adelliet

[adelliet]

Bob Reynolds x f!reader

VIBRATIONS

Summary: Being a superhuman's girlfriend brought certain advantages in bed...

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong langage, unprotected sex (p i v), fictional depiction of superhuman abilities used in sexual contexts, depictions of bodily fluids, kinda creampie, reader is in a relationship w Bob Reynolds, gentle Sentry awakening

Word count: 2,7k

A/n: This is incredibly short for my standards, but let me tell you, I had a dream about this and the moment I woke up I knew I had to write about it. I have pretty wild dreams :p Anyway if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

It took you a while to truly grow accustomed to Bob’s powers, especially in the bedroom. Each time you were with him, you discovered something new about what he could do, and that constant mix of excitement and fear created a charged atmosphere that only pulled you deeper into him.

The flickering of lights and sudden blackouts whenever he climaxed. The way a golden glow broke through his ocean-blue eyes whenever he lost control and the Sentry surfaced. The objects that trembled and floated in the air whenever he was on the verge of release. You had gotten used to all of it, the unpredictability, the danger wrapped in intimacy, and with every new ability that revealed itself in your shared moments, you learned something more about him. Just as he discovered something more about himself.

But his powers weren’t only unpredictable side effects anymore. Over time, Bob had learned to control them, to channel them deliberately, to use them in ways that heightened the experience for you both. His super-speed, for example.

He had trained himself to focus it, at first just into his hands, and eventually into his fingertips. One by one, until suddenly his touch became faster than any vibrator could ever hope to match. And the most incredible part was that it never drained him. That endless stamina gave him the drive to keep going, again and again, until you were breathless, giving you as much pleasure as he believed you deserved.

He loved it, the sight of you coming undone beneath him, the sound of his name breaking from your lips in shaky, desperate gasps. Every time he heard it, every time he watched you lose yourself to his touch, his arousal only surged, harder and more overwhelming than ever before.

Whenever Bob returned from a mission drained of strength, when he felt he couldn’t give you all of himself, he would give you his fingers instead—and it was as if, through you, the energy flowed back into him.

“B–Bob~,” you purred, whenever his fingers moved so fast your body couldn’t even keep up with the sensation anymore. That wet, obscene sound of his already wrinkled knuckles sliding against your walls, the way your breath caught and your back arched every time he found that perfect spot—then the moment he added his thumb, circling your clit with that impossible, lightning speed? That was the end of you. Again and again, until you’d lost count of how many times you’d had to strip the bed and change the sheets afterwards.

But tonight Bob wasn’t tired. Tonight he was charged, restless, burning with need. The flushed tip of his cock twitched with every breath, leaking precum as if it couldn’t wait another second. He was already kneeling between your thighs, both of you naked, the heat radiating off your skin, your breaths mingling in the heavy silence of anticipation. Every exhale fell in sync, every inhale quickened, your bodies sharing a single, undeniable goal—to be inside of each other.

Bob spread your legs wider, his grin sharp and eager as he positioned himself, ready to sink into you in one desperate thrust. But you stopped him.

“I want to try something,” you whispered, and his eyes snapped up to meet yours. The devilish smile curling on your lips promised something sinful, something reckless and Bob would never deny you any experiment you wanted to try.

He arched an eyebrow, feigning patience, though you both knew better. The weight in his balls ached with fullness, and the tension in his body betrayed him; no matter how steady he looked, he was already at the edge of his restraint, knowing he wouldn’t last long once you finally let him in.

“You know that thing you do with your fingers?” you teased, lifting your index finger and making a little circular motion, a not-so-subtle reminder of how you often used Bob as your own personal vibrator. Or rather, used his fingers.

Bob gave a low grunt and nodded, though his brows furrowed, not entirely sure where you were going with this.

“Do you think… maybe you could do that with—” Your finger slowly lowered, stopping right above the thick, pulsing length of his cock.

Bob’s eyes followed the movement, and the moment the implication clicked, his breath caught in his throat. The idea had never even crossed his mind before and a knot of nervousness tightened in his chest at the thought of not being able to live up the wish you were imagining.

“I–I don’t know if I could—” he stammered, his voice breaking in a way that contrasted with the raw, aching arousal that radiated off of him. His body was burning hot, precum glistening at his tip, but your request made his confidence waver for just a second.

“It’s alright if it doesn’t work, baby,” you soothed, your smile warm and reassuring. The tenderness in your voice melted his doubt in an instant, grounding him.

“We can just try, hm?” you whispered, and the gentle sparkle in your eyes was enough to push away the last of his hesitation.

Bob held your gaze for a long heartbeat before finally nodding, determination sparking in the depths of his ocean-blue eyes. His focus then dropped down between his cock and your wet dripping folds, down to the point where your bodies were about to meet.

He licked his lips, adjusted his position slightly, and drew in a deep breath. You watched him intently, a cushion tucked beneath your lower back as you propped yourself up on your elbows, angling for the perfect view of Bob. Your whole body trembled with anticipation, every tiny movement of his holding your attention hostage.

Bob closed his eyes, both hands braced against your thighs, and from the furrow in his brow you could tell he was focusing hard. You stayed utterly silent, barely daring to breathe, watching him with a quiet, hungry intensity.

Then it happened.

His cock twitched, but not in that natural, involuntary way a body usually moved. This was sharp, deliberate, impossibly quick. A motion that mirrored the very same super-speed he had trained into his fingers.

Your breath hitched instantly. It had lasted less than a second, he hadn’t even touched you where you craved him most, and still, the mere sight of it sent a hot rush of arousal crashing through you, pushing you even closer to the edge than you already were.

Bob opened his eyes and exhaled sharply, as though that single, fleeting movement had stolen every bit of oxygen from his lungs. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his gaze slipping to the side for a moment before he finally looked back at you.

“Did something happen?” he asked, his voice rough, uncertain.

You nodded eagerly, a smile lighting up your face. Relief and a flicker of pride softened his features as he let out a small laugh, clearly pleased with himself. He had proof now that he can actually do this.

“I felt it,” he admitted, catching his breath. “It was… interesting.”

Your eyes widened, surprised. “You felt it?”

Bob nodded, still breathing hard.

“And what did it feel like?” you pressed, curiosity sparking in your tone.

He let out a shaky chuckle, settling his breath before answering. “Honestly? Really, really good.”

That broke the tension, both of you laughing together, the intimacy in the sound only deepening the moment you were sharing.

“G–give me a second… let me try again,” Bob murmured once his breathing finally steadied. You only nodded, wordlessly promising him all the time he needed,

because if this worked, you knew it would lead to the best sex of your life.

He inhaled deeply, shut his eyes, and tightened his grip on your thighs. You stayed perfectly still, watching in silence, heart pounding.

And then it happened again. This time it lasted longer.

His cock shifted at an impossible speed, a sharp vibration flicking minutely left and right. It was uncanny, mesmerizing, exactly like a vibrator, except this one had no batteries to die, no limits to how fast it could go.

Your breath caught in your throat, eyes wide as you stared in disbelief. Bob opened his own eyes, glancing down, and when he saw the blur of motion his length was making, he laughed softly through the haze of pleasure. The sound broke into a whimper as he bit down on his lip, his fingers digging deeper into your skin.

“F–fuck~” he gasped, head dropping forward, his messy brown waves spilling over his flushed face. In that moment, you realized this might have been giving him more pleasure than it would give you. And God, you couldn’t wait to feel him inside you, moving like that.

Then it stopped. Bob’s chest heaved as though he’d run miles, his head still bowed, sweat dripping down his forehead, not from strain, but from raw, overwhelming sensation.

“You okay, honey?” you asked softly, leaning closer.

He nodded, slow and shaky. For a moment he couldn’t even lift his head, until finally he looked up at you—cheeks crimson, golden-blue eyes hazy, strands of damp hair sticking to his temples.

“Baby… I can’t hold it for long,” he groaned, the words almost breaking into a sob.

You cupped his burning face, your soothing voice like a balm. “That’s okay, Bob.”

Something in your tone breathed new life into him, steadied him. He leaned forward, kissing you hard, desperate, and you melted beneath him, shifting fully onto your back against the mattress. Your gaze stayed locked on his, every nerve in your body ready, as he finally positioned himself.

One last look passed between you before he pushed forward in one slow, deliberate thrust, sinking his thick length into you.

Your hips instantly rolled up to meet his, chasing the pleasure as your walls stretched around him. Your back arched, a breathless gasp breaking free of your lips as fullness consumed you.

Bob let out a ragged breath, your walls gripping him so tightly it felt as though you had been made for one another. You felt everything—every vein, every ridge, the entirety of him filling you so perfectly it was almost unbearable.

“O–okay… I’ll try it again now, alright?” Bob exhaled, his voice low and uncertain. You nodded with your eyes shut, body trembling in readiness.

His hands clutched your thighs firmly, he drew in a deep breath and then it happened. Inside you, his cock began to vibrate.

Both of you gasped sharply in unison, shock flashing across your faces before it melted into raw pleasure.

The sensation was overwhelming. For you, it was unlike anything you had ever experienced. The deep, pulsing stretch of him paired with the relentless quiver, a storm of pleasure rolling through your core and spreading outward until your toes curled. Every nerve inside you lit up, and the vibrations reached places you didn’t even know existed, pushing you higher and higher with each second he maintained it.

For Bob, it was something else entirely. His body was alive with sensation, every flicker of movement inside you feeding back into his own hypersensitive nerves. Your heat, your wetness clung to him, and the way your walls spasmed around his vibrating cock nearly tore his control away.

He felt drunk on you, every pulse of his power magnifying his arousal until it bordered on unbearable. The sound of your gasps, the way your body arched against him, it all crashed into him like waves, fueling him to keep going even as his muscles shook with effort.

The room was filled with the wet, rhythmic sound of his vibrating cock inside you, your whimpers and broken cries, his desperate moans mixing with yours. Your fingers clutched at the sheets, then at his arms, as your body writhed beneath him, overwhelmed by how full and how intense it felt.

“B–Bob—oh God—” you sobbed out, voice trembling as your back lifted off the mattress. The pleasure was too much, spiraling fast, and you could feel your release barreling toward you.

Bob buried his face against your neck, his hot breath ragged against your skin as his hips instinctively rolled forward, driving the sensation even deeper. His voice broke into a groan, muffled against your shoulder. “I can feel you—God, you’re squeezing me so tight—”

The more he vibrated, the more your body surrendered, your climax tearing through you in waves that left you gasping, shaking, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you grounded.

And for Bob, feeling you shatter around him while his power surged through both of you, it was bliss unlike anything he had ever known.

Bob’s cock vibrated relentlessly inside you, the sensation ricocheting through every nerve in your body until you were trembling beneath him. Then he shifted, angling deeper, and the head of his cock grazed that perfect spot inside you.

Your cry broke out sharp and unrestrained as your back arched, nails clawing into his shoulders, then dragging down his back until crescents of red marked his skin. Bob’s whole body shuddered at the reaction, a sob catching in his throat as the feedback of your clenching walls and his own vibration overwhelmed him.

“Ah—God—” His voice cracked, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. The overstimulation was too much, the pleasure so sharp and constant it burned.

He pressed one hand hard against the wall beside the bed for support, the other gripping your hip with such force you knew a bruise would bloom there tomorrow, but in this moment, you welcomed it, reveled in the intensity of his need, in how completely he lost himself with you.

He drove harder, burying himself with each vibrating thrust, his cock pounding into your sweet spot again and again until your body seized around him.

The sounds in the room grew desperate, your sobbing moans, his broken cries, the wet slap of your bodies and the furious hum of his superhuman speed.

“B–Bob, I—I can’t—” you gasped, your nails digging even deeper into his sweat-slicked back.

“Yes you—fuck I can feel you…” he choked out, his voice breaking as a tear slipped down his cheek, the pleasure twisting him into raw vulnerability. His grip on your hip tightened, his thrusts frantic now, driven by both instinct and power.

The coil inside you snapped. You screamed his name as your orgasm tore through you, your body convulsing, walls spasming violently around him. White-hot ecstasy flooded you, leaving you shaking uncontrollably beneath his weight.

The moment you came undone around him, Bob broke too. A guttural cry ripped from his chest as he buried himself deep inside you, vibrating harder than ever as his release hit. He spilled into you in hot, endless waves, his body trembling with the force of it, his sobs muffled against your neck as he clung to you like he might fall apart.

You both collapsed into the mattress, panting, your bodies slick with sweat. The sheets beneath you were soaked, a mess of wetness and cum spreading in dark patches across the fabric. Bob’s chest pressed heavily against yours, rising and falling with ragged, uneven breaths.

Bob finally slipped out of you and collapsed onto the mattress beside you, his body heavy with exhaustion. Without even thinking, you turned onto your side, resting your head against his chest, your ear pressed to the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat. For a while, neither of you spoke until a small laugh escaped your lips.

Bob let out a tired chuckle of his own, the vibration of it rumbling through his chest beneath your cheek.

“We have to do that more often,” you whispered, still breathless.

He hummed in agreement, until his mind began to wander and he asked, “Do you mean sex or—”

“I mean the vibrating, love,” you cut him off with a grin, tilting your face up to meet his eyes.

Bob laughed softly, nodding as he pressed a kiss into your hair, holding you tighter against him. The warmth between you lingered as you shifted, glancing down at the soaked mattress beneath you both.

“We made quite a mess,” you admitted with a sheepish laugh.

“Worth it,” Bob replied without hesitation, pulling you even closer.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

HAVE A LOVELY DAY!

BYEEE!!!🌶️🌹🩸

[adelliet]

HOLY SHIT

lewis via grhmparkes

[adelliet]

GIMME THIS MAN RN

THE ARMS, I'M DYINGGGG!

I need him so bad

[adelliet]

Bob Floyd x f!reader

FATEFUL BET

Summary: Your friend pushed you into an unusual bet, but it turned out completely different than either of you could’ve predicted.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, alcohol consumption, minor mention of violence, injury, teasing, sexual tension, dry humping, handjob, unprotected sex (p i v), sex while mildly drunk, whimpering, creampie, soft ending

Word count: 16k

A/n: Hii pookies! <3 I've been thinking about this plot a lot and finally decided to write it! As always, it's basically a porn with a plot :) Anyway if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

The evening was slowly settling in, the last traces of sunlight fading into shades of gold and violet as the summer sky surrendered to the night. The salty scent of the ocean drifted in each time the doors swung open, mixing with the heavy fragrance of beer, sweat, and laughter.

You felt the fourth margarita sliding into your hand with such ease that it was almost dangerous, the glass sweating in your fingers as the icy cubes clinked softly against the rim.

Beck had stopped counting her own drinks somewhere around the seventh, and by then neither of you cared anymore; after all, it had been far too long since you had last seen each other, and wasn’t this reunion worth a little celebration? At least, that’s what Beck kept insisting, and you had to admit she was right.

Your laughter had been echoing through the Hard Deck for hours, spilling louder than the jukebox and chasing after the music like waves colliding with the shore. At some point, you swore your stomach muscles began to ache so much that it almost felt like you were accidentally carving out a six-pack from nothing but relentless giggles.

Beck was always like that—an inexhaustible source of fun, mischief, and stories that carried just enough detail to make you question their authenticity, though she swore, with the seriousness of a priest, that every last one was true. You had never believed her, not entirely, but that was part of the charm.

You raised your drink, the strong but deceptively light taste swirling on your tongue, when you noticed the way Beck’s eyes suddenly caught fire, glowing with a mischievous spark that instantly made your stomach tighten with preemptive dread. Her lips curled into that devilish smile you knew too well, the one that usually meant trouble.

“Do you remember that one time you got so drunk you started doing a striptease on the ping-pong table?” she asked with a grin so wide it made your heart falter.

The memory slammed into you with the force of a brick wall, so sudden and merciless that you almost choked on your drink. You set the glass back on the table, coughing into your hand, your throat burning as tears blurred your eyes from the force of the fit.

“I thought you forgot about that,” you managed to rasp, your voice weak, your fingers gripping the glass with a desperation you hoped didn’t show.

“Oh, I’ll never forget,” Beck sang, her grin growing brighter, her whole face lighting up with the wicked satisfaction of someone who had just pulled the pin from a grenade.

“Actually…” She drew out the word like it was honey, already digging into her purse, “…I still have the video.”

Your entire body froze. It felt as though your heart dropped straight into the soles of your shoes, heavy and hollow at once, leaving you breathless.

“W-what video?” you asked carefully, each syllable cracking under the weight of panic. Your pulse sped up so rapidly you thought it might leap out of your chest.

Her fingers tapped across her phone with practiced ease, her eyes sparkling, her grin refusing to falter for even a second. Then her expression shifted, eyes widening with triumphant delight, a small chuckle escaping her lips as if she had just uncovered treasure. You knew instantly she had found it.

“Look!” she said, turning the screen toward you.

The moment your eyes caught the familiar but horrifying image of yourself, your face heated so fast you thought you might combust. Your cheeks flushed crimson, your breath stuttered, and your stomach twisted as though you had swallowed glass.

“Oh no…” The words slipped out of your mouth, more like a prayer to yourself than an actual protest.

On the screen, there you were: clearly drunk, swaying clumsily on top of the ping-pong table, dancing with a ridiculous amount of confidence that only pure alcohol could have granted you. The crowd around you cheered, clapping and whistling, while you grinned like an idiot and began tugging off your shoes as though it were some kind of grand reveal.

Beck’s giggles filled the air beside you, but you couldn’t tear your gaze from the horror unfolding on that tiny display.

“Oh God…” you breathed, covering your mouth with your hand as the video continued to play.

You watched in absolute mortification as your tipsy self bounced around, stripping layers off piece by piece, until you were left in nothing but your underwear, beaming at the audience like it was the most natural thing in the world. But the worst part was seeing that the video still had time left to go.

You saw yourself grabbing the strap of your bra, and that was it. You couldn’t take another second. Snapping into action, you grabbed the phone out of Beck’s hand and flipped it face down on the table, shutting your eyes tightly as if darkness could erase the shame curling inside you.

“Delete it. Now.” Your voice was low, sharp, strained through clenched teeth. The anger in your veins pulsed just as strongly as the humiliation, the cocktail of emotions almost unbearable.

But Beck was far too amused to care. Her giggling spilled out in a cascade, bubbling and relentless, like she was high on nothing but your embarrassment. She reached for the phone, swiping it back into her own hands before you could snatch it again, her eyes wide with glee as she kept watching the video alone.

You dragged your hands down your face, pressing your palms into your eyes, exhaling a deep groan that was half despair, half desperate wish to disappear for at least a decade.

“There’s no fucking way I’m deleting this,” she said with a grin so smug it made your blood boil even hotter. Her eyes stayed glued to the screen, her laughter breaking every few seconds as she replayed the most humiliating moments over and over.

“Beck, please,” you whispered, your voice stripped of its sharpness now, breaking into something softer, almost pleading. You lifted your head, eyes wet with both frustration and shame, locking onto her as if begging her to understand that this wasn’t funny anymore.

Finally, after a long, agonizing moment, she closed the video and tossed the phone onto the table with a careless flick of her wrist. Her smile remained, but her eyes met yours, sparkling with secrets and unspoken promises of more trouble to come.

“Please, delete it,” you begged, your eyes wide and pleading, the kind of desperate look a puppy might give when it knows it has no other chance. You locked your gaze on Beck’s eyes, silently begging her to understand that you were serious this time. But Beck, being Beck, only tilted her head back and laughed, the sound bright and merciless, cutting through your growing shame.

“There’s no way I’m deleting such a treasure!” she declared, her grin stretched wide as if she had just uncovered a priceless artifact.

You growled low in your throat, frustration simmering beneath your skin, and dropped your head into your palms. The warmth of your hands pressed against your cheeks, your mind spiraling as you tried to think of anything that might persuade her.

“Beck, come on, that video could ruin my entire life,” you said finally, your voice sharp and laced with panic.

Beck’s expression shifted into a mock pout, her lips pursed like a sulking child. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic. It’s just a memory,” she said airily, before winking at you in a way that only made your blood boil hotter. She grabbed her glass, sipping slowly, her eyes never leaving yours, the mischievous spark in them only growing stronger.

You exhaled, long and weary, the kind of sigh that seemed to deflate your whole body. “A memory I’d really rather forget,” you muttered under your breath, loud enough for her to catch it anyway.

For a moment, silence stretched between you, interrupted only by the clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter from nearby tables. You reached for your drink, finishing off the last sip of your fourth margarita with determination. The liquid burned on its way down, and you already knew you would need another—something stronger, perhaps—to carry you through the rest of this night.

Just as you set your empty glass on the table, Beck suddenly gasped, the sound sharp and dramatic, her entire body snapping to attention as her gaze locked onto something behind you. Confusion flickered through your chest, and you turned to glance over your shoulder, only to immediately understand her overreaction.

The Navy men had just arrived.

They entered the Hard Deck like they owned the place, their crisp uniforms catching the glow of neon lights, making them look impossibly sharp and untouchable. Each of them carried a different kind of allure—some tall and broad-shouldered, others lean with sharp edges in their posture—but all of them shared the same magnetic confidence that made it difficult to look away. A few women in uniform trailed among them, though there was no denying that the men dominated the room’s attention. The very air seemed to shift, the bar buzzing with new energy, a spark of excitement settling over every table.

You let your eyes linger for a moment, drinking in the sight as if you were one of the many already staring, then turned back to Beck.

She, of course, hadn’t blinked once. Her gaze was glued to the group like a moth to a flame, her lips parted in awe, and you knew exactly what was going through her mind.

“Hey. I’m right here,” you snapped your fingers in front of her face, trying to drag her back to reality.

“Yes, but they’re over there,” she answered dreamily, her voice slow, her pupils practically sparkling as if she was hypnotized.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. Whenever Beck saw an attractive man, she transformed into a giddy teenager, utterly shameless about her interest.

But then her expression shifted again. Her eyes narrowed slightly, her lips twitching into a mischievous curve, and you instantly recognized the look. A spark of dread shot through you, cold and heavy, because you knew that whenever Beck’s face lit up like that, it meant only one thing: she had an idea. And Beck’s ideas were never harmless. They came with consequences, usually for you.

“What is it?” you asked warily, your brows furrowed as suspicion curled in your stomach.

“Let’s make a bet,” she whispered, leaning closer across the table, her elbows pressing against the wood as though she were about to reveal some priceless secret.

The very word bet made your body tense. You didn’t even let her finish before you shook your head violently.

“No. Absolutely not,” you said firmly, waving a hand as if that could brush away the thought itself. Your eyes dropped to the table, as if refusing to acknowledge her would somehow end the conversation.

“Wait, you don’t even know what the bet is about yet!” she protested, her voice high and eager, practically vibrating with excitement.

“I don’t want to,” you muttered, shaking your head again, tipping back the last drop from your glass. As the cool liquid burned its way down your throat, you were already debating what your next drink would be. Tequila. Whiskey. Anything to drown out whatever madness Beck was about to propose.

“What if,” she said slowly, dragging the words out with deliberate cruelty, “the bet was about that video?”

Your head turned sharply, your eyes snapping to hers. That wicked grin was back, curling on her face like smoke, and your heart sank into your stomach.

“I’m listening,” you admitted reluctantly, your curiosity pried open against your will.

Beck practically glowed with victory. Her smile widened, her eyes sparkling like a cat who had just cornered its prey. Her heart, you could tell, was practically leaping with joy at finally pulling you into her trap.

“Alright then,” she said, drawing closer, her voice lowering like she was letting you in on a dangerous secret. “I’ll delete the video.”

You nodded immediately, leaning forward, desperate to seal the deal before she could change her mind.

“Only if you sleep with one of them,” she added casually, her finger lifting to point over your shoulder at the Navy men. You didn’t even need to look to know exactly who she meant.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The hope drained from your face instantly, replaced by irritation, your excitement crashing down like glass shattering on the floor.

Beck just shook her head slowly, deliberately, her smug grin refusing to budge. You groaned, shaking your head in disbelief, but before you could form another protest, she cut you off.

“Oh, come on! We’re both single, we don’t owe anyone anything. Why not have a little fun?” she said with a shrug, her tone infuriatingly casual. And though her words carried a hint of truth, the idea still didn’t sit right with you.

“I’m not a whore,” you snapped, your words sharper than you intended, slicing through the air between you. Beck actually blinked, momentarily surprised by the intensity in your voice.

“Nobody said you were,” she countered quickly, her tone lighter, almost casual, though her eyes never left yours. You stared back at her without expression, your face stone-like, while she finished off her drink and set the empty glass down with a dull thud, the sound carrying just enough finality to irritate you further.

“I’m not going to sleep with someone just because of a stupid video,” you declared, your voice firm, every syllable pressed with the weight of certainty, as if the very act of speaking the words made the truth of them undeniable.

Beck exhaled slowly, her eyelids drifting shut for a brief moment as though she were calming herself, and then she shrugged with exaggerated indifference. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter, lower, carrying an edge of something darker that made the hair rise on the back of your neck.

“Fine… but just so you know,” she murmured, leaning closer as her lips curled into a cruel smile, “if you ever piss me off, or if we get into a fight, I wouldn’t hesitate to post it online.”

Her smirk widened as her eyes flicked up to meet yours, clearly savoring the way your expression faltered, drinking in the storm of shock and fear that rippled across your face.

“You wouldn’t do that,” you whispered, your voice trembling despite your best effort to keep it steady, your head shaking in disbelief, your wide eyes locked on hers as if you could force her to deny it.

“Oh, but I would,” she replied without hesitation, nodding with deliberate slowness, her smug expression never changing.

“And sending that video to your boss? No problem to me,” she added, her voice dropping into something even colder.

That was the breaking point. You slammed both palms against the table, the wood vibrating under the sudden force, and leaned dramatically toward her. “No!” The word tore out of you, raw and desperate.

Beck only tilted her head, her grin stretching wider, and for a moment her tongue flicked over her lips as though she was savoring every ounce of control she had over you.

There were moments when you regretted ever letting Beck so close into your life, and this was one of them. She always needed to stir the pot, to add chaos where peace might have existed, because to Beck, a life without drama wasn’t a life worth living. Deleting the video would have been the simplest, kindest solution, one that would have spared you the agony, but Beck never chose the easy path. She chose the path that burned.

You pressed your fingertips against your temple, your mind racing for alternatives, desperate for any possible loophole that could free you from her absurd conditions. But the alcohol in your system was clouding your thoughts, slowing them down, tangling them in knots, and around you the noise of the bar seemed to grow louder, the laughter of strangers and the deep rumble of Navy men’s voices filling your ears until it was impossible to think clearly.

You sighed heavily, the sound escaping your lips like defeat, and lowered your head. Beck didn’t need words to know, she saw it instantly, the moment your resolve cracked. Her grin sharpened, triumphant, because she knew she had won.

“Fine,” you muttered, your voice heavy, almost resigned. Then you straightened, jabbing a finger at her with sharp warning. “But only if you promise me you’ll delete that video.”

Beck nodded eagerly, her grin never wavering for even a heartbeat. “Deal,” she said brightly, as if this were nothing more than a harmless game.

You gave her one last warning glare, narrowing your eyes as if your stare alone could burn her smugness away, before turning to glance back over your shoulder. Your gaze swept across the cluster of men, quickly assessing them, mentally calculating who would be the easiest victim of this ridiculous bet.

But Beck’s voice cut through your thoughts. “I get to choose the guy,” she announced proudly, lifting her chin as if she was claiming a crown.

You spun back to face her, scowling, your brows drawn together in sharp disapproval. Beck only lifted her hands in mock defense, her face painted with exaggerated innocence. “Hey, I don’t make the rules.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, because you both knew damn well that she did make the rules. Arguing with her was useless, so you turned back toward the Navy men instead, your eyes scanning the group once more. Beck followed your gaze, the two of you staring openly now, without a shred of subtlety, but neither of you seemed to care.

“What about him?” you suggested, nodding toward one of the men who clearly stood out. He looked every bit the leader—tall, confident, his posture commanding and his chest puffed proudly like a peacock. His brown hair was neatly combed to the side, his smile blinding, teeth so white they could have been weaponized.

Beck wrinkled her nose immediately, shaking her head. “No. He looks like he lives for sex.”

You bit back the retort bubbling on your tongue, because, damn it, she had a point. So instead you just tilted your head in reluctant agreement and kept scanning.

“What about him?” you asked after a beat, pointing toward another man who was harder to ignore—his wavy brown hair and distinctive mustache already making him stand out from the rest. From a distance, he looked kind, approachable even, though something about the set of his jaw suggested he could easily turn sharp if provoked.

Beck hummed, dragging out the sound, then shook her head again. “Too charming.”

You narrowed your eyes at her, suspicion prickling down your spine. It was becoming clearer with every rejection: Beck wasn’t looking for someone easy. She was deliberately hunting for someone who would make your night infinitely harder.

So you stopped. You crossed your arms and refused to point anyone else out, letting the silence stretch while you stared at the men and she scanned with her hawk-like precision. You knew she’d pick eventually, and you knew you wouldn’t like it.

And sure enough, it happened. Beck suddenly lit up, snapping her fingers like she’d just discovered the holy grail.

“Got him!” she announced loudly, her voice carrying halfway across the bar, drawing more than a few glances. She didn’t care. She pointed boldly, her finger cutting through the crowd.

You followed the line of her hand, squinting against the dim light until your eyes landed on the man she meant.

“The one with the glasses?” you asked carefully, already dreading the answer. Beck’s satisfied hum was all the confirmation you needed. Of course she had chosen him.

He was the kind of young man who, even from a distance, radiated shyness. The way he sat a little back from the group, listening far more than he spoke, laughing quietly now and then at something the others said—it was obvious he wasn’t the center of attention, nor did he want to be.

His hair was a soft, sandy blond that caught the light and seemed to shimmer as it fell neatly to the side, every strand perfectly in place.

The glasses perched on his small, slightly unusual nose had delicate silver frames that seemed to belong to him as naturally as a smile, shaping his face in a way that only emphasized the gentle innocence about him.

He looked like the kind of boy who would apologize if his shoulder so much as brushed against yours, the kind who would hold a door open every time without fail, not because it was expected, but because he couldn’t imagine not doing it. The kind who hesitated to start a conversation, not out of arrogance but out of fear of saying something wrong, of making the wrong impression. Nervous, shy, probably virgin, hiding behind the louder personalities of the men around him.

“Why him?” you turned toward Beck, though deep down you already knew the answer before the words even left your lips.

“He’s flawless,” she said with a grin so wide it made your own cheeks ache in sympathy. “If you can get him, you can get anyone.”

You glanced back over your shoulder, your gaze falling on him again, and your chest tightened.

“He looks so innocent. I don’t want to… take advantage of him,” you murmured, your voice quieter, almost guilty, because you meant it. He looked like the type who would only ever fall in love once in his life, and when he did, it would be forever. The kind of man who would build a family and live a simple, happy life with the girl he loved. You didn’t want to be the one to shatter that fragile, unspoiled image.

“Take advantage?” Beck scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Please. You’d be doing him a favor. Imagine it—an unforgettable night with an incredible woman. Who would ever complain about that?”

Her words, laced with unexpected flattery, warmed you despite yourself, but the guilt still pressed heavy on your chest. And yet, as you studied him again, taking in the sparkle of his eyes when he laughed at something one of his friends said, the boyish curve of his lips, the faint nervousness in the way his hands fidgeted, your heart gave an involuntary thud, harder and faster. You swallowed, torn in two directions.

But really, it wasn’t a choice. It was him, or the ruin of everything you had worked for. Your career, the years of blood and sweat, the fragile dream you’d built with such discipline, it would all collapse if you didn’t bend now.

“God,” you exhaled, the word carrying the weight of surrender, and turned back to Beck.

Her face lit up like she’d been waiting for this moment all along, her eyes wide, her grin stretching with the same giddy impatience of a child waiting for a promised candy.

You scowled. “What?”

“Are you going over there or not?” she asked eagerly, her tone so casual it almost knocked the air from your lungs.

“Wait—now?!” You nearly choked on your own breath, your heart hammering in your chest.

Beck nodded, her smile widening to reveal every tooth, her whole face alive with anticipation. She was practically bouncing in her seat, her excitement sharp and undeniable. You felt like the damn candy she was drooling over.

“But he’s with the others, I can’t just—” You glanced nervously over your shoulder, the sight of so many uniforms in one place making your stomach tighten. The testosterone-filled atmosphere pressed against you like a heavy wall, amplifying your own social anxiety.

“Don’t be a pussy. Go,” Beck hissed, her voice sharp but encouraging, her eyes sparkling with wicked glee.

You closed your eyes for half a second, forcing yourself to inhale deeply, to gather every scrap of courage hiding in the corners of your trembling body. Then you rose, adjusting the strap of your black handbag over your shoulder, the wine-red fabric of your dress hugging you as though to remind you of the confidence you were supposed to be wearing along with it.

Beck clasped her hands together, miming a cheer, silently squealing her support like a schoolgirl at a pep rally. You shook your head at her, smiling weakly despite yourself, before turning toward your target.

He was still sitting at the bar, his posture a little slouched, his hands resting awkwardly on the counter, and, whether it was fate or cruel coincidence, the stool beside him was empty, waiting like an open invitation.

Your mind instantly began scripting scenarios, rehearsing the words, the smile, the rhythm of your breath. Every step toward him felt too loud, your heels striking against the floor like drumbeats in your ears, but no one seemed to notice. The bar was crowded with men in uniform, the air buzzing with laughter, bravado, and the occasional deep burst of masculine shouting.

And then there was you—out of place, in a fitted wine-colored dress that clung to your figure, carrying a black purse like armor.

You felt like you didn’t belong, like the spotlight had been shoved on you without warning. But no one stopped you. No one even turned their head, at least, not yet.

You reached the bar. The stool beside him was waiting.

“Hi,” you said softly, your voice carrying just enough confidence to mask the chaos screaming inside you. You gestured to the empty seat with your finger. “Is this seat taken?”

He looked up at you, startled, his surprise written across every feature of his boyish face. And then you saw his eyes. From a distance you hadn’t noticed, but up close, they were impossibly blue, a deep ocean that you could drown in without regret.

For a moment, your knees nearly buckled, your body threatening to betray the calm façade you were desperately clinging to.

He blinked quickly, his throat working as he swallowed. His lips pressed into a thin line, his nerves bleeding into every motion. “N-no,” he stammered, the word catching awkwardly in his throat.

“Would you mind if I sat here?” you asked in a tone that was deliberately soft, warm, and polite, yet with just the faintest hint of seduction hidden beneath, a subtle attempt to score a few extra points right at the beginning.

He looked almost startled by your presence, as though the very fact that you were addressing him had knocked the ground from under his feet, and whatever little confidence he carried clearly wasn’t prepared for this kind of attention. He merely shook his head quickly, his gaze darting anywhere but directly at you, as if avoiding your eyes might keep him safe from drowning in them. You weren’t sure whether it was shyness that tied his tongue or if he simply found you intimidating, but either way, you weren’t about to back out now.

With a small, knowing smile, you slipped into the seat beside him, carefully smoothing the hem of your dress as you sat down, and placing your purse lightly on the bar counter just within reach.

You exhaled, slowly, keeping that charming smile alive on your lips as you tilted your head ever so slightly toward him, allowing your eyes to linger on the man who had just become your target. He didn’t look back at you; his attention seemed to cling to the half-empty glass of beer in his hand, his fingers fidgeting nervously with the rim, his posture giving him away as someone who wasn’t entirely at ease.

You decided, with a spark of playful determination, to help him out of his shell.

“So, you’re with the Navy, huh?” you began casually, letting your words carry a touch of curiosity.

He flicked his eyes toward you, just for the briefest second, as if to make sure you were indeed speaking to him, and when he realized that your question was directed at no one else, his expression shifted into surprise, almost like he couldn’t quite believe he was the one holding your focus. He blinked, glanced away, then back at you and for a heartbeat, his ocean-blue eyes locked on your face.

“Y-yeah,” he managed, his voice surprisingly deeper than you expected, though the restless play of his fingers betrayed the nerves thrumming beneath.

You felt a little thrill of satisfaction ripple through you; he was finally looking at you, acknowledging you, even if only for a fleeting moment. Before you could press further, however, his gaze darted back to the table, retreating again into that shy shell.

“And what exactly is it you do? Pilots or the naval side of things?” you pressed gently, eager to keep him talking, but before Bob could form an answer, a different voice, louder and brimming with arrogance, cut across the space from your other side.

“Air force, sweetheart.”

You turned sharply, as did your quiet target, to see the man who had spoken.

It was the very first man you had pointed out earlier, the one Beck had described as living and breathing sex, and now up close, you could almost smell it radiating off him in waves.

His cologne was strong, intoxicating, the kind that clung to skin and promised nothing but trouble, his smile dazzling in a way that seemed calculated, his entire aura oozing confidence, as though he had never once been denied what he wanted.

“Oh, I—” you started to reply, but before you could redirect your attention back to your boy, Mr. Sex-on-Legs was already leaning in.

“Hangman,” he interrupted smoothly, flashing his perfect grin as he extended a hand toward you in a way that screamed arrogance more than courtesy.

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you gave him only the barest glance out of sheer politeness. You didn’t take his hand, letting your eyes deliberately drop to it in visible distaste before drifting back up with a small, unimpressed smirk.

“Hangman?” you repeated, your voice laced with quiet amusement that you couldn’t quite hold back.

He nodded proudly, as if expecting admiration. You let your gaze linger on him, skeptical and bemused all at once.

“That’s your name?” you asked, unable to resist a soft chuckle.

“Nah, it’s my callsign. The name they use for me in the air force,” he explained, his grin never faltering.

You gave a slow, unbothered nod, before smoothly turning back to the one who actually interested you—the shy boy with sandy hair and gentle blue eyes.

“And do you have a callsign too?” you asked, your voice softer now, your smile genuine. The question seemed to catch him off guard, his eyes widening as though he hadn’t expected you to care, hadn’t expected you to look past the loud and flashy presence of Hangman.

“Yeah… Bob,” he answered finally, and this time a small, warm smile curved his lips.

“Bob?” you repeated, tilting your head, your own smile softening. “That’s… kind of adorable. Does it have a meaning?”

Your visible interest seemed to fluster him, equal parts unsettling and pleasing, but before he could even open his mouth, Hangman’s voice barged into the space again.

“Baby on board,” he quipped, clearly amused with himself.

You and Bob both turned to him, but when your eyes landed back on Bob, you caught the slight shift in his expression. He looked offended. Heat rose in your chest as you turned back to Hangman, irritation flashing in your gaze.

“Do you wanna know what my callsign means?” he asked, his bright smile still glowing on his perfectly smooth face.

“No,” you replied, bothered. Hangman was clearly caught off guard, because this wasn't an answer he was ready for.

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’m having a conversation with Bob now.” Your smile widened, ironic and cutting, and both men blinked in surprise.

Hangman froze for a second, looking between you and Bob as though he couldn’t quite believe he’d been dismissed, before his jaw flexed and he finally gave a tight nod.

“Fine. Have fun,” he muttered, lowering his head, his smirk faltering as he backed away, shoulders a little stiffer than before.

You shook your head slightly, still smiling, then quickly turned back to Bob, who was watching the whole exchange with cautious disbelief.

“Is he always like that?” you asked, amusement dancing in your voice.

Bob allowed a faint smile to slip across his lips as his fingers curled again around his beer.

“Just with pretty girls,” he said, quietly enough that you almost thought you’d imagined it.

Your breath caught, your pulse stumbling as a shiver ran down your spine. That single line left a warmth blooming in your chest, and your smile grew wider before you could stop it.

“So… you think I’m pretty?” you teased, turning your full attention back on him.

His eyes went wide in panic, his cheeks flushing as he stammered, “N-no! I mean—yes! I—uh…” His hand flew to the back of his neck, scratching nervously, his gaze darting everywhere except at you.

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head with a gentleness that cut through his panic. “Thank you,” you said, and then leaned in just slightly, your voice dipping into a sweeter register. “What if I bought you a drink for that compliment?”

This time, his eyes actually lifted to yours, and you swore you saw them brighten ever so slightly.

“Shouldn’t I be the one paying, since I’m the man?” he asked cautiously.

You tilted one shoulder in a graceful shrug, letting your gaze linger on him with a playful spark.

“Sometimes roles can switch,” you whispered, your words sliding out smooth and silky.

He shifted in his seat, clearing his throat a little too loudly, and you noticed the faint blush creeping steadily across his cheeks. To your own surprise, the sight of him sent an ache of desire tightening low in your body.

Heat pulsed between your thighs and you had to cross one leg over the other beneath the bar, your breath catching as you silently asked yourself why Bob, of all people, managed to stir something this strong in you without even lifting a finger.

“Another margarita for the lady?”

Your attention immediately shifted to the bartender, who was wiping down a glass with a rag, his warm smile directed straight at you.

“Yes, please,” you replied with a polite nod, your voice light and almost innocent, before turning your head toward Bob, who, to your surprise, had already been watching you.

“And for the aviator?” the bartender asked with a hint of playful teasing in his tone.

Bob glanced up at him briefly, then lowered his gaze again, letting out a quiet chuckle at the nickname. “I still have mine, but thank you.” He gestured slightly with the glass in his hand, the one he had been absentmindedly toying with all this time. The bartender simply nodded in understanding and disappeared down the bar, leaving the two of you in your own little bubble.

“So, another one, huh?” Bob asked, his voice carrying a shade of confidence this time, though he still avoided looking directly at you. There was something in the way his tone lingered, as if he was slowly warming up, inch by inch letting his guard down. You could feel it, and that shift in his energy was thrilling.

“I might have let myself get a little carried away,” you admitted with a soft laugh, seizing the opportunity to catch his eyes before he could look away again.

“But I swear, I’m not an alcoholic,” you added quickly, a trace of playful sarcasm in your voice.

That comment made his whole face light up, his lips stretching into an unguarded smile, the kind that softened every sharp edge of his features.

“Sure,” he teased, narrowing his eyes as if assessing you, “and how many drinks does that make so far?” His gaze stayed fixed on you this time, patient, waiting, the faintest spark of mischief in his expression.

“Fifth. BUT! But—” The moment you said the number, the look of mock shock on his face forced you into immediate defense, your words tumbling out faster.

“Wow. I’m surprised you’re still standing,” he remarked, his tone amused. His eyes flickered over you briefly, gliding from your legs upward, but not in a leering or intrusive way. It was observational, casual—almost like he was simply acknowledging the feat of balance you were claiming to achieve.

“We’re celebrating,” you explained, though you knew you didn’t have to. Something about Bob’s presence made you want to share, to justify, even though he didn’t seem like the kind of man who would ever judge you. If anything, he seemed more inclined to listen. “My friend and I—we haven’t seen each other in a long time.”

“Oh, so you’re here with a friend?” His tone was soft, curious.

You nodded and turned slightly in your seat, about to gesture toward her, only to notice that she was no longer alone.

The charming man with the mustache had claimed the empty space beside her, and she was giggling at something he had said, clearly entertained and caught up in the moment. You didn’t blame her; she deserved her fun.

“That’s Rooster,” Bob murmured beside you, his voice carrying a quiet certainty, and you realized he had been watching the same scene unfold.

“Rooster?” you repeated, scoffing lightly, as if the nickname itself begged to be questioned. Bob gave a small hum of agreement, clearly unfazed by your amusement.

You turned back to him, shaking your head with a smile that you couldn’t quite hide. “So far, you’re the only one with a nickname that actually makes sense.”

Your words held a trace of playfulness, and Bob seemed to bask in them. He gave the smallest nod of pride before lifting his bottle to his lips, taking a slow sip. But this time, his eyes never left yours.

The intensity of that held gaze sent a shiver racing down your spine, raising goosebumps across your skin. And to your own surprise, you were the one who broke eye contact first, glancing away because the weight of his stare was simply too much.

Perhaps it was the alcohol loosening his restraint, perhaps it was just the way the moment unfolded, but for the first time tonight, Bob carried himself with a thread of confidence that matched the courage you had been forcing yourself to show.

And the truth was, if you hadn’t already been riding the warmth of four margaritas, you weren’t sure you would have dared to speak to him this way at all.

“And what’s your name?”

It was Bob’s question—the very first one he had asked you directly—and from that moment on, everything between you seemed to flow effortlessly, unfolding with an ease that felt entirely natural.

The two of you drifted through what felt like every possible subject, and you ended up learning far more about him than you had ever anticipated. You spoke of your childhoods and school years, of your jobs and what they demanded from each of you, and even of relationships, a topic you hadn’t expected to touch but somehow found yourself sinking into with surprising comfort.

By the time Bob held his third beer in hand, you were deep into a conversation about pets, and you had long since lost track of how many glasses you yourself had gone through.

The alcohol wasn’t the cause of the warmth in your body, though, it was Bob.

You could feel him loosening, emerging gradually from the shell in which he had seemed so carefully tucked away at the start of the evening. And you knew he was comfortable, because little by little, he began to touch you. Not in any overtly flirtatious or inappropriate way, but with soft gestures that carried more weight than they should have.

A gentle brush of his fingers when you said something funny, a reassuring squeeze of your hand when you opened up about something that clearly touched you deeply.

You no longer felt nervous the way you had when you first approached him. Instead, you felt at ease, and, in a way, you felt something far rarer: as though the two of you fit together. It was almost like Bob was that missing puzzle piece that had been hiding for years beneath the couch, the piece that finally made the entire picture whole.

Yet throughout your conversation, you couldn’t help but notice the way he occasionally looked at you—the weight of his gaze, heavy and lingering, that sent tremors down your spine. And, truthfully, you were guilty of looking at him the same way.

Never before had your knees trembled like this, never before had you felt that insistent, pulsing throb of your core, a heat that soaked into your panties until you found yourself sneaking off to the bathroom more than once just to collect yourself. That was what Bob did to you. And judging by the way he kept shifting uncomfortably in his seat, the subtle adjustments of his posture, the fleeting brush of his hand against his own pelvis as though it had simply fallen there by accident, you realized that you had the very same effect on him.

The truth was, the bet no longer mattered. In fact, you had forgotten about it entirely within the first three words Bob had spoken to you. All that mattered now was getting to know him more, peeling back the layers of the quiet, gentle man who sat beside you.

Compared to every man you had known before, he was utterly different, in the best way imaginable. Somewhere deep down, you couldn’t help but hope that maybe, just maybe, this could grow into something more, something deeper.

The video, the wager, the challenge—all of it had faded into insignificance. You no longer wanted to sleep with him because of a bet. He wasn’t just your target anymore, he was Bob. Sweet, shy, unexpectedly magnetic Bob, the man who made you ache with desire so strong that even the slightest friction against your panties threatened to tear a moan from your lips.

Even though Bob was already speaking with you far more openly than at the beginning of the night, there were still moments when his natural shyness surfaced, fleeting little gestures that betrayed just how bashful he truly was.

The way he would glance away mid-sentence, the subtle movement of his shoulders as if he were trying to fold into himself, or the awkward shuffle in his seat that revealed more than he would have ever admitted. And yet, despite all that, you couldn’t ignore the fact that he kept adjusting his pants in the very place you knew was betraying him most, his obvious arousal making your stomach twist with delight until you had to bite down on your lower lip to keep from smiling too much.

By now, the margaritas, perhaps your tenth, though who could say for sure, had loosened the last threads of your restraint, and your touches toward Bob grew bolder.

They were no longer the innocent, fleeting grazes disguised as accidents or excuses to laugh. This time, when your hand came to rest upon his thigh, it wasn’t just because he had said something amusing. It was intentional, heavy with meaning, deliberate in a way that made the air between you spark. Every time you allowed your hand to linger there, you felt his muscles tighten beneath your touch, saw the way his leg twitched involuntarily, and yet he never moved away, never pulled back. He didn’t flinch, didn’t stop you, even though the torment you were clearly causing him must have been unbearable. If anything, you could sense how much he savored it, how much he wanted you to continue.

The sexual tension between you was undeniable, woven into every glance, every brush of skin, every breath you exchanged. It was there, thick in the air, and nothing could erase it.

You were just finishing what you told yourself would be your last glass, sipping slowly as you listened to Bob recount a story from his time in the Navy, when suddenly someone shoved into you with such force that you nearly spilled your drink all over yourself.

By sheer luck you didn’t—though the heat between your thighs, which had everything to do with Bob, made you feel anything but dry—and you sat there in a daze, shocked by the abrupt interruption. You had half a mind to let it go, to dismiss it, because the man who had bumped into you was enormous, broad-shouldered and hulking, the kind of figure you instinctively avoided. You didn’t want drama. But Bob, clearly, wasn’t willing to let it slide.

His words faltered mid-sentence, and before you could process it, he pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, the determination in his movements striking you like a jolt of electricity. Fear instantly welled up inside you, your heart hammering in your chest as your eyes widened.

“Wait, Bob, you don’t have to—” you started, but he was already crossing the space toward the man who had collided with you.

He tapped him firmly on the shoulder, and when the stranger turned around, you nearly gasped.

He looked exactly like the kind of man you prayed you’d never cross paths with: a stereotypical biker, muscles carved from hours at the gym, veins bulging with what you suspected was more than just hard work—the kind of man who radiated aggression with every movement, the kind of man you knew could flatten someone in a single punch. Terror prickled over your skin, but Bob seemed utterly unfazed.

“Apologize,” he said, his voice surprisingly firm, carrying an edge of authority you hadn’t heard from him before. The sound of it made your pulse race faster, a wild blend of fear and disbelief rattling through you.

The bar went silent. Every eye was on Bob and the towering man now, the tension in the room sharp enough to slice through. The biker’s scowl deepened, his voice rumbling low, menacing, enough to send a shiver through you and anyone within earshot.

“Apologize to who, exactly?” he growled, his words dripping with threat. The audience that had gathered instinctively knew what was coming; they were waiting for the inevitable clash.

But Bob didn’t back down. Maybe it was the alcohol coursing through his veins, more than he had ever dared to drink before, but courage blazed in his eyes in a way you hadn’t expected to see.

“To the lady you just shoved into,” he declared, pointing directly at you.

Your breath caught in your throat. You instinctively hurried to his side, slipping your hand onto his shoulder as if you could anchor him, keep him safe.

“Bob, you don’t have to—” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“I don’t owe anyone an apology, you little shit!” the man growled, leaning closer to Bob until their faces were separated by mere inches, each word punctuated with venom.

The stench of alcohol poured off him, his breath soured by more than a few shots, and you instantly realized that dealing with a drunk biker like him was the very definition of a terrible idea.

“Bob, let it go, please,” you begged, tugging at his arm in a desperate attempt to draw him away, but Bob remained rooted to the spot, immovable, as if the very floor itself held him in place.

He stared into the man’s eyes for a long moment, silent, before calmly reaching up to remove his glasses. With a surprising gentleness, he folded them carefully, turned to you, and handed them over.

“Hold these for me, please,” he said in a tone so soft it felt almost out of place in that charged moment. The kindness of it clashed with the fury in the biker’s expression, which only darkened further the instant Bob faced him again.

“Apologize. Now.” Bob’s voice rose, louder this time, carrying a weight and sharpness that cut through the bar’s tense silence. But his demand had the opposite effect—the man’s fury boiled over, and before anyone could react, his fist flew.

The sound of the impact echoed like a gunshot, his knuckles colliding hard against Bob’s face, sending him crashing to the floor. Gasps filled the room, several people recoiling, others covering their eyes as if unable to bear watching. Your body jolted forward instinctively, and you dropped to your knees beside Bob, panic coursing through you as you reached for him with trembling hands.

“Bob, oh my God—” your voice shook as your fingers brushed over his face. His cheek was already turning an angry red, the skin swelling in a way that made it clear a deep bruise would bloom by morning. Despite the obvious pain etched into his clenched expression, he stayed conscious, breathing heavily, determined to appear stronger than he truly felt.

“I’m fine. It’s nothing,” he muttered in a low, stubborn growl, though you knew that was far from the truth. You slipped his glasses carefully into your bag, slinging it back over your shoulder as you used your free arm to steady him.

Before you could say more, a familiar voice cut through the tension. “Hey, you okay, man?” Both you and Bob turned, and to your surprise, it was Hangman. His usual smirk was gone, replaced with genuine concern, his eyes narrowing as he studied Bob’s battered face. Bob only mumbled something incoherent and gave a small nod, but it was clear as day he wasn’t okay.

“He needs ice,” you said firmly, your tone sharper than you expected, as if the urgency inside you had no patience left. Hangman nodded without hesitation, signaling the bartender, and within moments you had a cold bag of ice pressed into your hands.

You guided Bob back into his chair, steadying him until he sat, and carefully placed the ice against his cheek. He hissed, teeth clenched tightly, the sound breaking your heart.

“I’m sorry…” you whispered, guilt heavy in your voice, but Bob’s lips curved into a faint smile despite the pain.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” he murmured with his eyes closed, and though his words were meant to comfort you, the weight of responsibility still pressed hard against your chest. If it weren’t for you, he wouldn’t be sitting here bruised and hurting.

“Do you need anything else?” Hangman asked, hovering nearby. A couple of other Navy guys approached, clapping Bob on the back, laughing a little despite the tension, proud of his stand as if he had just earned their silent respect.

“I think we’re good. I just want to take him home,” you admitted softly, glancing at Bob, whose shy smile peeked through even as his friends teased him.

“Actually, we’re all staying in dorm-style housing nearby for this season. It’s not far from here,” Hangman explained, and you nodded, grateful for the information.

You look at Bob again, still leaning into the ice pack, his embarrassment hidden beneath a bashful grin while the guys jostled him like a brother.

“Thank you,” you said sincerely, looking at Hangman, who for once gave you a smile free of arrogance. Maybe he wasn’t as shallow as you had assumed. Maybe, as the saying goes, you really shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.

Once the others finally drifted away, you stood, gently helping Bob slide off his chair. “I’m walking you home,” you announced firmly, not giving him any room to argue.

“Shouldn’t I be the one walking you home?” he murmured with a faint chuckle, still clinging to his sense of gentlemanly pride even with one side of his face battered.

“In this condition? Don’t be ridiculous,” you teased, slipping his arm over your shoulders while wrapping your hand securely around his waist.

Bob grunted in reluctant agreement, but his head dipped in a small nod, and soon enough both of you were laughing softly as you left the bar together, the noise fading behind you as the night swallowed you in its quiet.

Hangman was right, the dorms weren’t far from the bar, which turned out to be an enormous relief given Bob’s condition.

“So… where to now?” you asked as the two of you stepped into the small reception area, your voice light but edged with fatigue.

“Third floor,” Bob murmured.

“Third?!” you repeated in mock despair, staring at him wide-eyed. He only gave a small, quiet nod.

“Oh my God, you owe me three margaritas for this,” you exhaled dramatically, and the faint laugh that slipped from his lips told you he was more than willing to agree.

By the time you finally reached his floor after what felt like an exhausting climb, he gave you his room number, and together you made it to the door.

He fished around in the pocket of his pants, pulling out a set of keys, and though his hands trembled slightly, he managed to fit the key into the lock on his first try. That small victory alone made you breathe easier, he was clearly feeling a little steadier than before.

Once inside, you closed the door softly behind you and helped him toward the bed. “Hold this, alright? I’m calling an ambulance,” you said, pressing the ice more firmly against his bruised cheek.

Before you could pull away, his hand suddenly came up to catch yours, holding it in place, and with his other hand he wrapped around your wrist, keeping you from moving.

“You don’t have to. I’m fine,” he murmured, his voice low, rough, and devastatingly seductive in a way that almost made you forget the bruise marring his face.

“But what if you’ve got a concussion? Or something worse—” you began, worry sharpening your tone, but Bob’s grip tightened just enough to silence you, his head shaking faintly as he continued holding the ice himself.

“I don’t. Trust me. I’m fine,” he insisted, and though you weren’t entirely convinced, you could see that arguing would get you nowhere. You let out a breath, shoulders slumping, and sank down onto the edge of the bed beside him.

“Then promise me you’ll get checked out soon,” you said firmly, unwilling to let it go entirely.

“Yes, mom,” he teased with a crooked grin, and you gave him a light shove in response, rolling your eyes at his sarcasm, though the tension in the room finally softened.

For a moment you just sat there, looking at each other. Bob’s vision was still blurred—without his glasses, he could only make out the soft shape of you beside him—but his one uninjured eye lingered on you with a sweetness that made your chest ache. Even unable to see you clearly, he looked at you as though you were the only thing in focus. You returned his gaze, your heart racing under the weight of it.

“You should lie down,” you told him softly, gesturing toward the mattress. Without a word, Bob adjusted himself, leaning back against the headboard instead of lying flat.

“That’s not exactly lying down,” you teased gently.

“I don’t want to lie down,” he replied, and you simply shrugged, accepting his stubbornness. You reached into your bag and pulled out his glasses, holding them out toward him without saying a word.

His entire face lit up as if you had handed him the world. For a moment, he looked like he had been convinced he’d never see clearly again tonight. With a grateful smile, he placed the ice on the bed beside him and slid the glasses back onto his face, the world snapping into focus.

And when his eyes finally landed on you, truly seeing you for the first time since the fight, something inside him seemed to melt. His expression softened so completely it made your breath catch.

“What?” you asked with a playful smile, tilting your head.

Bob shook his head slightly, a laugh escaping with his words. “I just… I can’t believe you’re real,” he breathed, as if the very thought overwhelmed him.

You felt heat rush to your cheeks, and you couldn’t help the soft hum that slipped from your throat. “Well, if I weren’t real, I wouldn’t be able to do this…”

You leaned in, your lips brushing his in the lightest of touches, so fleeting it could have been mistaken for an accident. But the spark that erupted between you was undeniable, a current that surged through your veins as though your hearts had both ignited at once.

The kiss was brief, barely more than a whisper, yet it carried the weight of something infinitely bigger, a fire waiting to spread. For those few seconds, the world seemed to fall away, leaving only the heat of his mouth against yours.

For a moment, you pulled back just slightly, your lips hovering over his as though suspended in time, teasing him with the unbearable anticipation of what might come next.

You let yourself linger there, savoring the intoxicating sight of Bob’s parted lips and the way his hot, uneven breaths fanned across your skin, each exhale trembling with both desire and restraint.

You wanted him to feel the ache of waiting, to drown in the tension, and from the look on his face, he was already there—lost, undone, unable to function under the weight of it.

Finally, you retreated fully, the space between you only a few inches now, and you deliberately dragged your tongue over your lower lip, catching it between your teeth before releasing it slowly.

Your gaze locked onto him with a dangerous sweetness, a silent challenge. Bob, however, had stopped entirely. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t speaking, he was simply staring, frozen like a man who had just forgotten how to breathe. His cheeks burned crimson, and it was painfully obvious that the color had nothing to do with the bruise spreading across his face.

In the corner of your eye, you caught the faint outline of his arousal straining against the denim of his jeans, but you didn’t need to look down to know it was there, you could see it in the way his thighs shifted uncomfortably, in the nervous little adjustment he made to his seat, in the way he cleared his throat but failed to find any words.

His breathing came in shallow waves, shaky yet heavy, each one betraying just how badly he wanted more. His pulse was practically echoing in the air between you, rising faster with every second you held him in your gaze.

And in that suspended silence, you didn’t move, didn’t speak. You simply watched him, soaking in the way he unraveled, waiting to see what he would do.

At last, Bob broke. His voice cracked when he tried to speak, the sound more of a low, bashful growl than words. “M-maybe I need to… confirm it again,” he mumbled, his stutter betraying both his nerves and his desire.

The sound alone sent a shiver racing down your spine. You purred softly in reply, a low, approving sound that only seemed to drive him further to the edge. Tentatively, almost reverently, his hand came up to brush against your throat, his fingers trembling as they curved gently around your neck, guiding you closer, as though he needed permission with every movement. You allowed it, leaning into his touch as he finally pulled you into him again.

This time there was no hesitation, no softness, no fleeting whisper of a kiss. His lips crashed into yours with a hunger that stole the breath from both of you, deep and consuming, carrying with it every ounce of heat he had been holding back.

The kiss was messy, desperate, unrestrained, his mouth moving against yours with a need that was almost painful in its intensity. The sound of it filled the quiet room, a wet, needy pull of lips parting and pressing together again, leaving behind a shameless, audible smack that only made you crave more.

Your fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, clutching at it as though to anchor yourself against the dizzying pull of the kiss. Bob’s free hand slid tentatively up your arm, his knuckles brushing your skin as though he was memorizing every inch, until it finally rested against the curve of your waist. He squeezed lightly, testing, and when you didn’t pull away, he pulled you closer until you were nearly straddling his lap.

The air around you was thick, humming with heat, with the unspoken realization that neither of you wanted to stop. Bob let out a shaky groan against your mouth.

He pulled back for just a breath, his forehead resting against yours, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. His lips were swollen, his pupils blown wide, and his voice was almost pleading. “I guess I need more reassurance.”

The words were barely out of his mouth before you nodded fervently, your whole body already leaning forward as though pulled by a magnetic force you couldn’t resist.

This time there was no teasing, no carefully measured pause, you threw yourself at him with raw hunger, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that was hard, wild, and desperate.

Your body moved on instinct, climbing into his lap without waiting for permission, but Bob was already there to meet you halfway. His hand slipped up, curling warmly and firmly around your neck, not squeezing, just holding, grounding you with the sheer intimacy of it.

His other hand gripped your hip, guiding you, pulling you down onto him as though he had been waiting for this moment for years.

The second you settled onto him, you felt his erection, pressing hard against you through the frustrating barrier of clothing, pressing exactly where you needed it most. The contact was electric, a shockwave that made your breath catch in your throat.

You both groaned at the same time, the sound low, raw, and shameless, vibrating through the kiss.

The friction was barely there and already it was driving you mad. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, clutching at him as though he were the only thing keeping you grounded, and he let out a muffled, needy sound against your lips, as though the weight of having you on top of him was almost too much to bear.

You rocked against him once, an instinctive roll of your hips, and the reaction was instant.

Bob’s grip on your waist tightened, his groan breaking into a sharp gasp, and his head fell back against the wall with a thud, exposing his throat to you. The sight of him, flushed and panting beneath you, only pushed you further.

You ground against him again, slower this time, dragging yourself deliberately over the length of his arousal, and the friction sent a rush of pleasure sparking through your core.

The fabric-to-fabric contact was maddening, just enough to feel everything, yet not nearly enough to satisfy.

Bob’s breathing grew uneven, each inhale shaky, each exhale almost a whimper. “God—” he hissed, his voice strangled as though he couldn’t quite handle what you were doing to him.

His hand slid up your back, clutching the fabric of your dress, while the other remained tight on your throat, his thumb brushing up against your jaw as though to remind himself you were real.

You pressed harder, circling your hips against him, and this time his entire body tensed beneath you.

His thighs shifted, pressing up to meet your movements, grinding back against you with a rhythm that matched yours. The friction built between you, every movement hotter, needier, until there was no way to ignore the heat pooling low in your stomach.

Your moans tangled with his, filling the quiet room with the sound of ragged breathing, soft whimpers, and the occasional sharp, breathless curse.

The world outside didn’t exist anymore. There was only the two of you, lost in the rhythm of desperate friction, clothing damp with sweat, and the unbearable hunger that burned hotter with every passing second.

Your forehead finally dropped against his, as though the weight of desire and exhaustion had become too much to hold upright.

The small, trembling contact between your skin and his felt almost as intimate as the frantic grind of your bodies, and suddenly the room seemed smaller, quieter, as though the world had narrowed down to nothing but the ragged breaths that mingled between you.

You breathed him in with every exhale, your lips brushing against his mouth but not quite kissing, teasing the space where his warmth ended and yours began.

His eyes fluttered closed, opening only for fleeting moments, like he was trying desperately to stay present but failing, consumed by the overwhelming heat of it all.

Each time his lashes lowered and his head tilted just slightly, it was as though he surrendered another piece of himself to you, and the sight of him unraveling beneath you sent another rush of need spiraling through your chest.

Bob’s hand tightened suddenly on your hip, his fingers digging into you with almost bruising force as he pressed you down harder against him. For a second he held you like that, desperate, needy, but then, just as quickly, he let go, loosening his grip as though ashamed of losing control, his touch softening until it was barely there. You could feel the hesitation in his fingertips, the way he almost pulled back, almost denied himself the right to want you this much.

But you weren’t about to let him retreat. You moved against him harder, rolling your hips with deliberate pressure, forcing him to feel just how badly you wanted this, and his breath stuttered out of him in a broken moan that made your own pulse quicken.

His forehead pressed harder against yours, his lips brushing yours with every panting inhale, and when you opened your eyes you saw him—completely undone, flushed, trembling, his chest heaving as if even breathing had become a struggle.

“Jesus…” he whispered hoarsely, eyes fluttering shut again, his voice so rough it vibrated against your mouth.

You only hummed in response, low and needy, your own body aching with every grind. The heat between you was unbearable now, your clothes damp where they rubbed together, the friction sending sparks racing through your nerves with every movement.

One of your hands slid up his chest, curling into the fabric of his shirt as you clung to him, but the other drifted downward, brushing the edge of his shirt before finally resting at his waist.

You hesitated only for a heartbeat, feeling the tremble of his body beneath your touch, before slipping lower, tracing the line of his pants as though testing the boundaries of how much you were allowed to take.

Bob shuddered beneath you, his breath catching audibly, and his eyes opened just long enough to meet yours. The look he gave you was helpless, almost pleading, a mixture of hunger and disbelief, like he couldn’t quite fathom that this was really happening. His hand on your hip twitched, tightening again, and this time he didn’t let go.

You leaned in closer, your lips brushing his as you murmured softly, “It’s okay…” and with that reassurance you began to tug at the edge of his clothing, your fingers sliding with agonizing slowness toward the belt of his pants.

The cool metal of the buckle pressing lightly against your skin as you hovered there for just a moment, savoring the way Bob’s entire body tensed beneath you. His breath grew shallow, broken in quick bursts, his chest rising and falling as if each second of hesitation was its own form of exquisite torture.

You looked at him deliberately, letting your gaze lock with his while your fingers toyed with the leather, and you saw how his lips parted slightly, his throat working as he swallowed hard.

His eyes flickered down to your hands, then back up to you, and he looked almost dizzy from anticipation, as though the simple sound of the belt loosening might undo him entirely.

Slowly you tugged at the strap, pulling it free from the loop with a soft hiss of leather. Bob shivered violently at the sound, goosebumps rippling across his arms, his thighs tensing beneath you as if his body couldn’t contain the raw anticipation coursing through him.

His hands twitched where they rested, one still gripping your hip, the other clutching at the sheets, as though he wanted to help, to rush you, but couldn’t bring himself to interrupt the beautiful torture you were putting him through.

You unfastened the buckle with agonizing care, your fingers brushing against the heat of him through the fabric, and Bob let out a strangled groan, biting his lip hard as if trying to keep himself together.

You could see his knuckles whiten where he clutched at the bedsheet, his whole body trembling like a live wire, and when you finally moved to undo the button of his pants, he exhaled so shakily it was almost a whimper.

The zipper came next, and the faint rasp of metal sliding down was the loudest sound in the room.

Bob’s eyes never left your hands; he was transfixed, his gaze following every movement of your fingers like they were the only thing in the world that mattered. His breathing had turned ragged, uneven, and you could practically feel his heart hammering against your chest through the fragile space between you.

When you finally slipped your hand beneath the waistband and brushed against him, even through the thin fabric of his boxers, Bob’s head fell back against the wall with a low, guttural moan, his eyes squeezed shut as if the sensation was almost too much to endure.

His hips shifted upward instinctively, seeking more, but you slowed him down, your palm pressing lightly against him, controlling the pace.

You slid him free from the confines of his pants and boxers with deliberate tenderness, your touch careful and he instinctively lifted his hips to help you, his trembling hands hovering uselessly.

Once he was freed, hard and aching in your hand, Bob let out a shuddering breath that sounded almost like relief, his whole body sagging with the release of tension he’d been holding.

Your fingers curled lightly around him, not tight, not fast, just enough to tease, to make him writhe.

His entire body reacted—his shoulders arched back, his grip on your hip tightened desperately, and his thighs flexed beneath you as though he couldn’t decide whether to push into your hand or try to hold himself still.

The faintest whimper escaped his throat, broken and needy, and when you moved your hand just slightly, stroking him with a slow, deliberate glide, his lips parted around a gasp so raw it sent heat surging straight through your chest.

“F-fuck…” Bob breathed, his voice cracking, and his eyes fluttered open for only a moment, glassy and overwhelmed, before sliding shut again as though surrendering to the sheer bliss of your touch.

Every nerve in his body seemed alive beneath your fingers, goosebumps racing down his arms and chest, his whole frame trembling as though you had stripped him bare in every possible way.

Your hand began to move with more purpose now, fingers curling tightly around his hard length, stroking him in a rhythm that was slow but firm, dragging every nerve-ending to life.

You bit your lip instinctively, trying to hold back the sound that rose in your throat at the sheer feeling of him pulsing in your hand, hot and heavy and so achingly alive beneath your touch.

The sight of him—his flushed cheeks, his lips parted around desperate little breaths, the way his lashes fluttered as he tried to keep his eyes open just to watch you—made your whole body throb with answering desire.

Your panties were already soaked, clinging to you with every tiny shift of your hips on his lap, and the friction only made you shiver harder, heat pooling deep in your core as if his pleasure alone was fueling your own.

Bob’s reactions were uncontrollable. Every time your wrist twisted just slightly, his hips jolted upward helplessly, chasing more, and a strangled groan would tear from his throat, deep and shaky.

His hand gripped your hip like an anchor, his thumb pressing hard into your skin as though he needed to remind himself that you were real, that this was happening. And then, just as quickly, he would loosen his hold, almost shy, almost guilty, as if afraid of overstepping even while his body betrayed him, trembling and arching into every movement you gave him.

His breathing was ragged, broken, and each exhale hit your cheek in short, hot bursts as you leaned closer, your forehead pressing gently against his. That closeness made it impossible to ignore how hard your own body was reacting, the subtle rocking of your hips against him, the way you instinctively pressed down, seeking friction, grinding just faintly with each stroke of your hand.

The more you moved your hand, the more undone he became. His thighs tensed under you, muscles flexing, his toes curling against the bed as if he was trying to ground himself, but then your thumb brushed lightly over his tip and his whole body shuddered violently, a deep, guttural moan escaping before he could bite it back.

The sound made you whimper softly in return, your own arousal spiking so fiercely that your walls clenched around nothing.

You could see the conflict in his face, his brows drawn tight as though he was fighting to keep control, his lips trembling with every breath, but his body… his body was already yours, surrendering to every glide of your fingers.

He opened his eyes just long enough to look at you, his gaze dark and glassy, and the way his pupils blew wide made your stomach twist in heat.

His whispered voice finally broke through, cracked and needy: “D-don’t stop… please don’t stop…”

Each drag of your fingers making him jolt harder beneath you. His chest rose and fell in frantic waves, his shirt clinging to his skin with sweat, every muscle in his body drawn tight as though he was holding onto a thread.

“God… I—I’m so close…” he stammered, his voice a ragged growl mixed with a plea, his hips bucking up into your hand. You could feel the tremors racing through him, the way his cock twitched violently in your grip, the way his thighs quivered under the weight of the pleasure about to consume him.

His head tipped back, his mouth open in a silent cry, his face flushed a deep crimson.

And just when you felt him reaching that edge, ready to spill, you stopped.

You loosened your hand and pulled away, biting your lip as you whispered against his ear, your voice dripping with wicked intent:

“No, Bob… I don’t want you to finish like this. I want you to come inside me.”

The words broke him. His entire body froze, as if time itself had stopped.

Then his head dropped forward, his forehead pressing hard against your shoulder, a strangled sound escaping his throat that was somewhere between a groan and a whimper.

He was trembling, every inch of him slick with sweat, his chest heaving as though he couldn’t get enough air into his lungs.

He looked at you with wide, dark eyes, glassy with need, his lips parted but no words coming out.

You were wet beyond reason, your panties clinging to you, the ache between your thighs screaming for release.

And before you could say another word, Bob snapped.

He surged forward, his lips crushing against yours in a kiss that was frantic, almost desperate, his hands fumbling clumsily at your waist as if he needed more of you, all of you, right now. The sudden intensity made you gasp into his mouth, surprised, but your body melted instantly against him, every nerve crying out in agreement.

One of his hands slid up along your side, trembling as he reached your shoulder strap, his fingers hesitating there, holding, waiting. His eyes darted up to yours, searching, silently asking a question he couldn’t voice. You knew exactly what he was asking—may I?

Your lips parted, your breathing uneven, and you gave him the smallest, trembling nod. That was all he needed.

His hands began to peel your dress down carefully, as if unwrapping something sacred. His knuckles brushed over your skin, sending sparks racing across your body, goosebumps rising in waves even as your own heat flared hotter.

Every inch he revealed, every sigh that slipped from your lips, made his chest shudder, made his eyes grow darker with hunger.

You could feel his cock still hard and throbbing beneath you, pressed tight against your soaked panties, reminding you both exactly what you had just promised him.

You shivered as cool air caressed your newly exposed skin. He moved slowly, his eyes locked onto yours as though he needed your permission with every inch he revealed. When the fabric finally slid down your body and pooled at your waist before you pushed it fully away, his lips parted and for a moment Bob simply stared at you like he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

“God… you’re beautiful,” he murmured, like gravel dragged over velvet.

His mouth descended again, this time not for your lips but for the delicate skin of your collarbone. He kissed there slowly, reverently, trailing further down to the swell of your chest, each touch soft but so passionate you felt your knees weaken even while seated.

Goosebumps rippled across your skin with every press of his lips, every drag of his breath, until you were trembling in his arms, whispering his name like a prayer.

Your fingers moved then, tugging at the edges of his uniform shirt. You pushed it off his shoulders, and Bob immediately helped, yanking it down his arms and tossing it aside with surprising urgency.

Next came his undershirt, thin and damp with sweat. When you pulled it over his head, your breath hitched, your eyes widening as his body was laid bare before you.

His chest was strong and broad, his muscles tense but perfectly defined, a canvas of strength that left you momentarily speechless. You let your hands trail across his chest, your fingertips grazing over every contour, every dip, feeling the heat radiating from him. Bob flushed red, his eyes darting away for a brief second before returning to you with a hunger that swallowed his shyness whole.

He kissed you again, deeper this time, with a fire that melted every trace of hesitation.

His hands slid along your waist, pulling you tighter against him, and you felt his erection pressing hard against you. The kiss turned messy, tongues tangling as you let instinct take over. And then, without a second thought, you shifted, straddling him completely.

The second your weight settled on him, you both gasped in unison, the contact electric. His hardness pressed directly against your soaked panties, grinding against the place where you ached the most. The friction made you moan into his mouth, your body already betraying you with how desperately it wanted more.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his, your lips brushing against his as you whispered, “I can’t wait anymore, Bob.”

Bob, with a strangled groan, moved—urgent, desperate, but still gentle in the way only Bob could be.

His trembling hands slid down your body, gripping at the edge of your panties. You barely had time to register the motion before, with a swift tug, he pulled them down your thighs and tossed them aside carelessly, as if they were the last obstacle between him and salvation.

The sudden exposure made you gasp, the cool air kissing your soaked skin, Bob's gaze dropping down, his lips parting in awe. You could see the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.

You reached down with shaking hands, wrapping your fingers around his aching length again, guiding him as you shifted your hips forward. Bob let out a broken moan, his eyes fluttered shut, his lips forming your name in a breathless whisper.

Slowly you lowered yourself onto him. The stretch was intense, almost too much at first, but it was exactly what you had been craving—what both of you had been craving all night.

Every inch filled you more completely, more perfectly than you could have imagined, until you were seated fully in his lap, your bodies locked together in a way that left no space, no distance.

You gasped at the fullness, your nails digging into his shoulders, while Bob groaned so deeply it vibrated through his chest into yours.

“Jesus… you feel… so good,” he rasped, his voice hoarse and broken, his hands clutching desperately at your hips.

For a moment, neither of you moved, both overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of finally being joined.

But then, instinctively, your hips rolled, a slow grind that made both of you shudder violently. His grip tightened, but then he gave in completely, guiding you, urging you, letting you set the pace.

And the rodeo began—your bodies moving in a raw, hungry rhythm, your moans mingling with his, the bed creaking beneath you as passion overtook everything else. Each thrust, each grind, each cry pulled you both higher, until nothing else in the world existed except this perfect connection between you and Bob.

Your hips swayed in tentative circles, the pressure and stretch sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your body. Bob’s head leaned forward until his forehead pressed against your collarbone, his lips brushing along your skin, whispering fragments of your name between ragged breaths. His hands gripped your waist as if afraid you might slip away.

But the longer you stayed joined, the more the restraint crumbled.

Your rhythm grew bolder, the grind of your hips deeper, and soon Bob was meeting you halfway, thrusting up into you with a desperation that pulled broken cries from both your throats.

Each snap of his hips forced you to clutch at his shoulders, your nails digging crescents into his skin while his groans grew louder.

“God—please—” Bob gasped, his voice so hoarse it nearly cracked. His chest was damp with sweat, every muscle in his body straining, his entire being consumed by the feeling of you wrapped around him so perfectly.

Your own body betrayed you just as much, your moans growing higher, your thighs shaking from the intensity, your wetness coating him with every wild grind. You could feel your climax building, coiling tighter with every thrust, every desperate movement, until it was almost unbearable.

Bob noticed; you could see it in the way his ocean eyes, now half-lidded and wild, locked on you as though he could feel every twitch of your body from the inside.

He groaned, his voice breaking as he buried his face against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin. “I’m so close… but I don’t want this to end,” he murmured, his words muffled but soaked in desperation, in need, in love and lust all tangled together. That single confession pushed you over the edge.

With a strangled cry, you clutched his hair and ground down hard, the wave crashing through you with blinding intensity. Your walls clenched around him in pulsing spasms, dragging him with you.

Bob’s eyes slammed shut, his entire body jerking violently as he lost control, groaning your name like a prayer as he spilled deep inside you. His hands clawed at your hips, holding you in place as if he needed to be as far inside you as humanly possible, riding the wave of his release with a desperation that left him shaking.

The two of you clung to each other through it, trembling, sweaty, your breaths mingling in uneven gasps and moans until finally the storm passed.

You collapsed against his chest, your body still shivering with aftershocks, while Bob wrapped his arms around you, holding you so tightly it almost hurt, as though you were the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your heartbeats thundering together, the heat of your bodies pressed so close.

Bob kissed your temple softly, still breathless, still trembling, and whispered against your skin, “Guess you are real.”

A sleepy smile tugged at your lips as you remained curled against his chest, listening to the rapid yet slowly calming rhythm of his heartbeat.

All that existed in this moment was the cocoon of warmth, the way his arms held you so tightly, and the comforting peace that slowly pulled you under.

At some point, with heavy eyelids and clumsy movements, Bob reached up to remove his glasses. He set them carefully on the nightstand, right beside the glass of water, as though even in his half-asleep haze he refused to risk them falling or breaking. Then he pulled you even closer, burying his face in your hair before letting himself drift off.

The night slipped away quickly, and morning crept in almost unnoticed.

Bob stirred first—not because he wanted to, but because his body was conditioned to wake early from years of morning flights.

He blinked groggily, rubbing his eyes, and then instinctively reached for his glasses. Only when the familiar weight settled on his nose and the world sharpened into focus did he allow himself a small, contented sigh.

He turned his head to look at you. You were still curled against him, your cheek pressed into his shoulder, breathing deep and even. A quiet smile softened his tired features.

For a moment, he just stayed like that, drinking in the sight of you, his chest tightening at how peaceful and achingly beautiful you looked.

Then, carefully, he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss against your forehead.

You responded only with a sleepy little murmur, your lips parting slightly as you instinctively pulled the blanket higher to your chin, tucking yourself deeper into the warmth.

Bob chuckled softly under his breath, the sound low and affectionate, and let you stay lost in your dreams a little longer.

He sat up on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, stretching his shoulders until they popped, then reached again for the bottle of water.

But just as the quiet wrapped itself around the room, soft and still, your purse on the chair gave a sudden, sharp buzz.

Bob glanced at your purse, then back at you. You were still asleep, face half-buried in the pillow, lips parted slightly, the blanket curled up around you like a shield.

He smiled, deciding it wasn’t worth disturbing such a peaceful sight.

He slipped out of bed as carefully as he could, moving slowly, inch by inch, so the mattress wouldn’t shift and wake you. His glasses slid a little down the bridge of his nose as he bent to grab his shirt from the floor, and he pushed them back up absently while padding barefoot toward the small kitchen.

He had already made up his mind—he’d surprise you with coffee, maybe even breakfast, the kind of simple gesture that felt strangely monumental after last night.

But then the buzzing came again.

And again.

And again.

The sound rattled against the silence, insistent, like it demanded attention. Bob stopped in the doorway, his jaw tightening. He wasn’t the type to intrude, wasn’t the type to pry. Respecting boundaries was second nature to him.

Yet as the notifications kept vibrating in quick succession, he frowned, his chest tightening with unease. Whoever it was, they clearly weren’t going to stop.

Finally, almost against his own principles, he sighed and stepped back to the chair. He hesitated, his hand hovering over of your purse for a long moment, before pulling it open carefully and retrieving the phone. The screen lit up instantly, the flood of messages impossible to ignore.

He saw the name Beck. He figured out she was just your friend, but then his eyes moved lower, scanning line after line, each one striking harder than the last.

Beck🐷: good morning, babe

Beck🐷: I’m guessing you had fun last night

Beck🐷: you’re welcome ;)

Beck🐷: anyway, you won the bet, the video’s deleted

Beck🐷: hope the sex was worth it

For a moment, Bob just stood there frozen, the phone heavy in his hand. His heart plummeted straight through his chest, a sharp ache ripping into his ribs as if the air itself had turned hostile.

His vision blurred slightly, but because everything inside him recoiled at once.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry, his pulse hammering against his temples.

The warmth from earlier—the quiet intimacy, the soft kiss on your forehead, the sense that maybe, just maybe, he could let himself fall—shattered in a second.

Bob carried your phone with him when he left the bedroom, setting it down carefully on the small dining table, as though the device itself had turned into something poisonous.

He moved into the kitchenette, his hands trembling so violently that when he reached for a mug from the cupboard, porcelain clinked against porcelain. His breath was uneven, chest rising and falling too fast for something as simple as making coffee.

Was it all fake? Every laugh, every kiss, every word? His mind spun in circles, the echo of last night now tainted, painted over with doubt and dread.

He pressed a hand to his forehead, glasses sliding slightly down his nose, and squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the nausea that came not only from his thoughts but from his body itself. His stomach churned. His legs felt weak.

Then he heard a faint creak of the floorboards. Bob’s head snapped up immediately, his whole body tightening at the sound, and there you were.

Still drowsy, hair a little messy, eyes half-closed as you stretched and yawned your way into the room. You

wore one of his t-shirts, loose on you, hanging past your thighs, and the sight, under any other circumstances, would have melted him. But now it only twisted the knife deeper.

“Good morning,” you murmured with a sleepy smile, padding toward him, rubbing your eyes. “You’re up early.”

He didn’t answer. His expression stopped you in your tracks before you could reach for him. His eyes were shadowed, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Bob?” your voice was softer now, cautious. “What’s going on?”

He hesitated. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, staring down at the counter as though the words might arrange themselves for him. His knuckles whitened around the edge of the mug he still held.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he set it down, his movements slow, deliberate, and lifted his gaze to yours.

“Tell me,” he began, his voice low, strained, almost breaking. “Last night… was it real?”

Your brows furrowed, confusion flashing across your face. “What do you mean?”

Bob’s jaw clenched, the muscles ticking as he forced the words out. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” He gestured stiffly toward the table, where your phone lay.

Heart pounding, you walked over, the unease growing heavier with each step. The screen lit up with the unread notifications as soon as you touched it. And then you saw Beck's messages.

Your eyes widened, breath caught in your throat. For a long second, you just stared at the words, your pulse crashing in your ears. Then slowly, you lifted your gaze back to Bob. His face was pale, lips tight, eyes red around the edges like he’d been holding back too much all at once.

“Bob, no— it’s not what you think,” you blurted out immediately.

He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, his voice breaking. “Not what I think? Really? Because what I think is that I was just a bet. That everything you said, everything you did last night—” his voice cracked, his anger splintering into something rawer, something that cut even deeper. “—was just a game to you.”

“Bob, please—”

“No.” He shook his head, cutting you off, his hand coming up like a wall between you. “Don’t. Don’t try to spin it. You don’t know what that did to me—what you did to me. I—” He broke off, dragging both hands through his hair, glasses sliding crooked down his nose. His breath came fast, shoulders tense, his whole body taut with hurt.

“I thought you were different.”

Your chest tightened, tears already pricking at the corners of your eyes. You stepped closer, your voice trembling but insistent. “Listen, yeah, at first, it was a stupid bet. I’m not going to lie about that. But the second I started talking to you, I completely forgot about I didn’t sleep with you because of some dare, Bob—I slept with you because I wanted you.”

He turned his head sharply, jaw tight, but he didn’t interrupt this time. His silence felt like a test.

“I’m not that kind of girl,” you went on, voice shaking, but steadier with each word. “I don’t sleep with men on the first night just for fun. Do you think I would have stayed? Do you think I would have looked at you the way I did if it was just some joke? Everything I felt with you last night was real, Bob. All of it.”

For a long, heavy moment, Bob just stared at you, his chest rising and falling as if he’d been holding his breath this entire time. His eyes glistened behind his glasses, torn between disbelief and the desperate hope that you might actually be telling the truth.

When he finally spoke, his voice was rough, low. “You… you mean that?”

You nodded quickly, stepping closer until your fingers brushed against his trembling hand. “Every word. You have no idea how much.”

Bob exhaled shakily, as though the air itself had been stolen from his lungs.

He let his hand slip into yours, still hesitant, but when he felt the way you held on, how tightly you clung to him, something in his chest broke open.

Slowly, he pulled you against him, burying his face into your hair, inhaling deeply as though grounding himself in your scent.

“I want to believe it,” he whispered, voice cracked and unsteady. “I want to believe you so badly.”

“You can,” you whispered back, your arms sliding around his waist, pressing yourself against him as though you could anchor him there, away from the storm in his mind. “You can.”

Bob leaned back just enough to look at you, searching your eyes for any sign of deceit. Finding none, he let out a small, broken laugh, his thumb brushing across your cheek. “I don’t know what to do with you,” he murmured, half exasperated, half overcome.

“Just…” you whispered, leaning into his touch, “…believe me.”

And finally, Bob did. He kissed you then, not desperate like last night, but soft and slow, like a man who had been lost and suddenly found his way back.

His hands framed your face tenderly, almost reverently, and though his heart was still aching, it began to steady, the pieces stitching back together one by one as he held you.

Still holding you close, Bob let out a long breath, his forehead resting against yours. His heartbeat was finally slowing, syncing with the steady rise and fall of your chest.

Then, in a voice quieter, softer, almost shy, he murmured against your temple, “You look… really good in my shirt.”

You laughed softly, the tension in your chest finally loosening, and leaned back just enough to look at him.

“Oh yeah? Well, you don’t look too bad yourself,” you teased, brushing your hand across his jaw where the stubble had begun to grow in. “Think I might keep this shirt.”

His lips twitched into the faintest smirk. “You can keep it,” he said, his thumb tracing lazy circles on your waist, “but on one condition.”

You raised a brow suspiciously. “Condition?”

“Mm-hm.” He tilted his head, studying you with that mixture of earnestness and mischief that only Bob could pull off. “I want to see that video.”

Your whole body stiffened, and you pulled back instantly, eyes wide. “What? No. Absolutely not!”

Bob chuckled at your sudden panic, holding you in place when you tried to wriggle out of his arms. “C’mon, what’s the big deal? Just let me see it.”

You shook your head furiously, hiding your face against his chest. “No way. Not happening.”

“Mm,” he leaned down to pepper a quick kiss on your cheek, then another on your jaw. “You’re hiding something. That makes me want to see it even more.”

“Bob!” you groaned, swatting at his chest, though your lips were already twitching with a reluctant smile.

He only laughed, pulling you closer, his voice warm and playful now. “Fine, fine. I’ll stop. For now. But don’t think I’m letting this go forever.”

You finally looked up at him, rolling your eyes but unable to fight the smile that spread across your face. “You’re annoying.”

“But you like it,” he replied without hesitation, kissing the tip of your nose before wrapping you in his arms again.

This time, when you melted into him, it was with a sense of ease, of trust, of something fragile but real. And as you stood there in his shirt, tangled in his embrace, you knew that whatever had started as a game had turned into something neither of you could ever walk away from.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

HAVE A LOVELY DAY!

BYEEE!!!👾🦁🌂

[adelliet]

Hi! This may be a strange question/ask

I read your Bob reynolds sex manual fanfic (loved it by the way good headcannons) and I was interested if I could mention it in a fanfiction im writing,

So I’m writing a Bob reynolds X reader fanfic thay it’s just reader doing an interview with Bob for PA and reading spicy tweets and fanfics about him, as hes now known to the public

And I just wanted to see if I could bring up the sex manual as one of the fanfictions, i wouldnt be adding anything you wrote and I would credit you in authors note. I just plan to bring up the fanfic, and have them both be like”…oh? Wasn’t really expecting that”

but I was just wondering, Thank you so much!

-🪻

Hi!! First of all, I’m so happy you liked it <3 And second—of course, go ahead! You’re honestly so sweet for even asking, because you totally didn’t have to 🤍 There’s absolutely no problem.

I’d actually be really happy if you tagged me, I’d love to read it too :3

[adelliet]

BOB’S SEX MANUAL

This is a general sexual manual for Bob Floyd — what positions he prefers, which ones he tends to avoid, how he behaves during intimacy, all of that (and more) is detailed right here.

Warning: MDNI 18+. This text contains explicit sexual content, mentions of blood and menstruation, and other potentially sensitive topics.

A/n: This was highly requested after my last sex manual for Bob Reynolds, so there you go! Even though I tried to write this mostly through Bob’s eyes and feelings, keep in mind it’s still a subjective interpretation, obviously. Everyone’s free to have their own take on the character, so please don’t take every single word too seriously. After all, this is all just imagination :p

SEX POSITIONS

Missionary

This position is one that never truly loses its charm, even if it doesn’t promise wild novelty every single time. For you, as a pillow princess, it means surrendering to his pace, letting his steady, deliberate movements guide you. If he starts to tire, there’s always the easy option to switch things up, but more often than not, Bob stays here, his safe space, his comfort zone. When he’s close to release, there’s a certain shyness that takes over; he presses his face into the curve of your neck almost the entire time, hiding his expression as if it’s something far too intimate to give away freely. Every now and then, you’ll feel the soft, fleeting drag of his tongue, the gentle press of his lips, or, on bolder days, the sharp nip of his teeth leaving behind a perfectly placed mark that speaks louder than words: you’re his.

In this position, Bob is precise, almost methodical, as if he has a personal ritual to follow. He always starts slowly, giving you both a moment to adjust, you to his size, him to the delicious heat and slickness that draws a low sound from his throat. But once you’ve both settled into it, the tempo changes; he lets himself go, chasing that rising high until he sometimes loses control entirely. There are moments where he’ll slip out completely, his rhythm stuttering, hips moving without perfect coordination, leaving the whole scene a little messy. But you don’t mind, in fact, that slight messiness is part of the charm, especially with someone as sweet and unexpectedly intense as Bob, who hides far more passion than people might guess. The bed will creak and sway beneath you, loud enough for the neighbors to piece together exactly what’s happening, and though you both try to keep your moans quiet, you never truly succeed.

Doggy Style

This is a position you’re far more likely to suggest than Bob, though, on rare occasions when he’s in the mood to experiment, he’ll be the one to initiate. And when he does have the energy for it, you quickly discover that he’s more open to trying new things in bed than most people would expect from him.

At first, this position was a challenge for him. Without your face in view, he couldn’t immediately read your expression, couldn’t tell if what he was doing was driving you wild or missing the mark entirely. This uncertainty often made him ask, gentle, tentative questions that would fade only when your voice grew breathless with exhaustion and pleasure, reassuring him without words. Over time, he learned to listen for the subtle changes in your breathing, to feel the way your hips pushed back against him, telling him more than any spoken answer could.

Truth be told, he rarely keeps his eyes fixed on the view before him, even without his glasses, the blur is one thing, but he’s always been more attuned to catching glimpses of your expressions, something this position makes harder. Still, after a few tries and a little experimentation, he found the perfect angle, the rhythm that makes you fall apart quickly. Once he knows you’re close, the hesitation melts away, and his own pleasure follows without resistance.

Cowgirl

Whenever the word sex is mentioned, Bob’s mind goes straight to this position. He loves it, truly, he could spend the rest of his life doing nothing but this, and he would die a happy man. Here, the presence or absence of his glasses doesn’t matter; he can see you clearly, see everything at once. His eyes follow the movement of his length disappearing into you, the rise and fall of your breasts, the shifting expressions on your face, all layered together into something that feels like pure paradise, the perfect kind of therapy after a long, exhausting day.

His hands rest on your hips most of the time, grounding you, guiding you, but they have a tendency to wander. Every now and then, he can’t help but trail his fingers up your body, giving your breasts a gentle squeeze or teasing your nipples just enough to make you squirm. Still, he always comes back to your hips, ready to take over if you tire before either of you reaches release, moving you with steady strength until you’re both there. He hates switching from this position because here, he can see you entirely, every part of you all at once, and to him, that’s worth more than a million dollars.

Reverse Cowgirl

This one comes with a similar challenge to doggy style. Of course he enjoys it, he adores every inch of your body, and your juicy, perfect ass is no exception. The way it bounces when you ride him like this drives him crazy, but without seeing your face, he’s never entirely sure if you’re enjoying it as much as he is. That uncertainty plants a subtle block in his mind, one that keeps him from losing himself completely.

He tries to focus on the pleasure, and he does like it, but he rarely finishes as quickly or as often in this position compared to others. After a while, the two of you usually agree to treat it as a once-in-a-while indulgence, maybe one to three times, but no more than that in a given stretch. It’s fun, it’s hot, but for Bob, the lack of connection through your expressions makes it something he can live without too often.

Spooning

Honestly? For Bob, this position is sometimes less about wild passion and more about comfort, almost like a lullaby before sleep. After coming home worn out from long flights, he’ll collapse onto the bed and see you, either naked or in delicate lingerie, and that’s all it takes. When you notice the tired lines on his face, you know exactly what’s coming: spooning.

It doesn’t always start that way, though. Sometimes, he’s half-asleep and dreaming of you in ways that get him hard without realizing it, until you feel it pressing against you. Then, of course, you start teasing, shifting your hips back into him until there’s no question where things are headed. This position is deeply intimate, a slow and grounding connection where the goal isn’t just climax, but also comfort, touch, and a shared sense of quiet.

Bob usually keeps one hand on your hip, moving with an unhurried rhythm, as if there’s nowhere else in the world to be. His lips find their way to your neck, leaving soft, lingering kisses that raise goosebumps along your skin. He notices it immediately, feels the fine hairs stand under his mouth, and it makes him smile against you. Sometimes, this position stretches far beyond a few minutes, it can last close to an hour, but neither of you ever minds. In those moments, it’s not just sex; it’s medicine.

Lotus

Being tangled up together like this, with your scent filling his lungs and your warmth pressed against every inch of him, is enough to undo Bob in seconds. In this position, movement is limited, there’s no bouncing, no thrusting in the usual way, but he doesn’t need any of that. For him, the closeness is overwhelming in the best possible sense. The way your thighs frame his hips, the feel of your skin sliding against his, the quiet hitch in your breath when your eyes lock on his… all of it pulls him right to the edge before either of you even realize it’s happening.

Usually, this position is born out of cowgirl. You’re riding him, but then he decides you’re too far away, as if the mere fact that he’s inside you isn’t enough. He’ll wrap his arms around you, draw you down to him until your chests are flush, your foreheads touching, his lips brushing your cheek or jaw as you breathe together. To Bob, this is not just sex. It’s the ache of wanting you so close that it feels like you could seep into his bloodstream, flow through his veins, and stay there forever.

Standing

This position doesn’t just happen, it erupts. It’s the result of a slow, unbearable build-up that neither of you can ignore anymore. You might be out somewhere, maybe Phoenix is chatting away with you, Fanboy is deep in conversation with Bob, but both of you are completely checked out of the world around you, thinking only about the heat building between you. The moment you’re finally alone, the idea of walking all the way to the bed feels unnecessary, even wasteful.

In these moments, Bob surprises you. Usually so careful, so cautious, here he lets a different side of himself out. He’s on you before you can even consider it. Big, warm hands slipping under your thighs, lifting you effortlessly despite the slightly clumsy way he sometimes moves outside of sex. Your legs wrap tight around his waist, and you can feel the tension in his body, the restrained strength he doesn’t often show.

His expression shifts to one of pure focus, and with one smooth, commanding motion, he’s inside you — no hesitation, no second-guessing, his breath catching with a sound that’s half-growl, half-groan.

His thrusts are hard, unrestrained, his mouth occasionally dropping open in deep, masculine groans that make you question whether this is the same Bob Floyd everyone assumes is too shy to take charge. Little do they know, this “whimpery cry-baby” can pin you against the wall so firmly your back remembers the pressure the next morning, can grab your jaw, tilt your head up, and kiss you like he’s starving. That this Bob can flip you, press you chest-first against the wall, and take you from behind with enough force to make you forget your own name — except for his, which you’re shouting loud enough that even thick walls can’t muffle it. And later, when you’re both catching your breath, he’ll blush like hell if you point out how rough he got.

Sex During Menstruation

Bob is open to it, but he’s often more nervous than you are, not out of disgust, never that. To him, you’re never anything less than beautiful, whether you’re tipsy, messy, or sick. The surprise comes more from the fact that you bring it up, suggesting or hinting that you want him even during that time of the month.

He tries to keep track of your cycle, sometimes jotting it down somewhere, other times asking outright despite the slight blush it brings to his cheeks.

When it happens, his touch is extra cautious at first,warm hands smoothing over your skin, fingers brushing your hair back, every move deliberate. He keeps checking in, murmuring soft questions in between kisses: “Does that feel okay?” “Tell me if I’m too much.”

His thrusts are slow, almost testing, like he’s afraid to cross an invisible line. And though you can see the restraint in the tension of his shoulders, you also know that if you grip his hips and tell him, “Faster,” he will, instantly, no hesitation, giving you exactly what you asked for.

The mess never bothers him. He notices the streaks on his skin, the red along his length, and doesn’t flinch. If anything, there’s a certain rawness to it that he secretly finds grounding, proof of how deeply connected you are in that moment. And when it’s over, he’s not rushing to clean himself up before touching you again; instead, he’ll pull you in close, ignoring the sheets, murmuring that you’re beautiful against the side of your neck.

ORAL POSITIONS

Sixty-nine (69)

For Bob, 69 is both thrilling and intimidating, and the first time you suggested it, he froze for half a beat like his brain needed to buffer the idea. It’s not that he doesn’t want to, God, he wants to, it’s that the thought of being so exposed while you are too makes his heart thump hard enough to hear in his ears. Even as he’s nodding and agreeing, there’s that faint pink in his cheeks, the same shy smile that says I can’t believe you actually want this with me.

Once you’re both in place, the reality of it hits him. He’s lying there with your body above him, your scent enveloping him, your skin warm under his hands, and at the same time, you’re touching him in ways that make his thighs tense and his breath hitch. For the first few moments, it’s almost overwhelming, every flick of your tongue makes his own stutter, every moan you let slip vibrates through him and makes it harder for him to focus.

He starts slow, his mouth exploring you with the same care he uses when learning a new flight maneuver — patient, precise, testing little changes to see what makes you gasp. His fingers spread gently over your hips, thumbs brushing your skin, steadying you. He’ll pause every so often to breathe you in, to savor the taste and the closeness, but also because the way your lips and tongue work him over makes his knees want to give out even though he’s lying down.

As the minutes pass, something shifts. The shyness starts to fade, replaced by this quiet determination. You feel it in the way his grip on your hips tightens, anchoring you against his mouth, his tongue moving with more confidence, more hunger. And when you take him deeper, when your fingers curl into his thighs or his hips, a raw, muffled groan escapes against you, the kind of sound that makes you want to keep pushing him right to the edge.

There’s this delicious push-and-pull in the moment: he’s trying to make you come before he does, but every time you whimper around him, it chips away at his control. If you finish first, trembling above him, he won’t stop right away; he’ll keep going just long enough to make you squirm from oversensitivity, because there’s something about knowing you fell apart while he was falling apart too that leaves him completely undone. And afterward, when you shift off him, he’ll lie there catching his breath, cheeks flushed, eyes a little dazed.

Face Sitting

This one plays directly into Bob’s sweet, almost self-sacrificing nature, but also tests it. The first time you straddled his face, his eyes went wide and his hands instinctively came to your hips like he wasn’t sure whether to pull you down or hold you up. “Are you sure?” he asked, even as his breath was warm against you. But when you told him you wanted it, his hesitation melted.

Once you’re settled over him, Bob is all in. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, fingertips pressing into your skin as if to anchor you to him. He doesn’t just lick — he explores, learning exactly how to angle his mouth, when to flatten his tongue and when to focus on that spot that makes you gasp. Every muffled sound he makes against you sends vibrations through your body, and when you try to lift yourself off him for a moment, his hands will tighten, urging you back down with a quiet, needy groan.

There’s something almost reverent about the way he does it — as if having you above him like this is a privilege, not just an act. He’ll keep going until your legs are trembling and your voice is shaking, and even then, if you tell him to stop, he’ll steal one last, lingering taste before letting you go. And if you happen to look down at him afterward, cheeks flushed and lips wet, you’ll see that shy little smile that says he’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Standing Oral

This is where Bob’s shyness and his hidden dominance collide in the most intoxicating way. Sometimes it happens spontaneously, maybe you’re leaning against the kitchen counter late at night, maybe you’ve just come in from a date and haven’t even made it to the bedroom yet. He’ll drop to his knees in front of you, looking up with that mix of determination and a question in his eyes, as if silently asking for permission even though you already know you’ll give it.

His hands slide up your legs, pushing fabric aside if you’re still dressed, and then he’s there, mouth warm and eager against you, tongue moving in slow, teasing circles at first. He uses his grip on your thighs or hips to keep you steady, because Bob loves when you start to lose your balance from what he’s doing to you. Sometimes he’ll glance up while he’s working you over, and that eye contact is devastating, part innocence, part pure hunger.

If you tangle your fingers in his hair and pull him closer, he’ll groan into you, the sound sending shivers up your spine. And when your knees start to buckle, instead of easing up, he’ll shift one hand to the small of your back, holding you upright so you can’t escape until he’s decided you’re done, which, with Bob, usually means he’s wrung every last wave of pleasure out of you. And afterward? He’ll stand up, kiss you slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his lips with that quiet pride he never says out loud but you can always feel.

Lying Oral

This is Bob’s safe zone when it comes to giving you oral — you stretched out comfortably on your back, him settled between your thighs with all the time in the world. From this angle, he can see you, read every twitch of your expression, every sharp inhale, and that makes him feel grounded. His glasses stay on, because here they don’t get in the way; in fact, they make it better for him, every detail of you is crystal clear, every tiny shift in your expression is magnified. Sometimes you’ll see his lenses fog slightly from the heat between you, and it makes him chuckle against your skin before diving right back in.

Bob’s hands are everywhere, but never hurried, one anchoring on your hip while the other strokes along your inner thigh, sometimes holding you open just enough to give him the perfect angle. He’ll kiss his way toward you, soft and deliberate, as if building up to the moment is part of the pleasure for him. Once his mouth is on you, his pace is steady, his tongue moving in patient, slow strokes that grow more focused as he feels you starting to melt under him.

Sometimes he’ll glance up at you over the rims of his glasses, and there’s something almost dangerous about the way that shy, boyish face is paired with what he’s doing. And when you reach for him, fingers in his hair, gentle tugs urging him closer, he’ll press in deeper, groaning quietly against you like he’s the one being pleasured. If you cum while he’s still looking at you, that image burns into his mind for days, and he’ll think about it every time he’s alone, flushed and smiling like a man with the best-kept secret in the world.

Oral from Behind

This one is different, darker, hungrier, and in a way, a little more daring for Bob. You’re on your hands and knees, maybe expecting him to slide in, but instead you feel the heat of his breath on you, the light brush of his lips against the backs of your thighs. He takes his time here, partly because the view from behind is intoxicating for him, partly because not having your eyes on him makes him braver.

But — and this is why it’s not his favorite — without seeing your face, he feels like he’s missing something important. Bob lives for your expressions, the little changes that tell him he’s hitting the right spot. From this angle, he has to rely on your sounds and the way your body moves, and while that does turn him on, there’s a part of him that misses that direct connection. His glasses sometimes slide down his nose when he’s like this, and he’ll push them back up with one hand, never fully breaking contact with you.

His hands grip your hips firmly, pulling you back toward his mouth as his tongue works over you with a rougher rhythm than usual. Sometimes he’ll pull back just far enough to kiss along the curve of your ass, his thumbs parting you so he can get a better angle, then dive back in with renewed intensity. And when you start to lose strength in your arms, sinking lower onto the bed, he’ll follow you down without missing a beat, staying locked on you until you’re shaking. Later, he’ll admit in a soft voice that he prefers when he can see you, but the way he says it makes it sound less like a complaint and more like a confession.

Period Oral

The first time you hinted at wanting this, Bob blinked like he was sure he’d misheard you. “Wait… during—?” But the surprise only lasted a moment before his lips pressed together in thought, and you could see the gears turning, not in judgment, but in figuring out how to make it good for you. He’s not squeamish, not with you, but he is careful; that carefulness shows in the way he touches you, the way he asks questions in that low, almost hesitant voice: “Does this still feel good?” “Here okay?”

His glasses stay on unless you specifically pull them off, he likes being able to see you clearly, especially during something this intimate. They fog quickly from the heat of your body, and sometimes he’ll pull back for a second to wipe them with the hem of his shirt before continuing, smiling almost shyly at the absurdity of the moment.

He knows you’re more sensitive during your period, not just physically, but emotionally, and that makes him even more deliberate. His mouth starts slow, gentle, sometimes avoiding direct pressure at first, kissing and licking around you in ways that still make your thighs tremble. The taste, the mess, none of it bothers him, though he’s aware of it. He’ll sometimes slip a hand up to your belly or hip, grounding you with his warmth while his tongue works with the same patience he uses in any other moment.

And when you moan for him — really moan, the kind that makes his whole body react — he can’t help himself. His pace grows bolder, his focus sharper, and if you tell him not to hold back, he won’t. He’ll keep going until you’re trembling against him, even if there’s a little more cleanup afterward. In his mind, that’s nothing compared to the intimacy of knowing you trust him enough to want this with him, even when the world says it’s “not the right time.” That trust makes him fall for you a little harder every single time.

Switch Up (you giving Bob)

It usually starts as him giving to you, his mouth between your thighs, his focus locked on your pleasure, until you decide he’s had enough of being in control. You’ll shift, maybe with a mischievous tug on his hair or a sly smile, and before he can even ask what you’re doing, you’ve got him lying back, glasses slightly askew, looking up at you with wide, startled eyes.

Bob’s first instinct is to push his glasses higher on his nose so he can see you properly. He never wants to miss a moment of this, your expression, the way you glance up at him, the small movements you make while your mouth works on him. Those lenses become his window to you, and sometimes, if he’s feeling bold, he’ll hook a finger under them to tilt them down just enough so he can see you without the frames, raw and unfiltered.

The first few seconds always overwhelm him, the heat, the sudden wetness around him, the way your tongue traces along his length. His head tips back, and a shaky breath escapes him, almost like he’s trying not to moan too loudly. Bob’s not loud by nature, but you can read every reaction in his body — the twitch of his hips, the way his fingers curl into the sheets, the tiny shift of his glasses when his head tilts forward to watch you.

If you take him deep, his hands will find your hair, not to push or control, but to anchor himself. There’s always that tiny moment where his breathing hitches, his mouth parts, and his eyes widen like he can’t believe you’re doing this for him. And if you keep eye contact, it undoes him completely.

When you change the pace, faster strokes of your mouth, slower teasing with just your tongue, he’s gone. Sometimes he’ll mutter your name, barely audible, other times it’s just a shaky “oh god” or “please” under his breath. You can feel his thighs tense, the way his hips start to lift without him realizing, and if you decide to push him all the way, he’ll let go with a groan that vibrates from his chest, glasses slipping slightly down his nose as his head falls back.

After, he’ll be red-cheeked and flustered, trying to adjust his glasses while thanking you in that breathless, slightly dazed voice. And even hours later, he’ll glance at you like he’s remembering exactly what you did, and the shy little smile will give him away completely.

BONUS

Tits or Ass

Bob isn’t the type of guy who will confidently declare, “I’m a tits man” or “I’m an ass man.” For him, it’s not about one or the other, it’s about you. He adores every inch of you, from the soft curve of your breasts to the tempting swell of your hips. But… if you ever cornered him and made him really think about it, cheeks flushed, eyes darting nervously, he might shyly admit that your ass holds a special place in his heart. Not because your breasts aren’t perfect (he loves cupping them, burying his face between them, feeling their weight in his hands), but there’s something about watching your hips roll when you ride him, or holding onto you as you grind against him… it makes his pulse race. Still, Bob’s not the guy to neglect anything. He’ll find every excuse to explore, kiss, and worship both, until you’re breathless.

Dom or Sub

By nature, Bob is submissive. Not in a weak way, but in the way that his greatest pleasure comes from giving you pleasure. He thrives on your reactions, on following your lead, on hearing you tell him exactly what you want. But there’s another side to him, one that only comes out under the right conditions. Maybe it’s a few drinks in his system, maybe it’s after months of building trust with you… suddenly, he’s no longer just following. His hands grip your wrists, pinning them above your head; his voice deepens, his eyes sharpen, and you feel the weight of his body holding you down. That shy, soft-spoken boy becomes someone who growls in your ear, who keeps you exactly where he wants you, and the shock of seeing him like this? It’s addictive. You’ll crave it again and again.

Loud or Quiet

Normally, Bob is quiet in bed. You get soft, shaky breaths, the occasional whimper, a muffled moan when he can’t hold it back. But when he lets go, when you give him the space and confidence to stop holding himself in, the sounds he makes are enough to make your knees weak. Deep, desperate groans, sharp gasps, the broken way he says “fuck” under his breath. It’s not constant, but when it happens, it’s raw and unfiltered, and you know you’ve just gotten a glimpse of the most vulnerable, most honest part of him.

Kinks / Soft Limits

One of Bob’s biggest kinks is when you wear his glasses. It’s not just a visual thing, though, yes, seeing you through the frames that are so uniquely his makes his breath hitch every time, it’s about the intimacy of it. Those glasses are part of who he is; they sit on his face for hours in the cockpit, they’ve been with him through endless missions and long days. And then, suddenly, they’re on you. Maybe you’re straddling him, hips rolling slowly, the world slightly blurred around the edges while you look down at him with that teasing little smirk. Or maybe you’re on your knees, his hand trembling in your hair as you look up at him over the top rim, the lenses fogging slightly from your breath. And when he finally finishes, when you angle yourself just so, letting him spill over your lips and cheeks and across the glass, it’s overload. The combination of the sight, the possessiveness, and the fact that you’re wearing a piece of him while making him fall apart… it makes him come harder than he ever thought possible.

Aftercare

Bob is 100% an aftercare man. He might need a few seconds to catch his breath, to process the intensity of what just happened, but then he’s all over you. Pulling you into his arms, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your shoulders. If you can move, he’ll guide you into the shower, washing you gently, taking his time. If you can’t, he’ll just hold you close, wrap a blanket around you both, and whisper over and over how amazing you are, how perfect, how much he adores you.

Turn Ons vs Turn Offs

For Bob, the biggest turn on isn’t something purely physical — it’s the build-up. It’s when you’re confident enough to let him see the desire in your eyes and not rush to hide it. It’s the way you’ll brush your fingers over his jaw when you kiss him, slow and lingering, or the way your voice drops just slightly when you whisper something suggestive in his ear. It’s when you take his glasses off and set them aside carefully… or better yet, when you don’t take them off at all, letting them stay between you as you get closer and closer. Public touches, a hand on his thigh under the table, a gentle squeeze when no one else is looking, light up every nerve in his body. And then there’s the teasing, the deliberate way you’ll get him worked up and then pull away, leaving him desperate and flushed, his breath coming faster as he tries to keep his composure. Those moments make him burn for you.

What turns him off is anything that breaks that connection. Rushing into things without letting the tension build leaves him cold; for Bob, sex without that spark feels empty. Carelessness, not about safety, but about him, shuts him down fast. He doesn’t like feeling like he’s just there to perform or like the intimacy is one-sided. And while he’s not overly delicate, he’s sensitive about being mocked or made to feel ridiculous in bed. His shyness makes him vulnerable, and if that trust is broken, it’s hard for him to open up again. He thrives in spaces where he feels wanted, safe, and seen, where every touch and every look carries meaning.

How He Reacts to Teasing

Bob loves teasing, but it drives him absolutely insane. When you take your time, kiss him deeply, let your hands wander but don’t give him what he’s begging for… it pushes him to the point where he’ll actually plead. And a pleading Bob Floyd is something you never forget, the way his voice trembles, how his hands grip at you desperately. Sometimes he’ll laugh nervously, trying to play it cool. Other times, it’s a breathless, raw “please” that makes you want to ruin him completely.

Public or Semi-public Sex

Full-on public sex? That’s a no, his shy nature would never let him relax. But semi-public? That’s a different story. A dark corner in a bar. The back of a supply closet. Somewhere that technically isn’t safe. The thrill of possibly being caught mixes with his nerves, but it’s intoxicating. And if it ever happened that someone from his squadron — say, Hangman — walked in on the two of you? Bob would blush hard enough to match his flight suit patches… but later, when you’re alone, you’d see a flicker of pride in his eyes. Because in that moment, he was the one who had you, and everyone else could only wish.

Quickies vs Long Sessions

Bob lives for long sessions. The kind where there’s no rush, no clock, just slow exploration and the feeling of completely losing yourself in each other. But when the tension between you is too thick to ignore, when you’re both on the edge from just a look or a whispered word, quickies become inevitable. They’re fast, messy, overwhelming, and often in places you probably shouldn’t be. But if you gave him the choice? He’d always choose those deep, lingering nights where you forget the world exists.

If you enjoyed reading this manual, I’d really appreciate any kind of support, whether it’s a reblog, comment, note, follow, or even suggestions. I’m always open to ideas, so feel free to reach out!

And if you really liked it, I might just write one of these for other characters too 👀

Thank you so much for reading!

Have a lovely day!

BYEEE!!!🧶

[adelliet]

Bob Reynolds X f!reader

NEW MEMBER

Summary: When you joined the Thunderbolts, you didn’t fully know what you were getting yourself into. But over time, you found your place and Bob’s help made all the difference.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, mentions of childhood trauma and experiments on children, use of Y/N, fictional depiction of superhuman abilities used in sexual contexts, depictions of bodily fluids, seduction, teasing, sexual tension, slowburn, mention of masturbation, handjob, ejaculation in pants, oral sex (f & m receiving), unprotected sex (p i v), aftercare

Word count: 28k+

A/n: Hey guys, so this is my first time doing a word count here and yeah, it's fucking long...sorry, but I really put a lot of effort into it and I hope it's worth it :3 Anyway if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

It was a beautiful, sunny summer day. The Thunderbolts had no rescue missions scheduled, no urgent city reports to deal with, and no looming responsibilities weighing on their minds. For once, everything was calm — eerily calm, even. Because of the unbearable heat, the entire team had gathered outside by the pool, refreshing drinks in hand and sunglasses shielding their eyes from the blazing sun.

Ava, Walker, and Alexei were splashing around in the water, laughing and exchanging nonsense stories like carefree teenagers. Ava mostly listened to their banter with a playful smirk, occasionally rolling her eyes and mocking their ridiculous jokes.

Meanwhile, Bucky, Yelena, and Bob were stretched out on sun loungers, soaking up the summer atmosphere in their own ways. Yelena lay back in her swimsuit, absorbing the sun’s rays like a content cat. Bucky stayed under the shade of a large umbrella, his arms folded behind his head, clearly appreciating the rare opportunity to relax without expecting a sudden explosion in the distance. Bob, as usual, had found peace in the shadows, immersed in a book he couldn’t put down.

He read word after word, completely consumed by the story. For Bob, reading wasn’t just a pastime, it was a way to escape. A way to dive into someone else’s world, someone else’s problems, and temporarily abandon the heavy weight of his own. Every page he turned felt like a breath of fresh air. The world in his hands was simpler, more structured, and even in its chaos, made more sense than his real one. It was therapy in ink and paper.

But then, the calm was disrupted. A phone began to ring. Everyone who heard the shrill sound immediately turned their heads toward the source. It was Bucky’s phone.

He let out a heavy sigh and answered the call with a tired voice, as if expecting bad news. Yelena and Bob both turned their heads toward him, their curiosity piqued as they tried to read his expression.

“…Today already? …Fine. Alright, let her in. Yes, we’ll help with the suitcases,” Bucky said with a note of resignation in his voice.

Yelena gave Bob a confused glance, silently asking if he had any idea what was going on. But the blank look on Bob’s face said it all, he was just as clueless.

“Okay, bye,” Bucky ended the call and took another deep breath, glancing over at Yelena with a look that made her sit up slightly.

“She’s here,” he said simply, his tone almost too casual for the weight of his words.

Yelena’s eyes widened in surprise. “Already? That fast?”

Bob blinked. He had absolutely no idea who she was. The confusion burned inside him, but no one seemed eager to offer him an explanation. Yelena and Bucky barely looked at him as they stood up.

“Hey, everyone! Come on, she’s here!” Bucky called toward the rest of the team.

He waved his hand as he walked toward the building, and the others quickly followed, murmuring among themselves in excited whispers. Bob frowned, setting his book aside. With a hesitant step, he followed the others, still entirely in the dark about what was going on. A strange feeling of exclusion gnawed at him. Everyone seemed to know something and he didn’t. It made him feel like a stranger in his own team.

“Uhm… what’s happening?” he finally mustered the courage to ask Ava, his voice uncertain. She turned to him with a raised brow, clearly surprised he hadn’t figured it out already.

“There’s a new member joining the team,” she said simply. Bob’s heart skipped a beat. His breath caught in his throat.

“R-really?” he asked, eyes wide.

Ava nodded, her expression neutral. “You remember the girl who helped us during our last mission?”

Bob stared blankly, desperately trying to recall anyone who might fit that description. There was a faint, blurry memory in his mind, but nothing concrete. No specific face. No name. He shook his head slowly and pursed his lips into a thin line.

Ava let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking her head, clearly unimpressed. “You’ll see,” she said dismissively before motioning toward the elevator at the end of the hallway.

Everyone had already gathered in front of it, buzzing with quiet anticipation as they waited for the doors to open. Bob reluctantly joined them, his eyes fixed on the elevator, his mind racing.

It didn’t take long before a soft ding echoed through the hallway. The unmistakable sound of the elevator reaching their floor. That tiny sound, usually insignificant, now carried the weight of anticipation and silence. Every quiet whisper faded immediately, swallowed by a sudden, almost unnatural stillness that took over the entire building. It was as if time itself was holding its breath.

Bob felt a rush of nervous energy pulse through him, though he couldn’t explain why. He had no reason to feel this way, no logic behind the chill crawling down his spine or the way his hands instinctively clenched into fists at his sides.

But the unease was there, and it was real. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, heart pounding in his chest like it was trying to break free. His wide eyes stayed locked on the elevator doors, waiting, anticipating, bracing for something… but he didn’t know what.

And then — click. The doors slowly began to slide open, and in that single moment, Bob’s world slowed to a crawl.

You stood there.

A woman he had never seen before in his life. A complete stranger and yet something about you felt undeniably significant. You weren’t just anyone. There was something about you, something magnetic, radiant, otherworldly even. You stood out effortlessly, not because you were trying to, but because you simply were.

Even from where he stood, Bob could pick up on your scent, an intoxicating blend of wild berries, soft chocolate, and fresh roses. It was a combination he would’ve never imagined together, and yet now he couldn’t imagine anything more perfect. It instantly rooted itself in his mind, burned into his senses.

Your hair looked impossibly soft and full, like it had never known a bad day. It moved with the lightest motion, obeying gravity like a dance. Glossy strands caught the light, shimmering as if kissed by starlight. Bob imagined it would feel like running his fingers through freshly brushed lamb’s wool.

And your face… words failed him. No vocabulary he possessed could do it justice. Every feature felt meticulously placed by the hands of a patient artist. Your petite nose, the plush curve of your lips, the natural blush blooming on your cheeks, all of it was impossibly beautiful.

But it was your eyes that truly captivated him. When your gaze flicked toward him, even for just a heartbeat, it felt like the ground had vanished beneath his feet. His breath caught, sweat began to pearl at his temples, and he was forced to glance away. Only for a second, because he needed to look again. He had to. You were too mesmerizing to ignore.

Your body radiated the kind of presence usually reserved for mythological goddesses. Every curve, every contour, spoke of quiet strength and untouchable elegance. You wore simple clothes: black pants, a fitted black top, and a white leather jacket that hugged your frame just right. And yet, you looked like you belonged on the cover of every magazine on Earth.

Then, you smiled.

Just one simple, polite smile and Bob’s knees almost gave out beneath him. It wasn’t a practiced smile, nor was it forced. It was gentle, sincere, and absolutely breathtaking.

“Hey,” you said softly, your voice barely louder than a whisper.

There was a tremble in your tone, not from weakness, but from nerves. After all, you were stepping into a room full of strangers who were all laser-focused on you. The weight of their gazes pressed against you like a spotlight, and yet you handled it with grace.

But when Bob heard your voice — light, feminine, laced with quiet vulnerability — something inside him shifted.

A shiver ran down his spine, followed by an electric wave of something he couldn’t name. In just a matter of seconds, you had awakened feelings in him that no one else ever had.

Everyone greeted you, each of them offering just a single word as a welcome. Bucky was the first to move, stepping forward without hesitation to help you with your luggage. He grabbed your large suitcase like it weighed nothing at all, slung your shoulder bag over his arm as if it were made of feathers, and reached out to take your backpack too. But before he could, Alexei beat him to it, sweeping it up with one hand while saying something in a thick Russian accent you could barely make out.

You gave them both a warm, thankful smile and murmured your appreciation. But despite the helpful gestures, you stood there, unsure of what to do next. Should you go talk to the others still lingering near the elevator, the ones who were all staring at you so intently you couldn’t tell whether their looks were curious or judgmental? Or should you follow the two strong men who had just swept away your bags like seasoned porters?

For a moment, you stayed rooted to the spot, and luckily, it turned out to be the right choice. Because the rest of them wasted no time and started interacting with you directly.

“Yelena,” said a woman in a cool, steady voice, extending her hand. Her thick Russian accent added weight to her otherwise short introduction. Her expression was serious, but you could tell she was trying to be approachable. Trying not to intimidate you right off the bat.

“Y/N,” you replied with a warm smile, shaking her hand gently. Your touch was soft, but Yelena’s grip was so strong. She shook your hand so firmly that for a second you thought she might crush your bones, her strength masked by her sleek frame.

From the corner of the room, Bob stood completely still, his eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing that existed. The rest of the world around him had dulled — voices muffled, background movement blurred — until he heard your voice and your name.

It hit him like a lightning bolt, carved itself deep into his brain like it had always been there, like it had always belonged there. He instantly knew instantly that this name will haunt his dreams, follow him into sleep, and echo in the quietest moments of his day. He was paralyzed. Not just in body, but in face, in thought. His expression blanked out, frozen.

Ava, waiting for her turn to introduce herself, glanced over her shoulder at Bob and frowned in confusion. She didn’t say anything, no one really did anymore because everyone knew Bob was a bit odd. This was just Bob being Bob.

“John Walker,” announced a voice that practically oozed arrogance. The man behind it offered his name like it was a title, his presence so inflated you could feel the ego from across the room. He wasn’t unattractive by any means, but you could tell right away, liking this man was going to take time. Patience. Probably a lot of both.

Still, you smiled, even if it was a little hesitant this time, and extended your hand. No point in starting conflicts on day one.

Then came Ava. Like the others, she radiated authority. You could feel the quiet weight of her presence, yet her smile didn’t feel fake. Either she had mastered the art of faking warmth, or it was genuine. And it was up to you to decide which version you wanted to believe.

You shook her hand, and then your gaze drifted toward the only person left, one man who had stayed in the background the entire time. He hadn’t rushed to meet you, hadn’t even moved much. You couldn’t read his face or his body. He was a blank page in a room full of bold headlines.

All eyes shifted to him. It took a second for him to notice, eight pairs of eyes locked on him like spotlights. He snapped out of his trance, blinking, shoulders tensing as he realized it was his turn.

“Bob,” he said finally, his voice quiet, the edges of his mouth tugged upward in a painfully awkward smile. He stepped forward and held out a trembling hand. It shook so visibly you almost thought he was afraid of you. Still, you didn’t judge. You took his hand with a smile and a respectful nod, offering him kindness instead of scrutiny.

And the second your skin met his, it was like the entire building ceased to exist. For a heartbeat, it was just the two of you. The moment stretched out, suspended in time. You felt the rapid thrum of his pulse, sensed the nervous rhythm of his breathing, and everything else fell away. Then, Bucky’s voice shattered the silence like glass breaking.

“Your things are in your new room,” he said, jerking his thumb in the direction behind him. You let go of Bob’s hand and nodded, murmuring another polite thank-you.

Before you could take a step, Alexei swooped in with absolutely no warning. In one fluid motion, he wrapped his massive arms around you and pulled you into a bear hug so tight, you swore your ribs were going to snap.

“Hello, little one! We’ve been waiting for you!” he exclaimed, his Russian accent booming and joyful.

You wheezed out a laugh, trying to breathe as he squeezed the life out of you. It was like being hugged by a freight train in a sauna. You flailed a little, silently praying he didn’t crush anything vital. Finally, Yelena stepped in and pried him off you.

“Enough,” she muttered with a roll of her eyes.

You staggered back a step, hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath like you’d just finished a sprint.

“I’m Alexei, the leader of this whole team,” he said proudly, planting his hands on his hips and puffing out his chest like a superhero in a vintage comic.

“Oh please,” John Walker interrupted, thrusting out an arm toward Alexei with visible offense. “We all know I’m the one in charge.”

Alexei scoffed so dramatically it might’ve been choreographed. “You? The boss? Ha! You were barely Captain America. Don’t talk to me about leadership.”

And that was it. The spark that always lit the fire.

Mentioning “Captain America” in the same breath as John Walker was like pressing a big, red, glowing button labeled Do Not Push. He always takes it personally and once the topic came up, a heated argument was practically guaranteed. Everyone else had learned to avoid it. Everyone, except Alexei.

While the two of them launched into a full-on verbal wrestling match, you stood off to the side, trying to steady your breath, watching the chaos unfold. The image was almost too much: two overly muscled men in swim trunks, gesturing wildly and yelling over each other like children fighting over a toy.

Yelena and Bucky tried to separate them, each grabbing one by the shoulder and pulling them in opposite directions. And then, Ava leaned over slightly, standing close beside you.

“This happens sometimes,” she said with a grin.

“Actually… it happens all the time. You’ll get used to it.”

You both laughed under your breath, watching the ridiculous drama unfold like it was part of some reality show.

But Bob wasn’t watching them. Not even a little. His eyes were still glued to you. He couldn’t look away. No matter how hard he tried. He’d glance to the side every now and then, pretending to focus on something else, but his gaze always found its way back to you.

And he hated it. He hated the fact that you had this hold over him, that he couldn’t stop staring. You had enchanted him without even trying.

Once the ongoing power struggle between the two wanna-be leaders had finally been defused and the loud arguing settled, at least for now, Yelena remained between them for a few seconds longer, her arms crossed like a mother ready to intervene again if necessary.

Then Bucky stepped forward. He was the only one who hadn’t introduced himself yet. With calm, quiet assurance, he said his name and extended a hand — his left one, the one made entirely of gleaming titanium.

You paused. Just for a moment. Your eyes lifted to meet his face before even acknowledging the mechanical limb he offered. In that brief look, you saw it clearly, pain. Not the kind worn for attention, but the kind buried deep in the lines around the eyes and the heaviness in the way someone holds their shoulders. This man had been through hell. More than once.

You took his hand gently and gave it a light shake, careful not to squeeze too hard, as if showing him you knew how to treat metal like flesh. You smiled, soft and genuine, and reintroduced yourself, just in case he hadn’t caught your name earlier.

From what you had observed so far, your instincts told you that if anyone here actually held authority, it was either Bucky or Yelena. They didn’t puff up their chests or start loud arguments about leadership, they didn’t need to. Their presence spoke for itself.

“Come on,” Bucky said, nodding toward the hallway behind him. “I’ll show you your room.” You gave the rest of the group one last glance and then followed Bucky down the hall.

As you walked side by side, he immediately began explaining how things worked around here. He wasn’t overly talkative, but what he said was useful, clear. He pointed out the important rooms, the shared spaces, and some of the ground rules without sounding like a control freak. Just someone who knew the place inside out, and wanted you to feel like you belonged.

The second you disappeared from Bob’s field of vision, it was like his lungs filled with air for the first time in minutes.

He exhaled loudly, as if someone had just taken a weight off his chest. His eyes refocused, blinking rapidly, and he tried to slow his breathing and calm himself down. His fingers twitched against his sides. He’d been holding tension in his entire body, and now that you were gone, it was as if his system rebooted.

“Hey,” Yelena’s voice cut through the haze. She bumped his shoulder lightly with her own, just enough to shake him from whatever mental spiral he’d drifted into.

“You good?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Bob looked at her with the expression of a guilty puppy that had just chewed someone’s favorite shoes. He nodded, a bit too quickly.

“You don’t look good,” she added flatly, her tone not unkind, but blunt, as always.

He gave a small, sheepish laugh and looked down, biting his lower lip before licking it nervously. His shoulders hunched forward ever so slightly.

“Didn’t sleep well,” he muttered. “But I’m fine, really.”

But Yelena had known Bob for a while now. She’d seen him on his worst days. She knew exactly how he behaved when he’d had a rough night, and this? This wasn’t it. This was different. There was something more unsettled in him.

Still, she could also tell he didn’t want to talk about it. Not right now. Maybe not ever, so she didn’t push. She gave a slow, suspicious nod and narrowed her eyes at him, but said nothing more on the subject.

“Alright,” she said after a beat, choosing to change the subject. “Come help me with the food.” She turned, already walking toward the kitchen.

Bob blinked again, his brain catching up like a lagging program that had finally started running. He hesitated for a half-second, then followed after her without a word, trailing her footsteps like someone waking from a dream he wasn’t ready to leave.

The following few weeks were nothing short of a personal hell for Bob — a constant, relentless whirlwind of emotions that refused to calm down, and the undeniable cause of it all was you.

With each passing day, he found himself growing more accustomed to your presence, and the rigid tension that used to freeze him every time you entered a room began to slowly, but steadily, thaw. It was subtle at first, just a softer look, a more relaxed gesture, but it was there. And yet, despite that slow shift in comfort, the truth was painful: his feelings for you weren’t fading with time. If anything, they were intensifying, pulling him deeper into something he was completely unprepared for.

He’d hoped it would get easier. That as the novelty wore off, his emotions would settle and things would go back to normal. But that never happened. Instead, he was falling harder. Faster. And he couldn’t stop himself.

He noticed everything about you.

Not in a creepy, overbearing way, but with the same quiet, watchful intensity that defined him. He paid attention to the little things. The way you crinkled your nose when something annoyed you. The kind of food you always gravitated toward at dinner, and the ones you subtly pushed aside. The scent of your perfume as it lingered in the hallway after you passed by. What time you usually got up in the morning. Whether you preferred tea or coffee depending on the day. All of it. Etched in his mind like facts he never meant to memorize, but couldn’t forget even if he tried.

At the same time, you were also adjusting to life with the team. You picked up on social dynamics with ease — who preferred solitude over company, who talked too much and who barely spoke at all. You quickly figured out what made people tick, what to avoid, and how to slide yourself into this group without disrupting its balance, and you did it beautifully.

It didn’t take long before you were seen as one of them. You were included in everything, from the serious tactical meetings to the chaotic game nights that always ended in laughter and shouting. You were never pushed to the side, never treated like an outsider. If anything, it was as though you’d always been there. And you loved it.

You grew attached. Emotionally invested. You cared about each of them in your own way — even Walker.

Sure, your initial instincts about him were spot on; he was loud, arrogant, and more than a little irritating. But over time, and with a surprising amount of patience, you learned to tolerate his outbursts. Eventually, you even found yourself genuinely liking him in that strange, reluctant way that comes from mutual respect. You’d grown fond of them all.

Not long after you arrived, they even set you up with your own private workspace. A small lab, your personal sanctuary, where you could design, build, and refine the kind of technology that had earned you a reputation far beyond this compound’s walls. Being the daughter of a brilliant scientist clearly came with its advantages. But genius-level intellect wasn’t your only strength. You could fight.

You trained hard, pushing yourself more with every session, refusing to settle for anything less than excellence. Your progress was obvious. So obvious that it wasn’t long before you managed to land clean takedowns on Bucky, Yelena, and even Alexei. More than once. And that alone spoke volumes. Those were your powers. Or at least, most of them.

You spent more time with Bucky than with anyone else on the team. Whether it was because you genuinely got along, or simply because he was always the first one to offer help when you needed it, the bond between you two was undeniable. Anytime you had a question, wanted to fix something, or even just needed a second opinion, he was there. Always patient, always kind.

You laughed together often. Joked easily. And despite the fact that Bucky came from an entirely different era, he seemed to understand your humor perfectly. He got you in ways that caught you off guard. Your friendship with him felt natural, real.

Of course, you shared fun moments with everyone. The team was full of personalities, and you genuinely enjoyed their company. But Bucky? He was different. And Bob saw that. All of it. More clearly than he wanted to admit.

Your room was right next to Bob’s — which, depending on the day, felt like either a cruel twist of fate or the only reason he was still sane.

Every time he heard your laughter through the wall, especially when it was Bucky making you laugh, a knot would form deep in his chest. Something tight and burning, something that felt suspiciously like rage, but sharper.

When he walked into the kitchen and saw you leaning against the counter while Bucky stood beside you, smiling like it was the most natural thing in the world, Bob had to clench his fists behind his back just to keep from reacting. His mind begged him to look away. To stay calm and ignore it. But it was like trying to look away from a fire slowly spreading toward your own house.

And every time he passed the gym and spotted you mid-training, he couldn’t help but peek in. Just for a second, just to watch. But the moment he saw Bucky nearby?

His entire body tensed. His eyes would flare with that faint, unnatural yellow. And he’d walk away. Fast. Because if he didn’t, he knew he’d do something reckless, something he couldn’t take back.

Bob had become a silent storm. One that only erupted when he was alone, behind closed doors or under the open sky where no one could see. The shattered light bulbs, the cracked furniture, the splintered chairs, the small craters in the lawn, they weren’t random. They were the aftermath of jealousy. And he didn’t know how to stop it.

He couldn’t understand why it hit so hard. He’d survived so many things, things that would shatter most people, but this? This tiny, invisible pain of watching you laugh with someone else? This was the worse.

He tried to convince himself it was something else. That it wasn’t about you. That he wasn’t jealous. But he knew. He had feelings for you.

Still, there were moments that made it all worth it. The little things.

The ones he replayed every night like sacred memories: when you walked into the kitchen and casually asked him if he wanted to help make coffee. When you leaned in, whispered something silly that made him laugh, and disappeared just as fast. When you caught him watching you during training and smiled, giving him a small wave.

But one of the moments he clung to the most happened one late night.

Your lab heater had broken down. You didn’t want to bother Bucky, who was already asleep. So instead, you came to him. You knocked on Bob’s door, a little unsure, and asked if you could borrow a hoodie. And just like that, his heart stopped.

He didn’t even think, just grabbed one and handed it to you, trying to play it cool while his brain short-circuited. But the best part? You never gave it back.

Maybe you forgot. Maybe you were waiting for him to ask for it, but he never did. He didn’t want to, because every time he saw you wearing his hoodie, it felt like the world made a little more sense. And when you smiled in it? He swore his heart almost caught fire.

As time passed, and Bob found himself falling deeper and deeper for you, you were also getting closer to him too. You didn’t entirely know why, but Bob just had this spark and you know, he was a really good friend.

One late evening, after tossing and turning in bed with no success at falling asleep, you decided to pay him a visit. You were certain he wouldn’t be asleep either, he rarely was. Quietly, you made your way to his room and knocked gently before asking him a simple question: “Do you wanna go for a walk?”

That night, you wore his hoodie. Whether it was intentional or just the first thing you grabbed without thinking, only you truly knew. But Bob noticed. Oh, he noticed. The moment he saw you in his hoodie, hair slightly messy, your voice a soft whisper in the dark hallway, it did something to him. His heart clenched in his chest, and he couldn’t say no, not to you.

The air was cool, the moon casting gentle silver light down the path you walked side by side. The night was silent except for your footsteps and the quiet sounds of the world resting. After a while, your voices joined the night in soft tones, and that’s when you finally opened up.

“Deadlock,” you said suddenly, looking down at your shoes as if the words were too heavy to lift with your eyes. “That’s the name my father gave to my superhero identity.”

Bob glanced sideways at you, listening intently. He didn’t even watch where he was stepping, which had already led him to trip once or twice on a root or uneven patch of dirt, but he didn’t care. He’d gladly fall over a hundred times just to keep hearing the sound of your voice. It was the most grounded he’d felt in days.

“As you know,” you continued, speaking slowly, as if sorting the memories aloud, “he was a genius… a doctor, a scientist. And when the Avengers rose to fame, when the world started idolizing them… he wanted his little girl to be one of them. So… he started experimenting.”

You briefly glanced at him during your explanation, and his eyes never left you, not even for a second. The way he listened, so attentively, so gently, made you feel safe. He could tell by your body language, by the tremble in your tone, that this story wasn’t something you shared easily. It wasn’t just a fact, it was a wound.

“He injected me with all kinds of serums,” you said, your voice cracking only slightly. “God knows where he got them… or what was even in them. All I remember is the pain. Constant, aching pain.”

Bob’s brows furrowed with concern, and he instinctively reached out, but stopped himself, he didn’t want to break the moment. You swallowed back the tears, trying to stay composed. You didn’t want to come off as fragile, not now.

“I’m so sorry,” Bob whispered, his voice barely audible, but it echoed through you like thunder. You shook your head gently and gave him a small smile.

“You don’t have to be,” you said quietly. “It’s over now. And… thanks to the way my cells developed under the influence of all those injections, I became immune. I can regenerate.”

At that, you looked up at him again, and his eyes widened. “Regenerate?”

You nodded slowly. “Any wound I get heals within seconds. I guess… you could say I can’t really die.”

He stared at you as if you had just entrusted him with the most sacred secret in the world. And in a way, you had. To Bob, this wasn’t just another piece of your identity, it was a revelation. It was you, unmasked and unguarded, and he adored you even more for it.

“That’s insane,” he murmured, a breathless awe in his voice.

You laughed softly. “I know. Kinda cool though, right?”

He chuckled too, though his chest still felt heavy from everything you had just shared.

“And… because I was technically a failed experiment, and didn’t gain the ‘right’ powers,” you continued, slower now, “my dad saw me as a disappointment. He believed he’d failed. And eventually, he… he decided he has nothing to live for anymore so...”

The words hit Bob like a punch to the gut. For a second, he stopped breathing. He hadn’t expected that. No one had any idea. You never talked about your father with sadness, never showed any cracks in your smile. And yet here you were, laying bare a trauma that could have broken anyone. Still, you stood tall.

“I—” he started, unsure how to respond, but you gently cut him off.

“You don’t need to say anything,” you whispered, turning to him with tears finally breaking free in your eyes, but still, there was a smile on your face. “It’s okay, Bob.”

He couldn’t help himself. He pulled you into a hug — a firm, warm, protective hug that said everything his words couldn’t. And in that moment, you let yourself fall apart just a little. You needed this. You needed someone to hold you, to not ask questions, to simply be there, and Bob was exactly that.

You cried quietly against his chest, and his arms never loosened. His sweater smelled like him. You felt safe, truly safe, like nothing bad could reach you if he just held you long enough. It was the most comforting thing you’d felt in ages. And even though he remained silent, that hug was loud, it spoke of care, understanding, and something else that neither of you dared to say yet.

After what felt like forever, you pulled away slightly, wiping your tears and laughing softly through your sniffles. “Sorry, your sweater’s gonna be a mess.”

You reached to wipe a smudge of your makeup from the fabric, but he stopped you gently. “Trust me,” he said, voice deep and sincere, “I don’t care.”

Your eyes met, and for the first time, you saw him, not just Bob, the awkward sweetheart who sometimes stumbled over his own thoughts, but someone deeper, steadier.

You saw the way his gaze softened only for you. The way his hands still held your arms carefully, like you might shatter. The way his heart was beating just as fast as yours. Your breath caught in your throat.

You looked at his lips, then back at his eyes. So did he. Your pulses synced in anxious excitement, the air thick with a tension neither of you fully understood, but desperately wanted to.

The distance between you began to close, slowly, inevitably, like gravity pulling two stars together.

And then, footsteps. Someone walked by just a few feet away, and both of you jumped slightly, the spell broken. Embarrassed chuckles escaped your lips as you stepped back from one another, your hearts still racing.

You walked home together like nothing happened. But it did. That night left a mark on Bob. He never forgot how you looked under the moonlight, wrapped in his hoodie, with your secrets finally spoken aloud.

This had happened just a week ago, and since then, something about the way you acted around Bob had shifted. It wasn’t anything dramatic or negative, in fact, it was quite the opposite. You simply started seeking out his company more often.

Whenever he seemed quiet or withdrawn during lunch, you made an effort to bring him into the conversation, always with a lighthearted tone and a genuine smile.

When you passed by his room on your way to grab coffee, you’d gently knock on his door and ask if he wanted a cup too.

You even found an old book in your things, one you had already read long ago, and decided to give it to him, just as a small friendly gesture.

But to Bob, none of these gestures were small. Every little thing you did echoed loudly in his heart. They made him feel seen, like he had finally stepped out from the shadows he’d grown used to hiding in. For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t invisible.

And even though you had interacted plenty before that late-night walk, something about your energy now felt different, more intentional.

It was Monday morning, sometime between breakfast and lunch. Bob was still lying in bed, his eyes fixated on the ceiling as his mind drifted aimlessly, an all-too-familiar ritual before he finally convinced himself to start the day.

But suddenly, a loud, urgent knock on his door pulled him from his thoughts. He barely got out the first syllable of the word “Yeah?” before your voice filled the room, and so did you. You had already flung the door open wide, beaming at him like you’d just won the lottery.

“Wanna train with me?” you asked, your smile stretching from cheek to cheek, your eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. There was so much energy radiating off of you that Bob felt like you were single-handedly lighting up his entire room.

He was still groggy, his limbs felt heavy and barely functioning, but how could he possibly say no to you when you were standing there like that?

“Sure,” he mumbled, his voice low and raspy from sleep.

You let out a joyful squeal and practically bounced in place. “I’ll meet you in the gym!” you chirped before disappearing down the hallway, your footsteps echoing in a rapid rhythm of excitement.

Bob just lay there for a moment, blinking in disbelief. Then, with a quiet chuckle and a shake of his head, he finally dragged himself out of bed.

By the time he got himself somewhat presentable, his workout clothes thrown on, hair messily fixed, he made his way toward the gym. The moment he peeked inside, he spotted you immediately.

You were already stretching, your movements fluid and graceful, like you were flowing with the rhythm of your own calm energy. Bob could feel the warmth of your aura from across the room. His eyes instinctively wandered over your figure as you bent down, and without warning, his thoughts short-circuited at the sight of your beautiful, round, and irresistibly tempting—

“Hey!”

Your voice snapped him out of his daze. He blinked rapidly, his cheeks turning a shade redder as you waved him over with that same inviting grin. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly and slowly walked toward you, his heart racing slightly.

“Uh, I should warn you… I’m not exactly great at this,” he admitted, his voice laced with nervousness.

You placed your hands on his shoulders, locking eyes with him in a way that made his breath catch in his throat. “Bob,” you said gently but firmly, “it’s totally fine, okay? We’ll both benefit from this, and besides, I really don’t think you’re that hopeless.” You ended the sentence with a teasing grin and gave his arm a playful pinch.

He laughed softly, a high-pitched, boyish sound escaping him involuntarily, and then mock-glared at you with a smile still tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Come on, start stretching, or you’ll pull something,” you instructed, crossing your arms over your chest as you watched him with an amused expression.

Bob looked around the gym helplessly for a moment before returning his gaze to you. “I don’t know what to do,” he confessed with a sheepish shrug.

You rolled your eyes dramatically, clearly exaggerating for comedic effect. “Maybe you are a lost cause after all,” you joked, and the both of you burst into laughter.

With that, you resumed stretching, and Bob mimicked your movements as best he could, constantly sneaking glances your way. This simple moment felt surprisingly profound.

“Alright, time to get to work,” you announced cheerfully, practically bouncing in place with energy that could’ve powered the entire compound. You had just finished your stretching routine, and without wasting another second, you skipped across the gym floor toward the shelf where the hand wraps were kept. You moved with purpose and excitement, clearly in your element, while Bob trailed behind you—although significantly less enthusiastically.

As soon as he caught sight of you wrapping your hands, something in his demeanor shifted. He slowed down, hesitated, and then instinctively began to back away, holding both of his palms out in front of him like a human stop sign.

“Woah—wait. Nope. No way,” he said, shaking his head as his voice took on a nervous edge.

You turned to face him, eyebrows raised and confusion written all over your face. “What do you mean, ‘no’?” you asked, tilting your head ever so slightly as if trying to decode what he was so worked up about.

“That,” Bob said, pointing directly at the hand wraps you were tightening with swift, practiced movements. “I’m not doing that.”

You blinked, momentarily frozen by his reluctance. But then, without warning, you burst into laughter. It wasn’t mocking, it was light, playful, and a little disbelieving.

“You’re saying… you don’t want to hurt me?” you asked between giggles, your eyes gleaming with amusement.

Bob gave you a helpless look, shrugging as if to say, What else would you expect?

“Come on, Bob. Seriously?” you grinned, tossing him one of the wraps with a lazy flick of your wrist. “Wrap up. You’ll be fine.”

But Bob still looked unconvinced. His hands hovered awkwardly near the fabric, and his entire posture screamed uncertainty. The idea of throwing punches, even just sparring ones, at you clearly made him deeply uncomfortable.

Sensing this, you softened your voice and expression, hoping to put him at ease. “I’ll be totally fine,” you said reassuringly, pausing for effect. “Remember?” You leaned in just a bit closer, lowered your voice into a playful, theatrical whisper, and said, “Regeneration.”

You even wiggled your fingers dramatically, as if the word itself was laced with ancient, mystical power.

Bob couldn’t help it and laughed. It was a genuine, warm sound, and for a moment, you could see the tension begin to ease from his shoulders. He gave you a small nod, still visibly unsure, but clearly willing to trust you.

“Okay,” he murmured, finally starting to wrap his hands. But it was obvious from his every move that he wasn’t doing it for the sake of the training session. He was doing it for you.

Because truth be told, it wasn’t the idea of punching that scared him most, it was the idea of letting you down. He saw how excited you were, how passionate and full of life you became in moments like these, and the thought of turning you down? That was harder to stomach than any potential guilt over a bruised arm or a missed jab.

Besides, if he said no, you’d probably run off and ask Bucky instead, and the mere idea of Bucky stepping into that role, standing across from you in the ring, hearing your laughter and sharing this time with you… it made something tight twist in Bob’s chest.

No. He wasn’t going to let someone else take that place. Not this time. Even if he was terrified. Even if he had no clue what he was doing. He was here, with you. And that had to count for something.

“Alright,” you said with a grin that teetered on the edge of a challenge and a tease, your tone light yet electric with anticipation. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Your eyes locked onto Bob’s through the delicate veil of your lashes, sparkling with mischief and unshakable confidence. With a smooth, practiced motion, you raised your fists in front of your face.

Your stance solid, your body loose and ready, like a spring coiled with intent. You looked entirely in your element, focused and fearless.

Bob, on the other hand, had just finished wrapping his hands and was still trying to figure out whether this was a terrible idea. He stared at you, utterly breathless for a moment, as if frozen between fight and flight.

“Uhhh,” he mumbled awkwardly, swallowing hard as he slowly lifted his hands to mirror your stance, though far less gracefully.

Every part of him screamed hesitation. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to engage with you, God, no. But the thought of hurting you, even accidentally, churned in his chest like a storm. His power wasn’t something he fully understood, not even now, and the idea that he might lose control, just for a second, and actually hurt you? That terrified him more than any fight ever could.

Sure, you had healing abilities. Regeneration. But what if something went wrong? What if this time, your body didn’t bounce back like it usually did? What if there were limits he didn’t know about? Limits you didn’t know about?

He was spiraling deeper into his own thoughts, retreating further from the moment, so much so that he didn’t even notice you stepping forward. Without warning, your fist made gentle contact with his stomach, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to snap him back into reality.

“Agh—” he yelped dramatically, more from shock than pain, as he hunched over slightly and clutched the spot where you’d punched him.

“Come on,” you laughed, bouncing on the balls of your feet with seemingly endless energy, your fists still held high in front of your face. “You’ve gotta stay alert!”

Bob groaned softly, glanced down at the floor, and exhaled heavily, visibly trying to get a grip on his nerves. With a deep breath, he finally shifted back into a basic defensive stance, mirroring you once again, though stiffly, like someone trying to copy a dance they’d only seen once.

“Move a little,” you encouraged, nodding as your eyes scanned his frozen frame. “You’re standing like a statue, you’ll be an easy target if you don’t keep moving.”

He hesitated, then started to sway slightly from side to side, unsure but trying. That alone earned him a flash of approval from you.

“There you go,” you said, voice warmer, kinder. “Don’t be scared. Come at me.”

You beckoned him forward with both hands, your smirk playful yet daring. But Bob only managed a few timid steps in your direction, his body language still shouting hesitation. He didn’t want to hit you, he wasn’t even sure he could, even if he tried.

Your patience was running thin, though, and you made no effort to hide it.

“Alright, fine,” you said with a mischievous scoff, cocking your head with a mockingly sweet smile. “Have it your way… chicken.”

And that was the moment you switched gears completely.

Without waiting for a response, you sprang into action — fast, fluid, and fearless. Your foot whipped out in a sideways strike, catching him cleanly in the thigh and knocking him slightly off balance. Before he could react, you pivoted and kicked into his side, driving the air from his lungs, then followed it up with a quick but controlled jab to his jaw.

He barely had time to register the hits, let alone protect himself. His hands shot up too late, trying to guard too many places at once, completely overwhelmed. His body ached in several spots, but he knew, on a rational level, that none of it was serious. Nothing was broken. You weren’t hitting with full force… yet. But the speed and precision? Those were real and relentless.

You weren’t doing this to hurt him. You were doing this to wake him up.

You needed to provoke him, to break through whatever wall he had built between himself and his potential. You wanted to draw out that spark, that power, that animal within him, whatever it was that he was so desperately trying to hold back.

Your movements became a blur. You ducked and spun and came at him from every angle, keeping him entirely on the defensive. You used everything Bucky had taught you, every trick Yelena had drilled into your reflexes, and more than once, Bob blinked and you were gone, only to reappear behind him with a sharp kick to the back.

He simply couldn’t keep up. And you didn’t let up. Strike after strike, word after word, you pushed him, tested him, challenged him.

“Come on!” you shouted, weaving around him like lightning. “Fight back!” A punch to the ribs.

“Don’t just stand there!” A kick to the side.

“Show me what you’ve got!” Another hit, fast and unexpected. You were careful, always controlled, but it felt real. And it was working.

Bob was reaching his breaking point.

You saw it in his eyes — this chaotic swirl of fear and adrenaline. And for the first time since you stepped into that gym, you could feel that something was changing inside him.

And then, just when you were about to land another punch straight to his jaw, Bob’s arm shot up with surprising speed and blocked the strike with his forearm.

You blinked.

It caught you off guard, not because it hurt, but because he actually stopped you. He finally reacted. But you didn’t let the surprise slow you down, not even for a second.

You were already preparing your next move, your knuckles tightening, your body twisting into motion. You launched another punch without hesitation, and once again, he blocked it. Now this was a fight.

The spark had ignited, the hesitation in his eyes replaced by concentration. And then it happened.

As you were winding up for a third strike, Bob moved faster than you expected and this time, he struck first.

His fist connected with your face, just barely grazing your cheekbone, but with enough force to make your head turn slightly from the impact. To him, it was gentle, hesitant even. But your reaction was immediate.

You stumbled back and raised your hand to your face, cradling the spot he’d hit as if it had hurt more than it really did. Your expression twisted into a mix of shock and pain.

Bob’s heart dropped into his stomach.

“Oh no. No no no no—hey, hey, are you okay?” he rushed forward, his voice shaky, filled with panic and guilt as he reached out to touch your shoulder, to check on you, to make it right.

“I didn’t mean to—I swear, I wasn’t trying to—”

But before he could finish his frantic apology, your fist launched like a missile straight into his stomach, right beneath the ribs.

The thud echoed through the gym as Bob’s body jolted backwards, the wind knocked clean out of him, not by pain, but by sheer surprise. His eyes went wide, and he gasped, almost offended by how easily you’d fooled him.

“Gotcha,” you laughed, your grin wide and wicked as you watched him try to process what just happened.

Bob looked at you like you’d just cheated at chess using witchcraft, but then his lips curled into a smirk and a low chuckle escaped his chest.

“Alright,” he said, rolling his neck with a satisfying crack as he clenched his fists and raised them in front of his face, “you’re so dead now.”

His eyes glinted with playful vengeance, and the moment his body settled into that stance, you knew this was about to get real.

You charged at him again, gathering momentum like a wave before impact, your muscles coiled and your eyes locked on him with laser focus. You leapt, aiming a flying punch straight for his shoulder only to realize, mid-air, that he was no longer there. He teleported.

And the second your feet touched the ground, you felt it, two firm hands shoving you from behind. You stumbled forward and hit the floor, not hard, but with enough of a jolt to make you grunt.

“Oh, so we’re cheating now?” you growled as you picked yourself up from the mat, brushing your knees and shooting him a look that promised revenge.

Bob stood across from you, arms crossed and wearing a grin so smug it practically glowed. “Just making it fun,” he said with a shrug.

And with that, you were off again, sprinting toward him, heart pounding with adrenaline, mouth twisted into a grin of your own. This wasn’t just training anymore. This was a duel.

Your fists, your feet, your every movement were purely human, yet honed to a deadly precision. Bob’s abilities, on the other hand, were something else entirely — unnatural, volatile and unfair. But still, you were keeping pace. Maybe even thriving in the imbalance. That’s what made it exciting. That’s what made it a real test.

The more time passed, the more you began to adapt. You started picking up on Bob’s patterns, the subtle signs that preceded his teleportation or energy spikes. When he disappeared in front of you, your instincts kicked in, you spun around just in time and landed a low punch to his leg before he could surprise you from behind.

He retaliated by creating a clone of himself, suddenly splitting into two versions of Bob standing shoulder-to-shoulder. One real, one fake. It was a trick, an illusion meant to distract, to confuse. But you’d spent enough time with him to know: there was always a twitch in his eyebrow when he was faking it.

So you hit the right one. And you didn’t miss.

This was a fight unlike anything you’d experienced before. It wasn’t just punches and kicks, it was a full-on chess match in motion, a test of your speed, your mind, and your patience. You couldn’t predict his next move, and that made it thrilling. Exhilarating.

You were fighting a man with the power of a god in a one-on-one brawl, and it felt unforgettable.

Bob, despite all his earlier reluctance, was clearly enjoying himself too. Maybe even more than he expected. He was laughing, not at you, but with you. With every block, every dodge, every unexpected hit, there was a glimmer of joy in his eyes.

Sure, part of him liked having the upper hand. His powers gave him an edge, and he wasn’t above enjoying it a little. But what he truly loved was you. This moment with you. The two of you together, sweating and laughing and challenging each other like there was no one else in the world.

This was going to be another one of those memories he’d replay in his mind late at night. A secret highlight reel he’d keep tucked away in the quiet moments, just for himself.

The air inside the gym crackled with energy, your fists flying, his powers flashing, movement and laughter and combat melting into something almost like a dance.

You didn’t know how long you’d been at it, time had dissolved, replaced only by rhythm, motion and breath.

But eventually, you felt that your battery was running low. You were human, after all. And even with adrenaline pumping through your veins, your body couldn't go for so long. You took one deep breath, one final step back. And then you decided, that it was finally time to finish this and take Bob down.

Just when Bob was finally back on his feet, his attention momentarily diverted, his stance wide and unguarded, you spotted the perfect opening.

Without hesitation, you crouched low, sweeping your leg with a swift, precise motion beneath his, knocking him completely off balance. His body hit the floor with a thud, and before he could even think about recovering, you pounced. Straddling him in one fluid move, you pinned him down, grinning triumphantly as your palms landed on his chest.

“Gotcha!” you declared with playful pride, breathless but buzzing with adrenaline. But Bob only smirked up at you, something mischievous glinting behind his heavy-lidded eyes. Before you could react, he vanished and reappeared behind your back. You spun around on instinct, but he was already in the air, tackling you from behind and sending you to the ground with a gentle thud. In the next second, the roles were reversed, he was the one pinning you now.

“Not so fast,” he teased, his voice low and teasing, a cocky half-smile on his lips.

You couldn’t help but laugh again, even as your mind raced for a counterattack. Wrapping your legs firmly around his waist, you used all your strength and momentum to flip him back over, reclaiming the upper position. Your thighs gripped his sides tightly, your hands pressing him into the mat.

“No cheating, coward,” you whispered in a daring, sultry tone, leaning in just close enough for him to feel your breath on his lips, for your eyes to dominate his field of view.

Bob chuckled under you, short of breath and flushed from the intensity of the sparring match.

The room felt like it was shrinking around you. The sound of your laughter and panting breaths echoed softly against the gym walls, but neither of you were laughing anymore. Slowly, the reality of the moment settled in.

You sat firmly on top of him, your thighs snugly wrapped around his waist, your body slightly leaning forward, locking him beneath you. His chest rose and fell with rapid, shallow breaths, and you could feel every twitch of muscle under your palms as they rested against his collarbones. Your knees pressed into the mat on either side of him, securing your balance, but the real weight wasn’t in your position. It was in the way your bodies were aligned.

Your breathing slowed, but grew deeper. So did his. Your hearts thundered beneath your ribs, not from the fight, but from the heat that was suddenly, undeniably there. You shifted, barely. Just the faintest roll of your hips but Bob reacted instantly.

His hands clamped down on your calves, firm and sudden, as if his body acted before his mind could catch up. A shaky breath escaped his lips, and his eyes squeezed shut. Not in pain, but in pleasure.

You weren’t naive. Not even close. Especially not in moments like this. His reaction told you everything you needed to know.

The warmth pooling between your thighs. The pulse pounding so fast it echoed in your ears. The way your skin prickled, not from exhaustion, but from this.

Bob slowly opened his eyes again. His gaze was hungry, but vulnerable, drawn to yours like gravity. His brows pinched slightly together, his expression strained, like he was fighting an internal battle. His lips parted, pulling in shallow, shaky breaths, and in that moment, with his flushed cheeks and that desperate look in his eyes, he looked so painfully, devastatingly attractive that you nearly forgot how to breathe.

You felt it in every fiber of your being, that you had to do this. That it was right. Like something inevitable had been slowly pulling you toward this moment since the second your bodies first collided in this sparring match. That magnetic pull was impossible to ignore now, and desire itself whispered in your ear, urging you to move faster.

So you did.

Slowly you began to lean down toward Bob’s face, every breath caught in your throat, every inch you moved steeped in delicious anticipation. Your eyes were locked on his lips, completely focused, completely gone.

You felt him tighten his grip on your legs just slightly, a gentle squeeze, and you knew it wasn’t out of fear or hesitation. It was need. Want. And the pressure you felt between your thighs — undeniable, firm, and very much him — made your lips curl into a small, teasing smirk.

And still, you leaned lower. Just a bit more. The space between your mouths now barely existed. A sliver, a breath, one single heartbeat from closing the distance.

And then—

“Are you two fucking?”

Yelena’s voice cut through the tension like a blade and somehow, her blunt question made everything feel even more incriminating. You both flinched like you’d been electrocuted, snapping your heads toward the doorway.

There she was, casually leaning against the doorframe, one eyebrow arched sky-high.

“N–no! No no no no–” You scrambled off of Bob like the mat had suddenly caught fire, your hands fumbling to fix your shirt as he awkwardly shot up to his feet. Both of you were flushed, breathless, and visibly guilty as hell. Your cheeks were burning red, and so were his.

“We were just training,” you blurted out, forcing a shaky smile as if you could somehow charm your way out of this painfully compromising situation.

“Training for what? Sex?” she asked with the same deadpan curiosity someone might use when asking about the weather. You immediately stiffened again, your eyes snapping shut and your lips pressing into a tight line as secondhand embarrassment practically oozed from your pores.

You inhaled sharply, desperately trying to gather what was left of your dignity. “No. Combat training,” you clarified with exaggerated emphasis, each word laced with the kind of awkward defensiveness that only made it worse.

Bob, poor thing, looked even more wrecked than you. He was subtly shifting on his feet, trying to hide the lingering situation in his pants that you caused. His hands hovered uselessly around his hips, like he didn’t know where to put them without making it worse. He didn’t speak, couldn’t speak, and from the look on his face, he was strongly considering teleporting out of existence altogether.

“A combat session in bed, then?” Yelena was enjoying every second of your suffering. Her tone still maddeningly neutral but her eyes gleaming with mischief.

You gave up. With a dramatic sigh and a full-on glare, you just stared at her like she was the last thing you had the patience for today.

“Okay, okay, I’m done, I’m done,” Yelena laughed, lifting her hands in surrender. “I just came to tell you lunch is ready. But take your time,” she added with a wink before sauntering away, leaving you and Bob frozen in place, still reeling, still blushing, and absolutely unable to look each other in the eye.

The moments after were painfully awkward. Neither of you said a single word. The tension still clung to your skin like the sweat from your training, heavy and impossible to ignore.

Step by step, you silently made your way to the bench, where you both began to slowly unwrap the hand wraps from your knuckles, the fabric sticking ever so slightly to your still-warm skin.

Every now and then, one of you would clear your throat, uncertain noises that only made the silence more deafening.

Bob didn’t dare look at you. He was trying desperately to appear calm, casual even, but his body was betraying him in the most humiliating way.

His jaw was tight, his hands a little shaky, and despite every effort to will it away, the growing ache in his pants was impossible to ignore. The hardness pressed uncomfortably against the fabric of his sweats, and he was this close to losing it, not because of the pain, but because of the thought that maybe, just maybe, you noticed. He couldn’t risk it.

With a fleeting smile, he offered you one last glance, one that barely lasted a second, and then turned sharply toward the exit, his movements a little too quick, almost frantic. He needed to get out of there. Now.

Every step toward the hallway felt like a countdown, and he prayed silently to any god that might be listening that you didn’t see just how obvious his situation had become.

“Bob!”

He froze. Half-turned back toward you, carefully keeping his hips angled away, shielding his current… issue.

His eyes met yours, and without even trying, the corners of his mouth lifted into that familiar, boyish smile. It always happened when you spoke to him. Like a reflex.

“Thank you,” you said softly, and the sincerity in your voice made something flutter in his chest. “That was… a good training.”

You smiled, and he saw the dimples appear on your cheeks. There was something else hiding behind your eyes. A quiet melancholy, like you weren’t quite ready for the moment to end either. But he understood.

He gave you a subtle nod, the smile on his face deepening just slightly, before he finally turned away and left the gym, headed straight to his room and nowhere else.

Because if he didn’t get some privacy soon, he was going to completely lose his mind.

He hated that he had to leave you like that. Just walk out like some awkward coward running from the scene of his own downfall. But his body gave him no other choice. It refused to calm down, refused to cooperate. He already felt humiliated enough, and the last thing he needed was to embarrass himself even further in front of you.

Because despite everything that just happened, despite the tension, the looks, the closeness, the fact that your lips had nearly met for a second time, you still hadn’t kissed. You were still just friends. That label clung to him like a curse, no matter how much it stung. And Bob knew he wasn’t allowed to hope for anything more. Hoping would ruin it. Pushing the boundary might destroy everything. And that was the last thing he could ever risk. You meant too much to him.

And God, if you only knew the state he was in right now, what just a few seconds of your body against his had done to him, he was convinced you’d look at him with disgust. You’d never talk to him again. You’d see him as something twisted, something gross, and the thought of that was a pain far worse than any boner-induced agony he was currently enduring.

When he finally reached his room, he shut the door behind him quickly, almost slamming it in his urgency, and locked it without hesitation. The second the lock clicked into place, his entire body slumped back against the wood. His head tilted, his eyes fluttered shut, and he let out a long, heavy exhale. The breath he’d been holding since leaving the gym, maybe even since your thighs had pinned him down. He needed to think.

But his mind wouldn’t quiet. It kept replaying every second, every frame—your body lowering onto his, the firm grip of your thighs around his waist, the heat of your breath mingling with his, your eyes locked on his lips like you were ready to finally close the gap—and God, your hips, the way you moved, even if it was just slightly… it destroyed him.

He squeezed his eyes tighter shut and cursed under his breath. It wasn’t going away. Not the tension, not the pressure, not the ache throbbing between his legs like a physical demand. His pants felt suffocating, and every brush of the fabric only made it worse.

There was no point in resisting it anymore. He needed release. He had to do something about his painfully hard dick

At first, he tried to fight it, tried to suppress the rising heat by closing his eyes and forcing his thoughts elsewhere, anywhere but you.

He thought of his grandmother’s frown, of wrinkled pickles in an open jar, of the sour stench of rotting meat… but none of it worked. Not for more than a few seconds. You were there, still, glowing stubbornly in the corners of his mind, impossible to push out. And no matter how many revolting images he conjured, nothing was strong enough to chase away the ache pulsing between his legs, nor the vivid way your silhouette lingered behind his eyes.

He had no time. Lunch was already being served, and any minute now you’d pass his room, ready to go shower, your skin probably still damp, your voice humming some tune as you dug through your clothes. He couldn’t risk being caught, he had to be fast, careful, silent… but he had to do something.

His hands moved quickly, grabbing a few tissues and tossing them to the side of his bed. He lay back against the mattress, exhaling shakily, and pushed his sweatpants down along with his boxers, just far enough to free the part of him that throbbed with restless need.

The air in the room suddenly felt colder against his skin, and yet his body was burning, flushed with anticipation. His hand found its place instinctively, fingers curling around the base, and he started moving. Slowly at first, as if testing the water, letting the rhythm build on its own.

He tried to keep his focus on the movement — up, down, a slow glide that teased more than it satisfied, but your image kept pushing its way forward, uninvited and yet entirely welcomed. Your face, your voice, the way you looked at him. You weren’t there, and yet you were — in every nerve, in every heartbeat, in every breath he tried to steady. The friction of his palm, the way his body answered it with twitching muscle and silent trembles, wasn’t enough on its own. He needed you to be part of it, even if only in his mind.

The strokes became faster, firmer, no longer shy but desperate, he didn’t even realize how his hips had started to move up to meet his hand, chasing the pressure, greedy for release.

His toes curled. His jaw clenched. The tension built so quickly that he barely had time to brace himself. He bit down on his lower lip, trying to stay silent, but a soft moan escaped anyway, muffled and raw. His eyes squeezed shut. Everything else in the world vanished. Only you remained.

With one final, desperate thrust of his hand, his body arched slightly off the bed, and he came, quickly grabbing some tissues to cover his tip and not make a mess. His breath caught in his throat as his muscles tightened, then gave in. His lips parted, and in the quiet of his room, trembling and gasping for air, he whispered your name.

“And here he is,” Alexei announced with a mouth full of meat, pointing directly at Bob, who had just walked in, freshly changed, looking as relaxed as he could possibly fake in that moment. He offered the table a half-hearted, awkward smile before sliding into the only empty seat, one that just so happened to be directly across from you. Coincidence? Bob seriously doubted it.

Had the others left that specific chair empty on purpose, creating the perfect opportunity for him to sit opposite the very girl he’d just jerk off to? Or had you orchestrated it? Quietly insisting, subtly guiding where everyone sat so he’d have no choice but to meet your eyes over lunch like nothing happened? The thought made his stomach twist and tighten even more than it already was.

“You good, Bob?” Walker’s voice broke through the background noise of silverware and casual chatter. Every head, including yours, immediately turned toward him, curious, expectant.

The sudden spotlight hit Bob like a truck. His pulse jumped in his throat and for a second, he forgot how to breathe. His body tensed, his thoughts scattered into a thousand fragmented worries. He had zoned out so hard he hadn’t even realized someone was speaking to him.

With a small, startled twitch of his head, Bob blinked himself back into the present and forced a quick, polite nod, his smile as empty as it was automatic. “Yeah—yeah, all good,” he mumbled, voice a little higher than he intended.

Most of the table accepted that answer without much interest and returned to their food, forks clinking and knives scraping as the tension around him briefly loosened. But not everyone was so easily convinced.

Yelena didn’t move. Her eyes were locked on him with sharp, quiet precision, suspicion practically radiating from her posture. She studied him with unsettling focus, like she already knew. When he finally noticed her gaze, his shoulders tightened, and his eyes darted away instantly as he picked up his fork and focused intently on the food in front of him. He hoped she’d look away. She didn’t.

For a while, the only sounds that filled the kitchen were the rhythmic clinking of silverware against ceramic plates, the occasional wet chewing noise and a few scattered words exchanged between Walker and Ava in casual conversation. The air felt somewhat still, like everyone was trying not to acknowledge the strange tension hanging there like an invisible curtain, too fresh and fragile to touch.

Then, with deliberate volume that sliced clean through the hum of background noise, Yelena’s voice broke the silence like a match struck in a dark room.

“It’s your turn today.”

The sentence came out sharp, intentional, and loud enough to draw every head at the table toward her. She didn’t look up immediately, choosing instead to maintain her composure and keep her gaze fixed on her plate, her tone leaving just enough ambiguity to spark curiosity. The pause she left in the air was clearly planned, like she wanted to keep them all guessing for just a moment longer.

Finally, with her fork already mid-air, she casually glanced around the table, making eye contact with each person, one by one, like she was looking for something or someone. Her gaze landed on Bob and stayed there.

“Dishes,” she clarified with a smirk that bordered on smug, her eyes still trained on him. “It’s your turn, Bob.”

A collective wave of release swept through the room. Some people chuckled softly, others let out subtle sighs of relief, as if they’d all been expecting something worse, or waiting for a bomb that never dropped.

Bob, however, didn’t react right away. For a second, he just sat there, frozen mid-bite, like his brain needed an extra moment to reboot. Then, wordlessly, he gave a short nod and returned to his food, his expression unreadable, but his hand slightly trembling around the fork.

He was used to attention in battle, not at the dinner table. Especially not this kind of attention.

You had been staring at him for a moment, your gaze fixed and unreadable. Then, you licked your lips and swallowed the bite of food still in your mouth, your voice calm but deliberate as you spoke.

“I don’t mind taking it tonight.”

The clinking of cutlery instantly stopped. Every single head at the table turned toward you in unison, as if a switch had been flipped. Even Bob froze mid-chew, his eyes locking onto yours with a flicker of confusion.

“You don’t have to,” he said, voice low and cautious.

“I mean, I could at least help,” you offered again, clearly trying to work your way into that dishwashing duty like it meant more than just plates and forks. Your tone was casual, but your persistence gave you away.

The air around the table turned still again, every gaze glued to the two of you, every ear quietly tuned in like they were eavesdropping on something more intimate than anyone dared admit.

“I actually enjoy washing dishes,” Bob replied, a nervous edge to his voice that didn’t go unnoticed.

“Which is why I could help, no big deal—” you countered softly, keeping your tone light, but you weren’t backing down either.

“It’s fine, really. I don’t mind—”

Before Bob could finish, a sudden, violent bang erupted across the table, making everyone jump. It wasn’t the dull slap of skin against wood — it rang louder, sharper, with the unmistakable clang of metal. And in that exact second, everyone knew who it was without needing to look. Instinctively, all heads, including yours and Bob’s, snapped toward the source.

“I’ll do the damn dishes, alright?!”

Bucky’s voice growled through the tense silence, laced with mock cheerfulness that fooled no one. His metal fist was still clenched on the tabletop, and though he gave a crooked smile, his jaw was tight, and his eyes were darker than usual. The kind of dark that made you sit still and shut up.

With a low, bitter huff, he returned to his food and began chewing again like nothing had happened. For a moment, nobody dared move or speak. The only sounds were the rhythmic clicking of silverware on plates and Bucky’s teeth grinding through each bite.

Eventually, slowly, everyone resumed eating, one by one, cautiously rejoining the meal as if they were stepping back onto thin ice.

“Well damn,” Alexei muttered through a mouthful, his Russian dad-accent still thick as ever. “Didn’t think dishes would start a war.” He let out a nervous chuckle, probably hoping to lighten the mood, but the tension in the room was far from broken.

As Bob sat there eating, he realized something. He had never seen Bucky look that angry before. Not even that one time when Alexei and Walker had been tossing Bucky’s metal arm back and forth like some twisted game of catch, with Bucky in the middle trying desperately to grab it back. This was different. The sharpness in Bucky’s expression wasn’t just irritation or frustration, it was personal. It almost looked like jealousy.

The thought slid into Bob’s mind with a strange, intoxicating weight. Could it be possible that, for once, the tables had turned? That he was the one in the lead now, the one closer to winning you over, while Bucky was left to watch from the sidelines, unable to stand it? Bob couldn’t help the slow, dangerous satisfaction curling in his chest. The idea sank deep, and with it came a swelling sense of pride.

He straightened his posture, as if to make himself appear taller, more confident, his shoulders rolling back in a subtle display of victory. The corners of his mouth lifted into a sly, almost taunting smile, the kind of expression that was less about joy and more about knowing you held the upper hand. Without breaking that quiet smirk, he speared another bite of food and brought it to his lips, chewing slowly.

You noticed it, but the meaning you attached to it was entirely different. You’d seen that look on Bob before. It was the same look he wore whenever he successfully managed to rile up Walker. Bob’s favorite pastime, his number-one ragebait target. Every time Walker snapped, every time Bob hit the perfect nerve, this was the face that followed. The slight glint in the eye, the self-satisfied curl of the lips, the barely-there lift of his chin.

Could it be that he was doing the same thing now with Bucky? That this was just another one of his games, another test to see how far he could push someone before they broke?

Before you could dwell on it too long, you became suddenly aware of a presence leaning in close from your side. Ava’s shoulder brushed against yours as she tilted her head toward you, her voice dropping into a whisper that was practically dripping with mischief.

“Are you going to keep staring at him,” she murmured, “or are you finally going to kiss him?”

Your reaction was instant. Without looking away from the table, you pressed your heel down onto Ava’s foot under the table, sharp enough to make her flinch. She let out a quick, quiet hiss of pain, but it wasn’t loud enough to draw anyone else’s attention. Her smirk didn’t fade, though. If anything, it deepened.

The days that followed were different. But in the best possible way.

It was as if something had shifted on that fateful day. Suddenly, Bucky was no longer the one you went to for every little thing. Now, it was Bob.

Every morning, without fail, you would find him and ask if he wanted to train with you. And not once did he turn you down. During breakfast, if someone else hadn’t already taken over the kitchen, you would automatically ask him what he wanted and prepare it, just for him. Whenever the power went out in your workspace, it was Bob you called for help, or sometimes simply to hold a flashlight so you could keep going.

And Bob loved it. Every second of it. Every small interaction, every excuse to stand beside you, to watch you work, to catch a glimpse of your smile, it was all something he treasured more than he could admit.

For the first time, he felt like he had stepped into the space that used to belong to Bucky, and he was closer to you than ever before. Yet, along with that happiness, there was a faint trace of guilt tugging at him. You were doing so many little things for him, things that showed care in ways he wasn’t sure he deserved, and he barely felt like he was giving anything back.

That’s why he made up his mind. He would repay you, even if only with a small gift. Something to show you that he noticed, that he appreciated every single thing you did.

He had bought you a plush polar bear.

Yes, maybe it was a silly thing and in no way enough to repay everything you’d done for him or the way you made him feel, but he couldn’t get the idea out of his head.

Once, in passing, you had told him about how, when you were little, you used to carry a plush polar bear everywhere you went. It had been your guardian angel, your constant companion, until you lost it.

You had half-jokingly blamed your father, saying he probably threw it away so you’d focus entirely on your experiments. But even through the humor, Bob had heard the faint thread of sadness in your voice, and it had stuck with him. He had thought about it more than he’d like to admit. And the more he thought about it, the more it bothered him that you had lost something that clearly meant so much to you.

So, he decided to do something about it. No, this bear wouldn’t be the same one you had as a child, and he knew it could never carry the same memories, but maybe it could still mean something. A small gesture to show you that he listened, that he remembered, that he cared.

Still, there was a flicker of doubt gnawing at him. What if you took it the wrong way? What if it made you angry? What if it made you cry? That was the last thing he wanted to see. The thought alone was enough to make his chest tighten.

So, for now, he kept the polar bear hidden safely beneath his bed, waiting for the right moment. He wanted to give it to you when it felt natural, when it wouldn’t just be a gift, but a moment, a memory you could both hold onto.

This afternoon, you, Yelena, and Bob were sitting in the living room, the soft glow of the television flickering across your faces. You had claimed one of the two armchairs, Yelena had occupied the other, leaving Bob on the couch by himself. Not that he minded. If anything, he was perfectly content just being in the same room, watching something alongside you.

The three of you were caught up in some TV show, the kind where the characters made decisions so painfully bad it was almost comical. Bob found himself quietly laughing every single time you threw your hands in the air, your voice rising in frustration as you called the characters idiots, shaking your head like you couldn’t believe what you were seeing. Yelena reacted too, though in her case, her sharp comments were laced with the kind of bluntness and cold undertone that came from her Russian temperament, making them just a little bit intimidating.

Then, a deep voice broke through the moment. “Hey.”

All three of you turned your heads toward the sound. It was Bucky. He stood there, his expression shadowed with something… almost sad, as if he’d been wrestling with his thoughts for a long while before finally speaking.

“Can I talk to you? Alone?” His eyes locked on yours, the weight of the request hanging heavy in the air.

For a moment, you froze. Then you gave a quick, silent nod, pushing yourself up from the armchair. You didn’t look at Yelena or Bob, but Bob was looking at you. He was watching the whole time. Watching as you disappeared with Bucky around the corner, until you were completely out of sight.

The instant you were gone, something in him snapped. A hot surge of anger flared in his chest, his stomach twisting so hard it made him feel almost sick. His hands curled into fists so tight that the knuckles turned white. He forced himself to look back at the television, but it was impossible to focus. Every now and then, that strange, faint yellow glow flickered in his eyes, a dangerous hint of what he was feeling.

No. He needed to calm down. He couldn’t lose control over this. Bucky just wanted to talk to you, nothing more. It wasn’t a big deal. That’s what he told himself. Again and again. But the truth was, the more he tried to convince himself it was fine, the more it burned. The jealousy wasn’t fading, it was eating him alive, second by second.

Later that day, Bob was lying flat on his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling as if the cracks in the plaster might hold the answers he couldn’t find anywhere else. He was thinking about just throwing himself out the window. Not because it would hurt him, but because maybe the shock of it would snap him out of this suffocating spiral.

Then he heard it again. Your laugh.

Not the laugh that bubbled up because of something Bob said, not the laugh that belonged to some shared inside joke between the two of you, no. This one was for someone else. For Bucky fucking Barnes.

The sound made Bob’s stomach twist with a cruel déjà vu, like he was watching history repeat itself in the most painful way. Had he done something wrong again? Or was there some unwritten law of the universe that you would always, somehow, choose Bucky over him?

He tried to ignore it. He really did. But he didn’t own earplugs, and even if he had, he wasn’t sure he could bring himself to block you out completely. Because no matter how much it tore at his nerves to know you were laughing with that man and not with Bob, your laugh was still beautiful. And a part of him couldn’t help but drink it in.

After a while, the laughter faded into silence. Peaceful, but heavy. And then — a knock at his door.

“Yes?” he called out, his voice flat.

The door creaked open, and there you were, smiling at him with that wide, radiant grin that could melt steel.

“Heyyy,” you said in that light, almost sing-song tone you used when you wanted to brighten the mood.

“So, um—do you wanna come cycling with me and Bucky?”

The moment Bob heard and Bucky, the faint spark of warmth your smile had lit in him died instantly. The look he’d been giving you a heartbeat ago vanished without a trace. He let his head fall back onto the pillow and didn’t even meet your eyes.

“No.”

His tone was sharp. Final.

“Really? I think it would be fun—” you started, hopeful.

“I don’t want to.” His voice cut like a blade. Short. Mechanical.

The way he spoke made your chest sink. You didn’t know him like this. You’d never heard him talk to you this way, not even the time you’d accidentally broken his favorite mug. Had you done something to upset him? You’d been nothing but kind to him all day…

“Alright… but if you change your mind, you can just call me,” you murmured softly, the brightness in your voice gone. You closed the door slowly, the hinges squeaking as if they too felt the weight of the moment.

Bob heard the faint click of the latch and for a brief second, guilt brushed against his thoughts. He knew you were sad. He knew he’d hurt you. But the anger in him was boiling over, drowning out anything else. His blood felt hot under his skin, his nerves taut and ready to snap. He wasn’t just furious at Bucky, he was furious at you.

Why would you even want to go cycling with him? Why hadn’t you asked Bob first, like you always did? What the hell had Bucky said to you to make you look at him that way? Or Had Bucky kissed you?

The image burned in his mind so vividly it made him shut his eyes tight. He forced himself to take slow, measured breaths, each one like a desperate attempt to stop himself from spiraling into something he couldn’t pull back from. He knew this was a dangerous place for him to be. He knew what happened when he crossed that line. And if he didn’t calm down now, he would do something terrible.

You’d been gone all day.

Every time Bob wandered into the kitchen, whether for a drink or a quick snack, he’d secretly hoped he would find you there, that you’d be back, maybe leaning against the counter or smiling at him from across the room. But there was no sign of you. Not a sound, not a single trace.

So he spent the entire day locked up in his room with nothing but his own thoughts for company, which, in hindsight, was a terrible idea. At first, he tried to read, books had always been his escape, the one thing that could quiet his mind. But today, no matter what story he opened, you were there. Every time.

You slipped into the narrative without permission, sometimes as the main heroine, sometimes as the author, sometimes as some random passerby whispering a single line of dialogue. It didn’t matter. His brain kept placing you in every corner of every world until even his last refuge felt poisoned.

He needed to get it out. All of it, the anger, the jealousy, the gnawing ache in his chest. So he headed for the gym, determined to wear himself down physically until his thoughts went quiet.

The second he stepped inside, the memories hit him like a vicious punch to the head. He shook them off, jaw tight, and focused on the task at hand. He wrapped the tape around his fists slowly, methodically, as if dragging out the preparation might delay the inevitable storm brewing inside him.

At first, his hits against the heavy bag were light, hesitant even, like he was almost afraid to touch it. But the more his mind replayed the day, the absence of you, the sound of your laugh with him, the sight of Bucky in his head where he should have been, the faster and harder the blows came.

His breathing turned rough, ragged. Sweat poured from him, flinging off with each brutal swing. The bag wasn’t a bag anymore. It was Bucky. It was the smug tilt of his head, the way you looked at him. It was the theft of something Bob thought was his. Every strike was personal. Every strike was war.

By the end, his vision was blurring from rage, his muscles screaming, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. And then, one final punch, sharper and harder than the rest, sent the heavy bag flying across the room, the chain ripping free with a violent clang.

Bob staggered back, chest heaving, and dropped onto the bench, elbows resting on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. His knuckles ached, his arms trembled from the force he’d poured into every strike. It helped. It did help, for about three seconds. But then, like a cruel joke, you were right back in his head. With a desperate exhale, he realized that he wouldn't get rid of you so easily.

Bob was losing all sense of time, and at the same time, it felt like he was trapped in his own personal hell. Every minute dragged unbearably slowly, stretching into what felt like hours, and yet he could find nothing to occupy himself with, nothing that could truly distract his mind, because no matter what he did, you were there, in his thoughts, alongside that unbearable image of you with Bucky, somewhere outside, sitting on a bench, pressed close together and kissing as if the rest of the world didn’t exist.

He had no idea how to handle the restless, gnawing frustration building inside him. For a while, he paced back and forth across the room, his hands twitching and his teeth worrying at his fingernails until they were ragged, before he made a half-hearted attempt to lose himself in some PlayStation games. Even that didn’t last; his mind kept wandering back to the same infuriating scene.

Out of desperation, he went to the kitchen, thinking that maybe cooking would help him feel grounded, but Yelena was there, and she didn’t just reject his offer to help, she practically threw him out, not even softening the blow despite his attempt to be useful.

With that option gone, he thought about taking a walk, letting the fresh air clear his head, but deep down he knew that stepping outside would only make those thoughts louder and more vivid, and if fate decided to play a cruel trick on him, if he were to stumble upon you and Bucky in some painfully intimate moment, he couldn’t predict what he might do, not only to the two of you but to anyone nearby, maybe even to the entire city.

In his current state, he was sprawled across the bed, limbs heavy and unmoving, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as if it could offer him some kind of answer.

The headphones over his ears were blasting music at the highest possible volume, not for enjoyment, but as a desperate attempt to drown out the relentless noise of his own thoughts. Radiohead had always been his favorite band, their melancholic melodies a constant companion through countless sleepless nights, and by now he had probably listened to every single song they had ever made, more times than he could count.

But tonight, even they couldn’t soothe him. He was completely drained — mentally, emotionally — an empty shell barely tethered to the present moment.

A dull ache of regret throbbed inside him as he thought about the cruel words he had thrown at you earlier, the way his temper had lashed out.

For a fleeting moment, he wished he could take it back. But just as quickly, that regret curdled into anger again the second his mind conjured the image of you outside with Bucky, the two of you together under the night sky, perhaps laughing, perhaps touching.

Then came the wave of self-reassurance—maybe he was wrong, maybe things weren’t what they seemed—but it didn’t last. His thoughts cruelly dragged him back to the memory of you in the room with Bucky earlier, laughing at something he had said, your smile brighter than you ever offered Bob himself.

His mind was a battlefield where doubt, jealousy, guilt, and longing clashed violently, and he had no power to control it, much less stop it. He was half-surprised he hadn’t started foaming at the mouth from how far gone he felt.

Then, suddenly, his heightened senses caught something. A faint sound from the hallway. Instinct took over, and he shot upright in an instant, tearing the headphones from his ears.

You were here. Finally, you were home. For a heartbeat, relief washed over him like a cool tide, until another set of footsteps echoed alongside yours. Bucky. Of course. He had come back with you, naturally.

A mix of conflicting emotions churned violently inside him; on one hand, he was grateful you were safe, that you were back where he could see you, but on the other, the jealousy flared hot and bitter in his chest, impossible to suppress.

Whether he admitted it or not, he was jealous with the ferocity of a possessive lover, one who couldn’t stand the thought of sharing you with anyone else.

As your footsteps passed by his door, a shiver ran down his spine and goosebumps prickled along his skin, the sound of you so close making him feel as if his soul had been abruptly thrust back into his body, giving him purpose again, something to fight for, something to live for.

Even though it was late and, realistically, the only thing left to do was sleep, he knew with absolute certainty that sleep was impossible tonight. His mind wouldn’t allow it.

A few minutes had passed since your arrival, and Bob was seated at his desk, his pen scratching quietly against the paper as he jotted down a series of training routines.

Who would have thought he’d ever take a genuine interest in something so methodical? Certainly not him, and it wouldn’t have happened at all if it weren’t for you.

You were the reason he wanted to get better, to push himself, to actually organize his efforts instead of relying on pure brute force. Even though, with his abilities, he could get away with throwing blind punches, he was beginning to realize that discipline had its own kind of power.

He had just begun writing another bullet point when he heard a soft knock at the door, so delicate it barely existed in the air. It was so faint he didn’t even flinch, didn’t lift his pen from the page, because there was only one person on the entire team who knocked like that.

You.

He drew in a deep, uneven breath, his chest rising with the tremor of it, and turned his gaze toward the door before granting you silent permission to enter. He tried to steady his face into something neutral, but there was nothing in the world that could have prepared him for the way you appeared in his doorway.

Your hair was swept into a messy bun, loose strands framing your face in a way that looked entirely unintentional yet devastatingly beautiful. Your makeup was slightly smudged, as if the day had worn you down, giving your features a softer, more vulnerable edge. But all of that paled next to the fact that you were wrapped in nothing but a white towel. A towel that didn’t even reach your knees. Just. A. White. Towel.

You opened the door slowly, hesitantly, yet didn’t cross the threshold, as though some lingering uncertainty from your last interaction kept you from stepping too far into his space.

Bob’s mind promptly shattered into chaos. His eyes froze on you, on the bare skin, on the droplets of water still clinging to your collarbone, before he forced himself to turn his head slightly away, only to betray himself by glancing back for one more look, and then turning away again.

Was this deliberate? Did you come here only to provoke him? If so, it was working too damn well, because every drop of blood in his body seemed to be rushing south, leaving his brain dizzy and his breath short.

“Hi… I’m not disturbing you, am I?” you asked, your voice cautious yet warm, carrying that gentle lilt you always had when speaking to him. He only shook his head, wordless, his throat suddenly too tight to form a sound. You fidgeted with your fingers for a moment, as if gathering the courage for your next words.

“I wanted to ask… if I could use your shower,” you said at last, the faintest pause following as your eyes searched his face for a reaction. His eyebrow twitched, his chest expanding with an inhale, but before he could form a response, you rushed to explain.

“The hot water’s not working in my room, and I didn’t want to bother anyone else at this hour… please.”

Bob looked at you, but not in the way every muscle in his body was urging him to. He didn’t let his gaze linger on your legs or the way the towel hugged your curves, though the temptation clawed at him like fire under his skin. Instead, he met your eyes, those impossibly innocent, shining eyes that seemed to see right through him, and in that moment, any possibility of refusing you vanished. He couldn’t say no. He wouldn’t.

“Of course,” he said with a short nod, his voice kept deliberately neutral even as his cheeks betrayed him with the faintest flush. He gestured toward the bathroom with a quick motion of his hand.

You exhaled in relief, a small, grateful smile blooming across your lips, and you thanked him, not once, but several times, before quietly closing the door behind you and darting toward his bathroom on tiptoe.

Bob tried to focus on the training plan in front of him, his pen scratching faintly as he attempted to put his thoughts into some kind of orderly sequence, but his own mind was turning against him, playing tricks he had no defense against.

The moment the sound of the shower reached his ears, that soft rush of water bursting to life behind the closed bathroom door, an image bloomed in his head without warning, vivid and merciless.

He saw you there, in his shower, the steam curling around your body like a veil, droplets of hot water trailing down the delicate lines of your face before sliding slowly along the curve of your neck. They would linger there for a moment, catching in the hollow at the base of your throat, before slipping further, over the soft swell of your breasts, gliding across your stomach, trickling lower, down to your hips, your lower abdomen, and then—

He shifted abruptly in his chair, clearing his throat in a harsh, deliberate sound as if that could physically shove the thought away. He couldn’t think about that. Not when you were right there, barely a few feet away, separated only by a thin wall and a locked door. But his body clearly disagreed.

The insistent, twitching hardness pressing against the fabric of his boxers had no intention of obeying reason.

By the time he reached the halfway point on the page, he mortifyingly realized that several of the words he’d written had been unconsciously replaced with parts of your body he didn’t dare speak aloud.

His grip tightened on the pen, but it was no use. With a frustrated huff, he tore the paper cleanly in two, the sound sharp in the quiet room, and shoved the shredded pieces into the trash.

He drew a deep breath, willing himself to reset, pulling a fresh sheet of paper toward him as though the act alone might wipe his mind clean. He poised the pen above it, ready to start over, but the pen never touched the page.

His erection throbbed with such unrelenting insistence that it was impossible to think about anything else.

He tried flexing his hand, tightening the muscles in his arm, even giving his wrist a small shake as if physical movement could somehow shake the thoughts out of his head. But it was pointless. The moment the tip of the pen grazed the paper, his hand froze, the connection between thought and action severed entirely.

With a muttered curse under his breath, he tossed the pen onto the desk with a clatter, pushing back his chair in one abrupt motion. His fingers raked through his hair in frustration, gripping at the strands for a moment before letting them fall. He felt caged in his own skin, torn between the urge to pace the room and the dangerous temptation to picture what was happening in his bathroom right now.

Was it a curse, or was it a kind of twisted blessing, that you were the reason behind all of this? The reason his emotions kept spiraling so far out of control, the reason his body was keep betraying him? He couldn’t decide if this was some cruel punishment, or the only thing that made him feel alive.

He tried to think about other things, to focus on literally anything that wasn’t you, but the second the steady hiss of the shower came to a stop, reality crashed back over him. In just a moment, you would walk out of that bathroom, and right now he was standing there with a hard, unignorable erection straining against his sweatpants like a tent big enough for five people.

He turned sharply toward the window, his back to the bathroom door, folding his arms across his chest in an attempt to look casual, as if deep in thought while staring out into the night. It was a flimsy act, but it was the best he could do with the seconds ticking down to your return.

And then you emerged. Slowly, cautiously, as if unsure whether stepping back into his space was a good idea. The warm steam from the bathroom still clung to your skin, your hair damp where a few strands had escaped. The faint scent of your shampoo drifted through the air, threading its way toward him like a whisper he wasn’t supposed to hear.

You spotted him immediately, standing at the window, arms locked over his chest, his posture tense, his gaze fixed somewhere far away. He didn’t turn when you entered his peripheral vision, didn’t even flicker an acknowledgment in your direction, and so you assumed he was too lost in thought to engage. Deciding not to intrude further, you started toward the door.

“Thanks again, I really needed that,” you said softly, your voice carrying that breathy little laugh at the end, the kind that always seemed to sneak past his defenses. You were smiling faintly as you walked toward the exit, bare feet silent against the floor.

He didn’t answer, at least, not with words. Instead, he gave a low, almost noncommittal murmur, deep in his throat, the kind of sound that wasn’t quite dismissive but carried no real engagement either.

Your hand closed around the door handle, the plan simple in your mind — leave, retreat to your room, wrap yourself in a blanket, and let the weight of the day fade away. But as the cool metal pressed into your palm, something in you faltered. At the very last second, you hesitated, your fingers pausing against the handle, your mind shifting gears entirely.

“Bob, is something wrong?” Your tone had lost the soft, gentle edge it carried before. Now it was sharp, direct, and serious, slicing through the thick air between you. Bob recognized the shift immediately and he turned toward you slightly, catching you in his peripheral vision before his gaze reluctantly followed. God, you were even more breathtaking than you had been just minutes ago.

The makeup you’d worn earlier was gone, but it made no difference, you were equally stunning without it, maybe even more so. The faint warmth from your shower seemed to radiate off you in invisible waves that reached him even from across the room. Your cheeks held a delicate flush, your lips the exact shade of strawberry jam, soft and impossibly inviting, and again, you stood there wrapped in nothing but that short white towel.

For a fraction of a second, something in his brain short-circuited, his focus slipping entirely to the sight of you, before the memory of your question crashed back over him, along with the unmistakable seriousness in your expression.

“No,” he replied, half firm, half shy, and then quickly turned back toward the window, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a loud swallow.

That answer didn’t come close to satisfying you.

“Really? Because I got a feeling you're mad.” You took a step toward him, slow but deliberate. He only shook his head, his voice clipped.

“I’m not.” His unusually short, almost dismissive response told you everything you needed to know, it wasn’t enough, and you knew in that moment that you're not leaving this room until you got an actual explanation, until you knew what the hell was going on.

“Bob, did I do something? Or what the hell is your problem?” Your voice rose, just slightly, the frustration starting to break through your restraint. You were tired of the half-answers, tired of walking on eggshells. You wanted to know, now.

That was the breaving point for him.

“Bucky is my problem, alright?!” He spun to face you fully this time, hands raised in open exasperation. The words came out sharp and fast, a burst of emotion that had clearly been sitting too close to the surface for too long.

You were surprised, yes, but you didn’t let it show beyond the slight lift of your brows. The frown etched into your features didn’t budge.

“Then why are you angry at me?” Your tone had softened again, but the seriousness in it remained unshaken.

Bob let out a long, heavy breath, as if the answer were so obvious it pained him to even voice it. His head dropped into his hands for a moment, fingers pressing against his temples before he spoke.

“Because he’s taking you from me. From the very beginning, he—” His hand shot toward the door in a sharp, frustrated gesture, the motion alone naming Bucky without the need for words. Then he exhaled again, the fight in his tone dipping into something more weary, almost defeated. He didn’t want to say too much, didn’t want to slip and reveal more than he should.

You said nothing, your expression calm but attentive, listening in complete silence.

“When I finally managed to take his place, to be close to you in a way he never was, I was happy. Truly happy,” Bob said, his voice dropping to a low, almost uncertain timbre. “But now he’s taking you from me again, and I just… I don’t want that…”

You stepped closer to him, closing some of the distance, and in that moment Bob couldn’t have cared less if you noticed the very obvious hardness pressing against the front of his sweatpants. This was no longer about embarrassment or modesty.

Your frown, which had been sharp and unyielding moments ago, began to soften, the tightness around your eyes easing as sympathy and compassion took its place.

“Bob, I’ve never had anything with Bucky. Never,” you said, your voice steady, carrying the weight of truth. You were now only a single step away from him, close enough that he could feel the faint warmth radiating from your skin.

“Today, he wanted to talk to me because he wanted to apologize, for how he lashed out at us during that lunch,” you continued. Bob’s eyes lifted to meet yours, his brows drawing upward slightly, his lips parting just enough to show he was listening, hanging onto every word.

“We went biking together because he wanted to admit that he likes Yelena, and he was asking me for advice.” At that, something in Bob’s chest loosened. He didn’t show it outwardly, not yet, but inside, there was a small but undeniable sense of relief unraveling some of the tight, bitter knots he’d been carrying all day.

But you weren’t finished.

“Bucky has always been like a brother to me, Bob. From the very beginning, he was the first one who welcomed me here, the first who took the time to show me around. That’s why I went to him with every little thing, because I was too shy to go to anyone else.”

That was the moment the shame settled in for him. The realization hit hard, landing in the pit of his stomach with a weight that made him feel almost sick. He had twisted everything in his mind, built a false story out of his own jealousy and obsessive overthinking, turning you into some kind of villain when in reality, you’d been innocent the entire time.

“I… I didn’t know that,” he murmured, swallowing hard before lowering his gaze to the floor, unable to meet your eyes. His voice had lost all of its edge, replaced with guilt and something quieter, almost self-loathing.

He felt disgusted with himself, not just for the way he’d treated you today, but for the endless months he’d spent resenting Bucky for absolutely nothing. Every harsh thought, every suspicion, every silent grudge, he wished he could tear them out of the past and erase them completely.

“Do you know why I tried to take every single opportunity to be by your side?” Your voice was steady but low, laced with something dangerous. His heartbeat was pounding faster with every second, and yours matched it in rhythm, the air between you thickening until it felt almost heavy.

His eyes locked onto yours with an almost desperate hunger, as if he were trying to find some kind of salvation deep inside them, some glimmer of light that would tell him this wasn’t all in his head.

You took another slow, deliberate step toward him, until there was barely an inch of space left between your bodies. His arousal was no longer just visible, it was so close it nearly brushed against you, a silent confession of everything he was feeling but hadn’t dared to say. The connection between your eyes didn’t falter; if anything, it burned hotter.

“Do you know why I wanted to kiss you more than once?” you asked, your words spilling out like a secret you’d been holding for far too long. Bob’s eyes widened just slightly, the realization crashing over him. Of course he remembered those moments, the near-kisses, the pauses where your lips had hovered close enough that he could feel your breath. but he had never expected you to say it out loud, to admit it so shamelessly.

Now you closed the final sliver of space, pressing forward until his hardness was against you, the contact sending a sharp, involuntary hiss past his lips. He knew you were doing it on purpose, every shift of your body, every calculated move, and the knowledge alone made his restraint start to unravel.

“Do you know why I never gave you back your hoodie?” you murmured, and before he could answer, you rose up onto your toes, your lips brushing dangerously close to his ear. Your breath was warm against his skin, your tone teasing but laced with undeniable intent as you whispered, slow enough for every word to sink deep.

“Because every night I wore it… I was fucking myself, imagining it was your fingers.”

The sentence hit him like a spark to gasoline. He hadn’t expected that. Not the words, not the bluntness, not the vivid image that burned into his mind so instantly it made his pulse stutter. That was it, the last fragile thread of self-control snapped clean.

With a low, guttural sound, Bob’s hand came up to frame your face, his grip firm but reverent, and in the next heartbeat he crashed his mouth against yours in a kiss that was as much a confession as it was a surrender.

The moment his lips crashed against yours, it was as if the world outside of that room simply ceased to exist. There was no sound, no time, no oxygen, just the burning heat where your mouths met, and the way his kiss carried the weight of months of longing, frustration, and restraint finally breaking. His lips moved with a hunger that was almost desperate, yet there was still a tenderness there, a care in the way he held you, as though he was terrified of losing you if he kissed you too hard, yet equally terrified of stopping.

For Bob, it was dizzying. He had imagined this countless times — lying awake at night, wondering how your lips would feel against his, if they’d be as soft as they looked, if you’d let out the same quiet gasp he always fantasized about when he pictured your mouth opening beneath his. And now it was real, so much better, so much more intoxicating than anything his imagination had dared to create.

Your taste was warm and sweet, and it made him greedy, each movement of his lips demanding more, as though he could drink you in until there was nothing left between you but heat.

You could feel the tremor in his hands as they slid from your jaw down the curve of your neck, one of them coming to rest protectively at the back of your head when he began to push you backward.

He was moving quickly, almost impatiently, but still thinking about you, making sure that when your back reached the wall, you wouldn’t feel the sharp impact, that you’d be safe even in the middle of something so reckless. That small act, that thoughtfulness in the midst of his own overwhelming desire, sent a rush of warmth through you so strong it made your knees feel weak.

When your back finally touched the wall, his body followed instantly, closing the space until his chest pressed against yours and you could feel the fast, uneven rhythm of his heart against your own. The heat of him surrounded you, the scent of his skin and the faint trace of his cologne making your head spin in the most delicious way.

Bob was coming apart. The months of watching you, of wanting you so badly it ached, of swallowing down the urge to just take that one step toward you, every single second of it came crashing into this kiss. You were his now, in this moment, and that thought alone made him deepen the kiss, tilting his head slightly so his mouth could claim yours more fully. His thumb brushed against your cheek as his lips parted, inviting you to meet him in the middle, to let the kiss grow hotter, deeper, needier.

And you were melting into him. Every ounce of tension you’d been carrying unraveled under the heat of his mouth, every nerve in your body alive with the feeling of him pressed so tightly against you. You could taste the mix of his breath and yours, feel the way his body seemed to fit against yours like you’d been made for this, and every slow drag of his lips against yours sent another shiver down your spine.

Your fingers moved first, reaching for the hem of his shirt with a slow, deliberate motion that made Bob’s breath hitch in anticipation. The second your fingertips brushed the warm skin just beneath the fabric, he didn’t hesitate, grabbing the collar and pulling the shirt over his head in one swift, fluid movement.

You couldn’t help it, your eyes instantly swept over the sight revealed before you, and your hand moved instinctively, tracing the defined lines of his chest and the hard planes of muscle beneath your trembling fingers.

Your touch was almost reverent, like you were both shocked and thrilled at the same time. Breathless, aroused beyond reason, you let out a low, uneven exhale.

“And this… this is what you’ve been hiding from me?” you asked, your voice carrying a mix of disbelief and a faint, playful sting of offense.

Bob only laughed under his breath, the sound low and warm, and then his lips were on yours again before you could say anything more, his mouth moving with that same relentless hunger as before, each kiss deep and consuming, leaving you lightheaded.

With every shift of your bodies, the towel wrapped around you loosened just a little more, the knot slowly giving way under the pull of your movements. You knew it was only a matter of moments before it would fall, and the thought didn’t bother you, in truth, you welcomed it. Bob, if anything, welcomed it even more.

Before that happened, your hands slipped lower, finding the waistband of his pants. Without breaking the kiss, you helped him push them down, the fabric pooling at his ankles until he stepped out of them, now left in nothing but his boxers.

You didn’t have the chance to look down and take in what you knew was there, because in that instant, his lips claimed yours again, more fiercely than before, as though he couldn’t get enough of you no matter how close you were.

And then it happened, the faint, almost innocent sound of soft fabric hitting the floor. A rush of cool air enveloped your now completely bare skin, and in the blink of an eye, you stood entirely naked in front of him. Bob felt it instantly; of course he did. But he didn’t let his hands roam, not yet. They remained cradling your face, thumbs brushing over your skin with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the heat radiating between you.

You finally broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to draw in a shaky breath. You wanted him to look at you, to truly see you, but when your eyes met his, you noticed his were still closed, his jaw tight, as though he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

“Bob?” you murmured.

“Mhm?” His voice was low, barely holding steady.

“Open your eyes,” you coaxed.

He gritted his teeth, shaking his head slightly. “I can’t.”

“You can,” you whispered, your voice taking on a pleading note that you knew would unravel him. “Come on… look at me.”

He let out a sound that was almost a groan, and you saw it, the subtle twitch in the fabric of his boxers, the involuntary reaction your words alone caused. He tried to fight it, to resist you.

“I can’t, because… the moment I see you like this, I—” His breath caught, and he looked like he was physically restraining himself from finishing the thought. “I won’t be able to hold back.”

The raw confession hit you like a wave, not just with lust but with a kind of aching tenderness. He wanted you so much it was almost painful, and he was fighting every instinct to take you right there, just because he didn’t want to come too soon. That restraint, that deep ache he carried, almost made you pity him.

You stepped closer, close enough for him to feel your breath ghost over his lips, your smile forming slowly even though he couldn’t yet see it. “It's okay, Bob,” you murmured, your tone soft and coaxing. “Don’t hold back… just enjoy it.”

Something in your voice broke through his resistance. His eyes opened slowly at first, his gaze locking on your face for a heartbeat before it inevitably began to travel downward. And when it did, it wasn’t rushed, it was reverent, deliberate, almost like he was memorizing every curve, every smooth line of your body.

You were stunning. Perfect in a way that made his chest ache. Every inch of you called to him, from the elegant slope of your shoulders to the soft glow of your skin, the symmetry of your curves, the way the light caught the subtle sheen of your flesh. His breath deepened, his jaw tightening, and he felt the warm pulse of arousal spill out in a slow leak, his tip dampening the fabric of his boxers.

Even then, every muscle in his body was taut, his self-control a fragile thread ready to snap, because now that he had finally seen you like this, he knew he wouldn’t last much longer.

,,Jesus Christ-“ Bob’s lips found yours again, this time with a fierce, almost desperate hunger, the kind of kiss that made your head spin and stole every breath you tried to take. His hands slid lower, finding the underside of your thighs, fingers curling into your soft skin as he lifted you with an effortless strength that made your heart pound.

The sudden change in position brought you flush against him, and you felt the hard, throbbing length of his erection pressing dangerously close to the slick, pulsing heat between your legs. The contact was so intense, so perfectly aligned, that a sharp, needy gasp escaped your lips before you could stop it.

Bob’s grip tightened just slightly, firm, but still careful, as he shifted you in his arms. In a fluid movement, he turned and guided you both toward the bed. His steps were controlled, his movements deliberate, yet you could feel the restless tension in his body, the way every muscle seemed coiled and ready to explode.

When he finally lowered you onto the mattress, he did so with a surprising tenderness, easing you down as though you were something fragile and precious, even though his eyes told you he wanted to devour you whole.

He followed you down immediately, his body hovering over yours, his breath mixing with yours in a haze of heat. When he finally broke the kiss, you found yourself staring into his gaze, and what you saw there made your stomach tighten.

That familiar, piercing blue of his irises now glimmered with streaks of molten gold, the colors swirling together like liquid fire. It was the look of a man slowly giving himself over, surrendering to instinct, to want, to you. He was still holding back, but less now, the restraint slipping away piece by piece.

Without breaking eye contact, Bob lowered his head again, but this time his lips didn’t return to yours. Instead, they began a slow, deliberate path down your body, brushing against your jaw, then trailing over the sensitive skin of your neck. Each kiss was lingering, calculated, leaving a faint heat in its wake. You could feel the weight of his body pressing gently into yours, his hands sliding along your sides as if mapping you out, memorizing every curve.

His mouth moved lower still, over the hollow of your throat, past the delicate line of your collarbone, down to the swell of your chest. He didn’t rush, each kiss, each soft scrape of his teeth, felt like it was designed to unravel you one shiver at a time. His breath was warm, his lips worshipful, yet there was a simmering intensity beneath it all, the promise of something far less gentle waiting just beneath the surface.

You felt his hands shift, steadying himself as his lips kept traveling downward, brushing over your ribs, your stomach, each touch dragging you deeper into the haze of desire. The anticipation built with every inch he descended, until you knew exactly where he was headed. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, your breath coming faster, your fingers curling into the sheets in a desperate attempt to ground yourself.

Your gaze stayed locked on him, on the way his head moved lower and lower along your body — slow, deliberate, yet with a certainty that made your pulse race. His lips ghosted over your bare, trembling skin, each touch sending a shiver through you, your body shaking with sheer anticipation. Warmth pooled between your legs, your need already spilling over, and you could feel yourself clenching around nothing but air. The soft, involuntary whimpers slipping from your lips told him everything. Told him that you needed him, and he was more than willing to give himself to you. To give you everything you were aching for.

His eyes never left yours, even as his warm breath fanned over your most sensitive skin, now that he had settled between your thighs. For a moment, he simply took you in, drinking in the sight of your desperate expression, the way your pupils had blown wide, your lips parted and trembling with anticipation, your thighs quivering from the strain of waiting. The faintest smile tugged at his lips as the realization of the power he held washed over him. And then, mercifully, he decided to end your torment.

He shifted lower, sliding his arms beneath your thighs until your legs rested over his shoulders, giving him the perfect angle. With one last smoldering glance up at you, his dark blue eyes catching the light with a golden glint, he finally dipped forward between your legs. The moment his mouth made contact, your back arched instinctively, hips pressing toward his face as if your body was begging for more all on its own.

At first, he simply drew you in with gentle suction, letting his nose brush against your aching center in slow, teasing passes. The sensation sent chills racing down your spine, your breath catching. Your fingers tangled in his soft, messy curls almost immediately, tugging gently whenever he found a spot that made your breath hitch. Bob noticed everything, every tiny twitch of your muscles, every tremor, every sharp inhale or shaky exhale. He absorbed it all, mentally noting what made you melt and what made you shudder.

But truthfully, he didn’t need any guide or plan. This was instinct. This was him giving himself to you without hesitation, reading your body like it was second nature.

Soon, his tongue joined the dance, sliding slowly along your folds, tasting you for the first time. Your breath caught sharply at the contact, and he immediately knew you liked it. A pleased sound rumbled low in his throat, the vibration shooting straight through you and making your thighs try to close around his head. Did he mind? Absolutely not. If anything, he pressed in harder, savoring every second, as if the very act of tasting you was a privilege he wasn’t going to waste.

A low, breathy whimper slipped from your lips before you could stop it, the sound raw and unguarded. You felt him smile against you, the curve of his mouth pressing into your skin, and it made your pulse quicken. Bob had dreamed of this for longer than he’d ever admit — nights where he’d imagined the taste of you, the sounds you’d make, the way you’d tremble beneath him. And now, finally, you were here, and he swore he would take his time, memorizing every inch of you.

Your breath hitched, and your fingers tightened in his hair. “Bob—” you whispered, voice breaking, and the sound made him groan, a low, desperate noise that vibrated through you.

The sensation was almost too much, his lips sealing around you, his tongue stroking with a rhythm that felt like he was trying to etch himself into your very soul. You whimpered again, the sound higher this time, almost pleading. Your mind was a blur of sensation and want; all you could think was don’t stop, please don’t stop.

He could feel the way your body responded, every tremor, every subtle shift of your hips pushing closer to him.

His hands slid up your sides, thumbs stroking over your skin as he pulled you closer, burying himself between your thighs like a man starved. When you gasped sharply, he knew he’d found a spot that unraveled you, and he focused there, tongue moving faster, hungrier.

You couldn’t hold back the sounds spilling from your lips — breathy, broken whimpers mixed with his muffled groans, the room filling with the raw, unfiltered symphony of want. Every flick of his tongue sent sparks shooting through you, and every hum from him only pushed you higher.

Bob was tightening his grip just slightly, urging you closer, deeper. And you were so close, your body taut with anticipation, your voice trembling as you tried to form his name again.

You could feel every nerve in your body tightening, every breath shorter than the last. His tongue moved with relentless devotion, each stroke perfectly in tune with your desperate rhythm. Your fingers tangled in his hair as if he were the only thing keeping you anchored to reality, your hips pressing closer to his mouth, chasing that inevitable edge.

Bob could feel the way your thighs trembled around his head, hear the broken whimpers spilling from your lips. His own breathing quickening even as his mouth stayed steady, determined. His boxers were painfully tight, his arousal straining against the fabric, but he didn’t care. This was for you, though the sound of your voice and the taste of you were quickly dragging him toward the edge himself.

“Bob—oh, God—Bob—” Your voice cracked, your body arching sharply as the wave built. And then, as the pleasure burst through you, something strange happened. Your vision flickered, and with it, your entire body shimmered out of sight for a heartbeat, as though you’d been erased from the air itself.

Bob’s eyes widened, just for a second, feeling your weight still there against him but seeing nothing. The realization barely had time to register before you reappeared in a stutter of light, your cry breaking through the moment, loud and unrestrained.

He groaned against you, the vibration deep and hungry, and you swore you felt the pleasure double in intensity. Heat tore through you in blinding waves, your body shaking as the release took over, and still, he didn’t stop.

The sight, well, the partial sight, of you unraveling like that, flickering in and out as if the force of your climax was bending reality, pushed Bob past his own breaking point. His grip on your hips tightened, his body shuddering as a sharp groan ripped from his throat, his release spilling hot into his boxers.

Neither of you moved for a moment, your legs trembling over his shoulders, his lips still pressed to you, both breathing hard. Bob’s mind was racing, but in the haze of euphoria, he brushed it off as nothing more than the overwhelming, impossible beauty of what had just happened.

He let his lips press one final, tender kiss against you before lowering your legs gently, his hands stroking your thighs as if grounding you back to earth. “You have no idea… how long I’ve wanted that,” he admitted, voice low and raw.

You smiled faintly, still catching your breath, and whispered back, “I think I do.”

You both let out a soft, breathless laugh together. Bob knelt on the bed in front of you, breathing hard in sync with you, his hands resting gently on your bent knees, thumbs brushing slow circles over your skin. Your chest rose and fell rapidly. But then, your sharp eyes caught something you couldn’t ignore.

Bob’s boxers… damp, clinging.

Your brows knitted with concern, your expression softening into something almost sad. “Oh, Bob…” you murmured, your gaze fixed on the wet patch. He followed your eyes down, confusion flickering across his face, until he realized what you’d noticed. His eyes widened, a flush creeping rapidly up his neck to his ears as he instinctively shifted, trying to cover himself.

“I-it’s fine,” he whispered in a low, embarrassed tone, clearing his throat and glancing away, his cheeks already as red as fire.

But for you, it didn’t feel fine. You felt a pang in your chest. “Oh Bob… you should have told me,” you said softly, propping yourself up on your elbows, your tone suddenly more serious.

He shook his head quickly, still flushed. “It’s nothing. I wanted to focus on you.”

“And what about you?” you pressed gently, tilting your head. “Don’t you want to… loosen up?”

He gave a small, shy smile and met your eyes. “I already did.”

You let out a playful scoff, shaking your head at his proud little answer, then let your lips curl into a sly smirk. “What if I focus on you now, hm?”

Bob froze, his eyes going wide, the flustered, deer-in-the-headlights expression that always made your heart skip. “W-what do you mean?” he stammered, though the truth was, he knew exactly what you meant. He didn’t need any more stimulation for the outline in his damp boxers to start pressing insistently against the fabric again.

You shifted forward, bracing your weight on your hands until you were closer to him. “Like this,” you whispered, reaching up to grab the back of his neck and pulling him into a kiss.

He let out a low whimper against your mouth before leaning down over you, following your gentle pull until your back met the mattress again. Bob didn’t hesitate—his lips moved with the urgency of a starving wolf, but the tenderness of someone who’d been craving you for far too long.

As you kissed, one of your hands began to wander slowly down his body, tracing along his torso until it reached the waistband of his boxers. The moment your fingertips slipped beneath the elastic, Bob’s breath hitched and he shivered, his hips jerking almost imperceptibly.

“Is this okay?” you murmured against his lips, your tone low, almost teasing.

He nodded instantly, the look in his eyes telling you it was more than okay. You smiled faintly, glancing at your hand before you carefully eased his boxers down. He helped you quickly, clearly too eager to bother with modesty. The sight made you pause for a second, he was so freaking big. Bob was full of surprises.

Your lips curled upward, your eyes locked on your hand as it wrapped gently around the base of him. He let out a low, involuntary groan, his hips instinctively tilting toward your touch.

Slowly, you began to move your hand, light, barely-there strokes, keeping a steady rhythm that had him already on the brink. His breathing deepened, turning uneven, and his gaze on you grew almost glassy with pleasure. You could feel that Bob was completely undone, entirely in your hands.

Your hand moved in slow, deliberate strokes, the heat radiating from him pulsing against your palm. Bob’s head tilted back slightly, his lips parting as a quiet, almost pitiful whimper escaped. The sound was raw, like he’d been holding it back for far too long, and it made your chest tighten in the most dangerous way.

“Ah—” His breath stuttered, hips shifting just barely into your touch as though his body couldn’t help but chase more. His fingers dug lightly into the mattress, the tremor in his grip betraying how quickly you were undoing him.

You watched his face, the way his brows drew together, the way his mouth hung open in quiet desperation. Every time your thumb brushed over his tip, he let out another soft moan, sometimes a breathy whimper, sometimes a needy little gasp, and you found yourself wanting to hear all of them.

“Y-you—” he tried, but another shaky groan cut him off as your rhythm deepened slightly. You leaned in, letting your voice drop to a whisper. “You sound so beautiful when you fall apart for me…

The blush on his cheeks deepened, and his eyes flickered up to yours with something between shyness and hunger. That was all it took for you to slide your legs around his hips, the movement swift and intentional. His eyes widened in surprise as you shifted, twisting your bodies until his back met the mattress and you were straddling him.

“W-wait—” The protest wasn’t real, and you both knew it. His hands instinctively found your waist, holding on as you slid down his body, trailing kisses over his chest and stomach.

When you reached his hips, you glanced up at him. His chest was rising fast, his lips parted, the faintest tremble in his chin as though just the anticipation alone was undoing him. “I… I can’t—” he whispered, voice breaking into another whimper when you wrapped your fingers around him again.

“You can,” you said softly, lowering your mouth to brush a kiss against him. He let out a sharp gasp, his hips twitching upward, and his hand flew to tangle in your hair.

The first long lick up his length had his head falling back against the pillow, a low, helpless moan spilling from his throat. “Oh—God—”

You took your time, teasing him with slow passes of your tongue before finally letting your lips close around him, sinking down until the heat of your mouth surrounded him completely. His breath hitched, a broken sound escaping—a mix between a whimper and a desperate plea.

Your pace was unhurried at first, savoring the way he fell apart under you, his thighs trembling slightly, fingers tightening in your hair as if to keep you there. You hummed lightly, and the vibration drew a sharp cry from him, his hips jerking involuntarily.

“Ohh—please—” he breathed, the word barely audible but soaked in need. Your lips moved over him in a steady, intoxicating rhythm, your tongue swirling in just the right places, and Bob was unraveling fast. His breathing grew louder, uneven, with soft, high-pitched whimpers slipping between low groans. His hand in your hair tightened, not in control, but in surrender.

You felt it before you saw it, the air around you seemed to hum faintly, a subtle shift that made the hairs on your arms rise. A flicker of light caught your eye from the corner of the room, but you didn’t slow. The ceiling bulb blinked once, twice… and then the lamp on the nightstand gave a faint crackle.

Bob’s chest was rising fast now, his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut as if holding something in. “Ah—nghh—” he whimpered, voice tight with strain. “I—I’m close… I’m gonna—”

You pulled back just enough to murmur against him, your voice low and sure, “It’s okay. I want you to”

That broke him. The lights in the room began to flicker erratically, shadows dancing along the walls. A book on the desk shifted, lifting just an inch off the surface before dropping back down with a soft thud. You felt a jolt of surprise but instead of stopping, you sank down on him again, deeper this time, taking him to the back of your throat.

“God—oh, God—” His voice cracked, and then his hips jerked upward in one desperate thrust as his release hit. The first hot pulse filled your mouth, followed by another, and another, his entire body trembling beneath you. The lights flashed once more, then steadied, leaving the air charged and humming in the aftermath.

You swallowed without breaking eye contact, letting the warmth slide down your throat before pulling back slowly. A thin trace of him lingered at the corner of your lips, and you caught it with the tip of your tongue, savoring the taste before licking it away with deliberate slowness.

Bob was sprawled against the mattress, chest heaving, eyes still hazy with disbelief and bliss. His cheeks were flushed deep crimson, his hair tousled from your grip, and his lips parted as though he still couldn’t form words.

You wiped the back of your hand across your mouth, your gaze never leaving his, and let a small, knowing smile curl your lips. “Delicious,” you murmured, your voice dripping with seduction.

He let out one last shaky whimper, covering his eyes with his forearm as if he couldn’t handle looking at you right then. But the way his chest rose and fell, the faintest upward twitch of his lips, told you he was enjoying it as much as you did.

The room was quiet now, save for the soft rhythm of Bob’s breathing and the faint hum that still seemed to linger in the air after what had just happened. Bob lay sprawled in front of you, one arm draped over his forehead, the other resting loosely at his side. His chest rose and fell in slow, deep breaths, his body clearly still recovering from the storm you’d just pulled him through.

You stayed close, letting your own pulse settle, the heat still coiling lazily in your stomach. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. It was the kind of silence that didn’t need filling, thick with satisfaction, the echo of your moans still hanging somewhere in the air.

Eventually, Bob shifted his head just enough to look at you. His eyes were still hazy, but there was a spark there, like he was trying to figure out if you were real, or if he’d just dreamed the entire thing.

You met his gaze with a slow, knowing smile, one corner of your mouth curling upward. Without breaking eye contact, you began to move, crawling toward him until your body was over his, knees straddling his hips. You lowered yourself enough that your face hovered inches from his, your lips brushing the faintest ghost of a touch over his as you whispered,

“Do you think…”

Your hips shifted in a small, teasing roll, pressing down against the obvious hardness beginning to stir beneath you. The moment you felt it, and the way his breath caught, you knew you had him.

Bob’s eyes widened just slightly, his lips parting in a silent oh. And then his brows furrowed in surprise when the warmth between your thighs spread against him, slick and undeniable.

“…you could handle one more round?” you finished, your voice low and wicked as you moved your hips again, just enough to make him groan under his breath.

His eyes fluttered shut, jaw tightening as though he was physically holding himself back. “Y-you’re…” he started, but the sentence fell apart when you leaned in closer, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear.

“Do you feel how wet I am?” you murmured, your breath warm against his skin. “That’s all because of you.”

He let out a sound between a gasp and a broken whimper, his hand instinctively gripping your hip. That was it, the moment you felt him give in completely, the restraint snapping like a frayed thread. When his eyes opened again, the golden glint in them told you that Bob was more than ready for another round.

His hands snapped to your waist in one swift, possessive motion, pulling you down until your chests collided. His mouth claimed yours in a kiss that was nothing like the tentative ones from before, this was messy, hungry, and just shy of aggressive. His lips moved against yours like he’d been starving for you, like he couldn’t get enough no matter how close you were.

You barely had time to gasp before his tongue brushed against yours, deepening the kiss until your head spun. His fingers dug into your hips, guiding you forward, pressing you firmly against the solid heat straining between you. The friction alone made you shudder, a soft whimper escaping into his mouth.

He broke the kiss just long enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide, a golden shimmer flickering at the edges, and then he was helping you move. One hand cupped the back of your thigh, the other steadying your waist as he shifted beneath you, lining himself up.

The moment the head of him pressed against your slick entrance, your breath caught in your throat. He was so warm, so solid, that your body reacted before your mind could process it, muscles clenching in anticipation, your thighs tightening slightly around his hips.

Bob’s gaze was locked on yours, his chest rising and falling faster as he gave your waist a small, encouraging squeeze. Slowly you began to lower yourself onto him, your body parting to take him in. The first inch made you gasp; the second had your nails digging lightly into his shoulders.

Every bit of him slid deeper, stretching you in a way that made heat bloom low in your stomach. The wet glide was effortless yet maddening, your arousal coating him so well it felt like he was made to fit you.

When you finally sank all the way down, your hips meeting his, you both let out the same shaky, breathless sound, half moan, half whimper. Bob’s head fell back, his fingers tightening on your thighs as if grounding himself.

You could feel the deep, full weight of him inside you, the way he filled every space, the way your body molded around him like it had been waiting for this exact moment. The connection was almost too much to bear, so intimate that your pulse synced with his.

A slow, involuntary roll of your hips drew a deep groan from him, his eyes snapping back to yours, golden light flickering faintly in his pupils. “Move again,” he murmured, almost begging.

You listened to Bob and started moving. Slow at first, testing the way his length slid in and out of you, how the stretch sent shivers crawling up your spine. Each rise pulled a whimper from your lips, each fall drew a low, guttural moan from Bob that vibrated through your chest.

Your hands braced against his stomach, feeling the tight flex of his abs as he exhaled sharply every time you sank back down. The friction was intoxicating, your slick heat clinging to him on the way up, then welcoming him back in with a wet, needy sound that made Bob’s jaw tighten.

“God… you feel so good,” he breathed, his voice cracking halfway between awe and desperation. His hands roamed from your hips to your waist, then up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before returning to grip your hips like he needed to anchor himself.

You tilted your hips forward, grinding at the bottom of each descent so he could feel the throb of your arousal around him, and his eyes rolled back for a moment, a broken whimper spilling from his throat. “Keep going please,” he pleaded, his tone shaky and needy.

Your own breathing was rapid, the heat coiling tighter with each movement. Every time you pushed down, the tip of him nudged that perfect spot inside you, sending sparks through your vision. You could feel your walls fluttering around him, your body trying to pull him even deeper.

Bob lay beneath you, golden light flickering faintly in his irises, chest heaving as his hips began to meet yours on every thrust. The added force made you gasp, your moans growing louder, more desperate. “Bob—” you choked out, your voice trembling, and the way his name left your lips made him groan like he was on the edge already.

His hands slid up your back, pulling you down toward him so he could kiss you — messy, breathless, hungry — while you kept moving on him, your bodies moving together in a rhythm that felt primal, inevitable, and utterly consuming.

Your pace quickened until the entire bed began to creak and thud rhythmically against the wall, each impact sending a shiver down your spine. The air was thick with your mingled moans and the wet, obscene sounds of your bodies meeting over and over. Bob’s breathing had turned ragged, every exhale broken by the kind of needy whimper you’d only ever dreamed of hearing from him.

“Holy—” he groaned, voice strained, and then he moved. In one smooth, desperate motion, he sat up, strong arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer, until you were flush against his chest. His embrace was protective, crushing, like he wanted to keep you there forever.

You gasped as the new angle drove him even deeper, the stretch making your nails dig into his shoulders. “Bob—oh my God—” you whimpered, your head falling back as he began to thrust up into you from below. His hips snapped forward with controlled power, each movement hitting that devastating spot inside you.

He buried his face against your chest, his breath hot against your skin, his groans muffled by the curve of your breasts. “I can’t—God, you feel so perfect—” he mumbled into your skin, voice shaking with the effort to hold himself together.

Your legs clung to his sides, your entire body trembling from the relentless pace. You could feel yourself spiraling toward the edge, but the way he held you made it impossible to stop. His hands gripped you with such intensity that you knew he was just as close, his hips working in sync with yours until you were both lost in a blur of movement, heat, and sound.

Your pace with him was frantic now, both of you clinging to each other like you’d break apart if you let go. His breathing grew harsher, each thrust shorter and sharper as he chased the edge. You could feel the way his muscles tensed beneath you, the shudder rolling through his frame.

“Fuck I’m—” His warning was cut off by a strangled moan as he came, hard, his release triggering a rush of power that rippled out from him. Objects around the room trembled, then lifted from the floor, pillows, books, even the lamp, suspended in the air for a heartbeat before crashing back down in a chaotic rain. The lights overhead flickered wildly, bathing you in strobing flashes of gold and shadow.

But then, mid-thrust, Bob’s eyes widened. His gaze fixed on you, stunned, as your body shimmered and then vanished. Completely.

You didn’t notice, lost in the overwhelming rush tearing through you, hips still moving in desperate pursuit of your own release. To you, nothing had changed, except for the way Bob suddenly held you tighter, almost like he was afraid to let you go.

He didn’t say a word. Not about how he could now only see the shape of the bedsheets moving, the faint shimmer in the air where you should have been. He just kept guiding you, his hands gripping your hips firmly, his face buried in the space where your chest used to be, letting your sounds and movements tell him exactly where you were.

You cried out, loud, needy, completely undone, and the orgasm ripped through you, your invisible body trembling violently in his arms. You stayed like that for a moment, lost in the aftershocks, before slowly fading back into view, skin flushed and glowing, hair damp with sweat.

Bob just stared at you, chest heaving, that shock still lingering in his eyes, but still, he said nothing. Only his thumb brushed across your hip in slow, grounding strokes, like he wasn’t ready to let you slip away.

The aftershocks still pulsed through your body, little tremors in your muscles as you tried to catch your breath. Your skin prickled, a strange tingling running up your arms and neck, then you noticed the faint shimmer dancing over you again.

This time, it wasn’t total invisibility, more like you were blinking in and out, fragments of your form phasing away before returning in a flicker.

When you finally came fully back into view, you were met with Bob’s wide, startled eyes. His chest was rising and falling fast, but it wasn’t just from the exertion, he looked like he’d just seen a ghost.

“What?” you asked, confused, brushing your damp hair back from your face. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Bob swallowed, still staring, and then his voice came low and a little shaky. “You… disappeared. Like—actually disappeared. I was holding you and you weren’t there, but I could still feel you.”

You blinked at him, caught between disbelief and laughter. “What? No, that’s—” You stopped, thinking of the tingling, the way his hands felt on you even when you hadn’t been able to see yourself. Slowly, a grin spread across your face. “Oh my god… so the experiments did work after all.”

Bob let out a breathy laugh, still looking a little dazed, and leaned forward to press a soft, grounding kiss to your lips. Then another. And another. And then his kisses turned playful, quick, relentless little pecks scattered across your cheeks, jaw, neck, until you were squirming and laughing from the ticklish assault.

“Bob!—stop—” you giggled, shoving at his chest lightly, but he only smirked before finally letting you go.

With a deep, satisfied sigh, you slowly shifted off of him, your legs shaky. Bob’s hands came to your hips instantly, steadying you, guiding you as if you were something fragile. The moment you separated, you both glanced down and it was a mess.

Slick glistening on both of you, trailing over the inside of your thighs and streaking the rumpled sheets beneath. Even the mattress had its share of evidence.

Bob’s grin turned warm, a little shy, but entirely unashamed. “Guess we, uh… made an impact,” he murmured, and the way he said it made your cheeks heat all over again.

You let yourself collapse onto the mattress beside him, your body still humming from everything that had just happened. Bob, breathing hard but clearly still riding the adrenaline, reached over the edge of the bed with the kind of determination only a superhero could muster in such a state. His hand found a box of tissues, and he tugged one free.

He wiped himself first, quick but thorough, and then gave a half-hearted swipe at the worst of the mess on the mattress, though by the way his attention lingered on you instead, it was obvious the state of the bed was the least of his concerns.

Then, holding another tissue out toward you, he hesitated for just a second. “Only if you want,” he murmured, voice low and still a little rough from earlier. “I mean… I don’t wanna intrude.”

You couldn’t help but smile, touched by the gesture. After everything, he was still trying to be respectful, like he hadn’t just seen and felt more of you than anyone else ever had. You took it from his hand with a soft “Thank you,” and cleaned yourself up as best you could.

“Wanna shower?” he asked after a moment, still catching his breath, his hair damp with sweat, eyes hazy yet alert.

“Maybe later,” you murmured, exhaustion settling into your limbs like warm sand. Your eyelids felt heavy, too heavy to keep open for long.

Bob exhaled slowly, the corner of his mouth tugging into the faintest smile as he took in your flushed cheeks and spent form. For him, this kind of thing wasn’t nearly as taxing — superhuman stamina had its perks — but he knew what it had taken out of you.

When he shifted, settling deeper into the bed, you moved instinctively. Without a word, you curled into him, your cheek finding the solid warmth of his bare, sweat-slick chest. The steady thump of his heartbeat was a lullaby in itself.

Bob’s arms closed around you immediately, protective and unyielding, as if keeping you close was the only thing that mattered in the world. His chin rested lightly against the crown of your head, and his whole body seemed to relax.

In his stomach, the butterflies didn’t just flutter, they strummed away like they were playing a love song just for him.

Bob’s fingers traced slow, lazy patterns along your back, and for a moment, you just basked in the warmth of his hold. But then, with your cheek still resting against his chest, you broke the comfortable silence.

“There’s… something I should tell you,” you murmured, your voice soft but deliberate. His chest rose and fell under your ear as he hummed in curiosity.

“You already know about my regeneration,” you continued, “and now, apparently, the invisibility thing… but I also have enhanced senses.”

Bob tilted his head slightly, looking down at you. “Enhanced how?”

You smiled faintly, watching your fingers play absently over the skin of his abdomen. “I can turn them on and off when I want. Sight, hearing, smell… but the one I use the most?” You glanced up, meeting his eyes with a spark of mischief. “I can feel other people’s heart rate. Their pulse. I can tell when it changes.”

His brows drew together, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. “Wait… you mean—”

“Yeah.” You grinned now, clearly enjoying the moment. “I know exactly when someone’s getting… excited.”

Bob froze, the tips of his ears instantly going red. “So… you’ve known… every time… I—”

“Mhm.” You gave a playful little nod, your eyes never leaving his.

He immediately looked away, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to hide his embarrassment. “God, that’s—” he muttered, voice low and flustered, “that’s so embarrassing.”

You propped yourself up on one elbow, leaning closer so he couldn’t avoid your gaze. “Hey,” you said softly, your tone full of reassurance. “I never thought it was weird. Honestly… I kind of thought it was hot.”

His eyes flicked back to yours at that, still tinged with surprise. You leaned in and pressed a light, sweet kiss to his lips, a gentle seal on your words. His shoulders seemed to relax just a little under your touch, though the blush stubbornly stayed.

Your gentle kisses along his jawline and the corners of his mouth seemed to melt away whatever shyness or awkwardness still lingered between you. You felt his body ease under your touch, his breathing growing slower, though his eyes still held a certain spark, like he was carrying a secret he was almost too nervous to share.

You nestled against him again, your head resting over the slow, steady thump of his heartbeat, and the comforting heat of his skin seeped into you.

For a few minutes, there was only the quiet rhythm of your breaths blending together. But then, you felt him shift slightly, his arm tightening around you as if drawing courage from the contact.

“I… actually have something for you,” he began, his voice hesitant but warm. There was a strange mixture in his tone, both nerves and a kind of excitement, like he’d been waiting for the right moment.

You tilted your head to look at him, your lips curling into a curious smile. “Yeah? What is it?”

His own smile turned faint and shy, and you could see the little flicker of apprehension in his eyes. “You have to close your eyes first,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying to keep from grinning too much.

You arched a brow, playfully suspicious, but obeyed. Slowly, you sat up, your hands resting lightly on your lap, and felt the mattress dip as he moved. There was the soft rustle of him leaning forward, his hand disappearing beneath the bed. His breathing quickened ever so slightly, not from physical strain, but from the growing weight of the moment.

When he finally found what he was searching for, his fingers curled around it protectively, and you heard a small, almost inaudible exhale, as though he were steadying himself.

“I, uh… didn’t really plan a speech for this,” he admitted with a quiet laugh that held more tension than humor. “But… I just wanted to give you something. For the way you’ve been with me these past few days. You’ve been… everything. And you mentioned this once, and I hope it doesn't sound stupid, but I was hoping it would be a nice gift.” His voice softened on the last part, almost vulnerable in a way you rarely heard from him.

There was a pause, and then, almost like he was afraid to drag it out any longer, he said, “Alright… you can open your eyes now.”

You did.

And the first thing you saw was the soft white fur of a small polar bear plush cradled in his large hands, its tiny black eyes looking up at you with the same gentle affection you so often saw in his.

Something inside you cracked open. Without thinking, you moved forward and wrapped your arms around Bob so tightly that your cheek pressed against his neck. “Thank you so much,” you whispered, your voice low but brimming with emotion.

He hugged you back just as firmly, his chin resting lightly atop your head. The moment stretched, quiet and unhurried, as though the world outside had faded away. He didn’t need to say anything, he could feel what it meant to you in the way you held onto him.

But then, when you looked up at him, he noticed the faint shimmer in your eyes wasn’t just from the lightning in the room. Slivers of tears were forming, catching the light.

Immediately, panic flickered across his face. “Wait—did you… I mean… I hope you didn’t take it the wrong way. I wasn’t trying to—”

You pulled back just enough to fully meet his gaze, your hands still resting against his chest. Slowly, you shook your head and looked down at the little polar bear now sitting in your lap. You ran your fingertips gently over its soft head.

“These are tears of happiness,” you said softly, your lips trembling just enough to betray how deeply you meant it. “Bob… nobody has ever done something like this for me. Nobody.”

For a moment, his expression softened so much it almost hurt to look at him. There was warmth radiating from his chest, a quiet pride mixed with something far deeper, an unspoken vow he couldn’t quite put into words. And in that moment, he knew he’d done it.

He’d given you something that had touched you in a way nothing else could.

The morning light slipped through the blinds in warm, golden bands, brushing softly across your skin as you stirred awake. There was a delicious, almost heavy sense of calm between you and Bob, no rush, no noise, just the quiet, shared afterglow of a night that neither of you would be forgetting anytime soon.

His arm was draped lazily over your waist, and you could feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing against your back. When you turned slightly, you found his eyes already open, watching you with that rare, unguarded tenderness that made your chest tighten in the best possible way.

What followed was an unspoken agreement. A lazy smile. A subtle glance. And then, without a word, the two of you slipped out of bed and made your way to the shower. The hot water cascaded over you both, steam curling in the air like a cocoon around your bodies.

What had started as simply washing off the night’s mess soon became something more, small, teasing touches, lingering glances, his fingers brushing over your skin as though he couldn’t help himself. The closeness was intoxicating, and it left you both laughing softly under the spray, the kind of laughter that carried that familiar, electric tension beneath it.

Eventually, you dried off, dressing in fresh clothes. But there was no way you could walk into the kitchen together without drawing attention. You both knew it. So, after a quick exchange of smirks, Bob left first, disappearing down the hallway, leaving you behind to count a deliberate number of minutes before making your own entrance.

By the time you stepped into the kitchen, the rest of the team was already gathered around the table, the soft clink of cutlery and low murmur of voices filling the air. You moved with casual ease. The trick was to act normal, to hide the afterglow still lingering on your skin, the faint ache in your legs, the memory of his hands. You slid into a seat, offering a polite smile as you reached for a piece of toast.

But the moment you caught sight of Bob across the table, it was almost impossible not to let the corners of your lips curl just a little higher. You focused on your plate, willing yourself not to stare, though you could feel his presence like a magnetic pull.

And you were well aware that your subtle, satisfied smile was probably not as subtle as you’d hoped. Judging by the quick glances being exchanged between a few of the others, you suspected more than one person had already guessed you’d slept like a queen.

The meal carried on in easy conversation until there was a lull, a comfortable silence where the only sounds were the clinking of cups and the occasional scrape of cutlery. That was when you decided to speak.

“So,” you began casually, taking a sip of juice, “I found out something new about myself last night.”

That earned you a few curious looks, though no one interrupted, waiting for you to elaborate.

“I can turn invisible.”

The words hung in the air for a beat before the table reacted. A murmur of surprise spread instantly, chairs creaking as people leaned in just slightly, eyes fixed on you.

“How did you figure that out?” Yelena asked, her brows raised in genuine intrigue.

You opened your mouth to answer, when Bob, mid-bite, started choking.

It was sudden and unmistakable, a muffled cough as his eyes went wide and his fork clattered lightly against his plate. He quickly covered his mouth, trying to disguise it as nothing, but the faint flush creeping up his neck and the way he avoided your gaze told a very different story.

Every head at the table turned toward Bob at once, their attention drawn by his sudden coughing fit. The poor man looked like a deer caught in headlights, still trying to mask the fact that he had nearly inhaled his breakfast. You could feel the tension spike, and instinctively, you stepped in before anyone could press too hard.

“It’s not really a big deal,” you said with a small, dismissive shrug, forcing your voice to sound casual while carefully avoiding Bob’s gaze. “I mean… it’s not like I have full control over it yet. It just… sort of happened. I’ll have to learn how to manage it before it’s actually useful.”

There was a short pause as your words sank in, then the tension broke into a wave of amused, approving comments. Ava chuckled and said, “Well, look at that—you might actually be useful after all.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, letting the teasing wash over you without protest. It was easier than trying to explain the very specific circumstances under which your new ability had first appeared.

But while most of the table was reacting with good-natured ribbing, your eyes flicked to Yelena. She hadn’t said a word. She simply leaned back in her chair, arms folded, her sharp gaze fixed on you with an almost knowing expression. Her lips curled ever so slightly, not in judgment, but in that quiet, dangerous amusement of someone who had already put the puzzle together. She didn’t speak, didn’t call you out. For now.

You held her gaze for a moment, then looked away, feeling the faintest heat rise in your cheeks. The conversation moved on, and you joined in where you could, but a small part of you remained hyper-aware of Bob across the table and Yelena’s silent watchfulness.

Whatever game she was playing, you had the sinking feeling she was saving her comments for later, when you least expected it.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

HAVE A LOVELY DAY!

BYEEE🌸🐻‍❄️👛🥥

[adelliet]

BOB’S SEX MANUAL

This is a general sexual manual for Bob Reynolds — what positions he prefers, which ones he tends to avoid, how he behaves during intimacy, all of that (and more) is detailed right here.

Warning: MDNI 18+. This text contains explicit sexual content, mentions of blood and menstruation, and other potentially sensitive topics.

A/n: Even though I tried to write this mostly through Bob’s eyes and feelings, keep in mind it’s still a subjective interpretation, obviously. Everyone’s free to have their own take on the character, so please don’t take every single word too seriously. After all, this is all just imagination :p

SEX POSITIONS

Missionary

Definitely one of his favorites.

Bob likes this position because he can see your face — every flutter of your eyelids, every tremor of pleasure that crosses your expression. It gives him a sense of connection, of reassurance that he’s doing it right. He’s not the overly dominant type, but he enjoys having just enough control to guide the pace, the rhythm, the depth.

In missionary, he takes his time. Slow, steady, deep. He doesn’t rush. He watches you unravel beneath him, eyes rolling back, breath catching, until your body arches up to meet his, wordless and wanting. He kisses you between thrusts, touches your face like it’s the only thing anchoring him to reality.

To Bob, it’s not just sex, it’s intimacy, and in this position, it’s personal.

Doggy Style

Unlike missionary, this one doesn’t rank high on his list.

It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy the physical part, it’s just that he misses you. In this position, he can’t see your face. He can’t watch your reactions or gauge if that low moan meant more or less. That disconnect messes with his head.

He prefers to feel you emotionally as much as physically, and doggy style puts a wall between those two things.

You’re usually the one who suggests it, and when you do, he doesn’t say no. He goes along with it, hands firm on your hips, following your lead. But the whole time, a part of him aches to turn you around, pull you close, and see you again.

Because for Bob, the pleasure is in the connection and doggy, for all its intensity, just feels a little too distant.

Cowgirl

He loves this. Absolutely adores it.

The way he gets to just lie back and watch you, watch the way you move on top of him, how your body responds, how you take control. There’s something about the confidence in your hips, the heat in your eyes when you ride him face to face, that completely unravels him.

He can touch you however he wants — your thighs, your waist, your breasts, your face. It’s all right there, and you’re the one calling the shots. And he lives for that. Sure, when you start to tire, he’s more than happy to take over, but until then? He lets you do what you want with him.

That loss of control mixed with your gaze locked on his, it’s lethal. He almost never lasts long like this.

Reverse Cowgirl

Same problem as doggy. He can’t see your face.

You might try this once or twice, maybe out of curiosity or just to spice things up, but Bob? He doesn’t really feel it.

Yes, the view is incredible — he’s not blind, he adores your ass, and watching you move on top of him like that is ridiculously hot. But it’s also distant. He can’t read you. Can’t see the flickers of pleasure, the little half-smiles, the clenched teeth.

He misses you in this position.

So while he’ll go along with it, he’ll probably suggest switching to something more intimate before long, something where he can feel more connected, more grounded in you.

Spooning

Hell yes. This one’s for those soft, sleepy nights, when one of you is too tired to move much, but still craving that closeness.

He pulls you in, arms around you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held — and to him, you are. His hips do all the work, but his heart is in your neck, breathing you in, pressing tiny, shivering kisses against your skin.

You moan, and he shudders. You gasp, and he feels it. Always so gentle, but so needy at the same time. He clutches you tighter, burying his face in your shoulder, as if the world might end if he lets go.

It’s not just about sex in this position — it’s about being close, staying close, needing you. And when he finishes he doesn’t pull away. He just holds you, like he never wants to stop.

Lotus

YES. Yes. A thousand times yes.

There’s something about being tangled together like that — skin to skin, faces close, legs wrapped, breath mingling. It’s not just sex, it’s devotion. Bob thrives in that closeness.

Your thighs draped around him, your hands in his hair, your forehead brushing his, he feels like you’re inside his soul.

The movements are small, subtle, almost lazy, but the tension is unbearable. Every tiny thrust, every twitch of your hips or squeeze of your thighs sends shivers down his spine. But what really drives him over the edge isn’t the movement. It’s you.

Your eyes. The sound of your breath. The way you bite your lip when he pushes just a little deeper.

And because you’re the one in control, moving at your pace, choosing the rhythm, he gets to watch, to feel. And he always, always, finishes fast in this one. Not because of friction but because of the feeling.

Standing

Usually, against a wall.

This one doesn’t happen often but when it does, it’s because things have boiled over. Maybe you’re drunk. Maybe he is. Maybe neither of you can't wait the five seconds it would take to find a bed. Clothes half-on, half-off. Breathless. Urgent.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, arms clutching his shoulders for balance. His hands are firm on your thighs, supporting you while he thrusts into you, slow at first, testing the limits of balance and breath. Then harder and faster.

He presses you to the wall like he’s trying to fuse you with it, and for once, he feels powerful and confident

He bites your neck, kisses your jaw, groans into your skin like he’s losing his mind. And in that wild chaos, with the door half open and the hallway spinning, he feels alive. He owns that moment and he loves how you let him.

Sex During Menstruation

This isn’t something that happens all the time between you and Bob, but it’s also not something either of you treat like a taboo. If anything, Bob sees it as a very human, very intimate kind of vulnerability — one that he’s more than willing to meet with kindness, patience, and genuine desire.

He never pressures you, and he would never suggest it outright. Not because he’s uncomfortable with it, but because he understands how different menstruation can feel from person to person, even from day to day. Some cycles leave you drained and sore; others might actually make you feel more sensitive and in the mood. Bob knows that.

So if you do suggest it, his only answer is a gentle, “Are you sure?” followed by a kiss that says he’s already on board. From that moment, you’re in his care.

He moves a little slower than usual, touches you a little more consciously, and stays deeply tuned in to how your body responds. If there’s any sign of discomfort, he stops immediately, no questions asked, no disappointment. But if you’re moaning and pulling him closer? He’ll give you everything.

There’s no disgust in his eyes. No flinching. No pulling away if his hands or thighs or anything else get messy. It doesn’t bother him. In fact, it kind of fuels something deeper in him, a need to show you that you’re loved and desired at all times, not just when you’re ‘neat’ or ‘presentable.’ His hands may be streaked red, the sheets a little ruined, but none of that matters.

Physically, the sex itself tends to be slower, more sensual. There’s a sense of care woven into every movement. Sometimes, it’s spooning or missionary with a towel underneath, and sometimes it’s you riding him because you feel more in control that way. Either way, Bob focuses less on orgasm and more on the closeness of it all.

If you’re feeling insecure about the mess, he’ll reassure you with little gestures: a kiss to your temple, a soft “I don’t care” whispered against your shoulder, or even a low laugh as he helps clean up afterward, like it’s no big deal, just another part of being woman, and a reason to keep a backup set of sheets.

Emotionally, Bob seems almost softer afterward. Like sex during your period unlocks something even more protective in him. He’ll pull you in close, rub small circles on your back, and look at you with that quiet awe he gets when he realizes just how much he loves you, and how much you trust him. That trust means more to him than anything.

ORAL POSITIONS

Sixty-nine (69)

Bob is more of a giver, always has been. That’s why sixty-nine overwhelms him a little.

Your lips wrapped around him while he’s trying to focus on pleasuring you? It’s almost too much.

He’s not the one to suggest this. It’s just not in his nature. But if you bring it up and want to try it? He won’t say no. He’ll try it for you.

Still, it’s hard for him to focus when you’re making him feel good at the same time. When he’s between your thighs, he wants to give you 100%. He wants to lose himself in your taste, your reactions, your sounds, but when he’s getting pleasure too, he gets distracted.

Your mouth is too warm. He groans into your body and his rhythm falters. Also, sixty-nine takes energy and coordination. And let’s be honest, Bob’s stamina lies in his heart, not in gymnastics.

So while he might try it, enjoy it even, he’s not exactly a fan. He’d rather lie you down and worship you without any distractions.

Face sitting

Now this? This is heaven for Bob.

When you sit on his face, you become his whole world. He’s always loved giving you pleasure, and here, you’re in control, but he’s the one doing all the work.

Your thighs around his head. Your heat against his mouth. The sound of your breath, the way your hips start to shake. He loves every second. He holds your hips or your ass, grounding himself like he’s trying not to float away. Sometimes he pulls you closer, sometimes he steadies you when your legs tremble.

And when you look down and lock eyes with him? His pupils go wide. His grip tightens. And honestly, he has come from that alone more than once. Even when you’re shy at first, worried you might hurt him or that it’s “too much”, Bob’s only response is more.

Once your knees sink down fully and you really let go, Bob is in his element. He doesn’t even care if he can breathe. He just wants to make you fall apart on his tongue.

And after the first time, you’ll catch him glancing up at you with those soft eyes and that little hopeful smile, silently asking:

“Again?”

Standing Oral

When Bob wants to make you come, he prefers you to let go. No pressure. No overthinking. Just pleasure. That’s why, even if you start off standing, he won’t let you stay that way for long.

As soon as he notices your knees start to give out, his hands are already on your thighs. Gently, like he’s handling silk. He lifts your legs up and settles them onto his shoulder.

He adores the way your fingers tangle in his hair. The quiet gasps. The not-so-quiet moans. The heat that spreads from your hips to his lips. It takes strength, yes. But it’s not about the posture for Bob. It’s about the fact that you’re losing control. And nothing makes him harder than knowing he’s the reason.

Sometimes, he catches glimpses of you in a short, tight dress and his brain short-circuits. He thinks about the taste of you for hours. Until finally, you’re alone, and he can kneel down and indulge like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Lying Oral

This is foreplay, but with intention.

Bob wants to be sure. That before anything else happens, you’re fully taken care of. Because he knows sex doesn’t always end in a climax for you, and that’s not acceptable to him. Not if he can help it. So he takes his time.

Lying between your thighs, flat on the bed, he’s in his element. His hands explore your hips, your stomach, your inner thighs, grounding himself while his tongue explores you.

From below, he looks up at you through his lashes and his messy hair, and God, he looks starved. Some nights, it’s so overwhelming you have to stop him. He listens. Usually.

But there are moments when your legs are trembling and your hands are shaking — where he keeps going anyway. Gently, slowly, but deliberately. And when you come on his tongue, he moans like he’s the one finishing.

Then there was that first time. You squirting, panicking afterwards. His whole face was soaked and you apologized, flustered and horrified.

But Bob just laughed, pulled you close and told you it was okay. Because inside he was glowing. Because he made that happen. And he’s never, ever, forgotten it.

Oral from behind

This one… is complicated.

Because Bob loves how you look from behind. The arch of your back. The way your thighs shake. The soft sounds falling from your lips. He loves how open you are to him — how vulnerable, exposed, trusting.

But.

He can’t see your face. And for Bob, as already being said, that’s a problem. He needs to see your expression. To read the way your brows knit, the way your mouth parts when something feels especially good, the way your eyes roll back when he hits the right spot. That’s his feedback. Without it, he spirals.

“Am I going too hard? Too soft?”

“Is she bored?”

“Did she just twitch or did she flinch?”

He hates not knowing. So this position is rare. Something you maybe try once in a while, on a wild night, when you’re both a little drunk, laughing and stumbling into bed. He’ll go down on you like that, pulling your hips back with shaky hands, mouth wet and eager, but even as he moans into you, there’s this part of him that’s hyperaware of not seeing you.

You can feel it in the way he pulls away just to ask, “Is that okay?”

Even when you’re moaning yes, he doesn’t look convinced. It’s not about performance, it’s about connection. Bob’s not the kind of guy who gets off on your body alone (mostly). He needs your soul, your face, your breath against his skin. So while this isn’t off the table, it’s more of a sometimes thing, a playful experiment, and that’s okay. Because Bob always finds his way back to your front, where he can look you in the eyes and absolutely ruin you.

Period Oral

This is not something Bob initiates on his own, not because he finds it repulsive or shameful, but simply because he respects your body and knows that this time of the month can come with discomfort, pain, or just the desire to be left alone. If you don’t bring it up, he won’t either. But if you do? If you even hint that you’d like him to go down on you despite your period, he’ll be there in a heartbeat, no questions asked, no hesitation, and absolutely no judgment.

He’s not squeamish in the slightest. In fact, he sees it as just another part of your body and your cycle — something natural, human, and beautiful in its own way. For Bob, it’s not about the blood; it’s about you. If this is what your body is going through, then he wants to honor that. He wants to be close to you even when you don’t feel at your best, especially when you don’t feel at your best.

Of course, he’s a lot more careful in how he approaches it. His touches are gentler, his tongue softer, and his pace much slower. You’ll never feel rushed or pushed into anything, in fact, he constantly watches your face, gauging your reactions, making sure you’re still comfortable, still enjoying it. He’s particularly mindful of cramps or sensitivity, often asking quietly if it still feels good, and adjusting immediately if you need something different.

He understands that for many people, the experience can feel messy or insecure, but Bob never once makes you feel that way. Not even a glance of discomfort, not a single shift in his tone or expression. If anything, his reverence for you only seems to increase. His voice gets quieter, his hands steadier, and there’s an undeniable warmth in how he looks at you, like he’s honored that you trust him enough to let him be intimate with you during a moment that many would hide away.

That said, this is not a go-to position for him. It happens on occasion, maybe when you’re both feeling emotionally close, or if you admit that the pressure in your lower belly makes gentle oral feel amazing, or if you’re tipsy and craving the closeness without much else. He doesn’t push for it, and it’s not something he would do casually or spontaneously. It needs to be mutual, intentional and grounded in comfort and trust.

And even though he’s done it more than once, every time still feels like a new act of connection to him. One that he treats with tenderness, care, and a deep emotional understanding that proves, once again, that with Bob, there are no conditions to his desire for you.

Switch up (You giving Bob)

As it’s been said, and there’s no point arguing about it, Bob is a giver. He’ll offer you everything he has — his hands, his mouth, his fingers, his cock… All in devotion to your pleasure. It’s almost like he forgets himself in the process, like the only thing that matters is you moaning his name.

But sometimes the cards get switched, and just as much as he loves giving to you, you love giving back. You want to see him unravel. You want to hear him gasp, cry your name and whine like a pathetic man. And there’s nothing more satisfying than watching Bob fall apart under your touch.

When you go down on him before he’s had the chance to touch you, before he’s made sure you’ve come at least once, it kind of short-circuits his brain. He gets this guilty, flustered panic in his eyes, like he owes you now. And he will repay that favor. Twice over. With fingers, tongue, hips —whatever it takes to make you come harder than you thought possible.

Still, Bob loves your mouth. That warm, wet heat around him. Your soft lips stretched just perfectly. And your eyes — oh God, your eyes. You always look up at him, so innocent, so sweet, while doing something so sinful. That contrast drives him crazy. His hands will instantly find your hair, but he never pushes. He’s not forceful. He doesn’t like violence, especially in situations like this.

Sometimes, his hips twitch forward, instinct taking over for just a second, and he always apologizes. He never wants to make you uncomfortable. Pleasure should never be taken, it should be shared. He believes that deeply.

But when you wrap your lips around him with that look in your eyes, like you’re about to ruin him, he doesn’t last long. Three minutes, maybe. On a good day. Because with you on your knees, mouth full of him, Bob forgets how to breathe. And when you swallow him whole with that perfect, wicked grin, he sees stars.

POWERS vs SEX

Most of the time, Bob keeps his eyes tightly shut when he comes, but if they do open, even for a second, you can see it. A flicker of gold. Not just a reflection or a trick of the light. It glows inside him, and it only lasts a second before he crushes his eyes shut again, almost ashamed of letting it slip through. This thing leaks out of him in moments of overwhelming feeling. Especially when he’s inside you and when he’s close.

Sometimes, Bob loses control, but only for a moment. You’ll feel his fingers dig in a little too hard, his grip becoming tighter than he intended. It leaves small bruises on your thighs, hips, wrists. Nothing dramatic, nothing that lasts more than a few hours or days. They’re always in places hidden beneath clothes. You don’t mind, in fact, part of you likes it. You call them marks of affection, signs that he was there. But Bob panics.

“I didn’t mean to. I swear. I wasn’t trying to—I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay? Does it hurt? Let me see—please, let me see…”

He touches them so gently, as if his fingers could undo what his strength caused. He looks so guilty, eyes wide and glassy, barely holding back tears.

“What if I really hurt you, and I don’t even realize?”

And you always soothe him — hold his cheeks, kiss him, reassure him that you’re okay, that you trust him, with everything. Still, he carries the guilt like a scar no one can see.

Then there’s what happens every time he comes, without fail. The lights flicker, lamps stutter, sometimes they die completely. But just for a moment, before they flare back to life. As if the electricity in the room can’t handle what’s burning through Bob’s body.

Once he fried the power grid of the entire building. All because of how hard he came inside you. You both laughed about it later, wrapped in the dark, hearts still racing. But Bob never truly relaxes about these things. He’s always afraid he’ll go too far, break something, burn someone, burn you.

Even fabric isn’t safe. If he grips the sheets too hard, they sometimes ignite — just a flicker, a flash of heat that curls the edges and smells like smoke. You’ve gotten used to it. You don’t even flinch anymore. You’ve got backup sheets folded in the closet, so it's no big deal at all. Not because you’re careless. But because you understand him.

Robert Reynolds isn’t dangerous. He’s just powerful. And in your arms, when he feels safe, when he feels loved, he lets himself feel everything. And sometimes the world around you just can’t quite keep up.

BONUS

Tits or Ass?

Truth is, Bob adores every part of you — and he shows it. He’ll spend just as much time burying his face between your breasts as he does grabbing handfuls of your hips, thighs, and curves. He’s not picky. To him, your body is a gift, and he treats it like one.

But if you watch closely, the signs are there. The way his hands almost automatically slide down to your ass when he hugs you. How his grip tightens there when he’s deep inside you. How often he sneaks glances at your backside when you walk ahead of him in nothing but a t-shirt.

He might not admit it, but there’s a subtle obsession, a craving for the shape, the softness, the power you hold in your hips. So while he’s absolutely a worshipper of the whole temple… he definitely has a favorite pew.

Dominant or Submissive?

Bob is naturally submissive. Not because he lacks confidence or desire, but because he finds genuine pleasure in surrendering to you. He loves being guided, touched, praised. He loves the way your voice gets low when you tell him what to do, and how your hands feel when they’re holding him down or pulling him closer. The idea of being wanted that badly lights up something in him that he rarely shows anyone else.

He gives control freely, not out of weakness but out of trust. That doesn’t mean he’s incapable of dominance, he can surprise you in moments of overwhelming need, but those are exceptions, not the rule.

Most nights, Bob is the type to lay back, lips parted, eyes soft, silently begging you to ruin him. And he wouldn’t want it any other way.

Loud or Quiet?

Bob lives in that golden middle, not loud in volume, but incredibly expressive in sound. He breathes heavily against your neck. He lets out these shaky, breathless gasps when he’s close.

Sometimes, you catch him whispering your name like it’s sacred, like if he stops saying it, he might fall apart completely.

But above all, Bob’s a whimperer. Quiet, broken little noises that slip out of him without permission. They’re high-pitched and desperate, often choked off by kisses or your movements. And every time you hear one, it’s like a shot straight to your core.

He also talks — not constantly, but enough to drive you insane. Little muttered praises, desperate pleas, and sometimes even full confessions whispered hotly into your skin.

Kinks or Soft Limits?

Bob isn’t someone who seeks extremes when it comes to sex.

He doesn’t actively crave things like bondage, roleplay, or toys — not because he judges them, but because they don’t naturally align with how he connects. That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t try something new if you were curious.

If you asked, if you genuinely wanted to explore something, he’d follow your lead. He might be hesitant at first, unsure if he’s doing it right, but he’d try, not out of kink, but out of love. Out of a deep, burning desire to understand and satisfy you.

But ultimately, Bob’s not in it for thrills or fantasies. He’s in it for you.

Aftercare?

Aftercare is sacred to Bob — not because it’s a routine, but because it’s when he feels the most needed. He has this instinctive drive to take care of you, to make sure you feel safe. It makes him feel useful, which is important for someone who sometimes struggles with his self-worth.

If you’re still lucid and alert after sex, he’ll gently help you into the shower, wash your body like it’s made of glass, and dry you off with infinite tenderness. He’ll even comb through your hair if you let him.

And if you’re too exhausted to move, that’s okay too. He wraps you in blankets, makes sure you’re warm, and holds you so close you can feel his heartbeat slow. Cuddles are always non-negotiable. It’s where he lets go of any guilt, any worry. It’s where he gets to whisper that he loves you without having to say it out loud.

Turn-Ons vs Turn-Offs?

Bob’s biggest turn-on… is you. It’s really that simple.

Your voice, the way you carry yourself, how you tease him with just a glance, it drives him wild. He’s obsessed with the shape of your mouth when you talk, the way you smell, even how your fingers move when you’re distracted. If you’re wearing something he likes — tight clothes, short skirts, soft pajamas, or just his t-shirt, his brain goes blank.

On the flip side, his turn-offs are more situational than specific. He doesn’t respond well to coldness, disinterest, or anything that feels overly performative. He needs to feel wanted, genuinely, not just physically. Without that, he loses his fire.

How He Reacts to Teasing?

Early on, teasing leaves Bob flustered. He’ll smile shyly, play along with a nervous laugh, and maybe pretend not to notice just how much you’re affecting him. He tries to act cool, but his ears go red and his eyes dart away.

But as time goes on and his confidence builds, the dynamic shifts. He starts giving it back. He learns how to play your game, maybe not as boldly as you do, but with his own style. He performs — for you and because of you.

Public or Semi-Public Sex?

Bob is not someone who would ever suggest anything public on his own. The idea of being caught, of doing something so vulnerable in a place that isn’t private, makes him nervous. His anxiety spikes just thinking about someone walking in.

But he also has limits. And if the desire is overwhelming, if you lean in and whisper in his ear, if your hands wander beneath the table, if you give him that look, he might just break.

Especially if it’s somewhere more hidden, more ‘semi’ than public: a locked dressing room, photo booth, a quiet parking lot. He wouldn’t do it often, but when it happens, it’s frantic.

Quickies vs Long Sessions?

Bob is in it for the long haul. Always.

Quickies might happen, rushed mornings, late-night cravings, but they’re never his preference. He wants time. Time to worship, to explore, to learn your body again and again. Sex with Bob isn’t about efficiency; it’s about intensity. He wants to take you apart slowly, piece by piece, and put you back together in his arms.

He lingers. He kisses like it’s the last time. He touches like he’s trying to memorize you.

A ‘quick one’ could leave him unsatisfied emotionally, like he didn’t get to give you everything he wanted to. And that’s what he’s here for. Not just the pleasure, but the act of giving it to you.

If you enjoyed reading this manual, I’d really appreciate any kind of support, whether it’s a reblog, comment, note, follow, or even suggestions. I’m always open to ideas, so feel free to reach out!

And if you really liked it, I might just write one of these for other characters too 👀

Thank you so much for reading!

Have a lovely day!

BYEEE!!!🪻

[adelliet]

Bob reynolds x f!reader

SECRET DIARY

Summary: You stumbled upon Bob's diary. You had no idea how much reading it would change everything, or how much it would reveal about him… and yourself.

Warnings: MDNI 18+, strong language, alcohol consumption, invasion of privacy, unprotected sex (p i v), oral sex (f receiving), breast play, multiple orgasms, mutual orgasm, sexual tension, Bob being emotionally guarded, aftecare (cuddling), smut mixed with fluff, slight obssesion

A/n: Hi there! I had so fun writting this and I am so happy how it turned out! Again, it's a bit long but that's completěy normal for me right :p Anyway if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Mastelist

“It’s really okay, I promise,” you kept reassuring Bucky, though his expression remained unconvinced.

“You sure?” That was the fifth time he’d asked, and your answer hadn’t changed.

Even if Bucky didn’t believe it, it was true — you honestly didn’t mind staying at Stark Tower while the others went on the mission. Not only would there've been more people than necessary, but you’d had a headache since morning, and you knew you’d be nothing but a burden in your current state.

“Alright, if you say so. I tried,” Bucky said in defeat, raising his hands with a sly grin that sometimes worked, but not this time.

“Just come back alive,” you joked with a soft smile. He chuckled as he slipped his gun into the holster on his belt.

Before they left, you said a quick goodbye to everyone and waved them off. They all looked fairly confident, maybe even excited, except Bob. But he always looked stressed, so it didn’t really surprise you.

The moment the doors closed and silence washed over you, you took a deep breath. Alone. Finally alone.

You couldn’t even remember the last time you had the entire tower to yourself, and though it came with a certain responsibility, it was an amazing feeling.

No more of Walker’s annoying educational lectures. No more of Yelena’s frustration radiating through the walls. No more of Alexei’s disgusting smelly socks. No more of Ava's constant eye-rolls when something didn’t go her way. And no more of Bucky’s mysterious expressions that always made you wonder if he was angry, deep in thought, or just hungry.

When it came to Bob though — strangely, nothing about him annoyed you. Quite the opposite. Ever since he moved in, he had become the most wonderful company, and the others often said you’d been smiling a lot more since then.

The first time you saw Bob, you were immediately drawn to him, not just his looks, but also his silly, lovable personality. Sure, he could be a bit of a goof who missed obvious things, and yeah, maybe he’d almost destroyed an entire city because of his trauma, but that didn’t change how much he meant to you. You’d do anything if he were in trouble, because you knew he’d do the same for you.

It took him a while to open up to you, to let you into his comfort zone. But when he finally did, Bob didn’t regret it. He had learned what it meant not to be alone anymore. To have someone to share stories with, to play PlayStation with, or just sit and watch a movie beside.

And that someone was you. You were a team. Inseparable. Well until now. But you believed he’d be okay out there.

While the others were out risking their lives, you decided to enjoy yourself as much as possible. You made yourself a summery mojito with ice, turned on your favorite show, and sank into the armchair. Strangely, your headache vanished. How odd…

Time passed slowly, and after a while, just sitting and staring at the screen got boring. So you decided to be a little productive.

You started cleaning.

Even you couldn’t believe it. You had no idea where the motivation came from. Normally, when it was your turn to do the dishes, vacuum, or any kind of chore, you’d dodge it like the plague.

But now? You were doing it voluntarily. You even touched your forehead, wondering if you had a fever and were hallucinating, but apparently, you were fine.

You changed into more comfortable clothes, tied your hair into a ponytail, and got to work.

You scrubbed the entire kitchen until it sparkled, surprised by how much dirt had been hiding in various corners.

Then you vacuumed the floors, took out the trash, wiped down the bar, cleaned the bathroom, you even went into the gym and wiped down all the sweaty equipment. And just like that, it was done. You felt good about yourself.

But the crew still hadn’t returned, and you’d finished everything way too fast. You let out a loud sigh, thinking about what else you could possibly do. Then a lightbulb went off.

You grabbed all your cleaning gear and headed to the bedrooms. Was this a breach of privacy?

…Maybe.

But as long as you didn’t snoop or go digging through their stuff, maybe they’d even thank you for it. So you started cleaning each room, one by one.

You were careful to leave everything exactly where it had been, you didn’t want anyone biting your ass over a moved book or out-of-place trinket.

You dusted the shelves and dressers, polished the decorations, and occasionally found things you’d never be able to erase from your memory — but hey, at least now you had blackmail material. Silver lining.

As your little cleaning era went on, you realized how ridiculously messy everyone was.

Underwear on the floor, clean and dirty. Dishes left around with half-eaten food. Smells that hit you like a locker room full of sweaty hockey players. It was chaos. But you managed to clean it up. Now it looked less like a war zone and more like a smaller explosion.

When you walked into Bob’s room, it immediately felt different.

He didn’t have many things, barely any clothes, either, and the empty space gave it a sort of natural tidiness. There wasn’t much for you to clean, really. So instead, you snooped a little.

His books were arranged on the shelf by alphabetical order, by size, and even by color. His perfectionism was going to kill him one day.

The PlayStation controller sat exactly where it always did, right under the TV. His clothes were neatly folded in drawers or hanging on perfectly aligned hangers.

You never would’ve guessed Bob was this meticulous with cleaning. He was tidier than most women you knew. He never stopped surprising you. Still wanting to help a little, you decided to at least fluff up his bedding.

You grabbed the comforter first. It was the heaviest and took the longest. Once that was done, you returned, laid it carefully over the bed, and moved on to the pillows.

He had two, one on each side, like everyone else. You picked up the first. Then the second, and then you stopped. Beneath the second pillow, there was a book. A journal.

Your brows furrowed as you slowly set the pillows aside. You reached out and picked it up. Opening to the first page, you saw the title written neatly in Bob’s handwriting:

“The Diary of Robert Reynolds.”

You inhaled deeply and hesitated. This was his privacy. And you weren’t going to invade that. You placed the diary back, moved the pillows to their original position, and left the room.

But the second your foot hit the hallway, curiosity took over. With a quiet sigh, you turned around, stepped back in, tossed the pillows onto the bed, and stared at the diary.

Your mind was a storm of thoughts. Like you had an angel sitting on one shoulder telling you not to, and a devil on the other whispering, “Read it.”

You stood there with your arms crossed tightly, chewing the inside of your cheek. Your foot tapped nervously on the floor until finally, you made your decision.

“One page won’t hurt anybody,” you muttered, picking up the diary and flipping open the first page.

Just a simple entry about how much he liked the food Yelena had made. Nothing interesting. You flipped ahead.

An entry about how Walker pissed him off. Now that was more interesting. You laughed at the way Bob described him, he’d captured John’s annoying behavior perfectly.

And from there, it snowballed. You flipped through more pages, sat down on his bed, and slowly got lost in his writing.

Even when he was gossiping, even when he was clearly furious — he wrote with this poetic, strangely beautiful tone. He had real talent.

One page…

then two…

then five…

then eighteen.

You didn’t read the whole thing, just the juicy stuff. The gossip. The rants.

Your eyes eagerly scanned the words, a smile tugging at your lips. But then you flipped another page and froze. A chill ran down your spine as you read your name.

He had never mentioned you in the diary before, not even once. And now he had written several pages just about you. You shouldn’t read it. You really shouldn't. But you had to. You wanted to.

God, I don’t even know where to begin. She is so unbelievably beautiful. I adore every single part of her body.

The way her hair dances in the wind when we’re driving to a mission and she’s looking out the window.

Her adorable nose, scrunching up anytime she sees or hears something awkward.

How she bites her lip whenever someone gives her a compliment and she doesn’t know how to respond.

You hadn’t even noticed it, but as you read those words, you were biting your lip. Your heart was pounding like crazy, and your face was as red as a tomato. Still, you kept reading.

She makes me think of things I never imagined before. She brings something into my body, my mind, that I’ve never felt.

It’s like she’s my salvation from the Void. My rescue. My reason to smile each day.

I always thought I needed medication to feel okay again. To feel like I was worth anything. But… all this time, I just needed her. And I still do.

There’s not a single day I don’t think about her. Not one hour. Not a single damn minute.

She’s stuck in my head and I don’t want her out. She’s like my blood, like my oxygen… I need her like I need food. Like I need air.

You couldn’t believe what you were reading. You had no idea Bob felt this way about you. And those words… they weren’t just words on paper. They meant something more. Because no one had ever written about you like this before. No one had ever seen you like this. It made your chest ache, in the sweetest, most terrifying way.

Bob wasn’t just a good man. He was soft, tender, full of things he kept hidden so deep… and now you were reading the most vulnerable part of him.

You couldn’t read any more. Not because you didn’t want to, but because if you did, you’d probably cry. Or get emotional diabetes from how absurdly sweet it all was.

So you flipped forward. Just casually, few pages. No big deal. But then one word stopped you. Then another. And another. Then an entire sentence. And suddenly, you couldn’t do anything else but read the page.

I feel like a stupid teenager when I see her, but I can’t help it. I don’t just need her emotionally, I need her physically.

My body craves her every single night. When I try to sleep, I close my eyes and I see her.

And in that moment, every unholy thought crashes into me, and I can’t fight it. I don’t want to.

I see her, in lingerie, wearing that breathtaking smile. The way her juicy ass bounces when she jumps, or simply walks. The way her breasts sit perfectly, and I just wonder what it would feel like to touch them. To feel her. Inside me. To feel her soft lips wrap around the head of my cock—

You gasped out loud, hand flying to your mouth as you slammed the diary shut with a loud thud. This can’t be real. Bob Reynolds, the most respectful, quiet, gentlemanly person you know, wrote this? Thought this?

You closed your eyes tightly, shaking your head as if trying to reboot your brain. You must be imagining this. You’ve been alone too long, lost deep in your feelings. But curiosity didn’t care and made you reopened the diary. And on the next page, it got worse…or better… well you didn’t even know anymore.

I want to feel her around me. I want to know what it’s like to have my dick buried inside her.

What her voice would sound like if I circled my finger around her clit.

I want to hear her scream my name so loud the whole building knows who’s fucking her.

I want to see her jaw drop, her eyebrows twitch, her eyes close as I make her cum so hard she forgets her own name.

God forgive me, but every night I can’t sleep, it’s her I see. And I have no choice but to touch myself to her. I can’t help it — she’s so damn beautiful. I don’t even understand what she’s done to me, but I let it happen.

That was it. That was the last straw. Your jaw literally dropped as you slowly closed the diary, your eyes wide, staring into the wall like it personally insulted your family. Every sentence replayed in your head like a broken record. You needed a minute, or two.

The real problem wasn't that it was creepy — which, yeah, maybe a little. But the real issue was it didn’t bother you. Not even a little. If anything, it turned you on. And that’s wrong.

Your hands slapped against your face as you let out a frustrated scream. This was getting way out of hand. Well, at least this is your lesson to mind your own business next time and not go snooping through people’s private stuff.

Because now, that diary and those words were glued into your brain. They kept playing on a loop, rewinding and pausing only to make you suffer more.

You sat in the armchair, staring blankly at the TV. Some random program was playing, you didn’t even know what it was about.

Then came the sound of the elevator.

They were back.

You didn’t even need to look over to know the mission had gone well. The cheers, the laughter, the happy chaos — yeah, that gave it away.

Still, you weren’t really present. Your mind was completely hijacked. The damn diary had hypnotized you. Your thoughts were a hurricane of ink, sex, and Bob.

You tried to fight it, but you couldn’t stop wondering what it would feel like to feel him inside you, stretching you out inch by inch, to hear Bob beg you to make him cum—

“Hey sweetheart! Were you bored while we were gone?”

Alexei’s voice and the sudden slap on your shoulder made you jump out of your skin. He laughed like a maniac and walked past you toward the bar.

“Someone’s got a guilty conscience if they flinch like that,” he teased, grabbing drinks.

“Yep, I do,” you whispered just under your breath, smiling like a criminal who absolutely did it.

“I see the mission went well,” you finally forced yourself to join the conversation, trying to think about literally anything besides Bob’s penis.

“Obviously. But we missed you,” Yelena pouted with fake sad eyes. You rolled your eyes and nudged her, shaking your head.

“No, really. You could be useful on the field sometimes,” Bucky added while throwing back a shot of vodka and instantly grimacing.

“Oh, sometimes?” you teased, raising an eyebrow.

“Yup. Just sometimes,” he smirked back.

You laughed, finally relaxing a little. You glanced around. Ava and Yelena were laughing about something dumb, John, Alexei, and Bucky were crowded by the bar with their celebratory drinks, and Bob—

“AH!”

You screamed when you felt fingers suddenly tickling your sides. You whipped around and there he was. Robert Reynolds, grinning like the smug bastard he was.

“Definitely guilty conscience,” he smirked, poking you once more before sitting down beside your chair.

You gave him a playful shove, trying not to combust on the spot. He stayed next to you, sitting on the floor, quietly watching the others. For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

“So… looks like you made it out in one piece,” you finally said, glancing down at him.

He was already watching you, and when your eyes met, he quickly looked away, his hand going straight to the back of his neck.

“Uhh… yeah. I made it,” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact like it physically hurt.

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. Was he nervous because he just imagined you naked in his bed?

“Is it just me or, is this place suspiciously clean,” John suddenly said, breaking the moment. Everyone turned toward him.

“Yeah, I cleaned,” you said proudly, lifting your chin.

Silence. Like dead, kill-me-now silence. Then — Loud. Explosive. Collective laughter. You scowled.

“Real funny. No seriously, who came to clean?” Ava asked, deadpan. Your pride died right there on the spot.

“Guys, seriously. I did clean,” you insisted, but your voice was practically drowned in their chaos.

Eventually, you’d had enough humiliation. You slipped away from the group, heading toward your room to take a shower, throw on some pajamas, and maybe pass out and forget about the diary.

Just as you were reaching the hallway, a voice called out behind you.

“Hey, wait! Come have a drink with us!”

You turned back, raising an eyebrow. It was Bucky, gesturing toward the bar with a tilt of his head.

You rolled your eyes dramatically, but smirked with a sly glint. “Maybe,” you called back. And with that, you vanished down the hallway.

Everyone was already in their pajamas, but the way they were chugging drink after drink definitely didn’t suggest they were going to sleep anytime soon.

This was standard procedure after a successful mission — get absolutely wasted and regret it in the morning when the hangovers hit like a truck.

But hey, it’s their lives. And on the other hand, might as well enjoy the good while it lasts. You, on the other hand, were more cautious.

Your head had just stopped pounding this morning, and the last thing you wanted was another round of pain mixed with nausea and existential dread.

So you drank just enough to feel the buzz, enough to tolerate these lovable idiots. Because let’s be honest, sometimes dealing with them is harder than raising fifteen toddlers at once.

You all sat in a circle, some chatting in pairs, others laughing in the group. These little “family moments” were rare, but they were beautiful in their own chaotic way.

Bob sat directly across from you in the circle. You noticed he had a beer in hand, but just like you, he wasn’t overdoing it.

He didn’t seem like the type to drink until blackout. After everything he’d been through with drugs and losing himself, he’d probably had enough unconsciousness for a lifetime.

“Alright, guys, I’m calling it,” you stood up slowly, stretching a little.

Your sleep shorts, maybe a bit too short, and your white tank top with tiny black bows shifted with your movement. Your announcement was met with various groans and sad noises of protest.

You just shrugged. “After the huge cleaning session that I did, I’m seriously exhausted.” They snickered, clearly still not taking your ‘I cleaned’ claim seriously, but at least they wished you goodnight.

As you made your way toward your room, you suddenly heard another wave of “Good night!”And then, fast footsteps behind you. You glanced to your side. Of course it was Bob.

He walked beside you with that soft, crooked smile of his. You smiled back, a little more timidly, then looked ahead again.

“You cleaned really well,” he said quietly, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it.

Your cheeks flushed immediately, dimples appearing as your lips curled up.

“Thanks, Bob,” you murmured, eyes still forward.

When you reached his room, he paused, and you turned to him. A warm, soft hug, following with a gentle exchange of “Goodnight.”

And even though a spark passed between you, you both turned away and walked to your bedrooms. The moment you closed yours behind you, you leaned against it and slowly slid down to the floor with a long, exhausted sigh.

You didn’t know if it was the alcohol, or the damn diary, or both, but something had shifted. You looked at Bob differently now. And you had no one to blame but yourself.

Eventually, you climbed into bed, collapsing face-first into the pillow, then slowly turning onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. Thoughts swirled. The only sound in your room was your steady, rhythmic breathing. And your head wouldn't stop. You couldn’t sleep. How could you?

Every time you closed your eyes, your mind fed you vivid, raw images of Bob. Naked, on top of you, fucking you hard while whispering your name through tearful gasps. And suddenly you understood him.

You understood the restlessness. The sleepless nights. The torment of craving something so badly, your body and soul felt like they might burst without them. You understood Bob now, too well.

You were pulled out of your unholy thoughts by a soft knock on the door.

“Yeah?” you called out, lifting yourself up onto your elbows to get a better view of the door.

It slowly creaked open, and there he was. Bob. For a second, your heart skipped a beat. Could he see what you’d been thinking? Had your sinful imagination summoned him?

“Hey, did I wake you up?”

His voice was soft, cautious, filled with genuine concern that instantly warmed your heart. You smiled, shaking your head.

“What do you need?” you asked gently.

Bob took a deep breath, his fingers nervously toying with each other.

“I need help in my room,” he said, giving you those damn puppy-dog eyes. Of course, you helped him without a second thought.

A few minutes later, you stood in his room, holding your phone flashlight above his desk like some loyal assistant, while he was crouched underneath it, fiddling with a bunch of tangled cables.

Apparently, he was trying to organize them, make everything look ‘neater and more aesthetic.’ And not even the overhead light was helping him see anything properly. So now, you were his lamp.

It was quiet. Neither of you spoke. Only the occasional sighs from Bob and the subtle clicks of tape or plastic filled the room.

“I cleaned the rooms too,” you finally said, trying to break the silence.

“Yeah? That’s sweet of you,” Bob answered, clearly focused on the mess below. His voice was casual, distracted.

“But yours was already clean,” you chuckled softly. “Didn’t really have anything to do in here.”

He smiled to himself but didn’t say anything. You were just about to ask something when Bob suddenly beat you to it.

“Did you find anything interesting?” he asked, his voice light, but just barely. There was something beneath the surface. Your lips curled into a mischievous grin. He had no idea what he’d just walked into.

“Hmm… not really. Just a diary.”

The rustling sounds stopped. Complete silence. You could almost feel the panic fill the room like thick smoke.

“W-what diary?” Bob’s voice cracked slightly.

You could hear it. The tension, the way his throat tightened as he said it. Slowly, he emerged from under the desk. His eyes were wide, his breathing shallow. His shoulders were tense, lips slightly parted. His usual calm was gone — completely replaced with visible stress and terror.

“The one under the pillow,” you said casually with a grin on your face. You watched as his fingers twitched slightly at his sides, as if unsure whether to defend himself or just curl into fists. His whole body language screamed one thing: he felt exposed.

“A-and did you… read it?”

His voice trembled with anticipation. You could see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed hard. His gaze locked onto yours, desperate and anxious, like someone waiting for a death sentence.

You shook your head innocently. “Nooo…”

Bob exhaled deeply, shoulders sagging with relief. “Okay…”

“…Just the part where you want me to suck your dick.”

THUD

Bob smacked his head against the underside of the desk so hard you winced for him. He scrambled out from under it in pure panic, his face turning several shades of red at once. ´art embarrassment, part shock.

Honestly you would’ve never said it. Would’ve never admitted it. But you’d had just enough alcohol tonight to stop caring, and it felt damn good.

Bob froze like a statue. His fingers stopped moving, his breathing stalled mid-breath, and his back tensed as if someone had just aimed a gun at him.

His eyes searched yours, but not for understanding, he was looking for mercy. His chest rose and fell rapidly, trying to keep his composure, but you could see right through him.

The way his lips parted in horror, the faint shimmer of sweat on his brow, the frantic micro-movements of his hands, it all betrayed him.

“God… I…” He raked his hand through his messy brown hair, visibly unraveling.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low, hoarse. “I didn’t mean for you to see that. It was never meant for you to — God, that’s so inappropriate. I swear, I wasn’t thinking straight. I was drunk when I wrote that—”

You raised an eyebrow, arms crossed, and tilted your head slightly.

“Drunk, huh?” you echoed, almost teasingly.

He nodded, eager. Desperate. “Yeah. I mean, not a lot, but I wasn’t sober. I was feeling… messed up. It doesn’t mean anything, I just — I wrote it in the moment.”

You squinted a little, then smirked, your voice quiet but sharp. “For someone who was drunk, you wrote surprisingly coherently.”

That hit him like a second slap to the face. He blinked, his mouth opening but no words coming out. He knew you had him.

You watched the guilt play across his face, flickering like candlelight. Bob exhaled shakily, then finally stood up. Almost ceremoniously. He was back on his feet now, but somehow still looked small.

“I’m really sorry,” he repeated. “I never wanted to disrespect you or offend you in any way. I wasn’t trying to be gross or… or make you uncomfortable.”

His voice cracked on that last sentence. He meant it, you could hear it. Every damn word was sincere.

You let out a quiet laugh, just a breath through your nose, and looked off to the side. Then, softly, you whisper: “You didn’t offend me… quite the opposite, actually.”

Bob’s brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”

You glanced at him, only for a second, your cheeks warming, eyes betraying that you hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“Nothing! I just meant — it’s late, and we should both probably get some sleep,” you stammered, your voice suddenly high and tight as your eyes darted away from his.

Just like that, the tables had turned. You were the nervous one now. Bob didn’t say anything right away, but his eyes never left your face.

He took a slow step forward. You took another step back, and he followed. Each of his movements was slow, deliberate. As if he was giving you time to stop him. But you didn’t want to.

You were hyper-aware of every breath, every beat of your heart slamming in your chest like a drum. The thin fabric of your pajama top clung a little tighter now with each inhale, and you knew he could see it.

“Your heart’s racing,” Bob whispered again, as if he couldn’t help but marvel at it.

His voice — quiet, almost reverent — slid down your spine like a warm current. And still, you stepped back. Step after step, until your shoulder blades hit the cold wall behind you. He stopped. For a second, he just looked at you. Not your face. Not your body. But you, and he felt it.

The way your stomach fluttered and tightened at once, like you were falling from a great height. The heat between your legs, steady and low, pulsing with every inch he closed in. The way your nipples had hardened beneath your top, brushing slightly against it as you breathed.

“You’re breathing faster,” he said. Soft, observant, like he was taking you in, cataloguing your reactions, and treasuring them one by one.

You should’ve felt exposed. But instead, you felt seen.

“Bob…” you whispered, unsure what you were even trying to say.

He didn’t touch you. Not even now, but his chest was inches from yours. His hands stayed at his sides, clenched tightly like he was holding himself back with every ounce of strength he had.

“Have you ever thought about it?” His voice dipped lower, as your eyes widened. He tilted his head, his lips barely parted.

“…what I wrote.”

Your body responded before your mind could catch up. A tremor ran through you. Your thighs clenched. You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. The image of his words flashed in your head like a match striking in the dark.

The things he wanted to do to you. The way he wanted to do them. Not rough and greedy — but with emotion, with desperation, with need. Crying your name while buried inside you, broken and whole at once.

You said nothing, but your eyes did, and he saw it. Bob leaned in closer, just a fraction. Still not touching.

You could feel the warmth radiating from his skin, the tension vibrating off of him like a storm waiting to break. His breath mixed with yours, shallow and heated. Your own breath hitched when he looked down at your mouth. Your lips parted just slightly, just enough.

He clenched his jaw and pulled back the tiniest bit. His hands twitched at his sides, like they ached to touch you.

“Jesus…” he whispered, barely audible. His restraint made it worse. His lack of touch made you need it more. There was so much space and yet none at all.

Everything was amplified. The thudding in your ears. The throb between your legs. The slick heat growing, pooling inside your core, begging for friction.

You bit your lower lip to ground yourself, but his eyes followed that movement like prey, and you saw his pupils dilate. He was as undone as you were. But he still didn’t move.

“Why won’t you touch me?” you finally breathed.

Bob’s eyes met yours again. Dark and intense.

“I’m scared if I start… I won’t stop.”

“And who said I want you to stop?”

Your voice was a whisper, but the weight of your words hit like a storm.

You were skating on thin ice, and you knew it. But with the heat roaring in your chest, you didn’t care if the ice cracked beneath you. Maybe it already had. And maybe that was exactly what you wanted.

It was the alcohol talking. Or maybe it wasn’t. Either way, you were grateful for the liquid courage, because now you were exactly where you’d wanted to be for far too long.

The second your words slipped out, something in Bob snapped. Whatever thread of patience or restraint he’d been clinging to, it broke.

With zero hesitation, Bob surged forward, his hands flying up to cradle your cheeks. His grip was firm but reverent, like you were something precious and fragile, but he was desperate to have you. And then his lips crashed into yours.

It was hungry, starving, like he’d been holding back for months, and now that he had you, he couldn’t afford to waste a single second.

You insantly melted into him. His kiss devoured you, and you welcomed it. You didn’t need to read a single word from his diary to know that Bob had been aching for this for so long. It poured out of him with every desperate press of his mouth, every tiny, trembling gasp against your lips.

His fingers twitched, shaking just slightly as they cupped your jaw, as if he was at war with himself, wanting to touch you everywhere, but forcing his hands to stay put. Like he was scared he’d lose himself if he did more. Like you might vanish if he didn’t hold you just right.

Your lips parted wider, granting him more access, and Bob groaned into your mouth. A sound that made your knees weak and your pulse pound in your throat. Every time you moaned, he swallowed it greedily, muffling your sounds with another kiss, deeper than the last.

Your entire body was on fire. Your core throbbed with every second that passed— hot, pulsing, soaked with need. Your sleeping shorts clung to your folds, embarrassingly wet, and still it wasn’t enough.

You needed more.

Bob still hadn’t moved his hands from your face. But you had no such self-control. You grabbed him at the waist, fingers digging harshly into his hips as if trying to anchor yourself, and then, unable to stop yourself, you slid your hands beneath his shirt.

Your fingertips met hot skin. Taut muscle. Bob shuddered, his breath hitching, his body jerking like he’d been shocked.

“F-fuck,” he groaned into your mouth, his voice ragged. That noise alone made your thighs clench and your knees threaten to give out.

Your arousal spilled, warm and wet, sliding down your inner thigh. You didn’t even care how pathetically soaked you were. Not when it was because of him. You wanted to be ruined for him.

Each kiss made the air between you thicker. Hotter. Every pant, every moan, every whispered curse fueled the fire between you. He still hadn’t touched anywhere else, and yet you were so soaked.

You could feel the warmth of Bob’s skin beneath your fingertips. He twitched beneath your touch, every little movement from you making his breath come faster, harsher. You felt his restraint. His body was screaming to act, but his mind was still fighting to hold back.

But you weren’t nearly as patient. Your hands roamed greedily across his torso, your fingers mapping the taut lines of his abs through the thin fabric of his shirt. But that wasn’t enough. You had to see him.

Without hesitation, you grabbed the hem of his shirt and began tugging it upward. Bob didn’t resist. In fact, he helped.

He broke the kiss, his lips pulling away just enough to yank the fabric up over his head in one smooth, almost desperate motion. And suddenly he was there. Bare. Glorious. Godlike.

You froze. Your eyes widened, your breath caught in your throat, and your lips parted instinctively as your gaze drank him in.

He was sculpted like a marble statue brought to life. His chest, his abs, the sharp lines of his V-cut all glistening faintly under the low light.

Bob noticed your stunned expression. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. Your wide eyes and parted mouth told him everything.

You reached out. Your palm met his chest, fingers splaying, gliding slowly over the warm, hard muscle, and you gasped softly. Your breath hitched again, your knees quivering slightly at just how solid he felt.

Bob watched you like you were worshipping him. Like he couldn’t believe you were touching him, and still wanted more. Then suddenly, he moved.

He stepped back in, closing the tiny distance between you, and crashed his lips to yours again, this time with even more hunger.

You moaned into him, your arms flying around his waist and pulling him against you. Your bodies collided. Pressed together. You could feel everything.

Your hardened nipples brushed against his chest, sending shivers up your spine. And lower you felt him.

His cock, hard and growing, rubbed gently but unmistakably against your inner thigh, and you whimpered into the kiss, your hips twitching toward him instinctively.

Even though Bob’s body was clearly begging for release, his touch remained careful, respectful. He kissed you slowly, deeply, savoring you like you were something sacred.

But you were losing it. You wanted him. Your desperate kisses, the way you clung to him, the quiet whimpers against his lips, every signal you gave told him he didn’t need to hold back anymore. And he got the message.

His hand slid away from your cheek, trailing a trembling path down your neck, across your collarbone, slowly between the valley of your breasts, then lower, along your bare stomach until he reached the hem of your top.

He stopped there. His voice, rough and breathless, curled in your ear. “Can I?”

You nodded eagerly. Your hands raised above your head, giving him full access. Bob didn’t rush. He took his time, watching you, studying the way you reacted to every inch of skin he uncovered as he lifted your top inch by inch.

And when the fabric passed over your head and off your arms, leaving you completely exposed, Bob froze.

He stared so hard you could feel the weight of his gaze like hands all over your body. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. His eyes flicked from your face, to your chest, then back again, and you could see them darken.

You could see his fingers flex and twitch at his sides like he was fighting himself again. Fighting not to grab you and devour you whole. You decided to break the tension.

“You can touch me,” you whispered, your voice soft but confident. Bob’s eyes snapped to yours, wide and hopeful, and then dropped back to your bare chest.

He stepped closer, and gently cupped your breasts in both hands. His touch was so soft, it made you ache. You barely felt the pressure — just the warmth of his palms and the subtle trembling of his fingers.

He wasn’t groping. He was revering. He ran a thumb across the top of your breast, then, hesitantly, dragged it over your nipple.

You gasped, loud and sudden. Your knees almost buckled. It was too much, and not enough, all at once.

Bob noticed your reaction instantly. A little smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes remained intense, locked on your body. He did it again. And again. Then he focused solely on your nipples. Gently brushing, teasing, circling, testing.

His thumbs moved with incredible delicacy, exploring the hypersensitive peaks until your back arched and your head lolled against the wall behind you.

You were trembling, and Bob was still just touching your breasts.

The way his hands worshipped your body, the look in his eyes, the careful way he pushed boundaries, it wasn’t just lust. It was need.

Need tangled up in admiration, in awe, in something deeper than either of you dared say out loud just yet.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

The pulsing between your thighs had become unbearable. Each throb more desperate, more consuming than the last. Your whole body was screaming for release, trembling under the weight of restrained need. You had to do something, anything, before you lost your mind.

So you grabbed Bob by the neck and crashed your lips against his, breathless and ravenous.

There was nothing graceful about the kiss. It was messy, uncoordinated, soaked in lust — all sloppy lips and hungry gasps. You devoured each other like you’d been starving, like you’d waited years for just a taste.

Bob groaned into your mouth, deep and throaty, the sound vibrating against your tongue and making your stomach twist in anticipation. Your sighs turned to sweet, trembling moans, soft declarations of everything you couldn’t put into words.

Your hands, shaky and impatient, wandered down his warm chest, over the hard lines of his abdomen, stopping at the waistband of his sweatpants. But before you could go further, Bob beat you.

His hands, warm and firm, suddenly moved from your chest and found their way to your shorts. Even if he had already undressed you in his mind a hundred times, he still stopped and looked at you. His eyes searched yours, asking without words. You nodded, breathless, eager yes.

Bob exhaled in something like relief, and with a single smooth motion, he hooked his fingers into the sides of your shorts and pulled them down. They slid past your hips, fell around your ankles, and suddenly you were standing there, completely bare. No fabric, no barrier, no hiding, just you.

He stepped back, and for a moment, the air stood still.

Bob’s gaze traveled the full length of your body, like he was trying to memorize you forever. You felt your cheeks flush, a shy warmth blooming in your chest. But then you saw his expression, his parted lips, his softened eyes, his entire face lit up with awe, and suddenly your insecurities melted.

“You’ve got the body of a goddess,” he whispered, stepping close again, his voice low and full of reverence.

You bit your lip, heat rising in your chest, and tried to suppress the smile tugging at your lips. His compliment wrapped around you like silk, making you shiver. When he reached for your face, tilting your chin gently so your eyes met his, your heart just about burst.

“You’re like my muse… if only I could paint,” he murmured, brushing the softest kiss over your lips — feather-light, almost imaginary. And then he sank to his knees.

Your eyes widened in surprise. “W-what are you doing?” you asked, voice shaky, your legs suddenly unsure under you.

His hands slowly trailed up your legs, brushing along your thighs as if he was mapping out constellations in your skin. “I want to taste you,” he said softly, his voice hoarse and laced with hunger. He looked up at you with those dark, adoring eyes that practically begged to worship you.

Before you could say anything, he buried his face into you. Your head tilted back with a sharp gasp, one hand flying straight into his curls, gripping instinctively. Your other hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the involuntary cry that escaped your throat.

His lips found your labia, and your spine arched back against the wall with a trembling whimper. His tongue moved gently at first — soft strokes, testing reactions. He was discovering you one heartbeat at a time, tasting the way your body responded to him.

Every flick of his tongue sent sparks shooting up your spine, every low murmur against your skin made your knees quiver. He groaned softly, clearly savoring every second of it, and the vibration of his voice against you made your breath stutter.

You pulled at his hair instinctively, desperate to stay grounded, but it only encouraged him. His name almost spilled from your lips, caught between a gasp and a moan. Your whole body was on fire and still he didn’t stop. If anything, he became more confident, bolder in the way he worshipped you.

He was in awe of the way you tasted, of how responsive you were, of the way your body practically melted under his mouth. It was like he had dreamt of this for so long that now he refused to rush a single second.

You were barely able to hold yourself upright. Trembling, panting, your fingers tangled in his hair, your entire body pulsing with desire. Every time he looked up at you, you felt yourself coming undone just a little more.

A few more slow, teasing licks, and he found exactly what he was searching for.

The moment his tongue landed on your clit, your entire body jolted. A strangled moan slipped from you despite your hand clamped over your mouth, and your hips bucked toward him as if guided by pure instinct. Your fingers gripped his hair tighter, tugging with each wave of pleasure that rolled through you. That reaction told him everything, he was in the right spot.

Bob stayed there, circling you with his tongue, then flattening it against you with aching pressure, alternating between soft suckling and slow, deliberate flicks that made your vision blur. You could feel him moan against you, low and barely audible, but it vibrated straight through your core.

And yet, even as his own arousal grew harder to ignore, his precum already dampening the front of his sweatpants, a visible mark forming, he didn’t reach for himself. He didn’t chase his own release. His only focus was you. Making you fall apart. Watching you come undone.

“F-Fuck, Bob—” you gasped, your hand now tangled tightly in his curls as you bit your lip hard.

He looked up for a brief second, and what he saw nearly shattered him — your face, flushed and trembling, lips parted in pleasure, eyes half-lidded and desperate. You were beautiful.

Slowly, he lifted your legs and rested them gently on his shoulders, adjusting you carefully so you were supported and he could go deeper. He wanted you comfortable.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he pushed his tongue inside you. The way your body clenched around him, the way your breath hitched and your back arched, it was everything.

The way you pulsed against him, so hot, and needy, it drove him insane. You’d been craving this and now that he had you, he was going to worship every part of you, for as long as you’d let him.

His lips sealed around your clit again, and this time he sucked gently, pulling a raw, desperate moan from you. His tongue flicked over the sensitive bundle of nerves in a rhythm that felt impossibly good. You writhed above him, your body arching up into his mouth, hips moving on their own as if begging for more.

You were already close, embarrassingly close. Each touch of his tongue sent a jolt of heat straight through your stomach, winding tighter and tighter. Your thighs clenched around his head, but Bob didn’t stop. He wanted you like this. Falling apart. Losing control. For him.

God, he was so hard it hurt. His cock throbbed, twitching inside his sweatpants. Every breath he took was shaky, his body begging for friction. And yet, he didn’t touch himself. Not even once.

Every time you moaned his name, it sent a fresh wave of desire crashing through him, making his hips jerk against nothing. Still, he stayed focused. This was about you.

He was shaking, not just from arousal, but from the overwhelming need to please you. He wanted you to break for him. To lose yourself. To come undone under his mouth and know, without question, that he belonged to you.

Your fingers twisted tighter in his hair, pulling hard, and you choked on another whimper. “B-Bob, I— I can’t—” you gasped, your voice trembling as your thighs trembled too.

He moaned again at the sound, encouraging, desperate, hungry. His tongue moved faster now, circling your clit with dizzying pressure, then flattening again and again as your back arched off the wall. Your breaths were shallow and fast, your body trembling as you tried to hold on, but it was useless.

He could feel it. You were so close.

He brought one hand up, resting gently on your hip to keep you grounded as he continued devouring you like a man starved. His own hips rolled again involuntarily, chasing friction that never came. He was a mess and yet still entirely focused on you.

Your back was pressed against the wall, Bob’s mouth was pure fire between your legs. His strong hands gripped your thighs, keeping you open.

The pleasure crested like a wave building at the edge of something unstoppable. Your legs began to tremble uncontrollably, and your fingers clawed at the wall behind you, searching for something to hold onto, because he wasn’t letting up.

His tongue moved in soft but fast circles, his lips sucking gently, then greedily, as though he could drink your pleasure like a remedy for every ache he’d ever had.

Your breath caught in your throat, your chest rising in ragged gasps. Every inch of your skin burned with heat, and your belly tightened, coiling like a spring pulled impossibly taut. Then everything snapped.

Your orgasm hit like lightning. A desperate, broken cry left your lips, and your entire body convulsed. The muscles in your thighs clenched around his head, your hips bucked, and stars danced behind your eyes. Your toes curled. Your nails scraped helplessly against the wall. The pleasure rolled through you in long, drawn-out pulses, overwhelming and raw.

You weren’t sure if you were breathing or sobbing or laughing. Maybe all three.

Bob held you through it, grounding you with his steady grip, his mouth never once leaving you as your body rode out wave after wave. He moaned softly against you, his own body twitching, as if he could feel it too.

Yet, he still didn’t touch himself. His self-control was insane, agonizing, but he only cared about you.

When your body went limp in his arms, your breathing shallow and uneven, he looked up at you with blown pupils and flushed cheeks, lips glistening, hair tousled from where you’d tugged it.

“Hey… easy, okay?” he whispered, standing back on his feet. “You need some rest.”

But you were still drunk on pleasure, dazed, your body humming. You saw the wet spot on his sweatpants, and the huge twitching bulge, and you felt guilty, for not giving him what he gave you.

You reached for him, sliding your fingers down his torso and slowly tugging at the waistband of his sweatpants. He didn’t stop you, not at first. But when you sank to your knees in front of him, your gaze hazy and full of intent, he gently grabbed your arms and pulled you back up.

“Whoa—okay, okay,” he said, lifting you effortlessly again. His voice was soft, but there was urgency in it. He looked at you like you were the most fragile, precious thing he’d ever held. You blinked up at him, eyes glassy and wide, guilt and desire blending across your face.

“Please,” you whispered. “I wanna make you feel good…”

Your voice was needy and soft, still wrecked from your high. Bob stared at you for a long moment, jaw tight. Then he scoffed, almost bitterly, and shook his head.

“You don’t have to do that—”

“But I want to!” you protested, your words slurred just a little, but sincere. You cupped his face in your hands, trying to plead with him through touch. Your heart pounded, still not fully recovered, but all you could think of was him, how badly you wanted him to feel even half of what he just gave you.

But Bob just closed his eyes, jaw clenching harder, as if struggling not to give in.

“We’ll save that for another time, alright?” he murmured, resting his forehead gently against yours. His next words came low, almost a growl. “You have no idea how much I want to be inside you right now. And if you touch me like that again, I’ll lose it.”

You swallowed, your breath catching in your throat. His words hit like fire straight to your core.

But you nodded. You understood. Even in the haze of pleasure, you saw the discipline in his eyes, the way he forced himself to hold back, for you.

He gave you a moment, letting both of you breathe. Then, with incredible gentleness, he scooped you into his arms and carried you to the bed like you weighed nothing. He lay you down softly, like he was afraid you’d break.

“Are you ready?” he asked in a low whisper, peppering soft kisses over your cheek and temple, each one making you giggle a little, despite everything. You nodded slowly, eyes locked on him.

He watched you too — every breath, every flicker of emotion. You’d never seen him look at anything the way he looked at you right then. Like you were sacred. Like you were the answer to every dream he’d ever had. Not even the way he looked at his cereal in the morning could compare.

He adjusted his position above you, his large hand brushing between your legs again to feel how ready you still were. His other hand gently held your face as he leaned down, his voice a whisper just for you:

“If I need to stop, just tell me, okay?”

You nodded again, biting your lip, your hands fisting in the sheets as you felt the tip of his cock brush against your folds. Your whole body tensed with anticipation.

Bob eased forward carefully, his body hovering above yours as he gently began to push into you. Every inch felt impossibly big, stretching you in a way that burned and soothed all at once. The pressure was overwhelming. Your breath hitched, and you instinctively curled your fingers into the muscles of his back, grounding yourself against him.

Both of you exhaled in sync, a shared breath of tension, release, and disbelief.

For you it was the sharp, unfamiliar ache that came with being filled so completely. The sensation of being opened, inch by inch, by someone so gentle and yet so undeniably large.

And for him it was the sheer heat and tightness of you around him, pulsing, welcoming, gripping. It nearly undid him.

He was still pushing in, deeper than you thought was even possible. You whimpered, the stretch sharp, but your hips shifted instinctively, pushing up to meet him, desperate for the rest of him. “You’re so big—” you gasped, your back arching off the mattress as you tried to take more.

Bob froze for a second, stunned by your voice. Your praise hit him harder than you realized.

“A-am I?” he asked, his voice breathless, a soft laugh escaping through his disbelief. His cheeks were flushed, eyes locked on where your bodies were joined.

You nodded quickly, too overcome to speak, your hands splayed across his back as your body slowly adjusted. He was still stretching you out, your walls fluttering around him, trying to take him in.

“Almost there,” he murmured lowly, his voice like velvet and gravel at once. It vibrated against your skin, sending another involuntary shiver down your spine. His fingers gripped your hips as he pressed the final inch into you, his hips finally meeting yours, his length buried fully to the base.

You gasped, your eyes flying shut, as a wave of sensation washed over you, you’d never felt so full in your life. Bob let out a guttural exhale, the kind pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, as he stopped moving for a moment. He needed to.

He was throbbing. Visibly shaking. He had already been on edge for so long, and now, inside you? He couldn’t believe he was still holding on.

But even his stillness had you trembling. You could feel him pulsing inside you, every twitch making your breath catch, every little flex of his thighs sending subtle, electric aftershocks through your core.

Then, carefully, he began to move.

He didn’t pull out fully. Not at first. Just shallow thrusts, slow and deliberate, building friction and rhythm. The motion created just enough drag, enough pressure to make your toes curl. His hips rolled, his breath huffing near your ear, while your nails scraped lightly down his back.

It was intimate. Your bodies were so close it felt like you were melting into each other. Skin brushing, muscles flexing, quiet moans and wet sounds filling the room in perfect harmony.

And then you started to move. Your hips met his with more confidence, your body adjusting, urging him on. Telling him in the only way he needed to hear: I’m ready.

Bob’s eyes snapped open. He growled softly under his breath, unable to hold back anymore.

He drew back slowly, this time almost fully, leaving only the thick, swollen tip inside you before thrusting back in with a deep, wet sound that echoed in the room. You cried out, your body arching into him, every inch of you alight with sensation.

Bob’s pace shifted, hips moving with more urgency now. Still controlled, still careful, but with purpose. Each thrust was firm, dragging along your walls in all the right ways, hitting that spot that made your legs quake. His skin slapped against yours, a rhythm of flesh and want and helpless need, and the room filled with a symphony of wet, obscene sounds and breathy moans.

You couldn’t stop moaning his name.

He was everywhere, his weight, his heat, the way his arms caged you in as he rocked into you, his lips brushing your ear and jaw and throat in soft, fleeting kisses.

Every stroke made your nerves spark, building again, deeper this time. Your legs wrapped around his waist, trying to pull him in even closer, closer than skin allowed. And Bob, panting now, forehead pressed against yours, could barely keep himself together.

“I’m not gonna last—” he whispered, voice wrecked.

Bob’s thrusts deepened, his hips angling just slightly, searching for that perfect spot inside you. But when he heard that soft, desperate gasp from your lips, he knew he’d found it. And that changed everything.

He snapped his hips forward again, harder this time. And again. The bed creaked beneath you with each deep push, the headboard lightly thudding against the wall in a rhythm that matched your ragged breathing. Your legs were trembling, wrapped tightly around his waist, heels pressing into his lower back, urging him not to stop.

“Mhm, you feel—” Bob’s voice cracked, his head falling to the crook of your neck as his hips continued to pound into you, faster, yet still guided by a rhythm that made your toes curl. His breath was hot and erratic on your skin, his lips brushing your collarbone between soft groans.

The room felt smaller now, the air thick with heat and scent and need. Dim light from a bedside lamp threw flickers of amber and shadow across the sheets, catching the sheen of sweat on Bob’s back as his muscles flexed with each movement.

You couldn’t stop moaning. Your voice bounced off the walls. Soft whimpers, sharp gasps, whispered pleas that only made Bob’s grip tighten on your thighs.

He groaned into your skin, his hand sliding up to grip your hip as he drove into you again. “You’re perfect.”

You arched up to meet him, your fingers tangled in his damp hair, pulling slightly, and that made him groan louder. He was losing it. His control was thinning with every second. The way you clenched around him, the way your nails raked down his back, it all pushed him closer and closer to the edge.

Then, without warning, Bob shifted his weight slightly, propped up on one forearm, and slid his free hand between your bodies. His fingers found your clit with practiced instinct, and he began to circle it in slow, teasing strokes.

You screamed his name, not out of pain, not even from surprise, but from the sudden wave of unbearable pleasure that rocked through you. Your thighs clenched around his hips, your body arching up into his touch.

“B-Bob— I— please, I can’t—!”

“Yes, you can,” he rasped, barely holding on.

His fingers worked faster, keeping perfect rhythm with the powerful thrusts of his hips. You could feel him everywhere — filling you, pressing against every sensitive spot, driving into you so hard and deep you could barely think. You were unraveling.

The pressure built like a storm inside you. Every nerve in your body was stretched tight, every muscle coiled. His name spilled from your lips in broken syllables. You clawed at his back, your legs trembling violently, your whole body on the brink. And then you shattered.

Your orgasm hit like a wave crashing over a cliff. Your entire body locked around him, trembling, pulsing, milking him as you screamed into the crook of his neck. Stars exploded behind your eyelids. You were gone, drowning in heat and light.

Bob groaned — a low, guttural sound that rumbled from his chest to your bones. He couldn’t hold back anymore.

Feeling you contract around him, the way your whole body gripped him so tightly, it pushed him over the edge.

He slammed into you one last time, deep and hard, and let go with a strangled moan, burying his face in your neck as his orgasm ripped through him. His hips bucked against yours, erratic and desperate, his entire body shuddering as he spilled into you, every throb of release met by another wave from your still-echoing climax.

He whispered your name, over and over, like a prayer. His breath hot and uneven against your skin, hands still trembling as they held you close, grounding himself through the aftershocks.

The world faded into silence except for your uneven breaths and the quiet, sticky slide of your bodies pressed together.

Bob didn’t pull away right away. He stayed inside you, arms wrapped tight around your body, lips pressed to your shoulder.

“I’ve wanted that for so long,” he finally whispered, voice hoarse and full of wonder. All you could do was nod, your hands buried in his hair, still catching your breath.

For a while, neither of you said a word.

The only sound in the room was your breathing. Both of you still catching your breath, lungs rising and falling rapidly in sync, chests slick with sweat, pulses slowly settling.

Eventually, he pulled out of you with deliberate care, as though even the smallest movement might disrupt the perfect silence between you.

A soft, wet sound followed, and you shivered slightly at the absence. Bob let out a low groan as he collapsed beside you, one hand flopping limply across his stomach, the other resting near your

You turned to face him, your body aching in the most satisfying way. Then you nestled your head on his chest, right over his steadily beating heart. It felt warm and safe, grounding you as if you’d always belonged there. His arm instinctively moved to hold you closer, fingers brushing through your damp hair.

You could feel his heartbeat thudding under your cheek, the way his breath caught now and then like even he couldn’t fully believe what had just happened.

And somewhere in that soft, quiet moment, you realized that you felt more for him than you thought. More than you were ready to admit out loud.

This wasn’t just sex or fantasy come to life. This was Bob. The man who made you laugh when you didn’t want to, and now held you like you were the only thing keeping him grounded to the earth.

You blinked up at him through the dim light, voice barely above a whisper. “Was it… better than you imagined?”

Bob huffed out a breath and let out a soft, sarcastic laugh. “Was it better?” he repeated, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Yeah. You could say that.”

You giggled softly against his chest, but then he added, mock-serious: “But for the record — stay the hell outta my diary. I need to find a better hiding spot now.”

That made you both laugh.

“I will find it,” you teased, tilting your head up to meet his eyes, a wicked little smirk on your lips. “You forget who you’re dealing with.”

“Oh, I remember,” he muttered, smirking back. “You’re the girl who breaks into people’s privacy and weaponizes their deepest thoughts.”

You gasped in mock offense and pushed yourself up slightly on your elbow so you could look at him properly. Your hair was a mess, your cheeks still flushed, but your eyes were shining.

“I do not break into people’s privacy! I just—accidentally found it. It’s not my fault you hide personal stuff in the most obvious places.”

“Oh really?” he grinned, tugging you back down into his chest and you snuggle closer with a smile. Bob’s fingers threaded slowly through your hair, his other hand lazily tracing patterns along your bare back.

His voice came quieter this time.

“But if you hadn’t found it…” he murmured, “If you hadn’t read it… this never would’ve happened.”

He was still staring up at the ceiling, like the thought truly stunned him. Then he turned his head slightly, his eyes meeting yours.

“So… I’m glad you did.”

You didn’t say anything at first. Instead, you just nuzzled deeper into the warmth of his chest, letting your hand rest over his heart. You closed your eyes, breathed him in, and smiled softly to yourself.

A small hum of agreement slipped from your lips, full of something deeper than just afterglow. Something like peace

And slowly, with the steady rhythm of his breathing under you and his arms wrapped tightly around you, you drifted off to sleep. Completely his.

The morning sun filtered softly through the curtains, casting warm, golden light across the messy sheets. You were curled against Bob’s side, both of you still completely naked under the tangled covers, your legs intertwined, your head resting peacefully on his shoulder.

Everything smelled like sleep and sex. Bob’s fingers were lazily stroking up and down your spine as you both lay in that sweet, quiet space between dreaming and waking. No words yet, just the comfort of shared warmth and the slow return to reality.

Then a knock.

Bob’s eyes snapped open at the exact same time yours did.

“Bob?” came a voice from the other side of the door. It was Yelena. “Can I come in?”

Your entire body tensed, adrenaline instantly flooding your veins.

“Shit—shitshitshit,” you whispered, already half-leaping out of bed. Your heart thundered in your chest as you scrambled to gather your clothes from the floor — your shorts and top, half-tangled in the sheets.

Bob sat up with wide, panicked eyes, already reaching for his own clothes.

“Wait, just a second!” he called out, voice cracking with forced calm.

You quickly scooped up his sweatpants and t-shirt from the floor and threw them at him. Then you dove under the bed. The floor was cool against your bare skin, dust brushing against your knees and arms as you squeezed yourself into the narrow space, holding your breath.

You watched through the gap between the mattress and the bed frame as Bob pulled his t-shirt over his head and jumped into his sweatpants. He shuffled to the door, opening it with a soft click.

Yelena stepped in casually, dressed in sweats and a tank top, her hair pulled up in a bun.

“Hey,” she said. “Have you seen her?”

Bob scratched the back of his neck. “Who?”

She gave him a flat look. “Her. The girl who’s always around you lately.”

He blinked, keeping his face neutral. “Nope. Haven’t seen her since yesterday.”

Under the bed, you were trying not to breathe too loudly, your hand clamped over your mouth, heartbeat roaring in your ears.

Yelena didn’t say anything for a second. She just looked around the room slowly. Her gaze moved over the unmade bed, the rumpled sheets, the warm glow of morning light. Then she sniffed the air. Bob stiffened immediately.

“…Why does it smell like women’s perfume in here?” she asked, narrowing her eyes.

Bob froze for half a second. His voice came out too quickly. “Oh—uh—yeah, she came by last night. Helped me with something.”

He cleared his throat awkwardly. “She left after, though.”

Yelena raised an eyebrow. “Right.”

There was a long pause. Then, thankfully, she just sighed and turned toward the door. “Okay. If you see her, tell her I’m looking for her. She borrowed my book and never gave it back.”

Bob nodded. “Got it.”

As soon as the door shut behind her, he locked it, turned back to the bed, and immediately burst into quiet laughter.

You crawled out from under the frame, hair wild, skin covered in tiny dust specks. You were laughing too, mostly from relief, partly from the absurdity of it all.

“That,” you gasped, “was way too close.”

Bob flopped down beside you on the bed, still chuckling, wiping at his eyes. “I thought she was going to smell you and shoot me on the spot.”

“Same,” you grinned, flopping next to him.

He pulled you into his arms, your messy limbs tangling together again, this time with laughter still shaking your chests. You let your head fall against his collarbone, and he kissed the top of your head, still smiling.

Your breaths syncing, your fingers tracing little circles into the soft fabric of his shirt as the adrenaline faded.

“Y’know…” Bob murmured, “That might’ve been the most exciting morning of my life.”

You looked up at him with a lazy smile. “Better than cereal?”

He smirked. “Debatable.”

You giggled and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, still curled into him like you belonged nowhere else. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

HAVE A LOVELY DAY!

BYEEE🍀🐛👒

[adelliet]

Bob Reynolds x f!reader

CAN'T SLEEP

Summary: You woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t fall back asleep no matter what, so you decided to bother Bob. Luckily, he didn’t seem to mind helping you.

Warnings: MDNI 18+, strong language, nicknames (darling, babe,…), teasing during sleeping, fingering, oral sex (m. receiving), unprotected sex (p i v), mutual orgasms, multiple orgasms, praise kink, aftercare

A/n: Hii! This is pretty quick and short (for my standarts) so that's rare! Anyway if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

The room was quiet. The kind of stillness that only existed in the middle of the night, where time felt suspended and everything was bathed in shadows and soft silence.

Outside the windows, it was cool, maybe just below twenty degrees, but the air in the bedroom was warm, wrapped in the comfortable hush of shared body heat and layered blankets.

The only sounds came from the distant hum of the city far below and the soft breathing of the man behind you.

Bob.

You were curled up in his arms, your back snug against his chest, the little spoon in a perfect, familiar fit. His arm rested over your waist, heavy but comforting, his fingers relaxed but still holding you with that ever-present protectiveness, like he was afraid you might vanish if he loosened his grip.

You could feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest against your spine, and every few breaths, his nose would brush the curve of your neck, exhaling just enough warmth to make you shiver, not from cold, but from the pleasant, ticklish flutter it left on your skin.

It was perfect. The bed. The temperature. The quiet. Bob. This was your lullaby. Your nightly comfort. With him, sleep always came easily, like your body just knew it was safe.

So it didn’t take long before you’d drifted off, held tight in his arms, surrounded by peace. But then…

You woke up.

There was no dream. No noise. No reason. Just open eyes in the dark at 3:12 a.m.

At first, you didn’t panic. Maybe you’d just stirred for a moment and would fall back asleep soon. That had to be it.

You stayed completely still, eyes shut, focusing on Bob’s warmth and the rhythm of his breath, trying to lull yourself back down. You thought of gentle things — upcoming plans, silly scenarios, tiny daydreams. But nothing worked.

The moments dragged on, and instead of melting back into sleep, your brain only grew more alert. You sighed softly, careful not to wake him. Still nothing.

And that was… new.

You never had trouble sleeping. If anything, Bob was the one who woke up in the middle of the night, whispering half-asleep apologies for disturbing you, and you always knew just how to soothe him.

But now, in this rare role reversal, you didn’t know what to do. You didn’t want to move, didn’t want to disrupt the perfect way he held you — even though it limited your ability to shift or stretch.

And that’s when you became aware of it.

That your body was just slightly too warm. That your breath was just a little shallow. That your hips were pressed, maybe a little too closely, to Bob’s pelvis.

And the realization made your cheeks heat up instantly. You told yourself it was nothing. Just a random thought. Just contact. You were always close like this when you slept. But still… curiosity itched at you.

So, barely moving at all, you shifted. A subtle, playful roll of your hips, as if to adjust your position. And in doing so… you brushed against him. Gently. Intentionally. Testing the waters.

Bob didn’t stir. You didn’t wake him. Not with that first subtle move, anyway. Which wasn’t technically the goal but still, a reaction would’ve been nice.

And the way your body had tingled from that soft contact? That wasn’t something you could ignore. So you did it again, a little more pressure this time, letting your hips press back just enough to feel him more clearly against you. The warmth. The firm shape of him beneath his shorts. The temptation.

Still no reaction.

You smirked faintly in the dark, biting the inside of your cheek. Alright, Bob. Let’s see how deep you can sleep through this.

You pushed back a little harder, grinding slowly into him, your movement gentle but undeniably purposeful. And that finally stirred something.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, his arm tightening just slightly around your waist. Then came his voice — low, gravelly, and heavy with sleep, like the words barely had the energy to escape his throat.

“What’s wrong?” he mumbled, the sound muffled against your shoulder.

God, he sounded exhausted. That soft, husky rasp made your stomach flutter and your guilt spike for just a second. He was barely conscious, eyes probably still shut, and here you were, using his body as your personal insomnia cure.

You whispered back softly, barely loud enough to be heard: “I can’t sleep.”

His only response was a low, adorable hum. Somewhere between a sympathetic murmur and a sleepy sigh.

If he were fully awake, he would’ve already been turning you gently in his arms, brushing your hair back, offering to make tea or rub your back until you drifted off. But right now? You weren’t even sure he’d processed your answer before sleep dragged him back down.

You waited a little longer, letting the silence stretch. And then… you moved again.

Slower this time. More deliberate. Your hips rolling gently in a smooth, almost hypnotic rhythm. There was no pretending now, no innocent adjustment or accidental contact. This was intentional. Pure teasing. And you could feel every detail.

The friction through the layers of fabric, the pressure of his body molding against yours, the heat starting to pool between your legs as you pressed right into the cradle of his hips.

Your teeth caught your bottom lip as you exhaled slowly, your movements growing bolder. Firmer. Rhythmic. And that’s when you felt it — the shift in his breath. The way it hitched slightly, breaking from its steady pattern.

With a shaky exhale, Bob buried his face into the curve of your neck, and his fingers tightened on your sides again, gripping your waist like he wasn’t quite sure whether he was dreaming or just very, very confused.

Oh, it was starting. You knew this pattern. You knew him. And you weren’t stopping now.

You continued, your hips pressing back with each slow grind, practically seeking him out. You weren’t even trying to hide it anymore.

The anticipation was too delicious — the feel of his body starting to respond, the way his cock began to harden gradually against you, unmistakable even through the thin fabric of his boxers and your sleep shorts.

You rocked into him again, and again, small motions, but full of purpose. And just as you started to push a little more, ready to drive him properly insane, his hands suddenly locked down on your hips, firm this time, stopping you mid-motion.

His voice came again, a bit clearer now. Still deep and groggy, but edged with a quiet tension. “What are you doing?”

You knew exactly what you were doing.

But when Bob’s sleepy voice broke through the dark again, low and slightly suspicious, you played the role of the innocent.

Sweet. Harmless. Not at all like the tease you absolutely were.

“Just getting comfortable,” you whispered, your tone light, almost airy, the kind of lie that wasn’t really a lie, but definitely not the truth.

And for a few seconds, there was silence. You expected a playful retort. Maybe a sleepy grunt. But instead… nothing.

You glanced back slightly, not enough to see his face, just enough to feel the stillness behind you. Seriously? He fell asleep again?

You rolled your eyes with a quiet sigh, biting your lip to hold in the laughter that threatened to bubble up. He was too cute for his own good, and too unconscious to deal with the storm you were stirring.

So you waited. Just a minute or two. Enough time for his body to fully relax again. Then, like the menace you were, you slowly backed into him once more. Your movements were no longer subtle.

This time, you pressed with real intent, feeling the solid heat of him through the fabric. You rolled your hips, savoring every inch of friction, the way your shorts clung just a little tighter, how your body reacted instantly — breath hitching, thighs clenching, pulse racing. The pleasure buzzed through you like an electric current, making your breath come in soft, involuntary whimpers.

And judging by the change in Bob’s breathing, he wasn’t sleeping anymore. He shifted slightly behind you, barely perceptible, but enough for you to feel it. His breath warmed your shoulder. His hand twitched against your waist.

And then—

“Hey,” he murmured again, this time clearer, more alert. “What are you doing?”

You froze, but only for dramatic effect. Then, slowly, you turned your head over your shoulder to look at him. And there he was.

Messy hair flattened slightly on one side. Half-lidded eyes, still heavy with sleep. His face slack with that soft, grumpy confusion he always wore when first waking up. But despite that, or maybe because of it, he looked unfairly good.

You wanted him. Desperately.

“Just getting comfortable,” you repeated in a breathy whisper, voice light as air as you stared into his tired, beautiful eyes.

He blinked once. Then again. “Oh really?”

The way he said it — low, rough, teasing — made your stomach drop and your thighs press together. His sleepy smirk and groggy sarcasm lit your entire body on fire. Between your legs, it felt like a rollercoaster was winding itself tighter and tighter, desperate to launch.

You didn’t answer, couldn’t. You just stared at him, wide-eyed and pleading, every part of you humming with frustration and desire. Then he moved.

“Come here.”

His voice was soft but firm, as he gently shifted you, rolling you forward slightly, robbing you of the position you’d used to tease him. You didn’t fight it.

You let him reposition you, let him wrap his arms tightly around you and pull your back flush against his chest, but this time, it wasn’t in that vulnerable, big spoon kind of way. It was protective. Controlling. Like he was holding you still.

He buried his face in your neck again, breathing in deeply, and let out a long, satisfied sigh. His grip on you was solid now, his chest warm through the fabric of his shirt.

And for a moment… it might’ve looked like the end of the teasing. But it wasn’t the end. Not for you. Because you were anything but satisfied.

Your body was throbbing — hot, desperate, clenching around nothing. It hurt. The ache between your thighs was unbearable, and you were too turned on to think straight.

You needed him. You needed him inside you.

And the thought of laying there, untouched, ignored, left to stew in your own lust for the rest of the night? Absolutely unacceptable.

You lay still against him. Your head resting on his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your ear, his arms wrapped tight around your body like he never wanted to let go.

But the pressure between your thighs had only gotten worse. That ache. That need. That pulsing emptiness. It was unbearable now. And no matter how tightly he held you, it wasn’t enough.

So you moved, just a little. Your hand, tucked innocently between your bodies, began to slowly travel downward. Careful.

You slid your fingers along the soft fabric of his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin underneath. Then further, across the hem and beneath. His skin was warm. Smooth beneath your touch.

You moved lower, until your hand slipped between your bodies, your fingers brushing over the soft cotton of his boxers. Right where you knew he was starting to grow hard.

The second your palm made contact with the shape of him, you felt it. Bob’s breath hitched, a deep inhale through his nose, and his arms pulled you in tighter, as if that would somehow stop what was happening.

But he didn’t stop you. He didn’t say a word. And that was all the permission you needed.

You moved slowly at first. Barely-there touches, your fingers tracing over the hardening length of him, teasing through the fabric. Your palm gently cupped him, feeling every twitch, every subtle shift of his hips. Until…

“Babe—”

His voice cracked into a breathy whimper, so soft and desperate it made your stomach flutter. You felt his pelvis instinctively tilt forward, pressing into your hand, chasing your touch.

You bit your lip. “Should I stop?”

Your voice was quiet — cautious, even. You’d never do anything he didn’t want, and you meant the question… but you already knew the answer.

He let out a ragged sigh against your neck. “No,” he mumbled, low and breathy, almost like a growl. “Please don’t.”

That was all it took. A wicked smile spread across your lips, and you adjusted your angle, giving yourself more space to move.

This time, you stroked him with more intention. Slow, steady passes of your hand over his growing erection, the friction of fabric intensifying the sensation.

You could feel how sensitive he was, how hard he was getting with every touch. And the way his breathing changed, more erratic now, deeper, told you he was completely at your mercy.

He buried his face back into your neck, groaning softly against your skin, his hips subtly rocking into your hand as if he couldn’t help it.

Your own thighs pressed together for relief, but it didn’t help. You were soaked. Every movement you made only worsened your own need, but you couldn’t stop.

Bob’s fingers curled tighter around your waist. His body was warm, his voice ragged, his cock fully hard beneath your palm. And the feeling of having him like this, still sleepy, half in a dream, but totally undone by your touch, it sent heat flooding through your entire body.

You knew your hand was enough.

You felt it in the way Bob twitched beneath your palm, in the way his hips subtly lifted to meet your strokes, how every breath he took became shakier, deeper, more desperate.

You could’ve kept going, made him come right then and there, still in his boxers, from nothing but your slow, teasing touch.

You were that good — and he knew it. But Bob was never one to take when he could give. He loved your hands, yes, but what he worshipped was your face when you came.

The way your mouth fell open, the way your thighs shook around his hand, the way your voice broke when you moaned his name like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. He lived for it. And he wasn’t about to miss it tonight.

So his hand moved. It slipped from your waist with a tremble, slow and aching restraint, and began trailing down the curve of your side, over the dip of your hip, until it found the waistband of your sleep shorts.

You stilled instantly. The shift was so sudden it pulled a gasp from your lips, your stroking stopped, and for a moment the world seemed to hold its breath. And Bob used that moment.

His fingers dipped beneath the band of your shorts, grazing over your bare skin. Your belly tensed immediately, and a soft, helpless whimper slipped from your throat. “Bob…”

His name left your lips in a breathless sigh, not quite a plea, but close. His hand was cool. Your body was warm. The contrast made your body jolt, and he felt it — every twitch, every subtle flinch under his touch.

He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath completely out of rhythm. Just touching you like this, just having access to your heat, your need, it wrecked him. He could’ve come from that alone if he let himself. But he didn’t. Not yet. Because he was going to make you fall apart first.

His fingers moved lower. Slow. Gentle. Worshipful. And when he finally slipped his fingers down to where you were soaked, so warm and soft and desperate for him, Bob let out a soft, shaky moan that sounded like pure agony.

“Fuck…” he breathed, his voice barely there.

His hips pressed forward slightly into your thigh, involuntary, and you could feel the weight of him, throbbing, through his boxers. But he didn’t stop.

One finger slid between your folds, collecting your wetness, and you whimpered. Your thighs clenched around his hand, your head buried into the crook of his neck.

Then a second finger joined the first, slow, teasing strokes up and down your slit, spreading you open for him. And finally, he slipped one finger inside you.

Your entire body arched into him with a sharp gasp. His other arm held you tight against his chest while the one between your legs moved carefully, curling just right to find that spot that made your breath catch in your throat.

You moaned. Quiet, broken, and muffled against his skin. And Bob responded with a soft growl, his lips brushing against your hairline.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered, the awe in his voice barely concealed. “You've been waiting so long for this, huh.”

You couldn’t even answer. Your body was moving on its own now, hips subtly rocking into his hand, one of your hands clutching at his shirt like you might fall apart if you let go.

The room was still dark, quiet save for the sound of your shallow breaths, your soft moans, and the slick sound of Bob’s fingers working you open.

It was so intimate. So slow. So intensely vulnerable. You felt every curl of his fingers, every shift of pressure. And he felt everything you gave back, the way your body tightened around him, the little whines you let out when he brushed just right, the heat radiating from your core like a furnace.

Bob was losing his mind. But he’d rather fall apart with your moans in his ears than ever stop touching you. And he wasn’t going to stop, not until he heard you cry his name.

He was so gentle. So devoted.

His fingers moved with intention, dragging through the slick heat of your core, dipping inside just enough to make you squirm, then sliding back to stroke through your folds again.

And then his thumb found your clit. Your entire body jerked against him. You bit down hard on your lip, trying not to moan out loud, your eyes wide, breath caught in your throat.

Bob exhaled shakily behind you, and you felt his nose brush your temple as he held you closer.

“There you go,” he murmured, voice deep and low and a little unsteady. “Let me take care of you.”

His fingers circled your clit slowly, soft, smooth, teasing touches that made your hips twitch and your breath stutter. You were already so sensitive, your whole body electric under his touch, and the way he moved, patient and reverent, made everything ache.

You whimpered softly, pressing your forehead against his shoulder, your hand clutching the fabric of his shirt. You wanted more. More pressure. More speed. More of him. And Bob felt it.

He always knew your body better than anyone. He could read your breaths, your little noises, the way your legs tried to close around his hand, and he adjusted like it was second nature.

His thumb pressed a little harder, his fingers quickening just slightly as they moved in that perfect rhythm. Not too fast. Not too much. Just enough to make the pressure inside you build, slow and steady, a wave rising and rising and refusing to break.

You were panting now. Barely able to keep quiet. Little moans escaped you without permission, quiet and desperate, stuttering his name in gasps that didn’t even sound like words.

“B–Bob…”

You couldn’t think straight. Your whole world was heat and friction and the feel of his strong arm holding you in place while the other coaxed you closer and closer to the edge.

You could feel your thighs start to tremble, your body tightening, that unbearable, exquisite tension building in your stomach, and then Bob curled his fingers just right, and your body broke.

You moaned his name, breathless and quiet but full of everything — need, relief, adoration — as you came against his hand.

Your back arched, your lips parted in a silent cry, and your whole body pulsed as the pleasure overtook you. Bob held you through it.

His hand didn’t stop moving until you began to twitch and whimper from the sensitivity, and even then, he slowed gradually, whispering soft praises against your hair.

“That’s it, baby… god, you’re so beautiful…”

“I’ve got you.”

And he did. Wrapped around you, breath warm against your ear, chest rising and falling in sync with yours, he made you feel weightless.

You turned your head a little, barely able to keep your eyes open, your body still pulsing faintly from aftershocks.

“You okay?” he asked softly, brushing your cheek with his nose.

You nodded with a sleepy smile, voice nothing more than a whisper: “Better than okay.”

Your body was warm, your breath finally slowing, your fingers lazily drawing shapes over the soft fabric of Bob’s shirt. But as you listened to his heartbeat against your ear, steady and strong and just a little fast… you knew he was still holding back. Still hard. Still aching. Still putting you first. As always.

You smiled softly. “You wanna…help with that?” you murmured, your voice sleepy, teasing, full of mischief.

He chuckled, low and tired. “No. It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t. Not for you. And definitely not when he had just made you cum like that.

You pulled back slightly, lifting your head and meeting his eyes, and even in the darkness, he couldn’t hide the way he looked at you. His lips were parted, his lashes heavy, cheeks flushed, the need in his gaze still burning under the surface.

“Let me take care of you,” you whispered, fingers gently trailing down his chest. Bob hesitated. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

He didn’t argue after that. Not when you said it like that. Not when your voice dropped into something almost reverent, and your eyes held that soft, adoring sparkle that made him feel like the only man in the universe.

You shifted down carefully, pulling the blankets with you, pressing slow kisses to his stomach, his hipbone, taking your time, watching the way his breath hitched with every inch you moved lower.

Your hands stroked along his thighs as you settled between them, your lips brushing the waistband of his boxers. He looked down at you like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like you were some kind of dream, his fingers gently curling into the bedsheets just to ground himself.

“You sure?” he asked again, his voice rough, shaky.

You smiled up at him. “Lie back, baby.”

He obeyed, like he always did with you.

You kissed him through the fabric at first, slow, teasing, dragging your lips across the outline of his hardness, and he gasped, body twitching just slightly.

Then came your hands. Gentle, confident, stroking him through the thin material while your eyes stayed locked on his face. Bob moaned softly. His brows drew together, his lips parted as his hips instinctively bucked just a little.

“G-god,” he whispered, barely audible.

“That feels so good…”

His reactions only encouraged you. You adored how vocal he was when he let himself relax, how his body betrayed everything he was feeling even if he tried to keep quiet.

And when you finally slipped your fingers into his waistband and freed him from the fabric, he sucked in a breath so hard you thought he might choke on it.

You didn't wait for more. Your lips part as you slowly take him in, the warmth of your mouth making him curse. You start slow, letting him feel every inch, every deliberate movement of your tongue as you draw him deeper.

Bob’s hand finds the back of your head, fingers tangled gently in your hair. Not pushing, just holding, grounding. His thighs twitch under your touch as you hollow your cheeks and move with a slow rhythm, every stroke calculated, sensual, devoted.

“Shit…” he whispers, head dropping forward to watch you. The way you look, lips stretched around him, eyes so focused and full of heat, it’s wrecking him.

You hum around him, and he chokes out a sound that’s half a gasp, half a moan. His grip tightens just slightly. His breath’s coming faster now, chest rising and falling as he fights not to lose control.

“Jesus—don’t stop,” he rasps, voice rough and ragged.

You didn't.

You stay locked on him, moving faster now, tongue flicking and circling, driving him right to the edge. You feel him tremble, hear him muttering your name like a prayer between gritted teeth.

You feel the change in his breathing. The way his chest starts rising faster, how the muscles in his thighs tense beneath your hands, like a live wire just waiting to snap. His fingers curl tighter in your hair, not rough, but desperate, needing something to hold on to.

He’s close. So close.

“Mhm baby-” he gasps, voice breaking like static. “I’m gonna—”

That’s all the warning you get.

Suddenly, his entire body arches, hips jolting forward instinctively, though he tries to hold back. His hand grips the sheets with white-knuckled force as a low, guttural moan rips from deep in his chest — raw, unfiltered, completely lost in the feeling of you wrapped around him.

His thighs shake, his jaw clenches and then he lets go.

You feel him throb against your tongue as he comes hard, with a sharp breath and a half-whispered curse that tumbles out like he’s been holding it in for hours. His body shudders through it — sharp, involuntary tremors rolling down his spine, hips twitching with each pulse of release.

The sound he makes is a broken, breathless groan mixed with your name, like he’s never felt anything this intense. Like the world’s gone white for a second and you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground.

You stay right there, coaxing every last bit of pleasure from him while his hand is still tangled in your hair, his breath uneven, his entire body slack and overwhelmed.

When it’s over, he slumps back, chest heaving, eyes fluttering open just enough to look down at you. Completely ruined and yours.

You don’t pull away. Not when you feel him twitch one last time on your tongue, not when the final pulse of his release hits your throat. You swallow him down without hesitation. Every single drop.

You look up at him while you do it, lips still parted, your breath warm against his oversensitive skin, eyes locked on his like you own him.

Bob’s entire body is frozen. Eyes wide, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths as he watches you, absolutely wrecked.

“Ah god,” he breathes out, one trembling hand pushes back through his hair as he leans his head against the pillow beneath him, eyes closing for a moment.

The heat that’s been building inside you while you pleased him is now unbearable, burning low and deep, radiating outward with every heartbeat.

You shift slightly on your knees, and the movement sends a sharp throb straight through your core. You’re soaked. Practically shaking with want.

You rise slowly, letting your fingers drag up his thighs, over his hips and beneath his shirt. His skin twitches under your touch. He looks up at you, eyes dark and dazed. “What are you doing?” he asks, voice rough, cracked.

You climb into his lap, straddling him, and the second your core brushes against his tip, a quiet, desperate sound slips from your lips.

“I need you,” you whisper, your voice breathless, shaky. “So bad, Bob…”

You roll your hips against him, slow and teasing, and the contact makes your whole body jolt. He can feel how wet you are, again, how soaked the fabric between your legs is.

His eyes drop to your mouth, then your thighs, then back to your eyes again. And you see it, the way his pupils dilate. The way his jaw flexes. The way his hands rise, instinctively, like he needs to grab, to take, to feel you.

“You’re not real,” he murmurs like he’s almost afraid to move. “You can’t be real…”

You lean in, your lips brushing his as you breathe, “So, this isn't real?”

Before he can answer, you shift your hips purposefully, grinding down against him just enough to make him feel your ass press into him through the soft, thin fabric of your shorts. You do it slowly, a slow roll of your hips that’s more sinful than any kiss.

His breath stutters, before then he snaps.

With a low growl from deep in his chest, his hands shoot to your waist, strong and sudden, gripping you tight, fingers digging into your skin as if to anchor himself, or maybe to make sure you don’t go anywhere. His mouth crashes against yours in a hungry, open-mouthed kiss that feels like he’s been starving for you.

It’s not careful or gentle anymore. It’s desperate.

You moan into his mouth as his lips devour yours, tongue sliding past your lips, tasting you, claiming you. He kisses you like he’s furious and in love all at once, like the past few minutes weren’t enough and he needs more, now, again.

You feel your whole body react, every nerve ending lighting up as you press closer, chest to chest, hands gripping his shoulders. And even through the haze, even in the middle of the kiss that’s leaving you breathless and dizzy, you move.

Your fingers slide down between your bodies, to the waistband of your shorts, tugging, fumbling.

He breaks the kiss for just a second, forehead pressed to yours, panting against your lips. His hands are already moving, helping you push them down, dragging the fabric over your hips with shaking fingers.

“You’re killing me,” he breathes, voice completely wrecked. But he doesn’t stop. And neither do you.

You kick the shorts off, your breath shuddering as the cool air hits your exposed skin, and his hands are right back on you, rough and warm and so, so ready.

You sink down onto him in one slow, shaking motion, and your breath catches like it’s been punched out of you.

He fills you completely. Thick and hot, stretching you perfectly. Your thighs tremble slightly as you settle onto him, your nails digging into his shoulders for balance, for anything to hold onto while your body adjusts around him.

Bob’s hands are everywhere, sliding up your waist, under the hem of your sleep shirt, gripping your hips like he needs them to stay grounded. His head falls back for a moment, jaw tight, breath ragged.

“Fucking hell…” he groans, eyes squeezing shut. “You feel—so good, baby…”

You start to move. Slow at first, rolling your hips, lifting and lowering in a rhythm that’s more torturous than fast. His hands follow your every shift, guiding, holding, needing. And every time you slide down on him again, you gasp. The friction, the fullness, the heat between you both is almost too much.

But it’s not enough. Not yet.

Bob opens his eyes to look at you, and the sight makes his breath stutter again. You’re flushed, lips parted, head tilted back slightly with a soft moan slipping out every time your hips press down onto him. Your shirt’s bunched around your waist, your bare body moving against his like sin itself.

“You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, almost like he’s in disbelief. His thumb finds your clit without warning, slow circles, featherlight pressure, and you let out a broken cry as your hips falter.

“B-Bob—” your voice is shaky, your hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, needing something to ground you while he touches you just right, from inside and out.

He leans in and presses his mouth to your neck, kissing and sucking you softly, making you whine his name even louder.

You move faster now, the rhythm shifting from slow to hungry, your thighs burning, your core tightening with every stroke, every teasing flick of his fingers. Your whole body feels like it’s trembling from the inside out.

He watches you the entire time, his mouth parted, brows drawn in pure, wrecked focus. His hands clutch your waist harder as your movements grow frantic. Then it hits.

Your orgasm crashes into you like a wave, violent and white-hot, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your body locks up, thighs shaking, eyes rolling back as a sharp cry tears from your throat.

“Fuck—oh my God—Bob—”

He doesn’t stop moving under you. He grips your hips and thrusts up into you as your climax ripples through you, stretching it out, deepening it. You feel yourself clench around him again and again, and that’s what pushes him over the edge.

His breath catches, his head snaps back, and a strangled, guttural sound rips from his throat. His whole body jerks, muscles tensing under your hands as he drives up into you one last time and comes hard inside you. Pulsing, twitching, completely overwhelmed.

“Jesus—God—” he gasps, voice shattered, eyes wide and staring at you like he’s never seen anything more perfect in his life.

You collapse against his chest, panting, both of you covered in sweat, limbs trembling and tangled. His hand moves instinctively to your back, gently stroking your spine as you both come down from it, chests rising and falling together in the quiet aftershock.

Still inside you. Still trembling. Still his.

You’re both still for a while. Tangled together, breathless, your chest pressed against his as you try to steady your racing pulse. His arms are wrapped around you tightly, protectively, like he’s afraid to let go. His heart pounding beneath your ear.

The air in the room is warm and quiet now, save for your soft breathing and the occasional rustle of skin against sheets. Neither of you speaks for a long moment, too wrapped up in the daze of what just happened. Of what you just shared.

Eventually, you shift your head slightly, pressing a kiss to the damp skin on his collarbone.

“Thank you,” you whisper. So softly, like it’s a secret meant only for him.

Bob lets out a quiet laugh, low and breathless. He brushes a few strands of hair from your face and cups your cheek with one big, warm hand.

“Don’t thank me, darlin’,” he murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “Thank you.”

You hum in response, already sinking into that warm, heavy calm. Your legs are still draped over his, your body relaxed and loose, every nerve lulled into quiet.

“I think… I can sleep now,” you whisper with a lazy smile, your eyes already slipping shut.

He lets out a soft chuckle. “Yeah?” he asks, stroking his thumb gently through your head. “You sure?”

You don’t answer. Because by the time he gets the question out, you’re already gone. Breathing slow and even. Lips parted in sleep. Safe. Held.

He smiles to himself, more to the darkness than anything, and tightens his arms around you just a little more.

“Goodnight, baby,” he whispers. And the room falls silent again. Just two hearts. And the quiet, peaceful end of everything that led you here.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

HAVE A LOVELY DAY!

BYEEE🩷🎀🌸

[adelliet]

Bob Floyd x f!reader

EYE CONTACT

Summary: During a late-night party with the squad of pilots, Bob accidentally outs himself during a game of “Drink if…” and ends up in a spicy bet. What starts as a harmless game turns into a night of passion and a very humiliating bet.

Warnings: MDNI 18+, strong language, alcohol consumption, teasing, sex bet, intense eye contact, unprotected sex (p i v), praise kink, public humiliation (light), kinda dom reader & sub Bob

A/N: Hii! Honestly I am proud of this and it's not even that long! That deserves applause… Anyway if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

Evening had settled over the base like a cozy blanket.

The usual clamor of flight drills and briefings was replaced by the soft hum of laughter, the clinking of glass bottles, and the crackling of old rock playing from someone’s Bluetooth speaker. The rec room, normally sterile and half-lit, now glowed in the warm light of a couple standing lamps, and the scent of takeout pizza lingered in the air.

Everyone was dressed down.

No flight suits, no uniforms, no ranks. Just comfort: sweatpants, t-shirts, messy ponytails, bare feet, and half-buttoned flannel shirts.

Phoenix was curled up on the couch with a beer. Rooster sat on the floor, leaning against a chair with a lazy grin. And Hangman? Of course, he was front and center, spread legs like a king, commanding attention with every smug quip he tossed into the circle.

“Alright,” he grinned, raising his glass with a dramatic flair, “next round, drink if you’ve ever fantasized about someone in this room.”

Laughter erupted. Phoenix rolled her eyes but drank. Rooster hesitated before sipping, earning himself a few teasing boos. One of the twins from the new squad groaned, “Dude, that’s messed up.”

You smirked, swirling your drink, not taking a sip, but your gaze flickered to the man directly across from you.

Bob Floyd.

Wearing soft grey sweatpants and a worn-out navy hoodie with the sleeves pushed up. His glasses were slightly foggy from the warmth in the room, and his hair was messier than usual, like he’d run a marathon. His hand went nervously through it a few too many times. He looked adorably awkward, shifting where he sat, fiddling with his bottle, his posture a mix of stiff and shy.

But every time he glanced your way? That boyish smile bloomed. And if your eyes locked for more than a second, his cheeks flushed crimson, and he’d immediately look away, pretending to study the wall or his drink or literally anything else.

You’d known the second you first saw him at Top Gun that he was one of the good ones. Sweet. Loyal. Gentle-hearted. Definitely not the kind of guy who pushed his luck or bragged about his kills. Not the guy who flirted with every woman in a ten-foot radius. And that’s what drew you in. You never expected to hook up with him, or even end up in a full-on secret relationship.

But here you are. A few months in. Still sneaking glances, still keeping it quiet.

Nobody knew. Or at least, nobody had confirmed suspicions. Sure, there had been a few raised eyebrows and murmured questions when one of you would laugh too hard at the other’s joke, or when you somehow always ended up sitting next to each other. But you both had managed, by some miracle, to wave it off with enough convincing excuses.

“Just friends,” you’d say.

“Like everyone else here.”

But you weren’t. Not even close. You’d both agreed to keep it under wraps until the time was right. Until the mission schedules calmed down, until people stopped speculating, until you both felt… ready. And that moment hadn’t come yet.

And definitley not tonight. Not with Hangman running the show and the game getting riskier by the minute.

He leaned in with a wicked grin. “Alright, next one’s a little more… intimate,” he teased, scanning the room like a shark circling blood.

“Drink if you’ve ever kept eye contact during sex. The entire time.”

Someone gasped. Someone else cackled. Rooster choked on his drink. Phoenix muttered a “Jesus Christ, Jake,” under her breath as she sipped. Yep, she drank. Two others did too. A handful more followed, awkwardly but playfully.

Then… your eyes locked with Bob’s and your stomach did that thing. The flutter, the pull.

He hesitated. You could see his internal panic building, his lips parted in a silent shit, his hand frozen on the neck of his beer. You watched him scan the room, seeing more and more people drink. The pressure. The possibility of standing out.

And then, trying to look casual, Bob lifted the bottle to his lips and took a sip. He didn’t gulp. He didn’t even tilt his head dramatically. Just a quiet, sneaky sip.

You blinked with furrowed brows. Your expression tightened just a little, just enough for him to see it and immediately know he messed up. He looked away, cheeks flushed bright red.

Oh? So that’s how he wants to play.

“Bob?” Hangman’s voice cut through the buzz of the room like a whip, all teasing lilt. “Did you just drink?” All eyes turned.

Bob froze mid-motion. His spine straightened like a steel rod, and the sheer panic on his face would’ve been hilarious if it weren’t so tragically sincere. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then slowly and awkwardly nodded.

That was it. The room exploded. Laughter, gasps, mock cheers. Someone actually clapped. Phoenix looked between him and the others with a sharp smirk, while Rooster gawked like he’d just seen a cat bark.

Bob glanced around, clearly trying not to implode.

And when he saw you again, across the room, watching him with an expression that could only be described as devilish delight, one brow raised with a dangerous smile on your lips, he inhaled sharply.

“Well damn, Bob!” Rooster grinned, practically lunging across the room to slap him on the back. “Didn’t know you had it in you, man!”

The slap was a bit too hard, Bob almost coughed from the impact. But instead of soaking in the sudden street cred, he just looked… miserable. Flushed, stiff, barely clinging to composure.

Because you were still looking at him like a lion watching a gazelle make a wrong turn. And Bob knew he was screwed.

The game carried on well into the night. The drinks kept flowing. The dares got bolder. Laughter came easier, words got sloppier, and eventually, people started peeling off—some to their rooms, others out for a cigarette or a midnight snack.

You stood up, stretched lazily, and mumbled something about turning in. There were a few murmured goodbyes and a distracted wave or two.

Bob waited a beat. Then another, just enough to not seem obvious. Then he set his bottle down, mumbled a casual excuse, and slipped out behind you like a quiet shadow.

He caught up to you halfway down the hall, feet padding softly on the cold floor. “Hey,” he said, almost too quietly, nervously playing with his hands

You glanced over your shoulder. “Hey,” you replied—flat, unimpressed, just a little sharp. Bob deflated with a sigh, but he kept walking beside you, a few inches of warm silence between your arms.

When you reached your door, you grabbed the handle without a word, ready to slip inside and shut it behind you. But Bob stopped you.

Gently, fingertips brushing around your wrist, tugging just enough to make you pause. “Wait, wait. I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I panicked. I didn’t wanna seem—”

“Oh, weird,” you cut in with a shrug, turning slowly to face him. Arms crossed. One foot popped against the doorframe. You gave him a look. All teasing, no mercy.

“I just don’t remember you holding eye contact the whole time you were fucking me.”

Bob choked on nothing but his own spit. He blinked like you’d smacked him across the face with a frying pan, then immediately looked around the hallway like someone might’ve overheard.

“Jesus Christ,” he hissed, cheeks blazing. “You can’t say that here!”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said casually, that wicked glint still dancing in your eyes. “There’s a way you can redeem yourself.”

He blinked again, confused. “Redeem myself?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, leaning your shoulder into the doorframe. “A bet.”

Now he looked even more lost. His head tilted slightly to the side, eyes squinting behind his glasses like a confused puppy hearing a strange sound. “A bet?”

You nearly laughed at how damn cute he looked. Your mischievous smile didn’t leave your lips for a single second.

“The loser,” you said sweetly, “has to run across the bar. Naked.”

Bob’s eyes snapped wide open. His voice cracked. “W-what?!”

You only raised your brows and nodded with exaggerated innocence. “Mhm.”

He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. “B-but I don’t want… I don’t want anyone seeing you like that, naked” he stammered, the last word escaping in a whisper like it physically pained him to say it.

Something about that stopped you. The genuine concern in his voice. That pure, bashful way he admitted it, it caught you off guard. You couldn’t help the surprised laugh that slipped out of you. “Wait—do you seriously think I’m gonna lose?”

A beat of silence.

Bob didn’t answer. He just stood there, half-panicked, half-dumbstruck, trying to do math in his head like this was a tactical briefing and not a challenge you’d just casually dropped on him in the hallway.

“Look,” you continued, “if we both manage to hold eye contact the whole time, neither of us has to do anything. Easy.” You paused. “But, if one of us breaks first…”

You trailed off on purpose. You didn’t need to finish the sentence. The look on your face said everything.

Bob looked like he was about to pass out. A fine sheen of nervous sweat started forming at his temple, and he kept gripping the air beside his sides, like it might anchor him to reality.

He swallowed. Hard. “O-okay, but… what exactly is the bet about?”

You squinted at him. Then let out an incredulous, breathy laugh. “Oh, sweetheart. Isn’t it obvious?”

You leaned forward just enough to close the space between you two, voice low and smug. “It’s about eye contact, during sex, Bobby.”

And then, because you couldn’t resist, you reached up, tapped the tip of his nose with your fingertip, and grabbed the door handle behind you. Bob just stood there, frozen in absolute panic. Like his brain had blue-screened.

You pushed the door open, stepping backward into your room. But before shutting it, you leaned your head around the doorframe one last time and gave him a little smirk.

“You made this bed, baby,” you said with a wink.

“Now you’re gonna lie in it.”

One click and the door shut. Bob stood in the hallway, completely alone, staring at it like it had personally betrayed him. Then, slowly, he brought both hands to his face and buried himself in them with a loud groan.

He was so screwed.

Your room was dimly lit, cloaked in the kind of low, sultry glow that came only from a single desk lamp in the corner. It bathed everything in warm amber, casting soft shadows across the walls and sheets. The bed was already made, perfectly smooth, but not for long.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, you were on him.

Bob pressed the door closed with his back, but his lips never left yours. He was already kissing you like he’d been starving all week, his hands firmly planted on your hips as if he needed to ground himself or he’d float away. You tasted like fire and sin and something so utterly you that his brain was short-circuiting already.

“What are the rules?” you managed to breathe between kisses, panting into his mouth with a teasing lilt, before dragging him right back in for more.

Bob groaned into your lips, muffled and messy. He was dazed, his thoughts jumbled like alphabet soup. Still, he clung to that one sliver of sense left in him.

“Three seconds—” he gasped, lips brushing yours, “you can close your eyes for three seconds. Max.”

You barely had time to nod before he crashed into you again, pulling you flush against his body like he needed you there. And God, the way your bodies pressed, his chest against your breasts, your thighs tangled with his, the thick outline of his erection grinding into your stomach, it was almost cruel how good it felt.

Your lips parted with a low, approving hum as your back bumped gently into the edge of the bed. Bob followed you down without hesitation, lowering you onto the mattress with the kind of care that still made your heart skip, even when his mind was clearly being held hostage by lust.

“And we have to keep eye contact the whole time,” he murmured between kisses, voice already ragged with tension. “Including…”

“Orgasm,” you finished for him with a devilish grin, cutting him off before he could say it himself. His cheeks flushed, and you could feel his breath hitch against your lips.

You smiled with pride and dragged your fingers through his hair before pulling him back in. Slow at first, but gradually building in intensity.

Your hands slipped under the hem of his shirt, feeling the heat of his skin, his muscles twitching beneath your fingertips. Bob gasped when your nails scratched lightly up his spine, and you felt him shudder.

Your tongues moved in sync, lips slick and swollen, each kiss more demanding than the last. He held you tighter now, one hand sliding up your back while the other explored your thigh, gripping it possessively when you moaned softly into his mouth.

And then you shifted. Without warning, you swung your leg over and straddled him.

Bob’s breath hitched audibly. He looked up at you, eyes wide with wonder, like he couldn’t believe what was happening, even though he was living it. You leaned down to kiss him again, this time slower, deeper, hips already starting to roll gently against his.

Your clothed core brushed right over the thick bulge straining against his pants, and it made both of you gasp. The friction was intoxicating. Deliciously slow. Teasing.

You moved your hips again, dragging yourself across him in a rhythm that was equal parts sweet torture and cruel perfection.

Bob threw his head back with a strangled groan, his hands gripping your thighs like they were the only things tethering him to earth. “G-god…” he whispered breathlessly, biting down on his lip to keep himself from falling apart right then and there.

His eyes fluttered up to meet yours and you locked onto him like a predator.

“Eyes on me, flyboy,” you said, voice low and dark and so unfairly hot, as you rocked your hips down a little harder. Bob whimpered. He was already right at the edge and you were only just getting started.

Your hips moved with delicious purpose, slowly grinding against Bob’s lap, and you could feel every twitch of his body beneath you. Every gasp he swallowed, every low groan he failed to hide, all of it only fueled you more.

His eyes stayed locked on yours, wide, reverent, like he couldn’t believe someone like you was doing something like this to someone like him.

You leaned down, your lips brushing along his jaw as your fingers found the hem of his shirt. “This needs to go,” you whispered, voice velvet-smooth, and Bob nodded so fast it made you smirk.

You sat up slightly, tugged the fabric up, and he helped you lift it over his head, leaving him bare from the waist up. You paused to admire him, the gentle lines of his chest, the subtle definition in his stomach, the slight tremble in his arms as he held onto you.

You ran your hands across his chest, and he shivered, exhaling a breath like he’d been punched. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, head pressing into the pillow as your nails skimmed down his torso.

“You okay there, Lieutenant?” you teased, biting your lip as you rocked your hips again, slower this time, but even more deliberately.

Bob’s hands gripped your hips tighter, knuckles white. “N-no,” he breathed, “not even a little.” You grinned.

Then he reached for your shirt. There was a moment, just a beat, where his hands hovered at the hem, as if asking for silent permission. And when you nodded, he tugged it up with slightly shaky fingers, revealing inch by inch of your skin. His eyes followed every bit of it like it was holy scripture.

Once the shirt was gone, his hands immediately found your waist again, thumbs stroking the soft skin like he couldn’t stop touching you even if he tried. “You’re…” His voice cracked, and he tried again. “You’re beautiful.”

You leaned down, chest brushing his as your lips met again. Tongues tangled, breath mingling, teeth occasionally nipping at lips. Every kiss was a promise. Every movement a dare.

You could feel the hard press of his cock under you, aching through his jeans. He shifted beneath you involuntarily, and it made a soft moan slip from your mouth — one he instantly echoed.

“Shit,” he whispered, breaking the kiss with a gasp, forehead resting against yours. “You’re driving me insane.”

“Good,” you murmured, and started to move again, slow, circular rolls of your hips that had his jaw clenching, eyes fluttering shut.

You reached between you and popped open the button of his pants. Bob let out a strangled sound, his hips bucking instinctively.

But your movements stayed patient, intentional. You wanted to savor this. Make every layer feel like a mile, every touch like a sin.

His pants were next, dragged down just enough to free him, and the moment your palm brushed over the outline in his boxers, he let out a sound so wrecked you swore it echoed off the walls.

You leaned down again, lips brushing his ear now. “You’re not allowed to look away,” you whispered.

“I’m— I’m trying,” he breathed. His eyes fluttered open again, meeting yours, glazed over with need.

Then, slowly, he sat up, bringing your bodies chest to chest, your bare skin touching completely. His hands roamed your back, your sides, mapping you like you were the last thing he’d ever get to touch.

“You’re so warm,” he mumbled, like he was dazed, “so perfect…”

You moaned softly as he pressed gentle kisses down your neck, taking his time, worshipping every inch of you with lips and tongue and reverent little sighs.

Bob’s fingers slid under the waistband of your pants slowly, like he was savoring every second of what he was about to uncover.

His fingertips brushed against the thin lace of your panties and paused there, curling slightly like he was memorizing the feel. You sucked in a shaky breath.

His thumb teased along the edge, tugging it just enough to make you whimper, and your hips involuntarily rolled forward, chasing that pressure. You murmured, voice already thick with need.

With a smooth motion, his hands slipped fully under both your pants and panties, pushing them past your hips. You lifted yourself just enough to let them slide down, your skin prickling as the air kissed your bare thighs. The soft rustle of fabric hitting the floor was drowned out by the sound of your shallow breathing.

Bob sat up slightly, his palms skimming up the back of your thighs to your waist, eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing left in the world. He reached around and toyed with the clasp of your bra.

“Can I…?”

You nodded — one slow, deliberate nod.

The clasp gave with a soft click, and the straps slipped from your shoulders. You let the fabric fall from your arms, baring yourself completely, your chest rising and falling under the weight of his gaze.

Bob’s lips parted, his hands trembling just a little as they settled on your ribs and slid upward, cupping your breasts with near-reverence.

“God, you’re… so beautiful,” he breathed.

You leaned down to kiss him, lips colliding in a slow, burning rhythm that stole the breath from both of you. Your fingers dipped to the waistband of his boxers, and you felt him shiver beneath you.

“Your turn,” you whispered against his mouth.

You pushed his boxers down slowly, watching the tension build in his body. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed and already twitching in anticipation. He groaned low in his throat, his hips twitching up as you settled yourself against him again, both of you finally, completely bare. No barriers. No hiding.

Your soaked core brushed the length of him, and the contact made both of you gasp. You reached down, guiding him to your entrance, not taking him in just yet, just letting him feel how ready you were. How much you wanted him.

Then you paused. Met his eyes. Held them.

“Don’t forget the bet,” you whispered with a sly smirk, brushing your lips over his as your hips hovered, poised to take him in.

Bob looked like he was about to break, eyes wide, lips parted, his breath caught in his throat. “I won’t,” he promised, voice shaking.

You smiled sweetly and just like that, you started to sink down. Slowly, achingly slow, and the world narrowed to just you and him, and the impossible heat between you.

His jaw drops. His brows knit together. His mouth opens in a silent gasp, and his eyes stay locked on yours, wide with lust and disbelief. He’s so deep, so thick, it feels like he’s splitting you open, filling every part of you with scorching heat.

“G-god—” he breathes, voice breaking, shaking.

You feel him throb inside you, the muscles in his thighs tensing beneath you, his fingers digging into your flesh. Every inch of him pulses with restraint — he’s holding back, just barely — trying not to move, not to fuck up the challenge. Not to lose.

You roll your hips once, slow and firm, feeling him grind against the spot inside you that makes your breath catch. His head falls back just slightly, but his eyes flick right back to yours like a reflex.

“I can feel how hard you’re trying,” you murmur, hips circling. “But you’re shaking, Bobby.”

“I’m— I’m not losing this,” he pants. His voice is hoarse, ragged. His face is flushed, lips parted, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow breaths.

You pick up the pace, your hips begin to ride him faster now, your wetness coating him with every thrust. You can hear the sound of it, that delicious slap of skin on skin, every movement making you both whimper and gasp.

He’s making the most desperate noises now, little choked groans and breathless curses, every one like it’s being torn from his throat. His legs twitch under you, his grip bruising your hips now, but still, those eyes are clinging to yours.

“Eyes on me,” you remind him, breathless now yourself. “You wanted to play…”

His pupils are blown wide, almost swallowing the blue of his irises. Sweat trickles down his temple. His mouth opens like he’s about to say something, maybe beg, but he’s beyond words now. He’s just feeling, burning, unraveling beneath you.

You clench around him, deliberately, and he bucks, his hips jerk up into you uncontrollably.

“Shit—” he groans, head lolling, still trying to stay focused. “I—I can’t—”

You lean in closer, your forehead almost touching his, your breath mingling hotly. “You’re so close. I can feel you twitching inside me.”

You move faster now, riding him hard and deep, each stroke sending sparks through your entire body. You’re soaked, hot, aching, moaning as your pleasure coils tighter and tighter.

He’s desperate, eyes fluttering, breath caught. His body tenses under you like a drawn bowstring. Then finally, just as he’s right there on the edge, you whisper: “Come for me, Bobby. But don’t you dare look away.”

He lets out a broken, feral sound, somewhere between a growl and a cry, and then his eyes slam shut as he comes hard, hips thrusting up into you with a power he’s been holding back this whole time. His entire body shakes under you, his mouth falling open in a gasp of your name.

You moan with him, still moving, still watching him as he spills inside you, his release hot and deep and overwhelming. You feel every pulse, every twitch, every ounce of him surrendering completely.

He collapses back, breathing like he just ran a mile. Eyes still closed.

“You lost,” you whisper smugly, brushing damp hair from his forehead. Bob groans, utterly spent. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” you smile sweetly, and kiss the corner of his mouth. Your fingers brushed softly against his flushed cheek, still hot from the effort, from the embarrassment, maybe from both.

“That’s a lesson, sweetheart,” you whispered sweetly, dragging your thumb gently along his jawline, your tone laced with just the right amount of teasing. “Lie about something like that… and it comes back to bite you.”

Bob groaned miserably, the sound muffled as he turned his face toward ceiling in protest. His eyes cracked open reluctantly a second later, and when they met yours, they went wide, because you were definitely wearing the smuggest grin he had ever seen in his life.

He swallowed thickly. You could tell he was still processing the fact that not only had he completely lost the bet, but that you weren’t about to let him forget it.

“But…” he managed to breathe out, eyes flicking over your face with a mix of defeat and awe, “It was worth it.”

You felt your chest flutter a little at the softness in his voice, and before you could say anything else, his hands slid up your sides, holding you with more tenderness than you expected. His lips brushed against yours, and you instantly melted into him, even if your grin never quite faded.

“Well then,” you murmured as your forehead rested against his, “Get ready for tomorrow night.”

His brows furrowed.

“Naked,” you added with a wicked smile.

Bob let out a dramatic groan and tossed his head back against the pillow, one hand dragging over his face like he was already regretting all his life choices.

You snorted quietly and shook your head, tracing lazy circles on his chest with your fingertips.

“I’m never lying again,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

“Mmm-hmm,” you hummed knowingly, your voice still soaked in amusement. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Bob covered his face with both hands, defeated. You leaned down, kissed the tip of his nose, and whispered: “You’re so screwed.”

The Hard Deck was alive with its usual evening buzz. The music was playing, beer was flowing, and laughter filled every corner of the bar.

Everyone was there: Phoenix, Hangman, Rooster, Fanboy, Payback… the whole damn squad. They were mid-conversation, halfway through a second round of drinks, blissfully unaware that the night was about to take a sharp left turn.

Only you knew what was coming.

You sat at your table, watching the minutes tick by, a sly smirk tugging at the corners of your lips. Bob’s fate was sealed the moment he lost that stupid little bet, and you made damn sure he knew it.

When the moment finally arrived, you stood up slowly, deliberately, and tapped your glass with a spoon. The metallic clink clink clink rang out, cutting through the room and drawing attention. Conversations quieted. Heads turned.

You raised your drink with a dramatic flair.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” you announced, grinning wide as everyone stared in curiosity, “Tonight is not just any night. No no — tonight, we witness a man fulfilling a promise. A man owning up to his very poor choices.”

Confused murmurs rippled through the room.

You leaned forward with an extra sparkle in your eyes. “He lied. He got cocky... so he lost.”

Right on cue, as if the universe was working on your side, a blur of pale limbs flashed past the bar’s large front windows. Someone screamed.

“OH MY GOD—!”

There he was. Bob Floyd, red-faced, eyes wild with panic, completely naked, sprinting as fast as he could around the perimeter of the bar. Both hands tightly clutched over his crotch as his bare ass flashed for the whole base to see.

People exploded out of their chairs.

“WHAT THE HELL— BOB?!” Rooster practically fell out of his seat, knocking over a chair as he scrambled to the window.

“NO WAY!” yelled Hangman, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

Phones came out fast. Shouts and howls of laughter filled the room as people crowded the windows, trying to get a glimpse of Bob’s shame-filled lap of doom. At least three people got blurry, motion-captured photos of his pale butt bouncing as he rounded the corner, legs flying, hair a mess, and dignity left somewhere behind him on the pavement.

Phoenix slung an arm around your shoulders, nearly choking on her beer from laughing.

“What on earth did you do to him?” she asked, eyes still on the window as Bob disappeared behind the building.

You just sipped your drink like the queen you were and replied, “He lost a bet.” The two of you burst into laughter.

It was a night no one would ever forget, least of all Bob, whose heroic, humiliating jog would live on in base group chats and embarrassing wedding toasts forever. And you? You were absolutely going to remind him of it every chance you got.

Because next time he lies?

He’d damn well think twice.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

HAVE A LOVELY DAY!🩷

BYEEE🍋🌼🍯

[adelliet]

Two peas in a pod

AHHHH, SORRY

[adelliet]

Bob Reynolds x f!reader

DANGEROUS GAME

Summary: Even though you're Walker's girl, you were sent on a mission with Bob, for extra protection. But what happens there, no one seems to have predicted...not even the two of you.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, slight harassment, wet dreams, slowburn, cheating (sorry Walker's girlies), little Sentry intrusion, slight obssesion (not creepy though), protectiveness, frequent erection, unprotected sex (p i v), light fingering, clit teasing, change of position, praise kink, flirting

A/N: Hii!! Here's a little ⚠️WARNING⚠️ - this is ridiculously long, so if you want some short, quick smut without a plot… this is not the place... but I'm honestly so proud of how it turned out. Anyways, I hope you'll like this story/smut! If you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

“Mhm, Bob,” you murmured, your voice low and breathy as your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, greedily inhaling your scent like he couldn’t get enough of it, like it grounded him, or maybe drove him even more insane.

His hips snapped forward with increasing urgency now, rhythm relentless, the bed beneath you both creaking loudly with each powerful thrust, no doubt anyone nearby had already figured out what was going on in Bob’s room.

You were so close, both of you teetering on the edge, your bodies colliding with wet slaps, breathless moans melting into Bob’s high-pitched whimpers. His balls felt unbearably tight, heavy with the release you’d begged him for the second your hands were on him. He was right there, trembling, tears beginning to slip down his cheeks from the sheer intensity of it.

Your mouth fell open, but the sounds that came out were caught in your throat, tangled up in pleasure. “Oh fuck, Bob, yes—”

And then Bob woke up.

His chest was rising and falling rapidly, lungs dragging in shaky breaths as his eyes stared up at the dark ceiling above. For a moment, he just lay there, heart pounding in his ears, body flushed and tense, until reality finally caught up with him.

He sat up abruptly, swallowing a curse under his breath as he glanced down at the familiar, uncomfortable dampness in his sheets.

Great. Just great.

Another night. Another wet dream. And once again… it was you. It was always you.

Bob let out a frustrated sigh, slumping forward as he braced his elbows on his knees and pressed his hands into his sweaty face. His skin was burning, not just from heat, but from embarrassment and helplessness.

How was this even happening again? How was it possible that every single night lately ended like this? He felt like some desperate, horny teenager.

It all started the moment Bob laid eyes on you.

You walked in dressed in all black, tight tactical suit hugging every curve, a pistol strapped low around your waist, sleek gloves sparking faintly with the electrical charge of those 500-volt shock bracelets you wielded like a damn goddess of war. Your hair was lightly tousled, damp with sweat, soft waves clinging to your cheeks kissed pink by heat and adrenaline.

You looked stunning.

Bob had seen beautiful women before. But this? This was different. That moment, in that gear, with that look in your eyes? It carved itself into his brain like a branding iron. From that second on, he knew he couldn’t let you go. And not because he wanted to possess you. No, he just… needed you in his life. Like oxygen.

And the worst part? You were always kind to him.

Whenever someone joked at his expense, sometimes taking it too far, you were the one who instantly had his back. The one who shut them down with a quiet but firm, “That’s enough.”

When Bob got hurt, rare as that was, you were the first to rush to him. The one with gentle hands and warm eyes who cleaned his wounds like he was made of glass.

You remembered the little things. You noticed him when everyone else forgot.

But the truth is that’s just who you are.

Soft-hearted and fiercely loyal. It wasn’t about him specifically.

Because if it were, you wouldn’t be dating John Walker.

And God, did that sting.

Bob hated himself for thinking it, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t help wondering, why him? Why John, a man whose wife had left him, who had a whole kid he rarely talked about? What did you see in him? What did he have that Bob didn’t? Strength? Charisma? Authority? A past soaked in blood? He’d never understand it. Probably not even on his deathbed.

Sometimes he wished he’d met you earlier.

Before the world had hardened both of you in different ways. Maybe then… maybe he’d have had a chance.

But he wasn’t an asshole. He wasn’t going to interfere. You were in a relationship, and he respected that. He wasn’t going to try and steal you away.

…But that didn’t stop him from occasionally ragebaiting John. From mocking him just subtly enough that only he noticed.

And you laughed every time. That laugh lit something up inside Bob he didn’t even know he had.

He lived for your laugh.

He would do anything to hear it every day for the rest of his life.

You were his muse. The proof that not everyone in his life saw him as a joke or a tool to be used.

You were the hope he clung to when the nights got cold and lonely.

But that’s also why the nights were unbearable.

Every time he closed his eyes, you were there—your voice, your face, your smile looping through his mind like a reel he couldn’t pause. Your soft laugh. The little hiss you let out when you accidentally cut yourself while slicing food. That look you gave someone when they said something that had double meaning.

You haunted him, not in the ghostly way, in the real way. Every day got harder. Every look between you and John tightened the screws inside his chest a little more.

And this morning was no different.

He dragged himself out of bed, hair a tousled disaster, face a little puffy from lack of sleep and the frustration of another night lost to fantasy. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to shake the shame off, and stepped into the kitchen, and there you were.

Standing in the morning light, bathed in soft gold like some divine punishment sent just for him. You looked perfect, even in your most casual state—fresh-faced, eyes still a little sleepy, a faint smile tugging at your lips as you poured coffee into your mug.

And then he appeared.

John.

He came up behind you without hesitation, pressing in close. Whispered something in your ear, and you laughed—soft and affectionate. Bob felt his stomach clench.

Then John’s hands settled on your hips. He dipped down, kissing your neck, again and again, murmuring things Bob didn’t want to hear. And you let him. Your eyes fluttered shut. You leaned back into him.

That’s supposed to be me.

Bob’s smile dropped. His chest tightened.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

But he took a deep breath, forced his jaw to unclench, and looked away. Trying to keep it together. To be the good guy. Even as everything in him screamed otherwise.

He stepped forward. It took every ounce of courage he had just to open his mouth and say it.

“Morning.”

His voice was soft, unsure, wavering ever so slightly, like he was testing if he was even allowed to speak around the two of you.

You turned to face him instantly, your eyes lighting up with surprised delight, wide with hope. God, you looked so happy to see him. Like you wanted him there.

Bob almost forgot how to breathe.

Your smile? Bright, full of warmth, teeth flashing like sunlight. It hit him in the chest like a bullet.

He couldn’t help but smile back, the reaction almost automatic—goosebumps spreading across his arms. For a moment, it felt like the room belonged only to the two of you.

Then John turned too. His gaze trailed over to Bob, unimpressed, unreadable. He gave a nonchalant nod, like he was doing him a favor just by acknowledging him.

Bob forced his eyes away from him. He focused on you. Only you. That was the only thing that felt safe.

“How’d you sleep, Bob?” you asked sweetly, tilting your head. There was genuine curiosity in your voice, like you actually cared.

Bob’s heart skipped.

You were standing near the fridge, close enough that he had to brush past you just to grab something for breakfast. You didn’t move away. But John was still behind you—arms wrapped possessively around your waist, rocking you gently from side to side, his chin practically resting on your shoulder. He wasn’t saying anything, but he was watching Bob. Watching everything.

Bob wanted to lie. No—he needed to lie. Because the truth was that he’d had another dream about you, one where you were moaning his name, writhing under him, begging for more as he pounded into you, skin against skin, your hands in his hair and—

Yeah. That truth would probably get him punched into next week. So he swallowed it down and went with something safer.

“Fine,” he said, nodding like nothing was wrong. “You?”

He met your gaze for a second and the air between you felt like it cracked. You looked away quickly, a tiny giggle slipping from your lips as your eyes dropped to the floor.

Bob’s stomach twisted.

John scoffed. Loudly. Right by your ear.

Bob wasn’t stupid. He could read that moment like a book. You hadn’t slept alone last night. And he knew exactly who’d been in your bed.

“Yeah, I slept fine,” you answered at last, your voice soft and sweet as you smiled up at him.

It wasn’t fair. That smile shouldn’t have been for him. Not after that. Bob just nodded, forcing his face to stay neutral as he turned back to the fridge.

Cold air washed over him, but it wasn’t enough to cool the heat rising in his chest.

Every time he heard John’s voice—his stupid low chuckle, his little murmurs behind your ear—Bob felt the pressure building inside.

It was getting harder and harder to hold it in.

The other part of him was stirring. Clawing at the inside of his ribs, whispering things he couldn’t allow himself to think. He needed to leave. Now.

He grabbed the first thing he saw, a yogurt and a spoon from the drawer. Didn’t even look back. Didn’t say a word. He just walked out, his footsteps heavy and fast, before the mask cracked. Before Sentry slipped through the seams.

If he had to deal with this every morning for the rest of his life, he honestly didn’t think he’d survive it. He was barely surviving now.

He was trying so hard to keep his emotions locked away — really, truly trying — but how was he supposed to do that when he lived under the same roof as you?

When every time he turned a corner, there you were? And worst of all was the fact that you weren’t his.

Bob spent the entire day hiding in his room.

He’d come out only for the occasional snack or to raid the fridge, but otherwise he stayed shut away — curled up in bed with the curtains drawn, pretending the world outside didn’t exist. Sometimes a book, sometimes the TV, sometimes music. Anything that made reality fade.

Because the second he let it back in, it hit him like a truck. While he lay there alone, watching dust dance in the sunlight, John was probably fucking you senseless.

And that thought was eating him alive.

Right now, he had his headphones on, volume cranked to the max, Radiohead playing. Creep, his favorite. Always had been. It was the one song where he could hear himself. Where he felt understood.

He laid back on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling as Thom Yorke’s voice bled through his ears. His arms were folded across his stomach, hands loosely clasped. His heart felt heavy but numb.

He loved this. The moment when the music was so loud it drowned everything out.

When it stung his ears and made his brain go a little quiet. When all the feelings finally stopped screaming.

SLAM.

Bob jolted violently. Nearly fell off the bed. The door had burst open. Someone was standing in the frame. His headphones were off in a flash, his heart pounding, his ears ringing. It was Yelena. And she looked… pissed. And tired. Exhausted.

Bob blinked up at her, still recovering from the mini-heart attack. He didn’t say anything, just raised his eyebrows at her, like what the hell is going on?

“C'mon,” she said, tilting her head toward the hallway before dropping her grip from the door and walking off — leaving it wide open. Bob stared after her for a few seconds. Processing.

Then he slowly got up, hesitantly following the sound of her footsteps down the corridor.

When he walked into the common area, the atmosphere hit him like a wave.He immediately scanned the room.

On the couch: Alexei and Ava, watching something unfold. Not far off: Bucky and John in a very heated argument. They were practically in each other’s faces.

And then there was you.

You were curled up in an armchair like you were trying to disappear, your knees pulled close to your chest. One leg was bouncing nervously. Your fingers were busy picking at the skin around your nails. You looked anxious. You didn’t even notice Bob walk in. Your eyes were locked on the floor.

Bob’s heart twisted in his chest.

You didn’t look okay. You looked like something was eating you alive.

God, how he wished he could know what was going through your mind. He’d give anything to read your thoughts. To help you.

“I’M GOING WITH HER!”

John’s voice boomed, snapping Bob out of his trance. He was pointing at you now — angry, stubborn, pacing. Everyone’s eyes turned to him.

“No!” Bucky snapped back, rubbing the bridge of his nose like he was trying not to explode. “What part of no don’t you understand, Walker?!”

Again, every head in the room turned like it was a ping-pong match.

“Yes, I fucking understand—” John barked, “—but I’m telling you, I can do this with her!”

The tension was unbearable. Bob could feel it vibrating in the air.

“You’re really that naive?” Bucky growled. “You think this is about you?”

“I can protect her!” John’s jaw clenched, stepping closer, chest puffed up.

Bucky didn’t flinch. Didn’t move a muscle.

He wasn’t intimidated.

“Fine!” Bucky threw his arms up, sarcastic. “If you want your girlfriend coming home in a body bag, be my guest.”

Silence.

John’s mouth twitched.

He licked his lips, visibly seething.

And then… his gaze slowly shifted. To Bob.

His eyes narrowed like knives, locking onto him. Bob froze. He couldn’t look away. His body tensed, throat dry, heart hammering.

“Bob is the strongest one here, Walker,” Bucky’s voice was lower now, more calculated, calmer — but sharp. “They’ll be fine. He’s got this. And she’ll be safe.”

John looked at Bucky. Then at you. Then finally… gave in.

“…Fine,” he muttered, jaw still tight, eyes on the floor. His hands were braced at his hips in defeat. Bucky exhaled, relieved. And now… every single pair of eyes turned to Bob.

Oh God. Now Bob was sweating. Anxious, panicked, nauseous—he felt like he was going to pass out or throw up or both. His brain started racing. Thought after thought, he couldn’t process anything.

Bob stood still like a statue, as if moving might shatter him. His chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths. His jaw clenched and unclenched. His fingers twitched at his sides, curling into fists and then relaxing again, over and over, like he was trying to hold himself together with nothing but willpower.

No one was speaking. No one was moving. They were all looking at him.

He waited, desperately hoping someone else would fill the silence, that someone would explain what was going on or why the hell he was being looked at like a solution to a problem he didn’t even know existed.

But all he got were expectant eyes. Unspoken pressure. Impatient glances. Anticipatory stares And so, finally, he forced himself to speak.

“…What’s going on?”

His voice cracked slightly, like his vocal cords hadn’t fully committed to the question. He looked around the room, eyes flitting nervously from Yelena to Bucky to Alexei, then to you.

Yelena stepped forward without hesitation. She slapped a firm hand on his back with a thud that made him flinch slightly.

“You’re going on a mission,” she said simply, like she was handing him a grocery list. Then she sat back down next to you like nothing had happened. Bob’s brain lagged behind her words.

“…What?”

His heart skipped a beat. Before he could even start forming a coherent thought, Bucky stepped in.

“We’ve got a situation in Paris. Needs to be handled quietly,” Bucky said, arms crossed. His tone was solid, clear, not open for debate. “We’ve decided to send you and her.”

Bob followed Bucky’s nod toward you. You.

He was going… with you?

Bob’s lungs stopped working for a full two seconds. His mind immediately began to spiral. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even blink.

“And the rest of us will stay here,” Bucky continued. “We’ll take care of things on this end. Keep America safe.”

That sentence barely registered. Bob was still stuck on the part where you and he were being sent away together.

“Departure’s tomorrow. Pack for two days.”

And with that, Bucky walked off. No discussion, no room for questions. Just orders. Bob stood like his feet had grown roots. His mouth opened. Closed. Nothing came out.

Two days. Just the two of you. In a foreign city. With no Walker. No team. No distractions. Just you.

Alexei and Ava exchanged a glance — a silent “Oh shit” moment — then turned their eyes on him again. Bob was still staring at the spot where Bucky had been. Trying to process. Trying to function.

His thoughts were a chaotic mess.

Does this mean something? Is it a test? Are they trying to see if he can handle it? Or is this just punishment for something he didn’t do? What if he screw this up? What if you doesn’t want to go? What if you hates the idea?

His overthinking screamed inside his head so loudly that he didn’t even hear Yelena until her hand landed on his shoulder again, lighter this time.

She gave him a soft, understanding smile.

The kind that said “You’ll be okay.”

He looked at her like she’d just spoken a foreign language. Still silent. Still frozen. Still… spiraling.

One by one, people started to leave. Even John — who didn’t spare Bob so much as a glance. Just cold dismissal as he walked out the door. And then you stood.

Bob’s eyes snapped toward you before he could stop himself. You moved quietly. Slowly. Like you were heavy inside. Like something was weighing you down. And for one brief moment before you walked out you looked at him and smiled.

But it wasn’t real. Not like the smiles you gave other people, not like the smile you gave him this morning in the kitchen.

This one looked tired. Distant. Bob smiled back, because that’s what he always did with you. But he saw it in your eyes.

Something was wrong. There was something brewing beneath the surface, something unspoken. You didn’t look angry. Or sad. Or scared. But you did look far away. Like you were stuck in a storm of your own thoughts. Bob’s stomach sank.

Was it about the mission? Was it something Walker said before Bob entered the room? Was it… Bob?

That last thought hit harder than the rest.

What if you didn’t want to be near him? What if this mission wasn’t just awkward, but actually unwanted? What if the idea of going away with him filled you with dread?

His chest tightened with anxiety. His heart pounded so loudly it was all he could hear. Because if that were true, if you didn’t want this, if he was the reason you were so quiet suddenly, so distant…

It would break him.

His smile faded the second you turned away and the silence in the room swallowed him whole. His chest tightened with anxiety. His heart pounded so loudly it was all he could hear. He just stood there, alone with tones of thoughts.

The next morning came far too quickly. A private jet was already waiting on the tarmac, sleek and glinting in the early sunlight, engines humming in idle like a beast ready to launch.

Bob had packed light, unsurprisingly so. Just one medium-sized backpack slung over his shoulder, stuffed with the bare essentials: two shirts, a pair of pants, fresh underwear, hygiene products. Simple. Nothing more than what he thought he’d actually need.

You, on the other hand, had a rolling suitcase. Not overly huge, but definitely larger than Bob’s backpack. You’d justified it, of course, “med supplies,” you told the others with a shrug. Sure, the meds were in there. Somewhere. But let’s be honest: that suitcase also held three extra shirts, a cozy hoodie you’d probably never wear, three types of lotion, two types of shampoo, and a curling wand you’d forget to use. Still, it made sense in your head, and nobody really questioned you.

Bob was already seated inside the jet, nervously rubbing his hands along his thighs. His fingers gripped the fabric of his pants like he was grounding himself. His eyes kept drifting to the window, scanning the runway anxiously, until he saw you. And John. Of course it was John walking you toward the plane. Who else would it be?

But something was off.

You didn’t cling to Walker like usual. You weren’t latched onto his arm or giggling into his chest. You looked… hesitant. Bob couldn’t hear what was said, but he saw the quick hug you gave John and the way you pecked him on the lips like it was out of obligation more than affection. Then you disappeared from his line of sight, making your way toward the jet’s entrance.

Please don’t be mad at me, Bob thought desperately, gripping his knees tighter. Please don’t blame me for being the one they chose instead of him. Please don’t hate me.

When you entered the cabin, you flashed him a polite smile, cheerful, but something about it felt forced.

“Morning,” you said sweetly, plopping down on the white leather seat directly across from him. The interior of the jet was the epitome of luxury. Creamy white leather. Gold-trimmed windows. Glossy surfaces. The kind of luxury that made Bob feel a little out of place, like someone might come over and ask him to leave for not being rich enough to exist there.

He nodded in return, managing a quiet, “Morning.”

Silence settled between you, thick and almost suffocating. Between you was a sleek glass table, completely clear of any clutter. Bob cleared his throat, awkwardly shifting in his seat. He couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“So, um… how do you feel?” he asked softly, trying not to sound too concerned.

You exhaled slowly and glanced out the window. “A little nervous, I guess. I just don’t know what to expect from this mission.”

He couldn’t tell if you were being honest or if you were just saying something neutral to end the conversation quickly.

He nodded again, pressing his lips together in a thin, tight line and avoiding eye contact. He could feel something the tension in the air. It was like trying to breathe through fog. He didn’t want to push you. He didn’t want to make it worse. But he wanted to help you. More than anything.

The rest of the flight passed quietly. Peaceful, even. Neither of you said much after that, both lost in your own thoughts. At some point, without even realizing it, you both dozed off, lulled to sleep by the steady hum of the jet and the soft, cushioned comfort of your seats.

It wasn’t long before the pilot announced that you were landing. Private jets really were fast.

A sleek black SUV awaited you both at the airport. You were taken straight to a five-star hotel in the center of Paris and it was breathtaking.

The lobby was a palace. A chandelier of cascading crystal hung from a ceiling so high it looked like it touched the sky. Every wall was white marble veined with gold, polished to a blinding shine. The floor was like a mirror beneath your feet, smooth and cold and spotless. A spiral staircase of pure brass curled upward like something out of a fairy tale, and twin elevators gleamed like champagne bottles in the light.

Bob could barely keep his eyes from darting around, like a kid in a candy store. And then you entered the room.

The suite was just as jaw-dropping.

The bed was massive, a king-size monster covered in white Egyptian cotton, six fluffy pillows, and a velvet runner at the foot that screamed wealth.

Two entire bathrooms, each its own spa-level experience: rainfall showers, glowing mirrors with touch-sensors, plush towels folded into perfect shapes. One had a soaking tub big enough for two.

The view? Floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto a balcony overlooking the Seine and the Eiffel Tower in the near distance. Paris glittered beneath a soft, pink morning sky.

Bob dropped his bag on a nearby armchair, heart fluttering, until he noticed something. Just one bed. There was only one bedroom. Only one bed.

He didn’t want to say anything, didn’t want to make it weird, didn’t want you to think he was thinking anything inappropriate, so he stayed quiet. Instead, he watched you, happy and radiant again, bouncing between the bathrooms and pointing at every golden detail like a kid seeing Disneyland for the first time.

“Gosh, I love it here!” you beamed as you launched yourself onto the bed beside him, sinking into the plush mattress.

Bob turned to you slowly, watching your pink cheeks, your wide eyes, your breathless excitement. God, you looked beautiful when you were happy.

You sat up on your hands, eyes scanning the room again — then frowned. “Where’s the second room?”

There it was. Bob chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh… I think this is it.”

“Oh. Okay.” You said it so casually, like it wasn’t even a problem. That caught him off guard.

“I can sleep on the floor,” Bob blurted out quickly, already searching the room for potential sleeping surfaces. “It’s really fine, I don’t mind—”

“Bob.” You turned toward him, your expression stern, eyebrows raised in an almost amused disbelief.

“You’re not sleeping on the floor.” You sat up straighter, your tone final. “You’re sleeping on the bed with me. End of story. We both need a proper night’s rest if this mission is going to be a success.”

You had a good point — a solid, reasonable, professional point — and Bob had no room to argue. He nodded obediently, feeling his cheeks heat up, and mumbled a quiet, “Okay.”

You smiled as your eyes roamed around the luxurious hotel suite, letting out a few light, silly mouth noises to fill the awkward silence. It wasn’t conscious, just something you did. You were clearly trying to stay cheerful, breezy, unbothered. But Bob wasn’t looking at the suite.

He didn’t care about the polished marble or the ridiculously oversized bed or the glowing fixtures that probably cost more than his first car. He was watching you. And God, he couldn’t get enough of you.

Every little thing you did was magnetic. Every glance, every soft sigh, every nervous flick of your hand through your hair, it pulled him in like gravity. You were mesmerizing without even trying. And right now, you were the only thing in the entire world he could focus on.

“I think I’m gonna test out these showers,” you announced casually, flashing him a warm, playful look before bouncing to your feet with happy energy and disappearing into one of the bathrooms.

Bob let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Relief washed over him in waves, for a lot of reasons. Mostly because you looked happier. More relaxed. Or maybe it was all just an act. Maybe you were faking it, putting on a good face. But if it was an act, then damn — it was a good one, really convincing enough.

Maybe your change in behavior had nothing to do with him at all. Or maybe it had everything to do with him. And just like that, his mind spiraled.

He begged his brain as it started to churn with questions again — loud, relentless, and unanswerable. Why did you seem distant on the jet? Did you regret coming here with him? Were you pretending just to keep the peace?

He let out a frustrated groan and collapsed backwards onto the bed, covering his face with both hands. His brain was a torture chamber, and right now it was on full blast.

It was evening now. 7:48 PM.

In twelve minutes, you both had to be at the target location: a grand, historic opera house turned temporary gala venue for the night. It was a massive event — hundreds of guests, dressed to kill, dripping in designer labels and old money charm. A fundraising gala for some absurdly specific cause, backed by even more absurdly rich donors.

Not your scene. Not Bob’s either.

The two of you could only stomach that kind of ego and arrogance for so long before it started to rot your insides. Snobbery was contagious, and you weren’t about to catch it.

The plan was simple: get in, find a room with the bomb, deactivate it and get out. Fast, clean, quiet. No mingling longer than necessary.

Bob was already dressed and waiting by the door, his hands clasped in front of him, fidgeting with his fingers. He looked good. Really good.

A crisp, jet-black suit clung to his tall frame in all the right places. A pristine white shirt underneath, buttoned perfectly with a black bow tie at the collar. His trousers fit like they were tailored just for him, no belt needed. He wore polished formal shoes that clicked softly against the floor whenever he shifted his weight.

His hair was the same soft mess it always was, he hadn’t styled it, hadn’t needed to. It had that tousled, effortless charm that made him look both elegant and boyish at the same time. But he was nervous. He kept checking the time. He didn’t want to be late.

And then he heard the bathroom door open behind him and when he turned around, his breath caught in his throat.

You stepped into the room like you owned it. Like you owned him.

The deep wine-red dress hugged your body like it had been sewn directly onto your skin. Every curve, every dip, every slope was framed in that silky, perfect fabric. The slit on the right side revealed just enough of your leg to make his heart leap — every time you move, the slit fluttered open a little more, teasing him with glimpses of smooth, sculpted skin.

Around your neck hung a heart-shaped pendant, shimmering gently with each breath you took. Your earrings were bold, just dramatic enough to turn heads, not that you needed help. The dress was already doing 90% of the work.

Your hair was pinned up in a low bun at the nape of your neck, elegant and soft, with two wavy tendrils left loose to frame your face. They bounced with every movement, like they had a life of their own.

And your makeup? Lethal. Your dark red lipstick matched your dress perfectly, sensual and commanding. A touch of smoky shadow added mystery to your gaze, and the highlighter on the bridge of your nose caught the light just right. You looked like a goddess. A dangerous weapon. A walking fantasy.

“So… how do I look?” you asked, giving him a slow, teasing spin on your heels, voice light, confident. You knew damn well how you looked. And still, you wanted to hear it from him.

Bob just stared. His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. His throat was dry and swallowing didn’t help. His hands trembled slightly at his sides, and his heart pounded against his ribcage so hard he was almost worried it would shatter his sternum. His skin prickled with goosebumps, and a chill raced down his spine even as sweat started to gather at his temples.

You were stunning. Devastatingly so.

He wanted to touch you. Taste you. Kiss that lipstick until it smeared all over both your mouths. He imagined the sound of your giggle against his lips. That sweet, mischievous laugh that wrecked him every damn time.

“…Perfect,” Bob finally exhaled after a few seconds, barely blinking, like he was afraid you’d vanish if he did.

You chuckled softly, your cheeks tinting pink — but you could blame it on the blush if anyone asked.

“You look like a whole snack too,” you smirked, returning the compliment with a wink before turning on your heel to grab your clutch.

Bob nearly buckled. His knees actually wobbled. His palms were sweating, his heartbeat was a war drum in his chest, and his pants suddenly felt about two sizes too tight.

Not now. Not now. Not now.

“Oh! And check this out,” you added suddenly, grabbing your clutch and sweeping the slit of your dress aside with one graceful hand.

Your leg slid out, long and toned, and more importantly, strapped to your thigh was a sleek little holster, a small but deadly-looking pistol nestled neatly in place.

“Pretty cool, huh?” you grinned proudly, clearly delighted with your stealthy accessory.

Bob stared like it was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen in his life. Which it was. His mouth opened again. Closed. Opened.

“O-oh… Are we really gonna need that?” he asked, voice trembling slightly, trying not to look directly at your leg like it was cursed.

You sauntered over to him, just close enough for your perfume to hit his nose like a drug.

“Probably not,” you said with a little shrug. “But you never know.”

And then you smiled again.

“I know you'll protect me though.” You leaned in just slightly, brushing your fingers across his shoulder, your voice softer, more sincere now.

The moment your hand touched him, his skin burned. He felt the warmth spread from your fingertips straight through his bones. He was sure there’d be a mark there later, a handprint scorched into his soul.

His breath caught. His chest tightened. He was completely, utterly undone.

If only you knew. If only you knew what you did to him just by existing. If only you knew how much it hurt, how much it thrilled him, to be near you like this and not touch the way he wished he could.

He tried to hold himself together, to keep his thoughts focused solely on the mission… but how the hell was he supposed to do that when you were walking just a few steps ahead and your ass jiggled with every single sway of your hips.

He forced himself to look straight, tried to keep his eyes locked on the hallway ahead—but he failed. Over and over again. His gaze dropped like a magnet, every. damn. time. And then, after a particularly long stare, the realization hit him. Were you even wearing underwear? Fuck.

The two of you stepped into the elevator, thankfully alone. Or… not so thankfully. Because now Bob was trapped in a small metal box with your scent wrapping around him like a drug.

His pants were getting tighter by the second, the fabric becoming a vice. He cleared his throat awkwardly, then braided his fingers together and inconspicuously held them in front of his crotch in a desperate attempt to shield his growing erection. Beads of sweat formed at his hairline, his hands trembled, and even his knees felt weak. He looked like he was about to pass out, but he was praying you wouldn’t notice.

You would’ve had to be blind not to.

“Hey, don’t be so nervous,” you nudged him playfully with your elbow, a mischievous grin on your lips.

Bob flinched like you’d just zapped him with a taser, his eyes going wide as he stared down at you. He swallowed thickly, but there was nothing in his throat to swallow.

“I-I’m not,” he stammered.

You giggled and tilted your head. “Oh yeah? So your legs are shaking, your hands are shaking, and you’re sweating like a sinner in church… from what, from excitement?”

Bob opened his mouth to protest, but your logic pinned him to the wall like a butterfly in a science class. He just stood there, blinking in silence, praying the elevator would speed up or plummet or explode or anything to get him out of this beautifully torturous hell.

“It’s gonna be fine, Bob,” you said, your voice now soft, sweet. “We’ve got this, okay?”

Your tone alone soothed him more than any pep talk ever could. He nodded slowly, exhaling with fake calmness. He pretended like he was anxious about the mission when in reality, ever since he saw you in that damn dress, the mission didn’t exist in his mind anymore.

You arrived at the venue a few minutes later than planned, pulling up in a sleek black limousine. Through your earpiece, Bucky’s voice nearly exploded.

“You’re late.”

You both winced as he scolded you like kids caught sneaking in past curfew, but thankfully, it didn’t affect the plan too much.

As you stepped inside the extravagant building, the air instantly felt thicker, oppressive. The kind of place where even the air wore a tuxedo. You and Bob exchanged a quick glance, both feeling the same tension coil in your stomachs. The crowd was overwhelming. Hundreds of rich, pretentious, ego-drunk snobs stood shoulder to shoulder, sipping drinks that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe.

Neither of you belonged here. And you both knew it.

Anxiety wrapped around your lungs like barbed wire, but you still had a clearer head than Bob. He was distracted. Not just by the people, but still… by you.

You turned to him briefly, your voice calm and grounding.

“Hey… deep breaths, alright? I’m right here.”

Your soft eyes anchored him, and for the first time since you stepped out of the limo, the high-pitched whine in his ears dulled.

Bucky’s voice crackled in again, more composed now.

“Elevator. Third floor. That’s where the VIPs are and the room with the package. Go. Now.”

Somehow, the two of you weaved through the suffocating crowd, brushing past tuxedos, glittery dresses, and enough perfume to choke a rhino.

You squeezed into the elevator just before the doors closed, crammed shoulder to shoulder with more millionaires than you’d care to count. It was almost comical how many rich people fit into one elevator. Like… how did this many billionaires even exist?

But your sarcastic mental spiral got cut off as the elevator dinged.

The third floor was a different universe. The air itself smelled expensive, leather, whiskey, money. Classical music floated gently from a nearby minibar. There were fewer people here, and everything was hushed: soft conversation, quiet laughter, the gentle clink of glassware. The lighting was warmer. Everything oozed exclusivity.

“We’re here,” you whispered.

Bob didn’t say anything. He was too busy looking around like a puppy on its first walk. Poor thing looked completely out of place, but aside from a few curious stares, no one paid much attention to him. They all assumed you two were just another power couple in the sea of power couples.

Bucky’s voice returned.

“There’s a guy on that floor—target has the access card. Dark suit, red tie, gloves. Get close, get the card, then meet Bob at the vault room.”

You nodded and scanned the room, squinting ever so slightly as you walked gracefully among the socialites. It didn’t take long to spot him. He stuck out like a sore, greasy thumb.

Slicked-back black hair, way too much gel. That red tie. A black suit tailored to intimidate. Gloves. Beard stubble and a tiny soul patch on his chin. His energy screamed arrogance. You could feel the toxic masculinity from across the room.

You sighed inwardly. This was going to suck, but like it or not, it was part of your job.

You walked past Bob, giving him a tiny glance as you moved, his eyes glued to you like a hawk. He posted himself near the corner, trying his best to look casual, though he probably looked more like a stalker. But he didn’t care. He’d rather look creepy than miss a single second you might need him.

You slipped right into character in no time. Your every movement screamed elegance, seduction, refined but deadly. You were a siren in crimson. You chose a barstool beside your target, letting the silky slit in your dress flutter just enough to catch the corner of his eye. Like clockwork, he noticed. Of course he did.

You raised a finger and signaled the bartender with graceful ease. “One martini, please.”

He nodded and got to work. You didn’t need to say another word. The fish had already taken the bait.

“Put it on my tab,” the man said smoothly, shifting closer to you with that smug glint in his eye like he thought he was God’s gift to women. You held back a groan and instead gave him a slow, sultry smile, glancing in his direction through your lashes.

“And what did I do to deserve that?” you asked, your voice a soft purr.

He licked his lips like a goddamn cartoon wolf and grinned wide enough to blind you with his unnaturally white teeth.

“For bein’ so damn beautiful, baby.”

You laughed, lowering your head slightly in mock shyness, hiding your grimace.

Up close, he was even more disgusting than from a distance. The kind of man who wore too much cologne and not enough humility. But you had a job to do, and this was just part of it. You couldn’t let your personal disgust mess with the mission. Besides, you knew that Bob still had his eyes locked on you from across the room.

And he did. He hadn’t looked away for even a second. He was watching everything. Ready to step in the moment he needed to.

“Guess it’s lucky to be pretty,” you said coyly, batting your lashes. At the same time, you subtly scanned the man’s body for the ID card you needed. Bingo.

His pocket. So stupid. One of the most critical items a man in his position could carry and he had it tucked loosely in a damn pocket. Well, that made your job easier.

“No doubt about it. So—where you from, sweetheart?” he asked, leaning in even closer.

You could smell his cologne now. It was strong, probably expensive, but even that couldn’t mask the stench of ego and sleaze.

“That’s a secret,” you whispered with a sly smile, letting a hint of mischief curl your lips.

The bartender slid your drink across the counter, and you accepted it with graceful ease, thanking him with a nod. You wrapped your fingers around the cold glass and lifted it slightly.

“Mysterious, huh? I like that…” he muttered, his tone thick with unspoken intent.

And then you felt a hand on your thigh. You froze mid-sip, your stomach tightening instantly. The contact was sudden and bold, and his fingers gripped with entitlement.

You tried to shift away, but the space was tight and his hold was firm. Too firm. You could feel your pulse quicken as his fingers crept higher, his breath warm against your ear.

“I know a place,” he whispered, his breath thick with lust. “Quiet. Just for us.”

You gagged. Literally. You almost spat your drink into his smug, greasy face. But before you could react, your saviour appeared.

Like a silent storm, Bob was suddenly there. His hand clamped down around the man’s wrist with shocking speed and strength. The pressure was immediate.

“Don’t touch her.”

His voice was low. Firm. Cold as steel. The kind of voice that could freeze blood mid-flow. The man scoffed, completely misjudging the danger in front of him.

“Hey, easy there, pal. We’re just having a bit of fun—”

CRACK.

The man yelped in pain as Bob’s grip tightened even further. His fingers began to tremble. Bob wasn’t just restraining him, he was crushing him. His jaw clenched, nostrils flared. Rage poured off of him in silent waves. His skin flushed hot, too hot, and his eyes started to glow. That sickly yellow color. The Sentry was coming out.

You stood quickly, placing a gentle but firm hand on Bob’s arm.

“Bob,” you said softly. “That’s enough.”

And like a switch flipping, everything stilled. The light in his eyes faded. His breathing steadied. His death grip loosened. Your touch, your voice, was the anchor that pulled him back from the edge.

Bob released the man, who staggered back clutching his wrist, muttering curses under his breath.

“We have to go,” you said simply, tossing a final sarcastic glance at the creep. There wasn’t a single shred of actual apology in your voice.

You grabbed Bob’s hand and tugged, spinning on your heel and strutting confidently away from the scene. Bob stumbled to follow, still processing the adrenaline rush, the shame, the panic… and your hand on his.

His thoughts were spiraling. He’d messed up. He probably blew your cover. You didn’t have the card, the mission was compromised, and now the target might alert security. All because he couldn’t control his goddamn jealousy.

“I’m sorry,” he started, breathless, struggling to keep up with you. “I—I just didn’t want—”

You suddenly stopped and turned to face him. Standing just inches from him now, your face unreadable.

Then, without saying a word, you reached into the neckline of your dress, your fingers dipping just slightly between your breasts before pulling out the ID card.

Bob blinked. His mouth opened slightly, but he was speechless. His brain short-circuited. How? When did you grab it? How did you store it there, how was it sitting so perfectly nestled between—

Oh.

You were so hot. It was almost unfair. Women like you should come with a warning sign.

“Relax, Bob,” you said with a wink, sliding the card right back into your dress like it was no big deal. “We’ve got everything under control.”

Then you turned on your heel and walked ahead, heels clicking confidently against the marble floor like the femme fatale goddess you were. Bob stood frozen for a second, processing. And then, like a loyal puppy, he chased after you, heart pounding and cheeks burning.

Everything was going according to plan.

Using the stolen ID card, you and Bob slipped unnoticed into the restricted area. With Bucky guiding you both through your earpieces, you hacked your way into keypads, unlocked encrypted safes, and finally reached the bomb’s location.

While you focused on the wiring, Bob handled the security system like a master—disabling cameras, jamming sensors, and muting any alarms that might expose you. Every second mattered.

“You’ve got twenty seconds before they notice the cameras are down,” Bucky’s voice crackled in your ear.

Your fingers worked quickly, eyes darting between colored wires. He’d already given you the right combination, you just needed to execute it perfectly. But one of the cables was thick. Too thick. The cutters slipped once, your grip faltering.

Bob noticed immediately. He moved instinctively, ready to step in and help, but paused. You looked stressed. Determined, but on the edge. He didn’t want to distract you with unnecessary words, afraid even his offer might break your focus.

“Ten seconds. Move your ass,” Bucky barked again, not exactly helping the rising panic.

Your palms were sweaty. Hands trembling. Your blood rushed like a storm through your veins, your heartbeat thundering in your ears. Every muscle in your body was clenched, locked in precision and fear.

“Five seconds.”

Bob stood by the door, watching both the hallway and you. The tension was unbearable. His suit felt too tight, too hot. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. He was clenching and unclenching his fists to stop himself from pacing or screaming.

“Three sec—”

“I GOT IT!” you shouted.

Before Bob could even react, you grabbed him by the shoulder and bolted for the side exit and you ran.

The hallway blurred past, lights flickering above you. When you reached the elevator, it was mercifully empty. You both tumbled inside and hit the button. The doors closed just in time.

Inside, you were both gasping for breath. Adrenaline still buzzed in your veins like electricity. Bucky’s voice came through one last time:

“Bomb’s disarmed. Mission accomplished.”

Relief hit you like a wave. A deep, whole-body exhale. You leaned against the wall and looked at Bob, your eyes wide with joy, heart still pounding. You were smiling.

“We did it! We actually did it!”

You turned to him, your eyes sparkling with adrenaline, your cheeks flushed, lips parted as you caught your breath. The glow of success made you radiant, like a goddess just returned from war.

And then, without any warning, your lips were on his. Your hands gripped the lapels of his suit jacket, tugging him slightly down as your lips collided with his in a way that was both desperate and deliberate.

Bob froze. Everything stopped. His mind, his breath, his muscles, completely paralyzed. He didn’t even kiss you back, because he couldn’t.

His eyes widened slightly, his body locked in place, and it was like the entire world had tilted sideways. Your lips were soft and warm, a subtle mix of cherry lip gloss and victory. There was a saltiness from the sweat still lingering on your skin, the aftertaste of your drink, and something purely, unmistakably you.

You tasted like fire, like danger. You tasted like everything he wasn’t allowed to want. And your kiss was alive, moving, pressing.

His arms hung uselessly by his sides, fingers twitching but not lifting. His breath got caught somewhere in his throat, stuck between a gasp and a prayer. His heart pounded like a jackhammer, each beat slamming into his ribs until it hurt.

He could feel his skin burn, not just from the heat of your mouth, but from his own spiraling internal chaos. Goosebumps rippled across his arms, and his knees nearly gave out under the weight of the moment. His brain wasn’t processing. It was glitching.

Was this real? Was this really happening? Is he imagining it? Hallucinate it? Dream it? No. It was too vivid and too real.

When you finally pulled away, his lips were still parted, stunned. His pupils were blown wide. He hadn’t even blinked or moved. He could still feel your lipstick on his skin, the pressure of your mouth, the way you clung to him for just one second too long.

He didn’t say a word. Couldn’t.

His body still buzzed from the electricity of that kiss, and his lips tingled, as if the ghost of your touch refused to leave. His chest heaved, lungs struggling to catch up with everything the rest of him just experienced.

The elevator dinged.

Like nothing had happened. Like the universe wasn’t burning down inside him. You stepped out, cheerful and light on your feet like you’d just won a game.

Bob didn’t move.

He stayed frozen for a few seconds more, still standing inside the elevator, staring at the wall like he’d been hit by lightning and had no idea if he was still alive.

His body ached, but not from pain. His throat felt dry, his chest was tight and his legs were weak. And somewhere lower… he was painfully aware of just how much he had reacted to you. To that kiss. To the idea of you.

The entire ride back to the hotel was a mental warzone for Bob. While you sat beside him in the car — relaxed, content, maybe even a little proud — he was completely wrecked. Destroyed from the inside out.

He stared out the window in silence, barely hearing anything. His thoughts were stuck on a loop, replaying that kiss in the elevator with vivid clarity. Your lips. Your scent. The taste of you on his mouth.

Why had you kissed him? Was it adrenaline? A heat-of-the-moment thing? Was it nothing to you? Did it even mean anything? And what about John?

Bob’s chest tightened at the thought. You were dating Walker. So… did that kiss break some invisible boundary? Or was this normal for you? A casual thing? Did you have some kind of rules, where making out with your “just friends” didn’t count?

The more questions piled up in his head, the worse it got. And to top it all off, he had a raging erection. It wasn’t just distracting, it was embarrassing. Painful. Relentless.

His pants were already tight, but now they felt like a punishment. He tried to shift subtly in his seat and placed his hands in his lap to hide the obvious bulge, hoping, praying it would go down.

But then there was you, sitting right next to him, practically glowing. You smelled divine, like warm vanilla and danger. Even if he’d tried to ignore the kiss, your perfume alone was enough to short-circuit his brain.

By the time you both got to the hotel, nothing had changed. If anything, it had gotten worse.

Bob walked into the room stiff and frustrated, not just mentally, but physically. Every part of him was on edge. His mind was racing. His body was screaming. And you? You headed straight to the shower like nothing happened. As if you hadn’t just rocked his entire existence in one spontaneous kiss.

He heard the water running, imagined it cascading down your back. He buried his face in his hands. He was fighting all his demons to not touch himself. To just survive it. But it was harder than he thought.

Every image was you. Your lips. Your thighs. Your breath on his skin. And that kiss… He sat on the edge of the bed, his back facing the bathroom you were currently in. He was staring at the floor, trying to calm down, trying to breathe.

After a while, you walked out of the bathroom. And Bob almost passed out.

You were wearing a two-piece pajama set that was clearly designed to ruin him. The top was practically a bra—short, clingy, with thin straps and a bit of lace. The shorts barely covered anything, hanging loose around your hips in the most tempting way possible.

Bob turned his head just slightly, only enough to catch a glimpse, and instantly regretted it. His cock twitched hard against the fabric of his pants, and he immediately looked away with a low grunt.

“Shower was amazing,” you said casually, towel-drying your damp hair, as if you weren’t singlehandedly ruining his entire existence.

Bob gave a barely audible grunt in response, still facing away from you, clenching his fists.

You dropped onto the bed beside him and continued, “You should take one too. Not that you smell or anything. Just… you’ll feel better after. Trust me.”

He nodded stiffly, then stood up, trying to keep his movements controlled, his hands strategically placed in front of him to cover himself.

You glanced sideways at him, but didn’t say anything. He hoped you didn’t notice. He took one step toward the bathroom when you called after him.

“Hey, Bob!”

He paused, poked his head back out around the doorframe, trying not to let his face betray the hell he was going through.

You gave him the sweetest smile in the world. “You were amazing today. Seriously. I couldn’t have done it without you.” His heart stopped. His throat dried.

You said it so sincerely, so warmly. It wasn’t just gratitude, it was admiration. Bob smiled back, shyly, ducking his head a little. “Thanks,” he mumbled. But internally? He was exploding.

He wanted to scream. Punch a wall. Melt into the floor. Or maybe kiss you again until you were breathless and begging. Instead, he quickly ducked into the bathroom and locked the door behind him, and finally exhaled.

Bob leaned his forehead against the door and clenched his fingers into a fist. He knew damn well, that this night was going to be really tough.

Bob didn’t sleep a single second that night.

Not because of the mattress, it was fine. Not because of the temperature, the room was cool and comfortable. No, it was because of you.

Because you were lying just a few centimeters away, in that ridiculous little pajama set, breathing softly, sleeping like nothing in the world had happened. While he had a throbbing erection and a mind that wouldn’t shut the hell up.

He’d spent the entire night staring at the ceiling, willing himself to think of anything other than that kiss. Than your laugh. Your lips. Your bare legs brushing against the sheets.

He’d tossed. Turned. Covered himself with a blanket, kicked it off again, tried to meditate, tried to count backwards from 100, tried to breathe—but nothing worked. His cock stayed hard like it had a vendetta, and his brain kept cycling through every possible reason why you kissed him, every consequence, every what-if and what-now.

By the time morning light seeped through the curtains, Bob wasn’t sure he was even human anymore. He felt like a hollowed-out wreck of hormones and confusion.

Then you stirred.

A soft sound, like a kitten stretching. A sleepy little sigh followed by a yawn. Bob’s eyes snapped shut. He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. He lay there like a corpse, playing dead, praying you wouldn’t speak or look at him or ask questions about the night before.

He heard you shifting beside him. The bedsheets rustling. The springs of the mattress creaked softly as you sat up. Bob held his breath like even inhaling would give him away.

Then, the soft patter of your footsteps. The click of the bathroom door. And finally, relief. Bob exhaled. A deep, unfiltered breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in for over a minute.

He rubbed his hands over his face and muttered under his breath, “What is wrong with me…”

He sat up slowly. Looked around the room. The bed you’d just left still smelled like you. It didn’t help. Not even a little. So he did the only thing he could think of — get out.

Bob made his way down to the hotel lobby and grabbed breakfast from the continental buffet. It was early enough that the dining area was mostly empty, which was good. He didn’t want anyone to see how wrecked he looked. Or ask him why he looked that way.

He loaded up two plates. Some waffles, fruit and maple syrup. When he got to the room, you were still in the bathroom. Shower running again.

Perfect.

He set everything up at the little table by the window — your plate across from his, utensils neatly placed, napkins folded. He even managed to make coffee, so he poured it into one of the mugs and set it beside your plate.

And that was when the bathroom door opened.

You stepped out, fresh scent followed you. You looked tired, sleepy, but beautiful, like some kind of dream in motion. Bob tried not to stare. He failed.

“Morning,” he said, voice a little hoarse from not using it all night.

You gave a soft smile. “Morning,” you started to echo, then your gaze dropped to the table. You blinked. Once. Twice.

Your voice was still raspy with sleep. “What is… all this?”

Bob looked from the table to you, then back again, suddenly awkward. He rubbed the back of his neck and stumbled over his words.

“I—uh—I just thought… I mean, you were still in the shower, and I figured you might be hungry, so I… I got breakfast. Hope you like waffles?” There was such sweet, ridiculous hope in his voice.

You stared at him, clearly surprised, your brows rising slightly. If you hadn’t still been half-asleep, you might’ve reacted more dramatically. But instead, you just gave a breathy little laugh and walked over to the table.

“Yeah,” you said softly, “I love waffles. Thanks, Bob.”

You sat down and looked up at him with those tired, gentle eyes — the kind of look that could pierce steel. There was no teasing, no flirtation, no games. Just sincerity.

And for a second, Bob thought he might actually die.

He looked away quickly, heart thudding. “You’re welcome,” he mumbled, then sat down across from you.

His hands shook a little as he picked up his fork. You didn’t notice. You were too busy chewing your first bite, eyes half-lidded in comfort, hair damp and messy, your body covered in that damn pajama again. Bob nearly stabbed himself with his fork.

For a while, the only sounds in the room were the soft clinks of cutlery against plates, the faint scrape of metal on ceramic, the delicate chew of breakfast in otherwise awkward silence.

Bob focused intensely on cutting his waffle into perfect, manageable squares — as if each slice could somehow distract him from the tension curling in his gut.

You didn’t seem to notice the quiet. You looked content, maybe even relaxed — happily munching away, one hand resting under your chin as you glanced occasionally out the window. Your shoulders were loose. Your posture soft. Meanwhile, Bob’s shoulders were up to his ears and his spine was stiff as a steel rod.

Eventually, the weight of the silence became unbearable, for him, at least. He cleared his throat, the sound harsh in the stillness, and forced out the first words he could think of.

“So… how did you sleep?” he asked, trying to sound casual. His eyes remained glued to his plate, as if looking at you would fry his brain like an egg on the sidewalk.

You smiled faintly. “Really well, actually. That bed was super soft — way better than ours.”

Bob gave a soft, breathy chuckle, nodding with forced enthusiasm. “Yeah. Definitely better.”

He shoved a bite of waffle into his mouth, mostly to stop himself from saying something stupid. Like how he hadn’t slept at all. Like how he’d spent the night with his dick hard as a rock, painfully aware of your presence in the room, and now couldn’t even look at you without remembering the taste of your lips.

You continued eating, unconcerned, completely unaware of the nuclear meltdown occurring across the table. Bob stabbed another piece of waffle with a bit more force than necessary.

Then your voice broke the silence again. “What about you? Did you sleep okay?”

Panic flashed across Bob’s face — just for a second. You didn’t notice. He hesitated, fork mid-air, mouth slightly open. His brain scrambled for a believable lie.

He couldn’t exactly say, “Terribly. I was hard and mentally spiraling because you kissed me and I don’t know what it means and also I wanted to cry and jack off at the same time.”

So instead, he went with the safest, blandest answer possible.

“Yeah,” he said. “Slept fine.”

You nodded, satisfied with the response, and kept eating. And then… silence again.

Bob took another sip of his coffee, trying not to visibly sweat. His gaze flickered up for a second, just long enough to look at you, and then dropped right back to the table.

Your legs were crossed, your thigh brushing against his under the table from time to time. Every accidental touch sent a jolt through his body like he’d been shocked.

Finally, desperate to shift the topic and reduce the volcanic-level pressure in the room, Bob asked: “So uh… do you know what time we’re heading out?”

This time, he managed to meet your gaze.

Big mistake. Your eyes were still a little sleepy, lashes casting soft shadows on your cheeks, your lips slightly sticky from syrup. He regretted looking immediately. He was so not okay.

You leaned back a little in your seat, rubbing your arms as if the air-conditioned room was just a bit too chilly. “Around six, I think. In the evening.”

That was hours from now. Way too many hours. And just like that, Bob felt the dread settle in.

All this time with you, in this room, in this city, with that kiss still echoing in his memory… What were you going to do? Go sightseeing? Lounge in robes? Pretend nothing happened?

Bob blinked, forcing himself to focus on the food again. He didn’t know what was worse — the fact that he still didn’t understand why you kissed him… or the fear that you might never bring it up again.

You finished the last bite of your waffle and took a slow sip of the now-lukewarm coffee, letting out a quiet exhale as you leaned back in your chair. With a soft grace, you slid away from the table and rose to your feet.

“I’m gonna step out on the balcony for a while,” you informed Bob, your voice calm but distant.

You didn’t wait for a reply—you just turned and walked away, completely unaware of the absolute devastation you left in your wake.

Bob’s eyes locked onto your hips the second you stood. He didn’t even try to stop himself.

The way your body moved in that light pajama set, how your hips swayed without effort, it was practically sinful. His jaw dropped slightly, completely involuntarily, and he felt himself twitch in his pants again, his arousal sparking to life like a cursed reflex.

He instantly shut his eyes tight and groaned inwardly, running a frustrated hand through his hair. It’s like every time she’s near, my hormones short-circuit my brain.

Trying to reset himself, Bob forced a cold shower, pulled on something clean, did his hair with trembling hands, and gave himself a stern internal lecture in the mirror about controlling his damn urges.

By the time he stepped out of the bathroom, he felt somewhat composed again. But then he saw you, still out on the balcony.

Still in that breezy little pajama set that didn’t do anything to shield his imagination. You were leaning forward just slightly, elbows resting on the balcony railing, your back arched in a way that made his self-control plummet again. Your hips jutted out, curves outlined perfectly by the light fabric, and your hair danced gently in the wind like some dream from a movie.

Bob closed his eyes again and sucked in a breath so deep it hurt his ribs.

Gripping the door handle like it might break under his fingers, he slowly opened it and stepped out onto the balcony, careful to shut it quietly behind him. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t turn. You hadn’t even noticed he was there. But he noticed everything about you.

The slight movement of your shoulders. The way your chest hitched just a little too sharply. The soft sniffle carried by the breeze. His heart sank.

You were crying.

He took a hesitant step forward, and that’s when you gasped sharply and flinched back, startled.

“Jesus Christ, Bob!” you said, one hand flying to your chest as your heart thudded wildly. “Don’t do that!”

You immediately looked away from him, quickly wiping your face, like that could erase what he’d already seen. Your voice was tight, almost embarrassed, and your gaze dropped to the floor.

Bob’s brow furrowed in deep concern.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, stepping closer. “Didn’t mean to scare you…”

You didn’t respond, just turned your gaze back toward the skyline as you composed your face again, pretending you weren’t unraveling.

He studied you in silence for a moment, then asked gently, “Why are you crying?”

You let out a humorless laugh, lowering your head in a kind of quiet defeat. Of course he noticed. Bob always noticed everything, that’s part of what made him so different from everyone else. He paid attention. He saw you.

You shook your head slowly, smiling bitterly at yourself.

“It’s stupid,” you muttered.

He didn’t speak, but the weight of his silence, the patience in it, urged you on. You knew he wouldn’t let it go. Not Bob. He’d ask every day till your death. So you spared him the slow torture of waiting and simply told him the truth.

“Before we left…” you began, pausing as your voice threatened to crack. “John got a text.”

Bob stiffened beside you.

“I’m not the type to go through someone’s phone. I’m really not. But… I don’t know. Something just felt off. Like—like the universe was trying to nudge me, y’know?”

You glanced at him then, and his expression made your chest ache. He was listening with such genuine intensity, his eyes full of concern.

“I looked,” you said quietly. “And the phone wasn’t even locked. It was just there. Wide open. Like it wanted to be seen.”

You gave a breathy, bitter little laugh. “Turns out he’s been talking to another girl. For a while, apparently. They send each other nudes, flirty messages… I think they’ve even been meeting up. I don’t know how long it’s been going on.”

You shook your head again, this time with disbelief. Your laugh came out sharp, ironic, almost self-punishing.

Bob was frozen. Stunned. He couldn’t find words, not because he didn’t care, but because the weight of it hit him like a punch to the chest. Everything suddenly made sense. The way you’d acted before the flight. The way you pulled away during conversations.

And the worst part was, that he was actually relieved it wasn’t about him. That he isn't the reason you were acting so distant.

But the guilt that came with that relief twisted in his stomach. You didn’t deserve any of this. Not a second of it. If he could have teleported across the world and shattered John Walker’s jaw, he’d have done it without hesitation.

“I… I’m so sorry,” he whispered, dropping his gaze to the ground, helplessly fumbling for something to say. Anything.

“It’s okay,” you replied too quickly. “I should’ve seen it coming. I’m never really enough. Not for anyone.”

Bob’s head snapped up, eyes wide, brows drawn together in a mix of disbelief and fury.

“Are you kidding me?”

You turned to look at him, and your lips trembled as fresh tears welled in your eyes.

“That’s not true,” he said, voice suddenly sharper. Almost angry—but not at you. At the idea that you could ever believe something so deeply, deeply wrong.

“You are—God, you’re amazing. You’re the most incredible woman I’ve ever met. You’re kind, and strong, and brilliant, and you. What Walker did? That’s his mistake. That’s on him, not on you. Not even a little. You didn’t deserve that. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

His voice cracked, and he stepped closer.

“You’re the last person on this Earth who should ever say she’s not enough. Because, if anything—nobody’s worthy of you. And I swear, if I hear you say that again…”

You smiled through your tears, your lips trembling as emotion completely overtook you. You tried to speak, but your voice broke.

“Thank you, Bob,” you whispered, your chest hitching with a sob. “Really. Thank you.”

He couldn’t take it anymore. Without thinking, he reached out and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest. It wasn’t a polite hug. It wasn’t soft. It was real. Fierce. Protective.

He held you like he was anchoring you to the Earth. Like he needed you to know that someone was here and not going anywhere. His strength wrapped around you, but not too tight. Just enough to make you feel safe.

You pressed your face into his shirt and let the tears fall freely now, surrounded by the steady heartbeat of a man who saw you as something so much more than what Walker ever could.

After you’d cried your heart out, enough that your chest no longer shook with every breath, you finally pulled back from Bob’s arms just a little, enough to breathe on your own again.

And that’s when you saw it.

A massive damp spot had soaked into the front of his shirt, right over his chest. It was undeniable. Your tears had completely soaked through the fabric. You froze for a second, mortified, and then gave an awkward little laugh — light, embarrassed, and slightly hoarse from the crying.

“Oh God… I’m so sorry,” you mumbled, your hand immediately reaching out to try and rub the wetness out of his shirt, instinctively brushing your palm over his chest in small, apologetic circles.

Bob just shook his head slowly, his voice deep and quiet, almost like a rumble.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

But he didn’t move. He didn’t let go of your shoulders. He just… looked at you.

You kept fussing with his shirt, trying to clean a stain that wouldn’t budge, and Bob kept watching — silently, intensely. His grip on your shoulders remained firm but gentle, as if grounding you in place. His thumbs brushed your arms just slightly, unconsciously, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

It took a moment before you realized your hand had stilled against his chest, resting there now, fingers splayed.

You stopped. Your breath caught a little. And then, slowly, as if drawn by a magnetic pull, you lifted your eyes to meet his. He was already looking at you.

His expression was unreadable, but his breath had changed. It was deeper now, heavier. His chest rose and fell more rapidly beneath your palm, and you could feel the heat radiating off his skin through the fabric. His jaw was clenched ever so slightly. His pupils were wide. Your hand stayed right where it was, and your eyes didn’t leave his. Something changed.

The air around you seemed to grow heavier, thicker with electricity. Time slowed to a crawl as you stood there, caught in the eye of a storm neither of you dared move through. Your eyes flicked, just for a heartbeat, from his eyes to his lips, and back.

And then again.

Bob noticed. Of course he did. He wasn’t blind and your message was clear. And God, he wanted to kiss you. He ached to kiss you. He wanted to lean in, press his lips to yours and melt into you. He wanted to taste the salt of your tears, hold your face in his hands, and give you something good—something real.

And more than that…

He wanted to take away your pain, rewrite the damage Walker had done, show you what it felt like to be touched by someone who actually loved every piece of you. But he didn’t move.

Instead, his hands tightened slightly on your shoulders, not out of passion, but restraint. He took a deep breath, forcing oxygen into lungs that were already burning, and then… he looked away. Slowly. Reluctantly.

His eyes dropped to the ground, his jaw flexing with visible frustration, and his hands fell from your shoulders, landing limply at his sides.

He was pulling back. The rejection wasn’t cruel or cold, but it still hurt. Bob cleared his throat, his voice lower than usual and strained at the edges as he forced out a casual tone that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“How about… we get out for a bit today? Walk around the city. Just clear your head. Focus on something else.”

He didn’t look at you right away, as if the tension between you hadn’t just nearly boiled over.

The second he took a step back, creating distance between your bodies, you felt the warmth fade. Like stepping away from a fire. You exhaled softly and nodded.

“Yeah,” you said, your voice small. “Sure. Why not…” And though you smiled, it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

You spent the entire day wandering the winding streets of Paris, letting the city pull you into its charm one moment at a time. The two of you had no real plan, which made everything feel lighter — freer.

You visited quaint little art galleries hidden behind ivy-covered buildings, sampled pastries that tasted like heaven in flaky, buttery form, and wandered through the bookstalls by the Seine, where Bob picked up a dusty old volume of French poetry and pretended to read it in the most exaggerated accent, just to hear you laugh again.

And you did laugh. Again and again.

God, every time that beautiful sound burst out of you, it hit Bob right in the chest — like a beam of sunlight cutting through the fog that had been hanging over him ever since he met you. That laugh of yours… it lit him up inside. It made his heart ache and race all at once. He’d do anything to hear it again.

You two made memories — not loud ones, not dramatic, just yours. Feeding pigeons by the Notre-Dame. Getting slightly lost in Montmartre and not caring one bit. Sitting on a bench with crepes in hand, talking about everything and nothing. You snapped a photo of Bob mid-bite with chocolate on his lip, and the scandalized look on his face nearly made you choke from laughing.

It was perfect.

And maybe that’s why saying goodbye to Paris felt like more than just leaving a city. It felt like leaving a bubble. A space in time where you and Bob were just you two, away from the mess, the labels, the heartbreak.

But that bubble was about to burst.

Back in your hotel room, the bags were packed, the mission done, and the private jet was set to pick you both up in two hours. You sat together on the bed in the late afternoon light, warm orange spilling across the room as if trying to hold on to the moment too.

You were playing Uno. And you were absolutely demolishing him.

“What?! How is that possible?” Bob barked in disbelief as you laid down your final card with a smug grin.

You shrugged innocently, clearly enjoying his suffering. “What can I say? I’m just a natural-born champion.”

Bob narrowed his eyes at you, lips twitching, like he wanted to be annoyed, but couldn’t help smiling.

You scooped the cards back into a pile, starting to shuffle with practiced ease. There was a comfortable silence between you. The kind that only comes when two people have shared something real.

Bob watched you quietly, his elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixed on your hands and how effortlessly they moved. And as he looked at you, something stirred in his chest again — that question. The question. The one he’d been carrying around since the moment it happened.

He swallowed hard and finally took a breath. “Can I ask you something?”

You looked up from the cards, your eyes soft, open. “Sure.”

Bob hesitated, then asked, “Why did you kiss me? In the elevator…”

There it was.

Your eyes widened slightly, only for a second. And then you looked away, down at the cards in your hands. You stopped shuffling. You sighed softly, licking your lips before meeting his eyes again.

“I guess it was a mix of adrenaline and… joy. Relief. That we made it.”

Bob nodded slowly, letting out a quiet “Oh…” — but you could see the flicker of disappointment in his face. He’d hoped for something else. Something… more.

But you weren’t finished.

“And maybe it had something to do with the way you stood up to that guy. The way you protected me. It was really sweet,” you added, your voice more vulnerable now.

Bob blushed, looking away as he waved a hand dismissively. “It was nothing.”

“No, I mean it, Bob. Thank you,” you said firmly, your eyes locking onto his.

And just like that, you had him. Frozen and breathless, completely at your mercy. His throat felt dry. His heart thundered in his ears. He could barely even blink.

Then came your question, more dangerous one than Bob’s.

“Did it bother you?”

He furrowed his brow, confused. “The kiss?”

Your voice dropped to something softer, sensual.

“Yeah… Did it bother you?”

Bob’s breath hitched. He shook his head rapidly, almost too fast.

“No. No, not at all—God, no—”

“Do you want another one?”

You cut him off with that question, and it landed like a thunderclap. Bob froze. That was the last thing he expected. You, offering. Now.

He stared at you, stunned, his brain racing a mile a minute. Of course he wanted. He’d been craving it ever since. But then… there was John. The tangled, painful mess waiting back home.

But you… you looked so hopeful. So beautiful.

Your lips were soft and red, parted just slightly. Your hair was falling over your shoulder in waves, your eyes were glowing like firelight. He couldn’t resist. God help him, he didn’t want to resist.

He nodded. And he didn’t have to say a word. You knew.

You smiled — not just any smile, but that smile. The one that made his knees weak. Then, without breaking eye contact, you slowly set the cards aside, placing them neatly on the bed beside you. And then you crawled toward him. Graceful. Confident. Predatory.

Bob sat still, paralyzed by the sight of you on all fours, moving closer like some stunning, slow-motion dream. His cock throbbed instantly, hardening just from watching you approach like that — seductive, playful, powerful.

You moved right up to him, your face inches from his, and the tension was scorching. His breath caught in his throat.

You were close enough now that he could smell your perfume. Your eyes flicked to his lips again, and he swore his heart was going to leap out of his chest.

You were so close. So damn close. And Bob had never wanted anything more in his entire life.

You leaned in even closer, your lips now grazing his, teasing and testing the boundaries, seeing how far you could push before he finally snapped.

You were driving Bob insane, tormenting him in the best possible way. His fingers curled into tight fists at his sides, every muscle in his body screaming to act, to grab you, to kiss you until you forgot your own name.

But he held back. God, it took everything in him not to just lose it.

Your closeness, the way your breath mixed with his, how your mouth hovered barely an inch away from his—it was like torture. A sweet, slow burn spreading through every inch of his body. He clenched his jaw, trying to ground himself, trying not to completely lose control. But the tension between you was unbearable, like a lit match floating in gasoline.

You could barely hold it together either. Bob had been pulling you in like a magnet for a while now, but this? This was overwhelming. The way he smelled, the way his breath trembled under your presence, the way his growing erection strained against the fabric of his pants, even as he adorably tried to shift and hide it. You couldn’t take it anymore.

You gave in.

Your lips melted into his in a long, slow kiss. Nothing hurried, nothing rough. It was gentle, almost reverent. No roaming hands, no gasps or moans. Just a kiss. It was like the world had stilled, and all that existed was this connection, this breath between you.

But one kiss wasn’t enough. Not after all this time.

So you went in for another. Then another. And before you knew it, everything unraveled. The kisses turned hungry, desperate, messy. You were both gasping between them, your mouths colliding again and again, a tangled symphony of want and restraint falling apart. The slick, wet sounds of your lips filled the hotel room, echoing the firestorm of tension that had been brewing for far too long.

Bob couldn’t believe it was happening.

For a brief moment, he thought he must’ve fallen asleep. That this was some dream his lonely mind had conjured. But then he felt your fingers sliding up his neck, grounding him in reality. You were real. This was real. And his mind couldn’t comprehend how lucky he was to be here, like this, with you.

A low, guttural moan escaped him into the kiss, he tried to hold it back, not wanting to overwhelm you. He didn’t want to be too much, even if every nerve in his body was screaming to press you down against the bed and ruin you sweetly. But then you reached for his hands. You guided them to your hips, gently placing them there like an invitation—like a green light.

And God, Bob didn’t need more than that.

He squeezed your hips just a little, testing how far you’d let him go. Then his hands started exploring, sliding over your waist, your back, your sides like he needed to memorize the shape of you. His touch was strong but reverent, shaky with restraint but burning with desire. Your kisses turned deeper. Hotter. Sloppier.

You could barely breathe between them. His hands kept roaming, your mouths didn’t part for more than a second at a time, and your fingers tangled into the back of his hair while you moaned softly against his lips.

There was no doubt now, this wasn’t just a kiss anymore. It was the start of something that neither of you would be able, or willing, to stop.

The kisses became uncontrollable.

You weren’t even trying to hold back anymore. Your mouths moved in frantic, hungry rhythm—desperate and messy, teeth grazing, tongues tangling, lips crashing like you’d both been starving for this. Like you needed it to breathe. Like nothing else existed except this moment.

The air was thick, electric, your heart racing so loud you could feel it in your throat.

Bob moaned against your lips again, low and helpless, like he was falling apart in your hands. And in a way, he was.

You were everything he wanted—everything he had tried to resist. And now, now that he had the taste of you on his lips, he knew he was doomed. He couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop. Your fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt, almost as if asking for permission—but really, you weren’t asking. You needed him closer. Now.

You tugged hard.

Bob gasped into your mouth as you yanked at his shirt, and in the heat of it all, your bodies stumbled together onto the bed—him landing above you, your back hitting the soft mattress, and his weight pressing you down in the most intoxicating way.

And God, he looked down at you like he was witnessing something holy.

His breath was ragged, lips parted, chest rising and falling fast. His eyes darted over your face, then lower—your lips, your neck, your chest—and he looked absolutely wrecked by the sight of you.

“You have no idea… how long I’ve wanted this,” he breathed, his voice deep, rough, almost shaking. “You’re—fuck, you’re so perfect… You drive me insane…”

His words were messy, desperate, half-breathed into your mouth as he leaned back down to kiss you again. This time, it was slower—but burning, needy. Like he wanted to savor you and devour you all at once.

You could feel him, hard and throbbing against your thigh, his hips pressing into yours with barely contained urgency. And your hands? They were everywhere. Under his shirt, across his warm back, digging into the curve of his shoulder blades—feeling the strength, the heat, the way his muscles tensed with every motion.

“You’re unreal,” he whispered again, and the praise sent chills straight down your spine. His lips traveled from your mouth to your jaw, down to your neck, and he groaned when he felt you arch into him. “So beautiful… so soft…”

He was losing himself in you. In the way your body reacted to his. In the way you clutched at him, gasped when his teeth grazed your skin, whimpered when his hands roamed lower.

Clothes started disappearing fast—your shirt was up and off before you even realized he’d tugged it. His own was thrown somewhere on the floor without a care. Then your legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him even closer, and the friction made you both groan in unison.

Your fingers traced down his chest, drinking in the heat of his bare skin, the shiver in his muscles, the way he hissed softly when your nails scraped over his abs. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours as his fingers fumbled with the waistband of your pants.

“I need you,” he confessed, the words slipping out between panting breaths. “I can’t think—I just… I need to feel all of you…”

And you needed him too. Every inch of him. The weight of his body, the roughness of his hands, the worship in his touch. You helped him push your pants down, his right after, until you were tangled together, skin on skin, mouths locked, hands roaming like you were mapping each other with every stroke.

You moaned into his mouth as he pressed his hips into yours again, bare, hard, and trembling with anticipation.

Every touch sent a jolt through you. Every kiss left you aching. And the sound of Bob praising you—moaning about how much he wanted you, how incredible you were, had your whole body on fire.

You were both completely bare now, tangled together in the dim light of the hotel room.

His body hovered just above yours, one strong arm keeping his weight off you, the other hand trailing softly along your side—down your ribs, over your hip, across the curve of your thigh. The room felt overheated, or maybe it was just the two of you, flushed and gasping, your bodies trembling with need.

Bob’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, sweat already forming at his temples. His eyes scanned your face like he was trying to memorize every feature—like he couldn’t believe this was real. His forehead nearly touched yours, and he whispered your name like a prayer.

Then he felt it.

Your wetness—warm, slick, pooling beneath you and soaking into the mattress. The heat of you against his thigh, the soft, needy sounds slipping past your lips… it was too much. He felt his cock twitch, precum smearing across your skin, and he groaned, low and broken.

“Jesus…” he breathed, his voice was hoarse, ragged with restraint. You felt his fingers glide between your thighs, spreading your slick gently, reverently. His touch was careful and worshipful, but charged—like every brush of his fingertips carried volts of desire.

You gasped, back arching slightly as he teased you. Every touch made your skin burn in the best way. He kissed down your neck, lips soft and slow, like he didn’t want to rush—but you could feel the tension in his body, the tightness in his grip, the sheer willpower it took not to just lose control.

“You feel like heaven,” he murmured into your skin. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve you…”

You reached up, your hands cradling his face, and your voice came out breathless but sure. “Yes, you do. Every second of this. Every inch of me.”

Bob’s eyes fluttered shut. A soft, trembling exhale left his lips before he opened them again, eyes burning into yours.

“Can I…?” he whispered, his voice thick with need but still full of care. “Please, can I be inside you?”

You didn’t wait. You nodded, eagerly, before he could even finish the question. That was all he needed.

He lined himself up, the thick tip of his cock nudging at your entrance. The heat between you was unbearable now, your legs wrapping around his waist as he slowly pushed forward.

And you were ready. So ready.

Your slickness welcomed him in, your walls stretching around him so perfectly it was almost too much. You both gasped at once, his name slipping from your lips in a whisper, while he let out a deep, guttural moan.

“God—” he breathed, barely able to hold himself still. “You feel… Jesus, you feel so good—”

He wanted to move fast, hard, deep, but he didn’t. Not yet.

Even with how desperately he wanted you, Bob was careful, tender. His hips moved slowly at first, letting you adjust, letting himself not fall apart instantly. His lips found yours again, this time with pure adoration. His hands gripped your hips, his thumbs brushing gentle circles into your skin.

“You’re perfect,” he whispered between kisses. “You’re everything. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

You whimpered against his mouth, rolling your hips up to meet his, silently begging for more. And he gave it to you. Inch by inch, thrust by thrust, the pace building gradually, steadily, until every movement had your breath hitching, your nails digging into his back.

Your bodies were slick, writhing, tangled in the sheets and in each other. The way he touched you, firm but cherishing, hot but reverent, made your whole body tremble. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your lips again, whispering praises that had your heart melting and your core tightening.

And with every word, every thrust, every deep moan against your ear, you felt it too. Not just the pleasure, but the connection. The meaning behind it. The way he worshipped you, not just your body, but all of you.

And you were his. At least for tonight, in this moment, you were his completely.

The mattress creaked beneath your bodies, a quiet rhythm that matched your breathing. Shallow, desperate and tangled.

Every thrust sent waves of heat crashing through your nerves. He moved deep, steady, like he knew exactly how to take you apart and you were coming undone beneath him.

Your fingers gripped the sheets. His hair stuck to his forehead in damp strands, eyes dark with intensity and tenderness all at once but you swear from time to time, you could see a flickering of yellow glow in his pupils.

You could feel the muscles in his arms trembling slightly as he held himself over you, pushing in again and again, slow but deep, deliciously stretching.

You gasped, arching your back as another deep thrust sent sparks exploding behind your eyes.

“Bob—” you whimpered, nails dragging across his back. “Oh god, don’t stop—”

He dipped his head to kiss your throat, your collarbone, your jaw. Then suddenly, his hand reached for yours – he laced your fingers together, warm and strong, and guided your hand downward.

You blinked in surprise, breath caught in your throat. His voice rumbled low, filled with hunger and curiosity.

“Show me,” he murmured, placing your hand between your thighs. And then, he slipped his hand under yours. “Show me how you like it.”

Your whole body tensed. You hadn’t expected that. You were still panting, barely able to form words, but your hips shifted instinctively.

And so you guided him – showing him the pressure, the rhythm, the spot.

“Oh…” he muttered, catching on fast. His fingers picked up your pattern, teasing your clit in slow, precise circles, exactly the way you liked it. “Like this?”

Your head fell back with a moan. “Yes—fuck, yes.”

While he continued to move inside you, he never stopped playing with your clit – adapting to every little reaction of your body. You clenched around him, trembling. Your moans grew louder, higher, more desperate.

The bed groaned beneath your bodies as the pace increased, his hips slapping softly against yours now. Bob was close – you could feel it in the way his rhythm faltered slightly, in the way he buried his face into your neck, groaning deep into your skin.

And then he grunted and shifted. In one fluid motion, he flipped your bodies. Now you were on top of him, straddling his hips. Your palms landed on his chest, breath ragged, eyes wide with surprise.

His hands moved to your hips, clearly telling you to continue withou any words.

Your thighs were shaking, your body already tired, but he helped guide you – lifting his hips up to meet yours, thrusting into you from below. He never stopped touching you. One hand moved between your bodies, fingers circling your clit again as you rode him, slow and messy.

Your moans turned into cries, the pleasure building higher and higher as he kept you right there – perfectly on edge. You leaned forward, forehead against his, your chest pressed to his as his name slipped past your lips like a prayer.

He was panting hard, trying to hold on for you, to make sure you came with him.

You could feel it building inside you – that electric pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your core. Every stroke, every circle of his fingers dragged you closer, made your thighs shake, your breath stutter. Your hands clutched at his chest, fingernails digging into sweat-slick skin as your moans rose in pitch.

“Bob—” you gasped, your voice breaking. “I’m— I’m gonna—”

“I know, baby. Let go,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours, wild and dark and desperate. And then it hit you.

Your orgasm slammed through you like a wave crashing against the shore. Your entire body arched, lips parting in a strangled cry as your walls clamped down hard around him. Sparks exploded behind your eyes. Your vision blurred, jaw falling open as the pleasure flooded your system in pulsing, endless waves.

“Fuck—oh my god—!” you choked out, legs trembling uncontrollably. Bob groaned deep beneath you, his hips stuttering.

“God—damn, you’re so—so perfect—”

His voice broke into a rough growl as your orgasm milked him, your body shaking on top of him. His grip on your hips tightened, and then, with a strangled grunt, he came.

Bob’s whole body tensed beneath you, muscles rigid, breath caught. His head fell back against the pillows, mouth open in a raw, breathy moan. You felt the pulse of him inside you, hot and deep, and the way his hands trembled against your skin as he held you down on him, not wanting to let go.

“Ahh—f-fuck,” he groaned, voice cracked with the force of his climax.

For a moment, everything stopped. Just the sound of your heartbeat in your ears, your breath mixing with his, bodies shaking against each other. You collapsed against his chest, boneless, completely overwhelmed.

Bob wrapped his arms around you, one hand still stroking lightly over your thigh, grounding you.

“You okay?” he whispered into your hair, his voice soft now, reverent. You just nodded against his chest, still trying to breathe, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your ears.

For a while, neither of you moved. Your cheek rested against his shoulder, the steady thump of his heart loud and comforting beneath your ear. Then slowly, lazily, you rolled off of him—your hips lifting, a soft wet sound escaping as he slipped out of you.

You both groaned at the same time, your voices blending in low, exhausted tones.

Your combined release was… well, nearly everywhere – between your thighs, on your skin, smeared across the sheets. A delicious mess. You didn’t even care.

You shifted closer again, curling into his side and resting your hand on his chest. His skin was still hot to the touch. You watched the rise and fall of his breath – still rapid, then slowly calming – and felt a deep, quiet satisfaction flood your veins. Your body was light, weightless. Your mind? Blissfully empty.

No other man had ever made you come like that. Not even close. Honestly, they could all learn something from Bob fucking Reynolds.

Bob, meanwhile, was still staring at the ceiling like he was afraid this was a dream.

He couldn’t believe it. After all those months of quiet, aching longing, after wanting you so badly it hurt, you were now lying there, completely naked, tangled up in him like you belonged there. His heart swelled, his pulse only just returning to normal. His hand found your shoulder, and he began to trace slow, lazy circles with his fingertip.

But then… the silence got too loud.

And those thoughts came back. The ones that never truly left him alone. The ones that pushed their way into his mind, even when everything felt perfect.

John.

You were still with John. Or at least… you hadn’t broken up. And Bob—well, Bob had just slept with someone else’s girlfriend. Even if that someone had hurt you. Even if he’d cheated on you first.

But… had John actually slept with that girl in his phone? Or was it just the filthy messages? Bob’s voice cut through the quiet, low and uncertain.

“Are you gonna tell John?”

You didn’t answer at first. Your eyes were closed, your body relaxed, still floating in that perfect post-orgasm haze.

“I don’t know,” you murmured finally, voice sleepy, as if the question barely reached you.

That wasn’t enough for Bob. His anxiety rarely let him rest, and this moment was no different.

“Won’t he be mad?” he asked again, softer this time.

You sighed, clearly not in the mood. You had forgotten just how much Bob overthinks everything. Even now. Even after… that.

You groaned and pushed yourself up on your elbow, meeting his eyes. He looked worried. Vulnerable. You knew him well, knew how even the smallest crack in something could unravel him completely.

“Hey,” you said gently, brushing your fingers along his cheek. “I don’t want to think about that right now, okay? I just want to enjoy this moment… let it hang in the air for a while.”

Bob exhaled, nodding slowly. You were right. As always. Silence returned for a moment, this time softer. More settled.

You let your fingers begin to wander across his chest again, lightly dancing over his skin, teasingly seductive.

“But…” you added with a little smirk, “we do have quite a bit of time before the jet comes to pick us up…”

Bob raised an eyebrow, eyes trailing down to your fingers and then back to your face.

“Oh? And what exactly are you implying?

He knew. Of course he knew. But he wanted to hear you say it. Needed the confirmation. You leaned in, whispered into his ear with a sly smile:

“That we could go for another round.”

Bob let out a breathy laugh and shook his head in disbelief.

“You’re not tired?”

You raised an eyebrow, playful.

“Do I look tired?”

No. You didn’t. You looked radiant—flushed, glowing, gorgeous. Like a dream that had come to life just for him. Bob stared at you for a moment longer, full of wonder and something dangerously close to love, then sighed in mock defeat.

“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he muttered.

And then his hand was at the back of your neck, pulling you in again for another hungry, breath-stealing kiss.

You did, in fact, have more than enough time before the jet arrived. And by the time it did, you were both absolutely wrecked.

But it was so, so worth it.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

HAVE A LOVELY DAY!

BYEEE🌀🖲️🪁

[adelliet]

Bob Reynolds x f!reader

DREAMY VACATION

Summary: You've been sent on vacation to take a break from saving the world, but there's no hiding from your emotions that will eventually take over.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, alcohol consumption, body insecurity, Sentry awakening (just for a second), erection, breast play, oral sex (m & f receiving), unprotected sex (p i v), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, hickeys

A/n: Hii! So uhm this is LONG AS FUCK, like a literal novel so I am warning you. Anyways I wanted to thank you for 1k followers?! How?! You have no idea how much this means to me. I am grateful for each and every one of you and I will try my best to improve my writing. Hopefully you will like my future projects as much as you've liked the ones I have done so far. Anyway if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

You and the rest of the Thunderbolts had been deployed to Spain on what was supposed to be a critical mission. The briefing was vague but urgent, something about a potential global threat developing near the coast.

On the plane to Alicante, you sat down next to Bob. He looked tense. Really tense. He was gripping the armrest like it might fly off on its own. His face was pale, and his shoulders stiff as stone.

“Hey,” you said gently, nudging him with your elbow as you got settled. “You okay?”

Bob didn’t answer right away. He blinked, clearly trying not to throw up, and then murmured, “Um… do you maybe wanna sit by the window instead?” He didn’t look at you, just stared straight ahead like a man facing death.

Without missing a beat, you nodded. “Sure. Come on.”

You stood up and let him shuffle over into your seat. The second he sat down, he let out a deep belch, followed by a hoarse, “Oh God…”

You were already leaning closer, scanning his face with concern. “You good?”

Your hand found his knee, giving it a comforting rub. His eyes were squeezed shut, his hands now gripping the tray table for dear life.

He nodded slowly, jaw clenched. “I’m okay. Just… hate flying.”

You offered a soft smile and stayed close. “I’ll be right here the whole time, okay? Just breathe.”

He nodded again, and despite how miserable he looked, his posture softened slightly, just enough to tell you that your presence was doing what your words couldn’t.

“I’ll go get some water and a bag, just in case,” you told him gently, already sliding out of your seat. Bob gave a tiny nod, eyes still shut, lips tight as if even opening them would invite disaster. You made your way down the aisle, stopping a flight attendant with a polite smile and a quick explanation.

She gave you a knowing look. “Nervous flyer?”

“Something like that,” you chuckled.

A minute later, you returned to your row, holding a small bottle of water and one of those crinkly, shame-colored paper bags. Bob looked slightly less pale than before—his hands weren’t as white-knuckled on the armrests, and his breathing had calmed a little. But he still had that I-might-hurl-any-second look going on.

“Here,” you said, sitting back down and offering both the water and the bag. “Just in case. Don’t worry, it’s only a few hours.”

The moment the word “hours” left your mouth, Bob visibly tensed. He choked on his own spit and shot you a wide-eyed stare like you’d just told him he’d have to wrestle an alligator.

You raised your hands defensively. “Okay, wrong choice of words—ignore me.”

Before either of you could say more, the engines began to roar and the plane started rolling forward. Bob immediately slumped into his seat like a melting popsicle, shut his mouth and eyes, and gripped the tray table as if it were the only thing anchoring him to this dimension.

You couldn’t help a soft smile. He looked a bit ridiculous and miserable at the same time.

“This is the worst part,” you said soothingly, glancing out the window as the runway sped beneath you. “It gets better after takeoff.”

As the plane began to lift from the ground, your heart fluttered with excitement. A new mission in Europe. A whole new landscape, new memories. Even if you weren’t saving the world, part of you loved the thrill of the unknown.

You inhaled deeply, a soft smile on your lips… until you felt a touch.

You turned your head just in time to see Bob—eyes still closed, jaw clenched—reach out blindly and grab your hand in his. He didn’t say a word, didn’t look at you. He just held on. Tightly.

You looked down at your interlaced fingers. He was basically crushing your hand, but you didn’t pull away. If this helped him even a little, you weren’t going anywhere.

Your thumb brushed over his knuckles in quiet reassurance. You didn’t say anything. He didn’t either. But something in the weight of his grip, the vulnerability of that small action, felt more genuine than a thousand words.

Sure, your hand might be useless for the next few hours, but somehow that didn’t matter. It was Bob. That’s what made it okay.

The flight dragged on peacefully, and at some point, exhaustion won.

By the time the pilot announced the descent, both you and Bob were fast asleep. The flight attendant’s gentle voice over the intercom was what stirred you.

“Excuse me—we’ll be landing shortly.”

You blinked groggily, and as your senses slowly returned, you realized that you and Bob were still holding hands. The entire flight. Neither of you had let go, not even in your sleep.

You turned your head at the same time he did, both of you blinking at each other in a dazed, half-dream state. Then you both released your grips at once, slowly, carefully.

You cleared your throat, trying to play it cool. Bob straightened his seat and adjusted his hoodie like he could hide in it.

“…Feeling better?” you asked softly, keeping your voice low enough so only he could hear. He nodded, and for the first time that day, smiled at you—not the nervous, half-broken kind, but something real.

“Y-Yeah. Thank you.” His voice was quiet, but sincere.

You smiled back before you even realized it, heart tugging in that dangerous, stupid way it did whenever he looked at you like that.

Sometimes you wondered if Bob Reynolds was even real. Maybe he was a highly advanced hologram, or worse, a social experiment where you were the test subject. Because if he was a trap, a trick, or an illusion… well, you’d already fallen in pretty deep.

The moment you landed at the airport in a sunny seaside city called Alicante, your adrenaline was high, ready to face whatever was waiting for you.

But instead of military vehicles or local agents waiting on the tarmac, there was a giant banner reading “SURPRISE!” flapping in the Mediterranean breeze. An agent, smiling way too much for someone who usually briefed on extinction-level events, greeted you all with the bombshell: “There is no mission. You’re here on vacation for one full week. Fully paid. Mandatory.”

Everyone had a different reaction. Some of the team burst out laughing. A few gave each other looks of disbelief. Alexei screamed, “HELL YES, BEACH TIME!” and fist-pumped the air. Yelena already had sunglasses on. But not everyone was thrilled.

Bucky Barnes, for one, looked like someone had just kicked his dog. Twice. He crossed his arms and muttered, “This is ridiculous. I don’t do beaches.”

“Well, now you do,” said Ava with a smirk. “Welcome to bonding camp, grumpy.”

You were all told this wasn’t just a vacation, it was a “team-building retreat.” You were going to be forced to relax together, apparently to grow stronger as a unit. And no one was allowed to bail.

Despite the chaos of your missions and all the tension in the beginning, over the past few months of cohabitating in Stark Tower, you’d all grown… closer. There were still arguments, sure—someone was always stealing snacks, using someone else’s mug, or playing music too loud at 3AM—but you knew each other now. Knew who liked what, who needed quiet mornings, who hogged the bathroom, and who cried during certain movie scenes (spoiler: it’s more of them than you expected).

But the bond between you and Bob Reynolds stood out most.

Everyone saw it. From the moment you helped rescue him, you’d never left his side. You were the first to check if he was injured, the first to speak to him like a human being and not a walking nuclear reactor. You made sure he was okay. Like some stray dog the world had tossed aside—and you just quietly decided he was yours now.

And the team followed your lead. Despite what he’d done, despite nearly destroying the world and ripping open old wounds in everyone’s psyche, they welcomed him with open arms. Because you did.

“Vacation?” Bob raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely confused.

“Yup,” John said with a grin, giving him a playful nudge. “That’s when you don’t do anything and it’s totally fine. You should try it sometime.”

Bob didn’t look convinced. If anything, he looked suspicious of the concept. His whole life had been built around duty, damage control, and trying not to explode. The idea of just… existing with no expectations felt foreign. Maybe even dangerous.

“Alright folks, let’s move out,” Yelena called, hoisting her bag over her shoulder with that bossy tone everyone obeyed without question. She might’ve shared the leadership role with Bucky, but she had the charisma of someone who got things done.

Like a herd of reluctant high schoolers on a mandatory field trip, the team followed—grumbling, joking, dragging their feet, but moving.

The drive wasn’t long.

A sleek black limousine pulled up to your destination within the hour. A row of elegant, private beach cottages spread out before you, nestled in a secluded cove just outside Alicante.

The sand was pale gold, soft as powdered sugar, stretching out toward the turquoise horizon. The sea shimmered beneath the sunlight, waves gentle and lazy. Palm trees lined the perimeter, their leaves rustling with every breeze, casting just enough shade to make the heat feel like a pleasant hug instead of a punishment.

The place felt untouched. Quiet.

Not exactly deserted—but exclusive. You could see why no ordinary tourists were lounging here. It wasn’t just the off-hour, it was the price. This was the kind of luxury reserved for diplomats and billionaires. For people who’d seen too much, done too much, and needed the world to shut up for five minutes.

For the first time, you felt the weight of silence around the team. Not the awkward kind—just a collective breath being held, like everyone was realizing at once how damn beautiful it was here.

The agent who’d escorted you out of the airport handed over two keycards with a charming smile. “One cabin for four men, and one for three ladies,” he said, giving them to Bucky and Yelena respectively.

“Enjoy yourselves.”

And just like that, he was gone, limousine and all, leaving you standing under the cloudless sky, surrounded by the scent of salt and coconut sunscreen.

You glanced around, soaking it all in. Then your gaze shifted to Bob. He was already looking at you. The moment your eyes met, he flinched and immediately turned his head, pretending to be very interested in a nearby bush.

You snorted quietly to yourself, lips twitching with amusement.

“This one’s ours, I guess,” Yelena said, pointing toward the cottage just a few steps away. Even from a distance, the place looked like it belonged in a luxury travel magazine. Creamy-white walls, light wooden trim, huge windows, and a little porch with hanging hammocks swaying lazily in the breeze. A dream come true.

You, Yelena and Ava made your way over with your bags. Yelena slid the keycard, and the door clicked open. The inside was even more stunning.

It was like stepping into a Pinterest board. The walls were painted in soft seafoam greens and sun-washed whites. Rattan furniture, pastel cushions, and airy curtains gave the space a coastal, boho vibe. There was a faint scent of lavender and driftwood in the air—relaxing, expensive, comforting.

Sunlight poured through the huge windows, illuminating a common area with plush couches, a breakfast bar stocked with fruits and snacks, and wide glass doors that opened directly onto the beach. You could hear the waves as if the ocean was whispering, You’re safe here.

“Holy shit,” Ava breathed out, spinning in a slow circle like she couldn’t believe this wasn’t CGI. “This is nicer than my actual apartment.”

Yelena dropped her bag on the nearest bed with a satisfied smirk. “This is acceptable.”

You couldn’t help but smile. A real, easy smile, the kind that felt rare lately. Everything about this place felt… right and peaceful.

And as you peeked out the back window and saw the boys dragging their bags toward their own cottage, you knew this week was going to be something different. Maybe even healing.

A few hours had passed since you arrived. You’d unpacked, showered, explored the fridge, which was magically stocked with mouthwatering, chef-level food, and finally settled into that post-travel stillness.

The late afternoon sun blanketed everything in golden light as you lounged on the front veranda of your cottage. Yelena had claimed the hammock and was swinging gently, sunglasses on, arms behind her head, looking like a war-hardened goddess pretending to be chill.

You and Ava had claimed two of the hanging lounge chairs, gently swaying as you soaked in the sun. Both of you had sunglasses perched on your noses, and the soft breeze kept the heat from being overwhelming.

“What are we even supposed to do here?” Ava asked, not bothering to open her eyes. Her voice was lazy, relaxed, a perfect match for the quiet waves in the distance.

It was a simple question. One you should’ve been able to answer. But you paused. Because… you honestly didn’t know.

Before you could respond with something vague, Yelena chimed in with a deadpan comment that made both you and Ava snort with laughter. It was something about team bonding meaning “not-murdering each other in close quarters,” and that this counted.

Then you added, perfectly flat, “I didn’t even bring a swimsuit.”

Ava blinked, then looked over at you. “Wait, me neither.”

“Didn’t expect this,” you muttered. “Was packing for death, not tanning.”

Yelena groaned. “Okay great. Let’s go buy swimsuits now. Or we’ll end up stuck here melting like idiots on a porch for the rest of the week.”

She was right, so without much debate, the three of you grabbed your canvas totes, wallets, and phones. None of you were wearing anything particularly beach-shopping-appropriate, but it didn’t matter. The streets near the coast would be casual, laid-back—just like the air already felt.

Of course, this wasn’t just a swimsuit run.

You were three women, unsupervised, in a beach town, surrounded by potential sales racks, accessory stands, cafés, and tourist traps. There was no way you were only coming back with swimwear.

As you walked past the guys’ cabin, Yelena suddenly veered off toward the door.

“I’m gonna see if any of the boys want to come with us,” she said casually.

You and Ava paused, hanging back by the path and watching her disappear into the house. After a beat of silence, Ava tilted her head toward you, voice sly behind her shades.

“So… are you two dating?”

You frowned, confused. “What?”

She shifted her sunglasses down her nose just enough to raise her brows. “You and Bob.”

Your eyes went wide. Your mouth dropped into a dramatic, perfect “O.”

“What— no, pffft, no! We’re just… friends. Like you and me.”

Ava laughed softly, but her gaze stayed locked on you, way too perceptive for your comfort.

“Then why don’t you look at me the way you look at him?”

The question hit harder than expected. You froze. Your heart did that thing where it picked up speed, like it was trying to run away before your brain could even catch up.

You opened your mouth to respond—but didn’t get the chance. Yelena reappeared, walking toward you like she owned the world, flanked by Johnny and Alexei, who looked far too amused to be joining a swimsuit shopping trip.

“They’re coming,” she said with a smirk. “Apparently the boys need suits too. And they want to pick out something ridiculous for Bucky.” That got a laugh out of all of you.

You glanced past them, half-hoping Bob would be in the group.

He wasn’t.

A tiny sting settled in your chest—nothing sharp, just that quiet flicker of disappointment. Maybe he needed rest. Maybe he didn’t feel like going out. Maybe… you were overthinking again.

You shook the thought away and caught up with the group, quickly weaving yourself into the casual chatter about the town, the ocean, and just how absurdly gorgeous these beach houses were.

Still… you couldn’t help but glance back, just once, at the boys’ cabin. Maybe he was watching. Maybe he wasn’t. But part of you hoped he’d noticed you were gone.

The shop you found wasn’t some cheap tourist trap. It was small, chic, and clearly catered to high-end beachgoers with taste. White walls, light wood floors, soft acoustic music playing in the background, and racks of curated swimsuits arranged by style, not size. It even smelled nice, like sunscreen and coconuts and fresh linen.

You, Yelena, and Ava wandered through the racks like hunters in the wild, each with your own goal. Ava leaned toward white or black prints. Yelena made a beeline for anything tactical-looking or black. You? You didn’t know what you were looking for, until you saw it.

A white two-piece bikini, delicate but bold.

The top had thin, adjustable straps and a soft triangle cut that showed just enough while still keeping you comfortable. The fabric was smooth, almost pearly under the light, and hugged your shape in a way that felt way too flattering. The bottoms were high-cut at the hips, elongating your legs, and dipped just enough in the front to make you feel sexy.

You held it up, biting your lip.

The fitting rooms were individual little cabins with thick curtains and full mirrors, and for a moment, you just stood inside yours, staring at yourself.

The bikini really did fit, almost suspiciously well. The white stood out against your skin like it was made for you. It hugged your waist, shaped your chest, gave just enough curve to make you hesitate. You adjusted the straps, turned sideways, checked again.

You weren’t sure if you felt powerful or exposed.

Still undecided, you pulled the curtain back and stepped out barefoot onto the cool wooden floor. Yelena was standing just outside, holding a one-piece camo-pattern swimsuit that looked like it belonged in some military-themed Sports Illustrated shoot.

When she turned to look at you, her face froze for a second. And then she blinked. Twice.

“Oh my god,” she said loudly. “Bob’s going to get an erection so hard he’s gonna pass out.”

You stared at her, completely stunned. “Yelena!”

She shrugged, utterly unbothered. “What? It’s true. That bikini is illegal. You look like someone who knows how hot she is.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed. That loud, shocked kind of laugh that felt like it echoed off your ribs.

“I’m not getting it just because of Bob!” you protested.

“Sure. Of course,” Yelena said, already turning to hang her swimsuit back on a rack. “You’re getting it because of you. Which happens to be the same you that wants Bob to think about you every time he blinks.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because maybe she wasn’t totally wrong.

You looked back at yourself in the big mirror. Your fingers lightly touched the strap on your hip. Yeah, part of you wanted Bob to notice. And part of you was absolutely terrified he would.

“…Okay,” you said quietly. “I’ll take it.”

The walk back from town was filled with laughter and light teasing. John and Alexei were leading the way, both proudly swinging shopping bags, one of which contained a ridiculous pair of swim trunks Alexei had picked for Bucky, covered in pineapples and flamingos, while Bob’s were thankfully simple and classic.

You held a bag in one hand and kept your eyes on your feet, but no matter what, you couldn’t stop your thoughts from drifting.

What’s Bob gonna do when he sees you in this bikini?

You hadn’t meant to obsess over it. The idea had just settled in your mind. Naturally. Like it belonged there. And now it was stuck. Even as Ava was telling a story about how she accidentally bought three identical sarongs, your mind wandered right back to Bob.

The moment you and Ava set the bags down on the porch with a thud, Yelena clapped her hands like a general calling her troops.

“Alright, troops! Try on your swimsuits, we’re playing beach volleyball in ten!”

You exchanged an amused glance with Ava. You were all tired, even Yelena was complaining on the way back how well she'll be sleeping. Guess that thought was gone now.

Still, the energy in the air was contagious and none of you had the heart to say no, so Yelena texted the guys while the rest of you headed to change.

When you stepped outside, the sun was warm on your skin and the sound of the ocean made everything feel like a dream. Bucky and Alexei were already out there, stretching and tying up the net between two poles. John stood nearby, casually tossing the volleyball between his hands.

But Bob wasn’t there.

Your breath hitched slightly, but before you could spiral, Ava appeared behind you and gave you a sharp slap on the butt.

“Relax, your loverboy probably just got distracted picking the perfect outfit,” she teased.

You rolled your eyes with a groan, but your heart was beating just a little faster. You walked over to the group, the sand soft under your feet.

Bucky noticed you first. His eyes lingered for a second longer than they probably should have, but he kept his expression locked down – soldier mode. Alexei, on the other hand, had zero filters.

“WOW, GIRL, LOOK AT YOU!” he shouted across the beach. “YOU LOOK LIKE A GODDESS! AND YOU TOO! AND YOU TOO!!”

He even stumbled into the net and collapsed dramatically, like your beauty had physically floored him. All of you burst out laughing. It was ridiculous, but sweet.

Walker stood back, saying nothing, just calmly observing like always, the ball still rotating between his palms.

“Let me help you with this,” you offered, moving to Bucky’s side and helping him secure the net to the post. You worked silently for a moment until he glanced at you and said, in his typical stern voice: “You look good.”

You smiled. “Thanks.”

Then, behind you, you heard the soft click of the cabin door opening. Your head instantly turned.

Bob stepped out. He wore a plain green T-shirt and simple black swim shorts. His hair was a little tousled from the wind, and the second his eyes landed on you, he froze.

You gave him a small, friendly wave.

He just stood there. His brows twitched. His jaw tensed. Then, as if his legs had remembered how to move, he took a step forward and tripped a little in the sand. Your heart did a backflip.

“See?” Yelena appeared beside you, slapping your shoulder. “Told you he’d be wrecked when he saw you.”

You laughed, half in embarrassment, half in disbelief, and shook your head. “Shut up.”

“Alright, LET’S GOOO!” Alexei yelled, clapping loudly before peeling off his shirt in one dramatic motion. The dude was built like a Greek statue.

Then Bucky followed suit, revealing defined abs and a torso clearly sculpted through years of combat training. All of you fell into stunned silence for a moment.

Even Walker, who hadn’t said a word, took off his shirt and casually joined the group. His body was lean, defined, quiet strength. Bob arrived near the group, awkwardly raising a hand.

“Hey,” he mumbled with a sheepish smile. All eyes slowly turned to him waiting. Expectant.

He looked around nervously. “What? Did I—?”

And then he realized. He looked down at his own shirt, then back up at the group.

“Oh! Uh… I think I’ll keep the shirt on. I’m kinda cold,” he laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.

You blinked. Cold? You didn’t believe him for a second, and you were pretty sure no one else did either. Still, no one pushed him. It was Bob. If he needed to keep his shirt on, he could.

Yelena turned to split the teams. “Alright, someone from the guys can join us, but anyone except Ale—”

“GOING WITH MY GORGEOUS LADIES!” Alexei yelled, cutting her off and dashing over to your side like a golden retriever on espresso.

Yelena let out the longest, most defeated sigh and rubbed her temples.

Teams were decided, and as fate would have it, you and Bob ended up on opposing sides. The game was lighthearted at first, filled with laughter and playful banter. But then John raised the stakes.

“How about this? Winning team gets treated to a round of rum by the losers!”

A collective cheer erupted, and the game intensified. The air buzzed with laughter, the sounds of sneakers shuffling and palms slapping against the volleyball echoing across the beach.

You were focused, at least, you were trying to be. But every time your eyes met Bob’s across the court, something fluttered in your chest. It wasn’t just the look he gave you, it was everything about him.

The way his green shirt clung to his chest, damp from sweat, outlining the gentle definition of his torso; the way his dark hair was slightly tousled, sticking to his forehead; the way he kept glancing at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

And he was looking.

Almost every single time you looked over at him, his eyes were already on you. And every single time, without fail, he’d catch himself and look away. Fast. Like a startled animal. His Adam’s apple would bob slightly as he swallowed hard, clearly rattled by something—by you, maybe.

But then came the moment he didn’t look away.

You looked across the net, searching for Bob again, and there he was, watching you. He didn’t flinch this time. He didn’t look down or pretend to scratch his face. He stared. And you, feeling just a little bold, gave him a playful wink.

That did it.

Even from across the sand, you saw the way his face lit up red. Not just a hint of blush, but full-on, ear-to-ear crimson. His lips curved upward in a tiny, embarrassed smile—so small you might’ve missed it if you weren’t watching for it.

And of course you were watching. The next serve came. Fast. Too fast. You turned just a moment too late, the ball whizzing past your shoulder and hitting the sand behind you.

Point lost.

Your teammates groaned in playful frustration, and you raised your hand apologetically. “My bad,” you laughed, even though inside, your stomach was doing backflips. Bob was still watching. Except now, he looked like he was having a different kind of crisis.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt nervously. His jaw clenched. His chest was visibly rising and falling faster than it should. His arms were tense. His fingers curled into fist, his knuckles white. His eyes were definitely not on the ball.

They were on you.

Suddenly, he took a deep breath and bent slightly forward. “Uh—sorry! I just need a… quick break!” he blurted out, turning so fast he almost tripped on his own foot. Without another word, he jogged off the court and toward the cabins, his shirt bunched up slightly at the back and clinging tighter at the front than before.

Everyone kind of paused.

“Everything alright?” John called after him, spinning the ball on his finger.

“Yeah! Yeah, all good!” Bob replied quickly, too quickly, his voice cracking slightly as he disappeared around the corner.

The group exchanged glances, some shrugged, some laughed. Yelena rolled her eyes. “He probably has bad stamina.”

But your heart dropped just a bit. Something felt off. You didn’t even think, you tossed the ball aside, murmured a quick, “I’ll go check on him,” and broke into a quick jog, sand kicking up around your ankles as you made your way toward the cabins.

Bob barely made it into the room before slamming the door shut behind him, chest heaving, face flushed and mind spinning. He pressed his back to the wood as if trying to barricade himself from the outside world, from you. His breathing was erratic. He glanced down.

“Oh no no no…”

The situation in his swim trunks was unignorable. His erection was pushing painfully against the fabric, a direct result of the way you looked—sweaty, flushed from the game, laughing with your hair a mess, skin kissed by sunlight. The way your bikini hugged your curves. The way your chest rose and fell when you ran. The way you winked at him.

He buried his face in his hands and groaned. This was not supposed to happen.

He tried to steady his breath and think about anything else, but it was useless. All he could think about was you. How close you’d gotten. How dangerous it felt to even have you in the same game, let alone within touching distance.

Then came the knock.

“Bob?” Your voice was gentle, concerned. “Are you okay?”

He froze. Your voice was the last thing he needed right now. It sent a fresh wave of heat through him. His hands curled into fists.

“Yeah! I’m—uh—I’m fine. Just a headache,” he called out quickly, praying you’d leave.

But you didn’t.

“I can come in, I’ll bring you water or—”

“NO!” he shouted. Too loud, too harsh. The silence that followed was gutting. You stood on the other side of the door, frozen in place. “…Bob?”

He could hear it. The confusion in your voice. The hesitation. He hated himself instantly.

“I just—I need to be alone, okay?” His voice was muffled now, pressed into the crook of his elbow as he paced the room. He could feel his heart pounding, his frustration mounting—not just with the situation, but with himself. “Just leave. Please.”

You didn’t speak. He imagined your face, how hurt you probably looked, how your brows might have creased, how your mouth might’ve opened to argue before you stopped yourself.

Then… footsteps. Soft. Fading. Gone.

He felt the loss immediately. Like something had been torn out of him. He let out a heavy breath and leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the door.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, too late. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to yell.”

No answer.

“Please don’t be mad… I just—I didn’t know what to do, okay? You—you do things to me, and I panicked. Please, come back.” But the hallway was empty and the only response was silence.

As you stepped out of the cabin, your eyes burned with unshed tears. You quickly wiped them away with the back of your hand, forcing a shaky breath through your nose.

“Hey, is Bob okay?” Ava asked, glancing toward the cabin you’d just exited.

You hesitated for a second, then nodded with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “He just said he had a headache,” you replied, your voice carefully even.

You walked toward the volleyball net and joined the opposite team—the one now short a player with Bob gone. “Let’s keep playing,” you added cheerfully, hoping no one would question it further.

To your surprise, the game was good. Fast-paced. Fun.

Even with the ache in your chest, you gave it your all. Maybe even because of it. Every hit, every run across the sand, every cheer was your way of forcing yourself to focus on something else—anything else.

And in the end, your team won.

Yelena, Ava, and Alexei groaned in dramatic defeat while you, John, and Bucky raised your arms in victory. “Winners get the drinks!” Walker grinned.

“Fine,” Yelena rolled her eyes. “But we’re picking the place.”

The sun had dipped lower in the sky now, casting a soft golden glow over the beach. The heat lingered though, a warm comfort against your skin. Everyone decided to freshen up a bit before heading out, and you slipped into something light—a black fishnet-style dress over your swimsuit, barely-there but airy enough to keep cool.

The girls whistled playfully at you as you walked out, and you returned their teasing with a twirl and a wink. But your heart still felt heavy.

The bar you ended up in was cozy, loud with laughter, music humming low in the background. The lights were warm and soft, casting shadows across everyone’s faces. You weren’t drunk—just a little lightheaded from the rum, the kind that made your thoughts buzz and your limbs a bit too loose.

Yelena stuck by your side most of the evening. She laughed with you, poked fun at Walker, and even made a show of challenging Alexei to a drinking contest. But at one point, she leaned in, her gaze a little too knowing.

“You’re smiling,” she said gently, “but your eyes are somewhere else.” You blinked and looked away, sipping from your drink.

“I’m fine,” you murmured.

Yelena sighed and gave you a long look. “I’m gonna go talk to Ava for a bit, okay? You good here?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I think I need some time alone anyway.” She gave your hand a light squeeze, then disappeared into the crowd.

You sat in silence for a while, swirling your drink, the taste of sugar and burn lingering on your tongue. Your gaze drifted around the room, but you weren’t really seeing anyone. The voices blended together. The laughter felt far away. Until one voice didn’t.

“Hey…”

You froze. Slowly, your eyes shifted to the side.

Bob.

He stood just beside you, looking awkward, guilty, and entirely out of place. His hair was a little messy, his green shirt slightly wrinkled like he’d been sitting in one place too long before deciding to come. His voice was soft. Tentative.

“…Can I sit?”

You just nodded faintly and let out a small, wordless hum of agreement.

He took the seat next to you, cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he really had the right to be there. You could feel his nervous energy radiating off him. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. His leg bounced subtly beneath the bar. It was obvious he’d been overthinking every second since earlier.

There was a long pause before he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice strained but sincere. “About before. I didn’t mean to—” He hesitated, sighed. “I panicked. That’s all. I didn’t want to shout at you like that. I don’t even know why I did. I just… freaked out.”

You were still leaning against the bar, your head tilted slightly sideways, cheek resting on your folded arm. With your other hand, you absently played with the rim of your empty glass, turning it slowly between your fingers. You didn’t look at him, but your shoulders rose in a small shrug. It wasn’t cold—it just said I hear you. But I’m still processing.

He bit the inside of his cheek, clearly frustrated with himself, then tried again.

“I really am sorry. You didn’t deserve that. Can I… can I buy you another drink? Something strong, maybe? Vodka?”

That finally got a soft sound out of you—a short breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. You sat up properly, brushing your hair back and meeting his eyes, just briefly.

“No thanks,” you murmured. “I don’t wanna get drunk.”

He nodded, looking down at his hands, embarrassed. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”

The quiet between you stretched again, but it didn’t feel quite so heavy now. Just… tentative. Cautious. Slowly, your expression softened, even though the sadness still lingered. You could see how hard he was trying—how guilty he looked, how much he regretted that brief flash of temper. And even if it still hurt, you knew it hadn’t come from a place of cruelty. Just fear.

You sighed gently, then gave him a tiny nod. “It’s okay,” you said at last. “I get it.”

His eyes flicked up to you in relief, and he nodded eagerly. A beat passed before you tilted your head slightly. “Are you having anything?”

He blinked. “Uh… no. Acohol— I don’t really— It doesn’t go well with me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, a little shyly. “I’m not exactly the fun drunk type. More like the ‘embarrass myself and then cry about it later’ type.”

That finally earned a genuine smile from you. A small, honest one. “Alright,” you said.

“What if we uh…drink something sweet? Like juice?” Bob suggested cautiously and you nodded with a hum.

Bob grinned sheepishly and waved at the bartender, ordering two fruity, alcohol-free drinks. When he slid yours toward you and caught the way you looked at him, smile soft, eyes warm, his ears turned a little pink. You raised your glass and clinked it gently against his.

As the conversation carried on, whatever tension had existed between the two of you earlier slowly dissolved, like mist in the morning sun. You laughed together, genuine, unguarded laughter, and it felt easy again. Comfortable.

Before long, you completely forgot why you’d been upset in the first place. Bob was being his awkward, charming self, and it was disarming in the best way. He made a silly comment about the drink being too fruity for a “manly guy like him,” and you rolled your eyes so hard it made him laugh. You teased him back, and time began to slip by, unnoticed and unchecked.

Eventually, Bucky appeared at the entrance of the bar, a little sweaty, clearly ready to call it a night. “We’re heading out,” he called over the soft hum of music and clinking glasses. “You two coming?”

You glanced at Bob and then shook your head with a smile. “We’ll stay a little longer.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow knowingly, gave a short wave, and disappeared with the rest of the group. That “little longer” quickly became several hours. The sky outside deepened into full night, the noise of the bar gradually quieted as the crowd thinned out, and you and Bob were still there, talking and laughing like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Then, suddenly, a voice broke through the moment, gentle but firm. The bartender leaned over and said something in Spanish, “Cerramos.”

Your eyes widened, and you let out a soft gasp. “Oh! They're closing.” You jumped off the barstool with a flurry of movement, grabbing your things quickly and tossing an apologetic smile toward the bartender. You replied: “Lo siento!” then turned to Bob.

He was still sitting there, watching you with a puzzled look on his face. Then he glanced at the bartender, and back to you, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“You speak Spanish?” he asked, a bit of awe in his voice.

You laughed and shook your head. “Nooo,” you admitted, grinning. “But it’s not that hard to guess what he said.”

Bob smiled as the realization hit him. “Right… yeah. That makes sense.” He stood up, stretching a little, and pulled a few bills from his wallet to leave on the counter for the drinks. Together, the two of you stepped out into the warm night.

Outside, the air was rich with the scent of saltwater and distant blossoms. The sky was a canvas of stars, crisp and clear, glittering like tiny diamonds. The moon hung low, casting a soft silver glow over the beach. The waves rolled in and out in a slow, steady rhythm, their gentle crash against the shore creating a peaceful, natural soundtrack that filled the quiet spaces between your laughter.

You walked side by side along the sand, your bare feet leaving prints behind you that the tide would soon claim. Every so often you’d bump shoulders slightly, accidentally-on-purpose, and Bob would smile that sweet, crooked smile of his. Conversation flowed as effortlessly as the breeze around you.

Then, your tone shifted—just a little softer, more curious. “Can I ask you something?”

Bob glanced over at you and gave a small nod, already bracing himself for whatever was coming.

“Why didn’t you take off your shirt?” you asked gently. “Back when we played volleyball?”

He inhaled deeply through his nose, then scratched the back of his neck, suddenly looking uncomfortable. His fingers tugged slightly at the fabric of his shirt. When he finally spoke, it was in a quiet voice, and he avoided your gaze.

“I guess I’m just… not that confident. About my body, I mean.”

He let out a soft, nervous snort through his lips, something between a sigh and the sound horses make when they’re annoyed, and looked down at the sand as if it had the answers.

He paused, then looked up at you, his eyes full of something vulnerable, raw, and honest. “But I’ll get there. One day.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Just… not yet.”

You nodded slowly, not saying anything at first. You looked down, watching the way your feet pressed into the sand, how your steps left soft imprints that trailed behind. You understood. Completely. And more importantly, you respected it.

Your silence wasn’t judgment, it was empathy. And as the two of you walked on, bathed in moonlight and ocean air, it was clear that even unspoken things had a way of being heard between you.

Bob walked you back to your cabin, the two of you moving a little slower than before, as if neither of you truly wanted the night to end. When you reached the steps, there was that moment, an awkward little giggle shared between you as your eyes both dropped to the ground, trying to avoid the tension hanging in the air. But it was there, unspoken and electric. You felt it in your chest, and judging by the way Bob was fiddling with his fingers and nervously rocking on his heels, he did too.

Maybe it was the rum still lingering in your system, or maybe it was the feeling of confidence bubbling up from the hours of honest conversation and gentle laughter. Either way, you found yourself standing a little taller, just bold enough to speak your mind.

“I don’t think you have anything to be ashamed of,” you said, your voice soft but sure, a small smile playing on your lips as you looked at him. Bob lifted his gaze, eyes wide with something between surprise and fragile hope, like a puppy waiting to be told it’s a good boy.

“I think you have a beautiful body,” you added gently.

The moment the words landed, his eyes locked with yours, and the connection was intense. Warm. Heavy. It hung in the air between you like a string pulled tight.

You could see it in his face that he felt it too. His lips parted slightly, as if he was about to say something, but then his nervousness took over again. He let out a small, breathy laugh, looked to the side, and scratched the back of his head. His cheeks turned a brilliant shade of red, and his voice came out unsure and stammered.

“You too… you have a nice body. Not like—in a creepy way or anything! Just, uh… like, you know…”

He was tangling himself in his own compliment, flailing to land it gracefully, and it made your heart melt just a little more. Smiling softly, you lifted both hands in a surrendering gesture, giving a single nod with a calming expression.

“I get it,” you assured him gently. “Thank you.”

Relief washed over his face, and both of you started to laugh again, this time more naturally, more connected. The night felt sweet, even a little magical. You didn’t want to go inside. You didn’t want this to be the part where he left, where things faded into goodnights and what-ifs.

Something in you, maybe the remnants of courage, maybe the warmth still blooming from that last drink, refused to let him go. So, you decided to take a risk. A brave one.

“Can I kiss you?”

The words came out direct, sincere, without apology or hesitation. They hit Bob like a thunderclap. His eyes went wide and fractured with shock. You could see his heart stop and start again just by the way his chest moved. Goosebumps appeared along his arms, his breath caught in his throat, and his entire face flushed deeper than ever before.

“I-I… I mean—I… um,” he stumbled, blinking rapidly, completely overwhelmed.

You didn’t push, but you did move closer, stepping into the space between you, your hands slowly, carefully, rising to his chest. You placed them there gently, barely a touch, more of a whisper than a grip, and you could feel his heartbeat fluttering beneath your fingertips, pounding like a wild drum. The moment you touched him, he froze. His whole body stiffened, eyes locked on you, his lips slightly parted in stunned silence.

You tilted your head up, catching his gaze with a bold, flirtatious glint in your eye. Then you bit your lip, slowly and deliberately, giving him that look—the kind that stripped away all doubt.

“May I?” you whispered again, your voice lower, breathier, your fingertips brushing against his shirt as your palms moved slightly over his chest.

He inhaled sharply, the sound trembling through his lips, and after a second that felt like forever, he nodded—quickly, wordlessly, his entire body trembling with anticipation.

A sly, satisfied smile crept onto your face at his permission. You rose onto your toes as he instinctively leaned down to meet you halfway. And when your lips finally met his, it was as though the world simply fell away.

The background noise, the wind, the waves, the sound of cicadas, melted into silence. There was only warmth, only him.

His lips were soft, tinged with sweetness from the drinks you’d shared, and you felt a wave of heat roll through your body.

At first, he kissed you carefully, cautiously, almost as if he wasn’t sure if this was real. But the moment you leaned in hungrily for another kiss, something shifted in him, he melted into you completely.

Your arms slid around his neck, pulling him in closer, anchoring him to you. He responded instinctively, his hands finding your waist with gentle hesitance, holding you like you were delicate and precious, like the wrong touch might break the spell. His fingers traced small circles against your back, sliding slightly higher as he began to kiss you deeper, more surely.

And then you started to sigh—soft, involuntary little sounds escaping your lips, muffled between kisses. That was it. That was all it took to make Bob shudder slightly against you, his grip tightening just a little as he buried himself more completely in the moment.

For a man so shy, so careful with his words, his body was now telling you everything you needed to know. Your lips danced together under the stars, wrapped in each other’s arms, feeling the warmth of each other's bodies.

The kiss between you and Bob deepened quickly, the heat building with every brush of lips, every inhale that seemed too sharp, too needy.

Bob began to let out these quiet, helpless little moans—soft, desperate sounds that made your heart stutter and your core clench with hunger. His breath was hot, uneven, as if he couldn’t quite keep up with what he was feeling.

But then, just when things began to slip into something hotter, more dangerous, you pulled away.

Your lips left his with a quiet, breathy pop, and Bob’s eyes fluttered open in confusion, his brows furrowing as you took a small step back. You reached into your bag, rummaging clumsily, fingers searching for your keys. His expression was adorably baffled—eyes wide, lips parted, his chest still rising and falling too fast.

He didn’t even get the chance to ask what you were doing. Before he could speak, you found the keys, turned, and unlocked the door with a soft grunt of effort. The handle resisted for a moment—just long enough to make you curse under your breath. But then it gave way, and without a word, you grabbed a handful of Bob’s shirt and yanked him inside with you.

The door slammed shut behind you.

And then you were on him again.

You pushed him up against the wall before he could even blink, your lips crashing onto his like you’d been starved of him for hours instead of minutes. He let out a muffled gasp, taken completely off guard, but your mouth, your touch, the fire burning through you, it overwhelmed him. It shut off whatever part of his brain had been trying to stay grounded.

He melted into you, hands clinging to your waist like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. But you weren’t slowing down.

You pressed your body hard against his, clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart, pinning him to the wall with a surprising strength, despite your smaller frame. Your kiss was ravenous, unrelenting. Every time his breath hitched, it only drove you more.

But Bob still had some part of him trying to be responsible.

“Wait—wait, what about the others?” he asked, panting between kisses, his voice shaky, his lips still brushing yours. His hands remained at your hips, uncertain but not resisting.

“They’re asleep,” you breathed without hesitation, already leaning in again.

You kissed him hard, and he let out a startled noise in the back of his throat, half protest, half surrender. But just as your hands started trailing lower down his sides, he gently pulled back again, his eyes wide, his whole body trembling like he was barely holding on.

“I-I mean, I—” he stammered, clearly overwhelmed, caught in the tug-of-war between nerves and need.

But you were on fire. Every pulse in your body throbbed with want, and the heat between your thighs was unmistakable, impossible to ignore. You leaned in closer, placing a hand flat against his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart. Your eyes locked on his and your voice dropped into something sultry, something that made his breath hitch.

“Do you want me?” you whispered, your words low, teasing, soaked in longing.

Bob’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. His lips parted, but no sound came out. He was frozen, wide-eyed, staring at you like you were made of fire and he couldn’t decide whether to run or let himself burn.

So you stepped in closer. Your bodies were touching now, pressed chest to chest, and your mouth hovered barely a breath from his. You tilted your head, eyes fluttering half-shut, your voice dipping into a softer, flirtier murmur.

“Do you want me, Bob?”

This time he nodded. Hard. His breath caught in his throat, and a deep, shaky sound escaped him. His hands clutched tighter at your waist like he was afraid you might vanish.

Then you gave him the final push—the one that made everything else fall away.

“Do you want me… right now?”

His answer wasn’t words. It was a low, desperate sound from deep in his chest and another frantic nod, his eyes burning with need. That was all the answer you needed. All the answer he could give.

And then your lips were on his again, fiercer this time, hungry and hot, and whatever doubts had been in his head melted away with each breathless kiss.

But the kisses between you and Bob grew messier, deeper, more desperate. There was no longer any hesitation, only raw, breathless need. Soft, pleading moans slipped from both your lips between every frantic brush of your mouths, and each sound only made the other crave more.

Bob’s hands fumbled at your waist, your neck, your hips, trying to be everywhere at once but still so careful. His swim trunks were starting to grow tight again, and the heat in your own body was unbearable. Your swimsuit clung to you, soaked through with arousal, even tho all you had done was kiss.

Stumbling into your room was chaotic, clumsy. Bob bumped into the wall, you tripped on your own feet, giggles and gasps filling the space between frantic kisses. But somehow, with limbs tangled and hearts racing, you made it to your room. You barely managed to shut the door behind you before dragging both of you toward the bed.

With one firm but gentle push, you toppled Bob onto the mattress and let yourself fall with him. You landed on his chest with a bounce, both of you breathless and grinning, and then, before he could even process it, you rolled off and stood quickly. You turned back toward the door, locking it with a soft click. Then, you turned around again and froze for a beat.

Bob was sitting at the edge of your bed, completely still, his chest rising and falling in fast, shallow breaths. His hair was messy from your fingers, his lips red and swollen from your kisses and his eyes were glassy with lust, with longing. His pupils were huge. His face was flushed. And lower down, his erection was unmistakably visible.

You had never felt like this about any man before. Not like this.

You let your purse fall to the floor without a second thought, fingers slipping under the hem of your fishnet dress. With a slow, deliberate tug, you pulled it up and over your head, tossing it somewhere onto the floor.

Now, standing there in only your swimsuit, you began to approach him. Slowly, like a predator circling prey. The hunger in your eyes was impossible to miss.

Bob didn’t move. He couldn’t. He watched you the entire time, mouth slightly open, hands resting on the bed like he needed the mattress to ground himself.

You stopped in front of him and brought your hands up to cup his face, leaning in to kiss him again—but this time it was slower. Gentler. A soft, intimate prelude.

His hands found your cheeks too, fingers stroking your skin, and he tried to pull you back down onto him. But you resisted. You pulled back just far enough to look him in the eyes.

“Can we… get rid of this?” you asked with a playful smile, tapping a finger against the center of his chest.

His eyes dropped to your finger, then flicked back up to your face. He swallowed hard, clearly nervous.

“We don’t have to,” you whispered, your tone low and teasing. “But how about a deal?”

You licked your lips slowly, letting your gaze drop to his mouth before lifting it back to his eyes.

“If we take this off,” you said, finger still resting on his chest, “then we also take this off…” Your hand drifted up, motioning briefly toward the top of your swimsuit.

That was all it took.

Whatever fear had still lingered in him melted away instantly. His fingers gripped the hem of his shirt and, without a single pause, he pulled it over his head in one swift, fluid movement and tossed it aside. No hesitation. No second-guessing. He wanted this. He wanted you. Badly enough to show you a part of himself he’d just admitted he was ashamed of.

But the moment your eyes dropped to his now bare torso… your jaw practically hit the floor.

He was stunning. Broad chest, strong shoulders, abs like something sculpted by a god, toned arms with just the right amount of muscle, exactly how you liked it. Your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t expected this. Not from someone as shy and self-conscious as him.

You looked back up at him, wide-eyed with a mix of disbelief and awe. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came.

Bob sat there, half-nervous, half-burning, unsure how you’d react—until he saw your expression. And even though your reaction was silent, it told him everything. The look on your face said it all.

You knelt down slowly, your eyes still locked onto his body as if mesmerized, and began showering him with a cascade of kisses. They rained down over his skin, his chest, his stomach, his sides, each kiss playful, some lingering, others accompanied by soft, teasing licks or the occasional gentle bite.

It tickled him a little, making him laugh under his breath, his abs tightening instinctively. He wanted to reach out, to touch your hair, cradle your face, pull you close—but he hesitated. He didn’t want to startle you, didn’t want to break the moment or push too far. So he kept his hands behind him, gripping the mattress like an anchor.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmured in between kisses, your lips brushing against his skin with every word. Your hands rested firmly on his thighs, fingers splayed out, grounding yourself as you explored him with both touch and mouth.

“So beautiful,” you repeated, almost breathless with admiration. You couldn’t get enough of him. You kissed every inch of skin you could reach, tasting the warmth of his sun-kissed body, losing yourself in the way he squirmed slightly beneath your lips.

Eventually, the hunger in you built beyond just kisses.

You looked up at Bob, meeting his eyes. He looked dazed, utterly blissed out, but beneath the surface, there was something else. He was waiting. For your part of the deal.

A mischievous smile curled on your lips.

Still on your knees, you slowly straightened up and reached behind your back, fingers deftly untying the knot of your bikini top. With a small motion, you let it slip off your shoulders, revealing your bare breasts to him.

Bob’s jaw literally dropped. His eyes widened and locked on you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His hands dug into the mattress, and through his swim trunks, you could see the very visible twitch of his hard-on as it reacted to the sight.

He wanted to touch you so badly. You could see it. The craving in his eyes. But he still held back, being a gentleman, respecting your pace, refusing to make a move without permission.

“Wanna touch?” you asked, tilting your head and giving him a knowing smirk.

His face lit up like you’d just handed him the keys to heaven. He nodded eagerly, licking his lips, his hands already twitching to move. He slowly reached out but paused again, eyes flicking to yours, searching for that last bit of reassurance.

You gave him a small nod.

And then he touched you.

Gently, reverently, like you were something sacred. His hands cupped your breasts with a mixture of awe and need, his thumbs brushing softly over your skin. His touch was warm, tender—curious yet careful.

He didn’t grope. He explored. Played. Worshipped. One hand cradled the underside while the other traced slow circles around your nipple, sending delicious shivers down your spine. He was in heaven, and judging by the way his breath caught every time you so much as sighed, he wanted you to feel that same bliss too.

Bob looked up at you, his hands still cradling your breasts as if he were holding something fragile and precious. Then his gaze flicked to your face, a bit hesitant.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly, voice low and tender.

You smiled, nodding, and that smile alone seemed to ease something in him. You weren’t just okay—you were glowing. It felt good, the way his fingers explored you with such care, and the look in his eyes made it all the more intense.

And it definitely did something to him. You could tell from the way his chest rose with every breath, how his eyes occasionally fluttered shut like he was overwhelmed. Still, after a moment, he pulled his hands away, clearly not wanting to get too carried away without your lead.

You leaned in again and kissed him.

It was slower, deeper. Your hands roamed his body, savoring the shape of him, the tension in his muscles, the way he melted under your touch. His hands were verywhere. Moving over your back, your hips, your sides, as if trying to memorize every inch of your body.

But you remained on your knees, just slightly lower than him, even as the kiss grew hotter.

Then one of your hands started to travel—leaving his neck, gliding down over his chest, his stomach, until it reached the waistband of his swim trunks. You paused there. Not moving or rushing. You stopped kissing him and looked up at his face.

Bob’s eyes followed your hand, then quickly returned to yours. There was a storm behind those eyes—desire, definitely, but also uncertainty.

You gave him a slow, sultry smile, tilting your head ever so slightly as if to say, It’s okay. I want this too. He exhaled shakily, his lips parting, and after a moment, he nodded.

With the same care he’d shown you earlier, you hooked your fingers into the waistband and began to pull them down. Painfully slow. Your eyes never left his face, watching his expression shift—excitement, nervousness, and that unmistakable tension of anticipation.

As the fabric slid down his thighs and hit the ground, your breath caught audibly. You gasped so loud that even Bob flinched a little, startled. You hadn’t expected… that.

There it was—thick, veined, heavy, and already so hard it twitched in the cool air. The way it stood against his toned stomach, pulsing gently, made your pulse echo right along with it.

You couldn’t help but whisper in disbelief, “And you’ve been hiding this the whole time?”

Bob let out an awkward little laugh, clearly flustered. His cheeks flushed deep red, not just from arousal, but from your stunned compliment. He looked away for a second, bashful, and mumbled something incoherent.

Carefully, you reached out and brushed your fingers against him. The moment your skin made contact, his body jolted, just a little, and he let out the softest whimper, almost a sigh.

You looked up again, eyes wide and a little wicked, and bit your bottom lip.

Slowly, your hand began to move, gentle at first, as though you were still getting to know this part of him. He trembled beneath your touch, trying to stay quiet, but his hips shifted involuntarily, betraying how sensitive he was.

His hand gripped the sheets tightly, knuckles pale. He was trying so hard not to make a sound—to keep still so he wouldn’t wake the girls in the next room—but you weren’t making that easy.

The pressure, the rhythm… it was enough to undo him. But then, before he could fully process what was happening, you leaned forward and kissed the tip. Bob let out a strangled sound and tensed, as if his whole body was about to short-circuit.

You looked up at him, holding eye contact the entire time. At first, you were teasing—pressing soft kisses to the sensitive head, letting your tongue glide around it lazily, deliberately. His thighs trembled. He bit down on his lip so hard it turned white.

Then you got more serious.

You took him in slowly, still holding his gaze. Bob’s lips parted, his eyes fluttering half-shut, and a shaky breath escaped him like it had been trapped in his chest for hours. His entire body tensed as if overwhelmed by the sensation.

He tried to stay quiet, tried to keep his hips still, but sometimes his body moved on its own, bucking up just slightly, and he immediately muttered a breathless apology every time it happened.

You didn’t rush. You let the anticipation burn slowly, letting him feel everything.

“God—” he whispered under his breath, hips twitching slightly, and then—“I’m sorry,” he added instantly, as if ashamed of reacting too strongly. You didn’t mind. In fact, it made your heart race.

The way he melted for you, how his body surrendered so easily, he wasn’t trying to be dominant or in control. He wasn’t trying to hide how much it affected him. And that vulnerability? It was intoxicating.

You could hear how much it meant to him in every breathy sound, every shaky exhale, every stifled moan. He whimpered again, high and desperate, and the sound echoed in your mind like a reward.

His fingers were digging into the mattress, every muscle tight with restraint. He whimpered again, soft and broken, and your innocent gaze stayed locked on his, only intensifying everything he felt.

Then slowly, deliberately, you reached up and took his hand—guiding it to your head. He hesitated at first, breath shaky, eyes wide with uncertainty. But you gave him a sweet calm look that said it’s okay. That you trusted him. That he could touch.

His hand accidentally tangled in your hair, gripping a bit too tight, and when he realized, he gasped and immediately loosened his fingers.

“Shit—I’m sorry—are you okay?” he stammered, guilt flashing in his eyes.

You looked up at him again, lips still wrapped around him, and gave the tiniest nod, reassuring him you were fine. More than fine. You loved seeing him like this. Raw, undone, his tough exterior peeling away one soft moan at a time.

And it hit you, too. That fluttering heat in your chest. That ache between your legs. The feeling of being wanted this much. Of making someone feel this good. His reactions lit a fire inside you. Every twitch of his thighs, every tremor in his voice—it all made you feel powerful and delicate at the same time.

Bob’s hands were restless now. One gripped the sheets, the other hovered near your head again, as if unsure whether he was allowed to touch. You leaned into it, and he gently threaded his fingers through your hair, this time softer, more reverent. But his voice was breaking. Little, helpless gasps.

Whispers of your name.

And once or twice—a shaky, choked-off moan that sounded like he might cry if you kept going. But you didn’t stop. Not yet.

Because the way he trembled under you, the way his stomach clenched and his legs shifted, the way he sounded like he was falling apart, that was everything.

Bob was right on the edge, his whole body was trembling, his hands clenching the sheets like he was holding on for dear life. And when he finally came, gasping your name like a whispered prayer, you didn’t pull away.

You stayed with him. Took everything he gave you.

He let out a sound somewhere between a cry and a moan, overwhelmed beyond words, his hips twitching from overstimulation as you gently helped him through the last waves. You even cleaned the rest of him up with soft, careful kisses, and that alone nearly made him whimper again.

“Jesus…” he breathed out, barely able to speak, a hand running through his tousled hair as he looked down at you with wide, dazed eyes. “I– I’m sorry.”

You tilted your head slightly, surprised. “What for?”

His voice was small. Fragile. “For… everything? For that being too fast? For—” he swallowed, looking embarrassed, “—for not lasting longer. I didn’t mean to be so…”

You climbed up to him and silenced him with a kiss. Not hurried, not demanding, just soft. Tender. Full of comfort.

Your hands cupped his cheeks, thumbs stroking his flushed skin.

“You don’t have to apologize for feeling good,” you whispered against his lips. “That was perfect.”

His eyes closed, his breath catching. He looked like he might cry for a whole different reason now.

You gently straddled his waist, not quite there yet, but close enough that the shift in energy was obvious. Your thighs pressing lightly against his sides, his hands flew instinctively to your hips. Not in a needy grip, but gentle, hesitant. Your body was warm and ready, and you were preparing to fully connect, but before you could guide him further, Bob stopped you.

“Wait,” he whispered, voice still hoarse.

You paused, blinking down at him, your brows gently furrowing. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes met yours, and something was different. The nervousness that had clouded his gaze earlier was gone. What replaced it was soft but firm, confidence built not from ego, but devotion.

“I want to take care of you now,” he said.

A small smile curved your lips, your heart skipping a beat at how genuine he sounded. “You don’t have to, really—”

But Bob shook his head. “No. I want to. I need to.”

There was something so deeply sincere in his voice it made your chest ache.

You gave him a soft nod, and he smiled, one of those rare, crooked, bashful smiles that melted you inside. Then, with gentle hands, he shifted you. Slowly, carefully, he rolled your body so you lay on your back in the center of the bed, like he was positioning you at the heart of a sacred space. His arms hovered around you, cradling your movement so you never felt dropped, never out of control.

He knelt between your legs, just watching you for a moment. You were laid out beneath him, chest rising and falling, hair fanned out across the pillow. He looked awestruck.

His hand came to your side. “Can I touch you?”

You nodded, lips parted, your voice caught somewhere between breath and heartbeat. “Yes.”

His hand slid up along your ribcage, following the natural shape of you with reverence. He wasn’t just touching—he was memorizing. Like every inch of your skin mattered. Like you were art.

He kissed you again, slow, coaxing, warm. And as the kiss deepened, he murmured against your lips: “Can I take these off?”

His fingers were resting lightly at the waistband of your swimsuit bottoms.

You nodded. “Please.”

Bob peeled the fabric down slowly, as if every inch was a treasure to be revealed, not a secret to be rushed. His eyes never left your body, and his hands trembled just a little.

Once the swimsuit was off, he let his fingers trace lightly along your inner thighs, but never without looking up at you first.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly, his breath brushing over your bare skin.

You nodded again, heart pounding. “Yes.”

And then he lowered his mouth to you.

The moment his lips met your most sensitive spot, your whole body arched. But it wasn’t just the touch—it was the tenderness, the intention. Bob wasn’t careless or clumsy. He listened. He adjusted every motion based on how you sighed, how your breath caught, how your fingers curled in the sheets.

His movements were soft, exploring. He let his tongue move in long, unhurried strokes, drawing out your reactions—your sighs, your tiny gasps, the way your fingers curled into the sheets. You felt your body start to unravel under the attention, your hips shifting instinctively, needing more.

His hands held your thighs, steadying you but never trapping you. He let you move against him. Let you guide him with nothing more than the sound of your breath. His tongue moved slow, experimental, reverent. And as he began to read your body, he grew more confident.

Every flick, every gentle suck, was delivered with the knowledge that he was giving you pleasure, not taking it. He wasn’t doing this to prove something. He was doing it because he wanted to worship you.

“God, Bob…” you whispered, voice cracking as your fingers found his hair.

He hummed at the sound, and the vibration sent another shiver racing through you.

He learned quickly. How you liked it slower, how a certain flick of his tongue made your whole body twitch. How your voice caught every time he sucked softly at just the right spot.

“Yes… yes—so good,” you breathed, your hips moving almost without permission.

The way he reacted to your pleasure, how eager he was to see you fall apart, made everything more intense. He was moaning softly too, like just tasting you made him dizzy with need. He liked knowing you wanted him there. That you trusted him there. He never once looked away from you, not even when he grew bolder, more confident.

He explored every inch of you with his mouth like you were something to be adored, not conquered. And every sound you made, every shiver in your body, only spurred him on.

Your breath started to catch, your thighs tightening around his shoulders as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter. He felt it. Saw it. Knew it.

And he didn’t let up.

His hands squeezed your hips gently, anchoring you as he focused entirely on giving you what you needed. He stayed right there, lips and tongue working with delicious rhythm, sending shockwaves through you with every stroke.

You were close. So close it scared you.

“Bob,” you gasped, voice breaking. “I’m— I’m gonna—”

But he didn’t stop. He didn’t even hesitate. He wanted this for you.

The wave crashed over you so suddenly, so completely, it stole the breath from your lungs. Your back arched, a sharp cry escaping your lips as you came—shaking, pulsing, everything unraveling under his touch.

Bob held you through it. Never pulling away, never letting you feel alone. Even as you trembled and gasped and whimpered his name, he stayed with you, riding the waves with the same quiet patience he always gave you.

And only when your body finally relaxed, chest heaving and limbs limp, did he slowly lift his head.

His mouth was glistening, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and shining. And when he saw you looking at him, completely undone and breathless, he smiled the softest smile you’d ever seen.

“You okay?” he asked gently, his thumb brushing along your thigh. You nodded, dazed and glowing, trying to catch your breath.

Bob slowly crawled back up your body, leaving a warm trail of kisses across your skin. He moved as if afraid to disturb the peace settling over you, like he was returning to you from a place of worship. When his face hovered above yours, he looked into your eyes for a long, quiet moment.

Then he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

His hand came up to your hair, brushing it back with slow fingers, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. Your heart squeezed.

You reached up to cup his face and pulled him into a soft, lingering kiss—sweet at first, but quickly deepening. The electricity between you hadn’t faded. If anything, it had only grown stronger now that there was nothing between you but skin and trust.

Still breathless, you moved, shifting your hips just enough to push him onto his back. He let out a surprised little laugh as you rolled with him, your bodies twisting together until you were on top of him, straddling his hips. The heat between you flared instantly.

He looked up at you with wide, reverent eyes, his hands resting gently on your waist as if asking silently for permission to hold you there.

You leaned down and kissed him again—slow, deep, melting into each other with every heartbeat. Your fingers ran along his chest, down his sides, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of his body. You could feel him against you, hard and throbbing, and it sent shivers down your spine.

This was it. The moment you’d both been tiptoeing toward.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “Are you ready?” you whispered.

Bob nodded, cheeks flushed, his eyes glassy with emotion. “Only if you are.”

“I am,” you said softly, and meant every word.

Your hand found him again, guiding him with care, your breath hitching as the tip pressed against you. You moved slowly, lowering yourself with a careful rhythm, taking him in inch by inch. Both of you gasped—Bob’s hands gripped your hips tightly, trying not to buck up into you.

The stretch made your whole body burn, but it was a sweet, full ache, one that had been building from the first time he looked at you like you were the sun.

Once he was fully inside, you stilled, letting your body adjust, both of you panting softly. Bob’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, his jaw clenched, as if overwhelmed by how deep it all felt—emotionally and physically.

“You okay?” he asked, breathless, voice barely a whisper.

You nodded, your hands braced against his chest, your body trembling slightly. “You feel… amazing.”

A shaky laugh left his throat. “So do you. God, so do you.”

You started to move—slow, steady, your bodies learning each other. Every thrust, every sigh, every soft gasp between kisses told its own story. It wasn’t just sex. It was connection. It was trust. It was two people baring everything, souls and skin, just to be close.

You moved together in perfect rhythm, hips rising and falling in sync, his hands mapping your body like he never wanted to forget a single inch. And with every moan, every whispered name, every breath you shared, love wrapped tighter and tighter around you both.

Your rhythm picked up—slow and deep giving way to something needier, hungrier. The friction between your bodies grew more intense, breaths turning to gasps, gasps to moans. The sounds of skin against skin, the creaking of the mattress beneath you, the soft rustle of sheets, it all blended into a symphony of desire that filled the space around you like firelight.

Bob’s hands roamed your back, your hips, your thighs—desperate to hold you, ground you, memorize you. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You were glowing. You were everything.

And then he sat up, his arms wrapping around you as you stayed straddled on his lap. Your chest pressed tightly against his, your lips meeting his in a fevered kiss. He held you there, anchored you to him like he was terrified of letting you go.

You clung to him just as tightly.

Your mouths moved together like you were breathing the same air. His tongue tangled with yours, his hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you even closer. But then his grip on your waist tightened.

Hard.

You gasped softly at the pressure, your hips pausing. You pulled back just slightly, your forehead still resting against his, trying to catch your breath. And that’s when you saw it.

For a split second, just a flash, his eyes glowed. Golden. Not metaphorically, a actually glowing. And then it was gone. Blink, and you might’ve thought you imagined it. But you didn’t.

Bob froze. His arms loosened immediately, and panic flooded his face. “Shit—did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry, I just—”

“Hey,” you said gently, your hands coming to rest on either side of his face. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He was breathing fast, his brows drawn tight, clearly shaken by the moment. “I felt something… I didn’t mean to grip you that hard.”

You nodded slowly. “It's okay.”

He winced. “I- I'm sorry, I don’t want to scare you, or—God—I don’t want to lose control around you.”

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his again. “You didn’t scare me, Bob. You trusting me with that… it means more than I can say.”

His breath hitched and before he could say anything else, you kissed him again, before guiding his hands back to your waist. This time, his grip was steady. Gentle. Confident.

And then you moved again.

The pleasure hit like a wave crashing into shore, harder than before, deeper. His hands gripped you tighter, not in fear this time, but in raw need, in love, in reverence.

You kissed his neck, his collarbone, his shoulder, whispering his name like a prayer.

You rocked against him, and he met every motion, your bodies tangled in something that went beyond skin and muscle, it was soul-deep. The sounds coming from him, breathy moans, quiet whimpers, your name, drove you wild.

And then it happened. You felt your climax building again, hot and fast and unstoppable.

“Bob,” you gasped, nails digging gently into his back.

He was right there with you, sweat beading at his brow, jaw tight, voice strained. “I—I’m gonna—”

“Me too,” you breathed.

You crashed into release together—messy, overwhelming. You held each other through it, limbs trembling, lips finding each other again and again, clinging to the moment like it was all you’d ever need.

You collapsed against his chest, your limbs heavy and warm, your cheek pressing into the sweat-slick skin of his shoulder. Both of you were still catching your breath, chests rising and falling rapidly in sync. His arms wrapped around you protectively, and you let yourself sink into him, feeling completely safe and full.

There was a moment of perfect silence, just the sound of breathing, soft and human and real.

Then you shifted slightly, curling up beside him and resting your head against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat, still racing, but slowly calming beneath your ear.

You smiled lazily. “Okay… serious question.”

Bob tilted his head to look at you, already smiling like a complete goof. “Shoot.”

You looked up at him with narrowed, mock-suspicious eyes. “Where did you learn to do that with your tongue?”

Immediately, Bob’s face flushed. He tried to play it cool, but his voice cracked. “I—uh—I watched a couple things.”

You squinted. “What kind of ‘things,’ Bob?”

He swallowed hard. “Just like—like, y’know. Tutorials.”

You pulled back, eyebrows rising. “You watched porn?!”

Bob’s entire face turned bright red. “No! I mean—it was educational! There were diagrams!”

You blinked. “There were diagrams in your porn?”

He let out a strangled sound and covered his face with his hands. “Okay, I regret everything.”

You burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the quiet room. “Bob Reynolds, you little nerd.”

He peeked at you through his fingers, totally mortified but smiling. “I just wanted to be good at it. For you.”

You leaned in and kissed him sweetly. “You were.”

A comfortable silence settled over you again, warm and soft like a blanket. You traced idle shapes on his chest with your fingertips, still smiling, still glowing.

Then Bob’s voice broke the quiet, a little more cautious this time. “Hey… do you… remember the volleyball game? When I kinda bailed and told you not to come?”

You glanced up at him. “Yeah?”

He hesitated, biting his lip. “Well… I sorta… had a situation. In my swim trunks.” He exhaled, long and painful.

Your mouth fell open slightly. “You got a boner?!”

Bob winced, covering his face again. “I’m sorry! It just—happened! You were in that swimsuit and laughing and I don’t know, my brain just… betrayed me!”

You were quiet for a moment. Not judging. Not laughing. Just watching him squirm. Then you reached up and gently brushed a lock of hair away from his eyes. “Bob.”

He looked at you through his fingers again, completely sheepish.

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “That’s totally normal.”

His eyes widened a little. “It is?”

You nodded. “Yeah…and honestly, kind of sweet.“ You smiled teasingly. He laughed, relieved, and pulled you close again, resting his chin on top of your head. “God, I like you so much.”

You nestled into him, your fingers laced together on his chest. “Good. Because I really, really like you back.”

The two of you lay there for a long time, tangled together, breathing slower now, hearts lighter. The night was quiet, soft, and full of something that felt a lot like the start of forever.

The golden morning sun filtered through the thin curtains, dancing lazily over tangled limbs and a rumpled blanket. You and Bob were still wrapped around each other—bare skin against bare skin, your head on his chest, his arm draped protectively over you. Your legs tangled, breaths slow, hearts steady.

A knock. Sharp. Three times.

“Hey, you coming to breakfast or are you dead?” Yelena’s voice chirped from behind the door.

Your eyes snapped open in panic. You bolted upright under the blanket, your heart immediately in your throat. Bob groaned quietly, still groggy, eyes not fully open yet.

You whispered, “What time is it?!” your voice barely audible and full of dread.

Bob blinked, looked around helplessly, and shrugged. “I—uh… no clue.”

You covered your face with both hands. “We’re dead. We’re actually dead.”

Yelena knocked again, softer this time. “We're going now, just letting you know.”

You scrambled to respond, “Yeah! I’ll be there! In a sec!”

Bob turned to you, now slowly realizing the situation. The blanket slid down his chest, revealing faint marks from your mouth the night before.

You stared at him. “We need to get dressed. Now.”

It was mayhem. You both jumped out of bed, frantically looking for clothes. You grabbed your swimsuit top, which had ended up halfway across the room, and pulled on a hoodie over it. Bob, on the other hand, was still stumbling, holding only his swim trunks in one hand, his shirt nowhere to be found.

“You can’t go out the door!” you hissed. “Someone could see you!”

“Then what do I do?!”

You gestured to the window. “Jump out.”

“Are you serious?”

You gave him a deadpan look. “Bob. You’re a superhero. I think you can survive this.”

He groaned dramatically, pulled on his swim trunks and shirt, then paused before the window. You rushed over, stood on your tiptoes, and gave him a rushed, smiling kiss. “Go. Before someone sees you.”

He opened the window, one leg already out, then looked back with a crooked grin. “You’re chaos.”

You grinned. “You love it.”

With that, he slipped out and disappeared into the early morning light.

Later that morning, everyone gathered at a nearby rustic café for breakfast. You sat at a corner table, sipping coffee, trying not to look suspicious. Yelena sat beside you. Bob was diagonally across, seated next to John. The chatter around the table was casual—about the lake, someone’s forgotten towel, who burned marshmallows last night.

You and Bob exchanged occasional, brief glances. Not long. Just enough to pass a message between you. A silent, thrilling electricity. You could still feel the echo of last night under your skin, and judging by the way Bob nervously rubbed the back of his neck, so could he.

“Dude…” John leaned closer to Bob, squinting. “What the hell happened to your neck?”

Bob blinked. “Huh?”

“You’ve got like, bruises or something. All over here.” He pointed.

Bob’s brows furrowed and instinctively reached for the spot. “What are you talking about?”

He tilted his head, clearly unaware. Your fork froze mid-air. You looked straight down at your plate. Yelena turned to you. Her eyes widened slowly. Then, lips barely moving, she mouthed with a dramatic grin:

“You. Fucked. Bob.”

You nearly inhaled your scrambled eggs. Your face heated like wildfire. You avoided everyone’s eyes, especially Bob’s. Meanwhile, Bob was trying to deflect. “Maybe I slept weird or—uh—bug bites?”

“Mmhmm,” John muttered, unconvinced.

You dared a glance at Bob. And that was it—your eyes met, and he knew. His brows lifted just slightly. His lips parted. You both quickly looked away.

Yelena leaned into closer to you and whispered, “I knew it. I heard really weird noises last night.” “Yelena, shut up.” She just chuckled into her cup of tea.

As the conversation drifted elsewhere, your face still radiated heat. Across the table, Bob leaned his elbow against the table and rested his cheek on his hand, sneaking one last look at you. You caught it—and gave him the tiniest smile.

This week was going to be… very interesting.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

HAVE A LOVELY DAY,

BYEEE📙🦋

[adelliet]

Bob Reynolds x f!reader

I’VE GOT YOU

Summary: Bob was injured during the mission and you helped him to ease the pain, as every good girlfriend should.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, nicknames (sweetheart, baby,…), getting caught, crying during intimacy, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, injury, fingering, handjob, unprotected sex (piv), kinda soft & dom, creampie

A/n: Hii! I hope you'll like this story/smut! If you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

By now, the team should have been back. The mission had ended hours ago, and at this point, they should’ve been crowding into the lounge of Stark Tower — laughing too loud, celebrating another successful operation, and raiding Tony’s minibar like they always did. That was tradition. That was how every mission ended.

But tonight, the lounge was silent and your nerves were beginning to spiral.

You hadn’t joined them this time. Not because you didn’t want to, but because it was your mother’s birthday. A rare family gathering, one you couldn’t skip, not even for a world-saving mission. This time, your family came first.

But it wasn’t easy. Because no matter how much you loved your family, this job… this job was your passion.

You loved the thrill, the fight, the fire in your veins as you went toe-to-toe with villains. The satisfaction of saving lives, protecting people, being someone the world looked up to. And the praise? The applause? The adoration? Yeah… that felt good, too. Especially when you had Bob by your side.

Bob had been your boyfriend for a few years now, and from the very beginning, there was something undeniable between you.

That first moment you met — it was electric. A kind of pull. Something you couldn’t name at the time, but felt deep in your chest. You didn’t rush it. The connection grew slowly, naturally.

Conversations turned into glances. Glances turned into touches. And eventually, without either of you having to say much… it became real. You were his, and he was yours.

And when the team found out, they couldn’t have been happier — cheering, clapping, raising drinks in your honor. They loved you two together.

But tonight, that love was being smothered by a rising dread. You weren’t just anxious about the team being late. You were anxious about Bob.

Because while he might be The Sentry, godlike, powerful, nearly unstoppable, that didn’t mean he was untouchable. Something could still go wrong. There were enemies that didn’t play fair. Threats that no one saw coming.

And tonight, you weren’t there to watch his back.

You paced the hallway outside the elevator, arms wrapped around yourself as your boots echoed softly on the marble floor. Your teeth gnawed nervously at your thumbnail. Every few seconds, your eyes flicked toward the elevator doors — praying they’d open.

They didn’t.

Your mind raced, inventing scenario after scenario. Maybe the car had mechanical issues. Maybe there was an ambush on the way back. Maybe one of them got hurt, maybe he got hurt —

You couldn’t finish that thought. At one point, your hand instinctively reached toward your gear, your suit, your weapon.

Your instinct was screaming at you to go. To find them, find him. You were seconds away from sprinting to the armory, from throwing caution aside and flying out there into the night — When you heard it.

Ding.

The elevator chimed and your heart jumped. Your head snapped toward the sound, breath caught in your throat. And in that single moment, everything else faded — fear, anxiety, adrenaline — all waiting for one thing.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft whoosh. Your breath caught, your eyes widened. And for a second, just one suspended, terrifying second, the world around you froze.

Yelena stood there, holding Bob upright, supporting most of his weight as he limped beside her. He looked exhausted, disheveled.

His uniform was torn, one sleeve hanging loose, and his entire body sagged as if every step was a fight. He winced with each movement, clearly favoring one leg. You didn’t wait. You ran straight to him.

“Bob— Bob, are you okay? What happened?” you asked breathlessly, eyes scanning him up and down like you could somehow make sense of the damage with sheer panic.

“I’m fine,” he said, trying to smile. “Just hurt my leg a little.”

But he wasn’t fine. You could see it, the way he winced. The way he tried to hide how much he was leaning on Yelena. His voice was too tight. Too forced.

Your eyes flicked to Yelena, and she gave you a look, equal parts tired and guilty.

“He got the worst of it,” she admitted, her voice low. “Took the hit for the rest of us. Thanks to him, we made it out.”

Something twisted in your chest. You looked at the others trailing into the hallway — laughing, bantering, more or less intact — and then at Bob, still barely standing. He was the strongest among them, and they should have protected him, too. Why was he the only one hurt?

But you didn’t say it. You swallowed your frustration, forced a small nod, and turned back to Yelena.

“Here, switch with me,” you said. She nodded wordlessly, handing Bob over into your arms. You wrapped your arm gently around his waist, guiding him through the hall and into your room. Each step he took made you wince inwardly. He was trying to stay upright, to stay strong, but you could feel how much he was hurting.

Once inside, you helped him to the bed.

“Easy,” you whispered.

Bob groaned softly as he sat down, back resting against the wall, his leg extended in front of him. His breathing was shallow.

“Okay, let me have a better look,” you murmured, crouching in front of him.

You carefully reached for the hem of his pants and began to pull them up, slowly, gently, just enough to uncover the injury.

Bob hissed between his teeth. “Shit…”

The wound was worse than you expected. Not fatal, nor hospital-level urgent. But deep, ragged, swollen, and already bruising around the edges. Blood had dried in streaks down his leg, sticking to the fabric.

“Stay still,” you said quietly. “I’ll get my med kit.”

You moved fast, crossing the room to retrieve the supplies you always kept on hand. You weren’t just another superhero with fists and reflexes. You were trained, a certified medic. In a team like yours, that made all the difference. You’d patched up more people than you could count. But this wasn’t just anyone.

This was Bob. And the sight of him, hurting like this, made your chest tighten painfully.

You returned quickly, climbing onto the bed beside him, hands steady as you laid out antiseptic, gauze, and thread. He watched you silently, eyes soft.

“You’re amazing you know that?,” he said suddenly, voice low and hoarse. “You fight like hell, patch us all up like it’s nothing… And then still find time to take care of me.”

You paused for a second, looking up at him, your hands still hovering over his leg.

“I always find time for you,” you said, voice just as quiet. He smiled — small, tired, but real.

You reached into your med kit with practiced hands, your fingers quickly finding the familiar shape of the disinfectant bottle.

But as you gripped it, your heart sank a little. You knew this part was going to hurt. A lot. Your eyes drifted to Bob, guilt flashing through you.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured softly, already reaching for a nearby piece of clothing, an old shirt that had been tossed carelessly onto the bed earlier. You held it up toward him. “Here. Bite down on this.” He didn’t hesitate.

With a shaky hand, he took the fabric and pressed it between his teeth, jaw clenching as he braced himself. His eyes met yours, full of silent hope and trust, his heartbeat pounding visibly in his throat.

And just before you started, he reached out and grabbed your free hand. His fingers wrapped around yours tightly — not rough, but desperate. Like he needed something to anchor him, something solid, something safe.

You smiled at him gently and gave his hand a small squeeze in return.

“Alright,” you said softly. “Here we go.”

You uncapped the bottle and began to slowly pour the disinfectant over the wound. The effect was immediate.

Bob jerked, his entire body tensing as pain exploded in his leg. A muffled scream escaped into the shirt in his mouth. His eyes clamped shut. He squeezed your hand so tightly your knuckles turned white, but you didn’t flinch. You stayed there with him, steady as stone.

“I know, I know— I’m so sorry,” you whispered quickly, your voice calm and full of warmth as you worked. “You’re doing so good. Just a little more. I’ve got you.”

You continued pouring the liquid around and over the injury with careful precision. His breath came in short, harsh gasps. His muscles trembled from the pain. But you never stopped speaking to him. Words of comfort. Praise.

Only when the wound was fully cleaned and flushed did you finally close the bottle and place it back in the kit. You exhaled slowly, but you didn’t want him in pain for a second longer than necessary, so you gently let go of his hand, reached for the bandages, and immediately began wrapping the injury.

Each motion was efficient, but soft. You worked with purpose, but care, every loop of gauze a silent reassurance: I've got you.

Bob watched you the entire time. He couldn’t take his eyes off you. The way your brow furrowed in focus. The tenderness of your touch. The quiet intensity of your love, visible in every motion. He slowly pulled the T-shirt from his mouth and let it drop beside him, exhaling a little easier.

“Thank you,” he breathed, voice raw but sincere.

You looked up at him, raised an eyebrow, and gave a dry, ironic laugh.

“Oh sure,” you said. “I basically tortured you, and you thank me?”

He smiled, that tired, crooked grin that always melted your heart. “You made it bearable. That’s what counts.”

Once the bandage was secure, you smoothed it gently with your hand, your fingertips tracing the edge. Then, without thinking, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss right to the gauze.

Bob let out a low murmur as your lips pressed gently against the freshly bandaged wound. But it wasn’t from pain. It was a different kind of sound, something soft, something warm. Something that came from the depths of his chest.

You looked up at him with a small smile and tucked a stray lock of his hair out of his face, letting your fingers trail across his skin just a little longer than necessary.

He was watching you. But not just watching, drinking you in. As if you were salvation itself. As if you were the very last thing he’d ever want to see in this world, and if so, he’d die a happy man. Because that’s exactly what you were to him. The center of his universe.

You tilted your head slightly. “Do you want something for the pain?” you asked softly.

He shook his head, still holding your gaze. “No… well—”

You paused, mid-motion, raising your eyebrows in curiosity as you began putting away the medical supplies.

“There is one thing,” he added, his voice suddenly taking on that teasing lilt you knew all too well.

You turned toward him, the first signs of a smirk tugging at your lips. “Yeah? And what would that be?” Bob gave you a playful look.

“Can I get a kiss for the pain?”

Your face immediately flushed. You ducked your head with a soft, breathy laugh, shaking it in amusement. God, he could be so charming when he wanted to be, a total menace, really. And yet somehow, you never stood a chance.

“Sure,” you muttered under your breath, still smiling.

Then, slowly, you lifted your gaze back to his. You leaned in, closing the distance, and gently brushed your lips over his, just barely. A featherlight touch. A whisper of warmth.

But as you began to pull away, Bob’s brows drew together. That wasn't enough for him.

His hand slid up to the back of your neck with firm, but tender insistence. In one smooth motion, he pulled you in and captured your mouth in a real kiss, one that was hot, deep, and absolutely unmissable.

All the gentleness from before evaporated in an instant. Your body tensed, then melted. Your breath hitched. And for a heartbeat, or maybe more, you forgot where you were.

There was nothing but him. Nothing but his lips on yours, his fingers tangled in your hair, the heat rolling off his skin, the electricity sparking down your spine.

Your lips moved against his in a gentle rhythm —exploring, savoring. A tender dance filled with unspoken emotions, every brush of your mouth against his saying I’m here. I’ve got you.

Bob’s hand stayed at the back of your neck, grounding you to him, his fingers gently stroking through your hair. You could feel the tension slowly melt from his body — replaced by something warmer.

You pressed in just a little more. He responded immediately. The kiss deepened.

No longer hesitant or soft — now it was needy. His other hand found your waist, gripping you with just enough pressure to make your breath catch. You could feel the way he exhaled sharply through his nose, the way his lips began moving faster, his mouth opening more, inviting yours to follow.

And god, you did.

Your hands slid up over his shoulders, into his hair, pulling him closer. Your lips parted. Your tongues met.

The heat between you spiked like a lit match dropped on dry leaves. The way he kissed you… it was wild. Messy. Desperate.

Like he’d been holding it back for days, and now that he had you like this, he couldn’t get enough. Couldn’t breathe without you.

You only broke the kiss when your lungs begged for air. You pulled back slightly, your lips tingling, your cheeks flushed, your heart absolutely pounding in your chest. You were both breathless.

“Wait—” you said softly, brushing your fingers across his face. “Aren't you in pain?”

Bob blinked up at you with that dazed, blissed-out expression that made your stomach twist in the best way. And then he smiled.

“Not when I’m with you.”

That answer hit you right in the chest. You couldn’t help it. You let out a soft, breathy laugh. And then you kissed him again.

This time there was no holding back.

He pulled you against him and you leaned into the kiss with everything you had. You could feel the way your bodies fit together, how he reacted to every touch, every sound you made.

With Bob’s hands guiding your hips, you found yourself straddling his lap, your legs on either side of him, your body pressed flush against his. The kiss didn’t stop. It couldn’t stop.

His hands roamed your waist, your back, anchoring you to him as your fingers slid into his golden hair. Your mouths moved in sync, messy and greedy and breathless. The world faded around you. All that existed was this, his mouth, his touch, his heat, him.

Bob wasn’t always like this. He didn’t always kiss you with such bold hunger. He didn’t always touch you with that certain quiet confidence that now made your breath hitch in the best possible way.

In the beginning, Bob had been, without a doubt, the shyest and most adorably awkward man you had ever met. He was gentle, soft-spoken, always watching his words, always second-guessing his actions.

He was sweet, achingly so. That part of him never changed. But back then, he was hesitant. Unsure of how to move, how to approach you, how to let himself have you.

His touches had been featherlight. Fleeting. Sometimes almost nervous. He rarely initiated physical affection — not because he didn’t want to, but because he was scared he’d mess it up somehow. Like if he reached out too fast, he’d break the perfect thing blooming between you.

It was you who tore down the invisible wall between you. You were the one who leaned in first and kissed him.

The one who showed him it was okay to want, to take, to be close. Even when it came to your first sex together, it was you who led the way, guiding him, showing him it was safe, it was good, it was okay to let go.

And Bob let you. He trusted you so deeply, so purely, it made your heart ache. He admired you. Looked up to you like you were something just out of reach, even as you held him in your arms. You gave him space to breathe, to grow — and now, months later, you could see it happening right before your eyes.

His confidence was growing. Bit by bit, day by day, it bloomed. And you loved it.

That’s why now, sometimes, in the middle of kissing, you’d feel his hands tighten around your hips, fingers digging in just enough to make your breath stutter.

Or maybe he’d trail those hands slowly over your waist, your back, your thighs — exploring without hesitation.

Every now and then, he’d even nip at your lips with a playful growl, pulling you closer like he couldn’t help himself.

Not rough. Not demanding. Just free, free with his love, his desire, his joy. And you adored every second of it.

You didn’t even realize when your hips started moving. At first, it was subtle, a slow, natural roll forward as you adjusted your weight in Bob’s lap. But when his hands instinctively tightened on your waist in response, something in you clicked.

That small shift, that tiniest reaction, made the warmth between your thighs flare up into something much hotter.

You moved again. This time slower. More deliberate. You rolled your hips forward once more, then gently back, creating just the faintest friction between your core and the growing bulge in his pants.

Bob groaned into your mouth. It was deep, low, and impossibly sexy. His lips broke away from yours just long enough to breathe, his chest rising sharply under you.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, voice rough and full of heat.

You smirked and tilted your head, letting your lips graze along his jawline as you whispered teasingly,

“Oh? Am I distracting you, Bob?”

His hands slid up your back before settling just beneath your shoulder blades.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin.

“Oh, I think I do,” you said with a quiet laugh, rocking your hips forward again — slower, firmer this time. The friction made you gasp softly against his lips. “You’re not the only one who’s losing their mind here…” And it was true.

Every time your hips moved, you could feel the heat building between your legs. The ache. The need.

Your body was growing desperate for more, even if your brain kept you teasing for now — just enjoying how it made both of you unravel. The way your core pulsed with every motion, every sound he made… it was driving you wild.

Bob’s breath hitched as you gave another grind, just a little harder now.

His lips caught yours in another kiss — deeper, hungrier, messier. And through every moan, every shiver, every little movement, that fire between you kept growing.

He pulled you closer, impossibly closer, his hands now back on your hips, fingers digging into your skin like he needed to feel every part of you.

“Keep doing that,” he growled against your mouth, “and I swear—”

“What?” you breathed, your lips brushing his. “What’ll you do, Bob?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but all that came out was a breathless, broken moan as your hips rolled again, slow and firm. You were torturing him. And it felt so good.

Bob was wrecked. You could feel it, his hard cock beneath you, straining against the soft fabric of his pants. You weren’t much better. The damp warmth pooling between your thighs was impossible to ignore now. Every shift of your hips sent another delicious jolt through your body.

His breath was heavy against your cheek, shaky, restrained. His forehead pressed softly to yours, and for a second… there was silence. Thick, loaded silence. Then his voice broke through it.

“Did you lock the door?” he asked suddenly, his hands still firm on your hips.

You blinked, dazed. “I… I don’t know.”

Bob paused for half a second. Maybe he thought about getting up. Maybe he meant to. But then you shifted again and the friction made both of you gasp softly. He exhaled through his nose. A defeated little groan.

“Screw it,” he whispered.

Before you could ask what he meant, his hands moved. They weren’t rough, but they were sure. Steady. He trailed one hand from your waist down, slowly, like he’d been waiting for this moment all night. The other stayed on your back, holding you close, anchoring you to him.

Your breath caught in your throat. Your heart pounded against your ribs like a drum.

And when his fingers found the edge of your waistband — gentle, teasing, with purpose — your whole body tensed in anticipation. The heat inside you was unbearable. Almost dizzying.

He leaned up, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered with that signature Bob softness, “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

But you didn’t. You couldn’t even think of stopping. All you could do was nod and melt into his touch.

You buried your face in his neck, as his fingers brushed against your wet folds. His movement was slow, rhytmically moving up and down, teasing with a smirk on his face. Every movement sent sparks rushing through your veins. Your whole body responded, arching into him, trembling against him, lips parted in barely audible sighs.

“You like that?” he asked innocently, as if he had no idea what he was doing to you, though he knew exactly what effect he had.

You were grinding your hips against the rhythm of his fingers, warm breaths falling from your lips in shaky moans as you tried to chase more friction, more contact, more him.

You nodded harshly, biting down on your bottom lip, your eyes fluttering shut.

Bob kept the same unhurried pace for a moment, watching you fall apart with a hunger in his eyes that made your whole body buzz. Then, without warning, he slipped two fingers between your folds, slow, deep, and deliberate.

You gasped sharply, your head falling back as your spine arched off the surface beneath you. Your body trembled, melting into his touch, your thighs twitching as he hit just the right spot.

The soft, broken moan that escaped you made his cock twitch inside his pants—his jaw clenched, but he didn’t rush. He wanted to take his time with you. He wanted to remember every sound, every breath, every little reaction you gave him like it was sacred.

And god, the way you looked right now—eyes half-lidded, lips swollen, body squirming under his control—it took everything in him not to lose himself right then and there.

His fingers moved with slow, deliberate intent, curling just right inside you, like he already knew what made your body tremble. You could feel the heat pooling in your belly, the pressure building faster than you expected, and still, he didn’t let up.

You moaned his name softly, a breathless whimper that made him look up at you through half-lidded eyes. He was watching you like you were the only thing that mattered, his lips parted, pupils blown wide with lust.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, at first just resting there—but the deeper his fingers went, the more precise his movements got, the harder you gripped. You tugged, desperate, pulling his head back just a little. He hissed at the sensation, his breath catching as he let out a quiet groan in response.

“God…” he muttered under his breath, his hips jerking subtly against the mattress as your moans grew louder. The way you were reacting to his touch, it was undoing him piece by piece.

His free hand slid up your waist, holding you steady as your thighs began to tremble around his wrist. Your back arched, and another sharp tug of his hair made him grunt, his cock straining almost painfully inside his pants now, but he still didn’t rush.

He curled his fingers deeper, pressed his thumb to just the right spot, and your whole body jumped.

You gasped, eyes flying open for a second before they fluttered shut again. “Bob—please, I—”

“I know,” he said, and kissed the corner of your mouth, voice hot and shaky. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. Let go for me.”

And just like that, the pressure snapped.

Your climax hit like a crashing wave, rippling through every inch of you. Your fingers tightened in his hair, your legs trembled violently around him, and a long, broken cry escaped your throat. Your body arched, locked, then slowly melted back into the sheets, trembling in the aftershocks.

Bob didn’t stop right away. He eased you through every pulse, whispering soft praises against your skin—his own breath ragged, his jaw clenched from the restraint. His forehead rested against your shoulder as he slowly pulled his fingers out, his hand wet, his eyes absolutely wrecked from watching you unravel.

“You okay?” he whispered, and you nodded weakly, your lips trembling with a dazed smile.

Your body was still trembling slightly, your skin flushed and covered in a sheen of sweat. You were breathless, completely undone, and yet your gaze locked on his.

He was staring at you like you’d just knocked the air out of his lungs, chest rising and falling as if he was the one who’d just come. His cheeks were slightly pink, lips parted, eyes dark and wanting.

But then you pushed your hands against his chest, steadying yourself on him, and leaned in a little.

“That was amazing,” you whispered, your voice hoarse, a little shaky… but firm enough to make his brows twitch. “But aren’t you supposed to be the one getting pleasure right now?”

His breath hitched. Then, a soft chuckle rumbled from deep in his throat. “Maybe,” he murmured, his voice still rough. “But I love seeing you like this.”

He leaned forward, grinning like a man who was about to break all his own rules, and kissed you—hard. There was nothing gentle about it this time. His lips crashed against yours with hunger, like he needed to taste the sounds you’d made a moment ago.

You kissed him back with equal fire, fingers sliding up into his hair again, tugging lightly as you deepened the kiss. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your lips.

Then, without breaking eye contact, you slowly lifted yourself up on your knees, positioning yourself between his legs. You reached down, fingers ghosting along his waistband, eyes locked on his as you whispered: “Now it’s my turn.”

His pupils dilated instantly. You tugged gently at his waistband, and he sucked in a sharp breath, lifting his hips with a grunt to help you. Despite the injury, he was more than willing to let you take control.

You pulled his pants down together with his boxers, just enough to reveal the aching bulge straining against his briefs. He was hard. So hard.

Bob hissed quietly as the cool air hit him, his muscles tensing under your touch. You wrapped your fingers around him—slowly, teasingly. His head fell back with a groan, hips twitching slightly.

“Oh…” he whispered, voice tight and ragged. “Your hands are—god, baby…”

You started stroking him with a slow, steady rhythm. Your eyes didn’t leave his face—not even for a second. You wanted to see every twitch of his lips, every furrow of his brows, every stutter of his breath. You wanted to see him fall apart the way he’d just watched you.

And he was. His abs clenched, lips parting around little gasps, the muscles in his thighs twitching as he tried not to buck into your touch. His hand gripped the sheets tightly beside him, knuckles white.

“You feel so good,” you murmured, your voice a breathy purr as you leaned in to kiss just below his ear. “I want to see you lose control for me.”

He growled softly, his free hand sliding up your thigh in pure reflex. “Don’t stop,” he muttered, voice rough and needy. “Please don’t stop.”

You didn’t stop. Not even when his voice began to crack, or when his hips started bucking into your hand involuntarily, chasing every stroke like it was the last bit of sanity he had left.

Bob was panting, his jaw slack, eyes fluttering shut, brow furrowed in that beautiful, desperate way. You leaned in again, letting your breath brush against his ear, and that was it. His body jerked beneath you, and he let out a broken sound, half moan, half sob.

“I—ah—please, I can’t—” His voice shook, cracking at the edges. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes from the intensity, and he clutched at your thigh like he needed something—anything—to ground him.

You kept going. Just enough pressure. Just the right rhythm.

“You can, baby,” you whispered sweetly, lips grazing his cheek. “You’re doing so good for me. Let go.” And he did.

With a soft cry, his whole body tensed. His back arched off the bed, fingers digging into your skin as hot ropes of release spilled over your hand. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one more broken than the last. A few tears slipped free, and you kissed them away softly, smiling like he was the most precious thing in the world.

He collapsed back against the bed, chest heaving, lips parted as he tried to catch his breath. His eyes blinked open slowly, dazed, overwhelmed—wrecked.

“I… I think I saw God,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

You laughed softly and leaned in to kiss his jaw. “Told you it was your turn.”

You let him rest, wiping him down gently with a nearby cloth, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead, tracing your fingers softly along his chest. The room was quiet now, save for the sound of your breaths syncing together. You stayed close, your body pressed together.

Bob’s hand found yours, fingers intertwining lazily, his thumb stroking your knuckles.

But after a while, that hunger returned to your eyes, subtle, controlled, but unmistakable. You shifted slightly, signing that you're ready for more. He blinked up at you, still slightly breathless.

“You sure?” he asked, voice soft but already laced with anticipation. “I… I don’t know if I’ve got much left in me.” You leaned down, brushing your lips over his, your voice a gentle whisper.

“Then just lie back and let me take care of you.”

His breath hitched again as he nodded, completely at your mercy. You reached for your pants to unzip them and somehow manage to get them off together with your soaked panties.

You reached between your bodies, guided him to your entrance, and slowly you sank down onto him. A soft gasp escaped your lips as he filled you, the stretch delicious, his warmth spreading through you like fire.

Bob moaned beneath you, his hands finding your hips as his head fell back against the pillow.

“Mhm… you feel—God, you feel amazing,” he whispered.

You began to move, rolling your hips with careful, steady rhythm. Letting the sensation build between you like waves lapping against a shoreline—slow, sensual, deep. You were savoring every inch of him inside you. Bob’s hands trembled slightly on your waist, half from overstimulation, half from awe.

His head tipped back into the wall behind the bed, lips parted, soft gasps escaping as you rocked against him. His lashes fluttered, brows drawn in that way that made your heart ache.

“You’re so… warm,” he whispered, breath catching. You leaned down, your chest brushing his, and kissed him, deeply. Your tongue moved against his with lazy hunger, and he whimpered softly into your mouth. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer despite his exhausted muscles.

He kissed you like he needed it to stay alive. Like you were oxygen after drowning.

Your hips kept a steady rhythm, dragging every motion out, making him feel all of you. You whispered little praises against his lips, like spells. But the deeper you sank into each other, the more the intensity began to rise.

You started moving faster, your body hungry for him, chasing that rhythm together. Bob’s fingers dug into your hips, his breath growing louder. His body was exhausted but his need for you overrode everything.

You sat up slightly, your hands pressing into his chest again as you began to ride him properly now. Harder. Deeper.

“B-baby, please—” he gasped, tears welling in his eyes again as the overstimulation hit him full force. But he didn’t beg you to stop. He held on.

“I’ve got you,” you breathed, voice firm and loving. “You can take it, I know you can.”

And he could. He did.

Even in his spent state, he tried to meet your thrusts, hips twitching upward with what little strength he had left. His hands ran over your body like he couldn’t get enough, fingers trembling against your waist.

“I—I love you so much, I can’t—” he groaned, voice breaking. Your movements faltered for a second as those words hit, and your eyes met his, wide, open, vulnerable. And he meant it. Every word. Your chest tightened with something far deeper than arousal.

“I love you too,” you whispered, and then your lips were on his again, devouring the moment.

You rode him harder now, moaning into his mouth as your body coiled tighter and tighter. His name fell from your lips like a prayer, again and again, and his gasps turned to cries.

He was losing it, hands gripping you, moaning brokenly, muttering your name like he was afraid he’d forget it if he stopped.

And when you clenched around him just right, you felt him shudder.

“I’m gonna— I can’t—”

“You can,” you whispered against his lips, grinding down hard. “Let me feel it. Give it to me.”

And he did.

His second climax ripped through him like a thunderstorm, violent, overwhelming. He let out a desperate, shattered sob, clutching you tight as he came inside you, hips jerking uncontrollably. His whole body arched, muscles seizing, breath stolen right out of his lungs.

You followed just seconds after, crying out his name as you collapsed against him, your body trembling from the force of your orgasm. It was perfect.

You stayed there, forehead to forehead, chests pressed together, your bodies still joined. Bob was shaking beneath you, completely spent, tears still glistening on his lashes. But he was smiling. That dazed, euphoric, in love kind of smile.

“God,” he whispered, brushing his fingers weakly along your back. You kissed his cheek, tasting the salt of his tears.

“Did I ease the pain,” you whispered back, “at least a little bit?”

He laughed a soft, breathless sound. “More than a little bit darling.” He held you tighter, like he never wanted you to leave and both of you were happy, warm, still inside of each other, still connected.

Then suddenly a click. The door creaked open.

“Hey, I just wanted to check if Bob’s—”

Bucky froze mid-step. Your eyes flew open in horrified realization. Bob turned his head, blinking in confused panic.

“Oh my god—”

“SHIT!” Bucky’s eyes went wide. Like regret-wide. He immediately spun on his heel and slammed the door shut.

“NOPE—NOPE—I DIDN’T SEE SHIT!” His voice echoed faintly from the hallway, clearly scarred for life. There was a beat of absolute silence.

Then you and Bob slowly turned to look at each other with wide eyes. You were still inside him. His hair was a mess. The sheets were chaos. He swallowed loudly and then you burst out laughing. Bob followed a second later, throwing his head back with a groan.

“I swear to God,” he wheezed, voice still breathless, “I’m never going to be able to look him in the eyes again.”

You giggled uncontrollably, burying your face in his neck. “Well,” you snorted, “looks like I forgot to lock the door.”

Bob let out a helpless, high-pitched laugh, wrapping his arms around you tighter even as his cheeks burned red.

“Babe, I love you… but we’re never speaking of this again.”

“Too late,” you grinned against his skin, still laughing. “I’m gonna tease you forever.” And even though embarrassment still buzzed under your skin, neither of you moved.

You stayed like that as long as you could and even though the two of you were thoroughly satisfied and wrapped in each other’s arms, Bucky was probably out there somewhere, scrubbing his eyes with bleach.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a lovely day!

BYEEE🪻🌂

[adelliet]

Bob reynolds x f!reader

FATAL ACCIDENT

Summary: When Bob accidentally caught you in a deeply inappropriate moment, he decided to make it up to you. He brought muffins and suggested a movie night. Neither of you expected what would happen next… or how everything would change between you.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, unprotected sex (piv), dry humping, multiple orgasms, stimulating through clothes, cum in pants, soft sex, creampie, sleeping inside of each other, sweet ending, sub!Bob, use of Y/N

A/n: Hi there! I hope you'll like this story/smut! I really tried my best so…anyways, if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

It was late, well past midnight, when Bob found himself standing outside your door. The rest of the tower had gone quiet hours ago, wrapped in the peaceful hush that only came once the chaos of the day had settled. Lights were dimmed, hallways empty, and the low hum of distant generators was the only thing keeping him company. But he knew you. You were a night owl, always the last one to go to sleep. That’s what brought him here in the first place.

He told himself it was just a small question about the mission briefing tomorrow. Something minor. Something he could’ve asked anyone else, sure—but not at this hour. And not with the way his brain kept coming back to you, no matter how many reasons he tried to invent.

So, he knocked. A quick, rhythmic tap. Nothing.

He paused, waiting for your voice, footsteps, any movement. Silence. He knocked again—same rhythm, a little firmer this time. Still, nothing.

He called out your name gently, voice soft but just loud enough to carry through the door. Not a yell, but enough that you would’ve heard it if you were in there.

Still no answer.

That ache in his chest started to grow—tight, warm, and completely irrational. He knew you were probably just asleep, headphones in maybe, passed out after a long day. Nothing bad had happened. He told himself that twice, then again, like repetition would make it true.

But it didn’t ease the tension building behind his ribs. It didn’t stop the way his fingers curled against his palm or the faint pull in his stomach as the silence stretched on. And still—no sound from the other side of the door.

Bob’s worry was growing by the second. He knew that you were probably fine. But still, that uncomfortable knot in his chest didn’t go away. He lingered by the door, biting the inside of his cheek before clearing his throat softly.

“Can I come in?” he asked, still hopeful for a response.

Nothing.

He hesitated only a second longer before his hand reached for the doorknob. He turned it slowly, carefully, as though the metal itself might protest. The door creaked slightly as he pushed it open, just a crack at first.

He peeked inside, half-expecting to catch you mid-change or in a situation where he absolutely should not be present. But the room was empty.

No one in sight.

He stepped inside, carefully closing the door behind him with a soft click. The room smelled faintly like your perfume and something warm, like vanilla and fabric softener. Familiar and comforting.

But then he heard it. The sound of running water. A soft, steady stream. His eyes darted toward the bathroom door. It was slightly ajar, just enough for steam to be drifting out and curling into the air.

You were in the shower.

Relief rushed through him like a wave. You were safe. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and smiled to himself, already turning to quietly slip back out of the room. He could talk to you tomorrow. No big deal.

“Y/N?” Yelena’s voice rang out from down the hall.

Bob froze. Panic hit him like a truck. The sound of footsteps rushed toward the door. She was heading this way. Fast.

“Oh no no no,” Bob whispered under his breath, looking around in a frantic circle. His brain went blank. If Yelena saw him in your room, especially this late, especially without you even in the room, well, that would definitely send a message. One he wasn’t ready to explain.

His eyes darted to your closet. No good. Not enough room. Under the bed? He’d never fit. His thoughts were racing. The doorknob outside jiggled slightly as Yelena neared—

And in a moment of sheer panic, Bob made the only decision he could. He turned and slipped into your bathroom. The steam hit him like a wall and before his brain could yell STOP, he realized where he was. Inyour bathroom while you were still in the shower.

Bob’s hands were up like he was surrendering to an armed SWAT team, his fingers trembling as sheer panic rushed through his entire body. His chest was tight, breathing shallow, and every cell in his brain was screaming, Why are you here? Why the hell did you think this would be a good idea?

He stood frozen, wide-eyed and pale, as the sound of the shower continued, taunting him. There was nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. He was in the bathroom. With you. While you were still in the damn shower.

And before he could even string together a plan, or even a thought, he heard her again.

“Y/N!” Yelena’s voice echoed louder now, clearly already inside your bedroom.

Bob’s soul practically left his body. From inside the shower, your annoyed voice finally rang out over the sound of the water.

“I’m coming!” you shouted, clearly frustrated.

Then the stream shut off. Bob’s heart jumped into his throat. His tongue felt dry as sand. His skin was burning and cold at the same time. Oh no. Oh no. Oh God.

He stared helplessly at the fogged-up glass of the shower door, and when you slid it open— he saw you.

Completely naked.

Water still clung to your skin in droplets, sliding down the curve of your neck, your collarbones, gliding along your thighs like liquid silk. You hadn’t seen him yet, but he was already about to combust from embarrassment and sheer secondhand shame.

And then your eyes landed on him.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” you screamed, your voice pure panic and fury as you instinctively reached for a towel and yanked it around your dripping frame.

“I—I’m sorry—I didn’t—” Bob choked out, immediately spinning around to face the wall, his entire face a violent shade of red. His hands went back up, this time like he was trying to blot himself out of existence.

But fate wasn’t done dragging him through hell just yet. Because just then, Yelena pushed the bathroom door open. And paused.

“Woah. What the fuck is happening here?” she asked in her signature deadpan tone, heavy Russian accent slicing through the awkwardness like a hot knife through shame.

You, still clutching your towel and dripping on the floor, looked absolutely stunned. “I have no idea what he’s doing in here!” you snapped, eyes wide with a cocktail of betrayal and pure what-the-actual-hell.

Bob didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He was practically vibrating with anxiety, lips pressed into a thin, miserable line. His whole body was trembling like a leaf caught in a storm.

He was so unbelievably screwed.

It was the next afternoon when you heard a soft knock on your door. You didn’t even need to ask who it was. You knew instantly.

“Come in,” you called calmly, already anticipating the awkwardness that was about to step through the door.

Bob peeked his head in first, like he was making sure it was safe before fully entering. Then, with a hesitant “Hey…” he stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind him.

He looked… guilty. Shy.

His cheeks were flushed pink, his posture small and careful, and his legs? Slightly shaking. He was holding a plate of something in his hands—and the second he came closer, the sweet scent of freshly baked muffins filled the room like a warm, edible apology.

You were sitting on your bed, a book in your lap, one brow raised as you watched him silently. You weren’t mad anymore—but you were curious. And you were definitely going to make him squirm a little first.

For a moment, the room was wrapped in silence. Bob shifted awkwardly, his weight bouncing between his feet, clearly searching for the right words.

“I, uh…” he started, eyes flicking to yours then immediately down again. “I wanted to apologize… for yesterday. I—I didn’t mean for any of that to happen and… as an apology, I… got you these.”

He stepped forward, extending the plate like a peace offering, holding it out to you with a hopeful look in his eyes.

The muffins smelled amazing—still warm, soft in the center with little chunks of what looked like chocolate and banana. You looked up at him and took a deep breath.

He looked so genuinely remorseful. That kicked-puppy look on his face nearly made your heart melt. You knew he didn’t mean to barge in on you, and you definitely knew he wasn’t some creep.

Still. You had one burning question.

“Why were you even in there?” you asked gently, but there was still a bit of edge in your tone. You needed to hear it straight from him.

Bob’s arms retreated slightly as he clutched the plate back toward his chest, like the question caught him off-guard.

“I—I just wanted to ask if you were coming with us to the England mission,” he said honestly, blinking fast. “That’s all. I swear.”

Ah. That explained it. That put the final puzzle piece into place.

You nodded slowly, letting out a small breath and placing your book aside. You scooted forward, settling on the edge of your bed, resting your hands down on the mattress beside you.

Your expression shifted, now more playful than stern.

“So…” you said, tilting your head just slightly. “How much did you see?”

Bob blinked, clearly caught off guard by your question.

His eyes widened just a bit, and his shoulders tensed.

“Uh—I didn’t see anything,” he said too quickly. Way too quickly. “Like… nothing at all. Swear.”

You raised a brow. Just stared at him. That stare that you knew always made people squirm. Bob shifted awkwardly, the plate of muffins now looking like the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

You didn’t say anything. You just waited and it worked. Eventually, he cracked. His shoulders slumped as he sighed, gaze flickering down to the floor like it was the only thing willing to forgive him.

“Okay… I—I saw a little. But I barely remember, I swear. It was just a second.”

His voice was soft, guilty. And you couldn’t help but laugh. You shook your head with a smile and stood up from the bed.

“It’s fine, Bob,” you said with a gentle wave of your hand. “I’m over it.”

You walked up to him, close enough to smell the sugar and chocolate clinging to the muffins.

“You made these?” you asked, nodding toward the plate.

He nodded sheepishly. You narrowed your eyes, suspicious.

“You don’t bake.”

“I don’t,” he admitted with a shy chuckle. “But… I looked up your favorite recipe. I figured if I’m gonna apologize, I should at least do it right.”

His voice was so genuine, and there was something so… stupidly sweet about the way he stood there, just hoping they were edible.

You smiled again, softer this time, and reached out to pick up one of the muffins. You took a bite. It was warm, fluffy, and the flavor hit perfectly. Just the right balance of chocolate and banana.

Honestly? Kind of impressive.

“They’re actually really good,” you said, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Thanks.”

There was a moment. A quiet beat between you where something sparked. You looked at him. Really looked at him.

“Try one,” you offered, nudging the plate toward him.

“Oh, no, I—” Bob took a tiny step back. “They’re for you.”

Before he could make another excuse, you rolled your eyes, grabbed the plate from his hands and picked up another muffin.

“You’re eating it,” you said, no room for negotiation.

He opened his mouth to protest, but you were already pushing the muffin into it.

Literally.

He choked out a laugh as you shoved it into his face. He bit down instinctively, chewing with his cheeks puffed out like a squirrel, crumbs already on his lips. You giggled, watching him use his fingers to wipe his mouth, and that’s when something shifted.

Suddenly, time slowed. The laughter died down, but that flutter in your stomach didn’t. A pulse between your legs sparked to life, and you became acutely aware of the heat building inside you.

You watched the way Bob chewed, the way his jaw moved, the way his tongue darted out to catch a crumb near the corner of his mouth.

And just like that… you were wet. Soaking.

And all you could think about was how pretty he looked. How soft and gentle.

Of course, Bob had always been cute to you. From the very first time you saw him, with that messy hair and his little giggle that felt too soft for someone who flew jets and handled missions like a pro.

He was sweet. But never hot. Not in a “I want to drag you into bed and ruin you” kind of way. But now? Something had shifted.

You didn’t know if it was the ovulation hormones messing with your brain chemistry, or the fact that he saw you naked in the shower, or maybe it was his maddeningly addictive cologne, but something clicked.

And suddenly… he was sexy. Like, you-couldn’t-stop-thinking-about-his-mouth sexy.

You bit your lip and watched as Bob finished chewing the piece of muffin you’d shoved into his mouth. His lips moved slowly, tongue catching a few crumbs.

He swallowed, glanced at you and said, “It’s not that bad, actually.”

His voice pulled you out of your internal spiral. You nodded a little too quickly, letting out a soft hum in agreement, a smile playing at your lips. He smiled back, a little shy, a little unsure.

“Well…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “I should probably let you get back to your book.”

You tilted your head. “You’re not bothering me.”

But he still insisted. “Yeah, but… I mean—you probably wanna, y’know, process everything. I just—yeah.”

He moved toward the door, slowly, awkwardly, and you returned to your bed, settling into the pillows with your book in one hand and another muffin in the other, though your eyes weren’t exactly on the page.

Bob was halfway out the door when he paused and turned back.

“Oh! Uh—one more thing,” he said, his voice just a bit higher than usual. “Bucky finally helped me set up that TV in my room, so… I was thinking maybe, tonight, if you’re not busy, we could watch a movie?”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “You want me to be your test subject?”

He shrugged, smiling nervously. “I just don’t wanna sit there and watch it alone like a loser.”

You laughed softly. “Sure, Bob. I’m in.”

His smile widened, that same boyish grin that somehow made your stomach twist now in a very different way.

“Cool. Uh—great. I’ll… come get you later then?”

You nodded, trying not to look too eager. “Sounds good.”

He gave you one last smile before he disappeared behind the door, and the second he was gone your book was forgotten. Your thighs pressed together, the ghost of that look he gave you still lingering.

The lights were dimmed in Bob’s room, the only real glow coming from the soft flicker of the TV screen. You were both sitting on his bed, technically his bed, but it didn’t really feel like that now. Not with the way you were both perched on the edge of it, backs resting lightly against the wall, a shared blanket covering your legs.

You sat just far enough apart for it to be considered “friendly.” A safe distance. But god, you wanted to move closer.

The movie playing was some classic, older film, one of those feel-good, slightly cheesy ones with warm lighting and 90s nostalgia oozing out of every frame. It was so Bob. Of course he’d like something like this. Comforting, predictable and sweet. Just like him.

From time to time, your eyes would drift toward him. He was so focused on the screen, eyebrows twitching ever so slightly during tense scenes, mouth curled just faintly at the corners when something funny happened.

And maybe that was the problem. Because his pure, oblivious cuteness was driving you insane.

Your eyes trailed down to his hands, resting in his lap. To the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. To the way his Adam’s apple bobbed whenever he swallowed. You could practically hear the blood rushing in your ears.

You licked your lips, trying to focus on the movie, but the images blurred. You weren’t even listening anymore.

Why the hell was this happening to you? Why are you suddenly feeling like this? Was it the way his thigh was just barely brushing against yours under the blanket? Or maybe it was that familiar soft scent of his cologne, sweet and woodsy and him?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t fair. Not when he looked that innocent, completely unaware of the storm building inside you.

You’d been pretending to watch the movie for the last ten minutes, but let’s be honest—you hadn’t registered a single scene. Your mind was elsewhere. On him. The steady warmth beside you, the way his scent filled your lungs, the shape of his jaw in the soft glow of the screen.

And then… you cracked. You turned your head slightly, looking at him from under your lashes, your voice soft—almost too soft.

“Hey… um, I’m kinda cold. Mind if I scoot closer?”

It wasn’t even cold.

Bob’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, like you’d just asked him to recite Shakespeare in Russian. He blinked, then gave the tiniest nod.

“Y-Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

You moved closer, slow and deliberate. Your shoulder brushed his. He didn’t flinch—didn’t pull away. Good. But his whole body tensed like a drawn bow.

And then came the real move, you gently laid your head on his shoulder.

Bob didn’t breathe. Like literally, he just froze. His fists clenched in his lap, not from discomfort—but from sheer sensory overload.

He could feel you. All of you. Your warmth sinking into his hoodie, your hair brushing his jaw, your scent melting into the air around him. His brain short-circuited.

This wasn’t a dream, right? You weren’t just… doing this?

He swallowed hard, throat dry, trying not to move or ruin the moment. Your thighs were just barely touching under the blanket. That soft friction, the tension—goddamn.

You noticed everything. The way his jaw clenched. The shudder that ran down his spine. The way his breath stuttered ever so slightly.

Your lips curled into a small smile. He was nervous—but not in a bad way. Not because he was uncomfortable. He was nervous because it mattered to him. And maybe that made it all the more intoxicating.

The sexual tension was practically radiating off his skin—buzzing in the tiny space between your bodies, where your arms nearly touched.

You shifted just a little closer. So close now that you could hear his heartbeat pounding like a drum.

The movie was still playing, but your focus had drifted miles away. Not on the screen. Not on the plot. But on Bob.

The air felt thicker somehow, heavier with something unspoken. Every small glance at him only made it worse. That gentle look on his face, the way his eyelashes brushed his cheeks when he blinked, his throat bobbing every time he swallowed—everything was unbearable in the best kind of way. You had this ache, low and steady, impossible to ignore.

So you moved.

Under the blanket, slow and casual, your hand found his thigh. Just a gentle rest, as if you needed a place to land. Bob tensed immediately, his whole body reacting like a live wire being sparked. His breath hitched, but he didn’t stop you. Not even a flinch. He stayed still, as though frozen in place, except for the way his chest was rising just a bit too fast to be calm.

Your thumb began to brush soft circles along the fabric of his sweatpants. Just small, teasing motions, and yet you could feel how it made him react—his thigh twitching slightly beneath your touch, his jaw clenched tight, lips slightly parted as though he didn’t trust himself to breathe through his nose anymore.

You turned your head and whispered, slow and velvety, “By the way… those muffins? They were amazing.”

Bob blinked, once, twice, and barely managed a grunt of a response, like speaking full words would crack him wide open. He gave a slight nod, clearly trying to keep his composure, but failing beautifully.

You smiled, wickedly pleased, and lifted your head from his shoulder so you could really look at him. His eyes locked on yours immediately, wide and uncertain—but undeniably filled with heat. And hope.

“Did you…” you started, voice dipped low like velvet on skin, “like what you saw yesterday?”

He froze.

His lips parted, but no sound came out. His hands, still clenched in his lap, curled even tighter. It was obvious he was trying to say something, trying to figure out if this was real or a fever dream he was about to wake from. The red on his cheeks deepened, and his eyes darted from your face to your lips and back again.

“I—uh—I didn’t mean to—I mean—I didn’t really see—”

You leaned in closer, your hand still warm and steady on his thigh.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I don’t mind.”

And then you moved your hand. Just a little higher, right where his twitching dick was.

Bob let out a shaky breath—one of those breaths that almost sounded like a prayer, or a curse, or both. He looked like a man on the edge, hanging by a thread spun from every suppressed feeling he’d ever had for you. The tension in his body, the nervous flicker in his eyes, the way his lips parted and didn’t quite close again—all of it screamed one thing:

He wanted you. Badly. And you knew. You leaned in, lips inches from his ear, and asked one last question, barely more than a breath:

“Do you want me to stop?”

Your fingers moved slowly, so slowly it almost felt like an accident. A barely-there stroke through the soft fabric of his sweats. He twitched. You felt it. And still, he didn’t move. He just stayed still, frozen, his breath hitching in his throat and he couldn't even answer you.

Bob’s eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling. His lips parted slightly, a quiet sound slipping from his mouth—a mix between a gasp and a helpless whimper.

You turned your head just enough to see his face. His brows were drawn together, his jaw tight, and he looked so unbelievably vulnerable. Lost. Struggling. But not stopping you.

“You like it?” you whispered, voice low and warm.

He nodded, quickly, too quickly, but didn’t speak. You kept going, slowly, tenderly, through the fabric, feeling the way his whole body reacted to your touch. He was holding onto the edge of the blanket with white knuckles, his other hand hovering, as if unsure where to go or what to do.

“And did you like yesterday?” you asked softly, meaning the shower incident. You leaned a little closer, lips brushing his ear.

Bob choked on a breath, and his head tilted back slightly. “I-I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to— I mean—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. His voice cracked.

You smiled.

“I think you did,” you murmured.

And then, just as his breath caught and his hips gave the tiniest, helpless twitch beneath the blanket, you felt it. His whole body tensing, stuttering, a soft, broken noise escaping his throat as he came apart completely under your hand.

Bob froze, then practically curled into himself. Face flushed deep red, breathing erratic, shame washing over him like a wave.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he whispered. His voice was small, strained, like he wanted to disappear.

“No I'm sorry I didn't mean to,” you felt guilty, more than Bob did. You just wanted to tease him a bit, just a few touches. Who knew Bob was that sensitive, but in the end you didn't mind.

“I uh…it's been a while since I've been with someone…” Bob tried to explain himself, even tho he didn't need to. You understand. You smiled at him, sighing.

“It's okay…we can go slow,” your sweet tone calmed Bob down, his chest wasn't raising that fast, and his eyes softened.

The eye contact was so loud, but at the same time so quiet. Soft and gentle, barely brushing your lips against his, just testing the waters, but when you kissed him again, he melted. Your lips were making wet sounds, as you explored your mouths, touching your tongues and mixing your salivas.

After a long make out session, you slowly swung one leg over his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs, the quiet rustle of your clothes and the soft shift of the bed were the only sounds for a moment.

Settling on top of him carefully, you totally made him forget everything else but the feeling of you, the heat between you, the way your mouths moved together like they were made for this.

His hands finally moved to your hips, trembling just slightly, like he needed the confirmation that this was real.

The pressure of you settling onto him was electric. Your bodies fit together like matching puzzle pieces, your chest pressed gently to his, and you could feel the way his breath stuttered beneath you. Your forehead met his for a moment, just a shared breath, your fingers tangling in his tousled hair.

Then, really gently, you began to move. Not urgently, not to finish something, but to explore. The softest grind of your hips into his, dragging fabric against fabric, building friction that made his lips part in a quiet, broken gasp. His eyes fluttered closed, lashes kissing his cheeks, and his hands clutched your sides like he needed grounding.

You could feel it all. The growing heat pooling low in your belly, the ache between your legs intensifying with each shift, and the clear tension in Bob’s body as he whimpered helplessly. His head tipped back against the wall, exposing the long line of his neck, and his thighs tensed beneath yours.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly, your voice breathless but sure.

He nodded quickly, voice cracking. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, please.”

The desperation in his whisper made your stomach flip. You leaned forward, kissed along his jaw, his ear, and then back to his lips—this time slower, deeper, letting him feel how much you meant it. How much you wanted him.

And still, your hips moved. Measured rolls that made his breath catch and his hands dig just a little harder into your waist. The tension between you thickened like honey, sticky and warm, and everything slowed down.

He whispered your name like a prayer, and when you whispered his in return, voice thick with want and wonder, he shivered, completely undone beneath you.

Your fingers moved cautiously, tracing the hem of his shirt. You paused, eyes flicking up to meet his, giving him a silent chance to pull back. But he didn’t, he just nodded slightly, and that was all you needed.

You slid your hand under his shirt, your palm meeting the heat of his skin. He shivered immediately, muscles twitching beneath your touch, and you felt him grip your hips just a little tighter — not to stop you, but to anchor himself.

“Still okay?” you murmured against his lips.

He swallowed thickly, nodding. “More than okay.”

Piece by piece, you began to remove each other’s clothing, slowly, like unwrapping a secret. Every inch of exposed skin felt like a discovery. His shirt first, then yours. His eyes widened when he saw your chest, and for a moment, he just stared, completely speechless.

You smiled softly, brushing his cheek with your fingers. “You’ve seen me before, remember?”

“Not like this,” he whispered, voice rough and reverent.

His hands ghosted over your sides, hesitant at first, as if afraid you might vanish. But you didn’t, you leaned into his touch, and his hesitation melted into something bolder.

The more skin you revealed, the more the tension between you tightened, until it was a living, breathing thing. And when the last layer of clothing fell away, when you were both completely bare, there was nothing left to hold back.

Bob looked up at you, his hands trembling slightly where they rested on your hips. His eyes, full of something deep, searched yours, like he needed your permission again, even though you were already here, already his.

You leaned down to kiss him, slow and deep, your lips moving against his in a way that made both of you sigh quietly into the space between. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell faster, how his body tensed beneath yours as you slowly rolled your hips, letting the sensation build gently, teasingly.

He moaned — not loud, but broken, like the sound had been pulled out of him without warning. His hands flexed against your skin, not guiding you, just holding, grounding himself in the reality that this was happening. That you were here. That you wanted him.

“God… you feel so good,” he breathed, voice low and shaky.

You smiled softly against his neck, then whispered, “So do you.”

When he finally slid into you, it was careful — almost reverent. There was no rush. No hunger to claim. Just the slow, aching press of bodies coming together, like a deep breath being exhaled after being held too long.

Both of you stilled for a moment, your foreheads pressed together, hearts pounding in sync. You were full of him — not just physically, but emotionally. And in that moment, you swore you felt something inside you settle. Like a missing piece had finally found where it belonged.

You began to move together, slow and deliberate, each thrust more about connection than release. His hands roamed up your back, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades, like he couldn’t bear to let go of even an inch of you. Every time your hips met, a soft gasp or whimper left your lips, answered by the way Bob groaned low in his throat, utterly overwhelmed by how good you felt around him.

The air between you was thick with warmth, your bodies slick with sweat but never frantic. The way you kissed him between moans, the way his hands stroked your sides with a trembling tenderness, it all spoke louder than anything you could’ve said out loud.

“I’ve never—” he choked out, voice cracking, “—never felt anything like this.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Me neither.”

Your pace quickened slightly, not from desperation but because your bodies knew each other now, moved together naturally. You could feel yourself getting closer, and from the way Bob’s grip on you tightened and his hips stuttered slightly, you knew he was too.

But neither of you chased it. You let it build, let it take its time, let it matter.

And when you finally came — together, as if perfectly timed — it wasn’t explosive. It was soft. Like sinking into something that had always been waiting for you. You held each other through it, every muscle trembling, your mouths finding each other again and again as if to say, I’m here. I’m still here.

Even as your breathing slowed and your bodies softened, you didn’t pull away. You just stayed there, tangled together in warmth and silence, hearts thudding gently in the same rhythm.

The world had gone quiet. Neither of you spoke for a while. There was no need to. You were both still coming down from the high, your minds slow, your bodies heavy and satisfied.

Bob’s chest rose and fell beneath you, his heartbeat echoing faintly in your ear where your head rested against him. You could feel that he was still inside you, the connection unbroken, and neither of you seemed in a hurry to move.

You shifted just slightly, a tiny sigh escaping your lips as your thighs twitched from the lingering tension. Bob pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, the gentlest thing, like he was afraid he’d wake you even though you were still very much awake but fading.

Your voice was quiet, half-murmured against his chest. “You okay?”

He let out a breath, almost a laugh, and nodded slowly. “Yeah… I just… I don’t think I’ve ever felt this calm before.”

You smiled, your eyes closing at the sound of his voice, that low, warm rasp that made your chest flutter even now. “Me neither.”

There was a pause. Not awkward, not heavy, just peaceful. The kind of pause where two people are so content, silence feels like part of the conversation.

You felt yourself drifting, your body melting further into his. Your legs tangled with his, your arms limp, every inch of you relaxed in a way you hadn’t known you needed. You were safe. You were full — in every sense of the word. And his presence beneath you was like an anchor, a soft place to land after everything.

Your breath started to slow. Your eyelids fluttered, heavy. Sleep pulled at you like the tide.

And then, just as you began to slip under, Bob’s voice, barely there, a whisper made of breath and feeling, broke the stillness.

“I love you.”

He didn’t say it like he expected an answer. He didn’t even say it like he meant for you to hear. It was quiet. Almost scared. Like a secret that had waited far too long to be set free.

But you didn’t stir. You were already gone, lost to sleep in the safety of his arms, your face soft and peaceful against his chest.

Bob looked down at you, his expression unreadable for a moment, then full of something tender, something real. He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, let his fingers rest against your naked back, and closed his eyes.

He will never forget this moment.

And so do you.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

HAVE A LOVELY DAY,

BYEEE🫑🍋‍🟩

[adelliet]

Bob reynolds x f!reader

HOT MISSION

Summary: After the mission, you, Alexei, and Bob are finally heading home. But the entire drive, you can’t focus on anything else except your boyfriend—and how good he looked while fighting. So when Alexei pulls over to take a quick bathroom break in the woods, you see your chance and take it.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, semi-public sex, reader is horny asf, soft Bob, unprotected sex (p i v), creampie, dry humping

A/n: Hii! I hope you'll like this story/smut! This is kinda short but I absolutely love it! I am obssesed with Lewis Pullman since I saw him in Thunderbolts*. Holy moly. Anyways, if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

You and Bob had only been together for a short while, but in that short time, it had become undeniably clear: you were the sexual deviant in the relationship.

Bob was shy. Sweet. Careful. He let you take the lead, followed wherever you pulled him — and you loved pulling. You weren’t even sure what it was that made you this obsessed. Maybe it was how innocent he looked, how goddamn adorable he was, like some lost puppy who didn’t yet know what he was capable of. But that innocence only lit the fuse on something much darker inside you. Something feral. Something insatiable.

He turned you on by simply existing. Breathing. Blinking. You weren’t even sure it was healthy — hell, it probably wasn’t. You were obsessed. Maybe dangerously.

And that obsession? It was making itself known right now.

You sat in the passenger seat, next to Alexei, legs bouncing with barely contained tension. One leg wouldn’t stop trembling — a frantic, pulsing rhythm that mirrored the heat between your thighs. You stared out the window, pretending to care about the trees rushing past, but your thoughts were filthy, soaked, dripping with images of Bob.

You could feel the wetness in your panties, hot and needy. You tried to breathe slow, steady. You tried to focus on the damn mission, or the road, or anything but him. But today? He had ruined you. The way he moved during the mission. Confident but still so damn gentle somehow. The way he wiped blood off his cheek with that dazed little smile, like he didn’t quite realize how beautiful he was. Every word out of his mouth made your skin burn. Every look he gave someone else made you want to straddle him in the middle of a warzone just to remind him who he belonged to.

You were drunk on him. Fully intoxicated. It felt like he’d slipped something into your drink, but it wasn’t drugs. It was just him. And you were high. Addicted. Hopelessly gone.

And poor Bob, sweet oblivious Bob, was just sitting in the backseat, gazing out his own window with a small, content smile. He had no idea what he’d done to you.

He was just proud — proud the mission had gone well, that he hadn’t screwed it up like his overthinking brain kept warning him he would. He’d been so hard on himself lately, so tightly wound, and today he’d actually done everything right. It could be seen in the way his shoulders relaxed, the soft little breath he let out as he leaned against the seat. He looked… happy.

And then there was Alexei.

Beside you in the driver’s seat, the Russian tank of a man was practically buzzing with joy. The mission had been a complete success, and he was riding that high like a rollercoaster. He talked nonstop — cheerful, loud, blissfully unaware that your brain was halfway undressing Bob. Every few minutes he’d turn to you, asking questions or making jokes, but all you could offer in return were occasional grunts or distracted nods. You barely even heard him.

Even his deep, booming voice couldn’t break through the noise in your mind — the breathy moans in your imagination, the fantasy of Bob’s hands on your body, his lips fumbling against yours, the taste of him… God.

You clenched your thighs together. You were completely losing it. And Bob? Still had no idea.

Alexei said something.

You weren’t even sure what. Words hit your ears like static. All you could do was nod slowly, eyes still locked on the glass, watching nothing but your own reflection. The heat between your legs was making you delirious. And when he asked again, louder this time, with a little laugh in his voice, you finally blinked and turned toward him.

“Huh?” you said, your voice sweet and coated in distraction. “Oh. Sorry. What was that?”

He chuckled, completely unfazed. “You okay? You look like you’re about to fall asleep over there.”

You gave him a tired smile, nodded once. “Just… worn out.”

“Da, da, of course,” he said with a shrug, one hand still resting on the wheel. “Long day of shooting bad guys, I get it.”

You turned back toward the window with a sigh of relief. He had no idea. None. And he didn’t ask again — just kept talking, mostly to himself now, rambling stories in that deep, animated voice of his.

Your brain wasn’t listening. Your pulse was drumming in your ears. Every second you spent sitting still next to Alexei felt like torture. Bob was still right behind you. Right there. Close. And still so fucking far.

But then, finally — salvation.

“Okay, okay,” Alexei said suddenly, his voice cutting through the air like a bell. “I need to pee. Like now. I drank three Red Bulls, this is your fault.”

You turned your head quickly as he pulled the car over to the side of the road near a quiet patch of woods. He was already unbuckling.

“I’ll be back in a minute. Try not to get kidnapped while I’m gone, da?” He flashed a grin and climbed out, slamming the door behind him.

The moment it clicked shut, your body reacted like a gunshot had gone off. You moved.

Crawled, practically, over the center console and between the seats — a mess of limbs and heated breath. Your heart was hammering against your ribs, a wild, unstoppable rhythm. Adrenaline and lust surged through you like lightning. You didn’t think. You just went.

Bob looked up at you from the backseat, wide-eyed. His expression was pure innocence, lips parted in surprise, his seatbelt still snug across his chest. He smiled, so sweetly it nearly broke you.

“Hey,” he said, soft and happy. “You okay?”

You weren’t breathing right. But not from the climb. From the heat — that aching, dripping heat that had soaked your panties long before Alexei even stopped the car. You hovered over Bob, panting like you’d just run ten miles, every nerve in your body on fire.

Without a word, you cupped his face. His cheeks were warm under your fingers. So soft. You kissed him harshly.

There was no hesitation. No build-up. Just lips crashing against his, tongues clashing, teeth nearly clicking from the sheer desperation. It was hungry — like you were starving, and he was the only meal that would ever satisfy you.

Bob let out a small noise, almost a whimper of surprise. His eyes were huge, his hands frozen at his sides. He didn’t know what hit him.

“Mm—!” he mumbled, eyebrows lifting as you kissed him deeper. His body tensed, caught between confusion and desire. But then, just as your hands started to slide down his chest, just as your hips shifted closer toward his lap—

He gently grabbed your wrists.

“Wait—wait,” he said, his voice still breathless, barely above a whisper. His eyes were wide, his lips kiss-bruised, his breath shaky. “What’s… what’s going on?”

It felt like you were on a mission. A new objective. One that had to be completed under a strict time limit, in a very, very confined space. And yet the heat between your legs made every second feel like a ticking bomb. Your pussy was on fire, pulsing, aching. You needed Bob. Now.

You stared at him — breathless, pupils blown wide like you were on something. Your chest heaved up and down with every shaky inhale, lips parted, heart racing like it was trying to escape your ribs. You looked like you were about to pounce, like a starving predator cornering the one meal it had left in the world.

Bob, for a moment, just stared back at you. Confused. His sweet, innocent eyes searched yours, trying to figure out what the hell was happening, and then it clicked. You saw it happen. The realization spread across his face like dawn breaking through clouds.

“I need you, Bob,” you whispered — breathless, raw, desperate.

Your fingers flew to his seatbelt, unclipping it with the speed of light. The click of the release echoed in the small space of the car as your other hand already started fumbling at the button of your pants.

“Woah, woah—hey, baby—” he gasped, catching your wrist again, holding it tight. His voice cracked, and when you looked at him, those big, soft puppy eyes nearly melted you.

“Let’s just wait till we’re home, yeah? We’ll have space, we’ll have time—”

“I need you now,” you cut him off, your voice trembling with urgency. It wasn’t just a want. It was a need, primal and overwhelming. You were whining, practically begging, and Bob heard it. Felt it. Your need clung to the air, thick and humid and impossible to ignore.

It killed him, seeing you like that. So turned on, so lost in it. And god, he wanted to give you everything — himself, all of him. But the risks, the space, the fact that his brain was already spiraling…

“But Alexei—” he started.

“We’ll make it,” you snapped. Immediate. Unshakable.

Bob knew right then: he’d lost.

Any argument he might’ve had, any excuse, any delay — you would’ve crushed it in a second. You were in control now, and your body language screamed it. When you felt his grip on your wrist loosen, just slightly — when his fingers eased up, not fully letting go but almost — you wasted no time.

You surged forward.

Your lips found his again, hungrier than before. This time, when you kissed him, he hesitated… but not for long. His lips responded, shaky and unsure, but there. His hands twitched at your sides, like he didn’t know where to put them. But he was kissing you back.

You straddled him.

Your hips moved on instinct — slow at first, grinding against his lap, trying to find some kind of relief. That ache between your legs was maddening, pulsing and wet and unbearable. You could feel the friction through your clothes, just enough to tease you, to scratch at that desperate itch but never quite satisfying it.

Your lips never left his.

You kissed him like you were starving — devouring his mouth with breathy moans and growled whimpers. Every slide of your tongue, every bite of his bottom lip, was fueled by the pent-up tension that had built from the moment the mission ended. You had craved him the entire ride home. And now he was finally under you.

Bob let you take the lead.

His hands came to your hips slowly, almost shyly — as if he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you, even after all the times you’d done this. Even after all the ways you’d shown him how badly you wanted him. That was just Bob. Always gentle. Always asking for permission to touch you.

But there was no time for asking now. You rolled your hips again, harder this time.

Your pussy throbbed with every motion, your clit catching against the ridge of his jeans. The pressure was heavenly — not enough, never enough, but so damn close. You gasped against his lips, hips rocking with more purpose now, grinding down like your life depended on it.

Bob groaned softly beneath you, his breath catching. He gripped your waist tighter, trying to keep up, trying to match your rhythm even though he was clearly overwhelmed.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

With shaking hands, you pushed your pants down — underwear and all — sliding them off in frantic, jerky movements, doing whatever it took to free yourself. The second you did, cool air kissed your soaked folds and you let out a trembling exhale. Your thighs quivered. Your skin buzzed.

Bob swallowed hard.

His eyes, wide, stunned, reverent, dropped to where you were exposed. Even though he’d seen you like this before, been between your legs before, he still blushed. Still. The softest shade of red colored his cheeks, climbing to his ears. It was fucking adorable.

You climbed back onto his lap without hesitation. Naked now. Dripping. You rocked again.

This time, the wet heat of your pussy pressed directly against the thick bulge in his jeans. You moaned — high, breathy, uncontrollable. You could feel him growing harder beneath you with every grind, every stroke of your slick folds against the rough fabric. The heat soaked through his clothes, leaving a visible wet patch between his legs.

You were soaking him.

And part of you wanted to apologize — meant to, really — but there wasn’t time. Not now. All that mattered was the friction, the pressure, the tension mounting inside your core, winding you tighter and tighter until it felt like your entire body was about to snap.

Bob whimpered under you. Soft, needy, broken sounds spilled from his parted lips every time your soaked pussy rubbed against the hardness straining in his jeans.

His head lolled back against the seat, neck exposed, throat working with every swallow. His fingers twitched against your hips — unsure if he should pull you closer or hold on for dear life.

He was trembling. You could feel it. Every inch of him was buzzing — not from fear, but from that unbearable tension that made his breath hitch and his thighs tighten.

He let out the softest, most pitiful moan when you rocked harder, faster, dragging your slick folds across the rough denim. You could practically feel the wetness seeping through — sticky and hot, soaking into the fabric that was still in your way.

It wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

The friction helped. That delicious texture of the seams and fabric pressed against your aching clit made your toes curl, your lips part in a gasp, but it was nothing compared to what you really needed. Not pressure. Not teasing. You needed Bob.

Your hands moved on instinct, desperate and shaky, fumbling at the front of his jeans. Buttons. Zippers. Whatever it took.

Bob watched you, wide-eyed and breathless, chest rising and falling rapidly. His lips were slightly swollen from your kisses, and a thin sheen of sweat glistened along his collarbone. When he saw you struggling, too shaky and eager, he reached down with trembling fingers to help.

Together, you finally got them open. And you didn’t wait a second. You gripped the waistband and pulled everything down — jeans and boxers in one impatient yank. Bob gasped, his whole body tensing as his cock sprang free.

Even though you’d seen him before — touched him, tasted him, had him — the sight still made your breath catch. Made your pussy throb.

His cock was flushed and thick, veins prominent along the sides, the head an angry red and already glistening with precum. He was longer than you’d expect for someone so sweet and nervous — a contradiction to his shy demeanor. The contrast made you wetter.

You stared for a second, only a second, letting the image burn itself into your brain, the way he was twitching under your gaze, his thighs flexing, his hands clutching at the seat, knuckles white. His cheeks were on fire, painted in that telltale pink that spread to the tips of his ears. And yet he didn’t look away.

He looked right at you.

With those soft, pleading eyes, full of need and hesitation and so much goddamn trust.

You couldn’t wait another second. You didn’t want to. Not when your entire body was pulsing, screaming, burning for him. Teasing him had been sweet agony, but now? Now, it was time.

You climbed into his lap again, hands bracing yourself against the seat as your legs straddled him fully. Bob blinked up at you and let out a soft gasp as you leaned in to kiss him.

It was fast, deep and wet. Your breath mingled as you moaned into his mouth, your hips already shifting downward with a desperate urgency. His hands were on your waist again, not guiding, not forcing, just there, because he wanted to feel every second of this.

You reached between your bodies and wrapped your hand around him.

The moment your fingers touched his length, Bob hissed through clenched teeth — his head falling back, throat flexing. “G-god…”

His cock twitched in your hand, already so hard it almost hurt to hold. You gave him one quick stroke — slicking him up with his own precum — before lining yourself up.

And then… you sank down. Slowly. So painfully slowly. At first, just the tip, pushing past your soaked folds, parting you open with a stretch that made your toes curl. You gasped. Bob whimpered. Your bodies both shook.

Your head tilted back as you took more of him in, inch by inch, your pussy squeezing tight, clenching around him with greedy need. Your nails dug into his shoulders, through the fabric of his shirt, and he hissed again, not from pain, but from how intoxicating it felt to be inside you.

“Jesus,” he breathed, barely able to get the word out.

Your walls were hot, wet, and tight — impossibly tight. Every little movement made him twitch inside you, and the way you clenched around him as you adjusted only made things worse. Or better. Depending on who was asking.

You let out a low, shuddering moan, your forehead resting briefly against his. “Shit… you’re so big…”

He swallowed hard, eyes fluttering open to look at you. “Are you—okay?”

You nodded, but your breath caught again as you finally bottomed out, your hips flush against his. You were full. Stretched to your limit, stuffed in the best possible way. A delicious ache settled deep inside your belly.

And Bob was shaking.

His fingers flexed on your hips like he was trying to ground himself. His mouth was parted in a soft, helpless moan, and his eyes fluttered shut again as he whispered, “You feel…you feel so good…”

You just sat there for a moment. Not moving. Just breathing.

Soaking in the heat of him inside you. The stretch. The weight. The sound of his soft, whimpering breaths in your ear. Your walls fluttered around him, adjusting, needing, wanting more.

Your foreheads were pressed together, breaths tangled in the limited space between your mouths, lips brushing but never fully touching, as if both of you were too lost in the moment to close the distance again. You started to move—slowly at first, tentative, like you were just testing the limits of your own restraint… and his.

The slightest motion sent heat blooming deep inside you, your body clenching around him with each careful roll of your hips.

The feeling—so full, so overwhelming—had your breath catching in your throat. Bob whimpered. His fingers tightened ever so slightly on your hips, not enough to guide you, just enough to tell you he was losing control.

Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging now and then when his tip brushed just right against the tender spot inside you, sending shivers rippling down your spine.

His head tilted back slightly, mouth falling open in a breathy, helpless moan. His cheeks were flushed, his brows drawn together in pure focus, like he was holding onto every ounce of self-control he had left.

And then… you sped up.

Your hips began moving with more urgency—forward and back, faster each time. Your thighs trembled with effort, your breath stuttered, and the slick rhythm of your movements filled the air along with the soft, sweet curses and gasps that escaped both your lips.

Bob’s voice rose in pitch, his hands shaking now as he tried not to dig his fingers too hard into your skin. He bit his lower lip, trying so hard to hold back—but it was written all over his face: he was overwhelmed. Completely, hopelessly overwhelmed by you.

You kept going. You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. You bounced, gasped, pressed your forehead back to his as your bodies slapped together, the sound quickening along with your pace. Beads of sweat gathered at your temples and slid down the curve of your spine, and a few drops dripped onto Bob’s thighs, making him flinch. His whole body was hot, trembling, and so red he looked like he might actually explode.

And just when your strength faltered, just when your body screamed for mercy, Bob took over. His hands clutched your waist and began to move you with him, slow but deep at first, and then—

He hit it. That perfect angle. That one spot inside you that sent you spiraling.

You cried out, your body arching against his, eyes wide and blank as your fingers clawed into his shoulders. He whimpered, nearly choked on his breath, and kept going, his voice breaking with every thrust that pushed you closer and closer to the edge.

You couldn’t stop. Neither of you could. The rhythm was desperate now—quick, reckless, unrelenting. Every sound in the car was either your gasps or his moans, the wet slide of your bodies, the creak of the leather seat beneath you, and the sticky, rhythmic slaps of your hips meeting his.

Bob’s grip on you tightened. His head fell back, lips parted in a strained cry.

“Oh—god, baby, I—” he choked out, his voice cracking with the intensity building inside him.

Your thighs burned, but your body didn’t care. You were too close. You felt him swell inside you, and your walls clenched around him with the same urgency flooding your veins. You were overheating, completely unraveled, every nerve in your body firing like a live wire.

Then it hit.

You cried out, a broken, breathless sound that echoed in the cramped car, as your climax shattered through you, pulling your entire body into spasms. Your hands flew to Bob’s shoulders, nails digging in, your forehead pressing against his as you gasped through wave after wave of white-hot pleasure.

Bob followed.

With a strangled moan and a sharp inhale, he came—deep inside you, twitching, warm, filling you with such intensity it made your toes curl. His breath stuttered in your ear, his voice just a whisper:

“God, I love you—”

His release mixed with yours, wet and messy, dripping onto his thighs, pooling between your bodies, soaking the seat beneath you. You were flushed, sticky, trembling.

And completely spent.

Your limbs gave out. You collapsed forward, your body pressing to his chest as your head buried itself in the crook of his neck. His skin was damp with sweat, but it felt like home. Your heart pounded, breath unsteady, your voice small and weak as you whispered against his skin,

“I’m sorry… I am so sorry…”

Bob’s arms wrapped around you gently. He cradled your head, kissed your temple, and spoke with a tired, affectionate chuckle.

“It’s okay. I promise. You’re okay.”

You stayed there for only a moment before Bob’s body suddenly stiffened.

“Uh—uhh, babe?”

You lifted your head, confused and bleary-eyed, following the direction of his gaze. Outside the window was Alexei, walking back toward the car. Your eyes went wide.

“Shit—”

Panic set in instantly. You scrambled off Bob, legs shaking, heart pounding in your chest like a war drum. Both of you moved with lightning speed, throwing on whatever clothing you could find, still sticky, still flushed. Bob yanked his pants up halfway while you dove over the console back into the passenger seat.

You just barely landed, chest still heaving, hair a mess, when the car door swung open. Alexei climbed in, blissfully unaware.

“Guys! You would not believe what I just saw. I was takin’ a leak, right? And then—bam—hedgehog. Middle of the woods! Just starin’ at me like I interrupted his bathroom time!”

You blinked, heart pounding.

“I… don’t wanna know more,” you said weakly, trying not to sound winded.

Alexei, of course, kept going. “Nah, nah, it was hilarious! Little dude just waddled away. I think we had a moment.”

You burst out laughing. Half in amusement, half in pure relief.

The car started, and you leaned back in your seat, your body still aching, still buzzing. You were exhausted. You were blissful. And yes… you were filled in more ways than one.

Bob sat behind you, quiet, red, still catching his breath—but the smile on his face said it all. He adored you.

And this? This was the best damn mission debrief you’d ever had.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

Have a lovely day!

BYEEE🪴🥒