Bob Reynolds X Reader - Blog Posts

Eye of the Hurricane - 1

Bob Reynolds X black fem reader

A/N - reader is Wakandan. Her family had names, but you choose how they look. Reader is Ayo’s sister. Reader is described to wear a bonnet/scarf on missions

Warnings - mature language, violence, blood, drowning, illness? Does that need a warning? Mentions of abuse, suicide, and overdosing.

The hum of the outreach center faded as the vibranium doors slid shut behind you. Another day of mediating disputes, guiding young minds, and reminding the world that Wakanda was not simply a beacon—but a boundary.

You hadn’t even unwrapped the shawl from your shoulders when you saw the familiar black SUV idling at the curb.

Bucky Barnes was leaning against the hood, arms folded, eyes half-hidden beneath his tousled hair. His vibranium arm gleamed faintly in the sun, a gift your country had made for him. Your sister Ayo still called him White Wolf, but you had other names in mind.

“You’re late,” you said as you approached.

“I’m early,” Bucky replied. “You’re just always on time.”

You slid into the passenger seat without another word. The car moved forward with a low growl of the engine, and the silence stretched comfortably for a while—until Bucky broke it.

“They’re a mess.”

“I know. I read their file.”

He sighed. “Alright. Quick run-down. You ready?”

You nodded, fingers tapping the edge of the console.

“Yelena works better alone. She’s brilliant, lethal, and talks to her Guinea Pig more than any of us. I respect it.”

“Guinea Pig?”

“Don’t ask. Anyways, Alexei—Red Guardian—he’s… enthusiastic. Tries to force bonding exercises. Made us do trust falls last week.”

You blinked. “Did you catch him?”

“I didn’t participate.”

“Mm.”

“John Walker—”

“Ayo told me about him. Called him an ass.”

“Yeah. He thinks he’s in charge. Looks at himself in the mirror like he’s the second coming of Steve Rogers. Ava hates him.”

“Don’t blame her.”

He gave you a look. “Ava’s trying. But she doesn’t work with anyone she doesn’t respect. And she doesn’t respect anyone.”

You hum, before asking about the one he forgot to mention. “And Robert?”

Bucky’s hands tightened on the wheel. The car shifted lanes.

“Bob’s… scared. Doesn’t say much. Doesn’t do much. He’s powerful—beyond what anyone understands. He flat out refuses to do any training because he’s scared he’s gonna hurt someone. Very timid and jumpy.”

You looked out the window, watching the landscape shift from city streets to a more remote, secure perimeter. Towering steel and glass rose ahead—the new Avengers facility.

“So,” you said, “a loner, a failed Captain America, a hyperactive Soviet, a bitter ghost, and a god in self-exile. And you want me to turn them into a team?”

He gave you a sideways glance. “You made me better, didn’t you?”

You scoffed. “You needed a bath and boundaries. That wasn’t hard.”

He actually laughed.

But as the car approached the gates, your smile faded, replaced by something steadier. Quieter.

“They’re not going to like me,” you murmured.

“Nope,” Bucky agreed. “But they’ll listen to you. Eventually.”

“No they won’t.”

“No, they won’t.” He sighed.

•••

The elevator was silent save for the soft hum as it climbed. You leaned casually against the wall, watching the numbers tick upward.

“This place is impressive,” you murmured, eyes scanning the sleek paneling. “Shuri would be losing her mind right now. She’d probably try to scan everything before declaring it inefficient.”

Bucky chuckled beside you.

“She’d challenge Tony to a tech duel if he were still alive,” you added.

“She’d win,” he replied.

You gave him a sly look. “Obviously.”

The elevator dinged.

And then chaos.

The doors slid open into a modern, open-concept living room—and total pandemonium.

Yelena stood with her arms folded, eyebrows drawn, her accent sharp and slicing as she argued with John Walker, who was pointing with that infuriating confidence only men like him could muster. Ava was on the other side, jaw clenched, eyes blazing, practically vibrating with suppressed rage.

“I don’t take orders from you,” Ava snapped.

“You’re on a team, not a solo mission anymore—” John barked.

“You’re not the damn leader,” Yelena cut in, throwing a hand between them. “You’re just loud. There’s a difference.”

Off to the side, Alexei watched the spectacle with a bowl of Wheaties in one hand and a bemused expression.

“We must work together,” he announced through a mouthful of cereal. “Like family. Like Avengers! You know, they do the trust falls!”

You stepped out of the elevator without flinching.

“Should I come back in five minutes?” you asked dryly.

All heads turned.

The room went very still—except for the sound of Alexei crunching loudly.

“Who’s that?” John asked, still scowling.

“Someone smarter than you,” Yelena muttered.

You ignored both of them. Your eyes swept the room once, cataloging body language, friction, and power dynamics like instinct.

Then you saw him.

In the kitchen, away from the shouting, Bob Reynolds stood alone.

He didn’t look up. Didn’t move. Just kept his hands braced on the counter like he needed it to anchor him.

You let your eyes linger for a beat.

Then looked away.

“Alright,” you said, clapping your hands once. “I see this is going to be even more fun than I thought.”

“Who are you, exactly?” John snapped.

“Your new therapist,” you said with a flat smile. “Y/N L/N. From the Wakandan Outreach Center in New York. And apparently, your only chance at functioning as something vaguely resembling a team.”

“Now,” you said, turning toward Bob briefly before facing the others again, “someone tell me which one of you started the fire in the training room.”

A beat of silence.

Then Alexei raised his spoon.

“I said we should not use the flamethrowers indoors… but no one listens to Red Guardian.”

This is going to be fun.

A/N. I know it’s kinda short but I’ll be writing more once school lets out Friday

@bee-unknown @dc-marvel-fics @zerocyphero7 @starsoflace @charlothee @lourdesssssssssssssss @blackrigel @xplot-buni

I can't have what I want (but neither can you) | Bob Reynolds

Bob Reynolds x F!Reader

Summary: You don't know how to explain the feeling when you see Bob and Yelena together. You don't understand it, and you don't like it. You think maybe you're not a people person, maybe you're better off being on your own. You take matters to solve this problem your own way, but everyone doesn't agree with your logic.

Stand-alone. One-shot.

"'Cause I know we be so complicated But we be so smitten, it's crazy I can't have what I want, but neither can you"

Warnings: 18+MINORS DNI. Minor spoilers for Thunderbolts! Smut (my first time writing smut deserves a warning itself tbh)

Not proof read/edited. Maybe later. Idk. I hate editing.

a/n: I am so obsessed with this man...I just couldn't not write a fic. He has been rotting my brain since I saw Thunderbolts and I don't see my obsession ending soon lmao....also my first time fully writing smut. I tried.

ao3 | masterlist

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The sound of laughter echoes around the living space as both you and Bob are scrolling through the endless selection of movies, making fun of each-others movie preferences. The light from the city is reflecting through the window glass, it’s a beautiful night and the two of you wanted to spend it indoors while everyone else in the Tower tended to their own business.  

It’s one of those rare quiet and peaceful nights at the Towel. You decided why not take advantage of it, hauling Bob out of his room and inviting him to a movie night (a movie night that doesn’t involve unnecessary commentary or spoilers).

“We’ve gone through an entire collection of romcom’s…do you not watch anything else?” Bob teasess as he nudges your shoulder, a small grin spreading across his face. You roll your eyes, tossing the remote to his lap. 

“Okay, drama queen. You pick.” 

Bob chuckles, causing his knee to press lightly against yours. He’s warm – you notice with every light tough to the shoulder, whenever your bodies lightly brush against eachothers, he’s always warm. Being close to him is no different from wrapping your body with a freshly dried blanket. Months since the New York incident, your downtime has been spent with Bob. You found comfort in him, his quiet smile and haunted eyes enticing you. He was both gentle and strong, it was impressive. Bob was the only person who made this new life you’ve all been pushed into feel like a home. 

After what seemed like endless scrolling, Bob lands on Warm Bodies. “Zombie movie. I think this one’s a winner.” 

“God help us,” you groan. “This is still romance.”

“Sure, but it’s with zombies.” 

You hum in response, sinking your body further into the large couch and glance back at him. You offer him a shrug – accepting the film of the evening. 

The sound of the movie beginning echoes through the surround sound, and it’s all you're able to hear as the two of you focus on the screen in front of you. That is until the moment was interrupted by the elevator door’s ding. 

Heavy footsteps make their way towards the couch, not shying away from being the only loud thing in the room besides the TV. You turn your head as they approach, it’s Yelena. 

“Movie night?” she asks, a grin spread across her cheek. She’s in a grey sweatshirt, her blond hair is pulled back by a headband. 

You turn your head back, nodding in response. 

“Nice,” she makes her way to the other side of Bob, dropping her body next to his. “What are we watching?” 

“Something with zombies, y/n says they fall in love.” he replies, turning to her with a wide smile – his soft eyes gazing over at her, his half-laugh expression you try to believe is just for you. 

It’s uneasy, the feeling at the bottom of your stomach. It’s doing more flips than you do during a mission, your arms crossing quicker than you realize how you’re reacting. It’s completely illogical, there’s no reason for you to feel this bothered.

But you watch them, you see the way she nudges his arm, how he doesn’t pull back. With you, Bob seems almost hyper-aware of his proximity to you, but with Yelena, it’s almost as if physical boundaries don't exist. He is completely comfortable with her. You begin to watch him watching her, how his eyes follow her subtle movements, how captivated he stares at her as she laughs – confident and magnetic. Why did he never look at you like that? The thought sneaks its way to your head, you can feel your heart rate slowly begin to increase. Something is pulling tight in your chest.

You don’t understand it, but you sure as hell don’t like it. 

“I’m actually kind of tired,” you say quickly, standing up before you are able to finish your sentence. 

Bob diverts his attention towards you, “Already?”

You lower your head, nodding sheepishly. The walk to the elevator feels as if it’s a few miles away as opposed to a few feet, each step feeling as if you’re walking in slow motion. 

Behind you, you hear bodies shifting. 

“You sure?” Bob mildly shouts, his voice dripping in confusion. 

When you finally make it inside the elevator, you pretend not to hear him. The sound of your finger pressing the button rapidly becomes the loudest noise – the desperation to be anywhere but the common room being obvious. When the door finally closes, it’s quiet but your thoughts seem to be so loud. There’s a mix of emotions and ideas going through your head, but you're unsure how to make sense of any of it. 

As you push open your bedroom door – it feels heavier than usual. The shallow light of your lamp shining too bright, and your bed looking like the ultimate safe space. 

You’re not used to this feeling – it’s beyond foreign and it startles you. Not even the most dangerous mission can make your stomach churn the way it does when you see Bob watching Yelena. It’s been like this for weeks at this point, your breath becomes shallow when they share an inside joke together. Your heart races more than you’re used to when you see Yelena place her hand on his shoulders. There's a nauseating feeling that takes over when every moment with them, you feel like a third wheel to their friendship. They share a specific bond, and a friendship like there’s can’t be replicated. They’ve been through too much, know each other too well. 

It’s way more intimate than any kind of friendship you and Bob have. 

But you’ve known this. This isn’t new. Their friendship wasn’t some kind of secret, it’s been this way since you joined the New Avengers and it’s been this way since before you were recruited in.

But recently, you haven’t been fine. You try to convince yourself that you’ve been sick, but the feeling of unease only happens when you’re around them. 

You just don’t know why. 

You're settled in bed, it’s dark, and you want to be asleep. You’d do anything to be asleep. The weight of the blanket over you should be comforting, but it just makes you feel too aware. It’s fabric grazing over your skin, the rustle of the sheets whenever you shift in place. While your room is dark, the light from under the door can’t seem to escape your focus. The realization that the movie night you planned is now happening without you. 

You try telling yourself that this is ridiculous. Why did you leave? Exactly what was the problem? Bob and Yelena are close friends, but they’re also your friends. They’re your team and co-workers, you all live under the same roof now – so why was your brain doing this to you? 

A soft tap on your door pauses your thoughts, your name being softly said against the other side. 

Your breath gets caught in your throat, for a few seconds, you actually forget to breathe.

It’s Bob. 

He stops tapping your door before he says, “Can I come in?” 

You don’t respond, keeping your body still. You hope the lack of any sound, any proof that you’re awake would cause him to walk away. To leave you and your thoughts alone. 

“I’m coming in.” 

You make a small noise as you hear the door slowly creak open, quickly pulling the cover over your head. Your body is still as you hear footsteps slowly approach you. 

For a moment, you think of getting up. Explaining yourself and wanting to offer an apology, ending the movie night before it even really started. But you lay there, still and motionless, pretending to be asleep. 

It feels like there’s someone hovering over you, you hear the sound of shifting on the ground. You imagine Bob standing over you, fidgeting as he contemplates whether to wake you or let you rest. Luckily for you, he takes a step back, you hear his footsteps slowly begin to sound further away before he lightly shuts the door. 

A loud gast escapes you, from the breath you forgot you were holding. You kick your sheets off you, releasing the sticky hold it had on you due to your sweat.

You’re unsure what you got yourself into, or how you got there in the first place. You just want things to be as they were, you want to feel normal again.

You have got to do something about this. 

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You don’t mean to avoid him – that wasn’t the plan. 

At least not at first.

You just needed some space, some perspective, some time to breathe and allow yourself to be level headed. 

It was just easier to be all of those things without Bob. And without thinking about how he looks at Yelena, and without wondering if he’s ever looked at you that way (and to you, that’s wishful thinking). But, who cares. They’re friends. You’re friends. You’re all friends, there’s nothing wrong with that. 

And yet, the ache lingers. The feeling you got before sneaks its way into your body whenever you share your space with them. 

It was subtle at first – you skipping out on team meals. You’re not in the common room often anymore, you prefer to spend your evening locked up in your room or training by yourself in the training room. 

And it’s peaceful. 

There’s no aching feeling in your chest, there’s no butterflies flying freeling in your stomach, there’s no feeling of uncertainty or disappointment. You tell yourself, maybe you’re off being alone. Perhaps, you’re not someone who functions well in teams, you’re probably just naturally a lone wolf. 

And no one questions it, you hardley figure anyone even notices the fact that you’ve lightly pulled away. 

Well, at least most of them.

You can’t help but see the quiet looks Bob sneaks at you during meetings. You try to ignore the way his smile lighty drops when you answer him too quickly, or when you look too eager to leave. He stopped trying to sit next to you or stopping by your room when he’s bored. 

It hurt more than you thought it would. 

While you realize that this was the plan, this was your intention, you wanted space and you got it. But it still hurts. 

These days, the only thing that helps is being in your room or the Tower’s gym.

You decide today is one of those days. The world outside was too loud, just like in your head. You needed something to focus on, something to ground your body and allow your mind to be still. 

The Tower gym offered it all – empty, nothing louder than the echo of a weight dropping to the ground. It was the kind of noise you needed, it was the release your body was begging for. This was the place where you could move your way through the internal noise. You could sweat it out. Punch those intense feelings away. 

The current victim of your frustration was the punching bag, each strike against it vibrates up your arms like lightning. You finally felt like yourself again, the feral rhythm of your fists, the feeling of your strength, how accurate all your hits were. It reminded you of how accurate and sure of yourself you always used to be. 

You feel your sweat drip down your chest. Your hoodie was tied around your waist, your sports bra sticking onto you like a second layer of skin. It was incredible – you didn’t want to stop. You didn’t want to think. 

You didn’t want to think of how you managed to fumble your forming friendships. Or about how even being forced into a team, you manage to isolate yourself from everyone. Not about how Bob looked at Yelena like she hung the stars herself. Not about how easy it is for him to welcome her into his embrace, or how unguarded he is around her. You didn’t want to think about how your chest had pulled so tightly at the sight, you felt like you could barely breathe. 

“Woah,” a voice called out from the entrance of the gym, loud and sharp enough to separate you from your focus. “I never want to be on your bad side.” 

You pause mid-swing, averting your gaze to the doorway. You find John Walker leaning against the frame, sleeves pushed up and his arms crossed. He lets out a light whistle, a half smirk spread across his face. 

You wipe off your forehead with the back of your wrist, becoming too aware of your apperance.

“If you annoy me enough, you might become the new bag.” You say, and gratifyingly, Walker lets out a rare laugh. 

“Mind if I join you?” He asks while stepping inside. 

You reply with a shrug, turning back towards the mats. “It’s a free gym.” 

He drops his bag and follows you, silently joining your workout. 

In no time, it led to the two of you on the sparring floor, bodies intertwined and slamming into each other. The first few minutes of the spar was silent, just heavy breathing and grunting surrounding the two of you. It was the kind of silence neither of you mind. 

“Who pissed you off?” and then, Walker spoke. 

You don’t reply, trying to force yourself out of his hold. 

“C’mon, y/n.” he hisses, nudging your knee with his, holding onto you. “Your going at it like this is personal.”

Twisting your body, you manage to escape his hold. You stumble in front of him, landing on your knees. You shoot him a glare, “This is how you make friends?” 

He flashes you a toothy grin, “I mean, it’s working. Isn’t it?” 

You roll your eyes, but a chuckle manages to escape your lips. Walker offers you his hand, helping you up from the ground. 

You stretch your body for a second, rolling your shoulders before responding back to him. “Let’s spar. Talking optional.” 

Walker takes a step back, raising his hands in the air as if he’s surrendering. “Optional? That’s a shame. You have such a nice voice.” 

You scoff at his antics as you stepp into stance. He follows suit, preparing for the first most. You begin to stab at him once, then twice, and he braces it well. His arms are strong and hands steady, not holding back. It wasn’t long before you started picking up the pace, the sound of shuffling feet and strikes drowned out any of the previous spiraling thoughts you had. 

Walker ducks one of your strikes and smirkes as you lightly stumble. “You sure you not training for a match with anyone specifically?” 

“If you keep talking, I might be.” 

His laugh is loud and smile is wide, “Feisty. I like it.”

You can’t help form a grin across your face, and before you know it, you let out a full body laugh. Breathless. Genuine. 

You dodge another playful jab and attempt to shove Walker backward. He managed to catch your wrist mid-shove, and twisted it softly. It messes with your momentum, causing you to stumble into his chest, letting out a quiet yelp. His hand settles at your waist, pulling your bodies closer together. 

“Woah,” he teased. “If you wanted to dance, all you had to do was ask.” 

“I’ll make sure to lead.” you winked at him, pushing him back playfully. 

“So you’re one of those.” 

The two of you laughed, and for a moment, it was nice. This was the first time in weeks you weren’t spending your free time alone. It was simple. Flirty. Harmless.

 It was fun. 

Until the door opened.

The sight makes your stomach drop for reasons unknown to you. 

It was Bob. 

He stood at the doorway, his broad shoulder tense, arms to his sides and fingers lightly fidgeting against one another. Even under the low gym light, he was golden. 

He stood there silently, not saying a word. His eyes were too busy locked on the scene in front of him. 

Your body is pressed against Walkers, his hand still hovering near your hip. Your cheeks are flushed, your in your sports bra, your smiling like before and laughing like Walker was God's gift to Earth. 

Bob’s face was unreadable. He was too still, too quiet. 

“Hey,” you managed to choke out, still a little out of breath. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

Bob didn’t look at you, his eyes still laying on Walker's hand on your body. “Didn’t realize I was interupting.”

Walker shifts, hands still on you. He doesn’t notice your body tensing up or your breath becoming staggered. “We’re just messing around. You want in?” 

Bob’s eyes flicked to you, and for a second, you think you see his brown eyes quickly shift to gold. You can’t put into words the emotion going on behind his eyes, but it isn’t just irritation. 

“No,” Bob says flatly. “I’m good.” 

With that, he turns his body and walks out. 

“Uh…” Walker finally releases you, helping you find your balance as your bodies seperate from each other. “Did I miss something?” 

You shook your head slowly, trying to prevent your body from freezing or your mind becoming a frenzy. The gym that was once your safe space is now added to one of the places you are going to have to avoid. There’s a weight in your chest that is settling like concrete the longer you stand there. 

“I’m gonna shower.” You say softly before leaving to your last sanctuary: your room. 

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The halls of the Tower always manage to feel too long when you don’t want to be found. 

You try to take the short way to your room, quickly leaving the bathroom as soon as you finish your post-workout shower. You try to ignore the uncomfortable dampness of your hair, or the chill spreading through your body under your over-sized nightwear. The only thing you want more than anything is to be alone in your room. You want to shake off the unnerving weight pressing down on your ribs. You feel guilty without having a reason to be. You feel like you did something wrong. You tell yourself that you might just be flustered, Bob just happened to catch you off-guard in a compromising position. It could have been anyone, and you’d probably feel the same way. It didn’t mean anything. 

But then you remember his eyes. How he looked at you (even though he was trying not to). He didn’t just look irritated or disappointed. But something else. 

You managed to finally turn to the last corner – but then you were stopped short. 

He was there, leaning against the wall outside of your room. Your sanctuary. The place that was supposed to be safe. 

His arms are crossed, head down like he’d been waiting on your arrival for some time. His hair caught the soft glow of the overhead lights, casting warm shadows across his cheekbones. You can see his chest rise and fall at a steady pace, like he’s focusing on it. He looks so calm on the outside, but you knew him too well. 

His jaw was tight. His posture was tense. If you didn’t look close enough, you’d miss the slight frown forming from the corner of his lips. 

“Bob..” 

He looked up slowly at the sound of your voice. 

“Hey.” His voice was quiet, but not soft as it was once before. It wasn’t gentle or warm. It was just quiet. 

You shift awkwardly, looking down at the droplets falling to the ground from the ends of your hair. You’re determined to look anywhere but at him. “Did you need something?”

“I think we need to talk.”

You sigh, slowly nodding your head. You slowly go past him, still not looking up. You unlock the door, stepping inside as Bob follows behind you, then closes the door behind him.

The lamp was the only light on in your roon, an amber gold hue shining a dim light around the two of you. You stand near the bed, holding your damp towels awkwardly. Bob stayed close to the door, like he didn’t have permission to come closer. 

The silence seemed to stretch on forever, the two of you sneaking glances at each other, waiting for the other to speak first.

Then, Bob lets out a deep exhale. “Are you mad at me?”

The question hurt. Hitting you like a punch to the gut. 

“No..why would I be mad at you?”

“I don’t know,” he sighs, his voice slowly growing sharper in frustration. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No I haven’t –”

“Yes, you have,” he interrupts. “You ditched me on movie night, which was your idea. You stopped hanging out in the lounge. You sprint out of a room when I walk in. And then today…” his voice trails off, his jaw twitching before he begins to speak again. “Today I saw you. I saw you all over Walker.” 

You swallowed, the feeling of guilt crawling over your body again. “We were just training.” 

Bob nodded slowly, finally looking you in the eyes as if he was looking for answers. “Right. Just training.” 

“Bob…”

“I’m not mad,” he said between breaths, trying to calm himself. His voice is quiet again. “I just..I don’t understand what I did. If I even did anything. Did I bother you or something?”

Your throat tightens. Your fingers fidget against the towel in your hands, finding comfort in squeezing something. “No. It’s not that.”

“Then what?” His voice cracks with something raw, something new. “Was I around you too much? Talk to you too often? Did I..make you uncomfortable? Whatever I did…I…I think you need to tell me.” 

“You didn’t,” You said quickly, trying to ease his mind. You toss the towels in a bean bag not too far from you. You slowly begin to take a step forward. “Bob, you didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why are you pulling away from me?”

Your mouth opens lightly, but nothing comes out. How can you explain a feeling you don’t understand? How could you explain what you’re going through without shattering the friendship you’ve built? How can you tell him I hate seeing you smile at her like that without sounding crazy? 

While being so deep in thought, you don’t notice how Bob was currently looking at you. Really looking. Like he was searching for answers from your face.

Your silence and worrisome look on your face broke something in him. It’s as if he was finally able to connect the dots that have been in front of him all along. 

“You’re…jealous?” He asks, both you and himself. “That’s what this is?”

You flinch – the word you’ve been avoiding like the plague finally making it to the surface. “I’m not–”

“You are,” he takes a step forward. “You’re jealous of…Yelena?”

Your heart pounds against your rib cage, your ears become hot and you feel your body tense. This isn’t what you wanted, this wasn’t a conversation you wanted to have. 

“Why?” He asked. “Why does it bother you?”

You shake your head. You don’t want to say anything, but it spills out against your will. “Because – because I see how you look at her. How you smile at her. How comfortable you are with her. And I know you care about her. And I know I shouldn’t care, it’s stupid and petty, but I do care. I hate that I care because it really doesn’t make sense and –” 

Your voice broke, eyes widening as you just realized what you’ve said. You press your hands to your face, hoping to disappear. This was all too overwhelming, the adrenaline rushing too fast to know what to do with it. 

“I didn’t..I dont want to feel this way,” you whisper through your fingers. 

Bob was quiet for a second. A part of you hopes he’s so repulsed, so turned off that he just walks away and avoids you the same way you’ve been avoiding him. 

“What way?” He asks softly. 

You dropped your hands, heart in your throat. Your voice is working before your brain is, your thoughts and feelings finally being exposed to both you and Bob. 

“I think I’m in love with you.” 

You said it, quickly and softly. They were barely there, if Bob wasn’t listening carefully, it could’ve been missed. But as quiet as you were, it rang like thunder against the windowstill. 

You see Bob staring at you, stunned and speechless. 

You begin to rush to fill the silence, coming to terms with what you just confessed. “I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did. I thought it would just go away. I wanted it to go away, or at least for it to stop hurting. But then today, I saw you and you saw me, and God – I'm just so sorry. I dont want to ruin anything –”

“Stop,” he said quietly. 

You froze, afraid and relieved. It was finally out there. You finally admit to yourself what you’ve been going through, and now he knows too. But you were afraid that you would lose him, and that him not knowing would have been better.

Bob takes two steps forward, slowly as if he is waiting for you to tell him to stop. He cups your face, thumbs brushing against your cheeks. His eyes were shining, warmed and in awe at the sight of you flushed in front of him. 

“You didn’t ruin anything.” He says.

Then he kissed you. 

It was slow, as if he’s been waiting to do this forever. Like he’s savoring this moment, wanting to remember how your mouth felt against his. 

You melt into him, hands clutching the front of his shirt, trying to pull him closer. 

Your lips part with a soft sigh, his forehead resting against yours.

“I’ve been in love with you for a long time.” He whispers against you. “I didn’t think you felt the same.” 

You let out a shaky left, still gripping to his shirt. Slight tears cling to your lashes. “We’re both idiots.” 

“Maybe,” he whispered while pecking your forehead. “But we’re idiots together.” 

You kiss him again – this time deeper, more certain, more hungry. His arms wrap around you fully, pulling your body close to his. This time he was less hesitant, less shy. 

Your hands tangle in his hair as he gently backs you towards your bed. There is no rush in the way he touches you, only devotion. It’s as if he was memorizing every breath, every sound coming out of your mouth, every shiver. 

The back of your knee hit the mattress, and he pauses. Slowly parting his lips from yours.  

“You okay?” He murmured against your lips. 

You nodded, breathless. “More than okay.” 

He gives you his soft smile that beams across his face, it makes your chest ache. Oh, how’ve you missed him. 

His hands are careful as they slide under your shirt, fingers brushing up your sides, tracing your skin with feather-light touches. Goosebumps bloom across his skin, finally being able to feel you. He slowly peeled the shirt over your head, slow and unrushed, his eyes never leaving yours. 

“You’re perfect.” he said, his voice low and awed. 

You begin to tug at his shirt in response, “So are you.”

He chuckled at your playfulness, letting you pull his shirt off. 

You take a quick look at him, the way his hidden muscles flex at every movement, the definition across his chest. You can't help but have your hand trace along his chest, adoring evey inch of him. 

You look up to see him looking at you as if you were the only thing in the world he could see. 

You slowly lean back on the bed and he follows, settling over you gently. He braces himself on his forearms as he kisses you – slower, lazier, like he never wanted to let the moment end. 

Your legs tangle beneath him, his hands trace lines down your arms and outside of your thigh. You let out a soft gasp as his lips travel to the edge of your jaw, then the side of your throat, and the line of your collarbone. 

“Tell me when to stop..” he whispers between kisses.

“I won’t” you whisper. “I want this..I want you.”

His breath hitches at your response, his grip around you tightening. His hand trails down your body, before finding your most sensitive area. At first contact, your hips shift lightly, causing Bob to press down slightly firmer. He circles you – slow and soft, the pleasure causing your head to tip back. Bob begins to place kisses ontop of your exposed throat, wet and firm, like he was trying to leave a mark – like he wants to prove to everyone that you belong to him. 

His circles catch up to your moans. Every gasp and whisper results in him pressing harder, circling faster. 

“You’re doing so good,” he whispers into your ear. “You sound so perfect.” Your back arches at his soft praises, there’s a heat building up between your legs. He has you wrecked and he hasn’t even entered you yet, you’re a whimpering mess who is struggling to ask for more. 

Bob places a kiss back to your mouth, it’s sloppy and desperate. He’s moaning into you, your reaction to his touch is making him insane. It’s not enough – he wants you a wreck, he wants you to beg and plead, he wants you to want him the same way he’s been wanting you. 

His fingers dip lower, and he feels you. Soaked, warm, you're throbbing at his touch. It takes everything in him to not choke at the sensation, he focuses on your whimpering to keep him at ease. You arch deep into his fingers, thrusting into him for friction. 

“Oh my g-god…” you manage to breathe out. Bob hisses as your nails dig into his back, his fingers following the rhythm of your hips. Your moans slowly begin to get louder, your pace on his fingers increasing. 

“You can cum for me,” Bob whispers into your ear, as if he’s giving you permission to release. 

And you do, whimpering his name, your hips dropping to the mattress. He is still slowly pumping in and out of you, still pleasuring you as you come down from your high. 

You let out a disappointed sigh when his fingers leave you, but you’re quickly surprised when you see him put his fingers in his mouth – tasting you. He moans as he savours the taste of you, of what he’s done to you. 

He lowers his head, placing a soft kiss on your lips. You tangled your fingers in his hair, holding him close, slowly separating your thighs, thrusting up against him. You feel him, he’s hard and his tip is brushing up against you. 

“I want you…” you whisper against him.

“God…you drive me crazy.” he whimpers out.

After trailing soft kisses around you, he slowly begins to ease into you. The world around you shrunk – the only thing existing is breath, skin, and heat. 

It started off slow and tender, his movements careful as if this could end any moment. He begins to murmur your name like a prayer, rocking into you with patient rhythem. He was paying attention to every reaction you had, making sure to keep note of everything he did that felt good to you. 

“I’ve got you” he whispers into you, your moaning against him as his hands grip at your hips, pushing himself deeper inside you. He groans as he feels you gripping him, your slick causing the sound of your skins slapping to echo around the room. 

“You feel so good around me…you feel so good,” his cheeks are flushed. His thrusts begin to stutter, no longer feeling controlled like before. Bob is allowing himself to lose himself into you, gripping you harder and kisses sloppier. “I’m – oh, I-’m –”

You kiss his jaw, rocking your hips in return. The feeling of your clit rubbing against him and his fullness thrusting overwhelming you, causing your second orgasm to approach.  

“Me too…keep going…gonna cum for you,” you manage out, before you whine out multiple “fuck’s” as you cum around him. Feeling you finish while he was inside you was all it took for Bob to cum with a broken gasp, releasing all of him inside of you. He continues to pump into you slowly after you both cum, kissing you through the shuddering aftershocks. 

He gets off of you, plopping himself besides you. You curl into his arms, your bodies warm and hearts full. He presses a kiss at the top of your forehead, caressing your shoulder with the hand that's to your side. 

“I never want you to ignore me like that again, I won’t let you.” He confesses.

You hold onto him tighter, apologetically. “I won’t. I promise.”

And for the first time, the ache in your chest was gone. The endless months of doubts and feelings of uncertainty no longer existed. 

The only thing left was Bob, and finally feeling like you belong.

The ghost I left behind- IV

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

Word Count: 8,6k

Trigger Warning: Descriptions of abuse, non-consensual acts, and dv

--

Y/N's pov

The sonogram was warm in her hands, fresh from the printer, the paper still curled slightly at the edges. The tiny, blurry figure in the middle of the grainy image was the clearest thing she’d seen all day. Her boy. Her baby boy.

Y/N cradled the picture like it was something sacred, held close to her chest as she stepped out of the clinic’s sliding doors. The sun was high, but it wasn’t hot — the breeze was soft, like it had waited for her to come outside. She blinked up at the sky, trying to steady her breath. It should’ve been a good day. She wanted it to be a good day.

Her hand slipped into her coat pocket to find her phone, fingers moving from habit more than excitement. She scrolled to Mr. Cooper’s contact and hit dial. It rang once, then twice, and then his gentle, gruff voice came through the line.

"Hey, kid. You alright?"

A small smile tugged at her lips. “Yeah, I’m… I just got out. The appointment.”

A pause on the other end, before his voice softened. “And?”

Y/N bit her bottom lip, holding up the sonogram again as if he could see it through the phone.

“It’s a boy,” she said. Her voice cracked just slightly. “I’m having a boy.”

There was a breath from Cooper, a quiet joy. “A boy, huh? Well, I’ll be damned. That little guy’s gonna have my old sheriff hat whether he likes it or not.”

She laughed through her nose, a brittle sound, eyes stinging. “Thanks for helping me get there. I know it’s not much, but—”

“You don’t owe me a thing. You hear me? Not one thing.”

Y/N smiled again, starting to cross the street, her fingers wrapped around the phone with one hand and the sonogram with the other. She wanted to keep them both close, like maybe this moment could make up for everything.

But then the air shifted.

The warmth of the sun dimmed in an instant, as if the light itself had been swallowed. A gust of wind pushed through the street, sudden and bitter cold, making her jacket whip around her. And then — screams.

It started as a murmur, then exploded like glass shattering. A crowd of people came sprinting down the sidewalk, faces twisted in panic, some pushing, others crying.

She turned instinctively, heart stalling.

“What the hell—?” Cooper’s voice still echoed through the phone in her ear.

“I—I don’t know,” she stammered.

Then she saw it.

An enormous wave of darkness rolling down the street like ink pouring from the sky. No source. No center. Just shadow, alive and hunting. It crawled over buildings and lampposts, swallowing cars like they were made of air. People disappeared into it without a sound.

“No. No, no, no—”

Y/N turned, trying to run. Her legs ached. Her lungs already burning. She was so tired. Every step was a war her body wasn’t ready for. Her hands instinctively wrapped over her belly, shielding the baby.

The shadow caught her.

A pulse of cold gripped her spine. She collapsed, knees hitting pavement, the phone clattering out of her hand. She curled around herself, shaking. Her eyes squeezed shut.

“Please,” she whispered, to no one. “Please, not my baby.”

Silence.

For a moment, all she could hear was her heartbeat and the wind. No screams. No rush of air. Just stillness.

Slowly, she opened her eyes—

And the world was wrong.

The pavement was gone, replaced with pink carpet and posters of teen idols peeling off pastel-colored walls. She blinked fast. The smell hit her next — old perfume, cheap foundation, the ghost of tears. Her childhood room.

No. No, no, no, no—

She stood slowly, the sonogram still clutched in her hand, now crumpled. Her throat was dry, too dry to scream. Her fingers trembled.

And then she heard it — soft sniffles behind her.

Y/N turned.

There she was. Sitting in front of the vanity mirror, makeup streaking down her cheeks. Her eyeliner smudged, lips bitten raw from trying not to cry. She was wiping her face with trembling hands, muttering something to herself over and over.

She was alone.

Y/N took a step forward, mouth agape. Her voice barely came out.

“…no.”

The younger version of her didn’t turn. She just kept crying, wiping, trying to make herself invisible. Her tiny shoulders shook with the weight of years to come. The pain hadn’t even begun yet, but it lived in her eyes already — that hollow ache of being forgotten.

Y/N’s knees buckled.

She knelt on the floor, watching her past unravel in front of her like a cruel memory she never asked to revisit. Her chest burned. She knew this night. She remembered what came next — the door slamming, the silence afterward, the lie she told herself that she deserved it.

She remembered how broken she felt.

And now she was here, again, somehow — years later, a different woman, with a baby boy growing inside her — being forced to relive the origin of all the hurt.

Tears fell freely now. She reached toward her younger self, but her hand caressed her hair.

“Don’t believe him,” she whispered. “You’re not unlovable. You didn’t deserve it.”

The girl didn’t hear her.

--

30 min's ago - WatchTower

The Thunderbolts had failed to contain what Valentina had hidden in the bowels of the compound — Bob, or what he had become.

The Watchtower’s holding area was in ruins now, its steel walls torn and warped like foil. Sentry hovered in the aftermath, bathed in eerie sunlight that seemed to dim as he rose higher. His eyes were gold-white, glowing like small stars. The team below — Yelena, Bucky, Alexei, Ava — all stood bruised and stunned after the encounter. They hadn’t stood a chance.

They just run, holding together in the elevator to their way out.

Valentina stood in the observation deck, fists clenched against the railing, watching as her most powerful asset simply hovered, silent, still. She snapped the comm open, voice coiled with venom.

“You were supposed to finish them, Sentry,” she hissed. “That was the deal. Loose ends are dangerous.”

Inside his helmet, Bob’s jaw tightened.

“They weren’t a threat to me, there's no reason to kill them,” he said softly, his voice laced with something unplaceable. “They wanted to help.”

“They were going to contain you. Chain you up,” she snapped. “Like they always will. Like she will, if you ever go back.”

Bob’s breathing quickened. He felt it again — that slow unraveling of clarity, like silk tearing at the seams. The image of Y/N crossed his mind, soft and shimmering like a memory soaked in sun.

Valentina’s voice dragged him back.

“You think she’ll still want you? After all this? After what you’ve done?” Her voice softened, almost mocking. “You’re not him anymore. You’re not the man she loved. You're a little freak now, not her sweet Bobby.” She said smirking. "You follow my orders, you're my employee."

He turned slowly.

"First of all, why would I...a God... follow you're orders. Do you know what I'm capable of?... Maybe I need to show you."

She barely flinched when he appeared. His hand wrapped around her throat and lifted her off the floor, pinning agasint the nearst wall, her eyes widened.

“And second of all. You don’t get to say her name, or even talk about her in way anymore.” he growled.

And then—click.

A sharp, deliberate sound echoed in the room. Mel. Silent and ghostlike, standing in the shadows, holding the black device in one gloved hand. A button pressed.

It was their failsafe. A synthetic trigger engineered into his bloodstream.

Bob gasped, light crackling from his skin, golden energy fracturing into black tendrils. His eyes flickered — from gold, to nothingness. To void.

Valentina just smirks at the scene. "Well well, looks like you resolve your loyalty issue".

Mel just give her the switch and dismiss her words, "I want a raise."

--

It wasn’t a kill switch. It was a collapse switch.

Bob didn’t scream. He didn’t fall. He just changed.

The light inside him flickered — gold flaring once, then warping into sickening black. His hands curled inward, his veins pulsing dark. The suit clung to him like oil as his feet lifted from the ground, and then—

He was no longer Bob.

He was no longer Sentry.

He was Void.

A shadow the size of a god rose into the air, its edges tearing against the clouds. Its shape was man-like only in suggestion — too fluid, too monstrous. Wings like smoke, teeth like glass, eyes like stars dying out.

The wind changed. The sky darkened. Even Valentina, hardened as she was, took an unconscious step back.

The Void circled the tower once, slow and deliberate. Watching. Waiting.

For what, no one knew.

Yelena stared up, her breath catching in her throat. Bucky’s jaw was locked, unreadable. Ava barely kept her form solid, whispering that they had to leave — now. Even Walker stood silent, hand frozen halfway to his now bend shield.

They had failed the mission.

Worse — they had released something far beyond what they were meant to contain.

Valentina didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Her eyes never left the sky.

The Void hovered above them, an eclipse in motion.

And then, without warning, it vanished into the clouds, a streak of darkness slipping into the stratosphere — fast as light, and twice as cold.

Silence returned. The mission was over.

But something much worse had just begun. Covering New York in a shallow darkness, and taking everyone else with it.

--

Y/N’s pov

The room around her hadn’t faded — not like she hoped it would. Y/N remained frozen, her body heavy like she was sinking into the carpet of her childhood bedroom. The quiet crying of her younger self continued at the vanity, face streaked with smeared mascara and glitter that clung to her skin like bruises she didn’t know how to name.

“Please,” she whispered again, louder this time, trying to reach her past self. “Don’t cry. Please—”

She knew what came next.

SLAM.

The door burst open with a thunderous crack against the wall, rattling the frames, making both versions of her flinch. Her mother stood in the doorway — tall, beautiful, cruel in the way only someone who knew your deepest insecurities could be. She had a cigarette hanging from her red lipstick-stained mouth, purse slung carelessly over her shoulder, already halfway out the door even as she entered.

“Y/N!” she barked, eyes narrowing at the sight in front of her. “Jesus Christ, look at you. Is that what you’re wearing?”

Young Y/N snapped to attention like a soldier caught out of uniform. She stood shakily from her stool, wiping her face more frantically now, trying to erase the shame, the night, the truth.

“Mom…” Her voice broke around the word like it was glass in her throat. “Mom, I— I need help.”

She moved forward, arms outstretched, like the little girl she was under all the eyeliner and attitude. Just a child begging for her mother.

“I don’t feel good, I think something happened— I think— I’m scared—”

But her mother took a step back like she’d been slapped. “Get your hands off me.”

Y/N watched — helpless — as her mother’s eyes scanned the too-short dress, the swollen, tear-rimmed eyes, the trembling hands, and curled her lip like she’d found something rotten in the fridge.

“You look like a little whore,” she snapped, adjusting her purse strap. “You want attention? Congratulations, you look like you got it.”

The younger Y/N’s face shattered.

“No— No, I didn’t want— I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, don’t start with the dramatics,” her mother cut her off coldly, heading back toward the door. “I’m going out. Your dad’s not coming this weekend, by the way — surprise, surprise. There’s leftovers in the fridge. Make yourself useful for once and clean up that mess you call a face. I don’t want to see it when I get back.”

“Mom— Mom, please. Please just stay—” the girl sobbed, trying again to move toward her, to just touch her sleeve, to be heard—

The woman turned and shoved her daughter back, hard enough to make her stumble.

“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked. “God, why couldn’t I have had a normal daughter?! Just one night without you ruining it, that’s all I ever ask!”

And then she was gone.

Just like that.

The door slammed again. The walls shook with the echo. Silence bloomed.

Young Y/N dropped to her knees and finally screamed, a raw, broken sound that twisted through the air and made the older Y/N’s stomach flip. The sound wasn’t loud — not like it should’ve been — it was muffled by time, memory, shame. But it cut like glass all the same.

Older Y/N stood frozen in the corner, her hands clutching the sonogram against her chest. Tears streamed down her face, hot and fast. Her mouth opened but no words came. She felt helpless. Useless.

She hadn’t remembered it this vividly in years. Not like this. Not the smell of her mother’s perfume, or the exact way the light hit the silver vanity tray. Not the sound of her own younger voice cracking under desperation.

She backed away, heart pounding.

“No,” she whispered, over and over. “No. No, I don’t want to be here. This isn’t real. It’s not real.”

But it was. Her younger self had collapsed on the floor now, sobbing into her knees. And there was no one to help her.

Y/N reached for the door. It didn’t open. She tried again, harder — nothing. Her fingers clawed at the knob, breath heaving now, the walls of the room beginning to bend and tilt, as though the house was a memory starting to melt.

“Let me out— please, I can’t— I can’t do this again!”

The walls whispered.

She heard her own voice — her younger self was now looking at her.

"You deserved it, didn’t you? That’s what he said. That’s what you believed."

“No—”

"You still believe it sometimes."

“Stop it!”

"If you were stronger, you’d have left sooner. If you were smarter, you’d have seen it coming. If you were worthy, he’d have stayed."

“Stop it!”

She turned and screamed at the room. She looked at the mirror on the wall, another room, without making any sense of what's the racional reasons of this happening, she jumps into falling into the room. Jordan's room.

Oh no, no,no,no, not this...this can't be...

--

Bob's pov

The Void had no shape.

It breathed around him — slow, cold, and endless. A black sea without water. A sky without stars. Bob floated in it, weightless and drowning all at once.

The silence pressed against his ears like pressure at the bottom of the ocean.

Then came the first room.

He didn’t walk into it. It unfolded around him — one blink and he was standing in the middle of it. A small bathroom. White tiles stained yellow. Fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like angry bees.

He stared at himself in the mirror.

Younger. Gaunt. Bruised knuckles, a bloody nose that wouldn’t stop dripping. His eyes red from crying, from the needle still swinging in the sink beside him.

The door burst open — the version of himself sitting in the memory didn’t flinch.

It was his mother.

“I can’t do this with you anymore, Robert!” she screamed. Her mascara ran. “You make everything worse.”

Bob tried to speak — to reach out — but his voice didn’t work here.

The past couldn’t hear him.

The next room swallowed the last.

Second room. A military facility. Stark. A flickering overhead light buzzed like a dying insect. Soldiers screamed in the distance — training exercises. Gunshots.

Bob was 19. Sitting in the corner of a locker room, shaking, knuckles split open from punching a wall.

"You're unstable, Reynolds. You lash out and break things. I don't want you on my team if I can't trust you."

Captain Hunt’s voice. Firm. Tired. Disgusted.

And then—

Third room. A hospital. Late night. Sterile smell. Fluorescent white.

He sat alone in a plastic chair, watching a heart monitor go flatline.

His first serious attempt. His own heartbeat crawling back into his chest with a kind of shame no one teaches you how to carry.

The nurses hadn’t asked questions. No one had called anyone.

Not one person showed up.

Fourth room. A motel.

Dim. Stained sheets. Cracked mirror. The bag of meth still sitting on the nightstand. He stared at it, then at his reflection.

His voice finally returned — not strong, but tired.

“I’m trying,” he whispered to himself. “I’m trying.”

His reflection didn’t believe him.

Then the fifth room swallowed him whole.

And this one was different.

Warm.

He looked around — disoriented, blinking.

The wallpaper was pale blue with hand-drawn spaceships and stars. A night light still glowed in the corner. A box of toys sat against the wall — old and worn but loved. There were crayon drawings taped haphazardly to the closet door. In the middle of it all was a twin-sized bed with dinosaur covers.

Bob took a shaky breath. His chest rose and fell like it hadn’t in hours.

This was his room.

His real one. From before things fell apart.

Before the shouting. Before the needle. Before the screaming void.

So he sat, down. It was quiet. Perfect for a place like the void. Peacefull.

He doesn't know how long he stayed there until Yelena came, he doesn't know how he still had the strengh to get up, to overpower the void.

It was a power that came from them. His new friends. His new..'team'?

He doesn't recollect it all, but for the first time in months, he didn't feel like he was alone. They made their way out of the room,out of this house out of the memory, and back into the storming present — where the real war still waited.

Together they went through several rooms from his and other people's memories. Fighting their traumas' into a way out.

He doesn't now when. But they ended up here.

The world around them was not the real one — they knew that much.

The walls breathed. The air crackled with an unnatural hum, and gravity shifted with moods, not science. Inside the Void’s domain, nothing obeyed logic. The Thunderbolts stood huddled, silent and alert, their eyes scanning the horizon of an endless black that shimmered like oil under a dim sky. This was the mind — or madness — of Sentry.

Of Bob.

Yelena’s fingers tightened around her weapon, though it was useless here. Ava moved like a whisper behind her, while Walker stood with hands slightly raised, reading the tension, always waiting. Even Bucky, hardened by war and grief, looked visibly unsettled.

Then something shifted.

A tear in the air — like a crack in glass — split open ahead of them. Shadows poured through the breach, not menacing this time, but familiar. Like memories. Like ghosts.

Suddenly, they weren’t in the abyss anymore.

They were in a small apartment kitchen — dim, quiet, but worn with the comfort of being lived in.

And then — voices.

Bob’s own voice, worn down with shame, cracked through the space like thunder.

“You went through my things?”

They turned toward the source.

There he was — Bob — standing just a few feet away, the projection of him caught in a moment past. And across from him, her.

Y/N.

She was standing in their small living room, trembling hands clutching a small plastic bag, holding crushed pills and powder. Her eyes were puffy from crying, voice shaking.

“I was doing laundry, Bob. It fell out of your jacket.”

Real Bob — the one standing in the shadows with the Thunderbolts — went completely still. His breath caught in his throat. This was a memory he hadn't thought about in what felt like years. Maybe he’d buried it on purpose.

“You said you stopped,” she whispered in the memory, voice small but cutting. “You told me you wanted to get clean. For us.”

“I do” Bob said. “I just— I needed it, just once more. I’ve been good, haven’t I?”

Y/N shook her head in disbelief, hugging herself like she was trying to keep from unraveling.

“You lied to me. And what scares me most is that I keep forgiving you because I think maybe you hate yourself enough already.”

The room spun. The Thunderbolts watched in stunned silence, not quite understanding what they were witnessing — it felt too intimate, too raw to be for them. A woman they’d never seen, spilling tears for a version of Bob they'd never known.

Ghost shifted her stance uncomfortably. Even Yelena’s brow furrowed — the name Y/N flickering in her mind now like a question. The weight in the air was different than anything they’d faced. This wasn’t a villain. This wasn’t a fight.

This was a wound.

The memory played on.

“I’m not enough, am I?” Y/N asked, voice cracking. “Not enough to make you stop. Not enough to love without condition. I’m tired, Bobby. I can't live for you, I love you, but this has to stop, please.”

He didn’t respond. He looked like he wanted to — lips parted, hands shaking — but no words came.

Everyone turned to look at the real Bob, who had fallen to his knees, eyes wide with horror, tears brimming at the edges.

“She’s real,” he whispered.

Yelena blinked, stepping forward gently. “Who is she, Bob?”

He didn’t answer right away. He stared at the frozen image of Y/N like it had torn his ribs open.

“She’s... she's my girlfriend, my child's mother,” he said finally, voice hoarse. “My girl. I loved her more than anything. And I left her.”

No one spoke.

“She found out she was pregnant days before I left,” Bob added, as though confessing to a grave sin. “I never saw the bump. I never got to feel the baby kick. I don’t even know how it's going if they're healthy…”

His voice broke, and he covered his face with a trembling hand.

“I wanted to be better. I swear to God, I did. But I was afraid I’d hurt her again. That I’d ruin the only good thing I ever had. So I disappeared. Told myself it was protection. Told myself I’d come back. For her, be a good, healthy father for our baby.But it’s been… so long.”

Yelena approached quietly, crouching beside him.

“She’s alive?”

He nodded. “Valentina told me so. She's pregnant. Five months now.”

A silence fell again — but not the cold kind. This time, it was heavy with understanding. They all had blood on their hands. But this was different. This was grief. Regret. A man torn in half by his own guilt.

Ava spoke up, voice strangely soft through her modulator.

“Let's get out of here, this is not the way out come on”

Bob’s gaze lifted to the suspended image of Y/N — frozen in time, crying, still holding the drugs like they were the last piece of him she could trust. He just runs along with the others, jumping into another room.

The world shimmered again.

The corridor they’d just been standing in melted into dim velvet walls, low golden lighting, and pulsing bass vibrating faintly beneath their feet. A private lounge. Exclusive. Sleek. Quietly decadent.

Bob turned slowly, gaze sweeping over the room. It was too elegant to be one of his memories. And it didn’t feel like his. Not the way the others had. There was no anxiety prickling under his skin, no familiarity clawing at the edges of his mind.

The couches were velvet, the tables sleek marble. Laughter echoed from a corner—high-pitched, sugar-coated and sharp. A group of girls lounged around a bottle-service table, glittering dresses and tired smiles, eyes heavy with intoxication and mascara.

Then Bob saw her.

Y/N. Young.

God, she was so young.

Seventeen, maybe. Dressed in a short black dress with silver accents, legs crossed tightly at the ankle. Her hair was curled and pinned half-up like she was trying to mimic a movie star, but her eyes told another story—she looked nervous, small, out of place.

Next to her sat a man. Clean-cut. Older—definitely older. Late thirties, maybe. He wore a sharp blazer over a white shirt, no tie, just casual enough to seem approachable. He had his arm resting behind her shoulders, fingers brushing lightly against her hair. Possessive without looking it.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, his voice smooth like polished mahogany. “Just a little. You’ll feel better, I promise.”

“I don’t know...” Young Y/N laughed lightly, clearly uncertain. “I’ve never really done that stuff.”

“That’s okay,” he said, smiling, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You don’t have to be anyone but yourself. I like you just like this.”

She blinked. Something about the way he looked at her—it was like he saw her. Like she mattered. Bob’s heart clenched painfully watching it.

“I just think you’re incredible,” Jordan continued. “The way you walk into a room like you’re not trying to impress anyone. You’ve got this... spark. It kills me.”

Y/N looked down, shy. “You really think that?”

“Of course I do,” he said, resting his hand gently on her thigh. “You’re nothing like these other girls. You’re thoughtful. Real. Not just some pretty thing. You’ve got depth, baby. And I see that. I see you.”

Bob could barely breathe.

“He’s grooming her,” Ava muttered under her breath.

Yelena glanced at her, then at Bob. “Is this her memory?”

Bob’s jaw was tight. “Yeah,” he said. His voice cracked. “It is.”

On the couch, one of the girls passed a thin line of powder to Jordan, who declined with a polite shake of his head. Instead, he passed it to Y/N. “Only if you want to,” he said gently. “No pressure. I’d never make you do anything. But I want you to feel good tonight. You deserve to feel loved.”

Y/N hesitated. The edges of her smile were starting to quiver. She stared at the powder. Then at Jordan. “You really think I’m... special?”

“I don’t waste time on girls who aren’t,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss her cheek, feather-light. “You’ve got a heart bigger than anyone in this room. I just want to take care of it.”

She closed her eyes, almost swayed by it.

Bob couldn’t look away. His hands were shaking. “She thought he loved her,” he said softly, more to himself than anyone else. “She told me... once. That for a while, she believed every word. That she was lucky to have someone love her that much.”

“She was a child,” Yelena growled.

“She didn’t know,” Bob whispered. “She didn’t know what she deserved. She thought this was it—someone older, who gave her attention. That was enough.”

Y/N ends up taking the drugs. She handed the little plate back with a quiet after taking the powder “uff, that's ahm..weird?” She said smiling at Jordan.

Jordan smiled like she’d just told him a secret. “See? That’s what I like about you. You’re strong. Classy. You didn't even make a face pretty girl.”

Then he kissed her and whispered, “That’s why I love you.”

And Y/N believed it. "And I love you too."

You could see it—the way her shoulders relaxed, the way she leaned into him slightly. Desperate for comfort. For a promise that someone in the world wanted her.

The team stood there in silence.

Bob’s eyes were glassy. He swallowed hard. “She just wanted someone to choose her. To protect her. And instead... she got him.”

Ava’s face was grim. “And then she got you.”

Bob flinched.

But Yelena shook her head gently. “You loved her. You didn’t want anything from her but to be loved back. That matters.”

Bob said nothing for a long while. He just stood there, staring at the younger version of her—wide-eyed, smiling faintly, still foolish enough to believe that this man would be different.

That he would be safe.

“God,” he muttered, voice breaking, “I hope she knows she’s more than this.”

“That wasn’t yours,” Bucky finally said, his voice low, like he was afraid of scaring something away. “That memory. It wasn’t from you.”

Bob shook his head slowly. “No. That was hers.”

Yelena’s brow furrowed. “How the hell are we seeing her memories?”

“Maybe...” Ava started, then hesitated. She glanced around at the endless dark edges of the Void as if searching for a crack. “Maybe because she’s here.”

The weight of her words hit like a bomb.

Bob turned to her sharply. “What?”

“If the Void is showing her memories,” she said, “then it’s not just pulling from you anymore. It’s pulling from someone else too. That only happens when someone’s inside.”

Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “You think the Void got her?”

“I don’t think,” Ava said. “I know.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “So she’s trapped in this thing.”

Bob’s breath caught in his throat. The walls seemed to close in around him as the meaning sunk in—Y/N, his Y/N, alone somewhere in this abyss, reliving the worst parts of her life, again and again, without even knowing why.

“Jesus Christ,” he rasped. “No... no, no—she can’t be here. She can’t be.”

“She is,” Ava said softly. “We’ve all been stuck in this thing long enough to know how it works. It latches onto trauma. It feeds on it. Memories, shame, fear—it twists it all into a prison.”

“But she’s not like us,” Bob said, his voice cracking. “She didn’t sign up for this. She didn’t even do anything.”

“That doesn’t matter to the Void,” Bucky said grimly. “It doesn’t care who you are. If it senses pain, if it senses broken pieces... it pulls you in.”

Bob’s knees buckled slightly, and he sank to a low stool at the edge of the room, head in his hands.

“She’s pregnant,” he whispered. “She’s alone. She’s scared. And now she’s trapped in this fucking nightmare.”

Yelena knelt in front of him. “Then we find her. Before this place tears her apart.”

“How?” he asked, voice hoarse. “How the hell do we find her in all this?”

Ava stepped forward. “We follow the memories. The further in we go, the more pieces we see. If she’s really here, then the Void is using her too. Pulling her pain to the surface. If we find the source—if we find the most vivid parts—we find her.”

Bucky nodded. “And we pull her out.”

“But she doesn’t even know what this is,” Bob said, lifting his head. His eyes were red, desperate. “She won’t understand. She’ll think it’s real. She’ll feel it all like it’s happening again.”

“She’s strong,” Yelena said. “We’ve seen that.”

Bob shook his head. “Not like this. Not this kind of pain. She spent her whole life thinking she wasn’t worth loving, and now she’s in a place that’s built to prove her right.”

He clenched his fists, jaw tightening. “She’s not just some damsel in distress. She’s better than me. Smarter. Braver. But I left her. I abandoned her when she needed me most, and now she’s paying the price for my broken mind.”

Bucky took a step closer, his voice steady. “Then don’t waste time wallowing in guilt. Use it. Channel it. Because if we don’t get to her soon, this place will bury her alive in her own pain.”

Bob stood slowly, the weight of resolve settling over him like armor. “Then we go deeper. Into the worst of it.”

He turned to Ava. “You said it feeds on trauma. So we find the worst of her memories. The ones it would never let go of. She has to be somewhere here."

--

Y/N's pov

The air was thick. Too warm. Still.

Y/N stood barefoot on the cold hardwood floor of his penthouse apartment—Jordan’s.

The bedroom was dim, the curtains drawn. The city lights barely peeked through the thin cracks. She heard rustling behind her. Her breath caught.

There—on the bed—her younger self, stirring under crumpled sheets, the silk blanket clinging to damp, bare skin.

The girl woke slowly, confusion in her eyes before she blinked into the dark. She moved, groggily at first… then winced. Her body recoiled, the pain sharp and unignorable. Her fingers clutched the sheet closer to her chest. She looked down.

Y/N—the older one—stood frozen. Watching. Remembering.

“No, no, no,” she whispered to herself, shaking her head. Her hands trembled at her sides. “Please don’t do this. Don’t make me see this again.”

But the Void was cruel. It always had been.

Young Y/N stood slowly, wobbling on weak legs. The sheet wrapped around her like a lifeline, like it could protect her from what her mind already knew but refused to say out loud.

She stepped into the hallway, bare feet silent, breath uneven. She turned toward the kitchen.

And there he was.

Jordan.

Dressed casually—sweatpants, t-shirt—like he hadn’t just stolen something sacred. He was humming. Cheerful. Making coffee. His hair was damp like he’d just showered. Like it was just another morning.

The older Y/N followed behind, nearly tripping over her own breath, like she could somehow get in front of this. Stop it.

Jordan turned at the sound of movement, his smile stretching effortlessly across his smug, handsome face.

“Well, good morning, sleepyhead,” he said, his voice chipper, as if they were a normal couple waking up after a beautiful night. “You were out cold last night. Want some breakfast? I make a killer omelet.”

The younger Y/N stopped in her tracks. Her lips parted, her face pale, horrified. “What... what did you do to me?” Her voice was so quiet at first, but it shook.

Jordan’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“You...” She clutched the sheet tighter, eyes blinking rapidly, on the verge of spiraling. “You gave me something. I didn’t want to sleep with you. I—I said no. I remember saying no. And then—then nothing.”

The smile on Jordan’s face flickered. Then vanished.

He stepped forward, casual in that way predators often are. “Woah, woah. Babe. Don’t be like that. You were into it. Trust me—you wanted it. I just gave you a little something to relax, that’s all. You were stressed out.”

“I didn’t want to relax,” she said, her voice cracking. “I said no. You said we’d just hang out. I thought—” Her voice broke. “I thought you loved me.”

Jordan’s face changed entirely. The warmth drained out of his expression, replaced with cold irritation.

“Are you seriously doing this right now?” he said, voice darkening. “After everything I’ve done for you? I brought you into my home, gave you everything, and now you’re acting like some fucking victim?”

Older Y/N stepped forward, voice raised. “Stop it. Please. Stop it!”

Young Y/N was sobbing now, inching backward. “You drugged me, Jordan. You used me.”

Jordan’s eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched.

“You better watch how you talk to me.”

And then—he moved.

It happened so fast.

His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. She yelped, trying to pull away, but he yanked her forward and slammed her to the ground. The sheet slipped off her shoulder. She screamed, trying to crawl back, but he was already on top of her.

“You ungrateful little bitch,” he spat. “I loved you. I treated you like a goddamn queen.”

“You're hurting me!” she screamed.

“You don’t even know what the real world is like,” he hissed. “You’re just a sad little girl who needs daddy figures to fix you. Well guess what? No one else wanted you. You were mine.”

His hand wrapped around her throat.

“STOP IT!” older Y/N screamed, throwing herself at him. She crashed into him—but passed right through. She hit the floor hard, helpless. Her hands clawed the ground. “GET OFF HER!”

But he didn’t even notice. Because this wasn’t real. Not to him. But to her—it was everything.

Younger Y/N thrashed beneath him, choking, sobbing. “Please... Jordan, please...”

He leaned in close, voice low. “You don’t get to say no now.” And just like that, he let her go. He picked up his coffe mug and went to the sofa, turning on the news. "When you're ready to apologize, come here, okay sweetheart? You were really cruel to me, I didn't appreciate that."

Older Y/N crawled to her younger self who was sobbing, tears blinding her vision. She pressed her palms to the memory’s shoulders, trying to hold her, trying to shield her, desperate to end this.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered through tears. “I’m so sorry I didn’t know what love was supposed to look like.”

--

Bob was the first one to step inside.

Then they saw her.

Y/N.

Curled on the floor in the kitchen, holding someone tight—herself. A younger version of her, wrapped in a silk sheet, face buried in her own shoulder, both of them trembling, as if clutching one another was the only thing keeping them from falling apart completely.

Her hair was a mess. Her arms covered in scratches from trying to claw her way out of this hell. Her face streaked with tears and smeared makeup. But even broken, she looked like something Bob had forgotten how to breathe around.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Not yet.

It was Walker who whispered, “That’s her... That’s Y/N.”

But it was Yelena who understood first. “She’s not just a memory.”

“No,” Ava murmured. “She’s here. Trapped like we are.”

Y/N hadn’t noticed them yet. She was holding her younger self so tightly, whispering into her hair, soothing words and broken apologies.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry... I should’ve seen it. I should’ve never loved him. I should’ve known this would happen. I just wanted to be seen. Just once. Just wanted to be enough for someone. I didn’t know it would hurt like this... I didn’t know I was gonna hate myself this much.”

Bob stepped forward. Slowly. Carefully. “Y/N.”

Her head didn’t move. She didn’t hear him. Or maybe she was too deep in the memory to want to.

He tried again, his voice cracking, tears already building in his eyes. “Y/N, it’s me.”

At that, her shoulders tensed.

Still holding the younger version of herself, she slowly turned her head.

She saw him.

And everything stopped.

She blinked—once, twice, trying to clear her eyes. But he didn’t vanish. He stayed. Standing there, in his suit, his hair wild and eyes filled with tears, chest heaving like he hadn’t taken a full breath since he last saw her.

Behind him stood strangers—faces she didn’t recognize. A blonde girl with cold, sharp eyes. A man with a metal arm. A ghost of a woman in black. But she didn’t care.

Her eyes locked on Bob.

Her Bob.

But she didn’t smile.

She flinched.

“No...” Her voice came out hoarse. “No. Not like this.”

Bob’s face fell. “Y/N, it’s really me.”

“No, no, you don’t get to do that,” she whispered, hugging her younger self tighter, closing her eyes like she could shut him out. “Not here. Not now. You’re not real. This place is evil, it shows me things just to break me. I’m done falling for that. I won’t let it take you, too.”

“It’s me,” he repeated, stepping closer. “I swear to you. I’m not an illusion. I found you—I found you.”

She shook her head violently. “No! You left me. You left before I even showed, before I even started to show! I waited and I waited and I screamed into a pillow every night, telling myself you’d come back—but you didn’t. And now I’m here, trapped in hell, and it’s using your face to punish me!”

Her breathing picked up. She stood up.

She stepped toward him, shaking.

“Don’t you dare look like him,” she said, her voice breaking. “Don’t you dare sound like him. Don’t pretend you care—don’t pretend you know what I’ve been through.”

Bob tried to reach out but she slapped his hand away.

She started hitting him. Soft at first—then harder. Fists against his chest, weak and desperate.

“You’re not him. You’re not him. You’re not my Bobby. He’s gone. He left me. He left me with a baby and no one to love me. He promised he'd never go and he fucking went!”

“I know,” he whispered, not even defending himself. “I know I did. I know I failed you.”

She hit him again and again until she couldn’t stand anymore.

Her knees gave out and she collapsed.

Bob caught her before she hit the floor. Held her like he had the first night she let him into her apartment, sobbing into his shirt, clutching him like he might disappear if she blinked.

“I don’t know what’s real anymore,” she whispered, voice cracking. “I just wanted you to be real. I needed it to be you. I needed it to matter.”

“It does,” he choked out. “You matter. More than anything. And I swear to you, this isn’t a trick. I’m here. And I’m not leaving again. I swear to God, I’m not leaving again.”

She trembled in his arms, crying so hard her body shook. Her arms wrapped around his neck, afraid to believe it.

But for the first time in months, she let herself hope.

Because even in the heart of the Void—he came back for her.

It was heavy, fragile—like glass balancing on a thread. No one dared speak at first. Even Yelena, who had a dozen biting questions on the tip of her tongue, kept quiet. The sound of Y/N’s quiet sobs was all that filled the space, broken occasionally by Bob whispering apologies into her hair.

Walker finally stepped forward, his hands on his hips. “Okay, someone tell me how the hell we’re getting out of here now that we’ve got her.”

“We’re still in the Void,” Ava murmured, her voice echoing faintly in the strange, warped dimensions of the room. “Just because we found her doesn’t mean the exit’s magically going to open. We need a way to break it.”

Y/N blinked, still dazed, still shaking. She looked up at Bob with red-rimmed eyes. “How are you here?” she whispered, voice hoarse. “Is this real? I don’t understand. You left. You weren’t there. And now you are and everyone keeps saying Void and team and... what is happening, Bobby?”

Bob looked at her like he didn’t know how to start. “I... I will explain everything my love I promise you, it's a very very long story.”

Y/N swallowed hard. “How do I know this isn’t just another trick? How do I know you’re not just... another part of this nightmare?”

Bob grabbed her hand gently and pressed it to his chest. “Because you’re here, and I feel it. I feel you. And I don’t know how this place works, but I think the Void... it’s connected to all the pain we carry. All the things we can’t let go of. That’s how it traps us. With the worst parts of ourselves.”

Yelena crouched nearby, eyes on Y/N. “When the Void manifests a memory, it means the person’s in here. Alive. Which means we can all get out, if we stay together.”

Y/N glanced between them—these strangers standing like soldiers in her deepest trauma. “Who are you people?”

Bob chuckled softly through his tears. “They’re... complicated. But they’re helping me. Helping us. I promise.”

Before anyone could say more, a noise cut through the quiet—a voice.

"You look ugly when you cry, little one."

Everyone turned.

Jordan.

Still present, still part of the memory, casually walking across the kitchen to put his coffee mug in the sink. He hadn’t seen them—not really. He was part of the memory loop, the trauma replaying on a cruel cycle. But the voice, the condescension, the way it dripped like acid through the air—

Bob’s body moved before his brain could catch up.

He stormed across the room in two long strides and drove his fist into Jordan’s face so hard the man was lifted off his feet and crashed into the counter, crumpling like wet paper.

The room went silent again.

No one moved.

Not even younger Y/N, who had been curled on the floor, frozen in horror. Her form flickered slightly now, destabilizing. The memory unraveling at last.

Bob stood over Jordan’s unconscious form, fists still clenched, breath ragged. Then he looked back at Y/N—his Y/N—and gave her a sad smile. “You’ve always been beautiful,” he said gently. “And if our baby’s a girl... I hope she looks just like you.”

Y/N looked down, lips trembling. Her fingers reached into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out the crumpled sonogram. She stared at it for a long moment, then looked back at him, her voice barely more than a breath.

“It’s a boy, Bobby... I just found out. Before everything... before this.”

Bob’s eyes widened, filling with tears all over again. “A boy...?”

She nodded, swallowing hard.

He stepped to her slowly, arms open, as if afraid she’d disappear again. She let him wrap his arms around her, and they clung to each other like survivors in the wreckage.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into her hair. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Y/N closed her eyes and clutched the sonogram between them, resting her forehead against his chest. “I don’t understand what’s happening,” she admitted. “I don’t know where I am.”

Bob looked at her, then the team. “We’re getting out. All of us. Together.”

He reached down and gently helped her to her feet.

But before anyone could move, the walls of the apartment began to blur. The shadows of the kitchen twisted like liquid. The floor rumbled.

“It’s shifting again,” Ava warned, backing toward the group.

The room peeled apart like old wallpaper, revealing something new behind it—white fluorescent lights, steel walls, cold tiled floors.

Yelena’s eyes went wide. “This... this is the lab.”

“O.X.E.,” Bucky confirmed, stepping forward cautiously. “Where they were creating you.”

Bob held Y/N close as she looked around, now standing in the middle of a sterile hallway. Her head spun from the sudden shift, her mind reeling.

“I was here,” Bob murmured. “This is where they made me a weapon.”

Y/N clung to his arm, "Made you? What?", heart pounding. “Why did it bring us here now?”

And Walker, grim as ever, finally answered.

“Because it wants us to remember how the hell this all began.”

The room had grown impossibly still. Shadows danced across the cracked floor as the broken lights flickered overhead. By the lab window, seated a figure—tall, cloaked in flickering tendrils of smoke and malice. The Void.

He stood motionless, his gaze fixed beyond the glass as if watching something only he could see. Two figures, twisted and half-consumed by darkness, slumped beneath the window—doctors perhaps, or memories of victims long lost. Their stillness was chilling.

Then he turned.

Darkness poured from him like a second skin, his golden eyes burning through the room like embers in the night.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice smooth, haunting, laced with venomous sweetness. “I finally found you.”

Y/N clutched Bob’s arm tightly, stepping back instinctively as her eyes searched the figure in front of her. The voice. That voice. It was him—but it wasn’t.

“What's happening?” she whispered, clutching her belly protectively. “Who are you?”

The Void took a step forward, the floor creaking with his weight. He tilted his head with an expression almost tender. “You’re tired, aren’t you?” he said gently. “Alone. Carrying life inside of you. And for what? Struggling to stay afloat, with no one to catch you when you fall?”

She shook her head. “No. I’m not alone anymore.”

“But you are” he pressed, taking another step. “You always have been. Your mother. Your father. That man who used you like a plaything. And where is your love now? The one who left you when you needed him most?”

Bob flinched beside her.

“Come to me,” the Void whispered, his voice like velvet, spreading through the room like smoke. “I will make you happy. I will give you peace. I will give your son a life no one else can. No pain. No fear.”

The room shifted. Metal groaned. Then everything exploded at once—shards of glass, twisted steel, broken furniture—all lifted violently by an unseen force and slammed the team against the walls like rag dolls. Bob was thrown back, shielding himself from the debris.

Y/N staggered forward.

“Y/N! NO!” Bob screamed, reaching out.

But she couldn’t hear him—not through the drumming in her ears, not through the pull in her chest. Something was calling her. And in her heart… a terrible ache. A fear. What if this was the only way?

She walked forward in a daze, her hand outstretched.

“Come to me,” the Void whispered, his voice shaking the air like thunder. “You’re mine. You’ve always been meant to be mine.”

Just as her fingertips neared the swirling darkness of his hand, Bobby’s grip caught her wrist and yanked her back. She stumbled into his arms as the Void snarled.

“She’s not yours!” Bob shouted, his voice hoarse with fury.

The Void’s face twisted into a smile. “And who are you to claim her? A failure? The man who left her alone in a world that chews her up? You are and will always be alone in this world. That's because no one cares about you. You don’t matter.”

Bob’s face went pale. Then rage exploded from his chest like a scream from his soul. He lunged forward and struck the Void with a crushing punch. Then another. And another.

“You don’t get to trick her!” Bob roared, his knuckles bleeding, the darkness seeping up his arms like ink.

“You don’t get to speak her name! You don't to lore her to you!”

But the Void didn’t fight back. He smiled, letting Bob hit him again and again, until the shadow began to wrap tighter around Bob’s body, crawling up his spine, whispering poison into his ears.

“Stop!” Y/N screamed, running to him. “Bobby, stop!”

Yelena was at her side in seconds. “This is what he wants, Bob! He’s feeding on you!”

“Bobby, look at me!” Y/N cried, grabbing his hand, tears pouring down her face. “Bobby—please! You have to stop, I need you to stop!”

Walker came running holding onto them, and so did Ava and Bucky. A reminder of how loneliness was no longer invinted.

His eyes flickered toward her. The rage wavered.

“Please,” she whispered. “Mr. Cooper left the crib unfinished. We need to go home. We need to finish it. Okay?”

His breath caught. His fists fell limp.

He looked at her—really looked—and it was like coming back to the surface after nearly drowning.

“You…” he choked. “You are… everything.”

There was a burst of light. A rush of wind. And then—

They were back.

The pavement beneath them was solid. Cold. Familiar. People around them were screaming, running, but the team… they were just there. Alive. In one piece.

Yelena coughed and looked up, confused. “What the hell just happened?Wait...Where's Y/N?”

Bob blinked slowly, his vision returning. “Thanks guys… what happened by the way?” He said smiling. The it hit him. "Yelena. How do you know that name?"

❝ 𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗲𝗽. ❞ .⊹˖ᯓ★. ݁₊ stalker; bob Reynolds.

you're just like an angel.

His hands, gently calloused, cradled your face—admiring every feature sculpted in your peaceful slumber. Your room was cloaked in darkness, the somber night resting quietly—yet the moon peeked through your curtains, casting silver light upon you like brushstrokes on a canvas. You were the universe’s muse, his muse.

He knelt at the side of your bed, not out of mere admiration, but reverence. As if you were a Goddess—because to him, you were. From your words, your voice, your beauty, your soul—everything. You had this uncanny way of pulling him from the void and into something gentle. Something hopeful.

But who could have known—Bob Reynolds was a nobody. The world never gave him space to breathe. He was overlooked, shoved aside like a ghost wandering in daylight. His life whispered that he was no-good, a mistake, forgotten. All but you—you looked at him like he mattered. You spoke to him like he was seen. You made him believe that perhaps, for once, he wasn't broken. You were the light in the pitch. His clarity. His pulse.

His eyes roamed over you, not with hunger—but with awe, tracing the poetry in your stillness. Fingers brushed from your cheek to your hand. Your skin—soft, celestial. And in his mind bloomed the tender dream of you and him, where affection was mutual, and love was allowed. He longed to kiss you gently, to gift you with a thousand small devotions.

His eyes never sought anyone else. The first time you said his name, he memorized it like a hymn. It nestled in his memory like warm verses. Others said his name like it was a burden—but you, you spoke it like a song. Like it meant something. Your voice was heaven’s echo, even in sorrow. Especially in sorrow. Even when tears painted your cheeks and you trembled against him—he swore your voice could calm storms.

But truly, everything about you was like that—extraordinary.

And he wished—no, prayed—that maybe he could be special too.

But hell—who was he kidding? He was just a ghost in your orbit. The moon never shone for him. Even so close to you, light refused to grace him. And maybe that’s why his longing turned sharp, desperate. Because if he could not have the sun, he would become the night that holds it. If he could not bask in your light—maybe, just maybe—he could be the eclipse to your moon.

Creep, radiohead.

First time making a blurb, kinda nervous

I don't like the way I made this, not used to this kind of writing (which I believe is called blurb?? Educate me chat) and this was so rushed istg, I'm a really slow writer as u can see guys, so apologies in advance if this isn't good!!

After random disappearances and unmade promises, I'm back and will probably disappear again !! Feel free to critique me or give me ideas, I'll tryyyyyy my bestest to do it bbs.

Bob and the Superhero Love Story Arc

Masterlist

Pairing: Bob Reynolds/sentry x (f)reader

Tags: fluff, feelings, kissing, comfort, learning disabilities, childhood friends, found family (thunderbolts), some nice times because Bob deserves it

You were ten years old.

You were both in the same special needs class in elementary school.

Even if your needs were different.

It was your first day at a new school after you and your older sister had just moved to a new town. It was a small suburban town, with a small school at its center and small classrooms. Your sister had registered you at the main office, quietly informing the principal that you had a learning disability. He nodded and got up to exchange some husged wispers with the front desk lady. A moment later, the woman offered a soft smile before motioning for you to follow. "Come with me, hun."

Down the hallway, she led you into a quiet classroom where about ten students your age sat. The teacher paused mid-lesson as the door opened, and everyone turned to look at you next to the front desk lady.

"Miss Brown, please welcome your newest student," the secretary said.

The teacher, an older woman with kind eyes and a denim vest, nodded. "Good morning, why don't you come up here and introduce yourself."

You walked up to the front of the class, slightly fidgeting with the hem of your dress and told everyone your name.

Ms. Brown smiled. "It's very nice to meet you, y/n. We don't get new students often around here."

Gesturing to a boy at the far end of the room, she said. "You can have a seat next to Robert."

He sat alone, half-curled into his hoodie, shaggy brown hair hanging over blue eyes. The desk beside him was empty. You crossed the room with your backpack slung awkwardly over your shoulders, pulled the chair back, and sat down. Your hands were slow as you arranged your notebook and pencils.

"Hi," he wispered, looking up for only a second.

You smiled. "Hi. I’m Y/N."

He nodded. "You said that."

"Right," you chuckled, feeling your cheeks heat. You sometimes blabbed when you were nervous. "You have a nice name, Robert."

"Bob’s okay," he murmured, opening his notebook and scribbling the date in the corner.

Feeling like you somehow said the wrong thing, you turned to your desk and did the same, copying down the teacher’s notes. Your grip tightened on your pencil as the words blurred. Like they always did.

At lunch, a few of your classmates came over, smiling and curious.

"Hey, I’m Alex," a boy said.

"I’m Kate. I like your dress," added a girl sitting beside him.

A few more names followed. A boy named Timothy and a girl named Gillian.

"So, what do you have?" Timothy asked plainly.

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

He motioned vaguely around the room. "Everyone's got something in this class. I have ADD. Alex is on the spectrum... what about you?"

"Oh," you understood now, swallowing. "I’m dyslexic," you said quietly, pressing your lips together the way you always did when explaining it.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Bob glance up from his desk, eyes flicking to your notebook before returning to his.

"What’s that?" Kate asked.

"I... I have difficulty reading," you explained.

They gave you a variety of looks. Some curious, others sympathetic.

"I’ve never heard of that," Gillian said. "Sounds awful."

"Gillian," Bob said, without looking up.

Gillian grimaced, giving you an apologetic look.

"It's okay," You smiled, grateful even for that brief defense. “It’s not too bad,” you said, even if you didn’t always believe it.

The truth was that the school didn’t have the resources to distinguish between different types of needs. So, they grouped everyone together. And in time, you all became something like friends.

But Bob was still... distant. When you all tried to include him in group games or projects, he’d just shake his head, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on his desk.

Until one day.

Your sister was late picking you up, and most of the others had already gone home. You sat on the curb, arms wrapped around your backpack, and then noticed Bob lingering nearby.

You plopped down next to him, your leggings brushing against his scraped-up knees poking through wrinkled cargo shorts.

"Your parents not picking you up?" you asked.

He flinched slightly, then glanced over. His hair was a mess and falling into his eyes. You had the sudden urge to brush it away.

"Sometimes they’re late. Or they forget," he said with a sad little smile, eyes fixed on his shoes. "It’s alright."

You frowned. He smiled, but he clearly wasnt happy. You looked around, trying to come up with something to change his mood.

You froze when your gaze landed on the school playground. "Wanna go on the swings?"

He looked at you, uncertain.

You offered your hand. "Come on. It’ll be fun."

He hesitated. Then, slowly, his hand met yours. It trembled slightly in your grip.

It was that day you first felt it. A little flutter in your chest came with holding his hand. A crush.

From then on, you watched him more closely. How he always sat in the back. How he flinched at loud noises. How his eyes lit up when a teacher asked a question about science, or outer space, or machines.

It was during a group project—the group being your entire class— that you realized how sharp he was.

You and your classmates were brainstorming ideas for a model bridge, and Bob sat at his desk and mumbled something about tensile strength and suspension systems.

Kate blinked. "How’d you know that?"

He shrugged. "It was in one of Ms. Brown’s books."

"Huh. That sounds smart. Let me write it down for the presentation," Alex said, scribbling it down. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bob smiled a small smile. "Sure thing."

And that smile stuck with you longer than it should have.

You enjoyed math's and sciences enough, but your favorite subjects were history and literature. The ones that ironically required a LOT of reading and writing. After your sister showed you a movie about a pair of journalists who uncover a major political conspiracy, you had your goals set on becoming a journalist. And for that, you'd have to ace the humanities.

One afternoon, you were hunched over your history book you were researching for an assignment, frustrated nearly to tears. The letters wouldn’t sit still.

"Can I?" Someone asked softly. You looked up and saw Bob, taking a seat next to you, motioning toward the book.

You nodded, swallowing hard and handing it to him. Afraid that if you'd open your mouth, you'd might let out a sob.

He read aloud, voice low and steady. Something about the way he spoke made it all easier. You could’ve listened to him for hours.

You never told him how grateful you were. How safe you felt in that moment.

By the time you both turned sixteen, Bob had started to withdraw even more. You still waved in the halls. Sometimes he waved back, sometimes he didn’t. He was absent more often than not. But somehow, his name always showed up on the academic distinction list that was plastered on the wall at the end of each term.

The crush still lingered, quiet and patient.

He didn’t come to graduation.

And you wouldn’t see him again for a long, long time.

You were twenty-two now.

The surprise press conference was in full swing. Cameras flashed as Valentina stood at the podium, parading the new Avengers. The memory of the recent disaster still lingered in the air.

You’d been on the opposite end of New York during the Void attack, but the moment authorities announced it was safe to return, you were assigned to cover the story. So you rushed to the scene with your press badge and your crew.

You were just an intern at The Washington Post, clutching your phone as you tried to keep up, typing every word Valentina said with great effort. Your brows knit in concentration. This could be your big story. You didn't want to mess it up.

You looked up off your screen to take a brief look at the new Avengers.

Then your eyes caught on him.

One of the team members was clapping awkwardly with the crowd, standing a little behind the others like he didn’t quite belong.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

Oh my God.

"What is it?" Your co-worker, Anthony, asked while snapping pictures with his professional camera.

"Uhm, nothing. I'm just excited about the story." You mumbled, your eyes glued to Bob.

He’d changed.

He used to hunch over like he was trying to disappear into a desk. Now he stood tall—broad-shouldered, navy sweater tight across his chest. His curly brown hair was longer and messier, but it still fell into his blue eyes when he looked down.

But his smile—shy, unsure—was exactly like you remembered.

Your old classmate, Bob. Your first crush... was an Avenger. A superhero!

"Stand back," he said flatly.

After the conference, you circled the venue until you found him, chatting with the Avengers. You made your way over.

Only to be stopped by a stone-faced agent.

"Right. Sorry." You lifted your badge. "I’m with The Washington Post."

He gave you a once-over. "Interns don’t get access to the Avengers."

The comment was meant as a dig, but it didn't work. By now, you were used to being overlooked and underestimated. And you knew you could deal with it with sass when the time was right. You raised a brow. "You’re gonna regret that when I’m head writer someday."

He snorted. "Come back when that happens."

"Come on," you said, trying not to sound desperate. "I just want one statement from the team."

"No—"

"I give statement to nice young lady," came a booming voice behind him.

You turned to see the Red Guardian looming like a wall of muscle, casting a long shadow over the both of you.

"We have orders—" the agent began.

"Davai, Shoo, little man. I get brand deal now," Alexei said, swatting him away like a fly.

You blinked, feeling starstruck. "You're the Red Guardian. From the Soviet Union."

You read a lot about him in your history of the Cold War 101, a required course in your journalism program. Alexei was truly a fascinating figure, a warrior. A spy. A soldier. A human experiemnt. There was so much about him still unknown to the public. And he stood in front of you in the flesh.

"Im him, yes." He grinned a bearded, gold-toothed grin. "Washington Post, you said, da? I enjoy watching senators play... what you call... football. Ridiculous game. The name makes no sense. It's called football, but they hold it in their hands—ne vazhno. it's very violent. Entertaining."

"Uhhh..." Before you could say more, a quiet voice spoke up.

"Y/n?"

Bob had stepped beside Alexei, eyes wide with recognition. Your heart skipped. His voice was deeper now, steadier.

You smiled, a little breathless. "You remember me?"

He nodded, warm and surprised. "Of course I remember you." His gaze roamed down your body, and a pink coloring appeared on his cheek. He'd changed since you were kids, and so had you.

Recovering, he turned to the others, gesturing to you. "Guys… this is a friend from back home."

They all gave you the once-over, some more skeptical than others. You offered a sheepish smile and wave.

Bob glanced at your badge. His brows lifted. "You’re with The Post? That’s amazing!"

There was genuine pride in his voice.

You smiled back, feeling something catch in your throat. "Well… interning for now. But yeah. It’s a dream come true." You hesitated, then added, "And you’re an Avenger!"

According to Valentina, he was one of the strongest beings alive.

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "You probably don’t remember me that well. I mostly—"

"I remember you, Bob."

He blinked. Swallowed. Opened his mouth—and couldn’t find the words.

The agent came back, signaling to you to wrap things up.

You cleared your throat and lifted your recorder. "Sentry, can I get a statement on this exciting new team-up?"

Bob opened his mouth, then closed it without saying anything. He did this a couple of times.

John Walker elbowed him. "Say something before you embarrass yourself."

Bob coughed. "C-can I see you again?"

Walker winced, shaking his head. Alexei let out a deep chuckle, rubbing his belly as he looked between you and Bob.

You froze, lowering the recorder. Then let out a small, surprised laugh.

"I mean, we don’t have to—" Bob backtracked.

"How’s next Monday?" You cut in.

His eyes lit up. "I’d… I’d like that."

You tore a page from your notebook and scribbled your number. When you handed it to him, he looked at it like it was something rare.

"I don’t like her," Yelena muttered, pacing the lounge.

Ava rolled her eyes from where she was sprawled on the couch. "What now?"

"She’s too pretty."

"I know," Bob mumbled sat in a chair, eyes on the floor. "Why would someone like her want to be with someone like me?"

Walker chuckled, chips halfway to his mouth from the bowl he held in his hand. "Nice going, Yelena."

"What?! No—," Yelena exclaimed, then turned to Bob. "I just don’t want you to get hurt, okay?"

"You can’t protect Bobby from everything, docha," Alexei said with a shrug, stretching out over the other leather sofa. "Even heartbreak is part of manhood."

Bob frowned. "Heartbreak...?"

"Oh my God," Bucky groaned, rubbing his temples. "Can you all shut up? They haven’t even gone on one date yet."

He clapped a hand on Bob’s shoulder. "Relax, son. It’ll be okay."

New tech filled the lab at Stark Tower. Bob was tucked into the far corner, flipping through the worn, half-burned files from Valentina’s vault.

Equations lined the whiteboard in his handwriting. On the table beside him lay pages from Tony Stark’s notebooks, dog-eared and annotated with scribbled notes. Every so often, he muttered to himself, tapping a finger on a page.

"Hydrogen density ratios don’t match…" he murmured, then sighed. "Unless the pressure chamber’s offset by six degrees…"

You smiled at the door. Sentry—the mighty Avenger—looked like a very tired, very nerdy engineering student.

You cleared your throat.

He looked up, startled, then grinned sheepishly. "Oh. Hey. Sorry, I was just… working on something for the team."

"It’s okay. Your friend Walker let me in." You stepped closer, glancing over the papers. "Anything interesting?"

"Sam’s flight suit overheats at high altitudes. I thought Stark’s insulation algorithm might be adaptable."

You nodded slowly. "Wow. That sounded really smart. I wish I understood half of it." You chuckled.

"I can explain it to you," he offered, shrugging. "If… that’s something you want to hear."

"Yeah. Definitely." You bit your lip. "Maybe over pizza, though?" You raised your brow in emphasis.

His eyes lit up as he remembered your date. He shoved away at the papers.

"I didn't forget." He rushed out. "I just got carried—"

You let out a soft chuckle. "Its fine, Bob. You don't have to apologize."

His shoulders dropped with a sigh of relief.

You licked tomato sauce off your fingers. "So, you’re solving cooling issues while the Red Guardian is learning how to post on Instagram?"

"He is?" Bob asked across the table from you before taking a bite of his peperoni and mushroom slice.

You held out your phone. "He’s live right now. Doing a Q&A."

Bob raised a brow. "Wow. Twenty thousand viewers?"

"They mostly ask him about his workout regimen."

He snorted.

The two of you walked side by side down a quiet Midtown street, the city’s hum distant behind you. Hands jammed into his jeans pockets, he nudged a pebble with the toe of his sneaker now and then. No godly aura. Just… a guy.

You laughed softly as you reached your building. "You’re still the same, you know."

Bob looked down. "I don’t feel the same."

You watched him—how his jaw flexed when he was deep in thought, how his brow furrowed like it always had. "You are. Just taller."

At the door, you turned your key. "Thanks for walking me home."

"Anytime." He lingered, hands still in his pockets. "Can I see you again?"

"I’m heading to D.C. next week for a press conference," you said, before joking. "Wanna fly down to meet me, Sentry?"

He smiled. "I might stop by if I’m in the area." Then he leaned in and kissed your cheek before wishing you a good night.

A knock came at your hotel window.

Sunset spilled across the National Mall in orange, blue, and soft pink. Stepping away from your papers and notes you've collected from the day, you walked over, heart skipping as you spotted him hovering over the balcony, wind in his hair, a shy grin on his face.

You threw open the window. "Oh my god!"

"How was work?" he asked.

Shaking your head, you laughed. "This isn’t real."

"I want to show you something." He held out his hand.

"…Are you serious?"

"Trust me."

You hesitated, then pulled on a jacket and boots before coming back and placing your hand in his.

"If you drop me—"

"I won’t."

With a gust of air, you lifted into the sky, wrapped in his hold. The city dropped away beneath you, a sea of lights and honking horns. Your stomach tensed as your hands gripped his shoulders.

"Don’t let go!"

He laughed above you, the sound vibrating agains your ear, and tightened his hold.

"I won’t, I promise." he said quietly.

He brought you to a rooftop that overlooked the Potomac, the city was wide and glittering in the distance. Wind woodshed around as Bob touched down, setting you down gently.

You whispered. "This is… amazing."

By a rusted AC unit, a picnic blanket was laid out with a paper bag and two bottles of Coke.

"Did you do this?" you asked, sitting beside him, knees brushing.

"Do you like it?"

You peeked into the bag and gasped. "Burgers? This is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to anyone."

He chuckled. "What can I say? I’m setting the bar high."

You took a bite of your burger and moaned. “God, this is good. All i had to eat today was a croissant for breakfast." You turned to him. "You really are a hero."

He looked out at the horizon. "Still doesn’t feel real."

You wiped around your mouth, lowering the burger in your hand. "Must’ve been a massive adjustment, huh?"

"Sometimes, when everyone’s asleep, I just sit there… waiting to wake up. Like this is a dream."

You blinked, unsure what to say.

"You remember everything now?" You asked.

He nodded. "Bits. Enough. Mostly the bad parts."

You placed a hand on his. "Wanna to talk about it?"

"I should." He hesitated. "My therapist says it’s healthy. But maybe not right now."

You nodded. "Whenever youre ready."

He glanced at you. "I was wondering… when we were kids, how did you handle your dyslexia?"

You leaned back on your palms. "It was hard. People often thought I was lazy. Until I finally went to a school that recognized what having a learning disability means."

His jaw tensed. "Thats not fair. Im sorry."

"It's not so bad." You shrugged with an easy-going smile. "I got creative. Audiobooks helped a lot. Or people reading to me. Like you used to."

He looked at you, something tender in his eyes.

You asked gently, "Where did you disappear to after high school?"

His gaze drifted. "Nowhere good. I tried to… change. To fix myself. But Sentry—he wasnt a good solution. I couldn’t stop the—"

He stopped talking when he realized he was about to say "void" and possibly reveal his dangerous alter ego to you. He wasnt sure how youd react.

"I couldn’t stop the bad times. Until the Avengers helped me claw my way out."

"Its good you have them," you said softly. "And that you’re here."

He finally looked at you. His eyes were glassy, filled with something wounded and ancient.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess it is."

The two of you sat like that. Talking and watching the city light up the night.

After he flew you gently back to your balcony, Bob touched down with barely a sound, the soles of his sneakers brushing against the floor. The wind tugged at his hoodie, making his hair tousled from the flight.

He stepped back, motioning for you to go inside. But you lingered in the doorway.

"Thanks for tonight," you said, your voice low, carried barely above the breeze.

He smiled, looking down at his shoes. "Anytime."

You hesitated.

Then stepped toward him.

Before he could say another word, you leaned up and kissed him softly.

He froze for a second. His breath caught, sharp and startled.

You wondered if it was a good surprise or a bad one.

But before you could pull away, his hand lifted, finding the small of your back, pulling you gently but firmly closer.

His fingers rose to your jaw, warm against the curve of your neck. His lips softened into yours, gradually going deeper, more certain.

You gasped softly against his mouth as his his thumb traced the edge of your cheekbone. The scent of him, laundry detergent and wind, filled your senses. Your hands found his chest, feeling the muscles and ribs underneath his hoodie.

His hand shot out, bracing against the wall beside your head with a solid thud, his body crowding yours back into the doorway. Your blood roared in your ears.

And then you heard a crack.

You pulled back slightly, breathless. "What was that?"

He glanced at his hand, still pressed to the wall… or rather, into the wall.

A small hand shaped hole had formed beneath his palm—brick flaked and splintered, dust crumbling down.

Bob blinked. "…Shit."

You burst out laughing.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Great. Smooth. Way to go, Bob."

"You dented my wall," you teased, poking his chest.

"Yeah, well, you kissed me!"

You stared at each other. Then you were both laughing.

You grinned. "Goodnight, Bob."

He stepped back, hovering just off the balcony, the night air catching the hem of his hoodie like wings. His eyes never left yours.

"Goodnight, y/n" he said, voice low and happy.

And then he rose into the sky.

Bob came back to Avengers tower at around two in the morning.

"Where have you been?!" Yelena ran to him in a range, then pulled him into a hug. "Don't just walk off like that without telling us where you're going!"

Bucky leaned against the wall behind her, his face a mixture of disinterest and worry. "Shes right. You could have been hurt."

Bob wanted to laugh, he felt like a kid being lectured by his parents, but in a good way. He's never experienced that before.

"Did everyone forget the part where I'm invincible and have superstrength?" Bob patted Yelena on the back as she hugged him, muttering angrily that if she had to tie him to herself, again, she'll do it.

"Yeah, and what about your other version of pops by to say hello again?" Ava walked up to the living room with her hands folded.

His smile dropped. Ava was right. He slowly relearned to control Sentry's powers, but he never learned to control the Void. Hell, he barely understood what the Void even was, and thanks to Valentina, any scientist who may be able to clear that up was dead.

He didn't feel the void resurface as much since becoming an avenger. Even forgetting about him—especially since things were going so well with you.

"Ah, relax and let the kid have some fun, would ya?" Walker strolled out of the kitchen in bunny slippers and civilian clothing, his presence a welcome disruption of the tension. "You did have fun, didn't you, Bobby?"

Bob nodded eagerly, then slowed his movement when he saw Yelena's narrowed eyes. Now was probably not a good time to mention the fact that he got so excited from your kiss that he broke a brick wall with his hand.

"You be careful of pretty girls." She pointed a finger at him, then turned towards the hallway. "Hooligan, you nearly gave me a heart attack."

As his team all dispersed into their rooms, Bob plopped down on the couch. Instead of trying to wake up from a dream, he played with the strings of his hoodie, smiling as he thought of your laugh.

How to Lose 'Bob' in 10 Days

Characters: Bob x Y/N, Robert Reynolds x Y/N, Sentry x Y/N, The Void x Y/N

Summary: You thought you'd lost, your husband, Robert Reynolds forever. Consumed by the Void and the chaos it left behind. But then you woke up in a world not your own. One where he's alive. Where he goes by Bob. Where he doesn't know you. To him, you’re a stranger. You have 10 days to lose him, before everything falls apart. But the cracks are already forming. Time stutters. Reality bends. And something followed you here, something made of grief, memory, and everything you refused to let die. As you try to lose Bob in 10 days, the world unravels with every lie you tell yourself. You’ll have to make an impossible choice: hold on to the man you love, or face the truth and finally let him go. Because if you don’t... this world won’t just end. You might go with it.

Word Count: 2081

Warnings: Mentions of grief, Violent/Graphic, A dark twisted version of How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Spoilers maybe? (Please let me know if I should add anymore.)

Note from the author: This is my work, and I will be posting on here and @ strawb3rrygal on Archivesofourown. Keep in mind these are my ONLY TWO accounts. Please feel free to reblog if you like it! I've been working on this one as I write my other fic 'The Temp' which you can also check out if you'd like.

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Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that something was… wrong.

It started with the silence. The usual commotion outside her apartment — shouting neighbors, honking cars, the occasional bark of that yappy Pomeranian two floors down—had dulled into a hushed, almost reverent quiet. It wasn’t the peaceful kind. It was the kind that felt staged. Like the city had paused to see if she’d notice.

Even the air in the apartment felt heavier, colder. Like it had forgotten how to move.

She sat up in bed, slowly, rubbing her face with both hands. Her skin was clammy. Her breath fogged slightly in the air. She hadn't been sleeping well lately. Her dreams always ended with the same sensation, falling through a place she’d never seen, toward something that knew her name.

Y/N glanced around the room, but it felt… distant. The walls looked just a little too clean. Her furniture, though familiar, felt arranged by someone else. Her plants sat perfectly healthy on the windowsill, but she couldn’t remember the last time she watered them. Did I do that?

She moved to her cabinet, rifling through underwear with robotic purpose. Sometimes, she found comfort in small rituals wearing something pretty, layering clothes like armor. She settled on a violet lace set that used to make her feel soft and strong at the same time. She tugged on thick leg warmers, worn jeans, and her favorite winter boots. The white fuzzy sweater she pulled over her head enveloped her in warmth, but even its softness felt muted. Almost unfamiliar.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she padded into the kitchen or what passed as one. After Robert’s death, she’d left behind the bigger apartment, moved closer to her office, to the city, to noise. To distraction. Now, the noise was gone. The distractions had turned their backs.

She poured herself cereal, sliced up a banana, and scattered some chia seeds across the top like she always did. She chewed slowly, eyes drifting out the window and froze.

A billboard stood across the street. Large. White background. Red letters. It wasn’t there yesterday.

Y/N narrowed her eyes. The ad was for a new Broadway show she didn’t recognize. The slogan beneath it read: “It’s not too late to come home.”

She blinked.

Was it a coincidence? A strange marketing ploy? She tilted her head, as though looking at it from a different angle would explain away the chill creeping up her spine.

She shrugged, more to herself than to anyone, and looked away. But the sensation didn’t leave.

Finished with her breakfast, she slipped on her jacket, slung her bag over her shoulder, and stepped outside. The air bit at her cheeks. Pedestrians passed her with heads bowed, not making eye contact. No one bumped into her. No one spoke. The street was the same—and yet it wasn’t.

Her building’s bricks looked darker. The corner coffee shop had changed names. The newspaper vendor on 42nd street was missing. She told herself she must’ve overlooked it. Told herself she was tired. Still healing. 

But healing didn’t feel like this.

At work, everything looked normal. Her coworkers greeted her with practiced smiles. She smiled back. She said good morning. She walked to her desk and turned on her screen.

Y/N was a writer for the nation’s most beloved women’s magazine, a voice of modern relationships and hope-filled advice columns. She had a dedicated readership. A strong social media presence. A decent salary. On paper, she had everything.

But every word she wrote about love felt like a betrayal.

She wanted more. Real stories. Stories about people who were never offered the soft landings she described in her columns. She wanted to write about the cracks in the justice system, about prisons dressed as reform. About things that mattered. Things her boss didn’t care for.

In the beginning, she made it work. Being married to Robert Reynolds had made her an expert in the language of love. In heartbreak. In grief. But then… the Void. Then Thor. And then silence.

Y/N blinked at her computer screen. Her reflection stared back, faint in the black glass. She looked… slightly off. Like the reflection was lagging. Or waiting.

She reached out to shake the mouse and for a moment, just a moment, her reflection didn’t follow. She paused. A strange pressure built behind her eyes. Then the screen flickered on. Her inbox loaded. The moment passed. She swallowed hard and forced herself to breathe.

Maybe she was still dreaming. Maybe it was just grief. Maybe she was just tired.

But somewhere deep inside, something whispered You’re not supposed to be here.

A sharp tap on her monitor startled her. Y/N’s eyes snapped upward.

Tara stood there, grinning wide, her hair sleek and pin-straight completely different from her usual crown of soft, carefree curls. It made her look polished. Almost artificial. Like someone had run her through a filter.

“Morning, sunshine,” Tara chirped.

Y/N blinked. “Morning…”

“You ready for the meeting?”

“Which meeting?”

Tara laughed shaking her head. “The pitch meeting. Elise wants something viral. Fresh blood. She's been in a mood all morning, so bring the juice.”

Y/N nodded, but her mind was still half-submerged in static. The pitch meeting. Right. She’d forgotten. That strange fog hadn’t lifted since she woke up. She couldn’t tell if it was stress… or something more invasive. Something crawling just beneath the skin of the world. She rose from her chair, pushing aside the low thrum in her head, and followed Tara toward the glass conference room.

Then stopped. Her breath caught in her throat. Inside, surrounded by laughter and coffee cups, sat Marlene. Marlene who had spent last night on Y/N’s couch, red-eyed and blotchy, sniffling into a wine-stained hoodie. Marlene, who had sworn off men forever after the barista she’d been seeing ghosted her for not owning a French press.

And yet here she was. Early. Polished. Smiling. Her posture crisp, her lipstick perfect, not a tear-streak in sight.

Had she imagined it? The crying? The whole night?

Y/N sat beside Tara and forced herself to breathe, ignoring the pressure clamping down on her chest.

“All right,” Elise snapped, breezing in with the presence of someone who lived off cortisol and sugarless espresso. She clapped once. “Let’s talk ideas. Love, lust, the dopamine dance—whatever keeps readers clicking even when their rent’s overdue.”

Stella, their photographer, raised a hand like a schoolgirl on fire. “I got Sam Wilson to agree to a spread. Flight to New York is booked. We’ll shoot by Sunday.”

“Beautiful,” Elise said with a tight smile. “Next?”

Her eyes slid to Marlene.

Y/N braced herself.

Marlene blinked. For a second, her expression went blank like someone had unplugged her.

“Uhh…” she started, stalling. “I was thinking… maybe…”

Tara jumped in, her voice a little too bright. “We were discussing the new Avengers this morning.”

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. The new Avengers? That was the first she’d heard of it.

Elise tilted her head. “Go on.”

Tara nudged Y/N with her elbow.

Y/N cleared her throat, racking her brain. She couldn’t think of anything New Avengers related so instead she said: “Maybe we flip the usual love column. Instead of giving advice on what to do… we show readers what not to do. Like…” She looked at Marlene and felt a little pang of guilt at her next words. “Sabotage a relationship on purpose.”

Elise raised a brow. “Intentionally?”

Y/N nodded. “Yeah…” She thought for a moment. “You know… every red flag. Clingy texts. Sudden jealousy. Oversharing childhood trauma on the first date. Show readers what bad behavior looks like in real time.”

A slow grin crept across Elise’s face. “Interesting. And what’s the hook?”

Y/N hesitated. She felt the weight of Marlene’s eyes. The clock ticked too loudly.

“How to… lose a guy?” she offered weakly.

Elise laughed, the sound sharp and amused. “How to Lose a Guy… in 10 Days. I like it.”

“Why ten?” Tara asked, leaning forward.

“Seven’s too short, and we go to press in twelve,” Elise said with a shrug.

The room buzzed with excitement. Everyone nodded. Marlene even clapped.

But Y/N felt nothing. Not pride. Not relief. Just hollowness.

Because in her world she hadn’t needed ten days to lose the love of her life.

Just one.

One catastrophic day when the sky cracked like glass. One moment when Thor’s lightning lit up the battlefield and left smoke and silence in its place. One breath held tight in her throat, when Robert, the Sentry, turned to her with eyes rimmed in black and begged her to forgive him. Forgive the thing he’d become.

Her smile stretched across her face like cellophane. Tight. Fragile.

Her fingers trembled.

“And… one more thing,” Elise said, voice slicing through the buzz. The room stilled. Every eye snapped to her. Even the air seemed to lean in.

“About the new Avengers,” she continued. “The column would really pop if the guy you lose was one of them.”

A collective gasp rippled across the table like a wave. Y/N blinked; a beat too slow. The thought hadn’t occurred to her before she’d have to actually date someone. Not theoretically. Not hypothetically. Actually. She hadn’t done that, not since Robert.

Her stomach dropped.

“I’m sorry,” she said, voice hollow. “The new Avengers?”

Marlene let out a laugh that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Have you been living under a rock?”

“There’s a whole new lineup,” Marlene went on. “Less Iron Man, more... walking HR violations.”

Tara snorted. “God. Remember John Walker? He’s newly divorced, right?”

“Ugh, please don’t,” Marlene shuddered. “He smells like Axe body spray and bad decisions. Maybe she could go for someone less... sociopathic?”

Tara leaned forward, practically swooning. “What about Bucky? He’s handsome. Mysterious. That arm?”

Y/N didn’t respond. Her pulse had started to climb, a steady drumbeat of panic behind her ribs.

Elise tapped a pen against the table, calm as ever. “Maybe we should push for a deeper angle someone off-grid. The one no one’s cracked yet.”

Y/N glanced up. Something in Elise’s tone had changed. 

“There’s a mystery man in the files,” Elise continued. “Operates alone. They’ve been calling him Bob.”

The name landed like a grenade in her chest.

Y/N’s breath caught. “Bob?”

Elise flipped through her notes, reading aloud without a shred of awareness for the horror she was conjuring. “Yeah. Real name might be Robert Reynolds. He’s not officially affiliated, but our contacts say he’s powered. Dangerous. Probably not even registered. The government’s been hush-hush. Some kind of asset gone rogue.”

Y/N stopped breathing. Her heart pounded like fists against a locked door. That name. That name.

Robert Reynolds.

Her Robert. Her husband. Dead. Dead. Burned to nothing but a shadow at the edge of a battlefield. She had watched the light leave him, seen his eyes turn black, his voice split by the Void inside him. She held his body when it cooled. He was gone. Gone.

And yet…

Tara’s hand brushed hers. “Hey,” she whispered. “You okay?”

Y/N didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her lungs had turned to glass. Her throat closed tight. This isn’t real. It can’t be real. Because nothing about her life since waking up had made sense. Her bedroom drawers had clothes she didn’t remember buying. The skyline was off, wrong buildings in the wrong places. Little things, piling up.

And now this.

Robert. Bob. Alive?

Elise looked up; one brow arched like a blade. “Is there an issue?”

Y/N stared at her, the world trembling at the edges. Like it might peel back and show her something too big to survive. Her mouth opened. Words didn’t come. But she forced herself to breathe. She had to. She had to play along. Had to get close. Had to see this man whoever he was. If it was really him. If it was a dream. If it was a lie.

“No,” she said finally, her voice hoarse and splintering.

She curled her fingers into a fist under the table, nails digging into her palm like a tether to her reality.

“I’ll do it,” she said.

And just like that, it was done. She had been assigned to destroy a man who wore the name and possibly the face of her dead husband.

And no one in the room even noticed the crack in her voice. Or the scream trying to claw its way out of her throat.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author Post Note: mueheh :)

someone to protect — b. Reynolds [part 1]

𝗌𝗒𝗇𝗈𝗉𝗌𝗂𝗌 彡 you only came to the grocery store for bread. you didn’t expect to run into the man who once broke into your apartment, stole your tv, and fled through your window with second-degree ramen burns. and you definitely didn’t expect that same man—now shaggy, awkward, and uncomfortably familiar—to be dragged into your life again by a booming russian in a red tracksuit who insists on borscht and redemption dinners.

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 彡attempt at comedy, mentions of past drug addiction (meth use and overdose), violence, language, and mature content in future chapters (including trauma-related themes and emotional intimacy). Please read with care !

if you prefer to read it on wattpad 🔗

word count: 6.1k

enjoy !

The grocery store’s air-conditioning blasted cold enough to raise goosebumps on your arms, a sharp contrast to the muggy New York summer outside. You shivered, rubbing your forearms as you grabbed a basket and drifted through the isles. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a bright, sterile hum that matched the strained pulse in your temple. You needed to focus. Just stick to the list. Get in, get out.

First on the list: bread. You turned down the bakery aisle, weaving through a pair of kids wrestling over a trolley like it was a prized race car. You wondered, just briefly, if one of them might suddenly turn into a super-soldier and crash into the shelves. You caught yourself. That paranoia had been creeping up ever since that day, and you had to admit it was exhausting.

Two months. Two months since the floor beneath your desk had cracked open like a jaw, spilling glass and drywall onto the street below. Two months since you had stumbled through the smoke and the alarms, clutching your laptop and half-eaten sandwich, your brain caught in a vicious loop of your worst memory, replaying over and over like a scratched CD.

You gripped the handle of your basket tighter, nails digging into the cheap plastic. You’d made it out just in time to watch a helicopter tilt sideways into the third floor, shattering the windows of the office you’d been sitting in minutes earlier. You remembered the heat, the blinding white flash of the rotors slicing through glass and steel, the rush of air that had nearly pulled you back into the chaos. You hadn’t been able to process it then, and you weren’t sure you could now.

You drew in a slow, steady breath, blinking back to the present as you grabbed a loaf of sourdough. Focus. You had more pressing problems than intrusive memories. Like rent. Or the fact that your employer had declared bankruptcy two days after the incident, leaving you and the rest of your department with nothing but a final, pitying group email about “unprecedented circumstances.” You scoffed, shoving the bread into your basket a bit too hard.

Moving into the canned goods aisle, you scanned the shelves for soup, your eyes lingering on the discount labels. You were still trying to convince yourself that this whole unemployment thing would be a short-term inconvenience, but your bank account said otherwise. You hadn’t even had the energy to look for a new job yet. The idea of sitting in another sterile, glass-panelled office, tapping away at spreadsheets while waiting for the next disaster to strike, felt like a cruel joke.

You turned the corner, debating the merits of tomato versus chicken noodle, when you nearly crashed into a broad chest that felt as solid as a concrete pillar. You jerked back, your basket swinging dangerously close to clipping your own hip and looked up.

The man you’d almost barrelled into towered over you, his shaggy, overgrown hair brushing the collar of his thick, grey cardigan. It hung loose on his frame, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, revealing surprisingly defined, sinewy muscles that stretched the wool in a way that suggested he was used to lifting more than just grocery bags. His eyes, a stormy mix of grey and blue, blinked down at you with a hint of surprise, like he hadn’t expected to be standing here either.

“Oh,” he said, his voice soft and unsure, like someone who rarely spoke first. His hand reached out instinctively as if to steady you, fingers hovering just a breath away from your shoulder before he hesitated, withdrawing his arm like it might burn him.

You blinked up at him, something niggling at the back of your mind. He looked… familiar. Not just in the ‘guy you pass on the street every day’ kind of way, but in a way that prickled at the edges of an old, half-forgotten memory. You stared at his face, the scruffy jawline, the faint scar along his cheekbone, the haunted, cautious eyes that flicked away the second they met yours.

You knew this face.

You knew his face.

Your pulse stuttered.

Then it hit you. The flicker of a greasy hoodie pulled tight around a gaunt, desperate face, a figure silhouetted in the light of your open fridge, a whispered, frantic apology cut off by a steaming cup of ramen splattering across a narrow, bony back.

“Oh my god,” you said, your voice coming out more breathless than you intended.

His eyes widened, a deer-in-headlights kind of terror flashing across his face.

“It’s you.”

“Uh…” He took a half-step back, one hand coming up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. “It’s… me?”

“Yeah, you.” You jabbed a finger into his chest, immediately regretting it as your finger hit something disturbingly solid beneath the wool. You winced, pulling your hand back quickly, masking the sharp sting with a tight scowl. “You’re the one who broke into my apartment and stole my TV a few years back!”

The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. He blinked once, twice, then seemed to shrink a little into his cardigan, eyes flicking to the side as if he might find an escape route between the rows of chicken noodle and tomato soup.

“Oh. Oh.” He grimaced, his ears turning an impressive shade of pink. “Uh, yeah. I’m… I’m really sorry about that.” He stammered, rubbing his arm awkwardly. “I-I told you I’d replace it.”

You scoffed as you remembered his desperate face twisted with pain from the hot noodles that was thrown at his back, his words barely coming out coherent. “Yeah, well, that’s hard to believe from the guy who bolted out my window with a 43-inch flatscreen and a bad case of ramen burns.”

He flinched, a guilty look crossing his face as he glanced down at his shoes. “Yeah… I deserved that.” You were about to snap back, something cutting and cathartic, when a booming, heavily accented voice echoed down the aisle.

“Bob! There you are my friend!”

You turned, just in time to see a massive, bear-like figure stomping toward you, arms outstretched like he was about to crush the both of you in a bone-cracking bear hug.

Bob turned a little, his head dropping like a guilty puppy. “Oh no…”

The mountain of a man, dressed in a bright red tracksuit and sporting a bushy beard, clapped a meaty hand down on Bob’s shoulder, nearly sending him to his knees. “I have been looking for you everywhere! What are you doing here, hiding among the soup cans like a little mouse?”

You blinked, your mind struggling to keep up. You do know now that the man who stole your TV is named Bob, such a peculiar name.

Alexei’s grip on Bob’s shoulder tightened, his thick fingers nearly disappearing into the oversized grey cardigan, and for a moment, you almost felt a little sorry for the guy. Almost. The big Russian’s bearded face split into a grin, his eyes twinkling like he’d just found an old friend in the canned soup aisle.

“Ah, Bob! Did you find the canned corn ?” he boomed, his deep, accented voice carrying down the aisle and probably into the frozen foods section.

You took a small, instinctive step back, watching as Bob visibly shrank beneath the older man’s enthusiastic grasp.  Alexei’s gaze shifted to you, his eyes narrowing with a sudden, almost childlike excitement. Without warning, he released Bob’s shoulder, reaching into his shopping basket as he brought it up, the box crinkling slightly in his massive hand.

“Look, look!” He leaned in towards you, jabbing a thick finger at the front of the box. “You recognize this?”

You blinked, leaning in despite yourself. The box was a generic-looking brand, the kind that’s always on sale but no one actually buys unless they’re desperate or trying to save a few dollars. The front featured a group of people, posing – Alexei’s finger pointing at a specific man.

You glanced at the person he was pointing at on the box, then back at him. Then back at the box. Then at Bob, who had gone a peculiar shade of pink beneath his scruffy, overgrown hair, his eyes fixed on the tiled floor like he wished he could disappear into it.

The Red Guardian’s grin only grew wider as he watched your confused expression, his finger tapping insistently on the printed image.

“See? See? You recognize, yes?” He straightened, puffing out his chest as if to match the image on the box. You blinked again, torn between second-hand embarrassment and a bizarre kind of awe. “Uh… yeah.” You muttered out, fingers awkwardly playing with the handle of your shopping basket.

His eyes sparkled, clearly thrilled by the recognition. “Yes, yes! You know me!” throwing his hands up causing you and Bob to flinch at the sudden burst of movement.

You tilted your head, watching as he posed with one fist on his hip, the cereal box still clutched in his other hand like it was the Olympic torch. “Red… something?”

He leaned in closer, his beard twitching with anticipation, like a giant, overeager bear.

“Red… Guardian?” you finished, half-question, half-statement.

He slammed the box down onto the edge of the nearest shelf, the impact making the metal rattle and the box to tremble. “Yes! Red Guardian!” he roared, clearly pleased with himself. You took a step back, fingers tightening around your grocery basket. This guy had the energy of a particularly loud uncle at a family barbecue, the kind that smacks you on the back hard enough to make you lose your breath.

“And you?” He pointed at you now, his massive hand blocking out half your vision. “You, what is your name?”

You hesitated, glancing at Bob, who was now staring resolutely at the floor tiles, his shoulders hunched like a child expecting a scolding. You felt a strange, uncomfortable twist in your gut, that same old unease from the ramen incident years ago prickling at the back of your mind.

“It’s, uh…” You cleared your throat, feeling oddly exposed under the Red Guardian’s intense, expectant stare. You croaked out your name, this also catching Bob’s attention, the both of you making eye contact but he quickly broke it off when you glared at him.

Alexei beamed your name out loud, rolling the name around in his mouth like a fine wine. “Beautiful name! Strong name!” He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing down the aisle, his gaze now falling on Bob

“And how do you know our Bob here?” he asks, the grin on his face not disappearing.

Your eyes slid back to Bob, who was now shuffling his feet, his hair falling into his eyes as he fidgeted with the fraying edge of his cardigan sleeve. You squinted at him, a sudden flash of irritation tightening your jaw. Right. You remembered exactly how you knew this guy.

“Oh, Bob here,” you said, making sure to put a lot of emphasis on his name long with letting a hint of your old anger creep into your tone, “stole my TV a few years back.” You scoffed out, you did not have a TV for a good few months and you was just a struggling college student.

Red Guardian’s smile froze, his thick eyebrows climbing towards his hairline. His gaze snapped to Bob, who winced, his ears turning an even deeper shade of red.

“Bob,” Red Guardian said slowly, his thick, bushy eyebrows knitting together in a mock expression of fatherly disappointment. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a loud, exaggerated whisper that still echoed down the aisle. “You did this?”

Bob flinched, his head jerking up as he stammered, “I-I, uh, I told her I’d replace it!” He shot you a panicked, pleading look, his hands wringing the hem of his cardigan like a guilty child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms over your chest. “Oh, yeah. Right before you dove out my window with my flatscreen under your arm!” you pointed your index finger towards him in an excusing manner watching as he flinched at his, your brows furrow at this…he seemed like someone who is always on edge.

Red Guardian made a deep, disapproving sound in his throat, his head shaking slowly as he clapped a heavy hand down on Bob’s shoulder once again, making the man visibly wince.

“Tsk, tsk, Bob. This is no good.” He turned back to you, his eyes sparkling with a kind of mischievous, paternal glee. “He must make this right, yes? Repay his debt. Prove he is a good man! And no longer bad chicken Bob!” he exclaims out loud, your even more confused now.

‘Chicken Bob?’

Before you could protest, the Red Guardian’s grip tightened on Bob’s shoulder, his other hand sweeping towards you in a grand, magnanimous gesture. “Bob, you must invite this fine woman to dinner. Show her that you are reformed, yes?”

“W-wait, what?” Bob’s eyes shot wide, his face blanching beneath his scruffy beard.

“Yes, yes!” Red Guardian barrelled on, clearly delighted with his own idea. “You will come to dinner with us, yes?” He turned to you, his eyes bright, his grin nearly splitting his face in two. “It will be great honour to have such a strong, brave woman in our home. We make great borscht! Very delicious!”

You opened your mouth to object, to point out that you still had half a grocery list to get through, not to mention a few years of lingering resentment towards the man who had once made off with your only decent piece of electronics, but the Red Guardian’s booming voice cut you off.

“Come, come! Do not worry about groceries. I will make you borscht. Bob will show you he is a good man. Yes, Bob?”

Bob made a small, strangled sound, his eyes flicking between you and the Red Guardian like a trapped animal.

“Uh… y-yeah?” he managed, his voice so small it was almost swallowed by the grocery store’s humming lights.

Before you could fully process what was happening, the Red Guardian was already steering you and Bob towards the exit, the cereal box abandoned on the shelf behind you, his booming voice echoing through the aisles.

“Come, come, we will have great feast! You will see, Bob is very good man now!”

You shot Bob a sharp, exasperated look as you stumbled along beside them, your brain still scrambling to catch up. How the hell had this become your life?

⊹

The walk to the  Watch Tower – the tower that now housed the ‘new’ avengers - was mercifully short, though it felt longer than it was with the Red Guardian practically booming with every step, his heavy boots clapping against the pavement like a small parade. The morning air was crisp, the sun cutting through the towering glass and steel around you, casting long, sharp shadows across the cracked pavement. You managed to get your groceries- Alexei insisting to pay for them as you clutched the bag tighter, the contents rustling softly against your leg as you tried to keep pace with the oversized man beside you.

Every few steps, you felt Bob’s presence behind you, shuffling quietly, his cardigan sleeves pulled down over his hands like a nervous schoolboy. You caught a glimpse of his reflection in the glossy glass doors as they reached the base of the tower, his dark eyes flicking up to meet yours for a fraction of a second before darting away again.

He still looked like a ghost of a man, all messy, unkempt hair and slouched shoulders, you almost felt bad for him, but the memory of your missing TV kept you firmly on the side of irritated.

Alexei, however, was in a world of his own, practically vibrating with energy as he slapped his massive palm against the sleek, polished metal of the tower’s entrance, his voice echoing off the glass.

“Come, come! We are home now!” He gestured grandly for you to enter, his broad, calloused hand sweeping towards the sliding glass doors.

You hesitated, glancing up at the towering structure. The sleek, reflective surface stretched up into the cloudless sky, the sunlight catching on the edges of a large A near the top. You swallowed, feeling a flicker of nervousness and nostalgia – you had been here before, long ago – work purposes, memories you just wanted to tuck away.

Before you could fully process the absurdity of the situation, the Red Guardian had already marched through the doors, his heavy boots clanking against the marble floors inside, leaving you and Bob to awkwardly shuffle in behind him.

The lobby was cavernous, the high ceilings stretching upwards like a cathedral, glass and steel arching around you in a way that felt both futuristic and oppressive. Soft, ambient music hummed through hidden speakers, the faint, sterile scent of air conditioning tingling in your nose. You glanced over at Bob, who was still staring at his shoes, his long, bony fingers twisting into the frayed edges of his cardigan sleeves.

You shifted your grocery bag to your other hand, your fingers starting to ache from the weight. Alexei was already jabbing at the elevator button with one thick, impatient finger, muttering something in rapid Russian under his breath as he waited for the doors to open.

With a soft ding, the elevator slid open, its brushed steel doors parting like the jaws of some enormous, metallic beast.  Alexei stepped inside without hesitation, gesturing for you and Bob to follow.

You stepped in, feeling the air turn colder as the doors slid shut behind you. The soft, mechanical whirr of the elevator filled the silence as Alexei punched in the floor number, his massive knuckles practically dwarfing the tiny, glowing buttons.

For a moment, the only sounds were the gentle hum of the elevator and the faint rustle of your grocery bag as you adjusted it against your hip. You glanced sideways at Bob, who was staring intently at the corner of the elevator, his face a study in nervous concentration.

You tightened your grip on the bag, the plastic cutting into your fingers as you felt a fresh wave of irritation bubble up. How the hell had this guy gone from petty TV thief to… whatever the hell this was? You eyed him again, trying to reconcile the image of the jittery, scrawny man beside you with the half-forgotten memory of him scrambling out your window, your flatscreen clutched awkwardly in his arms.

The Red Guardian’s deep, rumbling voice cut through the silence like a hammer on glass. “Ah, Yelena will be so happy to meet you! Maybe you and her can be friends, yes? She needs more friends” He gave you a broad, toothy grin, his beard twitching as he chuckled to himself. “And you, Bob, you should also make more friends. You are too quiet, like a little ghost.”

Bob made a small, strangled sound, his eyes flicking up to meet yours for the briefest of moments before darting away again. You scowled, your fingers tightening around the grocery bag handle.

You shifted awkwardly, your eyes darting around the room as the uncomfortable silence stretched on. You felt Bob’s presence beside you, his hand twitching slightly as if he wanted to shove his hands into his pockets but was too nervous to move.

The elevator ride felt long- longer then you remembered. Finally, you shot him a sharp, sideways glance, Alexei was humming something in Russian lost in his own world as you lowered your voice to a harsh whisper. “How the hell did you end up here?”

Bob’s eyes widened, his head jerking up like a startled deer. He opened his mouth to respond, but the words seemed to catch in his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he stammered, “I-I… it’s a long story.”

You narrowed your eyes, feeling the weight of the forgotten ramen incident settling heavily in your chest. “I did not know the b-vengers also took on petty thieves”  you muttered, your grip tightening on your grocery bag.

Bob’s head tilted slightly, the harsh white light casting faint shadows across the sharp lines of his face. Your words stung like a bandit aid being ripped, his hair hung loose around his shoulders, a little too long, a little too messy, and his jaw tightened at your words. He tried his best to block memories of his past, breaking into peoples homes- stealing their valuables- all in order to buy meth – to get high.

“It’s… complicated,” he mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze flicking down to his scuffed boots.

You huffed, eyes narrowing further. “Complicated? You broke into my apartment and stole my TV. That’s not complicated, that’s just petty crime.”

Before Bob could sputter out a response, the elevator gave a soft chime and the doors slid open, revealing the sprawling lounge of the Avengers Tower. The space was sleek and modern, polished floors reflecting the city lights streaming in from the tall glass windows. Low, comfortable couches were scattered around, and a massive screen dominated one wall, currently flashing muted news headlines.

A lady with short blonde hair spots the three of you her sharp, curious eyes immediately locked onto the three of you as she crossed the room, her genie pig clutched in one hand, its tiny paws scrabbling against her fingers. She cocked her head, blonde hair falling over one shoulder as she sized you up, her expression unreadable before she turned to look towards Bob and Alexei.

“You do know you need to inform me first before you go anywhere with Bob, dad ?” she asked her voice laced with annoyance as Alexei gives her a sheepish grin.

“The boy needed the fresh air; thought grocery shopping will help him out.” He states, Bob just nervously standing next to him – Yelena gives the two a small smile – her dad was with Bob, she should not worry that much but at the same time her father has a blabber mouth and says things a bit too quickly before he thinks- which could trigger Bob.

Her gave now falls back on you as you were standing awkwardly through that little conversation, the urge to just run out, to disappear was becoming greater as her eyes locked with yours- stern.

“Dad,” she said, her tone clipped, her gaze still not leaving you. “You know you can’t just bring strangers in here.” Alexei’s face brightened, as if this was exactly the response he’d been hoping for. He clasped his large hands together, making the genie pig in Yelena’s grip flinch.

“Relax, Yelena. Bob here needs to make up for a mistake,” he said, clapping a massive hand down on Bob’s shoulder, making him flinch slightly. “And I thought, what better way than a dinner? A little easier on the champ.” He gave Bob a hearty shake, his bicep bulging as he grinned before he says he needs to prepare dinner in an excited tone, rushing to what you assume is the kitchen.

Yelena’s eyes narrowed further, her suspicion deepening as she looked from you and then to the clearly mortified Bob, who was steadily turning a deep shade of pink.

“What did he do?” she asked, eyes locking onto you, clearly expecting some explanation for this odd little reunion.

You didn’t miss the way Bob’s shoulders tightened, his jaw clenching as if bracing for impact. For a second, you considered letting him squirm a little longer, but the memory of your old, second-hand TV, the one you’d scrimped and saved for, flashed through your mind.

“He stole my TV a few years back,” you said, keeping your tone as casual as you could, but not quite managing to keep the bite out of your voice.

Yelena did not seem phased by what you had said as if its something of the normal as she turns towards him. ‘Did he steal her TV too ? is this a normal ? why are these ‘avengers’ so casual with a petty thief ?’ you thought, you must wanted to go home now.

“Bob,” she said, her voice soft and calm as if she switched off her scary demeanour to calm and soft one- just for him, just for Bob.

“You stole a TV?”

Bob shifted uncomfortably, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, his face a deep, blotchy red. He muttered something under his breath, eyes firmly fixed on the floor, his broad shoulders almost curling in on themselves.

“Wow,” Yelena said, leaning back, clearly enjoying this. “You really are full of surprises, Bob”

Bob’s head dropped lower, and you could practically feel the waves of embarrassment radiating off him.

“ It was when I was on meth!” he quickly justifies, your eyes widen slightly at this new found information, that actually explains a lot. “I-I needed cash so I used to steal stuf-f” he stammered out his eyes now locking with yours, a guilty expression on his face but his eyes were soft and sincere “and I’m really sorry I stole your TV, I did not want to but the voic-” “Okay Bob, that’s enough you don’t need to explain yourself anymore, what has been done in the past is in the past, you don’t have to worry, right?” Yelena had caught him off, her gaze now hard on you, trying to intimidate you into saying right- you looked at her as she wrapped a hand around his wrist- not in a forceful manner but in a way to comfort him ? then you looked at him, his eyes seemed distant, he seemed to be drifting – something was not right as you gazed back to Yelena, her gaze still cold and hard on you as if telling you to go along with her.

You took a deep breath in; a small smile stretches on your face. “Right, the past in the past” you said as sweet as you could , Yelena letting out a breath she did not even know she was holding, Bob’s eyes flickering towards you, a slight shine to them.

What is wrong with him ?

“After all, to be here with the new avengers means you have done something super good” you said, you tried not to sound sarcastic, but Bob seemed to be like a deer caught in headlights, his mind slightly spiralling.

‘You are only here so that you don’t become a threat to others’ a voice, no- its voiced whispered in his ear – his breath hitching, eyes turning glassy. Yelena noticed this quickly, a hand wrapping around his shoulder.

“Why don’t we go and sit down ? huh ? Bob? Lets go have a seat, you can pet Cucumber!” she says all of this out quickly as she lead Bob to the couch, your gaze followed them, next to the couch was a guinea pig – ginger and white, it was lazily seated on a mini pillow before being gently grabbed by Yelena- the guinea pig let out a small ‘pip’ before it was placed in Bob’s hands.

“Here pet Cucumber – think happy thoughts!” Yelena says, you just watched all of this happen awkwardly with your grocery bag making your fingers red, why the hell was this woman babying this grown ass man ? was the first thought that came to mind – Yelena’s gaze snapped towards you, her head cocking towards the couch.

“Sit.” Her voice was stern, this caused you to gulp as you made your way almost tripping on the rug towards the couch. ‘God, did I do something wrong?’ you really wanted to go home now, your heart was beating fast.

You sink into the far end of the couch, the soft cushions sagging beneath you as the worn fabric creaks under your weight. Your grocery bags rustle as you set them down beside you, the thin plastic crinkling sharply in the quiet room. Bob hesitates for a moment, his gaze flicking to you, then quickly away, before his gaze falls back on cucumber – who was happily sat on his lap. His knees bend stiffly, his limbs too long for the small space, and the fabric of his oversized cardigan bunches awkwardly around his wrists, the sleeves slipping down to cover his knuckles as he gently brushes his thumb on the animal.

For a moment, he just stares at his fingers, his thumbs rubbing slow, nervous rhythm on Cucumbers head, his shoulders hunched as if he’s trying to make himself smaller. You catch a faint tremble in his hands, the slight, uneven twitch of his fingers - it’s a small thing, barely noticeable unless you’re paying attention, but you catch it – the subtle, constant fidgeting, the way his breath hitches slightly whenever you glance his way.

Yelena sighs a breath of relief as if she had just stopped a bomb from exploding - she perches herself on the armrest, her arm stretching along the back of the couch, fingers absentmindedly scratching at a threadbare patch in the upholstery. The tiny guinea pig in Bob’s lap, sniffs at the air, its tiny pink nose twitching as it detects the faint, salty scent of your groceries.

Yelena tilts her head, her sharp green eyes flicking between you and Bob, catching the tension that crackles faintly in the air. Her gaze now falling on the paperwork that was scattered on the desk, a groan escaping past her lips “I thought Bucky was going to handle this” she sighs out annoyedly – it was mission reports that Valentina wanted back. Yelena thumbed through them, she knew her dad would want to do it but she don’t really trust him because he will say he is going to do it but ends up doing something else, Ava does not want to do them by choice, Walker – well he will straight up say no, and Bucky offers to do it but is also busy with his congress stuff and her? Well, it’s just tedious.  

Yelena’s accent thick but her tone light, as if she’s trying to ease the awkwardness settling around you, “we really should get a personal assistant. Valentina keeps dumping more and more crap on us.” She mutters more so to herself, feeling a headache forming while she stares at the cluttered coffee table, where stacks of mission reports and loose paperwork spill over the edges, threatening to slide onto the floor. One particularly crumpled page still bears the faint outline of tiny teeth marks – Cucumber’s latest snack, no doubt.

You heard what she had said, the need for a personal assistant, maybe you could just add your little two cents as you let out a soft, bitter chuckle, your fingers curling tightly around the thin plastic handles of your grocery bags. “A personal assistant, huh?” you murmur, leaning back into the couch, trying to find a comfortable spot among the lumpy cushions. You catch Bob’s shoulders tensing slightly, his head ducking lower.

“Well,” you continue, tilting your head slightly, a crooked smile pulling at your lips as you glance at Bob, trying to break the awkward tension “I could assist you with that.” You pause, letting the words hang in the air for a moment before adding, “And maybe Bob can help me get the job, you know, as a favour. Since he did steal my TV.” You still did not want to let go of the whole TV stealing incident, this seemed to irk Yelena now.

“I don’t think we would need a girl plucked from the grocery store to be our personal assistant, especially one still hung up on a stolen TV from years ago.” She states, her voice clipped, each word a precise cut. “ Besides, I highly doubt you have the …mindset for such fields”

You raise an eyebrow, leaning back a little “Depends on the field” you reply, tone light but your eyes sharp, catching the subtle shift in Yelena’s posture. “You’d be surprised what some of us pick up along the way”

Bob’s head snaps up, his eyes wide and startled, his mouth opens and closes wordlessly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he struggles to find his voice. For a moment, he looks like a cornered animal, his dark eyes flicking nervously between you and Yelena, his fingers twisting together with renewed urgency.

Before Yelena could respond – her eyes held suspicion, Alexei bursts through the kitchen doors – the smell of food, seeping through as he grins widely.

“The dinner is ready!”

The late afternoon sun spilled through the tall, glass walls of the penthouse, casting long, slanting beams across the polished marble floors. The city below pulsed with life, a distant hum of engines and faint, echoing car horns rising from the streets, muffled by the thick, soundproof glass. The air inside was cooler, tinged with the faint, lingering scent of ozone from the tower’s advanced air filtration system.

Mel leaned against the glass railing, a sleek, black tablet balanced on her forearm, the screen flickering with a steady stream of security alerts. Valentina stood beside her, one hand wrapped around a steaming cup of dark coffee, her expression sharp and slightly irritated, her eyes locked on the swirling security feed.

“Please tell me it’s not another one of Alexei’s weird karaoke nights,” Valentina muttered, her voice low, the edges of her words sharpened by a hint of annoyance. “Last time, it was that poor Pizza guy, and I still don’t know how he ended up in a Spider-Man onesie, belting out ‘You’ve Got a Friend in Me’ at three in the morning.”

Mel smiled slightly, tilting the tablet slightly to catch the glint of the overhead lights. “No, nothing like that. But… well, we might have a situation. Look at this.” She tapped the screen, the security footage flickering as the camera angles shifted, closing in on the lounge below.

Valentina’s eyes narrowed as she took in the scene – Yelena’s wary posture, Bob’s hunched shoulders, and you, perched awkwardly at the end of the couch, your fingers still curled tightly around the crinkling plastic handles of your grocery bag, the faint sheen of sweat dotting your hairline despite the cool, climate-controlled air.

Valentina watched the security camera, a scoff leaving past her lips at Yelena complain about simple paperwork and you talking about being their personal assistant.  Your face away from the camera, your hair obscuring your face.

“why does Alexei bring random civilians to the tower? Gosh, Mel please add that I need to give them a warning on that – especially to that Red Guardian” she could feel a headache forming, ever since she announced the bunch of morally grey ‘heroes’ as the new avengers, her days of peace had been short – needing to cater to every single one of their demands.

She was just about to tell Mel, that she did not want to see anymore until your face came into view - Valentina’s eyes narrowed, her head tilting slightly as she took in the scene, her pulse quickening, a faint, instinctive prickle of suspicion tightening the muscles along the back of her neck.

“Wait,” she said, her voice low, her fingers tightening around the edge of her coffee mug. “Zoom in on the girl. Let me see her face.”

Mel hesitated, then swiped a finger across the screen, the pixels tightening around your face, capturing the faint crease between your brows, the annoyed twist of your lips, the dark, smudged shadows beneath your eyes.

Valentina’s breath hitched, her sharp eyes locking onto your face, the faintest flicker of recognition sparking in her gaze.

“Run facial recognition,” she snapped, her tone low, the sharp, edge creeping back into her voice.

The screen flickered, the system processing the command, the dull, mechanical hum of the tablet filling the brief, breathless silence. Then, with a soft chime, the results flashed across the glass, lines of text scrolling rapidly, the bright red banner of a classified file pulsing at the top with your picture on the left-hand side.

NAME: [Your Name]

ROLE: Strategic Planner, Stark Industries

PROJECT: [REDACTED] - Experimental Weapon Development (Scrapped)

STATUS: Resigned, Position Vacated

Valentina’s eyes crinkled at the corners, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her lips, her fingers curling around the edge of the tablet.

“Well, well,” she murmured, her eyes still locked on your face, frozen in a moment of nervous laughter beside Yelena.

 “Maybe the New Avengers do need a personal assistant after all.”

Author’s note

I’m so sorry if this feels rusheddd, I just wanted to get my ideas out uahajw but but I’m excited – reader is slightly a beech but but she will redeem herself!! I promise hehe

Please do leave a like, comment, reblog - would very much appreciate

Also if you would like to be added to the tag list comment below !!

Guys I did it AGAIN 😔😔 I lost another bob fic. You would think I learned but I don’t learn anything. OKAYS. So in this one THEY DO TAXES. Please 🙏🙏

I need help finding a fic! It was bob x reader, less than 5k I think maybe 1-3k, miscommunication trope and reader thinks he’s pulled away but he doesn’t actually? Him and Yelena cuddle and reader starts crying I think that’s as far as I got.

▹ — While I understand the portrayal as bob as some wet cat boyf in x reader fanfic , thunderbolts fanfic , etc (which yes he is a wet cat man i agree ! ) . I feel like presenting him as someone who can’t do anything himself and needs to get constantly babied is kinda the opposite of the point of the movie . 

▹ — I love the idea that everyone is trying to help him , show him immense amounts of affection , and that the team is trying to make sure that he is doing okay mentally and that he isn’t getting triggered but .. !  I feel like it would get to a point where he does finally snap and tell the team that he IS doing better and he can start doing little things himself(like washing the dishes, you got this baby ) . 

( Or in a fanfiction sense going outside of the tower and finding love by himself ? Just an idea .. )

▹ — But idk honestly this is just an idea coming from slightly similar experiences , I would love to see more posts coming from people with mental health disorders talking about stuff like this because I think it’s so interesting how they wrote him !!

▹ —And bob writers keep doing what you’re doing you’re doing amazing sweetheart 🫶

CHEF'S FUCKING KISS

Test Drive

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

Summary: You have a late night encounter with The Void

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts as there is Bob in this and there is The Void in this as well. This fic is kinda dark, this is The Void we are dealing with here, there are dark themes/elements explored in this story (but I will emphasize that everything is consensual in this), The Void talks kinda badly about Bob, Bob and Reader have an established friendship and both of them have feelings for one another that have been left unspoken, there is smut and angst in this as well, and a lot of Emotional Tension, The Void is kind of Obsessed with you too…

Smut Warnings: To be a bit on the safe side I would say this is Dub Con (it could kind of be looked at like that, I didn’t write it with those intentions but just in case I wanted to put it there), Unprotected P in V Sex (please…If you’re going to have sex with entities like this wrap it up lol), The Void is Dominant as shit in this, There is Biting, Scratching, Markings left on the Reader, Dacryphilia (The Void likes tears…), Hair Pulling, Fingering, A little bit of humiliation? A bit of fem! Oral sex too.

Author’s Note: Howdy y’all…Well…This is my first Void Smut lol and jeez lord I really had to sink into it a bit and dig. This is my interpretation of how The Void would do or handle things, I didn’t want to go too extreme, but I liked the request (made by @miss-whiddlesmort ) and hope that it meets expectations! Enjoy :)

Word Count: 7,759

The night you met The Void officially, you thought you were hallucinating or living out a real-life nightmare.

You had woken in your bed at the compound, drenched in sweat and tangled in your dampened sheets. The clock on the wall blinked 3:17 a.m. in red, hazy numbers.

That alone wasn’t new.

You’d had nights like this before–restless, disturbed, aching for something unnamed but constant. But this night was different.

There was a pressure in the room. A wrongness that seeped in through your pores and clamped around your lungs.

The air was too still, too silent. And the temperature–God, the cold–it wasn’t natural. It sank into your bones like frostbite, numbing your limbs before you’d even sat up. You clutched your chest with a trembling hand, your heart fluttering against your ribs like a bird trapped in glass.

Your nightshirt clung to your damp skin, and as you wiped the sweat from your brow, you realized it wasn’t just perspiration. It was fear. Primal. Instinctive. As if your body recognized something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

The shadows in your room were darker than usual. Not thicker. Not blacker. Just…Deeper. Like they had weight. Like they were watching.

You blinked, trying to let your eyes adjust to the darkness.

And then the corner moved.

Not a trick of light. Not sleep haze. The shadows moved–separating from the darkness like smoke drawn backward through a vent. Tall. Silent. Fluid.

Something seeped forward.

And when it stepped into the faint light slicing through your blinds, your breath caught.

Bob.

No. Not Bob.

The shape was his. The height, the shoulders, the outline of his jaw. The way his mouth curved slightly at the corners like he was seconds away from smiling. You’d seen that shape slouched on the couch during late-night movie marathons. You’d seen it standing barefoot in the kitchen making tea. You’d memorized it without meaning to.

But this…This wasn’t him.

His form was made of shadow, but it held. It wasn’t formless. It wasn’t drifting. It was shaped with purpose–an echo of the man you knew, but built from smoke and malice. His skin, if you could call it that, moved like a storm behind thin glass. Unstable. Eternal. His hair bled into the void around him, lost to darkness.

And his eyes–those weren’t Bob’s eyes. No blue, no softness. Just two white voids of light. Blank and endless. Not glowing with heat, but glowing like distant stars–cold, ancient, unreachable.

His mouth, though–from what you could see– was pale and sharp and curled ever so slightly, like he knew something you didn’t.

Your body was frozen, but not from fear alone. There was something else. Something creeping beneath your skin, worming into the base of your spine.

Then he spoke.

“So this is who he dreams about,” He murmured, voice low and silken–too smooth. The kind of voice that didn’t need to raise itself to command. A voice that made your blood slow.

It curled around your ears like smoke. Like a whisper just for you.

“I wanted to see for myself.” He took a step forward, and the air folded inward, like the room itself recoiled around his form. He didn’t walk–he glided, impossibly smooth, like the world didn’t apply to him in the same way it did to everything else. He made the shadows stretch with him, bend for him.

You couldn’t breathe, but you could feel yourself cowering slightly, afraid of what his next move might be. Being in a room alone with him was like a ticking time bomb, you had witnessed him only once, and that was with Bob present to defend everyone from him…Now was not the case.

“You think he doesn’t know?” The Void asked, tilting his head just slightly, like he was marveling at a secret. “The way you look at him?”

His voice was nearly a whisper now, soft and deliberate. “The way your breath catches when he smiles at someone else. How you light up when he says your name. How your thighs tense when he accidentally brushes your arm in the hallway.”

He was closer now–too close–and every inch of his presence filled your skin with that same biting chill. It sank into your bones, into your lungs, until your shiver wasn’t just fear, but anticipation you didn’t want to name. The scent of ozone, and burnt concrete itched your nose, and there was something earthy beneath it all, like he had been pulled out of the ground.

“I could smell it on you when I woke,” He murmured, lifting one hand. His fingers hovered just beside your cheek, not quite touching, but you could feel it–like static in the air, cold and prickling. “The heat. The ache. You wanted him to come to your door tonight, didn’t you?”

You swallowed hard. “He’s not–he wouldn’t–”

The Void laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t manic. It was soft, and deep–it vibrated into your chest. And that was worse.

“Of course not. He’s Bob,” The Void said with a sneer beneath the velvet of his voice. “Sweet. Gentle. Terrified of his own hunger. He’s dying to touch you–but he won’t. Because he’s weak.”

His hand touched your jaw. Cold. Unrelenting.

“You would’ve given yourself to him,” He whispered, thumb brushing across your bottom lip. “If he asked. You would’ve spread your thighs like a prayer and begged him to take you. And he’d be too afraid to move.” You whimpered, more from the sting of that truth than from his touch. The Void leaned closer, and you could feel his mouth–just hovering above yours, the barest breath of sensation. Not warmth. Nothing about him was warm. Just the presence of absence itself. He wasn’t breathing–at least not the way humans do–but somehow, you could feel it: cold tendrils of air that weren’t air at all, seeping from his lips to yours like he was pouring frost into your lungs.

His hand slid beneath your chin, fingers long, cold and elegant, as if carved from obsidian smoke. They curved under your jaw with inhuman precision–lifting your face toward him with a gentleness that betrayed none of the power coiled in his touch.

“Look at me,” He said, voice low and silken. It didn’t echo in your ears–it vibrated through you. Beneath your ribs. In your spine. Like something whispered through a cathedral built only for nightmares.

And when you did–when your eyes met those twin, glowing voids of light–you felt your thoughts stutter.

He didn’t just look at you. He reached into you with that stare. Unraveling the parts you kept hidden even from yourself.

“I know everything you want,” He cooed, his lips brushing your cheek now, the chill of him raising goosebumps across your entire body. “Every suppressed breath. Every trembling thought. Every filthy little ache that keeps you awake.”

Your throat tightened. Your lips parted–but not to speak. You couldn’t have spoken if you tried.

He hovered there like a vampire from a storybook dream, all sin and shadows, all impossible temptation wrapped in the shape of the man you secretly loved. But colder. Sharper. And infinitely crueler. Your lips trembled. You tried to speak–tried to summon words, a command, a plea, anything–but all that came out was a faint breath:

“B–Bob…”

The Void stilled. Just for a moment.

And then he smiled.

Not sweetly. Not kindly.

The corners of his mouth curled upward with slow, surgical delight. Like he’d been waiting to hear that name spill out of your mouth and now that it had, he could savor it like blood on his tongue.

“No,” He said, his voice even lower now–darker, closer. His thumb pressed more firmly against your chin. “Don’t say his name like that. Not here. Not while I’m the one who has you.”

You tried to look away, to break eye contact, but his hand shifted, guiding your gaze back to him like a puppeteer tugging on strings.

“He wouldn’t know what to do with you,” The Void continued, his breathless voice curling around your spine, holding onto it. “He’d be so afraid to hurt you, he’d never touch you the way you need.”

His other hand moved–ghosting down your shoulder, across your arm–cold, trailing goosebumps in its wake. You shivered beneath the touch, not just from the chill but from the fact that you didn’t pull away.

You should have.

You should be demanding he leave. But you weren’t.

Because your body, traitorous and trembling, was reacting to his every move and hanging on anticipation.

His fingers slid downward with slow, excruciating purpose, skimming over the curve of your chest–your nightshirt thin and damp against your skin. And when the pad of his index finger ghosted across your nipple–already perked beneath the fabric from the cold, you gasped.

You didn’t mean to. But you did.

You felt it–felt how your back arched the tiniest bit, how your hips shifted, how your thighs pressed closer together beneath the sheets. It was instinctual. Automatic.

Mortifying.

Arousal curled through your stomach like steam, hot and confusing.

His voice dropped into something darker. Amused.

“Oh,” The Void breathed, fingertips circling once, lazily, over your breast. “You feel it too.”

“I–” You choked, the sound sticking in your throat.

“You shouldn’t,” He interrupted, drawing his hand downward, trailing over the soft dip of your belly now. “You know that…But you feel it regardless.”

His palm found your thigh–bare where your nightshirt had ridden up–and he let it rest there, cold and heavy. Possessive. The contrast of his icy skin on your overheated flesh made your whole body twitch.

Your heart was slamming in your chest now. Erratic. Desperate. You could hear it in your ears, feel it in your fingertips, in your pulsing core.

His thumb stroked slow, cold circles against the flesh of your thigh–each one burning in reverse. Your skin prickled with goosebumps even as heat started to pool low in your belly. The contact was barely pressure, but it might as well have been chains. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe without taking more of him in.

His mouth hovered above yours, still not kissing. Still denying. Just close enough to own the air between you, to breathe you and all your sensations in.

Every breath you took was through him. And every breath he gave you, he took something with it.

“You’re wet,” He whispered, voice dark and delighted. “You’re shaking and aching–but you’re wet.”

His lips skimmed your cheek again. His nose nuzzled softly beneath your ear, like a lover might, if a lover was made of cold smoke and unspeakable things.

“That’s what scares you most, isn’t it?” He purred, a smile in his voice. “Not me. You. The part of you that wants this.”

Your breath hitched. You squeezed your eyes shut again. And of course–of course–that was when he said it:

“You’re pretending it’s him right now.”

Your whole body went still.

“You’re closing your eyes and painting his face over mine. Giving his heat to my hands. Imagining him finally breaking. Finally taking what he wants.”

His hand trailed upward, fingers brushing the crease where your thigh met your aching core.

You moaned–quiet and shameful.

“And that’s fine,” He whispered. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”

He exhaled again–his breath sliding straight into your mouth, down your throat, curling around your insides like frost. You trembled beneath it.

“I’m here because you want him so badly,” He teased, “You’ll let anyone who looks like him fuck you.”

His words struck hard, and heat flooded your face–burning your ears, your cheeks. You felt exposed. Humiliated. But your hips still shifted beneath his palm.

“You think it’s wrong,” He continued, as his fingers began drawing slow circles through the thin damp cotton of your underwear. “To be turned on by me.”

His voice dropped to a dangerous purr. “But it’s not...”

You gasped, trying to speak. But his hand lifted again–just enough to make your body whimper in protest at the loss.

His lips turned up against your jaw.

“Now,” He said, his voice velvet and bone. “Let’s make a deal.”

Your eyes fluttered open–blurry, dizzy, dazed.

His glowing ones were waiting for you.

“I’ll let you pretend that I’m him,” He whispered, voice like the crackle of burning ice, as his hand slipped up towards the waistband of your underwear, trailing his thumb along the elastic before disappearing beneath it–your thighs separating slightly, feeling his fingers find your clit instantly with cold perscision.

And you moaned–a soft, broken sound that escaped before you could stop it, muffled against his mouth as your lips hovered just shy of his. You weren’t even kissing yet, but it felt like you were inside it–like you were already swallowed whole by the gravity between you.

His breath hitched.

His thumb circled slowly, then again–each pass was more deliberate, more devastating. The heat building inside you was unbearable now, your thighs trembling, your core pulsing, your breath nothing but fractured gasps drawn from his air.

“You feel that?” He breathed, his voice like crushed silk, smooth and vicious. “That ache you’ve been living with for months–how easily it folds under my hand.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

His fingers moved with cruel grace–unrelenting, skilled in a way that made your knees curl up slightly and your hips roll without thought. Like your body was begging him to stay there. To keep going.

“You don’t even need me to finish the offer, do you?” He whispered against your lips. “You already know what I’m giving you. And you want it.”

You trembled. “S-Say it anyway,” The words came out broken from your throat, distracted by the feeling of his fingers, and the thoughts of Bob plaguing your mind already.

His smile was carved ice.

“I’ll let you pretend I’m him. All night. I’ll make you sob for it. Shake. Come until you forget your name,” He purred, fingers still working slow, filthy circles that had your legs twitching. “And when morning comes, he won’t remember a thing. But you will. Every inch. Every sound. Every thrust.”

He leaned in, lips brushing yours, his breath catching on your next inhale. “You get to pretend he was brave enough to take what you gave him.”

The pad of his middle finger pressed down harder, applying the perfect hint pressure, and your head dropped back with a quiet, whimpering cry.

Then–his voice, low and demanding:

“So say…It’s a deal…”

Your answer wasn’t a whisper. It wasn’t broken.

It was plain. Certain. Cut from your throat like a spell:

“Yes.”

The Void groaned–dark and low, like he felt that word slide into him like lightning.

Then he kissed you.

It pulled you apart at the seams, stealing every breath and sound and shred of hesitation you had left. His lips were cold, brutal, claiming your mouth like it was already his. His tongue swept into you with a force that left no room for thinking, only reacting–tasting every gasp, every soft whimper, like he wanted to learn you from the inside out.

And all the while, his fingers never stopped.

Circling. Stroking. Pressing into that aching bundle of nerves with precision that felt unholy.

It wasn’t fair–how good it felt. Your thighs were trembling, your hands fisting in the sheets as your hips rolled helplessly beneath the weight of his palm. You weren’t guiding any of it anymore. Your body was answering him like a prayer–instinctive, desperate, worshipful.

The heat inside you was like a storm cracking through your core. Your belly tightened, breath stuttering, back arching as he kept his rhythm–slow enough to tease, hard enough to devastate. Your moans were muffled by his kiss, swallowed like secrets. But he heard them. He fed on them.

When he pulled back, a strand of spit still connected your lips to his, glistening between you in the dark.

“Look at you,” He murmured, voice low and reverent. “Already falling apart. And I’ve barely touched you.”

Your chest heaved, your skin burning with fevered need, your hands gripping the fabric beneath you like it was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

His fingers withdrew from your underwear–not to stop, but to hook into the waistband and pull them down your legs in a single smooth motion. You flinched, breath catching as the cool air hit your slick heat, now fully exposed.

The Void knelt on the edge of the bed, eyes drinking you in. His glowing stare raked over every inch of you–spread out, trembling, glistening with sweat and arousal, your thighs parted for him like an offering.

“Mine,” He said simply, cold fingers curling around your knees to drag you closer to the edge. “Even if he never dares to take you…You’re already mine.”

You gasped as he leaned in–and licked you.

One, slow stroke of his tongue from your core to your clit. Cold and so precise, you thought you might scream.

You let out soft sob–a broken, high sound that ripped from your throat without your permission.

His tongue pressed harder, licking again, again–unrelenting. Each movement of his mouth was calculated to destroy. To burn. He sucked your clit between his lips, not gently, but with purpose. Claiming. Consuming. You cried out, hands flying to his hair–or where his hair should’ve been. It wasn’t soft. It was smoke. Cold, silk-like shadow that rippled through your fingers, impossibly smooth.

And that was when he looked up.

Eyes like galaxies–white, blinding, ancient–locked onto yours, but all you could picture was Bob’s baby blues instead. You realized your face was wet. You were crying.

From the pleasure. From the ache that was finally being dealt with. From the heat and the way your own body was betraying every moral line you’d ever drawn.

He saw it.

And he moaned.

Low. Dark. A sound of pure, vicious delight.

“Oh…” He whispered, voice cracking like ice underfoot. His shadowed lips glistened with your slick as he rose up again, fingers returning to your clit again to keep the friction, stroking with even more purpose. “That’s what I wanted.”

His free hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face so he could see the tears streaming down your skin. His thumb smudged one under your eye, then dragged it to your mouth, pressing it between your parted lips.

“Open,” He commanded, voice honeyed with sin.

You listened to him, and felt the wet pad of his thumb press onto your tongue. You tasted the salt.

He smiled.

“Beautiful,” He breathed. “Fucking beautiful.”

And then he pushed two fingers inside you–slowly, and deliberately so he could watch every reaction come up on your face. His fingers curled just right, and your whole body arched–an electric jolt of pleasure snatching the breath from your lungs. You were spread wide for him now, every nerve ending lit, pulsing, raw. The tears on your cheeks hadn’t even dried, and he was already dragging another cry from your throat.

“You’re picturing him now, aren’t you?” The Void murmured, voice velvet over a blade. His forehead pressed against yours, his body so close you could feel the cold hum of his power licking against your skin. “Every time I move inside you… You pretend it’s him.”

You whimpered–because you were. You couldn’t help it.

You weren’t just picturing Bob’s face–you were reaching for his warmth, his shy hands, the softness in his voice, the revenant way he might have touched you if he weren’t so afraid. But The Void moved like he already knew everything Bob wouldn’t do.

And somehow, that hurt.

“You want it to be him,” The Void whispered, curling his fingers again, harder this time, making your eyes roll back. “Sweet, trembling Bob. Who’d kiss your thighs before he ever put his fingers in you. Who’d ask you twice if it’s okay. Who’d thank you when you came.”

He laughed softly, but not unkindly. The sound was dark–yes–but laced with something deeper. Possession. Hunger.

“Poor thing,” He crooned. “You’ve been dreaming of him for so long, you don’t even care who makes it real, do you? You just need it. You need to feel.”

His fingers began to thrust now–slow, deep, deliberate. Every motion wrung a moan from your mouth. Your hips moved helplessly with his rhythm, chasing friction, chasing something that felt dangerously close to breaking again.

“But I can do it for him,” The Void purred, his lips grazing your jaw, your ear, your temple. “I can fuck you like he never will. Let you feel what it’s like to be wanted without the fear of ruining your little friendship. Touched without hesitation.”

Your breath hitched. Your legs trembled. His thumb returned to your clit and circled–one cruel, precise motion that made your whole body lock up in place.

“You want to hear him say it?” The Void asked. “You want to hear what he’d never dare whisper in your ear?”

You couldn’t even answer. Your mouth opened–but the sound that came out was just a needy little gasp, half-sob, half-beg.

He smiled–so close you could taste it. Then–

“You feel so fucking perfect,” He whispered, but it was Bob’s voice now.

Or at least, it was close. A mimic. A shadow with just enough truth to break you.

“I think about this every night. Your skin under my hands. The sounds you’d make. The way your thighs would tremble when I finally touched you like this–” His fingers thrust harder–deep and brutal and exact “–God, sweetheart. I’d ruin you.”

You moaned–loud and raw, your whole body jolting at the sound of those words in his voice. You weren’t just picturing him now–you were with him. In some twisted way, he was here, folded into the darkness.

“I’d kiss you everywhere,” The Void murmured, still using Bob’s warmth, that breathless awe, as if he knew exactly how Bob would sound if he let go. “Worship you. Fuck you slow until you cried.”

His fingers drove deeper. Your orgasm clawed at your spine–hot, frantic, building fast.

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” He whispered, back in his own voice now. “You’d let him fall apart inside you.”

You nodded–desperate, whimpering, eyes wet again.

“Then do it,” He hissed. “Come for him, and then let me take you...”

That was it.

The wave crashed.

You shattered.

Your mouth dropped open, a silent cry tearing from your chest as you pulsed hard around his fingers–clenching, sobbing, breaking on the pleasure that stole your name and your breath in one brutal, beautiful stroke.

And as you came, The Void held you–his body pressed against yours like a shroud, his cheek to yours, his fingers still pumping slowly and deep to drag every last aftershock from your spent, and shuddering body.

“There you go,” He cooed, voice a low, tender growl. “Cry for me, pretty thing.”

He kissed your temple softly, before trailing his lips along the set of tears that slipped down your cheeks.

Your chest rose and fell in stuttered waves, limbs limp and trembling beneath him. Every inch of you throbbed, overstimulated, but not satiated. Not completely. Because his fingers were still inside you—slow now, gentler, curling with reverence as he coaxed the last pulses of your orgasm from deep within.

Your cheek pressed against his shoulder, slick with sweat and tears. And when your lips parted, your voice came out cracked–rasped from the inside out:

“Fuck…” You breathed, “That was–God, that was good…”

The Void stilled for just a moment.

Then his smile returned–sharp and cold and devastatingly pleased. He leaned back to look at you, eyes glowing with that eerie celestial light, drinking in your wrecked form.

“You liked that,” He said softly. Not a question.

Your hips shifted involuntarily, and your breath hitched. His fingers were still inside you, still nestled where you were slick and twitching around him. He pulled them back slightly–just enough to make you whimper.

“I knew you would,” He murmured. “But that?” His eyes darkened. “That was only the beginning.”

Your eyes fluttered open, still glassy, still wet.

He leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the side of your throat–then another, lower, near your collarbone.

“I think I can make you come a few more times,” He whispered against your skin. “Or make you beg louder. Or shake so bad you forget what planet you’re on.”

You whimpered, the sound caught halfway between arousal and disbelief. He was still moving–slow, hypnotic thrusts of his fingers, shallow and wet, punctuated by the brush of his palm against your clit.

“I could do it again,” He offered, voice molten silk. “Right now. Just like this.”

You moaned, legs twitching under him, your nails digging into his back–into smoke and shadow that somehow felt like flesh.

“Or,” He continued, pulling back just enough to let you see the tilt of his grin–wolfish, dark, almost giddy with the hunt. “We could go deeper.”

His free hand slipped between your bodies, trailing down.

You followed his gaze down to where his other hand was reaching–toward the shadow that made up his lower half, that strange blend of form and nothingness, unreal and solid all at once. His fingers curled into it like mist–like he was parting smoke–and then, impossibly, flesh formed. Real. Heavy. Hard.

You gasped, eyes widening, your thighs tightening reflexively.

Because he wasn’t just teasing anymore.

He was becoming, and your breath caught. You felt his fingers slipping out of you.

“I told you,” He purred, watching your face intently, hand now slowly stroking himself to full form. “I’ll let you pretend.”

His hips pressed closer–just enough that you could feel the heat of him, the weight of him, thick and cold against the sensitive inside of your thigh.

“But this part?” He whispered, mouth brushing yours. “This is ours…”

He rutted slowly once against you, just to make you feel it–slick from your own release, heavy where it nestled against your folds. Not inside. Not yet.

“I can make you see stars,” He said, and this time there was something almost reverent in his voice. “But only if you want it.”

You looked at him–at those impossible eyes, that cruel mouth now softened by the barest trace of awe. You swallowed hard, still trembling from the last orgasm that hadn’t quite left your body–and yet, your breath was already quickening again.

Your lips brushed his as you whispered, “Let’s try.”

The moment the words left your mouth, the world seemed to shift.

The Void moved faster than thought–one moment he was kneeling over you like a storm, the next he was lifting you effortlessly into the air, your body limp and pliant in his cold hands. He cradled you with ease, his strength vast but controlled, like gravity bent to his will. And then he sat.

Pulling you into his lap.

You landed straddling him, thighs trembling as you folded around him, knees bent on either side of his hips, his chest flush against yours. It was an impossible contrast–intimate, meditative, sacred–and yet soaked in power, in shadow, in lust. Your legs wrapped around him, feet tucked behind his back, body completely enveloped in his. His arms cradled your waist, his hands spanning your lower back and hips like they were made to hold you this way. The cool weight of his cock pulsed against your core–thick and solid now, slick from your arousal and his own precum, perfectly aligned with your entrance. But before he moved–he looked at you.

Really looked.

Glowing eyes drank in your flushed cheeks, your sweat-slicked skin, your trembling lips. Then, one hand reached up–slowly, reverently–and gripped the hem of your nightshirt.

“Off,” He murmured.

You raised your arms, and he pulled it over your head with one smooth motion dropping it off the side of the bed.

His breath–if it could be called that–hitched. Visibly. Audibly.

He stared like he hadn’t just undressed you–but like he’d uncovered something holy. His palms rose reverently to your chest, cool thumbs brushing softly over your nipples before flattening his hands to feel the curve and weight of you. You gasped, arching slightly, the contrast of his chill against your overheated skin enough to make your breath falter.

Then–he leaned in.

And sank his teeth into the soft underside of your breast.

Not hard. But deliberate. A nip that sent shockwaves down your spine, followed by the cold, wet drag of his tongue as he licked over the mark he left behind. And then he sucked. Deep. Long. Obsessive. His mouth sealed over your skin with a hunger that made your thighs clench tighter around his hips.

Another kiss. Another bite. Another bruise left behind like a brand.

His voice, muffled against your chest, purred, “You’re mine for tonight…But I want you wearing me for days…”

His hands gripped your hips, adjusting the angle of your body until the head of his cock slid against your folds–slow, teasing friction that sent a tremble rolling through you both.

He rutted upward once–just enough to make your breath catch and your slick spread over him in a glossy smear. He groaned softly, dragging the thick head of himself over your clit and down again, never breaching–just letting the sensation throb between you.

“Feel that?” He asked, his lips brushing your nipple before he kissed it again–wet and possessive. “You’re making me this hard… Just by looking like this. Crying like that. And you still haven’t taken me inside.”

You whimpered, shivering against him, your forehead pressed to his shoulder.

He pulled back–his hands trailing along your sides until one gripped your ass, fingers spreading the flesh like he owned it, while the other slid up your spine and settled flat against your back. Cold. Claiming.

Then, his mouth curved into something wicked at your ear.

“I’m gonna fuck you now, sweetheart,” He whispered, voice dark silk, low and promising. “Nice and slow. Let you feel every inch sink in while I hold you like this–while I make you forget who you were before I touched you.”Your body responded before your words could. Your hips rolled forward–seeking. Inviting.

He smiled.

And helped you lower yourself.

You gasped–both of you did–as the head of him breached your entrance. You felt him twitch against your fluttering walls as he pushed in, inch by inch, thick and ice-slick and infinite. The stretch was sharp, hot despite his coldness, and your fingernails bit into his shoulders as you buried your face in the crook of his neck.

“Fuck—” he choked, his voice breaking for the first time. His hand on your back raked downward–fingertips dragging along your spine like he was trying to anchor himself to your heat. “You’re so—tight. So wet. It’s like—fuck, it’s like drowning in fire…”

He sank in deeper, inch by inch, until your thighs trembled and your moan broke open against his skin.

His mouth pressed to your temple, to your jaw, to your shoulder–his lips and teeth grazing every part of you he could reach as he bottomed out, his cock fully sheathed inside you.

One hand held you at the base of your spine, the other gripping your ass tight, grounding you as you both breathed through it.

“I’ve waited eons to feel this,” He whispered, kissing the tear-tracks on your cheeks as your bodies finally stilled–locked together, shaking, throbbing, full. He just held you there–trembling, locked around him like your body had been sculpted for this exact moment. You could feel every inch of him inside you, feel how he throbbed cold and thick against the fluttering pulse of your inner walls. Your forehead was pressed against his shoulder, your breath stuttering in and out of your lungs as your body adjusted to the invasion, to the way he filled every aching space inside you.

Then his hand slid higher–up your spine, over your shoulder, until it gripped the back of your neck.

“Lift your head,” He commanded, voice dark silk wrapped around barbed wire.

You obeyed without thinking, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes.

“More,” He growled. “I want that pretty throat bared for me.”

You arched your neck–slow, trembling, exposing the vulnerable column of your throat to him. The movement made your body shift around him, made your inner muscles clench, and he groaned like it took effort not to slam into you.

“God, look at you,” he whispered, reverent now–hungry. “So obedient. So fucking beautiful like this…”

Then he leaned in–and dragged his teeth down your exposed neck, going to the little space right where your jugular notch is, the soft dip where the mark would be hidden beneath a shirt.

His bite sent lightning down your spine–sharp, claiming, undeniable. You cried out, arching into it, your hips shifting involuntarily around the thick stretch of him still buried inside you. And then his mouth lifted from your skin, and his voice rasped against your throat—ragged now, edged with something more dangerous than control.

“I’m going to leave a mark there,” he growled. “Where only I will know. Where he will never dare to look.”

And then his hand–still braced at the back of your neck–scraped down your spine.

His nails weren’t blunt. Not human. They dragged like talons, cold and precise, raking over your skin in slow, deliberate lines. You gasped–half in pain, half in stunned, coiling pleasure–as red-hot welts bloomed in their wake. Your back arched, offering more, shivering for more, even as your throat formed a soundless whimper.

“You feel that?” The Void purred, voice low and taunting. “That’s not his touch. Bob could never do this to you.”

Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, nails digging into the slick cold of his not-skin.

And then, you said it.

“Bob…”

You felt the growl before you heard it. A deep, guttural noise vibrated from his chest and into yours. His hands snapped to your hips, fingers digging hard into your flesh as he slammed up into you–one hard, vicious thrust that ripped a sob from your lips.

“Say it again,” He hissed. “Say it while I fuck you like he never will.”

“Bob—” You moaned, desperate, wrecked.

He thrust again. Harder. Sharper. The sound of your bodies colliding echoed off the walls.

“Say it like you mean it,” He snarled, thrusting so deep your breath left your lungs.

“Fuck—Bob, yes—”

His rhythm turned brutal–deliberate and punishing, like he wanted to carve himself into your memory one thrust at a time. His grip on your hips tightened until it bordered on bruising, dragging you down to meet every savage snap of his hips.

But you weren’t passive.

You moved with him.

Clawing at his back. Grinding down. Letting your lips ghost over his neck, whispering, “You’d never touch me like this if you were really him.”

He froze. Just for a second.

And you took it.

You rolled your hips, grinding down, deep and slow—until he moaned.

His grip faltered. Just a touch.

And you smiled—broken, breathless, wild.

“You hate it, don’t you?” You gasped into his ear. “That I’m still thinking of him. That even while you’re inside me, I want his hands.”

The Void snapped.

He flipped you again, this time with no gentleness, slamming you down onto your back and dragging your legs wide around his waist. His hands pinned your wrists above your head, and he drove into you with a snarl.

“Say his name again, and I’ll make sure you never stop shaking,” He growled, hips rutting into yours with devastating force.

“Bob—” You cried out, defiant and desperate.

And he fucked you harder.

Flesh and smoke. Fire and ice. The rhythm of him was relentless now–like he wanted to break you open and live inside the pieces.

His hand released your wrists only to grab your throat, tilting your face toward his as he hovered above you, his glowing eyes wild and endless.

“I could make you forget who he even is,” He rasped. “I could fuck you so deep you only remember me.”

You moaned beneath him, arching up, mouth open and shaking.

But your whisper cut sharper than any scream.

“Then why do you still wear his face?”

He froze.

The Void’s eyes flared–bright and blinding, rage and lust and something else fracturing through them.

Then he slammed into you.

And again.

And again.

No words. Just motion. Just force.

You cried out–louder now–legs wrapped around his waist, arms clawing at his back as he fucked you like he wanted to erase you.

And all you could do was sob his name–

“Bob—Bob—Bob—”

Until the only thing left between you was ruin. You couldn’t tell where the line was anymore–between pain and pleasure, between him and Bob, between your own cries and the desperate slap of skin against skin as he drove himself into you, unrelenting, and grinding. The bed rocked beneath you, headboard thudding rhythmically against the wall, and your fingers gripped the sheets like they were your last tether to this world.

His body–cold and massive and utterly inhuman–pinned you to the mattress, his cock grinding against your cervix with merciless precision. You were gasping. Choking. Drowning in the force of him, and still, you begged.

“More—please, more—”

His hand released your throat only to slide up, gripping your jaw and forcing you to meet his eyes. You couldn’t look away–not from those twin galaxies of void-light, those pale endless pits that saw everything.

And still, you moaned, “Bob—”

Something inside him snapped.

His mouth crashed into yours–devouring. Teeth and tongue and cold, silken fury. He kissed you like he wanted to brand you from the inside. Like he wanted to replace every soft memory of the man you loved with something brutal and monstrous.

And you let him.

You felt his hand slide between your bodies, slick with sweat and your own release, and then his thumb was on your clit again–pressing, circling, wrecking. It was too much. Too much.

“Come again,” He growled, breath ragged now. “Come while I’m inside you. Come while you scream his name.”

You tried to fight it. Tried to last.

But your body betrayed you.

Your back arched, a broken sound clawing out of your throat as your walls seized around him–tight, wet, desperate. The world fractured. Your vision went white. Your soul splintered.

And you screamed.

“BOB—!”

The Void shuddered–his whole body jerking above you like he felt that cry inside him. He snarled against your mouth, hips snapping once, twice—and then he came with a sound like a god falling.

He didn’t moan.

He groaned, deep and guttural, his cock twitching violently as he spilled inside you–cold and endless, filling you with something that didn’t feel like seed, but like starlight and sorrow and shadow. You felt it in your bones, like he was pouring the universe into you, and you were too full to hold it all.

You lay there–limp, splayed, twitching beneath him. Your thighs trembling, your chest heaving, your voice cracked to nothing. His body slumped over yours–heavy despite the fact that he wasn’t entirely real. His mouth pressed against your temple, breathless and cold.

For a moment, there was no sound.

Only the echo of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Then–

He kissed you.

Soft this time. A brush of lips over sweat-damp skin. Reverent. Almost… mournful.

“I felt it,” He whispered, voice raw, his hand smoothing up your ribs, cradling your side. “When you said his name.”

You swallowed–barely able to lift your head.

“I know you wanted it to be him,” He murmured. “But I made you come like that.”

Your chest rose and fell beneath him, still trying to catch your breath. He shifted–still inside you–grinding just once more, like he wanted to remind you of who had taken you.

“I made you cry. I filled you up. And when you’re lying awake tomorrow, remembering how your body shook around me, how your thighs wouldn’t stop trembling–I want you to remember that it was me. Not him.”

Your eyes fluttered–dazed. But you didn’t fight him.

You didn’t correct him.

His body finally softened, pulling back slightly. His hands cupped your face again–his fingers gentle now, brushing hair from your damp forehead. His glow was dimmer. Quieter. Like a storm that had passed.

“You’ll wake up in a few hours,” He said softly. “And this will feel like a dream.”

You blinked.

He leaned in–kissed the corner of your mouth.

“But your body will remember.”

Then he was gone.

Just like that.

Vanished into the shadow he’d emerged from, the cold lifting from the room like a ghost fleeing dawn.

And you lay there alone–aching, shaking, legs still parted, chest still rising in broken little gasps.

Your bed was wet with sweat. Your throat burned.

Your lips still tingled.

And between your thighs–you could feel him. The stretch. The soreness. The echo of every thrust, every word, every impossible truth.

And worse–

The only name in your mouth…

Was Bob.

——————————

The room stayed cold even after he was gone. The shadows thinned, but they didn’t leave—not entirely. Not the way you needed them to. Not the way your body needed to pretend they hadn’t coiled around you and taken.

You stayed in the bed for a while–numb, ruined, staring at the ceiling while your breath evened out in small, ragged hiccups. The sheets were tangled around your thighs, soaked with sweat and something colder. Your legs ached. Your throat was raw. Your lips still felt the press of his.

Eventually, you sat up. Slow. Careful. Your body protested with every movement. Your thighs trembled when they parted. The ache between your legs was still sharp. Deep. Your skin pulled tight across your spine where the claw marks lay–raised and hot, stinging in the silence.

You didn’t bother covering yourself. There was no one in the room. No one to hide from. No one but yourself.

So you stood.

Naked.

Shaking.

And walked toward the bathroom.

The ensuite light was harsh when it flickered on. Your eyes burned as they adjusted. You blinked a few times, reached out with a trembling hand, and braced yourself against the edge of the sink.

Then you looked up.

The mirror didn’t lie.

Your neck was littered with marks–some small, like whispers of bruises blooming beneath your skin. Others were deeper. More deliberate. A bite just above your collarbone, swollen and red, already darkening. Scratches raked across your shoulder blades. Finger-shaped bruises on your hips.

And lower…

You pressed your thighs together. A slow throb pulsed between them. Not just soreness. Memory.

You stared at yourself for a long time. Chest rising and falling. Eyes wide and hollow. A stranger’s reflection wrapped in the echo of your own desire.

And then you turned the water on.

You didn’t wash like someone scrubbing sin away. You didn’t cry beneath the stream. There were no cinematic gasps or moments of clarity.

You just showered.

Quietly.

Efficiently.

Water warm. Hands gentle. You cleaned yourself like someone who knew there was no washing him out. Not really. His fingerprints were inside you now. Beneath the surface. Carved into your bones like frost.

You stepped out twenty minutes later. Toweled off. Dressed in the softest pair of sweatpants you owned and an oversized sweater that used to belong to Bucky–you wore it on days where you were feeling down. You weren’t sure if today qualified.

Your hair was damp. Your neck stung. Your thighs still trembled when you walked.

But you opened the door anyway.

You stepped out into the hallway.

The early morning compound light was a pale gold, spilling through the windows like it always did. You could hear coffee brewing in the common kitchen. The low murmur of Ava and Walker arguing over cereal. The sound of normal.

You walked forward, bare feet silent against the cool floor, your breath caught in your throat–

And then you saw him.

Bob.

Standing a few feet away. Slouched against the hallway wall in flannel pajama pants and a black hoodie, a mug in one hand, the other rubbing at his tired eyes. His hair was messy, cowlicked from sleep. His expression soft and bleary, like he’d just woken up.

He looked up at you.

And smiled.

Gentle.

Warm.

Untouched.

“Morning,” he said softly, nodding at you.

Like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t been inside you just hours ago. Like he hadn’t made you scream his name until your voice gave out. Like he didn’t still live inside the stretch of your aching body.

Your mouth opened.

But you didn’t say anything.

You just nodded back.

“Morning.”

He walked past you with another sleepy smile, mumbling something about getting more coffee, and disappeared around the corner.

And you stood there, alone in the hallway, wrapped in a sweater two sizes too big, your thighs still sticky from the night before–

Wondering how long it would be before you stopped pretending it had been a dream.

Or if you even wanted to.

HOLY SHIT I NEED THIS TATTOOED ON THE INSIDE OF MY EYELIDS SO I CAN REREAD IT EVERY MOMENT OF MY LIFE

Detonate

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

Summary: Move in day is happening at the Thunderbolts/New Avengers Compound, and Bob is having a hard time dealing with the changes.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Angst, Smut, and Fluff (the triforce of fun!), Reader and Bob are very close friends, Bob is still coming down from the Sentry medical trial he went through (going through a bit of a rough time), Bob is nervous and a bit scarred, but he’s super comfortable with the reader, they’re very close.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex, Bob is a darn yearner in this (but that’s just how it is), would I say this is hot hot sex? Yeah. Oral (fem receiving), Fingering, Hair Pulling, Body Worship (like in general), Praise Kink on full display here, Overstimulation Kink, Cock Warming (kind of…The vibes are there lol)

Author’s Note: This was a request made by an anon, I did kinda insert smut in this but I thought it kinda fit nicely into the landscape of the story! I hope everyone enjoys it! It’s a long one!

Word Count: 22,288 (holy fuck)

“Okay! Car is packed! You sure you got everything, Bob?” You asked, straightening up from where you’d just wrestled your final duffel bag into the trunk, the zipper half-stuck from being too full. A strand of hair clung to your cheek in the early morning heat, and you swiped it away with the back of your hand. The hatch creaked shut with a groan of protest– and your poor car was now packed to the brim with what felt like your entire life.

Labeled boxes overflowing with tech gear, your clothes crammed into vacuum-sealed bags that had slowly started to reinflate. Half a dozen posters rolled into tubes. A shoebox full of knick knacks, mismatched cords, and pins from old missions. And of course, the plastic bin of tangled charging cables that had somehow followed you from dorms to safehouses to apartments since 2020 without ever being untangled.

You turned, squinting into the sun, and found Bob exactly where he’d been standing for the last five minutes–rooted by the passenger door like he wasn’t quite sure he was allowed to get in yet.

His hoodie sleeves were tugged down past his wrists, hands fidgeting near the frailed seams of it. His hair was still a little damp at the edges from his shower, and the morning light caught in the light brown locks that draped around his face, framing it and caressing it so nicely it was as if someone was holding his cheeks.

At his feet sat two cardboard boxes and that was it.

One was a store-bought shipping box, pristine and almost too clean, like it hadn’t been lived in yet. The other was older, more worn, marked in thick black Sharpie with your handwriting: Books for Bob.

He gave a sheepish shrug, his voice small.

“D-Didn’t really have m-much to bring. Just had those t-two boxes, remember?”

You paused.

It wasn’t the first time he’d said something like that. Not the first time he’d gestured vaguely to the corner of your shared living space with that soft, self-deprecating shrug–two boxes and a borrowed life. But it still hit you low and hard in the chest, like it always did, because he wasn’t being dramatic.

That really was all he had.

Two boxes.

One was filled with clothes you’d helped him pick out on a quiet Tuesday afternoon, just a week after he’d admitted–haltingly, almost ashamed–that the threadbare scrubs Valentina gave him weren’t actually his. Just something someone had tossed his way after the Void incident, like a temporary name tag slapped on a stranger. You’d taken him shopping that day not because he asked, but because you noticed. Because the way he tugged at his sleeves and kept checking if his shirt covered the scars on his wrists said more than any words ever could.

The other box…Well, it hadn’t started out as his. The books inside were yours. Dog-eared, tea-stained, a few with notes scrawled in the margins. But slowly–so slowly you almost didn’t notice–they’d migrated across the apartment. From your nightstand to the coffee table. From the coffee table to the arm of the couch. Until they found a home at the far end of the sectional, right next to the blanket he always folded the same way and the chipped mug he used whether it was clean or not.

That corner had become his sanctuary.

He didn’t say much when he read–just curled in on himself, long legs tucked up beneath him, blanket pulled over his knees, tea going cold in his hands while the soft lamplight pooled around his shoulders. He read them again and again, like the words were anchors. Like they reminded him that he existed. That he was still here. Still allowed to take up space.

And every time he said it–this is all I have–you felt the weight of how much he meant it.

And how badly you wanted to give him more.

Because you remembered the day where you agreed to take him in.

Not in the vague, hazy way people recall calendar events or checkmarks on a to-do list–but in the bone-deep, clear-cut way that memories get branded when they’re born from moments that matter.

It had been the night after the last press conference. The final gauntlet of public statements, forced smiles, and tightly controlled answers. Cameras flashing. Journalists circling like vultures around roadkill. Words like “recovery,” “reform,” and “containment” were getting tossed around like they meant something, like they could undo what The Void had done in New York.

And through it all, Bob had stood just behind Valentina’s shoulder–silent, unmoving, eyes glassy like he was watching it all from underwater. Like his body was there, but he wasn’t.

When the cameras finally shut off and the world stopped demanding things from him, it was like watching a puppet go slack. His shoulders caved. His posture buckled. Whatever thin thread that had been holding him together snapped the moment no one was looking.

Then, for the first time in what felt like weeks, the team finally had the opportunity to sit down and talk. No comms in their ears. No missions ticking like time bombs in the background. Just silence, pure uninterrupted attention, and a problem that none of you had the answer for.

Bob was still in the compound, still alive and kicking, but he was barely present. He spoke in short bursts, when prompted, and gave mechanical answers–like he was on a scripted loop with a shaky voice. His eyes never focused on the person in front of him. He ate only when someone put something in his hands, and even then, it was minimal–just enough to pass as functioning. Barely enough to keep him upright. He slept too much for days on end, then not at all for a stretch so long that the medical aides started whispering about sedatives again.

He hadn’t even been given a proper room, he was just tucked-away in a corner bed in the medical wing, hidden behind a curtain that never fully closed. The air in there always smelled antiseptic and medicinal in a nauseating way. The lights were always buzzing faintly, like they needed to be replaced but nobody would do it. And the nurses assigned to check in on him swapped out too fast for him to learn anyone’s name.

You had passed by his bed once that morning, and you had caught him sitting upright with the sleeves of his scrubs tugged down over his hands, staring blankly at the white wall. His tray of food was untouched, and the plastic fork had been snapped in half.

And because of you Valentina called that meeting.

The conference room was too cold and too bright, the overhead fluorescents were a jarring contrast to the hollow, silent fatigue hanging in the air. You sat near the end of the long, mahogany conference table, with a dull ache still pulsing under your ribs–healing fractures from fighting the Sentry that hadn’t quite fused. Every time you shifted in your seat, the pain reminded you of why you weren’t on active rotation anymore, and why you were the only one not running logistics or field reports.

Valentina stood at the head of the table with her clipboard. Yelena paced around because she couldn’t keep still, sharp eyes flicking toward the window every few seconds because she thought something was going to fly through it. Bucky leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw clenched–stone-faced, but simmering beneath because he had other things to do and this was just another thing he needed to deal with. Walker was on edge, a spitfire as you would call him, always loaded up with something to say, but for once, he kept his mouth shut. Ava stood beside you in total silence, and Alexei…Well, even he had stopped trying to lighten the mood, because he knew how serious the situation had become.

The air was thick, and palpable, heavy with everything that was unspoken between the group. Everyone was waiting for someone else to offer a solution.

Because the homing of Bob Reynolds–The Sentry, The Void–was a question none of you knew how to answer.

Until you said it…

”I’ll take him.”

The words slipped out before you’d fully thought them through, though you had been mulling it over for a bit.

The room had gone still in those moments, and Valentina’s eyes lifted from her clipboard to look at you, she seemed caught off guard that you were willing to take him in–especially after all he had done.

You could feel Yelena stop pacing behind you, the sudden absence of motion louder than her footsteps.

”I’ve got the space,” You said, quieter now, “And I’m not on active rotation right now because of…Y’know…” You gestured vaguely to your side, where your ribs were still taped under your shirt, “So I can keep an eye on him until the Tower’s ready. Just a few weeks. It’ll give him some place quieter and less…Sterile.”

For a moment, nobody responded, it was as if you had sucked all the air out of the room like a vacuum seal.

Then Bucky gave you a slow, almost unrecognized nod.

Yelena muttered something under her breath in Russian that you were pretty sure meant “Of course it’d be you.”

Valentina tilted her head and scribbled something onto her notes without comment.

Walker shifted like he wanted to object, but thought better of it.

And everyone else…Had nothing better to offer up, so they had to agree to it.

That night, when you pushed open the curtain to the medical wing, you found Bob was already awake.

He was sitting on the edge of the cot, motionless, elbows balanced on his knees, hands limp between them like they’d forgotten how to hold anything. His hoodie–one he must’ve asked for or found from the pile of clothes Valentina handed him weeks ago–was bunched at the wrists, the frayed threads twisted around his fingers. He hadn’t put the hood up, but his hair had fallen over his face in soft, uneven strands, just enough to shadow his eyes.

He wasn’t looking at anything. Not the wall, not the bed. Just…Out. Like the space in front of him was wide open, endless, and empty.

You stepped in quietly. No sudden moves. Just a presence, steady and real.

“Hey,” You said, your voice a hush in the too-bright room.

His head lifted a little. Not all the way. But just enough for you to catch a flicker of blue under the fall of his hair. You took a few steps closer, not touching, but close enough that your presence could be felt in the air between you.

“Thought you might want to get out of here.” He didn’t speak, didn’t nod. But he didn’t shrink away either. His gaze found yours–and for a second, just a second, you saw the faintest crack in the fog.

“I–I don’t…” He started, voice barely audible, rough like it had been unused for too long. “I don’t know w-where to go.” You felt your heart swell slightly, hearing the way he croaked out the words, how timid he sounded, how scared he was.

”You’ll be coming with me just for a little while…Until the Tower’s ready.” You explained softly, keeping your distance still. You could see his jaw tighten, and he shook his head.

”I–I can’t…What if…What if he comes back?” His voice cracked on he. It was barely a whisper, thick with dread and self-loathing.

And your heart fractured a little at the way he said it–not like a warning, but a confession. Like he believed The Void was a thing still inside him, curled in the corner of his chest, waiting to be let out. Like he believed he wasn’t safe.

”Well,” You started, voice quiet but sure, “Then I guess we’ll just have to figure it out. Hmm?” You let the words hang there–soft but certain. It wasn’t a dismissal, nor a sugar-coated promise, it was just a truth from you to him.

And then you held out your hand.

Not quickly. Not dramatically. Just…Open. Steady. Waiting.

It was a gesture to show you weren’t afraid of him or his touch. You weren’t bracing for him to break something or bolt or pull away. You simply stood there with your palm outstretched, and your eyes on his.

It took him a second to truly process what was happening, but then, with the hesitance of a person who was afraid of themselves, he reached out and wrapped his boiling hot hand around yours. You immediately gave it a small squeeze of reassurance, and gave him the warmest smile you could muster.

And that’s how it all began.

The first few days weren’t quiet.

They were full of soft noises, background ones–drawers opening, kettle whistling, the low static of the TV at night. Bob didn’t talk much those first couple of days, but he hovered around you, and he listened when you would talk to yourself. You never pushed for conversation, you just offered him space, and food…Lot’s of it.

You hadn’t realized how deeply the Sentry serum had affected him until the end of day one, when you caught him standing in front of your open fridge like he was looking into a portal.

”Are you hungry?” You asked, causing him to jump ten feet into the air–literally–with guilt flashing through his expression.

“I–I didn’t want to ask, I–I know we just ate two hours ago…I–I just…I’m starving. It feels like my stomach is e-eating itself…I–It really hurts.” Your brain immediately jumped to the conclusion that his metabolism had gone haywire after the serum, which caused him to have this unresolved hunger–you couldn’t imagine the pain he had been experiencing throughout the time in the medical wing of the compound, especially with food that was not too appetizing. So in an instant you were there to help, shuffling around him to look into the abyss that was your fridge, grabbing a stack of Tupperware and piling them onto the kitchen island.

“Let’s get you something to eat then…” He had pasta, leftover chicken and rice, cold soup, some roasted vegetables, and half a loaf of bread.

He ate and ate and ate and you sat nearby, flipping idly through your phone but mostly just watching him out of the corner of your eye. He wasn’t rushing, it was just a constant conveyor belt of his fork travelling to his mouth. His hands didn’t tremble–but his shoulders stayed tense, like he was waiting for you to tell him to stop.

You didn’t though…You just kept refilling his water and asking if he wanted anything else.

By the time he finished his second bowl of rice and reached sheepishly for the rest of your peanut butter with a spoon, you knew what the rest of the week would look like.

Thankfully Val had given you her credit card, because you had restocked the fridge twice in four days, and he apologized every time you brought a new bag of groceries inside the apartment.

“You’re not eating too much,” You said flatly on day three, unloading yogurt and apples and protein bars onto the counter while he slowly restocked the fridge, looking guilty, “Your body’s catching up, just let it.” You added. He bit the inner part of his cheek.

“But–“

”Bob.” You interrupted gently, giving him one of your looks, the one that encompassed all the words of reassurance. He stopped and nodded, surrendering.

Though he still apologized the very next morning when he finished all your maple cinnamon oatmeal–which had eight packs left last time you had checked.

By the end of the first week, the fog started to lift–just enough for you to really notice the change.

You had caught him lingering in the hallway after his first night of catching two full hours of uninterrupted sleep. He looked confused and unsure. Like he didn’t know what to do with the energy that began to vibrate through him again. Like he was afraid that if he overdid himself things would happen again.

So you handed him a basket of laundry and asked if he wanted to help, and almost in an instant he took the offer. It was an easy pastime, and he didn’t mind helping you, especially with everything you had been doing for him.

By the second week, you finally managed to drag him to Target in the early hours of the morning–when there wouldn’t be chaos, or crowds, just the hum of employees and muffled pop music.

The mission was to get him some clothes. Just an array of hoodies, sweatshirts, sweatpants, boxers and undershirts, and of course socks. He didn’t ask for any of it, but you had guided him aisle by aisle, nudging his elbow to encourage him to pick out whatever he wanted.

Once you reached the bath and body care section you helped him pick through scents.

”Get what you want,” You said, “Do you like lavender? Mint? Vanilla?” He shrugged, popping one of the caps open to sniff, before returning it to the shelf. He ended up picking one that reminded him of your conditioner–a mix of coconut oil, sage, and grapefruit.

You didn’t call him out on it, but he knew you noticed just by the smirk that came up on your lips, and how you gently bumped shoulders with him on the way to checkout.

That week, he finally showered alone.

The week prior, you had to sit on the floor of the washroom with your back turned towards the door, and knees drawn up to your chest. You listened to him closely, and heard him take shaking breaths behind the curtain as the steam curled around you.

When he asked you to stay in the washroom with him he knew it was an awkward request, but you listened intently to his reasoning, even though you had already made up your mind to do it regardless. If it helped him, the awkwardness was secondary to you.

”I don’t w-want to be alone…I’m afraid I’ll…I’ll see him…W-Whatever I was.” And you had been there every time, until day eleven, when he said he wanted to try to be on his own. You gave him that privacy, and closed the door. He came out fifteen minutes later, wrapped in the towels you had left on the radiator smelling like a whole citrus section in a grocery store.

By the third week, the apartment smelled like lemon zest and something faintly burning at least once a day.

You had started waking up to the faint clatter of mixing bowls and the low creak of cabinet doors. The first time it happened, you walked into the kitchen at 2:43 in the morning, to find Bob standing at the stove barefoot, sleeves rolled up, squinting at a dog-eared page in one of your long-forgotten cookbooks,

You startled him when you padded in.

”S–Sorry–I didn’t mean to wake y-you,” He whispered, glancing over his shoulder, “I–I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d try s-something.” You looked at the mess—sugar scattered across the counter, a cracked egg leaking beside a whisk, flour dusting the air like snowfall. It should’ve felt chaotic, but it didn’t. It felt like motion. Like healing, somehow.

“Want company?” You asked, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes with your knuckles.

He hesitated for only a second before giving you a tiny, grateful nod.

That happened again the next night.

And the one after.

He made banana pancakes at 1 a.m., grilled cheese at 3:00, and once attempted a souffle with comically disastrous results.

Eventually, you offered a different solution.

“How about we try watching a boring movie instead?” You asked as he stood in the living room one night, holding a bowl of half-mixed muffin batter. “Might help wind your brain down a bit more than cooking and baking.” He pursed his lips, looked down at the bowl, then back up at you.

”…O-Okay.”

You didn’t put on anything exciting, just some old obscure movie. It was the kind of film where nothing really happens, you didn’t need to observe and you certainly didn’t have to pay attention to it.

Bob settled onto the couch beside you, knees tucked up, arms wrapped loosely around them.

Halfway through, his head started to dip sideways.

You felt the soft weight of it first–hesitant but real–when he let it rest on your lap.

You froze. Not because it startled you, but because it meant something. The trust in that gesture was palpable. Heavy.

His hair, now finally growing out in soft, tousled waves, was thick and slightly uneven—darker at the roots, lighter where the sun had kissed it through your windows. A little unkempt, curling faintly behind his ears. You let your fingers hover over it for a second, unsure…

Then you touched him.

Gently.

You threaded your fingers into the locks at the crown of his head, letting your nails lightly scratch his scalp, slow and rhythmic. He didn’t pull away.

He sighed.

A soft, long exhale. And then–you felt it happen.

His breathing evened out. His shoulders softened. The tension in his jaw unclenched. He didn’t just rest his head on your lap–he slept.

It was the first time he’d truly let go.

The first time he’d let you hold him without flinching from the weight of being seen.

You stayed there for hours, barely moving, running your fingers gently through his hair while the muted light from the screen flickered across his cheekbones.

You didn’t dare wake him.

The next morning, you didn’t mention it.

Neither did he.

But something had shifted. A soft, invisible thing between you. A comfort that didn’t need words.

And when the email finally came through a few days later–Tower’s ready. Moving in next Friday–he was the one who walked into the kitchen holding a roll of tape and a stack of folded boxes.

“I can help you pack,” He said, and you let him.

Now after the weeks bonding with him you found yourselves in front of the car staring at the boxes that had defined his stay with you. You shrugged and opened the passenger door for him.

“Well, now you’ve also got the car full of my chaos to babysit with your boxes,” You teased, “Congratulations, you’ve been promoted to co-pilot-slash-box guardian.” Bob blushed at your comment and shook his head, stepping into the car with ease as you handed him both of his boxes.

“A-At least the ride is only half an hour. P-Please don’t drive like a m-maniac.” He commented, watching you place a hand on your chest, feigning offence.

”I follow the rules of the road…It’s everyone else’s fault that I have to drive the way I do.”

——————

The Tower loomed like a monument to a future neither of you were quite ready for yet.

All glass and steel, the building glittered in the late morning sun–its reflection cutting across the sky line in clean, perfect angles. The closer you drove, the more you felt the tension shift in the air. A pressure. Something expectant. It was the kind of silence that clings to the edge of change.

The security gate recognized your plates on approach, and the barrier lifted with a hiss, allowing you to pull into the underground parking garage that smelled like burning concrete. Your tires glided across the laneway, as you found your assigned spot–Bay 21A, right beneath the elevator hub.

With straight precision you backed into the spot, putting it between the lines perfectly without cheating–Bob liked challenging you by covering the screen that showed the footage of your review cameras, and every time you somehow managed to impress him with your pure skill of parking like an expert.

You let out a soft sigh and cut the engine, letting the silence envelop the car completely.

Bob sat quietly in the passenger seat, picking at the lid of one of the boxes in his lap. He was nervous to see everyone again–he had told you that multiple times when he was helping you roll up your posters in your room–and every time he said it you tried to reassure him there was nothing to worry about. This was another one of those times where his nerves were coming out to haunt him, along with guilt for what he had done to everyone.

Slowly, you reached over and covered one hand with yours, giving it the faintest squeeze, which brought him out of his trance.

”They’re not expecting anything from you,” You said quietly, “You being there is enough…Okay?” He nodded once, but didn’t look at you. His gaze was locked on the glossy dashboard, eyes wide with the kind of dread that sinks its claws in and pretends to be logic. You gave him a moment, then gently opened your door.

The air in the underground garage was cooler than the heat outside, but still held the faint echo of gasoline and ozone. You circled the car, popping the trunk and pulling out the first set of bags while Bob slowly emerged on the other side with his boxes in his arms. You could feel his nerves in the way he hovered, shifting his weight from foot to foot, watching you slowly empty your trunk and mentally checking off the things that you labeled.

Bob crouched down carefully, setting his two boxes on the smooth concrete with a quiet thud. You didn’t even have to ask what he was doing—because you already knew. It was in the set of his shoulders, the way he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows with precise movements, knuckles cracking once like a silent warm-up. You arched a brow as you slung one of your overstuffed bags onto the ground beside him.

“You’re gonna try to carry all of it, aren’t you?” He gave you a small, sheepish look as he reached for the nearest vacuum sealed bag.

“J-Just want to get it done in one trip…I-I can handle it.”

You didn’t doubt that he could. You’d seen what he was capable of–really capable of–once.

It had been during your second week together, when he’d sneezed of all things. A completely ordinary, human, unremarkable sneeze. But when he braced his palm against the edge of the counter, you heard the wood crack. Split straight down to the support beam. The look on his face afterward had been sheer horror. He apologized for an hour. Then he avoided touching anything solid for the rest of the day.

He hadn’t used his strength since.

Not until now.

You watched silently as he lined up the boxes like a game of cautious engineering. He braced your backpack against the top of the stack with his knee, then reached for the plastic bin full of tangled cords. You winced.

“You’re gonna throw your back out before we even get to the lobby,” You muttered, crouching beside him. But when you reached for one of the smaller bags, he stopped you with a gentle touch to your wrist.

“I got it.” He said firmly, with no stammer or nerves. You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Bob…” He didn’t look at you–just adjusted the bin one more time on top of the pile, his arms curling around the whole absurd tower of your combined belongings like it weighed nothing. And maybe it didn’t–not to him.

But the stillness in his face made you pause.

Without thinking, you stepped closer and gently reached out, fingers curling around his jaw to turn his face toward you. He resisted at first, a quiet kind of resistance–not physical, but instinctual. Like he didn’t want to be looked at too closely. But he didn’t stop you either. His eyes were closed tightly, as if he was shielding something from you.

“Hey,” You said softly, thumb brushing just beneath the sharp line of his cheekbone. “Open your eyes.”

He let out a soft sigh and blinked, once.

The gold shimmered faintly through the blue–just a soft hue, like the sun glinting off metal buried under water. You smiled, small and knowing, a breath of fond exasperation curling from your lips.

“Knew it,” You murmured, tracing the warmth of his cheekbone gently, “You better shake the gold outta those eyes before the elevator doors open, or Yelena’s gonna throw a knife at you on instinct.” He huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been nerves. But it was something. And then he nodded, clutching the tower of boxes tighter as you stepped back and popped the trunk closed with a gentle slam. You locked the car with a chirp, then turned and motioned with your head.

“C’mon, Hercules. Eightieth floor, express ride.” Bob followed you closely, his steps careful but somehow steady beneath the weight of everything he carried. You led the way into the sleek glass elevator at the far end of the garage, pressing your palm against the biometric scanner until the panel lit up green. The numbers climbed on the display, fast and smooth, the elevator doors sliding open to reveal a surprisingly quiet car.

“Eighty,” you said aloud, and the panel blinked in acknowledgement.

The doors closed. The hum of the lift filled the silence.

You glanced over at him. “Still with me?”

“Y-Yeah,” He whispered. “Just…Trying not to break anything.”

“You’re doing great,” You said, and reached out to squeeze his elbow. His knuckles were white around the box edges, but his jaw was unclenched. That was progress.

The numbers blinked in rapid succession, each floor a soft ding that echoed in the space like a countdown. Bob stood beside you, arms wrapped around the towering stack of boxes and bags, the gold in his eyes dimmed now to a whisper. You could feel the nervous energy vibrating off him—not in any visible way, but like static on the skin. His chest rose and fell a little too fast. His fingers shifted to tighten their hold around the base box. You glanced up at him and gave his elbow another quick squeeze.

“Hey,” you murmured, “Deep breath. This isn’t the press room. It’s home…Kind of.”

And then–ding.

EIGHTIETH FLOOR.

The doors slid open.

And chaos hit like a brick wall.

“DUDE, THAT WAS MINE!”

“It was not, I CALLED DIBS!”

“I tagged it with my name!”

“Your name is not ‘BOOG’, Walker, it’s not exactly an ironclad claim!”

The common area was a battlefield of cardboard boxes, scattered shoes, half-assembled IKEA furniture, and rogue throw pillows that looked like they’d been used in an actual skirmish. Somewhere between the couch and the kitchenette, Walker and Ava were tangled in a tug-of-war over a branded coffee machine neither of them had apparently paid for.

Alexei was shirtless, inexplicably, perched on top of the breakfast bar with a screwdriver in his mouth and a kitchen cabinet door in one hand.

Alpine was sitting in the center of the chaos like some smug, unbothered little queen, tail flicking as if supervising the disarray, licking her paws and wiping her face.

Bucky stood a little ways back, arms crossed, eyes scanning the scene like he was trying to calculate how quickly he could disappear before anyone roped him into it. His hair was tied back messily and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, exposing his polished vibranium arm.

Yelena whipped around the corner, sleek boots scuffing across the hardwood, hair cropped into the fluffy bob you remembered but now styled back with deliberate, greasy charm. It looked like she’d stolen a page out of Bucky’s post-pardon playbook: part assassin, part disgruntled congressman. The effect was wildly successful. She froze mid-step the second she saw you.

Her eyes bounced from you to Bob.

To the boxes.

To Bob’s arms.

To Bob’s face.

“…Holy shit,” She muttered.

The noise didn’t die instantly, but it dropped. Just enough for everyone to glance up from their various ridiculous activities and follow her stare.

Ava blinked twice.

Walker’s brows lifted in slow, dramatic awe.

Alexei whispered something in Russian that definitely sounded reverent.

Even Alpine paused her paw licking, like she knew something was off in the room suddenly.

Because Bob Reynolds didn’t look like the man they’d last seen sitting glassy-eyed behind Valentina at that press conference. He didn’t look hollow anymore.

He looked solid. Stronger in more ways than one. It was evident he had been eating well with how broad his shoulders had become. In addition, the group could see the slight confidence in the way he stood beside you–like he wasn’t a disappearing act anymore.

His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows, forearms flexed under the absurd weight of what he carried, jawline more defined, face not quite as sunken in. The faint sun-kissed warmth of his skin, the way his hair curled slightly at the base of his neck from the shower, the steadiness of how he stood–all of it painted a picture none of them were expecting.

Bob stood there frozen for a breath, blinking like the elevator had transported him to another dimension instead of the eighty-fifth floor of the most secure building in the country. The silence that followed was thick, stunned, and oddly reverent.

Then, without fully realizing he was doing it, Bob crouched down and gently eased the tower of boxes to the floor, careful not to drop or jostle a single thing. He took a step back, pushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead, and gave the room the smallest, most hesitant wave imaginable.

“H-Hey,” He said, his voice quieter than it had been all morning. It wasn’t shaky, but it wasn’t loud either–just a soft offering. “Uh…Hi.”

There was a beat of silence before the reaction hit like a slow-building wave.

Walker, never one to play things subtle, gave a long whistle and crossed his arms. “Damn, Y/N has really been feedin’ you, huh?”

“You’ve grown into the size of a house.” Ava muttered, almost in disbelief.

“You look better,” Yelena said simply, “Much better,” Then she paused, a rare smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “We’re glad you’re here Bob.”

“Da,” Alexei added from his perch atop the counter, “We thought you would show up glowing from the eyes shooting laser beams…This is better.” Bucky stepped forward at last, the quiet anchor among the chaos. He met Bob’s gaze evenly.

“You look good, man.” There was no flourish to it. Just truth. And it hit harder than any of the jokes or smirks.

Alpine leapt gracefully off the couch and padded over to Bob like she was the real authority of the floor, circling him once before rubbing up against his leg like she approved. That–more than anything–made Bob let out a shaky little exhale. You saw it in his shoulders. A sliver of tension released.

“I…Th-Thanks,” Bob said softly, pushing his sleeves back down and tugging them past his wrists again. “It’s good to see you guys. I-I didn’t think…you know…”

“We’d all be here together under one roof?” Yelena offered helpfully.

“I was gonna say ‘still like me,’ but–yeah, that too.”

“We’ve all had our Void moments,” Walker said, slinging an arm lazily around Ava’s shoulder, who ducked out from under it immediately. “Just glad you’re back. For real this time.” You gave Bob a small nudge with your elbow, and he glanced at you like he still wasn’t sure if he was dreaming this part. Yelena stepped forward, clapping her hands once.

“Alright, you two. You’re both in the south wing–rooms 804 and 805. Hopefully you two are okay with sharing the washroom.” You snorted softly.

”We’ve been sharing a washroom for the past four weeks, I’m sure we will manage just fine.” Bob’s ears turned pink, but the faint grin tugging at his lips told you he didn’t mind.

The others returned to their chaotic unpacking–Walker trying to assemble a lamp with brute force, Ava muttering about WiFi passwords, Alexei still shirtless for absolutely no reason–and Yelena waved you and Bob off with a lazy salute, “Go get settled!”

You nodded and turned down the hall with Bob trailing just behind you, his eyes darting over the sleek white walls and polished wood trim like it all felt too new to touch. When you reached the south wing, the hallway widened. Soft LED lights glowed inlaid against the baseboards. You reached two adjacent doors labeled 804 and 805.

“This one’s you,” You murmured, thumbing the pad on 804 until the panel clicked green. The door slid open, soundless.

Bob stepped in.

And stopped.

The room was huge. High ceilings stretched up, a soft echo already present in the sterile quiet. White walls. Pale oak flooring. A twin-size mattress resting on a raised platform bed frame with no sheets. A basic black desk and chair in one corner. A minimalist bookshelf built into the wall with three empty shelves, and natural sunlight beaming through the large window panes that lined the walls with a cityscape. That was it.

No color. No lightbulbs warm enough to feel like home. No blankets tossed over couch arms. No ceramic mug sitting on a coaster. No smell of your lemon-ginger tea or vanilla candles. Just newness. Cold and clean and…Blank.

You didn’t miss the way his body language changed. His shoulders didn’t drop. They stayed stiff. His mouth twitched–not with a smile, but with something like confusion and disappointment carefully stitched together.

Because sure he was back, but he’d lost something in the return.

The cozy warmth of your living room–the worn grey sectional with the throw pillows that never matched. The bookshelf bursting with novels stacked sideways and double-layered. The corner where the floor lamp glowed gold at night. The soft scent of cinnamon, lemon, and fresh laundry that clung to the fabric. The hum of your voice talking to yourself in the kitchen while he sat curled under the blanket with a book cracked open across his knees.

This place didn’t have any of that. This place was a reset button. And Bob–after weeks of slow, careful healing–was suddenly standing in an empty room with nothing that looked like it remembered him.

You stepped in beside him quietly.

“You okay?” You asked, voice soft. He nodded, but it was the kind of nod that didn’t carry truth behind it. His eyes were scanning the walls like he was waiting for them to close in.

“It’s just…Quiet,” He said finally. “Too clean…It kind of reminds me of the lab in Malaysia.” You touched his elbow, giving it a gentle stroke, a comforting smile appearing on your face.

“We’ll fix that.” He turned to look at you, brow furrowed, like there was no way that would be possible, “You’ve got your books. Your mugs. The blanket. We’ll get your lamp and your tea, and I’ll buy one of those weird lemon candles if you miss the smell.”

That got the tiniest laugh out of him. Barely there. But his eyes softened.

“I miss the couch,” He admitted.

“I miss it too.” You nudged him gently with your shoulder. “But we’ll make this work, Bob. Just give it time.” Bob gave you a small nod, slow and silent, eyes lingering on the bare bookshelf now, like he was trying to will it into holding memories that didn’t exist yet. You let out a small sigh and reached up to touch his warm smooth cheek to draw his attention down to you.

“Tomorrow, we’ll go out,” You started gently but firmly, like it was already decided, “And we’ll pick out paint, plants, decorations, throw blankets, dumb little desk trinkets…Whatever it takes to make this place feel like it’s yours okay?” Your thumb brushed just beneath the curve of his eye, and his lashes fluttered like he wasn’t used to being held this gently.

His eyes were glassy–not with tears, but something close. That strange shimmer of overwhelm that comes when your heart is too full of quiet things. When someone sees you exactly where you are. For a long second, he didn’t say anything. Then he sighed, low and quiet, and leaned into the touch–not all the way, but enough to press his cheek into your palm, like he was absorbing it.

“…Okay,” He whispered.

The single word carried a thousand more underneath it. Agreement. Gratitude. Hope. A soft kind of surrender.

You let your hand fall away gently, not wanting to make it weird, not wanting to overstep–but you caught the way his eyes followed the movement like he wasn’t quite ready for it to end. So you cleared your throat lightly and nudged him with your shoulder again.

“Alright. Enough brooding. Come help me set up my room before I lose my mind trying to untangle all those extension cords I packed like an idiot.”

Bob blinked, then let out a small breath that might’ve been a laugh. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

There wasn’t a single second of hesitation. No pause to overthink it. He just followed–like he always did with you now. Like he wanted to be where you were, because that was the only place that made sense anymore.

Bob went back to where he had left your boxes and gathered everything into his arms again, balancing everything with pure precision, cradling the whole mess in his arms as he walked down back to your room. You tapped the panel on your own door–805–and it opened with the same quiet hiss.

He followed you slowly making sure he didn’t bump into you in the process as the door closed behind the both of you once he stepped in fully. The quiet that settled over the space was immediate and unforgiving.

The room was the exact same as his. White walls, pale oak floors, empty shelves, the bed frame with no warmth, the desk, and the wonderful view of the cityscape. You stood there for a moment, expression unreadable, then sighed, letting your shoulders relax.

“Well,” You muttered, stepping into the room a little more fully and crossing to the wide, clean-lined windows. You pressed your thumb to the side panel, and with a soft click, the glass slid open, letting in a breeze that stirred your hair and carried in the smell of the city: hot concrete, wind, and faint smoke from a food truck somewhere below. Bob set everything down in a neat row near the foot of the bed–the vacuum sealed bags, and the labeled boxes with generic scrawl ‘Desk Stuff + Nightstand’, followed by ‘Y/N’s Books,’ and ‘THIS HAS BREAKABLE STUFF IN IT DON’T DROP!’. He set that one down with exaggerated care, like it contained lit dynamite.

You put your hands on your hips.

”Guess we’ll start with whichever box is first.”

Bob gave a soft huff of acknowledgement, already crouching down and slicing open the tape on the topmost one with the side of a key he pulled from his pocket.

The first item out was your worn, pilled blanket. Fleece, with a weird faded pattern of crescent moons and stars and old Sharpie stains you swore were from high school. You plucked it from the box and immediately tossed it across the bed, smoothing it out with a flick of your wrists. The effect was instant. The sterile mattress looked lived in now.

Bob handed you the next item without comment–your bedside lamp. An old brass thing with a twisted base and a shade that looked like it had been mauled by a cat in a past life. You plugged it in and clicked it on. The bulb flickered once, then glowed with a soft amber hue that made the whole corner of the room feel warmer.

“Better,” you said softly.

Next came a small cluster of mismatched mugs–two chipped ones with cartoon characters, one heavy ceramic thing that looked handmade, and one novelty mug that said ‘Running on Coffee’. You lined them up on the desk next to your portable kettle and stash of teas and hot chocolate packets–something that you also had in your old room in your apartment as well, it was just for convenience, especially if you were enthralled in whatever you were doing and didn’t want to leave your room.

Bob unpacked your books with care, handing you each one like it was fragile. You stacked them on the shelf haphazardly: poetry first, then science fiction, then a tiny shrine to emotionally devastating literary fiction. You placed your favorite–Never Let Me Go–face-out on the middle shelf like it was sacred. Bob didn’t question it.

There was a box of trinkets and sentimental chaos next. You fished out a tiny figure of a goat in a superhero cape–a gift from Ava–a tarnished lucky coin, a broken watch you hadn’t had the heart to throw away, a photo strip of you and Bob from the CVS kiosk. You pinned that to the corkboard on your desk without a word, right above your calendar–like it was something you wanted to remember, especially because it was one of Bob’s good days during the four weeks of staying together.

Soon, the space began to fill.

Your flannel was tossed over the desk chair. A plant was set by the window–half-dead, but stubborn. You arranged your pens in a clay cup. Bob found your spare set of fairy lights and handed them over without being asked, and you looped them around the headboard, twisting the cord to keep it tight.

And then…Came the collection of posters.

You pulled the long cardboard tube free from the box with a reverent sort of care and twisted the cap until it popped with a quiet snap. Bob glanced over as you began to slide the rolled posters out, one at a time–each print carefully preserved with tissue paper and worn edges. There were no fold lines. These weren’t flimsy college dorm reprints. These were theatrical releases.

Real ones.

Bob crouched down beside you looking at them closely with curiosity. You could imagine the questions going through his head.

“I used to work at a theatre during my internship,” You said, peeling the tissue from the first one and holding it up against the light. “Whenever we’d change the marquee, they’d let the staff take whatever we wanted from the promo bin. I fought for this one.”

The poster was tall and dramatic–Vertigo by Hitchcock. Bright swirls of orange and red, the silhouettes locked in that spiraling, dangerous fall. It was striking. You stood slowly, angling it toward the wall above your bed.

“They’re all long like this,” you added. “Old school sizing. And I want them to start high and cascade down like a film reel.” You grinned to yourself. “I know it’s excessive.”

Bob stood up behind you, brushing off his hands. “It’s you.”

You turned to glance at him.

He looked a little sheepish. “I mean…You love movies…So…The r-room wouldn’t be yours if you didn’t have s-something dedicated to it…” You rolled your eyes with a quiet laugh, grabbing the removable adhesive tabs from the supply pile and peeling one open between your teeth. But when you hopped up onto the mattress and tried stretching, the top corner still sat a full foot out of reach.

You frowned and leaned on your tiptoes, paper flopping awkwardly in your hands.

“Damn it…Maybe I could get a stool or so–.”

“I could, uh–“ Bob cut in, voice low and a little unsure, “I–I could…Put you on my shoulders?” You paused mid-stretch, glancing back over your shoulder.

He was standing just behind the edge of the mattress now, hands half-lifted like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you or if he’d made some kind of grave error by suggesting it. His eyes flicked up to yours and then back down to the floor, as if it might open up to eat him alive to give him a better alternative.

You turned the rest of the way around, brows lifting, poster still in hand. “You’re offering to carry me like one of those boxes over there?” You asked, motioning to the discarded cardboard.

“No! I-I mean–not like that, I wouldn’t–” He flinched a little at himself, then groaned softly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Not like a box. I wouldn’t treat you like a box.”

You couldn’t help but grin at the way he stumbled awkwardly through his explanation.

“So, not like a box,” You teased gently, stepping closer to the edge of the mattress and letting the poster droop at your side. “You sure you’ve got me? Because I’m not exactly made of foam peanuts, and I just recovered from my broken ribs…” Bob looked up at you then, really looked, and something in his face shifted. Softened. You weren’t sure if it was the golden glint rising behind his blue eyes again or just the quiet steadiness that lived somewhere deep in his chest now—but it was enough.

He swallowed once and nodded “I–I know he’ll be c-careful…You’re…You.”

Your heart gave a traitorous little flip.

And then you held out your hands.

“Alright, alright…What’s the worst that could happen? Let’s do it…” He stepped close and braced his warm, soft palms at your calves, waiting for you to climb onto his shoulders with careful movements that bordered on meekness. You perched cautiously, gripping the top of his head gently for balance as you settled on the muscles shifting a bit to make sure you weren’t hurting him. His hands moved instinctively–large and steady–one resting just above the backs of your knees to keep you stable, the other hovering in case you swayed.

From your new height, the top of the wall was suddenly accessible. You could reach it easily now, the edges of the Vertigo poster fluttering against your chest in the soft breeze from the window.

“This…Is weirdly effective,” you murmured, peeling the backing off the adhesive tabs. “If anything fails with the Thunderbolts…Or New Avengers…Whatever we’ll be named…I think we could go do circus work.”

“Don’t tempt me…” Bob said, and you could hear the smile in his voice, even if you couldn’t see it. You turned the poster and pressed the top corners to the wall with slow precision, smoothing the paper down with practiced hands. The steadiness in him was almost soothing–warm and solid and unshakable. Bob shifted slightly beneath you as you pressed the last corner flat, moving his hands to the tops of your thighs–strong, but gentle. Always gentle. You could feel the warmth of his palms through the fabric of your shorts, and every so often, you caught the subtle rise and fall of his breath, steady like the rhythm of an old song you didn’t know you’d memorized.

“There,” you said softly, leaning back just enough to take in the full image of the Vertigo poster now secured high on the wall. It looked perfect–like it belonged. “One down, five to go.” Bob let out a quiet laugh, almost a breath more than a sound, and gently backed away from the wall to give you space. His hands never left your legs until the very last second–he steadied you instinctively as he shifted, his palms ghosting along your thighs before slipping away like the weight of a blanket being pulled off in slow motion.

You wobbled slightly, still perched up high, but Bob crouched at your side before you could even flinch. With practiced precision, he reached into the pile of still-rolled posters and plucked the next one out of the tube without looking. He offered it to you with both hands like it was sacred.

You took it with a quiet “Thanks,” but he didn’t move right away.

Instead, he tilted his head back to look up at you.

And in that moment, something flickered behind his eyes again–the soft, golden, like glow of a late summer sun cresting through the clouds. It wasn’t bright. It wasn’t overwhelming. Just there. Lurking in the blue like a memory half-awake. His mouth parted, barely.

You looked down at him and saw it immediately. That faint shimmer. That quiet power. That strange, ancient thing that gave him the ‘power of a million exploding suns’ as Val had coined.

Your free hand moved without thought. You reached down, ran the side of your thumb along the sharp line of his cheekbone with a featherlight touch, and felt him still completely beneath you, his eyes still locked on yours.

“Does he know me?” You asked softly.

Bob blinked once, then twice.

His lips parted again, and this time, sound came—barely more than a whisper, shaped around hesitation.

“H-He does,” He said, voice caught somewhere between himself and something deeper. “B-But he…he doesn’t remember what he did. When we all fought…” You felt his breath catch just slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say it aloud in this space. Like voicing it would make the memory real again. But he kept going.

”I think…He remembers you from the night that Val’s people gunned me down…” His eyes scanned over yours, unreadable, searching, “But I don’t know for sure…It’s like–like flashes.” Your thumb stilled against his cheek. You could feel the muscles in his jaw shift beneath the skin, tense and taut like he was trying to hold the rest of it back. His pulse was hammering against your inner thigh, you could feel it radiating into his muscles.

“W-We aren’t fully c-connected anymore,” He admitted. “At least…Not the way we used to be. It’s quieter. But also…Stranger.”

You didn’t speak. Just listened.

Bob swallowed hard, then added in a low, almost guilty murmur, “I can still do the whole s-super strength thing–I mean, clearly,” He gestured halfheartedly to where you were still balanced comfortably on his shoulders, “But I d-don’t know where he begins and I-I end anymore. It’s not like flipping a switch. It’s not that clean.”

You brushed his cheek again with the pad of your thumb. “Does it scare you?” He shakes his head immediately.

”I-It used to…A l-lot but I think I can manage it a bit b-better. You’ve been able to help w-with that.” You were about to say something–something honest, something warm, something just for him.

Maybe it was going to be “You’re doing better than you think.” Or maybe “I see you, Bob. All of you.”

But the words caught on the edge of your tongue like a thread snagging in fabric–because the door hissed open with a hydraulic sigh, and Walker’s voice cut through the room before you even had time to turn your head.

“Jesus Christ–”

Bob stiffened instinctively beneath you.

You both turned at the same time–which was unavoidable due to the position.

Walker was frozen in the doorway, one hand still braced against the panel, his eyes squinting like he couldn’t quite compute what he was seeing. His gaze flicked from you–perched high on Bob’s shoulders, one hand still cradling his face like a lover’s whisper–to Bob, who was blushing so hard it looked like he might actually combust on the spot.

Walker blinked. Once. Twice. Then gave a slow, amused whistle.

“Well…That is not what I expected to walk in on.”

“Walker,” You deadpanned, not moving from your place. “Knock next time.”

“You don’t even have a real door,” He said, walking in like he owned the place, arms crossed and boots heavy on the floor.

“I was just–s-she needed help with the posters,” He mumbled, carefully lowering his arms to begin letting you slide down. “I w-wasn’t–It’s not what it–”

”No need to explain yourselves….It’s all good.” You finally slid off Bob’s shoulders, landing with a soft thud on the hardwood, your hands brushing his shoulders gently on your way down. Bob looked like he wanted to retreat into the nearest drawer.

Walker, mercifully, spared him further commentary.

“Anyway,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “Lunch just got here. Got delivered a bit late, but it’s hot. Couple boxes of noodles, some dumplings, and that weird green juice that Yelena keeps pretending she likes. If either of you want in, better grab a plate before Alexei eats everything but the box liners again.”

“Thanks,” You said simply, brushing your hand on your shorts. “We’ll be there in a few.”

Walker gave Bob a wink that made him flinch like he’d been hit with a spotlight. “Don’t take too long.”

Then he was gone, the door whispering closed behind him like nothing had happened.

The silence that followed was thick with whatever had just almost happened–suspended, tender, delicate like breath on glass.

You glanced over at Bob.

His face was still flushed. His lashes low. But there was the hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Embarrassed, yes. But not retreating.

You let the silence stretch for another beat, just long enough to let the moment settle without breaking it.

Then you turned to him, voice soft, but sure.

“We’ll finish after lunch,” You said, like a gentle nudge. “I don’t trust Alexei not to start sampling the furniture if we wait too long.”

Bob exhaled a short, nervous breath through his nose–half a laugh, half relief–and nodded.

“Y-Yeah…Okay.” You reached down to the scattered pile of posters and gathered them into a neat stack, tucking them carefully into the cardboard tube like you were handling film reels from an archive. Bob crouched beside you to help without being asked, his fingers brushing yours briefly as he adjusted the cap and clicked it back into place.

“Thanks,” You murmured. You meant it for the posters. And everything else.

He just nodded, eyes flicking up to meet yours, then back down again with a faint flush still clinging to his cheeks.

You rose to your feet first, offering him a hand to stand. He took it without hesitation, his palm warm and steady in yours. You didn’t let go right away–even once he was upright again. Not until you had squeezed once, just barely, and let it go as if you hadn’t done it at all.

As you both turned toward the door, Bob hesitated–just for a second–and looked back at the Vertigo poster on the wall. The first thread of something new stitched into this blank place.

His voice was low when he spoke. “It looks good up there.”

You glanced at him with a quiet smile.

“Yeah,” You said. “It does.”

And then you left together–out into the bright hallway, toward the sounds of laughter and clattering chopsticks, and the smell of soy sauce and scorched dumplings

———————

The next morning rose slowly, spilling honeyed light across the edge of the skyline just beyond your window. It kissed the walls in soft amber streaks, warming the pale wood floors and the flannel still slung over your desk chair. The city was just beginning to wake–quiet traffic below, a distant horn, the hush of wind curling through the slight crack in your window.

You stirred beneath the weight of your fleece moon blanket, legs tangled and one arm draped across your stomach. The pillow beneath your cheek was the same one from the apartment, the cotton worn soft from too many washes, still faintly infused with the scent of lemon detergent and something unmistakably Bob–clean, warm, a little tangy from that body wash he never bothered to read the label of. You turned your face into it without thinking, breathing in deeper, letting the scent settle in your chest as you thought about yesterday.

You couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked at you. Head tilted back, lips parted slightly, eyes wide and gold-touched like he was seeing something divine.

Your chest tightened a little as the image flickered back to life behind your eyes.

You could still feel the curve of his hands on your thighs, the way they held you steady–not possessive, not hesitant, just… Sure. Like you belonged there. Like he couldn’t imagine you anywhere else.

You’d meant to say something.

You had–right before Walker burst in and shattered the moment with all the grace of a wrecking ball.

But you hadn’t forgotten.

Neither had your body. Your pulse thudded low in your belly, not urgent, but present. Like the idea of him had taken root in your blood and was now blooming slowly, quietly, just beneath the surface.

You turned onto your back with a soft sigh, eyes tracing the ceiling for a few slow seconds before throwing the blanket off and sitting up. The floor was cool beneath your feet as you padded across the room, pushing your hair out of your face to cool yourself down.

You crossed into the shared bathroom, the silence between your quarters familiar now, softened by the faint scent of mint toothpaste and warm skin left behind in the air. You knocked lightly on the frame–habitual, gentle–before stepping through into his room.

Bob was already awake, bent slightly at the waist as he tugged the drawstring of his dark sweatpants into a loose knot. The hem of his maroon sweater had ridden up with the movement.

Your mouth went a little dry.

It wasn’t even that much skin. Just a sliver. A glimpse of pale muscle right beneath his navel, the edge of the soft line that led lower, disappearing into the fabric of his waistband. But there was something about the way it caught the light–casual, unbothered, unknowing–that made your pulse jump traitorously against your ribs.

It was too early for this. Too early to feel like your skin was buzzing with the ghost of his hands. Too early for your brain to short-circuit over a slouchy sweater and a knot being tied.

Bob straightened slowly, letting his sweater fall back into place. He reached up and raked a hand through his hair, tousling it gently between his fingers, like he hadn’t bothered to check the mirror yet–maybe he didn’t need to though. A few strands stuck up stubbornly, and his palm lingered for a second at the crown of his head, like he was debating whether it was worth taming.

Then his gaze slid over to you.

His eyes lit up the second they landed on your face–gentle and warm, crinkling slightly at the corners, and you felt it hit you low and soft in the chest.

“M-Morning,” he said with a small, sheepish smile. It was the kind of smile that curled just a little to one side and took its time settling in like it had nowhere else to be. “You, uh…Slept okay?”

“Yeah,” You said, and you meant it. Then, after a beat: “You?” He shrugged, rubbing at the back of his neck.

”I got…Maybe an h-hour or two, b-but it’s a new place, so any sleep is good sleep.” You gave him a small nod, agreeing with him. Bob’s eyes flicked over you–just for a second. There was a blink of hesitation before they dropped down, tracing the loose hem of your sleep shirt where it hung just past the tops of your thighs. You were still warm from sleep, hair mussed from your pillow, collar stretched just enough to show the slope of your shoulder. Nothing scandalous. Nothing intentional. But his breath still caught.

You saw it.

The way his throat flinched with a quiet gulp as he tried–bless him–to return his gaze to your face like he hadn’t just nearly lost it at the sight of your bare legs and bed-warmed skin.

His ears pinked, and he gave a small, nervous chuckle–like he had been caught red handed stealing something, “Uh…W-we’re still doing the shopping thing, right? F-for the room and all?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“Yeah,” You said, smiling as you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe. “Of course. I’ll go get ready.”

You turned, heading back toward your room before either of you could combust from the tension curling quietly between you. Just before you slipped out of view, you looked over your shoulder.

”Oh, make sure you eat something by the way,” You added softly, “We may lose track of time…Don’t want to risk you passing out or something.” He let out a breath that was probably meant to be a laugh, eyes following you with something tender, almost awestruck.

“R-Right, I’ll d-do that.” You gave him a small smirk, then disappeared into the bathroom, closing the door behind you with a quiet click, letting the buzz in the air ebb.

—————————

The store was massive.

That was the first thing Bob said–softly, under his breath–as the automatic doors whooshed open in front of the two of you and the sheer overwhelming scale of the home decor superstore revealed itself like a cathedral of curated domesticity. Neatly stacked rugs, end caps of throw pillows arranged by season, hanging plants suspended like jungle chandeliers from industrial beams. It smelled like eucalyptus, lemon oil, and waxed wood floors. Music played somewhere overhead—something instrumental, cheerful, and entirely ignorable.

“Stick close,” You teased, brushing his elbow with yours. “You get lost in the storage section and I’m not coming to rescue you. That place is a labyrinth.”

“I-I won’t,” He muttered, eyes wide as they took in the sheer number of lamps.

Despite his nerves, Bob was easy to lead. You grabbed a cart–he insisted on pushing it–and you moved together aisle by aisle, your steps steady, his just a half beat behind. He didn’t say much at first. Just sort of…Hovered. Eyeing everything like he wanted to throw it in the cart. You gave him space to acclimate, letting your fingers trail over textured blankets and woven baskets until, eventually, his hand reached out too.

The first thing he touched was a throw pillow.

It was simple–soft knit, goldenrod yellow with a stitched sun on the front. He ran his thumb over the embroidered rays like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it.

You watched him for a moment, then smiled.

“That’s a good one,” You said. “Warm. Soft…And the design suits you.”

“M-Me?” He asked, pointing at himself.

”Yeah…It’s the sun…And you…Y’know…Have the power of a million exploding suns…Remember?” You murmured, nudging him gently, watching his ears turn pink as he looked down at the pillow again with a sheepish smile on his face.

Bob held the golden sun pillow a second longer, running his thumb along the stitched rays like he was trying to memorize the texture. Then, after a beat, he placed it gently in the cart.

From there, it got easier.

The two of you drifted down the aisles in quiet tandem, picking out what felt right and skipping what didn’t. In the paint section, Bob stood still in front of the wall of color swatches for a long moment, brows knit as he scanned shade after shade of white-gray-beige. You could see the hesitation brewing in his eyes–too many choices, too many wrong ones.

You touched his arm lightly, drawing his gaze.

“What are you drawn to?”

He hesitated, then reached toward a swatch a few rows up. It was a soft, cloud gray with the faintest cool undertone. It looked almost blue in some light, depending on how Bob held the little tile. You took it from his fingers and read the name.

“Cathedral.” You muttered.

“L-Little dramatic for a p-paint swatch.” Bob replied, his eyebrows crinkling together slightly.

“It’s fitting I think…Could’ve been named anything though, Dolphin Gray even.” That got the smallest smile out of him. The kind that tilted the corner of his mouth before he looked away like he hadn’t meant to do it.

The employee at the counter mixed the paint while you grabbed a tray, rollers, edging tape, and a drop cloth Bob insisted was overkill because he wouldn’t make a mess, but you threw it in anyway. While the shaker did its thing, you pulled him back into the decor section. That’s when he stopped at the string lights.

“Warm white,” He murmured, almost to himself, fingers brushing the edge of the box. “Not too bright.” You nodded and added two sets to the cart.

Next aisle over, you spotted a small section of candles on a recessed shelf–there were only a few options, and they were all tucked into recycled glass jars. Your fingers drifted over a few of them until you settled on one that caught your eye. You slid it off the shelf and popped the lid off before inhaling slowly. Vanilla. Lemon. Something faintly earthy beneath it all, like ginger or roots. It wasn’t exact, but it was close. You turned and held it out to him

“This one smells like my apartment.” He took it from you immediately, cradling it in both hands like it was something fragile. He slowly lifted it to his nose, and closed his eyes, as if he was absorbing every inch of the scent. You couldn’t help but smile at the moment, at the gentleness, the calm that invaded his face, like he was remembering your living room. When he opened his eyes again, they were soft and relaxed.

“I-It really does…” He responded before slipping it into the cart without any explanation.

A few minutes later, in a section of half-price indoor plants, Bob paused in front of a small hanging basket. A trailing pothos, lush and green, leaves curling over the edge like ivy from a fairy tale. He crouched slightly to get a better look, brushing the soil gently with his knuckle.

“I-I think I’ll get this one,” He said after a moment. “Room’s got a lot of light…Feels like something should grow in it, y’know?” You smiled at his train of thought, looking down at the greenery.

“I think it’s perfect.”

He picked it up, holding the pot carefully against his chest like he was already invested in keeping it alive. It suited him more than you could’ve imagined. This gentle care. The quiet desire to nurture something in his own space. To bring life into a place that had once only held silence.

By the time you circled back to pick up the paint, the cart was full: the sun pillow, the plant, the candle, two boxes of lights, a gray fleece throw blanket, a small framed print of an old seaside map Bob claimed reminded him of something he couldn’t quite place, and a wooden picture frame you nudged into the pile without comment. For the extra photo strip you had–just in case he ever wanted it on his nightstand.

It wasn’t much.

But it was something.

And when you caught Bob glancing down into the cart, his eyes tracing over the soft, mismatched collection of items, you saw it: the slow, quiet realization that this wasn’t just stuff.

It was the beginning of something that could finally feel like his.

He looked over at you, his hair slightly mussed from where he’d run his fingers through it too many times, and smiled–really smiled this time.

“Thanks for helping,” He said softly.

”Don’t thank me yet, we still have to paint and get all this stuff set up.”

——————————

Back at the compound, the city traffic gave way to the familiar hush of the underground lot as you pulled into Bay 21A. Bob unbuckled quickly, murmuring something about “not letting you carry anything,” before slipping out of the car and circling to the back. You barely had time to pop the hatch before he was already stacking the bags in careful tiers against his chest, paint can balanced on top with the plant cradled like a fragile infant in the crook of one elbow.

“I can help, you know…I’m not a piece of glass,” You said, raising a brow as he adjusted the throw blanket and tucked the bag with the candle under his arm like a seasoned pro.

“I-I got it,” He insisted, cheeks already pink with effort and pride. “B-Besides…This stuff’s important. I don’t wanna j-jostle it.” He glanced down at the plant with something bordering on reverence.

You rolled your eyes fondly, grabbing only the receipt and the keys before trailing behind him toward the elevator.

Back on the eightieth floor, the moment the door hissed open to the hallway, Bob adjusted the box of lights with his forearm and moved with quiet precision down the hall like a man on a mission. You tapped the panel for his room, and as the door slid open, he stepped inside and finally exhaled.

Everything was still as it had been the day before–blank walls, stripped bed, faint echo in the corners. But the weight of your shared errand buzzed in the air like something alive now. Potential. Comfort waiting to be built.

You breezed across the room and tapped the window control again, letting the breeze rush in.

“Not getting high off paint fumes today,” You said over your shoulder. “If we pass out mid-coat, Alexei will probably assume we were huffing it.” Bob let out a breathy laugh and carefully lowered the mountain of bags to the floor.

“I’m gonna change,” You added, already backing toward the door. “Don’t want to ruin my decent street clothes.” Bob gave a little nod, brushing the back of his hand across his brow where a stray curl had fallen.

“Y-Yeah, I’ll probably do the s-same,” He murmured, already toeing off his shoes by the entryway. You ducked out with a small smile and padded back into your room, flicking on the light. The process didn’t take long, you pulled on a pair of sleep shorts–soft and worn from years of laundering–and a baggy, sun-faded t-shirt, with the Stark Industries intern logo barely visible across the chest. The hem hung loose past your hips, and the neckline was wide and flimsy. A small smear of old red paint still clung to one of the sleeves from a project you’d long forgotten.

You grabbed a few bobby pins from your nightstand and pulled your hair back loosely, pinning the front sections away from your face, before returning back to Bob’s room soon after.

He was standing by the window, adjusting the drop sheet with one hand, the soft gray fleece blanket already tossed over the desk chair behind him. The sweatpants were still the same–dark, loose, slung a little low on his hips–but the sweater was gone now, and in its place…

A white undershirt.

And not just any undershirt. The kind that clung.

It clung to him like a second skin–thin cotton stretched just slightly across his chest and shoulders, outlining the sharp lines of his upper body like someone had sketched him in soft charcoal and left the strokes unfinished. The fabric hugged the slope of his collarbones and dipped gently over the muscles in his arms–biceps carved like they’d been sculpted by Phidias. You could see the outline of every ridge, and every subtle shift as he moved. The shirt was just snug enough across his stomach to trace the flat plane there, but loose enough around the hem to flutter when he bent slightly at the waist to grab the roller tray. The light from the window hit the curve of his deltoids, casting shadows you didn’t know cotton could catch.

He looked like a man carved from warmth. Golden light bled across his skin, tracing the veins in his forearms as he flexed his grip on the tray, veins that twisted like poetry across the backs of his hands and up toward the cuffs of his sleeves. It wasn’t the first time you’d seen him like this–but God, it still felt like it.

Every time felt like the first.

Bob looked over his shoulder and caught you standing in the doorway, his mouth parting slightly when he saw you in your baggy shorts and oversized shirt, your hair pushed back with a few stray wisps curling around your temple. His gaze flicked over you slowly–hesitantly–like he didn’t mean to look but couldn’t stop.

“Y-You, uh…Look ready,” He said finally, his voice a little rougher than before. “G-Good shirt for painting.” He added, motioning to the outfit. You stepped in slowly, trying not to stare. But he looked like something out of a sun-drenched dream. Still gentle. Still Bob. But the kind of quiet you wanted to trace with your hands.

“Same to you,” You murmured, voice soft. “Didn’t know we were modeling for a Carhartt commercial today.”

He flushed instantly, tugging the hem of the shirt like it might somehow hide the obvious breadth of him.

“I-It’s just an undershirt,” He replied, his face turning a deep red–even though his lips were twitching into a smile that was a slow bloom of nerves.

Bob’s hands moved with care as he peeled the lid off the paint can, the soft metallic creak cutting through the quiet of the room. The scent hit immediately–sharp and chemical, softened only slightly by the breeze curling in through the open windows. He crouched to pour the soft gray paint into the tray with slow, deliberate control, letting it pool into the rigid plastic until it settled into a smooth, mirrored surface.

You stood beside him, your roller already in hand, trying hard not to stare at the way the muscles in his arms tensed as he steadied the can. He looked…Absurdly good. The undershirt hugged his frame like it had been designed with reverence, clinging to every dip and line and curve that his oversized sweaters usually swallowed whole. The light caught the pale sweat glistening at his temple, and when he reached back to set the can down, his shirt pulled just tight enough across his back that you had to actually will yourself to blink.

“You ready?” he asked gently, offering you your tray like he didn’t know he looked like a golden-age painting of ‘boy-next-door who also bench presses cars for fun.’

“Born ready,” you murmured, grateful your voice came out steady.

You dipped your roller into the tray and began to work, and Bob followed without hesitation, starting from the opposite wall. The gray went on smooth and clean. It was a quiet shade–not dull, not harsh–something in-between that felt like soft stone or the sky right before a storm. It caught the light well, turning the blank sterility of the walls into something deeper. Something lived in.

You painted in tandem, the rhythm of your movements syncing without you even realizing it–dip, roll, sweep, and stretch. You didn’t speak much at first. Just worked. Occasionally you’d catch him glancing at your section, making sure your coverage was even, and you’d glance over a beat later and find that he had already finished another wall and was patiently waiting for you to catch up, roller dripping, his shirt sticking slightly to the curve of his spine.

After about thirty minutes, you both stepped back, breathing a little heavier now, speckled with the first coat and faint dots of gray flecked on your arms and calves.

“It’s… Already better,” Bob said softly, wiping his hands with a rag he’d found in the bag. His eyes were on the wall, but they flicked to you after a second. “It doesn’t feel so…Blank anymore.” You nodded, brushing a stray streak of paint off your wrist.

“Yeah. Kinda feels like a place a person might actually live now.” You both stood there in the middle of the room for a moment, shoulders relaxed, the hum of the city outside brushing the edge of the silence. And then he sat–right on the floor, cross-legged in his paint-streaked sweatpants, undershirt rumpled slightly at the waist. You followed, easing down beside him, knees knocking once before settling close.

Conversation stirred back up–light, easy and in hushed tones.

But you weren’t really listening. Not completely.

Because Bob was…Glowing.

Not in the Sentry way. Not that raw cosmic glare that split the sky. No–this was something else. Something low and golden and warm. It lived in the curl of his laugh, the tiny streak of gray on his collarbone where he’d bumped the roller against himself and hadn’t noticed. It shimmered in the way he looked at you–really looked at you, like he was trying to memorize the exact shape of your smile every time it curved. And when he talked, it wasn’t just words–it was an offering. A thread pulled between you. One you both kept holding.

You realized then that you hadn’t stopped watching him for the last five minutes.

And based on the way his eyes dropped to your mouth mid-sentence–lingered there, soft and stunned like it wasn’t on purpose–you weren’t the only one.

Bob blinked once–slowly–and then again, like he was trying to recalibrate his vision. His gaze kept flicking down from your eyes to your mouth, like he couldn’t help it, like something in him had given up on pretending not to notice the way you looked sitting there beside him, sun-drenched and soft and glowing in the afterglow of effort.

Then he cleared his throat, but it came out more like a gulp. A quiet hitch of breath that gave him away.

“You, uh…” His voice barely rose above the quiet in the room. He reached up and gestured with two fingers, a small motion toward your cheek. “Y-You’ve got paint… Right here.” His hand hovered near his own cheekbone, mirroring the spot. “Can I…?”

You didn’t answer with words. You just leaned forward, heart suddenly pressing against your ribs like it wanted to rip out of you and escape. Bob’s hand moved slowly as if rushing might ruin the moment that was simmering between the two of you. His fingertips grazed your skin with a featherlight touch, his thumb brushing the smear of gray just below your eye.

He didn’t pull away when it was gone.

Neither did you.

The hush that settled between you was different now. It wasn’t silence. It was a sound held gently between two people on the edge of something too big to name. His hand lingered against your face, thumb tracing the faintest curve of your cheek like he needed to memorize the texture. And when you looked up at him you saw it.

That same light.

Not the blinding kind. Not the kind that cracked the sky and split atoms. But the kind that came just before dawn. Soft. Resolute. The kind that touched everything gently and asked nothing in return. It lived in the blue of his eyes now, threaded through with something honey-warm.

“Y/N…” He whispered, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to say your name like that–soft and aching, like it meant something he hadn’t dared admit aloud yet.Your hand found his cheek the way it always did. That familiar path of comfort, of care. The one place he always let you touch, even when everything else in him trembled. Your thumb brushed just beneath the apple of it–soft and supple–and his eyes fluttered at the contact, lashes dark against flushed skin.

He leaned into it, just a little. Just enough to let you feel how much he needed it–how much he needed you.

And then the air changed.

It was subtle. A breath caught in a hush. A tremble at the edge of stillness. Like the second before rain kisses the ground. Bob’s eyes held yours–not with uncertainty, not with apology–but with care so tender it undid you. As if this–your hand on his face, your knees pressed close to his, the light painting silver across your bare shoulder–was the holiest thing he’d ever known.

“I–” he started, voice barely a sound, and then stopped. His throat moved around the words he didn’t have yet. Instead, he reached up–slowly, slowly–and covered your hand with his own, pressing it further into his cheek like he didn’t ever want it to leave.

You could feel the tremor in him.

Not fear. Not anymore.

Just the weight of everything he was finally ready to let you see.

Your other hand rose without thinking, fingertips tracing the edge of his jaw, then curving around the back of his neck where soft curls dampened with heat. You pulled him closer–just enough for your foreheads to touch. Just enough to feel the warmth of his breath ghosting across your lips.

“Bob…” You whispered.

Your lips were almost touching now, but you continued to let the moment swell, and ache.

His mouth hovered a whisper away from yours, the barest sliver of air separating you–shared breath, warm and trembling. You could feel the curve of his bottom lip brush yours when he exhaled, and that smallest touch–so light, so accidental–made your stomach coil with heat. You leaned forward instinctively, but he didn’t move back.

He didn’t move forward either.

Not yet.

You felt it when his lips parted. When the tip of his tongue darted out, barely grazing your bottom lip in an attempt to taste you. It wasn’t a kiss, it was a question. A pull. And it made your breath catch so sharply that your chest almost forgot how to fall.

Then he whispered it.

Something small.

Something that cracked your ribs open with its softness.

“…I-I’ve daydreamed about t-this moment.”

His voice was low and shaken, like a confession whispered in a church pew. He didn’t pull away. If anything, he inched just closer–his nose brushing yours now, and the tremble in his hands telling you this was costing him something to say aloud.

everything in you was focused on the man in front of you—on the tremble in his voice, on the way his breath feathered across your lips, on the reverence in his eyes like he was standing at the altar of something holy.

His confession lingered between you like incense—soft and heavy, curling into your ribs. You could feel it there, warm and aching, as your thumb swept the line of his jaw. His hand was still covering yours like it was a lifeline, like if he let go, the whole world might collapse inward.

So you didn’t let him fall.

You leaned in first.

Just a little.

Just enough that your lips brushed his again—deliberately this time.

A whisper of a kiss. A promise made in the hush between heartbeats.

He shuddered the moment you touched him, and you felt it everywhere—in the curl of his fingers at your jaw, the way his breath hitched low in his chest, the quiet gasp he let out like the wind had been knocked clean from his lungs.

And then—

He kissed you back.

Not rushed. Not greedy. But slow.

So slow it made your skin prickle.

His lips moved against yours with the kind of aching reverence usually reserved for relics and prayers. It wasn’t tentative. It wasn’t unsure. It was careful—like every second of it mattered. Like he didn’t just want to taste you—he wanted to remember you. Your shape. Your breath. The way your lips parted for him like a secret being told for the first time.

It was holy.

You tilted your head, deepening it slightly–your hand sliding from the back of his neck to tangle in the curls at his nape, anchoring him to you. His hands curved along your hips, firm and trembling all at once, like he wanted to pull you closer but didn’t dare.

And God–you wanted closer.

So you shifted.

One slow, smooth motion.

You moved into his lap, straddling his thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world–your knees pressing into the paint-flecked floor, your body fitting against his like you were meant to be there. Bob inhaled sharply against your mouth, and you swallowed the sound with a kiss deeper than the one before.

He melted beneath you.

You felt it–every inch of tension releasing from his body like a dam giving way to floodwaters. His arms wrapped around your waist now, strong and warm, pulling you in with a groan so quiet you could’ve mistaken it for a plea of mercy. His hands splayed at your lower back, fingers flexing like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to hold you like this.

Your lips danced together, slow and consuming, mouths parting just enough to breathe the same air, to taste the softness in each other’s sighs. His tongue brushed against yours in the subtlest question–timid but wanting–and you answered him by tilting your hips forward ever so slightly, deepening the kiss until your whole body was singing with it.

Your pulse thundered in your ears.

There was nothing else.

No city outside the window. No walls still half-painted. No ghosts of past lives or broken silences.

Just the quiet miracle of his mouth on yours–every kiss a verse in a psalm neither of you had ever dared to read aloud until now.

When the kiss finally broke, it was slow. Lingering. His lips chased yours for one last brush, like he didn’t want to stop. Like the parting itself was unbearable.

You pressed your forehead to his again, your breaths mingling, your chest rising and falling in time with his. He looked at you and his eyes were liquid sunlight, the warm glow invading the ocean blue of his irises–but they were unbearably tender.

And then he closed them tightly.

Like it was too much for him. Like having you this close was triggering something in him he needed to get control over. His hands at your waist tightened ever so slightly, as if anchoring himself. Bracing for impact.

You leaned in.

Not to tease. Not to rush. Just to give.

And with aching care, you pressed your lips to one of his eyelids.

A whisper of contact. A kiss that was less about passion and more about trust. You felt his breath stutter–his body going still beneath yours like he’d just been blessed. Like no one had ever done this to him. Not like this.

You kissed the other eyelid just as slowly.

And when you pulled back, his breath trembled out of him—ragged and low, laced with something that made your stomach tighten and your hands ache for more.

Then–

He surged forward, finally.

His mouth found yours again, harder this time. Still gentle, still reverent, but charged now. A hum of electricity laced through the softness. The kind of kiss that made your toes curl and your hands instinctively fist into the fabric of his shirt. You clung to him—not out of desperation, but out of instinct. Because of course you would hold onto him. There was nothing else in the room. Nothing else in the world.

Your fingers curled at his shoulders, dragging across the thin cotton, feeling every flex of muscle beneath it. He groaned softly against your lips when you tugged just slightly–his hands slipping lower, cradling the curve of your spine like you were something breakable and divine all at once.

You kissed him like you meant it.

And he kissed you like he couldn’t believe it.

When he finally pulled back–barely, just enough to breathe–his forehead pressed to yours again, his breath hot against your cheek. His lips brushed the edge of your mouth with every word.

“I–uh…” He murmured, voice cracked and raw around the edges, “I think maybe we should go to your room.”

You blinked, still catching your breath.

He swallowed, eyes fluttering open to meet yours. “I mean–just ‘cause–there’s a lot of paint fumes in here,” He added, clearly flustered, clearly not thinking about paint at all, “A-And I don’t wanna get dizzy and…Fall over or something while you’re…O-On my lap…”

The way he looked at you then–flush blooming down his throat, hands still cradling you like he didn’t want to let go–it was too soft to be funny. Too vulnerable to mock. You leaned in, brushing your nose against his and letting your lips ghost across his jaw.

“Right,” You whispered. “Wouldn’t want to pass out while kissing or anything.”

His breath caught again–so beautifully–and he nodded.

“Y-Yeah,” He murmured, dazed, “That would be…A tragedy.” Your lips hovered just over his skin, brushing the warmth of his jaw with a breathless smile. His hands stayed firm at your waist like he was still trying to convince himself you were real–that this was real–that you were really curled into his lap with paint on your legs and want in your eyes.

You let your mouth ghost lower, just to the edge of his neck.

Then, softly–like a secret–

“Take me to my room,” You instructed gently.

Bob inhaled sharply through his nose, fingers twitching at your hips like the words had struck something sacred in him. He blinked once, as if to double-check he’d heard you right, and then nodded–so small it was barely noticeable.

He rose with you in his arms, like it was nothing. Like you weighed less than air.

And he didn’t hesitate.

Instead of going through the hall like any rational person might have, he turned and headed straight for the bathroom that adjoined your quarters and his–taking the shortcut–the private path. You giggled under your breath at the way he moved with such gentle urgency, like the act of walking was suddenly too slow. Like he needed to get you there now.

You nuzzled into the crook of his neck as he carried you, your lips brushing the delicate skin just beneath his jaw, sucking gently at the faint stubble there. His steps faltered for a second when he felt your lips there–nothing more than a soft press of your mouth to his pulse and a little pull–but it was enough to make him grunt softly and pick up the pace.

“Y-You’re really not helping,” He muttered, breath shaky and hot, his fingers tightening just slightly around your thighs where he held you. You kissed his neck again, smiling against him.

“Didn’t realize I was supposed to be,” You replied.

He let out something that might’ve been a laugh, or maybe a groan–then fumbled with the bathroom door, kicked it open a little too fast, and spun the both of you through it like a man possessed.

By the time he reached your side of the quarters, he was a little breathless, and completely flushed–enough that you could’ve sworn you saw blush peeking through his white undershirt. You kissed his throat again, and that was it.

You felt his hands shift as he bent forward, setting you gently on the bed, your back sinking into the familiar comfort of your duvet. Bob hovered over you for a breathless moment, suspended between want and worship. His chest rose and fell above yours, his curls shadowing his forehead, damp from the warmth blooming beneath his skin. Your legs were still loosely looped around his waist, cradling him there, holding him in that weightless space between everything you were and everything you were about to become.

Then he leaned in.

And kissed you.

Not on the mouth this time. But everywhere else.

Soft, fluttering presses of lips to skin. A brush at your cheekbone. Another to the edge of your brow. A third to the tip of your nose, which made you let out the kind of breathy laugh that pulled something tight in his chest.

He kissed your forehead last, and lingered there, just long enough to let you feel the shape of it. When he finally pulled back, his hands slid gently to your thighs. He rubbed slow, reverent circles into your skin–paint-flecked, warm from effort, bare from mid-thigh down. His thumbs pressed into the dip just above your knees, and then, with a soft inhale, he murmured–

“Let me go lock the door…So we don’t get interrupted.”

His voice was low. Still frayed around the edges with awe.

You nodded, your legs loosening around his waist as he coaxed them gently down with the flats of his palms. You let them drop to either side of him, feet brushing the floor now, knees parted slightly around where he still knelt between them.

He rose with quiet care, and you sat up slowly onto your elbows, the hem of your oversized shirt falling back into place, bunched slightly around your hips. The cotton was thin and soft and stretched with sleep, one side still slipping off your shoulder. You shifted your weight just slightly, legs swinging idly off the edge of the mattress, watching him.

The room glowed with the kind of light that only happened at dusk.

Evening had begun to settle behind the skyline just outside your windows–cool shadows bleeding slowly across the hardwood floor. But the city’s sunset didn’t reach this far into your quarters. Not fully.

Instead, the soft amber glow of your nightstand lamp lit the space.

It cast everything in a warm, golden haze.

The bulb was shielded behind a woven linen shade, diffusing the light until it looked like honey melting through gauze. It hit the edges of the room with a quiet softness–just enough to turn skin to candlelight and shadows to velvet. The kind of light that made everything feel slow and sacred. That turned every breath into something you wanted to hold.

You watched him walk across the room barefoot, his white undershirt clinging to his frame like it was woven from sunlight and tension. The muscles in his back flexed beneath it, pulling at the thin fabric just slightly with every movement. His hand reached for the sleek panel on the wall near the entryway and pressed his thumb to the edge of the glass.

A quiet chime confirmed it. The soft swoosh of magnetic locks sliding into place.

And still–he stood there for a second longer, his hand lingering against the door panel.

You saw it, even from across the room.

The rise and fall of his shoulders.

The silent inhale. The weight of the moment catching up to him in the hush between the lock and the turning back.

Then he did turn.

And when he looked at you, it was like gravity itself had shifted–like you were the axis now.

That soft glow from your bedside lamp painted amber along the edges of his jaw, spilling gold into the hollow of his throat and casting his frame in the kind of warmth usually reserved for cathedral windows or old film reels. His undershirt clung to him in the most unfair way–ribbons of cotton stretched delicately over muscle and tension, bunched slightly at the waist from where your legs had wrapped around him only moments ago. And yet, he looked…Hentle. Steady. Like something you could pray to if you didn’t know better.

He came back to you slowly.

Each step measured.

Deliberate.

His gaze never left you–not once–as he returned to where you sat on the edge of the bed, your thighs parted just enough, feet brushing the hardwood, shirt draped long over your hips. You shifted as he approached, moving like you meant to scoot farther up the mattress, to lay back and make room. But his hand stopped you. Gentle. Firm.

“N-No,” He said, voice soft but sure. “I…I want to stay here. L-Like this…Trust me.” Bob leaned down, hunching slightly to meet your mouth where you sat at the edge of the bed–legs parted, eyes glowing in the lamplight, waiting for him like gravity waited for stars. His hands braced on either side of your thighs, and then he kissed you again–slow and a little clumsy this time, the angle not quite perfect, his spine bending to reach you. But it didn’t matter.

You moaned into it anyway.

Because he was right there. All of him. The weight of his chest against yours, the tension in his arms, the way his breath hitched as your hand slid back up beneath the hem of that cruel little undershirt.

Your fingers clawed at it. Not delicately. Not with patience. Like you needed it gone. And Bob–sweet, reverent Bob–broke the kiss just long enough to whisper,

“Y-Yeah, okay–hang on–”

His voice cracked as he tugged the shirt over his head in one rushed motion. The cotton caught briefly on the back of his neck, then slipped free with a quiet shh of static and landed somewhere near your feet.

And then there he was.

Bare.

Bathed in lamplight.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You had imagined this. Of course you had. It was always in flickers and flashbacks–like when his scrubs had been practically shot off him when he distracted Val’s special ops so you, Walker, Ava, and Yelena could escape the vault. But this–seeing him like this, lit in soft honey gold, the shadows of his body sloping into the hollow of his ribs and the rise of his chest—this was different.

He wasn’t chiseled. He wasn’t flawless. But God, he was real.

The kind of real that could wreck you again and again and you would say thank you.

His skin was flushed, warm from exertion, and his arms flexed where they framed you–long and lean, thick in the right places, his veins peeking just beneath the surface like scripture written under skin. His shoulders were broad, with scattered beauty marks kissing his skin, and all you could do was bite the inside of your cheek.

Your eyes drank in every inch.

And then your hand followed.

You reached for him–almost reverently–palm sliding flat against his stomach. The skin there was soft, but the muscle underneath twitched, hard and sudden, at your touch. His hips jolted the barest bit, a sharp inhale escaping through parted lips.

You let your fingers drift up.

Across the ridge of his abs, over the slight dip between his pecs, tracing a slow, steady line up the center of his chest.

“You look like a god,” You whispered.

And he hummed.

Low. From somewhere deep in his chest. Like the compliment vibrated straight through him and he couldn’t contain it.

His head dipped as he let out a breathless sound against your cheek–half a laugh, half a groan. “Th-That’s… That’s not true…”

You pressed your hand flat over his heart.

“It is,” You murmured, voice soft but insistent. “You’re the sun, Bob. You shine.”

And he hummed again–longer this time.

The sound of it curled between your legs like silk.

He shuddered a little, then kissed you again–harder this time, deeper, like he didn’t know what else to do with the feeling. You moaned into it and dragged your nails lightly down his ribs just to feel the way his body reacted to you–twitching and shifting a bit.

And when you whispered, “God, I could worship you like this,” His breath hitched so hard he nearly stumbled.

His breath was ragged now–hot and uneven where it puffed against your cheek, like every single thing you said was costing him control he barely knew how to hold onto in the first place.

“You…” He rasped, voice frayed and unsteady, like it was coming from somewhere much deeper than his throat, “You don’t… You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

You smiled against his jaw.

“Yes, I do.”

His hands gripped the blanket–white-knuckled, grounding himself in the cotton and not the way your voice made his muscles twitch beneath your touch.

“You don’t understand,” He whispered, eyes squeezed shut, like he couldn’t even look at you without giving something away. “I… I can’t keep–if you keep saying things like that–if you look at me like that–I don’t know if I’ll be able to—”

His voice broke off with a shuddering inhale. His whole body trembled slightly over yours, caught between restraint and desire, and God, it was glorious.

You lifted your hand again–slow, gentle–and brushed your knuckles along his cheek. The scruff there was warm and soft, velvet over steel. He turned his face toward the touch before he could stop himself.

“Look at me,” You whispered.

He hesitated.

But only for a second.

Then he opened his eyes.

And it confirmed everything.

That glow wasn’t just a metaphor. It wasn’t poetic. It was real. His irises shimmered like molten honey shot through with starfire–like something barely leashed beneath the surface had opened a single, trembling eye.

The Sentry.

You saw it flicker there. Just enough.

Not violent. Not threatening. But watching.

And you smiled.

“I was right,” You murmured. “You really are the sun.”He tried to look away again. His throat bobbed with another hard swallow, his arms trembling where he held himself over you.

“You’re playing a d-dangerous game,” He warned, voice hoarse. “I don’t think you…I-I don’t think you know what you’re asking for.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking for,” You breathed, sliding your hand down the curve of his ribs, across his waist, back to the firm plane of his abdomen. He flinched under your palm, hips jerking forward slightly before he caught himself. “I want all of it. I want both of you…And I know you can control it.”

Bob let out a sound then–something low and wrecked, somewhere between a moan and a growl, like the words had reached some part of him buried deep and sacred.

“Y-You don’t understand,” he whispered again, almost begging this time. “You don’t u-understand what you’re doing.”

You cupped his jaw and kissed him again, slow and hot and certain, your tongue sweeping into his mouth like a vow. His hands flew to your thighs, fingers gripping tight now, anchoring himself there as he kissed you back with everything he had. Desperate. Consuming.

And when you pulled back just enough to speak again, lips brushing his as you said it–

“I do understand.”

You leaned in and dragged your teeth lightly along his bottom lip, and his whole body shuddered.

“And I want it anyway.”

He groaned–loud this time. No holding back. No shame. Just the pure, guttural sound of a man unraveling.

And when he kissed you next, it wasn’t careful.

It was devotional. No longer the soft, trembling offering it had been moments prior. This one was hungry. A little rough around the edges. A gasp swallowed. A whimper chased. Bob’s hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt like he couldn’t stop himself, and you arched up instinctively, giving him the space–giving him everything.

The fabric lifted slowly, dragged over your ribs, baring warm skin to cooler air. You raised your arms, and he pulled it over your head in one fluid motion. His breath caught when he saw you in the golden light, chest rising with something close to reverence.

Then his hand slid behind you, trembling but sure, fingers working the clasp of your bra. It came undone with a quiet snap, and he slipped the straps down your arms with a gentleness that made your throat tighten. He let it fall to the floor like something holy, something he would not dare to crumple.

And then you laid back.

Slow, easy.

Your shoulders met the mattress first, followed by the curve of your spine, the arch of your hips, and the duvet puffed beneath you, soft and sun-warmed from the light still pouring through the linen lamp shade. Your chest was bare now, rising and falling with anticipation, skin kissed in shadows and gold.

Bob just stared.

And for a second, he didn’t move.

Because you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

The way the light painted across your collarbones, soft and sloped. The subtle curve of your breasts, rising with every breath. The softness of your belly, the delicate line of your ribs. You looked like art. Like a myth. Like something that should’ve only existed in dreams.

He swallowed hard. His eyes shimmered.

And then, slowly, he sank to his knees between your thighs again.

His hands slid up your sides–warm, large, trembling just slightly. He mapped every inch of you like he needed to learn it by heart. His palms ghosted over your waist, up the softness of your ribs, and then…

He cupped your breasts carefully.

And let out a sound so low, so shattered, it made you ache.

“You’re…” He whispered, voice catching, “You’re s-so soft… So—God—beautiful.”

His thumbs brushed over your nipples, and the contact sent a ripple through you—sharp, electric. Your back arched slightly, and he leaned in without thinking, mouthing gently at the swell of one breast while his hand continued to cradle the other. His lips were warm. Open. His breath huffed against your skin as he kissed, sucked, nuzzled—like he couldn’t decide what to do first.

“You’re perfect,” He whispered again, voice rougher now–lower, tinged with something molten that flickered beneath the surface.

His mouth closed around your nipple–slow and hot–and you gasped aloud, your fingers threading into his curls as your thighs shifted on either side of him. He moaned into you. Soft. Almost desperate. His tongue flicked gently, again and again, drawing it into his mouth with a devotion that bordered on worship.

“You d-don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured between kisses, dragging his mouth across your chest to give equal attention to the other. “Y-You’re everything… Every fucking thing–”

His voice cracked again, and this time there was no mistaking it.

That tone.

Just slightly deeper. Not quite his. Not quite the Sentry either–but something born of both.

It vibrated through his chest, warm and unsteady, like two frequencies overlapping. He kissed you again–lower now–over your ribs, then your navel. Every press of his lips was filled with awe. His hands stayed at your waist, holding you like you were something precious, something irreplaceable.

“I c-could die right here,” He whispered, his voice still shaking, still fighting to stay human. “You…You’d be the last thing I see and I’d be okay with it. I swear, I—”

His mouth found your stomach, trailing down with the heat of his breath and the brush of his lips, his hands never stopping their gentle, grounding rhythm. Circling. Worshipping.

You reached down, fingers finding his jaw, guiding him up for another kiss. And when he kissed you again, it was with more hunger. More heat. But still careful–still Bob. Even when his hands roamed again–up, over your ribs, back to your breasts, where he cupped them and whispered broken praise between kisses.

“So soft… Fuck, you’re so soft…Please let me… Let me love you–let me remember all of this–”

His voice shook with restraint, with reverence, with want so deep it nearly broke you. Your fingers still cradled his jaw when you whispered it.

“I’m yours.”

You didn’t even realize the words were leaving your mouth until they’d already cracked the air between you open like a vow, and Bob stilled like you’d just spoken the incantation that undid him.

His breath caught, sharp and audible–like his lungs didn’t know whether to inhale or collapse. His eyes fluttered shut. And when they opened again, they glowed. Not bright. Not blinding. But deeper. Gold laced in blue. A quiet surrender written in starlight.

His hands clenched at your waist, and his voice came out low. Lower than before. The edges rasped with something rough, barely reined in. Like the Sentry had pressed just behind his teeth, watching from the shadows of his throat.

“Can I…” His voice broke. He swallowed hard. “Can I take these off?”

His fingertips brushed just beneath the waistband of your shorts–trembling, reverent, barely there.

“Yes,” You breathed, hips tilting upward in offering.

He let out a sound like a prayer and leaned forward to kiss your mouth again–deep, slow, aching–before pulling back and sliding down the bed. His hands rose to your hips, and with careful fingers, he began to peel your shorts and underwear down your thighs. Inch by inch. Like unwrapping something sacred.

He didn’t rush. Not for a second.

He took his time baring you to the honey-colored light. His gaze never left your skin–like he was memorizing every inch, every curve. Like this was the moment he’d waited his entire life for.

And then, when the cotton hit your knees, he paused.

He bent forward.

And kissed the top of your thigh.

Soft. Open-mouthed. Warm, and wet. Doing the same to the other.

His breath stuttered, and he sank lower–kneeling now. Fully. Both palms spread wide across your thighs, grounding himself there. And it made sense then, why he had stopped you from crawling back on the bed. Why he kept you on the edge like this.

Because it let him kneel. It let him worship. He kissed your thighs like they were holy. Lips brushing up toward where you ached for him most, the anticipation a silk-wrapped noose around your lungs. He looked up once, just once, and the heat in his gaze nearly burned you alive.

“I-I’ve wanted this,” He whispered, breath trembling against your skin. “I’ve dreamed of this–of you–just like this…”

He didn’t finish the thought.

He didn’t have to.

Because his mouth descended, slow and devastating.

A kiss–directly over your folds.

Tender. Lingering. His breath was warm. His lips parting against you in something deeper than intention.

You gasped–soft and sharp–as his tongue followed, slow and exploratory, dragging upward with a pressure that made your whole body seize. He moaned into you. Like the taste of you had broken something open inside him.

And then he did it again.

And again.

Until your hips were arching. Until your hands were in his hair. Until all you could hear was the wet, reverent sounds of him worshiping you like you were his only tether to the world.

He kissed every part of you like it mattered. Like he could feel your heartbeat in his mouth. His hands slid beneath your thighs, lifting, spreading, cradling you wider. His thumbs pressed into the crease where thigh met hip, holding you open for him, and he groaned–deep, low, wrecked–as his mouth found your clit.

He sucked gently, lips sealing around it, and your whole body jerked. A breathless cry ripped from your chest, and you felt his hands tighten, grounding you. His tongue circled, slow and sure, his lips sliding against you in worshipful rhythm.

“Bob–” You gasped, the name slipping out like a plea. “Oh, my God–”

He moaned again–vibrating against you–and the sensation made your head fall back. The edge of the mattress bit into your spine, your legs trembling where they hung over his shoulders, and still–he didn’t stop. He didn’t even falter.

His mouth moved like it was built for this.

Slow. Devoted. Intoxicating.

You felt the tension coil–tight and deep–in your belly, in your spine, in the backs of your knees. And Bob felt it too. You could tell by the way his hands gripped tighter. The way his tongue flicked just a little faster, more precise now, teasing and coaxing as he devoured you. He drank your sounds like nectar. Like every moan was oxygen. His own breath was ragged now, and still–he praised.

“You taste like heaven,” He whispered, lips brushing you wet and wanting, voice thick and torn in two. “So fucking sweet–so good–God, you’re everything–”

You were shaking.

You were unraveling.

Your thighs clenched around his shoulders, and still–he stayed locked in place, mouth relentless and full of worship. One hand slid up your belly to your chest, grounding you again, his fingers curling over your ribs while the other stayed hooked beneath your thigh.

And then–

He flattened his tongue and dragged it up the center of you, slow and hard, and sealed his mouth around your clit one last time–sucking, flicking, groaning into you with a desperation so tender it broke you wide open.

The orgasm hit like sunrise.

Warm. Blinding. Slow at first—and then fast and full, like light spilling over the edge of your bones. Your whole body arched into him. You cried out–his name, the stars, everything–and his arms locked around your hips, holding you steady as he worked you through it, mouth still worshipping, still licking, still kissing every quake of pleasure like it was a gift he’d been waiting a lifetime to receive.

And when you finally collapsed–boneless and glowing, chest heaving, eyes wet with aftershocks–Bob pulled back slowly, lips slick, face flushed, and looked up at you like a man reborn.

He was breathless.

Shaking.

But his eyes were molten gold.

“You’re…Everything,” He whispered again, voice reverent. “Everything.” The words melted into your skin like heat, and when he spoke next–his lips still brushing just above your knee—it wasn’t just Bob.

“I want to give you another one…”

His voice was wrecked. Darker. Threaded with something molten and greedy.

“I want to feel you fall apart again, just for me…”

Before you could speak–before you could even breathe–his hand slid up the inside of your thigh. His fingers were slow, wet from where he’d worshiped you moments ago, and when they reached your center, he groaned softly at the heat still there.

“So warm,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Still trembling for me.”

Then—you felt it.

The press of two fingers, thick and slow, gliding through your slick folds, parting you with devastating precision.

You gasped—legs twitching from the aftershocks still fluttering through your body. “B-Bob—wait—”

But he didn’t pull away.

He looked up at you, eyes glowing—lit with starlight and hunger—and smiled. Soft. But feral.

“I know, baby,” he whispered, fingers still dragging gently through your folds. “I know you’re sensitive. But I promise—I’ll be so gentle.”

And he was.

Even when he slipped the first finger in, and then the second—stretching you slow, curling inside you with aching care—his touch was worship. His breath shook with restraint, with reverence, with something barely caged beneath his ribs.

You cried out—half from pleasure, half from overstimulation—as his fingers began to move. A steady rhythm. In and out, in and out, curling at the top each time until sparks flared up your spine.

“You’re doing so good,” he rasped, eyes locked on yours. “So fucking good for me.”

The pace never quickened. But the pressure built. And built.

He pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses to the inside of your thigh with every stroke, like he was timing his mouth to your unraveling. Your hands fisted in the duvet, your hips twitching every time his fingers brushed that devastating spot inside you—and still, he moved like a man being fed by your pleasure. Like this—wrecking you gently—was salvation.

“I can feel you,” he whispered, voice thick. “You’re clenching around me already, aren’t you? You’re so close…”

You whimpered, nodding, barely able to hold yourself up.

He pulled his fingers nearly all the way out—then pushed them back in, slow and deep, curling them harder this time. You choked on a sob.

“I want it,” he murmured. “Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go again—one more. Just one more for me.”

Your thighs shook. Your lips parted on a gasp as the pressure bloomed hard and fast this time—your body raw and exposed and aching for him.

He leaned in close, lips brushing your inner thigh as he worked you open on his fingers. “I want to see your soul when you come. Please, baby, show it to me.”

The second orgasm hit like a wave breaking against rock.

Rougher. Hungrier. You cried out again, back arching clean off the mattress, thighs locking around his wrist as you shattered all over him. The sound that tore from you wasn’t pretty–it was real. It was desperate. It was a gift.

Bob groaned–deep and guttural–as you pulsed around his fingers, your release soaking him, your voice ragged and broken as you whispered his name again and again.

He didn’t stop until your body finally slumped back against the sheets, spent and shaking, your skin glistening with sweat and devotion.

Only then did he slide his fingers free slowly, and lift them to his mouth.

He sucked them clean.

Eyes locked on yours.

And when he finally stood–shoulders heaving, sweat dripping down the curve of his throat–he looked like a god descending from whatever mythical place they belonged to

The Sentry was still there in the golden flicker of his eyes. Greedy. Glowing. Waiting.

“Now,” He said, voice low and reverent as he reached for his waistband, “I’m going to make love to you.” You were still gasping, chest rising in sharp, uneven waves, your limbs spread across the bed like they’d melted into the duvet. Your fingers twitched where they gripped the sheets. The light from the nightstand made everything feel golden and close, like time had slowed just for the two of you.

Bob moved carefully.

Softly.

You barely noticed at first–only the shift of pressure beneath your thigh, the way his hand skimmed under your back. But then he was there, lifting you just enough to guide you farther up the bed. His touch was trembling but sure, all Bob again–no flicker, no pulse of divinity. Just the man. The hands that had brushed paint onto your walls, the voice that had whispered to you in the dark when nightmares clawed through the silence.

“L-Lay back,” He murmured, eyes searching your face like he needed permission again. “J-Just wanna get you comfortable…”

You nodded, boneless and warm, your heart still fluttering in your chest.

He kissed your neck as he helped you settle, lips brushing right where your pulse fluttered. It wasn’t sexual, not yet. It was grounding. Anchoring. The kind of kiss that said you’re safe. That said I’ve got you.

You sighed against him.

And when he pulled back just enough to stand again, his hands went to his waistband.

He hesitated.

Only for a second.

But then–he slipped his thumbs beneath the edge of his sweatpants and boxers, and pushed them down slowly, hips rolling just slightly as the fabric slid over his thighs.

And there he was.

His erection stood proud and flushed, the head a soft blush red, glistening at the tip, his length thick and veined–aching and heavy with want. It wasn’t just beautiful–it was intimate. Unfiltered. Bob, exposed. Unhidden. And yet… utterly perfect.

You inhaled softly, lips parting around a soundless gasp. He looked vulnerable like this, not in shame, but in reverence. He wasn’t flaunting it. He wasn’t posing. He was present.

Breath stuttering slightly, Bob stepped out of the bunched fabric around his ankles and nudged it aside with his foot before crawling onto the bed, careful not to jostle you too fast. He kissed your knee first, then your hip, then the soft underside of your ribcage, working his way up your body with aching, deliberate slowness.

You reached for him without thinking, needing to touch all of him now. Your hands slid across his chest, feeling the way his muscles tensed beneath your fingers, the little tremors in his arms. He nestled between your thighs as he reached you fully, bracing himself on one forearm while the other arm hooked gently beneath your thigh, guiding it up and around his waist. Then–

He slipped one arm behind your neck.

Cradling you.

Like you were the most precious thing in the world.

His hips rested just above yours, the heat of him brushing your center, not yet aligned–but enough to make you both moan at the contact. His body blanketed yours, but not heavily. He held himself up with care, like every ounce of pressure he applied was measured, considered.

His lips found your throat again, this time pressing just below your jaw. “Y/N…” He whispered, voice cracking. “T-This is all I’ve e-ever wanted.”

You turned your head, your lips brushing his temple, then his cheek.

“Bob,” You breathed. “You’re so good. You’re so perfect…I want you so bad.”

He let out a shuddering sound. A whimper, almost. And when he kissed you again–open-mouthed, lips dragging along your collarbone–you felt him whisper something against your skin.

“I’m gonna go slow… I–I wanna feel all of you. I want you to feel me.”

His voice stuttered again, and that alone almost undid you. Because it was him.

Not the Sentry.

Not the glowing power that had shimmered behind his irises. Just Bob–soft, trembling, and wrecked with love, and holding you like you were divine.

Bob shifted just slightly–allowing his hand to slip between your bodies, low and slow, until he wrapped his fingers around himself. You could feel the tremble in his arm as he lined himself up, the heat of him pressing right where you were still soaked and aching for him.

“Okay?” he whispered, eyes searching your face.

You nodded–barely, breath caught in your throat–and lifted your hips just enough to meet him.

His hand slipped to your thigh, guiding it back up around his waist, and then–

He kissed you.

Slow. Deep. Tongue brushing yours like it was a prayer. And as your mouths moved together, slick and open and gasping, he began to press in.

The stretch stole your breath.

The head of him pushed into you, thick and hot and slow, and your lips parted with a gasp that he swallowed greedily. His whole body shuddered over you as he sank deeper–inch by inch–your walls fluttering around him, still trembling from the afterglow of the orgasms he’d already given you. Every nerve ending felt raw and alight, turned inside out by pleasure, by sensation, by him.

“Oh my God,” you whimpered, nails digging lightly into his back.

He moaned into your mouth–long and low and desperate–and pushed in further, your body yielding for him, stretching to accommodate the full length of him. His hips trembled with restraint, his hand never leaving your thigh, thumb brushing small circles into your skin to soothe you as he sank deeper and deeper.

You felt full.

You felt wrecked.

You felt like you were being split open in the most perfect, intimate way–and still, he didn’t stop. Not until he bottomed out completely, hips flush against yours, his chest heaving above you like he couldn’t believe it was real.

And then…

He stilled, breathless, inside you.

His forehead dropped to yours, and you could feel the sweat on his skin, the warmth of it, the shiver still running through him as he tried not to move. He kissed your cheek, then your jaw, then your temple–his lips brushing each place like a whispered offering.

“You feel…” He choked, “You feel so good–so warm–so soft–”

Your hands slid up his back, anchoring there, and he kissed the corner of your mouth again.

“I don’t ever wanna move,” He whispered, voice wrecked and thick and glowing at the edges. “I just wanna stay right here. Inside you. Forever.”

You whimpered, barely holding onto your breath, your hips twitching slightly beneath his.

”Bob…I’m all yours and…My god you’re amazing.” He groaned against your skin–low and needy–and kissed the tip of your nose, your eyelids, your throat.

Then, softer–

“Tell me when,” he whispered. “I won’t move until you’re ready.”

You breathed in slowly, body still adjusting to the stretch of him, to the heat and fullness and sheer beauty of having him this close. His thumb was still brushing lazy circles against your thigh, the other hand stroking your hair back from your temple.

And then you nodded.

You turned your face to his, kissed him slowly, and whispered:

“Now.”

He moved.

Just a little.

Just enough for you both to feel it–just enough for the glide to send a shudder through your spine. His hips drew back, slow and measured, and then pressed forward again with aching care. Your mouth dropped open around a moan—his name falling from your lips—and he echoed it with a broken sound of his own.

Every thrust was deliberate.

Every movement was a confession.

Every time he sank back into you, he gasped–like the sensation was too much, like he still couldn’t believe you were real beneath him, taking him in, holding him so tight and perfect and wet.

“You’re perfect,” He rasped, hips rocking into you slow and deep, his lips never straying far from your skin. His hips rolled into you slowly filling you with each deep, reverent thrust like he couldn’t bear to pull away too far. His lips trailed up your jaw, brushing your cheek, then your temple, and every time he bottomed out, he moaned like your body had answered a question he hadn’t dared to ask.

You gasped again–sharp, breathless–your back arching into him. The motion pressed your chest to his, and your nails curled slightly into his back. Just enough to drag. Just enough to leave a faint trace.

Bob shuddered. His breath hitched, and he groaned–low and ragged–into your skin.

“D-Do that again,” He begged, voice breaking, “God–please–do that again.”

You did. Fingertips digging a little deeper this time, dragging down his spine, and the reaction was immediate–his hips stuttered, rhythm faltering with a gasp that sounded possessed with pleasure.

His head dropped into the crook of your neck, his voice muffled against your skin.

“Fuck–you feel like heaven–you are heaven–” He breathed, hips beginning to move again. A little faster now. Still deep. Still careful. But urgent.

His hand cupped the side of your face, brushing hair from your cheek, and the other remained locked at your thigh, holding it high around his waist. You could feel every inch of him–the stretch, the heat, the connection–and God, it was unbearable how good it felt.

“I’m not hurting you a-am I?” he whispered, just barely audible. “T-Tell me if I am, tell me–”

“No,” You gasped. “No, Bob, it’s perfect–you’re perfect–please don’t stop–”

That made him whimper. His whole body shivered above you, and you felt the light from the lamp begin to shift. It had been warm and muted before–but now, it pulsed. Like a heartbeat. Like something responding to the heat in the room. Each time he thrust into you, it grew just a little brighter.

Neither of you noticed at first–too lost in each other, in the intimacy coiling tight between your bodies–but you felt it. That warmth. That power building in the air. The glow of something just beneath the surface.

Bob kissed you again–messy, deep, almost broken–and your hips rolled up to meet his. You were moving with him now, chasing the friction, your body writhing beneath his, needing it. Needing him.

“I-I can feel all of you,” He moaned, pulling back just enough to look down at where your bodies met, his voice wrecked. You keened at the words, thighs tightening around him, heels pressing into the backs of his legs. He was fully inside you now with every stroke, and you could feel another orgasm building, hotter and faster than before–simmering low in your belly, pulsing in time with the light around you.

His face hovered over yours, sweat clinging to his temple, lips trembling with restraint.

And his eyes–

They glowed.

Bright now.

The Sentry wasn’t gone.

But he wasn’t in control, either.

Just there. Watching. Letting Bob feel it all. Letting him worship you with everything he had—every thrust, every kiss, every broken praise.

His voice dropped, deeper than before. Still Bob. But laced with something else.

“Where do you want me?” He asked, his breath hot against your cheek. “Where do you want me to come, sweetheart?”

You met his eyes–gold and blue and glowing–and you moaned through clenched teeth, your whole body beginning to tremble again.

“Inside me,” You gasped. “Please, Bob–I want you to come inside–I want to feel it–want to feel you fill me up–”

He snapped.

His rhythm faltered. His hips ground against you harder now—still deep, but no longer controlled. There was hunger now. Desperation. He chased it with everything he had, every stroke punctuated by breathless moans and praise, his mouth dragging along your skin like he couldn’t stop kissing you, couldn’t stop telling you how perfect you were.

“Gonna give it to you,” He choked out. “Gonna give you all of it—fuck—you’re mine—”

The light in the room brightened to a crescendo–gold washing over every surface, turning the walls to fire and your skin to sun-kissed silk. And just as you felt your orgasm snap again–fast and hard and all-consuming, your body tightening and convulsing around him–

Bob let out a broken moan, that sounded like he was on the brink of crying. He was out of breath, and so hot it felt like he had fallen from the sun.

And then the lightbulb burst.

Glass popped with a sharp, cracking sound, shards raining harmlessly inside the shade as the room flickered and dimmed.

And he poured into you.

Thrusting deep one last time–hips locked against yours, arms shaking, his name echoing from your mouth as his pleasure hit–blinding and endless. He held you through it, his body shaking over yours, gasping your name like it was the only word he knew.

And somewhere–distant, muffled–you heard raised voices. Muffled arguing, like yelling.

But it was all far away.

Because your ears were ringing.

Like someone had struck a tuning fork behind your ribs and sent the vibration through your entire body. You could feel the aftershocks echoing in your spine, down your legs, across your fingertips still curled in his back.

Bob’s body trembled against yours, skin damp with sweat, chest heaving like he’d run miles through a sunstorm just to get to you. He didn’t move—not right away. He stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped tight around your waist, his forehead resting against the curve of your shoulder as he whispered your name again. Softer this time. Wrecked. Worshipful.

Your hands were still in his hair, fingers brushing through the damp curls at the base of his neck, your heartbeat thudding in your throat. Your whole body felt molten—boneless and glowing, like you’d been struck by lightning but kissed by it too. And the warmth between your legs, the slow throb where he still pulsed inside you, grounded it all in something sacred.

You shifted slightly—just enough to feel him twitch as he began to soften, still deep inside, your bodies tangled like ivy in the low light of the room.

He kissed your collarbone. Then your jaw. Then your lips—slow and trembling, a thank-you in every brush.

“I-I love th-that I get to call y-you mine…” He breathed, barely audible against your lips.

One of your hands cupped the side of his face, thumb stroking his flushed cheek, and he leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut.

But then…

The sound of shouting finally cut through the quiet.

Your eyes opened.

Bob’s head lifted slightly, brow furrowing. Somewhere down the hallway—muffled through the compound walls—came the unmistakable sound of bickering. Loud. Confused. Walker’s voice, sharp and irritated. Yelena’s voice following with something distinctly Russian and exasperated.

“…I’m telling you that wasn’t the oven–” Walker yelled.

“Then what was it, genius? Light bulbs don’t just explode like that!” Ava screamed.

“Maybe you sneeze too hard–” Alexei chimed in.

“Oh my God, shut up, all of you–there’s glass in the hallway–”Bucky interrupted.

Bob pulled back slowly, just enough to look at you. His eyes were still a little dazed, his hair curling at the temples from sweat, and his cheeks were flushed pink from effort and something more vulnerable, and then he glanced over at the remains of your lamp's lightbulb. The connection was immediate.

”Oh…O-Oh Jesus Christ…” He whispered, and you watched his face go a deeper red. “Oh god…T-They’re gonna know it’s me…W-What the hell is wrong w-with me?” You let out a soft and breathless laugh, before reaching out to caress his face.

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with you.” You leaned in and gave him a gentle is on the lips, as he groaned.

”I just b-blew every lightbulb on this level…God o-only knows what e-else I did.” You snorted, now picturing every level of the Tower needing replacement light bulbs and tears of laughter began prickling at your eyes.

And Bob, still buried inside you, still flushed and glowing, started laughing too. Quietly at first. Then louder. The kind of laugh that shook through his chest and softened everything. Like the sound of guilt melting into joy. Like sunlight cracking through the last remnants of a storm.

”We’re definitely going to need a really good excuse.” You murmured, leaning forward to steal another kiss, earning a soft hum from Bob.

”I k-know…But that’s f-for future us t-to worry about I think…”

this was. EVERYTHING

Spanish Sahara

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

Summary: After a rough week at the Thunderbolts Compound, the team goes out for some drinks to wind down and enjoy themselves.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob and other characters from the movie are in here. Fluff, and Smut are the main warnings here, Bob and Reader have an established friendship.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up y’all), Praise/Worship Kink, Breast Play, …Something involving a mirror, Very light choking, Oral Sex (f! And m! receiving), Fingering, Swallowing, Bob is a frickin softie as usual because that’s hot but he definitely has his moments in this, Overstimulation, Teasing, Aftercare to the max because being taken care of after hot sex is…Wheew lol. I don’t think I missed anything

Author’s Note: I saw a lot of people requesting more smut and I thought as a nice little break from the super long fics that I’m working on (that request box has a lot of them and I’m chipping away at it as much as possible!) I’d write a nice little one-shot for y’all to celebrate a random Friday in May 😂 enjoy!! (Side note, I also had a funny little ask about how I name my posts lol, I literally just picture the songs in what I’m writing, the title changes like three times by the time I post it lol)

Word Count: 13,796

The bar was loud, crowded, and hazy with cheap smoke and too many conversations happening at once–but Bob was only paying attention to you, and attempting to look normal in his surroundings, which was always a complicated feat for him.

You sat across from him in the booth, your body framed in golden lamplight and neon beer signs like some half-lit portrait in an art museum. You looked too good to be real–flushed with warmth from your second tequila pineapple of the night, bare-legs crossed just enough to make his brain short-circuit, lips glossed a cherry red like you’d done it just to ruin him.

And maybe, somewhere deep down, he thought you had.

The others were scattered across the bar like background noise–Ava and Yelena flanking the bar with their usual chaotic grace, Walker and Alexei pounding back shots and shouting about God-knows-what, and Bucky leaning over the pool table, unknowingly feeding lines to a group of women who didn’t care if he could shoot or not.

But Bob hadn’t looked away from you in nearly half an hour.

Not when you uncrossed and re-crossed your legs beneath the table, the movements slow and fluid, like you wanted to give him something to look at. Bob’s eyes had followed the motion instinctively–drawn to the soft slide of skin, to the way your thighs shifted beneath the hem of your black tailored shorts. They were high-waisted and fitted, hugging the dip of your waist and the curve of your hips, cinched with a single gold button that glinted every time you moved.

You’d paired them with that wicked bodysuit–the one that clung to your body like second skin, high-cut at the hips and daringly low in the front, just enough to frame the soft curve of your cleavage without giving away too much. It was backless, sleeveless, and made of some silky, matte fabric that shimmered faintly in the bar light. You wore it like armor, like a challenge.

Your legs were bare, golden under the dim glow, crossed at the knee with one foot tucked behind the other–long, lean, and deliberate in how they were presented. Every detail about your look tonight felt curated–not in a fake way, but in the kind of way that said I know exactly what I’m doing to you. And Bob? Poor Bob looked like he was under your spell.

He couldn’t stop looking.

Every time your drink got dangerously low and you leaned forward–elbows resting on the table, cleavage pressing softly together–you dragged the last sip from your straw with a slow, teasing pull that made something in him twist. He watched the way your lips curled around it, how a single droplet of condensation slid down the side of the glass and clung to your fingers. He was transfixed.

You laughed at something the waitress said–he didn’t even register what–and it echoed in his chest like a bell. That sound always got to him.

And tonight, he wasn’t hiding it. Not well, anyway.

His eyes kept drifting–over your mouth, the curve of your collarbone, the smooth stretch of your exposed shoulders, down to the shadowed dip between your breasts. Then he’d catch himself and flick his gaze up like he could undo what he just saw. Like he was trying to remind himself that he respected you too much to stare, even though he’d been staring for months.

He was trying so hard to be polite. His hands were clenched in his lap, fingers tangled and twitching like they were holding back something much stronger than impulse. His posture was rigid, like his own body was betraying him one muscle at a time.

He was always like that around you–reserved, yes. But it wasn’t just shyness. It was respect. Fear. Like every thought he had about you was too big to name out loud. Like if he touched you, he’d never forgive himself for crossing that line.

But he’d already crossed it, hadn’t he? Not physically–but emotionally, because Bob Reynolds had been in love with you for a long, long time.

And you knew it.

You saw it in the way he always noticed when you were tired after a mission, the way he made you tea without asking, or stayed behind in training sessions he wasn’t even involved in just so you’d have someone to spot you. You saw it in the way he flinched when someone else made you laugh, or how his voice went into a cracked whisper only when he said your name.

He was putty in your hands. And you loved it. Not because it gave you power–but because he let you have it. Because he trusted you with it.

And as much as the friendship meant to you–deeply, intimately–you’d stopped lying to yourself months ago. Your brain was always a few steps ahead, mapping the timeline of how you’d get from here–from this bar booth and his helpless eyes–to there. To a place where Bob Reynolds was no longer just your best friend, but something closer. Something that meant yours.

So you didn’t say anything. You just watched him.

Watched how his breath caught every time you shifted. How he wet his lips nervously when you leaned forward. How the pulse in his neck jumped like he could feel your eyes on him.

His fingers twitched again, folded too tight in his lap. You followed the motion, noted the way his knuckles went white.

There was a sheen of sweat on his temple now–barely noticeable unless you were looking for it, which you were.

And poor Bob didn’t even realize how obvious he was.

So you decided to make it worse for him.

You slipped off your shoe under the table and slowly–very slowly–ran your foot up the length of his shin. A gentle drag, barely a touch, but intentional. Controlled. The kind of touch that said I see you. And I want you flustered.

Bob jolted like you’d zapped him with a live wire.

His leg knocked the underside of the table with a hollow thunk, and his hand shot out, sloshing his Coke Zero just short of the edge. His knuckles were white around the glass. His jaw dropped slightly like he meant to say something but forgot what language was.

His cheeks–already pink from the warmth of the room and the low buzz that he was getting from just being around you–flushed deeply, the color spreading up his neck and painting his ears red. You swore even his throat blushed. He pushed his light brown hair out of his face nervously, like he was afraid it would cloud his vision of you.

You tilted your head, smirking. “Cold in here?”

He blinked like he’d just come out of a trance. His lashes fluttered rapidly over wide blue eyes–those eyes, impossibly pale and clear, glassy with surprise and something raw beneath it. Want, maybe. Or fear.

“Y-Yeah,” He stammered, voice cracking slightly. “A–A little drafty.”

“Mmm.” You stretched in your seat, arms rising lazily above your head, making sure the movement pulled the neckline of your bodysuit lower. The fabric shifted with you, stretching softly across your chest, exposing a bit more of the delicate skin he’d been trying so hard not to look at.

His gaze dropped like he didn’t even mean to let it.

And then he swallowed–hard–his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly in his throat.

But Bob didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His breathing had gone shallow, his tongue caught against the roof of his mouth like he’d forgotten how to form words. He looked like he was choking on air.

You didn’t let up.

Your foot moved again–slow, deliberate, and this time it brushed higher, just right on the inside of his thigh, where the heat of his body was more noticeable. Where he was trembling.

His breath hitched instantly, and a soft, involuntary sound escaped him–a sharp exhale, half-panic, half-arousal. His fingers dug into the wooden edge of the booth like he was bracing for impact.

You leaned forward again, closing some of the distance between you, letting your arms rest on the table and your chest push together ever so slightly in the low light. He couldn’t look away.

“You’ve been looking at me like that all night, Bob,” You said, your voice velvet-soft, the tone curling up his spine.

His head snapped up like you’d struck him–eyes wide and wild with guilt, pupils dilated in the low light. His brows pinched upward with alarm, his mouth parting in a panicked breath.

“I… I didn’t mean to–” He rushed out, but it came out broken.

You reached across the space between you, wrapping your hand around his wrist before gently cutting him off

“I want you to look.”

He froze.

His whole body went still, like he was afraid to breathe. His eyes–so ocean-bright and boyishly soft–flicked over your face with disbelief, feeling your thumb run over the exposed skin of his wrist.

You smiled at him again, slower this time. Not to tease. But to reassure.

“I like that it’s you,” You said, your voice dipping into something quiet and unshakably sincere.

He blinked, slow and stunned. His lashes cast little shadows under the low-hung light, and you saw the exact moment something cracked in his chest.

“You’re the only one,” You continued, “Who’s never looked at me like I’m a game to win. Or a body to take. You look at me like I’m something you’re afraid to break. Like I’m something you cherish.”

His lips parted again–slightly dry, slightly trembling.

And you saw it. The shimmer in his eyes. That wide, overwhelmed expression he wore when you said something that hit too close to the truth. He looked like he might cry. Or faint. Or bolt. But instead…He stayed.

Frozen, but present.

You reached for your drink again with your free hand and took the last sip, dragging the straw into your mouth with deliberate slowness, never breaking eye contact.

Bob’s eyes tracked every inch of the motion. You could see the subtle twitch in his jaw, the little hitch in his shoulders, like he was physically holding himself back.

Then you licked a drop from your bottom lip.

And that did him in.

His breath faltered again, and his eyes–so blue, so open, so obviously in love with you–looked at you like he’d forgotten where he was. Like the world had narrowed down to just your lips, your voice, your body framed in shadow and gold light.

You tilted your head, gaze gentle now. That look you always gave him when he was spiraling. When he needed to know he was safe. That he was wanted.

He looked like he didn’t deserve it.

But you knew better.

And finally, after a long, shaky breath–his lashes fluttering like he was about to pass out—he leaned forward.

His voice barely rose above the din of the bar, cracked and breathless and close enough to touch.

“I…I think about y–you.”

The words came out like a confession. Like a sin.

He didn’t stop.

“More than I should,” He said, gaze darting to the table, then back up again like it physically hurt him to hold your eyes. “More than…What’s okay.”

You didn’t move. You didn’t interrupt. You let him say it.

“I just…” His throat worked again. “If I ever got to touch you–I don’t think I’d want to stop.”

Your chest ached at how sincerely he meant it. Like it wasn’t just about sex. Like it was everything, like it meant everything.

Your hand on his wrist slid down so your palm was over his, feeling the warmth of him–the quiet trembling, the softness of his skin.

“Bob,” You said softly. “What would you do if I didn’t want you to stop?”

His lashes fluttered at you–confused, hopeful, scared–but he didn’t pull away, not like he would normally. If anything, he leaned in like you had said something that brought him closer.

Your hand stayed where it was, palm against palm, but your fingers began to move–softly tracing the lines in his hand like you were reading him. Like you were studying a map only you had permission to follow. You let your fingertip trail along the length of his lifeline, then up the curve of his thumb, dipping gently between the web of his fingers. He flinched–barely–but you felt it. Saw the way his breath shuddered quietly through his nose, the way his fingers twitched like they wanted so badly to close around yours but didn’t quite dare.

He was holding himself back.

Even now, even here.

Your gaze lifted, meeting his–they were wide and glossy, pupils blown wide now, eating away at the blue, and there was something deeply aching in the way he looked at you. Like he was trying to memorize every second of this moment in case it vanished.

“Don’t look at me like that,” You murmured, your thumb ghosting over the calloused edge of his ring finger. “Like you’re not allowed to want this.” Bob swallowed hard–again. It was the only thing he could do that didn’t give him away. His breath stuttered. His fingers twitched. His mouth opened like he might say something, but no words came.

He looked at you like you were everything he’d ever prayed for and was terrified to touch.

You watched the war inside him–want versus restraint. It played out in the flicker of his lashes, the shake in his hand, the tension braced through his shoulders like he was trying to keep himself from combusting.

So you let go of his hand, and moved your foot away from his inner thigh.

For a heartbeat, his face dropped–just a flicker of devastation in his expression.

Until you stood up, and moved around the table.

Bob’s head turned like he couldn’t believe you were really coming to him, like some part of him had convinced himself this was all a hallucination brought on by too many Coke Zeros–cause he couldn’t drink–and too many nights thinking about your hands, your mouth, and your voice in his ear. But then you slid into the booth beside him, your thigh pressing flush to his. He was still frozen, spine straight, hands in his lap like they might betray him if he moved them. Your perfume radiated off of you, the one that you always modestly sprayed on yourself, the one that he loved sneaking in your room to smell when you weren’t at the compound or out on a mission–the one that smelled like sugar, berries, and ripe oranges, like a succulent dessert…Made just for him.

You leaned in slowly, brushing your arm against him. You didn’t have to look at him, you didn’t have to…You knew he was already looking at you, or trying to look at you.

When he was finally able to feel your hot breath curl over his cheek he could immediately smell the pineapple juice on your tongue. It made him want to lean in right then and there just to get a taste, just to suck the essence off of it, to drink from you, but he needed to hold himself back, to stay in control of himself before he did something prematurely.

Then–with the grace of an angel–you reached up and touched him.

Your fingers found the side of his jaw, the pads of them smoothing against his freshly shaven cheek, tilting his face gently toward you. He followed the motion like a man possessed–like you had pulled him by a leash tied to his soul. He closed his eyes at the sensation, parting his lips slightly to take in a small breath–a quiet plea.

Slowly, you leaned in, your mouth resting just close enough to graze his ear, and you whispered–low, and sultry:

”Every time I touch myself, I imagine it’s you…” Bob shattered. A noise escaped him–broken and breathless. A half-gasp, half-whimper that he couldn’t contain if he tried. His body went tense beside you, his thigh flexing under yours, his fingers twitching like they were about to snap.

But you didn’t stop there.

“I imagine your fingers,” You murmured, your lips brushing his ear, “Big and clumsy and desperate, the way they always look when you’re nervous. I imagine them moving inside me while I ride your hand, while I beg you to kiss me like you mean it.” Bob exhaled–hard. His jaw clenched under your touch, his breath fogging hot against your forearm. You could feel how close he was to breaking–how close he was to falling apart in front of a whole bar full of people he couldn’t even look at in the eyes. Your fingertips moved slowly across his cheek, your nails didn’t scratch–they ghosted, mapped, and worshipped. You traced the slope of his cheekbone, then slid down to the soft dip beside his mouth, like you were learning his face the way others learn scripture.

Bob was unraveling. Every word from your mouth was gasoline on the fire he’d been trying to smother for months. His breath caught in his chest like a prayer that didn’t know how to end, and he stared at you—lips parted, lashes trembling–like he couldn’t tell if this was heaven or the moment before he burned.

And then your other hand came to rest on his shoulder, grounding him–and pushing him closer to the edge all at once.

He was breathing too hard now. Too fast. His chest rising in shallow, shaking swells. And all he could do was sit there, hands fisted in his lap, as you leaned in and whispered into his ear again–closer this time, like you were whispering to his soul.

“I think about tasting you,” You said softly. “So achingly slow, until you lose your mind.”

Bob’s knees went weak beneath the table. He didn’t even know how he was still upright. The only thing keeping him tethered to the earth was the press of your thigh against his, the weight of your palm on his shoulder and face, and the sound of your voice curling into his bloodstream like silk-wrapped sin.

He tried to speak–tried to gather some string of thought that could resemble language–but all he managed was a broken, desperate breath. “I–” He rasped, his voice shredded at the edges.

But you didn’t let him finish.

You shushed him. Gently. Sweetly. Your thumb swept across his cheek.

“Don’t,” You murmured, so close your lips touched his ear, “Don’t talk. Just feel it.”

And God, he felt it.

Every molecule of you.

The heat of your breath melting against his skin. The sweetness of your perfume, dizzying and intimate. The way your hands touched him like he was more than a body. Like he was a secret. A sacred thing you’d been aching to unwrap.

His fingers twitched at his sides, aching to move, to reach for you, but he didn’t dare–not unless you asked for it. He’d give you anything, everything, but he didn’t want to take a single thing you didn’t offer first.

Still, he couldn’t help it–his head tilted toward your touch, his eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted in something so tender it almost hurt to witness. His throat flexed as he swallowed another breath that wouldn’t steady.

You moved even closer–until your mouth nearly brushed his. Until the distance between you was a lie.

“I want to make you lose control,” You whispered. “I want to feel how much you’ve been holding back.”

That did it.

Bob’s whole body trembled under your hands–his restraint hanging by a thread, his jaw clenched like he was trying not to whimper. He turned his head slowly, just enough to look at you, and his eyes–those soft, wrecked, worshipful eyes–were completely undone.

“Y-You don’t know what you’re d-doing to me,” He breathed, but you smiled, soft and knowing.

“Then maybe we should go back to the compound so you could show me.” You whispered back, your thumb stroking the corner of his mouth like you’d been dying to touch him there. Bob’s breath hitched.

The corner of his mouth twitched beneath your thumb like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to shape it into a sentence. His brow knit–tight, anxious–as if he were on the edge of a precipice and could already feel the wind pulling at his shirt.

“I…” His voice cracked. He turned his head slightly, his cheek brushing your palm, but his eyes–those trembling, desperate eyes–held yours like you were the only thing anchoring him to the floor. “I don’t… know w-what happens if I lose control…I h-haven’t had s-sex since before the S-Sentry serum…”

Your chest softened at the vulnerability in his tone–raw, boyish, torn straight from the deepest part of him.

“I’ve felt it before. The…Shift. T-That moment before it gets too much.” His throat worked hard around the next words. “The Sentry, he–he comes through w-when I feel too much. When I want too much. A-And I want you so badly it terrifies me.”

Your thumb stroked over his jaw again, slow and reverent, like you were trying to soothe the trembling just beneath his skin. He didn’t pull away.

“Bob,” You whispered, voice like velvet heat, “I’m not scared of him.”

His breath caught, but you didn’t stop.

“I don’t care if the Sentry shows up. I don’t care if he tries to carry me off into the sky or crack the moon in half because I kissed you too hard.” You smiled gently, your nose brushing his. “Because it’s still you. All of it. The fear, the ache, the power–none of it changes the fact that it’s your heart underneath. And I want all of it. I want all of you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, lashes wet. His chest heaved like he’d just exhaled something he’d been holding in for years. Like you’d opened a dam inside him and now he couldn’t stop it–he didn’t want to anyways.

“Y-You don’t know w–what that means to me,” He whispered, voice trembling like glass on the verge of breaking. “To not be t-the golden boy in your eyes…To just b-be me.”

You leaned in then–so close he could taste your breath, taste the sweetness of pineapple and something far more sacred.

“You were never a monster,” You said, lips brushing his. “You’re the kindest thing I’ve ever touched.”

And that broke something open in him.

His shoulders sagged forward, like a weight had slid off them, and he pressed his forehead to yours, his hands finally–finally–lifting from his lap to ghost up your sides, hesitant and aching. You felt the way they trembled as they settled on your waist, as if touching you too firmly might shatter the moment.

But you didn’t shatter. You melted. Right into him.

“Take me home,” You whispered, your hand curling around the back of his neck. “And let me be yours.”

Bob let out a shaky breath–half-sob, half-surrender–and nodded.

“O–Okay…”

—————————————

The moment the two of you stepped out of the elevator and the doors slid shut behind you, the weight of what was about to happen descended over you like dusk spilling into a quiet room–slow and golden and thick with gravity. It wrapped around your shoulders, soaked into your skin. Each step down the quiet hallway felt amplified, padded in the hush of possibility. The compound, usually so full of voices and footfalls, now felt sacred. Empty in a way that invited something tender to unfold.

You glanced over at Bob beside you–his hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff beneath his shirt like he didn’t know how to hold his own body anymore. His eyes flicked toward you, then away again. You could see it in the twitch of his fingers, in the slow rise and fall of his breath: he was fighting the urge to run and the urge to fall into you all at once.

“Whose room?” You asked softly, your voice barely more than a breath as you stopped just shy of your doors, which were across from one another.

Bob turned to face you, and for a moment he just looked at you. Really looked. As if the question was too big to answer all at once. But then he shook his head and murmured, without hesitation, “Yours.”

Your brows lifted a fraction, surprised by the immediacy of it.

His voice came again, quieter now, barely able to hold its own weight: “I want to be surrounded by everything that’s you.”

And God, he meant it. You could see it all over his face–that quiet, overwhelmed awe. That whisper of longing woven into his breath. Like being near you wasn’t just about want–it was about safety.

You opened your door with a hush of hinges and warmth poured out–soft and golden like it had been waiting for you both. Bob hesitated on the threshold just for a moment, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to step into something so intimate. But you reached back and curled your fingers around his, pulling him through gently, and he followed without a sound.

Your room welcomed him like a heartbeat.

The lights were low, softened to a muted amber by the shade of your bedside lamp, and the shadows cast across the walls were familiar, worn-in. The kind of quiet you could only earn by living in a space long enough to leave parts of yourself tucked into the corners.

There were little signs of you everywhere.

A cardigan draped over the back of your chair, still shaped by your shoulders. A couple mismatched mugs on the windowsill, half-full of dried flowers and pens that had long since run out of ink. A battered paperback with your thumb pressed into the spine, abandoned on the edge of the bed. The faintest scent of that sugary sweet skin-warm perfume. He could taste it in the silence.

And then there was the window.

It stretched across nearly half the far wall, a wide mouth of glass looking out over the city, where the skyline pulsed like a living organism–silver and gold lights blinking in lazy succession, cars reflecting off the windows threading down the streets like blood through veins. Bob walked toward it like he was drawn by gravity itself, like it called to the aching part of him that had spent too long looking at the world from above and never this close.

His reflection caught in the tall mirror near the bed–a fractured echo of himself, backlit by the skyline, a man made of longing and light. If he laid down, he realized, he’d be able to see you both in that mirror. Your bodies. Your faces. The way you might look reaching for each other.

He swallowed hard.

Behind him, you closed the door.

The soft click of it sealing shut sent a shiver down his spine–final and quiet and full of promise. He turned toward you, and that’s when he saw you undoing your leather jacket, slow and unhurried. The matte black of it peeled away from your shoulders like a second skin, and the way you moved–fluid, unfazed, and sure–made the air around him feel charged, like static clinging to cotton.

You stood in front of him now, illuminated by citylight and the low lamplight behind you. The bodysuit clung to your frame, catching the warm glow across your collarbones, your throat, the tender curve of your chest. You shrugged the jacket the rest of the way off, and it hit the floor with the softest thud.

Bob was frozen in place. Watching you like a man watching lightning hit the ocean.

He looked around your room again, slower this time. You saw it in his eyes–how he drank in the soft mess of your sheets, the collection of little rings in a porcelain dish, the stack of notes taped to your wall with scribbled to-dos and song lyrics and scraps of thought. It was chaotic and real and you, and he loved every single thing about it.

You were standing so close now that he could feel the warmth radiating off of your skin. The glow of your room wrapped around the two of you like a whispered secret.

You tilted your head slightly and whispered, “You okay?”

And Bob–whose hands were clenched at his sides, whose chest was rising like a tide he couldn’t hold back–nodded, barely. His voice was a whisper scraped raw:

“I-I don’t think I’ve ever been t-this okay.”

Your smile broke like a sunrise, and you reached up for him, touching his face. Just your fingertips at first, featherlight against the edge of his jaw, your thumb brushing along the corner of his mouth like it was something precious to you. Bob’s breath stilled at the contact, lips parting slightly, his chest fluttering with anticipation. He leaned into your palm like a man starved for warmth, even though he was burning up as he stood in front of you.

You pulled him gently toward you.

It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t desperate. It was something softer—something built from all the times you’d brushed hands in passing, or caught him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. It was built from every whispered laugh, every longing silence, every moment the world made you ache for one another without saying a thing.

And now it was here. Finally.

Bob bent to meet you, slow and hesitant, his breath brushing yours like a question. Your noses bumped slightly, awkward and tender, and he let out the smallest nervous laugh—one you swallowed as you tilted your chin and brought your lips to his.

The first kiss was a hum. A hush. A held breath.

His lips were soft, unsure at first, warm and slightly parted like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to kiss you back–until he did. Until he melted into it. You felt the exact moment the tension in his shoulders unraveled, when he stopped hovering on the edge and let himself fall. His arms came around your waist–slowly, carefully–as if he was still afraid to hold too tightly.

But he did hold you.

God, did he hold you.

One hand splayed wide against the small of your back, the other settling higher, thumb grazing the edge of your exposed skin where your bodysuit dipped low. His palm was hot. Too hot. Like he was burning just from touching you, and yet couldn’t bring himself to pull away. The feel of your skin against his fingertips made his knees go weak.

You kissed him deeper.

Not rushed, not rough–just more. More pressure. More presence. You tilted your head and sighed softly into him, and Bob exhaled like you’d opened a door in his chest he didn’t know had been locked. His mouth was gentle but eager, tasting you in little swells, lips moving with hesitant gentleness as if trying to memorize the shape of you. He breathed you in like you were air after drowning.

You pulled back slightly–not apart, just enough to rest your forehead to his. The two of you stood there in that golden hush, breathing each other’s breath. Bob’s chest rose and fell against yours, and you felt it–every tremble. Every ounce of his restraint.

He looked at you with eyes half-lidded and dazed, lips flushed and glistening from your kiss–and from the remnants of your lip glass–the faintest tremor in his breath like he couldn’t quite believe it had happened.

Your voice was soft, just above a whisper. “Still okay?”

He let out a broken laugh–full of wonder, full of you–and nodded.

You leaned in again–gentler this time, slower–not because you were unsure, but because you wanted to savor the way his breath hitched when your lips brushed his. You wanted to draw it out. To feel every shiver he tried and failed to suppress.

Bob met you halfway with a soft, aching sound–something between a sigh and a whisper of your name. His hands flexed slightly at your waist, his fingers pressing just a little deeper into the curve of you. You felt how he trembled. Not because he didn’t want this. But because he wanted it so much he was afraid he might burst.

You kissed him again–deeper, slower this time, mouth parting just enough to taste him. His lips were warm and sweet with nerves, and he kissed like someone who had thought about this a thousand times but never believed it would happen. There was a reverence to it, a hush in the way he moved his mouth against yours, like he was still halfway convinced he might wake up at any moment.

Your hands left his face, drifting down–slow, steady, and full of quiet intention. You traced the slope of his neck, feeling the rapid flutter of his pulse, then down the broad plane of his chest. You felt every breath he took, shallow and aching, beneath the soft cotton of his sweater.

Bob, always layered like he needed something between himself and the world, was wrapped in a slightly oversized charcoal crewneck, its fabric thinned from wear and faintly scented like detergent and something uniquely him. Beneath it, you could feel the ridges of another layer–a t-shirt, soft and well-worn, probably one he slept in or hid in on quiet mornings when the world was too loud.

You slid your hands beneath the hem of the sweater and pushed upward, your palms skimming the warm skin of his stomach as the fabric lifted. Bob made a quiet, broken sound into your kiss–like the feeling of your hands on his skin short-circuited something vital inside him. He froze for a moment, his breath catching like he wasn’t sure he could survive the sensation.

You pulled back just far enough to speak, your lips brushing his. “Can I?”

His nod was immediate. Frantic. “Y-Yeah. God, yeah.”

So you tugged the sweater up slowly, watching the way his arms lifted, watching the exposed inch of his abdomen rise with it–the pale skin dusted with soft little beauty marks, the gentle definition carved by years of holding tension. As the fabric cleared his chest, he flinched slightly, sucking in a breath like cold air had touched him, though your hands were warm.

He helped you the rest of the way, dragging the sweater and t-shirt off over his head with trembling fingers, slipping away like the last layer of armor. And then he was bare from the waist up, bathed in citylight and lamplight, all golden and blushing and unsure.

He stood there, chest bare and breathless, as if you’d peeled back the sky and found the sun trembling underneath.

Bob’s body wasn’t sculpted in the way of soldiers or statues. It was something softer, something more human. But there was strength in it, undeniable–earned. It was the kind of build that came from holding onto things that were out of his control. Broad shoulders that carried guilt and gentleness in equal measure. A solid chest dusted with faint hair and the occasional mark of time–tiny clusters of faded scars, blemishes, and bruises the world had forgotten but his skin remembered.

His collarbones were sharp under the golden lamplight, framed by muscle that swelled and dipped like lines in a poem you wanted to memorize. His arms, strong and thick, looked like they were made to hold someone through the storm–and right now, they twitched faintly at his sides like he didn’t know how to be held himself. There were scattered freckles on his biceps, a pale crescent scar on one rib that curved like the moon, and small, raised knots near the shoulder from training or trauma–you weren’t sure which. Maybe both.

He looked like a map of ache and effort and quiet resilience.

And you adored every inch of him.

You stepped forward slowly and pressed a kiss to the center of his chest–just over his sternum. His breath stuttered at the contact, sharp and startled, like he’d never been kissed there before. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe no one had thought to.

You trailed your fingers down the plane of his stomach, the muscle there tense and trembling, then lower–toward the waistband of his pants. They were a pair of charcoal slacks, slightly loose around his waist, cinched just right at the hips, but soft and comfortable like he’d chosen them to blend in. Like he’d never expected to be undressed in them.

Your fingers hovered over the button, and you looked up at him. Bob nodded once–barely, but enough–and you slipped the button free. His breath hitched, and his hands flexed at his sides again like he didn’t know what to do with them.

You dragged the zipper down slowly, deliberately, your eyes never leaving his. He looked dazed–like he was being unwrapped for the very first time, and the air itself might sear him.

The fabric fell down his thighs with a soft whisper, pooling at his feet, before he moved out of them, kicking his shoes off in the process.

Bob stood in front of you in nothing but his black boxer-briefs, backlit by the shimmer of the skyline and the amber hum of your bedroom lamp. His chest rose and fell like the sea—steady, but stirred by undercurrent. His eyes hadn’t left you since you touched him. Not once.

And now, it was his turn.

He lifted his hands slowly, reverently, like he was reaching out to something holy. His palms hovered over your hips, not quite touching, until you gave him the smallest nod. That was all he needed.

His fingertips brushed the waistband of your shorts, undoing the golden button in the front of them.

You kicked off your shoes, one at a time, and let the silence stretch between you as he hooked his fingers through the belt loops–slow, hesitant, like he was afraid of doing too much too quickly. He eased them down your legs inch by inch, watching the fabric surrender to gravity. You stepped out of them delicately, and for a beat, he just stood there, looking at you like he didn’t know how to survive the sight of you standing in nothing but that black bodysuit and a pair of simple underwear.

He swallowed hard.

His hands returned to your sides, smoothing over the dip of your waist where the fabric clung tight. You watched his throat flex as his eyes flicked over you—your curves, your bare legs, the way your body caught the light like it had been painted for his gaze alone.

When he moved to the clasp of your bodysuit, his fingers trembled. You could feel it. The concentration in him. The hesitation. Like he was unhooking something precious, something secret.

You reached up and touched his jaw gently. “It’s okay,” You whispered.

And Bob, poor, wrecked Bob, nodded like he needed your permission to breathe.

The clasp gave with a soft snap. The bodysuit loosened instantly, slackening at your shoulders. His eyes met yours again, searching, silent, and then he helped ease the fabric down your arms, over your chest–slowly, like he was undressing a memory he wanted to savor for the rest of his life.

You stood there, bare from the waist up.

Bathed in citylight and lamplight. Breasts soft and exposed, skin flushed and dappled in gold. Your breath was steady, open, trusting.

And Bob… Bob stared like he’d never seen anything so sacred. His lips parted. His chest rose, shallow and quiet, as his eyes drifted over every inch of you—your collarbones, the curve of your sternum, the soft line of your stomach. His hands didn’t touch right away. He just looked. Like the act of looking was too intimate already.

But when he did touch you–finally, gently–his hands moved with such aching care. They rose to cradle your waist, thumbs brushing just below your ribs. You watched his pupils expand, the breath he tried to hold leaking out of him in slow, reverent exhales.

“You’re…” His voice cracked. He didn’t finish the sentence.

Because he didn’t have to.

You stepped into him again, bringing your bodies closer, the warmth of his skin against yours. Your breasts brushed his chest and he nearly gasped, his head dipping low, lips brushing your shoulder like he needed a place to put all this overwhelming wonder.

Bob’s lips were trembling against your skin before you even realized he’d moved. Gentle, searching–he kissed the place where your shoulder curved into your neck, just beneath your collarbone. His mouth was warm and wet, like each kiss was a vow he didn’t know how to speak aloud. He moved slowly, dragging his lips along your skin like he was painting devotion in brushstrokes–across the dip of your clavicle, up the slope of your throat, back to your jaw.

You let out the softest sigh. A sound full of breath and want. It made him shudder.

Your hand slid into his hair, curling at the nape of his neck, guiding him until his lips found yours again. This time the kiss felt hungrier–not in haste, but in depth. In need. Like the space between you could never be close enough. He kissed you with a kind of desperation laced in awe, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. And maybe you felt the same way, because your heart was stammering against your ribs, and the heat blooming between your thighs was dizzying.

You pulled back slowly, just enough to look into his eyes–flushed and wide and soft around the edges, pupils blown so far they nearly swallowed the blue whole.

“Come here,” You whispered, voice like silk unraveling in candlelight.

You took his hand and led him gently around the side of your bed, the sheets still rumpled from a day that no longer mattered. The mirror caught both of your reflections in passing–your bare back, his bare chest, the golden curve of lamplight gilding the two of you like you were something from a dream neither of you dared name.

“Lay down,” You said, and Bob obeyed without a word. He eased himself back across the mattress, exhaling like the air had been caught in his lungs for hours. The sheets crinkled beneath him, warm with your scent, his chest rising in uneven waves as he stared up at the ceiling like it held some sort of answer for how to survive this moment without coming apart entirely.

You climbed onto the mattress after him—slow, certain, fluid like breath moving into lungs. Bob turned his head just in time to see you crawl toward him, and God, the look on his face—pure wonder, trembling with reverence—made your heartbeat skip off rhythm.

You straddled him gently, knees bracketing his hips, your hands finding their way to his chest again, palms splayed flat over the warmth of him. You felt the stutter of his breath beneath your touch, the tight coil of tension building under your thighs.

He looked up at you like you were everything.

You bent down and kissed him again—deeper this time. Your lips claimed him slow and full, your mouth parting just enough to taste his sigh as it melted into yours. One of his hands slid up your thigh, barely daring to grip, while the other cupped your hip like he was anchoring himself.

And that’s when you felt it.

Hard and hot, nestled beneath you. The growing swell of him pressed against the soaked fabric of your underwear, separated from your heat only by the thin stretch of your panties and his boxers. He groaned softly into your mouth, the sound involuntary, and it made your whole body pulse with want.

You rolled your hips forward–just once, a slow grind–and Bob gasped. His head tipped back, throat arched, lips parted as his eyes fluttered shut. His fingers tightened on your waist as if bracing against the force of it.

You did it again–deliberately, letting your clothed center slide against the length of him. The friction was hot, barely enough, almost unbearable in its precision. You could feel the tremor in his thighs, the desperate way his breath stammered in his chest.

“O-Oh m-my,” He whispered, almost like a prayer. “You’re…Oh God–”

You smiled softly against his cheek, lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “You feel that?”

He nodded, barely, eyes dazed.

“I’m soaked,” You whispered, dragging your hips once more, pressing down just enough to make him bite his lip and squeeze his eyes shut, “And it’s all for you…” You kissed the line of his jaw And then you started to move down.

His hands twitched when you kissed his throat—soft, slow, trailing heat with your mouth as you shifted backward, kissing lower, following the pulse at his neck to the center of his chest. You paused there, pressed your lips to the spot where his heart beat fastest.

He stared down at you, dazed and helpless and holy.

You kept going.

Kissed his sternum. The soft dip beneath it. The slight rise of his stomach where the muscles tightened beneath your breath. Your mouth was tender, open, slow as silk. You licked a soft line down his abdomen and felt him shiver violently. His hands moved into your hair without thinking, not pulling–just holding.

Just needing something to hold.

You reached the waistband of his boxer-briefs, and looked up.

His lips were parted, his cheeks pink with heat, his pupils huge and swallowing. He nodded without needing to be asked, lifting his hips slightly as you hooked your fingers into the band and drew it down—inch by inch, like you were unwrapping a gift meant only for you.

Bob was flushed, hard, and trembling. His cock stood against the plane of his stomach, thick and aching and already leaking from the tip. You watched the way it twitched when the cool air touched it, watched how he tried to stifle a gasp and failed.

“O-Oh god,” He breathed, like it physically hurt. “I don’t–I don’t even k-know what to do with myself–”

“You don’t have to do anything,” You murmured, pressing a kiss to the sharp line of his hip. “Just let me take care of you.” His breath hitched–shallow and wild–and his hands gripped the sheets.

And then you bent your head.

And licked a slow, deliberate stripe up the length of him–base to tip.

Bob choked on a gasp, hips jolting before he stilled himself with sheer force of will. His hands flew to his forehead like he was trying to cover his eyes, but he couldn’t stop watching.

You flattened your tongue along the underside of him again slowly feeling the way he twitched under your touch, the way his breath hitched like it was caught in the delicate space between need and disbelief.

His hand found yours blindly–grasping, desperate for something to hold on to. You laced your fingers with his without hesitation, anchoring him as you opened your mouth and took him in.

The weight of him on your tongue was dizzying, intoxicating. He was warm and already leaking, the taste of him faintly salty as your lips sealed around him and began to move–slow, deliberate strokes of your mouth, your hand curled around the base of him in rhythm.

“Y-you’re…” His voice broke, breath catching, almost like a sob. “You’re really… Oh…”

The sound he made when you took him deeper went straight to your core. It was soft, wrecked–an overwhelmed whimper that made your thighs clench and heat spill low in your belly. You moaned around him, low and throaty, and he gasped your name like it physically stunned him.

You glanced up through your lashes and saw him–his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted in disbelief. His free hand was fisted in the sheets now, his chest rising and falling in frantic waves.

You hollowed your cheeks and twisted your wrist just slightly, dragging your mouth back and then sliding down again, slower this time. You could feel every tremor in his thighs, the way his hips flexed involuntarily and then stilled, fighting the instinct to thrust. He was trying so hard to be good for you. To be still. To savor.

You let your hand drift lower, stroking him in time with your mouth, the slick sounds of your lips meeting his flushed skin only driving you further into the heat building between your own legs. You could feel how wet you were through your panties—soaked from the way he whispered your name, from the way he whimpered when you gave him just a little more.

“Oh,” Bob whispered again, breathless. “You feel so good. I don’t… I didn’t... I…” You moaned softly again, taking him deeper, loving the way his voice cracked, the way his fingers squeezed yours like he was hanging on by a thread.

And you didn’t stop.

You licked and sucked and worshipped him, letting the tension build, letting him teeter right there on the edge. His legs were shaking now. His hips stuttered once, and then again.

“I—I think I’m gonna…” He gasped. “I don’t know if I can…P-Please don’t stop—please—please—”

You didn’t.

You kept going. Swirling your tongue around the tip, easing him deeper again, moaning softly just to feel the way it made his whole body jolt.

He came with a sound like he was breaking—high and soft and breathless. A shattered gasp of your name, followed by a long, trembling whine as he spilled into your mouth.

You swallowed it all. Every last drop.

And even then–you didn’t stop.

You licked him gently, slowly, carefully–savoring him through the aftershocks. His body twitched beneath you, overstimulated and undone, his voice going quiet and airy.

“I-it’s too much,” He breathed, eyes wide and wet with disbelief. “Oh God—it’s so much…”

You finally pulled back, lips glistening, your breath ragged. You kissed the inside of his thigh tenderly, then wiped the corner of your mouth with your fingers and gave him the softest smile.

Bob looked at you like you’d just handed him a piece of the universe he never thought he deserved.

You crawled back up the bed and laid beside him, resting your head lightly on his shoulder, letting your hand fall to the center of his chest. His heart was pounding beneath your palm, like it had forgotten how to slow down.

He turned to face you.

And then he kissed you–without thinking, without pause.

His mouth was hungry, lips moving against yours like he wanted to pour his gratitude and longing into every stroke of your tongue. You let out a soft hum into the kiss, and his hand found your waist, curling around you like he needed you against him. All of you. Bob kissed you like he still couldn’t believe you were real.

His hand tightened at your waist as he deepened the kiss, his mouth warm and earnest, his tongue slow against yours—like he was trying to memorize the taste of your breath and the taste of himself on your tongue. Then he shifted his weight just slightly, moving over you, and your body followed without hesitation.

He rolled smoothly, gently, so that your back met the mattress and his body hovered above yours. His thigh slid between yours, his chest flush to your own, and his face hovered just inches from yours–eyes wide and wild with something more than lust. Something closer to awe.

You let out a surprised giggle, breathless beneath him, one hand slipping up to brush back the messy strands of his light brown hair. It stuck up in every direction from your earlier touch, and now it framed his flushed face like a halo that couldn’t decide if it belonged to a saint or a sinner.

He gave a small, dazed laugh too, his lips curving in wonder as he looked down at you.

And then he murmured, soft as velvet:

“It’s your turn.”

His voice sent a shiver straight through you–because it wasn’t just desire in his tone. It was reverence. Like this was sacred. Like you were sacred.

He dipped his head and kissed your throat, slow and sweet, and you tilted your head to give him more. His hand slid up your side, warm and sure, until it cupped your breast. He paused there, looking at you–asking, even now. Even after everything.

You nodded, breath caught somewhere between your ribs.

And Bob leaned down to worship.

His mouth wrapped around the swell of your breast, lips so soft, tongue teasing the peak until it pulled a soft sound from the back of your throat. He groaned at the noise, like it physically did something to him. He kissed across your chest–open, adoring–then sucked gently at the other nipple, swirling his tongue in slow circles until your fingers curled in his hair. You felt his teeth graze the sensitive skin just around your nipple–just enough to make your breath hitch and your hips twitch slightly beneath him.

You gasped, soft and surprised, and his mouth pulled back with a small, wicked smile tugging at the corner of his lips. His breath was warm against your damp skin, and then he exhaled slowly–cool air brushing across the nipple he’d just teased, and your whole body shivered in response.

Bob chuckled under his breath–low and breathless. Not cocky. Amazed. Like your reactions lit up something inside him he never even knew he needed.

Then he kept going.

His lips traced a winding path down your body–each kiss like a benediction pressed into skin. The slope of your ribs. The softness of your belly. The place just beneath your navel where you felt everything coil tight with anticipation.

You shifted slightly, drawing your knees up, thighs falling open to make space for him as he reached the waistband of your underwear. The fabric was soaked with you–already clinging, already begging to be removed. Bob looked up once, eyes wide and full of silent question, fingers brushing your hips.

You nodded. Your breath was caught somewhere behind your teeth, but your legs were already parting further, your spine already arching to help him slide them down.

He pulled the underwear off slowly, taking his time with you, watching the way the fabric peeled away from your slick heat. Your body practically glistened in the amber light, folds swollen and flushed with need. He swallowed thickly, the sound audible even in the hush of your room, and let the underwear fall to the floor like a silk offering.

Bob settled between your thighs like he’d found the center of the universe.

His hands slid up the insides of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin as he leaned forward, mouth trailing open kisses along the tender flesh–first one thigh, then the other. You twitched at the contact, gasping as his lips dragged up the curve of your leg, warm and wet and wanting. He paused just at the crease where thigh met hip, and then–without warning–bit gently, sucking until the skin flushed pink and bloomed with a bruise.

Bob smiled into your skin. “S–Sorry,” He murmured, clearly not sorry at all, his voice thick with breath and worship. “N–Needed to leave s-something to remember me b-by.”

And then–finally–he kissed your core.

His tongue swiped through your folds in one long, slow motion, and your whole body jolted like he’d reached inside your chest and rung out your soul. You felt the flat press of his tongue against your clit, the deliberate drag upward, the way his lips wrapped around you and sucked–soft, rhythmic, maddening.

Your back arched off the bed.

Your hand flew down and found his wrist–one of the hands bracing you open–and you held onto it like a lifeline, anchoring yourself to the feeling. His other hand splayed across your stomach, warm and grounding, fingers spread wide over trembling muscles.

He licked you again–deeper now. More intentional. His tongue moved like he was mapping you, learning every reaction, every twitch, every soft cry like it was sacred text. He flicked the tip of his tongue in slow, focused circles, then flattened it again, pressure building just right, just there–

“Fuck—Bob,” ¥ou breathed, voice high and frayed. “Jesus Christ…”

He moaned against you, the sound vibrating through your body and sending another jolt through your spine.

And then you tilted your head back.

The mirror caught everything.

Your body sprawled across the bed–glowing, undone, your knees spread wide and your hair wild pointing every which way. Bob’s shoulders bracketed your thighs, his face buried between them, dark hair mussed and damp with sweat and your slick. You saw the way your stomach rose and fell beneath his hand, how your hips bucked slightly with each flick of his tongue.

And then–God–

You looked down at him.

And he was looking up at you.

Eyes glassy and wide, pupils blown with hunger. His mouth was still moving, still lapping at you with slow swirls–but his gaze stayed locked on yours like it anchored him. His brow was pinched in concentration, his cheeks flushed, his lips glistening.

It was intimate in a way that felt deeper than skin. Like he was beholding you, not just touching you. Like the act of pleasuring you was its own kind of worship–and he couldn’t look away from the way your body bloomed beneath him.

You whimpered, your hand tightening around his wrist.

He groaned softly, and the sound reverberated through you.

And then–without breaking eye contact–he slid two thick fingers inside you.

Your mouth dropped open in a silent gasp, spine arching. The stretch was slow, sweet, perfect. He curled them just right, finding that place inside you that made your breath stutter and your thighs twitch.

“Y-Yeah,” he rasped against your core, voice hoarse, lips brushing your clit between licks. “There. T-That’s it, I–I feel you…”

You clenched around them while his tongue kept moving—never stopping. His fingers pumped slow and deep, curling with every pass, and your legs started to shake.

The sight in the mirror was unholy–your head thrown back, his mouth buried between your legs, fingers working you open while your body writhed beneath him.

“Bob—Bob I’m gonna—”

“I–I know,” He whispered. “I’ve got you..Y-Y/N.”

With a sharp cry and a desperate buck of your hips, you came–shattering like glass under floodlight. Your walls clamped down around his fingers, your thighs trembling against his shoulders, your hand crushing his wrist as you pulsed around him.

Bob didn’t stop until you whined, breathless and broken, hips twitching from oversensitivity. Even then, he pulled back slowly, mouth flushed, chin slick with you. He pressed one last kiss to your thigh, and looked up at you again.

Completely wrecked.

Completely in awe.

You let out a laugh of disbelief–shaky, breathless, still caught in the afterglow of everything Bob had just pulled from you. Your body was humming, twitching with sensitivity, your thighs trembling around nothing now as he lifted his head from between them.

Bob looked like he had just witnessed a modern day miracle, a sheepish grin plastered on his face.

Then he started to move slowly, crawling back up your body on his elbows, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses into your skin as he went. The curve of your hip. Your stomach, still fluttering beneath the aftershocks of your orgasm. Each kiss was a brushstroke of heat and devotion, like he wanted to taste every inch of what he’d done to you.

When he reached your chest, he paused, nuzzled into the soft swell of your breast and pressed the gentlest kiss there too. Then higher–your collarbone, your throat, the corner of your jaw. You turned your head slightly and met him as his mouth finally reached yours again.

The kiss was warm, a little messy, but full of affection. Your taste was still on his lips, and he didn’t hide it–he kissed you like he wanted you to know he’d savor every drop.

“Y-You’re unreal,” He mumbled against your cheek. And then he gave a shy, breathless laugh. “I think I–I forgot how to breathe.”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through the soft mess of his hair, and he leaned into the touch like it grounded him.

“I’m already ready again,” He admitted sheepishly, pressing his forehead to yours. You felt it him hard and warm again between your thighs, flush against your soaked center. Your breath hitched.

But then Bob hesitated. You felt it in the shift of his weight, the tremor in his next breath.

“We could leave it at that for tonight,” He said softly. His voice was a whisper of restraint, even though his hips twitched against yours like his body was begging him not to stop. “If you don’t want to have sex—”

You didn’t let him finish.

You kissed him–deep and sure and full of heat.

When you pulled back, your voice was firm and breathless. “I want you.”

Bob’s eyes widened slightly, lips still parted in surprise. “S-Should I run and grab a condom?” You tilted your left arm back slightly, resting it behind your head on the mattress, and with your free hand, pointed to the small, barely visible scar just beneath the skin of your inner arm.

“Implant,” You said softly. “We’re good.” His breath caught audibly and his hand hovered near your arm for a second, then settled gently over it–thumb brushing once over your skin.

“Y-You’re sure?” He asked, voice low and rough, like he couldn’t bear to assume. Like he was terrified of doing the wrong thing when he finally had the chance to do this right. You nodded, soft but certain, caressing his cheek gently.

”I’m sure.” Bob exhaled like it physically knocked the air from his lungs. Then he kissed you again–and this time, it was different.

There was no hesitation. No soft buildup. Just need and wonder colliding all at once.

His mouth crushed against yours, urgent and hungry, and you met him just as fiercely. Tongues brushed and tangled in wet, open kisses, teeth grazing lips, breath caught between mouths like smoke. You could feel the way he breathed you in between every kiss–little shaky exhales pressed into your cheeks, your jaw, your mouth–as if you were the air keeping him alive.

“God, y-you taste like heaven,” He murmured hoarsely into your mouth, and then kissed you again, harder.

You moaned against his lips, your body arching into his, and he groaned right back–his hand sliding from your hip to the side of your neck, fingers splayed out over your pulse point like he needed to feel the rhythm of you.

The head of his cock brushed against your slick entrance–hot and heavy and trembling with anticipation–and he froze just a moment, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were blown wide, lips flushed, chest rising and falling like a wave cresting.

He lined himself up with a breathless stammer of your name, “J-Just tell me i-if I do anything wrong okay?” You nodded–soft, breathless, legs flinching around him slightly as he started to push in–inch by inch. Your mouth dropped open around a gasp.

”Oh–“ You breathed, hips twitching up towards him, “Bob…” He bit his bottom lip hard, trying to hold it together, closing his eyes at the sensation of you slowly taking him in.

“You’re s-so warm,” He choked out, “I can feel all of you, I–”

And then he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, both of you trembling.

You were wrapped around him, stretched and full and gasping through the intensity of it, and Bob just hovered there, buried deep, his forehead resting against yours like he needed the anchor. You cupped his cheek, kissed him once–soft, shaky–and whispered,

“I need you to move…” He nodded at your request, dragging his hips back only to press in again with a quiet groan that vibrated against your chest. His thrusts weren’t rough—but they had weight. Depth. Like he couldn’t help but want to be as far inside you as he could get.

Each time he rocked forward, your bodies met with a soft, slick sound, heat rising like steam between your tangled limbs. He kissed you through it, messy and desperate, lips parting and pressing and dragging over yours like he never wanted to come up for air. You kissed him just as hard–your tongue sliding against his, teeth nipping his bottom lip, your hands gripping his shoulders like you didn’t want him to go anywhere.

Your fingers tangled into the back of his hair, tugging gently–not to pull him closer, but to hold. To ground. The strands were damp with sweat and heat, and he gasped into your mouth when you did it, his hips stuttering in response.

Bob groaned low and soft, the sound caught between reverence and ache. Then his hand slid up, warm and sure, and cupped the side of your throat—not tight, just enough to feel the flutter of your pulse beneath his palm. His thumb tilted your chin up, guiding your gaze back to him.

“L-Look at me,” He breathed, voice ragged with want. “I…I need to see you.”

You did. Eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushed and heated. You were so open for him, so undone and radiant in the lamplight–and it broke something in him, seeing you like this, needing him like this.

Then he hooked his arms under your knees and lifted.

The change in angle dragged a gasp from your throat so sharp it bordered on a cry. He slid deeper—so deep it felt like he was in your chest, like he was part of the ache and the breath and the heartbeat of you. Your mouth dropped open around a broken moan, and your eyes went glassy.

“F-Fuck,” You choked, your head falling back. “Bob–oh my God–”

Bob whimpered softly, overwhelmed by the sound of his name on your lips, by the clench of your body around him. His breath was hot and frantic, his face flushed and slack with awe.

“You feel…” He started, then trailed off, swallowing hard. “You feel s-so good–so warm–you’re perfect, I–” He kissed your cheek once. Then again. Then again, softer each time, like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t know how else to worship you.

And then, he saw it.

The mirror.

The two of you–tangled together, sweat-slicked and flushed with heat, your body curled around him like it was built to fit. His eyes snapped to it–and for a moment, he just stared. Breathless. Dazed. He could see the way your hands gripped his shoulders, the way your breasts bounced softly with each deep thrust. The sight of it–the raw, real closeness–wrecked him.

Your gaze flicked over his and followed where he was looking and you caught the reflection too.

“I want to watch us,” You whispered, breath ragged and full of heat. “Please.”

Bob’s breath caught hard. His hips stilled, his eyes wide, his mouth parting with something like awe and disbelief.

“Y-Yeah?” he stammered.

You nodded.

That was all it took.

He pulled out slowly–deliberately, as if the act of leaving your body was a loss he needed to mourn–and helped guide you onto your stomach, careful even through the haze of want. You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes fixed on your reflection, hair messy, cheeks flushed, lips kiss-bitten.

He moved behind you, one knee between yours, and dragged his hand down the length of your spine in one long, aching stroke, watching goosebumps rise on your flesh before peppering a few kisses along the bare skin of your back. Then he gripped your hips and lined himself up again.

The first thrust back in was brutal in its beauty.

You let out a ragged groan–half gasp, half cry–as he sank back into you. The angle was different now. Deeper. Fuller. It felt like he was rooted inside you, like he could reach the very center of you.

Bob’s groan was wrecked.

“Oh my god,” he gasped. “You’re so…This is…Y-You’re tight–so deep, I—”

He leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, and you felt the press of his mouth against the side of your neck–just beneath your ear. Then his arm slid around your neck from behind, not choking, not tight—just holding. Anchoring. His breath spilled hot across your skin, and he kissed your jaw again, reverently, trembling against you.

Your eyes locked in the mirror.

You. Spread out. Eyes heavy, mouth open, skin flushed and glowing. Bob–bare and trembling behind you, lips parted, face slack with wonder, arm curled protectively around you like he was trying to keep you from slipping away.

The reflection made your breath catch.

He looked just as wrecked as you felt.

“I’ve n-never…” He choked out, hips still rolling slow and deep, “Never seen anything so beautiful—so fuckin’ real–“ Your breath stuttered, your chest dragging in air like your lungs were trying to keep up with the sheer intimacy of his voice in your ear, his body inside you, the way his eyes stayed locked to yours in the mirror.

And then you turned your head.

Just a little.

Enough to find his lips.

Your mouths met in a kiss that shattered the edges of everything soft and safe. It wasn’t delicate this time. It was molten. You sucked gently on his tongue when he pushed into your mouth, and the noise Bob made was nearly inhuman–a muffled, desperate moan swallowed by your kiss.

The arm around your neck tightened just slightly, his palm flattening against your shoulder to hold you a little closer. He kissed you like he needed your breath to survive, and with every stroke of his tongue against yours, he thrust a little deeper, a little harder, losing the last shred of distance between you.

The sounds filled the room now.

Slippery, wet, rhythmic. The soft slap of skin meeting skin. Your gasps–broken, high, open. His moans–low, breathy, whispered things like “fuck” and “please” and your name like it was a prayer he’d never been brave enough to say out loud until now. The creak of the mattress. The rustle of the sheets. The hum of the city just outside the window, as if the whole world had gone quiet to listen.

His hips were moving faster now, not pounding but full of momentum. Urgency laced with awe. You felt every inch of him with every push, your body keening beneath him, his cock dragging against that tender spot inside you again and again.

And still–his mouth kept finding yours.

Messy kisses. Tongue and teeth and hot breath shared like something sacred. You whimpered into him, and he swallowed it, moaning in return, his pace growing more erratic with each roll of his hips.

“G-God,” he gasped into your mouth. “You feel so–so perfect–I c-can’t–” He pressed his forehead against yours, sweat-slick and shivering, his voice unraveling into something raw. “I’m gonna–Y/N–I c-can’t hold back–please come with me–please–”

You nodded, frantic, the pleasure building low in your spine like a storm. Your thighs trembled, your mouth fell open, and you barely managed a whispered, “Yes–yes, I’m close, Bob, I’m right there–”

His arm tightened around you again, holding you together as he watched your reflection–watched your mouth fall open, your eyes flutter shut, your body writhing beneath him.

“I see you,” He whispered. “I see you, I’ve got you, just–just let go, I’m right here–”

You did.

Your orgasm hit you so fast it felt like your entire body was going to give out. It was brilliant, consuming, and it had every nerve ending singing with heat. Your body pulsed around him, clenching and fluttering in frantic waves, and the cry that tore from your throat was almost too much to bear.

Soon after Bob twitched deep inside you, thick and hot, and you felt him spill–pulse after pulse of heat filling you, his hips jerking in short, erratic thrusts as he buried himself as far as he could go. His moan was wrecked–raw and full–and it tumbled from him as he buried his face into the crook of your neck. It wasn’t loud. It was low. Shaky. The sound a man makes when he’s completely undone. A whimper edged with disbelief, like he was giving you the very last piece of himself.

And just then–like the world exhaled around you–you heard it.

A faint, hairline crack.

Barely a sound.

Your gaze flicked up, dazed and hazy through the aftermath, and there it was: a thin fracture running across the mirror. A small, pale lightning bolt etched in glass, splitting right where your bodies met in reflection.

You blinked.

And then you tightened your hold on him.

Your hand clutched at the arm that held you–his forearm still locked gently around your chest–and your other reached blindly to touch his shoulder. You turned your head just enough to feel the hot tremble of his breath against your skin, the way it stuttered and hitched through parted lips still struggling to return to earth.

His entire body was shaking against yours. Not violently–just overwhelmed. The way a dam trembles after it’s burst.

“Shh,” you whispered, kissing the edge of his cheek. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He moaned again–quiet this time, muffled against your skin, and full of something so deep it almost hurt. His arm loosened slightly from around your neck and slid lower, wrapping fully around your torso as he exhaled one long, shivering breath. His body collapsed slowly over yours, his chest pressed against your back, both of you trembling, covered in sweat and each other.

He didn’t pull out.

He couldn’t–not yet.

You could still feel him twitching softly inside you, still half-hard, still pulsing faintly from the intensity of it all. His cum was already starting to leak back down between your thighs, warmth slicking your folds, but neither of you moved to clean it up. Not yet.

He kissed your shoulder.

Then your neck.

Then the curve of your spine.

Each one slow and breathless. A vow, a thank you, a grounding touch.

You tilted your head back toward him, catching his lips with your own. The kiss was soft now. Lingering. Your mouths moved lazily together, wet and tender and full of exhaustion.

“Jesus,” He whispered against your mouth. “I–I didn’t mean to… I think I…”

“I know,” you murmured, brushing your thumb over the damp nape of his neck. “I saw it.”

His breath caught. “I–I cracked the mirror, didn’t I?”

You nodded once, a small smile pulling at your lips. “Just a little.”

A silence stretched between you, warm and golden and full of breath.

Then he laughed–quiet and stunned–and buried his face into your shoulder again.

“I’m sorry,” He whispered. “I–I didn’t mean to lose control.” You let out a soft sigh.

”It’s okay Bob…You were overwhelmed and feeling good…Let’s just hope Sentry is the one that gets seven years bad luck.” You both laughed–low and loose and breathless, the sound catching in the honey-thick air between your bodies. Bob’s chest vibrated softly against your back as he let out another stifled chuckle, nuzzling his nose into the space just beneath your ear.

“Only you,” He murmured, his voice warm and worn down, “C–Can make light of me literally c-cracking your mirror mid-orgasm.” You tilted your head slightly, grinning despite the ache still thrumming between your thighs.

“I mean… If you’re gonna break something,” You said, glancing back at him with a playful glint in your eyes, “At least it wasn’t my pelvis.”

That made him snort and he buried his face deeper into your shoulder, completely wrecked by laughter now. You felt the full ripple of it through his chest, the way his arms tightened around you just a little as if he could keep this moment stitched to the skin.

You turned your head, kissed him again–slow and sweet. No rush. Just the warm slide of lips and breath. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb stroking your skin as he kissed you back with the kind of quiet that said I never want to stop doing this.

After a moment, he pulled back slightly, his voice rough with affection. “I should, uh… I should pull out.”

You nodded softly. “Okay.”

He moved slowly, gently easing out of you with a quiet gasp at the sensitivity. You both hissed a little–his from overstimulation, yours from the sticky stretch of release leaving your body. He lingered there for a beat, fingers brushing your hip, as if he hated the idea of not being connected to you anymore.

He stayed close even after he pulled out, one hand resting lightly on your lower back, the other brushing your hip like he needed to reassure himself you were still there. The room was warm, quiet, the mirror fractured but the world around you whole.

“W–We should get cleaned up,” He murmured, his voice still dazed but laced with care. “D–Do you wanna…Maybe shower? With me?” His fingers twitched gently where they touched your side. “Only if you want to. I just—I don’t really wanna let you go yet…”

Your heart melted.

You turned slowly beneath him, shifting onto your back so you could face him fully. His hair was damp with sweat, curling slightly at the ends, cheeks still flushed, lips swollen. But it was his eyes that undid you. Wide and soft and full of affection. Still a little glassy. Still glowing slightly from the shock of Sentry.

“Of course,” You whispered, brushing your fingers through his hair, a soft blush rose to his cheeks, as you leaned up to kiss the tip of his nose, “I kinda wanna be held under hot water for like…An hour. Minimum.”

Bob gave you the softest grin. “I-I can do that. I’m good at holding.” His tone was still tentative, but there was pride there too. A glimmer of purpose. “You’ll be the cleanest, most held person in the entire compound.”

You sat up slowly, wincing slightly at the soreness blooming in your thighs and core. Bob immediately reached to steady you, his hands finding your waist, his brows pinched in concern.

“I’m okay,” You promised him with a soft smile, “Just a bit sore.”His ears turned red.

“S-Sorry.” He whispered.

“Don’t be,” You said gently, leaning in to press your forehead to his. “I liked being yours.”

His breath caught at that, his hands tightening gently on your sides. Then he kissed you–slow and soft and grateful. And when you pulled back, his hand brushed along your arm as he helped you out of bed.

You led the way to your en suite bathroom, flicking on the light that glowed soft and golden. The room was warm, fogged slightly from earlier use, and your spare towels were already folded neatly on the rack. You reached for two, tossed one onto the nearby counter for later, and handed Bob the other to keep nearby.

He looked at it like it was some sacred token.

You turned the water on and waited for it to warm while he stepped behind you, wrapping his arms gently around your waist and nuzzling the back of your neck.

“I could get used to this,” He whispered.

“What, showering?” You teased, smiling as you leaned back into his chest.

“No,” He said, shaking his head slightly. “Just…Being with you. Like this.”

You turned in his arms, heart thudding, and kissed him slow and sure. “Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

The water turned to steam.

You stepped in first, guiding him in with you. It was small, a bit cramped–but it didn’t matter. You made room for each other. Bob pressed close, arms winding gently around your back as the water poured down over you both. His mouth found your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your lips, peppering you with soft, adoring kisses as the heat melted the soreness from your limbs.

He helped you wash your entire body. His fingers in your hair, gentle and careful as they massaged your scalp with your favorite shampoo. His palms smoothing body wash over your skin like you were something precious and breakable, his lips brushing your shoulder every few seconds just to stay close.

You did the same for him, trailing your hands down his chest, watching the way he shivered beneath your touch even now. You cleaned him carefully, quietly, the lather sliding down both your bodies in pearled rivulets. Every time you looked up at him, he was already looking at you. Eyes soft. Lips parted. Like he couldn’t believe you were real.

At one point, you turned under the spray and leaned your back into his chest. Bob immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush to him beneath the stream of water. His chin came to rest atop your head, his breath steadying.

“I—I feel like I’m gonna cry,” He admitted quietly, after a long silence.

You tilted your head back just enough to look up at him. “Why?”

“Because…” He swallowed. “B-Because I’ve never felt this safe. And that’s… Not something I ever thought I’d get.”

You reached up, touched his jaw, and pressed a kiss to the side of his neck. “Then I’ll just have to keep giving it to you.”

His arms tightened around you, and he let out a long, trembling breath.

“Promise?” He whispered.

“Always,” You said. And meant it.

In the shower’s warmth, with your bodies tangled and your hearts steadying into one rhythm, nothing else in the world existed.

Just you and Bob. Soft skin. Steam. And the quiet knowledge that everything had changed.

Ruined ✩ Bob Reynolds

Pairings: Dom!Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts Teammate!Reader

Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. no use of y/n. secret hookups, armory sex, unprotected p in v, praise kink, power play, slight sub!bob energy but make it neeeedddyyyyy and feral, desperate!bob, dominant!reader, interrupted sex, yelena being yelena, begging, orgasm denial (sort of), overstimulation, dirty talk.

Summary: The Thunderbolt's press tour is a fucking disaster—Valentina's controlling, the team’s a mess, and Bob Reynolds looks at you like he’s one second away from losing his mind. When you catch him pacing the armory alone, you take what you want. But when you tell him to stay quiet and be good... Bob doesn’t stay quiet. And he definitely doesn’t stay good.

Word count: ~4k

Author's note: need bob reynolds to absolutely destroy me. can't even think or breathe cause he's taking up space in my mind. living in my head rent free and i am not complaining. I'm loooovvvinnnggg these two so much, might make more shots with them cause what the hell???? the dynamic thooooo!!! love me some dom and sub bob <3333333 he's so babygirl i can't take it anymore.

masterlist.

"Quiet, Bob."

The words came out as a whisper, but the threat in them made Bob Reynolds shiver under your touch. His back hit the cold armory wall with a clang, head tilting back, mouth already parted on a moan. His shirt was god knows where—somewhere between the racks of rifles and dusty, outdated StarkTech. Your mouth was on his, tongue sliding deep, fingers fisting his curls like you needed an anchor. And Bob? He was already halfway gone.

It had been a long, brutal week.

Valentina had decided that the Thunderbolts—the shiny New Avengers—needed a rebranding for a more "palatable" public. And what better way than a grueling, nonstop, goddamn press tour?

You were paraded like collectibles. Forced smiles. Posed photos. Tactical suits are tailored to make you look sleek. Heroes for the modern age, like she'd said.

Like a fucking boy band.

You were all lined up and put on display like action figure dolls.

"Smile for the cameras," she'd coo, pacing in front of you like a general inspecting her soldiers. "We're selling salvation, not trauma. Wipe that frown off your face, Bucky."

Bucky didn’t even flinch. Just stared through her, arms crossed, his metal hand twitching like it wanted to be anywhere else. Or wrapped around her throat.

Valentina didn’t stop there.

“You,” she snapped at you during the third press op, finger jabbing the air like it might actually hit you. “Need to look grateful, sweetheart. Do you know what I’m paying to make you likable? Not that you aren’t—you’re a doll, really—but come on now, you have to stop glaring at the children like you want to throw them into traffic.”

It was all bullshit. She’d even made Bob do interviews. Bob, whose voice cracked anytime someone looked at him too long.

Yelena had muttered something in Russian that was definitely a curse and didn't even try to smile.

Alexei had laughed too loudly during a morning show segment that made the host flinch, and a lighting rig tripped over.

Ava vanished in the middle of a red carpet appearance—literally phased through the floor and didn’t return for hours.

Walker kept trying to one-up Bucky in interviews. "Sure, Barnes is a legend," he'd say, clapping his shoulder, "but some of us chose to be heroes."

Of course, you snorted a little bit too loud. Loud enough for the mic to catch it. Loud enough for Walker to glare at you and Bucky to smirk.

And Mel? Poor Mel had to endure Valentina's bickering, forcing all of you to pose for pictures while muttering apologies like there was no tomorrow.

You were the first one to be asked for solo shots in the new tactical gear.

"Just a few poses," Valentina said, flashing a big, bright PR smile. "You wear it so well. We want something sleek. Powerful. Sexy, but not, like, thirst trap sexy, you know?"

You didn't miss the way Bob watched. He didn't say a word; he barely moved. But his eyes? They devoured you. Dark, wide, hungry. Like he was seconds from losing it in front of everyone.

Later that day, you'd found him in the dark armory, pacing like a caged animal. Shoulder tense. Breathing shallow.

So you pushed him up against the wall. Fist in his hair. Mouth on his.

And now—

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he growled against your lips, teeth grazing. His hands were gripping your hips tightly, grinding against you, still half-covered by his pants but already leaking, already thick and throbbing for you. “The way you looked in that suit—I couldn’t fucking breathe.”

You rolled your hips against his, slow and punishing. “You could’ve said something.”

“I could’ve snapped.” He laughed, breathless, voice fraying. “I nearly did.”

He didn't even make it to the bench.

By the time you shoved him down, Bob was already panting, pupils blown, knees buckling. He hit the floor with a groan, legs spread, cock heavy and flushed. You were on him in seconds—knees framing his hips, hands pressing down on his chest, owning him.

You thanked God for wearing a dress.

He didn't even see your panties come off. Just blinked and they were gone, tossed somewhere on the floor. His pants already shoved down far enough, his cock already free.

He looked up at you like you were something holy. Divine. Dangerous. Like he'd beg to be burned if it meant you kept touching him like this.

Then you reached between you, lined him up, and sank down in one thrust. He filled you up completely.

Bob swore, loud and wrecked—“Fuckfuckfuck—” his head hit the floor, back arching, eyes wide and pleading.

“God, you feel so fucking good—tight—perfect—I can’t—”

You clapped your hand over his mouth.

“Quiet, Bob.”

He whimpered behind your palm. His hands were everywhere—your hips, your ass, your thighs—like he didn’t know what to hold onto first.

You started to move—fast and rough, giving neither of you time to adjust. You didn’t want slow. Didn’t want sweet. You wanted to feel it. The way he stretched you open, filled every inch, the way his cock hit deep, perfect with every thrust.

Bob moaned into your palm, loud and choked and shameless. His hips bucked up hard, matching your rhythm, chasing every thrust like he couldn’t help himself. His grip on your ass tightened, spreading you wider for him, pulling you down harder.

Your name spilled from his lips again and again, muffled and wrecked.

“You’re so—fuck,—you’re so perfect—need this for so fucking long. I can't even fucking think when you're on me like this—God, yesssss"

You leaned down, dragging your lips along his jaw.

“You like being under me like this?”

He nodded, feverish, muffled praise tumbling behind your hand.

“Mhm—yes—fuck, please—you don’t know what you do to me,” he breathed against your palm, words falling out between gasps. “Been thinking about this—every night—every time you walked past in that suit, I wanted to fall to my knees—wanted to ruin you or be ruined, didn’t even fucking care—just needed you.”

You grinned, filthy and pleased. “And now you’re ruined under me.”

He whined, hips snapping up with such force that it knocked a loud moan right out of you.

“You feel that?” you gasped, rolling your hips in a slow, dragging circle. “That’s how deep you are. You’re so deep, Bob. I can feel you so deep inside me. God—you feel so fucking good."

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he moaned, eyes blown wide, hands gripping your thighs like a man drowning. “Such a good girl. God, you take me so fucking well—look at you—riding me like I belong to you—”

“You do,” you growled, dragging your nails down his chest. “You’re mine right now. You hear me?”

“Yes,” he gasped. “Yes, fuck—yours—always—please god don’t fucking stop—”

You clapped your hand over his mouth again, smirking down at him.

“Quiet, Bob. Don't you dare fucking come until I tell you to."

He whimpered behind your palm, body trembling, trying so hard to behave, to stay still, to not fall apart completely under your touch. But you kept moving—fast, hard, relentless. Your thighs burned. His cock throbbed deep inside you with every stroke.

And just when he was seconds away from breaking—

Hiss. The door slid open.

“Oh my fucking god.”

Yelena’s voice hit like a bullet.

You froze. Bob’s eyes flew open, pure panic, still fully inside you.

Yelena stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide, hand flying to her face but only half-covering her view.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered. “The armory? Are you both deranged? This is where we keep weapons, not—whatever the hell this is.”

Bob let out a muffled moan under your hand, utterly betrayed by his body.

Yelena pointed without looking. “Oh my god, this can't be happening. You’re—on top of him. And he’s—Jesus Christ, Bob!”

“Yelena!” you snapped, glaring over your shoulder.

“Alright, alright!” She held up both hands, backing away. “I’ll leave you to your... deep reconnaissance.” She snorted. “Real in-depth work going on here.”

“Yelena! GET OUT!”

“Leaving! Leaving!” she laughed, ducking out as the door hissed shut again. “Just make sure no one ends up disarmed.”

Your heart was still pounding when the door slid shut again, sealing Yelena—and her mouth—on the other side. You didn’t move, still straddling Bob, still full of him, flushed and breathless.

“You okay?” you asked, teasing, one brow raised. “She didn’t scar you for life, did she?”

Bob’s chest was heaving beneath you. He blinked up at you. Something shifted in his eyes.

“No,” he said—low, steady. Then, with startling force, he sat up.

“Bob—?”

His hands gripped your waist, hard. The next second, you were on your back, sprawled across the cool floor, his body covering yours. He was still inside you. Still rock hard. Still throbbing.

“You tease me like that,” he growled, voice rough and frayed, “and expect me to behave?”

Your breath hitched.

“You told me to be quiet. Told me not to come.”

His mouth was at your throat now, kissing, biting, breathing heat against your skin.

“You think I’m gonna ask again?”

You clawed at his back, nails dragging over sweat-slick skin.

“Bob—”

“No,” he snapped, thrusting hard. You gasped, your back arching off the floor. “You don’t get to be in charge now.”

He fucked into you like a man possessed—deep, fast, relentless. All the praise from before was gone, replaced by low, hungry grunts and the sound of skin on skin.

“You wanted this,” he hissed against your ear. “Wanted me like this. Loud. Messy. Mine.”

You moaned, wrapping your legs around him, trying to pull him deeper, and he gave it to you—over and over again.

“You feel that?” he growled, pounding into you. “That’s not deep. This—this is deep.”

You couldn’t even form words. Just gasps. Moans. Scratches across his back.

And he loved it.

He didn’t stop until you were shaking, whimpering beneath him, your control shattered.

He leaned in, panting against your cheek, his voice a rough whisper.

“Now tell me who’s fucking ruined.”

bob reynolds x thunderbolt!reader (post thunderbolts, no spoilers!)

The first time you kiss Bob Reynolds, it’s over a box of pizza and a half-finished card game. He’s not expecting it. Neither are you, really.

It’s only a short kiss, but he’s blinking fast as you pull away, lips parted and a deep red blush crawling up his neck. You notice he leans forward a bit, following you as you pull back, probably without realising. It’s so cute, you have to stop yourself from kissing him again.

“Wh—why’d you do that?” He asks, dazed.

You shrug one shoulder. “I don’t know. I like you,” you say softly.

To be honest, something just took over you. You’ve finally got a moment alone with him, when usually you’re surrounded by your team of vigilantes who don’t seem to understand the concept of privacy. And he looked so lovely, sitting there laughing at your terrible joke, and pretending like he wasn’t totally letting you win the card game on purpose. He’s been so sweet to you since you met, and you’ve liked him for just as long.

Bob stutters, “You… like me?”

You nod earnestly. “Yeah, Bob. You couldn’t tell?”

Bob shakes his head vehemently, his mouth shut tight like he doesn’t know what to say, or can’t say what he wants to say. You smile at him, feeling fond all over, your limbs heavy with it.

“I thought I made it obvious,” you say.

You really tried. From the moment you realised you liked him you tried flirting, but he’d get so red in the face you’d feel bad and have to force yourself to dial it down for his sake. You’re pretty sure everybody but Bob himself knows how you feel about him, including Alexei, who’s usually about as oblivious as a teaspoon. In the end you settled on just being friends, but clearly, you couldn’t settle for long.

Bob just blinks at you. “I… I didn’t notice. I’m sorry.”

You have to laugh. You’ve got no idea why he’s apologising, but he tends to do that a lot. He’s working on it.

“S’nothing to be sorry for,” you tell him, shaking your head. “But I really do like you.”

Bob gazes at you, something unameable in the way he looks at you. It makes you nervous, stirs a soft buzzing in your chest like a honey bee.

He leans forward an inch like he can’t help it. You feel much the same. The closer he gets, the less you seem to be able to think straight.

When he finally speaks again, it’s with utmost sincerity.

“I like you, too,” he says. His hand moves to touch your forearm, warm and gentle, and you go very still. You think he might kiss you again. You want him to kiss you again.

“Yeah?” You find yourself moving towards him, his touch drawing you in, the two of you a pair of magnets unable to stay apart. His fingers drag up the length of your forearm and he nods.

“Yes.” His hand cups around your elbow, so gentle it aches. He swallows, then says, “Will you kiss me again?”

You don’t have to be asked twice.

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.

darling | robert reynolds x reader,

THIS CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR MARVEL'S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Reader Summary: You always call Bob darling in private... until you accidentally slip up and use the nickname in front of the rest of the Thunderbolts. Warnings: Mentions of food/drink, reader is mentioned to not be mentally ready for a relationship and has a bit of a moment at the end struggling with their thoughts/struggling mentally in general. Word Count: 1.3k A/N: Thank you all so much for the amazing response on my first Bob fic 🥹 For my second one, this was actually the first idea I had for Bob but it took a bit of workshopping to get right. I ended up being really happy with it. I love writing the Thunderbolts team dynamic. I also put a little easter egg in there for anyone that's read all my other Joaquín fics since February this year. I hope you all enjoy! 💗

Bob had been called many different things in his life. There had been a series of insults from his family and people he’d hurt during his time as an addict. Walker always called him Bobby, which he hated. Valentina called him by his full name, Robert. He had other names like Sentry and Void when he was using his powers. But none of those could ever come close to his favourite from you.

Every time he hears the word darling come from your mouth, directed at him, he thinks it might be the closest he’s ever come to true happiness. He wishes every time that he could bottle that feeling up and keep it for when the days are especially tough.

“Darling, can you pass me that book?”

“Darling, how are you doing after that mission?”

“Darling, do you need me to do anything for you?”

The only bad thing is the fact that you aren’t his. It’s a mutual decision, though, so he can’t be mad. You’ve been in mutual like for a while now. But both of you have known that entering into something serious when neither of you are mentally ready for something like that would just be foolish and end up with one or both of you being hurt. Your friendship always mattered more than the possibility of your futures together.

But the nickname still stuck and Bob was glad for that.

He never cared that it was just in private. In fact, he rather enjoyed the fact that it was just for the two of you. That, whenever he was alone with you, it was almost a guarantee that he was going to hear your voice speak that gorgeous word.

He cared for the rest of the team so deeply, but the moments when it was just you and him were his favourites. When you’d be laying together on the couch, both of you reading the same book and having to wait till you’d both finished the page before turning to the next one. When you’d be in the kitchen together, Bob washing the dishes as you plated up some kind of masterpiece for dinner. The quiet times, when everyone else was asleep and you and Bob would stay up trading memories like they were the worlds greatest secrets. 

The level of comfort he got in your presence surprised him, but he accepted it quickly.

It’s why, when you enter the room, he knows that you’re there. He relaxes almost instantly, just from sensing you getting closer. You reach out to rest a hand on his shoulder before you stop yourself, resting it on the top of the chair that he’s sitting on instead. 

There’s still a little hesitation when it comes to touch between the two of you. Both because neither of you want to cross the invisible line you’ve both drawn, but because of Bob’s powers too. He still isn’t fully in control.

“Morning, darling,” the word slips out before you can stop yourself. It’s so normal these days to refer to Bob like this, but always in private. Never in the dining room of the Watch Tower where every other member of the team is having breakfast.

Bob is none the wiser to your blunder. He gets that same starry look in his eyes as he always does when he looks up at you, standing behind him. He wants to reach out, wrap an arm around your waist and tug you onto his lap, though he wouldn’t have the confidence to do such a thing even if his powers weren’t an issue.

He always melts a little when he hears you call him darling. 

Across the room, you hear a groan.

“Oh, hell no,” Walker says, dropping the spoon back into his bowl of cereal. “You two are not doing that. Whatever is happening here, I don’t care, but we are not listening to you two call each other darling. Especially over breakfast.”

“What’s so wrong with a bit of young love?” Alexei exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air as he looks at Walker across the table. “This is good! Love heals the soul, there is nothing wrong with love!”

You frown. “Okay, who said anything about love?”

Alexei and Walker ignore you and continue to bicker.

You catch Yelena’s eye from across the room where she’s sat by the window, but she just shrugs her shoulders and goes back to staring out at the skyline.

“I would’ve thought you’d be all right with seeing affection, Walker,” Ava says, entering the room behind you. She’d obviously overheard the noise from the hallway. “You are married, even if you’re not together right now. Are you telling us you never called your wife something like that?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t make everyone else listen to me!”

Bucky, who has been watching everything the whole time from the corner of the room where he’s sitting, coffee in hand, huffs out a laugh. “You guys think this is bad? You should be glad you’ve never spent time around Joaquin Torres when he’s away from his girl.” He shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee, not bothering to explain any further about the new Falcon. 

You take advantage of the moment of silence that Bucky has caused to attempt to fix the situation. “Okay, no more talking about love or who is and isn’t allowed to call each other nicknames. Can we just drop it? It was a slip of the tongue!”

“Only if you explain why you said it,” Walker says.

“No,” you reply, pulling out the chair next to Bob’s and sitting down in it. It’s all you offer in way of an answer to Walker and he seems to surprisingly give up on fighting you on it. 

You glance over to see that Bob is still looking at you, his eyes glistening and a small smile on his lips. The sight of it makes you smile as well. “I am never calling you that in front of the others again… even if it was just a slip of the tongue, that was mortifying.” 

Bob smiles again and nudges a drink that’s sitting in front of him over towards you – he’s prepared your favourite and had it waiting for when you arrived. You try to ignore the feeling that rises in your stomach at the small act of kindness. 

“But when it’s just us?” He inquires.

“You know it’s different then.” 

You pick up the drink and take a sip of it before leaning back in your chair. Walker and Alexei have started bickering over something else. Yelena is still looking out the window, Bucky is in the corner with his coffee and Ava is exiting the kitchen with a drink of her own. It’s a fairly mundane kind of morning for a group of people meant to be the ‘New Avengers.’

There’s a sudden feeling that rises in your chest at the thought of your new status as an Avenger. It’s uncomfortable, unwelcome. You still don’t know how you feel about it, even many months later. It should be a good thing, but then why does it fill you with dread?

Bob can see the change in your expression and he’s quick to act. He reaches over and taps the table in front of you to get your attention. You pull your eyes away from the window, where you’d been staring, and meet his eyes instead. They instantly help to calm you.

“Quiet time?” Bob asks, nodding towards the door that leads into the hallway.

It’s like a code word between the two of you. When one of you needs to get away from the others or you start to get a little too wrapped up in your head. Two words that put you instantly at ease. 

You nod and Bob wastes no time in standing up from the table. You follow him, leaving your drink in the dining room and walking out of the room with him, ignoring Walker as he calls out, asking where you’re both running off to. 

“Thank you, darling,” you mutter, once you’re just outside the room.

Bob turns to you with a small smile on his lips. “Always.”

GUYS WAKE UP, A NEW AVENGERS SMAU JUST DROPPED 🗣️🗣️‼️‼️‼️

AND ITS A BOB X READER

Mascot Masterlist

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: You quickly become an unofficial mascot for two rival soccer teams after Pietro and Peter bring you to a guys night. But you’re quick to have a preference between the two.

Warnings: Language, mental health topics

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Part 1