Archive of Our Own ^beta

John tasted like blueberries and cream.

It was ironic how Bob had made fun of him for it just an hour earlier. How he’d pointed at the blender before John turned it on, teased him for the way he made his protein shake so simple and so sweet. Maybe that was why John had come at him the way he had, because he was being a brat and asking for it. Or maybe it was because when John offered him a taste, Bob licked it off his upper lip instead of grabbing a spoon.

He breathed into John’s mouth with barely parted lips, his arms pinned at his sides against the wall in the training room. They really had walked in there with the intention of working out. John even had an entire lesson planned for Bob. It was just Bob couldn’t stop staring when John wore those shirts that were one size too tight, and John couldn’t stop staring when Bob tied his hair back.

So, they made it through one round of drills. Two, even. But Bob was feeling silly and kept teasing John and egging him on until John closed the gap between them and shut him up with his lips. Though technically Bob was stronger, he lived for the way that John manhandled him. For weeks after they moved into the Watchtower, all he could think about was how John had shoved him into that wall on the day they met; how he could push him into doing it again. It was hard, the first time. Not so much anymore.

While Bob liked the big gestures of John pinning him against a wall and restraining his arms at his side, he learned John was drawn to the little things. The way Bob licked the outside of his lips when he moved back in after they parted to breathe; how he rolled his hips enough to push on John’s clothed cock without letting his ass leave the wall; his eyes when they stared into John’s, exaggeratedly needy as he pleaded for more, please more.

John moaned into Bob’s mouth when Bob squirmed, not because he was uncomfortable or trying to break free but because it made their cocks brush together beneath their pants and it sent John wild. His fingers dug into Bob’s upper arms as he pushed his tongue between Bob’s lips. Bob bit down on it lightly, couldn’t stop the embarrassing giggle that escaped him when John pressed him tighter against the wall. He pulled away just long enough to kiss Bob’s nose before he moved their mouths back together.

There was a little part of Bob that wondered if John cared how he tasted. Because John’s taste often changed but Bob’s rarely did. Regardless of what he ate or when he brushed his teeth, he’d end up shoving a Zyn in his upper lip at some point shortly afterward. The mint was probably nice, but he didn’t know what John thought of the nicotine, if it bothered him at all. There was no way he’d never tasted it given they’d fully made out while Bob had the drugs in his mouth before.

As soon as John let Bob’s arms go, he moved his hands to John’s waist. He pulled him close against his body, pressed them together as John’s right hand settled on the same side of his neck. John kissed Bob’s lips once more, briefly, then moved his mouth to the left side of Bob’s neck and licked him long and slow before he switched to small kisses. Bob squeezed John’s hips as he leaned into the touch, his body rocking instinctively.

Bob always felt somewhat stiff during sex before. It wasn’t that he never enjoyed it or that he wasn’t good at it, just that he never felt completely safe with any of his partners. Not until John. There was something about the way he threw Bob around that looked careless but felt controlled, even protective. Even when he played at dominance, he followed Bob’s cues, slowed down or sped up depending on what Bob needed and what made him comfortable.

He was down so bad for the way that John held him, the way he nibbled and sucked on Bob’s sensitive skin, that he completely forgot how to think. Then John pulled his mouth away, replaced it with his left hand, and an unexpectedly cold sensation pressed itself against the saliva he had left behind. It took Bob a second to realize that the tiny, cold band was his wedding ring.

“Walker.” John’s hands slid into Bob’s shirt and even though he wanted to focus on the intensity of the fingers on his waist, all he could feel was that one sliver of metal. “Walker.”

“I got you, baby.”

John misread the way that Bob was saying his name. He wasn’t moaning it, he was trying to suggest they should stop because suddenly, it felt wrong. But then John kissed his forehead, and it felt so fucking nice that Bob decided to shut up and just let it happen. It wasn’t like John was the first married man he’d fucked; he was just the first one Bob fucked sober. The first one that made him feel the potential consequences of their actions.

As far as Bob knew, John and Olivia weren’t officially over. John didn’t talk about it enough for Bob to know exactly what their relationship was at that time, but John had never used the word divorced. He only used the word separated. Divorced meant that it was over. Separated meant that they could be on a break, so to speak; that they still wanted to make things work. Bob thought of John’s son, of how he could be the nail in the coffin that made sure that child’s parents wouldn’t raise him together.

A shudder ran through Bob’s spine as John wrapped his right arm around Bob’s back and ground against him. A wet spot built inside Bob’s boxers as pressure pounded in his pelvis. It was way too early. His body was being needy, and he had to slow down. He took a deep breath, tried to focus on the sensations, on controlling them, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all wrong.

Bob didn’t think that Olivia was homophobic or even that she wouldn’t like him, but if they were intending to work things out, he was a problem. Depending on their agreements, John could have been cheating. And if he was, then what would she say? Everything else aside, what would she really think of the fact that her good southern husband spent his time away from her fucking his gay teammate?

The thing was, John had mentioned he explored a little in the Army. Bob didn’t know what he tried or how much, but he knew what he was doing. Because one second, Bob was internally panicking about whether Olivia would accuse him of turning John gay; the next, his brain turned to absolute mush when John’s hips forced him into the wall and a hot, sticky mixture flooded around his cock as he let out a shuddering gasp.

“Jesus, Bobby,” John breathed, and Bob was so embarrassed he might as well have just pissed himself instead. He could feel how red his face was when John leaned into him, how it flushed hotter when he moaned as John cupped a hand around his damp, oversensitive cock and squeezed. “You just come in your pants for me?”

“Didn’t mean to,” mumbled Bob, his guilt overtaken by how fucking turned on John looked. He dug his fingers into Bob’s hips as he turned him around, slipped his right hand down Bob’s pants. He wrapped his fingers around Bob’s throbbing, wet shaft, seemingly unbothered by the mess that coated it. “I can— if you want me to, I can—”

John understood without every word that Bob was offering to help him finish with his mouth or his hand. He shook his head, guided Bob to lean his palms against the wall. “No. No, you’ve been such a fucking brat this morning, I think you should come for me again.”

“I can’t—”

“You can.” He tugged Bob’s pants and underwear down, dropped them to his ankles. It was unfairly hot when John was willing to fuck him where someone might see. “You know how this works. You act out, I get to tame you.”

The only reason John talked to him like that was because he knew Bob was into it. If Bob used his safe word, then John would soften in a second, kiss his cheeks and his forehead and hold him until he calmed down. And there was a part of Bob that considered using that safe word just because he couldn’t stop thinking about John’s wedding ring. Because he couldn’t stop wondering what Olivia would think if she knew.

He inhaled sharply when John’s tip touched his rim, relaxed when John wrapped his left arm around him protectively. The grip and the pressure were fucking everything but the way his wedding band sat just beneath his right areola gave Bob goosebumps he couldn’t shake. He squeezed his eyes shut as John pushed inside him just an inch, whispered gentle affirmations in his ear.

“God, you’re tight,” he mumbled, and Bob exhaled as he moved in further. John’s hand squeezed his chest, his ring cutting into Bob’s skin. He kissed behind Bob’s ear. “You need me to prep you more, Bobby?”

“No, no, just do it.” Because if he took any longer, Bob’s guilt would consume him. The slight pain from being stretched was a helpful distraction. John kissed his ear again, mumbled a reassurance when Bob groaned, “Fuck.”

John moved at a steady pace as he rolled his hips in and out, Bob’s fingers clawing the wall when he hit that angle that was just right. Bob’s cock twitched, still sticky and dripping as John fucked him against the wall. He almost felt bad about the cum on the floor, but the feeling was overwhelmed by his desperate need for release. It came faster and harder than the first time; the intense sensation that he needed, needed to hit that point and let go.

“Walker,” he panted. He reached for one of John’s hands, tried to tug it down toward his cock, but John refused to be moved. “Walker.”

“No, no.” John pushed his right fingers through Bob’s hair before he settled them back on his hips. “You didn’t need my hand to come in your pants, you don’t need it now.”

“Please. Walker. Walker, please.”

He grunted as he slid in and out of Bob, his hands planted firmly on Bob’s waist. It didn’t take another minute before John shifted his angle just so, hit Bob’s prostate just right. John clapped his hand over Bob’s mouth, muffled his second orgasm as it washed through his body and splattered on the floor. He pulled out before he came himself, then wrapped his arms around Bob, squeezed him tight and kissed the top of his head before he stuffed his cock back in his pants and ran across the room.

It was a good thing they had towels and cleaning supplies right there in the training room. Not that John and Bob were using them for their intended purposes, and not that Bob actually did any of the work. John wiped him off with a towel, helped him pull his pants back on—minus his boxers, discarded in John’s laundry pile with the towels—and lowered him to the floor. Not because Bob needed the help but because, as he’d learned after the first few times, John wanted to do those things for him. He watched John clean in silence, his legs still twitching slightly with each labored breath.

The first couple times, Bob felt guilty while he watched John do the work. Then he realized John was smiling just a little, that he lived to take care of his partner. Except Bob wasn’t his partner, he reminded himself as his gaze caught on John’s hand, on his wedding ring wrapped up in a hand towel. Bob wasn’t John’s anything. He was just some guy that John was fucking while his wife cared for their child a thousand miles away, none the wiser.

Bob tried to stop after he realized how wrong it all was. He really did. He made it a week without giving into his urges, without letting John get too close. But then the team went on a mission that John opted out of and suddenly they were alone. It was hard to resist John’s sensual gazes and damn near impossible not to give in to his warm, soft touch.

It was his fault for getting too close to the couch. Bob should have known that if he walked that near to John, it was inevitable that John would grab his waist. He was lying on the couch, propped against the arm of the chair. When Bob tried to shuffle by, John looped an arm around his midriff and pulled him down on top of him.

He knew that it was wrong as he settled in between John’s legs, as he fitted his back against John’s chest and leaned his head into his shoulder. He knew it was wrong when John’s chin landed on his head and his fingers laced together on his abdomen. But, stupidly, it was a lot harder for him to resist the gentle embrace than it was for him to resist sex. Bob craved that touch, that connection, the feeling of John’s heartbeat against his back and his breath on the top of his head.

He was so relaxed, so perfectly settled against John, that even though his brain felt guilty, his body didn’t care how their connection might have severed another.

Bob closed his eyes and told himself it was because he wanted to savor the feeling, not because he couldn’t stop looking at the ring on John’s finger. He couldn’t feel it through his clothes, but he could see where it rested on his abdomen, a shiny sliver of pain sticking out against his black t-shirt. A constant reminder that John’s cuddles weren’t his to keep, that everything they had was fleeting, temporary, taken at Olivia’s expense.

John’s fingers unlaced and for a second, Bob thought John had somehow heard his thoughts. Then his right hand grabbed Bob’s as his left teased the tiny stretch of exposed skin between his shirt and his pants. His right hand tightened around Bob’s as his left snaked between his legs. John kissed the top of Bob’s head, let out a low groan as he squeezed Bob’s bulge. He massaged Bob with his palm, chuckled when Bob squirmed involuntarily.

“Feel good?” John whispered through a grin, and that was why Bob couldn’t give him up. Because nobody else he’d been with ever cared to ask, ever cared whether he was okay with what they did to him. Bob nodded, the top of his head dragging along John’s beard. “You want me to keep going?”

Rather than speak, Bob nodded a second time and leaned his hips up into John’s touch. He couldn’t say yes because it felt so wrong, but he couldn’t say no because it felt so right. He gripped John’s right hand tightly, took steady, even breaths to keep himself quiet as John teased him over his pants. It was a habit more than a need. Before John, Bob was made to be quiet unless told to whine. With John, he couldn’t make loud noise or risk that someone would find them out.

Because they couldn’t always wait until the Watchtower was empty, of course, but they also weren’t ready for anyone to know. Or maybe John never wanted anybody to know. Bob did, a little bit. Just Yelena. Just so he could tell someone about all the little things John did that he loved. But for John, every person who knew heightened the risk of Olivia finding out, probably. For John, there was nothing to talk about and nothing to share; Bob was just his fuckbuddy.

John gave Bob’s hand a small squeeze, nonverbally asking for permission before he slid his hand inside his waistband. He wrapped his fingers around Bob’s shaft, dragged his thumb along his glistening tip.

“You’re pretty wet under there already,” muttered John. He turned his lips, kissed Bob’s temple as he slicked his hand with Bob’s precum and moved it forward and back; stroking Bob’s cock at a pace that was just too slow. “You gonna come in your pants again, Bobby?”

“No.” Bob’s face was already warm, his cock throbbing and heavy as John quickened his stride. It took all his energy to focus on his body, to focus on how good he felt instead of how fucked-up it was that John’s wedding ring was on his dick. “I’m not doing that again.”

“Then you better hold on until I decide to let you out.”

Every stroke of John’s hand increased the pressure in Bob’s abdomen, intensified his guilt until his heart was pounding. John’s fingers and his wedding ring glided across every part of Bob’s cock; every centimeter of skin, every visible vein. Bob tried to ignore it, tried to pay attention to containing his pleasure so he didn’t come before John wanted him to.

Except he couldn’t stop wondering whether that position was one unique to him. Whether Bob was the first person he held in his lap and played with, or if it was something he’d done with Olivia a hundred times. Bob didn’t even care if it was, he just cared whether John wanted to play with him or if he was just some kind of substitute for his wife. If what meant everything to Bob was a quick, meaningless release for John.

That thought was too much, for some reason. Bob kept their right fingers linked together until both hands were buried in his boxers. He wordlessly encouraged John to switch hands, to take the wedding ring away from his crotch. John complied but missed the hidden message; wrapped his sticky hand around Bob’s instead. Bob didn’t know whether to be annoyed that he could still feel the ring between his fingers or happy that John cared so much about the simple act of holding his hand.

“Walker…” Bob squirmed while John’s legs tightened around his, trying to hold him in place. “Walker, I’m… I’m gonna…”

“Shh.” It had to mean something to him. It had to mean something unless his eyes were closed too, unless he was pretending the head he kissed was Olivia’s. Bob looked up but John’s eyes were open, staring at Bob’s happy trail. “Why do you always call me Walker?”

His tone was hard to decipher, especially around the pounding in Bob’s ears. “It’s your name.”

“My name is John.”

“Do you want me to call you John?”

Nobody else ever did. He was just Walker. Not John, even when someone was mad at him. Bob thought he preferred it that way. Maybe he was wrong. Or maybe it was like how Bob let John call him Bobby but when anyone else did it, it just felt wrong.

“Or Jonathan,” John mumbled vaguely, his gaze still fixed on his moving hand, “if it’s really good.”

“Okay, Jonathan,” Bob indulged. He tilted his head upward, kissed a mole on John’s neck; felt the wedding ring between his fingers and wondered whether John wanted him to use his name because Olivia did. His hips bucked as he resisted the release that nearly slipped by. “Okay, I’m serious, I’m— fuck, John. John, I don’t— I don’t want to—”

“You’re all right. I’ve got you,” said John reassuringly. Because even when he teased, he would never force Bob to do something he didn’t want to. He dragged Bob’s left hand with his, made him push his own t-shirt up past his nipples. His right hand flipped Bob’s cock over, released it from his pants and held it against his now-bare belly as he whispered, “Let go.”

Bob fully choked on his cry when he finally did as he was told and let himself go. His cock twitched as he spilled a white, hot release across his belly, as he pushed back into John only to be met by strong arms wrapping him in the world’s most reassuring pressure. An inexplicable tear spilled down Bob’s cheek as he reached up and grabbed John’s wrists, his legs kicking involuntarily as his cock finally slowed on his stomach.

“Fuck, you did so good.” John squeezed him tightly, kept Bob’s shirt from falling down as he kissed his left temple and the top of his head. Bob couldn’t speak, couldn’t think; just inhaled and exhaled as he turned his head toward John to tell him he wanted more kisses. It was unbelievable the way John understood and complied. “You’re so— fuck. You’re incredible, Bobby. You’re so fucking good for me.”

Another tear dropped down Bob’s cheek as John kissed him more, held him tighter. When Bob finally stopped twitching, his legs mostly still, John reached to the coffee table for the box of napkins. He gently wiped Bob’s cock and tucked it back into his pants, then moved up to his belly and cleaned it off before he pulled his shirt back into place. Bob definitely still needed a shower, but it was good enough. Good enough since no one else was home to ever know.

John squeezed his arms around Bob’s belly and kissed the side of his head again. If John wasn’t such a pleaser, Bob might have felt confident that he really cared. There were so many times that Bob was left on a shitty motel bed, covered in cum and drugs, with no one to hold him while he calmed down. So many times someone fucked him, threw a baggie on his stomach, and left without so much as acknowledging him as a human being.

Maybe that was why it was so hard for Bob to tell whether John felt anything for him. It was entirely possible that they just had a healthy friends with benefits relationship and he was misreading it because his past sexual experiences had been so toxic, so traumatic. After everything he’d been through, he couldn’t tell the difference between someone who loved him and someone who respected him.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Bob in a mumble. John was silent for a second before he made a quiet hm? sound and adjusted Bob to make them more comfortable. “What do you want me to do? I can just flip over and—”

“Oh. No.” John exhaled slowly and rested his chin back on the top of Bob’s head. He moved his hands on top of Bob’s before he wrapped him back up, squeezing his torso and his fingers. “No, baby, I don’t need anything.”

“What?”

“I don’t need anything. You don’t need to do anything for me.”

He furrowed his brow. Sex was an exchange. John made him come so he owed John something in return. A hand job, a blow job, something. “But you—”

“I know,” said John. God, from the way he treated everyone else, no one would ever expect how fucking gentle John could be. How patient he was with Bob despite his intense temper. “I just wanted to play with you. I wanted to make you feel good.”

Bob was so confused his chest actually tightened. “You don’t want anything?”

“Just want to hold you.”

He wanted to hold Bob. Bob. Even though he shouldn’t have. Even though he had a wife at home. Bob’s chest went from tight to pained as John’s left ring finger tickled his own. The hand job probably wasn’t that bad—John did say he’d experimented a little in the Army, when Bob was pretty sure he was already with Olivia—but the cuddling was too much. Too intimate.

It was one thing to let John give him a hand job that didn’t mean anything. It was another to lay in his arms, to hold his hands, to find solace in the warmth that didn’t belong to him.

Since Bob convinced himself that hand jobs were okay, it wasn’t hard to convince himself that blow jobs were too.

Yes, he was biased toward them and especially giving them because he had a massive oral fixation, but that wasn’t the reason. It was just that—like a hand job—a blow job could be very impersonal if you wanted it to be. Except Bob didn’t want it to be and maybe John didn’t want it to be because Bob had given a lot of impersonal blow jobs before (for drugs, for cash, to quench his desperate need for the weight on his tongue) and the ones he’d given to John never felt like that.

The first couple of times, Bob had initiated by telling John it was something he just liked to do. He offered it before John ever asked for it, back when Bob was more confident they were just fucking. Then John started to pay attention to Bob in a way he didn’t pay attention to himself. He noticed the days when Bob was particularly uncomfortable, when he went through twice as many Zyns and something like thirty mints; when he constantly rolled his tongue and clicked his jaw until John nodded to the elevator and took him somewhere private. He’d drop his pants, gesture toward his cock, and tell Bob to “do whatever he needed to do.”

And even though he was shy the first time John did that, Bob loosened up fast. He’d always been uncomfortable with his mouth, with how intense his oral fixation was and how severely it bothered him some days. So, when John gave him the go-ahead, he accepted it to an embarrassing degree. Bob would sit on his knees between John’s legs for as long as he could, kissing, licking, sucking on his shaft. Sometimes, when he felt really needy, he’d stop moving his head and just suckle on John’s tip, drawing out their pleasure for as long as he could.

Bob twisted his hand around the base of John’s shaft, his little finger tickling his balls as he moved his head forward and back. John sat on the edge of his bed, legs spread wide open for Bob, who was on the floor stripped to his boxers between them. Not because he expected them to do anything else but because Bob learned after a few times that John loved to come on him. He’d never outright said it but there were times when he did it on the floor, once when Bob was feeling particularly bratty and refused to let him leave his mouth, and neither brought him the pink, flushed expression that coming across Bob’s chest did.

“You are so goddamn beautiful,” John breathed. Bob smiled around his cock, pulled it out of his mouth just long enough to kiss his tip and move back in. It was worth it for the low moan he earned, for the way John’s right hand twisted deeper into his hair. He never thought he would like it when someone pulled on his hair. It had always been a gesture of pain, of abuse, until John did it once. The way he did it was different—tight but gentle, like he was afraid to pull out a single strand. “Let me see your eyes.”

John reached for Bob’s wet chin, not bothered in the least by the spit and precum that leaked on his scratchy skin. He tilted Bob’s head upward, cradling his jaw, and there was that sting of cold again. The metal tingling against his right jawline, pinching his skin just enough to distract him. How fucking pathetic was he? After Sentry, Bob was supposed to be a better person. Even though Valentina lied, he made that promise to himself that he would be a better person. Instead, he got almost naked on his knees, sucked off a taken man just like he did before.

It was selfish. Unbelievably so. Because he was there to relieve the fucked-up needs of his own mouth more than he was even there for John. It was shameful how easily he caved to John’s suggestion, how he dropped his pants and tossed away his shirt so that John could have the satisfaction of marking Bob as his. And Bob was fucking whipped enough that maybe he was John’s, but it didn’t matter because John wasn’t his. He had a wife. He had a son. He had a whole fucking family and Bob was the homewrecker getting in the middle of it.

He’d ended at least one marriage that way already. Admittedly, it probably wasn’t mostly his fault. He was twenty-one and on his knees for a much older man, one who promised a “free” baggie of meth if Bob sucked him off. Bob was uncomfortable but he was also a desperate addict, and he told himself that at least he was gay, so he was kind of into it. Then the man’s wife caught them. The next time Bob ran into him, he heard about the divorce while he was pinned against the wall; heard about the details until his face was black and blue.

“Look at me.” John tilted Bob’s jaw back upward, almost like he knew that Bob’s thoughts were spiraling, and he was trying to bring them back. “Move your mouth but keep your hand where it is. I want to see your eyes when I come.”

He acted so composed but when Bob pulled his mouth away, stroked John to the finish line, he crumpled into a panting, groaning mess. Bob stayed still when the streams of release shot out of John’s cock, painted Bob’s chest and belly with his essence. For a few seconds, John just sat there and twitched as he breathed. Then he leaned down, set a hand on each of Bob’s cheeks—his ring pressed into Bob’s right cheekbone—and kissed the top of Bob’s head once, twice, three, four times.

It hurt Bob how much he loved those kisses. How badly he craved them when he knew they should have belonged to Olivia, to John’s son.

“You’re so pretty when you’re covered in me.” John tried to tug Bob upward, but he resisted, unable to force a smile on his face. It was starting to affect him too much. He needed to tell John it was wrong, that they had to stop. He almost did but the suddenly insecure look on John’s face broke him more. “What is it?”

“Nothing, I just—” Bob shook his head, swallowed hard, and wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “You don’t have to do anything for me.”

“Bobby, baby, that’s not how this works.” John ushered Bob to his feet, pulled him into his lap so his back was against John’s chest. His touch was so soft, so needy, that it sent Bob spiraling further. It wasn’t fair that he was so good to Bob. It wasn’t fair that Bob could be his, but he could never be Bob’s. Bob shuddered when John slid off his boxers, left him naked with John’s shaft tucked beneath his ass. He kissed Bob’s neck slowly. “You always get something from me.”

Maybe John just missed having somebody to hold, to service. Maybe that was why he wrapped his left arm around Bob’s chest, grabbed Bob’s cock with his right. Bob let out a low gasp when John moved his hand up and down his shaft at the same time he circled Bob’s right nipple. It was hard to focus on how good it felt when, just like the last time he’d touched Bob there, his ring left goosebumps on Bob’s areola. Bob didn’t even know anymore if it was because it was cold or because it carried so much weight it actually irritated his skin.

Bob had always felt like a bad person, but he wasn’t a bad person. It wasn’t his fault that he was abused as a child, wasn’t his fault that he was in a car accident and got addicted to drugs. It wasn’t his fault that he was bipolar, wasn’t his fault that he was taken advantage of by older men when he was at his most vulnerable. But fucking John? That made him a bad person. He was taking his medication, he wasn’t getting anything in return (except the gentleness and the care and the best orgasms of his life), and he still knowingly, willingly fucked a married man. Over and over and over again.

It was just that, when John’s arms were around him, Bob felt so safe. He’d never felt safe in his life. Not in his childhood home, not in any of the temporary shelters he’d stayed in, not with Valentina lurking around. But everything about John was comforting, everything about him made Bob feel protected. The way he held Bob’s cock firm but moved so carefully, the way he squeezed Bob against his chest, the way he kissed Bob’s neck and his shoulder as he stroked him.

“John.” Bob dug his fingers into John’s thighs, held himself in place as he panted against John’s chest. John maintained his perfect rhythm, kissed Bob’s temple twice as the pressure built hard and fast. “John, I’m close.”

“You’re okay,” mumbled John. He lowered his left hand, set it on top of Bob’s and gripped it tightly. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“John.”

“I got you, Bobby.”

Bob had always hated the way he fucked. If he didn’t do enough drugs beforehand, he’d embarrass himself with the sounds he made, the way he behaved. He despised the way he whimpered when it got intense, the way he often cried after he came. He even hated the things he enjoyed like suckling and biting because other people always thought they were weird. But John didn’t. John didn’t think anything he did was weird or embarrassing at all.

John wrapped his right arm around Bob’s stomach, held him close when he let out a shaky gasp, when his hips twitched upward as his cock spilled a fountain of sticky white fluids over itself, as it dripped on their thighs. He whispered reassurances as Bob steadied himself, pressed a kiss to residue left by a single tear down his cheek. Bob didn’t even know why he cried after sex. Maybe it was a trauma thing he’d unpack in therapy someday. But it had always bothered him, always bothered other people, until John held him and kissed him and made him feel like everything would be okay.

“Fuck, you’re good at that,” said Bob breathlessly. He leaned back against John, buried his face in his neck even though he desperately, desperately needed a shower. Not only were his legs dripping with his own release, but his chest was still covered in John’s. “How many guys did you jerk off in the Army?”

“I did this less times in the Army than I’ve done it with you,” John answered.

Bob opened his eyes as he turned and pressed a kiss to John’s jaw, as he laced their fingers together on his thigh. He almost spoke again but then he glanced down at their hands and he saw it. He could feel it too, of course—the wedding ring linked between his ring finger and pinky—but seeing it impacted him differently somehow. Because it wasn’t shiny anymore, it was dull, gluey, coated in an extra layer that didn’t belong.

He fucking came on John’s wedding ring.

His heartbeat increased hard and fast, and he barely stopped himself from asking whether Olivia knew about the men in the Army. It wouldn’t make him feel better if he knew. It definitely wouldn’t make John feel better. Another tear rolled down his cheek as he tried to keep himself steady, tried to keep himself from speaking because he was not about to have that conversation covered in their cum. Especially not while John’s wedding ring was covered in his cum.

“You all right, baby?” asked John softly, his breath on Bob’s ear, and Bob couldn’t nod. He wasn’t John’s baby. Olivia was his baby, not to mention his actual baby.

“I just—” Bob shook himself off, wished his legs were steady enough to stand. They were still reeling from his orgasm, from his sudden and intense anxiety. “I just need a shower.”

It was his best excuse yet. There was nothing John could say to argue with that.

As Bob learned another day, even the shower wasn’t safe from John’s ring.

Not that he’d taken John in there with the intention of making him take off his wedding band. He hadn’t even taken him in there at all. Actually, Bob went in the shower specifically to stop himself from fucking John because he couldn’t stop himself from staring at John during training; couldn’t stop himself from thinking about everything they’d done and all the guilt that came along with it. He thought that he was the only one, that John was oblivious to his pining, but he was wrong.

“You trying to forget about me, Bobby?” asked John as he stepped into the cold shower, goosebumps instantly appearing on his skin. He reached around Bob to the tap, brushing their cocks together as he turned the heat up, and shit. There went the effectiveness of the shower. “I saw you staring at me. You’re not subtle.”

“No?” Bob raised a brow, instinctively teasing, and John shook his head as he set one hand on the wall, trapping Bob against it.

“Not at all.” His gaze flickered from Bob’s eyes to his lips with every other word. “You have this little tell where when you look at me, you lick your lips just a bit.”

“Do I?”

“You’re doing it right now.”

Bob smirked, his tongue between his teeth. “Does it drive you crazy?”

“What do you think?”

When the question left his mouth, John moved his hips in closer, pressed his hardening cock against Bob’s. John opened his mouth when he leaned in, swallowed Bob’s moan with ease. Bob gave him what he knew he wanted by biting on his lip, licking the back of his teeth. He slid his hands into John’s wet hair, chuckled as the shower water flowed over them, trying to interrupt their kiss. John removed his arm from the wall, dropped his hands to Bob’s ass, and gripped his cheeks tightly as he rubbed their cocks together, their lips never pulling apart.

Except when John squeezed his ass, all Bob could feel was the pinch when his ring caught a hair in its path. A tiny, brief, sharp pain that was a like a call to reality. Like a message from Olivia telling him to get the fuck away from her man. Like a warning from the universe that if he didn’t end their thing now, someone would get hurt. But Bob rationalized that if he tried to stop it when they were both already hard, then they would both get hurt right then and there. And he did not want to get hurt right then and there. So how bad could it be to indulge just one more time?

His hips bucked forward when John moved his left hand without warning, slipped it between Bob’s cheeks. He circled Bob’s rim with his middle finger, then stopped over his hole and looked to Bob for permission. Bob nodded, his hands still in John’s hair, and inhaled sharply when John pushed the single finger in. He moved it up and down for just a few seconds, his low grumbles a confusing sentiment.

“You’re tight again,” mumbled John. “Need to play with you more.”

No, Bob wanted to say. That’s the opposite of what we should do.

“Or you could try to give me a heads-up,” Bob actually said, “and I could prep myself beforehand.”

“No. I like it when you save yourself for me. Turn around.”

Bob did as he was told but he did not expect the reward that he got. He expected John to lean against him, to fuck him into the wall. Instead, John lowered himself to his knees behind Bob, spread Bob’s ass with his thumbs, and licked. It surprised Bob so badly that he actually gasped, let out an objectively embarrassing moan as John dragged his tongue between Bob’s cheeks and planted a kiss on his lower back.

Then he stopped as suddenly as he started, his hands grasping Bob’s hips, and asked in a tone that was uneven and unsure, “Is this okay?”

“It’s—” Bob’s breath caught in his throat. It was new for them, but it was definitely okay. More than okay. Except a tiny part of him wondered where it came from, wondered if it was something John wanted to try or something he missed doing with Olivia. “It’s okay. Fuck, yeah, it’s okay.”

John kissed his back again, then slid a hand around Bob’s right leg and gave his balls a teasing squeeze. Okay, that couldn’t have been something he did with Olivia, so maybe Bob was in the clear. He took a deep breath, tried to stop his guilt from spreading into anxiety the way it kept wanting to. Bob had already had two panic attacks after they fucked, and he wasn’t about to have a third while John’s tongue was in his ass.

“God, I love your ass,” John muttered, oblivious to Bob’s dilemma.

“Thanks,” Bob joked breathlessly, “I got it at O.X.E.”

He focused on his breathing while John licked him again, again, swirled his tongue around Bob’s rim. The way John gripped his thighs was almost as intense as the feeling on his ass. Bob slid his own thumb into his mouth and bit down on the base of his nail. He whimpered just beneath his breath as John dragged a finger along the bottom of Bob’s cock. He stopped at his tip, chuckled softly as he grazed his thumb over it.

“You’re so cute when you leak for me,” said John. He kissed Bob’s thigh, washed his precum off in the water, and breathed hot above his ass for a long moment before he spoke again. “I know it embarrasses you but I fucking love how sensitive you are. It’s so fucking cute how you can come when I don’t even touch you.”

The fact that John complimented him specifically made him forget about why it embarrassed him in the first place. He smiled through his anxiety and guilt when he replied, “It’s because you’re so gentle with me. This never happened when guys were rough.”

“I have you pinned against a wall, Bobby.” He hesitated before he added, “How fucking rough did they get?”

“They just—” His lips quivered, his guilt over John mixed with his guilt over all the sexual trauma he still blamed himself for. Bob shook his head as John’s arms wrapped around his waist tightly, protectively. He shouldn’t have said anything. He didn’t want to talk about any of that. “I always fuck the wrong guys.”

John’s hands gripped him tighter; his cheek pressed against Bob’s hip when he spoke so softly he was almost quieter than the water. “That include me?”

Bob opened his mouth to speak but he couldn’t. He couldn’t say the word “no” because factually, John was the wrong guy, but he felt so fucking right. He sniffed as he shook his head, nudged John back into his ass because he didn’t know what else to do. He needed the physical distraction to stop his heart from racing, to calm the anxiety that burned in his veins as he remembered every reason why choosing John was wrong.

His mind slowly shifted from the thoughts as John resumed his work, licking Bob’s backside and teasing his balls and shaft. Then he moved his right hand to Bob’s hip and dug his fingers in before he swapped his mouth for his left fingers. He pushed his middle finger in first, then his index, then scissored Bob open for just a few seconds before he added his ring finger. His ring finger that was wearing a ring. The ring that was now hot from the water, burning the rim of his ass.

“John,” Bob whispered, but either John didn’t hear him or didn’t think anything of it. He choked on a breath before he tried again louder. “John.”

“I got you, Bobby,” said John. He kept his fingers inside Bob, slowly opening him up as he licked just above his hand. “You’re doing so well for me, baby. You take me so well.”

“John.”

“You all right? You need me to slow down or…?”

Or meant more, harder, faster. Because sometimes Bob’s brain melted halfway through sex, and he forgot how to use his words to ask for what he wanted. When that happened, he defaulted to just saying John’s name in an embarrassingly whiny tone. It seemed to irritate John the first few times, but he eventually admitted it was because he felt guilty that he didn’t know what Bob wanted, that he felt like he was doing something wrong.

But Bob didn’t want more. He didn’t want less. He just wanted John. Bob was smart enough that he would never let himself hope for anything serious with John; would never even dream of it because he knew it could never happen. But it was what he wanted. He wanted more time to lay on John’s chest, to hold his hands, to fuck him without spending half the time thinking about his wedding ring, about his wife and child. But they were real, and they mattered.

Bob didn’t matter.

“No, no, I—” It wasn’t the right time. It was never the right time to tell him to stop. “Keep going.”

John kept his left hand in Bob’s ass, dropped his right somewhere away from Bob. He continued to finger him, to swirl around, move forward and back, occasionally stop to press just a little extra pressure on Bob’s prostate until his legs were fucking quivering. When Bob finally came, the feeling was so intense that his knees gave out and he slipped on the slick floor right into John’s waiting arms.

His dick twitched against the tiles on the floor as he leaned his forehead on the wall. He panted as John’s arms settled around his waist, as John kissed the backs of his shoulders. Way too much cum swirled in the water to be just his and it occurred to him that John’s right hand must’ve been servicing himself—a realization that brought him a fresh wave of relief because it meant they were done.

Not that he didn’t want to do anything more. It was just that he didn’t know if he could stand up yet, didn’t know how much longer he could bear the guilt if he had to face John and see the wedding ring right in front of his eyes. He took a deep breath that John apparently interpreted as something physically pained rather than emotional.

“Are you hurt at all?” asked John, because he cared so fucking much, so much fucking more than Bob actually deserved. Bob shook his head. It would take more than a small slip in the shower to hurt him after Sentry. “You want to stay here or get up?”

“I want to get out of the shower,” Bob mumbled, because they’d been in there so long his skin was flushed fully pink, “but my legs are fucking numb.”

Bob actually wanted to cry when John got out of the shower and grabbed a towel. He wanted to sob at the sheer kindness that John showed him when he wrapped the towel around Bob, lifted him up bridal style, and carried him the short distance out of his en suite to his bed. He did shed a tear when, instead of leaving him, John crawled on the bed beside him and draped an arm over his stomach.

Even though he really wanted John to be there for him, Bob couldn’t help but feel he stayed out of obligation. He turned his head to John as he whispered, “You don’t have to stay.”

John rolled from his belly on to his side and used his arm to pull Bob close. He wrapped both arms around Bob, squeezed him tightly as he kissed the back of his neck, pushed aside his wet hair with his nose. Bob was suddenly very aware that they were still both naked, that their bodies were connected skin to skin from their heels to their throats.

“Do you—?” Something about John’s tone was weird. He braced himself for what John would ask, for the rejection his delusions told him was inevitable. He turned his face into the pillow to hide his emotion when John said instead, “Do you not want me to stay?”

“I want you to stay,” said Bob. “I just don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

“I want to,” John told him, so he did.

Everything about it hurt that night.

It wasn’t how deep John’s cock was buried in his ass, wasn’t how aggressively John’s fingers clawed into his back. It was because Bob had made a promise to himself that it would be the last time.

No matter how badly he wanted to keep John, he couldn’t, because John wasn’t his to have. Bob wanted John to be his, wanted to have him all to himself even if he knew it would never be anything more than sex, but he couldn’t. He didn’t. John wasn’t his and he never had been, he never could be. Either John would end up back with Olivia and forget him forever, or Bob would be the reason their marriage officially ended, and John would resent him forever. He didn’t even know which was worse.

Bob scratched the back of John’s neck as he kissed him, every motion filled with need. If it was going to be the last time, he was going to make sure it was something they both remembered. He sat on John’s lap facing him, rocked on his cock but made sure not to move too quickly. He needed it to last, needed to keep John in his arms for as long as he could before he finally gave him up, finally gave him back to the person he was meant to be with.

He hadn’t told John that it was the end of them but somehow, it seemed like he knew. John held him tighter, kissed him harder, ran his hands over every inch of Bob’s skin from the back of his head to the bottom of his feet. Bob’s cock rubbed against John’s bare stomach as he rolled his hips, as John moved up and down inside of him. Their lips never parted, not for a breath, until John pushed farther than he had been and left Bob gasping for air just millimeters from his mouth.

“You okay, baby?” Bob nodded quickly, tried not to think about the fact that it was probably the last time John would ever call him that. He’d never been good at using pet names himself, but he couldn’t get enough of it when John did. John kissed his cheek, then the edge of his mouth, and chuckled. “You get different Zyns?”

“They were out of wintergreen.” He’d bought spearmint instead. It wasn’t his favorite, but it scratched the itch. The question felt random until he saw the way John stared at his lips. “You taste that?”

John kissed him softly, briefly. “I always taste it.”

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Making you taste my drugs.”

“No, I like it.” John kissed him again, slipped his tongue inside Bob’s mouth and slowly licked his teeth, his gums, the outside of his lips. He chuckled a little when he pulled back, brushed a hand through Bob’s hair before he set it back on his hip. “That’s why I asked. I like that you always taste the same. Tastes like Bob.”

It shouldn’t have fucked him up, but it did. It fucked him up because John liked the way he tasted. Him. Bob. He couldn’t take it when John complimented him specifically, when he said things that made it sound like he could see Bob as something more than someone to fuck. Bob didn’t know what to say, didn’t know if he could say anything, so he moved his hips instead. He pulled John’s mouth back to his, lamented the fact that he tasted wrong for him the last time they would kiss.

And it did briefly cross his mind to use that as an excuse to fuck John one more time, but he’d had enough “one more times” already. “I tasted like the wrong mint” was not a good enough reason to fuck someone else’s husband again, was not something he could ever use to justify his actions. Bob bit down on John’s bottom lip, tugged at it as he drew John in deeper, farther, until John bottomed out and Bob released his mouth with a sharp, quiet cry.

“You’re all right. I got you.” I got you. John always said that. Every time. No one else had ever reassured Bob that way. No one else had ever held Bob so close, so protectively. No one else had ever cared about him more than the sex, had been willing to stop if he needed to. John titled Bob’s head down, pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You’re doing so good, Bobby. You take me so good. You feel full?”

Bob nodded, tried to speak, but he was once again trapped with only, “John.”

“You feel so good wrapped around me. You’re so fucking good for me.”

The words aroused him as much as they hurt him. It drove Bob crazy when John praised him like that, when he kissed him between half his words, but he didn’t deserve it. Bob wasn’t good for John. He was horrible for John. He was an inexplicable temptation distracting John from his real life, his real wife. John moaned as he moved his hips up and down, bounced Bob on his lap, pushed in deeper until Bob almost couldn’t take it anymore. But he made himself take it because if it was the last time, he wanted to feel all of John.

Bob’s mouth fell open as he breathed, and he fucking whimpered when John slid his fingers between his lips. He had so little control over his mouth, over his oral fixation, that he bit down and sucked on instinct. He sucked John’s fingers deeper in, squeezed his eyes shut when his lips found the wedding band. His heart pounded so hard it hurt, and it was impossible to tell whether it was because of the sex, the anxiety, or—most likely—some overwhelming combination of both.

“Gonna make you mine,” grumbled John. He grabbed Bob’s back with his right arm, his left fingers curled around Bob’s bottom teeth. “Gonna make sure everybody knows you’re mine.”

John wasn’t serious. They’d discussed multiple times that they weren’t comfortable with anyone else knowing about their affair. But it was something that John liked to say while he fucked—that Bob was his. That was probably why he liked to come on Bob’s chest and belly, why he’d hold him so tightly after they finished. John was possessive and protective as hell. What he didn’t know was that Bob was too. John won the protective contest by far but, if someone was his, Bob could be possessive to an unhealthy degree.

The reason he wasn’t like that with John was because he was John’s, but John wasn’t his. Bob let John call him his, mark him however he wanted, but Bob never let himself do the same for John. It was up to John if he wanted to take Bob as a sidepiece, to have him and Olivia, but Bob couldn’t pretend that John was his when he wasn’t. He couldn’t let himself imagine a world where he actually got to keep John to himself, a world where John was completely his.

“Fuck, you’re dripping.” Bob nodded when John squeezed his back, tried to hold himself together so he wouldn’t come between them. He would come on himself, on the floor, in the shower, but not on John. John was not his to come on. “You close?”

“Mmhm.”

“Can’t talk?”

“Mmhm.”

Bob wrapped his fingers around his own cock, angled it toward himself as he sucked on John’s fingers, felt every inch of him buried inside his mouth and his ass. He dropped John’s hand when he came, his release directed to coat his own stomach instead of John’s. John kissed his temple as he slowed down, still rocking back and forth just slightly to stimulate himself. His breaths were hard and heavy when he nodded toward the pillows and asked, “Can I?”

And because he asked, Bob said yes. Because he asked before he lifted Bob off his cock and set him on his back. Because he asked before leaned over him on his knees and came on his belly. Because Bob whimpered at the warmth of his release and John didn’t laugh, didn’t slap his ass and walk away. He laid down at his side, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and kissed the fuck out of the side of his face. Bob reached his hands up shakily, squeezed John’s forearm in his fingers.

“Tell me when you want me to move,” muttered John, because he never let go before Bob was ready. Not for water, not for a towel, not for anything.

“Never,” Bob whispered, because it was true. If it were really up to him, he would stay in John’s arms for the rest of his life. He wasn’t John’s but it felt like he was. He felt safer and warmer than he ever had before. “I never want you to move.”

“Then I’ll never move.” Of course, the one time Bob didn’t shed a tear when he came, he lost it afterward. John noticed the tear before he did, wiped it off Bob’s cheek with his thumb and kissed the tear track as he asked, “You okay?”

He didn’t even know anymore. Physically, Bob felt more protected, more comfortable, more safe than he ever had in his life. Emotionally, he felt like he was going to fall apart because John said he would never move but he had to. Not just because it wasn’t physically realistic for them to stay there the rest of their lives—especially because Bob was once again covered in cum—but because John had someone else to someday go home to. John stroked Bob’s stubbly jaw with his left hand and then all Bob could do was think about it again.

That wedding band was a promise to someone else, and Bob had desecrated it. It was actively covered in his drool, had been washed multiple times of his sweat and semen. In a way, it was a physical representation of how horrible their affair was. Every substance Bob left on John’s ring was equivalent to the stains on his marriage, the cracks that kept getting wider and wider until it would inevitably break.

Another tear rolled down Bob’s cheek and rather than wipe it away, John pulled Bob in closer. He tucked Bob’s head into his shoulder, cradled his face in his left hand as he squeezed his right arm around him. He kissed the top of Bob’s head, tickled his hair with every breath he took. Bob closed his eyes, tried to savor the feeling of being held, of being cared for. His mind wanted to imagine that it wasn’t the end, and he wouldn’t let it. He wouldn’t let himself dream of making things worse like he always did, of being loved by someone who could never love him.

“Why did you fuck me?” asked Bob before he could stop himself.

John made a face. He slid his hand through Bob’s hair, tucked a few strands behind his ear. “You mean today? Because you stole my spoon and licked it like—”

“No, just… in general. Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why me?”

“You—” Bob didn’t know what he expected. He knew damn well that John was emotionally constipated, that he wouldn’t get whatever answer he wanted. His heart caught in his throat when John started to speak, overflowed with emotion when he finished his sentence in a way Bob never expected. “I can’t think of a reason why not.”

Because you’re married, Bob wanted to say. Because there’s so much wrong with me.

Instead, Bob said nothing. He turned his nose deeper into John’s shoulder, breathed in a long, slow drag of his sweat and musk. If he kept talking, he would say something to spark an argument, and he didn’t want to do that. Not on their last night. He could ask all his questions later, after John and Olivia were happily reunited and it could no longer taint the memory of what he and Bob briefly had.

Bob meant to tell John that it was over. He tried more than once but the words just wouldn’t leave his mouth. And because he couldn’t say that it was done, Bob had to resort to simply avoiding John. If he caught himself staring, he left the room. If he caught John staring, he acted disinterested. Rather than teasing in that way that John loved, that made him call Bob a brat and kiss him against the wall, Bob teased in a way that made him sound like a dick. He did everything he could to push John away.

And it didn’t fucking work.

It was well past midnight when John sneaked into Bob’s room. He’d done it too many times before to bother announcing his entrance. He just walked right in like he was invited, dropped his pants at the side of the bed, and crawled under Bob’s covers in his boxers and a tank. Bob opened his mouth to tell John to stop, to leave, but then John’s arms wrapped around his stomach, pulled him close to his chest, and he forgot how to speak.

He focused on the quick, tiny kisses that John planted on the back of his neck, on the warm breaths he left in their wake. He let his right hand land on top of John’s, squeezed the backs of his fingers as he took a deep, shaking breath. Bob rolled John’s wedding band beneath his thumb, stared at the reflection of the moonlight on its surface. Then he took his hand away, breathed through the tears that stung at his eyes when he said, “We can’t do this anymore.”

“What?” John shifted against his back, but he didn’t let go. If anything, he squeezed Bob tighter, closer. “We can’t do what anymore?”

“Everything,” said Bob. He wanted to turn around, to look John in the eye when he spoke, but he couldn’t. His heart was racing, his stomach flooded with so much anxiety that if John let go, he worried he might lose it. “All of it. It’s wrong, John. This is all so fucking wrong.”

John pressed his fingers into Bob’s belly, leaned his forehead against the back of Bob’s head. He sounded physically pained when he asked, “Why?”

“Because you’re— you always say I’m yours, and I really like being yours, but you’re not—” Bob shifted his hand, set it back on top of John’s. He pinched John’s ring between his first two fingers, took a deep breath, and wet his lips before he went on. “You’re not mine. You’re— You’re fucking married. You have a wife and— and a child.”

“Bob—”

“Every time we fuck, I feel your ring, and I feel like such a piece of shit. You mean so much to me, John. So much. I can’t— If you can’t work things out with Olivia, and it’s because of me, I’ll never forgive myself. And I don’t think you’ll ever forgive me either.”

John released his grip on Bob and rolled to the opposite side of the bed. Bob could feel that John was lying on this back, moving his arms, but he still couldn’t look at him. He didn’t want to see John’s face, didn’t want to know whether he looked upset or relieved. He took a deep breath and turned his face into the pillow, tried to stifle his anxiety-filled breaths.

A long, tense minute of silence fell between them. Bob let the blanket swallow him, let himself be consumed by his guilt. It was painfully confusing that John didn’t just leave; that he didn’t just shout at Bob and walk away. Bob kept waiting for that other shoe to drop, for John to say he was a piece of shit, that he never cared about him anyway. But that was just Bob’s trauma speaking. It didn’t reflect what John would say at all, and he knew it. He just didn’t expect what John actually said.

“The divorce was finalized months ago, Bob,” John started, his tone heavy, distant. He shifted on the mattress, sniffed as he breathed. “Olivia and I, we’re… we’re done. Like, done done, and that doesn’t have anything to do with you. It was me. After the whole, you know, Captain America thing, I… I was a shitty husband. I was a shitty husband and Olivia put up with me because she loved me but then she had our baby and… it’s a lot harder to forgive a shit dad than a shit husband. It’s one thing to be a dick to her, it’s another thing to be a dick to her baby. Our baby.

“I mean, I’m not going to sit here and lie to you and tell you I don’t still love her, but it’s done. I broke her trust. Even if she still loves me—and I don’t know if she does—she doesn’t trust me to treat her right and she shouldn’t because I didn’t. I’m a piece of shit, Bob, you know that. We both know that. That’s part of what I really like about you, actually. You know I’m an asshole and you don’t take that shit from me, but you don’t hold it against me either. Even with everything I’ve done, you don’t see me as a monster, you… I don’t know.

“The reason I still wear my ring is because I was with Olivia since we were fifteen. We got married pretty much as soon as possible because I was going into the Army. Military spouse shit and whatever. I’ve been wearing this ring for almost twenty years, Bobby. I was with Olivia for twenty years. My brain knows that it’s over but I just… I can’t bring myself to take it off. I know I should. I think sometimes I feel like I’m living in some kind of weird fantasy where it’s like I’m just deployed, and I’m going to go home and have a family again. But I’m not because we’re done. We’re really done. And she got full custody, by the way. Not that it really matters at this point. It’s better for him anyway.”

Bob didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what he could say. Somehow, after everything John said, he was still so fucking confused. What he heard was that John was struggling, that he was still dealing with the emotional aftermath of his divorce. He also heard that John was still in love with Olivia, that he liked something about Bob but not as much. And Bob felt so fucking selfish for focusing on that. For thinking about himself when John was going through something so difficult.

“Sorry for bringing it up,” said Bob, more to fill the uncomfortable silence than because he knew what he meant to say. “That shit really sucks. I don’t— I don’t know what to say.”

“If you want me to take it off, I will.” It was like he didn’t even hear what Bob said, like he had to just push the words out before he lost the nerve. “It means a lot to me but I didn’t even think about how you— fuck, Bobby, did I fuck this up?”

“No. No, I mean, we can keep fucking if you—”

“Shit, no.” John spoke almost exasperatedly, and Bob’s heart dropped into his stomach. He pressed his eyes shut, opened them when John’s hand landed on top of his and squeezed the living hell out of it. “You know this isn’t just about sex, right? You know— You know you mean more to me than that, right?”

Truthfully, Bob had never let himself imagine that he might. He hesitated before he gave the honest answer, “No.”

“Goddammit. I can’t believe I fucking— roll over, Bobby.”

“What?”

“On your back.”

He wasn’t entirely sure why he immediately complied, but he did. Bob flipped on his back just in time for John to shift on top of him, to straddle him. John raised his hands before Bob could ask what he was doing, made a point of it when he grabbed his wedding band between his finger and thumb and ungracefully wiggled it off his hand. He held it up for Bob to see, then set it down on the bedside table with a single, solid clack.

John’s expression looked a little unsure, a little insecure. There was a clear indent around the base of his finger where the band had been and by the way John moved his fingers, it must have felt weird. Bob grabbed John’s hand without thinking, pulled it to his mouth and kissed his knuckles three, four, five times, never breaking contact with his eyes. John shifted on his knees as he leaned over Bob, hovered just an inch away from his face as he pushed his right hand in Bob’s hair and tugged on it lightly.

“I’m yours,” said John. “I’m all yours.”

Bob couldn’t help the way he reached for John’s face and pulled it down to meet his. He couldn’t stop himself from kissing his lips, from smiling when John pulled away just long enough to mutter the word wintergreen before he moved back in. He buried his hands in John’s hair, deepened the kiss until he felt like he was suffocating and had to stop. Bob leaned his forehead against John’s shoulder and began to gather the fabric of his shirt, pulling it up toward his head.

Without a word, John complied. He helped Bob remove his shirt and throw it on the floor, then placed his hands on Bob’s cheeks and reminded him, “It’s not just about sex.”

“I know,” Bob told him, “but I really want to feel you knowing that you’re mine.”

John nodded and slipped his hands into the sleeves of Bob’s bathrobe, pushed it on the bed beneath him. With such a quick, fluid movement, they were both in their underwear, their bodies flushed and desperate. Bob moved his mouth to John’s neck and bit down on his sensitive skin, pulled back and kissed him twice when he groaned in a mix of pleasure and pain. John hooked his fingers into Bob’s boxers and shimmied them down his legs, helped him kick them off his ankles and throw them off the bed.

He kept his own underwear on a little longer, teased Bob through them as he ground down against him. Bob squirmed and John chuckled as he leaned forward to kiss Bob’s forehead, to play with his hair as he said, “In case you didn’t know this either, everything I say when we fuck is true. It’s not dirty talk. It’s true. I love your eyes. I love how you tease me and how you leak for me when you get excited. I love how your cheeks get all pink when you make noise and how, when you forget your words, you just say my name.”

“I hope you’re not expecting me to compliment you back,” teased Bob, “because I think we already established you’re an asshole.”

“You’re lucky I also love it when you’re a fucking brat.”

Bob, impatient, grabbed at John’s waist and pulled his boxers off without resistance. He pushed John back, changed their position so that his legs were on the outside instead of John’s. It had been days since they’d last been together, since they’d last done that, and John seemed to have all the patience in the world to make sure that Bob was comfortable and loose enough before he started. He was too good with his fingers and Bob fucking leaked again but John wasn’t lying when he said he liked it. He leaned forward and licked the head of Bob’s cock, made him shudder as he finished opening him up.

When John finally slid himself inside, he tilted Bob’s back upward, moved him to an angle that made it possible for them to kiss. Bob inhaled shakily every time John thrusted forward, clung to the back of his neck to hold himself steady. He bit down on John’s tongue by accident and apologized under his breath, but John just chuckled and said it was okay. He slowed his pace a little as he moved in deeper, not quite to the point of bottoming out before Bob clawed the back of his shoulders; a whimper just barely escaping his lips before John stopped. When he thrust again, he didn’t go quite so far, found the perfect sweet spot between too much and not enough.

“I love the way you hold me,” Bob mumbled, his eyes halfway shut as his whole body shook, as John’s hands squeezed deeper into his hips. “I love that you know when to stop. I love that you love all the things that embarrass me.”

“Bobby…” John’s pace was interrupted for just a second before he resumed. “I’m goddamn obsessed with you, Bobby.”

He shifted his angle just slightly, put just enough more intermittent pressure on Bob’s prostate to make him quiver. Bob’s right hand shook as he grabbed his own cock, only to be steadied by John’s hand settling around it.

“John, I—” Nope. Words were gone again. “Jonathan.”

That look on John’s face was almost primal. “You close, baby?”

“Mmhm.”

John held Bob’s hand tight, pressed it around his shaft as he curved his spine, leaned in closer and closer until he was fully learning over Bob. Bob trembled when John’s belly tapped the tip of his cock, instantly slickened by the drops of precum that had leaked out. John put his free hand on Bob’s face, his eyes wide and needy as he whispered,

“Make me yours.”

Bob gasped as his body convulsed, his cock sliding across John’s belly as it shot out his release. The warm, sticky liquid dripped back down on Bob, connecting them in the rawest, sloppiest way. Finally, he came not on himself, not on a towel or the wall of the shower, but on John. Finally, John was his. John’s cock was still buried in Bob, but he slowed, barely moving enough to stimulate himself as he held on to Bob, guided him through his orgasm and the aftershocks.

“John.” It was all he could find it in him to say. One breathy, squeaked out John. He placed his hands on the back of John’s neck, pulled him in deeper, trying to communicate his need. “John. Jonathan.”

When it finally clicked, John’s eyes widened further. “You want me to?”

“Please.”

It was not the first time a man had come in him, but it was the first time he asked for it. The first time he wanted it, expected it, was okay with it. It was overwhelming in a good way, the warmth that flooded his insides before John pulled out and laid down at his side. John pulled Bob’s face into his shoulder as he kicked his legs involuntarily, his muscles flexing and contracting with each breath. He couldn’t feel the tears on his cheeks, but he could feel them on John’s skin.

John’s release flowed out of Bob as he stilled, as he relaxed into the safety of John’s arms, as he focused on the slow, gentle kisses John pressed to his temple. His kisses. His kisses, just for him, that he didn’t have to share with anyone else. Bob reached his arms out to pull John into a tight hug, but John leaned back before he could.

“Wait, wait,” he started, “I’m covered in cum.”

Bob fully laughed as he forced his arms around John, pressed himself against his sticky skin. He kissed John’s neck, nibbled at his collarbone before he muttered, “You make me come on myself all the time, you jackass.”

“I know but you’re— shit, you’re all sticky. I’m sorry.”

“Fuck, you’re so cute.” Bob chuckled against John’s shoulder. “My asshole is full of your cum and you’re worried about my belly. I’m not squeamish, John. Jesus. I— wait. You’re squeamish, aren’t you?”

And then John laughed too, half happy and half embarrassed. “Maybe.”

“Well, I’m not moving for a few minutes, but I don’t mind if you jump in the shower.”

“No, no. I’ll wait for you.”

John leaned his face back over Bob’s, kissed all over his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, his forehead, his temples, his jaw, until Bob couldn’t stop smiling because he was John’s.

He was John’s, and John was his.