tittywaititi

[tittywaititi]

dead of the night — bucky barnes

bucky calls you, his loyal assistant, in the middle of the night, asking for your help. he’s got four assassins with him and they need a place to hide. you’re too in love with him to say no. SPOILER WARNING!! plot spoilers for thunderbolts

note: disclaimer guys I totally made some stuff up to make the scenario make sense lol hope u can forgive me

thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader, fluff, kissing, one bed trope kinda, 4k words

You wake to the shrill sound of your phone ringing. At first you think it’s your morning alarm, and wonder why it feels like you’ve only been asleep a few hours. It takes blinking yourself awake to realise it’s still dark out, the street outside your apartment dead quiet. Your phone continues to ring, piercing through the quiet of the night, the screen lit up and flooding the corner of your room in white. You groan. Who on earth is calling you in the middle of the night? 

You sit up dizzily and grab for your phone. You stare blankly at the bright white screen, blinking hard until your eyes adjust and you can see the name that pops up. 

Bucky Barnes. 

You blink at your phone. Your boss? Well, he’s not really your boss, but you are his assistant, and you’re not really sure whether you’re friends or something else entirely, so he might as well be. 

You hit the answer button. 

“Bucky?” You’ve long passed the stage of calling him Congressman Barnes. Besides, any ounce of professionalism left between the two of you has probably now turned to dust, given the ungodly hour of his call.

“Hey.” He sounds tired, his voice strained. “Hey, I’m so sorry, doll, I know it’s late.” 

No kidding. You ignore the fact that he’s called you doll, ‘cos if you think about it too long you’ll be here all night. ”What’s the matter?” You ask. “It’s one in the morning, Bucky.” 

“I know, I’m sorry, but it’s urgent. I need your help.” 

His words make you sit up straighter. Bucky’s been, for lack of better words, distracted lately. On edge, like he’s been waiting for something to happen. He’s been continuously disappearing at important events, and he keeps taking mysterious calls in hushed tones. You hope this has got nothing to do with the call he got from Valentina’s assistant (Mel, you think her name is) last night. He only told you about it because he’d wanted you to cover for him today while he “took care of something,” in his own, ominous words. He’s been MIA all day and you haven’t heard from him until now.

Somehow, you think this has got everything to do with the call from Mel. 

“Are you okay?” You ask on instinct.

“I’m okay, yeah, I’m fine,” he says, brushing you off. “We, uh.. we just need somewhere to hole up for the night.” 

Your brain ticks. “Hold on, we?” 

You can almost hear him wince on the other end of the line. As if on cue, you pick up some muffled voices in the background. A man’s rough voice followed by a woman’s smoother one — and is that a Russian accent? What has he gotten himself into? 

“There's, uh, five of us,” Bucky says, like that makes it any better. 

There’s a long beat of silence. You sit in the dark, still half foggy with sleep, waiting for your brain to catch up with what he’s telling you. He … wants to bring strangers to your place? To what, hide? From who? You’re dumbfounded.

“I— what?” Is all you can manage. 

There’s another short silence, and then Bucky must realise how ridiculous he sounds, because he starts to backtrack. “I’m sorry,” he says suddenly. “I shouldn’t have called, I’ll just—“ 

“No, wait,” you interrupt before you can stop yourself. For reasons unbeknownst to you, you find yourself wanting to help. You trust him, and know he’d never do anything to hurt you. Whoever these people are who’re with him must really need your help. And who else can he call, anyway? “It’s alright, I can help. Come over, okay? How far away are you?” 

Twenty minutes, as it turns out. You spend the time making your apartment and yourself look somewhat presentable, less for your visitors’ sake than your own, and because it’s Bucky.

Bucky, who’s been to your apartment three times now. Once when he got you flowers for your birthday. Another time when you’d mixed up your laptops, and accidentally come home from the office with his instead of yours in your work bag. (He’d come round to pick it up and you’d cleaned the whole place, even though he only stood in the doorway for five minutes.) And the most recent time, when you’d gotten too drunk at the bar after work, and Bucky had walked you home, deposited you in your bed, and locked the door behind him. You don’t remember most of it, but you do remember feeling so so in love with him it made you feel sick. Or maybe that was the whiskey. You doubt it. 

You’re tossing the trash from your takeout dinner in the bin, and trying not to think about how you felt that night, when there’s a knock on the door. Your phone dings on the counter, a text from Bucky. 

It’s me. 

You laugh to yourself. He can be so accidentally ominous sometimes. You cross the living room to the door and open it. 

Five people stand behind it, all in varying states of disarray. Bucky’s at the front, probably the least beat up looking, though his jacket seems to be torn in some places. Two women (girls? They don’t look very much older than you), one with a blunt blonde bob, and one brunette with pretty eyes, both looking a bit worse for wear. One very tall, older man in a red getup that makes him look like Santa Claus - it’s absurd, but somehow you feel even more absurd in your plaid pajama pants. And bringing up the rear is… John Walker? 

“Um, hi?” You say to the group at large. When Bucky said we, you didn’t expect John Walker, of all people, to show up. You try not to stare. “What can I do for you?” 

The blonde girl opens her mouth, looking amused, but Bucky beats her to it. “Funny,” he says bluntly. Then, softer, “Can we come in?” 

You share a look. Bucky has a very intense default gaze, but it seems to soften whenever he looks at you. And right now, he’s looking at you like I’m tired, I need help, just let us in please and I’ll explain. 

You step back with little objection. Something about the way he seems to say trust me with just one look — it gets you every time. If he was a serial killer, you’d surely be dead by now. 

“Alright,” you say. “Wipe your shoes, please.” 

Everyone files into your living room. It’s not a huge space but it’s enough. Walker closes the door behind them. No one sits down. 

“Who is this, again?” The brunette girl asks Bucky, breaking the silence. You assume she means you. 

“We work together. She’s my assistant,” Bucky explains, throwing you an apologetic, somewhat strained, look. “Y/N.” 

“Hello,” you say awkwardly. 

They all just stare at you. You know what they’re thinking. Why on earth would Bucky, former winter soldier, avenger, and now congressman, bring them to his assistant’s place in the middle of the night as if it was a safe house? You’re asking yourself the exact same thing. 

“Y/N, this is Ava, Yelena, Alexei, and John.” Bucky names them off, pointing them out to you as he does. “They— I mean, we just need a place to stay until morning.”

“Remind me again why we couldn’t just go to yours?” Walker pipes up, addressing Bucky. You hate to agree, but you were just about to ask the same question. 

“Valentina’s watching my place,” Bucky explains. “She knows by now that I’ve got you guys with me, she’ll have her people on us in no time if we go to mine.” 

This only confuses you further. Valentina is … watching his house? This is not what you signed up for when you applied for a job as an assistant — it seems both you and Bucky are in over your heads. Though maybe you should’ve expected it, Bucky being a former Avenger and all.

The others seem to understand Bucky’s explanation far better than you do, and they all look to you expectantly. 

You look at the group of strangers, then at Bucky, then back at the strangers. They’re all standing there rather awkwardly. At their best, they’d probably be the toughest looking group you’ve ever seen, but right now they look dead beat, covered in bruises, dark bags under their eyes, and you suddenly feel very sorry for them.

“I— yeah, okay,” you say. They’re already in your living room, already know where you live, what’s it matter now? “You can stay for the night. Make yourselves at home, guys. There’s water in the fridge and the bathroom is down the hall to the left.” 

The brunette — Ava, Bucky called her — gives you a tight smile. “Thanks,” she says, and collapses on your sofa. 

The others follow suit, though Walker stays standing with his arms crossed. 

Pleasantries over, you grab Bucky’s arm and tug him down the hallway. He follows willingly, though you don’t give him much choice. You end up in your bedroom, where you corner him. 

“Bucky, what’s going on?” You whisper harshly.  “Who are those people? Why would Valentina be watching your place? And why is John Walker here?” 

You’re so busy bombarding him with questions that you don’t notice the way he’s holding his arm, not until you’ve finished speaking. Your eyes drop to his forearm. The fabric of his jacket has been slashed open, and there’s blood all over the sleeve. 

“Oh,” you say stupidly, then even more so, “Bucky, you’re bleeding.” 

Bucky grimaces. “I know, doll.” 

You grab his arm, forgoing politeness, and hold it up to your face. 

“It’s looks bad,” you say, forgetting you’re not supposed to care about him as much as you do.

You look up and find your face inches from his, his arm clutched between you. You suddenly feel very hot.

“Let’s, um,” you flounder for a few seconds, flustered not only by everything that’s happened in the last half hour but also his closeness, and the look on his face. “I have a first aid kit in the bathroom, I think. Come on.” 

You guide him out of your room and across the hallway into the bathroom. You forget to ask why he’s bought a hoard of what look like trained assassins into your home, and force him to sit on the lip of the bathtub, pushing him down by the shoulders. He scrapes hair out of his face with his metal arm and looks up at you where you’re rummaging through the cupboard above the sink. 

“Y/N, I’m—“ 

“Don’t say you’re fine,” you interrupt. He shuts his mouth and you go on, “Are any of your friends hurt?” 

Bucky pulls a face. “They’re not really my friends,” he says. “And no, none of them are hurt, they’re just tired.” 

You nod, accepting his answer for the meanwhile, even though it only opens up about a million more questions. A moment later you finally find what you’re looking for, a red and white first aid kit tucked away at the back of the cupboard, collecting dust.

You move to stand in front of Bucky, opening up the kit and setting it on the toilet lid. 

“Show me?” You stick your hand out for his wounded arm and he gives it to you with no objection. 

You hold his wrist and carefully push his sleeve up over the wound, revealing a harsh cut across the length of his forearm. On closer inspection, it’s not horribly deep, the blood only makes it look that way. 

Still, you frown. “How did you manage this?” You ask him. 

Bucky looks for a second like he’s reliving whatever happened to cause such an injury. He searches for the words, then, “I sort of flipped a truck?” he says. “Long story.” 

Flipped a truck? Whose truck? You raise your eyebrows at him but ultimately decide it's fruitless to keep asking questions, at least until he decides to explain what’s going on. 

“Right… I’m gonna clean it, okay?” You drop his arm to pull out a bottle of rubbing alcohol from the first aid kit, unscrewing the lid and dabbing the liquid onto a cotton pad. “It might hurt.” 

Bucky looks like he’s trying not to roll his eyes. “I’m tough, doll.” 

You clean his wound as best you can. You only sort of know what you’re doing, a half remembered first aid course you took in college sitting at the back of your mind, but Bucky doesn’t protest. Actually, he doesn’t make a sound at all, just watches you with those dark eyes. It makes you nervous, like he’s looking right through you and reading all your inner thoughts. The worst part is, he’s always looking at you like this, like he can read your mind, to the point where you’re pretty sure he knows all your secrets. Like how you’re desperately in love with him and have no idea what to do about it. 

You continue your work, quiet. The silence is heavy, a sort of unspoken feeling floating between the two of you like a white hot star. You want to reach out and grab it, see if Bucky will follow, but you keep your mouth shut. 

You’re unraveling a roll of bandage to wrap his arm when you finally speak. “So, are you gonna tell me why you brought a bunch of assassins into my home In the dead of the night?” You laugh at your own joke, but the look on Bucky’s face stops you short. “They’re… they’re not assassins, are they?” 

Bucky purses his lips. “Well, you’re not very far off…” 

He launches into an explanation, finally. First, of what Valentina’s really been up to. Project Sentry — putting a gold ribbon and a promise of a better life on a special super serum, and testing it on the most vulnerable subjects she could find. Then, how she rushed to eliminate all proof of the project, including the four people in your living room (who turn out to actually be trained assassins, though Bucky promises none of them will hurt you), and Bob, one of the test subjects. 

Then he tells you about how he tracked Mel’s phone to a site in the middle of nowhere, where he found Yelena, Ava, John and Alexei in a “predicament,” and “saved their asses,” as he puts it. He spares you the details, but it's how he sliced his arm open, and why they’re now retreating to yours to regain their strength before going after Bob. Bob, who’s vulnerable but much stronger than he probably knows, and who Valentina now has in her clutches. 

By the time he’s done explaining, you’ve realised how much bigger this is than just you and Bucky. For days this has all been happening without your knowledge and Bucky has been dealing with it all. You’re not annoyed, you get why he didn’t tell you. Still, you wish he’d asked for your help earlier. 

“So, you’re going after Bob?” You ask, carefully tucking in the end of the bandage. You spent half of his explanation just staring at him, hardly believing what he was saying, and the other half wrapping his arm, trying to believe what he was saying, no matter how ludicrous it sounded. 

Bucky nods. “I guess so. He could be dangerous in Valentina’s hands, you know?” 

You nod back. “Yeah, I get it. Won’t it be dangerous, though? Going after him? 

You say it before you’ve thought about it. You realise right after that it makes you sound like you care far too much about the man sitting in front of you, who’s really just the guy you file documents for. You don’t owe him anything. 

Bucky smiles. “Don’t worry, doll. We’ve got four assassins on our side, five if you count me.” 

You frown. “You’re not an assassin.” 

You don’t care what he’s done in the past, you can’t see him as anything else but lovely. He’s brave, kind, and so thoughtful it aches. 

Still, Bucky shrugs. “Used to be.” 

You pack up the first aid kit and put it away. Bucky watches you, his gaze like a burning fire on the back of your head. When you’re done cleaning up, he stands up and crosses the room, meeting you by the sink. 

“Thank you,” he says, earnest though his voice is rough from exhaustion. “You make a good nurse.” 

For some odd reason, butterflies erupt in your gut at his words. You look up at him. He’s very close now, only a step or two away from being chest to chest. You manage a grin. 

“That’s me,” you say, faux casual. “Best nurse and assistant you’ve ever had, huh?” 

You might be imagining it, but you’re pretty sure Bucky’s eyes flicker to your lips. He’s distracted as he murmurs, “Uh huh.” 

A beat of silence, and then Bucky takes a step closer. Your chest burns. He raises his vibranium arm, and you watch as his silver fingers close around your forearm. You can’t feel it through your sweater, but you can imagine how smooth the metal would feel on your skin. 

“Bucky,” you whisper. 

“Mm,” he hums back. He’s definitely looking at your lips now, and moving closer by the second. “What, doll?” 

You blink rapidly. He’s so close now you can smell him, sweat and dust but underneath that something heady, a bergamot cologne you’ve smelled on him before. 

“I— what are you doing?” You whisper, starting to panic. 

Bucky looks at you, this intense look of yearning in his eyes, like he’s being pulled towards you and can’t stop, and you almost melt into the bathroom tiles. 

“I want to kiss you,” he murmurs, so quiet it’d be impossible to hear him if he weren’t this close. “Can I?” 

You sort of guessed as much, but to hear the words coming from his mouth is something else entirely. You find yourself nodding. You don't know why. Well, actually, you know exactly why. You like him a lot, and you’ve imagined this moment a million times over in your head, though in your imaginations he certainly wasn’t bleeding out in your tiny bathroom.

“Okay,” you manage, heartbeat turning frantic. 

You see a flash of his smile before he’s pulling you gently forwards by the wrist and then kissing you. It’s chaste, gentle, but you can almost feel him holding back, his grip on your wrist tightening as he moves closer still, almost like he can’t help himself. The pressure of his kissing pushes you backwards a half inch — your back hits the edge of the sink and you don't care, you really don’t, because Bucky is kissing you and his thumb is rubbing a rough circle into your inner forearm, and his lips are so warm they leave yours buzzing.

Too soon, Bucky pulls away. 

You blink at him. He’s still agonisingly close to your face, and still looking at you like he wants to eat you. Your heart’s a riot, worse when he reaches up with his freshly bandaged arm and tucks a rogue piece of hair behind your ear. 

His hand lingers at your jaw. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. His hand is warm. His fingers are calloused and rough, but he touches you like you’re made of starlight. “Is it okay that I did that?” 

You nod. “Yes,” you manage. Even to your own ears, you sound breathless as anything, but you’re so dizzy that there’s no space to be embarrassed about it. “I— yeah.” 

Bucky smiles, but it’s not smug. If anything, it’s achingly fond. “I’m sorry I called. I shouldn’t have roped you into this. I just … didn’t have anyone else I could call.” 

You shake your head. You won’t say it, but right now you’re infinitely glad he called. Even in the dead of the night. “It’s okay.” 

Bucky strokes your jaw with his thumb, slow and intentional. “No one will hurt you while I’m here, okay? And we’ll be out of here before you even wake up, I promise.” 

You nod around his hand. It’s hard to digest anything he’s saying while he’s touching you like this, and looking at you like that. You think you get the gist, though. 

“Okay,” you say. You desperately want to kiss him again, but you’re much too shy to ask. Before you can work up the guts, he’s moving away. 

“I think you should get back to bed,” he tugs his phone from his jacket pocket and checks the time. “It’s past two.” 

“Right,” you nod, not wanting to, but you’re too dizzy and too tired to protest. 

You and Bucky leave the bathroom together. You follow him still half in a daze, not understanding how he can be so nonchalant when you literally feel lightheaded as a direct result of the kiss. You suppose he’s just better at hiding it, or maybe you’re just very sick in love. 

You and Bucky step into the living room to find probably the most absurd scene to ever grace your living space. Yelena and Ava, both knocked out on the couch, Ava’s head on Yelena’s shoulder, drool falling from the blonde’s open mouth. Alexei sprawled out on the floor in front of the TV, snoring like a bear. And Walker sitting at your kitchen table, bent in half with his forehead resting on his crossed arms, fast asleep.

Both you and Bucky seem to realise at the exact same time that there’s nowhere other than a much too small chunk of floor for him to sleep. You turn to each other. 

“Do you want to—?” You start. 

“I can sleep in the—“ he says at the same time. 

You both pause. 

“Sleep in the what?” You ask him, incredulous. 

Bucky grimaces. “The car?” He at least has the decency to look guilty as he says it. 

You roll your eyes. “You’re absurd. Come on, you can sleep in my room.” 

It’s ridiculous, you know, but the words leave your mouth before you think about it. The truth is, you’re both dead tired and you’ve got no other option. Besides, you don't see how this night could get any more ludicrous. What’s it matter if Bucky sleeps in your room? He’s just kissed you, hasn’t he? 

You start to pull him towards your bedroom, but he stays put. 

“Y/N—“ 

“You said you wouldn’t let any of them hurt me,” you say firmly. “How’re you gonna do that from the car?” 

Bucky opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. 

“I… don't know,” he mumbles lamely. Then, at your I told you so look, “Are you sure?” 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes. He’s too gentlemanly for his own good. “Yes, I’m sure. Come on.” 

You pull him towards your bedroom, much too tired now to be flustered about it. In the dark of your room, Bucky insists on sleeping on the floor. You let him, because he’s stubborn, and because you think if he were to sleep in your bed, no matter the distance you know he’d put between you, you’d be much too consumed with nervous energy to even shut your eyes, let alone sleep. 

It’s half past two when you finally crawl back into bed, Bucky lying on a stack of pillows on the floor at the foot of your bed. Though you can't see him, you feel his presence like a weight over your chest. 

You settle down on your pillows, already feeling the tug of sleep behind your eyes. Before you can fully succumb, Bucky speaks up. 

“Y/N?” He sounds just as tired as you, but you can't ignore the way he says your name like it's something special. 

“Yeah?” You hum back. 

“Thank you,” he says earnestly. You suppose he’s thanking you for everything from housing a bunch of strangers, to letting him kiss you. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” 

A pause in which you think about how to respond. Then, 

“With a pay raise?” You joke weakly. 

Bucky sighs loudly, but the smile in his voice is evident when he murmurs back, “Whatever you want, doll.” 

You grin to yourself. Now that’s something you can fall asleep to. 

-

thank you for reading! please consider reblogging if you enjoyed 🤍

[tittywaititi]

Home Is Where The Heart Is

Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!reader

Summary: Wanting to feel more included Bob decides to help on a mission but in efforts to protect you he injures himself leaving him with amnesia. Your boyfriend not remembering isn’t the biggest problem because he’s always going to find you again, even in a hundred lifetimes.

WC: 5.9K

⸻

The team had been crouched in that half-collapsed factory for what felt like days, waiting on a deal that intel swore would be “low-risk.” Off-grid. Lo-fi. Not worth a full Avengers pull.

Bob had practically begged to come.

“I’ll carry gear, patch wounds, whatever you need. I just- please- I need to feel useful.”he’d told Valentina.

She rolled her eyes but nodded. “Don’t get in the way, Goldilocks.”

So now, with dusk bleeding into night, Bob was in medic-mode. His hair was pushed back, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he passed out water, adjusted bandages, and murmured encouragements. His eye, however, never strayed too far from Y/N.

His girl. His light in all the noise. She’d joined him on this mission reluctantly, her usual grace exchanged for tension in her jaw. She didn’t trust the “low-risk” label and she had good instincts.

She was halfway up the ramp to the team’s transport jet, ready to head home with no sign of enemy lines for days. Ava right behind her, when it happened.

The building cracked.

A sound like the world being split open echoed across the premise. The kind no one expected. The kind Valentina explicitly said wouldn’t happen.

“AMBUSH!” John screamed, diving behind a shipping container.

Yelena flipped backward, drawing her pistol mid-air. “I KNEW THIS FELT WRONG!”

Bob didn’t think.

Didn’t hesitate.

His eyes scanned for Y/N and found her on the ramp, instinctively moving to cover Ava behind her. But she was exposed. Too exposed. A chunk of the building’s upper ledge shuddered, then gave way, right above her.

“Y/N!”

Bob was already sprinting, shoving through smoke and static. His boots hit the ramp just as the slab of concrete dropped.

Time slowed.

He threw himself forward, arms outstretched, not to push her, but to shield her.

He caught her eyes. Hers widened.

“BOB-!”

And then-

CRASH.

The slab connected with his back, hard. The force sent him flying into the side of the jet, head colliding with the reinforced wall. A wet, dull hit echoed beneath the chaos. He fell on the floor with a thud, hair tangled in blood.

Y/N screamed his name, crawling toward him, bullets ricocheting around her.

“BOB! NO, no no no- Bucky, HELP ME!”

Bucky was already sliding beside her, laying down cover fire with one hand, dragging Bob’s limp body back into the jet with the other.

“He’s breathing,” Bucky snapped, but barely. “We need to lift now.”

Alexei and Yelena were already firing back, bodies moving as one in furious rhythm. John threw himself behind the controls while Ava climbed into the jet’s hatch.

As the engines roared to life, Y/N knelt beside Bob, hands trembling. Blood was running down his temple, soaking into the collar of the utility jacket she’d tailored for him before the mission. His pulse was shallow.

“You stupid idiot.” she whispered, voice cracking. “Why would you- why would you do that?”

His eyes fluttered, just for a second. A hint of gold flickered in the whites. Weakly, through split lips, he breathed.

“Had to make sure…you were safe…”

Then darkness took him again.

⸻

The fluorescent hum of the Thunderbolts medbay lights was too clean. Too sterile.

Bob blinked slowly, vision swimming back to clarity as the haze of sedation lifted from his limbs. Everything felt wrong. The bed beneath him, too firm. The blanket, military-issue, rough. The equipment around him, futuristic, foreign. It wasn’t the room that disturbed him most, though. It was himself. The reflection in the monitor screens a man with soft brown hair, a faint scar on his temple, eyes too heavy with something he couldn’t name.

And then, her.

She stood by the far wall, posture sharp in a dark tactical jacket, arms folded. Not cold, not distant- just… restrained. She looked like she had practiced stillness as a defense. Her face was familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Like a song heard in another language.

“Hey.” she said gently when their eyes met, moving off the wall inching closer to him. Her voice carried a weight behind the calm. “You’re awake.”

Bob swallowed hard, cheeks turning a slight shade of pink at this breathtaking woman gazing at him in this state he was in. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

Doctors immediately rushed in, swarming around him with tests and clipped questions, their voices overlapping in a blur of medical urgency. Monitors beeped. A flashlight flicked across his eyes. Blood pressure. Reflexes. Vitals.

After what felt like hours, the pace slowed. One doctor, older, composed asked what should have been a routine memory check, his voice calm as he turned to the patient.

“Do you know who she is?” he asked, gesturing toward Y/N, who stood a few feet away, arms folded tightly across her chest, her expression unreadable beneath furrowed brows.

Bob blinked, his gaze landing on her with a faint frown. “I- No. Should I?”

The silence that followed wasn’t loud. It was quiet. Devastatingly so.

There was no desperate rush to his side. No trembling hand reaching for his. No whispered reassurances, no kiss to his forehead. Just a pause. Then a slow, measured nod from Y/N, her face still guarded, her eyes glassy but dry.

The doctor exhaled gently. “He has retrograde amnesia.” he explained, his tone careful but clinical. “It’s not uncommon with head trauma. The memories may come back gradually, or they might not. It’s too soon to tell.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just kept nodding, as if she’d been expecting this. As if she’d already mourned the version of him who used to know her.

⸻

Bob learned quickly that no one blamed him for the memory loss. Not Yelena, who perched on the edge of his bed, slicing an apple with deliberate focus while muttering something about experimental tech frying brain cells. Not Ava, who wordlessly handed him a protein bar like it was the only thing she knew to offer. Not Alexei who was trying to force a collection of polaroids he’s taken over the last phew months into his vision. Even John, ever the smartass, only gave him a half-hearted, “Actions have consequences,” before softening with a quiet, “Glad you’re alive, man.”

Bucky tried though, and Bucky didn’t try for just anyone. Calm. Steady. The way someone might be when they’ve seen too much and somehow lived through it. He spoke like he’d walked people through this kind of grief before, the kind where you can’t even name what you’ve lost.

“You were with her.” Bucky said simply, arms crossed over his chest. “The two of you… it was real. Solid.”

Bob nodded, but the words floated past him like smoke.

With her?

The phrase felt like it belonged to someone else’s story, someone else’s life.

He could still see the way she looked at him earlier, cool, unreadable, posture tight like she was bracing for impact. She didn’t rush to him. Didn’t touch him. Didn’t fall apart.

That was the woman he was with? That he loved? That loved him?

But she hadn’t looked at him with love. She’d looked at him like he was made of glass, fractured and razor-edged, something you didn’t dare hold too tightly in case it shattered.

⸻

That night, sleep evaded him. The sterile sheets felt foreign, the shadows too still. The silence was heavy, not peaceful, but oppressive. Bob decided to get up and wandered the halls of the tower like a ghost, barefoot and cautious, as though the quiet might break beneath his steps. No one stopped him. Maybe they trusted him. Maybe they pitied him. Either way, he moved unnoticed, a stranger in a life that was supposed to be his.

He drifted toward the faint whistle of wind slipping through steel beams, drawn by something instinctive. Not memory. Just a pull. When he stepped out onto the upper balcony-level watch post, the night stretched out before him, wide and quiet. And there she was.

Y/N stood at the edge leaning against the rails, her silhouette sharp against the backdrop of city lights and stars. She wore a lightweight jacket, shoulders squared, eyes trained forward through night-vision lenses. Her presence was steady, unshakable. A soldier on alert. But there was a stillness in her posture that said more than readiness. It was grief, maybe. Or exhaustion.

A breeze swept past, and a faint scent clung to it, lavender, soft and nostalgic. It hit him like a blow to the chest. Not a memory, not quite. But a feeling. Something warm. Familiar. Safe.

She didn’t flinch when he approached. Didn’t acknowledge him, but didn’t move away either. He took it as an invitation. He settled beside her, placing his arms across on the cold metal railing, careful to keep his distance. He didn’t want to crowd her. He didn’t even know if he could anymore.

They stood like that for a while. The kind of silence that wasn’t awkward, but reverent. Like they were both trying to listen for echoes of something long gone.

Eventually, he broke it. Quietly, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right.

“What were we like?”

Her body tensed. Not visibly, not dramatically, but enough. He saw her jaw shift, her hands subtly clench at her sides. When she finally responded, her voice was caught somewhere between startled and guarded.

“What? Who- who told you?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I just… I thought maybe it would help. Jog something.”

Y/N exhaled through her nose, gaze still fixed ahead. For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t answer.

“…We were quiet.” she said at last. “But not in a bad way. It was the kind of quiet that felt… easy. You always made me laugh. Not loud laughs, just those little breathless ones. The kind that slip out when you’re trying not to smile.”

Her voice was steady, but he could feel the cracks beneath it.

Bob turned to look at her. Her expression didn’t shift, but her throat moved when she swallowed. She was holding something back. She had been holding it back since the hospital.

“You used to make breakfast.” she continued, voice softer now, like she was afraid if she spoke too loud, the memory would disappear. “Badly. You’d burn toast every time, and then get all dramatic when I didn’t want to eat it. And you always made coffee, made mine every morning. Just the way I liked it. Never forgot.”

There was a pause. Then her voice wavered, almost imperceptibly, on that last word.

Bob looked down at his hands. They felt unfamiliar. Like maybe the man who used to hold her hand, who used to make that burnt toast and pour her coffee, was someone entirely different.

“I don’t remember any of that.” he whispered. The admission tasted bitter. Hollow.

“I know,” she said. Not accusing. Not bitter. Just tired. Just sad.

The words hung between them, fragile and final.

And then, silence again. But this time, it wasn’t easy.

⸻

Later in the night, when he decided to head back, sleep finally took him, it wasn’t gentle. It dragged him under like a riptide. The sterile white noise of the tower faded, and in its place came fragments, uninvited and half-formed. Not memories, not quite. But echoes of something once real.

The first was laughter. Not his, hers. Light and effortless, like water trickling over smooth stone. It filled his chest with a warmth that bordered on pain. He didn’t know what had made her laugh like that, but he knew, somehow that it had been him. And he knew he would give anything to hear it again.

Then, sunlight. Her face turned toward him, golden and radiant. Eyes crinkling at the corners. Lips parted, like she was just about to say something teasing or tender. There was a weightless joy in the image, but it slipped too fast, like a leaf on the wind.

Another shift.

His heart pounded. The dream turned sharp. He saw her leaning over him, breath close to his cheek. Her hand, warm and trembling, pressed to his chest, not in fear, but in relief. She was giggling, the sound laced with adrenaline, tears clinging to her lashes.

“Don’t do that again, Reynolds.” she whispered, her voice cracking with everything she wasn’t saying. Her fingers fisted his shirt like she was holding him together with her bare hands.

And then-

Lavender. Not a color, but a scent. It hung in the air like a memory all its own. A pillow. Her pillow. It carried the comfort of something known, something intimate. It flooded him with longing. He could almost feel the curve of her body pressed beside his beneath cool sheets.

Then came the sound. Quiet. Distant.

Humming.

A melody. Familiar but unplaceable. Maybe something from her childhood. Maybe something she sang when she thought he wasn’t listening. It was the kind of tune you’d hear while doing the dishes or tying your shoes, mundane, but sacred. A sound of home. Her voice, wordless, soft, wrapped around him like a blanket.

He tried to follow it. To hold on. But the dream began to dissolve, slipping through his grasp like fog.

Bob jolted awake in the dim pre-dawn light, lungs tight, fingers clenched in the sheets. It took him a moment to realize the wetness on his face wasn’t sweat. It was tears, fresh and hot, sliding silently down his cheeks.

He didn’t remember. Not truly. Not enough to hold onto. But the ache was real. Bone deep. He felt hollowed out, like his heart was trying to mourn a life he’d never lived but somehow missed all the same.

He pressed a shaking hand to his chest, right where she’d touched him in the dream.

And for the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, he felt the true weight of what he’d lost.

Not just memories.

Her.

⸻

Over the course of the next week, Bob found himself drawn to her in ways he couldn’t quite explain.

It wasn’t fear that made him watch her from across rooms, from training mats, from the dining table he shared with others but never truly listened to. It wasn’t suspicion either. It was something quieter, something closer to longing, even if he didn’t yet understand why.

Curiosity, maybe. Or recognition. The soul’s memory, even when the mind forgets.

She moved like someone who had been forged in fire and didn’t flinch at the heat anymore. There was nothing soft or performative about her presence, no wasted gestures, no unnecessary emotion. Every movement had purpose. Every word she spoke during briefings was clipped and precise, stripped of anything sentimental. She was a soldier, yes but there was something beneath the discipline. Something deeper. She wasn’t cold. Just… contained.

He noticed how she never hovered. Never lingered too long after meetings or volunteered small talk to fill the gaps. She didn’t crowd him with the weight of what had been. She never asked if he remembered her, or them, or the way her voice sounded when she called him by name.

She simply stood back. Present. Measured. Waiting.

And maybe that was why he started coming to her.

First it was subtle. He’d take the seat next to her in mission briefings, even when there were other chairs open. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to hear her quiet breath, to catch the lavender scent that still clung to her jacket.

He started showing up earlier. Hanging back after meeting. Sharing his seat without asking. Once, he handed her a towel after watching her spar in a match without even realizing he’d done it. She took it silently. But her fingers brushed his just a second too long.

In the dining room, he noticed she rarely ate her full plate. The others didn’t comment, but Bob did. Casually offering her his extra bread roll or protein bar. She would scoff, wrinkle her nose, roll her eyes like he was being ridiculous, but sometimes, she accepted. And sometimes, when she thought he wasn’t paying attention, he caught her smiling.

Not big. Not wide. But there. Barely there creases at the corners of her mouth. A warmth that hadn’t surfaced in days, maybe weeks. And always, always gone before he could say anything.

He wasn’t sure what any of it meant.

Only that, in the stillness of his new life, her presence anchored him.

And that the ache in his chest grew sharper every time she walked away.

⸻

His confusion, once sharp and disorienting, gradually melted into something gentler. Something warmer.

It was a strange kind of torment to feel so deeply for someone you didn’t remember. Because it wasn’t just the absence of memory that haunted him anymore. It was the presence of emotion. The heart, it seemed, didn’t wait for proof. The body didn’t require context. The feelings arrived without invitation, and they came in waves, sudden, steady, and impossible to ignore.

She would laugh at something Ava said, usually something dry and unexpected and it would hit him square in the chest. Not because the moment was funny, but because her laughter felt like a melody he used to know by heart. A sound that once lived in the private corners of his life.

He’d catch her braiding her hair before a mission, standing in front of a window or mirror with practiced ease. And every time, his hands would twitch. The muscles moved without command, a ghost-memory that didn’t belong to his mind but to his body. He knew those braids. Knew the rhythm of her breath when she leaned back against him. Knew the weight of her trust when she let him close enough to touch.

Sometimes she’d pass him in the hallway, her shoulder barely brushing his and his breath would hitch, the hairs on his arm rising like he was expecting the graze of her fingers, the low murmur of his name in a voice only meant for him.

But it never came.

She didn’t reach for him. Didn’t slip notes into his hand or steal glances when she thought no one was watching. She didn’t cling to hope or pressure him with memories he hadn’t recovered.

Instead, she gave him space.

Too much space.

And yet, somehow, the ache kept growing.

Every time she walked away with that same quiet grace, every time her expression stayed carefully unreadable, it carved a little deeper into him. A hollow expanding behind his ribs where something important used to live.

He didn’t remember their first kiss. Their inside jokes. The late nights or shared scars.

But something in him missed her, all the same.

And worse still-

He was starting to fall for her all over again.

Without even remembering why he did the first time.

⸻

A week later, he found her again, alone, tucked away in the quiet hum of the tech bay. She sat beneath a low-hanging heat lamp, sleeves rolled to her elbows, forearms smudged with pencil marks as she adjusted the inner circuitry of her weapon. Her hair was messy, hastily tied back. No makeup. No armor of sarcasm or sharpness. Just her.

Raw. Real. Beautiful.

“You look tired.” Bob said gently from the doorway.

She didn’t flinch. Just glanced up with a dry smile and replied, “So do you.”

He didn’t argue. Just stepped inside and leaned against the wall, watching her hands work in silence for a beat. The room buzzed with the faint sound of tools…

Then, finally, he spoke again. Softer this time.

“Is it weird if I say I think I’m starting to… feel things? About you?”

She paused, fingers stilling over a coil of wires. Her eyes lifted to his, cautious but not cold.

“What kind of things?” she asked, voice carefully neutral.

Bob looked down, almost embarrassed, before he met her gaze again. “Good ones. Familiar ones. Like… maybe my heart remembers, even if my head doesn’t.”

Her breath caught. And for the first time in weeks, she let the exhaustion show. Let it settle in her shoulders, in the delicate downturn of her mouth. Her fingers curled around a tool like she needed something to hold on to.

“I miss you.” she said, barely above a whisper.

He took a step closer. Then another. Still careful. Still slow. But he wasn’t afraid this time.

“I’m still here.” he said. “Even if I don’t remember who I was… I think I still want to be him.”

For a moment, she didn’t speak. Just stared at him like she was trying to memorize this version of him too, this half-stranger with familiar eyes and a voice that sounded like home.

Her hand lifted slightly, hovered midair as if it might reach for his cheek. But she stopped herself. Just inches away.

Not yet.

Still, her voice was softer now. It trembled just a little around the edges. “Then let’s take it slow. Start over, if we have to.”

Bob nodded, a small, earnest smile curling his lips as he extended a hand like it was the first day of something real.

“Hi. I’m Bob.”

Y/N blinked. And then she laughed, gentle and quiet, like the echo of a memory he couldn’t quite catch but never wanted to stop chasing.

“Hi, Bob.” she said, slipping her hand into his.

“I’m Y/N.”

And just like that, something shifted. Something healed.

Not fully. Not yet.

But it was a start.

⸻

And somewhere, deep in the fog of his fractured mind, a thread of gold began to glow. Subtle. Elusive. But unmistakably there.

Bob’s recovery was steady. Methodical. Predictable in the way a machine recalibrates itself, just input, output, routine. His vitals stabilized. His strength returned. The neurologists nodded solemnly over scan results and EEG charts, murmuring about neuroplasticity and “hopeful signs of cognitive repair.” The Void within him, the chaos fused to his cells like a shadow stitched to his soul, remained dormant for now, but pulsed quietly in the marrow of his bones. Like a storm cloud on the horizon, waiting.

But none of that, none of the science or tests or data, could explain the way his pulse quickened when she walked into the room.

She would start bringing him water without being asked. Left briefing notes folded neatly beside his tray, her compact handwriting a strange comfort in a world where everything else felt unfamiliar. She checked the charge on his comms unit before every debrief and stood silently beside him during med scans, as if her presence alone could ground him.

And every night, when she thought he was asleep, she sat beside his bed. Just for a little while. Just long enough to keep the nightmares away.

But she never touched him.

Not once.

No graze of her fingers across his knuckles. No guiding hand at the small of his back. No welcome back hug when he stumbled through the door after his first real training session, bruised and soaked in sweat but alive. Alive and somehow still not enough.

He noticed the way her hands twitched sometimes. Just the slightest flinch when he got too close. Like her muscle memory wanted to reach for him but her heart had already buried the version of him that belonged to her.

Because she kept telling herself even if he wanted to try, she’ll never get back the old him.

The man who braided her hair. Who burned her toast. Who held her in the quiet moments between chaos.

He was a ghost in his own skin. A stranger with his voice and his eyes and none of the history.

And she didn’t know how to grieve someone who was still breathing.

So she kept her distance.

Kind. Careful. Controlled.

And utterly heartbreaking.

But Bob-

He saw her.

Not with the eyes of the man she once loved, but with something new. Something fragile and blooming.

And somewhere deep inside, that golden thread tugged again.

A whisper. A memory.

A promise he hadn’t made yet.

But still intended to keep.

⸻

It was Ava who finally gave voice to the thought neither of them had dared to speak aloud, the unspoken weight that had settled between them like a shadow neither wanted to face.

They sat on the rooftop between missions, legs dangling over the edge as the world below slowly awoke. The city was a blur of distant sounds and shifting lights, but up here, it felt like time had paused, delicate and still, suspended in that fragile space just before a heartbeat.

Ava tossed a small pebble into the air, catching it effortlessly on the back of her hand, her eyes never leaving the softening sky as dawn’s first light spilled pale gold across the horizon. Her voice was calm, steady, but carried an undeniable certainty as she finally spoke.

“You act like he’s not still yours.”

The words landed quietly but with a force that stirred something deep inside Y/N. She blinked, her chest tightening, a sudden ache blooming in the hollow spaces she hadn’t yet admitted existed. “He doesn’t remember.” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the gentle breeze rustling around them, fragile and tentative.

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.” Ava said without hesitation, her gaze finally meeting Y/N’s with a softness that held understanding, compassion.

Y/N remained silent. Her jaw clenched as if holding back a flood, her breath catching in her throat. The truth in Ava’s words washed over her slowly, like a cold tide creeping in, unrelenting and undeniable. She had been holding herself apart, convinced that without memory, the connection between them was broken beyond repair. But now, confronted with the possibility that feelings could endure without facts, her walls began to crumble, piece by fragile piece.

The silence stretched out between them, vast and heavy, carrying the weight of unspoken fears and lingering hope. Finally, Ava reached out, a tentative hand brushing a stray lock of hair from Y/N’s face, a small act of comfort, a bridge across the distance.

After a long, quiet pause, Ava’s voice softened further, a gentle whisper carried on the wind. “You know, most people would kill for the chance to fall in love with the same person twice.”

The words hung in the air, delicate and shimmering like morning dew on fragile leaves. They were raw, hopeful, and aching all at once, cutting through the quiet like a promise. As the sun climbed higher, casting its warm light across the cityscape, something shifted between them, an unspoken invitation to believe in beginnings anew, to let the past and the present intertwine, fragile but real, like the slow bloom of dawn itself.

She felt it, of course, how could she not? The way Bob lingered, how his gaze clung to her like it hurt to look away. How his voice gentled when he said her name, how he remembered every little thing about her without even realizing it.

And it killed her.

Because she wanted to run to him. She wanted to bury her face in his chest and let the months of grief, fear, and waiting break open between them like thunder.

But she didn’t.

Because this wasn’t a fairytale. This was real. Messy. Fragile. Bob had lost everything, even himself. What he was feeling now wasn’t grounded in memory. It was instinct. Pull. Echoes of something he couldn’t touch. And if she leaned in too fast, too hard…

She’d break both of them.

⸻

Bob caught himself watching Y/N more often than he was willing to admit.

Observing her, getting ready to re learn all the things that made him fall for her in the the first place. Tactical necessity. Her habits, the subtle language of her body and gesture.

He noticed the way she tied her left boot tighter than her right, the deliberate care in each knot. How she tapped the corner of her datapad twice, always twice, before slipping it under her arm like a secret. The faint scar tucked beneath her jaw, visible only when the light caught her just so, small and sharp, like a whispered story.

When she spoke, he felt the ghost of a feeling, the memory of how it once was to listen to her voice, as if he’d shaped himself around its cadence long ago.

He learned to read her moods by the music she chose in the mess hall, Fleetwood Mac when exhaustion weighed on her, the jittery energy of Talking Heads when she was wired and restless. He noticed the way her eyes blinked three quick times when she fought back tears, the barely perceptible quiver in her hands during briefings.

He stored these fragments away like precious secrets, little clues she’d left behind just for him.

And then, quietly, without warning, it happened he started fully head first (no pun intended) falling for her all over again.

Not because of memories or history, but because this was something new. A slow, hesitant kind of longing, a fragile second chance his heart couldn’t ignore, even if his mind still wavered.

Late one night, after the rest of the team had long since retreated to their rooms, Bob found himself in the weight room with Bucky. The dull hum of machines and the steady clink of weights filled the space, but between them there was a comfortable silence, one that felt safe enough for truths to slip out.

Bucky handed Bob a towel, the gesture simple but steady, like a lifeline. Bob took it and sank back onto the bench, shoulders heavy, not just from the workout, but from something far more weighty inside him.

He exhaled slowly, trying to gather the words. “I can’t stop thinking about her.” he said finally, voice rough and low, like admitting it made the feeling more real.

Bucky’s eyes flicked up, sharp and curious. “Y/N?”

Bob nodded, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yeah. It’s weird. It’s like my body remembers her. All these little things I don’t actually recall, the way she laughs, the way she gets serious when she’s worried, how she always taps her datapad twice before putting it away.”

He paused, searching Bucky’s face for judgment or dismissal, but found none.

“It’s like this echo inside me that won’t shut up. Even if my brain can’t pull up the memories, the feelings are still there. I don’t know what that means, but it’s driving me crazy.”

Bucky nodded slowly, as if he understood that ache too well. His voice was quiet but sure. “Maybe that’s the part that really matters, the part that sticks around after all the rest gets lost. Sometimes the heart remembers before the mind catches up.”

Bob looked up at him, a flicker of hope mixing with the confusion in his eyes. For the first time in a long while, maybe there was a path forward, even if it was just one small, fragile step.

⸻

It came to a head one evening, late.

The others had cleared out after a long debrief. She stayed behind to finish reports. Bob… didn’t leave either.

He stood in the doorway for a moment before walking in. She heard him, but didn’t look up.

“You always work this late?” he asked quietly.

She smiled faintly, still not looking at him. “Someone’s gotta clean up your mission notes.”

He chuckled, soft and warm. “That bad, huh?”

“No,” she said, softer now. “Just… messy.”

A beat of silence.

Then, his voice. “I remember how you take your coffee.”

Her hand froze mid-type.

“I didn’t realize it.” he continued, stepping closer. “This morning, when I was making a cup, I poured two. Yours, black, one sugar. I didn’t think. I just did it.”

She finally looked at him.

Bob’s eyes held no confusion. No uncertainty. Only wonder. And something deeper.

“I don’t remember everything. I wish I did.” he admitted. “But every time I look at you, I feel like I’m home. Like you’re the part of me I’ve been missing.”

Her eyes filled. She blinked fast, pressing her lips together to keep them from trembling.

“Bob-“

“You don’t have to say anything.” he cut in gently. “I just… I wanted you to know I’d find you again. In a hundred lifetimes. Even if I didn’t remember your name, I’d still know you.”

She shook her head, tears slipping down now. “Don’t- don’t say that. Please. Because if you fall again and something takes you from me again, I don’t think I’ll survive it.”

Silence. Thick. Raw.

Then, he stepped closer, slower than slow, and stopped just short of touching her.

“I think.” he said, voice low and rough, “we both survived the first fall. Maybe that means we’re meant to do it again.”

Y/N looked at him for a long moment, heart shattering open in her chest.

And for now… she didn’t run.

She just breathed.

And stayed.

“I love you.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. Not yet.

“Even if all those moments we had are still fog to me, I love you now. Not because I did. But because I do.”

She closed her eyes. The ache inside her chest expanded like a dam threatening to break.

She stared at him, lips parted, a thousand emotions crashing behind her eyes. And for a second, she hesitated. As if the love she’d locked away so tightly might shatter everything if she let it out now.

But then, she broke.

Her hands cupped his jaw, and she kissed him like it was the last time and the first. Like the end and the beginning had always been the same. Her mouth trembled against his, but she kissed him with years of ache, of waiting, of love that had refused to die even when everything else had been taken.

And he kissed her back like he’d been waiting a lifetime.

Maybe he had.

⸻

They didn’t say anything when they re-entered the living room, hand in hand, flushed and quiet and overwhelmed.

They didn’t have to.

Yelena looked up from her spot on the couch and offered a half-smile, knowingly. Bucky gave a small nod of approval.

Even Alexei, wiping his eye a little too aggressively, muttered, “Dust. Stupid American dust.”

John and Ava exchanged a look but said nothing. Respectful silence wrapped around them like a blanket. The team didn’t tease. Didn’t pry.

They just let them be.

⸻

[Epilogue — 2 Months Later]

The morning light fell golden across the compound grounds, glinting off the dew-soaked grass and filtering through the windows of the common room. Someone had put on music, Fleetwood Mac, soft and low.

Bob sat on the steps just outside, a cup of coffee in hand, watching as Y/N barked a laugh across the courtyard, playfully tossing a sparring mat at Alexei, who pretended to stumble like he’d been shot.

Her hair was pulled up messily. She wore one of his old shirts, sleeves rolled, collar stretched. She looked free. She looked like home.

He didn’t have all his memories. Some things were still missing, like half-remembered dreams just out of reach. But he was okay with that.

Because this, now was real.

They had rebuilt something not from memory, but from the heart. From the quiet comfort of relearning one another. From the gentle rediscovery of touch, trust, laughter.

And they were better for it.

She turned then, sensing his gaze, and their eyes locked across the distance. Her smile softened. Not flashy. Not forced.

Just full of love.

Bob smiled back, heart full.

He’d crawl back home to her.

And he would.

Every single time.

⸻

[tittywaititi]

miss possessive // bob reynolds

Summary: Valentina’s new assistant becomes too fixated on Bob for your linking, and it seems that she needs a reminder that she has to keep her hands off your man.

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Thunderbolts!Reader

Word count: 2.1k

Warnings: established relationship, possessiveness, new girl is a bit too touchy with bob, confident!bob at the end!!

A/N: As always, remember English is not my first language. I'm sorry for any grammatical or spelling errors. Unbeta'd.

Inspired by the song "Miss Possessive" by Tate McRae

marvel masterlist | main masterlist

Valentina's PR galas, which you were forced to attend, were undoubtedly your least favorite events.

You could even argue that the rest of the Thunderbolts —now known as ‘The New Avengers’— agreed with you. 

Dressing up in your finest attire, putting up a polished facade for investors and the press, while congressmen charmed their way through speeches, smiles carefully crafted for the cameras, and photo ops meticulously staged. Everything felt like an elaborate performance, a meticulously curated show designed to impress and persuade. Nonetheless, you understood it was part of the job — part of the game Valentina played so expertly.

“Can’t we just stay here and watch a movie?”

Bob had the worst time at these events. In the early months and at the first gatherings you were invited to, you managed to persuade Valentina to let him stay back at the tower. But your coaxing didn’t last forever. 

“It’ll be over before you know it,” you assured him, offering a comforting smile, though both of you knew the truth.

“I just wish I could skip the whole thing sometimes.”

You reached out, giving him a warm smile, and gently took his hand in yours. “I know, babe.”

He squeezed your hand tenderly, his eyes shining with affection. “You look beautiful,” he mumbled softly. His eyes flickered up and down, appreciation evident on his face. “Red really suits you.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, and you gazed at him with a small, satisfied smile on your lips, smoothing a few strands of hair out of your face.

“Thank you, baby.” You stepped closer, narrowing the gap between you and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “It would look even better on the floor of your bedroom later tonight,” your voice lowering to a sultry whisper as you pressed your lips against his ear.

You drew back just enough to gauge the reaction your words provoked in him — his eyes widened, cheeks flushing a deeper shade of red.

The grin on your face grew broader.

He was adorable.

Bob's cheeks reddened further, and he let out a shy laugh that made your heart flutter. “You’re terrible,” he mumbled, his arm instinctively enveloping your waist in a firm but gentle embrace, holding you close.

“You love it,” you teased lightly, leaning in to give him a quick kiss.

Another thing you didn’t like about these galas was the necessity of hiding your relationship with Bob. Not being able to kiss him or hold his hand all night was the toughest part.

It was not a secret that you two were dating — at least for the rest of the team. But in Valentina’s and the government’s lexicon, “It’s not good press that there’s a romance within the team.” Whatever that meant, neither of you understood. The implication sat thick in the air, a silent judgment of your affection.

A very long night lay ahead of you.

You hated Valentina’s new assistant. 

Since Mel had finally received the promotion she had deserved—and had worked for—Valentina decided to bring someone new onboard to fill her old position.

And that someone was Gretchen.

Gretchen was everything Mel wasn’t — and not in the way that was admirable. But that wasn’t the basis for your dislike; it was her unhealthy fixation with Bob, which began the moment she stepped out of the Watchtower elevator.

From that first glance, her infatuation was painfully obvious. She watched him with an intense, almost obsessed expression, making up excuses to get close to him, to touch him, and to be near him.

And that made your blood boil.

No, it wasn’t jealousy.

You trusted Bob more than anyone else. Gretchen was fighting a lost battle; she couldn't compete with what you shared with him. However, seeing her deliberately seek opportunities to get close to him, her persistence crossing boundaries, wore thin on your patience.

Like tonight, since arriving at the gala, she hasn't stopped seeking him out. Every time he moved across the room, Gretchen's eyes followed him, tracking his every movement.

“Look at the floor, or the ceiling. Anyone else here, if you’re feeling it. Just keep your eyes off him,” you warned, your voice steady yet low, attempting to maintain your composure.

“Aw, are you scared that he’s gonna realize that he can do better than a misfit with blood on her hands?” she taunted, her tone mocking.

“Listen, I’ll be nice, up until I’m not,” you responded firmly. “Some fights you’re never going to win; the sooner you realize it, the better.”

She smirked, lips curving into a defiant smirk. “Ohh, I’m so scared,” she mocked, feigning that her hand was shaking.

“Last warning. Back off, or I’ll make you regret crossing me.”

Her smile grew even more confident, and a hint of danger sparkled in her gaze. “Or what? You’ll threaten me again? Been there, done that. But maybe you’re just all talk.”

The air grew heavier, the tension boiling just beneath the surface. Somewhere in the back of your mind, a voice urged patience, but instinct had already taken control. You took a measured step forward, your voice calm and unwavering. “Bitch, you haven’t seen the side of me when I’m two drinks in and you can’t leave my man alone.”

She seemed unfazed by your words, shrugging with a smug smile as she backed away. “May the best one win.” With a final scowl, she turned and walked off toward where Valentina and Bob were standing, chatting with a New York Times reporter. Well, Valentina and the reporter were doing the talking, while your boyfriend was just standing there, bouncing one leg and the other, clearly wishing he was anywhere else but here. 

‘May the best one win.’  What the hell was that supposed to mean? He was neither a trophy to be claimed nor a prize to be won. 

She was pushing it too far.

You should’ve slapped her right there. Instead, you clenched your fists, feeling that simmering frustration boiled over. 

How dare she act like she had a chance? As if she owned him? She knew nothing about him; she was just interested in the superhero propaganda Valentina was feeding the press—The Sentry.

But not Robert Reynolds. Bob. 

Sweet, respectful Bob, who valued genuine connection. 

“You're better than me,” Mel remarked, appearing behind you with a drink in her hand. “I’d have slapped the shit out of her already.”

“Trust me, I’m very tempted. But I don’t think that would do any favors for the positive image Valentina is trying to craft for ‘The New Avengers.’”

From your vantage point, you saw Gretchen placing her hand on Bob’s bicep, leaning in just enough to invade his space. Her eyes glittered with that same intensity. Bob’s smile was polite but strained, and you could see the underlying tension in his stance.

Your grip on the glass tightened as you resisted the impulse to march over and pull her away from him. Every second she lingered near him, she was eroding what little patience you had left. 

Mel leaned in slightly, voice hoarse with resolve. “You want me to do something? ‘Cause I will. I’m not about to stand here and watch her shitshow.”

You shook your head subtly, your eyes never leaving the scene. “No. Let her have her moment. It’s not worth the fight. But if she crosses the line again, I swear, I will not hold back.”

Bob glanced toward the crowd, probably wishing he could vanish into thin air. Then, she leaned in even closer, whispering something to him — the action a little too intimate for a professional conversation where there were investors at stake. Bob took a step back, but she brushed into him again, not seeming to notice or care. 

That was the last straw.

“She’s not even trying to be subtle,” Mel muttered. “Can she be more pathetic?”

You swallowed the last of your drink in one gulp, hastily passing the glass to Mel before striding over there with determination.

Valentina was the first to notice your approach, tilting her head in confusion. The press lady nearby shimmered with excitement, her gaze flickering with anticipation, convinced she was about to land an exclusive interview. But what was about to unfold was something even more compelling — something that would make tomorrow’s front page. 

Gretchen’s eyes darted to you as she sensed your approach, a flicker of defiance crossing her face. Bob looked up, and you could see the tension in his shoulders ease slightly when he spotted you.

Without hesitation, you reached out and gripped her wrist. “I told you to keep your hands off my man,” you snarled, pushing her aside with firm resolve.

In the background, you caught the faint murmur of Mel saying, “Set her straight, girl,” and Yelena’s thick Russian accent, “Oh shit.”

Then, gently, you placed your hand on Bob’s neck and pulled him down, pressing your lips against his. Though he was caught off guard, he quickly realized what was happening. His hands landed on your waist, drawing you in even closer as he kissed you back.

You didn’t care about the impact or the ramifications, because you were weary of being a puppet and being told what you could do and couldn’t do. And although under other circumstances, you might never have acted so boldly, Gretchen’s provocations had pushed you past your limit.

Yelena let out a low whistle, clearly impressed, while Mel’s cheers echoed softly in the background. You could even hear Alexei's obnoxiously loud voice clapping. “What a show. Young love. So beautiful.”

Gretchen, regaining some composure, tried to muster a cutting remark, but it fell flat. She spun on her heel and stormed off, muttering profanities under her breath.

“Well, I’d say that’s one for the history books. Tomorrow’s front page just got a lot more interesting.”

You pulled back just enough to look into Valentina’s eyes. “I’m sure Gretchen would be delighted to deal with the situation,” you replied sarcastically. “Now, if you excuse us.” Taking Bob’s hand, you guided him away from the turmoil and toward the exit. 

You were done with tonight’s gala.

You were back at the Watchtower, the strain from the gala finally dissipating, but instead, a heavy wave of awareness washed over you, reminding you of the upcoming consequences.

“I’m sorry.” You looked down, a bit sheepish, breaking the silence that had settled between you.

Bob tilted his head, his brow furrowing. “Why?”

You took a slow, deep breath. “For acting so impulsively. Now, we're probably going to be on all the front pages — people will talk about this.” You looked up, eyes earnest. “I didn’t want it to go down like that, but Gretchen pushed me too far.”

Bob was smart, so you knew he had figured out what she had been doing tonight and every day since she was hired.

“Yeah, she wasn’t very subtle about it… but I, uh – I promise I wasn’t interested.”

Bless his heart.

“I know, baby. But she was really getting on my nerves. Especially after I already warned her to back off before, and she hurled a challenge at me as if she even had a chance with you.”

A grin tugged at Bob’s lips, growing wider.

“Why are you smiling?” you inquired in confusion.

Why wasn’t he mad that you outed your relationship in such a possessive way?

His eyes were bright with mirth as he leaned in. “Honestly? I liked it. It was kinda hot,” he admitted, a little breathless. “No one’s ever gone so feral over me before… It’s a real turn-on.”

You blinked in astonishment. Bob's confidence grew only on rare occasions, allowing him to speak such things. 

A smile curved on your lips. “Oh, really? Well, if you think that was hot, you haven’t seen half of what I can do, baby.”

Without warning, Bob reached out, cradling your face in his hands and pulling your lips into his. It started slow but gradually escalated as his tongue pressed between your parted lips, seeking access that you willingly granted.

His hand on your face cupped your jaw, fingers curling gently as he held you steady. Your hands instinctively reached his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his tailored suit jacket, grounding yourself.

As the kiss deepened, his lips got more demanding. One of his hands slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you even closer — if it was possible — kindling a flame that spread through both of you. Your hands traveled to his chest, feeling the pounding of his heart beneath your fingertips.

When you finally pulled back slightly, your foreheads resting together, both of you out of breath. Bob’s gaze lingered on yours, a sly smile playing on his lips.

“Still think that dress would look better on my floor?"

[tittywaititi]

Golden Boy

pairing: Bob Reynolds/Sentry x fem!reader.

summary: Riding your Golden Boy. Somewhere along the lines, Sentry takes over and has his way with his girl.

warnings: smut, smut and more smut. bob being a soft boy, sentry being self indulgent and taking you within an inch of your life because you asked for it. (i fear i was the one being self indulgent bcs idk sentry is so hot but so is void. but bob has my heart. let me know what yall think. hope yall enjoy this <33)

word count- 2.2k

masterlist

He wants to live inside you forever. Imprint himself on your very soul and on every fiber of your being. You feel good, you feel so incredibly and unbelievably right.

“Oh God, Bob.You’re so big..” you moan as you sink down on his cock. The dangerously adorable man underneath you has the thickest cock you’ve ever had. The stretch overwhelms you and you bury your face in his neck, arms around him, trying to go as deep as possible. Bob hands grip your hips tightly, stopping you from sinking down on his cock too quickly. Mentally, you curse yourself for taking so long to try this position with your golden boy.

Bob feels dizzy too, his head spinning as he watches you. He craves touch, he craves your touch. His entire life, nobody had ever touched him like you, so lovingly and gently, tracing his skin like you were memorising and worshiping him. Instead, he spent a good portion of his years filling this empty space with drugs, getting high out of his mind and doing awful things he wouldn’t even want to tell you.

Leaning up against the headboard, Bob watches you with lustful eyes, his plump lips part as he pants breathlessly. At this very moment, Bob felt like his heart might explode, death would be welcomed since he had truly lived a life worth living, an angel in his arms, wrapped around his cock. Sex before you was meaningless, he had been far too high to care about anything that was happening anyways.

“G-go slow. Don’t have to get it all in.” He whimpers out between moans, groaning at how wet you are, dripping down the length of the cock.

“I-I want to, baby.” you reply shakily before pushing yourself down fully onto his cock. The stretch makes your eyes water, but he feels so good— you could cum right then and there.

Bob’s hands lift from your hips, moving to clutch your head and pull you away from his neck. “G-god, baby. Y-you didn’t– you didn’t have to.” He stutters out, his forehead flush against yours.

You want to ride him, bounce on his cock until you can't remember your own name. Rolling your hips and clenching down on his cock, your legs tremble at how good it feels. Bob, bless his heart, lets out a choked moan.

“B-Baby, baby. You can’t– you can’t do that. I’ll cum too–oh god, too soon!” He moans.

It takes all your might to begin riding your golden boy. Hands on his shoulders you start lifting your hips, then sliding back down in his cock, over and over again. Your pace is slow yet hard and deep. You want to go faster but the blood in your veins feels so hot, you think you’ll explode if you’re not careful.

His head is thrown back, eyes shut, lips parted and face flushed as you ride him. His hands return back to your hips, clutching you like a lifeline. The Golden Boy under you, is unequivocally and irrevocably yours, and fuck— he looks gorgeous under you.

Letting go of his shoulders, you reach to clutch his face. “Bob? Baby, look at me, please.” you whine, wanting those pretty eyes on you.

He blearily opens his eyes, his pupils blown and he looks utterly debased and lustful. His unnecessarily superhuman senses flare, overwhelmed by everything around him. He can feel every touch on his skin, the soft fingertips on his cheeks trying to reel him in, and the drag of your walls around his cock each time you move up and down.

Bob never wants this to end. He wants to be inside you like this forever. His cock pumping deep inside the love of his life.

The sound of your heart pounding in your chest echoes in his ears as he zeros in on you, the way your blood rushes so loudly through your veins.

The pleasure is too much, it throws you off-kilter. Head spinning, your hands drop down to his stomach to steady yourself.Thoughtlessly, his hands move to cup your breasts when yours let go of his face, entranced by each movement they make when you bounce on his cock. The pads of his thumbs toying with your hardened nipples.

His touch spurs you on, the way his eyes lustfully looks at you has you choking on your own saliva. Invigorated by this, you speed up, bouncing on his cock harder and faster. Bob can only take what you give him, mouth parted, moaning and grunting, here and there. You know you shouldn’t overdo it, but God— his cock stretches you out so good and so deep, you know you’ll feel it tomorrow. You want him to wreck you, rearrange you and ruin you for anyone else.

The coil within you winds up, getting tighter and tighter with each bounce of your body. Body tense and hot, you can feel yourself getting closer to the edge, higher and higher. Head light and blood rushing, you’re losing yourself to this pleasure, your legs and thighs begin to cramp but you force yourself to keep going.It's like your mind isn’t yours. You don’t want to stop, you can’t stop.

Bob knows you far too well. He can tell when you’re teetering to the edge of going too damn far. The way your eyes glass over, the way your moans spill out like you're about to cry, and the way you shake. His hands clutch your waist, his grip firm but careful, trying to bring you back to him. “S-Slow down, baby. You’re— fuck! You’re t-trembling.” He says shakily trying not to succumb to how good you feel on his cock.

He says your name so softly, so reverently, trying to rouse you back to him. His arms wrap around you, under your arms, pulling you flush to him. Bob’s hand finds purchase on the back of your head, as it falls into the crook of his neck.

Gibberish falls out of your mouth. Something along the lines of “I want to cum, Robert. Let me make you cum too, please.” if Bob’s superhearing is to be trusted.

“I-I know, baby.” he soothes you. “L-let me do this for you, baby. Don’t— you don’t have to p-push yourself f–for me.” he reasons with you, knowing you wouldn’t stop until both of you had been thoroughly spent.

Too far gone to think straight, you wrap your arms around his neck, letting him take over. Holding your hips tightly, Bob’s hips begin to thrust up into you, his pace is steady but deep.

The way you melt into him makes his heart pound out of his chest, how you trust him to take over, when even he didn’t trust himself. The way your soft moans spill out of your lips could make him cum inside your silky walls right now.

You want him to go faster, harder, make you cum so hard, you see stars. Desire has you so deep within its clutches, you can’t escape. So you beg. “Bob, please. Fuck me harder, please.”

“Shh, I– I don’t want to lose control, baby.” he whines back.

“I don’t care, Bob. Please, just fuck me hard.” You beg him, voice needy.

“I need you to fuck me. Just fuck me hard, Robert.” The words leave your mouth desperately without much thought.

Something shifts in the air and you feel it immediately. The sudden influx of unexplainable energy, it feels sharp and strong. Steady and firm, unlike Bob’s hesitance.

Beneath you, Bob shifts, hands gripping your hips even tighter. Then, he plants his feet down onto the bed, angling himself before thrusting back into you, hard. This new angle hits that spot inside you, the one that makes you scream and see stars

The force of his thrusts has you losing your breath, your arms tighten around his neck as you hold on for dear life. Ecstasy flows through your veins, as he begins to fuck you within an inch of your life while your moans spill wantonly from your lips.

This, you think, is new. Bob has never done this. He doesn’t usually fall into your begging, opting to hold back and not let himself lose. Alarm bells ring in your head, but somewhere between his grunts and the way his cock pounds into you, you forget it.

He’s so deep inside you, pounding your pussy like his life depended on it. The pleasure builds within you, the pressure between your legs borders between too much and just enough.

You don’t have a clue how long he has you like this but the coil finally snaps. Intense pleasure washes through you, sending your body into a state of ecstasy,and leaving you moaning and trembling. Your juices leak down Bob’s cock, coating both your thighs. He doesn’t slow down.

His thrusts don't falter. Bob’s pace is unyielding, grunting as your walls clamp down on him. Utterly spent, your body is limp and pliant atop his as you try to get your bearings, letting him have his way with you.

Before you know it, Bob flips the both of you.

The sudden movement shocks you. Suddenly, you are underneath him. Peering up at your Golden Boy, his eyes are shut and his curls fall haphazardly across his forehead, sticking to the sweaty skin.

Without much thought, your hand reaches up to brush away his curls. You think to ask why he stopped when he hasn’t cum yet.

Then, it clicks. The moment your fingers touch his skin, his eyes open. Otherworldly glow shines from his eyes.

Oh. This isn’t your Bob.

“Sentry?” You breathlessly ask.

The being above you doesn’t reply. Instead, he looks at you with the ferocity of a starved man. Fear rushes through you yet your excitement outweighs it. His cock is still buried inside your sensitive pussy, you don’t know whether to be afraid of him or do you want him to fuck you into the mattress.

Sentry speaks to you, “It’s unfair that he gets to keep you all by himself.”

Now, Sentry takes the reins. He pins you down onto the bed before thrusting into you. His presence is overwhelming, like he invades every inch of your senses.

Your previous climax had already made you sensitive. The sheer force of his unforgiving thrusts sends your body into overdrive. Overstimulation has you arching your back and curling your toes into the mattress.

In your fucked out state, you can’t even comprehend the words that spill out your mouth.

Sentry thinks you look so damn pretty like this. A lover fit for a god like him, moaning and writhing under him as he pounds into you. Only he should see you in this state.

He increases his pace, pounding into you harder. After all, you had asked him to fuck you hard. He can feel your thighs tremble and he can hear how hard your heart is beating.

The blood in your veins rush rapidly through your body as you fall deeper into your sex-induced high. Sentry too gets high on you. His focuses his efforts on bringing to the edge again, too feel you clamp down his cock and wantonly moan for him. Only him.

He knows he’s close to the edge when his balls tighten and the pressure low in his belly becomes too much. You feel yourself losing control, his cock is so big and he’s going too hard and too fast. When you tense and your body arches without your control, he knows your cumming again.

Only this time, he comes too.

He ruts into you wildly, grunting loudly while letting pleasure take over as he spills himself into you. He holds you close, letting your pinned arms go.

Somewhere in your haze, trembles and aftershocks you manage to wrap your arms around him as he spills himself inside you. It’s so much, even in your state, you know it’s too much.

The sheer volume of his thick cum feels so good inside you.

When he comes to, he can tell you’re still dazed. Your body is soft and pliant under him, while your eyes are glassy. His touch on your cheek grounds you a little. It’s like you see that it's him.

“Baby?” You call out breathlessly to him.

“Hmm?” He replies back but he thinks you don’t even notice.

You wince when he slides out of you. Thick fluids both his and yours leak out of you. He holds back the urge to push it back in. He knows that tomorrow that you’ll be sore but he hopes you don’t regret asking him to fuck you hard.

He lays beside you, pulling your weak body into his and letting your head rest on his chest. Sentry feels your body tremble under his touch, the aftershock of your orgasms.

He softly strokes up and down your arm, you are safe and sound here with him. He is the Sentry after all. A God in his own right.

When your breathing slows, he knows you’ll fall asleep soon. Your body is practically melting on him.

Right as sleep pulls you into its grasp, a soft sentence slips past your lips. Barely coherent and understandable but he doesn’t have superhearing for nothing. “Love you, my Golden Boy.”

Your Golden Boy. He likes the sound of that.

As Sentry closes his eyes, he hopes you wouldn’t mind him taking over your Bob next time. After all, it is unfair for Bob to have you all to himself.

Sentry lets sleep take him too, knowing that Bob will wake in the morning with only memories of this.

Sentry- 1, Bob- 0.

Yeah, he thinks. He’s a God, so why not keep a fucking tally.

[tittywaititi]

I Just Feel You : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x Empath!Reader

Summary: Bob Reynolds was broken, and he knew that, but he was trying. He was trying to be better, to control himself. But like Stitch had said: broken, but still good. You were beginning to make Bob believe that he was, in fact, still good.

Warnings: fluff, maybe a TINY bit of angst but not really, idiots in love with some pining, SPOILERS I guess for Thunderbolts*, talk of mental illness and drugs, tiny bit OOC Bob

Word Count: 2,603 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

“The uh, the glowing doesn’t, like…hurt, does it?”

“Your eyes glow, and it doesn’t hurt you, right? It’s the same thing with my powers,”

Bob was mesmerized as you sat beside him in his bedroom, the soft green glow that seemed to envelop your hands as the feeling in the room changed. It had been a low day for him, his insecurities seeming to catch up with him after a failed training session with Walker and Bucky, and he’d retreated into his room to attempt the meditation tactics you’d been teaching him. But then, you’d walked in behind him, and the aura of pure tranquility and peace that poured off of you engulfed him, and suddenly his low day wasn’t so bad anymore.

The team hadn’t known what you had been capable of, at least not at first. You were skilled with the twin daggers tied to your utility belt, and a decent enough shot when you got your hands on a gun, two things they’d learned quickly down in Valentina’s vault. The sudden addition of Bob, along with Valentina locking them into what they’d quickly learned was an incinerator, had only heightened the anxious feelings in the room as the shouting commenced again between the mercenaries sent to their doom.

“Everyone relax!” you’d suddenly called out, a wave of energy almost washing the room in a soft green for a second. They’d watched your body stumble slightly before you shook your head. “We’re on the clock, we have to work together if we’re getting out of here.”

None of them knew you, so why were they listening to you? It was almost as if the second you’d told them to relax, they were hit with a wave of peace, and they were quickly working together to get out of the vault.

An empath, they’d quickly learned, when you’d torn Bob and Walker apart and taken the former to the side, seemingly having a way of calming him down within moments. Walker had read about another empath in SHIELD files Valentina had managed to get her hands on, an alien woman of some kind that had helped fight off Thanos. Other than her, none of them had ever encountered an empath before.

They quickly caught on that there was no lying to you about how they were feeling, because their emotions radiated off them in waves that you could constantly feel. Yelena’s sadness, John’s guilt, Ava’s desire for a family, the pain that Bucky and Alexei tried so hard to hide, you felt it all, all the time.

That’s why, as Yelena had dug herself out of containment within the Void, she’d stopped to tug you out from under the shelf lying on top of you, pushing you forward toward Bob as he battled with his inner demons, running directly behind you.

You’d paid no mind to Yelena hugging Bob opposite of you, or the rest of the rag-tag team you’d assembled trying to tug him back. You simply clung to him, turning to rest his forehead against your own, hand on his cheek glowing a soft green color as you whispered to him over and over again.

I’m here. I’m not going anywhere…I’ll never leave you. I’m here, Bob.

So, based on what they’d already seen and known, it was no surprise to anyone on The New Avengers that you both gravitated to one another day in and day out.

“It’s just pretty to look at,” Bob had mumbled, still watching your hands that now lay in your lap. He lay on his bed, head resting against one of his many worn-in pillows, just watching you from where you sat cross-legged in front of him. “Make me feel something.”

You’d quirked an eyebrow at his request, before reaching forward and laying your hand on his arm. His tranquil demeanor invaded your senses, a stark contrast to how he’d been when you’d first gotten to his room hours before, and you thought back on Alexei’s story the night before about somehow getting to drive Chris Rock around Washington D.C. months before. You pushed the feeling of every laugh you’d all shared that night into that demeanor that felt so much like Bob, imbuing him with the feeling of that night.

A smile stretched across your face the second you’d heard his laughter begin, unable to tear your eyes away. Happiness suited Bob, you’d known that from the moment you’d joked with him outside the vault, seeing a peak of his smile for the first time. He deserved to feel like this all the time: light, happy, free.

“Thank you,” Bob could feel the flush cross his face as his laughter subsided, stumbling over his words for a moment. “For uh- you know, being here. With me.”

You’d simply smiled back at him, lying down beside him on his bed. Bob shifted to his side so he could look at you, and no matter how many times you’d both lain here talking in the past, it still made his heart race to know you trusted him enough to be here in such a vulnerable position with him.

“You don’t have to thank me. We’ll always be here if you need us,”

“Yeah, but uh, you don’t treat me like a child. Unlike most of them,” Bob had mumbled.

It was a harsh reality, but not incorrect, and Bob knew that you knew it. Bucky managed to treat him like a ticking time bomb around every corner, but given the explanation he’d gotten about New York and what he’d done, and the moments that had slowly come back to him, he didn’t blame him. John, Ava, and Alexei were the worst about it, talking down to him like a child, as if he weren’t a grown man capable of making his own decisions and needed to be babysat twenty-four seven.

Yelena tried not to baby him, but she had her moments still. She constantly had a way of asking if he was okay, no matter the situation, and sometimes it had Bob on the verge of snapping. If he wanted to talk about it, he would, he didn’t need to be babysat.

It was one of the best things about you. You never asked if he was okay, simply just sat with him. You talked to him like you did the rest of the team, you let him come to you with his problems. He’d overheard Walker once say to you that you were the “best means of controlling” him, that you could simply imbue him with any feeling you wanted.

Of course, you’d kicked Walker so hard in the shins for that comment that his skin had broken open and needed to be stitched up. In your eyes, Bob was a person, and you refused to ever manipulate him in any way, shape, or form. It’s what made it so easy for him to fall in love with you.

“You know they mean well,” you’d tried to reassure him. “Yeah, they have their…quirks about it, and maybe they don’t always go about it in the best way. But they do care.”

“Not- not like you do,” Bob shook his head, embarrassed to look at you as his gaze drifted across the room to his bookshelf, the one you’d helped personally curate for him with hundreds of books he’d come to adore. “No, you don’t treat me like- like I’m broken. I am, but at least you don’t treat me like I am.”

“Bob, you’re-”

“Don’t say I’m not-”

“You might be broken, but you’re still good,” the smile on your face slowly morphed into a smirk. “That’s from this Disney movie-”

“I grew up in Florida, I’ve seen Lilo and Stitch. I might’ve been addicted to meth but uh- it didn’t entirely screw up my memory,”

The shared laughter between you both died down as there was a shift in Bob’s aura, and it washed over you in another wave of emotion.

It wasn’t the first time you’d felt it, the affection pouring off of him and in your direction. It was always there, growing, and almost always buried beneath his everyday feelings. But in moments like this, it was the most prominent feeling radiating off of him, and it did nothing to stop the flush that covered your own cheeks.

Bob simply watched as your hand found his cheek, layin lightly ontop of his skin as you looked at him.

“That little blue alien has a point. We’re all a little broken, Bob, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t good, or can’t become good. Broken isn’t bad, you just have to put the pieces back together,”

Bob couldn’t tear his eyes away from you, until the feeling that seemed to be flooding off of you and seeping into his very skin and being washed over him. He closed his eyes for just a moment, humming to himself at the feeling as his flush persisted over his skin.

“I- I don’t know what you’re making me feel right now, but it’s…it’s nice,”

“I’m not making you feel anything,” his eyes shot open, to see you still simply looking at him with that tiny grin, thumb still running over the skin of his cheek. “It’s…it’s just me.”

“...I just feel you?”

“Just me,” you took your hand away, not missing the way he chased after the feeling. You held it between you, showing the soft glow around you. “I’d never force you to feel something, not unless you asked. What you’re feeling it’s just all of my emotions mixed together. It’s just…me.”

“I…I like feeling that,”

“I know you do,” your grin became a smirk again as you leaned your head closer to him. “I think you forget, I can feel your feelings…all of them.”

Bob’s grin dropped for a moment as the weight of your comment settled on him. His feelings, loud and begging to burst out of him, were clear as day to you. Of course you knew, but you weren’t making fun of him, you were simply watching him as if you were waiting for him to finally admit it all.

“Can- can I kiss you?”

You didn’t answer with words, you answered with a simple kiss pressed to his lips. Bob responded fairly quickly after a moment, the feeling that he now knew was simply just you washing over him, as you reached out to hold you close to him, completely wrapped up in everything that was you.

Moving from the intimate friendship you’d shared to the now intimate romantic relationship between you and Bob hadn’t come as a shock to anyone, least of all to the pair of you. It was the softest of relationships, the softest of moments shared between you both. Bob always had his up days and his down days, but you were always at his side, allowing him to navigate his life as he chose to navigate it.

The team had been sent out on a mission that didn’t require everyone, and you and Bob had been volunteered to stay back. Neither of you cared much. After Walker had almost sent Bob spiraling in training the other day, a day to decompress was truly needed.

Bob found himself sitting on the common room couch, watching a random movie that he’d had on his list to watch for a while now, playing. You were lying across the rest of the couch, head resting in his lap as you watched along with him, sitting in a comfortable silence together.

One of Bob’s hands was in both of yours, your fingers dancing across his own, tracing the lines down his palms. His eyes flicked down to you every few moments, the smile on his face permanently etched there every time he looked at you.

“What’s your favorite flower?”

Bob paused, eyebrows furrowed as he glanced down at you, but your eyes were still locked onto his hand.

“Uh…an orange blossom. It was- it was my mom’s favorite flower. It’s the state flower of Florida,”

You’d hummed, before suddenly sitting upright, turning to face him, with one of his hands still sitting between your own. Bob watched you as you contemplated something before looking up at him.

“Do you trust me?” you paused for a moment before continuing. “There’s this thing I can do…I’ve only ever done it once, but…I had an idea.”

“I…I trust you,”

His hand laid in yours, palm up, as you closed your eyes. A single finger pointed down to his skin as Bob watched, that familiar green glow emitting as you began to trace over his palm.

There was the smallest of tingles at the feelings, of the tip of your finger and point of your nail tracing around on his palm. The moment you stopped and opened your eyes, you both looked down at his palm.

The smallest outline of a little orange blossom, just big enough to see, etched in that same glowing green on his palm. The light faded, as did the shape itself, molding into his skin.

Bob looked up at you, taking his hand back into his own lap, as you watched him.

“Pretend I’m not here, that I’m not in the room. You’re alone in your room…now think about it, the little flower,”

Bob did just as you instructed, closing his eyes and focusing his thoughts on that little flower. It didn’t take long until that tingle feeling returned to his skin, and he felt a wave of emotions rush over him.

Your quiet contentment, that same feeling you gave off every night as you read yet another book at one of your bedroom windows overlooking the skyline of New York. That hint of anxiety, the one that the team only noticed on missions in the most tense of moments. The overwhelming feeling of affection, adoration, and love that was directed straight at him and only him. Bob opened his eyes, tears threatening to fall as he looked back at you, at the nervous look on your face as you waited.

“I…I just feel you,”

“It’s called an imprint, an emotional imprint,” you explained gently as Bob looked back down at his hand, at the flower that was fading in glow once again. “I’ve done it once before, just never…on someone. I wasn’t sure it would work. I can imbue it with emotion, so say you want to feel warm and content under a blanket, I can place an imprint on it so that that’s what you feel the second you’re under it.”

Bob was watching you in pure amazement, flexing his hand.

“Why give me this?”

“So that you know that, even if I’m not with you,” you took a deep breath, a nervous smile still dancing on your lips. “I’m always with you. I could be halfway across the world, and I’m still always with you. So that you know…you’re never alone. If you need me, I’ll be there.”

There really weren’t words to say for the way you considered Bob’s feelings at every turn. The way you somehow managed to give him the space he needed to fix his own life, while also holding his hand through it.

In a rare moment of confidence, Bob reached forward and tugged you into a soft, sweet, loving kiss. A kiss where he knew you’d feel the way his affection and adoration shift: straight into love.

You did feel it. He never had to say it. A silent confession was all that was needed between the two of you in the dim lighting of the Watchtower’s common room.

[tittywaititi]

Say my Name and Everything Just Stops

Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!reader

Summary: If Bob and you were only platonic, absolutely no other feelings… Then why do you feel sick to your stomach when he looks at her like that?

WC: 3.K

*Might have to remake this with more specifics to the song because I added the song after writing it because it lowkey fit the storyline a bit*

⸻

You weren’t sure when it happened.

One day, you were just another warm body at a mission briefing, nodding through tactical discussions, biting your tongue through Alexei’s grating pep talks and Valentia’s obligatory press training. You showed up, suited up, cleaned up, and tried not to get killed. That was the job. That was the team.

Then, somehow, somewhere along the line… you and Bob Reynolds got attached at the hip.

Not officially. Not romantically. Not even consciously, really. You didn’t talk about it. There were no glances across the room filled with meaning, no loaded conversations behind closed doors. It was never dramatic.

It was something quieter. Subtler. Like gravity.

If you were in the kitchen making coffee in the morning, hair tied back, hoodie halfway off your shoulder, still trying to blink the sleep from your eyes, Bob was always there, standing beside you like he’d been summoned. Making tea. Or at least pretending to. Half the time his mug stayed empty, forgotten on the counter while he hovered behind you, offering sugar before you even asked, or opening the fridge before you could.

He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t even particularly expressive. But he was there. His presence made the sterile, metal and glass Tower kitchen feel less like a military bunker and more like home. It was in the little things. The way he shifted when you reached past him. The way he knew how you liked your coffee and made sure no one else drank from your favorite mug. The way he stood just close enough that you could feel his heat at your back.

Game nights made it worse.

Or better, depending on who you asked.

Every week, like clockwork, someone would suggest it usually Alexei or Yelena, high on boredom and low on impulse control. Uno, Jenga, some Russian board game that none of you understood but that Alexei insisted was “better than Monopoly.”

No matter the game, no matter the teams, somehow you and Bob always ended up on the same side. It wasn’t on purpose. No one assigned you to him. It just… happened. You’d be sitting on opposite couches, and by the time the game began, you’d be side by side. Synced up. Aligned.

Charades became a blood sport. You and Bob didn’t even need words. One raised eyebrow from you, and he was guessing the entire plot of The Matrix. He mimed a single motion, and you blurted out Jaws before anyone else even understood it was a movie.

“I don’t even know how they’re communicating,” John muttered one night, tossing a card at Bucky. “They didn’t say a word. Are they cheating? They’re probably cheating.”

“Y/N and Bob have their own frequency,” Ava mumbled from the corner, arms folded but the ghost of a smile tugging at her mouth.

Then came the promo events.

Photoshoots. Talk shows. Those absurd staged press moments where Valentina shoved you all into matching black tactical gear and called it “branding.”

You and Bob migrated toward each other like it was coded into your DNA. Unconscious. Effortless.

Cameras flashed and you were already beside him your shoulder brushing his arm, his hand resting just near the small of your back, not touching, but almost. Always almost. And somehow, no matter how stiff or awkward he looked beside the rest of the team, when he stood next to you, Bob’s shoulders loosened just enough. His eyes softened. His lips curved, barely.

Protective. Steady. Yours.

That’s how it felt.

And still, you told yourself it wasn’t anything.

Just comfort. Just familiarity.

But at night when the compound dimmed, and the war room was dark, and the wind whispered against the windows you started to hear it.

The softest knock. A pause. Then the door creaking open.

He never needed to ask.

He stepped inside like he didn’t want to make a sound, curls still damp from a rushed shower, wearing the same old hoodie that hung loose on his tall frame. Sometimes he’d say your name like a question. Most nights, he just climbed into your bed with a sigh so deep it curled in your chest.

He never reached for you. Not at first.

He just drifted closer, closer until his forehead was resting on your collarbone, his breath warm against your skin, his body folding around you like ivy.

And you’d always find your fingers in his hair. Threading, soothing, grounding. Like they were meant to be there. Like you’d done it a thousand times.

He always fell asleep that way. The Sentry. The most powerful being on Earth. Curled up around you, clinging to the quiet, tucked in by your heartbeat.

And you thought you were subtle. You thought it was private.

You thought no one knew.

Until the night John Walker walked in.

You’d been half asleep, humming something soft while combing your fingers through Bob’s tangled curls. He was a deadweight against you, long limbs twisted around yours, chest rising in the steady rhythm of someone deep, deep asleep.

The door slammed open.

“Y/N! You gotta see the new tech—I finished the—”

He froze.

You cracked an eye open.

Bob didn’t even stir.

And John… just stood there, blinking. Processing. His mouth opened and closed twice before he backed out like he’d walked in on a hostage negotiation.

“…I’ll come back later,” he muttered, nearly tripping over your laundry basket on the way out.

That was the end of the secret.

The next morning at breakfast, the teasing came with knives.

Yelena leaned across the table with a smug little grin. “So… Bob. Y/N. How long has the co-sleeping initiative been active?”

You choked on your coffee. Nearly died.

Bob flushed so red his ears matched his hoodie.

Ava didn’t even try to hide her smirk. “Please. We’ve all seen it. They’re like cats. Always draped over each other. It’s gross. It’s adorable. I hate it.”

“Just don’t bring it on the jet,” John muttered into his eggs. “Some of us like to fly without PDA-induced nausea.”

You didn’t answer. Neither did Bob.

You didn’t have to.

It wasn’t like that, you told yourself.

It was just Bob. It was just you.

But when your eyes met across the kitchen when his hand brushed yours reaching for the honey, and his fingertips lingered just a little longer than necessary, you wondered if maybe it wasn’t just anything.

Maybe it was everything.

And you’d just been too scared to name it.

⸻

Until the charity gala.

You’d pulled out all the stops.

The gown was custom silk that hugged every curve like it was made for you (because it was), with a low, sloping back that shimmered under the chandelier light like molten metal. The color was blood-red, deliberate. You wore it with graceful confidence . Your hair was swept into soft waves that kissed your collarbones. And your eyes, lined lit with something vulnerable and electric, scanned the ballroom for one person.

Bob Reynolds.

He arrived late.

Tugging awkwardly at the cuffs of a tailored suit that fit too well for how uncomfortable he looked in it. Hair combed, clean shaven, tall as hell and radiating nervous energy. You turned the moment he walked in.

He stopped in the doorway when he saw you.

And for the briefest second, everything else in the glittering, champagne soaked ballroom dimmed. His eyes locked on yours across the crowd and something passed between you. Something that hit you low in the chest, unspoken and sharp. You almost smiled.

But then he looked away.

Fast. Like it burned. And he didn’t approach. Not even close. In fact, every time you started to drift toward his side of the room, champagne in hand, casual and hopeful he moved. Ducking away under the guise of conversation or needing air. It was obvious. Painfully so. He was avoiding you.

By the time everyone was seated and smiling for cameras at the table, your chest ached from it.

Had you misunderstood everything?

The closeness, the late nights, the way he always reached for you without thinking, was that just friendship? Just comfort? Had you embarrassed yourself in front of the whole team?

And then came the woman.

An older socialite, jeweled and charming, grabbed Bob by the elbow with a too-knowing smile. She gestured to a girl in satin blue, pretty, long-limbed, her laugh high and flirtatious. Bob looked panicked for a split second. Then he smiled. Small. Polite. He let the woman lead him away.

From across the ballroom, you watched.

The girl touched his arm. He leaned in to hear her. Laughed at something she said. All the alcohol he downed making his eye contact extremely well, didn’t matter that he looked a little stiff. A little out of place. From where you were standing, it looked like he could love her.

And it broke you.

You didn’t say goodbye. Just slipped your clutch under your arm and moved. Valentina caught your elbow at the door.

“Where are you going? You haven’t even spoken to—”

“I don’t feel well,” you said, voice brittle.

“Y/N—”

But you were already gone.

⸻

The Tower was silent when you returned.

You didn’t turn on the lights. Didn’t go to your room. Just stepped into the elevator and punched the button for the roof like muscle memory.

The city stretched below you in a haze of gold and glass. Cold wind bit at your shoulders through the fabric of your dress, but you didn’t care. You needed the air. The silence. The distance from the noise in your head.

Why had he avoided you? Did you look bad? Did he regret all those nights he spent in your bed not with you, but beside you? Holding onto you like you were his only anchor?

You blinked hard against the tears stinging your lashes.

Don’t cry. Don’t be stupid. You’re not sixteen.

The door creaked behind you.

You didn’t move. But your heart knew.

Bob.

He stepped out slow, breath ragged, suit jacket flapping slightly in the wind. His tie was crooked. His hair was messy. He looked like he’d been running.

“You left,” he said quietly, almost breathless.

“I did,” you murmured, arms crossed against the chill.

“I couldn’t find you.”

“I saw you,” you replied, voice sharper than you meant. “You were busy.”

A pause.

“Y/N…” His voice cracked. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

“I’m not stupid,” you snapped. “She was gorgeous. Polished. Exactly the kind of girl a mother would want for her son-in-law.”

He flinched. “That’s not what I want.”

“No?” You turned now, eyes shining in the low rooftop light. “Because you looked like you were having a great time. Like you were relieved not to be around me.”

“I was avoiding you.”

That stopped you cold.

“I know.”

Bob took a step closer, then another. “You walked into that room and I forgot how to breathe. You were… radiant. Like something out of a dream I wasn’t supposed to be having. And all I could think was, Don’t ruin this. Don’t touch her. Don’t make it weird. So I panicked.”

You stared, wind whipping your hair around your face.

“You avoided me because I looked nice?”

“I avoided you,” he said, stepping right into your space, “because if I didn’t, I was going to tell you I loved you. In front of Valentina. And three senators. And six photographers.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

He laughed, but it was soft. Raw.

“You don’t know what you do to me, Y/N. I can’t think straight when you’re near me. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep unless I’m next to you. You touch me just, like, hand on my arm or fingers in my hair and the world goes quiet. You make me feel like I’m not broken.”

“Bob…” you whispered, tears threatening again.

He took your hands gently. “I don’t know when it happened. I just know I’m in love with you. And if I messed this up tonight… I’m sorry. But I had to tell you.”

You let out a laugh. Choked and wet and unbelieving.

“You idiot,” you said, pressing your forehead to his. “You beautiful, stupid, sweet idiot. I’ve been in love with you since the first time you handed me coffee without asking how I take it.”

His breath hitched. “You have?”

“Obviously.”

The kiss came easy.

Soft, like first light. Like every moment between you had been leading to this, every brush of hands, every shared blanket, every look across the table when no one else was watching. He cupped your face like it was sacred. You buried your hands in his curls like they belonged there. Because they did.

The city sparkled below. And in the quiet, with the wind, and the stars above, the noise finally stopped.

⸻

You woke up in his arms the next morning. Again.

Only this time, your lipstick was smudged on his jaw. His tie was still on your bedroom floor. And when Bucky walked in to grab the TV remote, he paused at the sight of you two curled up, a sleepy smile tugging at his mouth.

“About damn time,” he muttered, shutting the door again.

Neither of you moved.

You were too busy holding onto everything you’d been scared to lose.

—

A/N: PLEASE I NEED MORE IDEAS OR LIKE SONGS TO WRITE THINGS BASED OFF 💔

[tittywaititi]

Don't Let Go ✩ Bob Reynolds

Pairings: Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolt!Reader

Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. rough sex, emotional sex, public sex, mental health themes (trauma, guilt, PTSD), depictions of breakdowns, emotional, angst, praise kink, possessiveness, aftermath of violence, unprotected p in v, guilt, self-loathing, established trauma bond.

Summary: The mission was supposed to be clean. Routine. But nothing is simple when the Sentry is involved, when Bob loses control, and the Void takes over. And when he does, you're the only one who can pull him back.

Word Count: 4658

Author's Note: don't even ask me if I'm okay cause the answer is no. I'm destroyed. completely destroyed and emotionally wrecked. i am ruined. bob reynolds ruins me. if you finished this and also felt like your heart's been pulled out and kissed back to life, welcome to the club. my inbox is open if you want to send me your therapy bill—just know I’m probably gonna have to come with you cause what the fuck. i love you bobby you're everything to me!!! if you want to be added to my taglist just comment below!! <333 feel free to cry with me in the comments and scream in the reblogs. i need to go outside and touch some grass, reconnect with nature and breathe cause my heart is destroyed after this one. i literally can't stop writing for bob what the hell!! bucky is jealous cause bob's taking up space in my mind that used to belong to bucky. lewis pullman you babygirlllllllllllll

masterlist.

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The mission was supposed to be simple. In and out. Detain the targets, secure the entire facility, and minimize civilian casualties. Standard Thunderbolts cleanup. You'd done this dance before—storm in, assert dominance, extract data and bodies. Easy.

But you knew the moment Bucky said, "Bob's on this one," everything in your chest went cold.

The tower was quiet, too quiet, until it wasn't. Until the entire place was filled with hurried footsteps, shouts bouncing off the walls, and orders being thrown like grenades, gear bags being slammed open, weapons loaded with sharp clicks, and comms lighting up with rapid-fire intel. The whole floor shifted into emergency mode.

You'd barely finished gearing up when Yelena grabbed your arm and dragged you toward the elevator, her expression tight, mouth set in that grim, no-bullshit line that only ever meant bad news.

"Valentina wants all of us on-site," she muttered, pressing the call button with enough force to crack the panel. "Right now. Facility breach. Something about biotech. Hostages."

"Since when do we scramble before briefing?" you asked, yanking the zipper of your new tactical suit closed, holster strap still half-loose dangling on your hip. "Do we even have a plan?"

Yelena didn't answer. She didn't have to.

When the elevator doors opened, Bucky was already inside, pacing back and forth. His jaw clenched, comms piece buzzing with chatter. He looked up when he saw you—but he didn’t smile. Didn’t nod.

Jeez, so much for a good morning.

"Let me guess," you said, stepping into the elevator next to him. "Valentina's stunt?"

"She pulled Bob in last minute," Bucky said, his voice laced with frustration. "Didn't even care to fucking tell me. I found out when I saw his name on the team feed. Walker's there with him, Ava too."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you froze. "She put him first? With Walker?"

“She wants to see if he's still 'field-capable.'" Bucky's voice dripped sarcasm. "Her exact words. She thinks this is some kind of game. Like we're testing out a new drone, not a man who nearly blacked out half of a city six months ago."

“Is she out of her fucking mind?” you hissed. “Bob’s not—he’s not ready. He shouldn't be anywhere near this.”

“No shit,” Yelena muttered from the other side, crossing her arms. “And we’re the ones who’ll have to clean up if he loses it again.”

You exhaled slowly, trying to damp down the rolling anger in your chest. Not at Bob—of course not, this wasn't his fault. You were mad at Valentina and her fucking need to push him to the edge. "Great," you muttered, rubbing your face with a hand. "Let's all just hold hands and pray he doesn't crack."

The VTOL sliced through the clouds like a blade, engines humming low and tense. Rain battered the sides in sharp bursts.

You sat strapped between Yelena and Alexei, your harness tight across your chest, heart beating even tighter beneath it. Across from you, Bucky was locked in, jaw clenched, staring out the side window with a look that could shatter the glass any moment. When he finally looked away from the window, he fixed his gaze directly on you.

"I need you to be ready," he said, voice low and rasped. "In case Void—" He paused, breathing raggedly. "In case Bob snaps."

You blinked. "Bucky—"

"If it happens," he cut you off, "if he breaks... don't wait for an order. Do not hesitate. You hit him with everything you've got."

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

Because you hesitated.

Not because you didn't understand the danger. Not because you didn't know what Bob was capable of when the Void took hold. You'd seen it. Firsthand. The devastation. The aftermath. The look in his eyes—those dark, endless eyes—when he realized what he’d done.

But you'd also seen something else. You'd also seen the other side of him. The guilt

You'd been there the last time. When the Void clawed its way up his throat like poison, he dropped to his knees, shaking, burning with power, guilt, and fear. You were the only one who could get through to him. The only one who could touch him without him recoiling like he might shatter.

You'd whispered his name and watched his fist unclench slowly. You'd put your hand on his chest and feel his heartbeat slow. You'd seen how the black storm slowly evaporated, leaving a broken man sobbing against your chest.

That night was the worst for Bob.

You remember it vividly—his body trembling against yours, eyes wide and hollow after the Void had finally disappeared. He hadn't said a word. Just sank to the ground, hands fisting in his hair, like he was trying to hold his skull together.

You’d dropped down beside him, pulled him close, felt the heat radiating off his skin like a fever breaking. And when he finally clung to you—arms wrapped around your waist, face buried in your shoulder—it wasn’t just desperation. It was terror. Like if he let go, he’d fall into some pit that never ended.

He cried.

God, he cried so hard.

And you didn’t say anything. You didn’t try to soothe it away. You just held him. Let him shake. Let him break.

That night, you stayed with him.

He pulled you into bed like he didn’t even realize he was doing it—just moved toward your body like it was instinct, like your presence was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. His fingers curled in your shirt, his face buried in your chest, breath hiccuping between exhausted sobs.

You thought he’d fall asleep eventually.

He didn’t. Not right away.

He kept whispering, voice barely audible: “Don’t leave. Please. Just… don’t leave.”

And how could you?

You didn’t.

So you stayed.

And when he finally passed out—curled around you like a second skin, little soft snores slipping past parted lips—you just watched him. His face was peaceful for once. Almost boyish. His lashes fluttered when he dreamed, but he didn’t cry out. Not with you there.

You tried to slip out once.

Just to stretch. To breathe. But the second your body shifted away, his arms tightened like a vice, dragging you back in, even in his sleep. Like his subconscious couldn’t bear the thought of you disappearing.

From that night on, it became… a thing.

Every time he had a nightmare. Every time the Void started to whisper again. Every time he needed quiet but didn’t know how to ask for it—he came to you.

He never knocked loud. Just a soft tap on your door, barely audible. You’d open it to find him standing there, shoulders hunched, hair messy, eyes big and guilty and so shy. Like he hated himself for needing you but couldn’t help it.

“Can I…?” he’d start to ask, voice barely above a whisper.

And you’d always let him in.

Always.

God, you loved it. Loved being the one person he came to. The one place he felt safe. The way he melted into you the second the door shut. The way he’d sleep tangled in your arms, legs hooked with yours like he needed as many points of contact as possible to stay grounded.

You never told anyone.

You never wanted to ruin it.

It was quiet. Sacred. Yours.

And now, strapped into this VTOL, Bucky’s words still echoing in your ears—“Don’t hesitate. Hit him with everything you’ve got”—all you could think about was how peaceful he looked in your bed. How tightly he held you. How terrified he was of being alone.

Because what if you could reach him again?

What if hitting him wasn’t the answer? What if all he needed was someone to see him before he disappeared completely?

Bucky must’ve seen the flicker in your expression, because his voice dropped lower.

“I know you’re close to him. I know he listens to you more than anyone else. But if that stops—if he doesn’t hear you this time... don’t let him take you down with him.”

He’ll hear me, you thought, jaw clenched.

He has to.

Yelena’s hand reached over, slow and steady, her fingers brushing against yours before curling around them. Her grip was warm, firm—anchoring. You turned slightly, meeting her eyes.

She gave you a small, quiet smile. The kind that didn’t promise everything would be okay, just that you wouldn’t be alone when it wasn’t.

“It’ll be alright,” she whispered. "We'll be right behind you."

You squeezed her hand back, once.

"Visuals confirm contact inside the facility," the pilot’s voice crackled through the comms. "We’ve got movement near the lab sector. Hostiles engaged. Sentry’s already on-site."

You looked up sharply. "Already?"

He wasn’t supposed to engage alone.

Bucky swore under his breath, ripping the earpiece out and jamming it back in. "Why the fuck didn’t you wait for us—"

Ava spoke through the comms, her voice shivering. “He didn’t wait. I told him to stand down, and he just… went in.”

Then the ground came into view through the viewport—flames licking up from the roof of the biotech facility, smoke pluming into the sky, the perimeter in total disarray.

"Doors open in twenty seconds," the pilot called.

You shivered. You could feel it. That humming tension in your bones, the kind that only came right before everything went to hell.

He's already slipping.

"Get ready," Bucky barked, snapping his rifle into place as he stood. "Move fast, eyes sharp. We don't know how bad it is yet."

Yelena stood up, nodding once, checking her gear. You followed closely behind.

“Hostiles are still active inside,” came another voice—Walker’s, sharp and panicked over comms. “But it’s—fuck, it’s a massacre down here. I don’t know what the hell he’s doing. I can't see him. He’s not fucking responding.”

Your heart clenched.

“Bob,” you whispered, barely audible.

Then: a boom.

A section of the lower level erupted in a plume of golden-white light, fire tearing up through the concrete as the building shook from the force of it. A pulse of energy rippled outward, flattening a chunk of the south wall like paper.

The VTOL lurched slightly from the shockwave.

“Doors opening!” the pilot shouted. “Deploy, deploy—go, go!”

The ramp dropped—and the storm hit you in the face.

Rain. Smoke. Sirens. And somewhere beneath it all, a familiar hum.

You ran.

Boots pounding against the rooftop, leaping the last few feet to the access hatch. Bucky and Yelena flanked you, weapons drawn, slicing through the chaos with practiced precision.

You barely had time to adjust before Bucky grabbed your arm, spinning you toward him. His face was grim, soaked, eyes blazing.

“Go!” he shouted over the roar. “You need to find him!”

“What about—?”

“We’ll handle the rest!” he cut in, already moving, already aiming down the chaos below. “If anyone can reach him before he turns this whole goddamn place to ash—it’s you. Yelena will be right behind you. Walker and Ava are already inside. Go!”

Your breath hitched.

Then you nodded, once, sharp and sure.

And you ran—straight into the smoke, straight into the fire.

Straight toward him.

The inside of the facility was a warzone. Emergency lights flickered through thick smoke. Sparks rained from broken ceiling panels. The walls were scorched, the tile beneath your boots cracked and slick with blood and water. You passed fallen bodies—some hostiles, some just gone, disintegrated into scorched outlines and ash.

He’d been here.

You ran faster. Your breath became shorter. Your fingers twitched at your sides.

And then you saw him.

Floating.

Just inches off the ground, his body trembling with power barely held in check. His suit was torn, soaked, blood-slick. His hair clung to his forehead in damp curls. His hands hung at his sides, fingers curled in like claws.

He hand't noticed you yet. He was talking to himself, low and frantic, like he didn't even realize sound was coming out of his mouth.

“I didn’t mean to—I tried, I tried, they didn’t listen—I told them not to run—why did they run—”

Your heart clenched. You took a breath, steady and slow. Lifted your hands, palms open, non-threatening. Stepped forward, one careful step at a time.

"Bob," you whispered.

His head jerked up like a struck animal. His eyes were pitch black. Not just his pupils. Everything. You could see the Void slowly taking over control of his entire body. Crawling across his skin in veins of shadow, threading through him like poison, claiming more and more by the second. There was nothing human in his face.

Then he saw you.

You took another step forward, heart hammering against your ribs.

"Bob," you said again, softer now.

His lips parted. The black in his eyes shimmered, like something beneath it was trying to break through, trying to remember.

You took another step.

"I'm here," you said, voice steady despite the tremble in your hands. "It's me."

"GET DOWN!" a voice screamed behind you.

You barely turned in time to see the soldier—young, shaken, finger already tightening on the trigger of his rifle, aimed straight at Bob.

“No!” you shouted, throwing a hand out. “Don’t—don’t shoot him!”

But it was too late.

You whipped back toward Bob—and his hand was already rising. Not fast. Slow. Deliberate.

Eyes locked on the soldier, face blank and unreadable, voice low and distant.

“Mine.”

“Bob!” you screamed, adrenaline tearing through your veins like lightning. You rushed toward him, arm outstretched. “STOP! STOP!”

A pulse of black energy burst from his palm. It didn’t make a sound. It didn’t explode. It just erased. The soldier was there—and then he wasn’t.

No scream. No blood. Just a curling wisp of smoke, and a blackened shadow scorched into the tile where he’d stood. Like reality itself had been scrubbed clean.

Your breath caught. Your body froze.

The soldier was gone. Just like that. And Bob? He didn't move. Didn't even flinch. Just stood there, hand still raised, void energy curling around his fingers like it wanted more.

You moved before you even realized it.

You ran.

“BOB!” you screamed, voice hoarse with panic.

You slammed into him, hands flying up to grab his face—rough, desperate, grounding. Your fingers dug into his jaw, into his cheeks, trying to feel him, shake him loose from the darkness overtaking his body.

“Bob! Look at me!” you yelled, tears already slipping down your face. “Fuck—look at me, please!"

His head twitched in your grip, eyes still black, but they widened. Like he didn’t know how you got so close. Like he didn’t even recognize his own name.

“You promised,” you choked out, forehead pressed against his. “You promised you wouldn’t let this happen again. You said I could help you. You let me in. Bob, please, I know you can hear me. Let me in. Let me help you."

And then—

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

The black void in his eyes gone, replaced by fear. Replaced by gut-wrenching guilt.

And suddenly his hands were on you—gripping your arms, trembling hard. Holding you like you were the only thing keeping him from flying apart.

“I didn’t mean to,” he rasped, voice splintering in his throat. “I just… he—he pointed that gun at you. I—”

His knees buckled.

You caught him.

“I didn’t mean to,” he rasped again, clinging like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady, fingers stroking through his hair, down his back. “I know, it’s okay. You’re okay—I got you. I'm right here."

You could feel it under your hands—the tension building again. The static crawling across his skin. He was shaking harder now, like he was trying to hold himself together with bare hands and sheer will, and it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

“I told them,” he growled, voice rising, wild and hoarse. “I told them not to send me. I told them—I told them!”

“Bob,” you tried again, your hands cradling his face, trying to ground him. “Stop—just breathe, okay? Look at me. Just look at me. It’s over. You’re okay. I’m here.”

“Bob—”

“Holy shit,” someone gasped.

You turned. Too fast. The team stood there. Yelena’s eyes were wide. Ava’s mouth hung open. Alexei looked stunned. Bucky was frozen mid-step.

And Walker? Walker’s gaze went straight to the scorched mark on the floor, and his lip curled.

“What the fuck did he do?”

That was it.

You snapped.

“You were supposed to look out for him!” you roared, your voice echoing down the hall like a whipcrack. “You knew he wasn’t ready! You knew, and you left him in there anyway—what the fuck were you thinking?!”

“Don’t yell at me because your little pet project finally snapped—”

You stepped toward him so fast Yelena actually reached out to stop you.

“Say that again, Walker.” you dared, low and deadly. “Say it. Fucking say it again.”

“Guys—” Ava started.

“Oh my god,” Yelena whispered behind you.

And that’s when you realized—Bob wasn’t in your arms anymore.

You turned, panic already in your throat. He was standing a few feet away, eyes locked on the floor, fists clenched. His shoulders were shaking, his jaw tight, like he was about to split open.

The way they were all looking at him. Like he was a monster.

And he saw it. He saw everything.

“No, no, wait—” you started.

But he was already moving. He shoved past you, not roughly—never roughly—but like he couldn’t stand to be touched anymore. Like he didn’t deserve it. And then he ran.

You didn’t hesitate.

You ran after him.

You found him down a back alley, drenched in rain, his back pressed to the wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His fists were clenched, jaw tight, chest heaving like he couldn’t catch his breath. He hadn’t looked at you yet, but you could see it—how close he was to falling apart, how the power still surged beneath his skin, barely contained. His body shook with it, with guilt, with the kind of rage that didn’t know where to go.

You took a step closer and he shifted like he was going to bolt again, eyes flicking to the shadows like he could vanish into them.

You grabbed his wrist. Tight. “Don’t run.”

That stopped him. His breath hitched, but he didn’t turn.

“Bob,” you said, softer now, over the pounding rain. “Please. Look at me.”

He turned slowly—and god, the look on his face broke you wide open. Soaked, shattered, eyes full of guilt and too many unsaid things. He looked like he didn’t believe he deserved to stand in front of you. Like just being seen by you hurt.

Then he kissed you.

Hard. Desperate.

Like he needed your mouth to remind him he was still real.

The kiss came out of nowhere. Teeth. Tongue. Desperation. You collided like two storms, all sharp edges and soaked skin. His mouth crushed yours, messy, uncoordinated, bruising. You dragged your hands through his rain-slick hair, pulled him closer until your bodies slammed together. He groaned your name like it hurt to say it, like it ripped something open inside him just to speak it.

You kissed him back with everything you had, dragging your fingers through his soaked curls, pulling him closer, crushing your lips to his until your teeth clacked and your breath fogged the air between you. He whimpered into it, raw and broken, hands clutching your waist through your suit like he didn’t know where to touch, like he needed to touch everywhere.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped against your lips, voice already hoarse. “I’m so fucking sorry—please, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—” His words cut off with a sob. You shushed him with another kiss, slower this time, lips brushing his like a promise.

“I need you,” he breathed, voice broken. “God—I need you, I need you so bad—I can’t—fuck—don’t let go—please, don’t let go—”

Your gear hit the wall behind you, water slapping between you like applause. His mouth was on your throat, biting, sucking, moaning, as your hands worked beneath his already ripped suit, shoving it aside, frantic to get to skin. His hips rocked into yours like he couldn’t stand being apart from you even for a second.

“Please,” he groaned again, breath hot against your ear. “I’ll do anything. Anything. Just—fuck—just let me have you.”

You gasped, arching against him, letting him press you tighter to the bricks. You were already soaked—skin flushed, thighs shaking—and the way he clung to you like you were the only real thing left in his world snapped something open inside you.

You grabbed his face, kissed him hard, desperate. “Take it,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Take anything. Everything. I’m all yours, Bob.”

He whimpered—actually whimpered—and that was it.

Your suit came undone in ragged pieces, his hands tearing at fastenings with trembling fingers, your legs wrapping around his waist as he shoved your soaked underwear aside. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, grinding his cock against your slick center until you cried out, nails raking down his back.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re so wet,” he gasped. “You want it, don’t you? You want me to lose it for you—inside you—?”

“Yes,” you sobbed, tilting your head back as he pushed in. “Yes, yes—please—”

He thrust into you in one deep, brutal stroke and you screamed, fingers clawing at his soaked suit, legs tightening around his hips. He was so deep, so hot, so real, and the way he fucked you—fast, rough, relentless—was like he didn’t know if he’d survive without this. Without you.

Every thrust hit something raw, something needy, his voice ragged against your ear. “You’re mine—you’re mine, say it—fuck, say it—”

“I’m yours,” you cried, body shaking. “I’m yours, Bob—fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

He sobbed against your throat, thrusting harder, faster, panting between curses and broken prayers. “You’re perfect—so perfect—god, you feel so good—you make everything quiet. You make it all fucking stop—”

And when you came, it hit like a shockwave—your whole body convulsing around him, mouth open in a wordless scream as he slammed into you, burying himself deep and coming hard, spilling inside you with a desperate cry of your name like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane.

He held you afterward like he might never let go, still shaking, still breathing like he’d run through hell. His forehead pressed to yours, voice wrecked.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered. “Please don’t ever leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered back, and this time, it was a vow.

His breathing was ragged.

Shallow gasps against your neck, chest rising and falling like he was still trying to outrun something only he could see. The rain hadn’t let up. It fell in heavy sheets around you, but neither of you moved. You stayed wrapped around him, trembling, your back against the soaked alley wall, his body still buried in yours, shaking with the aftershocks.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t even lift his head.

His arms stayed locked around your waist like a vise, like if he let go even a little, you’d disappear. You felt him swallow, once, twice—and then his shoulders began to shake in a different way.

“Bob?” you whispered, hand sliding up to the back of his head, fingers weaving through his soaked hair. “Hey. Hey, I’m here.”

He sobbed.

Quiet at first. Just a ragged breath that stuttered out of him like it had been waiting for too long. Then another. And another. His whole body trembled, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he finally—finally—let himself fall apart.

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” he choked out. “I tried—I tried so fucking hard—I just wanted to be useful, I wanted to help—and I killed him—”

You shushed him softly, rocking him gently where you stood, your hands stroking down his back.

“You came back to me,” you said, voice low. “That’s all that matters. You came back.”

“I don’t deserve this,” he rasped, holding you tighter. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Shut up,” you whispered, tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. “You do. You do. You’re still here. You’re still you. That’s all I care about.”

You stayed like that for what felt like forever—him wrapped around you like a lifeline, your bodies still locked together, breathing in sync. The heat between you slowly cooled, but the weight of it all stayed heavy, real.

Eventually, his head lifted, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks wet.

He looked at you like he didn’t believe you were real. Like maybe you were the only thing left in the world that hadn’t abandoned him.

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

You cupped his face, thumb brushing over the scar just below his eye.

“I know,” you said. “But I’ve got you.”

And he leaned into your hand like a man starved for touch.

Back at the tower, everything was chaos—shouting, agents scrambling to do damage control, the team fighting with each other, trying to put the blame on someone—but none of it touched you. Not when you had him. Not when he never once let go of your hand.

You didn't go to the infirmary. Didn't sit through the debrief. Bucky tried to say something, but you just shook your head. Bob didn't even look at him. At no one.

You led him straight to your room.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, his body sagged like the air had left him entirely. You helped him out of the rest of his suit, piece by piece, your fingers gentle even when your heart still ached from the weight of it all. He did the same for you, so soft, so gentle, like he was afraid to hurt you.

You pulled him into your bed without a word.

He followed like he always did. Like he couldn’t not.

He wrapped around you the way he always did—legs tangled, arms tight around your waist, face buried against your neck. But this time it wasn’t just comfort.

It was clinging.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Just held on.

You stroked his hair, tracing slow patterns into his scalp, letting your breath match his until he calmed, until that tremble in his shoulders finally stilled.

But he still didn’t sleep.

You felt him shift closer, nose brushing your collarbone. His voice, when it came, was wrecked and so, so quiet.

“Do you think they’ll ever look at me the same?” he asked, voice barely more than a breath.

You didn’t answer right away. You could feel how tightly he was holding his breath, like he was bracing for the worst. You pulled him closer, your fingers threading through the back of his hair, your lips brushing against his forehead.

“It’s not your fault,” you whispered. “They know it. Even if they won’t say it out loud. This—what happened—you didn’t want this. And they know that.”

He didn’t reply, not at first. But you felt it—the way his chest stuttered, how he finally let himself breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, broken.

“I know.”

“I was so close,” he said, voice cracking like glass. “I could feel it. Like I was right there. One more second and I wouldn’t have come back.”

“But you did,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to his. “You came back to me.”

He shuddered, breath hitching again as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Leaving a soft kiss that made your heart clench. “You’re the only one that brings me back,” he whispered. “The only one.”

You didn’t say anything else.

You just held him tighter.

And finally—finally—he started to drift.

It wasn’t peaceful. He twitched. Mumbled things you couldn’t make out. Flinched like his dreams were still trying to drag him under.

But he didn’t wake.

Because you were still there.

And he knew it.

taglist ⊱☆⊰ @notreallythatlost @mandoalorian @urfavfakeblonde @sunday-bug @ruexj283 @mylifeofcalculatedchaos

[tittywaititi]

that's what i like

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary:

It's impossible to teach when you’re hopelessly, irreversibly, maddeningly in love with the one you’re training. “So what now?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves. Big mistake. Huge mistake. Because now you’re at serious risk of going into full cardiac arrest. You didn’t even know you had a thing for forearms until Bob Reynolds. And his? They’re absurd. Or You love everything Bob does, and he doesn't seem to notice.

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, love confessions, friends to lovers, Bob and reader being cute, thirsting over the void a little

WC: 3.1k

A/N: Thank you again to @fire-joestar for the request/idea. Wrote something with the same kind of concept for John Walker, linked here. Enjoy!

***

Bob Reynolds is ruining your life.

Not in the dramatic, villain-of-your-story kind of way, but in the slow, quiet unravelling of your sanity. It’s too hard to be around him with all the smiling and casual charm and accidental intimacy that he does without even realising it.

And it’s always the little things which somehow make it worse.

His voice, for one. You were obsessed with his voice. He could be reading the back of a cereal box or listing off the ingredients in engine coolant, and it would still sound like poetry. Sometimes he’d actually read to you. You and Bob were the only members of the unofficial Avengers book club.

You’d often talk about books you’d read, trading recommendations like secrets, excitedly dissecting plot twists and favourite characters. It became a quiet ritual between you and Bob.

“There’s no audiobook,” you groaned one night, holding up the newest paperback in your stack. “I was hoping to listen to one so I could fall asleep.”

Bob, ever the calm in your chaos, looked over at you with that soft little smile he always wore when he was about to offer something way too generous.

“I can read it to you,” he said, casual like it wasn’t the most heart-stoppingly sweet thing you’d ever heard.

You blinked. “You sure you don’t mind?” you asked, voice tinged with both hope and hesitation.

But he just shook his head, already pulling a chair up beside your bed, brushing off any notion of it being a burden. “Not at all.”

His voice was too much. It filled the space in your room like a blanket. He didn’t touch you, not once, just sat a few feet away reading by the soft light of your bedside lamp. But somehow it still felt intimate, like his voice alone was petting you gently, like fingertips tracing down your spine, calming every frayed nerve.

But his voice wasn’t just soothing, it was sexy. You’d never tell him or the other Avengers this because of the whole traumatic experience and whatnot, but even when he became the void, his voice was something else.

It was dark and mocking, and it had you feeling some kind of way, only a little, because people were literally being turned into shadows and living out their trauma. But still, it pulled at something deep inside you and maybe made you discover a few things about yourself. Maybe something you should be concerned about, but nevertheless...

Although his voice isn’t the only thing that’s contributing to your downfall. 

Just this morning, you’re barely awake and walk in to be greeted by the sight of Bob making breakfast, one of your favourite sights. 

“Morning,” you mumble, suppressing a yawn.

“Morning…” he replies with an easy smile, going about his routine, setting up to make breakfast.

“Thank you, Bob,” you say, turning to him, feeling completely in control, your head still firmly attached to the rest of you.

But then you catch something, he’s cracking eggs one-handed. Now, you don’t know why that’s so captivating. Maybe it’s how strong and big his hands look, maybe it’s the effortless confidence in the motion. Or maybe it’s just because you’re so hopelessly in love with him that everything he does feels like it’s dipped in gold.

Either way, you liked it. A lot more than you probably should’ve.

“You could crack me like an egg,” you mumble quietly to yourself.

“Did you say something?” Bob asks, not hearing what you said, thank goodness.

“No, nothing at all. You’re looking good, the... the breakfast is looking good, I mean…” You stumble over your words, cheeks warming as you try to play it cool.

This crush you had on him certainly didn’t help when you had to help him train. He was like a baby cow, clumsy, unsure, and somehow always one step away from falling over his own feet. And everything he did just made him that much more endearing. The way he bit his lip when he was concentrating, the little apologetic smiles when he missed a step or fumbled a move, the way he always tried again without complaint. It was everything.

“You have to…um you have to…” You start, but your voice trails off as you catch the way he’s looking at you.

Another one of Bob’s quirks that has you going feral… the eye contact. He’s always so focused, so intent, like he’s really watching you, really seeing you. His eyes hold this sharp, unwavering attention that’s equal parts intense and disarming. It totally throws you off your game.

You’re brought back to your senses by him saying your name repeatedly.

“Where’d you go?” he says, putting his hand on your shoulder. You shake off the Bob-induced daze and look at him with full attention.

“I’m too hopeless a student?” He asks.

“Rather, I’m too hopeless of a teacher,” You reply with a chuckle, and it was true. It's impossible to teach when you’re hopelessly, irreversibly, maddeningly in love with the one you’re training.

“So what now?” he asks, rolling up his sleeves.

Big mistake.

Huge mistake.

Because now you’re at serious risk of going into full cardiac arrest.

You didn’t even know you had a thing for forearms until Bob Reynolds. And his? They’re absurd. The veins, the muscle, the smooth strength of his arms just disappearing under the fabric of his shirt. You can only imagine what his biceps look like. Or his shoulders. Or—

You shake your head quickly, trying to banish the rapidly spiralling thoughts. You know Bob is probably confused, waiting for an answer, but your eyes? Yeah, they’re glued to his damn forearms.

Damn his forearms.

“Break,” you blurt. “Ten-minute break. Minimum.”

Before he can respond, you practically launch yourself toward the water fountain, needing a distraction, a cooldown, and maybe divine intervention.

You take a long drink, trying not to think about veins. Or rolled-up sleeves. Or Bob at all. 

But Bob lived in your mind; he had taken up residence there as soon as you met, and he wasn’t moving out anytime soon. It wasn’t fair that he was cute but also kind and helpful? It made you want to crash into a wall. 

You were struggling with a particularly stubborn jar, the kind that mocks you with every twist. You could fight ten people with one hand tied behind your back, balance complex equations in your head, but you couldn’t defeat this jar of pickles.

Bob appears, quiet as ever, and silently offers to take it from your hands. You hesitate, then sigh and surrender.

He reaches over, his hand brushing yours, and takes it. In one fluid motion, he opens it like it's nothing. Like it hadn't just reduced you to near madness. Like your struggle had never even happened.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice barely making it past your lips.

He smiles softly, unbothered, warm. “What are friends for?” he says, placing his hand gently on your shoulder. It’s a brief touch that somehow says more than the words. And then he disappears down the hall, like it was nothing.

Right… friends. 

***

You’re wandering the tower again. When you have nothing to do, your feet always seem to lead you to Bob.

You knock on his door, and after a muffled "Come in," you step inside.

You look around and there he is, shaving in front of a small mirror propped up on the windowsill.

“Hope I’m not intruding…” You say hesitantly.

He glances at you through the mirror, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His hair is slightly damp and tousled, a few strands falling stubbornly into his eyes. He’s probably just stepped out of the shower a few minutes prior, the smell of his shampoo and lotion filling the air. 

He’s holding a razor, face half-lathered, brow furrowed in concentration. You liked him like this, all cute and focused. There was something about the way he moved with such care, guiding the blade with precise, practised strokes. It was intimate in a way you couldn’t explain.

“You don’t have to, but can you help me?” Bob asks, voice gentle but sure.

“Sure,” you reply, stepping closer.

And again, you’re hit with that electricity that crackles between you when your eyes meet. He watches you, patient and open, and you always wonder if he realises just how much that look affects you.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,” you whisper, picking up the towel and dabbing away some stray foam. Your hand is steady now, more confident, and with it comes a strange kind of comfort. The scent of him surrounds you, clean, warm, a little woodsy. It was comforting and something else, too. You wanted to dive into it. To stay wrapped up in that scent, in him. You could only imagine waking up to your sheets smelling like him.

How the hell was the way he smelled even sexy?

“You smell good,” you say, without thinking.

You both go extremely still, equally flustered.

“So do you,” he finally replies, and there's another little pause. You stare at each other, your heart performing an Olympic-level gymnastics routine inside your chest.

“W–where’s your aftershave?” you ask, trying to find something to focus on that isn’t the intensity of his gaze.

“Bathroom,” he says, voice lower now.

You nod, quickly turning away. A second later, you’re back with the bottle in hand. You open it, the scent hitting you all over again, it’s undeniably him.

Without asking, you step closer and start applying it for him, your fingers brushing gently against his jaw, his cheek, his neck. Every feature, each line of his face, every angle was something you could get addicted to. A slow study of a man who somehow never felt like too much. 

You glance up.

He’s standing still, letting you do it, but he’s no longer meeting your eyes.

Now he’s the one who can’t make eye contact.

And it’s… adorable.

He’s quiet under your touch, eyes lowered, breath just a little more shallow than before. You can tell he’s holding back. Holding himself still, as if afraid that leaning into your hand might unravel something he’s worked hard to keep together.

The way his lashes flutter when your fingers graze the curve of his jaw. The way his shoulders tense, then ease, like he’s trying not to sink into the warmth of being seen.

He’s touch-starved. You can feel it, not in desperation, but in the aching restraint. The way his fists clenched and unclenched as if to distract himself. 

And you’re not much better off. Your hand lingers, thumb brushing the edge of his cheekbone, and you’re forced to get a hold of yourself.  

“I’m, uh… all done,” you say, pulling your hands away from his face. You see the way his shoulders drop just slightly as he deflates, but you don’t read into it.

Bob nods, almost like he’s coming out of a trance. Like he can finally breathe again. “Well… thanks,” he says, voice soft.

You offer a quick, awkward smile, and then you’re scurrying your way out of his room like you’ve just committed a felony.

Because, honestly? Being that close to Bob felt like grounds for something dangerous. Emotional trespassing, maybe. Or reckless heart behaviour.

He was too fine for his own good.

And way, way too fine for your good.

***

Bob was always there for you, the most supportive presence anyone could wish for. So when you crashed into his room late at night, just as he’d finally started to fall asleep, he wasn’t mad. Not even close.

“There’s a spider in my room!” you declared, breathless and dramatic.

“It’s midnight…” Bob mumbled, mid-yawn, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“Exactly! Imagine my surprise when it came lunging at me from inside my wardrobe. I tried to catch it, but the stubborn fucker escaped and crawled up my wall like it owned the place.”

He blinked at you, then sighed and swung his legs out of bed, already standing. His hair was messy, and his t-shirt clung a little unevenly from sleep. His steady steps led toward your door.

“It’s fine. You can hide behind me,” he said with a soft smile.

Then he casually and instinctively took your hand.

And just like that, something settled in your chest. His hand was warm, steady, and strong. His fingers laced through yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. You could’ve let him hold it for hours.

You followed closely behind, using him shamelessly as a human shield. “Where is it?” he asked, already scanning your room like a man on a mission.

“There,” you pointed, spotting the tiny monster halfway up the far wall. “That’s him. The bold bastard.”

Bob narrowed his eyes and, without hesitation, lifted gently off the floor. You blinked. It still caught you off guard, seeing him use his powers. You hadn’t seen him even float since that day. And now here he was, levitating to defeat a spider for you.

It was more than just endearing.

It was… kind of ridiculously attractive.

He could’ve pulverised it. Turned it to dust without blinking. But instead, he hovered close, cupped it carefully in his hands like it was something fragile, and opened the window to let it go. 

Why the fuck was that so hot?

“Thanks…” you said softly, watching him touch back down, the faintest smile still on his lips.

He looked at you, all sleepy eyes and soft concern. “It’s no problem,” he said, his voice low. “Plus, I kind of liked saving you.”

Your heart did a little twist. You swallowed.

“This is… and you are completely within your right to say no, but…”

He tilted his head slightly, curious.

“Would you stay the night?” you asked, trying to sound casual. “You know. Just to protect me from any future spider insurgencies.”

His smile widened, just a little. “Well,” he said, moving closer, “can’t leave you defenceless now, can I?”

You smile and shift slightly, making enough space for him in the bed. He hesitates for only a moment before settling beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight.

You stare at him, his face softly illuminated by the distant glow of streetlights and the scattered lights of other buildings outside the window. His messy hair is fanned out against your pillow, and you can feel his body heat slowly merging with yours, a quiet warmth that pulls you in like gravity.

“Why’d you come and get me? Why not someone else?” Bob asks, his voice gentle as he turns toward you, rolling a little closer.

“You’re the one I want protecting me from evil spiders,” you answer honestly. No one else even came to mind. The moment you were scared or the least bit unsure, you could always turn to Bob. It was like instinct. 

“Why?” he presses, softer this time. He’s not looking at you now, his gaze shifted to the ceiling. You take a moment to just look at him—his side profile, the way his jaw tenses like he’s bracing for something, the small crease between his brows.

“Because…” you begin, the words slow. You pause, focusing on all the little things you like about him. His kindness, his dry humour, his quiet strength, and the way he always seems to make you feel calm.

Maybe it’s because it’s too late at night. Maybe it’s the safety of the dark. Maybe it’s the way your brain feels hazy and open and ready.

But the next words out of your mouth are:

“I like you.”

Bob freezes for a second, then jumps just a little, like the words caught him off guard. He slowly turns his head to look at you, his expression unreadable at first.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just stares.

And you wait. Heart in your throat. Every second, stretching. Either he was about to tell you he felt the same… or this was the moment your friendship shattered.

“I like you too,” he says.

His voice is soft and low, like he’s afraid saying it too loud might wake him from a dream. But his eyes are steady. And you can tell that he’s telling the truth.

You scoot closer, close enough to feel the way your breath mingles.

“So…” you murmur, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile, “what should we do about this little situation we’ve got ourselves in?”

Your heart is pounding so loudly, you’re sure he can hear it.

He leans in just a little, voice almost a whisper.

“I think we know.”

Tentatively, he reaches out, fingers brushing your cheek with a touch so careful it makes your breath catch. He looks at you like really looks at you as if trying to memorise the moment, commit it to something deeper than memory.

You exhale, slow and steady, and let yourself give in. You lean forward until your lips finally meet.

It’s soft at first, the kind of kiss that makes your heart soar and your whole body ache with relief. Bit by bit, it becomes more passionate as you melt into one another.  He deepens it, cupping your face fully in his hands, pulling you closer like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go.

And before you know it, you’re climbing into his lap, your arms around his shoulders, his hands steady at your waist. Everything feels like too much and just enough all at once.

He pauses, just barely pulling back, breath ghosting against your lips.

“Are you sure?” he asks, voice husky, careful, but laced with something vulnerable.

You meet his gaze, no hesitation. You were in this for the long haul.

“More than anything.”

The next day, upon seeing Bob’s door wide open and no Bob anywhere to be seen, the team went into immediate panic mode. They searched high and low, worried he’d disappeared on them in the middle of the night.

“Have you seen—?” Yelena begins, swinging open your door mid-sentence, only to stop dead in her tracks at the sight of you and Bob fast asleep, wrapped up in each other’s arms.

The rest of the team crowds in behind her, eyes wide, jaws dropping.

You jolt awake at the sound, blinking in confusion as you realise the entirety of the Avengers are now in your doorway.

You shriek, diving under the covers and yanking them up to your chin to salvage whatever dignity you have left. “Privacy! Ever heard of it?!”

“Called it,” Ava and John say in perfect sync, like they just won a bet.

You groan, your entire face heating as you sink lower into the sheets, mortified.

Meanwhile, Bob? Still fast asleep, completely unbothered by the intrusion, his arm still draped across your waist like nothing’s changed. How is he sleeping through this?

You glance at him in disbelief, then back at the group.

“Can everyone get out now?!”

Yelena smiles. “We’re so happy for you two.”

“Out!”

Masterlist

[tittywaititi]

touch starved bob reynolds who starts hugging you after every mission because it’s a reasonable and justified reason to do it, and an excuse to be able to hold you without it seeming weird

touch starved bob who gets startled when you put your hand over his to stop him from nervously fidgeting, and who feels it in his stomach when you rub your thumb back and forth over his hand to calm him down

touch starved bob who drifts off during movie night and unconsciously ends up with his head resting against your shoulder, apologizing when he wakes up, flustered when you tell him you don’t mind and he can leave it here if he wants and feels comfortable

touch starved bob who reaches for and holds onto your hand for dear life whenever he feels anxious in public settings, because it’s something you’ve established and encouraged him to do

touch starved bob who visibly melts when you push away the front pieces of his hair when they're falling in front of his eyes

touch starved bob who has to make sure his mind is not playing tricks on him when you take his face into your hands and press your lips against his for the first time

touch starved bob who, with all the confidence he can gather, has to kiss you back twice as tenderly, making sure to commit the feeling to memory just in case you wouldn't want to do it again and would think it was a mistake

touch starved bob who always asks if it's okay before touching you when you start dating because he’s scared he’s being too clingy and that his need to touch you might be suffocating

touch starved bob who is nervous the first time you sleep together because he has barely ever had sex sober and he’s unsure how to handle it without the extra confidence

touch starved bob who constantly needs to be kissing you in hope it can be a distraction if he's not doing something right, asking you how you're feeling a bit too often

touch starved bob who whimpers a little too loud when you affirm and praise him, telling him he's doing a good job

touch starved bob whose face turns red when you tell him to sit back and relax when you take the upper hand, feeling he might be a bit too nervous to really fully enjoy the moment if he keeps being in charge

touch starved bob who needs to be held and to be as close to you as possible when you’re done, his head resting over your stomach and your fingers running through his hair as he falls asleep

touch starved bob who attentively watches you sleep beside him when he wakes up the next morning, fighting the urge to push back the strand of your hair that is falling over your face, not wanting to wake you up

touch starved bob who presses himself against you and slides his hand under your shirt to ground himself when he can't sleep because the warmth of your skin brings him back to reality when he overthinks and when things get too tense inside his own head

touch starved bob who always rests a hand at your back when he comes up behind you, resting his chin over your head if he has to stay here

touch starved bob who, no matter how long you've been dating, will always blush under your compliments, and even more over you covering his face with kisses when you want him to believe those

touch starved bob who doesn't even realize how much he smiles every time he touches you or you touch him, as if unconsciously, his body is finally learning what it means to be wanted

—

thunderbolts taglist: @majestic-jazmin @eternallymaroon @sillymilly17 @yyiikes @snazzynacho

[tittywaititi]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐋𝐘 | bob reynolds

(gif credits to @tomundsen )

—summary: it's the first time you're wearing your new suit as an official (new) avenger and bob is a little too excited about it. —pairing: bob reynolds x female!avenger!reader —word count: 7k (oops) —content: +18, smut !!! (minors dni), descriptions of the reader having female genitalia, p in v sex, oral sex (fem receiving), unprotected sex, creampie, some porn with some plot, fingering, he talks to you through it, really passionate sex, a lot, lot of body worship, praise kink goes brrr, sub!bob, bob just loves his powerful strong girl too much. confident and self-assured bob is so dear to me.

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

“H–hey, here's your milk— woah,” Bob interrupted himself when he finally lifted his gaze from the floor so he could look at you. His eyes fell on your figure, roaming up and down shamelessly, scanning in wonder-struck silence at the way you looked in the new suit. 

You were in front of your full-length mirror, analyzing with squinted eyes the way the suit that had just arrived, restyled and upgraded, looked on you. All the details you had mentioned were fixed now.

It looked good on you, you thought. It fit your body like a second skin though. But the fabric was pretty much perfect, it was comfy and flexible, it was designed to match your abilities and fighting style, without excessively exposing you.

And you still had to put on the cape, a feature Valentina had insisted on adding to the final look, that way you would impose more respect and appear more intimidating, according to her.

Bob stood frozen at the entrance of your room, in his hands he was carrying cups of milkshake he had ordered not too long ago, one of them probably meant for you.

Even though you had told him many times that you didn't like to eat or drink before a mission, he did it anyway. He cared too much about you to not to. So every time he ordered himself something, he had to order something for you as well.

“Thank you, Bob,” you offered him a kind smile nonetheless in appreciation, turning your head so that you could face him. His countenance was all flushed red and the content of the cups swirled a bit with the tremor of his hands.

“Can you help me with the cape?” you then asked, watching him as he awkwardly set the cups down on the small coffee table in the center of your bedroom before making his way towards you with swift steps, as if you were the center of gravity of the entire universe, of his universe.

He couldn't control how his eyes drifted down from your face and swept along your back, drinking in every curve, every outline of your gorgeous, perfect figure, relishing in the way the tight black fabric clung to your body like a second skin. 

Bob's gaze traced a very slow scan across your lower back, through the shape of your hips, the curve of your ass, the complex of your thighs—

“Isn't it too much?” you wondered out loud, making him flinch. Your eyes were looking at him through the reflection of the mirror as Bob stumbled to set the cape where it supposed to be, hooking it onto your shoulders very carefully, with trembling fingers. 

You could catch a glimpse through the mirror of the way his eyes were glowing under the soft yellowish light of your room, you could see your own reflection within them, melting into all the darkness of his particularly dilated pupils. The darkness in his eyes surrounded you completely.

He finished settling the cape on your back and Bob took a couple of steps back from you, permitting himself to gaze at you in awe, his mouth falling half-open.

“You're— you look nice.” He responded to you, in a stammering but entirely truthful voice, nerves racing on his tongue as he pronounced one of the many compliments that were flooding his head as he ogled you with big eyes. “L–like, really nice.”

He nodded his head in a short frenzy, approving the words from himself. Then his eyes searched yours through the reflection of the mirror and he found himself swooning as you spun around to face him, your cape twirling in the air with the effortlessly graceful motion.

You raised an eyebrow as you saw how Bob held his hands out in front of him, fingers clasped together casually. He kept an innocent visage, though his cheeks were flushed, nervous eyes dropping to the ground as he saw you walking towards him in all your glory and beauty, like a goddess stepping down from the heavens. And you didn't have to coax him into surrendering to you, he already stood in the palm of your hand, wrapped around your pretty finger.

You flustered him so much it was silly. Every step you took stirred an earthquake inside him.

He was as yours as the sun is to the moon, as darkness is to light, as craving is to love.

His heart raced as you stood in front of him, gazing at him from all your power and majesty. And Bob knew he was long gone.

“Are you okay?” you asked him in a tone that conveyed raw concern, just as much as what your eyes shared with his in their familiar, heart-warming silent intimacy.

You had your head slightly tilted and your brow just barely furrowed in worry. You looked so beautiful, so cute, that you had him speechless for a few moments.

“Y–yes, I—” Bob stuttered, jerking his head gently, dismissing any sign of worry he might spark in you. “I'll s–see you after the mission—”

Immediately after that, he rushed to grab his beloved milkshake, flashed you a lopsided smile all crooked with nervousness and stormed out of your room, almost tripping over the box full of vinyls you had yet to organize on the shelves.

Shortly before he left, Bob turned once more to look at you, with that sheepish little grin curving his lips and you noticed how he struggled to hold his cup of milkshake now low in front of him, trying to cover up the prominent bulge that had grown painfully harder the more he watched you in that suit.

And then he just disappeared.

You stood in silence, dumbfounded, staring at your door with puzzled eyes and gaping mouth. Then you glanced down at yourself, searching around for something wrong, something that looked ugly maybe, something that would cause such an outburst in Bob. 

But there was absolutely nothing wrong with you. In fact, you looked perfect. 

When you came back from the mission, the first thing you looked for in the living room once you stepped out of the elevator was Bob, naturally, eyes flicking to the couch where he usually lay down to read or gaze at the cityscape.

Yelena and Bucky were talking animatedly beside you, exchanging a single knowing glance as they both caught a glimpse of disappointment surfacing on your face, still a little sweaty from all the physical exertion the mission had taken. It had not been difficult. The guys had especially relied on your skills to accomplish it successfully.

For that, you were a bit tired, your mind and body had given up a lot to the energy of your abilities. You were still buzzing. Adrenaline was throbbing in your veins. And normally when you were like this, you reached for Bob's comfort to anchor you back to earth.

Your cape fluttered behind you as you made your way towards the hallway to the bedrooms, looking defeated.

Yelena huffed a small chuckle at you, taking a sip of water from the glass Bucky had offered her, “I can't believe that less than thirty minutes ago you were at full power, levitating off the ground, with your eyes glowing and all, and now you go crawling back to your boyfriend like this.”

You just shrugged, offering them both a small tired smile before continuing to walk towards Bob's room, needing to see him and hug him. You didn't even care that you were still wearing your suit.

You stopped in front of the door and as you were raising your hand to knock on it, it swung open with a ‘wooshh!’, revealing a very distressed looking Bob. His hair was a bit messy, he was still wearing that black shirt that looked so good on him. He had changed his pants, though, now wearing a pair of gray sweatpants, hanging dangerously low around his hips.

He looked like a hot mess. In every good sense of the term.

“You're back,” he breathed out, as if he'd been holding his breath all this time in your absence, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he gulped loudly. His eyes took a quick journey across you and widened as he noticed you were still in your suit. He pulled them back, forcefully, painfully slow back up to your face.

You looked at him strangely, realizing how you were both still standing in his doorway. “Yeah... are you okay, Bob? I feel you... closed off.”

“Yeah, it's just— I didn't want to distract you— before the mission and all that,” he explained, sounding more like a cheap excuse.

“Distract me?” You raised a single eyebrow, repeating his own word, noticing perfectly how his gaze wandered to your chest for just a split of a second, but nonetheless, you managed to catch up with it. A hint of an amused smile tugged at the corners of your lips, leaning against the threshold of his door, and he closed his eyes tightly, ducking his head in shame, knowing full well that he had been caught. Nothing could ever get past you. Not when it came to him.

“Looks like you're the distracted one here, Bob.”

“I'm not—” he stammered, his hands raised to his flushed face, “S-sorry, I don't mean to be like like a wacked out pervert— I don't want you to think less of me. It's just a s-suit.”

The last part seemed to be speaking more to himself than to you, as he grunted it under his breath, verging on a scolding.

But it wasn't just a suit.

It was you.

Your body, your naughty smile, your gaze, your lips tinted with that deadly crimson red.

A couple of beads of sweat led a wet trail down your neck. Bob could smell the saltiness oozing off your sweaty skin, mixed with that exquisite scent of your perfume. He could hear your heart pounding, the throbbing pulse in your jugular vein. Demonstrating that you were real, that you were breathing, that you were right in front of him, dressed like that.

You were devastatingly beautiful. And he was completely at your mercy.

Your hand rose to his face, making him stop his babbling with himself and lift his gaze slowly. His cheek felt warm under your palm, you didn't know if it was because he was a blushing mess or because that was the effect that your touch brought upon his skin.

“It's okay to feel desire, Bob, there's nothing wrong with that,” you reassured him, lowering your tone to a softer, more sympathetic one. “It makes me feel good that you desire me, actually.”

That got a reaction out of him, his lips quivered, hesitating whether or not to speak, until eventually, he made up his mind, “It makes you feel good?”

You nodded your head, your smile morphing to one of a little more shyness, “I thought you didn't like the way I looked in my suit. Since you just ran off without saying anything, I thought that—”

Bob interrupted you right there, shaking his head repetitively. You felt his jaw and flesh move under the palm of your hand as he spoke.

“What? No,” he blurted, huffing air as if it were the most obvious subject in the world. Regret passed over the expression of his face and he uttered your name in that adoring, soft way he did, “You look perfect. It drives me crazy, h-honestly. I haven't been able to stop t-thinking about you. You look so beautiful it makes me want to—”

He forced himself to shut up, suddenly feeling his throat constrict and his face grow even more red. One of his hands ran through his hair anxiously, looking really tense.

“You want to what?” You urged him, your breath feeling warm against his face, your thumb caressed his cheekbone, making him shiver under your touch, “Say it, Bob.”

Bob looked into your eyes again, struggling to maintain eye contact, his hands trembled at his sides, so desperate to reach out to you, to touch you, to grasp you. To hold all of you.

“Make love to you” He mumbled against your lips just before you kissed him, breathing in his air and devouring his words, covenanting them as a mutual yearning. A promise.

Bob kissed you as if you were the air his lungs depended on to breathe, his lips moving with yours like an old habit, like second nature.

“Jump,” he urged you between kisses and shaky breaths, his hands finally being set loose to reach out to touch you and hold your waist.

And you immediately complied, bouncing up and wrapping your legs around his hips. He lifted you up and held you so effortlessly. Sometimes you forgot that this man was the strongest among all of you. The strongest on the planet, most likely.

Without ever stopping kissing you, Bob locked you tightly against him with one arm while the other one stretched out towards the door, closing it behind his back once he started to walk with you in his arms over to his bed. 

Both of his hands grasped your body at the bottom of your thighs, squeezing and cupping your warm flesh through the fabric of your suit.

Promptly you felt the bulge press against the underside of your thigh, so desperate for attention, for you.

Bob broke the kiss, the noise of your mouths slipping apart from each other swept across the interior of his room, so filthy and hot. He looked at you with half-closed eyes, gaze darkened by desire and raw adoration.

He was breathless and feeling so flustered and anxious he was trembling, you could sense it as he held you close against him.

“I-I'm sorry, I don't want you to feel pressured into anything. It—” he mumbled, closing his eyes in ecstasy as he felt your fingers sinking into his hair at the back of his skull, “It just... pops up. It's inevitable when it comes to you. You drive me crazy.”

He was referring to his erection, of course. His big erection. He was ashamed of it. Bob didn't want to appear desperate —although for you, he certainly was—; someone who was unable to control himself. He was striving for control.

“Just shut up and make love to me, Bob,” you murmured, pleaded, right against his lips, your tongue grazing across his bottom lip, pulled outward, his countenance turn into a pout. “I need you inside me, now. Please, baby”

“S-shit,” he hissed a lot of cursing under his trembling breath. He was buzzing, “I-I need you too.”

Bob kissed you one more time as he laid you down on his bed very gently, careful not to trip or get tangled up in your cape.

His lips traced a path of kisses across your face, down your chin, along your neck. Your body quivered as you felt his tongue run across your skin, wiping away a bead of sweat.

Your legs were still on either side of his hips, one of his hands was running up and down the outside of your thigh and the other was supporting his own weight on the side of your body.

You arched your back for him, grinding against his crotch. Bob groaned lightly into your skin at the friction.

“You drive me crazy— you don't know what you provoke in me,” he uttered, rasping out against the skin of your neck, like an unhinged man, blinded by lust and longing. “This fucking suit— shit. You look so good, so pretty for me. I need you so bad, baby. All the time.”

Rarely did Bob call you by pet names, but every one of those occasions elicited the exact same reaction out of you. Your gaze would darken and your eyes would squint. You didn't have to tell him anything at all. Your body spoke everything to him, calling out to him in silence, in complicity.

With you, the intimacy, the complicity spoke for itself above the silence.

He knew the power he had in you. He knew exactly how to use it.

“P-please... ah—” yet he still begged you, whimpering just from friction and touch alone, pulling his head out of your neck and bringing his face closer to yours. He kissed your lips once more, just as your legs squeezed tighter around his waist, pulling him closer to you and making him pant against your mouth. “I dreamt of your legs wrapped around my waist. Just like this...”

Even Bob couldn't fully recognize himself. He was in some kind of deep lust trance, everything was blurred, except for you. Just beneath him, your beautiful body squirming, flushed against his.

To think that not so long ago you had been out there, in your nice suit, in full super-heroine mode, helping and saving people. Protecting kids from the bad guys, fighting for them.

They all probably looked up to you with adoration, everyone would most likely be jealous of him if they knew how he had you now.

None of them could ever see you like this. Only in their dreams. 

“Only in their dreams,” a voice murmured at the back of his mind.

“Bobby...” You breathed out his name, pleading for mercy, for him to do something, anything at all. One of your hands was curled around his forearm at your side, squeezing it to attract his attention. Your fingertips absentmindedly traced the veins outlined against his skin trough his arm. You could feel his throbbing pulse on them. Desperate and hepless. Craving. 

“Let me taste you, baby, please” Bob cooed, his voice coming raspy and desperate out of his throat, “I need to taste you, yeah?”

“Y-yes, yes,” your mouth moved faster than your mind, gazing at him with eyes glazed over with lust. “W-wait, I have to take off my suit first, let me—”

Bob cut you off with a sloppy little kiss, pressing his forehead affectionately against yours, his nose nuzzling yours just before he pulled away, “I-I got it.”

He patted your thigh gently and you unwrapped your legs from his waist, following him with your gaze attentively as he settled over you carefully so that his fingers reached around your neck, in search of the zipper of the suit. When he found it, he began to pull it down, looking at you with ravenous eyes, blinking so slowly that it seemed like he wasn't blinking at all.

“Turn a little and lift your hips up, baby.” He said to you once the zipper trail was almost reaching your lower back. As he unzipped the bottom of it, you took off your top to help him, leaving your bare chest on full display for him. “That's it. God...”

Bob shakily exhaled air as he became aware that you weren't wearing any underwear at all, he had to be extremely careful not to tear the zipper into a thousand tiny pieces with the force he squeezed it, pulling it further below your hips.

“You don't wear anything under it? Should I be worried about this?”

His tone of voice was so confident and borderline playful that for a moment you felt like he was someone else entirely. He really wanted to look confident for you, he wanted to provide you that security and comfort. You were stripping naked for him, for God's sake. Bob had to make an extra effort to appear confident and self-assured.

“Just for you, baby,” you assured him, shifting your legs slightly just once to help him pull the suit off completely, tugging it delicately down your thighs. The distinctive noise of the zipper, which this time was reaching your ears like the most arousing noise on the planet, ceased at last, reaching its end.

“J-just for me,” Bob echoed, leaning into you again like a magnet to a gravity core. His lips latched onto your naked thigh, kissing the side considering the position you were lying on his bed now. His wet, leisurely kisses awakened shivers on your skin. He could smell how aroused you were. He practically could taste how wet your sex was. Thinking about it made his mouth water.

“So pretty, so beautiful, my God,” he babbled, his trail of kisses reaching your lower stomach, tickling you in a way that made you sigh. Bob looked up at you for just a moment, his pupils blown out with pleasure, “How could someone like me deserve something like this?”

It all seemed more like a conversation with himself, like if he was walking through a daydream.

Your hand came to rest on his face, cupping his cheek, and he leaned against your palm instantly, closing his eyes for a moment.

“Bobby, please,” you pleaded.

And he gave in immediately, kissing the palm of your hand, “You don't have to beg me for anything. You already have it.”

His kisses trailed back down your stomach and you arched your back so beautifully for him. When he pulled away from your hand, it fell to the side of you on the bed. You clenched in a trembling fist all the fabric of whatever you could catch hold of.

“Are you— are you sure about this?” he looked up to you for consent, his fingers soothingly caressing your thighs, hands pressing them to either side of his face and settling them on his shoulders. When he saw you nodding your head, too much overcome with lust, he brushed a kiss on the inside of your knee, attempting to get your full attention back, “I need words, baby.”

You hurried to answer, babbling, gazing down at him, kneeling so pretty in between your legs as if they were the gates to heaven, “Yes, Bob, baby, please.”

He kissed your other knee now and then licked his lips, hungrily.

“I want to see you fall apart under me,” his hot breath brushed against the skin of your inner thighs, spreading your legs a little wider with a delicate but assured grip. “You're soaking wet, baby,” he marveled, in awe watching your pussy dripping with his adored honeyed water, yet his voice sounded disappointed, “you're wasting my meal.”

The mere sight of how his eyes sparkled with adoration as he gazed at your pussy could have made you cum right there if you started to think about it too much. Bob looked at you as if you were the center of the universe, the entrance to paradise, the sun he orbited around. 

It all made sense when you were there. Your presence in the room shifted the whole gravity of his being. His everything was for you. He was all made for you.

All the sense he could possibly envision now was to devour your pussy as if it were his last meal. He devoured it like a starving man, like reaching an oasis in the most arid desert, drowning and sheltering into it.

The sloshing sounds that spread with each stroke of his tongue between your wet folds made you flush all over, throwing your head back against one of his pillows and squeezing your eyes tightly shut, muttering and moaning his name out like a prayer.

To Bob, that noise was the most beautiful melody he'd ever heard. He sucked particularly hard onto your slit, pushing his tongue just barely into your gushing hole, pulling a loud, raspy moan from your throat. Oh, that noise...

His name sounded like the utmost hopeless and religious chant out of your pretty mouth. At that moment he was loving his name, loving the way you moaned it and kept murmuring it, as if it was yours, holding it close to your heart.

Amidst all the acoustic thrill of raw passion, mingled with his own soft whimpers breathing out into your core, Bob could nearly hear the stars themselves just above his red, hot ears. 

Your cunt was pulsing all around the tip of his tongue and Bob sensed, tasted your heartbeat through it. 

To feel that close to you nearly made him cum right there in his sweatpants.

One of his hands unclasped your leg, crawling up through your skin, his digits drawing a smooth path up your stomach, through your ribcage, all the way to reach your chest, cupping one of your breasts with a possessive hold.

“Bob— uhh—” you croaked out his name, glancing down at him with half-closed eyes, searching for his gaze in desperation.

Your back curved into such a perfect arch, your body squirming up against him as you felt his tongue flick your clit, his fingertips gently caressing your nipple. The stimulation would soon knock you into fucking heaven.

“Yeah, baby,” he responded to your call, disconnecting his mouth just an inch from your pussy, feeling lust-drunk enough to hold your gaze. His whole mouth was drenched with you, the slickness glistening under the dim light of his bedroom. His other hand sneaked between your legs, just barely brushing your pulsating cunt, “I'm here, hm? I got you, angel.”

Angel. That one was new.

You looked as close as he could ever imagine to an angel; sprawled on his bed, your body, magnificent, perfect, damp with sweat and arousal, your gaze searching for his in longing. There, in the shadows, Bob saw the whitish gleam of your energy flashing through your orbs, your power lingering in the air, pulsating along with your heartbeat.

You were so powerful, so strong and marvelous.

And you were all his to break apart.

“Are you going to cum for me?” He asked right before passionately kissing your pussy, his fingertips teasing your clit as he plunged his tongue deep into you, knocking all the air out of your lungs. “I got you, I got you.”

Bob felt you clench impossibly tight all around the two fingers he had thrust into your warm, fluttering hole, barely pressing against the spongy walls of your insides. He sucked your clit just right, breathing your name against your hot flesh. That's what pushed you over the edge, making you cum, falling apart so devastatingly beautiful against his mouth.

He slurped and drank in everything you had to offer him, lapping at your cunt as if he was drowning and it was the oxygen he needed to keep afloat. 

He paused to gaze at you attentively as he made you cum, your whole body buzzing, squirming so beautifully under his touch that you resembled some ethereal, otherworldly sight.

His name rasped out of your throat, as if it were your own religion.

“There you go...” Bob cooed, his eyes hazy with adoration, licking his lips clean and kissing your twitching pussy once again. “So good to me. So good...”

His lips kissed a trail upwards, swiping his tongue occasionally across the scars and freckles that decorated your skin as a constellation that appealed to him to adore. Eventually, Bob reached your face, looking down at you with pure love and a glimpse of that gentle shyness of his natural mannerism.

“A-are you okay?”

Bob watched your soul slowly crawl back to the ground and to your body, right back to him, finally snapping out of your post-orgasm trance. He propped his weight against the bed on the side of your waist with one hand, his thumb brushing against your bare skin and he brought the other to your face, caressing your cheek reassuringly. 

Your response was your mouth seeking his to join in a deep, loving kiss. Bob closed his eyes, kissing you back, his hand cradling your face.

You could taste yourself through his lips and tongue. And that managed to turn you on even more. 

Wrapped in an adrenaline surge of lust pumping through your veins, you rolled both of you over on the bed, laying him underneath you now. 

It was nice that you had much more stamina and energy than a normal human. Although there, you didn't feel like a human at all.

You were animals driven by their own instincts.

Bob gasped against your lips, his eyes barely opening so he could visualize you on top of him now, grinding your ass down on his rock-hard erection as you sat so prettily on his lap.

“Shit,” he croaked out your name, his hands grabbing as much of you as they possibly could, sliding past the curve of your waist to your ass, pressing you harder down onto him in urging. “If you keep doing that— I-I'm going to—”

You stopped all movement of your body and sat perfectly motionless on his lap. Bob whined hoarsely in protest, but you didn't let him utter a word, your finger pressed against his lips, silencing him instantly.

“I want you to cum inside me, Bob.” You purred against his ear, your tongue lazily stroking his earlobe. He froze speechless, just staring at you flabbergasted, still delighting in the way you had said those filthy words, so softly and lovingly. He strained himself to keep strong and not burst into his boxers at your words alone. “Let me take your clothes off, okay? Can I see all of you, baby?”

“Yes, p-please, just take everything of me— it's all yours” he promised you, helping you take off that black t-shirt he knew you loved to see on him so much. Exactly why he had put it on that morning.

When his naked torso was fully exposed for you, you bent down to kiss his neck, his collarbone, his pecs, your tongue spent some extra time fondling his sensitive nipples and Bob's legs twitched under your thighs.

The light in the room flickered for a split second and you just grinned against his flushed skin.

“I-I'm sorry—” he apologized with his voice lowering sheepishly, embarrassed. Then he closed his eyes when you raised your head to hush him with a kiss that was more tender than anything, reassuring him in silence.

Then your lips specifically grazed the spot where his heart was, beating maniacally on the other side of his skin.

He was so perfect, effortlessly perfect.

Bob was the most powerful man on planet Earth and yet, he was crumbling beneath you, bowing to the mercy of your touch.

You might as well just tear his chest apart and take his heart, it was already lying open for you, so full of you.

It was yours to take, to hold, to shatter.

You took your time to strip off his gray sweatpants, kissing his thighs, his knees and his calves, gently tugging at the hem of the gray fabric until you eventually slid it off his body and tossed it on the floor, forgotten alongside your scandalous suit.

Bob stared at you with a blushing, timid face as you rose again up through his body, your fingers lightly fiddling with the hem of his boxers now, fully ruined by all the pre-cum he'd been spilling. And you lifted your gaze, searching for his, silently asking for his consent.

He nodded tremblingly, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

With wobbly hands he helped you take off his boxers, lifting his hips so you could slide them down his body and toss them into the pile of clothes lying on the floor as well.

His cock sprung free and you looked at it in awe.He was so big, bigger than you had ever had before. It was long too, hard, powerful and desperate for you, just like him.

It's head was furiously red, throbbing and oozing pre-cum incessantly. You found it impossible not to bend down to his groin and swipe your tongue along his slit, scooping up every essence of him and savoring it delightfully. Your tongue lolled along the prominent vein that bulged all along his shaft.

Bob's eyes rolled back and in a blur of bliss, he had to struggle to guide a hand to your head, fingers brushing across your cheek to get your attention. You looked up at him with big, lustful eyes, swallowing everything you had slurped out of him. The taste was bittersweet, hot, familiar, like him.

“No— don't do— don't do that, p-please,” he begged for your mercy in a raspy, cracked, breathless voice. “Come here.”

His hand gripped yours as you took it and carefully, but hurriedly helped you to position yourself on top of him once again, his digits latched onto you your waist, holding you as you squatted just above his lap, straddling him.

You grabbed his cock and held it up against your pussy, the swollen tip slowly sliding in between your wet folds, pushing achingly slow through your entrance.

Both of you sighed at the contact. Wet, hot, shaky and desperate.

Slowly you began to sink down on his cock, hands pressed on his shoulders, clenching them more and more with every inch he pushed inside you. 

Bob whimpered shudderingly, choking back the deep, heavy moan that crawled up his throat. He could feel his whole body shivering, squinting his eyes as he leaned his sweaty forehead against your shoulder, struggling to steady his breathing. It was like his soul was slipping out of his body and merging with yours.

No one had ever been so close to his soul. And he didn't think anyone else would, either. No one did it like you. 

His veiny hands at your waist gripped your flesh, yet they never pressed you hard enough to push you lower any faster, no, he would wait for you so patiently, giving you the pause to accustom yourself to his size.

“You do it so— so good.” Bob praised hoarsely into your shoulder, his wet lips grazing across your skin, drooling all over you, “you take it so good, you take me so good. There's n-no one like you— no one.”

Heavenly, him pressing against you, his lips laying softly upon your neck, marking you on the outside and inside, his mouth felt like heaven, his kisses falling upon you like stars, shaping a constellation of raw adoration. 

Your pussy fluttered around him, squishing him deeper inside. 

One of his hands wandered down to your back, fingers tracing your spine reassuringly. He just took the time to reassure you amidst all the blissful trance of pleasure you made him feel.

“Just a little more, baby,” he murmured, his hand caressing your ass appreciatively. Your warm, spongy walls clamped down tight around his cock and Bob's voice cracked. “Oh— S-shit—”

You moaned so loudly against his forehead that your whole spine seemed to twitch, finally feeling your ass pressed down on his lap. He was so deep that you easily thought his tip was almost reaching all into your guts now. 

“You're so deep, Bob” You whined, just barely pulling away from him so you could look at him. His eyes were already locked on yours and you caught a glimpse of that golden sparkle flashing through them, his irises glowing like two suns in the twilight. “Bobby—”

Your words struck him to the core and his eyes flashed golden once again, utterly starting to lose control. 

“I'm here,” he hissed, panting your name breathlessly, his hands caressed your skin, scoring his imprint on it. He kissed you sloppily, “I got you, I always got you.”

As you began to move on top of him, Bob suddenly felt like he was in heaven. He could no longer envision a life where he didn't feel this way, where he didn't feel you. He shall be yours in every life.

He dropped back on the bed as your hand pushed against his chest, bending down with him and bouncing your hips so lusciously against his that you actually could see his eyes filling with tears, looking up at you riding him in pure adoration. 

Bob whimpered your name endlessly, crying it out in a hoarse, broken voice, his hands squeezed your waist, your hips, your ass, anything they could possibly grope out of you.

“My God—” his eyes rolled back, arching his back as you delivered a particularly hard bounce down his cock, so deep that he saw the stars twinkle in the darkness right behind you. 

The constant filthy noise of flesh slapping against flesh soon merged with the pornographic acoustic medley of moans, shattered sighs, slurred whispers of names and nonsense words.

You kissed his lips lazily, then his nose, and his chin as you cooed, “You feel so good, baby.”

The bed was beginning to creak beneath the ruthless sway of your hips, ass bouncing up and down heavy against his thighs, so deep that every time you bottomed out you felt him in your throat. His heavy balls were pressed hard against your ass, throbbing, so ready to give you everything they had, to fill you up to the brim, as if it were his sole purpose in life. 

“You're perfect— perfect,” he croaked out so pathetically to you, thrusting his hips up to meet yours, plunging into you as if you were his nest, engulfing himself within your soft, warm, spongy walls, pressing against that squishy spot that knocked the breath right out of you.

He kissed your lips once more and in a fragment of a second Bob flipped you over on the bed, rutting into you so good that it made you gasp between kisses. 

Bob began to set the pace just as your legs wrapped around his hips, pressing him impossibly close to you.

“Right there?” he whispered, burying his head down on your chest, nuzzling your sternum. “You feel perfect— so tight, my God—”

He kept on praising you endlessly, kissing you, grasping you, breathing in the air you breathed out, sharing the same oxygen, the same time-space that existed between you, that little inches that belonged to both of you and no one else.

“You feel like heaven.”

That was enough for him to have you cumming again, in some way even more earth-shattering than the last orgasm. Your body started to wobble, your pussy squelching and clenching so tightly wrapped around his cock. 

The light voltage in the room lowered and raised, matching the racing beat of your heart.

Bob sensed the energy sparking off your body and blending with his own, merging and intertwining as one. 

After feeling that, after feeling you so close, so inhumanly close, beyond the physical plane, beyond anything he had ever felt in his life —it was euphoric, overwhelming—; he was cumming too, picking up the pace to reach the apex of his high. 

He buried himself in you to the hilt, sobbing out a ragged whimper as he leaned his forehead against yours. 

The atmosphere shifted and the light in the room flickered once again.

His load felt hot and thick inside you, coloring your insides with his color, spurting what resembled an ocean of him inside your womb. His hips jerked, his cock shooting out ropes and ropes of hot seed, marking you from the inside.

Bob remained motionless on top of you, panting up against your face, keeping his eyes closed, buried to the fucking hilt inside your overwhelmingly stuffed pussy, making sure nothing could spill out.  

And even though his body was drained and succumbing to post-orgasm limpness, he was careful not to collapse his full weight on you, supporting his hands on either side of your shoulders. 

Your arms wrapped around his neck, hugging him close to you, hands soothingly caressing his back. He sighed against your lips, slowly opening his eyes.

Until then you hadn't realized that the room was completely dark now. 

“I think we just blew out the voltage of the room.” You uttered after a comfortable silence, your throat felt scratchy and though you were still in the haze of the afterglow, your voice came out rather playful.

Bob glanced lazily away from you, finally noticing that there was, in fact, no light. He was grateful for that in a way, that way you couldn't see the blushing, tear-stained mess that was his face, snuggling it against your chest. 

“I'm s-sorry,” he stammered in his own raspy voice as well, embarrassed, as if he wasn't balls deep inside you, his seed gushing out of your pussy. “I think— I think it was me.”

“I think it was both of us.” You smiled lovesickly as you kissed his sweaty forehead, fingers tracing his shoulder blades. “Don't worry, we'll fix it. Just give me a few minutes.”

Bob placed a couple of kisses on your chest before he began to reluctantly push himself up, carefully pulling out of you. You both sighed lightly at the over-stimulation and the loss of connection. Although, even when he had already slipped his cock off you, you could still feel him inside, leaking out of your gaping pussy, trickling down your thighs.

Bob rushed off in search of a washcloth, stumbling over the pile of clothes you had tossed on the floor. The sound of his feet walking clumsily back to you made you grin.

Then he swiped the cloth in between your legs, very delicately, wiping you clean. The contact made you shiver from the sensibility.

And even through the shadows of the darkness, you could see him frown slightly, very much focused on taking care of you, sensing how the fabric of the cloth felt uncomfortable against your sensitive skin, “I'm sorry.”

“You apologize too much, baby” you tried to reassure him, already in need of him close to you again. “Come here.”

Bob instantly flopped down on the bed next to you, careful not to crush you, but with your arms wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him tight against you it was complicated.

In between hugs and caresses, he ended up being the little spoon, happy to be able to feel your chest pressing against his back, arms embracing his torso.

“Did I— I do okay?” he asked after a brief silence, anxious.

“You were perfect.” You assured him, tenderly kissing his shoulder.

“You too” Bob whispered back, grabbing one of your hands on his chest and bringing it to his mouth, planting soft kisses on your knuckles. The words raced up his throat even before he could think, “I love you.”

He let the words carry up into the silence of the darkness and held his breath, already considering that he had ruined everything.

“I love you too, Bob.”

If it hadn't been for you holding him, his limbs tangled with yours, and because well, you were there, Bob had jumped out of his bed in joy.

But, because you were there, he stayed still, perfectly still, and smiled, utterly in love, savoring the way you had said the three words to him.

You were closing your eyes, drifting off in exhaustion when, through your super-hearing you heard steps approaching through the hallway, of more than a pair of feet, mixing with the voices of your teammates.

“What could have happened?” You heard Ava's voice ask, her tone hovering somewhere between worried and annoyed.

Yelena sighed. “I don't know. Some power failure?”

“A power failure in the whole city?” John remarked, as snarky as usual.

Your eyes opened wide and Bob halted his cute kisses on your hand, turning his head so he could look at you like a deer dazzled by lights.

[tittywaititi]

Mr. Oblivious

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds x F!Reader

Summary: Bob is sometimes oblivious to the fact that people find him attractive and/or like him. One of those people includes you.

Warning: a little bit of angst

Marvel Masterlist

You thought you were being obvious, but, turns out, Bob is just oblivious. You're not sure how else you can show him that you like him, other than spell it out in big, bold letters "I LIKE YOU!"

Even then, there's a chance he might interpret that as you liking him as a friend. So, you just kind of settle in your puddle of frustration.

But you can't be mad at Bob. No way. It seems like he's not used to garnering any positive attention to himself. You can tell from the way he blushes and shies away from any compliment you give him, or how he brushes off nice comments about him and counteracts with a self-deprecating comment.

It kind of pains you that he feels unworthy of such adoration and attention, like it seems ridiculous for someone to genuinely like him.

But you try your best. You give him well-meaning and thought out compliments, ones you know to be true in your heart.

And how does he responds, with a shrug and a blush.

It is sometimes cute how oblivious he can be.

You and he ran errands together while the others were on a mission. John wasn't assigned on the mission, but he wanted to stay at the tower and sulk. So it was just you and Bob.

You were checking out at the grocery store when the cashier looked at Bob and said, "Your hair looks so soft. Can I touch it?"

Bob was like a deer in headlights for a moment until he responded with, "Oh, um, sure."

He awkwardly leaned in and the girl ran her fingers through his hair. She giggled and proceeded to ask Bob his hair care routine. You weren't a jealous person, but also Bob wasn't technically yours so you had no right to be jealous in the first place. But also, you found the interaction a little amusing. The girl clearly found Bob attractive and, honestly, you couldn't fault her for her forwardness.

"I don't know, I just shampoo and dry it with a towel." He gave a shrug and a polite smile.

"What kind of shampoo?" the girl leaned in and batted her eyes at Bob.

He leaned back, confused why she was getting closer, "Oh, uh, I forget. Y/N?" he asked.

"Head and shoulders, I think," you answered with a smirk.

"Yeah. Head and shoulders." Bob replied back with a nod.

"Guess I'll try it out sometime," she gave Bob a wink as you paid, trying to hold back a laugh.

After grabbing the receipt and your groceries, you both exited the store. Bob smiled, "She was nice."

You chuckled, "She was flirting with you."

He paused in his step and looked at you confused, "She was?"

You nodded and hummed, "Mhm. It was cute though. She was cute. Did..you wanna ask for her number?"

Bob looked back into the store and looked back at you, "I'm okay." He continued his trek back to your car.

"Not your type?" you asked jokingly, but also you were curious.

"Ah, I'm-I don't know if I have a type. When I was younger, I sorta just dated anyone who was interested in me...don't know if anyone would be interested in me now."

You pursed your lips at the last bit and you wanted to shake him and yell in his face, "I'M INTERESTED YOU, DUMMY!" But you didn't want to overwhelm him, so you continued to keep your feelings to yourself.

It all came to a head when it was post a successful mission. Alexei ordered pizzas and you all were lounging around the living room of the residential floor. People sipping on their respective alcoholic and non-alcoholic drinks.

The random conversations and constant bickering and bantering eventually led to a conversation about each other's love lives.

Seemingly, the only one as close to a love life was John, but it's still iffy.

"What about you, Bob?" Yelena asks. Everyone's eyes turn to him and he's frozen for a moment.

"Uh, what about me?" he asks.

"What are your views on love?" Ava asks before taking a swig from her beer bottle.

"Oh, uh, I don't think I've ever been in love or truly experienced it. Never found anyone who, uh, really loved me, I guess."

"Well, we love you," Yelena says, patting his knee, "In a familial sense."

John snorts, "All of us, but one."

You glare at John and he shrugs, "What? It's not like he knows!"

"Knows what?" Bob looks at you, to John, and back to you.

"Walker," Bucky says his name in a warning tone, "Don't."

"The kid's oblivious! He obviously doesn't know that Y/N is in love with him!"

The world seemed to pause in that moment. People held their breaths as they all turned to you. Seething, you stand up and dump the rest of your drink on John's head.

"What the fuck!"

"Deserved," Ava said.

Yelena shakes her head, "Always have to be such an asshole."

You place your glass onto the coffee table and, without another word, headed upstairs.

Once you're gone, everyone turns their heads back to Bob. He gulps, "Y/N's in love with me?" He starts fidgeting with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, "I-" he looks at his found family, "What do I do?"

"Confess your love."

"Give her some space."

"Fuck, if I care."

"Talk to her."

"Walker, shut the hell up!"

Bob abruptly stands, overwhelmed with the various answers he's receiving. That's when they all go quiet.

Bucky clears his throats, "Do you have feelings for her?"

"I-Yeah. I do."

"Then tell her."

"Okay," he replies and then heads upstairs to find you.

He checks your room, which is across from his, but you're not there. Then he hears a curse from John's room. He pushes the door open to find you kneeling at John's bedside table.

"Y/N?" you freeze and look over your should.

"Uh...hi?"

Bob can't help but smile. He crosses his arms over his chest, leans against the doorframe, and asks, "What're you doing?"

"John's a dick so I left his tv on to play Cocomelon videos on repeat and I'm gluing his tv remote to the bedside facing down so he can't turn it off."

Bob chuckles, "That's...fun."

"Yup," you murmur and go back to adding more glue onto John's remote, "You don't have to say anything to me. We can just pretend that never happened."

Bob walks further into the room, "Why?"

"Don't want it to ruin our friendship, so we'll just pretend it's not true."

"But is it?" You stay silent and Bob continues, "Is it true you're in love with me?"

You shrug, avoiding his gaze, "Does it matter?"

"Well...yeah. The one person who means the most to me, loves me back. So yeah, it matters."

You take in what he's just said and your heart beat quickens. You slowly stand and look at him, "You feel the same way?"

He shrugs so nonchalantly, "How could I not?"

You can't help but laugh in disbelief, "Why didn't you say anything?"

"Probably the same reason you didn't. Scared and didn't want things to change. Also...I don't feel like I deserve you. I mean, I'm not the best person. I have a shitty past and still kind of a mess and-" his words get stuck as you rush forward and press your lips to his.

He's taken by surprise so by the time he starts to kiss you back, you pull away, "Please don't talk about yourself like that. You're not a bad person, Robby. It's okay if you have a shitty pass, because, newflash, we all do and now we're all fucking Avengers! Also, it's okay if you're a mess. You're working on yourself and that's a good thing." you swoop away a curl that got into his face, "I wouldn't have fallen in love with you if I didn't see something in you that's worth loving."

He nods, "Okay."

"I love you."

"I..I love you too."

You lean in and he rests his forehead against yours, "I do have something to request of you."

"Yeah? What?"

"You need to be more situationally more aware because I was so obvious I had feelings for you."

He pulls back with furrowed brows, "What? No, you weren't."

"I was! So painfully obvious!"

"She was," John says as he appears in the doorway, "Also, why're you in my room?"

You pull away from Bob and shrug, "Thought I saw a mouse go into your room. Good night!" you tug on Bob's arm, leading him out of John's room.

You two go into yours, locking the door behind you.

Down the hall, you hear John yell, "DID YOU GLUE MY REMOTE TO THE TABLE?!"

[tittywaititi]

˙ . ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙— "𝖠𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗋𝖺𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇" - Bob Reynolds x freader x platonic thunderbolts

Golden Retriever x Black Cat trope

Being recruited by Valentina as part of the new Avengers (z) team was never part of your list of agendas. Yet here you were, doting on an awkward brunette.

a.n - This is a short scenario that got me all giddy while writing this, so I hope you Bob fans enjoy this as much as I did!

Warnings - minor spoilers! trauma, nightmares, making out, hickeys & yearning Bob! Lots of fluff too

A few months had passed since the 'incident' on the streets of Newyork where almost half the city was engulfed in complete darkness.

You mostly blamed this on Valentina since she pushed her ideals of the sentry project onto Bob. Now you, along with the others tried your best to make him feel welcome and wanted, despite his 'minor' flaws.

Now that you all moved into the newly refurbished Avengers tower, you had to adjust to your new life. This was never part of your agenda but you're one to complain.

Especially since you got the chance to dote on a certain brunette, who you undeniably cannot ignore since he's always trailing after you wherever you went.

Yelena had introduced you to Bob properly after the whole incident and he's been glued to your side since then. You were more on the nonchalant and cool girl type while he was the polar opposite.

But he still admired you nonetheless. Not to mention, you also get endlessly teased by Yelena and the others.

More so than usual when she noticed that Bob tends to follow you around more than her now. Not that she cares, she was more than happy that he was trying to get closer with someone else other than her.

Yelena had joined you in the main kitchen after training together. You reached into the refrigerator to bring out your bottle of water when she asked an unexpected question.

"Do you like Bob?" She asks straight up, catching you offguard in the process.

"As friends? Yeah ofcourse." You muttered underneath your breath then took a chug of your water.

"Pshh friends? Friends don't eyefuck eachother across the room." She mused while leaning against the refrigerator door with an amusing smirk.

You choked a couple of times while Yelena pats your back before adding another comment. "It's okay! No need to feel ashamed."

"What're you talking about??"

"Okay maybe not, but you two would still make a cute couple." She mused while flashing you her iconic smirk.

"Oh...I don't know about that 'lena. He's just someone I care about alot you know?"

Before you could carry on the conversation, your eyes shift past Yelena's shoulders. Sure enough, Bob was awkwardly standing in the hallway.

"I uh - I didn't hear anything."

Yelena steps back to let Bob in before mouthing a quick 'goodluck' to you. God that girl was going to be the death of you.

The only times he wasn't with you was when you went on missions, which is when he'd spend most of his time in the tower with Alpine.

After a gruelling and unbearably long mission, all you wanted to do was to take a shower, eat dinner then go to bed.

"Ugh...Ava, what time is it?" You groaned while rubbing your temples to somehow lessen your headache.

Ava, along with you and John were on the quinjet, which was preparing its landing sequence on the helipad of the tower.

She glances at the time on her watch before answering with a yawn. "It's a little past midnight."

"You think anyone's awake right now?" John joins in on the rather dull conversation. The ship was on autopilot and had finally landed when he finished his sentence.

"Mhm I highly doubt it," you replied with a strained voice as you stretched your limbs. Almost every inch of your body ached, and your muscles were extremely sore.

As soon as the hatch opened, you dragged your tired body through the hanger. The endless corridors of the living quarters almost made you lose your mind, but you breathed a sigh of relief when you finally made it to your room.

You hesitated for a moment, noticing the door was slightly ajar. Figuring it was just you being paranoid, you swiftly flung the door open, only to find a familiar set of eyes blinking back at you.

Bob stood almost a feet away from you with a pillow in hand, the poor man had flinched at your sudden appearance. Almost immediately, he let out a string of '"sorry's'' since he invited himself in without your permission.

"Hey-- Bob, it's ok. You can stay in my room as long as you like." You say in a hushed tone while placing your hands on his shoulders, rubbing them gently so he'd calm down.

He found it hard to focus on your face as his eyes shift downwards in shame. "I just... I wanted to talk to you as soon as you came back."

"We can talk-" you intercept almost immediately. "But would you mind if I took a shower first? Then we can talk afterwards ok?"

Bob finally lifts his eyes off the ground to look at you before nodding. "Uhh yeah... yeah, I can wait."

You reached up to ruffle his slightly messy hair before retreating to where your walk-in closet was. Bob took the leisure of sitting back on your comfy bed as his eyes followed your every move.

"Ah, this will do," you muttered to yourself while fishing out your sleep shirt and a pair of shorts. Except, it looked bigger than usual?

"Oh right uhm, I think that's mine..." Bob mumbles hesitantly when you notice that it was, in fact, not yours.

Bob had the tendency to leave his belongings scattered in your room, including his large sweatshirts. He'd vist you almost every night since he'd constantly have nightmares, and you would comfort him whenever you could.

"You wouldn't mind if I wore this would you?" You turned around with the sleep shirt pressed against your chest to show it off. It was a deep blue navy colour, simple, yet comfortable.

"Uh yeah! Go ahead." Bob replies with open arms and his usual widespread grin. You returned the smile before grabbing your towel and headed into the washroom.

You quickly scrambled out of your suit and chucked it into the laundry basket to wash later. Bob could hear the sound of falling water through the doors of the washroom as he looked around.

That's when he realised he made quite a mess while waiting for you. So he took his time going around and picking things up from the floor to put them back to the right spots.

After half an hour or so, you stepped out with the towel around your neck after wringing out excess water from your hair. You had the power to control the wind, so it was easier to dry your hair, which was awfully convenient.

"Bob? You here?" You called out after noticing that he was nowhere in sight. The lack of response concerned you as you frantically searched your room for the man.

You finally found him in the far corner of the room, huddled with one of your plushies and was fast asleep. The racing of your heart only quickened once you hear him mumbling your name in his sleep.

"Oh Bob..." you shook your head amusingly as you bent down to his height to lightly shake him awake. It only took a few seconds before he stirred, you felt bad for doing so but you didn't want him to sleep on the floor.

"Do you wanna sleep here tonight?" You asked quietly since he was still half asleep, trying to process what you were saying. He nods his head after a while, placing the plush toy back where it was in the pile before reaching his arms out for you to grab.

You do just that and lead him towards your massive king sized bed. Just earlier on today, you had changed the sheets to satin ones, so it was even more comfortable than usual.

The lights were dimmed but not completely off since you learned the hard way that Bob hated the dark. So you switched on a nightlight by your bedside for extra light just in case.

Bob settled into the crispy sheets that had been untouched since your arrival. He scoots over a bit while you slipped in next to him.

Although, you two were in quite an awkward position after a while. Since you had to prepare a schedule for the next day, he was pretty much beneath you. You were struggling not to crush him while he only made things worse. His arms were wrapped around your waist to pull you closer to him so he could soak in your warmth while you worked.

"Sorry Bob, just give me a few more minutes." You sighed while typing away on your phone. Bob only hummed in response while burying his face into the crook of your neck.

"By the way...do you want to talk about the nightmare that you had?"

"Mm...yeah." Bob replied with a muffled voice as the vibrations tickled your skin, making you squirm slightly. "Alright, tell me what happened."

That's exactly what he did. You listened carefully as he mentioned all the bad things that he had seen in the nightmare.

That's one of the reasons why Bob admired you. You were straightforward with him but caring.

Many would think that sort of activity was only reserved for relationships. Which was partially true, you in fact, did harbour feelings for him. But you chose to keep them to yourself.

What Bob needed was someone who was patient and not pushy. For now, you were content with just being 'friends.' Even though it was far more than that.

It was around 7am in the morning by the time you awoke. The soft golden rays of sunlight shone through the blinds of your room, giving your room a soft glow.

Little did you know that a blonde haired assassin had come to your room during the night to ask you something, only to find you with your limbs entangled with Bob's.

Yelena being Yelena, took the opportunity to snap a few pictures on her phone before leaving. Already planning on using them for blackmail or to tease you whenever she pleased.

Speaking of Bob, he was fast asleep as you peer down at him. You became quite flustered since his face was fully pressed against your chest. He probably thought that it was his pillow, yet you were too afraid to move him. Instead, you opted to run your fingers through his dark chocolate locks.

They were soft, as usual, but still, you tried to detangle his hair gently since there were a few knots. It wasn't long before he started to stir, causing you to freeze in the process. You move away from him slightly to give him some space as he slowly processes where he is.

"Morning sunshine... did you sleep well?" You whispered gently as he peers up at you through his lashes, his eyes still heavy with sleep. His voice was hoarse while he spoke,

"G'morning...yeah I slept well, and you?"

"Ahh, me too..." You responded while brushing stray hair away from his face, it had gotten slightly longer than before. Which gave you the idea of maybe trimming the front bangs later on, with his consent, of course.

Your fingers lingered on his cheek for a brief moment, before retracting your hand. Bob was disappointed to say the least when he felt the warmth of your hand no longer present against his skin.

"Let's get freshen up and head down for breakfast. How does that sound...?"

Bob nods in agreement after rubbing the sleep from his eyes while you slowly got up.

He found himself practically swooning over you while he observed the way you stretched, letting your hair fall across your shoulders. Sure it was messy since you had just woken up, but to him, you looked heavenly.

You felt him staring but you chose not to think much of it. Bob's cheeks had a slight hue of red when you did manage to look back down at him, bringing a small smile to your face at his bashfullness.

"What? Is there something on my face?"

Bob immediately shook his head before you positioned yourself above him. You reached down to place one hand on his cheek to feel the light stubble against your skin.

This time he doesn't let you retreat that easily as he tugs you down gently. A bold move indeed, especially for you.

At first you weren't sure how to respond, the air around you suddenly felt awfully scarce as you were beginning to find it hard to breathe.

Even though he was the one who had instigated the sudden act of intimacy, he too grew a sense of shyness.

To test the waters, he lean in closer, bumping your nose against his and letting your lips hover over his. Your eyes flickered from his lips back up to meet his. If anything, you were more than happy to back away if he felt uncomfortable.

But Bob did want this, so he took the initiative to press his lips against yours. You let out a surprised sound before melting into the kiss.

His lips were slightly chapped, but that didn't bother you. You smiled against his lips as he was struggling slightly, honestly you didn't blame him. He probably hasn't kissed anyone for a while.

But eventually he got the hang of it. He picked up the pace while you struggled to keep up. Turned out he's a quick learner since he copied the way your lips moved against his.

You wasted no time reaching to the back of his neck and slipped your fingers into his dark hair pulling him in impossibly closer.

Soft whimpers escaped his mouth in between each kiss while you soaked in every one, pushing him to kiss you deeper. Sighs and moans of content or pleaure are passed between both your lips and his. The two had to fight to not entirely lose yourselves completely within pure bliss.

You nipped his bottom lip slightly before leaving a soft trail of kisses from his mouth down to the side of his jaw.

"Hm? What're you doing?" He drawled while your lips leaves his briefly, almost bringing out another whine as he feels you lightly kiss the juncture of his neck.

"Mhm, just need you - ," you hummed against his supple skin. You left open-mouthed kisses against a specific area on his neck before gently taking his skin between your teeth to leave a mark.

The feeling was too overwhelming for him yet he found himself bringing you in impossibly closer while you worked. After leaving a significantly dark hickey on the side of his neck, you move back towards his lips.

Which he happily accepts. Head tilting the side, his hot breath mingling with yours, he kisses you with much fever.

Yet keeps it sweet and gentle at the same time. Lightly sucking on your bottom lip while running his thumb against your cheek.

The kiss was filled with raw emotions, all the times that he wanted to tell you of his true feelings were poured into it. You too shared the same amount of passion when you deepened the kiss even further.

Sadly, the need to breathe was apparent after what seemed like forever. You flutters your eyes open before pulling away to take in Bob's appearance. He looked so effortlessly pretty.

His cheeks were rosy and wet from his tears and hair was disheveled, but he still managed to look perfect to you. Before you could say a word, some unexpected words leaves his lips.

"I...I love you," he whispers while you processed what he just said. A small rush of warmth filled you at the sound of those meaningful words as you fought back the urge to kiss him again.

"I love you too..." you whispered before dipping your head low to pepper his face with kisses, making him laugh in the process.

"C'mon sleepy head, let's wash up." Bob reluctantly accepts the offer and tugs the end of your shirt while following you into the washroom.

He was still trying to recover from the small makeout session as his legs almost felt like jelly as he walked. Which was new for him.

An array of skincare products lined up before him as you reached into one your drawers to bring something out. You had given him one of your waterproof headbands to wear so that his hair wouldn't get in his face in the process.

One of the reasons why you did a skincare routine specifically for him was because he enjoyed the feeling of being pampered by you.

So it was no surprise when he leans into your touch with excitement while you applied the cleansing foam on his face. A satisfied grin played on his lips while you rubbed the product into his skin, making you feel all giddy inside.

After the two of you washed up and got dressed, you then made your way to the kitchen to have breakfast.

Not even a second went by when Ava gave you one of her snarky remarks as soon as you walked in with Bob in tow.

"Ahh the couple's here to join us." You rolled your eyes playfully at the sarcastic comment as you turn to face the women in question.

Little did she know that she was, in fact, telling the truth. But you weren't going to give her that satisfaction.

"Oh shush, you're just jealous that I'm not giving the same attention to you." You retorted with the same amount of sass.

"Wow, Touche." She responds while sipping her coffee.

"Bob? Do you want pancakes?" You turned your attention back to the brunette who was patiently waiting for you.

"Yes please," he replies with a tight-lipped smile, already feeling shy from Ava's comment of referring to you both as a couple.

"Pancakes it is then."

Taglist: @doodlebob-mp3 @perdidosbucky-yyo @marianastudiesart @ordelixx @starktonyx @hisredheadedgoddess28 @avatarobsessedgirly @starstruckfirecat @adventure-awaits13 @milkbean69 @the-girl-wh0-cries-w0lf

[tittywaititi]

❝ 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐢𝐭’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you and john go undercover to infiltrate an arms dealing ring in paris. you take your roles a little too seriously.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.3K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), semi-established relationship (no label yet), fake marriage trope, espionage stuff, mild plot, mild mentions of insecurities, thigh riding/thigh grinding, dry humping, dirty talk, biting/marking, john is needy, making out, hair pulling, john walker’s praise kink, unprotected p in v sex, cowgirl/riding position.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this was so fun to write & can be read in the same ‘universe’ as “bite the hand that needs you” !! lowkey I’m becoming john walker trash ,,, expect more fics of him because he’s delicious. I loved this sm & I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

Covert operations were never considered your expertise — in fact, they were completely foreign to you, so outlandish that you wanted to crawl out of your own flesh. Discomfort comes with new territory, with putting on some new facade for the sake of a mission.

The ripstop mesh of your suit is gone, exchanged for a gaudy dress that seems torn from the cover of some business magazine, fabric the color of bruised plums. It’s awkward, constricting; you’re squirming in your seat.

Valentina had sent you all trailing after an illegal weapons manufacturer in the heart of Paris, superpowered machinery being bartered off to the highest bidder.

There were too many hands involved, too many bad people getting their hands on equipment that could level buildings if used improperly. It seemed like a threat that might’ve required Bob’s help, but he was still out-of-commission.

Admittedly, you weren’t sure why Bucky had put you and John up to the task as bait; it set your nerves ablaze, trying to step into a role that was the antithesis of your personality.

While you and John were out masquerading as a husband-and-wife duo who owned a technology company, the rest of the team were infiltrating an underground warehouse.

Given the newfound nature of your relationship with John, it made the predicament all the more humorous. No one knew, but the irony of being paired together for something of this nature had made you laugh, initially.

If you’d known about the blisters gnawing at the flesh of your heels, you might not have been so enthusiastic to volunteer yourself for this.

A tangle of nerves sat heavy within your stomach, a tight knot that continued to bounce around your belly, prompting you to bounce your knee. The stiletto pumps you wore blistered and chafed at your heels, the sensation grating.

Grenadine syrup oozes onto your tongue at the first sip of an iced Shirley Temple, perched at the countertop of a bar that seems excessively lavish. Everything is pretty — the scenery, the city, the hotel’s interior.

The atmosphere is light, casual; though, you’re actively avoiding looking over your shoulder. Tension curls within your muscles, your posture abnormally rigid; any attempt to relax is met with resistance.

John is talking with the target — pressed, tailored suit clinging to his musculature, blonde tresses less disheveled, smile easy; too trusting, too naive. You remind yourself that this is all an act, that you’re both Avengers playing pretend.

It’s difficult to discern if he’s enjoying himself or not — he’d rather be fighting, you think, expelling all of his frustrations into a few henchmen.

Nevertheless, you’re making a valiant effort to enjoy yourself; this was a free hotel stay, after all. Beyond the thin, sparkling window panes of the Hotel George V, you catch a glimpse of Paris’s glittering cityscape.

There’s a peculiar solace you find in the teeming nightlife, and much of the hotel’s clientele screams wealth and lavishness. It’s a life that you never had, growing up — now, being an Avenger, it was all within your grasp.

Even when you served with S.H.I.E.L.D, your assignments never took you to France. Despite the intensity of the mission at-hand, you were thrilled to be somewhere new.

As the liquid evaporates from your glass, you’re left with a twinge of disappointment, sucking what remnants you can from the bottom, ice half-melted. Sliding the empty vessel aside, you peer over your shoulder, noticing John’s gaze directed toward you, waving you over.

Act the part; the reminder repeats over and over again, a mantra screaming from the forefront of your mind. Gliding from the stool, you straighten out your dress, knees wobbling as you steady yourself on your stilettos.

With a tremulous exhale, your gait is somewhat poised, unpracticed; anyone observant enough could tell that you were one step away from fumbling over.

Pointed heels click against marble tile as you join them at the table, beaming and bristling with a fake excitement.

John notices the tremor in each step, unbalanced, and he finds it cute, in the way one finds a newborn foal to be cute.

He can taste the discomfort that rolls from you in anxious waves, and so he attempts to soothe you in the only way he knows how.

“Mr. Bertesy, this is my wife,” He introduces you without missing a beat, the words smooth, lacking an ounce of hesitation. John is better at this than you thought, smiling as if he’s won the lottery. “She’s also helming the company.”

Andras Bertesy — the name held some familiarity, a Hungarian arms dealer, prominent in much of central and eastern Europe. His features are gaunt, narrow; he reminds you of a spider, his physicality noticeably spindly.

Andras regards you with a thinly-veiled perplexity, as if he’s attempting to pierce through whatever barrier you’ve concocted. He remains seated, reaching for your hand with suave cordiality.

“Charmed, madam.” He carries a heavy accent, sitting heavy within his voice as you meet him halfway for a handshake. Instead, it’s taken a step further when he presses his lips to your knuckles.

Unphased, you offer him a pleasant smile; John’s jaw tenses, though it’s a subtle gesture. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bertesy. I hope my husband’s been good to you.” Teasingly, you let your hand perch atop John’s shoulder.

With a listless chuckle, Andras nods, hand withdrawn to the table. “Your husband tells me of your interest in my work.” He muses, purely absorbed with striking a business deal.

Pulling up a cushioned chair to the table, it’s wedged beside John’s, space nonexistent as you sit down, folding one leg over the other. It relinquishes the sting in your feet, and you vow to never wear stilettos again.

“Yes,” As if to play up the facade, you reach for John’s hand, posture posh and prim. “We’ve been searching for something revolutionary, to take our company in a new direction. We think your work might be the key to that.”

Admittedly, John is mildly impressed with you — you’re swift to turn on the bubbly charm, the same charm he’d fallen for, and cater to the man’s inflated ego. You’re quick-witted, though he feels the anxiousness through your grasp alone.

As if to placate your nerves, John absentmindedly trails his thumb over your knuckles, pretending to be engrossed by the conversation at-hand.

This wasn’t part of his skillset, disguises and the covert, but being with you made it tolerable. “My wife and I would be interested in striking up a business deal.” John interjects, flashing a false smile.

My wife; for someone merely adopting a role, he doesn’t seem like he’s acting when he says it. A beat passes, cerulean hues shifting to gaze at you lovingly, your heart lurching within your chest.

Heat curls over the back of your neck, a brief hitch settling within your throat before you swallow it down. Digits tense, woven together, prompting you to shift within your chair, facing your target.

“I am certain that we could come to some arrangement,” Andras hums, his hawkish glower still picking you apart, a knife attempting to pierce through your defenses. “Assuming you’ve enough money.” He laughs.

John chuckles too, a noise that sounds so characteristically sardonic. “Name your price.” Part of you is amused by how serious he’s taking this, as if he’s going for an acting award.

Andras quirks an eyebrow, hands pressed together as he appraises the both of you. “I must reconvene with my associates,” More shady dealers? There’s a veiled perplexity written on John’s face. “Aren’t you curious to know what you’re purchasing?”

The warehouse — an anxious coil forms within your belly, teeth catching against the inside of your cheek. This is all supposed to be some distraction while they’re running infiltration, which prompts you to clear your throat.

“We’re very curious,” You concur, trying to navigate through the sudden uneasiness you feel. Bertesy doesn’t seem naive, but you’re also a poor liar. “Though, we’re pressed for time, and —”

“Of course. You must be very busy people,” Andras murmurs, tapping his fingers together. “Perhaps, a private viewing? Transportation would be provided, and we can cement our transaction.”

John’s mind is turning, turning again, attempting to think of something quick. His communicator is sitting in the waistband of his belt, growing heavier as minutes tick by.

The idea of playing into Bertesy’s proposition seems dangerous, unpredictable. Neither of you have your suits in-reach, no defense, and even with John’s super-soldier stamina, the odds are looking rather grim.

As if on-queue, a humming noise pierces the tenuous silence, awkward and grating, causing your heartbeat to climb dramatically. John clears his throat, flashing a brief smile before he moves out of his seat.

“Got a call I need to take, excuse me,” John shoots you a sideways glance, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’ll be back, honey.” He says it as if it’s dripping with sweetness, and you have to stifle a laugh.

Before departing, he squeezes your hand, and that isn’t acting; it’s sincere.

Gooseflesh crawls along your spine, stomach a tempest of nerves as you face Andras, forcing a cordial smile. John walks away, slipping into a marblesque corridor, his voice beginning to taper off into a dismal hum.

Left alone with a dangerous arms dealer, you didn’t say much, unsure of how to progress the conversation. Though, you were intrigued by him — no one simply took to this line of work without being catapulted in that direction.

“How long have you been married to Mr. Wayne?” Andras questioned, and you very nearly laughed at the surname of John’s persona.

John Wayne — he loved Westerns; you bit your tongue to keep from snickering.

“Three years.” It sounded natural, and you tried to ease up, force yourself to relax. Your hands folded atop your lap, digits picking at the stitching of your dress in an attempt to relieve yourself of nervous tension.

“Americans, hm?” It was difficult to discern if he was interrogating you or simply facilitating conversation to fill the silence. Either way, you decided to answer truthfully to keep the peace.

“Both of us, yes,” A cough stirs within your throat as you proceed to make up a half-truth of how you met. “We met at a previous job, and it seemed to grow from there.” It was like a lament of your life beneath the shoddy disguise.

“How sweet.” The sudden sharpness of Andras’s voice makes you shift uncomfortably within your seat, heart threatening to rip from your chest. His gaze is poignant, discomforting; you want to look over your shoulder for John.

Silence crackles between, a terse hush that could be cut with a knife. Beneath the table, your fingers curl into your dress, fraying the stitching as you wrack your brain for something intelligent to say. Coming up short, your only hope is to wait for your partner to come back.

Andras cants his head to one side, wisps of brown hair moving with it, brows pinching together. “You seem familiar,” Shit — please don’t recognize you. “Are you certain that I haven’t seen you anywhere before?” He questions, and the anxiety builds against you.

With the formation of the New Avengers, your face plastered worldwide, someone was bound to know you if they scrutinized hard enough. An awkward laugh spills from your mouth. “That’s flattering, Mr. Bertesy. I must have a common face.”

Before the conversation could shift into a more accusative direction, John returns, much to your relief. He gives you a brief glance, putting on another mirthless, fake smile.

“Sorry about that — business calls,” He stands beside you, stance involuntarily protective, as if he’s a barrier between you and Bertesy. “Would you be willing to meet us in an hour, Mr. Bertesy? Name the place to meet.”

Andras regards you with something indiscernible, making your blood run cold as you avert his gaze, leg bouncing violently beneath the table. You’re wanting this to be finished, and it seems to be heading that way.

Wordlessly, the Hungarian removes a nondescript business card from the pocket of his blazer, offering it to John without missing a beat. “One hour. Look for a black horse.” He replies, abruptly standing up from his seat. “I look forward to your patronage.”

Scrambling from your seat, your feet ache again with the pressure of your stance, backs of your stilettos digging into your heels. Andras ends the interaction there, departing from the hotel’s lobby, a spot of black against the ivory.

Once he’s gone, you feel as if you can breathe again, tension unfurling from your shoulders in one fell swoop. Smoothing your hands over your dress, you’re eager to return to your room.

John is pensive, twirling over the business card between his fingers. ‘DARKFORCE SYNDICATE’ is all it says, stamped with the head of a black horse.

“Seems a little obvious,” He scoffs, sneering at the shady name; a seedy name for a less-than-moral organization. Tucking it into the pocket of his suit-jacket, he glances at you. “You alright?”

“Yeah,” With a tremulous exhale, you attempt to expel your nervous energy, feeling lighter now that he’s gone. No longer playing the part, you clear your throat. “I think he was getting suspicious. He said he thought he recognized me.”

Smug, John’s mouth twitches with the ghost of a smirk, hand skimming over the small of your back. “Think he needed to keep his eyes off of my wife.” He teases, though it stirs some flickering fire within you, a familiar heat crawling along the back of your neck.

“Your wife wants to go upstairs and get out of these godawful heels.” Your remark is lighthearted, keeping the mood playful in the wake of the growing intensity. Even then, you weren’t out of the clear just yet, but it gave you room to breathe.

John’s smirk grows, cocksure as ever, a flicker of amusement passing over his features. “Thought you’d collapse if you took another step.” His statement earns him a look of veiled frustration from you, but he isn’t entirely incorrect.

His attitude has changed; it’s tolerable, but he still has a habit of callousness and being unnecessarily harsh at-times. Less with you, more with the others. John’s gotten soft for you, more vulnerable — he’s still getting used to the feeling.

Admittedly, he’s terrified of losing you now, like he lost Lemar, lost Olivia. Beneath the flawed exterior, there’s a man left, attempting to reclaim his roots, try and better himself despite the world looking down on him.

Offering you his arm, you’re quick to accept, taking measured steps to ensure that you make it to the elevator, unscathed. His bicep is thick and taut beneath your palm, warm even through his expensive blazer.

Inside of the elevator, you decide to pry about his supposed ‘phone call’. “Where is the team at with the warehouse situation?” You asked, leaning against the metal railing behind you.

“Bucky said they’re cleaning up, but he wants us to catch Bertesy,” John murmurs, fishing out the communication device from his waistband. There’s a GPS watch too, keeping tabs on the others. “We’ve got an hour to kill.”

A soft ‘ding’ reverberates throughout the corridor, eerily hushed for this time of night. The hallways are glistening, pristine — you’ve never seen anything like it. Dimly-lit braziers mark your path as you return to your temporary lodging.

As soon as you cross the threshold into your room, you kick your heels off, black stilettos soaring toward the chaise lounge in the center. The room came equipped with an open fireplace, extravagant bed, and the bathroom — a luxury shower.

“Do you think Valentina could incorporate some of this into the Watchtower?” You muse, nose wrinkling as you settle down onto the ivory cushion, sprawling back with a soft exhale.

“She’s cheap.” John utters, tone flat as he grabs a duffel bag from beneath the bed, containing his suit and his still-bent shield. It’s become something of a staple, mildly sentimental, and he can’t bring himself to get rid of it.

The playful banter you shared before begins to wane; he becomes focused before a mission, before a fight. A sliver of you wonders if it’s because of what happened in Latvia, and the thought makes you grimace.

Tossing his suit-jacket aside, he’s already itching to be back in his kevlar and tactical gear, loosening the tie as if it’s choking him. He’s quiet, and it prompts you to stand, bare feet crossing cold stone as you inch closer.

“We’ve got an hour to spare, John,” The softness of your cadence is unmistakable, giving him pause as he stops in the middle of undressing. “We’ll handle this — just relax.” You soothe, noticing the tension simmering within his posture.

He’s coiled, ready to go; it’s an amalgamation of military training and past trauma, constantly on-edge, expectant for the unpredictable. John tries to loosen up, sitting on the edge of the bed with a begrudging huff.

“I want to get the job done.” He’s eager, hungry to complete a mission, like a trained attack dog. Even still, John is attempting to unravel some of the rigidity enforced upon him, but it’s a process.

“I know. We’ll get it done,” Sitting next to him, your toes barely brush over the cold marble, hands loose within your lap, nail picking at the stitching of your dress. “Bertesy said an hour, and we have fifty-two minutes left.”

There’s an impatience present, and he doesn’t enjoy waiting around; the deep breath before the plunge. If it weren’t for you sitting beside him, he would’ve been pacing.

Hesitation has never been his strongest suit, driven by impulsivity that only seemed to crush him after Lemar passed. Though, he’s tried to get better, reminding himself of his training, where he’s come from.

He just wants to make sure you’re safe.

Blonde lashes flutter in rapid succession, cerulean hues shifting from curtain-shrouded windows to you, gaze becoming a touch shadowed. You look gorgeous in that dress — he wanted to tell you before, so he settles on telling you now.

“You look beautiful,” John murmurs, low and husky, as if his sudden shift in cadence is a deliberate choice. A fleeting smile crosses his features, faint as he appraises you. “Should’ve told you before.”

He knows what he wants to do with those fifty-two minutes.

Flustered, you can’t help but smile, preening beneath his kinder compliment, giving a lackadaisical shrug of your shoulders. “Thanks,” You hum, but you don’t feel pretty; you feel like an imposter. “I don’t feel beautiful.”

Perplexed, John decides to push the matter, head cocking to one side. “Why not?” He struggles with his own insecurities, but nothing regarding physicality. Even then, he thinks you’re breathtaking, violet silk molded to your curves.

“I don’t know,” You confess, huffing a nervous laugh before you stare absentmindedly into your lap. “I feel stupid in this dress, worse in heels. It’s like I’m an imposter in my own skin or something.”

John understands the sentiment more than you fully realize. He doesn’t always understand himself, or his rage — it’s a labyrinth he’s still navigating, and like you, he’s still healing. He nods, shoulder brushing against yours.

Quiet, you steal a glance at him, heart beginning to thrum with an erratic beat. His beard is scruffy, a shadow of a darker blonde, tresses somewhat disheveled after removing his tie.

After you slept together two weeks ago, things have felt different; the tension is prevalent, unspoken feelings crackling between, and he gets increasingly protective of you. You don’t mind it, but the team notices the sudden shift in his demeanor.

He’s staring at you, gaze lingering on your mouth, over the delicate slope of your jaw, over your throat, which bobs when you swallow. John’s countenance softens, a rarity reserved only for you in private moments like these.

“Think you’re perfect.” He murmurs, brows creasing together as if he’s concentrating on something. A subtle hitch bubbles within your throat, breath catching on the exhilarating feeling of his words, hands stilling.

Unable to keep from smiling, a familiar tendril of heat coils within your belly, causing you to shift against the mattress. “John …” Before you can try and fully express your feelings, you feel his hand press against your thigh.

Though, you’re quick to indulge him and yourself, tilting in until your mouth clamors for his. Lips meld together, passion oozing through like thick honey, saccharine, eliciting a yearning that he tried to bury before the mission.

His beard scratches against your mouth, a pleasant prickling that reminds you he’s real, flesh and blood, a beating heart. John exhales; a steady, exaggerated sound, attempting to cling to the fine line of restraint.

The communicator is eerily quiet; he’s expecting Bucky to ping him, but he’s eager to take advantage of what time you have together.

Much of the past two weeks were agonizing; stolen glances in the training room, fleeting smiles shared over breakfast with the team, kissing in the corridors where the cameras can’t reach. He wanted you, you wanted him.

A delighted shiver grips your spine when his calloused digits tease the hem of your dress, threatening to push beneath. Hands find the muscled expanse of his chest, firm underneath your palms, warm to the touch.

Lips collided in a heated exchange of fiery affection, your stomach flooding with molten heat. John kisses you as if he’s burning alive, nearly flush against you, other hand cupping your jaw.

“John, I … Is this a good idea?” It is a wonderful idea, but you’re uncertain if squeezing this in beforehand would make things worse; for both of you. You’re still in the thick of a mission — things could change instantaneously.

Foreheads brush together, noses ghosting over another as he huffs a placating chuckle. “We’re married, remember?” His signature smirk pulls at his mouth again. “There’s a lot we can accomplish in forty-six minutes.” He murmurs.

His cheeky remark makes your insides turn with an excitable heat, and you want him terribly. “You’re a needy husband.” You tease, throwing caution to the wind, and his lips are back on yours with a thrilling haste.

John can’t help himself, a grunt splitting through his chest, raw and taut, each kiss leaving the both of you sputtering for any scrap of air. Your fingers are fumbling with the buttons of his dress shirt, trembling with exhilaration.

Between deepened kisses, he coaxed you closer, strong hands drifting to the swell of your hips as he urged you into his lap. Skirts shuffled, fabric hastily adjusted as he slotted you atop one thigh, muscle firm and tense between your legs.

There was a sense of relief he felt, lost within the labyrinth of your lips, passion burning with a searing intensity. Whatever stress that he’d felt before began to unfurl from his shoulders, abandoned to the sanctity of your presence.

Crisp fabric untangles itself from his musculature, revealing his abdomen to you, which you caress with reverent touches. John feels you adjust against his thigh, catching the pleading whine that coagulates in your throat.

His scruffy countenance melds with yours, bleeding heat, kissing you with enough vigor that it prompts you to hold onto him. Your heart gallops, races — it’s quick and erratic, beating in your ears.

Lungs burned, wilted in the flame of his kiss, evoking a breathy moan that ripped through your diaphragm. Hips lurched forward, a sluggish roll as friction grew between his thigh and your clothed nethers, nearly making you writhe.

John catches you in the act, rucking your dress up around your hips, lips stilling against yours. “Need it that bad?” His voice is dangerously low, husked cadence curling around you, making you squirm.

Embarrassed, you nearly retreat from the intensity of his gaze, but he doesn’t let you, hands firm against the swell of your hips. He’s strong enough to move you without breaking a sweat, effortless, grinding you into the muscle of his thigh.

“John,” A warbled whimper splits your throat, the noise raw and needy. He’s getting off on watching you like this, cerulean hues burning with heat, an incendiary stare. “I—I …” Words turn to ash in your mouth.

In a clamor of bodies, your knee happened to brush over the growing tent in his trousers, eliciting a low groan from his lips. That seemed to momentarily silence his lascivious remarks, much to your satisfaction.

He gives you a pointed stare, knowing that you’re winding him up with the constant grinding and your damned knee, bouncing into his groin. “Stop it.” John hisses with no real malice behind it, only frustration.

The picture of faux innocence, you shrug, and he cages you against him, stifling another grunt mouth hot and fervent as he kisses you. You accidentally shift again, knee brushing over his erection.

Again, he drags you over his thigh, taut muscle thick through his dress slacks, watching your countenance blossom with bliss. There’s an excitement prevalent, something daring; you’re in the middle of a mission.

A sharp moan punctures your lungs when he jostles his thigh against your core, biting back a dirty smirk when your hands curl into his chest. “Yeah? You like that?” John murmurs, low timbre echoing beside your ear, causing you to shiver.

With an eager nod, you want more, hips urging into the friction of his thigh. The sensation sends shockwaves through your body, arousal coalescing between your legs.

Still, you rocked yourself atop his thigh, unable to smother a whimper as kisses began to cease, foreheads pressed flush together. John’s breathing is a touch labored, hot breath pluming over your features, bones aching with desire.

“I want you,” Your confession makes his brain short-circuit, trapped within a haze of desire. You’ve nearly forgotten about everything else, allowing it to simply diminish into the background. “John, please.” A low moan echoes from your mouth.

John tries to curb the smugness, but it’s swiftly replaced by his hunger for praise, validation. His mouth climbs toward your throat, beard burning your flesh, but the sensation is borderline intoxicating.

He’s getting a little rough, but you don’t care, hips erratically urging themselves into his thigh, friction tingling against your cunt. “Mind if I leave marks?” John grunts, pearlescent teeth scraping over the column of your throat.

“Please, please.” Gasping, he’s quick to take your sensitive flesh between his lips, suckling a hickey into your neck without a second thought. A muted buzz surges through him, muscles coiled, cock throbbing incessantly.

The grizzled scratch of his beard prickled against your neck, goosebumps icing your spine, filling you with anticipation. He’s still rocking you into his leg, mouth a tempest as it storms over your throat, teeth nipping at your flesh.

Dizzying moans slip past your lips in noisy droves, feathering beside his ear, hands gripping your haunches like a vice. A hoarse ‘Jesus’ hisses beneath his breath, a subtle noise that you nearly miss.

An urgent ache throbs within his cock, which continues to strain with obvious need against his pants. Between the friction of clothed bodies and wandering hands, John is wanting to take it further.

A sharp gasp penetrates your lungs when his mouth roughly sucks another mark into your jugular, laced with exhilaration and an excitable zeal. His communicator buzzes in his pocket; he ignores it.

Your hands are crawling over his chest, one palm dropping to the rather obvious bulge. Insistent, your hips urged in a rhythmic dance, grinding yourself still against the taut muscle of his thigh.

Lips momentarily collide in a messy kiss of tongue and teeth, the both of you clawing for one another, succumbing to baser instincts. Throaty whines escape you, consumed by his kiss, one that ached with desperation.

He stops, only to press kisses over the freshly-formed hickeys, visage dropping to your throat, lavishing your skin in endless kisses. There was something raw about him, exuding strength, caging you in over his lap.

“Jesus.” John groans, low and heady into the hollow of your throat, feeling one of your hands fist at his blonde tresses. The other kneads against his cock, ripping another grunt from his chest.

A coil pulls taut within his abdomen, an intensity that he had become acquainted with, lips parting as he continues to let you ride his thigh. “Want you inside of me.” Through a strangled whine, your words make his jaw tick.

It’s as if you’ve reached into his being and turned on some primal switch, feeling his grasp grow tight against your thighs. Undeterred, your hand grinds over the swell once more, as if tempting him, goading him into taking you then and there.

A shadow passes over his stare, cerulean hues eclipsed by desire as he shifts his thigh, muscle making contact with your core. A hitch forms within your throat when his hands fist at your dress, hastily dragging it towards your hips.

Admittedly, you were just as pent-up as he was, desperate to feel him inside of you. Arousal began to coalesce between your thighs, an incessant ache that spread throughout your belly, a fire that demanded to be extinguished.

In a frenzied clash, your lips were on one another again, feeling his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties. Teeth knock together, moans swallowed through greedy kisses, fabric being manhandled past your thighs.

Hands fumble for his belt, and he’s grunting into your mouth like some feral animal, cock throbbing incessantly when you unzip the front of his pants. John doesn’t waste a second — neither of you have the time to spare.

Time has slipped your mind, but you estimate that it’s growing slim, hands steadying themselves against the nape of his neck. You hovered, soft palm guiding his length to your slick cunt. John inhaled — a sharp, poignant noise that signaled relief.

Intermingled sighs of passion float between faces, hot and wanton, your thighs twitching when you sink onto his cock. The sensation makes you dizzy, muscles shaking with the sting of exertion.

“John,” A gasp is pulled from your throat, raw and hoarse as he fills your cunt, hands tensing over the swell of your hips. “You feel so good.” You moan, unabashed, heat licking over your flesh as if you’re feverish.

The praise makes him keen, mouth pressing a kiss to your jaw, beard scratching ragged over your soft skin. He’s gripping you like a vice, strong enough to guide you effortlessly onto his cock, friction bristling when you roll your hips.

It was a sluggish start, agonizingly so, bodies finding moments to grow accustomed to one another, finding familiarity. You drew yourself up, his cock filling you in such a pleasant way, nothing discomforting about it.

John shuddered at the feeling of your cunt, tight and warm around him, clenching around his cock with each roll of your hips. You took him perfectly, as if you were made for him, molded together; the pace begins to increase.

Neither of you hear the communicator thrumming; though in John’s case, he doesn’t seem to care in the heat of the moment. Each urge of your hips is drawn-out, intended to savor. “That’s it,” He husks, caressing your hip. “That’s my girl.”

It’s innocuous, the nickname — simple, but it sets off a catalyst within you, a furnace of heat that blankets your bones in fire, wasting away to ash. You’re moaning beside his ear against, fingers fisting at his blonde tresses.

The way in which you milked him, moved agonizingly slow, allowing him to feel your cunt tighten around him — it was nearly overwhelming.

Calloused, careworn palms rubbed circles into your hips, wishing that he ripped your dress, instead. Regardless, John’s trapped in the same desirous haze that you are, chests brushing together, bodies leaving no scrap of distance.

Skylights pool in through darkened windowpanes, blanketing you in some euphoric glow. He thinks you’re beautiful, and some small part of him wonders why you’re indulging him like this, but John’s quick to push it aside.

His smug swagger and bravado seems to dissipate when he’s buried himself into your cunt, as if it’s nearly shut him up completely.

“So good at this.” You breathe, knowing how it sets him off. John kisses you, fleeting, hips jolting against yours as one hand leaves your hip, shifting to the coalescing warmth between your thighs.

If it weren’t for the mission, he would’ve fucked you right into the mattress, maybe break the headboard, but he’s restraining himself. Even then, you look so pretty in his lap, riding his cock as if you’re made for him.

A whimper of bliss bubbled from your lips as you became invigorated in your pace, rocking yourself up and down along his cock, aided by the sudden pressure of his thumb against your clit. It draws another moan from deep within your diaphragm.

Your pace was tantalizing, nothing too swift to let it feel sloppy and rushed, yet fervent enough to make his head swim with the haze of desire.

A familiar coil of heat began to unfurl within the pit of your stomach, just as it did his own. A sharp inhale inhabits your lungs, one of a dizzying surprise as he circles over your clit, sending tingles through your spine.

Thighs twitched, the action alone bringing you closer to the precipice of your release. His cock throbs inside of you, nearly kissing your cervix with each downward movement.

“Christ,” John huffed, countenance focused yet wrought with ecstasy, muscles in his stomach tightening up. “You close?” He grunts, voice low and gravelly, itching something lascivious within your brain as you clench around him.

With a disheveled nod, you don’t stop, maintaining the same pace, a steady rhythm that’s winding the both of you up. His groans make your stomach turn with exhilaration.

With a brief jolt of his hips, he bucked up into you, cock hitting new depths, toying with your pearl as you squirmed within his lap. Gooseflesh ices your spine, mind clouded with a salacious haze, bringing you closer to an ecstatic oblivion.

Even as he crescendoed into his own release, he continued to circle your clit, lips peppering themselves along your exposed collar. A string of murmured expletives escape him.

Nails dug into the nape of his neck, a choked sob wracking through you as you clung to every shred of friction. John huffs, letting your hips stutter into more of an erratic rhythm as you soar toward your orgasm.

Euphoria crashes into you, white-hot and blinding, the tension unfurling from you in one wave. The coil snaps, cunt clenching around his cock, evoking another low groan from his mouth.

Stars floated across your vision in the wake of your release, a moan of ecstasy rippling through your chest. John’s name spills from your tongue over and over again, as if it’s the only word you know.

The pressure between your thighs begins to wane as he holds steadfastly to your hips, chest heaving with labored breaths in the afterglow. It’s hushed, save for your ragged breathing as you come down from your peak.

Fingertips gently shift his blonde tresses back into place, sweeping over his hairline. John adjusts your position enough to pull out, heartbeat beginning to climb down from its exhilarated pace.

“You okay?” John asks, watching as your head bounces in a brief nod. A smile crosses his features, faint, as if it’s only reserved for you, lacking the usual sarcasm.

“We should clean up, before …” With a click of your tongue, you gesture to his GPS, sluggishly climbing from his lap with wobbling legs. The both of you need to be prepared, and that includes getting your suits on.

“Right.” A twinge of disappointment stirs within him, wishing that it would’ve lasted longer; or that you were both back at the Tower. The facade of your false marriage fades; you’re back to the mission.

Before you depart, you plant a chaste kiss against his lips, as if to remind him of your affections.

John watches as you grab your duffel bag, making for the bathroom with a bit of a spring in your step. He’s getting soft, wanting to pursue a relationship with you, but there’s fear prevalent, still.

He’s ditching the suit-jacket and slacks, exchanging the suave outfit for tactical pants; kevlar and body armor that feels more comfortable. John follows after you, nearly dressed, and you’re perched along the rim of the bathtub, wrestling with your boots.

“Need help?” He offers, and you’re moderately embarrassed, still fumbling with the knots in the laces that won’t come apart.

“Yeah,” Defeated, you’re losing the fight with your boots, ripstop fabric thick enough to stop knives, perhaps a bullet or two. “I didn’t expect to have trouble with the knots.”

The purple dress is pooled on the floor, forgotten, but the memory will be burned into your mind for weeks to come. John steps closer, crouching down between your legs, shoulders broad, marred by indents of your nails.

He’s quick at unraveling the knots and tangles in your boot-laces, glancing up at you from his kneeling position. “When this is all over, I’m taking you out.” John states, matter-of-factly, as if you’re both in agreement.

Bewildered, you fight to smother your smile, but it appears, still curling at the corner of your mouth. “It took you long enough to ask.” You hummed, fingertips reaching to caress over his bearded jaw.

With a sardonic huff, John’s mouth twitches into a smirk, cerulean hues glittering with a humorous gleam. He’s so handsome, smug; he’s grown on you to the point that he’s covering you like ivy.

“Wouldn’t be a good husband if I didn’t.”

[tittywaititi]

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬.

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: bob tells you that he loves you.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: robert reynolds (sentry) x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.5K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: mention of past insecurities/trauma, love-starved bob, very fluffy drabble!

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this is short & sweet, wanted to get this out of my system before I post longer works! I hope you all enjoy! 🫶

Three words, eight letters, and two bleeding hearts.

Bob tells you first — though, it didn’t fully register, the seriousness of it, until you’d both fully stirred from slumber.

Dawn’s first breath whispered through tinted window panes, slivers of an ember-orange pooling over the foot of your bed, passing over marble floors. Within your quarters, you’re tangled together in a heap of joined limbs, locked legs.

It murmured still, exhaling tendrils of vibrancy, veiled through darkened glass, striking your visage with a sudden glower. Brows furrow, reactionary to the first glow of morning.

Twilight began to dissipate, with not an ounce of haste, dismal darkness giving way to violet, the celestials clinging to the horizon. Sun began to pierce through, sharp, still early enough for you to fall back asleep.

Each breath he takes is full, unburdened — his flesh radiates with the body temperature of a superhuman, a constant fever pitch. Against your collar, his cheek is pressed beside your shoulder, tangled around you as if he’s coiled, protective.

Space is a nonexistent thing whenever you sleep together, an amalgamation of limbs, woven within one another, two hearts intertwined. It was something you’d grown accustomed to, his heartbeat a tranquil melody in your ears.

It’s hushed, in the early hours before the Watchtower stirs; it’s your home, he’s your home.

Whatever pain he feels is lighter when you hold him, when he holds you, mesmerized by the serenity you bring him. Bob couldn’t ask for someone better than you — someone kind, someone who holds his heart with gentleness.

A soft hum reverberates through his chest, a contented sound that accompanies his waking mind, eyes still fluttered shut. Hands rest over your abdomen, one arm looped beneath you, the other draped across your body.

Your hands are holding steadfastly to his forearm, keeping him anchored there beside you, chin nestled against his downy crown. As the glare of dawn begins to blanket your features, you sigh, wanting to swat it away.

His shirt clings to your frame, a few sizes too large, fabric kissing the middle of your thighs, fuzzy socks tugged to your shins. Bob’s sweater sleeves are a touch too long for his arms, emerald wool prickling against your bare arms.

It’s him who begins to move first, limbs beginning to stretch, knees bumping into yours. Warm digits flex into your ribs, akin to stoked embers seeping through the material of your shirt.

Eyelashes flutter in rapid succession, a low exhale tumbling through his lips as he cranes his head, catching a glimpse of your countenance, relaxed by that of sleep. Bob smiles to himself, a reminder that you’re real, beating heart calling your name.

In the gentle hours of morning, Bob’s owlish stare never wavers from you, admiring you as if you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen; you are.

Sometimes, he still feels disbelief sitting heavy within his heart, still surprised that you’ve stayed with him after everything, after knowing him. Shadows haunt his steps, but you chase them away, the light that persists.

Holding you close, his heart thrums a soft serenade, climbing up a tick when your leg threads with his, shuffling atop the sheets. Bob’s hands trace circles into your sides, as if to soothe both himself and you, face buried beside the hollow between throat and shoulder.

Lips reverently grace your shoulder, mouth warm as it sinks into your bones, enough to cause you to stir. Your eyes remain closed, still groggy, fingers dancing over his hand as you snuggle closer, if that were even possible.

Without thinking, without hesitation, three words come tumbling from his mouth, as if it’s second nature, something he’s said before to you in-secret.

“I love you.”

His utterance is tender, though still touched by recent rest; the gears in his head begin to turn when you absorb it fully. Wide, bewildered eyes gaze at him, floored, lips parting to make room for a startled gasp.

Bob says it as if he’s spoken it into existence a thousand times before, wrought with a softness, cadence still hazed by the fringes of sleep. His body stirs beside you, brunette tresses mussed from the pillows, arms caged around your middle.

It’s as if you’re caught within a dream, when his half-groggy confession slips through your ears, a whisper carried upon the breeze. At first, you barely register it, brows furrowing together, wondering if he’s mumbling in his sleep.

“What?” It comes across as discontented, but that’s far from the case — you’re still wondering if that’s what he meant, heart slamming into your sternum.

Realization washes over him, followed by the white-hot sting of embarrassment as he attempts to mumble an apology. He fears he ruined things — maybe he said it too quickly, maybe you weren’t ready, maybe you didn’t feel the same way.

Bob swallows the growing lump within his throat, averting his gaze as he untwines from you, shifting into a sitting position. In the recesses of his mind, like a patient predator watching through black hedges, he hears It.

She doesn’t love you.

The Void slithers through the patched cracks in his thoughts, as if attempting to claw through his barriers, the ones he’s worked tirelessly to repair. Bob ignores It as best as he can, jaw tense, feeling your hand press against his knee.

“Bob, did you … Did you really mean it?” Admittedly, you prayed that it was the case, that he meant it, not something whispered with vague meaning. Your heart burns a gaping hole through your chest, overcome with a wave of emotion.

Sleep suddenly dissipates from your body, as if you’ve been assailed by cold water. Within your throat, your breath catches, fingers skimming until they find his elbow, physical contact reminding him of where he is.

Bob valiantly wrestles with validation, with the snarling hum that threatens to manipulate his own insecurities. He’s winning, heartbeat beginning to steady as he regains composure, swallowing anxiety, head jostling in a nod.

Blue hues flutter to you, turned onto your side, digits caressing over his arm, bringing him back from the encroaching penumbra that threatened his thoughts. A slow smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, sheepish.

The look you give him is nothing short of ardent, a gaze meant only for old lovers, a confession shared through heartbeats. Sluggishly, you pull yourself up into a sitting position, missing the comforting heat of his body.

He’s loved you forever — loved you in-secret, wondering if you would reciprocate. Part of him didn’t think himself capable, terrified of it being consumed by darkness, but it hasn’t overtaken him; he knows it won’t.

“Yeah, I — I meant it,” Bob murmurs, cadence stirring with a flicker of confidence, resolute in his admission. There’s tears swimming in your gaze, lips splitting as a laugh of disbelief flutters from your throat, hastily wiping at your eyes. “Meant it for a long time, now.”

Daybreak crests over the horizon, a golden aurora, framing you in picturesque lighting, as if the heavens were giving you a sign. It strikes against your features, bringing out a euphoric glow within your gaze.

Bob stares, world passing him by, his eyes all over you; a subtle hitch festers within his throat, perspiration slicking his palms as he steels himself for your response.

“I love you too, Bob — I love you so much.” As those beguiling words slip from your tongue, he wants to sob, chin warbling as he withstands the onslaught of sentiments that come crashing around him.

It’s gentle, clean; he scarcely recalls the last time someone told him that they loved him and meant it. Much of his life were fragments, of lost love, of isolation, of feeling unlovable.

He knows that you mean it wholly, unconditionally; tears sting his eyes, and he feels as if he’s soaring. The tenderness and sincerity within your cadence is something that he clings to, something pure.

Careening forward, your forehead nudges his, noses ghosting over one another, a gesture that settles his nerves instantaneously. Bob is smiling now, wide and elated, marrow echoing your name, his heart threatening to burst from his chest.

A shudder passes through him when your palms come to cradle his jaw on either side, thumbs tracing circles over his flesh. His fingers curl around your wrists, soothingly caressing your skin as his eyes flutter shut.

It isn’t some crescendo of a confession — it’s stable, oozing with warmth, offering a mutual sanctuary that you seek in one another. Though, in the ardent silence, he’s murmuring ‘I love you’ even still, lips pressing into your palm.

In the afterglow, he finds you — he finds his heart.

[tittywaititi]

❝ 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: after getting injured on a mission and dismissing your help, you can’t seem to shake why john doesn’t like you. the answer is more complicated than you thought.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: john walker x fem!reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 10.0K (sorry!)

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), teammates to lovers, angst, talk of insecurities, john is an asshole who’s emotionally constipated, mention of violence, wound tending trope, heavy kissing, groping, teasing, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, mild body worship, hair pulling, unprotected p in v sex, creampie, missionary position, john has a huge praise kink, aftercare.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: listen ,,, I know he’s a bad person & he’s flawed but he’s so well-written and hot … and it’s wyatt russell !! first time writing for john and I loved this, I hope you guys love it too! thank you so much for your support! 🫶

Ash floats through smoke-laden air in the aftermath of an explosion, chunks of a building blown into the streets, screams of civilians pounding within your ears. Time stills, as if it’s come to a crawl, and everything slows around you.

Missions still paralyze you from time to time, fear and doubt creeping in, keeping you frozen in-place. It’s gotten somewhat easier, adapting to chaotic situations, attempting to fit in with your new teammates.

A clammy perspiration clings to your flesh beneath your suit, the design nondescript. Valentina had pushed for something flashy, more in-line with your abilities, but you refused. The less that you stuck out, the better.

It wasn’t nearly as impressive as the rest of the team, healing powers at the expense of your own energy, but you were designated as the ‘medic’, for obvious reasons. Whenever someone was injured or too roughed-up, you were there to help.

“You still with us over there?”

John Walker’s snide quip emanates from the communication link sitting in your ear, and it’s enough to effectively shatter your stupor. It wasn’t a malicious remark — just a little annoying, likely furthered by his tone of voice.

Steve Rogers was someone you knew, years ago — an acquaintance, really, but he’d helped get you out of a bind with undercover H.Y.D.R.A operatives. When he wore the shield, when Sam wore the shield, it stood for something greater than themselves.

Walker had been thrown into enough turmoil already; losing the role of Captain America, murdering an innocent, losing his family. It was all his fault, he knew this — it didn’t make the pain any less, knowing he was at the root of it all.

The both of you butted heads more often than not, two differing personalities that clashed in verbal sparring matches or thinly-veiled hostility. You’d tried to empathize with him, but he made it difficult with his condescending attitude.

Bucky had played mediator more times than you could count — you didn’t enjoy getting angry, the feeling never benefited you. Nevertheless, you were trying to get along with Walker and learn to work better as teammates.

Things were progressing, albeit slowly. Even after extending the olive branch and being kind to him, maybe too nice, he still held some lingering indifference towards you.

“I copy.” In the aftermath of thwarting enemies of the state, you prefer to help the civilians, ensuring that they were out of harm’s way, healed. Jogging toward a group of people attempting to move rubble aside, you’re quick to assist.

“There’s still one more, if someone wants to take care of it,” Ava’s voice comes over the communicator, muddled by background noise of emergency vehicles. “Unless you need help.”

“I got it.” Quick to volunteer, Walker’s voice cuts in before dissipating. You’re busy helping move wreckage aside, freeing any trapped citizens and making way for ambulances. Wailing sirens fill the air, and things move swiftly.

The air smells of burning, intermingled with a twinge of copper, a streak of crimson splashed upon your cheek. It’s a shallow cut, something trivial and minor, muscles aching with a dull throb after the dust begins to settle.

Helicopters begin to circle overhead, the media soon to follow. It was some rogue section of former H.Y.D.R.A operatives that had caused this mess, and with the formation of the New Avengers, these threats seem to appear more often.

The public is torn — one side openly celebrating that there’s protection again, the other side scornful of a ragtag group of government rejects. You aren’t one to pay attention to the discourse, focusing on finding your own footing, building relationships and making amends.

Despite having the team to lean on, you had a complicated relationship with your own family. After your powers manifested, you became isolated, kept at a distance, prompting you to run away and find S.H.I.E.L.D, when it still existed.

Still, you felt alone sometimes, but the pain had lessened with the passage of time. Alexei, of all people, treated you like a daughter, and Ava proved to be a reliable friend, despite her constant grimace. The more you assimilated with them, the more the bitter sting dissipated.

The team was a conglomerate of fragmented pasts — scars, veiled wounds, regrets; but they had become your family, or something close, and that meant the world to you.

As first responders began to flood the scene, you regrouped with the rest of the team, scraped and battered from the fighting, but all intact. Bucky and Yelena typically helmed any media events following a battle, but this time, everyone wanted to go home.

“Look at us,” Alexei laughs, placing a hand on John’s shoulder, and Yelena’s. “We are good team! The best team that the world has ever seen!” He cheers, and you find his enthusiasm endearing. John winces, stepping away from the Russian’s hold.

“You say that after every mission.” Yelena points out, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The jet is somewhere down the street, and you all begin the arduous process of walking back.

“It is to remind of the truth, of our strength.” Alexei boasts, gleeful as ever as he jogs to keep up with Bucky. Bucky’s taken to letting him pretend that he’s the “co-captain”, just to keep his spirits high.

Morale is Alexei’s specialty — there is never a dull moment when he’s around, and his enthusiasm evokes a small smile from you, curling at the corners of your mouth. Dull, throbbing pangs of sore muscle ebbs through your body.

Straggling along at the tail end of the group, you step through some of the smaller pieces of rubble, a majority of what remains to be disposed of by a clean-up crew. Your mind is elsewhere, and the idea of sleeping once you’re back to the Watchtower is very appealing.

John is there too, uncharacteristically quiet as he walks a pace or two ahead of you, and you notice the slight stutter in his gait. There’s crimson blooming from a gash on the back of his suit, a deep wound, and your brows furrow together.

He didn’t say anything about it, which is typical, but you can’t help but be concerned. You didn’t dislike John, simply abhorred his attitude and the way he sometimes believed that he wasn’t at-fault.

Closing the distance, you come up on his flank, softly clearing your throat. “You’re hurt,” You murmur, low enough for only him to hear. He has an issue with getting injured, as if his pride is simultaneously bruised, so you keep it cordial. “I can take care of it.”

He’s always been reluctant to accept your help, allowing himself to fester within the pain, as if it’s some sort of penance for all the wrong he’s done. His muscles ache, and the gash, bruises, and cuts don’t make anything easier.

“I’m fine,” Dismissive, John brushes your concern aside, focusing on getting back to the jet without collapsing. The serum does its part, easier to manage the pain, but it doesn’t take away the sting. “It’s not that bad.” He utters, hoping you’ll drop it.

It’s his tone again; bitter, indifferent, swatting your offer aside as if you’re more bothersome than helpful. For reasons you can’t explain, it makes you angry, as if he’s too good for your help. Your jaw clenches, and you try again.

“There’s nothing wrong with accepting help, John. When we get back to the Watchtower, I can —”

“I said I’m fine.” Walker retorts, snapping at you without hesitation. It’s born from an amalgamation of agony and his own innermost demons that he’s wrestling with. He stares ahead, not wanting to look at your expression.

Bewildered, you fight against getting frustrated with him, wondering if there’s something that extends beyond his surface-level condescension.

Though, you wonder what you did to make him hate you so much — you sparred about the past, sure, but you were trying to bury the hatchet.

As if pierced by something sharp, you scoff, attempting to smother the flicker of fury that burned within your chest. It overrides your judgment, mouth moving before you can tell yourself to stop. “What’s your problem with me? Jesus, Walker, I just want to help you.”

The both of you are far away enough for the rest to remain oblivious to your sudden squabbling, and John grits his teeth, a sharp inhale splitting his lungs. “I can handle this on my own.” His tone is edged, but there’s something more beneath the surface.

Cerulean hues issue a warning for you to drop the subject, and you do, albeit reluctantly. Anger diminishes into confusion, uncertainty; you didn’t understand. Despite your efforts, he continued to swat you away as if you were a pest.

The splinter of desperation in your cadence turns his stomach, verbal sparring settling into a tenuous silence. John steals a glance despite himself, noticing the forlorn look that is etched into your brow, as if you’ve done something wrong.

He knows it’s not you — never has been, it’s him. John’s agitation dwindles into guilt, knowing that your intentions were wholly good, selfless. It’s something that he wishes he could have, and he’s working on it, but the process is emotionally heavy.

Scorned, you keep pace with him, even if he’s pushed you aside, ensuring that he makes it to the jet intact. The rest of the team regards you with perplexity, though you’re dismissive of it, settling into the webbing of your flight-seat.

The aftermath is often hushed — bodies catching their breath, a wordless recuperation, senses beginning to climb down from heightened adrenaline. Bucky’s piloting you out, heading back to the Watchtower.

Exhaustion settles in, replacing the exhilaration that comes with missions, the surge of vigor in your bloodstream. Tilting backwards, your head meets the cool interior of the jet, engine’s idle buzz thrumming beneath your boots.

John sits beside you, unexpectedly, his strenuous sigh rattling your body, passing from the bulk of his bicep to you. His visage is contorted into a look of thinly-veiled wistfulness, glancing sideways at you, a faint grimace of apology.

Quiet, you don’t relocate, simmering in the silence without so much as a murmur. Copper stings your nostrils, the scent of his blood, and you pretend that it doesn’t phase you; it does.

Your arms loosely fold over your chest, listening to the drone of the quinjet. The ride home is short, shorter than expected, and you’re eager to crawl beneath scalding water and let it burn the rush away.

As Bucky prepares for landing on the helipad outside, your gaze flutters toward John, whose stare is attempting to sear through the metal walls of the jet’s interior. He seems gone, as if his mind is a thousand miles away.

It was the same look he had when you were in the Void with him; loathing, conflicted, ripping himself apart for you to see.

The jet tremors violently as it descends onto the helipad, the noise scraping against your ears, a sound that’s still jarring to you. John remains unphased — he’s done it hundreds of times, terse as the hull begins to open.

Saying something now seems meaningless, words fading to ash within your throat, raw from thirst. Your fingers idly curl into the sleeves of your suit, tension relinquished as the team begins to file out of the jet, bearing the bruises and scrapes from the mission.

When you enter the Tower, a sense of relief finds you, the comfort of home, shoulders slouched as you make for your room. Bob is lingering beside the window, a book in his hand, headphones dangling from his ears.

“Good work today,” Bucky calls, attempting to boost morale. He’s at the helm, trying to steer this ship in the right direction, but it’s harder than it looks. “Get some rest.” He moves toward the lounge, hoping to get a status update on the cleanup.

Alexei chimes in with an echoed remark about how everyone did a good job, mirroring Bucky’s own statement. A smile curls at the corner of your mouth despite yourself, feet dragging as you sluggishly stumble toward your room.

Through the light clamor, you don’t see John, disappearing through the tinted pane of your door, feeling it hiss and click behind you. Your room is warm, cozy; it’s a sanctuary you’ve created, making something within the ruins of your old life.

A hush falls throughout the Tower, typically a quiet evening after returning from a mission. Outside, the skies turn to a swirling ink, veiled by heavier clouds that signal the onset of rain.

Peeling away your suit, your flesh is exposed to the coolness of your quarters, glittering with a layer of perspiration, body speckled in light cuts and fresh bruises. The shower calls your name, inviting, and you marinate beneath the water for half an hour.

Bruises pulse with a dull ache, remnants of crimson swept away by the water, leaving you renewed as you change into loungewear. Perched along the edge of your bed, you towel-dry your hair, gaze flickering toward your door.

You shouldn’t be the one to apologize.

The thought of checking on John crosses your mind, and then it stays, leaving you frustrated and torn. You didn’t hate him, you never have; if anything, you were left wondering why the strange hostility still lingered, after everything.

Even then, your desire to help overrode the brief spat that you had. He was your teammate, and leaving him to lick his grievous wounds without ensuring his safety felt cruel.

A tremulous inhale invades your lungs, steeling yourself as you cross into the corridor, leaving your room behind. His quarters are down the hallway, towards the very end, marked by blanched lights on either side.

No one sees you, and you creep over the cold tile as if you might be apprehended in the process. The walk there feels as if it’s stretched on for an eternity, taunting you with each step as you make it to the tinted panel.

His lock is off, you realize, and you try to knock, the sound eerily soft. There’s nothing, only an awkward stretch of silence that makes you shift uncomfortably, the chill of the floor sending a shiver down your spine.

“John?” Abandoning the use of ‘Walker’, you idly pace before the door, weaving in idle circles as you wait for him to answer. Still, nothing — you wonder if it’s intentional, if he’s purposefully ignoring you to prove a point.

Intending to ask for forgiveness later, you slide the door open, stepping into his room with a twinge of anxiety. You shouldn’t be skulking around in here, but his lack of answer had you worried — more than you should’ve been, really.

“So much for knocking,” His voice cuts through your scrambled thoughts like a serrated knife, though lacking the sardonic poise. “Could’ve waited a minute.” John utters, and you spot him in his bathroom.

Startled, your gaze draws to him, attempting to patch himself up with bloodsoaked fingertips and a disgruntled countenance. His back is facing the mirror, head craned over his shoulder, blonde brows creased together, throat stirring with a noise of agitation.

“You didn’t answer.” With a weak protest, you hover in the doorway, shuffling forward to let it close with a subtle click. Everything seems devoid of personal decorum in his room, as if he’s still deciphering what goes where, some belongings still in boxes.

“You didn’t give me a chance.” John retorts, lips parted to make room for a strained sigh. He’s been harsh enough today — he recollects, composes himself, and lets his guard waver.

“I was worried about you.” The weight of your confession brings him pause, hand poised against his back, attempting to apply gauze. He’s failing miserably, cerulean hues darting toward you, arms folded over your chest.

John stops, jaw tense as he huffs with frustration, discarding the roll of gauze onto the bathroom countertop. The low glow of the light glitters against his skin, pleasantly sunkissed, muscles taut and broad, speckled in violet bruises.

There’s a rawness to him, sinewy yet firm, the honed strength of a trained soldier. He’s visceral, nothing grossly herculean, but he’s worked for his physicality, sacrificed plenty for it.

You realize you’ve been ogling him, gaze carefully tracing over the blonde hair smattered over his chest, trailing along his abdomen before it disappeared beneath his tactical pants.

Tendrils of heat snake across the back of your neck, a twinge of something desirous stirring within your stomach. You aren’t used to it, and you feel yourself attempt to rip your gaze away to something else; and you can’t.

He’s a man beneath it all, beneath the shield, the armor, the facade of an inflated swagger, all of the peacocking — he’s vulnerable, now. John’s countenance softens, startled by the sincerity that permeates your voice.

It’s unusual for him to be this quiet, as if you ripped the bravado and smugness right from his throat. Pacing forward, you decide to extend the offer again, hoping that he’ll accept your help and throw away the pride.

“I can help,” Your tone is disarmingly tender, something that John knows he’s undeserving of, given his behavior towards you. You vex him, but not because of your demeanor — he’s falling, and he’s trying to stop himself; he can’t. “Please.”

John concedes, head bobbing in a brief nod as he turns to face the mirror, lukewarm water ridding the crimson that stained his fingers. Coiled muscle cuts across his back, flesh littered in old scars and a colorful variety of bruises.

With a soft exhale, you awkwardly move into the doorway of the bathroom, blanketed by the pale orange of the lights, the distant buzz something of a comfort to you. The gash stretches from his left rib to spine, an ugly wound, oozing red that trickles over his back.

Scraped, calloused hands grip the edge of the counter as he props himself up, gaze flickering toward your reflection in the mirror. Your hair, still damp, tousled and disheveled, a cut on your cheek, mannerisms somewhat shrewd.

It’s quiet — too quiet for your liking, but you don’t want to be the one to break the ice. Wordlessly, you reach out, palm beginning to mist with wisps of a faint green, your powers manifesting.

“I’m sorry for today,” John murmurs, stopping you in your tracks. The mist wavers, concentration effectively shattered by his apology, which happened to be entirely unexpected. “About not letting you help me.”

“Is it something I did?” Your inquiry evokes a pang of melancholy, as if his heart is bleeding, still halfway stitched together. “Listen, I know we’ve had our differences, but I’m trying to move past it.”

John sighs, exiting through his nostrils; measured, restrained. “You didn’t do anything,” He’s learning to admit when he’s the problem, digits tightening against the dark granite; it groans beneath his grasp. “I don’t hate you.”

Relief blossoms within your chest, as if some weight is lifted from your shoulders. Still, you wonder what exactly is wrong with him, festering below the surface, something he’s trying to bury. “Be honest with me — what’s wrong?” You question, brows furrowing together.

He’s reluctant to tell you why he’s comfortable with sitting in the pain — why he feels he deserves it. John knows that you mean well, always looking out for everyone else, showing kindness when you didn’t have to.

“This is what I deserve,” John utters, cadence embittered, withholding a wave of emotion. Tears swim, unshed within his eyes, and he actively fights against it. “The pain — for what I did, for what happened.”

For Lemar, for Olivia, for the blood on his hands, for the son who’ll only know his father as a deadbeat. He hates himself, deep down — he’s learning to be a better man, if that were even possible.

His transparency startles you, attempting to process this information in a way that evokes empathy. No one on the team is truly, wholly good — there’s amends that need to be made, most of them in the healing process, including you.

It’s a bleak contrast from the man constantly barraging you with snarky remarks, constantly engaging in banter with you. You don’t remember him opening up like this with anyone else.

Still, your hand drops, fingers twisting together as you scramble to come up with some encouragement. You’re so accustomed to his general smugness and cocksure attitude that this blindsides you.

“Just because you’ve done bad things doesn’t mean that you deserve to suffer, or rake yourself over the coals again,” It’s gentle, sound advice — John’s eyes screw shut. “Everyone deserves to heal, including you.”

The blood on his hands feels heavy, like some anchor dragging him down. After being stripped of the role of Captain America, spiraling, losing his family, he briefly considered it — a way out. He was glad that he never went through with it.

In the Void, when you found your way into his room, it was the moment Lemar had been killed. Replayed, over and over again, unable to be prevented — but his reaction could’ve been.

He could’ve been a better man.

In the beginning, he tried to justify it, rationalizing killing someone in cold blood. After time passed, he knew how wrong he was, how he desecrated the shield, the mantle; all for something else, to sate his rage. No matter how much healing he did, that would haunt him forever.

“Thanks.” He grits, as if he doesn’t fully believe your words. John understands your intentions, that you’re being empathetic and kind despite the abrasive way he’s acted towards you. It makes him feel worse. “I am trying.”

“I know,” Placating, your digits begin to shimmer with wisps of emerald energy, your power manifesting. “I know you are, John.” Oozing with a tender amiability, you can hear the tremor in his exhale.

When you called him John, it startled him; he’d gotten so accustomed to ‘Walker’, but he didn’t mind this in the slightest. Despite the rough beginning the both of you had with one another, he was warming up to you.

Admittedly, he thought it was the right thing to do, not fully letting you in to protect himself. When you had cordial conversations, he felt your kindness shroud him like a warm blanket; you’d moved on from the past.

Quiet, your hand finally lifts to his wound, brows creased in concentration, energy expelled into healing mist as it curls around the flesh. It feels like cold water, albeit soothing, pluming over torn skin and blood until it sinks inward.

A low grunt rips through his throat, somewhat startled at the sensation of your powers; simple, but wildly effective. It’s as if he’d never been slashed to begin with; the bruises and scrapes don’t go away, but the rest of it does.

Strained, your arm quivers, resolve slipping as you step away, using the doorway as a form of support. You’re always a little weak after you’ve healed someone, almost as if it’s an exchange of life.

“Better?” With a tender smile, you watch as he nods, inspecting himself in the mirror; nothing left behind. “Next time this happens, I hope you’ll let me help you.” You prompt, and he chuckles; it isn’t the typical condescending chide he gives you, either.

“I can’t make any promises.” John’s tone loses that bite, the indifference; it’s disarmingly soft. “Thanks again, for that. I’ve been an asshole to you — wouldn’t blame you if you didn’t want to help.” He murmured, tone lacking mirth.

“You have, but that can change,” Lips remain poised into a smile, one that makes his heart lurch within his chest. “You don’t have to keep being an asshole.” Your remark makes him scoff, though it’s more of a bemused sound, than anything else.

“I’ll lose my charm,” John counters, but he’s being sarcastic — somewhat, at least. You suspect he’ll still remain sharp-tongued and smug, but lose the indifference with you. “I know it’s something I need to work on.”

Grateful for his acknowledgment, you finally feel your energy return, a slow ebb that spreads throughout your body. Leaning off of the doorframe, you awkwardly step aside, figuring that this was your queue to leave.

“For the record, I never disliked you,” He utters, jaw clenched as he carefully navigates on what to say next. “Never had a problem with you, either. Your problem with me was justified.” John shrugs, his stare even-keel.

Bewildered, you let the pang of surprise fester, head cocking to one side. “I never really had a problem with you, or disliked you,” After this, you were beginning to understand why he was an asshole sometimes. “It’s all in the past, now. I want us to move forward.”

John’s halfhearted smile oozed with sincerity, a genuineness rarely seen by others. “I can do that.” Even still, he wouldn’t blame you if you had some sort of gripe against him, but you were kind — you were good, even if you didn’t think so.

His gaze hasn’t left you, cerulean hues fluttering over your countenance; you’re beautiful, eyes beset by kindness, half-dried tresses strung over your crown. The shirt you’re wearing is a size too big, sweatpants baggy, too.

He’s acutely aware of how obvious he’s being, ogling you; he always thought you were pretty, but in the bathroom’s faint glow, you’re stunning. You weren’t subtle either, he knows this, catching your shrewd gaze as it lingers on his arms.

John’s hands reach for his shirt, black spandex all wrinkled, balled up, stained with dried blood. The tension becomes unusually thick, mere embers kindled to life, now a fire that he doesn’t know if he can extinguish.

“Can I ask you something?” Your inquiry pierces through the tenuous silence, and there’s some momentary relief you gain from it.

“Yeah.” John’s tone is barely above a whisper, warm; as if he’s trying to calm himself down, ease the tension. With his shirt still clenched in one hand, he’s offering you his undivided attention.

With arms loosely folded over your chest, your fingers idly pluck at frayed stitching on your sleeves, a fleeting distraction. “Why were you always indifferent towards me, if you didn’t hate me?” You’re not accusatory, just curious.

Shit — John’s mind is scrambling for an answer that doesn’t make him seem strange. He’s got feelings for you, and you’re slowly drawing them out into the open; he doesn’t know how to handle it.

“Sometimes it’s easier for me to not let somebody in,” He shrugs, gaze wavering, flickering toward the ground. The vulnerability is something he’s still growing accustomed to — rawness of pain, feeling his emotions, choosing the right way to cope. “Because of what’s happened.”

Even then, his explanation still feels like he’s covering up for something else. Nevertheless, you let it rest, offering him a threadbare smile. “We don’t judge here, if you haven’t learned that already,” You sigh. “I’ll be here for you, if you choose to let me in.”

He already has — he’s appreciative, nodding as a display of gratitude before he finds your gaze again. “Thanks.” John smiles despite himself, swallowing down the words that want to escape him.

Silence settles between, the same tension simmering like before, causing you to shift your weight. He’s staring again, but you’re oblivious to it this time, angled away, trying to figure out what to do next.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, your shoulders begin to slouch with relaxation. “I should probably go — you need rest.” You blurt, fumbling over your words, maintaining a sheepish smile as you shuffle toward the door.

John doesn’t really want you to leave; and he knows it’s selfish of him. His lips part, as if to ask you to stay, but he’s frozen, rooted in-place. Still, he nods, quietly resigning to letting you go back to your room.

His feet feel anchored to the floor, each step a drag as he trails after you, following you to the doorway. He’s quiet, still deliberating, turning over every word, every action within his mind. John comes up short, watching as you stop to say something else.

The closeness is sudden, wracked with tension; you’re nearly brushing arms with him, gooseflesh crawling along your spine. You’re both reaching for the door panel simultaneously, fumbling, fingers ghosting over one another; you recoil like you’ve been burned.

In the slim proximity, he catches a whiff of your shampoo — vanilla and peach, something sweeter, causing his jaw to tick. He’s looking again, unable to stop himself, gaze wandering over your body, appreciative; he grips the door frame as a distraction.

When you catch his stare, it burns you, something incendiary, as if he’s searing you into his mind. A subtle hitch forms within your throat, and you’re prepared to tell him goodnight, end it there — but you won’t move.

Silence stretches on, the sort of contemplative quiet before the onset of a storm, the deep breath before the plunge. Bodies linger within arm’s reach, screaming, and you have the audacity to stare at him, doe-eyed.

Then, you say his name, a feather-light whisper, gentle and placating. It barely registers, but he hears it, notices the parting of your lips, the way you haven’t recoiled from the closeness.

John’s mouth is suddenly pressed against yours in a heated frenzy.

A sharp inhale splits your diaphragm, lungs quaking, filled with a sudden surge of ecstasy when he kisses you. There’s a gasp stuck in the back of your throat, swallowed by the snare of his mouth.

His lips are unexpectedly soft, a stark contrast to the sharpness of his smart mouth. There’s a charged passion that echoes beyond the kiss, as if he’s walking the fine line of restraint.

Bewildered, your head is spinning, brain foggy, as if someone knocked you out. Left reeling, you don’t know what to say, what to do. Though, you’re receptive, mouth shyly moving against his, hands frozen at your sides.

When he pulls away, gauging your reaction, you appear as shocked as he does.

Each breath is labored, wrought with the sudden sting of exhilaration, butterflies beginning to pool within your belly. “I’m sorry.” John’s voice is low, a pleasant hum within your ear, but you don’t seem upset by what he did.

“Don’t be.” Without pause, your lips fly to meet him again, reciprocating the kiss, one that seems sluggish and passionate instead of frantic.

He’s kissing you back, hand dropping from the door to your hip, calloused digits caressing you through your shirt. The gesture ignites a fire within your bones, unable to stifle your mounting excitement.

Shyly, your hands move toward his chest, soft like velvet, smoothing over his pectorals as he presses you up against the door. A low groan vibrates through his chest, reveling in the feeling of your skin touching his.

There’s a poised strength coiled within his body, firm, flesh and blood, chest rising and falling underneath your hands.

His kiss is disarmingly gentle, something unexpected, but not unwelcome. You feel his body nudge against yours, distance now nonexistent.

You don’t know what’s gotten into you, gotten into him, but you’re enjoying yourself — you want him, need him, starving for contact.

He tastes metallic, an amalgamation of copper and a natural musk. Digits idly smooth over the coarse, blonde hair that covers his chest, descending toward his groin. The thought alone makes your knees weak.

Each kiss sends you spiraling, clawing for his mouth, leaving you ragged, desperate for his touch. You can’t remember the last time someone kissed you like this — even then, your experience is thin.

His scruffy countenance melds with yours, bleeding heat, kissing you with enough vigor that it prompts you to hold onto him. Your heart gallops, races — it’s quick and erratic, beating in your ears.

Recoiling from the kiss, your fingers tremble, deftly tracing over his collarbone, over scar-kissed skin, over faint clutches of freckles. “John, I — Are you sure?” You whisper, hoarse, afraid that he might regret it all in the morning.

“Wouldn’t have kissed you if I wasn’t sure.” John murmurs, voice low, curling thickly as his hands rub circles into your hips. He’s strong, secure — you didn’t expect to feel so comfortable with him. “I’ve thought about it for a while.”

His lips make contact with your jaw, mouth clamoring over your skin, kissing the spot beneath your ear. Flush to you, his confession makes your bones lurch, and you wonder what else he’s thought about, too.

Flustered, you’re quick to melt into him, visibly smitten, as if you’ve wound yourself into a tight knot. John notices, mouth twitching into a smirk as he places a string of kisses beneath your jawline.

“John …” A soft mumble rolls from your tongue, hands beginning to trail from chest to shoulders, anchoring yourself to him. His beard burns against your flesh, a pleasant scratch, reminding you that he’s real, this is real.

Warm breath feathers over your throat, your jaw, your cheek — he’s still smirking, too. “You’re getting shy on me.” He mumbles, able to taste the heat that bristles from your flesh. A hitch forms within your throat, his remark making you burn.

“No,” Posturing a weak defense, your body succumbs, lips parted to make room for a dizzying sigh. “I’m not.” It’s pathetic, your retort, but he’s still grinning as if he’s caught you in a trap, attempting to reign in the smug attitude.

“Right.” John’s cadence is dangerously low, little more than a pleasant husk that scratches the back of your brain. He’s teasing you still, cerulean hues alight with mirth, fingertips barely skirting underneath your shirt.

He’s charming — too charming, and it makes your flesh burn with an embarrassed heat. His lips plume over your throat, hips brushing against yours, and that’s when you feel it. Something firm through his kevlar pants, briefly grinding against your pelvis.

A noise echoes from John’s throat, somewhere between a grunt and groan, causing you to smile, as if you’ve discovered his secret. “Already?” It’s playful, sure, but you’re simultaneously flattered that it didn’t take much work.

It’s his turn to blush, scarlet crawling over handsome features, red spreading towards his neck. “Can’t help it,” John mumbled, gaze briefly meeting yours. “You’re beautiful.” His low timbre made you shiver.

Unable to smother your smile, you urge him closer for another kiss, digits clamoring for the nape of his neck, toying with the blonde hair there. Each entanglement of lips seems to grow in fervor, charged with mutual excitement, passion.

His hands are fisted in your shirt against, giving it a soft tug, as if silently asking you for your permission. Mouths continue to clash, a mess of lips and teeth, tongue when John initiates it, eliciting a moan from your maw.

With a brief nod, he breaks from you, only to assist in removing your shirt, tossing it elsewhere in his room. You aren’t wearing a brassiere, which catches his attention, stopping in his tracks as he admires your physique.

“Jesus,” John sighs, rapturous, noticing the doe-eyed look you’re giving him again. Lips part, jaw unclenched as he not-so-subtly ogles your collarbone, letting it drift toward your chest. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Swallowing your anxiety, you feel yourself melt beneath his stare, incendiary enough to turn you to cinders where you stand. “The thought hasn’t crossed my mind.” Barely above a whisper, your gentle teasing evokes a half-smile from him.

A huff leaves him, hand steady as he kneads into your hip, dipping lower, grasping at your haunch as he lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his hips. You’re still kissing him, held aloft by John’s arms, bearing your weight without effort.

He carries you to his bed, gray sheets already disheveled, laying you down as he crawls on top of you. A soft exhale whistles through your nose, arousal beginning to coalesce between your thighs, warmth pooling in your belly.

“You sure?” John murmurs, wanting to ensure that you’re certain about this. He is, but he wants to make sure that all cards are on the table. He’s not used to this, to showing vulnerability, but it feels comfortable with you.

“Yeah, I am,” Gazes twine together, the only illumination being the glow from the bathroom, blanketing you in swirls of orange and shadow. “I want you, John.” Your admission is saccharine, steeped in a warmth that he clings to, savors.

Christ, he wants you, too — craves you more than air, cerulean hues glistening with a thinly-veiled ardor. It’s a sudden shift from how things were before, but the tension had finally come to a boiling point, and he was glad that it had.

Mouths connect instantaneously, eliciting a pleading moan from your throat, swallowed by his kiss. Your legs drop, spread apart to accommodate for his frame, lean muscle wedged between your thighs.

His palm kneads into your calf, dragging to the crook of your knee, caressing you over your baggy bottoms. Your hands thread against the nape of his neck, taking handfuls of his blonde tresses, ensuring that you weren’t rough with him.

Chests brush against one another, firm muscle exuding warmth, peaks of your breasts ghosting over his pectorals. Each kiss rips the air from your lungs, leaving you reeling, gasping as you feel his tongue prod against yours.

A whine bubbles from your throat, smitten, tongue shyly mingling with his as the kiss turns into a mess of passion. Your fingers are carding over the back of his skull, slipping over his hair as his teeth catch upon your bottom lip.

John grunts, the tent in his pants grinding recklessly against your core, friction causing both of you to writhe. As if to torment him, you roll your hips forward, evoking a groan from him, his gaze pleading with you to stop.

“Don’t,” He warns, strained, attempting to hold himself together. Your mouth quirks into a smile, one that he feels even as he kisses you again, your palm splaying over his shoulder. “Can I take these off?”

His hands curl into your sweatpants, fingers teasing the waistband as he waits for you to consent. As soon as you nod, accompanied by a breathy ‘yes’, he’s tearing into them, the stitching splitting apart beneath his inhuman strength.

A gasp slipped from your mouth, writhing beneath him to free yourself from the fabric, kicking them to the floor. John marvels at the sight of you, your body something perfect, malleable within his grasp, mouth planting a kiss against your jaw.

Cool air plumes over your heated flesh, offering some alleviation, a reprieve from the fever-pitch of your body. John’s hand smooths over your leg, squeezing into your thigh, digits flicking over the hem of your panties.

The brief gesture makes your head spin, desperate for him to touch you. He’s already got an idea in his head, calloused fingers rough like leather as he drags his hand between your legs.

Knuckles ghost over your clothed cunt, feeling the tangle of damp cotton, the way your throat sputters with a subtle gasp. Your thighs twitch, knees trembling on either side of him as your nails trace over the back of his neck.

“Christ,” He huffs, forehead nearly flush against yours, watching as you squirm from the brief caress. John repeats the motion, feeling your nails dig harder into his skin, mouth screwed open. “You like that?” His murmur makes you feel weak.

With a nod, you want more, hips urging into the friction of his hand. To your delight, he doesn’t torment you, doesn’t make you work for it as his fingers slip beneath your panties.

Two fingers stroke along your cunt, gathering the warm slick there with one sluggish swipe. To your utter bewilderment, he lifts his digits to his mouth, sucking them clean before he lavishes your throat in a myriad of kisses.

“John, please.” Moaning his name, the sight he just treated you to is sure to be burned in your mind forever, causing your thighs to rub together. Kissing a trail down your neck, he finds your sternum, mouth voracious, ceaseless.

A boyish grin settles onto his features, deriving enjoyment from your reaction, continuing to worship your flesh in rapturous kisses. No inch of skin is safe as he descends, lips pluming over your breasts, your ribs, navel; lower, and lower again.

You taste sweet, as if your skin oozed with sugar, and he’s savoring every piece of you, kisses steeped in a disarming reverence. His beard tickles your flesh, goosebumps cascading down your spine as he makes it to your waist.

His muscles flex, pulled taut as he crawls lower, face hovering beside your hip as he eases your panties down, letting them creep over your thighs. Everything feels hot, body set ablaze, arousal coalescing against your cunt.

Lips press to your thigh, shoulders creating space, bullying your legs apart. Digits flex, trembling as they lower to card through his tresses, gaze ensnaring with his own, causing you to shiver.

John kisses a trail over your inner thighs, toward the glistening heat at your apex, listening to your breath hitch. It’s labored, wrought with exhilaration as your back begins to arch.

That ghost of a cocksure grin feels like a hot brand against your thigh, softening when you make a strangled, pleading noise. Nearly prone against the sheets, he lets your legs recline against his shoulders, hands gripping your hips.

The first rake of his tongue over your cunt is agonizing, hot embers, scorching against your flesh as he laps traces the length of your slit. It’s sluggish, exploratory — he’s keen to know what makes you writhe.

With parted lips and eyes wrenched shut, a needy moan splits past your throat, unable to keep quiet. John’s chest stirs with a low grunt, greedy tongue deftly splitting past your folds, tasting you with a sudden fervor.

Still, he’s gentle, disarmingly so, careworn palms massaging into your hips, keeping you slotted against his face. The scruff of his blonde beard scratches ragged over the inside of your thighs, sandpaper to silk, the sensation pleasant.

John eases you into it, committing every detail of your body to memory; hoping there’s a next time, thumbs tracing circles into your skin. Lapping against your core, his ministrations slowly gather haste, nose grazing your clit.

A myriad of moans leave you, attempting to keep the sound hushed, as to not alert any unwanted attention. Your legs tense, flex on either side of his head before his shoulders nudge you apart again, mouth dragging over your cunt.

He maintains something of a rhythm, attempting to walk the line of restraint, as to not overwhelm you. Your body rattles beneath him, spasmodic tremors of delight rolling down your spine, waves of bliss felt all over, ebbing through your veins.

One hand haplessly fists at the sheets, fingers curled so tightly that you want to rip it apart. He’s too good at this, which surprises you — he doesn’t give that impression, initially.

The room feels like a furnace, bodies bleeding heat, each breath hoarse, tight with rapture. His mouth is a thing of perfection, pleasuring you as if it’s his sworn duty, tongue lapping at every inch of your cunt.

John’s gaze flutters from the task at-hand to your countenance, contorted into an expression of ecstasy, effortlessly pretty. His heart skips a beat; you’ve got him wrapped around your finger.

You’re wound up, coiled over and over again, into a tangle of heat, furled desire that’s begging to be released. Carding through his tresses, you gingerly scratch at his crown, briefly tugging on his hair, hips wantonly urging into his mouth.

“G—God, John,” A sheepish moan falls from your mouth, coupled with a sharp inhale that rips through your diaphragm. Your cunt clenches pathetically around nothing at all, back arched from the mattress. “So good at this.”

It’s an inkling of praise, but it’s enough, evoking some hunger from John, who's eager to please. The tent in his tactical pants is borderline painful, erection grinding against the bed in a pitiful attempt to alleviate some of the friction.

Driven to the brink, you feel as if you’re beginning to toe the line of some steep plunge, his lips urging you closer to a release. Everything feels hot, as if you might combust, arousal coalescing between your thighs.

John has you pinned down, nose ghosting over your folds, tongue still ceaselessly lapping at your core until there’s a shift in rhythm. He presses a kiss to your clit, listening to the tremor in your exhale, feeling your legs tense.

Teeth catch across your bottom lip, biting down with an absent pressure, digits beginning to lightly curl against his scalp. His name emerges from your mouth again, desperate and wanton, breathy as you squirm.

“You’re easy to rile up.” John murmurs from between your legs, a breathy chuckle floating from his chest when your fingers pull on his hair. He plants a reverent kiss to your thigh, teasing, but the break doesn’t last for long.

If it weren’t for his lips pursing around your clit, you might’ve clawed for a retort, but he rips any remark from your throat. The sudden ripple of bliss sends you reeling, choking on a simpering whine as you shift beneath him again.

His mouth gingerly laps at that sensitive clutch of nerves, shockwaves shattering through your body, tingles of ecstasy following suit. A strangled moan snares in your throat, slipping through when he drags his tongue along your cunt.

He’s right, though — you are easy to vex, and he’s mapping you out as if you’re intimately familiar to him already. John’s mouth is voracious, tongue endlessly greedy, eating you out as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

You’re getting close, body being pushed to a blissful oblivion, the white-hot heat that threatens to consume you. His hand drifts from your thigh to the slick warmth between, thumb seeking your clit like a missile, slowly circling around it.

“Fuck,” You moan, the expletive uncharacteristic of you, but he finds plenty of enjoyment in you saying it. His name is soon to follow, a bedroom hymnal, repetitive as it spills from your tongue, crying out his name to the ceiling. “J—John!”

It’s pathetic how easily he’s got you squirming, tension beginning to unfurl, the knot within your belly stretched to the brink. He’s careful, tender, intimate in a way that makes your features surge with warmth.

“That’s it.” John murmurs, timbre little more than a drawl as he coaxes an orgasm from you, thumb continuing to toy with your clit until you burst. He’s mesmerized, a super-soldier reduced to a lovesick boy, watching you with a thinly-veiled rapture.

With one simple circle of your pearl, you’re gone, ecstasy bleeding from you in one wave, nearly overwhelming. You’re blinded by euphoria, white-hot stars crossing your vision until you’ve melted into the sheets.

Nerves are frayed from bliss, tossed into the throes of pleasure, one that you may not fully recover from. Stars linger still, head foggy, dizzy from a desirous haze as you try to find a scrap of composure.

He tastes you again, one last time, committing it all to memory as he kisses your leg, kneeling in-between your thighs. You’re shaking, chest tight with drawn-out sighs, gazes ensnared, burning with adoration.

“You’re really good at that.” A soft whisper rolls from your lips, appreciative, but John looks like you’ve just called him perfect. He’s starved for praise, reduced to a mere beast, laying at your feet, preening for more.

John’s up on his knees, staring a hole through you, hands reaching for his belt. Driven by both excitement and instinct, you sit up, fingers clamoring with his own as you’re helping to wrestle his belt off, unzipping the front of his tactical pants.

“You drive me crazy,” John groaned, feeling you grow smitten in the wake of his admission, desperate to be inside of you. “Can’t think straight.” He utters, and you know it’s an intentional compliment.

He repositions himself, hunched in, blanketing you with his bulky physique, lean muscle glued to your frame. He’s much larger than you, you realize, listening to the shuffling of fabric, feeling his cock press incessantly against your navel.

You’re intimidated, bewildered by his size, startlingly large, unabashedly so. Swallowing the growing lump in your throat, your hands come to hook around the back of his neck, no space remaining.

As if to ignite the tension further, your mouth catches his, lips locking together in a heated kiss. You can taste yourself, an added layer of debauchery, but he’s groaning into your lips, fisting the pillow near the side of your head.

John’s other hand finds your thigh, kneading into your haunch as he steadies himself, cock heatedly grinding against you. Mouths tangle, clash — it’s a war of teeth and tongue, thirst instead of hunger, as if he needs you more than anything.

Wanton, exhilarated breaths drag between bodies, the warmth of his sigh pluming over your features, his beard ragged against your cheek. His blonde tresses are tousled, disheveled — he’s painfully handsome, kissing all over your mouth.

He withdraws, heads flush together, mere centimeters apart as he adjusts himself, cock nudging against your folds. You’re clinging to him, a twinge of anticipation churning in your belly.

“You alright?” He utters, low and husky beside your ear, actively restraining himself from being too spirited. There’s something intoxicating about the way you’re staring at him; it’s tender, more than he deserves, he thinks.

Slowly, you plant a kiss against the scruff of his jaw, and then beneath, where a yellowing bruise sits. Hands wander to the firm muscle of his shoulders, kneading over freckled skin.

John exhales; a drawn-out, contented sound that releases coils of tension from his shoulders. With a nod of consent, you let yourself get comfortable. He drags his cock over your cunt again, biting back a stifled groan.

“Go slow,” You squeak, body already sore from the mission — he might add to it, if he isn’t careful. His lips seal themselves to your throat, peppering your flesh in a myriad of sweet kisses, nose brushing over your jugular. “I need you.”

Serum-infused blood pumps through his veins, oozing raw strength, but he knows to rein himself in, head bobbing in a brief nod. “Say that again.” John grunts, cock prodding against the warmth of your cunt, preparing to push past.

His head is partially buried into the hollow between throat and shoulder, beard prickling your flesh, a satisfying sensation. An excitable buzz wracks your body, sending tingles all over, a throbbing pulsing from between your legs.

“I need you,” Wantonly, your palm splays over his shoulder-blade, nails digging into his skin, eliciting a low groan from your paramour. “J—John, please!” It’s a plea, a desperate one, spoken through a beguiling cadence, one that winds him into tight knots.

With a shudder, John is thirsty for your embrace, a man lost within a desert, finding his oasis. His forehead nudges beside your temple, hotly grunting into your ear, sending waves of ecstasy through your belly.

His hips slowly urge forward, flushed head of his cock pushing into you with mild resistance. Disarmingly gentle, John doesn’t move quickly or rough, heeding your words as he fists at the pillow, body kissed by perspiration.

The tightness of your cunt drives him to the brink of madness, huffing beside your ear, fighting against baser, lesser instincts. Clinging to him as if he might fade through your fingers, he moves at an agonizing pace, not wanting to hurt you.

He doesn’t, a husky groan ripping through his diaphragm when your hips accidentally roll, feeling his muscles tense beneath your hands. “Jesus,” John grits out, feeling your nails dig crescents into his shoulder. “You’re perfect.”

A moan tumbles from your parted lips, his cock filling you completely, nearly bottoming out as he sinks forward. Intermingled groans and hot sighs tangle in the thin space between, heat against heat.

Your knees squeeze near his waist, legs kept spread apart by his musculature, bodies clawing for one another, ardor thinly-veiled. John’s countenance is contorted into a look of concentration coupled with bliss.

“S’good,” You moan, having adjusted enough, allowing yourself a moment of composure; it won’t last, and you know it. “Move.” Breathy and wrought with exhilaration, you give him the signal to take things further.

John’s resolve is crumbling, foundation swept away in the wake of your affections, and your wanton moan doesn’t make anything easier. Propping himself up on one arm, the other holds steadfastly to your thigh, an anchor.

Foreheads knock together, noses ghosting over one another as he begins to thrust into you, bicep flexing with exertion. The first drag of his hips sends you reeling, and you know that you won’t last long — and neither will he.

A string of hoarse expletives flutter from his mouth, barely above a whisper, setting your bones ablaze as he pulls back and pushes forward.

The fit of him is tight, cock oozing with heat as he draws back again, following through as he jolts forward.

Beneath you, the bed frame creaks — faint, as if it shows some give with the super-soldier on top of you. Your digits coax him in for a kiss, mouths colliding in a messy clash of tongue and needy lips, fire feeding fire.

John groans into your mouth, pushing and pulling, hips urging into yours, cock filling you with each thrust. Between fervent kisses and pleading moans, your head is foggy, dizzy with desire.

He develops a rhythm, the pace steady, each drag of his hips ripping a moan from your mouth, and he earned it. His hand kneads into your thigh, squeezing on occasion when the pleasure mounts, muscles coiled within his stomach.

“Y—You’re perfect,” The praise leaves your tongue as a hoarse whine, a noise that leaves goosebumps trailing over John’s spine. It’s the validation he desperately craves, the veneration, knowing he’s doing something right. “Don’t stop.”

A husky, throaty groan pierces through his chest, the noise making you shiver, arousal slick and warm between your thighs. It makes each snap of his hips easier, cock sinking into you over and over again.

It’s unintentional, his shifting pace; it begins to climb, from drawn-out and steady to needy, rutting into you as if each stroke would be his very last. John is trying to keep himself controlled, but you make it so difficult.

He slows again, the pleasure mounting, a knot that is becoming frayed at either end, prepared to be pulled apart. His cock throbs incessantly, pulsing inside of you, feeling your cunt clench around him.

Perspiration glitters along his brow, glistening along his hairline as he hunches in over you, and you feel all of him, viscerally.

The bed frame rattles in protest, as if bowing to his strength, and he’s already tearing the stitching in the pillowcase beside your head. A soft gasp slips from your lips, his mouth ghosting over yours.

Grunts of ecstasy leave him in droves, cock easing in and out of your cunt as if you’re made for him. John’s countenance is one of bliss and concentration, frustration now dissipated.

Each snap of his hips drags you further into the throes of ecstasy, and he’s nearly there, cock spearing into you. His breathing is growing ragged, raspy as it curls beside your ear, hot breath pluming over your face.

Noises surge in volume, filling his room with the sounds of vigorous lovemaking; he doesn’t care if the team hears anymore. John’s rapturous groans make you shiver in delight, head flush to yours again, the closeness addicting.

Another grunt ripples through his chest, the sound stretched, the rest tapering off as his hips begin to stutter, pace erratic and desperate. He’s close, weighing the odds of finishing inside of you, nearly whimpering when your legs hitch around his hips.

His name spills from your lips like a confessional, sobbing to the heavens, feeling your body begin to unfurl with tension. Bodies move within one another, his cock buried deep, kissing your cervix with each thrust.

From the tension in his muscles alone, you can tell that he’s about to burst, combust like fireworks in your hands. You’re on the pill, and so you urge him closer, wanting him inside of you even still.

When your name emerges from John’s mouth, you’re awestruck, flustered by the way in which he says it so tenderly. “I’m on the pill.” It’s all you’re able to say before he’s swallowing your words, covering your mouth with his.

The kiss is voracious, needy — John is unable to mask how he feels about you, letting it all bleed into tangled lips as he cums. He releases inside of you with a groan, followed by a rush of warmth that blankets your insides.

Tingles of delight wrack your body, a subdued release that seems to twine with his, a muted buzz surging through your bones. John’s hips crawl to a sluggish rhythm, agonizingly slow, as if to absorb the last few traces of friction.

Each breath heaves for composure, shallow and taut with exhilaration in the aftermath, sweat-slick skin melded together. His forehead nestles against yours, labored breathing evening out quicker than yours as he stills.

His spend and your arousal feel slick between your legs, making a mess of his sheets, joined bodies bleeding heat. You’re reeling, slower to recuperate as he pulls out of you with a soft grunt, rolling over to lay beside you.

John doesn’t leave, cerulean hues glued to your countenance, as if his whole sense of gravity has been shifted, changed. It’s hushed, save for your labored sighs, in-tandem with one another.

Wordlessly, he coaxes you closer, muscled arm hooking around your middle, inviting you to lay against his chest. One palm remains splayed, flat against your ribs, soothing you with easy caresses.

“Are you still with me?” John’s wisecrack makes you blunder, a soft laugh escaping you, hand playfully bumping against his chest.

“Yeah,” Unable to smother your smile, you’re delighted to sink into his embrace, keeping your hand on his chest. The hair beneath is something you trace through, over muscle, over old scars and greenish bruises. “I …”

As you trail off, John’s head cranes down enough to brush his lips against yours, the kiss sweet, bristling with a thinly-veiled affection. He lets you finish your thought, watching as you sit up enough to see him fully, perched on your stomach.

“I don’t want this to be a one-time thing.” You utter, agonizingly soft, cadence wrought with an amalgamation of sentiments. John’s trying to be better, and it’s something you want to be a part of, if he’ll let you.

Neither did he, admittedly; it’s something John’s willing to admit to. “The thought never crossed my mind,” He murmured, blonde lashes fluttering as his hand cupped your jaw, calloused and careworn over satin skin. “But I’m not perfect.”

“I know, that’s why I like you.” With a dazzling smile, he’s caught right in the crosshairs, lips parting with a placating huff. It turns into a hum of a chuckle, his hand still firm against your side.

In a gentle clamor, his lips find yours, beard tickling your skin again, the sensation wholly pleasant. The kiss lingers, something that feels closer to home, a newfound warmth that the both of you desperately crave.

John’s mouth twitches into a half-smile, a peculiar mirth beginning to touch his eyes. He feels you plant a kiss against his shoulder, and he knows he’s completely screwed — you’re falling, but he’s falling harder.

[tittywaititi]

"𝐔𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠" - Robert ("Bob") Reynolds x freader x platonic thunderbolts

Bob was asleep for God knows how long, now that he has the chance at a better life. Who better to show him than you?

a.n - Ava was sick of seeing you and Bob dance around eachother like puppies in love, so she does something about it

warnings - mention of mental illness, lovesick Bob! minor spoilers and major fluff!!

"Remember to call us if you need anything ok?" You were currently on the quinjet, ready to leave for a mission. But there was a problem, Bob had to stay in the tower by himself.

Bob nodded hurriedly before ushering you back onto the ship, but you hesitated when he turned to leave. You grab his arm rather quickly, which prompted him to look back at you with wide eyes.

"Be safe," you whispered softly so that it falls in his ears only.

Both Ava and Yelena heard the couple from a distance and snickered to themselves.

"I.. I will," Bob stutters before giving you a tight-lipped 'bob' smile. He stepped back so that he wouldn't delay your mission.

The hatch to the ship closed as you peer down at the small figure waving at you. Yet, you could almost feel the smugness of the duo behind you.

"Be safe," Yelena says with sickingly sweet tone while Ava butt's in afterwards. "Oh I'll be so safe."

You give them a deadpan look before responding with crossed arms. "Can you guys stop?"

"But how will that keep us safe?" Ava retorts sarcastically while Yelena falls into her arms dramatically. "I'll be safe once you kiss me."

You knew the two of them were mocking you for having a soft spot for Bob. Ever since you guys took him in after his 'incident' as Sentry. No thanks to Valentina ofcourse.

"Can you girls stop gossiping? It's annoying." John grunted while adjusting his suit.

The team was split into two for today's mission. Boys vs. Girls to make matters worse, but you guys didn't want to lose to John Walker.

So you tried your very best to complete your part of the mission as quickly as possible. An old hydra base had been spotted a few weeks ago so Bucky wanted to check it out and gather intel, just in case.

The location was in the snowy mountains of Slovakia and it was mission based on stealth. Something that John struggled with, and Alexei, so he was left in charge of the jet. Much to his disappointment.

"Oh you gotta be kidding me..." John mutters as he spots you from a distance with a smug smile on your face.

"Hey asshat, how's the taste of being a loser feel?" You quipped while happily walking out of the building, after successfully infiltrating it.

John on the other hand had failed his part and the others had to step in while he sat in the quinjet with minor injuries.

He puts his hands up in defence before sighing. "Fine, you win this time."

Internally he was fuming, but he wasn't ready to admit that.

"Relax I was just kidding." You mused while passing by him with a quick pat on his back. John knew that you were joking, but it was reassuring to hear the words himself.

"You think Bob's doing ok?" You mumbled while putting on your seat belt.

"Don't worry, I'm sure he's curled up on the couch thinking about you." Yelena let's out a coarse laugh while she takes her seat next to you.

" Oh 'lena what would I do without you?" You say sarcastically while she links her arms with yours. "You'll be lost...and unsafe."

The last comment made you roll your eyes before finally laughing along to the joke. As the rumble of the quinjet signalled it's takeoff sequence, so you got ready to take a nap on the journey back home.

What you all didn't expect was to find Bob standing on the helipad, with a pillow in hand. It seemed like he was anticipating your return since he was sort of giddy when you got off.

"Ahh look your boyfriend was waiting for you after all," Ava makes the comment while walking past you swiftly. You shook your head unamsingly before making your way towards the awaiting brunette.

"Were you waiting for us?" You sighed while reaching up to fix his hair. It had gotten messy due to the blast of wind from the quinjet engines.

"Oh well...I sort of had another episode while you were gone...so I thought I'd wait out here until you returned." It was hard to make out what he was said on the last part but nonetheless, you pull him into a warm embrace.

"You wanna talk about it?" You whisper into his hair before running your fingers through the dark brown locks. Bob shook his head as he buries his face into the crook of your neck.

Not wanting to push him, you just stood there while holding him until he was ready to go back inside.

What you didn't notice was how fast Bob's heart was racing while you two hugged.

Deep down he was glad that you didn't, he would be too embarrassed to ever admit that he secretly liked you. For now, it was better for you not to know.

"You got that right?" Ava asks while squinting her eyes to get a better view from the hanger. The sound of a click from a camera could be heard before Yelena answers with her phone in hand.

"Got it." Yelena snickers mischievously.

"We need a plan to get these two idiots to confess."

"What do you have in mind?" Yelena turns to Ava while she thinks of something.

"Ok... I think I have one."

"Is...is this ok?" Bob asks while showing his bowl full of cake batter. You leaned in slightly to see for yourself, and to your surprise, it was perfectly light and airy.

"Wow Bob! The batter looks perfect!"

Bob breaks into a wide grin at the compliment as the rush of giddiness returned. He observed the way your mouth was moving while you talks and was seemingly under a trance, that was until you pulled him back to reality.

"Bob sweetie are you ok?" You say in a gentle tone as you wave your hands infront of his face. He blinked at few times , seemingly lost before nodding. "Uh.. yeah I'm good."

"Aww you call him sweetie now?"

You sighed and hung your head low at the sound of the familiar voice. " 'lena don't push it."

You two had been dancing around each other for about 2 months now. Every day, it seemed like you were closer to getting Bob out of his shell. Whatever you did worked because he was able to start training with you all without the worry of the 'void' returning.

Speaking of Bob, he was in the kitchen having his dinner with Ava's company. It was late and well past midnight when the group had finished their training.

Her plan was beginning to unfold when you rushed into the kitchen with a towel wrapped around your shoulder.

"What happened? Is there any emergency?!"

Your hair was slightly damp from the shower you had just taken. Bob recognised the top that you were wearing and almost choked on his food. You were wearing his blue t-shirt that he had left behind a few nights ago.

"There's no emergency is there?" You sighed as you shift your gaze towards the woman near the refrigerator. She simply shrugged before taking a chug of cold milk.

Bob had completely forgotten about the shirt and to make things worse was that you look absolutely gorgeous with it on. Not to mention, your thighs were exposed since your shorts were hidden underneath the gigantic top.

"Bob...! I didn't know you were still awake," blood rushed to your cheeks when you realised Bob was staring directly at you with wide eyes. You had no idea he'd be here, thinking that everyone else had gone to sleep already.

Bob cleared his throat and swiped his bowl to the side. His dinner now forgotten about and directed his attention towards you. You felt like a deer caught in headlights.

You were planning on giving his shirt back but you kept on delaying up until now.

"Oh uh --...hey love." Bob stutters slightly while he drinks in your appearance. Which was very out of character for him, even making Ava stop dead in her tracks from the sudden pet name.

The muscles of your cheeks began to rise as you felt yourself smile at the sweet nickname that he had given you. Bob on the other hand? Felt himself swoon whenever you gave him that smile of yours.

Yelena returned from the pantry with a bottle of water in his hand with a shit eating grin on her face. Giving knowing glances between the two of you.

"Its good to see you too 'lena," you sighed before making your way towards the counter.

"How's your day been beautiful?"

Bob was caught offguard by hearing Ava giving you a pet name as he blinks at her in confusion. Was there something going on between you and Ava that he didn't know about?

He became even more jumpy when he noticed your form taking a seat right next to him.

You fought back the urge to smile again when you noticed the tips of Bob's ears turning red. He looked like a puppy begging for attention. Nonetheless you turn back to Sam to answer his question.

"My days been eventful, to say the least. I mean I made some new adjustments to my suit so it could take in more volts of energy-"

Ava nodded and promted you to carry on. You spoke about the drills you had done with John and Bucky aswell.

Bob had tuned out of the conversation. He rested his head on his palm as a lovesick sigh escaped his lips. He followed the way your mouth moved while you talked and the way your hair would bounce slightly from every gesture you'd make.

Seeing the way your eyes would sparkle whenever you'd talk about something you're interested in.

Bucky considered himself lucky to be in your presence and the way the light above them gave you a warm glow. He didn't even notice the conversation dying down as you, Ava and Yelena turned their heads towards him.

You looked at him with concern while Yelena muffled her laugh behind her hand. She saw how smitten her best friend looked which only convinced her more to get you two together.

"Bob hon', are you ok?"

Ava let out a choked laugh at the nickname. You gave her a light glare as she calmed herself down.

Your body was fully facing the now flustered Bob, he almost flinched out of instinct when your cold hand met his burning cheeks.

"Geez Bobby you're burning up, are you feeling ok?" You started to get worried, thinking maybe he had gotten a fever.

"Mmh? I'm feelin' fine though." Bob murmured as he looked like he was going to collapse right there in your arms. Getting absolutely drunk from the attention you were giving him.

"I'd say otherwise," Ava mumbled to herself in amusement as she excused herself, also dragging Yelena with her despite her protests.

She believed that the two needed some privacy so she had the fabulous idea of locking you two in.

"Seriously guys?!" You yelled when the shut the door on you both. Knowing that there was no use in chasing after them, you turn to face Bob again.

Bob saw the way your mouth was still moving but he couldn't focus on the words that you were saying. If this was anyone else, he wouldn't even let them touch him. Depending on the person ofcourse, like Yelena.

But it was you. The woman that had the ability to make his heart hurt from how lovely you were. He'd never felt so much love for someone in a long time and it kind of scares him.

You were still patting his cheek, feeling the slightly rough stuble beneath your skin. You also moved stray hairs out of his face and tucked it behind his ears. He wanted to say something but no words came out.

"Maybe we should head to the med bay to get yourself checked out." You were about to get up to leave until you felt a strong grip on your arm as Bob made you sit back down again.

"Do you not want to go?" You asked in confusion as you tilted your head. Bob froze as he tried to figure out what he should do next.

His hands slowly reached up towards your cheeks and gently caressed them with his thumb. He was impossibly close now, his nose practically touching yours.

You were surprised at how bold he was being but you weren't one to complain. But still, you waited to see what he would do next.

The faint scent of your shampoo and conditioner fills his nostrils. Your peer into his deep blue eyes, his pupils were dilated but oh so full of love.

You hesitated, and rightfully so. Bob had the tendency to fluctuate his mood so you weren't sure whether you should take advantage of the situation.

Bob brushes his lips against yours, testing the waters. Not knowing if you wanted this or not. Without a second to waste, you pressed your lips fully against his.

They molded together perfectly, you don't know why you waited so long to feel this, to feel him.

His lips were like you imagined, soft and plump with a hint of cinnamon since he just started eating his dessert.

But a distant voice at the back of Bob's head made him pull away.

You noticed the way his eyes filled with worry, knowing something was bothering him. He lets out a shaky breath as you feel a slight shift in his demeanour, as if trying to hold something or someone at bay.

"Would you... want someone like me? I mean -... you don't think I'm...pathetic?" A hurt laugh escaped his lips as he mentions the last part.

"Darling, is that the reason why you're so hesitant?" Your heart hurt squeezed at the thought of him even thinking of being unworthy of love.

You lift his chin up so that he'd make eye contact with you again.

"You know...I fell for you for a reason, Bob. That means every part of you, including your insecurities. Because... that's what makes you human, just like us."

He couldn't help but smile brightly at your statement as all his worries leaving him in an instant. The voice that was nagging him not a moment ago, vanished. As if it wasn't there in the first place.

You pressed a chaste kiss on his lips to start off, causing Bob to become even more giddy than usual. Then turning into laughter as you pepper his face with kisses before pressing one last kiss on his now pink lips. Due to the excess tint from your lipbalm.

"Thanks for believing in me..." Bob whispers against your lips as he peers down at you through his lashes.

"Always," you whispered back in a slightly quieter tone while brushing the stray hair away from his eyes.

You silently ask for Bob's permission with your eyes, which he answered with a firm nod before leaning back in once again.

He lets out a surprised gasp against your mouth when you took a seat on his lap for better access. Taking the chance to show him how much you truly loved the man beneath you.

The rest of the world faded around you as you both got lost in time. It was beginning to get hard to breathe as he pulls you against him to deepen the kiss. You felt a butterflies deep in your stomach that you never felt before with anyone.

Bob could taste the slight hint of strawberry on your tongue from the candy you had eaten just before taking a shower. In another bold act of gesture, he takes the opportunity to fully immerse himself in the kiss and sucks lightly on your bottom lip. Wanting to taste more.

His hands were all over you and he had a hard time keeping himself under control. Giving your hips a gentle squeeze while you sat on his lap.

He whimpers against your lips while you gently prod and nibble on his bottom lip, the soft muscle becoming swollen.

Literally, anyone could walk in and see you two, but clearly that wasn't on their mind at the moment.

But eventually you both had to pull away for air, your cheeks were flushed but you were content. Smiling softly down at the adorable brunette below you. Bob lightly nuzzled his nose against yours while both your breaths became foggy due to the cold air in the kitchen.

"So Sunshine....can I finally call you mine?"

Before he could answer you hear the sound of muffled talking in the hallway and they were headed straight towards the kitchen.

You two quickly scrambled off eachother and tried to act casual. Bob picked at his now cold food while you rummaged through the fridge.

"Cut the act you two. We already know what happened." A teasing voice called out. "By the way, we have pictures as proof."

You internally groan as you turn to see Ava with a smirk on her face with Yelena having the same amused look.

"So, are you two dating now?" Ava asks while she looks between you and Bob.

You huffed as you made your way over to Bob, who was already standing up from his seat and stood beside the chair awkwardly. You reached his height by tiptoeing slightly and placed a firm yet soft kiss on his cheek.

Bob's face turned almost bright red while Ava and Yelena both looked at you in disbelief.

Which only made the situation all the more amusing. They didn't expect you to be so bold.

"I guess we are," you respond with a doting smile as Bob shared the same look he'd always had.

Lovesick.

Taglist: @doodlebob-mp3 @starktonyx @perdidosbucky-yyo @marianastudiesart @ordelixx @hisredheadedgoddess28 @avatarobsessedgirly @starstruckfirecat @adventure-awaits13

[tittywaititi]

two's company || bob reynolds

a oneshot in which bob can't sleep and asks for help <3

pairing: bob reynolds x reader

tags: fluff, nightmares, mentions of the void, past drug abuse, if i missed any please lmk a/n: atp i'm pulling this out of my ass i have no motivation. (send asks pls) enjoy :(

word count: 690

The soft hum of the tv filled the emptiness of the room, drowning out the sound of the city that never sleeps just outside the window. Bob's head rested on the plush blue pillow that he'd turned over about 50 times that night in an attempt to find a comfortable position. His heavy gaze settled on the smooth of the ceiling as his hands gripped the edge of the duvet.

He was never going to sleep like this.

With an exasperated sigh, he threw the cover off and sat up, feeling around in the darkness for his slippers and shirt before trudging through his room into the hallway of the tower. He hadn't been able to sleep since he'd turned the whole of New York into shadows and plummeted into his personal hell. The Void calls out to him when he's most vulnerable. Bob shook his head as he snapped out of his thoughts and continued to walk, he'd exited his room and moved down the hallway, standing on the other side of another door. For a moment he hesitated, his hand held up as he was about to knock. He was reconsidering waking you up again for something as small as this. He was selfish for even thinking you'd help him out again. That was until he heard shuffling behind the door. Without thinking, his knuckles rapped on the hardwood and he held his breath as your quiet footsteps made their way to the door.

You answered the door to a reluctant apologetic smile as Bob stood in the doorway, his index finger scratching at the skin around his thumbnail.

"Can I," He started, cut off by your hand wrapping around his arm and tugging him inside, shutting the door gently so you wouldn't disturb the others. Escorting him to your bed, Bob allowed his body to be maneuvered onto your soft mattress as he started to apologise for waking you up.

You shushed him, hands resting on his cheeks as you stood in front of him, thumbs rubbing in a soothing motion. "I was awake anyway. Just tell me what's going on, okay?"

Bob let out a heavy sigh and let himself rest in your hands, his shoulders falling in relaxation. "My brain is too loud." He sighed, eyes meeting yours once again. "I'm just itching for something to distract me, really."

"Oh, dear. You need to get some rest." You uttered and sat beside him, arm wrapping around his middle to pull him closer. He seemed to recoil at your sudden touch, only melting into it when he knew what you were doing.

"Lay with me?" Oh god, those puppy eyes would be your undoing. Bob followed you as you lay down on your bed, head positioned on your pillow. You were well aware of Bob's past struggles as well as his current ones but those wouldn't stop you from holding him as close as you can.

It was times like these, dead in the night, when Bob would crave that high he once felt. Everything has been numb since then, like he'd been living under water, until he met you. You brought that feeling of ecstasy back in the best way possible and it was much healthier than anything he could ever take. His face now buried in the junction between your shoulder and neck, eyes shut and hand on your waist as he breathed in time with you.

"Thank you." He whispered breathlessly, relief filling his voice, no longer shaky and unsure but relaxed and content. Your hands threaded through his soft hair, playing with it mindlessly as you zoned out. You replied with a hum of acknowledgement as your own eyes shut alongside his. You'd take any version of him like this, void, sentry, broken, whole - all of it was him, and you'd take nothing else.

Bob's eyes opened to the warm light pooling through the blinds on your window, his tiredness sated for the first time in what must have been days. They scanned the room before settling back on your sleeping face and he realised that this is where he belonged.