another moan. Another suffocating pulse.

“I’m gonna blow if we don’t slow down some, honey.”

It was mortifying, but it was the truth. Tonight, Joel just couldn’t seem to keep his cum confined to his balls like he normally could. Presently, they rested firm and heavy against the globes of your ass and were just then preparing to hit a rhythm as you rocked back and forth.

Your gaze flashed to his over your shoulder.

“That’s OK. You…you can— oh.”

Before you could finish that thought, your words were torn from your tongue and lost to a shuddering moan. His cock plunged deep within your soft and airtight channel, and your head lolled back a little more.

Out of habit, Joel pulled out and then plunged back in, feeling the wet clutch of you stretch around his cock.

“I can what, honey? What can daddy do?”

Lax as his voice made him sound, the man was coming apart at the seams; he had only to search your face for a fleeting, desperate moment, find you hungry as he was, and he thrusted even harder, absorbed the shockwaves of your pleasure while he fucked you up against the wall.

Gradually, the spatter of water on white glossy tile gave way to the sounds of your skin and his hitting again and again. Your face softened, and the once-taut walls eased to accommodate his girth. You squeezed Joel from base to tip, making the most obscene noises when he slid in and out, and from the look you gave him then, he could sense the need before it ever left your lips. He saw desire fill your pretty, glossy stare and felt compelled to sate it.

Again, it seemed you were begging him to stay.

Expression so pleading and sweet and soft.

“Daddy, I— I want you to cum inside me.”

Joel almost blew his load on the spot. His hips had to stutter in place—so taken aback by what you’d just said—but then you were bouncing back and forth again, neck craning to flash him the most winsome smile.

“Oh, honey…”

“Please.”

He’d finished in you before. It had been an accident. The night had ended with you and him hauling ass to the nearest CVS and hitting the Plan B like it owed you money. And now you were asking him to do it?

“I’m about to start my period. It’ll be fine.”

The half-starved look in your eyes said you’d been thinking about this for awhile. Maybe not with your rational brain, but certainly in earnest. Your smile said it.

Joel’s good sense was shot. He knew it was wrong. He was assured beyond a shadow of a doubt that if your dad ever learned he’d deliberately painted your insides white—or worse yet, knocked you up—his best friend would personally sever his dick and sauté it for lunch. Still, the urge to be joined with you in this brand new way was damn near debilitating. He couldn’t tell you no. So instead of doing what he should’ve done, he simply said:

“OK.”

For some reason, it felt wrong to finish in the shower. So he cut the water, toweled you both, and took you to bed. He slid under thin, sodden, wildly outdated motel sheets without letting his lips disconnect from yours once. He propped your legs around his hips and kissed you harder. He found a home within the furthest recesses of your body he could find, and his heart still throbbed for more. It was the best and worst agony, to be so delirious in the need for someone else, but each time you met him and accepted him in, his pleasure soared to new heights.

His cock dragged in and out of your heat in sloppy, shallow thrusts. He felt your wetness ease his passage and welcome him deeper, until the mouth of your cunt was stretched as taut against his base as it would go and your walls were pulsing with need. You squirmed underneath him. Your whines turned into whimpers, and the whimpers became ragged, hiccuping gasps as you clawed at his back and begged for more, more, more.

“‘M’so full. Feels so, so good, daddy,” you breathed.

“Yeah?” Joel said, and he glanced between your bodies to see you stretched and stuffed to the brim with cock. He groaned involuntarily. “I fit so nice, don’t I, baby?”

“You— you do, daddy. You do.”

“Can I fit a little more in?”

Your eyes widened.

As soon as realization dawned, you nodded your head and gripped him tighter. You hardly needed another stab of his hips, his thumb on your clit, or so much as a word spoken besides—at just the thought of being filled with his seed, your body seized in anticipation. It was you trembling, shuddering, clenching hard and reaching bliss before you even meant to get there, really. You were wholly overstimulated and clamoring for more, the pulses of your cunt milking his cock with all you had.

Joel scarcely had the presence of mind to get a syllable out, but he knew what he needed to say before his pleasure took hold. He smoothed a hand over your cheek, cupped it, and lowered his lips to yours, so only the cusp of his mouth and his stubble were grazing your open pout and the words he spoke were all yours to hear.

Sliding deeper. Meeting and holding your gaze with bare, uncontrived sincerity: “I’m yours, baby. I’m all yours.”

His balls tightened. He wanted to say more to set your mind at ease and assure you what you meant to him, but evidently, your bodies had other plans. In the next moment, he felt a familiar warmth spurt from his tip, and his hips jerked. His cock burrowed as deep within your wet, pliant walls as it could go, and he unloaded rope after rope of his cum. Joel let out a full-throated groan.

The wild hum of his pulse through his skull all but rendered him deaf to the sounds around him, but he knew he told you that he loved you; he knew you said it back. He felt you anchor your heels into the backs of his legs and accept him completely. You spent what felt like hours kissing, writhing, panting, and murmuring words of the warmest affection. In reality, this lasted seconds.

With you underneath him, in his arms, it didn’t matter.

“I love you, Joel,” you whispered again, smiling.

He grinned and kissed you, “I love you more.”

And he’d meant what he said: every inch of him was yours. Every moment you would let him have from that point forward, he’d spend showing you that he was there to stay. He didn’t care how long it would take to prove it.

For once, he didn’t care what your dad would have to say

[vaor]

gojo writing megumi a letter and all it says is "oh yeah your dad's dead. i killed him. sowwyyy~" is the cutest most on-brand thing ever

SOWWY!

[opossum-that-serves-cunt]

stockholm syndrome being a "rare psychological disorder" is some bullshit because I feel like it's very natural to watch a horror film and want to fuck him.

[webbluvrsugar]

hi! i absolutely adore your writing omgg

if it’s not too much trouble i was thinking maybe ethan landry x fem reader and continuing with that dynamic of the dom gf + sub bf in public but vice versa in bed? LOTS of size kink (if you’re comfortable writing it ofc) and maybe some degradation from ethan? ugh that would just be sooo 😩😩😩

tysm in advance, no rush in writing, and don’t forget to eat and drink water!!

— 🦚

a/n: guyyys it’s official!! I have my first emoji anon <333 and of course bae, tyyy sm!!!

proofread

﹒ ☆ 𓂂 ˚ ☆. ꙳ * ࣭ ࣭ casual dominance with Ethan in and out of bed

Outside of bed, it’s like you both have your roles assigned to each other, you take complete dominance, you ask him to do simple thing you could do like — carry your books, your purse and even cleaning your shared dorm for weeks and weeks without stopping, it was something he found particularly annoying, specially when you basically did nothing compared to him.

“Babe, do you think you can wash those dishes for me?” You’d ask the taller man in front of you, standing right next to the sink.

“Can’t you do them? You’re already close and I’m kinda busy right now.” He mutters, focuses on whatever project he’s working in his computer, slightly nibbling on his thumb.

“Come on… you always do them for me.” You say in indignation, crossing your arms and huffing before you sit down on the couch.

“Yeah but I’ve been doing them for weeks, and again, I’m busy.”

It almost serves as a warning, and by now, you’d stop, you’d do your own dishes yourself, but you really can’t find it in you to stop when you just want him to do one simple chore. — Why can’t he do them anyways? He’s not that busy, is he?

“Ethan are you serious? It’s like two dishes and you spend all your time in that computer, you can spare some time to do it for me, it’s not that difficult.”

See, that’s what does it for him, because he finally stops what he’s doing to look back at you, raising a brow as if daring you to keep acting that way, and when you do say something else, it doesn’t take more than two seconds for him to toss you over his shoulder and take you to bed.

He’s on top of you — all over you the way he likes it, fucking some sense into you with some quick and hard thrusts, one hand wrapped around your throat while the other gently holds your waist.

“This is just what you needed, huh?” He scoffs. “Some dick so you can finally learn to stop bothering me and do your own shit.”

You don’t respond, instead, you press your eyes shut while one hand paws at the one at your throat, moaning as you try to make him let go.

“Uh-uh, you’re gonna learn your lesson, you’re gonna learn that when I say no, it means — I’m fucking busy.” He groans.

He squeezes your neck a little tighter, bring his other hand down and slightly fiddles with your clit, loose and messy movements that somehow do get you closer.

“And after this —“ he breathes, leans down to whisper on your neck. “You’re gonna wash your fucking dishes.”

[lilaccmilk]

can’t help but think about

Men who look like they haven’t felt the touch of a woman. (they haven’t) They develop a crush on you. Men who look at you with doe eyes, ready to please. Men who will do anything if you asked. Men who shiver when you whisper in their ear. It can be anything, but the feeling of you getting close— fuck they’re goners. Men who imagine you in ungodly ways, all of this new to them. Men who are on the verge of crying because they are so sexually frustrated.

Men who still can’t believe how someone like them (shy, submissive, a stuttering mess) managed to pull someone as confident and bold as you.

Men who whimper when you finally touch them. Guttural grunts and moans, whines and whimpers— all a part of the melody they let out just for you. Men who look up at you with expectant eyes, wanting–no needing you to praise them. We’ve already established that they love your voice, so throw in a ‘good boy’ or ‘you did so good baby’ and their brain stops functioning.

──────────────────

I don't want it if it ain't your touch - West Side // Ariana Grande

I’m in class rn and all i can think about is this.

Ethan Landry, Sub!Miguel O’Hara, Simon Aumar, Harry Potter, Yuta Okkotsu, Tyler Galpin, Bucky Barnes +your favs!

[muqingslover]

We all know Sylus is huge but let's talk about tummy bulging.

His size is both a blessing and a curse.

No matter how much time he spent stretching you out, how often he fucked you so good and deep, Sylus was never able to fit his full length inside of you.

Things however were a bit different when he was on his rut.

He would take both of your hands into one of his own and bring it to the lower half of your stomach where you can feel how deep his cock is, not even needing to try to find the bulge as he thrusted. He made it fit because he knew 'you can take it'.

There's of course a knot stretching your hole wide when he cums, pumping all that seed in your tight little pussy with nowhere to go but into your womb.

Only then would Sylus press his hand down on your stomach, right where he knows the tip of his cock is against your cervix, and bask in the feeling of how deep he is inside of you. No one could ever make you feel as good as he did.

[coke-whore]

Billy Loomis - Scream 1996

"How can you find him attractive." I just have impeccable taste in men.

[em1i2a3]

I Wanna Get Lost With You

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

Summary: After a rough night, you find yourself with a rare day off–the one that you take on the same day every year in memoriam for the fallen. So you head into the city to spend your feelings away on the only thing that makes sense to you: gifts for your favourite team of scrappy anti-heros…And Bob.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI, Spoilers for Thunderbolts because everyone from Thunderbolts is in this and is involved and there is events from the movie that are mentioned :). Fluff, a hint of angst (because of the reader having a rough night…and a rough couple of years in general), Brief Mentioning of Grief and Loss, Bucky is kind of a reluctant father figure to the reader, Bob is Bob and he’s a softie who’s seen it all, Reader and Bob have an established friendship, Smut.

Smut Warnings: Hot and Heavy Makeout Session, Grinding, Cuddling with Some ✨Spice ✨(ahem…Fingering and handjobs lol), Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all, you know the drill), Bob is a softie, reader knows what she likes (a bit of a soft dominant vibe but not really). This is like a mix of comfort sex, and like purely desperate sex, you’ll see, you’ll see. Lol, Aftercare (because that’s hot too)

Author’s Note: This request was given to me by @xlittlemissydjx and I just had to do it when I read it (I also accidentally deleted the request by accident lol). I really expanded the landscape of it though, but I hope it meets what you were looking for :). Thanks I know I have a lot of pending part 2’s of one-shots, but I really couldn’t resist the opportunity to put a little bit of everything into this story, Angst, Fluff, and Smut. The holy trinity lol. Enjoy :))

Note About Requests!!!: I’m working through them! I have about 14 things I need to do! So be patient! They should all be done at varying times within the next week and a half (I get in the zone enough to get two a day out so hopefully that can help!)

Word Count: 18,416 (…Wow)

You had been tossing and turning all night, and it showed the second you stepped into the kitchen that morning. It was written in the heaviness of your steps, the way you continuously readjusted your sweater as if it was too tight–even though it was two sizes too big–, and it was painted across your eyes with the faint smudge of exhaustion that clung to the corners of them.

You had your tells–the little things that gave it away, and the team knew all of them. They knew when you didn’t get enough sleep, or when you didn’t get any sleep at all. You didn’t even have to say a word to them, they could just gauge it from your facial expressions. If you weren’t your usual chirpy self–the version of you that compensated your sadness with jokes and filled the room with noise–they knew what they were in for.

And today? You hadn’t said a word.

The moment you walked into the kitchen though you were pulled into the chaotic scene unfolding in front of you, as the scent of scorched butter hit your nose.

“I told you to spray the pan, Bob. Did you spray it or not?” Walker’s voice rang out, sharp with his distinct signature brand of early-morning frustration. He stood by the oven, hunched over it with a spatula in his hand wearing a pair of plaid pajama pants and a “Grill Sergeant” apron. Bob stood a few feet away, sheepish and visibly wilting by the tone that Walker was taking with him. His shoulders were hunched forward, and his fingers were busy wringing the hem of his flour-streaked sweater–the nervous habit he hadn’t kicked.

Over the past few weeks, Bob had started volunteering for kitchen duty more and more–not because he was good at it, because unfortunately he wasn’t and everyone had learned it the hard way–but because he liked the idea of it. Of helping. Of contributing back to the compound as he was in his recovery process from his incident in New York. He had also mentioned to you in passing that it helped him feel like he was normal again, and it reminded him of the simpler times.

But now, with flour scattered everywhere, batter dripping down the front of the counter, and Walker looming over him with the interrogating questions, he was clearly second-guessing his life choices.

”I…I thought I did.” He mumbled, looking around the kitchen, “I could’ve sworn I had the can in my hand.” He whispered, confused.

”Then what happened, hm?” Walker questioned, “Did the damn thing disappear out of your hand or something?” You reached up to rub the tiredness out of your eyes, letting out a sigh, which got the room's attention almost instantly–like you sucked the air out of it.

“Walker, what have I said about taking it easy on Bob, for the love of God.” Your voice wasn’t loud, because it didn’t need to be. Even with being the youngest in the group, you were seasoned enough to be feared, especially by Walker–which was always surprising for the ones who would see the both of you interact.

Bob looked over at you immediately the moment your voice broke through the room–firm and quiet, how you always were–and just like that, his posture shifted. Not completely–he was still wringing the hem of his sweater and looking sheepish–but something in him softened.

You always did that to him. You walked into a room, and it was like the gravity in the room shifted. You were never loud with him, your energy was controlled, but even if you were the loud person that you were around the others, Bob still lit up, in the same way a quiet house lights up when someone finally opens the blinds. His breathing got a little easier. His shoulders dropped just a little lower. Like he knew–even without words–that if anything ever went wrong, you’d be there to shield him from the worst of it.

And you always were, since the day you met in the O.X.E Vault, the day things changed for you–for the better of course.

You defended him the way no one else really did. The way nobody else really could replicate. You caught every nervous tick he had, you knew when to pull him out of situations he couldn’t handle, and you filled in his silences when he got overwhelmed and went quiet, answering hard questions for him with that calm, dry tone that let everyone know there were lines that were crossed.

You didn’t baby him, but you stood with him.

And Bob–who had spent so much of his life being pushed to the side, forgotten, or abused–had never really known what it was like to be protected like that, and he paid you back in the only way he knew how; by being your constant. A little planet in your very tight orbit, always trying, always showing up, always offering whatever soft, steady care he could muster.

You would say you took care of him in public, and he took care of you in private.

You’d never talked about it–not in direct words–but the arrangement was understood. He knew when to slip a cup of tea into your hand on the nights when your hands shook too hard to make one yourself. You knew when to plant yourself between him and a room full of sharp voices. He knew when to knock gently on your door and ask if you’d eaten. You knew when to tug him by the sleeve and get him out of conversations that made his breath short and his voice crack.

‘Hey, there’s only so many ruined breakfasts a man can take before he snaps.” Walker replied, holding up the pan that had what looked to be a burnt pancake glued onto it, “Look at what he did. This is literally my last one.” You didn’t even flinch. You gave the pancake a passing glance, then turned your attention back to Walker, your arms loosely crossing over your chest.

”And yet somehow the world keeps spinning, Walker. Why didn’t you take the harder stuff if you knew there was a possibility of Bob ruining your prized pan?” There was a long pause, until Walker held his hands up in mock surrender.

”Fine…Fine…You’re right. I’m sorry.” You raised an eyebrow.

”And apologize to Bob.” You added, watching Walker glance sideways at him.

”Sorry, Bob.” Bob gave a quick, awkward nod.

”It’s okay…” He whispered under his breath.

You didn’t wait for the rest of the interaction to be done, as you walked from the entrance of the kitchen and made your way toward the fridge, cracking the door open to grab a chilled bottle of water. The cold bit into your palm–and you lingered there for a moment, letting the cool air brush over your skin before closing the door again.

You stepped towards Bob then.

”You good?” You asked, voice low now, like it was just meant for him. He nodded, hesitating for only a breath.

”Yeah…I-I didn’t mean to screw things up so badly…I was just trying to help.” You let out a quiet sigh. The kind that carried the tail-end of exhaustion and affection at the same time, in equal measures, giving Walker a death stare, before reaching out to Bob, patting the side of his arm. It wasn’t too soft, nor too hard–it was just right to comfort him.

“Well,” You murmured, letting a touch of warmth back into your voice, “Go help by setting up the table, okay? I’ll order some food for everyone, and if you hear Walker screaming for his life, just ignore it.” This drew out a laugh from Bob–small and unguarded, a little surprised, like he hadn’t expected it to break free from his mouth in the way it did. It wasn’t loud, but it was full-bodied and real, the kind that deepened the flush that was always on his cheeks. Walker furrowed his brow from where he stood.

”What was that?” You didn’t answer him, you were already pulling your phone from the front pocket of your father’s hoodie, tapping through the food delivery app with the kind of speed that only came from someone who routinely cleaned up the emotional aftermath of other people’s messes.

”Nothing, I was just telling Bob I’m ordering breakfast for everyone, hope you like hash browns.” You said flatly, your tone disinterested as your thumb hovered over your usual go-to breakfast place, the one that you used to go to on your birthday.

Bob, still smiling faintly to himself, took this as his cue to duck out of the kitchen without another word, moving towards the dining area with a new sense of purpose. Walker watched him for a second as he left the room, leaving the two of you alone together, before shaking his head.

”You’re too soft on him.” You didn’t look up from your phone as you added seven orders of bacon to the cart.

”I’m just going to give you a friendly reminder that he helped us out of the Void and bought us time to save him, and another reminder that he saved our lives at the vault too. We owe him the softness, and the stability.” Walker sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck like he was trying to physically scratch the tension out of his spine.

”Still. The guy’s not made of glass. I think you forget that he beat the shit out of us in this very tower.” He shot back, which made you look up from your phone.

”That was the Sentry. You know that. And you only bring that up because you’re still butthurt that your shield hasn’t been fixed.” Walker grunted, caught somewhere between irritation and reluctant defeat. He shook his head again, slower this time, then dropped his spatula into the sink.

”Fine…You win.” He muttered.

”I always do,” You replied, looking back down at your phone to add three extra croissants to the order just in case someone got picky, going to check out.

”You gonna be in the training room later, thought we could spar together.” You paused for a second, glancing up at him for a moment, before processing your order and locking your phone, sliding it back into the hoodie pocket.

”No,” You said simply, turning the cap off your water, taking a quick sip, letting the coolness spread across your chest, “It’s my day off.” You added, which caught his attention immediately.

”Off? You don’t take days off.”

“I do today, we haven’t known each other long enough for you to see me take a day off anyways…So why is this such a surprise?”Walker furrowed his brow a bit.

”It’s just a bit weird, taking a random Tuesday off, what’s the occasion?” You met his eyes, almost annoyed by the line of questioning.

“It’s just for me, that’s all.”

——————-

After cleaning up everyone’s plates after breakfast, you collected your keys from the dish on the counter and slipped them into your pocket. No one questioned you. No one stopped you.

Bob had been in the middle of rinsing out the orange juice glasses, sleeves damp with his concentration fixed on the smallest marks, like he was trying not to think too hard. You gave him a soft pat on the back as you passed. He didn’t turn, but you felt the way he leaned into it, a silent acknowledgement.

You didn’t say goodbye. It wasn’t that kind of day.

Instead, you made your way down the corridor, past the glass-paneled lounge where Yelena and Ava were arguing over something that sounded like movie night logistics, and past the half-lit training room where the mats were still scuffed from the week before.

The elevator greeted you with a soft ding, and you stepped inside, pressing the button for the main lobby, knowing you had to make a stop before travelling into the heart of the city. The doors slid shut in front of you, sealing off the noise of the compound, and the silence that followed settled in your chest. The elevator hummed quietly beneath your feet, the numbers ticking down slower than usual, like it knew what kind of day it was for you.

When the doors finally opened, the lobby was quiet. You stepped out quickly, turning on your heel to go down the hallway that was right beside the elevator. It was silent, cleaner than the rest of the compound, and dimmer–there was less foot traffic so that’s why it was normally lit like a mortuary. The air down this hall always felt heavier, because it was the lead up to something you visited frequently.

Your boots echoed against the polished tile, until the corridor opened into the memorial wing. A long, curved hall with framed photos and holographic projections lining both sides–names etched into the glass like ghosts.

The “Hall of the Fallen,” they called it. A name you hated to say out loud, because to you they were your people.

The entire wing had only come to be because you forced it into existence. During the final round of renovations, when Valentina wanted the east wing reserved for press briefings and high-tech sparring simulations, you had walked into her office, dropped a folder full of lawsuit drafts onto her desk, and told her plainly that if your father didn’t have a place in this building, neither would you. You knew you sounded out of line, but because the tower used to be his, you thought the leverage would be something to hold over her head.

“I will sue you into the sun,” You had said calmly, “And I’ll have Pepper on the line within the hour to back me.”

So she relented.

And now… Here it was.

Each section of the wall was backlit in soft amber light. Not cold and sterile, but warm–like candlelight. Like the kind of lighting your dad always insisted on in the Tower because he said it was more comforting and less lab-like.

Your eyes tracked instinctively toward the far right. You never had to look for it, because you knew exactly where he was, call it a daughterly instinct.

The large framed photograph of Tony Stark stood in front of you. No helmet, no Iron Man suit. Just him, in a slightly crooked tie and a hand resting on your shoulder. The image had been cropped, but you remembered where this was taken. He’d been giving a press conference and you snuck up beside him mid-speech. He had rolled his eyes and laughed, pulling you into the shot like it was nothing.

You slowly stepped forward, putting out your hand to reach for him, but before you could, you noticed someone already standing near the center of the hallway, facing a different frame.

Tall. Broad shoulders. Hands tucked deep in his jacket pockets, hair slicked back like he was going for a meeting…Bucky.

He didn’t turn at the sound of your steps. He didn’t have to. He knew you would be here. It was the anniversary of your fathers death after all.

He was standing in front of Steve’s photo–head slightly bowed, jaw clenched, like the weight of all the memories he had with him had curled itself around his spine and wouldn’t let go.

You approached him slowly, your boots muffled now by the soft carpet that lined the central arc of the memorial wing. Bucky hadn’t moved, his eyes were locked on the image of Steve–clean-cut, square-jawed, with his warm smile forever frozen in time. You stopped beside him to stand shoulder to shoulder.

For a few moments, neither of you said anything, you just stared at the photo, breathing deeply, in reflection of the moments you all got together. After a minute you cleared your throat, pushing the lump to the side so you could speak.

”You missed breakfast.” Bucky let out a slow breath through his nose.

”Didn’t really feel like having pancakes today.” You cracked a small smile.

”Wasn’t pancakes…Bob ruined Walker's last pan by burning them.” His lip twitched just a little.

“Sounds like I didn’t miss much then.” He said, the ghost of a smile flickering at the corners of his mouth before fading again. The silence between you returned, but it wasn’t empty–it was heavy. Full of everything neither of you had ever needed to say out loud.

Your eyes lingered on the picture of Steve for a moment, before shifting sideways to study Bucky instead. He looked older in this light. Not tired–just…Quieter. Softer around the edges in a way that only grief can carve into a man.

“How long have you been down here?” You asked.

”About thirty minutes, I had a meeting today actually so that’s also why I missed breakfast.” Bucky shifted his weight slightly, eyes still trained on the photo, “Didn’t think I’d end up staying this long, but you know…Memories make you lose track of time.” You nodded slowly, getting a bit closer to him, slipping your arm into his, feeling the coolness of his vibranium radiating through his jacket. He let out a slow, steady exhale, letting your hand rest there, and in that small gesture, you felt the quiet return of the role he’d carved out between the both of you–it was reluctant at first, but unshakable now.

”You know…” You murmured after a beat, “He would’ve been really proud of you.” Bucky didn’t speak right away, but you could see his jaw clench at your words, before nodding.

”Tony would’ve been proud of you too.” That made you scoff, but softly. You looked down at your boots, your fingers curling slightly around the curve of his arm.

”Definitely not,” You said with a dry laugh, “I don’t think he ever intended on me being on a team like this…Or carrying on his legacy at all, really. Especially not with how I started this…With Val and everything.” You added.

”We all do stupid things sometimes, but now you’re a part of something bigger than yourself. I’m telling you…He would’ve been very happy to see you in action.” You looked down at your feet, with a soft smile coming up on your face before nodding.

It hit you again–like it always did this time of year–that Bucky had become the closest thing you had left to family. Apart from Pepper and Morgan, he was the only one that truly stood by you. This year was different of course, especially with your new teammates, but it made you think back to how far the both of you truly came.

Because it never started that way. In fact, you didn’t think Bucky would’ve offered you the protection he did. He was quiet and watchful, always keeping people at arm’s length. But something changed at your father’s funeral.

He found you that day–after the speeches and the silence, after Pepper had walked Morgan inside of the house to make her some food and Rhodes offered his condolences. You were standing by the water, not crying, just looking out onto the way the sun was setting, wearing one of Tony’s old jackets because it still smelled like his aftershave.

You didn’t even hear Bucky approach until he was beside you, and when he spoke, it was the only thing that had cut through the fog in your brain that day.

“If you ever need anything…” He said, quietly, like it wasn’t a promise he had been planning to make, “Anything at all…I’m one phone call away. No questions asked.” You had looked up at him, surprised that he was even talking to you, especially after everything that had happened between him and your father, but all you did was give him a nod, and a thank you.

Then, four years later, when you found yourself stuck in the desert with Walker, Ava, and Yelena, after escaping the death trap that was the O.X.E. Vault, and witnessing Bob turn into a human asteroid, you had pulled out your phone and dialed his number.

You remembered the look on Walker’s face as you pulled out your phone and started dialing.

”Who the hell are you calling in the middle of the desert?” You looked up at him, shielding your phone away from him.

”My emergency contact…Someone who’s not going to let us die out here.” You muttered, putting the phone to your ear. It only had to ring once, before he picked it up.

”Y/N, hey, you think I can call you back in a few minutes.” He said, like he was in a rush, like he was packing.

”Bucky, I’m in trouble.” Walker’s face had immediately dropped, his mouth opening slightly. Yelena had seen the look, and she had whispered something to him, not understanding the visceral reaction.

“Bucky!?” Walker exclaimed, you looked over at him confused, pressing your finger to your lips–afraid that his voice would echo through the open space and gain some sort of attention possibly.

”…Y/N…Was that John Walker's voice that I just heard?” Your brows furrowed, still trying to piece together what the hell was happening.

“Y-Yeah. Listen, we don’t have time to go into details because I need to conserve my battery, but we are in a desert in Utah, and we’re lost. I need you to help me…Will you please help me?” He had already been packing his motorcycle to start making his way over after receiving a call from Mel with her coordinates, and immediately he started connecting the dots that you were somehow involved. Before the line of questioning even left his lips, he remembered what he told you at the funeral and reluctantly spoke.

”Okay. I’ll track your coordinates and be there as fast as I can, just…For the love of God stay safe.” You nodded.

”I will, I’ll see you soon…Thank you Bucky.” Then you hung up the phone.

”How the fuck do you know Bucky Barnes?!” Was the first question out of Walker's mouth.

Then all the details were out in the open for everyone to know; how you knew him, how you were Tony’s daughter, how you joined Val’s list of operatives because you felt like you wanted to do something and she offered it to keep you busy. You were surprised that your identity wasn’t known to the group, so it was a relief when they quietly gave a nod to you almost as if to say they were sorry for even asking. Then the unplanned limo pickup from Alexei had happened, which intruded on the plans a little bit and ended with you having to reset your own shoulder, but to be reunited with Bucky Barnes was a heaven sent.

“Been watching you on TV at those congress hearings, congratulations by the way.” He let out a soft laugh at that comment, adjusting your shoulder into the proper position.

”Yeah well…I guess a lot of unexpected things have happened over the past couple of years.” He said, still a bit concerned with the details on how you somehow got wrapped up in all of this. But once again, he said no questions asked and he stuck to it.

Now as you stood side by side today though, it was easy to say that he was like a father figure you never thought you would have again, and you were grateful for all of it, regardless of how it fell into place.

”…I sometimes wish he got to see me with you guys too…” You whispered, breaking the silence. Bucky glanced at you from the corner of his eye.

”I’m telling you, he would’ve liked it. Sometimes when I see you at briefings you have the same mannerisms he had, same attitude and stuff. I was never really around him but I heard stories from Steve. It’s like you’re a carbon copy of him in female form.” That drew a soft laugh out of you.

“While I do appreciate being compared to him, I can never be as good.” There was a pause, and he sighed.

”There’s no ‘good’ kid…You’re doing the best you can with the cards you’ve been dealt. And I’m proud of you, we all are, even though none of us really say it often enough.” Bucky’s words settled into your chest like something warm and grounding, something heavy in the best possible way. You blinked a few times, swallowing the knot in your throat before it could turn into something embarrassing, and that’s when an idea popped into your mind.

The two of you stood in silence for a moment longer, just breathing. Just being.

Then, slowly–almost uncertain–Bucky shifted, and his arm moved around your shoulders. He didn’t pull you in abruptly. He didn’t force the moment. It was gentle. Intentional. Like he was offering the hug, not giving it. It was something Bucky rarely did, but in a moment where comfort was needed he would push the discomfort off for you.

You leaned into it immediately.

Your arms came around his middle, anchoring yourself to the familiar weight of him. You didn’t close your eyes, but you let your cheek rest against his chest and took a breath. He smelled like leather and clean soap, and the faint trace of a piney cologne he always insisted he didn’t wear. You both stayed like that for a few beats–just enough to feel steady again.

“Thanks Buck,” You mumbled, your voice quiet.

“Anytime,” He replied, equally soft.

You pulled back, brushing your sleeve against your face subtly wiping a small tear that was forming in the corner of your eye as you stepped away.

“Alright…Enough with the sappiness…” You sighed, your tone turning a bit lighter now, “I’m heading into the city to do a bit of shopping therapy…” Bucky arched an eyebrow.

”Shopping therapy huh? Guess it’s better than drinking. And you’re going without your second shadow?” You looked at him confused.

”Who?” Bucky gave you a look, one of those deadpan, all-knowing stares.

”Bob,” He responded, “You think he’s not going to notice that you’re gone for the whole day?” A guilty grin tugged at the corner of your mouth. Everyone knew how close you were to him, but Bucky was the one person to know how deep it truly went, how much Bob actually knew about you, down to the little details, and the darkest parts.

”I slipped out while he was rinsing the glasses, I figure I’ll have about an hour of radio silence until someone calls to tell me he’s looking for me.” Bucky huffed a dry laugh through his nose, shaking his head slightly.

“I’ll shoot let him know of my whereabouts in a bit…Don’t worry.” You promised, stuffing your hands into your hoodie pocket. “Just wanted a little time to myself. Got an idea I need to run with, and I think it’ll help.”

He didn’t press for more. He never did. That was the good thing about Bucky–he could read you like a book, but he only turned the pages when you were ready.

“Well,” he said after a moment, adjusting the collar of his jacket, “Don’t get lost in any candle shops.”

“No promises.”

You turned to go, but paused halfway down the hall and glanced back. He was still standing there in front of Steve’s photo, hands back in his pockets, eyes distant. You softened.

“I’ll be back later tonight. Might be close to dinner, maybe after. But tell the others not to start movie night without me.”

Bucky nodded, glancing over his shoulder.

“They’ll wait,” He said. “I’ll make sure of it.”

You offered him a small smile–one of the rare, real ones–and gave a little wave as you turned and headed out.

The elevator doors closed behind you with a soft ding, and for the first time that day, you felt the flicker of excitement hum through your chest. You weren’t sure exactly what you were looking for yet–but you were going to find something for each of them. Something thoughtful. Something that said thank you for being here, for staying, for putting up with me.

Even if you’d never say it out loud.

———————

You had returned that night thirty minutes after dinner was wrapping up. Everyone was still mingling in the kitchen, the remnants of takeout cartons and half-eaten desserts scattered across the island, but when the elevator dinged, every head instinctively turned toward the hallway.

When the doors slid open and you stepped out–flanked by two interns struggling with your overflow of tissue-paper-filled bags–you didn’t even get a full step before you called out.

“Everyone stay in the kitchen! No peeking!” You warned, your voice commanding but playful. “I’m serious, if I catch one head in that hallway, I’m throwing dessert in the trash.”

That got a ripple of muffled laughter from the group.

“You act like we don’t eat dessert before dinner,” Yelena shouted back.

Despite your warning though, Bob didn’t get the memo.

You barely made it halfway to the living room, with the interns trailing behind you, when the sound of socked feet came pattering rapidly around the corner.

Bob appeared, cheeks flushed, his light brown hair a little mussed, his eyes wide and brimming with unfiltered concern. He wore a pair of black sweat pants and an oversized dark grey sweater that covered his broad frame, it made him look fragile and small–even though beneath his clothes it was far from the image he was trying to portray. You had caught glimpses of his body in little increments, sometimes by accident you would walk in as he was pulling on his shirt and you’d catch the lean muscles on his back flexing, once you saw his abs when he reached up to grab something, and once in a while you’d catch him with his sleeves rolled up, and you’d see the cool blue veins that rose from the planes of his forearms. Sometimes you wished you’d see more of him, but you were fine with what you had the privilege of seeing. He looked like he’d been waiting by the kitchen threshold all evening, just listening for the elevator.

“Hey—are you okay?” He asked, his voice already rushing. “I—I remembered what day it was, and I didn’t know if you wanted space or if you wanted company, but then you left without saying anything and I didn’t wanna crowd you but—”

“Bob!” You cut in quickly, spinning around to shield the bags with your body. “Close your eyes!” He startled like someone had set off a firecracker behind him.

“Sorry! Sorry!” He blurted, immediately slapping his hands over his face. “I didn’t see anything! I swear…I only saw you, not the-uh-the stuff-whatever the stuff is…”

You let out a long sigh, shaking your head as one of the interns behind you adjusted their grip on a delicate gift bag.

“Here,” You whispered to them, handing off what you were holding. “Take these into the living room...And thank you again for the help, oh and make sure the box is put in my room okay? First on the right.”

“No problem.” The intern nodded, already moving with the caution of someone who had been thoroughly briefed with the other intern trailing behind.

Once your hands were free, you turned back to Bob. He stood perfectly still with his palms mashed over his face like a kid in a surprise party gone wrong–lips pressed into a worried line, shoulders a little too rigid. You let out a soft sigh, stepping towards him–knowing you scared him a bit– and reached up for his wrists, pulling his hands away from his face slowly.

”You can open your eyes now…I didn’t mean to scare you…I just have a surprise for everyone. Sorry…” You said gently, watching as his lashes fluttered open, his eyes instantly meeting yours, with that all too familiar look–soft and worried and wired, like he had been on the edge of his seat waiting for your return.

”I-It’s okay…I was just…I was w-worried about y-you. I remembered what today was after Walker mentioned to me that you took the day off…And I felt like such an idiot f-for not che-.” Bob’s words halted immediately when your fingers touched his lips–just two of them, soft but still–to quietly tell him to stop talking. His breath caught in his throat, and you could feel the way his shoulders tensed under your touch, frozen like a deer in headlights. His eyes went wide, and then slowly his cheeks flushed a deep, unmistakable red, blooming from his cheekbones to the tips of his ears.

It was the kind of color that told you everything without a word.

You didn’t tease him for it. You didn’t move your hand right away either.

You just held his gaze, steady and gentle, letting the silence do the heavy lifting.

“I’m okay,” You whispered, your voice barely audible above the distant murmur of the others in the kitchen. “Really.”

His brows drew together just slightly, like he didn’t believe you entirely, like he was still cataloguing every detail of your expression for proof. But your hand stayed right there between you, steadying the weight that always seemed to pile up in his chest when he couldn’t fix things, or make you feel better.

You felt him breathe in–and that tiny shift, that barely-there exhale through his nose, was the signal that he heard you. That he believed you…Even if just for now.

You slowly dropped your hand, the warmth of your fingers leaving his skin with the ghost of your touch. He blinked, like coming out of a daze, and looked like he didn’t quite know what to do.

“Okay,” He said quietly. He was still flushed, avoiding your eyes, knowing that he just had to take your word for it, even though he knew how much this day was a dark reminder of what you were most ashamed of.

He only knew this because he had seen it.

In the O.X.E vault, after you, Walker, Ava, Yelena, and Bob had barely escaped the incinerator, you had all collapsed into a breathless heap in one of the elevator areas., sweaty, and rattling with adrenaline. No one celebrated. It was too soon for that. Tension still clung to the air like smoke, and the five of you were still strangers.

You had sat against a wall, jaw clenched, blinking through the pain that was radiating from your ribs. The quietness was deafening.

Yelena hadn’t moved much. She sat cross-legged on the far end of the room, her elbows on her knees, and her sharp eyes trained on Bob–who was pacing a few feet away, muttering under his breath. His hands trembled slightly, and his voice barely registered above a whisper, like he was listing something he didn’t want to forget. You couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, but just watching him pace in that mint green scrub set, made you tense up, there was just a feeling in those moments that something was wrong.

That’s when you noticed Yelena’s expression. Not skeptical. Not calculating. Just…off.

You pushed yourself to your feet, wincing as your ribs protested, and made your way toward her. She didn’t look up until you crouched beside her.

“What’s going on?” You asked, voice low, “You hurt or something?” Her eyes didn’t leave Bob, when she shook her head at your question.

“I need you to touch him.” She whispered under her breath.

“Touch who?” You asked, shifting on your feet a bit, confused at what she was saying to you.

“Bob.” Her voice was even, but her brows furrowed. “I saw something…But I need to know if I’m just going crazy or if it was real.” You could feel yourself grow more and more concerned just by how shaken up she looked.

”Yelena…What did you see?” She shook her head at you.

”Can you just go do it? Please.” You stared at her for a second longer, then nodded. You didn’t understand it, but something in her voice had pulled up, like she was scared of something. You stood up and dusted your palms off, turning around to approach Bob, who was still pacing back and forth, taking four steps before turning and doing the same towards the other side, whispering to himself still.

Walker and Ava were still talking, strategizing how you were all going to get out, and neither of them noticed when you moved past them. Bob didn’t hear you coming either, he was too wrapped up in his own storm to even see your slow approach.

”Hey,” You said gently. He startled almost immediately, his eyes snapping to you like you had dropped him in a pot of ice cold water, “Do you mind coming with me for a second?”

“I-I’m f-fine.” He replied quickly, a reflexive panic in his voice, like he had done something bad, and he was afraid of being punished. You gave him a soft smile though, almost like you knew you needed to make yourself a little less aggressive, especially after he had seen you go head to head with Walker over something so minor you couldn’t even remember..

”I know, I just want to check something, okay?” He looked down at you with such hesitation that you honestly thought he was going to say no, but even back then he had a distinct soft spot reserved for you. His eyes were an odd shade of blue that day, and you had seen distinct little flecks of what seemed to be an off yellow peering through. Back then you chalked it up to being the lighting.

”…Okay.” He whispered. You gave him a little smile, and took hold of the sleeve of his scrub top, leading him towards the side of one of the concrete pillars, just far enough to shield you both from the rest of the group. The tension in Bob’s shoulders hadn’t eased. If anything, being pulled away from the others made him more rigid, as if you were going to reprimand him.

“You hurt anywhere?” You asked, nodding toward his chest, his ribs, his shoulders.

“No…No…I mean, not really j-just some scratches and stuff b-but I’m okay, r-really.” You squinted at him, and you could see the way his breath hitched in his throat a little, like he was nervous or trying to hide something. Your eyes scanned over his dust covered face, watching him shift uncomfortably, as if being under your gaze felt like he was being smothered.

“Mind if I check?” He looked like he wanted to say no, like he wanted to tell you he was fine again so he could go back to his pacing, but instead, after a beat of hesitation, lifted his arm up slowly to you, with his palm up.

You reached forward slowly, and grabbed his hand.

Then everything slipped.

The world around you–the gritty concrete, the stale air, the faint hum of the vault’s broken systems–all vanished in an instant, replaced by heat, light, and the faint crackle of fire.

Your body didn’t move, but your heart slammed like it was being punched. You knew this place. The ruined battlefield. The shattered husk of the Avengers compound after the snap had been reversed. Twilight bleeding across rubble. Smoke curling in the air. The air was so thick it clung to your skin like regret.

You saw them–Peter, Pepper, Rhodey. All of them gathered around the figure on the ground.

And there he was.

Your father.

Collapsed. Barely breathing. The right side of his face blistered from the energy surge of the Infinity Stones. His arc reactor flickering like the dying heartbeat it had become. His mouth was slack, his breathing shallow.

He was dying.

And you were nowhere near him.

But you had been. You remembered it clearly now, clearer than ever–how you had stepped forward when they pulled him from the wreckage. How you’d seen him, gasping for air. How you’d started walking toward him and then–froze. Stopped in your tracks.

You had walked away.

The grief you’d locked down in the deepest corners of yourself–boxed and buried for years–rushed back to the surface with the brutal weight of tidal force. Your knees hit the ground in the memory, even though your body in the vault hadn’t moved.

Your chest heaved.

Because this wasn’t a memory.

This was your shame.

The moment you’d never told anyone about. The moment even Pepper didn’t know. The moment you abandoned him because you couldn’t watch the man who raised you die.

And now Bob—Bob, who you barely knew at the time—was seeing it too. Sucked into the deepest darkest secret you had. You tried to pull away, but the memory gripped you like a vice.

Tony’s eyes fluttered shut.

Peter was crying.

Pepper leaned in and whispered something too quiet to hear.

And you–you were nowhere near him. You had your hands over your mouth, hiding behind a crumbled slab of wall, like a coward. Crying silently, too ashamed to show your face.

The memory ended like a door slamming shut.

The vault came crashing back into view. Cold. Harsh. Fluorescent.

And you stumbled backward, your hand jerking away from Bob’s as if it had burned you. Your back hit the pillar, hard, and you bent over, one hand gripping your ribs like they were splitting open. You were breathing heavily, but holding back the tears, because you needed to remain strong, you had to or else you weren’t going to get out of the vault alive.

Bob didn’t say anything at first.

He just stood there, his hand still half-raised like he hadn’t realized you’d let go. His chest rose and fell unevenly, not with fear, but with something more fragile—remorse, maybe. Guilt. A kind of stunned softness that only existed in people who had never been given permission to hold something that delicate, and now had to live with the knowledge that they did.

He didn’t look at you right away. He was staring at the spot where your hand had touched his, like it still lingered there.

“I-I’m sorry…” He whispered, which caused your head to snap up at him. You had been expecting confusion. Denial. Questions, maybe. But not an apology.

“I-I don’t know how to c-control it. I didn’t mean to do it.” He said under his breath, kind of like he was muttering it to himself. The strangest thing about it all though was that you didn’t feel angry. You should have. You should’ve been furious that he’d been pulled into something so private. But there was something in the way he looked at you now–like he understood you in a way–that made your breath catch.

“Just…Don’t tell anybody about this.” You said hoarsely, wiping your nose on the back of your sleeve, as you pushed yourself up off the pillar to recover.

”I-I won’t,” He said immediately, “I’d n-never do t-that, I-I promise.” He added, and you believed him.

Even though the moment passed, even though Walker barked something from across the room and Ava told everyone to regroup, even though Bob turned to leave first to give you space–you knew in your gut that it had shifted something.

And now, standing in the present day, in the quiet hallway outside the kitchen, you realized that he really did keep that promise he made all those months ago…But that just spoke to who Bob was, and who he had always been.

——————

The lights in the compound’s living room had been dimmed for movie night, the projector humming softly behind the couch as the team shuffled in with snacks in hand.

You stood in the middle of the chaotic scene of bags and boxes, arms crossed, eyeing them as they made their way over to their designated spots that they typically claimed during movie nights. Yelena kicked her feet up onto the coffee table like it was her birthright. Walker was already grumbling at Ava for stealing the corner seat he liked to stretch out in. Alexei lumbered over with a bowl of popcorn that definitely wasn’t for sharing, and Bucky, as always, took the spot by the far armrest, the one with the clearest view of the exit. Bob lingered near the back of the couch, waiting–always waiting–until he was sure everyone else was settled before choosing a spot closest to you.

You cleared your throat, but it barely registered above the chatter that was happening around you.

”Hey!” You exclaimed, and that’s when heads turned. Walker paused mid-bite. Yelena glanced over her shoulder. Bob straightened immediately like someone had called his full name in school. Even Bucky looked up, one brow arching in curiosity. The projector hadn’t started yet, but the anticipation for the movie had everyone on autopilot. Until now.

“I, uh…” You started, then immediately hated the sound of your own voice. Awkwardly, you cleared your throat, and tried again, “Before we start the movie, I need to say something.” They sat in anticipation, thinking that you were going to announce something either tragic, or shockingly happy. Your hands fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve as you took a breath, the hush in the room now bordering on tense.

“Today’s always been a shitty day for me,” you said simply, and the honesty of it settled over them like dust. “Most of you probably figured that out. Some of you knew… or saw more than you were supposed to.” Your eyes flicked briefly toward Bob, and then back.

“But this year felt different. I didn’t want to sit with it by myself. I didn’t want to spend the day pretending it wasn’t happening just to make it easier to breathe.”

You exhaled.

“And I didn’t want to feel alone. So instead… I went shopping.”

There were a few scattered smiles at that. Ava smirked. Yelena tilted her head. Alexei made a noise that sounded like a chuckle and a snore at once.

“I got you all something. Nothing huge. Just things that made me think of you. Things I thought might make you smile. Because whether you like it or not, you’re my team now. You’re my people–my family. And I wanted to say thank you. For being here. For staying.”

You paused, blinking away the weight behind your eyes.

“For putting up with me.”

There was silence. But the kind that meant something. The kind you didn’t want to break too fast.

Then, you turned to the bags behind you and grabbed the first one.

“Ava,” you said, walking it over. “Noise-cancelling headphones and a pass to a rage room. Because, let’s be honest, we annoy the shit out of you.”

Ava cracked a genuine smile. “They better let me bring my own bat.”

“No promises.”

Next: “Yelena.” You passed her a smaller black box. “New utility belt. And some custom knives and batons I had made. Not saying you need them. But I also didn’t want to find out what would happen if you didn’t have them.”

Yelena grinned, flipping the latch open immediately. “You do love me.”

“Very much.” You replied with a smile.

“Walker,” You said, tossing him a medium-sized box that thunked heavily into his lap. “New pans, and a mini travel sized grill.”

“Thank God,” He muttered, already tearing the paper. “And they’re even better quality than the last ones.”

“Alexei.” You handed off two heavy bottles wrapped in tissue paper. “Vodka. The expensive kind.”

“Oh…Oh this is not going to survive night,” He replied, already cracking the top open.

“I figured.”

Then, you looked at Bucky.

“For you,” You said more quietly, stepping over and handing him a neatly wrapped parcel, “A metal polishing and cleaning kit, so you can stop using the dishwasher on your arm. And I got you an appointment for a bike detailing. Full job. New coat of black, too.”

He blinked slowly, surprised. “You remembered that?”

“You yelled about it for thirty minutes. I’d have to be concussed not to remember.”

He smiled. It was the small kind, but it stayed on his face longer than you expected.

You turned to Bob last, and something in your chest fluttered a little harder than you were ready for.

He was sitting upright, hands folded in his lap, trying not to look too eager, but his eyes flicked up to yours like he was bracing for impact. You walked over slowly, cradling the last item with more care than the others, and stopped just in front of him.

“This one’s for you,” You said gently, and handed him the book.

It wasn’t wrapped. No fancy paper, no ribbon–just a hardcover in a matte finish, with The Creative Act by Rick Rubin printed across the front in clean black letters.

Bob’s eyes flicked down to it. His hands moved slowly, reverent almost, as he turned the book over, like he wanted to feel the weight of it first before opening it. He ran his thumb along the edge before he finally slipped the front cover open–and there it was, tucked just inside the front page.

A handwritten note on a small square of folded paper that you had taken from Bob’s desk when you snuck in just before the movie.

Written in your slanted, slightly chaotic handwriting.

’The real gift is in your bedroom.’ Just the words alone affected him immediately.

His ears flushed red at first, before blooming down to his cheeks, and over his neck like a fire that couldn’t be put out. His eyes darted up to you, then back to the page, like he was checking to make sure if he’d read it right.

Then, with a bit too much urgency, he shut the book. Yelena was already leaning over from her seat to look at him.

”What’d you get?” She asked, her voice laced with amusement, seeing the deep blush that continued to burn on his cheeks.

”Yeah, let’s see,” Walker added, craning his neck, “It didn’t even have wrapping. What is it?” Bob shook his head quickly, holding the book close to his chest like it might be pried from him if he held it out too far from him.

”It’s…It’s j-just a book.” Everyone exchanged glances at one another, then looked over at you, then Bob.

”You’re turning that red over a book?” Ava raised an eyebrow. You watched as Bob sank slightly into himself, clutching the book like it was something far more scandalous than a hardcover on creative philosophy.

“You didn’t even open it all the way, you just opened the cover.” Yelena added.

”I-I don’t have to,” He stammered, adjusting the book in his arms, “It’s o-one Y/N and I saw at the b-bookstore a while ago that’s all.” Now all eyes turned to you. You gave a small, innocent smile.

“It really is just a book guys,” You said simply, meeting their suspicious looks with a calm ease, “Like Bob said…We saw it at the bookstore a while ago and he didn’t buy it. So I just got it for him now. No big deal.” Then you went to the couch to take up your space, looking back at Bob who was already coming to sit in the space that was available beside you. “Now…We can commence movie night.” You added, feeling Bob adjust beside you slightly, bumping his knee against yours almost like he was giving you a nudge, before settling in completely.

——————-

Eventually, everyone fell asleep in their spots apart from you and Bob.

The projector had long since gone dark, the soft white glow replaced by the quiet hush of breath and shifting limbs. The living room had become a patchwork of tangled limbs, half-eaten snacks, and drooping blankets. You and Bob sat in the warm silence at the edge of it all, knees still brushing where they’d been for the past hour.

He hadn’t opened the book again–not since that first flustered glance. But his fingers never stopped grazing the edges of the cover. He was still holding onto it carefully, like it might slip through his hands if he blinked too fast. You leaned toward him slightly, just enough so that your shoulder nudged him to get his attention.

”Hey,” You whispered. He glanced over at you, like he’s been waiting for you to say something because he was too scared to do it himself, “Wanna see your real gift now?” You asked, a small smile appearing on your lips. Bob could feel his heart pumping out of his chest as he began to overheat like a furnace.

“Y-Yeah…I mean…Y-yeah if you’re ready to s-show me.” You rose slowly, careful not to kick over a stray popcorn bowl or stir anyone from their half-snoring sprawl. Your eyes flicked briefly over the room to make sure no one was stirring—Yelena had curled into a blanket cocoon, Walker was snoring like a truck engine, and Alexei’s head had slumped against the back of the couch, drool threatening the upholstery. Bucky’s eyes were shut, but you could tell by the slight twitch in his jaw he was only pretending to sleep, which was typical for him. Turning back to Bob, you extended your hand toward him, palm open, wrist loose.

“Come on,” You whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. “Just make sure to be quiet cause if they wake up we’ll never hear the end of it.” He nodded–one firm, terrified little nod–and slid his fingers into yours. His hand was warm and clammy, but you didn’t mind the feeling. Quite honestly, you wished he did this more often, because it gave you this ease, the kind that only he truly provided. You squeezed his hand gently before tugging him up onto his feet, and he followed like you’d cast a spell over him.

You led him carefully through the living room, toes skimming across the floor like a cat, weaving between bodies and blankets until you reached the edge of the wing that led to your rooms.

The hallway was dim and quiet, the only light coming from the soft golden hue of the floor runners and the faint spill of moonlight through the high windows. You padded down the hardwood floor hand in hand, every step muffled, every breath shared. Bob stayed impossibly close to you, so close in fact that you could practically feel his breath on your neck, as if putting too much space between the both of you might make the whole moment disappear.

When you reached his door, you stopped just short of the frame and turned to him with a look that was half excitement, half warning.

“Okay, you’re gonna have to cover your eyes.” You whispered, looking up at him with one of the soft smiles you always gave him when you needed him to do something for you.

“W-What? Why?” He asked quietly under his breath, still holding onto your hand, only it was a little tighter now, probably from the nerves that were clawing away in the pit of his stomach.

“Just trust me…You won’t regret it.” Bob let out a quiet, breathy laugh–more like a whimper, really–and gave you the softest, most defeated sigh, like his heart had already left his chest and he was just trying to keep his limbs from shaking.

“A-Alright…” He whispered, leaning just a little closer to you, close enough that you could feel his breath hitting your cheeks, “Just…Just don’t let m-me trip or walk into something…Please.” You gave his hand another reassuring squeeze.

“Hasn’t happened before, and I’m not planning on letting that happen now.” You teased, before softly adding “Now…Close your eyes.” Bob obeyed, raising his free hand over his face with careful fingers, blocking his vision as if you were leading him into a sacred place rather than his own bedroom. You nudged the door open with your foot and gave his hand a gentle tug, leading him across the threshold.

You didn’t need to turn on a light.

His room always felt a little like stepping into a different plane of calm. The kind of space that knew quiet in its bones. Moonlight fell in soft silver lines across the floor through his half-open blinds, slicing the darkness into gentle pieces. The windows of his room were quite large, which was the reason why everyone assigned it to him, because if he ever had an episode and didn’t want to come out of his room, he would at least get some sunlight.

His bed was unmade, but it was clean, it always was–Bob didn’t like messes too much, and the comforter was crumpled in a way that suggested he hadn’t been able to stay still for more than a minute. His nightstand had a glass of water and a half-melted candle that still smelled faintly like lavender, which was something that he had learned calmed him through you. There were books stacked under the window. T-shirts folded too neatly on the open shelves. A jacket draped on the chair in the corner.

His room was basically a manifestation of things he picked up from you and bits and pieces of himself that he couldn’t shake. It was a perfect balance, especially when he was too scared to go to your room when you were out on missions–when he was missing you terribly.

And then–right there in the center of the room, illuminated perfectly by the soft glow spilling through the curtains–was the record player.

Matte black, sleek, minimalist. Quiet in its confidence. It sat on a low wooden console table that you had bought pre-assembled. Beside it, propped open just slightly, was a padded carrying case–and inside there were three of your records that he had constantly put on whenever he would end up in your room: Loveless by My Bloody Valentine, Last Splash by The Breeders, and Elton John’s Self Titled.

On nights like these–when you had nothing to do–Bob would come and listen to a record with you while lying on your bed. The both of you would stare at the ceiling and talk, usually it was about anything and nothing at all, that’s just how it had always been. Sometimes you guys would touch, hold hands just as a source of comfort, but it never went further than that, because neither of you wanted to possibly put the friendship in jeopardy.

Tonight would be one of those nights that you would be able to lie with him thankfully.

You looked up at Bob who was still shielding his eyes even though he was clearly trembling with anticipation. You gave the hand that was intertwined with yours one last squeeze and leaned close enough that your arms brushed.

”Alright,” You whispered, “You can open them now.” Bob’s hand dropped from his eyes like he was lifting the lid on something sacred.

And the second his gaze landed on the record player, his entire face changed.

His shoulders softened, his chest lifted like he’d just taken the first real breath in hours–and then came the smile. Wide, radiant, boyish. One that reached all the way up to his eyes and cracked something open in you.

He stepped forward slowly, like he was approaching something precious. His fingers hovered above the turntable for a moment before he crouched down in front of it, knees tucked in, head tilted with something like awe. The soft light haloed around him, catching on the strands of his hair and the curve of his jaw. You saw his lips part slightly, saw the way he swallowed thickly.

Then his sleeve came up–quick and almost sheepish–and he dabbed at the corners of his eyes with the back of his wrist. He thought you wouldn’t notice if he did it quickly but you knew his tells, and you knew when something was wrong with him. When he let out a small sniffle, you were at his side in an instant.

“Bob?” You whispered, dropping to your knees beside him, voice soft, uncertain. “Hey…What’s wrong?”

He didn’t look at you at first. Just shook his head quickly, eyes still fixed on the player.

“Nothing–Nothing’s wrong,” He said quickly, but his voice cracked halfway through. “I’m just–God–this is…It’s too much.”He whispered to himself, pressing a trembling hand to his eyes again to wipe off another set of tears.

Your brows knit together, and you lifted a hand instinctively, hovering just above his shoulder but not quite touching.

“I didn’t mean to overwhelm you, I just–”

“I love it,” He interrupted gently, finally turning to face you. His eyes were wet, his cheeks flushed, and there was that dazed smile again, wide and aching. “I love it so much.”

You let out a soft, quiet exhale, the kind you didn’t even know you were holding, relieved that you didn’t do anything wrong.

And then–without warning–he leaned into you.

Not cautiously. Not halfway.

Fully.

Bob wrapped his arms around you with all the care and all the weight of someone who had wanted to do it for a very long time. One arm slid around your lower back while the other curled protectively around your shoulders, tucking you against him like you were the only thing he could hold onto. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and you felt his breath hitch against your neck.

You froze for just a second–stunned by the sheer intensity of it–before you melted into him. Your arms wound around his back, your hands gripping at the soft fabric of his sweater. You closed your eyes and held him, not just because you were trying to comfort him, but also because you needed it just as much as he did.

Bob breathed in deeply, inhaling your warmth, and your sweet scent–a mixture of iris and clementines. He said you smelled like summer to him once, and he stuck by that even to this day, because it was intoxicating to him, and it was you…That’s what he liked most.

Your hand drifted up slowly to the back of his neck, letting your fingers brush through his hair with a tenderness so natural it almost startled you. He didn’t flinch, or shy away, instead you felt him melt into you just a little more, like your touch was untying the knots that were within him.

“I-I’m sorry,” He murmured, his voice muffled against your shoulder, “I-I didn’t mean to cry…No one’s ever gotten me something t-this nice before.” You let out a soft huff against him, pulling back just enough so you could look at him, your fingers curling gently so you were cradling the back of his head.

”Bob…” You whispered, then smiled with a soft ache, “You don’t need to be sorry. I’m glad it means something to you…” He looked up at you with wide, glassy blue eyes, still watering slightly at the corners.

”It really…It really does…It-It means everything to me Y/N…” He replied.

A silence settled between the both of you in that moment, not awkward but charged–thick with feelings that were just cresting on the horizon. You brought your other hand up to his face, letting your thumb brush along the curve of his jaw before you dropped it to rest over his chest, right where you could feel his heartbeat drumming just under the fabric of his sweater. When you pressed a little harder you could feel the muscle flex against your touch,–a reflex from Bob.

“So…Uh…Does this mean I c-can’t come to your r-room anymore to listen to vinyls?” You raised an eyebrow at that comment, leaning in just a little so your noses were almost touching, as you allowed the edge of your voice to dip playfully.

”Actually…It’s an excuse for me to come in here once in a while.” He was taken aback by your comment, but it had hit him like a lightning bolt.

His mouth parted slightly, eyes locking with yours as if you just upended gravity. You could see when it fully clicked for him–what it meant, what you wanted it to mean. The warmth in his face scattered deeper now, but this time, he didn’t look away.

”W-Well then…I-I think you should use that e-excuse…A-All the time then.” You tilted your head a bit, a smirk coming up on your lips, realizing what he was giving back now.

”All the time hm?” He nodded, keeping his eyes glued to yours, his pupils dilating slightly to adjust more to the darkness, and to take more of you in.

”A-As much as you want Y/N...Every n-night even i-if you want.” Your heart fluttered–too loud, too strong–but you didn’t let it show except for the little smile that cracked wide across your face. You slid your hand up to the collar of his sweater, your thumb running along the thin skin on his neck.

“Well,” You said, leaning in, “Why don’t we start now then…” Bob didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Because the second those words left your lips–why don’t we start now then–the air between you changed. Like it folded in on itself. Like the gravity in the room evaporated completely and every ounce of tension that had lived in stolen glances and almost-touches finally snapped tight, pulling the two of you together like you’d never really meant to be apart in the first place.

Your lips found his.

Soft. Certain. Slow at first–just a press. Just a whisper of something that had been waiting so long to be real. Bob shuddered under you, like every nerve in his body had lit up at once. His hands came up instinctively, almost blindly—one settling on your waist, the other cradling the curve of your back like he was afraid you’d vanish.

But you didn’t.

You kissed him again.

And again.

Breathing into each other between the spaces. Your mouths never fully parted–they just shifted, adjusted, and learned. His lips moved with yours like he was starved for the taste, like he had imagined it so many times but never dared to believe he’d ever actually feel it. You felt his breath catch in the back of his throat, felt the way he tensed, and then eased, melting into it like he finally believed it was happening.

When you moved closer to him Bob let out the softest gasp into your mouth, it was barely a sound, but it still hit you like an electric current. You deepened the kiss, tilting your head as your hands slid higher into his hair. You gripped at the soft strands and gave them a gentle tug, just enough to guide his head back just a little–earning a low, breathless sound, stealing it straight out of his chest.

With trembling strength, Bob shifted, pulling you with him slowly until you were in his lap, your knees sliding on either side of his thighs, straddling him. His hands gripped at your hips, thumbs pressing into the fabric of your shirt like you were something holy to him. When your weight settled over him completely it made Bob feel like the world had gone totally quiet–like he could live in this moment and never need anything else for survival.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your forehead resting against his as your fingers brushed his flushed cheeks. Bob’s lips were still parted, his breath coming in soft, stuttered exhales that fanned across your mouth. His hands had stilled on your hips, still holding you like he was scared to grip too tightly, like if he held too hard you might vanish again.

“Is this okay?” you whispered, voice low and weighted with something deeper than just desire. Bob nodded immediately, so fast it was almost a flinch.

“Y-Yeah,” He breathed, “Y-Yeah, anything you want–just–God, I want you to take whatever y-you want.”

You smiled, touching your nose to his briefly, before leaning back enough to sit upright on his lap. Bob’s hands stayed where they were, unmoving, as if he was afraid to go any further unless you guided him. And you would. Because this was yours to take if you wanted it–and he had already given it so freely.

Your hands slipped to the hem of your shirt, and you pulled it over your head in one smooth motion. The fabric whispered over your skin as it came off, and you dropped it onto the floor beside you without looking away from him.

Bob’s breath hitched.

You were wearing a thin, slate-colored bra–and barely anything between your body and the chill in the air. The moonlight caught on the curve of your breasts and the subtle rise and fall of your breathing, but it also revealed more than just your skin.

Faint, jagged lines kissed across your ribs and shoulders. Scars from old missions, burns, nicks, remnants of the life you’d led before this–before the Thunderbolts. Each one a story you rarely told. Some puckered. Some silver. A few newer, still healing. They caught the light and glimmered in ways they never had before–because now, someone was really looking at them. You saw Bob’s eyes flicker down over them like he was cataloging each one with the kind of care and thoughtfulness that made your throat tighten.

And then there was the necklace.

Stark tech. Thin chain. Sleek design. The pendant was small, flat, shaped like a coin and glowing faintly from within–pulse blue, soft as breath. It had been a gift from Tony. A prototype for a fail-safe, disguised as a keepsake. Only a few people in the compound even knew it wasn’t just jewelry. You never explained it, never offered context. But you didn’t move to hide it now

His eyes lifted again–tentative, trembling–and met yours. You saw the way he swallowed hard, saw the way he tried to stop himself from looking lower, like he didn’t want to disrespect the moment. But his gaze dropped again anyway, helpless against the gravity of you. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. He looked stunned.

“I know,” You murmured, softer this time, like you were trying to soothe the bashful panic behind his wide-eyed stare. “It’s a lot.”

“No–n-no, it’s not–” Bob’s voice cracked as he tried to sit up straighter, his hands tightening a little on your hips. “You’re–God, you’re beautiful, and it’s e-everything I imagined.” You tilted your head to the side, a teasing glint blooming behind your eyes as you traced your fingers slowly up his arms.

”You’ve imagined this?” You asked, voice light but thick with hea, watching Bob’s entire face turn a deeper shade of red in the moonlight, like he was caught committing a crime. His lips parted as he scrambled for a respectful response, but you didn’t give him a chance. You leaned in, lips hovering just above his, your breath slipping into his mouth as you whispered, “What else have you imagined?” Bob exhaled shakily, the sound brushing your mouth. His hands flexed unconsciously on your hips as though trying to ground himself–like if he didn’t hold onto you, he might drift right out of the moment.

“I’ve…” He whispered, his voice barely audible over the heavy breathing the both of you were doing, “T-Thought about touching you…Like t-this.” He began to kiss the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, leaving a trail of heat and wetness from his lips all the way down to your neck, before he opened his mouth against you, right below your ear, placing a lingering kiss that made you push your chest against his with the heat that curled around you.

“I’ve t-though about what your s-skin would feel against m-mine,” He murmured, trembling as his lips traced the column of your throat, “And how you would sound i-if I kissed you h-here…” He added, placing a kiss against your pulse point, listening to the small sigh that escaped your mouth.

His breath was shaky against your neck as his lips lingered at the little patch of skin that thumped against his touch, his nose brushing against the soft dip of your throat while his hands remained firmly planted on your hips–too still, too solid, like he didn’t trust himself to move without falling apart.

But then, as if pulled by some gravitational force he could no longer fight, one of his hands slid upward. Slowly. Tentatively. Fingertips brushing over the hem of your bra, skimming your ribs, following the curve of your waist until they reached the delicate strap resting on your shoulder. His knuckles trembled, but his touch was impossibly gentle, as if even the fabric you wore deserved to be worshipped.

He kissed your jaw again–open-mouthed, soft–and then you felt the light tug at your shoulder as he slipped the strap down. The fabric eased across your skin with a quiet drag, and you shivered beneath it, watching the way his eyes followed the path like it was sacred scripture.

His lips returned to your skin, grazing over the hollow of your collarbone before whispering into it–so quiet you almost didn’t catch it.

”C-Can I look?” You nodded.

”Yes…Of course.” You whispered. His hand twitched where it rested at the curve of your spine, and then, with a sort of hesitance that nearly broke you, he slid his hand up to the clasp of your bra, his fingertips brushing clumsily along them, missing the latch twice. You couldn’t help but smile at the fumbling, as he let out a breathy, nervous laugh against your skin, while his forehead dropped to your shoulder in a sheepish show of surrender.

”I-I swear I’m trying,” He murmured, the corners of his lips curling up. You laughed with him, soft and unhurried, before pressing a kiss to his temple.

“I’ve got it,” You said, reaching one arm behind yourself with practiced ease. The clasp gave one tiny click and you slid the loose straps down your arms, letting it join your t-shirt that was beside you. When you straightened back up, bare now in the soft glow of the moonlight, Bob didn’t move at first, he just stared.

Not in a greedy way, not in the way you were used to being looked at, it was with such desire and want it made your stomach turn. Like he was trying to memorize the details of your body so when he closed his eyes he’d be able to picture it.

His hands slid up slowly from your waist, palms wide, cautious, and trembling just slightly as they moved to trace along your ribs. His thumbs brushed upward–barely skimming the outer swell of your breasts–before he let out a long, shaky breath and leaned in. His lips pressed to the curve of your breast, just above your heart, and you felt the sigh leave him as he held you like you were something holy.

You curled your fingers into his hair, watching him.

“Bob…” You whispered, but it was barely a sound.

He lifted his head just long enough to meet your gaze. His cheeks were flushed, his lips already kiss-bitten and pink.

“I-I’ve imagined this so many times,” He said softly, almost apologetically. “But it never felt like this. I-It never felt this real.”

And then his mouth returned to your skin–this time lower.

He kissed across the top of your breast, then the underside, open-mouthed, so gentle you almost whimpered. His tongue barely grazed, only enough to tease, to taste. You felt the warmth of him, the way he held one breast up in his hand with delicate fingers while he mouthed softly at the other. You gasped when his lips closed over your nipple, sucking gently, and your back arched toward him without meaning to.

You slid your hands beneath the hem of his sweater, then under his shirt, fingers meeting hot, bare skin. He jumped slightly at the sudden contact, pulling back from your chest just enough to pant softly against it.

“C-Cold hands,” He whispered breathlessly, grinning faintly against your skin even though his whole body was burning with heat. “Or maybe I’m j-just really warm…” You laughed again, low and soft.

“You are, I think I can even feel your blood boiling.” You joked, keeping your hands under his shirt, palms smoothing across his back and up over the planes of his stomach and chest. You could feel how solid he was beneath you–not just strong, but sensitive, pliant, like he wanted to give all of himself over to your hands, your mouth, your gaze.

And he did.

Bob went back to your breasts, now kissing them between worshipful sighs and breathless, choked words.

“You’re so…So soft,” He murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your sternum. “So warm… I didn’t know it could feel like this. I-I didn’t know it could feel this good just…Just to be close to you...”

You felt a swell of something tender and aching crash into your chest.

You cupped his jaw, tilting his face up so he’d look at you. And he did with red-cheeks, wide-eyes, and lips that were still shining faintly from the saliva that coated them. And then you leaned in again and kissed him—deeper this time. Slower. You pushed your tongue into his mouth, tasting him, letting him taste you.

His arms wrapped tighter around your waist again and this time, he moved.

“C-Can I…” He panted into the kiss, “Can I bring you to t-the bed?”You nodded against his lips.

“Yes, Bob. Please.” He stood slowly, hands steadying you as he rose, and then–without any real effort at all–he lifted you into his arms. You clutched at his shirt as your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, a soft gasp leaving your lips.

”Jesus, sometimes I forget you’re a superhuman basically…” He laughed–nervous but proud that he surprised you with his strength.

”I d-don’t really show it off, so I don’t b-blame you for forgetting.” He murmured, as his skin continued to heat up against you. He walked the two of you the short distance to the unmade bed and lowered you gently onto the cold sheets.

But instead of climbing on top of you, he slid in beside you, curling close–not out of hesitation, but intimacy.

You turned onto your side, your body instinctively seeking him, and hooked one leg over his hip, bringing your thigh around him and pulling him in. The moment he was close enough, you kissed him again–your hands sliding up into his hair, fingers threading through the soft brown strands at the back of his head.

Immediately, he melted into the kiss, groaning softly into your mouth–barely audible, but it vibrated through your chest, and curled low in your stomach– where the tension began to build. Your lips moved against each other in a rhythm that felt like it had been written in the marrow of your bones, like the both of you belonged there together in that moment.

And then Bob pulled back–just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, eating away at the lush blue, his lips were wet and parted as he breathed shallowly, trembling slightly.

”I-I wanna feel everything,” He whispered.

Then with a move that felt bolder than anything he’d ever done, he pulled at the collar of his sweater, pulling it off. The hem dragged over his head, catching slightly on his hair before he tossed it aside, his t-shirt following soon after–slightly rumpled and damp from how hot he was getting.

The moonlight etched the shape of him–slender but strong, pale skin kissed splashed with little drops of freckles and barely-there scars. You saw the muscles move under the skin of his stomach when he breathed in, saw the way his chest rose and fell like he was trying to stay steady in a storm of want.

He slid his arm under your neck and around your shoulders, pulling you close, gathering you into the crook of his body like he needed every inch of contact. Your leg stayed hooked over his waist, your hips now pressed firmly together, heat and need blooming where your bodies touched.

His hand slid slowly down your spine, palm wide, curling gently around the dip of your lower back.

And then he kissed you again.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rushed. It was molten. Deep. Slow and desperate.

You could feel the way his lips moved with a kind of hunger that didn’t want to consume you–it wanted to worship every inch of you.

As your tongues brushed, you shifted your hips, rolling gently against the line of his thigh. His breath hitched, a surprised little gasp breaking the kiss.

And then his knee shifted.

He tilted his leg slightly between yours, giving you the perfect angle to move against him–and you did. Slowly at first. Just the press of your body rocking into his. You moaned softly against his lips as you rolled your hips again, dragging yourself along him with just the right amount of pressure. It wasn’t loud, but it vibrated between your mouths, slipping into him like a secret you wanted him to feel in his bones.

His lips barely touched yours now–just ghosting–warm and open and trembling, like he was terrified to break the moment. You breathed in at the same time he exhaled, your lips parting in tandem, and it felt like you were drinking each other in. Breath passed between you in small, shared gasps, heat curling where mouths nearly met, where words became vapor.

“Bob…” You whispered into him, and his name felt like silk on your tongue.

The air between your mouths wasn’t even air anymore. It was communion. Heat. Exchange. Like you were tethered by the sheer force of needing each other. His nose brushed yours. Your foreheads pressed together. His breath hit your tongue before it hit his own lungs.

And still–you craved Bob’s touch even more.

You reached between your bodies, your fingers skimming over his wrist before curling around it gently. His pulse jumped under your touch.

You guided his hand down until his knuckles met the waistband of your sweatpants. His breath faltered.

“I need more…” You whispered, voice raw and low–on the brink of begging, “Please…”

Bob didn’t speak at first. He just nodded, quickly like that word please had been carved into him. Then, with trembling fingers, he tugged at the tie of your sweatpants, undoing the bow with care, like he was unwrapping something sacred.

As he did, your fingers slipped down to the tie of his–mirroring him. Equal.

He froze just a little.

“W-What…What are you doing?” he asked, voice cracking like a matchstick in the dark.

Your hand kept working the knot, lips hovering over his, your nose brushing his as you breathed:

“I don’t want to be the only one being touched like this.” His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, jaw tightening, chest rising as he tried to hold himself together. But your voice–your need–had undone him completely. He nodded again, slower this time, gaze trailing down to where your hands were now at each other’s waistbands.

And then you both moved.

It wasn’t graceful–no art to it. Just need. Just fumbling, frantic hands pushing sweatpants down over hips, wriggling out of the fabric together in a tangle of half-laughs and sharp breaths and grazes of skin.

Your legs kicked the soft fabric off the edge of the bed and his did the same.

And then you were back–wrapped around each other again. The arm beneath your head pulled you in slowly, as his hand splayed between your shoulder blades, fingers curling slightly like he needed to grab onto something to keep him in the moment. Your thigh returned to his hip, locking yourself into him, and the kiss you shared was now pure fire. It was teeth and tongue and breath and a low, desperate sound torn straight from his throat.

You kissed him like you couldn’t get deep enough. Like you’d climb inside his chest if he let you. And he would. He would.

His hand slid up the back of your neck and into your hair as your mouth’s finally slowed, pulling back slightly to breathe. Your lips stayed apart for him, letting a whisper of space between you.

Your noses touched. His forehead pressed to yours. And when you opened your eyes, he was already staring–flushed and wide and wrecked in the most beautiful way.

Then Bob’s hand moved. Slowly. Purposefully.

He brought it to your mouth, two fingers extended–not tentative, but gently.

“Let me,” He whispered.

You nodded, opening your mouth just a little more for him. You took his fingers in without hesitation, wrapping your tongue around them, wetting them with slow, deliberate passes. His eyes fluttered closed, his breath shaking as you sucked softly–just enough to coat them in warmth.

When he withdrew, he immediately slid his hand down. Beneath your underwear.

And when his fingers found you–hot, wet, already aching for him–he moaned into your cheek.

“Oh, God…” Was all he could choke out, as he slid through your arousal, slow and careful, dragging every drop of slickness to your clit in gentle circles. You gasped–your whole body arching forward into him, closing your eyes at the sensation of his fingers against you.

Your hand moved too now–down his chest, over the soft lines of his abdomen–until your hand slipped beneath the waistband of his briefs. He hissed at the contact, his forehead dropping to your shoulder.

You found him hard and hot in your hand, thick and twitching under your fingers as you wrapped around him, stroking slow. Just once. Just enough to feel him jump in your palm.

Bob groaned, low and guttural against your skin.

You both moved together, hands working in tandem–your touch on him firm and steady, his fingers stroking you in slow circles until he dipped one inside. Then another. Stretching you gently, curling just enough to make your breath catch, your thighs tremble.

The bed creaked softly beneath you as the both of you writhed beneath each others hands

Skin to skin. Mouth to mouth. You moved together like a tide pull–rocking, gasping, fingers slipping and sliding against one another.

Bob adjusted himself slightly, pressing closer to you, before moving his fingers quicker now–they were still gentle, but there was more purpose to his movements. Like he couldn’t help it. Like your body had hypnotized him into doing exactly what you needed him to do, and his only job was to listen. The pads of his fingers pressed and curled inside you, while his thumb circled your clit with more pressure than before, and the sensation that came from this change bloomed in sharp and immediate trembles.

You gasped–high and sudden–your head tilting back into the solidness of his arm that was wrapped around the back of your neck. Your hand that was wrapped around him, stilled. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

It was too much.

Your free hand flew to his shoulder, fingers digging in, nails curling against the slope of muscle. You clung to him like he was the only thing anchoring you to the bed, to the moment, to yourself.

Bob’s breath caught as he felt you seize around him, as he watched your eyes flutter and your mouth part in a soundless moan that finally broke into a quiet, desperate whimper. His name left your lips like a secret you’d never told anyone else–torn from the center of you. He could feel it, the way your body trembled against him, the way your muscles clenched around his fingers in tight, rhythmic pulses.

And he watched.

He watched you come undone with a look of sheer awe painted across his face. His lips parted slightly, eyes fixed on yours, and then on your mouth, like he couldn’t decide what was more beautiful: the way you looked when you fell apart, or the sound of his name when you did.

Your brows furrowed with the force of it, your thighs tightening around his hips, your breath breaking apart like waves crashing on rock.

Bob didn’t stop—not until he felt you ride the last crest of it, your body softening again beneath him. And when you finally blinked, eyes unfocused and lips still parted, he leaned forward and kissed your cheek. Reverent. Almost trembling.

He withdrew his fingers slowly, gently, like he didn’t want to startle you after such a fragile, shattering moment. You shivered at the loss, and he whispered something into your skin—too soft to make out. But his breath was warm. His lips were warm.

And then he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze.

His hand hovered between you, the slick still glistening faintly in the low light. But he didn’t wipe it away. He just looked at you like you were the most divine thing he’d ever seen.

“C-Can I take these off?” He asked, his voice thick with longing, with excitement, with the weight of everything he was holding back.

His hand ghosted over the band of your underwear, waiting.

You nodded slowly, still breathless, still catching your bearings.

”Yes…Yes please…Please just do what you want to me Bob…I’m already yours.” The moment those words left your lips, one thing inside Bob snapped like a wire that had been wrapped too tight. It wasn’t in a wild, unruly way though. No–this was quiet, controlled, but powerful.

His breath shuddered in his chest as he surged forward to kiss you harder this time, deepening it almost instantly. It was desperate but gently, like he needed to pour all the feelings he couldn’t say into your mouth, into the space between your teeth and tongue and breath.

As he kissed you, his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your underwear, dragging the last barrier down slowly, reverently. His knuckles skimmed your thighs, your hips, the swell of your backside. The fabric clung slightly, then surrendered, pooling around your knees before you helped kick it away.

Bob’s hand dipped next to his own waistband, and you could feel the moment he slid his briefs off. The subtle lift of his hips. The faint brush of heat and bare skin against yours. He was pressed close now–every inch of him.

And when you looked down between your bodies, when your eyes caught the sight of him fully bared–his length flushed light red and thick, curving slightly, the tip glistening with need–you felt heat flood every nerve in your body. The moment was more than just physical. It was overwhelming. He was ready, so ready, not just in body but in soul, in the way he looked at you like you were gravity and breath and sky all at once.

Bob swallowed hard, as if he could feel you seeing all of him, as if the intimacy of being witnessed so completely was almost too much to bear.

But he didn’t look away.

Instead, he shifted–slowly, carefully–until he was over you. His hands pressed into the bed on either side of your body, muscles tense as though he were anchoring himself to the world. You welcomed him with a soft sigh, parting your legs wider to cradle his hips, letting him settle into the space that had always been meant for him–since the day you realized you wanted him like this.

He leaned down first–pressing a kiss to your chest. Right between your breasts. Then another to the slope of one, then the other. Then higher. His lips grazed your sternum, your collarbone, the hollow of your throat. Each kiss was warm, slow, and sacred.

By the time his mouth found yours again, you were breathless from just the journey of it.

He kissed you with everything. Not just hunger, but reverence. Like your lips were a language he’d studied for years but only just learned how to speak.

And then–without a word–he reached for your hand.

You let him take it easily, watching the way his long fingers wrapped around yours. He brought it up gently, pressing it down into the mattress beside your head, his grip secure but soft–like he wanted to hold you in place but never trap you.

That one motion nearly undid you.

It wasn’t restraint.

It was his way of closeness. The kind that made you feel tethered to him, like your bodies weren’t just aligned–they were entwined, they were marking. Like they were made to be this close. Built for this level of intimacy for only each other.

His forehead rested against yours again. You could feel every exhale fan across your lips.

“I wanna go slow,” He whimpered, voice breaking like dusk light through the curtains. “I wanna…Wanna feel all of you…Every second of you…”

You reached your free hand up to his face, and your thumb brushed across his cheekbone, slow and tender, like you were tracing the edge of a secret only you were allowed to know. His skin was warm beneath your touch–warmer than it had ever been–and you could feel the tremble in his breath as he waited, eyes searching yours like they were the only compass he had left.

“And I want you to lose yourself in me.” You replied. His eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment he just breathed like your words had cracked something open in his chest. When he looked at you again, there was something new behind his expression–like awe and fear had melted into devotion.

“If anything becomes too much, you have to tell me…” He said, voice almost broken with the weight of care. You nodded, but your hand tightened in his.

”It won’t…But I promise if it does I will tell you.” He dipped his head lower again, as if he couldn't bear the space between your mouths any longer, and pressed a kiss to your lips again absorbing the softness of them, the warmth. Your hand threaded through his hair, fingertips curling at the nape of his neck, guiding him so he was pressed right against you.

And then–his hand moved down between your bodies. You felt the slow drag of his palm against the outside of your thigh, then the careful slide of his fingers as he reached down and guided himself to you. He breathed out when he felt you coat him, your wetness catching on every ridge of him as he slid himself against your entrance–once, twice, gathering all of you onto him. His body twitched with restraint. His jaw clenched. He pressed his forehead harder against yours as if the contact was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart entirely.

The moment he pushed in, your bodies stopped breathing.

Your mouth parted with a gasp–sharp and soft–as he sank into you slowly, inch by inch, until you felt your body stretch and adjust to every curve of him. Bob choked on a breath the second he felt your warmth take him in, his face screwing up in something between a sob and a moan. His forehead pressed harder against yours, like if he moved any other way he’d fall apart.

“God–oh, God…” He whispered, voice ragged and frayed at the edges. “Holy…You’re…You’re so” He couldn’t finish the sentence. He was too overwhelmed by the feel of you wrapped around him, every pulse and tremble drawing him deeper into the haze of you.

Your hand clenched tighter in his, and you felt the way his fingers locked with yours, grounding himself with your grip as he bottomed out. A low, aching sound slipped from your throat and caught in the space between your lips, and you felt it shake against his mouth as he kissed you again–slow, reverent, his tongue barely brushing yours as he tried to breathe.

“You’re doing so good,” You whispered into him, your voice like silk over fire. “Just stay right there. Just let me feel you…”

He whimpered at that, a broken noise into your mouth, like the praise undid him. He didn’t move–couldn’t, not yet at least. He was just holding himself there, buried inside you, feeling the way your body fluttered around him.

“I-It’s like…Like you’re pulling me apart,” He said, breathless. “And putting me back together all at once…”

His hand left yours slowly, reluctantly, fingers sliding down your wrist with a feather-light touch as he reached for your thigh. You felt it happen in stages–the way his hand cradled the back of your knee, the way he gently guided your leg up higher on his waist, opening you up further, angling himself deeper.

The shift made your breath catch. He slid in even further, the new position sending a wave of pressure right through your core, and you gasped into his mouth. Bob groaned–breathlessly low, lost—and his hips jolted forward once, like he couldn’t help himself.

You could feel him trembling above you, his hand still gripping your thigh like it was the only thing anchoring him to the planet.

“I need…” he murmured into your neck, voice barely coherent, “Need to be closer—need to feel all of you.”

“You are,” You whispered back, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, holding him close. “You’re already in every part of me.”

He rocked into you, slow at first–agonizing in its care–like he wanted to memorize every detail, every sound you made when he moved. Your bodies stayed pressed together, chest to chest, lips to jaw, gasps shared like breathless secrets.

And then you reached up.

You cupped his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks, until your fingers slid gently into his mouth. Bob’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and stunned–and then he groaned, low in his chest, as he closed his lips around them.

You watched him–watched his lashes flutter, his breath hitch, the way his hips stuttered forward harder now, more desperate, like the taste of you on his tongue had undone something deep and buried inside him.

You moaned at the sight of it–at the way he sucked your thumbs, not rough, but with such reverence you almost passed out, on the brink of obedience.

You slipped your thumbs from his mouth slowly, watching the glossy string of saliva stretch and catch in the moonlight like silk spun from reverence. Bob’s lips stayed parted, his breath hot against your fingers, his tongue brushing the edge of one thumb as you pulled it away. And then, without breaking the contact, you trailed the damp touch down his jaw–soft, deliberate, leaving a glistening line in its wake.

His whole body stilled.

You felt him twitch inside you, felt the sharp inhale he tried and failed to control. And then your fingers tilted his chin up.

“Look at me,” You whispered, your voice low and rich with everything you couldn’t say with words alone. His eyes lifted to yours like he was coming up for air, like your gaze was the only thing keeping him from dissolving into the moment completely. He looked wrecked–beautifully so. Lips kiss-bruised, cheeks flushed to the tips of his ears, pupils swallowing the blue of his eyes completely now. You could see every flicker of awe in his expression, every ounce of need, of surrender. You brushed your fingers along the edge of his jaw, then swept them up into his hair, pushing the sweat-dampened strands from his forehead with aching tenderness. His breath caught when you did it, like your touch alone unraveled something buried too deep for him to reach.

“You’re doing so good…You feel so good inside me, Bob.” You whispered, voice like velvet as your thumbs stroked the sides of his face. His hips stuttered forward—once, then again. A trembling gasp slipped from his throat as he sank in deeper, the pace no longer slow but no less careful. It was desperate now. Steady and aching. Each thrust felt like it was pulled from the center of him, like he was trying to carve himself into your body—leaving a part of his soul there.

The sound of skin meeting skin filled the room in soft, rhythmic slaps. Your breathing hitched with each one, your legs tightening around his hips to pull him in, to keep him close. You could feel how badly he was trying to keep control, how every movement was threaded with reverence and restraint. But his body–his need–was beginning to override his fear.

And you wanted that.

“Don’t hold back,” You said between soft gasps, brushing his hair back again, curling your fingers against his neck. “I want you to give it to me. Everything.”

His face twisted like he was going to cry. He dipped down and kissed you hard, and sloppily, like he was already too far gone to keep it clean. His tongue slipped into your mouth, searching for yours, and when he found it, he moaned into the kiss like he’d been starving for it. He fucked you through it–deeper now, faster–his hips rolling in a way that had your head falling back onto the pillows.

“Oh God…Oh–fuck–Bob,” You whined, your nails raking lightly down his back. He gasped at the sharp drag, chasing the friction because he liked the burn it brought him.

“I-I’m s-sorry,” He choked, voice breaking as his thrusts grew uneven. “I can’t—I can’t slow down—I n-need—”

”No…Fuck. Don’t apologize you feel so fucking good. Please––Please don’t fucking stop.” You interrupted, desperate now, feeling your stomach twisting into knots. He dropped his forehead against yours again, lips brushing yours with every breath, and drove into you harder. Deeper. Each movement was more desperate, more pleading, as if his body was trying to reach some part of you his words couldn’t. The bed shifted beneath you, the frame creaking, but neither of you noticed. Not when it felt like your souls were colliding.

You felt everything building again, fast–hot and coiled and pulsing at the center of you.

“Bob…” You whimpered, your voice cracking with need, “I-I’m close, I’m so close…” His eyes met yours again–blown wide, glassy, nodding.

“I-I’m gonna come too,” He panted, and then the question tumbled out of him, desperate and ragged–“Where—Where do you want me to…?”

Your body trembled.

“In me,” You breathed, cupping his cheek again, pulling him close, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Inside me, Bob. I want to feel it dripping out of me all day tomorrow.”

And that was it.

Bob cried out–barely a sound, more of a broken whimper–and buried himself to the hilt inside you. His hips stilled with a violent shudder, and then he came. You felt the heat of it, the way his body jerked as he pulsed inside you, moaning your name like it was the only prayer he knew. His arms locked around you, trembling as he held you through it.

And then–seconds later–you followed.

You clenched around him as your body went tight, your back arching off the bed, your lips parting in a soundless cry that turned into a whimper of his name. He felt you come around him, fluttering, pulsing, your legs tightening around his waist as your body shook with the force of it.

He kissed you through the aftershocks–soft and slow now. Like a thank you. Like an apology. Like he was still trying to give you more even after he’d already given you everything. Then he collapsed into your arms, chest heaving, lips brushing against your throat with such tenderness you were beginning to feel overwhelmed by how much he truly cared about you.

And then–out of nowhere–you laughed. It wasn’t loud or mocking. It was soft, breathy, and stunned.

“W-What? What did I––Did I do something?” He asked, lifting his head quickly, eyes wide and flushed with concern. You reached up, still giggling as your fingers gently swept the hair off his forehead.

”No,” You said with a smile so wide your cheeks ached, “No, it’s nothing like that, it’s just…I can’t believe we didn’t do this sooner.” You could see the relief in Bob’s eyes when you said it, as he let out the softest laugh. A breathless, giddy kind of noise.

”I-I was so scared to mess the friendship up…” He admitted, his nose brushing yours again, voice low and shy, “But I’ve wanted you for so long…” You nodded.

”I know,” You whispered, kissing his cheek, “Me too Bob.” He let the moment linger for a heartbeat longer, then shifted slightly, wincing as he carefully pulled back. You gasped quietly at the sensation of him slipping out, a hot flutter leaving your core in the wake of it. You tightened your thighs reflexively as you sighed, and Bob caught the look on your face instantly.

“Are you okay?” He asked, concerned now, pushing your hair back from your forehead.

”Just a bit sore,” You admitted, cheeks flushed, “It’s been a while since I…Y’know.” Bob nodded, slowly getting up from the bed, pulling on the boxers he had on before.

”I’ll be right back–I’m gonna grab a warm washcloth, okay?” He said gently, giving you a gentle kiss on your lips, “Don’t move.” You smiled at him.

”Okay.” You whispered, watching his silhouette pad across the room and disappear into the bathroom, as he turned on the pale white light. You could hear the gentle rush of water, the sound of the towel drawer sliding open, and the rustle of cloth.

He returned a minute later, stopping at his dresser to pull a pair of boxer shorts and one of his old, soft t-shirts, before making his way back to you.

“A-Alright,” He whispered, setting the clothes beside you as he kneeled back onto the bed, “You tell me if anything hurts…Okay?” You nodded, watching as he eased your thighs open. You winced slightly at the sting, but bit back a gasp. He brought the cloth between your legs and cleaned you carefully, delicately, like every part of you was sacred. The warmth helped a bit with the soreness thankfully, so now all you felt was the euphoria of the come down.

Once he finished, he set the cloth on the bedside table, then helped ease the boxers up your legs. They were soft and loose around your thighs, a simple comfort, as you lifted your hips slightly to help. He then tugged the shirt gently over your head, guiding your arms through the sleeves with a kind of tender concentration like he was worried he might do it wrong.

When it was all done he let out a soft sigh, one full of warmth and the heavy pull of contentment. You were blissed out, sore in a way that felt good. And he was still looking at you with such admiration it made your heart race.

You lifted your arms in front of you.

The motion was simple–gentle, slow, but deliberate. An offering. A request. And Bob’s entire body reacted to it like it was instinct. He didn’t say anything–didn’t need to. His shoulders dipped forward as he crawled up into your arms, letting himself be folded against your chest, nuzzling in like he was coming home. He was careful, even now–making sure his weight didn’t press too much into your legs, tugging the thin top sheet off the corner of the bed before wrapping it loosely around both of your bodies.

He laid his head on your chest, just over your heart, and you felt him exhale fully for what might’ve been the first time all night. His arm slipped around your waist, his other hand curling loosely over your ribs as he pressed his cheek to the center of you, listening.

You held him close, your arms winding around his shoulders, fingers sliding gently into his hair, brushing slowly along his scalp in lazy, thoughtful strokes. He hummed–barely a sound, more of a breath–but it vibrated softly into the shirt you wore.

The sheet was thin, barely a whisper of fabric between you and the cooling air, but you didn’t need more than that. Not when you had this. The weight of him. The heat of him. Bob tilted his face slightly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the fabric at the underside of your breast, where your heartbeat fluttered near the surface. You smiled at him, your hand stroking down the back of his neck, feeling the way he melted into you even further.

“Y-You’re amazing Y/N…” He whispered, “And I’m so…So in love with you.”

[zephyrchama]

Mammon is highly possessive of you. It shows in all gestures big and small. From insisting you take the window seat so you're less visible from the train aisle, to wresting you away from his slimy brothers when they get too close. He takes out predatory loans to buy you a little something when you're feeling down. Usually treats and getaways. They're rumored to bring lovers closer together when shared, but you don't need to know about that. He reminds you that he's your first - that means he needs to be the priority in your life. Don't you forget it.

Mammon is also incredibly tsundere. "Whaddya think you're doing!?" he'll exclaim, pushing you away. His cheeks are as red as his savings account. "Tryin' to worm your way into my arms like that? Ain't never heard of a human as bold as you."

Except, he forgets that he's the one who grabbed you. Curled his arms protectively around you and pulled you into his chest as if shielding you from rains of hellfire. Guarded you from prying eyes of lesser beings and swept you away somewhere more secluded, all because a random salesman grabbed your shoulder. Only he's allowed to touch you like that. Only when his heart is ready.

[d0litte]

I could fix her but I like her the way she is

[solviae]

try & tell me this isn’t tamino!rafayel buying you fresh flowers after you moved to verona together