summary: bob can never pretend to be patient when he's in bed with you, so you try to teach him to be.
cw: smut, edging, handjob, sensitive desperate bob lets go, whiny bob lets go, sub!bob, light bondage, praise, bob's power making him break stuff when he comes yayy, fluff, aftercare, like one single mention of drugs
a/n: well...... yeah. I need to make this man whimper I'm sorry. I'm not so used to writing smut I hope it's not so bad pls be indulgent!
Bob can be patient if he really has to. Sitting for dozens of minutes in the waiting room of his psychiatrist when all the previous appointments have progressively gotten delayed, meaning his own is no exception. Waiting for John to put his ego aside and finally call it quits with the punching bag so he can get his turn. Watching Yelena hesitate on which movie to pick from her watching list when really, she could pick any since she plans on watching them all anyway.
One thing he has never gotten acquainted with is being patient whenever he’s in bed with you.
Not when you’re slowly kissing down his neck and no matter how good it might feel to take the time, his pants feel like they’re about to burst from how long he has been hard. He can’t pretend to be patient either when he has you under him on the couch of the Watchtower when no one else is home, lips swollen from kissing, your chest heaving in ragged breaths and your hands buried in his hair, lightly tugging to pull him back to you and kiss him again when if he doesn’t have you touching him elsewhere he’s pretty sure he’s going to cream his pants in the minute.
And he certainly cannot be patient when, just as you are now, you’re straddling his thighs, the palm of your hand gliding along his throbbing cock, slow and languid, your teeth biting a mischievous smile into your bottom lip as you watch every reaction of his.
Your eyes wander over his figure, insistent and lustful as you admire the way his hand digs and paws at the fuzzy pillow over your bed, limbs reacting the only pathetic way they can when he knows he’s close to coming, the muscles of his lower stomach tensing with the intensity of it, hips rolling into your touch, just enough so he doesn’t look so desperate yet.
It’s all so cruel when he very well knows you will stop stroking him before he tips over the edge, letting it all fade away, but some part of him hopes he will get to come before you pull your hand away, even if he will feel guilty that he did and he knows he doesn’t really deserve to.
Because some part of him thinks he deserves to feel the frustration of not being given what he wants, for all the shameful things he’s done, and in some way, he shouldn’t even deserve to come – if he really had to get what he deserved then you shouldn’t even let him, you should just leave him hard and aching.
But the thing with you is you’re too good to him, and he doesn’t even deserve to have you making him feel that good when all he’s ever done in his life has been trying to be just as good and ending up making things worse, for everyone around him, for himself.
So he will have to be patient.
His lower stomach burns as he feels it building, can only hope that this time will be the one you will let him come – he hopes each time, so desperate and lightheaded that his guilt can’t even reach him anymore. Your hand glides maddeningly tender along the length of his leaking cock, and even though his bottom lip almost dents with the way he bites back his sounds, the lightbulb of the dim light over your nightstand starts to flicker betrayingly – just as he’s about to come and maybe break something, you remove your hand, once again. “You’re gonna short circuit something” you say, denying him his orgasm once more tonight. The whimper that leaves his swollen lips as you pull away is almost endearing, his eyebrows pulling in a desperate expression.
“You’re short circuiting me,” Bob whines, voice small but rough, head dropping forward all at once like the strings of a puppet brutally cut, hair draping over his face and hiding the flush over his cheeks.
You fake pout, running a hand through the brown waves of his hair, brushing them back from his face, admiring the visible warmth over it. “I know, but it’ll feel even better once I finally let you come” you say, voice soft with enjoyable pity. Your hand leaves his hair to caress his thigh where you’re straddling his legs, fingers brushing beside where his cock twitches desperately, just inches away. His chest heaves in frustration, fingers clawing helplessly at the soft sheets of your bed like he’s trying to hold onto something other than you or he will burst.
“The…” he vaguely gestures to his side, glancing there for nothing more than half a second, a helpless exhale leaving him. “The lamp is telling you”
You look at the lamp over your bedside table, the light stabilized now. “I could tell even without the flickering” you declare, a chuckle escaping your lips. Even without the lamp, there is no mistaking the way he thrusts into your hand when he gets closer, desperate for more friction. You adjust your position over his lap, hand caressing over his bare thigh. “You’re doing so good for me Bob,” the already satisfied smile over your face grows with the way his dick twitches at your praise, and the ache between your legs strengthens too, painful and obvious, but that's a matter for later. “Just a few more and I’ll let you come, okay? Gonna make you feel so good baby.”
He nods eagerly, brows still knitted in a pitiful expression.
There’s a desperate humming vibrating into your mouth when you kiss him, tongue brushing against his as his chest heaves with a moan when your hand runs along the hard plane of his abs, fingers tracing down his happy trail to eventually close around his cock again. Your hand isn’t even moving, and he’s already almost just as close as he was when you stopped, quiet whimpers hummed into your mouth that turn into full moans when you let your thumb focus and rub on his sensitive tip. You've been at it for so long and he has never stopped leaking, probably a curious side effect of the serum. Maybe the fact that he’s so easily worked up and sensitive is part of it too.
“Do you remember,” you start, lips still so close to his, thumb teasing around the sensitive tip of his dick and spreading the bead of precum leaking from it. A shuddering halt escapes his mouth and he looks down to where your hand is working, his breathing starting to get thicker again. “That time you came so hard you couldn’t stop laughing?”
His chest lifts with a laugh, and you feel the breath he huffs out. “Yes”, he says, ears turning red at the memory, still vividly remembering the weird mixed feeling of ecstasy and disbelief.
“I’ve been meaning to make you do that again” you declare, teeth sinking into your lower lip with a smile.
A whispered curse slips from his lips as he bucks into your hand, his laughter immediately dying down as the focused frown takes place over his face again, trying not to come right then and there. “Shit, okay” his eyes squeeze shut, head sinking back into the pillows of your bed, a loud sigh leaving his chest. “I’m gonna come if you keep it up and tell me stuff like this” he warns, eyes half lidded from the weight of all the sensations he’s bearing.
“Oh, okay.” your mouth twists in a grimace. “But that’s kinda the plan, you know. Eventually”
He hums a low sound and his eyes open to the ceiling, a low whine coming from his chest when he adjusts his position, shifting your weight over him, and uses it as an excuse to thrust his dick into the palm of your hand. His hands rest at your hips, broad and warm, his sense of discipline off as his thumbs ever so lightly slip into the hem of your underwear, and you let him for a second, until you remove your hand from his dick and his chest caves with another pitiful sound. “Bob, do I have to tie you up?”
He knows better than to speak. Or even think about it. He knows he’s fucked if he allows himself to imagine being bound and at your mercy for more than a second.
“You’re lucky I even let you thrust into my hand”
“Sorry” he mutters, hiding his face in the crook of his arm, a sigh leaving his chest. “I’m really trying to focus, but–”
“I bet you are” you cut him off, climbing off his lap to get off the bed. His throat tightens with confusion when he thinks you are leaving him here like this, and he props himself up on his elbows, watching as you rummage through a drawer of the dresser, his breathing still short. “I’m still tying you up”
When you walk back to the bed it’s with a belt in hand, and Bob swears he could come right then and there. You’re really doing it. “Oh–” he lies back on the bed when you straddle his lap again, purposefully grinding against his dick when you grab his wrists. His eyes carefully follow each of your movements, an obvious awe over his face, and he lets you handle him with ease, completely pliant under you when you wrap the belt around his wrists, gently tightening the loop. “I’m sorry” he murmurs as he watches you above him.
“That’s alright,” you declare as you let his arms rest above his head once you’re done binding him. “I’m doing this because I knew you’d like being tied up but would be too afraid to ask for it” you grin, giving his thigh a gentle pat. His face scrunches into a grimace of awkward agreement, and his dick twitches with need like a poor thing denied attention. “Look at you, Bob. You’re a mess” you grin before you lean to kiss his cheek.
He could break his bounds easily if he wanted to, could get this over with quickly. He’s never really had to wait before, the drugs wouldn’t really allow him to – but he wants to, wants to be good for you, needs to ignore the pressure in his loins as your mouth trails from his jawline to his neck in soft kisses. It’s evil that this is the thing that almost undoes him – he would hate to end up having a ruined orgasm after all of this.
“You’re gonna be good for me now?” you ask, talking between kisses against the slope of his throat. He nods, eyes shut tight and assured, and you sense his throat tightening where your mouth feels it, can feel it budge with anticipation when your fingers trail down his defined abs to meet the core of his need again. Your face is still tucked in his neck where you can directly feel the vibration of his whimpers of relief – or oppositely, of frustration because he’s still trying to hold on – when your fingers wrap around his throbbing, aching cock again. “I’ll let you thrust.”
His head digs further back into his pillow, eyelids fluttering back and forth as your hand starts to work on his sensitive cock. He won’t get sheepish on the one thing he’s allowed – he bucks into your fist, fucking your hand further than you do it, chasing the pleasure you're giving him. The feeling of your soft palm gliding over his aching cock gets much more maddening now that he controls the pace, and he knows he can and will probably sabotage himself with it, but he can’t help it, he’s far too deep into it now, he’d rather suffer the consequences later than have you deny him his orgasm once again.
“Please,” he brokenly pleads when the light flickers again, when what’s resting over your bedside table starts to tremble with the way he bucks into the palm of your hand with erratic, desperate thrusts. His wrists strain against his bounds, the muscles of his stomach tensing, sweat beading at his temples when he tries to hold it, still guiltily moving against your touch. “I can’t–”
“It’s okay, Bob” you murmur. “Let go”
His face contorts with a whimper of relief, and his frown of focus turns into one of determination when you finally let him loose; he bucks wildly, fucking your hand with short, sharp thrusts until the pleasure is too intense, too much to bear.
He’s been there before tonight, only this time, he doesn’t have to hold it, and white flashes before his eyes when with a guttural cry, he hilts inside your fist, his cock pulsing and jerking as he starts to come – the lightbulb explodes with the force of it in a sharp sound.
He’s too far gone to notice, and you can’t let the sudden fright of it stop you guiding him, so you keep helping him through it, maintaining his pace when his body gives up on the effort and only sinks into the mattress when he can’t give any more.
He’s wrung dry, dizzy with the intensity of it, soul up to the ceiling or even well up above at this point, but completely out of his body, he’s sure. He only feels the ghost of your touch over his cheek, just feels the warmth of your mouth after it has left it, barely hears it when you praise him and help him down the slope of it all. His eyes fall shut, chest heaving heavily as he catches his breath, blood pumping and limbs light when you free his wrists and guide his arms down.
He nods when you make sure he’s okay, body doing it on his own, eventually smiling when he finally regains sentience. His hands cover his face, and while he knows he’s safe with you, he starts giggling – either in embarrassment or relief, he has no idea, but he can’t help it, and it lasts a good while but eventually helps him fully come back to his senses.
His eyelids prickle with the weight of everything that has come crashing down, a beaming smile over his face as he looks over at you when you lie down next to him. He's never felt so lighter before, has never felt like an empty shell in the good sense of it.
“You broke the lightbulb” you murmur, pushing back the strands of damp hair sticking to his face. He usually easily gets sweaty, but it has never been that bad before.
He grimaces guiltily, watching to the side, seeing the chunks of glass scattered over the bedside table. “Sorry… Did you– did you get hurt?”
“No” you shake your head reassuringly, watching the worry fade from his face. “But we’re gonna have to invest in candles” you tease. “Unless you turn them into flamethrowers”
He huffs out a laugh, face beaming in guilty amusement. “I’ll try not to”
He blinks, slow and heavy as his hand holds yours over his chest rubbing back and forth, and it’s obvious he’s exhausted and probably won’t hold on too long before he gives up on remaining awake and sleeps like a log. “Don’t fight it,” you smile softly. “I’ll clean you up”
“Thank you” he murmurs, chest heavy with what remains of it all. “You were right. It was great”
“You were great” you whisper, kissing his cheek. “You weren’t that bad on the patience matter.”
He smiles, somewhat proud of himself for it.
At least, he will know he has it in him the next time Valentina ambushes him into an excruciatingly long mission meeting.
—
every feedback/reblog/comment is greatly appreciated♡
Summary: The Thunderbolts love to tease Bob about how down bad he is for you.
Warnings: flirting. teasing. fun times with the Thunderbolts. yearning a bit. touching (innocently). heart eyed Bob. no use of y/n.
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The first mistake is introducing you to the team game night.
The second mistake is letting Yelena discover how easy it is to embarrass Bob in front of you.
Because now? She absolutely lives for it.
“Okay,” John says dramatically, throwing cards onto the table, “someone explain to me how Bob won three rounds in a row.”
“Statistical probability,” Bob answers quietly.
Yelena narrows her eyes. “Suspicious answer.”
You laugh softly beside him and Bob glances over immediately. And there it is. That look. That impossibly tender oh there you are expression he gets every single time you smile at him.
Ava notices instantly. “Oh my God,” she mutters.
Bob blinks. “What?”
“You’re doing the face again.”
Bob freezes. “What face?”
“The one where you look at her like she personally invented sunlight.”
Your face immediately heats up.
Across the table, Alexei gasps dramatically. “Yes! Puppy eyes!”
Bob looks genuinely alarmed now. “I do not have puppy eyes.”
“You absolutely do,” John says.
Yelena points at you. “And she likes it.”
Bob nearly chokes to death and you hide your smile behind your drink. “I think it’s cute.”
Complete silence. The entire table watches Bob short-circuit in real time.
His ears turn pink instantly. “…Okay,” he says weakly after a second. “You think I'm cute?.”
Yelena slams a hand against the table triumphantly. “He is blushing!”
“I hate all of you.”
“No you don’t,” you murmur affectionately beside him and Bob looks at you only to immediately softens again.
Ava groans loudly. “UGH. There it is again.”
The next incident happens during training. Which is unfortunate, because the entire team witnesses it.
You’re sparring with Bucky. Which is a bad idea, honestly. Not because you’re unskilled, but because Bucky fights like a brick wall with emotional repression issues.
One badly blocked hit later and you stumble backward with a sharp hiss. Bob is across the room instantly. Like genuinely superhuman fast.
One second he’s standing near the weights and the next he’s beside you gripping your shoulders carefully. “You okay?”
The concern in his voice is immediate. Sharp and protective.
You blink up at him. “I’m fine.”
Bob’s eyes scan you anxiously anyway. “Your wrist is hurt.”
“It’s just sore.”
Bucky watches this interaction silently. Then slowly glances at Yelena.
Yelena grins like a maniac. “Ohhhhh he is DOWN BAD.”
Bob closes his eyes briefly. “Please stop saying that.”
“You moved at speed of light,” John says. “That was insane.”
Alexei points proudly. “Power of romance!”
“It was a reflex,” Bob argues weakly.
You smile slightly. “That’s kinda sweet, actually.”
Bob looks at you. And once again ... Puppy eyes.
Ava physically throws her hands into the air. “I cannot keep watching this every day.”
But the real disaster happens two weeks later. At IKEA. Nobody knows how it happened. One minute the team is discussing tactical equipment. The next somehow everyone is wandering through IKEA on a “quick stop.”
Which is already dangerous.
Then John and Alexei discover the fake apartment displays. Which becomes catastrophic immediately.
“You two,” Yelena says suddenly, pointing at you and Bob. “Pretend to be a married couple.”
You’re already laughing, but Bob looks deeply suspicious. “This feels targeted.”
“It is,” Ava confirms.
Before Bob can escape, Yelena physically grabs your wrist and shoves you both into one of the fake living room setups. “Go go go.”
“What are we supposed to do?” Bob asks helplessly.
“Domestic activities.”
“That is not an activity.”
John immediately sprawls across the fake couch. “Oh my God, look. Bob already looks like he pays taxes.”
The team loses it instantly. Meanwhile Bob stands frozen in the middle of the staged living room while you laugh beside him.
Then you casually fix the collar of his jacket. A tiny gesture. Nothing dramatic. But Bob stills immediately. His eyes flick down to your hands and then back to your face.
And suddenly the teasing around you fades into background noise, because he’s looking at you again. Like that.
Soft, warm. Entirely gone for you.
Your expression melts a little too. “Your collar was weird,” you murmur quietly.
Bob smiles faintly. “Thank you.”
And unfortunately the team notices EVERYTHING.
Yelena screams from across the showroom: “THEY ARE FLIRTING IN SCANDINAVIAN LIVING SPACE.”
Bob physically folds in half from embarrassment. You laugh so hard you accidentally lean against him. And instinctively his arm wraps around your waist. Easy and protective like it belongs there. Natural such as breathing.
The whole team goes silent. Because for one tiny second, the joking fades. And they all see it.
How careful Bob is with you.
How much calmer he looks around you.
How you automatically lean into him like you trust him completely.
It’s sweet enough to hurt. Even Bucky softens slightly. Then Alexei ruins the moment instantly. “You should buy fake couch for kissing.”
The entire group erupts again.
Bob drops his forehead directly onto your shoulder in surrender while you laugh helplessly into his hair. And somewhere underneath all the chaos and teasing and ridiculousness, something warm settles quietly into Bob’s chest.
Because for the first time in a very long time, being loved doesn’t feel frightening.
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Thank you so much for reading! All interactions are highly appreciated
summary: it was supposed to be simple – you only had to water Bob's plants and feed his fish while he was gone. you weren't supposed to find a ring in one of his drawers.
cw: fluff, kind of a character study, sweet and caring bob, absolutely whipped boyfriend bob, talks of marriage and views on it, light angst, relationship and commitment talk, both parts are on the same wavelength, it's more fluffy than those tags make it look I swear, implied intercourse, domesticity
a/n: ough this one. loverboy bob yesss. jumping head first into things yessss. marriage was a though subject to tackle especially with bob imo but I really wanted to try it out!
Bob drops his bags to his feet and hugs you tight before he leaves. Tight and suffocating, the way he would if he was leaving for six months. You wonder how intense he would have made it if it had actually been six months.
It’s only a matter of a couple of weeks – it’s not much for what the mission involves, but for codependent, emotionally attached Bob, it feels like the most challenging thing he has ever had to do, and he’s more afraid of being away from you than he is for the actual mission, he’s pretty sure.
He leaves you one of his hoodies and promises he will do his best to find the time to call you.
The second day, he calls you at eleven in the evening. You stay on the phone for almost three hours, listening as he tells you about every single detail of the trip and about the so-called “classified” mission plans he’s not supposed to tell anyone about. He complains about how demanding and overbearing Valentina is for a good quarter of the call, and tells you how much he misses you already for half of it.
You tell him how chaotic being in the Watchtower feels without his calming presence around, tell him how nothing changes the fact that John and Ava can't stop fighting.
You hear it in his voice when he starts to feel tired, too familiar with how softly honest he gets when the exhaustion starts to weigh on him. It takes him a few tries to explain what he means, repeating his words with a warm chuckle when he stumbles over them and makes a mess of the syllables.
He doesn’t fight it when you advise him to hang up and get some sleep.
His lucidity resurfaces when he remembers he forgot to ask you to water the few plants he has managed to keep alive, and to feed the fish he got after his psychiatrist told him having an animal to take care of could help him care for himself at the same time. Like two sides of the same coin – take back what you’ve been given, treat others the way you would like to be treated or something.
So you have a mission of your own, and you take it very seriously – you take pictures and research his plants to know how often you should water them, and you carefully read the instructions of the fish food to know how much is enough and how much is too much. It becomes a routine as the days pass, and you take a picture of the fish to send to Bob, snapping when it opens its mouth to eat the particles before they reach the bottom of the aquarium.
Bob usually texts back asking how you’re doing, and when he doesn’t have the time to, he responds with an assortment of emojis; a smiley face, a fish, a thumbs up and a heart. Which you’re sure, looking for the emojis just takes as long as a full conversation.
It feels weird not having him around the Watchtower, but as long as you’re kept busy, the days pass and don’t seem to drag, and if your schedules match, he’s just a video call away. It is at night that it particularly hurts, when you get in bed and he never joins you, when you wake up in the middle of the night and he’s not here to cling to. Instead, you hug and bury your face into his hoodie, or sleep in his bed when you happen to miss him too much.
On the tenth day, the fish food runs out. Only a few specks fall out of the holes, and the fish hurries and catches them in no time, swimming around afterward like he’s expecting more. “I hope there’s more somewhere or we’re both fucked, buddy” you mutter to the fish, letting the empty container rest beside the aquarium. If there is any logic behind this and Bob has backup food somewhere, it shouldn’t be far from the aquarium.
You try the first drawer. It’s a mess. Tangled cords and cables, crumpled takeout menus, a pair of broken headphones, a bag of your favorite candies that he offers you when you’re feeling down. It makes you smile and your heart aches a little.
There is loose change at the bottom of the drawer, buttons, and things you can’t even comprehend. But there’s nothing that resembles the fish food, so this drawer is out.
The second drawer is more organized. Notebooks, the console controller he’s been meaning to try to fix for ages, a stack of papers that look like past prescriptions, painkillers, and a small, forest green velvet box tucked in the corner. The fish food still isn’t there and you’re about to close the drawer, until you freeze when your gaze rests over the corner of the drawer again when the information hits the right place in your brain. You know you shouldn’t or you will ruin something, you know what it is even before you reach for it, but your hand runs faster than your brain and you have to make sure, and you’re not sure you’re even truly processing the information. You stare at the box for a while as it rests in your hand.
Unopened, neat and pretty, the velvet soft.
And you know it should remain like this.
You try reasoning yourself, try to come up with reasonable reasons why a box like this would be there except for the obvious reason, telling yourself not to open it, like it’s a forbidden artifact holding an ancient curse. But everything leads back to reality, and once you lift the lid, you know it was everything you expected – it couldn’t have ever been anything else and it was stupid to think otherwise in the first place.
Bob bought a ring.
You close the box just as soon as you open it, like it’s suddenly burning your hands, putting it back right where it was.
You forget to feed the fish.
Bucky has to shake you out of your thoughts during dinner that evening. When the rest of the team asks how Bob is doing, you respond briefly and don’t elaborate the way you usually would, too shaken by your discovery, standing somewhere between excitement and dread, turning it all around your head. You chew on your food while John’s voice drowns into your ears, only imagining Bob going to the jewelry store, dawned by the responsibility to take a decision on which ring to pick. Wondering how long it has been in this drawer, how he plans on doing it all. Hearing his voice in your head already, stumbling over the proposal because he’s talking too fast, face flushed red while he tries to explain how much he loves you. Wondering if you’re even ready for something this big.
You love him; of course you do, but you hadn’t even begun to think about this aspect of the relationship.
You stray away from contacting Bob too much the next day; you stick to texts only, because you know you will struggle pretending that there isn’t something gnawing at your brain if you hear his voice, or worse, if he sees your face.
You get a text while you’re out shopping for the fish food with Yelena, and when you see it pop up onto your screen with Bob’s name, you don’t bother opening it, immediately shoving your phone into your pocket with a small sigh. When you glance back at Yelena, you know by the look on her face that she knows something’s not right.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, putting back the can of food she had been holding.
You consider pushing it away, but you’re pretty sure you need friendly advice on this. “Do you think Bob is thinking about marriage?”
She makes a face like she had been expecting everything except this. “Wow. Like, eventually, or right now?”
You give her a light shrug and tear your gaze away from her, pretending to look through the different varieties of fish food though you’ve been knowing which to pick for a while already. “I don’t know”
She doesn’t follow right away, like she’s thinking about it.
“I mean, if you proposed to him, he would say yes right off the bat without even thinking about what it implies.” she declares, knowing how deep he’s in for you. She had been suffering from his heartache before he gathered the courage to confess his feelings for you, after all. “I’m not sure about the real thing. I mean, maybe not right now. Too much commitment for him, especially with what he has gone through and his life at the moment”
You nod. It aligns with your train of thought.
“But eventually, definitely” she affirms. “I’ve never seen someone so lovesick, it kinda disgusts me sometimes” she grins, only meaning to tease you. You grin back at her and give her a playful nudge of your elbow, shaking your head with a laugh when you pick up the fish food from the shelves.
When you’re in line for checkout, you open Bob’s texts.
I got those crispy fried stuff you like at lunch today
I miss you
It makes you stupidly smile, and you send in your response before it’s your turn on paying.
I miss you too, babe
Your conversation with Yelena somehow eases your worries for the next few days; it makes the apprehension of Bob coming back less daunting, and your excitement grows with each day that passes.
He comes back on the fifteenth day – sooner than expected, by two days, because the mission got wrapped up sooner than planned, and he’s relieved; because he gets to go home, and because he knows he would have ended up hurting Valentina if he had to spend those extra days with her.
You figured he would talk a lot; about the trip, the mission in itself, the environment, his progress on using his powers. It’s usually when you want to kiss him most, when he’s proud of himself and when he goes on about something that excites him, but this time, he doesn’t bother with words when you close the door to his bedroom behind you. He kisses you, gentle and slow, like he’s savoring what he’s been deprived of for weeks, hands resting over your hips when he backs you up against the door and comes even closer. Your arms wrap around his neck, hand in his hair, and the snowball rolls and you end up under him in his bed while he kisses you like he wants to consume you whole, his hand trailing down your body until it slips under your clothes.
You kiss along his jawline when he lies back beside you when you’re done, his face prettily flushed, his breathing still uneven while he stares at the ceiling with that dazed, blissed out expression you love bringing on his face.
“Missed that too, right?” you ask with a teasing grin, hand resting over his throat while you kiss his cheek a couple more times.
His eyes close with contentment, an internal laugh running through him. “Oh yeah.”
Your fingers brush away the hair sticking to his face, and he smiles when he watches you, kissing you one last time before he reluctantly pulls himself upright, quickly rearranging the clothes he had barely shed, too eager earlier to bother taking them off.
You do the same before getting comfortable still lying on his bed, cheek resting over his pillow, listening as he tells you about his last day on the mission and about the trip back home while you watch as he starts unpacking his travelling bag – he knows if he leaves it in a corner of his room he will let it rot and won’t touch it for weeks, and he’s been working on this kind of stuff in therapy – facing problems instead of running away from them.
It gets you thinking. About your own personal current problem. Bob still has no idea you know about the ring, and you feel like you’re lying to him by not letting him know.
Lying to the man who sleeps wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear in the night. Lying to the man who loves so desperately and honestly that sometimes it scares you only because you don’t know how someone can feel something that deeply and handle it.
It feels unfair to hide it from him and to think about pretending to be shocked when the time eventually comes and he proposes; you know you will feel awful knowing you hid this from him.
You stop him before you get lost in his words and stop listening to him altogether. “I need to talk to you about something”
Bob perks up, his narrative already dropped. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?” he puts the shirt he’s holding back in the bag, walking back to the bed when he sees the look on your face, sitting in front of you.
Your head shakes and you give him a small smile. “No, everything’s fine. It’s just– I ran out of fish food the other day” Bob’s head turns towards the tank like he’s expecting you to tell him the fish is dead. “He’s okay,” you grin, seeing the soft relief over his face when he looks back at you. “But it’s– I figured you’d have more somewhere and I looked through your stuff, and…” you trail off, but there’s no use beating around the bush. “I found the ring.”
His soft, worried frown turns into an expression you can’t quite decipher. Then, his mouth gapes just slightly, and you witness every stage of his thought process hit him in real time. Confusion, questioning, realization, horror. His mouth moves, no sound coming out as he searches for his words, unable to get anything intelligible out.
“Oh my god,” he eventually whispers as he turns around and gets up from the bed again, a hand covering his face as he paces around processing the information, rubbing over his eyes.
You get off the bed and join him, carefully resting a hand over his arm, trying to quiet his frantic desperation. “It’s okay, Bob.”
“It’s not even–” he gestures around aimlessly, his gaze everywhere but on you, still looking for his words. “Fuck”
He lets out a small, frustrated sigh. “It’s– I was manic when I bought it. I felt like I was doing so great, I was finally starting to have control over my powers and things were so good between us and– and I guess I got carried away, you know how it gets” he explains frantically, brow furrowed. The words settle and still between you, and suddenly, it all makes sense.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything, I just… it’s crazy, I know” he huffs out humorlessly. “I mean, I’d want to marry you, I know it, but we haven’t been dating for that long and I don’t even know if you would wanna get married, and I don’t want to trap you into this or something, or pressure you into something you don’t want” he rants, a nervous laugh punctuating it, his eyes squeezing shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose like an ache has developed there suddenly. He doesn’t say anything for a few, the room getting awfully quiet suddenly, but you know there’s more, it’s obvious over his face, so you let it sit.
“I don’t even know if I want to, really. Or if I’ll ever be in the right place to” he admits in a small chuckle, voice softer in confession. “It just went so great with my parents, so,” he scoffs, voice pained with sarcasm, his hands falling to his sides again.
You take a hold of them, and for the first time since you dropped the bomb, Bob’s gaze meets yours, like your touch is steadying him. His eyes are filled with worry and apprehension of your reaction, explaining why he felt the need to justify himself this intensely.
“It’s okay,” you nod. “We don’t have to think about this right now. We have all the time in the world to figure it out and to know what we want for sure.” his eyes set to where your hands are holding his, his gaze softening with vulnerability, and his hand squeezes around your fingers softly. “We can love each other the same even if we never get married. It’s… really, it’s just a formality”
He nods, gaze still down. One of your hands slides away from his to brush beneath his chin and have him look back at you. “I love you and I’m happy with you either way, you know that, right?” his mouth pinches into a sheepish smile, and he nods, eventually reciprocating the grin over your face.
A sense of relief washes over his face, and he brings you closer to hug you to his chest. “I love you too” he murmurs, the tension in his limbs easing a bit, the thumping of his ribcage still frenzied against your ear.
You sit together over the edge of his bed when you pull apart, grabbing his travelling bags to help him unpack. There’s a soft expression over his face, gratitude hitting him as he watches you move and neatly fold his clothes before you pass them over to him so he can sort them into piles to put away later. You both move in comfortable silence, until something hits Bob suddenly.
“Are you disappointed?”
You look back at him, a confused expression etched over your face. “Of what?”
He shrugs lightly, busying himself by digging through his toiletry bag. “You could have been expecting me to propose and now you’re disappointed that I can’t do it”
“Oh– no, Bob” you assure him immediately, hand resting above his. He gazes back at you, uncertainty masking his face again. “I don’t think it’s something I’d want right now. I’m not opposed to it eventually, but it’s not an absolute necessity either. Our happiness doesn’t have to depend on that, I’d love you the same whatever we decide to do”
Your words lodge themselves somewhere beneath the panic and self-consciousness and all the ugly little fears he carries in his brain, those about being difficult to love, even more on a long term aspect, and those about being abandoned.
You can see him trying to believe you, trying to let the reassurance sink in instead of immediately searching for hidden disappointment behind it.
“Yeah?” he asks quietly after a moment, like he needs to hear it again to be sure.
Your thumb strokes over the back of his hand. “Yeah.”
His gaze lingers on your face, studying you carefully, looking for any hint of hesitation or disappointment.
There’s none.
You kiss his cheek before you get up from the bed and take the pile of shirts to put it away in his closet, and he progressively visibly relaxes, more at ease now that this whole thing isn’t dawning on the both of you anymore.
“Hey, uh… do you like the ring at least?” Bob asks gingerly, though with less nervosity than if he had asked earlier, a faint grin over his face. “I had such a hard time making a decision. I mean, now that you know, we can get it changed if we ever decide to get married one day”
You break into a soft laugh and nod. There’s a gentle beaming smile over Bob’s face when your hand slides into his hair. “I love it. It’s really pretty. And very careful of what I like”
He nods, a sheepish, proud smile over his face.
It’s his first time turning a rushed decision into something right, at least.
And now his fear of the future isn’t as clouded as it used to be.
—
every feedback/reblog/comment is greatly appreciated♡
summary: it was supposed to be simple – you only had to water Bob's plants and feed his fish while he was gone. you weren't supposed to find a ring in one of his drawers.
cw: fluff, kind of a character study, sweet and caring bob, absolutely whipped boyfriend bob, talks of marriage and views on it, light angst, relationship and commitment talk, both parts are on the same wavelength, it's more fluffy than those tags make it look I swear, implied intercourse, domesticity
a/n: ough this one. loverboy bob yesss. jumping head first into things yessss. marriage was a though subject to tackle especially with bob imo but I really wanted to try it out!
Bob drops his bags to his feet and hugs you tight before he leaves. Tight and suffocating, the way he would if he was leaving for six months. You wonder how intense he would have made it if it had actually been six months.
It’s only a matter of a couple of weeks – it’s not much for what the mission involves, but for codependent, emotionally attached Bob, it feels like the most challenging thing he has ever had to do, and he’s more afraid of being away from you than he is for the actual mission, he’s pretty sure.
He leaves you one of his hoodies and promises he will do his best to find the time to call you.
The second day, he calls you at eleven in the evening. You stay on the phone for almost three hours, listening as he tells you about every single detail of the trip and about the so-called “classified” mission plans he’s not supposed to tell anyone about. He complains about how demanding and overbearing Valentina is for a good quarter of the call, and tells you how much he misses you already for half of it.
You tell him how chaotic being in the Watchtower feels without his calming presence around, tell him how nothing changes the fact that John and Ava can't stop fighting.
You hear it in his voice when he starts to feel tired, too familiar with how softly honest he gets when the exhaustion starts to weigh on him. It takes him a few tries to explain what he means, repeating his words with a warm chuckle when he stumbles over them and makes a mess of the syllables.
He doesn’t fight it when you advise him to hang up and get some sleep.
His lucidity resurfaces when he remembers he forgot to ask you to water the few plants he has managed to keep alive, and to feed the fish he got after his psychiatrist told him having an animal to take care of could help him care for himself at the same time. Like two sides of the same coin – take back what you’ve been given, treat others the way you would like to be treated or something.
So you have a mission of your own, and you take it very seriously – you take pictures and research his plants to know how often you should water them, and you carefully read the instructions of the fish food to know how much is enough and how much is too much. It becomes a routine as the days pass, and you take a picture of the fish to send to Bob, snapping when it opens its mouth to eat the particles before they reach the bottom of the aquarium.
Bob usually texts back asking how you’re doing, and when he doesn’t have the time to, he responds with an assortment of emojis; a smiley face, a fish, a thumbs up and a heart. Which you’re sure, looking for the emojis just takes as long as a full conversation.
It feels weird not having him around the Watchtower, but as long as you’re kept busy, the days pass and don’t seem to drag, and if your schedules match, he’s just a video call away. It is at night that it particularly hurts, when you get in bed and he never joins you, when you wake up in the middle of the night and he’s not here to cling to. Instead, you hug and bury your face into his hoodie, or sleep in his bed when you happen to miss him too much.
On the tenth day, the fish food runs out. Only a few specks fall out of the holes, and the fish hurries and catches them in no time, swimming around afterward like he’s expecting more. “I hope there’s more somewhere or we’re both fucked, buddy” you mutter to the fish, letting the empty container rest beside the aquarium. If there is any logic behind this and Bob has backup food somewhere, it shouldn’t be far from the aquarium.
You try the first drawer. It’s a mess. Tangled cords and cables, crumpled takeout menus, a pair of broken headphones, a bag of your favorite candies that he offers you when you’re feeling down. It makes you smile and your heart aches a little.
There is loose change at the bottom of the drawer, buttons, and things you can’t even comprehend. But there’s nothing that resembles the fish food, so this drawer is out.
The second drawer is more organized. Notebooks, the console controller he’s been meaning to try to fix for ages, a stack of papers that look like past prescriptions, painkillers, and a small, forest green velvet box tucked in the corner. The fish food still isn’t there and you’re about to close the drawer, until you freeze when your gaze rests over the corner of the drawer again when the information hits the right place in your brain. You know you shouldn’t or you will ruin something, you know what it is even before you reach for it, but your hand runs faster than your brain and you have to make sure, and you’re not sure you’re even truly processing the information. You stare at the box for a while as it rests in your hand.
Unopened, neat and pretty, the velvet soft.
And you know it should remain like this.
You try reasoning yourself, try to come up with reasonable reasons why a box like this would be there except for the obvious reason, telling yourself not to open it, like it’s a forbidden artifact holding an ancient curse. But everything leads back to reality, and once you lift the lid, you know it was everything you expected – it couldn’t have ever been anything else and it was stupid to think otherwise in the first place.
Bob bought a ring.
You close the box just as soon as you open it, like it’s suddenly burning your hands, putting it back right where it was.
You forget to feed the fish.
Bucky has to shake you out of your thoughts during dinner that evening. When the rest of the team asks how Bob is doing, you respond briefly and don’t elaborate the way you usually would, too shaken by your discovery, standing somewhere between excitement and dread, turning it all around your head. You chew on your food while John’s voice drowns into your ears, only imagining Bob going to the jewelry store, dawned by the responsibility to take a decision on which ring to pick. Wondering how long it has been in this drawer, how he plans on doing it all. Hearing his voice in your head already, stumbling over the proposal because he’s talking too fast, face flushed red while he tries to explain how much he loves you. Wondering if you’re even ready for something this big.
You love him; of course you do, but you hadn’t even begun to think about this aspect of the relationship.
You stray away from contacting Bob too much the next day; you stick to texts only, because you know you will struggle pretending that there isn’t something gnawing at your brain if you hear his voice, or worse, if he sees your face.
You get a text while you’re out shopping for the fish food with Yelena, and when you see it pop up onto your screen with Bob’s name, you don’t bother opening it, immediately shoving your phone into your pocket with a small sigh. When you glance back at Yelena, you know by the look on her face that she knows something’s not right.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, putting back the can of food she had been holding.
You consider pushing it away, but you’re pretty sure you need friendly advice on this. “Do you think Bob is thinking about marriage?”
She makes a face like she had been expecting everything except this. “Wow. Like, eventually, or right now?”
You give her a light shrug and tear your gaze away from her, pretending to look through the different varieties of fish food though you’ve been knowing which to pick for a while already. “I don’t know”
She doesn’t follow right away, like she’s thinking about it.
“I mean, if you proposed to him, he would say yes right off the bat without even thinking about what it implies.” she declares, knowing how deep he’s in for you. She had been suffering from his heartache before he gathered the courage to confess his feelings for you, after all. “I’m not sure about the real thing. I mean, maybe not right now. Too much commitment for him, especially with what he has gone through and his life at the moment”
You nod. It aligns with your train of thought.
“But eventually, definitely” she affirms. “I’ve never seen someone so lovesick, it kinda disgusts me sometimes” she grins, only meaning to tease you. You grin back at her and give her a playful nudge of your elbow, shaking your head with a laugh when you pick up the fish food from the shelves.
When you’re in line for checkout, you open Bob’s texts.
I got those crispy fried stuff you like at lunch today
I miss you
It makes you stupidly smile, and you send in your response before it’s your turn on paying.
I miss you too, babe
Your conversation with Yelena somehow eases your worries for the next few days; it makes the apprehension of Bob coming back less daunting, and your excitement grows with each day that passes.
He comes back on the fifteenth day – sooner than expected, by two days, because the mission got wrapped up sooner than planned, and he’s relieved; because he gets to go home, and because he knows he would have ended up hurting Valentina if he had to spend those extra days with her.
You figured he would talk a lot; about the trip, the mission in itself, the environment, his progress on using his powers. It’s usually when you want to kiss him most, when he’s proud of himself and when he goes on about something that excites him, but this time, he doesn’t bother with words when you close the door to his bedroom behind you. He kisses you, gentle and slow, like he’s savoring what he’s been deprived of for weeks, hands resting over your hips when he backs you up against the door and comes even closer. Your arms wrap around his neck, hand in his hair, and the snowball rolls and you end up under him in his bed while he kisses you like he wants to consume you whole, his hand trailing down your body until it slips under your clothes.
You kiss along his jawline when he lies back beside you when you’re done, his face prettily flushed, his breathing still uneven while he stares at the ceiling with that dazed, blissed out expression you love bringing on his face.
“Missed that too, right?” you ask with a teasing grin, hand resting over his throat while you kiss his cheek a couple more times.
His eyes close with contentment, an internal laugh running through him. “Oh yeah.”
Your fingers brush away the hair sticking to his face, and he smiles when he watches you, kissing you one last time before he reluctantly pulls himself upright, quickly rearranging the clothes he had barely shed, too eager earlier to bother taking them off.
You do the same before getting comfortable still lying on his bed, cheek resting over his pillow, listening as he tells you about his last day on the mission and about the trip back home while you watch as he starts unpacking his travelling bag – he knows if he leaves it in a corner of his room he will let it rot and won’t touch it for weeks, and he’s been working on this kind of stuff in therapy – facing problems instead of running away from them.
It gets you thinking. About your own personal current problem. Bob still has no idea you know about the ring, and you feel like you’re lying to him by not letting him know.
Lying to the man who sleeps wrapped around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear in the night. Lying to the man who loves so desperately and honestly that sometimes it scares you only because you don’t know how someone can feel something that deeply and handle it.
It feels unfair to hide it from him and to think about pretending to be shocked when the time eventually comes and he proposes; you know you will feel awful knowing you hid this from him.
You stop him before you get lost in his words and stop listening to him altogether. “I need to talk to you about something”
Bob perks up, his narrative already dropped. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?” he puts the shirt he’s holding back in the bag, walking back to the bed when he sees the look on your face, sitting in front of you.
Your head shakes and you give him a small smile. “No, everything’s fine. It’s just– I ran out of fish food the other day” Bob’s head turns towards the tank like he’s expecting you to tell him the fish is dead. “He’s okay,” you grin, seeing the soft relief over his face when he looks back at you. “But it’s– I figured you’d have more somewhere and I looked through your stuff, and…” you trail off, but there’s no use beating around the bush. “I found the ring.”
His soft, worried frown turns into an expression you can’t quite decipher. Then, his mouth gapes just slightly, and you witness every stage of his thought process hit him in real time. Confusion, questioning, realization, horror. His mouth moves, no sound coming out as he searches for his words, unable to get anything intelligible out.
“Oh my god,” he eventually whispers as he turns around and gets up from the bed again, a hand covering his face as he paces around processing the information, rubbing over his eyes.
You get off the bed and join him, carefully resting a hand over his arm, trying to quiet his frantic desperation. “It’s okay, Bob.”
“It’s not even–” he gestures around aimlessly, his gaze everywhere but on you, still looking for his words. “Fuck”
He lets out a small, frustrated sigh. “It’s– I was manic when I bought it. I felt like I was doing so great, I was finally starting to have control over my powers and things were so good between us and– and I guess I got carried away, you know how it gets” he explains frantically, brow furrowed. The words settle and still between you, and suddenly, it all makes sense.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything, I just… it’s crazy, I know” he huffs out humorlessly. “I mean, I’d want to marry you, I know it, but we haven’t been dating for that long and I don’t even know if you would wanna get married, and I don’t want to trap you into this or something, or pressure you into something you don’t want” he rants, a nervous laugh punctuating it, his eyes squeezing shut as he pinches the bridge of his nose like an ache has developed there suddenly. He doesn’t say anything for a few, the room getting awfully quiet suddenly, but you know there’s more, it’s obvious over his face, so you let it sit.
“I don’t even know if I want to, really. Or if I’ll ever be in the right place to” he admits in a small chuckle, voice softer in confession. “It just went so great with my parents, so,” he scoffs, voice pained with sarcasm, his hands falling to his sides again.
You take a hold of them, and for the first time since you dropped the bomb, Bob’s gaze meets yours, like your touch is steadying him. His eyes are filled with worry and apprehension of your reaction, explaining why he felt the need to justify himself this intensely.
“It’s okay,” you nod. “We don’t have to think about this right now. We have all the time in the world to figure it out and to know what we want for sure.” his eyes set to where your hands are holding his, his gaze softening with vulnerability, and his hand squeezes around your fingers softly. “We can love each other the same even if we never get married. It’s… really, it’s just a formality”
He nods, gaze still down. One of your hands slides away from his to brush beneath his chin and have him look back at you. “I love you and I’m happy with you either way, you know that, right?” his mouth pinches into a sheepish smile, and he nods, eventually reciprocating the grin over your face.
A sense of relief washes over his face, and he brings you closer to hug you to his chest. “I love you too” he murmurs, the tension in his limbs easing a bit, the thumping of his ribcage still frenzied against your ear.
You sit together over the edge of his bed when you pull apart, grabbing his travelling bags to help him unpack. There’s a soft expression over his face, gratitude hitting him as he watches you move and neatly fold his clothes before you pass them over to him so he can sort them into piles to put away later. You both move in comfortable silence, until something hits Bob suddenly.
“Are you disappointed?”
You look back at him, a confused expression etched over your face. “Of what?”
He shrugs lightly, busying himself by digging through his toiletry bag. “You could have been expecting me to propose and now you’re disappointed that I can’t do it”
“Oh– no, Bob” you assure him immediately, hand resting above his. He gazes back at you, uncertainty masking his face again. “I don’t think it’s something I’d want right now. I’m not opposed to it eventually, but it’s not an absolute necessity either. Our happiness doesn’t have to depend on that, I’d love you the same whatever we decide to do”
Your words lodge themselves somewhere beneath the panic and self-consciousness and all the ugly little fears he carries in his brain, those about being difficult to love, even more on a long term aspect, and those about being abandoned.
You can see him trying to believe you, trying to let the reassurance sink in instead of immediately searching for hidden disappointment behind it.
“Yeah?” he asks quietly after a moment, like he needs to hear it again to be sure.
Your thumb strokes over the back of his hand. “Yeah.”
His gaze lingers on your face, studying you carefully, looking for any hint of hesitation or disappointment.
There’s none.
You kiss his cheek before you get up from the bed and take the pile of shirts to put it away in his closet, and he progressively visibly relaxes, more at ease now that this whole thing isn’t dawning on the both of you anymore.
“Hey, uh… do you like the ring at least?” Bob asks gingerly, though with less nervosity than if he had asked earlier, a faint grin over his face. “I had such a hard time making a decision. I mean, now that you know, we can get it changed if we ever decide to get married one day”
You break into a soft laugh and nod. There’s a gentle beaming smile over Bob’s face when your hand slides into his hair. “I love it. It’s really pretty. And very careful of what I like”
He nods, a sheepish, proud smile over his face.
It’s his first time turning a rushed decision into something right, at least.
And now his fear of the future isn’t as clouded as it used to be.
—
every feedback/reblog/comment is greatly appreciated♡
Summary: Coming home after a mission to an empty tower. You are injured and Bob is there to help you… unaware of your feelings for him.
Warnings: blood. mending wounds. talking about trauma. hurt/comfort. love confession. insecurities. no use of y/n.
________________
The mission goes sideways fast. Which honestly isn’t unusual. What is unusual is the amount of blood currently soaking through the back of your suit.
“You’re hit.”
You glance over your shoulder at Bob while the quinjet hums through the dark sky. “It’s fine.”
Bob stares at you. Not convinced for even a second. “You’re bleeding through the seat.”
“…Okay, maybe not fine.”
His mouth tightens immediately. And there it is again—that expression he gets whenever you’re hurt. Like your pain physically reaches inside his chest.
It would almost be sweet if it didn’t make your heart ache so badly. Because Bob never lets himself want anything from you.
Not really.
He hovers carefully around you like someone standing too close to sunlight. Warmth he doesn’t think belongs to him.
By the time you return to the tower, it’s nearly 2 a.m. The building is silent. Most of the team is away on other assignments, leaving the entire upper floor dim and empty except for scattered lights glowing softly through the common area.
You peel off your gloves with a grimace. “Okay,” you mutter. “That officially hurts now.”
Bob immediately steps closer. “Sit down.”
The concern in his voice is so immediate, so genuine, that something warm twists painfully inside you.
You try for a teasing smile. “Bossy.”
“You got stabbed.”
“Technically sliced.”
“That’s worse somehow.”
You laugh softly despite yourself. God. Even exhausted and bleeding, he still manages to make you feel safe.
The med kit sits open on the kitchen counter while you struggle awkwardly with your tactical suit zipper.
The cut burns sharply across your upper back. “Seriously,” you mutter. “Who designs these things?”
Bob hovers nearby looking deeply uncertain about where to stand. Or where to look. “You okay?” he asks quietly.
“Mhm.” You are absolutely not okay.
Finally you manage to tug the top half of the suit down enough to expose the injury. A long cut stretches across your shoulder blade, angry and bleeding sluggishly.
Bob visibly winces. “Oh, wow.”
“Yeah, not my favorite.”
You reach back awkwardly with antiseptic gauze. And immediately fail. Your arm barely reaches the wound before pain shoots through your shoulder.
“Damn it.”
“Here.” Bob says it automatically. Then freezes.
You glance up at him. His eyes widen slightly.
“I mean—only if you want—I can—”
“Bob.” He stops rambling instantly. You hold out the antiseptic. “…Please.”
The look on his face nearly undoes you. Like being trusted by you means everything. He takes the gauze carefully. So carefully.
The kitchen feels strangely intimate suddenly. Quiet. Warm light spilling softly across marble counters while rain taps faintly against the giant tower windows outside.
You sit on one of the stools with your back partially turned to him while Bob stands close enough that you can feel warmth radiating from him.
And God ... your heart is beating too fast. Not because of the injury. Because Bob’s hands are shaking. Just slightly.
“You can tell me if I’m hurting you,” he murmurs quietly. The gentleness in his voice physically aches.
“You’re okay.”
His fingers brush lightly against your skin as he cleans the cut. And immediately your entire body goes still.
Not uncomfortable. Just aware of his touch. Bob notices too. Of course he does.
His hand pauses instantly. “Sorry.”
“What? No.”
“You tensed up.”
You swallow hard. “That wasn’t a bad thing.”
Silence. Then Bob continues carefully, movements impossibly soft. Like he’s terrified of damaging something fragile.
Your chest tightens more with every passing second. Because this is what he does to you. This devastatingly lonely man who speaks to you like kindness is something sacred.
“You know,” you murmur softly after a moment, “you don’t have to act so nervous around me.”
Bob almost drops the gauze. “I’m not nervous.”
You glance at him over your shoulder. Bob immediately folds under the look.
“…Okay, maybe a little.”
You smile faintly. “A little?”
His laugh comes out quiet and embarrassed. “You’re making fun of me while actively bleeding.”
“I’ll survive.”
Bob shakes his head softly to himself. And for one brief moment, he smiles. Really smiles. Not forced. Not hiding exhaustion underneath it. Just warm and it nearly wrecks you.
Because he has no idea how beautiful he is when he forgets to hate himself.
“You know everyone loves you, right?” The words leave Bob quietly. Absentmindedly. Like he didn’t mean to say them out loud.
You blink slightly. “What?”
He focuses carefully on taping gauze over the cut instead of looking at you. “You just… make people feel safe.”
Your throat tightens. Bob shrugs one shoulder awkwardly.
“Yelena talks about you like you hung the moon. Ava likes you. John likes you. Even Bucky likes you, which honestly feels medically significant.”
A soft laugh escapes you. But Bob doesn’t smile this time.
“And you deserve that,” he says quietly. “You deserve people who are good.”
Something in his tone makes your chest ache. You turn slightly toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Bob finally looks at you then. And there it is. That sadness. That terrible endless sadness he carries around like it’s stitched into his bones.
“It means,” he says softly, “that someone like you should probably stay far away from someone like me.”
Your heart drops immediately. “Bob.”
He laughs once under his breath. No humor in it. “You know what I am.”
“No,” you say firmly. “I know what happened to you.”
His expression flickers. Pain and disbelief. Longing so intense it almost looks frightening.
“You look at me,” he whispers, “like I’m worth something.”
The confession hangs there between you. Raw and unprotected. And suddenly you realize something devastating:
Nobody has ever loved him gently enough for him to believe it could be real.
Your chest hurts. Actually hurts. “You are worth something.”
Bob looks away immediately. “That’s the problem,” he murmurs.
“What?”
“I want to believe you.”
The honesty in his voice almost cracks you open. You stand before you can overthink it. Bob immediately steps back instinctively like he’s afraid to take up too much space.
God. That hurts too.
“Hey,” you say softly.
His eyes lift to yours carefully.
And maybe it’s the exhaustion.
Or the painkillers.
Or the way he looked at you while cleaning your wound like your body was something precious and breakable.
But suddenly you can’t hold it in anymore.
“I like you.”
Bob stops breathing. Literally. His entire face goes blank with shock. “…What?”
You almost laugh nervously at how stunned he looks. “I really like you,” you repeat softly.
Still nothing. Bob just stares at you like his brain completely shut down. “You can’t just say things like that,” he whispers finally.
Your chest squeezes. “Why not?”
“Because—” He cuts himself off harshly, running a hand through his hair. “Because you’re you.”
You blink. “That is possibly the least informative sentence anyone has ever said to me.”
That pulls a startled laugh out of him. But his eyes still look wrecked.
“You’re good,” he says quietly. “And kind. And everyone around you gets brighter when you walk into a room.” Emotion rises thick into your throat. “And I’m…” He shakes his head once. “I’m me.”
The self-hatred in those words nearly destroys you. You step closer. Bob immediately stills.
“You know what I think?” you whisper.
He looks at you carefully.
“I think you’ve spent so long believing you’re dangerous that you forgot you’re also gentle.”
His expression cracks slightly.
“You patched me up like I was something precious,” you continue softly. “You always make coffee for the team before missions because you remember how everyone takes it. You apologize when you accidentally stand too close to people.”
Bob’s breathing turns uneven.
“You care so much it hurts you.”
Silence. Then, so quietly you almost miss it—
“I’m so in love with you.”
Your heart absolutely shatters. Because he sounds terrified of it. Like loving you feels catastrophic.
You reach for him slowly. Giving him time to pull away. He doesn’t. Your hands settle softly against his chest. And Bob looks at you like this alone might kill him.
“You don’t have to be scared of me loving you back,” you whisper.
The sound he makes ... Small. Broken. Hopeful. It’s the saddest thing you’ve ever heard. Then finally...
Finally...
Bob kisses you. Like he’s been starving. Not rough or desperate. Just overwhelming tenderness held together by years of loneliness and restraint.
His hand cups your face carefully, trembling slightly, while your fingers curl into the front of his shirt.
And the second you kiss him back fully Bob melts. A shaky breath leaves him like he still cannot believe this is happening.
When you pull apart, his forehead drops gently against yours. “You have no idea,” he whispers roughly, “how long I’ve wanted this.”
You smile softly, eyes burning. “Yeah?”
Bob lets out a weak laugh. “I was trying so hard to be noble about it.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was horrible.”
You laugh quietly. And for the first time all night Bob smiles without sadness hiding underneath it.
Outside, rain streaks softly against the tower windows. But inside in the warm kitchen light two lonely people stand impossibly close, holding each other like they finally found something worth staying for.
_________________
Thank you very much for reading! All interactions are highly appreciated 💙
also, congrats on 1k followers !! wishing for many more achievements like this
prompt 6: forehead and cheek kisses
ty so much!! cw gn!reader, all fluffy, short and sweet
1k follower event
you've realised over the course of your relationship that bob is a sucker for affection.
he clams up, blushes, and can't help the smile that spreads on his face. it's adorable. his body practically restarts every time you kiss him.
because of this, he can never figure out how to return the affection you show him. by the time he feels real again, the moment is over; you've usually started doing something else, or sometimes you're in a different room.
this time, he's determined to be the one to catch you off guard.
he corners you in your bedroom. it feels strange not to knock regardless of how many times you've told him that he can just come in. he closes the door behind himself and stands there for a moment, preparing himself.
"bob?" you ask, surprised at his sudden entrance.
he walks over to you. "hi."
"hi."
his hands settle on your waist, making your heart skip a beat, and then he goes for it. he kisses your forehead first, by your hairline then closer to your eyebrows. you stand there, frozen for a moment, but he continues. his lips travel down your nose, then across to one cheek, leaving feather-light kisses all over your face. he kisses one cheek, then the other, then goes back to the first one again.
you giggle, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. "bob—“
he shushes you with a hum, his lips pressing quickly and gently against yours, then finishes with another kiss on your forehead.
by the time he's done, you're a flushed, laughing mess. your smile makes his heart soar. god, he loves you.
"what was that for?" you giggle.
"i just wanted to," he says, a little shy now. you stand on your toes and press a kiss to his lips, still smiling widely.
"i just love you," he murmurs against your lips. somehow, you smile wider.
"i love you too."
he gently guides you over to the bed, where you end up standing between his legs as he sits down. he's gone all shy now, with pink cheeks, and it's adorable.
you lean down and kiss his forehead, still chuckling lightly, and he groans and hides his face in your chest.
"don't hide, c'mon," you say, trying to pull him back up to look at you, but his arms are wrapped so tightly around you that he's not budging. "i thought it was sweet."
"you always do stuff like that to me," he mumbles into your shirt, "i wanted to do something for you."
you coo at him and laugh again. "that's even sweeter."
he looks up at you and pouts his lips in invitation. of course, you lean down and kiss him. like he'd even have to ask.
Upon returning from a mission with Bucky, you expected to meet Bob, but what you didn't expect was that he would be waiting with a somewhat gloomy and unhappy air, unaware that you had gone on a mission alone with Bucky.
Thanks for the request anon. This is my first time writing for Bob so I hope you like it :)
Title: I Won't Leave Again
You could tell something was wrong as soon as you and Bucky stepped into the tower. You walked out into the main area and shared a brief glance with your team mate. A tense atmosphere hung in the air and a sense of uneasiness settled in the pit of your stomach. You didn’t want to think the worst had happened but from the look on Bucky’s face you could tell he was thinking the same.
“Thank fuck you’re back.”
You jumped as Ava phased through the wall. She gave the two of you an exasperated look which you returned blankly.
“Has everything been… ok?” you asked, trying to find the right word
“Does everything look ok?” Ava hissed
The further you and Bucky ventured back into your new home the more you realised that things weren’t as neat as you first thought. Dishes were piled in the sink. The hoover clearly hadn’t been touched from when you left last week and you could already see a faint layer of dust on the surfaces.
“Ava,” you said calmly, “you did actually tell Bob that I was going on a mission with Bucky, didn’t you?”
At Ava’s silence you slowly turned to face her. She briefly made eye contact with you before clicking her tongue and looking up at the ceiling. Slowly she said,
“I was busy. I told Yelena to tell him.
“No, no, no,” Yelena said, who had just entered the room, “do not blame this on me.”
Bucky pinched the bridge of your nose and took a deep breath. The uncomfortable feeling in your stomach returned in full force. You turned your attention to Yelena but before you could ask her she said,
“I was called away on a mission. I told Walker to tell him.”
“Walker.” you said blankly
John had been making a start on the piles of washing up with an irritated look on his face. It was a little too late to be doing that. He raised a sud cover hand and shook his head.
“Oh no, don’t fucking blame this on me. I told Alexei to tell him.”
Alexei marched into the room, hearing that you and Bucky had returned. He let out a booming laugh and walked towards you with open arms.
“You are back,” he boomed, “and alive. Mission was successful, yes?”
You took a step back, giving him a disapproving look. Alexei’s smile faltered for a moment but he quickly masked it and turned towards Bucky. Bucky just folded his arms and gave him a stoney look.
“So let me this straight,” you said slowly, “none of you told Bob I had gone on a mission.”
Silence.
“None of you thought that might’ve been a bad idea?”
Silence. Again.
“Well,” you said with a forced brightness, “at least I can see that he hasn’t turned back into the Void. That is such a plus.”
You took a deep breath, trying to calm the rising anger.
“Where is Bob now?” you asked
“Bobby’s in his room.” Walker said. You had never heard him sound so sheepish again
“Go see him,” Bucky muttered quietly, “I’ll deal with this lot.”
You didn’t need to be told twice. You turned on your heel and hurried away. You couldn’t stand seeing the rest of your team right at this moment. You’d certainly have to get your revenge on them later. How could they just forget to tell Bob something so important?
You finally reached your room and hesitated for a moment. You could practically feel the sadness leaking through the door and you knocked softly on the door.
“Bob,” you said softly, “Bob, it’s me. I’m coming in now.”
Slowly you entered the room. You grimaced slightly as you saw the clothes littered on the floor and the lump in the middle of the bed. Bob shifted slightly as you approached and sat down next to him.
“I’m sorry,” you continued, “I’m sorry that I left without telling you myself. Valentina forced Bucky and I to go basically as soon as she told us the mission. We barely even had time to pack. We were just passing Ava and I told her to let you know. I wasn’t expecting everyone to pass the task onto someone else.”
You sighed, leaning over and resting your cheek on Bob. He shifted under you but didn’t push you away. You wrapped your arms around him, pulling Bob closer to you.
“We weren’t even allowed to bring our mobiles,” you said softly, “so I couldn’t text you. I’m so sorry Bob.”
“I thought you had left me.”
You shut your eyes at Bob’s despondent tone. Your grip around him tightened and finally he pulled the sheets away and stuck his head out from under them. You smiled softly and reached forward and cupped his cheek.
“I’m sorry.” you muttered
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know but still…”
You cut yourself off and pressed your forehead against his. Bob smiled as the gesture and eagerly leant into your embrace. He wrapped his arms around your waist and the two of you fell back against the mattress. You stroked his hair and said,
“I’m not going anywhere again anytime soon.”
“But Val-”
“Don’t worry about her,” you pressed a kiss against his forehead, “I can deal with her.”
You looked down as you heard Bob say your name softly.
“Yeah?” you said
“I love you.”
You smiled, your grip on him tightening for a brief second.
Summary: Your boyfriend worries about you. A lot. When you come home injured, he immediately focuses on taking care of you, in more ways than one. (Based partially on Sidelines by Phoebe Bridgers) - ao3 version
Word Count: 1.9k
Notes: Set after the events of Thunderbolts*, established relationship, SMUT!!! oral sex (f receiving), reader injury (stab wound), Bob is a nervous but caring bf, and a MUNCH (bless his heart)
a/n: This is my first published Bob fic! I'm still trying to get a sense of how to write him but this is sort of me trying to character build what he's like post TB and in a relationship. But if there are two things I do know it is that he is Phoebe Bridges coded and that that boy eats pussy like the last goddamn supper so I give you this.
One thing Bob didn’t expect about being in love was how anxiety inducing it was.
He still didn’t fully believe your relationship was real; that you’d said yes to him asking you out, kissed him that night outside the tower, excitedly told everyone about your new relationship. It was strange, having someone be proud of him, but a feeling he had come to love.
You were kind to him. He still wasn’t used to the feeling of being wanted, or even tolerated, let alone loved. But the way you treated him, not like a burden or like he was made of glass, made him love you.
And with that, came with being constantly worried whenever you were out on a mission, even doing simple recon. He tried to stay calm, not be annoying about it, yet he always found himself imagining the worst, that one day the team would come home and you wouldn’t be there.
It’s why he sat, waiting by the door for you and the team to return from your mission of the day. You’d texted him when you’d all gotten on the jet home, reassuring him you were all fine and giving him and ETA. It was lonely in the Watchtower, although he did find ways to entertain himself. Still, he often found himself seated in his chair in the common room, twiddling his thumbs as he awaited you all. It was kind of sad, he knew. Still, he wouldn’t trade anything for seeing the way your face lit up when you saw him waiting, and the relief he felt when you walked in.
The elevator dinged, opening to reveal the six of you, everyone looking tired and beat from a long day. Bob’s eyes immediately searched for you, finally seeing you step out last, an arm around Bucky as he held you up. You hobbled in, not putting pressure on your left leg, where he saw a red splotch on your gear, clearly blood.
“What happened?” he quickly moved to you, Bucky automatically shifting to let Bob hold you up. You winced a bit at the transition, wrapping your arms around your boyfriend’s shoulders.
“It’s fine, it’s just a little cut-”
“She got stabbed.” Bucky announced as he began pulling off his holsters.
“You got stabbed?!” Bob repeated, eyes going wide as he looked down at the wound.
“Look, Bob, I’m okay, it’s just a minor stab wound-”
“There’s no such thing as a minor stab wound!” he exclaims, sighing as he kneels down to look at your calf. Sure enough, the blood looks dried but there is a gash in your gear, and he can see the stitches someone had given you on the ride home. “Who stitched you up?”
“Me!” Walker calls as he unclips his helmet. “Did pretty good for a mid-combat wound.”
You scoff. “Debatable.”
“Thanks, Walker.” Bob talks over you as he stands. “You are going to rest now.”
“Bob, I’m fine-”
“Nope!” He wrapped an arm beneath your knees, lifting you with ease as he carried you to your room. You forget how strong he is sometimes- how the Sentry Project changed him. He’s always wearing baggy crewnecks and long sleeves that hide the physique it gave him, the muscle. He’s a little embarrassed of it, honestly. He doesn’t feel like he earned it. Then again, he doesn't feel like he earned any of this- these friends, living in the tower, you.
You give up on fighting as Bob kicks your door open, putting you down softly on your bed. “Thanks.” you mutter as you scoot upwards to lay on your pillows, wincing at the sharp pain in your leg. “Sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Well I am worried!” he laid down next to you, gently putting a hand to your cheek. “I always worry. Every Time you guys go out there, I-I’m terrified something’s going to happen to you.”
You put your hand over his, a guilty look on your face. “Bob, I…” you trail off, staring at the ceiling. “I just don’t want to be a burden to you.”
Bob’s quiet for a moment, processing your words. “A burden?”
You nod, peering over at him. His face is confused, brow furrowed as if you’ve said that the sky is green and grass is blue. “You could never be a burden to me.”
“I know, I know, I just-”
“No. You are not a burden.” he silences you with a soft kiss, cupping your face gently. “You are everything.”
You smile up at him, kissing him back once more. “I’m sorry for not telling you.”
“It’s okay.” he punctuates his words with another kiss. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”
He nuzzles into the crook of your neck as you wrap your arms around him, the two of you laying still, just basking each other’s presence for the moment.
“A burden…” Bob mumbles into your neck. “You’re the best thing in my shitty fucking life.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true.” he lifts his head, looking you in the eyes, dead serious. “Before you, it was like… everything was just so far away, just things happening to me. Now, it’s so much more…” he searches for the right word. “Real. Like I had something to keep going for. And something I could lose.”
You just look up at him, seeing the genuine look on his face, the fear primed in his eyes. Bob is no stranger to rejection; even after months together, in the back of his mind he worries every romantic gesture could be the wrong thing.
But instead of yelling at him, pushing him away, you just smile at him, run a hand through his hair. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? Not if I can help it.” you press a kiss to his cheek. “And I’ll be more careful from now on. I promise. I’ll always come home to you.”
Bob smiles softly, yet hesitantly, like there’s still something left on his mind. “Okay?” you ask, both a question of understanding and of his current mental state.
“Yeah, yeah I’m good, I just…” his eyes flit around nervously, before landing on your face again. “I love you.”
It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, although he’s known it for a long time. He’s known since the first time you kissed, but he was too terrified of scaring you off to ever say it. So he held back, till now.
“I love you too.” you smile, chuckling a little as you see the joy light up Bob’s face. “I love you, Bob.”
“Really?” he grins, still unsure if this is real. You just nod, and then he’s pulling you into him, kissing you again, this time intense, with all the feeling and honesty he’s held back till now. His hands run down to your waist, pulling you close to him till your bodies are flush against each other.
When he finally pulls away, you see his brown eyes darkened with lust, glancing back down to your lips as if he can’t get enough.
“I want you.” He whispers, shifting himself so he’s atop you.
“You’ve got me.” you pull him in for another kiss, before he’s sitting back up and yanking at your tactical pants.
When it comes to sex, Bob is always eager to please. You make an effort to take care of him just as much as he does for you, but he insists he takes just as much pleasure in your ecstasy as he does his.
Now he’s swiftly pulling your pants down, taking your underwear with them as he tosses them off somewhere in your room. He runs a thumb along your wound, assessing how bad it is.
“I’m okay.” you breathe out. “Wasn’t deep. Please, Bob.”
He takes his place laying between your thighs, gently propping your legs onto his shoulders. His eyes take in your already soaked folds, his mouth hanging open, salivating at the sight.
“You sure?” he checks once more, glancing over at your cut. You nod fervently.
“Yes, please, Bob, God-”
That’s all he needs to hear before he’s pressing kisses into your thighs, moving quickly to lick a stripe up your cunt. You gasp at the sensation, his tongue sending shockwaves through your body.
Prior to meeting you, Bob had had a few relationships, mostly short, sexual based things. He wasn’t an expert on eating pussy, but the first time he got between your legs, it was like he’d found God in there.
He lapped at your pussy fervently, like it was his last meal. Bob Reynolds was nothing if not a pleaser, and after a few months, he had learned what worked. For instance, he knew that if he flicked his tongue against your clit as he did now, you would release a choked out gasp, fingers gripping his hair like a lifeline, which is exactly what you did.
He groans against you, the vibrations sending heat through the growing knot in your stomach. You writhed against him, his large palms holding you down against the mattress. God, you loved it when he showed his strength.
“God, yes, Bob, just like that, fuck-” you moaned out praise as he continued to delve into you, switching between lavishing your folds and sucking at your clit. His hips stuttered against the mattress as he desperately sought friction, growing impossibly harder by the second at your cries. “I love you, love you so much.”
The words go straight to his cock, his hips slamming against the mattress even harder as he groans into you. One of your favorite things about Bob; he is vocal during sex. The dirty things that came out of his mouth the first time you gave him a blowjob are still etched into your mind.
But now, you feel the coil in your stomach tightening, threatening to come undone. “Bob, Bob I’m close, baby, fuck…” you grip his hair with both hands, gridning your hips into his face as best you can while he holds you down. He stares up at you, his big brown eyes taking in every gasp, every moan that comes out of you. He moves up, sucking on your clit so hard you see stars as you finally cum, crying out his name as you do.
He doesn’t slow down, continuing to lap at you as you ride out your orgasm. You gasp as you come down from your high, his mouth finally slowing and smiling up at you, covered in your slick.
“You’re so pretty like this.” you pant out. “Me all over your mouth.”
He grins shyly, but with pride in his actions. “You liked it?”
“Yes I liked it, Bob.” you laugh as you pull him up to you, tasting yourself on his lips as you kiss him. You reach down to his groin, feeling a wet spot there. “Baby, did you-”
“Uh, yeah.” he mumbles, cheeks growing red. “I like seeing you like that.”
You just smile, kissing him once again. “That’s hot.” you murmur into his lips.
He hums against you, kissing you hungrily. He rolls his hips against yours, and your breath catches as you can feel him already getting hard again.
You're in for a long night.
a/n: Bob my Shayla. Oh my Shayla. I hope I did him justice with this. Ain't much, but it's honest work.
explicit ✨ bob reynolds x afab!reader ✨ thunderbolts* (2025) ✨ 4m 11s
🔖 creampie, established relationship, not beta read, pov second person, vaginal sex
He's already touching you before you've fully stepped into the bedroom; large, warm hands at your waist like he needs you anchored to him.
"Don't go anywhere." He murmurs into your hair, voice low, desperate. "Please."
"I'm right here." But that isn't enough, not tonight. His grip tightens just a little, fingers curling against your hips possessively.
"Say it again."
"I'm not going anywhere, Bob." You tell him, clearer this time, one hand sliding into his hair. "I promise."
It's the only cue he needs.
He kisses you like he's trying to melt into you; like if he doesn't get skin-to-skin, he might just breakdown completely. He pulls you in, backs you toward the bed, mouths open and wet, breathing each other in. He's warm all over. Barefoot, in a worn t-shirt and boxers. Tonight, he's just Bob. Not the Sentry. Not the Void. Just Bob. Your Bob.; the one who bruises easy when it comes to love.
"Want you." He murmurs, like it hurts. "So bad. All the time. Don't know what to do with it." You cup his face, guide him onto the mattress with you, and he follows. He's over you in a heartbeat; kissing your chest through your shirt, gripping your thighs, touching like he's already mourning every second that slips by. "Take it off." He mutters against your stomach, tugging at the neck of your shirt with his teeth. "Wanna see you. Need to— Need to feel you. Please."
Your clothes are shrugged off as fast as you can and his follow shortly after. Once his skin meets yours, every part of it is slow, not because he's teasing but because he's savouring. You're the only thing that keeps him grounded and present and human.
"You always let me be soft with you." He says, kissing your shoulder, your wrist, your stomach, the inside of your knee. "Everyone expects me to be some… But you actually treat me like a person, like a man."
"You are a man, honey." You breathe, hand in his hair, hips arching into him. "And not just any man; you're my man. Just remember that, okay?" He shivers and groans, fitting his hips between your thighs, nestling close, wrapping his arms tight around you, feeling the weight of you, the warmth.
"Fuck… Love you so much. So, so much. Hurts sometimes." He pushes inside you with a kind of reverence, shifting to hold your hands above your head, fingers laced into your own. God, he feels amazing; stretching but not to the point of pain. Just a nice, comfortable burn, where the friction is just right. He sets a slow rhythm, deep and steady, pressing his forehead to yours with every dip of his hips, lips barely brushing your mouth, breath hot on your face. "You're so perfect." He whispers. "You're so good to me. Don't deserve you."
"You do, honey." You whisper back, almost a gasp. "You do. God, you deserve the world." His breathing stutters. He clings to you harder, shifts his angle just right so that every grind hits you just right. His brows knit slightly, your words and the closeness of your body doing more than the drag of his cock inside you.
"Don't leave. Please." He says, voice cracking, hips never stopping. "Not allowed to." There's a brief flash of gold in his eyes, you nearly miss it. But you don't. You see it. See him. His fingers tighten around your own before he eases up, releasing you to plant his hands either side of your head. "Can't lose you."
"You won't." You promise, over and over, fingers curling around his biceps. "You won't, honey, I'm here. I'm here and I always will be." It unravels him.
His pace falters for a second before he doubles down, rutting into you desperately, and he starts praising you with every breath, whispering it into your neck as his hands burn tracks along your skin.
"God, you're so perfect… Dealing with all my… My bullshit… Feels like home… You're my whole world… Can't let you go… Not ever…"
You're close too. So close… And he knows it. He knows the signs; the trembling in your knees, the curling of your toes, the rolling of your eyes. He slips a hand between you, rubs gentle circles with his thumb in tandem with those deep, deep thrusts. It's like he's trying to crawl inside you skin. He wants to be with you always; holding your hand, kissing your skin, protecting you at all times.
His breath stutters, catching for a moment in his throat. "Cum with me." He pants out, voice thick and trembling, sweat beading across his brow. "Please."
You do. You can't help yourself. You clench down around him, fingers finding purchase at the angles of his shoulder blades, wrapped in each other, your body shivering beneath his as you come apart under his hands, around his cock, with his name on your lips. He follows right after, groaning your name, collapsing against you in a tangle of limbs and breath and heat. He stays inside you, soft and warm and safe.
You stay like that a long while; bodies tangled, skin damp, his arms curled tightly around you like he still thinks you might vanish. "I don't say it enough." He whispers against your shoulder. "That you mean everything." You turn your head and kiss the crown of his head.
"You say it like this." You murmur, carding your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. "That's enough for me." And he sighs; relieved, loved, peaceful.
When he falls asleep on your chest, all you can do is hold him through it. Through the aftershocks of being god and man and something in between. You wouldn't leave him. You could never do that, especially not when he looks so sweet, snuggled up against you, holding onto you like his life depends on it. You love him. So you'll stay right where you are.
Summary: You and Bob have feelings for each other. Which would be great, considering you're best friends; the problem is neither of you thinks the other likes you back. - ao3 version
Word Count: 3.8k
Notes: Set after the events of Thunderbolts*, friends to lovers, fluff, a little hurt/comfort, terrible wingman Walker, Bucky and Alpine (my beloved), New Avengers movie night, discussion of pipe bombs/mail bombs (not plot relevant but stay with me here), first kiss
a/n: It's me again. Thunderbolts fanfiction author starrbishops. And I'm bringing you another cute, fluffy friends to lovers Bob Reynolds Avengers Tower story that is sure to give you a cavity. I give you, Risk (titled after the Gracie Abrams song of similar themes)
At first you think you’re imagining it.
The fact that Bob always sits next to you on movie nights, smiles whenever you walk in a room. You chalk it up to friendship. After all, you and Bob have grown close ever since the Void incident. You’ve made sure to let him know you’re here for him, no matter what, any time of the day. He’s taken you up on it a couple times, coming by your room in the middle of the night when the thoughts in his head are too loud. You’ve sat with him, held him till it quiets and he could finally sleep.
Watching Bob sleep, you forget he’s the most powerful being on earth. He’s just Bob, snoring quietly, clinging to you like a koala. He looks peaceful, cute even. It’s one of the things you like most about him. And you like just about everything about him.
Because it’s more than just the late night sleepovers and the kind greetings in the morning. You notice Bob pays just a little more attention to the household chores that pertain to you than to anyone else. He’s doing a load of laundry? Yours is the first done, already folded and left on your bed. Meanwhile, he texts Walker to let him know his clothes are in the dryer and to go get them in 30 minutes.
If you’re doing the dishes after dinner one night? He joins you. Sometimes it takes over completely. You insist you’ve got it; he insists he wants to. After a few nights of this, you give up on trying to stop him; you hate the dishes, and besides, he always seems happy to take over for you. In fact, once you start letting him take over, you find him joining you for the most mundane tasks. When you’re putting the dishes away, he’s suddenly there sorting the utensils. When you’re going to the grocery store, he’s the first to volunteer to go with you.
It’s not that you’re mad about it; you love spending time with Bob. He’s more than just the nervous guy from the vault, he’s sweet, funny, considerate. It’s just that the more he does these things, and the more time you spend with him, the more you fall for him.
It’s like everytime he smiles, your heart stops beating for a second. Any time his hand brushes yours, you feel like electricity is running across your skin. Once when he stretched, his sweatshirt rode up just a little, revealing his cut abs and a sharp v-line dipping into his sweatpants. You swear your brain waves turned into static for a minute.
You don’t know what to do. You could just tell him, except you can’t work up the nerve. It’s a little laughable, actually. You, an Avenger, someone who’s killed and fought more people than you can count, can’t tell a guy you like him.
You’re not even sure if Bob himself likes you back. Sure, he does seem to seek you out in every situation, always putting you first on his to-do list, but that could just be him being friendly, right? Why would he like someone like you, of all people? Besides, he’s still struggling with his mental and physical health after the trauma of the Sentry Project. You don’t want to be the thing that curbs his improvement, or makes him worse. Besides, if he doesn’t like you, you risk ruining the entire team dynamic. You’re a ragtag group of weirdos, but you love these weirdos like family, and you wouldn’t risk anything that might destroy your bond. Even if that means dying inside every time Bob sits a little too close to you.
Like now, as the seven of you sit together in the common room, watching some old Russian action movie Alexei picked. Yelena had begged him to choose something normal for once, but he’d insisted it was, in his words, ‘cinematic excellence.’ Honestly, you couldn’t tell if it was good or not, considering it was entirely in Russian with no subtitles. From Bucky’s confused expression and Yelena’s look of embarrassment, it wasn’t very good.
You couldn’t be paying less attention. You were seated on the couch between Bob and Walker, relaxing against the cushions. It’d been a long week for all of you. You’d just gotten back from a mission in South America, and you all needed to take a load off. The minute you walked in, Bob was sitting on the couch, his eyes lighting up at the sight of you. He rushed over, immediately giving you a hug, making your stomach drop.
“I missed you.” he whispered in your ear, and you felt like your knees were going to give out.
But you survived, and here you sat, just another Friday movie night to make it through without either snapping and kissing Bob senseless or spontaneously combusting.
“This is an…interesting movie.” he muttered into your ear.
“Interesting is an understatement.” You chuckled as you watched Alexei cheer as one of the bad guys was blown up with comically bad special effects. “At least he’s enjoying it.”
You were enjoying it a little too. Not the movie itself, but the fact you got to spend time with Bob. He'd been whispering comments into your ear all night, ranging from jabs at the poor quality of the film to just random tidbits about his day. You smiled at each one of them, just at the sound of his voice in your ear. You’d missed him too, his comforting presence always beside you, his kindness that lifted just a little bit of weight off your shoulders.
Bob yawned a little, his eyes shutting as he tried to stifle it, lest Alexei hear and pause the movie to explain everything he’d missed. “Tired?” you joked, him nodding in response.
“Long day.” he mumbled, leaning back into the cushions. “Did all the laundry from the mission. Yours is in your room. I left your favorite sweater on your dresser.”
You turned to face him. “The blue one? How’d you know?”
He just shrugged. “You always wear it.”
You felt your face go a little hot at that, turning back to the TV screen to hopefully disguise your blush. This was the kind of thing that Bob just did, small acts of kindness that showed that he knew you, more than you’d even realized you let on.
Bob yawned again, this time stretching his arms out. You focused your eyes straight ahead, fearing another brain buffer like the last incident. Unfortunately, you couldn’t escape it; Bob’s lowered arm landed behind you on the sofa, encircling you, with his hand resting on your shoulder.
Did Bob Reynolds really just do the yawn-arm-around-you trick? The man with the power of a thousand suns just used a middle school dating tactic on you. You felt like a teenager on a first date. Your mind raced as you tried to find a plausible explanation for this. It’s not like physical touch is too out there for Bob. You’ve slept by each other’s sides plenty of times. Still, this feels different. Where that was comfort in the face of pain, this is out of nowhere. Bob touches you because he wants to. Your brain felt like putty, melting down in the heat of his touch around your shoulders.
You chalked up what you did next to your lack of brain function in the moment. You leaned against him, resting your head against his chest. He felt solid beneath you. You forgot sometimes how strong he was, the way the Sentry Project had changed him. It was strange to say, considering you’d never known him before. Bob felt familiar to you, like you’d known him all your life.
You dared to look up at Bob, seeing how his eyes stayed fixed on the TV. The film on the screen lights them up, revealing the blue hues that appear when the light hits them just right. They’re beautiful.
Neither of you says anything for a while. You just sit together, in comfortable silence, watching Alexei excitedly explain the symbolism of the film to Ava, who sits curled up on the floor half-asleep. Yelena and Walker snack on the popcorn bowl between them, while Bucky appears to zone out as he pets Alpine, lying asleep in his lap. At one point, he glances over at you, furrowing his brow as he sees you and Bob. You and Bob are close, everyone knows that. You’ve just never given the impression of being this touchy together. He tilts his head at you, asking What’s going on here? You purse your lips, giving him a confused expression that says I honestly couldn’t tell you.
And the movie’s over, but neither you nor Bob move a muscle. “Good movie, eh?” Alexei asks as the credits roll, looking over at you and Bob across the couch. “You two look, eh…comfortable.”
You don’t know who moves first, you or Bob, but you both spring up, scooting away from each other. You hear Walker grumble something next to you, probably a teasing joke. Thankfully, Yelena takes the heat off you by beginning her critiques of the movie. It’s like every movie night, she turns into a film critic afterwards.
You glance up at Bob, seeing that he’s just as red as you are. It calms you a little, seeing him in the same boat of embarrassment as you. But it also skyrockets your anxiety, wondering if he regrets it, if he didn’t actually mean anything by it, if you misread the situation.
After a few minutes, Bob clears his throat. “I’m, uh, gonna head to bed. Long day.” he chuckles, glancing over at you in the process. John agrees with him, the rest of the team saying their goodnights as the two men walk off to the elevator.
You try to focus on the lively discussion Yelena, Ava and Alxei are currently having about the logistics of planting pipe bombs, but your thoughts are still full of Bob. The way his arm felt around you, the feel of his breath just brushing past the top of your head. You forgot how big he was, sometimes. He could completely envelop you in his arms when he hugged you. Once you’d compared your hands, his being comically larger than yours. It made your mind drift towards dirtier things, imaging Bob in your bed, the way he could use his hands.
You shook yourself out of it as Bucky plopped down next to you, still holding Alpine. He just sits quietly for a moment, before Alpine meows quietly, causing him to clear his throat.
“I-uh, Alpine, would like to know what was going on there with you and Bob.” his voice is just above a whisper, trying to avoid the others jumping in with their opinions.
You shake your head, facing him. “I have no clue. He just did that.”
“He just…laid your head on his chest?”
“Well, I mean…it’s not…I don’t even know.” you flop back, covering your eyes with your hands. “I don’t know what’s happening anymore.”
You feel a sharp prick against your leg, then another. You move your hand to see Alpine crawl into your lap, setting herself up comfortably. You gently pet her soft fur, the monotony calming you.
“She likes you.” Bucky comments, moving his metal arm to stroke her as well. “It’s no wonder Bob does too.”
You pause for a moment, just staring at Bucky. “I’m old, not stupid. I know what a guy with a crush looks like.”
You go back to petting Alpine, focusing on the rhythm of your hands on her pale fur. “I don’t know about that…”
“Hey.” Bucky looks you right in the eye, hsi metal hand on your shoulder. “You’re a good kid. So’s he. You’d be good together.” he lays back, yawning slightly. “Besides, I’m tired of watching you too dance around each other. You know, if this was the 40’s you’d be engaged at this point.”
You chuckle, even as your thoughts still swirl with worries.
“Bucky!” Alexei interrupts them, “If Winter Soldier was to send pipe bomb through mail, how would he go about it?”
Bucky looks a mix of shocked and disappointed. “I…don’t know how to answer that.”
“I do!” Ava launches into her own argument. You and Bucky just laugh as you watch them fight, your mind moving away from the brown haired boy to the logistics of bribing the USPS to send a bomb for you.
Meanwhile, Bob is starfished out on his bed, staring into his ceiling.
“I don’t think she likes me.”
“Of course she does!” John insists, continuing his pacing at the foot of the bed. “I thought that trick was sure to work.”
“We’re not in middle school, John!” Bob sits up. “It was stupid. And now she probably thinks I'm a weirdo.”
John shrugs. “I don’t know, it seems like she was into it.”
Bob scoffs. “Yeah right. I’m screwed.”
“Hey.” John joins him on the bed, gripping his shoulders, eye contact unwavering. “You can do this. You are going to get the girl, Bob. It may be hard, but love is worth it.”
Bob just stares back at him for a moment, wondering what his life has come to now that the divorced ex Captain America is his wingman.
“Nice pep talk, Walker.” he pulls away, flopping back down, covering his eyes. “I’m doomed.”
“You are not doomed.” he leans over Bob, moving his hands out of his face. “Look, do you believe in love, Bob?”
Bob is quiet. “I believe she’s gonna think we’re in love if you keep doing shit like this. Get off me.” he shoves John aside. “But yeah, sure. Love, and whatever.”
Bob does believe in love, although he’s never really known it properly. An alcoholic dad and a mentally ill mom will do that to you. For years, he thought love was just some lie that people tell to excuse or justify their terrible relationships. He knew now he was wrong. You showed him he was wrong.
Sure he’s been in relationships before, but nothing serious. Usually just some casual fun that made the highs that the drugs gabe him just that much better. You were the first person who he really felt a connection to, the first person who he wanted something real with. Part of him still worried he wasn’t good enough for you. After all, you were an Avenger, a hero. Hell, you’d saved him twice over on the first day of knowing him. What could he have to offer you? He was a former meth addict slacker from Florida with no future before the Sentry Project. He was trying to be more, to really find himself, build a life with the team. He wanted you in that life. Still, he wondered if he could ever deserve you, if anyone could, for that matter.
“Listen man.” John grabs his shoulder yet again, a sign of what is sure to be a riveting motivational speech. “You and her, you’ve got something special. I can see it. She’s into you, Bob. You just gotta believe in yourself. Make a move!”
Bob just nods, gripping Walker’s shoulder with his opposite arm. “What do you think I’ve been doing all this time?!” he asks frustratedly.
“Okay, doing her chores for her is clearly not enough. I’m gonna be straight with you Bob my boy, she’s a little oblivious.”
Normally he wouldn’t stand for anyone insulting or speaking remotely ill of you, but Walker did have a point. He’d spent the last few months making a conscious effort to pull your attention, going out of his way just to make you smile. Even Walker managed to pick up that he liked you from that. Yet still, you seemed oblivious.
“Maybe it’s not that” he mutters.
“What?”
“Maybe she does know, and she just doesn’t like me.”
Walker sighs incredulously. “Bob, c’mon man. It’s not that, I guarantee you-”
“That’s what you said about the last plan! What do you even know about love, Walker? What makes you such an expert?”
Walker goes quiet, clenching his jaw. “Fine. you think you’re the expert. Do it yourself.” With that, he stomps off and out of the room, slamming the door as loudly as possible behind him.
Bob just groans, laying back on his bed. He has no chance. What was he even thinking? You’d never like him. What was there to like?
He drifted off into sleep, his head floating with pity and self-loathing.
The two of you don’t talk about movie might. He chalks it up to disinterest. He tries not to hound you for the next few days. Doesn’t bother you when you’re alone in the kitchen, despite how much he wants to help, just to see you smile, hear your laugh.
You and Bucky are sent out soon on a weeks-long mission. Romania, apparently. You’re off the grid, strictly no contact with anyone. It’s torture. At least he could see you before, put a face to the yearning. Now, it just feels like a black hole inside him, swallowing everything up. He can’t sleep. Barely eats. He just thinks about you. Misses you.
It’s not like you haven’t been on long missions before. That he could deal with. It’s like withdrawal, mixed with regret at how he avoided you prior to your leaving. The memories of you feel so far away now, leaving him with nothing to hold onto.
One night he woke with a start to the sound of knocking on his door. Rubbing his eyes, he read his alarm clock; 3:18 AM. Who the hell was here at this hour? Maybe Walker coming to force him to train early with him in Bucky’s absence, or Alexei with some middle of the night marketing pitch. He was proved wrong, opening the door to find you standing there, out of breath, still in your tactical gear. You’d just gotten home.
“Hey.” you mumble, quiet and breathy.
“Hey.” he says back, instinctively reaching for you. “You’re home.”
“Yeah.” you affirm, nodding sharply. “Uh, mission was good, went well, I just…” you cover your mouth, stifling a sob.
“Hey.” he immediately puts his arms around you, one hand moving to stroke your hair. “You’re okay. I’m here. I’m here.”
He hears you sniffle a little, before wrapping your arms around his midriff, clinging onto him like a lifeline. He just holds you tight, mumbles reassurances into the crown of your head. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
He forgets all his doubts, all the ways you are infinitely better than him. He sees you hurting, and he can’t have that. It physically pains him, seeing you in tears. Maybe he doesn’t deserve you. Maybe he has nothing to offer you. But he can do this. He can be there for you in the middle of the night, ready to fight off whatever pain plagues you, anything that could harm you. He can hold you, carefully, as if you’re something precious to protect, because you are.
“I-I’m better now.” you mutter, pulling away slightly. Bob releases his grasp, though his hands remain on your waist and head, blue eyes still looking down into yours. “It’s nothing, I’m just, I’m being crazy.”
“You wanna talk about it?” he questions, hand sliding down to cup your cheek. He can feel the skin is slightly wet from tears. He feels a little part of his heart snap in half.
You shake his head, leaning back into him. Just as before , you rest your head on his chest, just breathing in and out, catching your breath. It’s something you do when you return from missions, he’s noticed. Deep, rhythmic breaths as he hugs you, as if you’re reassuring yourself that this is real.
“You wanna lay down?” he asks, feeling you nod your head against him. “Okay.” he mutters, “I got you.” he steps away, taking your hand in his as he walks to the bed, pulling back the blanket for you to climb in.
You rest your head on his shoulder, letting him put his arms around you once more. He could stay like this forever, he thinks.
“You’re my best friend, y’know”
He perks up at your words, raising his head to look at you. You just stare blankly off into the expanse of his room. “I am?”
You nod. “You are”
He’s not sure how to respond to this. “Thanks?” he settles on after a brief silence.
“And all that time, I kept having these nightmares that-that I’d come back and you’d be gone, or hurt, or you’d hate me, and I just, it drove me crazy, to the point where I’d barely sleep-”
“Hey.” he cuts you off, one hand pulling your chin up to look at him. “I’m not going anywhere. Ever. And I could never, ever hate you.” he rubs one thumb against your cheek softly, repeating himself quietly. “I could never hate you.”
You finally look up at him. It’s not sadness in your eyes, but something else. Longing. He recognizes it, from all the nights he’s spent alone, thinking of you. The days spent watching you idle about the tower, just grateful to be in your presence. It’s something he’s never been on the receiving end of. It’s a little strange. But addictive.
You both sit in silence for a moment, unsure what to do next. He leans down, a little closer to you. Fuck it, he thinks.
He kisses you.
And it’s everything he’s dreamed; your lips are soft, your hands run through his hair, pulling him in closer. It’s gentle, not rushed. It’s a culmination, but not yet a climax. A confession, finally, out in the open.
When he pulls back, it’s just barely, his face still mere inches from yours. He can feel your breath against his lips as you laugh, just a little.
“I thought I was crazy.” he hears you mumble. He opens his eyes, and you’re smiling. God, how he’s missed that sight. “I thought you were just being really nice to me because we’re friends.”
“Sorta.” he brushes a loose strand of hair from your face. “I did it because I love seeing you happy.” he smiles, small but real. “Like this.”
You just grin, leaning back in to press another quick kiss to his lips. Almost immediately he pulls you back in, this one deeper, passionate. He puts everything into it. All the yearning, the doubt, the love he feels. He pours it into this. Even if he can’t, won’t say it just yet, he gives you this, he gives you himself in this one kiss.
When you finally pull back, this time you’re left breathless, smiling even wider than before. It warms his heart, knowing he did this, because you want him.
“I like you a lot, you know.” you say. He chuckles at the hilarity of the statement at this point.
“I like you too.” he presses a kiss to your forehead. This one is an affirmation, a promise of more to come. “I like you so, so much.”
a/n: I love Bob. I love the idea of Avengers movie night. Been working on various conepts of this one for a while and it's finally come together and I really like it. Part two w/ smut coming soon >:) It ain't much, but it's honest work.
Pairing: Pervish?Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!
Summary: After a laundry mixup Bob finds himself in a sticky situation.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, References to Past Drug Use (and worrying about relapse because Bob is acting off, it’s very brief), Friends to Lovers? Reader and Bob sometimes do laundry together (integral to the story lol), That Emotional Longing Hits
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up please), Fingering, Handjob, Oral Sex (female and male receiving), Bob Fantasizes about the reader, Bob is an accidental underwear stealer (and ends up using said underwear for the aforementioned fantasies…But not in the way you think.), Masturbation, Face Sitting, Grinding. Yearning Bob?, Edging kind of.
Author’s Note: This started out as a cute domestic fluff laundry day thing…And then it spiraled into chaos and I rewrote it to this and…Uh…Well…Yeah. This was definitely fun to write! Hope y’all enjoy :)
Word Count: 9,169
Bob didn’t mean to end up with your underwear in his laundry pile.
But somehow, in the chaos of t-shirts, sweaters, hoodies, the occasional undergarments and socks, it must’ve gotten tangled up in the fray–caught on a sleeve or clinging to a hoodie fresh from the dryer, still warm and clinging with static.
You and Bob had been doing laundry together since you moved into the compound. It wasn’t some grand arrangement, just something that started one afternoon when you both showed up with half-full hampers and a shrug of mutual understanding. It made sense–neither of you produced a ton of laundry, and instead of fighting for the machine on rotation days, you just started tossing your stuff in together. Whites, colors, delicates–sorted after the fact with casual efficiency.
It worked. Mostly. There was the one time a bright red sock bled all over your white workout gear, leaving you with a pastel pink sports bra and Bob with a sheepish apology and an offer to replace it. But that was months ago, and nothing that catastrophic had happened since.
So when Bob was folding one of his navy sweaters on the edge of his bed and your underwear–a soft, pale blue lace piece–slipped from the sleeve and floated gently to the floor like a feather, he wasn’t shocked, or surprised…Not really at least.
But he did freeze in his spot.
He stared at the fabric for a long moment, the sweater long forgotten in his lap. The cotton and lace rested on the hardwood floor and it looked much heavier for what it was. Because he recognized them instantly.
He’d seen them once before–peeking out from above the waistband of your gray sweatpants one early morning in the kitchen, when your shirt had ridden up as you reached for the coffee filters on the top shelf. The lace had caught his eye, delicate and out of place against the plainness of your sleepwear. It was a tiny sliver of you he hadn’t meant to see but couldn’t unsee once he had.
And now they were here in his room, calling out to him from the floor. His mouth went dry as he bent to pick them up, fingertips brushing the lace–soft, fine, and whisper-light as it tickled his skin. The sweater in his lap slipped off his knees and landed with a muted thud, but he barely noticed.
The delicate blue lace fluttered against his palm, cool and almost weightless, but it may as well have been an open flame. Bob swallowed hard. His eyes traced the pattern–those tiny embroidered flowers, the scalloped edging, the faint shimmer of elastic thread winding through the weave. The intricate detail of it was so intimate and so utterly you that it made his chest tighten. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly as his grip on the lace faltered for a second–just long enough for the material to flutter in his palm again, taunting him. His eyes burned from not blinking, his lungs held hostage by the slow creeping heat that began to coil low in his belly.
He shouldn’t have been picturing you in them…But he was.
The underwear, soft and sheer, hugging your hips in a way that made his jaw clench, accentuating the curve of your ass, leaving the barest sliver of mystery–just enough to drive him absolutely insane. He could see it too clearly now. You standing in front of him in nothing but that lace and a look that bordered on smug. Your bottom lip caught between your teeth, chewing the flesh softly like you always did when you were nervous or thinking too hard…Or when you were teasing…
And god, the idea of your fingers hooking into the waistband, sliding beneath the fabric with slow, knowing touches, tracing the delicate edge along your own skin…Maybe lifting the hem slightly, like you were offering yourself to him, or you were just showing off…Maybe–
He hissed out a breath through his teeth and dropped the underwear onto the bed like it burned him.
”Oh god,” He whispered, the words dragging out of him like gravel. He pressed the heel of his palms against his eyes, trying to force the image out of his head, but it was too late. The damage was done. His cock stirred in his sweatpants, a slow, aching hardening that he could neither ignore nor justify–not when it was born from something so unintentional and innocent…Or at least it had been innocent.
But now it felt like a betrayal. He was picturing you in such compromising positions that his self-control was hanging by a thread. The lace was haunting him now–taunting him with softness and sin, curled on the edge of his bed like it knew what it was doing. His breathing was shallow. He could feel the heat pressing low in his abdomen, tight and demanding, throbbing beneath the waistband of his sweats. He glanced down at himself, and looked at the underwear again, feeling his hand drifting towards the hardness–craving relief.
And then–
Knock Knock Knock
“Bob?” Your voice filtered through the door, casual, close, and completely unaware. He shot up from the bed like he had been electrocuted, heart slamming into his ribs.
”Shit–“ He hissed under his breath, nearly stumbling over the discarded sweater as he scrambled to grab the lace from the mattress.
You were right there. Right on the other side of the door. And he was standing in his room, half-hard, now holding your underwear, basically caught red handed even though he hadn’t done anything.
Without thinking, he yanked open the drawer of his nightstand and shoved the lace inside, slamming it shut with a soft thud. His fingers lingered on the handle, like it might rattle open and spill the truth onto the floor. He could’ve handed them back, he should’ve handed them back, but instead, he panicked.
“Ye-Yeah?” He called out, voice cracking embarrassingly high before he cleared his throat and forced it to come out deeper, steadier, “Yeah?”
“We’re ordering takeout!” You replied, “Come give your order!” His mind whirled. Food. Orders. Takeout.
He adjusted himself through his sweatpants quickly, trying to shift his erection into a less obvious position. It wasn’t helping that your voice was still floating through the air like warmed honey, layered with unintentional sweetness and familiarity. He squeezed his eyes shut, took a deep breath through his nose, and forced the image of you in that lace down–way, way down.
“Okay!” He said, forcing cheer into his voice, “Be out in a minute! Just…Ju–Just changing!” He added.
”Alright,” You responded lightly. “Don’t keep us waiting.” You teased in a sing-song voice, which almost made him moan out loud. Bob rubbed his hands down his face, scrubbing over his jaw until it ached.
“Get a hold of yourself, Bob. Get a fucking gr–grip.” His voice was a low rasp, breath catching in the middle like he couldn’t even convince himself. He looked down–eyes dragging to the tent in his sweatpants, the hard line still pressing persistently against the cotton like it was begging him to give in. He adjusted himself again with a hiss of breath, making sure it wasn’t too obvious before dragging a hand through his already messed up hair and stepping out into the hallway.
Dinner was a blur.
He sat beside you at the little kitchen table, half-listening to the others talk over one another, too aware of every tiny movement you made. Your arm brushed his as you leaned forward to grab your drink, a few water droplets falling onto your shirt. You laughed a bit at one of Alexei’s off handed jokes and tapped your bare foot against the floor just inches from his own. You were in one of your old college t-shirts–the one that had a stretched out neckline that revealed the smooth plane of your collarbone.
Bob could barely eat with such close proximity, and he couldn’t look at you too long because he would end up picturing the lace again–how soft it felt in his hand, how delicate it was. How easy it was to picture them on you, or falling off you. He poked around his plate in a daze, trying his best to keep up with the conversations going on around him but his brain was on autopilot, filled with the nastiest thoughts he had conjured up in a long time.
You had noticed how he didn’t eat, it was easy to spot, even though he tried to hide it by wrapping up his plate and putting it into the fridge muttering an excuse of him eating the rest later. While you were cleaning the dishes you turned to him and asked, “Are you alright?” He looked like a deer in headlights, his blue eyes wide and shimmering, his jaw clenching at the question.
”Ye–Yeah, of course I am…Do I not seem alright?” You shrugged.
”You didn’t eat. Usually you have the appetite of a rabid animal.” His face heated up at that comment as he grabbed a damp plate from the dish rack, drying it off with his cloth, “And when you’re…Not feeling good you typically don’t eat.” You added in a hushed tone. He gulped, turning away from you.
”I’m alright. Trust me…You’d know if I wasn’t.” You hummed, and gave him a small okay, even though you were still concerned about his current state. The thought of him possibly relapsing crossed your mind, but you immediately pushed the idea out of your mind, because he wasn’t sneaky enough to get away with something like that, or at least you hoped he wasn’t. You trusted him enough that he would come to you if he ever had the thought of turning back to pills, and you felt ashamed for even thinking he was, but you were still concerned at the small sign that something was off.
By the time Bob got back to his room, he felt like his entire body was on fire. He tore off his clothes and took the coldest shower known to man, yet he still felt like his blood was boiling beneath his skin. He had thrown himself down on his bed, spreading himself out on top of the covers in only a pair of shorts. Beads of sweat clung to his chest, the muscle in his thighs tensing up and clenching. He took a few deep breaths, trying his best to keep his mind blank and wiped.
The moonlight cut across the room in fractured silver, spilling in from the half-cracked blinds, casting long spotlight-like shadows across the floor. His thoughts trailed off to the drawer, and he could’ve sworn he was going to explode. He tried turning over. Tried to ignore it. But the temptation was right there. Inches away.
“Just do it you little perv. She won’t know anything about it.” The Void hissed. Bob reached up and wiped some of the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand.
”But I’ll know…” He whispered into the abyss of the room.
“So? You’ve already crossed the line by fantasizing about her. Might as well finish the job.” He spat back. Bob nibbled on his bottom lip, his eyes glancing over at the nightstand again, before letting out a broken curse, and reaching for the drawer.
It slid open with the faintest scrape, and he paused, his eyes locking onto the pale blue lace curled up like a secret in the corner. They practically glowed in the moonlight, and the soft fabric looked ethereal now–delicate and silken. The tiny embroidered flowers caught the light like they had been stitched from starlight. His fingers hovered for a moment…Then curled around them gently, bringing the underwear out slowly, like they might disintegrate in his palm.
Bob leaned back against the pillows, staring at the lace in his hand–how dainty it looked, how personal. His thumb traced the scalloped edge, watching the way the elastic caught the light. They were so you it made his stomach twist. So soft. So intimate. So unthinkably forbidden. He took in a shaky breath, before sliding his other hand beneath his waistband pushing it down slightly, fingers curling around the thick, aching heat of his erection.
He hissed through his teeth. The relief was immediate–sweet and sharp, his whole body jerking slightly from the first touch. His head dropped back onto the pillow as he began to stroke himself, slow at first, letting the sensation build while he gripped your lace underwear against his chest, cooling his heated skin. Bob’s breath shuddered as he wrapped his fingers tighter around the base of his cock, the ache rolling through him in thick, pulsing waves.
He let his eyes flutter shut, and he pictured you in the darkness behind his eyes straddling his waist in nothing but that same pale blue lace, the hem riding high as you rolled your hips down against him. Bob groaned aloud, soft and guttural, imagining the warmth of you grinding down over him, the thin barrier doing nothing to hide how wet you were. In his mind, your hands braced on his thighs, fingers digging in, nails biting into flesh for leverage as you rocked yourself over him with unhurried need–showing yourself off to him.
He could see it so clearly–your head tipped back, chest heaving, lips parted just enough for a whisper of his name to fall out, all soft and wrecked. His hips bucked into his fist, a harsh hiss dragging between his teeth.
He balled the lace tighter in his hand, dragging it up toward his face with shaking fingers, needing the feel of it against his skin–against the stubble on his jaw. The soft fabric kissed his cheek as he pressed it there, inhaling deeply.
Laundry sheets.
Fabric softener.
And beneath all of that–faint, ghost-like warmth. The phantom memory of your skin. It made him feel insane.
“Fuck,” He groaned, voice raw, as he stroked himself faster now, hips rising off the bed.
He pictured you perched over his face, thighs trembling on either side of his head, lace still clinging to your hips as you slowly lowered yourself down onto his mouth. His tongue dragging over the soaked fabric, the taste of you bleeding through, his hands gripping your ass, holding you there while you rode the pressure of his mouth.The lace brushing against his cheekbones, his nose, tickling his skin while he sucked and licked and moaned into you. His mind spiraled as the pleasure built, fast and brutal now.
Your voice echoed in his head. Desperate. Breathless.
“Don’t stop, Bob…Please don’t stop.”
He whimpered as his orgasm surged up from deep in his core, everything tightening, his muscles locking as he arched off the mattress. Just before he came, he stuffed the lace into his mouth, biting down hard as the pleasure ripped through him in thick, pulsing waves.
Cum spilled over his knuckles, hot and messy, streaking across his stomach as he worked himself through it, the lace muffling the strangled moans that would’ve echoed too loud in the stillness of the compound. His whole body shook with the release and for a moment everything blurred together–the moonlight, the heat, the breath that rattled in his chest.
Then it was pure silence, just his soft wheezing echoing through the room, the faint creak of the bed springs, and the wet slick of his hand pulling away. He reached up with his clean hand, easing the lace out of his mouth slowly, the fabric damp where his teeth had clamped down. He stared at it, and felt the guilt and shame blooming somewhere deep in his stomach. Shame trailing after the pleasure like a tide going out, leaving him raw and aching.
His eyes drifted closed for a second as he laid the underwear down gently beside him, before reaching over for a tissue and wiping his hand off, tucking himself back into his shorts, letting out a long sigh.
“Well that was just pathetic.” The Void whispered
———————
It had been a few days since your quiet check-in while doing the dishes together. Days since Bob had nodded and told you he was fine and that he would tell you if he wasn’t. But you could tell something was off.
He’d become…Jumpy. And not in the normal, anxious–Bob kind of way you were used to. This was different. Tense and wound tight. He avoided eye contact with you when usually he would hold it. Laughed too loud when he used to chuckle under his breath, almost like he forced it out of himself. Doors that were usually left open between you were suddenly shut and locked. And when you knocked? You would hear rapid shuffling and panicked movement, as if he was hiding something quickly.
At first, you let it slide, but then the noises in the night started.
You’d wake sometime at around 2:30 in the morning, like clockwork. And from your room, you could hear him moving, pacing. Sometimes you would hear his mattress creaking, like he was shifting restlessly on the covers, never fully settling.
He definitely wasn’t getting enough sleep, and he certainly wasn’t eating properly…And the last time that happened…
Your chest clenched as the thought curled like smoke through your lungs: what if he had relapsed?
The idea made you ill. You didn’t want to believe it. Bob had fought so hard, and he had come so far. But you knew something was going on, and if he wasn’t going to tell you what it was, you were going to have to find it out for yourself–even if it meant crossing a line.
You just didn’t expect the opportunity to come so soon.
”Hey, Bob!” Walker called down the hall late that afternoon, “Need some of that extra super Sentry strength to help haul the groceries up from the parking garage. There’s a lot of boxes.” Bob appeared from his room moments later, navy sweatpants hanging low on his hips showing off his waist, as he tugged a shirt on.
”Coming.” He mumbled. You waited, perfectly still, until the echo of his footsteps disappeared completely. Then you slipped into his room.
His space was always immaculate.
The soft click of the door behind you was swallowed by the stillness of his bedroom, the air faintly tinged with cedarwood and clean linen. His bed was made—neatly. Sheets tucked in tight, comforter folded down with military precision. A dark navy throw blanket lay folded at the end, square and untouched.
Everything had a place. The floor was spotless. A pair of slippers sat aligned beneath the bedframe, parallel, like they’d never been used.
His desk was the only spot with any real sign of life. And even then, it was the kind of lived-in that screamed care and intention. The surface was arranged with crisp order: a few pens, a worn leather notebook, and—stacked neatly along the edge—dozens of CDs.
You blinked, surprised.
Old-school jewel cases. Labeled in his handwriting. Some were scratched. Others polished like keepsakes. Fleetwood Mac. Miles Davis. Nirvana. You ran your fingers across the stack, a soft smile tugging at your lips. He’d mentioned once that music helped quiet his mind. He must’ve started collecting since moving into the compound.
You reached for the desk drawer.
Stationery. Lined journals. A few half-filled notebooks, their margins scrawled with little doodles, mission notes, lists of music to look up. Everything was clean. Normal.
The second drawer opened with a soft pull.
Photos.
Printed, physical ones. A few of the team together after missions, muddy and bruised but smiling. One of Yelena flipping the bird at the camera. Another of Ava mid-eye-roll. There were newspaper clippings too–crumpled articles about Thunderbolt missions, some good press, some bad. Your name was featured in a few headlines. He’d circled them in blue ink.
Your heart twisted.
You shouldn’t have found this. It was sweet. Too sweet. A little drawer of memories, lovingly tucked away. And it only made your guilt worse. You were snooping. You were in his space, crossing every boundary you said you never would.
But still…Your feet moved you toward the nightstand beside his bed. If there were pills…This is where they’d be. Within reach. Easy to grab in the middle of the night when he needed a fix.
You sucked in a breath, and pushed down the guilt that began to bubble in your stomach.
You were doing this for Bob, you reminded yourself, curling your fingers around the metal knob and pulling.
Inside, you found–
A book.
You blinked. Relief hit you first, brief and shallow. No pills. No bottles.
Just his current read—Sonic Life, the memoir by Thurston Moore. A thick paperback with the spine already bent in half, a few dog-eared corners marking passages he must’ve liked. You recognized it. He mentioned it during breakfast a few weeks ago—talked about sound, distortion, noise theory, memory and music. You’d made a joke about it being “a very Bob book.”
You almost smiled, but then you saw what was underneath.
Beneath the memoir, crumpled beneath it like it had been hidden like a dirty little secret, was a pair of your underwear. Pale blue lace, nearly torn at the waistband-delicate elastic threads pulled and fraying in places like it had been…Torn at. Twisted. Used. Scrunched up in a way that didn’t suggest accident or coincidence.
Time seemed to stop for a second, like the air had been sucked out of the room. You weren’t breathing…Then it all started to make sense. The sudden shift in his energy. The way his hands trembled slightly when they passed you the salt at dinner. The way his room had been locked every night since the talk at the sink. The restless pacing. The flushed cheeks. The way he couldn’t look at you without swallowing hard.
He was fantasizing about you.
And he didn’t do it once, nor did he do it in passing or with some distant, impersonal curiosity.
He was doing it repeatedly.
And he was guilty about it too. The tension in his shoulders, the stammer in his voice, the quiet withdrawal like he was trying to keep something from rotting through his skin–it all gave it away. Like he was carrying a sin he didn’t know how to confess.
You felt your lips twitch up into a smile at the thought. It wasn’t cruel or mocking or judgemental. You were curious…Maybe even a little impressed.
Because this? This was Bob.
Mr. Polite. Mr. Gentle. Mr. “Let me carry that for you.” You reached for the lace and brought it up to your line of sight, turning the fabric over between your fingers.
The waistband was stretched out, frayed at the edges. One of the delicate scalloped hems had been tugged so hard it had nearly ripped from the mesh. And the center? Wrinkled, creased, marked faintly like it had been…Clenched. Bitten into maybe.
Your stomach fluttered. You weren’t sure what to feel. Shock still hummed in your limbs, but something warmer was pooling low in your belly, buzzing behind your ribs. He’d wanted you. Desperately. Enough to hold onto something so intimate and private and ruin it in secret, and Bob of all people had done it.
And there was a wild, secret power in that realization.
You were so distracted by the thoughts and questions racing through your mind–so caught in the strange, heavy thrill of holding your ruined underwear in Bob’s room, piecing it all together–that you didn’t hear the elevator ding.
Didn’t hear the soft stomp of boots in the hallway.
Didn’t register the quiet thud of a grocery bag against the wall or the familiar murmur of Bob’s voice trailing behind Walker’s until it was too late.
By the time the front door opened and his steps carried him into the corridor, you were still standing beside his bed.
The drawer was open. The underwear was in your hands, and when the door to his room creaked open, everything fell silent.
Bob froze in the doorway like he’d been shot. His eyes locked on you instantly, and then they dropped to your hands. To the lace clutched between your fingers.
To the thing he thought he’d hidden so well.
Panic hit his face like a tidal wave–his mouth falling open, blood draining from his cheeks, posture going stiff like he’d been yanked into another dimension altogether.
You didn’t move.
Neither did he.
For a moment, the tension in the room felt like a blade suspended in mid-air–sharp, motionless, waiting for gravity to choose who it would fall on.
Then, quietly, Bob stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. The click of the latch was barely audible, but it echoed through your chest like a gunshot.
He stood there–shoulders hunched slightly, like bracing for a hit–before he opened his mouth.
“I–I know what it looks like…” He began, his voice rough and thin with fear. “I wasn’t gonna–I didn’t–”
His eyes flicked to the underwear in your hand again.
And he stopped.
Dead silent.
Because he knew.
There was no way out of this. No casual backpedal. No awkward chuckle and muttered apology. Not when you were holding the evidence–creased and stretched, soft blue lace fraying at the edges, ruined by hands that had clearly used it.
You watched him carefully, your voice quiet but firm.
“What were you going to do with it, Bob?”
He opened his mouth like he had something rehearsed–some pitiful excuse that might paint this in a softer light–but he faltered. His throat bobbed. His jaw clenched.
“…I don’t know.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not,” He said quickly, voice cracking. “I’m not lying…I just…I didn’t plan it. It showed up in the laundry pile and I sh–should’ve given it back, I know that, but I just…I couldn’t.” You held the ruined lace up a little higher into his field of vision, watching the way his eyes flicked to it like it had some kind of hold over him. Your voice dropped–low, teasing, laced with something darker and richer than before.
“Tell me what you did to make them look like this, Bob.”
His lips parted. No sound came out. His throat moved in a thick swallow, his eyes wide–glass-blue and shimmering like he was about to cry or combust. Maybe both. The shame in his expression was so raw, so exposed, that for a moment you almost pitied him. But then his gaze dropped back to the lace in your hand, and something flickered in it–guilt, yes. But want too. Deep. Unfiltered. Starving.
His voice came out thin and shaking, breath hitching around every word.
”I–I held them in my hand as I was touching myself…” He whispered, ashamed, “I pictured you in th–them. What you would do…To me. I…I shoved them into my mouth to muffle my moans and…And well…I ki–kind of wrecked them.” Your cheeks were flushed now, not from embarrassment—but from heat.
The admission had sucker-punched something low in your belly. You’d expected a denial, maybe a stammered lie, something soft and pitiful like, “I just didn’t want to lose it.” But not this. Not the image of Bob–sweet, gentle Bob–shaking and alone in his bed, desperate and mouthing into the lace you’d worn, his cock in one hand, your underwear in the other, wrecking himself to the thought of you.
It was filthy. Reverent. Completely unhinged. And it made something primal stir in you.
You smirked, breath catching as you watched him.
Bob looked like he was going to pass out.
He wouldn’t meet your gaze. His face was flushed to the roots of his hair, his jaw clenched so tight it trembled. You took a slow step toward him, and then another, watching the way his shoulders hunched like he was bracing for impact. He turned his face away, breathing shallow, chest rising and falling in uneven waves.
“Look at me, Bob,” You said softly.
He didn’t.
“Look at me,” You repeated, a little firmer this time.
His eyes squeezed shut. You watched the twitch of his jaw. He finally cracked them open–but only to look down at the floor, not at you.
“Wh–Why were you snooping?” He asked suddenly, his voice small and hollow. “You…You wouldn’t have found them if you hadn’t…” You raised your free hand, cutting him off before he could spiral further.
“I thought you relapsed,” You said gently but honestly. “You weren’t eating. You were being all weird around me. And I kept hearing you pacing around at night like you weren’t sleeping. You were acting off.” You motioned to the lace in your other hand with a soft lift of your brow. “But now it all makes sense.” You could practically hear his heart drop. Because you’d been right–he couldn’t argue with that. He had been avoiding you. He had been awake. He had been off.
Because he’d been spiraling. Not from a relapse…But from desire.
From wanting you so badly it frayed the edges of his sanity.
He didn’t say anything, and in the silence, you took another step toward him. You were close enough now to see the fine tremble in his hands. The way his chest stuttered with every breath like he was holding in a scream.
“Is that why you locked the door every night?” You murmured. “So I wouldn’t walk in on you with these in your mouth?” He nodded. Quickly. Too quickly. Like the movement wasn’t even a choice–just a reaction, shame and need colliding all at once, short-circuiting the nervous system of the man who had spent nights wrecking himself in silence while your name broke in his throat. You reached up, slow and deliberate, and cupped his jaw in your palm.
His skin burned under your touch–hot and tight from the tension roiling beneath the surface. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. But he did tense, jaw locking under your fingers like he was bracing for impact.
”Please look at me, Bob.” Your voice had dropped again. Not harsh–never harsh–but steady. Intimate. Loaded with the kind of authority he had no idea how to resist.
His eyes lifted slowly. Hesitantly.
And when they met yours–wide, glassy, stormed with guilt and arousal and fear–you kept your hand right there. Holding him in place. Tethering him.
“Use your words,” You whispered. “Tell me what you imagined.”
His mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. Just his breath. Shaky. Shallow. His lashes fluttered and his brow knit like he was in pain.
“Y/N…” He croaked, voice splintering at the edges. “I d–don’t think that’s a good idea.”
You tilted your head slightly, thumb brushing his jawline.
“I think it’s exactly what you need,” You murmured. “You’ve been spiraling for days trying to bury this. Let it out.”
You leaned in–close enough now that your breath mingled with his. That heat you felt earlier, the primal kind, pulsed low in your belly. He smelled like sweat and cedar and guilt. He looked like he was about to crumble.
And that made you want him more.
“I want to hear it,” You whispered, coaxing him. “Tell me.”
Bob swallowed–loudly. Audibly. Like the truth was a physical thing in his throat, sharp and jagged and stuck.
His hand twitched at his side. He closed his eyes. Then opened them again, slower this time. When he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper.
“I imagined you in them,” He breathed. “With nothing else on…” His throat bobbed again, as he continued “You rode me with them on…And you grinded against my face…You used me to get off…And you were so…So we–wet.”
Your breath hit his lips, and Bob’s eyes fluttered shut–just for a second–as though it physically hurt to be this close to you. His tongue darted out, instinctively, catching the trace of moisture you left behind like it was the only thing tethering him to earth.
And then you whispered it, sultry and soft enough to short-circuit whatever fragile defenses he had left:
“Yeah? Is that all?”
His eyes snapped open. He looked wrecked–lips parted, pupils blown wide, sweat clinging to his hairline even though the room wasn’t warm.
He nodded.
“I could only see yo–you like that…” He admitted, the words fragile and tight in his throat. “I—I didn’t want to think about anyone else. Just…you.”
You bit your bottom lip, dragging the soft skin between your teeth slowly, your voice a breathy murmur laced with something between disbelief and desire.
“You should’ve told me…”
Bob’s jaw clenched at that. His whole posture shifted, arms rigid at his sides, as if part of him wanted to run and the other part wanted to kneel.
“It…It’s too embarrassing to tell you this stuff,” He said thickly, voice cracking at the edges. “You’re my…my friend.”
You exhaled softly, thumb stroking once beneath the sharp edge of his cheekbone.
“Please,” You said gently, the word hanging between you like an invitation. “I think we’re far past that stage.” Bob’s breathing grew more uneven, his throat working around the tension that refused to loosen. You leaned closer, lips brushing the shell of his ear now, and whispered low enough to make his spine straighten:
“Because I want to fulfill those dirty little fantasies you had about me…”
You pulled back just enough to see his face.
His eyes–those beautiful, storm-struck eyes–searched yours with so much stunned vulnerability it made your chest ache. He looked like he didn’t know if he was about to wake up or fall to pieces right there at your feet.
“You…Wh–what?” He whispered, like the sentence was a foreign language. You didn’t answer at first. Instead, you reached down slowly–deliberately–to the waistband of your sweatpants, fingers curling beneath the soft cotton.
His breath audibly stuttered.
“I want to fulfill your fantasies,” You repeated, softer this time, like a secret meant only for him. You pushed the sweatpants down your legs, steady and sure, the fabric pooling at your ankles before you stepped out of them.
And Bob’s gaze dropped instantly to your underwear.
The black lace hugged your hips like a whispered promise–dark, sheer, wicked in contrast to the soft blue he had held in his hands for the past couple of nights. They were different in tone, in color, in feel, but the sight of them hit him just as hard. Maybe harder.
He stared like he was dying of thirst and you’d just offered him water.
His hands twitched at his sides, trembling slightly, like he didn’t know where they belonged–if he even had permission to move.
You watched him carefully. Saw the way he was holding himself back, teetering between restraint and desperation.
So you leaned in again, and whispered:
“You can touch me, Bob.”
That was all it took.
His hands lifted–slow, almost afraid–as if you might vanish if he moved too fast. His fingertips hovered over your hips for a moment, not quite making contact, his eyes flicking up to yours in silent question.
You nodded once. Gave him that tiny breath of permission.
And then he touched you.
Not roughly. Not greedily. But like he didn’t believe you were real. His hands found your waist first, warm and shaking, his thumbs brushing the lace where it dipped over the bone. He exhaled like it hurt.
”…Jesus, you’re so–“ He cut himself off, shaking his head like he couldn’t even begin to put his thoughts into words. Bob’s wrists. He twitched like you’d shocked him, but didn’t resist. Didn’t even blink as you guided his trembling hand down–slowly, steadily–until his palm brushed over the front of your underwear, and then you pressed yourself into his touch.
He felt it then. The heat. The slick. The unmistakable wetness that had already soaked into the lace.
Bob let out a ragged breath, his lips parting in a soft, strangled sound like he couldn’t believe what his hand was touching.
“Oh my god…” He whispered, barely audible. His eyes dropped to where his fingers were now cupping you, reverently, the lace warm and damp beneath his touch. His thumb flexed unconsciously, pressing slightly into the fabric, dragging just enough to feel the shape of you beneath the mesh.
You sighed, soft and slow, eyes fluttering at the contact.
Then you leaned in and kissed him.
It was nothing like you imagined it would be.
It was gentle. Breathless. Desperate, but careful.
He gasped softly against your lips–like you’d startled him, or like he couldn’t believe this was really happening. But he kissed you back almost instantly, mouth warm and pliant, his free hand finding your waist, tugging you just a fraction closer like he needed to feel all of you at once.
And then–his hand moved.
Still cupping you through the lace, his fingers began to stroke. Shaky. Uncertain. But so, so eager. He rubbed softly, the pressure tentative but building with each sweep, each slow pass of his fingertips over the soaked fabric.
Your lips parted with a soft sigh, and he took it as an invitation–his mouth pressing forward a bit harder, the kiss deepening, his tongue brushing yours just once before you pulled back.
You stared at him.
His pupils were enormous. His lips were kiss-swollen. His chest was rising in shallow, stuttering breaths.
And your voice–when it came–was a low, deliberate command that went straight to the erection that was forming in his sweatpants:
”Go lie on the bed.” He blinked, like he wasn’t sure he heard you right. Like his brain hadn’t caught up with the situation. But when you raised your brows, slowly, and nodded toward the mattress.
He moved without hesitation–like he was under your command, like the mattress had become holy ground.
Bob stretched out onto his back, the navy throw blanket rumpling beneath him, crown of soft light brown hair fanning across the pillow like a halo. He stared over at you–wide-eyed, wrecked, and trembling. His chest rose and fell in quick, shallow breaths, sweat still clinging to the hollow of his throat from earlier. His cock throbbed beneath the worn cotton of his sweatpants, a heavy, unrelenting presence between his thighs.
You sighed softly, your fingers tugging the hem of your shirt, drawing it up and over your head with slow finality. The air was cool on your skin, and Bob’s breath hitched audibly when he saw your bra–black lace, delicate and bold, a perfect match for the underwear still damp against your core. You made no move to take it off. He didn’t deserve all of you yet. Not until he begged for it.
Instead, you moved toward him, crawling onto the bed, one knee sinking into the mattress beside his hip. The other swung over, straddling him fully. You hovered over his lap, your thighs bracketing him with intention. He looked like he might forget how to breathe.
You didn’t say anything at first. Just let the weight of the moment thicken between you–your body above his, your skin flushed, the black lace clinging to every curve, and the heat radiating off of both of you in waves.
Then, softly:
“Is this okay?”
Bob nodded so fast it nearly looked painful. “Y–Yes,” He rasped, hands coming up instinctively to rest on your hips, tentative but reverent, like he thought you might still vanish if he wasn’t careful. “Please, yes…” His fingers sank into the lace, palms cupping the sides of your ass, massaging the fabric as if it were a prayer. You rolled your hips once–slow, deliberate–and the sound that came from him was something between a gasp and a broken moan, the lace rubbing against your clit gently.
You ground against him again, your lace dragging over the thick, aching line of his cock through his sweatpants, and Bob bucked beneath you–the pressure causing you to shiver. His hands tightened, clutching you like he needed the anchor. His head tipped back against the pillow, lips parting, a string of breathless curses spilling out.
“Fuck…Oh god, Y/N.” You grinned, rolling your hips again, slower this time. Teasing. Your slick soaked into the lace, darkening the front of his sweatpants, and you could feel the twitch of him beneath you, thick and throbbing, desperate for friction. He writhed, moaned, his thighs tensing under yours. His eyes fluttered half shut, lashes fanned across flushed cheeks, his jaw clenched so tightly it trembled.
“Shit…Please. Please don’t st–stop, please–“ He gasped. You kept going, dragging yourself over him again and again, steady, sensual, watching every reaction ripple across his body like waves. His hips jerked, chasing every movement, and he groaned, high and rough in his throat, so fucking pretty beneath you—needy and overwhelmed, like he didn’t know what to do with the pleasure.
But then…You stopped.
You stilled your hips completely and leaned forward, placing your palms on his chest, feeling the frantic thud of his heart. Bob let out a strangled, desperate gasp beneath you–like you’d just ripped the oxygen from his lungs. His hands twitched on your hips, trying not to beg. Trying so hard to hold onto the last frayed thread of self-control.
“Please…” he breathed, voice shattered, raw with hunger. “Please, I–I can’t…Y/N, I need….Fuck–”
You leaned in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.
“What do you need, Bob?”
He whimpered. His hands gripped tighter, pulling your hips down flush against his cock like he needed you to feel how hard he was. His voice cracked in his throat as he pleaded:
“Get on my face…I ne–need you on my face… Please, Y/N. Please.” He sounded like he was losing his mind. Like he’d die if he didn’t taste you. His voice was breathless, trembling, and soaked in desperation.
You smiled–slow and dangerous–as you leaned forward just enough to whisper against his lips, “Let me help you take your sweatpants off first.”
Bob nodded immediately, like he would’ve agreed to anything you asked him. Anything. He lifted his hips with a quiet, breathless sound as you slid your hands beneath the waistband, dragging the fabric down slowly, watching the way his cock strained against the cotton briefs beneath as you took those down as well. He was already leaking–already flushed deep and hard, twitching with every shift of your weight above him.
You let the sweatpants and boxers fall to the floor, and just as you were about to climb back over him, Bob reached behind his neck and tugged his shirt off.
You stilled.
His body was long and lean, but solid–battle-worn. Muscled in a way that was quiet, capable. Not flashy, not carved from marble, but real. Lived-in. There were faint scars trailing along his ribs, one curling beneath his left pectoral, another nicked across his hip. Your fingers reached instinctively, gently tracing the one beneath his chest.
Bob flinched slightly–more at the intimacy than the contact–and his eyes darted to yours. You shook your head softly, thumb brushing the curve of the mark.
“You’re so handsome, Bob,” You whispered. He swallowed hard. His lips parted like he wanted to say something–but nothing came out. Just a choked breath. You leaned in, dragging your lips over his jaw, then down to his throat, kissing softly just above his racing pulse. When you pulled back again, you met his eyes, hovering above him.
“I want to do something to you at the same time,” You said quietly. “Is that okay?”
His breath hitched. “…Okay.” You gave him one more look–checking for hesitation, for doubt–but all you found was desperation. That wide-eyed ache he carried in his chest, begging for a release that went deeper than touch.
You shifted on the bed, slowly turning yourself around so your knees were planted on either side of his head, your core hovering over his mouth, lace clinging to your heat. From beneath you, Bob groaned–low and wrecked–his hands already reaching to brace your thighs. His fingers gripped gently, spreading you open for him with shaking reverence as you settled your weight on his chest.
He stared.
Your black lace panties were soaked–soaked through, pressed against your folds, glistening in the low light. He let out the softest, filthiest whimper you’d ever heard, like the sight alone was enough to break him.
And then his tongue pressed up against the center of the lace.
You gasped, your hips jerking forward at the sudden warmth of it–soft and thick, dragging a long, deliberate stripe up your slit, the soaked fabric allowing your taste to bleed right through.
“F–Fuck, Bob,” You whispered, head dropping low over his hips, your hand already reaching for his cock. He twitched in your palm, hot and heavy, and when you leaned down to swirl your tongue over the leaking head, Bob moaned against your core like a man possessed. He licked you through the lace again, and again, breathing hot and heavy into the damp fabric as you began to stroke him in slow, firm motions. He was already trembling.
“God…You taste so fucking good through this,” He murmured, voice slurred, drunk on it. His fingers slipped beneath the waistband, finally pushing the lace aside to bare you to him–wet and flushed and aching.
And then his mouth was on you.
No teasing. No hesitating.
He dove in like a man starved.
His tongue flattened against your entrance, then dragged upward in a filthy, unrelenting stripe that ended in a desperate suck over your clit. You moaned around his cock, and Bob bucked into your mouth with a choked gasp.
“Oh…Fuck–Y/N.”
You hummed low, lips wrapping around his head again, taking him deeper. He moaned into you in response, the vibrations spilling pleasure into your core like honey. His mouth was everywhere–kissing, sucking, tongue swirling over your clit like he was mapping you. His fingers joined the mix a moment later–two thick digits sliding up your slick folds, circling your entrance, then easing inside you with a low groan against your cunt.
“Jesus,” He breathed, fingers curling just right, “You’re–fuck, you’re so–soaking. I can feel you all over my face…” You whimpered as his tongue returned to your clit, flicking and sucking in slow, focused patterns while his fingers pumped in and out of you, curling deep, finding that sweet spot over and over again.
“Is this–shit–is this what you imagined?” You gasped, voice shaking as your hips began to roll into his face, grinding down on his mouth.
Bob nodded, groaning into your core, licking faster now. “Better,” He panted between strokes, “So much better. You’re…Fuck…You’re perfect. You taste like he–heaven. Let me make you come, please–I need to feel you come on my tongue.”
You clenched around his fingers at that, crying out into the base of his cock, your hips rocking harder, faster, grinding yourself against his lips, his tongue, his jaw. The slick sounds of his fingers pushing in and out of you were drowned out only by his whimpers and moans–desperate, messy, hungry.
Your thighs were shaking.
He was making you unravel.
And he knew it.
“Let go,” Bob rasped. “Pl–Please, Y/N. I want it. I need it. Come for me.”
You moaned, louder this time, your entire body trembling as the pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter, your movements turning frantic, grinding down over his mouth, his nose, chasing that release with everything you had.
Bob’s fingers never stopped. His mouth never left you.
And when you came–hips jerking, moaning his name with a stuttering cry–he moaned with you, sucking your clit through the high, licking you messily as you shook above him.
You collapsed forward with a breathless gasp, your head resting on his thigh, your hand still gripping the base of his cock, now throbbing and wet with precum.
Bob was panting beneath you, lips swollen, chin slick with your arousal.
And all he said–soft and reverent, as he kissed the inside of your trembling thigh:
“God…That…That was so mu–much better than I imagined.” You were both still catching your breath, skin flushed, muscles trembling in the aftermath of your orgasm. Bob’s face was soaked with your slick, lips parted and glistening, his hair mussed from your thighs. You leaned forward, your breath still stuttering, and kissed the inside of his thigh–softly, reverently. A tender press of lips that made his entire body shudder beneath you.
“Fuck, Bob…” You whispered against his skin, your voice ragged, “I need to feel you inside me right now.” Bob let out a strangled sound that was somewhere between a moan and a plea. You looked over your shoulder and met his gaze–completely ruined, pupils blown wide, lashes damp, cheeks flushed and lips still swollen from where he’d just worshipped you.
“You tasted so good,” You murmured, brushing your fingers along the base of his cock, “I can’t even imagine how good you feel.”
His hands slid up your thighs, gripping your hips like he needed to ground himself in your body.
“Please,” He rasped, the word leaving his lips like a prayer. “Please, I need you.”
You shifted slowly, your legs shaky as you turned around to face him again. He sat up the second you moved–like his body couldn’t take the separation for even a second longer. You climbed into his lap, and Bob adjusted, scooting forward on the bed until he was seated at the edge, feet planted, thighs spread wide with you tucked in his arms.
His hands cradled you, one firm on your back, the other curling under your ass as if he was afraid you might disappear. You kissed him–soft and deep, lips plush, mouths open and slick, and he moaned into it like he was falling apart all over again. When you reached between your bodies and brushed the head of his cock against your soaked underwear, Bob gasped into your mouth.
You pulled your lace underwear to the side, the fabric clinging wetly to your thigh as you guided him to your entrance. His hands flexed on your hips as he tried to stay still, the tension in his thighs so tight you could feel it in every inch of his body.
You held his jaw in one hand, forcing him to look into your eyes.
“Watch me,” You whispered, voice thick and low. “I want you to see how you ruin me.”
And then–achingly slowly–you sank down onto him.
His eyes flew wide, lips parted in silent awe. A broken, keening moan tore from his throat the moment he felt you start to take him, tight and wet and fluttering around him as you eased him in inch by inch.
“F–fuck,” He gasped, his forehead falling against yours, voice shaking. “You’re–God, you’re so fucking warm.”
You whimpered softly, nails digging into his shoulders as your walls stretched around him, the pressure delicious, dizzying.
“You fill me so perfectly,” You whispered. “It’s like you were made for this. For me.”
Bob’s breath stuttered. His hands roamed–one splaying across your lower back, the other trembling as he cupped your breast through your bra. His thumb grazed your nipple, and you shivered as you sank all the way down, bottoming out with a soft cry.
You sat still for a moment, just feeling him inside you. His cock throbbed, buried to the hilt, twitching with every pulse of your walls. Bob’s head lolled back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parted.
“You’re squeezing me so tight,” He groaned. “I’m not gonna last–I can’t…fuck, you feel like heaven.”
You began to roll your hips–slow, sensual, unhurried. Bob’s eyes snapped open, and for the briefest moment, they flashed.
Gold.
Not a full takeover. Not Sentry bursting forward. Just a flicker. A gleam of light behind the blue. Like the god inside him was watching. Feeling.
Your breath caught.
Bob seemed to feel it too–he blinked, dazed, and looked up at you like he’d just tasted something divine.
“I saw that,” You whispered. His mouth opened, but he didn’t speak. Just stared at you, wrecked and reverent.
“…Is he watching?” You asked, breathless, grinding against him.
Bob swallowed. His lips brushed your collarbone as he whispered, “He’s always wa–watching. But this–” his hand smoothed down your spine, “–This is mine.”
You moaned, tilting your head back as your hips moved faster, slick thighs slapping against his.
“Say it again,” You demanded.
“This is mine,” Bob growled, breath hot against your throat. “You’re mine. You feel so good around me, I can’t–fuck–I’ve wanted this for so long.” You clung to his shoulders as you rode him, sweat slicking your skin, your rhythm getting more desperate.
“Cum inside me,” You gasped, forehead pressed to his. “I want to feel you fill me. Please, Bob…” Bob let out a sob of a moan, his grip tightening.
“Gonna fuckin’ cum,” He gasped, “Gonna fill you up–wanna see it dripping out of you when I pull out–Jesus, I’m gonna–” You kissed him hard, swallowing the cry that tore from his throat as he came. He jerked beneath you, his cock pulsing deep inside, thick and hot as he spilled into you. Your own climax tore through you a second later, your body arching against him as you moaned into his mouth.
You stayed like that–clinging to each other, gasping, trembling–as the aftershocks rolled through your bodies. Eventually, you collapsed forward, both of you falling back into the bed. His arms wrapped around you, and your legs tangled with his. Sweat cooled against your skin. His cum was still leaking from you, thick and warm between your thighs, but you didn’t care. You only buried your face in his neck and let yourself breathe him in.
He kissed your temple. Whispered your name.
And the gold in his eyes was gone.
But the heat it left behind burned just as bright.
”You…You can keep those underwear…I…I want you to have them.” You whispered. He lets out a small laugh.
”I’ll have them as a keepsake…Because I–I don’t think I’ll need to fantasize anymore…Especially now that we’ve both had the real thing.” You smirk.
“I…Completely agree with that…I already want more.” He hummed.
“Give me a few minutes and I’m sure I’ll be able to satisfy that craving.”
Bob and falling asleep on his chest while he reads to you??
Late For The Sky
Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader
Summary: You and Bob have a nightly routine where he reads to you the latest book he’s decided to buy.
Warnings: No Warnings, just pure fluff
Author's Note: I really liked this request, and after a whole weekend of writing smut, I thought a nice little fluff piece would be great to start off the week. I’ve got a lot of pieces on my platter this week, and I’m really looking forward to putting them out for y’all ❤️
Word Count: 4,040
It started innocently enough–just Bob leaning against the threshold of your workshop at the end of a mission debrief, with a well-worn paperback tucked under one arm and a sheepish sort of smile playing on his mouth like he was teetering on being excited but nervous all at the same time.
You were hunched over your workbench, goggles pushed up into your hair, sparks spitting gently from a soldering iron in your gloved hand. The air smelled like burnt copper and machine oil, and your concentration was laser-focused–until you sensed that he was hovering.
You didn’t look up right away. There was no need to. You knew he would start the conversation in his own time.
”I, uh…” Bob cleared his throat, fingers drumming lightly on the book’s cracked spine, “I finished t-that one about the guy with the g-genetic disorder where he’s able to t-time travel but it’s at unpredictable times.” You paused what you were doing, and glanced over your shoulder, pulling your goggles off to look at him–and to also give the skin around your eyes a rest.
“Already?” You asked, with your eyebrows raised. You were impressed, because you had taken a stab at reading that book but it took you weeks to finish it–that was more due to you getting busy with repairs, not because you didn’t like that book itself. Bob nodded at you, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly, more confident now that he actually had your attention.
”Y-Yeah, I couldn’t put it down. I-I didn’t really like how it jumped around a lot at first b-because i-it was a bit hard to keep up with things, b-but once it really got into the crazy stuff and a-all the elements started coming together I r-really needed to see how it e-ended.” That was Bob when he talked about books. He never just read them, he sunk himself into it and got lost in it. He spoke with his whole body when he really got into the nitty gritty details about the story itself–animated hands, wide eyes, and that faint breathless awe that made you want to reread books or add them to your mile long list that you had barely touched because you barely had time.
Bob hadn’t always been this way though.
He used to pace the compound, and wear down the floors until it creaked beneath his feet. When he was still under mandatory observation. When he felt like he was in a strange version of purgatory where everyone treated him well but he felt imprisoned in the walls that were supposed to keep him safe.
You had been unofficially tasked with keeping an eye on him during those first few weeks–mostly because you were the only one not actively going on missions, and you were behind on fixing some tech for the compound anyways.
At first, Bob would just linger in the background–standing in the doorway with his hands tucked up into the sleeves of his hoodie, watching the blue sparks of your arc welder with the quiet intensity of someone afraid to ask if they could stay or if they could help. But you learned pretty quickly that Bob didn’t do well with silence. Not for long.
So one rainy Tuesday, when you were sick of watching him pace and sigh and pretend like he wasn’t bored out of his skull, you told him to get ready and you dragged him into the city–to your favorite secondhand bookstore.
It was tucked between a locksmith and an old bakery, it was the kind of place that smelled like cracked leather and warm dust, where the aisles were narrow and the ceiling was low, and where books were stacked in precarious towering columns that made the air feel scarce. You had told him to look around while you spoke to the owner.
That day you saw it–you saw something in him soften. It was like his muscles were unclenching somewhere deep in his chest. He walked through every aisle, pausing to brush his fingers over cracked spines like they were ancient artifacts. You’d glance behind you once in a while to check to see if he was okay, and when you saw his face buried in the first few pages of a book, you knew the choice to bring him there was a good one.
He left that day with three books, and then he asked you the next day to take him back there to get more.
Ever since that day, it had become his thing–tucking paperbacks into the crook of his arm, disappearing into them for a few hours, and then, without fail, finding you when he finished to divulge every last thought he had about them.
It didn’t matter if your hands were elbow-deep in fried wiring or if you were halfway through fixing tactical gear–if he finished a book, he needed to talk to you about it, and only you…Because you truly listened to him.
You didn’t nod along blankly or tell him to save it for later. You engaged with him, you asked questions and remembered characters’ names. You pressed him on parts that made him anxious or thrilled or tear up a little, even if he pretended like it didn’t happen. You didn’t tease him when he stumbled or stuttered over his words from excitement. You leaned in and gave him the attention he wanted, because in your own odd way, you needed those moments too.
You never said that out loud, but Bob could tell. He could see it in the way your shoulders dropped an inch when he entered the room, or the way your lips twitched when he fumbled over a complicated plot. He could see it in how you never asked him to leave.
Then one night you knocked on his bedroom door.
You were worn out. Bone-tired, yet you couldn’t sleep because of how wound up you had been that week. Your voice had gone hoarse from an afternoon arguing with Val over calibration specs, and you’d barely made it through dinner. Your plate had gone mostly untouched, more because you kept taking calls and arguing with whoever was on the other end of the line. Your eyes had looked sunken beneath the weight of the lack of sleep.
So to say he wasn’t expecting a knock on his door–let alone a knock from you of all people would be an understatement.
It was past midnight, and the compound was quiet–save for the rhythmic hum of the ventilation system and the soft creak of the page he just turned. His lamp was still on, casting a golden spill of light across his comforter and the open paperback in his hands, spine worn and corners curling from hours of reading. His tea had gone cold but he hadn’t noticed or cared.
The knock was gentle. Barely there.
He blinked himself out of his trance, frowning faintly, before reaching up to rub at his dry eyes. He let out a small sigh and set the book beside him like a loyal dog, half-forgotten for the moment, getting up from the pile of linens and duvets that surrounded him.
When he opened the door, it was like the hallway itself had gone still.
You stood there, barefoot on the wooden tile, wearing a pair of soft sleep-shorts and a baggy old Thunderbolts t-shirt from that one disastrous PR event last year–the one where everyone was forced into color-coded teams and awkward staged interviews. The shirt hung off your frame like you were a ghost, the cotton threadbare in places from being worn and washed too many times. Your hair was damp, like you’d given up halfway through drying it, and there were faint creases along your cheek from a pillow you hadn’t quite managed to fall asleep on. Bob’s brows lifted, as concern bled into his expression before he could stop it.
”Hey…A-Are you…?” He glanced past you instinctively, then at the digital clock on his nightstand that glowed dimly behind him, “Is everything okay? I-It’s pretty late, I didn’t think–“
”I couldn’t sleep,” You interrupted quietly, rubbing at your forearm. Your voice was still scratchy but it wasn’t as bad as it was during dinner time, “I thought I heard you…” You added.
Bob squinted at you, more confused than anything else, “Heard me?”
“Yeah,” You nodded faintly, a ghost of a smile touching your mouth, “Heard you laugh, or–or something that sounded like it at least.” He felt the tips of his ears go warm at your comment, remembering that about half an hour before you came he had almost thrown the book across the room in excitement because of how good the plot was getting.
”Oh…Uh…Yeah s-sorry about that. There was–t-there was a plot twist.” Your smile grew a little at that.
”No need to apologize,” You replied, “I’ve had those moments before. When something hits you so hard you have to squeal…Or throw the book out the window.” This earned a small laugh from Bob, as you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed in the easy, tired sort of way that said you weren’t really in a rush to end the conversation any time soon. Your eyes flicked past him, just for a moment–curious, unassuming–but Bob caught it.
And then, you asked the burning question of the night.
”Can I come in?” Bob didn’t say anything at first, he just stared at you with a look of surprise plastered on his face, because he wasn’t expecting you to ask that, nor want that in general. After what was probably far too long, he stepped aside.
”Y-Yeah, of course.” You stepped past him slowly, and all your senses immediately started working overtime. The first thing that hit you though, was the smell.
It was Warm. Complex. Spiced, almost. Like cracked pepper and worn paper and the faded traces of his cologne lingering in the fibers of the room. It wasn’t overwhelming–wasn’t artificial or sharp–it was lived-in. Masculine in a gentle, quietly steady way. Like the soft base notes of cedarwood and clove that had sunk into the blankets and pillows mixing with the faintest wisp of black tea and honey.
It smelled like him, and it startled you–because you knew him. You knew his hands and his laugh and the way he stumbled through his excitement when he got overwhelmed. But stepping into his room felt like opening the cover of a book you thought you already read–only to find unfamiliar pages.
You had not seen the inside of his bedroom before. You had caught glimpses of it for sure. A cracked door when he was carrying his laundry. A half-glance from down the hall when he’d leaned into the doorframe to talk to you. But this–this was his inner sanctum and it was all of him.
There were books everywhere. Piled on the floor in loosely sorted stacks, balanced on windowsills, stuffed into a long shelf that sagged slightly under the weight. They ranged from battered sci-fi paperbacks with alien landscapes on the covers to dense philosophical texts and dog-eared literary fiction. A few comics peeked out from beneath the bedside table, alongside notebooks with half-tucked pens and sticky tabs poking from the edges like colored confetti. They looked damaged and battered, but it was from extensive use rather than carelessness.
The bed was massive. Not in a luxurious sense, but in a way that suggested someone needed space–maybe to move, maybe to breathe. The comforter was thick, gray-blue, rumpled from how he must’ve been lounging on it. A fleece throw was tangled near the bottom corner, and a pile of pillows–none matching–leaned against the headboard like they’d been shoved there without much thought. On the nightstand beside the bed there was a mug of tea on a heating coaster that was turned off–probably from being used for too long.
You turned back to him with a softer look than before, taking all of the little details in.
”This is pretty cozy,” You offered. Bob rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks going a deeper red now, suddenly sheepish and nervous that you were standing in the middle of his room at this time of night.
“Sorry i-it’s a little m-messy, I wasn’t really expecting–”
”No, no, it’s okay I meant that in a nice way…I wasn’t judging your room or anything.” Bob blinked at you, lips parting slightly like his brain short-circuited for just a moment. You could practically see the mental reboot happening behind his eyes.
“I actually came to ask…” You trailed off as you turned back toward the bed, brushing your fingers along the edge of the blanket, still warm from where he’d been lying. “If you had another chapter left in you.” Bob’s head tilted just slightly, his eyes widening, “Kind of thought you could read to me…Or talk me to sleep. Y’know.” The realization hit him like a gust of warm air straight to the chest, and his face felt like it was going to burst from how hot his cheeks were starting to get.
”Y-You want me to…Read t-to you?” He echoed, as if he was trying the words out on his tongue just to make sure they weren’t just a hallucination. You gave him a small nod, looking down at your feet.
“Only if you want to of course,” You said quickly, your voice gentle, in a casual way that always came out when you were asking for something that you pretended not to care about, “I just figured…You are always into the book and everything…And your voice is…Soothing. I thought maybe hearing you read would help turn my brain off.” Bob swallowed hard at the way you complimented his voice, how you found it soothing. He didn’t think that way, but it sure made his heart seize when you said it.
He had to consciously remind himself to breathe as you stood there, soft and sleepless in the dim light of his room, asking him to read to you like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like it didn’t unravel something in him to have you standing here, in his space, barefoot and tired and trusting him with the last moments of your day. He cleared his throat too quickly and nodded.
”S-Sure. Yeah, o-of course. I mean–I’ve never really done that b-before, but I could…I-If that’s what you want.” Your eyes met his, and they crinkled a little at the corners.
”First time for everything, right?” Bob gave a nervous laugh and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, motioning to the bed awkwardly.
”D-Do you…Do you wanna sit? Or–or I could make tea or something if that would help, I can warm mine up too–“ You shook your head gently.
”No…This is perfect,” You said, lowering yourself onto the edge of the bed with a quiet, grateful sigh “No tea…I think I just want…” You paused, fingers brushing the comforter again before you looked up at him with a soft, bleary gaze, “The chapter.” He smiled at that–small, crooked, and bashful.
”O-Okay…” You pulled your legs up under you and moved towards the headboard, settling against the fort of pillows he had made against the hardwood, while Bob grabbed the paperback and climbed in beside you. There was a bit of shuffling at first–he wasn’t sure how close was too close, or where to angle his body, or how to sit without making it weird–but eventually you both found the perfect positioning. He left a bit of space between you and him, about an arm’s length, and just like you he rested himself against the headboard, only he cross-crossed his legs.
Bob cleared his throat–too loud in the silence of the room–and adjusted the book in his hands, fingers curling slightly around the spine like he needed something to hold onto. His thumb brushed the crease between chapters as he flicked his gaze over to you again, nestled against the headboard like you belonged there, half-draped in the worn comforter.
“Okay…Chapter twelve,” He murmured, and began.
His voice was soft at first–shy, uncertain, as if afraid the words might shatter the quiet between you. But a few lines in, he found his rhythm. He always did. The cadence of his voice fell into step with the prose, rising and dipping in the right places, drawing the imagery to life as his thumb ghosted along the edges of the page. When he would take in a breath all he would smell was worn paper and your bay leaf and blueberry shampoo, and that felt like it was all he needed to settle himself.
Then–around three pages in–he heard it.
A soft exhale.
A breathy, wheezing little sound that made his voice falter for just a second.
Bob glanced over at you instantly, almost to confirm the inevitable.
Your head had tilted down toward your chest, mouth slack in the most exhausted kind of sleep. Your lashes rested on your cheeks, breath coming slow and just a little uneven, like your whole body had simply…Powered down. The sentence he had been reading drifted off into silence.
”Oh,” He whispered, more to himself than to you, “…Wow…You’re o-out.” He stared at you for a long second, book still in hand, watching the way your fingers were curled into the fabric of the blanket near your knee. You didn’t stir–not even when he gently reached over to the end of the bed and grabbed the lonesome blanket from the corner to settle it over your bare legs. You were deeply, and blissfully asleep.
And now he didn’t know what to do.
He glanced at the book in his hands, back at you, then sighed softly and reached for the top corner of the page. He dog-eared it carefully–marking exactly where he noticed you were asleep. Just in case you wanted to pick it up again tomorrow.
If you came back.
He closed the book, resting it on the nightstand, and stood slowly–carefully–like he was trying not to make any sound at all. You didn’t move. Your breath stayed soft and steady, and there was something about that that made Bob’s chest tighten.
He didn’t want to wake you.
So, instead, he grabbed an extra blanket from his closet and quietly padded out of the room, heading for the couch in the living room. It wasn’t as comfortable as his bed, and the cushions were flat–but he didn’t mind. He wanted to make sure you got some rest, and that mattered more to him than his comfort.
Much to Bob’s surprise you came back the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that.
Every time, the both of you got a little closer–a little softer. You started bringing a pillow from your own room, just for routine. You’d press your cheek against his shoulder sometimes as he read, and he’d try not forget what words were. Sometimes you didn’t even wait for him to start–you’d curl up under his covers like it was normal, and let your breathing even out, but he read anyway. For himself. For you. For the comfort of it. He never stayed after you fell asleep, he took refuge on the couch every time, and he’d be careful and quiet about his escape to make sure you didn’t wake up.
It became your shared ritual.
And then one night, everything shifted into place.
You came in quietly, curling up beside him, adjusting your pillow near his. Bob had his book open on his chest, waiting for you to get yourself situated, smiling at you like it was muscle memory. And without saying a word, you stretched out beside him–much closer this time–and gently rested your head on his chest, right over his heart. It was almost like you were silently communicating to him you wanted him to stay this time around, so you made it harder for him to make his usual escape.
Bob froze immediately at the contact, and at the warmth of you settling against his chest, the crown of your head brushing just beneath his collarbone. One of your arms snuck around his waist like it was second nature, and one leg curled over his like it always belonged there.
When you pressed your ear to his chest, his heartbeat was soft, steady and loud–embarrassingly eager to be heard by you. He looked down at you slowly, book still resting on his chest, his free hand clutching the edge of the page he hadn’t yet turned. You didn’t look at him–you were too focused, nestled in against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
”Wh-What are you doing?” You smiled into his shirt, just faintly.
”Want to read along with you,” You said, your voice soft and sleepy. He knew that must’ve been a lie, but he didn’t protest.
”O-Oh…Okay.” He murmured, shifting a bit.
Then, without lifting your head, you mumbled, “You can put your arm around me, y’know?” Bob could feel his breath stilling in his chest, and you heard the way it halted in his throat. You couldn’t help but smirk at his reaction, almost like he had to process your suggestion.
Then he very gently, very slowly slid his arm around your shoulders. His fingers brushed the curve of your upper arm, curling lightly around you until he held you snug against his side, cradled with just enough pressure to let you know he wouldn’t let go.
You exhaled through your nose–peaceful, like the tension had melted from your spine the moment he touched you.
Bob’s heart was racing.
But his hand stayed steady.
You shifted just slightly to get comfortable, your forehead now pressed to the center of his chest, your ear perfectly aligned with the rhythm of his heart.
And God, the way you heard it–felt it. That low, thudding warmth beneath his ribs. Steady, slow, like a drumbeat underwater. A living lullaby. You could hear every flutter, every quiet catch of breath when he turned the page. It was stronger than the ventilation hum, stronger than the turn of the fan, stronger than the slow rasp of the blanket as you moved against him.
It was him.
The cadence of someone who had spent years trying to hold himself still–and was now unraveling just enough to let you rest against the places that hurt.
Bob picked up the book again, adjusting it slightly in his hand, but he didn’t start reading right away.
He was listening too.
To your breathing.
To the way your fingers gently fisted the fabric of his shirt like you wanted to keep him close.
To the stillness.
Then he began to read–low and careful. He didn’t project. Didn’t fill the room the way he did when you were sitting up and alert. He just read for you. For the closeness. For the moment.
You didn’t say anything. Didn’t shift.
You just listened.
And slowly, your hand went slack against his side. Your body softened. Your lashes lowered, then fluttered still.
You fell asleep on him, breath warm against his chest, face half-pressed into the fabric of his shirt like it was a pillow. You looked peaceful. Safe.
Bob didn’t stop reading right away.
He finished the page.
Then the next.
Eventually, he dog-eared the corner, turned the lamp off, and sank back into the pillows behind him, adjusting just slightly so you were fully wrapped in his arms.
He stayed.
For the first time, he stayed.
And when sleep took him, his last thought was simple, small, and true:
the thing about bob wanting praise is that it's less about recieving it, and more about earning it. he wants to get a 'good boy' only after he's spent half an hour between your legs, wants you to beg him to put his cock inside you, because that means he's doing a good job, and wants to feel your legs shake underneath him while he fucks you nice and slow, one thumb circling your clit.
and you notice, because he was never subtle, specially when it came to sex stuff. that dazed look on his eyes when he coaxes the praise out of you, the way his cock twitches when you pull him closer, how he moans with you whenever you flutter around him.
he loves getting his cock snug inside your pussy, all warm and wet and safe, and he will never say no to it. but nothing compares to rubbing his cock all over your slit, collecting your wetness on his sensitive tip, hips snapping foward on their own chasing the feeling. he could stay like that for hours, stopping himself every now and then to breath and stop himself from cumming all over your glistening folds.
if you suggest that he fucks you with just the tip, he'll go crazy, because to him, being able to make you cum like that means that he's making you feel good, and therefore he's good. because bob would never bother you by asking you to praise him, and so he drains the praise he needs from your reactions, like the slow grind of your hips trying to suck his cock back inside.
so if you whine and beg for him, it's very likely he'll cum on the spot. when you start being vocal, giving him instructions and telling him if he's doing good, you can feel his cock twitching. he drools a little when you start talking, his hips move faster, and his hands never stop working on your clit and tits. bob was made to please you, and he'll be damned if he doesn't.
bob likes sucking things. lollipops, icecream, candycanes, anything that will take a while to finish so he'll be calm and focused on something. he chews his gum until it's hard and tasteless, and will chew on ice cubes randomly thoroughout the day just to put his mind at ease. it's not even a task, having his mouth moving around something, but it's the right amount of attention he needs to put out so other things can be done smoothly.
so when he tells you he would pay better attention to the movie you are watching if he had one of your pretty tits on his mouth, he's not joking. and the worst part is that he doesn't even act horny about it: just pulls your shirt down a bit and guides your nipple to his mouth, eyes trained on the tv. you could say something. maybe you should say something, call him a pervert just to see his ears go a little red, but he's honestly watching that damn cop movie, lips latched and tongue moving slowly, his other hand resting on your stomach.
so you let him. you ignore the growing wetness between your legs, the way your thighs move just a little under him, and how warm and wet his lips feel, because he's been begging to watch this movie for weeks now and you don't want to spoil his fun. and for two whole hours, you keep your sounds and movements to a minimum, even when his other hand comes up and starts squeezing your other breast like a fidget toy. when it finally ends and he lets go of your now red, bruised skin with a wet pop, you can't help the little moan that slips out of you.
that's when bob notices your glazed eyes and tense limbs, lower lip red from how you'd been chewing to keep quiet. and his heart skips a beat, of course it does, because he just now realizes that he's been edging his girl for hours, and she didn't say anything!
"oh no, did i leave my baby hanging? do you need help, sweetheart? huh?"
and, for one, you do need help, because your panties are sticking to your damp skin when you slide them off you to show the mess he made, and you really feel like getting his cock nice and snug inside of you until you melt. but also, he doesn't move or stop looking right into your eyes until you answer him, because he wants to hear you. wants to hear the need in your voice, and see the effect he has on you.
and when you mumble a yes, he goes right to the root of the problem, his pretty cock going hard at the drop of a hat (you're pretty sure he can control it at this point), nudging your clenching hole with the tip just to see if you're ready. and from the way a string of your wetness gets stuck on his cock, he can see you are.
so he fucks you nice and slow, his eyes torn between watching your folds drag around him and your pleading glassy eyes. he's not edging or teasing you anymore, he just wants you to let go and get your release, and so his fingers make their way to your puffy clit, getting wet from the mess of you two combined.
and then, as if you weren't already on edge, his head makes its way to your tits again, his tongue tracing lazily around your skin. when you ask him if he was distracted, he just says he wants to focus on making you feel good, and not lose it and just pump you full of cum. because bob is good at paying attention. he just needs something to suck on.
Bob doesn’t want to be apart from you, like at all. That man will find any way to get his grip on you, his hands around your waist - at the table he’ll start playing footsie, keeping his knee pressed to yours on the couch.
But when you fuck, its a whole different story. Once he’s in, he never wants to leave. Barely moving, just small minuscule movements of his hips grinding in - even though he’s already buried to the hilt. Rutting inside like theres still room, trying to get right inside, be perfect just for you.
And afterwards, he’s still buried deep, cock soft, slick with his own spend and your slick, but he doesn’t leave, he keeps it in despite your protests. Holding you close to his chest, arms wrapped around you, head buried in the crook of your neck, warm breath on your skin, “s’just a little longer, baby, please.” - the guy’s strong, so even if you try to wiggle your way out, he’s got you pinned onto his skin like a blanket. Sometimes if he does come out, in the middle of the night he wakes up to put it back in, a soft whimper catching in his throat, another small rut of his hips, careful not to wake you but a little voice in his head almost wants you to.
You drive him so crazy he can barely speak, slurring words, most of the time it’s just mumbled babbles - so pathetic it makes you almost feel bad for the man, but it still sends shocks to your core, uncontrollably squeezing around him, making him buck up into you and finish too fast.
He gets embarrassed, of course, but he makes it up to you so, so good
Pairing: Sentry/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Void x Fem!Reader!
Summary: You surprise Sentry one night by putting on some lingerie.
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut and Fluff, Sentry is absolutely feral and obsessed with Reader (they’ve been dating for a while)
Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up friends), Fingering, Oral Sex (female receiving), Body Praise/Worship, Spit/Drool Kink, Begging, Dry Humping (kind of?), Overstimulation, Sentry kind of manhandles you Sentry and Reader are switches, they both have their dominant and submissive moments in here, Sentry has a sensory thing when it comes to lace, Uh…Things break in this lol. Use of Good Girl and Good Boy (I don’t think I missed anything)
Author’s Note: I adored writing this so frickin much, and truly I’ve been obsessed with this idea for a while, and I finally got around to really sitting down and writing it. Frickin fun as heck!
Word Count: 7,373
You rarely bought new lingerie sets when it came to Sentry.
Not because he didn’t appreciate them. On the contrary–he absolutely adored them. Worshipped them even. But that was exactly the problem. The few times you had surprised him with something lacy and delicate, it had nearly driven him out of his mind.
Typically, you stuck with your usual: a simple, matching bra and underwear set. Soft, breathable cotton that still made you feel and look sexy, without all the crazy designs and pieces. It was something subtle and unobtrusive, something that wouldn’t set your poor Sun God off like a live wire. Something he could lip his hands beneath without trembling. Because actual lingerie–the kind made of whisper-thin lace and satin, of ribbons, bows and garter clasps, and sheer, teasing coverage–seemed to override whatever delicate control he fought so hard to maintain when he was with you.
You had discovered that he had a thing for lace. A sensory thing.
It wasn’t just a visual to him. It wasn’t even entirely sexual. It was something primal that was deeply rooted in him, something deep and involuntary and almost sacred. He loved the texture of it against your skin–loved the way it created a contrast against his palms, and how it made the warmth of your skin even more intense beneath the delicate netting. He would run his fingers over it again and again, sometimes for minutes without speaking. His thumb brushing along the curve of your waist, catching in the embroidered edge of your panties. The pads of his fingers would follow the scalloped trims while his eyes went unfocused and boiled a bright gold.
And his mouth–God, his mouth. He’d press his lips to the lace like he was kissing the hem of something holy. He’d rub his cheek along it, nuzzle into your stomach or your inner thigh like it soothed something feral in him. You had caught him murmuring under his breath while kissing down the center of your stomach, mouthing against the lace panel stretched over you like he was chanting a prayer in a language only his senses could understand.
But the real trouble always started when it came time to take it off.
Every set you had worn for him had met the same tragic fate: torn straps, popped clasps, runs in the stockings, fabric shredded in fits of desperation as he lost himself to the need to get to you. His control always slipped. His hands would tremble. And no matter how slowly or gently he began, it would always end the same–with ruined lace bunched in his fists and his voice cracking as he apologized with his mouth hot against your collarbone, and his cock nudging at your entrance because he couldn’t bear to be separate from you a second longer.
So you saved the lingerie for special occasions.
Nights when you didn’t mind being worshipped until you were breathless. Nights when you wanted to see him come undone at the seams. Night when you didn’t care if you lost a garter strap, or a brand new thong, or got fabric burns on your body in the process of everything.
And tonight…Tonight was one of those nights.
You had told him you had a surprise during dinner. Nothing more than that. You allowed the words to settle between you while you sipped on some wine and watched the slow burn of curiosity spread across Sentry’s face. His golden eyes shimmered with interest, brows raising slightly, like he wasn’t sure if he had heard you right.
”A surprise?” He asked, voice soft and edged with caution, “For me?” You nodded, smiling over the rim of your glass. Letting your legs drift toward his beneath the table until your knees brushed. He stiffened at the contact–not in discomfort, but in restraint, like he already suspected something was happening and needed to steady himself before he started to unravel in public.
”What did I do to earn that?” He choked out. It made you laugh softly, but you didn’t answer him, you just reached across the table and traced your fingertips along the back of his hand, slow and deliberate. You watched the way he looked down at the contact, then back up at you with a blooming flush coming up from beneath his neckline, invading his cheeks in an instant.
When you got back to your apartment, the air between you was already humming with tension–soft, charged, and bordering on electric. You kicked off your heels near the door and gently nudged Sentry toward the bedroom with a palm against his chest.
”Go get changed into your pajamas and sit on the edge of the bed…” You instructed, giving him a kiss. It wasn’t deep–just something soft, teasing. Just your lips brushing against his like a whisper of what was to come. Then you caught his bottom lip between your teeth with the lightest nip, tugging it gently, before pulling back with a smile that made the breath catch in his throat. He moaned, quiet and surprised, his golden eyes half-lidded at the tingling that your lips left against his.
“You’re really good at building anticipation.” You smirked at his comment, dragging your nails lightly down the center of his chest.
”It’s my specialty…” Then your hand flattened, pressing to his sternum, and nudging him toward the hallway again, “Now…Go.” He hesitated only long enough to lean in and steal another kiss–quick and greedy, a quiet thank you pressed to your mouth–before obeying. You watched the way his broad shoulders disappeared down the hall, his hand trailing along the wall as he went, fingers twitching with nerves or excitement, maybe both. When the bedroom door closed behind him you exhaled.
Your pulse fluttered at your throat, and the apartment felt hotter suddenly, a little heavier as you made your way toward the washroom, slipping inside with quiet efficiency and locking the door.
The box was tucked away in the bottom cabinet, nestled between an old curling iron and a pack of spare razors–well out of sight, especially from Sentry. You pulled it out with slow, deliberate hands, the black cardboard already warm from being hidden away. Your fingers trembled slightly as you lifted the lid, revealing the lingerie set inside–the masterpiece.
It was jet black and garnet red–dangerous, sensual, and designed with both aesthetics and carnality in mind. The bra was made entirely of sheer, stretch lace, scalloped along the edges and embroidered with curling crimson vines that wove across your skin like fire licking at your curves. It cupped your breasts just enough to lift them, but it left them mostly visible beneath the filigree mesh, your nipples faintly shadowed by the delicate embroidery. A thin gold clasp fastened in the front, the kind that popped open with the press of a finger–you had tried it yourself in the changing room.
The matching underwear was a lace thong–low cut, high rise, strappy at the hips with three slim bands on each side. They hugged your curves sinfully, riding the high points of your hips and vanishing into the dip of your waist. A sheer panel covered the front, stretched snug and delicate between our thighs, and like the bra, it was built to be easily torn.
The real showstopper though was the thigh harnesses.
Two black elastic garter straps that framed the tops of your thighs, each one adorned with a crimson satin bow and golden rings that shimmered in the light. Thin garter chains dropped from them–decorative only–meant to call attention to the vulnerable softness of your legs and the tantalizing skin between them. You adjusted the elastic fabric with care, letting them sit snug against your thighs like silk shackles made to be snapped apart.
The whole look was fragile–dainty even. Like it was meant to be ruined.
After one final check in the mirror, you slipped into the silk black robe that was given as a complimentary gift from the boutique you had purchased the set at. The hem fell just past the tops of your thighs, brushing over the satin bows with each step you took. You tied the sash loosely around your waist, letting the lace of the bra peek out where the neckline dipped into a hard V shape. Your nipples were already hard beneath the fabric, visible through the robe. As much as it was a cover up for your surprise, it left very little to the imagination.
You let out a quiet exhale, shifting your hair away from your face with trembling fingers before reaching for the light switch. The bathroom fell into shadow behind you as you turned the knob and stepped back into the hallway, the silk of your robe whispering around your thighs. The golden light spilling from beneath your bedroom door seemed to glow hotter now, hazy and inviting like the mouth of a furnace. The warmth of anticipation built in your chest–tight, fluttering, heady. You could feel the beat of your pulse in your throat, in your wrists, between your legs, as you padded across the hall with your heat pounding.
Slowly, you cracked the bedroom door open, and there he was.
Sentry sat at the edge of your bed, right where you told him to be. His long legs were spread slightly, knees bent his bare feet flat on the floor. The soft blue flannel of his pajama pants clung to his thighs, subtly outlining every shift of muscle, the dip of his hips just barely visible beneath the shirt he wore. You swore his t-shirts were getting tighter by the day–pulled across his chest and biceps, the collar dipping low enough to tease the slope of his collarbones and the golden heat that rolled off his skin in waves.
The moment he saw you, his entire body went stiff, and his eyes went wide. He sat up straighter like something godly had walked into the room and he didn’t want to miss a single breath of it. The light from your lamp caught the silk of your robe, making it shimmer faintly where it hugged your waist, where the sleeves framed your shoulders and the edge of the hem rested against your thighs.
Sentry’s lips parted, a breath catching in his throat.
”Lingerie?” He asked, his voice strained, disbelieving, wrecked. His eyes were breaming–golden, glowing, and glazed over with a kind of awe that made your skin feel like it was catching fire under his stare. You couldn’t fight the smirk that slowly came up on your lips as you stepped further into the room.
”Lace lingerie.” You corrected, swaying a bit. He made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a prayer, his hands pressing into the mattress like he was about to rise–but before he could even lift off the bed, you raised a hand.
“Ah! Wait!” He stopped immediately. His eyebrows shot up, his eyes still glued to your body, but he obeyed, slowly easing back down, though his muscles were tight, twitching like he was holding himself back on instinct alone. You gave him a smile–sweet and dangerous.
“I want you to keep your hands at your sides, I don’t want you to touch the set…Until I say so.” You instructed. He audibly gulped. The gold in his eyes pulsing like a warning light, like his restraint was already being tested and he hadn’t even seen what you were wearing beneath the silk robe.
”So you want to torture me essentially,” He replied, rubbing the back of his neck with a shaky breath, voice edged in disbelief and heat. You shrugged, moving just a bit closer to him.
”You’re being a bit overdramatic…I just want to build some anticipation.” He narrowed his eyes at you in mock betrayal, then dropped his gaze to the robe, the way it clung to your waist and opened just enough at the chest to show off the scalloped edge of your bra. His lips parted again.
”And you’re telling me that–“ He motioned vaguely at you, at all of you, “–Isn’t building anticipation?” You glanced down at yourself, then back at him, letting your smile tilt wickedly.
”This is like the gift wrapping on a present.” He made a sound like a man in pain, leaning forward slightly with his hands still at his sides, like he was using every ounce of power he had left in his body not to reach for you. His jaw flexed. His breath came heavier now, and you could feel the air getting warmer around him, like his entire being was glowing beneath the surface. He let his bottom lip slip between his teeth as he stared at you, pupils swallowing the gold around them. His voice was gravel when he finally spoke.
”Fine…” He said, exhaling slowly, “I won’t use my hands…” His eyes then flicked up to meet yours, hungry and heated, “But can I at least use my mouth a bit?” You squinted at him like you were considering it, and then you let out a sigh.
”Okay, but no teeth.” You warned, undoing the knot of your robe. He smirked–wild, boyish, and somehow already a little feral in the corners–as he raised his hands.
”I’ll try my best not to use my teeth.” You let out a little laugh, before letting the robe slide from your shoulders. It fell silently to the floor, pooling at your feet like black silk blood. The golden light of the room washed over your skin, casting lace shadows across it, and making the red embroidery glow like fire. You could feel the moment his breath stuttered–like all the wire had been pulled out of the room, like the light changed, and sharpened around the edges. His gaze dragged down your body like it was being physically ripped through him. You saw his throat work, his shoulders rise with a trembling inhale, and his hands–his huge, calloused, trembling hands–curled into fists at his sides, knuckles whitening where they clutched the soft flannel of his pajama pants.
“Jesus Christ, Y/N…” He whispered, voice shredded, “You didn’t tell me that it was going to look this fucking stunning on you.” You smiled slowly, and stepped closer. The silk of your robe laid discarded behind you like ruins of restraint, and with each movement, the garter chains at your thighs shimmered. His eyes followed them helplessly–watched the way the lace hugged your curves, the bows shifting, the embroidery that kissed the peaks of your breasts.
He breathed in sharply–deep, primal–like he needed to at least get your scent to ground himself. His jaw clenched, gold boiling in his eyes like solar flares. He could smell your lilac perfume, soft and familiar and uniquely yours, clinging to the warm slope of your throat. Beneath that, the dark fruitiness of the wine you’d shared over dinner, still lingering on your breath.
But underneath it all was the scent that made his mouth go dry. The salt of your skin. The faint, heady sweetness of your arousal that was already wetting the lace between your thighs.
It was intoxicating, and he could never get enough of it, even if he tried.
“I told you it was a surprise.” You quipped, stepping between his legs, watching his entire body tremble like you had just electrocuted him. Your thighs brushed his, your garter straps skimming the inside of his knees. His fists twitched at his sides like he was physically stopping himself from reaching up and dragging you onto his lap, from tearing the set off with shaking hands and pushing his mouth between your thighs until he could breathe again.
But he didn’t move.
You hummed, low and pleased, your fingers still threaded in the soft curls at the nape of his neck. His skin was hot beneath your hands, his chest rising and falling in shallow, controlled breaths. He hadn’t moved his hands. Not once. Still gripped the mattress on either side of his thighs like it was the only thing tethering him to this earth.
“You’re being such a good boy…” You whispered, brushing your lips against the shell of his ear, letting your voice drip like honey, “I hope you can keep it up.” That earned you a ragged, barely-suppressed groan. His head tipped forward, pressing into the space just beneath your jaw, his lips grazing your throat like he needed to taste, like he was starving for even the permission to breathe you in. You leaned down and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling your chest to his, letting the stiff peaks of your nipples press through the lace and against the thin cotton of his t-shirt. He shuddered beneath you, his entire frame going taut with the effort it took to stay obedient.
“I think you have too much faith in me,” He rasped, his breath hot and shaking as it fanned over your collarbone. “I feel like I’m gonna die right now.”
You smiled, your nails dragging along his scalp in slow, affectionate circles. He melted into the touch–eyes fluttering shut, a soft, almost broken sound catching in his throat.
“I’m sure you’ll manage,” You murmured.
And then you climbed into his lap.
It was a slow motion–deliberate, fluid–your knees sliding to either side of his hips, the lace of your garters brushing his thighs as you settled down on him. You could feel his cock twitch beneath you, straining against his pajama pants, aching and hot against the thin panel of your thong. He let out a strained groan, his head falling back slightly before snapping forward again, his mouth pressing desperately into your shoulder.
“You’re absolutely…Evil,” He growled, voice low and wrecked and adoring. You giggled, nosing into his hair which still smelled like sandalwood from his shampoo, wrapping your arms more tightly around his shoulders. He let out a soft whimper.
”Please,” He said against your skin, “Can I taste? Can I use my mouth? I won’t use my teeth. I promise. Please let me taste you…” You didn’t make him wait long. He was being so good. So patient.
”Go ahead,” You whispered, “Mouth only.” You added quickly. The hum that left his throat sounded like relief and agreeance in equal measure.
And then he moved–his mouth descending on your chest like it was the answer to every silent prayer he’d ever made. He kissed along your cleavage first, lips trailing the delicate edge of the lace bra, mouthing over the embroidery wetting it with his saliva. Every breath he took was ragged, almost sacred. His lips were hot, his tongue slow and thick as it traced along the cup of your breast, dragging against the sheer fabric until he found the tight peak of your nipple beneath it.
He groaned. Loud, full-bodied, almost desperate.
“Oh my God,” He muttered, his lips brushing against you as he spoke. “You feel unreal. You look like…Fuck, like I’m dreaming…”
And then he sucked.
You gasped, your body jerking against him as his mouth closed over your nipple through the lace, hot and wet and insistent. He sucked hard, tongue swirling beneath the mesh, worshipping the mere shape of you. The fabric dampened immediately under the heat of his mouth, clinging to your skin, making everything more intense, more raw. You could feel the way his tongue lapped at you–slow and messy–his spit soaking the lace until it was transparent and sticky against your nipple.
“Look at you,” He whispered raggedly, pulling back just enough to breathe, golden eyes glazed with worship. “Fucking perfect. This lace…It shouldn’t be on you. I wanna ruin it. I wanna rip it with my teeth.”
“No teeth,” You reminded him sweetly, breathless as you carded your fingers through his hair. “You promised.” He growled, a soft, frustrated sound–but it only made him more eager. He leaned in and mouthed at your other breast, his tongue already lapping at you, leaving trails of spit as he kissed lower, then high, then right over the nipple. He sucked hard, lips wrapped around the peak, his moans muffled against your skin as he moved his head just enough to drag the lace against you with every kiss, every flick of his tongue.
“Can’t believe you wore this for me,” He groaned between suckles. “You know what this does to me. You know. Fuck–look at this, look at what you do to me.” He was rutting up against you now, slow and subtle, trying not to break the rules but aching for friction. His cock was rock hard beneath you, pressing snug against your clothed core, the heat of him burning through the fabric barrier.
“Every fucking inch of you tastes like heaven,” He murmured. “I’d stay right here until sunrise, if you would let me…” You moaned softly, hips shifting, your lace-covered core grinding lightly against his clothed length. His eyes snapped up to meet yours, pupils blown.
“You’re so soaked…I haven’t even been able to touch you yet.” He whispered, voice hoarse.
“No hands…” You teased, pressing your chest closer to his face, letting him bury himself again in the spit slicked mess he was making of the lace over your breasts “Just that pretty mouth of yours, remember?” He whimpered again–and this time, it was filthy.
“God, I love it when you tell me what to do,” He growled, lips closing over your nipple again, sucking it harder now, tongue lashing through the wet lace like he needed it. “Let me taste your pussy next. Please. Please, baby, let me lick you through your panties. Let me feel you soak it. Let me make a fucking mess.” You tugged at his hair gently and let out a slow, deliberate sigh.
“Well,” You stared, your voice soft and syrupy, “I can’t say no when you beg me like that.” You felt him smile against your breast–felt the curve of it, the warmth of it, right before he sucked at your nipple one last time and pulled away. The cool air of the room kissed the wet fabric he left behind, the soaked lace clinging to your skin in a way that made you shiver. You slid off his lap with practiced ease, your thighs brushing his as you moved to lie on the bed beside him. The dampness between your legs cooled instantly without the heat of his body against you, the soaked thong sticking uncomfortably between your folds–but you knew it wouldn’t be on you for long. He started to reach for you, just instinct–his hand twitching toward your waist, desperate to follow–but you turned your head and gave him a pointed look.
“I didn’t say you could use your hands yet…Did I?” He froze and groaned, audibly, like the restraint physically pained him. His fingers curled into fists, jaw tight, golden eyes burning into you with a heat that threatened to melt straight through your chest.
“Sorry,” He breathed, voice thick with apology and frustration and arousal.
You smiled.
Then slowly you spread your legs for him. The sight made his breath hitch hard in his throat. Under the low lamplight, it was impossible not to see the wetness slicking through the lace of your panties, the thin strip of fabric practically transparent now. The dark red embroidery clung to the curve of your folds, every seam soaked through, the fabric stretched tight against the pulsing heat beneath.
His tongue darted out unconsciously, lips parting, and then you moved–sliding farther up the bed in slow, elegant motions, until your shoulders hit the headboard and you were upright against it. Knees bent. Lace glistening. Waiting.
He followed you like a creature summoned.
Crawled onto the bed on his hands and knees, eyes never leaving your core. His breaths came fast, ragged, full of want. And when he reached you, he settled on his stomach between your spread thighs and slid his arms beneath your legs, locking you in place–not touching you with his hands, but bracing them just beside your outer thighs.
Then he breathed you in.
And whimpered.
“Fuck,” He choked. “You smell so good. You always smell so good. I could live here. Just let me live between your thighs–let me drown here…” His mouth was already full of drool before he even touched you. He leaned in slowly, lips parting, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed the first, hot, wet kiss directly to the soaked lace covering your core.
You gasped.
Your hips jerked.
And he moaned, low and hungry, like the taste of your arousal through the fabric had shot straight down his spine. He licked flat against the lace, dragging his tongue up the full length of your slit from the base to the waistband, soaking the fabric even more, the heat of his mouth seeping through, making the whole thing feel messy and obscene. The wet sound of his tongue moving against you echoed off the walls, his drool spilling out and gluing the delicate fabric to your core.
You tangled your fingers into his hair and pulled.
Hard.
He groaned again, nose pressed firm against your folds, his tongue flicking rapid and slick against the soaked lace, teasing your clit through the fabric. The pressure was perfect. Insistent. Desperate.
“Fuck, you taste so sweet through this,” He growled, the words slurred and muffled against the mesh. “Can feel how wet you are, baby, you’re fucking soaking–God, this lace, the way it tastes like you, it’s insane.” You bucked into his mouth, grinding your hips forward, chasing the friction, feeling the fabric drag with every slow rock of your hips. The drool was everywhere–down his chin, between your thighs, saturating the panel of your thong.
It was too much, but it also wasn’t enough.
“Sentry,” you gasped, breath coming in short, hot bursts as you rutted against his face. “Sentry…Fuck…I need your mouth on me for real.”
He groaned, tongue flattening again over your clit through the lace, suckling desperately.
“Please,” You cried, tugging at his hair until his scalp ached with it. “Please rip the panties off me. Fuck. Just do it. Please.”
His head snapped up–eyes wild, golden and blazing, mouth swollen and soaked.
“You’re sure?” He panted. “Because I swear to God, if I tear them, I’m not stopping until I’ve made you scream.”
“I’m fucking sure,” You gasped. “Rip them off.”
And he did.
With one feral growl and a twist of his wrists, the lace tore in two–snapped like nothing beneath his strength, the soaked fabric shredded as his mouth immediately dove back between your thighs.
Sentry moaned like a man possessed the moment his tongue touched bare skin. No barrier now. No patience left. Just heat and desperation and the molten reverence of a god who had gone too long without worship.
He licked you slow at first–one long, wide drag from the bottom of your core all the way to your clit. Your hips bucked involuntarily, a sob catching in your throat, and his arms flexed beneath your thighs, holding you steady as he buried his mouth against you.
And then he lost himself.
His mouth was obscene. Drool spilled past his lips as he sucked and licked and moaned into you like it was his last chance to taste salvation. The sounds–God, the sounds–wet and messy, his tongue working like a man starved, saliva soaking your folds, slicking down the insides of your thighs and pooling on the sheets beneath your bottom. He sucked your clit into his mouth and flattened his tongue against it, then circled it again and again, fingers gripping the garter straps like handles, pulling you tighter against his face.
“Fuck…Fuck, Sentry!” You gasped, head thrown back, the headboard rattling behind you as your hips rolled and twisted beneath his mouth. Your legs shook where they rested over his shoulders, garter belts pulled tight in his fists, lace rubbing raw into your skin. You felt him moan against you again–loud–the vibration of it buzzing straight into your core like a jolt of electricity.
“You taste like divinity,” He growled raggedly, voice broken, wet with spit. “Like fucking nectar, I swear–look at how soaked you are.” You whimpered, tugging hard at his hair, and he rewarded you by slipping his tongue inside you curling it as far as he could while rutting his hips into the bed beneath him. He was hard. So fucking hard. And yet he hadn’t touched himself once. All of it–every groan, every grind, every aching tremble of need–was for you.
“Please,” You gasped, breathless, feral, “Your fingers, please…I need them–” He didn’t hesitate. One hand slid free from your thigh just long enough to press his fingers into your dripping heat–two thick digits pushing inside you without resistance. You were soaked. Tight. Velvet heat gripped him as he curled his fingers up, stroking your walls like he was mapping out the inside of your soul.
“That’s it,” He groaned, tongue circling your clit again. “Fucking dripping for me…This pussy’s mine, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” You gasped, barely coherent, your back arching off the pillows. “*Yes…Yes, it’s yours…Fuck. Don’t stop!”
You reached blindly for his free hand–needed something to hold onto, to ground yourself in the chaos of sensation–and when your fingers tangled with his, he gripped you tight. Held on like he was anchoring himself to your climax, like the sound of your breathless moans was the only thing tethering him to this world.
“Come for me,” He begged into your folds, fingers stroking deeper, curling harder. “Soak my fucking face…Show me how good I make you feel.”
When you came it was like you had gone blind. Your whole body seized, trembling, your thighs clamping around his head. A wail ripped from your throat as your release hit you, your muscles locking, spasming, pulsing around his fingers as he groaned into your folds and did not stop.
He kept going.
Licked you through every wave of it, moaning into your clit as your body writhed against his mouth, as the sheets beneath you became saturated with spit and slick. You were gasping–whimpering–trying to squirm away, but he only growled and pulled you closer.
“Too much, Sentry, please…I can’t!” You cried out, tears prickling your eyes from the intensity, your hand slipping from his hair as you panted and arched, overwhelmed. He finally pulled back with a wet, obscene pop. His mouth was wrecked–lips shiny and swollen, his chin soaked, golden eyes half-lidded as he panted between your thighs. Then, with a feral grin, he leaned in–and bit the garter belt strap just above your right thigh.
“That…Was payback for making me wait to touch you.” He growled. You gasped, still trembling, as he gripped the delicate band and ripped it clean from your thigh with his teeth, growling low as he pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the exposed skin.
Then he did the same to the other side. Bit. Tore. Kissed. Worshipped.
And then he was moving–pulling himself up your body with a deep, guttural groan, kissing your inner thighs, your hips, dragging his wet mouth up your belly until he reached your chest. He licked a stripe up your sternum, then mouthed at your lace-covered breasts again, tongue heavy and reverent, until he finally sat back on his heels and reached for the hem of his shirt.
He tugged it off in one fluid motion and tossed it aside with a grunt.
And God–he was radiant.
Chest flushed, muscles flexed, the sharp lines of his abdomen slick with sweat and glinting gold from the lamp light. His hair was a mess, face soaked from your release, his lips bruised and red, jaw tight with restraint.
His cock strained visibly through his pajama pants–thick, long, leaking, desperate for you. But he didn’t touch himself.
Not yet.
He just stared at you–spread and wrecked against the pillows, body twitching from aftershocks–and smirked.
“You tried to ruin me…” He rasped, “But now I’m really going to ruin you.” He surged forward with a growl that rattled in his chest like thunder, golden eyes wild with lust as he caught your nipple in his mouth again–wet, swollen, still sensitive from everything he’d just done to you.
You cried out, back arching against the pillows, and he moaned in response, his mouth hot and open and starving as he sucked and kissed and bit. Not too hard. Not enough to mark, but enough to make your whole body clench with need.
His hands came up at last, his rough palms cupping your breasts, pushing them together like he couldn’t decide which one to worship first. You barely had time to gasp before he grunted and tugged–clawing at the lace like it was the only thing separating him from oxygen.
“Sentry…” You panted.
“I need them off–now,” He growled, voice low and ragged.
The straps snapped.
He didn’t even try to unhook the clasp. Just tore the whole thing down your chest, the gold hardware popping open from the force of it, the delicate embroidery scraping your skin and leaving a faint burn over the swell of one breast. You whimpered–not in pain, but from the sheer ferocity of him, the way he tossed the ruined bra aside like a challenge had been accepted and met with violent reverence.
“Finally,” He gasped, staring at your bare chest like he could feel the heat coming off it. He let out a long, shaking sigh against your skin before lowering his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses to your nipples, licking slow stripes across each one, sucking just enough to make your body twitch and your head fall back against the headboard.
He murmured against your skin, words melting into you with every drag of his tongue.
“God, baby…You were made to be worshipped. You don’t even know how beautiful you are, do you?” His tongue circled one nipple before dragging across to the other, his breath hot, heavy. Your fingers curled into his hair again, scratching lightly at his scalp as he mouthed at you, switching between each breast, licking and kissing, nipping and sucking until your breath was shallow and your thighs trembled around him again.
Then he paused—pulled back just enough to meet your gaze—and kissed you.
Sloppy.
Slow.
Filthy.
It wasn’t a soft, sweet kiss—it was needy. Desperate. Like he’d been holding it back all night and finally, finally, he could have it. Your tongue met his in a wet, messy slide, mouths parting and moving, lips dragging, sucking, tasting. His teeth scraped your bottom lip, and you groaned into his mouth, your hands sliding down from his hair to grip his bare chest, nails scratching faint trails along the firm muscles beneath your palms.
When he finally pulled back, both of you panting, a strand of saliva stretched between your lips, catching in the light like spun sugar.
He didn’t look away as it broke.
Didn’t blink.
He just stared at you, eyes molten gold, his hands coming to your thighs.
“Keep ‘em open, sweetheart,” he rasped, pushing your legs wider, bracketing them around his hips. “Just like that.”
Then he reached for the waistband of his pajama pants and shoved them down with one hand, his other still splayed across your thigh. The fabric slid over his hips, down those god-carved thighs, and he kicked them off the edge of the bed without ceremony.
Your eyes dropped instinctively.
Fuck.
His cock stood thick and heavy between you, flushed and already leaking, the veins prominent, the head glistening with precum. Your mouth went dry just looking at him, and he knew it. Smirked, just a little, even as his breath came in hard gusts through his nose.
“You wanted to drive me crazy tonight,” He muttered, voice dark, low, fond. “Well congrats, baby…You fucking did.”
Then he surged forward.
One hand gripped your thigh while the other slid under your ass, lifting you like you weighed nothing and dragging you down the mattress, closer to him, your back still against the headboard, your legs hitched higher over his thighs now. You gasped, arms grabbing at his shoulders as he manhandled you into the perfect position. His cock nudged against your soaked entrance, dragging through your folds, and he groaned at the contact, head dropping to your shoulder as he whispered–
“So wet,” He hissed. “Fucking ruined. And I haven’t even put it in yet.” You moaned, wrapping your arms around his neck, your voice breathy and wrecked already.
“Sentry…Fuck…Please just…Just do it, I need you–”
“Not yet,” He murmured, licking up your throat. “Not until you say it.”
“Say what?” You gasped, hips rolling up against him, feeling the thick weight of his cock sliding between your folds, coating him in your slick.
He kissed you again–this one fast, messy, hungry–before pulling back just enough to look you dead in the eye.
“Say you want to be ruined.” You blinked at him, chest heaving. His hand slid to your inner thigh, fingers digging in, the stretch of him teasing your entrance as he angled his hips. The head of his cock pressed right there, just enough to feel the promise of it.
And you gave in, voice trembling with the sheer truth of it:
“I want you to ruin me.” He didn’t even wait for a breath.
The moment the words left your mouth he pushed forward, guiding the thick head of his cock against your entrance, slick from your release, and slowly slid into you.
The sound you both made was soft. Gasping. Fragile.
A breathless, reverent “Oh, fuck…” from you.
A trembling, aching “God…” from him.
Your walls stretched around him, tight and burning in the best possible way, every inch a slow, gliding pressure as he sank deeper and deeper. He filled you so fully you swore you saw stars. You clenched around him involuntarily, already overwhelmed, and his jaw went slack, mouth falling open as he moaned low and broken into your neck.
”Baby…You were fucking made for me…” He whispered, his body shuddering as he bottomed out against you. Your fingers gripped his shoulders, digging into the heat of his skin. He didn’t move yet–just held you there, his cock buried inside, his chest pressed to yours, letting you both feel every heartbeat and trembling breath between you. You were soaked. Warm. So fucking tight.
And he was losing his mind.
When he finally pulled back–just a few inches–it was only to thrust back in with a slow, deliberate snap of his hips that made your whole body arch and your lips part on a breathy cry.
“There you go,” He cooed, his hand sliding up your thigh to hook it over his waist. He gripped you there firmly, thumb brushing along the sensitive dip of your inner thigh as he began to thrust in earnest. Deep, smooth, consuming.
“You take me so good, baby… So fucking good.” Every roll of his hips pushed you further into the mattress. The stretch was intense, thick and perfect, and every time he slid out and filled you again, the head of his cock kissed that spot inside you that made your back arch and your legs tremble.
“Look at me,” He said suddenly, voice low but sharp. Dominant. Desperate. Your eyes had fluttered closed in bliss, overwhelmed by the way he moved inside you, the way he filled you, the way it felt like he was touching every part of your soul.
But when you heard his voice–“Look at me.”–you obeyed.
And the moment your eyes met his, you forgot how to breathe.
Golden. Glowing. Worshipping.
“You don’t get to close your eyes when I’m inside you,” He said, thrusting deep enough to punch a moan out of your throat. “You don’t get to look away when I’m ruining you like this.” You nodded, jaw slack, whimpering as he fucked you slow but hard, holding your gaze like it was sacred. One hand still held your thigh high, palm stretched wide against your skin, the other slid up to cup your jaw.
“I want to see you fall apart for me,” He commented. “Want to see what my cock does to that pretty face.” You moaned his name, and your hands sought him–reaching for his chest, his arms, needing more, any part of him.
But he caught your wrist.
Gently.
Firmly.
He held it between your bodies, pressing it to his chest as he fucked you harder, deeper, the headboard beginning to rattle behind you in rhythm with each thrust.
“You don’t need to hold on to me,” He panted. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.” His forehead pressed to yours. His breath was hot. His voice shook.
“Tell me how it feels.”
“So good…” You moaned, fingers clenching in his. “So full, you’re so deep…I feel everything.”
“That’s right,” He rasped, voice dripping with praise. “Feel every inch of me. This pussy’s mine. This whole body’s mine.”
“Yes,” you gasped. “Yours…Fuck…Yours.”
He angled his hips and thrust harder, deeper, until you were crying out, the sound echoing off the walls. His teeth scraped your bottom lip as he kissed you again, this one more tender, almost apologetic for how hard he was fucking you. But he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. The way you clenched around him, the way your body met every thrust, the way your eyes never left his–it was destroying him in the most glorious way.
You felt the heat building low in your belly, your breath growing ragged, your moans going high and frantic.
“Gonna come again, sweetheart?” He whispered against your mouth. “You gonna finish for me? Let me feel it?”
You nodded frantically, and he pressed your hand tighter to his chest.
“Come for me. Now. Let me feel you soak me again. Wanna feel you break.”
Your body seized, legs locking around his waist, your climax ripping through you with such force that your cry broke into sobs. He didn’t stop. He thrust you through it, kissing your cheeks, your lips, your jaw, murmuring–
“That’s it. That’s my good girl. My perfect fucking girl…You look so beautiful when you come…” And then his rhythm stuttered.
His hand flew behind you, slamming into the headboard, holding it as he came, and you could hear the wall crack. With a guttural moan that shook his whole body, he spilled inside you, hips grinding down, cock pulsing deep in your core. The heat of it spread through you like fire. His grip was iron-tight, his face buried in your neck as he groaned your name again and again, worshiping you with every ragged breath.
You could feel the trembling in his limbs. Feel how hard he was still breathing. How deeply spent and completely overwhelmed he was.
When he finally collapsed against you, shaking and panting, you laughed softly and cupped his cheeks in both hands, guiding his face up to yours.
He looked ruined. Drenched in sweat. Lips parted, pupils blown, a smile already tugging at his mouth.
You kissed him.
Once.
Twice.
Then murmured between kisses–
“You’re going to have to repair the drywall again.”
He blinked slowly.
Then groaned and laughed.
A deep, rolling, joy-filled sound as he nuzzled into your neck and held you tighter.
“It’s always worth it,” He muttered against your skin. “So fucking worth it.”
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