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em1i2a3 · 2 days ago

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Tonight, Tonight

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

Summary: After being separated for a month and a half, you and Bob decide to take a night to reconnect with one another.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, A Shaving of Angst (because Bob and Reader really miss each other). Bob and Reader have an established relationship, Heavy on yearning, Bob is a sweetie in this and wants to make the night special and goes all out, Bob and Reader are absolutely touch starved

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (I ain’t the sex police…But wrap it up friends lol), Spit Kink, Edging, Dry Humping and Making Out, Fingering, Oral Sex (female and male receiving), Pretty Messy Sex, Reader and Bob are definitely switches in here, Cum Play/Cum Eating (Bob and Reader both participate in this), Phone Sex/Sexting (there is mentionings and references to it), Bob loves leaving hickeys on you, Praise/Worship Kink (Bob likes kissing your wounds), Aftercare (with Sentry hehe…), Dirty Talk and Pet Nicknames (Good Boy, and Good Girl are used). Pretty damn steamy. I hope I didn’t miss anything.

Author’s Note: I love the good old reunion trope, so I was in the mood to put my soul into it lol. Hope y’all enjoy! I loved writing this :)

Word Count: 15,293

It had been forty-five days since you touched Bob.

You remembered because that morning–bleary-eyed, sore in the best way, and heavy with dread–you and Bob had wrapped yourselves around each other like ivy, tangled and desperate, clinging to every last second like time itself might take pity on you if you held each other tightly enough.

His arms were cinched around your waist, not loose or lazy, but tight–possessive. Like maybe if he held just hard enough, your body would melt into his and you wouldn’t have to go. You had your face pressed deep into the crook of his neck, your breath caught in the cradle where his pulse fluttered soft and steady beneath his skin.

He still smelled like your mint chapstick.

The room was warm, the sheets wrecked from the night before–damp at the small of your back, the imprint of your body still cooling into the mattress. You could smell the sweat on him, sharp and primal, but layered beneath that was his body wash, soft and clean and maddeningly familiar.

That particular scent was very much Bob incarnate–a crisp mix of eucalyptus and juniper, warmed by the heat of his skin and faintly tinged with something woodsy and sweet underneath. Not cologne, not artificial in any sense, it was just the way his soap clung to him after a shower–cool and bracing at first, but softening the longer you held him. There was a hint of salt there too, where your bodies had pressed together for hours, and something richer in the air–like love, or longing, or the deep, quiet ache that came from having to let go of someone you’d just spent the whole night worshipping.

Both of you had barely slept. You thought maybe you caught twenty minutes, but then you just fell into each other again, and again…

Now, his hands were flat against your back, fingers spread like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go of you. His chest rose and fell against yours, slower than usual, like he was trying to keep himself calm.

You could still feel the ghost of his mouth on your skin–his kisses down your collarbone, the rasp of stubble against your shoulder, the barely-there scrape of teeth just beneath your navel. But it was the quiet things that stayed with you most: the soft grunt he made when you curled your fingers in his hair, the way he whispered your name when he came, and the way his hands trembled just slightly when they cradled your face afterward, like he was overwhelmed by the shape of you.

The sheets were half on the floor, your thigh slung over his, skin to skin. The room still smelled like sex and warmth and Bob.

The knocking started just after sunrise.

A heavy, impatient thud thud thud on your door, followed by Walker’s half-shouted grumble:

“Five minutes, lovebirds, or you’re missing the damn jet!”

Still, neither of you moved.

Bob’s fingers flexed against your lower back like he might pull you tighter–like there was still time to undo this whole separation. His nose was buried in your hair now, inhaling you. Not like a man savoring perfume, but like someone desperate to remember what home felt like. His breath was hot against your scalp when he finally whispered, barely audible:

“Don’t go yet.”

You could feel your heart aching, like something inside you had split open and bled out between the spaces where your skin met his, because you didn’t want to go…But you had to.

You hadn’t been apart from him for more than a few days at a time since getting together, and even those rare stretches felt like they scraped at something tender inside your ribs. But this? This had felt surgical–like someone reached into your chest and carved around the part of you that only stayed quiet when Bob was near.

You were being sent to New Zealand with Ava and Yelena–something covert, something biological. A classified facility hidden in the dense coastal ranges had gone dark, all personnel presumed dead or turned. Intel said the site had been experimenting with hybrid pathogens–possibly mutagenic, possibly synthetic. Your team was tasked with reconnaissance and recovery…But you knew better. It would end in fire. They always did.

Bob was sent to Singapore with Bucky, Walker, and Alexei to intercept a shipment of stolen vibranium tech. Armed smugglers had taken over an offshore manufacturing port, planning to retrofit the tech into combat-ready exosuits. Walker called it “a glorified hardware heist.” Bucky called it “suicide with a skyline view.” Bob hadn’t called it anything. He had just kissed your forehead before stepping onto the jet and said:

”Call me wh-when you land.”

And you did.

You called him the moment your boots hit tarmac in Wellington, your voice still shaky with jet lag, the wind howling in the background as you leaned against one of the transport trucks and cupped your hand around the mic. He’d picked up on the first ring. You could still remember the way his voice cracked when he said your name–like just hearing it again made something in him give out.

You figured out the logistics quickly. Bob had already mapped the time difference–only four hours between New Zealand and Singapore. It could’ve been worse. It could’ve been half a world apart. It could’ve been twelve hours and dodgy signals and windows of time so small they slipped through your fingers.

But it wasn’t. It was four, manageable, and predictable hours. A lifeline you both clung to with white-knuckled discipline.

Every night like clockwork, he called you. Or you called him.

Sometimes you were getting ready for bed when he called—moving slow and tired, your body aching from a day spent combing through abandoned labs or hiking through fog-drenched forest terrain. The kind of fatigue that crawled into your joints and made you forget what comfort felt like. Still, you answered on the first ring. Always.

Sometimes, you’d just finished showering, wrapped in a towel with steam curling off your skin, making tea for yourself in the small kitchenette of the safe house you shared with Ava and Yelena. They usually gave you space. Ava would mutter something sarcastic but fond and slip on her headphones. Yelena would give you a sly look and disappear into her room, pretending she didn’t hear your voice soften as soon as you answered the call.

More often than not, you were already in bed when he rang–curled up on your side with your tablet balanced against your pillow, the screen casting a dim blue light across the room. It was always too dark, always too quiet when he wasn’t near, and the glow of his face on the screen was the closest thing to warmth you had.

Bob always made sure he had privacy when he talked to you. You could tell by the background–how he’d be huddled into a far corner of his assigned room, propped up by a makeshift pillow pile, the light behind him dim and golden. The second he picked up, his voice dropped into something low and private, something meant only for you. Even though he was rooms away from Walker, Bucky, and Alexei, he still spoke like he needed to protect every word. Like love might lose its shape if it echoed.

Sometimes, you just talked. About nothing or about everything.

He’d tell you what he made for dinner with the limited options they were supplied in their safe house, how Walker burned rice again, how Bucky spent twenty minutes arguing with the local tactical ops over weapon clearance codes. You’d describe the terrain, how the fog clung to the trees like ghost skin, how the inside of the lab smelled like bleach and battery acid.

He never asked for too many details–he didn’t have to. He could hear it in your voice when things got bad.

And then there were the nights that started innocent but didn’t stay that way.

Nights where you shifted just a little too far down in bed, the strap of your tank top sliding off your shoulder as you adjusted the screen. Nights where he let his hand slip beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, his breathing growing uneven as you murmured things meant only for him. Nights where the distance between your bodies felt like a crime. Where you had to see him to believe he was still yours. Nights where you traced your fingers down your own stomach and imagined they were his.

You’d whisper his name, and he’d whisper yours.

He’d talk you through it in that quiet, reverent voice–telling you how beautiful you looked, how much he missed you, how it killed him not to be there. And when he came, he said your name like it was something sacred, something broken open in his chest.

Sometimes the connection would drop just as you were both coming down, and that was the worst. The silence after was so loud, so cruel.

But it was something. It was enough to survive on.

The solution was good.

It helped more than you could ever say out loud.

But it wasn’t real.

And it certainly couldn’t replace Bob’s touch.

It couldn’t replace the heat of his palms on your skin–broad and grounding, steady in a way that nothing else in your life ever had been. It couldn’t replace the absentminded way he’d trace your veins with his thumb, slow circles down your arm while you talked about something completely unrelated, like his body just needed to stay connected to yours without thinking about it.

It couldn’t replace the way he’d cradle your hips in the early morning light, his chest to your back as you brushed your teeth in the washroom. That sleepy weight of him–half-awake, shirtless, warm–pressing soft kisses to your shoulder as if saying good morning with his whole body.

It couldn’t replace the way he held your face when he kissed you.

The kind of touch that didn’t rush. That lingered. That told you more than words ever could. His fingers always cradled you like something precious, like porcelain and fire–something delicate, something burning. Like every kiss might be the last and he wanted to remember how your jaw felt beneath his thumbs. How your lashes fluttered when he leaned in. How your breath hitched right before your lips met his.

You missed everything about him.

His scent.

His voice in person.

His laugh–not through a speaker, but felt through your chest when he tucked his face against your neck and grinned against your skin.

But you were grateful for modern technology. For the screen that displayed his face. For the calls that gave you his voice, and for the way he still managed to look at you through pixels like you were the only thing on Earth that mattered to him.

Today though…You were being reunited.

—————————

You, Yelena, and Ava landed on the compound’s rooftop helipad just before noon, the sharp whump-whump-whump of the quinjet’s rotor blades slicing the sky into a hot, trembling blur. The entire landing platform seemed to vibrate with the descent, wind kicking up from the turbines and whipping at your clothes, stinging your cheeks as the aircraft settled down with a low, weighty thud against the reinforced tarmac.

Your boots hit solid ground with a jarring finality, knees momentarily weak from the hours spent airborne. You hadn’t realized how much tension your body had been holding until the moment it touched the earth again. The concrete beneath your feet felt real–not like the steel plating of airstrips or the spongy moss-covered paths of the forests you had spent the last month and a half traversing, but like home.

Above you, the sky stretched out in a flat, pale blue dome, crisp and cloudless and sunny. Cool wind curled past your ears, threading through the sweat-damp strands of your hair, and it was the first time in weeks the breeze didn’t taste like salt or chemical runoff. This air–sharp, thin, edged with the faint scent of metal and freshness–tasted like relief.

No one said much as you disembarked.

Ava trailed behind you, bleary-eyed and bone-deep exhausted, her go-bag slung tight to her chest like she might float away without it. Her shoulders were hunched, mouth slack, and she blinked against the light like it physically hurt. Yelena barely waited for the bay doors to finish opening before she muttered something about needing “a bottle of something strong and at least two fucking showers,” then shoved her sunglasses higher on the bridge of her nose. Her accent was thicker with fatigue, her movements sharp with leftover adrenaline.

You just nodded, your own limbs leaden and your mind hazy, already moving on autopilot. Every step felt a little less real than the last. The mission had chewed through all of you–gnawed at the edges and left everything frayed and vibrating.

But even as your body screamed for rest, your thoughts refused to still.

Because Bob wasn’t here yet.

The jet from Singapore was due to land within the hour. You’d already memorized the arrival schedule. Flight paths from both your locations had aligned almost perfectly–less than nineteen hours with Thunderbolts tech, though it still felt like a lifetime. It could have been worse. It could have been a twelve-hour delay or a different time zone or god forbid, radio silence. But it wasn’t. It was close. Close enough to hope.

You dropped your gear in your room without unpacking–just letting it fall where it landed. You kicked your boots off with a heavy thunk and peeled your jacket from your shoulders like shedding skin. The second the door clicked shut behind you, you were stripping out of your clothes and stepping under the spray of the shower, turning the knob until the water was scalding and steady.

Steam flooded the bathroom almost instantly, curling up from the tiles and wrapping around your body in a thick, suffocating embrace. You braced your palms against the wall and lowered your head between your arms, letting the water pour down your back until your skin flushed red and raw. You stayed like that for what felt like forever—long enough for the mirror to fog entirely, for the scent of antiseptic and moss and the ghost of burning plastic to lift from your pores. You didn’t cry. But your chest ached. Like your ribs were splintered inward.

It didn’t go away when you dried off.

It wouldn’t–not until you saw him.

You pulled on soft clothes–cotton and fleece and something that didn’t smell like blood or fire–and left your hair damp as you climbed two floors up to the landing deck’s control entrance. The interior of the room was dim, lit only by the soft flicker of wall-mounted displays and the low orange glow from a desk lamp. A row of screens lined the far wall, each one displaying real-time feeds of exterior cameras, weather updates, and flight telemetry.

But your eyes found his dot immediately.

Bright green. Approaching from the west. The tagged signal of his quinjet crept steadily across the screen, and you watched it like a storm rolling in–heart in your throat, stomach tight with a pressure that refused to name itself.

Fifteen minutes.

Ten.

Five.

Your pulse sped up with each passing update, your fingers twitching at your sides like they needed something to hold.

At the two-minute mark, you pushed through the sealed access door and stepped out into the open air.

The helipad stretched wide beneath your feet, matte-black surface gleaming faintly in the sun. Heat from the earlier landing still radiated in soft, wavering pulses across the tarmac. The wind had picked up, brushing cool fingers across your damp hair and bare forearms, carrying with it the sharp tang of jet fuel and steel.

And then–

There. A glint on the horizon.

The backup quinjet appeared like a shadow cresting the sky. Sleek, dark, and fast.

Your breath hitched.

The low rumble of engines grew louder, vibrating in your chest, and you stepped toward the edge of the platform before your brain even fully caught up–drawn forward by something magnetic and ancient.

The aircraft descended in a smooth, arcing glide, rotors pivoting midair to ease its drop. Dust and wind kicked up again, flaring around your legs and tugging at the hem of your shirt. You squinted against the blast, hand lifting instinctively to shield your face, eyes locked on the familiar insignia near the nose of the craft.

Then came the soft whine of the hydraulics.

The landing gear extended and the wheels kissed down onto the platform, and suddenly your heart felt full again.

The engines powered down with a long exhale of hissing pressure. The fuselage creaked and hissed as the cabin adjusted to the temperature outside. For a moment, everything was still–suspended in that fragile, breathless space between anticipation and arrival.

Then the hatch cracked open.

The metal ramp began to lower with a mechanical shhhhtk, steam curling off the edges as it descended.

And through the rising mist of heat and wind and waiting–

Bob emerged from the quinjet like a prayer answered.

His boots thudded heavy against the ramp, the soft hiss of the hydraulic lift barely registering over the pounding of your pulse. He was backlit by the hot shimmer of the sun, wind tugging at the hem of his t-shirt and the open collar of his rumpled overshirt. His light brown hair was longer than when he’d left–just enough that it landed damp above his shoulders, tousled by wind and travel. There was the faintest smudge of exhaustion under his eyes, but those eyes were bright, open, and shining.

He scanned the deck with a blink like he wasn’t sure this was real. Like maybe he was still in his room in Singapore, dreaming you into being. But then his gaze finally locked onto yours.

The breath rushed out of his lungs like he’d been punched with relief. A smile cracked across his face, huge and immediate and boyish–shoulders dropping as if your presence alone had cut the weight from his back.

He placed his go-bag down carefully onto the ground, watching as you quickly made your way toward him.

Your feet barely made a sound against the platform as you crossed it in a blur. He opened his arms the moment you launched yourself at him, catching you against his chest with a force that felt both desperate and safe. His arms wrapped around you tight–so tight your toes barely touched the ground, his nose burying deep into the curve of your neck as he clutched you like something sacred.

He inhaled sharply. Once. Then again.

And again.

“God, I mi-missed that smell,” He breathed, voice cracking at the edge.

You laughed softly against his collarbone, still breathless, as he took another quick, greedy inhale like he could pull your scent into every alveolus of his lungs.

“Bob,” You murmured, threading your fingers into his hair, “You sound like you’re getting high off me.”

“I am,” He replied without shame, muffled against your neck. “I really, really am.”

He smelled different now–familiar in new ways. Still Bob, but layered with something sweeter. His skin was warm beneath your hands, his clothes clinging to him slightly from the heat. But beneath the faint musk of sweat and travel, there was something playful and bright–like artificial strawberry, sugary and almost fizzy at the edges. The scent clung to him like powdered candy–sweet but with a hint of sour, like the dust on taffy or the sheen on a hard-boiled sweet left too long in a pocket. There was a trace of something creamy too, almost milky–like strawberry yogurt melted on skin.

You pulled back slightly, just enough to see his face–and then you kissed him.

Hard. Hungry. Grateful.

His mouth opened against yours like it had been waiting forty-five days for this exact moment, like it was starving for the shape of you. His lips were soft, familiar, and so sweet–your tongue brushed his, and you tasted it instantly: strawberry. Candy-sweet. Creamy and artificial and unexpectedly delicious.

You moaned into the kiss, low and surprised, your fingers curling against his jaw as you pulled him impossibly closer.

When you finally drew back–just enough to breathe–you left a string of soft, fluttering kisses across his cheeks, his temple, the curve of his mouth.

“You taste like you ate a bunch of strawberries and drank a carton of heavy cream,” You whispered. Bob laughed under his breath, the sound breathless and giddy, his eyes crinkling with affection.

“Singapore had these really de-delicious candies in literally every store Bucky and I we-went to,” He said, the smile never leaving his face, “I bought like four bags of them ca-cause I haven’t seen them here…So you better get used to the ta-taste.” You let out a soft laugh, one that curled warm and teasing in your throat as you leaned in again, brushing your nose against Bob’s.

“Already familiar,” You whispered against his lips, the words melting into the shape of his mouth before you kissed him again.

This time it was slower. Deeper.

His lips moved with yours in a way that felt like memory and promise all at once–sweet and soft, drawn out with aching patience. One of his hands rose to cradle your cheek, the heel of his palm pressing gently beneath your ear while his fingers spread along the curve of your jaw. His touch was warm–too warm, almost clammy from travel, from nerves, from how long he’d been waiting to do this. But it was perfect. So perfect.

He held you like he was afraid you’d break. Like your skin was made of silk and fire and everything holy. His thumb brushed the apple of your cheek, slow and reverent, grounding you in that exact moment like he couldn’t bear the thought of it slipping by.

Your knees felt weak. Not from exhaustion, but from how good it felt to have his mouth on yours again–how natural and full and right it was. The warmth bloomed from your chest and spread outward, golden and thick, curling through your limbs until you felt dizzy with it.

But then–

“Ugh.”

The sound snapped like a twig behind Bob.

You both pulled apart just enough to glance over his shoulder–and sure enough, Walker was standing a few feet back on the platform, looking half-dead from jet lag and thoroughly unimpressed. His hair was tousled, his shirt wrinkled, and he was squinting against the brightness of the sky.

“God, guys…” He muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Save it for tonight at least.”

Bob immediately went red. Full-body, neck-to-ear red. He ducked his head, pressing his cheek against your temple like he could hide in the crook of your neck, and mumbled something incomprehensible under his breath. You, still hot and a little dazed, looked at Walker confused.

”What’s tonight?” Before Walker could even answer, Bucky appeared at his side with two duffel bags slung over one shoulder and an obnoxiously smug look on his face.

“Bob rented an AirBnB for all of us,” He replied casually, “So you two could have the compound to yourselves for your little…Reunion.” You turned your head toward Bob, who was now trying very hard to pretend the tarmac was the most fascinating thing in the world.

“Thanks for ru-ruining the surprise, guys,” He mumbled, still bright pink and refusing to meet your eyes.

“I have nothing to do with ruined plan,” Alexei interrupted, as he stepped off the ramp with a grunt, adjusting his top and squinting at the group, “Do not put me in with them.” You laughed–soft, delighted–and pressed another kiss to Bob’s cheek, feeling the heat still radiating beneath your lips. Then another, right beneath his eye, and one more at the edge of his jaw just to hear the tiny sound he made in the back of his throat.

“An Airbnb to send everyone away, hmm?” You teased, your voice low and sweet, curling like smoke in the space between you. “How interesting.” Bob groaned, dramatic and bashful, tipping his forehead to your shoulder like he might melt into it.

“It’s not–ugh, it’s not like that,” He muttered, muffled against your skin, though his arms were still wrapped tight around your waist.

You tilted your head, grinning. “No?”

“Well…” He huffed, finally pulling back enough to meet your eyes, his blush still very much alive. “We’re not ex-exactly…Quiet.” Your brow lifted slowly, amused.

Bob rolled his eyes and admitted, “So it was either they go…Or we get noise co-complaints at a hotel.” That made you snort. Loudly. You shook your head, still smiling, fingers tracing light patterns along the collar of his shirt beneath the hoodie.

”Hey, I’m not complaining about your plan, It’s very thoughtful of you.” His expression softened instantly at that–relief blooming behind the shy curve of his mouth.

He leaned in again, his lips brushing yours as he whispered, “Always thinking a few steps ahead…” A pause. A wink. Then, “Wanted to make sure we had that freedom to be...Vocal.” The both of you shared a mischievous giggle, and then he kissed you again.

It was slower this time, more controlled–but no less full of that rich, aching hunger. His mouth moved with yours like a promise sealed, like he was claiming back every lost second and kissing into existence every single one you still had ahead.

“Someone drug me before they start having sex on the helipad, please,” Walker groaned somewhere down the landing pad, voice loud and so dramatic.

Bob made a noise of protest against your lips. You pulled back just in time to see Bucky roll his eyes and slap a hand against Walker’s chest–not hard, but firm enough to make the man stumble a step.

“Lay off them,” Bucky said with a dry edge. “Remember what happened at the safe house?”

Walker’s face twitched, like maybe he’d just imagined something that was cringe inducing.

Alexei let out a low, theatrical sigh as he adjusted the strap on his shoulder. “I do not wish to remember anything from safe house,” He muttered. “Let’s not bring up again.”

As the three of them started to wander off toward the compound–Walker still muttering under his breath, Bucky nudging him in the ribs every few steps–you turned back to Bob, eyebrows raised in amusement.

“What happened at the safe house?” You asked, lips twitching with a smirk.

Bob groaned and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Let’s just say,” He muttered, sheepish and already blushing again, “I broke the handle off the shower.”

You blinked.

Then grinned.

He winced. “I’m not going into any more details.”

You bit your lip and leaned closer, your breath brushing the shell of his ear.

“I’m sure I’ll get it out of you later…” Bob let out a soft, strangled laugh and hugged you tighter, burying his face in your shoulder again like you were his favorite place in the entire world.

“I have no doubts you will.”

—————————

You and Bob sat on the couch in the common room watching everyone file out of their living quarters with their overnight bags, moving toward the elevator in tired anticipation to leave.

The energy in the compound was unusually domestic–soft, slow, and full of the kind of quiet that only came after long missions and barely-slept nights. Boots scuffed against tile. Zippers rasped. Low murmurs passed between teammates like background static as bag straps were adjusted and mugs of coffee were drained.

You sat close–so close–to Bob that the sides of your bodies felt fused together. His thigh was pressed against yours, solid and warm. Your shoulder nestled beneath the curve of his arm, and his hand rested gently at your knee, thumb brushing absent circles along the soft fleece of your pants like he couldn’t stop reminding himself you were real.

You hadn’t separated since he landed. Not truly. He hovered behind you in hallways, walked so closely beside you it felt like his gravity had shifted just for you. His gaze kept dropping to your mouth, your hands, the shape of you under your hoodie, but he hadn’t touched you like that yet.

Out of respect.

Because the both of you knew–deep down, under skin and soul–that the moment his hands moved with intention, it was over. Forty-five days of self-control and whispered phone sex and waking up aching would snap like a bowstring.

It was going to get loud.

Bob had sent the Airbnb location to Yelena that morning. A sleek, modern condo nestled in the heart of the city, all tall windows and quiet luxury. He’d found it weeks ago, combed through reviews like a man on a mission. It was spacious–room for the whole team, enough bedrooms that no one had to share unless they wanted to, and–his favorite part–a massive living room with a wide sectional and blackout curtains.

The decision to get rid of the team for the night wasn’t just about sex though. It was about having a space that wasn’t made of expectations and constant surveillance. A place where you could sit on the floor in pajamas and eat greasy takeout. Where Bob could press his face into your stomach on the couch and fall asleep there without anyone walking in. A space where time didn’t feel like it was counting down.

Yelena appeared first with her hoodie zipped up to her chin, a messy bun wobbling on top of her head and sunglasses still perched on her nose. She didn’t look up from her phone as she walked by, only offered a casual, “Don’t set the place on fire.”

Ava followed close behind, hair still damp from her shower, headphones already on. She shot you a thumbs-up with a completely unreadable expression, then leaned in to mutter something to Bob that made his ears go red.

Walker was dragging two bags and a blanket under one arm, face scrunched like he hadn’t slept at all. “We’re not even gone yet,” he mumbled as he trudged toward the elevator, “and I already know they’re gonna defile every flat surface in here.”

You grinned sweetly. “Only the clean ones.”

Walker let out an exaggerated groan.

Then came Bucky, ever the last-minute straggler, one hand balancing his duffel and the other wrapped around a travel coffee mug. He paused as the elevator doors opened and turned back toward you and Bob with a flat look and the kind of voice only a tired team leader could muster.

“Please don’t demolish the walls,” He said dryly. “Val will have our heads.” The elevator dinged softly. “Seriously. The drywall’s new.”

Then the doors closed, and silence descended.

It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t even heavy. It was just–instant.

Bob’s eyes found yours.

And for a long, slow second, neither of you moved.

Then, softly–like the words were exhaled from somewhere deeper than his lungs–he murmured, “Alone at last.”

Your breath caught, just slightly, your chest rising as you looked at him.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed.

It was gentle.

His hand rose to cradle the side of your face as he leaned in, mouth brushing yours with a tenderness that made your heart ache. The heat was there–oh, it was–but it simmered beneath the surface, beneath the restraint, in the way his thumb swept beneath your jaw like it was the most important thing in the world to him.

You hummed softly against his lips, a sound of contentment, of relief, of home.

His other hand slipped around your back, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepened just slightly–enough for his breath to hitch. You could feel the tension he’d been holding for weeks bleed out of him, poured into the press of his lips, the way his fingers trembled just a little where they held you.

Your tongue slipped past his lips–slow and teasing–chasing the taste of him, letting that artificial strawberry sweetness coat your senses. He groaned softly into your mouth, a low, helpless sound that vibrated at the back of his throat and made your skin spark like a live wire. His hand curled tighter at your waist as he kissed you deeper, his tongue meeting yours in a slow, slick glide that made heat bloom low in your stomach.

It was dizzying–the way he kissed. There was hunger, but he was so gentle in how he displayed it, holding onto what little control he had. Every brush of his mouth was a confession, a plea, a reminder. Forty-five days. Forty-five fucking days.

You shifted instinctively, climbing into his lap without a word, your knees bracketing his hips, arms wrapping around his shoulders. The second your weight settled on him, his hands flew to your hips like magnets–gripping you hard, like maybe he needed proof you were real and not some hallucination cooked up by longing and strawberry sugar highs.

His mouth opened wider as he kissed you again–deeper this time, slower, like he was savoring you. You pressed forward, grinding against the hardness beginning to grow beneath you, and he gasped, fingers flexing against your sides like he was trying to hold himself back slightly.

”God,” He breathed against your mouth, his voice cracking–wrecked and raw, “You feel so–god, I mi-missed you, so much.” You pulled back just slightly, just enough to look down at him, lips slick and swollen, breaths mingling.

“I missed you too, Bob…” You murmured, your voice thick with heat and something more tender underneath. “So fucking much.”

Then you kissed him again–lingering this time, your lips plush against his, pressing in slow and deep, your tongues sliding together with the kind of wet, open-mouthed heat that left nothing to imagination. It wasn’t rushed, but it was obscene in how thorough it became–messy and wet and utterly addictive. Each pull of his mouth fed the need growing between your legs. Each swirl of your tongue tasted like sugar and ache.

His thighs flexed beneath you, solid and trembling, heat radiating through the fleece of your pants like a furnace. You rocked forward gently–grinding against the thick length of him through his sweatpants–and he choked on a moan, hips twitching up like instinct.

“Y/N–shit,” He whispered, his throat tightening with want, “I’m not go-going to last if yo–“

“We have all night,” You breathed, licking into his mouth with a slow teasing sweep, “I’m pretty sure you’re going to finish more than once tonight.” You swallowed his groan with your mouth.

The kiss deepened again, wet and filthy now–tongues tangling, lips parting wider, spit slicking your chin. You could feel it building–heat curling and crackling between you like static, your core dragging slow over the shape of him. He was hard now. Fully. You could feel him straining against the fabric of his pants, thick and twitching beneath you, and you rocked again–slow and deliberate.

The friction hit you just right–your clit catching on the seam of your underwear and pants–you gasped into his mouth, breaking the kiss with a slick pop. A thread of spit connected your bottom lip to his, and his eyes fluttered open, glazed and desperate.

“Christ,” He muttered, his fingers twitching against your skin.

You leaned forward again, not giving him a moment to recover, your lips brushing his as you whispered, “Open your mouth.” He obeyed instantly. You spit into it.

Just a slow, sensual bead of saliva gathered on your tongue and that dripped into his mouth, and Bob let out the filthiest moan you’d ever heard from him–like the act alone fried something in his brain. His eyes rolled slightly, his hips jerked up into yours, and he caught your face in both hands like he was worshipping you.

He swallowed it.

Greedy.

”One of my fa-favourite drinks,” He groaned, his voice low and trembling, hands sliding down your back to grip your ass, pulling you hard against him. You could feel every inch of him now–every throb, every twitch–and your body burned with the need to feel more.

You kissed him again, lips bruised, spit-slick, tongues dragging slow and sticky. The kind of kiss that made time disappear. The kind of kiss that left you soaked and aching and dizzy.

You ground against him again and again, hips moving in a slow, devastating rhythm that made you both pant. His hands clung to you, moving from your waist to your hips to the underside of your thighs like he couldn’t figure out where he wanted to worship first.

The wet heat between your legs was unbearable now–your underwear stuck to you, and a small wet patch formed on the crotch of your sweatpants as every drag against him lit up your nerves like fireworks.

“I want you to ruin me,” You whispered against his mouth, breath hot and trembling, your voice caught halfway between a plea and a promise.

He whined loudly, the sensations crowding him.

“I–I’m gonna,” He stammered, breathless, eyes wild. “I–I swear to god, I’m gonna.”

And you believed him.

Because you could feel it. In the way his hands gripped you, trembling but unrelenting. In the way he kissed you like he was trying to memorize every taste you’d ever offer him. In the way your bodies locked together–grinding, gasping, swearing under your breaths–desperate to make up for every lost second.

Your hips rocked harder–deliberate now, brutal in how slow you dragged yourself over the thick length of him, grinding down with the weight of everything you’d missed.

Bob sobbed into your mouth.

A real, broken sound that punched out of his throat like it caught him off guard. His hands flew to your hips and gripped them tight, like he didn’t trust himself to survive this if you kept going like that. Like he couldn’t believe this was real and wasn’t about to disappear into ash and heat and wanting.

His head tipped back against the cushion, throat bared, jaw slack.

“Ah–fuck,” He gasped, voice splitting around the curse, his mouth falling open like he’d just been wrecked by air alone. “Ohh my g–“ You cut him off with another kiss, teeth grazing his lip, tongue messy and sweet, spit sliding hot between your mouths. Then you ground down again—hard—your clit hitting just right through the layers of soaked fabric. And he cried for it.

That sound again. So pretty. So pained.

A high, strained nghh that cracked as it left his throat and curved into a ragged moan, his hips jerking up against you like a man possessed.

Your hands dove into his hair without thinking, threading into the soft, travel-tousled strands and yanking–not harshly, but firmly enough to send his spine arching like a bow. He gasped, eyes fluttering open, pupils blown and wild.

“Y-You’re gonna make me come just like this,” he stuttered, lips wet and trembling. “Please, pl–please don’t stop–don’t stop, I need–”

“I’m not stopping,” You panted, dragging your lips over his cheek, your breath hot against his flushed skin. “You feel so fucking good under me, Bob, you’re–god–I’m so close.”

You pushed yourself harder now, riding him with frantic, rolling pressure, your thighs trembling from the tension winding tight in your belly. You weren’t even touching your clit, not directly–but the drag of the fabric, the heat of him underneath, the friction between your soaked bottoms and the thick, pulsing shape of him through his sweatpants–it was enough to send sparks dancing behind your eyes.

You kissed him again, all tongue and spit and teeth, and he groaned into your mouth–deep and guttural this time, the kind of sound that vibrated through his chest and made your insides clench.

Then it happened.

His hands slid down, palms shaking, thumbs pressing into the crease where your thighs met your hips. His body tensed–hard and helpless–and his voice broke.

“F-fuck–I’m coming,” He gasped. He jerked beneath you, his hips thrusting up once, then twice–desperate and involuntary–right as your own orgasm hit you like a tidal wave. Your mouth fell open in a silent moan, your entire body seizing as you came hard against him, pulsing through the pressure, through the fabric, through the ache. Your thighs clamped down around his hips, your nails digging into his clothed shoulders, and you let out a strangled, shattered noise as your head dropped against his.

Bob whined, A long, sharp, high-pitched sound–soaked with surprise and overstimulation and desperate relief–ripping from his throat as he came in his boxers with a wet, audible twitch of fabric. His legs shook under you. His jaw dropped. His brows pinched tight as he grunted hard into your neck, hips spasming beneath the soaked cotton.

“Ah–ahhh, shit,” He choked, his whole body twitching like a live wire as his orgasm dragged him under. You held him through it–kept grinding, slow and deliberate, until you felt the last of it ripple through him. Until his muscles went slack beneath you, his chest heaving against yours.

The aftershocks hit him hard.

One last jerk of his hips. A startled nghh as the wet cling of his boxers brushed over the sensitive head of his cock.

He twitched again.

Then groaned low in his throat, deep and hoarse and trembling, like it physically hurt to feel that good.

You collapsed forward with him, your forehead pressed against his, both of you gasping into the silence like you’d just come up from underwater. His hands were still on your hips, too weak to grip, just resting there like he needed the anchor.

His eyes fluttered open, dazed, wide, ruined.

And then–soft, barely audible–he laughed.

“That’s one way to st–start the night.” Bob murmured, still breathless, the ghost of a stunned smile on his lips. You let out a soft, slow laugh, brushing your nose against his.

“Starting off strong.” You commented, planting a lazy kiss against the corner of his mouth. Then your hand rose to cradle his cheek, the pad of your thumb stroking gently beneath his eye, “Are you okay?” You whispered. His eyes fluttered shut at your touch, lips parting just slightly before he nodded–slow and blissed-out.

“Way more th-than okay…” He breathed, voice warm and wrecked, “But I do think we should grab some water bottles and go to your room so we can…Co-Continue this reunion in comfort.” You grinned, teeth catching your bottom lip, and hummed low in your throat.

“What a perfect idea.” You kissed him again–slow and deep, one last taste of strawberry and spit and satisfaction–and then eased off his lap, your legs trembling slightly as your weight shifted back to your heels. Bob’s gaze dropped between you before either of you said anything, and your eyes followed instinctively. The wet patch on his sweatpants was unmistakable–wide and dark and so obvious it made both of you snort.

“Jesus,” You muttered with a smirk, running a shaky hand through your hair. “We should really not be allowed to be alone.” Bob let out a low, breathless chuckle as he leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, one hand dragging down his flushed face.

“I don’t think we’re gonna make it through the night with any self-control intact…” You steadied yourself enough to stand fully, and once upright, you turned and offered him your hand. He took it without hesitation–his fingers curling around yours with a grip that was still a little weak from release, but no less certain.

You both paused at the fridge on the way to your room, laughter still humming between you. You opened the door and reached for two cold bottles of water, pressing one into his palm. Bob tilted his head toward you, eyes still heavy-lidded but sweet.

“You go to your ro-room,” He said softly, “I have to grab something fr-from my bag.” You blinked, then lifted a brow as you unscrewed your water cap.

“Something secret?” He gave a small, sheepish shrug, his ears tinged pink.

“I brought you ba–back some stuff from Singapore.” Your smirk widened immediately, playful heat blooming behind your eyes.

“Oh?”

“Mm-hmm,” He nodded, ducking his head a little like it would help cool the flush creeping up his neck, “I-I’ll meet you in your room.” Your smile widened as you leaned in to kiss him again—quick, soft, a brush of sweetness against his mouth.

Then you pulled back, grinning with mischief, and turned on your heel to head for your room. You only made it two steps before Bob’s hand landed firmly with a smack against your backside.

You jumped, an involuntary squeak slipping from your lips as heat immediately bloomed in your cheeks. You turned your head just enough to give him a narrow-eyed glare over your shoulder, but the curve of your smirk betrayed you.

“I’ll get you back for that,” You murmured darkly.

Bob just stood there with his water bottle in one hand, cheeks flushed and lips still a little swollen, absolutely pleased with himself. His eyes sparkled, that stupidly innocent smile tugging at his mouth like he hadn’t just made your knees buckle twenty minutes ago.

“I’m counting on it,” He called after you.

You shook your head fondly and slipped into your room.

It was exactly how you’d left it before the mission. Soft lighting filtering through partially drawn curtains, a faint scent of your shampoo lingering in the air. Your bedding was still tidy, throw blanket folded across the foot of the mattress, pillows fluffed just the way Bob liked them when he curled around you. The air was just a touch too cool–nothing a hoodie wouldn’t fix–but it felt good. Familiar.

A quick glance at the windowsill told you your plants had survived your absence. Somehow. A bit droopy, but alive. You made a mental note to thank whoever watered them while you were away.

You padded across the room, toes sinking into the plush rug near your bed. With one hand, you tugged at the waistband of your sweatpants, wincing a little at how the fabric clung to the still-damp spot between your legs. You peeled them down slightly, just to adjust, sighing at the relief of cooler air brushing against your skin. You weren’t even embarrassed by the state you were in.

Your eyes flicked to the nightstand where your duffel bag sat, and you moved to unzip it. Nestled between a spare hoodie and your toiletry kit was the small, wrapped package you’d been saving. You pulled it free and unwrapped it quickly, heart thudding just a little harder as you turned the leather-bound journal over in your hands.

It was dark brown, buttery-soft to the touch, the kind that scuffed easily and aged beautifully. You’d picked it up in Wellington–tucked away in a little market beside the coast, just before your last recon sweep. The cover had a subtle stitched border, and you’d chosen it because it reminded you of Bob’s hands. Quietly worn, deeply warm, and steady. There was no name, no decoration. Just a smooth, empty canvas that you hoped he’d fill.

You placed it gently at the center of your bed.

A peace offering, in a way. And a small shield against the storm of affection you knew would pour out of him the second he saw it. Bob was the kind of man who insisted you keep every gift, who got flustered when receiving anything himself, always murmuring things like “You shouldn’t have,” or “Y-you didn’t have to do th-that for me.”

But this time? This time you had something ready. Something just as thoughtful as whatever was in his bag. And he wasn’t going to get the upper hand.

You straightened up, smoothing your hoodie and adjusting your sweatpants again.

Then the door creaked open slowly, and Bob peeked in with an expression that could only be described as suspiciously innocent. His cheeks were still pink from earlier, and he was holding something behind his back.

Your brows lifted. “What are you hiding?”

Bob stepped inside, shutting the door with his heel. “Al–Alright,” He said, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, “Pick a hand.”

You smirked. “The right one.”He let out a small, boyish laugh, clearly delighted, and brought his right hand around from behind his back to reveal a snow globe. Your eyes lit up instantly.

“Oh my god,” You breathed, reaching out to take it from his hands like it was something precious. “You got me a new addition to my collection?”

The snow globe was small and delicate, the glass catching the soft light of your room in a shimmer. Inside was a miniature skyline of Singapore, etched with startling detail. The Marina Bay Sands hotel curved along the waterline, flanked by palm trees and the iconic Merlion statue mid-roar. Tiny flecks of silver and gold glitter drifted inside when you gave it a soft shake, swirling around the little city like a gentle tropical storm. The base was painted a deep navy blue, trimmed in gold, and read Singapore in looping script, with tiny sakura flowers embossed around the edge.

Bob rubbed the back of his neck, watching your expression with a shy, lopsided smirk. “Th–Thought you might like it.”

“I love it,” you said warmly, already moving toward your closet. You flipped on the light, revealing the top shelf lined with snow globes from all over the world–Tokyo, Seoul, Prague, Toronto, even one that had a miniature version of the Watchtower in it, a custom made one that everyone chipped in for. Each globe was spaced carefully, each one part of the quiet little story of where you’d been–or where the people you loved had thought of you.

You made a space in the very center, shifted a few things aside, and placed the Singapore globe with reverence.

It fit perfectly.

Bob stepped closer behind you, just watching the way your face softened in the warm closet light. Then, he revealed what was in his other hand. a small stack of postcards, corners slightly curled, edges lovingly preserved.

You turned, already laughing under your breath. “You know me too well, Bob.”

He shrugged, bashful. “Every shop had a rack of them. I just… I dunno. Thought of you every time.”

You flipped through them slowly–sunsets over the harbor, busy market scenes, a picture of a street vendor surrounded by colorful bowls of food, and even one of a snoozing orange cat on a windowsill with the caption “Singapore Siesta.”

“I can’t believe you remembered,” You murmured, touched.

Bob smiled shyly. “Y-You keep everything, how co-could I not remember?”

You turned, placing the postcards on your desk carefully before glancing back at him with a raised brow and a teasing smile. “You definitely topped me when it came to souvenirs, though.”

He tilted his head, confused.

You motioned toward the bed with a tilt of your chin. “Look.”

Bob followed your gaze. His eyes fell on the leather-bound journal lying at the center of your bed.

He froze.

His breath hitched softly, and you saw the way his expression shifted–fondness overtaking surprise. He stepped forward slowly, like he didn’t want to touch it until he was absolutely sure it was real.

“No way…” He whispered.

He picked it up carefully, both hands cradling it like it was something sacred. His thumbs brushed the buttery-soft surface, fingertips skimming the stitched border before he lifted it closer to his face and breathed in the rich, familiar scent of fresh leather.

“Th–This is perfect.”

His voice cracked a little on the word perfect.

Your heart clenched, watching the way his hands squeezed the journal gently–like he was testing the give of it, the texture, the weight. You knew Bob was the kind of man who held onto his thoughts quietly, like pages yet to be written. This was for him. A safe place to empty all the things he could never say out loud.

“You said you needed a new one, so I thought it would be a good buy.” Bob’s gaze found yours then, eyes glasses and full of warmth.

“Yo-You didn’t have to,” He murmured. Bob smiled softly, setting the journal down on your nightstand with a reverence that made your chest ache. Then he reached into the front pocket of his hoodie, pulling out the water bottle he’d been carrying like an afterthought and placing it next to the journal.

When he turned back to you, something shifted. There was still that tender glow in his eyes, but it had deepened–melted into something low and hungry and warm. He closed the space between you in three slow steps, arms slipping around your waist like they belonged there. His head dipped down, lips brushing yours in a barely-there kiss that lingered with the quiet weight of a promise.

“You know I wanted to,” you whispered against his mouth, the words feather-light but firm.

He smirked and kissed you again–just a little firmer this time, just a little deeper. You felt it in the bend of his fingers against your lower back, the way his breath hitched slightly as your hips grazed his.

“No–now,” He murmured, voice thick and gravel-slick, “I gotta thank you.”

You tilted your head, eyebrow lifting. “And how are you going to do that?”

He licked his lips slowly, almost nervously, and you could see the flicker of anticipation ripple down his throat.

“Well…” His voice dropped lower–warm and sinful, spun from velvet and longing. “I’ll need you to take your clothes off first…And th–then I’ll be able to show you.” The knot in your stomach tightened like a pulled thread unraveling down your spine. Heat rushed through you, dizzying and thick.

“Okay…” You breathed, the word barely more than a gasp.

You reached for the hem of your hoodie and peeled it upward, exposing your torso inch by inch–skin flushed and warm beneath the soft light of your room. Then came the sweatpants, shoved down in a quick, fluid motion, pooling at your ankles. You stepped out of them, bare feet brushing over the rug as you stood there in your lingerie–black lace against your skin, the bra hugging your chest just right, the matching underwear cut high on your hips, trimmed with satin that caught the glow of the bedside lamp.

His eyes drank you in.

Wide and glassy, bottom lip caught lightly between his teeth as he took you in, slow and reverent, like seeing you like this for the first time all over again.

“Go la–lay down for me,” he whispered.

You let the smallest smile curve your lips. “Hmm… Getting a little dominant tonight, are we?”

He huffed a quiet, breathless laugh, his gaze still glued to every inch of exposed skin like he couldn’t decide what to worship first.

“No,” He started, voice trembling with something deeper, “I ju–just really want to shower you with all the love I’ve been holding in for the past forty-five days.”

The way he said it broke something open inside you. The honesty in it. The need. The adoration packed so tightly into that single sentence that it spilled out the seams and into the air between you.

Your heart thundered against your ribs as you backed up toward the bed, eyes never leaving his. You climbed up slowly, settling into the mattress with a soft rustle of sheets, your head propped gently against the pillows as you watched him.

He pulled the hoodie over his head, revealing the white undershirt stretched across his chest, the hem already clinging faintly with sweat. His hands were shaking slightly as he pushed down his sweatpants, leaving him in nothing but his damp boxers below the waist–the dark patch still visible, the bulge unmistakable beneath the fabric.

Bob crawled onto the bed on his hands and knees, slow and deliberate, like each movement was calculated to draw this out–to make you feel the weight of him even before he touched you.

The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he moved between your legs, the space between your thighs already open and waiting, the warmth of him folding into you like a tide returning to shore. His eyes flicked down to your chest, your stomach, your parted legs–and then back to your face, as if grounding himself in the look you gave him was more important than anything else.

When he finally settled on top of you, his forearms braced on either side of your head, his hips resting lightly against yours, the thin fabric of his shirt brushed against your bare skin–and it was maddening. Too soft, too teasing. You could feel the slight dampness from his travel still clinging to him, the faint warmth of the fabric where it hugged his ribs and chest. But it was the pressure of his body, the closeness, the utter reverence in his eyes that made you tremble beneath him.

Then he kissed you.

And it wasn’t soft this time.

It was intimate.

His lips met yours with a low, desperate hunger, and his tongue slipped into your mouth immediately–warm, searching, slow. Not rough, not rushed. Just thorough. Like he wanted to taste every inch of you. Like he wanted to crawl into your lungs and live in your breath. He kissed you the way someone might memorize a language–studying the shape of every sound, every sigh.

You moaned softly into his mouth, fingers curling around the back of his neck, nails lightly scratching at his scalp as he deepened the kiss–his body settling further into yours without even meaning to.

He pulled back only slightly, lips slick and parted, and then began trailing kisses lower. Down your jaw. Across the slope of your throat. He didn’t rush. Not once. Each kiss was a pause, a breath, a confession. His tongue flicked along the tendon of your neck before he nipped gently, coaxing a shiver from your spine.

Then he found the soft skin just beneath your collarbone–and stopped.

Bob hovered there, his breath fanning hot over the spot, and you could feel the anticipation build before his mouth even touched you. His hand slid up your side, fingers spreading along your ribs like he needed to hold you still for this.

And then he latched on.

It was messy.

Wet.

Intense.

He sucked hard, drawing the skin into his mouth with a heat that bordered on indulgence. Like he wasn’t just giving you a hickey–he was kissing you there. Making out with your skin. His tongue rolled over the mark he was forming, slow and deliberate, and then he licked it–flat, hot, and wide–before dragging his teeth across the spot in a light graze.

You arched into him with a gasp, your legs twitching beneath his hips, and your fingers dove into his hair–scratching lightly at his scalp in response.

Bob groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your chest.

Then he did it again.

Sucked the same spot until it deepened–purple, red and raw with affection. When he finally pulled back, a line of saliva connected his lips to your skin, and he exhaled shakily.

“God…” He muttered, staring down at the bruise he’d made. He reached up with one finger and traced over it gently, eyes heavy with something carnal and affectionate all at once. Then he smirked–soft, proud, utterly ruined–and murmured, “So pr-pretty like this.”

Before you could even respond, Bob’s mouth was hot and wet on you again as he dragged his tongue across the swell of your breast, lips plush and reverent as he sucked another slow bruise into the sensitive skin just above the cup of your bra. His breath trembled against your chest, and you could feel the quiet desperation in the way his hands gripped your sides–like he was trying to memorize the give of your body under his palms.

Then, with an ease born of familiarity, his hand slipped behind the arch of your back and unclasped your bra with a single, practiced motion.

The moment the tension released, he pulled off the spot he’d been sucking on with a slick, satisfied pop, just long enough to slip the straps from your shoulders and drag the bra off your arms. He tossed it aside, not even glancing at where it landed–his eyes too fixed on the bare skin he’d just revealed.

“Fuck…” He whispered, almost to himself, his voice thick with awe. His hands cupped your breasts gently, then firmer, thumbs brushing over your nipples with careful, trembling pressure. You shivered, breath hitching as his palms molded to your curves like they’d been made for this–made for you.

“So so-soft…” He murmured, lowering his head again.

He returned to the place he’d been working–right above your left breast–and latched back on, determined to make the mark last. His tongue rolled over the bruise as he sucked, lips sealing around the skin with a heat that sent sparks crawling across your nerves. You arched into him, pressing your chest deeper into his mouth as your thighs squeezed around his hips.

Bob groaned low and desperate in response–his hips pressing forward, grinding into your core in a slow, instinctive rut.

The friction–hot and muffled by fabric–was just enough to make you sigh, breath soft and sultry against the shell of his ear.

“Love the way you do that, Bob…”

The sound he made in return was helpless–high and wrecked and muffled by the curve of your breast. His moan vibrated through your skin as he moved his mouth to your nipple, dragging his tongue in a slow swirl around it before pulling it into his mouth with a reverent suck.

You gasped, your hands flying to his hair again, fingers tightening as he flicked his tongue once–twice–and then sucked harder, sealing his mouth around your breast with the kind of worshipful attention that made your spine curl off the mattress.

“You’re so good to me,” You whispered, breathless, your head tipping back against the pillow.

Bob’s hips rocked into you again, harder this time, his cock thick and twitching through the soaked cotton of his boxers. The weight of him, the friction, the praise–it was too much and not enough all at once.

He pulled off with a pop and immediately moved to your other breast, mouthing at it like he needed to even the score. His hand slid up your side again to squeeze the one he’d just abandoned, kneading it gently while he sucked and licked and nibbled on the other–teeth grazing your nipple just enough to make you whimper.

He moaned against your chest again, louder this time, like the taste of you alone could bring him to the edge. His tongue flattened against your skin as he dragged it across the soft curve, leaving you slick and burning in his wake.

Then–without warning–he began kissing lower.

Down your sternum.

Across the softness of your stomach.

His mouth slowed when he reached your hips, and you felt his breath catch–just slightly–when his eyes landed on the healing cuts decorating your skin. Thin and raw and pink, like paper slices that had only just begun to close.

Bob stilled.

Then he leaned down and pressed a slow, reverent kiss to the first one–right above your hipbone. His lips lingered there, gentle and tender. He kissed the next one too, lower this time, and then another–his breath shaking more with each one.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t have to.

You could feel everything in the way his mouth moved against the wounds—careful and aching and quiet, like each kiss was an apology for not being there.

Then he reached the sharp jut of your hip bone and latched on again, sucking a new mark right onto the edge. It hurt, just a little–just enough to drag a gasp from your lungs–but the sound that left Bob’s throat was something close to relief. Like he’d wanted to leave a piece of himself there. Like marking you made him feel closer. Anchored.

His mouth pulled off the bone with a pop, and he exhaled hard, his breath fogging across the skin just above your underwear.

He hovered there for a moment.

Then slowly, one of his hands slid down the curve of your thigh and traced back up–until his fingers hooked just beneath the waistband of your underwear.

He looked up at you.

Eyes dark and shining.

Silent question.

And you nodded, just once, already trembling with anticipation. Bob held your gaze for a moment longer, his fingers still curled beneath the band of your underwear–then, slow and deliberate, he tugged them down.

The lace dragged over your thighs with maddening friction, catching slightly at the bend of your knees before slipping off entirely. He eased them down your calves, then over your ankles, hands reverent, careful–as if this moment might slip away if he moved too quickly.

But when they were finally off your legs, he didn’t toss them aside.

He balled them up in his fist.

And brought them to his nose.

The moment he inhaled, his eyes fluttered shut. His chest expanded with the breath, like it filled his lungs with something divine, something necessary, and he let out a broken, breathless moan that shook in the center of his throat.

“Go–God, I missed your scent so much…” He whispered. His voice cracked on the word “missed.” Then he exhaled like he’d just been blessed and tossed the lace aside, completely ruined.

You bit your lip, heat surging low and fast between your legs at the sight of him so thoroughly gone from something so simple–so intimate.

He sat back on his knees just long enough to tug his shirt off over his head. It clung slightly to his damp skin, catching on his biceps before he yanked it free, baring his chest to you. His body was flushed pink–heat blooming across his pecs, the swell of his shoulders, the soft dip of his stomach. His muscles tensed slightly as the air hit him, a visible shiver passing through him as he dropped the shirt behind him without a second thought.

Then he looked at you again.

And something changed.

Bob’s eyes dropped to your center, gaze zeroing in on the slick glistening between your thighs like it physically rooted him to the spot. His breath caught–sharp and shallow–and he swore under it.

“F-Fuck,” He whispered. “You’re so wet I ca–can see it–Jesus.”

His hands moved before his thoughts could catch up–gripping your thighs and pushing them up, pressing your knees gently toward your stomach until you were completely open for him. His fingers trembled against your skin, knuckles white with restraint, pupils blown wide as he stared down at the dripping mess between your legs like he’d stumbled across something holy.

And then–

He buried his face in you.

No warning.

No teasing.

Just full contact.

His tongue licked a stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit in one slow, filthy motion, and he moaned the second he tasted you–loud and helpless, like the taste of you lit up something inside him.

“I missed this–I mi-missed this so much–”He choked out into your core. You cried out, your hips jolting up into his face, and he welcomed it–his hands flying to your thighs to hold you steady as he devoured you like a man starved. He sucked your clit into his mouth, lips sealing around it like a kiss, and moaned again–low and guttural, the sound vibrating directly into you.

Your hands dove into his hair instinctively, gripping tight, grounding yourself.

“Oh my god, Bob–fuck, yes–just like that–”

He groaned again, this one higher, more desperate, as he dragged his tongue down to your entrance and licked into you like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted. His nose nudged against your clit with every stroke, every filthy swirl of his tongue that curled and flexed and explored you like he was learning you all over again.

“You taste–god–you taste ev-even better than I remember,” He gasped between licks, his voice thick and trembling. “Could eat you for hours–fuck–I’d die between your thighs, I swear to god–”

You whimpered, your hips rocking against his mouth instinctively. The angle had him pinned perfectly–your knees pressed up, his hands gripping your thighs, his mouth working you over with the kind of hunger that bordered on feral.

You rolled your hips, grinding into his face.

He moaned–loud, breathless, broken.

“Th–That’s it,” He slurred, “Fuck–use me–use my mouth, don’t stop–don’t stop–please–“

“God, Bob,” You gasped, your thighs trembling around his head, “You’re so good–so fucking good at this–you do this like it’s your fucking job–“ Bob whined. A high, desperate sound muffled by your core, his hips rutting into the mattress below as he licked faster, messier. His tongue moved in tight, eager circles over your clit before flattening out, licking in wide, wet swipes, his breath hot and uneven. You were soaked, dripping onto his chin, his cheeks, your slick painting his mouth.

“Such a good boy,” you panted, fingers yanking gently on his hair. “My perfect boy–so hungry for me–so fucking good with that mouth–”

He gasped against you, voice ragged and pleading.

“Say it again–p–please–”

“My good boy,” You moaned, your whole body tensing under the onslaught of pleasure. “My sweet, filthy, perfect boy–just can’t get enough, can you?”

His moan ripped through you.

He sucked your clit hard in response, then released it just to lick faster–his tongue working in rhythm now, determined and frantic, as his hips jerked down against the mattress with helpless need. He was grinding, whimpering, devouring you with every breath like it might be his last.

You could feel your orgasm rising–fast, hot, uncontrollable.

Your back arched.

Your breath caught.

“Bob–Bob–I’m gonna–”

And he moaned again–deep and wrecked–and latched back onto your clit, sucking like he was starving for it.

“Come for me,” He gasped against your core, “I wanna taste it–I need it–I fucking need it–pl-please, come for me–” He didn’t give you a chance to brace yourself. Bob buried his face deeper into your core–his nose grinding into your clit now, his mouth open wide as his tongue plunged into your entrance. The wet, obscene sound of him eating you echoed softly between your thighs. He moaned when he felt you tighten around him, his mouth so far into you it felt like he was trying to consume your very soul.

That was what pushed you over.

Your hips jerked violently upward, your fingers twisting in his hair as your back arched off the mattress. A cry ripped from your throat, sharp and breathless, your whole body locking up as the orgasm hit you like a detonated star.

“Fuck–fuck, B–Bob–!”

He groaned into your core, tongue fucking you through it, deep and rhythmic, slow and greedy. He didn’t let up–not when your thighs quaked, not when your heels dug into the mattress, not when your breath hitched and choked. He just held you open, drank you down like something divine, and moaned at every pulse of you around his tongue.

He didn’t come up for air until you were trembling too hard to keep your hips still. Until your hands, still tangled in his hair, went slack with overstimulation and your voice cracked on a whimper of his name.

Only then did Bob ease back.

He kissed your core once. Then again.

Soft, reverent.

One just above your clit. Another to the inside of your thigh. A final one to your soaked entrance, like a benediction.

Then he moved–slowly, carefully–up your body.

You were limp beneath him, muscles warm and twitching, breath coming in shallow waves.

And then he kissed you.

His mouth was slick, drenched in you, tongue warm and coated in your taste as he pressed it into yours with an aching sound that cracked open your chest. His kiss was everything–grateful, overwhelmed, heavy with the need to share the pleasure he’d taken from you. You moaned softly into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue, and suddenly it made sense. The addiction. The need. The way he whined when you came, the way he talked about dying between your thighs.

You got it now.

The taste of your orgasm still fresh and thick on his tongue, he kissed you like a man whose reward was worship.

You stroked a hand through his hair–messy, damp at the temples–and pressed your forehead to his.

“My turn,” You whispered.

Bob blinked at you, dazed. Wrecked. Glowing.

“Wh–what?”

You rolled him gently onto his back. “Let me take care of you now.”

His breath stuttered. “O-Okay.”

He watched, wide-eyed, as you settled between his legs, your mouth already swollen, your chin still shining with shared slick. His boxers clung damp to his thighs–soaked from earlier, dark with release, still visibly hard beneath the wet fabric.

You reached for the waistband and dragged them down–slow, careful, deliberate.

His cock sprung free, flushed and swollen, still glistening from his earlier orgasm. The base was damp, the head still wet, a bead of precum forming right at the tip.

You hummed low in your throat. “God you’re so hard…”

Bob’s hips twitched at your tone.

You leaned in, and licked the head. A single, slow stroke of your tongue across the slit–salty and warm. You moaned at the taste.

Bob sobbed.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a breathless, overwhelmed, strangled gasp that punched out of him like the air had been stolen from his lungs.

“Fu–Fuck,” He whispered, his head falling back against the pillow, one hand gripping the sheet. You wrapped one hand around the base, stroking him slowly as you took him into your mouth. Just the tip. Just a tease. Your tongue swirled around it, lapping up the mess he couldn’t stop making, dragging a groan from deep in his chest.

“Still so sensitive.” You murmured, after pulling off with a slick pop, “Didn’t even get a break.” His cock twitched in your hand. His mouth opened, but no words came out–just a ragged gasp.

You smirked.

Then you went back in–deeper this time, your lips wrapping tight around him, your mouth wet and hot and relentless. You bobbed slowly, taking more with each stroke, your saliva mixing with his leftover arousal, making everything obscenely slick. Your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t reach. It was a mess. And he was falling apart.

“Y-you’re gonna kill me,” He gasped, his other hand flying to your hair, fingers curling tight.

You moaned around him.

And then–just when you felt the tension peak in his thighs–you stopped.

Pulled off with a slurp, your mouth slick and open, your eyes heavy-lidded as you watched him writhe.

Bob whined.

His whole body arched, hips lifting like they could chase the heat of your mouth. His face was flushed red. His cock throbbed in your hand, dripping slowly. You gave him a few strokes, slow and deliberate, your fist gliding up the slick length of him while your other hand anchored against his trembling thigh. Bob’s cock twitched in your grasp, flushed dark and leaking steadily, and his chest heaved like he was trying to keep it together with willpower alone.

Your eyes didn’t leave his face.

You wanted to see it. Every flicker of ruin. Every little shake in his jaw. Every desperate, bitten-off moan he couldn’t stop from spilling past those plush lips.

He was wrecked already–eyes blown wide, mouth slack, hands curled tight in the sheets. You gave the head of his cock a teasing lick, then sucked him back into your mouth for a few strokes, tongue dragging over the sensitive underside. He let out a strangled sound–part moan, part sob–and his hips twitched up, involuntary and helpless.

But just as you felt the tension start to crest in his thighs again–just as you tasted that telltale shift of salt and heat in the precum–you pulled off with a wet pop and let him slip from your lips.

“Fuuuck–” Bob gasped, his whole body jerking. “Ugh… You ca-can’t do that–”

His voice cracked on the words. Wrecked. Pleading. Beautiful.

You grinned up at him, wicked and flushed and so full of want you were practically vibrating.

“Maybe…” You panted, dragging your mouth back up to his flushed torso, “I want you inside me now.”

The breath punched out of him.

A choked, feral little grunt escaped his throat before his hands found your waist and flipped you both over in one, seamless motion–quick and rough, the mattress bouncing beneath your bodies. You let out a breathless sound, startled but exhilarated, and spread your legs immediately beneath him, thighs falling open in invitation.

Bob was already reaching between you, frantic but focused, one hand sliding down your belly to grip his cock. He lined himself up with you in a single, sure movement, the head pressing hot and slick against your dripping entrance.

And then–he pushed in.

All the way.

No warning. No pause. No breath to adjust.

He sank into you in one smooth, devastating thrust, and your back arched with a gasp so sharp it could’ve split the air.

“Fuck–Bob–!”

You took him so well–your core soaked and ready, clenching around the stretch of him with a wet, obscene squelch that echoed in the room. He groaned low, trembling, his body folding over yours as he buried himself to the hilt, the weight of him heavy and perfect between your thighs.

“God–you’re such a good girl…Ta-Taking me so well–” He choked, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. “So warm–f-fuck–I missed this so much–“ You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, nails digging into the meat of his back as he pulled out and slammed back in again–hard, deep, relentless. The sound of skin against skin filled the room, fast and filthy, every thrust wet and thick with the heat of you.

He was fucking you like he meant it.

Like he couldn’t help himself.

Like it had been forty-five days of aching and this was the only way to survive it.

“Don’t stop–don’t stop–” You moaned, clawing at his back. “Bob, please–fuck–don’t hold back–”

He didn’t.

He grunted hard and adjusted–grabbing the backs of your thighs and pushing them up, folding your legs toward your chest. The angle shifted, deepened, and the second he thrust again, you screamed.

“Ah–oh fuck–!”

He grinded into your g-spot with terrifying precision, over and over again, his eyes glued to the way your face contorted with every stroke. Sweat beaded along his temples, dripping down his chest as he pounded into you, thighs slapping yours in a rhythm that felt like it was going to make you cry.

Then–one hand slid down.

And he started rubbing your clit.

Fast. Rough. Desperate.

“Bob–!” You sobbed, your body writhing under him, “Yes–fuck–just like that–don’t stop–”

His fingers were slick with your arousal, rubbing tight, messy circles over the swollen bud as he fucked you deeper, harder, your walls clenching wildly around him.

“Y-You’re gripping me so hard–so wet–fuck–I-I can’t–” His voice cracked into a whimper, and he thrust even harder, hips snapping against yours like he couldn’t hold back a second longer.

Then he grabbed one of your legs and brought it over his shoulder, bracing himself deeper inside you.

You shattered.

Your eyes rolled back, your mouth fell open, and your back bowed off the bed as the angle hit something devastating inside you–your clit throbbing under his fingers, your cunt milking him like you were begging for him to come with you.

“Oh my god–oh my god–Bob–I’m gonna–”

“Come with me,” He gasped, his thrusts faltering now, erratic and fast and sloppy, “Come with me, baby, please–I’m so close–”

Your nails raked down his back, your whole body clenching–

Then you came.

Hard.

A scream tore from your throat as your orgasm exploded through you–wet and messy and overwhelming–your walls pulsing around him like it was trying to keep him. Bob let out a strangled moan and followed immediately after, his cock twitching deep inside you, hot spurts flooding you as his body trembled through release. He collapsed against you with a wrecked groan, his hips twitching helplessly as the last waves of pleasure rocked through him.

Both of you were shaking.

Sweat-slicked. Soaked. Breathless.

And for a long, stunned moment, the only sound was your mingled panting and the pulse of your hearts trying to slow.

Then Bob’s mouth found your neck again.

Soft. Tender. Like he couldn’t stop kissing you even if he tried.

His breath was still ragged when he finally slid your leg down from his shoulder, easing it back onto the bed with a trembling hand. He hovered over you for one more beat–eyes fluttering, lips parted–and then he thrust once more, slow and deep, just to feel you squeeze around him before he leaned in and kissed you.

Soft. Gentle. A thank-you in the shape of a mouth.

Then he pulled back, his chest still heaving, and carefully eased out of you.

Your body clenched reflexively at the loss, slick heat stretching between you for a moment before it broke. Bob’s gaze dropped immediately to your center–and his breath caught again.

“Jesus…” He murmured.

His cum was already beginning to leak from you, creamy and wet, slipping in lazy trails down your folds. He groaned softly–wrecked and reverent–and brought his hand down between your legs. Without saying a word, he collected the mess with his middle and ring fingers, gathering it up from the sheets and your thighs in slow, deliberate strokes.

Then he pressed them back into you.

You gasped at the intrusion, hips twitching as his fingers sank in, thick and warm, curling slightly inside you as he tried to push his cum deeper. The stretch made you whimper, your body still spasming from aftershocks.

“Bob–” You choked, your hand flying down to wrap around his wrist. “Super sensitive. You need to give me a minute or two to recover.”

He froze immediately.

Then flushed.

“Oh–So-Sorry,” he stammered, ears turning red as he slowly, carefully pulled his fingers from you, wet with your combined slick.

He paused for only a second–then lifted his hand to his mouth and licked his middle finger clean. His tongue was slow, savoring, his lashes fluttering just slightly like the taste truly did something to him.

Your breath hitched.

Before he could finish, you caught his hand and brought it to your mouth, eyes locked on his as you took his ring finger between your lips.

His lips parted.

You sucked slow and sweet, tongue dragging over the knuckle, swallowing every last trace of yourselves off his skin. When you pulled back, his breath stuttered out of him like you’d knocked the wind from his lungs.

“We were ma–made for each other,” He complimented, voice hoarse, broken by awe. “We ta-taste so good together.”

You smirked, still licking the last of him from your lips.

“It’s fate,” You said simply.

Bob let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, his expression somewhere between blissed-out and utterly ruined. He leaned forward and kissed you again–slow and deep–his mouth still warm and sticky with the taste of you both. He pulled back and kissed you again. And again. Small pecks now, like he couldn’t stop.

Then, between kisses, he whispered, “Se–Sentry’s coming out.”

You giggled quietly, brushing your fingers along his jaw. You’d seen it before–the flicker of golden light creeping into his pupils, the way it shimmered there, not quite overwhelming the blue yet, just painting it at the edges like sunlight bleeding into ocean water.

“Haven’t seen him in a while…”

“Ye-Yeah, I know.”

Bob’s voice was a whisper–thin, cracking, like it was being dragged up from somewhere far beneath his ribs. Then his body gave a visible shudder, a ripple that traveled down his spine as he kissed you one last time–slow, plush, lingering.

That warmth you already knew so well–his body heat, always a little higher than normal–suddenly spiked. Not painfully. Not even sharply. Just… More. More radiant. More sun-like. It rolled off him in waves, chasing away the post-orgasmic chill on your skin, wrapping you in something golden and alive.

A low groan slipped from his throat as he pulled back, and when his face came back into focus, the shift was unmistakable.

The glow had arrived.

Sunlight bloomed behind his eyes–liquid gold bleeding into blue, curling like solar flares into the edges of his irises. It wasn’t aggressive. It wasn’t overpowering. It just… shimmered. Lit him from the inside out.

You smiled up at him, breath still shallow, your body still limp and soft against the sheets. His gaze flickered across your face, slow and heady, before he raised his eyebrows and clicked his tongue softly.

“My my…” Sentry murmured, voice like molten honey. “What an absolute mess.” You let out a breathless laugh, eyes crinkling with the warmth of it.

“You’re not wrong.”

His gaze dropped briefly to where your thighs still glistened and your chest still rose in shaky waves. He leaned in again, kissed you slow–open-mouthed, reverent, like he was relishing the taste of what you’d become under his hands.

Then he pulled back just enough to murmur, smugly, “Go Bob.”

You couldn’t help it–you snorted, hand covering your mouth. He laughed too, low and pleased, before sighing and leaning back a little more, holding out his hands for you to grab onto.

”Let’s get you cleaned up, hmm?” You exhaled, eyes drifting toward the ceiling. Your legs shifted slightly, just testing–and immediately trembled beneath the weight of sensation. You blinked, surprised, and let out a sheepish laugh.

“I don’t think I can get up.” You informed, looking at Sentry, who was grinning.

“I figured,” He said, bending down and pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee, where the tremble still lingered. “I’ll grab the washcloths.”

“Thank you, Sentry,” You murmured, watching him as he stood.

He moved with the same effortless power you always forgot he had–strength wrapped in golden light. His body, fully bare now, glowed softly under the lamplight and the afterglow of you. You watched his backside unashamedly as he crossed the room, muscles flexing beneath flushed, still-sweaty skin.

He opened the bathroom door without closing it behind him–never one to hide from you–and you saw the slow, methodical way he moved as he pulled open your top drawer and grabbed two washcloths. First, he wiped down his own body with the dry one, slow strokes that caught in the curve of his neck, along the slope of his stomach, over the flex of his thighs. He stood in front of the mirror as he did it, head tilted slightly, studying his reflection–not with vanity, but quiet curiosity. Like he was grounding himself.

You caught yourself watching him, that soft, primal appreciation coiling deep in your chest.

He reached for the second cloth, ran it under warm water, and turned to come back to you, shuffling back towards the bed. He knelt onto the edge, the free hand resting on your thigh so he could anchor himself.

“How was the mission?” He asked, his voice still thick with warmth and post-coital reverence.

You sighed softly, eyes flicking to his golden ones. “The usual…” Your fingers toyed with the corner of a pillow. “I was just missing Bob. And you. The entire time.”

He let out a soft laugh–quiet, fond, maybe a little shy.

“I broke a few things accidentally because I missed you too,” he said, glancing up at you as he dipped the cloth lower. “So I guess we were in the same boat.”

You smiled as he began to clean you.

It wasn’t clinical. It wasn’t rushed. It was worship.

The washcloth was warm and damp, and his touch was slow, tender, deliberate. He wiped between your thighs with a gentleness that made your throat tighten. Each pass of the cloth was like an apology and a promise–careful strokes that swept through the sticky mess he’d left behind, the sensitivity still twitching beneath your skin. He didn’t rush. He didn’t look away. He cleaned you like it meant something to him.

Because it did.

You touched his shoulder lightly. “I’m probably gonna talk to Val about sending us on missions together more.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, glowing. Attentive.

“Because I don’t think we’ll survive another forty-five day celibacy.”

Sentry gave you a look of such fond agreement it almost made your heart ache.

“That,” He murmured, voice velvet-slick, “would be a wonderful idea, sunshine.”

You grinned at the nickname, a quiet flush blooming across your cheeks. And he smiled right back, like it was the only name you’d ever need from him.

Then–slow, careful–he leaned in and kissed the inside of your thigh. Again. One last soft, sacred touch.

He dropped the washcloth to the side without a second thought, the soft thud of damp fabric barely registering before he was climbing up your body again–slow and sure and impossibly gentle.

His arms slid beneath and around you in one fluid motion, drawing you into the warmth of him like you belonged there. And you did. You always had. Chest to chest, your thigh hooked loosely over his hip, his forehead pressing against yours with a quiet kind of urgency–like even now, even after everything, he still couldn’t get close enough.

His breath puffed out across your lips, warm and steady.

“I’ll give you a couple of minutes before we do anything else,” he murmured, voice soft and golden, each word laced with that post-bliss reverence that made your heart ache.

You snorted under your breath, a lazy grin tugging at your lips. “Thank you for considering my refractory period…” You said, tone light and teasing. “I’m not a god like you.”

A deep, quiet laugh vibrated through his chest, low and fond.

“Don’t want to exhaust you too quickly,” He whispered, tucking you tighter against him, fingers stroking lazy circles along the bare curve of your back. “We’ve got the rest of the night still to reconnect.”

You hummed softly, eyes fluttering shut as you pressed your face into the crook of his neck, the scent of sweat and sex and something innately Bob curling in your lungs.

“I love you…” You whisper, and he runs his hand over your back.

”Love you too, sunshine…I’m glad you’re back.” He replies., heating up just a little more to surround you perfectly in a cocoon of comfort.

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romantacysblog · 3 days ago

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Lewis Pullman P!links pt4

MINORS DNI

little fantasy he wanted to play out

wanted to taste you so bad, so when you give him the chance, he doesn't stop

pt2

pt3

playing with his big cock

shuts your brain off

he made a bet with you that if he won he could have his way with you... he won

his fingers feel so good

he wants you to grind on his thigh

likes fucking your panties before sinking into you

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materia-girl88 · 3 days ago

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Fourplay

18+, minors dni. warnings-foursome, p in v sex, anal, oral, crying, slapping/spanking, minor dubcon somewhat?

takes place during the no way home timeframe when heroes/villians are coming from different universes bc peter parker is a Goober™️

this came to my in the middle of a work day while i was sitting with @rhaenyraeri on lunch and the idea nearly took her out lol. thank her for the title as well! and the collage below🫶🏻

This was all Peter Parker's fault.

You didn't know that, of course. You had no idea who Peter Parker was. Nobody did now, but you hadn't even before he screwed up Dr. Strange's spell that pulled in villians from different universes. But still, it was all on him.

You weren't exactly complaining about the situation though.

You were sat on Bob's lap, your boyfriend's pretty eyes blown out, wide with pleasure at the feeling of your tight cunt around him, his hands resting on your thighs as you rode his lap.

"Y-You feel so good, baby," Bob muttered, even as you were beginning to wear yourself out. You'd been going at it for a while now, edging yourself to the brink of coming before pulling back. You just didn't want it to end.

You leaned in to kiss him, pausing your movements, your bare tits pressing against the hard muscle of his chest.

"Enough of this sweet shit," you heard from behind you, the voice sounding deeper, darker, but still Bob.

The black mass of Void was on his knees behind your naked frame, his own hardened length buried in your ass. You were rarely into anal, but they had both taken time to prepare you and make you feel so good that you were begging for it before long. And Void immediately called taking your ass. He seemed to have an obsession with it, hands rubbing against it and leaving small smacks every now and then, the skin red and warm and tender.

Void's hands, cold against your skin, came to rest on your hips. The grip was bruising but you loved it, craved the contrast between sweet and rough. Bob, your amazing, sweet boyfriend was enamored with the sight of you bouncing on his and his darker part's cocks, able to feel not only you but Void through the thin walls that separated them.

Void's hands took over, pushing and pulling you from Bob's dick to his, back and forth, again and again, groaning as his head tipped back, his pinprick eyes closed tight.

"Oh fuck," you whined, eyes squeezing shut at the feeling. One of your hands remained on Bob's shoulder while the other slid down to where Void held you, covering one of his hands with his.

Bob let out another grunt as you squeezed your pussy around him, "Fuck, you're so fucking beautiful."

He couldn't help but hump up into you at the feeling.

"She's a whore. A good little slut," Void cut in, his face pressing into your neck as he continued to fuck you back and forth on them. His teeth sunk into the juncture of your shoulder, not breaking skin but enough to hurt, "But you love it, don't you baby? Love being fucked dumb by two cocks?"

A hand came to smack your ass, harder than before, and Bob nearly protested, letting out a "Hey, don't-" but he cut himself off as the smack and the stimulation of your ass and pussy caused you to come, wailing between them.

They'd taken turns eating you out, fingering you, grinding into your pussy and now you were on your fourth orgasm of the night. They agreed to see how many they could pull from you.

You weren't sure you would survive it.

"Uh, uh," you cried as you took them both, pulsing around them over and over, pussy making slick clicking sounds as your come covered them.

"S-Shit, baby. Didn't even n-need to touch your clit. So fucking hot," Bob huffed, letting his right hand come to rest by your mound, thumb tracing over your glistening wet pussy lips and feeling your hard little clit. It throbbed at his touch, causing you to jolt. You were sore in the best way, your pussy red and used. You loved it.

"Please, I can't," you whimpered, tears wetting your cheeks as both cocks kept thrusting in and out, Void's hands still controlling your movement. You were grateful for it as you were unable to move yourself. You were worn out, but despite your words, you weren't ready to stop. You wanted them to come in you, to fill you up til you were spilling over with them. You could feel the stretch of both of them inside you, stimulating you from both sides of your walls.

"You can," another voice chimed in, smooth and confident, "You can and you will."

You peered over where Sentry stood, his blonde hair a mess against his sweaty forehead as his hand stroked at his cock, heading towards you from where he had been watching from the side. He had been watching the whole time, not wanting to take your pussy you your ass, just wanting your mouth. He had helped with preparing you, his fingers moving within you at an inhuman rate as his tongue licked at your slit, but when it came to deciding who would fuck you, he immediately claimed your mouth, wanting to see your lips stretched around him.

He could have his turn with the rest later.

You peered up at him through your eyelashes, cheeks red and wet from your tears and your bottom lip swollen where you had bitten it.

"I-I-" you tried you speak, but you were cut off at the feeling of a smack to your cheek. It hadn't hurt, and when you felt a bit of wetness running down your jaw, you realized it wasn't his hand he smacked you with, but with his leaking dick, the head already moist with pre-come.

"You'll do it. And you're gonna suck me off while you do so," he said firmly, causing you to gasp softly.

You gulped, glancing from him, to Bob, shaking at the pleasure that still wracked your body.

"D-Don't worry, baby. We told you we'd st-stop if you use your safe word. It's all up to-oh fuck-to you," Bob breathed, hands sliding up to cup your breasts, nipples hard from stimulation.

At that, you felt determination, and you helped Void as he moved your hips until he finally let go and let you work yourself.

You looked back at Sentry and the huge length of him.

You'd take it all, dammit. You'd die before you gave in.

He groaned as your hand came up to wrap around him, stroking up and down with determination. One of his large hands came to tangle his fingers into your hair and before you knew it, his large dick was pushing between your lips. You quickly hollowed your cheeks to suck at him, tongue running over the head and drawing a rough noise from Sentry. You could taste the pre-come where he was already so worked up and you savored the taste.

"Fucking hell, Bob. I don't know how you're not fucking this sweet mouth 24/7," he growled to your boyfriend.

The wet sounds of the two fucking into your body could barely be heard over all the moans and groans, and Bob huffed out a laugh.

"Oh, I usually am as much as possible," he replied, giving one of your breasts a squeeze.

You were moaning constantly now around Sentry's large cock, just one long string of noise as you felt something building within your abdomen.

Sentry was basically fucking your face, pulling you by your hair so your mouth slid up and down his cock as the vibrations of your noises drove him crazy.

"I'm gonna come," Bob said, Void nodding in agreement. You felt both relieved and frustrated. You were exhausted but you didn't want any of it to be over. It was too good.

Bob's right hand left your breast and slid down, landing right onto your throbbing clit.

He flicked it once gently before beginning to rub firm but quick circles into it.

You couldn't take anymore, the odd feeling in your belly unleashing as you felt a gush between your legs, leaking out from around the girth inside you and soaking both Bob and his dark counterpart. You had squirted for the first time ever, your body feeling as if fireworks had set off inside you and your vision whiting out.

"Fuck," you screeched, and Void laughed as Bob looked on, in love with the sight of you gushing.

The sheets would need to be burned at this point but nobody cares at the moment n

"Look at that," Void said, voice darkly aroused, pumping deep into you to draw your orgasm out, shivering with aftershocks.

The sight alone caused Bob to come deep inside your pussy with Void following not long after. Both of your holes were filled up with hot spend and you loved it.

Sentry kept up his pace, your tongue dipping into the slit at the head of his cock and your hand stroking, and it wasn't long before before he himself was coming, half in your mouth and then he pulled out, letting some of it soak your chin.

You swallowed, the taste salty but not bad, and blinked tiredly as you took a moment to breath.

You looked around at all three men before Bob pulled you in, kissing you despite the mess on your chin, and letting you rest on his chest, your eyes closing.

"I think it's safe to say we'll be doing this again," Sentry said, and you hummed into your boyfriend's well muscled torso.

"Agreed," you said, half asleep on your boyfriend's chest, already looking forward to it.

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds smut #bob reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #robert reynolds smut #robert reynolds x reader #void x reader #void smut #sentry smut #sentry x reader #sentry #void #marvel #marvel smut

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rhettrosunsets · 2 days ago

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My Only Girl

Pairing: Bob Reynolds X F!Reader

Category: Fluff! Fluff! And more Fluff!

Summary: When your boyfriend wanders off in the middle of the night when he should be asleep next to you, you go off to find him.

Masterlist

Word Count: 1350

Warnings: Mentions of wearing Bob's shirt, mention of proposal, no mention of Y/N, No mention or description of what reader looks like, Use of pet names like Baby, Sweetheart, My Love, etc. (I think thats it? if not please let me know, so I know for future reference!)

Notes: This is my first time writing a Fan-Fiction since I was probably fourteen, so I hope it's good! I'm getting back into the swing of things, so any and all feedback would be amazing.

"Bob?”

You mumble tiredly, your hand reaching out for where your boyfriend should be asleep next to you, tapping around his side of the bed, only to feel a cold pillow that had shifted in the night, replacing where your boyfriend had been laying earlier that evening.

"Mmm" you whine out softly as you open your bleary eyes, blinking a few times, trying to get your vision to focus.

"Baby..?" You ask softly, your voice heavy with sleep as you sit up, pushing onto your elbow to look around your shared bedroom. You notice his dark blue sweater still hanging off the side of the chair, evidence of the laundry that you have both been procrastinating for a few days, seemingly mocking you every-time you look at it.

You groan softly to yourself, rubbing your eyes as you finally turn to look at the clock on your nightstand, noticing it’s almost four in the morning. With a quiet huff, you slide out of bed, your feet hitting the cold wood floors. You wince at the cold contact, your body still warm and fuzzy from the peaceful sleep you’ve woken up from.

You reach down onto your floor and grab Bob’s oversized shirt that he threw off earlier that night, quickly covering yourself, before opening your bedroom door, hearing the soft creak of the hinges. You tread down the hallway, the floorboards occasionally creaking, as you step into the living area, noticing Bob sitting on the couch drinking some tea and reading a book you had gotten him, your favorite fuzzy blanket thrown over his lap half haphazardly.

Bob looks up as you walk into the living room, his gaze softening immediately as he sees your body still heavy with sleep, your weary but soft eyes looking at him.

"Hey."

You murmur quietly as you walk over to the couch, not wanting to disrupt the peaceful atmosphere. You sit next to him as he gently tosses the throw blanket over your bare legs, seeing the slight effect of the chill beginning to form.

"What are you doing up, M’love? It's almost four in the morning." You ask as you curl into his side, accepting his open arm as an invitation.

Bob smiles softly, as you curl into him. His large hand absentmindedly beginning to rub over your shoulder in a soothing motion, as he looks down at you. His gaze is filled with a soft gaze, his eyes flickering as they take in your drowsy form, bringing a soft smile to his lips.

"Couldn't sleep." He says, gently tugging you even closer to his chest. “Didn’t wan’ to wake you up, sweetheart. You looked comfortable, and I know you’ve been needing to catch up on sleep yourself. Been working too hard.” he says in a low gentle tone, drawing out his words slightly, in that soft tone of his that you’ve always adored.

You smile against his chest, your hand gently playing with the fabric of his soft t-shirt. Your heart twisting with affection for the man you get to call yours, as he explains his reasoning for being in the living room so late. It was always like Bob to think of your needs first, always letting you know how loved you are, how important you are to him, and how far he’s willing to go to make sure you always know that you're his first priority, never letting you doubt for a moment his affection for you.

"Still, I don't like you being up this late by yourself." You murmur sleepily, your hand now tracing shapes against his chest aimlessly. "You need your rest too. Y’know, invincible or not."

Bob huffs out a quiet laugh “I promise you, I'm fine, sweetheart." He reassures you, his touch tender and careful, as he holds you close to him, his soft smile making it seem like he was holding the world in his arms. “I’ve had my tea, and I've got my best-girl in my arms. It can’t get much better than this.” He says chuckling, seeing the soft glare you throw his way, knowing you don’t mean any malice behind it.

“Better be your only girl, Reynolds”

You huff out, looking away from his soft gaze.

Bob chuckles much louder this time, his chest vibrations gently moving you, as he laughs. "You know you're my one and only, sweetheart." He says looking at you, an amused glint in his eyes. He grabs your chin, tugging on it softly to make you look at him again. "And don't you ever forget it, future Mrs. Reynolds.” He whispers with a soft smirk, a much bolder move from the once shyer boyfriend Bob had been when you had first gotten together.

You blush, scoffing as you bury your face back into his T-shirt, not wanting him to see that he’s won your little battle. “Lotta’ talk for someone who hasn’t put a ring on my finger yet.” you say, softly muffled by his t-shirt, but you can feel the vibrations of his laugh, looking up just in time to see his head thrown back, eyes closed and hair messily tousled from the movement.

Bob peers back down, looking you in the eyes, smiling to himself, a soft glint seemingly appearing in his gaze that you can’t quite make-out the meaning of. “Alright, sweetheart. C’mon.” He says as he sits up, bringing you with him before quickly standing up, and pulling you up, blanket and cup discarded as he begins to walk back towards your bedroom.

"Aren't you still wide awake, m'love?” You ask concerned, not wanting him to go back to bed for just your sake.

He hums softly, as he leads you across the cool hardwood floor, his arm wrapped tightly around your shoulder, pulling you against his side as you walk, his warmth radiating through the thin T-shirt you stole from the floor. The low tone of his voice is soothing to your ears “I think i’ll be able to fall asleep just fine after my tea. And the idea of getting to hold my girl is much more appealing than sitting out there by myself for any longer.”

Your lips softly quirk up, as he pushes your bedroom door open, gently guiding you over to your bed, before laying down with you.

He opens up his arms, whispering a soft “C’mere Baby” beckoning you over, as you happily curl into his chest, resting your head on his chest, hearing the gentle thumping of his heartbeat. He wraps his arms around you, his hands beginning to draw soft patterns and shapes across your lower back, as your breath begins to slow, and you relax into his hold.

“I hope y’know i’m holding you to that future Mrs. Reynolds promise.” You mumble out, your voice heavy with sleep. Bob’s soothing hold making it impossible for you to stay awake for much longer.

Bob chuckles, his eyes peering down at you resting on his chest, his hand coming up to gently run his thumb across your cheek, smiling wide at how you lean into his touch, “Wouldn't've said it, if i didn't mean it sweetheart. Now get some rest sweetheart, you need it.” he whispers soothingly into your ear, watching you drift off in his hold.

Bob smiles to himself as he leans back on his pillow, looking up at the ceiling, his hands still drawing soft shapes on your back. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep for at least a few more hours, but he knew you wouldn’t go back to sleep, and that you’d just be worrying if he didn’t come back to bed with you. Seeing you in his arms, asleep, safe, and soothed by his touch makes up for any lack of sleep he may feel in the morning.

His gaze leaves the ceiling, and as he turns his head, and peers over to his nightstand drawer, where a ring has been sitting for a few weeks now, hidden amongst many other items. Bob lips quirk up in a soft sort of smirk, before he leans down, kissing your forehead and whispering softly

“My only girl.”

#bob reynolds #thunderbolts #robert reynolds x reader #x reader #sentry x reader #Thunderbolts X Reader #marvel #sentry #lewis pullman #robert reynolds

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gyugraphy · 5 days ago

Note

May I request a Bob Reynolds x Villain!Reader who -despite being a villain and doing villain things- they treat Bob really well,?

Like- if they heard about how Walker treats Bob, they'd already be planning to go after him first or smthng,?? Idek,,, just food for thoughts()

ferra (r.r.)

synopsis : You’re a weapon, feared, used, and long past redemption. The jobs don’t feel like victories anymore, just noise between silences. Then you meet Bob Reynolds. Too quiet, too powerful, and far too familiar. You should have walked away. Instead, you saved him, and now you’re in deeper than you meant to be.

pairing : bob reynolds x reader

content : slight angst, action, villain!reader (?),

warning/s : violence, swearing, mentions of past trauma

word count : 3.5k

A/N: thank you sm for the request! @d3adbr3inc3lls teehee i hope u like this one !!

You weren’t born a weapon.

But metal always loved you more than people did.

You learned that early, maybe too early. When your mother screamed and the bullet bent before it hit her, twisting midair like it had changed its mind. You remember her terrified face more than anything else. Not the blood. Not the man who ran. Just her, backing away from you like you’d grown claws.

You were seven.

That’s how it started.

Your power didn’t manifest gently. There was no warm glow, no magical accident. It wasn’t kind. It was messy and sharp and loud. You were loud. You cried for days afterward, not because you hurt someone—but because no one ever held you again.

By nine, you stopped flinching at sirens.

By eleven, you stopped waiting for help.

By thirteen, you were untraceable. Gone like smoke through every foster file, every underground program that wanted to “train” kids like you. The labs wanted you. The recruiters whispered your name like it was prophecy. The mercenary networks put a price on your head before they even met you.

Not because you were dangerous.

Because you were useful.

You learned quick that the world didn’t care if you were scared. Only if you were strong.

So you became strong.

By sixteen, you stopped caring about names altogether. You didn’t need one when they called you “the Iron Witch,” “the ferromancer,” “the girl with the gods-damned mind-magnet hands.” You didn’t care what they thought, as long as they feared you. Fear was safe. Fear made people back off. Fear paid the bills.

And the bills were always coming.

You’ve twisted steel into chains and walls and coffins. You’ve stopped bullets mid-flight, melted guns into slag while still in their owner’s grip, crushed skulls inside helmets without lifting a finger. You’ve dropped tanks from the sky. You’ve walked through warzones and left no survivors. You’ve been paid in gold, blood, and silence.

Because someone asked you to.

And that’s the thing about power. Once people know you have it, they stop asking if you want anything else.

No one ever asked what you wanted.

Not peace. Not forgiveness.

Certainly not love.

For a while, you thought you didn’t want anything else. You made a home out of silence. Built your bones out of iron and called it evolution. You convinced yourself that this—this mercenary, steel-skinned, blood-washed life—was freedom.

But freedom starts to rot when it’s just isolation in a prettier cage.

Then came the nights where even metal couldn’t drown out the silence. The weight of your own armor started to feel like a coffin. The kills got too easy. The jobs got too clean. You stopped sleeping well. Stopped laughing. Stopped pretending you liked the person you saw in the mirror. All you saw were sharp edges. All you heard was the sound of your own breath and the hum of weaponized walls.

You started to wonder if you’d always feel this alone.

And now?

Now you’re standing in a half-collapsed weapons facility in the Balkans, chasing something that might be worse than all the other jobs you’ve done put together. A “graviton pulse stabilizer” with phase-bending capabilities—something the wrong buyer could use to rewrite physics. To erase the laws of reality like a chalkboard. You don’t even want it. You told yourself you took the job because it was dangerous, and because if you didn’t get there first, someone worse would.

That’s the excuse you gave yourself.

But really?

You came because the Thunderbolts were coming too.

Because he was coming.

You wanted to see what second chances looked like.

You wanted to see him.

Bob Reynolds. The golden boy turned nuclear ghost. You’d read about him. Watched the footage.Somehow both the strongest and the most unstable of the bunch. You heard the whispers. The rumors. The fear that trembled behind closed doors.

He wasn’t what they called him.

Not just “The Void.” Not just a bomb in human skin.

No. You’d seen his file.

You saw the way he disappeared from fights more than he started them. The way he volunteered for backline duty, always carrying what the others needed. The way he stood slightly behind the rest, as if afraid of taking up space. The way he looked down in every surveillance clip, like the camera might flay him open if he met its gaze.

Someone like that… you understood.

Power that big didn’t come without breaking something first.

You wonder what broke in him. And whether it was the same thing that broke in you.

You move silently through the rusted remains of the upper floor, your boots gliding over warped steel catwalks. The old facility breathes around you—metal pipes groaning, floor beams shifting beneath the weight of history. The air is heavy with the scent of damp concrete, rust, and something darker beneath it—gunpowder, old smoke, dried blood trapped in stone.

Your fingers ghost along the wall. The pipes hum beneath your skin. There’s iron in the paint, copper in the wire, fragments of old blood in the dust. It listens when you touch it. The whole building does. The girders shiver at your passing. The screws twist a little looser, as if happy to see you.

This broken, half-dead ruin of a war machine. And for now, you’re the only god it worships.

But you didn’t come to rule, you came to watch.

You came to find the one man who might understand what it feels like to be a weapon no one asked to make.

You came to see if there’s still something in this world that doesn’t turn to steel when you reach for it.

And if there isn’t?

Then at least you’ll know.

Far below, across the fractured ribcage of the facility, something shifts.

Not the team. You’d recognize their weight—too heavy, too clumsy, too loud in the way soldiers always are. This is something else. Quieter. Hesitant.

You pause at the edge of a collapsed stairwell and feel the breath of metal shift through your lungs. It tells you before your eyes do.

He’s close.

Bob doesn’t hear her at first.

He feels her.

The echo of something magnetic. Not literal magnetism—he’s immune to that. But something more primal, like a thread tugging at the corners of his awareness. His skin prickles beneath the sleeves of his black tactical shirt, the borrowed Thunderbolts insignia feeling suddenly too snug across his shoulder blades. The weight of the portable containment unit slung across his back should ground him, but it doesn’t.

Something’s off.

He’s not one to say that aloud—he’s already the weird one, the twitchy one, the backliner with a temperamental nuclear god curled up in his ribcage—but he knows what it means when his instincts twist like this.

He’s being watched.

He adjusts the strap on his shoulder and slows his steps. His boots scuff against the concrete, careful and measured. The corridors here are tight, long-abandoned, gutted of anything valuable decades ago. Walls of peeling paint, corroded metal, broken signage in Cyrillic. The lights on his suit flicker faint blue against rust and shadow.

He doesn’t call for the others.

If something’s waiting for him, it’s not for them.

He rounds the corner. And there she is.

Propped casually against the metal frame of a broken doorway, arms crossed, a lazy smirk blooming like a bruise across her mouth.

She’s not dressed like the mercs they were briefed on. No heavy gear, no visible weapons. Just combat boots scuffed silver at the soles, black utility pants cinched with magnetic buckles, and a dark fitted jacket with plates of reinforced alloy glinting faintly beneath the fabric. She looks like she built her own armor and made it look good doing it.

Her eyes are lit with something half-feral, half-amused.

“Hey, cutie,” she says, voice silk-wrapped iron. “Bob, isn’t it?”

His mouth opens. Closes.

He blinks like a man short-circuiting.

“You have something I want.”

The containment unit on his back suddenly feels very, very heavy.

He shifts slightly, posture tightening. “We can’t just give it to you.”

“I figured you’d say that.” She shrugs, lazy and unbothered, like she’s got all the time in the world to toy with him. “But I thought it’d be polite to ask first. You seemed like the polite one.”

“How do you know who I am?” he asks, quiet but direct.

She grins wider. “Oh, Bob. You don’t know how many people watch you. Most of them are scared.” Her gaze rakes him—slow, analytical, amused. “I’m just… curious.”

He swallows hard. The hallway is too narrow. The air too thick. And her presence is loud without raising her voice—metal curls toward her like ivy to sunlight. The rusted screws in the wall vibrate when she shifts her weight. Even the broken pipes seem to listen.

Then—

“Bob?” Yelena’s voice cracks through his comm. Distant, somewhere on the west wing. “Do you copy? Got movement near Sector C.”

His head turns slightly, just for a second. But when he looks back—

She’s gone.

Just a faint vibration in the walls. A memory left in the air.

He breathes out slowly.

And for some reason, it almost feels like disappointment.

Bob stands frozen, his chest heaving slightly, still staring at the empty space where she stood a second ago. His ears ring from the silence she left behind, sharper than any explosion. Then the comms crackle again—Yelena’s voice cutting in, crisp and impatient.

“Bob? You’re lagging. Talk to me.”

He forces a breath out, fingers tapping his earpiece.

“Yeah. I’m here.”

“You sound weird.”

He hesitates, gaze still searching the shadows.

“Just… thought I saw someone.”

There’s a pause on the line. Then, with the unmistakable smirk in her tone:

“Was she hot?”

He doesn’t reply. Because yes. She was. But it wasn’t just that.

She felt like an unfinished sentence—both unsettling and magnetic. Something about her clung to the edges of his thoughts, even after she’d slipped back into the dark like she’d never been.

He breathes out through his nose, tension tightening between his shoulders.

That’s when the first shot cracks through the air.

Far off at first. Then closer.

It’s followed by another. And another—until the air is vibrating with it. A shuddering percussion of automatic gunfire rattling through the steel skeleton of the building.

“Contact! Third floor west—twelve targets, at least!” Ava’s voice bursts through the comms, loud over the staccato gunfire. “Unknown affiliation. They’re not on our list.”

“Copy that.” Bucky, already moving.

Bob spins toward the source of the noise, his boots scuffing over cracked concrete. His grip tightens on the sleek black pack strapped to his chest—the one carrying the weapon they were sent to retrieve. He can feel it pulsing faintly beneath the reinforced layers, like something alive is trying to wake up.

The hallway stretches ahead in ruin, flickering lights casting erratic shadows across warped steel beams. Dust filters down like ash from the upper levels, stirred by the footfalls of something heavy. Bob breaks into a run, rounding the corner—

And freezes.

Dozens of them.

They move like a hive— dark armored figures flooding into the space from a breached service door, their weapons raised. No symbols. No identifiers. No hesitation. They aren’t part of any team he’s briefed on. These guys don’t want the weapon for a mission, they want it for power.

Bucky is already engaged, trading blows with two attackers. Ava blinks in and out of visibility, phasing through solid walls and reappearing behind enemies with knives drawn. Yelena throws a flashbomb that sends sparks scattering. Alexei grabs a man by the torso and slams him into the ceiling like he’s swatting a fly.

Bob ducks behind a crumbling pillar, heart pounding, trying not to crush the pack as stray bullets ricochet dangerously close.

Another burst of gunfire—closer now—sends debris raining over his head. He risks a glance toward Ava, just in time to see a sniper lining her up in their sights.

And then the bullet stops.

Not misses.

Stops.

Frozen in midair like it hit a wall made of thought.

Time doesn’t stop. But for a moment, the air feels thick with static—every sound distorted, every motion just a fraction too slow. Bob’s eyes snap to the origin.

And there she is again. Unannounced. Unbothered.

Standing in the chaos like she belongs to it.

The bullets hover around her like planets orbiting a sun. She doesn’t even flinch. Her hand is raised lazily, her fingers poised like she’s playing a piano only she can hear. Her coat—black leather, long and battle-worn—flares around her knees. Dust settles in her hair like a crown.

She turns her wrist. The bullets drop.

One by one. A clattering rainfall of lead hitting the floor.

Bob stares. Not just at what she can do, but at the way she chooses to do it.

She stopped them.

She didn’t retaliate. Didn’t redirect. Just… stopped it all.

“She’s not with them!” Bob shouts, rising from cover. His voice is loud, cutting through the gunfire—but whether the others hear him or not, they’re too deep into the fight to pause.

Walker’s already mid-charge. His shield slices the air in a clean arc, sailing toward her like a buzzsaw.

She doesn’t move.

She doesn’t need to.

The shield twists midflight—snatched from its path and slammed down at her feet with a sharp clatter, controlled like it never belonged to him in the first place.

She doesn’t speak.

But her expression shifts—irritation blooming across her face like a storm cloud.

Her eyes flick to Bob.

Walker doesn’t back down. He lunges again, faster this time, less thinking, more brute force.

And that’s when she lifts her hand, just two fingers, and the metal beneath Walker’s boots rises.

A spike of iron twists out of the floor like a fang. It slices through his tactical vest and cuts a shallow line across his ribs, stopping just short of real damage.

He stumbles back, wide-eyed.

“Enough!” Bob’s voice breaks through again. He pushes forward, hand out, trying to reach her before this gets worse.

She doesn’t raise another weapon. Doesn’t retreat.

She turns to face him fully for the first time.

And in that moment, Bob sees the truth that the rest of the team is missing.

The set of her shoulders. The control in her stance. The restraint on her face.

She’s helping them.

She’s choosing not to kill them.

Before he can say anything else, the wall behind her explodes—mercs breaching from the south wing. Three of them, armed with heavy artillery, firing wildly.

She doesn’t flinch.

Instead, she yanks an entire sheet of ceiling metal down with a sweep of her arm, twisting it into a makeshift shield that curves around Bob, Yelena, and Ava before the bullets can make contact.

The noise is deafening. Rounds hitting steel like a drumline.

And she holds it.

One hand. Breathing steady. Eyes locked on Bob the entire time.l

He watches the metal glow faintly red from the heat of impact, then cool beneath her control. When the storm dies down, she lets it fall with a thunderous slam.

She’s covered in dust now. Smudges of soot on her jaw, blood on her sleeve—someone else’s, he thinks.

She takes a single step forward.

Bob does too.

Then Walker, furious, yells from behind them, “She’s right here and you let her go? What the hell do you even do, Reynolds?!”

And before Bob can answer—before he can even breathe—

The shield twitches.

Lifts.

Spins in the air like it remembers who really listens to metal.

And flies straight back at Walker.

But it stops—midair—hovering just an inch from his sternum.

Held there by invisible strings.

She’s glaring now, shoulders tight, mouth hard with fury.

“You want to try that again, asshole?” she snaps.

Bob doesn’t think. He moves—crossing the few feet between them and grabbing her wrist before she can hurl the shield with lethal force.

Her pulse thrums under his hand.

Her gaze flicks to his.

And just like that—the metal drops.

The air stills.

And in that space between violence and choice, something clicks.

They’re the same kind of dangerous, but maybe not to each other.

The moment her fingers leave the edge of Bob’s wrist, she’s moving again.

No words. No thanks. Just a flick of her eyes toward the scattered remains of the facility and the sharp metallic whine of something rising.

Bob whirls around just in time to see the security vault breach open—twisted apart like a peeled tin can. The weapon they were sent to retrieve, the one tucked behind five layers of biometric locks and reinforced alloys, floats to her open hand.

It’s not what he expected.

No glowing core, no sleek casing. It looks almost ancient—cylindrical, faintly humming, etched with equations even he can’t parse in the second he glimpses it. Like it doesn’t belong in any timeline.

“Wait—!” Bob starts.

But she’s already backing away, the weapon cradled against her hip like it was always meant for her. She gives him a look—equal parts regret and something warmer, softer, like she had considered staying.

Then she vanishes.

Metal peels back from the ceiling above her, forming a narrow escape tunnel. She rises with it—her shadow trailing like smoke—until the darkness swallows her whole.

This time, she doesn’t leave a bullet behind to stop.

Two hours later. Thunderbolts debrief room.

Val paces in front of the team like a drill sergeant with a caffeine addiction, tablet in one hand and sarcasm in the other.

“So let me get this straight,” she begins, boots clicking sharply across the metal floor. “You all fought off an unknown mercenary group, nearly died, and then let some goth scrapheap Barbie steal the very weapon we were sent to secure?”

Yelena slouches in her seat. “Technically, she helped.”

“She robbed us.”

“She saved us, then robbed us,” Ava offers flatly. “Important difference.”

Alexei grunts. “She was… very fast.”

John scoffs, arms crossed. “She made me bleed.”

“Good. You’re overdue.” Yelena doesn’t even look at him.

Val pinches the bridge of her nose. “You guys are unbelievable.”

Her eyes dart to Bob. He’s seated at the far end, hands folded too neatly, staring at the dark smear of dried blood on his boot like it’s got answers.

“And you,” Val barks. “Our backpack boy. The hell were you doing while she made off with the prize?"

Bob looks up. Quiet. “Trying not to get anyone killed.”

“Oh, well, round of applause,” she snaps. “Maybe next time you try a little harder not to help the enemy.”

“She’s not the enemy,” Bob says without thinking.

Val freezes. “Oh no?”

“She didn’t shoot us. She stopped them from killing us. She had our backs.”

“She had our weapon.”

Val’s voice rises. “For all we know, she’s going to sell it to the highest bidder or crack open a wormhole in her living room. We don’t know anything about her—”

A door hisses open behind them.

They all turn as a figure steps through the threshold, calm as a gunshot in the dark.

Long coat. One eye.

Nick Fury.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just strolls in, takes in the chaos, and raises a brow.

Val gestures wildly toward the screens behind her, which are replaying grainy footage of you stopping bullets mid-air and folding a blast door like paper. “Do you know what this is? Who the hell helped who out there?!”

Fury doesn’t flinch. He steps forward, tilts his chin at the paused screen.

“We call the subject: Ferra,” he says evenly. “Real name: unknown. Age: estimated early twenties. First surfaced in Moscow when she was around thirteen, leveling a black market tech ring in under five minutes. SHIELD’s been tracking her ever since.”

Yelena blinks. “You mean you knew she existed this whole time?”

Fury nods. “She’s a ghost with a kill record that puts most of your dossiers to shame. She doesn’t work for anyone. She doesn’t like anyone. Which means if she showed up, it wasn’t for the money.”

Bob straightens. “Then why?”

Fury glances at him. There’s something unreadable in his expression.

“That’s what we’re going to find out.”

Val sighs, dragging a hand down her face. “You’re telling me SHIELD’s Most Wanted just walked into our mission, saved your asses, stole the target, and now we’re just—what—gonna go look for her like a goddamn scavenger hunt?”

Fury just turns to the team, hands behind his back.

“Next mission’s simple. You find her. You figure out what she wants. And if there’s even a chance she’s planning to use that thing—”

He meets Bob’s eyes again.

“—you stop her.”

Silence settles again.

Bob exhales slowly.

And for the first time since she vanished, something flickers behind his sternum.

She didn’t hurt them. She chose not to.

And whatever came next…

He wasn’t going to let her face it alone.

A/N : first request! :>>> lmk what u think!

A/N 2 : not proofread yet ik im sorry

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x y/n #mcu au #mcu fanfic #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #thunderbolts fanfic #bob reynolds ff #bob reynolds angst #gyugraphy fics #sentry x reader #sentry x y/n #marvel #marvel fanfic

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brookghaib-blog · 1 day ago

Text

Almost Loved - III

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: Four months of dates, gave Y/N hope that she found the one after hopeless years, Bob looks in love, treats beautiful. There's one step that looks like it's coming. Until Bob breaks it off with her. Encountering each other a year and an half later. What happened ?

Word count: 4,9k

Tampa, Florida - 18 months ago

The message came while she sat alone at the café.

The same café he’d taken her to on their second date — a cozy little spot tucked between a record store and a flower shop. The rain outside had begun to mist against the windows, soft and quiet, and her fingers curled tighter around the mug of untouched coffee.

She stared at her phone screen. The message glowed like a wound.

“I’m sorry. I can’t do this anymore. Please don’t try to contact me.”

Just one sentence.

That was it.

No explanation. No lead-up. No punctuation.

It felt like someone had cut the cord between her heart and lungs, and she couldn’t breathe properly after reading it.

At first, she thought it was a joke — some horribly mistimed prank. Her fingers had fumbled across the keyboard as she typed back, “What? Bob, what’s going on?” But when she hit send, the message didn't deliver. Her stomach turned.

Then she tried to call him. Straight to voicemail.

Again. And again.

She refreshed their conversation. Nothing. She tried Instagram. Blocked. Facebook. Twitter. Even TikTok. Gone.

He had vanished like a ghost, severing every possible string between them with the coldest precision.

Three days ago, he had kissed her forehead while she laughed on his couch, wrapped in one of his oversized hoodies. Three days ago, they had watched old movies and shared Chinese takeout and talked about maybe going away for a weekend soon. He had brushed her hair out of her eyes and murmured that she made everything feel lighter. That she made him feel lighter.

What changed in three days?

She didn’t remember getting home. She must have walked through the rain. Or maybe Serena drove her. She couldn’t recall.

All she remembered was collapsing onto the couch, phone still clutched in her hand like a lifeline she didn’t realize had snapped.

The tears came in waves — violent, choking sobs that ripped out of her chest without mercy. The kind of crying that made your bones ache. The kind that felt like dying without dying.

She didn’t eat. Didn’t move.

She just laid there, hours ticking by, her face pressed into a throw pillow that smelled faintly like lavender and something burnt — a candle she’d left too long one night after falling asleep next to him.

Every time her phone buzzed, her heart jumped.

But it was never him.

Eventually, she opened the Photos app. It was a compulsion, really — one she didn’t even think about before doing. His face filled her screen in a thousand variations: blurry concert selfies, videos of him trying to dance, sleepy morning snaps where his hair stuck up in every direction.

She watched a video of them in bed. He was teasing her — holding the phone while she hid under the covers, half-asleep and protesting.

“Stop filming me, Bob,” her voice murmured in the clip, laughing.

“But you’re the cutest thing I’ve ever seen,” he whispered back.

She cried harder.

Every memory felt poisoned now. Every smile was a lie retroactively written into her timeline. Had he known then? Had he been planning his escape even as he tucked her under his arm and called her his favorite part of the day?

She started to spiral — picking apart everything.

Was it her laugh?

Was it the way she always second-guessed herself?

Did she talk too much?

Not enough?

Had she annoyed him that last morning when she asked if he wanted her to stay a little longer?

She counted the flaws in herself like tally marks on a prison wall. Every insecurity that had ever lived quietly in the background suddenly screamed for attention. The scars, the softness of her stomach, the anxious ticks, the way she sometimes cried during sad commercials — all of it. She dissected their relationship until it was a corpse beneath a microscope.

But she found nothing. No answer.

No closure.

Just silence.

At some point, Serena found her there — curled up in a blanket cocoon, phone still glowing dimly beside her, tears drying sticky on her cheeks.

She didn’t ask questions. Just crawled onto the couch with her, arms wrapping tight around her body like scaffolding trying to hold up a crumbling house.

Still, Y/N didn’t sleep.

Not really.

She stared at the ceiling for hours, the ghost of his hand still felt on her skin. She remembered the way he used to run his fingers through her hair when she couldn't sleep. The way he made tea without asking when she was anxious. The way he once told her he’d never had anything in his life that made him want to stay until her.

She wanted to scream.

Instead, she whispered into the dark, barely breathing, “Why, Bob? Why would you leave like that?”

Y/N stopped going to the café.

She couldn’t bring herself to walk past it without thinking of that message. The same wooden bench outside still stood where she had sat waiting for him, so sure that the future was just beginning — not ending. The wind blew through the streets the same way, as if the world hadn’t even noticed her heart had shattered.

But she noticed. Every second of every day.

The mornings were the worst.

Waking up felt like punishment. That small, stupid moment between sleep and consciousness — the one where her body forgot to be heartbroken — was always cruelly short. She’d blink awake and roll toward the space beside her, expecting warmth. Memory. Him.

But there was only a cold pillow and her own hollow chest.

Sometimes she reached out for her phone first thing, hope still clinging to her like a disease. Maybe there’d be a message. Maybe he’d changed his mind.

But no.

There was never anything from Bob. Not a word. Not even a missed call or a blank message by accident. Nothing.

And that silence — that intentional silence — burned worse than anything he could’ve said.

Some days she didn’t get out of bed.

Others, she wandered around her apartment aimlessly, dressed in the same hoodie she’d stolen from him months ago, sleeves covering her hands like a child playing dress-up in someone else’s life. She didn’t shower. She barely ate. Every little sound in the hallway made her jump, wondering if maybe — maybe — he was outside, realizing he’d made a mistake.

But he never came.

Serena came.

Every damn day.

Even when Y/N didn’t answer the door. Even when she texted her to go away, to leave her alone, to stop acting like everything could be fixed with smoothies and TV marathons.

Serena came anyway.

Sometimes with groceries. Sometimes with takeout. Sometimes with nothing but her own heavy heart, and eyes that looked like they ached for Y/N just as much.

“Open the door,” she’d say gently through it. “I’m not leaving.”

Y/N didn’t talk much. When she did, it wasn’t about Bob.

Not directly, at least.

She’d say things like “I just feel gross today,” or “I think I’m too sensitive for my own good,” or “I don’t get what I did wrong.” Her voice always cracked on that last one. As if she were still searching for the missing puzzle piece that would make it all make sense.

But there was nothing to find.

Only silence. Absence. An ache that grew heavier with time.

There were nights when she cried so hard she couldn’t breathe. Where the tears weren’t elegant or cinematic, but wild and ugly and loud — curled up on the bathroom floor, clutching her phone like it might suddenly, miraculously ring. Her knuckles white from gripping it. Her throat hoarse from whispering his name.

Other nights, the grief was quieter. Still, but no less brutal. She’d stare at the wall for hours. No music. No TV. Just silence — the same kind Bob had left her in.

Her mind replayed everything they had — their jokes, the mornings tangled in each other, the dumb nicknames, the whispered confessions. She picked apart his last weekend with her again and again. He kissed her. He held her. He looked at her like she was his. How could it have all been a lie?

She’d swing between sorrow and fury.

Sometimes she hated him. Really hated him. For the way he left. For not being man enough to face her. For blocking her without giving her a single damn answer.

“What kind of coward does that?” she once snapped, eyes red and voice raw.

Serena didn’t answer. Just rubbed her back and stayed close. She never pushed. Never said, “Maybe it’s time to move on.” Because she knew that would break Y/N more than anything.

Instead, she listened. Held her when she crumbled. Sat in silence when Y/N couldn’t bear words.

One day, Y/N found the video again. The one of Bob doing a mini vlog on a beach day.

She watched it ten times.

Then threw her phone across the room.

The screen cracked.

So did something inside her.

But still, the pain stayed.

The world moved forward in tiny increments. Days blending into weeks. People started asking where she’d been. She avoided them. She couldn’t stand the idea of pretending to be okay — of lying to their faces while her soul was still bleeding.

Only Serena saw the worst of it.

The way she’d sometimes sit in the shower for an hour, water gone cold, just to feel something. Serena siting on the floor holding her hand. The way she tried to go on a date but canceled last minute because even the idea of holding someone else’s hand made her feel sick.

“It’s not fair,” she whispered once, voice shaking. “He made me feel like I was the one.”

And she meant it. Because she was. He looked at her like she was the only thing tethering him to the world. He kissed her like every breath depended on her lips.

But then he let her go like she was nothing.

And somehow, she had to live with that.

New York - Present day

It was an unusually cold morning in the city — the kind where the wind clawed through even the thickest jackets, and the sky hung heavy with clouds that threatened rain. Serena tugged her coat tighter around her as she emerged from the coffe shop with a carboard with two coffes. One for her. One for Y/N, who’d finally agreed to go on a walk with her later, though she looked more ghost than girl these days, all she didn't need was Toby to turn out to be an asshole after seeing Bob.

She was halfway down the block when she saw them.

Bob.

And some blonde woman walking beside him.

Serena froze mid-step. For a second, her brain didn’t fully register it — like her body needed a moment to buffer the image. But there he was. Tall. Familiar. That same tired, haunted face she’d only seen in Y/N’s photo gallery, in the images Y/N had refused to delete even when her heart was breaking.

He hadn’t changed much.

Still walked like he carried the weight of something massive. Still had that slumped posture, like the world had knocked the fight out of him. But he looked clean now. Sober. Shaved. Dressed in clothes that actually fit. He looked like someone trying.

But Serena didn’t care.

All she saw was the man who had destroyed her best friend.

And the blonde woman beside him — sharp-eyed, confident, her presence powerful enough to command a room — was laughing at something he’d said. Laughing. At him. Bob was smiling, in that awkward, gentle way that made it feel private. Familiar.

Serena’s stomach turned.

Of course. Of course he’d moved on. Of course he had some new girl on his arm, someone probably more exciting, more adventurous. Someone who didn’t cry herself to sleep for a month straight. Someone who didn’t need fixing.

She didn’t even realize she was storming toward them until Bob turned and spotted her.

His face shifted immediately.

“Serena?” His voice cracked, uncertain.

Yelena stopped walking, looking between the two with mild curiosity and a hint of protective alertness — she didn’t know this woman, but Bob’s expression said plenty.

Serena looked at him, lips tightening. “Wow. What a small world.”

Bob took a tentative step forward. “I didn’t think I’d see you. I—do you mind if we talk for a second?”

“Oh, you want to talk?” Serena let out a dry, humorless laugh. “That’s rich. That’s new.”

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “Is there a problem?”

Serena looked her over, eyes scanning her from boots to blonde hair. She could’ve been a model. Either way, Serena felt that old, sharp burst of rage she hadn’t let out in weeks. Her voice dropped. Bitter. Cold.

“So… this is the reason, huh? All that heartbreak and disappearing — and it was for her.” She shook her head, chuckling bitterly. “Wow. Y/N really was too good for you.”

Bob blinked, startled. “No, it’s not—wait. You think—? She’s not—Yelena’s a friend. She’s—”

“I don’t give a shit who she is, Bob,” Serena cut him off, voice sharp. “You could be with a goddamn saint and it wouldn’t change what you did. You ghosted her. Blocked her on everything. After saying you loved her. After making her believe she was your whole damn world.”

“I did love her,” he whispered, pained.

Serena’s nostrils flared. “Then you should’ve fought harder. You should’ve told her the truth. You don’t get to say you loved her when you left her sobbing on the floor, not knowing if you were dead or just bored.”

Bob’s mouth opened, but no words came. His throat bobbed, and his hands trembled slightly at his sides. The air between them tightened, thick with everything unsaid.

Yelena, sensing this was personal, shifted uncomfortably. “I’ll give you a minute,” she muttered to Bob, stepping away just out of earshot but still watching from a distance.

Bob swallowed hard. “I know you hate me. You have every right to. But I was—I was sick, Serena. I wasn’t sober when I left. I was trying to protect her—”

“Bullshit,” Serena snapped. “Don’t do that. Don’t give me that noble, self-sacrificing crap. You left without a word. You left her with nothing. You didn’t protect her. You abandoned her.”

Bob looked down, jaw clenched, eyes glassy.

“I was scared,” he admitted, voice low. “I was so deep into it—into everything. And I was ashamed. She didn’t know I was using. She thought I was just a little messed up, but it was more than that. Dealers were after me. I OD’d that week and didn’t tell anyone. I thought... maybe if I disappeared, she’d be better off.”

Serena stared at him. The anger didn’t leave. But now, layered underneath it, was something more dangerous: the temptation to feel sorry for him.

“I don't give a fuck. She wasn’t better off,” she said, quieter now. “You crushed her. She stopped going out. She barely ate. She cried herself to sleep for weeks, Bob. Do you even know what that’s like? Watching someone you love break apart because someone else decided they weren’t worthy of the truth? Good for you, not only you lied you put her in danger but using whatever shit you were doing, and whoever you were with.”

Bob’s hands were in fists now. He looked wrecked.

“I know I ruined it. I know I don’t deserve her.”

Serena exhaled slowly, bitter. “At least you’re right about one thing.”

He winced.

“She loved you so hard, Bob. Like... really loved you. The kind of love that could’ve saved someone, if you’d let her. And now? She’s trying so hard to survive the idea that maybe she was never enough.”

His lip trembled, and for a moment, Serena saw it — the haunted, broken man underneath the calm. His silence wasn’t apathy. It was shame.

“I think about her every day,” he whispered. “Every day, Serena. There hasn’t been a second I haven’t regretted what I did.”

Serena shook her head, the anger softening just barely.

“That doesn’t fix anything. You can’t just show up and say sorry and expect it all to be okay.”

“I know,” he said again, tears finally slipping. “I just—I needed you to know she wasn’t the problem. I was. I am.”

They stood there in silence for a moment. The wind howled between buildings. The sky darkened more.

Serena looked at him, then at the coffee in her hands — one for her, one for Y/N.

“She’s different now,” Serena said softly, stepping back. “She’s not the same girl you left. And even if she was… you’ve got a long road ahead if you think you can walk back into her life.”

Bob nodded slowly, not expecting anything more.

Serena didn’t say goodbye. She just turned, heels clicking on the pavement, coffee tray held tightly, heart aching all over again — this time not just for Y/N, but maybe, just a little... for the man who still loved her, too late.

The apartment was quiet, save for the muffled sounds of the city outside. Y/N sat curled in a blanket on the couch, nursing the same cup of lukewarm tea she’d reheated twice but hadn’t touched. Her eyes were fixed on the TV, but she wasn’t watching — just letting it run in the background. Serena walked in, kicked off her boots, and tossed her bag onto the counter.

“You been out of that spot today?” she asked casually, eyeing her from across the room.

Y/N didn’t answer. She just pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders and gave a half-hearted shrug.

Serena sighed, but didn’t push. She walked into the kitchen and put down the cardboard, grabbed a soda from the fridge, cracked it open, then leaned against the doorway. Her eyes were hesitant.

“I ran into someone today,” she said, too carefully.

Y/N looked over, brows lifting. “Yeah?”

Serena scratched the back of her neck. “It was... Bob.”

Y/N’s face fell.

“Oh.”

A silence settled between them. Y/N’s grip on her mug tightened, but she said nothing.

“He was with a blonde chick,” Serena added quickly. “Not like that. At least he told she was just a friend but... yeah we never know.”

Y/N gave a humorless huff of air. “Figures.”

Serena took a beat. She walked over and sat at the edge of the couch, her tone gentler now.

“He looked like hell, Y/N. Not in a bad way—like, he’s clean. He just... looks like he’s carrying a lot.”

Y/N stared ahead again. “Okay.”

Serena hesitated. “He told me something. Something I think you didn’t know.”

Y/N didn’t move, but the tension in her shoulders rose.

“He said he was using back when you were together.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

Serena nodded slowly. “He had a drug problem. Pretty bad, from what I could tell. He hid it from you. Said he was trying to stop while you were dating, but he was still deep in it.”

Y/N was quiet for a long time. Her throat tightened.

“No... he... he never told me that,” she whispered. “I didn’t know.”

“I know. That’s why I’m telling you now.”

"Was that...why?"

Y/N’s thoughts ran wild — fragments of memories she hadn’t questioned at the time. Nights he’d disappear for a little too long. Moods that shifted without warning. The way he’d go quiet, distant, for no reason she could figure out. Her gut had tugged at her back then — but he always smiled, always kissed her forehead, always said he was just tired.

“I thought I was going crazy,” she murmured. “When he left, I thought maybe I’d done something wrong. Like I loved him too much, or needed too much.”

Serena’s voice softened. “You didn’t. He just wasn’t ready to let someone love him like that.”

Y/N looked down at her lap. “I was waiting for him that day, you know? At the café. I waited for an hour. I thought he was just late. Then the text came, and it was so... cold. No warning. Just ‘I’m sorry. Take care of yourself.’”

Serena frowned. “He said he didn’t know how else to do it. He said if he saw you, he’d stay. And he didn’t want to drag you into that.”

“That’s not his decision to make.”

“No, it’s not,” Serena agreed. “But people who are spiraling... they don’t think straight. They don’t think in ‘what’s fair.’ They think in survival. I don't know, I was not so nice to him about it either.”

Y/N’s eyes welled, but she blinked the tears back. “He blocked me everywhere, Rena. Every account. Like I was nothing.”

“I know.”

“God, I was so angry with myself. Picking apart every moment. Every time I raised my voice, every time I didn’t text back fast enough. I thought... I thought if I’d just been a little more—”

“Y/N,” Serena interrupted gently. “This wasn’t about you. None of it was.”

Y/N let her head fall back against the couch, closing her eyes. She exhaled slowly, trying not to fall apart again. Not over this. Not again.

“I don’t know what hurts more,” she said quietly. “That he was suffering and I didn’t know... or that he still didn’t trust me with the truth.”

Serena leaned over, rubbing her back lightly.

“He was ashamed,” she said. “And maybe he still is. But you? You were never the problem. You were just the one thing he thought he didn’t deserve.”

Y/N sat with that for a long time. The words settled heavy in her chest, warm and cold all at once.

“He could’ve told me,” she whispered.

“I know.”

Y/N sat cross-legged on the couch, knees pulled to her chest. Her fingers traced aimless patterns over the blanket draped over her legs, eyes unfocused and glassy. Serena sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, her back leaning against the couch, watching her in silence.

“Do you think I should call him?” Y/N whispered. The words slipped out like they’d been waiting in her throat for hours.

Serena tilted her head back against the cushion, looking up at her friend. “Honestly?”

Y/N nodded slowly, bracing herself.

Serena sighed. “No. I don’t think you should.”

Y/N didn’t react right away. Her jaw tensed, but she kept her eyes forward. “Because you hate him.”

“No,” Serena said, voice gentle but unwavering. “Because I love you.”

Silence stretched between them. Y/N’s throat was tight. She hated how those words could hurt more than comfort sometimes.

“I just…” Y/N swallowed. “What if I never understand why he left unless I ask? What if this is my only chance?”

Serena shifted to sit beside her on the couch, turning to face her fully. “Babe, he had his reasons. As shitty as they were. But does knowing them change what he did?”

“It might,” Y/N said quietly. “If he was in pain… if he was sick… then maybe it wasn’t about me at all.”

“That doesn’t mean he didn’t still break your heart.”

Y/N ran a hand down her face, frustrated and exhausted. “God, I know. But what if… what if the reason he left is exactly why we could work now? He’s clean, he’s sober. And he’s not hiding anymore.”

She looked at Serena, desperate for clarity that wouldn’t come.

“I keep thinking,” she said, voice cracking, “maybe it wasn’t that he didn’t love me. Maybe it was that he loved me too much and didn’t want me to see him like that.”

“Y/N…”

“No, listen,” she rushed on, her voice thin and trembling. “Maybe it scared him. Maybe he thought he was protecting me. And now he’s better and I’m still here and he’s still in my head and I feel so—so unfinished, Rena. Like there’s still this open wound that never closed because I never got to say anything. He just disappeared. He made me feel like I wasn’t enough, like I was disposable, and I was never okay after that.”

Serena took her hand gently. “You don’t need him to fix that, you know.”

“I don’t know anything anymore,” Y/N said, the tears coming now. “I don’t know if I want closure or if I want him. I don’t know if I miss him or if I just miss the version of me that was happy. He made me laugh, Rena. He’d say stupid shit just to make me smile. He used to kiss my forehead like it was the most sacred thing. Like I was some kind of... light in the middle of all his dark.”

Her voice broke on that last sentence. She covered her face with her hands, and Serena slid closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“I know, baby,” Serena murmured. “I remember.”

Y/N cried for a while — not loud sobs, just quiet, breathy whimpers like a sound too old to still hurt this much. When she finally looked up, her face was puffy and red, mascara smudged under her eyes.

“What if he’s already moved on?” she asked, barely audible. “What if I call and he says he’s happy now? What if that girl you saw really is someone? What if she’s healthy and stable and... everything I’m not?”

“Then you cry,” Serena said. “And I bring ice cream. And we scream at the TV and bad-mouth his stupid golden retriever smile.”

Y/N let out a soft laugh, even through her tears. “He really does have a stupid golden retriever smile.”

“You loved him. That’s not a crime.”

“I still do, Rena. That’s the worst part.”

Serena looked at her with sad, understanding eyes. “That doesn’t mean you have to go back.”

“But what if I don’t and I regret it for the rest of my life?”

“Then you’ll survive. You’ve already survived the worst part — him leaving.”

Y/N nodded, but the weight on her chest didn’t lift. She looked down at her lap, her thumb absently rubbing a spot on her wrist like a nervous tick. Her thoughts were loud and messy, like too many radio stations all fighting for attention in her head.

Was she being delusional? Was she romanticizing someone who shattered her? Or was this just the voice of healing — the one that wanted answers, peace, maybe even a second chance?

“I wish I had a sign,” she whispered. “Something to tell me if I should let it go... or fight for him.”

Serena stood and bent down to kiss the top of her head. “Maybe the sign is that you’re still not sure. And maybe... that’s okay.”

Y/N didn’t respond. She just sat in the stillness of it all — torn between past and present, between hope and self-preservation.

That night, when she lay in bed, she stared at her phone far too long. Bob’s contact wasn’t there anymore. But her fingers hovered over the search bar like they might summon something anyway.

A message she’d never send.

What if she texted him? What if he never replied? What if it opened a door she wasn’t ready to walk through—or worse, slammed it shut for good?

The silence pressed heavy against her chest, making it hard to breathe. The room felt too small, too empty, and yet it was filled with the ghosts of what they once were. She could almost hear the echo of his laugh, the way his blue eyes caught the light, that shy smile he gave when he wasn’t sure if he dared to hope.

Her heart twisted painfully. How could the same man who made her feel so alive have vanished like smoke?

Her fingers curled tight into the blanket, nails digging into the fabric, desperate for something real to hold onto.

She whispered into the darkness, voice fragile and raw:

“God, if you’re listening... if you ever listen to me at all... please... give me a sign. Please tell me if I should let go. If I should forget him and move on. Because I don’t know how to live with this waiting anymore.”

The silence answered back, cold and still.

“But if there’s even a chance,” she added, tears wetting her cheeks now, “if there’s any way that he’s still out there—if he’s not gone for good—then please, just tell me. Give me something. A sign that it’s not over.”

Her breath hitched as the panic rolled in waves, swelling in her chest and threatening to drown her. Her mind spun out — all the ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’ twisting like barbed wire.

What if he’s hurting too? What if he’s scared? What if I’m the only one holding onto a ghost? What if I’m deluding myself into thinking we ever had a chance?

The room suddenly felt unbearably lonely.

“I don’t know if I can do this without him,” she whispered. “I don’t know if I want to be whole if it means he’s not part of it. But maybe... maybe he doesn’t want me. Maybe he already chose to forget me.”

Her hands trembled as she pressed them against her face, willing the tears to stop, but they came anyway — slow and steady, a river that refused to dry up.

“I’m so tired of pretending I’m okay,” she admitted. “I smile, I laugh with Serena, but inside I’m just a mess. I’m scared I’ll wake up one day and realize I’ve wasted my time waiting for someone who never wanted to stay.”

Her voice cracked with the weight of the truth she couldn’t say out loud.

“But I don’t know how to stop.”

The night deepened around her like a shroud. Y/N closed her eyes, heart pounding like a storm.

“Please,” she breathed one last time, a prayer thrown out to a universe that had always felt indifferent. “Please don’t let this be the end.”

#robert reynolds x reader #bob thunderbolts #thunderbolts #bob reynolds #robert reynolds #thunderbolts x reader #sentry x reader #mcu fandom #thunderbolts*#marvel #bob reynolds x reader #mcu x reader #marvel x you #marvel x reader #sentry x y/n #sentry x you #sentry thunderbolts #lewis pullman x reader #void x reader

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homiesexuallaj · 3 days ago

Text

Bob: God, I really wanna do something nice for her tonight

Sentry: What about making her dinner?

Bob: Ooo! You might be on to something there! Good idea

Void: I think we should just spit in her mouth

Bob: Void, what the fuck? It’s date night!

Bob: Just.. calm down

*Bonus Line*

Y/N: Oh man, I hope he spits in my mouth for date night tonight

Y/N: *dreamy sigh*

#marvel #bob reynolds #sentry #void #marvel x reader #bob reynolds x reader #sentry x reader #void x reader #marvel incorrect quotes #incorrect quotes

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bluegardenn · 1 day ago

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EXPLANATION OF THE DRAMA WITH LEWIS

Sorry if the writing is bad, my native language is not English.

It seems that he has some kind of addiction to ZYN (which as I understand it, are nicotine packets), this is because there are photos of him at concerts, press conferences, photos with family, red carpets and even in the filming of his works (and yes, literally in the final versions of the products) where you can see that he has the ZYN package in his pants pockets, in addition to that in a recent interview for Thunderbolts he said that something he can not be without during filming and shooting is ZYN (he literally takes out the package and showed it), personally I don't think it's a big deal, I mean, obviously it's bad for your health, but he is already an adult responsible for himself and I don't think it's right to judge him the way they are doing.

THE IMAGES ARE NOT MINE!! I TOOK THEM FROM TWITTER AND PINTEREST.

#lewis pullman x reader #lewis pullman #bob reynolds x reader #lewis pullman smut #owen taylor #lewis pullman fic #calvin evans #bob floyd #robert bob floyd #sentry x reader #marvel #mcu #marvel cinematic universe #marvel mcu #marvel fandom #avengers #top gun maverick #phoenix top gun #top gun x reader

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angelltheninth · 2 days ago

Text

Prasing and Stroking Robert Reynolds Until He Can't Take It Anymore

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, handjob, praise kink, mirror sex, overstimulation, cum shot, grinding, teasing, blushing

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: This man is so pathetic, he is a sad cat, he is a god, he is powerful and I will make him whimper.

It was no secret that he didn't think to highly of himself or that he was the shy sort

Bob was a very giving lover, he would eat you out until his jaw started hurting and then some more until you lost the feeling in your legs

Didn't take long for you to notice his praise kink

How his cock twitched and jumped when you called him a good boy, when you told him he was making you happy or making you feel good, how perfect he was, how loving

Seemed to have a problem accepting pleasure so you decided to give him a hand, literally, you told him to kneel in front of the mirror and settled behind him, your hands roaming his body, down his abs and one wrapping around his cock

A strong blush took over his whole face as you stroked him

You didn't him touch himself, he had to listen to you, he had to let you do this for him, he had to let you give him pleasure as well

Kept telling him how pretty he was like this, on his knees, cock hard in your hand, his mouth open and drooling, his pre-cum dripping down onto your hand

The only thing you allowed him to use his hands for is to rub and pinch his nipples, which you knew would be more than sensitive by now

Bob was never one to keep his voice down when the two of you had sex and he sure as hell wasn't about to start now

You pressed against him, your soft tits against his back, your wet pussy against his soft ass

As you rubbed his sensitive cockhead his hips rocked forward into your hand, wanting, no, needing more

His ears were red as you praised his efforts, the simultaneous restraint and desperation

Feeling he was close you formed a tight ring with your hand and gripped the bottom of his cock, making him whimper, beg, plead with nearly inconsistent babble to let him come

You chuckled against his ear and pressed slow kisses against his neck, reaching down with your other hand to massage his full balls, feeling his hot cock pulsing in your hand

If he wanted to come he only needed to do one thing for you, he needed to repeat every nice thing you said about him, while looking at the mirror

Easy enough wasn't it, yet for someone like Bob, especially in this horny, overstimulated state, it was the most difficult task he had ever been given

With each praise that he managed to force out of his lips you stroked his cock, but each time it made it more difficult to get the next praise out

By the time he said the final praise he was a shaking, whimpering, pleading mess under your hands, his cock oozing with cum, the tip red and overstimulated and sensitive it only took one swipe of your thumb and calling him a good boy one more time to make him shoot cum right against the mirror

You kept stroking him through it until he had nothing more to give, just the needy, stuttering movements of his hips, unsure if he wanted more or if he wanted to move away

Bob turned to capture your lips in a sloppy kiss, his mind still playing catch up from the orgasm he just had

Quickly enough his sunshine smile greeted you and he turned to pull you against him, his arms slightly shaking as he held you, telling you that he still thinks that you're more than what he deserves

At the same time you make him so happy so he will try his best to the kind of man that does deserve you, even though in your mind he already is

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allhailbuckybarnes · 5 days ago

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Bob Reynolds loves his GF

blurb

Bob Reynolds: who cannot handle you being injured. Not in a pathetic, helpless, and miserable way. He just can't stand it. Watching your vitals tirelessly and resting a hand on yours as you sleep after a tiring mission. He just feels lost. You are the only thing that matters to him. So when a teammate as experienced as Bucky makes a rookie mistake, moving and opening the line of fire at you, and you get hit, he wants blood.

Watching John carry you in, your suit stained red with blood, was one of the most horrific sights he had ever seen. The thought of you hurt instantly made his eyes burn and his heart pound. He rushed to you, asking anyone and everyone what had happened. Bucky was quiet. Too quiet. Bob pushed him against the wall. His eyes blaring.

"I made a mistake Bobby. I'm sorry" Bucky grunted.

Sorry? As if sorry was enough for the hurt you were in right now. He threatened Bucky, the team having to drag him off of the super soldier. Yelena rubbing his shoulder. Bob hurried to the med bay once he had calmed down enough.

Your hand twitched as the doctors gave you another dose of Morphine. "I know," Bob whispered, "I know, I'm here. I'm sorry, I'm sorry I wasn't there to shield you." He squeezed your hand all the more tighter.

#robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #bucky barnes #marvel #mcu #fanfic #blurb #imagine #yelena belova #sentry x reader #sentry #bob thunderbolts #bob reynolds x you #thunderbolts #john walker #ava starr #alexei shostakov

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em1i2a3 · 3 days ago

Text

Makes Me Want You

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

Summary: After the incident with Walker, Sentry becomes your unofficial sparring partner during your training sessions. (Sequel to ‘Good Grief’)

Warnings 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff, Depictions of fighting, Sentry is being a little too overprotective, and Sentry volunteers to be your training dummy (cause he’s got a little crush), Sentry and the reader evidently have a bond, it’s evident (Bob doesn’t make an appearance, this is full Sentry)

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex, Body Worship, Overstimulation, Hair Pulling, Sentry is literally a god who kneels 🤷🏻‍♀️what can I say? Need I say more?, Shower Sex, Fingering, Biting (with intentions to mark and claim), Oral Sex (female receiving), Dirty Talk

Author’s Note: I had two different requests for Sentry smut and they were both fairly similar and they were both anon's...And on top of that they fit really well with this story! Fantastic for me, I just combined them! Thank you for reading and I hope y’all enjoy <3

Word Count:10,002

Sentry stood in the middle of the training room, unmoving, watching as you wrapped your hands with slow, distracted care. Not a word passed between the two of you, just silent glances from you to him. He didn’t shift, didn’t blink, didn’t so much as adjust the angle of his stance. He just stood there, solid and patient, like a monument forged from fire and waiting for someone who was brave enough to strike it.

His presence was gravity incarnate.

You could feel it coiling tight in the air, bending the atmosphere toward him like everything in the room was caught in a sort of orbit. He wasn’t glowing the way he sometimes did when adrenaline flared or when his power leaked through the cracks of Bob. There was no blinding light, or burning heat. But he radiated something much quieter. Heavier. It was the kind of silent energy that didn’t demand attention–it commanded it…Just like any God commanded their followers to go to war for them.

The fluorescents above him buzzed faintly, and then one flickered–twice–before dimming into a low, stuttering pulse. The light didn’t break entirely. It just hesitated, like even the electricity was aware of who stood beneath it. As if the current in the walls had paused to watch him too.

The air was warm–too warm for a room this size with the ventilation system running. There was a faint smell of ozone lingering beneath the cleaner’s citrus scent. Not sharp, not overwhelming, but present. You tasted it when you inhaled. It sat on the back of your tongue like a storm about to break.

He wore the simplest thing possible–grey sweatpants hanging low and loose on his hips, the drawstring frayed and untied, cuffs brushing the tops of his bare feet. His black t-shirt looked worn, lived-in, the hem slightly uneven and the sleeves clinging too well to the thick lines of his arms. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t tactical. It looked like something pulled from the top of his drawer that morning–and yet on him, it looked almost ceremonial.

Casual clothing on an apocalyptic being. The softness of the fabric clinging to muscle so dense it might as well have been marble. And still, he stood there like a temple waiting to be tested. Not arrogant. Not restless.

Just ready.

The mat beneath him didn’t creak. It didn’t shift. But you could feel the weight of him in your spine–like if he took a step, the sound would echo down into the foundation of the building.

You tightened the last loop of tape around your knuckles, pulse beginning to rise–not from effort, but from proximity. From the way his gaze held you. Not predatory. Not curious. Just fixed–like your movements were the only things keeping the world spinning, and if you stopped wrapping your hands, something ancient and dangerous might uncoil.

You exhaled slowly and finally looked up, catching his golden kissed eyes.

They didn’t waver.

“Is this seriously necessary?” You asked, voice rough with disbelief. “I didn’t get hurt, Sentry. I literally got the wind knocked out of me for a few minutes. You can’t just ban me from training with other people.”

Still, he didn’t move. His weight remained balanced, his stance loose, but every inch of him alert.

“I’m not banning you,” He said evenly. “I’m replacing them.”

You let out a quiet, incredulous breath and rose to your feet, stepping fully onto the mat. “Oh, that’s not the same thing at all,” You muttered sarcastically. “You’re not banning me, you’re just volunteering to be my sole sparring partner for the foreseeable future like that’s not completely–”

“I’m the safest option,” He interrupted, voice soft but unshakable. “You know that.” You scoffed under your breath, stepping farther onto the mat until your toes brushed the edge of the taped centerline.

“I’m sure you’re the safest option,” You said, stretching your shoulder in a lazy roll, “but I don’t normally spar with people in general. The whole Walker and Bucky thing was literally one time. A fluke…You know what that is right?” You asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

Sentry blinked once. Then–deadpan, voice laced with something dangerously close to sass–he replied, “Yes. I know what a fluke is.”

The corner of your mouth twitched.

Before you could speak again, he added, “But have you ever thought maybe…I want to see what you can do?”

That made you pause.

You took a slow step forward, then another–only closing half the distance between you, but it was enough to feel the tension in the air tighten, the warmth of him like a soft current against your skin.

“You already see what I can do,” You countered, gaze steady on his. “You watch me all the time. With Bob.”

He tilted his head slightly. The movement was subtle. Smooth.

“See, that’s not what I want though…” He murmured. “Maybe I want to feel it.”

You stopped walking.

One foot planted, one slightly lifted mid-step–like something in you had gone still in response. Your brow rose, arms slowly crossing over your chest, muscles shifting beneath the fabric of your tank top.

“Okay,” You said carefully. “I think you’re overestimating my strength. Because I’m pretty sure you won’t feel a single thing if I punch you.” You gestured broadly toward his chest, to the absurdly built wall of him standing there like a modern-day colossus in soft cotton. “If I threw an anvil at you, I don’t think you’d even blink. It’d be like… a gust of wind blew too hard in your direction. A mild inconvenience.”

That made him smirk. Not teasing. Not ego-driven. Just…Amused. Like you’d said something that charmed him in a way he didn’t quite know how to explain.

“Well,” He said, that golden glow flickering over his irises–pulsing like a heartbeat almost, “You haven’t tried doing anything to me, have you?”A slow breath. A beat of quiet. “So you wouldn’t know how I’d react.”

You stared at him for a moment longer than you meant to.

Then you exhaled and crossed your arms tighter. “Okay. Fine…Are you going to fight back at least?”

“No,” He replied quickly, “Of course not.”

“You’re not even going to put up a challenge?” His silence was answer enough, but you pushed anyway, gesturing toward the training dummies lined up along the far wall.

“Now that’s not realistic at all, Sentry. I would actually prefer to punch the dummy. At least it wobbles.”

He shook his head–just once–but the motion was full-bodied, slow and deliberate, like a parent too tired to keep arguing with a child who refused to listen.

“I’d end up accidentally putting you through a wall if I fought back,” he said, the words a little too dry to be dramatic and far too sincere to be a joke. “And no, I’m not exaggerating when I say that.” His golden eyes flicked over your face, unreadable but steady. “Can’t you just go with it? For the love of God?”

You groaned loudly, letting your head fall back for a beat, eyes rolling toward the ceiling as if the cracked tiles might have an opinion.

Then you stepped forward again.

And again.

Until you were within reach–close enough that the heat coming off him felt almost physical. Like a pulse. Like the sun was leaking out of him in slow, restrained breaths.

You didn’t touch him. Not yet.

But your chest was rising a little faster now. Your heart thudding louder than it had any business doing. Because up close, the scale of him was…Impossible. Even dressed down in soft cotton and loose sweatpants, he was still carved from something the universe had only built once.

“Fine,” You muttered, the word slipping out like a reluctant surrender. Your fists dropped loosely to your sides. “But if I break my hand on your chest, I’m making you carry me to medbay.”

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t smile. Didn’t tease.

He just stood there.

Still as stone.

Waiting.

You flexed your fingers once.

Then raised your fists.

You circled him–half a step, then another. Your bare feet were silent against the mat, but every motion sent a ripple through the silence like a blade carving through water. His head turned ever so slightly to follow your movement, but he didn’t tense. Didn’t shift.

He was perfectly relaxed.

You studied him.

His posture. His balance. The faint flicker of gold behind his eyes.

And then–without warning–you struck.

A clean, tight right hook. Not full-force, not your strongest. But fast. Sharp. Enough to feel.

Your fist slammed into his side–just below the ribs, right at the spot where a normal opponent might recoil.

And he didn’t even flinch.

Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

It was like hitting the surface of something just this side of indestructible.

The impact reverberated through your knuckles and into your forearm, a shock of resistance that felt almost mechanical. The kind of hit that should’ve yielded some reaction–but instead, it just…Landed.

And stayed there.

Like you’d punched the hull of a goddamn battleship.

You hissed through your teeth, shaking out your fingers slightly as your feet adjusted on the mat.

“Okay,” You muttered under your breath, eyeing him, “That was not a dummy.”

“Do it again,” Sentry said quietly, his voice low and steady like thunder just barely rumbling in the distance.

You looked at him for a moment, lips parted, then exhaled and rolled your shoulders back with a sigh. “You sure? I’m not exactly delivering haymakers here.”

“I’m sure.”

Another step forward. Your muscles adjusted on instinct, your stance falling into its natural rhythm. And then you swung again. And again.

Punch after punch landed against him with the same result: nothing. No shift. No stumble. Not even a ripple of tension in his frame. Just the steady, unflinching wall of him absorbing the strikes like they were wind brushing against a mountain.

But you kept going.

Because something about the way he stood there made you want to see if you could draw any sort of reaction. A grunt. A blink. A goddamn eyebrow raise. Anything.

The rhythm grew sharper. Your jaw set tighter. Sweat began to bead along your spine, down your temple. The sound of your fists hitting his chest echoed sharply across the training room–thud, thud, thud–like muffled war drums. Every strike reverberated back into your arm with bruising density, but you didn’t stop.

You were breathing harder now.

And Sentry was still just… watching you.

Not bored. Not blank. He was studying you–like a scholar with a sacred text. Like every move you made was worthy of reverence. There was a faint gleam of something pleased in his expression, golden irises flicking between the set of your shoulders and the tension in your clenched jaw, like he was cataloging every shift in your form with quiet admiration.

It wasn’t desire. Not lust. Just awe.

And then, finally, you stepped back. Your arms hung loose at your sides, wrists sore and shoulders flushed with exertion. You shook out your hands with a grunt, sucking in a slow breath.

“I have a question for you,” you said, voice uneven from the effort.

Sentry straightened a fraction. Cleared his throat softly, like he hadn’t spoken in a century.

“Go ahead.”

You stepped closer–again. The heat between your bodies was tangible now. You stopped just short of brushing his chest with yours, close enough that you could feel the hum of him buzzing beneath the thin layer of his cotton shirt.

“You and Bob…” you began slowly. “You share thoughts, right? Like… You can talk to him inside his head?”

Sentry nodded once. Calm. “Yes. Of course.”

He didn’t ask where the question was going–but there was a subtle flicker of curiosity behind his gaze. A glint of wariness.

You tilted your head slightly.

“So that means… You know what he thinks of me?”

That made something in his face change.

Not visibly–but internally. Like a shift in gravity.

His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed, but not with anger. Just with the weight of knowing exactly what you meant.

“Yes,” He said finally. “Isn’t it obvious?”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, but it didn’t quite work. A smirk tugged at the edge of your mouth anyway.

“Just wanted confirmation.”

He squinted at you suspiciously, head tilting. “I feel like you’re trying to set me up to say something that should be coming from Bob.”

“I’m not,” You said quickly, voice light. “I swear I’m not. I’m just…Curious. That’s all.”

You held his gaze for a beat, then let it slip for just a second–just long enough to flick down to his neck. He didn’t miss it.

And when your eyes darted back up to his, there was something different there. A spark. A glint of mischief. A subtle shift in the air that sent a new ripple of heat down your spine.

“Do you guys share similar…” You began slowly, teasingly, “Weaknesses?”

Sentry blinked. Cautious. Confused.

Then he huffed a quiet laugh, low and incredulous. “That is where we differ. I’m practically indestru–”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because in one smooth movement, your fingers darted out and skated lightly up the side of his neck–just under his jaw, where the skin was most sensitive to both Bob…And him.

And the sound he made–

Was not godly.

It was sharp. Undignified. Somewhere between a yelp and a startled grunt, the kind of noise someone made when they’d been caught off guard in the worst way. His whole body jerked back half a step, and his knees bent as if something in his godlike frame just short-circuited.

“Jesus Christ,” Sentry hissed, glaring at you like you’d committed some sort of war crime.

You burst out laughing. Bent at the waist, arms braced on your thighs as the sound poured from you uncontrollably.

You couldn’t breathe. Could barely talk.

Between wheezes, you managed, “I didn’t expect you to react like that–but holy shit–it’s good to know that gods get ticklish sometimes too.”

He straightened slowly.

“Guess it’s one of the disadvantages,” He muttered, “Of being attached to Bob.”

You wiped your eyes, still grinning, as you leaned your weight back onto one foot.

“Damn,” You said breathlessly, “If the team ever finds out about this…”

“They won’t.”

You just smiled wider.

“Sure, Sentry. Whatever you say.” His eyes narrowed as he straightened fully, his arms slowly dropping from where they’d hovered in a mid-defensive reflex. His jaw clenched once, golden gaze burning hot beneath furrowed brows. There was no real danger in his posture–no spark of fury or divine wrath–but something shifted in his voice, something dry and faintly amused.

“It really seems like you’re trying to push me into fighting you.”

You raised your eyebrows, already taking a half-step backward with that same glint in your eye.

“What? Because I’m probably going to go tell the entire team that Sentry’s ticklish like Bob?” You teased, voice light and sing-songy as you began to edge toward the door. “Because I might casually bring it up at dinner next time Walker starts bragging about his bench press? ‘Oh yeah? Well, Sentry can bench the moon, but he also squeals like a kid if you touch his neck.’”

Sentry stared at you, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting the urge to smile–or maybe grit his teeth.

You pointed a lazy finger at him as you backed up farther, heel tapping the edge of the mat.

“You know I’ll do it. I’ll tell Yelena. I’ll tell Alexei. And he’ll never let you live it down.”

His hands fell loosely to his sides, the veins in his forearms flexing subtly beneath the black sleeves as he took one slow step forward. The overhead lights buzzed again–just once–and then went completely still.

“Alright,” He said calmly, “You asked for it.” You barely had time to register the words before he moved. You blinked.

And then ran.

A breathless laugh tore from your throat as you pivoted hard and booked it toward the exit, bare feet silent across the mat. You knew he’d follow—but you weren’t expecting how fast. You barely made it five steps before the air shifted behind you.

He was there.

You didn’t even hear him move.

Strong arms slipped around your waist, lifting you clean off your feet like it was nothing. You shrieked—half indignation, half delighted surprise—and squirmed hard against him.

“Put me down!”

“Nope,” Sentry grunted, voice steady with amusement. “You opened this door.”

You twisted hard, elbow aiming for his ribs—not to hurt, just to annoy. He caught it easily, body flexing behind you as he adjusted his grip, lowering you just enough that your heels skimmed the mat. His chest was warm against your back, too warm, and you could feel the restrained strength in every inch of him. He wasn’t trying to hurt you. He was holding you like something sacred—delicately, even when your body writhed with every ounce of mischief you had left.

“I will scream,” You warned.

“I’m counting on it.”

You gasped-half laugh, half breathless–and hooked your ankle around his shin to try and trip him. He didn’t budge. Instead, his arm shifted, sliding up to wrap around your chest and pull you flush against him. You could feel the thunder of his pulse now–buried deep behind the quiet of him. That cosmic stillness. It made your own heart race faster, like it was trying to match something much older, much heavier.

“God, you’re obnoxious,” You huffed, yanking at his arm.

“You’re the one who threatened to tell Alexei I’m ticklish,” He countered.

“And I will!”

“Then I guess I’m justified.”

You twisted in his hold, managing to face him fully–and he let you. Didn’t resist when you grabbed his shirt in both fists and tugged like it would help.

You were panting now, flushed and laughing, but there was a fire behind it–something not quite amusement. Not anymore.

He stared at you for a moment, his eyes glowing softly, shimmering with the classic Sentry gold.

You were so close your noses nearly brushed. Your chest rose and fell in fast, shallow pulls, brushing against his. One of his hands was still resting low on your side, fingers spread wide–grounding you, maybe, or steadying himself.

You swallowed.

Your voice, when it came, was quieter. Rougher.

“…You don’t have to hold back this much.”

Sentry’s expression shifted. Not smug. Not surprised. Just sharp–with awareness.

“I do,” He said simply. “But it doesn’t mean I don’t want to see what you’re like… when you’re under pressure.”

You tilted your chin up, breath catching. “Why?”

A pause.

And then:

“Because I like how you burn when you’re pushed.” The air between you pulsed like something alive. Charged and hot and thrumming with everything neither of you had said. You didn’t know if it was Bob in that second, or Sentry, or both–but you burned too.

You stared at his mouth. Then his throat. Then back to his eyes.

And he saw it.

He saw all of it.

Something clicked behind his gaze–snapped, maybe–and suddenly his hand slid to the back of your neck, warm and sure and deliberate.

And then his mouth was on yours.

The kiss wasn’t tentative.

It was hungry.

It hit like a gravitational collapse–like the breathless moment between lightning and thunder, the second before a star goes supernova. His mouth claimed yours like he had waited centuries for this moment and wasn’t going to waste a second of it. There was no soft warm-up, no gentle build. Just the press of lips that had held back too long and a low, almost feral sound from his chest as you kissed him back with everything you had.

Your hands curled in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. His body pressed into yours like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of you–like restraint was no longer an option.

Your back hit the nearest wall–not hard, just enough for him to anchor you there with the weight of him, arm braced beside your head. He broke the kiss only long enough to gasp against your mouth, voice shredded and low.

“You have no idea what you do to us.” You barely had time to breathe before he continued, his voice rasped and reverent, breaking on the edges like it hurt to hold the words in.

“When you ask questions that you know the answers to.” The heat in his eyes didn’t flicker. It burned steady. Fixed. Like he was looking at the only thing in existence that had ever managed to make him feel truly alive.

His hand was still cradling the back of your neck–thumb brushing slow arcs along your skin, grounding him as much as it grounded you. His other hand had settled at your waist again, fingers flexing, as though he didn’t trust himself to hold you tighter.

And still he spoke, each word barely more than a breath, like a confession pulled from the center of a god.

“When you look at me like you see me. Not what I am. Not what I can do. Just…Me.”

You swallowed, chest rising fast against his.

He dipped his head slightly, golden eyes flickering over your mouth again.

“When you touch us like we are yours…Even when we haven’t even claimed you as such…Yet.”

And then–

He kissed you again.

But this time, you leaned into it.

Your fingers slid up his chest, over the slope of his shoulder, until they reached the nape of his neck and tangled in the softness of his light brown hair. You pulled—gently, but enough. Enough to make him groan against your mouth, low and wrecked, like your hands on him were something he’d dreamed of and denied himself for too long.

The sound vibrated into your jaw, into your throat, and you kissed him harder in response. Hungrier. The kind of kiss that made your knees soften and your lungs burn and your body ache.

He shifted then–closer, impossibly closer–his hips brushing yours, his chest a wall of heat against your front. You were pinned between him and the wall now, not trapped, but held. Like he wanted to keep you there forever. Like you were a prayer he didn’t know how to say out loud yet, but couldn’t stop whispering beneath his skin.

Your hands fisted tighter in his hair, and he made that sound again, louder this time. His hand slid from your waist up your spine in a slow, aching drag that left you trembling, fingertips pressing between your shoulder blades like he needed to feel every part of you rising to meet him.

You gasped against his mouth, lips swollen and breathless, and he took that as an invitation to devour the sound, to kiss you deeper, and to drink from you.

And the truth was…

You both were starving.

For touch. For closeness. For something that didn’t end in fear or retreat or silence. Something that pulled instead of pushed.

And now, here he was–Sentry, Bob, both of them–finally holding you like you were the only thing in this world that had ever felt real.

And you didn’t want to waste this moment on overthinking.

You didn’t want to question it, to slow it down, to analyze the weight of his hand or the heat of his mouth or the way your body arched so desperately into his—because for once, it all made sense. This wasn’t strategy. This wasn’t timing. This was inevitable.

The kiss became sloppy fast.

It was still all teeth and tongue and soft, panting sounds that echoed between the cracks of restraint–but now your hands were dragging down the planes of his back, curling in the hem of that soft black shirt like you could pull him closer than physics allowed. He groaned into you again, louder this time–richer, rougher–like he hadn’t realized how much he needed this until he had it, and now he didn’t know how to stop.

Your legs shifted on instinct–widening just slightly for balance as you arched into him–and he responded immediately.

Sentry shifted.

The movement was fluid and almost too smooth for something that carried this much desperation, but you didn’t care. You barely even noticed the transition–your world had narrowed to the feel of him, the weight of his mouth, the stretch of your lungs trying to keep up.

You felt the moment his knees hit the mat.

The world tilted, and suddenly you were lower–his arms supporting you as your back hit the padded floor with a quiet, muffled thud.

And then he was over you.

Not crushing. Not smothering. Just there–braced on one arm, hovering above you with his chest heaving and his golden eyes wild, like he hadn’t expected to find himself here either, but now that he was, there was no chance he’d leave.

Your hands cupped his jaw, thumbs brushing the warmth of his cheeks, and he leaned back down like he couldn’t stay away–not even for a second.

His mouth found yours again. Hot. Messy. Open. His tongue brushed against yours and you whimpered, breath catching as your hips lifted just slightly into the space between his. You weren’t even thinking anymore. Not about the compound. Not about the team. Not about anything except him.

And then–without warning–he pulled back.

Only a few inches. But it was enough for the cold air to kiss your spit-slick lips. Enough to make your brows pinch with protest.

But Sentry was staring at you.

His eyes were wide. Dark with heat. Glowing with something that went beyond hunger.

He looked wrecked.

“Do you know,” He said softly, voice hoarse, “How many times I’ve wanted to do that?”

Your breath hitched.

He shook his head slightly, chest still rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon. His voice dropped even lower.

“I’ve imagined it in every damn room I’ve been in. The med bay, the kitchen, my room, your room, the living room…Fucking everywhere.” He let out a breathless laugh, pressed his forehead against yours. “I can barely breathe when you’re near me. I try to act normal, I try to just watch, like Bob does, like I’m supposed to–but it’s never enough.” You blinked, heart in your throat.

He leaned down again, brushing your jaw with his mouth.

“I think about your hands when you’re not here,” He murmured. “I think about the way you talk when you’re irritated. The way you look when you’re focused. How your voice sounds when you laugh. I remember every fucking sound you’ve ever made.”

His mouth kissed a line down the side of your throat–hot, reverent, barely restrained. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, body arching into his like gravity was conspiring with him.

He lifted his head again, gaze locked to yours, barely more than a breath away.

“I think about touching you every time I close my eyes,�� He whispered, “I think about what it would mean. To be yours.” You stared up at him, chest heaving beneath the weight of everything he’d just said. Everything he’d confessed. There was no filter in him now. No veil. No divine wall of restraint.

Just truth.

Raw and devastating.

And yours.

Your hands slid up the sides of his face, thumbs grazing the delicate dip beneath his cheekbones, palms cupping the sharp angles of his jaw like you were trying to hold the entire sun between your fingers. He leaned into the touch–starved for it–and you surged forward.

You kissed him hard. Biting his bottom lip gently, tugging just enough to make his body jolt above yours, a sharp, shuddered groan escaping from deep in his chest.

Then, breathless, lips still brushing his, you whispered with a crooked smile:

“God, you really know how to make a girl feel wanted, huh?”

That made him laugh.

Low and stunned and wrecked, like the sound had been dragged out of somewhere deep in his ribcage. His forehead dropped to yours for a beat, and he let out a warm, shaky exhale.

Then he kissed you again–harder this time, deeper, the kind of kiss that tasted like a thank-you and a promise and a claim all at once. One hand slid down your side to hook beneath your thigh, adjusting his body above yours, fitting himself to you with a precision that felt nothing short of divine.

“I could go on forever,” He said, voice low and thunder-warm, “About how much I’ve wanted you.”

His eyes flicked over your face like you were scripture carved into flesh.

“I could tell you how many times I’ve had to hold Bob back from saying your name in his sleep, how he’ll flinch when someone says it in a hallway because his heart just–stops.”

He dipped his head, kissing the corner of your mouth like a prayer.

“I could tell you how he made me promise I’d always be near. Always listening. Just in case you needed something he couldn’t give fast enough.”

Another kiss–your jaw, your cheekbone, your temple.

“He tethered us to you.” His voice dropped into something reverent. Barely audible. Worshipful. “Not out of fear. Not duty. But because his love for you has become instinct.” You didn’t realize you were trembling until his hand was cupping your side, warm and grounding. Sentry felt it—felt the way your body vibrated with something between overload and surrender, the way your breath stuttered beneath his palm. He shifted just enough to look at you properly again, his thumb dragging softly across your ribcage.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured, not with concern, but awe. Like your reaction was the most sacred thing he’d ever witnessed.

“I’m fine,” you whispered back, though your voice cracked at the edges.

He searched your face for a beat, then dipped his head, pressing a gentle kiss beneath your jaw. Slower now. Calmer. He lingered there, lips barely brushing your skin, just breathing you in like he needed it to steady himself.

But you didn’t want steady.

You wanted more.

And he could feel that too.

“…This floor isn’t exactly comfortable,” you said softly, your hands still buried in his hair, voice tinged with a breathless laugh. “And I’m pretty sure you’re leaking nuclear heat through your t-shirt.”

He huffed, and the sound vibrated against your throat.

“I’m trying not to melt you.”

“Too late,” you murmured.

His mouth curved into a crooked smile against your neck. “Come with me,” he said—quiet, but sure. “Before I forget how to be gentle.”

You didn’t ask where.

You didn’t need to.

He rose slowly, cradling your hips with one arm as he guided you upright with him. His other hand stayed on your lower back, grounding, reverent. You stood together for a beat, close and flushed and breathing each other in–your body barely keeping from leaning back into the mat out of sheer sensory overload.

But he kissed your forehead like a promise, and you followed when he took your hand.

The hallway was quiet.

He led you through it barefoot, fingers laced with yours, his other hand resting low on your spine to steady you whenever your steps faltered. The air felt cooler outside the training room–barely, but enough to raise a chill along your sweat-damp skin.

You didn’t realize where he was leading you until the scent of clean steam and citrus hit your nose.

The locker room.

He pushed the door open gently, the fluorescent lights humming above, diffused by the quiet fog curling in the air. You hadn’t even asked if anyone else was around–but somehow, you knew they weren’t. They wouldn’t be.

Not right now–especially this early in the morning.

Sentry released your hand just long enough to walk over to one of the shower stalls. You heard the soft hiss of water turning on–heard the shift in his breathing when he adjusted the temperature with pinpoint care.

By the time he turned back to you, the steam was rising in slow tendrils around him.

His shirt clung damp to his chest, darkening in the heat. You watched the golden flicker in his eyes catch the haze and hold it there, like light bending for him alone.

You stepped toward him slowly.

“You sure this isn’t just adrenaline talking?” He shook his head–slowly, reverently, steam curling around his jaw like a shroud.

“Please…” His voice was quiet. Unsteady in that way gods rarely allow themselves to be. “I think the admission of what we felt for you was long overdue. It’s not the adrenaline talking.”

He stepped closer. Just one pace, but it made your breath catch in your throat.

Then he reached for the hem of his shirt.

It was wet now–sticking to the hard lines of his torso–but he peeled it off in one fluid motion, revealing what you had only ever glimpsed in slivers beneath battle-torn fabric and half-buttoned uniforms. And even then, nothing had quite prepared you for this.

For him.

He looked like something carved out of devotion. Like a figure from myth brought to life in firelight and steam. Dense, sculpted muscle corded through his frame, every inch of him wrapped in strength that seemed impossible yet undeniable. Not exaggerated. Not grotesque. Just…Perfect in that terrifying, celestial way. His skin was flushed from the heat of the locker room, as steam caught along the slopes of his shoulders, trailing down the valley between his abs.

Your gaze traced the scars scattered across him—some faint and faded, some darker, older, deep with memory. Not many. But enough. Enough to know that even gods bled sometimes.

And then there was the light. The quiet flicker of gold beneath his skin, pulsing faintly at his sternum and branching like veins of starlight across his chest. Glowing. Alive. Like divinity itself was trying to escape through him.

He was beautiful in a way that defied logic.

And you stared.

You had always wondered—always imagined. The way his shirts clung when he lifted something, the way muscles shifted in his back when he moved too quickly. You’d dreamed of what was underneath, fantasized in quiet, guilty moments.

But now, there he was. Bared. Unashamed.

And he was looking at you.

Not demanding. Not expecting. Just…waiting.

You swallowed, the heat rising in your cheeks as your fingers found the hem of your own tank top and slowly pulled it upward, peeling it away from your flushed skin. It slipped over your head in one smooth motion—and you stood bare-chested before him, breasts exposed to the low locker room light, skin flushed with effort and anticipation.

Sentry’s breath hitched audibly. You saw his jaw flex. His eyes—already glowing faintly–went molten.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just stared at you like you were some divine vision made flesh. Like you were something sacred he was afraid to reach for in case he ruined it.

Then his eyes dropped.

You saw the moment they landed on your breasts. Saw the subtle twitch in his mouth as he bit the inside of his lower lip–hard. A sharp, restrained motion that made the muscle in his cheek jump. He didn’t speak, but he exhaled roughly through his nose, like he was trying to calm a fire that had just started to roar.

Then, with one slow, fluid motion, he pushed his sweatpants and underwear down in a single breath.

And your brain short-circuited.

Because even semi-erect, he was…Big.

Thick. Heavy. Perfectly shaped. You could already tell that when he was fully hard, it would be something else entirely–something that bordered on surreal. And the way he carried it–no posturing, no arrogance, just naked truth–made your thighs clench so hard you nearly gasped. It was instinct. A raw, involuntary reaction that ran straight down your spine and pooled low in your gut.

He caught the movement.

His gaze flicked from your legs back to your face, golden eyes smoldering with understanding. Hunger. But he didn’t pounce. He didn’t move forward or press his advantage.

He just let you look.

And maybe that was what undid you the most.

That even now–even with your nipples tightening under the locker room air, with your mouth parted and breath shallow, with your eyes darting back down to the weight of him hanging between his legs–he waited. Like this wasn’t about lust or claim or need.

It was about offering.

“Tell me what you want,” He said, his voice low. Gravel rough. Unsteady in a way that told you he was holding himself back with every ounce of divine willpower he had.

“Because I’ll give it to you,” He added. “All of it. Anything. Just say the word.”

You stared at him–at the awe in his face, the restraint braided through every muscle in his body–and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

Not from nerves.

Not from fear.

But from knowing.

Knowing that whatever this was, whatever it became, you’d never feel anything like it again.

Your lips parted.

“I want you,” you whispered. “All of it. All of you.”

A beat. Your voice dipped lower, rougher, shy despite the heat rolling off your skin.

“But more than that… I want you to do what you want to me.”

Something cracked in him—visibly. A flicker of gold pulsed brighter across his chest, blooming in a stuttered vein of light over his collarbone like lightning caught beneath his skin.

And he breathed your name.

Once.

Just once.

Like it was a prayer too holy to say more than once without unraveling the world.

You took a small step back and hooked your thumbs in the waistband of your shorts, shimming them down your hips with quiet, fluid ease. They fell to the damp tile around your feet, and you stepped out of them with a soft exhale.

You were bare before him now.

No shields. No distance. No more questions.

Just you–and the way his eyes drank you in like he hadn’t believed you were real until now.

Sentry moved before the silence had a chance to grow heavy.

His hand reached out–strong, open, reverent–and he took yours like he was terrified you might change your mind if he moved too fast. His fingers curled around yours, warm and solid, grounding you even as he pulled you gently into the shower stall beside him.

And then the water hit.

Hot.

Steam curling instantly around your joined bodies.

And just like that–

His mouth was on yours.

Not rough. Not frenzied.

But urgent.

Like something eternal was unraveling behind his ribs and the only way to stop it was to feel your breath in his lungs. The kiss was full and deep, lips parting around each other with soaked, open-mouthed need as the water poured over both of you. His hands roamed–slowly, reverently–one skimming down the side of your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he pressed you into him, skin to skin, heat to heat.

Your nipples brushed his chest and you whimpered against his mouth. His answering groan was low, ragged.

The kind of sound a man makes when devotion collides with desire.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you, his thumb brushing your cheek. Water ran down his face, catching the light stubble along his jaw and the ridges of his collarbone, tracing the light glowing faintly beneath his skin.

His voice was soft. Almost broken. “You don’t know what this means to me.”

“Then show me…” You whispered. The water cascaded over your skin in steady, rhythmic sheets, hot enough to sting faintly where tension still lived in your muscles. Steam coiled around both of you, clinging to every surface, wrapping your bodies in something sacred and unseen. And he kissed you like the storm had broken inside him.

There was no hesitation now.

His mouth moved against yours with growing heat–messy, wet, open, and needy. Every time your lips parted, he drank from you like he couldn’t get enough, like the taste of you was something he’d craved since the moment Bob first laid eyes on you. You moaned into him when his hand slid down your waist and cupped the curve of your ass, squeezing with a low, desperate growl against your mouth.

His hips pressed forward—slow, grinding, not to take, not yet, but to feel. To savor. His cock, heavy and flushed, dragged against your stomach as he kissed you deeper, your thighs trembling from the sheer tension rolling through your core.

And then—he broke the kiss.

Just barely.

Only enough to trail his lips along your jaw, then lower–down your neck, where the skin was flushed and damp, where your pulse pounded loud and hot. He kissed there once. Twice. Then again, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp and tilt your head back against the tile.

“That sound,” He whispered, his voice rasping low over your throat, “I want to hear it again.”

And he kissed lower.

Your breath caught.

His lips traced the arch of your collarbone, then down to the swell of your breasts–open-mouthed, reverent kisses that dragged over your skin with unbearable heat. When his mouth closed around one nipple, tongue flicking and lips sealing tight, you gasped–body jolting forward, one hand flying to the back of his neck, the other bracing against the wall behind you.

“Sentry–” You whimpered.

He moaned softly against your skin, the sound vibrating through your chest as he suckled just hard enough to make your knees tremble. Then he shifted to the other breast, lavishing the same wet, aching worship there, tongue teasing, lips tugging.

Your body arched against him, chasing every touch.

Every kiss.

And still–he moved lower.

Slow. Deliberate. Like he was reading you through his mouth, tasting every inch of what was his now, what he’d been denied for too long. He kissed down the slope of your stomach, tongue dipping to trace the curve of your navel, his hands anchoring you in place as your thighs trembled under the water’s steady heat.

Then he knelt.

Slow. Controlled.

God-like.

The moment his knees hit the tile, it felt like worship. Like he was built to kneel here. For you.

The sight of him looking up from between your legs–hair plastered to his forehead, steam curling around his cheeks, eyes glowing gold beneath thick lashes–made your lungs seize. One of his hands slid behind your thigh, lifting it gently, reverently, until your foot braced on the small edge of the bench beside you. He coaxed your leg up over his shoulder, eyes never leaving your face.

“I’ll hold you,” he murmured, voice low and grounded. His palm pressed firm and warm to your hip, the other bracing your opposite thigh against the wall. “I’ve got you.”

And then he leaned in.

You cried out softly the moment his mouth found the inside of your thigh—kissing there first. Not rushing. Just dragging his lips across the tender flesh like he wanted to memorize the texture of your skin.

He nibbled gently, the scrape of his teeth just enough to make your hips twitch.

Then lower.

A breath against your folds.

Then–his mouth.

The first brush of his tongue made your whole body tense, spine pressing against the wall like it was the only thing keeping you upright. His lips parted around you and he groaned—loud and low and so deeply aroused it sounded like it had been pulled from his chest by gravity.

“You taste…” He didn’t finish the thought. Just moaned again and buried his mouth between your legs like he was starving.

You gasped, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in the soaked strands as your hips jerked forward.

His tongue moved slow–dragging through your folds with a precision that made your thighs clamp instinctively around his head. He didn’t stop. Didn’t falter. He just groaned into you, hands tightening their hold to keep you in place, and he began to work you open with steady, fluid movements. Licking. Tasting. Worshiping.

Every pass of his tongue was devastating.

Soft, then firm. A flick, then a slow, sucking kiss. He circled your clit with unbearable care–taking his time, mapping you, learning you. And when he finally sealed his mouth around it and sucked—

You moaned.

Loud.

High-pitched and wrecked, echoing off the tile, lost in the steam.

“F–Fuck–” You gasped, your head hitting the wall behind you.

Sentry grunted at the sound, tongue flicking faster now, more precise. One of his hands left your hip and slid between your thighs, two fingers parting you gently, spreading you open as he devoured you. His mouth moved in time with his hand, tongue teasing, lips sealing, fingers slipping lower–coaxing you closer and closer to the edge with every devastating pass.

You couldn’t think.

Couldn’t breathe.

The world had narrowed to the heat of his mouth, the slip of his fingers, the weight of your leg trembling over his shoulder as he dragged moan after moan from your throat.

Your hips rolled on instinct.

Your fingers tightened in his hair.

And Sentry groaned against you–louder this time–like your pleasure was fueling him. Like your moans were what he needed to keep breathing.

He pulled back just far enough to look up at you, lips soaked, eyes wild.

“Let go for me,” He whispered hoarsely. “I want to feel it.”

Then he buried his face in you again–tongue flicking against your clit in quick strokes, fingers curling, hitting just the right spots, and his entirety finding a rhythm so perfect it felt otherworldly.

And you shattered.

Your release hit hard–sharp, hot, trembling. Your cry echoed off the shower walls as your body seized, thighs trembling, hands gripping his hair like you might fall into the heat of him and never crawl back out. He held you through it–mouth never breaking contact, swallowing every moan, every quake of your body, drinking your pleasure like holy water.

Only when the aftershocks made your hips twitch did he finally ease back to look up at you. His mouth lingered just above your inner thigh, lips parted, breath hot against your trembling skin. You could still feel the aftershocks pulsing through your body, each one fainter than the last, but no less devastating. And Sentry–this god of heat and reverence–was still kneeling between your legs, steady as stone, as though worshiping you wasn’t something he wanted to do.

It was something he was made to do.

His fingers were still inside you, thrusting slow and deep, curling just right, coaxing soft, wrecked little gasps from your throat that you couldn’t have swallowed even if you tried.

He kissed your hipbone, tender and warm.

Then he whispered, voice husky and low:

“Give me another.”

Your chest hitched. Your hand was still tangled in his soaked hair, your hips twitching each time his fingers pressed into that unbearable spot. You were so close to the edge already, but his voice—that voice—it broke something in you.

“I want to watch you fall apart again,” He murmured, teeth grazing the hollow where your thigh met your pelvis. “I want to feel you break for me. To taste it. To swallow it down like it was made for me alone.”

You whimpered.

And he didn’t stop.

“I’m not asking for much,” He rasped, lips moving like a hymn across your skin. “Just one more. One more time, and I’ll make it so good for you… you’ll forget there was ever a world outside this.”

Your voice cracked. “Y-Yes…Okay–God, yes–please.”

That was all he needed.

His eyes burned gold–molten and bright–and then he adjusted.

Slow, precise strength carried your other leg up over his other shoulder. He adjusted with you like it was effortless, like your weight was nothing to him–just something sacred he got to carry. The wall steadied your back. He steadied everything else. You were open to him now, bare and flushed, your thighs trembling over his broad shoulders, your hands braced in his hair like you might fall to pieces if you let go.

And then he devoured you.

There was no teasing this time.

No hesitation.

Just need.

He pulled his fingers out of you, and replaced the emptiness with his mouth. His tongue plunged deep in you before dragging up in a slow, sinful flick that made your entire spine arch. You cried out, head falling back with a sharp thud against the tile, but he didn’t stop. He held you there–hands firm under your ass, keeping your hips tilted up, off the ground, pinned to the wall by nothing but his mouth and the carved weight of his divine strength.

He moaned into you, loudly, the sound vibrating straight through your core. Then his tongue found your clit again–slick and swollen and already aching from your last orgasm–and he wrapped his lips around it and sucked.

You screamed.

Your hands flew from the wall back into his hair, yanking hard, grinding forward instinctively, trying to press yourself deeper against his face. And he let you.

No–he welcomed it.

He groaned like it fed him, like your hips grinding into his mouth were the prayer he’d been waiting centuries to receive.

His tongue worked faster now, flicking and circling, relentless, worshipful, and when you moaned his name he made a sound you’d never heard from him before.

Unholy. Wrecked. Like he’d just been blessed.

He slipped his fingers back inside you again–curling, thrusting, fucking into that perfect spot while his tongue ravaged your clit, every motion synced like a symphony of sin and praise.

You were crying, now.

Not in pain.

In pure, trembling pleasure.

Your thighs clenched around his head, your body lifting against the wall, barely tethered to earth by the strength of his grip and the heat of his mouth. His teeth grazed your clit and you shattered with a sob.

Your orgasm hit like a wave breaking over a cliff–hard, hot, unstoppable.

You screamed his name. Your hips jerked, bucked. You held his head to you like it was life or death, grinding against his mouth as your body convulsed through a release so sharp it made your vision white out.

And Sentry?

He groaned into your core like it was his reward. He kept his mouth on you through every twitch, every moan, every desperate grind. His fingers stayed buried, stroking you through the aftershocks until your cries softened into gasping whimpers and your thighs shook uncontrollably around his ears.

And only then–only then–did he slowly pull back.

He let your legs slide gently from his shoulders, your body trembling as your feet found the tile again, barely standing. But you didn’t have time to breathe before you saw him—

Lips slick. Face soaked in you. Gold eyes burning like wildfire as he slowly pulled his fingers out of your body.

And then–

He licked them clean.

One at a time.

Tongue dragging up each finger, slow and deliberate, moaning like you were ambrosia poured straight from the heavens.

“That,” He rasped, licking the last drop from the web between his fingers, “was the most divine fucking thing I’ve ever tasted.”

You stared.

You couldn’t speak.

You could barely stand.

But your body was vibrating with heat and want and disbelief–because no one had ever touched you like that. No one had looked at you like that. Like you were something sacred. Like your pleasure was a commandment.

Sentry rose to his full height, golden eyes flickering with restrained need as he looked down at you–soaked, flushed, trembling, and utterly undone beneath the weight of his devotion.

His breath was ragged. Controlled, but only just.

And then, voice low and rough, he whispered:

“Taste yourself.”

He leaned in–slowly, reverently–and kissed you.

His mouth was slick, drenched with the echoes of your pleasure, and when your lips parted to meet his, you tasted it. The sweetness. The salt. The heat. You moaned softly into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound with a low, aching groan that rumbled against your chest like thunder curling behind the clouds.

He deepened the kiss, tongue sweeping into your mouth with deliberate, hungry care, like he was giving you everything he had—everything you’d poured into him—now returning it in full.

His hand rose to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing gently across your cheek, and the kiss turned hot, messy, intoxicating. You were gasping now, hands pressing against his chest, your body aching with the overwhelming desire to be filled, to be claimed. To be his in every way.

You broke the kiss with a soft gasp, panting against his lips.

Your voice trembled, desperate and sure.

“Sentry, please…Please take me.”

His breath caught.

“Mark me. Claim me. Make it so I’m officially yours. I want to walk around and make sure people know who I belong to.”

The sound he made was something between a groan and a laugh–a stunned, reverent huff that left his chest trembling.

He looked at you like he was seeing a miracle. Like the universe had answered every prayer he didn’t know he’d made.

“ I will carve my name into the marrow of your soul with every stroke, every breath, every cry of mine that fills you.” His hands slid beneath your thighs, and with effortless, godlike strength, he lifted you. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your arms clinging to his shoulders as your back pressed gently against the slick tile behind you. He held you there like you weighed nothing–like you were made to be in his arms, always.

“You want the world to know who you belong to?” He rasped against your throat, voice molten. “Then I’ll make sure they never question it again.”

His cock, thick and heavy, slid against your slick core–hot and pulsing between your thighs. The sensation made your breath hitch, your hips rolling forward on instinct, chasing the contact.

“Sentry–”

“I’ve got you,” He whispered, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your mouth. “I’ll always have you.”

And then–slow, devastating, divine–he pushed inside you.

You cried out, head falling back with a soft, strangled moan as your body stretched to take him. He was massive, thick and perfect, and the way he filled you made stars burst behind your eyes.

He stilled once he was buried deep, forehead pressed to yours, breathing heavy. Your nails dug into his back, thighs trembling where they wrapped around his hips. You whimpered, rolling your hips. “Move–please, just–fuck, move–”

And he did.

He pulled out slow, just enough to make you clench, and then drove back in with a low, guttural moan that sent a tremor through your spine. His thrusts were deep. Measured. Devastating. Each one stole the air from your lungs, each one carved his presence deeper into your body like a brand.

The sound of your bodies meeting was wet, sinful–echoing in the steamy air with every hard grind of his hips.

“You’re mine,” He growled into your neck, biting gently where your pulse pounded. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” You gasped, clinging to him like a lifeline. “I’ve always been yours.”

His pace quickened–thrusts growing hungrier, sharper, your back braced against the tile as he fucked into you with divine rhythm, every stroke hitting so deep it made your eyes roll back.

“You take me so fucking well,” He groaned, his voice breaking, “So perfect, so tight-God, you were made for me–”

Your cries filled the room–his name a mantra on your lips, every gasp an offering, every moan a confession.

You felt your climax building again–fast, furious, overwhelming. Your walls clenched tight around him and he let out a broken moan, his thrusts turning erratic. Each one punched a gasp from your lungs as he slammed up into you, the full weight of his strength braced into your hips, your back pressed tight to the slick tile. You clung to him like gravity had forgotten you existed—your fingers buried in his soaked hair, tugging hard with every roll of your hips to meet his.

And he loved it.

“Fuck—yes,” he groaned, his voice breaking against your throat. “Pull harder—don’t stop—God, I need—”

The sound of your slick heat swallowing him over and over again echoed off the steamy walls, and you could’ve sworn—

You heard it.

A soft sizzle in the air.

Not from the water.

From him.

From the radiant heat pouring off his skin–golden veins pulsing beneath his shoulders, sweat and steam beading off his spine, chest glowing like a furnace that had reached the edge of combustion. It rolled off him in waves. The kind of heat that seared. That warned. That branded.

And then–

He bit you.

His mouth opened wide over the curve of your shoulder, and his teeth sank deep into the tender flesh there–not teasing, not playful, but primal. Claiming.

You screamed.

Not from pain.

From devastation.

Your body seized violently against his, a sob torn from your throat as your climax ripped through you, sharp and fast and absolute. The pain and pleasure twisted together, blooming like fire through your blood. Your muscles locked, your walls clenching down so hard on him that he choked on a groan, arms trembling where he held you.

You could feel it.

His teeth.

Breaking skin.

Not deep enough to destroy–but deep enough to mark. Permanently.

To scar…To mark.

”You’re all mine.” He grunted against your skin, voice shredded with need. You were already shaking, still riding the aftermath of your orgasm when he growled into your throat:

“I’m gonna fill you up.”

A savage thrust.

“I want it dripping down your thighs.”

Another.

Harder.

Deeper.

You moaned so loud your voice cracked, hips bucking helplessly as he thrust into you again, again, again–

And then he buried himself to the hilt, grinding hard against your hips, and his forehead dropped to your burning shoulder–right over the mark he’d made–as he let out a long, broken moan.

His body shuddered, muscles locking, cock throbbing deep inside you as he spilled into you with everything he had.

It was endless.

Hot. Heavy. Worshipful.

You could feel him–his release pulsing inside you in thick waves, his breath stuttering against your skin, his hands shaking where they clutched your thighs like he didn’t trust himself not to fall apart completely.

And he was falling apart.

You felt it in every twitch of his hips. Every tremble in his chest. Every wrecked, holy sound that escaped his throat as he stayed locked inside you, trembling from the force of his own climax.

“You’re…Fuck–You’re everything,” He rasped, voice barely a whisper. “I don’t care if I burn for this. I’d burn again. A thousand times. Just to feel you like this.”

You clung to him, panting, overwhelmed, every nerve still humming.

And when his arms finally loosened and he kissed the wound he’d left on your shoulder–soft, gentle, as though to apologize even while owning it–your breath caught all over again.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was immolation.

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bewitchedme-body-and-soul · 1 day ago

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Random headcannons I have about Bob

Mdni some nsfw themes present

Warnings: not edited (maybe a lil ooc in some parts it’s been a few weeks since I last watched the movie and I haven’t bought it yet cause o want a physical copy), talks of periods, brief reference to bob’s past. Talks of oral, dom/sub play.

Tagging bb cause they get me @bbsgarbagebin

Loves to cuddle, or any type of physical affection with his partner actually

Not a big fan of pda but still wants the physical affection so I personally see him as the type of partner to link pinkies with you while you walk

Loves home dates over ones where you go out, especially movie night

blocked out a lot of his childhood and adolescence so definitely think he’d love a kids/family movie marathon (projecting a lil)

Great bf if you get periods, lots of cuddles, reheats the hot water bottle/heating pad without being asked, learns what you prefer to use and if it’s a non reusable product learns what brand and absorbency. Definitely did NOT start out as a great period bf, definitely went to yelena for help and then panicked when she said she couldn’t help him

I hate to be the one to say it but definitely a 3-in-1 man. I love him but you cannot convince me he doesn’t until someone shows him otherwise

The only part of his Sentry powers he can use without Sentry being present is his strength and invulnerability but he cannot control it. Like the invulnerability is obviously always there but I feel like he definitely sometimes overdoes it with the strength.

Probably has a few small possibly shitty tattoos, like I’m talking stick n pokes, they’re definitely a little faded and some scared over but they’re there.

NSFW from hear out

Not a virgin when you meet but not experienced.

Loves giving more than receiving, maybe a little awkward the first few times but once he gets the hang of it he memorizes what you like

Gets shy when receiving

Switch, soft but stern dom when he dominates, usually a service sub BUT can and will occasionally be a brat. Have you seen how sassy he is? Tell me I’m wrong. You can’t.

Gets turned on by domestic things, but mostly just turned on by his partner.

Because of the sentry project is refractory period is INSANE, can go for hours and will unless you want to stop.

Consent king, asks permission constantly

That’s all I have for now, but maybe I’ll post another at a different time. Who knows

#they have bewitched me #bob reynolds #bob thunderbolts #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds x y/n #bob reynolds x female reader #robert reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #sentry #sentry x reader #sentry x you

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violetrainbow412-blog · 1 day ago

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Off the Record [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x fem!reader x best friend!Joaquín Torres

wc: 4.8k

Summary: After the fallout with the Void and with tensions rising around the New Avengers, all you're really trying to do is hold on to the people who still matter. Joaquín, your best friend, writes from a distance. Bob—unstable but honest—has started to stay close. And before everything breaks for good, you decide it’s time they meet, even if you’re not all on the same side. Even if some wouldn’t approve.

masterlist

The sky was covered in a pale layer of clouds, as if even the atmosphere were holding its breath. From the windshield, the city seemed suspended in the kind of calm that only existed before a storm: not a single horn, not a gust of wind—just the throbbing of the engine and the distant music playing on the stereo.

"Here!"

The sound of the Chevrolet Suburban's horn startled Bob, who had just left his weekly appointment at the clinic. When he recognized you, a smile spread across his face, and he happily climbed into the passenger seat.

“Hi. I didn’t know you were picking me up.”

“I was just passing by and thought I’d give you a ride. How was your day?”

“Fine,” he shrugged as he fastened his seatbelt.

You watched him out of the corner of your eye. He was wearing a dark denim jacket, slightly faded around the edges, with the collar slightly turned up and the sleeves wrinkled as if he'd put it on in a hurry or hadn't taken it off all day. Underneath, a navy blue thermal shirt clung naturally to his broad torso.

His pants were straight-cut, olive-green cargo pants with pockets bulging with items he'd collected during the day. His tactical boots, black and discreet, were somewhat dusty.

On his left forearm, a thin bandage peeked out from under his rolled-up sleeve, like a detail he hadn't thought to cover. It didn't seem serious, but it hinted at something recent that you hadn't dared to investigate. His face was clean, expressionless, although the slight swelling under his eyes and his tired expression betrayed him. It had probably been a strenuous therapy session.

His hair was a bit disheveled, not carelessly, but as if the wind had overpowered him that morning. On one of his hands, a dull ring caught the minimal light outside; it had been a gift from Ava so he could fidget with it when he felt a little anxious.

"Do you fancy something to eat? We can hit a drive-thru on the way to the tower."

"Burgers?"

“Excellent choice. Great minds always think alike,” you joked with a smile. He smiled back.

The bond that had been developing between you was quite special. Yelena protected Bob all the time, caring for him almost reverently. Ava took it upon herself to advise him on matters he didn't fully understand yet. Alexei and John were a goddamn headache most of the time, pressuring him with the excuse that he had to be prepared to confront any big boy who bothered him; Bob knew they cared for him, in their own way. Bucky wasn't one to initiate conversations, yet, whenever he wanted to talk, he was willing.

Everyone on the team tried to help Bob, in different ways, and made him feel like he suddenly had a bunch of older brothers. With you, the difference was that you treated him as normally as possible. It wasn't that he wanted others to be carefree, no, but sometimes it felt good to talk to someone he didn't sense pity or condescension from.

You were also wonderful to him and always very good, but he didn't feel like a mentally ill person or a weirdo around you.

And for more than a few people, it was obvious Bob had a little crush on you. It was an open secret in the tower, because whenever the group was laughing, you were the one he'd always look for. If the decision was in his hands, you always had the best seat, the tastiest food, the warmest blanket, and his eternally selfless adoration. He'd never been known for being good with words when expressing feelings, but you only had to notice how his eyes lit up every time you walked in, as if the sun itself were making an appearance on a frosty winter morning.

The air conditioning in the car makes your friend feel nauseous—he'd confessed this to you a few weeks ago—so as soon as you were on the road, you rolled down both windows to let the wind cool you down.

Bob remained silent, staring out the window with his chin resting on the back of his hand. He was most likely reading the billboards along the way, a habit he'd acquired since he was a child.

At one point, your phone announced a text message. You thought you could reply later, so you let it go. One more text. Then another. And another. And another.

You usually ignored notifications, but remembering that Bucky had a congressional meeting that morning made you pay attention, thinking it might be related.

“Bob, will you do me a favor?”

"Yeah?"

"Can you find my phone and tell me who's texting me? I don't want another ticket for using it while driving."

Your friend nodded immediately and then searched through the center console until he found the device.

“Uh, the contact’s name is Jo.”

You let out a mocking chuckle at his response, as if the insistence of the texts suddenly made sense.

“Can you read them to me?”

At first, he looked at you with some confusion. Bob wasn't the kind of person who usually snooped into his friends' private affairs, so the request conflicted him slightly, leading him to ask if you were sure. After seeing you nod, he began:

Jo 🦅 : how's everything going? Jo 🦅 : i miss u but not enough 2 make u feel guilty Jo 🦅 : i hate when mami & papi fight the babies always pay:( Jo 🦅 : (we're the babies btw) Jo 🦅 : Look at this meme lol

“And they, huh… sent an image apparently.”

“Okay, then. I thought it was something more urgent. Could you tell him I'm driving? I'll call him later.”

Bob nodded calmly, then wrote a short text with your explanation. It was sent once you approved it.

Although he didn't mean to, his attention was drawn to the contact's profile picture: it was a man in an odd pose, wearing a pair of roller skates and a flirtatious expression. Curiosity began to bubble inside him.

“You two seem close,” he observed. After a pause, he continued, “Is he something like your… partner? I mean, if it wouldn’t be imprudent of me to ask.”

“Joaquín? Not at all!” you murmured immediately. He felt more relieved than he’d liked. “We’re just good friends. After everything that happened with the Blip and the fall of the Triskelion, we had to work together. It was on one of those relief missions in Latin America. There were evacuations, local conflicts, information that no one was sharing… chaos everywhere.”

You kept your eyes on the road and your voice calm. Bob listened silently, without interrupting you.

“I was already working with Bucky back then. He and Sam were still... close. There was tension, yes, but not as much as now. That's how I ended up on the same team as Joaquin, so to speak. He was new, and he still had that “I want to save the world” vibe, but he had no idea how to do it without breaking down in the process. And I... well, I was already pretty messed up. I was just trying to stay functional. And alive.”

You smiled a little, but it wasn't such a happy smile.

“The operation went wrong. We had to take refuge in a safe house with no communication, no backup, and only enough food to last, if anything, a day. Three of us were trapped. The logical thing would have been to go crazy. But he... he talked to me. I'm not going to lie, at first, all that positive attitude and him trying to start a conversation like we were having a picnic really infuriated me. I wanted to hit him. But then he took it upon himself to take me out of my own head with his nonsense and... I don't know, he made everything more bearable.”

Bob looked at you out of the corner of his eye, a slight curve to his lips.

“It works more than people think”

“From then on, we became closer. We started hanging out more, working together. When Sam became Captain America, he took over as Falcon. Then Bucky got involved in politics, this whole thing with President Ross happened, and Joaquin got hurt badly. It was… it was horrible, to be honest. He's like a brother to me, and seeing him in that position made me feel very worried. They had to perform major surgery on him, and it was fatal.”

You stopped at a red light. Bob watched you intently, listening to your whole story, and when your eyes met, he smiled at you.

“But he’s okay now, right?”

“Yes, he is. It's just that with all this going on about… well, about us, it's been complicated for us. We shouldn't even be in contact, but we're still keeping in touch.”

“Why not?”

“Well, now with this problem over the team name and all that. I mean, he's like Sam's right-hand man, and I'm Bucky's, so since they're at odds, it's assumed we're inevitably at odds too. It's like we're the kids in the middle of a nasty divorce.”

“Oh, is that what he means when he says he doesn't want mami and papi to fight?”

His pronunciation in spanish made you laugh, though not in a mocking tone, and you nodded slightly at the question.

“That's just the way he is. He prefers to take things with humor.”

“I wish we could all do that,” he exclaimed acidly, not quite a reproach. You flashed him a tight-lipped smile.

The city continued to pass slowly by the sides of the car, wrapped in that silent gray that seemed to float above everything. You drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting on your thigh, lightly moving your fingers to the rhythm of the music softly playing through the stereo.

Bob was no longer looking out the window, but had his head turned slightly toward you, as if waiting for something. There was no rush. Just that shared calm that sometimes appears when two people no longer need to fill the silence.

“I don’t know how wise it is to stay in touch with him,” you murmured after a while, as if thinking out loud would help you organize your emotions. “But I can’t help it. We’ve been through tough times together. I guess that bonds people in weird ways.”

Bob nodded slowly. Then, in that gentle tone he often used when he didn't want to seem intrusive, he asked:

“And do you think… if things got ugly between them, you could stay out of it? Or would you have to choose sides too?”

The silence grew heavier for a moment. You didn't answer immediately, just pursed your lips as you turned onto a less-traveled street. You thought about it. You weighed it. Finally, you exhaled through your nose in resignation.

“I think I've already chosen,” you said without drama. “Not out of loyalty, or sides. There are people you build your home with. Bucky is that for me… he's been there in so many moments that sometimes I don't even need to talk for him to understand. With Joaquín… it's different. But he's there too. And I don't know, sometimes you just know who you want to stay with a little longer.”

Bob didn't reply, but the way he lightly clenched his fists on his knees showed that something in your answer touched him deeply.

Several days passed since that conversation. It wasn't as if you'd forgotten about it; life simply continued to move forward at its brutal and demanding pace. Meetings, reports, training sessions, awkward silences in the tower's hallways whenever someone mentioned Sam out loud.

During that time, Bob didn't insist. But he didn't forget either.

Until one afternoon, when you were both reviewing a field report in the common room, you decided to speak up:

“I’m going to see Joaquín tonight,” you said suddenly, without raising your voice.

You said it like someone mentioning they're meeting someone for dinner, not as a confession or a warning. Bob tilted his head slightly, curious.

"Yeah?"

You nodded.

“I thought you should know.”

He suddenly wondered what had prompted you to tell him, as if there was an ulterior motive. After all, you could come and go wherever you wanted; it wasn't like you needed his advice or permission.

“And everything is okay?”

“Yep,” you replied with a slight smile. “Actually… I would like you to come with me.”

He was surprised, though not uncomfortably so. He just raised his eyebrows, as if he hadn't expected that part.

“To meet with Joaquín?”

“Uh-huh,” you exclaimed nonchalantly. You spoke in low voices, though there was no real need to. “I don’t know, I’d like you to meet him. He’s important to me. And so are you.”

Bob was even more surprised to hear you say that. Not because he thought your request was strange, but because you were telling him directly that he was a meaningful person to you.

“Only if you want to,” you added, somewhat shyly. Bob quickly shook his head.

“No, no, I didn't stay quiet because I didn't want to go. It's just... I don't know, it's something I didn't expect. But I love the idea.”

"Oh, really?"

“Yes. I mean, if he's your friend, I'm sure he's a good person. I trust your judgment.”

Then it was your turn to smile nervously, happy that he was so open to the proposal. You explained that you would meet at a safe house, one that—according to Joaquín's information—had been unused for some time. It wasn't as if you were doing anything illegal, but it was better to take those measures if you didn't want to run into any surprises.

You had agreed on a time in advance, and you picked Bob up at his room after dark. The subway was the most discreet and safest way to get there, so you left the Watchtower together, using the excuse that they were going to dinner, and set off.

The night, though cool, was pleasant. Once in the car, you were able to pay more attention to your friend. He had put on a thick beige shirt, tighter than he normally wore, and this time his hair was slicked back, different, but still making him look handsome. In his hands, he held a loop-handle plastic bag somewhat timidly.

“What’s that, honey?”

“Food,” he replied, looking at the bag for a second, as if he barely remembered he was holding it. “I thought I might take something… just in case.”

He shrugged after saying it, trying to downplay it. But you noticed the way his fingers played with one of the bag's handles, nervously clenching and unclenching it. You knew it wasn't just a precaution: it was his way of being careful, of anticipating.

“Just in case what?” you asked softly, leaning slightly towards him, amused.

Bob smiled, tilting his head.

“In case we get hungry later”

That touched you. It wasn't the food. It was the intention behind it. The anticipated comfort, carefully packaged in a plastic bag.

“You’re the cutest thing in the world, did you know that?”

Bob gave a small laugh, looking down as if such statements disarmed him.

“Don’t say it too loudly,” he joked. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

You were about to comment—probably something joking, maybe something sweet—but the subway slammed to a stop, pulling into one of the adjacent stations. The movement forced you to hold onto the metal pole, and he almost dropped his bag to steady you, to keep you from falling.

"You okay?"

“Yes,” you replied, laughing softly. “I just got distracted...”

A comfortable pause settled between you. The car briefly filled with new people, and you took advantage of the opportunity to settle closer to him, sharing the narrow space. His free hand gripped the handrail, and the other slipped behind your back, ready in case of another accident.

“Did you bring anything special?”

“Bread. And dried fruit. And…” he paused, “some cookies I made yesterday. I wasn’t sure you’d still like them.”

Your smile softened.

“I always like them”

The two of you looked at each other happily, then fell silent. In less than an hour, you had reached your destination, one of the last stations along that route.

The safe house didn't look like much from the outside, and that was exactly what made it perfect. A single-story building with plain gray walls, no signs, no lights, no attention-grabbing details. It was wedged between a vacant lot and an abandoned auto repair shop, as if time had forgotten that block entirely.

The windows were covered with metal plates from the inside, visible only by the worn edges that peeped out. The front door, painted a dull shade of dark blue, had cracked paint at the corners and a reinforced deadbolt that seemed more symbolic than functional.

There was no garden, no mailbox, no sign of everyday life. Just a cracked sidewalk, an old streetlight that flickered occasionally, and the distant sound of the city breathing behind it. It was the kind of place you didn't give a second glance.

“Are you sure it’s here?”

“Very sure,” you smiled slightly.

The place was terrifying, so you didn't complain when his hand sought your arm as we walked through the darkness. When you reached the porch, you knocked on the door in a specific sequence, as if it were the signal to let your friend know it was you and not someone else. You had to wait a minute, until you heard footsteps and jingling keys that unlocked the lock.

A dark-haired boy with a bright smile appeared in front of you, who almost immediately grabbed your arm, which Bob was still holding, and pulled you inside. As soon as the door closed, he lunged toward you, wrapping you in a tight hug.

“You’re here! I missed you so much, shorty.”

“Hey, Jo,” you chuckled, his grip so strong it was hard to breathe. “Nice to see you too.”

The way you greeted each other left Bob a little off-balance. Not out of jealousy or awkwardness, but because of how unusual it was to see such intense, natural familiarity between two people. For him, who rarely touched someone without a second thought, that level of affection was like witnessing another language. One you were clearly both fluent in.

Joaquín, noticing your companion, composed himself slightly and craned his neck over your shoulder to get a better look, but still smiling. Bob, still standing in the doorway, simply observed in silence, taking in everything from a distance: the atmosphere, the energy, the unexpected closeness.

“And who is this hunk?”

“This is Bob. The friend I told you to meet, remember?”

“Oh, that Bob,” he exclaimed, raising his eyebrows in a way Bob couldn’t interpret. You were thankful he was distracted enough to miss the glare you gave him. “Nice to meet you, buddy. I'm Joaquín Torres, Lieutenant, United States Air Force.”

“Huh, I’m… Robert Reynolds. Just like that,” he replied with a half-shrug, as if he didn’t know exactly how to define himself in that context.

Then you intervened:

“Don't believe him, has a lot of superpowers. He's just being modest.”

Joaquín and you laughed, and Bob, although shyer, soon followed suit. That first interaction seemed to determine the course the evening would take.

Once you'd introduced them to each other, Joaquín invited you to a simple table that was there. Everything was old and more practical than aesthetic, but it worked perfectly for your purpose of having a few hours of peace.

Bob hadn't expected the lieutenant to sit next to him so naturally, appearing much more approachable and affable than he'd imagined... but, to his surprise, he found it pleasant. You took your place across from them, practically glowing with gaze.

The conversation between them began naturally, effortlessly, as if they were old acquaintances. Joaquín asked about Bob's everyday details, curious to understand who this friend so important to you really was. Bob, for his part, seemed a little more relaxed than usual, making humorous comments and unexpected anecdotes that made both of you laugh.

The two of you talked about the oddities of everyday life in the tower: the awkward maneuvers with the team, the internal dynamics that sometimes felt more like a circus than a family, and the tense moments that were always dispelled with a joke or sincere advice. Stories from past missions also came up, without going into too many compromising details, but with enough context for Bob to understand the camaraderie that bound Joaquín and you.

You watched them laugh, exchange knowing glances, and seemed to enjoy the unexpected calm that emerged between them. From time to time, they glanced at you, as if waiting for your approval of their behavior or a sign to stop.

The rickety table, the simple setting, and the hours ahead created a safe space for the three of you to simply be who you were, without masks or expectations. At one point, Bob laid out the contents of his bag in front of you, and Joaquín almost let out a squeal of joy. They say the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, and at least with your friend, that was the case. So, if Bob already liked you, he had sealed his fate with that act.

"I saw there are some cups in the kitchen or something. We could make some coffee..."

“Don’t worry,” you interrupted your friend, holding out your hand as if to ask him to stay seated. “I’ll take care of it.”

From the kitchen—too close to the dining room, given the tiny house—you could clearly see your friends chatting. Bob didn't seem uncomfortable at all, although you noticed he was having a little trouble keeping up with Joaquín.

A tender smile appeared on your lips at the thought that the two of them could become good friends, especially since they were –perhaps– the two men you cared about the most in the world.

It took a few minutes for the coffee to be ready, and then you placed three small bronze cups on the table, the liquid steaming into the equally cozy atmosphere.

They looked so good together, so natural in that mix of complicity and calm, that you couldn't help but want to capture that moment. Without saying anything, you took out your phone and took a picture. Bob, with a serious expression, raised his cup as if making a silent toast, while Joaquín let out a light laugh, amused by the scene and your friend's feigned solemnity. That image was saved, a small memory of a night when everything seemed to fit, if only for a moment.

When you showed them the photo, you couldn't help but laugh.

“Seriously, how come I have the two prettiest guys on the planet at the same table?” you said in a mocking, exaggerated tone.

Joaquin burst out laughing and nudged Bob, who tried not to look affected, but ended up cracking a crooked smile.

However, in a second, the moment shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly, as Joaquín stared into his cup. Something in his expression grew still, as if a thought had crept in without permission. Then he decided to speak:

“Don’t you feel like this is going to break at any moment?”

The question fell softly, but not lightly. You looked at him, confused.

“The house?”

“No,” he laughed, shaking his head. “I mean… you know, the vibe. The friendships and all that. I mean, Bucky and Sam were good friends. And now look at them.”

The comment had no venom, just a resigned sadness.

Joaquín wasn't speaking from gossip or criticism, but from a genuine fear that the good things wouldn't last. You joined his silence with a similar expression, feeling how the lightness of a few minutes ago was turning into something denser, more intimate.

“I wouldn’t want that to happen to us,” he added, softly.

“I worry about it too,” you admitted after a pause. “But sometimes I think if I don’t say it out loud, maybe I’ll hold on a little longer.”

“It’s not bad to talk about it,” Bob chimed in then, with a calmness that felt earned, not improvised. His voice was gentle but firm. “I’ve learned it doesn’t make it more real. Just… more shared.”

Joaquín and you exchanged glances, equally surprised and comforted by what he had just said. Then the three of you looked at each other, forming a strange silent agreement.

“It’s great. I’m sad now, but I’m in company.”

“That’s what having friends is all about, isn’t it?” you mumbled with a chuckle, sounding barely amused, but sincere at the same time. “Being screwed, but together.”

“And now this includes you too, Bob,” Joaquin added, looking at him out of the corner of his eye “I’m sorry to tell you, you’re already beyond escape.”

Bob gave a small laugh, looked down for a second, and then nodded.

“That sounds good to me.”

“That’s good to know,” you said, crossing your arms on the table as you looked at both of them. “Because I like this. I don’t know how long it will last, or how things will turn out… but right now, I like it.”

"How cheesy everything suddenly became. Is this like a triple date or something? Be honest with me."

The lieutenant's joke caused the three of you to burst out laughing, restoring the atmosphere to the lightness it had previously possessed, which – ironically – he himself had been responsible for shattering.

The moon was already too high in the sky when you decided it was time to leave. Not by choice, but because the dangers of the city would only increase with each passing hour, and you didn't want to ruin the evening with an unfortunate incident.

“Don’t forget to call, okay? Anything that happens, let me know.”

“I will,” you responded affectionately, as your best friend bid you farewell “See you soon.”

“I hope so.” He then turned to your friend, extending his arms around him in a gesture that didn’t ask for permission or leave any room for refusal. “It was good meeting you, Bob. I hope this becomes a recurring thing.”

“I feel the same”

The gesture was simple, but between the three of you, it carried more meaning than you had said all night. You weren't the same; you didn't share the same history or the same codes. But you had managed to meet at the same point, even if it was just for one night, and in that small intersection lay the beginning of something more.

As you walked slowly down the steps with Bob, you cast one last glance over your shoulder. Joaquín was still there, leaning against the doorframe, watching you leave with that calm expression. You gave a small gesture with your hand, and he nodded back.

Bob didn't say anything for the first few minutes. He just walked beside you, his hands in his pockets, his gaze lost in the silent street. But you knew something in him had settled that night, too. You saw it in the way he breathed more deeply, in the way his stride became less tense.

It wasn't until you boarded the subway, considerably emptier than it was earlier, and took your seats that Bob spoke.

“Thanks for inviting me. I had a great time.”

"Really? I know the place was awful and all, I would have liked you to see it under different circumstances, but..."

“Don’t worry,” he interrupted. “It was fine. I don’t like too many people, so it turned out to be the perfect spot.”

A small smile spread across your face, and you leaned closer to him, practically curling up against his side. He welcomed you happily, wrapping one of his arms around you, infusing your senses with the scent of his clothes.

“Are you tired?”

"A bit"

“You can sleep on the way, if you want. I'll wake you up when we arrive.”

“What if the sleep is too deep?”

“I could always carry you. I’m super strong, you know?”

The laughter that vibrated in your chest was like music to his ears, and the way you shifted made him think you were going to take him up on his offer. A few minutes later, you were unconscious, and he, eager to take care of you, gently held you until you got home.

taglist (tysm!): @uracowboylikemee @x3zerochanx3 @littlemsbumblebee @qardasngan

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