#Sentry Box

[vintagepromotions]

Poster advertising The Sunday Times (c. 1960). Artwork by Patrick Tilley.

[to-search-again]

[vacationimpossible]

Sentry Box - The World's Largest Game Store!

[lobeliamaximoff]

the way he is listening to her

the way he is listening to her and almost every single word she says is a lie

he is so beautiful and pure, he so genuinely wants to help, to be useful, and she is weaponizing it, she is taking advantage of the mentally ill person just so she doesn't get to prison.

Val is absolutely disgusting in this scene.

[roguefort]

bento boxes!

[lenny-link]

Absolutely going insane over how you draw / write mini sentry /pos!!

Thank you! Im mainly inspired by Gir from Invader Zim when i draw her lol but besides being hungry for waffles and tacos shes hungry for blood :)

Couldn’t resist drawing mimi in the iconic Gir hoodie lmao

Also a bit of BMO (adventure time) where she believes she’s a real kid and the daughter of engie not just a machine :P

[popculturebuffet]

TMNT Month Finale: The Christmas Aliens (TMNT 2003) (Comisson for WeirdKev27)

Merry Christmas all you happy turtles! Christmas time is here again, so it's time for hog chocolate, nog, and christmas specials and we're beginning the Christmas season and ending TMNT month with a damn fine one.

I'm happy to end this look at TMNT on my faviorite of the 5 cartoons so far. I love the others: 87 has goofy charm and tons of creativity, 2012 does the second best job in the franchise of crunching down years of diffrent continuities into one and updating a lot of 87's ideas, Rise is a feast for the eyes and has plenty of belly laughs and weirdness and what i've seen of Tales matches the film best it can while expanding on it, letting the brothers breath as indivduals.

2003 however just has that magic to me. Part of it was nostalgia: while I grew up with leftover 87 turtle toys, 2003 was MY turtles, with 12 year old me consumed by it's style, the best voice actors for all 4 turtles, and it's gripping story. At a time when not a ton of cartoons were seralized TMNT 2003 embraced longterm storytelling, with Season 1 largely following one storyline with the next and most having consequences, with a sprinkling of fun one offs sometimes adapting single issues of the comic sometimes doing their own thing. It's one long epic saga I definitely need to revisit more often both on this blog and just for funsies.

It also is a stellar adaptation, taking a good chunk of the Mirage Comics that TMNT came from and faithfully bringing them to screen while still giving them depth and clarity the original comics sometimes lacked. That includes today's episode, an episode i'm shocked i'd never saw and thank Kev for suggesting when I needed a smaller review to finish out the month and for sponsoring.

The Christmas Aliens adapts the Michealangelo Micro Series. Micro Series were a bunch of one shots, the label a fun jab at how many mini series marvel put out in the 80s and 90s. The Microseries issues are important though as they helped flesh out each turtle on their own, and with the exception of Donetellos where he teams up with Jack Kirby to fight aliens

Each one had some impact on the universe as a whole: Raph's introduced Casey, Leo's lead into the Foot Clan's return, and Mikey's introduces his cat Klunk. It's a tradition the IDW comics picked up and ran with, having one shots not only for the turtles (as always plot relevant) but also April, Casey, Splinter, and the Fugatoid, with a second 8 issues focusing on their foes: Krang, Shredder, Baxter Stockman, Aloplex , Hun, Old Hob, and of course sharing an issue for their debut, Bebop and Rocksteady. It's something I love as it gives character spotlights easily, the micro series name is fun and it's something I wish IDW had done more with or would bring back, as it spread to Transformers and MLP and could easily be used with TMNT again or any other properties they pick up.

All four mirage micro series issues were adapted for the series: Raph's was adapted as "Meet Casey Jones", Donnie's as "The King" Leo's as "The Shredder Strikes Back Part 1", and Mikey's with this episode. In fact Christmas Aliens is weirdly the only one not adapted in season 1, being adapted in season 3 instead. I do get the wait as Mikey getting Klunk meant their being driven from the lair in season 1 would of been harder to do knowing a sweet innocent kitten would be left behind at best, though I still tilt my head at why it took till season 3 when there seemed to be room in season 2 for a fun runoff. Regardless it's a fun adaptation i'm glad to have finally seen that captures mikey as a character and the christmas spirit all in a tight 22 minutes. And you can join me in unwrapping this christmas present under the cut.

We open with our usual cold open, with Mikey in a car chase putting the hammer down and giving some random goons hell. I would've preferred if they started slightly earlier in the plot, not giving away that Mikey has to end up driving the truck but it dosen't harm the story either.

One kickass theme song and Mikey is enjoying Christmas Eve drinking in the warm glow. It's adorable as hell, and ripped directly from the comic. In fact his whole subplot is pretty much a panel for panel remake of the comic with some very slight changes to fit with the series better or just because i'll point out as we go.

It's infectious to see Mikey so excited, enjoying the snow even if he has to wear an itchy scarf to blend in, and how happy everyone is. It's a part of Mikey I wish got emphasized more in adaptations, with even this one slipping on it from time to time: his heart. Mikey may be the goofiest and usually the one to keep the surfer dude accent as a not to his 87 self, but he's also the kindest of the group, the one trying to reform enemies and who takes the violence and losses the hardest. He's an empathetic kind young man who just wants to help. It's why the IDW version is my favorite as while still quick with wisecracks and youthful energy, he has an innocence and tiredness from the fight I love.

2003's a close second though. Wayne Grayson has my faviorite voice out of the Mikey's so far, a nice mix of sarcastic fuckboy younger brother and kind weirdo. This episode is a perfect showcase as it gives him some more range, just being happy and innocent as he enjoys a winters day, borrowing a sled from Ash Catchem to do some sick tricks and just being a big old kid. It's also a nice moment of peace in the turtles chaotic lives.

Along his shenanigans Mikey finds a tiny kitten, cold and in the snow and picks him up, adopting the little guy on the spot. It's something I'm glad does seem to be a consistent thing for mikey, adopting a pet cat, adopting Klunk in this cartoon, the mirage comics and the IDW comics and adopting ice cream kitty in the 2012 cartoon

Clap, clap for the best 2012 TMNT Chracter CLAP!

So as Mikey gets a forever friend, the turtles spend the b plot getting ready for christmas, which is an addition to the cartoon and a truly great one. The bits back at the lair are just the turtles enjoying each others company and basking in the season: Donny bakes cookies, April brings a tree with a grumpy casey's help.. for which he gets the door shut on him.

There's also a nice variety of guests from other episodes: We have Angel, casey's little sister figure from the episode of the same name, the Professor, a kind homeless man who trades the turtles various things for clothing and who they helped save from the Junkman, two other homeless persons from the same camp, and the Silver Sentry, a superman style hero who Michealangelo idolizes and worked with during his career as the turtle titan. We also get one big non sequenter of a guest apperance as the Grand Daimyo, head of the battle nexus arrives. The Battle Nexus is a once every few years tournament and the site of the best arc of the series, the Big Brawl. it also allowed the turtles to meet our two final guests: Miamoto Usagi and Gen.

Usagi is the star of Usagi Yojimbo, a long running indie comic. Creator Stan Sakai met Eastman and Laird as the furry books tended to get put at the same tables and became fast friends. As a result Usagi has had guest appearances in the Mirage comics, IDW COmics, and the first three cartoons, with 2003 having easily the most. He and Leo exchange swords

And in general it's a charming subplot. We get fun antics like Casey trying to get a smooch with mistletoe with the help of Raph and Angel, and Raph and Casey arm wrestling the Sentry, who takes a dive so april can win as a joke, and gets cookies as a reward. It's fun seeing Sentry here as he's so delightfully awkward. He and the homeless folks are blindfolded with Sentry noting he can see through it but going along with it for Splitners sake, and delighting in the cookies. It's great holiday fun and a nice use of the supporting cast, as well as a kind reminder of how many friends the turtles have picked up.

The rest of the plot is all Mikey as he goes through one hell of a Christmas Eve. He doesn't have to free Nakatomi Plaza but he might've wished it. He goes to the toy store. In the original story it was to shop , here it's to gaze adoringly, something Leo correctly guesses. I love this Christmas Story style window gazing and it just adds to it and removing the present thing isn't a bad factor as we really only need one Ninja Turtle stories where their shoping at the last minute. He presumibly sung some opera on his way there.

However his winter fest ivies are interrupted when he hears some noises and finds some goons hijacking a truck of little orphan alien dolls. The goons are the same ones as the pilot minus the blue haired guy what got murdered who also what got a spotlight in the dreamwave comics.

Mikey follows after they knock out the store owner and tucking Klunk in his coat, proceeds to fucking ski after them, grabbing a loose extension cord hanging out of the truck. It's not only a nice case of chekovs gun for the sledding earlier, showing he can winter sport well, but it's also a really fun action set piece, with mikey easily dodging and only stopping when the guy at the wheel smartly brings him forward so the others can shoot.

Mikey is a ninja turtle though, so he simply dodges, dips inside the back of the parked car and ambushes the two assholes before jumping into the back to do a beverley hills cop. He dose'nt spend long burning doing the neutron dance though as he heads up front and saves the car. Unfortunately the thug called for backup and in a change from the story Mikey has to out drive a speedster.

I love how he gets out of this too: when the car tries to ram him, he decides "what would raph do" and picks up speed, the car darting out of the way and getting taken by the cops. Unfortuantely said cops, who mikey called for, think Mikey's a robber and he has to avoid them for a few minutes.

Having successfully evaded the police Mikey returns to his family who are all pissed.. mostly Raph. Which isn't a high achievement but given he nearly killed mikey for less earlier in the series, best not to test him. Mikey gives a speech and then says how they can all help out. We cut hopefully after dinner to the orphanage where all the turtles are dressed up as elves, along with Usagi, and splinter as santa, a touch I could not love more. The guy from the toy store is also there so presumably the cops still aren't looking for mikey. Ther'es only room for one turtle in jail and it's steve. Steve knows what he did. Fucking steve.

So we end heartwarmingly as the turtles pass out presents, an orphan gets to pet a cat and Casey gets a kiss because why not it's Christmas. A wonderful end to a wonderful episode.

The Christmas Aliens is one of the best episodes of TMNT 2003 i've seen, a delightful Christmas episode oozing with Charm. Focusing on Mikey was a brilliant choice in the comics and a fun christmas subplot for everyone else was a great way to get the story to episode length without padding it out. It allows the original story to be adapted as is with only one additional action set piece and klunk becoming a ginger (He was grey in the color verison of the black and white comic), but still be a satisfying episode and it's fun to see the best family in fiction just have a nice moment of piece. I'm shocked there hasn't been that many other turtles christmas adventures; Two in the IDW comics, both versions of christmas aliens and we wish you a turtles christmas are it and we frankly could use more. Perhaps we could get a mutant mayhem special. Until then though we've got possibly the best you could get out of the premise to keep us warm and I intend to revisit this one each winter. Thanks for reading, i'm pullin for you, we're all in this together.

[moonb0nes]

Fall Narrative Mordheim Campaign is finished!

This week marked the end of the Rust Punks narrative campaign; Road to Mordheim. I had so much fun playing this season, and I wanted to write something about my experience.

My Warband, The Palebray Dispoilers

This season I decided to run Beastmen! I’m already working on a beastmen army for TOW and I thought it’d be a great opportunity for me to play with my paint scheme and get some much needed work done.

Lore wise, I didn’t develop much for my overall army aside from one big detail. The Palebray Dispoilers (bravely lead by my chieftain Baerox the Bearpelted) are monster hunters, every opportunity I had to go for a large target or a high value target, I went for it. This included a time where my Minotaur attempted a leaping attack from the top of a treetop banister. As I will soon mention our final match was against big monsters so I rushed them down like a raging lunatic.

The final match involved everyone creating and painting a “Thing in the woods” and as I was already making a Jabberslythe I decided to finish building it and to paint it! Here it is facing off against a Cathayan Peasent! (And a little mid game group pic)

I wish I could’ve finished painting them but I’ve been swamped with work and it doesn’t seem like I’ll have more time soon.

Anyways, thank you to Rust Punks for letting me play and thank you to the Sentry Box for hosting! Here’s some more game pics for y’all 🤘😁

[nerds-yearbook]

In 1634, the legendary sentry boxes (later known as The Devil’s Sentry) were completed at Castillo San Cristobal. (“Ye Who Enter Here” Marvel’s Agents of S.H.E.I.L.D., TV)

[angeltism]

Haiii 〜 ♪　— 🍓

helloo ribbone yayayay !! how are uu ? :3

[sunkissedsentry]

writing requests are open!! i’ll do hc’s, blurbs, one shots. i’ll take requests for any thunderbolts, frank castle, and possibly clark kent from superman 2025 :D

[em1i2a3]

Spanish Sahara

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: After a rough week at the Thunderbolts Compound, the team goes out for some drinks to wind down and enjoy themselves.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob and other characters from the movie are in here. Fluff, and Smut are the main warnings here, Bob and Reader have an established friendship.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all), Praise/Worship Kink, Breast Play, …Something involving a mirror, Very light choking, Oral Sex (f! And m! receiving), Fingering, Swallowing, Bob is a frickin softie as usual because that’s hot but he definitely has his moments in this, Overstimulation, Teasing, Aftercare to the max because being taken care of after hot sex is…Wheew lol. I don’t think I missed anything

Author’s Note: I saw a lot of people requesting more smut and I thought as a nice little break from the super long fics that I’m working on (that request box has a lot of them and I’m chipping away at it as much as possible!) I’d write a nice little one-shot for y’all to celebrate a random Friday in May 😂 enjoy!! (Side note, I also had a funny little ask about how I name my posts lol, I literally just picture the songs in what I’m writing, the title changes like three times by the time I post it lol)

Word Count: 13,796

The bar was loud, crowded, and hazy with cheap smoke and too many conversations happening at once–but Bob was only paying attention to you, and attempting to look normal in his surroundings, which was always a complicated feat for him.

You sat across from him in the booth, your body framed in golden lamplight and neon beer signs like some half-lit portrait in an art museum. You looked too good to be real–flushed with warmth from your second tequila pineapple of the night, bare-legs crossed just enough to make his brain short-circuit, lips glossed a cherry red like you’d done it just to ruin him.

And maybe, somewhere deep down, he thought you had.

The others were scattered across the bar like background noise–Ava and Yelena flanking the bar with their usual chaotic grace, Walker and Alexei pounding back shots and shouting about God-knows-what, and Bucky leaning over the pool table, unknowingly feeding lines to a group of women who didn’t care if he could shoot or not.

But Bob hadn’t looked away from you in nearly half an hour.

Not when you uncrossed and re-crossed your legs beneath the table, the movements slow and fluid, like you wanted to give him something to look at. Bob’s eyes had followed the motion instinctively–drawn to the soft slide of skin, to the way your thighs shifted beneath the hem of your black tailored shorts. They were high-waisted and fitted, hugging the dip of your waist and the curve of your hips, cinched with a single gold button that glinted every time you moved.

You’d paired them with that wicked bodysuit–the one that clung to your body like second skin, high-cut at the hips and daringly low in the front, just enough to frame the soft curve of your cleavage without giving away too much. It was backless, sleeveless, and made of some silky, matte fabric that shimmered faintly in the bar light. You wore it like armor, like a challenge.

Your legs were bare, golden under the dim glow, crossed at the knee with one foot tucked behind the other–long, lean, and deliberate in how they were presented. Every detail about your look tonight felt curated–not in a fake way, but in the kind of way that said I know exactly what I’m doing to you. And Bob? Poor Bob looked like he was under your spell.

He couldn’t stop looking.

Every time your drink got dangerously low and you leaned forward–elbows resting on the table, cleavage pressing softly together–you dragged the last sip from your straw with a slow, teasing pull that made something in him twist. He watched the way your lips curled around it, how a single droplet of condensation slid down the side of the glass and clung to your fingers. He was transfixed.

You laughed at something the waitress said–he didn’t even register what–and it echoed in his chest like a bell. That sound always got to him.

And tonight, he wasn’t hiding it. Not well, anyway.

His eyes kept drifting–over your mouth, the curve of your collarbone, the smooth stretch of your exposed shoulders, down to the shadowed dip between your breasts. Then he’d catch himself and flick his gaze up like he could undo what he just saw. Like he was trying to remind himself that he respected you too much to stare, even though he’d been staring for months.

He was trying so hard to be polite. His hands were clenched in his lap, fingers tangled and twitching like they were holding back something much stronger than impulse. His posture was rigid, like his own body was betraying him one muscle at a time.

He was always like that around you–reserved, yes. But it wasn’t just shyness. It was respect. Fear. Like every thought he had about you was too big to name out loud. Like if he touched you, he’d never forgive himself for crossing that line.

But he’d already crossed it, hadn’t he? Not physically–but emotionally, because Bob Reynolds had been in love with you for a long, long time.

And you knew it.

You saw it in the way he always noticed when you were tired after a mission, the way he made you tea without asking, or stayed behind in training sessions he wasn’t even involved in just so you’d have someone to spot you. You saw it in the way he flinched when someone else made you laugh, or how his voice went into a cracked whisper only when he said your name.

He was putty in your hands. And you loved it. Not because it gave you power–but because he let you have it. Because he trusted you with it.

And as much as the friendship meant to you–deeply, intimately–you’d stopped lying to yourself months ago. Your brain was always a few steps ahead, mapping the timeline of how you’d get from here–from this bar booth and his helpless eyes–to there. To a place where Bob Reynolds was no longer just your best friend, but something closer. Something that meant yours.

So you didn’t say anything. You just watched him.

Watched how his breath caught every time you shifted. How he wet his lips nervously when you leaned forward. How the pulse in his neck jumped like he could feel your eyes on him.

His fingers twitched again, folded too tight in his lap. You followed the motion, noted the way his knuckles went white.

There was a sheen of sweat on his temple now–barely noticeable unless you were looking for it, which you were.

And poor Bob didn’t even realize how obvious he was.

So you decided to make it worse for him.

You slipped off your shoe under the table and slowly–very slowly–ran your foot up the length of his shin. A gentle drag, barely a touch, but intentional. Controlled. The kind of touch that said I see you. And I want you flustered.

Bob jolted like you’d zapped him with a live wire.

His leg knocked the underside of the table with a hollow thunk, and his hand shot out, sloshing his Coke Zero just short of the edge. His knuckles were white around the glass. His jaw dropped slightly like he meant to say something but forgot what language was.

His cheeks–already pink from the warmth of the room and the low buzz that he was getting from just being around you–flushed deeply, the color spreading up his neck and painting his ears red. You swore even his throat blushed. He pushed his light brown hair out of his face nervously, like he was afraid it would cloud his vision of you.

You tilted your head, smirking. “Cold in here?”

He blinked like he’d just come out of a trance. His lashes fluttered rapidly over wide blue eyes–those eyes, impossibly pale and clear, glassy with surprise and something raw beneath it. Want, maybe. Or fear.

“Y-Yeah,” He stammered, voice cracking slightly. “A–A little drafty.”

“Mmm.” You stretched in your seat, arms rising lazily above your head, making sure the movement pulled the neckline of your bodysuit lower. The fabric shifted with you, stretching softly across your chest, exposing a bit more of the delicate skin he’d been trying so hard not to look at.

His gaze dropped like he didn’t even mean to let it.

And then he swallowed–hard–his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat.

But Bob didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His breathing had gone shallow, his tongue caught against the roof of his mouth like he’d forgotten how to form words. He looked like he was choking on air.

You didn’t let up.

Your foot moved again–slow, deliberate, and this time it brushed higher, just right on the inside of his thigh, where the heat of his body was more noticeable. Where he was trembling.

His breath hitched instantly, and a soft, involuntary sound escaped him–a sharp exhale, half-panic, half-arousal. His fingers dug into the wooden edge of the booth like he was bracing for impact.

You leaned forward again, closing some of the distance between you, letting your arms rest on the table and your chest push together ever so slightly in the low light. He couldn’t look away.

“You’ve been looking at me like that all night, Bob,” You said, your voice velvet-soft, the tone curling up his spine.

His head snapped up like you’d struck him–eyes wide and wild with guilt, pupils dilated in the low light. His brows pinched upward with alarm, his mouth parting in a panicked breath.

“I… I didn’t mean to–” He rushed out, but it came out broken.

You reached across the space between you, wrapping your hand around his wrist before gently cutting him off

“I want you to look.”

He froze.

His whole body went still, like he was afraid to breathe. His eyes–so ocean-bright and boyishly soft–flicked over your face with disbelief, feeling your thumb run over the exposed skin of his wrist.

You smiled at him again, slower this time. Not to tease. But to reassure.

“I like that it’s you,” You said, your voice dipping into something quiet and unshakably sincere.

He blinked, slow and stunned. His lashes cast little shadows under the low-hung light, and you saw the exact moment something cracked in his chest.

“You’re the only one,” You continued, “Who’s never looked at me like I’m a game to win. Or a body to take. You look at me like I’m something you’re afraid to break. Like I’m something you cherish.”

His lips parted again–slightly dry, slightly trembling.

And you saw it. The shimmer in his eyes. That wide, overwhelmed expression he wore when you said something that hit too close to the truth. He looked like he might cry. Or faint. Or bolt. But instead…He stayed.

Frozen, but present.

You reached for your drink again with your free hand and took the last sip, dragging the straw into your mouth with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact.

Bob’s eyes tracked every inch of the motion. You could see the subtle twitch in his jaw, the little hitch in his shoulders, like he was physically holding himself back.

Then you licked a drop from your bottom lip.

And that did him in.

His breath faltered again, and his eyes–so blue, so open, so obviously in love with you–looked at you like he’d forgotten where he was. Like the world had narrowed down to just your lips, your voice, your body framed in shadow and gold light.

You tilted your head, gaze gentle now. That look you always gave him when he was spiraling. When he needed to know he was safe. That he was wanted.

He looked like he didn’t deserve it.

But you knew better.

And finally, after a long, shaky breath–his lashes fluttering like he was about to pass out—he leaned forward.

His voice barely rose above the din of the bar, cracked and breathless and close enough to touch.

“I…I think about y–you.”

The words came out like a confession. Like a sin.

He didn’t stop.

“More than I should,” He said, gaze darting to the table, then back up again like it physically hurt him to hold your eyes. “More than…What’s okay.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t interrupt. You let him say it.

“I just…” His throat worked again. “If I ever got to touch you–I don’t think I’d want to stop.”

Your chest ached at how sincerely he meant it. Like it wasn’t just about sex. Like it was everything, like it meant everything.

Your hand on his wrist slid down so your palm was over his, feeling the warmth of him–the quiet trembling, the softness of his skin.

“Bob,” You said softly. “What would you do if I didn’t want you to stop?”

His lashes fluttered at you–confused, hopeful, scared–but he didn’t pull away, not like he would normally. If anything, he leaned in like you had said something that brought him closer.

Your hand stayed where it was, palm against palm, but your fingers began to move–softly tracing the lines in his hand like you were reading him. Like you were studying a map only you had permission to follow. You let your fingertip trail along the length of his lifeline, then up the curve of his thumb, dipping gently between the web of his fingers. He flinched–barely–but you felt it. Saw the way his breath shuddered quietly through his nose, the way his fingers twitched like they wanted so badly to close around yours but didn’t quite dare.

He was holding himself back.

Even now, even here.

Your gaze lifted, meeting his–they were wide and glossy, pupils blown wide now, eating away at the blue, and there was something deeply aching in the way he looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize every second of this moment in case it vanished.

“Don’t look at me like that,” You murmured, your thumb ghosting over the calloused edge of his ring finger. “Like you’re not allowed to want this.” Bob swallowed hard–again. It was the only thing he could do that didn’t give him away. His breath stuttered. His fingers twitched. His mouth opened like he might say something, but no words came.

He looked at you like you were everything he’d ever prayed for and was terrified to touch.

You watched the war inside him–want versus restraint. It played out in the flicker of his lashes, the shake in his hand, the tension braced through his shoulders like he was trying to keep himself from combusting.

So you let go of his hand, and moved your foot away from his inner thigh.

For a heartbeat, his face dropped–just a flicker of devastation in his expression.

Until you stood up, and moved around the table.

Bob’s head turned like he couldn’t believe you were really coming to him, like some part of him had convinced himself this was all a hallucination brought on by too many Coke Zeros–cause he couldn’t drink–and too many nights thinking about your hands, your mouth, and your voice in his ear. But then you slid into the booth beside him, your thigh pressing flush to his. He was still frozen, spine straight, hands in his lap like they might betray him if he moved them. Your perfume radiated off of you, the one that you always modestly sprayed on yourself, the one that he loved sneaking in your room to smell when you weren’t at the compound or out on a mission–the one that smelled like sugar, berries, and ripe oranges, like a succulent dessert…Made just for him.

You leaned in slowly, brushing your arm against him. You didn’t have to look at him, you didn’t have to…You knew he was already looking at you, or trying to look at you.

When he was finally able to feel your hot breath curl over his cheek he could immediately smell the pineapple juice on your tongue. It made him want to lean in right then and there just to get a taste, just to suck the essence off of it, to drink from you, but he needed to hold himself back, to stay in control of himself before he did something prematurely.

Then–with the grace of an angel–you reached up and touched him.

Your fingers found the side of his jaw, the pads of them smoothing against his freshly shaven cheek, tilting his face gently toward you. He followed the motion like a man possessed–like you had pulled him by a leash tied to his soul. He closed his eyes at the sensation, parting his lips slightly to take in a small breath–a quiet plea.

Slowly, you leaned in, your mouth resting just close enough to graze his ear, and you whispered–low, and sultry:

”Every time I touch myself, I imagine it’s you…” Bob shattered. A noise escaped him–broken and breathless. A half-gasp, half-whimper that he couldn’t contain if he tried. His body went tense beside you, his thigh flexing under yours, his fingers twitching like they were about to snap.

But you didn’t stop there.

“I imagine your fingers,” You murmured, your lips brushing his ear, “Big and clumsy and desperate, the way they always look when you’re nervous. I imagine them moving inside me while I ride your hand, while I beg you to kiss me like you mean it.” Bob exhaled–hard. His jaw clenched under your touch, his breath fogging hot against your forearm. You could feel how close he was to breaking–how close he was to falling apart in front of a whole bar full of people he couldn’t even look at in the eyes. Your fingertips moved slowly across his cheek, your nails didn’t scratch–they ghosted, mapped, and worshipped. You traced the slope of his cheekbone, then slid down to the soft dip beside his mouth, like you were learning his face the way others learn scripture.

Bob was unraveling. Every word from your mouth was gasoline on the fire he’d been trying to smother for months. His breath caught in his chest like a prayer that didn’t know how to end, and he stared at you—lips parted, lashes trembling–like he couldn’t tell if this was heaven or the moment before he burned.

And then your other hand came to rest on his shoulder, grounding him–and pushing him closer to the edge all at once.

He was breathing too hard now. Too fast. His chest rising in shallow, shaking swells. And all he could do was sit there, hands fisted in his lap, as you leaned in and whispered into his ear again–closer this time, like you were whispering to his soul.

“I think about tasting you,” You said softly. “So achingly slow, until you lose your mind.”

Bob’s knees went weak beneath the table. He didn’t even know how he was still upright. The only thing keeping him tethered to the earth was the press of your thigh against his, the weight of your palm on his shoulder and face, and the sound of your voice curling into his bloodstream like silk-wrapped sin.

He tried to speak–tried to gather some string of thought that could resemble language–but all he managed was a broken, desperate breath. “I–” He rasped, his voice shredded at the edges.

But you didn’t let him finish.

You shushed him. Gently. Sweetly. Your thumb swept across his cheek.

“Don’t,” You murmured, so close your lips touched his ear, “Don’t talk. Just feel it.”

And God, he felt it.

Every molecule of you.

The heat of your breath melting against his skin. The sweetness of your perfume, dizzying and intimate. The way your hands touched him like he was more than a body. Like he was a secret. A sacred thing you’d been aching to unwrap.

His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to move, to reach for you, but he didn’t dare–not unless you asked for it. He’d give you anything, everything, but he didn’t want to take a single thing you didn’t offer first.

Still, he couldn’t help it–his head tilted toward your touch, his eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted in something so tender it almost hurt to witness. His throat flexed as he swallowed another breath that wouldn’t steady.

You moved even closer–until your mouth nearly brushed his. Until the distance between you was a lie.

“I want to make you lose control,” You whispered. “I want to feel how much you’ve been holding back.”

That did it.

Bob’s whole body trembled under your hands–his restraint hanging by a thread, his jaw clenched like he was trying not to whimper. He turned his head slowly, just enough to look at you, and his eyes–those soft, wrecked, worshipful eyes–were completely undone.

“Y-You don’t know what you’re d-doing to me,” He breathed, but you smiled, soft and knowing.

“Then maybe we should go back to the compound so you could show me.” You whispered back, your thumb stroking the corner of his mouth like you’d been dying to touch him there. Bob’s breath hitched.

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath your thumb like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to shape it into a sentence. His brow knit–tight, anxious–as if he were on the edge of a precipice and could already feel the wind pulling at his shirt.

“I…” His voice cracked. He turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing your palm, but his eyes–those trembling, desperate eyes–held yours like you were the only thing anchoring him to the floor. “I don’t… know w-what happens if I lose control…I h-haven’t had s-sex since before the S-Sentry serum…”

Your chest softened at the vulnerability in his tone–raw, boyish, torn straight from the deepest part of him.

“I’ve felt it before. The…Shift. T-That moment before it gets too much.” His throat worked hard around the next words. “The Sentry, he–he comes through w-when I feel too much. When I want too much. A-And I want you so badly it terrifies me.”

Your thumb stroked over his jaw again, slow and reverent, like you were trying to soothe the trembling just beneath his skin. He didn’t pull away.

“Bob,” You whispered, voice like velvet heat, “I’m not scared of him.”

His breath caught, but you didn’t stop.

“I don’t care if the Sentry shows up. I don’t care if he tries to carry me off into the sky or crack the moon in half because I kissed you too hard.” You smiled gently, your nose brushing his. “Because it’s still you. All of it. The fear, the ache, the power–none of it changes the fact that it’s your heart underneath. And I want all of it. I want all of you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, lashes wet. His chest heaved like he’d just exhaled something he’d been holding in for years. Like you’d opened a dam inside him and now he couldn’t stop it–he didn’t want to anyways.

“Y-You don’t know w–what that means to me,” He whispered, voice trembling like glass on the verge of breaking. “To not be t-the golden boy in your eyes…To just b-be me.”

You leaned in then–so close he could taste your breath, taste the sweetness of pineapple and something far more sacred.

“You were never a monster,” You said, lips brushing his. “You’re the kindest thing I’ve ever touched.”

And that broke something open in him.

His shoulders sagged forward, like a weight had slid off them, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his hands finally–finally–lifting from his lap to ghost up your sides, hesitant and aching. You felt the way they trembled as they settled on your waist, as if touching you too firmly might shatter the moment.

But you didn’t shatter. You melted. Right into him.

“Take me home,” You whispered, your hand curling around the back of his neck. “And let me be yours.”

Bob let out a shaky breath–half-sob, half-surrender–and nodded.

“O–Okay…”

—————————————

The moment the two of you stepped out of the elevator and the doors slid shut behind you, the weight of what was about to happen descended over you like dusk spilling into a quiet room–slow and golden and thick with gravity. It wrapped around your shoulders, soaked into your skin. Each step down the quiet hallway felt amplified, padded in the hush of possibility. The compound, usually so full of voices and footfalls, now felt sacred. Empty in a way that invited something tender to unfold.

You glanced over at Bob beside you–his hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff beneath his shirt like he didn’t know how to hold his own body anymore. His eyes flicked toward you, then away again. You could see it in the twitch of his fingers, in the slow rise and fall of his breath: he was fighting the urge to run and the urge to fall into you all at once.

“Whose room?” You asked softly, your voice barely more than a breath as you stopped just shy of your doors, which were across from one another.

Bob turned to face you, and for a moment he just looked at you. Really looked. As if the question was too big to answer all at once. But then he shook his head and murmured, without hesitation, “Yours.”

Your brows lifted a fraction, surprised by the immediacy of it.

His voice came again, quieter now, barely able to hold its own weight: “I want to be surrounded by everything that’s you.”

And God, he meant it. You could see it all over his face–that quiet, overwhelmed awe. That whisper of longing woven into his breath. Like being near you wasn’t just about want–it was about safety.

You opened your door with a hush of hinges and warmth poured out–soft and golden like it had been waiting for you both. Bob hesitated on the threshold just for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step into something so intimate. But you reached back and curled your fingers around his, pulling him through gently, and he followed without a sound.

Your room welcomed him like a heartbeat.

The lights were low, softened to a muted amber by the shade of your bedside lamp, and the shadows cast across the walls were familiar, worn-in. The kind of quiet you could only earn by living in a space long enough to leave parts of yourself tucked into the corners.

There were little signs of you everywhere.

A cardigan draped over the back of your chair, still shaped by your shoulders. A couple mismatched mugs on the windowsill, half-full of dried flowers and pens that had long since run out of ink. A battered paperback with your thumb pressed into the spine, abandoned on the edge of the bed. The faintest scent of that sugary sweet skin-warm perfume. He could taste it in the silence.

And then there was the window.

It stretched across nearly half the far wall, a wide mouth of glass looking out over the city, where the skyline pulsed like a living organism–silver and gold lights blinking in lazy succession, cars reflecting off the windows threading down the streets like blood through veins. Bob walked toward it like he was drawn by gravity itself, like it called to the aching part of him that had spent too long looking at the world from above and never this close.

His reflection caught in the tall mirror near the bed–a fractured echo of himself, backlit by the skyline, a man made of longing and light. If he laid down, he realized, he’d be able to see you both in that mirror. Your bodies. Your faces. The way you might look reaching for each other.

He swallowed hard.

Behind him, you closed the door.

The soft click of it sealing shut sent a shiver down his spine–final and quiet and full of promise. He turned toward you, and that’s when he saw you undoing your leather jacket, slow and unhurried. The matte black of it peeled away from your shoulders like a second skin, and the way you moved–fluid, unfazed, and sure–made the air around him feel charged, like static clinging to cotton.

You stood in front of him now, illuminated by citylight and the low lamplight behind you. The bodysuit clung to your frame, catching the warm glow across your collarbones, your throat, the tender curve of your chest. You shrugged the jacket the rest of the way off, and it hit the floor with the softest thud.

Bob was frozen in place. Watching you like a man watching lightning hit the ocean.

He looked around your room again, slower this time. You saw it in his eyes–how he drank in the soft mess of your sheets, the collection of little rings in a porcelain dish, the stack of notes taped to your wall with scribbled to-dos and song lyrics and scraps of thought. It was chaotic and real and you, and he loved every single thing about it.

You were standing so close now that he could feel the warmth radiating off of your skin. The glow of your room wrapped around the two of you like a whispered secret.

You tilted your head slightly and whispered, “You okay?”

And Bob–whose hands were clenched at his sides, whose chest was rising like a tide he couldn’t hold back–nodded, barely. His voice was a whisper scraped raw:

“I-I don’t think I’ve ever been t-this okay.”

Your smile broke like a sunrise, and you reached up for him, touching his face. Just your fingertips at first, featherlight against the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing along the corner of his mouth like it was something precious to you. Bob’s breath stilled at the contact, lips parting slightly, his chest fluttering with anticipation. He leaned into your palm like a man starved for warmth, even though he was burning up as he stood in front of you.

You pulled him gently toward you.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t desperate. It was something softer—something built from all the times you’d brushed hands in passing, or caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was built from every whispered laugh, every longing silence, every moment the world made you ache for one another without saying a thing.

And now it was here. Finally.

Bob bent to meet you, slow and hesitant, his breath brushing yours like a question. Your noses bumped slightly, awkward and tender, and he let out the smallest nervous laugh—one you swallowed as you tilted your chin and brought your lips to his.

The first kiss was a hum. A hush. A held breath.

His lips were soft, unsure at first, warm and slightly parted like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to kiss you back–until he did. Until he melted into it. You felt the exact moment the tension in his shoulders unraveled, when he stopped hovering on the edge and let himself fall. His arms came around your waist–slowly, carefully–as if he was still afraid to hold too tightly.

But he did hold you.

God, did he hold you.

One hand splayed wide against the small of your back, the other settling higher, thumb grazing the edge of your exposed skin where your bodysuit dipped low. His palm was hot. Too hot. Like he was burning just from touching you, and yet couldn’t bring himself to pull away. The feel of your skin against his fingertips made his knees go weak.

You kissed him deeper.

Not rushed, not rough–just more. More pressure. More presence. You tilted your head and sighed softly into him, and Bob exhaled like you’d opened a door in his chest he didn’t know had been locked. His mouth was gentle but eager, tasting you in little swells, lips moving with hesitant gentleness as if trying to memorize the shape of you. He breathed you in like you were air after drowning.

You pulled back slightly–not apart, just enough to rest your forehead to his. The two of you stood there in that golden hush, breathing each other’s breath. Bob’s chest rose and fell against yours, and you felt it–every tremble. Every ounce of his restraint.

He looked at you with eyes half-lidded and dazed, lips flushed and glistening from your kiss–and from the remnants of your lip glass–the faintest tremor in his breath like he couldn’t quite believe it had happened.

Your voice was soft, just above a whisper. “Still okay?”

He let out a broken laugh–full of wonder, full of you–and nodded.

You leaned in again–gentler this time, slower–not because you were unsure, but because you wanted to savor the way his breath hitched when your lips brushed his. You wanted to draw it out. To feel every shiver he tried and failed to suppress.

Bob met you halfway with a soft, aching sound–something between a sigh and a whisper of your name. His hands flexed slightly at your waist, his fingers pressing just a little deeper into the curve of you. You felt how he trembled. Not because he didn’t want this. But because he wanted it so much he was afraid he might burst.

You kissed him again–deeper, slower this time, mouth parting just enough to taste him. His lips were warm and sweet with nerves, and he kissed like someone who had thought about this a thousand times but never believed it would happen. There was a reverence to it, a hush in the way he moved his mouth against yours, like he was still halfway convinced he might wake up at any moment.

Your hands left his face, drifting down–slow, steady, and full of quiet intention. You traced the slope of his neck, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse, then down the broad plane of his chest. You felt every breath he took, shallow and aching, beneath the soft cotton of his sweater.

Bob, always layered like he needed something between himself and the world, was wrapped in a slightly oversized charcoal crewneck, its fabric thinned from wear and faintly scented like detergent and something uniquely him. Beneath it, you could feel the ridges of another layer–a t-shirt, soft and well-worn, probably one he slept in or hid in on quiet mornings when the world was too loud.

You slid your hands beneath the hem of the sweater and pushed upward, your palms skimming the warm skin of his stomach as the fabric lifted. Bob made a quiet, broken sound into your kiss–like the feeling of your hands on his skin short-circuited something vital inside him. He froze for a moment, his breath catching like he wasn’t sure he could survive the sensation.

You pulled back just far enough to speak, your lips brushing his. “Can I?”

His nod was immediate. Frantic. “Y-Yeah. God, yeah.”

So you tugged the sweater up slowly, watching the way his arms lifted, watching the exposed inch of his abdomen rise with it–the pale skin dusted with soft little beauty marks, the gentle definition carved by years of holding tension. As the fabric cleared his chest, he flinched slightly, sucking in a breath like cold air had touched him, though your hands were warm.

He helped you the rest of the way, dragging the sweater and t-shirt off over his head with trembling fingers, slipping away like the last layer of armor. And then he was bare from the waist up, bathed in citylight and lamplight, all golden and blushing and unsure.

He stood there, chest bare and breathless, as if you’d peeled back the sky and found the sun trembling underneath.

Bob’s body wasn’t sculpted in the way of soldiers or statues. It was something softer, something more human. But there was strength in it, undeniable–earned. It was the kind of build that came from holding onto things that were out of his control. Broad shoulders that carried guilt and gentleness in equal measure. A solid chest dusted with faint hair and the occasional mark of time–tiny clusters of faded scars, blemishes, and bruises the world had forgotten but his skin remembered.

His collarbones were sharp under the golden lamplight, framed by muscle that swelled and dipped like lines in a poem you wanted to memorize. His arms, strong and thick, looked like they were made to hold someone through the storm–and right now, they twitched faintly at his sides like he didn’t know how to be held himself. There were scattered freckles on his biceps, a pale crescent scar on one rib that curved like the moon, and small, raised knots near the shoulder from training or trauma–you weren’t sure which. Maybe both.

He looked like a map of ache and effort and quiet resilience.

And you adored every inch of him.

You stepped forward slowly and pressed a kiss to the center of his chest–just over his sternum. His breath stuttered at the contact, sharp and startled, like he’d never been kissed there before. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe no one had thought to.

You trailed your fingers down the plane of his stomach, the muscle there tense and trembling, then lower–toward the waistband of his pants. They were a pair of charcoal slacks, slightly loose around his waist, cinched just right at the hips, but soft and comfortable like he’d chosen them to blend in. Like he’d never expected to be undressed in them.

Your fingers hovered over the button, and you looked up at him. Bob nodded once–barely, but enough–and you slipped the button free. His breath hitched, and his hands flexed at his sides again like he didn’t know what to do with them.

You dragged the zipper down slowly, deliberately, your eyes never leaving his. He looked dazed–like he was being unwrapped for the very first time, and the air itself might sear him.

The fabric fell down his thighs with a soft whisper, pooling at his feet, before he moved out of them, kicking his shoes off in the process.

Bob stood in front of you in nothing but his black boxer-briefs, backlit by the shimmer of the skyline and the amber hum of your bedroom lamp. His chest rose and fell like the sea—steady, but stirred by undercurrent. His eyes hadn’t left you since you touched him. Not once.

And now, it was his turn.

He lifted his hands slowly, reverently, like he was reaching out to something holy. His palms hovered over your hips, not quite touching, until you gave him the smallest nod. That was all he needed.

His fingertips brushed the waistband of your shorts, undoing the golden button in the front of them.

You kicked off your shoes, one at a time, and let the silence stretch between you as he hooked his fingers through the belt loops–slow, hesitant, like he was afraid of doing too much too quickly. He eased them down your legs inch by inch, watching the fabric surrender to gravity. You stepped out of them delicately, and for a beat, he just stood there, looking at you like he didn’t know how to survive the sight of you standing in nothing but that black bodysuit and a pair of simple underwear.

He swallowed hard.

His hands returned to your sides, smoothing over the dip of your waist where the fabric clung tight. You watched his throat flex as his eyes flicked over you—your curves, your bare legs, the way your body caught the light like it had been painted for his gaze alone.

When he moved to the clasp of your bodysuit, his fingers trembled. You could feel it. The concentration in him. The hesitation. Like he was unhooking something precious, something secret.

You reached up and touched his jaw gently. “It’s okay,” You whispered.

And Bob, poor, wrecked Bob, nodded like he needed your permission to breathe.

The clasp gave with a soft snap. The bodysuit loosened instantly, slackening at your shoulders. His eyes met yours again, searching, silent, and then he helped ease the fabric down your arms, over your chest–slowly, like he was undressing a memory he wanted to savor for the rest of his life.

You stood there, bare from the waist up.

Bathed in citylight and lamplight. Breasts soft and exposed, skin flushed and dappled in gold. Your breath was steady, open, trusting.

And Bob… Bob stared like he’d never seen anything so sacred. His lips parted. His chest rose, shallow and quiet, as his eyes drifted over every inch of you—your collarbones, the curve of your sternum, the soft line of your stomach. His hands didn’t touch right away. He just looked. Like the act of looking was too intimate already.

But when he did touch you–finally, gently–his hands moved with such aching care. They rose to cradle your waist, thumbs brushing just below your ribs. You watched his pupils expand, the breath he tried to hold leaking out of him in slow, reverent exhales.

“You’re…” His voice cracked. He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because he didn’t have to.

You stepped into him again, bringing your bodies closer, the warmth of his skin against yours. Your breasts brushed his chest and he nearly gasped, his head dipping low, lips brushing your shoulder like he needed a place to put all this overwhelming wonder.

Bob’s lips were trembling against your skin before you even realized he’d moved. Gentle, searching–he kissed the place where your shoulder curved into your neck, just beneath your collarbone. His mouth was warm and wet, like each kiss was a vow he didn’t know how to speak aloud. He moved slowly, dragging his lips along your skin like he was painting devotion in brushstrokes–across the dip of your clavicle, up the slope of your throat, back to your jaw.

You let out the softest sigh. A sound full of breath and want. It made him shudder.

Your hand slid into his hair, curling at the nape of his neck, guiding him until his lips found yours again. This time the kiss felt hungrier–not in haste, but in depth. In need. Like the space between you could never be close enough. He kissed you with a kind of desperation laced in awe, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. And maybe you felt the same way, because your heart was stammering against your ribs, and the heat blooming between your thighs was dizzying.

You pulled back slowly, just enough to look into his eyes–flushed and wide and soft around the edges, pupils blown so far they nearly swallowed the blue whole.

“Come here,” You whispered, voice like silk unraveling in candlelight.

You took his hand and led him gently around the side of your bed, the sheets still rumpled from a day that no longer mattered. The mirror caught both of your reflections in passing–your bare back, his bare chest, the golden curve of lamplight gilding the two of you like you were something from a dream neither of you dared name.

“Lay down,” You said, and Bob obeyed without a word. He eased himself back across the mattress, exhaling like the air had been caught in his lungs for hours. The sheets crinkled beneath him, warm with your scent, his chest rising in uneven waves as he stared up at the ceiling like it held some sort of answer for how to survive this moment without coming apart entirely.

You climbed onto the mattress after him—slow, certain, fluid like breath moving into lungs. Bob turned his head just in time to see you crawl toward him, and God, the look on his face—pure wonder, trembling with reverence—made your heartbeat skip off rhythm.

You straddled him gently, knees bracketing his hips, your hands finding their way to his chest again, palms splayed flat over the warmth of him. You felt the stutter of his breath beneath your touch, the tight coil of tension building under your thighs.

He looked up at you like you were everything.

You bent down and kissed him again—deeper this time. Your lips claimed him slow and full, your mouth parting just enough to taste his sigh as it melted into yours. One of his hands slid up your thigh, barely daring to grip, while the other cupped your hip like he was anchoring himself.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard and hot, nestled beneath you. The growing swell of him pressed against the soaked fabric of your underwear, separated from your heat only by the thin stretch of your panties and his boxers. He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound involuntary, and it made your whole body pulse with want.

You rolled your hips forward–just once, a slow grind–and Bob gasped. His head tipped back, throat arched, lips parted as his eyes fluttered shut. His fingers tightened on your waist as if bracing against the force of it.

You did it again–deliberately, letting your clothed center slide against the length of him. The friction was hot, barely enough, almost unbearable in its precision. You could feel the tremor in his thighs, the desperate way his breath stammered in his chest.

“O-Oh m-my,” He whispered, almost like a prayer. “You’re…Oh God–”

You smiled softly against his cheek, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “You feel that?”

He nodded, barely, eyes dazed.

“I’m soaked,” You whispered, dragging your hips once more, pressing down just enough to make him bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut, “And it’s all for you…” You kissed the line of his jaw And then you started to move down.

His hands twitched when you kissed his throat—soft, slow, trailing heat with your mouth as you shifted backward, kissing lower, following the pulse at his neck to the center of his chest. You paused there, pressed your lips to the spot where his heart beat fastest.

He stared down at you, dazed and helpless and holy.

You kept going.

Kissed his sternum. The soft dip beneath it. The slight rise of his stomach where the muscles tightened beneath your breath. Your mouth was tender, open, slow as silk. You licked a soft line down his abdomen and felt him shiver violently. His hands moved into your hair without thinking, not pulling–just holding.

Just needing something to hold.

You reached the waistband of his boxer-briefs, and looked up.

His lips were parted, his cheeks pink with heat, his pupils huge and swallowing. He nodded without needing to be asked, lifting his hips slightly as you hooked your fingers into the band and drew it down—inch by inch, like you were unwrapping a gift meant only for you.

Bob was flushed, hard, and trembling. His cock stood against the plane of his stomach, thick and aching and already leaking from the tip. You watched the way it twitched when the cool air touched it, watched how he tried to stifle a gasp and failed.

“O-Oh god,” He breathed, like it physically hurt. “I don’t–I don’t even k-know what to do with myself–”

“You don’t have to do anything,” You murmured, pressing a kiss to the sharp line of his hip. “Just let me take care of you.” His breath hitched–shallow and wild–and his hands gripped the sheets.

And then you bent your head.

And licked a slow, deliberate stripe up the length of him–base to tip.

Bob choked on a gasp, hips jolting before he stilled himself with sheer force of will. His hands flew to his forehead like he was trying to cover his eyes, but he couldn’t stop watching.

You flattened your tongue along the underside of him again slowly feeling the way he twitched under your touch, the way his breath hitched like it was caught in the delicate space between need and disbelief.

His hand found yours blindly–grasping, desperate for something to hold on to. You laced your fingers with his without hesitation, anchoring him as you opened your mouth and took him in.

The weight of him on your tongue was dizzying, intoxicating. He was warm and already leaking, the taste of him faintly salty as your lips sealed around him and began to move–slow, deliberate strokes of your mouth, your hand curled around the base of him in rhythm.

“Y-you’re…” His voice broke, breath catching, almost like a sob. “You’re really… Oh…”

The sound he made when you took him deeper went straight to your core. It was soft, wrecked–an overwhelmed whimper that made your thighs clench and heat spill low in your belly. You moaned around him, low and throaty, and he gasped your name like it physically stunned him.

You glanced up through your lashes and saw him–his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted in disbelief. His free hand was fisted in the sheets now, his chest rising and falling in frantic waves.

You hollowed your cheeks and twisted your wrist just slightly, dragging your mouth back and then sliding down again, slower this time. You could feel every tremor in his thighs, the way his hips flexed involuntarily and then stilled, fighting the instinct to thrust. He was trying so hard to be good for you. To be still. To savor.

You let your hand drift lower, stroking him in time with your mouth, the slick sounds of your lips meeting his flushed skin only driving you further into the heat building between your own legs. You could feel how wet you were through your panties—soaked from the way he whispered your name, from the way he whimpered when you gave him just a little more.

“Oh,” Bob whispered again, breathless. “You feel so good. I don’t… I didn’t... I…” You moaned softly again, taking him deeper, loving the way his voice cracked, the way his fingers squeezed yours like he was hanging on by a thread.

And you didn’t stop.

You licked and sucked and worshipped him, letting the tension build, letting him teeter right there on the edge. His legs were shaking now. His hips stuttered once, and then again.

“I—I think I’m gonna…” He gasped. “I don’t know if I can…P-Please don’t stop—please—please—”

You didn’t.

You kept going. Swirling your tongue around the tip, easing him deeper again, moaning softly just to feel the way it made his whole body jolt.

He came with a sound like he was breaking—high and soft and breathless. A shattered gasp of your name, followed by a long, trembling whine as he spilled into your mouth.

You swallowed it all. Every last drop.

And even then–you didn’t stop.

You licked him gently, slowly, carefully–savoring him through the aftershocks. His body twitched beneath you, overstimulated and undone, his voice going quiet and airy.

“I-it’s too much,” He breathed, eyes wide and wet with disbelief. “Oh God—it’s so much…”

You finally pulled back, lips glistening, your breath ragged. You kissed the inside of his thigh tenderly, then wiped the corner of your mouth with your fingers and gave him the softest smile.

Bob looked at you like you’d just handed him a piece of the universe he never thought he deserved.

You crawled back up the bed and laid beside him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder, letting your hand fall to the center of his chest. His heart was pounding beneath your palm, like it had forgotten how to slow down.

He turned to face you.

And then he kissed you–without thinking, without pause.

His mouth was hungry, lips moving against yours like he wanted to pour his gratitude and longing into every stroke of your tongue. You let out a soft hum into the kiss, and his hand found your waist, curling around you like he needed you against him. All of you. Bob kissed you like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

His hand tightened at your waist as he deepened the kiss, his mouth warm and earnest, his tongue slow against yours—like he was trying to memorize the taste of your breath and the taste of himself on your tongue. Then he shifted his weight just slightly, moving over you, and your body followed without hesitation.

He rolled smoothly, gently, so that your back met the mattress and his body hovered above yours. His thigh slid between yours, his chest flush to your own, and his face hovered just inches from yours–eyes wide and wild with something more than lust. Something closer to awe.

You let out a surprised giggle, breathless beneath him, one hand slipping up to brush back the messy strands of his light brown hair. It stuck up in every direction from your earlier touch, and now it framed his flushed face like a halo that couldn’t decide if it belonged to a saint or a sinner.

He gave a small, dazed laugh too, his lips curving in wonder as he looked down at you.

And then he murmured, soft as velvet:

“It’s your turn.”

His voice sent a shiver straight through you–because it wasn’t just desire in his tone. It was reverence. Like this was sacred. Like you were sacred.

He dipped his head and kissed your throat, slow and sweet, and you tilted your head to give him more. His hand slid up your side, warm and sure, until it cupped your breast. He paused there, looking at you–asking, even now. Even after everything.

You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

And Bob leaned down to worship.

His mouth wrapped around the swell of your breast, lips so soft, tongue teasing the peak until it pulled a soft sound from the back of your throat. He groaned at the noise, like it physically did something to him. He kissed across your chest–open, adoring–then sucked gently at the other nipple, swirling his tongue in slow circles until your fingers curled in his hair. You felt his teeth graze the sensitive skin just around your nipple–just enough to make your breath hitch and your hips twitch slightly beneath him.

You gasped, soft and surprised, and his mouth pulled back with a small, wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His breath was warm against your damp skin, and then he exhaled slowly–cool air brushing across the nipple he’d just teased, and your whole body shivered in response.

Bob chuckled under his breath–low and breathless. Not cocky. Amazed. Like your reactions lit up something inside him he never even knew he needed.

Then he kept going.

His lips traced a winding path down your body–each kiss like a benediction pressed into skin. The slope of your ribs. The softness of your belly. The place just beneath your navel where you felt everything coil tight with anticipation.

You shifted slightly, drawing your knees up, thighs falling open to make space for him as he reached the waistband of your underwear. The fabric was soaked with you–already clinging, already begging to be removed. Bob looked up once, eyes wide and full of silent question, fingers brushing your hips.

You nodded. Your breath was caught somewhere behind your teeth, but your legs were already parting further, your spine already arching to help him slide them down.

He pulled the underwear off slowly, taking his time with you, watching the way the fabric peeled away from your slick heat. Your body practically glistened in the amber light, folds swollen and flushed with need. He swallowed thickly, the sound audible even in the hush of your room, and let the underwear fall to the floor like a silk offering.

Bob settled between your thighs like he’d found the center of the universe.

His hands slid up the insides of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin as he leaned forward, mouth trailing open kisses along the tender flesh–first one thigh, then the other. You twitched at the contact, gasping as his lips dragged up the curve of your leg, warm and wet and wanting. He paused just at the crease where thigh met hip, and then–without warning–bit gently, sucking until the skin flushed pink and bloomed with a bruise.

Bob smiled into your skin. “S–Sorry,” He murmured, clearly not sorry at all, his voice thick with breath and worship. “N–Needed to leave s-something to remember me b-by.”

And then–finally–he kissed your core.

His tongue swiped through your folds in one long, slow motion, and your whole body jolted like he’d reached inside your chest and rung out your soul. You felt the flat press of his tongue against your clit, the deliberate drag upward, the way his lips wrapped around you and sucked–soft, rhythmic, maddening.

Your back arched off the bed.

Your hand flew down and found his wrist–one of the hands bracing you open–and you held onto it like a lifeline, anchoring yourself to the feeling. His other hand splayed across your stomach, warm and grounding, fingers spread wide over trembling muscles.

He licked you again–deeper now. More intentional. His tongue moved like he was mapping you, learning every reaction, every twitch, every soft cry like it was sacred text. He flicked the tip of his tongue in slow, focused circles, then flattened it again, pressure building just right, just there–

“Fuck—Bob,” ¥ou breathed, voice high and frayed. “Jesus Christ…”

He moaned against you, the sound vibrating through your body and sending another jolt through your spine.

And then you tilted your head back.

The mirror caught everything.

Your body sprawled across the bed–glowing, undone, your knees spread wide and your hair wild pointing every which way. Bob’s shoulders bracketed your thighs, his face buried between them, dark hair mussed and damp with sweat and your slick. You saw the way your stomach rose and fell beneath his hand, how your hips bucked slightly with each flick of his tongue.

And then–God–

You looked down at him.

And he was looking up at you.

Eyes glassy and wide, pupils blown with hunger. His mouth was still moving, still lapping at you with slow swirls–but his gaze stayed locked on yours like it anchored him. His brow was pinched in concentration, his cheeks flushed, his lips glistening.

It was intimate in a way that felt deeper than skin. Like he was beholding you, not just touching you. Like the act of pleasuring you was its own kind of worship–and he couldn’t look away from the way your body bloomed beneath him.

You whimpered, your hand tightening around his wrist.

He groaned softly, and the sound reverberated through you.

And then–without breaking eye contact–he slid two thick fingers inside you.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent gasp, spine arching. The stretch was slow, sweet, perfect. He curled them just right, finding that place inside you that made your breath stutter and your thighs twitch.

“Y-Yeah,” he rasped against your core, voice hoarse, lips brushing your clit between licks. “There. T-That’s it, I–I feel you…”

You clenched around them while his tongue kept moving—never stopping. His fingers pumped slow and deep, curling with every pass, and your legs started to shake.

The sight in the mirror was unholy–your head thrown back, his mouth buried between your legs, fingers working you open while your body writhed beneath him.

“Bob—Bob I’m gonna—”

“I–I know,” He whispered. “I’ve got you..Y-Y/N.”

With a sharp cry and a desperate buck of your hips, you came–shattering like glass under floodlight. Your walls clamped down around his fingers, your thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hand crushing his wrist as you pulsed around him.

Bob didn’t stop until you whined, breathless and broken, hips twitching from oversensitivity. Even then, he pulled back slowly, mouth flushed, chin slick with you. He pressed one last kiss to your thigh, and looked up at you again.

Completely wrecked.

Completely in awe.

You let out a laugh of disbelief–shaky, breathless, still caught in the afterglow of everything Bob had just pulled from you. Your body was humming, twitching with sensitivity, your thighs trembling around nothing now as he lifted his head from between them.

Bob looked like he had just witnessed a modern day miracle, a sheepish grin plastered on his face.

Then he started to move slowly, crawling back up your body on his elbows, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses into your skin as he went. The curve of your hip. Your stomach, still fluttering beneath the aftershocks of your orgasm. Each kiss was a brushstroke of heat and devotion, like he wanted to taste every inch of what he’d done to you.

When he reached your chest, he paused, nuzzled into the soft swell of your breast and pressed the gentlest kiss there too. Then higher–your collarbone, your throat, the corner of your jaw. You turned your head slightly and met him as his mouth finally reached yours again.

The kiss was warm, a little messy, but full of affection. Your taste was still on his lips, and he didn’t hide it–he kissed you like he wanted you to know he’d savor every drop.

“Y-You’re unreal,” He mumbled against your cheek. And then he gave a shy, breathless laugh. “I think I–I forgot how to breathe.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through the soft mess of his hair, and he leaned into the touch like it grounded him.

“I’m already ready again,” He admitted sheepishly, pressing his forehead to yours. You felt it him hard and warm again between your thighs, flush against your soaked center. Your breath hitched.

But then Bob hesitated. You felt it in the shift of his weight, the tremor in his next breath.

“We could leave it at that for tonight,” He said softly. His voice was a whisper of restraint, even though his hips twitched against yours like his body was begging him not to stop. “If you don’t want to have sex—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You kissed him–deep and sure and full of heat.

When you pulled back, your voice was firm and breathless. “I want you.”

Bob’s eyes widened slightly, lips still parted in surprise. “S-Should I run and grab a condom?” You tilted your left arm back slightly, resting it behind your head on the mattress, and with your free hand, pointed to the small, barely visible scar just beneath the skin of your inner arm.

“Implant,” You said softly. “We’re good.” His breath caught audibly and his hand hovered near your arm for a second, then settled gently over it–thumb brushing once over your skin.

“Y-You’re sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, like he couldn’t bear to assume. Like he was terrified of doing the wrong thing when he finally had the chance to do this right. You nodded, soft but certain, caressing his cheek gently.

”I’m sure.” Bob exhaled like it physically knocked the air from his lungs. Then he kissed you again–and this time, it was different.

There was no hesitation. No soft buildup. Just need and wonder colliding all at once.

His mouth crushed against yours, urgent and hungry, and you met him just as fiercely. Tongues brushed and tangled in wet, open kisses, teeth grazing lips, breath caught between mouths like smoke. You could feel the way he breathed you in between every kiss–little shaky exhales pressed into your cheeks, your jaw, your mouth–as if you were the air keeping him alive.

“God, y-you taste like heaven,” He murmured hoarsely into your mouth, and then kissed you again, harder.

You moaned against his lips, your body arching into his, and he groaned right back–his hand sliding from your hip to the side of your neck, fingers splayed out over your pulse point like he needed to feel the rhythm of you.

The head of his cock brushed against your slick entrance–hot and heavy and trembling with anticipation–and he froze just a moment, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were blown wide, lips flushed, chest rising and falling like a wave cresting.

He lined himself up with a breathless stammer of your name, “J-Just tell me i-if I do anything wrong okay?” You nodded–soft, breathless, legs flinching around him slightly as he started to push in–inch by inch. Your mouth dropped open around a gasp.

”Oh–“ You breathed, hips twitching up towards him, “Bob…” He bit his bottom lip hard, trying to hold it together, closing his eyes at the sensation of you slowly taking him in.

“You’re s-so warm,” He choked out, “I can feel all of you, I–”

And then he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, both of you trembling.

You were wrapped around him, stretched and full and gasping through the intensity of it, and Bob just hovered there, buried deep, his forehead resting against yours like he needed the anchor. You cupped his cheek, kissed him once–soft, shaky–and whispered,

“I need you to move…” He nodded at your request, dragging his hips back only to press in again with a quiet groan that vibrated against your chest. His thrusts weren’t rough—but they had weight. Depth. Like he couldn’t help but want to be as far inside you as he could get.

Each time he rocked forward, your bodies met with a soft, slick sound, heat rising like steam between your tangled limbs. He kissed you through it, messy and desperate, lips parting and pressing and dragging over yours like he never wanted to come up for air. You kissed him just as hard–your tongue sliding against his, teeth nipping his bottom lip, your hands gripping his shoulders like you didn’t want him to go anywhere.

Your fingers tangled into the back of his hair, tugging gently–not to pull him closer, but to hold. To ground. The strands were damp with sweat and heat, and he gasped into your mouth when you did it, his hips stuttering in response.

Bob groaned low and soft, the sound caught between reverence and ache. Then his hand slid up, warm and sure, and cupped the side of your throat—not tight, just enough to feel the flutter of your pulse beneath his palm. His thumb tilted your chin up, guiding your gaze back to him.

“L-Look at me,” He breathed, voice ragged with want. “I…I need to see you.”

You did. Eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed and heated. You were so open for him, so undone and radiant in the lamplight–and it broke something in him, seeing you like this, needing him like this.

Then he hooked his arms under your knees and lifted.

The change in angle dragged a gasp from your throat so sharp it bordered on a cry. He slid deeper—so deep it felt like he was in your chest, like he was part of the ache and the breath and the heartbeat of you. Your mouth dropped open around a broken moan, and your eyes went glassy.

“F-Fuck,” You choked, your head falling back. “Bob–oh my God–”

Bob whimpered softly, overwhelmed by the sound of his name on your lips, by the clench of your body around him. His breath was hot and frantic, his face flushed and slack with awe.

“You feel…” He started, then trailed off, swallowing hard. “You feel s-so good–so warm–you’re perfect, I–” He kissed your cheek once. Then again. Then again, softer each time, like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t know how else to worship you.

And then, he saw it.

The mirror.

The two of you–tangled together, sweat-slicked and flushed with heat, your body curled around him like it was built to fit. His eyes snapped to it–and for a moment, he just stared. Breathless. Dazed. He could see the way your hands gripped his shoulders, the way your breasts bounced softly with each deep thrust. The sight of it–the raw, real closeness–wrecked him.

Your gaze flicked over his and followed where he was looking and you caught the reflection too.

“I want to watch us,” You whispered, breath ragged and full of heat. “Please.”

Bob’s breath caught hard. His hips stilled, his eyes wide, his mouth parting with something like awe and disbelief.

“Y-Yeah?” he stammered.

You nodded.

That was all it took.

He pulled out slowly–deliberately, as if the act of leaving your body was a loss he needed to mourn–and helped guide you onto your stomach, careful even through the haze of want. You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes fixed on your reflection, hair messy, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten.

He moved behind you, one knee between yours, and dragged his hand down the length of your spine in one long, aching stroke, watching goosebumps rise on your flesh before peppering a few kisses along the bare skin of your back. Then he gripped your hips and lined himself up again.

The first thrust back in was brutal in its beauty.

You let out a ragged groan–half gasp, half cry–as he sank back into you. The angle was different now. Deeper. Fuller. It felt like he was rooted inside you, like he could reach the very center of you.

Bob’s groan was wrecked.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “You’re so…This is…Y-You’re tight–so deep, I—”

He leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, and you felt the press of his mouth against the side of your neck–just beneath your ear. Then his arm slid around your neck from behind, not choking, not tight—just holding. Anchoring. His breath spilled hot across your skin, and he kissed your jaw again, reverently, trembling against you.

Your eyes locked in the mirror.

You. Spread out. Eyes heavy, mouth open, skin flushed and glowing. Bob–bare and trembling behind you, lips parted, face slack with wonder, arm curled protectively around you like he was trying to keep you from slipping away.

The reflection made your breath catch.

He looked just as wrecked as you felt.

“I’ve n-never…” He choked out, hips still rolling slow and deep, “Never seen anything so beautiful—so fuckin’ real–“ Your breath stuttered, your chest dragging in air like your lungs were trying to keep up with the sheer intimacy of his voice in your ear, his body inside you, the way his eyes stayed locked to yours in the mirror.

And then you turned your head.

Just a little.

Enough to find his lips.

Your mouths met in a kiss that shattered the edges of everything soft and safe. It wasn’t delicate this time. It was molten. You sucked gently on his tongue when he pushed into your mouth, and the noise Bob made was nearly inhuman–a muffled, desperate moan swallowed by your kiss.

The arm around your neck tightened just slightly, his palm flattening against your shoulder to hold you a little closer. He kissed you like he needed your breath to survive, and with every stroke of his tongue against yours, he thrust a little deeper, a little harder, losing the last shred of distance between you.

The sounds filled the room now.

Slippery, wet, rhythmic. The soft slap of skin meeting skin. Your gasps–broken, high, open. His moans–low, breathy, whispered things like “fuck” and “please” and your name like it was a prayer he’d never been brave enough to say out loud until now. The creak of the mattress. The rustle of the sheets. The hum of the city just outside the window, as if the whole world had gone quiet to listen.

His hips were moving faster now, not pounding but full of momentum. Urgency laced with awe. You felt every inch of him with every push, your body keening beneath him, his cock dragging against that tender spot inside you again and again.

And still–his mouth kept finding yours.

Messy kisses. Tongue and teeth and hot breath shared like something sacred. You whimpered into him, and he swallowed it, moaning in return, his pace growing more erratic with each roll of his hips.

“G-God,” he gasped into your mouth. “You feel so–so perfect–I c-can’t–” He pressed his forehead against yours, sweat-slick and shivering, his voice unraveling into something raw. “I’m gonna–Y/N–I c-can’t hold back–please come with me–please–”

You nodded, frantic, the pleasure building low in your spine like a storm. Your thighs trembled, your mouth fell open, and you barely managed a whispered, “Yes–yes, I’m close, Bob, I’m right there–”

His arm tightened around you again, holding you together as he watched your reflection–watched your mouth fall open, your eyes flutter shut, your body writhing beneath him.

“I see you,” He whispered. “I see you, I’ve got you, just–just let go, I’m right here–”

You did.

Your orgasm hit you so fast it felt like your entire body was going to give out. It was brilliant, consuming, and it had every nerve ending singing with heat. Your body pulsed around him, clenching and fluttering in frantic waves, and the cry that tore from your throat was almost too much to bear.

Soon after Bob twitched deep inside you, thick and hot, and you felt him spill–pulse after pulse of heat filling you, his hips jerking in short, erratic thrusts as he buried himself as far as he could go. His moan was wrecked–raw and full–and it tumbled from him as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. It wasn’t loud. It was low. Shaky. The sound a man makes when he’s completely undone. A whimper edged with disbelief, like he was giving you the very last piece of himself.

And just then–like the world exhaled around you–you heard it.

A faint, hairline crack.

Barely a sound.

Your gaze flicked up, dazed and hazy through the aftermath, and there it was: a thin fracture running across the mirror. A small, pale lightning bolt etched in glass, splitting right where your bodies met in reflection.

You blinked.

And then you tightened your hold on him.

Your hand clutched at the arm that held you–his forearm still locked gently around your chest–and your other reached blindly to touch his shoulder. You turned your head just enough to feel the hot tremble of his breath against your skin, the way it stuttered and hitched through parted lips still struggling to return to earth.

His entire body was shaking against yours. Not violently–just overwhelmed. The way a dam trembles after it’s burst.

“Shh,” you whispered, kissing the edge of his cheek. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He moaned again–quiet this time, muffled against your skin, and full of something so deep it almost hurt. His arm loosened slightly from around your neck and slid lower, wrapping fully around your torso as he exhaled one long, shivering breath. His body collapsed slowly over yours, his chest pressed against your back, both of you trembling, covered in sweat and each other.

He didn’t pull out.

He couldn’t–not yet.

You could still feel him twitching softly inside you, still half-hard, still pulsing faintly from the intensity of it all. His cum was already starting to leak back down between your thighs, warmth slicking your folds, but neither of you moved to clean it up. Not yet.

He kissed your shoulder.

Then your neck.

Then the curve of your spine.

Each one slow and breathless. A vow, a thank you, a grounding touch.

You tilted your head back toward him, catching his lips with your own. The kiss was soft now. Lingering. Your mouths moved lazily together, wet and tender and full of exhaustion.

“Jesus,” He whispered against your mouth. “I–I didn’t mean to… I think I…”

“I know,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over the damp nape of his neck. “I saw it.”

His breath caught. “I–I cracked the mirror, didn’t I?”

You nodded once, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Just a little.”

A silence stretched between you, warm and golden and full of breath.

Then he laughed–quiet and stunned–and buried his face into your shoulder again.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered. “I–I didn’t mean to lose control.” You let out a soft sigh.

”It’s okay Bob…You were overwhelmed and feeling good…Let’s just hope Sentry is the one that gets seven years bad luck.” You both laughed–low and loose and breathless, the sound catching in the honey-thick air between your bodies. Bob’s chest vibrated softly against your back as he let out another stifled chuckle, nuzzling his nose into the space just beneath your ear.

“Only you,” He murmured, his voice warm and worn down, “C–Can make light of me literally c-cracking your mirror mid-orgasm.” You tilted your head slightly, grinning despite the ache still thrumming between your thighs.

“I mean… If you’re gonna break something,” You said, glancing back at him with a playful glint in your eyes, “At least it wasn’t my pelvis.”

That made him snort and he buried his face deeper into your shoulder, completely wrecked by laughter now. You felt the full ripple of it through his chest, the way his arms tightened around you just a little as if he could keep this moment stitched to the skin.

You turned your head, kissed him again–slow and sweet. No rush. Just the warm slide of lips and breath. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking your skin as he kissed you back with the kind of quiet that said I never want to stop doing this.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly, his voice rough with affection. “I should, uh… I should pull out.”

You nodded softly. “Okay.”

He moved slowly, gently easing out of you with a quiet gasp at the sensitivity. You both hissed a little–his from overstimulation, yours from the sticky stretch of release leaving your body. He lingered there for a beat, fingers brushing your hip, as if he hated the idea of not being connected to you anymore.

He stayed close even after he pulled out, one hand resting lightly on your lower back, the other brushing your hip like he needed to reassure himself you were still there. The room was warm, quiet, the mirror fractured but the world around you whole.

“W–We should get cleaned up,” He murmured, his voice still dazed but laced with care. “D–Do you wanna…Maybe shower? With me?” His fingers twitched gently where they touched your side. “Only if you want to. I just—I don’t really wanna let you go yet…”

Your heart melted.

You turned slowly beneath him, shifting onto your back so you could face him fully. His hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly at the ends, cheeks still flushed, lips swollen. But it was his eyes that undid you. Wide and soft and full of affection. Still a little glassy. Still glowing slightly from the shock of Sentry.

“Of course,” You whispered, brushing your fingers through his hair, a soft blush rose to his cheeks, as you leaned up to kiss the tip of his nose, “I kinda wanna be held under hot water for like…An hour. Minimum.”

Bob gave you the softest grin. “I-I can do that. I’m good at holding.” His tone was still tentative, but there was pride there too. A glimmer of purpose. “You’ll be the cleanest, most held person in the entire compound.”

You sat up slowly, wincing slightly at the soreness blooming in your thighs and core. Bob immediately reached to steady you, his hands finding your waist, his brows pinched in concern.

“I’m okay,” You promised him with a soft smile, “Just a bit sore.”His ears turned red.

“S-Sorry.” He whispered.

“Don’t be,” You said gently, leaning in to press your forehead to his. “I liked being yours.”

His breath caught at that, his hands tightening gently on your sides. Then he kissed you–slow and soft and grateful. And when you pulled back, his hand brushed along your arm as he helped you out of bed.

You led the way to your en suite bathroom, flicking on the light that glowed soft and golden. The room was warm, fogged slightly from earlier use, and your spare towels were already folded neatly on the rack. You reached for two, tossed one onto the nearby counter for later, and handed Bob the other to keep nearby.

He looked at it like it was some sacred token.

You turned the water on and waited for it to warm while he stepped behind you, wrapping his arms gently around your waist and nuzzling the back of your neck.

“I could get used to this,” He whispered.

“What, showering?” You teased, smiling as you leaned back into his chest.

“No,” He said, shaking his head slightly. “Just…Being with you. Like this.”

You turned in his arms, heart thudding, and kissed him slow and sure. “Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The water turned to steam.

You stepped in first, guiding him in with you. It was small, a bit cramped–but it didn’t matter. You made room for each other. Bob pressed close, arms winding gently around your back as the water poured down over you both. His mouth found your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your lips, peppering you with soft, adoring kisses as the heat melted the soreness from your limbs.

He helped you wash your entire body. His fingers in your hair, gentle and careful as they massaged your scalp with your favorite shampoo. His palms smoothing body wash over your skin like you were something precious and breakable, his lips brushing your shoulder every few seconds just to stay close.

You did the same for him, trailing your hands down his chest, watching the way he shivered beneath your touch even now. You cleaned him carefully, quietly, the lather sliding down both your bodies in pearled rivulets. Every time you looked up at him, he was already looking at you. Eyes soft. Lips parted. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

At one point, you turned under the spray and leaned your back into his chest. Bob immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush to him beneath the stream of water. His chin came to rest atop your head, his breath steadying.

“I—I feel like I’m gonna cry,” He admitted quietly, after a long silence.

You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “Why?”

“Because…” He swallowed. “B-Because I’ve never felt this safe. And that’s… Not something I ever thought I’d get.”

You reached up, touched his jaw, and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “Then I’ll just have to keep giving it to you.”

His arms tightened around you, and he let out a long, trembling breath.

“Promise?” He whispered.

“Always,” You said. And meant it.

In the shower’s warmth, with your bodies tangled and your hearts steadying into one rhythm, nothing else in the world existed.

Just you and Bob. Soft skin. Steam. And the quiet knowledge that everything had changed.

[controld3vil]

midnight snack

pairings: yelena belova, bucky barnes , john walker, robert reynolds/sentry, ava starr/ghost, tony masters/taskmaster (comic), alexei shokstakov/red guardian x gn!thunderbolts!reader (separate)

synopsis: You’re one of the stealthiest members and they catch you making a midnight snack.

notes -> ive never written for marvel before!! tags: inaccurate characterization/take it w/ a grain of salt, i have NOT seen the film, reader is part of the thunderbolts, mentions of minor injuries; canon typical violence, reader making midnight snacks (grilled cheese w/ jam, s’mores dipped in peanut, cheesy noodles w/ cream cheese, chip sandwich, mixed cereal, ice cream w/ cookies), headcanons can be seen either platonic/romantic!

YELENA BEVOLA

-> is consciously disturbed by it. she always feared that your name, reputation, and expertise are not something to laugh about. hell, coming from her, that is enough to say you were beyond her level. however, the obscurity of seeing you making a grilled cheese… with jam? that blows her mind out of proportion.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to eat that…” Yelena doesn’t even attempt to hide her disgusted look. What you’re doing is absurd. Even more, she has always respected your name, representing the standard of Hydra operations that they have always been proud of. She had expected to see you in the morning. Instead, she finds you leaning over the counter, cuts, bruises in all, while you were making a sandwich for yourself.

It wasn’t particularly what you were doing that startled her. Yelena has seen you make a variety of sandwiches — the simple turkey club, egg salad, tuna, and all you’ve seemed to master. You always packed pretty lunch boxes for yourself. It was a simple way to stay motivated. But the jam? The thought of combining grilled cheese with sweet strawberry syrup makes her stomach grimace.

You look at your blonde friend steadily. “I’m hungry, though.” You say, unfazed by the abomination you were making. “I didn’t know what else to make.”

“I could think of plenty of things you can make besides that,” She sneers, almost offended by what you created. You shrug, casually, not even caring about Yelena’s persistent glares.

BUCKY BARNES

-> is confused. so confused about your choice in cravings. he’s survived scarce military rations during the war. the food back then was bland and lacked nutrition, but it was all he had during those grueling days of fighting. he’s survived times when food was difficult to salvage. but you, dipping homemade s'mores into peanut butter?

He doesn’t know what to say. What the hell? No. What the fuck? Too much.

“What are you making?” Bucky questions, dragging the last part partially too long as if he was unsure if he should’ve asked or not. The whole scenario was bizarre. Because never would he, Bucky, catch you doing something like this.

You were just like the rest of them, ruthless killers with no place to call home. Yet along the way, you’ve connected and called it friendship. Bucky especially favored you, believe it or not, because of your kind-hearted spirit. 

“I was craving s’mores!” You raised your hands, holding one s’more between your fingers. “But when I bit into it, it tasted like something was missing…” It was almost comical how innocent you looked during this confrontation. You were still in your tactical suit, with your weapons and all. Your face looked vaguely exhausted, with your droopy eyes and smile.

“So you thought peanut butter could fix it?” The ex-Hydra assassin looked in disbelief, unable to piece together how the two could possibly be a good combination.

“It’s actually good if you try it.” You blink before catching Bucky slowly backing away. “Hey! It is good!”

JOHN WALKER

-> looks at you like a disappointed dad. trust me, he’s seen one too many mishaps from his son. he knows kids playing with their food is normal. how many times has he seen his kid splash spaghetti all over the table? the only difference between you is — well, you’re an adult, a very skilled assassin who could make people disappear without a trace.

“Uh— What the hell are you doing?” John walks into the kitchen with squinted eyes. The bright ceiling lights were blinding him, as his eyes were still trying to adjust to the brightness.

“Making dinner?” As you continued to stir the boiling pot of noodles you cooked up. It didn’t look out of the ordinary, you were cooking instant noodles, thinking it was the quickest meal you could make.

“Yeah, I know that,” the super-soldier points to the opened package of American cheese. “But why the hell do you need cheese?” Shortly after, he noticed the jar of cream cheese you had by the boiling pot. What?

“I saw a video online where putting cheese and sour cream in your noodles would taste better.” You explained simply. Because there was no other way to put it. John looks at you with mild disgust, with one eye scrunched and a frown beginning to form. It was as if his expression was saying, “What is wrong with you?”

“Well, does it?”

“I don’t know! So I’m going to try it.”

“You’re insane.” He doesn’t give you the pleasure of giving you a face palm, knowing you would be annoyingly satisfied with his distaste. Instead, he grumbles like any parent would when their child makes a mess. “You better clean up after yourself.”

ROBERT REYNOLDS/SENTRY

-> genuinely curious what you’re up to! he may seem scared at first, but will eventually show that he is more curious, that’s all! he’s never had such a domestic conversation with you before, so don’t be so quick to jump to conclusions! will occasionally ask about your odd cravings, as if they’re not the most grotesque creations you’ve made, but more so to understand you better.

“This is…new.” Bob appears out of the corner of the island table as you grab two plain pieces of bread. He’s become used to you returning around this time, at the dead of night. Most of the time, he’s awake with his mind too occupied to fall asleep. At times, he’s afraid to walk outside his room, not wanting to disturb the rest of the team’s deep slumber. But on particular nights, when he knows you’re coming back from a grueling operation, he waits for you.

“I saw it from someone on YouTube,” you placed the two pieces of toast into the toaster, dialing the heat to medium. Once you confirmed the temperature, you walked towards the cupboard where all the dry snacks were and scanned the selection. “Thought I’d give it a try.”

“Sounds… good.” Bob didn’t know how to respond. He had never had this kind of experience with food before. Food was always prepared for him in a monolithic and minimalistic fashion. The same proportions and items every day. The more he thought about it, it made him feel like a prisoner, a person out of his skin.

So seeing you, being carefree about what to eat, makes him feel something. Not in a bad way, but a strange, warm feeling. Even if you don’t realize it, he’s probably more attached to you than anyone else in the team because of how relaxed you are with him. You don’t throw insults or glare his way. You just exist, treat him as a human being. Make odd-looking meals in front of him like he’s another friend witnessing one of your many creations.

When the timer runs off, you carefully pull the two pieces onto your plate and lay them next to each other. He watches as you open the bag of your preferred chips and place them neatly on one side. With the other piece of toast, you place it on top, putting pressure on the sandwich. He hears the crinkling of the chips as a few pieces fall out. 

It wasn’t the most exquisite-looking meal. But it wasn’t the worst he’s seen.

“Would you like to try?”

AVA STARR/GHOST

-> the only person who tolerates your creative mind. under her tough exterior, ava cares for the people close to her. no matter how broken or messed up they are, she’ll still choose them. including you, so no matter how strange your meals were, she won’t say anything bad. out of the corner of your eye, she’ll give you a strange look, but otherwise she won’t go any further than that. 

“Whatcha got there?” Even you sometimes had to double-check the corners of the room for Ava. She was quick and could faze through walls, the perfect ability for an assassin. However, you’re glad you trusted your intuition, half-expecting her to pop up eventually. Ava does not look as tired as you expected. Rather, she looks oddly calm and relaxed in her casual wear. 

“Cereal,” You plopped one box of Toast Crunch beside you. However, you know she’s eyeing the Coco Puffs sitting next to your bowl. Do you want a sugar rush? 

“That’s a lot of sugar, don’t you think?” The ex-agent nudges playfully, choosing to sit across from you. She rests her elbow on the granite table, leaning her chin onto her palm. 

“I’m a sweet person,” You grin to yourself before momentarily letting out an agonized groan. Your friend stands up, giving you a sympathetic look. “Ah, it’s okay, I’m fine.” 

“You sure?” Ava inspects you with clean precision. The way you hold your tricep meant something more. You were hurt badly. “You may want to lay off the cereal, then. Let me help you get to the medics.” 

You shake your head, insistent on staying where you were. “It’s alright, it’s not that bad.”

“Let me at least look at it first.” She doesn’t leave you a second to refuse. Ava is swift on her toes, grabbing the emergency medical kit on the top shelf. Turning back to you, she fixes you with a gaze, firm yet gentle. “Come on, you have your cereal after I patch you up.” 

TONY MASTERS/TASKMASTER

-> leaves you be. tony isn’t the type of person to barge into your business. but since getting to know you, you’re absolutely certain he’s growing to become comfortable around you. the way he walks over with quiet concern, or offers a slight nod whenever you ask a question. tony is a scarred man, yet somehow you’re able to bring out some kind of softness in him. 

You came home to a quiet kitchen. You hadn’t intended on returning so soon, but due to the nature of your work, sometimes you made choices less advantageous. You’re hurt, bleeding from your head, most likely from a concussion. The medics reaffirmed that you should rest in the meantime. Bucky would not be so pleased to see you so soon. 

You were busy, scooping the last clump of ice cream into your bowl. All day, you couldn’t stop thinking about ice cream, especially cookies and cream, topped with chunks of chocolate chip cookies and syrup. You knew it was a bit of a stretch to add cookies, but your mind was elsewhere already once you added them on top of your dessert. 

Tony was there somewhere the entire time. Whether your mind was too fuzzy or you had no intention of asking why he was standing by the doorway for so long, you didn’t care. All you wanted at that moment was to eat your ice cream in peace. 

Eventually, halfway through your meal, you finally address him. “I know you don’t speak, but you don’t have to just stand there and watch me eat like some animal.” Your eyes lock with his blank mask. You often found yourself talking aloud more around Tony because of his lack of expression. “Come sit.” 

Tony threads out of the shadows like a predator hidden behind the bushes. His steps are intentional, short, and steady. You’ve never seen him out of his suit and mask. It was almost like he wasn’t human, never once allowing his guard down. 

You glance at him, catching the way he’s frozen mid-stepped, scanning you like he’s accessing every wound.

You rub the back of your neck, a hint of embarrassment in your gesture. “It went…bad.” His stillness urged you to go on.. “I didn’t see the bomb. The ceiling came down on me… actually, multiple floors did.” The silence in between your words made the weight of your injuries feel heavier. You glanced back at your ice cream, slowly melting away. 

You feel his hesitancy to move closer, feeling the sense of guilt and frustration through your words. 

“I got checked– they said I needed some rest, that’s all.” You gave a small smile, knowing he could see right through you. Suddenly, the simple act of eating ice cream left an uneasy twist in your stomach. The silence was almost unbearable. You felt you couldn’t look at him properly, knowing now he’s a witness to your failure– your injuries. 

You were careless. Reckless. If you had taken a second longer to search the building, you could’ve avoided the bomb from going off. The more your thoughts consume you, the more you feel bad about yourself. 

Then you spot a vial near the edge of the table, right where Tony stood. However, when you looked around, he was already gone. You pick it up, eyes scanning the bottle.

Pain relief.

ALEXEI SHOSTAKOV/RED GUARDIAN

-> supportive about it! he’s very caring about your well-being, so he doesn’t judge you with whatever you make. as long as you're happy eating it, he’s alright about it. but if there is any chance that he catches you, returning home in a battered state, he will 100% make you a meal. that’s just the dad in him.

“You’re back!” You bring yourself to give him a weak smile, before he engulfs you in a hug. Alexei is one of those people who are naturally affectionate and are not afraid to show it. That’s what you think, at least. 

“I thought you would be asleep by now.” You unlatch yourself from his bear-like grip. The Russian man has started to cook something, which makes you question if he knew you were coming home later tonight. 

“The rest are asleep! But me? No, I could never have you come back on an empty stomach!” Now you see the apron he’s wearing, and the faint smoke coming from the stove. You couldn’t say no now, not while Alexei put all this effort into making you dinner. You owed him big time. 

You found yourself a seat, while the Red Guardian’s back was facing you. Whatever he was making smelled good. It had a rich flavor like barbeque, but better. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until he placed a plate in front of you. 

“Thanks… Alexei. You didn’t have to.” Your stomach grumbled in protest, weak at the aroma of perfectly grilled skewers, fluffy rice, and tangy pickled vegetables. You caught your teammate’s intense gaze as you grabbed a fork and speared a piece of the meat. 

“Wow, this is good,” 

“Of course it is! I made it!” 

“I didn’t know you could cook.” You pulled the skewers free of the meat, digging in with mouthfuls of rice and tangy vegetables. The warmth settled your hunger. You’re able to sleep tonight. All thanks to Alexei. 

“I’ve been practicing!” he said with a booming laugh, wiping his hands on a clean towel. “It’s my specialty– so you don’t have to make any more of those monstrosities when you get home!”

You paused, looking up at him, surprised. “I thought you liked them!”

“I do, I do! But you know– sometimes I think it’s better to eat real, digestible food.”

[callsign-swan]

Alone Together

For the last few years, Tony's daughter has been living out in the tower basement. She doesn't realise when Valentina buys the tower, not until she's being choked out by Sentry (turns out Sentry is a really sweet guy called Bob, who knew?)

Warnings: Slight thunderbolts spoilers

The last few years had been... content.

Everybody thought she disappeared, off the grid once her dad died. Some people tried to look; Happy, Pepper, some guy she was sure she knew but couldn't remember.

They didn't find her, she made sure of that. Wiped her name from every record, lived off of the small fortune her father had left her.

She wasn't a great engineer like her father, didn't spend her time making useful stuff like he did. She still made stuff, it just wasn't useful.

Spare parts, the basement was full of them. Scraps her father disregarded, that he didn't need. She was desperately trying to turn the scraps into something useful, but it wasn’t that easy.

So far, she'd built a computer. Well, she more rebuilt an old computer and used scrap metal to hide the wires. It was one of her proudest accomplishments.

Nobody knew she was in the basement. But it didn’t matter, since the old Avengers Tower had been vacant. If someone bought, she would have known.

(No, she didn't know that the tower had been bought. She didn't know that Valentina was moving in).

All of her details were still in the tower system; it was easy enough to hack into the intercom. She didn't do much with it, isolated it to the basement to play her music while she worked.

It was hard, trying to live up to greatness. It was even harder knowing you'll never be able to achieve it.

Rarely did she travel to other floors. If she did, she would have known about Valentina. If she did, she would have been arrested on the spot.

No daddy to bail her out this time. And Pepper wouldn't bother, she thought.

Maybe if she knew, she would have stayed in the basement, gathered up her things and moved out. She wouldn't have gotten in the elevator to get parts out of the floor. Parts her dad used to make machines to take off the Iron Man suite the second he stepped into the building.

Stepping into the elevator with an empty box in her hand and a screwdriver in her pocket, she pressed the necessary button. The doors slid closed and she began travelling up.

So many floors, but it took no time at all. That was her dad's doing. This entire place was her dad's doing. (Maybe that's why she couldn't leave it behind).

The elevator doors should have slid open to reveal nothing. An empty floor, exactly how the Avengers had left it. The bar her dad left nearly fully stocked before they moved to the compound.

But that wasn't the sight that greeted her.

People in the tower. There shouldn't have been people in the tower. Oh, she had fucked up.

They were mid fight, that much was obvious. The blonde guy in the ridiculous suit held Bucky's fist in his hand like he wasn't fighting a super soldier with a vibranium arm.

But the fight had stopped as everybody in the room stared at her. Goldilocks, discount Steve Rogers, blonde bombshell, soviet santa, mystery person and Bucky.

"You've got to be kidding me."

It was Bucky that said it, pulling his fist out of Goldilock's grip. In the moment of confusion, Goldilocks let him go, his gaze on her.

She resisted the urge to step back into the elevator. "I..." But she couldn't find the words. "What're you doing in my house?"

"Your house?"

She hadn't noticed the woman until now. Dark hair, grey in the front so pretty that it looked silver. Definitely dyed, but it looked good.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, but I bought this property and you are trespassing."

Her eyes went wide, grip on her empty cardboard box growing tighter. "Oh," she said, the air in the room becoming uncomfortable. But then she furrowed her brows. "Really? Because I've been living here for a while."

The woman's mouth dropped open. "How long- You know what? I don't care." She snapped her fingers. "Sentry."

Suddenly, she was moving through the air. Not of her own volition, she had no sort of power. In less than seconds, she was in front of Goldilocks, his fingers wrapping around her neck.

In her struggle, she gripped his wrist, tried to get out of his grip. But he was impossibly, terrifyingly strong.

There was something in his blue gaze that was soft. Suddenly, he let go of her. Her feet hit the floor and he stepped away from her. "Sorry, I... you don't deserve this," he mumbled.

Her hand found her own neck. He didn't have her in a strong grip, but it still hurt so damn much.

But she couldn't stop staring at him. Sentry. She had no doubt he had the potential to look terrifying, but he didn't in that moment. Regret shined in his blue eyes.

A hand grabbed her, pulling her back. She, along with Bucky, Discount Steve Rogers, Mystery Person, Blonde Bombshell, and Soviet Santa, ran towards the elevator.

They squeezed in and travelled down.

"What the fuck?" Bucky called as he pulled her out of the building. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

She pulled her hand out of Bucky's grip. "I've been living here, Barnes," she called back, shoving her hands into her pockets. The screwdriver still sat there, the cardboard box back in the tower.

"Why aren't you with Pepper?"

A scoff left her lips, sounding more like a child than the adult she actually was. But that was one of the reasons she was in the tower in the first place, because she was sick of everyone treating her like a kid.

She released a breath and looked back towards the tower. "What the hell was that?" She asked, completely changing the subject.

Bucky let her. He didn't have it in himself to argue. But he wasn't going to answer her.

"That was Bob," came a new voice.

Her eyebrows went up. "Bob?"

"Bob."

She swallowed thickly. "What the hell is Bob?"

***

The New Avengers.

The name had her stomach rolling. The world didn't need the Avengers, did it? The only reason they'd needed the New Avengers was Valentina's own doing.

But here they were, in the Avengers - no - Watchtower. Bucky let her stay. He gave her conditions to her stay, but he didn't kick her out, didn't drag her kicking and screaming back to Pepper.

As long as she pulled her weight. As long as she worked, did the necessary repairs when they were needed. Sure, she was nothing like her father, but she had her own skills.

Bob was just Bob. Hair now brown, soft sweaters, books. No more blonde hair, no more shadow monster man (yes, she knew Sentry is more than that, but that was her way of referring to it. That was of referring to it sometimes pulled a smile from Bob).

No super soldier serum, no specialised training, no... whatever Ava was. Sure, he had incredibly strong powers, but they were safely tucked away and Bob was happy.

The two didn't immediately find themselves drawn to each other. She was curious, sure, but Bob didn't remember. He didn't have the answers for her.

But they found themselves left behind during missions. There was nothing wrong with that - how were they supposed to help the team?

The first few times, they kept to themselves. She didn't mind the isolation, that was how she lives when the tower was empty. But she watched Bob. Just what he was doing, how he entertained himself. His life had been full of tragedy, just like hers had been. Individual tragedies, but it made her curious about him.

On the teams third mission, their third time alone in the Watchtower together, she sat beside Bob.

"Whatcha reading?" She asked as she toed off her shoes and tucked her legs beneath her body.

Bob showed her the cover of his book, his finger slipped between the pages.

She patted her thighs, her fingers drumming against her skin. "Is it good?" She asked and Bob gave a nod.

Bob was a quiet guy. She'd learnt this through their limited interactions. But he wasn't usually this quiet. He at least had an answer for her.

So, she kept talking.

"You know, I lived here as a kid," she mumbled, laying back. Everything was different now it was the Watchtower. The bar her father so lovingly put in place was gone (but that was definitely a good thing).

Bob closed his book. "You're Tony Starks kid, right?" Her asked, one leg folded beneath the other, the other hanging off the edge of the sofa.

She gave a nod. "Yeah, grew up around the first round of Avengers," she mumbled.

Turning his head slightly, Bob let his hand rest in his wrist. He'd had a haircut since everything happened, him and Yelena in the bathroom with a pair of scissors. His hair was still a little bit wild, but it suited him.

"Why'd you live in the basement?"

Not the question she was expecting, but she didn't shy away from it. "Spent a lot of time in there as a kid," she answered. "Just felt right being in there."

It was more than that, clearly more than that, but Bob didn't pry.

He stood up. "Hungry?" He asked, watching as her eyebrows went up.

"You cook?" She couldn't help but ask.

Bob went to nod, but he stopped himself. "How hard can it be?" He tried, releasing a breath that suggested he didn't think it was going to be very easy at all.

She pushed herself up from the sofa. "I'll help," she said and went to follow him into the kitchen.

But Bob didn't move. "You cook?" He parroted.

A grin came across her face. "How hard can it be?"

Turns out, pretty fucking hard. Neither of them knew what they were cooking, and that was the first issue. The both of them were just pulling things out of the fridge and trying to decide what to do with it.

Chicken in a pan (plain and neither of them quite knew how to flavour it), spaghetti in boiling water (neither of them knew what to do for sauce), and a garlic bread pizza in the oven (the only promising part of the meal).

Bob pulled salt from the cupboard and seasoned the spaghetti.

"Fuck," she suddenly cried, fridge door open.

Bob raised his head, eyes wide as he looked at her. "What?" He asked, panicking slightly.

"This is John's boring chicken," she said, pushing the fridge door shut. Like she could hide the evidence if she just shut the fridge door.

"Shit," Bob replied as he turned it in the pan (one side finally looked cooked, but both of them knew not to trust it. Just a few more minutes and they'd check the inside).

"He's gonna kill us."

Bob nodded. "We're gonna die."

But then, they laughed. "If John really does try and kill us, you gotta protect me, okay?" She muttered, stirring the spaghetti in the boiling water. "All I got is this." She pulled the screwdriver from her pocket. She was never seen without it now.

"I'll protect you," he assured her, "I'll keep you safe."

Fear of John Walker was a great foundation for a friendship, as it turned out.

part one maybe?

[pagesfromthevoid]

Super-Man Wannabe | r. r.

Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x superpowered!reader

“I’ve got you,” he promises, lifting her chin just slightly to meet her eyes. “I’ve always got you.”

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: Valentina is an actual lunatic, slight violence, brief descriptions of mania, established relationship

Author's Note: Idk about you but this feels like something Valentina would do. Part of the Honey & Glass universe but can be read independently. Also inspired specifically by this image of Superman and Lois Lane (fun fact, the Superman comics are canon in the Marvel comics!)

Masterlist | Talk to Me! | AO3

Bob doesn’t like this.

Not that he doesn’t like taking pictures with her; he likes taking dumb selfies and bad polaroid shots with her. 

No, no he doesn’t mind taking pictures. He just doesn't like posed, forced photos for photoshoots that Valentina schedules for them. He especially doesn’t like that he has to wear the Sentry uniform –he really hates wearing it, even if he’s not actively using his powers. It gives him a sense of dread; like they’re pushing their luck doing this. But Valentina insisted that this would be good PR and the PR manager –his girlfriend –reluctantly agreed with the director.

So they’re standing on the platform where the jet takes off, closest to being in the air without him actually flying. The photographer is still setting up, explaining something about making it look like a Super-Man comic panel. Bob thinks that’s kind of dumb, but he doesn’t say anything as he tries to straighten his posture out. It doesn’t really work, though, and he’s still slouched some as she walks out with her outfit on. 

She’s dressed kind of like Lois Lane –which, he thinks, is what she usually looks like when she’s technically working. A pencil skirt and a nice shirt and sometimes a blazer or a cardigan. Except Valentina made her wear heels and make up, saying something about looking more feminine in comparison to him. Bob hates that Valentina doesn’t think she’s pretty enough, and he wants to say that, but she’s telling Valentina to “bite me” when the director complains that her lipstick isn’t red enough.

“I don’t like red lipstick and if you’re going to make me do something like this, I get to at least choose what I wear,” she says, walking up to Bob now and giving him an appraising look. 

Her annoyed look softens around the edges when she looks at him, and it makes his heart ache. This is the first time she’s seen him in the Sentry uniform since…well, everything. And he wonders if she’s scared of him. The idea that seeing him in this suit scares her suddenly makes his thoughts spiral –what if she is afraid? What if she realizes she’s made a mistake, and she doesn’t actually love him because loving him means loving Sentry and Void and –,

But she’s reaching up to push his hair out of his face with a smile on her lips. “You look handsome,” she says, and even though Bob is in his head –fingers flexing against her waist gently –he smiles down at her thankfully. 

“I would have preferred if he was still blonde,” Valentina complains, but she’s looking at her phone and not at them.

“I prefer whatever he likes,” she counters, and her eyes are on his as she rests a hand on his chest gently. The photographer had been taking pictures already of them interacting, saying something about catching the natural interactions between them. “It works just as well with your gaudy gold suit design, Val.”

Bob didn’t like the blonde. It was fake, and forced, and just…didn’t fit him. Whatever they’ve done now –not really blonde, but not really brown (according to the box dye she used on him to help fix it, it’s like a dark ash blonde) –he likes more. But he just wants his hair to grow back out to its normal color.

“Alright, let’s get this started –Robert, at some point, you will need to use your powers just a tiny bit,” Valentina orders, motioning for them to start. 

“Wait –what? No, I’m not –I don’t feel like that’s necessary,” Bob quickly argues, shaking his head. “Why?”

“Yeah, why?” she demands, stepping slightly in front of him, like she’s defending him. Which Bob always finds a little funny, because he’s…technically indestructible. But he knows what she’s doing, and why she’s doing it. He likes that she wants to protect him. It’s the little things she does that help remind him that he loves her and she loves him. “You said he didn’t have to –,”

“We need to get a shot of the eyes,” Valentina reminds them, rolling her eyes. “Just a quick flash, then we can photoshop the rest.”

“I don’t use photoshop,” the photographer argues, shaking his head. 

“That’s stupid,” she counters, giving both the photographer and director a dirty look. “Use photoshop or you don’t get gold eyes.”

“You’re being petty,” Valentina counters her counter, narrowing her eyes. “I’m just trying to help Robert here come off as a real hero –the people’s hero. What better way than showing the world he’s so very human with his very fragile girlfriend. Kind of like a wannabe Super-Man.”

“I’ll show you fucking fragile,” she snaps, but Bob is holding her arm gently, trying to coax her back from charging the director. 

“I’d be more afraid if you could walk in those heels,” Val comments, motioning up and down at her. “Let’s get this over with so I can get back to DC.”

“I just need you two to do what you were doing earlier,” the photographer explains as Val steps away for a phone call. “Let me just…,” the photographer reaches out to Bob, but he pulls away almost immediately, frowning deeply. “No touching. Got it. Okay –just put your hands on her hips like you did earlier, when she was fixing your hair. And you, fix his hair again.”

She rolls her eyes but follows directions, reaching up to touch his hair. Bob is suddenly more awkward than usual (well, more awkward than he’s been with her in the last few months) as he touches her hips. The photographer makes some sort of dissatisfied sound though. 

“Could you pretend like you wanna touch her?”

“I don’t need to pretend,” Bob snaps, and the photographer puts his hands up in defense. Taking a breath, Bob tries to calm down, pulling her closer by her hips. He doesn’t like how any of this feels; holding her while he’s in this suit, like Sentry is the one that’s in charge. “I feel dumb,” he whispers to her, ducking his head down some so it’s just between them. 

Her hand is resting below his jaw, and she’s giving him an apologetic smile. “You don’t look dumb, if it makes you feel better.”

The clicking of the camera is louder than it should be –louder than it probably actually is but Bob is struggling to tune it out. Even with her touching him, he can’t seem to ground himself. Sentry is clawing just below his skin –he can feel it, trying to get out. Trying to be the one that’s doing this stupid photoshoot. It would make more sense if it was him; he’s more confident when he’s Sentry. But if Sentry comes out, then Void comes out, and Bob is too afraid of that to give in. He just…has to fake that confidence for now.

“Ugh, hang on,” Valentina complains and hangs up. Then she’s pushing the photographer out of the way, making her way over to them. “I’m going to show you what I want this to look like. Don’t move, either of you.”

He’s suddenly hyper aware that Valentina is far too close for comfort, especially as she adjusts his cape and pulls them apart. His heart is pounding in his ears, and he’s reaching back out to her but she’s just glaring at Valentina so he tries to remind himself that it’s okay. This is just…part of being a superhero. Or something. He doesn’t actually know what it means, he thinks. 

“Can you just…,” Valentina adjusts her some, tapping her backwards towards the edge of the platform. She’s about to argue, clearly, as her mouth opens and she puts her hands up to keep Valentina from touching her. But the director is insistent, inching her backwards as she’s trying to keep herself steady in the heels that she’s been forced to wear.

It’s like time stops suddenly then. 

She’s got this look on her face –like she’s about to scream, like she is suddenly terrified, and that’s when Bob realizes she���s in Valentina’s head. The director’s hand is outstretched, shoving her shoulder back just hard enough to set off her balance entirely –purposely pushing her. Purposely pushing her off the platform. Vaguely, he’s aware of the photographer screaming and Valentina telling the guy to wait.

But she’s falling.

She’s falling, and Bob isn’t thinking now as he shoves Valentina out of the way and damn near trips as he’s throwing himself over the edge. Then it’s like…everything makes sense in his head. The anxiety of Valentina’s closeness; the conscious suspicion that she was up to something. He knew –Sentry knew –that she would do whatever she needed to get Sentry to come out and she did. And somehow, even though that’s what the god-like being that lives in his veins wanted, Bob is very aware that he’s not happy.

She’s screaming, and the sound doesn’t scare him but it pisses him off. Then his hands are grabbing at her before either of them recognize the touch. And his arms are wrapping around her waist and pulling her close to his chest. Her fingers are deftly grasping at his chest and his shoulders, trying to find somewhere to clutch onto before she finally finds purchase around his neck. Where she’s pressing her face into the crook of his neck, hyperventilating as he brings them to a slow stop in midair. 

Her entire body is trembling even as she slowly realizes that she’s no longer falling. He can feel her heart pounding in her chest, against his own that he’s trying to bring back down. 

“I…,” she starts as their feet hit the platform again.

“I’ve got you,” he promises, lifting her chin just slightly to meet her eyes. 

She’s refusing to let go of him, staring up at him with the same gaze she had when she first told him she loved him. Like he’s something worth loving; like this is the first time she’s seeing him again. Bob’s hold on her doesn’t slacken, and he doesn’t care that the photographer is still taking photos. Or that Valentina is looking disgustingly smug from the otherside of the hangar. All he cares about is that she’s looking at him like he’s the only thing that matters, but he wants to make sure she knows that…it’s her. She’s all that matters to him.

“I’ve always got you.”

[sentryluvs]

“Yelena’s Discovery” Bob Reynolds (Sentry) x reader

summary: Bob starts sneaking out. Suspicious of his secretive outings and newfound happiness, Yelena follows him

tags: fluff, Nosy! Yelena, Bookstore owner! reader, Bookworm Bob!

Special chapter for “Between the Stacks” can be read as standalone.

Yelena Belova noticed Bob slipping out of the old Avengers Tower more often these days. At first, she thought he just needed a break from the chaos. After the events in Manhattan and being announced as the New Avengers, their friendship grew. He was very depressed, and although he was getting the help he needed, it wasnt the same. However, after these escape/solo trips Bob came back brighter, more confident, and his shirts were suddenly… ironed??

Ok

weird.

What’s going on?

One afternoon, Bob’s usual escape hour, the members were hanging out at the Tower doing their own individual thing. Yelena sat by the counter, drinking coffee in silence, when she noticed Bob walking to the elevator. He was going out, third time this week. Yelena debated her choices, hard

They say curiosity killed the cat .

But satisfaction brought it back, she had to know.

She waited for the elevator to go down, then she sprinted down the fire escape stairs. Belova trailed him through the street, keeping to the shadows, until he went inside Tower View Bookstore. Yelena pressed herself against the window, peering in.

Inside, Bob beelined for the counter, where you stood unpacking a box of new arrivals.

“Hey” Bob said, a genuine smile lighting up his face.

You grinned back. “Right on time. I saved you the last copy of that book you wanted.”

He laughed, scratching the back of his neck while he took the book with his other available hand “You always know what I need.”

Yelena watched as Bob helped you stack books and chatted with the regulars-old folks sipping coffee, and talk to couple of kids reading on the floor. He looked at home here, at ease in a way she rarely saw. He belonged here

As she watched the interaction she made a mental note to run a background check on the girl. You cant trust nobody here

However, she caught the way you looked at Bob-soft, adoring, and utterly sincere. This was making her reconsider (eventually she still ran it, just in case, you know??)

Outside, she waited as Bob said his final goodbyes. Yelena watched carefully as you handed him another book, your fingers brushing his. He left the shop with a spring in his step.

Ah, so thats it

Yelena’s lips curled into a rare, genuine smile. She would never tell a word to the others. This was Bob’s secret, and she was happy to keep it.

Bob had a girlfriend, that was the secret of his happiness

Back at the Tower, some of the members sat on the couch watching a tv show. Bucky glanced up from his newspaper as Yelena entered the lounge.

“Everything okay Lena?” he asked.

Yelena shrugged, settling into an armchair. “He’s fine. Just needed some time alone.”

Bucky nodded, unconvinced but trusting her. Yelena kept Bob’s secret like an oath, understanding more than she let on.

a.n: And that’s a wrap for the “Between the Stacks” book! I had so much fun writing my first fic! I hope y’all enjoy