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Jin: The Puppy Interview

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♡

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seven.

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“You, me, handcuffs. Must it always end this way?” 

Eleven and River Song in Flesh and Stone 

Doctor Who S05E05

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DOCTOR WHO - LAST NIGHT Series 5 minisode

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unreal | robert reynolds x reader

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader Summary: Bob offers for you to share his room while your room in the Watch Tower gets renovated... there's just one problem – he didn't think about the fact that he'd have to share a bed with you. Warnings: General mentions of mental health issues (nothing specific) Word Count: 2.1k A/N: Okay, so it's been over a week since I last wrote for Bob and the response on my last Bob fic is insane. I cannot believe how much love it's gotten 🥹 I have since seen Thunderbolts three more times and I love Bob even more. This was the fic idea that won in the poll I posted earlier today and it was so enjoyable to write. I am really looking forward to writing more for him (including the other ideas that I had in the poll). I hope you all enjoy this one as well. Requests are always open! 💗

“You can share my room” are five words that Bob regrets the second that they’re out of his mouth. Not because he doesn’t want you to share his room, but just because now that it’s out in the open, the prospect of you saying yes is terrifying.

When you’d all moved into the Watch Tower, you hadn’t considered the fact that most of the building was still a work in progress. There were so many rooms that still needed to be built and while there had been bedrooms, there weren’t many and Valentina had insisted on building you all your own. Nothing but the best for my New Avengers, she’d said.

Your bedroom was the last one to be renovated. Every other member of the team had gone through the room-sharing phase while their rooms were completed. Yelena and Ava had always shared, though they’d hated every second of it – both girls loved their personal space. Both Bucky and John refused to share with Alexei. Bob had managed to come out the other end without sharing a room at all. 

Until his offer to you, that is.

“Seriously?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest as you look around at the others. “None of you are offering to share with me so you’re making Bob offer?”

Walker scoffs. “You think we put him up to it? Please.”

“No one put me up to it,” Bob shakes his head. “I just thought I’d ask you since… y’know… none of the others have… and you probably don’t wanna sleep on the couch out here.”

He’s not really sure why he’d offered, actually. The words had been out of his mouth before he’d had a chance to think them over, which was strange for him. He supposes it might have something to do with the fact that he’s been crushing on you for a solid few months. It would be fine, though. He didn’t have a couch in his room, but he’s slept on his fair share of floors before and this one would be no different. Sharing a bedroom with someone he was slowly falling head over heels with was definitely going to end well.

You cross the room and put a hand down on Bob’s shoulder. “Are you really sure you want me to share with you? I know you haven’t had to share before and I really don’t want to intrude on your space.” Your voice is soft, for Bob’s ears only.

He nods once. “It’ll be fine. I promise.”

You don’t completely believe him. He’s undoubtedly the most independent out of all of you, but it’s been proven that he really does love being around other people. The last thing you want is to get in his way or make him uncomfortable.

“Bob,” you meet his eyes. 

His lips turn up into a small smile at the tone of your voice. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to share with you.”

That seems to do the trick, because you nod your head and step away from Bob after that before announcing that you’re going to go and start getting all your things together. 

That afternoon, you move your things into his room so that the renovations can start on your own. Bob makes some space for you – not that he has a lot of things himself – but he wants to make you feel comfortable. He doesn’t want you to feel like you’re living in his room. He wants it to feel like it’s yours too.

It only starts to feel real once it’s gotten dark outside and everyone has started to retire to bed. Once he’s in his room again, sitting on a bean bag in the corner, a book in his hand and he sees you walk into his room, hair a little bit wet from your shower. 

“I just realised,” you say, stopping in the centre of the room and looking around, “that you don’t have a couch.”

“Oh, yeah,” Bob nods, closing the book and sitting up a little straighter. “I just sit here. I, uh, I changed the sheets on the bed earlier so that you don’t have to sleep in dirty ones.”

You frown and look over at him. “Me? I’m not sleeping in your bed, Bob. I assumed I’d sleep on the couch. But I can just sleep on your beanbag. I’ll go and find some blankets…”

You turn to go and leave the room when you see Bob standing up in the corner of your eye. He stumbles a little, the blanket on the ground in front of him briefly catching his feet, and then rights himself. 

“No, you don’t have to do that,” he says. “You take the bed. I’m fine with sleeping on the floor. I’ve done it more often than you think.”

“Bob… you’re not sleeping on the floor.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s really okay.”

He really doesn’t mind. As long as you’re comfortable, he will be too. He’s slept in worse places. Plus, he doubts he’d even be able to sleep soundly knowing you were uncomfortable on the cold, hard floor. How could he let the person he likes sleep there rather than on his perfectly comfortable bed?

You cross your arms over your chest and shake your head, slowly starting to walk towards him. This is a losing battle, you can see that. There’s no way that Bob is going to relent and let you sleep on the floor or the bean bag, and there’s no way you’re going to let him sleep there either. You couldn’t live with yourself if he did.

“Why don’t we both take the bed?” You suggest.

Bob’s eyes widen a little and he opens his mouth and then closes it again without saying anything. That’s the last thing he’d expected you to say. Sharing a bed? Had any of the others shared beds when they’d shared rooms? He highly doubted that. The members of the New Avengers weren’t particularly comfortable when it came to physical contact. 

“I don’t think we have to do that,” he mutters.

“Why not? I don’t mind it. That way, we both get to sleep on the bed and neither of us have to be uncomfortable on the floor. I promise I’ll stick to my side.”

Bob stares at you for a moment. You’re really suggesting this. You really want to share a bed with him. But how is he supposed to share a bed with you? This is not going to be beneficial towards his crush at all. It’s definitely not going to help him in his mission to get over you… he hadn’t started on that mission yet but he was definitely going to start soon… oh, he really shouldn’t have suggested this…

“All right, then,” he hums, and then squeezes his eyes shut as he winces. What the hell is he doing? Why are the words he’s speaking and the thoughts he’s having so out of sync?

You smile at him – one of the beautiful smiles that always sets his heart alight – and then move towards the bed. “Which side do you usually sleep on?” 

“Closest to the door,” he says, starting to walk towards it.

“A man after my own heart,” you grin, voice teasing as you pull the sheets back to the other side of the bed and slip underneath them. “Can you get the lights?” 

Bob tries his best to ignore your words, thinking about how he is actually after your heart, and slowly walks towards the light switch. He turns them off, then makes his way towards the bed in the dark. His heart is racing in his chest. It’s not until he’s sitting on the bed, hands fisted in the sheets, that he realises he’s sweating bullets.

He’d forgotten. How could he forget something like this? He’s always run hot. He’s been known to wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, especially after a nightmare.

Maybe, once you’re asleep, he can slip out of the bed and go back to the bean bag without waking you up… surely that would be okay. He could make up some excuse in the morning about not being able to sleep in the bed…

“Everything all right?” You ask from beside him.

The room is so dark that he can’t see you to tell how far away from him you are, but your voice is close. He trusts that you’ve stuck to your word, though, and that you haven’t crept over to his side of the bed.

“I don’t know if this is a good idea actually.”

He hears the sheets rustling and can somehow tell that you’re sitting up now. 

“Why not?”

Bob sighs and tucks a piece of his hair behind his ear. He doesn’t know why he’s so embarrassed about this. It’s not like you don’t know. You were there in the vault. You heard him admit it to Yelena. You’ve seen so many parts of him that he hates and you’ve never judged him for any of them, so why would you judge him for this now?

“Hey,” your voice is gentle. “You can tell me. If you don’t want me here, I can go.”

“No,” Bob shakes his head, quick to respond. He doesn’t want you to feel like you’re not welcome here when truthfully, all he wants is to have you here with him. He just wishes he wasn’t so awkward about it. “It’s not that. It’s just…”

“There’s no rush.” 

He turns to look at where you’re sitting, his eyes now adjusted to the darkness so he can see you just barely. “I run hot,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable if I sweat a lot during the night. I should just sleep on the floor by myself.”

There’s silence for a moment and Bob takes that as your answer. He swings his legs off the bed and is just about to stand up when he feels the mattress shift underneath him, and then he feels your warmth pressed against his side.

“Hey, no,” you hum, leaning your arm against his. “Don’t do that. You don’t have to worry about things like that with me. If you sleep on the floor, I’m sleeping on the floor too. You’re not giving up your comforts for me.”

Bob turns to look at you through the darkness. “I’d just make you uncomfortable.”

“No,” you reach down and find his hand, entwining your fingers together. It’s true that the members of your team are bad when it comes to physical contact, but you don’t mind it. Bob’s always been a little concerned about touch ever since the incident that had happened a few months back but you can tell by the way he doesn’t tense up at your touch that he doesn’t mind it. You’re surprised to find you can actually feel him relax a little. “You won’t.” 

“I won’t?” 

“No,” you repeat. “I’m really glad you offered for me to share your room, Bob. I don’t care if you run so hot that the whole bed feels like a giant inferno. I’m not going to leave unless you ask me to.”

“I won’t. ” 

You give his hand a squeeze. “Okay, so should we get back into bed and try and get some sleep then?”

Bob nods and then remembers it’s dark and you probably can’t see him. “Yeah, all right.”

He hates the feeling of emptiness when you let go of his hand. He can feel the mattress shifting as you move back to your side of the bed. It takes every part of him to swing his legs back up and to lay down. It’s only once his head hits the pillow that he feels truly relaxed. It’s strange, even just knowing that you’re right beside him puts him a little bit at ease.

“I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” You say, voice so close to him that he almost jumps.

“Okay,” he murmurs, staring up at the dark ceiling above him. 

He’s so certain he’s going to wake up in the morning and all of this will have just been a dream. Not a good dream, not a bad dream. Just an unreal one. One where you hold his hand and sleep beside him. One where, as he’s drifting off to sleep he can feel the warmth of your body inches away. One where he can remember the feeling of your arm pressed against his with such clarity it almost feels real. 

But when he wakes up in the morning, the first thing he sees is you sleeping soundly beside him and he knows it wasn’t a dream. A small smile makes its way onto his face. He can’t remember the last time he slept through the night without waking up… not until right now. 

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 | bob reynolds

( gif credits to @springseventeen )

—summary: bob loves you so much that he slowly begins to transform into a house-husband for you. and he loves it. —pairing: bob reynolds x female!avenger!reader —word count: 5k (wow) —content: ultimate husband material boss. pure fluff tbh, bob's insecurity and low self-esteem, his need to be loved and approved. he is literally starting to act like your house-husband. he wears an apron!!! you reassure him as he deserves. bucky is such a dad. love confessions, some intense make-out session but nothing more than that. bob loves the reader so much it's crazy.

writer’s note: english is not my mother tongue, so please forgive me if there is a grammatical error. hope you like it!

Bob.

He had been quite special since you had met him, really. 

Yelena had told you that he liked you. Then Bucky had told you so too. And so had Ava. And Alexei. And John.

But how could Bob not like you, in all honesty? You'd been unnecessarily nice to him since you'd met. You didn't know him, he was a complete stranger, and yet you still showed him compassion and kindness. You stood by his side when you all together escaped the death trap that Valentina had set for you, and you defended him when Walker was getting especially mean to him. 

How could anyone not like you? That was the real question. You were perfect. In every sense of the word. Both figurative and literal. From your soul to your mind. You seemed to be an angel fallen from heaven. Something ethereal, something crafted by his own mind, made in the most beautiful dreams.

Bob would normally think of himself as a big idiot, a loser. That he could never have you. A part of him insisted that never, not even in a million other universes could he ever deserve you. He wanted you as his lover or his friend? It didn't really matter, he just wanted you in his life.

And yet, he was flirting with you anyway. Or at least that's what he thought he was doing.

“Here,” he'd told you every morning since you'd set up at the tower as the New Avengers... you insisted that you all should think of a new name. In his hand he held a cup of coffee, your favorite coffee, and on his face there was a sheepish little smile, your favorite smile. His eyes held that softness all over, that slight, hardly visible gleam, that you could always see it anyway, always, you caught a glimpse of it. Every time he looked at you. As if stars were hung from your hands. Well, technically they did, due to your superpower, that is.

“Thank you, Bobby,” you would say, offering him a warm smile, pronouncing that nickname so fondly and gently, that it had become a favorite nickname for his name. After so long hating it, after having caused him so much pain. Sure, now, his heart pounded when he heard it, his breathing quickened as well, but his chest swelled with tenderness. It was a good emotion, coming from a nice place. It didn't make him feel pain or sadness. Quite the opposite.

Bob was used to being an alien, isolated, left behind, to be hurt and broken. But you, you never left him behind. You always turned to look for him, to walk beside him, to gaze at him with those pretty eyes filled with concern and caring. You owed him nothing, you barely knew him, and yet, you were willing to walk in the void, in the darkness that concealed his heart and illuminate through with your light. You had saved him. And since then, you were his anchor.

You were patient. With his mood swings, his stuttering, his lack of confidence and his self-proclamation to inclination to ruin everything. He could never ruin you, you always assured him.

Love.

Bob had never even thought that he would ever have love in his life. That he would never truly grasp the concept of love, of loving. He didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve you.

You were the closest thing to love he will ever know. There was love in everything you did, in everything you said, in the way you called his name and in the way you looked at him.

He loved you.

“Relax, kid. You miss your Romeo that much?” Bucky blurted out in a tone that bordered near teasing, giving you an amused glance as you both walked over to the entrance of the Watchtower of the (New) Avengers, your home.

A mission had been assigned to the both of you as a duo. To locate the position of a small but potentially dangerous group of terrorists in the suburbs of New York city. There was an indication of where their base might have been. With your super senses it had been easy enough to just stumble upon it and with Bucky covering your back, you had arrested them all in less than twenty minutes.

It had been a successful mission. But the anxiety of being out in public had never really been something you could ignore, so the urge to go home was always lurking in the back of your mind.

To return to Bob, as well. Bob was a lingering thought in your mind now, an incessant remembrance. Something worth coming home safe and sound for.

“Drop it, Barnes,” you replied to your old friend, mumbling softly.

Bucky cracked a little chuckle, pressing the button to the top floors on the elevator once you were both inside. You could feel his intent gaze on your face and you could also sense all that he was trying to talk to you about.

“Look, I've never seen you like this before, okay? In all the years I've known you." He began to lecture you in a 'fraternal speech' mode, turning around so he could look at you, noticing how your cheeks were slightly flushed. “You're happy. It's been months since I've seen you as happy as you are now. You've been smiling and laughing more, you even started playing the piano again. And that's good, sweetheart,” he offered you a small smile, completely sincere and gentle, “You deserve to be, you know? Happy. You've been through a lot. And you have helped to protect this world longer than all of us. You deserve everything you want.”

You smiled back, but it soon twisted more into an apprehensive grimace, “Yeah, I just—” you heaved a sigh of concern, sensing that Bucky wanted you to talk to him, not from the exterior, but from your inner self, about how you felt. “It scares me....”

Bucky shook his head lightly, extending his flesh-and-blood hand to rest it on your shoulder, expressing sympathy. His fraternal demeanor always managed to make you feel comforted.

“It's normal to feel fear” then he cocked his head, narrowing his eyes as his face grew full of playfulness, “But, sweetheart, have you seen him? He's the strongest guy currently on planet Earth. What I know is that anyone who would try to hurt him or you is the one who should be afraid. He almost wiped out all of us together at once. It was kind of humiliating...”

“That wasn't him” you immediately replied using a low tone, remembering how chaotic and painful that day had been. You had had to fight the Void, you were the strongest among all the others, after Bob of course.

“I know,” Bucky replied, sighing softly, “What I'm trying to say is that you both deserve to be happy. Shit, the guy looks at you as if the stars hung from your hands. You both deserve to have something to fight for and protect. How are you going to protect a place that has nothing to protect?”

“That doesn't even—”

Bucky rolled his eyes, clicking his tongue disapprovingly, “Makes sense, I know—” he shook his head, frowning and gesturing with his hands in exaggerated fashion, “You know what I mean, kid.”

“Yeah... I know” you smiled softly at him, thoughtfully.

Once you had entered into your floor, you had gone straight to your room. You took off your suit, tossed it in the laundry basket, and then changed into more comfortable clothes.

You were combing your hair when you heard three soft knocks on your door. You didn't have to look to know who it was, you had already recognized his racing heartbeat from the moment he had turned around the corner.

“Come in!” you exclaimed, concentrating on combing your hair, letting it loose.

The door opened to reveal Bob. He was wearing a chef's apron, with an adorable cat pattern design. And his face was even more adorable. His cheeks were slightly flushed, his eyes were soft all over, and a sheepish smile graced his thin lips. 

He was wearing that beanie again. 

He had been wearing it for more than two days now, for some unknown reason, making it impossible for you to see his hair. It wasn't even cold in there, the building's heating system was perfect.

“Hi,” he greeted you, raising his hand to wave at you with it, making you smile, “I cooked for you”

He watched you put the hair comb on your vanity desk, his blue eyes fleetingly roaming over all of you. 

Bob thought you always looked beautiful. In the suit or in a shirt of some really old band you'd never heard in your life. But the suit truly looked good on you. The colors were perfect and even though you said the cape was ridiculous and over the top, it made you look magnificent when you flew.

It was like a second skin, the fabric clinging tightly to your body, molding your curves so perfectly. He never thought he would be jealous of a piece of fabric.

Before he kept picturing you in your suit, he let his gaze wander across your room, falling on your record player, playing a Jeff Buckley song, from your favorite albums, he knew. Many times he had listened to it with you, sitting right there on the bed next to you.

His eyes then fell on the pair of small pictures you had on your nightstand next to your bed. In one of the pictures, he could see himself sleeping with his head resting on your shoulder, your self also sleeping on the couch, just having a Disney movie marathon. Alexei had taken the picture, of course, and you had begged him to give him a copy. Bob had also asked for one, keeping the picture next to his bed. It was a cute photo, you looked so cute in it.

“You cooked for me, Bob?” you asked back, your face expressing the tenderness you felt inside. “Again? You know you shouldn't—”

He turned back to you and nodded his head, interrupting you, “I know you like tacos, you said so the other time. I thought you might like to eat them after the mission.”

Realizing you weren't saying a word back and just stared at him, he grew even more nervous under your powerful gaze, his fingers fidgeting at his sides and his gaze dropped to the floor, puffing out a small awkward chuckle.

“But— uh— if you don't want to eat them, it's okay‒ you must‒ you must be tired. I don't think I cook very well either—”

“Why are you wearing that beanie again?” you interrupted his rambling, genuinely confused. 

You had noticed the way he was pulling the edges of the fabric down his forehead, preventing any strands of his hair from slipping out and being seen.

“Uh?” he stammered, his brow furrowing slightly, “Oh, this? It's nothing, it's just—” he gestured with his hands anxiously, making it impossible for him to look you directly in the eye, “It's a bit chilly in here. I don't want to catch a cold.”

You sighed softly, looking at him with concerned eyes, “Bobby, I can literally sense you're lying to me.” You then slightly shook your head, “You can't catch a cold since Project Sentry, honey. And it's almost twenty degrees in here.”

He shifted his body weight down between his two feet, still staring at the ground, resembling a child who was being scolded. When he eventually looked up from the floor, his eyes held a dull, sad look.

“It's just...”

This time he interrupted himself, growing quiet and letting the silence carry his words away. It took him a few moments to reflect on an answer for you, sorting through the words and phrases that were rushing through his head.

You waited so patiently for him. As always.

“The bleach is wearing off and I have a horrible mix of colors. My hair is just a mess now,” he was finally able to express, motioning with his hands, in some way to detract from what he was talking about, but you could see beyond that. You understood that this was something important to him, something that had been troubling him.

You patted the bed, sitting down on it and inviting him to sit down as well, “Come here, Bobby." 

He obeyed you, of course, making his way to your bed, awkwardly tripping over his own feet on the path.

Once he was seated next to you, he made an effort to maintain eye contact with you, but just couldn't, casting his eyes down to his lap, where his hands were fidgeting, revealing sheer nervousness and anxiety.

“You don't want to be seen with your brown hair?” you asked him in a soft tone, intending to seek his gaze and attempting as well to let him allow you to let you see beyond his mask and beyond what he usually pretended to be. “I like your natural hair color.”

“Brown?” he questioned back, appearing genuinely troubled, even more gloomy now. His brow was furrowed and his voice wavered into disbelief, “But it's so.... lame.”

“Let me see” you pleaded and Bob immediately gave in, sighing shakily before raising his hands to his head, tugging the cap off and allowing you to see the, as he put it, mess that was his hair. But it wasn't at all.

Sure, the ends were still affected by the bleach, they were mainly burned and dehydrated, and now most of his hair was brown, gradually returning to its natural color. A couple of wavy strands fell on his forehead, contrasting so beautifully with the color of his skin.

Bob looked embarrassed now. Still gazing down at his lap, his hands clenching the beanie between his fingers. He was expecting you to make fun of him, to make some joking remark about how ugly his hair was or how ridiculous he was for even giving so much thought to how it looked in the first place.

But you, you just offered him a gentle smile. And then your hand ran down the side of his head, picking up a brown lock and brushing it back away from his forehead. That's when he finally looked back up at you, awestruck.

“Your hair is so pretty just the way it is, Bob” you began to tell him and your voice delivered so much reassurance and comfort, it was so soothing. The way you pronounced his name made him feel his heart flip in his chest. “You don't need to change anything about it. You don't have to prove anything. You're not him.”

“I know,” he whispered, holding your gaze, pressing his face against the palm of your hand, clawing desperately for your touch. He didn't want to beg. He didn't have to. He knew you could feel it, his longing, the aching, the need for love, for your love. “I just thought that.... well, they all said that blond was better, to be the Sentry, to look stronger and— and‒ and attractive. I thought, that way you'd like me better—blond, I mean.”

“Does the opinion of others matter much to you?”

Bob shook his head, just barely, so as to avoid under any circumstances straying far out of your hand, and then murmured, shyly, “Only yours.”

“I like you in any way, Bob” you replied, assuring him, and when he placed a kiss on the palm of your hand, you felt your heart halt, “Every side of you. The good side, the bad side. I like you. All of you.”

Bob swallowed saliva, parting his lips to let out a soft shaky sigh, “With you it's only the good side. You bring out the best in me.”

“Can I kiss you?” you even had the audacity to ask. When he was looking at you like that, as if you were the most precious creature in the entire universe. When you had never felt or known love as pure as the love Bob was extending to you through his mere gaze.

“Y‒yes, p‒please” he begged.

You kissed him. 

And the world stopped. All the noise muffled around him, the voices whispering that he'd made a mistake once again hushed. The darkness was succumbing to the light. Your light.

His lips followed yours like an instinct, like something they had been used to in another life, in another universe. Like picking up an old habit. Like second nature, his hands landed on your waist, a tentative but yearning touch.

Your mouth connected with his like old pieces of a puzzle finally coming together, fitting as if they were made for each other. Now, everything seemed to make sense, the whole universe, all the pain, all the suffering, all the mistakes, everything that had brought you there, to that very moment.

“You're everything I've dreamed of” he whispered against your lips once the kiss was over, still with his eyes closed, like it was all a dream, if he dared to open them, you would disappear from his arms. So he held you close, pulling you desperately against him.

You kissed him again. 

Eventually Bob opened his eyes and they instantly softened as they found yours looking back at them. It wasn't a dream, no. It was reality. This was really happening.

He had kissed you- well, you had kissed him. But you were there, in his arms, his hands molding the curve of your waist as if they were made to hold you. All of a sudden, he realized he wasn't really meant to be anyone in this life, not some superhero, some weapon, some asset, no, Bob was meant for you. He was made to be yours. 

His hands were not made to destroy, they were made to hold you. To protect you.

His whole being was made to love you.

Bob loved you.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asks, his eyes lowering from yours to your lips again, and again, and again....

His fingers caressed your hips, nudging your bare skin below the hem of your shirt, and the very touch sent shivers down your spine.

“Don't hesitate, just kiss me” you assured him back in a whisper and he savored the breath of your utterance, kissing you again, most passionately this time. 

Your hands embraced his neck and you pulled him close to you, leaning back against one of the many pillows on your bed. He kept kissing you, like a starving man, careful not to crush you with his weight, one of his hands rested on the side of your body against the bed.

His hair brushed against your face, tickling you.

“I'm bad at this, I'm sorry—” he suddenly apologized, as if he just was coming back down to the ground and snapping back to reality, detaching himself from you, only barely, just enough to be able to look at you. Above you he looked like a god. Looking down at you with those eyes, darkened by love and longing. His face was all red and his pupils dilated. Up close, you could distinguish the tiny greenish shades within all the light blue of his orbs. “I haven't kissed anyone in— God, I can't even remember— I'm sorry.”

“Hey, it's okay” you tried to reassure him, looking up at him with doting, soft eyes. He took the moment to just admire you, his lips parted, reddened from all the kissing. “Me neither.”

“What?” Bob displayed his incredulity at your words, his brow furrowing faintly, barely a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. His unoccupied hand trailed up your body, tracing your curves, all the way to your jaw, his fingers fondly caressing your skin, looking down at you with adoration, not even missing a chance to marvel at you to blink, “That makes no sense— You're a good kisser. The best kisser.”

Now it was your turn to blush, shifting your gaze down to his chest, avoiding his, feeling flushed and really hot all of a sudden. But Bob didn't let you stray too far from him, as he kept his hand on your chin, lifting your face so he could gaze directly into your eyes.

“Don't look at me like that” you pleaded in a quiet whisper, locking your gaze with his again. The blue of his eyes sparkled in reflection of yours, all threatening to surround you entirely and pull you into the serene indigo sea they held within them.

Bob soaked his lips with his tongue, catching a glimpse of your gaze dropping to them for just a second. His finger nuzzled up against your cheek, tracing a tender caressing line across your skin. The touch struck an earthquake inside you and your heart thumped unquietly in your chest, menacing to leap out to join his.

“I always look at you like this,” he uttered your name as if it were his own religion, “You are so pretty...”

You are incomparable in his eyes. His love for you is unconditional, even on bad days. His loyalty relies on you blindly, unbreakable.

“Y‒you make me happy” he murmured after a comfortable and serene silence, full of emotions, good emotions. “I'd forgotten what that felt like. But you gave it to me again. Happiness. Belonging. Love.” He breathed out a chuckle, appearing incredulous, “God, I even started cooking. I mean, w‒when had I ever done that?”

You kissed him again, devastatingly gentle, tender, loving, just the way you always addressed him and only him. 

And he drank in everything you gave him, every kiss, every caress and every touch, as if you were the reason he existed, the reason he breathed.

He breathed out a raspy whimper against your lips when you pulled his hair at the nape of his neck, your fingers sinking through the brown locks, pressing him closer to you.

“Do that again, please” Bob pleaded in a husky whisper, in between kisses, nearly in despair, breathing out in a cracked voice.

You tugged on his hair once more and Bob's voice broke into a groan, his eyes squinting, gazing into yours as if they were the center of the universe.

“Can I touch you?” you asked him before kissing his lips once more and you could almost feel him vibrate against you as he nodded his head in a frenzy.

He kissed you again, uttering your name like a prayer, “Please touch me, do whatever you want to me, but don't ever stop touching me.”

You breathed out a little giggle as when you realized that he was in fact wearing an apron. He looked so cute in it.

“The apron looks good on you.” he blushed furiously at your words, if it was even more possible. His skin was now crimson, as red as a tomato. “You would be a fine house husband”

The lights in your room flickered just as you pronounced the words, and you knew it had been him. So powerful, so strong, yet he was melting apart under your touch, completely at your mercy.

His skin was warm, it felt like porcelain under your touch.

The lights faded in and out again.

“I'm d-doing okay?” Bob asked, his hands settled on your hips, digits sinking into the fabric of your shorts. His lips quivered, forming a hint of a nervous smile, looking down at you, searching for your approval,

“You're perfect, baby” you assured him, kissing his chest one last time before beginning to make a path of kisses through all his face, making him smile.

“Perfect, perfect, perfect” you murmured several times against his warm skin.

Bob gasped shakily, his hands groping as much of you as they could, slipping under the thin fabric of your shirt, “Fuck-- you drive me crazy. You're so pretty, so good to me... You make me so happy, baby”

And then you hugged him, pressing him against you close, impossibly close. He carefully rolled you both over on the bed, with him now under you, so that he could hold your whole body, feel your full weight pressed against his.  

Your eyes filled with tears at his statement, fully understanding that it was difficult for him to express his emotions, to say out loud what he was feeling and what was going on inside his head. But anyway, he had done all that for you.

“You make me happy too” you whispered to him, reassured him, promised him back. He hugged you tightly, snuggling close to you, locking his body to yours.

Bob placed a tentative but loving kiss on your shoulder just as you were pulling away from him, gently tugging on his shoulders to make him sit up on the bed as well, in front of you, with your legs entangled.

“You must be tired. Your mission went well?” he asked curiously, releasing one of your hands to run it up the side of your face and you pressed it against his palm as an instinct, closing your eyes and letting yourself feel the warmth and reassurance his touch provided, “I missed feeling you here.”

He was looking at you in awe. The way you pressed yourself against his hand, the same hand that had hurt so many people, that had caused so much pain and destruction. And now it was holding your face as if it were the whole world.

“Feeling me?” you raised your eyebrows, tone of voice growing teasing.

Bob blushed, and let go of your hand to pass it through his hair, “Y‒your presence, your heartbeat, your breathing, y‒you know.”

“My heartbeat?” you asked him another question just to tease him.

He became even more nervous, his hand returned to yours, interlacing his fingers with yours and giving you a gentle squeeze, asking for silent mercy, but you looked at him attentively with a smirk, “All I can think about is you, h‒honestly.” he watched as your smile quivered with his words, “You're everywhere. I just... feel you.”

He left you speechless once again, looking up at him, holding your breath.

“I'm sorry—I'm just saying what comes to mind” Bob rushed to apologize once again, lowering his gaze to your joined hands, feeling your warmth engulf him all over, as your thumb stroked his knuckles soothingly. His own thumb traced your cheekbone as if he were brushing the most magnificent shape in the world. You were. In his eyes. “I'm not being polite right now. It's nothing—”

“Bob,” you called his name, interrupting him and causing him to look up at you, both of your hands going to cup his face. He fell silent, gawking at you, in utter awe, roaming his eyes over every inch of your face, intending to remember every single detail, every fragment of your complexion, “You're everything. Everything.”

His eyes glistened, crystallizing with a couple of tears, not out of sadness or pain, no, they were from happiness, from feeling complete, from feeling that he finally belonged somewhere. By your side.

“Thank you” he then breathed a few times, kissing the palms of your hands pressed against his face, cupping them with his own.

Your fingers caught a lock of his hair that had fallen over his face, brushing it back once again.

“I like it better this way” you commented, smiling sweetly.

“Yeah?” he asked gently, so happy he could leap.

You nodded your head, humming approvingly, “Blond looks good on you too. But I met you with brown hair, so I like you better that way.”

Bob kissed the palm of your hand once more, looking at you tenderly, “You met me at my worst.”

“We all have bad days, Bobby,” you murmured, trying to reassure him, “You've been through so much. And you're still here, still standing. You're so strong”

“Thanks to you,” he replied and hurried to add, blushing, “And to the others— of course. Anyway, you must be hungry. Your stomach is growling.”

He took your hand, and waited for you to put on your shark slippers, still blushing. Then he led you out of your room, 'Lover, you should've come over' playing from your record player as you closed the door behind you. You smiled affectionately, walking beside him.

But your smile was washed off your face once you passed through the threshold of the kitchen, encountering Alexei and John, devouring the tacos that Bob had cooked, especially for you.

Seeing you appear in the kitchen, with both of you looking absolutely terrorized, Alexei took a big sip of his beer, raising his eyebrows, “What happened to you, kids?”

John, sitting next to him, burped, just finishing munching on the last remaining taco, “These were really good.” he wiped his mouth with a napkin and made his way towards the kitchen doorway, patting Bob's shoulder as he passed by him, “Thanks, Bobby.”

Alexei nodded his head enthusiastically, showing agreement, following John, with his half-drunk beer in his hand, “You should be the team cook.”

You turned your face toward Bob, who was staring at the plate, now empty of tacos, with a frown on his face and a small pout curving his lips.

You gave his hand a squeeze, tugging him to walk into the kitchen with you.

“Come on, honey, we can do more tacos” you tried to encourage him, holding back the urge to laugh at the sight of his face all pouty.

“I hope they don't have sex in the kitchen, that would be gross” you heard John say to Alexei with your super hearing.

“I heard that!” you exclaimed, looking toward the open kitchen door.

Then you heard Alexei's guffaw as you turned to look at Bob, pouty and blushing now.

[vansv16]

control | robert reynolds x fem!reader

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Fem!Reader Summary: Bob always waits for you to come back from missions, but when you don't come back one day, his powers start to get a little out of hand. Warnings: Mentions of fighting, concussions and injuries. Word Count: 1.8k A/N: This is one of the other fic ideas from the poll that I posted the other day! I really loved writing this one, it was so much fun so I hope that you'll all enjoy it as well. Thank you for all the love on my Bob fics so far. I'm loving writing for him! 💗

“You need to tell Bob that he doesn’t have to worry about me,” you tell Yelena from where you’re standing, one of Bucky’s arms wrapped around you to help you stay upright due to the pounding in your head and the pain in your ankle. “He’s going to panic when I don’t come back with you guys.”

They’re the first things you say to Yelena when the team decides that it’s important to take you to a hospital so you can get looked at. You’ve all sustained injuries before, but being hit in the head as hard as you had been made everyone concerned, and the fact that everything is spinning a bit definitely isn’t a good sign. 

No one is surprised that your first thought isn’t about yourself, but about the man waiting for you back at the Watch Tower. They’re not oblivious to whatever it is that’s been going on between the two of you, but none of them have found the need to know specifics.

“We will,” Yelena assures you before urging Bucky to get going.

He’d been very insistent on accompanying you to the hospital as soon as they’d discovered the extent of your injury.

Yelena is full of nerves by the time they get back to the Watch Tower. The elevator journey to the penthouse, where Bob is waiting for you all to get back, is the longest minute of her life. There is no way that Bob is going to react well to this news, and part of their job involves keeping Bob and his powers in control, which is much easier to do when he’s calm and not worried about someone he cares for.

The second that Bob hears the elevator ding, he stands up from where he’d been sitting with his book and starts to jog towards it, a small smile on his lips. Everyone going on missions without him always makes him miss them more. You, especially.

“How did it go?” He asks, the second he sees Yelena exit the elevator.

His eyes scan over the rest of them – Walker, Ava and Alexei. You’re missing, and Bucky is missing as well. His heart drops into his stomach and he clenches one of his fists at his side, trying to control his emotions. 

“Where is she?” 

Yelena is quick to jump to action. She’s by Bob’s side in a second, placing a hand on his shoulder to try and help ground him. “She’s okay. Bucky took her to hospital to get looked at by a doctor but it’s nothing serious. She told me to tell you not to worry.”

He almost laughs at that. The fact that you’d told Yelena to tell him not to worry when of course he was going to worry about you, even if you’d told him not to. He spends half of his time worrying about you, especially when you go out on missions. This is the first time that you haven’t come home. The first time you’ve been injured more than just a couple of scrapes and bruises.

It’s the first time that Bob isn’t going to be the one patching you up afterwards. 

“What happened?” Bob asks, eyes flickering up to Yelena’s.

She tightens her grip on his shoulder a little. “Why don’t we sit down?”

“No,” he shakes his head and pulls away from her grip, starting to pace back and forth. He can’t help it even though he knows it’s only going to make him feel worse. “No, I need you to tell me what happened. Everything.”

Walker, Ava and Alexei stand just inside the door of the room, watching him with furrowed eyebrows and worried expressions. You’d warned them that Bob was going to panic, but they hadn’t realised it’d be quite this serious.

“I don’t think you need to know specifics,” Walker suggests, taking a few steps further into the room. “Just trust us that she’s okay, all right, Bobby?”

Their concern is further elevated when Bob doesn’t even bother to respond to Walker. He continues his pacing back and forth, occasionally mumbling under his breath so quietly that they can’t hear what he’s saying. 

If he’d been there, Bob thinks, maybe he could’ve prevented this. He should be going on missions by this point, even though he can’t really control his powers completely, he’s sure he could be of some use. He should’ve been there. It’s his fault, really, that you even got hurt in the first place. If he’d been there as The Sentry, he could’ve stopped all of this from happening and you’d be right beside him, unharmed. But you’re not. You’re in a hospital somewhere, probably alone in a clean, white room waiting for someone to check you over. You could be bleeding, maybe badly. There could be broken bones, or something internal that they can’t see until it’s too late. It could be any number of things, all of which could’ve been avoided by him being able to control his powers.

Yelena flinches as the lights in the penthouse start to flicker. She looks over at the others who all have the same expressions on their face. Bob is losing control. He continues pacing and the room starts to shake a little. She can hear the glasses in the cabinets clinking together. The coffee table vibrates on the floor and the windows start to creak a little. 

“Bob’s doing this…” Ava says, taking a step towards him. “We need to stop him.”

“He’s going to cause some real damage if we don’t,” Walker agrees.

Yelena is quick to respond. “I’ll take him to see her. It’s the only thing that’ll work.”

“What the hell are you thinking? He could get even worse once he’s outside!” 

“We have no other options!” Yelena shouts back.

She wastes no more time in walking over to Bob and stopping right in front of him where he’s standing. She’s a little surprised when Bob actually stops pacing and looks up, meeting her eyes. But then she sees the glowing in them and her concern grows.

“I’ll take you to the hospital to see her,” Yelena tries. “We can leave right now.”

The glowing in Bob’s eyes dims and then slowly disappears. She lets out a breath of relief, knowing that he’s back in control of himself now. The lights have stopped flickering and the room has stopped shaking. 

“You will?” Bob asks, voice soft.

“I will,” Yelena confirms. She extends a hand for him to hold. “Right now.”

He’s reaching for Yelena’s hand when there’s another ding of the elevator and his head snaps towards it. Everyone else in the room follows his gaze as the doors of the elevator open and you and Bucky are revealed. 

None of them have ever seen Bob run as fast as he does to get to you.

One second, he’s standing in front of Yelena and the next, he’s at your side, cradling your head in his hands and tilting it from side to side to examine the bandage that’s been wrapped around it and make sure you’re not injured too badly.

Bucky looks around at everyone. “What are you all doing?” 

“She was right,” Ava says, motioning to you. “Bob panicked when she didn’t come back.” 

His eyebrows furrow. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Walker confirms. “But your timing couldn’t have been any better.”

Neither you or Bob are listening to the conversation going on around you. You’re too focused on the feeling of Bob’s hands on your face and the look of relief on his face to focus on much else. He looks a little startled, too. His eyes are a little bit too wide and his breathing a little too heavy for someone who shouldn’t have been worrying about you.

“I’m all right, Bob, I promise,” you say, resting one of your hands on his wrist and dragging your thumb gently back and forth over his skin. “The doctors cleared me to go home. I have a mild concussion and a sprained ankle. I just need to rest.”

Bob shakes his head. “That’s not all right. A concussion is not all right.”

“It’s really okay,” you insist. “I promise I’ll tell you if I feel worse all of a sudden.”

“No,” Bob mutters, his gaze dropping from yours. “I should’ve been there. I could’ve protected you. If I had been there, none of this would’ve happened to you and you wouldn’t have gotten hurt. I should be able to be The Sentry without the other guy by now… if I could, I would’ve been there to save you from all of this pain.” His hands fall away from your face and he takes a step away from you. 

You frown, hating the way that he’s blaming himself for this happening when you were the only one at fault. You hadn’t been paying attention in the fight, too distracted by what everyone else was doing, and that had been the reason the man you’d been fighting had gotten the better of you and slammed you into the wall. Bob had nothing to do with it, not even you being distracted.

“Bob, that’s not true,” you sigh, taking a step towards him and taking his face in your hands to force him to look at you. “None of this is your fault. How many times have you patched me up before? This is not the first time I’ve been injured on a mission. You’ve been there for me every time to patch me up afterwards. You always save me from my pain.”

His eyes meet yours again and you almost crumble at the sadness in them. He’d really been that worried about you that he’d turned to blaming himself for it… telling Yelena to tell him not to worry was clearly never going to work.

“This time, it was too much pain for me to patch you up from, though,” he murmurs.

“No, it wasn’t. I still need time to heal. And you’ll be there for me while I do, won’t you?”

Bob nods. “I’m not leaving your side.” 

You reach down and take his hands in yours, giving them a squeeze. “You don’t have to.”

He takes a long, deep breath and steps a little closer towards you before leaning down and resting his forehead on top of yours, careful to avoid the bandage that’s wrapped around it and careful not to apply too much pressure in case he hurts you. “When I can control my powers,” he begins, “I’m never letting you get hurt again.”

“That’s a big promise.”

“I’ll keep it,” Bob hums. He stands up for only a second to lean down and press his lips briefly to your forehead, just underneath where the bandage is placed. “I’m glad you came home.”

You smile at the kiss and give his hands another squeeze. “I always will, so long as I have you waiting for me when I do.”

[vansv16]

The Greatest Light Is The Greatest Shade

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

Summary: You return back to the compound a week early from an initial two week-long mission, only to find Bob asleep in your bed.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob and everyone else are in this story. Fluff and Smut, that’s it, that’s the tweet lol Oh and also Reader and Bob have an established friends with benefits relationship.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it before you tap it…or don’t I mean…All up to y’all lol), Biting/Marking, Praise/Worship Kinks (because sometimes we all need that), Bob gets a little dominant in this fic, Dirty Talk, Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Scratching, Choking (if you squint, it’s not extreme though, like just holding), Breast Worship.

Author's Note: This is like a combination of two requests because it made a lot of sense to just combine them in a nice little wrap. Both were from anon users so if these were your requests, thank you! (Requests were: Bob getting a confidence boost in bed, and Bob liking the act of marking the reader/biting the reader)

Word Count: 9,119

You and Yelena weren’t supposed to be back at the compound for another week.

But missions had a way of unraveling differently when the two of you were left to your own devices–strategic, relentless, and just a little bit impatient. You didn’t linger. You didn’t overcomplicate. You didn’t sleep much, either, which probably explained the record time.

You’d cleared the final objective in less than forty-eight hours, ghosted the cleanup crew, and caught the first unmarked flight back to the States before anyone could slap a new assignment on your desk.

Efficiency had its perks, and so did chronic sleep issues.

Because the truth was–if you’d stayed another night in that motel with its scratchy sheets and the whine of traffic bleeding through the windows, you might’ve clawed your skin off. You hadn’t slept more than two hours in a row the entire time you were gone. The bed was too stiff and the air was too stale. You’d tried your usual tricks–white noise, stretching, sleeping pills stolen from the med kit–but nothing worked.

Your body just didn’t settle when you weren’t home.

And it wasn’t even just about your own bed–though you missed the way the pillow fluffed perfectly around your head, the subtle citrus-and-cotton scent of your detergent lingering in the sheets, the familiar groove in the mattress where your weight naturally settled.

It was about his bed, too.

Bob’s.

Because the only real, uninterrupted sleep you’d gotten in the last few months had been tangled up in him–skin warm, limbs heavy, his breath soft against your neck as he pulled you closer and laced your fingers with his beneath the covers. You remembered the way he kissed the dip beneath your ear just before he fell asleep, how he always muttered something quiet against your bare shoulder, like he didn’t want you to know he needed this as much as you did.

But you did know. Because you needed it too.

That was the problem with the whole friends-with-benefits arrangement–it had rules, boundaries, expectations. But somewhere along the way, you stopped following the fine print. Somewhere along the way, you started looking forward to him more than the orgasm. You started memorizing the shape of his hands, the way he curled into you when he thought you were asleep, the sound he made when you ran your fingers through his hair just right. The pillow talk that both of you would have post sex, tangled up within one another–joking about another round before giving in.

You missed him.

Not just the sex, not just the heat of his mouth or the way he whispered your name when he came–you missed all of him. His nervous smiles. His soft voice. His quiet steadiness. You missed the way he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you wanted him back. The way he understood that the only reason you weren’t in a relationship with him was because you hated the pressure that it came with, and how you just wanted to be–because labels just complicated things.

And you hadn’t told anyone–at least not willingly. But Yelena knew. She always knew. The girl could sniff out repressed feelings like a bloodhound, and her raised eyebrow and pointed remarks whenever Bob entered a room had gotten more pointed with time. And Bucky…Bucky didn’t say anything, but he watched. You could feel it in the weight of his gaze when you sat next to Bob at the kitchen counter, or when you reappeared from ‘relaxing in your bedroom’ wearing a hoodie that definitely wasn’t yours.

Still. None of them had said a word. Not directly at least, and the both of you were immensely grateful for that.

The elevator doors hissed open at 2:04 a.m., depositing you and yelena into the compound’s dim, and mostly-silent common room.

The air inside was nice and cool against your burning hot skin, it was crisp with the faint scent of fresh laundry. Everything felt still, as if the whole building itself had decided to turn in for the night completely.

Except for Bucky Barnes, apparently.

He was sunk deep into the corner of the oversized grey sectional, one arm slung over the back, the other nursing a steaming mug of coffee–you could tell because of the lingering odor of the roasted beans that stuck to the air. He didn’t even flinch at the sound of your boots–just glanced up, eyes cutting over the rim of his mug as the glow of the television flickered across his face. The screen was playing something low-budget, or at least it looked like it–judging by the terrible stick on mustaches and the VHS tracking lines.

”You’re back early,” Bucky said, sipping from his mug.

“No, you’re just up late,” Yelena shot back, dropping her bag on the ground before veering toward the kitchen without missing a beat. Your suit–a cross between tactical armor and a flight suit– creaked with each step you took, the joints still tight from hours of wear. You felt grimy and stiff, a little windburned, and very much like a human shaped knot of fatigue.

”What’d they do, drop you into a war zone or the sun?” Bucky muttered, looking you over. You gave him a half-smile.

”Maybe a little bit of both, it was terrible over there.” You replied, turning your attention to the television.

Yelena yanked the fridge open, her movements sharp with leftover adrenaline. She pulled something out, and tossed one blindly at you without even checking if you were paying attention.

You caught it without turning, fingers wrapping around the chilled plastic in mid-air.

”Still got it,” Bucky said with a low chuckle, grabbing the bowl of popcorn beside him as Yelena walked around you and dropped herself onto the open space he had made for her.

”I never lost it Barnes.” You replied, cracking open the cherry flavoured electrolyte drink, hearing it fizzle. Yelena chugged half of it in one go, before reaching for the remote that was on the armrest.

”What is this?” She asked, pressing a few buttons absentmindedly, flipping through the menu with obvious disdain, “This is what you stay up late watching? Are you eighty-five?”

”No, I’m a hundred and ten thank you.” Bucky shot back, yanking the remote from her hands, “It’s also a classic.” He mumbled.

”It had bad editing and worse acting,” She retorted, lunging across him to snatch the remote again.

You smirked, shaking your head as they dissolved into bickering over how insufferable Yelena is when she hasn’t gotten enough sleep. The whole room felt hazy, soft-edged in that post-mission, too-tired-to-function way, but it also was safe and familiar, and you were grateful to be home.

You adjusted your bag over your shoulder, taking a sip from your bottle, before turning toward the hall.

”Where you headed?” Bucky called after you, half-distracted by Yelena’s attempt to reach his outstretched hand that had the remote in it.

”Shower, and sleep. Maybe pretend to be dead for a few hours.”

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Yelena chirped, before throwing herself over Bucky who let out a yelp, as you left him to his own demise.

Your mind was already elsewhere. You were thinking about Bob.

Mulling over the fact that this was the longest you’d been apart–almost a full week without seeing him, touching him, or hearing him. Without the little comforts you weren’t supposed to be attached to. His voice low in the dark, his fingers tracing letters into your stomach and asking what he was spelling. The stupid way he whispered your name before nuzzling himself into your neck and peppering kisses along your skin.

You had planned on surprising him in the morning. Maybe knock once on his door, and slip inside without saying anything. Maybe you’d crawl into his bed beside him and wake him up with your mouth on his neck just to see if he’d pull you in close and wrap those long muscular arms around you like he always did.

Because a week was just too long, and you’d missed him more than you were ready to admit.

You padded softly down the hall, the compound’s hush closing in behind you like a slow exhale. Even the low chatter of Yelena and Bucky was swallowed by the distance, replaced by the click of your boots and the faint buzz of the overhead fluorescents.

Your hand grazed the cool metal of your doorknob.

You were still smiling to yourself, still replaying the plan in your head—how you’d toss your gear on the floor, shower off the grime of the last two days, slip into something barely-there, and sneak into Bob’s room just after sunrise. You’d press your lips to the warm edge of his jaw and whisper something teasing just to feel the way he twitched beneath you, sleepy and flustered and already halfway gone before he could even open his eyes.

You turned the knob and pushed the door open, and froze dead in your tracks.

The first thing that hit you was the heat. Your room always ran a few degrees warmer than the rest of the compound–partly because of the old HVAC in this wing, and partly because you liked it that way. It was cozy.

The second thing that got you was the sight of Bob.

He was asleep on his stomach, sprawled across the middle of your bed like he had slowly melted into it. His broad shoulders stretched across the mattress one arm tucked under your pillow, the other draped loosely across it like he had purposely fallen asleep like this–with his face smushed into the corner of it. The sheets had twisted around his hips–barely clinging to the edge of the dark grey boxer briefs he was wearing, the elastic just visible beneath the soft crease of his lower back. His hair was a mess of light brown, mussed-up locks, pointing out every which way like he had run his fingers through them a few times.

The soft glow of your bedside lamp–the kind that automatically flicked on to its lowest setting when you entered–cast him in warm amber. His skin looked almost sun-kissed in it, flushed faintly at the back of his neck and the slope of his spine. He was breathing slow and deep, so still and peaceful it almost felt wrong to look at him too long.

Your hand was still curled around the doorknob, but your heart had already stepped into the room.

Bob was here. Asleep in your bed, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And something about that–about the ease of it–unraveled you more than anything else had all week.

You slowly eased the door shut behind you, careful not to let the latch click too loudly, and took one silent step inside. The scent hit you next. Not just the familiar blend of your detergent and body wash–but something softer, earthier.

Sage.

You turned your head slightly, and there it was–your little ceramic humidifier, the one shaped like a curled-up fox, softly misting by the dresser. The blue glow around its base was steady and calm, casting soft shadows across the wall behind it. You hadn’t used it in weeks. But now it was on. Filled. Set to the exact setting you always used when you had a headache or couldn’t sleep.

Your brows knit gently together.

Your gaze drifted lower–to the corner of the room where you normally threw your clean laundry in a pile you meant to fold but never did. But the pile looked…Different. Smaller. Neater. Not folded, exactly, but gathered. Arranged in the exact order you usually pulled from. Undergarments on top. Tanks and sleep shorts just beneath. Even your favorite oversized tee–the threadbare Stark Expo 2019 one–was sitting on top, freshly laundered and smelling faintly of lavender-softener.

”Well…I’ll be damned.” You whispered to yourself, because you didn’t remember doing all of that before you left. You slowly shrugged your bag from your shoulder and set it down near the desk, careful not to make a sound. Your eyes lingered on the little details around the room–how the cord for your phone charger had been looped up neatly instead of left in a nest on the floor, how your glass of water had been refilled with ice and placed beside your nightstand book, how even the trash can had been emptied.

He hadn’t just been waiting for you.

He’d been looking after you.

You toed off your boots and unzipped your suit with aching, quiet fingers, each movement deliberate. You peeled it off your body, layer by layer, until you were left in just a sports bra and a thin pair of cotton briefs. You crossed the room slowly, the floor cool under your bare feet, and slipped into the en suite with a practiced ease, fingers grazing the wall as you flicked on the light.

You immediately noticed the warmth–thick and faintly humid, clinging to the corners of the tile like the room had been wrapped in a blanket not long ago. It smelled like steam and soap and something else. Something sweeter.

You stepped towards the shower and breathed it in more fully.

Raspberry and basil.

Your shampoo. It was a weird scent combo, one you’d picked half on a whim and half because it somehow stuck in your head every time you used it–bright and green, but soft, with just enough fruit to make someone lean in and ask what it was. You hadn’t brought any with you on the mission.

But now… it was definitely lower than you remembered leaving it.

Your fingers brushed the bottle on the corner shelf. Same with the conditioner. Same with the body wash. All just slightly more empty than they should’ve been. The labels slick with residual condensation, freshly handled.

Your gaze flicked to the sink.

There were tiny flecks of stubble around the drain–barely noticeable unless you were looking for them. Not quite enough to be careless. Just enough to suggest he’d shaved in a rush and hadn’t cleaned up every last piece. Bob always got a little flustered around mirrors. Too many thoughts. Too many selves. You didn’t blame him for not scrubbing them all away.

You leaned on the counter, steadying yourself, and your eyes landed on something else.

His toothbrush, tucked neatly beside yours, with the bristles still wet. You stood there in the bathroom for a long moment, staring at the two toothbrushes resting side by side like they’d always been meant to share that ceramic cup.

Bob hadn’t just been sleeping in your room.

He’d been living in it.

Showering here. Shaving here. Moving around your space with the kind of familiarity you only afforded yourself. Like he hadn’t just been borrowing your room–he’d been waiting in it. Curling himself into the folds you left behind. Slipping quietly into the corners of your routine without disturbing the rhythm, like he’d always known how to match your pace.

And maybe that was what made your chest ache the most.

The realization that he must’ve missed you just as much as you missed him.

Maybe more.

You reached for the shower handle before the weight of it could settle too deep in your bones. The pipes didn’t groan like they normally did, the water just rushed out hot and steady from the spout, steam blooming instantly against the mirror. You peeled off your sports bra and underwear, letting the warmth wrap around your tired limbs as you stepped under the stream.

You tilted your head back, letting the water run down your scalp and over your face, washing away the grime of the last forty-eight hours in one long exhale. Your fingers found the raspberry and basil shampoo, and you worked it into your hair, the scent unfurling in the steam like something sacred. You scrubbed until your scalp tingled, until your shoulders started to loosen under the weight of water and familiarity.

Then came the conditioner, and the bodywash. Each ritual was a little slower than usual, like you were moving through molasses. Your body still felt heavy, but your mind was beginning to quiet. The mission was over. You were home. And Bob was here.

You turned off the water and stepped onto the warm tile, steam curling off your skin in soft ribbons. The mirror was almost completely fogged now, but you wiped a space clear with your palm, squinting slightly at your reflection.

Right at your hip you could see the faint marks of where Bob had bit before you had left, he had said it was something for you to look at when you wanted to think of him. He had this weird thing nowadays where he liked seeing and making little marks on you so you thought about him more than you already did.

A few fresh cuts traced the edge of your shoulder and collarbone–scrapes from the last scuffle, nothing major. A deeper bruise bloomed under your ribs, the kind you’d probably feel more tomorrow. You touched it lightly, then imagined what Bob’s face would look like when he saw it.

He wouldn’t say much. He’d just look. Quiet, brows drawn. Probably reach for you and press his hand there with too much care, like he thought touching it too firmly might break something else.

You grabbed a towel and wrapped it around your body, using a smaller one to pat your hair dry until it stopped dripping. Then you fluffed it with your fingers–messy and soft, but clean–and stepped out into the bedroom.

He was still sleeping, curled around your pillow, the sheet tugged a little lower now, just enough to reveal the defined line of his waist and the way his spine curved like a comma. You let your eyes linger for a breath longer, then padded quietly to the corner of the room where he’d left your clothes.

The sleep shorts were exactly where he knew you liked them. The old blue t-shirt–the one that had started out as his and somehow ended up permanently yours–was still warm from the dryer.

You slipped the cotton over your head and let it fall just past your hips, then tugged the shorts on. The waistband sat soft against your skin, familiar and easy.

You stood there for a second, just breathing, before folding up your towels and stacking them neatly on the edge of your desk.

Without another sound, you padded across the room and eased onto the bed beside him, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. The familiar dip of it welcomed your weight, and you tucked yourself close to his side, your knees brushing the outside of his thigh.

For a long moment, you just watched him.

His lashes cast faint shadows against his cheeks, and there was a tiny crease between his brows like even in sleep he was thinking too hard. The slope of his nose was soft from this angle, and the corner of his mouth was slack, open just enough to let out the faintest exhale.

You leaned forward slowly, and bit his shoulder, gently.

Right on that spot you knew was sensitive–where the muscle met bone, where he always twitched a little whenever your lips lingered there too long.

“Mmph–Ow?” He groaned, more confused than hurt, shifting with a sluggish twist beneath your mouth.

You grinned and pressed a soft kiss to the spot. “Hey, Robert.”

Bob flinched at the sound of his full name, then jolted upright halfway before fully processing–head lifting, eyes wide and blinking blearily through the low amber light. His arm buckled slightly beneath him as he tried to catch himself, sheet slipping further down his waist.

“Wh–What the hell–Y-You’re—you’re back?” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

You laughed, hushed and breathy, and cupped his shoulder to steady him. “Careful, you’re about to fall off the bed.”

He blinked again, jaw slack, still halfway tangled in the blankets and now completely upright. “You–you weren’t supposed to b-be back ‘til Friday.”

“I wasn’t,” You murmured, leaning in closer, brushing your nose along the line of his neck. “But I couldn’t sleep.”

His breath hitched as your lips ghosted over his pulse point.

“Jesus,” He whispered, his hand finally rising–tentatively–to cup your waist like he needed to ground himself in the fact that you were real and he wasn’t hallucinating that you were here. You kissed his shoulder again, then nudged your nose against his ear

“Missed me?” Bob let out a short, almost disbelieving laugh–still breathless, still flustered.

“I–I’ve been sleeping in your room like some sad l-lost dog for four nights.” You smiled against his skin.

“I noticed.”

“I wasn’t trying to–like–move in or anything, I just–your pillow still smelled like you and I–” He cut himself off with a quiet groan and buried his face in your neck. “God, this is embarrassing.” You smoothed your hand along his spine, fingertips dragging lightly through the dip of his lower back.

“It’s not embarrassing. It’s sweet.” He went still at that, and then returned his eyes to you, his blue irises shimmering in the dim lighting.

”Yeah?” You smirked, nodding.

”Very sweet.” Bob’s cheeks flushed with that familiar, helpless shade of pink, as he ducked his head slightly, eyes dropping, but you reached for him before he could retreat into himself again. Your fingers curled gently under his smooth chin, coaxing his gaze back to yours, and then, with the softest pressure, you turned his face fully toward you.

His eyes searched yours for the briefest second–barely a breath–before you leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rushed or careless or clumsy. It was deliberate. Slow at first. Lips brushing lips, once–then again. The kind of kiss that says I remember how to do this. I missed this. I missed you. You angled your mouth against his, deepening it with a quiet sigh that tasted like relief and heat and the week you’d spent without him.

And Bob–God, Bob melted.

Like every bone in his body gave up the fight.

He kissed you back with this kind of overwhelmed gentleness, like he didn’t know how he’d gone a week without this and now he never wanted to let go. His hands found your hips–tentative at first, then a little more sure. He took the pillow and threw it off the side of the bed, before tugging you closer across the bed until you were flush against him, your thigh slotted between his legs.

His lips parted, and yours followed.

Tongues brushing, slow and wet and warm, the kiss deepening with each pass. You felt his breath stutter against your cheek when you nipped at his lower lip, felt the quiet rumble of a groan that built low in his chest and echoed into your mouth.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging gently–just enough for him to gasp into you.

And then he pulled back, barely. His forehead resting against yours, his mouth still parted, pupils blown wide.

“D-Don’t you wanna get some sleep?” He asked, voice rough and frayed at the edges. “You’ve gotta be–exhausted.” You gave a slow smile, your lips still ghosting his.

”I’ll sleep once I’ve got your hands all over me again.” Bob barely registered the words before instinct overtook him.

Your breath had just finished ghosting over his lips when his hands suddenly clutched your hips tighter, and he moved–rolling fully over you with a low, needy groan, pressing you flat against the mattress in one fluid, desperate motion. The way his body stretched over yours, warm and solid and half-draped in nothing but those threadbare grey boxer briefs, made your breath catch with something between a gasp and a laugh.

He was already panting softly, like he hadn’t realized how much he needed this until the second it was offered. His mouth crushed against yours, wetter now, hungrier–kisses landing messily on your lips, your cheek, your jaw, like he couldn’t decide where to start. His hands roamed beneath your shirt without hesitation, dragging up from your hips to your waist, thumbs skating along your ribs like he knew exactly where you wanted to be touched–because he did.

“Y-You’re too dressed,” He mumbled against your mouth, voice ragged and impatient. “How’re y-you still dressed?”

You giggled, tilting your chin back as his lips moved down your neck. “You’re not exactly making it easy to take anything off.”

“’Cause I missed you,” He whined, shameless now, fingers curling around the hem of your shirt and tugging it up in soft, slow inches. “God, I-I missed you and y-you smell like–” You ran your hands down his back, nails grazing his spine.

“Like my shampoo that you’ve been using?” You teased breathlessly, interrupting him. Bob froze for half a heartbeat, then nuzzled deeper into your neck with a groan that was far too pleased.

“Told you I missed you,” He whispered. “You were everywhere in this room but not in it and I just–crap, I needed something.”

His hands slid fully under the shirt now, palms spreading wide over your stomach, smoothing over old scars, faint bruises, soft skin. And then, as gentle as ever, he pulled the shirt up and over your head with one smooth motion and tossed it aside onto the floor.

Lit only by the bedside lamp, his eyes roamed your bare skin like he hadn’t seen it in years. His hands followed his gaze, mapping every familiar slope like he was making sure nothing had changed while you were gone. He cupped your chest with a low, smooth sigh, brushing his thumbs gently over your nipples until you arched into him.

“Still like that?” He murmured, teasing and a little breathless.

“Always,” You whispered. Bob leaned in slow–eyes still dark and wide, lips slightly wet and parted–and pressed a kiss right between the swell of your breasts, leaving a little saliva mark. Then he put another just a little lower, and another.

Your breath hitched as his mouth found the delicate skin at the top curve of your breast, and he sucked gently–just enough for you to feel the sting start to bloom beneath his tongue. His hands cradled you, thumbs brushing under your ribs as he worked his way over the flesh, kissing, mouthing, biting just lightly until you were arching beneath him.

Then he took your nipple into his mouth.

A low, broken moan spilled from him the second his tongue flicked over it–like he couldn’t believe how good it felt to be this close again. He sucked slowly, then a little harder, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, to make your back bow and your fingers tangle in his hair. His hips rutted forward–slow and clumsy at first, then more deliberate. You felt the hot, heavy pressure of his cock through his briefs as it ground against your core, the friction heady and frustrating in the best way.

“God…” He gasped against your skin, mouthing down the side of your breast now. “I-It’s like y-you’ve been gone for y-years.”

His breath was ragged now, teeth sinking into the underside of your breast to leave another mark–deeper this time, and you could feel it purpling as he pulled off. You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders.

He finally pulled back, lips swollen, pupils blown, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. His gaze roamed down your body again–hungry, frantic, and impossibly tender all at once–until it landed on your hip. His thumb skated over the spot.

”I-It’s gone,” He murmured, almost to himself. Your brows furrowed faintly, pushing his hair out of his face.

”What is?”

“The mark I left.” He glanced up at you, a little shy, a little sheepish. “The one I bit into you before you left. I thought maybe it’d still be there…”

You let out a soft laugh, cupping his hot and flushed cheek. “Well, yeah, it healed. It’s not like you can’t give me another one.”

That made his breath hitch.

His eyes darkened just slightly as they dropped back down to your body. “Yeah?” He murmured.

You nodded slowly. “I liked looking at it when I missed you.”

That shy smirk tugged at his lips, the kind that said he was blushing way harder on the inside than he was letting show. Then, without another word, he slid down your body, pressing a few scattered kisses along your stomach until he reached the dip of your hip. He nudged your sleep shorts just enough to expose the skin he wanted, the cotton bunched under his thumbs as he settled between your thighs, his breath fanning warm over your bare skin.

“I’ll make you another one,” He whispered, lips hovering. “Same spot. So you remember.”

The words were almost respectful–but the way he said “remember” made your stomach clench. Like he wanted to brand the memory into you.

Then his mouth sealed over your hip with purpose.

You felt the wet press of his tongue first, lapping softly at the curve of your hip. Then his lips closed over the spot, sucking gently at first–just enough to make your breath catch–before his teeth scraped down with delicate precision. A faint sting bloomed beneath his mouth as he bit just a little harder, pulling the skin between his lips and sucking until heat flared beneath the surface. His hands held you steady by your hips, thumbs pressing into the sensitive dips beside the bones as his mouth worked the mark deeper.

It wasn’t just about the pain–it was the way his tongue soothed the sting after, the way he breathed against you like he was trying to worship this piece of you. Your fingers slid into his hair, jaw slack, body arching into his hold as a slow whimper slipped from your throat. Just like him you enjoyed the process, it was something Bob found out he took pride in doing, it was something only the two of you knew about and that was just scripture at this point.

Then, finally, he pulled back.

Your breath stuttered. His eyes were glassy with heat, lips slick and swollen, pupils wide.

“L-Look,” He whispered hoarsely, leaning aside just enough for you to lift your head and follow the trace of his finger. The mark was already starting to darken–a perfect bloom of bruised skin, flushed deep and raw at the center, fading at the edges like a watercolor stain. Right over your hipbone, exactly where the last one had been.

Your mouth curved into a smug, breathless smile.

And Bob looked absolutely wrecked by it.

You could feel him throbbing against your thigh–hard, heavy, leaking precum in his boxer briefs–and you swore his pupils dilated even more when he saw you smile. His hands trembled just slightly on your hips, the press of his fingers tightening like he wanted to sink into you then and there.

Then, his voice–raspy, shy, so damn sweet it made your chest ache:

“C-Can I take these off?” His fingers tugged lightly at the waistband of your sleep shorts. “W-Wanna…Wanna u-use my mouth. I mean–on you. Go down on you. I–God, I just wanna taste you, I missed you so bad I–” You nodded before he could combust, your hand cupping his cheek again as your thumb brushed across his flushed skin.

“Yes,” You murmured. “Please, Bob.” He exhaled like he’d been punched in the gut. His hands slid lower, slow and reverent, thumbs catching beneath the waistband as he eased your shorts down your legs.

The cotton left your skin with the softest whisper of friction, and then he hooked them around your ankles, slow and careful like he was undressing something sacred.

He didn’t throw them right away. He held them for a second—bunched in his hand—before finally letting them slip from his fingers and fall somewhere behind him with a soft thud. His gaze flicked up.

You’d opened your legs for him.

And that alone nearly broke him.

His breath hitched audibly, chest rising sharp as his hands found your thighs and pushed them open further—just enough for him to settle between them. His pupils were blown wide, lashes fluttering as he took you in, lips slightly parted like he wanted to say something and couldn’t quite remember how to form the words.

But then he did speak.

Barely louder than a whisper.

“F-Fuck… you’re already wet…”

His eyes were locked on the slick sheen between your thighs, his voice shaking with awe and arousal. “I-I didn’t even touch you yet.”

You smiled, breathless, threading your fingers into his hair. “You don’t have to, Bob. I’ve been thinking about this since I left.”

A groan caught in the back of his throat. He dipped his head low, kissing your inner thigh with reverence, lips soft and warm as he moved closer. Another kiss, higher now. Then another. A gentle scrape of teeth. He sucked lightly at the skin just above your knee, then further up–just below the edge of your heat–where he bit down softly and hummed against you.

“G-Gonna mark you here,” He murmured, voice raspy. “Only I’ll know it’s there.”

You felt the nip, the suction, and the soothing stroke of his tongue right after. A shiver ran through your whole body.

He moved higher, lips brushing the crease where your thigh met your pelvis, then gently slid your legs up–guiding them over his shoulders with hands that couldn’t stop shaking. He adjusted slightly, nestling his chest between your thighs, the warmth of him blanketing everything.

And then he looked up at you, utterly flushed, breath unsteady, eyes glassy with lust.

”I-I’m gonna take my t-time…I w-wanna s-savor you.” You nodded, unable to speak, and then he lowered his mouth.

The first lick was slow. Flat and deliberate, his tongue dragging up your folds with aching precision. His groan vibrated into you, low and desperate, like your taste knocked the air from his lungs.

He did it again, slower this time–parting you with careful fingers, exposing your clit, and flicking his tongue over it with gentle laps that made your hips twitch. His hands slid up under your thighs, holding you down, anchoring you as his mouth worked with focused hunger.

He kissed your folds like he loved them–soft and wet, teasing swirls of his tongue punctuated by firmer, sloppier sucks to your clit that had you gasping and writhing. He moaned into you every time your hips jerked against his mouth, like your pleasure was feeding him.

And then–his fingers joined the fray.

He eased one inside you slowly, watching your face the whole time, the stretch just right as you clenched around him.

”Mmm…P-Perfect…” He whispered, barely audible over your breathless moan. He added a second, curling them expertly. You felt the exact spot he was searching for as he pressed deeper, stroking in tandem with the suck of his mouth on your clit. The pace built gradually, maddeningly patient. He knew your body too well. Knew the rhythm that made your thighs start to tremble, knew when to ease off just a little to keep you right on the edge.

He licked you like he was starving, but careful. Worshipful. Like every stroke of his tongue was another way of telling you he missed you, needed you, belonged to you.

One of your hands gripped the pillow behind your head, and the other continued to tangle in his hair, fingers twisting in his soft curls as you gasped out his name.

“B-Bob–”

He groaned again, rutting slightly into the mattress, his own arousal completely unchecked.

“T-That’s it,” He rasped between licks, voice wrecked. “S-Say it again. Lemme h-hear it while I’ve got you falling apart on my mouth.”

And you did.

Because he earned it.

And you were already so close, the coil in your stomach burning with every wet, deliberate flick of his tongue, every curl of his fingers pressing into that perfect spot again and again–

Until everything snapped.

Your back arched. Your thighs shook around his head. His name spilled from your lips again and again like a prayer as your climax crashed over you–hot, electric, and overwhelming.

But Bob didn’t stop.

He moaned into you deeply, slowing only enough to ride out every pulse, every shudder, licking you through it with open-mouthed reverence until you were trembling under him, breathless and overstimulated.

Bob stayed nestled between your legs for a long moment, his cheek resting against your thigh like he couldn’t bear to be apart from you just yet. His chest heaved softly, trying to catch up with the rhythm your body had demanded from him.

And then—still dazed, still breathless—he lifted his head.

His fingers slipped from you slowly, soaked and trembling. He held them up for a second, watching the wet glisten in the low light like he still couldn’t believe how much of you he had, how deeply you let him in.

Then–slowly, modestly–he brought those fingers to his mouth and licked them clean.

One at a time.

He sucked the taste of you from his knuckles with a low, helpless groan, like he was starving, like your pleasure was some kind of sustenance he hadn’t been able to live without all week. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes fanning his cheeks as his lips sealed over the pads of his fingers and pulled back with a soft, slick pop.

Then he looked up at you again–totally flushed, lips wet, curls wild and clinging to his forehead. And he smiled. Just a little. Like he couldn’t help it.

“God, you taste so good,” He rasped, voice nearly broken from the effort of holding back. “Y-You always do. I c-could stay down here forever…”

Your heart gave an answering throb–not just at the words, but the way he said them. Like he meant it. Like it wasn’t just about lust or pleasure or instinct. It was something needful, something devotional.

He pressed one more kiss to your thigh. Then another. His mouth moved slowly, lips soft against your overstimulated skin, kissing up toward the inside of your knee. He nuzzled into the crease where your thigh met your hip, resting there again like he was grounding himself.

“You’re…You��re s-so beautiful,” He whispered, almost shy. “I-I missed every inch of you. E-Every sound, every taste, every time you grab my hair like that–I missed all of it.”

Your fingers stayed tangled in his curls as his eyes met yours–blue and wide and still a little dazed, pupils rimmed with something darker, deeper. You stroked his scalp gently, thumb brushing just behind his ear.

“You’re perfect, you know that?” You said softly. Bob blinked like he didn’t understand the language.

“You’re so fucking good to me, Bob. That mouth of yours should be illegal.” You tugged his hair lightly for emphasis. “You take your time. You listen. You always make me feel like I’m the only thing you’ve ever needed.”

He whimpered at the comment, his cheeks going a deeper shade of red..

Then, quietly, with that fragile edge still in his voice: “C-Can I…Can I be inside you now?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes. God, yes. I want you.” He didn’t say anything after your “yes”—he didn’t have to. The air shifted the second the words left your lips. Almost in a trance, he pushed himself up on trembling arms, body sliding from between your legs just enough for his hands to tug down the waistband of his boxer briefs. He hooked his thumbs beneath the elastic, dragged them over the swell of his hips, and pushed them past his thighs. They caught for a moment on the curve of his ass, then fell to the floor with a soft thud. You could feel your mouth water at the sight of how hard he was–thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, his cock curved toward his belly with a kind of desperate heaviness.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t ask if you were sure again. Didn’t stutter.

He just moved.

Climbed up over you with deliberate grace, his skin flushed and hot, his mouth parted as he kissed a slow trail up your body. Over your thighs, your stomach, your ribs. Each kiss was lingering, lips wet and reverent, like he was soaking you in. He kissed the underside of your breast, then the curve of your collarbone. Then your jaw. Then–

Your mouth.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed. It was hot. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss you don’t come back from.

His lips opened against yours, his tongue brushing yours, breath catching like he couldn’t get close enough. One of his hands cradled your cheek, thumb stroking just beneath your eye, and the other curled beneath your knee, hitching your leg up around his waist until your hips aligned.

Your hand slid down his back, dragging your nails softly along the ridge of his spine. “You’re so beautiful like this,” you whispered between kisses. “So hard for me already. God, I missed feeling you like this.”

He moaned–full-throated, broken–and rutted into you once, the tip of his cock slipping along your slick folds, just barely brushing your clit.

“I’ve got you,” You whispered, cupping his face. “You’ve always been mine.”

That did something to him. You saw it in his eyes–the shift.

The way the stutter disappeared. The way his jaw set. The way his gaze sharpened like lightning behind glass, the little shimmer of gold behind the ring of blue.

It wasn’t just Bob now, it was also the Sentry.

When he looked at you now, it wasn’t uncertainty. It was awe. Command. Like he could tear through the world but would rather be on his knees between your legs, or buried inside you, trembling with the effort of holding himself back just enough not to worship you into pieces.

“Please,” You breathed. “Need you inside me.”

His voice was lower now. Clear. Quiet. Controlled.

“Spread your legs a little more.”

You did, instantly. The commanding tone–still soft, still reverent, but sure–went straight to your core.

He guided himself forward with one hand, the other still cradling your thigh. And then–slow, deliberate–he pressed in.

The stretch was perfect. Your mouth dropped open in a gasp, and his eyes fluttered shut, forehead dipping down to press against yours. He groaned, low and long and helpless as your walls clenched around him, welcoming him home.

“Mmm… So tight… So wet… I forgot how good this felt,” He whispered, his voice wrecked but steady. “You feel like you were made for me.”

”I am…” You responded, your hands threading through his hair, “No one fucks me like you do. No one fills me like you do, Bob. You’re so deep already and you’re not even close to bottoming out…You’re just so fucking perfect.” Bob’s eyes fluttered closed at your words, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he pushed a deeper inside you, until he was fully seated–hips flush against yours, breath shuddering like he was trying not to lose it.

His voice came out strained, barely above a whisper.

“You know that’s gonna get to his head, right?”

Your breath caught, and a slow, knowing smile curled on your lips. You didn’t pretend to misunderstand. You just tilted your head slightly, brushed your nose against his, and played it innocent.

“Hmm?” You asked softly, letting your hips roll up ever so slightly against him, just enough for both of you to feel the perfect stretch again. “What will?”

Bob groaned–deep, desperate–and dropped his forehead against your shoulder for a second like he was trying to physically hide from the pull inside him.

“The way you talk,” He rasped. “The way you say I’m perfect. T-That I fill you just right. You know what that does to him…”

You kissed the curve of his jaw, slowly. “Do I?”

He pulled back to look at you, his eyes now shimmering with something gold at the edges, flickering like lightning underwater. That flicker. That edge. The Sentry wasn’t in control–not yet–but he was listening. And Bob knew it. Felt it.

“I-I don’t think you realize how close he is sometimes,” He murmured, one of his hands sliding up your side, over your ribs, until it cupped your throat. He didn’t squeeze. Just held you there–warm and firm, like a tether. “It’s like…Like you say the right thing and it just flips a switch.”

You blinked up at him, breath catching as his thumb brushed under your jaw.

“Maybe I like flipping it,” You whispered. “Maybe I want both of you.”

That broke something.

Bob’s pupils blew even wider, mouth dropping open slightly as he stared at you like you were the most dangerous thing he’d ever seen.

And then he moved.

In one swift motion, he slid your legs over his shoulders, folding you tighter beneath him. The new angle had his cock hitting deeper–hot and full and unbearable in the best way. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders for purchase as he drove forward with a slow, powerful thrust that made your back arch off the mattress.

He groaned, long and low, hips beginning to snap into you with more force now, still controlled–but rougher. Needier. His grip on your neck stayed steady, anchoring you, his other hand gripping the edge of the mattress like he needed it to keep from breaking apart entirely.

The kiss that followed was messy–hungry and open-mouthed, more teeth than lips. His tongue was everywhere, licking into your mouth with urgency, nipping your lower lip between groans that sounded more like growls now. His hair was falling into his face, damp with sweat, and your nails dug into his shoulders, raking down his back when he hit just the right spot again.

“Oh my–fuck, Bob–” You cried out, legs trembling where they were braced on his shoulders. He was fucking you deeper now, each thrust dragging moans from your throat that echoed in the warm, hazy dimness of the room.

“You wanted this,” He gritted out against your lips. “Y-You wanted him. This is what happens—fuck—w-when you tease him.”

You moaned at the words, high and desperate, your nails leaving crescents in his skin.

“God, yes, that’s what I wanted–want both of you–don’t hold back—”

That lit something behind his eyes.

His hand squeezed your throat gently and he kissed you again, rougher this time, teeth catching your lip before dragging it between his.

“Then you’re gonna take everything,” He growled against your mouth, “Everything…You hear me?” You nodded, gasping, legs clenching around his shoulders.

“Yes–yes, Bob–please—”

And he gave it to you.

All of it.

The Sentry’s strength and language. Bob’s tenderness. That perfect, devastating mix that only you seemed able to call forward.

His thrusts slowed for just a second—just enough for him to look down at you again, to see the way your mouth hung open, the way your eyes fluttered, the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed a breath. His hand was still resting there, warm and firm around your neck, and now he adjusted—his fingers splaying wider across your pulse point, thumb brushing up to trace your jaw, not to control you, but to feel you. To feel the way you beat under his touch. To know you were alive beneath him, trembling and taking everything he gave.

“Feel that,” he whispered, voice hoarse, lips inches from yours. “Your pulse…fuck… it’s so fast.” His thumb pressed just slightly beneath your ear, right where your heartbeat thrummed the loudest. “You do that to me too. Every time.”

Then he kissed you.

Not sweet. Not soft.

Dirty. Starved.

His tongue slid over yours, wet and insistent, lips parted wide as he devoured the sounds you made. He kissed you like he was drowning and your mouth was the only place he could breathe. It wasn’t clean—there was nothing neat about it. It was spit-slick, breathless, interrupted by moans and the shiver of his hips driving into yours. His body pressed you deep into the mattress, your legs still curled up over his shoulders as he leaned forward to pin you there—completely under him, beneath him, owned by him.

His hand never left your neck. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t tight. But it was grounding. Possessive. Like he needed that connection as much as he needed to be inside you.

“Y-You feel so fuckin’ good,” He panted into your mouth, hips jerking deeper, the head of his cock nudging places inside you that made your vision blur. “Clenching so tight around me—so fucking warm—I c-can’t…”

His voice cracked.

And then his hand slid down your body.

Still shaking, still careful. He found your clit with two fingers, thumb slipping low, and began to rub tight, perfect circles–just like he knew you needed.

“Come for me,” He whispered. “Please. Please come for me—I-I need to feel it.”

You whimpered, your body jerking beneath his, the stimulation dizzying—too much and just right at the same time. The stretch of him. The wet heat of his mouth still ghosting your lips. The slow, brutal way his fingers worked your clit with focused desperation.

And then it hit you.

The orgasm ripped through you like a lightning strike–sudden and overwhelming. You cried out, voice cracked and strangled, legs tightening around his shoulders as you pulsed around him. Your entire body arched, back bowed off the mattress, hips lifting to meet every thrust with frantic desperation as pleasure shattered through your core.

“Oh…Oh my–” Bob choked, the way your walls spasmed around him making his rhythm falter. “God–you’re s-so perfect–I can’t–”

He buried himself to the hilt one final time and came with a deep, broken groan, his whole body shuddering.

His forehead collapsed to your shoulder, hand still clutching your throat, not tight–just present. Just there. His hips jerked twice, thrice–instinct driving him as he moaned into your neck, hot and helpless. His cock throbbed inside you, spilling deep with every ragged, breathless cry he let out, each one softer than the last.

He didn’t move for a long moment–just stayed there, trembling, his full weight settling over you. His lips pressed into your throat. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

Still inside you.

Still hard.

Still shaking.

And then–you felt it.

Another slow thrust.

Not desperate. Not sharp.

Just a gentle roll of his hips, pressing his cum deeper inside you, pushing it further with quiet reverence.

“J-Just wanna…Make sure you keep it in you for a bit,” He whispered hoarsely, breath hitching as your body clenched again around the overstimulated head of his cock. “You feel so good when you come…” You moaned softly, your fingers stroking through his hair as he pulled back just slightly–just enough to look at you. His eyes were glassy. Blue and clear, with no gold in sight. Just Bob. Just yours. You grinned, breath still coming in short, shallow waves as he looked down at you–his hair tousled, skin flushed, lips kiss-bitten and wet. You reached up, cupped his jaw gently, and traced your thumb across the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t suppose that means you’re trying to knock me up, huh?” Bob’s eyes widened instantly, that unmistakable Bob expression washing over his features—equal parts scandalized, panicked, and completely enamored.

“Wh–I–I didn’t–I mean–was that–oh my God.” You burst into a soft laugh, biting your lip as he stammered, his face flushing deeper with every attempt at forming a coherent sentence.

“I’m kidding, Bob, you know I’m on birth control,” You whispered, giggling, dragging your fingers slowly through the sweat-damp curls at the nape of his neck. “Jesus, you’re cute when you malfunction.”

He gave a low, breathless groan and shook his head like he was trying to will his brain back into function, but then he leaned down and kissed you again–this time slow, warm, melting into the shape of you with that unmistakable Bob tenderness.

It was his kind of kiss.

Not the Sentry’s. Not some thunderous, desperate thing.

But soft. Full. Devoted.

Like you were something he’d missed every second of the week you’d been gone and needed to relearn with his mouth–your taste, your sighs, the way your bottom lip always trembled just slightly when he kissed you slow enough.

You sighed into it, and his hand slid from your throat to cradle your cheek again, thumb brushing just beneath your eye as his forehead touched yours.

“I–I could’ve said something better than ‘don’t you wanna sleep,’” He mumbled, sheepish, his lips still ghosting yours. “That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever said.”

You chuckled again and nudged his nose with yours. “You say a lot of dumb things when you’re half asleep and hard.”

Bob gave a mortified little noise in his throat and hid his face in your neck, but not before you caught the faint smile tugging at his lips.

You felt his hand drift down your arm, then settle on your waist as he drew small, grounding circles against your skin. His voice was quieter now, steadier–like the heat had cooled just enough for the weight of it all to settle in.

“Do you need anything?” He asked gently. “Water? A warm towel? Another orgasm?” He said it half-teasing, half-hopeful, with a lopsided grin you could feel against your skin.

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed, your fingers lazily dancing across his spine.

“Just this….This is perfect” You whispered.

And Bob–sweet, sincere, utterly yours–wrapped his arms tighter around you and whispered back, “Okay.”

[vansv16]

DEADPOOL & WOLVERINE dir. Shawn Levy (2024)

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★ ⎯soldier's solace iii; coney island & bob.

Pairings: bucky barnes x reader. Bucky x wife!reader. Bucky x fem!reader.

Tags: husband bucky. Fluff & comfort. Secret marriage. New Avengers!bucky. Thunderbolts spoilers.

Synopsis: Part of the ‘a soldier’s solace’ universe. Three months have passed since you met the Thunderbolts, naturally, they all adored you. The memory of a tender moment sparks while telling Yelena about a date. Bonus, you meet Bob.

Warnings: possible grammar and spelling mistakes. Not proofread. No use of y/n. Damn, you guys wanted more of this, so here it is. Also for the part where the reader flips through things that had arrived in the mailbox, I’m assuming it works the same way as in my country.

Taglist: @balladofareader @lovethornes @viqwxcs @raineraspberries1 @urmumsfan @bloodwrittenletters @tellybearryyyy @princess-luka

I do not consent for my work to be uploaded onto other platforms or translated. Reblog to support. Comment to be added to the taglist. PREVIOUS PART

“That’s Bucky? As in our Bucky? Brooding Supersodier Bucky?” Yelena asked dumbfounded, staring into the picture that your phone displayed. Ever since the Thunderbolts had met you, they had all started to insist daily for Bucky to bring you into the Watchtower—at least—once a week.

Despite his initial reluctance about so openly allowing the team to be in direct contact with such a close piece of his heart, he figured it would do the team some good.

You sat on the couch—criss-cross applesauce, a pillow in your lap, and a warm mug of tea propped on the coffee table a foot away. Bob.

The faint scent of sauté onion, oregano, and mushrooms lingered in the main room. Above Bucky’s picture floated a timer that signalled how much time left dinner had in the oven.

“Oh yeah, that’s him.” You smiled, turning your head around. “Nice picture, isn’t it?” The image at hand was one of nobody other than your husband, in a green jacket and brown trousers, one arm against the inside of a photo booth, looking at you from inside. His eyes slightly narrowed, and his hair combed backwards. Damn it if he wasn’t a sight.

Even if the secret had been out for three months now, it still surprised the team every single time they saw Bucky’s shoulders ease in your presence, every time he would press a kiss to your temple, or tenderly pet Alpine with the same hand that had caused so much pain.

“I took it last week, James and I went to Coney Island,” you added, reaching out for the mug in front of you, taking a sip, and tracing your fingers along the round borders.

Coney Island indeed it had been. Though it wasn’t the usual date spot for a thirty-something married couple, it felt like one of the most special dates yet. In the past, Bucky had told you about how he used to spend his afternoons there with Steve and two girls as a double-date. The place might not have as much relevance now as it did in the 1940s, but that didn’t mean it made it any less special for him.

The first time he had step foot in Coney Island after having escaped HYDRA’s clutches, the only thing he could sense in his gut was dread. It was a reminder of his past, of the man he would never get to be again. Of the nights spent unaware of the horrors that awaited, grinning, dancing, eating funnel cake.

He had also had to be met with the fact that the place had changed. The games were arranged differently, the stands he used to visit were no longer, the music was louder, and the people were different. He gripped his jacket, his leather gloves stretching from how much pressure he was applying.

-

After that fateful event, Bucky had started to avoid Coney Island—until last week, that was. Bucky was sprawled on the couch, Alpine curled around his neck, hiding her face in his hair.

All day long, he had been running around New York—saving people and whatnot. His vibranium arm was completely covered in dirt and dust; reason why he had chosen to put it in the dishwasher. Bad Idea.

“James Buchanan Barnes!” Your sharp tone broke his daze. Ever since you had learnt his full name, you had used it as the trick up your sleeve to claim his attention. “Again? And right next to the new mugs I got?” You placed a hand on your hip, tilting your head to the side, scrutinizing him.

Alpine meowed, a complaint about having been woken up, Bucky’s hand reached out to brush her head, successfully quieting her down. “Sorry, sorry, last time I do it, I swear,” he huffed, moving his hand to raise it in defeat.

“Mhm, right.” You shot one last frown his way before walking over and pressing a kiss to his head, neither of you were able to stop the smile that formed on your lips.

You moved towards the drawer that stood next to the door, a wooden piece of furniture which’s white coating had started to fade due to the years it had seen.

You started flipping through the various newsletters and bill notices that had arrived on the mailbox. One particular brochure caught your eye. “Coney Island, huh? Says here they have been improving the attractions. Gee, I haven’t been there since I was like three—”

Bucky’s head shot your way in an instant, “you’ve lived in New York all your life, and you’ve only been there once?” he asked in disbelief. “Yeah, I mean, I always figured it was more of a touristic attraction for non-Newyorkians.”

“It was a pretty big thing back then.” Your husband added as you sat next to him. “Well, James, 70 years have passed since the 1940s,” you try to tell him as softly as you can. A frown sets back in his face, “don’t remind me.”

“How about you take me? Oh, you great Coney Island expert,” and though the last part came out of your mouth in a mocking manner, you thoroughly meant it.

Bucky flinched, not quite loving the idea of returning to such a place. Yet, seeing the way your eyes gleamed as you suggested the idea teared all of his walls down. “We have a date, then, sweetheart.”

Bucky’s hand held yours tightly, he wasn’t wearing the leather gloves. Over time, and as he began to return into the social scene, he had stopped wearing them.

People knew who he had been now, hiding the arm would be pointless. He had even gone to Congress wearing vibranium out in the open. Besides, he enjoyed it when he didn’t have leather as a barrier between your skin and his.

“Where to now, James?” you smiled, squeezing his hand. He shrugged, telling you to decide. “No, c'mon, what would you have done in the 40s? What did those dates look like?”

Bucky rolled his eyes, “well, I would probably have tried to win you a prize with an obnoxious smirk, then bought you a funnel cake and taken you dancing.”

“And that worked for you?” you decided to tease him just a little. “Every time, doll, every time.” He smirked, playing into your game. “Still, my best girl here seems to be attracted to brooding and staring.” This time he was the one doing the teasing.

“I don't even stare that much—I'm pretty sure Sam was just exaggerating with the 'bionic staring machine thing'.” He turned his head around, praying for his wife to agree with him.

Instead, you just averted your gaze to the side. “Let's find something to do, yeah?” Bucky deadpanned, huffing yet following you along.

Just a couple of minutes later, you stopped dead in your tracks, Bucky stopped right with you. His eyebrow creased, trying to find the spot that had you so entranced.

Once he did, he shut his eyes close, painfully away of what was coming. “Photo booth, really, sweetheart?” He titled his head to the side, pulling your hand and bringing you closer.

“I'm not photogenic, doll—” and just before he could finish his sentence, he was shut up by a peck on his lips and an outraged look of your eyes. “You have never looked at yourself in the mirror, if you seriously believe that.”

“C'mon,” you insisted, “I want new pictures to hang on the fridge. The ones from last summer got too much sun exposure and lost all their colour!” And then, he folded. The pleading smile, and the tugs on his hand—for a Super Soldier, he was a weak, weak man.

“Alright, lead the way.” You eagerly pulled him towards the booth, excitement practically radiating off you. You entered first, and after did he. In total, you got three pictures.

One where you were kissing his cheek, one where he was looking at you as you laughed with an expression more amused than necessary, and one with a stupid cat filter that he wanted to be vanished from the face of the earth.

“I'll go check the results!” you hurriedly exited the booth, checking the back to receive the brand-new photos. You smiled to yourself, tracing over Bucky's face with a tender heart.

“How'd they look?” you turned around, prepared to show him. The air left your lungs when you saw him. All gorgeous as he was, with those irresistible blue eyes of him, leaning against the booth, watching you curiously.

Without saying anything, you took your phone out, and snapped a picture.

-

The beeping sound coming from your phone shook you away from your sweet reminiscence. You opened and closed your eyes a few times, trying to come back to your senses.

The food, right.

You stood up, shutting off your phone and sliding it into your back pocket. You walked over to the kitchen, eyes darting to the vase of flowers you had brought a few days prior.

You reached over, gently lifting the flowers off the vase and throwing the old water away. With practice ease, you refilled the glass and placed the bouquet back in its place.

“You're Bucky's wife, right?” A voice startled you. In the corner of the room, sat a boy. He waved a shy hand as he held a book in the other. “That's me. You're Bob, right?” The Thunderbolts had told you about him—and the Thunderbolts had definitely told him about you.

He nodded, and you smiled. “Nice to meet you, then.” He smiled, then, a little brighter. You turned around with the intention of grabbing some kitchen supplies. Much to your surprise, they were all freshly clean.

“Did you do the dishes?” you spun your head, asking Bob gently. He nodded, and as did you, appreciatively this time. “These are surpisingly neat,” you said holding out a fork. “Want to help me cook?”

perhaps our dearest mrs barnes will indeed teach bob how to cook next chapter. stay tuned to find out....

[vansv16]

DOCTOR WHO S07E09 Hide

[vansv16]

DOCTOR WHO S07E09 Hide

[vansv16]

THE ELEVENTH HOUR

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🎶Thirteenth Doctor listening to Coldplay 🎶