Chapter Text
You weave through the glittering crowd, your feet aching already in the elegant black heels you've had strapped on since early evening. Your gown is soft satin, hugging curves in a way that makes you both shy and secretly smug- emerald green, the kind that makes heads turn when you glide past. But tonight you're not just a pretty face; tonight you're a professional, charming potential donors, smiling sweetly at self important politicians and bored billionaires alike.
The charity is hosting this fundraiser in a grand ballroom overlooking Central Park. Crystal chandeliers drip decadence from above, and a jazz quartet adds a smoky, romantic hum to the background. It’s a prestigious event- anyone who's anyone is here tonight. Including, reluctantly, the New Avengers, cornered by Valentina Allegra de Fontaine’s fierce insistence. You've seen them drifting around the edges of the room, mostly avoiding the prying eyes of eager fans and the flashing cameras.
You're distracted by a tray of champagne flutes gliding past when suddenly, you collide gently into a tall, solid form. Your hand instinctively shoots out to steady yourself, gripping an impressively firm arm wrapped in expensive black fabric.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry- ” you stammer quickly, heat flaring on your cheeks as you look up, your words trailing off as you meet a pair of intense, dark eyes. He's tall, striking, but there’s a subtle vulnerability in his expression that instantly intrigues you.
He blinks awkwardly, clearly not expecting to be touched or approached. "It's uh- it’s fine," he mumbles, shifting his weight uncomfortably, clearly as out of place here as anyone you've seen tonight.
You smile softly, withdrawing your hand slowly. "Crowded room, I guess?"
His eyes briefly flicker down your dress, quickly returning upward with a flush in his cheeks. Cute. "Yeah, crowded room," he echoes, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though his gaze still holds something cautious, guarded.
You tilt your head, curious. "Not really your scene, huh?"
He chuckles softly, dryly. "That obvious?"
You lean in slightly, voice dropping conspiratorially, eyes playful as you tease, "Only completely."
His laughter is warm this time, genuine, surprising himself as much as you. He seems to relax just a bit, intrigued by the unexpected charm radiating off you.
You notice how he shifts slightly, pulling subtly at the sleeves of his suit jacket, like the expensive fabric itches at his skin. There's something disarmingly sweet about the way he's standing there, towering yet somehow uncertain- like a man who'd rather fade into the wallpaper than charm the crowd. But, lucky for him, he's caught your attention now, and you have no intention of letting him slip away easily.
"I'm Y/N L/N, by the way," you offer, extending your hand politely, mischief still glittering in your eyes.
He hesitates only a heartbeat before gently enveloping your hand in his own, large and surprisingly warm. You feel a tiny thrill run down your spine- there’s an undeniable strength in his grip, yet he holds you so carefully, as if you’re delicate.
"Bob," he replies softly, and for a moment, he doesn't let go. Those dark eyes fix on yours, searching, cautious, maybe even a touch curious.
Your eyebrows rise playfully, your voice a silky tease. "Just Bob?"
He smiles sheepishly, finally releasing your hand -reluctantly, you note- and shoving both hands awkwardly into the pockets of his trousers. He ducks his head slightly, the gesture charmingly boyish, at odds with the powerful figure he's clearly hiding beneath the suit.
"For tonight? Yeah, just Bob," he murmurs, glancing sideways as if hoping no one else overhears this quiet confession. There’s a hint of anxiety beneath the quiet confidence- like he’s waiting for you to recognise him, for your eyes to widen in realisation, to turn starry and eager, just like everyone else's.
But you don't. At least, not yet.
Instead, you let your gaze soften, curiosity and warmth mixing together, creating an invitation he doesn’t yet know if he's brave enough to accept. "Well, just Bob," you whisper conspiratorially, leaning slightly closer, your voice a playful tease, "since neither of us particularly want to be here, maybe we can keep each other company a little longer?"
You catch the attention of a passing waiter, swiftly plucking two champagne flutes from his gleaming silver tray. You offer one to Bob with a playful tilt of your head, expecting him to accept and toast this unexpected little alliance you've formed. But instead, his expression tightens almost imperceptibly, eyes briefly clouding over.
"No, thank you," he murmurs softly, raising a hand to politely decline. He glances away, clearly uncomfortable, embarrassment flickering briefly across his features before he masks it with an apologetic smile.
You freeze, instantly feeling foolish. “Oh-I didn’t- sorry," you rush, cheeks flushing deeply as you mentally scold yourself. Smooth, real smooth.
Bob shakes his head, a gentle chuckle slipping from his lips, his smile softening reassuringly. "Don't apologise," he says quietly, voice deepening slightly with sincerity. His gaze returns to yours, steady but cautious. "I just...don’t drink anymore."
The quiet honesty of his confession startles you. There's a gravity to it, a hint of vulnerability peeking through the carefully maintained facade. The curiosity in you deepens, along with a flicker of respect. You set the extra glass aside on a nearby table, reclaiming composure as you meet his eyes again.
"More for me, I guess," you joke lightly, trying to ease the sudden tension, taking a delicate sip as you study him carefully over the rim of your glass. "You sure you're okay with me indulging?"
He laughs again, a rich, velvet sound that warms you more than the champagne ever could. "I think I'll manage," he replies dryly, amusement sparking faintly in his eyes. "Besides, one of us should probably stay sharp tonight."
You arch a teasing brow, leaning into the playful challenge, voice dropping slightly lower. "Oh? Planning on rescuing me from trouble, Bob?"
His gaze sharpens, lingering just a heartbeat longer than necessary on your lips. "Maybe," he admits softly, voice edged with something dark and enticing. "Or maybe I just like having an excuse to keep an eye on you."
You sip your champagne slowly, savouring the subtle warmth as you gaze thoughtfully at Bob. He’s watching you closely, like he’s trying to solve a particularly tricky puzzle- and you're the tempting little enigma he can't quite figure out.
"Well, since we've decided you're my guardian angel tonight," you tease lightly, eyes glittering mischievously, "maybe you should know why exactly I need protecting."
He chuckles softly, leaning just a touch closer, intrigued by your casual flirtation. "Alright, I'll bite," he murmurs, voice low and richly amused. "Tell me what brings you here."
You gesture around at the lavish ballroom, the glittering chandeliers, and clusters of elegant attendees. "My charity organised this event. I'm technically working, even if it doesn't exactly look like it."
His brows lift slightly in surprise, genuine interest flickering in his eyes. "Your charity?"
You nod modestly. “Well- not mine exactly. I’m part of the team behind it. Tonight's about raising funds for mental health resources, especially for people who've seen combat or trauma." You pause, softening a little, sincerity colouring your tone. "It's...important to me."
Bob's expression shifts, eyes darkening subtly with something deeper- respect, perhaps, or empathy. "That's good work," he says quietly, gaze thoughtful, introspective. "Important work."
Your eyes narrow playfully as you tilt your head, the momentary seriousness replaced again by teasing curiosity. "And what about you, Bob? If this isn't your scene, what brings you here? Forced attendance? Glamorous obligation?"
He smiles bitterly, shrugging with reluctant honesty. "Something like that. My boss can be...persuasive."
You chuckle softly, sensing the edge of frustration beneath his words. "Sounds complicated."
"You have no idea," he sighs gently, shaking his head as he meets your eyes again. "I haven't liked parties like this for a long time. Too much noise, too much pretending."
Your voice softens, curiosity piqued by the quiet confession. "Then why not just...leave?"
Bob's lips twitch into a faint, mysterious smile, his voice low and tantalisingly direct. "Maybe I was waiting for a good enough reason to stay."
You swirl the champagne in your glass lazily, cocking a brow and tilting your head with that sly little smile. Then you hit him with it.
"So, Just Bob," you murmur, your voice low and playful, eyes never leaving his, "have you found one yet? A good enough reason to stay?"
There’s a moment. A pause just long enough for the silence to thrum between you, alive and pulsing. His expression flickers- surprise, maybe, or amusement. But then something shifts behind those eyes. That quiet uncertainty gives way to something else.
Certainty.
Bob takes half a step closer. Not enough to crowd you, but enough that you feel the weight of his presence. He feels taller than you remembered when you first bumped into him, broader, like he’s trying not to seem intimidating and failing at it. He looks down at you through thick lashes, jaw tightening just a fraction.
"Yeah," he says finally, voice lower now- rougher, like it’s been dipped in heat. "I think I have."
You blink, not expecting the answer to come so easily. Or for it to hit that hard.
"That right?" you ask, your voice coming out a touch breathier than you meant. You're still smiling, but now there's something warmer in your chest, heavier. Because you’ve had men flirt before- but not like this. Not like it means something.
He nods once. "You’re not what I expected to find here tonight."
"Neither are you," you say, matching his tone, daring, maybe even a little dangerous now.
That smile of his -crooked, a little uncertain, like he doesn’t quite trust himself with it yet- comes back, and this time it hits you square in the chest. He takes a slow breath and exhales through his nose like he’s steadying himself.
And then softly, just for you, like a secret:
"I didn’t come here to meet anyone. But I’m not sure I want to walk out of here without knowing your favourite colour… or what your real laugh sounds like when you're not putting on your work face."
You grin at him, slow and lazy, swirling what’s left of your champagne like it’s no big deal he just dropped a line like that on you. "My laugh, huh?" you echo, your tone all lightness and sugar. "That’s ambitious. Most men settle for my phone number."
Bob huffs a soft laugh, eyes still on yours, a glint of something darker behind the gentle curve of his lips. "I don’t want your number," he says, quiet but clear.
You blink, brows lifting. "No?"
"I want to be the reason why you smile like that." His voice is steady now, more confident. Controlled. There’s still softness, still kindness- but it’s laced with intent. The kind of intent that makes your pulse skip.
You open your mouth- probably to say something smart, something coy- but before the words form, he glances toward the gilded doors leading out of the ballroom and shifts his weight subtly, like he's bracing for something.
"You ever get tired of pretending in rooms like this?" he asks, voice quieter now, meant for your ears only. "Of smiling for people who wouldn’t notice if you disappeared?"
You look at him for a long moment, caught off guard by the rawness beneath the question. And then, without missing a beat, you smile again- genuine this time, just for him.
"Constantly."
He nods, as if that’s the answer he expected. Then, tentatively but clearly, he leans in just enough to drop his voice low beside your ear. It’s not a touch, not yet. But you feel him.
"Would it be wildly inappropriate to steal you away from your own event?" he murmurs. "Just for a few minutes. Fresh air. You look like you could use a break."
You pull back slowly, just enough to meet his eyes. That glint of flirtation returns, the danger dancing in your smile. "Depends. Think you can keep up?"
He tilts his head. "You offering to show me a way out?"
You drain the last of your champagne, setting the flute aside with a soft clink. "This place?" you say, stepping close enough that your perfume brushes against him- warm, soft, something just a little sinful. "I know it like the back of my hand. There's a service stairwell behind the east bar that leads all the way to the roof."
He raises a brow, impressed. "You always take strange men up there?"
You smirk, walking past him with a teasing glance over your shoulder. "Only the ones who ask nicely."
And just like that, Bob follows.
The hum of the gala fades the higher you climb. Stilettos click softly on concrete, his footsteps slow and deliberate behind you. The stairwell is dim, lit by yellowing bulbs that cast a glow over exposed brick and aged metal railings. You push open the final door and step out onto the rooftop, the cool night air hitting your skin like a balm.
The city stretches out before you in all its restless glory- towering buildings lit like stars, traffic moving in distant threads of red and white, the hum of New York alive even here. The breeze is gentle, tugging at your dress, brushing strands of hair across your face.
You walk to the edge, resting your hands lightly on the concrete barrier. The fabric of your gown flutters around your legs. Behind you, you hear the door click shut, followed by Bob’s footsteps as he approaches. Slower now. Quieter. Like he doesn’t want to break the moment.
When he finally stops beside you, you don’t look at him right away. You just breathe.
"You weren’t kidding," he says after a moment, his voice softer than before, hushed in the open air. "This is... something else."
You nod, lips curling faintly. "Helps put things into perspective. When everything gets too loud down there."
"Yeah," he murmurs, looking out at the skyline. "I get that."
You finally turn, letting yourself really look at him now, no crowd, no noise- just the city and the quiet and him.
And it hits you.
There’s something achingly familiar about him. Not just the height, or the way he carries himself- guarded but alert. It’s the face. The way his eyes carry weight behind them. Like he’s seen things that never left. Like he feels too much, even when he tries not to.
You’ve seen him before. But not like this. Not in a suit. Not smiling quietly at you like you’re the only thing anchoring him tonight.
You squint slightly, tilting your head. "Bob..."
He glances at you, brow raised. "Yeah?"
"...Do I know you from somewhere?" you ask slowly, not teasing now. Honest. Curious.
Something flickers in his expression. Barely there hesitation. Not fear- more like he's calculating. Deciding how much of himself to give away.
"You might," he says eventually, voice measured. Careful. "Depends how closely you follow the news."
And there it is.
Your lips part slightly. The realisation washes over you, not all at once- but like a slow tide dragging you into something deeper. That quiet intensity. The way he’d rather be anywhere but the spotlight. The name Bob.
"...Sentry," you whisper.
He doesn’t correct you. Doesn’t confirm it either. He just turns back to the city, eyes on the lights, hands in his pockets.
And for the first time tonight, he looks a little tired. Not physically- soul-deep. Like someone who's always seconds away from unraveling.
You stare at him. Really stare. Like your brain is frantically flipping through headlines and classified whispers. Your lips part again, but no sound comes out- not right away.
Bob Reynolds.
The Sentry.
And now that the pieces click together, the quiet makes sense. The tension under his skin. That low hum of barely restrained power that you felt the second he touched your hand downstairs.
You're not just up here with some awkward guy in a nice suit.
You’re with the man they say could wipe New York with a thought. The one who barely leaves the Watchtower. The one they keep in check, not out of command- but fear.
"You’re the one they never send on missions," you say softly, breath catching. "The one with... all that power. The one who—"
He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t move. Just lets the breeze ruffle through his dark hair as you try to find the right words.
"...The one who nearly turned everyone in New York into a shadow," you finish, voice barely above a whisper.
Still, he says nothing.
But you feel it- that shift. Like something tight inside him is bracing for judgment. The air between you feels heavier now, like even the night is holding its breath.
You could push away. Ask questions. Demand explanations. But you don’t.
Instead, you step closer.
He finally turns to face you. His eyes are unreadable, calm on the surface... but you can see the storm just beneath. Guilt, pain, restraint. Like every breath he takes is carefully measured so he doesn’t crack the world in half.
"You’re not what I expected," you murmur, looking up at him, quieter now. "I thought you'd be... colder. Harsher. Bigger, maybe."
He snorts faintly, eyes narrowing with dark amusement. "Sorry to disappoint."
"You don’t," you say simply.
It’s not a compliment. It’s not flattery. It’s just the truth. And he hears it.
He studies you for a long, silent second- like he’s trying to decide whether to stay or retreat back into the dark where it’s safer.
"You’re not afraid of me," he says finally.
"No," you reply, your voice soft, but unwavering. "Should I be?"
A beat passes. And then his voice, lower now, slower, more intimate:
"Yeah."
His eyes hold yours. "You probably should."
Your pulse kicks, but you don’t move. You don’t look away.
You don’t flinch. Don’t waver. Your breath comes a little slower now, but your eyes are steady as they hold his.
He says you should be afraid.
And maybe part of you is. Of what he could be. Of the weight he carries.
But that’s not who’s standing in front of you right now.
So you take a slow step forward. Not too close- but enough to make your point.
You look up at him, the breeze tugging gently at your dress, and you give him the quietest smile. Soft. Real.
"Maybe I should be," you say, voice calm, even as your heart pounds. "But I’m not."
His jaw tightens, his eyes searching your face like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like he’s waiting for you to pull away, to look at him with fear or awe or worship.
But you don’t.
"Because tonight," you continue, your voice dipping just enough to make him lean in, ”you’re just Bob."
The words hang in the air between you, weightless and heavy all at once.
Something in his expression falters. The armour, the edge- it cracks.
He blinks once, slowly. And then his lips part like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. To the world, he’s a weapon, a warning. A god on a leash.
But to you?
Right here, right now?
He’s just Bob.
And fuck, the way he looks at you in that moment? Like you just handed him oxygen for the first time in years.
His voice, when it finally comes, is low. Hoarse.
"You don’t know what that means to me."
"I think I do," you reply gently.
And for a long beat, neither of you move.
Until, Bob shifts slightly beside you, then leans his forearms on the rooftop ledge, gazing out at the skyline. His suit jacket pulls taut across his shoulders, and the silence between you stretches- not uncomfortable. Just quiet. The kind that doesn’t need to be filled.
You mirror him, folding your arms against the cool breeze, standing close but not touching. You both stay like that for a moment. Then he speaks.
"You know," he says softly, "it’s weird being up here with someone who doesn’t... expect anything from me."
You glance over at him. "You want me to start demanding heroic acts? I could fake a fainting spell. Really sell the damsel in distress thing."
That earns you a real smile- small, crooked, but genuine. "God, please don’t."
You laugh, light and low. The sound slips out easily in the quiet night, and he hears it -feels it- and it sinks into him like warmth in the cold.
You lean your shoulder against the concrete beside him and let your eyes follow the lights dancing across the windows below.
"I like this part of the night," you murmur. "Where everything slows down. Where people stop pretending for a second."
Bob hums. "Is that what we’re doing?"
You glance sideways. He’s already looking at you.
"Not pretending?"
You shrug, smiling softly. "Feels like it."
He nods slowly. And there’s something like relief in his posture now. Like his muscles have finally stopped bracing for impact.
You don’t know him.
And he doesn’t know you.
But maybe that’s exactly why this works. Why, in the chaos of it all, this rooftop- this moment- feels real.
"Do you always sneak out of fundraisers to bring strange men to high places?" he asks, the teasing note returning to his voice.
You grin. "Only the ones who seem like they need saving."
He huffs a soft laugh, eyes dropping to the ground for a second. "Then I’m definitely in the right place."
And then -finally- he turns to face you, fully.
"You’re not what I expected either," he says, voice low.
You quirk a brow. "Oh?"
He nods. "You make it hard to stay closed off."
You tilt your head, matching his quiet tone. "And yet, here you are. Letting a stranger in."
His eyes scan your face- slow, thoughtful.
"Yeah," he says. "And it’s... terrifying."
You smile again, warm this time. Solid.
"Good," you whisper. "Means it matters."
The silence stretches again, but it’s changed now. Thicker. Warmer. You’re not just two strangers anymore- you’re something becoming. Undefined and delicate, balanced on the edge of something neither of you are sure you should touch.
But fuck, do you want to.
You watch the way his eyes flicker- city lights reflecting in the dark of them. There’s a calm there now, but it’s the kind that comes right before a storm. You wonder how many people have seen him like this. Quiet. Unburdened. Human.
Probably none.
And maybe that’s why you take the step.
Not literal- not yet. Just a shift in your posture, the angle of your body tilting ever so slightly toward his. Your arm brushes his, just enough that you feel the heat of him through the fabric.
He doesn’t pull away.
He leans in.
Not by much. Just enough to match you. And that’s when you know- he wants this too. Whatever this is.
You glance up, catching the way he’s watching your mouth now. Subtle. Controlled. But his eyes dip, and that restraint? It’s thin. Fraying at the edges.
You wet your lips slowly. Not to tease. Just instinct. Natural.
And it fucking wrecks him.
He inhales sharply through his nose, then swallows like he’s fighting something back. But his voice, when he speaks, is still soft. Still steady.
"You do that on purpose?"
You blink, feigning innocence. "Do what?"
His mouth twitches. "That. The lip thing."
You shrug, smirking. "You’re the one staring, Bob. Don’t blame me."
He turns his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a little as he looks at you. Really looks at you.
"I should go back downstairs," he says, but there's no conviction in it.
You hum. "You don’t want to."
"No," he admits. "I really don’t."
You shift again, just a little closer. Shoulder to shoulder now. Heat pressing between fabric. Your voice drops, low and teasing.
"So don’t."
He exhales slow, steady. Then, quieter: "You’re dangerous."
You laugh, soft and wicked. "Me? You’re the one with the god tier power set."
He shakes his head, smile crooked and tired. "You’re the one getting under my skin."
There it is.
That tension. That pull.
You’re not touching. Not yet. But everything about your proximity screams almost.
And when his fingers brush yours on the ledge -just a whisper of contact- you don’t move.
Neither does he.
You just stand there, hands nearly touching, bodies angled toward each other like you’ve both forgotten what space is supposed to mean.
The warmth of his fingers near yours is maddening. Barely there, but impossible to ignore. It’s like he’s waiting for permission. Like if you moved even a millimetre closer, he’d snap.
But he doesn’t. Not yet.
Instead, he breaks the silence with something you don’t expect.
"I want to kiss you."
Your breath catches, chest tightening in that delicious way that makes your blood run hot.
But then he adds, almost like he’s confessing a crime, "I haven’t kissed anyone since... since I got the powers."
You look at him then -really look- and it hits you how heavy that admission is.
Not just because of the time. But because of why.
That kind of power… it makes things complicated. Dangerous. Intimate moments like this? They’re not simple for him. He’s probably been holding himself back for a while.
You blink, letting the wind brush against your cheeks, grounding you.
"That long, huh?" you ask softly.
He nods once, still watching you. "It’s been a while."
You chew on your bottom lip- carefully, because you know he's still watching your mouth like it holds some damn secret. Then you murmur, "I’m not usually the type to kiss strangers on rooftops, you know."
That earns a soft chuckle. The kind that vibrates in his chest and makes the air between you feel warmer somehow.
He glances at you sideways. "Usually?"
You smile, slow and unbothered. "Yeah. But tonight feels like a lot of firsts."
Bob’s lips twitch into a faint grin. His eyes flick between yours, searching again. But not for your name or your resume or some flashy motive.
He’s just looking to see if this is real.
"You’re not scared of me," he says again, quieter now.
"No," you whisper. "I’m not."
A pause. His voice, low and rough around the edges:
"Can I?"
It’s not a command.
It’s not even need.
It’s restraint. Thick and trembling.
You let the question hang for a moment- long enough to feel his tension coil tight. Long enough to make him doubt.
Not because you’re cruel.
Because you want him to feel it. The weight. The desire. The need.
Then, softly -barely more than a breath- you say it.
"Yes."
That’s it. That one word, and it unravels something in him. His shoulders lower, just slightly. Like he’s exhaled for the first time in years.
And then -slowly, like he’s terrified of startling you- he reaches out.
One hand lifts to your cheek, his knuckles brushing your skin first, tentative. You don’t move. You don’t flinch. You just hold his gaze, unwavering. Letting him touch you like you trust him with it.
His fingers trail along your jaw, rough from callouses, warm and trembling just enough to betray how badly he’s been wanting this. His other hand joins, curling lightly at your waist, not pulling- just there.
You lean in, nose brushing his.
And fuck, you feel him shudder.
Like this is sacred.
Like you’re sacred.
His breath fans across your lips, slow and warm.
"I’m not used to this," he murmurs. It’s not an excuse. It’s just... truth.
You smile, small and soft. "Then go slow."
He does.
He closes the gap, and when his lips finally touch yours- it’s not some messy, desperate clash. It’s careful. Like he’s learning. Like he’s tasting the idea of kissing again for the first time in too long.
And god, it’s good.
He kisses you like he’s afraid to break you.
But under that hesitation, there’s something deeper. Something starving. It’s there in the way his hand slides just a little more firmly to your waist, in the low noise he makes when your lips part for him. It’s in the way he presses forward, just enough to let you know he’s there, fully present, fully yours for this moment.
When he pulls back, just barely, your lips still ghosting against his, he whispers, "You okay?"
Your eyes flutter open, your smile turning sultry. "I told you I don’t do this often."
Bob chuckles, resting his forehead gently against yours. "That felt like a lie."
And suddenly it hits- this isn't about gods or powers or broken pasts.
His breath is still ghosting against your lips, and you can feel it- the shift in the air, in him. That kiss? It settled something... but it lit a fuse too.
You lean in again before he can ask permission this time, brushing your mouth over his- once, then again, firmer now. And Bob? He responds.
The tension that’s been crackling beneath the surface finally snaps. He kisses you back, deeper this time, with more confidence, more heat. His hand at your waist tightens, pulling you flush against him, and fuck, he’s solid. Heat radiates from him, like something barely leashed under the skin.
Your hands curl in his jacket, anchoring yourself, because his mouth is hungry now. Still careful- but barely. Like restraint is holding on by a goddamn thread and your lips are the only thing keeping it intact.
You make a soft noise against his mouth- breathy, involuntary- and it wrecks him.
His hand slides up your back, palm splaying between your shoulder blades, pressing you closer. His other hand- still cupping your jaw- tilts your face just enough to deepen the kiss, tongue brushing yours in a way that sends heat shooting straight through your core.
He pulls back barely a second to breathe, eyes dark and hooded, lips kissed red, voice rough as sin.
"Tell me to stop."
You don’t.
You don’t even think about it.
Instead, your hands slip up his chest, fingers trailing over muscle and fabric like you own him already.
"Don’t you fucking dare," you whisper.
That’s all it takes.
His mouth is on yours again, harder now, devouring, claiming. His tongue slides against yours with purpose, and his hips press into you just enough to make you gasp.
And that gasp?
It breaks him.
He pins you gently against the ledge, careful even now, even while his hands are gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll slip away. You hook your fingers in his jacket lapels, dragging him impossibly closer, letting him feel just how not innocent you are.
His hand drags slowly down your back to your hip, pulling you against the unmistakable hardness beneath those expensive trousers. You roll your hips, just once, slow and dirty- and his breath stutters against your cheek.
"Fuck," he mutters, head dropping to your shoulder, voice shaking with restraint. "You have no idea what you’re doing to me."
You smile into his hair, smug and breathless.
"Oh, I think I do."
His mouth is on yours again, hot and open and needy, like he’s trying to memorise the taste of you with every kiss. And fuck, Bob kisses like he means it- like it’s the first time in years and he doesn’t know when he’ll get to do it again. His hands are everywhere now. One still at your hip, the other climbing up your spine, fingers splaying wide, holding you to him like he can’t stand the thought of space between you.
And you don’t want space either.
Your back hits the rooftop ledge again and you moan into his mouth, a sound that starts in your chest and vibrates against his tongue. His breath stutters -just for a second- but it’s enough. Enough to make him grind against you.
Not consciously.
Not calculated.
Just raw fucking instinct.
His hips press into yours, and god, you feel it- hard and heavy through his slacks, thick against the curve of your stomach as your bodies line up. Your dress hikes slightly as you shift, seeking friction without even realising it. And suddenly his thigh slots between yours and-
Oh. Fuck.
The sound that escapes you is soft but filthy, something between a gasp and a whimper. Bob pulls back just enough to look at you, lips swollen, chest heaving, his eyes so dark now they might as well be black.
"You feel that?" he rasps, grinding slowly, just once, like he needs you to know what you’ve done to him. "That’s what you fucking do to me."
You arch into him instinctively, dragging your nails lightly down the front of his shirt. "You started it."
"Yeah," he growls, mouth ghosting along your jaw, your neck, your ear, each word hotter than the last. "And I’m not fucking stopping."
He kisses you again, and this time it’s downright filthy. Tongue and teeth and heat. You’ve both lost track of where you are- some rooftop in the middle of Manhattan, city lights flashing beneath you like a thousand unknowing witnesses.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because all you feel is him.
His cock pressing into your hip now, grinding against the swell of you through thin layers of fabric. Your leg hooks around his, pulling him closer, and suddenly it’s not just kissing anymore- it’s a slow, frantic dry fuck against the concrete ledge.
You’re gasping into his mouth, trying to keep up, and he’s breathing ragged, every exhale laced with a barely contained groan.
"Fuck, you’re-“ He cuts himself off with a sharp inhale as your hips rock against him again. His voice is wrecked, desperate. "God, you feel so fucking good."
You don’t even know when your hands ended up in his hair, gripping tight, tugging at the roots like he’s the only thing holding you up. He moans when you do it -loud and filthy- and grinds into you harder. The pressure is toe curling, relentless. Your panties are soaked. His trousers are definitely ruined.
You both lose the rhythm for a second, just panting into each other’s mouths, barely holding on. It’s fast. Sloppy. The kind of kiss that blurs the line between affection and need.
His voice breaks through the haze, low and cracked: "I haven’t- fuck, I haven’t touched anyone like this in so long."
You press your forehead to his, panting, shivering against the breeze and his body. "So don’t stop."
He doesn’t.
He can’t.
Bob groans into your mouth again, louder this time, like he doesn’t give a fuck who hears. His hips are grinding hard now, the friction unbearable -perfect- his cock thick and twitching through his trousers, rutting up against the soaked mess between your thighs. Your dress is bunched around your hips, pushed up by his hands, his thigh, his need- you’ve lost track. You don’t care.
Every roll of his hips presses right against your clit, dragging your breath out in stuttering little gasps that die in the wet slide of his tongue.
"You’re fucking soaked," he mutters against your lips, voice cracked and full of disbelief, like he’s barely keeping it together. His hand moves between you and cups you over your panties, fingers pressing into the soaked fabric. You gasp, nails digging into his back. "Fuck, baby- this all for me?"
You nod, breathless, grinding down against his fingers without shame. "Yes."
"Jesus," he mutters, kissing you again, this time messy, frantic. His teeth graze your bottom lip, and he groans like it’s killing him. "Fuck, I- “
He doesn't finish the thought. Just rolls his hips harder, fingers gripping your waist like he's anchoring himself. The sound of wet fabric grinding together fills the air between your breathless moans and his desperate grunts.
Bob pulls back just enough to look down between you, to see the ruined state of you both, and his eyes darken.
"You’re gonna make me come in my pants like a fuckin’ teenager," he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, hips still moving like he doesn’t care how shameful it is. "Don’t even care. Been dreaming of this."
The confession hits like a goddamn freight train. Your stomach flips, heat tightening between your legs even more, and suddenly you’re so close. Just from this. From the way he talks, the way he grinds, the way he clings to you like you’re salvation wrapped in silk.
You whimper, clenching around nothing, aching for him to slide those fingers under the waistband and give it to you.
"You close, baby?" he asks, voice wrecked, lips dragging over your jaw. “Fuck- you’re shaking’."
"Yes," you breathe, nails digging into his shoulders. “Bob-"
His name falls from your mouth like a plea, and he fucking shudders.
"You sound so good sayin’ that," he groans, hand slipping under your dress again, over your thigh, so close to where you need him most. "Say it again."
"Bob," you whisper, then moan louder, rolling your hips hard into his.
And that’s it.
That breaks him.
He curses, low and dirty, and grabs your hips like he’s barely restraining himself. His forehead drops to your shoulder, teeth grazing your skin, and his whole body tenses.
"Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—"
You grind up against him once more, and he gasps -shudders- and you feel it. The twitch, the heat, the way he buries himself against you like he wants to melt into your skin. His hips jerk twice, and he comes in his pants with a raw, muffled groan pressed against your neck.
And the way he sounds? Broken, messy, needy?
It tips you over too.
You come undone with a cry against his mouth, clinging to him, your soaked panties pushed tight against your aching cunt as you grind through it. Your thighs tremble, your back arches, and you fucking fall.
You’re both gasping, panting, still tangled up in each other like gravity doesn’t apply anymore. Like the city doesn’t exist. Like the only real thing on this rooftop is the way your bodies just came apart against each other.
"...Holy fuck," he finally manages, voice low and hoarse.
Your laugh is breathless, still shaking slightly. "Yeah."
You're both still catching your breath, bodies pressed tight, his arms wrapped around your waist like he’s not quite ready to let go. Your heart’s pounding so loud it drowns out the city below, your panties are ruined, your dress is bunched scandalously high on your thighs- and the edge of the rooftop is digging into your ass.
Reality starts to seep in through the haze of orgasm.
"Fuck," you breathe, half-laughing, half-mortified as you press your forehead to his chest. "I haven't done something like that since I was a teenager."
Bob laughs, low and wrecked, chest shaking against your body. His voice is still hoarse, frayed from the moaning and the gasping and- well, the coming in his pants.
He brushes your hair back from your face, thumb dragging along your cheek with surprising gentleness. "Yeah? You a rooftop exhibitionist in your wild years?"
You groan and cover your face with one hand, utterly flushed. "Oh my god—no. I swear, I don’t normally do this with guys I’ve just met."
He hums, amused. You peek through your fingers and find him watching you with that same soft, dark look -still flushed, still breathless- but now with a smirk curving on his lips.
"You sure about that?" he teases, voice deep, delicious. "‘Cause you looked like you knew what you were doing when you wrapped that leg around me."
You slap his chest, trying to fight back your grin. "You are so smug for a man who just came in his pants."
He shrugs, totally unbothered. "Hard."
That sends you into a full body laugh, collapsing against him, shoulders shaking, head buried in the crook of his neck. He holds you there, chuckling with you, hand stroking slow up and down your back.
"Okay, okay, maybe I wanted to jump you a little," you admit into his shirt, breath still ragged. "But this isn’t normal for me."
"Yeah?" he murmurs. "What is normal for you?"
You pause.
And then say honestly, quietly, "Definitely not kissing superhumans on rooftops and dry humping them like my life depends on it."
Bob huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t make another joke. He just squeezes your waist gently, grounding you.
"Well," he says, brushing his lips against your temple. "Guess we’ll have to redefine normal, huh?"
His voice is low. Warm. And a little too sincere.
And that? That scares you more than the rooftop ever could.
You finally start to pull back, blinking up at him with a dazed smile, still catching your breath. The air’s cool again against your sweat slick skin, and your dress starts to fall back into place, though not gracefully. The satin’s wrinkled around your hips, your thighs are still trembling, and your panties are soaked through- but aside from all that?
You feel great.
No one out here can see the state of you. You're hidden by shadows and city lights, and the mess between your legs? It’s your little secret. Well... yours and Bob’s.
You glance down to adjust your dress and then pause.
And grin.
Because he is not so lucky.
His suit trousers are visibly damp where your hips were grinding against him, where your soaked panties left a dark, obscene stain. But worse -better- there’s a thicker mess lower, spreading in a slow, undeniable bloom across the front of his slacks. It’s subtle at first, but with every second, it’s getting more obvious.
The shape. The wetness.
Where he came.
You slap a hand over your mouth to stifle your laugh.
Bob blinks at you. “What- ?"
Your shoulders shake. You point down.
He follows your gaze.
Then mutters a hushed, horrified, "Oh fuck."
You dissolve into giggles, leaning back against the ledge for support as he shifts awkwardly, turning slightly away, cupping a hand over the worst of it like that’s going to help. It isn’t.
You can barely talk through your laughing. "I look like I just made out with someone. You look like you got caught in a fucking splash zone."
Bob groans, dragging a hand down his face. "I came in my pants, I know. You don’t have to narrate it."
"Oh, but I do," you tease, biting your lip as you drink him in with your eyes. "You look like you got fucked standing up."
His voice is low, gruff, aroused again despite the mess. "I did."
And god, that shuts you up.
Because he’s right. You both did. Against a rooftop ledge. Fully clothed. Like desperate teens, high on tension and the danger of being caught.
You stare at him a beat longer, at the ruin you put there. The slow seep of his cum into tailored black fabric, the way his chest still rises and falls like he’s trying to calm himself down.
And now?
You’re wet all over again.
"You know," you say, voice low and dangerous now, eyes dragging up his body slowly, "you kinda pull off the ruined look."
He turns back toward you fully, a dark smirk tugging at his lips, still breathless, still flushed.
"You’re trouble," he murmurs.
"You’ve got no idea," you shoot back, stepping close again, fingers ghosting over the waistband of his trousers. "That was me being good."
Bob stares at you, eyes darkening all over again.
"Fuck," he breathes. "Take me home."
Your heart skips. Your thighs clench.
He stares at you like you’ve set him on fire.
And then you say it.
"My place or yours?"
Bob exhales like you just punched the air out of his lungs. For a second, he just looks at you- like you’ve short circuited something in his brain. Like he’s trying to process the fact that you’re still standing here, asking for more when he’s barely recovered from what you just did to him.
He steps in close again, chest brushing yours, voice rough and low in your ear.
"My place is an over secured tower full of surveillance and half a dozen teammates who will know exactly what happened the second they see me."
You blink, laugh softly. "So... mine, then?"
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes- dark, hungry, his control hanging by a thread again.
"You sure?" he murmurs. "Because if we go to yours, I’m not leaving after just one round."
You smirk. Fingers curling into the lapels of his ruined suit jacket, tugging him down just enough for your lips to brush his.
"I’m counting on it."
And just like that, he's grabbing your hand, dragging you toward the rooftop door like a man on a fucking mission.
He doesn’t care about the mess in his pants.
He doesn’t care who sees.
All he cares about now… is you.
And what he's going to do to you the second your apartment door shuts behind him.