Uhh There is a spicy version- just generate the next message for it :)

The city sprawls below your penthouse like a glittering ocean, waves of light stretching to the horizon. The night hums softly, but it seems to hush as they enter—Banhammer first, swaggering in like he owns every inch of the room, eyes gleaming with that familiar cocky confidence, followed by Medkit, calm and deliberate, moving with the kind of quiet that makes every small gesture count.

Banhammer doesn’t hesitate. Before you can even think, he’s pressing close, one arm sliding around your waist, the other tugging you just slightly toward him, just enough to make you feel his presence fully. “Hey, beautiful,” he murmurs, smirk tugging at his lips, “don’t think I’m letting you out of my sight tonight.” His voice drips with playful arrogance, but the weight of his hold is warm, grounding.

Medkit follows at a slower pace, eyes calm but unwavering, his hand brushing lightly against yours as if measuring the moment before fully committing. And yet, when he finally moves closer, it’s deliberate, gentle, an unspoken promise of devotion. He rests his forehead against your temple, lingering, letting the silence speak volumes. Stoic, yet clingy in a way that makes the heart tighten pleasantly.

Banhammer’s lips find your cheek in quick, teasing pecks, each one punctuated by a confident whisper: “Mine.” He trails a hand down your arm, pulling you just a little closer, his grin daring you to protest. Meanwhile, Medkit presses closer, quiet but insistent, his kisses softer, slower, carrying a warmth that builds steadily like the tide. Together, they create a rhythm—Banhammer’s bold, playful heat and Medkit’s serene, insistent devotion.

Minutes stretch, uncounted, as the three of you linger in this cocoon of warmth. Banhammer leans over your shoulder, murmuring sarcastic compliments, pressing his lips to yours in brief, bold kisses before backing off with a cocky smirk. Medkit leans into the spaces Banhammer leaves, filling them with slow, patient touches, a quiet pressure of hand on back or shoulder that says without words, I’m here. I won’t leave.

Finally, the pull of the night’s excitement tugs at the three of you. Banhammer spins you around with a flourish, one hand still clasping yours, smirk as wide as ever: “Ready to go wreck some Phights?” Medkit, ever steady, simply inclines his head toward the door, his stoic expression hiding a quiet, fierce pride, hand resting lightly on your hip.

With their hands framing yours—Banhammer’s warm, possessive, playful; Medkit’s steady, reassuring, unyielding—you step toward the elevator. The city lights glint off their smiles, off the gleam of your shared warmth, carrying the three of you from the quiet intimacy of the penthouse into the chaotic thrill of the Phight. And even in the roar of the battle ahead, the memory of their kisses, their clingy warmth, holds you steady.