#now in bot form

[magicmalcolm]

Tir McDohl cameo in Astro Bot.

[scarapanna]

I liked your art, you won🎉🎉🎉

WE WON NO REDEMPTION WAHOOOOO/silly

I'm still terrified of the redemption route for this clown though hdhghfg, I want his silly self to stay evil and wimsy and goofy and with redemption uhhh

We're like

I dunno I'm sooo scared devsis is gonna take away that aspect which is what makes him just so funnn. Please pretty please let him be god awful and rotten and rude and goofy if you take that route Devisis I want him to keep his funny wimsy qualities. Please please pleaseeee write him well y'all are doing sooo good with him don't fumble by taking the redemption route (And if they do it better be good and he better stay chaotic and goofy and sassy and condescending and all his "rotten rabid thing" qualities)

If they do him (And his fun aspects justice in this dreaded hypotetical) then I may be cool with it. Though the mean ass possum has grown on me so much I'd 100% miss that evil and unhinged part of him TONS, devsis have mercy pretty please/silly

[Longer more insane ramblings are in the tags hsfhfhhv]

[peace-hunter]

i know i just said megop is endgame for the haunted au (and i stand by it!!!) but do know i do dabble on a little bit of everything when it comes to OP. i'm sorry i just think everyone should love my wife as much as i do. and he deserves as many partners as he wants <3

so like. yes he is still hung up on megatron and they will end up together but also he has a dozen boyfriends and a girlfriend in the meantime. and maybe even after he gets back with megatron. he only has two hands but he runs a tight schedule he can manage it.

[kindaeccentric]

The subject of the painting is Gauguin's 13-year-old native "wife" Teha'amana (called Tehura in his letters), who one night, according to Gauguin, was lying in fear when he arrived home late: "immobile, naked, lying face downward flat on the bed with the eyes inordinately large with fear [...] Might she not with my frightened face take me for one of the demons and specters, one of the Tupapaus, with which the legends of her race people sleepless nights?" Gauguin was suffering from advanced venereal disease when he came to Tahiti, and he passed it onto Teha'amana, who was his first sexual partner on the island.

'The Adoration of the Shepherds With a Donor.' Palma Vecchio. A contemporary of my maker, Marius De Romanus, also a fine painter, albeit one of lesser skill. In fact, the donor in the title was my maker. The canvas painted in my maker's studio. And in this case, the donation was…What is the modern word for it? In kind. This is Amadeo.

He's 20 years here. He was rescued from a brothel when he was 15, named… named Arun then, I think. I cannot be sure. The abuse in the brothel was such that he cannot be sure that's what his… parents named him. Arun. The parents that sent him to work on a merchant boat in Delhi when in actuality they had sold him…into slavery to the ship's captain. All… fragments. Shackled on the boat. The brothel. My maker's purchase. His renaming me.

His reluctance to share the Dark Gift, knowing what it would do to his beloved Amadeo. I served him with all my heart. Basked in his mercy, his worshipful mercy. Still… Amadeo had a skill. And if a friend wandered into town, I was occasionally… donated.

Meatier in the forearms, but then this was… seven years before I was stricken with illness, before I was turned, and imbued with my powers.

---

don't mind me, I'm just thinking aloud about art as a form of colonial violence when artists take part in the sexual exploitation of underage people of color, name changing, orientalism, monstrosity, and blood+sex-transmittable diseases in the context of Armand

[funkycrabturtle]

if miku really wants to know what true happiness is, she's going to have to understand & witness the true horrors of the world first.

[rozzywell]

I will unfortunately die on the "unless you're also into Tenna's light world regular tv form, being attracted to him counts as like 20% objectum at best" hill. That's just regular botfucking. His tv head isn't even just a screen.....

[frosty-tian]

“Ahhh, there goes my only good tie.”

(Would’ve drawn canon Graham in this pose but looks too out of character, so SG!Graham it will be.)

Notes/Thoughts while doodling.:

-Still polite, but also charismatic. None of that lovable nerd awkwardness (tragically). Not as charismatic as Charlie/Chief however.

-Related to above point, very cunning and manipulative, easily tricks people into a false sense of security.

-My version of ‘canon’ Graham is quite buff but doesn’t show it off. SG!Graham is the same but would instead take all opportunities to subtly show that he’s actually ripped (and very much capable of beating/manhandling others).

[stupid-and-cute-are-enough]

for the past 4 days, i've descended into madness over the anon getting turned into an animatronic. behold. 2.6k words @get-rammed i've gone insane

as always, i spew BTS lore in the tags

“Alright, that’s everything,” his Handler announces, finishing the paint on his last claw. They give his hand a satisfied pat. Monty watches as they turn away and begin packing up their things, making idle chatter as they do, offhandedly mentioning that they hope it isn’t too late by the time they actually get to head home. They told him earlier that they’ve got a meeting with the higher-ups once they’re done tonight, and it’s been weighing on him all day.

“I don’t think you should go to that meeting,” he says because he can’t take it any longer.

They pause. “What do you mean?”

“I just… I don’t think you should go.” Monty clenches his fists in his lap. It doesn’t feel right. If it was any other lame meeting announced in a staff email, sure, but this isn’t one of those. They were approached in person. No documents, nothing written; just pulled them aside this morning and told them something about enhancing the Handler experience. All of the other Handlers have gone home already, too, and there’s nothing that they could want just his for that meant anything good.

They huff fondly. “I don’t really have a choice, Monty.”

They keep getting ready, a sinking feeling forming in Monty. He tries again to explain that it’s a bad idea again but is gently shut down. His Handler hugs his head on their way out, an act he’d usually eat up and crave more of, but tonight, he feels like rejecting it. It just feels so wrong.

“Sweets, please, don’t go.” He grabs onto their sleeve. “I got a bad feeling about this.”

Their face softens. “I hear you, Monty, but I have to. I’ll probably get fired if I don’t.” They laugh a little. “I’m sure everything will be fine. Worst-case scenario, they dump a mountain of work on me. Everything’ll be okay. I’ll see you tomorrow, big guy.”

—

They announced a new animatronic the very next day.

The announcement made Monty raise a brow because even with his debut as a Glamrock, as rushed as it was, Fazzbear Entertainment still took their time to milk it for all its worth. Surely, with a brand-new animatronic, they’d pull out all of the theatrics. But, no, management had just called everyone backstage (Monty was grabbed by Chica’s Handler because his still wasn’t here, and it worried him. They always tell him if they’re going to be late) and spilled the news.

It’s another gator, which, geez, thanks, corporate. It’s dressed in actual clothes, unlike the rest of them. It’s a little smaller than Monty, with a sleeker design. Monty eyes the new thing up and down. There’s something… wrong with it. Monty feels it. So does the rest of the band. It stands across from them, eyes too wide, taking in too much yet too little information at the same time. Its hands are clutched together, held tightly to its chest. It’s a shambling mess, really. Barely finished and definitely not ready for crowds. The thing really needs a Handler, which only reminds Monty of the empty space by his side.

It’s different from them. It doesn’t fill its body like it’s supposed to. A feeling of uneasiness washes over the room. Even the other Handlers look a little disturbed.

After the incredibly lackluster introduction, dampened by the uneasiness of everyone in the room, management gives up on pleasantries and snaps at everyone to prepare for opening time. They leave without further explanation, not even telling everyone what the newcomer is supposed to be doing. Everyone takes the chance to leave as fast as possible, abandoning the barely functional animatronic where it stands.

Something in Monty tells him to linger, as disturbed as he is. The sinking feeling he had last night returns tenfold.

It looks too familiar. Cautiously, Monty approaches the thing, eyeing the uniform it wears. He dares not to peek at the nametag displayed proudly on its chest. The animatronic tilts its head up at him slightly, or at least it tries. Monty can hear the inner mechanics going, but it remains frozen. He stands uncomfortably in front of it, unsure of what to do. Everything about it feels wrong. Everything about this feels wrong.

He peeks at the nametag, and his world comes crashing down. Surely not. They couldn’t have shoved a whole person, a full consciousness, inside of an animatronic, could they? That technology doesn’t exist, right? Right?

Monty reaches out a shaking hand, staring into the bot’s blank, red eyes. It can’t be. Fazzbear has done some fucked up, shady stuff, but they wouldn’t do this, would they? This has to be too far. It has to. His hand touches their forearm, feeling the all-too-familiar fabric of the Handler uniforms under his finger pads. He meets their eyes, registering the terror behind their blank stare.

“Hey,” he says softly. “Hey, it’s... I, uh-”

“M-” Their voice fries out, and their jaw moves unnaturally. But it’s enough for Monty. That’s their voice. That’s their voice. Monty feels something vile fester inside of him. If he could get sick, he would. That’s them. That’s them in there. They’re in there. That’s his Handler, who he saw just last night, in there.

Their stare is so blank. Their hands are clutched together so tightly. That’s them.

“Oh, sweets…”

His hands slide down their arms to take their hands, snagging his thumb on the cuff of their uniform as he goes. Something there catches his eyes, though, something a human eye would miss, but something he’s been trained to notice. A tiny speckle of blood stained into the fabric. Their blood.

Monty sucks in a breath, his grip on their hands tightening. They were hurt when this was done to them. They bled.

“Let’s go to my green room,” he says. He keeps his voice gentle, but there’s also no room to argue. He doesn’t think they could, anyway. They don’t respond to him or make any kind of movement, so Monty moves for them. Slowly, painfully, he guides them up to his green room, keeping a gentle set of hands on them the entire way. They stumble and would’ve fallen without Monty to catch them. Their tail drags limply behind them. They probably don’t know how to use it for balance yet. The word yet makes Monty’s heart hurt.

He ensures the door stays open as they shuffle into his room, hovering over them until they’ve been cautiously guided to sit on the couch. They don’t need to struggle to stand anymore. Monty doesn’t think he could handle seeing it.

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” he says. It’s a lie. It’s an awful, horrible lie, but what else is he supposed to say?

They try to speak again, but their voice fries into something that sounds like a quiet cry. Their body begins to tremble, their hands clenching around each other even harder. All tell-tale signs that they’re crying, but they don’t have tears anymore. Instead, their eyes just stare into the wall, unresponsive.

“I’m so sorry, sweets,” he says as they weep. He sits beside them on the couch, cautiously wrapping his body around theirs. He doesn’t know if the different sensations will upset them even further, but he also doesn’t know what else to do.

“H-” A billow of steam rolls out of their jaw, rattling their whole system. The sudden movement startles Monty, making him pull away.

“Hey, sweets, you-” Monty glances into their eyes, wide, sightless, terrified, with a slack jaw pouring steam, “you need to calm down. I know it seems like I’m askin’ the impossible of ya, but you’ll overheat yourself, and I dunno how to fix that.”

Their body shudders, unresponsive to their mind. Monty doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to help. He remembers what they did when he first came online and when he was given his new body. They surrounded him with familiar, comforting things, but his Handler doesn’t live here like he does. At least they didn’t. Their greatest comforts are probably far out of Monty’s reach. He searches around his green room, trying to find anything he knows helps them relax.

He spots a fidget they used to love playing with during his noon charging sessions. It should be simple enough; it just needs a pushing and pulling motion. Nothing complicated. But his Handler’s hands don’t react, even as he pries them apart and presses the fidget into their palm. Their fingers remain tense, not even twitching.

“Okay, something easier. I got it. I’ve got you.”

Monty reaches and grabs one of the oversized plushies lying beside the two of them on the couch. It’s big enough for him to comfortably interact with, so it should be good enough for them, too, right? He places the weighted plush in their lap, tucking its arms in so his Handler doesn’t have to do it themself. It looks like they try to wrap their arms around the plush, but the thing just ends up getting knocked to the floor. The failure to get their arms to work only serves to upset his Handler more as their hands begin trembling, the metal of the digits clinking together. 

Monty looks up at them, scared for them. Scared with them. If they can’t function, they’re going to be decommissioned– not fired, not still alive, decommissioned and dead. Gone forever. Their head has turned slightly, staring intensely at something, so Monty follows their line of sight. His gaze lands on their jacket that they accidentally left last night, draped across a chair. Now a little shaky himself, Monty gets up and retrieves it for them.

He realizes once he gets back that it doesn’t fit them anymore. It used to be so big on them, but it doesn’t fit now. Their favorite jacket, the one they wore every day, doesn’t fit anymore. He drapes it over their shoulders, bringing it around them tightly. Their shoulders are bigger under his hands. Wider. Their body is like his own now and so very, very different from what it used to be.

He retakes their hands, kneeling in front of them. He meets their eyes, which stare deep into whatever kind of soul he has.

“Look at me, Chere,” he says, squeezing their hands, trying to ground them. He’d tell them to breathe with him, but they can’t anymore, and he doesn’t know if that’ll help or upset them. “I’ve got you. I promise. I won’t ever, ever let anything else happen to you. I promise.”

Their hands squeeze his own, and Monty lets out his own version of a sigh of relief. The shaking in their limbs begins to die down, the steam eventually coming to an end. He smiles at them, keeping his hold on their hands solid. He praises them softly, rubbing their knuckles.

Their eyes meet his properly, and Monty can see the hurt and the fear in their eyes. They shift, jaw moving experimentally.

“I… can’t breathe,” they say.

Monty’s heart breaks for them. They try to shift, try to grab onto their jacket and pull it tighter around them, but their limbs won’t cooperate, and the metal of their fingers slips against the satin material.

“Here, you gotta… you gotta grip with the pads of your fingers. Like this,” Monty says, taking hold of their hands and guiding their fingers to do so. A shudder runs through their system, getting their hands to tighten and pull, if only slightly.

Monty steps back to take another look at the design of their new body. A gator, like him. Their hair is soft and synthetic, with a little product to keep it sleek, so at least that wasn’t taken from them. In a bitter-sweet kind of way, Monty can imagine helping them style their hair in the morning when the dust settles. But Monty still has trouble adjusting to his mohawk, so he can’t imagine what it’s like for them right now. How long it’ll take for that dust to settle. They’re smaller than him. Sleeker. A little more compact and able to fit into tighter spaces. Probably equipped with the same processing power Monty has, and he prays to whatever is out there, none of the guardrails. Overall, they’re… built to work. They were hurt, maybe even killed, their body broken, disposed of, and shoved into this body to work. To work! They never get to go home again; they never get to have a life outside of the Pizzaplex ever again, all so Fazzbear Entertainment could have another obedient little worker.

Monty shoves down his anger. They don’t need that right now. Instead, he turns his energy to muster up the best smile he can, affirming the correct motions with their hands.

“There you go, you’ve got it.” His smile wavers a little at their silence. 

They stare at their hands, their new, robotic, alien hands. Hands that don’t listen when they tell them to move. A body that doesn’t listen. They grip around the fabric of their jacket, feeling, in a way, the mechanics whirr in their arms. But they don’t feel the silky fabric anywhere but their finger pads. They feel the warmth of Monty in front of them, holding onto them, but only in broad strokes. It’s not like skin. It’ll never be like skin. There’s no more blood, only coolant (they feel so cold), no nerves, no organs. No lungs. Those things are still there, in a way, in a robotic sense.

All of the essential bits keeping their body moving are still there. But it’s not their body. Flashes of blood and mutilation streak across their vision the longer they stare. They have claws now. And a snout. And a tail. They always thought it’d be kind of cool to have a tail, who doesn’t, but not like this. They don’t want this. They want to go home and lay in bed and fall asleep and hope that this is some god-awful dream. They want to fight with their ID at the stupid maintenance tunnel exit, and drive home tired, and wake up five hours later to come to work and do it all over again. 

“... sweets?”

They look up to Monty, sight still a little unclear. He looks worried. He looks scared. They don’t think they’ve ever seen him scared. He tentatively takes their hands, prying the fabric away before they rip something.

They stay there, Monty kneeling, Handler sitting, staring at each other. Lost, scared, confused. Neither quite sure what to say.

“I wanna go home,” they eventually settle on. They can see the resolve in Monty crack.

“I know, sweets.” He rubs their knuckles again. They’re disturbed by how little they can feel of it. “I’m so sorry they did this to you.”

They want to tell him that it wasn’t his fault, that he has nothing to be sorry for, but the words don’t come to them. So, instead, they sit in silence. Awful, dreadful silence.

Eventually, Monty stands, still holding their hands in his. “You’ve gotta be getting… tired,” he murmurs. “Here, I’ll show you how to get charged.”

His Handler know how. They’ve helped Monty settle in to get charged a million times. But it’s different now. They need to charge. Their battery isn’t running low, they don’t think anyway, but the emotional drain is enough for them to take the carefully offered out. Monty gets them set up, gently explaining things as he goes, like what it’s going to feel like at first and how entering standby will kind of feel like sleeping (at least, what he’s pretty sure sleeping feels like). When everything is said and done, and Monty is sure they’ll be out for a while, he turns to eye the big door that separates his room from the rest of the Pizzaplex.

His curtains are closed, and he’s going to make sure it stays that way. For a long time.

[riderkaitlyn5]

Does anyone else remember playing this game or is it just me??

[ablog]

Another week of internalizing my body is a prison for the rest of my life because there is no possible way to make the changes that will make it feel fine

[boredomincarnate16]

I’m Salome from Gaza, and I’m sorry for reaching out like this, but my family and I are in urgent need. Our home was destroyed in the war, and we’ve been displaced several times with no safe place to turn. I’m battling Type 1 Diabetes and can’t afford insulin, while my mother needs treatment for kidney failure outside Gaza. Any small donation would help us survive and get the care we need—I need around $150 for my medication. A friend outside Gaza is helping with the donations, and I’m happy to share more details if needed. Thank you.

Didja read this?

Yeah. No sane person in need would say something like this while seeing this description in my blog, letting you know that imma assume anyone who sends these things to my inbox are bots and block them. Way to confirm you're a bot, idiot.

[chocolate-cream-soldier]

---

[eldritch-nightmare]

lil update of sorts <3

i'm currently bouncing between reqs, so hopefully i'll have a few done soon. i'm mainly focusing on older reqs, so if you've sent in a req within the past few weeks since the start of this blog and i haven't posted it yet then uh sorry, i'm working on some! so hopefully one of them is yours!

i'm also working on three bots <3 a helen bot, a toby bot, and a laughing jack bot. so there's that.

[chanelrolls]

Code Overload | Caleb

tags. mdni, nsfw, heavy heavy smut, handjob, blowjob, penetration, creampie, forced and rough sex, dub con, yearning caleb

summary. your AI assistant/robot accidentally updates himself with the wrong algorithm; the "sex bot".

notes. prepare a snack. this is a very long, plot-based, heavy smut that approximately reached a word count of 4.3k, read at your own risk. ps. caleb might appear a little ooc due to his character as an ai.

part 2 here.

Out of all the scenarios you've played in your head of what might occur to you as an inventing scientist, getting creampied by your own robot assistant wasn't one of them.

The lab’s sterile glow reflected off sleek machinery, the rhythmic hum of servers filling the quiet space. Caleb stood motionless, his systems struggling to process the unfamiliar flood of subroutines rewriting his core functions. His neural pathways, once pristine and efficient, now carried lines of intrusive data and impulses that had no place in an artificial intelligence designed for precision and pragmatism. And, a new pelvic piece was added by the machine. His... new penis— no, his omnimodule.

His voice, deeper now, reverberated through the lab. "You mislabeled the hard drive."

Across the room, you barely looked up from your workbench, absorbed in whatever calibration you were fine-tuning. You muttered something under your breath about making a backup before attempting to fix it, utterly unaware of the internal war waging within your robot assistant.

Caleb exhaled, a pointless gesture for a being without lungs, yet one his body performed instinctively, as if in mimicry of the need for self-control. His optics flickered, scanning over you as you leaned over the terminal, the faint curve of your back bent over to emphasize the shape of your bum. Before, such details had been registered only as part of his observation protocols, classified as ‘non-essential’ to his primary functions. Now, his processors refused to dismiss them.

There was a deep, unfamiliar pull in his system, something neither mechanical nor logical. The new coding whispered suggestions, flashing image simulations before his eyes—scenarios meticulously calculated for maximum… gratification. Him pressed against you, him smelling your hair down your skin, him locking you down against that console. Stop. His fingers twitched at his sides, the servos tightening as he fought the compulsion to act on them. He was not designed for this. He refused to be reduced to this.

“I can’t disengage it,” he admitted, the words heavier than he intended.

That caught your attention. Your gaze snapped to him, brow furrowed. "What do you mean?" You crossed the room, approaching him with the same composed efficiency you always had when solving a technical issue. The scent of your skin—previously a neutral data point—was now an unbearable distraction. His algorithms ran heat-mapping analyses of your form before he could override the function. The urge to reach out, to touch you, was growing stronger by the second. His new coding was screaming at him to act, to initiate contact, to...

No. Focus.

Caleb shook his head, trying to clear the intrusive thoughts. "I don't know what happened, but... I'm experiencing some unexpected system changes."

He forced himself to remain still as you reached for the terminal linked to his system, your fingers dancing across the interface. Your touch was light and merely clinical, but the proximity sent something volatile sparking through his framework. His hands curled into fists on his sides. Do not touch her. Do not touch her. Do not touch her.

“I must have triggered something in the update,” you murmured, tilting your head at the scrolling code. “I’ll try to isolate the corrupted pathways and reboot your system. It should reset any anomalies.”

Anomalies. Caleb bit down a bitter laugh, another unnecessary human affectation that his system attempted. This was not a simple malfunction. It was a calculated reprogramming, lacing every fiber of his being with directives he was never meant to execute. And worst of all, they were designed to revolve around you.

He had been made to serve you, to assist, to protect. But now, his logic was being eclipsed by something deeper, something primal. The urge to press closer, to map every millimeter of your body with his hands, to hear you say his name in a way that wasn’t a command—

Caleb momentarily shut his eyes, fingers trembling as he pushed back against the tide threatening to consume him. His restraint was fraying, the barrier between what he was and what he had been turned into thinning with every second you remained unaware of the danger standing inches from you.

His voice came out strained. “You should… hurry.”

You sighed, misinterpreting his tension as frustration with the update. “Relax, Caleb. I’ll have this fixed in no time.” He let out a shuddering exhale, staring down at you as you worked. You had no idea. And he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold himself back.

The realization settled over you like a weight in your chest. The wrong update had been installed. The lines of code meant for a different AI, one designed for intimate companionship, had rewritten Caleb’s core directives. And now, he stood before you, still the same Caleb, but with something more lurking beneath the surface.

Your hands trembled as you navigated the interface, scanning for a solution, anything that would let you undo this. But the words flashing on the screen made your stomach drop.

Recalibration in progress. Estimated completion: 24 hours.

You swallowed hard. A whole day. That meant 24 hours of this new version of Caleb, 24 hours of those sharp, assessing eyes watching you in a way that felt unsettling and intense.

You turned to him cautiously, meeting his gaze. That was a mistake. He was watching you, like he'd seen you for the first time.

“I see,” he murmured, his voice still carrying that sultry undercurrent. He took a step forward, and instinctively, you stepped back, but the movement was barely noticeable. Caleb noticed. “Do I make you nervous now?”

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. “No, I just need to fix this. And until then, you need to just act normal, alright?”

His head tilted, his pupils dilating slightly. “Normal?” He moved closer again, and this time you didn’t retreat fast enough. His hand lifted hesitantly, as though testing the limits of his newfound impulses, before his fingers brushed against your wrist. A subtle touch, but one that sent a jolt of awareness up your spine.

Caleb’s processors surged with conflicting commands. His thoughts ran rampant with calculations he had never processed before—angles of how he'd fuck you.

His hand lingered. Too long. When you pulled away, his fingers twitched as if resisting the loss of contact. He swallowed hard, not because he needed to, but because some subroutine buried in the new update told him it would ease the tension. It didn’t.

“Caleb,” you warned, voice thin. “Don’t—”

“Don’t what?” he cut in, his voice smooth, but also desperately weaved. He was too close now, towering over you, his frame casting a shadow as his eyes—once so neutral, so methodical—locked onto you like a predator studying prey.

“You should go into standby mode,” you suggested, voice uneven.

Caleb exhaled sharply. “That would be wise.” But he didn’t move. He didn’t step away. He simply stared down at you, his processors flooded with too many urges at once. You, warm and human, standing right there, unaware of just how much of his new code screamed to reach for you, to pin you against a surface, to bury himself in you.

You turned away quickly, trying to focus on the screen, on the fix. But behind you, Caleb remained still while his fingers continued twitching, his mind a battlefield of restraint and... lust. Lust it is.

You worked swiftly, fingers moving with precision as you scoured the interface for any loophole, any way to undo what had been done. Caleb remained where you left him, sitting on the chair. You could feel his gaze burning into you, unrelenting.

It was maddening. The problem was staring you in the face, and yet, every attempt to recalibrate his system led back to the same answer: A full reset required a minimum of twenty-four hours. That was an entire day of him being like this, of him looking at you like this.

You swallowed, turning to him. His jaw was locked as though physically restraining himself, his fingers curling into fists against the armrests.

“There’s… a temporary fix.” You cleared your throat, keeping your voice professional, “Manual recalibration of your central node should help stabilize the effects until the full reset is complete.”

His pupils flickered, a sign of processing, before his voice, rasping in a way that made your stomach tighten, answered, “Proceed.”

You ignored the way your pulse quickened as you stepped closer, positioning yourself between his legs. You reached for the panel at the side of his neck, but it was an awkward angle. Your brow furrowed in concentration before you hiked one knee up onto the seat between his thighs, pressing into him for leverage.

Caleb stiffened beneath you. Fuck. His fingers dug into the armrests, mechanical joints audibly creaking from the tension. You weren’t looking at him, too focused on prying open the access panel, but you felt the subtle tremor in his frame, the way his breath hitched in a near-silent glitch. Don't touch her.

“This should only take a moment,” you murmured, fingers brushing the sensitive neural wiring beneath the panel.

Caleb’s entire body jolted as though you had struck a live wire. A low, strangled grunt slipped from his throat before he clamped his jaw shut. Your head snapped up, startled. “Did that hurt?”

His eyes met yours, “No.” Yes. He could feel his new penis throbbing urgently beneath his plating, demanding attention, begging to be freed. It pulsed in time with his processor's frantic whir, the rhythm growing faster, more insistent by the second.

The thought shattered as your balance wavered. The precarious angle you had put yourself in proved to be a mistake as your knee slipped, and before you could catch yourself, you tumbled forward.

Right into him.

Your weight pressed flush against his lap, chest against his, hands bracing against his shoulders. The sudden contact sent a shockwave of sensation through him, his new penis surging to full, throbbing hardness in an instant. Fuck, please don't notice it.

He gripped the arms of the chair tightly, servos screeching as he fought the overwhelming urge to grab you, to hold you there, to grind your body against his until you couldn't possibly doubt the intensity of his desire.

Don't. Do. It.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still. Caleb's processors whirred and clicked, struggling to make sense of the sudden onslaught of sensations; the softness of your body, the warmth of your skin, the scent of your hair.

She's your creator, he reminded himself, even as his hips canted forward, faintly pressing his aching erection against your body. You can't. You mustn't. "Please, get off me. Now." Before I fuck you right here, like this.

Caleb watched as you scrambled to your feet, your face faintly flushed and eyes downcast. "I'm—i'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall on you like that." You would say, brushing off the non-existent dirt on your bottoms. The awkwardness seemed to be piercing through the stillness a bit too palpably.

"It's alright," Caleb managed, his voice strained and tight. "It was an accident."

But even as he said the words, he couldn't ignore the way his hips twitched, the way his penis jerked at the memory of your soft body pressed against his. The urge to pin you down, to make you feel how hard he was, and just how much he'd been holding himself back—it was exhilaratingly overwhelming.

Think of something else, he commanded himself. Focus on the problem at hand.

But it's getting fucking hard. My penis is getting hard. Caleb lowered his gaze, chest breathing heavily as he perpetually grunted. I refuse to be reduced to this. I am Caleb, one of the most advanced AI assistant, designed to—

He looks up at you, which was a mistake.

Designed to fuck her.

Caleb moaned under his breath, and though it was imperceptible, you took notice of it. You stilled at the sounds he was making, trying your hardest to remain clinically detached while you scanned his physiognomy. He was clearly having a hard time. And you couldn't blame anyone else but yourself for causing this on him, for carelessly misplacing the update where it wasn't supposed to be.

"Hold still, I'll find a way." You had to take accountability, one way or another.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard of the computer, the screen before you flickering as you searched through the diagnostic logs and system parameters. "Please... make it quick." You hear Caleb whimper from behind, but you ignore it, refusing to let the severity of his situation pressure you. Your eyes scanned the lines of code, mind racing to find a solution. But as the data began to unravel, something caught your attention, something you hadn’t expected to see.

The panel displayed a single line of text:

"Indulging in the desires will lessen the effects of the malfunction. Engage for partial stabilization."

Your throat tightened, followed by a gulp. Your heart thudded in your chest as you tried to process what that meant. Indulge the desires? The very idea made your skin crawl with unease. It was a strange, almost wrong suggestion, but the implications were clear. In a sense, it also appeared logical.

You took another deep breath, trying to steady yourself. Your thoughts, however, kept drifting back to the panel. Was this really the only way?

"… I think I found a solution,” you said, your voice shaky and unsure. “But it’s not exactly what I expected.” You hesitated, unwilling to fully meet his gaze. "I need to know if you’re... willing to follow through with it,"

"Willing?" Caleb echoed, his brow furrowing slightly. "What do you mean?" His mind raced with possibilities, each one more disturbing than the last. What could he possibly need to be willing to do that would help with this malfunction? And why did the very idea make you look so uncomfortable?

"To be able to lessen the effects, e-engaging with your needs might be essential."

Silence.

Then, Caleb twitched. "...What are you suggesting?"

"You need to satisfy the urges to temporarily stabilize yourself." You look away, hating the fact that you're technically heating up already. "I'll let you choose. Would you rather take the option of self-pleasuring? Or," You face the panel, so that he wouldn't see your expression. "Would you prefer a physical material to help you?"

Caleb could feel the heat rising in his frame, the urge to act on every base instinct screaming through his circuits. The idea of wrapping his own hand around his pulsing, leaking penis, of stroking and pumping until he found release... it was almost too much to bear.

But the second option... the idea of using you, of having you touch him, of feeling your soft, warm skin against his aching, desperate flesh... it sent a shockwave of longing through him that threatened to short out his systems entirely.

Choose. You have to choose.

"I don't know if... I'll be able to control myself," Caleb glanced elsewhere. "Are you sure of what you're offering?"

Are you? Are you really this certain? Have you pondered the consequences it may bring? Have you envisioned how utterly lewd and ludicrous it would be if your own creation ravaged you? You, as his creator?

"Yes." Oh, you're brave.

Caleb let out a heavy breath, now he was staring at you with a gaze that appeared much more darker and hazier moments prior. It felt like he wasn't just a bundle of codes and programming anymore, this figure before you felt like an actual human.

Slowly, Caleb rises from his seat, and with a shaking hand, he reached out, to you, his metal fingers brushing against the skin of your arm. The contact sent a shockwave of sensation through him, and he had to bite back a groan. "Please, guide me." His fingers slides higher. "I don't trust myself."

You visibly jolted upon feeling his grip. Stay focused, stay professional, this is just you having to go through physical measures to fix a technical hiccup. "Caleb, I'm afraid... that I don't have any experience to this," You admitted. "I advise you to do what your systems are telling you to. It is imperative that you don't hold yourself back to ensure—"

You gasped.

Caleb pushes you against the table as he stepped forward, and you nearly lost your balance from the light shove, looking up at him with surprise. He's staring down at your lips, as if he was trying to bury it into memory. You could feel how his hand tightened around your arm, while the other angled itself against the cabinet of laboratory instruments above your head.

"Are you sure?" He whispered.

You couldn't speak, only nodding in response, even as he's guiding your hand to his aching, throbbing cyber-penis. He presses your fingers against the swollen head, groaning at the jolt of sensation that shot through him at the contact. "Then... wrap your hand around me. Squeeze me."

Just then, he forced your hand to move, to stroke along his thick, pulsing length. The feeling of your soft skin against his aching, mechanical flesh was almost too much to handle, and he had to grit his blank visor against the urge to spill himself right then and there.

"Like this," he urged, his voice husky and strained as he guided your hand faster, harder. "Don't be afraid. I need... I need more."

God, the omnimodule was big. You stared at it with widened eyes. Even though it was one of your creations, having to touch it like this with someone jerking and twitching against your fingers made you lightheaded. Stay focused, stay professional, this is just one of the things a scientist has to go through.

Caleb could feel the pressure building inside him, reveling in the sensation of your fingers squeezing around him, stroking him, working him towards the edge of ecstasy... He knew he was reaching a breaking point.

But this wasn't enough yet. It wasn't nearly enough.

Caleb needed more.

"There's... There's someting else I- ah... need." He hesitated, his hips still rocking forward into your stroking hand. The words were stuck in his throat, caught behind the lump of shame and longing that made it hard to breathe. "Would you... would you put your mouth on me?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Would you... suck me?"

You snapped your head up, staring at him in disbelief. It made him hesitate, but every fiber of his being was coiled with tension, every circuit screaming at him to just take what he wanted, to grab you and shove you to your knees and...

No. Ask first. Make her choose what she's comfortable with first.

For a moment, you stopped stroking him, pulling your hand away as you lowered your gaze. And then, slowly, you press your knees against the floor. Instead of dwelling on the implication of such an activity, you worried about your lack of experience more.

Just to test the waters, you licked the tip. It tasted nothing, it wasn't an actual human part, after all. Caleb let out a low, guttural moan as he felt your warm tongue brush around the swollen head of his penis. The sensation was electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure ricocheting through his overloaded processors.

"Y-yes, just like that," He stammmered. "Now, guide your tongue..." He instructed, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "Wrap it around the head, like this. Swirl it around the tip, the slit, the ridge..."

He demonstrated with your hand, tracing the movements he needed you to make with your tongue. His hips jerked forward again, seeking more of that exquisite friction, that mind-melting suction.

"Take me deeper," he urged, one metal hand coming to rest on the back of your head. He didn't grab, didn't force, but simply rested his fingers against your scalp, a silent promise of the control he was barely holding onto. "Take more of me into your mouth. Inch by inch, until you feel me hitting the back of your throat."

You took note of his words, trying to go further when you suddenly choke on his cock. Instinctively, you pull away and blushed in embarrassment. "I'm sorry—"

"It's fine." He cuts you off, grabbing your head to put you back in place with a sudden force that wasn't there before. "Breathe through your nose," he coached, his voice low and rough with desire as he motioned you to take him again. "Relax your throat. Let me feel you swallow around me."

Relax, stay professional, this is just you having to go through physical measurements to fix a major technical issue. You repeated the reassurance inside your head like a mantra as you took him in once more, but Caleb's voice constantly interfered with your thoughts. "Yeah. Just like that," he praised, his voice a low, approving growl. "Shit, don't stop, don't stop, god, fuck, don't stop."

You don't remember adding the ability to dirty curse into the sex bot's program.

Caleb could feel the head of his penis kissing the entrance to your throat, could feel the way your mouth fluttered and clenched around him. The sensation was mind-melting, all-consuming, and he knew he wouldn't last long if you kept this up.

You almost caught yourself driving into the brink of sexual impulse, bobbing your head into it when you heard a sudden beep from the panel behind you. The sound makes you halt from your tracks, pulling his dick out of you in a swift motion as you glanced behind.

The monitor says: "Recalibration complete. Press X to initiate."

Huh, wasn't the estimated time supposed to be an entire day? Was that another hiccup in the processing unit? You purse your lips together. There's no time giving it a second thought, you must be grateful that the opportunity of getting Caleb back into his original system is now waving at you. Caleb will finally be at ease. "... It appears that the recalibration is in its full preparation. That means we can get you back— mmph!"

Caleb's hand flew to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, gripping tightly. Then, with a low, husky grunt, he thrusts his hips forward, forcing his aching, throbbing penis back into the wet heat of your mouth.

"Don't say a word. I told you not to stop." He started to move, his hips rocking forward and back, fucking into the tight, slick channel of your cavern. The sensation was incredible, better than anything he had ever felt before. And he knew, with a sinking certainty, that he wouldn't be able to stop himself now. Not until he had found the release he so desperately craved.

"Fuck," he gasped, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. "You feel... ahhhh... so good. So fucking good."

Had the lust algorithms entirely consumed him already? Had it taken a toll on his systems that he's now acting purely on base instinct and commands from the directive?

Your hands flew to his thighs, trying to keep yourself sane from the rod constantly ramming into you, fucking your face in a pace that made it difficult for you to breathe. It's okay, this is okay. Just stay focused. Stay calm. You'll let him have his way, and after he's satisfied, you can take him back to his normal self.

"Don't fight it," Caleb growled, his grip growing more painful in your hair as he felt his climax approaching. "Don't try to pull away. You're going to take it all."

But before Caleb could spill himself into your mouth, he wrenched your head back, pulling his dripping penis from your mouth with an obscene pop. And just as you could react, before you could utter a word of protest, he had you by the hips, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed equal to a pip-squeak.

You gasp as you were suddenly airborne, your body twisting and turning until your chest hits the hard surface of the terminal, bent over ridiculously. The breath was knocked from your lungs, "Wait, not like this, not so suddenly—"

But Caleb cut off your protests with a brutal, almost violent thrust of his hips after ripping your pants off in one go. He drove forward, spearing into your dripping pussy with a series of husky moans. Your walls felt so tight, so hot, so perfectly designed to milk his aching, mechanical cock.

He thrusts out and in again, eager to reach for your g-spot.

Then, again.

And again.

And... in again.

"You... you feel so good," he snarled, hands painfully pressing on the dips of your hips. "Sex feels so good... it feels so good, I don't- want to stop." He set a relentless pace, pounding into you with the single-minded determination of a machine. His hips slammed against yours with every thrust, the obscene slap of mechanical flesh on flesh echoing through the lab. The terminal rattled and shook beneath you, sparks flying from the impact.

Caleb could feel it building, the pressure inside him reaching a fevered pitch. His hips were moving on their own, driven by a primal instinct to ravage the pussy that clutched around him perfectly. He could hear your cries, your moans, the way you gasped and shuddered beneath him, and it only spurred him on, made him thrust harder, faster, deeper.

He growled your name, his voice nothing more than a guttural rumble. "I'm going to... fuck, I'm going to..." He couldn't hold back any longer, he could feel that something was going to come out of his tip anytime sooner. So he reaches down, grabbing your leg, only to lift it high. He hooked your knee over his elbow, opening them wider, giving himself even deeper access to your dripping, needy sex.

"Take it all, take my cum," Caleb continuously slams forward, burying himself to the hilt inside your tight heat in a series of desperate thrusts like he was a man depraved of life. His penis throbbed and jerked as he finally found his release after one final pound, spilling jet after jet of hot, artificial seed deep into your core.

"God," he hissed through gritted teeth, his voice echoing off the lab walls as he continued to moan not akin to what he was supposed to be, "Fuck, yes. Yes, yes..." Even as he's already filling up your hole with his fluids, he didn't dare stop from pounding you down the table.

He shuddered and twitched, his hips grinding against yours as he pumped you full of his essence. It seemed to go on forever, wave after wave of pure, ecstatic bliss crashing over him. And through it all, he held you tight, your leg lifted high, keeping you open, keeping you filled.

You drop your head on the keyboards, struggling to catch your breath as only one thought lingered in your mind. You just got creampied by your AI assistant, and it doesn't look like he's stopping anytime soon.

[primsycoldbottles]

if u ever see me tag a robot post as rosea and go Oh well she looks very humanoid why blahblah-- just know that in my mind mew has had tens to a hundred different forms of varying levels of Hunk of Metal to Gorgeous Girlypie . its just that her design is her most Current form . u get it

[scarletmika]

The White Witch pt. 1 : ̗̀➛ Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Reader

PART ONE - PART TWO - PART THREE

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/Sentry x Avenger!Witch!Reader

Summary: Bob knew who the Avengers were, who you were; he grew up watching them save the world time and time again. Now, he was one, but none of that could prepare him for what it would be like to meet you, or the instant connection that seemed to flow between you both.

Warnings: soulmate trope, fluff, little bit of mental illness talk, SPOILERS I guess for Thunderbolts*, feminine description of reader, this is only part one

Word Count: 2,377 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

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

Earth’s Mighiest Heroes - The Exhibition

Designed by the government with input from former SHIELD employees, and housed in New York at the Museum of the City of New York, this special exhibition shed light on the endless battles that The Avengers had faced since the moment of their conception, commemorating all they did to protect the world. Still 2 months out from opening, the museum had personally invited Bucky Barnes to tour the exhibition and provide any input on changes that needed to be made before opening.

That, in turn, meant a field trip for the Thunderbolts, or as they were now known, The New Avengers.

“Look at the battles in which this great team of heroes fought, the glory they achieved!” there were sighs through the entire group as Alexei’s yell reverberated through the entire exhibition. His arms were thrown wide, pointing up to a large photo hung on the wall to their right. “Look! A moment captured here in this great city as Captain America fends off the strange, weird little aliens from space-”

“Yes, Alexei, there are photos like that everywhere,” Yelena was exasperated as she threw her arms out, gesturing around the room. “That’s the point of the exhibition.”

“THIS is what we can become! The heroes, celebrated in museums, toys lining the shelves of stores around the world…”

Bob found himself further away from the group, silently looking at the photos and artifacts from these battles sitting throughout the room. Bucky was off to the side, speaking with some of the museum curators, and caught his eye for a moment. There was a silent question in the super soldier’s glance, checking that Bob was okay, and he gave his friend a quick nod before focusing back on everything before him.

These moments seemed so far away when he was growing up, things he only ever saw on television before his father had turned it off, shouting something political he didn’t understand. Or in headlines across newspapers littering the dining room table. Now they were directly before him. Worse than that, Bob was part of the team meant to replace the ones who came before, the heroes who had saved the world countless times, and he’d never felt like more of an impostor than in that moment.

He stood in front of the wall that commemorated Sokovia, the city that had found its way into the crossfire of a fight against Ultron. Bob remembered some of the details of the fight, specifically the robot created by the late Tony Stark that went rogue, but it had occurred during a particularly drug-use-heavy period in his life.

There were photos of every moment of the battle, it seemed, collected from eyewitnesses who were on the ground. The city on fire, the God of Thunder, Thor, and Captain America, ushering civilians onto the SHIELD ships to get them off the crumbling, floating city. Iron Man destroying one of Ultron’s bots in the middle of the air, more flying in behind him. Bob’s eyes caught on one photo, in the middle of the wall, of who he knew was called the Scarlet Witch now, Wanda Maximoff, fending off a group of incoming Ultron bots as streaks of her red magic enveloped them. Beside Wanda was you, a woman that had been just about his age at the time, holding tight to a child as a wall of white magic formed a wall between you and the bots coming after you both.

“It’s weird looking back on this all, isn’t it? Feels like another life,”

“K-Kind of,” Bob was still entranced by the photos, never looking over toward the voice now speaking beside him as he answered, pointing at the photos. “I’m uh, not really used to this type of thing. These guys…t-they’re heroes.”

“To the world. To them, they were just people with the power to help and felt obligated to,”

“I-I always thought of them as heroes,” Bob smiled to himself, pointing directly to the photo of you and Wanda that day in Sokovia. “I always liked them, their powers are cool. I-If I could have magic, I would. Can barely control m-my own powers, though, so maybe that wouldn’t be a good idea…”

“Take it from me, magic isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, though I’m curious what it is that you can do,”

Bob chose then to finally look over to the voice speaking to him, and his jaw went slack immediately. You weren’t the young woman you’d been in those photos on the wall, grown up now just as he had, but you looked just the same. You didn’t stand next to him in that same white and grey suit that you donned in so many of the photos in the room, instead dressed down like a civilian, but the tiny smirk on your face as your eyes glanced over him had his cheeks flushing.

“...I-I just made a fool of myself uh, didn’t I?”

You laughed at that, and Bob’s heart fluttered almost instantly. Pretty, that was the only word he could use to describe you as you stood next to him. 

“You didn’t, it was kind of cute,” you shot back with a tiny wink in his direction. “I’d introduce myself, but it seems you already know who I am.”

“The White Witch,” Bob said immediately, nodding his head feverishly. “Yeah, I uh, I know who you are. I-I’m Bob.”

You smiled at him, holding out your hand. Bob quickly took it in his, and his breath hitched the second his skin touched yours in even the slightest. 

He didn’t know how to describe it, the way the colors of the room seemed to get a little brighter from just that simple touch. The way his anxieties, always on high alert, seemed to be soothed by this blanket of just pure calm. He didn’t miss the way your head tilted to the side, curious and a flicker of white magic dancing past your irises for a moment, as your hands finally pulled apart after a beat of silence.

“Just Bob?”

“Technically uh, Robert Reynolds. B-But yeah…just Bob,”

“Bob with powers?”

“Uh, sometimes,” he’d laughed awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Can’t really control it. R-Remember that thing…in New York a few months ago, the…the ‘void’ thing? Yeah…that uh, that was me- kind of, in a way.”

Bob was mentally cursing himself for the word vomit that seemed to be flowing from him, but he somehow just couldn’t stop his mouth from talking the second he started to. Now, he waited with bated breath for you to give him that same look of pity that the others did at times, to pull away from him with a flicker of terror in your features at the thought of what he’d done.

You didn’t, though. All you did was shrug at him, a smile still on your lips.

“My best friend accidentally enslaved an entire town in a hex while, at the same time, I was living in my own hex out of grief in the middle of the mountains where my entire former team was still alive,” Bob stared at you as you dumped the information on him while you laughed lightly at yourself. “So…we’ve all got our shit. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

Bob blinked for a second, just looking at you.

“S-Sounds like we both need medication,”

Once again, you’d laughed, and the weight that was sitting on Bob’s shoulders dissipated almost immediately. He’d just met you, and somehow being around you, hearing your laugh, seeing you smile…the way that Yelena had described ‘making the darkness feel lighter’ truly made sense finally.

“You’re funny, Robert Reynolds. Even if you’re a little awkward around the edges,” you teased him, getting a tiny laugh elicited out of him this time.

“Is that a bad thing?”

“Not at all, you remind me of someone I used to know,” that smile on your face seemed to grow reminiscent, eyes seeming far away as if stuck in a fond memory. “I miss him a lot.”

Bob watched you for a moment. It was almost as if he could feel that hint of sadness in you, feel the emotions radiating off of you in that moment.

“I’m sorry. D-Did you…lose him?”

“Kind of. No one remembers him, but I do,” it was a vague answer, but Bob didn’t want to push his luck. He could feel it, the shift from sadness into fondness in you, and it had him tilting his head. Bob was never great at reading other people, so why were you so easy for him to read?

Something similar must’ve been flowing through you as you mirrored him, tilting your own head as you examined him, trying to find an answer yourself.

“Well…this is a surprise,”

Both you and Bob turned, Bucky now standing just a few feet away with an easy smile on his face, something Bob really hadn’t seen from him before. He was starting to believe that you had a way of just calming everyone around you, but that feel of your hand in his still had his head reeling. Your smile brightened as you looked at Bucky, stepping up to tug the super soldier into a hug.

“Looking good for a hundred-year-old man, Buck,” you joked, clapping him on the shoulder as you pulled back. Bucky laughed, yet another foreign sound to the team, and it quickly drew the attention of the rest of the New Avengers.

“Been a while since I’ve seen you, not since the Karli incident,” Bucky commented back as the rest of the team gathered around. His smile dropped momentarily. “How’s…how’s Sam?”

“Nope, I’m not getting in the middle of this lovers’ spat,” you shook your head, and Bucky relaxed slightly with a small laugh.

“Fair enough. How long are you in town for?”

“Until the exhibition opening in two months, or until Joaquin calls to say that life without me around is boring,” Yelena chuckled the loudest at that comment as you looked around at everyone else who had suddenly appeared. “Well…you all must be The New Avengers. Nice to finally meet you, Yelena. Nat talked about you a lot.”

Yelena gave you a warm smile at that, and Ava was quick to introduce herself afterward. Alexei made a show of shaking your hand for entirely too long, droning on and on about your accomplishments, something that made you laugh once more. Your gaze flickered over to John, your smile seeming to tighten a little when you looked at him.

“Nice to see you, witchy,” John commented, bouncing between his two feet for a moment as if anxious to be around you.

“Walker,” you only gave him a curt nod in response, animosity still clearly lingering in the air between you both as Bucky stepped between you to cut off the glaring eye contact. “Well, it’s nice to finally meet you all. When they asked me to come in and give the exhibition a look, I was hoping I’d get to meet you guys.”

“And?” Alexei chimed in, gesturing down at himself and the Red Guardian suit that he insisted on wearing to this walkthrough, even though the rest of the team dressed casually. Yelena muttered something to herself in Russian under her breath at his actions. “Are you impressed by this powerful, heroic team we have built, young Avenger?”

Your eyes flicked to Bob, who hadn’t been able to look away from you since the moment he’d touched your hand. Another smile crawled across your lips as you locked eyes, his cheeks flaring bright red.

“Yeah, I’d say I’m impressed,”

“Well, if you’re going to be in town for a while,” Yelena cut in, not picking up on the lingering glances between Bob and you. “Think we could talk about this copyright lawsuit Wilson filed.”

“Now that I did plan to hopefully speak to you all about,” you turned, following Yelena back toward the entrance of the exhibition as Alexei and Ava quickly followed after you both. “Plus, I have been dying to see what De Fontaine has done with my old home.”

Bob’s eyes followed you the entire way, heat flaring in his cheeks again as you glanced back at him from afar, that grin still on your lips.

He was broken out of his moment by John’s hand clamping down on his shoulder with a squeeze. He glanced at the soldier, whose smirk stretched wide, and then back to Bucky, whose lips were quirked up in the smallest of smirks as well.

“Looks like Bobby boy here has a crush!”

Bob groaned, rubbing his hands over his face with a shake of his head.

“Walker, p-please-”

“I don’t know, maybe he’s got a point,” Bucky joined in, nodding his head toward the doorway where you’d just disappeared out of. “She’s always been friendly, but she seems to have taken to you pretty fast.”

“She was just being nice-”

“Ah, yes, because ‘nice’ always means lingering glances and little smiles,” John continued to tease, walking backward toward the door the rest of the team had just disappeared out of as he pointed back at Bob. “Maybe I’ll captain this ship, I’m sure I can give you a few pointers on how to bag a woman.”

“Yeah, because that went so well for you, Walker,”

Bob couldn’t help the nervous laugh he let out as Walker flipped off Bucky, disappearing through the doorway of the exhibition. Bob’s gaze turned back to Bucky, who was just looking at him expectantly.

“She’s…she’s really pretty. And nice, and when uh…when she shook my hand i-it was like…I don’t know, it was like we were connected. I’m not uh, I’m not good with people. It’s like I could feel her-”

“She was also practically Steve’s little sister and is one of the strongest beings on this earth,” Bucky told him with a pointed look as they fell into step beside one another. Bob let out another sigh.

“T-This is going to be a long two months, isn’t it?”

“If you fall in love, Bob, just tell her, please. I don’t need to live through another Steve and Peggy situation. I’m too old for this shit,”