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A white flash lights up the room. Lightning crackles in its footsteps, seeking vengeance for giving you a whole winter away from its blinding wrath. Thunder shakes the ground, the bed seeming to momentarily buzz around you.
The bottle of melatonin on the bedside table is beginning to look like a better and better option by the minute. If you hadn't psyched yourself into a mind over matter agenda and tried to go without them, then maybe you would be sound asleep right now, wrapped up in a blissful, vivid dream.
But no. The clock reads 1:39 AM, and here you are rolling over for the umpteenth time, letting your eyes scan across the dark silhouettes of your bedroom decor, mind running rampant with thoughts of monsters and mythical cryptids.
The pile of clothes in the corner is actually a stranger who has broken in and is waiting till the moment you look away to attack. That light reflecting off your mirror is the eyes of a monster never once witnessed by human eyes. Lightning flickers. The figure standing in the hallway is a trained assassin sent to—
"Holy—!"
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" The dark silhouette jumps, raising its palms to the ceiling. "I'm sorry!"
"Jesus Christ, Robert!" Somehow, you've wound up with your back pressed against the headboard, heart caught in your throat. How long has he been standing there? Why did you not hear him come in?
"I'll...I'm sorry. I'll leave," his figure shrinks deeper into the hall, one hesitant foot after the other.
"No," it comes out sharper than you intended, bordering something embarrassingly desperate. "Don't. Come back here."
Like a fish, Bob reels back in, slowly creeping through the threshold. The room lights up once more, two, three, four, five flashes one after the other. It's there and gone in a matter of seconds, but you've already caught sight of the dark circles lingering beneath his eyes, messy hair poking in every which way.
Sliding back down into the bed, you peel back the sheets, arms wide open for him. His feet quicken, audibly padding across the hardwood floor, and then he's falling into you. No grace or effort to be slow about it, too eager to wedge himself into you, tucking his head under your chin.
Your fingers comb through his hair, dragging your nails against his scalp. "Do you want to talk about it?"
His head shakes, squirming a little bit closer. A vicious boom sends something crashing down in the hallway. Bob grumbles. One of his legs slots between yours, coiling an arm around your waist, as if to try and meld himself into you.
"I tried to call," he's so close that his voice vibrates up your neck. "I promise I did."
"Don't apologize for that," you pause, just long enough to press a kiss to his forehead. Instantaneously, his lips find your collar, always keen on returning them. "Just...say something before you start looming in my doorway like a damn ghost."
"Sorry," his mouth breaks away from you with a giggle. "I didn't realize you were awake until you jumped."
Lightning strikes something outside the window. An ear-splitting crack tears through the room.
Bob jumps.
Frankly, so do you. And maybe that's why he started squeezing you tighter, because that's exactly what you're doing, too, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and squirming the slightest bit closer. As if that will save you in the event lightning chooses your bed as its next, unfortunate target.
Morning arrives in the form of raindrops pattering against the window. Gloomy hues of gray serve as their backdrop, thick clouds masking the sunlight so seamlessly that you can't tell what time it is. It could be early morning, or the afternoon could be coming to a close; it all looks the same.
You've rolled over at some point and time, but Bob's arm still rests around you, his forehead nestled into your shoulder. He's so warm, damn near drawing you back into bed before you've clambered out of it, but the overwhelming desire for something to drink triumphs above all else.
It was a picture frame that fell off the wall last night. Face down on the living room floor, in a pile of shattered glass that a future version of you will have to clean up.
That future version of you arrives within the next few minutes. You can only stare at it for so long before you're inclined to clean it up while the kettle boils. If you don't do it now, then you won't do it until either the end of the day or when Bob inevitably steps on it and cuts his foot wide open.
You still don't know what time it is. Your phone sits on the counter, right where you left it, the little notification light blinking like a ticking time bomb, ready to explode if it receives one more text.
And frankly, that's why you don't want to pick it up.
A scratchy chin settles onto your shoulder, familiar arms once again coiling around you. "You left me."
"Only for a few minutes," you hum. It's like leaning into your own sentient blanket, one that squeezes you a little bit tighter and tilts his head to press a kiss into your cheek.
A shrill whistle dissolves the moment before you've had a chance to soak it in, the boiling water squealing with rage until you pour it into a tacky little mug. Hot chocolate mix rises to the surface, stubbornly refusing to mix until you stir it with the spoon.
"What did Yelena ever do with the rest of these?" You still don't understand what possessed her to buy that giant, hundred-dollar mystery box at the thrift store. Something something, 'you never know what you'll find!' only for her to cut the tape and unveil a museum of many, many ugly mugs.
It's hard even to remember them all. Tacky vacation souvenirs, bad jokes. Some had odd, novelty shapes, others changed colors at different temperatures, a few belonged to movies and TV shows that you've never heard of. There was even one from a 2007 art class hidden in there, a rough but valiant attempt at creating a cat.
"Kept some for the kitchen, stashed the rest in Bucky's briefcase," Bob's laughter breaks through his yawn. "We crammed so many in there that we could hardly get it closed." He doesn't say anything, but you can feel his eyes follow your hand into the bag of mini marshmallows, watching as you drop a handful of them into the hot chocolate.
"Is Bucky aware of this?" Lifting a marshmallow to your shoulder.
"Not yet," his lips brush your fingertips, and the spongy little treat is gone. You offer another. It suffers the same fate.
You fully intend to step out of his arms for a moment; you're only heading toward the fridge, but Bob waddles along with you as if he's been permanently bound to you. Two ice cubes are all you're after, the final, necessary touch to keep him from burning his mouth again.
For all intents and purposes, he should know this is for him; he only takes his hot chocolate one way. And yet his eyes go round when you offer it to him.
"For me?" As if the 'I heart Bob' cup could be for anyone else.
"Yes, for you," lifting it a little bit higher, insistent.
You're convinced that the mug shrinks the moment he takes it from you. There's no other explanation for it, the damn thing is microscopic in his oversized hand, a thick, bulging vein sprawling up the back of it and into his forearm.
...you've got to quit staring.
"Have you taken your medicine yet?" It's the first question that pops into mind. You should have asked this anyway.
He shakes his head, lifting the mug to his mouth. One sip is all it takes for the melted marshmallow to coat his upper lip. A twinge of gold colors the inside of his iris when he finds what he likes, there and gone in the blink of an eye.
Two pill organizers sit right next to the marshmallows, decorated with stickers and faces drawn in Sharpie, courtesy of a long, drawn-out power outage that lasted longer than your phone batteries could. The pale green one is his, emptier than you remember it being and definitely in need of a trip back to his apartment for a refill, but there's enough for today.
"Three in the morning?" You think it was three. There are three in here, but his prescriptions are constantly changing, still trying to find the perfect concoction of medications that will work for him.
"Two. I'm taking the green one at night now," his sleepy, lopsided grin is blinding. "Taking it during the day makes it feel like there's a tiny little man in my head who tasers my brain every few seconds."
The gears in your head start turning, working to conjure a mental image of that evil little man he speaks of.
Bob's grin drops into something meek. "That...doesn't make much sense, does it?"
With a hum, you drop the two pills into his empty palm, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "It was a great analogy." You just need a moment to process what he's said.
Heading back to bed is tempting, but the potential hot chocolate spill risk is what ultimately lures the two of you into the living room, curled into the corner of the couch like a pair of otters floating aimlessly in the sea. Except your sea is composed of all the blankets Bob can get his hands on, topped off with a dalmatian plushie who, conveniently, is also named Bob.
Rain still patters against the windows, with tiny little 'tap tap tap's that merge into a lullaby of sorts, drawing your eyes to a close against their will. Bob isn't doing much better, his head settles onto your shoulder mere seconds after you hear his mug settle onto the coffee table. Half empty.
Always half empty.
Give it some time, and he'll mosey back to it, wrinkling his nose when he finds that his hot chocolate has had the utmost audacity to go cold on him. He'll pop it into the microwave and stand there, watching it spin around on the glass tray until four seconds are left on the timer, take it out, chug the rest, and then delicately place his mug into the back left corner of the sink.
"I can hear you thinking," he murmurs. Outside, lightning cackles, as if to agree wth him.
"I thought you weren't using your superpowers?" It's the same deflection every time.
But he lets you get away with it, too kind and too sleepy to press you on what is going through your mind right now. Instead, he nuzzles further into you, hiking a leg over your hip. "Is being able to read someone's face supposed to be a superpower?"
"If it is, then it's definitely in your arsenal," like a moth to a flame, your hand wanders into his hair, already beginning to toy with a curl.
"Millions of dollars and decades of research," a yawn wracks through him. "All to create a guy with the magical ability to know when his partner is thinking really hard about something."
And now you're yawning, too. "It's a scientific miracle."
The pitter-patter of the rain is what whisks you away once more. The soft rumble of thunder and distant, howling wind blends into a comforting white noise, only interrupted by the slightly louder purr of Bob's snoring. You no longer know where you begin and Bob ends; you've simply melted into a puddle, the cocoon of blankets is the only thing to keep you from spilling out and onto the floor below.
But a cozy nap doesn't prevent a storm from rolling in, and for the umpteenth time, your eyes open to the sound of lightning, striking something nearby. It's darker now, the living room cast into dark hues of gray and black, broken apart by the occasional blitz of light from outside. Your phone buzzes on the counter, either a phone call or an emergency alert, neither of which is worth picking it up.
What's the point of a cellphone when the only person worth talking to is blinking up at you with sleepy blue eyes?
"I'm gonna take a shower," you announce, after a long moment. Might as well get one in, just in case a power outage revokes the luxury of hot water.
Bob blinks, visibly processing what you've just said to him. A moment passes, and then, a thought comes to him. "Can I come?"
You nod, but nothing happens. You're not moving. He's not moving. Time has either stopped and let your consciousness reap the terror of being trapped in a frozen body, or you really just don't want to move.
When your feet finally hit the floor, you're not sure, but at some point, you find yourself being greeted by a steady stream of warm water that nearly melts you on the spot. Like your shadow, Bob follows close behind, and you've never been more thankful to be blessed with this walk-in shower, because frankly, you don't think this would work if you were squeezing into a tub together.
Not with those broad shoulders, that is. Composed of thick muscle that flex and collect tiny rivers that flow down the freckled expanse of his back, past the three circular scars along his spine. Experiment souvenirs. They're not very big, you can perfectly fit your fingertips into them like buttons, but in comparison to the sheer size of his body, they might as well be microscopic.
"Watcha looking at?" He's peeking over his shoulder, eyes sparkling.
You've been caught.
...might as well commit to it.
"Nothing," coy as can be, you grab a handful of his ass.
His mouth pops open, the tips of his ears twinging with pink, then red. But as quickly as the shock sprang onto his handsome face, it melts into something bashful, suddenly unable to meet your gaze anymore. The only thing that doesn't change is the soap bubbling in his hair, slowly but surely making its way down the back of his neck.
He turns toward you, tilting his head back into the steady stream of water. There's only so much the water alone can do, and you're sure that he fully intends to do it himself, but you find yourself reaching for the shower wand, bringing it closer to help you and your one remaining hand to wash the soap from his hair.
"'s nice," he hums, his hands settling on your hips. "Are you washing all of me?"
"Washing you and myself?" Feigning shock.
"Well, I can help with that," he blindly reaches out, first stealing away your wash cloth, and then feeling about for your body wash.
...you wonder if he knows that he's floating the damn bottle toward himself. Surely if he knew, he wouldn't still be patting around, looking for the shape until—
It lands in his hand.
Yeah, he doesn't have a clue. He's so preoccupied with getting soap on your chest that he can't possibly be thinking of anything else, rubbing it into your skin in loose, lazy circles. For something so simplistic, it's shockingly difficult. Your arms keep bumping into his, he's trying to get a part of your back, but pulling you forward only ends in you accidentally spraying him in the face.
"Hey!" Bob squeals, as if he didn't directly cause this by himself.
"Your fault!" Dodging an attack to the chin from the soapy cloth.
Your wet hand futilely smacks him in the chest. He gets you on the belly. You tilt the wand to spray water at the nape of his neck. A glob of soap gets you in the cheek, you can only gather it so fast, but he already knows your game plan, dodging before you can get it on his nose. And then—
There are lips on yours. Soft and fleeting, there and gone within milliseconds, appearing again on your cheek, the bridge of your nose, and your forehead. You can't possibly keep up with them; Bob has gotten in two more attacks in the time it takes for you to retaliate.
"Bo!" Yelping, pawing at his chin. No dice. Nothing is getting between him and his vicious attack. "Damnit, Sentry!"
"Don't 'Sentry' me!" His giggle is so loud that it echoes, ringing incessantly in your ears, so damn distracting that you fall victim to his finishing move. A proper kiss. It hits you so hard, so easily that you nearly fall backward with it, only held up by his big, steady hands.
This is what you've been missing.
Every shred of tension melts from your body, washing away, swirling down the drain, and into the abyss. You're nothing but a limp mess in his arms, collapsing into his chest, helpless to do anything but chase the sweetness of his lips, molding against you so wonderfully that it borders on unfair.
He steps forward, and your back finds the bathroom tile. Cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the warm body that closes the gap between you. Hands nudge at your thighs, pressing into the fat of them until you get the hint and jump. His hips slot between your legs with such ease that it nearly causes you to short-circuit.
Kissing Robert Reynolds, frankly, is an otherworldly experience that ought to bring out the sun and banish every dark cloud from the sky. Perfection exists, and it's this. The delicate way that his kiss draws you into him, lips tangled in a dance that you're far from mastering, taking the wrong steps, yet somehow managing to avoid stepping on the other's feet.
Your hand rises to his jaw, feeling the subtle flex of the muscle there, far too innocent for how he grabs a handful of your ass. Payback, you suppose.
"Robert," you don't mean to sound so desperate, you really don't, but it's too late, you're mewling like a cat in heat.
"Bedroom?"
"Uhuh."
You're either developing a memory loss problem, or Bob is tapping into another unknown super power, because you don't remember what happens from there. One moment you're up against the wall, the next, you're being greeted by the familiar comfort of the bed, curving perfectly to your frame.
Bob's forearms brace themselves on either side of your head, caging you in as his warm body slots against yours once more. You haven't the slightest clue how much time has passed. Don't really care, either. It's hard to give a damn about anything when the tip of Bob's nose traces along the side of your cheek, guiding himself back to your mouth.
The storm protests with a vicious cackle, the bedside lamp flickering with a wordless threat to plunge you into permanent darkness. Wind squeals around the corners of the apartment, shrieking a threat that you don't care to listen to. The whole building could collapse for all you care, so long as this doesn't end.
Bob's hips tilt forward, his heavy cock rubbing against the inside of your thigh, "this is still okay?"
"I would have told you if it wasn't," and if that's not convincing enough, your legs wrap around his waist, clinging to him like it's the only thing you know how to do.
And oh, does he let you. If anything, he's ushering himself closer, his firm belly flattening against yours, erasing every bit of space that dares put itself between you. One of his hands are cradling your face, and your fingers are in his wet hair, and—
The kiss breaks with a mutual gasp.
Again, he rocks his hips forward, thick cock slipping between your folds and rubbing against your clit. How you didn't feel him lazily rutting between your legs, you have no idea, but you are so not complaining.
"I've missed this," he blurts, speaking against your lips.
It takes a moment to find your voice, one of the many controls lost to the mindboggling distraction that is him grinding into you. "It's been like a week," and it sounds like it's been a week since you've had anything to drink, too.
"A week too long," Bob nips at your bottom lip. You don't respond. He nips again, whining at you like an expectant puppy, eager for something you can't deny him any longer. Lips part. Tongues meet in an instant.
It's a losing battle before the fight has even started; he's already licking into your mouth, swallowing the whine he draws out of you. So unfair. You didn't even stand a chance, helpless to do anything but follow his lead. On their own, your hips twitch, and pleasure shatters the kiss once more.
In its place, appear kisses on your cheek, trailing along the side of your jaw, and to your neck. They linger in the space behind your ear, gently sucking on the skin there, enough for you to feel the pressure of it, but never bruising. If someone were to catch sight of a hickey on you, he might spontaneously combust.
"Robert," you don't know why you're whispering his name, lifting from your tongue like a sacred prayer.
He hums, peering up at you through his lashes, working his way down the side of your neck. One kiss after the other, his wet tongue leaving a faint trail in his wake. There's nothing you can do but cling to his shoulders, fighting to stay still as he kisses along your chest.
"Tickle?" He knows the answer to that question, grinning like a cat who got the cream.
A breath strangles out of you. "No."
"You're squirming," and he's got the audacity to laugh while he says it, like he's not also reaching to cup your breast, swiping his thumb over a soft nipple.
You've got no response to that, quietly watching him lean in and swirl his tongue around it. The warmth of his mouth is more than welcome, drawing your back up off the bed, chasing his touch, but...there's something else that you want a whole lot more.
Your hand darts to the bedside table, where the lube rests on the nearest corner. The tips of your fingers brush against the plastic tube, gaining traction, only for it to scoot beyond your reach entirely.
The bottle jumps into your hand. Suddenly sentient.
Bob stiffens. "Oops."
"I thought you weren't using your powers?" You're trying to sound serious about it, but you lose this battle, too, your own laughter causing you to struggle to even open the cap.
"I didn't mean to, I—!" The color drains from his face by the second, shocked as can be. "I wished it would go to you and it just...did!" He sits up, looking at his hands as if he thinks the Void is already taking over.
But he remains unchanged, just like any other time that he's subconsciously done this, whether he's realized it or not. Leaving you ample time to pour a generous amount of lubriant into your palm, so much that it nearly spills through your fingers as you reach down and wrap your hand around his flushed, pink cock.
"Ah—!"
Aside from his hair, this is the darkest part of his body, cock head flushed a deep crimson that contrasts so beautifully against the rest of him. Precum spills, swiftly collected by your thumb, spreading it and the lube across his length in one, practiced motion. You know you're doing it right when he tries to chase your retreating hand.
A pout etches itself onto his face, "mean."
"Would you rather stick to just a handjob?" It's a genuine question laced into your best, teasing tone.
"No, no, no," Bob is already on top of you again, before you can begin to take your playful suggestion seriously. "I'm just...being..." His brow furrows, something self-deprecating visibly forming in his head.
"Being cute?" You fill in the blank before he can, reaching to squish his cheek with your clean hand.
There he goes. Smiling at you like the world's sweetest fool, borderline shy about returning to the task at hand, guiding himself between your legs. The wet tip of his cock dips between your folds, brushing past your clit, and then—
Familiar pressure greets you. It's all you can do to keep from impatiently pushing yourself onto him, hanging onto what little self-control you have left while he takes his time, slowly pushing in like it's the first all over again. But this time, he slips in much, much easier.
Lord, have mercy, you've already forgotten about the sheer width of him. You should have known from the start that those doe eyes were compensating for something, but how the hell could you have predicted...
You shouldn't have looked.
Now you can't tear your eyes away.
There's something mesmerizing about the sight of Bob's cock gradually disappearing inside of you, your pussy visibly stretching to accommodate him and his obnoxious girth. Bob follows your line of sight, hips stuttering when he finds what has your attention.
"I can feel you clenching, baby," he mutters, breaking you from your hypnosis.
Yeah, that might be why he's moving so slowly. But just because you're telling your body to relax, doesn't mean it's going to mindlessly obey. Not this part of you, at least, stubbornly clamping down around his fat cock like you're trying to catch him in some kind of obscene chokehold.
Fingertips trail up your sides. Featherlight kisses work their way up your chest and into your neck, tickling. You're giggling before you know what's going on, pawing at his hands as he all but lays his weight on top of you.
Heat races up your belly, the side of his cock rubbing against sensitive nerves. Oh, and the stretch of him aches, but you can't...you can't focus on anything other than how full you feel. It's all that you can think about, how he sinks into you bit by bit, gradually opening you up around him.
A fragile gasp breaks through the air; he's bottomed out.
"Bo..." You don't know why you're using that silly little nickname, mindlessly speaking everything that comes to mind.
Bob's nose nuzzles into your temple. "Are you okay?"
"More than okay," you breathe.
Thunder booms, and you're sure that the lightning is putting on her greatest show yet, but she doesn't have an ounce of your attention. No, that's all reserved for this.
Experimental, Robert begins to move.
Slow. Not in any rush to pull out of you, once again taking his time as he gradually pushes himself back in. It's easier this time, a wet little noise punctuating the meet of your bodies. There's nothing heated about it; you've got no reason for it to be. It's just you and your ridiculously superpowered boyfriend, taking all of the time in the world.
"There," sparkles light up behind your eyes. "Oh my god, right there."
Shit, how is he already rubbing into those nerves? Usually, it takes him a minute to find them, but today—
"Right there?" Only Robert Reynolds can manage to sound so innocent when he's fucking you, like a damn earnest puppy looking for his treat. But he's doing exactly what you've asked of him, and if you had a treat, you'd give it to him.
Your arms loop around his shoulders, pulling him even closer, noses bumping. Gold laces his irises, washing over their usual blue, there and gone with a simple blink of his eye, but you know what you saw.
"I love you," he mewls, and you can practically see the hearts in his eyes.
Mouths collide like two galaxies, stars and planets exploding behind your eyelids like fireworks. A once-in-a-lifetime showing, and you've got front row tickets. The universe itself ceases to exist. There is nothing else, only you and Bob Reynolds himself, tangled so deeply that eternity herself can never hope to unravel you.
"I love you, too," you can't hear yourself over the incessant thump of your heart, loud in your ears, as if it doesn't have a designated place to be.
But you wouldn't be shocked if Bob's fat cock was so big that it entirely rearranged you, because that's certainly what it feels like. There's no other word for it, other than full. Stretched to your limit, your cunt struggling to even flutter around him as he sinks into you.
That so-called little noise of your bodies meeting is growing louder. Fuck, its so unfair, he's so big that he hits everything and you're absolutely soaked. The very sound of it is far too obscene for the moment, so loud that the neighbors can probably hear your pussy practically weeping around his damn cock.
Bob's hand tucks beneath your thigh, pushing it up to your belly, opening you even more and—
"Oh my god!" You wail. He's hitting it. Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh. "Fuck, Robert—!"
He sucks in a sharp breath of air, his head almost tipping back at the sensation of you clenching around him. The rhythm he so carefully built is dissolving by the second, and frankly, so are you, unraveling like a loose thread.
"Keep squeezing my cock like that, shit," Bob's groaning, irises flickering with gold, just like the lightning in the window. "Your pussy feels so good."
What's louder, the raging wind or the two of you panting, like dogs in the hot sun? You don't have the answer. You're too busy focusing on pressing your fingertips to your swollen clit, massaging it in a tune that definitely does not match the sway of Robert's body.
But it doesn't matter. The heat is already coiling in your lower belly, burning into your thighs and winding you impossibly tighter around Bob's length. Your back is trying to rise up off the bed again, and your hand has somehow gotten in his hair, and he's kissing you again.
"I'm gonna cum," he blurts. Ragged.
Your lips are moving. Nothing comes out. All you can do is nod.
"Please cum on my cock," Bob all but collapses into you. Whispering into your ear. Begging. Pleading. "Please, can we come together? Please? Oh my god, please."
A noise blurts out of you. Close. You're so close. Hanging onto him for dear life, his blunt tip keeps kissing that spot over and over and over and
"Oh my god, cum for me please, please—!" Bob cries out. The final snap of his hips shoves you up the bed, pulsing with an orgasm so intense that you can feel him twitch with it, and...you're cumming with him.
It washes through you in one big wave, beginning with a delicate twitch down in your toes, rolling up into your thighs, up your belly, and following your spine, swirling in your head. The world itself is a distant memory. All you can comprehend is the pleasure of cumming around him, fuel poured into an already raging fire.
Reality flowers in the form of cool air, rushing in from the vent like a medic, here to valiantly chase away the beads of sweat that have collected on your skin. But nothing is quite as warm and grounding as the big, burning body on top of yours. Robert, with his messy hair and pink cheeks, snuggled on you like you're his personal pillow.
"Hi," he chirps, with a yawn.
"Hi," you're yawning too, now. Must be contagious.
He does, ultimately, roll off of you at some point, though you're not sure how much time passes before that happens. The sheets are beyond saving; the valiant efforts of a wash cloth can't remedy this, only the washing machine and its humble sidekick, the dryer, can save the day now. You've practically slept the day away, you should have energy to get up and deal with it, but...
Bob's arms are distracting.
So are his hands, for that matter, absently wandering up and down your skin, going as far as he can comfortably reach. In return, you trace the hard lines of his belly, following the grooves of his abdomen like a maze, with his veins functioning as a shortcut to his chest and lower belly, stopping just shy of his soft, oversensitive length.
But then, he freezes.
"Bo?" Did the air conditioning cause him to turn into ice?
"I forgot to feed the cats," he says it in such a way that it sounds like he's committed a federal crime. Which, as far as the kitties themselves are concerned, may be valid.
"The stray cats who live outside of the Avengers building?" You know which ones he's talking about. The small but humble colony of kitties who fuss at local reporters while they're on the air, determined to get their side of the story on television.
You're beginning to suspect that the silver tabby is nothing but a gossip. She has crashed at least five news networks by now.
"They're not strays, they're official employees." There's no way he isn't making this up on the spot, just to get a laugh out of you.
And it works. You're giggling about it even when you're standing in the living room, trying to squeeze your shoes on without untying them first. Official employees. Representatives of the company. Paid interns. Soon enough, the New Avengers will be fully feline run.
"What made you start feeding these guys, anyhow?" You ask, watching him lift the forgotten mug to his mouth.
His nose wrinkles. The hot chocolate has once again dared to become cold. "I accidentally dropped a box of leftovers and watched three of them run out to steal everything that spilled out."
The story continues as he walks away, heading for the kitchen. "They still looked hungry, but I couldn't, you know, feed them a half-eaten burger and some fries, so I went and got them their own kibble." Three beeps. The microwave begins to hum. "Now I can't stop, because they expect it from me."
You don't need to see what happens next. The microwave stops, chased by a moment of silence. The water runs, and then, the cup audibly settles inside the sink. Back left corner.
Night has already fallen on the outside world, washing the city in hues of black and blue, broken apart by headlights and stubborn, LED signs that all clamour for your attention. They don't know that their competition is Robert Reynolds, world's most distracting man, who uses his thumb to rub circles into the back of your hand.
A small swarm of felines resides in the alleyway outside of the tower, adorable, screaming balls of damp fur and rage. Most of them are friendly, trotting at Bob's heels and meandering between your feet, but others dart further down the sidewalk or dodge behind a dumpster, looking for any good spot to hide from your prying eyes.
Bob only leaves you for a moment, returning with plastic bowls and a bag of cat food that he nearly spills on top of a particularly bold, orange cat. Why wait for the bowl to be filled when you can shove your head right into the stream of kibble?
The final bowl is placed, and...
Silence. No more meowing or endless screaming, only the soft crunches of tiny jaws chowing down on dinner.
The orange cat, despite being first to his bowl, moves on to the next as soon as he's run out. There is a reason why he's beginning to look closer to a bowling ball than a feline, the fuzzy glutton. His deadly sin runs another cat off from the bowl, a calico who is content to rub herself against your leg, rather than fight over a meal.
"Oh," Bob has wandered away from you, standing over by the dumpster now. "Oh!"
"What?" You squint, but you can't see what he's picking up.
Whatever it is, he's using both hands to cradle it under his chin, a precious little thing that he's found. "It's a baby!"
You can't see it until he's right in front of you. A tiny, bite-sized ball of fluff, marked with even tinier stripes, another tabby, this time in the smallest form possible. Its mouth opens with a faint, but mighty "mew!"
And then promptly bites Bob's finger. Ferocious.
Oh god.
Oh god, there are big, expectant eyes looking at you now. He's already pouting; you know what he's about to ask, and he knows what your reply is. He can't keep it in the tower; the chances of someone leaving a door open and it getting out onto the streets are astronomical.
But that little kitten is another mouth to feed. A very expensive, tiny mouth at that. There's no way that little bitty thing can eat hard food, its eyes aren't even open! And the cost of buying kitten formula? In this city?
Lightning silently flickers, casting a strange, monstrous shadow.
...
It's last night all over again. The ongoing storm. A creepy, unexpected sight created by a momentary burst of light. Robert and his pleading eyes, with his new kitten tucked against his neck, if not identical to how he fit himself beneath your chin.
The last-ditch effort begins, scanning each and every cat, looking for a recently pregnant momma who might have left her baby unattended for a meal. No kittens, no dice. The closest thing to pregnant is that damn orange one.
"Do you think we can—"
"Yes."
There's something else you plan to say, something about custody rights and who is feeding it and when, but the thought dies before it gets to your mouth. You can feel something...
Oh. Now, why did you go and wear the gray sweats? They're already showing off every rain drop they've absorbed, and now...
"Come on," you're taking Bob by the arm, careful not to jostle the tiny thing from his hand as you pull him along. "We're finding a bathroom, and then we're off to the pet store."
He tilts his head. "Why the bathroom?"
Now that you've felt it, you can't unfeel it. Why must there be consequences to your actions? "Because I've got your cum running down my leg."
"Oh!" He squeaks. Then, lowering his voice. "Well, I can help...with that...?" Bold, until he loses momentum mid-sentence.
"Not with a child in your hands, you're not."
The kitten mews. It's starting to sound like Bob already.