ivybucky

[ivybucky]

GOD YES THIS WAS SO GOODDDDD

My Person : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader

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

Summary: Neither you nor Bob ever dared to fully cross the line of friendship or more, walking it like a tightrope instead. All it takes is one undercover mission for that tightrope to snap.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI, SMUT (unprotected p in v, dirty talk, praise, might be a slight hint of a breeding kink in there, slight bit of superpower usage), porn with a LOT of plot, fluff, friends to lovers, lots of pining, sort of a fake marriage trope, one bed trope, language, some mental health talk, female reader, alcohol consumption, some Agents of SHIELD spoilers actually, Thunderbolts spoilers obviously

Word Count: 16,400 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here A/N: special thanks to @briseisgone for checking my French in this!!!!

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

"W-Wait...you want to send Bob and me on an undercover mission?"

Valentina let out an aggravated sigh, the same one she typically gave her rag-tag team of new Avengers. She stood at the head of the conference room table, perfectly manicured hand, as always, tapping incessantly on the glass tabletop. The look in her eyes displayed boredom, maybe even a hint of exasperation, as she looked directly at you.

“God–am I speaking Russian? Have I been spending too much time around the mall Santa over here?” her hand gestured out in the direction of Alexei. When no one spoke up, she continued. “Yes, Viper, I’m sending you and the man-child on this mission.”

“An undercover mission, that’s the part you’re glossing over that I-I really don’t think you should be,” you tried to reason with the woman, but she simply held her hand in the air to stop you.

“It’s the fastest mission of your life, Viper, it’s a single day: get in, get the information, get out. And if I remember correctly–well if Mel read the paperwork correctly–it was you that signed off on Robert’s combat forms and said he was fieldwork and combat ready,”

Well, she wasn’t wrong. That was your signature on those papers, signing off to approve Bob Reynolds for actual combat with the team on missions. You had been the one to hand-train him yourself for months on end, three hours a day in the training center, helping him to understand that his powers were a part of him and that he didn’t need to play the part of “The Sentry” to use them.

Hand-to-hand combat and the power of a thousand exploding suns were vastly different from undercover field work, though.

“Valentina, you’re missing the part where you’re sending them on an undercover mission,” Yelena chimed in, leaning her elbows forward on the table next to you as she voiced your own concerns out loud. “He’s combat cleared, we’ve taken him on small missions here and there-”

“He was very helpful with the gang problem last month!” Alexei cut in with a boisterous laugh. “They were such funny little men, looked like they were fake Russians. He made quick work of them, even if he apologized when he sent that one flying across the room-”

“The point is, undercover work is different,” it was Bucky who cut in this time, sitting directly across from you and Yelena, looking around at the group before his gaze cut back to Valentina. “Undercover work takes a certain level of care. It’s a lot of quick thinking in fast-paced environments, and it requires the ability to remain calm and adapt to anything that could happen. I just…I don’t think Bob is cut out for that kind of work yet.”

You hated agreeing with your team, but they were right. Bob brought a value to this team that sometimes couldn’t be accurately quantified, and you didn’t like talking down on him in any sort of way. He was valuable, he was helpful…he was your best friend, but he just wasn’t cut out for undercover work, at least not right now.

Valentina took one look around the room, scoffing with a mutter of “unbelievable” under her breath. With a snap of her fingers, Mel was by her side in a second to pass her a manila folder, shooting the rest of you an apologetic look as she stepped away. Valentina flicked the folder open, gaze rising to settle on you.

“Oh, look what we have here: SHIELD Special Agent 19, codename Viper,” the deep sigh you let out was inevitable as Valentina paced the front of the conference room, reading straight from your file. “A liaison for the original Avengers, looks like you did some work with Yelena’s sister. Let’s see, notable missions–ah! Project TAHITI, Project Deathlok, a mission to Puerto Rico that ended in the deaths of three HYDRA leaders. Need I list off more?”

You mumbled something under your breath about how much you loved this “walk down memory lane” that drew a short chuckle out of Yelena, before Valentina continued to read through the file.

“Over 37 different undercover missions spanning the likes of Berlin, São Paulo, Mumbai, and even Osaka: all successful, by the way. There’s even a review section about your superb skills with an FN SCAR-H, MGC M-16, and your favorite, the Nemesis Arms Vanquish. Oh, and your lethal little twin daggers, all coupled with this glowing review about how you were one of the best agents to ever step foot in SHIELD,” Valentina flipped the manila folder closed, tossing it onto the table with pursed lips. “Let’s not forget that all of that? Yeah, it’s all personally signed off by Nick Fury.”

“I love reading time with Valentina, it’s so fun,” Walker huffed out a bitter laugh, leaning back in his chair with arms folded behind his head. “Can you read my file next? I’m dying to relive my short few weeks as Captain America.”

As much as Walker could be a dick at times, his humor in moments like these was much appreciated. Except to Valentina, who only shot him another glare.

“My word is final. I have one of SHIELD’s best special agents on my team, and I’m using her. And yeah, you’re taking Robert with you,” with a snap of her fingers once more, Mel passed her another manila folder that was slid in your direction. You had barely stopped it under your hand before Val had slid the large pair of expensive sunglasses on top of her head over her face, shooting a fake grin around the room. “Now, I have a meeting with the Senator, followed by a stint on a beach in Fiji. I trust you all can handle this: try not to call!”

The sound of her heels clicking against the linoleum floor echoed through the room, before the large conference door swung shut with a heavy click.

Silence hung in the air between the team for a moment before all hell broke loose.

“He’s just not cut out for a mission like this. I’m sorry, I have to say it,”

“Bobby apologized to that gang member last month when he threw him across a room. We want to send this guy undercover?”

“Ah, but he is The Sentry! He is most equipped to protect our stabby-stabby friend, Miss Viper,”

With another sigh, you flipped the manila folder in front of you over. With a quick skim down the page, you got the gist of the mission: HYDRA, possibly regrowing, attempting to get their hands on Adamantium.

Just the word HYDRA had a pang of hurt hitting you straight in the chest. Great. Just great.

“We can argue as much as we want, but we aren’t the ones assigned to a mission with him,” your ears perked up at Yelena’s voice, turning your head to look at her. She was already looking toward you. “Do you think he can handle this?”

“Personally? I’m terrified that undercover work is going to be a lot on him. He’s gotten more comfortable with letting his Sentry powers show at times and with hand-to-hand, but undercover is different,” you explained, treading carefully around what you said. “It’s taken months for him to feel comfortable on his medication, especially after Dr. Kim changed his dosage at least four times. Undercover work…it’s intense, I don’t want him to get overwhelmed.”

Ava leaned forward on the table, drawing your attention to her.

“Viper, while it’s a valid concern…Valentina hasn’t left us with much of a choice,”

You sighed, flipping the manila folder closed once again.

“No. No, she didn’t,”

You didn’t speak another word, and the team took it as the official end of the meeting. All but Yelena, who stayed behind even as the conference room doors shut again. She sat quietly for a moment before speaking.

“So…you’re totally not nervous about being alone with Bob, right?”

“Why would I be?” you questioned, and Yelena just looked at you expectantly. “Oh god–Lena, don’t start this again–”

“The heart eyes you two give each other make me sick,” she faked throwing up, laughing as she dodged the kick you sent toward her chair while shaking your head, trying to rid yourself of the heat crawling into your skin. “Always looking at one another, he’s always stumbling over his words–more than usual–around you, always being so touchy touchy together, and so on and so forth with the cuteness overload day in and day out.”

She took the manila folder from your hands, skimming over the mission details as you scoffed in her direction.

“So we spend a lot of time together, so we can be a little touchy, what’s wrong with that? Friends are like that all the time!”

“Um, except Bob is notoriously not touchy with anyone, given the whole interconnected shame room incident,” Yelena simply stared at you, blinking multiple times in succession. You stared back, before she simply threw the manila folder down with a sigh. “Fine, fine, don’t listen to me and solve the glaringly obvious romantic–and slightly sexual–tension, wallow in it for all I care. I wish you luck in Paris, of all places, ignoring that.”

The mission weighed heavily on your mind later that night. Yelena’s thoughts lingered, too, in the back of your head.

The tower’s kitchen was quiet, except for the playlist currently playing out of your phone’s speaker from where it sat plugged in on the counter. The sun had already set, and the team was all off on their own set schedules. 

Walker was finally making a supervised visit with his estranged wife and child, like you’d been hounding him to do for months. Ava had said something about catching a movie at the theater down the road, while Alexei had roped Yelena into ‘father-daughter bonding’ at a Broadway show (you were sure they’d be home soon and Alexei would somehow get them kicked out). Bucky had simply retired to his room, leaving you to your own thoughts in the kitchen.

Two pots were boiling on the stove. You had just added the spaghetti sauce into one and half of the box of noodles into another, humming under your breath as some song that Tony used to play around this very tower played off your phone.

“S-Smells good,”

You jumped slightly, heart rate spiking, before you turned. The sight of Bob leaning against the kitchen doorway, clad in a white t-shirt and one of his many pairs of grey sweatpants, had your guard back down in a second. With a quick stir of the noodles, you pointed the now-soaked utensil in Bob’s direction with a grin.

“Haven’t you been warned not to sneak up on dangerous agents anymore? After the last time Yelena almost stabbed you?”

The blush coating his cheeks at the simple mention of the incident had you laughing, nodding your head toward him to beckon him over. He crossed the room without hesitation, feet shuffling across the cold floor until he was leaning on the counter next to the stove.

“Well…you’re different. I-I hope you wouldn’t try to stab me,”

“On purpose? No. Scare me like that again? Maybe,” you added the rest of the box of noodles to the boiling water without having to ask, not missing the tiny quirk of his lips as you did.

Without having to ask, he took another large spoon from the utensil holder, lazily stirring around the sauce in the pot next to him. You shot him a grateful smile, keeping your eyes on the noodles in your own pot.

“Homemade garlic bread?” Bob questioned, gesturing down to the lit oven below you both. You could see his smile stretch just the tiniest bit wider. “You know I-I love your homemade garlic bread.”

“I know, that’s why I made it,” you teased him, bumping your hip lightly against his own as he let out a short laugh. “I figured you would come crawling out of your room eventually and get hungry tonight.”

The kitchen went quiet for another moment. Bob backed out of the way, letting you open the oven to a rush of warm air and check on the bread.

He took your spoon from you without having to be asked, stirring the noodles and the sauce as you crossed the kitchen to the fridge. With a wine glass and a normal tall glass placed before you, you poured him a cup of water before pouring yourself a generous amount of sangria from your favorite bottle in the fridge–it still had a sticky note on the side to tell Ava to keep her hands off of it.

“I had a dream last night. B-But…I think it was more like a memory,”

Bob’s sudden comment had you pausing, placing the wine bottle back down on the counter carefully, and turning. His back was to you, still focused on the stovetop, but even you could see the tension suddenly riddled throughout his body, in the subtle flex of his arms.

“What was it?”

“New York, the…the incident,” he struggled to explain that day, but you knew what he was talking about. “D-Do you remember what you said to me that day? When you…pulled me out of there?”

Of course you did. You remembered the shame room incident like it was yesterday. Reliving the day you thought you lost your mentor, the crumbling of SHIELD, the comforting hand of your mentor on your shoulder when you learned the man you thought you loved and trusted had really been-

You remembered Bob. Jumping into those shame rooms to find him, to break through every wall until you found Yelena, and until you both found Bob. Wrapping him in your arms after fighting tooth and nail across the room until you got to him, holding him as he cried.

I’ve got you. I’m not leaving, not now, not ever. You don’t have to carry it alone; I’ll carry it with you.

With both glasses in hand, you placed them on the island counter. You placed two plates beside them before you rejoined Bob’s side. He handed you back your own utensil without a word, and you took it, fingers just barely brushing his. You could see those little bumps rise on his skin where you touched him, and it brought a soft smile to your face.

“That I wasn’t leaving, that I’d carry your burdens with you,” you spared him a glance from the corner of your eyes, and he was already looking at you. “It was a memory, Bob. That’s what I told you, and I meant it.”

God, when you said you would carry his burdens with him, did you mean it. Every therapy session Valentina had ordered for him, you were at his side–at his request, of course. He refused to sit through the first few without you, and after that, he was just too used to you being around for them.

Those therapy sessions turned into late-night conversations on the couch when his insomnia took over. Walks around Central Park in the middle of the day. Visits to his favorite local bookstore to find something new to read. 

It was hard not to become someone’s person when you spent every moment with them.

“Okay, good. Would be kind of awkward if it was just a dream,” you sputtered out a short laugh, leaning into his side with another small nudge to his hip. “You know, t-the same goes for you, right? That I’m here, that uh…that I have your back. Especially if we’re, you know, on missions or something…”

In the middle of stirring your pot, you hung your head with an audible sigh.

“Let me guess, Yelena told you about the mission we’re assigned?” he gave you a small nod. “I promise I was going to tell you, probably after dinner, after I had time to fully think about the logistics of it all.”

Bob took the pot off the stove as you switched it off, swinging it over to the sink and helping you empty the contents into the strainer, the excess water rushing off down the drain.

“She wanted to warn me, given that it’s undercover and all,” Bob explained, putting the empty pot back on one of the burners that was cooled off as you shook the rest of the water from the strainer. “I just…I want you to know that I-I can do this. That I won’t let you down o-or make it worse.”

Bob’s negative self-talk always caught your attention. Even when it wasn’t as glaringly obvious, when it was just hidden in his little comments, you always picked up on it. He seemed to know you did, already looking at you when you turned to give him a knowing look.

“Bob-”

“Yeah, I know, ‘replacing my negative thoughts with positive thoughts will lead to positive results’ or whatever it is Dr. Kim keeps telling me,” Bob tore the spoon stirring the sauce out of the pot and waved it around, flinging little bits of sauce everywhere. You couldn’t help your laughter as some of it splattered across his face, but he paid no attention to it. “I-I know undercover work is different from the little work that I-I have done, but I can do it, especially if it’s with you. I know I can.”

There was a beat of silence before you reached forward, fingers just barely grazing along his skin to wipe the little bit of spaghetti sauce from his cheeks. It was noticeable, the little way that Bob leaned into your touch, the only touch on the team that he actively allowed and didn’t shy away from all the time.

One strand of that dark brown hair fell in front of his eyes as he leaned into you, and you didn’t hesitate to swipe it back. Those striking blue eyes never looked away from you, and you found yourself lost in those ocean-like eyes and the softness they held. They were beautiful…Bob was beautiful, inside and out, and you had always known it. That flutter of your heart and that warm feeling that pooled in your stomach all but screamed it at you.

“I just worry that it could overwhelm you, bring up negative memories, that’s all. But I trust you. So, if you say you can do it, then I believe you. As long as you promise me that you’ll tell me the second something doesn’t feel right, if you feel overwhelmed.”

Bob’s smile quirked just slightly into that slightly smug little smirk you’d seen just a few times before, mainly when he managed to make a dig at Walker that always set the super soldier off. He held his hand up, pinky outstretched, and you laughed wholeheartedly before wrapping your own around his.

“I promise I’ll tell you,”

“Good. Do we need a secret code word if it comes up?” you teased.

“I mean…’cucumber’ works for many moments,”

You both laughed, pinkies still intertwined.

“Cucumber it is,”

❤︎

“The mission basics are simple: it’s been confirmed that remnants of HYDRA are still scattered across the globe, and they’re trying to regroup and gain momentum again. Somewhere in that rebuild, they’re trying to get their hands on Adamantium, that metal harvested from that Celestial body in the ocean. Intel suggests their plan is to get it from a French arms dealer by the name of Damien Jacquemin. His company runs out of the United States; it’s based somewhere in Texas, but he conducts his personal business as far from his company as he can. Not a guy we want to tussle with, Stark knew him well back in his heyday of weapons manufacturing,”

Valentina’s team had recreated the old SHIELD and Avengers quinjets fairly accurately, with their own additions. The cockpit was separated from the rest of the jet to offer more privacy, a more spacious backend area than what you were used to in the past. A large conference table sat in the middle of the room, big enough to seat your team of seven around. Bob was sitting at that conference table now, flicking through the holopad you’d set in front of him, while you paced the open space behind him as you spoke.

“He’s hosting a one-day conference of sorts in Paris, but it’s a ruse to distract him from meeting with his potential HYDRA clients. This conference will consist of high-profile arms dealers and investors from around the globe,” you leaned down over Bob’s shoulder, flicking the holopad to the next screen. “He’s rented out this entire little hotel for the conference. It’s a boutique hotel, only 25 rooms, so the guest list is small and the conference room is small, meaning this is going to be an intimate event. It’s at least got nice views of the Eiffel Tower, so at least we have a view.”

“Okay…” Bob breathed out the word, sitting up straighter in his chair as he turned around to face you. You couldn’t help but smile at those eyes that were as wide as a deer’s in headlights, his hand tugging at the collar of the white button-down he was donning, tucked into his black pants. “S-So what are we doing?”

“We are guests of the conference, much like all the others in attendance. This conference is only a day long, so we have a short timeframe to work with to get this information,” you crossed the room over to the expensive designer purse waiting for you, digging out the fake passport and license for each of you, and passing Bob’s over to him. “These are our identities. If you can’t remember, just let me do most of the talking. Our job is to avoid as much direct contact with Mr. Jacquemin as we can, as he is the most likely to sniff us out as undercover. We are to determine which guests are the HYDRA agents in disguise, and be close enough to determine if a sale of Adamantium is happening and where it will happen, so we can alert our team. All while…not getting caught, of course.”

Bob examined the passport and license in his hand, and you could see the tiny shake in them. It brought a frown to your face as he turned it to you, smiling just a bit.

“M-My name is Mr. Aidan Gray?” you laughed lightly, seeing Bob look between you and that terrible photo of him with his hair slicked back for the fake ID.

“For this weekend? Yes,” you flashed him your own ID and license, before stalking back over to your purse to put them away where they’d stay safe. “You’re the extremely wealthy son of a former American arms dealer, Russell Gray, who did work with Stark Industries back in the day. Now, you own Gray Enterprises. I’m your loving and adoring wife, Mrs. Eloise Gray.”

“W-Wait, we’re…we’re married for this?”

You paused, cheeks heating up as you remembered that little, yet big, detail of the mission. Turning on your heel, Bob was now standing from his seat, eyes blown wide again and cheeks flushed the deepest shade of red you had ever seen on him.

“W-Well, statistically, these missions go smoother when marriage is used as a cover,” you stumbled a bit, trying to find the right words to explain a decision of the mission that had been entirely your call. “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with this-”

“No! No y-you didn’t,”

Something hung in the quiet space between you both just then, something you had been avoiding for months. You avoided it in every therapy session when Bob took your hand in his, in every late-night talk on the common room couch while rain pattered against the tower windows until you fell asleep with your head on his shoulder, and in every look and gentle touch you exchanged.

The brush of hands, Bob’s hand always brushing against your lower back when he moved past you, the times when he’d wake up after you in the morning and wrap himself around you from behind in the kitchen in greeting, never fully understanding his actions so early in the morning with sleep still in his eyes. All moments that fluttered your heart in ways you tried to ignore.

“We just have to play it up at the conference, is all,” you reassured him, hands gliding down the sides of your dress as if brushing off non-existent dust. 

Bob’s eyes were still blown wide, but he couldn’t help but let laughter flow from him, still slightly breathy. You quirked your head, smiling nonetheless at his actions, shoving that stupid heat pooling within you away.

“I-It’s just funny…Walker always jokes that we act like a married couple. Now he’s, like, k-kind of right,”

Okay, maybe Yelena had a point. There was a glaringly obvious rope of romantic tension that was hanging between you and Bob. It was a feeling you were aware of, that you tried to ignore for many reasons, but in moments like this it was more prevalent and obvious than usual.

That softness in his eyes, reserved just for you. It conveyed trust, complete and total trust, something Bob didn’t feel with many people. You were one of the lucky ones, if not the only lucky one.

The red light by the door to the cockpit blinked twice, illuminating the room: the signal that you would be landing. A secure location just outside of Paris, where an arranged car would pick you both up and transport you to your hotel.

“Well, you know how Walker can be. Always joking,” you did your best to laugh, even if it was slightly strained. An awkward smile crossed his lips before you walked past him, giving him a quick pat on the arm. “Get ready, we’re landing in a moment.”

The landing went off without a hitch, the sleek, black car awaiting you with Valentina’s personnel picking you up without an incident.

The drive into Paris city limits took an hour, a quiet hour. There was some channel playing through the car, a revolving slate of French songs. But neither you nor Bob spoke.

You watched him instead, as the sun set throughout the drive and the city lights lit up. The way the yellow of the lights reflected through the car windows, painting Bob in their soft light. The way the yellow reflected off the blue of his eyes, reminding you of the gold that shimmered through them when the Sentry serum took hold. 

That tiny smile on his face, those wide eyes as he took in every street, every building, every group of people lining the street. It took a lot to stop the flutter of your heart at the sight.

“Bienvenue à Paris, Monsieur et Madame Gray! Nous attendions votre arrivée, veuillez me suivre,” the young man waiting in the lobby of your hotel greeted you enthusiastically, accent heavy, the second you and Bob stepped through the doors. Bob’s hand was wrapped in yours, and the second you were greeted in a language he couldn’t understand with fake names, you felt his grip tighten. You gave him what you hoped was a comforting squeeze back, giving the greeter a kind smile as you fell into step beside him, your bags taken by the bellhop at Bob’s other side. “Souhaitez-vous être accompagné jusqu'à votre chambre?”

“Non, mais merci de votre offre,” you responded in kind, the language rolling off your tongue with a practiced ease. You could see Bob’s head shoot up to look at you from the corner of your eye as you waved the greeter’s offer to escort you both to your room off. “Mon mari et moi avons eu un long vol, nous voulons juste nous reposer.”

“Bonne nuit, Madame,”

The keycard to your room was passed to you with another kind smile from the man. Bob stepped into the elevator first, pulling you along with him, before the bellhop placed your bags in the room with you and pressed the fifth floor button for you both. He bid you both another goodnight before the doors shut, leaving the two of you alone once more.

“Y-You speak French?”

There was a smirk on your face as you glanced at Bob, who looked astonished and impressed by what he had just seen.

“And Spanish, they were both taught to us during my SHIELD special training,”

“I liked the way you spoke it,” Bob’s voice dropped just slightly lower, slightly softer. “It…it was pretty.”

Heat was crawling through your skin as you slipped your hand from his, wiping it along your dress with a nervous laugh.

“W-Well, like they say…it is the language of love, and whatnot. Elegant and…all that,”

Silence fell between you both again as the elevator doors swung open on your floor. The room, 512, was just barely down the hallway, opening with a single flick of the keycard. Bob went to take a step forward, but you placed a hand on his chest, pulling him back and stepping into the room first, pulling the concealed gun from your thigh holster with a practiced ease as you did.

“First step of undercover, Bob: always assume you’re one step behind so that you never walk in blind,”

The hotel room was small: a tiny door that led to the bathroom to the right of the main door, a king-sized bed spread out along the entire wall with just enough space for the dresser, and floor-to-ceiling windows that opened up onto the skinny balcony.

A quick sweep of the room and the typical spots confirmed that it wasn’t bugged and that no one besides housekeeping had stepped foot in there within the last few hours, so you gave Bob a nod to enter the room as you slotted your gun back into its holster.

“N-Never been in a hotel this nice,” Bob muttered as he entered the room, looking around the room with a look in his eyes that you could only compare to childlike glee. He took a seat on the edge of the bed, letting out a sigh as he fell back against the quilt and practically sank into it. “Or a city so pretty.”

You smiled to yourself, moving to lock the door to the room. Reaching into your purse, you slid a small, circular device onto the door, one that would alert you if there was any unauthorized breach of the door. You reentered the main room, placing a similar device beside the window to the balcony, this one scrambling outside interference with the room so that anything said within your four walls would stay private information.

“You went to Malaysia, I’ve been there. It’s a beautiful country,”

“I went there to score drugs, I-I wasn’t staying in five-star hotels like this one,”

Bob sat up on the bed as he spoke, looking over to you. You leaned against the wall by the window, arms folded over your chest as you watched him, laughing lightly at his comment.

“Alright, you got me there, Reynolds. Fair point,”

Silence hung for a second before Bob finally looked around the room, glancing down to the bed under his fingertips before looking up at you with wide eyes once again.

“Um…t-there’s only one bed?”

“Oh…”

Yeah, oh. That thought hadn’t exactly crossed your mind when Valentina’s team sent you the booking for the room, or when you did the initial sweep of the room moments ago.

Okay, this wasn’t a problem. There were plenty of pillows, and you could easily make up a place to sleep on the floor. This also wasn’t your first rodeo with an undercover mission; you had done plenty in the past and made do with a lot less to work with. Sleeping in a bathtub wasn’t the most uncomfortable thing in the world, depending on the size of it-

“We could…we could share?”

That comment snapped you out of your thoughts. Bob looked at your sheepishly, his hands wringing together in a way you’d come to know well, but there was a spark of something in his eyes. Something that looked a lot like hope.

Your teeth gnawed at your bottom lip, the thought flickering through your head, before you gave him a hesitant nod.

“As long as you’re okay with it,”

“W-We fall asleep sitting on the couch together all the time. This is the same thing, just…horizontal,”

Bob may have hated his social awkwardness, but you were thankful for it. Especially in moments like this, where it broke tension so effortlessly. A laugh sputtered from your lips as you quickly covered it with your hand, and a tiny grin stretched across Bob’s face at the sound.

“Well, how can I argue with logic like that? Let me just…get changed,”

You spent too long in the bathroom, and you knew it. You had changed ten minutes ago into your sleep shorts and oversized t-shirt that you had stolen from Bucky weeks ago after he’d stained one of yours during a Walker and Ava-initiated food battle in the middle of dinner over a pointless argument.

The ten minutes since changing had been spent staring into the mirror in the pristine bathroom, trying to ground yourself.

Bob was right, you had essentially slept with each other multiple times before. This time, though, was different. Yeah, as Bob so expertly put it, you were horizontal this time, but you were in a bed and alone in Paris, not on a couch in the middle of the tower common room where any of your early riser teammates could walk in unannounced. It was such a mundane thing, sleeping next to someone, when you thought about it, but a much more intimate thing for Bob to feel comfortable enough to let you do with him.

He trusted you, completely. You tried to remind yourself of that when your mind drifted to how much or how little clothing he possibly wore to bed, or the fact that his body naturally functioned like a furnace because of the serum running through his veins. Or the impure fantasies that flicked through your head late at night when you were alone in your room in the tower, imagining how his lean and taut muscles and soft skin would feel under the touch of your wandering hand.

Bob was already tucked into one side of the bed by the time you finally entered the room. Just the bedside lamp remained on, bathing the room in a tiny bit of a yellow glow. You didn’t look at him directly as you shut the curtains to the balcony, but you could see the hint of bare skin peaking just above the covers from where he lay.

Without a word, you crawled in beside him, tucking yourself in with your head resting on the soft pillow on your side. You turned on your side, gaze trailing over the side of his face and his jawline, before Bob turned to face you too.

Nothing was said for a moment. You could faintly smell that body soap that Bob used, that hint of rosemary and sage invading your senses. His feet were moving back and forth under the covers, as if fidgeting when his hands couldn’t, and his body heat was prevalent in the sheets and in the air between you.

“S-Sorry,” he mumbled out, glancing down just barely at his own torso as you tried to keep your eyes trained on his face. “I run hot–you know that–and if I uh, if I wear shirts to bed I usually sweat r-right through them.”

“It’s okay,” was all you could manage to reply.

“I’ve never done this before,” Bob spoke again, vulnerability laced in his tone. “Never…slept in a bed with someone.”

You shifted, pulling your pillow down further as you tucked your hands under it.

“Never? Not even with a girlfriend?”

“Well, there was a girl…once,” Bob seemed to hesitate for a moment, but you didn’t push him. He’d come close to telling this story once before, about this girl, in therapy, but always stopped himself short. “I-I was younger, it was sometime after I dropped out of high school. Things were good, but she…she didn’t realize I was an addict. Once she knew, that was it. S-So, no, no bed sharing for me.”

“Well, I’m glad the first time you’re sharing a bed with someone, it’s with your wife,” the comment lightened the mood almost immediately, a genuine laugh tumbling from Bob’s lips. Your own pulled into a smile at the sight, seeing the tension that had been strewn throughout his features at the memory of this girl dissipating almost immediately. “It’s been a while since I’ve shared a bed with anyone, too. A long time.”

“How long?”

“Years. Way before Thanos, that’s for sure,” you chuckled to yourself. Bob watched you intently, hanging on your every word. “He was a SHIELD agent, too, a few years older than me. We were here in Paris…haven’t been back here since.”

You knew the melancholy was clear in your tone, memories flickering back to you in pieces. Bob shifted just slightly on the bed, his body moving just slightly closer to yours.

“What, uh, what happened to him?”

“He turned out to be HYDRA. My mentor killed him, so don’t worry, he’s a distant memory now. Became a full-time liaison for the Avengers after that all went down,”

“W-Well…it all worked out, didn’t it?” there was a hint of a sheepish smile on Bob’s face. “I…don’t think I would’ve met you if you didn’t work with them.”

Bob Reynolds didn’t make it easy. Whether the comment was meant to be flirty or just sweet in general, it had your stomach twisting in knots and heat flaring in your cheeks.

“Yeah…I guess everything works out for a reason,” you turned away from him then, back to him, as you flicked the bedside lamp out, plunging the room into darkness. “Goodnight, Bob,”

“G-Goodnight,”

The silence in the dark had only lasted for a few minutes. You hadn’t shut your eyes once, simply staring at the curtains covering the window in front of you, listening to the sound of Bob’s breathing fill the room. Any ounce of sleep that your body needed had evaded you suddenly, your body and mind wide awake.

“Can…can I ask you a favor?”

“Always,”

The bed sheets ruffled for a moment as Bob moved himself around.

“When I sleep, I tend to…I-I usually hold something. Like, my pillow. Do you–you can say no–but do you think-”

“Come here,”

You said it without hesitation, before you even fully realized what you agreed to. You didn’t need to think about it, though, because Bob Reynolds could ask you anything, and you weren’t sure you could ever really tell him no.

The sheets shuffled around again, before that warmth radiating from his skin was more prevalent than it was before. Gently, as if you were some wounded little animal he was scared to spook, Bob’s arm slowly slid around your waist from behind. His hand lay against your stomach, splayed out on top of the fabric, before his body molded to the back of yours.

One shaky breath left your lips the second his body was fully molded to the shape of your own. His other arm slid under the pillow beneath your head, and you could feel the heat from it on the other side of the pillowcase. Bob’s fingers twitched back and forth, as if hesitating, his warm breath ghosting over the back of your neck. In this close proximity, the sage scent in his bodywash was stronger, a hint of his minty toothpaste wafting through the air along with it.

Neither of you moved for a moment before you finally sank back into him, letting yourself embrace the feeling of being wrapped in his arms for the first time. Bob let out another shaky breath, his arm tightening around you the second you relaxed, as if realizing that you weren’t going to run away from his touch. Suddenly, tiredness finally found you again, your body being lulled into sleep.

“Goodnight,” he whispered, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear.

“Goodnight, Bob,”

As sleep finally overtook you, Yelena’s words floated through your mind once again.

❤︎

The dress Valentina’s team had picked was simple: a deep navy blue satin, floor-length, and column fit to hug you just right but provide enough mobility in case of a fight. The halter neckline tied around the back of your neck, the zipper up the back of the dress stopping right at your lower back, exposing the expanse of your spine in the cool air of the hotel room. A comfortable pair of black heels, ones easy enough to discard if, once again, a fight ensued. A single slit up the side of the dress, stopping right at the middle of your right thigh to barely hide the holster strapped to your upper thigh with your knives.

Simple, elegant, and befitting of a woman supposedly married to a rich and powerful weapons manufacturer.

“H-Here, let me help,”

Not a single muscle in your body moved as Bob stepped into view behind you, fingers taking firm hold of the dress’s zipper to conform it to your body.

Your eyes watched him in the floor-length mirror behind you, dressed up in a way you had never seen him before. His suit was a deep, rich brown color, with a matching jacket and dress pants with just a slightly darker shade of brown shoes on his feet. Bob’s hair was slicked back, held behind his ears with the pomade packed for him. It was strange, seeing him like this, but not unwelcome. It gave you the chance to fully see his face, no longer shrouded by stray strands of hair.

The zipper hooked into place at the top of your dress, Bob’s fingertips just lightly ghosting over your spine as a shiver ran straight through your bones and showed in the bumps along your skin. You turned on your heel, reaching out without a word to adjust the crinkled white button-up beneath his jacket so it lay flat. With the collar in place, you let your hand rest on his chest for just a moment, touch light, as you looked up at him. Bob’s eyes hadn’t left yours, nervousness written clear across his face, before you pulled your hand away to retrieve your clutch across the room.

“Alright, Mr. and Mrs. Gray need to have their stories straight,” you cleared your throat, explaining to him as you dug through your clutch, crossing the room back to his side. “In case we’re questioned on how we met, fell i-in love, that type of thing.”

Bob was silent for a moment as you continued to rummage through your clutch. As the silence stretched, you glanced up at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Bob, did you hear me-”

“Maybe…m-maybe we met in a bookstore. I saw you, but y-you were just too pretty to talk to. Then you came up to me, I was reading my favorite book, and you quoted it. And…the rest w-was history,”

Something about those words hit you like a hurricane, and suddenly, you were back in that Vault all those months ago.

“W-What exactly are you doing?”

“Rerouting power away from their security systems so they can’t get the drop on us,” Bob hummed in response to your comment, going quiet, but him being quiet worried you more than him talking. “Just stay behind me when the fight comes, okay? Because we’re going to have to fight our way out of here, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I can help, though! At least, I-I want to,” there was enthusiasm in his words for a moment, before that negative self-talk worked itself back in. “The medical trial was supposed to make me better, so I don’t know, I-I feel like I could help.”

The wires were finally rerouted, the little blinking green light indicating power to their security system flashing red. Your dagger was placed back in its loop on your belt, the electrical box slammed shut, before you looked back at Bob with raised eyebrows.

“I thought you didn’t remember much about this trial?”

“I don’t, just that it was for people who wanted to make something of themselves, to be better. To do good,” your gaze dropped to his hands, partially obscured by the long sleeves of his hospital uniform, as his fingers twisted together. “I don’t know, I-I just feel like I did something…bad, if that makes sense?”

“We all have, that’s why we’re in this vault,”

“This feels different,” he gave a short laugh. “I-I’ve always had these episodes since I was a kid. There’s a…there’s a high, then there’s a big low, and then my memory just goes blank. This time, it feels like I-I did something bad. I don’t know, it just feels like every time I try to move forward and do something good, the past comes back to haunt me.”

There was a tug in your chest at the comment, like recognition in your soul for the way he hurt, for the pain he carried.

“And so we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past,” you shrugged a little at your own response, a splash of red coating your neck and cheeks. “Sorry, you just reminded me of this quote from a book I love about the past haunting you-”

“The Great Gatsby,” Bob’s smile was just a tad bit brighter now, and it tugged on your heart in a different way. “Y-Yeah, I know it. It’s my favorite book.”

“Mine too,” you offered him softly, with a smile of your own, before the lights flickered for just a moment before popping back on, indicating that Yelena’s plan had failed.

His own fake story for your fake relationship had traces of that first conversation you’d really had with him strewn throughout it. You couldn’t help the way your heart fluttered at the thought.

Suddenly, your head was back in bed this morning, just hours before. Wrapped in his arms as if it were the most usual thing in the world, his heat wrapping around you and shielding you from the cold of the room. The way his arms tightened around you the second you tried to leave the bed, his subconscious holding tighter to you even in the quiet of the morning.

The moments you had sat on the balcony, freshly showered in a bathrobe, enjoying a plate of fresh croissants and coffee. One hand flicked through the screen of your holopad, tapped into the security system of the hotel just down the street, monitoring the setup of the conference. But your eyes drifted back to Bob every now and then. The way the quilt rested around his hips, his slightly tanned skin and taut muscles visible in the smattering of sunlight that streamed through the window and painted his body in shades of gold.

“How’d we get engaged?” you found yourself asking after a moment, shaking yourself out of your head. Bob let out a soft laugh, hands wringing together in front of him.

“If I worked up the courage, ever…a picnic, by the beach. M-Maybe the sun setting in the background, little sandwiches, some music. I-I’d…I’d tell you that…you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. Inside and out,”

If he’d meant it, if it had been a real marriage proposal, you would probably have said yes right in that moment without another thought.

Bob watched as you slipped your hand from your clutch, tucking it under your arm, before taking his left hand in yours. Your palm opened, two gold bands glinting in the overhead light.

“Sorry to rain on your engagement parade, but we’re in a time crunch. Looks like we have to skip straight to the ring ceremony,”

His shaky hand lay in yours as you slipped the ring onto his finger, a new kind of tension charging the air between you both. Bob took your hand next, and you could feel your chest tighten and your stomach flip a thousand different ways as his shaky hands slipped your own ring onto your left hand.

It all felt so right, so natural. But there was no time to dwell on it, as the mission was truly about to begin.

The streets of Paris in the late afternoon near your hotel weren’t overcrowded, but still busy. Bob had taken your hand from his arm, wrapping it in his own as he squeezed it firmly, but gently, twice. It was the same squeeze he would always give you in the middle of his therapy sessions when a moment felt like too much.

The rented hotel was just two streets away, and the wall of bodyguards standing outside was a clear sign that you were in the right place. You gave Bob’s hand a light squeeze back, leaning over so that your lips just barely brushed his ear.

“Tonight, you aren’t Bob Reynolds. You’re Aiden Gray, a wealthy CEO, someone people respect. They don’t look down on you, they respect you, because you are powerful and you are important. I’ll be right here the whole time, I won’t leave your side. You can do this, I believe in you,”

Bob didn’t get to respond before you were standing before the front door of the hotel. The looming presence of the bodyguards waited until you pulled out the ornately decorated slip of paper from your clutch, flashing them your invitation with Damien Jacquemin’s personal signature. They looked at one another, nodded, and parted to let you and Bob enter.

The hotel’s ground floor was spacious, yet still small. Shades of blue, beige, and deeper browns coated the room from head to toe, matching perfectly with the deep brown wooden floors and the beige columns around the room. The ornate lights hanging from the ceiling glowed in a warm white, bathing the room in soft light. There were maybe fifty guests littering the room, leaning against walls or cocktail tables, or even sitting in plush chairs and couches, already locked into conversations.

“That man over there is Herman Schultz, a known associate of Adrian Toomes that got released from custody during the blip,” you whispered into Bob’s ear once more, gesturing with a single flick of your finger toward a tall man across the room, laughing with a group of women. You tugged him slightly, pointing in another direction at a table where a group sat. “Over there? That’s the head of Cybertek Corporation, they’re speaking with a distant cousin of Aldrich Killian, trying to restart his defunct company, A.I.M.”

“S-So a lot of really important and powerful people,” Bob mumbled back. You squeezed his hand once, bringing his nervous gaze to you, and shot him a teasing smile.

“Darling, you have the power of a thousand exploding suns. You could take them all out with a single look,”

Whether it was the pet name or the compliment, something about what you had said made Bob almost preen under your words. He straightened just slightly, shoulders squared back, an air with a hint of confidence filling the space around him.

“Where’s the host for the evening?”

Damien Jacquemin wasn’t hard to spot. He had a way of commanding a room with charm and poise, leaving no one any wiser to the fact that he was three steps away from stabbing you in the back to get what he wanted at all times. He towered above most people in the room, even Bob, his salt-and-pepper hair sticking out like a marker for him. He laughed at something the young men around him said, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as a flash of the Rolex on his wrist glinted in the light.

“He’ll be giving a speech soon, followed by some other key presenters he has lined up. Keep your eyes peeled for our potential targets,” you muttered just low enough for Bob to hear, hand still grasping his as you found your way to a table seated on the edge of the room as Mr. Jacquemin moved toward the makeshift stage and podium, giving you both a vantage point of the entire room. “They’ll stick out: clothing not up to par with the rest of the crowd, shifty body language, maybe even an identifying mark.”

The clink of a glass across the room had those in attendance seating themselves, attention brought to the charming French man standing behind the podium, a wide smile shining over his guests, who clapped for him. Bob clapped along while you took the chance to survey the room as Mr. Jacquemin began his speech to welcome everyone into the conference.

As the speech droned on, as other speakers stood to address the crowd, your eyes continued to scan the room. If your HYDRA agents were hiding in here, they were blending in well among the sea of expensive suits, high-end perfume, and designer dresses.

The seat across the table from you and Bob was pulled out suddenly, a younger man in what you recognized as a Dior suit taking his place across from you both. He didn’t turn to listen to the speeches, though; his gaze stayed locked on you–hungry, like a predator watching his prey. You squirmed slightly in your seat as the man’s tongue dipped out to run over his bottom lip-

A warm hand placed itself on your bare thigh, uncovered by the high slit running up your dress. A shot of heat bloomed under the already warm touch, while a contrasting shiver shot straight down your spine. Your gaze flickered to Bob, heat pooling within your abdomen at the look stretched across his face.

Gone was that softness he always wore, or that slight blush that always sat in the apples of his cheek. His gaze had hardened, eyes narrowed, and jaw clenched as he fixed his sights on the man across the table. It was enough to force the man to look away, but Bob’s hand didn’t leave your leg. His fingers drifted further in, digging into the flesh of your inner thigh as he practically pulled you flush to his side. Still, then, his hand never left, his thumb drawing circles into your skin as heat bloomed under every inch of his touch, stroking the fire that was now blazing in your abdomen.

“Table by the front door. Two guys, they look off,”

His voice had dropped slightly. It was more gruff, akin to the way it sounded when he groaned and dragged himself from the hotel room bed early in the morning hours ago. Still Bob, still the man you adored, but with an edge to it–harder, almost protective. As if you were something that belonged to him, something for his eyes only, and the man sitting across from you had set him off. It had you swallowing the lump you hadn’t realized had even formed and following his directions to the table near the door, suddenly remembering the mission you were currently here to complete.

Bob was right. Young men, maybe their late twenties, seated at a table closest to the front door where bodyguards still stood on guard. They wore suits, but even from here you could see the wrinkles in the fabric, the knock-off watch on the wrist of one of them. One’s eyes shifted around the room every few seconds, never staying in one place too long. The other watched the podium, eyes shifting down to the table every other moment, his body shifting in his seat to readjust as if he couldn’t get quite comfortable.

“Good eye, think those are our guys,” you tucked your chin onto Bob’s shoulder with a grin on your lips, making it seem to the room as if you were simply speaking in hushed tones with your husband, while you whispered the praise back to him. The corners of his lips quirked at your praise, his hand giving your thigh yet another squeeze, before he settled back to ‘listen’ to the speeches at the podium. You tried to get a peek at his eyes, but he’d turned his head from you.

Those speeches droned on for two hours. A collection of talks on the importance of ever-evolving weapons in the current state of the world, fear-mongering over politics to push the need for enchanted weaponry, and more bullshit that had you wondering in your seat how Tony Stark used to attend conferences such as this.

Those speeches were hard to focus on when your mind was zeroed in on Bob Reynolds' hand that wouldn’t leave your thigh. The feelings that you had buried deep beneath your platonic feelings for your best friend had existed for a long time, but you never pushed them. Bob never seemed to be someone who would push boundaries such as this, too afraid to cross any lines with you. But this mission, this room full of important people, seemed to go straight to his head and fill him with a confidence that you had never truly seen him wear before, at least not to the extent that he’d willingly leave his hand splayed across your bare thigh for two hours drawing circles into your skin.

Part of you didn’t want him to let go, the other part of you was begging him to move his hand. The middle of a mission was the worst time for a coil of heat that you weren’t able to satisfy to be building in your core. Even when your meals were served, speeches continuing on at the podium, Bob hadn’t removed his hand once.

“I must say, I was not aware of Gray Enterprises. It seems you hold a good portion of the weapons market across the United States now. Tell me, did Stark Industries ending their weapons division help boost your market value?”

Champagne glasses had been thrust into your hands, though Bob had kindly refused his. A German arms dealer and his wife, Kaleb Hettinger and Rosalina Hettinger, had quickly crossed the room and pulled you both into a discussion the second that the speeches had wrapped up, dying to learn more about two of the few Americans littering the room.

“Well, my husband’s late father, I’m sure, was excited when the late Mr. Stark shut down his weapons division,” you gave a simple laugh, resting a hand on Bob’s chest. You could feel his own nervous laughter run through him, one of his hands curling around your waist to rest on your hip hesitantly, a stark contrast to how easily that same hand had gripped your thigh minutes ago. “Given the events of the last few years, including during the blip, we’ve found it most profitable to focus on enhanced weaponry.”

“Lord knows we need it,” Rosaline laughed, German accent thick, shaking her head at a thought of her own. “We all know those…New Avengers, I think they’re calling them, won’t be of much help. But besides that, I love seeing a powerful couple in our world! Tell me, how did you two meet?”

You went to speak, but Bob beat you to it, squeezing your hip just slightly.

“W-We were teenagers. I saw her in a bookstore, but…she was too pretty to talk to. She came up t-to me, quoted my favorite book…” Bob’s gaze turned to you, and you glanced up at him. “I-It was love at first sight.”

Something about those words twisted around your heart: the sincerity of it. The soft look in his eyes, the tiny smile coupled with that hint of truth in your first meeting…it felt real. His words felt real, like it was Bob saying it to you, not Aiden Gray saying it to his adoring wife.

“Oh, mein Schatz! Look at them! That’s true love if I’ve ever seen it,”

Rosaline’s voice cut through the air again. Heat bloomed across Bob’s face, and you felt it on your own, gazes averting from one another almost immediately. Kaleb let out a hearty laugh, giving his wife a kiss on the cheek.

“Truly, it is wonderful to see a man love his wife like I love my own. I have a lot of respect for a man like you, Mr. Gray, who continues to shower the woman he loves in affection,”

There it was again, that straightening of Bob’s posture, the tightening of his hand at the comment, as if the words had gone straight to his head again.

“She deserves nothing but the best, and only I’m capable of offering it to her,” that usual stutter in his words was gone, replaced by an air of confidence as he turned his head, his lips ghosting over your temple in a gentle yet firm kiss. You tried not to falter under the notion, giving the pair in front of you the strongest smile you could, even as your stomach flipped upside down. 

Your potential HYDRA agents caught your eye once more, moving across the expanse of the room just behind the Germans standing in front of you.

“Oh, Mr. Gray, I think you would be very interested in this new design my company has been working on. It’s an addition that can be added onto solar panels–well, it makes more sense if I show you. I brought the blueprints, they’re just over here at our table if you would like to see?”

Bob’s head turned to look at you, catching sight of your gaze following those two men across the room. You turned back to him, giving him a short nod. He hesitated for a moment before nodding back to you, letting his arm slip from your hips as he followed the Hettingers back to their table just a few feet away.

It was like being able to breathe again, the second Bob was gone, even if you missed the feel of his arm sitting around your waist as if it had been molded to sit there. This wasn’t the time for hidden feelings; you were in the middle of a mission.

You moved across the room elegantly, casually leaning yourself against one of the beige columns on the edge of the room, passing smiles to those who passed by you. The suspected agents stood just on the other side of the column you were leaning against, speaking in hushed whispers. With a sip of your champagne, you strained to overhear their conversation.

“He won’t sell it to us here,”

“It makes sense, too many people. He give you anything else?”

“One of his assistants will send me the location soon. He didn’t want to risk sending it himself in the middle of the conference,”

A smirk spread across your lips as you took another sip of your champagne, a single word running through your mind: gotcha. Sometimes, they made it all too easy, especially HYDRA agents. So lazy.

“Regardez ce que nous avons ici. A beautiful woman, all alone,”

A chill ran through your blood at that French accent, your head whipping around. Damien Jacquemin stood at your side in all his glory, perfectly pressed and tailored suit. He stood way too close, the hint of alcohol wafting off his breath and invading your senses.

“Mr. Jacquemin, a pleasure to finally meet you,” you put on the lightest, airiest, most polite tone that you could while trying not to grit your teeth. This was the exact man you didn’t want to be alone with. In the interest of maintaining your cover, you held your hand out in his direction to clink your glass to his. 

Damien didn’t waste a second, whisking your champagne glass from your hand and setting both of your glasses on the tray of a server walking past. His hand enveloped yours: skin cool, nothing like the warmth of Bob’s. His lips pressed to your knuckles, eyes never leaving yours: his gaze didn’t hold the warmth that Bob’s did when he looked at you, his lips didn’t leave a trail of tingling through your skin like Bob’s did.

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Gray. S'il vous plaît, come and spare me a single dance,”

There wasn’t any place to argue with the man as he whisked you off into the middle of the hotel lobby without another word. Soft music played from the live string quartet the French arms dealer had hired for the evening, and couples here and there had cleared the middle of the lobby to fashion a makeshift dance floor.

Mr. Jacquemin pulled you in, a huff leaving your lips as your front was pressed to his. One of his hands splayed across your lower back, pressing you closer, while the other held your left hand up beside you both dancing you softly around the floor in circles.

The hand didn’t feel like Bob’s; it didn’t engulf your hand like his did, his thumb didn’t draw little circles into your skin. The hand on your lower back was firm, almost controlling; it wasn’t comforting like Bob’s touch. Even pressed to his chest, you couldn’t feel the inhuman warmth that Bob radiated, and it left you feeling cold without it.

You never knew just how much you craved that closeness with Bob, how much you craved his touch, until you’d felt it in the way you had only ever dreamed of feeling it. You had masked these feelings for months in the guise of platonicness, when in reality, you were as much his person as he was yours.

You didn’t want to be in this dance if it wasn’t with Bob.

“A beautiful ring you have, ma chérie,” his gaze was settled on the simple gold band on your ring finger, poking and prodigy at it with his own index finger as you both spun. “Very…simple, though, isn’t it? I expect more from a man such as Mr. Gray, though maybe his personality and taste matches the rest of him…painfully drab.”

The comment made you bristle in his hold. It didn’t feel like a jab at the fictitious character of Mr. Aiden Gray, it felt like a jab at Bob Your grip on the man’s forearm tightened, nails digging into the fabric.

“Well, I didn’t choose my husband based on the gifts he gives me,” you grit your teeth, forcing a smile as you shot the comment at him. “He may not buy me the flashiest of jewelry, but he’s worth more than anyone in this room in heart alone.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Gray, I’m sure he is. It’s hard to quantify you and your husband’s net worth, and the worth of your company, when there’s simply…not much to search about you online…”

In all your years of undercover missions, you’d never failed on. Your alibis, your identities for the missions, had always been airtight and remained intact. But Damien Jacquemin had found a crack somewhere; he’d found a missing piece in the concoction of Gray Enterprises, and he knew who you were. Your cover was blown. It felt as if your heart was going to stop: if your cover was blown, then so was Bob’s. Bob, who you had allowed to leave your side, who you couldn’t find from where you stood on the makeshift dancefloor-

“...I’m not surprised I didn’t find much, though. Your father-in-law seemed to do a good job of moving his dealings under the table and to the black market in the years following the collapse of Stark Industries' weapons sector. I’m, frankly, quite impressed by how you and your husband have managed to operate so under the radar. I’m quite interested in the idea of a partnership.”

It took every ounce of strength you had not to let out a relieved breath: he didn’t know. Your cover wasn’t blown. You were safe, Bob was safe, and that was all that mattered. You let out a slight laugh, brushing a strand of air behind your ear before resting your hand on the Frenchman’s shoulder again. He was none the wiser to the minuscule, circular device that you slipped under the collar of his suit jacket in the moment.

“Partnerships can be discussed, but with my husband, of course,” you managed to speak. “As long as your company isn’t engaging in any… under-the-table deals with unfavorable organizations, I’m sure a partnership can be on the table.”

He laughed, accent thick, as his breath brushed your ear and he whispered.

“Where is the fun in that, darling?”

Someone cleared their voice from directly behind you, a hand catching the forearm of Damien Jacquemin where you had been holding it before. That familiar bodywash scent invaded your senses in an instant: rosemary and sage.

“I believe it’s my turn to dance with my wife,”

Bob’s voice almost growled on the final word: wife. It had that cord of heat coiling up even further in your stomach. You could visibly see the wince in Mr. Jacquemin’s face as Bob’s hand on his forearm squeezed tighter and tighter every second, no doubt leaving indents in his skin as the veins running down the back of Bob’s hand almost throbbed.

The Frechman’s hands were off you within a moment, a tight-lipped smile sent your way, before he whisked himself back off through the room. It was like the little moment on the dance floor had never happened, a smile lighting up his face as he was whisked off into another conversation with investors.

Bob’s hand suddenly had a tight hold of your hip, spinning you around until your chests were pressed together, your body molded into his. You relaxed into that familiar grip, into the warmth it provided, your head placing itself on his chest. Bob took up the same position Damien had held moments before, one hand on the small of your back and the other lifting your left arm into the air, dancing softly back and forth with you. His grip tightened over so slightly, the firm grip around your waist hugging you to him in a way that was just the slightest bit uncomfortable.

“I’m okay, Bob, you don’t have to hold me so tight-”

“He shouldn’t have been touching you,”

His words were so final, so precise. His tone was laced with a hint of anger, that same gruffness from earlier present again. It had you furrowing your eyebrows, glancing around the room as his grip tightened ever so slightly again.

“He didn’t hurt me, I promise, I’m okay-”

“He shouldn’t have been touching you because you’re my wife,” he snapped back. “He thinks he’s above me? You’re my wife, he should respect me.”

Respect. That word shot up a wave of red flags in your head, as well as the flicker of the overhead lights of the room that sent a murmur through the conference crowd.

You racked your brain for memories of every therapy session of Bob’s you’d been with him on, trying to find that missing puzzle piece. His depression, his anxiety…his delusions of grandeur. Suddenly, it made sense when you’d heard him talk like this before, where you’d heard this overconfident tone before: just once, in The Watchtower months ago.

You can call me The Sentry.

You pulled your head from his chest, craning your neck back to look at him. Bob’s eyes were already looking down at you, as if waiting for you to look at him, and that’s when you saw it: that sparkle of gold in the blue of his eyes.

His eyes didn’t leave you as you hand left his, curling around the back of his neck as you moved back and forth across the makeshift dance floor, holding his gaze.

“You should be respected…but because you’re Bob,” you kept your voice soft, just loud enough for him to hear among the murmurings and music in the room. “Bob Reynolds deserved to be respected.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. You’re my Bob,” the smile you gave him was as soft and full of affection as it could be. “My Bob, who always asks me to read his favorite book because he says he likes hearing the sound of my voice. My Bob, who likes it when the rain hits the windows of the tower late at night. My Bob, who doesn’t even realize the way he hugs me so early in the morning when he’s fresh out of bed. My Bob? I respect him. My person…my favorite person.”

It wasn’t instantaneous; it took a few moments of simply holding him, but that gold slowly faded from Bob’s eyes. His features softened, his lips pulled into a slight frown, and then those blue eyes were frantically glancing around the room. You watched as the Adam’s apple of his throat bobbed, before his eyes found yours again: frantic, nervous.

“...cucumber?”

You let out a short laugh, and nodded, taking his hands in your own and leading him through the crowds as quickly as you could. There was an unguarded door behind the concierge desk leading into a backroom, L-shaped hallway for employees. You quickly shut the door behind both of you.

Bob leaned against the wall, running his hands through his hair so many times that the gel no longer held it down, letting those soft brown strands fall in front of his face again. He tugged incessantly at the collar of his button-down, his frantic gaze catching yours.

“I-I can’t believe I just did…any of that. God–I’m so sorry. I-I didn’t ruin the mission, did I?”

You let out a soft chuckle, taking another step toward him to stand directly in front of him.

“I overheard our guys; they made a deal with Jacquemin for the sale and are waiting on details. Also, planted a tracker in his suit while he was dancing with me, so we’ve got just about everything we need to nail them. So, no, you didn’t ruin the mission,”

“O-Okay, good, good,” his Adam’s apple bobbed again, his breath coming out in short pants. “Is it really hot in here for you? I-I feel like I can’t breathe, like my chest is going to explode, a-and like everything just…hurts.”

“Bob, honey, I think you’re having a panic attack,”

“How do I stop having a-a panic attack?”

A single thought flickered through your head for a moment as you watched him, watched the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he almost clawed at his throat in a desperate plea for air. And before you could stop yourself, to think about your thought, you stepped forward.

Your hands cradled his cheeks, and you kissed him.

Bob’s lips almost trembled beneath yours with the first press, his entire body freezing up under that simple movement. Then, after just a moment of holding yourself in place, they moved. Slow, hesitant, but they moved.

You could taste the small remnants of the punch Bob had opted to drink in place of champagne on his lips. His lips parted just barely, letting your head tilt slightly to the side to let your mouth move firmly against him, pouring every ounce of feeling into the kiss that you could manage. You’d dreamt of this moment in secret for so long, and now that it was here, that coil of heat within you was seconds from bursting, and your own chest was the one tightening.

Bob’s hands found your hips, settling there–hesitant but firm, holding you close. His lips pushed back against yours finally, the pieces of hair broken free of the gel brushing against the skin of your cheek. The need for air rushed into your lungs as you reluctantly pulled away with a soft smack of your lips, leaving one another, almost breathless pants filling the air.

Bob Reynolds looked wrecked, more out of breath than he had been before. Those eyes you loved so dearly were blown wide, the blue almost sparkingly in the light. His lips were still parted, but slightly upturned on the side in what you could only assume was wonder.

“I-”

“You were having a panic attack,” you spoke quickly, voice like a whisper. “I saw it in a tv show once, that holding your breath stops a panic attack. And that…kissing can make you hold your breath.”

“...uh huh,”

“Did it work?”

“Um…not sure. I-I might be about to have a panic attack over something else,”

Laughter bubbled out of your lips at that, Bob’s smile growing, before you were frozen in place. Voices, down the hall and around the L bend of the hallway, getting closer. Bob went to speak again before you placed a finger to his lips, focusing to try and hear down the echoey hallway.

“Coordinates, time, and place. Should make this an easy sale,”

“Yeah, as long as we don’t forget the money,”

Back straightening out, remembering you were on a mission, you reached into the front pocket of Bob’s pants and tugged your clutch from it. Digging through, you pulled out a rectangular device that looked like a normal cellphone, tucking your clutch under your arm and taking Bob’s hand in your own.

You pulled the two of you to a stop right at the corner of the bed, waiting a moment, before swinging you both around. The pair of you crashed directly into your targets, cell phones and items in your hands crashing to the floor.

“Hey-!”

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, gentlemen!” you put on an overly fake voice, crouching down to the ground before either of them could. You grabbed your device, moving it discreetly over the top of both of the men’s cellphones, before gathering everything and rising back to your feet. The men basically snatched their phones back from your arms as you let out an overexaggerated giggle. “My husband and I weren’t watching where we were going! We were looking for the elevators, hoping to head upstairs and find a…private room.”

Both of the men muttered something in disgust, shoving past you and Bob without another word. You turned, watching them leave through the door you and Bob had come through with a triumphant grin, while Bob just watched you in confusion.

“Old Stark tech,” you flashed him the device in your hand. “I just swiped all the data off their phones without them even knowing it. Now, we know everything about this Adamantium sale.”

It was Bob’s turn to laugh, cocking his head at you with a grin.

“Have I mentioned that y-you’re kind of amazing?”

You grinned, and you pulled him back into another kiss without a word.

Sweeter, but still tender, laced with every bit of adoration and affection you held for him in your soul, that made the moment all the more intimate. Bob only hesitated for half a second this time before he pressed back into you with just as much force, his fingertips barely gracing the edges of your arms. You pulled back almost immediately, then, your brain finally caught up with your actions.

Well, you didn’t have any excuse for kissing him that time.

“Um…” you licked your lips, heat rising in your cheeks. “We…we should head back. Let the team know we got everything-”

“Right! Yeah, yeah, r-right, we should…do that. Finish the mission, and all that…”

The walk back under the cover of night was quiet. Those same soft yellow lights cast that same glow you’d seen before over Bob’s face, and your heart tugged in your chest at the sight.

But neither of you spoke. Not on the walk down the quiet streets. Not in the elevator. Not even when you entered the room together.

You could feel his eyes, watching you, burning a hole into your back as you secured the room. The silent alarm on the door, the device on the wall by the closed balcony window. They watched you still as you uploaded all of your information into the holopad, settled on top of your suitcase, transferring your information directly back to New York, knowing Yelena would likely receive the information in moments and alert Valentina of your successful mission.

Not a word was exchanged as you entered the bathroom like you had the night before, changing into a similar pair of sleep shorts. Discarded on the bathroom floor, though, was one of Bob’s white t-shirts, one he had slipped into early on that morning. You slipped it on without a second thought, wrapping yourself in the scent of that bodywash, before slipping back into the room.

Bob had already turned off the bedside lamp, plunging the room into darkness. You slipped into your side of the bed without a word, your backs facing one another as you lay there under the covers in the dark, the only sound being the ticking of the analog clock on the wall across from the bed.

“When you kissed me,” Bob finally spoke, voice just loud enough to be heard in the quiet of the room. “It…it was to stop the panic attack, right?”

You paused for a moment, then spoke, “Yes,”

The sheets shuffled, and you could feel the shift as his body turned, facing your back now.

“W-What…what about the second kiss?”

There was a brief moment of hesitation before you turned, too. You faced him now, mere inches away, looking into those blue eyes you adored.

“That one…was because I wanted to,”

Bob didn’t waste a second before leaning in, like your words had reassured him that he didn’t have to hesitate. Your lips welcomed the press of his, your body inviting the feel of his hand gripping at your waist–nothing hard, nothing too firm, but just present, grounding. His lips were as warm as the rest of his body, and they trembled just slightly as they moved just barely against your own, as if still unsure how to do this. So, you did it for him, hand wrapping around his neck and into his hair to thread through the strands, molding your body to his as you kissed him with every inch of passion you had been holding back for months.

Even as your mouths moved together, there was still a softness in their movements, no matter the growing passion. Even when they moved faster, when a broken moan slipped out of Bob’s mouth and a whine left your own when his hand tugged your hip even closer, it was still soft. Passionate but adoring, pouring every ounce of care into each movement as if to remind the other that this wasn’t just a moment of fun, this was the culmination of months of secret wanting, months of pining and hidden feelings buried underneath platonic words and affirmations.

You shifted just slightly, and a hint of confidence flowed through Bob. He used that moment to move, pressing your back flush against the bed as he hovered above you, his lips never breaking from yours for a second. Your legs fell open for him, inviting him into your space, and he took it without question.

As if it pained him, he tore his lips from yours, trailing them down your jaw and to your neck as he buried himself into the space. His kisses there were gentle, loving, but still burning with heat and passion. He kissed right above your pulse point, able to feel the fervent beat of your heart, and he groaned again into your skin.

“I-I think about you, like this, a lot,” he whispered into your skin. Bob’s arms were braced on either side of you, while one of yours placed itself on his bare chest, drawing shapes into the heated and flushed skin. “I’ve always thought of you like this. The prettiest girl, m-my best friend…my person. The one person who makes that darkness a little lighter. God, I…I love you.”

There it was. Those four little words that tore your heart open, that cracked open the cage that held every hidden desire of your heart locked up for months.

You pulled his face from your shoulder, fingers gently swiping at the silent tears that swept down his cheeks. You pulled him in this time, angling your lips against him, sighing into his mouth as you pushed every ounce of love in your body into him. He sighed back, practically putty in your hands, the weight of his body falling against you.

“I love you too,” you whispered against his lips like a promise. “I’ve always loved you. My best friend…my person.”

He didn’t get to speak before you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling every inch of his body against yours. A broken moan was choked out of his throat, breath ghosting your lips as his kiss swallowed the moan that left your own throat. Pressed against you now, you could feel it: thick, bigger than anything you’d ever had, and throbbing with heat and need.

With your words, with a confirmation of your love, Bob’s kiss grew more confident. Drowning you in every ounce of love, his hands roamed over every inch of you that they possibly could. Your neck, exploring the bare skin of your abdomen and leaving a trail of heat in every stroke of his fingers. You tugged the shirt over your head without another thought, leaving you bare to the world as you fell back against the pillows once more. You tried to tug Bob back to your lips, but he paused, eyes transfixed on your body, roaming every inch of it.

“Beautiful…” he whispered. His fingers traced lines from your abdomen to your ribs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. They traced right around the swell of your breasts, before he leaned in closer. “So beautiful.”

A cry of pure pleasure left your lips the second Bob’s curled around your nipple, teeth just barely grazing and tugging ever so gently. A heavy pant left your lips as your fingers curled into his hair, tugging ever so gently on his slightly dampened hair strands. The heat grew in the room, radiating off his body, and you could see the thin, sheer layer of sweat that coated his skin. His lips moved against your breast, tongue flicking out over the sensitive bud he was wrapped around as your hands tightened just barely in his hair, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.

“Sorry,” he whispered again as his mouth popped off your breast, a thin string of saliva connecting him to the place he’d lavished in love. He placed a gentle kiss on your sternum, hands gliding down your sides. “Got eager. I-It’s been a while since I’ve…done this.”

“In all seriousness? I couldn’t tell,” he laughed, crawling back up your body till his face hovered over yours. Your hand left his hair, trailing down until it cupped his cheek, and he turned to press a kiss to your palm. “We don’t have to do anything-”

“I want to,” he was quick to answer with a shake of his head. “I-I’ve never wanted someone more. You’re all I want. Lying together on the couch, those trips through the city, sleeping next to you…I-I just want you. I just want to feel you. I want to be yours.”

His lips met yours again, the second his last word died on his lips. He peppered kiss after kiss to your lips, never lingering long enough, and you couldn’t help the breathless giggle you let out.

“I want to feel you, too,”

Your confession lingered in the quiet of the room. It was visible, the way Bob’s pupils seemed to dilate at those words alone. With one hand, he unhooked your legs from his waist, sliding back down the bed and taking the quilt along with him, bearing your bare chest to the cold air.

You watched with hooded eyes as his fingers trailed over the edge of your sleep shorts, barely dipping past the waistband. He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your right thigh, and then your left, before leaning forward to press one right above the waistband of your shorts. Then, he tugged, just barely. They gave way without a second of hesitation, slipping down over your hips and over your thighs without hesitation. You just barely caught the soft whisper of “fuck” that fell from Bob’s mouth when you laid bare before him, panties forgotten in the haste of dressing for sleep.

Those shorts were discarded somewhere across the room, finding the small heap that your shirt was in, and Bob just observed for a moment. You watched the way his eyes trailed up your legs, to your hips, and back down again. His hands did the same, starting from your knees and splaying out over your hips, before going back down to your thighs. He pushed gently, and you followed, spreading your thighs before him. Your breath caught, choking back a moan as he leaned forward, pressing a kiss directly to your core, before trailing the kisses back up your abdomen.

“I love you,” he whispered with every kiss. “I love you.”

You leaned up, forcing Bob to sit up, before pulling him into another kiss, catching his bottom lip just barely between your teeth.

“I love you, too,” you murmured against his lips, before your hands trailed down his chest to the waistband of his boxers, and his breath hitched.

It was like throwing him into overdrive, reminding him of where he was. Bob tugged those boxers off in a tangle of limbs, stumbling slightly on top of the sheets. You laughed, smile giddy, as you fell back against the pillows, just watching the man before you as he rid himself of his boxers and threw them across the room. Your eyes trailed down, seeing his throbbing length for the first time, and that heat that flushed through your body screamed for his skin to be pressed against yours.

A thick cord of tension hung in the air as Bob kneeled over you, bracing himself around your head. His nose brushed yours, breath fanning over your skin. You didn’t hesitate to wrap your arms back around his waist, tugging him toward you, as the heat of his bare length pressed against the heat of your bare core, a breathless moan falling from each of your lips in unison.

Bob rolled his hips forward just barely, throbbing cock dragging along the length of your core and ghosting over your clit as a shot of pleasure shot through every nerve on your body. Your hands found the back of Bob’s head, tangling in his hair once more and tugging him down into a kiss–messy, hot, and slick with saliva.

His hips rolled again, and you rolled back, his tip catching just barely against your opening before gliding through your lips once more.

“A-Are you sure?” Bob muttered into your lips. You nodded, kissing him once more.

“So sure,” you muttered back, hand tugging in his hair as your other trailed down his shoulder, his back, over his hips, before finally holding his heated and flushed length in your own hand. “Please, Bob–I need you–please.”

He nodded, catching your lips in another kiss, as you guided his cock down, catching the head against your opening.

You held it there, before Bob pushed ever so slightly.

Moans in unison fell from both of your lips once again as every inch of his heated, flushed, throbbing cock made its way into your walls, stretching you apart in a mix of part pain and pleasure. Your breath caught in your throat at every inch that pushed into your body, your name falling from Bob’s lips with every drag of your heated walls against him. Your teeth caught his bottom lip again the moment that his hips stuttered, pressing firmly against your hips, as every inch of him sat inside of you, buried within you to the hilt.

The lights of the entire room flickered on for a moment, glowing bright, before turning off once again. Your gaze trailed over them, as did Bob's, before you locked eyes once again.

“W-Well…” he choked out, a tiny laugh bubbling over. “That’s new.”

You laughed with him, arms wrapping around his neck to tug him down to you in yet another kiss, before you ground your hips up into his. A broken moan fell past his lips before he moved.

He set the pace, slow and sensual at first, dragging himself almost all the way out before pushing himself the entire way back in. Each time he settled deep within you, filling you out in every manner of the word, a choked moan spilled from your lips as you dragged them against his time and time again, nails scraping against his scalp.

Bob’s eyes met yours, dazed and glassy, filled with passion and every ounce of love he felt for you. Love, a look you’d seen in his eyes so many times when you looked at him, a look you’d ignored for so long. But there was no time to focus on it, not with every snap of his hips against yours, not with the feeling within your gut of fullness, and not with every ripple of pleasure that coursed through you with the feel of his heated skin molded to yours.

“You feel so good–oh god–so good,” he choked out against your lips. Your hands left his hair, trailing down his arms, but he took advantage of that. His hands caught yours, tugging your hands up above your head and holding them there, gripping you just tightly enough that you could feel the superhuman strength within him holding you down. “So, so, so good–Jesus–so perfect. So beautiful–my girl. Tell me, tell me that–my girl–tell me you’re my girl.”

“Y-Yours,” you stuttered out over every snap of his hips against yours, every slight scrape of his pubic hair against the sensitive bud of your core.

That simple word spurred him: yours. All his, always his. His hips snapped faster, harder, his lips trailing off of yours as he buried his face into your neck, teeth scraping just slightly over your skin as another moan broke through.

Desperation filled every snap of his hips against yours, your name falling from his lips like it was the only word he knew, like it was the only word he wanted to know. His ragged breathing, ghosting over your skin in hot waves. Your skin felt like it was on fire, burning beneath his touch, heat and want and need coiling with every throbbing drag of him against your walls–squelching and wet.

“I can’t-” Bob barely managed to cry against your skin, hips somehow driving into you faster than they had before, the pace in which his hips met yours and the superhuman force sure to bruise your skin, to leave you aching in the best way. “I can’t–please–I can’t hold it. You’re too good, you feel too good.”

“It’s okay,” you shook your head, one of his hands leaving yours to grip onto the wooden headboard behind you. “It’s okay–God, you feel so good–it’s okay, Bob, let go-”

CRACK. SNAP.

You could hear it, loud and clear: the splintering of the wooden headboard. It took every ounce of your strength, rolling your head back to fully see the damage behind you. Bob’s hand was white knuckling the splinted wood, having dragged down through half the headboard, leaving splintered wooden pieces decorating the pillows above your head as his hips pistoned into you at a superhuman pace, one you were barely sure you could handle.

God, you didn’t think there was anything Bob could do to make him hotter in your eyes. Apparently, splintering an entire headboard out of sheer passion and need was something that could.

“I can’t–oh God–I can’t-”

One. Two. Three. His hips drove into you just three more times before that sat flush against your hips, pressing himself as deeply into you as humanly possible before he let go. A rush of warmth filled you, every drop of him filling you, gushing warmth through you, and your own floodgates flew open.

Your hands were freed from his hold, wrists sore from where he dug into them, wrapping around his neck, curling into his hair, and cradling him to you as you trembled and gushed in his hold. Your walls fluttered around him with every wave of pleasure, with every twitch of his cock still sitting within your walls, and his shaky breath ghosted over your skin.

The comedown was quiet, your shaky breaths the only sound filling the air. Bob collapsed on you fully, his heated and sweat-covered skin lying on top of yours. You welcomed the feeling, fingers carding through the sweat dripping strands of his hair, taking in the scent of the air: sex, mainly, with hints of your perfume and that damn bodywash of his laced in between.

Bob raised his head finally, a blissful smile on his lips as he looked down at you. He tried to move his hips back, to pull away, but your legs locked around him with a whine, holding him in place against you.

“Not yet,” you managed to breathe out, shaking your head with a giddy little smile of your own. “Too sensitive, and…I just want to feel you.”

“Okay,” Bob didn’t put up a single fight, his hand coming up to push the strands of hair that stuck to your face away. His eyes trailed, finally, to the destruction behind you, and they shot wide. “Oh–Jesus Christ, d-did I do that?”

“You did, but don’t worry, it was hot,” you both laughed at your comment, noses brushing in the quiet, intimate moment. “Don’t worry, Valentina bought the room. It’s her problem.”

“True…hey, d-do you think cucumber could be used as a safe word too?”

Laughter sputtered out of your mouth, lips brushing his, and Bob laughed with you. All you could do was look at him, heart bursting open with a love that you had kept quiet for so long, and pull him into another soft kiss.

37 successful undercover missions became 38 that night, but this one had been your biggest success. It gave you Bob, in ways you had only ever dreamed of having him…it gave you your person.

[ivybucky]

pressure points | b.b.

✮ synopsis: bucky's gotten good at keeping his distance from his harmless, sunshine-y neighbor. but when you get taken because of him—because someone figured out you're his weak spot—he realizes how spectacularly that plan backfired. turns out the winter soldier's soft spot is a lot more dangerous than he thought.

✮ pairing: post-thunderbolts!bucky x fem!reader

✮ disclaimers: violence, kidnapping, blood and injury, torture (not graphic), angst with a happy ending, emotional hurt/comfort, established feelings but complicated relationship, second person POV, fem!reader, miscommunication, intense yearning, emotionally constipated!bucky, past trauma, mild language, fighting sequences

✮ word count: 10.6k

✮ a/n: first fic on this blog and it's basically just 10k words of soft bucky yearning xoxo

The first time Bucky Barnes sees you, you're trying to shove a couch through a doorway that's at least six inches too narrow, and losing spectacularly.

He's coming home from another pointless congressional hearing—the kind where everyone talks in circles about defense budgets while carefully not mentioning the alien invasion from three months ago—when he spots you in the hallway. You're wedged between the arm of what looks like a vintage velvet monstrosity and the doorframe of 4B, hair escaping from whatever you'd tried to contain it with, muttering a stream of increasingly creative profanity.

"Fucking—come on—you absolute bastard of a—"

The couch shifts. You yelp. Bucky's halfway down the hall before he realizes he's moving.

"Need a hand?"

You twist around, and something in his chest does this stupid, inconvenient flip. Your face is flushed, one cheek smudged with what might be dust or maybe yesterday's mascara, and you're looking at him like—well. Like he's not Bucky Barnes. Like he's just some guy in the hallway who might know how geometry works.

"Oh thank god," you breathe, and the relief in it makes his mouth twitch. "I've been battling this thing for twenty minutes. I think it's winning."

He assesses the situation with the same tactical precision he'd use for a Bulgarian arms deal, if arms deals came upholstered in emerald green and smelled faintly of vanilla perfume mixed with fresh sweat. The angle's all wrong. You've been trying to force it through horizontally when it needs to go vertical, then rotate.

"Here." He steps closer, and you shift to make room, your shoulder brushing his chest in a way that absolutely doesn't make his pulse stutter. "If we flip it—"

"Oh, you're strong," you say, like an observation about the weather, as he essentially deadlifts one end of your couch. The metal arm whirs faintly. You don't flinch. "That's convenient."

Convenient. Right. He maneuvers the couch through the doorway in three efficient moves, trying not to notice how you smell like coffee and something floral, how you hover just inside his peripheral vision like you're trying not to crowd him but can't quite stay away.

"There." He sets it down in what's clearly the only spot it could go in your tiny living room. The space is chaos—boxes everywhere, art leaning against walls, books stacked in precarious towers. "You just moving in?"

"Yeah, from—" You wave a hand vaguely eastward. "Nicer neighborhood. Turns out freelance graphic design doesn't pay for Manhattan rent. Who knew?" The self-deprecation comes with a grin that transforms your whole face, and Bucky has to look away, focus on the box labeled 'KITCHEN SHIT' in aggressive Sharpie. "I'm—well, you probably don't care what my name is."

He does, actually. Cares in a way that makes his teeth ache.

"Bucky," he offers, even though you clearly already know. "4C."

"The grumpy congressman." Your grin goes wider, teasing. "I've seen you on C-SPAN. You look like you're being held at gunpoint during those hearings."

"Feel like it too," he mutters, and the laugh you give him hits like a shot of whiskey—warm and slightly dizzying.

"Well, Congressman Barnes of apartment 4C, you've just saved my Saturday. Can I pay you in beer? I've got—" You dig through a box, emerge triumphant with two bottles. "Hipster IPA or hipster IPA?"

He should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember what happened the last time he let someone get close—the scar on his ribs from Belgrade still aches when it rains.

Instead, he finds himself accepting a bottle, listening to you chatter about the neighbor who warned you about the rats (definitely real) and the ghost (probably not real but who knows), watching how you gesture with your whole body when you talk, like you're too much for your own skin.

It's dangerous, how easy you are to be around. How you look at him like he's just Bucky, not the former Asset, not the killer, not the congressman who can't pass a single fucking bill. Just a guy who helped with your couch.

He stays too long. Drinks two beers. Helps you unpack exactly three boxes before some long-dormant self-preservation instinct kicks in and he makes excuses about constituent emails.

"Thanks again," you say at the door, and there's something in your eyes—curiosity, maybe. Interest. "For the couch. And the company."

"No problem."

He's halfway to his own door when you call out: "Hey, Barnes?"

He turns. You're leaning against your doorframe, backlit by the disaster zone of your apartment, smiling that smile that makes his chest tight.

"I make really good coffee. You know. If congressional hearings ever drive you to caffeine dependency."

It's an offer. An opening. Everything in him screams to close it, lock it down, maintain operational security. Instead, his traitorous mouth says, "I'll keep that in mind."

He's so fucked.

---

The thing is, Bucky's gotten good at keeping people at arm's length. Seventy years of being a weapon teaches him that distance equals safety—for them, not him.

When you're already dead, what's a little more damage?

So he shouldn't notice when you start leaving your apartment at 7:23 every morning, shouldering a bag that's always slipping off your shoulder. Shouldn't time his own exits to avoid those encounters, then feel like an asshole when he succeeds. Definitely shouldn't lie awake listening through the thin walls as you sing along to whatever pop music you play while cooking, off-key and enthusiastic.

But here's the other thing: you make it really fucking hard to maintain distance.

You leave cookies outside his door with notes that say things like "for emergency constituent-induced rage" and "survival fuel for C-SPAN." You knock when you know he's home, ask to borrow sugar or vodka or a screwdriver, then stay to chat like his apartment isn't just bare walls and a couch Sam made him buy. You touch—casual, constant. A hand on his arm when you laugh, fingers brushing when you hand him things, like physical contact isn't something that makes his brain static out.

"You're a really good listener," you tell him one evening, three weeks into whatever this is. You're sitting on his floor, back against his couch, because you'd knocked asking for wine and then somehow ended up staying. Your knee presses against his thigh. He's catastrophically aware of every point of contact. "Like, actually good. Not just waiting for your turn to talk."

"Not much of a talker," he says, which is true and also easier than explaining that he's memorizing everything—how you twist your rings when you're nervous, the way your voice drops when you're saying something real, how you look in his space like you belong there.

"Bullshit." You bump his shoulder. He doesn't flinch anymore, which is either progress or a sign he's completely fucked. "You're just selective. Quality over quantity."

You say things like that—observations that feel like being seen, really seen, not just looked at. It's terrifying. It's addictive. It's going to get you killed.

Because here's the thing Bucky knows down to his bones: everything he touches turns to ash. Everyone he cares about becomes a target. And you—with your sunshine laugh and your disaster apartment and your way of looking at him like he's worth something—you're exactly the kind of light that attracts the worst kind of dark.

He should stay away.

He doesn't.

---

"So," Sam says, watching Bucky check his phone for the third time during their coffee meeting. "Who is she?"

"What?" Bucky pockets the phone. You'd texted asking if he knew how to fix a leaky faucet. He knows seventeen ways to kill a man with a faucet. Fixing one can't be that different. "Nobody. Work thing."

"Uh-huh." Sam's doing that face, the one that means he's about to be insufferably perceptive. "That's why you just smiled at your phone. Over a work thing. You. Smiled."

"I smile."

"No, you do this thing with your mouth that's like a smile's evil twin. This was an actual smile. So. Who is she?"

Bucky takes a long drink of coffee, considering how much lying is worth the effort. "Neighbor."

"Neighbor." Sam leans back, grinning. "Cute neighbor?"

The memory of you last night, paint in your hair and gesturing wildly about your latest client, flashes unbidden. His silence is apparently answer enough.

"Buck. Man. This is good. You need—"

"I need to not get people killed," Bucky cuts him off. "I need to remember that anyone who gets close to me ends up hurt. I need—"

"You need a life," Sam interrupts right back. "You need to stop punishing yourself for shit that wasn't your fault. You need to let yourself have something good."

Bucky's jaw works. The phone buzzes again. He doesn't check it.

"She doesn't know what she's getting into," he says finally. "She's—" Bright. Warm. Good. "She's not part of this world."

"So keep her out of it." Sam makes it sound simple. Like there's a way to compartmentalize, to have you without putting you at risk. "Be her neighbor. Be normal. Be happy, for once in your goddamn life."

Normal. Right. Because nothing says normal like a centenarian ex-assassin with more kills than most armies and a metal arm that could crush a skull like an egg.

But then he thinks about your smile when he fixed your garbage disposal last week. How you'd said "my hero" in this teasing, fond way that made him want impossible things. How you treat him like he's just Bucky, not a weapon someone else aimed.

"I don't know how," he admits, quieter than he meant to.

Sam's expression softens. "Nobody does, man. You just try anyway."

---

The faucet thing turns into a whole production.

You answer the door in tiny pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt that says "FEMINIST KILLJOY" in glitter letters, and Bucky's brain shorts out for a solid three seconds. Your hair's piled on top of your head in what might generously be called a bun, and there's toothpaste at the corner of your mouth, and he wants to—

"Oh good, you're here," you say, grabbing his arm and pulling him inside. Your fingers are warm through his henley. "It's making this noise like a dying whale. I tried YouTube tutorials but I think I made it worse."

The kitchen is a disaster. Tools scattered everywhere, water pooling on the floor, YouTube still playing on your laptop ("—sure to turn off the water main first—"). You've clearly been at this for a while.

"Did you turn off the water?" he asks, already knowing the answer from the growing puddle.

"I turned off a valve," you say defensively. "Several valves. None of them seemed to be the right valve."

He finds himself fighting a smile as he locates the actual shut-off. You hover behind him as he works, close enough that he can feel your breath on his neck, keeping up a running commentary that's part apology, part stand-up routine.

"—and then the wrench slipped and I maybe screamed a little bit, and Mrs. Nguyen next door started banging on the wall, and I had to yell that I wasn't being murdered, just defeating by plumbing—"

"Hand me the—" He turns to ask for the wrench at the same moment you lean forward to see what he's doing. Your faces end up inches apart. Time does that thing where it forgets how to work properly.

Your eyes are very wide. There's a water droplet on your cheek. Bucky's hand twitches with the urge to wipe it away.

"Wrench," he manages, voice rougher than intended.

"Right. Wrench. That's a—" You scramble backward, nearly slip on the wet floor. He catches your elbow automatically, steadying you, and your skin is so warm under his fingers it feels like a brand. "Thanks. I'm not usually this much of a disaster. Actually, that's a lie. I'm exactly this much of a disaster, you've just caught me on a particularly disastrous day."

He fixes the faucet in under ten minutes. You insist on making coffee as payment, which turns into leftover pizza, which turns into three hours on your couch watching some reality show about people making elaborate cakes. You provide running commentary that's funnier than the show itself, and Bucky finds himself actually laughing—not the dry chuckle he's perfected for public appearances, but real laughter that comes from somewhere deep in his chest.

"See?" you say during a commercial break, grinning at him. "I told you this show was addictive. Next week they're making a life-size dragon cake that actually breathes fire."

"Next week?" The words slip out before he can stop them, too revealing.

Your grin softens into something else, something that makes his chest tight. "Well, yeah. You can't miss fire-breathing dragon cake. That's un-American."

It becomes a thing. Thursday nights, your couch, increasingly ridiculous cooking shows. You always have too much dinner ("I'm terrible at portions, shut up"), he always fixes something that's broken ("it's not broken, it's just temperamental"), and somewhere between cake disasters and your laughter, Bucky forgets to maintain distance.

---

"Your boyfriend's here," Mrs. Nguyen announces loudly when Bucky knocks on your door a month later, because apparently the entire floor has decided they're invested in whatever this is.

"He's not my—" Your voice cuts off as you open the door. You're wearing a dress, which is new. Red, which is newer. Lipstick, which is going to kill him. "Hi."

"Hi." His brain's stuck on the curve of your shoulder, the way the fabric clings. "Going out?"

"Wedding. Old college friend." You're fidgeting with your earring, a sure tell that you're nervous. "I hate weddings. All that optimism and overpriced chicken."

"So don't go."

"Can't. I already RSVP'd, and I'm a good friend even if I'm a wedding-hating gremlin." You pause, still fiddling with the earring. "Unless..."

He knows what's coming by the way you're biting your lip. "No."

"You don't even know what I was going to ask!"

"You were going to ask me to go with you."

"...okay, so you did know." You lean against the doorframe, giving him a look that's probably supposed to be convincing but mostly just highlights how your eyes catch the hallway light. "Come on. You're a congressman. You must love overpriced chicken and small talk."

"I really don't."

"There's an open bar."

"Still no."

"I'll owe you one. One big favor. Anything."

That makes him pause, but not for the reason you think. The idea of you owing him anything makes his skin itch. You already give too much—your time, your laughter, your casual touches that rewire his brain. But the idea of watching you navigate a wedding alone, of other people getting to see you in that dress...

"Fine," he hears himself say. "But I'm not dancing."

The smile you give him could power Brooklyn for a week.

---

He's absolutely, catastrophically unprepared for how you look in candlelight.

The wedding venue is one of those rustic-chic places that thinks exposed beams equal personality. You're at table eight, which puts you safely in "college friends but not close enough for the wedding party" territory. You've been providing whispered commentary all through the ceremony ("five bucks says she wrote her vows the night before"), your shoulder pressed against his in a way that makes paying attention to anything else physically impossible.

"See that bridesmaid?" You nod toward a blonde who's definitely already three champagnes deep. "That's Amber. We were roommates sophomore year. She once tried to seduce our RA by leaving Post-it poetry on his door."

"Did it work?"

"Depends on your definition of 'work.' She did get his attention. Also a conduct violation." You're playing with the stem of your wine glass, fingers tracing patterns. "Thanks for this, by the way. I know wearing a suit and making small talk isn't exactly your idea of fun."

He could tell you that wearing a suit is nothing compared to tac gear, that small talk is easier than Senate hearings. Could mention that the way you keep unconsciously leaning into him makes any discomfort worth it. Instead: "It's fine."

"Such enthusiasm." But you're smiling, soft and maybe a little fond. "Dance with me?"

"I said no dancing."

"You said that before you had champagne. And before they played—" You tilt your head, listening. "Oh my god, is this Bon Jovi? We have to dance to Bon Jovi. It's the law."

"That's not a law."

"It's a law of wedding physics. Come on, Barnes. One dance. I promise not to step on your feet much."

The thing is, he can't say no to you. It's becoming a problem. You want him to fix your sink? Done. Need someone to hold your laptop while you Skype your mother? He's there. Want him to dance to "Livin' on a Prayer" at some stranger's wedding? Apparently, that's happening too.

You're a terrible dancer. Genuinely awful. You have no sense of rhythm, keep trying to lead, and you're laughing too hard to even pretend otherwise. It's perfect. He spins you out just to watch your dress flare, pulls you back too close, and for a moment—your hand in his, your face tilted up, surrounded by fairy lights and other people's happiness—he forgets why this is a bad idea.

"See?" you say, slightly breathless. "Dancing's not so bad."

His hand is on your waist. He can feel your pulse through the thin fabric. "No. Not so bad."

Someone bumps into you from behind, pushing you fully against his chest. Your hands come up to steady yourself, one landing over his heart, and he knows you can feel how it stumbles. Your smile falters, shifts into something else. Something that looks dangerously like realization.

"Bucky—"

"They're cutting the cake," he says, stepping back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Should probably watch. For your show."

You blink, then recover. "Right. Yeah. Cake."

But you're quiet for the rest of the reception, and he catches you looking at him with this expression he can't decode. Like you're working through a complex equation and not liking the answer.

He drives home. You spend the ride fiddling with your phone, uncharacteristically silent. When he pulls up to the building, you don't immediately get out.

"I'm sorry if I—" you start.

"Don't." It comes out harsher than intended. He tries again, softer: "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Feels like I did." You're still not looking at him. "I forget sometimes, that you're—that we're—"

"Friends," he supplies, even though the word tastes like ash. "We're friends."

"Right." You finally meet his eyes, and there's something careful in your expression now. Guarded. "Friends."

You're out of the car before he can figure out what to say to fix this. He watches you disappear into the building first, red dress like a wound in the grey evening, and knows he's fucked everything up without quite understanding how.

---

You pull back after that.

It's subtle—you still smile when you see him in the hall, still text him memes at inappropriate hours. But you stop knocking on his door for impromptu dinners. Stop touching him casually. When he offers to fix your eternally-dripping showerhead, you say you'll call the super instead.

"You're moping," Sam tells him two weeks later, during one of their mandatory "make sure Bucky's not spiraling" brunch dates.

"I don't mope."

"You're the Black Widow of moping. The Michael Jordan of emotional constipation." Sam pauses. "That neighbor you mentioned?"

Bucky's silence is damning.

"What'd you do?"

"Why do you assume I did something?"

"Because you always do something. You get close to someone, panic, and pull some self-sabotaging bullshit." Sam's voice gentles. "Talk to me, man."

Bucky stares at his coffee like it holds answers. "She wanted to dance."

"...okay?"

"At a wedding. And I—we danced. And it was..." He doesn't have words for what it was. How you felt in his arms, how the world narrowed down to just the two of you, how for a moment he forgot he was dangerous. "And then I shut it down."

"Why?"

"Because." He sets the mug down too hard, coffee sloshing. "Because she's sunshine, Sam. She's late-night cooking shows and glitter pens and leaving snacks for the delivery guy. She has no idea what I've done, what I'm capable of—"

"Did you ever think maybe she does know and doesn't care?"

"Then she's naïve."

"Or maybe she just sees you better than you see yourself." Sam leans forward. "Buck, you can't protect people by pushing them away. That's not how it works."

"It's worked so far."

"Has it? Because from where I'm sitting, you're miserable, she's probably confused as hell, and nobody's actually safer."

Bucky wants to argue, but then his phone buzzes. Your name pops up: my smoke alarm is having an existential crisis. is it supposed to beep in morse code?

He's already standing before he realizes it.

"Go," Sam says, shaking his head but smiling. "Fix her smoke alarm. Talk to her like a human being. Maybe try not to fuck it up this time."

---

Your door is already cracked when he gets there, smoke rolling out in lazy waves.

"I'm not on fire!" you call before he can knock. "Well, the oven mitt was, but I handled it."

He finds you on a chair, ineffectively fanning the smoke detector with a dish towel. You're wearing those little pajama shorts again and his brain still isn't prepared for the sight.

"How does an oven mitt catch fire?" He reaches up, disables the alarm with practiced ease.

"Well, when you forget it's on your hand and rest it on the stove burner..." You shrink a little at his look. "I was distracted."

"By what?"

You don't answer, just hop down from the chair. This close, he can see the flour in your hair, the way you're worrying your bottom lip. "Thanks. Sorry for texting, I know it's late—"

"Why are you apologizing?"

"Because—" You make a frustrated gesture. "Because I'm trying to give you space. Because you clearly regretted the wedding thing and I'm trying not to be that neighbor who develops inconvenient feelings—"

"Feelings?" His brain snags on the word like cloth on a nail.

You go very still. "Shit. I mean. Not feelings. Just. You know. Neighbor...ly concern. Very platonic. Super appropriate."

"You're a terrible liar."

"Yeah, well, you're terrible at—" You stop, visibly collecting yourself. When you speak again, your voice is carefully level: "I like you, okay? More than I should. And I know that's not what you want, and I'm trying really hard to be okay with that, but you standing in my kitchen looking all concerned while I'm having a feelings crisis is really not helping."

The words hit him like a physical blow. You like him. More than you should.

"You don't know me," he says, defaulting to the easiest argument.

"Bullshit." There's heat in your voice now. "I know you reorganize my bookshelf when you think I'm not looking because the chaos bothers you. I know you bring me coffee on Tuesdays because you noticed I have early meetings. I know you have nightmares—yeah, the walls are thin—and I know you pace afterwards like you're trying to walk off whatever you dreamed about."

Each observation feels like being flayed open.

"I know you're careful," you continue, softer now. "I know you think you're dangerous. And I know you've probably got reasons for that. But Bucky? I also know you'd never hurt me. Ever."

"You can't know that."

"Why? Because you're what, too damaged? Too dangerous?" You step closer and he should step back but he's frozen. "You carry my groceries. You fixed my faucet. You danced with me at a wedding even though you hate dancing. Really dangerous stuff there, Barnes."

"You don't understand—"

"Then explain it to me." Your chin juts out, stubborn. "Give me one good reason why we can't—"

He kisses you.

It's the wrong thing to do. Selfish. Stupid. But you're standing there in your flour-dusted pajamas, looking at him like he's worth fighting for, and his self-control just...snaps.

The sound you make—soft, surprised, maybe relieved—shorts out every rational thought in his head. Your hands come up to frame his face, fingertips cool against his burning skin, and then you're kissing him back like you've been waiting for this, like you've been drowning too.

You taste like smoke and whatever you were baking, sweet with an edge of burn, and he's dizzy with it. His hands find your waist, fingers spreading wide against the soft cotton of your shirt, and he pulls you in until there's no space between you, until he can feel your heartbeat hammering against his chest. You're so warm, so alive, radiating heat like a small sun, and he wants to map every degree of it with his mouth, his hands, his—

Reality crashes back like ice water.

He jerks away, but his hands won't let go of your waist, like his body's in revolt against his better judgment. You're both breathing like you've run miles—harsh, ragged pulls of air that fill the space between you. Your lips are swollen, kiss-bruised, and he did that, he marked you, and the savage satisfaction of it wars with the knowledge that he's just made everything infinitely worse.

Your eyes are huge, pupils blown wide, and you're looking at him like he's just rearranged your entire understanding of the universe. One hand is still on his face, thumb pressed to the corner of his mouth like you're trying to hold the kiss there, keep it from escaping.

"That's why," he says roughly. "Because I want—because you make me want things I can't have."

"Says who?" Your eyes are very bright. "Who decided what you can have?"

He doesn't have an answer for that. Doesn't know how to explain the mathematics of survival, how everyone he's ever cared about becomes a liability, a target, a grave.

"I should go," he manages.

"Or," you say, "you could stay."

The offer hangs between you like a lit fuse. He can see the future unspool in both directions: leave now, go back to safe distances and polite nods in the hallway, watch you eventually move on with someone who doesn't come with a body count. Or stay, and risk you realizing what a mistake you're making. Stay, and selfishly take whatever you're willing to give for however long you're willing to give it.

You're still looking at him, patient and terrified and hopeful all at once.

He leaves.

---

The word echoes in his head all the way back to his apartment. Coward. Coward. Coward. But it's the right thing to do. The safe thing. You'll hurt for a while, maybe hate him a little, but you'll be alive to do it.

He doesn't sleep. Just sits on his couch, staring at the wall that separates your apartments, listening to the muffled sounds of you cleaning up. The shower runs at 2 AM. He knows you cry in the shower when you think no one can hear—learned that three weeks into being neighbors, when your freelance client stiffed you on a big project. He'd wanted to break the fucker's legs then.

Now he wants to break his own.

---

You're a better person than he'll ever be, which is why you still smile at him in the hallway.

It's careful now, contained. The kind of smile you'd give any neighbor, not the one that used to light up your whole face when you saw him. You don't knock anymore. Don't text about your smoke alarm or your leaky faucet or the rat you're convinced lives in the walls. You just...exist, parallel to him, in a way that makes his chest feel like it's full of broken glass.

"Fixed it myself," you say one morning when he catches you wrestling with a new deadbolt installation. Your drill slips, gouging the doorframe. "YouTube University, you know?"

He could fix it in under a minute. Could show you how to align the strike plate properly, how to test the throw. Instead: "Good for you."

Your smile flickers. "Yeah. Good for me."

Mrs. Nguyen gives him dirty looks now. The whole floor does, really. Like they know he's the reason you don't laugh as loud anymore, why your music's quieter, why you started getting grocery delivery instead of making three trips up the stairs, arms overloaded, dropping things and cursing cheerfully.

It's fine. It's working. You're safe.

He tells himself that every night when he hears you through the walls, moving around your apartment like a ghost of the person who used to dance while cooking.

---

Three weeks post-kiss, Valentina calls them in for a mission that's barely legal on a good day.

"Weapons shipment," she says, sliding photos across the conference table with her usual theatrical flair. "Enhanced tech, off-market, very much not supposed to exist. The kind of toys that make governments nervous."

"So we're stealing them," Walker states, not asks.

"Recovering," Val corrects with a smile sharp enough to cut. "For the safety of the American people, of course."

Yelena snorts. Alexei's already studying the compound layout like there'll be a test. Bob's doing that thing where he shrinks into himself, trying to become invisible. Bucky catalogs exits, counts guards in the surveillance photos, and tries not to think about how you looked last night, hauling groceries with your hair falling in your eyes.

The mission goes sideways in minute three.

"Intel was wrong," Ava's voice crackles through comms, too calm for the situation. "Triple the guards. And—"

The explosion cuts her off. Then another. The "barely defended warehouse" is a fucking fortress, crawling with military-grade security who definitely got the "shoot to kill" memo.

"Fall back," Bucky orders, but Alexei's already charged ahead, yelling something about Soviet glory. Walker's trying to flank, Bob's panicking, and somewhere in the chaos, Yelena starts laughing like this is the best thing that's happened all week.

It takes two hours to fight their way out. By the end, Bucky's left arm is sparking, his ears are ringing, and he's pretty sure at least three ribs are cracked. Yelena's favoring her right leg, Walker's bleeding from somewhere he won't admit, and Bob—Bob's dissociating so hard Bucky has to physically guide him to the extraction point.

"Well," Val says over comms, observing from her safe distance, "that was bracing."

Bucky doesn't trust himself to respond.

They limp back to New York in sullen silence. No debrief—Val's already spinning the disaster into something palatable for the brass. Bucky goes straight home, ignoring Sam's calls, ignoring everything except the need to get somewhere quiet before he starts breaking things.

His hands are still shaking when he reaches his floor. Adrenaline crash, probably. Or the delayed realization that they'd all nearly died for some bureaucrat's idea of asset recovery. Or—

Your door is open.

Not open-open. Cracked, like it didn't latch properly. Like someone left in a hurry. Or—

The deadbolt is broken.

The one you installed yourself three weeks ago. The one he'd watched you struggle with, pride keeping you from asking for help.

Bucky goes utterly still.

His body moves before his brain catches up. He's through your doorway, cataloging details with mechanical precision: lamp knocked over, books scattered, coffee table shoved sideways. Signs of a struggle. Signs of—

Blood.

Not much. Just droplets on the hardwood, leading toward the kitchen. But enough. Enough to make his vision tunnel, his chest compress until breathing becomes theoretical.

"Sweetheart?" The pet name slips out, raw. No answer. He clears each room like he's back in Hydra facilities, except his hands won't stop shaking because this is your space, your things, your—

Your phone is on the kitchen floor, screen cracked. There's a handprint on the wall—bloody, smeared. Too small to be anyone's but yours.

Something inside him breaks. Clean, sharp, like a bone snapping. The careful distance he's maintained, the walls he's built, the conviction that keeping you at arm's length would keep you safe—all of it crumbles in the face of your empty apartment and that small, bloody handprint.

He's already moving, phone out, calling in favors he's been hoarding. Because someone took you. Someone came into your home—the home he was supposed to be protecting by staying away—and took you. And they're going to learn exactly why the Winter Soldier's name still makes people flinch.

His phone rings. Unknown number.

"Barnes." He doesn't recognize his own voice.

"Ah, the infamous Winter Soldier." The voice is male, amused, completely at ease. "I was hoping we could talk."

"Where is she?"

"Safe. For now. Though that really depends on you, doesn't it?"

Ice spreads through his veins, familiar as an old friend. This is what he was trying to prevent. This exact scenario. You, hurt because of him. You, taken because someone figured out—

"What do you want?"

"You've been playing house, Barnes. Getting soft. Forgetting what you are." A pause, calculated. "I'm going to remind you. And your little neighbor? She's going to help."

The line goes dead.

Bucky stands in your ruined apartment, surrounded by the evidence of his failure, and feels something fundamental shift. Not break—he's been broken before. This is worse. This is the cold clarity that comes after, when there's nothing left to lose.

Someone made a mistake today. They touched you. They made you bleed.

He's going to paint the city red for it.

---

"Buck, slow down—"

"No." He's already moving, gathering gear with brutal efficiency. The weapons he's not supposed to have. The tech that's definitely illegal. Every favor, every resource, every skill Hydra beat into him over seventy years.

Sam's on speaker, trying to be the voice of reason. "You can't just go in guns blazing—"

"Watch me."

"This is exactly what they want. You, isolated, operating without backup—"

"They have her, Sam." The words come out raw, flayed. "They took her because of me. Because I was stupid enough to think distance would keep her safe."

Silence on the other end. Then: "What do you need?"

That's why Sam Wilson is Captain America. No more arguments, no more trying to talk him down. Just immediate, unwavering support.

"Intel. Cameras in my building, surrounding blocks. Last twelve hours." He straps a knife to his thigh, then another. "And get me backup."

"I can rally your team. Get Walker, Yelena—"

"No." The word comes out sharp. Another knife. Extra magazines. "The Thunderbolts are compromised. That clusterfuck of a mission proved it."

"Buck—"

"They're not ready for this. Half of them can barely work together without Val pulling the strings." He's checking his tactical vest, muscle memory taking over. "This isn't a government op. This is personal."

"So what, you're going in alone?"

Is he? Bucky stops, considers his options. The Thunderbolts are a mess on a good day—Walker's still trying to prove something, Bob's hanging on by a thread, and Alexei treats everything like a performance. They're not who he needs for this.

"They touched her," he says simply.

"I know, man. I know. But—"

"Get me what intel you can. I'll handle the rest."

"Buck, come on. At least let me—"

"They have her, Sam." His voice cracks, just slightly. "Every second we waste talking, they could be—"

"Okay. Okay. Intel coming your way. But Barnes? Don't do anything stupid."

"Too late for that."

---

Bucky stops in your doorway, looks back at your apartment. There's a photo on your bookshelf—you and him at the building's July 4th party. Mrs. Nguyen had insisted on taking it. You're laughing at something, leaning into him, and he's looking at you like—

Like you're everything he never thought he'd get to have.

"I'm coming for you," he tells the empty room. A promise. A threat. A prayer to whoever might be listening.

Then he disappears into the night, and the Winter Soldier goes hunting.

---

The trail goes cold in six hours.

Whoever took you, they're not amateurs playing at being dangerous. They're ghosts—professionals who know exactly how to disappear in a city of eight million people. Every camera angle's been scrubbed. Every witness suddenly develops amnesia. Even the blood in your apartment leads nowhere; cleaned of DNA markers by something that makes Bucky's teeth ache with familiarity.

"Talk to me, Buck." Sam's voice through the earpiece, carefully level. "Where are you?"

Bucky stands on a rooftop in Queens, staring at another dead end. Another empty warehouse that should have had something, anything. "Nowhere."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I've got." His metal hand clenches, servos whining. Below, the city keeps moving, oblivious to the fact that you're somewhere in it, hurt, taken because of him. "They're good, Sam. Too good."

"We'll find her."

We. Like this isn't Bucky's fault. Like his past isn't bleeding into your present, staining everything he tried so hard to keep clean.

He drops from the rooftop, lands hard enough to crack pavement. A passing couple startles, hurries away. Good. He doesn't feel particularly human right now anyway.

---

Hour twelve. Yelena finds him in your apartment, sitting on your couch like a grieving statue.

"This is pathetic," she says, stepping over the crime scene tape he'd ignored. "Even for you."

"Get out."

"No." She perches on your coffee table, uncharacteristically serious. "You think sitting here feeling sorry for yourself will find her? You think guilt helps?"

"I said—"

"I know what guilt looks like, Barnes." Her voice cuts, precise as the knives she carries. "I know what it is, failing someone you—" She pauses, searching for the English word. "Care about. But this?" She gestures at him, at the apartment, at the bloody handprint he can't stop staring at. "This is just... как это... self-pity? No, worse. Useless."

The laugh that tears out of him is ugly. "Thanks for the pep talk."

"Someone needs to knock sense into your thick skull." She leans forward. "Whoever has her, they want you like this. Emotional. Sloppy. Making mistakes."

"I know that."

"Then stop giving them what they want."

Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.

Easier said than done when every surface in this apartment carries your ghost. The mug on the counter with your lipstick stain. The book splayed open on the side table, marking your place. The sweater thrown over the chair—his sweater, actually, stolen three weeks ago when you'd claimed your apartment was freezing.

"Keep it," he'd said, trying not to notice how it made something primal in him satisfied, seeing you wrapped in his clothes.

"Just until I fix my radiator," you'd promised, but you'd worn it three more times that week, and he'd never asked for it back.

"Barnes." Yelena snaps her fingers in his face. "Сфокусируйся. Focus."

"I am focused."

"You're spiraling." She pulls out her phone, shows him surveillance footage he's already memorized. "Look again. Really look. Use your brain, not your bleeding heart."

He wants to tell her he's looked at nothing else for twelve hours. Instead, he watches you leave your apartment at 6:47 PM, mail in hand. Watches you come back at 6:53. The timestamp jumps—7:31 to 8:15, forty-four minutes missing. By 8:15, your door's ajar and you're gone.

"Professional crew doesn't need forty-four minutes for grab," Yelena says, her English getting rougher as she thinks. "So why take so long? What were they doing?"

Bucky's phone buzzes. Unknown number.

His blood turns to ice, then flame.

"You're going to want to watch this alone," the familiar voice says. "Though I'm sure your friend is lovely. Hi, Yelena."

She stiffens. Bucky's already moving, putting distance between them, some instinct screaming danger.

"Just me," he says. "Let her go."

"See, that's your problem, Barnes. Still trying to protect everyone. Still thinking you can control who gets hurt." A pause. "Check your messages."

The video file is already there. His hand shakes as he opens it.

You're in a concrete room—could be anywhere, everywhere, the kind of place that exists in every city's bones. Sitting in a metal chair, wrists zip-tied but not apparently hurt beyond the cut on your temple still sluggishly bleeding. You're still wearing his sweater.

"Say hello, sweetheart." The voice comes from behind the camera.

You look up, and the defiance in your eyes makes his chest seize. "Go fuck yourself."

The slap comes fast, snaps your head sideways. Bucky's phone creaks in his grip.

"Language." The camera shifts, focuses on your face. "Try again."

You spit blood, manage a smile that's all teeth. "Hi, Bucky. Nice weather we're having."

Another slap. Harder. Your lip splits.

"I told you he made you weak." The voice continues conversationally as you work your jaw, testing damage. "The Winter Soldier, reduced to playing house with some nobody. It's embarrassing, really."

"You talk a lot for someone hiding behind a camera," you mutter.

This time it's a fist. Your head rocks back, and when you look up again, your nose is bleeding. But you're still glaring, still unbroken, and Bucky loves you so fiercely in that moment it feels like drowning.

"Here's what's going to happen," the voice continues. "Every hour Barnes doesn't come alone to the address we'll send, things get worse for you. And before you get any ideas—" The camera pans to show three other men, armed, professional. "—we've planned for contingencies."

Back to you. Blood drips onto his sweater. You notice the camera returning, look directly into it. "Don't you fucking dare," you say, and despite everything—split lip, bloody nose, zip-tied to a chair—you mean it. "You hear me, Barnes? Don't you—"

The video cuts.

Bucky stands very still in your empty apartment, phone in pieces at his feet.

"That bad?" Yelena asks.

He can't speak. Can barely breathe around the rage threatening to tear him apart from the inside. Somewhere in the city, you're bleeding because of him. Hurt because he was selfish enough to let you close, stupid enough to think distance would be enough.

Another text. An address in Red Hook. Come alone or we start cutting.

"Is trap," Yelena says, dropping articles like she does when she's focused. "Obviously trap."

"I know."

"You can't just walk in there like idiot."

"I know."

"So what's plan?"

He looks at her, and whatever she sees in his face makes her step back. "I give them what they want."

"Barnes—"

"They want the Winter Soldier?" His voice sounds wrong, mechanical, like something dredged up from permafrost. "They've got him."

---

The address leads to a warehouse because of course it does. These people, whoever they are, lack imagination. Bucky counts heat signatures through thermal imaging—six outside, unknown inside. Doable, if he's what he used to be. If he's willing to be what he used to be.

"Don't you fucking dare."

Your voice echoes, but it's drowned out by older programming. By muscle memory that never quite faded, no matter how many therapy sessions or good days or shared dinners with someone who looked at him like he was worth saving.

"In position," Sam's voice, because fuck going alone. Fuck giving them what they want. "West entrance."

"Rooftop," from Yelena.

"Back door," Walker, surprisingly. "For the record, I think this is stupid."

"Noted," Bucky says, and walks through the front door.

The space is exactly what he expected. Concrete floors, exposed beams, the kind of place that swallows sound. They're waiting for him—five men in tactical gear, no identifying marks. Professional contractors, not ideologues. Which makes this personal.

"Dramatic entrance. I respect that." The voice from the phone materializes into a man in his forties, military bearing, forgettable face. He's standing next to a metal table laid out with tools that make Bucky's scars ache. "Though you were supposed to come alone."

"Yeah, well." Bucky spreads his hands, easy target. "I've never been good at following orders. Ask anyone."

"Funny." The man circles him, predator studying prey. "That's not what your files say. 'Perfect compliance.' That was the phrase, wasn't it?"

Old wounds, precisely targeted. These people have done their homework.

"Where is she?"

"Close. Alive. For now." The man stops in front of him. "You know, I studied you. The Winter Soldier. Hydra's perfect weapon. And then you just... stopped. Became this." He gestures dismissively. "James Barnes, failing congressman. Playing superhero. Pretending you're not what we made you."

"We?"

The man smiles. "Not Hydra, if that's what you're thinking. Hydra was sloppy. Cult-like. No vision beyond control." He pulls out a tablet, shows Bucky a logo—a chimera, three-headed. "Cerberus. We're more... refined. We deal in weapons, not world domination. And you, Barnes? You're a weapon pretending to be human."

"Cool speech." Bucky's cataloging angles, distances, how fast he'd have to move. "Must've practiced in the mirror."

The man's smile tightens. "Bring her out."

Two more men emerge from a side room, dragging you between them. You're conscious but barely, feet stumbling, head lolling. They drop you on the concrete, and you don't get up.

Everything in Bucky goes very, very quiet.

"So here's the deal," Cerberus continues. "You're going to work for us. Exclusive contract. Your particular skills in exchange for her life."

"No." Your voice, cracked but clear. You push yourself up on shaking arms, meet Bucky's eyes across the warehouse. "No deals. No trades."

"Sweetheart—"

"Don't you 'sweetheart' me." You manage to get to your knees, swaying. Blood's dried on your face, but your eyes are blazing. "You think I don't know what they're asking? You think I'd let you—" You have to stop, catch your breath. "I'd rather die than be the reason you become that again."

"How touching," Cerberus says. "But not your call." He nods to one of his men, who pulls out a knife. "Barnes? Your answer?"

The knife moves toward you.

The world explodes.

Flash-bangs through windows, smoke grenades, the distinctive whine of repulsor beams. Cerberus shouts orders, but it's too late—the Avengers don't do subtle when one of their own is threatened.

Bucky moves. Not the measured approach of a soldier, but the brutal efficiency of a weapon. The man with the knife goes down first, arm snapping under metal fingers. The second barely has time to scream. He's not thinking, just reacting, just removing threats between him and you.

Someone shoots him. Barely feels it. Someone else tries hand-to-hand, which is adorable. He puts them through a wall.

"Barnes!" Sam's voice, sharp. "Shield up!"

He spins, catches the thrown shield, uses it to deflect a spray of bullets meant for you. You're trying to crawl to cover, leaving bloody handprints on the concrete, and the sight shorts out whatever restraint he had left.

When the smoke clears, Cerberus is the only one left standing. Backed against the wall, gun trained on you because of course it is. These people are predictable to the last.

"Come any closer and—"

Yelena drops from the ceiling, lands on him like gravity given form. The gun goes flying. Cerberus goes down choking on his own blood, Yelena's knife finding the gap in his armor like it was designed for it.

"Predictable," she says, wiping the blade clean. "I told you they were predictable."

But Bucky's already moving, dropping to his knees beside you. You're conscious, breathing, alive. That's all that matters. Everything else—the mission, the cleanup, the questions—fades to white noise.

"Hey," he says, hands hovering over you, afraid to touch. Afraid to hurt. "I've got you."

"Took you long enough," you manage, then promptly pass out in his arms.

He catches you, holds you against his chest, and something in him breaks. Or maybe it finally, finally mends. Either way, he's done pretending distance keeps anyone safe. Done acting like he deserves to make choices about your safety without you.

"Med team's three minutes out," Sam says quietly.

Three minutes. He can hold you for three minutes. Can keep you safe for three minutes.

After that? After that, everything changes.

But for now, in the blood and smoke and aftermath, Bucky Barnes holds the person he was stupid enough to fall in love with and makes a promise:

Never again.

Never fucking again.

---

The medical bay at the Tower is too bright, too sterile, too full of people who keep looking at Bucky like he might snap. Maybe he will. He's been sitting in the same chair for four hours, watching machines monitor your breathing, and every beep feels like an accusation.

"You need to get that looked at," Sam says, nodding at the blood seeping through Bucky's shirt. Gunshot wound, probably. He honestly can't remember.

"I'm fine."

"You're bleeding on their fancy floors."

"I'm fine."

Sam exchanges a look with Yelena, who's been uncharacteristically quiet since they arrived. She's cleaned the blood off her hands but keeps flexing them, like she can still feel it.

"At least change your shirt," she says finally. "You look like extra from horror movie."

He doesn't move. Can't move. Because what if you wake up while he's gone? What if you open your eyes and he's not there, again, like he wasn't there when they took you?

"Barnes." Dr. Cho's voice cuts through his spiral. "She's stable. Three broken ribs, concussion, various contusions, but nothing life-threatening. She's lucky."

Lucky. The word tastes like copper in his mouth. Lucky is winning the lottery, not surviving a kidnapping because you had the misfortune of living next to him.

"When will she wake up?"

"Soon. The sedatives should wear off within the hour." She pauses, studying him with that look medical professionals get when they're about to say something pointed. "You, however, need treatment. You're actively bleeding on my floor."

"Sam already made that joke."

"It wasn't a joke." But she moves on, knowing a lost cause when she sees one. "I'll send a nurse with supplies. Try not to die before she wakes up. The paperwork would be tedious."

She leaves. Sam leaves. Even Yelena eventually wanders off, muttering something about vodka and terrible life choices. And then it's just Bucky and you and the steady beep of machines he'd tear apart if they stopped working.

Your hand is smaller than his. He knows this—has known it since the first time you grabbed his wrist to drag him to see some neighbor's new puppy—but it feels more pronounced now. More fragile. Your knuckles are split from fighting back, and there's still blood under your nails. His blood? Theirs? He doesn't know, and the not knowing makes him want to put his fist through the wall.

"You're spiraling again."

Your voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper, but it might as well be a gunshot for how hard it hits. His head snaps up to find you watching him, eyes half-open but alert.

"You're awake."

"Mmm. Kind of wish I wasn't." You try to sit up, wince, immediately abort that mission. "Fuck. Did anyone get the number of the truck that hit me?"

"Don't—" He's hovering, hands fluttering uselessly, afraid to touch you. "You shouldn't move. Dr. Cho said—"

"Dr. Cho can kiss my ass," you mutter, but you stop trying to sit up. Your eyes track over him, cataloging damage. "You're bleeding."

"It's nothing."

"It's literally dripping on the floor, Barnes."

"It's fine."

You stare at each other. Four hours of practiced speeches evaporate in the face of your actual consciousness, leaving him with nothing but the memory of your blood on concrete and the sound you made when they hit you.

"So," you say finally, voice carefully neutral. "Cerberus. That was fun."

"Don't."

"Don't what? Make jokes about my kidnapping? Process trauma through humor? Acknowledge that you're sitting there bleeding because you decided to Rambo your way through—"

"You could have died." It comes out louder than intended, raw. "You almost died because of me."

Something shifts in your expression. "Bucky—"

"No." He's standing now, needing distance, needing space between him and the way you're looking at him. "You don't get to—to act like this is fine. Like this is some funny story you'll tell at parties. They took you because of me. They hurt you because of me."

"They took me because they're assholes who thought they could use me as leverage." You're struggling to sit up again, ignoring whatever pain it causes. "That's on them, not you."

"You're only leverage because I was selfish enough to—" He stops, runs his hand through his hair. "I knew better. I knew what would happen if I let someone close, and I did it anyway."

"Let me get this straight." Your voice is gaining strength, and with it, heat. "You think you 'let' me get close? Like I didn't have any say in it? Like I didn't practically force-feed you cookies until you acknowledged my existence?"

"That's not—"

"And what, you think keeping me at arm's length would've magically made me safer? News flash, Barnes: I live in that building because it's what I can afford. That makes me a target for regular criminals on a good day. At least with you around, I had someone who actually gave a shit if I made it home."

"Don't." The word cracks. "Don't act like I was protecting you. I'm the reason you were bleeding. I'm the reason they—"

"You're the reason I'm alive!" You swing your legs over the side of the bed, bare feet hitting the floor with determination that makes his chest tight. "You think they took me because they wanted leverage? They took me because they were cleaning house. Because they knew you'd gotten soft, gotten close to someone, and that made you unpredictable."

You stand, sway, catch yourself on the bed rail. He moves forward instinctively, and you hold up a hand.

"No. You don't get to touch me right now. Not when you're about to do something stupid and noble and self-sacrificing." You take a step, then another, closing the distance between you despite your own warning. "They were going to kill me either way, Barnes. Whether you came for me or not. The only difference is that you did come, and now I'm alive to be really fucking pissed at you."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly." You're close enough now that he can see the bruises forming on your throat, the way you're holding your ribs, the tears you're refusing to shed. "You think you're poison. You think everyone you touch gets hurt. You think the best thing you can do is be alone forever because that's what you deserve."

"Stop."

"No. Because here's the thing, James Buchanan Barnes—you don't get to make that choice for me." Your voice breaks, just a little. "You don't get to decide I'm better off without you. You don't get to kiss me in my kitchen and then run away like a coward. And you sure as hell don't get to sit there bleeding and act like it's some kind of penance."

The medical bay feels too small suddenly, like all the air's been sucked out. You're looking at him with eyes that see too much, that refuse to let him hide behind the careful walls he's rebuilt in the last three weeks.

"They hurt you," he says, quieter now. Lost.

"Yeah. They did." You reach up, slowly, telegraphing the movement. Your hand cups his face, thumb brushing over the bruise on his cheekbone. "And it wasn't your fault."

"How can you say that?"

"Because blaming you for what they did is like blaming a bank for getting robbed." Your other hand comes up, framing his face, forcing him to meet your eyes. "You're not responsible for other people's evil, Bucky. You're only responsible for what you do about it."

"I should have protected you better."

"You literally threw yourself between me and automatic gunfire."

"I should have never let them take you in the first place."

"Oh, so you're psychic now? Can predict the future?" Your laugh is watery. "Add that to the resume. Congressman, ex-assassin, part-time fortune teller."

"This isn't funny."

"It's a little funny." But your smile fades, replaced by something fiercer. "You want to know what's not funny? Spending three weeks watching you shut me out. Sitting in that chair, knowing you were hurting, and not being able to do anything because you decided I was better off without you."

"You are—"

"Finish that sentence and I swear to god, Barnes, concussion or not, I will punch you in your stupid, self-loathing face."

He almost smiles. Almost. "You could barely stand five seconds ago."

"Adrenaline's a hell of a drug." But you're swaying again, and this time when he reaches for you, you don't stop him. His arms come around you carefully, mindful of injuries, and you lean into him like you've been waiting for permission. "I'm so fucking mad at you."

"I know."

"Like, incandescently furious."

"I know."

"You don't get to leave again." It comes out muffled against his chest, but he hears the steel underneath. "I don't care if the entire population of supervillains decides I'm their new favorite target. You don't get to leave."

His arms tighten fractionally. "Sweetheart—"

"No." You pull back enough to glare at him, and even bruised and exhausted, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen. "No 'sweetheart.' No soft voice and sad eyes. You're either in this with me or you're out, but you don't get to half-ass it anymore. You don't get to knock on my door at 2 AM because you had a nightmare and then pretend we're just neighbors. You don't get to dance with me at weddings and then act like it meant nothing. You don't get to—"

He kisses you.

There's no grace in it—just collision, pure physics as his mouth finds yours with the same brutal efficiency he'd use to take down a target. Except this isn't violence, it's something worse. It's capitulation. It's three weeks of want compressed into the space between one heartbeat and the next.

The noise that escapes you—half gasp, half sob—unlocks something feral in his chest. Then your teeth catch his lower lip, sharp and unforgiving, and his vision whites out entirely. You kiss like you fight: dirty, determined, taking no prisoners. Your tongue slides against his and his knees actually buckle, what the fuck, he's faced down alien armies without flinching but you're going to be what finally kills him.

His hands fly to your face, metal and flesh cradling your jaw like you're something precious even as he devours your mouth like you're anything but. You're pressed so tight against him he can feel every hitch in your breathing, every shudder that runs through you when he angles his head and deepens the kiss into something filthier, something that has you making these broken little sounds that he wants to bottle and keep.

The medical bed hits the back of your thighs—when did he walk you backward?—and you use the leverage to pull him down, down, until he's curved over you like a question mark, like gravity itself has reorganized around the heat of your mouth.

When you finally break apart, it's only because biology demands it. You're both wrecked—breathing like you've run marathons, lips swollen and spit-slick, staring at each other like you're not quite sure what just happened.

Your pupils are blown so wide he can barely see the color of your irises. There's a flush spreading down your throat, disappearing beneath the hospital gown, and he has to physically stop himself from following it with his mouth. His hands are trembling where they frame your face, thumbs pressed to your cheekbones like he's checking you're real.

"That's not an answer," you manage, but your voice is thoroughly fucked, and your hands are still twisted in his vest like you'll shoot him if he tries to move away.

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's really not. It's a deflection. A really nice deflection, but—"

"I'm in." The words feel like jumping off a cliff. Like defusing a bomb. Like coming home. "I'm in. Whatever that means, whatever that looks like. I'm in."

You study him for a long moment, and he tries not to fidget under the scrutiny. Finally: "You're going to therapy."

"I'm already in therapy."

"You're going to actually talk in therapy instead of just staring at the wall and hoping Dr. Raynor gets bored."

"...fine."

"And you're going to let me have a say in my own safety. No more unilateral decisions about what's 'best' for me."

"Okay."

"And you're going to teach me self-defense. Real self-defense, not just how to throw a punch."

"Deal."

"And—" You sway again, this time more dramatically. "Oh. Okay. Maybe sitting down now."

He guides you back to the bed, hands steady even if nothing else is. You let him fuss, let him adjust pillows and pull up blankets, and he tries not to think about how easily you fit into his hands. How right this feels, even with blood on his shirt and bruises on your skin.

"For the record," you say as he settles back into the chair beside your bed, "I'm still mad."

"I know."

"Like, really mad. There's going to be yelling. Possibly throwing things."

"I can take it."

"And groveling. Lots of groveling. I'm talking flowers, chocolates, the works."

"Noted."

You reach for his hand, lace your fingers through his. "And you're going to tell me you love me."

He freezes. You squeeze his hand.

"Because I know you do. I've known since you reorganized my bookshelf by genre and then pretended you didn't. And I love you too, you absolute disaster of a man, but I need to hear you say it. When I'm not concussed and you're not bleeding. When we're both safe and no one's trying to kill us and we can actually have a real conversation about what this means."

His throat feels tight. "I can do that."

"Good." You close your eyes, exhaustion finally winning. "Now get your gunshot wound treated before you bleed out on my watch. I'm not explaining that to Sam."

"It's not that bad."

"Bucky."

"Fine."

But he doesn't move. Not yet. Instead, he sits there holding your hand, memorizing the way your fingers fit between his, the steady rise and fall of your chest, the fact that you're alive and here and somehow, impossibly, still want him around.

The sun's coming up by the time a nurse finally corners him, threatening sedation if he doesn't let her treat the gunshot wound. You're properly asleep by then, fingers still tangled with his, and he lets the nurse work around your grip rather than let go.

"She's tough," the nurse comments, applying what are probably too many bandages.

"Yeah."

"And stubborn."

"Definitely."

"Good." She pats his shoulder, maternal despite being half his age. "You're going to need it."

He doesn't ask what she means. Doesn't need to. Because you're right—he's a disaster. A work in progress on his best days, a barely controlled catastrophe on his worst. But you looked at all that and decided he was worth fighting for anyway.

The least he can do is try to prove you right.

When you wake up again, he's there. When Dr. Cho kicks him out so you can rest, he goes to therapy and actually talks. When Sam asks if you're together now, he says yes without qualifying it.

And when you're finally released, when you're back in your apartment with its new locks and its carefully cleaned floors, when you knock on his door at midnight because the nightmares found you too—he opens it. No hesitation. No distance.

"Hey, neighbor," you say, and the smile you give him is worth every risk, every fear, every moment of doubt.

"Hey yourself."

You step inside, and he closes the door behind you, and for the first time in longer than he can remember, Bucky Barnes stops running from the possibility of happiness.

It's terrifying.

It's everything.

It's enough.

[ivybucky]

Ohhhh I’m obsessed with this

match made [one-shot]

congressman!bucky x matchmaker!reader

summary: as a politician, bucky can no longer be caught swiping around on dating apps. sam decides to sign up his romantically stunted friend for a more sophisticated service instead.

warnings: 18+, mdni, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), you get backshots B), soft dom (?) bucky, slight sub reader, language, no use of y/n, alcohol consumption, bucky doesn't understand how dating works in the 21st century, you get jealoussss and end up pissing bucky off momentarily

word count: 12.7k

a/n: so this is obviously inspired by the movie materialists LOL but there aren't any spoilers for the movie in here... i just have been thinking about the movie nonstop since i saw it and i will actually be rewatching it with my mother soon

masterlist

You’re used to meeting in more inconspicuous locations for your clients. Those with higher profiles often don’t want to be seen in public at coffee shops or cafes, and you don’t mind it. You weren't surprised when your newest client requested for you to meet at a restaurant. You checked in with the hostess under the reservation of James B. and surprise was still nowhere to be found when you were led into a private room away from prying eyes.

It didn't matter where the first meeting with your client took place anyway. This was a consultation, and your company normally picks up the first bill. It’s to make your client feel less pressured about the fact they’re paying you to find them a life partner.

You check yourself over in the small compact mirror in your hand. There’s no lipstick in your teeth. The mascara you’re wearing hasn’t smudged and your eyeliner hasn’t shifted out of place. Your hair is tamed and will continue to be as long as you had a say in it. You know your posture is impeccable, and you’re dressed professionally, but still chic enough to turn heads.

You had your purse hanging on your seat, phone face down on the table and already set to record so you could take notes later on for your conversation to pick up anything else that you may have missed, and you waited. You were early, but it was your job to be early. 

The door to the private room opened sooner than you thought. You stood, turning to meet your client– pausing when you saw two men walk into the room. Two men that you recognized from news channels, articles you skimmed over, and from your own clients describing their ideal physical types.

You kept the shock off of your face as you held out a hand to introduce yourself.

“It’s nice to meet you,” you smiled. “I’m your matchmaker from Ador. I’ll be taking good care of you from this point forth.”

“Bucky,” he introduced himself, his voice stiff as he shook your hand. You take a quick glance at him, eyes scanning his figure as your mind runs numbers over his entire physique. He doesn’t even need to tell you, but you already know.

Six feet or taller. He had pretty, white teeth that you briefly saw when he spoke. His eyes were piercing, but they carried the weight of something that you couldn’t imagine holding yourself. His dark brown hair was carefully done, not a single hair out of place. He wore a suit that only seemed to accentuate the broadness of his shoulders and chest, and didn’t hide the muscular build of his body. Your eyes caught the dark metal hand that rested by his side.

You turned to the other man, who shook your hand with a lot more enthusiasm. He returned your smile, giving you a toothy grin.

“I’m Sam. Don’t mind him– He’s always like that. Just a grumpy old guy,” he said, patting Bucky’s back to push him further into the room and towards the table. “His age shouldn’t be an issue, right?”

“He’s a very attractive man, I’m sure there are a lot of women in New York that wouldn’t mind,” you replied smoothly, watching Sam let out a breath of relief. 

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell him, but I’m glad the words came from the professionals’ mouth!” Sam exclaimed, clapping a hand over Bucky’s shoulder.

The three of you sat down together, a waiter coming over to bring over a bottle of wine, pouring glasses for the three of you as you all looked over the menu.

“Thank you for making time out of your schedule to come meet with this guy,” Sam continued, clearing his throat. “I actually signed him up for your service. Spoke to your boss and asked for the best of the best at your company, and she said that you were booked and busy, but– I really appreciate you being able to fit him into your clientele.”

You give Sam a well trained smile– one that you have perfected over the years of staring at yourself in the mirror. “Of course. I’m always happy to help someone meet their destined partner.”

Bucky lets out a scoff beside Sam, who elbows his side roughly. The man doesn’t even flinch at the contact. Your smile doesn’t falter at his obvious disapproval of your honeyed words.

“Between you and me,” Sam said, looking back at you, “The reason I got him on this program is because I’m really trying to get this guy on a date. And he’s a Congressman now, you know? He can’t really be swiping on Tinder anymore. It’s not a good look for someone trying to pass government bills.”

“I get it,” you nodded, agreeing with him. “I have a lot of clients that are in the same boat. Many of those who are in more sensitive occupations that can’t be seen in the more… open areas of society. I hold no judgement at all. After all, I’m simply here for him.”

Sam looked satisfied with your answer, and the waiter came back to take your orders. 

This consultation was unlike anything you had before– in your entire five years of matchmaking. Bucky didn’t say a single word, even when you tried to speak to him. He kept his eyes on you, which was slightly unnerving since he refused to speak. 

Sam had to keep swooping in to respond your questions, but you still barely got any answers. You had nothing to work with. No ideal type. Nothing that he was looking forward to in the future. 

You left the restaurant with another handshake to both men, and a promise to call Bucky to meet up with him again to discuss his potential options. 

You even listened to that damn recording over and over again, but you couldn’t even find a single thing that indicated what Congressman James Barnes would want in a woman or man. You looked through the files and consent forms that were submitted to you – that he signed– and found only the vaguest of answers.

Name: James Buchanan Barnes DOB: 1917, March 10 Occupation: Ex-Assassin, Current Congressman

What are your strengths and weaknesses? Left arm is strong. Right arm is slightly less strong.

Does your social media accounts accurately represent you? Please include your handles! Don’t have accounts.

How do you handle conflict? Fists and/or guns.

What does your ideal partner look like? Not part of The Big Three.

What characteristics do you hope to find in a partner? Human.

How do you spend your free time? Work.

What are your core beliefs? Loyalty. 

What are your expectations for a long term relationship? Peace.

Are you seeking marriage, a serious partnership, or something casual? ?

Do you have any deal breakers? Liars.

Why did your last relationship end? I was drafted into WWII and didn’t come home.

You want to slam your head into your desk. You usually received essay answers from your clients. You were beginning to understand why your boss handed you this client without regard for your current workload– she saw the responses he submitted. There was no one in this company that would be able to handle the shit that Bucky gave you to work with. You weren’t even sure that you would be able to work with this. 

You did your research on the congressman in between work of your other clients to try and get a hold of his personality because he wasn’t answering your calls. You wanted to pretend that he was a busy man working to pass bills in the government, but deep down you know that he’s trying to avoid you all together. 

He was a mysterious man– that was for sure. He had enough controversy to put a celebrity to shame, but with his looks and his financial state, you were certain that there were enough bachelor women in New York that would be more than willing to throw that behind them. There was also the benefit that he was a soldier. Lots of women enjoyed having a protector in the home, especially in the tough times of impending doom that was constantly looming over the city you lived in.

Bucky was almost the ideal man that everyone was looking for. Handsome. Smart. Strong. He had an edgy vibe to him that was alluring– almost like the bad boy type that girls would chase in high school. He also had the politician’s salary that would definitely make panties drop. He thankfully did not have the politician’s shady background, either. 

You’re still thinking about him when you’re sitting across from your next client, Mel, who’s telling you about her last date. 

“It was okay,” she said with a deep sigh. You know that look on her face. She’s detached. You’ve seen it painted on her features more than once before, and you don’t allow the dread to show up on your own face. 

“I hear a but coming on,” you said, fixing a smile on your face.

“It’s just difficult to date these days,” she admitted, slouching a bit in her seat as her hands clasped over her cup of coffee. “I had to cancel on him three times before we finally went on that date the other day. And it was nice, it really was, but I just… I don’t know. I feel bad.”

“Is it because of work?” you guessed, reaching over the table to place your hand over hers. “I know it’s hard working for the government. Really. I get it. It’s demanding, and you’re the personal assistant to someone that just wants you on your feet twenty-five hours of the day.”

She gives you a sad smile, and nods at your words. “He asked me to go on another date tomorrow night. And I want to, but– there’s this charity gala tomorrow that my boss is throwing. I have to go.”

“You can’t invite him as a plus one?” you offered as a solution.

“God, I wish,” she groaned. “Working for the government like I do– I could explain it to you, but it would be so much easier if I could just show you–”

Mel cut herself off, straightening in her seat as she locked eyes with you. She adjusted both her hands to hold yours in hers. 

“Mel?” you asked, still smiling at her.

“Are you free tomorrow night?” she asked, serious. “Can I ask you to be my plus one? Maybe you’ll be able to see the life I live– and it’ll help you figure out the kind of man that will be suitable for the life I live. Trust me, Daniel is great. Amazing guy. He’s just too… free spirited. Too spontaneous. I need structure and plans and I need you to see my life in order to really grasp it.”

You let out a sigh as you weighed the pros and cons. 

This sounded like a bad idea. Getting too involved with a client was never a good thing. In fact, it crossed a lot of boundaries and raised a lot of alarm bells in your head. You may have gone to your client’s weddings– the weddings of matches that you put together– but that was another form of networking. This was a charity gala for a government event. You would be completely out of your own element. 

However, you really didn’t have anything to do tomorrow. You had no appointments with your clients in the evening. You did have enough dresses in your closet that you could go through– and Mel was your favorite client. You had set her up on more than a few dates since she had enlisted your service, and she had turned down more than enough men for you to know that she was struggling. She wasn’t old by any means, but she was still a hopeless romantic that just needed some assistance, and you really wanted to help her out.

“Please?” Mel tried again, pulling you out of your own thoughts.

“Okay,” you relented, letting out a small sigh through your nose as you did.

She squealed, excited. “I will text you the details. I’ll let the staff know your name so you don’t have to worry about a single thing. Just show up pretty like you always do!” 

You gave her a smile, one more genuine than the ones that you normally show your clients.

You step up the stairs of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, thankful that there aren’t any photographers trying to stop you for a quick photo. Around you, you recognize several celebrities here for the charity event along with politicians of varying levels of influence. Your eyes fall on the banners, seeing the past heroes of the Avengers staring right back at you.

A small sense of nostalgia flows through you as you continue your way to the doors, only stopping momentarily to check in with the doormen. 

As you move towards the second floor to get a better view of the entire floor, a server comes by with a tray, offering you a flute of champagne that you gratefully take. You take a small sip as you move through the museum, eyes flitting over the different people in the gala. You rest your elbows against the railing, scanning over the entire crowd. Your eyes can’t help but run numbers over every single person that you see. 

You see the brand of their suits and dresses scream at you. The wear of their purses and shoes let you know exactly how disposable their income is. How tall they hold their head gives you insight on how insecure they are. You watch how each woman communicates with each man. Every gentle touch, flutter of eyelashes, subtle drop of eye contact from the eyes to the lips. 

You can easily tell who is single, who is taken, who is pretending to be single, and who wishes they were anything but single. 

“You made it!” a cheery voice calls your name from behind you. 

You straighten your spine as you turn around, a smile fitting over your lips. Then, you raise an eyebrow at Mel. She’s wearing a blazer and skirt, holding a tablet in hand with her hair pulled back in a low ponytail.

“You texted me that this was a formal event, Mel. What are you wearing?” you teased lightly, looking her up and down. “My plan was to find you a date tonight.”

“I’m working right now,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “I saw you from downstairs, so I slipped away to say hello real quick. You look great, by the way. Not that you don’t look amazing usually.”

You let out a small laugh, looking down at yourself briefly. Your dress was simple, a strapless black evening gown that clung effortlessly to you, with a cascading, sheer, flowing hem that moved with each step that you took. You paired it with a simple golden necklace matched with a timeless gold wristwatch. The purse that hung off your shoulder finished off the look, adding to the overall sophistication to the look. 

You didn’t deny her compliment, smile widening at her. “Would’ve loved to see you in something similar.”

“Maybe next time,” she smiled back, moving to loop your arm through hers. “We’ll be starting the dinner service soon, so let’s find your seat.”

You allowed her to lead you away, noticing the crowd was also moving towards the banquet hall now. Mel dropped you off at a round table towards the end of the room, though you didn’t necessarily mind. There was a placard with your name on the charge plate. You allowed your purse to hang from the seat as you took your phone out, allowing yourself to rest for a few moments.

Others were still filtering in, finding their seats at the seating chart at the front. You lost sight of Mel the second she left your side. It was becoming increasingly clear that she needed to be matched with someone as busy as her. You let out a sigh as you pulled up profiles on your phone, removing some men that you thought would work with her. 

You didn’t even look up as someone took a seat beside you. 

“I don’t answer your calls, so you come directly to where I work?”

You paused at the voice, looking up. Bucky is sitting beside you, champagne in hand as he flicks away a placard that is definitely not his own. He replaces it with his as you watch the random name get discarded somewhere on the floor behind him. 

You blink at him– it somehow didn’t even cross your mind that he would be here tonight. You curse yourself slightly. For a man that you thought about constantly, you completely missed the mark with this one. Why wouldn’t he be here? 

“I was invited,” you said, placing your phone faced down on the table. You cross one leg over the other, shifting your body to face his. “Though, I am hurt that you don’t answer my calls.”

A sigh escapes his lips as he shakes his head. You watch as his fingers play with the folded piece of paper with his name written with perfect calligraphy– hands that are slightly calloused from the years of war and battles that he’s fought.

“What business does a matchmaker have at a government charity event?” he finally asked, stormy eyes meeting yours. 

“You would be surprised to find there are many highly influential and single government workers that are looking for my company’s services,” you said, giving him a small shrug. “Call it networking.”

He watched you for a few moments, eyes scanning your figure. If he was anyone else, if you didn’t do prior research to know that he was a former assassin and spy, you would have thought he was checking you out. No– he wasn’t. He was searching for something. 

You didn’t give him any answers. 

When Bucky’s eyes finally settled on your face again, you gave him a polite smile. His eyebrows twitched as his eyes narrowed at you.

“Is something the matter, Congressman Barnes?” you asked, folding your hands in your lap. 

“I don’t need your services. Take me off the list,” he said, his voice gruff and low.

“Unfortunately, Mr. Wilson has paid in advance for us to serve you. The contract extends until you have found a match,” you reminded him. “You signed the consent form to allow us to give Mr. Wilson updates on how your dates go as well. We have to continue to at least try to reach out to you, even if you ignore my calls.”

“I will sue your office for harassment,” he threatened.

“You signed consent forms allowing for me to call, text, and email your direct lines of contact as per agreement,” you repeated, smiling at him as you tilted your head. “It would make things so much easier for both of us if we met regularly so I can get you on at least one date a week, Congressman.”

Bucky drags his metal down his face as he fights back groaning out loud. You can only keep your smile trained on your face as you watch him. 

“Can I perhaps order you a drink, Congressman? You strike me as a whiskey kind of guy,”  you hummed, raising a hand towards the waiter that was walking by.

“Make it neat,” he muttered beside you, completely defeated as you ordered drinks for the two of you.

Dinner service goes by without another hiccup. The two of you don’t discuss the nature of your relationship as others join your table. You don’t recognize the others at the table, but they recognize Bucky. That’s enough for you to pretend that you don’t know Bucky like that.

However, you do take the chance to spread your business card around the table with a pretty smile and a flutter of your lashes as you give your well rehearsed spiel.

“And you’re responsible for… how many marriages between your matches?” one of the women at your table asks, surprised.

“Goodness..” you sigh dramatically for effect, placing a hand over your chest. “I would say– about eight now? They are all lovely people that I have taken time to connect with. Amazing friends that I have grown to love, and I’m happy to have been able to bring them together for life.”

“Then you’re an expert,” Bucky suddenly said beside you as he picked up his whiskey glass. “What do you think makes a perfect partner?”

“Of course, that depends from person to person,” you respond, smiling at him before looking at the rest of the table. “I’m not here to build a person out of thin air for you. I am here to show you that love exists, and that you are worthy of it. Even if you don’t believe that there is someone out there for you, I believe it. There’s someone out there for everyone.”

The women were captivated by your sugared words, sliding over their own business cards to you, asking you to call them on the next business day. You grin as you take each card, sliding them into your purse. You ignore Bucky’s eyes on the side of your face as you continue to chat with everyone else. 

You tune out during the speeches that Mel’s boss has. You don’t necessarily care for it, though you do your best to look like you’re paying attention. You’ll read some reverbed version of this long winded monologue tomorrow morning, and Mel will definitely let you know how she feels about it later. 

When the talking is over and the music turns on, you find yourself being dragged by the other women at your table to be introduced to some other single women attending the gala. At the very least, you didn’t end up lying to Bucky. You ended up doing networking here after all. 

By the time you managed to get out of the hands of single men and women trying to enlist your services, your purse was stuffed to the brim with business cards that weren’t yours, and you would need to order some more cards of your own on Monday. 

You managed to slip out to a secluded hallway, away from the music and festivities. You kept walking, running a hand through your hair as you sighed. You found an open balcony, the cool New York air blowing through it and a bench calling your name.

You rested your aching feet, and decided to look through the cards you got– trying to organize who you would delegate to some of your coworkers and who you would take on as your own from the short conversations that you had. Your workload was already heavy as it was, and you still had a certain man that wasn’t making your life any easier for you. 

“Can I pay you to get me off your list?”

Speak of the devil.

“Maybe if you say please,” you respond, still shuffling the cards into two separate stacks.

The devil doesn’t respond to you. You let out a deep sigh.

You looked up, finding him leaning against the doorframe of the balcony door. His hands are tucked in his pocket, looking at you. You close your purse, resting your hands on the cement bench as you let your eyes scan him up and down.

“I have a great match for you. She works in the government as well. She’s a personal assistant, so she understands the kind of work that you do as a Congressman. Just as busy as you are. She has her ideal type as someone taller than 5’10’’. Doesn’t have a preference for age, but has told me that she wants someone with an old soul. She’s cute. Somewhat of a busy-body, but that means that she’s pretty low maintenance, and you don’t have to worry that much about dates,” you said. 

His eyes narrowed at you. “Are you setting me up on a date or selling me a product?”

“Depends on the angle that you look at it,” you shrugged. 

Bucky sighed, closing his eyes tight. “If I go on this one date, will you leave me alone?” 

“If it goes well on your end and hers, then yes,” you nodded. “However, the company does assist in setting up the first, second, and third date. From there, it is up to you and her to decide if you two will be an official couple. If you do, you both are obligated to report it to the company. I will then check up on you during the milestones of your relationship.”

“Milestones?” he asked, frowning at you.

“You know, your anniversaries. First month. Six months. One year. If you even need help proposing to her one day, then we can definitely help you with that as well– Mr. Wilson paid for the full Ador Matchmaking Package, so it’s included,” you informed him. 

Bucky stared at you like you had two heads and six pairs of eyes on each head. You continued to smile at him, and moved to stand in front of him. 

“I am not here to make your life difficult, Congressman. In fact, I think that finding you a partner can be a wonderful thing. I find that being able to share your life with someone– share your struggles with someone– can relieve a lot of the stress that you may have,” you said, locking eyes with him.

“Are you speaking from your own experience?” he asked, clenching his jaw tight. Your smile faltered for the first time. You quickly fixed it back into place. 

“I have seen and matched many successful couples,” you answered, ignoring the true intentions of his question. “Just trust me.”

Bucky let out a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he looked to be contemplating his options here.

“I’m not ready for a date. I have my own issues that I just… I have issues,” he admitted to you, lowering his hand. “You left me a voicemail– saying you wanted to discuss more of my… desires with a partner. Let’s start with that.”

“Of course,” you said, trying to hide the giddiness in your chest. Finally. You were getting somewhere with him. “We’ll take this at your pace.”

On your first meeting with him, you had to explain the dating in this century. Bucky still continues to stare at you like you were insane, and you can only sigh as you try to break down the new lingo of the year for him.

"What do you mean by that?"

"By what?"

"Talking stage. Situationship. What is that?"

"Just because you go on dates with someone, doesn't mean that you are dating them, Congressman. Same thing with talking. You can be talking with them, but are you talking with them? It's all in the nuances. Situationships are a bit more... sensual."

Bucky still doesn't get it, and you're worried about sending him off on dates with women- some of your older clients even know about these phrases. You're afraid Bucky might think he's going steady with someone who isn't serious about him at all.

The second meeting included texting etiquette and dating terms. Bucky couldn't wrap his head around why people sent emoticons to each other- he hated phone calls already. He despised having to send those cute emojis to express his emotions over text.

"Ghosting?" he deadpanned at you. "Did you ask me if I have ever been ghosted before?"

"It's a general question, Congressman-"

"No- I don't know what that means," he cut you off. "Did someone fucking die?"

You stare at him like he's crazy, but you clearly slip your mask back into place and remind yourself that he was born in the late 1910s.

"It's when someone that you were previously talking to just randomly disappears. Remember we were talking about the talking stage during our last meeting? Say you thought your date went really well, and you're looking forward to your next date, and you try meeting up with her again, but she just- poof! Disappears. Gone without a trace."

"You can search her up in the database and find her easily."

You almost want to cry at how serious he looks and sounds at this moment.

"Not everyone is an ex-assassin, Congressman."

Your next meeting has you handing in your resignation on the spot. You never thought you would have to explain what a thirst trap is to someone over the age of thirteen, but here you were. It came up during the topic of dating apps, and how he despised every single moment that he was on them.

"I saw girls in tiger outfits," he told you.

"Like... full fur suits?" you asked.

"No, like bikinis."

"Oh. Like a costume?"

"Yeah. Why do they do that?" he asked, frowning at you.

"To look sexy," you shrugged at him. "Some people are attracted to that."

"People are attracted to tigers?"

"No, Congressman. They are attracted to the girl showing the wildly inappropriate amount of skin," you said, fighting back the laugh bubbling up in your throat. He looked utterly disgusted right now.

"Why would anyone put that shit on?"

"Some people enjoy it as a kink," you said, clearing your throat to hide your laughter. "Some see it as an acts of service kind of thing. You know, love languages."

Bucky looked like he was about to combust in his seat. "Love languages? Since when the hell did love have a language?"

"Words of affirmation, quality time, physical touch- just to name a few," you said, nodding at him.

"Isn't that the basics of romance? All of that, combined?" he asked, eyebrows furrowed at you. He almost sounded scandalized.

You gave Bucky a wide grin-- one that wasn't your practiced smile. "That's what I like to hear. Keep that in mind while I try to find you a match, okay?"

It's on your fourth meeting when you officially dub Bucky as your most stubborn client that you've ever had. You are losing patience, and you thought you had an astounding amount of it. You didn’t think that he could be worse than the questionnaire that he filled out.

Bucky spoke a lot, but he didn’t say anything in his words. He talked in circles that had your mind running. 

Over four meetings, you could barely managed to figure out that he wanted a partner that would be able to keep up with his busy schedule, and not get upset with him for being closed off. You could work with that– someone understanding. That was basic level, but that should have been something that he could have said within the first minute of speaking to you. Not over the eighteen hours that you have sat down with him and talked.

You know Bucky is also getting increasingly frustrated as your meetings go along, too. You’re questioning him in different ways that he’s not used to– he’s not used to being on the opposite end of an interrogation, especially not about his desires in a woman.

“I still don’t understand why we have to meet like this,” Bucky said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I told you– the questionnaire that you submitted to us was damn near empty, Congressman,” you stressed. “I have nothing to work with here. I can’t find you a partner if you put a question mark as an answer!’

“I think it’s pretty straight forward,” he grunted in his seat.

“You have to have a physical type that you’re attracted to, at least,” you finally said, exasperated as you dropped rubbed circles into your temples. 

Your notebook was filled with scribbles that you would try to make sense of later, but you knew there was nothing substantial from this latest meeting with your stubborn client. This is your fifth meeting with him and you still have nothing. 

“I… I don’t. Not really,” he answered, looking down at his desk.

 Bucky’s leg was bouncing up and down under his desk, an anxious habit you observed he did when he was over the meeting and you knew that it was time for you to wrap it up for the day.

“James,” you said, exasperated. “Everyone has a type. Someone that they see on the street that their eyes linger on just a little more than the next person. Nothing comes to mind? Not even just one feature?”

He stopped bouncing for a moment, then lifted his gaze to meet yours. Your breath caught in your throat at the unexpected contact, and you held it. You watched him just as intently as he watched you, waiting for him to speak as your heart began to uncharacteristically thump in your chest.

“Eyes,” he finally said, never breaking those stormy orbs away from you. “You can tell a lot about a person by looking them in the eyes. I like a person’s eyes.”

You swallowed thickly, swiping your tongue over your bottom lip as you cleared your throat. You tore your eyes away from him to look down at your notes, scribbling the word down, and circling it twice.

“Thank you. That’s progress. Not a lot for me to work off of, but I can find someone with pretty eyes for you,” you replied, giving him a smile of relief. 

“Add smiles to your notes. Pretty smiles are good, too.”

 You pause at his words, eyes narrowing at him for a moment. He smiled back at you before you went ahead and wrote down the word next to ‘eyes.’

“Do you really think there is someone out there that is willing to date an ex-assassin that committed several war crimes?” he asked, leaning back in his seat. “Not to mention, I’m old enough to be a lot of these people’s grandfather’s.”

“Great grandfather’s,” you corrected him.

“Wow,” he scoffed, but a smile fit over his face.

“I think you need to give yourself a little more credit. You deserve it,” you said, closing your notebook. You shoved it into your tote purse, and stood up to straighten your blazer. Bucky’s eyes followed your figure as you moved. “You may have done things that you’re not proud of, but haven’t we all? What matters now is that you’re doing your best to rectify the things that you didn’t even have control over.”

“It was still me that did it,” he said, sucking in a breath.

“And the man in front of me is a great match for a lot of women out there, if he just allows me to set him up with someone,” you replied. You watched as his eyes fell on your face again, and you smiled at him. “I promise, Congressman. There’s someone for everyone. Including you. Someone that accepts your past, and looks forward to the future that you envision– that you won’t even share with me even though it’s my job to try and find someone that fits that future.”

A chuckle falls from his lips as he shakes his head. He straightens in his seat, busying his hands with organizing the manila folders on his desk. 

“I still don’t think I’m ready to just get out there and meet people, sweetheart. That’s not… I haven’t dated in a long time.”

You stared at him for a few moments. He’s avoiding looking at you right now– there’s a sheepish tone in his voice. He’s trying to glide over the vulnerability of his confession by organizing pens that are already color coded, and a calendar that is properly filled. 

“Go on a date with me,” you said before you could stop yourself.

His metal hand closes over a pen, and stops. “What?”

“A trial date,” you clarified, squaring your shoulders off to hide the embarrassment creeping up your neck. “You haven’t been on a date in a long time, and I’m the one trying to get you on dates. Let’s see how you are on dates, and once it’s over then I can give you a few pointers. Tell you if there’s anything that you need to work on– or let you know that you’re simply overthinking this whole thing.”

“Is this part of the service Sam bought?”

“No,” you answered honestly. “But it’s my job to help you, and you’re not confident in yourself. I need to build your confidence so you can meet some of my clients. No woman likes an insecure man.”

Bucky’s searching your figure again– doing that same thing he did at the gala. Searching for something in you. Hesitation maybe? Regret, you guess. Maybe he thinks you’ll take back your words. You stare right back at him, unwavering. 

You’re breaking a lot of your own personal rules, and boundaries these days, but you don’t say that out loud. You’re doing a lot to help your clients– starting with Mel’s charity gala, and now offering to do a test run with Bucky. It seems that you just can’t help yourself. 

“When’s your next free night, Congressman?” you asked, taking your phone out from your purse to pull up your calendar. “I’ll clear my evening for you.”

You met him at an upscale restaurant of your choosing, telling him that you would plan the date as is normal by Ador standards when it comes to the matchmaking dates. All he needed to do was show up and look nice. You thought you would be early, just like last time. You’re pleasantly surprised to find him opening the door to your Uber, a bouquet of flowers in hand.

“Hi there,” you smiled at him.

“Hi,” Bucky replied, a bit stiff. You kept your laugh to yourself as he took a few steps back to allow you to get out of the car, and then he shut it behind you. “This is– uh– for you.”

He holds out the bouquet– one that you can tell is on the pricier end of the market. The scent is strong, the buds are young, and the colors are vivid. The bow wrapped tight around it is pristine and sharp as well. Your smile only seemed to grow a bit wider as you took it from his hands, brushing your fingertips against his as you did. 

“They’re beautiful. I love them, thank you,” you told him, truthful.

“Thank God,” he muttered, leading you towards the restaurant. “Sam said something about women in this era not enjoying flowers. I almost didn’t get you any.”

“Women still like flowers,” you said, eyebrows raising at him.

“That’s what I told him, and I’m glad that you agree. I’ll have to tell him that the professional sides with me,” Bucky chuckled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he held the door open for you to enter first. 

You felt his hand rest on the small of your back as he joined behind you, and you made the mental note in your head– he really wasn’t all that closed off. In just a few moments, he proved to be extremely charming. What was his issue with dating?

The two of you were shown to a quieter table towards the back of the restaurant, with Bucky pulling out your seat. You’re getting more impressed by the second here. Maybe it’s the fact he was around during the prime time of men being chivalrous, but you were certain that this would have a lot of your clients sinking their claws into him and never letting him go. You just had to find him someone that he didn’t want to let go of.

The dinner was a set course that you both ate quietly save for small comments on how the fish was cooked perfectly. Otherwise, you didn’t say much until the table was cleared and more wine was poured into your glasses. You both thank the waiter before turning your attention back to each other.

“So, Congressman. Was the last date you really had back in the forties?” you asked, resting your chin in your palm as you stared at him.

He lets out a small laugh, shaking his head. “Bucky– Just… Bucky is fine for right now. And no. I went on a date a year or so ago.”

“Okay, Bucky,” you said, testing the name on your tongue. You watched as the corners of his lips curled slightly. “How did that date go?”

“Ran out on her,” he recalled, and you furrowed your eyebrows at him. He let out a deep sigh. “Not my best moment, but she said something that kind of… triggered me, I guess. Couldn’t really stay for much longer without having a panic attack.”

You keep your eyes on him for a few moments before you decide to reach for your wine glass and take a slow sip, digesting his words as the liquid runs down your throat. You let out a small hum. 

“Well, you can’t run from me,” you smiled at him, “I already know your past. There’s nothing that you need to hide from me that I’ll be scared of.”

“I’m sure you’ll show up at my office if I run away from you,” he chuckled with a shake of his head. 

“I will. You are notorious for not answering your phone,” you reminded him.

“I honestly hate that thing,” he said with a deep sigh. “I preferred when people sent each other letters. They were much more personal. You could see people’s handwriting, and how they felt with each stroke of their pen.”

You raised your eyebrows, surprised. You didn’t expect this. However, it made sense. Bucky did strike you as a guy that would prefer sentimental gifts over expensive, over the top trinkets.

“If I send you a letter or write you a sticky note, will you be more inclined to meet with me again?” you asked.

Bucky can’t help but laugh at your question. “Sure, sweetheart. I’ll meet with you again if you send me a heartfelt letter.”

“I’ll spray my perfume and add a kiss mark next to my signature, just for you,” you teased. “Send it straight to your door.”

He shakes his head at your antics, though his smile never falters. His fingers play with the stem of the wine glass, twirling the glass in his flesh hand for a few moments as a comfortable silence fills the air between you two. The live pianist in the restaurant fills in the gaps between your conversation, allowing the two of you a moment of peace as you watch over each other. 

Bucky looks handsome tonight. He’s ditched the usual tie that he wears with his suits, and a couple of the buttons are undone at the top of his shirt. You can see the shining necklace of what you assume is his dog tags hiding against his chest. His blazer is hung at his chair, the material matching the slacks he wears. His hair, which is normally gelled back, is slightly out of place from the day. A few strands are framing his face and you find that you like it better this way. It looks a little fluffy. His beard is well maintained as per usual, a little shorter than you remember seeing it last week. 

He’s scanning you the same way you’re scanning him. This time, you know that he’s not searching your body for answers like he had done previously. You feel oddly exposed under his gaze, but not uncomfortable. A shiver runs down your spine as his eyes continue to drag up and down your figure.

“I’m surprised your boyfriend is alright with you going on dates like this,” he finally said, your eyes meeting his. “Even if this is supposed to be something that is meant to help a client of yours.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, finger circling the rim of your wine glass. You wet your lips as you suck in a small breath, preparing for the questions to come after you respond to his statement.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” you told him.

It’s Bucky’s turn to raise an eyebrow at you. He rested his arms on the table, leaning in closer to you. “You’re telling me that my matchmaker that’s supposed to find me a girlfriend isn’t taken? This sounds like a scam, sweetheart.”

You roll your eyes at his blatant sarcasm, sighing deeply. “I don’t have to be in a relationship to know how relationships work, Bucky.”

“Then, why? What’s the reason that the professional relationship maker doesn’t want to be in a relationship?” he asked.

You bit the inside of your cheek, the question weighing heavy on your mind. Out of your coworkers, you are the only one that is without a partner. They are all going strong with someone– on the path of getting engaged, or already married. You are the only one alone, and you’re the best employee in the company. You look down at the table for a moment before lifting your eyes to meet his. 

The truth is- you're afraid. You fear allowing someone into your heart, seeing the vulnerability of everything that you are. It's such a small reason that everyone holds close to their heart, a reason that you have coerced others out of their shells... but you still can't seem to get out of your own.

“I haven’t found the right match,” you answered. 

“Who’s the right match for you?”

You sighed, leaning back in your seat for a moment. “I have a deal breaker. I need to watch the guy climb a fence. If they look fucking stupid while doing it, then I’m out.”

“What?” Bucky whispered, staring at you in disbelief.

You smiled at him- a pretty smile that you knew he liked.

“I like athletic guys. Ones that can preferably pick me up like I don’t weigh anything. And that can carry all the groceries into the house in one trip, or all the bags when I go shopping. I make enough money to sustain myself, and I’ll continue working even after I get married to keep my own income separate from a joint account. A guy that will let me do whatever I want without questioning me or my decisions because he trusts me. I’m not really a homemaker, if you understand what I’m saying. So, it’s a little difficult. My preferences in the bedroom differ from what I enjoy in reality, so the men I seek don’t want to date all of me. They want someone submissive 24/7, and that’s not typically who I am.”

You’re more than certain you gave Bucky more than he asked you for, but you don’t really care. You’re trying to gain his trust so that he opens up to you, tells you more about what he wants in a partner, so that you can find someone for him.

“So,” you continued, picking up your wine glass again. “What are your preferences in the bedroom– or have you not done anything since the forties?”

Bucky’s lips parted, then shut. His mind looked to be short circuiting in real time, still processing your words. Then, he cleared his throat.

“Are all women as forward as you while on dates in this time period?” he finally asked.

“Not all,” you chuckled, taking a sip of the wine. You can’t help but tease him, “I just find myself comfortable enough to speak with you like this. What about you, Congressman? I feel like we’ve known each other long enough for you to talk to me about this kind of thing.”

Bucky downs the rest of the wine in his glass, surprising you with his actions. His eyes are dark when they lock onto yours, and his voice is low. The gravely tone makes goosebumps rise on your skin, and you instinctively straighten in your seat at the commanding presence he’s giving off. You don’t dare look away from him.

“I don’t prefer to talk about my preferences in the bedroom. I'd rather just show you.”

Bucky’s hand is cradling the back of your head, a soft barrier to keep your head safe as he pushes you back against the wall. Your lips are still connected to his, head angled upwards to deepen the kiss with him. Your purse is sliding down your arm, about to hit the floor with a soft thud when he parts from you to grab it, securing it over his own shoulder before returning back to your lips.

He really is a gentleman at heart.

Your moans are swallowed greedily into his throat as if the two of you didn’t just have a five course meal an hour ago, and his hands are moving to your thighs, bunching up your dress to your hips. Once he feels your skin against him, he groans against your lips, a tingle racing down your spine and going straight to your core. 

He tastes like wine, but faintly of cinnamon, too. With him so close to you, you’re overwhelmed and wrapped by the scent of smoke and wood, and you don’t hate it. There’s cologne somewhere in the mix here– something that you can’t detect since it’s so late in the night, but you can smell the smell of him on his neck.

“Bucky,” you whimpered, his fingertips digging into the flesh of your thighs.

“I got you,” he muttered in response, hands moving to the underside of your thighs to scoop you up. 

Bucky easily shifted to have your legs wrap around his hips, and tilted his head upwards to trail kisses down your jaw and neck. You let out a soft sigh, angling your neck to the side to let him have more space to play.

“This is what you wanted, right?” he grunted before nipping at the soft skin at your neck. You let out a soft moan, gripping at the lapels of his blazer.

“What?” you whispered back as his tongue moved to soothe the wound.

“You said you wanted a man that could pick you up like you weigh nothing. I’m right here, sweetheart.”

You barely have time to process his words before you’re being pulled off the wall. He still has you in his arms, and your lips are caught in his again. Bucky moves through his apartment without having to see anything, going straight to his bedroom. He opens the door, holding you with only one arm as he carries you to bed. 

Sitting down, you’re straddling his lap. 

You grab his face in your hands, hungry for him. You can’t get enough. 

“You’re so handsome,” you whispered between kisses. 

“Not too insecure for you?” he chuckled softly.

“Don’t ruin the moment,” you huffed, biting his bottom lip softly. 

Bucky’s hands fall to your hips once more before moving to your back, finding the zipper of your dress. He unzips the piece without hesitation, and you briefly part from him to allow him to pull it off of your body. 

“God,” he groaned, taking a moment to look at you. His hands are on your waist, and your body shivered involuntarily at the cool touch of his metal hand. “You were hiding all of this from me, sweetheart?”

You weren’t wearing a bra. You couldn’t– not with the strappy dress that you were wearing. Of course, you had a jacket on earlier, and the material of your dress had one of those built in bras. You didn’t feel the need to explain it to him, not when Bucky was already taking a nipple in his mouth and kneading the other breast in his hand.

A moan fell from your lips as you arched your back into him– his free arm going to your back to support you and pull you even closer. You grabbed onto his shoulder, his hair, grounding your hips into his as he hummed into your chest.

You locked eyes with him, watched him as he swirled his tongue over the stiff peak of your nipple. Shit– this man was so hot. There was no way he was real. You couldn’t understand why this man was still single– age or lack of confidence aside. You didn’t get it. 

“Sit on my face,” he ordered you, your eyes widening slightly. 

You’re not certain you heard him right. 

“What–”

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he clicked his tongue, already moving the two of you deeper into his bed. He’s still fully dressed, laid back on the pillows, and you’re still sitting on his lap. He has his metal hand under his head, staring at you as he waits.

“My underwear–” you tried to start, lifting your hips to remove the last garment between what he wanted you to do. 

Bucky’s hands move faster than you can swing your leg over his body. A resounding rip fills the air, and you see the fabric of your underwear get thrown off to the side of his bed. His hands settle over your hips, and you are once again being effortlessly lifted towards him– heart thundering in your chest.

You didn’t have any mental preparation before his tongue met your heat. His arms locked around your thighs, holding you in place so you couldn’t even attempt to hover over him. No, he had the full weight of you on him, and he was moaning into you. The vibrations alone had your thighs tensing around his head, hands reaching down for his hair for some stability.

His tongue flatted against your core, licking up all the wetness that had seeped through without him touching you earlier. Bucky moaned at the taste, absolutely floored at your excitement. He angled his head just slightly, nose nudging at the sensitive bundle of nerves that made your body flinch. 

He chuckled beneath you at your reaction, pressing harder against you, nuzzling his nose deeper into you– putting more pressure on your clit as he began to piston his tongue in and out of your aching pussy.

“Bucky!” you moaned his name, like it was the only thing you could say.

He groaned in response, eyes opening just briefly to lock on yours– those same piercing eyes were dark, blown out– and you realized he enjoyed eating you out just as much as you enjoyed having his tongue lap against you. 

Bucky liked this. He enjoyed  this– got off on this. You falling apart above him, unable to run from his ministrations as he brought you closer and closer to the edge where he could watch you without any restraint. He could see everything. He could see the way your chest rose and fell erratically, the way your skin flushed, the way you bit your lip, the way your eyes were dilated as you looked down at him.

“Bucky– I’m so close,” you whimpered, tugging on his hair.

And he lifted you up and away from his mouth.

You felt a sense of loss immediately, panic rushing through your body as he chuckled beneath you. You watched as he licked his lips from your juices, and he pushed you back down to straddle him once again.

“What– why?” you whispered, damn near close to tears. 

Bucky pushed himself up to sit, unbuttoning his shirt as he did. He let out a small hum as he took off the garment, wiping off the last bits of you off of his face and beard before tossing it to the side. Then, he grabbed your face with one hand, yanking you back into a deep kiss. 

You melted into him, pliant, trembling, needy. You tasted yourself on his tongue as he licked into your mouth. The gripping hand that held your face softening, moving to stroke your cheek affectionately moments afterwards. 

“You didn’t say please, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips. 

Your eyes widened slightly– oh. You were going to kill him when you got out of this bedroom. He chuckled against your lips, knowing that you knew what he was referencing to. However, your irritation faded away as you heard the clink of his belt against his metal hand– noting that it was being taken off and discarded to the edge of the bed.

In one swift movement, you were on your back with Bucky in between your legs, lips on yours once more. 

You sighed into his mouth, closing your eyes as you felt his bare skin against yours. You could feel the scars of his shoulder under your left hand, the muscles of his right arm– his broad chest. You felt the ripples of his abs as your hands trailed down. 

Then you felt his length slide against your folds, coating itself in your slick. 

Bucky’s head rested in the crook of your neck, both of you letting out a soft moan as the tip of his cock briefly caught on your clit. You could feel the warm bead of precum drip onto your skin, your eyes falling shut at the sensation as a shiver of anticipation rushes through your body.

“Tell me what you want,” Bucky muttered, hands running up and down your sides. 

“You,” you responded instantly, a bit breathless. 

He chuckles, shaking his head before moving to press a kiss against your hairline. Bucky’s hands stop at your breasts, and you whine as he rolls both nipples in between his pointer fingers and thumbs.

“Gotta be a little more descriptive than that, doll, because I’m right here. Where do you want me?” he hummed, rutting his hips against yours again.

“Fu–ck,” you gasped, the word coming out broken from your throat. You collect yourself briefly, opening your eyes to look at him. “God, Bucky– you. I need your cock in me– please, I wanna cum all over your cock– I need it so bad, need you so bad–”

Your words die on your lips, cut off by the feeling of being stuffed absolutely full. Bucky’s forehead rested against yours, lips parted in a noiseless moan as he slid all the way to the hilt. Neither of you can say or move or breathe for a few moments– you’re both too overwhelmed. You can feel him so deeply inside of you, you’re sure he’s at your cervix.

“It’s like you were fucking made for me,” he finally groaned before pulling out, only leaving the tip of his cock in before thrusting all the way back in, starting a punishing pace. 

You can’t keep up with him, but you don’t even have to. Bucky’s doing all the work for you, his hips snapping into yours in perfect rhythm. When your back arches off the bed from the overwhelming pleasure of him, he scoops his arm underneath you to lock you in place as his other hand grabs both of your wrists to pin overhead to keep you from scrambling away from the intensity of the thrill.

Your first orgasm crept on you without any warning– but you were already wound up, and he knew it. You were a mess beneath him, moaning his name like it was the only thing he knew, hips rising to grind up to meet his, overstimulated by his lips all over your neck and chest.

He whispered pretty praises into your ear when you came around his cock, feeling his hips stutter slightly, and listening to him moan as you clenched around him tightly. Bucky didn’t stop there, though.

You didn’t have time to even come down from your high before he was flipping you over onto your stomach, him still inside of you. 

Your face was shoved into the pillow, his hand buried into your hair as the other hand grabbed at your hips to pull back into his own. He moaned behind you– and he was hitting you at a deeper, more delicious angle that made you see stars.

“Oh– Bucky– it’s too much,” you whined into the pillow, turning your head to breathe.

“You can take it,” he chuckled, letting out a soft moan after. “Your pussy is swallowing me up, can’t you feel it? She’s so greedy for me.”

You can only moan in response, your eyes rolling to the back of your skull. You fisted the pillows beside your head for some stability, some purchase– something– and Bucky thought you looked so pretty like this. Back arched, lips parted, trying to hold on for dear life while your walls clamped onto him desperately as moans kept escaping your lips.

He wouldn’t be able to last much longer, and you could feel it with the way his thrusts grew more erratically. 

Bucky’s hand left your hair, moving to hold onto your hips in a way you were sure you would have bruises in the morning that you would admire in the mirror. You could feel pressure building once more– another orgasm as he fucked harder into you– and a moaned out your name as you felt fuller than you thought you could. Your walls spasmed around him a second time, and you heard him let out a soft laugh above you as you struggled to breathe.

His hands moved to either side of your head, lowering himself to press kisses up your spine. You could feel his cock still throbbing inside of you, both of your releases beginning to dribble out of your abused hole and drip onto the sheets beneath you by the time his kisses made its way to your shoulder blades.

“Came a second time, sweetheart?” he murmured against your skin.

“Why the fuck are you still single?” you whispered, voice hoarse.

He smiled against your skin. “Waiting for the right match.”

You need to draw the line somewhere. There needs to be a boundary, even though you’ve already crossed every single one there is. You’re certain if someone finds out, you’re fired and blacklisted from the industry without any sort of defense from your side.

You ran the hell out of Bucky’s apartment the morning after. You rejected his offer for breakfast, and his offer for a ride back to your apartment. You wouldn't allow him to do that for you, not when you were in the middle of a crisis in your own head. 

You were trying to find him a girlfriend, but you weren’t sure if you could be his girlfriend, not when you weren’t even certain of love yourself.

You skillfully filled up your calendar for two weeks, apologizing to Bucky and letting him know you had emergency clients that needed your help, and you had a destination wedding to get to. It wasn’t a total lie, but it was also something to help you get your mind off of everything– to help you clear your head. 

It was contradictory– being a matchmaker and preaching for love, but refusing to fall in love yourself. You know that, but you didn’t want to think about it. Being in love meant being vulnerable with someone. It meant showing somebody the softest parts of you. It meant giving Bucky more than what he saw of you that night you spent together, and it terrified you. 

You don’t know if you were ready to give up the façade of control you had over your life, and it was so easy for him to strip it all away from you.

However, you knew you had to face him and your own feelings. You also know yourself better than anyone else.

“Let me get this straight– you want me to go on this date with your other client. After we went on a date, and we slept together?” Bucky asked you, eyebrows raised.

“Technically, you are my client, too. It’s my job to put two clients together,” you responded, nodding.

Bucky is staring at you, and you’re trying to avoid making eye contact with the bouquet of roses that he got you. Your heart is breaking, and you’re trying not to let it show. You’re really trying to be professional here, and you already broke so many rules. You went to a charity gala that wasn’t work related. You went on a date with a client. You slept with said client. 

“So us sleeping together– is that something that you just do with all you clients?” he asked, a scoff escaping his lips.

Your eye twitches just slightly. “I don’t even offer the trial date to any of my clients, Congressman,” you said, your lips in a thin line.

“Then why me?” he demanded. “Because I certainly had a good time. Both on the date and after– or was that just me?”

You bite your lip as you take in a deep breath. You had a great time. An amazing time. In fact– you enjoy a lot of your time with Bucky, as much as you hate to admit it. When you’re not interrogating him, he’s fun to talk to. The date banter was cute. The aftercare was top tier– he drew you a bath and sat in the soapy water with you and washed your hair. 

“You are my client,” you dismissed, ignoring his question. “Mr. Wilson has paid for my services, and we went on the trial date for me to evaluate how you are on the field. You aren’t bad on dates. You’re great. I think you’re ready to meet people– like that girl I told you about at the gala.”

“We slept together,” he said again. 

“And it was nice,” you nodded.

“That’s it? Just… nice? It didn’t mean anything else to you?” he asked. He was doing it again. Searching you for an answer. You hoped that your body didn’t give it away– hoped that he didn’t explore you well enough to know all your tells.

You fixed your smile on your face. “Is there something that you’d like to say, Congressman?”

Bucky’s lips part, as he watches you, eyebrows furrowed. He’s mad, and you know it. Guilt and dread builds up in your stomach, and you, for once, feel small. You watch as he sucks in a breath, and leans back in his seat.

“Fine. Set up the date. Just send me the details,” he said, looking away from you. “I have a meeting to get to, if you’d excuse me.”

He’s lying, and you know it. The windows of time he blocks out for you are usually at least three hours long. You’ve only been here for about thirty minutes. You don’t comment.

You can only manage a tight smile before you turn away from him. You don’t take the flowers with you, as much as you want to. Those flowers did nothing to deserve your cold shoulder. You close the door on your way out, taking your phone out of your purse as you dial a number. It picks up on the third ring.

“Hey Mel. Found you a date,” you said, trying to hide the jealousy in your voice.

You give her the details of Bucky, and you hate the way she sounds so excited because you know she is– she’s a good girl, and a great match. You wouldn’t be surprised if they got along well, if you were being honest.

You can only go back to the office, set up the date, then email both of them the details after going through their schedule to find the best time for the both of them. You receive a confirmation email back from both parties within minutes, and the dread in your stomach only grows larger.

You try to busy yourself when the date night comes along, staying in your apartment with a cheap beer and shitty romance movies that make you wonder if love exists or if you’re just too stupid to really think properly.

Mel must be having a great time right now, you think. The time of her life, even. You feel ugly with jealousy at this current moment in time, and you’re trying to shove it all away with greasy take out because you like Mel. She’s sweet. Bucky is the best match you could have found for her. Out of all the men in your books– he is the best out of the best.

And you’re so green with envy that you want to scream.

You wonder what flowers he bought her. You wonder if he pulled her chair for her to sit when they got to dinner. Maybe he even draped his fucking blazer over her shoulder if she got cold and didn’t wear a jacket– fuck! You should’ve pretended to forget your jacket so you could’ve pulled that move on him on your date.

You wonder if he decided to take her home. 

You clench your jaw as you pick up your phone, finding no notifications. There are no calls from either of them– no updates on their date. Could be a bad sign, but also could be a good sign. You groan into your hands.

You don’t get any restful sleep that night, and you’re scheduled to meet Mel at a coffee shop the next morning for a debrief on her date.

She looks great, which only seems to piss you off some more. You do your best to hide it. 

“Bucky was very handsome, like you said. I think he was taller than six foot though,” Mel started off with.

You smiled at her, “Sounds like the date went well?”

“He was a gentleman,” she grinned at you. “Very sweet the entire night. Almost too sweet, I think.”

You paused at that, tilting your head slightly. “Is that… a bad thing?”

“Um… Not necessarily?” she chuckled slightly. “I don’t know. It just seemed like his mind was somewhere else most of the time. He would answer when I talked– most of his questions to me were generic, but it felt like he was just kinda talking through me, not to me.”

“First dates are generally awkward for some,” you said, mentally kicking Bucky in the shin while kissing his face at the same time. “Did you want to see him again?”

“Actually… at the end of the date, he told me there was someone that he was already interested in,” she said, giving you a small smile as she reached into her purse. “And that he discussed handwritten, sentimental letters with her. He said that you walked away from him last time, but he was certain that I would see you again, so he asked me to give this to you.”

Your eyes widened as Mel slid over the envelope over the table, your lips parting as you saw your name sprawled over the paper in his handwriting. Panic flashed over your face as you looked up at her, and her smile only grew wider.

“Like I said– he was very sweet to me, but he looked like he wanted to be anywhere else than with me last night,” Mel said. “And he apologized profusely to me for wasting my time, and told me that I didn’t have to do this if I didn’t have to– but I like you, and I think this is really cute. You don’t see guys write love letters to girls these days. However, I expect a wedding invitation if that happens.”

She leaves you in the coffee shop with the letter that takes you too long to open. When you finally do, you find several pages folded up. Behind the handwritten letter, you find the Ador Matchmaker questionnaire as well. Your eyes widened– he filled it out. Completely. To the brim, with full answers. 

You don’t know how long you spend in the café, rereading both the letter and his answers before you’re booking a ride towards his office

You stand in the hall, his handwritten letter tucked safely in your purse as you try to will your heart to calm down in your chest. The receptionist let you know that he was definitely in the building somewhere. You don't know if he’s in the middle of a meeting or an appointment, but you’re willing to wait. 

Eventually, you hear footsteps against the marble floor, and you hear the chatter of different voices echoing against the walls. Then, it slows, and the voices come to a stop. You look up, finding Bucky in the center of a crowd of other men in suits. They’re all looking at him, waiting– and he dismissed them with a nod and a mutter of a couple words. They disperse immediately.

He fixed his suit with his hands, walking past you and to his door, unlocking the office. He doesn’t say a word, but holds it open for you to step in first. Your heart squeezes at the gesture, and you move. 

Your eyes fall on the wilting roses first. He put them in a vase, in the corner of his office where he can see them from his desk. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” he asked. The door shuts as he walks in behind you, and he goes towards his chair. Bucky cleared his throat, taking a seat. 

“Yes,” you said, sitting at the chair opposite from his desk. “I’m here to follow up on your date with Mel.”

You watch as his eyebrow twitches in annoyance. “I see. This couldn’t have been a phone call? An email?”

“You are very infamous for avoiding my phone calls, Congressman. Should I send you a letter for my clients to deliver to you, too?” you asked.

Bucky stared at you for a few moments, before sighing. He relaxed in his seat, closing his eyes. 

“Is this the part where you tell me that this is unprofessional? That you can’t be in a relationship with me?” he asked, his voice quiet. “Is that why you pulled away from me so quickly after the date?”

“Because it was unprofessional,” you argued back. “It shouldn’t have happened the way it did– part of me feels like I took advantage of you.”

“You didn’t,” he immediately said, eyes snapping open to meet yours. Your breath caught in your throat. “You did not take advantage of me. I wanted you– I want you just as bad as you wanted me.”

“Your letter said that I make you feel human,” you said, letting out a shaky breath. “You mean it?”

“I rewrote that thing five times before I got the proper wording down, sweetheart,” he confessed, sighing. He dragged his hand over his face, shaking his head. “The first four drafts didn’t convey what I wanted it to.”

“And you really think that I can make you happy?” you whispered.

“You said it yourself. You find it easy to talk to me,” he said, a laugh escaping his lips. “I agree with you. You are the easiest person for me to talk to. I think I could tell you everything, and that scares me.”

You can hear your heartbeat in your ears. “It scares you– but you still want me?”

“I have lived through war upon war,” he said. “I think I know better than anyone than to let fear overtake what I want in life.”

You’re scared, and you know he can see it from the way he’s looking at you. You tried to ignore that look in bed– the way he looked at you like you were precious and gentle beneath him as you came undone. The way his eyes weren’t just full of lust, but affection, too.

“I’ll jump a fence for you,” he added, making you laugh. 

You stood up out of your chair, feeling the weight of his eyes on you as you rounded the side of his desk. You placed a hand on the back of his chair, turning it to the side so you could have full access to him.

“I am so scared of love,” you admitted to him, moving to straddle his lap. 

“I figured,” he said, resting his hands on your hips. 

“I promise I’m good at my job though,” you murmured, sliding your hands up his chest and linking your fingers behind his neck. Your lips meet his in a sweet kiss, a sigh escaping him as you finally connect.

“Mm… I beg to differ. Can I fire you now, sweetheart?” he whispered, lips barely ghosting over yours, “I don’t need your help planning a second date.”

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla

let me know if you would like to be added/removed to a general bucky fanfic taglist :)

[ivybucky]

I’m crying this is so cute

Ahem… I would like to request a fic with Bob where the reader has never been kissed before >:3 and is in love with him heh and is almost as nervous and awkward as he is

Case Of The Giggles

Bob Reynolds x reader 

Words: 971

A/N: you know I LOVE first kiss storiesssss! I actually have one ready for Bob that I’m planning on posting later but it wasn’t awkward enough so I wrote this one too! Anyways I hope you love it 🫶

Despite what people told you, you felt bad for being considered a late bloomer. 

It wasn’t some big secret that you hid, but it wasn’t something you bragged about either. 

Never been in a relationship. Never had your first kiss. 

Frankly you honestly just found it difficult to even talk to men. But then came Bob. 

Bob was simple. 

Not in his emotions but in the way he connected with people—the way he connected with you. 

It started with one simple conversation that led to a deep one and suddenly you two were like kindred spirits. Linked together. 

He found something hilarious? He had to show you. 

You saw a book you’d think he’d like? Shared it with him. 

You two shared your good days and bad days together and in time, the moments shared had you questioning if you had actual deep feelings for the man. And after some contemplating you realized…you did. 

Everything about that thought made you nervous. 

From the thought of what confessing could do to your friendship. To the idea of what would happen if you actually got together. It all created one huge tangled ball in your stomach, one that you clearly were not doing good at hiding. Eventually the ball of feelings came out, not from you first but actually from Bob. Which led to your first date which was why you two were sat, side by side on a picnic table a bit away from an ice cream stand. 

Bob mentioned an inside joke, one that always made you crack up and instead of the usual laugh that he loved hearing, he was met with a single smile as your eyes then went back to the cup in your hand. 

“Okay,” he set his own cold delicacy down, turning to you again, “Where are you?”

“Huh?” You asked, your mind coming back down to earth. 

“What are you doing?”

You shook your head at his question, “just thinking,” was what you said, “about how we ended up here,” you said and he laughed. 

“We took a cab.”

You shot him a look as a smile crept onto your lips, “you know that’s not what I meant.”

“I know.”

You exhaled a deep sigh, closing your eyes and then opening them. “I’m thinking about how disastrous this could all go,” you said, sending him an unsure smile. You knew you should be happy about him and you—and you were. But you also had this gut wrenching feeling that you would do something to mess it up. And while you would be afraid to share that thought with anyone else you weren’t afraid to share it with Bob. 

“It’s not going to go disastrously,” he assured, finding himself being the positive one for once when usually you were. 

You two sat quietly, finding yourselves lost in your ice creams. His voice cut through the silence, “do you want to know what I’m thinking about?”

You nodded, setting your ice cream down, “sure.”

He took a breath, something he’s gotten into the habit of when he expressed himself, something he actually picked up from you. 

“I’m thinking about,” his eyes looked up and down your face, his features softening, finding solace in them, “how pretty you look under these lights.” Your lips curved but you did your best to contain your smile. He could easily see right through you. “I’m thinking about how lucky I am to have met you,” he paused again, his fingers grazing yours that sat on the bench between you two, “I’m thinking about how happy I am when I’m with you.”

After that one, you realized just how close you two were. You felt his body heat draw near as he did and just when he was going to meet you, you of course just had to get the nervous giggles. Laughing a bit you pushed him away from you creating a distance again. 

��Sorry. I’m sorry,” you said, “it’s not you I’m just…” you straightened again your laughter dying out more embarrassed now, “nervous.”

His expression shifted into one of surprise. 

“You’re nervous? Join the club.”

“You’re nervous?”

“Are you kidding me? You should see how twisted my insides are just thinking about even the possibility of getting to kiss you right now.”

You laughed again causing him to smile. 

“Don’t laugh!” He commanded. 

“I’m sorry!” You shouted back. 

You became serious just for a moment while he stared at you. At the forced silence you both burst into a light case of the giggles until it quieted down. 

“Okay stop. I’m gonna kiss you now.”

With your nerves still present but reduced, you straighten your posture, “okay, do it.”

You stood still, heart still awry as he neared. His hand reached up to your jaw holding you secure and after what felt like an eternity, his lips met yours. 

Your facial muscles that were ready to tug upwards into another fit of laughter instead relaxed as you followed his lead. 

Unlike you, Bob moved with purpose. Like he was giving his whole heart to you in this small innocent kiss and you were receiving it and giving your own right back to him. 

Although you were uncertain about how your limbs were moving you weren’t focused on that. Instead you were focused on the way he felt. 

His lips were warm against yours. 

Warm. Inviting. Sweet. Chocolatey and minty. 

You savored his taste, while he did yours until his lips smiled as he leaned away. 

You looked at him curiously, as he beamed back at you. “Now I have the privilege of telling people I was your first kiss,” he said, causing you to mirror his expression but he met you again for a quick kiss, “and your second.” He repeated the action again before saying, “and your third.”

[ivybucky]

AAHHHHHHH THIS IS TOO CUTE

I Thought We Were Already Dating

pairing | congressman!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 4k words

summary | you thought you were spiraling over a situationship—meanwhile, bucky barnes had been acting like your very committed, very oblivious boyfriend the entire time. one public meltdown, a congressional office full of witnesses, and a very intense kiss later… you're officially his girl (and he never doubted it).

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, p in v, established situationship, mutual pining (but one of them doesn't know), miscommunication, public confession, soft!bucky, domestic chaos, comedy & angst, bucky barnes is your boyfriend (he just forgot to tell you), reader is unhinged (affectionate), FLUFF & SMUT, friends to lovers (but they skipped the "friends" and the "lovers" just happened), poor congressional staff, possessive!reader, love confession, bucky is so in love it hurts

a/n | based on this request. i love writing chaotic reader

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

Your back hit the mattress in a blur of limbs and low groans, Bucky’s mouth never leaving yours, his hands already sliding under the hem of your shirt like he needed to feel skin, all of it, immediately.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he breathed against your lips, voice rough from hours of holding back everything but this.

You barely managed to smile before his teeth grazed your jaw, his scruff dragging just enough to make you shiver. His body blanketed yours, warm and solid, pressing you down in the most intoxicating way.

“You saw me this morning,” you murmured, fingers curling into his hair.

“Not like this.”

The shirt came off.

Then his.

You didn’t stop him.

You never did.

Because being under Bucky Barnes like this—held like something he didn’t want to let go of—was the only time you felt whole. His touch, his mouth, his breath in your ear as he whispered how good you felt, how fucking perfect you were when you were under him like this.

It was all consuming.

He kissed his way down your chest, every inch of skin worshiped like he didn’t just want you—he needed you. His fingers hooked into the waistband of your underwear, dragging them down, slow, like he loved the way you sounded when you gasped just from anticipation.

You watched him from above, chest heaving, skin flushed—and in that moment, something tight twisted in your stomach that had nothing to do with arousal.

It was the ache.

The quiet question in the back of your head that always came right before you let him *n.

What are we?

You didn’t ask.

You just let your legs fall open, let his body settle between them, and swallowed the question whole.

He looked down at you once more, eyes so soft they burned.

“You want me?” he asked, voice hushed, reverent.

You nodded.

“Say it,” he whispered, leaning down, lips brushing your collarbone.

“I want you,” you breathed.

He groaned, low and wrecked, and then he was inside you.

One thrust.

Slow. Deep.

Your back arched, your mouth parting in a gasp as he bottomed out, hands gripping your hips like he was anchoring himself in you.

He didn’t move at first.

Just breathed.

Pressed his forehead to yours.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “You always feel like home.”

You blinked.

Your heart stopped.

But then he started moving—hips rolling slow, dragging pleasure from your core in waves. Every stroke was measured, precise, like he wanted you to feel every inch of him. Like he wasn’t just fucking you—he was holding you, claiming you without a single word about what it meant.

You let your nails scrape down his back, your thighs tightening around his waist, chasing every thrust like it could answer the questions you didn’t dare ask.

He kissed you again.

Not hungrily.

Not possessively.

Just soft.

Like a man who thought you already belonged to him.

His pace stayed slow at first—torturously so. Each thrust sank deep, dragging friction that had your nails pressing harder into his skin, a soft whimper caught at the back of your throat.

He was watching you now.

Eyes dark, focused, mouth parted like he was trying to memorize the way you looked when he was buried inside you.

“You feel so fucking good,” he murmured, and the way he said it—it was too soft. Too real. Like it meant something. Like you meant something.

You arched up to meet him, hips rising into each roll of his body, chasing that dizzying edge as the room dissolved around you. The only thing real was the heat building between your bodies, the slick slide of his skin against yours, the way he groaned every time your walls clenched around him.

You could feel your release winding tight, breath ragged, body shaking.

And then—

His hand cupped your cheek.

His lips found yours again, tender and aching as he whispered into your mouth, “That’s it. Let go. I’ve got you.”

It hit you like a wave.

You shattered underneath him, crying out as your body clamped down, orgasm tearing through you with a sharp, wet sound of skin against skin and your name on his tongue like it was sacred.

He fucked you through it, his thrusts faltering, rougher now, deeper, desperate.

“I can’t—baby, I’m gonna—fuck—” he groaned.

You wrapped your legs around him, pulled him tighter, wanted him closer.

“Inside,” you whispered, dazed.

His eyes locked on yours—wide, vulnerable, wrecked.

Then he was coming—hot and hard and raw, his whole body shaking as he buried his face in your neck and let himself fall apart in you.

His voice cracked.

“I love you,” he gasped, barely more than breath.

And you heard it.

Your body was still trembling. Your mind was still fogged.

But your heart?

It snapped to attention.

Because he said it like it was obvious.

Like he’d said it before. Like you knew.

His breathing had slowed.

His body lay heavy over yours, arms curled protectively around your waist, lips pressed to your collarbone in a lazy, half-conscious kiss. You could feel the weight of his affection in every touch—adoring, familiar, like this was just another Thursday night in the life of Bucky Barnes, the man who clearly thought you were his.

Because he said it.

He said I love you.

And not like it slipped.

Not like it was some heat-of-the-moment moan tangled in a climax.

He said it like he meant it.

Like he’d said it before.

Like he thought you already knew.

Your hand twitched on his back.

Your heartbeat, which had only just settled, started racing again—but not with pleasure. With full-blown panic.

Because—

What the actual fuck?

You stared up at the ceiling, body still bare, skin still warm from him, and yet—

Your brain screamed: WHAT ARE WE?

He shifted slightly, nuzzling closer, mumbling something incoherent as he pressed a kiss to your chest.

Meanwhile, your soul was clawing its way out of your skin.

Because if he thought this was that—you being his, this being real—then you’d missed a crucial piece of the plot somewhere back in act one.

He never asked.

There was never a “will you be my girlfriend?” conversation. No official status talk. No expectations. Just great sex, unholy chemistry, soft sleepovers, texts that made your stomach flip, and a drawer at his place you never questioned.

You suddenly wanted to sit up and scream.

But instead, you lay there frozen, blinking at the ceiling like it had personally betrayed you.

His hand rubbed slow circles on your hip.

You resisted the urge to launch yourself across the room.

What the fuck is going on.

Are we dating?

Is this real?

He sighed against your skin, content and sleepy.

You swallowed hard.

One Week Later

Your phone buzzed beside you on the kitchen counter.

It lit up with his name, the one you still hadn’t changed in your contacts—just “James 🇺🇸” with a dumb little flag emoji he’d added himself the first week you started… whatever this was.

James 🇺🇸:

On my way back—what do you want for takeout?

You stared at the screen for a second too long.

The question was simple. Casual. Routine.

And that’s what made your stomach twist.

Because it was routine.

The texts. The keys to your place. The way he dropped his jacket over your chair like he lived here. The way he smiled when he saw you, like everything else melted away.

You typed, deleted, typed again.

Finally, you sent:

You:

thai? the dumpling place. y'know the one.

Your phone buzzed two seconds later.

James 🇺🇸:

Already reading my mind, huh?

I’ll be there in 30.

Got you extra peanut sauce because I know you hoard it like a gremlin.

You huffed a small laugh, despite the weight still coiled in your chest.

Then you stared at that thread a little too long.

The little hearts you’d sent last week.

The blurry selfie he sent you from his office at midnight, captioned "Thinking about you and losing a vote at the same time 🫡”

The I love you that still echoed in your ears like a gunshot.

You set the phone down.

Walked into the bathroom.

And stared at yourself in the mirror.

You’d never called him your boyfriend.

He’d never asked.

But he acted like he was yours.

And the scary part?

You wanted him to be.

You just didn’t know if he knew that mattered.

The door creaked open with a familiar scrape—he still hadn’t fixed the hinge.

You turned from the couch, face carefully neutral.

He stepped inside in that unbuttoned suit jacket, tie half-loosened, hair tousled from a long day of pretending not to want to strangle half of Congress.

And he was smiling.

“Hey, baby,” he murmured, like it was the most normal thing in the world, setting the takeout bags down on your kitchen counter without even looking.

Baby.

You froze.

Okay, he calls you that all the time.

Maybe he calls everyone that.

Does he call Sam that?

“Place was packed,” he continued, toeing off his shoes. “Some guy tried to skip the line and the little lady behind the counter threatened to beat him with a ladle. Reminded me of you.”

You stared.

He wandered to the fridge, pulled out your favorite seltzer—your specific lemon one—and cracked it open before sliding it your way.

You caught it on instinct, fingers brushing the condensation.

He hadn’t even asked.

Just knew.

Then, casually, he took off his jacket, draped it over the chair, and loosened his tie more, tossing it with a sigh. His white dress shirt stretched a little at the biceps. He was still talking—something about a subcommittee vote gone to hell—but you were barely hearing it.

Because now?

You were tracking everything.

The way he set down two sets of chopsticks like it was automatic. The way he separated the sauces—your peanut ones on your side, his spicier one near him. The way he snagged the remote and flopped down beside you like he lived here.

Like this was his couch.

Was it his couch?

Was he paying your utilities?

“I don’t know why I let them keep putting me in these budget meetings,” he muttered, cracking open a box of dumplings. “Every time I try to talk, someone from Indiana gives me a migraine.”

You nodded slowly.

Then: “Do you… have a toothbrush here?”

He blinked at you mid-chew.

“Yeah?” He swallowed. “Under the sink. Next to yours. Why?”

Your eye twitched.

“Do you… always leave a change of clothes here?”

He nodded again, popping another dumpling in his mouth. “Babe, half my henleys are in your closet. You know that.”

You did.

You just didn’t process it.

You turned toward him fully, food forgotten.

His arm was already around your shoulders, pulling you in.

You didn’t resist. You leaned in.

And then you stared blankly at the TV as he rested his chin on your head, warm and soft and so stupidly comfortable.

He sighed.

“I missed you today,” he murmured. “It was shit at the office.”

Your heart did a weird thing in your chest—flipped, twisted, frowned.

You blinked slowly.

“…Do you keep anything at anyone else’s place?” you asked, very casually. Too casually.

He snorted. “What?”

“Just wondering.”

He reached for a spring roll. “No? Why would I?”

“Just wondering,” you repeated, mechanically.

He made a soft mhmm noise and handed you a dumpling without looking, already distracted by the TV again, thumb grazing lazy circles against your arm like his body just knew where you were supposed to be.

Meanwhile, your brain was screaming.

Are we dating?

ARE WE DATING?!

And he just sat there, all warm and sleepy and Thai-food-happy beside you, like the man absolutely not at the center of an existential relationship spiral.

You chewed your dumpling, eyes narrow.

You were going to lose your mind.

A Few Days Later

The sky over Washington was a thick stretch of slate.

Fine rain fell in that soft, insistent way that made everything damp without ever fully raining. The streets were quiet, the air cool against your cheeks, and your lungs ached just enough to make you feel alive as your sneakers slapped against the wet pavement.

Beside you, Rachel kept pace effortlessly.

Of course she did.

She looked like she’d been born doing yoga on a yacht.

“I still don’t get how you convinced me to jog in this weather,” she said, breath easy, ponytail bouncing behind her. “You’re getting fit for a reason or just embracing the sad girl cardio?”

You huffed a laugh through your nose, ignoring the sting in your ribs. “Trying to keep up with a guy who’s genetically engineered and built like a statue.”

You didn’t answer right away.

She smirked. “Oh, right. The Bucky Barnes. Still a thing?”

Your feet hit a puddle, splashing your ankles.

Rachel didn’t wait.

“I mean… it’s cute. Really. Him bringing you coffee, showing up to all your little gallery events, texting you like a golden retriever with a crush.”

You squinted through the mist. “Is there a ‘but’ coming?”

She gave a mock innocent look. “No ‘but.’ I just think if he hasn’t made it official by now, he’s probably just riding the comfort wave. You know?”

Your stomach dropped—quiet, slow—like something sliding off a ledge in the dark.

“He’s… not like that,” you muttered.

Rachel made a noncommittal sound, the kind that sounded like “maybe” but meant “absolutely.”

“Sure,” she said lightly. “But a guy like that? Everyone wants him. Powerful, polished, and hot—but still gives off that ‘I could destroy you emotionally if I wanted’ vibe. It’s catnip.”

You bit your tongue.

She went on, like she didn’t just lob a grenade at your chest.

“I’m just saying. If I were dating him, I’d make damn sure everyone knew it. Otherwise…” She shrugged, smiling sweetly. “Kind of feels like letting a limited edition slip through your fingers.”

You slowed slightly, blinking rain from your lashes.

Rachel picked up her pace, unaware—or pretending to be.

Or maybe that was the point.

The worst part?

You didn’t even know what to say.

Because in your head, you were screaming: I don’t know if I’m dating him either.

You didn’t answer her.

You just picked up speed.

One second, you were jogging beside her—lungs aching, mind heavy—and the next, your legs were moving, not with purpose but with sheer emotional combustion.

“Wait—what the hell?” Rachel’s voice snapped from behind you, sharp with confusion. “Where are you going?”

You shouted over your shoulder, breath shallow, “Forgot—I left the oven on!”

It was a terrible excuse.

You hadn’t even used the oven that morning.

And Rachel, in all her smug, sculpted glory, definitely knew it.

But you didn’t care.

You turned down a side street without looking back, rain misting against your skin, hair sticking to your neck as you ran harder, faster, legs burning. You were vaguely aware of your own ridiculousness. You were sprinting through Capitol Hill in soaked leggings and adrenaline—not because of a fire, but because your chest was burning.

Because the words still a thing were still ringing in your ears.

Because her little smile made you want to scream.

And because deep down, you didn’t know how to answer her.

You didn’t know.

Your lungs ached, your sneakers skidded slightly on wet pavement as you turned a corner, and still—you kept going.

Toward the tall glass building you knew by heart now. The security desk that always smiled when you came in. The floor where the man who may or may not be your boyfriend spent hours arguing policy and quietly doodling in his tiny notebook between meetings.

You didn’t know what you were going to say when you got there.

You didn’t know what you wanted him to say.

But you knew this:

You couldn’t keep playing house in your head while the floor beneath it kept shifting.

You needed an answer.

Even if it hurt.

Even if Rachel ended up being right.

You just prayed she got splashed by a Metro bus on the way home.

The doors of the administrative wing slammed open with a bang.

You stumbled in, soaked from drizzle, cheeks flushed, ribs on fire, and about three seconds from a full cardiac event. Your leggings were clinging to your thighs, your hoodie had definitely seen better days, and your lungs were currently staging a mutiny.

Several staffers at their desks froze mid-keystroke.

Someone dropped a pen.

Bucky looked up from where he was speaking with a few of his aides, a file in one hand, coffee in the other—and blinked at you like you’d just teleported in from an alternate timeline.

“Hey—what—?”

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?”

Silence.

Every single head in the room turned.

Bucky’s coffee cup paused halfway to his lips.

You pointed at him, panting. “Because—I think it’s time. I want to be your girlfriend. Officially. Like—not just sleepovers and emotional eye contact over takeout—I mean actual, real-life, ‘we’re together’ kind of thing.”

You sucked in another breath and barreled on before you lost your nerve.

“I know you’re busy, and, like, technically running half of Congress with your jawline, but I just—I need clarity, okay? Because I was jogging with Rachel, who’s a menace to society, and she said some stuff and I started spiraling and I just—I ran here. I ran. Here. For this.”

There was a beat of complete silence.

Bucky’s eyes were wide.

His aides?

They were riveted.

One woman actually had her hand over her mouth like this was her favorite telenovela.

You blinked at the room.

Your mouth opened. Closed. You slowly lowered your arm.

“Okay,” you said, breathless. “So clearly, that was… too much.”

You looked around at the awkward stares, then back at Bucky, your voice flattening with pure, defeated embarrassment.

“So maybe I was delusional. Maybe this isn’t what I thought. And that’s fine.”

You nodded to yourself, a slow descent into insanity.

“If I’m just some situationship moron who caught feelings and made a public scene at a congressional office,” you continued dryly, “I’m going to kill myself and take everyone in this room with me.”

You made eye contact with one aide near the door.

He flinched.

Then you sighed heavily and scanned the room, noting every wide-eyed aide pretending desperately to become one with their laptops.

Then you snapped.

“Show’s over, folks. Go home. Or back to your unpaid Excel spreadsheets or whatever.”

No one moved.

One intern coughed.

You groaned, dragging both hands over your face in slow, mortified defeat, mumbling through your fingers, “This is literally my villain origin story.”

You barely heard his footsteps as Bucky approached, but you felt him—warmth, presence, tall and steady as he stopped just a few feet in front of you.

“Hey,” he said gently, “can you look at me?”

You shook your head without moving your hands. “I’ll die.”

“No you won’t.”

“I might.”

He chuckled quietly, and something about it made your heart twist. Like this wasn’t the end of the world. Like maybe it wasn’t even close.

You slowly peeked between your fingers.

He smiled softly, eyes full of that same calm patience he used when trying to explain to you how Medicare reform worked.

He stepped closer, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek. “It’s 2 o’clock,” he said, glancing around the room. “They all get off at five.”

You stared up at him.

“Oh,” you said blankly. “Cool.”

A pause.

Then, softly—almost hesitantly—he added, “I thought we were already dating.”

Your arms dropped from your face as your expression completely short-circuited.

“…What.”

He tilted his head, confused. “Yeah. For, like… a while now?”

You just stared at him.

Unmoving.

Mouth parted.

One eyebrow quirked in silent disbelief.

“…What.”

He blinked again.

Now he looked confused.

“You… didn’t think we were?”

“…No?”

He gave you the most innocent, baffled look known to man.

“I brought you to Sam's birthday party. You met his nephews. You wear my boxers. What part of this didn’t scream boyfriend to you?”

You opened your mouth.

Then closed it.

Then opened it again.

“I—You never asked me!” you accused, voice pitching.

“I didn’t think I had to!” he exclaimed.

You stared at him, absolutely scandalized. “How was I supposed to know then?”

Bucky blinked. “I—what do you mean? Everything I do is—”

“You’re from the 40s, James!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “You guys used to, like, wear suits and give flowers and do grand declarations and ask girls to go steady in a diner over milkshakes! I was waiting for that!”

His jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

“I watched Grease with you last week!” you cried. “You don’t get to act brand new!”

He dragged a hand over his face, groaning. “Okay, no more old movies for you.”

You crossed your arms, still damp and out of breath, glaring at him like he’d personally invented confusion.

Then he stepped back.

Took a slow, deep breath.

Straightened his posture.

And said, “Okay. Fine.”

He cleared his throat, eyes locked with yours, serious as a heart attack. Then he said your name—your full name.

“Will you do me the incredible honor of officially being my girlfriend?”

The room went so quiet you could hear someone’s chair creak.

You stared at him.

Then slowly, a dumb smile spread across your face.

“Wow,” you said, blinking. “This is… so sudden.”

Bucky paused, squinting

You pressed a hand to your chest. “I mean… we’ve only been sleeping together, sharing hoodies, texting nonstop, and eating Thai food three times a week for a few months. You barely know me.”

His jaw clenched.

“Don’t.”

“I mean, I barely know me, James. Are you sure about this? How could I possibly say—?”

He said your name—a low, gravelly warning that made your smile bloom full force.

You grinned.

“Yes,” you said. “I’ll be your girlfriend.”

And before he could react—before he could breathe—you launched yourself into his arms, hands gripping his shoulders, mouth crashing into his with every ounce of pent-up emotion and leftover adrenaline.

His arms instinctively caught you—one around your waist, the other beneath your thighs as your legs wrapped around him like you’d done this a hundred times before.

He kissed you back, hard and fast, like he’d been waiting for this moment—like maybe he needed it as badly as you did.

Somewhere behind you, someone definitely muttered, “What the fuck.”

Another staffer fumbled their phone like they were torn between reporting this to H.R. and posting this on the internet.

Bucky didn’t care.

He just kissed you deeper, right there in the middle of his office, as if the whole damn building hadn’t just watched him get emotionally hijacked by the woman he thought was already his.

Eventually, you pulled back, breath a little ragged, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, arms still looped lazily around his neck.

Bucky was wrecked—eyes dazed, mouth parted, chest rising and falling under you like he’d just run a marathon and won.

You leaned in once more, planted a sweet, casual kiss on his cheek, and whispered, “See you at home.”

You slid off his lap and smoothed your hoodie like you hadn’t just climbed him like a tree in front of half his professional staff.

Bucky blinked. “Wait—what? I was just about to go on break—”

You turned at the door, already tugging your hood up. “Yeah, no, I gotta find Rachel.”

He frowned, still catching up. “Why?”

“To tell her to her face that you’re mine now,” you said flatly. “And so hopefully, she dies of jealousy in front of my eyes.”

You opened the door and strode out like a woman on a mission.

Bucky watched you go, completely speechless, still half-hard in his slacks, shirt wrinkled from where you’d yanked on him like you were trying to break his will to serve.

His aides were frozen, stunned, borderline traumatized.

And then, slowly, that grin started to grow on his face.

A little crooked. A little stunned.

But proud.

Because that?

That was officially his girl.

And God help anyone who tried to say otherwise.

[ivybucky]

God okay I need a new friend that’s as into Lewis Pullman as I am so I can send edits PLEASE

[ivybucky]

OH YES. THIS IS GOOD.

I Think I Love You

pairing | fwb!bucky x new!avengers!reader

word count | 5.4k words

summary I You agreed to keep it casual—just sex, no feelings. But when loving Bucky in silence begins to break you, walking away is the only thing you can do… even if it destroys you both.

tags | Thunderbolts Spoilers??? I guess, tower fic, 18+ (MDNI), smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff, obsessive!bucky, fem!reader, miscommunication, dumbasses in love, platonic!bob x reader

a/n | new acc, this was to cute to write. Enjoy! REQUESTS ARE OPEN

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

It was always like this.

His body above yours, surrounding you, drowning you in heat and hunger like you were oxygen to him. Like fucking you was the only way he knew how to breathe. Like if he didn’t bury himself inside you right now, he’d come apart at the seams.

Bucky kissed you like he was starving—mouth hot and bruising, tongue claiming yours with an edge of desperation that never quite dulled. His hands were everywhere, rough and sure, sliding under your tank, gripping your waist, dragging you beneath him like he was scared you’d vanish if he didn’t anchor you down.

You didn’t fight it. You never did.

Because this was the only version of him you could have—the one that came alive behind closed doors. The one who groaned your name like a curse when you kissed down his throat, who pulled your panties down with shaking hands, who slid into you with a sound like it hurt to finally be inside you.

“Fuck, doll,” he rasped, forehead pressed to yours, hips grinding into you deep and slow. “You always feel so fuckin’ good. You were made for me.”

God, it sounded like love. It always did.

His mouth found your neck again, biting gently, sucking bruises into your skin like a claim no one would ever see. And your hands clutched his back, nails digging in, legs wrapping tighter around his waist as you rocked your hips up to meet every thrust.

You wanted to believe this was real. That it meant something more. That the way he looked at you—eyes dark and blown wide, lips parted, breath ragged—wasn’t just lust.

But you knew better.

You’d agreed to this.

No feelings. No mess. Just heat and need and late nights tangled in sweat-soaked sheets.

Still, you craved it—him—in ways you couldn’t admit. Not even to yourself.

Bucky fucked you like you were a secret he couldn’t bear to keep. His metal hand gripped your thigh, forcing it higher around his hip, while his other tangled in your hair, tugging gently to expose your throat. He licked a stripe up your neck and groaned when you whimpered.

“Don’t hold back, baby,” he said, voice low and rough. “Wanna hear you.”

You moaned for him, because you always did.

And he gave you everything. Thrust after thrust, deep and controlled, like he was trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside out. Your bodies moved together like muscle memory—practiced, perfect.

You cried out when he hit that spot, again and again, stars bursting behind your eyelids as your orgasm built too fast to control. He felt it—knew it—and his grip tightened, pace faltering just slightly as he pressed harder, deeper.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he growled. “Come on, give it to me.”

You shattered.

Your body seized around him, nails raking down his back, mouth falling open in a silent cry as pleasure tore through you in waves. And Bucky? He didn’t stop. He chased his own release through the pulsing grip of your cunt, moaning your name like a promise he’d never make aloud.

“Fuck—gonna come—shit, fuck—” he gasped, slamming into you once more before spilling inside with a groan so raw it made your chest ache.

He collapsed against you, face buried in your neck, his breath hot and ragged.

You held him, like you always did. Tangled in the afterglow, skin slick with sweat, hearts still racing. And for a moment, you let yourself pretend.

That maybe this time would be different.

That maybe he’d stay.

That maybe he'd roll off of you, cup your cheek, and tell you he couldn’t keep pretending this didn’t mean something.

But instead, he sighed. A soft, satisfied sound. Then rolled onto his back, pulling his arm behind his head.

He didn’t look at you.

He never did after.

You stared at the ceiling, heart pounding in your throat, your body warm and full and hollow all at once.

And all you could think was:

I want him to touch me like that in the daylight.

I want him to want me when we’re not naked.

But he didn’t. Or wouldn’t. Or couldn’t.

You weren’t sure which hurt more.

The kitchen in the tower was quiet, save for the soft clatter of a cutting board and the low simmer of something bubbling on the stove. You stood at the counter, knife in hand, carefully dicing onions while Bob sat beside you, his own cutting board a chaotic mess of uneven pepper slices and cucumber spears.

He was squinting at the vegetables like they’d wronged him personally.

“I swear,” he said, furrowing his brow as he tried to slice a tomato without completely demolishing it, “these things are out to get me. Slippery little bastards.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You don’t have to help, you know.”

“No, I want to. It’s… nice.” He shrugged. “Domestic. Also, I read somewhere it builds team trust or something. Shared food prep.”

You snorted. “Where’d you read that?”

“A Reddit thread about Dungeons & Dragons, actually.”

You laughed for real that time. “Of course.”

The smell of garlic and rosemary floated through the air. The oven clicked softly as it preheated. Outside the window, the sky was grey and moody—classic New York—but there was something warm about the kitchen. Safe. Familiar. Even with the quiet ache in your chest that you were pretending wasn’t there.

You kept chopping. So did he. Or tried to.

“Y’know,” Bob said after a beat, holding up a mutilated chunk of bell pepper, “I don’t think I’m ever gonna be a culinary genius. Might have to accept that my gifts lie elsewhere.”

“Like sitting on the couch and watching TV?”

“And comic relief,” he added proudly. “Two very underappreciated superpowers.”

You gave him a sidelong look, smirking. “You’re not wrong.”

He grinned. Then, more softly, “I like this, though. Being part of a team. Even if it’s weird sometimes. Even if people yell. Or punch through walls. Or if Alexei keeps pitching us matching uniforms with capes.”

You snorted again, setting down your knife. “He has been obsessed with that lately.”

“Right?” Bob said, picking at a cucumber slice. “But even with all the chaos, it’s good. I never really had this before. A group. People who give a damn. Who check in. It’s like… like being part of a weird, violent little family. And I know I’m not the most… stable, but I feel like—like I’m seen. Cared for. Loved, even. Not in the romantic sense—though Walker did call me ‘acceptable’ once, which I’m counting as progress.”

You laughed softly again—but it was different this time. Quieter. Shorter.

Bob didn’t seem to notice.

He kept talking, absently stacking pepper pieces into a leaning tower. “I don’t know. It just hit me earlier when Alexei dragged me to look at fabric swatches, and he was complaining about the thread count like we were planning a wedding. I was like… this is insane. But also—this is nice. Like I matter. Like I belong.”

The sting started slow. So faint you barely noticed it at first.

A tightness behind your eyes. A pull at the corners of your mouth. Something twisting low in your stomach like a warning bell you were trying very hard to ignore.

Bob looked over at you with an easy smile, still speaking, voice gentler now. “I guess I just wanted to say… I’m glad I’m here. I’m glad I get to be around people who give a damn. That’s why I love being on this team.”

And just like that—it cracked.

The sting sharpened. The pressure behind your eyes pulsed hot, and your throat closed up around the sudden, suffocating weight of it.

Because all you could think was:

God, I want that too.

To feel loved. Chosen. Not just useful when someone needed to blow off steam. Not just fucked behind closed doors and forgotten in the light of day.

You bit the inside of your cheek hard, forcing yourself to blink fast, to keep your head down, to move your hands like nothing was wrong. But the tears came anyway—silent, slow, slipping down your cheeks before you could stop them.

You tried to wipe them away subtly, turning toward the sink, pretending to rinse your hands. But it wasn’t subtle enough.

“Whoa—oh no,” Bob said, his eyes going wide. “Did I—did I say something wrong?”

You shook your head quickly, facing away. “No. No, it’s not you. I swear.”

He stood up beside you, hovering awkwardly, clearly panicking. “Is it the peppers? I knew I was butchering them. I knew they looked sad but I didn’t think they were tear-worthy—”

A shaky laugh broke out of you, even as you tried to wipe your face. “Bob, no. Stop. It’s not your fault.”

He hesitated, frowning deeply, hands fidgeting at his sides. “Is it—do you want me to go? I didn’t mean to mess anything up—”

You turned to him, eyes red, cheeks wet, and smiled—small and painful.

“I just… needed to hear that,” you said softly. “What you said. About being seen. Cared for. Loved.”

Bob’s face softened immediately. “Oh. Oh. I get it. I’m sorry.”

“No,” you said again, shaking your head, voice barely a whisper now. “Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He reached out, then hesitated, then finally rested a hand gently on your hand. “For what it’s worth… I think whoever’s making you feel like you’re not those things is an idiot.”

You gave him a wobbly smile, another tear slipping free. “Yeah.”

Bob didn’t ask more. He didn’t need to. And you were grateful for that.

Instead, he just stood with you in the quiet hum of the kitchen, as the smell of dinner simmered in the background and the sky outside darkened to evening.

And all you could think—over and over—was:

I can’t do this anymore.

The second the quinjet touched down, Bucky unbuckled and stood, impatient fingers already tugging off his gloves. He barely registered Yelenas's debrief, or the way Ava elbowed him and muttered something about getting sleep for once. He just nodded and walked out, barely hearing her call after him.

He didn’t want sleep.

He wanted you.

He’d been thinking about you the entire mission. About the way you always curled up on the couch when you thought no one was watching. The way you’d made blueberry muffins the morning before they left and snuck him one while everyone else was busy fighting over the coffee machine. The way your eyes crinkled when you smiled—just for him.

No one had to know.

No one did know.

And that made it easier to pretend this wasn’t killing him.

That this wasn’t something he wanted every damn day.

He reached your hallway before he even realized how fast he’d been walking. It was late—11:07 by the glowing red digits on the hallway clock. Most of the tower was asleep. But your light was still on.

He exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders back, nerves flaring. He always got like this before seeing you. Like some teenager with a crush instead of a 100-year-old ex-assassin who’d watched entire countries fall.

But you made him feel… different. Human.

He raised his hand and knocked, soft and firm.

And then the door opened—and there you were.

A soft lime green nightgown hugged your body in a way that made his breath catch. It clung to your curves, all sleepy and ethereal and warm, and for a second, all he could do was look at you.

His chest ached.

God, you were beautiful.

He didn’t wait. He didn’t think. He reached out, cupping your face in both hands, drawing you in like a man starved for warmth and memory. His lips found yours—soft, reverent, desperate. He kissed you like you were the last safe thing he had.

And then your hands pressed against his chest.

Not pulling him closer.

Pushing him away.

He pulled back, blinking. His brows knit together. “What’s wrong?”

You looked up at him, eyes already glossy, mouth parted like the words hurt too much to say. “Bucky… we need to stop.”

His stomach dropped.

The hallway suddenly felt ice cold.

“What?” His voice cracked, quiet and rough. “What do you mean?”

You looked down, fingers curling into the fabric of your nightgown, and stepped back just slightly. “What we’ve been doing… this… it needs to end.”

It hit him like a punch to the ribs. All the breath knocked from his lungs.

“I—I don’t understand,” he said. “Did I do something? Say something? If I—”

“No,” you cut in gently, and it broke him how kind your voice still was. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why?” He was still holding your gaze, desperate. “Is it… is it someone else?”

You hesitated.

That was enough of an answer.

You nodded once. “I’ve… met someone. And this would complicate things.”

The lie hung between you like smoke. Fragile. Choking.

Bucky swallowed hard. His hands had dropped to his sides, and he clenched them into fists before forcing them open again. He was trying to stay calm. He had no right to be angry. You weren’t his.

You’d never been his.

But still, the ache that bloomed in his chest was unbearable. His heart was thundering, cracking in real time as he stared at you, unblinking.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to tell you that no one could touch you the way he could. That no one could possibly know you the way he did. He wanted to grab you, beg you not to leave him in the dark again.

But he didn’t.

Because you deserved better than that.

You always had.

He cleared his throat, voice suddenly hoarse and distant. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

You blinked at him, a flicker of pain crossing your face. Then you leaned in, so gently it almost made him flinch, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Soft. Final.

“Goodnight, Bucky.”

You stepped back inside your room.

And the door closed.

He stood there for a long time.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Just stared at the closed door like he could will it to open again. Like maybe if he stayed still long enough, this wouldn’t be real.

But it was.

And all he could think was:

You found someone else.

You—the one person who made him feel like maybe he wasn’t ruined. Who baked for the team. Who held him after nightmares without asking questions. Who looked at him like he wasn’t just the Winter Soldier, or some washed-up relic, or some broken man with too much blood on his hands.

You looked at him like he was worth something.

And now you were gone.

He backed away slowly, footsteps hollow against the corridor floor, heart pounding like it was trying to claw its way out.

It was just supposed to be sex.

It was never supposed to hurt like this.

It started small.

You weren’t avoiding Bucky—not outright. But you were pulling away, and he felt it in every single subtle shift like a blade under the skin.

No more soft smiles in the hallway.

No more plates quietly set in front of him when you made dinner.

You still said “hey” in passing, still nodded when he entered the room, still asked if he wanted coffee when the whole team was around—but your eyes didn’t linger anymore. You didn’t touch him. You didn’t look at him the same way.

And that quiet, gentle retreat was worse than a clean break.

Because it gave him just enough to hope. And not enough to hold.

It drove him mad.

He tried to play it cool. Tried to remind himself that you’d made your choice—that you’d moved on. That there was someone else. But the words haunted him like a ghost he couldn’t punch, couldn’t outpace.

Who the fuck was he?

Where did you meet him?

Was he better than Bucky? Was that it?

Was he stable, normal, sweet? Did he hold you in the morning, trace your spine with soft fingers, kiss your forehead and mean it?

The thoughts ran wild in his mind like wildfire. And soon, it stopped being curiosity. It became need. Obsessive. All-consuming.

He started watching. Not you—he couldn’t stomach how far away you already felt. No, he watched everyone else.

Was it someone on the team?

Someone new?

Someone from missions? The tower? That goddamn bar you liked downtown?

He noticed every time you laughed at someone else’s joke. Every time you left a room too quickly. Every time your phone lit up and your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. It was driving him insane.

And it didn’t take long before he cracked.

──────────────────

“Seen her with anyone lately?”

Ava didn’t look up from the security feed she was reviewing. “What?”

He cleared his throat, leaned against the console like this wasn’t eating him alive. “Y’know. She’s been… out more. Wondered if you’d noticed her with someone.”

Ava gave him a look that said you have five seconds before I tear this conversation apart with a crowbar. “She’s not a suspect, Barnes.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “Didn’t mean it like that. Just—wondered.”

She paused. “You checking up on her?”

He shrugged. “Just being observant.”

“Then observe your own damn lane,” she muttered, turning back to her screen. “She’s allowed to have a life.”

──────────────────

The next day, he tried John.

“Any idea who she’s been seeing?”

Walker blinked at him, halfway through microwaving a bowl of instant mac and cheese in the lounge. “She told you she’s seeing someone?”

“Yeah.”

John stirred his pasta slowly. “Huh.”

Bucky waited.

John shrugged. “I mean, good for her, I guess.”

Bucky clenched his jaw. “That’s not helpful.”

“Neither is asking around like a jealous ex.” He looked up. “You okay, man?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky snapped.

John gave him a long look, then went back to his mac and cheese.

──────────────────

Yelena was less gentle.

“Are you drunk?” she asked, one eyebrow raised as she watched him pace the kitchen while you chatted with Bob across the room.

“No.”

“Then you sound like a madman.” She sipped her tea. “You are obsessed.”

“I’m just—”

“You had her,” she interrupted, calm and sharp as a knife. “You had her when it counted. And now you’re circling like a lonely wolf because someone else has her?”

“You knew about us?“

“I am a literal spy, Bucky.”

“I just don’t know who it is.”

“You’re not entitled to know,” she said simply, and walked away.

──────────────────

Alexei was worse.

“She has mystery man, huh?” he said, delighted, cracking open a beer like they were old pals trading war stories. “Ah, young love! Reminds me of my fourth love—no, fifth. It was confusing time. She had beautiful thighs. We met during a snowstorm, and she carried me to safety like bear.”

Bucky stared at him, hollow-eyed.

Alexei clapped a massive hand on his shoulder. “You cannot compete with new love, my friend. It is fire. It is danger. But! Sometimes fire burns out. And when it does, you be there with flowers. Or your shirt off. Both work.”

Bucky did not thank him.

──────────────────

And then there was Bob.

Goddamn Bob.

Bucky cornered him while he was grabbing cookies from the kitchen. Big mistake number two. He tried to sound as casual as possible.

“So, uh. You and her hang out sometimes, right?”

Bob blinked, brow furrowing. “Uh… yeah? She’s awesome.”

“She’s been acting different. With me.”

Bob fidgeted, clutching a cookie like a shield. “I mean, she’s been normal with me. Maybe a little sad? But also like, really pretty. But she’s always pretty, so that’s—uh—not relevant.”

Bucky stepped closer. Bob stepped back, hitting the counter.

“I was joking, Bucky. Please don’t punch me.”

Bucky took a deep breath, backed off. “Sorry.”

He didn’t mean to scare him.

He just couldn’t take it anymore.

──────────────────

It didn’t help. None of it did.

Because no one knew—or if they did, they weren’t telling.

And every time he saw you, something inside him twisted.

The way you laughed with Ava over your shared playlist. The way you sat on the arm of the couch next to John during a debrief. The way you ruffled Bob’s hair like a big sister, patient and teasing.

He saw you with everyone.

And he didn’t know which of them you were fucking.

Which of them made you smile when you looked at your phone.

Which of them got to hold you the way he used to—like you were theirs.

And it was killing him.

He started losing sleep. His nights were spent pacing his room, replaying every kiss, every laugh, every small moment with you. He couldn’t go to the kitchen without thinking of you cooking in it. Couldn’t walk by your room without hearing your voice.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t stopped wanting you.

Not for a second.

But he hadn’t thought he deserved you.

He’d told himself it was better this way. That he couldn’t be what you needed. That he was too broken, too guarded, too haunted.

He didn’t want to drag you into his shadows.

But now you were in someone else’s light.

And Bucky Barnes—super soldier, ex-Winter Soldier, world-class killer—was unraveling.

One glance. One silence. One laugh that wasn’t his to earn.

At a time.

It had been two weeks.

Two weeks since that night at your door. Since you told him you were seeing someone. Since your lips brushed his cheek like a goodbye that had already been decided, like the end of a story he hadn’t realized was even being written.

And still—no one.

Not a name. Not a face. Not even a damn clue.

No late-night laughter through thin walls. No footsteps sneaking down hallways. No signs of you sneaking off to a date. You still had the same quiet routines. The same soft smile when Bob told one of his nervous jokes. The same stretch in the mornings when you walked into the kitchen with sleepy eyes and socks that didn’t match.

But different.

He still watched you.

Not like before—when he’d admire the slope of your shoulders, the way your nose scrunched when you were concentrating, or how your hands always smelled faintly like vanilla and cinnamon. No, now he watched you with something closer to desperation.

He was trying to catch you.

Catch you in a lie. Catch you with him. The one who apparently meant enough to end everything you and Bucky had.

But nothing ever happened.

Instead, he saw things that confused him more.

You started going out on your own more often—midday errands, little walks, solo grocery runs even though there was food delivery and team shoppers. And he followed once.

Not to spy, he told himself.

Just to know.

You walked into a bookstore first. Wandered the aisles slowly. Bought two paperbacks and left without speaking to anyone. Then you stopped by a florist—picked out a single bouquet of fresh lilies, something subtle and quiet.

He expected you to deliver it to someone.

But instead, you brought it back to the tower and placed it on the dining table. Just something to brighten the space, like you always did.

You went to the park next. Sat on a bench. Ate a pastry. Fed the ducks.

Alone.

He watched from across the street, feeling something cold settle in his chest.

When you returned, he waited a few hours before asking Yelena—casually, as he always did, which fooled absolutely no one anymore.

“You know where she went today?”

Yelena raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “She went to clear her head. Like normal people.”

“Not with anyone?”

“Do you think she is incapable of being alone? Because that says more about you, Barnes.”

He didn’t answer.

He stopped asking questions after that.

Because it was dawning on him—slowly, painfully, in pieces—that there was no “someone else.” There never had been.

You hadn’t lied to hurt him. You’d lied to protect yourself.

And he had made you feel like you had to.

The thought made him sick.

He started noticing more, then—not just your absence, but the echo of what used to be. How you still made muffins for the team on Mondays. How you always passed out Advil after training. How you left soft music playing in the kitchen while cooking like you didn’t know anyone was listening. How you still took care of everyone except yourself.

He noticed how tired you looked sometimes. How your smile faltered when no one was looking. How your laugh had a hollow note now—like it had to fight its way out.

He noticed how you stopped meeting his eyes entirely.

And he finally asked himself what he had been to you.

Not just the sex. Not just the soft groans in the dark or the way your body curved into his like you were made for him.

But the mornings.

The muffins.

The hand you placed on his back after nightmares.

The way you listened when no one else could see he was slipping.

The way you waited—patient, hopeful—for something more from him.

And he hadn’t given it.

Not because he didn’t want to.

Because he thought he couldn’t.

He had told himself he wasn’t ready. That he was too broken. That he would only ruin something good and pure if he touched it too deeply. But the truth was, he’d already touched it. You had given him your heart in small, quiet ways, and he hadn’t even noticed until it was gone.

And now you were hurting, silently, because of him. Because you’d fallen for someone who told you not to. And he’d let you think he didn’t feel the same.

Until now.

He couldn’t sit still.

He’d tried. For two days. Two full fucking days since the realization broke through him like a goddamn lightning strike—and he’d tried to be patient. Tried to breathe. Tried to think.

But he wasn’t thinking anymore.

He was moving.

Searching.

Every room. Every hallway. The kitchen, the gym, your room—empty. He was spinning, chest tight, mouth dry, pacing like an addict itching for a fix, until finally—

Laughter.

The living room.

His boots hit the floor fast. He rounded the corner and stopped.

You were there. On the couch.

You, Bob, and Yelena.

Golden Girls was playing—Dorothy mid-quip, the volume just low enough to keep conversation alive. You were laughing, body relaxed, tucked into the corner with a blanket over your legs and a mug in your hand.

And he didn’t hesitate.

He walked straight in. Right past Bob’s curious look. Right past Yelena’s raised brow.

Straight to you.

You looked up immediately, your smile faltering when you saw his face. The tension in his shoulders. The storm in his eyes.

“Bucky?” you asked, sitting up. “Are you okay—?”

“I think I love you.”

It spilled out of him like it had been waiting behind his teeth for weeks.

You blinked.

Bob’s mouth dropped open mid-sip.

Yelena turned fully toward him, brows lifted to her hairline.

He didn’t care.

“No—” Bucky swallowed hard. “No, that’s not right. I know I love you.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed, lips parted slightly. Stunned.

Bucky’s heart pounded against his ribs, chest tight and burning. “I know it’s not the way I should’ve told you. And I know I don’t—fuck, I don’t deserve to say it after everything I didn’t say before. But I need you to hear me now.”

You still didn’t say anything. Just stared.

Then your hand twitched. Slid to your opposite arm.

And you started pinching your skin.

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “What… what are you doing?”

Your voice was breathy, soft. “Trying to wake up.”

“What?”

“I’m pinching myself,” you said, barely louder than a whisper. “Trying to wake up. Because there’s no way this is actually happening.”

Bucky felt something in him break.

He took a shaky breath, stepping closer, dropping to his knees in front of you. His voice was rough but steady now.

“It’s real. I swear to you, it’s real.”

You stared at him like he was a ghost. Like he wasn’t allowed to be saying this.

“I’ve been losing my mind,” he continued, voice cracking slightly. “Thinking there was someone else. Trying to believe you’d moved on because it was easier than facing the truth.”

You swallowed hard, but didn’t speak.

“And the truth is—I was scared.” He laughed, humorless, shaking his head. “I thought I wasn’t enough. That I’d mess it up. That I couldn’t give you what you deserve.”

He looked up at you now, eyes wide, glassy.

“But then I realized… you are what I deserve. You’re everything. You’re the reason this damn place feels like home. You cook for us even when no one thanks you. You remember everyone’s coffee orders. You make playlists for Bob and knit Ava a goddamn scarf even though she acts like she doesn’t care. You bake when you’re anxious, and I fucking love when you bake. You hum when you clean. You take care of everyone and let yourself break when no one’s looking.”

He reached up, brushing your arm where you’d been pinching.

“And I didn’t see it. Not really. Not until it was too late.”

A beat.

Then, softly—“But maybe it’s not too late.”

Yelena had stopped breathing. Bob looked like he might cry. But none of them mattered right now.

Just you.

Bucky’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I love you. And I’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out. But I know it now. And I’m not running from it anymore.”

You didn’t say anything for a long moment.

Just looked down at him.

And your eyes… your eyes were full.

You couldn’t breathe.

He was on his knees in front of you, staring up with those wide, heartbreak-blue eyes, his voice still echoing in your ears like a song you hadn’t heard in years but somehow still knew all the words to.

I love you.

And now he was waiting—watching—like his whole world depended on what you were going to say next.

Your throat felt thick. Your heart was pounding so hard you were surprised no one else could hear it. You blinked fast, trying to keep your vision clear, but the tears were already threatening to fall.

You stared at him for a long moment, lips trembling, and whispered, “Promise me this isn’t a dream.”

Bucky’s breath caught. He reached up, brushing your cheek so gently it made your chest ache. “It’s not,” he said, voice wrecked. “It’s not, baby. I swear.”

And then you saw the moment he broke.

The last thread of restraint snapped, and suddenly he was rising—leaning in, closing the space between you before you could even think.

His lips met yours, soft and trembling at first—almost reverent—then deeper, hungrier, like he couldn’t bear to hold back another second. You gasped into his mouth, one hand flying to his jaw, the other looping around his neck, pulling him in like you were afraid he might vanish.

He groaned against you, like the sound of your mouth opening for him undid something inside him.

And then he climbed onto the couch, practically on top of you, bracing one knee beside your hip as he leaned down, his hands burying themselves in your hair. Your back hit the cushions, breath caught in your throat, and the world narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the feel of his body pressed into yours, the desperate, perfect weight of him finally, finally there.

His thumb stroked the line of your jaw as he kissed you again, deeper now, and you let yourself sink into it. Into him.

Until—

“…Guys?” Yelena’s voice cut in, dry and deeply unimpressed. “We are still here.”

You froze.

Bucky pulled back just slightly, resting his forehead to yours, his lips still hovering over yours, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run ten miles. You were both breathless, giddy, flushed.

“I forgot they were here,” you whispered, blinking up at him.

“Me too,” he said, smiling against your cheek.

From the other end of the couch, Bob cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Sooo… should we leave now?”

“No,” Yelena snapped immediately. “We were here first. This was very sweet two minutes ago, and now it’s making me deeply uncomfortable.”

You laughed into Bucky’s shoulder, muffling the sound.

He just chuckled and kissed your temple before whispering, “Still not a dream, I swear.”

You smiled up at him, and for the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like something you had to fake.

It felt real.

Because it was.

[ivybucky]

Are there any Bob Reynolds authors out there with requests open?

I really want a bob x reader who has migraines a lot and Bob is comforting them, friends to lovers kinda vibe.

[ivybucky]

Not me ordering a privacy screen for my iPad so I can work on fics at work in my downtime 🫣🫣🫣

[ivybucky]

This fic has me banging on my chest, barking like a dog holy shit

Crying Lightning

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

Summary: You have been studying a flower that Bucky brought back from one of his missions. When Bob comes to visit you in the labs to bring you lunch and messes with the unbloomed item you realize the sinister effects of it very quickly.

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI! Ahem…We got a sex pollen fic, so there is smut, and fluff afterwards, and aftercare as well. Reader and Bob are close, and both of them have feelings for one another but it has all gone unspoken…Until now at least lol. There is swearing too.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (…Y’all know what I’m gonna say. Wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Handjob, There’s a little bit of dominance from Bob/Sentry…And he talks you through it ahhahahahahah (oh god), Messy/Sensual Sex, There are like hints of primal energy sprinkled in here, but nothing too major, there’s mentioning of pheromones and stuff like that, Praise/Worship Kink, Spitting, Dirty Talk, Scratching, Some Choking (not rough), Cum eating, Aftercare.

Author’s Note: Woot Woot! We love a good sex pollen fic lol. Did I expect to be writing one? No. But I’ve always liked the concept and I’m so glad @mccinnamon-bun asked me to do this! Thank you <3, I really loved writing it! So so fun! Enjoy!

Word Count: 15,684

“I brought you something,” Bucky announced, stepping into your lab just as the doors slid open with their usual quiet hiss.

You didn’t look up right away. Perched cross-legged on the edge of your workbench, you were half-buried in mission reports that were a week overdue, scribbling notes with one hand and nursing a cold cup of coffee in the other. Your head snapped up, however, the second you heard the rustle of fabric and gear–a familiar sound you’d grown used to distinguishing in crowded hallways.

Bucky stood in the entryway, wind-tousled and still in partial tactical gear. The sleeves of his black shirt were pushed up to the elbows, revealing the flex of muscle and dull gleam of vibranium beneath. He had a look in his eye that was hard to read–half sheepish, half pleased with himself–and he was already fishing through one of the many compartments in his bag. He didn’t speak again until he pulled something out with a sort of slow care.

”Ta da.” You raised an eyebrow at him, seeing him pull something from his bag like it was a treasure he’d smuggled across enemy lines. You hopped off the bench with a soft thud and crossed the room toward him, curiosity instantly piqued–mostly because Bucky Barnes was not one to say ‘ta da’. Not unless he was hiding something behind that half-smirk of his.

Your eyes immediately caught sight of what he was holding.

The flower hadn’t bloomed yet, but even in its dormant state, it was breathtaking. The outer petals were tightly furled, each one smooth and iridescent like the type you would find on shells of certain mollusks–but it was shaded in a gradient you couldn’t quite place. They started as an inky, oil-slick blue at the base, then rippled out into smoky violets and blushing wine tones near the tips. Delicate veins shimmered faintly across the surface, catching the lab lights with a strange metallic luster, almost like the petals were dusted in powdered silver.

The stem curved gently, a deep green tinged with gold, and the leaves were narrow, slightly translucent, and lined with fine threads of coppery red. Even when it wasn’t fully bloomed, it had an energy to it. A heat, almost. As if it were responding to the proximity of warm skin and breath. You squinted at it.

”Bucky, if this is your idea of asking me out on a date, you really need to brush up on your courting skills.” He let out a sharp bark of laughter, head dropping forward briefly with a grin.

“Hey,” He said, handing the flower over to you carefully, “You’re the one who told me, if I saw anything weird, unknown, alien, or otherwise ‘botanically suspicious,’ I should bring you back a sample.” You gingerly accepted the stem, trying not to touch the tightly closed bud itself.

”Yeah, I meant specifiers, not some interstellar looking thing.” You shot back. He leaned against a nearby counter.

”Don’t say I never do anything for you.” He commented back. You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth betrayed your fondness.

”You absolutely broke every rule of containment protocol by walking this thing straight into my lab, but…” You gave the top of the flower another slow once-over, still entranced, “Thanks for thinking of me.” You turned, crossing to your bench and plucking a clean beaker from the rack. You filled it with a few inches of distilled water, and set the flower inside, watching it float just enough to stay upright. The petals didn’t open, but they flexed slightly–like they were stretching, or drinking the water you had put the stem in.

”So,” You started, glancing over your shoulder to where Bucky was still leaning, “Where’d you find it?” You asked, watching him give you a small, casual shrug.

”There was a patch of them, right off the tree line. I spotted them on my way back to the quinjet. Figured I’d snatch one up before anyone else trampled it.” You hummed, turning your head away–not noticing the way his gaze lingered on the flower for a beat too long. You were too busy cataloguing the possibilities in your head. It was too vibrant to be terrestrial, but it wasn’t necessarily alien. Possibly hybridized. The energy you felt coming off of it could’ve been psychosomatic–but you weren’t one to write something off without running tests.

“And you’re sure no one else touched them?” You asked, looking back over at him to see if you can spot any of the tells he had when he was lying. His brow lifted toward you.

”I mean…I touched one obviously.” You gave him a pointed look, and he immediately held up both hands.

”Didn’t eat it. Didn’t stick it up my nose. I was the only one that touched anything. Scout’s honor.” You snorted, and shook your head.

”Alright, Barnes…I’ll bite. I’ll run some diagnostics. Spectrograph, chemical composition, basic pollen analysis when it blooms…All the sciencey things that you don’t understand, then I’ll get back to you.” He gave you a mock salute and pushed himself off the table he was leaning against, going toward the door.

”Just make sure you name it after me if it ends up trying to kill you.”

”Noted,” You called, “But if it ends up giving me superpowers instead, I’ll be naming it after myself.” He was still laughing as the door slid shut behind him. You turned back to the flower, now gently swirling in the water–its petals flexing once more, as if hearing your voice. You leaned in just a touch, and breathed in slightly.

You could’ve sworn it hadn’t smelled like anything before, but now…

Now it smelled faintly of summer rain, citrus, and the soft trace of jasmine. It was warm, soft, and inviting, like it was trying to beckon you to come closer to it. You straightened slowly, then reached blindly across the workbench for a spare sheet of scrap paper, grabbing the pen you had tucked behind your ear.

”Initial scent: None. Notable change after water exposure–New profile: humid, citrus notes, floral base (jasmine like). Unsettling–shift occurred in under two minutes.” You tapped the end of your pen lightly against your chin, your gaze never leaving the beaker. The flower was still half-closed, petals fluttering slightly in the water like they were breathing–like they were aware. The surface tension of the liquid shimmered faintly around the base of the stem, as though reacting to something within the plant.

You didn’t like that.

Flowers didn’t just change their chemical profile that fast. Not unless they were highly volatile. Not unless they were engineered.

A muscle tensed along your jaw.

You slid the note aside and moved quickly now, grabbing a glass containment dome from one of the side drawers–a heat-tempered cloche you typically used when running long-term decay tests on bio-samples. It wasn’t hermetically sealed, but it would be enough to contain most airborne particulates.

Just in case.

You placed it gently over the beaker and the flower with practiced care, watching as the edges sealed against the bench with a soft thunk. The scent dimmed immediatel-ybut didn’t vanish. It clung to the air like it had already soaked into the fibers of your clothes, your skin.

You took a step back, and another, suddenly aware of the way the heat of the room felt a degree too warm.

Your eyes narrowed. You made another note.

“Mild thermal increase noted (subjective). Investigate potential volatile compounds. Possible synthetic ancestry. Unknown reaction to water exposure–possible activation trigger?”

You stood still for a moment longer, arms crossed over your chest now, staring at the flower like it might start humming.

Then you exhaled through your nose, gave your head a small shake, and muttered, “Okay, mystery plant. Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

You turned on your heel and crossed to the far side of the lab, grabbing gloves, pipettes, and a test slide. You didn’t see the way the petals quivered beneath the glass dome. Or the way the center of the bud pulsed–slowly, rhythmically–as if something within it had begun to wake.

You were too busy prepping your tools.

You’d get your first sample from the outermost edge of the petal, where a small amount of condensation had begun to form–right where the flower had interacted with the water. It wasn’t much. Just enough to suggest a subtle chemical discharge. A secretion, maybe. Or pollen.

Your gloved fingers hovered just beside the dome.

You paused.

A thought scratched quietly at the back of your mind, the way instincts sometimes do when they’re not fully formed.

You didn’t ignore it.

You stepped back again.

Instead of removing the dome outright, you retrieved your small fume extractor arm—used mostly for soldering–and wheeled it over until its head hovered just above the cloche’s apex. You flicked the switch, and a soft hum filled the room as the extractor began to filter the air directly above the sample.

Another note:

“Smell is still detectable after containment. Strong. Possibly psychoactive. Proceeding with caution.”

Still, despite your wariness, you found yourself walking back toward the glass.

One more glance. Just to be sure.

The flower was still closed–but now its bud looked fuller. Like it had begun to swell. One of the petals had unfurled the tiniest bit. Barely a sliver.

But just enough for you to see a glint of gold pollen resting in the shadows of its center.

It shimmered like dust caught in a sunbeam.

You stared.

And then, carefully, you reached over to your comm unit and tapped the call button for your assistant team over in the biocontainment lab.

“Hey,” You said when the line clicked open, voice low. “I’ve got a…Weird one. Found by Barnes. It’s stable, but I want a second containment unit prepped in case things escalate.”

A pause on the line. Then:

“Escalate how?”

You glanced back at the flower. That scent. That impossible shimmer. You didn’t know yet.

“Just…Prep it,” You replied. “I’ll send over a sample in a few.”

And then you muted the line.

You looked down at the flower one more time.

It was no longer just beautiful.

It was waiting.

———————

It had been three days since Bucky dropped the flower off, and by this time it had bloomed. Not delicately, and certainly not in the way flowers usually did–with gradual graceful predictability. No. This thing had opened like it knew it was being watched and studied by you.

When you came down to your lab the morning after Bucky brought you the mysterious flower, the petals had fully unfurled–broad, sweeping things with a high-gloss sheen and hypnotic gradients that shifted from gold to scarlet to bruise-dark purple depending on the light. The stamen in its center now pulsed visibly, a slow inhale-exhale rhythm that made the entire structure look…Alive. The pollen shimmered every time it moved, a near-invisible cloud that never seemed to settle but floated in still air like it was defying gravity. Or logic.

You had kept it sealed tight under the reinforced cloche, and had the triple-filtered vents on and the entire section of the lab cordoned off with containment protocols. Your notes had doubled in size, and still, nothing definitive had come back from the biocontainment team. There were just vague updates telling you that they were behind on other specimens and that they would get around to it when they could.

So you worked around it. You monitored. You wrote. You catalogued symptoms–your own included, though they were still annoyingly ambiguous: mild temperature spikes, random surges of adrenaline, difficulty concentrating in bursts. But no rash, no lesions, no hallucinations. There was a kind of pressure, similar to urgency but just on the cusp of it, desire maybe–but for what, you had no clue. You had only inhaled a bit of the pollen and hadn’t been exposed since, so you didn’t dwell on it–not with your schedule stacked, and not with your own lab being as backed up as it was.

You were just rinsing a pipette when the door to the lab slid open with a soft hiss.

”H-Hey,” Came the voice you’d come to recognize more easily than your own thoughts lately. You didn’t need to look up to know that it was Bob, but you did anyways, just to catch a glimpse of him.

He was towering and soft-shouldered in a dark grey hoodie with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, worn sweatpants hugging the curve of his hips, and his crown of light brown hair was in absolute disarray, like he had it tied up and decided to let the locks fall free in front of his face. He looked like someone who didn’t have the slightest clue what he did to people around him, and he truly didn’t know.

The plastic takeout bag in his hand swung gently as he stepped inside, smiling at you like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Brought y-you lunch.” Your stomach growled at the word lunch, and it echoed through the moment of silence that settled between you, which only made Bob’s grin stretch wider.

”Let me guess,” You started, pulling off your gloves and throwing them into the biohazard bin, “You timed this perfectly because you knew my stomach would start making monstrous noises, didn’t you?”He shrugged, with a small smirk on his face, setting the bag down on your cleared desk near one of your monitors.

”You skipped b-breakfast.” You held out a finger.

”No no…I postponed breakfast.” He shook his head.

”You always p-postpone breakfast,” He said, moving past you to pour you a cup of water from the cooler, his big hands making it look smaller than what it actually was, “And if I d-dont show up with something d-decent by 2 p.m, you would just end up inhaling the vending machine c-crackers and freeze-dried apple s-slices…Which is not s-sustainable i-in the slightest.” You couldn’t help but let out a laugh at his comments.

”Seems like someone has been watching me a bit too closely.” He turned and handed you the water, fingers brushing yours as he didn. His hands were boiling as usual, and it left the paper cup feeling warm from where his fingers had been holding it. His eyes lingered on your face a beat longer than necessary.

”I-I always watch you c-closely,” He said softly, like it slipped out before he could catch it. Immediately his eyes glanced down away from you, dropping to the floor for a second, before flicking away toward the cluttered end of your bench like he suddenly remembered a far more interesting smudge on the tile. His cheeks were red–not just a flush, not just a tinge, but a slow bloom of color climbing from the collar of his hoodie up to the tips of his ears.

You said nothing in response. Not because you didn’t notice–because you did. More because if you said anything, if you so much as looked at him with any kind of expression that acknowledged the truth buried in his voice, he might self-destruct on the spot. So instead, you took a slow sip of the water he handed you, letting the quiet hum of the lab fill the air between the both of you.

Then you turned on your heel toward the takeout bag.

”So what’s on the menu today, Chef Bob?” You asked lightly, pulling the plastic open and peeking inside, “Please tell me it’s not another one of your hot dog stir-fry’s.” He let out a groan.

”Listen…I-It was one time, I-I know nobody was a fan of it.” You grinned as you pulled out a tinfoil-wrapped container, unraveling it with careful fingers. A rich, savoury scent wafted up–soy and sesame and something sweet under it, like cane sugar with more of a freshness that was unexpected, “So what am I looking at?”

”Sticky rice, soy-glazed chicken, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck, “T-There’s some grated g-granny smith apple in the glaze…C-Cause I didn’t have honey.” You raised your eyebrows.

”Pretty decent alternative.” You replied.

”Yeah,” He said, shoving his hands into his pockets like he wasn’t sure what to do with them, “You know how S-Sentry gets with processed s-sugars in his system. Makes him a-all buzzy.” You let out a soft laugh.

”So this is officially Sentry-approved, then?”

“F-For the most part,” He mumbled, “I-I think you’re the real t-test though.” That made you pause, glancing up at him, still holding the half-unwrapped meal in your hands, finding his gaze had landed on you again. This time it held something quiet but vulnerable. Expectant, even. Like he really cared what you thought.

And that was the difference between Bob and everyone else–you knew he didn’t make things just to impress. He made them because it gave him joy to offer them. He brought you food not because he wanted credit–but because he worried you wouldn’t eat otherwise. He brought you books because he remembered which ones made your eyes light up. He let you take his blood every month without protest, even when the Sentry made his pulse unpredictable or his veins hard to find, because he trusted you with every part of him–even that. And because of those little things, you always made sure to praise him.

Even when he burned the eggs.

Even when the pasta came out overcooked.

Even when the hot dog stir-fry almost gave you heartburn.

You forked a bite of the rice and chicken, chewed, and let your eyes widen a bit as the warmth hit your tongue. “Okay. Wait. This is actually good.”

He blinked, caught between shock and a smile. “Y-you don’t have to lie.”

“I would lie,” You said, pointing at him with your fork. “But not this convincingly. This? Bob. It’s delicious.” He looked like he didn’t quite know what to do with the praise. He rocked back slightly on his heels, running a hand through his already-messy hair, trying to hide the shy little grin that was pulling at the corners of his mouth. You watched the way his fingers threaded through the strands, the way his forearms flexed under the soft stretch of the hoodie.

You took another bite and leaned against the counter beside him, letting out a hum of satisfaction.

“Y’know,” You said between chews, “If Val found out you were secretly good at this, she’d start expecting meals during debriefs.”

”She’d want a report first,” He said, playing along, “T-Then she’d make Walker taste it for poison.” The both of you laughed lightly. The silence that followed was companionable. Safe. You brushed your shoulder lightly against his as you leaned forward to set the food container down beside the monitor.

His body went still at the contact.

Not because he didn’t want it. But because he did. You knew that reaction well by now–the micro-freeze, the way he’d let the warmth of your hand or arm settle into him like he was still learning he could have it. That it was for him.

You let your arm linger against his for just a second longer.

Then you pulled back, slow and easy.

He looked at you from the side of his eye. His voice was low when he spoke.

”H-How’s the flower?” You glanced toward the containment dome instinctively. The petals shimmered under the harsh lab light, colors shifting in slow gradients like they were part of something fluid, something still breathing. It looked even larger today. Full-bodied. Restless.

“Still haven’t heard anything back from the biocontainment lab,” You said, turning back to Bob and picking up your fork again. “Apparently they’re still backed up from the Skrull fungus incident.”

His face pulled slightly. “God…D-Don’t remind me of t-that.” You nodded grimly.

“I won’t…But this?” You took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “No movement. Just… opened. Big. Loudly. Like it knew I was looking at it.” Bob followed your glance as you continued to speak, “I breathed in a little bit of the pollen when I first got it–just a trace. It made me really warm. Flushed. But otherwise nothing dramatic. No side effects. No changes. So I think it was just my body reacting to whatever compound it’s putting off–probably a weird hybridization. Something experimental maybe.” Bob’s brow furrowed at this comment.

”You s-should’ve been wearing a m-mask.” You huffed a laugh, nudging your shoulder into his again.

”Please, I’m pretty sure I’ve been exposed to worse.”

“S-Sure,” He said quietly, his gaze fixed on you now, “B-But definitely not like this.” There was something layered in his voice—concern wrapped around protectiveness, softened by something you didn’t dare name.

You didn’t say anything to it. Just took another bite of the meal he made, let the flavor distract you from how closely he was watching you now. He shifted beside you, and you knew it was only a matter of time before–

“How’s the Golden God doing, by the way…Totally forgot to ask.” Bob rolled his eyes, “You know you’ve got bloodwork today, and I know how much he looks forward to that.” He grimaced.

”D-Darn…I f-forgot that was today.”

“You always forget,” You mumbled between bites, mockingly stern in tone, “Even though we’ve had the same schedule for, what–eight months?”

“Nine,” He corrected, “You count too?”

“Only because I have to track your blood chemistry, Bob.” He gave you a crooked smile, “Stick around,” You said waving your fork at him, “Let me finish this delicious lunch and I’ll get everything set up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave you a faux salute, backing off to give you space. You watched him for a moment out of the corner of your eye as he wandered slowly around the perimeter of the lab, hands in his pockets, shoulders soft beneath his hoodie.

Bob moved like someone who didn’t want to disturb anything. Not just the tools and data, but you–your space, your rhythm, your day. Even now, when he stopped in front of the containment dome, he didn’t lean close or peer in like most people would’ve. He just stood there, quietly watching.

The flower didn’t move. But the pulsing in its center seemed to slow, slightly. Steadying. As if recognizing something.

Bob tilted his head faintly.

But said nothing.

You finished your lunch in a few final bites, wiped your hands on a cloth, and pulled on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves.

“All right,” You called, walking over to the locked cabinet beside your centrifuge. “Time to sacrifice a little plasma for science.”

Bob grumbled playfully as he headed back toward the stool you always set aside for him during these sessions. “Sentry’s gonna make it d-difficult again. Last time you had to chase the vein for like five minutes.”

“Oh how could I forget,” You said playfully, drawing the phlebotomy kit from the drawer, “I’ve never met a God who’s afraid of needles. He flared your heart rate on purpose and kicked the adrenaline response. Your veins were literally jumping.” Bob winced at the memory and sighed.

”I-I don’t think he m-means to be a jerk a-about it.”

“No, he just is,” You turned with a teasing smile and raised your brow, “You listening in there Sentry, I called you a jerk.” A flicker of gold passed through Bob’s eyes, and his expression shifted just slightly. A pressure just beneath the surface of his calm exterior. You saw the way his jaw flexed. The way his breath caught on the edge of a heartbeat. It was gone just as fast as it appeared. You gestured to the stool.

”Alright, you know the drill.” Bob sighed and tugged his hoodie over his head with one hand, letting it fall across the nearby stool in a heap of worn fabric and static-charged threads.

Your breath caught for just a second–not that you’d ever admit it.

He was wearing a plain white t-shirt underneath. Simple, but it didn’t leave much to the imagination. The fabric clung in all the places that mattered: broad shoulders, a narrow waist, the gentle taper of his torso. His arms were sculpted, the muscle built from the serum and his own training he did on the side with Walker–solid biceps veined faintly beneath pale skin, his forearms thick and freckled with golden hairs. Even through the shirt, you could see the subtle rise of his chest when he breathed. His body wasn’t exaggerated or showy like some of the other enhanced agents. Bob’s strength was honest, clean and quiet. The kind that didn’t beg to be seen–just was. He sat on the stool, leaned slightly forward, and offered you his right arm without hesitation–palm up, wrist relaxed, fingers curling just slightly where they hung over the edge of your tray. As always, he was warm. Always a degree or two above everyone else. Like the Sentry lived just beneath the surface, pulsing against the skin.

You pulled your chair close and gently cradled his arm in one gloved hand, “You good?” He nodded, jaw ticking faintly.

”Sentry’s a-already getting stirred u-up.”

“I figured,” You murmured, swabbing the crook of his elbow with an alcohol pad, watching the way the fine blond hairs on his arm caught the light, “You twitched when I called him a jerk.” Bob exhaled a shallow breath, half-laugh, half-wince.

”Y-Yeah he–uh–didn’t like t-that.”

“Well, tell him to behave,” you said, voice softening as you spoke, instinctively adjusting your tone. You’d found, over time, that it wasn’t just what you said–but how. The Sentry didn’t respond well to authority. But he did respond to calm. To care. To you.

“I’m going to insert the needle now, okay?”

“Y-Yeah,” He said quietly, “Keep talking through the process, t-that would help.” You gave him a smile–genuine and soft.

“All right…Just a little pressure here…” You slipped the butterfly needle in with smooth, practiced hands, watching the dark blood flood into the first vial like a ribbon of garnet. He didn’t flinch. His fingers curled just slightly, but that was it. You could feel the tension in him, though–not fear, not even discomfort, really.

Just a heightened presence.

You always felt it when the Sentry was nearby. Like a third set of lungs had begun breathing somewhere in the room. Like the molecules in the air shifted their charge.

“I’m taking five tubes,” You said gently. “You’re doing fine. Your blood flow is nice and steady today.”

“Y-Yeah,” Bob said, watching you with his head slightly turned. His voice had dropped to something deeper. Thicker. “That’s because o-of you.”

You glanced up.

He blinked, quickly. “Your voice. It…I-It helps.” You kept working, carefully switching out the first full tube for the second, then the third, eyes flicking to him only briefly.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Or a cosmic honor. One of the two.” That got a smile out of him, even if it was small. The rest of the draw passed in familiar quiet–soft beeping from your equipment, the slow, gentle swirl of the containment fans, the hum of the overhead lights. His blood was warm in your hands. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until you reached the fifth tube and carefully capped it.

You retracted the needle in one smooth motion, placing it in the sharps container before gently pressing a cotton ball to the puncture site.

“Pressure here, please.”

Bob complied, two fingers resting lightly over the spot. You retrieved a bandage, peeled it open, and pressed it into place over the cotton. Your hand lingered a second longer than it needed to. His skin was flushed warm beneath your glove. He smelled faintly of cedar and limes, probably from his shampoo. Then you leaned back in your chair and gave him a mock-serious look.

“So,” You said, cocking your head, “Does Sentry want a lollipop for his troubles?”Bob groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“D-Don’t get him riled up…” You laughed at the way his cheeks turned rosy again, as he attempted to hold back a smile, which failed.

”You sure?” You teased, “You don’t want me to pull out the glittery sticker chart?”

“W-We talked about this…He remembers t-things like that.” You both burst into soft laughter again, the kind that curled at the edges of your ribs and left everything just a little lighter.

And somewhere behind you, the flower twitched.

The petals shifted.

The pulse in its center matched his heartbeat.

But neither of you noticed.

——————

The next day, just after 2:00 p.m., the soft hiss of the lab doors made your head snap up again.

You were halfway through a long-winded notation on the flower’s latest chromatographic analysis when you heard the now-familiar rustle of footsteps and the unmistakable creak of someone cradling a takeout bag with too much care.

“Brought you lunch!” Bob announced.

He looked warm again–an oversized hoodie only blue this time, the same worn sweatpants from yesterday, and hair pulled back messily like he’d tied it in a rush. His free hand shoved deep into his pocket, but the other held a paper bag from a café you liked downtown. He wore the same small, crooked smile that made it difficult to think straight.

“Careful,” You warned playfully, turning in your seat to face him, “If you keep feeding me, I’ll start to expect this kind of treatment.”

Bob shrugged, walking in slow, casual steps toward your workstation. “M-might be worth it…Just to s-see you eat.”

You smiled at that–too caught up in the rare softness between you to notice the way the flower behind its containment dome had begun to stir.

Not much. Just a twitch of its outermost petals. A subtle change in the shimmer of its stamen. But you were facing Bob. You didn’t see the way it reacted to his voice.

“I-I got you the g-grain bowl you like. The one with roasted squash, the f-feta, that spicy vinaigrette you always try to recreate in your lab notebook–”

“I do not take vinaigrette notes in here,” You interjected, grinning.

Bob set the bag down gently on the corner of your cleared space shaking his head at you, glancing over at the dome just as the hum of your equipment shifted slightly. The air changed. Subtle, at first. Like something pressurizing behind glass.

He leaned over–only just–peering closer at the flower inside.

That was all it took.

The dome fogged instantly with a pale gold haze. Then–without warning–the containment glass shuddered with a sharp, pinging sound, like internal pressure had snapped a seal.

Then it ruptured.

The top of the cloche blew off with a muted pop, and a cloud of glittering golden dust erupted from the flower in a slow-motion burst. It expanded like fog, like breath in cold air–drifting, floating–straight into Bob’s face.

You froze for half a second. Then your instincts kicked in hard and fast.

“Shit—Bob!” You yelled, already leaping from your stool and hitting the emergency switch on the wall.

Red lights flashed as the isolation protocols kicked in. Vents slammed shut with a metallic clank, and the air filtration units hummed to life. Your console blinked through a security override as the lab sealed itself airtight. Your heart thudded in your chest like a drumbeat.

Bob had staggered back, coughing hard and pawing at his face, blinking rapidly. The golden dust coated his cheeks, his lashes, the curve of his nose, and clung to his stubble like cosmic pollen. It shimmered with a strange, otherworldly sheen–like it was alive, almost.

“Hey–hey–Bob, come here.” You grabbed him gently but firmly by the wrist, leading him toward the decontamination corner. “Don’t rub your eyes. Just come with me. You’re okay, just–just keep breathing.”

He nodded, still coughing, blinking fast. “I-it got in m-my face–feels like sand, b-but–s-sticky, maybe–” He stumbled slightly as you pushed the lever on the eyewash station.

“Lean in,” You ordered, voice steady. “Both hands on the sides. I’m gonna guide you.” You pressed the large silver button. The twin streams of water erupted instantly, and he hissed through clenched teeth as the cold hit. You steadied him, one hand braced on his lower back as he tilted forward.

”Keep blinking,” You instructed, “Get it flushed out. It’s probably just pollen but I can’t take chances, we still don’t know what that stuff is.”

“It’s–f-fine,” he said, spitting water out, breath hitching. “It doesn’t b-burn, just f-feels weird–” His voice was strained, breathless. You didn’t like the way his skin had started to pink at the edges, how the golden dust had clung even beneath his collar.

When the two-minute flush was over, you helped him lean back slowly, grabbing a towel from the stack nearby and pressing it gently to his face.

“We’re not done yet,” You said, pulling a second towel out and pressing it to the back of his neck. “Blow your nose. Three times. Then cough hard. I want that stuff out of your lungs if you inhaled any of it.”

He obeyed without protest, still coughing lightly between ragged breaths. The dust had left faint shimmer marks down the front of his hoodie, now slightly wet from the eyewash station. You reached over to the wall unit, flipped on the emergency fan array, and turned your console back toward manual override. The air slowly began to cycle through a localized carbon scrubbing system.

You turned back to him, grabbing a disposable cloth and wiping under his jaw, where a little gold still shimmered. His eyes were red-rimmed but clear. Breathing shallow, but not distressed.

You stepped back, hands braced on your hips, the overhead scrubbers humming louder now as the first cycle of filtered air began to push through the sealed lab.

Bob sat perched on the deacon bench, towel still clutched in his hands, his lashes dripping, cheeks damp, and glittered with flecks of gold the eyewash hadn’t quite cleared. He looked flushed–not sick, not distressed–just… warm. Lit from within, like something in him was beginning to glow. But you didn’t let yourself think about that.

Not yet.

“Are you okay?” You asked quietly, kneeling slightly so you were more at eye level with him, voice softening as you scanned his face for any irregularities. “Are you dizzy? Lightheaded? Anything weird?”

Bob blinked slowly, the water still dripping off the tips of his hair as he met your gaze.

“N-No…” He murmured, voice rough with lingering grit, “Just…Feel kinda like I s-snorted fairy dust.” He gave a weak little smile. “M-might be glowing in the dark now.”

You rolled your eyes and let out a half-relieved breath, giving him a playful–but firm–swat to the arm.

“This isn’t funny. You know we have to be in isolation for twenty-four hours now, right?”

Bob groaned, slumping back slightly against the bench. “Ugh. Great. Cool. L-love that.” You crossed your arms.

“We’re both trapped in here. With no way out. The lab is in full lockdown. Airlocked. Everything. Biocontainment protocol 9A.” He sighed, tilting his head toward you dramatically. “

It’s not like we don’t already spend the majority of our free time together or anything.” You narrowed your eyes.

“Don’t act like this is some cozy movie night. You almost got yourself pollinated into another dimension.” Your voice was softer now. More affectionate, more playful. Your gaze dropped briefly–to the faint shimmer still clinging to the edge of his collarbone–and that’s when you noticed it.

You looked down at yourself.

Tiny flecks of gold sparkled faintly across your sleeves, dusted across the dark wool of your sweater and even the collar of your lab coat. The stuff was finer than you thought–so fine you’d barely felt it settle.

“Shit.”

“What?” Bob asked, alarmed.

You pulled your lab coat off immediately, shrugging out of it and tossing it into the nearest biohazard bin. Your sweater followed next, leaving you in the tank top you had underneath–thin, breathable, already damp with nervous sweat. The cold air bit at your arms, but it was better than risking more exposure. You grabbed a clean disposable mask from the supply drawer and tugged it on.

“You got exposed?” Bob asked, sitting up straighter.

You gave him a wry look as you reached for a pair of gloves. “You think that cloud only wanted you?”

He flushed again and shifted where he sat. “S-Sorry…”

“Not your fault,” you said quickly. “You didn’t provoke it.”

Bob’s eyes slid to the corner of the lab where the flower still sat in its shattered dome, motionless now, but unmistakably altered–its petals twitching like cooling muscles, the last of the pollen still floating down like it hadn’t quite obeyed gravity yet.

You pointed to his hoodie.

“That’s gotta come off too.”

He blinked. “W-What?”

“Bob. Your hoodie is covered. You’re basically wearing a glitter bomb.”

“Oh…Right.” He looked down at himself and, reluctantly, peeled the hoodie off over his head, careful not to shake loose any more of the clinging dust. The fabric crackled softly as the static gave way. You moved forward with a biohazard bag already open and waiting.

“Drop it in,” you said, and he obeyed, his white T-shirt riding up slightly with the movement. You caught a glimpse of pale skin, faint golden freckles across his lower ribs, the subtle cut of his hip. You averted your eyes quickly, pretending not to notice.

But he noticed.

You didn’t speak for a beat.

Then:

“Okay,” you said, stepping back with the sealed bag in hand, “Contaminated clothing secured. Isolation timer has started. We’ve got twenty-four hours to kill and a potentially sentient flower that just gas-bombed the strongest man on Earth.”

Bob blinked at you, then gave the tiniest smirk.

“Th-this gonna be in the report?”

“Oh, absolutely,” You muttered, deadpan. “‘Subject A leaned into mysterious glowing flower. Subject B now has fairy glitter in her bra.’”

He laughed. Harder than you expected. The sound echoed softly in the sealed room and you let it hang there for a moment. Eventually his laughter faded, but the heat that was beginning to build in the lab didn’t.

It wasn’t just the tension between you anymore–it was physical. Palpable. You could feel it crawling along the inside of your spine like static. Your skin felt…Tight. Like your clothes were holding in too much warmth. Like the fabric of your tank top was suddenly too heavy in all the wrong places and far too light in others.

You shifted your weight from one leg to the other, hoping it would pass, but it didn’t.

Bob was still sitting on the bench, towel now draped loosely across his lap, chest rising and falling more steadily than before–but even from a few feet away, you could see the faint shine of sweat beginning to gather at the hollow of his throat.

You squinted slightly.

“Is it just me,” You said slowly, brushing a strand of hair off your neck, “Or is it…Hot in here?”

Bob lifted his head toward you, blinking slowly. His cheeks were still pink–flushed in that way people only got when they were either just out of a fever or just getting into something much more compromising.

“I-I thought it was just me,” He said, adjusting how he sat. “I figured the air filters w-weren’t moving much cool air yet. It’s… It’s an enclosed space, so…” He trailed off, eyes catching briefly on your arms, the exposed slope of your collarbone, and then darting away again, as if ashamed of the glance.

You nodded, trying to focus–but it was getting harder. Your tank top clung to the skin beneath your ribs like a second layer of sweat-dampened silk. You could feel the heat collecting at your lower back, a slow, stoked furnace of warmth that wasn’t just the room. Your breathing shifted slightly. Shallower.

There was a kind of pressure building behind your sternum. An ache–not painful, not sharp. Just…Present. Gnawing. Low in your belly. You cleared your throat.

“Do you feel weird?” You asked, keeping your voice as casual as you could. “Like… more than just warm? Any lightheadedness? Sensory changes?” Bob didn’t answer right away. His shoulders rolled back slowly, and his hand came up to drag across the back of his neck. You watched the way his palm moved over the sweat-damp strands of hair, the tension in his forearm, the way his biceps flexed just slightly under the tight stretch of cotton.

He wasn’t looking at you now. But his voice was quiet when he answered.

“M-My heart rate i-is up,” He admitted. “But I d-don’t feel sick. I just feel–” He stopped. Swallowed. Then: “Wound up. I-it’s like I’ve been waiting for something to happen and m-my body’s just trying to stay ahead of it.” You stared at him, hearing as he listed out the same symptoms you were feeling.

Then there was the ache again–twisting low and slow, enough to make you shift your thighs closer together without thinking. You noticed the way Bob’s eyes tracked the motion and immediately flicked away. His chest was rising faster now. His jaw clenched, breath audible through his nose. Something was happening. Something chemical, something hormonal. Something Induced.

You took a slow breath, then glanced at the ruined containment dome, the flower sitting quietly like nothing had happened. Its stamen pulsed gently, and the last wisps of pollen still hovered in the filtered air like gold-lit ghosts.

”You said it didn’t burn when the pollen hit…” You murmured, “Just felt weird…Right?” He nodded slowly, eyes flicking toward your face, then to your mouth, then away. You swallowed hard, wiping a bead of sweat off your forehead. ”How weird?”

Bob exhaled a shaky breath. His hands flexed against his thighs, fingers twitching.

“It just felt really…Light,” he rasped. “Like ash. N-Not like sand–softer. Barely even there. But now–” He trailed off, and when he looked at you, it was like being seen for the first time. His pupils were blown wide, only a thin ring of ocean-blue clinging to the edge. His voice lowered.

“Now I feel like my skin is on fire. L-Like I’m burning…And everything’s so damn sensitive. I c-can’t stop–” His voice cracked, “–I can’t stop looking at you.” Your breath caught. The ache between your legs deepened sharply, twisting upward through your belly like someone had plucked a string that now hummed through your bones. The realization slammed into you with full force. The heat. The ache. The scent. The shimmer. The reaction.

Fuck. You staggered backward from the bench slightly and slapped your hand down on the comm panel by the edge of your lab table, hitting the line for Bucky.

“Come on, come on, pick up–”

“Yeah?” Bucky’s voice crackled over the line. “What’s up?”

“Bucky,” You said, trying to steady your breathing. “Where exactly were you when you found that flower? Be specific. What were the surroundings?”

“I told you, it was near the tree line,” He answered, confused. “On the way back from the ridge. Why?”

“Was there anything else? Anything that stood out?”

There was a pause. Then, “Uh…There was kind of a–garden? Like, a bunch of them. Just a whole patch. Maybe fifty or sixty, I dunno, they were all clumped together.”Another pulse of heat ripped through your core, and you clenched your thighs, biting back a soft, involuntary groan. You half-collapsed, catching yourself on the table edge before sliding down the side of it, pressing your forehead into your forearm.

“Where were they, Bucky?” You grit out through clenched teeth. “Was there a lab? A compound? A goddamn marker on the ground–anything?”

“What? Y/N, I don’t–wait, there was a lab…But it wasn’t even close. Maybe two miles east of it. Looked abandoned. You think it’s connected?”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, voice rough, stomach clenching. Your vision was starting to blur around the edges. “That’s not wild growth, Buck. That’s a planted field. That was cultivated. You brought me a fucking bioweapon.”

There was silence.

Bob had shifted, and when you looked up, he was no longer on the bench. He had crouched behind one of the heavy lab tables on the far end of the room, head bowed, palms braced hard against the floor like he was praying—or like he was trying to hold himself together.

“I-it’s getting worse,” he called out, voice hoarse and echoing faintly off the tile. “I—I can feel it in my hands, my back—like I’m buzzing from the inside out. You need to go to another room, Y/N. Please. I don’t—I don’t know what’s going to happen—”

“There is no other room,” you snapped, clutching your own torso, fingers digging into your tank top like it could peel the sensation off your skin. “We’re sealed in. Remember? Isolation. Twenty-four hours.”

You turned back to the comm, swallowing back the pulse building low in your belly. “Bucky, something happened in that lab. This isn’t just a flower. It’s engineered—enhanced. There’s pheromone manipulation in the pollen. Maybe synthetic hormones. We both got exposed.”

“What kind of exposure?”

You hesitated.

Then you exhaled shakily, voice lowering. “The worst kind. I think it’s… I think it’s sex pollen, Bucky.”

A beat of stunned silence on the other end. Then:

“…You’re shitting me.”

“I wish I was,” you hissed, grinding the heel of your hand into your temple, heart pounding. “And unless I get a suppressant cocktail in the next thirty minutes, I’m going to lose it.”

“What about Bob?”

You turned your head just slightly toward where Bob was crouched, shaking. His knuckles had gone white.

“He’s already losing it,” You whispered.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing,” you said, too fast. “Just…We’re locked in for twenty-four hours. There’s nothing anyone can do. Just… Just keep the others out. Don’t let anyone near the door.”

There was a long pause. Then Bucky’s voice dropped.

“Y/N. What exactly happened in there?”

You clenched your jaw and gave the only answer you could.

“I’ll tell you if we survive it.” Then you hung up the comm, bracing your hands on your knees as the ache spread like wildfire across your thighs, your chest, the hollow between your hips. Everything was overstimulated–fabric too rough, air too dry, skin too tight.

And then there was Bob.

You looked up slowly, panting now, vision swimming with heat and color. You could barely see his face in the shadow of the bench, but you heard his voice.

“I-It’s in me,” he said quietly. “Whatever it is. I can feel it in m-my blood. My skin feels like it’s too small. I’m–I’m shaking. I c-can’t stop it.” His breath hitched, voice breaking apart. “I can smell you. I c-can hear your heart. I can feel every molecule in this goddamn r-room. God, what is this stuff?” You were already dragging yourself across the floor, crawling on hands and knees to the nearest storage cabinet, yanking open drawers for anything–anything–that might help regulate internal chemistry. You were half-crazed with heat, sweat dripping between your shoulder blades, your whole body lit up like it had been set on fire from the inside.

“Okay,” you muttered, teeth clenched. “We’re gonna–we’re gonna figure this out. Just don’t come near me, Bob. Not yet.”

You couldn’t see him now, but you heard the thick, wet swallow from where he hid behind the bench.

“I w-won’t,” He rasped. “But…If you don’t figure it out soon…” His voice was barely audible now. “…I d-don’t know if I’m gonna b-be able to stop myself.” The words weren’t loud. They weren’t cruel. But they hit you like a blow to the chest. A sharp pulse rippled through your core–your muscles tensed like a wire had snapped in your belly. The ache between your legs twisted again, hot and hungry, and a broken sound escaped your lips before you could stop it.

A whimper. Soft, shaken, and needy.

”Shut up,” You gasped, your voice hoarse with panic and arousal, hand bracing against the cabinet, “Just…Stop talking, Bob please…Your voice. Fuck sake.” Another wave of heat surged under your skin like a current of electricity. You curled slightly into yourself, arms trembling, every breath catching high in your throat.

“I–I’m sorry,” Bob groaned from across the room, his voice cracking with guilt and something far darker. You heard him shift, heard the thump of his back hit the cabinet behind him like he’d braced himself against it, like he couldn’t trust his limbs to obey. He let out a loud breath, shuddering.

”G-God, I’m–I’m sorry, I c-can’t even think straight–“ His voice broke on the last word, thick with restraint. You dragged open another drawer with shaking fingers, rummaging through cold metal and sterile pouches, tossing one after the other to the side. Glucose packs. Emergency syringes. No suppressants. No hormonal regulators. Nothing for this kind of exposure.

Your vision blurred as your stomach clenched again. You could feel sweat beading at the base of your spine, making your tank top stick like a second skin. You couldn’t stop panting. Couldn’t stop trembling.

”Fuck…” You hissed, almost on the brink of sob. You slammed the drawer shut with a metallic clang, the sound too loud, echoing in the sealed lab like it was mocking you. ”I can’t–I-I can’t find anything.” You wheezed, voice cracking. You braced your hands on the cold tile, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

The need was crawling over your skin like insects. Every breath was friction. Every shift of your body felt like dragging yourself through static. Your nipples were tight beneath your tank top, aching. You could feel your own pulse in places it didn’t belong.

“Shit–shit,” You whispered, eyes welling with frustrated tears. “Oh my god.”

Behind the bench, Bob made a low, strangled noise.

A grunt. Guttural. Desperate.

You couldn’t see him.

But you didn’t need to.

Because you could feel him.

You could feel the way the air changed when he moved. You could feel the ripple of heat that seemed to follow the sound of his voice. And worst of all–you could feel your body answering it.

Every cell in you was lit up with something heavy and humming. Something wild. Something designed.

You curled forward against the floor, pressing your forehead into your arm. You were panting now–wheezing, almos-trying to hold on. Trying not to cry.

You didn’t hear him crawl over, not until it was too late. Your breath was ragged, and your vision was swimming–and then warmth touched your arm. A large hand. Familiar. It closed over your bicep–but it lit your nerves on fire. You jerked away violently, scrambling back on instinct, collapsing onto your ass with a gasp. Your palm slammed against the tile and you skidded slightly, breath hitching as you spat out–

“Don’t touch me!” Your voice cracked, sharp and wet with panic. The motion made your spine arch, your tank top riding up slightly as your hip knocked into a rolling stool, the metal clattering away. Bob’s eyes widened in horror, hand halfway outstretched like it had betrayed him. He dropped to both knees in front of you instantly, not touching, but close enough for you to feel the warmth coming off his body like a wave.

“Y/N–” He breathed, his voice hoarse, chest heaving, “Y/N I-I feel it too, I p-promise. I feel everyth-ing” His hand hovered near your shoulder again, hesitant. Then, slowly, gently, he reached behind your neck, cradling it with a trembling touch. His fingers were hot against your skin, too hot. “Look at me. W-We’ll be okay. We’ll be o-okay.” You shook your head, lip quivering as the tears came faster now. Not the kind you could hide or blink away–these ones slid heavy and helpless down your cheeks, pooling at the corners of your mouth. You were trembling all over, shoulders shaking, thighs clenching without relief.

”I-I feel like I’m dying,” You whispered, voice raw, “Fuck, Bob it’s so painful.” He nodded once, his face contorting with shared agony, as his hand slipped from the back of your neck to your jaw, like he couldn’t decide whether to hold you or let go.

“I-I know,” He rasped, his other hand gripping his thigh so hard it shook, “I-I’m burning from the inside out. I can smell y-you…I can s-smell everything–“ You swallowed, chest rising in short, hard jerks. Because so could you.

His scent was all over the room now. Thick and devastating. It rolled over you in waves—heat-warmed cedarwood, sweat, and something deeper. Instinctual. Masculine. Not cologne. Not soap. Something completely and totally him. A biological beckoning, chemical and holy and blinding.

It made your thighs twitch and your breath break.

And your own scent…You could smell it, too. Like heat-glazed citrus and clean skin. Something golden and heavy, threaded with notes of sun-warmed vanilla and fresh-cut stems. Like the wild edge of spring. It filled your nostrils, clung to your skin, hung in the air between you like a dare.

Bob’s eyes fluttered, jaw clenching again. He let out a low grunt, like the effort of staying still was costing him something visceral. His voice cracked as he spoke.

“I-Isn’t there…a-any way we can stop this f-from getting worse?” You didn’t want to say it, you really didn’t. But the truth came out anyway, scraped and raw from your throat.

”Only if…” You swallowed. Your tongue felt too thick in your mouth, “Only if we have sex…” The words dropped like a stone.

Bob’s breath hitched so hard it almost sounded like a choke. His throat bobbed, and he blinked down at you, eyes wild and dilated, dark lashes damp with sweat and desperation.

There was a pause–long and shaking.

Then, softly:

“W-Would it be t-that bad if…If we did?”

You flinched. Just barely. The air stilled, vibrating between you. And then you shook your head slowly, tears welling again–not from heat this time, but from something deeper.

“I really didn’t want our first time together being l-like this.”

That stopped him cold. All the breath punched out of him in a single exhale. His lips parted, but nothing came out. His hand fell away from your jaw like it had been burned. His whole posture shifted–still close, but paralyzed with guilt.

You looked away.

Because if you looked at him now–if you looked into that face, flushed and desperate and filled with longing–you’d give in. Your breath hitched sharply—twice—before you folded forward on a gasp, one hand clutching your lower stomach like it might soothe the throbbing pulse building between your legs.

“God,” you choked out, voice breaking. “Oh my god, I—I can’t fucking take it.”

The ache had bloomed into something unbearable—wet and slick and throbbing through your core with every heartbeat. You were drenched, panties stuck to you, heat radiating off your skin like you were about to combust. Across from you, Bob made a strangled sound, his fists tight on his thighs, chest heaving as he forced shallow breaths through his nose—like if he didn’t, he might do something reckless.

“I c-can’t smell you,” He whispered, more to himself than to you. “I–I can’t smell you–I can’t–”

But he could. You both could. Your scent was everywhere–sweet and sharp and thick with want. It hung in the air between you like perfume, like bait, and you knew it was driving him mad.

You twitched again as another rush of slick gushed between your thighs and a broken moan slipped past your lips–soft, needy, involuntary. Your eyes squeezed shut as your hand pressed harder against your stomach, trying to contain it.

But it was useless.

“I can’t–fuck, I can’t take it–” You gasped, and before you could stop yourself, you were lunging forward.

You grabbed his face with both hands–hot, flushed skin beneath your palms–and crushed your mouth to his like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was a collision.

A mess of lips and teeth and spit.

You moaned into his mouth the second you felt him gasp beneath you–his lips parting wide in helpless surrender, his hands flying to your waist like magnets. The second he touched you, it was over. You melted into him, mouths sliding and sucking and devouring with sloppy, panting need.

Spit slicked your chin, his chin, your mouths, your skin. It dripped down between you as your lips broke and reconnected over and over in increasingly desperate, wet smacks. His tongue slid against yours, hungry and hot, and you whimpered into the kiss like your whole body was unraveling.

His hands squeezed your hips, hard–fingertips digging in, dragging you toward him roughly until your knees bumped his thighs and your chest hit his. You felt the tremble in him, felt the heat pouring off his body as he let out a low, feral grunt into your mouth, like he was trying to hold himself together and failing.

You pulled back just an inch, breath catching in your throat as a strand of spit still connected your lips, both of you panting so hard it echoed in the sealed lab.

“Fuck–” He gasped, chasing your mouth again, not even giving you time to respond before crashing back into the kiss, even hungrier this time. “You taste like–God–l-like sunlight–like h-honey–fuck, I can’t–can’t stop–”

“Don’t,” You moaned, sliding your tongue into his mouth again, letting it tangle with his, swallowing his sounds, his heat, his everything. “Don’t stop. Please. Don’t stop.” Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking at the damp curls as his hands roamed, gripping your waist so tightly it made you whine. He guided you into his lap without thinking, until your knees straddled his thighs and your body pressed flush to his. You could feel everything–the twitch of his erection beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants, the way his breath hitched when your hips brushed his, the way his hands couldn’t stop moving–gripping, sliding, needing. Every inch of you was pressed tight to him, and he felt all of it. The heat. The wetness. The hunger.

”G-God…” He gasped, his head dropping to your shoulder for a split second, voice thick, “I c-can’t–can’t stop–need…Need something–“ And then his hands flexed, dragging you forward–against him. You cried out, the sound strangled and high as he rocked your hips into his, grinding you against the thick line of his cock through his sweatpants. The friction sent a lightning bolt through your core, and your whole body spasmed in response, clutching at his shoulders as the contact jolted through your nerves.

“Oh–God–” You moaned, tearing your mouth from his as your head tipped back, spine arching. “Oh fuck–do that again–” He didn’t even answer. Just groaned–loud, filthy–and rolled your hips again. Rougher. Harder. Enough that your soaked panties dragged hot and slick over the outline of him, soaking into the soft cotton of his clothes and yours.

You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders as your thighs trembled on either side of his lap. Your hands found his hair and tugged–hard–and he moaned so deeply it vibrated through your ribs. His mouth trailed down to your jaw, your throat, open-mouthed kisses dragging over sweat-slick skin. His tongue was everywhere–greedy and reverent–and then you felt him kiss the top of your chest, right along the edge of your tank top.

You were panting, shaking, drenched in sweat and arousal. You couldn’t stop grinding down against him now, couldn’t stop chasing that friction as you rolled your hips again and again, letting your swollen heat drag along his cock in slow, devastating passes. The pressure built fast, sharp and aching, pulsing low in your belly with every movement.

Bob’s mouth trembled where it kissed just below your collarbone. His fingers slipped up your sides, shaky but sure–and then they hooked under the thin straps of your tank top.

“P-Please–” He rasped, looking up at you like he was about to fall apart. “Can I—can I see you?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes. God, yes.”

He didn’t wait. He dragged the straps down your arms, kissing the slope of your shoulder as they slipped, one by one. Then he tugged the neckline down–slow, desperate–and bared your breasts to the heavy, sweat-damp air.

The second your nipples were exposed, he let out a groan–a sound so broken, it barely sounded human. His eyes glazed with worship, with hunger.

And then his mouth was on you.

He wrapped his lips around one tight, aching nipple and moaned–like he was dying for the taste of you. His tongue flicked, sucked, lapped, over and over, and you cried out, hips jerking uncontrollably in his lap as you rutted down against him.

“Oh my god–Bob–“ You gasped, fingers burying in his hair, yanking him closer, needier. “That–fuck–you’re so good…” He didn’t stop. If anything, he got more desperate. His tongue traced circles around your nipple, sucking it deeper into his mouth with each slow pull of his lips. One of his hands gripped your ass, guiding your hips faster against his erection, grinding you down until your whole body was quivering.

“Y-You’re so warm,” He panted between kisses. “So soft–God–“ And then he took the other nipple between his lips, just as eager, just as mindless. His tongue licked a long, slow stripe across the swell of your breast and you sobbed at the contact, your whole body arching into him. Bob groaned around your nipple one last time before pulling off with a wet pop, his mouth red and slick with spit. His eyes were blown wide, pupils so dilated there was barely any blue left–but there was something else swimming behind them too, something ancient, hungry, waiting to surface. His breath caught in his throat as he leaned in close, nudging your jaw with his nose, mouth grazing your cheek. Then suddenly–

He surged forward.

Your back hit the cold tile in one fluid motion, the breath punching out of your lungs as he guided you down with firm hands, mouth still dragging across your chest. The contrast between the icy floor and the furnace of your skin made you cry out softly, arching up into his touch.

“Bob–” You gasped, but your words cut off with a moan as his hands slipped low, gripping the waistband of your pants and underwear in one practiced motion.

“L-Lift your hips,” He instructed–voice rough and tight with restraint. You obeyed instantly, and he peeled both garments down your legs in a single fluid movement, baring you to the air, to him, to everything.

Your thighs quivered as the rush of cool air met the wet heat between them. You leaned up, grabbed the hem of your tank top, and tore it over your head. It hit the floor behind you just as Bob stripped off his shirt–his chest gleaming with sweat, muscles flexing, dusted with faint gold shimmer and a constellation of freckles across his collarbones.

You barely had a second to breathe before he dropped between your thighs again, mouth finding yours in a kiss so urgent and deep it knocked your head back against the tile. It was messier now–hotter, more desperate, his tongue fucking into your mouth with wild hunger.

Then he broke away just far enough to speak.

“I-I’m going to c-crawl on my fucking knees,” He growled, “And you’re gonna spread those thighs wider for me, and let me eat you until you come on my tongue.”You arched up with a moan, hips twitching off the floor. Your hands reached for him blindly, pulling at his shoulders as he trailed kisses down your throat, your chest, your ribs.

“I need you so fucking bad,” He whispered, his voice darker now–lower, smoother. The stutter was gone.

You blinked through the haze, the heat, the sweat clinging to your lashes–and that’s when you saw it. The eyes. Not Bob’s soft blue. Gold. Molten.

“Sentry,” You whispered, breath catching.

But you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t want to.

His teeth scraped gently along your stomach, sending electric pulses through your nerves, and then he kissed the inside of your hip bones like he was worshipping an altar.

“You smell so fucking sweet,” He murmured, nose dragging through the crease where your thigh met your core, voice reverent and filthy all at once. “I can’t wait to have a taste.” You sobbed his name as your thighs opened wider for him, your body obeying without question. He slid his hands beneath you, lifting your hips off the floor, draping your thighs over his shoulders–his palms spreading across your lower back to anchor you in place.

“Look at you,” He groaned, lips brushing against your soaked folds without yet tasting. “You’re drenched…You’re so fucking wet I can see it drip.”

Then he leaned in.

And licked a slow, devastating stripe up your center.

You choked on a scream. Your hips jerked hard against his mouth, and his arms tightened around your thighs, holding you down as his tongue moved again–sloppier this time. Messier. Hungrier. He licked into you like he was starving. Long, deep strokes. Quick flicks. Circles around your swollen clit that had you crying out his name.

“God, fuck–yes–”

You gripped his hair hard, yanking at the sweat-damp strands, and he groaned like he liked it–no, loved it. The vibration of the sound against your core made your whole body shake.

“You taste like summer, like heat, like stars.” He moaned. “Absolutely fucking sinful.” He pulled back only long enough to look at you, his mouth wet, chin dripping with slick.

“I can’t wait to make you come on my tongue,” He growled.

And then he dove back in.

Tongue sliding flat against your clit, then swirling, sucking it into his mouth with slow, rhythmic pulls that made your vision blur. You cried out, grinding into his face, your hands clutching his hair, your whole body vibrating with sensation.

“P-Please–” you whimpered, barely able to breathe, “Please don’t stop–”

He didn’t.

He licked and sucked and groaned like you were his favorite meal, like he could do this for hours. His hands gripped your ass, dragging you tighter to his mouth, keeping you from squirming away.

You were going to come.

It was building fast–tight and white-hot and burning like it had nowhere else to go. You were right on the edge when–

He slipped one thick finger inside you.

You let out a loud gasp. It wasn’t pain–it was too much. Too good. The stretch, the pressure, the way his mouth never stopped moving.

“That’s it,” He murmured against your clit. “Take my fingers…Just like that…You’re so tight, fuck…I’m imagining how you’re going to take me.”

You clenched around him, and he groaned again–louder this time–and slid a second finger in, stretching you open. His fingers curled up, rubbing slow, teasing strokes into that perfect, devastating spot. Your walls fluttered, your thighs trembled.

“Oh god, oh god–”

“Come for me,” He growled. “Right now. Let me feel you.”

And he sped up.

Fingers pumping hard, mouth sucking your clit with filthy precision. You sobbed his name, your back arched clean off the tile, and you shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you like fire, like lightning–your thighs locking around his head, your hands gripping his hair as you wailed through it.

He didn’t stop.

Not when you cried out.

Not when you begged.

He kept sucking, licking, fucking his fingers into you as your body convulsed.

Your body was still twitching when he pulled his fingers free–slick and trembling, your core fluttering from aftershocks as he slowly sat back on his heels.

His chin was soaked. His lips swollen. His eyes–those molten, god-touched eyes–burned down the length of your naked body like sunlight through stained glass.

“I should feel sated,” He murmured, voice too calm for the storm coiled in his chest. “I should be full from what I’ve just taken.”He leaned in. Slowly. Pressed one open-mouthed kiss to your thigh, then another–hot and reverent, just shy of your folds. His breath dragged over you, still sensitive, and it made you whimper.

“But I’m not,” He said low, his nose skimming up the inside of your leg as he worked his way toward your face. “I’m still starving.”

You were trying to breathe, but it wasn’t easy. Not with your pulse echoing in your throat, not with the ache between your legs still pulsing with the memory of his tongue, and certainly not with him looking at you like that.

“I’ve waited…So long to taste you.”

His voice was velvet heat–slick with need, rich with something that throbbed like want and worship tangled together.

He braced a hand on either side of your head as he crawled up over you, hair wild around his face, sweat glistening on the slopes of his shoulders and chest. The weight of him caged you in. It wasn’t heavy–it was all-consuming.

You reached up with a trembling hand and cupped his face. His skin was flushed, warm and slick, his jaw tight as though holding back something enormous.

“I can still feel you,” You whispered, voice raw. “On my mouth. On my thighs. Inside me.”

He smiled at that–but it wasn’t gentle.

It was hunger.

“You’ll feel me even more soon.”His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip, and his gaze flicked down–watching the way your mouth parted for him instinctively. He leaned in again, voice now a whisper of thunder against your cheek, “Imagine what it’s going to be like when I fuck you…” Your hips bucked helplessly beneath him, but he only smirked, catching them with a firm palm.

“Sentry,” You gasped, voice trembling as your thighs clenched under the weight of him, “P-Please. God—don’t you feel it too?!”

His nose brushed yours, breath hot against your cheek. He didn’t answer at first–just let that small, dangerous smile curl across his lips, teeth barely catching his lower lip before he released it.

“Of course I feel it,” He murmured, hips dragging downward, grinding his clothed cock into your slick heat. “It’s everywhere in me. In my chest, in my spine, my teeth.” His voice dropped to a darker pitch, and the gold in his eyes flared one last time before dimming. “I-I just know I’m going to get what I-I need…

Bob sat back on his knees between your spread thighs, hands sliding slow and sure down his stomach to the waistband of his sweatpants. “I-I already came once just from eating you out,” He confessed, voice timid now, “I t-think I have more in me…”

Then he tugged the sweatpants down.

Your breath stuttered in your throat.

His erection sprang free, flushed dark and glistening at the tip, already slick with the evidence of his earlier release. A thick bead of cum sat heavy at the crown, dripping slowly down the curve of his shaft, and your whole body twitched at the sight of it. The raw, shameless arousal surged in your belly like wildfire.

“Fuck–” You whispered, pupils blown wide.

He was beautiful. Veined and heavy and so hard it twitched with every breath. You couldn’t stop yourself. Your hand moved without thought–licking your palm once, slow and deliberate, before wrapping your fingers around him.

Bob groaned immediately–deep. His head dropped forward, curls swinging around his jaw, and his hips bucked into your touch as your hand slid down the length of him in a slow, sticky stroke. His cock throbbed in your grip. Hot. Pulsing.

“Mmmf–fuck,” He growled, the sound rattling against the walls. He dropped one hand down to your thigh to steady himself, the other bracing behind him as you worked him with your slick hand–up and down, tight and wet and slow, like you wanted to savor every second.

His breath came out in sharp pants, his face flushed, his eyes fluttering shut as your thumb rubbed just beneath the swollen head, gathering that leaking slick and spreading it over his cock.

“God, I didn’t even have to touch you and you came.” You whispered,

“That’s what y-you do to me,” he gasped, voice shaking. “I couldn’t help it—god, I couldn’t fucking help it—” He surged forward, kissing you hard, and you moaned against his mouth as his hips began to stutter forward, chasing the motion of your hand with every pass.

It was hot, the way he kissed you–messy. His mouth was open, panting against yours, lips dragging along your tongue, teeth grazing your bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth with a wet pop. He moaned into you with every stroke of your hand, deep in his chest, growling like it hurt not to move faster.

He kissed like he was about to fall apart in your arms.

Like he wanted to ruin you and thank you at the same time.

And you could feel it–he was close again. Already.

“G-God–don’t stop–don’t stop–” he choked out, hips bucking into your grip, his cock twitching hard in your palm.

Then his mouth tore from yours with a ragged moan, his body going rigid as he came–again.

Thick ropes of cum spilled across your stomach in hot, wet spurts–slicking your skin, painting the swell of your belly in messy, sticky heat. Bob cried out, breath catching, his hand clutching your thigh hard enough to leave fingerprints as his hips jerked against your hand one last time.

You watched it all, feeling it dripping down your skin. You slowed your hand, and then looked up at him. His eyes were fluttered closed. His mouth hung open, panting raggedly. His cheeks were red and damp with sweat, hair curling against his temples in loose, disheveled strands.

And then–

You ran your fingers through the puddle of cum on your stomach.

Bob’s eyes snapped open.

He watched, transfixed, as you dragged two fingers slowly through the mess he left on you–slicking them up, glossy with white.

Then you brought them to your mouth.

And sucked them clean.

He groaned–low and guttural, more animal than man. He surged forward and kissed you, hard–his mouth hot and open, tongue licking into yours like he needed to taste what you’d just tasted.

And when he pulled back–just barely–he looked drunk. Starved. His voice was hoarse, reverent.

“W-We taste so g-good together,” He whispered.

You whimpered, eyes wide and glassy.

And then your voice broke.

“I need you inside me.”

His breath hitched sharply. His eyes searched your face like a prayer–like he needed to make sure this wasn’t just the pollen, wasn’t just chemical.

But your body told him everything he needed to know. The slick between your thighs. The tremble in your voice. The way your legs fell open without fear. He saw your hand reaching for him–trembling, open, desperate–and instead of just taking it, he kissed it.

One slow kiss to your palm. Then your wrist. Then each fingertip in turn, reverent and breath-warmed. His eyes didn’t leave yours, even when his lips brushed the soft pads of your fingers. It felt like something sacred.

“I-I’m yours, Y/N…” He whispered, his voice wrecked–hoarse and honeyed, lined with awe. “All yours.”

Your chest trembled. Not from the pollen. Not from the heat. From the weight of it–his words, his body, his need. You brought your other hand to his cheek, touching the sweat-slick curve of his face, thumb stroking over his flushed skin.

“You’re burning up,” You whispered.

“So are you,” He breathed back.

But the ache had shifted now. It was lower. Thicker. No longer frantic. Just heavy. Full. Demanding.

His lips met yours again–slow this time, almost trembling. Not chasing. Not crashing. Just pressing. Full and warm. Your mouths moved in sync, deeper with every pass, until he adjusted his weight above you, one forearm braced beside your head while the other hand snaked down to your thigh.

His fingers curled around the underside of it, tugging you closer until your legs wrapped around him again and your slick heat pressed against his length. He groaned into your mouth at the contact.

“G-God, Y/N,” He muttered, dragging his mouth down to your throat, kissing the line of your pulse. “You’re s-still dripping. I can feel it–so hot, so wet for me…”

His hand shifted, reaching between your bodies. He stroked himself once. Twice. The glide was obscene, slick with both your arousal and his release from before. He cursed low under his breath–voice strained with restraint–and guided the thick head of his erection to your entrance. Then–he paused, letting his forehead press to yours, his nose brushing yours as he whispered

“T-Tell me you want it.”

”I want you, Bob,” You breathed, “I’ve wanted you for so long…Please I want you inside me.” You begged, almost on the brink of tears just from the sheer anticipation that wracked through your body. He let out a long sigh and slid in, with such slowness you felt your whole body tense up.

You both gasped at the same time–loud, broken, raw. Your back arched and your thighs locked tighter around him as he pushed forward, inch by inch, stretching you wide with the thick, pulsing heat of him. He groaned above you, mouth falling open as your walls clenched around him, impossibly wet and tight.

“Oh–f-fuck…” He stuttered, his voice cracking like it couldn’t contain the feeling. “You feel…God…You feel like…Like e-everything.”

You whined under him, nails scraping lightly across his back. Every inch dragged through you like it was carved for you–hot, thick, filling. It was too much and not enough at once.

“You’re stretching me so good,” You gasped, voice shaking. “Bob–go slow–I wanna feel all of it.” He obeyed, hips moving with devastating care, sinking into you until he bottomed out, fully seated, buried to the hilt. The moan that left your mouth was guttural. His wasn’t any better. It came from deep in his chest–an animal sound, trembling and wrecked.

He stayed still inside you, just for a moment, just to feel everything, just to breathe.

Your chest rose beneath him in shuddering gasps, your nails pressing into the flex of his back as your hips trembled beneath the weight of him. He was deep–so deep it was hard to breathe–but it wasn’t painful. It was perfect. Like a lock clicking into place after too many years of holding the wrong key.

His forehead dropped to yours, your sweat-slick skin sticking where it touched, his breath ragged and hot against your cheek. His arms trembled faintly from the restraint, from the fire still licking through his blood, from the unholy grip of your body around him. His hands slid slowly from the curve of your thigh up to your waist, his thumbs brushing over your hips as if memorizing them. One hand trailed higher, tracing the line of your ribs, his touch light, soothing, trembling.

”You feel–“ He choked on the words, voice wrecked and shaking, “–Like…L-Like you were made for every inch of m-me.” Your fingers dug into his shoulders as your back arched slightly, hips shifting. The movement made him twitch deep inside you, and the sound he let out was hoarse and broken. Your lips brushed his, breath mingling.

“I need you to move,” you whispered. “Please, Bob. I need you to–”

He cut you off with a kiss.

Not desperate. Not wild. Just deep. Intentional. His lips dragged against yours in slow, soft strokes, his tongue slipping into your mouth like a secret. You kissed him back with a whimper, your hands cupping his face, fingers sliding into the damp curls at the base of his neck.

Then he started to move.

Slow at first.

A long, slow withdrawal that had your breath catching in your throat, followed by a deep, steady thrust that made you moan into his mouth. His hips rocked forward again, harder this time, but still slow. Still deliberate. Still savoring.

You felt every inch.

And he felt everything.

Your slick heat around him. The way your body welcomed him, tightened for him, trembled from the fullness. He moved like he wanted to stay inside you forever–long strokes that dragged through you with devastating patience, hips grinding at the end of each thrust like he wanted to feel the slick press of your clit against his skin.

He kissed you between thrusts–messy, wet kisses that dragged across your jaw, your cheek, your mouth again. His lips caught your whimpers. His tongue tasted your gasps. He moaned into your mouth when you clenched around him.

And then–

His hand slid up your chest, broad and warm, until his palm cupped the base of your throat. Not tight. Not forceful. Just there. Anchoring. Feeling the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath his fingers like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever touched.

“You’re burning,” He whispered, lips dragging across your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “S-So warm…So soft…So alive…”

His hips rolled again, slow but deep, pressing into you until your breath stuttered beneath his palm. Your body arched into him helplessly, your thighs wrapping tighter around his waist, your mouth parting on a moan that he caught with a kiss–hot, slick, and panting. He swallowed it greedily.

The pressure of his hand on your throat didn’t restrict. It grounded. Like he needed to feel your heartbeat just to believe this was real.

You whimpered, and he pulled back enough to look at you–his curls dripping sweat, his lips swollen and damp, and those eyes, half-lidded and molten gold at the edges.

“G-God, I could be inside you forever,” he rasped, voice trembling like the words themselves threatened to undo him. “I–I never want to l-leave this. Never wanna stop feeling you like this…”

Another thrust–this one deeper, grinding. Your head dropped back with a gasp.

“Bob–” You sobbed his name like it was the only word you remembered, your fingers twisting hard in his hair. He groaned, deep and wrecked, his hips stuttering slightly as you tugged, his body responding like you’d yanked something primal out of him. His mouth found yours again, frantic and hot, tongue flicking into your mouth with messy, desperate hunger.

Then he pulled back just enough to see your face–flushed, dewy with sweat, eyes glassy and wide.

“Y-You’re close again,” He murmured, like it was something holy. His hand still cradled your throat lightly, thumb stroking gently beneath your jaw as he pressed his forehead to yours, “I–I can feel it, you’re tightening every time I move–you’re doing so good for me Y/N.” You whimpered beneath him, your hands clutching at his back, at his shoulders, pulling him deeper, harder, anything–

“I’ve got you,” He whispered, rocking into you again, the friction slow and devastating. “Let go for me. Come around me. I wanna feel it. I wanna feel you fall apart.”

You moaned–high and soft and broken.

“That’s it,” he breathed, voice breaking. “Just like that. You’re doing so good—G-God–you’re so perfect.” Your thighs shook around his hips. His hand slid down from your throat to your chest, splaying wide over your sternum, as if he could feel the orgasm building beneath your ribs. His other hand slipped to your hip, holding you still as he gave one slow, deep thrust that hit the exact spot that made your vision blur.

Your mouth dropped open in a cry.

“Come for me,” He begged, hips rolling again, steady and relentless. “Please–I wanna feel you–let me feel you come around me–”

You shattered.

Your back arched off the floor, your breath catching in a series of sobbed gasps as the orgasm ripped through you. He kept moving, kept whispering praise through your climax, voice ragged with awe.

“That’s it…That’s it, Y/N…You’re so beautiful like this–“ You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you on earth, your nails digging into his back, your body convulsing beneath him with every wave of pleasure. You could feel yourself pulsing around him, feel how it dragged a strangled moan out of his throat.

“I-I’m so close,” He gasped, his voice wrecked, his rhythm faltering. “W-Wanna fill you up–please–can I–?”

You nodded, breathless and trembling. “Yes–yes, please–I want it–give it to me–” With a broken groan, his hips jerked forward one last time–and he spilled inside you. His whole body shook as he came, burying his face in your neck, his arms wrapping around you like he needed to hold every part of you to survive it.

You could feel it–every throb, every pulse of warmth deep inside you. His moans, soft and shaking, buzzed against your throat as his breath caught in your skin.

He didn’t move for a long while.

Just stayed there–buried inside you, mouth warm against your neck, arms tight around your waist like he was anchoring himself to this moment, to the rhythm of your heart against his chest. His breath was still coming in short, shaken bursts, and yours wasn’t much better. You were both trembling a little–not from fear, not anymore–but from the rawness of what had just passed between you. Like your bodies hadn’t quite caught up to the aftermath of something so explosive, so full.

But the heat was different now.

It had shifted. Softened. Still warm. Still thick. But no longer blistering, no longer maddening. Just…Lingering.

Your hands slid slowly up his back, fingers tracing through the sweat that slicked his spine, dragging across the faint bumps of his vertebrae. He let out a soft, shaky sigh against your skin. Your fingertips wandered to his sides, palms smoothing gently over the curve of his ribs as if to say I’m here. Still here. I’m okay.

You tilted your head and pressed a kiss to his shoulder—soft, damp, reverent. His skin tasted like salt and breathless devotion.

Bob shifted then, his arms loosening around you as he lifted his head just slightly, enough to look down at you. His hair was a light brown mess, damp curls stuck to his temples, a few clinging to his cheeks. He blinked at you–slow, still dazed–but there was something clearer in his eyes now. Something tender. His hand dragged along your side, skimming your ribs, and he leaned down to kiss you again.

His lips moved against yours like he hadn’t quite gotten his fill–like maybe he never would. He kissed your mouth, then your jaw, then your neck, peppering slow, breathless kisses along the column of your throat. You giggled once–just a little–as his nose brushed the underside of your jaw, tickling your skin.

He pulled back just enough to blink down at you, lips wet and parted, chest still heaving.

”Y-You know I like you, right?” Your breath caught. Your fingers paused where they rested near the nape of his neck. His voice had cracked slightly on the word like, and you could tell he meant something so much more than that. Of course you knew his feelings for you, it was easy to spot, but hearing him say it aloud–even after the both of you just had the most carnal sex ever–still made you a bit breathless. You swallowed, then nodded–eyes searching his face, your heart fluttering in your throat.

“I like you too,” You whispered, your voice shaky and soft. “Always have…” Your cheeks burned, and not from residual heat. You traced a finger over the curve of his shoulder. “T-The circumstances right now are a bit c-crazy…But…Maybe after this…”You tried to continue, but your nerves tangled the words together.

He finished them for you.

“I-I’ll take you out,” He said, nodding once, as if promising both you and himself. “We…We can go to your favorite r-restaurant. And we can do this right…” He ducked his head a little, voice lowering to a smile. “W-Without the sex pollen.” You let out a laugh–helpless and bright–and leaned up to kiss him again. He grinned into it, just a little, and kissed you twice more, slower now, like sealing the agreement. When he finally pulled back, his thumb was brushing your cheekbone, his other hand still lazily tracing your hip.

His gaze dropped to your chest for a moment, then back to your eyes. “A-Are you still aching?” He asked gently.

You paused, body still humming with the memory of him, but no longer sharp with urgency. You shifted slightly, feeling the wet stickiness between your thighs, the throb finally quieting to something warm and dull.

“It’s dulled a little,” you admitted. “But I think we should wash up…”

He blinked, nodding. “R-Right. Yeah.”

You offered a small smile, brushing the sweat-slick hair from his forehead. “We’ve got that little makeshift shower unit in the corner storage. Emergency setup. I-I can activate it.”

He looked at you, eyes soft, one hand trailing lightly over your ribs again.

“I-I’ll come with you,” He murmured. “Just to m-make sure you’re okay.” His curls hung loose now, wild and slightly matted from where your fingers had yanked at them during your climax. The gold shimmer on his skin caught the low lab lights, making him glow faintly where he hovered above you.

“Aww,” you murmured, brushing a hand lazily over the sharp line of his jaw, “That’s sweet, Bob. Really. But we both know that’s not the reason you’re joining me.” Bob flushed immediately, lips twitching into a bashful grin.

“O-Okay,” He said quietly, nuzzling your cheek with the tip of his nose. “M-Maybe it isn’t…M-Maybe I just wanna wash you, and k-kiss you under the water…Until all this heat dies down inside me.” Your chest stuttered at that, heart tripping over itself. His voice was so soft, so wrecked, so full of you.

“Now that’s much better,” You whispered, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth. He smiled into it, and you felt the way his arms curled tighter around your middle, the way his cock–still half-hard inside you–twitched slightly at the praise. He sighed, then slowly pulled out, both of you gasping a little at the drag of it. You shivered, and he was already reaching for a nearby towel to cover you while you sat up. His hand cradled the back of your head as you steadied yourself. Always gentle, even now.

You stretched your sore limbs and started for the far corner of the lab where the emergency hygiene setup was stored. Still naked, still glowing with post-orgasm daze, you knelt beside the console and started activating the emergency rinse station–a compact but functional retractable stall with hot water access, a single pressure-nozzle head, and sealed drainage for contamination containment. You flipped open the sanitation kit, pulling out the packet of unscented soap, a washcloth, and the emergency towels folded like paper bricks.

Bob padded over behind you, and you heard him laugh softly as you organized the supplies with shaky hands.

“What?” You said over your shoulder, arching an eyebrow.

He scratched the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “N-Nothing. Y-You just look really focused for someone who’s still naked and covered in glittery sex pollen.”

You snorted. “Yeah, well,” you murmured, standing and turning to face him, “Remind me to access the cameras in here later and delete the footage of what happened…”

Bob raised his brows. “You think there’s audio?”

You gave him a deadpan look. “Bob. We shouted at each other and cried out mid-orgasm while covered in science glitter. If there’s audio, we’re already blackmail material.”

His face turned scarlet.

“Y-You think they’ll–”

“I don’t think we want our sex tape leaking,” You interrupted, grinning wickedly as you flicked the shower head on. Warm water streamed out with a pleasant hiss, filling the space with a light mist and the sound of soft rainfall. You stepped under it first, pulling him gently in after you. The water hit your skin and instantly began washing away the gold flecks still clinging to your chest and thighs.

Bob’s hands found your waist again.

“…M-Maybe I’ll take a copy,” He mumbled.

You looked over your shoulder at him with mock exasperation. “You’ll have the real thing almost every night, Bob,” you said, voice low and teasing. “I don’t think you’ll need a copy.” His breath hitched–barely–and then you felt his mouth press to the back of your shoulder, his arms circling your waist from behind.

“I-Is that so?” He asked, lips trailing kisses up your damp neck.

You tilted your head back against him, smiling into the steam.

“Oh, it’s definitely so,” You said, reaching back to cup the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as the water cascaded around you both–cleansing your skin, but not your hunger.

[ivybucky]

I love thisss it’s so cute!!

Bob Reynolds x f!reader

DREAMY VACATION

Summary: You've been sent on vacation to take a break from saving the world, but there's no hiding from your emotions that will eventually take over.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, alcohol consumption, body insecurity, Sentry awakening (just for a second), erection, breast play, oral sex (m & f receiving), unprotected sex (p i v), overstimulation, multiple orgasms, hickeys

A/n: Hii! So uhm this is LONG AS FUCK, like a literal novel so I am warning you. Anyways I wanted to thank you for 1k followers?! How?! You have no idea how much this means to me. I am grateful for each and every one of you and I will try my best to improve my writing. Hopefully you will like my future projects as much as you've liked the ones I have done so far. Anyway if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

You and the rest of the Thunderbolts had been deployed to Spain on what was supposed to be a critical mission. The briefing was vague but urgent, something about a potential global threat developing near the coast.

On the plane to Alicante, you sat down next to Bob. He looked tense. Really tense. He was gripping the armrest like it might fly off on its own. His face was pale, and his shoulders stiff as stone.

“Hey,” you said gently, nudging him with your elbow as you got settled. “You okay?”

Bob didn’t answer right away. He blinked, clearly trying not to throw up, and then murmured, “Um… do you maybe wanna sit by the window instead?” He didn’t look at you, just stared straight ahead like a man facing death.

Without missing a beat, you nodded. “Sure. Come on.”

You stood up and let him shuffle over into your seat. The second he sat down, he let out a deep belch, followed by a hoarse, “Oh God…”

You were already leaning closer, scanning his face with concern. “You good?”

Your hand found his knee, giving it a comforting rub. His eyes were squeezed shut, his hands now gripping the tray table for dear life.

He nodded slowly, jaw clenched. “I’m okay. Just… hate flying.”

You offered a soft smile and stayed close. “I’ll be right here the whole time, okay? Just breathe.”

He nodded again, and despite how miserable he looked, his posture softened slightly, just enough to tell you that your presence was doing what your words couldn’t.

“I’ll go get some water and a bag, just in case,” you told him gently, already sliding out of your seat. Bob gave a tiny nod, eyes still shut, lips tight as if even opening them would invite disaster. You made your way down the aisle, stopping a flight attendant with a polite smile and a quick explanation.

She gave you a knowing look. “Nervous flyer?”

“Something like that,” you chuckled.

A minute later, you returned to your row, holding a small bottle of water and one of those crinkly, shame-colored paper bags. Bob looked slightly less pale than before—his hands weren’t as white-knuckled on the armrests, and his breathing had calmed a little. But he still had that I-might-hurl-any-second look going on.

“Here,” you said, sitting back down and offering both the water and the bag. “Just in case. Don’t worry, it’s only a few hours.”

The moment the word “hours” left your mouth, Bob visibly tensed. He choked on his own spit and shot you a wide-eyed stare like you’d just told him he’d have to wrestle an alligator.

You raised your hands defensively. “Okay, wrong choice of words—ignore me.”

Before either of you could say more, the engines began to roar and the plane started rolling forward. Bob immediately slumped into his seat like a melting popsicle, shut his mouth and eyes, and gripped the tray table as if it were the only thing anchoring him to this dimension.

You couldn’t help a soft smile. He looked a bit ridiculous and miserable at the same time.

“This is the worst part,” you said soothingly, glancing out the window as the runway sped beneath you. “It gets better after takeoff.”

As the plane began to lift from the ground, your heart fluttered with excitement. A new mission in Europe. A whole new landscape, new memories. Even if you weren’t saving the world, part of you loved the thrill of the unknown.

You inhaled deeply, a soft smile on your lips… until you felt a touch.

You turned your head just in time to see Bob—eyes still closed, jaw clenched—reach out blindly and grab your hand in his. He didn’t say a word, didn’t look at you. He just held on. Tightly.

You looked down at your interlaced fingers. He was basically crushing your hand, but you didn’t pull away. If this helped him even a little, you weren’t going anywhere.

Your thumb brushed over his knuckles in quiet reassurance. You didn’t say anything. He didn’t either. But something in the weight of his grip, the vulnerability of that small action, felt more genuine than a thousand words.

Sure, your hand might be useless for the next few hours, but somehow that didn’t matter. It was Bob. That’s what made it okay.

The flight dragged on peacefully, and at some point, exhaustion won.

By the time the pilot announced the descent, both you and Bob were fast asleep. The flight attendant’s gentle voice over the intercom was what stirred you.

“Excuse me—we’ll be landing shortly.”

You blinked groggily, and as your senses slowly returned, you realized that you and Bob were still holding hands. The entire flight. Neither of you had let go, not even in your sleep.

You turned your head at the same time he did, both of you blinking at each other in a dazed, half-dream state. Then you both released your grips at once, slowly, carefully.

You cleared your throat, trying to play it cool. Bob straightened his seat and adjusted his hoodie like he could hide in it.

“…Feeling better?” you asked softly, keeping your voice low enough so only he could hear. He nodded, and for the first time that day, smiled at you—not the nervous, half-broken kind, but something real.

“Y-Yeah. Thank you.” His voice was quiet, but sincere.

You smiled back before you even realized it, heart tugging in that dangerous, stupid way it did whenever he looked at you like that.

Sometimes you wondered if Bob Reynolds was even real. Maybe he was a highly advanced hologram, or worse, a social experiment where you were the test subject. Because if he was a trap, a trick, or an illusion… well, you’d already fallen in pretty deep.

The moment you landed at the airport in a sunny seaside city called Alicante, your adrenaline was high, ready to face whatever was waiting for you.

But instead of military vehicles or local agents waiting on the tarmac, there was a giant banner reading “SURPRISE!” flapping in the Mediterranean breeze. An agent, smiling way too much for someone who usually briefed on extinction-level events, greeted you all with the bombshell: “There is no mission. You’re here on vacation for one full week. Fully paid. Mandatory.”

Everyone had a different reaction. Some of the team burst out laughing. A few gave each other looks of disbelief. Alexei screamed, “HELL YES, BEACH TIME!” and fist-pumped the air. Yelena already had sunglasses on. But not everyone was thrilled.

Bucky Barnes, for one, looked like someone had just kicked his dog. Twice. He crossed his arms and muttered, “This is ridiculous. I don’t do beaches.”

“Well, now you do,” said Ava with a smirk. “Welcome to bonding camp, grumpy.”

You were all told this wasn’t just a vacation, it was a “team-building retreat.” You were going to be forced to relax together, apparently to grow stronger as a unit. And no one was allowed to bail.

Despite the chaos of your missions and all the tension in the beginning, over the past few months of cohabitating in Stark Tower, you’d all grown… closer. There were still arguments, sure—someone was always stealing snacks, using someone else’s mug, or playing music too loud at 3AM—but you knew each other now. Knew who liked what, who needed quiet mornings, who hogged the bathroom, and who cried during certain movie scenes (spoiler: it’s more of them than you expected).

But the bond between you and Bob Reynolds stood out most.

Everyone saw it. From the moment you helped rescue him, you’d never left his side. You were the first to check if he was injured, the first to speak to him like a human being and not a walking nuclear reactor. You made sure he was okay. Like some stray dog the world had tossed aside—and you just quietly decided he was yours now.

And the team followed your lead. Despite what he’d done, despite nearly destroying the world and ripping open old wounds in everyone’s psyche, they welcomed him with open arms. Because you did.

“Vacation?” Bob raised an eyebrow, looking genuinely confused.

“Yup,” John said with a grin, giving him a playful nudge. “That’s when you don’t do anything and it’s totally fine. You should try it sometime.”

Bob didn’t look convinced. If anything, he looked suspicious of the concept. His whole life had been built around duty, damage control, and trying not to explode. The idea of just… existing with no expectations felt foreign. Maybe even dangerous.

“Alright folks, let’s move out,” Yelena called, hoisting her bag over her shoulder with that bossy tone everyone obeyed without question. She might’ve shared the leadership role with Bucky, but she had the charisma of someone who got things done.

Like a herd of reluctant high schoolers on a mandatory field trip, the team followed—grumbling, joking, dragging their feet, but moving.

The drive wasn’t long.

A sleek black limousine pulled up to your destination within the hour. A row of elegant, private beach cottages spread out before you, nestled in a secluded cove just outside Alicante.

The sand was pale gold, soft as powdered sugar, stretching out toward the turquoise horizon. The sea shimmered beneath the sunlight, waves gentle and lazy. Palm trees lined the perimeter, their leaves rustling with every breeze, casting just enough shade to make the heat feel like a pleasant hug instead of a punishment.

The place felt untouched. Quiet.

Not exactly deserted—but exclusive. You could see why no ordinary tourists were lounging here. It wasn’t just the off-hour, it was the price. This was the kind of luxury reserved for diplomats and billionaires. For people who’d seen too much, done too much, and needed the world to shut up for five minutes.

For the first time, you felt the weight of silence around the team. Not the awkward kind—just a collective breath being held, like everyone was realizing at once how damn beautiful it was here.

The agent who’d escorted you out of the airport handed over two keycards with a charming smile. “One cabin for four men, and one for three ladies,” he said, giving them to Bucky and Yelena respectively.

“Enjoy yourselves.”

And just like that, he was gone, limousine and all, leaving you standing under the cloudless sky, surrounded by the scent of salt and coconut sunscreen.

You glanced around, soaking it all in. Then your gaze shifted to Bob. He was already looking at you. The moment your eyes met, he flinched and immediately turned his head, pretending to be very interested in a nearby bush.

You snorted quietly to yourself, lips twitching with amusement.

“This one’s ours, I guess,” Yelena said, pointing toward the cottage just a few steps away. Even from a distance, the place looked like it belonged in a luxury travel magazine. Creamy-white walls, light wooden trim, huge windows, and a little porch with hanging hammocks swaying lazily in the breeze. A dream come true.

You, Yelena and Ava made your way over with your bags. Yelena slid the keycard, and the door clicked open. The inside was even more stunning.

It was like stepping into a Pinterest board. The walls were painted in soft seafoam greens and sun-washed whites. Rattan furniture, pastel cushions, and airy curtains gave the space a coastal, boho vibe. There was a faint scent of lavender and driftwood in the air—relaxing, expensive, comforting.

Sunlight poured through the huge windows, illuminating a common area with plush couches, a breakfast bar stocked with fruits and snacks, and wide glass doors that opened directly onto the beach. You could hear the waves as if the ocean was whispering, You’re safe here.

“Holy shit,” Ava breathed out, spinning in a slow circle like she couldn’t believe this wasn’t CGI. “This is nicer than my actual apartment.”

Yelena dropped her bag on the nearest bed with a satisfied smirk. “This is acceptable.”

You couldn’t help but smile. A real, easy smile, the kind that felt rare lately. Everything about this place felt… right and peaceful.

And as you peeked out the back window and saw the boys dragging their bags toward their own cottage, you knew this week was going to be something different. Maybe even healing.

A few hours had passed since you arrived. You’d unpacked, showered, explored the fridge, which was magically stocked with mouthwatering, chef-level food, and finally settled into that post-travel stillness.

The late afternoon sun blanketed everything in golden light as you lounged on the front veranda of your cottage. Yelena had claimed the hammock and was swinging gently, sunglasses on, arms behind her head, looking like a war-hardened goddess pretending to be chill.

You and Ava had claimed two of the hanging lounge chairs, gently swaying as you soaked in the sun. Both of you had sunglasses perched on your noses, and the soft breeze kept the heat from being overwhelming.

“What are we even supposed to do here?” Ava asked, not bothering to open her eyes. Her voice was lazy, relaxed, a perfect match for the quiet waves in the distance.

It was a simple question. One you should’ve been able to answer. But you paused. Because… you honestly didn’t know.

Before you could respond with something vague, Yelena chimed in with a deadpan comment that made both you and Ava snort with laughter. It was something about team bonding meaning “not-murdering each other in close quarters,” and that this counted.

Then you added, perfectly flat, “I didn’t even bring a swimsuit.”

Ava blinked, then looked over at you. “Wait, me neither.”

“Didn’t expect this,” you muttered. “Was packing for death, not tanning.”

Yelena groaned. “Okay great. Let’s go buy swimsuits now. Or we’ll end up stuck here melting like idiots on a porch for the rest of the week.”

She was right, so without much debate, the three of you grabbed your canvas totes, wallets, and phones. None of you were wearing anything particularly beach-shopping-appropriate, but it didn’t matter. The streets near the coast would be casual, laid-back—just like the air already felt.

Of course, this wasn’t just a swimsuit run.

You were three women, unsupervised, in a beach town, surrounded by potential sales racks, accessory stands, cafés, and tourist traps. There was no way you were only coming back with swimwear.

As you walked past the guys’ cabin, Yelena suddenly veered off toward the door.

“I’m gonna see if any of the boys want to come with us,” she said casually.

You and Ava paused, hanging back by the path and watching her disappear into the house. After a beat of silence, Ava tilted her head toward you, voice sly behind her shades.

“So… are you two dating?”

You frowned, confused. “What?”

She shifted her sunglasses down her nose just enough to raise her brows. “You and Bob.”

Your eyes went wide. Your mouth dropped into a dramatic, perfect “O.”

“What— no, pffft, no! We’re just… friends. Like you and me.”

Ava laughed softly, but her gaze stayed locked on you, way too perceptive for your comfort.

“Then why don’t you look at me the way you look at him?”

The question hit harder than expected. You froze. Your heart did that thing where it picked up speed, like it was trying to run away before your brain could even catch up.

You opened your mouth to respond—but didn’t get the chance. Yelena reappeared, walking toward you like she owned the world, flanked by Johnny and Alexei, who looked far too amused to be joining a swimsuit shopping trip.

“They’re coming,” she said with a smirk. “Apparently the boys need suits too. And they want to pick out something ridiculous for Bucky.” That got a laugh out of all of you.

You glanced past them, half-hoping Bob would be in the group.

He wasn’t.

A tiny sting settled in your chest—nothing sharp, just that quiet flicker of disappointment. Maybe he needed rest. Maybe he didn’t feel like going out. Maybe… you were overthinking again.

You shook the thought away and caught up with the group, quickly weaving yourself into the casual chatter about the town, the ocean, and just how absurdly gorgeous these beach houses were.

Still… you couldn’t help but glance back, just once, at the boys’ cabin. Maybe he was watching. Maybe he wasn’t. But part of you hoped he’d noticed you were gone.

The shop you found wasn’t some cheap tourist trap. It was small, chic, and clearly catered to high-end beachgoers with taste. White walls, light wood floors, soft acoustic music playing in the background, and racks of curated swimsuits arranged by style, not size. It even smelled nice, like sunscreen and coconuts and fresh linen.

You, Yelena, and Ava wandered through the racks like hunters in the wild, each with your own goal. Ava leaned toward white or black prints. Yelena made a beeline for anything tactical-looking or black. You? You didn’t know what you were looking for, until you saw it.

A white two-piece bikini, delicate but bold.

The top had thin, adjustable straps and a soft triangle cut that showed just enough while still keeping you comfortable. The fabric was smooth, almost pearly under the light, and hugged your shape in a way that felt way too flattering. The bottoms were high-cut at the hips, elongating your legs, and dipped just enough in the front to make you feel sexy.

You held it up, biting your lip.

The fitting rooms were individual little cabins with thick curtains and full mirrors, and for a moment, you just stood inside yours, staring at yourself.

The bikini really did fit, almost suspiciously well. The white stood out against your skin like it was made for you. It hugged your waist, shaped your chest, gave just enough curve to make you hesitate. You adjusted the straps, turned sideways, checked again.

You weren’t sure if you felt powerful or exposed.

Still undecided, you pulled the curtain back and stepped out barefoot onto the cool wooden floor. Yelena was standing just outside, holding a one-piece camo-pattern swimsuit that looked like it belonged in some military-themed Sports Illustrated shoot.

When she turned to look at you, her face froze for a second. And then she blinked. Twice.

“Oh my god,” she said loudly. “Bob’s going to get an erection so hard he’s gonna pass out.”

You stared at her, completely stunned. “Yelena!”

She shrugged, utterly unbothered. “What? It’s true. That bikini is illegal. You look like someone who knows how hot she is.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed. That loud, shocked kind of laugh that felt like it echoed off your ribs.

“I’m not getting it just because of Bob!” you protested.

“Sure. Of course,” Yelena said, already turning to hang her swimsuit back on a rack. “You’re getting it because of you. Which happens to be the same you that wants Bob to think about you every time he blinks.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because maybe she wasn’t totally wrong.

You looked back at yourself in the big mirror. Your fingers lightly touched the strap on your hip. Yeah, part of you wanted Bob to notice. And part of you was absolutely terrified he would.

“…Okay,” you said quietly. “I’ll take it.”

The walk back from town was filled with laughter and light teasing. John and Alexei were leading the way, both proudly swinging shopping bags, one of which contained a ridiculous pair of swim trunks Alexei had picked for Bucky, covered in pineapples and flamingos, while Bob’s were thankfully simple and classic.

You held a bag in one hand and kept your eyes on your feet, but no matter what, you couldn’t stop your thoughts from drifting.

What’s Bob gonna do when he sees you in this bikini?

You hadn’t meant to obsess over it. The idea had just settled in your mind. Naturally. Like it belonged there. And now it was stuck. Even as Ava was telling a story about how she accidentally bought three identical sarongs, your mind wandered right back to Bob.

The moment you and Ava set the bags down on the porch with a thud, Yelena clapped her hands like a general calling her troops.

“Alright, troops! Try on your swimsuits, we’re playing beach volleyball in ten!”

You exchanged an amused glance with Ava. You were all tired, even Yelena was complaining on the way back how well she'll be sleeping. Guess that thought was gone now.

Still, the energy in the air was contagious and none of you had the heart to say no, so Yelena texted the guys while the rest of you headed to change.

When you stepped outside, the sun was warm on your skin and the sound of the ocean made everything feel like a dream. Bucky and Alexei were already out there, stretching and tying up the net between two poles. John stood nearby, casually tossing the volleyball between his hands.

But Bob wasn’t there.

Your breath hitched slightly, but before you could spiral, Ava appeared behind you and gave you a sharp slap on the butt.

“Relax, your loverboy probably just got distracted picking the perfect outfit,” she teased.

You rolled your eyes with a groan, but your heart was beating just a little faster. You walked over to the group, the sand soft under your feet.

Bucky noticed you first. His eyes lingered for a second longer than they probably should have, but he kept his expression locked down – soldier mode. Alexei, on the other hand, had zero filters.

“WOW, GIRL, LOOK AT YOU!” he shouted across the beach. “YOU LOOK LIKE A GODDESS! AND YOU TOO! AND YOU TOO!!”

He even stumbled into the net and collapsed dramatically, like your beauty had physically floored him. All of you burst out laughing. It was ridiculous, but sweet.

Walker stood back, saying nothing, just calmly observing like always, the ball still rotating between his palms.

“Let me help you with this,” you offered, moving to Bucky’s side and helping him secure the net to the post. You worked silently for a moment until he glanced at you and said, in his typical stern voice: “You look good.”

You smiled. “Thanks.”

Then, behind you, you heard the soft click of the cabin door opening. Your head instantly turned.

Bob stepped out. He wore a plain green T-shirt and simple black swim shorts. His hair was a little tousled from the wind, and the second his eyes landed on you, he froze.

You gave him a small, friendly wave.

He just stood there. His brows twitched. His jaw tensed. Then, as if his legs had remembered how to move, he took a step forward and tripped a little in the sand. Your heart did a backflip.

“See?” Yelena appeared beside you, slapping your shoulder. “Told you he’d be wrecked when he saw you.”

You laughed, half in embarrassment, half in disbelief, and shook your head. “Shut up.”

“Alright, LET’S GOOO!” Alexei yelled, clapping loudly before peeling off his shirt in one dramatic motion. The dude was built like a Greek statue.

Then Bucky followed suit, revealing defined abs and a torso clearly sculpted through years of combat training. All of you fell into stunned silence for a moment.

Even Walker, who hadn’t said a word, took off his shirt and casually joined the group. His body was lean, defined, quiet strength. Bob arrived near the group, awkwardly raising a hand.

“Hey,” he mumbled with a sheepish smile. All eyes slowly turned to him waiting. Expectant.

He looked around nervously. “What? Did I—?”

And then he realized. He looked down at his own shirt, then back up at the group.

“Oh! Uh… I think I’ll keep the shirt on. I’m kinda cold,” he laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.

You blinked. Cold? You didn’t believe him for a second, and you were pretty sure no one else did either. Still, no one pushed him. It was Bob. If he needed to keep his shirt on, he could.

Yelena turned to split the teams. “Alright, someone from the guys can join us, but anyone except Ale—”

“GOING WITH MY GORGEOUS LADIES!” Alexei yelled, cutting her off and dashing over to your side like a golden retriever on espresso.

Yelena let out the longest, most defeated sigh and rubbed her temples.

Teams were decided, and as fate would have it, you and Bob ended up on opposing sides. The game was lighthearted at first, filled with laughter and playful banter. But then John raised the stakes.

“How about this? Winning team gets treated to a round of rum by the losers!”

A collective cheer erupted, and the game intensified. The air buzzed with laughter, the sounds of sneakers shuffling and palms slapping against the volleyball echoing across the beach.

You were focused, at least, you were trying to be. But every time your eyes met Bob’s across the court, something fluttered in your chest. It wasn’t just the look he gave you, it was everything about him.

The way his green shirt clung to his chest, damp from sweat, outlining the gentle definition of his torso; the way his dark hair was slightly tousled, sticking to his forehead; the way he kept glancing at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

And he was looking.

Almost every single time you looked over at him, his eyes were already on you. And every single time, without fail, he’d catch himself and look away. Fast. Like a startled animal. His Adam’s apple would bob slightly as he swallowed hard, clearly rattled by something—by you, maybe.

But then came the moment he didn’t look away.

You looked across the net, searching for Bob again, and there he was, watching you. He didn’t flinch this time. He didn’t look down or pretend to scratch his face. He stared. And you, feeling just a little bold, gave him a playful wink.

That did it.

Even from across the sand, you saw the way his face lit up red. Not just a hint of blush, but full-on, ear-to-ear crimson. His lips curved upward in a tiny, embarrassed smile—so small you might’ve missed it if you weren’t watching for it.

And of course you were watching. The next serve came. Fast. Too fast. You turned just a moment too late, the ball whizzing past your shoulder and hitting the sand behind you.

Point lost.

Your teammates groaned in playful frustration, and you raised your hand apologetically. “My bad,” you laughed, even though inside, your stomach was doing backflips. Bob was still watching. Except now, he looked like he was having a different kind of crisis.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt nervously. His jaw clenched. His chest was visibly rising and falling faster than it should. His arms were tense. His fingers curled into fist, his knuckles white. His eyes were definitely not on the ball.

They were on you.

Suddenly, he took a deep breath and bent slightly forward. “Uh—sorry! I just need a… quick break!” he blurted out, turning so fast he almost tripped on his own foot. Without another word, he jogged off the court and toward the cabins, his shirt bunched up slightly at the back and clinging tighter at the front than before.

Everyone kind of paused.

“Everything alright?” John called after him, spinning the ball on his finger.

“Yeah! Yeah, all good!” Bob replied quickly, too quickly, his voice cracking slightly as he disappeared around the corner.

The group exchanged glances, some shrugged, some laughed. Yelena rolled her eyes. “He probably has bad stamina.”

But your heart dropped just a bit. Something felt off. You didn’t even think, you tossed the ball aside, murmured a quick, “I’ll go check on him,” and broke into a quick jog, sand kicking up around your ankles as you made your way toward the cabins.

Bob barely made it into the room before slamming the door shut behind him, chest heaving, face flushed and mind spinning. He pressed his back to the wood as if trying to barricade himself from the outside world, from you. His breathing was erratic. He glanced down.

“Oh no no no…”

The situation in his swim trunks was unignorable. His erection was pushing painfully against the fabric, a direct result of the way you looked—sweaty, flushed from the game, laughing with your hair a mess, skin kissed by sunlight. The way your bikini hugged your curves. The way your chest rose and fell when you ran. The way you winked at him.

He buried his face in his hands and groaned. This was not supposed to happen.

He tried to steady his breath and think about anything else, but it was useless. All he could think about was you. How close you’d gotten. How dangerous it felt to even have you in the same game, let alone within touching distance.

Then came the knock.

“Bob?” Your voice was gentle, concerned. “Are you okay?”

He froze. Your voice was the last thing he needed right now. It sent a fresh wave of heat through him. His hands curled into fists.

“Yeah! I’m—uh—I’m fine. Just a headache,” he called out quickly, praying you’d leave.

But you didn’t.

“I can come in, I’ll bring you water or—”

“NO!” he shouted. Too loud, too harsh. The silence that followed was gutting. You stood on the other side of the door, frozen in place. “…Bob?”

He could hear it. The confusion in your voice. The hesitation. He hated himself instantly.

“I just—I need to be alone, okay?” His voice was muffled now, pressed into the crook of his elbow as he paced the room. He could feel his heart pounding, his frustration mounting—not just with the situation, but with himself. “Just leave. Please.”

You didn’t speak. He imagined your face, how hurt you probably looked, how your brows might have creased, how your mouth might’ve opened to argue before you stopped yourself.

Then… footsteps. Soft. Fading. Gone.

He felt the loss immediately. Like something had been torn out of him. He let out a heavy breath and leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the door.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, too late. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to yell.”

No answer.

“Please don’t be mad… I just—I didn’t know what to do, okay? You—you do things to me, and I panicked. Please, come back.” But the hallway was empty and the only response was silence.

As you stepped out of the cabin, your eyes burned with unshed tears. You quickly wiped them away with the back of your hand, forcing a shaky breath through your nose.

“Hey, is Bob okay?” Ava asked, glancing toward the cabin you’d just exited.

You hesitated for a second, then nodded with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “He just said he had a headache,” you replied, your voice carefully even.

You walked toward the volleyball net and joined the opposite team—the one now short a player with Bob gone. “Let’s keep playing,” you added cheerfully, hoping no one would question it further.

To your surprise, the game was good. Fast-paced. Fun.

Even with the ache in your chest, you gave it your all. Maybe even because of it. Every hit, every run across the sand, every cheer was your way of forcing yourself to focus on something else—anything else.

And in the end, your team won.

Yelena, Ava, and Alexei groaned in dramatic defeat while you, John, and Bucky raised your arms in victory. “Winners get the drinks!” Walker grinned.

“Fine,” Yelena rolled her eyes. “But we’re picking the place.”

The sun had dipped lower in the sky now, casting a soft golden glow over the beach. The heat lingered though, a warm comfort against your skin. Everyone decided to freshen up a bit before heading out, and you slipped into something light—a black fishnet-style dress over your swimsuit, barely-there but airy enough to keep cool.

The girls whistled playfully at you as you walked out, and you returned their teasing with a twirl and a wink. But your heart still felt heavy.

The bar you ended up in was cozy, loud with laughter, music humming low in the background. The lights were warm and soft, casting shadows across everyone’s faces. You weren’t drunk—just a little lightheaded from the rum, the kind that made your thoughts buzz and your limbs a bit too loose.

Yelena stuck by your side most of the evening. She laughed with you, poked fun at Walker, and even made a show of challenging Alexei to a drinking contest. But at one point, she leaned in, her gaze a little too knowing.

“You’re smiling,” she said gently, “but your eyes are somewhere else.” You blinked and looked away, sipping from your drink.

“I’m fine,” you murmured.

Yelena sighed and gave you a long look. “I’m gonna go talk to Ava for a bit, okay? You good here?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I think I need some time alone anyway.” She gave your hand a light squeeze, then disappeared into the crowd.

You sat in silence for a while, swirling your drink, the taste of sugar and burn lingering on your tongue. Your gaze drifted around the room, but you weren’t really seeing anyone. The voices blended together. The laughter felt far away. Until one voice didn’t.

“Hey…”

You froze. Slowly, your eyes shifted to the side.

Bob.

He stood just beside you, looking awkward, guilty, and entirely out of place. His hair was a little messy, his green shirt slightly wrinkled like he’d been sitting in one place too long before deciding to come. His voice was soft. Tentative.

“…Can I sit?”

You just nodded faintly and let out a small, wordless hum of agreement.

He took the seat next to you, cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he really had the right to be there. You could feel his nervous energy radiating off him. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. His leg bounced subtly beneath the bar. It was obvious he’d been overthinking every second since earlier.

There was a long pause before he finally spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice strained but sincere. “About before. I didn’t mean to—” He hesitated, sighed. “I panicked. That’s all. I didn’t want to shout at you like that. I don’t even know why I did. I just… freaked out.”

You were still leaning against the bar, your head tilted slightly sideways, cheek resting on your folded arm. With your other hand, you absently played with the rim of your empty glass, turning it slowly between your fingers. You didn’t look at him, but your shoulders rose in a small shrug. It wasn’t cold—it just said I hear you. But I’m still processing.

He bit the inside of his cheek, clearly frustrated with himself, then tried again.

“I really am sorry. You didn’t deserve that. Can I… can I buy you another drink? Something strong, maybe? Vodka?”

That finally got a soft sound out of you—a short breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. You sat up properly, brushing your hair back and meeting his eyes, just briefly.

“No thanks,” you murmured. “I don’t wanna get drunk.”

He nodded, looking down at his hands, embarrassed. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”

The quiet between you stretched again, but it didn’t feel quite so heavy now. Just… tentative. Cautious. Slowly, your expression softened, even though the sadness still lingered. You could see how hard he was trying—how guilty he looked, how much he regretted that brief flash of temper. And even if it still hurt, you knew it hadn’t come from a place of cruelty. Just fear.

You sighed gently, then gave him a tiny nod. “It’s okay,” you said at last. “I get it.”

His eyes flicked up to you in relief, and he nodded eagerly. A beat passed before you tilted your head slightly. “Are you having anything?”

He blinked. “Uh… no. Acohol— I don’t really— It doesn’t go well with me.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, a little shyly. “I’m not exactly the fun drunk type. More like the ‘embarrass myself and then cry about it later’ type.”

That finally earned a genuine smile from you. A small, honest one. “Alright,” you said.

“What if we uh…drink something sweet? Like juice?” Bob suggested cautiously and you nodded with a hum.

Bob grinned sheepishly and waved at the bartender, ordering two fruity, alcohol-free drinks. When he slid yours toward you and caught the way you looked at him, smile soft, eyes warm, his ears turned a little pink. You raised your glass and clinked it gently against his.

As the conversation carried on, whatever tension had existed between the two of you earlier slowly dissolved, like mist in the morning sun. You laughed together, genuine, unguarded laughter, and it felt easy again. Comfortable.

Before long, you completely forgot why you’d been upset in the first place. Bob was being his awkward, charming self, and it was disarming in the best way. He made a silly comment about the drink being too fruity for a “manly guy like him,” and you rolled your eyes so hard it made him laugh. You teased him back, and time began to slip by, unnoticed and unchecked.

Eventually, Bucky appeared at the entrance of the bar, a little sweaty, clearly ready to call it a night. “We’re heading out,” he called over the soft hum of music and clinking glasses. “You two coming?”

You glanced at Bob and then shook your head with a smile. “We’ll stay a little longer.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow knowingly, gave a short wave, and disappeared with the rest of the group. That “little longer” quickly became several hours. The sky outside deepened into full night, the noise of the bar gradually quieted as the crowd thinned out, and you and Bob were still there, talking and laughing like it was the easiest thing in the world.

Then, suddenly, a voice broke through the moment, gentle but firm. The bartender leaned over and said something in Spanish, “Cerramos.”

Your eyes widened, and you let out a soft gasp. “Oh! They're closing.” You jumped off the barstool with a flurry of movement, grabbing your things quickly and tossing an apologetic smile toward the bartender. You replied: “Lo siento!” then turned to Bob.

He was still sitting there, watching you with a puzzled look on his face. Then he glanced at the bartender, and back to you, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“You speak Spanish?” he asked, a bit of awe in his voice.

You laughed and shook your head. “Nooo,” you admitted, grinning. “But it’s not that hard to guess what he said.”

Bob smiled as the realization hit him. “Right… yeah. That makes sense.” He stood up, stretching a little, and pulled a few bills from his wallet to leave on the counter for the drinks. Together, the two of you stepped out into the warm night.

Outside, the air was rich with the scent of saltwater and distant blossoms. The sky was a canvas of stars, crisp and clear, glittering like tiny diamonds. The moon hung low, casting a soft silver glow over the beach. The waves rolled in and out in a slow, steady rhythm, their gentle crash against the shore creating a peaceful, natural soundtrack that filled the quiet spaces between your laughter.

You walked side by side along the sand, your bare feet leaving prints behind you that the tide would soon claim. Every so often you’d bump shoulders slightly, accidentally-on-purpose, and Bob would smile that sweet, crooked smile of his. Conversation flowed as effortlessly as the breeze around you.

Then, your tone shifted—just a little softer, more curious. “Can I ask you something?”

Bob glanced over at you and gave a small nod, already bracing himself for whatever was coming.

“Why didn’t you take off your shirt?” you asked gently. “Back when we played volleyball?”

He inhaled deeply through his nose, then scratched the back of his neck, suddenly looking uncomfortable. His fingers tugged slightly at the fabric of his shirt. When he finally spoke, it was in a quiet voice, and he avoided your gaze.

“I guess I’m just… not that confident. About my body, I mean.”

He let out a soft, nervous snort through his lips, something between a sigh and the sound horses make when they’re annoyed, and looked down at the sand as if it had the answers.

He paused, then looked up at you, his eyes full of something vulnerable, raw, and honest. “But I’ll get there. One day.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Just… not yet.”

You nodded slowly, not saying anything at first. You looked down, watching the way your feet pressed into the sand, how your steps left soft imprints that trailed behind. You understood. Completely. And more importantly, you respected it.

Your silence wasn’t judgment, it was empathy. And as the two of you walked on, bathed in moonlight and ocean air, it was clear that even unspoken things had a way of being heard between you.

Bob walked you back to your cabin, the two of you moving a little slower than before, as if neither of you truly wanted the night to end. When you reached the steps, there was that moment, an awkward little giggle shared between you as your eyes both dropped to the ground, trying to avoid the tension hanging in the air. But it was there, unspoken and electric. You felt it in your chest, and judging by the way Bob was fiddling with his fingers and nervously rocking on his heels, he did too.

Maybe it was the rum still lingering in your system, or maybe it was the feeling of confidence bubbling up from the hours of honest conversation and gentle laughter. Either way, you found yourself standing a little taller, just bold enough to speak your mind.

“I don’t think you have anything to be ashamed of,” you said, your voice soft but sure, a small smile playing on your lips as you looked at him. Bob lifted his gaze, eyes wide with something between surprise and fragile hope, like a puppy waiting to be told it’s a good boy.

“I think you have a beautiful body,” you added gently.

The moment the words landed, his eyes locked with yours, and the connection was intense. Warm. Heavy. It hung in the air between you like a string pulled tight.

You could see it in his face that he felt it too. His lips parted slightly, as if he was about to say something, but then his nervousness took over again. He let out a small, breathy laugh, looked to the side, and scratched the back of his head. His cheeks turned a brilliant shade of red, and his voice came out unsure and stammered.

“You too… you have a nice body. Not like—in a creepy way or anything! Just, uh… like, you know…”

He was tangling himself in his own compliment, flailing to land it gracefully, and it made your heart melt just a little more. Smiling softly, you lifted both hands in a surrendering gesture, giving a single nod with a calming expression.

“I get it,” you assured him gently. “Thank you.”

Relief washed over his face, and both of you started to laugh again, this time more naturally, more connected. The night felt sweet, even a little magical. You didn’t want to go inside. You didn’t want this to be the part where he left, where things faded into goodnights and what-ifs.

Something in you, maybe the remnants of courage, maybe the warmth still blooming from that last drink, refused to let him go. So, you decided to take a risk. A brave one.

“Can I kiss you?”

The words came out direct, sincere, without apology or hesitation. They hit Bob like a thunderclap. His eyes went wide and fractured with shock. You could see his heart stop and start again just by the way his chest moved. Goosebumps appeared along his arms, his breath caught in his throat, and his entire face flushed deeper than ever before.

“I-I… I mean—I… um,” he stumbled, blinking rapidly, completely overwhelmed.

You didn’t push, but you did move closer, stepping into the space between you, your hands slowly, carefully, rising to his chest. You placed them there gently, barely a touch, more of a whisper than a grip, and you could feel his heartbeat fluttering beneath your fingertips, pounding like a wild drum. The moment you touched him, he froze. His whole body stiffened, eyes locked on you, his lips slightly parted in stunned silence.

You tilted your head up, catching his gaze with a bold, flirtatious glint in your eye. Then you bit your lip, slowly and deliberately, giving him that look—the kind that stripped away all doubt.

“May I?” you whispered again, your voice lower, breathier, your fingertips brushing against his shirt as your palms moved slightly over his chest.

He inhaled sharply, the sound trembling through his lips, and after a second that felt like forever, he nodded—quickly, wordlessly, his entire body trembling with anticipation.

A sly, satisfied smile crept onto your face at his permission. You rose onto your toes as he instinctively leaned down to meet you halfway. And when your lips finally met his, it was as though the world simply fell away.

The background noise, the wind, the waves, the sound of cicadas, melted into silence. There was only warmth, only him.

His lips were soft, tinged with sweetness from the drinks you’d shared, and you felt a wave of heat roll through your body.

At first, he kissed you carefully, cautiously, almost as if he wasn’t sure if this was real. But the moment you leaned in hungrily for another kiss, something shifted in him, he melted into you completely.

Your arms slid around his neck, pulling him in closer, anchoring him to you. He responded instinctively, his hands finding your waist with gentle hesitance, holding you like you were delicate and precious, like the wrong touch might break the spell. His fingers traced small circles against your back, sliding slightly higher as he began to kiss you deeper, more surely.

And then you started to sigh—soft, involuntary little sounds escaping your lips, muffled between kisses. That was it. That was all it took to make Bob shudder slightly against you, his grip tightening just a little as he buried himself more completely in the moment.

For a man so shy, so careful with his words, his body was now telling you everything you needed to know. Your lips danced together under the stars, wrapped in each other’s arms, feeling the warmth of each other's bodies.

The kiss between you and Bob deepened quickly, the heat building with every brush of lips, every inhale that seemed too sharp, too needy.

Bob began to let out these quiet, helpless little moans—soft, desperate sounds that made your heart stutter and your core clench with hunger. His breath was hot, uneven, as if he couldn’t quite keep up with what he was feeling.

But then, just when things began to slip into something hotter, more dangerous, you pulled away.

Your lips left his with a quiet, breathy pop, and Bob’s eyes fluttered open in confusion, his brows furrowing as you took a small step back. You reached into your bag, rummaging clumsily, fingers searching for your keys. His expression was adorably baffled—eyes wide, lips parted, his chest still rising and falling too fast.

He didn’t even get the chance to ask what you were doing. Before he could speak, you found the keys, turned, and unlocked the door with a soft grunt of effort. The handle resisted for a moment—just long enough to make you curse under your breath. But then it gave way, and without a word, you grabbed a handful of Bob’s shirt and yanked him inside with you.

The door slammed shut behind you.

And then you were on him again.

You pushed him up against the wall before he could even blink, your lips crashing onto his like you’d been starved of him for hours instead of minutes. He let out a muffled gasp, taken completely off guard, but your mouth, your touch, the fire burning through you, it overwhelmed him. It shut off whatever part of his brain had been trying to stay grounded.

He melted into you, hands clinging to your waist like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. But you weren’t slowing down.

You pressed your body hard against his, clutching at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart, pinning him to the wall with a surprising strength, despite your smaller frame. Your kiss was ravenous, unrelenting. Every time his breath hitched, it only drove you more.

But Bob still had some part of him trying to be responsible.

“Wait—wait, what about the others?” he asked, panting between kisses, his voice shaky, his lips still brushing yours. His hands remained at your hips, uncertain but not resisting.

“They’re asleep,” you breathed without hesitation, already leaning in again.

You kissed him hard, and he let out a startled noise in the back of his throat, half protest, half surrender. But just as your hands started trailing lower down his sides, he gently pulled back again, his eyes wide, his whole body trembling like he was barely holding on.

“I-I mean, I—” he stammered, clearly overwhelmed, caught in the tug-of-war between nerves and need.

But you were on fire. Every pulse in your body throbbed with want, and the heat between your thighs was unmistakable, impossible to ignore. You leaned in closer, placing a hand flat against his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart. Your eyes locked on his and your voice dropped into something sultry, something that made his breath hitch.

“Do you want me?” you whispered, your words low, teasing, soaked in longing.

Bob’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. His lips parted, but no sound came out. He was frozen, wide-eyed, staring at you like you were made of fire and he couldn’t decide whether to run or let himself burn.

So you stepped in closer. Your bodies were touching now, pressed chest to chest, and your mouth hovered barely a breath from his. You tilted your head, eyes fluttering half-shut, your voice dipping into a softer, flirtier murmur.

“Do you want me, Bob?”

This time he nodded. Hard. His breath caught in his throat, and a deep, shaky sound escaped him. His hands clutched tighter at your waist like he was afraid you might vanish.

Then you gave him the final push—the one that made everything else fall away.

“Do you want me… right now?”

His answer wasn’t words. It was a low, desperate sound from deep in his chest and another frantic nod, his eyes burning with need. That was all the answer you needed. All the answer he could give.

And then your lips were on his again, fiercer this time, hungry and hot, and whatever doubts had been in his head melted away with each breathless kiss.

But the kisses between you and Bob grew messier, deeper, more desperate. There was no longer any hesitation, only raw, breathless need. Soft, pleading moans slipped from both your lips between every frantic brush of your mouths, and each sound only made the other crave more.

Bob’s hands fumbled at your waist, your neck, your hips, trying to be everywhere at once but still so careful. His swim trunks were starting to grow tight again, and the heat in your own body was unbearable. Your swimsuit clung to you, soaked through with arousal, even tho all you had done was kiss.

Stumbling into your room was chaotic, clumsy. Bob bumped into the wall, you tripped on your own feet, giggles and gasps filling the space between frantic kisses. But somehow, with limbs tangled and hearts racing, you made it to your room. You barely managed to shut the door behind you before dragging both of you toward the bed.

With one firm but gentle push, you toppled Bob onto the mattress and let yourself fall with him. You landed on his chest with a bounce, both of you breathless and grinning, and then, before he could even process it, you rolled off and stood quickly. You turned back toward the door, locking it with a soft click. Then, you turned around again and froze for a beat.

Bob was sitting at the edge of your bed, completely still, his chest rising and falling in fast, shallow breaths. His hair was messy from your fingers, his lips red and swollen from your kisses and his eyes were glassy with lust, with longing. His pupils were huge. His face was flushed. And lower down, his erection was unmistakably visible.

You had never felt like this about any man before. Not like this.

You let your purse fall to the floor without a second thought, fingers slipping under the hem of your fishnet dress. With a slow, deliberate tug, you pulled it up and over your head, tossing it somewhere onto the floor.

Now, standing there in only your swimsuit, you began to approach him. Slowly, like a predator circling prey. The hunger in your eyes was impossible to miss.

Bob didn’t move. He couldn’t. He watched you the entire time, mouth slightly open, hands resting on the bed like he needed the mattress to ground himself.

You stopped in front of him and brought your hands up to cup his face, leaning in to kiss him again—but this time it was slower. Gentler. A soft, intimate prelude.

His hands found your cheeks too, fingers stroking your skin, and he tried to pull you back down onto him. But you resisted. You pulled back just far enough to look him in the eyes.

“Can we… get rid of this?” you asked with a playful smile, tapping a finger against the center of his chest.

His eyes dropped to your finger, then flicked back up to your face. He swallowed hard, clearly nervous.

“We don’t have to,” you whispered, your tone low and teasing. “But how about a deal?”

You licked your lips slowly, letting your gaze drop to his mouth before lifting it back to his eyes.

“If we take this off,” you said, finger still resting on his chest, “then we also take this off…” Your hand drifted up, motioning briefly toward the top of your swimsuit.

That was all it took.

Whatever fear had still lingered in him melted away instantly. His fingers gripped the hem of his shirt and, without a single pause, he pulled it over his head in one swift, fluid movement and tossed it aside. No hesitation. No second-guessing. He wanted this. He wanted you. Badly enough to show you a part of himself he’d just admitted he was ashamed of.

But the moment your eyes dropped to his now bare torso… your jaw practically hit the floor.

He was stunning. Broad chest, strong shoulders, abs like something sculpted by a god, toned arms with just the right amount of muscle, exactly how you liked it. Your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t expected this. Not from someone as shy and self-conscious as him.

You looked back up at him, wide-eyed with a mix of disbelief and awe. Your lips parted slightly, but no words came.

Bob sat there, half-nervous, half-burning, unsure how you’d react—until he saw your expression. And even though your reaction was silent, it told him everything. The look on your face said it all.

You knelt down slowly, your eyes still locked onto his body as if mesmerized, and began showering him with a cascade of kisses. They rained down over his skin, his chest, his stomach, his sides, each kiss playful, some lingering, others accompanied by soft, teasing licks or the occasional gentle bite.

It tickled him a little, making him laugh under his breath, his abs tightening instinctively. He wanted to reach out, to touch your hair, cradle your face, pull you close—but he hesitated. He didn’t want to startle you, didn’t want to break the moment or push too far. So he kept his hands behind him, gripping the mattress like an anchor.

“You’re beautiful,” you murmured in between kisses, your lips brushing against his skin with every word. Your hands rested firmly on his thighs, fingers splayed out, grounding yourself as you explored him with both touch and mouth.

“So beautiful,” you repeated, almost breathless with admiration. You couldn’t get enough of him. You kissed every inch of skin you could reach, tasting the warmth of his sun-kissed body, losing yourself in the way he squirmed slightly beneath your lips.

Eventually, the hunger in you built beyond just kisses.

You looked up at Bob, meeting his eyes. He looked dazed, utterly blissed out, but beneath the surface, there was something else. He was waiting. For your part of the deal.

A mischievous smile curled on your lips.

Still on your knees, you slowly straightened up and reached behind your back, fingers deftly untying the knot of your bikini top. With a small motion, you let it slip off your shoulders, revealing your bare breasts to him.

Bob’s jaw literally dropped. His eyes widened and locked on you like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His hands dug into the mattress, and through his swim trunks, you could see the very visible twitch of his hard-on as it reacted to the sight.

He wanted to touch you so badly. You could see it. The craving in his eyes. But he still held back, being a gentleman, respecting your pace, refusing to make a move without permission.

“Wanna touch?” you asked, tilting your head and giving him a knowing smirk.

His face lit up like you’d just handed him the keys to heaven. He nodded eagerly, licking his lips, his hands already twitching to move. He slowly reached out but paused again, eyes flicking to yours, searching for that last bit of reassurance.

You gave him a small nod.

And then he touched you.

Gently, reverently, like you were something sacred. His hands cupped your breasts with a mixture of awe and need, his thumbs brushing softly over your skin. His touch was warm, tender—curious yet careful.

He didn’t grope. He explored. Played. Worshipped. One hand cradled the underside while the other traced slow circles around your nipple, sending delicious shivers down your spine. He was in heaven, and judging by the way his breath caught every time you so much as sighed, he wanted you to feel that same bliss too.

Bob looked up at you, his hands still cradling your breasts as if he were holding something fragile and precious. Then his gaze flicked to your face, a bit hesitant.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly, voice low and tender.

You smiled, nodding, and that smile alone seemed to ease something in him. You weren’t just okay—you were glowing. It felt good, the way his fingers explored you with such care, and the look in his eyes made it all the more intense.

And it definitely did something to him. You could tell from the way his chest rose with every breath, how his eyes occasionally fluttered shut like he was overwhelmed. Still, after a moment, he pulled his hands away, clearly not wanting to get too carried away without your lead.

You leaned in again and kissed him.

It was slower, deeper. Your hands roamed his body, savoring the shape of him, the tension in his muscles, the way he melted under your touch. His hands were verywhere. Moving over your back, your hips, your sides, as if trying to memorize every inch of your body.

But you remained on your knees, just slightly lower than him, even as the kiss grew hotter.

Then one of your hands started to travel—leaving his neck, gliding down over his chest, his stomach, until it reached the waistband of his swim trunks. You paused there. Not moving or rushing. You stopped kissing him and looked up at his face.

Bob’s eyes followed your hand, then quickly returned to yours. There was a storm behind those eyes—desire, definitely, but also uncertainty.

You gave him a slow, sultry smile, tilting your head ever so slightly as if to say, It’s okay. I want this too. He exhaled shakily, his lips parting, and after a moment, he nodded.

With the same care he’d shown you earlier, you hooked your fingers into the waistband and began to pull them down. Painfully slow. Your eyes never left his face, watching his expression shift—excitement, nervousness, and that unmistakable tension of anticipation.

As the fabric slid down his thighs and hit the ground, your breath caught audibly. You gasped so loud that even Bob flinched a little, startled. You hadn’t expected… that.

There it was—thick, veined, heavy, and already so hard it twitched in the cool air. The way it stood against his toned stomach, pulsing gently, made your pulse echo right along with it.

You couldn’t help but whisper in disbelief, “And you’ve been hiding this the whole time?”

Bob let out an awkward little laugh, clearly flustered. His cheeks flushed deep red, not just from arousal, but from your stunned compliment. He looked away for a second, bashful, and mumbled something incoherent.

Carefully, you reached out and brushed your fingers against him. The moment your skin made contact, his body jolted, just a little, and he let out the softest whimper, almost a sigh.

You looked up again, eyes wide and a little wicked, and bit your bottom lip.

Slowly, your hand began to move, gentle at first, as though you were still getting to know this part of him. He trembled beneath your touch, trying to stay quiet, but his hips shifted involuntarily, betraying how sensitive he was.

His hand gripped the sheets tightly, knuckles pale. He was trying so hard not to make a sound—to keep still so he wouldn’t wake the girls in the next room—but you weren’t making that easy.

The pressure, the rhythm… it was enough to undo him. But then, before he could fully process what was happening, you leaned forward and kissed the tip. Bob let out a strangled sound and tensed, as if his whole body was about to short-circuit.

You looked up at him, holding eye contact the entire time. At first, you were teasing—pressing soft kisses to the sensitive head, letting your tongue glide around it lazily, deliberately. His thighs trembled. He bit down on his lip so hard it turned white.

Then you got more serious.

You took him in slowly, still holding his gaze. Bob’s lips parted, his eyes fluttering half-shut, and a shaky breath escaped him like it had been trapped in his chest for hours. His entire body tensed as if overwhelmed by the sensation.

He tried to stay quiet, tried to keep his hips still, but sometimes his body moved on its own, bucking up just slightly, and he immediately muttered a breathless apology every time it happened.

You didn’t rush. You let the anticipation burn slowly, letting him feel everything.

“God—” he whispered under his breath, hips twitching slightly, and then—“I’m sorry,” he added instantly, as if ashamed of reacting too strongly. You didn’t mind. In fact, it made your heart race.

The way he melted for you, how his body surrendered so easily, he wasn’t trying to be dominant or in control. He wasn’t trying to hide how much it affected him. And that vulnerability? It was intoxicating.

You could hear how much it meant to him in every breathy sound, every shaky exhale, every stifled moan. He whimpered again, high and desperate, and the sound echoed in your mind like a reward.

His fingers were digging into the mattress, every muscle tight with restraint. He whimpered again, soft and broken, and your innocent gaze stayed locked on his, only intensifying everything he felt.

Then slowly, deliberately, you reached up and took his hand—guiding it to your head. He hesitated at first, breath shaky, eyes wide with uncertainty. But you gave him a sweet calm look that said it’s okay. That you trusted him. That he could touch.

His hand accidentally tangled in your hair, gripping a bit too tight, and when he realized, he gasped and immediately loosened his fingers.

“Shit—I’m sorry—are you okay?” he stammered, guilt flashing in his eyes.

You looked up at him again, lips still wrapped around him, and gave the tiniest nod, reassuring him you were fine. More than fine. You loved seeing him like this. Raw, undone, his tough exterior peeling away one soft moan at a time.

And it hit you, too. That fluttering heat in your chest. That ache between your legs. The feeling of being wanted this much. Of making someone feel this good. His reactions lit a fire inside you. Every twitch of his thighs, every tremor in his voice—it all made you feel powerful and delicate at the same time.

Bob’s hands were restless now. One gripped the sheets, the other hovered near your head again, as if unsure whether he was allowed to touch. You leaned into it, and he gently threaded his fingers through your hair, this time softer, more reverent. But his voice was breaking. Little, helpless gasps.

Whispers of your name.

And once or twice—a shaky, choked-off moan that sounded like he might cry if you kept going. But you didn’t stop. Not yet.

Because the way he trembled under you, the way his stomach clenched and his legs shifted, the way he sounded like he was falling apart, that was everything.

Bob was right on the edge, his whole body was trembling, his hands clenching the sheets like he was holding on for dear life. And when he finally came, gasping your name like a whispered prayer, you didn’t pull away.

You stayed with him. Took everything he gave you.

He let out a sound somewhere between a cry and a moan, overwhelmed beyond words, his hips twitching from overstimulation as you gently helped him through the last waves. You even cleaned the rest of him up with soft, careful kisses, and that alone nearly made him whimper again.

“Jesus…” he breathed out, barely able to speak, a hand running through his tousled hair as he looked down at you with wide, dazed eyes. “I– I’m sorry.”

You tilted your head slightly, surprised. “What for?”

His voice was small. Fragile. “For… everything? For that being too fast? For—” he swallowed, looking embarrassed, “—for not lasting longer. I didn’t mean to be so…”

You climbed up to him and silenced him with a kiss. Not hurried, not demanding, just soft. Tender. Full of comfort.

Your hands cupped his cheeks, thumbs stroking his flushed skin.

“You don’t have to apologize for feeling good,” you whispered against his lips. “That was perfect.”

His eyes closed, his breath catching. He looked like he might cry for a whole different reason now.

You gently straddled his waist, not quite there yet, but close enough that the shift in energy was obvious. Your thighs pressing lightly against his sides, his hands flew instinctively to your hips. Not in a needy grip, but gentle, hesitant. Your body was warm and ready, and you were preparing to fully connect, but before you could guide him further, Bob stopped you.

“Wait,” he whispered, voice still hoarse.

You paused, blinking down at him, your brows gently furrowing. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes met yours, and something was different. The nervousness that had clouded his gaze earlier was gone. What replaced it was soft but firm, confidence built not from ego, but devotion.

“I want to take care of you now,” he said.

A small smile curved your lips, your heart skipping a beat at how genuine he sounded. “You don’t have to, really—”

But Bob shook his head. “No. I want to. I need to.”

There was something so deeply sincere in his voice it made your chest ache.

You gave him a soft nod, and he smiled, one of those rare, crooked, bashful smiles that melted you inside. Then, with gentle hands, he shifted you. Slowly, carefully, he rolled your body so you lay on your back in the center of the bed, like he was positioning you at the heart of a sacred space. His arms hovered around you, cradling your movement so you never felt dropped, never out of control.

He knelt between your legs, just watching you for a moment. You were laid out beneath him, chest rising and falling, hair fanned out across the pillow. He looked awestruck.

His hand came to your side. “Can I touch you?”

You nodded, lips parted, your voice caught somewhere between breath and heartbeat. “Yes.”

His hand slid up along your ribcage, following the natural shape of you with reverence. He wasn’t just touching—he was memorizing. Like every inch of your skin mattered. Like you were art.

He kissed you again, slow, coaxing, warm. And as the kiss deepened, he murmured against your lips: “Can I take these off?”

His fingers were resting lightly at the waistband of your swimsuit bottoms.

You nodded. “Please.”

Bob peeled the fabric down slowly, as if every inch was a treasure to be revealed, not a secret to be rushed. His eyes never left your body, and his hands trembled just a little.

Once the swimsuit was off, he let his fingers trace lightly along your inner thighs, but never without looking up at you first.

“Is this okay?” he asked softly, his breath brushing over your bare skin.

You nodded again, heart pounding. “Yes.”

And then he lowered his mouth to you.

The moment his lips met your most sensitive spot, your whole body arched. But it wasn’t just the touch—it was the tenderness, the intention. Bob wasn’t careless or clumsy. He listened. He adjusted every motion based on how you sighed, how your breath caught, how your fingers curled in the sheets.

His movements were soft, exploring. He let his tongue move in long, unhurried strokes, drawing out your reactions—your sighs, your tiny gasps, the way your fingers curled into the sheets. You felt your body start to unravel under the attention, your hips shifting instinctively, needing more.

His hands held your thighs, steadying you but never trapping you. He let you move against him. Let you guide him with nothing more than the sound of your breath. His tongue moved slow, experimental, reverent. And as he began to read your body, he grew more confident.

Every flick, every gentle suck, was delivered with the knowledge that he was giving you pleasure, not taking it. He wasn’t doing this to prove something. He was doing it because he wanted to worship you.

“God, Bob…” you whispered, voice cracking as your fingers found his hair.

He hummed at the sound, and the vibration sent another shiver racing through you.

He learned quickly. How you liked it slower, how a certain flick of his tongue made your whole body twitch. How your voice caught every time he sucked softly at just the right spot.

“Yes… yes—so good,” you breathed, your hips moving almost without permission.

The way he reacted to your pleasure, how eager he was to see you fall apart, made everything more intense. He was moaning softly too, like just tasting you made him dizzy with need. He liked knowing you wanted him there. That you trusted him there. He never once looked away from you, not even when he grew bolder, more confident.

He explored every inch of you with his mouth like you were something to be adored, not conquered. And every sound you made, every shiver in your body, only spurred him on.

Your breath started to catch, your thighs tightening around his shoulders as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter. He felt it. Saw it. Knew it.

And he didn’t let up.

His hands squeezed your hips gently, anchoring you as he focused entirely on giving you what you needed. He stayed right there, lips and tongue working with delicious rhythm, sending shockwaves through you with every stroke.

You were close. So close it scared you.

“Bob,” you gasped, voice breaking. “I’m— I’m gonna—”

But he didn’t stop. He didn’t even hesitate. He wanted this for you.

The wave crashed over you so suddenly, so completely, it stole the breath from your lungs. Your back arched, a sharp cry escaping your lips as you came—shaking, pulsing, everything unraveling under his touch.

Bob held you through it. Never pulling away, never letting you feel alone. Even as you trembled and gasped and whimpered his name, he stayed with you, riding the waves with the same quiet patience he always gave you.

And only when your body finally relaxed, chest heaving and limbs limp, did he slowly lift his head.

His mouth was glistening, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and shining. And when he saw you looking at him, completely undone and breathless, he smiled the softest smile you’d ever seen.

“You okay?” he asked gently, his thumb brushing along your thigh. You nodded, dazed and glowing, trying to catch your breath.

Bob slowly crawled back up your body, leaving a warm trail of kisses across your skin. He moved as if afraid to disturb the peace settling over you, like he was returning to you from a place of worship. When his face hovered above yours, he looked into your eyes for a long, quiet moment.

Then he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.

His hand came up to your hair, brushing it back with slow fingers, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. Your heart squeezed.

You reached up to cup his face and pulled him into a soft, lingering kiss—sweet at first, but quickly deepening. The electricity between you hadn’t faded. If anything, it had only grown stronger now that there was nothing between you but skin and trust.

Still breathless, you moved, shifting your hips just enough to push him onto his back. He let out a surprised little laugh as you rolled with him, your bodies twisting together until you were on top of him, straddling his hips. The heat between you flared instantly.

He looked up at you with wide, reverent eyes, his hands resting gently on your waist as if asking silently for permission to hold you there.

You leaned down and kissed him again—slow, deep, melting into each other with every heartbeat. Your fingers ran along his chest, down his sides, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of his body. You could feel him against you, hard and throbbing, and it sent shivers down your spine.

This was it. The moment you’d both been tiptoeing toward.

You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “Are you ready?” you whispered.

Bob nodded, cheeks flushed, his eyes glassy with emotion. “Only if you are.”

“I am,” you said softly, and meant every word.

Your hand found him again, guiding him with care, your breath hitching as the tip pressed against you. You moved slowly, lowering yourself with a careful rhythm, taking him in inch by inch. Both of you gasped—Bob’s hands gripped your hips tightly, trying not to buck up into you.

The stretch made your whole body burn, but it was a sweet, full ache, one that had been building from the first time he looked at you like you were the sun.

Once he was fully inside, you stilled, letting your body adjust, both of you panting softly. Bob’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, his jaw clenched, as if overwhelmed by how deep it all felt—emotionally and physically.

“You okay?” he asked, breathless, voice barely a whisper.

You nodded, your hands braced against his chest, your body trembling slightly. “You feel… amazing.”

A shaky laugh left his throat. “So do you. God, so do you.”

You started to move—slow, steady, your bodies learning each other. Every thrust, every sigh, every soft gasp between kisses told its own story. It wasn’t just sex. It was connection. It was trust. It was two people baring everything, souls and skin, just to be close.

You moved together in perfect rhythm, hips rising and falling in sync, his hands mapping your body like he never wanted to forget a single inch. And with every moan, every whispered name, every breath you shared, love wrapped tighter and tighter around you both.

Your rhythm picked up—slow and deep giving way to something needier, hungrier. The friction between your bodies grew more intense, breaths turning to gasps, gasps to moans. The sounds of skin against skin, the creaking of the mattress beneath you, the soft rustle of sheets, it all blended into a symphony of desire that filled the space around you like firelight.

Bob’s hands roamed your back, your hips, your thighs—desperate to hold you, ground you, memorize you. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You were glowing. You were everything.

And then he sat up, his arms wrapping around you as you stayed straddled on his lap. Your chest pressed tightly against his, your lips meeting his in a fevered kiss. He held you there, anchored you to him like he was terrified of letting you go.

You clung to him just as tightly.

Your mouths moved together like you were breathing the same air. His tongue tangled with yours, his hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you even closer. But then his grip on your waist tightened.

Hard.

You gasped softly at the pressure, your hips pausing. You pulled back just slightly, your forehead still resting against his, trying to catch your breath. And that’s when you saw it.

For a split second, just a flash, his eyes glowed. Golden. Not metaphorically, a actually glowing. And then it was gone. Blink, and you might’ve thought you imagined it. But you didn’t.

Bob froze. His arms loosened immediately, and panic flooded his face. “Shit—did I hurt you? I didn’t mean to—I’m sorry, I just—”

“Hey,” you said gently, your hands coming to rest on either side of his face. “You didn’t hurt me.”

He was breathing fast, his brows drawn tight, clearly shaken by the moment. “I felt something… I didn’t mean to grip you that hard.”

You nodded slowly. “It's okay.”

He winced. “I- I'm sorry, I don’t want to scare you, or—God—I don’t want to lose control around you.”

You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his again. “You didn’t scare me, Bob. You trusting me with that… it means more than I can say.”

His breath hitched and before he could say anything else, you kissed him again, before guiding his hands back to your waist. This time, his grip was steady. Gentle. Confident.

And then you moved again.

The pleasure hit like a wave crashing into shore, harder than before, deeper. His hands gripped you tighter, not in fear this time, but in raw need, in love, in reverence.

You kissed his neck, his collarbone, his shoulder, whispering his name like a prayer.

You rocked against him, and he met every motion, your bodies tangled in something that went beyond skin and muscle, it was soul-deep. The sounds coming from him, breathy moans, quiet whimpers, your name, drove you wild.

And then it happened. You felt your climax building again, hot and fast and unstoppable.

“Bob,” you gasped, nails digging gently into his back.

He was right there with you, sweat beading at his brow, jaw tight, voice strained. “I—I’m gonna—”

“Me too,” you breathed.

You crashed into release together—messy, overwhelming. You held each other through it, limbs trembling, lips finding each other again and again, clinging to the moment like it was all you’d ever need.

You collapsed against his chest, your limbs heavy and warm, your cheek pressing into the sweat-slick skin of his shoulder. Both of you were still catching your breath, chests rising and falling rapidly in sync. His arms wrapped around you protectively, and you let yourself sink into him, feeling completely safe and full.

There was a moment of perfect silence, just the sound of breathing, soft and human and real.

Then you shifted slightly, curling up beside him and resting your head against his chest. You could hear his heartbeat, still racing, but slowly calming beneath your ear.

You smiled lazily. “Okay… serious question.”

Bob tilted his head to look at you, already smiling like a complete goof. “Shoot.”

You looked up at him with narrowed, mock-suspicious eyes. “Where did you learn to do that with your tongue?”

Immediately, Bob’s face flushed. He tried to play it cool, but his voice cracked. “I—uh—I watched a couple things.”

You squinted. “What kind of ‘things,’ Bob?”

He swallowed hard. “Just like—like, y’know. Tutorials.”

You pulled back, eyebrows rising. “You watched porn?!”

Bob’s entire face turned bright red. “No! I mean—it was educational! There were diagrams!”

You blinked. “There were diagrams in your porn?”

He let out a strangled sound and covered his face with his hands. “Okay, I regret everything.”

You burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the quiet room. “Bob Reynolds, you little nerd.”

He peeked at you through his fingers, totally mortified but smiling. “I just wanted to be good at it. For you.”

You leaned in and kissed him sweetly. “You were.”

A comfortable silence settled over you again, warm and soft like a blanket. You traced idle shapes on his chest with your fingertips, still smiling, still glowing.

Then Bob’s voice broke the quiet, a little more cautious this time. “Hey… do you… remember the volleyball game? When I kinda bailed and told you not to come?”

You glanced up at him. “Yeah?”

He hesitated, biting his lip. “Well… I sorta… had a situation. In my swim trunks.” He exhaled, long and painful.

Your mouth fell open slightly. “You got a boner?!”

Bob winced, covering his face again. “I’m sorry! It just—happened! You were in that swimsuit and laughing and I don’t know, my brain just… betrayed me!”

You were quiet for a moment. Not judging. Not laughing. Just watching him squirm. Then you reached up and gently brushed a lock of hair away from his eyes. “Bob.”

He looked at you through his fingers again, completely sheepish.

You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “That’s totally normal.”

His eyes widened a little. “It is?”

You nodded. “Yeah…and honestly, kind of sweet.“ You smiled teasingly. He laughed, relieved, and pulled you close again, resting his chin on top of your head. “God, I like you so much.”

You nestled into him, your fingers laced together on his chest. “Good. Because I really, really like you back.”

The two of you lay there for a long time, tangled together, breathing slower now, hearts lighter. The night was quiet, soft, and full of something that felt a lot like the start of forever.

The golden morning sun filtered through the thin curtains, dancing lazily over tangled limbs and a rumpled blanket. You and Bob were still wrapped around each other—bare skin against bare skin, your head on his chest, his arm draped protectively over you. Your legs tangled, breaths slow, hearts steady.

A knock. Sharp. Three times.

“Hey, you coming to breakfast or are you dead?” Yelena’s voice chirped from behind the door.

Your eyes snapped open in panic. You bolted upright under the blanket, your heart immediately in your throat. Bob groaned quietly, still groggy, eyes not fully open yet.

You whispered, “What time is it?!” your voice barely audible and full of dread.

Bob blinked, looked around helplessly, and shrugged. “I—uh… no clue.”

You covered your face with both hands. “We’re dead. We’re actually dead.”

Yelena knocked again, softer this time. “We're going now, just letting you know.”

You scrambled to respond, “Yeah! I’ll be there! In a sec!”

Bob turned to you, now slowly realizing the situation. The blanket slid down his chest, revealing faint marks from your mouth the night before.

You stared at him. “We need to get dressed. Now.”

It was mayhem. You both jumped out of bed, frantically looking for clothes. You grabbed your swimsuit top, which had ended up halfway across the room, and pulled on a hoodie over it. Bob, on the other hand, was still stumbling, holding only his swim trunks in one hand, his shirt nowhere to be found.

“You can’t go out the door!” you hissed. “Someone could see you!”

“Then what do I do?!”

You gestured to the window. “Jump out.”

“Are you serious?”

You gave him a deadpan look. “Bob. You’re a superhero. I think you can survive this.”

He groaned dramatically, pulled on his swim trunks and shirt, then paused before the window. You rushed over, stood on your tiptoes, and gave him a rushed, smiling kiss. “Go. Before someone sees you.”

He opened the window, one leg already out, then looked back with a crooked grin. “You’re chaos.”

You grinned. “You love it.”

With that, he slipped out and disappeared into the early morning light.

Later that morning, everyone gathered at a nearby rustic café for breakfast. You sat at a corner table, sipping coffee, trying not to look suspicious. Yelena sat beside you. Bob was diagonally across, seated next to John. The chatter around the table was casual—about the lake, someone’s forgotten towel, who burned marshmallows last night.

You and Bob exchanged occasional, brief glances. Not long. Just enough to pass a message between you. A silent, thrilling electricity. You could still feel the echo of last night under your skin, and judging by the way Bob nervously rubbed the back of his neck, so could he.

“Dude…” John leaned closer to Bob, squinting. “What the hell happened to your neck?”

Bob blinked. “Huh?”

“You’ve got like, bruises or something. All over here.” He pointed.

Bob’s brows furrowed and instinctively reached for the spot. “What are you talking about?”

He tilted his head, clearly unaware. Your fork froze mid-air. You looked straight down at your plate. Yelena turned to you. Her eyes widened slowly. Then, lips barely moving, she mouthed with a dramatic grin:

“You. Fucked. Bob.”

You nearly inhaled your scrambled eggs. Your face heated like wildfire. You avoided everyone’s eyes, especially Bob’s. Meanwhile, Bob was trying to deflect. “Maybe I slept weird or—uh—bug bites?”

“Mmhmm,” John muttered, unconvinced.

You dared a glance at Bob. And that was it—your eyes met, and he knew. His brows lifted just slightly. His lips parted. You both quickly looked away.

Yelena leaned into closer to you and whispered, “I knew it. I heard really weird noises last night.” “Yelena, shut up.” She just chuckled into her cup of tea.

As the conversation drifted elsewhere, your face still radiated heat. Across the table, Bob leaned his elbow against the table and rested his cheek on his hand, sneaking one last look at you. You caught it—and gave him the tiniest smile.

This week was going to be… very interesting.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

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

HAVE A LOVELY DAY,

BYEEE📙🦋

[ivybucky]

eeeeek okay so i'm starting working on the bob fic tonight! I spent the whole day cleaning my apartment so that i could have the perfect environment to come back to y'all for good :)

[ivybucky]

This song!!!! Is so Bob Reynolds coded!!! I’m sick to my stomach!!!!

[ivybucky]

I think this might’ve healed something in me

Late Start

Thunderbolts Fluff

Pairing: Bob x Fem!Reader

Summary: A chaotic morning reminds the reader that even small moments can bring unexpected comfort.

Warnings: Mentions of depression, self doubt, hurt/comfort, mild angst.

A/N: I just wanted to announce that my inbox is officially open once more for requests! I have a prompt list link in my Masterlist (bio) if that’s something you’re interested in, but it’s 100% not necessary if you don’t want that! Love you all xx

——————————————————-

The sunlight had already crept its way through the cracks in the blinds when Y/N stirred. Her bed was warm and safe, but the space beside her was empty. Bob was already up.

She reached out anyway, fingertips brushing against cold sheets beside her as a soft sigh slipped from her lips.

The weight of the previous day lingered like a storm cloud. Every moment had felt like a misstep. A dropped coffee mug, a botched training drill, forgotten files, and an overstimulated snap at Yelena when she’d only been trying to help. She’d felt sluggish, unmotivated, and far too heavy in her own skin.

And now, staring at the ceiling, Y/N dreaded the idea of dragging herself through another day just like it.

Her body sank deeper into the mattress, cocooned in the comfort of Bob’s scent that still clung to the pillows. But eventually, guilt gnawed at her enough to force movement. She flung back the covers and sat up with a groan, rubbing at her eyes. Her hair was an absolute mess and her muscles ached like she hadn’t moved all night.

Which was probably accurate.

“Great start,” she muttered, squinting at the clock.

It was almost eleven.

Y/N grumbled profanities under her breath as she shuffled into the bathroom. She splashed water on her face, got toothpaste on her tank top while brushing her teeth, barely ran a brush through her tangled hair, and threw on a hoodie (definitely Bob’s) with a pair of old leggings. Her socks didn’t match, and she didn’t care.

She barely glanced at herself in the mirror before trudging out the door. Her limbs felt weighed down by rocks as she dragged her feet into the hallway.

The Tower’s halls were quiet here, a little too quiet, and each step felt heavier than the last. Her body moved on autopilot as she rounded the corner toward the kitchen.

Then she heard it.

Laughter.

Voices overlapping, bickering, teasing, and pure joy echoing off the walls. She peeked around the corner to see that the entire team was gathered in the kitchen.

Bob was at the stove flipping pancakes, sleeves pushed up and hair slightly messy. John and Yelena were locked in a fiery debate about the correct amount of syrup for a single pancake. Ava was sat at the counter, plucking berries from a bowl and tossing them up in the air, trying to catch them in her mouth. And Alexei, loud as ever, was halfway through a story, gesturing wildly with a spatula he clearly wasn’t supposed to be holding, as Bucky tried very hard to keep up with what he was saying.

“And I told him, ‘You do not question me when I am holding the goat!’” Alexei roared, slamming the spatula on the counter for emphasis.

“What does that even mean?” Bucky asked, exasperated, with a rare, but genuine smile tugging at his lips.

“Listen, all I’m saying is that syrup is a topping. Pancakes aren’t meant to be drenched in it.” John huffed, exasperated.

“You are an idiot.” Yelena stated bluntly, continuing to cover her pancakes in syrupy goodness.

Y/N hesitated in the doorway, unsure if she had the right to take up space in a moment so bright and untouched by her. She worried her presence might tilt the whole room, like she was completely out of sync with them.

Bob was the first to spot her.

“There she is,” he said, brightening instantly, “Morning sleepyhead.”

All at once, the team’s attention shifted toward her, and Y/N had to fight the urge to curl in on herself, “Look who finally decided to join the land of the living,” Bucky teased.

“Did we wake the princess from her enchanted slumber?” Yelena added, mouth full of pancake.

“I thought maybe she was dead,” Ava murmured casually, tossing another berry.

“Oh shut up,” Y/N mumbled, rolling her eyes, though the corner of her mouth lifted, and she stepped forward into the kitchen feeling just a tiny bit better about her presence.

“Sit down, I’m making you a plate,” Bob insisted as he stepped away from the stove, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He grabbed a chair beside him, pulling it out smoothly, “Come on, sweetheart.”

Y/N’s heart did a flip at the warmth in his voice. She slowly crossed the kitchen, cheeks coloring just a little as she made her way to him. She sat down, watching as he slid a plate of freshly made pancakes in front of her. And before she could even say thank you, he bent down and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.

“Gross,” John whined, “Can you not do that while I’m trying to eat?”

Before either of them could respond, a glob of syrup came flying from Yelena’s direction, landing on John’s face.

“Hey, what the hell!” He yelped, sputtering, causing the rest of the table to erupt into laughter once again. Yelena tried to hide the pride in her face at the direct hit, taking another bite of her breakfast.

“Oops.” She said casually, giving Y/N a sly wink.

John groaned as he wiped syrup off his cheek, “I swear to God-” he’s cut off.

“That’s what you get for heckling the lovebirds,” Bucky chuckled, smirking into his coffee as Ava fist bumped Yelena.

Alexei slammed his fists down on the counter, everyone’s plates rattling in front of him of them as he bellows, “This is not how Captain America should be treated! Even fake one!”

More laughter echoed throughout the kitchen, this time with her being a part of it, instead of standing on the sidelines.

The chaos was ridiculous, and perfect.

Y/N giggled softly, the sound escaping her before she even realized it. Her mood shifted, slowly but surely, like clouds parting for the first rays of sun. She glanced around at her team. Her friends. The energy in the room buzzed. It was a little overwhelming, and somehow exactly what she needed.

Bob grabbed his own plate of food and without a word, he slid into the seat beside her again. He sat close enough that their legs pressed together under the table. The quiet, grounding contact sent a small ripple through her chest, like her body remembered before her mind did: you’re safe here.

Y/N hesitated for only a breath before leaning sideways, letting her shoulder bump into his, then rest there. She tilted her head gently until it found the familiar spot just below his collarbone, and the moment it settled, she could feel some of the tension she hadn’t even realized she was carrying begin to unravel. Bob didn’t flinch or shift away, he just moved his arm behind her, casually draping it along the back of her chair, thumb brushing her shoulder like it belonged there.

It was so simple, so small. But the weight of his presence beside her, solid and warm and quiet, was more healing than anything she could’ve asked for that morning.

He didn’t say anything at first, just reached over with one hand to rest it over hers on the table, thumb gently brushing her skin.

“You okay?” he murmured after a moment, too low for the others to hear.

“Yeah,” she whispered back, “I’m getting there.”

Bob turned and pressed another kiss to her temple.

Y/N closed her eyes for a second, breathing in the smell of pancakes and coffee, listening to Alexei shout in Russian about syrup, and feeling the subtle pressure of Bob’s hand against her shoulder. The dread she’d felt that morning didn’t vanish completely, but it no longer had its claws in her chest.

The team didn’t need her to be perfect anyways. They weren’t asking for a leader, or a powerhouse, or a girl who got everything right. They just wanted her.

Because that was enough.

[ivybucky]

I’m so into desperate but sweet but rough but needy Bob oh my GOD

Sports Car

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

Summary: You and Bob have been having sex together for a while now, and have basically christened the entire compound, but when you get injured during a mission and are rendered incapable of having sex for the next month, the cravings need to be relieved somehow.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Fluff, Mentions of Injuries, and Smutish, an Unestablished relationship technically.

Smut Warnings: There are sexual themes to this and references to the reader and Bob having sex together everywhere basically, Mutual Masturbation, Dirty Talk, Cum eating, Bob is just trying to be a good boy man…

Author’s Note: Y’all…I can’t stop writing for this man, and you’ve pulled me into writing for Rhett Abbott as well, what the hell am I gonna do with all these ideas?! Certainly not going to start doing double updates or anything…AHEM anyways. Hope y’all enjoy. I liked the request that was put in by an anon for this to be themed to ‘Sports Car’ by Tate McCrae., I don’t know who y’all are but you guys know how to tempt me with a groovy song lol. Thank you.

Word Count: 6,304

Not being able to have sex with you felt like a death sentence to Bob Reynolds. That was just the plain honest truth.

Because ever since the dam between the both of you broke–ever since the first desperate kiss in the hallway, the first half-undressed quickie in the supply closet, the first time you looked up at him and asked for all of him–Bob hadn’t been the same. You had tethered to him, quietly, and completely, and you didn’t let go.

And he was wholly and utterly yours.

Every room in the compound’s living quarters carried proof of that–or at least memories of it because you and Bob were people who made sure the evidence was only on your bodies and not anything that could be seen to your roommates. They knew of course, but the both of you never wanted to push the envelope by being exhibitionalists, at least…Not when they were around.

Because when the both of you were left to your own devices–which was often–you made sure to take advantage, and you made sure your bodies remembered everything.

You’d sneak up on him in the kitchen and press your lips to the back of his neck while your hand slid under the band of his sweats. He’d whimper every time like it was brand new, like you hadn’t already wrecked him twice that day.

He’d climb on top of you on the couch, tug the book from your hands, kiss your sternum through your shirt until your fingers curled in his hair and your thighs parted instinctively.

You’d pull him into the laundry room and perch on top of the machine with your knees spread, bare just enough for him to drop to his knees and disappear between your thighs–right there, surrounded by the scent of dryer sheets and heat and the unbearable sound of him trying not to moan with his mouth full.

He’d drag you into the storage room, lift you like you weighed nothing, pin you against the shelves and thrust up into you at a devastating angle, biting your shoulder just to keep from making a sound that would’ve echoed through the vents.

The showers were slower. Steamy. Sacred. Hands gliding over each other, mouths tasting sweat and water and salt. His voice would rasp your name like a confession. And yours would stutter in return like a prayer.

This wasn’t just about the pleasure though, it was about the relief. Like your bodies were the only way you knew how to communicate to one another when the world was too loud.

When it all started, it was all-consuming. You’d barely make it through the day without ending up pressed against each other somewhere, whispering ‘just one more time’ through bitten lips. You took advantage of any free time you had and poured it into being tangled up with Bob, and that became your favourite thing to do.

There were days you’d have sex until you were sore. Until Bob couldn’t stop shaking. Until you were both red-cheeked and boneless and half-laughing at how wrecked you were.

Eventually, it mellowed–just enough that the both of you weren’t constantly distracted. You settled into a rhythm. Once in the morning. Again before bed, and sometimes in the middle of the afternoon if the compound was quiet.

Enough to satisfy the craving without drowning in it.

And then–

You got hurt.

It wasn’t a scratch or a bruise or something a few stitches could fix.

You had been caught in a sticky situation–hand to hand combat with someone who decided to bring a knife to a fist fight. And you were left absolutely destroyed.

You spent twelve hours in surgery and were left with twenty-three internal stitches, thirty-four external stitches on your abdomen, two cracked ribs, and a strict, no exceptions recovery plan: bed rest, hydration, painkillers, no heavy lifting, no exertion, and no sex–when you had asked the doctor about it they had said sex is exertion–for the next four weeks.

The first few nights were rough. You couldn’t sleep for more than a few hours at a time, even with the heavy dose of painkillers. You couldn’t sit up on your own because of the angle of the wound. You couldn’t laugh when Bob or anyone else made a joke, you couldn’t sneeze–which was easy to avoid given Bob’s recommendation of distracting your brain by saying something randomly–and you couldn’t move without feeling like glass was breaking through your skin.

Throughout it all, Bob never left your side–even though you had told him multiple times he didn’t have an obligation to be there, which was met with a gentle kiss on the forehead and him telling you to shush.

He helped you shower–kneeling beside the tub, and supporting you with an arm across your back as you lowered yourself into the cold porcelain. He washed your hair with trembling hands, rubbing gentle circles into your scalp in an attempt to relax you and bring you some sort of comfort. He would dry you off without looking too long–even though you knew he wanted to. Though you had caught his eyes lingering–just for a second–before flickering away like it hurt to see you like that.

He would dress you slowly, shimmying you into the oversized t-shirt he loved seeing you in, and pulling the hem down over your thighs before asking if you were okay, like it didn’t break him every time he had to stop himself from going further.

Even through all of it, you always asked him to sleep beside you.

You were so used to waking up with him–your legs tangled with his, your cheek tucked into his neck, his hand resting somewhere warm and steady on your waist. Sleeping without him felt wrong now. Cold. Like something vital was missing.

Bob never said no.

But he had definitely changed the way he held you.

Now, he slid into his side of the bed with the caution of someone lowering themselves into a minefield. He moved like any shift in weight might hurt you, or worse—might hurt himself.

He lay stiffly beneath the sheets, on his back or facing the far wall, hands clutched to his chest or balled into the fabric of the blanket. He didn’t reach for you. Didn’t curl around you like he used to.

And he didn’t sleep. Not really.

Because the proximity was torture.

And not just the proximity–

The bed itself.

This was the bed you made love in.

The bed where you’d climbed into his lap and whispered praise into his mouth. The bed where he’d traced every inch of you with trembling hands. The bed where he’d watched you come apart with his name on your lips and your fingers buried in his hair.

Now he lay beside you like a ghost of himself.

Going cold turkey after months of unrestrained closeness—of your thighs squeezing his waist, of his mouth on your chest, of his hands gripping your hips while you moaned for him—

It wasn’t just frustrating.

It was excruciating.

It reminded him of when he was withdrawing from Meth. Of the days when his nerves felt like they’d been stripped raw, exposed to the air, and every muscle ached with the absence of something he couldn’t name.

It made his skin burn, made his chest go tight, and made his entire body feel hollow and heavy all at once.

Some nights he would lie awake just listening to you breathe–soft and steady beside him–trying to find comfort in the rhythm.

Other nights were harder.

Nights when your shirt would ride up in your sleep, revealing the gauze taped to your side and the delicate curve of your waist…And he’d have to roll away, press his hand to his chest, and breathe through his teeth until the ache settled.

Sometimes your thigh would brush against his–warm and unintentional–and his whole body would jolt. His fingers would curl into his palm hard enough to leave crescent marks, his jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

Because the Sentry…

The Sentry noticed.

He felt everything more intensely now. The smell of your shampoo. The warmth of your skin. The shape of your breath against his neck when you shifted toward him in the dark.

And you were the only person the Sentry had ever bonded with. The only one who hadn’t flinched in his presence. Who didn’t just tolerate his power, but excited it.

You made him feel wanted. Controlled. Grounded.

But Bob–Bob wasn’t sure he could be enough of a barrier anymore especially with the situation.

Every brush of skin. Every gentle kiss you gave him in passing. Every time you said his name with that soft edge of longing–

The Sentry stirred.

Not violently. Not like before.

But with interest. With hunger. With something dangerously close to worship.

And Bob knew–if he touched you the way he wanted to, if he let himself trail his hand down the hem of your shirt, just once, or kissed you too deeply, too long–

He wouldn’t be able to stop.

The Sentry would take over.

Not to hurt you.

But to claim you like he always did.

To have all of you, again and again, until nothing else existed.

And right now? That could break you, delay your healing, and undo all the process you made.

So Bob stayed still and controlled himself with what little energy he had, and stayed quiet.

He didn’t reach for you, didn’t breathe your name the way he wanted to, didn’t tell you how badly he wanted to feel you, even if it was just your fingers in his hair, or your legs curling around him like they used to.

He stayed good.

Even as it slowly killed him.

———————————

By the second week though, Bob was losing his grip.

You were getting better, which was great to see. The worst of the pain had passed, and you could sit up without help, and walk short distances without Bob having to weave himself around you. The stitches were slowly healing, but the skin didn’t feel like it was tearing every time you moved, which meant that process was going smoothly.

But it also meant that the ache between your legs–the one you hadn’t noticed at first because it was dulled by the drowsiness of your medications–was back, and growing louder by the day.

The absence of him–of all of him–had become a pulse inside you. A hollow beat.

You felt like you were on high alert when he was around you, and you noticed such mundane things, like when his hand would brush by yours and set your skin ablaze or when he moved and the smell of his shampoo would tickle your nose. You tried to avoid it because you wanted to respect the doctor’s orders…But it was getting worse by the minute.

So one night, when the lights were off and the air between you was thick with the silence of things unsaid, you reached for him with such slowness that it could've gone unnoticed. Your hand slipped beneath the blanket and rested on his stomach first–just a whisper of a touch.

“Y/N…” He warned, his voice already unsteady, as he slowly opened his eyes to look down at you.

But you didn’t stop. You slid lower, fingers brushing the waistband of his boxers. He let out a sharp breath, and your hand cupped him softly through the fabric. He was already hard–painfully hard, if the way his hips jerked was any indication.

“Let me help,” You pleaded. “Just a little. I’ll be gentle...I promise.” But Bob grabbed your wrist–not harshly. Not even tightly. Just firm, just to stop you. His breathing was ragged, chest rising and falling like he was trying to hold something back.

“I-I can’t,” He rasped.

Your lips parted, and your brows furrowed in confusion. “You can’t or you don’t want to?”

“Of course I-I want to. G-God, I want to,” He said, voice cracking along the edges, almost like he was in pain. “B-But if you keep touching me, I won’t be able to stop, and I won’t be able to stay…You k-know what happens w-when I get worked up.”

The words landed like a stone between you.

You pulled your hand back slowly, guilt crawling into your chest. “Bob…”

“I’d g-give anything for this,” He whispered, eyes clenched shut. “F-For you. But if I l-lose control and hurt you–if the S-Sentry takes over because I can’t keep my hands to myself–I-I won’t forgive myself.” You nodded, even though the rejection burned like a bruise.

You knew the Sentry very well, because you’d encountered him countless times when Bob was so overwhelmed with pleasure and nerves that he took the wheel. You knew when those eyes glistened with a film of gold you were going to be in for an experience. He respected you, he treated you like you were his queen but he was extremely passionate…Passionate enough to stunt your recovery tenfold.

So you turned your back to him quietly, and cushioned yourself against the body pillow beside you, just to not torture yourself and Bob more by looking at him.

——————

The next day, Bob couldn’t concentrate. Not on his book, or on his breakfast. Not even on the tiny lavender plant you’d started trying to keep alive on the windowsill, which had recently begun to droop–as if it felt the tension in the room.

He just wanted to do right by you and be a good man, but on the inside he was screaming. His body was tired of restraint. Tired of pretending.

He could barely look at you without needing to breathe through it.

So he excused himself around midafternoon–told you he needed some air. You told him you’d be okay for a bit, and you meant it. You knew where he was going before he even left the room.

He needed someone to talk to.

Someone who could handle hearing about what he was feeling without looking at him like he was dangerous. Someone who knew what it meant to wrestle with instincts too big for one body.

He found them on the back patio, where the weight bench had been dragged out into the spring sun like a makeshift shrine to silence and post-mission soreness.

Bucky sat on the low concrete ledge, knees spread, forearms resting on them like he’d been in that same position for hours, he was sweating through his grey shirt like he had been benching a whole building on his own.

Walker was shirtless with sweat running down his chest as he racked a set of heavy dumbbells with a grunt that seemed unnecessarily loud.

And Alexei was reclined in a half-broken Adirondack chair, with a half-eaten protein bar melting in his lap, and a bottle of beer perched on the table beside him, just enjoying the warmth that the sun was bringing him.

They didn’t say anything at first when he walked out into the common area, shielding his face from the sun, but they could tell that he looked absolutely exhausted and he was shouldering something that he couldn’t handle on his own. He threw himself down on a lawn chair and let out a sigh, tilting his head back to stare up into the cloud dusted sky.

Alexei, Walker and Bucky gave each other a few side eyes, almost like they were daring one another to ask the question that they knew would crack Bob open immediately. But when Walker made a gesture for Bucky to say something, he decided to take the first shot at starting a conversation.

”You alright?” He asked reluctantly, squinting at him through the rays of sun that beat down on the patio. Bob let out another long exhale, deeper this time, keeping his eyes glued to the dusty blue that lined the sky, watching the clouds shifting overhead. It would’ve been a beautiful day if his insides weren’t chewing themselves to pieces.

”I really don’t know.” He replied. Walker raised an eyebrow.

”Well that’s a strong opening.” Alexei took a gulp from his beer bottle and sighed.

”Is this about Y/N?” Bob didn’t flinch at the mentioning of your name, but just by the softening of his features they knew you were going to be the topic of conversation. Walker gave a soft whistle and leaned back on the bench.

”Damn…Must be serious. You never bring her up.” Bob shrugged.

”W-Well we don’t really talk a-about this kind of stuff together.” Bob muttered, voice low, as his cheeks began to heat up from nerves.

”That’s because we assume that if you do, you’ll explode, which seems like you’re on the right track to doing that now.” He said, motioning to his face to point out the blush that crept up on Bob’s pale cheeks, before cracking open a water bottle. Bucky shot Walker a sharp glance but kept quiet.

”Okay, you talk now, we listen, and we tell how you don’t mess things up.” Alexei explained with a shrug, taking another swig of beer. Bob shifted forward in his chair, palms clasps together like he was trying to stop them from shaking.

”We were…Uhm…” He cleared his throat, “We were s-super active before she got injured…And I mean l-like…” His voice dropped even lower than it was, “A lot.” Bucky raised an eyebrow at the statement.

”I hope you’re not about to tell us she’s pregnant.” Bob’s head shot up.

”W-What? No!” Walker snorted loudly at the reaction, watching Bob run both hands over his face, “T-That would be e-easier to manage t-than this honestly…” That shut them up for a second. He exhaled and shook his head.

“The doctor basically gave us a full-on ban. No sex. No exertion. F-For weeks. A-And I’ve been going insane. I’m trying to be good, I-I am, but I can’t even look at her w-without feeling like I’m gonna burst into flames.” The guys exchanged a look. Not mocking. Not amused. It was a shared, silent kind of understanding. The ‘oh shit, he’s really losing it’ kind. Alexei frowned slightly, like he was calculating something. Bucky leaned back a little, arms crossed, but his jaw was tight. Walker raised both brows and sat forward on the bench, elbows on his knees.

”Well…It’s not like…You can’t do other things apart from actual sex.” Bob let out a strained exhale.

”E-Easy for you to say…You don’t have the S-Sentry serum running through your veins…I–I almost punched a hole in the shower w-wall the other day just trying to relieve myself b-because the Sentry was pissed off we couldn’t have her…” Walker paused mid-sip, brows scrunching.

”Wait…Wait, hold on. We? The Sentry’s had sex with Y/N?” Bob froze. His ears turned crimson instantly.

“I–I mean–I…It’s not–I didn’t mean it like that, I–” He ran a hand down his face, flustered once again. “It’s not like I hand over the keys to my b-brain and say ‘have at her’, o-okay? I-It’s just…I-It’s hard to control when I’m all… Worked up…S-She knows that.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Bucky, quiet but not incurious, leaned forward slightly. “So…What happens to you when he, y’know…Interrupts?” He only asked more because he had his fair share of odd experiences before he got a handle on The Winter Soldier programming, so maybe he would actually have sound advice if he knew what was going on. The question only made Bob’s eyes widen.

“W-We’re not talking about this,” He stammered quickly, shaking his head and sitting up like he could physically remove himself from the question. “No. No, absolutely not. That’s not why I came out here.”

Walker raised both hands. “Hey man, you’re the one who said we. You opened that very complicated door.”

Bob scrubbed his palms against his thighs, anxious. “I’m n-not here to give you guys a breakdown of–of what happens w-when I get off, okay?”

Walker opened his mouth again to say something.

“I mean it,” Bob cut in, voice cracking slightly from sheer desperation. “Guys, please. I’m not trying to be dramatic, I just–I really need help f-figuring out how to not reject Y/N e-every night without doing s-something that’s going to mess up her recovery.”

That quieted them.

Bob’s voice dropped again, a threadbare plea now.

“I-I don’t wanna push her away. She already feels like s-she’s broken or fragile or… I don’t k-know. L-Less than. And I hate it. I-I hate not being able to touch her. But if I lose c-control, if the Sentry kicks in at the wrong time, I could delay everything. I could–I could hurt her. I don’t want to fumble this. So I need to figure out how we can both get some kind of relief without c-crossing that line.”

He looked up, finally, eyes flicking from one face to the next.

“So can you guys p-please help me. F-For the love of God.” The silence that followed wasn’t awkward anymore. Bucky stayed quiet for a moment, still leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, gaze steady on Bob like he was reading the fine print behind his eyes. Then, very calmly, very dryly, he said:

“…What if you acted like it was a long-distance call?”

Bob blinked. “W-What?”

Walker let out a short laugh. “Like phone sex?”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “Exactly like phone sex. She’s could be in the bed next to you, but you pretend she’s not…Or you keep your distance or something so you can see her, but you won’t have the temptation to touch her…And you can do it together too so it’s not like it’ll be one–sided or anything.” Bob blinked slowly, then looked down at his hands, the gears clearly turning. A pause, then—

“…That may actually work,” He muttered, more to himself than anyone else

Alexei raised his beer slightly and tilted his head toward Bucky, brows raised in mock suspicion. “But how you know this, Snow Soldier? You never leave compound. You don’t even have dating app.”

Bucky didn’t even flinch. “Doesn’t mean I forgot how to please a woman, Alexei.”

Walker choked on his water. “Jesus Christ.”

“I read and keep up with the times,” Bucky added flatly, raising an eyebrow. “And unlike some people here, I’ve been alive for over a century. There’s not much I haven’t heard of. Or tried.”

Alexei let out a low whistle. “That is…Oddly impressive.”

Bucky smirked, just a little. “Thanks. I’m full of surprises.” Bob, who had gone quiet again, looked back up with a glint of something new behind his eyes. Not quite confidence–but something adjacent to courage.

“I–I think I’m gonna ask her about it. T-Tonight. See if she’s up for it. I mean, if she’s not comfortable then I won’t push it, but…I think she’d say yes. I–I think she needs it…”

“Yeah,” Walker nodded, surprisingly sincere now. “She probably does.”

Alexei pointed his beer toward Bob with a nod. “Just go slow. Say words. Stay in control.”

Bucky gave him a final look, calm and steady. “You’ve already got the hard part figured out, Bob. You care. That’s more than most guys walk into a bedroom with.”

Bob nodded, then stood–hands still a little shaky, but steadier than before. Steadier with purpose now.

“Thanks,” He said, voice low but certain. “Really.”

And with that, he turned and headed back toward the compound. The sun had shifted lower in the sky, casting long golden beams across the windows as he disappeared through the door.

——————

The bedroom was quiet except for the soft rustle of pages.

You lay on your side, nestled into a warm pocket of pillows, the glow from your bedside lamp casting a soft halo over the book open in your hands. The words blurred slightly around the edges, not because you were tired, but because it had become harder to focus lately—especially when your body remembered Bob’s absence more than your mind wanted it to.

Then the door creaked open.

You glanced up.

And immediately–everything shifted.

Bob stood in the doorway for a moment like he wasn’t sure what kind of gravity he was stepping into. But something about him was different tonight. Less hunched. Less haunted. His jaw was still tight, but not from restraint. His eyes–those warm, sky-colored eyes–met yours without flinching.

You sat up a little, a finger marking your page. “Hey…”

He closed the door behind him. “Hey.”

The word felt heavier than usual. More certain.

He crossed the room with a slow, quiet gait. No twitching hands. No pacing. Just a quiet sort of determination as he reached your side and—without asking—sat on the edge of the bed beside you.

Your heart kicked up.

And then he leaned in. Like he was checking something on your face. But then his hand came up, brushed your hair gently back from your cheek, and his mouth found yours in a slow, quiet kiss.

Not rushed. Not desperate.

Just there.

Present.

It had been so long since he kissed you like that–without pulling away, without worrying, without freezing halfway through it like he was terrified his control might snap.

And the second his lips pressed to yours, a moan slipped out before you could stop it. Soft. Raw. Needful.

He pulled back an inch, eyes darting over your face.

“Sorry–” You whispered, breath catching.

“No,” He said immediately, voice low and rough. “G-God, no. I missed that. I’ve m-missed you.”

You blinked, stunned by the admission. Your hand lifted and rested on his thigh instinctively, grounding yourself in the weight of him.

“You seem…” You started, trailing your fingers slowly over the muscle. “Different.”

“I-I t-talked to the guys,” he admitted, a little sheepishly. “Bucky, Walker, Alexei. I was… I was honest with them about how bad t-this has been. And they helped me think of something that might…Help the both of us.”

You tilted your head. “Help?”

His thumb traced the edge of your jaw. “S-Something that keeps us inside the lines. But still g-gives us each other.”

Your pulse picked up. “Tell me.”

He swallowed, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes.

“We don’t touch each other,” He said slowly, like every word was being weighed in his mouth. “But we…W-Watch. Talk. Feel. Together. Like we’re far away, even though w-we’re right next to each other.”

You stared at him.

And you felt your thighs press together beneath the blanket. “Phone sex. Without the phone.”

He flushed. Nodded.

You smiled, almost shyly. “That’s actually…Hot.” He raised his eyebrows at the reception you gave.

“You think so?” He asked quietly.

“I know so.” You shifted upright, the blanket sliding down your legs. Your breath caught as you watched him watching you–those blue eyes darkening just a shade, like the idea of what you were both tiptoeing toward was finally starting to register in full.

“Can we…” You whispered, voice thick, “Can we try it now?”

Bob’s lips parted like he was about to say something, but nothing came out at first–just the shaky sound of his inhale. Then, very softly, he nodded.

“Y-Yeah,” He murmured. “If you want to.”

“I do.”

That was all it took.

You reached for him before either of you could second-guess it–your fingers curling gently around his jaw as you pulled him back in for another kiss.

But this time it wasn’t soft.

This kiss was full of all the time you’d spent aching. All the days spent holding back. All the longing that had been quietly burning a hole through your resolve. The moment your lips met, it was slow but hungry, your mouth parting for him with a sigh that made his whole body jolt.

He kissed you back like a man dying of thirst–like he couldn’t believe you were letting him taste you again. His hand cupped your cheek, then your neck, and for just one second, just one, he let his thumb brush your jaw like he was memorizing the shape of you again.

You felt his restraint trembling under every inch of that kiss, before you pulled back.

His lips were still parted when you pulled away, breath ragged, lashes heavy over those pale blue eyes.

“I know you said no touching,” You whispered, your forehead still brushing his, “But I just wanted to do that again before we start…”

Bob didn’t answer right away.

He couldn’t.

His gaze was locked on your lips like they still had a gravitational pull he was barely resisting. His chest rose and fell like he’d just run a mile barefoot through fire. But then he gave the smallest nod–slow, reverent, like he understood that this wasn’t just about want.

It was about worship.

You leaned back, eyes locked with his, and slowly threw off the blanket covering your lower half. The cool air kissed your bare legs, but you didn’t flinch. You wanted him to see you. All of you.

You were wearing one of his shirts–oversized and thin with wear, soft against your skin. It was the one he’d dressed you in that morning, his hands shaking a little as he’d pulled it down over your shoulders and mumbled a shy, “Still looks better on you…”

Now, it fell just barely to your upper thighs.

And when Bob saw it–his shirt clinging to your body, brushing your skin like he wished he could–he visibly swallowed.

“Jesus…” He murmured. You shifted your legs slightly apart, slowly, deliberately, and tilted your head at him.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” You whispered. voice soft but trembling with need.

Bob’s breath hitched. His eyes didn’t leave you. Not your face, not your thighs, not the oversized shirt you wore like a second skin. He looked like he was trying to memorize everything, in case it slipped away again.

Bob’s breath caught again, chest rising in a shaky inhale. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just stared—like if he looked away, you’d vanish.

“Wh-What I’m thinkin’?” He managed, voice tight. “I’m thinking about how I used to touch you right there…”

His gaze dropped, slow, reverent, to the place between your parted thighs.

“…With my mouth. My fingers. Both. Just to see which one made you lose it faster.”

You shivered.

“I’m thinking about how y-you look when you come on my fingers,” He rasped, hand twitching near the waistband of his sweats now. “All breathless and wet and begging m-me not to stop, even when you’re already t-trembling…”

Your fingers flexed slightly against the sheets. He noticed. God, he noticed everything.

“And I’m thinking t-that if you slip your panties down right now, I-I’m not gonna last five minutes.”

You leaned back into the pillows and smiled, slow and sinful. “Then don’t blink.”

Bob sucked in a sharp breath as you hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your panties and began to draw them down. Slow. Teasing. Letting him see.

He let out a low, desperate groan when the cotton dragged down over your thighs. When they hit the bed and your legs parted again–bare and glistening in the lamplight–he swore softly under his breath.

His eyes darted to yours, wide, glassy. “I-I–shit–can I–”

You lifted your hand before he could finish, holding out two fingers in front of him.

“Wet them.” You instructed, your voice soft, yet commanding all at the same time.

His lips parted with a soft gasp, and he leaned in immediately, eyes glazed with heat, desperation thick in every breath. He took your fingers into his mouth like it was instinct–like he’d dreamed about this–and moaned around them as his tongue swept between them. Slow. Purposeful.

His eyes never left yours.

You felt it in your core–the worship in it, the filth layered beneath the reverence.

You smiled, breath hitching as you whispered, “I love having your spit on my fingers. Almost makes me feel like you’re inside me…” Bob whimpered, a shudder rolling through him.

He sucked harder, tongue dragging slowly along the pads of your fingers, his cheeks hollowing slightly as he coated you, made sure you were wet–made sure he gave you everything.

And then, just as slow, you pulled your hand back.

You didn’t break eye contact as you brought your glistening fingers down to your clit and touched yourself–soft, slick circles that had you gasping, hips twitching.

Bob’s mouth dropped open. “F-Fuck…”

His hand moved like it wasn’t his own–shoving his sweats down, pushing his shirt up just enough to expose his stomach. His cock sprang free, flushed and painfully hard, already leaking at the tip.

“Jesus Christ,” You moaned, watching him. “You’re so fucking hard, Bob.”

His hand wrapped around himself, shaky. His jaw clenched. “Y-You did that. Just from w-watching you touch yourself, I–please., don’t stop–”

“I’m not planning to,” You breathed, and then slid your fingers down.

Sank them inside.

Your head tipped back. A moan ripped out of you, louder this time, raw.

You fucked yourself deep, a little rough, hips jerking against your own hand. Your moans came fast now, rhythmic, broken.

Bob panted.

He stroked himself hard and fast, eyes locked between your thighs like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His mouth hung open, chest rising in quick, uneven pulls, his light brown locks falling in front of his eyes briefly before he shook them away from his sight.

“Y-You’re rougher tonight,” He gasped. “You’re picturing m-me, aren’t you? My fingers, inside you, f-fuckin’ you so deep–just how you like–god Y/N, I-I’m not gonna–I’m so close–”

“I am picturing you,” You moaned, your voice shaking as your fingers drove in again. “I’m picturing your hand, your breath against my thigh, your groans ringing in my ears while you make me come on your tongue.”

Bob groaned loudly.

And then he broke.

His hips jerked up, cock pulsing as he came across his stomach with a strangled, wrecked moan. Hot streaks spilled across his belly, his hand, his shirt. His other hand braced against the bed as he tried to stay upright, gasping through it.

You didn’t stop yourself though.

Your fingers were soaked, knuckles glistening. You moaned his name again–louder, needier–and then came with a cry, thighs shaking, fingers still moving inside yourself as you chased every last wave of it.

The room filled with nothing but your breaths.

Shaky. Open. Ruined.

And then–

You sat up, slowly, still flushed and trembling. Your fingers, still slick, still glistening with your arousal as you reached toward him.

Bob didn’t even breathe.

He opened his mouth as if possessed.

You slipped your fingers past his lips, and he sucked them eagerly, moaning around them with such softness you could feel yourself getting worked up all over again. His hands were limp at his sides, useless, spent–but his mouth worked slowly cleaning every inch of your fingers, lapping up your sweetness like it was nectar from the gods. When you finally slipped your fingers out, slick and warm, he moaned softly like he didn’t want to let go.

You didn’t speak.

You just leaned in.

And kissed him.

Slow. Gentle. Nothing like the aching heat that came before. This one was quieter–tender and full, your lips brushing against his like you were grounding him, like you needed him tethered to you in this moment just as much as he needed the kiss.

Bob melted into it with a sound that barely made it past his throat, his whole body relaxing under your touch even as his skin still buzzed with the aftershocks of release.

And then–

You pulled back slightly, dragging your gaze down to his cum streaked stomach–glossy and glinting faintly in the lamplight. His shirt was bunched up just enough to show the ridge of muscle beneath. Your hand moved before he even realized.

Fingers dipped low.

Bob’s breath hitched hard as he watched you swipe through one of the fresh, warm streaks across his stomach–slow and lazy, like you were collecting it on purpose.

And then you brought your fingers to your lip, licking them clean without breaking eye contact.

Bob let out a strangled noise–half gasp, half groan–as his body jolted under you.

“Y/N…” He whispered, voice gone thin and broken. “I-I c-can’t–Jesus Christ–“

You just smiled, slow and flushed and soft, licking the taste from the tip of your finger with a flick of your tongue that made his eyes roll back for a second.

“I don’t think,” You said, your voice calm and sultry, “We’ll be able to follow the rules for the next two weeks at the rate we’re going.”

Bob stared at you like you’d just rewritten gravity.

”I know…”

[ivybucky]

I’m eating this up, the way you wrote him getting more and more confident in the relationship was PERFECT

seasons • b.r.

pairing: bob reynolds x f!reader

synopsis: three times you and bob are almost walked in on and the one time you are

content: nsfw, 18+ minors dni, leg humping, oral (m receiving), handjob, early morning sex, unprotected piv, (some) plot

notes: uhhhhhhh really needed to write bob smut! this was supposed to be short lmaooo thank you for the support of my other works! xoxo

word count: 6.6k

this blog contains 18+ content, minors dni!

on the couch (winter)

it’s movie night and everyone is late. 

yelena had texted, telling you the group would be stuck in traffic and to not start until they got back. that was almost an hour ago. bucky had walked into the living room, found you and bob waiting a little too inconspicuously on the couches and turned on his heel, going back the way he came. 

you’d looked to bob then, grinning conspiratorially as you crawled down the length of the curved couch, right into his side. 

it’s innocent enough, at first. muffled by his shirt in your face when you tell him that it’s only because you’re cold, and he warms you up better than anything else could. 

he gives you a look—like he knows what you’re up to but can’t find a good enough reason to refuse himself the feel of you. makes something warm in his chest when he thinks about how you’re always looking for any reason to touch him, that you don’t shy away.

he likes it, because while your relationship isn’t exactly new, he still worries—doesn’t know if he could bring himself to initiate it even if he wanted to (he really, really does). 

but when you come to him, he welcomes it. revels in it, actually.

his arms lift, wrapping around your frame. immediately, you’re enveloped by the smell of his laundry detergent and the 2-in-1 shampoo he’s been trying to use up before opening the real shampoo and conditioner you’d bought him. 

his chin rests atop your head, breathing steady while your fingers aimlessly trace lines down his sleeve. 

“y’know…” you say, trailing off in the way he knows means you’ve got something to say that likely will get him in trouble. he holds his breath. 

“we’re the only ones here,” you continue, pulling your head back to look into his eyes, hoping those pretty blue eyes will take the hint. 

bob laughs softly, eyes flickering across the utterly empty room. the christmas decorations the team had spent an afternoon assembling, ending up a little lopsided and mismatched hanging above the mantel and from the ceiling. the string lights twinkle in your eyes. 

 “yeah,” he breathes, “i- i can see that.”

the look you give him is expectant, and he blinks owlishly in return. 

he watches your nose scrunch when you try to decipher whether he’s being clueless on purpose or if he genuinely can’t fathom what you’d want to do with him in an empty room on a couch much too big for two. 

the noise you let out is a cross between an exasperated groan and a teasing giggle. your cheeks burn a little when you tell him plainly, “i want to kiss you, bob. make out a little.”

his lips fall into a perfect little ‘o’ when he exhales the syllable. you grin up at him when his ears turn red. 

“i- i mean,” he stammers, darting between you, your lips and the elevator doors. you can almost tell when he makes up his mind, gaze catching on your lips and struggling to drag them back up to your eyes. licks his lips before he says, “okay.” 

he only catches a glimpse of the giddy look on your face before you’re pulling him down to you with a gentle hand on his cheek. 

he kisses a little unsure, a little messy—but god, does it send pleasant shivers down your spine when he’s the one to part your lips and glide his tongue against yours. 

you sigh contentedly into his waiting mouth when his grip on you tightens, and his hands start to roam—like the more he kisses you the less restrained he remembers to be. 

“w- we… we should-” he sighs against the side of your face when your head tilts to press your lips to his cheek, chest rising and falling hard. 

“we should probably move,” he manages to get out on the third try, voice raspy and deep. his blue eyes have gone dark, half-lidded as he rests his forehead on yours, catching his breath.

he’s probably right. the chances of you getting walked in on are rising by the minute—you can only imagine the shit you’ll get if the team finds you and bob, equally flustered and dazed. 

but bob makes no move to get up, to peel you off from where you cling to him, just to make that long, cold walk to somewhere more private. you hold your breath, mentally debating if it’s worth it. 

bob licks his kiss-swollen lips, and the choice is made for you. 

your arms tighten around his neck, pressing impossibly closer as you capture his lips between yours. a knee goes between his, and presses dangerously close to where he’s starting to stiffen in his plaid christmas bottoms. 

bob’s head jerks back, curls jostling as he gasps. his  hands flying to your hips to pin you down before you can do any further damage to his already-crumbling restraint. 

you know you shouldn’t tease. you’ve only seen bob at his most vulnerable a handful of times, all in the comfort and safety of your rooms, locked away from the world. 

but he’s just so pretty, and when he makes sounds like that just from your leg, you can’t stop yourself from doing it again, and again, until he’s whimpering and reaching a hand down to hold back your leg. a little pointless, considering how his hips buck in search of more. 

“they- they’re going to come back,” bob chokes, lashes fluttering as he fights to keep his eyes open. white-knuckled fingers twitch against your thigh, “someone could see.”

and you’re about to argue otherwise, that they’re not about to just walk in the next second, but it’s like he’s summoned them with magic, or spoken it into existence. 

the elevator dings twice, announcing their imminent arrival. you have seconds before the team files into the room and finds bob borderline humping your thigh. 

bob yelps in alarm, his hold on you tightening in reflex as the ‘freeze’ part of his fight or flight instinct takes over. slapping at his hands, you climb out of his grip, launching yourself to the opposite end of the couch. 

when the team walks in, you’re on your phone scrolling haphazardly, glancing up in faux-annoyance when they mill about. you chew them out for being late, and bob is grateful for the distraction—nobody asks why his cheeks are so red, or why he’s more jittery than usual. 

by the time the lights are turned off and everyone is placated with snacks and a christmas movie, bob thinks he’s off the hook. but then you’re squeezing into the only seat left with an innocent smile—between him and bucky.

the super soldier side-eyes you when the movie ends and bob still has that damned pillow clutched over his lap. 

in the shower (spring) 

the water beating down against slick tiles does a halfway job of muffling the sounds coming from your bathroom. 

it hadn’t been your intention, when you’d agreed to help yelena train bob, to end up caged under him in the shower. 

you’d lingered in your doorway while yelena disappeared into hers, already wriggling out of her sweaty top. bob had come to a slow stop behind you, waiting for the telltale swoosh of the blonde’s door closing. 

there’s something about that post-exercise high, the rush of endorphins in bob’s system that makes him walk with his shoulders a little less curled and his gait steadier. his limbs are loose, and the slow blink he gives you while he leans against the doorframe makes you pause. 

it reminds you of when the sentry peeks through. makes you swallow, peering curiously at his eyes but no—only crystalline blue already staring back.  

his hair stuck to his forehead and a light sheen of sweat around along his throat—evidence of how much he’d pushed himself. thanks to the serum, it takes a lot for bob to work up a sweat these days. 

“’m gonna shower,” you say simply, and that was that. 

he’d followed you all the way into your room, set his things down next to yours and waited patiently until the water warmed to get his hands on you. 

he descends on you, big hands engulfing your cheeks, kissing you hard. it’s hungry, and your teeth bump a little, but when one hand trails down your slick skin to crook a thigh around his hip, you can’t help the breathless sigh into his mouth at the way he’s already hard and feverish against your inner thigh. 

“bob,” you cry out when he sucks at the spot behind your ear—the same time his hand on your thigh moves to cup your ass. his tongue swipes at your pulse point and your breath hitches on your words, “what’s got you all hot and bothered?”

“i- i don’t know,” he breathes against your skin, wet lips searing more than the hot water raining down on you. he manoeuvres your bodies out of the spray when he feels how hot your skin is getting. “just- just need to…” 

he trails off, mouth falling open on a low groan when your hips twitch, and the ruddy head of his cock brushes the junction of your thigh and pelvis. 

bob’s forehead presses to the cool tile beside you when you do it again, smearing precum against your thigh. 

“shit- need to feel you,” he pleads, hands finding purpose in kneading your tits. 

“how d’you want me?” you murmur, turning your head so the words fall on his parted lips. he watches in a daze as your hand slips between your heated bodies, fingers curling around the length of him. 

bob chokes on a breath, back caving in. he’s on the brink already—on edge from hours of sparring and watching you dance around him in your tight workout gear and a determined glint in your eyes. he sees the same one now, and he knows he won’t last long enough to be inside you. 

you squeeze, flicking a thumb over his slit to get his attention, and bob realises he’s been staring into space. 

bob may as well babble—incoherent as he tries to beg you to do literally anything to make the ache go away—anything you want. “- just want you.”

he seems to swell in your grasp when you coo at him, twisting your fist as you stroke him steadily. “oh, baby,” you give him a kiss he struggles to reciprocate, “wan’ me to take care of you?”

all the bravado from earlier washes down the drain. he’s whimpering low in his throat, nodding feverishly. “y- yes, please, oh- fuck.”

“okay, pretty boy, i’ll take care of you.”

he lets you push him, back to the wall. you’re slinking down his front, straight onto your knees. his cock rests under his belly, flushed all over and leaking like a faucet. 

“you did so well today,” you whisper and it’s almost drowned out by the water, “worked so hard.”

your lips press closed kisses up the side of him. when you take his tip into your warm mouth, bob has a flicker of genuine worry that he’ll pass out. he whimpers as you work more of him into your mouth, withdrawing only to pucker up and dribble down a glob of spit over his tip. 

“oh god,” he whines, head thrown back against the tile. wet hair clinging to his cheeks and neck, lashes clumped with water (or tears)—he looks so good and you make up your mind to make him cum in record time. 

he deserves it, you think. hadn’t protested once while you and yelena had demonstrated the 101 ways to throw a grown man down. (zero complaints when your thighs had clamped around his head and swung him down, legs locked at his throat.)

you can barely fit half of him in your mouth, so your hands come up to stroke in time with your hungry tongue. 

bob thinks he actually sees stars. there might be hearts floating above his head, because if he hadn’t known he was in love with you before, he definitely knows now, when you’re smiling up at him through your lashes. 

the warning heat in his belly ramps up to a boil when he feels your tongue swirling around his head. 

“honey, i’m- i think i’m gonna-” he manages to pant, chest heaving as his stomach tenses. a jolt of satisfaction courses through you, and you’re readying yourself for his end when there’s the world’s loudest knocking at your bathroom door. 

a drawn out call of your name. 

bob fights the desperate, pleading whine when your mouth pulls off of him at the last second. he stares down at you—deer in the headlights, when the urgent knocking continues. his hand flies to your hair, not pressing, but urging. 

his wide, panicked eyes find yours—the surprise is wearing off and now you’re just mildly annoyed. 

yelena’s on the other side, short blonde strands dripping onto the towel she clutches around her. 

“can i borrow some conditioner? i ran out!” she shouts to be heard over the water. 

your hand never leaves bob’s dick, wrapped loosely as you bite your lip in contemplation. “why can’t you use ava’s?” 

“yours smells better!” she reasons, fingernails tapping against the metal. 

your face scrunches, figuring it’ll be easier to just give her the damned thing than try to talk her out of coming in. 

so you look up at bob from between his legs, press your fingers to your lips even as his head shakes, mouthing a pitiful “please”. presses himself further into the wall like it’ll absorb him out of this utterly painful situation. 

“fine, but i’m in the shower,” you call out, hands fumbling for the offending bottle. you both hear it when the doorknob turns and her footsteps enter the steamy room. 

“don’t worry, i won’t look,” yelena mutters jokingly, approaching the shower curtain. to her credit, she does turn away before your hand pulls the curtain aside a little to pass her the conditioner. it’s good she did— would’ve caught a glimpse of dark hair and a muscled shoulder, otherwise. 

the whole time, bob is shaking with tension and throbbing in your palm. you want to put him out of his misery, but you also want to drag it out a little. so you give him a slow, firm stroke and he slaps a hand over his mouth. 

she thanks you for the conditioner, and you think that’s that, but her steps stop right before the door. 

“hey, bob’s been getting better, don’t you think?” yelena hums thoughtfully, “he’s a fast learner.”

you agree, muffling a giggle because she doesn’t know just how right she is. bob’s eyes narrow at your smirk, even worse when it spreads into a devilish grin. 

your fingers curl tighter around his cock, speeding up. his head shakes vehemently, squirming under you as quietly as he can. 

“he’s got good teachers,” you say, winking up at him when he gives up on trying to not thrust into your fist. he looks absolutely debauched like this, back arching off the wall as he chases your strokes. 

yelena cackles, “no kidding. should’ve seen his face when you did that widow move on him. i think he has a crush on you.”

you do laugh then, and you feel a little bad because bob’s breathing is getting faster and his hips more erratic. but you can’t help it when you ask, “really? what makes you say that?”

yelena hums like she knows something you don’t, ironically, and you can almost see her outline through the curtain as she waves a hand, “ah, we’ll open that can of worms another time. thanks again!” 

when the door clicks shut again, bob counts five seconds before he releases the neediest moan he’s ever heard himself make. it makes his cheeks go red because he’s a little embarrassed. 

but he’s peeking down at you and finds your eyes alight with arousal as you frantically tug at his swollen cock. “you did so good, baby. stayed so quiet,” you sigh, thumb gliding over his slit with every pass.

bob cries out, biting his lip at the coil in his tummy returning, sneaking up while he’d been so caught up in being quiet—being good, for you. 

“cum for me, sweet boy,” you tell him, lips brushing his tip as your head lowers, “wan’ it in my mouth.”

that’s it for him. his whimper pitches high, cracking in his throat. your mouth closes around him just as he twitches in your hand and then he’s spurting into your mouth in thick ropes that you swallow down with a soft moan. he can’t help the way his hips jerk, nudging his cock further into your mouth. you welcome it, even as your jaw aches.  

it takes over him, dragged out by your tongue and hollowed cheeks. he cums so much—a few drops leak down your chin from the corner of your lips.

bob watches in awe as you scoop up what you missed with your fingers, suck them clean with your mouth. it feels like a gut punch to watch. 

his hand flails, shutting the water off blindly. bob carries you out with ease, uncaring in the moment that he’s tracking water over your floor. 

he’ll apologise profusely later, but for now bob drops you onto the bed, and him onto his knees. your legs are thrown over his broad shoulders, and he proceeds to give you three more reasons for a real shower. 

when the ac breaks (summer)

it’s ridiculous, really. the notion that a place like the new avengers tower, worth billions, could suffer from the mundane struggle of a busted air conditioning system. 

smack in the middle of summer. 

the entire building had been given the day off, save for the poor souls residing on the residential floors. the seven of you, condemned to braving this heatwave in a bulletproof glass box. 

the one saving grace should have been the olympic sized pool on the training floors, but as luck would have it, it’s closed—scheduled to be cleaned sometime in the day. 

so you resolve to lying splayed out on bob’s floor, against the cool floor with the only mini hand-held fan oscillating between yours and bob’s sweaty bodies. 

you’d stripped down to your underwear, bob in his boxers. laying shoulder to shoulder, skin prickling from the heat. 

“how sure are we that we’re not in hell?” 

your head turns to the man next to you, reaching out to brush damp hair off his forehead. he laughs, and hopes you don’t notice when he makes sure the fan stays pointed at you longer. 

your eyes narrow when you do, nudging at his hand to turn it back to him, scolding him lightly because you don’t want him getting heat stroke. 

the heat makes everything feel hazy and your movements sluggish. 

you groan into the thick air, shifting on the ground in search of a cool spot. eyeing him suspiciously as he stays completely still—how other than the light sheen on his body and the flush in his cheeks, there aren’t any outward signs of suffering. “how are you so calm right now?”

bob shrugs, a lax hand arcs through the air. “i run warm. ‘m pretty used to it.”

you give him a pout that his eyes catch on. he wonders if he’d taste the salt on your skin if he kissed you now.

“no fair,” you mumble, head thrown back. the move exposes the line of your throat, the way it glistens with sweat. he licks his lips, tries so hard to stop himself from following the bead of sweat that tracks down your cleavage. 

bob distantly wonders how he’s still so affected, even after he had you writhing under him last night, just twelve hours ago. remembers how you’d dragged your nails down his back, raising welts between his shoulder blades as he had you pinned between him and the mattress. 

to answer your question, he thinks there is a chance he’s in hell. only because you’re inches away, in nothing but a bra and panties, skin shimmering in the afternoon light and he can’t do anything about it because it’s just so hot.

when you shift again, bob takes the risk and kisses you. makes sure to keep his torso hovering away from yours, only connected by your lips. 

you reciprocate, craning your neck up into him. his mouth is warm, but it’s a nice contrast to the stifling heat surrounding you. 

it’s muscle memory, reaching up to pull him closer. but your fingers slip against tacky skin, chests sticking together uncomfortably. bob retreats when he hears your low whine, squirming beneath him. 

“no no no- i want to keep going,” you say breathlessly, voice catching when the heat stings at the nape of your neck, “but ‘s too hot.”

bob can see when it gets overstimulating, your eyes watering with it. he scoots away, not too far but just enough to let the air flow easier around you. sets the mini fan next to you on the strongest setting and gathers your hair away from your neck. 

“hey, you’re okay,” he murmurs soothingly, “i know, it’s hot. d’you want me to get your water bottle?”

you shake your head, still pouting. you know you’re being a little melodramatic, but you can barely think straight, you’re bloated from drinking enough water to drown a dolphin and all you want is to cuddle with your boyfriend but you can’t. 

“what can i do, honey?” he hums, scooting closer to link your pinkies. he’s surprisingly level-headed about the whole thing, and it makes you wonder if this is really how he feels most of the time. then you feel bad for ever complaining about how cold he keeps his room. you’d much rather be huddling for warmth.

your voice is small, a little petulant—it’s embarrassing to be felled by a broken ac system. “can you… can you kiss me again?”

his heart skips at your shy question. so used to the tables being flipped that he feels a little zip down his spine at the opportunity to take care of you this time.

bob’s mind becomes one-tracked, the need to make all your troubles disappear and have you happy and sated taking over his thoughts. he tells himself he’ll make it all better (maybe even says it out loud.)

“lay back,” he tells you softly, nodding when you go down without a word. he dutifully adjusts the fan again, and then he’s appearing in your vision, blocking out the ceiling. 

bob hovers over you, in a push-up position so none of his body heat reaches you. he looks so big like this, his newfound strength apparent with how he holds himself in place without struggle. 

his hair curtains his face from this angle, and you reach up to tuck it behind his ear again. he has stars in his eyes when he peers down at you, still so pretty. 

“’s this better?” he asks, voice low and gentle.

when you nod, you’re smiling and looking like yourself again. who could’ve known all you needed was bob on top of you. 

he leans down, chest only just brushing yours this time as he kisses you deep. makes it a good one (he always does), but especially since you’d asked so sweetly. 

you forget why you were upset in the first place when his tongue slips over yours. it gets a little heated, ironically, but even then bob holds himself above you, never letting his hot skin touch you. 

you start to whimper for it, especially when you feel bob sporting a semi through his thin boxers, even from where he hovers. he’s about to bring himself to do something about it—ears burning a little when he thinks about maybe asking if you’d want him to take you from behind this time, reasoning that you’ll overheat less like that.

but then through the thick door, bob’s enhanced hearing picks up on heavy, thudding footsteps approaching. you don’t need crazy senses to hear walker calling bob’s name from down the hall. 

the pair of you freeze, your glassy eyes stuck on him. the breath catches in your chests when his voice grows louder. “bob! pool’s open—let’s go!”

he rolls off of you, barely sparing a second to adjust himself in his boxers before ushering you to the en-suite bathroom. 

“stay here,” he says, even when both of you know there’s nowhere else to go. “i’ll be right back.” 

bob steals one more kiss before he ducks out of the bathroom, shutting the door right behind him just as walker barrels into the bedroom. 

“wha- maybe knock next time?” bob runs a hand through his hair, standing on the opposite side of the room from the blonde super soldier who’s already got his trunks on. 

“what’s the point? not like you’re doing anything in here, anyway.” john reasons, shrugging with a hand on his hip. 

“right… pool’s open, you said?” bob tries changing the subject. 

“a few of us are heading down now. get changed, buddy, you look like you’re about to pass out.” 

bob purses his lips, and wonders briefly if you’re listening through the door. he hopes walker doesn’t ask why he’s standing so weird. 

“s-sure thing,” bob agrees, already turning around to look for the new pair of trunks he’d picked out with you the last time you’d gone out.

a high whistle rings out behind him, and the way it pierces the air makes bob freeze in his tracks. 

“damn, bob. you get in a fight?” 

bob’s confused, grasping for any idea of what john could mean when it hits him, and he whirls around before john gets more fuel for the teasing that awaits him now. 

his face is burning up, trunks clutched in his hands. he blinks rapidly, floundering as john watches with a smug grin. 

“good for you, man,” john says simply, and bob just knows he’s holding back for later, when he has everyone’s attention. 

“o- on second thought, i don’t- i don’t feel too good,” bob struggles, eyes frantically searching for a shirt, but the last time he had one on was hours ago. he can’t remember where he’d tossed it, because his brain turned to mush the second yours came off.

“oh, come on, there’s nothing to be ashamed of!” john waves, cracking a little as a laugh bubbles in his chest. “wear it with pride! means you did a good job.”

bob wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. he’s sure he’s in hell, when his door slides open and both yelena and ava step in, clad in swimsuits and towels slung over their shoulders. 

“guys, what is the holdup?” yelena demands, gesturing exasperatedly with her hands. 

“it’s like you want to get heat stroke.” ava snips, glaring at john, whose face is crimson from how hard he’s holding himself back. 

“bob’s been busy.”

the girls look at him questioningly, irate at being made to wait even longer as john waits for them to figure it out. 

bob squeaks, shaking his head when john declares to the room, “bob fucks!”

he is in hell, because the room falls silent as ava and yelena stare between the two men. bob scoots a little too far to the left and they catch a glimpse of his scratched up back in the full-body mirror behind him. 

their gasps fill the room, and yelena, at least, tries to cover it with a hand over her mouth. 

“go on, bob!” ava nods approvingly, breaking into a cackle as yelena nods her agreement, speechless. 

it makes bob cringe, mind darting through all the ideas of how to squirm out of this situation, because they’re all probably picturing him in their minds right now and it makes him want to curl up in a hall. 

“oh my god, who do you think it is?” ava gasps, slapping excitedly at john. he swats her hands away, but he’s wearing a shit-eating grin when he says your name, drawling, “obviously.”

ava’s jaw drops just as yelena elbows him hard enough to make walker wince. 

bob swallows back the protest in his throat, because he doesn’t trust his ability to lie right now. decides it might be easier to just let them think what they want. 

“whoever it is-“ yelena cuts off ava and john’s gabbing, “-is a very lucky person. clearly!”

they leave bob to change in peace, snickering the whole way to the elevator. when the bathroom door opens, you find his face in his hands, sighing in resignation. 

when his hands fall, there you are, trying to muffle a laugh, half-guilty but very amused. 

“i’m sorry, baby,” you coo, running your hands up his arms to his shoulders, “should’a told you to put on a shirt first.”

you enjoy yourself plenty, watching him stammer through the group’s interrogation by the pool while you act none-the-wiser. even sprinkling in a question or two. 

it’s not as funny later that night, when the ac is fixed and bob has you on your back before it can even kick in properly. 

it’s decidedly unfunny when you have to watch tutorials the next morning on how to cover up the purple-red splotches mapped down your throat, save for the one at your collar—bob asks you to leave that one bare. 

in the middle of it (autumn)

the team is onto you. 

it’s hard to miss the pointed looks exchanged over dinner when you and bob chat intently, in your own world, totally unbothered by their squabbling. 

or when the two of you coincidentally walk into the kitchen for breakfast together. sure, you bumped into him on your way down. 

it’s been almost a year with bob, and you’re still buried under the weight of pure love when he comes to you first about what’s bothering him, or when he wants you to cut his hair, or when he doesn’t even have to ask for your order when he gets takeout for just the two of you. 

sneaking around was fun at first, a harmless secret that protected the peace that only existed when you were together. every stolen kiss and lingering brush under the table sent shocks through your system. 

the longer it goes, the harder it is to leave him in the morning, slipping into your own room quietly on the off chance that someone might catch you tiptoeing out of his. 

when bob shuffles into the kitchen, eyes bleary and hair mussed from sleep, and you have to hold yourself back from peppering kisses all over his sleepy face—it makes you wonder why exactly you’re keeping it a secret. it’s not like the team would really give a shit, hell, they probably know. 

so you stop being careful. the mask starts to slip, and bob finds that he quite likes getting to hold your hand outside the confines of your rooms. 

the day it finally happens is one of those days, where you wake up in his arms, clutched to his chest like his personal teddy bear. his lips part on a soft snore, face smushed into the pillow.

you’re a little sweaty, trapped under the covers with the heat radiating off of your dead-asleep boyfriend, but you can’t bring yourself to peel away from him. 

it’s still early. the tower is silent—on the cusp of consciousness. 

as you try to recall what exactly woke you up, bob shifts behind you and—oh. bob moves again, still asleep, and this time there’s no mistaking what nudges at the back of your thigh. 

a hitch of a breath. you wait a beat, in time with your pulse, until you decide to push back experimentally. he’s still asleep, and you’re debating whether it’s worth waking him early. 

he’s thick in his pyjamas, insistent as he grinds into you again, notching between your ass cheeks. this time he lets out a low moan, the arm banded around your middle clamping down.

you’re entirely locked against him now, unable to move as bob’s hips continue their lazy rocking. you want so bad to let him sleep, but it’s getting uncomfortably hot and sticky between your legs. 

you think you could slip a hand down and take care of yourself quietly, but then your entire body jolts up the bed on one hard thrust. the mewl you’ve been biting back finally slips out. 

that’s what wakes him, in the end. when your hand flies to his forearm against your stomach, baby blue eyes flutter open and blink slowly in confusion. 

it hits him all at once—cock throbbing in his pants and your overheating body squirming in front of him and the little sounds escaping your mouth. his name. 

bob makes a puzzled sound, halfway to a moan when the fog clears. his arms loosen enough for you to turn around, facing him as his cock now pokes at your belly. 

“i’m sorry i woke you” you whisper through the clench in your core. bob shakes his head, still sleepy, dragging you into a slow kiss, the first of the day. 

“are you-” his hand slips between your bodies, resting at your navel until you nod. “fuck, you’re so wet already.”

he runs his long fingers through your folds, spreading the arousal he finds waiting for him there. brushes against your clit, and then you’re whining, tugging at his shoulders. 

“bob bob bob, please, i need you inside,” is all it takes for him to nod against your lips, wriggling out of his pants and lifting your thigh over his. 

he guides himself to your entrance, sliding in slow, like always. lets you adjust as he groans low at the feeling of your walls fluttering around him. 

when you tell him to move, he wastes no time in drawing his hips back, pushing in steadily. each time he does, a breathless moan is punched out of you, gripping him like a vice and sucking him back in. 

“s- shit, honey, you’re squeezing me so tight,” he stutters, a soft laugh turning breathless when you seem to clench down on purpose. “s’that feel good, honey? t- talk to me.”

he needs it. with this angle, he reaches so much deeper, his coarse hairs rubbing at your clit with each push forwards. it sets your insides alight, but there’s nowhere to run in this position. his fingers clamp down on your hip, dragging you along his cock. 

“f- fuck, you feel so good,” you cry, burying your face in his firm chest, “so- so deep like this. can feel all of you.”

your praise goes straight to his cock, twitching inside you on a whimper. he moves with purpose, aims for that spot he knows is there—the one that makes you cry his name. 

he knows when he’s found it, because you’re keening, high and sharp into the room. the stillness of the morning is shattered, taken over by the steady slapping of skin on skin, the squelching where bob pushes his thick cock into your leaking hole. 

“you’re so- so fucking wet, sweetheart. ‘s all for me?” he pants, voice raspy and thick with sleep. it scratches at your brain just right, makes you arch into his touch. 

his tip batters at that spongey spot just right, and he thinks he might need to cover your mouth or something. while he’s sure the team wouldn’t be opposed to your relationship, he’s not too sure about how they’d feel waking up to your repeated chants of his name.  

he shushes you with this mouth on yours, swallowing down all your wanton moans. “you’re gonna wake everyone,” he says against your lips, a little teasing. just this side of cocky, now that he has you falling apart on his dick first thing in the morning. 

your head shakes vehemently as you cling to him. “don’t care,” you say, breath catching when he rolls your clit in slow circles. “want ‘em to know-” your hips buck with a yelp when his touch grows firm, “-want them to hear how good you fuck me.” 

bob’s eyes roll back into his head, a shiver running down his spine. “cum for me then, baby, c’mon.”

his thrusts grow harsh, and you know he’s almost there when he bites down on your shoulder to stop the pathetic moan at how your wet walls choke him. 

he keeps working at your clit, pumping in and out of you in a way that’s fucking devastating. the heat simmering in your belly bubbles over, and you’re creaming all over his cock with a wrecked whine, bucking your hips to meet his. 

“loveyouloveyouloveyou,” he hears you mumble as you wade through your high, and it does him in to hear that word. it’s not the first time, but it always feels like it. 

his fingers squeeze your hips so hard they’ll bruise for sure, marring your skin shades of blue and purple that he’ll kiss better later.

when he cums, it’s with a drawn out moan, barely muffled by your skin as he presses his face to your neck. you can feel him pulsing as he paints your insides, squeezing just to draw out his pleasure. you don’t want the feeling of him filling you up to stop. 

“i love you, oh, god- love you, baby.”

too bad the moment is fucking stomped on all over, becoming bob’s most ruined orgasm when his bedroom door flies open, revealing a blond super soldier, suited up at 7 in the morning. 

“hey, have you seen-” 

it takes a second to register but when it does, bob is tugging the covers up and shielding your body with his. 

“holy shit.” john freezes in his tracks like he’s been slapped, piecing together the flash of your mortified face and the curve of bob’s bare ass. 

“get the fuck out!” you shout from under bob, whose mind has gone completely blank. not only because he’s been walked in on, butt naked by the most annoying of all super soldiers, but also because he can feel where his cum is leaking out of you onto the sheets. he pulls the covers tighter around your bodies, blushing bright red. 

“i knew it. i fucking knew it!” 

“gold star to you, walker! now can you leave, please? the briefing doesn’t start for another hour, you psycho.”

“god forbid we get breakfast before a day-long mission! it’s only the most important meal of the day!”

your eyes roll hard, staring up at bob, both of you doused in annoyance at how john is still in the room when bob is still in you. 

“bob, i’d offer you to join but i assume you’ve already eaten-” he’s cut off by your indignant yell, easily dodging the metal water bottle hurled at him. 

“alright, alright,” john huffs, turning heel with a shudder. 

when the door slides shut, bob meets your eyes with a sigh. you look up at him, helpless to stop the unhinged giggle when you process what just happened. 

“cat’s out of the bag?” you offer, whimpering a little when bob pulls out slowly. he shakes his head, huffing a laugh with his head in the crook of your neck. 

bob cleans you up diligently, and so, so softly. within the hour, he’s zipping up your tactical suit and waiting at the door so he can walk you out to the elevator. 

“are you gonna be okay fending for yourself while i’m gone? they’re going to have questions,” you tease, raising on your tiptoes loop your arms around bob’s neck. 

he smile is small but it’s real and stays even after you kiss him goodbye. 

“i’ll manage. as long as you promise to push walker into the line of fire a little.”

[ivybucky]

God Pleaseeee I’m on my knees this fic just ruined my brain for the rest of the day.

I was literally late to work bc I stayed in my car to finish reading

Detonate

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

Summary: Move in day is happening at the Thunderbolts/New Avengers Compound, and Bob is having a hard time dealing with the changes.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Angst, Smut, and Fluff (the triforce of fun!), Reader and Bob are very close friends, Bob is still coming down from the Sentry medical trial he went through (going through a bit of a rough time), Bob is nervous and a bit scarred, but he’s super comfortable with the reader, they’re very close.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex, Bob is a darn yearner in this (but that’s just how it is), would I say this is hot hot sex? Yeah. Oral (fem receiving), Fingering, Hair Pulling, Body Worship (like in general), Praise Kink on full display here, Overstimulation Kink, Cock Warming (kind of…The vibes are there lol)

Author’s Note: This was a request made by an anon, I did kinda insert smut in this but I thought it kinda fit nicely into the landscape of the story! I hope everyone enjoys it! It’s a long one!

Word Count: 22,288 (holy fuck)

“Okay! Car is packed! You sure you got everything, Bob?” You asked, straightening up from where you’d just wrestled your final duffel bag into the trunk, the zipper half-stuck from being too full. A strand of hair clung to your cheek in the early morning heat, and you swiped it away with the back of your hand. The hatch creaked shut with a groan of protest– and your poor car was now packed to the brim with what felt like your entire life.

Labeled boxes overflowing with tech gear, your clothes crammed into vacuum-sealed bags that had slowly started to reinflate. Half a dozen posters rolled into tubes. A shoebox full of knick knacks, mismatched cords, and pins from old missions. And of course, the plastic bin of tangled charging cables that had somehow followed you from dorms to safehouses to apartments since 2020 without ever being untangled.

You turned, squinting into the sun, and found Bob exactly where he’d been standing for the last five minutes–rooted by the passenger door like he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to get in yet.

His hoodie sleeves were tugged down past his wrists, hands fidgeting near the frailed seams of it. His hair was still a little damp at the edges from his shower, and the morning light caught in the light brown locks that draped around his face, framing it and caressing it so nicely it was as if someone was holding his cheeks.

At his feet sat two cardboard boxes and that was it.

One was a store-bought shipping box, pristine and almost too clean, like it hadn’t been lived in yet. The other was older, more worn, marked in thick black Sharpie with your handwriting: Books for Bob.

He gave a sheepish shrug, his voice small.

“D-Didn’t really have m-much to bring. Just had those t-two boxes, remember?”

You paused.

It wasn’t the first time he’d said something like that. Not the first time he’d gestured vaguely to the corner of your shared living space with that soft, self-deprecating shrug–two boxes and a borrowed life. But it still hit you low and hard in the chest, like it always did, because he wasn’t being dramatic.

That really was all he had.

Two boxes.

One was filled with clothes you’d helped him pick out on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, just a week after he’d admitted–haltingly, almost ashamed–that the threadbare scrubs Valentina gave him weren’t actually his. Just something someone had tossed his way after the Void incident, like a temporary name tag slapped on a stranger. You’d taken him shopping that day not because he asked, but because you noticed. Because the way he tugged at his sleeves and kept checking if his shirt covered the scars on his wrists said more than any words ever could.

The other box…Well, it hadn’t started out as his. The books inside were yours. Dog-eared, tea-stained, a few with notes scrawled in the margins. But slowly–so slowly you almost didn’t notice–they’d migrated across the apartment. From your nightstand to the coffee table. From the coffee table to the arm of the couch. Until they found a home at the far end of the sectional, right next to the blanket he always folded the same way and the chipped mug he used whether it was clean or not.

That corner had become his sanctuary.

He didn’t say much when he read–just curled in on himself, long legs tucked up beneath him, blanket pulled over his knees, tea going cold in his hands while the soft lamplight pooled around his shoulders. He read them again and again, like the words were anchors. Like they reminded him that he existed. That he was still here. Still allowed to take up space.

And every time he said it–this is all I have–you felt the weight of how much he meant it.

And how badly you wanted to give him more.

Because you remembered the day where you agreed to take him in.

Not in the vague, hazy way people recall calendar events or checkmarks on a to-do list–but in the bone-deep, clear-cut way that memories get branded when they’re born from moments that matter.

It had been the night after the last press conference. The final gauntlet of public statements, forced smiles, and tightly controlled answers. Cameras flashing. Journalists circling like vultures around roadkill. Words like “recovery,” “reform,” and “containment” were getting tossed around like they meant something, like they could undo what The Void had done in New York.

And through it all, Bob had stood just behind Valentina’s shoulder–silent, unmoving, eyes glassy like he was watching it all from underwater. Like his body was there, but he wasn’t.

When the cameras finally shut off and the world stopped demanding things from him, it was like watching a puppet go slack. His shoulders caved. His posture buckled. Whatever thin thread that had been holding him together snapped the moment no one was looking.

Then, for the first time in what felt like weeks, the team finally had the opportunity to sit down and talk. No comms in their ears. No missions ticking like time bombs in the background. Just silence, pure uninterrupted attention, and a problem that none of you had the answer for.

Bob was still in the compound, still alive and kicking, but he was barely present. He spoke in short bursts, when prompted, and gave mechanical answers–like he was on a scripted loop with a shaky voice. His eyes never focused on the person in front of him. He ate only when someone put something in his hands, and even then, it was minimal–just enough to pass as functioning. Barely enough to keep him upright. He slept too much for days on end, then not at all for a stretch so long that the medical aides started whispering about sedatives again.

He hadn’t even been given a proper room, he was just tucked-away in a corner bed in the medical wing, hidden behind a curtain that never fully closed. The air in there always smelled antiseptic and medicinal in a nauseating way. The lights were always buzzing faintly, like they needed to be replaced but nobody would do it. And the nurses assigned to check in on him swapped out too fast for him to learn anyone’s name.

You had passed by his bed once that morning, and you had caught him sitting upright with the sleeves of his scrubs tugged down over his hands, staring blankly at the white wall. His tray of food was untouched, and the plastic fork had been snapped in half.

And because of you Valentina called that meeting.

The conference room was too cold and too bright, the overhead fluorescents were a jarring contrast to the hollow, silent fatigue hanging in the air. You sat near the end of the long, mahogany conference table, with a dull ache still pulsing under your ribs–healing fractures from fighting the Sentry that hadn’t quite fused. Every time you shifted in your seat, the pain reminded you of why you weren’t on active rotation anymore, and why you were the only one not running logistics or field reports.

Valentina stood at the head of the table with her clipboard. Yelena paced around because she couldn’t keep still, sharp eyes flicking toward the window every few seconds because she thought something was going to fly through it. Bucky leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched–stone-faced, but simmering beneath because he had other things to do and this was just another thing he needed to deal with. Walker was on edge, a spitfire as you would call him, always loaded up with something to say, but for once, he kept his mouth shut. Ava stood beside you in total silence, and Alexei…Well, even he had stopped trying to lighten the mood, because he knew how serious the situation had become.

The air was thick, and palpable, heavy with everything that was unspoken between the group. Everyone was waiting for someone else to offer a solution.

Because the homing of Bob Reynolds–The Sentry, The Void–was a question none of you knew how to answer.

Until you said it…

”I’ll take him.”

The words slipped out before you’d fully thought them through, though you had been mulling it over for a bit.

The room had gone still in those moments, and Valentina’s eyes lifted from her clipboard to look at you, she seemed caught off guard that you were willing to take him in–especially after all he had done.

You could feel Yelena stop pacing behind you, the sudden absence of motion louder than her footsteps.

”I’ve got the space,” You said, quieter now, “And I’m not on active rotation right now because of…Y’know…” You gestured vaguely to your side, where your ribs were still taped under your shirt, “So I can keep an eye on him until the Tower’s ready. Just a few weeks. It’ll give him some place quieter and less…Sterile.”

For a moment, nobody responded, it was as if you had sucked all the air out of the room like a vacuum seal.

Then Bucky gave you a slow, almost unrecognized nod.

Yelena muttered something under her breath in Russian that you were pretty sure meant “Of course it’d be you.”

Valentina tilted her head and scribbled something onto her notes without comment.

Walker shifted like he wanted to object, but thought better of it.

And everyone else…Had nothing better to offer up, so they had to agree to it.

That night, when you pushed open the curtain to the medical wing, you found Bob was already awake.

He was sitting on the edge of the cot, motionless, elbows balanced on his knees, hands limp between them like they’d forgotten how to hold anything. His hoodie–one he must’ve asked for or found from the pile of clothes Valentina handed him weeks ago–was bunched at the wrists, the frayed threads twisted around his fingers. He hadn’t put the hood up, but his hair had fallen over his face in soft, uneven strands, just enough to shadow his eyes.

He wasn’t looking at anything. Not the wall, not the bed. Just…Out. Like the space in front of him was wide open, endless, and empty.

You stepped in quietly. No sudden moves. Just a presence, steady and real.

“Hey,” You said, your voice a hush in the too-bright room.

His head lifted a little. Not all the way. But just enough for you to catch a flicker of blue under the fall of his hair. You took a few steps closer, not touching, but close enough that your presence could be felt in the air between you.

“Thought you might want to get out of here.” He didn’t speak, didn’t nod. But he didn’t shrink away either. His gaze found yours–and for a second, just a second, you saw the faintest crack in the fog.

“I–I don’t…” He started, voice barely audible, rough like it had been unused for too long. “I don’t know w-where to go.” You felt your heart swell slightly, hearing the way he croaked out the words, how timid he sounded, how scared he was.

”You’ll be coming with me just for a little while…Until the Tower’s ready.” You explained softly, keeping your distance still. You could see his jaw tighten, and he shook his head.

”I–I can’t…What if…What if he comes back?” His voice cracked on he. It was barely a whisper, thick with dread and self-loathing.

And your heart fractured a little at the way he said it–not like a warning, but a confession. Like he believed The Void was a thing still inside him, curled in the corner of his chest, waiting to be let out. Like he believed he wasn’t safe.

”Well,” You started, voice quiet but sure, “Then I guess we’ll just have to figure it out. Hmm?” You let the words hang there–soft but certain. It wasn’t a dismissal, nor a sugar-coated promise, it was just a truth from you to him.

And then you held out your hand.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just…Open. Steady. Waiting.

It was a gesture to show you weren’t afraid of him or his touch. You weren’t bracing for him to break something or bolt or pull away. You simply stood there with your palm outstretched, and your eyes on his.

It took him a second to truly process what was happening, but then, with the hesitance of a person who was afraid of themselves, he reached out and wrapped his boiling hot hand around yours. You immediately gave it a small squeeze of reassurance, and gave him the warmest smile you could muster.

And that’s how it all began.

The first few days weren’t quiet.

They were full of soft noises, background ones–drawers opening, kettle whistling, the low static of the TV at night. Bob didn’t talk much those first couple of days, but he hovered around you, and he listened when you would talk to yourself. You never pushed for conversation, you just offered him space, and food…Lot’s of it.

You hadn’t realized how deeply the Sentry serum had affected him until the end of day one, when you caught him standing in front of your open fridge like he was looking into a portal.

”Are you hungry?” You asked, causing him to jump ten feet into the air–literally–with guilt flashing through his expression.

“I–I didn’t want to ask, I–I know we just ate two hours ago…I–I just…I’m starving. It feels like my stomach is e-eating itself…I–It really hurts.” Your brain immediately jumped to the conclusion that his metabolism had gone haywire after the serum, which caused him to have this unresolved hunger–you couldn’t imagine the pain he had been experiencing throughout the time in the medical wing of the compound, especially with food that was not too appetizing. So in an instant you were there to help, shuffling around him to look into the abyss that was your fridge, grabbing a stack of Tupperware and piling them onto the kitchen island.

“Let’s get you something to eat then…” He had pasta, leftover chicken and rice, cold soup, some roasted vegetables, and half a loaf of bread.

He ate and ate and ate and you sat nearby, flipping idly through your phone but mostly just watching him out of the corner of your eye. He wasn’t rushing, it was just a constant conveyor belt of his fork travelling to his mouth. His hands didn’t tremble–but his shoulders stayed tense, like he was waiting for you to tell him to stop.

You didn’t though…You just kept refilling his water and asking if he wanted anything else.

By the time he finished his second bowl of rice and reached sheepishly for the rest of your peanut butter with a spoon, you knew what the rest of the week would look like.

Thankfully Val had given you her credit card, because you had restocked the fridge twice in four days, and he apologized every time you brought a new bag of groceries inside the apartment.

“You’re not eating too much,” You said flatly on day three, unloading yogurt and apples and protein bars onto the counter while he slowly restocked the fridge, looking guilty, “Your body’s catching up, just let it.” You added. He bit the inner part of his cheek.

“But–“

”Bob.” You interrupted gently, giving him one of your looks, the one that encompassed all the words of reassurance. He stopped and nodded, surrendering.

Though he still apologized the very next morning when he finished all your maple cinnamon oatmeal–which had eight packs left last time you had checked.

By the end of the first week, the fog started to lift–just enough for you to really notice the change.

You had caught him lingering in the hallway after his first night of catching two full hours of uninterrupted sleep. He looked confused and unsure. Like he didn’t know what to do with the energy that began to vibrate through him again. Like he was afraid that if he overdid himself things would happen again.

So you handed him a basket of laundry and asked if he wanted to help, and almost in an instant he took the offer. It was an easy pastime, and he didn’t mind helping you, especially with everything you had been doing for him.

By the second week, you finally managed to drag him to Target in the early hours of the morning–when there wouldn’t be chaos, or crowds, just the hum of employees and muffled pop music.

The mission was to get him some clothes. Just an array of hoodies, sweatshirts, sweatpants, boxers and undershirts, and of course socks. He didn’t ask for any of it, but you had guided him aisle by aisle, nudging his elbow to encourage him to pick out whatever he wanted.

Once you reached the bath and body care section you helped him pick through scents.

”Get what you want,” You said, “Do you like lavender? Mint? Vanilla?” He shrugged, popping one of the caps open to sniff, before returning it to the shelf. He ended up picking one that reminded him of your conditioner–a mix of coconut oil, sage, and grapefruit.

You didn’t call him out on it, but he knew you noticed just by the smirk that came up on your lips, and how you gently bumped shoulders with him on the way to checkout.

That week, he finally showered alone.

The week prior, you had to sit on the floor of the washroom with your back turned towards the door, and knees drawn up to your chest. You listened to him closely, and heard him take shaking breaths behind the curtain as the steam curled around you.

When he asked you to stay in the washroom with him he knew it was an awkward request, but you listened intently to his reasoning, even though you had already made up your mind to do it regardless. If it helped him, the awkwardness was secondary to you.

”I don’t w-want to be alone…I’m afraid I’ll…I’ll see him…W-Whatever I was.” And you had been there every time, until day eleven, when he said he wanted to try to be on his own. You gave him that privacy, and closed the door. He came out fifteen minutes later, wrapped in the towels you had left on the radiator smelling like a whole citrus section in a grocery store.

By the third week, the apartment smelled like lemon zest and something faintly burning at least once a day.

You had started waking up to the faint clatter of mixing bowls and the low creak of cabinet doors. The first time it happened, you walked into the kitchen at 2:43 in the morning, to find Bob standing at the stove barefoot, sleeves rolled up, squinting at a dog-eared page in one of your long-forgotten cookbooks,

You startled him when you padded in.

”S–Sorry–I didn’t mean to wake y-you,” He whispered, glancing over his shoulder, “I–I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d try s-something.” You looked at the mess—sugar scattered across the counter, a cracked egg leaking beside a whisk, flour dusting the air like snowfall. It should’ve felt chaotic, but it didn’t. It felt like motion. Like healing, somehow.

“Want company?” You asked, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes with your knuckles.

He hesitated for only a second before giving you a tiny, grateful nod.

That happened again the next night.

And the one after.

He made banana pancakes at 1 a.m., grilled cheese at 3:00, and once attempted a souffle with comically disastrous results.

Eventually, you offered a different solution.

“How about we try watching a boring movie instead?” You asked as he stood in the living room one night, holding a bowl of half-mixed muffin batter. “Might help wind your brain down a bit more than cooking and baking.” He pursed his lips, looked down at the bowl, then back up at you.

”…O-Okay.”

You didn’t put on anything exciting, just some old obscure movie. It was the kind of film where nothing really happens, you didn’t need to observe and you certainly didn’t have to pay attention to it.

Bob settled onto the couch beside you, knees tucked up, arms wrapped loosely around them.

Halfway through, his head started to dip sideways.

You felt the soft weight of it first–hesitant but real–when he let it rest on your lap.

You froze. Not because it startled you, but because it meant something. The trust in that gesture was palpable. Heavy.

His hair, now finally growing out in soft, tousled waves, was thick and slightly uneven—darker at the roots, lighter where the sun had kissed it through your windows. A little unkempt, curling faintly behind his ears. You let your fingers hover over it for a second, unsure…

Then you touched him.

Gently.

You threaded your fingers into the locks at the crown of his head, letting your nails lightly scratch his scalp, slow and rhythmic. He didn’t pull away.

He sighed.

A soft, long exhale. And then–you felt it happen.

His breathing evened out. His shoulders softened. The tension in his jaw unclenched. He didn’t just rest his head on your lap–he slept.

It was the first time he’d truly let go.

The first time he’d let you hold him without flinching from the weight of being seen.

You stayed there for hours, barely moving, running your fingers gently through his hair while the muted light from the screen flickered across his cheekbones.

You didn’t dare wake him.

The next morning, you didn’t mention it.

Neither did he.

But something had shifted. A soft, invisible thing between you. A comfort that didn’t need words.

And when the email finally came through a few days later–Tower’s ready. Moving in next Friday–he was the one who walked into the kitchen holding a roll of tape and a stack of folded boxes.

“I can help you pack,” He said, and you let him.

Now after the weeks bonding with him you found yourselves in front of the car staring at the boxes that had defined his stay with you. You shrugged and opened the passenger door for him.

“Well, now you’ve also got the car full of my chaos to babysit with your boxes,” You teased, “Congratulations, you’ve been promoted to co-pilot-slash-box guardian.” Bob blushed at your comment and shook his head, stepping into the car with ease as you handed him both of his boxes.

“A-At least the ride is only half an hour. P-Please don’t drive like a m-maniac.” He commented, watching you place a hand on your chest, feigning offence.

”I follow the rules of the road…It’s everyone else’s fault that I have to drive the way I do.”

——————

The Tower loomed like a monument to a future neither of you were quite ready for yet.

All glass and steel, the building glittered in the late morning sun–its reflection cutting across the sky line in clean, perfect angles. The closer you drove, the more you felt the tension shift in the air. A pressure. Something expectant. It was the kind of silence that clings to the edge of change.

The security gate recognized your plates on approach, and the barrier lifted with a hiss, allowing you to pull into the underground parking garage that smelled like burning concrete. Your tires glided across the laneway, as you found your assigned spot–Bay 21A, right beneath the elevator hub.

With straight precision you backed into the spot, putting it between the lines perfectly without cheating–Bob liked challenging you by covering the screen that showed the footage of your review cameras, and every time you somehow managed to impress him with your pure skill of parking like an expert.

You let out a soft sigh and cut the engine, letting the silence envelop the car completely.

Bob sat quietly in the passenger seat, picking at the lid of one of the boxes in his lap. He was nervous to see everyone again–he had told you that multiple times when he was helping you roll up your posters in your room–and every time he said it you tried to reassure him there was nothing to worry about. This was another one of those times where his nerves were coming out to haunt him, along with guilt for what he had done to everyone.

Slowly, you reached over and covered one hand with yours, giving it the faintest squeeze, which brought him out of his trance.

”They’re not expecting anything from you,” You said quietly, “You being there is enough…Okay?” He nodded once, but didn’t look at you. His gaze was locked on the glossy dashboard, eyes wide with the kind of dread that sinks its claws in and pretends to be logic. You gave him a moment, then gently opened your door.

The air in the underground garage was cooler than the heat outside, but still held the faint echo of gasoline and ozone. You circled the car, popping the trunk and pulling out the first set of bags while Bob slowly emerged on the other side with his boxes in his arms. You could feel his nerves in the way he hovered, shifting his weight from foot to foot, watching you slowly empty your trunk and mentally checking off the things that you labeled.

Bob crouched down carefully, setting his two boxes on the smooth concrete with a quiet thud. You didn’t even have to ask what he was doing—because you already knew. It was in the set of his shoulders, the way he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows with precise movements, knuckles cracking once like a silent warm-up. You arched a brow as you slung one of your overstuffed bags onto the ground beside him.

“You’re gonna try to carry all of it, aren’t you?” He gave you a small, sheepish look as he reached for the nearest vacuum sealed bag.

“J-Just want to get it done in one trip…I-I can handle it.”

You didn’t doubt that he could. You’d seen what he was capable of–really capable of–once.

It had been during your second week together, when he’d sneezed of all things. A completely ordinary, human, unremarkable sneeze. But when he braced his palm against the edge of the counter, you heard the wood crack. Split straight down to the support beam. The look on his face afterward had been sheer horror. He apologized for an hour. Then he avoided touching anything solid for the rest of the day.

He hadn’t used his strength since.

Not until now.

You watched silently as he lined up the boxes like a game of cautious engineering. He braced your backpack against the top of the stack with his knee, then reached for the plastic bin full of tangled cords. You winced.

“You’re gonna throw your back out before we even get to the lobby,” You muttered, crouching beside him. But when you reached for one of the smaller bags, he stopped you with a gentle touch to your wrist.

“I got it.” He said firmly, with no stammer or nerves. You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Bob…” He didn’t look at you–just adjusted the bin one more time on top of the pile, his arms curling around the whole absurd tower of your combined belongings like it weighed nothing. And maybe it didn’t–not to him.

But the stillness in his face made you pause.

Without thinking, you stepped closer and gently reached out, fingers curling around his jaw to turn his face toward you. He resisted at first, a quiet kind of resistance–not physical, but instinctual. Like he didn’t want to be looked at too closely. But he didn’t stop you either. His eyes were closed tightly, as if he was shielding something from you.

“Hey,” You said softly, thumb brushing just beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone. “Open your eyes.”

He let out a soft sigh and blinked, once.

The gold shimmered faintly through the blue–just a soft hue, like the sun glinting off metal buried under water. You smiled, small and knowing, a breath of fond exasperation curling from your lips.

“Knew it,” You murmured, tracing the warmth of his cheekbone gently, “You better shake the gold outta those eyes before the elevator doors open, or Yelena’s gonna throw a knife at you on instinct.” He huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been nerves. But it was something. And then he nodded, clutching the tower of boxes tighter as you stepped back and popped the trunk closed with a gentle slam. You locked the car with a chirp, then turned and motioned with your head.

“C’mon, Hercules. Eightieth floor, express ride.” Bob followed you closely, his steps careful but somehow steady beneath the weight of everything he carried. You led the way into the sleek glass elevator at the far end of the garage, pressing your palm against the biometric scanner until the panel lit up green. The numbers climbed on the display, fast and smooth, the elevator doors sliding open to reveal a surprisingly quiet car.

“Eighty,” you said aloud, and the panel blinked in acknowledgement.

The doors closed. The hum of the lift filled the silence.

You glanced over at him. “Still with me?”

“Y-Yeah,” He whispered. “Just…Trying not to break anything.”

“You’re doing great,” You said, and reached out to squeeze his elbow. His knuckles were white around the box edges, but his jaw was unclenched. That was progress.

The numbers blinked in rapid succession, each floor a soft ding that echoed in the space like a countdown. Bob stood beside you, arms wrapped around the towering stack of boxes and bags, the gold in his eyes dimmed now to a whisper. You could feel the nervous energy vibrating off him—not in any visible way, but like static on the skin. His chest rose and fell a little too fast. His fingers shifted to tighten their hold around the base box. You glanced up at him and gave his elbow another quick squeeze.

“Hey,” you murmured, “Deep breath. This isn’t the press room. It’s home…Kind of.”

And then–ding.

EIGHTIETH FLOOR.

The doors slid open.

And chaos hit like a brick wall.

“DUDE, THAT WAS MINE!”

“It was not, I CALLED DIBS!”

“I tagged it with my name!”

“Your name is not ‘BOOG’, Walker, it’s not exactly an ironclad claim!”

The common area was a battlefield of cardboard boxes, scattered shoes, half-assembled IKEA furniture, and rogue throw pillows that looked like they’d been used in an actual skirmish. Somewhere between the couch and the kitchenette, Walker and Ava were tangled in a tug-of-war over a branded coffee machine neither of them had apparently paid for.

Alexei was shirtless, inexplicably, perched on top of the breakfast bar with a screwdriver in his mouth and a kitchen cabinet door in one hand.

Alpine was sitting in the center of the chaos like some smug, unbothered little queen, tail flicking as if supervising the disarray, licking her paws and wiping her face.

Bucky stood a little ways back, arms crossed, eyes scanning the scene like he was trying to calculate how quickly he could disappear before anyone roped him into it. His hair was tied back messily and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing his polished vibranium arm.

Yelena whipped around the corner, sleek boots scuffing across the hardwood, hair cropped into the fluffy bob you remembered but now styled back with deliberate, greasy charm. It looked like she’d stolen a page out of Bucky’s post-pardon playbook: part assassin, part disgruntled congressman. The effect was wildly successful. She froze mid-step the second she saw you.

Her eyes bounced from you to Bob.

To the boxes.

To Bob’s arms.

To Bob’s face.

“…Holy shit,” She muttered.

The noise didn’t die instantly, but it dropped. Just enough for everyone to glance up from their various ridiculous activities and follow her stare.

Ava blinked twice.

Walker’s brows lifted in slow, dramatic awe.

Alexei whispered something in Russian that definitely sounded reverent.

Even Alpine paused her paw licking, like she knew something was off in the room suddenly.

Because Bob Reynolds didn’t look like the man they’d last seen sitting glassy-eyed behind Valentina at that press conference. He didn’t look hollow anymore.

He looked solid. Stronger in more ways than one. It was evident he had been eating well with how broad his shoulders had become. In addition, the group could see the slight confidence in the way he stood beside you–like he wasn’t a disappearing act anymore.

His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows, forearms flexed under the absurd weight of what he carried, jawline more defined, face not quite as sunken in. The faint sun-kissed warmth of his skin, the way his hair curled slightly at the base of his neck from the shower, the steadiness of how he stood–all of it painted a picture none of them were expecting.

Bob stood there frozen for a breath, blinking like the elevator had transported him to another dimension instead of the eighty-fifth floor of the most secure building in the country. The silence that followed was thick, stunned, and oddly reverent.

Then, without fully realizing he was doing it, Bob crouched down and gently eased the tower of boxes to the floor, careful not to drop or jostle a single thing. He took a step back, pushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead, and gave the room the smallest, most hesitant wave imaginable.

“H-Hey,” He said, his voice quieter than it had been all morning. It wasn’t shaky, but it wasn’t loud either–just a soft offering. “Uh…Hi.”

There was a beat of silence before the reaction hit like a slow-building wave.

Walker, never one to play things subtle, gave a long whistle and crossed his arms. “Damn, Y/N has really been feedin’ you, huh?”

“You’ve grown into the size of a house.” Ava muttered, almost in disbelief.

“You look better,” Yelena said simply, “Much better,” Then she paused, a rare smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “We’re glad you’re here Bob.”

“Da,” Alexei added from his perch atop the counter, “We thought you would show up glowing from the eyes shooting laser beams…This is better.” Bucky stepped forward at last, the quiet anchor among the chaos. He met Bob’s gaze evenly.

“You look good, man.” There was no flourish to it. Just truth. And it hit harder than any of the jokes or smirks.

Alpine leapt gracefully off the couch and padded over to Bob like she was the real authority of the floor, circling him once before rubbing up against his leg like she approved. That–more than anything–made Bob let out a shaky little exhale. You saw it in his shoulders. A sliver of tension released.

“I…Th-Thanks,” Bob said softly, pushing his sleeves back down and tugging them past his wrists again. “It’s good to see you guys. I-I didn’t think…you know…”

“We’d all be here together under one roof?” Yelena offered helpfully.

“I was gonna say ‘still like me,’ but–yeah, that too.”

“We’ve all had our Void moments,” Walker said, slinging an arm lazily around Ava’s shoulder, who ducked out from under it immediately. “Just glad you’re back. For real this time.” You gave Bob a small nudge with your elbow, and he glanced at you like he still wasn’t sure if he was dreaming this part. Yelena stepped forward, clapping her hands once.

“Alright, you two. You’re both in the south wing–rooms 804 and 805. Hopefully you two are okay with sharing the washroom.” You snorted softly.

”We’ve been sharing a washroom for the past four weeks, I’m sure we will manage just fine.” Bob’s ears turned pink, but the faint grin tugging at his lips told you he didn’t mind.

The others returned to their chaotic unpacking–Walker trying to assemble a lamp with brute force, Ava muttering about WiFi passwords, Alexei still shirtless for absolutely no reason–and Yelena waved you and Bob off with a lazy salute, “Go get settled!”

You nodded and turned down the hall with Bob trailing just behind you, his eyes darting over the sleek white walls and polished wood trim like it all felt too new to touch. When you reached the south wing, the hallway widened. Soft LED lights glowed inlaid against the baseboards. You reached two adjacent doors labeled 804 and 805.

“This one’s you,” You murmured, thumbing the pad on 804 until the panel clicked green. The door slid open, soundless.

Bob stepped in.

And stopped.

The room was huge. High ceilings stretched up, a soft echo already present in the sterile quiet. White walls. Pale oak flooring. A twin-size mattress resting on a raised platform bed frame with no sheets. A basic black desk and chair in one corner. A minimalist bookshelf built into the wall with three empty shelves, and natural sunlight beaming through the large window panes that lined the walls with a cityscape. That was it.

No color. No lightbulbs warm enough to feel like home. No blankets tossed over couch arms. No ceramic mug sitting on a coaster. No smell of your lemon-ginger tea or vanilla candles. Just newness. Cold and clean and…Blank.

You didn’t miss the way his body language changed. His shoulders didn’t drop. They stayed stiff. His mouth twitched–not with a smile, but with something like confusion and disappointment carefully stitched together.

Because sure he was back, but he’d lost something in the return.

The cozy warmth of your living room–the worn grey sectional with the throw pillows that never matched. The bookshelf bursting with novels stacked sideways and double-layered. The corner where the floor lamp glowed gold at night. The soft scent of cinnamon, lemon, and fresh laundry that clung to the fabric. The hum of your voice talking to yourself in the kitchen while he sat curled under the blanket with a book cracked open across his knees.

This place didn’t have any of that. This place was a reset button. And Bob–after weeks of slow, careful healing–was suddenly standing in an empty room with nothing that looked like it remembered him.

You stepped in beside him quietly.

“You okay?” You asked, voice soft. He nodded, but it was the kind of nod that didn’t carry truth behind it. His eyes were scanning the walls like he was waiting for them to close in.

“It’s just…Quiet,” He said finally. “Too clean…It kind of reminds me of the lab in Malaysia.” You touched his elbow, giving it a gentle stroke, a comforting smile appearing on your face.

“We’ll fix that.” He turned to look at you, brow furrowed, like there was no way that would be possible, “You’ve got your books. Your mugs. The blanket. We’ll get your lamp and your tea, and I’ll buy one of those weird lemon candles if you miss the smell.”

That got the tiniest laugh out of him. Barely there. But his eyes softened.

“I miss the couch,” He admitted.

“I miss it too.” You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “But we’ll make this work, Bob. Just give it time.” Bob gave you a small nod, slow and silent, eyes lingering on the bare bookshelf now, like he was trying to will it into holding memories that didn’t exist yet. You let out a small sigh and reached up to touch his warm smooth cheek to draw his attention down to you.

“Tomorrow, we’ll go out,” You started gently but firmly, like it was already decided, “And we’ll pick out paint, plants, decorations, throw blankets, dumb little desk trinkets…Whatever it takes to make this place feel like it’s yours okay?” Your thumb brushed just beneath the curve of his eye, and his lashes fluttered like he wasn’t used to being held this gently.

His eyes were glassy–not with tears, but something close. That strange shimmer of overwhelm that comes when your heart is too full of quiet things. When someone sees you exactly where you are. For a long second, he didn’t say anything. Then he sighed, low and quiet, and leaned into the touch–not all the way, but enough to press his cheek into your palm, like he was absorbing it.

“…Okay,” He whispered.

The single word carried a thousand more underneath it. Agreement. Gratitude. Hope. A soft kind of surrender.

You let your hand fall away gently, not wanting to make it weird, not wanting to overstep–but you caught the way his eyes followed the movement like he wasn’t quite ready for it to end. So you cleared your throat lightly and nudged him with your shoulder again.

“Alright. Enough brooding. Come help me set up my room before I lose my mind trying to untangle all those extension cords I packed like an idiot.”

Bob blinked, then let out a small breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

There wasn’t a single second of hesitation. No pause to overthink it. He just followed–like he always did with you now. Like he wanted to be where you were, because that was the only place that made sense anymore.

Bob went back to where he had left your boxes and gathered everything into his arms again, balancing everything with pure precision, cradling the whole mess in his arms as he walked down back to your room. You tapped the panel on your own door–805–and it opened with the same quiet hiss.

He followed you slowly making sure he didn’t bump into you in the process as the door closed behind the both of you once he stepped in fully. The quiet that settled over the space was immediate and unforgiving.

The room was the exact same as his. White walls, pale oak floors, empty shelves, the bed frame with no warmth, the desk, and the wonderful view of the cityscape. You stood there for a moment, expression unreadable, then sighed, letting your shoulders relax.

“Well,” You muttered, stepping into the room a little more fully and crossing to the wide, clean-lined windows. You pressed your thumb to the side panel, and with a soft click, the glass slid open, letting in a breeze that stirred your hair and carried in the smell of the city: hot concrete, wind, and faint smoke from a food truck somewhere below. Bob set everything down in a neat row near the foot of the bed–the vacuum sealed bags, and the labeled boxes with generic scrawl ‘Desk Stuff + Nightstand’, followed by ‘Y/N’s Books,’ and ‘THIS HAS BREAKABLE STUFF IN IT DON’T DROP!’. He set that one down with exaggerated care, like it contained lit dynamite.

You put your hands on your hips.

”Guess we’ll start with whichever box is first.”

Bob gave a soft huff of acknowledgement, already crouching down and slicing open the tape on the topmost one with the side of a key he pulled from his pocket.

The first item out was your worn, pilled blanket. Fleece, with a weird faded pattern of crescent moons and stars and old Sharpie stains you swore were from high school. You plucked it from the box and immediately tossed it across the bed, smoothing it out with a flick of your wrists. The effect was instant. The sterile mattress looked lived in now.

Bob handed you the next item without comment–your bedside lamp. An old brass thing with a twisted base and a shade that looked like it had been mauled by a cat in a past life. You plugged it in and clicked it on. The bulb flickered once, then glowed with a soft amber hue that made the whole corner of the room feel warmer.

“Better,” you said softly.

Next came a small cluster of mismatched mugs–two chipped ones with cartoon characters, one heavy ceramic thing that looked handmade, and one novelty mug that said ‘Running on Coffee’. You lined them up on the desk next to your portable kettle and stash of teas and hot chocolate packets–something that you also had in your old room in your apartment as well, it was just for convenience, especially if you were enthralled in whatever you were doing and didn’t want to leave your room.

Bob unpacked your books with care, handing you each one like it was fragile. You stacked them on the shelf haphazardly: poetry first, then science fiction, then a tiny shrine to emotionally devastating literary fiction. You placed your favorite–Never Let Me Go–face-out on the middle shelf like it was sacred. Bob didn’t question it.

There was a box of trinkets and sentimental chaos next. You fished out a tiny figure of a goat in a superhero cape–a gift from Ava–a tarnished lucky coin, a broken watch you hadn’t had the heart to throw away, a photo strip of you and Bob from the CVS kiosk. You pinned that to the corkboard on your desk without a word, right above your calendar–like it was something you wanted to remember, especially because it was one of Bob’s good days during the four weeks of staying together.

Soon, the space began to fill.

Your flannel was tossed over the desk chair. A plant was set by the window–half-dead, but stubborn. You arranged your pens in a clay cup. Bob found your spare set of fairy lights and handed them over without being asked, and you looped them around the headboard, twisting the cord to keep it tight.

And then…Came the collection of posters.

You pulled the long cardboard tube free from the box with a reverent sort of care and twisted the cap until it popped with a quiet snap. Bob glanced over as you began to slide the rolled posters out, one at a time–each print carefully preserved with tissue paper and worn edges. There were no fold lines. These weren’t flimsy college dorm reprints. These were theatrical releases.

Real ones.

Bob crouched down beside you looking at them closely with curiosity. You could imagine the questions going through his head.

“I used to work at a theatre during my internship,” You said, peeling the tissue from the first one and holding it up against the light. “Whenever we’d change the marquee, they’d let the staff take whatever we wanted from the promo bin. I fought for this one.”

The poster was tall and dramatic–Vertigo by Hitchcock. Bright swirls of orange and red, the silhouettes locked in that spiraling, dangerous fall. It was striking. You stood slowly, angling it toward the wall above your bed.

“They’re all long like this,” you added. “Old school sizing. And I want them to start high and cascade down like a film reel.” You grinned to yourself. “I know it’s excessive.”

Bob stood up behind you, brushing off his hands. “It’s you.”

You turned to glance at him.

He looked a little sheepish. “I mean…You love movies…So…The r-room wouldn’t be yours if you didn’t have s-something dedicated to it…” You rolled your eyes with a quiet laugh, grabbing the removable adhesive tabs from the supply pile and peeling one open between your teeth. But when you hopped up onto the mattress and tried stretching, the top corner still sat a full foot out of reach.

You frowned and leaned on your tiptoes, paper flopping awkwardly in your hands.

“Damn it…Maybe I could get a stool or so–.”

“I could, uh–“ Bob cut in, voice low and a little unsure, “I–I could…Put you on my shoulders?” You paused mid-stretch, glancing back over your shoulder.

He was standing just behind the edge of the mattress now, hands half-lifted like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you or if he’d made some kind of grave error by suggesting it. His eyes flicked up to yours and then back down to the floor, as if it might open up to eat him alive to give him a better alternative.

You turned the rest of the way around, brows lifting, poster still in hand. “You’re offering to carry me like one of those boxes over there?” You asked, motioning to the discarded cardboard.

“No! I-I mean–not like that, I wouldn’t–” He flinched a little at himself, then groaned softly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not like a box. I wouldn’t treat you like a box.”

You couldn’t help but grin at the way he stumbled awkwardly through his explanation.

“So, not like a box,” You teased gently, stepping closer to the edge of the mattress and letting the poster droop at your side. “You sure you’ve got me? Because I’m not exactly made of foam peanuts, and I just recovered from my broken ribs…” Bob looked up at you then, really looked, and something in his face shifted. Softened. You weren’t sure if it was the golden glint rising behind his blue eyes again or just the quiet steadiness that lived somewhere deep in his chest now—but it was enough.

He swallowed once and nodded “I–I know he’ll be c-careful…You’re…You.”

Your heart gave a traitorous little flip.

And then you held out your hands.

“Alright, alright…What’s the worst that could happen? Let’s do it…” He stepped close and braced his warm, soft palms at your calves, waiting for you to climb onto his shoulders with careful movements that bordered on meekness. You perched cautiously, gripping the top of his head gently for balance as you settled on the muscles shifting a bit to make sure you weren’t hurting him. His hands moved instinctively–large and steady–one resting just above the backs of your knees to keep you stable, the other hovering in case you swayed.

From your new height, the top of the wall was suddenly accessible. You could reach it easily now, the edges of the Vertigo poster fluttering against your chest in the soft breeze from the window.

“This…Is weirdly effective,” you murmured, peeling the backing off the adhesive tabs. “If anything fails with the Thunderbolts…Or New Avengers…Whatever we’ll be named…I think we could go do circus work.”

“Don’t tempt me…” Bob said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, even if you couldn’t see it. You turned the poster and pressed the top corners to the wall with slow precision, smoothing the paper down with practiced hands. The steadiness in him was almost soothing–warm and solid and unshakable. Bob shifted slightly beneath you as you pressed the last corner flat, moving his hands to the tops of your thighs–strong, but gentle. Always gentle. You could feel the warmth of his palms through the fabric of your shorts, and every so often, you caught the subtle rise and fall of his breath, steady like the rhythm of an old song you didn’t know you’d memorized.

“There,” you said softly, leaning back just enough to take in the full image of the Vertigo poster now secured high on the wall. It looked perfect–like it belonged. “One down, five to go.” Bob let out a quiet laugh, almost a breath more than a sound, and gently backed away from the wall to give you space. His hands never left your legs until the very last second–he steadied you instinctively as he shifted, his palms ghosting along your thighs before slipping away like the weight of a blanket being pulled off in slow motion.

You wobbled slightly, still perched up high, but Bob crouched at your side before you could even flinch. With practiced precision, he reached into the pile of still-rolled posters and plucked the next one out of the tube without looking. He offered it to you with both hands like it was sacred.

You took it with a quiet “Thanks,” but he didn’t move right away.

Instead, he tilted his head back to look up at you.

And in that moment, something flickered behind his eyes again–the soft, golden, like glow of a late summer sun cresting through the clouds. It wasn’t bright. It wasn’t overwhelming. Just there. Lurking in the blue like a memory half-awake. His mouth parted, barely.

You looked down at him and saw it immediately. That faint shimmer. That quiet power. That strange, ancient thing that gave him the ‘power of a million exploding suns’ as Val had coined.

Your free hand moved without thought. You reached down, ran the side of your thumb along the sharp line of his cheekbone with a featherlight touch, and felt him still completely beneath you, his eyes still locked on yours.

“Does he know me?” You asked softly.

Bob blinked once, then twice.

His lips parted again, and this time, sound came—barely more than a whisper, shaped around hesitation.

“H-He does,” He said, voice caught somewhere between himself and something deeper. “B-But he…he doesn’t remember what he did. When we all fought…” You felt his breath catch just slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say it aloud in this space. Like voicing it would make the memory real again. But he kept going.

”I think…He remembers you from the night that Val’s people gunned me down…” His eyes scanned over yours, unreadable, searching, “But I don’t know for sure…It’s like–like flashes.” Your thumb stilled against his cheek. You could feel the muscles in his jaw shift beneath the skin, tense and taut like he was trying to hold the rest of it back. His pulse was hammering against your inner thigh, you could feel it radiating into his muscles.

“W-We aren’t fully c-connected anymore,” He admitted. “At least…Not the way we used to be. It’s quieter. But also…Stranger.”

You didn’t speak. Just listened.

Bob swallowed hard, then added in a low, almost guilty murmur, “I can still do the whole s-super strength thing–I mean, clearly,” He gestured halfheartedly to where you were still balanced comfortably on his shoulders, “But I d-don’t know where he begins and I-I end anymore. It’s not like flipping a switch. It’s not that clean.”

You brushed his cheek again with the pad of your thumb. “Does it scare you?” He shakes his head immediately.

”I-It used to…A l-lot but I think I can manage it a bit b-better. You’ve been able to help w-with that.” You were about to say something–something honest, something warm, something just for him.

Maybe it was going to be “You’re doing better than you think.” Or maybe “I see you, Bob. All of you.”

But the words caught on the edge of your tongue like a thread snagging in fabric–because the door hissed open with a hydraulic sigh, and Walker’s voice cut through the room before you even had time to turn your head.

“Jesus Christ–”

Bob stiffened instinctively beneath you.

You both turned at the same time–which was unavoidable due to the position.

Walker was frozen in the doorway, one hand still braced against the panel, his eyes squinting like he couldn’t quite compute what he was seeing. His gaze flicked from you–perched high on Bob’s shoulders, one hand still cradling his face like a lover’s whisper–to Bob, who was blushing so hard it looked like he might actually combust on the spot.

Walker blinked. Once. Twice. Then gave a slow, amused whistle.

“Well…That is not what I expected to walk in on.”

“Walker,” You deadpanned, not moving from your place. “Knock next time.”

“You don’t even have a real door,” He said, walking in like he owned the place, arms crossed and boots heavy on the floor.

“I was just–s-she needed help with the posters,” He mumbled, carefully lowering his arms to begin letting you slide down. “I w-wasn’t–It’s not what it–”

”No need to explain yourselves….It’s all good.” You finally slid off Bob’s shoulders, landing with a soft thud on the hardwood, your hands brushing his shoulders gently on your way down. Bob looked like he wanted to retreat into the nearest drawer.

Walker, mercifully, spared him further commentary.

“Anyway,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Lunch just got here. Got delivered a bit late, but it’s hot. Couple boxes of noodles, some dumplings, and that weird green juice that Yelena keeps pretending she likes. If either of you want in, better grab a plate before Alexei eats everything but the box liners again.”

“Thanks,” You said simply, brushing your hand on your shorts. “We’ll be there in a few.”

Walker gave Bob a wink that made him flinch like he’d been hit with a spotlight. “Don’t take too long.”

Then he was gone, the door whispering closed behind him like nothing had happened.

The silence that followed was thick with whatever had just almost happened–suspended, tender, delicate like breath on glass.

You glanced over at Bob.

His face was still flushed. His lashes low. But there was the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Embarrassed, yes. But not retreating.

You let the silence stretch for another beat, just long enough to let the moment settle without breaking it.

Then you turned to him, voice soft, but sure.

“We’ll finish after lunch,” You said, like a gentle nudge. “I don’t trust Alexei not to start sampling the furniture if we wait too long.”

Bob exhaled a short, nervous breath through his nose–half a laugh, half relief–and nodded.

“Y-Yeah…Okay.” You reached down to the scattered pile of posters and gathered them into a neat stack, tucking them carefully into the cardboard tube like you were handling film reels from an archive. Bob crouched beside you to help without being asked, his fingers brushing yours briefly as he adjusted the cap and clicked it back into place.

“Thanks,” You murmured. You meant it for the posters. And everything else.

He just nodded, eyes flicking up to meet yours, then back down again with a faint flush still clinging to his cheeks.

You rose to your feet first, offering him a hand to stand. He took it without hesitation, his palm warm and steady in yours. You didn’t let go right away–even once he was upright again. Not until you had squeezed once, just barely, and let it go as if you hadn’t done it at all.

As you both turned toward the door, Bob hesitated–just for a second–and looked back at the Vertigo poster on the wall. The first thread of something new stitched into this blank place.

His voice was low when he spoke. “It looks good up there.”

You glanced at him with a quiet smile.

“Yeah,” You said. “It does.”

And then you left together–out into the bright hallway, toward the sounds of laughter and clattering chopsticks, and the smell of soy sauce and scorched dumplings

———————

The next morning rose slowly, spilling honeyed light across the edge of the skyline just beyond your window. It kissed the walls in soft amber streaks, warming the pale wood floors and the flannel still slung over your desk chair. The city was just beginning to wake–quiet traffic below, a distant horn, the hush of wind curling through the slight crack in your window.

You stirred beneath the weight of your fleece moon blanket, legs tangled and one arm draped across your stomach. The pillow beneath your cheek was the same one from the apartment, the cotton worn soft from too many washes, still faintly infused with the scent of lemon detergent and something unmistakably Bob–clean, warm, a little tangy from that body wash he never bothered to read the label of. You turned your face into it without thinking, breathing in deeper, letting the scent settle in your chest as you thought about yesterday.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at you. Head tilted back, lips parted slightly, eyes wide and gold-touched like he was seeing something divine.

Your chest tightened a little as the image flickered back to life behind your eyes.

You could still feel the curve of his hands on your thighs, the way they held you steady–not possessive, not hesitant, just… Sure. Like you belonged there. Like he couldn’t imagine you anywhere else.

You’d meant to say something.

You had–right before Walker burst in and shattered the moment with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

But you hadn’t forgotten.

Neither had your body. Your pulse thudded low in your belly, not urgent, but present. Like the idea of him had taken root in your blood and was now blooming slowly, quietly, just beneath the surface.

You turned onto your back with a soft sigh, eyes tracing the ceiling for a few slow seconds before throwing the blanket off and sitting up. The floor was cool beneath your feet as you padded across the room, pushing your hair out of your face to cool yourself down.

You crossed into the shared bathroom, the silence between your quarters familiar now, softened by the faint scent of mint toothpaste and warm skin left behind in the air. You knocked lightly on the frame–habitual, gentle–before stepping through into his room.

Bob was already awake, bent slightly at the waist as he tugged the drawstring of his dark sweatpants into a loose knot. The hem of his maroon sweater had ridden up with the movement.

Your mouth went a little dry.

It wasn’t even that much skin. Just a sliver. A glimpse of pale muscle right beneath his navel, the edge of the soft line that led lower, disappearing into the fabric of his waistband. But there was something about the way it caught the light–casual, unbothered, unknowing–that made your pulse jump traitorously against your ribs.

It was too early for this. Too early to feel like your skin was buzzing with the ghost of his hands. Too early for your brain to short-circuit over a slouchy sweater and a knot being tied.

Bob straightened slowly, letting his sweater fall back into place. He reached up and raked a hand through his hair, tousling it gently between his fingers, like he hadn’t bothered to check the mirror yet–maybe he didn’t need to though. A few strands stuck up stubbornly, and his palm lingered for a second at the crown of his head, like he was debating whether it was worth taming.

Then his gaze slid over to you.

His eyes lit up the second they landed on your face–gentle and warm, crinkling slightly at the corners, and you felt it hit you low and soft in the chest.

“M-Morning,” he said with a small, sheepish smile. It was the kind of smile that curled just a little to one side and took its time settling in like it had nowhere else to be. “You, uh…Slept okay?”

“Yeah,” You said, and you meant it. Then, after a beat: “You?” He shrugged, rubbing at the back of his neck.

”I got…Maybe an h-hour or two, b-but it’s a new place, so any sleep is good sleep.” You gave him a small nod, agreeing with him. Bob’s eyes flicked over you–just for a second. There was a blink of hesitation before they dropped down, tracing the loose hem of your sleep shirt where it hung just past the tops of your thighs. You were still warm from sleep, hair mussed from your pillow, collar stretched just enough to show the slope of your shoulder. Nothing scandalous. Nothing intentional. But his breath still caught.

You saw it.

The way his throat flinched with a quiet gulp as he tried–bless him–to return his gaze to your face like he hadn’t just nearly lost it at the sight of your bare legs and bed-warmed skin.

His ears pinked, and he gave a small, nervous chuckle–like he had been caught red handed stealing something, “Uh…W-we’re still doing the shopping thing, right? F-for the room and all?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” You said, smiling as you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe. “Of course. I’ll go get ready.”

You turned, heading back toward your room before either of you could combust from the tension curling quietly between you. Just before you slipped out of view, you looked over your shoulder.

”Oh, make sure you eat something by the way,” You added softly, “We may lose track of time…Don’t want to risk you passing out or something.” He let out a breath that was probably meant to be a laugh, eyes following you with something tender, almost awestruck.

“R-Right, I’ll d-do that.” You gave him a small smirk, then disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind you with a quiet click, letting the buzz in the air ebb.

—————————

The store was massive.

That was the first thing Bob said–softly, under his breath–as the automatic doors whooshed open in front of the two of you and the sheer overwhelming scale of the home decor superstore revealed itself like a cathedral of curated domesticity. Neatly stacked rugs, end caps of throw pillows arranged by season, hanging plants suspended like jungle chandeliers from industrial beams. It smelled like eucalyptus, lemon oil, and waxed wood floors. Music played somewhere overhead—something instrumental, cheerful, and entirely ignorable.

“Stick close,” You teased, brushing his elbow with yours. “You get lost in the storage section and I’m not coming to rescue you. That place is a labyrinth.”

“I-I won’t,” He muttered, eyes wide as they took in the sheer number of lamps.

Despite his nerves, Bob was easy to lead. You grabbed a cart–he insisted on pushing it–and you moved together aisle by aisle, your steps steady, his just a half beat behind. He didn’t say much at first. Just sort of…Hovered. Eyeing everything like he wanted to throw it in the cart. You gave him space to acclimate, letting your fingers trail over textured blankets and woven baskets until, eventually, his hand reached out too.

The first thing he touched was a throw pillow.

It was simple–soft knit, goldenrod yellow with a stitched sun on the front. He ran his thumb over the embroidered rays like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

You watched him for a moment, then smiled.

“That’s a good one,” You said. “Warm. Soft…And the design suits you.”

“M-Me?” He asked, pointing at himself.

”Yeah…It’s the sun…And you…Y’know…Have the power of a million exploding suns…Remember?” You murmured, nudging him gently, watching his ears turn pink as he looked down at the pillow again with a sheepish smile on his face.

Bob held the golden sun pillow a second longer, running his thumb along the stitched rays like he was trying to memorize the texture. Then, after a beat, he placed it gently in the cart.

From there, it got easier.

The two of you drifted down the aisles in quiet tandem, picking out what felt right and skipping what didn’t. In the paint section, Bob stood still in front of the wall of color swatches for a long moment, brows knit as he scanned shade after shade of white-gray-beige. You could see the hesitation brewing in his eyes–too many choices, too many wrong ones.

You touched his arm lightly, drawing his gaze.

“What are you drawn to?”

He hesitated, then reached toward a swatch a few rows up. It was a soft, cloud gray with the faintest cool undertone. It looked almost blue in some light, depending on how Bob held the little tile. You took it from his fingers and read the name.

“Cathedral.” You muttered.

“L-Little dramatic for a p-paint swatch.” Bob replied, his eyebrows crinkling together slightly.

“It’s fitting I think…Could’ve been named anything though, Dolphin Gray even.” That got the smallest smile out of him. The kind that tilted the corner of his mouth before he looked away like he hadn’t meant to do it.

The employee at the counter mixed the paint while you grabbed a tray, rollers, edging tape, and a drop cloth Bob insisted was overkill because he wouldn’t make a mess, but you threw it in anyway. While the shaker did its thing, you pulled him back into the decor section. That’s when he stopped at the string lights.

“Warm white,” He murmured, almost to himself, fingers brushing the edge of the box. “Not too bright.” You nodded and added two sets to the cart.

Next aisle over, you spotted a small section of candles on a recessed shelf–there were only a few options, and they were all tucked into recycled glass jars. Your fingers drifted over a few of them until you settled on one that caught your eye. You slid it off the shelf and popped the lid off before inhaling slowly. Vanilla. Lemon. Something faintly earthy beneath it all, like ginger or roots. It wasn’t exact, but it was close. You turned and held it out to him

“This one smells like my apartment.” He took it from you immediately, cradling it in both hands like it was something fragile. He slowly lifted it to his nose, and closed his eyes, as if he was absorbing every inch of the scent. You couldn’t help but smile at the moment, at the gentleness, the calm that invaded his face, like he was remembering your living room. When he opened his eyes again, they were soft and relaxed.

“I-It really does…” He responded before slipping it into the cart without any explanation.

A few minutes later, in a section of half-price indoor plants, Bob paused in front of a small hanging basket. A trailing pothos, lush and green, leaves curling over the edge like ivy from a fairy tale. He crouched slightly to get a better look, brushing the soil gently with his knuckle.

“I-I think I’ll get this one,” He said after a moment. “Room’s got a lot of light…Feels like something should grow in it, y’know?” You smiled at his train of thought, looking down at the greenery.

“I think it’s perfect.”

He picked it up, holding the pot carefully against his chest like he was already invested in keeping it alive. It suited him more than you could’ve imagined. This gentle care. The quiet desire to nurture something in his own space. To bring life into a place that had once only held silence.

By the time you circled back to pick up the paint, the cart was full: the sun pillow, the plant, the candle, two boxes of lights, a gray fleece throw blanket, a small framed print of an old seaside map Bob claimed reminded him of something he couldn’t quite place, and a wooden picture frame you nudged into the pile without comment. For the extra photo strip you had–just in case he ever wanted it on his nightstand.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

And when you caught Bob glancing down into the cart, his eyes tracing over the soft, mismatched collection of items, you saw it: the slow, quiet realization that this wasn’t just stuff.

It was the beginning of something that could finally feel like his.

He looked over at you, his hair slightly mussed from where he’d run his fingers through it too many times, and smiled–really smiled this time.

“Thanks for helping,” He said softly.

”Don’t thank me yet, we still have to paint and get all this stuff set up.”

——————————

Back at the compound, the city traffic gave way to the familiar hush of the underground lot as you pulled into Bay 21A. Bob unbuckled quickly, murmuring something about “not letting you carry anything,” before slipping out of the car and circling to the back. You barely had time to pop the hatch before he was already stacking the bags in careful tiers against his chest, paint can balanced on top with the plant cradled like a fragile infant in the crook of one elbow.

“I can help, you know…I’m not a piece of glass,” You said, raising a brow as he adjusted the throw blanket and tucked the bag with the candle under his arm like a seasoned pro.

“I-I got it,” He insisted, cheeks already pink with effort and pride. “B-Besides…This stuff’s important. I don’t wanna j-jostle it.” He glanced down at the plant with something bordering on reverence.

You rolled your eyes fondly, grabbing only the receipt and the keys before trailing behind him toward the elevator.

Back on the eightieth floor, the moment the door hissed open to the hallway, Bob adjusted the box of lights with his forearm and moved with quiet precision down the hall like a man on a mission. You tapped the panel for his room, and as the door slid open, he stepped inside and finally exhaled.

Everything was still as it had been the day before–blank walls, stripped bed, faint echo in the corners. But the weight of your shared errand buzzed in the air like something alive now. Potential. Comfort waiting to be built.

You breezed across the room and tapped the window control again, letting the breeze rush in.

“Not getting high off paint fumes today,” You said over your shoulder. “If we pass out mid-coat, Alexei will probably assume we were huffing it.” Bob let out a breathy laugh and carefully lowered the mountain of bags to the floor.

“I’m gonna change,” You added, already backing toward the door. “Don’t want to ruin my decent street clothes.” Bob gave a little nod, brushing the back of his hand across his brow where a stray curl had fallen.

“Y-Yeah, I’ll probably do the s-same,” He murmured, already toeing off his shoes by the entryway. You ducked out with a small smile and padded back into your room, flicking on the light. The process didn’t take long, you pulled on a pair of sleep shorts–soft and worn from years of laundering–and a baggy, sun-faded t-shirt, with the Stark Industries intern logo barely visible across the chest. The hem hung loose past your hips, and the neckline was wide and flimsy. A small smear of old red paint still clung to one of the sleeves from a project you’d long forgotten.

You grabbed a few bobby pins from your nightstand and pulled your hair back loosely, pinning the front sections away from your face, before returning back to Bob’s room soon after.

He was standing by the window, adjusting the drop sheet with one hand, the soft gray fleece blanket already tossed over the desk chair behind him. The sweatpants were still the same–dark, loose, slung a little low on his hips–but the sweater was gone now, and in its place…

A white undershirt.

And not just any undershirt. The kind that clung.

It clung to him like a second skin–thin cotton stretched just slightly across his chest and shoulders, outlining the sharp lines of his upper body like someone had sketched him in soft charcoal and left the strokes unfinished. The fabric hugged the slope of his collarbones and dipped gently over the muscles in his arms–biceps carved like they’d been sculpted by Phidias. You could see the outline of every ridge, and every subtle shift as he moved. The shirt was just snug enough across his stomach to trace the flat plane there, but loose enough around the hem to flutter when he bent slightly at the waist to grab the roller tray. The light from the window hit the curve of his deltoids, casting shadows you didn’t know cotton could catch.

He looked like a man carved from warmth. Golden light bled across his skin, tracing the veins in his forearms as he flexed his grip on the tray, veins that twisted like poetry across the backs of his hands and up toward the cuffs of his sleeves. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this–but God, it still felt like it.

Every time felt like the first.

Bob looked over his shoulder and caught you standing in the doorway, his mouth parting slightly when he saw you in your baggy shorts and oversized shirt, your hair pushed back with a few stray wisps curling around your temple. His gaze flicked over you slowly–hesitantly–like he didn’t mean to look but couldn’t stop.

“Y-You, uh…Look ready,” He said finally, his voice a little rougher than before. “G-Good shirt for painting.” He added, motioning to the outfit. You stepped in slowly, trying not to stare. But he looked like something out of a sun-drenched dream. Still gentle. Still Bob. But the kind of quiet you wanted to trace with your hands.

“Same to you,” You murmured, voice soft. “Didn’t know we were modeling for a Carhartt commercial today.”

He flushed instantly, tugging the hem of the shirt like it might somehow hide the obvious breadth of him.

“I-It’s just an undershirt,” He replied, his face turning a deep red–even though his lips were twitching into a smile that was a slow bloom of nerves.

Bob’s hands moved with care as he peeled the lid off the paint can, the soft metallic creak cutting through the quiet of the room. The scent hit immediately–sharp and chemical, softened only slightly by the breeze curling in through the open windows. He crouched to pour the soft gray paint into the tray with slow, deliberate control, letting it pool into the rigid plastic until it settled into a smooth, mirrored surface.

You stood beside him, your roller already in hand, trying hard not to stare at the way the muscles in his arms tensed as he steadied the can. He looked…Absurdly good. The undershirt hugged his frame like it had been designed with reverence, clinging to every dip and line and curve that his oversized sweaters usually swallowed whole. The light caught the pale sweat glistening at his temple, and when he reached back to set the can down, his shirt pulled just tight enough across his back that you had to actually will yourself to blink.

“You ready?” he asked gently, offering you your tray like he didn’t know he looked like a golden-age painting of ‘boy-next-door who also bench presses cars for fun.’

“Born ready,” you murmured, grateful your voice came out steady.

You dipped your roller into the tray and began to work, and Bob followed without hesitation, starting from the opposite wall. The gray went on smooth and clean. It was a quiet shade–not dull, not harsh–something in-between that felt like soft stone or the sky right before a storm. It caught the light well, turning the blank sterility of the walls into something deeper. Something lived in.

You painted in tandem, the rhythm of your movements syncing without you even realizing it–dip, roll, sweep, and stretch. You didn’t speak much at first. Just worked. Occasionally you’d catch him glancing at your section, making sure your coverage was even, and you’d glance over a beat later and find that he had already finished another wall and was patiently waiting for you to catch up, roller dripping, his shirt sticking slightly to the curve of his spine.

After about thirty minutes, you both stepped back, breathing a little heavier now, speckled with the first coat and faint dots of gray flecked on your arms and calves.

“It’s… Already better,” Bob said softly, wiping his hands with a rag he’d found in the bag. His eyes were on the wall, but they flicked to you after a second. “It doesn’t feel so…Blank anymore.” You nodded, brushing a stray streak of paint off your wrist.

“Yeah. Kinda feels like a place a person might actually live now.” You both stood there in the middle of the room for a moment, shoulders relaxed, the hum of the city outside brushing the edge of the silence. And then he sat–right on the floor, cross-legged in his paint-streaked sweatpants, undershirt rumpled slightly at the waist. You followed, easing down beside him, knees knocking once before settling close.

Conversation stirred back up–light, easy and in hushed tones.

But you weren’t really listening. Not completely.

Because Bob was…Glowing.

Not in the Sentry way. Not that raw cosmic glare that split the sky. No–this was something else. Something low and golden and warm. It lived in the curl of his laugh, the tiny streak of gray on his collarbone where he’d bumped the roller against himself and hadn’t noticed. It shimmered in the way he looked at you–really looked at you, like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of your smile every time it curved. And when he talked, it wasn’t just words–it was an offering. A thread pulled between you. One you both kept holding.

You realized then that you hadn’t stopped watching him for the last five minutes.

And based on the way his eyes dropped to your mouth mid-sentence–lingered there, soft and stunned like it wasn’t on purpose–you weren’t the only one.

Bob blinked once–slowly–and then again, like he was trying to recalibrate his vision. His gaze kept flicking down from your eyes to your mouth, like he couldn’t help it, like something in him had given up on pretending not to notice the way you looked sitting there beside him, sun-drenched and soft and glowing in the afterglow of effort.

Then he cleared his throat, but it came out more like a gulp. A quiet hitch of breath that gave him away.

“You, uh…” His voice barely rose above the quiet in the room. He reached up and gestured with two fingers, a small motion toward your cheek. “Y-You’ve got paint… Right here.” His hand hovered near his own cheekbone, mirroring the spot. “Can I…?”

You didn’t answer with words. You just leaned forward, heart suddenly pressing against your ribs like it wanted to rip out of you and escape. Bob’s hand moved slowly as if rushing might ruin the moment that was simmering between the two of you. His fingertips grazed your skin with a featherlight touch, his thumb brushing the smear of gray just below your eye.

He didn’t pull away when it was gone.

Neither did you.

The hush that settled between you was different now. It wasn’t silence. It was a sound held gently between two people on the edge of something too big to name. His hand lingered against your face, thumb tracing the faintest curve of your cheek like he needed to memorize the texture. And when you looked up at him you saw it.

That same light.

Not the blinding kind. Not the kind that cracked the sky and split atoms. But the kind that came just before dawn. Soft. Resolute. The kind that touched everything gently and asked nothing in return. It lived in the blue of his eyes now, threaded through with something honey-warm.

“Y/N…” He whispered, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say your name like that–soft and aching, like it meant something he hadn’t dared admit aloud yet.Your hand found his cheek the way it always did. That familiar path of comfort, of care. The one place he always let you touch, even when everything else in him trembled. Your thumb brushed just beneath the apple of it–soft and supple–and his eyes fluttered at the contact, lashes dark against flushed skin.

He leaned into it, just a little. Just enough to let you feel how much he needed it–how much he needed you.

And then the air changed.

It was subtle. A breath caught in a hush. A tremble at the edge of stillness. Like the second before rain kisses the ground. Bob’s eyes held yours–not with uncertainty, not with apology–but with care so tender it undid you. As if this–your hand on his face, your knees pressed close to his, the light painting silver across your bare shoulder–was the holiest thing he’d ever known.

“I–” he started, voice barely a sound, and then stopped. His throat moved around the words he didn’t have yet. Instead, he reached up–slowly, slowly–and covered your hand with his own, pressing it further into his cheek like he didn’t ever want it to leave.

You could feel the tremor in him.

Not fear. Not anymore.

Just the weight of everything he was finally ready to let you see.

Your other hand rose without thinking, fingertips tracing the edge of his jaw, then curving around the back of his neck where soft curls dampened with heat. You pulled him closer–just enough for your foreheads to touch. Just enough to feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across your lips.

“Bob…” You whispered.

Your lips were almost touching now, but you continued to let the moment swell, and ache.

His mouth hovered a whisper away from yours, the barest sliver of air separating you–shared breath, warm and trembling. You could feel the curve of his bottom lip brush yours when he exhaled, and that smallest touch–so light, so accidental–made your stomach coil with heat. You leaned forward instinctively, but he didn’t move back.

He didn’t move forward either.

Not yet.

You felt it when his lips parted. When the tip of his tongue darted out, barely grazing your bottom lip in an attempt to taste you. It wasn’t a kiss, it was a question. A pull. And it made your breath catch so sharply that your chest almost forgot how to fall.

Then he whispered it.

Something small.

Something that cracked your ribs open with its softness.

“…I-I’ve daydreamed about t-this moment.”

His voice was low and shaken, like a confession whispered in a church pew. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he inched just closer–his nose brushing yours now, and the tremble in his hands telling you this was costing him something to say aloud.

everything in you was focused on the man in front of you—on the tremble in his voice, on the way his breath feathered across your lips, on the reverence in his eyes like he was standing at the altar of something holy.

His confession lingered between you like incense—soft and heavy, curling into your ribs. You could feel it there, warm and aching, as your thumb swept the line of his jaw. His hand was still covering yours like it was a lifeline, like if he let go, the whole world might collapse inward.

So you didn’t let him fall.

You leaned in first.

Just a little.

Just enough that your lips brushed his again—deliberately this time.

A whisper of a kiss. A promise made in the hush between heartbeats.

He shuddered the moment you touched him, and you felt it everywhere—in the curl of his fingers at your jaw, the way his breath hitched low in his chest, the quiet gasp he let out like the wind had been knocked clean from his lungs.

And then—

He kissed you back.

Not rushed. Not greedy. But slow.

So slow it made your skin prickle.

His lips moved against yours with the kind of aching reverence usually reserved for relics and prayers. It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t unsure. It was careful—like every second of it mattered. Like he didn’t just want to taste you—he wanted to remember you. Your shape. Your breath. The way your lips parted for him like a secret being told for the first time.

It was holy.

You tilted your head, deepening it slightly–your hand sliding from the back of his neck to tangle in the curls at his nape, anchoring him to you. His hands curved along your hips, firm and trembling all at once, like he wanted to pull you closer but didn’t dare.

And God–you wanted closer.

So you shifted.

One slow, smooth motion.

You moved into his lap, straddling his thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world–your knees pressing into the paint-flecked floor, your body fitting against his like you were meant to be there. Bob inhaled sharply against your mouth, and you swallowed the sound with a kiss deeper than the one before.

He melted beneath you.

You felt it–every inch of tension releasing from his body like a dam giving way to floodwaters. His arms wrapped around your waist now, strong and warm, pulling you in with a groan so quiet you could’ve mistaken it for a plea of mercy. His hands splayed at your lower back, fingers flexing like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to hold you like this.

Your lips danced together, slow and consuming, mouths parting just enough to breathe the same air, to taste the softness in each other’s sighs. His tongue brushed against yours in the subtlest question–timid but wanting–and you answered him by tilting your hips forward ever so slightly, deepening the kiss until your whole body was singing with it.

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

There was nothing else.

No city outside the window. No walls still half-painted. No ghosts of past lives or broken silences.

Just the quiet miracle of his mouth on yours–every kiss a verse in a psalm neither of you had ever dared to read aloud until now.

When the kiss finally broke, it was slow. Lingering. His lips chased yours for one last brush, like he didn’t want to stop. Like the parting itself was unbearable.

You pressed your forehead to his again, your breaths mingling, your chest rising and falling in time with his. He looked at you and his eyes were liquid sunlight, the warm glow invading the ocean blue of his irises–but they were unbearably tender.

And then he closed them tightly.

Like it was too much for him. Like having you this close was triggering something in him he needed to get control over. His hands at your waist tightened ever so slightly, as if anchoring himself. Bracing for impact.

You leaned in.

Not to tease. Not to rush. Just to give.

And with aching care, you pressed your lips to one of his eyelids.

A whisper of contact. A kiss that was less about passion and more about trust. You felt his breath stutter–his body going still beneath yours like he’d just been blessed. Like no one had ever done this to him. Not like this.

You kissed the other eyelid just as slowly.

And when you pulled back, his breath trembled out of him—ragged and low, laced with something that made your stomach tighten and your hands ache for more.

Then–

He surged forward, finally.

His mouth found yours again, harder this time. Still gentle, still reverent, but charged now. A hum of electricity laced through the softness. The kind of kiss that made your toes curl and your hands instinctively fist into the fabric of his shirt. You clung to him—not out of desperation, but out of instinct. Because of course you would hold onto him. There was nothing else in the room. Nothing else in the world.

Your fingers curled at his shoulders, dragging across the thin cotton, feeling every flex of muscle beneath it. He groaned softly against your lips when you tugged just slightly–his hands slipping lower, cradling the curve of your spine like you were something breakable and divine all at once.

You kissed him like you meant it.

And he kissed you like he couldn’t believe it.

When he finally pulled back–barely, just enough to breathe–his forehead pressed to yours again, his breath hot against your cheek. His lips brushed the edge of your mouth with every word.

“I–uh…” He murmured, voice cracked and raw around the edges, “I think maybe we should go to your room.”

You blinked, still catching your breath.

He swallowed, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. “I mean–just ‘cause–there’s a lot of paint fumes in here,” He added, clearly flustered, clearly not thinking about paint at all, “A-And I don’t wanna get dizzy and…Fall over or something while you’re…O-On my lap…”

The way he looked at you then–flush blooming down his throat, hands still cradling you like he didn’t want to let go–it was too soft to be funny. Too vulnerable to mock. You leaned in, brushing your nose against his and letting your lips ghost across his jaw.

“Right,” You whispered. “Wouldn’t want to pass out while kissing or anything.”

His breath caught again–so beautifully–and he nodded.

“Y-Yeah,” He murmured, dazed, “That would be…A tragedy.” Your lips hovered just over his skin, brushing the warmth of his jaw with a breathless smile. His hands stayed firm at your waist like he was still trying to convince himself you were real–that this was real–that you were really curled into his lap with paint on your legs and want in your eyes.

You let your mouth ghost lower, just to the edge of his neck.

Then, softly–like a secret–

“Take me to my room,” You instructed gently.

Bob inhaled sharply through his nose, fingers twitching at your hips like the words had struck something sacred in him. He blinked once, as if to double-check he’d heard you right, and then nodded–so small it was barely noticeable.

He rose with you in his arms, like it was nothing. Like you weighed less than air.

And he didn’t hesitate.

Instead of going through the hall like any rational person might have, he turned and headed straight for the bathroom that adjoined your quarters and his–taking the shortcut–the private path. You giggled under your breath at the way he moved with such gentle urgency, like the act of walking was suddenly too slow. Like he needed to get you there now.

You nuzzled into the crook of his neck as he carried you, your lips brushing the delicate skin just beneath his jaw, sucking gently at the faint stubble there. His steps faltered for a second when he felt your lips there–nothing more than a soft press of your mouth to his pulse and a little pull–but it was enough to make him grunt softly and pick up the pace.

“Y-You’re really not helping,” He muttered, breath shaky and hot, his fingers tightening just slightly around your thighs where he held you. You kissed his neck again, smiling against him.

“Didn’t realize I was supposed to be,” You replied.

He let out something that might’ve been a laugh, or maybe a groan–then fumbled with the bathroom door, kicked it open a little too fast, and spun the both of you through it like a man possessed.

By the time he reached your side of the quarters, he was a little breathless, and completely flushed–enough that you could’ve sworn you saw blush peeking through his white undershirt. You kissed his throat again, and that was it.

You felt his hands shift as he bent forward, setting you gently on the bed, your back sinking into the familiar comfort of your duvet. Bob hovered over you for a breathless moment, suspended between want and worship. His chest rose and fell above yours, his curls shadowing his forehead, damp from the warmth blooming beneath his skin. Your legs were still loosely looped around his waist, cradling him there, holding him in that weightless space between everything you were and everything you were about to become.

Then he leaned in.

And kissed you.

Not on the mouth this time. But everywhere else.

Soft, fluttering presses of lips to skin. A brush at your cheekbone. Another to the edge of your brow. A third to the tip of your nose, which made you let out the kind of breathy laugh that pulled something tight in his chest.

He kissed your forehead last, and lingered there, just long enough to let you feel the shape of it. When he finally pulled back, his hands slid gently to your thighs. He rubbed slow, reverent circles into your skin–paint-flecked, warm from effort, bare from mid-thigh down. His thumbs pressed into the dip just above your knees, and then, with a soft inhale, he murmured–

“Let me go lock the door…So we don’t get interrupted.”

His voice was low. Still frayed around the edges with awe.

You nodded, your legs loosening around his waist as he coaxed them gently down with the flats of his palms. You let them drop to either side of him, feet brushing the floor now, knees parted slightly around where he still knelt between them.

He rose with quiet care, and you sat up slowly onto your elbows, the hem of your oversized shirt falling back into place, bunched slightly around your hips. The cotton was thin and soft and stretched with sleep, one side still slipping off your shoulder. You shifted your weight just slightly, legs swinging idly off the edge of the mattress, watching him.

The room glowed with the kind of light that only happened at dusk.

Evening had begun to settle behind the skyline just outside your windows–cool shadows bleeding slowly across the hardwood floor. But the city’s sunset didn’t reach this far into your quarters. Not fully.

Instead, the soft amber glow of your nightstand lamp lit the space.

It cast everything in a warm, golden haze.

The bulb was shielded behind a woven linen shade, diffusing the light until it looked like honey melting through gauze. It hit the edges of the room with a quiet softness–just enough to turn skin to candlelight and shadows to velvet. The kind of light that made everything feel slow and sacred. That turned every breath into something you wanted to hold.

You watched him walk across the room barefoot, his white undershirt clinging to his frame like it was woven from sunlight and tension. The muscles in his back flexed beneath it, pulling at the thin fabric just slightly with every movement. His hand reached for the sleek panel on the wall near the entryway and pressed his thumb to the edge of the glass.

A quiet chime confirmed it. The soft swoosh of magnetic locks sliding into place.

And still–he stood there for a second longer, his hand lingering against the door panel.

You saw it, even from across the room.

The rise and fall of his shoulders.

The silent inhale. The weight of the moment catching up to him in the hush between the lock and the turning back.

Then he did turn.

And when he looked at you, it was like gravity itself had shifted–like you were the axis now.

That soft glow from your bedside lamp painted amber along the edges of his jaw, spilling gold into the hollow of his throat and casting his frame in the kind of warmth usually reserved for cathedral windows or old film reels. His undershirt clung to him in the most unfair way–ribbons of cotton stretched delicately over muscle and tension, bunched slightly at the waist from where your legs had wrapped around him only moments ago. And yet, he looked…Hentle. Steady. Like something you could pray to if you didn’t know better.

He came back to you slowly.

Each step measured.

Deliberate.

His gaze never left you–not once–as he returned to where you sat on the edge of the bed, your thighs parted just enough, feet brushing the hardwood, shirt draped long over your hips. You shifted as he approached, moving like you meant to scoot farther up the mattress, to lay back and make room. But his hand stopped you. Gentle. Firm.

“N-No,” He said, voice soft but sure. “I…I want to stay here. L-Like this…Trust me.” Bob leaned down, hunching slightly to meet your mouth where you sat at the edge of the bed–legs parted, eyes glowing in the lamplight, waiting for him like gravity waited for stars. His hands braced on either side of your thighs, and then he kissed you again–slow and a little clumsy this time, the angle not quite perfect, his spine bending to reach you. But it didn’t matter.

You moaned into it anyway.

Because he was right there. All of him. The weight of his chest against yours, the tension in his arms, the way his breath hitched as your hand slid back up beneath the hem of that cruel little undershirt.

Your fingers clawed at it. Not delicately. Not with patience. Like you needed it gone. And Bob–sweet, reverent Bob–broke the kiss just long enough to whisper,

“Y-Yeah, okay–hang on–”

His voice cracked as he tugged the shirt over his head in one rushed motion. The cotton caught briefly on the back of his neck, then slipped free with a quiet shh of static and landed somewhere near your feet.

And then there he was.

Bare.

Bathed in lamplight.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You had imagined this. Of course you had. It was always in flickers and flashbacks–like when his scrubs had been practically shot off him when he distracted Val’s special ops so you, Walker, Ava, and Yelena could escape the vault. But this–seeing him like this, lit in soft honey gold, the shadows of his body sloping into the hollow of his ribs and the rise of his chest—this was different.

He wasn’t chiseled. He wasn’t flawless. But God, he was real.

The kind of real that could wreck you again and again and you would say thank you.

His skin was flushed, warm from exertion, and his arms flexed where they framed you–long and lean, thick in the right places, his veins peeking just beneath the surface like scripture written under skin. His shoulders were broad, with scattered beauty marks kissing his skin, and all you could do was bite the inside of your cheek.

Your eyes drank in every inch.

And then your hand followed.

You reached for him–almost reverently–palm sliding flat against his stomach. The skin there was soft, but the muscle underneath twitched, hard and sudden, at your touch. His hips jolted the barest bit, a sharp inhale escaping through parted lips.

You let your fingers drift up.

Across the ridge of his abs, over the slight dip between his pecs, tracing a slow, steady line up the center of his chest.

“You look like a god,” You whispered.

And he hummed.

Low. From somewhere deep in his chest. Like the compliment vibrated straight through him and he couldn’t contain it.

His head dipped as he let out a breathless sound against your cheek–half a laugh, half a groan. “Th-That’s… That’s not true…”

You pressed your hand flat over his heart.

“It is,” You murmured, voice soft but insistent. “You’re the sun, Bob. You shine.”

And he hummed again–longer this time.

The sound of it curled between your legs like silk.

He shuddered a little, then kissed you again–harder this time, deeper, like he didn’t know what else to do with the feeling. You moaned into it and dragged your nails lightly down his ribs just to feel the way his body reacted to you–twitching and shifting a bit.

And when you whispered, “God, I could worship you like this,” His breath hitched so hard he nearly stumbled.

His breath was ragged now–hot and uneven where it puffed against your cheek, like every single thing you said was costing him control he barely knew how to hold onto in the first place.

“You…” He rasped, voice frayed and unsteady, like it was coming from somewhere much deeper than his throat, “You don’t… You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

You smiled against his jaw.

“Yes, I do.”

His hands gripped the blanket–white-knuckled, grounding himself in the cotton and not the way your voice made his muscles twitch beneath your touch.

“You don’t understand,” He whispered, eyes squeezed shut, like he couldn’t even look at you without giving something away. “I… I can’t keep–if you keep saying things like that–if you look at me like that–I don’t know if I’ll be able to—”

His voice broke off with a shuddering inhale. His whole body trembled slightly over yours, caught between restraint and desire, and God, it was glorious.

You lifted your hand again–slow, gentle–and brushed your knuckles along his cheek. The scruff there was warm and soft, velvet over steel. He turned his face toward the touch before he could stop himself.

“Look at me,” You whispered.

He hesitated.

But only for a second.

Then he opened his eyes.

And it confirmed everything.

That glow wasn’t just a metaphor. It wasn’t poetic. It was real. His irises shimmered like molten honey shot through with starfire–like something barely leashed beneath the surface had opened a single, trembling eye.

The Sentry.

You saw it flicker there. Just enough.

Not violent. Not threatening. But watching.

And you smiled.

“I was right,” You murmured. “You really are the sun.”He tried to look away again. His throat bobbed with another hard swallow, his arms trembling where he held himself over you.

“You’re playing a d-dangerous game,” He warned, voice hoarse. “I don’t think you…I-I don’t think you know what you’re asking for.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking for,” You breathed, sliding your hand down the curve of his ribs, across his waist, back to the firm plane of his abdomen. He flinched under your palm, hips jerking forward slightly before he caught himself. “I want all of it. I want both of you…And I know you can control it.”

Bob let out a sound then–something low and wrecked, somewhere between a moan and a growl, like the words had reached some part of him buried deep and sacred.

“Y-You don’t understand,” he whispered again, almost begging this time. “You don’t u-understand what you’re doing.”

You cupped his jaw and kissed him again, slow and hot and certain, your tongue sweeping into his mouth like a vow. His hands flew to your thighs, fingers gripping tight now, anchoring himself there as he kissed you back with everything he had. Desperate. Consuming.

And when you pulled back just enough to speak again, lips brushing his as you said it–

“I do understand.”

You leaned in and dragged your teeth lightly along his bottom lip, and his whole body shuddered.

“And I want it anyway.”

He groaned–loud this time. No holding back. No shame. Just the pure, guttural sound of a man unraveling.

And when he kissed you next, it wasn’t careful.

It was devotional. No longer the soft, trembling offering it had been moments prior. This one was hungry. A little rough around the edges. A gasp swallowed. A whimper chased. Bob’s hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt like he couldn’t stop himself, and you arched up instinctively, giving him the space–giving him everything.

The fabric lifted slowly, dragged over your ribs, baring warm skin to cooler air. You raised your arms, and he pulled it over your head in one fluid motion. His breath caught when he saw you in the golden light, chest rising with something close to reverence.

Then his hand slid behind you, trembling but sure, fingers working the clasp of your bra. It came undone with a quiet snap, and he slipped the straps down your arms with a gentleness that made your throat tighten. He let it fall to the floor like something holy, something he would not dare to crumple.

And then you laid back.

Slow, easy.

Your shoulders met the mattress first, followed by the curve of your spine, the arch of your hips, and the duvet puffed beneath you, soft and sun-warmed from the light still pouring through the linen lamp shade. Your chest was bare now, rising and falling with anticipation, skin kissed in shadows and gold.

Bob just stared.

And for a second, he didn’t move.

Because you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

The way the light painted across your collarbones, soft and sloped. The subtle curve of your breasts, rising with every breath. The softness of your belly, the delicate line of your ribs. You looked like art. Like a myth. Like something that should’ve only existed in dreams.

He swallowed hard. His eyes shimmered.

And then, slowly, he sank to his knees between your thighs again.

His hands slid up your sides–warm, large, trembling just slightly. He mapped every inch of you like he needed to learn it by heart. His palms ghosted over your waist, up the softness of your ribs, and then…

He cupped your breasts carefully.

And let out a sound so low, so shattered, it made you ache.

“You’re…” He whispered, voice catching, “You’re s-so soft… So—God—beautiful.”

His thumbs brushed over your nipples, and the contact sent a ripple through you—sharp, electric. Your back arched slightly, and he leaned in without thinking, mouthing gently at the swell of one breast while his hand continued to cradle the other. His lips were warm. Open. His breath huffed against your skin as he kissed, sucked, nuzzled—like he couldn’t decide what to do first.

“You’re perfect,” He whispered again, voice rougher now–lower, tinged with something molten that flickered beneath the surface.

His mouth closed around your nipple–slow and hot–and you gasped aloud, your fingers threading into his curls as your thighs shifted on either side of him. He moaned into you. Soft. Almost desperate. His tongue flicked gently, again and again, drawing it into his mouth with a devotion that bordered on worship.

“You d-don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured between kisses, dragging his mouth across your chest to give equal attention to the other. “Y-You’re everything… Every fucking thing–”

His voice cracked again, and this time there was no mistaking it.

That tone.

Just slightly deeper. Not quite his. Not quite the Sentry either–but something born of both.

It vibrated through his chest, warm and unsteady, like two frequencies overlapping. He kissed you again–lower now–over your ribs, then your navel. Every press of his lips was filled with awe. His hands stayed at your waist, holding you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable.

“I c-could die right here,” He whispered, his voice still shaking, still fighting to stay human. “You…You’d be the last thing I see and I’d be okay with it. I swear, I—”

His mouth found your stomach, trailing down with the heat of his breath and the brush of his lips, his hands never stopping their gentle, grounding rhythm. Circling. Worshipping.

You reached down, fingers finding his jaw, guiding him up for another kiss. And when he kissed you again, it was with more hunger. More heat. But still careful–still Bob. Even when his hands roamed again–up, over your ribs, back to your breasts, where he cupped them and whispered broken praise between kisses.

“So soft… Fuck, you’re so soft…Please let me… Let me love you–let me remember all of this–”

His voice shook with restraint, with reverence, with want so deep it nearly broke you. Your fingers still cradled his jaw when you whispered it.

“I’m yours.”

You didn’t even realize the words were leaving your mouth until they’d already cracked the air between you open like a vow, and Bob stilled like you’d just spoken the incantation that undid him.

His breath caught, sharp and audible–like his lungs didn’t know whether to inhale or collapse. His eyes fluttered shut. And when they opened again, they glowed. Not bright. Not blinding. But deeper. Gold laced in blue. A quiet surrender written in starlight.

His hands clenched at your waist, and his voice came out low. Lower than before. The edges rasped with something rough, barely reined in. Like the Sentry had pressed just behind his teeth, watching from the shadows of his throat.

“Can I…” His voice broke. He swallowed hard. “Can I take these off?”

His fingertips brushed just beneath the waistband of your shorts–trembling, reverent, barely there.

“Yes,” You breathed, hips tilting upward in offering.

He let out a sound like a prayer and leaned forward to kiss your mouth again–deep, slow, aching–before pulling back and sliding down the bed. His hands rose to your hips, and with careful fingers, he began to peel your shorts and underwear down your thighs. Inch by inch. Like unwrapping something sacred.

He didn’t rush. Not for a second.

He took his time baring you to the honey-colored light. His gaze never left your skin–like he was memorizing every inch, every curve. Like this was the moment he’d waited his entire life for.

And then, when the cotton hit your knees, he paused.

He bent forward.

And kissed the top of your thigh.

Soft. Open-mouthed. Warm, and wet. Doing the same to the other.

His breath stuttered, and he sank lower–kneeling now. Fully. Both palms spread wide across your thighs, grounding himself there. And it made sense then, why he had stopped you from crawling back on the bed. Why he kept you on the edge like this.

Because it let him kneel. It let him worship. He kissed your thighs like they were holy. Lips brushing up toward where you ached for him most, the anticipation a silk-wrapped noose around your lungs. He looked up once, just once, and the heat in his gaze nearly burned you alive.

“I-I’ve wanted this,” He whispered, breath trembling against your skin. “I’ve dreamed of this–of you–just like this…”

He didn’t finish the thought.

He didn’t have to.

Because his mouth descended, slow and devastating.

A kiss–directly over your folds.

Tender. Lingering. His breath was warm. His lips parting against you in something deeper than intention.

You gasped–soft and sharp–as his tongue followed, slow and exploratory, dragging upward with a pressure that made your whole body seize. He moaned into you. Like the taste of you had broken something open inside him.

And then he did it again.

And again.

Until your hips were arching. Until your hands were in his hair. Until all you could hear was the wet, reverent sounds of him worshiping you like you were his only tether to the world.

He kissed every part of you like it mattered. Like he could feel your heartbeat in his mouth. His hands slid beneath your thighs, lifting, spreading, cradling you wider. His thumbs pressed into the crease where thigh met hip, holding you open for him, and he groaned–deep, low, wrecked–as his mouth found your clit.

He sucked gently, lips sealing around it, and your whole body jerked. A breathless cry ripped from your chest, and you felt his hands tighten, grounding you. His tongue circled, slow and sure, his lips sliding against you in worshipful rhythm.

“Bob–” You gasped, the name slipping out like a plea. “Oh, my God–”

He moaned again–vibrating against you–and the sensation made your head fall back. The edge of the mattress bit into your spine, your legs trembling where they hung over his shoulders, and still–he didn’t stop. He didn’t even falter.

His mouth moved like it was built for this.

Slow. Devoted. Intoxicating.

You felt the tension coil–tight and deep–in your belly, in your spine, in the backs of your knees. And Bob felt it too. You could tell by the way his hands gripped tighter. The way his tongue flicked just a little faster, more precise now, teasing and coaxing as he devoured you. He drank your sounds like nectar. Like every moan was oxygen. His own breath was ragged now, and still–he praised.

“You taste like heaven,” He whispered, lips brushing you wet and wanting, voice thick and torn in two. “So fucking sweet–so good–God, you’re everything–”

You were shaking.

You were unraveling.

Your thighs clenched around his shoulders, and still–he stayed locked in place, mouth relentless and full of worship. One hand slid up your belly to your chest, grounding you again, his fingers curling over your ribs while the other stayed hooked beneath your thigh.

And then–

He flattened his tongue and dragged it up the center of you, slow and hard, and sealed his mouth around your clit one last time–sucking, flicking, groaning into you with a desperation so tender it broke you wide open.

The orgasm hit like sunrise.

Warm. Blinding. Slow at first—and then fast and full, like light spilling over the edge of your bones. Your whole body arched into him. You cried out–his name, the stars, everything–and his arms locked around your hips, holding you steady as he worked you through it, mouth still worshipping, still licking, still kissing every quake of pleasure like it was a gift he’d been waiting a lifetime to receive.

And when you finally collapsed–boneless and glowing, chest heaving, eyes wet with aftershocks–Bob pulled back slowly, lips slick, face flushed, and looked up at you like a man reborn.

He was breathless.

Shaking.

But his eyes were molten gold.

“You’re…Everything,” He whispered again, voice reverent. “Everything.” The words melted into your skin like heat, and when he spoke next–his lips still brushing just above your knee—it wasn’t just Bob.

“I want to give you another one…”

His voice was wrecked. Darker. Threaded with something molten and greedy.

“I want to feel you fall apart again, just for me…”

Before you could speak–before you could even breathe–his hand slid up the inside of your thigh. His fingers were slow, wet from where he’d worshiped you moments ago, and when they reached your center, he groaned softly at the heat still there.

“So warm,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Still trembling for me.”

Then—you felt it.

The press of two fingers, thick and slow, gliding through your slick folds, parting you with devastating precision.

You gasped—legs twitching from the aftershocks still fluttering through your body. “B-Bob—wait—”

But he didn’t pull away.

He looked up at you, eyes glowing—lit with starlight and hunger—and smiled. Soft. But feral.

“I know, baby,” he whispered, fingers still dragging gently through your folds. “I know you’re sensitive. But I promise—I’ll be so gentle.”

And he was.

Even when he slipped the first finger in, and then the second—stretching you slow, curling inside you with aching care—his touch was worship. His breath shook with restraint, with reverence, with something barely caged beneath his ribs.

You cried out—half from pleasure, half from overstimulation—as his fingers began to move. A steady rhythm. In and out, in and out, curling at the top each time until sparks flared up your spine.

“You’re doing so good,” he rasped, eyes locked on yours. “So fucking good for me.”

The pace never quickened. But the pressure built. And built.

He pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to the inside of your thigh with every stroke, like he was timing his mouth to your unraveling. Your hands fisted in the duvet, your hips twitching every time his fingers brushed that devastating spot inside you—and still, he moved like a man being fed by your pleasure. Like this—wrecking you gently—was salvation.

“I can feel you,” he whispered, voice thick. “You’re clenching around me already, aren’t you? You’re so close…”

You whimpered, nodding, barely able to hold yourself up.

He pulled his fingers nearly all the way out—then pushed them back in, slow and deep, curling them harder this time. You choked on a sob.

“I want it,” he murmured. “Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go again—one more. Just one more for me.”

Your thighs shook. Your lips parted on a gasp as the pressure bloomed hard and fast this time—your body raw and exposed and aching for him.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your inner thigh as he worked you open on his fingers. “I want to see your soul when you come. Please, baby, show it to me.”

The second orgasm hit like a wave breaking against rock.

Rougher. Hungrier. You cried out again, back arching clean off the mattress, thighs locking around his wrist as you shattered all over him. The sound that tore from you wasn’t pretty–it was real. It was desperate. It was a gift.

Bob groaned–deep and guttural–as you pulsed around his fingers, your release soaking him, your voice ragged and broken as you whispered his name again and again.

He didn’t stop until your body finally slumped back against the sheets, spent and shaking, your skin glistening with sweat and devotion.

Only then did he slide his fingers free slowly, and lift them to his mouth.

He sucked them clean.

Eyes locked on yours.

And when he finally stood–shoulders heaving, sweat dripping down the curve of his throat–he looked like a god descending from whatever mythical place they belonged to

The Sentry was still there in the golden flicker of his eyes. Greedy. Glowing. Waiting.

“Now,” He said, voice low and reverent as he reached for his waistband, “I’m going to make love to you.” You were still gasping, chest rising in sharp, uneven waves, your limbs spread across the bed like they’d melted into the duvet. Your fingers twitched where they gripped the sheets. The light from the nightstand made everything feel golden and close, like time had slowed just for the two of you.

Bob moved carefully.

Softly.

You barely noticed at first–only the shift of pressure beneath your thigh, the way his hand skimmed under your back. But then he was there, lifting you just enough to guide you farther up the bed. His touch was trembling but sure, all Bob again–no flicker, no pulse of divinity. Just the man. The hands that had brushed paint onto your walls, the voice that had whispered to you in the dark when nightmares clawed through the silence.

“L-Lay back,” He murmured, eyes searching your face like he needed permission again. “J-Just wanna get you comfortable…”

You nodded, boneless and warm, your heart still fluttering in your chest.

He kissed your neck as he helped you settle, lips brushing right where your pulse fluttered. It wasn’t sexual, not yet. It was grounding. Anchoring. The kind of kiss that said you’re safe. That said I’ve got you.

You sighed against him.

And when he pulled back just enough to stand again, his hands went to his waistband.

He hesitated.

Only for a second.

But then–he slipped his thumbs beneath the edge of his sweatpants and boxers, and pushed them down slowly, hips rolling just slightly as the fabric slid over his thighs.

And there he was.

His erection stood proud and flushed, the head a soft blush red, glistening at the tip, his length thick and veined–aching and heavy with want. It wasn’t just beautiful–it was intimate. Unfiltered. Bob, exposed. Unhidden. And yet… utterly perfect.

You inhaled softly, lips parting around a soundless gasp. He looked vulnerable like this, not in shame, but in reverence. He wasn’t flaunting it. He wasn’t posing. He was present.

Breath stuttering slightly, Bob stepped out of the bunched fabric around his ankles and nudged it aside with his foot before crawling onto the bed, careful not to jostle you too fast. He kissed your knee first, then your hip, then the soft underside of your ribcage, working his way up your body with aching, deliberate slowness.

You reached for him without thinking, needing to touch all of him now. Your hands slid across his chest, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your fingers, the little tremors in his arms. He nestled between your thighs as he reached you fully, bracing himself on one forearm while the other arm hooked gently beneath your thigh, guiding it up and around his waist. Then–

He slipped one arm behind your neck.

Cradling you.

Like you were the most precious thing in the world.

His hips rested just above yours, the heat of him brushing your center, not yet aligned–but enough to make you both moan at the contact. His body blanketed yours, but not heavily. He held himself up with care, like every ounce of pressure he applied was measured, considered.

His lips found your throat again, this time pressing just below your jaw. “Y/N…” He whispered, voice cracking. “T-This is all I’ve e-ever wanted.”

You turned your head, your lips brushing his temple, then his cheek.

“Bob,” You breathed. “You’re so good. You’re so perfect…I want you so bad.”

He let out a shuddering sound. A whimper, almost. And when he kissed you again–open-mouthed, lips dragging along your collarbone–you felt him whisper something against your skin.

“I’m gonna go slow… I–I wanna feel all of you. I want you to feel me.”

His voice stuttered again, and that alone almost undid you. Because it was him.

Not the Sentry.

Not the glowing power that had shimmered behind his irises. Just Bob–soft, trembling, and wrecked with love, and holding you like you were divine.

Bob shifted just slightly–allowing his hand to slip between your bodies, low and slow, until he wrapped his fingers around himself. You could feel the tremble in his arm as he lined himself up, the heat of him pressing right where you were still soaked and aching for him.

“Okay?” he whispered, eyes searching your face.

You nodded–barely, breath caught in your throat–and lifted your hips just enough to meet him.

His hand slipped to your thigh, guiding it back up around his waist, and then–

He kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Tongue brushing yours like it was a prayer. And as your mouths moved together, slick and open and gasping, he began to press in.

The stretch stole your breath.

The head of him pushed into you, thick and hot and slow, and your lips parted with a gasp that he swallowed greedily. His whole body shuddered over you as he sank deeper–inch by inch–your walls fluttering around him, still trembling from the afterglow of the orgasms he’d already given you. Every nerve ending felt raw and alight, turned inside out by pleasure, by sensation, by him.

“Oh my God,” you whimpered, nails digging lightly into his back.

He moaned into your mouth–long and low and desperate–and pushed in further, your body yielding for him, stretching to accommodate the full length of him. His hips trembled with restraint, his hand never leaving your thigh, thumb brushing small circles into your skin to soothe you as he sank deeper and deeper.

You felt full.

You felt wrecked.

You felt like you were being split open in the most perfect, intimate way–and still, he didn’t stop. Not until he bottomed out completely, hips flush against yours, his chest heaving above you like he couldn’t believe it was real.

And then…

He stilled, breathless, inside you.

His forehead dropped to yours, and you could feel the sweat on his skin, the warmth of it, the shiver still running through him as he tried not to move. He kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then your temple–his lips brushing each place like a whispered offering.

“You feel…” He choked, “You feel so good–so warm–so soft–”

Your hands slid up his back, anchoring there, and he kissed the corner of your mouth again.

“I don’t ever wanna move,” He whispered, voice wrecked and thick and glowing at the edges. “I just wanna stay right here. Inside you. Forever.”

You whimpered, barely holding onto your breath, your hips twitching slightly beneath his.

”Bob…I’m all yours and…My god you’re amazing.” He groaned against your skin–low and needy–and kissed the tip of your nose, your eyelids, your throat.

Then, softer–

“Tell me when,” he whispered. “I won’t move until you’re ready.”

You breathed in slowly, body still adjusting to the stretch of him, to the heat and fullness and sheer beauty of having him this close. His thumb was still brushing lazy circles against your thigh, the other hand stroking your hair back from your temple.

And then you nodded.

You turned your face to his, kissed him slowly, and whispered:

“Now.”

He moved.

Just a little.

Just enough for you both to feel it–just enough for the glide to send a shudder through your spine. His hips drew back, slow and measured, and then pressed forward again with aching care. Your mouth dropped open around a moan—his name falling from your lips—and he echoed it with a broken sound of his own.

Every thrust was deliberate.

Every movement was a confession.

Every time he sank back into you, he gasped–like the sensation was too much, like he still couldn’t believe you were real beneath him, taking him in, holding him so tight and perfect and wet.

“You’re perfect,” He rasped, hips rocking into you slow and deep, his lips never straying far from your skin. His hips rolled into you slowly filling you with each deep, reverent thrust like he couldn’t bear to pull away too far. His lips trailed up your jaw, brushing your cheek, then your temple, and every time he bottomed out, he moaned like your body had answered a question he hadn’t dared to ask.

You gasped again–sharp, breathless–your back arching into him. The motion pressed your chest to his, and your nails curled slightly into his back. Just enough to drag. Just enough to leave a faint trace.

Bob shuddered. His breath hitched, and he groaned–low and ragged–into your skin.

“D-Do that again,” He begged, voice breaking, “God–please–do that again.”

You did. Fingertips digging a little deeper this time, dragging down his spine, and the reaction was immediate–his hips stuttered, rhythm faltering with a gasp that sounded possessed with pleasure.

His head dropped into the crook of your neck, his voice muffled against your skin.

“Fuck–you feel like heaven–you are heaven–” He breathed, hips beginning to move again. A little faster now. Still deep. Still careful. But urgent.

His hand cupped the side of your face, brushing hair from your cheek, and the other remained locked at your thigh, holding it high around his waist. You could feel every inch of him–the stretch, the heat, the connection–and God, it was unbearable how good it felt.

“I’m not hurting you a-am I?” he whispered, just barely audible. “T-Tell me if I am, tell me–”

“No,” You gasped. “No, Bob, it’s perfect–you’re perfect–please don’t stop–”

That made him whimper. His whole body shivered above you, and you felt the light from the lamp begin to shift. It had been warm and muted before–but now, it pulsed. Like a heartbeat. Like something responding to the heat in the room. Each time he thrust into you, it grew just a little brighter.

Neither of you noticed at first–too lost in each other, in the intimacy coiling tight between your bodies–but you felt it. That warmth. That power building in the air. The glow of something just beneath the surface.

Bob kissed you again–messy, deep, almost broken–and your hips rolled up to meet his. You were moving with him now, chasing the friction, your body writhing beneath his, needing it. Needing him.

“I-I can feel all of you,” He moaned, pulling back just enough to look down at where your bodies met, his voice wrecked. You keened at the words, thighs tightening around him, heels pressing into the backs of his legs. He was fully inside you now with every stroke, and you could feel another orgasm building, hotter and faster than before–simmering low in your belly, pulsing in time with the light around you.

His face hovered over yours, sweat clinging to his temple, lips trembling with restraint.

And his eyes–

They glowed.

Bright now.

The Sentry wasn’t gone.

But he wasn’t in control, either.

Just there. Watching. Letting Bob feel it all. Letting him worship you with everything he had—every thrust, every kiss, every broken praise.

His voice dropped, deeper than before. Still Bob. But laced with something else.

“Where do you want me?” He asked, his breath hot against your cheek. “Where do you want me to come, sweetheart?”

You met his eyes–gold and blue and glowing–and you moaned through clenched teeth, your whole body beginning to tremble again.

“Inside me,” You gasped. “Please, Bob–I want you to come inside–I want to feel it–want to feel you fill me up–”

He snapped.

His rhythm faltered. His hips ground against you harder now—still deep, but no longer controlled. There was hunger now. Desperation. He chased it with everything he had, every stroke punctuated by breathless moans and praise, his mouth dragging along your skin like he couldn’t stop kissing you, couldn’t stop telling you how perfect you were.

“Gonna give it to you,” He choked out. “Gonna give you all of it—fuck—you’re mine—”

The light in the room brightened to a crescendo–gold washing over every surface, turning the walls to fire and your skin to sun-kissed silk. And just as you felt your orgasm snap again–fast and hard and all-consuming, your body tightening and convulsing around him–

Bob let out a broken moan, that sounded like he was on the brink of crying. He was out of breath, and so hot it felt like he had fallen from the sun.

And then the lightbulb burst.

Glass popped with a sharp, cracking sound, shards raining harmlessly inside the shade as the room flickered and dimmed.

And he poured into you.

Thrusting deep one last time–hips locked against yours, arms shaking, his name echoing from your mouth as his pleasure hit–blinding and endless. He held you through it, his body shaking over yours, gasping your name like it was the only word he knew.

And somewhere–distant, muffled–you heard raised voices. Muffled arguing, like yelling.

But it was all far away.

Because your ears were ringing.

Like someone had struck a tuning fork behind your ribs and sent the vibration through your entire body. You could feel the aftershocks echoing in your spine, down your legs, across your fingertips still curled in his back.

Bob’s body trembled against yours, skin damp with sweat, chest heaving like he’d run miles through a sunstorm just to get to you. He didn’t move—not right away. He stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tight around your waist, his forehead resting against the curve of your shoulder as he whispered your name again. Softer this time. Wrecked. Worshipful.

Your hands were still in his hair, fingers brushing through the damp curls at the base of his neck, your heartbeat thudding in your throat. Your whole body felt molten—boneless and glowing, like you’d been struck by lightning but kissed by it too. And the warmth between your legs, the slow throb where he still pulsed inside you, grounded it all in something sacred.

You shifted slightly—just enough to feel him twitch as he began to soften, still deep inside, your bodies tangled like ivy in the low light of the room.

He kissed your collarbone. Then your jaw. Then your lips—slow and trembling, a thank-you in every brush.

“I-I love th-that I get to call y-you mine…” He breathed, barely audible against your lips.

One of your hands cupped the side of his face, thumb stroking his flushed cheek, and he leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut.

But then…

The sound of shouting finally cut through the quiet.

Your eyes opened.

Bob’s head lifted slightly, brow furrowing. Somewhere down the hallway—muffled through the compound walls—came the unmistakable sound of bickering. Loud. Confused. Walker’s voice, sharp and irritated. Yelena’s voice following with something distinctly Russian and exasperated.

“…I’m telling you that wasn’t the oven–” Walker yelled.

“Then what was it, genius? Light bulbs don’t just explode like that!” Ava screamed.

“Maybe you sneeze too hard–” Alexei chimed in.

“Oh my God, shut up, all of you–there’s glass in the hallway–”Bucky interrupted.

Bob pulled back slowly, just enough to look at you. His eyes were still a little dazed, his hair curling at the temples from sweat, and his cheeks were flushed pink from effort and something more vulnerable, and then he glanced over at the remains of your lamp's lightbulb. The connection was immediate.

”Oh…O-Oh Jesus Christ…” He whispered, and you watched his face go a deeper red. “Oh god…T-They’re gonna know it’s me…W-What the hell is wrong w-with me?” You let out a soft and breathless laugh, before reaching out to caress his face.

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.” You leaned in and gave him a gentle is on the lips, as he groaned.

”I just b-blew every lightbulb on this level…God o-only knows what e-else I did.” You snorted, now picturing every level of the Tower needing replacement light bulbs and tears of laughter began prickling at your eyes.

And Bob, still buried inside you, still flushed and glowing, started laughing too. Quietly at first. Then louder. The kind of laugh that shook through his chest and softened everything. Like the sound of guilt melting into joy. Like sunlight cracking through the last remnants of a storm.

”We’re definitely going to need a really good excuse.” You murmured, leaning forward to steal another kiss, earning a soft hum from Bob.

”I k-know…But that’s f-for future us t-to worry about I think…”