crybabyalexxx

[crybabyalexxx]

rushed farewell

pairing. bob reynolds x fem!reader

summary. bob bids you an unexpected goodbye before you head off on a weekend long mission

content warnings. smut 18+, hickies, oral (f!recieving), kissing/making out, clingy!bob, bob being completely pussy whipped, hair tugging (m!receiving), slightly subby!bob, bob with a praise kink, a little bit of aftercare, alludes to more

word count. 2119

a/n. first bob smut you guys are welcome. also not proofread and kinda rushed so yeah

———

bob has grown accustomed to having you around. he never thought he’d have such contentment in his life. there was a roof over his head, he was surrounded by people who truly cared about him, he didn’t feel nearly as on-edge as he’d been used to all his life. while it took some time for you to wiggle your way into his life, the moment you had, you knew you were there for good, and so did he.

it’s why it was so hard for bob to see you leave, no matter how short you were gone for missions, or how long you’d be back and by his side for afterwards. he knew you’d be careful, you always were. you began making promises to see him soon, to reassure him that you’d always find your way back to him. it eased his mind enough to let you go from his embraces, to kiss you long and desperate one last time before you walked away. there were some days he left it at that.

other days, however, he couldn’t help but seek out a little more to tide him over.

you’d spent your very early morning getting yourself ready for the long weekend ahead of you. your next three days were going to be spent across the country in california, packed full of things that needed your attention. a tense, day long mission you were to spend undercover with walker - who you knew would get under your skin within an hour - and a debriefing with some of valentina’s little minions you were sure were going to take up way too much of your time.

you practically begged ava to take your spot, even bribing her with the idea of doing her laundry for a month. it was no use, your time spent wasted the moment she gave you a firm no. her last mission was with walker, and she wasn’t going to do it again unless she had to.

you’d just finished up brushing your teeth when you heard the bathroom door open up gently. without even looking over, hands fumbling with your toothbrush as you tuck it into a holder and sliding it into your bag, you smiled. you knew exactly who it was.

“good morning, sleepyhead,” you whispered out as strong arms wrapped around your waist. bob, whose hair was disheveled and eyes were dropping from sleep, had found his way from your bed to your bathroom in search of your warmth. you could feel the small smile on his lips with the way he tucks his face into the crook of your neck, settling there as he hugs you from behind

“g’morning,” he mumbled against you, his voice and stubble tickling your skin. bob placed a slow, gentle kiss to your neck after he spoke, something you absolutely adored. you let yourself lean back into him and his warmth, basking in the attention he always gave you when you were alone. he was always too nervous, too reserved to show this sort of affection elsewhere. you thought it was endearing.

bob didn’t stop his kisses at just one. he placed several lazy, firm kisses against your neck and the slope of your shoulder, hands moving to your hips as he worked slowly. even fresh out of sleep, he couldn’t keep his hands off of you. you shook your head slightly, a small smile playing on your own lips.

“bob,” you warned simply, yet your head still tilted to the side to give him room to kiss. you made the mistake of rocking your hips back slightly, the swell of your ass catching the tip of his half hard cock through his tented boxers, earning a quiet gasp from the man. with a heavy heart, you reluctantly spoke again. “gotta leave soon, baby, i’m sorry.”

“just 10 minutes?” bob asked against your skin, teeth sinking into the side of your neck gently, the start of his journey to suck a hickey against your pulse point. through the bathroom mirror, you could see the man hunched over behind you, working away at your skin, successfully sucking the beginning of love bite.

you squirmed in his hold, adjusting yourself so you could face bob directly, finally getting to see him face to face. his blue eyes were a little blocked by his slightly dilated pupils, though you could still see the way they shimmered down at you. carefully, you pushed strands of hair away from his face, before leaning in to kiss his lips. he accepted the kiss gratefully, hands still gripping your hips desperately. bob used that grip on you to gently guide you out of the bathroom in a stumble, tugging you towards the messy bed you’d just been sleeping in together.

“i really don’t have much time,” you mumbled against his lips, hands moving to rest against his shoulders in attempts to steady yourself. he only kissed you again, deeper this time, stopping you in your tracks. it was like bob was trying to prove to you that he was sure, that he could be quick. he could be, he knew he could be. he wanted you to know that, too, and he thought the only way to prove that was by showing you.

“i know, i know,” bob insisted, pulling away from the kiss so he could guide you properly, watching as your knees hit the end of your bed, causing you to sit down on the very edge.

bob found his way to his knees in front of you in an instant, large hands resting on top of your clothed thighs. his eyes looked up at you pleasingly, waiting patiently for your permission to continue. you let out a soft sigh, face heating up as you spread your legs open, nodding in agreement. his fingers hooked against the waistband of your sweats, slipping the fabric down past your hips the moment you lifted them up, discarding them off to the side. he settled his between your thighs in an instant, gripping your hips again just to adjust you properly, angling your hips up slightly to give him better access.

his hands trail down to your thighs again, pushing them open a little wider than you had, eyes zoning in on the growing wet patch in the middle of your panties. you brought a hand up to bobs head, softly stroking his hair as you spoke, an eyebrow raised slightly. “ten minutes, honey, are you sure?”

your eyes trailed down his body, forcing yourself passed his abs, sight settling at his aching bulge. bob nodded quickly, excitedly, eyes coming back up to yours. everything about him was pleading for it. “yeah, so sure, baby.”

you nodded at bob again after he spoke, watching as he sighs in relief, hands still spread wide against the warm skin of your thighs as he finally leans into you.

it started off with warm, wet kisses against your inner thighs, something that turned into a sloppy mess of hickeys planted against your skin, a soon reminder of his presence for when you’re so far away from him. bobs mouth eventually found its way to your cunt, still confined in your cotton panties. that didn’t matter to him just yet, his lips still kissing you through the cloth. it was a soft kiss placed right above the arousal that’s pooled there, the taste he craved just right there.

“just gotta taste it one last time before you leave,” bob mumbled out, eyelids hooded as his kisses trailed up to your clit, aching and waiting for his touch. “gotta have it, gonna miss you so bad.”

bob wasn’t trying to be seductive, really he wasn’t. he tends to ramble on when he’s around you, especially when you two are intimate together. he can’t help but voice what he’s thinking. it’s all a little new to him, and he wants you to know how much he truly wants you. it all has your head spinning with need. you try your best not to shift closer to him, wanting to let him savor it, to have his moment with you. he doesn’t make it easy for you as he moves a hand under your hip, lifting you upwards enough for him to tug your panties off, before letting you settle back down against the comfortable bed.

the whine that left bobs mouth was incredible, the simple sight of your dripping pussy sending his mind out the window for the brief time he has you for. you knew better by now not to keep yourself upright, the moment his tongue glides its way up your aching pussy, dragging firmly against your slick, you allow yourself to lay back against the bed. bobs tongue began tracing against your folds, mapping out what he’s already felt a thousand times by now.

even then, there wasn’t a ton of skill behind how bob ate you out. he’s learned a lot from you, letting you guide him through it, doubling down on what makes you moan particularly well. that didn’t stop him from being messy, tongue running against you in search of your addicting arousal. when you’ve got him between your thighs, all you can really do is grip onto his hair and let him do his thing. and man was he doing it well this morning.

your fingers tugged at the ends of bobs hair the moment his pink lips found their way to your clit, suckling on it with pure need. one of your hands flew up quickly to your mouth, a weak attempt to contain a high pitched whine spilling from your lips. you’d hate for this to be cut short, for someone to overhear and complain. you kept that hand plastered against your mouth the entire time bobs mouth was on you, only barely muffling your desperate sounds. even with the blockage, he could hear the way you praised him, small ‘so good’’s and quiet ‘keep going’’s finding his ears. a choked moan made its way out of his mouth at every genuine praise you gave him.

with your knees knocked further apart, back arching slightly into his mouth, he messily began switching between your aching clit and your fluttering hole. he licked and suck at every inch of your wet cunt, a barely there rhythm present in his movements. whines and whimpers left both of your mouths, maybe just a little two loudly as he coaxed you towards fast approaching orgasm. bob could feel how close you are in the way your desperate hole clenched against his tongue, the way your moans picked up an octave, the way your body tensed up under his touch. everything in you screamed for him to stay, to keep going, to make you come.

bob did just that, lips wrapped around your clit firmly, sucking and licking at it sloppily. you’d be embarrassed by the way it sounded - wet and slurping and messy - if you weren’t so caught up in your release, fingers tugging at his hair a little tighter now. your hand did nothing to block your moans as you came on bobs mouth, his hands gripping your thighs to keep them open, tongue not stopping in the slightest.

pleasure turned into overstimulation quickly, hissing slightly as both of your hands began to paw gently at bobs head. he caught on a little slow, eyes fluttering as he eventually pulls away. your chest heaved as you rest yourself up in one of your elbows, one hand still at his head, fingers threaded through his soft hair. you began petting his hair again as bob kissed your inner thighs again, his eyes now staring up at you through pretty eyelashes. the sight of him between your legs kneeling for you, chin and lips coated in your arousal, eyes hooded with desire had your eyes fluttering heavily down at him, another zip of need coursing through your body.

“did i do good?” bob asked expectantly, waiting patiently for your approval. you gave him the dopiest reassuring smile, one that made him smile back at you. he pushed himself off of his knees, slowly crawling on top of you, large body hovering over top of you.

“so good, baby, always so good f’me,” you affirmed, your hand cradling the back of his head now. bob nodded appreciatively at your words, quick to lean down to kiss your lips, still slick with his spit and your arousal. he always made such a mess, and you loved it. when you pulled away from the kiss, you brought your lips up to his ear, just inches away from it as you whispered. “gonna make it up to you the moment i get back.”

[crybabyalexxx]

18+ MDNI

virgin!bob that’s so desperate for you. he hasn’t fucked you yet, but you’ve made out with each other. let him touch you. his cock always grows hard in no time, heavy against your inner thigh as if being inside you becomes more urgent with every day.

he whimpers against your lips when you wrap your legs around him and he ruts into you, multiple layers of clothing still separating you. he can’t wait to finally find out what it would feel like, to be between your legs and feel your pussy clench around him. bob has touched you before, fingers slipping between your folds messily, maybe a little painfully so, watching your face for any reaction. he had clumsily fumbled at your clit, a small attempt at making you cum for him.

you had taken his hand and showed him how to properly touch you. and god, he is an avid learner.

one day, you decide to let him rub himself against your panties. he watches your hips buck up against him when his tip slides over your sensitive clit, panties turning dark from your fluids and his own. bob mumbles profanities under his breath, his tip red and angry, before he wraps a hand around his cock and starts stroking himself.

he comes so quickly. the sight of you, all naked except for your panties, is already enough.

his hands are back on you afterwards, his cum still sticking to your belly and he rubs it in a little before leaning back down to kiss you. messily. his cock is still bumping against your thigh and he gets hard again, thanks to the serum.

“p-please, i want to-“ his voice is nothing more than a stutter, his big hand sliding down your hips and pushing your legs apart a little more. “wanna feel you properly. need it.”

you can’t deny him what he wants, right?

[crybabyalexxx]

tastes like trouble

˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆ pairing: cowboy!bob reynolds x reader

word count: 4.3k

warnings: cowboy!au, smut, nsfw 18+ [mdni], kinda dom!bob, oral sex (f! receiving), unprotected piv sex (wrap before you tap), praise kink, size kink, creampie, dirty talk, slight breeding kink, nipple sucking, mutual pining, sexual tension, use of pet names (darlin’, sweetheart, baby), hair pulling (mentioned once), no use of y/n, aftercare.

summary: the ranch was supposed to change your attitude. instead, you caught bob reynolds’ attention — and once you’re his, he’s not letting go.

bob reynolds masterlist

a/n: this took me ages and i don’t even know if i like it. i feel like im bad at ending my fics 😭 gif not mine! smut under cut. mdni

requests are open

It’s been a few weeks since Daddy dearest shipped you off to the family ranch in the middle of nowhere. Well—technically, it’s Lubbock. But as far as you’re concerned, it may as well be the edge of the earth. Your father decided it was time you “learn some responsibility,” and apparently, being surrounded by farm animals and dirt roads was the perfect cure for your so-called attitude.

Not everything is terrible, though. There’s one silver lining: Bob Reynolds — the ranch’s quiet, broad-shouldered farmhand. Tall, sun-kissed, and built like the kind of trouble you wouldn’t mind getting into. Always in that damn hat, too — worn low like he’s hiding something, or maybe just watching everything a little too closely.

He thinks you’re a spoiled brat, of course — made that noticeably clear on day one — but you like to believe you’ve somewhat changed his mind over the weeks. You still complain and roll your eyes every time someone asks you to carry hay bales, but… there’s something about it. As much as you hate to admit it, life on the ranch isn’t entirely miserable. You’re starting to get used to it: the early mornings, the dirt under your nails, and the way the sky looks just before sunset — wide open and endless.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he calls, voice smooth and lazy like honey dripping off the edge of a spoon. “You gonna help me with supper, or just stand there lookin’ like trouble?”

It pulls you from your thoughts, but he doesn't stop staring.

He can’t.

That little green sundress is damn near killing him, clinging soft at your waist, swaying just enough to tease with every step. Sunlight dances off your skin, those long legs bare and golden, and Bob swears under his breath because it's almost too much. 

You don't even notice what you’re doing to him. Or maybe you do. Maybe that’s the worst part. 

He shifts his weight, trying to think about anything else — but his mind keeps slipping, tumbling into places it shouldn’t. Not with you. Not the boss’s daughter.

But God help him, he’s already there.

“Coming!” you shout, tossing a quick glance over your shoulder to double-check the gates are locked.

When you turn back toward Bob, your gaze lingers — just a little too long. You can’t help it. The afternoon sun catches the sweat slicked across his skin, making every muscle stand out in sharp relief. His shirt is half undone, clinging to his chest, and the veins in his forearms flex as he wipes his brow.

You swallow hard.

Yeah… maybe this place isn’t so bad after all.

You tear your gaze away before he turns around and catches you staring — though the thought lingers. You wonder how those muscles would feel under your hands, strong and solid beneath your touch.

You curse yourself under your breath, feeling heat settle low in your belly — and lower. Great. Now you’ll be tossing and turning all night, thinking about the way his forearms flexed. Maybe if you moan his name loud enough, he’ll finally get the damn hint.

By the time you step into the kitchen, the air feels thicker than it should — heat from the stove, or maybe just the way Bob looks over his shoulder when you walk in. “You’re on choppin’ duty.” When you glance over, he just holds your gaze. No smile, no tease. “You’ve got steady hands,” he says simply. But somehow, it sounds like more. 

You feign annoyance, but honestly? You’re kind of glad. Chopping means standing next to him, close enough to smell his cologne and feel the brush of his arm when he reaches for the salt. Not that you’re thinking about that. Obviously.

You grab the apron hanging on the back of the door and tie it around your waist, slow and deliberate. The fabric pulls just right across your chest — and you know Bob’s not immune to the view. He doesn't look away. Not once. Not even when your apron pulls tight against your chest. It’s not cocky — it’s quiet, fixed, hungry. 

You smirk as you pick up the knife and get to chopping.

The rest of the cooking goes smoothly, with flour and laughter flying as you both settle into a rhythm. Bob shows you how to fry up some golden chicken, the sizzling sound filling the kitchen.

You roll out dough for biscuits, get your hands sticky with homemade jam, and watch as he stirs a pot of creamy mashed potatoes on the stove. The smells mingle — comforting and familiar in a way you hadn’t expected.

By the time you’re done, the counter’s a delightful mess of flour dust, crumbs, and chopped herbs, and you’re both a little dusty and sweaty, grinning wide.

“You know the drill, princess,” he murmurs, voice low and warm like a secret. “Pick us out a drink, and I’ll get everything plated.”

You step over to the fridge, letting the burst of cool air hit your skin — a welcome relief from all the heat you’ve been feeling lately, inside, and out. You grab a cold bottle of beer for Bob and one of the fancy cocktails he stocked just for you — the kind you’ve made a habit of enjoying every night like it’s your little reward for surviving ranch life.

You hand him his, and when your fingers brush, barely, it sparks. A flicker of something dangerous. His gaze lifts, calm but focused, and you catch the way his tongue runs across his bottom lip like he's thinking something he shouldn't say.

“You alright?” he asks softly, that damn drawl curling around the words. “You’re lookin’ a little flushed.”

“Shut up,” you mutter, smoothing down your dress like it’ll hide anything. “I’m fine.”

He doesn’t argue. Just chuckles under his breath and guides you to the table, pulling out a chair like it’s nothing — like he hasn’t been quietly knocking the air out of your lungs all week with moments like this.

You sit, heart thudding in your chest that you're not just having supper.

He sets the plates down, brushing past you with that same slow ease, and it takes everything in you not to reach out and touch — just to see what he’d do. 

You take a bite of the chicken and let out a soft, involuntary sound — all buttery heat and pepper and crisp skin. He made this for you. It shouldn’t matter, but it does.

Across the table, Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle, grip just a little too firm. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you, eyes unreadable, jaw clenched tight.

You look back at him, the air thick and heavy like a storm about to break. You chew slowly, careful not to say anything. You both know that if you do, there’s no taking it back.

You take a sip of your drink, eyes flicking to the old hat tossed carelessly on the table. It’s faded, worn down at the edges, and something about it pulls at you. Maybe it’s the alcohol, maybe it’s the way that Bob hasn’t stopped watching you like he’s afraid to blink.

You reach for it without thinking.

“This cap’s kinda legendary,” you say, fingers brushing over the fabric. “Think I can pull it off?”

He doesn't say a word. Just watches as you lift, slow and deliberate, and settle it on your head with a grin that dares him to say something.

You tilt your head. “I think it suits me.”

There's a shift in the air — You feel it before he speaks. A crackle, subtle and sharp, like the second before lightning hits.

“It does,” he says, voice low. “Too well.”

You blink, the grin softening, your fingers resting lightly on the brim.

“It's just a hat,” you murmur.

“No. It's not.”

He stands, the movement slow but full of intent. When he crosses the room, it's the kind of focus that makes your skin heat. He stops just in front of you, close enough your knees graze his thighs.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says, voice rough around the edges. “Putting that on.

You look up at him, heart thudding. “Then tell me.”

Bob exhales though his nose, like he’s trying to keep himself in check. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t have to. His presence alone is enough to make your body hum.

“Means something, he says. “To me. And now you’ve got it on like it’s nothing.”

You swallow. “I didn’t mean– “

He cuts you off with a kiss.

It’s sudden but not rushed — like he’s been holding it in for hours, maybe longer, and it finally snapped. His mouth moves over yours like he’s tasting something he’s been craving too long. His hands gripping your hips, firm and steady.

You kiss him back without hesitation, fingers curling into his shirt, dragging him closer. He groans softly against your lips, like the sound’s been buried deep in his chest and you just dragged it out.

The hat tilts on your head, and he pulls back just enough to smirk. “Keep it on,” he says, voice hoarse. “You’re not done wearing it yet.”

Then he’s on you again, mouth hot and insistent. Tongue sliding against yours, slow and filthy. His hands move to your thighs, spreading them just enough to step between, dragging your body into his. “You’ve been drivin’ me crazy,” he mutters, lips brushing your jaw. “Sittin’ there in that dress like you didn’t know what you were doing.”

You gasp when his teeth scrape lightly over your neck, when his fingers slip beneath the hem of your dress. “I– I didn’t,” you whisper, through your voice betrays you, shaking with want.

He laughs against your skin, low and rough. “Liar.”

His hands are everywhere now, like he can’t get enough — up your thighs, over your waist, cupping your ass and squeezing until you whimper. His mouth follows the curve of your neck, sucking bruises into your skin, like he’s leaving proof behind. “I’ve been trying to be good,” he says, dragging his lips back up to yours. “But you? You just made that real hard.”

You tug him in by the collar, breath catching as he kisses you again, deeper, hungrier. You feel it in your gut — the way he wants to ruin you slowly. The way you want to let him. And when he lifts you into his arms, his hat still perched on your head, he doesn’t say anything more.

He doesn’t need to. You already gave him permission the moment you put it on.

He carries you toward his bedroom—your forgotten food fading into the background. His lips trail fire down your neck. His teeth graze, bite, suck bruises into your skin, like he’s desperate to leave proof that this is real. He shoves the door open with his shoulder and kicks it shut without looking. His hands never leave you. His mouth never lifts.

Then he tosses you onto the bed. Not roughly, but with urgency — like he’s seconds away from losing control. You look up at him, dazed. Chest rising and shallow breaths. Heart hammering.

Bob moves between your legs, slow and deliberate. His hand trails up your inner thigh, and your skin prickles under the heat of his palm. God. He looks so good from here. Broad, golden, flushed. Eyes darker than you've ever seen them. You bite your lip, pulse quickening as you meet his gaze. There's nothing playful in it. Just pure, aching hunger period.

He swallows, chest rising hard. “You don't even know,” he says, voice strained like he's trying to hold something back. “What you do to me.”  He slides his hand higher. You suck in a breath. ”Been thinkin’ about this,” he continues, barely above a whisper. “Thinkin’ about you spread out and soft and wet for me.

The patch darkening your panties should embarrass you. It doesn't. Not when he looks at you like that. His hand cups you through the fabric, firm enough to make you jolt. Your legs twitch, trying to close, but he keeps you open with a quiet, “Don’t.”

A pause. His gaze flicks up. “Let me see you like this. Don’t hide.”

You nod. Swallowing thickly.

He breathes out slow, like he’s grounding himself. “That’s it,” he murmurs, thumb starting to move in slow, teasing circles. “Good girl.”

Your hips buck up to meet him, chasing the friction. His jaw tightens. “So impatient,” he mutters, voice low and almost fond. “I’ll take care of you.” He hooks fingers into your panties and pulls them down, tossing them somewhere behind him. Then, without pause, his fingers part your folds, sliding through the slickness gathered there. His thumb catches your clit and presses gently, rubbing enough to make your back arch.

He watches every reaction like it’s art. “Bet you taste even better than I imagined,” he says quietly, like it’s just for him. Like it’s a thought he didn’t mean to say aloud. Then he likes a long stripe up your centre.

You gasp, head thrown back, fingers tangling in his hair. He moans against you, deep and rough and the sound vibrates through your core. He doesn’t stop. His mouth is hot and unrelenting, tongue working you over like he’s desperate to memorize your taste. His grip tightens around your thighs. You feel him lift your hips, anchoring you to his mouth and then –God– he’s everywhere. Tongue pushing inside you, lips sealing over your clit, sucking hard. He moans again, louder this time, like he needs it.

“Bob–“ your voice breaks, body trembling. He doesn’t stop. Just slides his tongue deeper, drags it over every slick inch. You cry out again as he sucks and laps and groans against your swollen lips. You’re close, so close, the tension coiled low in your belly threatening to snap.

“You gonna cum for me?” he rasps against your skin. “Right here, sweetheart?” His voice is hoarse, raw. “Let me feel you. Let me taste all of it.” The possessiveness in his voice, the reverence, it breaks something open in you. The wave crashes hard. You cum with a cry, hips trembling, thighs squeezing his head.

But Bob doesn’t stop. He holds you in place, tongue still working, drinking down everything you give him. He’s messy with it. Starved. And when he finally pulls back, mouth glistening, he looks wrecked. “You’re unreal,” he breathes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then licking it clean. “Could get drunk off you.”

You’re trembling, barely able to breathe, the aftershocks coursing through your body. The only answer you can give is a soft choked moan as your thighs try to close around him again.

He chuckles low—deep and warm. Then starts to move up your body, pressing soft kisses to your skin as he does. He pushes your dress higher, until your breasts spill free. The chill in the air makes your nipples harden, and his gaze flickers there, caught. His hands are slow as they tug the dress over your head and toss it aside. He stares down at you like he’s looking at something holy. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, more to himself than you. “Didn’t think I’d ever get to see you like this.” His thumbs brush over your nippled and you arch into his touch. His palms are rough, gentle.

You laugh softly, breathless; a little dazed. “Keep looking at me like that,” you whisper, “and I might start thinking you actually like me.”

He stills. Just for a second. Then he leans in and presses a kiss between the swell of your breasts. “I do,” he says, no hesitation. No grin. “I do.” His mouth moves lower, trailing fire as he goes. He nips at your skin, lingers over your breast, sucking bruises into the soft flesh. When he takes your nipple into his mouth and bites down gently, you moan. Your hips grind against nothing.

Empty. Needy. You mumble, almost broken, “Need you inside me.”

Bob pushes his boxers down, his cock springing free and slapping against his abdomen — thick, flushed, and already leaking. Your eyes widen as you take him in, and he notices. A dark look crosses his face, like he’s fighting some deeper urge. He steps closer, wrapping a hand around his length, stroking once — slow. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice rough and low. “You scared?”

You shake your head, breath catching. “No.” you manage, though your body’s already trembling with anticipation.

He leans down, lips brushing your ear. “Good,” he breathes. “Because you’re gonna take it. Every inch. You hear me sweetheart?”

Another wave of slick coats your thighs at his words. Your voice is a breathy whisper, half defiant, half teasing: “Then stop talking and make me.”

His breath catches. Just a flicker, but you see it. Feel it in the way his jaw clenches, in the way his hand tightens around his cock. Your words strike a nerve, sharpen something already on edge. Your words strike a nerve, sharpen something already on edge.

“You really want that?” he murmurs, voice low, like a warning. “Want me to ruin you?”

He doesn’t wait for your answer.

Bob climbs over you, guiding the thick head of his cock to your entrance. He drags it through your slick folds, coating himself, teasing your clit with slow strokes. His gaze stays locked on yours the whole time, hungry and unflinching.

“You’re already shaking,” he whispers, more awe than mockery. “So soft…fuck, you’re soaked.” He presses in just a little, and your breath hitches. The stretch is immediate—intense. He grits his teeth, stilling.

“Easy,” he breathes, one hand sliding up your side before tangling in your hair, gently but firmly tugging your head back. The motion exposes your throat, makes you feel bared, offered. His touch grounds you, even in its roughness. “Let me.”

He pushes deeper, inch by inch. His free hand grabs your hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh to keep you steady. The stretch burns, just a little, but the way he fills you…it’s overwhelming in the best way. “God,” he groans, jaw tight. “You’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight, baby. Feels like heaven.

You're panting, nails digging into his arms. You can feel every vein, every inch of him as he finally bottoms out, buried fully inside you. The weight of him settled heavy in your core, full and stretching and perfect. A whimper breaks from your throat. “S’too big, f-feels so good– “

“I know, I know,” he murmurs against your neck, pressing soft kisses along your jaw. “You’re takin’ me so well. My good girl.”

Then he starts to move.

He starts off slow at first, giving you time to adjust. Each stroke is deep and deliberate, letting you feel every inch of him. But then your walls flutter around him, clenching tight, and his control shatters.

A groan rips from his throat as he grips your hips tighter, dragging you closer, and starts to drive into you harder — rough, fast, relentless. Bob grunts against your ear, voice ragged. “This pretty pussy was made for me.” Each word hits like a thrust, like a claim. Skin slaps against skin, loud and filthy and perfect.

A moan forces its way out if your throat: loud, shameless. You can barely breathe, barely think, each thrust stealing more of your mind. You claw at his shoulders, fingers digging into firm muscle, trying to ground yourself. But there’s no anchoring. Not when he’s this deep, this rough, this relentless.

He’s everywhere—his breath in your ear, his hands gripping your hips like you’re something he owns, his cock hitting that perfect spot again and again until you’re teetering on the edge.

“Bob–“ It’s a gasp, a plea. You don’t even know what you’re begging for. Your thighs start to shake. That fire in your belly tightens, winding sharper and sharper, ready to snap. “I– I’m gonna–“

“You cum when I tell you to,” he growls, cutting you off. Then his hand slides down—fingers finding your clit, rubbing slow, torturous circles. You cry out, hips bucking, but he doesn’t let up. Doesn’t let you go. His grip on your waist tightens, holding you still as he fucks into you, rhythm brutal and unrelenting.

A whine slips out of you before you can stop it, your body clenching around him, every nerve on fire. Bob notices. Of course he does. His eyes are locked on yours now, something sharp and burning behind them, like he’s seeing straight through you.

“You close?” he murmurs, voice lower now. Less cocky, more reverent — like watching you fall apart beneath him means something. His thumb doesn’t stop. Neither do his hips. “You gonna fall apart for me, darlin’?”

You nod, frantic, too far gone to play coy. The heat building in your belly is unbearable now, all-consuming.

And then his voice softens–not in volume, but in weight. “I ain’t ever wanted anyone like this.”

Your breath hitches as you take in his words, and you nod, barely able to speak, the pressure coiling tighter and tighter in your belly. His thumb keeps circling your clit, still snapping into yours, harder now — more urgent. “I’m close,” you gasp, voice barely more than a whisper.

“I know, baby,” he grits out, his rhythm growing rougher. “Want you to cum for me. Now. Wanna feel this pretty pussy milk me dry.”

That’s all it takes.

Your orgasm crashes over you, sudden and overwhelming — your body seizing around him, thighs shaking, breath catching on a cry that sounds more like his name than anything else.

A groan tears out of him, deep and raw, as your walls flutter around him. “Fuck, just like that. Gonna fill you up.” His hips stutter, pace faltering as he slams into you one last time and buries himself to the hilt.

You feel it. The heat of him spilling deep inside, thick and hot, and the way his whole body trembles with it. He stays there, pressed against you as if he’s trying to pour every last drop of himself into you.

His voice is low, hoarse, right against your ear. “Mine now. Inside and out.”

He stays still for a moment, just holding you. Then you feel the shift in his body as he presses a kiss to the top of your head. “C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you in the bath.”

You hum in protest, half-asleep already. “Too far…”

Bob chuckles low in his chest. “I’ll carry you princess. Don’t worry your pretty head.”

And he does — lifts you like it’s nothing, like you weigh less than a feather in those strong arms of his. You tuck yourself against him, limbs limp, still soft and slick between your thighs. You don’t miss the way his eyes flick down for a moment, like he’s remembering exactly what he just did to you.

He sets you down gently on the edge of the top, one hand on your back to steady you while the other reaches for the knobs. The water starts to fill — warm, slow, steam curling in the air. He grabs a bottle from the shelf and adds a little, something herbal and clean, and you watch him, dazed, while he works.

Once the tub is ready, he helps you in first, steady hands guiding your hips as you sink into the heat with a sigh. “There you go,” he says softly, climbing in behind you.

You settle back against his chest, his arms curling around you like instinct. He presses a kiss to your damp temple. “Better?”

You nod. ”So much.”

His hands wander, but not in the way they had before — now, it's slow and soothing. he grabs the washcloth and gently runs it down your arm, over your thigh, between your legs with reverence. every touch says the same thing: I've got you.

“You know,” he murmurs after a while, voice low against your neck, “you wear my hat…now you’re wearin’ my touch…I might have to start keepin’ you.”

You smile, eyes fluttering shut. “You already do.”

By the time the water turns lukewarm, your skin is flushed and pruned, your body relaxed in a way you didn’t think was possible. Bob helps you out, wrapping a towel around your shoulders before drying you off himself — slow, careful, like you might break if he rushes.

He hands you one of his shirts after, soft and oversized. It smells like him. You pull it on without a word.

In bed, he tucks the blankets around you both, pulling you close until you’re tucked against his chest, your legs tangled with his. His fingers trail absently along your spine, slow and gentle, like he’s memorising every inch of you.

You tilt your head up slightly, catching the way he’s watching you, soft-eyed, lips parted. It’s like he’s still not over the way you said his name. Without a word, he leans in and kisses you.

It’s unhurried this time. Sweet. His lips move over yours like he’s savoring it — like he has nowhere else to be but here, with you. You sigh into him, hand slipping up to rest over his heart as your mouths move together, slow, warm and easy. The kiss deepens, just a little. Enough to make your chest flutter. His hand slides up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing in the corner of your mouth like he's trying to soothe a need you didn't know you had.

When he finally pulls back, just enough to look at you, his forehead rests against yours. “Still mine,” he whispers, voice low and rough.

You smile, lips brushing his. “Yours.”

He pulls you closer — chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat — and this time, when he kisses you, it lingers.

Like a promise.

please like, comment and reblog to let me know what you think ♡

© buckysprettybaby; do not copy, translate, or repost my work anywhere under any circumstances.

[crybabyalexxx]

the love confession

summary: bob can’t stand it. you’re just too fucking pretty. you distract him, you make every horrible, ugly thought dissipate. he craves it. he knows you, and you know him. it feels right, and his feelings are so strong he doesn’t know what to do anymore. he has no idea that you feel the same. that you ache for his comfort, for his feelings to reflect your own.

but a week of strained normalcy, a build up of emotional tension, and a failed mission lead to more than innocent, friendly thoughts. bob’s limits are reached on waiting for the right damn moment.

he has to tell you. you want to tell him. let’s watch each of you try ;)

warnings: fluff/smut, longing, pining, some use of y/n, dirty talk, unprotected p in v sex, dirty thoughts, tension, body worship, bob is down bad, bob is a MAN, you are just as down bad, yelena is number one supporter, idiots in love, confusion, jealousy, a pinch of angst, just playing: so so much angst, possessive bob, oral sex (m&f receiving), canon-typical violence, reader gets hurt badly (more on that later), bob is not okay, fear, love, please just kiss alr you two

monday (chapter one)

Bob wakes up early this morning. Rolling over to take a drink of water. His first thoughts, as always, are about you. Your hair in the morning, what you were doing, if you had already fixed your coffee. He throws on sweats and a t-shirt, stumbling around so he can see you sooner. A sticky-note on his door read:

“BOB- do not forget, therapy on Mondays and Thursdays at 4:30 pm!! DONT MISS IT AGAIN! - ur fave :)”

He smiles dumbly and walks out, shutting the door behind him. As he enters the common area near the kitchen, he sees you wondering around the cabinets. He smiles, there you are. You looked as if you were about to burn the kitchen to the ground.

“What’s up?” He asks, settling behind you and sitting on the counter.

You groan, slapping your hands to your forehead and running them down your face. “Bobby, I swear to god if Walker eats my cereal again, I’ll cut his dick off and feed it to Yelena’s rat thing,” you grumble.

He laughs out loud, “Oh cmon now, you can’t do that to Yelena’s guinea pig. Besides, I have a secret stash, just for you.” You flip around, gripping his shoulders in a very serious stance, eyeing him. “Bobby. You. Are my hero.” His smile falters slightly at the closeness of your faces. What feels like a minute passes as he stares at your lips. He can just barely feel your breath on his chin. You’re too pretty.

You remove your hands, “well? Lead the way!” He grins again, hopping off the counter and showing you the faulty crack between the fridge and microwave, “tada!" He waves little enthusiastic jazz hands at you, handing you the box. You smile, a big, beautiful smile, and slap his shoulder.

“I’ll have to keep you around I suppose Robert Reynolds.” His name rolls off your lips like sin. He rolls his eyes to mask the tightness in his chest, “sure Y/n, sure.” You mock a pouty face and he laughs.

You giggle and stroll over to the bowls, a pep in your step at the promise of your favorite cereal. Bob had thought of you again, it made your ears and cheeks burn red.

He was always extra thoughtful of you, whether that meant your snacks were always stocked, your dishes were the first he worried about cleaning, or the way your stories always seemed the most interesting to him. You always thought it was just him being mindful of your sensitive feelings.

Little did you know, he was trying to show you everything he felt for you in every glance, action, and gesture. To everyone around you it was obvious. The rest of the team had pools on who would finally have the balls to tell the other first. Neither of you did, it seemed.

~~

Eating your cereal together, you don’t have to say much. Each other’s presence is enough. Bob mindlessly made your coffee just the way you liked it as you prepared the cereal bowls. It was clockwork, it was normal. Some might even say it was domestic.

You relay your plans for the day to Bob, “I need to workout, seriously. Even though I’ve got the same serum you do mr. god, I swear my bones are aching. Also, I was thinking about going to the bookstore, do you want to tag along to either place? I was thinking it’d just be us, almost like a da-…” you cut yourself off, mortified.

You often didn't think as you rambled, always just speaking your mind. It's not like you two hadn't hung out before... but it had always seemed coincidental, the right place at the right time. You had never asked him with the intention you had just now. Or almost asked...

Bob sputtered: did you want to go on a date with him? No, that’s not possible. You just saw him as a friend. His cheeks turned pink. His body felt on fire.

“Wow okay, I’m not offended at all,” you quickly reply at his reaction, taking your bowl to clean it. You frown, goddamn it. I pushed too much. He doesn’t see me like that. Stupid! Your heart pounded in your chest.

“No, wait what? Y/n, of course I want to go with you.” He chases after you, grabbing your wrist, taking the bowl from your hands slowly, and rinsing it. Your lip pulls to the side, “it’s okay if not. I just thought it would be something we would both enjoy. I had a book recommendation lined up and everything, but I didn’t even ask what your plans were, I'm sorry...” Bob put a hand on your shoulder, “hey, you’re starting to sound like me, quit it,” he smiled. “I always want to hang out with you Y/n.”

Your halfway serious grin returned and you punched him in the shoulder. “Then don’t almost spit up next time! You had me worried I overstepped a boundary in our heart warming friendship.”

Not that word again. Both of you cringed in your mind at the thought of just being friends. Neither of you wanted to just be friends. Bob smiled anyway, "You could never overstep. You know that, right?"

Your smile lessened at his tone, and you touched his shoulder again, grazing it with your hand, a serious look on your face. "I know."

It was a silent plea for physical reassurance. You often thought about curling up to Bob, taking your worries and your fears, and letting him take over. He always talked to you first about nightmares, he always held you then, in the quiet of the night. It was always innocent. That was an easy conversation for you to have together, having gone through the same trials. He just got you. You pulled away.

It meant everything to Bob that you touched him.

~~

You were sweaty and tired, training had worn you out. The sparring with John took way too long, so you ran back to your room to shower and change quickly. Stepping in, the hot water washed away all the physical exhaustion, but the mental side never truly went away.

You just simply had too much on your mind. Everything with Bob, constant life-threatening missions, the pressure of the press, your serum trauma. It was always so much to carry.

It would help if you had someone to help you carry it, but the one person you want is your best friend.

You couldn't mess that up, you wouldn't lose Bob. Just the thought of scaring him away by your feelings kept you from telling him the truth.

That you wanted him. That you pictured it, everything with him. From date nights, to lingering touches, to a home, all the way to wrinkles.

You step out, drying yourself off. Maybe one day, when things calm down. When Val isn’t breathing down your neck constantly. When you have more control over your emotions, over your new powers. You would tell him.

Putting on a sweatshirt and shorts, you throw your hair into an easy style, curl your lashes, put a little extra effort into your makeup and jewelry for the ‘date,’ and head down to meet Bobby by the cars.

You take the elevator, staring and dreaming of how to make it known that you like Bob, knowing that you wouldn’t dare. But just his company was enough for know.

Bob is leaning against a Cadillac, waiting for you when you walked up. He looked up from his phone, “Oh hey! Um... Wow, are we only going to the bookstore?” He swallows.

You look down at your outfit, “yeah? I’m only wearing sweats.”

Bob chuckles and runs a nervous hand through his hair, “well, it’s just. You look good—um. You always look good.”

You smile on instinct, blushing hard. “Thank you.” He leans forward enough to brush a stray piece of hair away. Every touch felt electric, wanting, right. You leaned into his touch. A slam of the door behind you both startled you, Bob dropping his hand.

Alexei greeted each of you with a hug, running up and yelling, “EYY! My favorite Avengerz.”

You each pat his back awkwardly and greet him. He grins, “finally going on a date? I told you Bobby, she’s a good one.”

Bobby looked stunned and blushed firmly, staring at his feet. You quickly cover, patting Alexei's shoulder and pulling Bob towards the car, “no, no Alexei, we’re just going out. Thanks for the compliment though.” You would never assume anything. You murmur, "I'm sorry" to Bob as you each get in. He assures you it's okay. You know better.

With a reaction like that from Bob, you felt grounded. Back down to Earth. He didn’t want you like that, he cared about you, but it wasn’t anything more than family- sister and brother. Even thought you dreamed of more, something more like teammates against the world and lovers... you still had him. Robert. That was all that mattered.

Besides, it was impractical.

You understood, it was a dangerous risk to fall.

Each of you stayed silent on the drive to the bookstore. Bob had let Alexei's words get to his head and it was obvious. You had noticed, and spent the entire drive trying to find the right words to comfort him.

When you parked, Bobby went straight for his seatbelt, but you stopped him. "Hey, I know what he said bothered you. But I appreciate you coming anyways."

His eyes squinted and he looked frustrated, "it's just... that's not how I wanted things to go. Not how they should go," he painfully admitted. Your heart winced at his words, of course that isn't how he wanted it, he doesn't want that. Why can't I just accept that.

"Let's just go inside, yeah?" You ask, trying to hide the storm brewing inside your head. He looked at you. For a beat, words you wish each other would say, hung in the space between you. The only thing holding you back was yourselves.

~~

The bookstore was quiet, slow, and steady. Each aisle was littered with old, new, torn, and worn books. You had already found a poetry book on your tbr list and immediately added it to the stack you each had compiled. You would swipe Val's card on your heart's desires any day of the week. She deserved it.

The tattered books you held reminded you of each person on the team.

A pristine covered novel, with poorly hidden rips and markings inside - Walker

A short, honest, and used memoir with a broken spine - Ava

A thick, very beaten book, which you couldn't tell if it'd been well loved or torn apart on purpose - Bucky

A gleaming fiction of a story of glory which ended in disappointment - Alexei

A series book, contained to its beaten holder with its fellow victims who had all been through beatings together, torn apart - Yelena

A hopeful manuscript with dried tears on it's pages, not yet finished - Robert

And you, a soft cover, written over in ink and tears, full of empty meaning, alone.

You needed a drink.

After your selections, you checked out, the cashier seemingly satisfied with the absolute library you were taking home, gave you a free tote to haul them in. You and Bob always shared books, so there was no reason to split them into piles. You would read his margin notes, and add yours nearby.

Bobby seemed off on the ride home. He obviously had something on his mind. You silently willed for the words Alexei had said to roll off his shoulders. The more it bothered him, the more worried you became about your feelings.

They could become a real problem if you didn't shake them. If you couldn't let go of this, then it would effect your work, your safety, his safety. It could not get to that point.

It was time to end your crush on Robert Reynolds.

God you have no idea what you'e doing.

~~

Dinner was good. Yelena made something with pork and stew, her own recipe. It was delicious, but dinner had been ruined for you when Bob turned in extra early, blaming it on his desire to read a new book. Your unhappy attitude had been noticed fairly quickly. But nobody dared say anything.

You retreated to sulk on your own soon after dinner. Passing Bob's door and opening your own, you heard the shower on. You two had to share a bathroom, which connected your suites. Sometimes, it was torture when you'd accidentally almost see him naked.

Lord had the serum been kind to him. His body looked amazing, he was the rugged, but subtle kind of ripped. The freckles across his chest made you want to tear him apart with your lips. His veins, leading down to his long fingers, made you want to be fucked stupid with his hands choking you. It was embarrassing, but it was true.

You laid in bed with a book in your hands, carelessly reading the same lines over and over again, willing your head to focus. But you couldn't, you needed to talk to Bob.

After abandoning the book, you stood, trying to convince yourself to be brave. To face what you felt.

You knock on the door on his side of the bathroom, and after he mumbles, "One sec!" You hear a tumble and a small curse. He finally opens the door a crack after a minute. "Yeah?" He croaks, his hair a mess. He looks sweaty, has he been working out or something?

"I'm sorry if I interrupted, we can talk tomorrow," you quickly whispered, and turn to go. He catches your wrist, "no wait."

His hand was sweaty, almost moist. You looked down at the contact. Bob's adam's apple shifted up and down as he swallowed the tension. "I, I should apologize," he speaks lowly.

"I was so quiet, I had to have made your head spin. I was just thinking about what Alexei said, and I-" You interrupt bringing your hand to his cheek, "I get it, I knew that's what it was."

Bobby's brows furrowed, and his mouth opened to speak, but he hesitated. Why were you avoiding his opinion so much? Had he upset you? Why were you touching his cheek and not fucking kissing him with those lips. He wanted you. You dropped your hand, so he pulled you in for a hug. God this is too friendly, you both thought.

"Listen, if I hurt you by my reaction it was not meant. You know that I care... about you." He whispered, his lips barely grazing your hair. When had you changed the scent of your shampoo? It was incredible. Fuuuuuck.

You didn't dare meet his eyes, keeping your face buried in your friend's neck. But a soft hand guided your chin, tilting you up to meet his eyes. "You get some sleep, and we'll figure it all out tomorrow, mkay?" He strains. Your touch was too much after his previous activites. His cock was gonna burst. You nod, slowly, and your eyes flicker down to his lips for a second.

That split second made Bob so hard it hurt. He brushed a piece of hair back behind your ear, and you silently retreated to your room, stunned and wet as hell.

Each of you laid in bed, restless, thinking the same thoughts.

What the fuck.

I want her

I'd fuck him right now

Maybe tomorrow. But for now, you each needed sleep.

Bobby dreamt of your new shampoo and you mouth around his cock. You dreamt of his hands around your throat again, and a wrap-around porch with his hand in yours, reading books.

For now, you were each content.

[crybabyalexxx]

invisible string

bob reynolds x reader

⚜️🥂🦾🌫️⚡️*️⃣

sunmary : you never believed in soulmates…until one day you feel a pull

word count : 3.2k

a/n - ik bob doesnt canonically have a little sister but hear me out - protective older brother hcs?

!soulmate trope !invisible string trope • brief mentions of steve x reader, !platonic bucky x reader

song : invisible string - taylor swift

⚜️🥂🦾🌫️⚡️*️⃣

You don’t believe in soulmates. They’re silly little children’s stories, the type that lull little girls to sleep with dreams of princes and fairytale endings. The simple truth is that the only prince that saves you is yourself. You thought someone was your soulmate once. Blonde, charming and a grin that made girls swoon, and pretty blue eyes that gazed at you with something you could only describe as adoration. ‘Doll,’ he called you with that voice that whispered promises late at night into your ear. ‘Stevie,’ You called him. He was ‘Captain America, Steve Rogers,’ to the world, but in your small little protective bubble he was yours and you were his. Until he left. With a briefcase in one hand, and your heart in the other, until he arrived back a couple seconds later, wrinkled with age and a golden ring wrapped around his finger. His eyes, still cornflower blue and just as alight with youth.

“Stevie.” You acknowledge, as if it was merely a casual greeting.

“Doll.” You can hear your voice break, feel your hands tremble by your sides, feel the burning hot blurring of your vision. You watch his lips move to form the familiar nickname. Doll. It had been years for him, minutes for you and it seemed to elict the same bittersweet sting within your chest as always.

“Was the dance worth it?” you breathe. There’s a pause, as if contemplating breaking your heart even further. And then he gives the tiniest nod. And you feel everything inside you shatter just one last time. And only when he turns around, you let a tear slip through the crevice of your mosaic heart.

You always thought these galas were a waste of time. You hide your scoff in your bubbling champagne glass, downing it within two gulps, plucking another from a passing waiter. Political opinions, the soft tinks of wine glasses, and the murmured chatter that was for only one purpose. To build connections. Frankly, quite stupid if you did say so yourself. You had to spend money on nails, to get your hair done and a new dress, though it wasn’t like you were short on assets. Your father had hosted too many charity events in his time, and yet every time he seemed to get drunker than the last, and each time people let him; merely because he was Tony Stark. Genius, philanthropist, billionaire, ironman and devoted father. Those were the titles that stained his name, etched into history books for ions to come. You never expected to be dragged into legal drama after Tony died. But then again, you never expected the government to repackage his legacy into a glossy, weaponized PR stunt. The Thunderbolts— John Walker (ew), Valentina Allegra De Fontaine (who names their child that?!), Bucky Fucking Barnes (backstabbing bitch), Ava Starr (eh), Alexei Shostakov (ehh), Yelena Belova (you weren’t necessarily opposed to her), and now Robert Reynolds (the guy who practically voided New York out of existence)—are being marketed as the “New Avengers” It’s not just insulting. It’s theft. Sam made his stance loud and clear. He filed a lawsuit backed by people who actually understand what the Avengers stood for. And since you’re a Stark with a law degree tucked between your engineering certifications and your grief, you’re now the face behind the suit. That’s why you’re here. This gala isn’t a party. It’s a battleground, dressed in tuxedos and champagne flutes. You’re here to corner Bucky. Strapped into heels far too high for comfort and wrapped in the kind of gown that demanded attention- coloured deep wine red and your hair was done in cascading curls—thick and glossy, tumbling down your back like a waterfall of y/h/c silk. You’re halfway through the crowd—eyes sharp, mouth neutral—when something shifts. You feel it like a snap in your chest. Not pain. Not panic. Just… tension. Like something soft winding around your ribs and gently pulling forward. Its insistent, a small tug that lures you to the target of the small annoyance. And…its…not who you expected. Robert Reynolds, fiddling with his tie, clad in a dark tuxedo, hair tentatively placed and smoothed with gel, dark and thick and looks soft enough for you to run your fingers through. And before you know it, your heels are striding across the floor with soft clicking that warns him of your upcoming presence. You hear the shuffle of his feet nervously, as he raises his eyes to meet yours, easily towering over your despite the 5 inches your shoes assist your height with. The first thing you notice is how warm his eyes are. They’re a soft brown, almost golden around the edges—eyes that looked too human for someone like him. The type of honeyed amber that reminded you of cocoa that hadn’t been stirred properly, dark and cloudy and a little too easy to sink into if you weren’t careful. You could feel the pressure behind them—barely restrained power, fragile control. One blink too long, and the Void might blink back. His lips twitch, his mouth opening then closing.

“You’re Y-Y/N Stark.” You let out a soft laugh at his stutter, his cheeks tinging pink at the sound.

“And you’re Robert Reynolds and you’re my key to finding Bucky Barnes tonight.”

“Bucky’s occupied at the moment-” He pauses for a moment as if contemplating his next words.

“And you can call me Bob.” The words hang in the air for a moment, unsure, but spoken with the tiniest curve of his lips.

“Bob. Right.” You murmur, sighing, your eyebrows furrowing as you begin to mumble incoherently. Bob’s face falls slightly as he stumbles over his next words.

“B-but he will be back soon. Valentina’s just sent him out-why do you want him anyway?” He covers his mouth.

“Sorry, I get talkative when I’m nervous I shouldn’t have asked that I’m sorry-” You wince at the steady pouring of words from his mouth as he stops to catch his breath.

“It’s alright Rober-Bob.” You catch yourself, watching as his face lights up, like a Christmas light.

“I’m here to talk to Bucky about coming home.” You watch as his face creases into confusion, his brows puckering.

“But Bucky is home,” He protests softly. You stop for a moment.

“Bucky’s home is with us.” You respond firmly.

“Sam, Joaqin and I. Away from those deranged fuckups and that psycho Valentina.” You can’t help the venomous words spilling and spitting from your mouth, they tumble out like dominoes, thoughts that had marinated a little too long so that it hurt and weighed down your chest.

“They’re not fuckups.” You turn your head back to him, feeling his eyes intensely stare at yours. They crumble slightly at your harsh gaze, but he doesn’t back down.

“Alexei, John, Yelena, Ava. They’re not fuckups. They saved me. They’re family.” You purse your lips, turning away.

“We’re Bucky’s family.” You murmur softly into the night. You don’t hear a response, already striding towards the shadowed figure that emerges into the bustling ballroom. As you increase the distance between the two of you, you attempt to ignore the pull that pulses in your chest, an invisible cord straining and unravelling in between the both of you.

“But-” Bob doesn’t finish, the words falling off his tongue as you walk away, his eyes following your retreating figure. His hand drops uselessly to his side, the apology dying in his throat. He wants to call after you, to explain, to do something, but his feet feel cemented to the floor and his chest aches with all the things he didn’t say soon enough.

“Bucky.” You greet, as you meet the dark eyes that remained cemented in your past, and hit a little too close to home. Dating Steve, Bucky was a constant, a close friend and companion that you trusted with your whole heart. He stiffens just slightly when his gaze meets yours—shoulders squared like he’s preparing for impact, and the soft sink of nostalgia and familiarity. Like everything was right except it wasn’t-like an old song that kept going out of tune. You remember long nights on the Tower rooftop, him nursing a drink while Steve paced and you laughed too loudly about things none of you had time to process. You remember what it felt like to have a family. Now, with Steve gone and the team scattered, seeing Bucky under this sharp lighting, in a pressed suit and behind the Thunderbolts’ name, feels like staring at a stranger who shares your grief.

“You look…” he starts, trailing off as his gaze flicks down to the wine-red of your gown.

“Different.”

“I had to,” you say simply. He nods, jaw tightening.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Believe me, I didn’t want to be.” There’s a silence—thick with everything unsaid. The lawsuit. Steve. The way this new team uses the Avengers name like it’s just another label to wear. You glance behind Bucky’s shoulder instinctively. Bob isn’t there. But the string still hums. You feel it like static in your chest. A pull. Not painful—yet—but persistent. Like something reminding you he’s still in the room.

“You came to talk to me?” Bucky asks. You look up into his face, noticing the unshaven but groomed stubble that peppered his chin, and hair was slicked back, unruly even under the product. You feel the words clog your throat, feel your palms sweat against the silky fabric that clings to your sides. You feel his eyes roam your figure, suddenly finding yourself unable to speak.

“I-I wanted to talk to you about Sam and-” Bucky dismisses you with a stiff shake of head. You see the bitter acceptance on his face.

“He doesn’t want to talk to me. I tried.” You sigh softly, finding his prosthetic hand tentatively. It feels too comforting, too familiar, the way the feeling of cold metal clashes with the warm flesh of your palm. It flexes against you involuntarily, pausing and contemplating and drawing back ever so slightly, before finally clasping it’s fingers around yours.

“Did you really? He wants to Buck-he just wants things to be normal again.” Your voice softens.

“He just wants you to come home.” Bucky drags his other hand down his face, his features contorting into frustration.

“Well he ruined that the minute he filed a lawsuit against us.” His tone turns sharp, like a knife that nicks against your heart as you release your grip on his hand slightly.

“Us?” Bucky shuffles on his feet nervously, avoiding your gaze.

“y’know, the team and I.”

“right. The New Avengers.” The words feel venomous on your tongue as you release your intertwined hands, finding yourself craving for some liqour therapy. This night was really not going as you thought it would be.

The moment the glass doors click shut behind you, the noise of the gala fades into a dull hum—just another party filled with expensive perfume and fragile egos. Out here, on the balcony high above New York, everything feels colder. Cleaner. The wind snakes through the air, tugging at the curls pinned behind your ear, and you finally let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. The city sprawls out beneath you—steel and light and memory. It’s beautiful in that chaotic, untouchable way. Just like it always was. You take a sip of your champagne. Then another. This one longer, more deliberate. The bubbles burn slightly down your throat, but it’s the sharpness you’re chasing. A distraction. Something fizzy and sweet to fill the ache in your chest that even fresh air can’t quite clear. You grip the edge of the stone railing, cool beneath your fingertips, and tip your head back. Inhale. One, two. The air tastes like autumn and exhaust and the faintest trace of rain, and somehow it still feels better than anything in there. Behind you, there’s music. Laughter. Chatter. The world pretending everything’s fine. Out here, it’s quiet. Out here, you can think. And try to ignore the golden thread tugging gently at your ribs—reminding you that someone else is still in there. Still waiting. Still watching. It’s become insistent, painful, dragging your eyes over to his presence like an addictive sensation until they linger for just a moment too long and his eyes snap to yours and you have to pull your stare while your cheeks painfully colour like an embarrassed teenage schoolgirl.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone.” The voice is soft—low and warm, like honey stirred into coffee—and it startles you more than it should. You don’t turn around. Not yet.

“I’ve been alone for a while, Bob,” you say quietly, fingers curling tighter around the champagne flute. The glass is nearly empty. The sky above you is wide and starless. Below, New York pulses—bright and careless. You feel him step closer. Not enough to crowd you. Just close enough that the string between you pulls a little tighter.

“I know,” he says.

“I felt it.” That makes you pause.

“You feel it too?” A nervous laugh bubbles in your throat as he slowly nods.

“I thought I was just being delusional.” You redirect your eyes from his face to the skyline, watching the city lights bounce off each other, bustling traffic piercing the cool night air, leaning into the ornate railing. You watch his shoulders lose some of its tension from the corner of your vision, feeling the heat burn off him and seep into your bare arms, hear the breaths that let his chest rise and fall. The light from the ballroom spills faintly behind him, catching the edges of his soft brown hair with hints of gold where the light caught it and the soft brown of his eyes—almost too soft for someone who’s seen what he has. Almost.

“I have a theory. Just hear me out,” He holds up his hands, splaying his fingers out in a gesture of innocence.

“Soulmates. An invisible golden thread knots them together when they meet.”

“You can’t be fucking serious,” You laugh.

“Soulmates? What, we meet and fall in love?” A faint blush colors his cheeks—something you’ve started to notice happens more than he probably knows.

“No. We could be anything, platonic, romantic, enemies.” He mumbles, tugging on his suit sleeve jacket. You turn then, slowly, leaning your shoulder against the railing as you meet his gaze.

“You believe in all this, don’t you?” you murmur.

“The string. The soulmate thing.” His eyes don’t waver.

“I didn’t used to.” You snort, a bitter sound.

“Right. But then we made eye contact across the room and your whole worldview changed?” He doesn’t smile, though his lips do twitch in amusement at your blunt tone. But he also doesn’t flinch.

“No,” he says.

“But then my sister met hers.” You swallow.

“Sister?”

“Emily.” He confirms.

“21 in November.” You hum, noting the tone of protectiveness and love laced into his words. It’s the way he says her name, like she’s everything good in the world. Like she’s the reason he still tries. Something about that disarms you. Just a little.

“You’re close.” Bob nods.

“She’s the reason I got better. She used to write letters to me. Even when I couldn’t answer. Even when I didn’t remember who I was.” You don’t speak. You just listen—watching how his gaze drifts out over the city, how the wind plays with a few unruly strands of his hair.

“When she found her soulmate,” he continues, voice quieter now,

“It wasn’t fireworks or fate or some magical golden thread. It was subtle. Gradual. And terrifying. But I saw it change her. I saw her start breathing easier.” You study him in the dim light, unsure what to say.

“After that, I stopped rolling my eyes at the stories.” Your chest tightens. You’d mocked the golden string too—chalked it up to desperate hope or people needing something to believe in after the world had already ended five different ways. But now you feel it. Thin as breath. Quiet as a whisper. Pulling between you and him.

“I don’t want to believe in something just because it’s convenient,” you hear yourself say.

“Because it would make things… easier.” Bob finally turns to you again. And this time, he doesn’t look away.

“It doesn’t make anything easier,” he says softly, eyes burning into you.

“It just makes it real.” You take another sip of your champagne, though it doesn’t burn the way it did earlier. It’s lost its fizz. Or maybe you’re too distracted to notice it. The city below continues to hum—uncaring, alive.

“Do you feel it?” you ask, voice barely audible.

“Even now?” He nods. Once.

“Every time you speak,” he says. “Like something pulls a little tighter.”

You don’t respond right away. Just ponder on his words. ‘We could be anything, platonic, romantic, enemies’

“You know I have a story, on why they exist.” Filling the silence stretching between the pair of you.

“Soulmates exist because they’re two halves of a quantum entanglement—a pair of souls linked beyond space and time, their energies forever intertwined. No matter the distance, no matter the trials, their strings pull taut to guide them back to each other.”

“Now you’re speaking my language. Science.” You laugh softly.

“Quantum entanglement huh?” Bob nods, smile widening ever so slightly at your laugh. He made you do that. He made you laugh.

“And we could be whatever we want to?”

“Anything.” You step closer, the tension between you thick enough to taste. Without a word, you brush your fingers lightly against his jaw, then lean in—just for a moment—to press a soft kiss on his cheek. You feel the golden string inside you leap, as if glowing and radiant between the two of you. Bob freezes, his eyes wide, cheeks flushing a deep shade of red. The warmth of your lips lingers, and for a second, he’s caught somewhere between stunned and completely undone. You pull back, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. Then, without another glance, you slip away—turning back inside the gala, leaving him standing alone on the balcony, heart pounding and face burning.

A week later, Bob lounges on the couch, book in hand, his eyes scanning the words but not quite reading them. His mind is stuck on the addictive feeling of warmth, the feeling of your lips pressed against the skin of his jaw, the red that bloomed on his cheeks. The feeling of you. The elevator rings, resonating throughout the common room of the tower as Valentina enters, holding up his suit jacket – freshly dry cleaned. And in the other hand- a crinkled slip of paper with numbrs inked in blue ink—Your number. Before he can react, Valentina’s voice cuts through the utter mortification that races in his mind and shows on his face.

“Well, well,” she says, eyebrow raised and knowing smirk wide on her face.

“Care to explain who this belongs to?” Bob’s blush deepens, a nervous laugh escaping as he tries to find words.

“It’s… complicated.”

[crybabyalexxx]

If you mess up a social interaction you can say "Failed Experiment" and move on

[crybabyalexxx]

THE PUPPY INTERVIEW Tom Hiddleston

[crybabyalexxx]

[crybabyalexxx]

didn't mean it

a/n: he has the eyes of a neglected hamster (prolly does it in bed too)

summary: maybe it was time to address the ‘possessiveness’ in your relationship.

warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, sub!bob to dom!bob, dom!reader to sub!reader, porn with absolutely little plot, a little sentry action, reader is possessive and a bit mean, afab!reader, p in v, mentions of a little violence, swearing, NOT PROOFREAD

wc: 0.9k+

“tell me how it went again?” 

you snark, the hand buried in his dirty blonde locks tightening in tune with your thighs around his legs. you bring his mouth up to your ear, rolling your hips to squeeze his response out of him.

“f-fuck…baby i didn’t m-mean to…ohh fuckk,” he cries, his shaky hands glued to your waist, digging into the flesh to try and slow your movements. he can’t help but push himself away from you, trying to recollect his breath so he can speak. but all that escapes him are broken moans and desperate whimpers. 

“oh really? mph…so you didn’t mean for her to rub her hands all over you? fuck. is that what that is?” you put all your weight on top of him, a darkened tone mixed into your once soft voice. 

“yes! yes…shit!…she just did it, i swear! i didn’t know what else to d-do…ahh.” you knew he was innocent, but the way she had her hands smoothing over his suit, acting like she was drunk enough to not realise you were eyeing them down on the other side of the ballroom. you could’ve easily punched a hole through her head right then and there, right in front of valentina, the team, and the entire guestlist. you had to admit though, it was cute seeing him try to scan through the crowd to find you. like a lost puppy not knowing what to do. but the sight didn’t last for long, after his eyes met yours, his face dropped seeing the deadly glint in your irises. 

you give him the same look now, head tilting down while you ride him, hips pushing so hard down into the bed you both could hear the creaks. his eyes are squeezed shut, drops of sweat trickling down his toned chest and towards his abs. his hair is a mess, with how much you had held onto it and from when you sat on his face earlier. who knew you had this much power over such a godlike man?

“y…you sure you didn’t know? i don’t have to give her a slight warning?” you question, knowing the warning would’ve ended up with that woman’s parts splattered across the city. you tug his hair a little so he looks up at you, his eyes slowly cracking open. 

“yesyesyesyes….fuck yes i didn’t k-know…mph-“ he leans close to you and wraps his lofty arms around your body, one on your lower back and one scooping beneath your underarm to hold your shoulder. seeking for forgiveness, he leans his head on your chest and gazes up at you. he gives you those same puppy eyes he did at the party, the ones of adoration, mercy, and pure love. 

you couldn’t stay mad at him forever. and maybe you were being a little too possessive.

“f-fine…make me cum - hard - and i’ll…ahh…forgive you,” you compromise. you could already feel your insides twist after the past one and a half hours you both were in bed for, and your legs were getting tired. 

and at that moment, you swear you see his eyes flicker a bright gold and white, before he tightens his grip and flips you over onto your back. before you could smile up at him, you felt your breath forced out of your lungs as he sheathes himself right back into you, settling into an unfathomable pace that was slightly faster than before. he groans and you let out a strained cry, his biceps flexing as he clenches the bedsheets with one hand and lifts your leg over his shoulder with the other. he’s deeper than before, finally reaching that sweet spot that sends you into orbit. 

“feels good, right? i’ll make sure you know i belong to you…always,” he speaks lowly, biting your neck while emitting loud, broken moans. you feel your eyes roll back, not a moment to spare you any settlement as you feel yourself getting pumped full. 

you can feel yourself coming over the edge, so you reach your hand down to circle your clit. but his hand stops you, letting go of your leg and replacing your hand with his. “no..let me make you feel good…you n-need it from me…shhhit, my fingers,” he almost growls into your ear. a sharp groan exits your throat, legs wrapping around his waist as his pace never slows and his fingers working wonders on your clit.  now you feel yourself on the edge, legs twitching and hole tightening around him. he lets out a stretched out whine, making sure you cum first. 

“fuck! bob…i’m g’nna, gonna cum…dontstopdontstop…” you blabber into his ear, before letting go and tightening around him. his breathless whimper follows, rolling his hips as he follows shortly after. filling you up, he almost collapses on you, but holds himself up at the last minute while you both come down from your highs. 

a few heavy huffs and an exchange of sloppy kisses later, he pulls out and leans against your neck, sighing into your collarbone. while you thought your moment of afterglow would last, your jolted out of your fuzzy thoughts as a glass explodes on the bedside table next to you. fortunately for the both of you, durable skin came with the whole “hero” package, so none of you were hurt. 

eyebrows furrowing in shock, you turn your head to the glass, then to bob. 

“really? that was the 3rd time this month! you really needa learn how to keep sentry from doing that” you exclaim with a chuckle, swiping the excess glass off the bed. 

“‘m sorry, didn’t mean it.”

[crybabyalexxx]

Busy Woman | Bob Reynolds from Thunderbolts

Summary: She's always busy and he thinks she doesn't notice him, but she does.

Warning: NSFW smut 18+ minors DNI, mutual pining, slow burn, teasing and flirting, sexual tension and eventual smut, mentions of nudity, some language, fem!receiving, praise, unprotected sex, p in v, just saying...I've warned you, listened to too much Sabrina Carpenter and got inspired

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 3.9 k

Type: Oneshot

One thing was certain: Bob Reynolds was not a morning person. He hated seeing the early sunlight leaking through the curtains and dreaded getting out of bed every morning. But he recently learned something...

She was a morning person.

And that's what got him out of bed in the morning.

Sometimes, Bob woke up before everyone else in the tower. He'd grab his keys and go out to a local coffee shop just to get her something. By the time Bob got back, he would find her hunched over the kitchen island, reading a debrief file, and enjoying a donut.

He was nervous to approach her; something about her made him not really know how to act around her. He timidly set down the special drink he ordered for her, sliding it closer to her and retracting his hand quickly as if he feared she'd bite him like a wild animal.

Very slowly, Y/n tore her gaze away from the file in front of her and to the plastic to-go cup of coffee in front of her. Her eyes drifted upwards until they found the socially awkward boy standing in front of her.

“Did you get up early just to bring me this?” She knew. Of course she knew. She always knows.

“I was already up,” Bob mumbled, which was a lie. A huge lie. He’d set three alarms.

Accepting the drink, Y/n kept her gaze locked on him and was curious if he'd break under the pressure. “That right?”

He nodded too quickly and avoided her eyes as if they were burning. “Yeah. I— uh— I like walking in the morning.”

She hummed and glanced back down at the file. She brought the drink to her lips. “You didn’t poison this, did you?” she asked casually, as if it were a normal thing to say before sunrise.

Bob shook his head innocently.

"Good," Y/n smiled at him appreciatively. The look alone caused him to blush and his heart threatened to break out of his chest.

“I—It’s a caramel macchiato!” Bob blurted, louder than he meant to. He was just desperate to keep her attention on him. She looked back up at him with the tiniest smile on her face. He faltered under her watch. "W—With an extra shot...of...espresso."

"Is it just a coincidence that you know my coffee order?" Y/n wondered curiously.

He cleared his throat and tried to sound normal. “You… mentioned it once.”

That got a smile out of her—a small one, but a real one. One that made his heart leap so high.

She eventually redirected her attention back down to the file like nothing serious happened. Bob could feel the heat rising in his face. He wanted to say something else, anything, but his mind was just white noise. His hand came up to rub the back of his neck—a nervous habit, one he was sure she’d noticed by now. Then Bucky entered the room.

“There he is,” Bucky announced with an all knowing smirk, swiftly moving through the kitchen. “You're up early today. Out fetching coffee again?”

Bob groaned softly and backed away from the counter.

“You fetch hers too?” Bucky glanced between them, then grinned. “Of course you did.”

She didn’t say anything—just kept reading, totally unfazed. And Bob stared at Bucky unamused.

"You didn't bring us back anything?" Bucky looked offended and searched around as if expecting his coffee order to just magically appear.

This was something that Bob was teased about constantly by the team because all of them knew about the crush he harbored on her. He ultimately didn't want to have to explain his reasons to Bucky of all people, so he opted to leave the room.

But as Bob turned to leave, she glanced up again. Not with a smile this time, but with a thoughtful sort of look.

Like she was waiting.

The rest of the team was scattered around the base—except Bob, who was just walking and hoping he'd find something to get his attention. He didn't have a real destination, but he might have secretly hoped he'd run into her in the process.

Spotting her open bedroom door just ahead, Bob straightened his back in posture. He walked past her room, glanced inside, and continued on. Then he froze like he’d hit a wall when he realized what he just witnessed.

The lights were soft, the window cracked open. A breeze fluttered the curtains slightly. And there she was—laying on her bed, reading a book. Bare legs behind her and feet hanging over her back given that she was on her stomach. She looked completely at ease.

Just like bees to honey, Bob did a double take and backed up—slowly, quietly—just to get another glimpse of her laying there. He wasn’t even being subtle about it.

Hovering in the doorway, Bob awkwardly placed his hand on the doorframe. She was reading with her head propped on her hand, glasses sliding slightly down her nose. She looked so relaxed; she hadn’t noticed him at all.

Which, for some reason, made him ache a little.

“Hey,” he offered, voice hoarse and soft.

She glanced up, then smiled a little when she saw him. “Hey, Bob.”

He stared for one second too long. And then another. The silence stretched between them like taut wire.

“Did you need something?” she asked, brushing her hair back behind her ear.

"Yes—I mean no. I was just—passing by." His voice cracked. He cleared it and stood straighter. “I was, uh… going somewhere.”

"Where?" Y/n pressed.

Bob blinked, fiddling nervously. “Somewhere... not here.”

She smiled—lazy, amused. "Well. I wouldn't want to stop you from your very important mission."

His mouth opened and then closed. The gears in his head were grinding so hard, he could practically hear the smoke. She was doing that thing again—talking to him like she knew. Like he was a deer and she was just waiting to see if he’d bolt.

"R—Right," Bob's words caught up with his thoughts. He blinked twice and awkwardly shuffled away from the door. "Guess I'll get out of your hair then."

Her gaze found the page she left off on, still unfazed. "Have fun."

As Bob disappeared down the hallway, muttering something unintelligible under his breath, Y/n let a small smirk tug at the corner of her mouth. She didn’t look up from her book, but she didn’t keep reading either.

About once a week, Alexei prided himself in making a big hearty breakfast just for the boys with claims of them needing to spend time together as men. He served every kind of protein imaginable: bacon, sausage, eggs, ham, even steak once. He’d sometimes take requests—except waffles.

Bob had asked for them once.

Alexei had looked him dead in the eye and said, “Waffles are for children and men who fear chewing. I make you meat instead.”

And Bob obediently ate the ham served that day.

The three of them seated at the kitchen island. Bob sat with a fork in hand, picking at a pile of food he didn’t remember asking for and mindlessly thinking about her. Meanwhile, Walker was already halfway through his plate, Bucky was drinking a black coffee, and Alexei was flipping something massive in a cast iron pan over the stove like it owed him rent.

“Eat,” Alexei barked when Bob just poked at a sausage link. He promptly slapped two more onto his plate without asking. “You need more protein; women like men with muscle."

"She knows, guys,” Bob groaned, changing the subject. “She definitely knows.”

"Knows what?" Alexei glanced between John and Bucky like they'd left him out of a group chat. "I do not know. Who knows what?"

"Of course she knows," Bucky proceeded to lower his coffee. "You're not exactly subtle about it—bringing her coffee, walking past her room, turning into a tomato every time she so much as breathes in your direction."

"Ah, you mean her," Alexei connected the dots because even he saw how he looked at her.

"He’s hopelessly in love with her, but won't say anything." Bucky announced.

“She’s too busy for me anyway,” Bob mumbled, shoulders hunched. “She’s got stuff going on. Important stuff.”

John snorted. “That’s your excuse now?”

“She’s literally everywhere,” Bob said, throwing up a hand. “Working out, reading briefings, sparring—like, I’m supposed to just waltz up and flirt while she’s in the middle of combat training?”

“You already do everything but flirt,” Bucky pointed out and John agreed. “You bring her coffee, open doors for her, wait for her to finish meetings just so you can walk the same direction."

Alexei grinned. “He is soft for her.”

"I’m not soft—" Bob sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “She doesn’t even notice me.”

“Oh, she notices,” John said with a smirk. “She’s just pretending not to, which is way worse.”

“I can’t just say something,” Bob muttered. “What if it ruins everything? What if she laughs at me?”

“She won't laugh," John said confidently.

"And we’re not judging," Bucky added. "We’ve all been there. Someone cold, deadly, completely out of your league—”

“Whose out of whose league?”

All heads snapped toward the hallway.

There she stood. In absolutely nothing, but a towel.

Her hair damp, held up loosely in a messy bun. Her skin flushed pink from the hot shower. Her body glistened in the light, littered with small specks of water still. The towel hugged her body like it had been custom-measured to torment Bob specifically—just enough to cover, far too little to handle.

No makeup. Barefoot. And utterly unbothered. Just looking the picture of innocence.

When Bob saw her, he could have sworn his soul left his body.

The room went dead silent.

She couldn't really read the room, just noticed four stunned, absolutely useless men just staring at her like she’d walked in wearing fire.

She raised a brow. “Did I… interrupt something?”

“Nope,” John said, way too fast. “Just guy talk. Carry on. Totally normal.”

“You’re… uh… wet,” Bob blurted, mortified instantly.

She looked down at herself, then back up, amused. “Yes, Bob. That’s generally what happens when you shower.”

He made a small, broken noise that might have been a whimper.

"Just carry on. I'm not even here," Y/n waved off. She moved across the room and made her way over to the refrigerator, oblivious to the sets of eyes that tracked her movements.

The towel swayed. Bob’s jaw tightened. His face went red, then pink, then red again. His hand subtly shifted under the table as he sat up straighter, panicking slightly.

Spotting her peach yogurt, Y/n bend forward just enough to reach the back. The towel hitching up just high enough to give any of them far too much hope.

Each of them react different.

While Bucky sported a wolfish grin, he didn’t even try to look away. His eyes lingered—appreciative, amused, and entirely unbothered by what was clearly a nuclear-level distraction. He leaned back in his chair like he was settling in for the best part of the morning.

His lips curved. He was definitely tempted to whistle.

“Damn,” he muttered with a low chuckle. “Morning just got a whole lot better.”

Walker was mid-bite when he saw her. One second he was chewing toast, the next—he choked so hard he had to thump his chest to recover. He reached for his mug like it was a tactical maneuver, taking a long, steadying sip of black coffee. His eyes shamelessly watched her every move.

Walker murmured under his breath, “Sweet mother of—"

Next, Alexei is the only one unbothered by her actions. Instead, he finds pleasure in watching the other's reactions, smiling wildly like he was enjoying his favorite show on tv.

“Is very fun to watch strong men crumble,” Alexei commented cheerfully, sipping from his own mug and enjoying every second of this.

Especially Bob's reaction. That’s when things got really good. Because Bob was gone.

Frozen. Stuck. Statuesque.

He didn’t move. He couldn’t move.

“Ohmygod—” Bob choked, barely above a whisper. He slammed his eyes shut like he could unsee what had just happened. He tried to focus on his breathing.

He cursed under his breath like he was fighting to keep it all together.

He keeps telling himself in his head: “Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t—too late.”

Withdrawing from the fridge, Y/n successfully closed the door and spun around on the heels of her feet. She held up the yogurt cup and was handed a spoon by Alexei. Peeling back the foil and dipping the spoon into the yogurt, Y/n brought the spoon up to her mouth and savored the first bite.

Her gaze flicked across them casually, but then landed—lingered—on Bob.

Her brows knit slightly. “Something wrong?”

The others were no help at all. Because John was hiding a smirk behind his cup and Bucky watched the interaction with the widest, all-knowing smirk on his face. And all the while, Bob was struggling to breathe.

Bob finally managed something that resembled speech.

“N-No,” he croaked. “Nope. All good.”

She blinked. “You sure?”

Bob nodded. Too quickly. “Yeah. Great. Perfect. Totally normal morning. Nothing weird at all.”

“Okay.” She turned and walked off, towel swaying with every step like she was floating. Everyone's gazes trailed after her as if wanting to commit the image to memory. "If you need anything from me, just ask!"

They heard the door of her room shut softly. They huddled together to speak in harsh whispers.

"Why didn't you say anything to her?" Bucky spoke first.

“She was wearing a towel,” Bob whisper-yelled. “What was I supposed to do—confess my love while she’s practically naked?!?!”

John, still gripping his coffee like a lifeline, muttered, “I would’ve.”

Alexei shrugged. “You were supposed to suffer in silence. Like the rest of us.”

"Didn't you hear what she said?" Bucky brought their attention back and Bob looked confused like he'd missed something important. “She said if you need anything, just ask—that was an invitation,”

"What?" Bob asked, clearly not interpreting it the same way.

“She basically dared you to say something.” Bucky pointed out.

Bob groaned in frustration, dragging both hands over his face. Feeling like it was another missed opportunity. “But if I say something now, it’ll be weird."

“I don’t think she’s the one uncomfortable,” John said, not even pretending to hide his grin.

"That's what I'm saying! She knows, definitely knows. And it amuses her. She's messing with me," Bob threw his hands up in slight defeat.

"Ah, but you like it.” Bucky said flatly.

“…I do.” Bob confessed timidly.

"Just don't get too excited there, sunshine." John remarked. John’s gaze dropped—and Bob followed it, his stomach dropping.

And Bob immediately slapped his hands on the table, desperate to block any view of his pants. He felt his face turning pure crimson in color; the others only chuckling in amusement.

The base was mostly quiet in the evening. The lights were dimmed and the place had a soft hum from something far off like white noise in the background. Everyone just about in for the night.

All except Bob who found himself wandering the dark hallways aimlessly. He slowed down as he neared her open door, being curious about why it was still open this late. Peering inside, Bob found her sitting on her bed with legs curled beneath her. She absentmindedly stared out the window, admiring the city lights. The faint glow lit up her face, soft and calm.

Bob hovered in the doorway for a moment too long, rehearsing a dozen things in his head before any of them made it to his mouth.

She noticed him, but didn’t turn. “You’re not great at sneaking up, you know that, right?”

He stepped inside sheepishly. “I wasn’t trying to sneak. Just… trying to find the right moment.”

“That so?” She finally looked at him, her expression unreadable but clearly open. “Is this it?”

Bob hesitated. “I—uh—guess it has to be.”

He stood awkwardly in front of her bed, wringing his hands together as if the action would put him to ease. She watched him in anticipation, waiting for him to just come out and say it. She didn't even know that she held her breath.

“You’re probably too busy for this. For me," Bob said. He nervously rubbed the back of his neck.

“Too busy for what, exactly?” That seemed to get her attention.

“I don’t know. For… whatever this is. I mean, I’ve been trying not to make it weird, but it probably already is weird. You’re always working and focused and—God, I sound like a lunatic—” Bob wanted to cower into himself.

“Bob.” She stood up right in front of him.

He stopped. His eyes met hers. He searched for something, really anything that could have been mistaken as a hint. Rejection or acceptance.

"I already told you: If you want something,” she said gently, “all you have to do is ask.”

The silence stretched between them. He opened his mouth and closed it, desperately trying to gather his courage. She waited for him patiently, not pushing him past discomfort. And then:

“I want you.”

Her lips curved into a quiet smile of satisfaction. As if she’d been waiting exactly for this.

"There it is," Y/n accepted.

Bob didn’t answer—at least, not with words.

Any space between them was quickly closed. His hands cupped her face, thumbs brushing over her cheekbones as his mouth crashed into hers, finally giving in to everything he’d been holding back.

She met him halfway, fingers tangling in the front of his shirt to pull him closer. There was no gentleness in it, not at first—just hunger, urgency, months of glances and tension and unsaid things pouring out in one sharp breath.

Her hands found his shoulders, his back, tugging him in like she’d been waiting just as long because she truly had. She guided him toward the bed, slow and steady, letting him follow her lead.

Their clothes began to slip away piece by piece until there was nothing left to shed. His hands finally rose, gently framing her waist like she might vanish. Then his palms slid up—slowly—over her ribs, along her back, until she was pressed against him, chest to chest.

He lifted her without a word, carrying her the rest of the way to the bed, and laying her down like something sacred. When she laid back and pulled him over her, he hovered for a breathless second and searched for any sign of wanting to stop all this.

Her legs shifted, opening just enough to let him settle between them. She weaved her fingers through his brown locks of hair, drawing a soft moan from his lips. He whispered her name like a damn prayer.

"I've waited so long for you," she breathed. He kissed his way down her stomach slowly and worshipfully. Her thighs trembled under his touch and he gently coaxed them open to accommodate his shoulders.

When his mouth finally found her—hot, desperate—she gasped his name and arched against him. Her voice breaking on every syllable, but he desperately needed to taste her. He took his time with her.

Because he wanted to memorize every moan, every whimper, every shake of her legs around his shoulders.

Her hands gripped at whatever they could find—his hair, the sheets beneath them, even his shoulder—as he worked her over with patient intensity. His tongue worked eagerly, drawing every last drop of sweetness she had to offer him.

When she came undone, it was with a cry that echoed off the walls and he held her through it.

She was still catching her breath when he kissed his way back up, slow and reverent, like he was savoring the aftermath. Her fingers tangled in his hair again, pulling him toward her until their mouths met—hot and hungry this time, tasting the want between them.

“Bob,” she whispered against his lips, and that alone nearly undid him.

He groaned low in his throat, like he couldn’t contain it anymore. “Say that again.”

She did—his name soft, broken, beautiful—and it lit something inside him. He pressed his forehead to hers, trying to catch his breath, but the way her hands ran down his back and dug into his skin left him trembling. That was all it took.

The last of his control broke. He kissed her hard, needy. She arched into him, nails leaving little red trails down his back, her legs curling around him to pull him even closer.

His body trembled with restraint, every muscle tight with need as he hovered just above her, their breaths mingling in the space between.

Her legs tightened around his waist, heels pressing into his back, urging him closer. "Bob..." she whispered, her voice a shiver in the dark. "Don't make me wait any longer."

He swallowed hard, eyes locked to hers. “You have no idea how long I’ve dreamed about this,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face. His thumb caressed the edge of her jaw, slow and reverent. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

“You won’t,” she promised. “You’re already everything I want.”

He kissed her again—deeper this time, like he needed it to breathe and his hips slowly rolled forward. Their bodies aligning in a way that stole both their breaths.

Careful to draw himself back out partially, Bob thrusted and moved deliberately. He was too busy feeling the tension in her thighs, the way her fingers flexed against his back, and the way her breath caught in her throat when he rocked his hips just right. His name slipped from her lips again.

“God,” he groaned into her neck, barely holding himself together. “You feel… oh, God… so good.”

"Then don’t stop,” she whispered, voice barely audible over the sound of skin slapping together. She tried meeting his thrusts. “Don’t you dare stop.”

And Bob didn’t.

He moved with aching slowness, letting the tension coil tighter, letting it drag out—each motion deeper, more desperate, more consuming. Until they were both trembling from the force of it, completely lost in each other.

The sound of their bodies moving together filled the room, slow and rhythmic, a symphony of want and wonder.

He stole a glance downward—just once—and the sight nearly undid him. The way they moved together, how perfectly she welcomed him, how her body responded like it had always been meant for his. A quiet curse escaped his lips, and he dropped his head to her shoulder, breathing hard.

“You… you’re everything.”

She turned her head, lips brushing against his temple, her voice breathless. She corrected him. “I’m yours.”

That did something to him. He gripped her tighter, forehead pressed to hers, his rhythm faltering only because he was overwhelmed—by her, by the way she looked at him, by the way she whispered his name like he was her only tether.

They could feel it building, that tight pull low in their stomachs, coiling tighter with every movement, every breathless sound that spilled from the other.

“Bob—” she gasped, her voice trembling, wrecked with need. “I’m… I’m so close—”

“I’ve got you,” his own voice rough and unsteady. “Come with me.”

His hand slid down between them, finding the spot that made her cry out. Her walls clenched around him as her body seized beneath him, and that was all it took.

She broke first—back arched, head thrown back, breath catching in a stuttering moan of his name. And as he felt her fall apart around him, he followed—his own release ripping through him in a wave so sharp and overwhelming he could barely breathe.

They held onto each other through it—through the trembling, through the gasping, through the aftershocks that left them both reeling.

And still, he held her like he was afraid to let go. Because now that he had her, he never wanted to stop.

PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS OR IF YOU'D LIKE MORE WORKS LIKE THIS!

[crybabyalexxx]

Instant Crush

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

Summary: Bob has been avoiding you and when you find out the reason why, you decide that the only way to make it up to him would need to be thorough and obvious.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angst (the triforce of doom I say lol), Bob and Reader have known each other since the beginning, this takes place about a year into living in the compound together. There is a lot of miscommunication happening here between reader and Bob regarding their feelings for one another, and I frickin love that trope. Jealousy from Bob/Sentry, and The Void puts Bob down a bit for not being more forward with his feelings because he would actually have her if he tried. Oh. And Bob stutters in this.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (I don’t need to tell y’all to wrap it up do I?), Semi Public Sex Acts (sex doesn’t happen in the area, but there is a lot of stuff that does happen before they need to stop themselves), Breast Play, Worship/Praise Kink, Bob is absolutely touch starved and he can’t get enough of the reader touching him, and he can’t stop touching her either, Oral Sex (both Male and Female Receiving), Hair Pulling, Messy Sex, Dirty Talk, Cum Play/Eating, Biting (with marks left), Bob and reader ar both switches (trust me on this one y’all will see lol), and some edging.

Author’s Note: This was a request made by @bellaisasleep , I loved putting my own little angsty twist on things, because a lot of people have been requesting more angst lol! Hopefully you enjoy!! I loved writing this sososososo much! Thanks for requesting it :) Also side note: I literally blasted through writing this because I listened to a live album by Daft Punk. I think I’ve found my Red Bull replacement lol.

Word Count: 21,222 (whoop whoop)

Bob Reynolds was the kind of man who made you believe in quiet things.

He made you believe in stillness, in silence, in softness not born of weakness, but of discipline so complete it bordered on sacredness. He wasn’t the loudest voice in the room, he wasn’t the first to speak or one to interrupt. He just was–in the way the moon just is above the Earth…Constantly pulling the tides of your heart before you even understood what direction you were moving in.

You met him during a mission–before you joined the Thunderbolts officially–that should’ve broken both of you. And maybe it did, in some sort of poetic, irreversible way. Because ever since that night–with blood dried on your tactical gear, and your hands trembling from adrenaline as he whispered ‘you’re safe, I’ve got you, you’re okay’–you had not really been the same.

And neither had he.

Something tethered the both of you together after that. Something deeper than any language could explain. It wasn’t love, not at first at least. It wasn’t romance. But it was something that took refuge in your bones and your soul. Something that pulsed like gravity beneath your skin every time he walked into a room.

And for a while, that was enough for you to survive off of.

You shared everything–your time, your food, your silence. You’d have late-night check-ins, and breakfasts eaten side-by-side. You would pass books back and forth with scrawled notes in the margins, sometimes you’d sit with your legs over his tracing your fingers over his handwriting, smirking at his comments and making light of what he was mindlessly writing when he was reading.

You knew how he took his tea, and coffee. You knew what his favourite drinks and snacks were, and what his preferences were in almost anything. You knew how his voice sounded first thing in the morning, and how he fell asleep faster when you were near–only because when you sat together on the couch you would hear him snoring within minutes.

You knew his rhythms and he knew yours.

Sometimes he brushed your knuckles and didn’t pull away. Sometimes you caught him watching you when he thought you wouldn’t notice. And you often considered turning to him and asking ‘what are we?’, but the answer already lived too loud between your ribs to speak it out loud.

So you smiled through it, and neither of you said a word.

Because whatever it was–it was fragile. Sacred. And the both of you were too afraid to shatter it by asking for more and overstepping.

And yet–somewhere in the folds of all that closeness, you started to ache. Because as much as Bob let you near, you still never quite knew what was going on inside his head. You didn’t know what lived behind that long, glassy eyed look he gave you when you made him laugh, nor did you know what it meant when he lingered outside your room before you turned in, like he wanted to cross the metaphoric line, but never did.

You didn’t know if you were special, or if he was just kind. Or if the way he touched your arm to steady you after a mission was the same way he’d touch anyone. If his gentleness toward you was a language he spoke to everyone–or if you were the only one fluent in it.

And maybe you were afraid to ask, because deep down you didn’t think you stood a chance. Not with someone like him.

Not with someone who was part god basically. Not with someone who saw every part of you–your scars, your rage, and your weaknesses–and still folded himself smaller around you like you were something worth protecting somehow.

He deserved someone better, someone far more stable and less scarred. Less haunted by the things that she needed to be strong for.

Maybe he thought the same thing about you…Maybe he thought you deserved someone less fractured, less burdened, and less…Him.

So you both stayed in each other's orbit, close enough to feel the warmth, but too far to burn each other.

Until one night–stupid, and thoughtless–you came home from a bar with Yelena and Ava, laughing too loud with a glow in your cheeks that wasn’t meant to hurt anyone. You dropped onto the couch, stretching out with a grin, drunk on your three tequila pineapples.

”I don’t even know how many numbers I got, but it’s like they were handing them out like coupons!” You exclaimed, waving your phone around. Yelena and Ava had laughed with you at this comment, and you divulged in details.

What you didn’t know was Bob had been walking past the common room at that exact moment. You hadn’t heard his footsteps pause behind the wall, and you certainly didn’t see his shoulders tense up. You didn’t realize your voice–bright, careless, and sweet–carved something open inside him.

Because to you, it was a joke, but to him, it was proof.

Proof that the attention you deserved was already out there–waiting for you in the hands of someone who could say what he couldn’t. Someone who wouldn’t hesitate or stammer. Who wouldn’t hold his feelings behind walls made of fear and light.

Bob went quiet after that night. Not cold, or angry…Just…Distant.

A slow withdrawal, like the tide was pulling out to sea.

You tried to tell yourself it was nothing, maybe he was tired or stressed.

But every time you passed him in the halls and got a stiff nod instead of a smile, every time you curled up on the couch alone and stared at the empty spot where his knee used to brush yours, and every time he walked into a room and kept his eyes down like he couldn’t bear to meet yours…

You felt it.

The ache.

The fracture between what you thought you were to each other and what you maybe never were at all.

You missed him, and maybe that was the cruelest part–because he was still there. Still Bob. Still your friend,

But he wasn’t yours in the way you wanted him to be.

You told yourself it was fine. That being near him was enough. That friendship–real, solid, soul-deep–was a gift not everyone got, and you should be grateful for it all. That you had no right to want more from someone who already gave you so much.

But your heart didn’t care about rights, it only cared about the shape of his silence, and how it shifted.

And it wasn’t the safe kind of shift–to the soft, companionable hush that always existed between the two of you like a favourite song on low volume–but it was something colder, and distant.

It was the kind of silence that felt like a door being slammed shut. It was becoming worse and worse by the minute.

Because now he couldn’t even look at you–his eyes used to linger on your mouth, your hands, your eyes, and now they seemed to look off into space all together.

And it only made you spiral into trying to figure out what you had done to deserve something like this. You turned every event over and over in your mind like a worry stone, each day shaving another layer of calm off your nerves.

Did you somehow push too hard, or did you say something wrong? Was it something you didn’t say to him that was making him this way? You had no clue.

But you knew you missed him so much it was settling in your chest like a bruise. Because the truth–the raw, bitter truth–was that you didn’t just miss your friend. You missed him. The way his voice dropped when he said your name to get your attention. The way he leaned in when you spoke like you were saying something important, even when you weren’t. The way his gaze would fall to your lips to see the way they wrapped around the words you were saying, or how they tilted up into a smile.

You were afraid that if you reached for him, you’d ruin everything.

So you didn’t.

That’s what brought you to Yelena’s room that night. Not to confess, but to collapse. You didn’t knock. You just pushed the door open and stepped into the scent of gun oil, candle wax, and citrus-scented dry shampoo that clung to the air and made your lungs burn.

Yelena was stretched out on her back across her bed, with one leg bent, and blade sharpener balanced on her stomach. Her eyes flicked to you, then back to the ceiling she was looking at just moments before.

You didn’t speak, you just walked in, and fell face-first into the spare pillow beside her with a loud flop. She didn’t say anything at first, but it seemed like she was expecting a visit from you.

The quiet filled the space between you like water in a sinking ship.

Then, finally–

“What happened now?” She asked, shifting a bit to look at your collapsed figure.

”I don’t know what I did to Bob that made him ignore me…” Your voice was muffled against the bedding, “But it’s starting to really get to me.” You added, flipping onto your back to stare up at the cracked swirl of white stucco that coated her ceiling. Yelena’s eyes lingered on you a second longer, then she sat up, legs crossing under her, abandoning the knife sharpener to her nightstand.

”You didn’t do anything.” She replied, this earned her a side eye from you.

“That’s what people say right before they tell you that you did.” You commented, picking at the dry skin around your nail bed, which was already raw from the prior days.

“I’m serious,” She insisted, “You didn’t do anything.” You bit the inside of your cheek.

”Then why won’t he look at me? Why does it feel like I don’t exist anymore? Your voice cracked, “I feel like I’m going insane. I thought we were–“ You stopped as the word ‘closer’ got caught in your throat like a splinter. You could see Yelena hesitate, just long enough for you to notice.

“What?” You demanded, sitting up a little, perching yourself on your elbows so you weren’t lying against the spare pillow anymore. “You know something.” You accused.

”I’m not supposed to–“

”Yelena.” You interrupted. She closed her eyes for a second, then sighed, rubbing at her temples with her fingers.

”Three nights ago,” She started slowly, “He showed up at my door in the middle of the night. I thought he was gonna pass out in the hallway.” You stared at her, a worried expression pulling at your eyes.

”Bob?” You confirmed, just to be sure, and she nodded.

“He looked wrecked. He was pale and shaking. His hands literally wouldn’t stop moving–it was like he was trying to wring the thoughts out of his bones.” You now sat up completely, your breath catching at the images that began to snap through your mind. The nervousness, the wreck that you had seen countless times before, it was easy to picture because you were the one that normally helped him through these little bouts, but this time he didn’t come to you.

”He said he heard you the other night,” She continued, “When we got home from the bar. The whole thing about getting all those guys numbers…He said–“ She swallowed nervously, “He said it felt like someone had hollowed him out.” You could feel your heart gallop at those words, stuttering even, like it stopped for a second before resetting.

“He kept saying it wasn’t your fault. That you deserved it–all the attention, and that it made sense that you wanted someone who could give you what you need. Someone who wouldn’t make you wait.” You could feel your stomach drop into the floor, like it slipped out of you and all you could feel was emptiness.

”Then he said…”Yelena’s eyes flicked to you, “He said he knew he should let go. That maybe he had finally been shown the truth–that you were meant for someone less…Burdened than him.” Your throat burned at her words, as you tried to blink away the tears that began to form in the corners of your eyes.

“That’s not true.” You said quietly.

”I know that,” Yelena snapped, “But he doesn’t.” Your fists clenched the blankets beneath you.

”Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” You asked, staring at her, watching as she shook her head.

”Because I shouldn’t have to,” She said, “Because you’re both idiots.” Your jaw clenched.

”Excuse me–“

”You’re both in love and too scared to breathe wrong around each other in case it breaks the spell,” She said, eyes flashing with anger, “I’m not your emotional translator, but I’ll put it plain and simple for you so your brain can understand. You want to know why he’s acting like a ghost? It’s because he thinks you found someone better. And you want to know why you’re sitting her on the brink of fucking tears on my mattress? It’s because you think you were never enough for him.” You were stunned by the way she had lost her composure on you. Rarely did Yelena snap like this, but it had become something that burdened her so much and killed her to witness that she just needed to let it all out, and unfortunately you were the one she lost it on.

“All you’re doing is killing each other with all this stupid silence. All this pretending. All this worship-from-a-distance bullshit.” You stared at her, the heat of her words stinging like a slap to the face.

She shook her head, quieter now.

”“What do you want me to do? Force the two of you to talk? Drag you by the hands into a room and lock the door until one of you finally confesses? That only works in movies. Real people don’t change when you corner them–they break.” You closed your eyes tightly, and sighed.

”He really thinks I want someone else?” You asked, gently.

”He thinks you already have them.” Yelena’s gaze softened–just barely, “And he thinks he missed his chance.” You shook your head, scratching the back of your neck with more pressure than needed, feeling your nails sting your skin.

“I didn’t even keep those numbers. I deleted them the second I woke up the next morning. I didn’t even think he’d care.” Yelena’s expression didn’t shift when you said this, but her voice did.

”Of course he cares,” She said, the words clipped and firm, “Because it’s you.” She stood, pacing once to the edge of the bed like she couldn’t sit still any longer.

“You know how fragile he is when it comes to you,” She continued, measuring the tone of her voice perfectly, “You’ve seen it. Felt it. You know how he quiets down when you walk in the room. How his hands settle when you’re near. How he breathes easier when you touch his arm, or sit beside him, or just fucking exist in his line of sight.”Your throat tightened, and your gaze dropped from hers, but she didn’t stop.

”And it’s not just Bob,” She added, “You know how all his other counterparts feel about you too.” Your chest stilled.

”Sentry…And The Void…” You whispered, not even considering what they must’ve been doing to him at this point. Yelena nodded.

”You think he was jealous? That was before The Void started whispering in his head about how someone else would be undressing you. How someone else would get the version of you he’s spent months trying not to dream about.” She said it without cruelty–but the truth hit like lightning to the ribs.

”You think Sentry’s any better? That part of him worships the ground you walk on…And you know how emotional he gets when it comes to being challenged.” You stared at the floor, with your stomach twisting in grief. You weren’t sure if it was anger or heartbreak in your bones, but it ached the same either way.

“I…I need to take care of this.” Yelena looked at you, and finally she eased up a bit. The tough love flickered down into care.

”You really do…It’s time. Just push all your thoughts out of the way, and for once in your life, don’t overthink it. Make it clear, and for the love of god…Make it obvious, because I don’t think either of you can survive another miscommunication.” You gave her a nod, then got up, feeling your heart fluttering.

Because this time…You weren’t going to be seeing Bob, wondering if he wanted you. You were going to be seeing him knowing he did.

——————

The next morning you had gotten ready. The sun had not even fully risen yet. It was early–so early the light outside still looked like a haze of dark purples and light blues. The hallway lights buzzed faintly as you padded down the corridor, slipping some socks onto your feet in the process. The tower was still asleep. But you knew where he’d be.

And sure enough, you found him.

Bob stood in the living room, half-crouched as he fiddled with the strap of his messenger bag. He looked like he hadn’t slept–at least not well. His shoulders were hunched, his hair damp like he’d just showered in a rush. The navy blue hoodie he wore was tight across the chest now, the fabric catching slightly as he moved. His black sweatpants clung to the muscle of his thighs, hinting at the training he’d been doing in silence for weeks now.

But it wasn’t his body that made your breath catch.

It was his face.

The exhaustion in it. The hollow weight behind his eyes.

His irises were darker than they used to be. Still blue–but not quite. Not only blue. It was like something black was blooming out from the center, bleeding toward the edges like ink dropped into water.

It wasn’t just sleep deprivation.

It was The Void.

You recognized the way his jaw clenched slightly, like he was trying to stay grounded in his body. Like he was fighting voices you couldn’t hear.

You cleared your throat gently.

He looked up, startled–then confused.

“…Hey,” You said quietly. “Mind if I join you?”

He blinked at you, slow. Like he wasn’t sure you were real. Like his brain was buffering, unsure how to process the request.

“I–Uh…I was j-just…”

”Heading to the mall,” You finished for him, offering a soft, warm smile, pulling at the sleeves of your sweater, “You…Mentioned it a few times this week. Something about your clothes fitting too tight and stuff…” Bob’s pale skin flushed slightly at the comment, as his gaze fell to the floor.

”Y-Yeah…I g-guess so.” You took a careful step closer, slowly closing the space between you both, wanting to see how he would react–he didn’t move back.

”I’ve got my car,” You added, “Might be easier than taking the bus…” He looked up at you again and this time you saw it: the hurt still flickering at the edges of his face, the wall he’d put up, and the little white dots that began to form in the middle of his pupils.

Bob could hear the voice scraping away on the inside of his skull.

“She’s just being kind…She’s taking pity on you, you know how she is. She doesn’t mean it. Don’t read into it. Don’t be pathetic. You’re not her first choice, you’re nobody’s first choice. She deserves someone better than you.” The Void hissed. Bob swallowed hard, feeling a burn tingle the back of his neck.

”…A-Are you sure?” He asked finally, voice rough around the edges, “I–I don’t want to be a b-bother.” You tilted your head.

”You wouldn’t be.” And then, with just enough softness to cut through the static buzzing behind his eyes you added, “I want to.” His hand was still on the strap of his bag, tightening around it enough to turn his knuckles white. You watched him for a moment longer, and then you reached out and brushed your fingers against his forearm. The contact was barely there, just the tips of them grazing the fabric, but you could see his entire body tense up, like something deep inside him folded at the contact. Like your skin reminded him where he was.

His breathing steadied slightly, and you didn’t comment on it, you just gave him a small smile.

“C’mon, I’ll drive.”

—————————

The drive was quiet to say the least.

It wasn’t awkward, it was just heavy, in that unspoken way that happened when hearts were too full and throats were too afraid to work. You didn’t push it.

You let the silence bloom between you. It was strange how familiar it felt again–like muscle memory. Like you’d both spent so long in each other’s rhythms that even this quiet was something you shared.

Bob sat beside you with his hands tucked in his lap, his back pressed to the passenger door like he was trying to stay small. His eyes stayed mostly on the window, but every now and then they drifted–toward the dash, toward your hands on the steering wheel. Once or twice, you caught him glancing your way, like he wanted to say something but didn’t trust his voice not to tremble.

You cleared your throat softly, your eyes on the road ahead.

“Have you been sleeping?” You asked, keeping your voice low, careful not to sound like you were prying. “You look…” You trailed off, searching for a word that didn’t wound, “Tired.” Bob shifted slightly in his seat.

”Y-Yeah, I guess.” He replied, but it wasn’t convincing, because he wasn’t telling the truth, it was obvious. You gave a small hum, gaze flicking toward him before returning to the road.

”Haven’t really seen you around much this week…” His fingers curled tighter in his lap, and you caught the motion in your peripheral, how his knuckles pressed into the soft fabric of his sweatpants like he needed something to hold onto. Like he needed something to fiddle with.

“You’ve been…Kind of distant lately,” You said, and even though you tried to keep it neutral, the words came out soft, almost close to hurt. Bob exhaled quietly through his nose, eyes locked on the window like he was trying to will the city into blurring away.

”J–Just been in a mood…T-That’s all.” You nodded slowly, one hand loosening its grip on the wheel.

”Care to share why?” There was a pause. A longer one this time. Then his head gave a short, silent shake.

“It’s n-nothing,” He murmured, voice low and cracked. “Just something stupid.” But even as the words left him, something twisted deep in his gut, and then The Void spoke again.

“That’s all you are to her, isn’t it? Something stupid. Clinging to scraps, sitting beside her like a dog begging for food.” The voice was slick, slow and unmistakably cruel–like molasses laced with venom. Bob’s stomach clenched, and his eyes stung. For a second his bottom lip trembled, and he turned his face a little more toward the window, trying to hide it, willing himself not to break. He couldn’t crack now, not here, not when you were being so kind to him.

You noticed the shift though. The way his shoulders locked up, the way his breath hitched in his throat like he was swallowing something too big for his chest.

You didn’t press though. You just let your voice drift gently over the space between you, like a blanket being unfolded in soft hands.

”…Okay,” You whispered, nodding slowly, “Well…I’m here if you ever want to talk about anything.” Bob let out a shaky breath and dragged one hand up to his face, rubbing his palms hard across his eyes like he could erase the wetness threatening to spill.

“O-Okay…” He responded quietly, but the sound of it cracked in the middle, and the fragility of it nearly shattered you. The silence returned, but it wasn’t sharp this time. It was soft around the edges, like warm fog curling up against the windows.

When you finally pulled into the mall parking lot, the sun had risen enough to cast a thin gold glow across the tops of the buildings. It wasn’t crowded yet–just the early shoppers beginning to trickle in, and a few food court workers gathered near the entrance, sipping coffees out of paper cups. You shifted the car into park, then turned slightly toward him.

He was still staring down at his lap, his jaw tight, his hands curled loosely in the fabric of his hoodie. He looked like he hadn’t taken a full breath in minutes.

You let your gaze linger on him a second longer before speaking.

“Hey,” you said softly, and when he looked up at you, your voice dropped just enough to make him flinch slightly. “You know you’re allowed to feel things, right? Even the stupid ones.”

He blinked at you. His mouth opened like he might try to argue. But he didn’t.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” You added, your expression gentle, but firm. “Not ever.”

For a moment, Bob just…Stared.

And then your next words slipped out like sunlight between clouds:

“You’re my favorite person to sit in silence with…But I’d rather listen to your voice than anything else…”

His breath caught.

His heart stuttered like a blown fuse, and a faint red crept into his ears. You saw it happen in real time–the way his face flushed, his lashes lowered, and his entire body seemed to pull inward just slightly, like he didn’t know what to do with the heat rising under his skin.

He fumbled for the door handle a beat too late, awkward but endearing, mumbling something incoherent under his breath.

You bit back a smile, then slipped out of your side of the car.

He followed you a moment later, hood tugged up, bag slung loosely across his chest. You waited until he stepped beside you, shoulder to shoulder, before moving toward the entrance.

The automatic doors slid open, letting in the scent of polished floors, faint cinnamon from a bakery down the hall, and the sterile chill of early-morning air conditioning.

The mall wasn’t busy yet–just soft ambient music echoing through the wide halls, janitors mopping along the corners, and the distant hum of espresso machines powering up.

Bob walked beside you in silence, but it felt…A little different now.

Not as heavy.

He didn’t look at the floor this time. He looked at you.

Like maybe he was starting to believe he hadn’t missed his chance.

———————

The coffee shop inside the mall was one of those early-bird places–half-lights still dimmed, pastries just hitting the racks, and the first drip of espresso perfuming the air like warmth incarnate. The floor glowed underfoot with the reflection of sleepy pendant lights, and the hum of milk steaming was the only thing louder than your breath.

Bob hesitated near the register for a moment, before you stepped up and began to speak.

”One medium caramel macchiato with light vanilla, and one medium Earl Grey with two milks and one pump of honey please.” You said, voice casual and kind, “And two plain croissants, one warmed…Thank you.” Bob blinked at you, his eyes wide behind the lashes that immediately dipped toward the floor when you gave the drink order like it was muscle memory.

“H-How did you remember my order so e-easily?” He asked softly, a little stunned, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him until just now. His voice was low–barely above the murmur of the espresso machine–but there was something raw and unguarded in the way he said it. A quiet awe.

You shrugged, trying to keep it casual despite the warmth blooming under your ribs. “I used to make it for you every morning, remember? Before you decided it was–” You leaned slightly closer, lowering your voice into a teasing register, “–‘too much for my busy schedule.’” You even put up air quotes around the phrase.

Bob’s lips parted slightly, then closed again. His lashes fluttered and a pink flush crept up his neck and spread over the apples of his cheeks. You saw it rise like candlelight catching a wick. He ducked his head with a soft, embarrassed breath of a laugh, then reached for his wallet with fumbling hands.

“R-Right… I remember…” He mumbled, pulling out a folded bill and sliding it toward the barista.

You didn’t stop him from paying.

You just smiled quietly to yourself as the two of you stepped to the side of the counter to wait, tucked in that little corner beside the bakery case where the light hit just right through the large window. You could smell cinnamon and sugar hanging in the air, mingled with the scent of warm milk and the faint cedar wood cologne that came from Bob’s hoodie.

He stood so close that you could feel his warmth radiating off him–steady and grounding. Not overwhelming. Just…Comforting. Like the first time you sat shoulder to shoulder on the Thunderbolts couch after a mission, both of you too tired to speak, but not ready to separate. His presence filled the space beside you like heat seeps into a cold mug–slowly and entirely.

You glanced sideways at him.

He looked tired. Still quiet. But something in his shoulders had eased. And god, you wanted to wrap your arms around him and bury your face in his chest. You wanted to tell him everything–the longing, the ache, the nights you couldn’t sleep without thinking about how he used to hold your wrist loosely in his sleep when you nodded off beside him on the couch.

But now wasn’t the right time, you just stayed still and waited for your order, sipping on your drink when it came, and nibbling on your croissant.

——————

The first store you entered was some midrange basicas place–comfy fabrics, soft lighting, warm neutral palettes. It smelled faintly like cotton and burned plastic. It seemed like the store may have been under renovations or it was new, but it had a wide range to offer.

You wandered between the racks with Bob, fingers brushing hangers and the occasional sleeve. He didn’t speak at first, just lingered near you, letting the space between you stay comfortably small.

Then, after a while, he pointed at a sage green hoodie.

“Y-You think this would look okay?” He asked, lifting the sleeve with a tentative expression. You tilted your head, eyeing the color against his pale skin.

“It looks really flattering.” Your voice came out even, but a little softer than before, “Might make a few people swoon.” Bob looked away so fast you nearly laughed.

”D-Don’t say stuff like that…” He mumbled, ears turning a beet red. You gave a shrug and kept moving.

”Just being honest.” He ended up gathering a couple of things: the green hoodie, two crewneck sweaters, and a pair of slate grey sweatpants that looked impossibly soft.

“I–I think I’ll try these on,” He said, holding the small stack close to his chest like it might slip out of his grip if he didn’t hug it tight.

“I’ll hold your tea,” You added, taking the cup gently from him as he moved toward the changing room.

You leaned against the wall just outside, sipping your own drink slowly, content to wait.

And then, after a minute or two, the door creaked open.

Your breath hitched.

Because there he was–soft grey sweatpants hanging just right off his hips, cinched gently at the waist. A dark green hoodie with the tag still half-tucked under the collar, the fabric just snug enough to outline the lines of his chest and the breadth of his shoulders. His sleeves were bunched at the elbows, revealing strong forearms you always forgot he had until they were on display like this. His hair was still a little messy from earlier, his cheeks still pink, and there was something so painfully Bob about the way he stood there–awkward, shuffling his feet, eyes flicking up and then quickly back down like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“I-Is it…Okay?” he asked, his voice hesitant, but hopeful. “It feels…Like me, I think…” He looked like home. Like warmth poured into fabric and held in your hands. Like something you’d missed even before you’d ever had it.

You didn’t answer his question at first, you just let your eyes sweep over him, memorizing every line and fold.

Then you nodded, your voice barely more than breath.

”It looks great.” And for the first time in weeks, he smiled. It wasn’t a big one, just a small sincere curve of his lips.

But it was enough to show you that you were breaking through to him.

Bob let out a quiet breath, still standing in the doorway of the fitting room as if unsure whether he was allowed to be seen like this—so soft and unguarded. But when you gave him that look, the one that reached all the way down to the place in him that still doubted he was wanted, he stepped out fully.

“I–I’ll get them then,” he said quietly, gathering the small stack of new clothes against his chest again. “I…Uh…N-Need things that fit anyway…” There was a shy smile tugging at his mouth now–nervous, but real. The kind you hadn’t seen in weeks.

You handed him his tea back with a gentle brush of fingers, and he looked down at the cup like it was more than a drink. Like it was proof of something unspoken. Something important.

You walked beside him to the register, watching as he paid–hands fumbling a little with the card, thanking the cashier too softly, shifting awkwardly in place while they bagged his items. You could practically feel how tightly wound his nerves were, like the very idea of doing this in front of you was enough to set off a whole chain of overthinking in his head. But he kept glancing at you, too–like he needed to make sure you hadn’t left.

You didn’t.

You waited. Quietly. Steadily.

And when he turned back toward you, you smiled again. Not big. Not loud. Just steady.

The two of you wandered the mall after that, nowhere in particular–just drifting from one store to the next like nothing had broken between you. Like the silence hadn’t once turned sharp enough to bleed. You lingered near a small bookstore where Bob picked up a paperback and flipped it open with a flicker of interest; you guided him briefly through a stationery shop, pointing out pens you thought he’d like. There was something gentle about it all–something close to healing, like you were on that brink of mending everything back together.

You were standing near a shelf of scented candles in a small boutique that sold a strange mix of home goods and novelty items–everything from mugs with sarcastic quotes to little booklets of affirmations and bath bombs shaped like animals. Bob was beside you, thumbing the edge of a journal with a soft leather cover, his thumb tracing the stitching like he was trying to decide if it was worth picking up. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up again, and you could see a faint pink mark at the bend of his elbow–maybe from leaning against a counter too long, or maybe a training bruise he hadn’t noticed. It made your chest ache a little, how much you’d missed these small details. How much you’d missed him.

Your gaze drifted up–just idly, like looking for the next thing to wander toward–and then froze.

Across the mall’s broad walkway, nestled beneath a curved arch of dark wood and glass, sat a boutique lingerie store. You knew the kind. Low golden lighting. Sheer curtains hanging in the windows, filtering the sunlight into a soft, honeyed glow. The mannequins in the window weren’t the aggressive kind with red corsets and feather boas. No–these ones were elegant. Understated. They wore lace bralettes in blush pink, satin in deep forest green, high-waisted sets trimmed in delicate embroidery, and sheer robes that caught the light like whisper-thin smoke. The whole store was intimate without being overt. Classy. Soft. But undeniably sensual.

You could almost smell it from here: some blend of vanilla, amber, and whatever fabric perfume they used on the delicate silks and velvets.

You blinked.

Yelena’s voice echoed through your head, sharp and clear:

“Make it obvious.”

Your heart gave a strange little stutter. And then–without warning–a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. A slow, sly thing that bloomed without permission. The idea came out of nowhere, but it stuck. Bright and stupid but brave.

You glanced sideways at Bob.

He hadn’t noticed your change in expression yet. He was still reading the back of a candle labeled “Blueberry whipped icing.” The soft rise and fall of his chest was steady now. A good sign. He looked a little more grounded than earlier–still quiet, but a kind of quiet that meant he was starting to feel safe again. With you.

You didn’t want to push too hard. You didn’t want to shatter this fragile warmth that was finally returning between you.

But…

You wanted him to know.

So you cleared your throat lightly.

“Hey,” You said, careful to keep your tone breezy, “Can we check out one more store before we head back?”

Bob looked up, startled, blinking once.

“Uh–y-yeah, sure. W-Which one?”

You nodded subtly toward the other side of the walkway.

His gaze followed yours.

The moment he saw it his entire body stiffened, like someone had yanked a string inside him. You watched his jaw tighten just slightly. His eyes flicked away almost immediately, but not before you saw the faint pink rush to his ears.

“Oh,” he said quietly.

You smiled sweetly. Innocent.

”Wanted to just browse, see if I can find something.” You said, already beginning to walk toward the storefront, “I’m due for a little bit of a closet upgrade myself.”

Bob walked behind you, just a step off pace, like his feet weren’t quite sure they were allowed to follow. His grip on his shopping bag had gone white-knuckled, and the tea in his free hand barely sloshed–it was held that tightly. You didn’t look back. You didn’t need to. You could feel the heat rolling off him in thick, clumsy waves–nerves and tension and that unmistakable Bob flavor of hesitation that meant he wanted to say something, but was afraid he’d combust the moment he opened his mouth.

The motion sensor bell above the entrance gave a delicate chime as you stepped inside.

Warmth. That was the first thing you noticed. The air was heavy with scent–rich amber, something floral, and a hint of musk that made you think of bare skin and tangled sheets. The walls were soft matte cream, accented with blush pink panels and gold railings. Velvet display tables lined the floor with bralettes folded like secrets and panties laid out in precise rows, every pair a whisper of silk or mesh or lace. The mannequins were tall, faceless, draped in slip dresses and see-through robes that shimmered when the light hit them. The ceiling lights were low and gold-tinted, casting everything in honey.

It didn’t feel like a store.

It felt like a bedroom someone loved you in.

Bob hovered just inside the threshold, blinking once, twice. His eyes flickered towards the displays and then were quickly pulled away–like just making eye contact with a lace thong might ignite him on the spot, because all he could picture was you in them. His jaw worked as he swallowed, throat visibly bobbing.

You moved casually to one of the racks, fingers drifting across rows of soft underwire and balconette bras. Pale lilacs, buttery creams, deep navy satins. You held up one and studied the lace against the light, just enough stretch to hint at comfort–just enough sheerness to suggest anything but.

Behind you, Bob stayed rooted.

He looked like he was trying to figure out how to hold his breath and exhale at the same time.

“Wonder who she’s going to wear that for…”

The whisper was cold. Low. Inside his skull, it slithered between his thoughts like oil on water.

“Probably someone who can touch her without trembling. Someone who doesn’t have to fight off every part of himself just to keep his hands at his sides.”

Bob stiffened.

The Void didn’t shout. He didn’t need to. He only had to lean close enough that the words touched a nerve already raw.

“You think she’ll let them take it off slow?” The voice purred, mockingly curious. “Or will they rip it off with their teeth?”

Bob shut his eyes at that comment, trying to shake it off as much as he possibly could, attempting to not show any weakness, or to make you aware of the fact he was hearing something.

When he opened his eyes again, you were holding two bras–one powdered blue, and the other a dark red–in one hand, and a sheer black babydoll slip in another. You glanced up at him with an expression that was maddeningly unreadable.

Casual, but not distant. Confident, but not arrogant.

Intimate.

Then you turned to the nearby fitting room attendant–a woman dressed in a long mauve cardigan and platform shoes that made her look taller than she was–and asked:

“Do you allow, like…Second opinions in the fitting room?” Motioning to Bob behind you. She glanced up from her clipboard and smiled.

”Course we do…Happens all the time.” You turned back to Bob, and this time your smile was unmistakable.

”Perfect, cause I’m going to need your opinion.” You said softly.

“I-I don’t know much about l-lingerie…” Bob stammered, frozen in place like his shoes were bolted to the floor.

You raised an eyebrow, tone light but edged with something quieter. “But you definitely know what would look good.” You turned just slightly, letting your voice drop just a little–low and warm, like a match striking the dark. “And maybe I value your opinion.”

That did it.

Bob swallowed so hard you heard it.

“…O-Okay,” He murmured, nodding once. His voice cracked just slightly around the edges, and he followed you past the velvet rope into the fitting room hallway.

The rooms were small–just a few feet wide–but the space inside felt private. Dim golden lighting pooled softly overhead, like candlelight filtered through sheer fabric. There was a bench beneath the mirror, a small side table holding a glass bowl of lavender-wrapped mints, and a faint scent of fruity body spray hung in the air–berries and peach and something a little more sugary than it needed to be. The floor was carpeted in pale rose, and the door had a long mirror mounted across it, angled to reflect the whole space in a soft, diffused glow.

“Sit,” you said gently, motioning toward the bench as you placed your items on the hook. Bob obeyed without argument, setting his shopping bag beside him. His knees knocked slightly as he sank down, hands fidgeting in his lap.

You reached for the hem of your sweater.

He inhaled sharply.

You peeled it over your head slowly–not teasing–but it still left the air crackling. Beneath it, you wore a soft, ice-toned bra that hugged your figure perfectly, the lace delicate across the cups, and the straps tucked lightly over your shoulders. Your skin was warm from the air in the store, flushed faintly from the earlier walk.

Bob didn’t dare speak. But his breath hitched again.

There was a mirror in front of you. You met his eyes in it.

He was already looking.

You lifted the two bras, powdered blue in one hand and dark red in the other, the lace delicate and soft beneath your fingers.

“Which one should I try on first?” You asked, keeping your tone even, but watching him carefully in the mirror.

His lips parted. “W-Whichever one y-you want,” He said, too quickly. His voice wobbled a bit, but he didn’t look away.

“Hmm.” You considered. “Then blue it is.”

You turned your back slightly–not to hide, but just enough to unclasp the bra you were wearing. You let the straps fall from your shoulders, slow and smooth, the lace sliding down your skin like a secret. You didn’t cover yourself immediately. You didn’t rush. You let your chest rise with a slow breath, your bare skin catching the warm light like satin, full and soft, your nipples slightly pebbled from the air.

You could see him in the mirror.

Bob looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe.

His knuckles were white against the bench. His thighs were tight. His eyes locked on your reflection with reverence and disbelief, lips parted like he was about to speak, but couldn’t find words. Like he was choking on awe.

You clasped the powdered blue bra in front first, then twisted it around your torso to hook it at the back. The lace molded to your breasts beautifully, lifting them just enough, shaping you with a soft elegance that made you smile faintly to yourself.

“Oh,” You said, tilting your head at your reflection, “Wait…I’m missing something.”

You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your sweatpants, and began to push them down slowly–inch by inch, letting the soft fabric slide along your thighs, past your knees, pooling at your ankles.

You stepped out of them in just your red underwear.

They were lace-trimmed–soft, but revealing. Dark red against your skin, high at the hips, clinging just enough to show the dip of your waist and the curve where your thighs met.

“I guess you’ll just have to picture the matching color,” you said, voice warm and coy, glancing back at him through the mirror.

Bob looked like he might combust.

His eyes darted from your back to your hips, then quickly to your reflection again. His jaw was clenched tight, but his breathing was uneven–shaky in that way you’d come to recognize when his emotions were spiraling between restraint and something far deeper. Something harder to control.

You stepped closer to the mirror, smoothing a hand over your hip.

“I like the way this one fits,” You murmured, more to yourself than to him, but still loud enough to let it hang in the air like perfume. You ran your palms lightly down the lace of the powdered blue bra, watching your own fingers in the mirror–how they traced the delicate embroidery along the cups, how the fabric hugged your shape like a secret.

Bob’s breath was shallow. You didn’t have to turn to know. You could feel the heat coming off him from across the room like it had its own gravitational pull.

Your eyes met his in the mirror.

He was already looking–face flushed, mouth parted slightly, the soft tremble of his hands now visible where they gripped the edge of the bench.

“I-It looks…” He started, voice catching in the back of his throat. He swallowed thickly. “…It looks really nice.”

You raised a brow, a smirk drawing up on your lips. “Nice?”

His gaze flicked away instinctively, but he couldn’t keep it there. His eyes found you again–first your reflection, then the lace against your chest, and back to your mouth.

“I–I mean it looks…r-really good. On you. I mean…” He was unraveling by the syllable. You let the silence stretch for a beat, then hummed softly as your fingers continued gliding over the cups. You shifted your weight a little, hips tilting as you turned sideways in the mirror.

“Definitely a contender,” You sighed thoughtfully.

Then, without turning around, you reached for the next piece.

The babydoll slip–black, sheer, soft as smoke in your hands. It shimmered subtly in the golden lighting, the thin mesh draping across your fingers like a sigh.

You unclasped the powdered blue bra again, letting it slide from your body with one smooth motion. You didn’t cover yourself.

Bob’s inhale was so sharp it sounded like pain.

You stepped slightly back from the mirror, barer now than you had been before–shoulders relaxed, chest lifted with slow breath. Your nipples had peaked again in the cold air. You knew what you were doing. But you weren’t mocking him. This wasn’t a power play.

It was clarity. Honesty. Boldness.

You bent forward slowly to slide the babydoll over your thighs, letting the hem fall like liquid ink as you straightened. The mesh was translucent–barely there–and the neckline dipped into a deep, soft plunge that framed your chest beautifully. The fabric caught on your curves in all the right places before settling delicately around the swell of your hips.

Bob stared like he’d forgotten his own name.

Because when you bent forward, his eyes had dropped–not out of lechery, but because something inside him shattered. The long slope of your back, the shape of your ass in those red lace underwear, the stretch of your thighs beneath sheer fabric–it burned into him like holy fire.

And then–

“She is divine.”

The words didn’t come from Bob.

They rang in his head–low and velvet and terrible in its beauty. Sentry’s voice.

“She’s carved from the very atoms that undo me. She was made to be worshipped. Look at her. Look at her and tell me that heaven doesn’t kneel at her feet.”

Bob blinked, eyes wide and glassy.

Sentry wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t demanding control. But he was there.

Watching. Wanting.

“Let me touch her,” The voice whispered again, smoother this time. “Let me hold her the way she deserves. Just once. Just once, I swear–”

Bob pressed his palms hard to his thighs. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even breathe properly.

Because even without Sentry’s voice curling like gold-leaf flames through his thoughts, the image in front of him would’ve undone him.

You adjusted the thin straps gently, your fingers brushing across the neckline. The mesh hugged the curve of your breasts and fell soft as shadow over your waist. You looked like something from a fever dream–ethereal, vulnerable, and completely, deliberately real.

Then you turned slightly, catching his gaze again in the mirror.

The hem of the babydoll swayed just above mid-thigh, sheer and impossibly delicate. You brought your fingers down to it, rubbing the mesh slowly between your thumb and forefinger–absently, like you were testing the texture, like this was just another thing to consider.

But it wasn’t absent.

Not with the way his eyes followed every movement like they were tethered to your hands.

You turned around slowly.

Bob was still sitting on the bench, his back rigid against the wall, his hands planted hard on his thighs like they were the only things anchoring him in place. His jaw was slack, his lips parted. His pupils were blown, but not entirely black–there was still a sliver of that tender blue left in them, touched now with something gold and shimmering around the edges. The faintest glow. Like sunrise barely breaching the horizon.

They weren’t just his eyes anymore.

They were all watching you.

And god, he looked so beautiful like that–wrecked and reverent, trembling and quiet, staring up at you like you were the only real thing in the world.

You stepped closer.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

His eyes trailed up your body–your thighs, the curve of your hips beneath the mesh, your waist, your breasts barely concealed beneath the sheer fabric. And then they met yours again, wide and pleading.

And then, quietly, hoarsely, like the words were made of splinters:

“W-Why are you doing this t-to me?”

His voice cracked in the middle–soft and aching. He looked up at you like you had your hands around his ribcage and were squeezing. Like he wasn’t sure if he wanted you to let go or hold tighter.

The lighting in the room caught his face just right–glossed over and glowing. You saw it clearly now, that strange shimmering in his irises–blue and gold, and something ghost-white blooming near the pupils. A storm barely held at bay.

You tilted your head, slow and deliberate, your tone laced with innocence.

“Doing what?”

His breath hitched.

“T-Torturing me…Y/N…”

The way he said your name–it landed like prayer in the quiet.

You didn’t answer right away. You just stepped closer, close enough for your knees to touch the edge of the bench, close enough for the hem of the slip to brush his knuckles.

His fingers twitched. Tightened. Dug into his thighs like he was trying to keep them there. Trying not to move, not to reach, not to shatter.

You shook your head softly.

“I’m not torturing you…” You murmured.

Then you leaned down slowly, slowly–until your lips hovered near his ear, until your voice was a secret you whispered against his skin.

“I’m making it obvious.”

And then you took his wrists.

Gently. Carefully. Like he was something sacred.

You guided his trembling hands up, your fingers wrapped around his wrists like ribbons, until they reached the curve of your hips. You placed them there–held them there.

Warmth.

His palms grazed the mesh first, then the shape of you underneath. He didn’t grip. Not yet. His breath stuttered like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to touch you like this. But then you gave him a tiny nod–barely perceptible, but real.

He got the hint.

His fingers spread slightly, molding to your skin. One thumb brushed lightly over the edge of the lace waistband. His breath caught like it physically hurt, and he looked up at you like you’d handed him the sun and told him not to blink.

He was already shaking.

You watched his expression shift–fear and awe, restraint and need, all woven together. The Sentry’s reverence. The Void’s hunger. And Bob’s aching, terrified love.

“Y/N…” He breathed, like your name was the only thing holding him together.

Then you just whispered:

”Touch me Bob.”

He gulped audibly, before he began to move slowly, like he thought rushing might wake him from a dream he wasn’t ready to lose. His palms traced the curve of your waist with agonizing care, sliding from the edge of your hips down over the soft slope of your thighs. His fingers splayed slightly, grazing the lace along the top of your underwear, then drifting lower. Each pass was like worship–like the act of memorizing, not exploring. He breathed out softly, the sound shaky, a quiet exhale against the electric silence of the room.

You let go of his wrists then and brought your hands up slowly, fingers brushing along the curve of his jaw until your palms framed his face, cradling him with a tenderness you hadn’t dared give voice to until now.

His skin was warm–feverish almost. You rubbed your thumbs lightly under his eyes, brushing along the shadows there, and his breath hitched. His lashes fluttered shut, lips parting just slightly, like he was absorbing every ounce of contact through his bones.

God, he was touch-starved.

You could feel it in how he leaned into your hands without even realizing it, like he was afraid if he pulled away, he’d lose the only safe thing left in the world.

You leaned down.

And pressed a kiss to his cheek–slow and gentle. You felt the tremble run through him like a current.

Then you whispered, barely louder than a breath:

“Do you know how long I’ve liked you, Bob?” His jaw clenched. You felt the subtle twitch beneath your fingertips–right before his nails grazed your thighs, dragging lightly through the skin just beneath the mesh. Not enough to scratch. But enough to leave a trail of heat in their wake.

He shook his head.

Not in disbelief–but like the truth was too big to imagine. Too painful to hope for.

You kissed his other cheek–longer this time. Slower. Your breath curled against his skin as you whispered:

“I’ve liked you since the very beginning…” Your voice cracked just faintly with the weight of it. “…I thought I was unworthy of you.”

His head snapped slightly–not harsh, just desperate–as he finally opened his eyes and looked at you again. And for a moment, all you could see was grief. Longing. The pain of every silent night and missed opportunity that had nearly broken the two of you apart.

And still, his hands didn’t stop moving.

They drifted up again, this time underneath the sheer babydoll, sliding over the skin of your waist, and your ribs slowly. He stopped at the waistband of your underwear–just resting there, barely touching, thumbs rubbing soft circles against your hips like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to be here.

You leaned in again–closer this time.

And kissed him.

It was slow. Deep. Sensual.

Not rushed. Not greedy.

It was the kind of kiss you gave someone who’d been starving for too long. Someone who didn’t know what it felt like to be wanted in the open. Someone who still didn’t believe he was enough.

Bob moaned into it–so soft, so desperate it broke something inside you.

His arms wrapped around your waist before he even realized they had moved. He pulled you in tight, like gravity wasn’t enough on its own. His hands slid along your back and dipped beneath the mesh to hold your skin like it anchored him to this moment. His lips trembled slightly against yours, but he didn’t pull away.

If anything, he kissed you harder. Like he couldn’t bear the thought of the space that had existed between you ever again. What started as soft and reverent turned hungry in a heartbeat. Bob’s mouth opened just slightly, enough for his teeth to catch your bottom lip, the faintest scrape sending a spark straight to your core. You gasped into him–eyes fluttering–and your fingers tightened in his hair, threading through the golden strands and tugging gently, just to feel the way he responded.

He groaned.

It was guttural–low and raw and laced with a desperation you hadn’t heard before. It rumbled out of his chest like he couldn’t contain it, like your touch had coaxed something from the deepest part of him that had been waiting for permission to surface.

His hands slipped downward, slow but deliberate, ghosting over the curve of your hips, down the backs of your thighs–and then suddenly he was gripping you, lifting you just enough to guide you into his lap.

You straddled him.

The motion made your sheer slip flutter like smoke around his knees, pooling soft against his hoodie. Your thighs slid across the firm shape of his lap, settling on either side of him. You could feel him now–hard beneath you, restrained but unmistakable–and it made your breath catch again, the heat between your legs pulsing in time with your heart.

Bob’s hands curled into your thighs, like he needed to hold on or risk falling apart completely. His mouth found yours again with more force this time–messier, wetter, desperate in the way he kissed you like he was trying to drink you in. There was no hesitation anymore. Just need.

One hand slid up your back, warm under the slip, his palm splayed between your shoulder blades, pulling you down into him. The other stayed low, gripping the swell of your thigh, fingertips brushing against the crease where your leg met your body. The way he held you–tight and trembling–sent shivers down your spine.

You moaned softly into his mouth, rolling your hips once against him–slow and intentional. The friction made both of you gasp. He bucked up instinctively, just slightly, just enough, and you broke the kiss with a shaky inhale, your forehead pressing to his.

He looked wrecked.

Flushed and panting, eyes half-lidded and dazed with lust. His chest heaved beneath your hands as you smoothed them along his jaw and down to his collarbones, feeling the pulse hammering in his neck like it might burst through skin.

“I–I don’t know h-how to stop,” He whispered, voice frayed and cracking like old paper. “You…Y-You feel like heaven…”

You smiled softly, still breathless. Your hands cupped his face again, grounding him.

“I know.”

His hands moved again–one sliding along your ribs, the other dipping beneath the hem of your underwear now, just barely brushing the curve of your ass. You shivered.

“I’ve w-wanted you for so long…” He admitted, like it was being torn from him. You kissed him again–quicker this time, mouths opening, tongues brushing in heat–but as your hips rocked once more against him, you felt the coil tightening too fast.

His hands were trembling. His breath was shaking. And you knew if you didn’t stop now, you wouldn’t.

Your breath hitched–just once–before you pulled back.

Still straddling him, still shaking, still so close it felt like any more contact might ignite both of you into ruin. But you reached up, pressed your hands to the sides of his face, and whispered through ragged breath:

“…We can’t do this here.”

Bob’s eyes searched yours–wide, dazed, glassy with restraint he was barely holding onto.

“I want to,” You continued, voice low, your forehead resting against his. “God, I want to. But not like this. Not here. Not where I can’t fall apart properly. Not when I can’t take my time with you.”

He made a sound in his throat–half-groan, half-whimper–and his hips rocked up into you once, instinctively, helplessly.

You gasped, eyes fluttering shut for a second as his erection pressed against your center through the thin layers. Heat bloomed through your core like wildfire.

His hands trembled against you.

”I-I agree…” He whispered. But his voice crack, like it nearly broke him to say it, “I d-don’t want our f-first time t-to be rushed. I c-can’t…” His words were barely audible now, and you could hear the raw self-control in them, stretched to its limits.

With shaking hands, he shifted beneath you, guiding your hips off him gently–like it hurt to let you go. His fingers gripped the waistband of his sweatpants, adjusted awkwardly, then quietly, discreetly tucked himself up into his waistband to conceal the obvious hardness straining against the fabric. He hissed through his teeth at the contact–too sensitive now, too desperate–but he made himself breathe through it.

You slid off his lap fully, legs still trembling, and reached forward with slow, tender hands to fix his hair where your fingers had tugged it out of place. His eyes closed at your touch, his whole body leaning forward like he was still chasing the heat of you.

You smiled faintly, still breathless. Your voice was a hushed vow.

“I’m gonna change,” You murmured, pressing one last kiss to his jaw. “Then we’re gonna buy these…”

You stepped back just enough to meet his eyes fully, gaze dark with promise.

“…And speed back to the compound. Because I want you so fucking bad right now it hurts.”

Bob nearly collapsed.

His knees buckled slightly where he sat, his head tipped back against the wall like he needed the cold surface to keep from slipping under. A choked noise escaped him–almost a laugh, almost a moan–and he covered his face with both hands, exhaling like your words had hit him in the soul.

You leaned forward, just close enough to murmur in his ear before pulling away.

“Get ready, Bob. Because when we get back…I’m not holding back either.”

And then you turned toward the hooks on the wall, your slip still clinging to your skin, your thighs still warm from where you’d pressed into him.

Behind you, Bob stayed silent.

But if you had looked, you would’ve seen his hands still trembling in his lap… and a faint golden glow returning to the edges of his irises–bright, divine, and waiting.

———————

The drive back to the compound was electric. You could feel it in the air–like static clinging to your skin. Bob sat in the passenger seat, trying so hard to keep his breathing steady, his hands folded neatly in his lap for the first five minutes.

But then…His hand slid to your thigh.

It wasn’t casual.

It wasn’t accidental.

His palm settled there slowly, like he was testing a boundary he was terrified to cross–but desperate to claim. The weight of it was warm, grounding. But his fingers…They weren’t still.

They flexed.

Gripped.

Curled gently into the softness of your skin where your sweatpants were bunched up mid-thigh. His thumb dragged a slow, agonizing stroke along the inside, brushing just beneath the fabric, right where the heat of you still pulsed from earlier. The contact was searing. Deliberate. Just barely restrained.

You sucked in a quiet breath, knuckles tightening on the steering wheel.

Bob didn’t say anything. But you could see it in his jaw—the way it flexed, locked, trembled. He was holding back. Every time his fingers inched higher, he stopped himself. Every time your legs shifted wider to invite him closer, his hand tensed like he was fighting himself not to slide his fingers past the waistband and straight into the wet heat waiting for him.

His forehead pressed lightly to the passenger window, eyes shut tight, breath fogging the glass. You didn’t need to hear the words to know what he was thinking.

It was written all over him.

I want her. I need her. I can’t lose control. Not yet. Not here.

But god, it was killing him.

And it was killing you.

The second you pulled into the underground garage of the compound and shifted the car into park, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the entire drive. His hand slid away reluctantly, fingertips dragging along your thigh like he didn’t want to leave the heat of you.

You didn’t speak. You just moved quickly–grabbing the shopping bags, handing him his, your hands shaking faintly as you both made your way across the garage toward the elevator.

The doors opened with a soft chime.

You stepped inside.

And the moment they closed behind you–

He dropped everything.

The bags hit the floor with a soft thud.

And then he kissed you.

There was no hesitation this time. No fear. No silence.

Just lips crashing into yours, hands gripping your waist, pulling you into him like he needed to feel your heartbeat to survive. His mouth devoured yours–hot, messy, open. Tongues sliding, breath catching. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t sweet.

It was starving.

You moaned into it–high and breathless–and your fingers flew to his hair, threading through the light brown strands and tugging, pulling, just to hear the noise it dragged out of him.

He groaned into your mouth–deep and ragged–and the sound nearly dropped you to your knees.

His hips pinned you gently to the elevator wall, just enough pressure to feel the tension simmering through both of you. One hand gripped your jaw, the other slid under the hem of your hoodie, palm splayed wide across your back, hot and insistent.

You didn’t stop kissing him. You couldn’t. Your hands slid down his chest, grabbing fistfuls of the hoodie that still smelled like cedar and warmth and him, clinging as his tongue swept against yours again, this time slower. Dirtier.

The elevator chimed.

The doors slid open–

Empty hallway, no shoes, meaning nobody was there.

Thank god.

You broke apart with a gasp, both of you breathing like you’d just survived something. Bob’s eyes were glassy, his cheeks flushed, his lips wet.

Without a word, you both grabbed the bags–awkwardly, fumbling through the haze–and half-stumbled into the hallway. The bags were dumped just inside the entryway, forgotten the second they hit the floor.

Then he grabbed you again.

Lifted you.

You squealed, legs wrapping around his waist like instinct, arms flinging around his shoulders. He kissed you again immediately–hot, breathless, unrelenting. Your back hit the hallway wall once, a gentle thud, before he adjusted you higher, hands gripping under your thighs.

You moaned into his mouth as his tongue slid over yours again, kissing like he was burning from the inside out.

And he was.

Bob groaned against your lips, stumbling forward as he carried you–still wrapped around him–down the hallway, toward his room. You nipped at his lower lip, then kissed it better. You dragged your hands through his hair again, tugging just enough to make him gasp your name into your mouth like a confession.

He barely made it into his room.

The door slammed shut behind him with a muffled thud, his hand still pressed flat against it while the other clutched you tight to his body–your thighs locked around his waist, breath hot and mingling as he chased your lips again like a man starved. He didn’t even bother to turn the light on. He didn’t need it.

The afternoon sun spilled through his window in golden ribbons, catching in his messy hair and painting long streaks across the floor, the wall, your bare thighs where they clung to his hips. It made everything feel dipped in amber–molten and slow and holy.

He pulled back for just a second–just to look at you–and then carried you toward the bed in a few staggering steps. The second his knees hit the edge, he dropped you onto the mattress with a breathless grunt.

You bounced lightly on impact, letting out a startled giggle as your back met the sheets. Your hair fanned across his dark comforter like a halo, and your eyes sparkled in the soft light. Bob just stood there for a second, staring.

His hair was a complete mess–flushed cheeks, chest rising and falling fast beneath his hoodie, lips kiss-swollen and parted like he was still catching up to what was happening. But his eyes looked like they were drinking in the sight of you. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

Then he dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed and leaned over you, catching your mouth again in a kiss that was gentler this time—slower. He kissed down your jaw next, reverent and shaky, then down your throat, his lips soft and open, trembling against the skin of your neck.

And then, like it broke loose from him before he could stop it, he whispered—

“G-God, I can’t believe you’re on m-my bed right now.”

His voice cracked on the word “bed,” and the wonder in it made your heart catch.

You laughed softly, breath brushing his cheek as you reached up and cupped his face.

“Well…” You murmured, stroking your thumb along the edge of his jaw. “You better believe it. I’ve been waiting for this for so long.”

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, glassy and overwhelmed, like he didn’t know what to do with all the softness you were offering. You traced your fingers down his cheek, and he leaned into the touch instinctively–then turned his head and pressed a kiss to the very tips of your fingers. One, then two, then three. Each kiss was slow, sacred, like a promise he couldn’t speak out loud.

And then–wordlessly, breath trembling–he sat up just enough to tug the hem of his hoodie over his head. His shirt followed, wrinkled and clinging, and when it came off, your breath caught.

God, he was beautiful.

Not just in the obvious way–though that was undeniable. He was all lean lines and pale shimmering skin, scattered with light brown freckles and stretch marks that caught in the light like constellations. But it was the rawness of him that undid you–the way his chest rose and fell too fast, the way his stomach tensed as your eyes moved over him, the way he looked down like he was afraid you’d flinch or look away.

You sat up without a word and ran your hands slowly along the ridges of his stomach, smoothing your palms over the heat of his skin. He gasped quietly at the contact, breath catching in his throat, but didn’t stop you.

You leaned in, pressed a soft kiss just below his sternum. Then another, a little lower. Then another along the edge of a faded scar near his ribs.

“You’re so fucking handsome, Bob,” You whispered between kisses. “Do you know that?”

He shook his head–too stunned to respond–and you laughed softly against his skin, letting your mouth trail lower. You kissed the slope of his abs, the dip of his waist, the notch between his hip and belly, letting your lips worship every inch like it was sacred. His hands hovered near your shoulders, shaking slightly, like he didn’t know whether to touch you or to fall to pieces.

“I could do this forever,” You whispered.

He let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a whimper, his hand coming to rest lightly at the crown of your head. Just the tips of his fingers. Just enough to anchor him.

You looked up at him from where you knelt between his legs, kissed his navel one more time–and then you felt it.

His hands sliding down slowly to the hem of your sweater.

They hesitated.

Shaking.

“C-Can I?” He whispered.

His voice was so reverent. Like he was asking to peel back the sky.

You nodded.

“Please.”

And then–very carefully, like he was unwrapping something fragile—Bob tugged your sweater up and over your head, slow and tender, his fingers brushing your skin like he didn’t trust himself not to tremble.

The sweater hit the floor, and the golden afternoon light spilled over your body like it was meant to find you there. His hands hovered midair–still trembling slightly from where they’d dragged your sweater off–his breath held tight in his chest, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to look, even now. Even after everything. His eyes were wide and glassy, lips parted, and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, gaze dragging slowly over every inch of you like he was memorizing a prayer in real time.

Not because of what you were wearing. Not because of what you weren’t. But because it was you. Because you were here. In his room. In his bed. In his light.

The sunlight struck you like it was trying to worship too–glinting off the curves of your collarbone, catching in the soft line of your bra, painting warm shadows between the valley of your breasts and the slope of your shoulders. You looked almost surreal like that–so warm and real and close. Like a daydream he hadn’t dared put words to.

He exhaled–slow and ragged–and brought one hand forward, palm outstretched, fingers splayed like he was reaching toward something celestial.

His voice, when it came, was soft. Awed.

“Y-You’re…You’re r-radiant…”

The word barely made it past his lips.

You gave him a small, teasing smile, though your heart ached with the way he looked at you–like you were something sacred that might break if touched too roughly. Like if he blinked, you might be gone.

“You make it sound like I’m glowing,” You whispered.

He nodded without hesitation.

“You are.” And then finally, he touched you.

His fingertips met the soft skin of your waist first, brushing just above the band of your underwear, and sweatpants.

They lingered there, delicate and trembling, as if your warmth might scorch him. Then he slid them up slowly—achingly slowly—over your ribs, along the side of your body, until his palm flattened just beneath your breast. He stopped there. Just breathed. His forehead gently bowed until it pressed to your sternum like he was saying grace.

“I-I don’t…” He murmured against your skin, “I d-don’t know how I’m s-supposed to survive this…”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his head, and whispered against the crown of it, “Think we just need to take it one step at a time…I’m sure you’ll be okay.”

He groaned quietly–like the weight of that kindness broke something in him–and kissed the center of your chest. Then he kissed lower. And lower. His mouth moving with aching gentleness, like every kiss was a vow.

When he reached your bra strap, he paused. Pressed a final kiss to the edge of the cup.

“C-Can I take this off?” He asked, voice hoarse with restraint.

You nodded slowly, arching slightly to help him.

He unclasped it with careful fingers–then pulled it away like he was parting the curtain of a temple. His eyes drank you in with a hunger that was soft, not frantic. Worshipful. Full of wonder and heat. His eyes drifted over the soft slope of your chest, the way your breasts rose and fell with your breath, the subtle curve of skin that caught the golden afternoon light like it had been painted there just for him. He didn’t speak at first. Just exhaled slowly, shakily, like the air itself was too heavy to hold.

Then, slowly, he lowered his head.

The first kiss he pressed to the top of your breast was featherlight. His lips barely grazed your skin before pulling back again, his breath shaky as he let his mouth trail across the other side. A small, broken sound escaped him.

“Oh my g-god…” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Y-You feel…you feel so soft…”

He brought his hand up next–tentatively–his fingers trembling slightly as they cupped the underside of one breast. His thumb brushed gently along the outer curve, then rose higher, tracing lightly across the peak without quite touching your nipple. His palm was warm–big and careful, like he didn’t want to squeeze too hard and break the moment.

“I-I didn’t know skin could be this s-soft,” He stammered, his breath catching again as he glanced up at you–eyes glassy, wide, rimmed faintly in gold and white. “Y-You’re…y-you’re beautiful. You’re–y-you’re so–”

He broke off, shaking his head slightly like the words just couldn’t come fast enough. Like none of them were enough.

Then he dipped his head again–lower this time.

His lips trailed slowly toward the center of your chest, kissing along the swell until they hovered just beside your nipple. His breath fanned warm against the sensitive skin there, and he hesitated for a beat–watching your face.

You met his gaze. And nodded.

Your fingers slid gently into his hair, threading through the soft waves at the crown of his head, grounding him.

That was all the encouragement he needed.

He leaned in and kissed right beside your nipple. Softly. Gently. Like a promise. Then again, this time a little closer. Your breath hitched, your grip tightening just slightly in his hair. His lips brushed over the hardened peak, not yet sucking, just dragging over it, teasing. His tongue flicked once, testing the heat of you there.

You gasped.

And that sound made something snap loose in him.

He groaned–low and shaky–then parted his lips and sucked your nipple into his mouth.

The heat of it sent a shock through you. His mouth was so warm, so tender–his tongue swirling softly as he drew you in deeper, sucking just enough to make your hips twitch beneath him. His eyes didn’t close. They stayed open–locked on yours, half-lidded and burning with something too big for either of you to name.

You saw it then–the faint shimmer of white blooming in his pupils, gold dust clinging to the edges like light at the center of a storm. But it was still him. He was in full control.

Your head tilted back as you moaned, your fingers tightening in his hair as he sucked harder, moaning softly against your breast like the taste of you undid him. His other hand rose to cup the untouched breast, squeezing gently, thumbing the nipple as his mouth continued lavishing the other. You could feel his fingers shake, even now. Could feel how hard he was trying to stay grounded, to stay present. Not because he didn’t want to lose control.

But because he wanted you to know he was choosing this.

Choosing you.

Every second. Every touch.

He moaned again against your skin, then pulled back just slightly–your nipple slipping from his mouth with a soft, wet sound. His lips were red now, kiss-swollen and damp, his breath heavy and ragged. He looked up at you again, and god, the look in his eyes–

Wrecked, and still trying to believe this was real.

“S-So beautiful…” His mouth was already moving to your other breast. His tongue traced a slow, trembling circle around the nipple first, warm breath hitting the damp skin as his hand continued to gently knead the other. Then he sealed his mouth over the soft peak and sucked.

Your back arched, a sound slipping from your lips that wasn’t quite a moan but something deeper, hungrier. He moaned too–low and hot–against your chest like the taste of you was dragging the restraint from his bones. His hips shifted at the same time, a slow grind of heat against heat, and the sudden pressure of him rubbing up between your legs made you cry out softly, gasping.

Your fingers threaded tighter into his hair.

He grunted softly against you, and then his free hand–shaking but sure–found yours, linking your fingers together like he needed to anchor himself. His grip wasn’t tight. Just intimate. A promise made skin-to-skin.

He pulled off your breast with a soft, wet pop, and his mouth was pink and glistening now, his lips parted and jaw slack like he couldn’t get enough of the way you tasted, the way you looked writhing beneath him.

“G-God…” he whispered, breath hitching as he rutted forward again—slow, desperate, a grind that made your hips twitch up to meet him. “I–I want to worship every inch of you… I–I wanna taste every goddamn part of your skin until you’re c-crying my name.” Your eyes blew wide at that. Your breath caught. A sound–needy, wrecked–escaped you.

“Bob…” He sat up, only for a second.

Just long enough to hook his fingers into the waistband of your sweatpants. He glanced up for permission–barely–but you nodded, hips lifting instinctively. That was all he needed.

He peeled them off slowly–achingly slow–dragging the fabric down your thighs, over your knees, baring more of you with every inch, and he hummed at the sight of the red underwear before him, smiling. Your fingers curled into the comforter beneath you.

“Bob…Please…” He looked up sharply at that–like the sound of your desperation hit him somewhere primal.

And then he bent forward.

His mouth pressed kisses to the inside of one thigh. Then the other.

Slow. Gentle. Worshipful.

Then he did it again–lower. This time, his lips parted, and his tongue slid out just enough to lick a stripe upward along the soft skin near the edge of your underwear. You cried out, hips twitching, and his hands immediately pinned them gently down–holding you steady, grounding you.

He groaned–louder now–pressing his nose briefly to your inner thigh, his breath hot as he inhaled the scent of you. It made his whole body shudder.

You were soaked.

The dark spot on your underwear was undeniable, and when his eyes locked on it, he cursed again under his breath.

“Y-You’re so wet…”

“Bob,” you whimpered, breathless and shaking, “Please…Please touch me. I need your mouth, I–I need it so bad, I’m fucking aching.”

He pressed a kiss just beside the wet spot.

“Shhh…I-I’m gonna take my time with you…” He murmured–his voice lower now, slipping toward something more controlled but just as desperate. Bob pressed another kiss to your soaked underwear–right at the center this time–his lips lingering just long enough for the damp heat to soak into him, his breath shaking as he pulled back slightly.

Then he did it again.

And again.

Soft, open-mouthed kisses. Each one slower than the last, his mouth dragging across the wet fabric like he wanted to memorize the shape of you through it.

You whimpered, thighs trembling beneath his palms.

“B-Bob–” You gasped, voice cracking, “Please, please don’t tease, I c-can’t–god, I need you–need your mouth…” A broken sound spilled from his chest. Somewhere between a moan and a plea.

“Y-You don’t even know what you’re d-doing to me.” His fingers curled around the sides of your underwear, and you lifted your hips for him, trembling with anticipation as he slid the lace down your thighs–inch by aching inch. His knuckles brushed the heat of your slick folds as he worked the fabric over your legs, and his breath caught sharply.

When they hit your knees, he paused–pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh, then slid the panties the rest of the way off.

He balled the lace softly in one hand.

Then tossed them aside like they were no longer necessary in the world.

His hands returned to your legs, and this time he gripped them firmly–fingers splayed wide as he lifted them, draped them over his shoulders, and leaned in until your thighs framed his face like a crown.

You gasped, hips twitching upward toward him, but he just…Looked.

Stared like he was witnessing something holy.

And then he exhaled–slow and trembling–and lowered his hands to your stomach.

His palms spread flat against your skin, fingers splaying across the soft curve just above your hips. The warmth of them grounded you, anchoring you, keeping you from floating away.

“I’ve d-dreamed about this,” He whispered, voice trembling with awe. “About touching you here…K-kissing you here…Tasting you…” You whimpered again, one hand flying to his hair, the other clutching the sheets beside you. Your thighs quivered over his shoulders as he bent lower, his thumbs sweeping lightly over your skin, just enough to soothe, but not enough to still the trembling that rolled through your body.

Then he kissed your belly, right at the center.

A slow, open-mouthed kiss that left a trail of heat behind it, and when he pulled back, he blew softly against the spot–his breath cooling the wet spot.

He did it again. Lower.

Kiss. Warm. Lingering.

Then another gentle puff of air that left you gasping, your thighs tightening around his shoulders like your body was trying to anchor him closer.

“Bob,” you whimpered, arching just slightly beneath his touch, your hips shifting like they couldn’t stay still, not when he was this close, not when every breath against your skin made your core pulse with need.

He kept going.

Slow. Measured. Torturous.

He trailed kisses downward–along the soft curve just above your mound, the edge of your pelvis, the place where your thighs met the heat of your center–but never quite where you needed him. His eyes stayed locked on yours the entire time, half-lidded and blown wide with awe, his lips pink and swollen from kissing every inch of you but the one you ached for.

Your hips jerked.

One of your hands clenched the comforter; the other tugged desperately at his hair.

But his hands never moved from your stomach.

He held you there, palms splayed like a vow, thumbs brushing softly across your trembling skin while your legs shook around his neck.

You whimpered again–helpless, broken–and your head tipped back with a soft cry.

He lowered his head.

Pressed a kiss to your inner thigh.

Then another, closer to the edge of your folds.

Then, maddeningly slow, his lips brushed the crease just beside where you needed him the most–so close your whole body jerked.

You choked on a sob.

And then you felt his breath.

Hot and heavy.

And his voice–fragile but burning–just beneath it.

“G-God,” He whispered, eyes still locked on yours, “You’re so pretty when y-you’re begging me for it…”

Your breath hitched, before you let out a small laugh. High, shaky, and helpless.

Because it was true.

You were begging him. Practically sobbing for his mouth. And it was ridiculous and perfect and raw.

Bob gave the faintest smile–soft, wrecked, reverent.

“I-I know I’m gonna regret m-making you do that later,” he added, voice cracking just slightly, “Because when you get me back for it… It’s g-gonna destroy me.”

Your laughter melted into a groan.

”I’m…I’m glad you r-realized that…” Bob’s breath shuddered as he hovered there—face so close you could feel the heat of him, the faint tremble in his jaw as he fought to keep it together. His eyes flicked up through his lashes, locking on yours again. You were already wrecked, trembling, breathless, soaked.

And he hadn’t even started yet.

“W-Well then,” He whispered, his voice hoarse and reverent, like he was offering an apology and a prayer in one, “L-Let me make it up to y-you…”

And then he leaned in.

The first stroke of his tongue made your entire body jolt.

It was slow–just one, long, deliberate drag from the base of your folds all the way up, thick and warm and unhurried. You cried out, hips twitching helplessly, and his hands slid firmer over your stomach to ground you again. His moan vibrated against you, low and guttural, like the taste alone had knocked the breath from his lungs.

“Oh my g-god…” He whispered, his voice cracking apart at the seams. “You…You taste like heaven. L-Like I always knew you would…”

Then he dove back in.

It wasn’t gentle now. It wasn’t shy. It was consuming.

His mouth worked against you like he’d been starved for it–like it was the only thing that could keep him alive. His tongue slid into you, slow and deep, curling with purpose as he moaned against your heat, tasting the slick arousal that pulsed out of you with every trembling breath. He moved like a man who had dreamed of this for too long, cataloged every detail of you in silence, and now, finally, was committing every second to memory with his mouth.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

“B-Bob–” You gasped, high and broken, “Oh my god–”

He groaned again at the sound, the vibration rolling into you as his tongue worked in slow, reverent thrusts–in and out, savoring every drop of you before moving higher. When his mouth finally slid up to your clit, he licked over it once, twice–teasing, lazy strokes–before closing his lips around the swollen bundle of nerves and sucking. Hard enough to make your hips jerk.

Your cry shattered the quiet.

Your thighs clamped around his head instinctively, your back arching off the bed as pleasure slammed through your core like a wave. He held firm–anchored between your legs, groaning low as he kept sucking, then pulled back just slightly.

His mouth hovered, glistening and open, breath fanning hot over your skin. He looked wrecked–lips swollen, chin slick with you, pupils blown wide with lust and awe.

“I-Jesus Christ…” He whispered, his voice lower now, stripped down to something darker. “You taste like sin and sunlight…”

Your breath caught. Your entire body pulsed with heat.

“…And I-I’m never gonna get enough of it.”

Then he was back on you again.

His mouth latched to your clit like he needed to drink from you–his tongue circling, flicking, then flattening to drag over you in waves that left you gasping. One of his hands slid off your stomach, reaching for the fist that was still tangled in the sheets beside you. He laced his fingers with yours, palm to palm, gripping tight as his tongue pressed against you again–wet and hot and desperate. You sobbed his name. Over and over, like a prayer.

“Bob–Bob–I can’t–please, I’m gonna–”

He moaned in response, and the sound vibrated through your entire body. He looked up at you through his lashes–eyes glowing faintly now, gold shimmering at the edges of blue, burning with care and awe. And he didn’t stop. He kept licking, sucking, and teasing you with his mouth like he meant to worship you apart, one tremble at a time.

Your hips bucked. Your thighs trembled. And your fingers tightened around his.

And still he didn’t let go.

As if holding your hand was the most important part. As if every sound you made, every tremor, every sob of his name was sacred, and he was anchoring you to the earth with his mouth and his touch. And you knew you were close.

Because your vision began to blur and your breath stuttered.

His grip only tightened. His mouth sucked harder. His tongue swirled with purpose. And he groaned again like he could taste how close you were. Your thighs trembled harder now–quaking around his head like they were begging to close, to pull him in and keep him there forever. Your chest heaved, hips rising again, trying to meet the maddening rhythm of his mouth. But then–God–

Bob changed.

He growled softly against you–low, primal, almost possessive–and then he truly devoured you.

His lips sealed tighter around your clit, and his tongue pressed harder, flicking and circling in messy, hungry swirls. No more teasing. No more restraint. Just heat. Pressure. Purpose. The wet, obscene sounds of him eating you filled the room, slick and desperate and perfect, and your body–already on the edge–snapped.

Your fingers twisted violently in his hair.

Your other hand, still laced with his, squeezed hard–so hard your knuckles went white.

Your whole body arched off the bed as you cried out–loud and raw, his name a sob torn from your throat.

“Bob–oh my God–I’m coming–I–!”

You were writhing beneath him, bucking, legs trembling uncontrollably as the orgasm ripped through you like fire. Your thighs clamped around his head, your hips stuttering against his face, and he groaned against your core like he loved it–like he lived for the way you shattered under his tongue.

And he didn’t stop.

Not when your legs twitched. Not when you whimpered from oversensitivity. Not when your body shook so hard it felt like you might fall apart. He just kept licking–slow, filthy drags of his tongue, drinking down every drop of your release like it was sacred.

He moaned against your entrance again–tongue sliding in one last time to taste you at the source–then up to your clit, giving it one final suck that made your whole body jolt.

Only when he felt your trembling finally ease–when the spasms softened into aftershocks and your fingers went slack in his hair–did he finally pull back.

His lips were slick. His chin was drenched. His eyes were glazed and golden and wrecked.

He looked like a man undone.

And then–without a word–he kissed your inner thigh once. Then the other. Then the soft curve just above your mound. Worshipful. Devout.

And then he crawled back up your body.

Kissing as he went.

Your hips. Your belly. The center of your chest where your heart still raced. Your collarbone. The underside of your jaw.

By the time he reached your mouth, you were already panting again, lips parted and waiting.

And when he kissed you–it was filthy.

He didn’t hold back. His mouth was slick, desperate, open. He kissed you like he needed you to feel what you’d done to him–how drunk he was on your taste, how ruined he was from the act of loving you with his mouth. His tongue slipped between your lips, and you moaned loudly into him, tasting yourself on him–warm, sweet, dizzying.

And he groaned at the sound, deep and low in his throat, the vibration rattling through your chest.

When he pulled back, his lips were still brushing yours, his breath hot against your cheek.

And then–voice wrecked, rough, so low it was almost a growl–he murmured:

“Y-You taste like you were made for my mouth…And I swear to god, I’d spend the rest of my life between your thighs if you let me.”

Your breath caught. Your legs twitched. Your stomach clenched with fresh heat. You were wrecked and soaked and trembling, and you still wanted him so bad it hurt.

You swallowed, tried to catch your breath–and then smiled, slow and dark and shaking with need.

Your hand slid over his chest.

Your lips brushed his ear.

And you whispered–

“Your turn.”

He blinked—once, then twice—like his brain was trying to catch up to what you meant. And when it finally did, when the meaning soaked through the haze of lust and reverence still clinging to him, he nodded—slowly, shakily.

“O-Okay…” he whispered, voice so soft it was almost a plea. He swallowed hard, chest still rising and falling fast beneath your touch. “B-But you need t-to take it easy on m-me… I’ll e-end up finishing really quick…”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh–gentle and wicked all at once.

“Don’t worry,” you murmured, brushing your nose lightly against his, “Wasn’t planning on making you finish that easily.”

Bob let out a half-choked groan–part embarrassment, part arousal, part awe.

“O-Oh God…”

And then he did exactly what you wanted–let himself fall back against the bed. His hair mussed further into the pillow, cheeks flushed, neck exposed, arms slightly bent at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them. You could tell he wanted to reach for you. Desperately. But he didn’t. He let you take control.

You moved slow.

Straddling him gently, you leaned down and kissed the corner of his mouth–then his jaw. Then lower.

The edge of his throat. The hollow of it. The line where his neck met his shoulder.

He shivered.

Your lips traced down to his collarbone, teeth grazing it lightly before you kissed the center. He was so warm. So tense beneath you. You felt it all–every twitch, every catch of breath, every time he shifted beneath your hips like he was already aching.

You smiled against his skin.

Then moved lower.

Your mouth trailed down his chest now, lingering on the freckles scattered across his pecs–those warm, honey-colored constellations that dusted his pale skin like someone had painted the stars on him. You kissed each one that caught your attention.

He whimpered.

Then gasped when your teeth grazed the meat of his pec, a little nip just beside his nipple.

“F-Fuck…” he breathed, hands fisting the sheets at his sides now, his eyes fluttering closed like he couldn’t handle watching you do this to him. “I-It’s t-too much–y-you’re…”

You kissed the center of his chest again. “You okay, Bob?”

He nodded quickly–too quickly. “Y-Yeah, y-yeah, I just–y-you’re killing me…”

You continued your descent.

Lower now. Down the gentle slope of his abdomen, where muscle twitched beneath his skin at your touch. You traced your tongue along the soft trail of hair that led lower, then kissed the spot just below his navel.

That’s when you felt it.

The hardness beneath his sweatpant and boxers–thick and straining, the outline unmistakable against the fabric. He was ready. So ready it nearly made you groan just from the heat of him pressing up into your thigh.

But you didn’t rush.

You kissed around it.

Along his hips. His lower stomach. The spot just above the waistband.

He whimpered again–this time louder, more desperate.

His hips shifted up instinctively, trying to get friction, contact, anything.

You just smiled–sweet, dangerous–and looked up at him.

“Bob,” You murmured, brushing your hand slowly over the waistband, teasing your fingers just beneath it, “What do you say?”

He was panting now. Eyes wide, lips parted, sweat gathering at his brow. His voice cracked when it came.

“I-I’m… I’m sorry f-for teasing you…”

Your eyes glittered.

“Oh?”

He nodded frantically, breath hitching again as your hand slipped fully beneath the waistband–but didn’t pull it down yet.

“P-Please…” He gasped, chest arching up toward you. “I-I’ll never do it again…P-Please, I-I c-can’t–just–please…” Your smile turned downright sinful.

“Good boy,” You whispered.

Your fingers curled around the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers together–tugging them down slowly, until the fabric cleared his hips and the tension finally gave way.

You sucked in a breath as he sprang free–thick and flushed and already leaking, the tip glistening with pre-cum and twitching ever so slightly as the cool air hit him. He was…Big. Bigger than you’d expected. Bigger than anyone you’d ever seen before. Long, heavy, impossibly hard, the flushed head slightly curved and swollen with need. And the moment you stared, it hit you in a new way.

His thighs were trembling, his chest heaving. His whole body was braced like he was fighting not to lose it just from being touched.

“Holy fuck, Bob…” You breathed, and the awe in your voice made him twitch again.

He whimpered—actually whimpered—and leaned up onto his elbows, his eyes wide and desperate, golden light faint at the corners of his irises now.

“I-It’s n-not usually… I mean–I-I don’t–” His voice cracked, flustered, like he was about to apologize for the way his erection stood proud and leaking for you, like he was embarrassed for how ready he already was.

You reached out and wrapped one hand gently around the base of him, fingers barely managing to meet. You gave the slightest stroke, thumb brushing along the underside–and watched the way his breath stopped. His hips stuttered upward just barely, like he was trying not to buck.

”Don’t apologize.” You cooed, licking your lips slowly as your eyes dragged up to meet his again. You leaned down, so your breath ghosted over the tip, and his whole body stiffened.

Then your tongue flicked out.

One slow, teasing lick–just a soft, playful swipe across the head, collecting the salty bead of pre-come that had formed there. The taste hit your tongue, warm and slick and uniquely him, and your mouth curled into a smirk as you pulled back just enough to speak.

”You taste so good Bob.” And he felt his arms give out. He dropped back to the bed with a helpless groan, one hand flinging over his face, the other clutching the comforter like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this plane of existence.

“I-I c-can’t–oh fuck, I c-can’t survive this…”

You let your grip slide higher along his shaft, fingers gliding with slow, steady pressure until your hand circled just beneath the head. He twitched again, and your thumb gently teased the tip.

“Poor thing,” You murmured, voice syrup-slick and sinful, “Already shaking for me?”

His head tipped back with a moan. “P-Please…”

You bent down again–this time kissing the tip, soft and slow.

Then you opened your mouth.

You took just the head in first, lips sliding over the crown, tongue swirling gently as you let him sit heavy and hot on your tongue. He moaned loudly, his hips twitching again, barely restrained, and his hand shot up to grip the pillow behind his head.

You pulled back, slowly, with a slick pop, then looked up at him again–your lips glossy, your voice low.

“You okay?”

He nodded frantically. “I-I don’t know how m-much of this I-I can take…”

You grinned.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Then you took him back into your mouth–this time deeper, slower, letting your lips stretch around him, inch by inch. You felt every pulse, every twitch of his erection as your tongue pressed beneath the shaft and your throat adjusted. He groaned so loud it echoed through the room, raw and wrecked.

Your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t reach, slow and firm, while your tongue swirled and licked, teasing that sensitive ridge just beneath the head as you bobbed up and down in a rhythm that had him panting.

“F-Fuck–oh god–please–you’re gonna–g-gonna kill me…”

And you just moaned around him–low and hot–sending vibrations through his entire body. You didn’t stop.

Not when his thighs tensed. Not when his breath hitched. Not even when his hand left the pillow and dropped to your shoulder, fingers flexing like he didn’t know whether to pull you closer or hold on for dear life.

You kept going. Letting him slide deeper with each pass of your mouth, your lips gliding down his shaft as your tongue pressed and curled beneath him–dragging along the sensitive underside just to hear the way he gasped, then choked, then whimpered your name.

Your hand worked in tandem—fisting around the base of him in slow, steady strokes that kept time with the rhythm of your mouth. And the sounds he made were everything. Guttural, helpless, and pleading. Like he didn’t know whether he was supposed to worship you or fall apart for you.

Then his voice cracked.

“J-Jesus–” He gasped, hips stuttering upward as you took him deep again. “I-I’m–f-fuck, I’m close–!”

You pulled off instantly.

Not cruelly. Not abruptly. Just smooth, controlled, intentional.

His erection slipped free of your mouth with a slick pop, strings of spit still connecting your lips to the tip as it twitched in the air–wet, flushed, leaking.

Bob choked on a sound–half sob, half whimper–and his eyes flew open, dazed and pleading. His chest heaved beneath you, rising and falling in uneven, desperate bursts as his hand shot forward like he didn’t understand why you’d stopped.

You licked your lips.

Saliva coated your mouth, your chin, even your cheek, and you wiped at it absently with the back of your hand–eyes locked on his the entire time.

He looked destroyed. Pink-cheeked and sweat-damp, pupils blown wide and blinking like you’d just left him in the middle of a battlefield without a weapon.

“W-Why’d you…?” He whispered, voice cracking on the edge of devastation. You giggled, sweet and sinful all at once. Then leaned in–close enough for your lips to brush the underside of his jaw.

“I told you,” You murmured, voice velvet-wicked and dripping heat, “I wasn’t planning on letting you finish that easily…”

Bob whimpered again–audibly this time–and his hips twitched like they couldn’t handle the tension coiling inside him. He looked down at himself–still fully hard, twitching, slick from your mouth–and then back at you like you’d committed an act of holy betrayal. You smiled wider.

Then, slowly, you let your hand curl around the base of his erection again–just enough to feel him throb beneath your touch.

He gasped–eyes fluttering shut, head falling back onto the pillow.

“And besides…” You added, voice lower now, dripping promise, “If you’re going to cum anywhere…” You leaned up, brushing your mouth beside his ear, your breath hot and deliberate as your body shifted higher–lining yourself up along the length of him, not yet taking him, just letting him feel the heat of your soaked core hovering, “…It’s gonna be inside me.” His whole body jolted at your words–like the thought of being inside you, of finishing inside you, hit him somewhere primal.

His hands found your hips–hot and trembling–his fingers splayed wide like he was trying to hold himself together with touch alone. You watched the way his throat bobbed, how his eyes flickered down to where your body hovered just above him, and then back up again.

“I-Is it…Is it safe?” He asked softly, voice frayed and wrecked and barely holding together. “I-I mean, f-for you…?”

You smiled–slow and knowing–and leaned down to kiss the corner of his mouth, letting your lips linger just long enough to feel the way his breath stuttered.

“Yes, Bob,” You murmured, brushing your nose lightly against his. “I’m clean… and I’m on birth control.”

He exhaled–shaky and hot, like he’d been holding the breath in his chest for days–and the sound of it ghosted across your lips.

But before you could tease him again–

He moved.

Fast.

You let out a surprised yelp–half laugh, half moan–as he rolled you underneath him in one sudden, fluid motion, his body moving like instinct, like he couldn’t take it anymore. Your back hit the mattress with a soft bounce and your hair splayed across the pillow as you looked up at him–eyes wide, mouth parted in shock.

“Bob!” You gasped, breathless with laughter.

But he was already there–already kissing your neck.

His mouth found the pulse point just below your jaw, then lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat as you laughed and moaned beneath him. One hand cupped your hip while the other braced beside your head, his chest flush to yours, heat rolling off his skin in waves.

“I-I knew…” he whispered between kisses, his voice ragged and thick, “I knew you’d be the person who w-wrecks me like this.”

Your breath caught. And then you smiled–soft and wicked and full of everything you hadn’t said yet. You reached up, cupped his face gently between your palms, and you kissed him like you were trying to pour the very ache of your love into his mouth, like you needed him to feel how much you wanted this–him. Not just now. Not just physically.

But all of him Forever, if he’d let you.

He moaned into your mouth, hips rocking down instinctively, grinding the thick length of his erection against your soaked core. You gasped into the kiss, fingers tightening against his jaw as he rutted forward again–slow, teasing strokes that slid his length right through your slick folds, nudging against your clit every time he rolled his hips.

“F-Fuck,” He whispered, voice cracked with need, “Y-You feel so wet…I-I can feel how bad you want it…”

“I do,” You breathed against his lips, “I want you so bad, Bob. I want all of you…”

That undid him.

He pulled back just enough to look at you–really look at you.

His eyes were wide, pupils blown, lashes damp at the corners. His lips were kiss-swollen and pink, and his breath stuttered as he propped himself on one elbow and reached down between your bodies with his other hand.

You felt it when his fingers wrapped around himself again–heard the soft, wet sound as he dragged the flushed head of his erection through your folds one more time. Up and down ever so slowly.

Your hips twitched.

And then he found your entrance.

He paused, just for a beat.

His eyes flicked up again, searching your face, checking one last time.

“Y-You sure?” He whispered.

“I’ve never been more sure,” You breathed, hand sliding down to rest over his thudding heart.

That was all he needed.

He pushed forward.

The first inch made your whole body tighten–heat blooming in your core like something sacred breaking open.

He was thick. Stretching you already. But he went slow like every second mattered. His breath stuttered as he pressed in deeper, eyes locked on your face like he couldn’t look away. Your mouth parted, a soft moan falling from your lips as you felt him sink inside you, inch by careful inch, filling you with such deliberate tenderness it made your eyes sting.

“Oh my god,” You whimpered, back arching slightly, thighs trembling, “B-Bob…”

He was shaking too–sweat beading along his brow, his jaw clenched like he was trying not to lose it from just the feeling of you wrapped around him.

“G-God…” Bob gasped, voice shaking as his hips rolled forward another inch. “You’re t-taking me s-so well, Y/N… You’re stretching around me so g-good…”

Your breath caught, hips twitching as he filled you deeper, the weight and width of him making you gasp. You could feel everything–every slow inch of him, every tremble in his arms as he held himself up, every quake in his breath as he tried to keep from sinking into you too fast.

Your arms slipped around his shoulders, pulling him closer, your nails digging into his back—not harsh, not clawing, just enough to leave small crescent reminders that you were there. That this was real. That he was inside you.

And still he pushed deeper.

Bit by bit.

Agonizing. Perfect.

Until he bottomed out–his hips flush with yours, the thick head of his cock pressed just barely against your cervix.

You gasped, your whole body jolting softly beneath him. “Ah–B-Bob–just a little careful…”

His eyes flew to yours, wide and wrecked. He nodded quickly, breathless. “Y-Yeah. Y-Yeah, I got you. I-I’ll take it slow…” You nodded, teeth catching your bottom lip as your legs curled tighter around his waist. He was trembling now—arms braced on either side of your head, his body a taut wire strung between reverence and restraint.

He kissed you.

Soft and deep, his mouth pressing to yours with a desperation that made your chest ache. Then he pulled back just enough to move–slowly.

He slid out–inch by inch–until only the tip remained inside you, slick and hot and pulsing. And then he thrust forward again.

Gentle.

Deep.

Your moan was soft, trembling, like it had been carved from somewhere sacred inside you.

Your eyes fluttered open, and his were already there–locked on yours.

And oh god, the way he looked at you.

Like he was drowning in the sight of you. Like your face was the only thing anchoring him to earth.

His hips rolled again–smooth and slow–pressing into you with that same impossible depth.

You whimpered softly, your nails digging into his back again, and for a second, you half-worried that it might hurt him–but he didn’t react.

Not a flinch.

He just kept moving steadily. Like your body was the temple and he was made to worship inside it.

He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, his voice cracking as he whispered:

“I-It’s like you w-were made to hold me l-like this…” You whimpered again, hips rising slightly to meet his next thrust, and the friction—slow, full, rhythmic—made your toes curl.

His hand slid to your face, cradling your cheek with a tenderness that made your heart stutter. He kissed you again–deeper this time–tongue sliding against yours in a slow, sensual rhythm that matched the motion of his hips.

“I-I love the way you sound…” He murmured against your lips. “Love the way you look at me like I’m s-someone worth this…”

You moaned into his mouth, your body trembling beneath him, and he didn’t stop.

His thrusts stayed slow, steady, deep.

His praises never stopped either.

“You’re so b-beautiful…You feel so fucking good around me… I-I could stay inside you forever…”

Your breath hitched, your eyes fluttering as another slow stroke dragged a cry from your throat. “B-Bob…”

“I’ve got you,” He whispered, forehead pressed to yours. “Always.”

And he rocked into you again, his breath ragged and mouth still brushing yours as he filled you over and over, every thrust a promise, every kiss a prayer.

Your hand slid up the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, and your voice–low and breathless–shook against his mouth.

“F-Faster, Bob… please.”

His hips paused, his breath catching. His eyes opened just enough to meet yours–wild and warm and so full of emotion it nearly knocked the wind out of you.

“You sure…?” He whispered, his voice cracking with restraint, with reverence.

You nodded, lips brushing his cheek. “Yes. I want to feel you. All of you.”

He groaned like you’d just ripped something out of him–deep and raw and ragged. Then his hips rolled forward again, a little harder this time. A little deeper. You gasped, your head tipping back against the pillow as he started to move faster–still gentle, still careful–but with a new kind of rhythm. One that made your whole body arch to meet him.

Every thrust dragged a soft cry from your lips, and he swallowed each one with kisses–down your jaw, across your cheek, then lower, to your neck. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin there, just beneath your ear, and you shivered as his breath caught.

“I c-can’t stop kissing you,” He whispered. “Y-Your skin–your neck–fuck, you taste like everything I’ve ever needed…”

Then he bit you.

Just once–just enough to leave the faintest mark. And before you could even moan his name, his tongue was there, licking the spot like he could soothe it back to calm. But it only made you shake harder beneath him.

“F-Fuck, Bob–” You gasped, nails dragging lightly down his back now, digging in just enough to make him whimper. “You feel so good–so deep–God, you’re perfect—”

He let out a broken noise, hips stuttering, and the next thrust hit deeper, grinding gently against the soft barrier of your cervix. Your moan was wrecked—high and ragged and unrestrained.

“Y/N,” He moaned hoarsely, eyes fluttering shut, his voice so low and hoarse it barely sounded human. “Y-You’re squeezing me so tight–I-I can feel you pulling me in–I can’t–fuck–”

His forehead pressed to yours, his breath trembling against your lips as he kept thrusting, deeper and faster now–wet and hot and slippery with everything you’d given him, the sound of your bodies joining filling the room like something sacred and messy and alive.

His moans were desperate–soft at first, then deeper, throatier, more broken with every roll of his hips. You could hear the tremble in them, like he was fighting himself with every breath, trying not to fall apart too fast.

“You’re so good for me,” He whispered against your mouth, voice frayed with awe. “Y-You’re everything–I can’t–I don’t ever wanna leave this body, this bed, this moment–”

You whimpered, your hands clawing at his shoulders now, your whole body rolling up to meet each of his thrusts, matching his rhythm even as your legs trembled around his waist.

“I’m s-so close,” You gasped, “Bob, I–I’m gonna–”

“I feel it,” He moaned, and he didn’t stop moving—just kept pushing deeper, grinding slower at the end of each thrust now like he was trying to drag your orgasm out of you with his body. “C-Come for me, baby–please–I-I wanna feel you lose it–I w-wanna feel it all–”

And it was messy now.

So messy.

Your slick was coating him, dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets beneath you. Your moans were tangled with his–louder now, echoing off the walls, hot and unfiltered and desperate. He was shaking on top of you, muscles taut, chest slick with sweat, the tension in his body barely held together by the grip of your hands on his back.

Your nails dragged down his spine again, and he let out the loudest moan yet–a broken, reverent cry against your shoulder.

“I-I can’t–I c-can’t hold it back much longer–” He gasped.

“Don’t,” you whispered, panting against his mouth, “Don’t hold back. Just f-fuck me, Bob…P–Please.” You whimpered.

He growled–soft and wrecked–and his next thrust was deeper, smoother, the angle perfect. You shattered.

Your orgasm hit like a tidal wave–rolling through you in waves that left your whole body writhing, crying out, sobbing his name. Your thighs locked tight around his waist. Your arms clung to him like a lifeline.

And he felt it.

Felt you tighten, clench, squeeze him so hard it almost pushed him over the edge with you.

He groaned–loud and hoarse–and kissed you through it, his thrusts slowing just enough to ride out the quake of your orgasm, whispering broken praises between each kiss.

“You’re so b-beautiful like this–so perfect–so good–so fucking good for me–” His hips stuttered once–then twice–shallow and trembling as he tried to hold on. But the way your walls pulsed around him, still fluttering from your orgasm, dragged a guttural moan from deep in his chest.

“F-Fuck–I’m gonna–oh my god–” His voice cracked, and then he thrust deep.

All the way in.

One last, hard, perfect stroke that ground right up against your cervix–flush, thick, shaking.

And he came.

You felt it.

The hot flood of it–spilling deep inside you, thick and molten. His whole body shuddered, his arms trembling as he clutched you, forehead dropping to your shoulder with a small, broken sound.

“Ah–fuck–ngh– Y/N–” His whimper was soft and wet, lips brushing your skin as he moaned through his release. He stayed buried inside you as he came, throbbing, pulsing with every wave, hips twitching in small jerks until it slowed–until all he could do was breathe. His arms folded under your shoulders, and he let himself settle on top of you with a low, shaky sigh. His weight was warm and grounding, not heavy–just enough to make you feel wrapped in him, surrounded by him.

You sighed too–soft and slow and utterly wrecked–and your nails grazed lightly up his back, dragging in gentle, satisfied lines over sweat-slick skin.

“Holy shit…” You whispered, your voice breathy with awe and disbelief.

Bob let out the faintest laugh–hushed and dazed and still short of breath. Then his lips started moving again. Everywhere. Pressing lazy kisses to your throat, your shoulder, the slope of your collarbone, the space beneath your ear. Tiny, messy kisses. Adoring ones. He couldn’t stop.

“Y-You’re unreal…” He murmured against your skin. “C-Can’t believe I’m here. With you. Inside you. Like this…”

You smiled, your heart fluttering.

He shifted–just enough to raise his head and look down at you, cheeks flushed, lips red, hair a golden, tangled halo. You reached up, cupped his face with one hand, and ran your thumb gently along his cheekbone, pushing his hair out of his face int he process.

“Hi,” You whispered.

His chest rose with a warm, broken laugh, and his hand came up to cradle your face in return–his palm cupping your jaw like it was precious.

“Hi,” He breathed, voice still trembling.

You both giggled–giddy, overwhelmed, barely able to process the way the world still felt like it was glowing from within.

Bob leaned in, kissed you softly–slow and messy and open-mouthed, like he was still drunk on you. Then, with visible effort, he pulled back and sat up slowly, his cock still sheathed inside you, twitching slightly from overstimulation.

You whimpered softly at the shift, and his hand rubbed along your thigh.

“I-I’m gonna pull out,” He informed quietly. “Just…Real slow.”

You nodded, biting your lip.

He moved gently–so gently–and as he slid out of you, you both gasped softly. You could feel it instantly: his cum already dripping out of you, thick and warm and sticky against your inner thighs.

Bob saw it too. His eyes widened slightly. He let out a soft groan.

“Y-You’re already leaking…”

His fingers brushed your inner thigh, trembling slightly, before carefully gathering what had come out of you on them and pushing it back into you. You jolted at the suddenness, back arching slightly with a small gasp.

“B-Bob!”

“Shhh,” He murmured, kissing your knee as he slowly pushed his fingers deeper. “W-Want to make sure you keep a l-little bit of me in you… F-For a little bit longer.”

Your cheeks burned.

He pulled back just slightly and watched–mouth parted, breath trembling–as his fingers glistened, slick with the mix of you both. He looked enchanted by it. Awestruck. And when he pulled them out, you reached for his wrist before he could wipe them clean.

You brought his hand to your mouth.

And licked.

His eyes nearly rolled back.

You wrapped your lips around the tips of his fingers and dragged your tongue along them, tasting the arousal still warm on his skin. The mix of your essence and his. His breath hitched sharply. His other hand gripped your hip.

“F-Fuck,” He whispered, voice barely holding together. “That’s… god, that’s so hot…”

You smiled against his fingers, slowly letting them slip from your mouth with a soft, wet pop. His gaze stayed locked on you, eyes dark and glassy.

And then he said it.

Voice low. Reverent. Almost dreamlike.

“I could die right now…And it’d still be the most beautiful moment of my life.”

You laughed softly–your laugh shaking a little this time, because of how honest it sounded. How completely undone he looked saying it.

And then you tugged him back down into your arms.

Because you needed to feel him again.

Because his body, warm and wrecked and trembling, belonged right there–with you.

He let out a small, contented sigh, nuzzling his nose gently into your cheek as his arms wrapped around your waist. His body still trembled faintly from the aftershocks, and he was warm–so warm, like his skin was humming with leftover sunlight and your name.

“…Y-You know…” He murmured against your temple, voice hoarse and shy in a way that was almost too soft to hear. “I-I really…Really like you. R-Right?” You blinked, and then a laugh bubbled up from your chest–sweet and wrecked and giddy.

You tilted your head back just enough to meet his eyes, your smile tugging crookedly at your lips as you whispered, “If that mind-blowing sex wasn’t a testament to that, I’d be interested to see what is…”

Bob flushed deep red. His laugh cracked as it left him–quiet and breathless, like it had been knocked loose by your words. He kissed you again–softly, lovingly, like he didn’t want to stop.

When he finally pulled back, he was still smiling, cheeks pink and eyes glassy.

“We…W-we should drink some water,” He said, voice low and dreamy and still a little unsteady. “A-And then do it all over again…M-Maybe in your room this time…”

You arched a brow, your grin turning sly. “Oh yeah?”

He nodded solemnly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “W-We’ve got to c-christen both beds…F-For evenness.” He nodded solemnly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “W-We’ve got to c-christen both beds…F-For symmetry.”

You laughed—loud and unrestrained this time, the sound muffled only slightly by his lips as they brushed along your shoulder.

“Get the water bottles,” you said, running your fingers slowly through his sweat-damp hair, “And I’ll take you up on that offer.”

He groaned softly against your skin, already rolling off the bed with a dizzy grin whispering, “A–Anything for you.”

[crybabyalexxx]

for you (page)

pairing: robert ‘bob’ reynolds x enchantress! reader, platonic! yelena belova x bob & reader

summary: yelena showed and made bob download tiktok on his phone, in which his algorithm decides to show him you, and only you.

author’s note: this is a super long flufffff🥹 i was planning to make it short and simple but i got carried away. they’re not dating yet, but everyone in the world knows how much they’re whipped for each other!! also TYSM guys for all the support you guys have been giving for my enchantress! reader fics!! didn’t expect that many people to like it🥺🫶

robert ‘bob’ reynolds never cared for phones.

he used his for mission briefings, weather updates, reply to texts with “K” or thumbs-up emojis. he only has a phone because he has to.

but today, he’s curled up on the living room’s couch, face bathed in the faint glow of tiktok.

yelena’s sprawled on the rug in front of him, snacking on expired takis and kicking her feet, while bob is staring at his screen like it’s alive, like it’s mocking him.

you see, it started with yelena.

she was bored during surveillance. handed him her phone and said, “trust the algorithm. it knows things.”

he shouldn’t have trusted the algorithm.

because now?

now, it only shows you.

you walking through smoke, cloak trailing behind you.

you laughing during sparring drills, eyes bright and magic curling at your fingertips.

you after a mission, hoodie on, sipping coffee, with captions like:

“just give me one chance, y/n, PLEASE”

“SO SPECIAL 2 ME!!”

“i fear no god but her.”

bob watches each one like it’s classified intel. his face is red, his hands sweaty, his soul… not intact.

then one video stops him cold.

you’re mid-fight, sweat-slicked, magic laced across your knuckles, flipping over a hydra agent, cloak swirling behind you.

music: ariana grande - dangerous woman

caption:

“she could kill me and i’d say thank you. 💚💀🫠”

bob drops the phone, stares at the ceiling like it betrayed him. he squeaks.

a grown man. nearly god-tier power. literally the sentry. and he squeakes.

yelena snorts soda through her nose. “you’re down so bad, bob. i’m proud of you.”

and a few hours later, you walk past him in the hallway, post-workout, hair pulled back, water bottle in hand.

“hey, bob.” you say casually.

he looks up like you just summoned him from the astral plane.

“hi,” he says, voice way too high. “i mean. yes. hello. n-normal greeting.”

you squint at him. “you good?”

he tries to nod. it comes out more like a bobblehead glitching in real-time.

you raise an eyebrow. “yelena mess with you again?”

he looks like he’s about to deny it, then freezes, eyes going wide.

behind you, yelena rounds the corner, winks, and holds up bob’s phone.

she presses play.

the sound of ariana grande starts playing again.

you glance over your shoulder just in time to see yourself in slow motion on the screen. you didn’t even know someone filmed that.

yelena let out a mischievous smirk and a quick “have fun!” before throwing his phone at your direction and running away.

you caught it perfectly, seeing yourself on the screen. you ask, very casually, “is that… me?”

bob jumps like he’s been tased.

“oh my- uh- i was just… it’s just yelena sent-“

you blink. “bob.”

“i didn’t- i mean, i didn’t search for them,” he blurts. “the app just kept showing you and then i didn’t want to be rude by not watching-“

you glance at the screen, swiping once.

another thirst trap. this one with the caption:

“she speaks and i forget my own name.”

you grin. “wow. they’re kinda poetic.”

“i know,” he mutters, trying to hide himself behind his hands. “it’s horrible.”

“horrible?” you feign offense. “that’s me! i think i look hot.”

he peeks over his fingers. “y-you are hot. that’s the problem.”

you blink.

then your grin shifts, softens, sharpens. “well. at least now i know you’ve seen my good angles.”

“i’ve seen all your angles,” bob mumbles before realizing what he just said.

he immediately closed his eyes. “oh my god…”

you laugh, genuinely, wickedly.

then, after a pause, “… you want me to make a new one?” you say, voice low and teasing.

he peeked.

you shrug. “you know, just for you. thirst trap. real exclusive.”

bob makes a sound that might’ve been a whimper.

“i’m not strong enough for that,” he says.

you lean in.

close enough for your nose to almost touch his.

“that’s funny,” you whisper, placing his phone in one of his pocket. “i thought you were the strongest one here.”

and then you walk away, barefoot, cereal in hand, hoodie falling off one shoulder.

bob stares after you like you just rewrote the laws of physics.

later that night, bob’s room is dark. only the faint glow of the moon cuts through the blinds.

he’s in bed, hoodie on, blanket up, headphones in.

the phone? balanced on his chest like a glowing curse.

he should be sleeping, meditating, literally anything else.

but instead… he’s scrolling.

your edits. again.

the algorithm has him in a chokehold.

first video: you walking away from an explosion, hair blowing back like a damn shampoo commercial, captioned:

“she’s the reason i believe in God.”

bob snorts through his nose. he tries to scroll past it.

he does not scroll past it.

next one: a slowed-down training clip, enchantress powers blooming from your fingertips in green, but you’re laughing.

just a clip of you laughing.

the caption reads:

“she smiled at me (i made that up in my head but still)”

bob clenches his jaw. scrolls.

another one: you leaning over a map in the command room, eyes sharp, lip caught between your teeth.

the audio is some slowed, sultry track. and the top comment?

“i’m so sorry bob but she’s mine now 💚”

bob actually pauses the video.

squints at the comment.

then stares at the username. “@toecutter2.0”.

“…what kind of name is that?” he mumbles.

scrolls again.

this one’s you mid-fight, arms glowing, spinning through smoke with two men down behind you.

someone added dramatic strings underneath.

the top caption:

“don’t let her near your man. she is the man now.”

he grips the phone like it personally insulted him.

next comment:

“do you think she’d step on me? i’d say thank you😍”

his ears turn red.

and even more:

“the hold she has on me is borderline criminal.😩”

“it’s beating her name in morse code”

“God made her, then panicked because nothing else could compare.”

bob shuts the app.

throws the phone across the bed.

stares at the ceiling, mumbling to himself

“i’m not jealous of… a tiktok comment. i’m not. that’s not rational.”

pause.

“…@toecutter2.0 can catch these hands though.”

next morning. the gym.

you pull yelena aside.

“i need your help.”

yelena doesn’t ask questions. she just starts grinning.

“oh, this is gonna be fun.”

OPERATION: WRECK ROBERT ‘BOB’ REYNOLDS

• use the gym’s natural lighting.

• wear that training outfit bob can never make eye contact with.

• cast just enough magic to make it ✨ cinematic ✨.

• cue slow motion.

• add in earned it by the weeknd

yelena directs like a chaotic spielberg. “now look over your shoulder like you just blew something up. no, slower. yes, that’s it.”

you toss your dagger, spin, and let a ripple of green magic bloom behind you. you slow-walk past the camera like you’re exiting the wreckage of a spaceship you just blew up with your mind.

yelena claps. “i am so proud of this. bob’s going to short-circuit.”

she posts it with the caption:

“made this for the golden retriever upstairs 💛”

“@sentryofficial don’t pass out please”

five minutes later: THUMP from the floor above.

bob is lying on the floor.

not dead.

just… processing.

he’s watched the video eight times. maybe nine.

his phone is face-down now but he can still hear the audio in his soul.

he gets up slowly, like someone recovering from a knockout punch.

he whispers, “okay… okay. she wants war? fine.”

he sets up his phone. angles it on his desk.

stands in front of it.

realizes he has no idea what to do with his hands.

tries to do a slow hoodie pull, gets stuck.

tries to glow just a little, glows too much.

mutters, “too powerful, too much.”

accidentally drops the phone. curses.

trips over his boot.

lands half-off screen, groaning.

somehow… he still posts it.

the final product? 47 seconds of a man trying his hardest and failing gloriously.

caption:

“this was supposed to be cool but i am not built for this. @you i tried.”

you open it and nearly cry from laughing.

your comments:

“10/10 would simp again 💛”

“this wins the internet”

“do it again but make it worse <3”

later, you pass him in the hallway again.

you lean against the wall, casual as ever.

“you know,” you say, “it’s really cute how nervous i make you.”

he looks away, blush blooming on his face. “it’s not just nervous... it’s, like… heart attack-level admiration.”

you grin. “good. you deserve to suffer a little.”

then you tap your phone and show him something new.

it’s a new tiktok.

you in front of the camera, holding up a sign that says,

“@sentryofficial be my for you page irl?”

his jaw drops, pink hues appearing on his cheeks.

“i’m going to explode,” he whispers.

you lean in and say, “good.”

then you wink, and walk away.

behind you, bob clutches the wall.

but he’s smiling.

because it’s you.

and now he knows you’re smiling back.

“w-wait up..!”

tag list:

@lovetoalll @spongelll

[crybabyalexxx]

Cherry Waves

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Avengers!Fem!Reader

Summary: You’ve been sick for a few days, so while the rest of the team goes out to do a recon mission, you’re on your own watching over Bob. One morning he comes to your room with a weird request.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Minor Spoilers for Thunderbolts! Fluff, Mentions of low self-esteem/ self-deprecation, Smut

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (Y’all…You know the drill…Protect yourselves lol), Some hair pulling (very light hair pulling), Reader is being a little bit dominant (if you squint), Bob is being a softie (and it’s hot as shit), Fingering, Squirting, Teasing, Biting, and Some marks are left.

Author's Note: Had this boy lined up and really wanted to post it. Loved the little hint that Bob was not liking the blonde that Sentry had lol so this is definitely something that would probably have happened if he didn’t return back to normal in the movie 😅Also, y’all are awesome and I appreciate you guys for enjoying my little blurbs!❤️ Thank you.

Word Count: 14,094

You were buried under layers of sweat and crumpled tissues when the knock came against your bedroom door.

Three soft taps.

So quiet, they could’ve been the compound settling. It was hesitant–polite almost. It was the kind of knock someone does when they’re not sure if they’re allowed to be asking for anything at all.

You barely stirred in your bed. The flu had you pinned to the mattress like a paper doll, aching and clammy and convinced the walls were breathing in sync with you. Hallucinations had become your new roommates–so when you heard the knock, you assumed it was just one of them, wandering through your mind again.

But then came a fourth tap. Just one. Sharp enough to make your headache throb like it was answering.

”Y/N…It’s Bob…Can I come in?” You winced at the sound of his voice, even though it was always super gentle and timid.

Bob.

Of course it was Bob.

You’d almost forgotten in the haze of your sickness that you were technically on Bob duty. Because apparently being half-dead with the flu made you the least threatening option to keep an eye on the world’s most powerful man while the rest of the team went on recon. Bucky had said it so casually, like the fate of the planet couldn’t possibly unravel while you were tucked under three blankets with a thermometer hanging out of your mouth.

“All you gotta do is check in on him every hour or so,” He’d told you. “Make sure he eats. Make sure he’s not spiraling, and doing something to keep himself occupied. Y’know. Normal people stuff.”

It had been simple, at first. When the worst symptoms you were experiencing was a runny nose and a dull headache, you’d shuffle past Bob every so often with a thumbs up and a mumbled “You good?” While he nodded earnestly over his book, asking you the same thing back.

But once you started coughing so hard you felt like your ribs were breaking, and the chills that you were experiencing gave way to night sweats and dry heaving, keeping tabs on Bob Reynolds fell hard to the bottom of your to-do list–somewhere below “don’t die” and “get a new tissue”.

“…It’s open,” You rasped, your voice raw and thin from all the coughing you had been doing.

The doorknob turned slowly, like he was still asking permission even after you gave it. Then Bob stepped inside with that careful kind of energy that people only reserved for hospital rooms or museums–like one wrong step might unplug or break something important.

He hovered in between the doorway, not coming too close–being mindful that you had told him a few times to keep his distance because you didn’t want him getting sick, even though it was nearly impossible for him to catch anything. His baggy navy sweater hung off him like a weighted blanket, and the sleeves were stretched over his knuckles, worn from the way he would always pick at the fabric. He looked small in it–even though he was quiet muscular underneath all the layers. His posture was slouched, and his shoulders were drawn up like he was nervous about something. On top of all that though, he was wearing his new wardrobe staple–a dark brown beanie that he shoved his bleach-blonde hair under, he never came out of his room without it.

You stared at his figure through half-lidded eyes, watching as he avoided looking directly at you.

”You okay?” You croaked, reaching up to your face to rub the sleep off your face, attempting to sit up to get a better look at him. He glanced over at you, nodding quickly.

”Yeah. Of course…I mean…I’m good, I just…” He trailed off, the sentence losing momentum halfway through as his gaze drifted around the room.

He wasn’t just avoiding your eyes anymore, it was like his attention had been dragged elsewhere–behind you, beside you, and all around you. His brows twitched slightly as he took in your space for the first time, and slowly you connected the dots that Bob had never actually been inside your room before– the first time was always an experience for people who didn’t know you were a secret collector of everything.

His eyes swept over the cluttered desk in the corner that sported wires, pliers, circuit boards and half built gadgets, before going to the large overstuffed bookshelf beside it, which was packed tight with thrifted novels and comic books that were still in their original plastic sleeves. There was a milk crate of vinyls on the floor near your speaker, with the old record player you insisted on fixing instead of replacing, even though you would complain every few days about it.

There was a flicker in his expression–surprise, maybe. Or something quieter, like he’d just stumbled into a part of you that he didn’t expect to find. You saw it in the way his jaw went still and the way his shoulders shifted slightly, like he was dying to ask you questions about everything you had, but he was holding himself back.

”…Bob,” You said hoarsely, trying to draw his attention back to you. He didn’t blink, his eyes were fixated on something in the far corner where your posters were. You reached your hand up over your head, waving slightly, and snapping your fingers, “Earth to Bob. Are you sure everything’s okay?” He shook himself out of his trance, and glanced over at you.

”Sorry…Sorry,” He said quickly, his voice a little higher than usual, as he cleared his throat, “Didn’t mean to, uh…Y’know, snoop or anything. I’ve just never seen your room before, you’ve got a lot of cool stuff.” You raised your eyebrows at him with a small smile on your face.

”You’re lucky I feel like death. Otherwise I’d be giving you the grand tour right now…I also include a quiz at the end.” Bob let out a nervous laugh and looked down, picking at the loose thread on his sleeve.

“I’d definitely fail…So I’m kind of glad…Well I’m not glad you’re sick, I’m just glad I don’t have to do a quiz.” Your lips twitched, amused despite the ache that was still clawing at your skull.

”Very smooth recovery Bob, very smooth.” Bob made a quiet noise–somewhere between a breathy laugh and a groan–keeping his eyes pinned to the floor as his cheeks turned a soft pink. You pushed yourself up a little more than before, elbows trembling from the effort of holding yourself up.

”So…What’s going on? Why’d you knock on my door at…” You paused, glancing over at your alarm clock, “Seven fifty three in the morning?” Bob sighed.

”Well…I need to go to the drug store,” He admitted, his voice sheepish, “And I know Bucky’s not really a fan of me going out alone so…Thought I’d ask my babysitter.” You squinted at him through your blurred vision, feeling the room tilt slightly, as you brought your hand up to your face, pressing gently at your temples.

”Are you getting sick or something?” He immediately shook his head.

”No, no it’s nothing like that. I haven’t really gotten sick since I took the Sentry serum…” You quirked your brow at him.

”So…What’s the reason for the drug store trip then?” Bob shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the floor creaking under him loudly as he did so.

“I um…I need to buy something. For myself.” He responded, dancing around the truth. You stared at him.

”Is it serious?”

”No,” He said quickly, “It’s not like…Health-serious or anything, I’m fine physically, I just…” He paused, clamming up again, not knowing how to explain himself. You narrowed your eyes at him, coughing into your arm, clutching your ribs when a dull ache pulsed through the area.

”You do realize I’m gonna find out anyway if I go with you , right?” Bob sighed and dragged his hand down the side of his face, like he was physically wiping the resistance off of himself, letting his hand drop down to the hem of his sweater.

”Fine…Fine…I need to buy…Hair dye.” He mumbled under his breath. You tilted your head slightly, blinking through the fevered haze that clouded your vision.

”Hair dye?” Bob winced at the way the words left your mouth, even though you didn’t mean for it to sound like you were judging him.

”Mhm…” You stared at him for a second longer than he could handle, as his eyes began to wander again, his hands wringing the fabric of his shirt, wrinkling it.

“You woke me up at seven-fifty-three in the morning…For hair dye?” You asked again, trying to confirm what you were hearing once more, hoping that you weren’t experiencing an odd version of delirium at this point.

”It’s not just–“ He started, then shut his mouth again, biting the inside of his cheek, shaking his head, “I mean…It is…But I just…” The sentence fell apart in his throat, as his cheeks began to heat up. He looked genuinely embarrassed, and you could see himself curling even more into his sweater, “I just don’t like what it looks like anymore.” There was something raw about the way he said it, and you couldn’t help but feel empathy for him, your heart clenching at the way his words cracked in the air.

“The bleach… The whole look,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor, “It was for him. For the Sentry. That’s what they said, anyway– they said that it would help. That it would make people see someone new. Something brighter…Like it would somehow separate us…But I still have to live in this body when he’s not around.” Bob continued, his throat swelling with a lump, “I still have to see myself…And the longer I look like him, the harder it is to remember who I am when I’m just…Bob.” You didn’t say anything at first–not because you didn’t want to, but because there was something about the way he was talking about himself that made your chest cave in a little. The words hung in the air like mist, as he bowed his head even lower, keeping his eyes on the floor, not daring to look at you or anything else in the room.

“It’s not stupid.” You could see his hands stop moving at your words, watching his eyes glance up at you hesitantly. You gave him a tired but sincere look, hoping that it was enough for him to understand that what you were saying was coming from a place of care, “Wanting to see yourself again isn’t stupid Bob…It’s just you trying to cling to the one thing you have control of…I get it.” His mouth parted, like he was going to thank you, but no sound came out. He was relieved that someone was finally understanding what he meant, it was like he had been running around talking to walls when he would speak about how he was feeling, but with you in this moment…It was like he felt seen.

”So I’ll help…But I need to see what we’re working with first.” You added, motioning to his head. Bob looked like a deer in the headlights when you said it, caught off guard by your suggestion, but also scared to even follow through with it.

”W-What?” You sighed.

”That hat Bob…Just take it off…I haven’t seen your hair since we moved you in here and you’ve been hiding it like it’s some sort of radioactive test subject.” He felt his heart gallop in his chest a little bit, as the nerves began to build up in him.

”I-I really don’t think that’s necessary,” He stammered, already figuring out a way to retreat out of the conversation, eyeing the hallway that was in the far corner of his vision.

”Bob, you dragged me out of a flu coma to ask me for help…So let me help you…Let me see it.” The gentleness in your voice was always something that got to him. Even on your toughest days you would use that tone with him, and for some reason it was the only thing that truly had him melting like putty in your hands.

You could see the conflict playing out within him, like he was weighing out the risks, until a look of resolve appeared on his face, a small sigh escaping his lips as he gave in to your request.

Bob’s fingers trembled as he slipped them beneath the edge of his beanie, hesitating for a second before slowly tugging it off his head. The static cling made the knit fabric resist him just a little, like even the hat itself didn’t want to let go of the safety it provided him.

The moment it came off, a curtain of hair fell across his face. You blinked through your fevered haze, eyes widening slightly–not in shock, but in recognition. His hair was longer than you remembered–shaggy, uneven, the ends fried from months of bleach. The top was still harshly pale, the yellow-white of it stark under the low morning light, but underneath, near the roots, his real hair was coming back in–soft, and light brown, just like you recalled from the brief glimpses you got of him before it all got changed. But the line where bleach met natural color was harsh and jarring, cutting across his scalp like a bad decision frozen in time.

He looked like someone in between versions of himself, not quite Bob, not quite Sentry–just…Stuck. You studied him for a moment, your body heavy with exhaustion but your chest buzzing with quiet sympathy. There was something so tender about the way he stood there, hair falling into his eyes, his beanie clutched in his hands like a comfort object. He looked younger somehow. Not in age, but in vulnerability–like this was the version of himself that never got the chance to just be soft and carefree.

“It’s not that bad,” You started, the rasp still thick in your throat, “Really. It just needs some love, patience…Maybe a deep condition…And the right shade of brown.” Bob’s head immediately shot up to look at you, like he couldn’t believe what you were saying.

”S-So you’re actually going to help? Y-You didn’t just try to trick me into showing you my hair right?” You shifted yourself down to the edge of your mattress, groaning at the way your bones protested and pulsed with each movement.

”No I didn’t try to trick you… I’m going to help, but first, I’m gonna need you to come here and make sure I don’t fall, because I think my legs are going to wiggle like they’re made of jelly.” For a split second Bob wasn’t sure if you were serious or not about needing actual help, but he moved anyway, shuffling towards you with his socked feet sliding across the floor. He opened his arms hesitantly, elbows bending like he wasn’t sure where they were supposed to go, offering himself up into your space.

”Alright…Whenever you’re ready I g-guess.” He said softly, his voice cracking a bit on the ‘guess’ like he was more nervous about touching or dropping you than you were about falling on your own.

Your hands found his forearms instantly, fingers curling into the soft, worn cotton of his sleeves, watching him brace himself. He looped one arm under yours, while steadying the other against your back as you pushed off the mattress, feeling your knees buckling beneath you like a baby deer on ice.

“Woah–woah, okay.” Bob muttered quickly, tightening his arms around you without a second thought. He adjusted himself accordingly, trying his best to be gentle while still being secure enough to hold you upright. You ended up closer than either of you really expected, with his chest pressed against yours, and your cheek inches away from his shoulder.

Despite everything—the fever baking your skin, the chills clinging to your limbs, and the flu that had knocked you down hard enough to rattle the walls—you still smelled…Good.

Bob noticed it the moment you got within his arms reach.

It wasn’t some kind of artificial, pampered scent. It wasn’t perfume or lotion or anything curated. No, it was just you–fresh soap, soft worn cotton, and that barely-there trace of eucalyptus from the body wash and shampoo combo you swore by. He heard you muttering something about it being the only thing strong enough to trick your sinuses into opening, and Bob had thought it was actually going to work because the sniff you gave him from the bottle made him have a sneezing fit, but he heard your frustrated grunt in the shower when it had not been the case.

”You alright Bob?” You asked, feeling the tension in his body against yours. He let out a short breath, which fanned across the crown of your head. He didn’t say anything right away, he just gave you a quick nod.

”Yeah, yeah I’m okay.” You could feel how careful he was being, feeling his arms flexing around you, not too tight, and not too loose. He was warm, and steady, while trying so hard not to be in the way, even though you requested his help. You couldn’t help but think about how strangely nice it was to be close to him, despite the situation.

You stood like that for another moment longer, your body leaning against his, the rhythm of your fevered breathing matching the rise and fall of his chest. Even through the blocked sinuses you had you could smell his laundry detergent on his sweater–fresh from the dryer, another thing you seemed to like about the moment.

Though you snapped yourself out of your self-induced daze once the floor felt less like a rocking ship beneath your feet. You pulled back just enough to glance up at him.

”You can let go now,” You whispered, startling Bob with the cue. Quickly he stepped back, like he just realized he was touching a hot stove or something, trying not to seem like he had been enjoying the odd moment of closeness. Despite the warmth of his body leaving yours, his hands still hovered around you just in case.

”I’m good,” You reassured, wobbling slightly but managing to keep yourself upright, “Just give me a few minutes to brush my teeth and get my bearings so I don’t scare the public by looking like a corpse.” Bob nodded immediately.

”Yeah, of course, I’ll just…I’ll wait in the hallway. There’s no rush or anything, uh…Just take your time. Seriously, I mean it.” He said, backing away while he clutched his beanie in his hand, “Just call me if you need anything.” He added, slipping out of your room and pulling the door shut behind him.

The moment he was gone, you sat back down on the edge of the bed with a slow, rattling breath. God. Your whole body felt like it had been microwaved–sweaty, sore, and buzzing with leftover adrenaline. You pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes for a second, trying to reboot your nervous system. Not just from the fever, but from how close Bob had been. How soft he’d been. How good it had felt to be held with such warmth and gentleness even if it was for a fleeting moment.

You let out a sigh, before getting up again, dragging yourself into the ensuite bathroom you shared with Yelena, flicking on the bright fluorescent light. You let out a hiss, catching your reflection in the mirror. Surprisingly, the damage was minimal, sure your hair was an absolute mess from spending the night tossing and turning, but you looked half-awake at least.

Quickly, you got yourself ready, brushing your teeth, splashing some water on your face, fixing up your hair, and changing into a fresh set of clothes. By the time you were done, only fifteen minutes had passed–your new personal best. You cracked the door to your bedroom open, finding Bob sitting on the floor waiting with his back against the wall and knees drawn up. He looked up quickly when he heard the creak, and gave you a soft smile.

“Let’s get outta here.”

——————

Twenty minutes later, you found yourselves shoulder to shoulder in front of the painfully fluorescent wall of boxed hair dye in your local CVS.

It was still early, so thankfully not a lot of people were in the store. You actually thought that it was just you and Bob who were customers and the rest of the people there were employees and managers. On the overhead speakers there was a faint crackle of old 2000s music groaning throughout the store. The air smelled like plastic and dryer sheets, which was an odd mix for a drugstore of all places.

Bob stood stiffly beside you, his hands jammed into the front pocket of his jacket, eyes wide as he took in the absurd variety of brands and colours in front of him. His mouth was parted slightly, like he wanted to say something but couldn’t decide on what panic stricken sentence he was going to go with. So you spoke first.

“Well…We know what row we need to look at.” You said, motioning toward the more natural leaning colours–rows of caramel, ash, chestnut, and espresso–pushing the cart gently in that direction as Bob trailed behind you like a nervous shadow. Your eyes scanned over the various boxes and brands, trying to find ones that would do minimum damage to his hair while actually doing the job.

“I didn’t think it was going to be so complicated…” He murmured from behind you, “I just thought there would be straight forward choices…” You looked up from the boxes, seeing the way his jaw was clenched.

”It’s just overwhelming because all the companies who make this stuff create different versions of the same thing. See…” You pointed at one box “This one is ammonia free, and is semi-permanent,” Then pointed to the other one right beside it,”While this one is permanent and has argan oil infused in it so it doesn’t do a lot of damage, but they’re the same colour.” Bob squinted at the wall of labels, then back to the boxes you had motioned to, visibly confused, shaking his head.

“Alright…But what if I just want…Normal dye?” You looked up at him, one brow arching in mild amusement.

”Bob…This is normal dye.” He turned a sharp shade of red, as the heat rose to his cheeks, taking over the paleness.

“W-Well yeah but–but you know what I mean don’t you? It doesn’t have to be so complicated, just have one of every colour.” You let out a small laugh.

”Welcome to the wonderful world of capitalism, Bob. You want brown? Well, first you gotta pick from thirty-seven kinds of brown. Do you want cocoa chestnut or honey almond toast? Because those are apparently different.” Bob took his hand out of his pocket, rubbing the back of his neck.

”Okay…I guess you’re right.” He replied nervously.

”We’ll find your colour, I promise.” You said calmly, continuing to look over the boxes in front of you.

“Should I, uh…Take my hat off? Would that help?” You tilted your head at him, and nodded.

”It would definitely make this a much quicker process…But if it really bothers you, I’m pretty sure I could go off of memory.” Bob shrugged a little, his eyes flicking around the store for a moment.

”I don’t mind, it’s basically just us in here anyway.” You nodded, watching him remove the beanie again, tucking it into the crook of his elbow. He tried to not make a big deal out of it, but you could tell he felt exposed, so you were going to attempt to make things quick.

”Alright,” You said, stepping a little closer to him, grabbing a few boxes from the shelf, “Bend down a bit, I need to get a good look at the roots so I can compare.” He obeyed, ducking his head so you could see the top of his hair properly. In doing so, he stepped closer than you expected—closer than he expected, probably. Your foreheads were nearly aligned, noses maybe a breath apart. He was tall enough that you had to tilt your chin slightly to get the right angle, and Bob found himself frozen there, inches from you, not sure where to look. So, he looked at you.

You smelled like cherry cough drops–sickly sweet and medicinal—and it hit him instantly, like a quiet little exhale in the space between you. He remembered the moment you popped one into your mouth earlier, halfway to CVS, saying it was the only thing keeping your throat from giving out. And now the scent lingered on your breath, mingling with the warmth of your skin and the faint trace of eucalyptus from before. Bob swore his brain short-circuited for a second.

You were focused, eyes narrowing slightly, as you held one box up beside his roots, then another. Your fingers brushed through the longer strands near his crown, gently separating pieces to get a clearer view of where the bleach ended and his real colour began. You were so precise about it, so tender, and Bob didn’t know where to put his hands or how to keep breathing without accidentally inhaling you.

Then you paused, lips turning up as you caught the way his chest rose a little faster, how his fingers curled and uncurled in his sleeves

A soft rattling sound reached your ears then–the kind of nervous, involuntary vibration that sometimes came from him when he was overwhelmed. You smirked slightly, brushing your thumb against his temple on purpose as you pushed a few more strands aside.

“Is the Sentry getting a bit flustered?” You teased, your voice still raspy from the flu but still playful. “Or is that just you rattling like a soda can?”

Bob made a noise–half sigh, half laugh–ducking his head a little more like it would hide the warmth that continued to spread over his skin, all the way down his neck. “It’s definitely just me. He’s, uh…He’s fine.”

“Good,” You hummed, still close, eyes flicking between the swatch and his roots. “Because I don’t think he’d let me manhandle his hair like this.”

“You’re not…Manhandling anything,” He mumbled, trying to cover up the wavering tone. “Feels…Kinda nice, actually.” You paused at that comment, your eyes glancing down to his, seeing little glints of sparkling orange through the sea blue that his irises normally sported. For a second, neither of you said anything. The store had faded by that point and all that was left was the faint scent of cherry and the feel of your fingers still resting lightly in his hair.

“…This is your shade,” You said finally, voice soft, motioning to the box in your hand. He didn’t move at first, it was as if his brain hadn’t caught up to the moment yet, or his ears were ringing so much he didn’t hear what you had said. Then you shifted your weight, easing back slightly, giving him some space as you cleared your throat, dropping the box into the cart with a clunk. He quickly slipped the beanie back on, shoving his hair up into it, sealing away the moment beneath it.

“Now we need to get you one of those conditioning treatments, and after that I’m grabbing some snacks, cause I’m getting hungry.” He looked away from you, nodding.

”Yeah, okay…Conditioner and snack. Got it.” You glanced up at him, seeing the way he was avoiding you eyes again, before turning back to the cart, pushing it down the aisle with him following close behind. You turned into the next section without fanfare–the shampoo and conditioner area–and skimmed over a wide array of labels until your eyes landed on the exact jar you were looking for: the rich brown packaging, the heavy text that scrawled out all the promises of repairing and restoring.

“This one,” You muttered, reaching up for it and dropping it into the cart with a soft thunk, “Will do miracles for the damage, you’re gonna love it, smells like sweet coconuts.” Bob glanced at the package.

”Does it…Sting?” Your eyebrows drew together.

”Bob…It's conditioner, not acid.” He bit his inner lip.

”No, I-I know, I’m just asking cause when they bleached my hair it really really burned…Then my head was super sensitive for like a whole week after, j-just don’t want to go through that again.” You could hear the way his voice tapered off, like he didn’t really want to talk about it, but he just wanted to let you know.

“I promise this will be way less abrasive.” You said, with a small smile tugging at your lips, nudging the cart forward again, “Now let’s get to that snack aisle before my stomach eats itself.” Bob chuckled softly at your words, following you again as you turned into the next section, noticing the sharp fluorescent lights had dimmed just slightly. The sterile smell of the store had completely faded by that point, being replaced with sweet confectionery items; gummy snacks, granola bars, marshmallows, anything you could think of really. You stopped your cart, feeling Bob’s chest bump into your back, as your eyes began to skim over the shelves, squinting at the shimmering bags, the look of contemplation drawing up into your eyebrows.

“So…What’re you craving?” He asked softly, watching your eyes dart around the wide variety, “Sweet? Salty?” You hummed.

”Might buy the whole aisle to be honest…” He laughed under his breath, the sound quieter than the store’s staticky music, but warmer than anything you’d heard in days.

”Seems like your appetite has come back.” You turned to look at him, letting your body sway slightly toward the cart to brace yourself.

”Yeah, I think the fresh air has put me on the road to recovery…Just don’t touch my lower back…It’s a little sweaty.” There was a beat of silence, before you continued “My stomach might also be trying to fool me into a false sense of security and I’ll end up throwing it all up after I eat it.”

“Well that took a turn…” You shrugged, plucking a bag of sweet chili chips, throwing it mindlessly into the cart.

”I like to keep you on your toes Bob.” You replied with a smirk.

—————-

Back at the compound, you retreated into your room to change, making quick work even though you were feeling a faint headache coming back, but it was more manageable than your prior ones.

You swapped out your clothes for a pair of beat-up black compression shorts and an old t-shirt from your days at training camp–frayed at the collar and speckled with faded bleach stains from when you touched up Yelena’s hair. The crooked letters on the shirt were faded but you could make out the words “I SURVIVED CAMP HAMMOND” on the front of it, a great memory of how long it’s been since you were actually training.

You grabbed your dye bowl and one of the brushes from under your bathroom sink, tucking them against you as you headed down the hall. Your bare feet padded softly against the cool flooring of the compound, reaching the bathroom that Bob shared with Bucky, seeing the door was already cracked open. You gave it a slow push with your knuckles, poking your head in.

Bob stood in the middle of the tiled space like he wasn’t sure where he was going to sit, clutching the CVS bag with both hands, wringing it in his grip, the sound crinkling plastic echoing off the walls. He already had taken off the beanie, fully prepared for what was coming.

“Alright,” You announced as you stepped inside, “Your hair hero has arrived.” Bob looked over at you quickly, his shoulders dropping slightly when he laid eyes on you and your outfit. The tension in him bleeding out of him in small waves.

”You brought your own bowl?” He asked, trying to cover up the fact he was staring at your bare legs for longer than he intended.

“Of course I brought my own bowl,” You replied, holding it up slightly before setting it down on the porcelain counter, “What kind of amateur do you think I am?” You asked jokingly, earning a small smile from Bob, motioning for him to hand you the bag.

You unpacked the contents onto the sinks edge–the dye, the conditioner, the gloves, and a couple of CVS coupons that the cashier had stapled to the receipt.

“Okay,” You said, flipping the box of dye around to double-check the instructions even though you were seasoned enough to know what you were doing without them, “Let’s get you situated hm?” Bob hovered behind you awkwardly, watching your hands move with precise, and practiced ease. You pointed at the closed toilet lid.

”Go sit on the makeshift barber chair, hope you like stiff seats.” You joked, watching him go over to where you pointed, sitting down without protest, seeing the way his long frame compressed itself into the small space. He looked over at you with a soft smile, his hands clasping together, as you slid on a pair of gloves.

“Uh…Just wanted to say thank you for doing this, especially with being sick and everything…I didn’t mean to be a bother.” You cracked open the box of dye, flipping the flaps back and pulling out the developer bottle and aluminum tube of colour, the gloves squeaking slightly as you did so. You opened the cap with a satisfying pop and reached for the dye bowl beside you.

”You’re not a bother Bob.,” You said, glancing over at him as you squeezed the thick brown sludge into the bowl, “I don’t mind.” He blushed a bit at the softness in your voice, letting out a sheepish laugh, nodding before taking his eyes off you, his fingers finding the hem of his sweater.

You turned and flipped the small ceiling fan on, letting it whirl to life with a soft click and hum, it was your little attempt to keep the room from smelling like a chemical spill before you started stirring in the developer with the dye.

It was quiet for a moment–peaceful almost. Just the faint humming of the fan and the soft scrape of the plastic bristles rubbing against the inside of the bowl. Bob’s eyes drifted down toward your shirt absentmindedly, reading the faded words that were scrawled over the fabric that was clinging to your frame.

”What’s…Camp Hammond?” He asked quietly, with genuine curiosity in his voice, as he looked down to his hands. You didn’t look over at him immediately–still focused on making sure the mixture reached that perfect pudding-like texture–but your mouth twitched slightly.

”Did you think I was born with the skills of a mercenary?” You asked, glancing over at him with a teasing glint in your eye, “Hate to burst your bubble, but I wasn’t that cool.” Bob felt his cheeks heat up as it spread to his ears and down his neck.

”So what is it? Like…A boot camp or something?” You shrugged, looking down at the bowl again.

”Kind of. It was a training facility for recruits who showed promise in their assigned roles. I was a teenager when I got scouted, actually. They stuck us in bunk beds and we ran drills at five in the morning. Sometimes we were able to go home to see our families but I spent about three years there just learning the ropes and honing my skills.” He leaned forward a bit.

”Was it…Bad?” You paused the stirring for a moment, biting the inside of your cheek when you heard the way he asked.

”No. Not always. It was intense, but not all of it was horrible. I met my first team there actually, so that should tell you something about the experience.” At the mention of your first team, the conversation had faded, because true to Bob’s nature he was observant enough to catch on that you weren’t going to answer any questions about them. He just nodded, and sat still, with worry tucked beneath his lashes. You cleared your throat, breaking the silence.

”Before I forget–you should probably take that sweater off. This stuff is probably going to stain it and there’s a really low chance you’re going to be able to get it out.” You said, motioning with the brush, “Unless you actually want brown splatters all over it.” You added, seeing him look down at himself.

“Oh…Uh…” He said, curling his fingers into the hem of it, hesitating, “I’m not…Wearing anything under it.” You paused.

”You could go find something you don’t mind ruining, I can wait.” Bob shook his head, not looking at you, avoiding your eyes.

”I don’t really have anything…I wear pretty much all of my clothes, and donate the ones I don’t.” You put your hands on your hips, biting the inner side of your cheek.

”Guess we have a dilemma then.” You said jokingly, looking around the bathroom for a towel–a solution of sorts.

”I mean…I could take it off, I just…Just promise me you won’t laugh.” You stopped your movements immediately, looking back at him, raising your eyebrows.

”Okay. I won’t laugh.” You said, feeling your chest tighten. Bob nodded once, his fingers finally tugging up the hem of the sweater. It caught slightly on the undersides of his arms—he had to peel it upward with a bit of a twist—and then suddenly, it was gone, crumpled in his hands and resting in his lap.

You froze.

The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding caught somewhere in your throat, stalling completely as you took him in.

The heat that burned inside your body hit you like a second fever.

He was…Lean. But solid. Not showy or overly built, but undeniably strong. His chest and shoulders were broad in a way that looked natural. There were fine lines of definition that carved down his sternum and stomach, soft traces of light and shadow where his muscles rested. His skin was fair, with scattered freckles that dotted across his collarbones and shoulders like sunspots. A small scar cut just under his left rib–thin and silvery and healed long ago–and there was a faint stretch of color along his ribs, a faded birthmark maybe, or it was the aftermath from the serum he was given. Tying it all together though were the very very small stretch marks that were scattered around the expanse of skin, which made your brows raise a bit in admiration…

And his arms–Jesus Christ, his arms–were gently corded with strength, biceps not flexed but still clearly shaped beneath smooth skin, dusted with barely-there hair in the hollows of his elbows. The veins on his forearms sat just under the surface, pale blue and almost glowing under the harsh light of the bathroom.

He wasn’t perfect. But you didn’t want perfect. This–this was so much better.

The heat rushed up your neck and onto your cheeks so fast it was like your body had short-circuited, and you were suddenly very aware that your own shirt was threadbare and clinging to your frame. You tried to clear your throat quietly, to ground yourself, but the sound came out shakier than you liked. Bob caught it immediately, and his cheeks went a dark hue of pink. Now you were able to see the pale skin of his chest matching the same colour.

You felt nauseous looking at him, but for all the right reasons. How the hell were you supposed to get close to this man now without passing out? And how the hell was he able to hide this so well from you– Or anybody else for that matter?

“Wow…” Was all you could say, and you didn’t even mean for it to come out of your mouth. Bob’s head tilted up at you, noticing the way your eyes were glued to him like he was some sort of museum exhibit. He clutched the sweater in his lap a little tighter, curling in on himself a bit as if he was trying to hide, looking down at himself.

”Yeah I know…” He muttered, tone awkward and clipped, like he was attempting to defuse the silence before it got worse, “I know it’s bad…The serum kinda…I don’t know made me grow a little too quickly, and-.” You raised your hand to stop him.

”Woah woah…Don’t even go there Bob. I wasn’t saying wow in a bad way.” He looked up at you instantly, his eyes glistening in the lighting, the soft blue still shimmering with those little flecks of orange.

”…You weren’t?” He questioned, his lips parting a bit.

”Bob…You’re built like a fucking house.” You said bluntly, the edge in your voice softening from the next wave of nausea that sloshed in your stomach. Bob made a noise like he was suppressing a laugh, his throat closed a bit.

”That’s…A very generous interpretation, but you don’t have to lie to me…” Your expression twisted slightly, not in offense, but in something rawer than that. It was as if his words scratched at a place in you that was already tender.

”Bob, I’ve never lied to you…And I’m certainly not starting now.” Bob’s lashes fluttered like he was processing your words, like no one had ever said something so plainly true to him in a long time. You could see the way he swallowed hard, almost like he was choking back his words, “You look amazing, and I mean it.” That was when you heard it again–the faint rattling sound, you assumed he was shaking something in one of the cabinets, it didn’t really matter at this point though. He drew in a shaky breath to quiet it, his fingers tightening around the bunched-up sweater.

Then you stepped towards him, taking up the space between his knees. You were close enough to feel the warmth coming off his bare chest, to see the smallest cluster of freckles that laid just beneath his collarbone, and to feel his breath against you. Bob tilted his head up, slow and steady, his eyes finding yours immediately, seeing more orange taking over his irises.

“…You’re really not going to laugh at me?” He asked, almost like he truly couldn’t believe it. You sighed, tucking a piece of bleached hair behind his ear.

”Bob, the only thing I’m going to be doing right now is wondering how I’m supposed to function with you sitting in front of me like this…Does that make you feel any better?” Bob let out a soft, startled breath–almost like a laugh or like he didn’t know what to do with the surge of warmth that spread through his chest.

His hands, still knotted around the sweater in his lap, flexed–then unclenched. The tension there began to melt, bit by bit.

“I…” He started, then stopped. His voice caught, his tongue wetting his bottom lip like he was trying to steady himself. His eyes searching your face, shining under the light “I think that makes it so much worse, actually.”

“Worse?” Bob nodded faintly.

“Yeah…Because now I’m trying really hard not to kiss you...” His voice was barely above a whisper when he said it, and all consideration for the flu you had been battling was thrown to the curb.

The rattling came back. Louder this time. Almost a tremor that ran through his chest–not violent, not dangerous, but charged. Like there was a wire humming under his skin that was just barely holding.

And still, somehow, he smiled.

The kind of smile that only showed up when he was trying to hide how badly he wanted something.

You swallowed. Your hand was still in his hair, fingers brushing at the soft edge of his temple. You could feel his warmth, his nerves, the small, careful gravity that existed between his body and yours. You let your gaze drop to his mouth, just for a second, and then back to his eyes.

“Well,” You said, keeping your voice low and playful, in an attempt to mask your heart beating out of your chest “You’re gonna have to wait until after your hair’s done. I’m not making out with someone mid-dye job–this stuff stains.” You added innocently, a smirk drawing up on your lips. You could hear Bob’s breath catching in his throat at the sheer mention of making out.

”Right, right, of course.” He said, trying to cover up the excitement that bloomed in him.

”Now, be a give boy and stay still, so I can work my magic.” You whispered tilting his chin up even more with your gloved hand.

”Y-Yes, ma’am.” He responded breathlessly, without even thinking–so soft, and so automatic that it made your pulse spike. You cleared your throat a bit before dipping the brush into the bowl, letting the creamy dye coat the bristles, then gently you began to cover the stark blonde lengths of his hair in the dark brown colouring. The scent of it—chemical but faintly sweet—mingled with the warm air drifting down from the little ceiling fan, and you tried to keep your breathing steady as you worked. Bob’s hair was softer than you expected, silken even after all the damage. And the way he tilted his head just slightly to give you better access made your chest ache.

He closed his eyes at the first touch, his jaw going slack as you parted the strands with careful fingers, keeping your brush strokes slow and methodical. You could see his throat move as he swallowed, the faintest tremble still present in his frame–but now it was quiet, more soothed than shaken.

You worked in silence for a little while. It wasn’t awkward—just thick with the kind of tension that lingers when two people are trying not to break a moment that’s humming with too much energy. You kept your movements fluid, coating each section with care, your free hand occasionally grazing the side of his neck or the curve of his temple to steady him.

Bob let out a slow, shaky breath.

“…Can I touch you?”

The question barely made it past his lips. His eyes were still shut, but his lashes fluttered like he wasn’t sure if he should open them yet. You paused, brush hovering midair.

“Touch me?” You asked, like you were confirming what he just said. He nodded, just once.

“Not in a weird way I just–I need to…To do something with my hands.”Your lips parted, the heat returning in full force, knowing that he was probably making an excuse to put his hands on you, to feel you, to take you in, but deep down inside, you didn’t mind one bit.

“Yeah,” You said quietly. “You can touch me.”

The second you said it, you felt his hands move. Slow, careful. The sweater slipped from his lap and landed with a soft thump on the tile floor. Then his palms came to rest on the sides of your thighs, just above the hem of your compression shorts.

They were warm. Gentle. And a bit shaky.

Bob exhaled like the contact untied something in him, his fingers curling lightly around your skin as if he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to hold you like that. His thumbs swept slow arcs along the fabric, and then you saw it–his bottom lip caught between his teeth, eyes still closed like he was savoring every inch of sensation, like he was trying to memorize the feel of you beneath his palms.

You could barely focus on the hair in front of you. Your hands just kept moving, but your entire body was tuned to him–how he sighed when your knee brushed his, how he flexed his hands slightly when your knuckles grazed his cheek. How he chased what little touch he was getting from you.

“You okay down there?” You asked, voice low, and tinged with amusement. His eyes finally opened–heavy-lidded, and flushed with emotion, as his fingers stayed firm on your legs.

“Yeah,” He breathed. “Just…I think this is the most relaxed I’ve felt in weeks.” You couldn’t help but smile at the softness of his voice.

“Well, I’m glad I could contribute to that…Even though now you’re going to have to wait thirty minutes for this to set in.” He wet his bottom lip with his tongue, nibbling on the inside of it, as you placed the empty bowl and stained brush onto the counter, taking off your gloves and letting them drop in the garbage all while staying in the space between his knees. You set a timer for yourself on the speaker radio that was near the conditioner.

“…What could we possibly do to make the time go by faster?” He asked shyly, almost like he already knew the answer, but he just wanted you to initiate it, because he was too nervous to do it himself.

You weren’t going to give in that easily though.

“Oh I’m sure we could think of something.” Allowing your voice to be a bit more breathier than before. He blinked up at you, hopeful and unsure all at once, but he still didn’t say anything, he Just kept holding you like he was afraid that any sudden shift he did would scare you off.

You didn’t move much at first–just enough to lean a fraction closer. Just enough to let your shirt brush his bare chest as you planted your palms on the edge of the shelf behind him, caging him in without pressure, while also being mindful of his dye coated hair. Bob inhaled, and you felt the tremble of it, the way his breath shuddered as your faces moved closer.

You dipped in–slow, and teasing–until your lips were just above his. A hair’s breadth away from connecting.

But then you stopped.

Bob was dazed. His lips parted, breath warm in anticipation, waiting for you to do it…But you just stayed there, close enough for him to swallow the air you breathed out into him, and to smell the faint hint of cherry that was still clinging to your lips from the cough drop.

“…Y/N.” He whispered, his voice almost breaking off into a whimper. You tilted your head with a knowing smirk.

“What?” You asked quietly.

“Y-You know what…You’re driving me crazy…” He tried to lean up but you moved back just enough for him to lose the air you were giving him.

“That’s the point.” You replied, brushing the tip of his nose with yours. His fingers tightened a little on your thighs, but he didn’t move you closer, even though he could’ve. He stayed obedient. Soft. The way he was in his everyday life and you smiled down at him, leaning in again to brush your lips across his bottom one, feeling him shiver against you.

Bob let out a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering half-shut from the close proximity of your mouth. His palms on your thighs shifted upward, sliding under your baggy top so they could rest against the waistband of your compression shorts, his fingers brushing the skin of your hips.

“…You don’t know what you’re doing to me…God…You have no idea.” He said, his voice aching and on the verge of spilling over into begging.

”I think I have a pretty good idea,” You murmured back, trailing your lips across his again, feeling the wetness of his saliva this time before going to the shell of his ear “You’re the one shaking, Bob.” You whispered, your breath hitting against his skin.

”I’m t-trying my best to be good for you…But you’re making this so hard.” The heat between you curled together, tightening in your belly. You drew back just enough so you could look him in the eyes again. “…You can do whatever you want to me…” He whispered, “Just please…Please don’t stop touching me.” Your breath caught at his word, not just because of the desperation that laced them, but because of the truth that hung below them.

It was the kind of truth people usually only say in the dark, or when they were half-asleep or drunk, but Bob was fully sober, wide-eyed, and trembling beneath your hands as if he couldn’t hold himself back any longer. It was like you were pulling a loose thread from a shirt and it was completely unraveling the whole thing. You stared at him for a long moment.

”…The timer is going to go off in about twenty minutes,” You said softly, “And I think we’re both a little overheated, aren’t we?” Bob’s eyebrows knitted together, almost like he was preparing himself for you to stop this from going any further.

”W–What do you–“

”I think we should take a shower together when the timer goes off,” You interrupted, tilting your head to the side, “That okay with you?” There was a beat of stunned silence. Then a choked little nod, as Bob’s fingers gently pressed into your hips on reflex.

“I’ll rinse out your hair, get the dye out…Then maybe–“ Your voice dropped into a whisper, “–I’ll let you kiss me…Think you can manage to wait?” Bob let out a small broken sound–between a laugh and a groan.

”I-I can try,” He whispered, not even sounding convinced by his own voice.

The next fifteen minutes passed in a kind of suspended quiet. You didn’t step away from him entirely–just retreated enough to clean the brush, rinse out the bowl, organize the conditioner and the towel you’d need for later. But the whole time you felt his eyes on you. And every time you glanced over at him out of the corner of your eye, he was still perched on the makeshift barber chair, elbows on his knees, trying not to look like he was counting the seconds.

With five minutes left on the clock, you went over to the shower and reached in, twisting the handle on the built-in panel. The pipes groaned quietly as the water surged out, spraying onto the shower floor. Within seconds steam was curling out from behind the frosted glass enclosure. The room warmed fast, the mirror fogging slightly at the edges, the air heavy with moisture and the faint scent of developer and dye.

The heat from the shower stuck to your skin as you turned your head back to look at him–still seated, trying to play it cool like he wasn’t about to explode from the anticipation. Bob leaned back against the tank, making room for you without hesitation, his knees parting instinctively like muscle memory, like his body already knew what was coming. You crossed the tiled floor with quiet, deliberate steps, the steam from the shower weaving between you both, making the bathroom feel smaller, more intimate–like the air itself was folding in to watch.

You stepped between his knees again, standing tall in front of him, the light of the ceiling fan casting a warm haze on your skin.

Your hands found his shoulders again, fingertips skating lightly along the curve of them.

“Want to undress me?” You asked, your voice like a secret you were offering just to him. No teasing this time–just heat, thick and warm and sweet in your chest. He exhaled like you punched the breath out of him.

”Y-Yeah, o-of course I do.” He said, barely above a whisper. You took his wrists into your hands, and guided him to the hem of your shirt, giving him the signal to do it.

He took his time with it–not from hesitation but from wanting to tease you back just a little. His knuckles brushed against your stomach as he gathered the worn fabric up, pausing briefly just beneath your ribs, looking up at you just to make sure you were still okay with this. You gave him a nod.

He peeled it up off you, slow and careful, taking in the way the shirt slowly revealed everything he wanted to see in short increments. Your ribs, the soft swell of your breasts, your collarbones, your shoulders, all the way up until he was able to take the shirt off entirely. He let it drop to the floor behind you.

Bob’s gaze dropped before he could stop it, letting his eyes roam over you like he was witnessing something holy–like he wouldn’t blink in case you suddenly vanished. His mouth parted for a moment as he audibly gulped. He was silent, his expression flickering between awe and hunger, tangling up in the open and stunned way he drank you in.

He was memorizing every inch of your skin. The gentle rise and fall of your chest, the soft curves and defined edges. Every freckle, birthmark, scar, or stretch of the skin, it was all there in his head, committed like it was a sacred text. You were completely unhidden, and you trustingly offered yourself to him with nothing but openness, and it was breathtaking to him.

“Jesus…” He said quietly, like your body was rewriting something inside him. He reached up and touched the soft skin of your stomach, the tips of his fingers tracing along your navel, before his eyes met yours again, revealing the beautiful haze of blue blurring together with the specks of orange that lived there. You brought your hand up to his face, caressing his cheek carefully, running your thumb just below his eye.

“You’re so beautiful…” You whispered, feeling Bob’s fingers curling beneath the waistband of your shorts.

“And you’re immaculate…” He responded, slowly tugging your shorts down, his eyes never leaving yours as he did it. He just wanted to look at you, to take you in, to hold you close until you didn’t want to be held by him anymore. He wanted you so bad he felt like he was going to explode, and the heat in the washroom wasn’t helping him control that. The shorts dropped around your ankles with a soft flutter, and you stepped out of them slowly, brushing your hand down to his jaw.

“I’ll meet you in the shower,” Your voice was low and soft like a promise. Then you turned, and walked behind the frosted glass, sliding the door shut in one swift movement. Steam swirled around you like a second skin as you stepped fully beneath the stream of water. It hit your scalp first, then your shoulders, pouring down your body in comforting waves. The warmth soaked into your tense muscles and melted along your spine, rinsing away the leftover ache of your fever and the lingering hum of restraint you’d been nursing for the last hour.

From beyond the frosted glass, you saw movement. Bob had gotten up and walked over to the alarm, clicking it off with a single beep–because what was a minute going to do for him. Then you heard the shuffle of bare feet on tile, followed by the soft rustling of clothes dropping. You could see his shadow moving, leaning down then straightening up again, seeing him step out of his sweatpants and his underwear before reaching for the handle.

He slid the door open and stepped into the steam. You could see him squinting at the change in scenery, until his eyes caught yours. Under the dimmed lighting that the shower had you looked ethereal, like a siren calling to him to come closer. You tilted your head at him.

”Remember, we gotta wash your hair out first.” Bob nodded silently, too stunned to speak or protest, and stepped closer to you until he was right against you, letting the water cascade down his body. You reached up without hesitation, brushing your fingers along the slope of his neck as you cupped his jaw gently, feeling the very faint stubble against your fingertips.

”Close your eyes,” You murmured, and he obeyed immediately, trusting you with all of him. You reached for the bottle of shampoo, flipping the cap open with a soft click. The scent was clean, crisp–something like cedar and citrus–and you poured a generous amount into your palm before lathering it between your fingers. He hunched forward slightly to help you because of the height difference, the muscles in his back bunching as he bent, his hands braced loosely on his thighs.

Your fingers found his scalp and began to move, slow and deliberate, massaging through the dye-stiffened strands with practiced ease. His breath hitched at the first touch–soft and barely audible over the rush of water–but he relaxed into you, the tension easing from his shoulders as you worked through his hair, your nails dragging along his scalp gently, sending shivers down his spine despite the warmth of the shower that was smothering him.

He tried to peek down at you through his lashes, but flinched the moment some suds landed on his brow. You caught the twitch of frustration in his mouth and grinned faintly to yourself.

”No peeking,” You teased, your voice low and sultry, “You’ll get soap in your eyes, and that’ll just prolong the process.” You added, with a smirk.

”I-I’m not peeking,” He muttered back, clearly lying.

But while he couldn’t see you, you saw everything.

Your eyes dropped as your fingers moved through his hair, and your gaze caught on the rest of him–completely, gloriously bare under the water’s fall. And it hit you like a weight to the chest.

He was hard. Completely, achingly hard.

It curved upward from between his thighs, thick and flushed and dripping from the spray. Your breath caught in your throat involuntarily. He was…Big. The kind of big that made your pulse thrum deep in your core, the kind that made something flutter behind your ribcage. The kind of big that made you a bit nervous. His thighs were braced, strong and trembling slightly as the water poured down over both of you, and yet he stayed still–eyes closed, waiting, unaware of just how deeply you were watching him.

You swallowed, trying not to stare too long–but your fingers slowed in his hair for just a beat before you lathered more shampoo and brought it back to the roots, working it all through. You focused on your task, rinsing gently, letting the water carry away the suds and the last traces of harsh dye. As the dark rivulets streamed down and swirled at your feet, the natural color beneath began to reveal itself.

The soft brown, the colour that belonged to him, and only him. Not the Sentry.

You smoothed your hands through the damp strands with a smile on your face, and you could feel him relax further at the calmness of your touch.

”There you are,” You whispered, more to yourself than to him, “Back to you…” You could see his brows lift slightly at your words, still not opening his eyes.

”…W-What does it look like?” He asked softly.

”Like it’s all you…It’s perfect Bob…” You responded, seeing his eyes slowly flutter open, the soft blue still burning with those beautiful flecks of orange from the Sentry. When they locked on yours, something in him snapped completely, and he blinked a few times, steadying himself against you.

”…Can I kiss you now?” He whispered, breath catching in his throat.

You nodded.

And the second you did, he surged forward, his hands finding your face like he’d been aching to hold you there for days. His palms were warm and a little shaky, fingers threading gently into the damp strands of your hair as he tilted your head just right. He kissed you like it was the only thing that would quiet the trembling in his chest–deep, and full of the kind of hunger that had nowhere else to go.

His lips parted against yours with a soft sigh, molding to your mouth like he already knew every shape of it. You responded in kind, letting your hands press flat to his chest before sliding up, feeling the slick heat of his skin, the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms. One hand drifted upward to cradle the back of his neck, the other anchoring at his side.

Bob shifted, pulling you flush against him, his hands sliding down to your waist, gripping gently as he tilted his head and deepened the kiss. There was nothing hesitant about it anymore–only quiet desperation, the need to be close, the need to feel you pressed against every inch of him. His thumbs rubbed slow, anchoring circles against your ribs as he kissed you over and over, his breath catching between each one like he couldn’t quite get enough.

You felt your knees wobble when he sucked your bottom lip into his mouth, and he steadied you instantly, one hand sliding down to the back of your thigh, coaxing your leg to lift so he could hold you open against him.

You gasped softly into his mouth when he did it–because now you could feel all of him. His length, hot and heavy, brushing between your thighs. But he didn’t push it. He just held you there, breathing hard through his nose as his mouth broke from yours for a second, bumping his forehead with yours.

”I-I have to touch you…Can I p-please touch you?” His words vibrated against your chest, shaky from the kiss he had just pulled away from. Immediately you nodded, drunk off of the way he held you, the way he kissed you so desperately. You were his, and you wanted him just as badly as he wanted you.

He dropped his hand from your thigh, keeping his eyes locked on yours as he guided you back, each step careful, like he was afraid to rush a single second of this. The warm tile met your spine gently, as the steam curled around your shoulders–like it was dying to be part of the moment too. Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, the anticipation tugging at you like a puppet.

Bob’s hand, still curled gently around your hip, gave it one reassuring squeeze before sliding away. The loss of his hand made you let out a desperate sigh, wanting to feel him again. He looked down at you as he brought his fingers up to his lips, his tongue darting out of his mouth to coat the tips of them slowly, not for show, but for purpose. For you. His gaze never dropped from yours as he did it, and when his hand fell again between the both of you, he didn’t hesitate.

His knee eased your thighs apart gently, and then his fingers found your clit. The first contact made your knees buckle slightly, and he caught it, pressing in with his knee to steady you, his free hand braced against the wall beside your head. His touch was gentle at first–soft circles, slow and attentive. You gasped, head tipping back, exposing your throat without thinking.

That was all the invitation Bob needed.

He leaned forward and pressed his mouth to the base of your neck, just where your collarbone met your shoulder. The kiss was wet and open-mouthed, like he needed to taste you and the saltiness of your skin. He breathed in like he could anchor himself in your scent. Another kiss, and another, working up the side of your neck as his fingers circled your clit with more confidence now, slick from the water and his spit, moving with practiced pressure.

”So…So soft,” He whispered into your skin, voice shaking, “So goddamn soft…” Your breath caught as his pace shifted. You could feel your body responding–arching into him, a wet heat building between your legs. You whimpered, and that sound nearly undid him. His teeth grazed your neck but didn’t bite, his lips returning to kiss it better as if he could soothe the tremble in your body.

Then his fingers dipped lower, and he felt it immediately.

You were soaked–slick, warm, and pulsing beneath his touch. His breath hitched at the sensation, at the way your body welcomed him without hesitation. And when he eased two fingers inside of you ever so slowly you gasped, arching into his hand like your body had been waiting for that very moment.

“F-fuck,” You breathed, the word slipping out as your nails found purchase in his shoulders. You clawed at him instinctively, dragging across the muscle there, needing something to anchor you while he pushed them in deeper. He didn’t flinch at the scratch–he moaned. A soft, broken sound that came from the back of his throat like he liked the way it felt, like it made him feel wanted in the most primal sense.

His forehead dropped against your shoulder, his mouth kissing along your collarbone with a tenderness that contrasted the stretch of his fingers inside you. He mouthed at the skin there–kissed it, licked it, sucked until it was sensitive and bruised. He pulled back looking at the little love bites, each one tinged with hunger. Bob wasn’t the possessive type but there was this ache in his chest to mark you as his, and even if the water washed it away, he wanted to be sure he left something on your skin.

“Y-You feel so warm…” He said, his voice fraying at the edges. His fingers curled gently inside you, causing your knees to buckle again. Your body shuddered as the pads of his fingers dragged against that spot inside of you that made your entire frame light up. Bob’s hand moved to your hip, keeping you steady as his other hand worked in smooth, slow thrusts, each one more confident than the last. He found a rhythm, watching you, studying every moan and gasp like it was gospel.

And when you whimpered his name, when your body clenched around him so tight he had to grit his teeth, he gave a quiet, shaky laugh–utterly wrecked by how responsive you were.

“You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?” he asked, lips brushing your ear, breath heavy and hot. “I can feel it…God, I can feel you squeezing me…”

You nodded, unable to form a word, your nails biting into his shoulders again as your hips rocked against his hand.

Bob adjusted his angle, changing the pressure, and that’s when you saw stars.

Your head dropped forward, forehead against his collarbone, the air thick with steam and the sharp scent of him—clean, masculine, tinged with desperation. His fingers moved faster, wetter, the slick sounds between your legs obscene and perfect, echoing between the tiles. He was muttering praise now—soft, reverent things that fell from his lips like prayers.

“Just like that, baby—so good for me… You’re doing so good—feels like heaven—fuck, I want to see you fall apart…”

You felt it hit like a wave rolling up your spine.

A tight, burning coil of pleasure twisted inside you and then snapped. You gasped—loud, broken, as the climax ripped through you. You trembled, back arching hard into him as your thighs clenched and a rush of wetness gushed out around his fingers.

Bob stilled for a second in awe.

“…Oh my God,” He breathed, stunned, his eyes wide as he held you through it. You collapsed into him, breath heaving, skin flushed and shining under the steam. He kept his fingers buried inside you, not moving, just holding you close, letting you ride it out as you trembled against his chest.

He looked down between you both, seeing the slick mess on his hand, the way your body had responded so violently to him–and his mouth dropped open slightly. Not because of shock, but because of wonder and awe.

”You…You did so good.” He praised, his voice barely holding together under the weight of what he just experienced with you. His lips brushed your temple first, then your cheek, before finally reaching your mouth.

The kiss wasn’t hungry nor urgent, it was adoration in its purest form. His lips moved like they were tasting something he’d only ever imagined–careful and soft, like he was trying not to overwhelm you. He trembled against you, being crushed from everything unspoken between you. His hand was still between your thighs, cradling you like something precious, and you could feel how hard he was, pressed just barely against you, restrained only by the shivering line of self-control that hadn’t yet broken.

When he finally, carefully, slipped his fingers out of you, you let out the tiniest gasp from the absence–but before he could fully draw away, you grabbed his wrist.

He was still in his movements.

Your eyes met his, holding steady as you lifted his hand–and then you took his soaked fingers into your mouth.

Bob made a sound that almost didn’t make it out of him–a soft, wrecked sigh that died at the back of his throat. His lips parted slightly, eyes darkening as he watched you suck him clean, your mouth warm and wet, tongue dragging along the pads of his fingers slowly, like you were claiming every last drop of yourself from his skin.

He could barely breathe.

You kept eye contact the whole time. It wasn’t a power play–it was intimacy. Connection. And it unraveled him.

Once you were done, you let his fingers slip from your mouth with a soft pop, and he dragged them–slow and reverent–down your chin. Then your throat. The hollow of your chest. His fingertips were wet with saliva, and he trailed it down like he was painting you–smearing it across your sternum, over your ribs, and finally down to your hips.

“Y/N…You’re so…So perfect,” He whispered, in disbelief, shaking his head as his hands ran down your waist, going straight to your thighs, before lifting you effortlessly. You let out a soft breath as your legs bracketed around his hips instinctively, your arms wrapping around his shoulders for balance.

He pressed a gentle kiss to the middle of your chest, and his voice came out barely above the noise of the shower

”Do you want to…Still have sex with me?” You looked down at him, caressing the side of his neck.

”Of course I do,” You responded instantly.

Your lips found his right after–soft and sure. You kissed him with everything you had, as if answering his question with your entire body. His breath caught, his hands clutching at your thighs with a startled need, grounding himself in the reality that you weren’t going to vanish, that you really did want this–want him.

As the kiss deepened, you felt one of his hands slowly slide down your thigh, tickling the skin, but this time there was a purpose in his touch. He shifted beneath you slightly, and then you felt it–the soft brush of his tip against you. Hot. Heavy. And trembling in his grasp.

You broke the kiss for just a breath, resting your forehead against his, your eyes fluttering shut as he lined himself up. His hand shook slightly, like he couldn’t believe this was happening. Like he was terrified of getting it wrong. But he didn’t rush. And neither did you.

“I want you,” You said, your breath warm against his mouth. “All of you.” Bob let out a wrecked whimper from his mouth, before kissing you once more.

Then slowly he began to push in, moving his hips gently.

Your mouth parted in a silent gasp, your eyes flying open as your body stretched to take him. It was so much–thick and deep and slow. He paused when he was just a couple inches in, his forehead still pressed to yours, panting.

“Is that okay?” He asked, voice cracking. “I—I can stop if it’s too much…”

You shook your head immediately, curling your fingers into his shoulders, drawing him closer.

“No. Please don’t stop.”

Bob exhaled a breath that shook all the way down to his spine, then kissed you again–slow, sweet–before sinking deeper inside.

You both moaned at the same time, and your tongues met in between the space your mouths made.

It was like he was imprinting himself into every inch of you. His hands gripped your hips with the kind of gentleness that made your chest ache, guiding your body until he was fully seated inside you, hips pressed flush against yours.

“Oh…God.” He whispered, eyes squeezed shut, trembling as he held still. “You’re so…So perfect… I can’t–God–”

You kissed his jaw, whispering against the sensitive skin just beneath his ear. “You’re okay, Bob. You’re doing so good…”

He began to move–shallow at first, rocking his hips into you in slow, reverent strokes. Each one pulled a quiet gasp from your lips. The water cascaded around you both, steam curling at your shoulders as you clung to him, your body humming in time with his.

He found a slow and steady rhythm, thrusting as deep as possible with each movement of his hips.

He kissed you everywhere he could reach–your cheek, your mouth, your jaw, the slope of your shoulder and his praise was neverending. Whispered fragments between kisses and gasps.

“You’re so beautiful…”

“You feel so good around me…”

“I want to make you feel everything…”

Your hands were tangled in his hair, your body arching to meet every thrust, until your forehead was pressed to his again and your breaths mingled in the tight space between you. Each slow movement of his hips sent sparks crawling up your spine and you rocked against him, chasing every moment, trying to keep it from ending too soon.

Bob looked completely undone in front of you though. His mouth open, cheeks flushed, hands gripping your waist like you were his lifeline.

Then his thrusts started to falter.

You felt it in the way he gasped–sharp and helpless–the way his hold on you tightened and his voice pitched higher.

“I—Y/N, I—oh God, I’m—”

You kissed him, hard, your voice hot against his mouth. “It’s okay. Let go. I’ve got you.”

He came with a broken gasp.

The lights flickered.

Just once–flicker, flicker, black–and then back on again. The overhead bulb buzzed faintly, a hum that matched the pulse of his release as his hips jerked forward, holding deep inside you while his whole body tensed. You could feel the warmth filling you in thick ropes, his body instinctively pushing up into you as if he was trying to keep it from spilling out.

And then he went still.

Completely, and utterly still.

He stayed buried in you, face tucked into the crook of your neck, breath hot and ragged as the water pounded softly over your bodies. You felt the way he trembled, felt the heat of his skin and the wild thud of his heart against yours.

He didn’t move for a long time, he just stayed there, clutching you like you were the one thing that was bringing him down slowly.

And then you felt it–the slow exhale against your neck, the soft tremor that followed. His voice came out low, cracked with embarrassment.

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispered, still breathless. “That was so fast. I didn’t mean to-God, I just couldn’t hold it…”

You pulled back, just enough to see his face, his brows drawn together with worry, his mouth still parted from the weight of what just passed between you. And yet, even flushed and wrecked, he looked beautiful. Lit up from the inside out, like he still couldn’t believe any of this was real.

You shook your head gently and brought your hand up to brush a damp lock of hair off his forehead, tucking it behind his ear with the same tenderness he gave you. “You didn’t finish too fast, Bob.”

He blinked, lips parting like he didn’t believe you.

You leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then whispered against his skin, “You were perfect. I loved every second of it…Because it was with you.” His features softened at your word, that shy smile blooming across his lips, one you felt in your ribs. You saw the glow of it before you felt his body move. He kissed you again, this time gentler, slower–like he wanted to say thank you with his whole mouth.

Then, carefully, he pulled out of you. You both shivered a bit at the sensitivity, and you caught the way his brows knit together, like he didn’t want to stop touching you. But your body welcomed the shift, and your legs dropped from his hips as the moment passed, leaving behind only warmth and steam.

He reached for you instinctively, his hands skimming your waist like he was still trying to keep you close, like he couldn’t quite accept that you were separate again. You smiled at him, brushing your fingers along his jaw, watching the way he leaned into the contact, like it was his oxygen.

”You really like touching me, huh?” You teased lightly, watching his cheeks turn a deeper red, the corners of his mouth curling up shyly.

”…Yeah…I really do.” He admitted. You let out a soft laugh, then looked toward the water still streaming from the showerhead behind him.

“As much as I’d love to stay in here and get all wrinkly,” You said, thumb brushing the hollow of his cheek, “If we don’t rinse off soon, the compound’s water bill is gonna bankrupt Valentina.” Bob let out a breathy laugh, head dropping against your shoulder for a second.

“I guess you’re right, but once we get cleaned up…I want to just lay on the couch with you and hold you for a little while…If that’s okay?” You nodded.

”Of course it’s okay.” You replied, guiding him under the steady stream of water. You each took turns, helping the other wash up. He was gentle when he touched your body as if you hadn’t just taken him completely inside you minutes ago, and he ran his hands over the marks he had made on you, smiling proudly at his work. You matched his care, running soapy fingers down his spine, over his shoulders, through the strands of his newly darkened hair, rinsing the last of the evidence down the drain.

And when the water finally cooled, you stepped out first, digging around the towel closet for a spare. Bob followed right after, grabbing the one that he usually used, with steam rolling off his shoulders, making the air thick and warm as he wrapped the towel around his waist, pausing by the foggy mirror, wiping it off with his hand.

You watched from the side, pulling your towel around you gently, as he lifted his gaze slowly–like he wasn’t sure what would be staring back at him. When he caught his own reflection, something shifted in his expression.

A smile. One of relief. Like a weight had been lifted off his chest.

You stepped behind him, and gently kissed his shoulder, looking at the small little scratch marks you had left on him.

He turned toward you slightly, reached out, and pressed a soft, grateful kiss to your lips–barely more than a breath, but brimming with emotion.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

You smiled into him, nose brushing his. “Don’t thank me yet,” You whispered. “I hope you don’t get the flu from all of this.”

He laughed, his eyes shining as he bumped his forehead against yours.

“If I do,” He said, “It’ll be worth every damn minute.”

And then he kissed you again.

[crybabyalexxx]

Bob: Are we all friends?

Yelena: No.

Yelena: We’re family.

Bob: That was terrifying, don’t pause like that!

[crybabyalexxx]

[crybabyalexxx]

I’ve seen some posts about how Bob’s contribution to the team is doing chores and everything, and don’t get me wrong, it sounds hella cute – but he’s obviously bipolar, which means he experiences hard depressive episodes from time to time. Also, he’s not used to having a nice, clean home where everything is in its place, and he’s clearly not disciplined or anything.

I think even getting something small done – like doing the dishes from time to time or keeping his own room in a semblance of order – feels like an achievement to him.

Because that’s what depression does to you.

John, on the other hand, might be the one to busy himself with chores because he has the discipline for it. He’s used to this kind of lifestyle, and he seems to me like the type who believes that you get up, you do something, you keep your hands busy, and it helps you keep going. Like, high functioning depression thing.

I might be wrong, though.

[crybabyalexxx]

Old Navy Blue

bob reynolds x fem!witch!reader

thunderbolts x fem!witch!reader

i promise this one is nothing like “Forever Us”

i was lowkey thinking of doing a taglist but idk if enough people want that 😭

(feel free to leave criticism so i can improve on my writing unless it’s bad, then like sugarcoat it)

It’s the quiet before the storm—Bucky’s voice low and steady as he lays out the plan, tension coiling in the room like a live wire.

“This is high risk. Incredibly dangerous. I’m not gonna lie to you.”

I sit with my arms folded tight across my chest, feeling the weight of the briefing settle into my bones. The mission is dangerous. We all know that.

But my mind isn’t on the mission. Not entirely.

Across the table, Bob’s eyes flick to mine—just for a heartbeat—but it’s enough.

That look: the quiet fear, the unspoken be careful, I can’t lose you.

I drop my gaze quickly, heat rising in my chest. If Yelena catches that look, we’re screwed.

“What’s the worst that could happen?” Yelena jokes, smirking as she bumps my shoulder. “Someone actually falls in love with Walker?”

I let out a soft laugh—tight, nervous. Bob’s lips twitch like he wants to smile, but his fingers are clenched on the table.

No one knows.

No one knows that for the past three years, Bob has been my everything. That I’ve woken up tangled in his arms more times than I can count. That when the nightmares come, it’s his voice that pulls me back.

No one knows.

And we’ve worked so damn hard to keep it that way.

⸻

The Mission

It all goes to hell in seconds.

Gunfire, shouting, the sharp crack of crumbling concrete. The air is thick with dust and panic. My magic hums under my skin, ready—waiting.

Focus, Y/N. You’ve done this before.

And then—Yelena’s scream.

“Y/N!”

I turn.

The ceiling above her is collapsing.

Time slows.

I reach for her with my magic, a sharp surge of red-gold energy—tearing through the debris, shoving it away with everything I have. She’s free, tumbling out of the way, gasping—alive.

But I don’t see the beam coming for me.

There’s a groan of metal. A crack of stone. And then—

Pain. Blinding, shattering pain.

Bob…

Darkness

I’m floating.

I think I hear voices—shouting, crying. Someone screaming my name like it’s the only word they know.

“Y/N! Baby, please, no—”

I feel hands—gripping, pulling, frantic. Something warm on my face. Tears? Blood?

The darkness pulls me under before I can find out.

⸻

Two Months Later

The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room until I opened my eyes.

The ceiling above me was sterile white. The light too bright, too sharp. The ache in my body was deep, a heavy kind of exhaustion that sank into my bones.

I blinked slowly, my vision blurry, adjusting to the light—and then I saw him.

A man, sitting beside me. His face was pale, tight with exhaustion. His eyes—wide, shattered, desperate. He was holding my hand like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.

“Y/N?” he breathed, voice cracking, barely a whisper. His fingers gripped mine tighter, a tremble running through him. “Oh my God, you’re awake…”

I stared at him, throat tight. My mouth was dry.

I didn’t know him.

His face didn’t spark anything.

“Who… who are you?” I croaked, my voice hoarse and broken.

His entire body flinched—like I’d punched him straight through the chest. His eyes filled with tears, lips parting like he was going to speak, but nothing came out. He just sat there, holding my hand, staring at me like the world was slipping through his fingers.

And then—

The door burst open.

“Y/N!”

A woman ran in, blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, face lit upwith joy. She was moving fast, like she couldn’t get to me fast enough.

“Yelena, wait—” Bob’s voice cracked, but she wasn’t listening.

She was already reaching for me, arms out like she was going to hug me—

And I yanked myself back.

My heart jumped in my chest, panic rising fast, hot and sharp. My breath came quick and shallow as I scrambled back into the pillows.

“What is going on?!” I gasped, voice rising, shaking. “Who are you people?!”

Silence.

The team stood frozen in the doorway.

A dark-haired man in a black t-shirt—John? A taller guy with a grim expression—Bucky? Another man, broad and solid, standing slightly behind—Alexei.

They all stared at me like I’d just shattered their world.

“Y/N,” the blonde woman—Yelena—said slowly, voice cracking, her hands lifting like she was begging me to calm down. “It’s me. It’s Yelena. Don’t you remember?”

I shook my head hard, panic bubbling in my chest like I couldn’t breathe.

“No, I—” My hands trembled as I pressed them to my temples. “I don’t—I don’t know you! I don’t—”

The room blurred.

Alarms on the machines spiked.

Footsteps thundered down the hall as a team of doctors and nurses rushed in.

One of them spoke quickly, calm but firm, hands moving to adjust the IV. Another held me down as I tried to thrash, my body too weak, too heavy.

“It’s okay, you’re safe,” one of the nurses said, voice soft and practiced as she pushed something into the line.

I felt a sharp coldness spread through my veins—and then everything slowed.

The panic dulled. My limbs grew heavy.

I could hear voices, distant and muffled, like they were underwater—

The door clicked shut behind them, and the moment it did, Bob stumbled back—his shoulders hit the wall like the air had been knocked out of him.

His hands trembled at his sides. His chest heaved with shallow, uneven breaths, eyes glassy and haunted.

Bucky stood frozen in place, arms folded tightly across his chest, jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked. He looked like he might punch a hole through the wall just to feel something.

John ran a hand down his face, pacing a few feet away, eyes dark and unsettled.

And Yelena—Yelena was pacing.

Her hands were on her hips, moving in tight, frustrated circles. Her breath came in sharp, uneven bursts, like she was trying to keep it together but barely holding on.

“She didn’t recognize me,” Yelena muttered under her breath, voice sharp, thin, like a thread about to snap. “Me. I’m her best friend. How the hell—”

She stopped abruptly, turning to the doctor as he stepped into the hallway.

The whole team snapped their focus to him like a spotlight.

Bob’s voice broke the silence—raw, barely above a whisper:

“What’s wrong with her?”

The doctor’s face was grave, eyes heavy with sympathy.

“She’s suffering from retrograde amnesia. Given the extent of her injuries, it’s likely trauma-induced. She’s lost… a significant amount of her memory.”

“How much?” John asked, voice rough, brow furrowed in frustration.

The doctor hesitated.

“That’s what we need to determine. We’ll run a full series of scans and cognitive tests, but based on what we’ve seen—she doesn’t seem to remember any of you. Or her powers. Or the team.”

Bob flinched at the word powers.

The doctor went on, gentle but firm:

“We’re going to do everything we can to help her regain her memories, but there’s no guarantee. Sometimes… the memories don’t come back.”

That last sentence felt like a knife twisting into Bob’s chest.

He sank down onto the nearest bench, elbows on his knees, hands threaded together so tightly his knuckles turned white. His head dropped forward, his shoulders shaking with silent, ragged breaths.

Yelena’s pacing slowed, her jaw tight as she tried to hold back the tears welling in her eyes.

Bucky stood stock-still, a muscle jumping in his cheek, his expression hollow.

Even Alexei—usually the loudest, the most unbothered—stood in the corner, arms crossed, his brow furrowed deep.

No one spoke.

No one knew what to say.

They’d lost you.

And Bob—Bob looked like he’d lost the whole damn world.

——

It had been a week.

Seven days since I’d opened my eyes. Seven days of… nothing.

The doctors told me I was healing well—physically, anyway. They said it was a miracle, the way my body was recovering, how my bones were mending faster than they expected, like I was stronger than I looked.

But my mind?

My mind was a stranger.

They kept showing me things—videos, pictures, stories whispered like secrets. Yelena would sit at my bedside, her phone in her hands, scrolling through videos of us.

Her and me.

Laughing in a kitchen. Dancing like idiots. Screaming along to some song I couldn’t place, breathless and wild and so, so happy.

“See? This was us. You loved this song. Remember?”

I’d watch the screen like it was someone else’s life. Someone else’s joy.

“That’s… nice,” I’d say, smiling, trying to match the curve of her lips.

But it wasn’t mine.

It wasn’t me.

Bucky tried once too. Sat beside me with a cup of coffee in his hand, his voice warm, telling me about a safe house. How we’d been stuck for days. How I’d apparently eaten all the protein bars, taught him how to knit with scraps of yarn from my gear bag.

His eyes crinkled at the edges when he spoke, like he was reliving it, the warmth of it lighting up his whole face.

I just stared.

Blinking.

Trying to feel something.

Nothing came.

And him.

The man who sat quietly in the corner—Bob.

He didn’t say much, but he was always there. I could feel his eyes on me, soft and full of… something. Something I couldn’t name, couldn’t hold.

He brought me things.

A sweater—grey, soft, worn at the cuffs. He held it out like it was sacred, like it was a piece of me I couldn’t remember.

I ran my fingers over it, felt the fabric, but it was just… a sweater.

A necklace, too. Silver, delicate, with a tiny crescent moon that glinted under the lights.

“You never took it off,” he told me, his voice barely above a whisper.

I tilted my head, studying it like an artifact in a museum.

“It’s pretty,” I said, almost an apology, before I set it back down.

And when I did…

I saw it.

Just for a moment—the way he broke.

His shoulders slumped, his face shattered in a way that made my chest ache, even though I didn’t know why.

I could feel it.

Feel that I was missing something.

Someone.

I could feel it in the way he looked at me—like I was everything.

But I couldn’t reach it. Couldn’t reach him.

That night, I woke up in the dark.

The lights on the machines cast a soft glow, painting the room in pale shadows. I shifted, careful, and saw him.

Bob.

His head was bowed low, forehead pressed against the edge of my bed. His hand was curled in the fabric of the sweater, knuckles white.

He wasn’t making a sound, but his shoulders trembled. His breath hitched—once, twice, quiet and sharp.

I watched him, and my heart twisted so hard it almost hurt.

I didn’t know why.

I didn’t know him.

But I wanted to reach out.

Wanted to say something.

Wanted to fix whatever was breaking inside of him.

I just… couldn’t.

So I closed my eyes and pretended to sleep, even though it felt like something inside me was unraveling, thread by thread.

Like there was a gaping hole in my chest where something important used to be.

And I had no idea how to fill it.

Or if I ever could.

———

It was getting harder to look them in the eye.

Every time they brought me something—an old photo, a hoodie, a book—I could see it, plain as day, written across their faces.

The hope.

The heartbreak.

They wanted me to remember.

And I wanted to so badly.

I wanted to give them something, anything to take the edge off the pain.

So when Bucky sat down next to me one morning, a battered book in his hands, I tried.

He handed it to me gently, like it was made of glass. I turned it over in my hands, running my fingers across the faded cover.

It was some old paperback. Dog-eared, the spine cracked in half from being read too many times.

“I, uh… I used to read this to you,” Bucky said, voice soft, like he was afraid he’d spook me. “On long flights. You’d get nervous, and it helped you sleep.”

I could feel him watching me. Waiting.

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

“Oh, right,” I said, forcing a little laugh like it was all coming back to me. “Yeah, I… I remember.”

Bucky’s eyes lit up.

“You do?” he asked, leaning in just a bit, like he couldn’t believe it.

I nodded quickly.

“Yeah,” I lied, flipping through the pages like they meant something to me. “You’d read to me on flights. It was… it was calming.”

He smiled, relief flooding his face.

And I felt sick.

I hated this.

Hated lying, but I couldn’t stand the way they looked at me. Like they were breaking apart a little more every time I said “I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

So I tried to fill in the blanks.

I smiled at Bucky, tried to match the warmth in his eyes.

“Yeah, I loved it when you read to me,” I said, holding the book close to my chest. “It helped, you know? Way better than… than those hot chamomile drinks. I hate chamomile.”

The second the words left my mouth, Bucky’s face froze.

His eyes narrowed, confusion bleeding in.

“Chamomile?” he repeated, his voice quiet, but there was something in it—something that felt like a cold wind cutting through the room.

I shifted in my seat, heart pounding, the edges of my smile faltering.

“Yeah?” I offered weakly, trying to play it off. “I’m not a fan.”

But Bucky just sat back slowly, his expression shifting.

“Y/N,” he said softly, and it hurt.

That’s when I realized it.

I’d messed up.

I didn’t know what it was about chamomile, but I’d said the wrong thing.

And I could see it in Bucky’s eyes—he knew.

He knew I was trying to make him feel better.

That I didn’t remember a damn thing.

The relief on his face crumbled into something else.

Something hollow.

And I felt the weight of it all crash down on me.

I wanted to disappear.

Wanted to sink into the bed, into the floor, into anywhere but this moment.

But I couldn’t.

I could only sit there, holding a book that meant the world to him and nothing to me, watching the light die in his eyes.

——

They came in one by one.

I felt like I was on display—Exhibit A: Girl With No Memories.

Ava was next.

She slipped in quietly, like a shadow, holding something small in her hands.

A little silver keychain—sleek, black, minimalist.

“I gave you this,” she said softly, almost shyly. “For luck. Before that mission in Moscow.”

I stared at it like it was a relic.

“Oh,” I said, the lie catching in my throat, tasting like rust. “Yeah, I… I remember. It was a, um, lucky charm, right?”

Ava’s face softened, just a little, like I’d handed her a glass of water in the middle of a drought.

“Yeah,” she said. “You told me you kept it in your jacket pocket. Always.”

I nodded quickly, trying to keep up, to keep them whole.

“Yeah, I always had it on me,” I said, clutching it in my hand. “It… it made me feel safe. Like I had you with me.”

Ava’s eyes glistened. Just a flicker, but it was there.

And I felt like the worst person alive.

But then—because the universe had a sense of humor—I tried to addsomething.

“I used to, um, rub it when I got nervous. Like a fidget thing, you know? Kind of like how I always bite my nails.”

Ava’s expression froze.

Her eyes darted down to my hands—neatly trimmed, no signs of ever being bitten.

I felt my stomach sink.

Shit.

She just nodded once, quietly, and left without another word.

⸻

Next came Alexei.

Big, loud, heart on his sleeve.

He brought a damn stuffed bear.

I held it awkwardly, like it might explode in my hands.

“We win this in Prague,” he said proudly. “Carnival game. You yell at the man because you think it’s rigged. He give you the bear just to make you leave.”

I laughed, because it sounded like me.

“I remember!” I blurted, clinging to the thread. “It was… fluffy. I named it… um…”

Alexei beamed, waiting.

“Bear.”

His face fell.

“It was Misha,” he said quietly, his voice dropping like a stone. “You named it Misha. After my uncle.”

The silence stretched.

I wanted to die.

⸻

John came in with a football.

“Signed by the whole team,” he said, grinning. “You were talking shit about how you could out-throw me. We made a bet—remember?”

I swallowed hard.

“Yeah,” I lied again, my voice barely holding. “I remember. We played in the park. I, uh… I won.”

John’s grin twitched, just slightly.

“You lost,” he said, his voice gentle, like he didn’t want to break me. “By a mile. You blamed the wind.”

Oh.

Right.

I looked down at the football like it was a bomb.

“Right. The wind.”

⸻

Yelena was the worst.

She came in glowing with hope, like she was holding her breath for a miracle.

She had a hoodie in her arms—my old one, apparently.

“I stole this from you,” she said, plopping it into my lap. “You were so mad, but I told you it was mine now. You let me have it.”

I ran my fingers over the fabric, trying to feel something.

“Oh, yeah,” I forced out. “I remember. You always stole my stuff. It was kind of our thing, right?”

Yelena grinned.

“That’s right! And you always called me a—”

“A thief,” I said quickly. “I called you a thief.”

Yelena’s face froze.

Her voice softened.

“No, you called me a gremlin.”

The air in the room shifted.

Her smile faltered, her eyes dimmed.

I felt the lie crack between us, splintering like glass.

Yelena stared at me for a long, long moment.

Then she stood up and walked out, hoodie forgotten in my lap.

⸻

And then…

It was Bob.

Bob, who walked in holding the simplest thing of all—a note.

Just a little folded piece of paper.

His hands shook as he held it out to me.

“I wrote this to you,” he whispered. “After that mission in Cairo. You were hurt, and I was so scared, and… I couldn’t say it out loud, so I wrote it down.”

I took it, my fingers brushing his.

His hand trembled like a leaf.

I opened it.

It was just a few words.

“You make me brave.”

Something inside me twisted, sharp and cold.

I wanted to remember.

God, I wanted to remember.

But there was nothing.

Just a blank void where our love should’ve been.

I looked up at him, and his face was shattered.

I could see it—all the hope, all the quiet, aching love he carried, slipping through his fingers like sand.

So I tried.

I tried to give him something.

“I remember,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “You wrote this because… I, um, I always made you coffee. With sugar. And, uh, you’d always forget to add the sugar, so I’d do it for you. Right?”

His face crumpled.

Tears welled in his eyes.

“Y/N,” he choked out, voice breaking. “You hate sugar in your coffee.”

And that’s when I knew.

It was over.

The pretending. The lying. The hope.

It was all gone.

And I couldn’t stop the tears from spilling over.

Not for me.

For them.

For him.

———

Bucky’s voice was the one that broke the silence.

Low. Careful. Like he was afraid I’d shatter if he spoke too loud.

“You should get some rest, kid.”

I blinked up at him, dazed, my arms still curled around the bear.

He shifted his weight, looking at the mess of objects scattered across the bed. His expression softened, just barely. “We’ll, uh… we’ll take this stuff out. So it’s not… too much.”

I sat up straighter, the hoodie tugging over my knees, the necklace catching the light.

“No,” I said quietly, my voice catching on the word.

They all turned to look at me again, like I’d just spoken a foreign language.

“I want to keep them here,” I continued, my throat tight. “And… I want to get dressed. In real clothes. Not this…” I tugged at the hospital gown, frustration flashing in my chest. “I need to— I need to see the places. The places you remember me in.”

Yelena took a step forward, her expression flickering with hope and heartbreak all at once.

“You want to go out?” she asked, her voice careful.

I nodded, swallowing down the sudden swell of nerves.

“Maybe if I see them… the memories will come back.”

No one said anything for a long, long moment.

Then Bucky let out a breath, rubbing a hand over his face. “Alright. Let’s give it a shot.”

One by one, they nodded.

Yelena was first—she took me to the kitchen where we’d apparently spent hours dancing like idiots, the place where I used to steal her snacks and argue about movie nights. She tried to recreate the moments, swaying to music, waving her arms like she didn’t have a care in the world.

I tried to smile. I tried so hard. But nothing clicked.

Alexei and John took me to the sparring room next—John told me stories about how I’d trash-talked him mid-spar, how I’d laughed in his face when I won. Alexei mimicked my stance, showed me how I used to tilt my head when I was ready to fight.

I nodded. I said “that’s nice.” I tried to feel it, but the emptiness was crushing.

Ava took me to the roof—where I’d apparently gone to think, to breathe, to watch the stars. She stood beside me in the cold morning air, silent, just waiting.

Nothing.

Yelena tried again after lunch. Took me to our shared room, showed me the stack of journals we’d written dumb notes in, the little trinkets we’d collected from missions. She played me a video of us lip-syncing to some song—my face was glowing in it, my eyes sparkling with mischief.

I stared at the screen, my lips parting, willing myself to remember.

But it was like watching a stranger.

And then there was Bob.

The quietest. The last.

He didn’t say much as we walked, just a silent, steady presence at my side. His hand hovered near mine, like he wanted to grab it, but he didn’t.

We reached the spot—a small, hidden garden tucked behind the building. It was overgrown, wildflowers tangled in the grass, and I could feel something aching in the air.

Bob stopped a few feet away, like crossing into the space physically hurt.

I looked around, frowning at the quiet beauty of it all.

“It’s pretty,” I whispered, turning to him. “What is this place?”

Bob’s breath hitched.

His hands trembled at his sides, and I saw the way his jaw tightened, the way he blinked hard, fighting the tears.

I reached out without thinking, gently brushing my fingers over his knuckles. His hand flinched, but then he gripped mine, like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

“Bob,” I asked, soft and careful, “why is this place important to us?”

He swallowed, his voice rough and barely there.

“This was ours.”

I stared at him, eyes wide, heart stuttering.

He let out a shaky breath, the words spilling like a confession he’d been holding too long.

“This was where we went after every mission. Just the two of us. We’d sit right there”—he gestured to the bench—“and talk about everything. Or nothing. You used to bring me coffee. I’d tell you the stupidest stories, and you’d listen like they were the most important things in the world. We’d watch the stars until you fell asleep on my shoulder.”

His voice cracked, and his grip tightened on my hand.

“I told you I loved you here. First time. You laughed because I was so nervous I could barely get it out. You said you loved me, too, and we just… sat here. For hours.”

I felt my breath catch, the weight of his words sinking into my chest.

I could see the hope in his eyes, the desperate need for something—for a flicker of recognition, for a smile, for a whispered “I remember.”

But there was nothing.

Just a hollow ache.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry.”

Bob shook his head, blinking fast, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

“You don’t have to be,” he said softly, even though I could see it all over him—how much this was killing him.

He let go of my hand then, stepping back, his shoulders shaking.

And I just stood there, watching him—watching the man who clearly loved me more than anything in the world—break right in front of me.

And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

——

We sat there in the cool night air until the wind started biting at my skin, until the lights in the windows above us flickered back on—until it felt like the whole world had moved on, leaving us in the dark. Bob had calmed, mostly. His breathing was steadier, but when I glanced at him, his eyes were rimmed red, his nose pink from crying, and I felt a sharp pang in my chest I couldn’t explain.

“I should…” he started, voice barely above a whisper, and he glanced at the doors leading back inside. “We should get you back.”

I nodded, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle into my bones. My body still felt heavy and sluggish, like every movement was a struggle. But when Bob pushed open the doors, holding them for me like it was second nature, I felt that same strange pull—like I belonged with him, even if I didn’t understand why.

The med floor was quiet, humming with low lights and machines. My bed sat empty in the corner, but as I moved toward it, something tugged at the corner of my vision.

A door—barely cracked open down the hall.

It wasn’t the room they usually brought me to. Not the one with the familiar faces and soft blankets and the quiet hum of machines. No, this room… it felt different. Like a secret. Like it meant something.

I stopped. My feet wouldn’t move. My breath caught in my throat.

“Y/N?” Bob’s voice was soft behind me, but I couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t tear my eyes away from the door.

Something deep inside me whispered, Go.

So I did.

I stepped forward, feeling my pulse quicken, feeling my fingers tingle like they wanted to reach for something, like they were brushing up against the edge of a memory I couldn’t quite catch.

The door creaked as I pushed it open, and a wave of… something washed over me.

The room was dim, bathed in warm light. A blanket draped over a worn couch. A coffee mug on the table, cracked and chipped. A photo on the wall—me, smiling at the camera, tucked under Bob’s arm, both of us looking like we’d won some inside joke.

I stared at it, heart hammering, but… nothing.

Just a faint, dull ache. Like I was looking at a life I should know but couldn’t touch.

Behind me, I heard the shuffle of feet. I turned and found them all there—Yelena, Alexei, Bucky, John, Ava—crowded in the hallway, watching me. Hopeful, tense, like they were holding their breath waiting for something.

But I didn’t know what they wanted.

I took a shaky step back, arms wrapping around myself. Bob’s eyes were the last I saw before I turned away and drifted back toward the med floor, back to my hospital bed, back to the only thing I knew—the steady beeping of the machines, the sterile sheets, the crushing weight of not remembering.

I sat down on the bed, staring at my hands. My chest burned, my eyes stung, and I felt so small.

“Please,” I whispered under my breath, not even sure who I was talking to. God? The universe? Myself? I didn’t know. “Please… let me remember something.”

The tears slid down my cheeks before I could stop them.

I wanted to remember. I wanted it so badly it felt like my ribs were cracking under the weight of it.

A soft knock at the door. Yelena.

“Hey.” She stepped in quietly, holding two cups of tea, like it was just another day. Like we were the same. Like we were us.

She sat on the bed beside me, close but not touching, and offered a small smile. “Can we just… talk for a bit?”

I nodded, wiping at my eyes, feeling raw and exposed.

We talked—about small things at first. The weather, the latest movie that came out, TikToks. And then… something slipped out of me.

A phrase. A stupid phrase.

Something I didn’t even realize I knew.

Yelena’s breath hitched, her eyes going wide, her tea forgotten in her lap.

“Wait. Say that again.”

I blinked at her. “What?”

Her hands trembled as she grabbed my arm. “Say it again.”

I repeated it, unsure why it mattered so much, but it was like I’d cracked something open, and Yelena was shaking.

She bolted from the room, calling for the others. My head spun as the door burst open again and the team flooded in, eyes wide, staring at me like I was some kind of miracle.

But I wasn’t. I didn’t know why I’d said it. I didn’t remember the meaningbehind the words. It was just… there.

For the next three weeks, that was all I had.

One tiny, fractured piece of a puzzle I couldn’t solve.

One phrase.

One sliver of a connection.

And it wasn’t enough.

Not for me.

Not for them.

Not for Bob.

———

The beeping of the heart monitor was the first thing I heard. Steady. Reassuring.

But it wasn’t the same today.

The hum of machines, the scratch of paper charts, the sterile white walls… it all felt heavier.

I blinked, eyes blurry from sleep, and when I turned my head toward the glass doors of my hospital room—toward the world I wasn’t part of—I saw them.

Bob and Yelena.

They were standing just outside, framed by the morning sun bleeding through the windows, voices hushed but sharp with emotion. I couldn’t hear everything—just the low, muffled hum of words—but their body language… it hit me like a punch to the chest.

Bob’s shoulders were shaking. His hands pressed to his face. His whole body looked small, caved in on itself like he was folding under the weight of something too heavy to carry.

Yelena was gripping his arm, trying to steady him, but even from here, I could see the tears in her eyes too.

“—you loved her so much.”

“Three years, Bob. Three years.”

“—the love of your life, and she doesn’t even—”

“I know, I know,” he sobbed, voice breaking. “God, Yelena, I know.”

I felt like I was watching a scene from someone else’s movie. Like I wasn’t supposed to see this.

But it hurt.

It hurt in a way I couldn’t explain. Like a deep, gnawing ache in my chest, twisting tighter and tighter the longer I watched them.

The love of your life.

My throat felt tight. My fingers dug into the thin hospital blanket, gripping it like it was the only thing tethering me to the ground.

They were talking about me.

About a version of me I didn’t know.

A version who laughed and loved and lived.

Who had a family in them.

And I didn’t remember any of it.

The tears welled up before I could stop them, blurring my vision as I watched Bob break down in the hallway, his body shaking with the force of it.

I wanted to remember. I wanted to run out there, grab his hand, and tell him I knew him. That I loved him back.

But I didn’t.

All I could do was sit there—weak, empty, watching the man who loved me like I was his whole world crumble because I wasn’t that person anymore.

And that’s when I made a decision.

No more sitting here. No more waiting for my memories to come back like magic.

I had to fight for them.

I didn’t care if it took days, weeks, years.

If Bob—if all of them—had fought to keep me alive… then I would fight to remember.

For them.

For me.

For us.

Even if it broke me in the process.

——

It started small.

The next morning, I woke up early—earlier than usual—because I couldn’t sleep. My head felt like it was full of static, and my heart felt like it was carrying a weight too heavy to lift.

So I sat up in bed, pushing the thin blanket aside, and swung my legs over the side. My body still ached, stiff and sore from the damage I didn’t remember. But I moved. I had to.

I looked down at the little collection of things they’d all left me—the sweater, the necklace, the football, the book, the stuffed bear—and I reached out for them.

One by one, I laid them on the bed in front of me.

I closed my eyes, holding each one like it might spark something. A flicker. A whisper. Anything.

I pressed the crescent moon necklace to my chest, whispering, “Please.”

Nothing.

I stared at the football, trying to imagine it in my hands, thrown across a field. The smell of grass. Laughter in the air.

Nothing.

I opened the book—halfway through, a page marked with a pressed flower—and tried to picture myself reading it, but the words just blurred together.

Frustration boiled under my skin. My hands clenched into fists. I felt the tears coming, hot and angry.

Why can’t I remember?!

I choked on a sob, wiping my tears with the sleeve of the sweater. It smelled faintly of something—him?—and I clung to it like it could keep me from unraveling completely.

“Please,” I whispered again, voice cracking. “Please, just… something.”

Nothing.

I let myself cry.

Let myself fall apart.

Let the heartbreak of everyone else fill the room—Bucky’s quiet grief, Yelena’s nervous hope, John’s stiff concern, Alexei’s awkward care, Ava’s soft sadness… and Bob.

God. Bob.

I thought about his face yesterday, the way his hands had covered his face when he broke down outside the door. The way Yelena tried to hold him together, but he’d crumbled anyway.

I wanted to know why.

I wanted to feel what he felt.

And when I closed my eyes, I could almost hear it. A whisper.

Not quite words… but something.

⸻

Later That Day

Bob came back in the afternoon.

The others had stepped out, giving him a moment alone with me.

He sat in the chair by the bed, hands nervously clasped in his lap, eyes red-rimmed and tired. He looked so small in that moment. So quiet. So lost.

I didn’t know what to say, so I just watched him, heart in my throat.

After a long pause, he spoke.

“I never told anyone this,” he said quietly, his voice rough like sandpaper. “Not even Yelena. Not even… you, before.”

He swallowed, looking down at his hands like they were holding the whole weight of the world.

“My dad… he used to tell me I was nothing special. That I’d never be anything more than what he wanted me to be. Quiet. Small. Invisible.”

He let out a breath, shaky and raw.

“And then I met you. And it was like… you saw me. Every part of me. The good, the bad, the scared little kid who just wanted to be enough. And you told me I was.”

Tears filled his eyes, but he kept going.

“You told me I was enough, and I believed you. God, I believed you.”

His voice broke, and he pressed a trembling hand over his mouth, trying to hold it all in.

And I… I didn’t know what to do.

So I reached out, hesitating for only a second, and covered his hand with mine.

I didn’t know him.

But I felt him.

His pain. His heartbreak.

And I wanted to give him something back.

So I squeezed his hand, gently, and whispered, “You are enough.”

His head snapped up, eyes wide and glassy, and for a second, it felt like the air between us shifted. Like something clicked.

But I still didn’t remember.

And the heartbreak in his eyes when he realized that… it nearly shattered me.

———

It started slow at first.

A flicker. A sound.

Then the crash.

The ground shook beneath me, walls crumbling like sand, a roar in my ears so loud it felt like my head was splitting apart.

I could see the others—running, yelling, someone was screaming—and Yelena—Yelena. She was trapped, pinned down. I reached for her, my hands glowing, glowing with something I couldn’t name. A flash of red—chaos magic, something inside me. I shoved it outward, desperate, get her out get her out get her out—

And then—

The weight.

The sky above me—gone.

Crushed.

Heavy.

Pain.

Darkness.

Nothing.

⸻

I screamed myself awake.

My whole body snapped upright, drenched in sweat, my lungs clawing for air that wouldn’t come.

The machines beside me beeped wildly, alarms blaring.

“No no no no no no!” I sobbed, clawing at the blanket, at the air, at anything that could ground me.

And suddenly—they were all there.

Bucky first, his voice sharp but calm, “Y/N, hey—look at me. It’s okay, you’re safe, you’re safe.”

Yelena right behind him, eyes wide with panic, “What happened?! What—are you okay?”

Bob stumbled in last, his eyes locking onto me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered, his voice breaking, “What’s happening? Is she—?”

“I—I saw—” I choked, my voice ragged and broken, tears streaming down my face. My chest ached like it would cave in. I couldn’t stop shaking.

“I saw… the building… it was falling, and I—”

Their faces.

The way they looked at me.

Like I’d just set off a bomb in the room.

Bucky’s brows shot up, eyes wide with something that looked like shock.

Yelena’s hand flew to her mouth, a muffled gasp slipping out.

Bob… oh, Bob.

He looked like he couldn’t breathe.

“That’s… that’s how you got hurt,” Bucky whispered, his voice barely a breath.

The silence that followed felt like a vacuum.

I was still sobbing, gasping, hands fisting the sheets, shaking so hard I thought I’d fall apart.

They were all staring at me, frozen.

I tried to pull myself together, to stop the noise pouring out of me, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop.

Bob moved first—slowly, like I was something fragile, like I might break at the slightest touch.

He sank onto the edge of my bed, hesitating for a split second before he reached for my hand. His palm was warm, trembling just as much as mine.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice thick with something that cut through me. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

And I believed him.

But the image—the building, the crash, Yelena trapped, me reaching out—

It was still burning behind my eyelids.

I had no idea if it was real.

But I felt it.

Like it was branded into my skin.

And now… they were all looking at me like it was real.

Like I was starting to remember.

And that terrified me.

They were all talking—talking—too many voices, too many hands, too much.

“Breathe, Y/N. Please. Just try—”

“Calm down. You’re safe—”

“It’s okay, we’re here—”

No, no, no, stop—

I couldn’t breathe. The walls felt like they were caving in. My chest was so tight it hurt, like there was a fist wrapped around my ribs, squeezing. My ears were ringing, my vision blurring, and I was sobbing so hard I couldn’t tell if I was breathing at all.

And then—he was gone.

Bob.

I caught a glimpse of him stepping out, moving fast. My heart dropped. I don’t know why—maybe it was the look in his eyes, like leaving me for even a second was killing him.

But he was back so quickly, breathless, holding something—

A pillow.

It was blue.

A little dolphin pillow pet.

Worn, soft at the edges, like it had been loved for years.

I stared at it, frozen.

He held it out, his hands shaking, like it was some fragile treasure he was terrified to break.

“You always—” His voice cracked, and he swallowed, eyes glistening. “You always take this on missions. You’ve had it since you were a kid. Since you were five.”

I stared at him, then at the pillow, then back at him.

I didn’t remember it.

Didn’t remember him.

But something—something—pulled at me.

My hands reached out, almost on instinct, and I took it.

It was soft. The fabric was worn thin in places, like it had been hugged so many times it was starting to fray.

I held it to my chest, clutching it like a lifeline.

And then—without thinking—my fingers started to stroke over the plush fabric. Slow, back and forth, back and forth.

The sobs began to slow.

The panic loosened its grip on my chest, just enough to let in air.

The tears were still falling, but I could breathe again.

The room quieted.

No one spoke.

They all just watched—Yelena, Bucky, Alexei, John, Ava—like they were seeing something sacred.

And Bob—

Bob sat there, just inches away, his eyes locked on me like I was the sun and he hadn’t seen it in years.

I could feel the weight of their heartbreak pressing into me from every angle.

I still didn’t remember.

But for the first time, holding that silly little dolphin, I felt a thread.

Something small.

Familiar.

And I didn’t know if it was real, or if it was just me wanting so badly to make them all feel better.

But I held it tighter.

Because maybe—just maybe—it mattered.

———

The smell of Chinese food filled the air, warm and familiar.

Yelena had practically dragged the little takeout boxes into my room, Bucky grumbling about MSG, John pretending not to eat half the egg rolls, Ava balancing a fortune cookie on her nose, and Alexei already halfway through his third plate.

It felt… normal.

For the first time in weeks, it wasn’t about me—wasn’t about what I couldn’t remember or how broken I was.

Just the team, laughing, the low hum of conversation bubbling around me like I wasn’t some shattered version of myself.

Bob was sitting beside me, quiet as always, but close. His shoulder brushed mine every so often, the faintest reminder that he was there, solid and warm.

I was picking at my lo mein when Yelena said something—something stupid about Bucky’s hair gel and John’s “wrestler” cologne.

I grinned, a real, unthinking grin, and before I even knew what I was doing, I spoke.

“That reminds me of when Yelena threw a can of soda at John, and he opened it, and it sprayed everywhere.”

I laughed.

Laughed.

It was so vivid. The sound of the can cracking, the psshhhht of the spray, John’s yelp, Yelena’s smug little smirk.

And then—

Silence.

The room froze.

I blinked, my smile faltering as I realized everyone was staring at me.

Mouths slightly open, eyes wide, chopsticks paused midair.

Bob—he wasn’t breathing. His gaze locked onto me like I’d just hung the moon.

“What?” I asked, a nervous little laugh escaping. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”

Yelena was the first to speak, her voice a shaky whisper.

“Y/N… you remember that?”

I frowned, my chopsticks hovering over the noodles. “Yeah… I mean, it just popped into my head. It was funny, right?”

No one said anything.

Just stared.

Bob’s hand was trembling against his thigh.

I looked around at all of them, confusion twisting in my chest. The weight of their eyes was too much—too heavy.

I set the food down slowly.

And that’s when it hit me.

This mattered.

This wasn’t just a random memory—this was a missing piece.

A piece of me.

Their faces said it all:

I was remembering.

Even if it was just one tiny thing…

I was remembering.

And the way Bob looked at me, like I’d just come back to him from the dead… it almost broke me.

Almost.

Because I still didn’t understand why it hurt so much.

But I wanted to.

God, I wanted to.

———

After dinner, the room slowly emptied, but Bob lingered.

“Do you want to… go for a walk?” he asked softly, almost like he was afraid of the answer.

I nodded, unsure why my chest felt tight. Maybe it was the way his voice cracked, or how his eyes looked so hopeful, but also like he was holding himself back.

The Tower felt different at night—quieter, softer. The hallways echoed under our footsteps as we moved in slow, careful silence.

Bob walked beside me, his hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller.

He didn’t say much at first. Just glanced at me every so often, like he couldn’t help himself.

Finally, he gestured toward a small lounge area with a couch and a dented coffee table.

“That’s where you always claimed the corner seat.” His voice was so quiet, I almost missed it. “Said it was your spot. No one else was allowed to sit there, not even Yelena.”

A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

I tried to picture it—me, curled up on the couch like I belonged there.

But there was nothing. Just a hollow space where the memory should be.

Bob must’ve seen it on my face because he quickly moved on, leading me down another hallway.

He pointed to a mark on the wall—an old crack in the plaster.

“You and John… you had this game where you’d try to hit a tennis ball into the vase on the bookshelf. The vase won.” He let out a breathy, almost-laugh. “You hated that vase. Called it ‘The Nemesis.’”

I tried to smile, but it felt… forced.

Still, I could see the way he looked at me—like he was holding onto hope with both hands, even if it was slipping through his fingers.

We kept walking, and Bob kept talking, his voice soft, a little hesitant, like he didn’t want to overwhelm me.

“That’s the kitchen where Yelena taught you to make pierogi. You nearly set the stove on fire once.”

“That’s the hallway where you’d always race Bucky to see who could get to the armory faster. You never won, but you swore you’d beat him someday.”

“That’s the gym… you used to go there late at night, said it helped you think.”

Each word felt like a thread, like he was stitching little pieces of me back together.

I watched him as he spoke, the way he rubbed at the back of his neck, how he kept glancing at me like he was terrified he’d said too much—or not enough.

He was so gentle with me. Like I was glass, and he was terrified of shattering me completely.

I couldn’t help it—my hand brushed his sleeve.

He tensed for the briefest moment, then relaxed, his breath catching in his throat.

We reached a set of windows overlooking the city, and he stopped.

“This was your favorite spot at night.” His voice was barely a whisper.

I looked out at the skyline—lights blinking, streets winding like veins through the dark.

I didn’t remember it.

But God, I wanted to.

I wanted to remember everything.

And when I turned to look at him, I saw it in his eyes—the weight of it all.

The loss. The love. The ache.

He wasn’t asking me to remember.

He was just… here.

And for some reason, I felt like that mattered.

So I stood a little closer.

And Bob—he didn’t say a word.

But his hand brushed mine again, just once, like a whisper.

And I let it linger.

The city lights blurred into smudges of color, and Bob sat still beside me, his hands folded in his lap, shoulders hunched like he was bracing against a storm only he could feel.

I watched him for a long moment, the quiet between us stretching thin and fragile.

I closed my eyes, exhaling softly through my nose, willing something—anything—to come back.

Then, like a ripple across the surface of still water, a feeling rose up.

Not a flash of color or sound, but a memory.

It was dark—so dark, but warm.

I was in his lap, legs tucked over his, curled up like I belonged there, like I’d been there a thousand times before.

We were in a small, quiet room—the lights off, the only glow coming from a soft, flickering candle on the windowsill. It smelled like cinnamon and wax.

Bob had his arms around me, his head resting on mine, and we weren’t talking. We were just… breathing.

His fingers gently traced the inside of my wrist, slow, patient. Like he was memorizing my pulse, the shape of my hand, the lines of my skin.

I could feel his heartbeat through my back—steady, sure, grounding.

And there was music, soft and low—some old record playing, something with strings and a slow, crooning voice.

I shifted a little, my voice barely above a whisper, like I was afraid to shatter the moment.

“Why do you always hold my wrist like that?” I’d asked him.

And Bob, his voice quiet and so full of warmth, answered,

“Because it’s where I can feel you the best. Where you feel real.”

I let out a shaky breath, my hand tightening over his on the windowsill, the city blurring beneath me.

I could feel it now—his thumb brushing over the soft skin of my wrist, the faint scrape of his calluses, the safety in his arms.

I looked down at our hands, still entwined in the present, and whispered, barely able to speak through the tears clogging my throat:

“You used to hold my wrist.”

Bob’s head snapped toward me, his eyes wide, stunned—like I’d just pulled the air right out of his lungs.

“You… you remember that?” he breathed, his voice cracking.

I nodded, tears slipping down my cheeks as I squeezed his hand.

“I don’t know why… I just know it felt safe. It felt like home.”

Bob’s breath hitched, and for a second, he just looked at me, like he was afraid I might disappear if he blinked.

Then, slowly, his hand lifted—tentative, hopeful—and he gently cupped my wrist in his large, trembling fingers.

Like I was a memory he could hold on to.

I leaned into his touch, my breath shuddering out of me.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, voice cracking. “I wish I could remember more.”

Bob shook his head, tears spilling freely down his cheeks now, his thumb stroking over my pulse like it was the most important thing in the world.

“It’s enough,” he murmured, his voice barely audible. “It’s enough for me.”

And we sat there, in the quiet glow of the city, holding on to the smallestpiece of what we used to be—like it was everything.

The air felt thick between us, like it might crack if I moved too fast, breathed too loud.

I was still holding Bob’s hand, his thumb still brushing over the inside of my wrist—soft, reverent. Like it mattered.

I looked up at him, my voice so quiet I wasn’t sure it would carry.

“Can…” I swallowed, my throat suddenly tight. “Can I sleep in your bed with you? Maybe…” I trailed off, fumbling over the words, cheeks burning. “Maybe it’ll help me—I don’t know—I just…”

Bob’s eyes softened, so much warmth it ached, and before I could say anything else, he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice low and thick. “Of course. Come on.”

He didn’t make it a thing, didn’t make it awkward. Just stood up, quietly taking my hand, guiding me down the hall.

His room was dim, the soft hum of the city outside filling the silence. It smelled like him—warm and familiar, something I couldn’t place but felt like home anyway.

I crawled into his bed without thinking, curling up on one side, clutching my dolphin pillow pet to my chest.

He settled in beside me, careful and slow, like I was fragile. We didn’t touch, not at first, but I could feel him there—solid, safe.

The tension slowly melted into the sheets, and my body felt heavy, weighted by the day. My eyes drifted shut, exhaustion pulling me under like a tide.

But Bob… he didn’t sleep.

I wasn’t sure when it happened—maybe an hour, maybe two—but I felt him shift, so softly I almost missed it.

The bed dipped, the blankets shifted, and then… he was gone.

My eyes stayed closed, too tired to open, but my heart clenched in my chest.

I could hear his footsteps padding down the hallway, the quiet creak of the med floor’s door opening.

I forced myself to stay still, my breath slow and even.

I listened.

⸻

Bob’s POV

I stood outside the med floor, the dim hallway pressing in, the quiet hum of machines behind me.

My hands were shaking. My chest felt tight, my throat raw.

They were all sitting around, half-dozing, half-talking in hushed voices—Ava perched on a chair, Yelena curled up with a blanket, Bucky leaning against the wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. John, for once, was silent, staring at the floor like it had answers.

I cleared my throat, and they all looked up, startled.

I swallowed, my voice barely above a whisper.

“She… remembered something.”

They stared at me, wide-eyed, like I’d just dropped a bomb in the middle of the room.

Bucky straightened, his eyes narrowing.

“Wait… what?”

“She—” My voice cracked, and I had to squeeze my eyes shut for a second, breathe through it. “She remembered how I used to hold her wrist. It was small, but… she remembered it. And she—”

I broke off, wiping at my eyes with the back of my hand, shaking my head like I could clear the ache.

“She asked if she could sleep in my bed,” I said softly, almost like I couldn’t believe it myself. “Said maybe it would help. So I—”

I let out a choked breath, shaking my head again, smiling through the tears.

“I didn’t push. I just… let her.”

Yelena’s hand shot up to cover her mouth, her eyes wide and glassy. Ava let out a soft, oh, like it had hit her deep.

Nobody said anything.

They just looked at me—at all of it—and let me feel.

For the first time in months, it felt like there was a sliver of light in the dark.

A crack, just big enough to let some hope through.

———

It had been a week.

Seven nights of curling up in Bob’s bed, my dolphin pillow pet hugged tight to my chest, listening to his steady breathing beside me. Seven mornings of waking up in the soft, worn sheets, clutching at the pieces of a life I still couldn’t remember.

Every night, I’d lay there with my eyes squeezed shut, whispering silent prayers into the darkness. Please… please let me remember. Please, just something. Anything.

And every morning, I’d wake up empty.

Until today.

I was in the med floor, sitting at the little table by the window, tracing the edge of the notebook Ava had left me—an old mission log with her neat handwriting in the margins. Bob had gone to grab coffee, Yelena was down the hall somewhere. The sun was warm on my face, and for a second, everything felt almost normal.

Then it hit me.

A sharp, blinding pain—like a blade, cleaving through my skull.

I gasped, the notebook slipping from my hands as my fingers flew to my temples.

No no no no no—

The pain exploded, searing, a white-hot fire behind my eyes. My knees buckled, the chair scraping back as I collapsed to the floor.

A scream ripped from my throat before I could stop it.

The sound echoed, sharp and raw, and then I heard them—footsteps pounding, voices shouting my name, panic crackling in the air like static.

“Y/N!”

“Shit—someone call the medics!”

I was clutching my head, my fingers tangled in my hair, my body curling in on itself as the memories slammed into me, one after the other, no mercy, no space to breathe.

Bob’s voice whispering my name in the dark.

Yelena’s laugh echoing in the kitchen.

The weight of Bucky’s hand on my shoulder during a mission.

A kiss—soft and slow, hands cupping my face, lips warm and so familiar.

John grinning at me with a beer in hand, Alexei teasing me in Russian, Ava’s quiet encouragement in the field.

A building falling, dust in my lungs, Bob screaming my name, the sound so desperate, so broken.

A necklace in my hand.

A dolphin pillow pet.

A silver ring.

His smile. His eyes.

It was too much.

I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think.

I was choking on the weight of it, sobbing as the world spun around me.

I felt hands on me—Bob, Yelena, Bucky, everyone—their voices blurring together into a cacophony I couldn’t untangle.

“She’s seizing—get her on the bed!”

“Her pulse is spiking—Jesus, Bob, move!”

“I’m right here, baby, I’m right here—”

The doctors burst in, barking orders, the metallic sting of needles in my skin.

“Sedate her. Now!”

The world tilted, and the last thing I saw was Bob’s face—his eyes, wide and wet and so scared.

Then the darkness swallowed me whole.

——(no one’s pov in particular)

The moment the sedative hit Y/N’s veins, her body slackened—limp, pale, and terrifyingly still on the hospital bed.

Bob was standing right next to her, hands trembling, the tear tracks still drying on his cheeks. His eyes stayed locked on her face, as if she might vanish if he blinked.

Yelena was pacing, sharp and angry, her fists clenched at her sides, her breath coming in shallow bursts.

John was leaned against the wall, arms crossed, but his jaw was tight, a muscle ticking in his cheek.

Alexei stood frozen, eyes wide, like he’d seen a ghost.

Bucky’s hands were braced on the foot of the bed, knuckles white. His voice broke the silence first—low, rough, barely holding it together.

“What the hell was that?” he demanded, turning to the doctor with an edge that could cut through steel.

Everyone was thinking it. Bob just couldn’t form the words—could barely breathe as he stared at Y/N’s face, her skin too pale, her breaths shallow under the weight of the sedative.

The doctor scrubbed a hand down her face, looking grim.

“It’s what we call a mass memory attack,” she explained, her tone clinical but laced with something close to sympathy. “Her brain was overloaded with too many memories coming back at once. It’s… it’s too much for the brain to comprehend, so it triggers a defense mechanism. It causes her to seize.”

Bob flinched like the words were a slap.

“A defense mechanism?” Yelena hissed, whirling on the doctor. Her voice cracked—sharp and raw. “You’re saying her brain did this to her on purpose?”

The doctor’s eyes softened, but she nodded. “It’s a survival instinct. Her brain couldn’t handle the flood, so it shut down to protect itself. She’s stable now, but… we need to be careful. Pushing too hard, too fast—it could make things worse.”

Silence fell over the room like a lead weight.

John let out a shaky breath, running a hand down his face. “So what the hell are we supposed to do? Just… wait? Let her suffer like this?”

Bob couldn’t take it anymore. He sank into the chair beside Y/N’s bed, his hands shaking as he reached for hers—threading their fingers together like muscle memory, like he was starving for the feeling.

His voice was a whisper, hoarse and cracked.

“I can’t lose her again.”

No one said a word.

They just watched as he bowed his head, pressing his forehead to the back of her hand, his shoulders trembling under the weight of it all.

Yelena sat down across from him, her hand resting lightly on Bob’s arm. No teasing, no sarcasm—just quiet, shared grief.

Alexei rubbed a hand over his face, letting out a slow breath. Bucky just watched Y/N, his jaw tight, his eyes haunted.

They all stayed there in the dim light of the med floor, the quiet beeping of machines the only sound filling the room.

Waiting.

Praying.

Hoping that when she woke up again, it wouldn’t be too much.

—— Bob’s POV

The med floor was dark, the machines humming in the quiet—steady, rhythmic, a cruel reminder that she was alive but gone all the same.

Bob sat slumped in the chair by her bed, his hands wrapped tightly around hers like a lifeline. His head was bowed, shoulders hunched, and for the first time in years, the tears wouldn’t stop.

He whispered—broken, desperate words barely making it past the tightness in his throat.

“Please… please. I don’t know who’s listening, if anyone is listening, but please—just give her back. Give me back. I’ll do anything, I’ll give up anything, just let her remember.”

His voice cracked, ragged and raw. He squeezed her hand tighter, as if the universe could feel how much he needed her.

“I love her. I love her more than anything. Please—please don’t take her from me. Don’t take this. I can’t—” His breath hitched, tears falling hot and fast down his face. “I can’t lose her.”

His words faded into whispers, desperate prayers spilling into the silence.

Eventually, exhaustion dragged him down, and he slumped over, head resting on the edge of her bed, hand still clasped in hers. His breathing evened out, but his face stayed etched in quiet heartbreak—his eyes fluttering in restless sleep.

—— Y/N’s POV (dreaming)

It was dark.

Not the soft, safe kind of dark—but heavy, suffocating, swallowing me whole. I could barely breathe. Could barely think. Could barely feel.

And then—

A whisper.

Faint, far away, slipping past the dark. My own voice, barely a breath:

“Bob?”

It didn’t feel like my voice. It felt like someone else’s.

And then it was like the dam broke.

Memories—flashes—slamming into me.

Bob’s hands on my waist, lifting me up to reach a shelf, his breath warm at my ear.

His voice, soft and low: “Careful, sweetheart.”

His eyes crinkling when he smiled, like I was his whole world.

The way he said my name—so full of love it hurt.

His laugh when I tried to cook and burned everything.

The feeling of his arms around me when I was scared, when the world felt too big and too loud.

“You’re my best thing,” he whispered once, voice raspy in the dark, his breath brushing against the shell of my ear. “You’re my favorite part of every day.”

Then a sharp shift—another flash—louder.

Lying tangled up in his bed, the sheets a mess, my heart racing as he kissed me, slow and sweet like he had all the time in the world.

The feel of his hand, warm and steady on the small of my back.

The scent of his cologne in the hoodie I always stole.

Another flash—laughter, wild and bright, Yelena’s laugh—the kitchen a mess, pillows flying.

Me and her dancing, spinning, singing to some song I couldn’t remember.

Then—BOOM.

Screaming. Crashing. The weight of the building slamming down, the screech of metal tearing, the terror in Yelena’s eyes before I shoved her out of the way.

Pain.

So much pain.

And then—

Nothing.

⸻

My heart was pounding, breath ragged, like I’d run for miles.

Bob.

His name drifted in the dark, slipping through the cracks of my mind. It hurt. God, it hurt so bad.

“Bob…” I whispered. My voice trembled, thick with tears I didn’t remember crying.

I felt myself reaching, stretching, grasping at threads of something I knewI had—but it was all slipping through my fingers, fading into the dark again.

And then—

Silence.

Just my own shallow breathing, the taste of salt on my lips, the ache in my chest so deep it felt like it might tear me apart.

—

The room was quiet, except for the low hum of machines and the soft beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor. The light was dim, golden slivers of dawn just barely stretching across the floor.

My eyelids felt heavy, like they were glued shut, but I forced them open, blinking into the haze.

And there he was.

Bob.

Curled in the chair beside my bed, his arms folded tight across his chest, chin tucked down, his breath slow and even. His hoodie was rumpled, sleeves pushed up like he’d been wringing his hands through the night.

I didn’t know how I knew it, but I knew—he hadn’t left. Not once.

I tried to shift, wincing as pain bloomed behind my eyes, sharp and relentless, and the tiniest gasp must have slipped out because—

His head snapped up.

“Y/N?” His voice was a broken whisper, his eyes wide, panic flashing across his face. His chair scraped back as he stood so fast it nearly toppled over. “Are you okay? You—shit, you seized last night.”

I blinked, the word echoing in my ears.

Seized.

His hand hovered over mine like he wasn’t sure if he could touch me, if I’d shatter like glass.

“I’m… okay.” My voice was hoarse, cracked from disuse. I swallowed hard, my throat burning.

I looked at him—really looked at him—and the sight of his face sent a strange ache through my chest.

I could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the dark circles, the way his shoulders slumped like he was barely holding himself together. His lips trembled, parted slightly like he was waiting for something—anything.

And it just spilled out of me, the words tumbling over themselves, so quiet I wasn’t even sure he’d heard me.

“I remember things.”

His breath hitched—sharply, raggedly—and his hands clenched into fists at his sides before he dropped to his knees by my bed, gripping the edge like it was the only thing keeping him steady.

“What—what do you remember?” he breathed, eyes searching mine, wide with so much hope it almost hurt to look at him.

“I… I don’t know. It’s all jumbled.” My voice trembled, and I could feel the tears welling up, blurring my vision. “But I see things. I hear… your voice. And Yelena’s laugh. And… a building, I think. I feel—”

Bob let out a shaky breath like the air had been knocked from his lungs, and he pressed his forehead to the edge of the bed, his hand reaching for mine—gripping it tight, like he was terrified I’d disappear again.

“You’re here,” he whispered.

And for the first time, I felt like I almost was.

I squeezed his hand back, the pressure weak but there, and the tears slid down my cheeks silently.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“For what?” His voice cracked, raw with disbelief.

“For… for not remembering sooner.”

His breath hitched, and he shook his head, the motion jerky, desperate.

“No, no, sweetheart. None of this is your fault.”

I closed my eyes, exhaustion pulling at me, but I clung to the sound of his voice, to the warmth of his hand in mine.

Bob Reynolds.

The name pulsed in my mind, heavy, important.

And in that moment, I wanted so badly to remember everything.

His breath was warm against my palm, slow and unsteady, like he was trying to keep it together, but barely. His tears soaked into my skin, hot and heavy, and I could feel him trembling—just a little, but enough.

I shifted closer without thinking, curling in until our foreheads were pressed tight together. I could smell him—clean soap, a little sweat, and something that just felt like him, warm and grounding.

His hand stayed over mine, holding it like if he let go, I might disappear again.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. I didn’t even know why the words tumbled out, but they did, thick and shaky.

His breath hitched, and his head shook, slow and desperate, rubbing his forehead against mine.

“Don’t—don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.” His voice cracked so hard it broke something in me. “You’re trying. I know you’re trying.”

I swallowed thickly, feeling tears pricking my own eyes.

“I feel so… helpless,” I admitted, voice small, like it might break apart if I said it too loud. “Like I’m standing in front of this huge, locked door, and I can’t—can’t even find the key.”

Bob’s breath stuttered, and I felt him shake his head again, pressing his hand against the back of my head like he could shield me from the weight of it all.

“You don’t have to remember everything all at once,” he said quietly, voice barely a whisper. “Just… just keep holding on, okay?”

I nodded, squeezing my eyes shut, the tears slipping free now, hot and fast.

“I want to,” I whispered, my voice shaking.

His arms wrapped around me slowly, pulling me into his chest, and for a moment, I just let him hold me. My ear pressed to his heart—steady, thudding, solid.

I didn’t remember everything.

But I remembered this.

The sound of him breathing. The warmth of him. The way it felt when the world got small and quiet, and it was just us.

I breathed in deep, holding it, clutching onto the feeling as tight as I could.

“I’m still here,” I whispered. It wasn’t much, but it was the truth.

Bob’s hand tightened in my hair, and his breath shuddered against my temple.

“Yeah,” he whispered, broken and soft. “You are.”

The door creaked open quietly, and I heard soft footsteps—hesitant, like they weren’t sure if they should interrupt.

Bob lifted his head, just barely, and I could see the tension in his jaw. His hand didn’t move from mine.

I turned my head toward the door, and there they were.

Yelena first, holding two cups of coffee, one halfway gone like she hadn’t even realized she was drinking it. Her eyes went wide when she saw me awake—awake and calm.

Bucky behind her, arms crossed tight over his chest, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

John and Alexei were just behind them, hovering in the doorway. Ava lingered by the far wall, her gaze sharp and worried, though she tried to school her expression.

They all just stood there, staring at me like I was some fragile piece of glass that might shatter any second.

I swallowed, my throat tight, eyes burning.

“I… can I ask you guys something?” My voice was soft, hesitant, but it filled the quiet space like a ripple in still water.

They all stilled, turning toward me—Yelena leaning forward, Bucky tilting his head like he was ready for a mission briefing, John folding his arms tighter, Alexei with a small frown, Ava watching from the wall, her arms loose at her sides, and Bob…

Bob stayed still, holding his breath.

“Can you… tell me a memory?” I whispered. “Something about me… about us. Anything.”

For a moment, no one spoke. Then Yelena let out a shaky breath and leaned forward.

“That time you made me go out in the rain to dance like idiots,” she said, voice thick with a laugh that didn’t quite make it.

And as soon as she spoke, I saw it.

The rain—cold, pouring down in sheets. The way Yelena had been grumbling, arms crossed tight. Me dragging her into the street, spinning her under the grey sky, the pavement slick and shining. I could feel it—the wet hair sticking to my cheeks, the sound of our laughter, the way I yelled, “Live a little, Yel!” and she tackled me into a puddle.

“Oh my God,” I gasped, covering my mouth. “I remember… the rain… the puddle…”

Yelena’s eyes went wide, filling with tears, and she let out a half-laugh, half-sob.

Bucky stepped forward, cautiously. “There was that safe house—three days. We were pinned down, you kept stealing my protein bars…”

My breath hitched.

“…And I taught you how to knit,” I finished, the words tumbling out. My voice trembled. “I tried to make a scarf but it was horrible—all knotted and uneven.”

Bucky let out a shaky breath, nodding, his eyes glassy.

Alexei spoke next, voice rough but soft, “You and I, we made dumplings together… in the kitchen, remember? You burned your fingers on the pan, but you said it was worth it.”

A flash—me standing on tiptoe, fingers red from the heat, Alexei grinning proudly, saying, “This is real cooking.”

I let out a choked laugh, tears slipping down my cheeks.

John rubbed the back of his neck, almost shy. “The football game—backyard. You threw the ball so hard it nearly took my head off.”

Another flash—me laughing so hard I had to bend over, John clutching the ball and mock-shouting, “Are you trying to kill me, woman?!” The sky was golden with the setting sun, and Bob was in the corner of my vision, watching with that small, secret smile.

I gasped again, squeezing my eyes shut.

“I remember!” I breathed.

They all stared at me, wide-eyed, like I was performing magic.

———

Three Months Later

It was warm in the room—one of those soft, quiet nights where the air felt like a blanket. We were all crammed around the big table in the common area: pizza boxes everywhere, drinks scattered, Yelena arguing with John over who’d eaten more, Alexei telling some ridiculous story that had Ava quietly rolling her eyes, and Bucky looking like he was about two seconds from falling asleep with his beer in hand.

I just… watched them.

My team.

My family.

It had been three months since that night. Since the seizures, the pain, the memories that came flooding back like a dam breaking in my chest. I wasn’t 100%—not yet—but I was close. Little pieces still felt out of reach, but it didn’t matter as much anymore. I had them. I had myself. I had… Bob.

I looked down at my plate, fingers twisting the edge of the napkin, and took a shaky breath.

“Hey,” I said, voice soft but enough to quiet the room. Everyone turned. Bob, beside me, instantly shifted closer like he could sense the tremor in my chest.

“I just… I wanted to say thank you.” My throat burned. “I know I scared the hell out of you all. I know… I know it wasn’t easy.” My voice cracked, and I swallowed, trying to hold it in.

“I didn’t mean for any of this to happen,” I whispered, eyes moving from Yelena’s glassy stare to Bucky’s quiet nod, to John’s barely-contained frown, to Ava’s soft, sad smile, to Alexei’s sudden, serious gaze.

“You’re all… like my family. And I don’t take that lightly. I never will.”

There was a silence, heavy but warm, and then—without thinking—Bob took my hand under the table. His fingers were warm, calloused, shaking just a little as they curled around mine.

I looked at him, my heart doing that impossible thing it always did with him—like it could split wide open and bloom all at once.

He smiled, barely. His voice was quiet, but it filled every inch of me.

“This… all of this made me realize something.”

I blinked, waiting.

“I love you.” His voice cracked, rough like gravel. “God, I love you. And I don’t ever want to spend another second not knowing if you’re mine.”

I didn’t even have time to breathe before he pulled a small box from his pocket, flipping it open with a nervous, trembling hand.

A ring.

Simple. Beautiful. Us.

My breath caught. My throat burned. My heart felt like it was too much for my chest to hold.

I pressed my hand to my mouth, tears slipping over my cheeks before I could stop them, and I nodded—shaking, crying, nodding over and over.

“Yes,” I whispered, breathless. “Yes.”

The room exploded. Yelena shrieked so loud I winced, John shouted something about needing earplugs, Alexei actually slammed the table, and Bucky just shook his head with a grin, muttering, “About damn time.”

Bob just sat there, holding me, his forehead pressed to mine, and I could feel him shaking—feel the weight of it, the fear, the love, the relief.

And as the laughter and cheers filled the room, I thought—

This is it. This is my life. These are my people.

And God, I was so, so lucky.