#lewis pullman x you

[lalalalalew]

Two peas in a pod

AHHHH, SORRY

[shortnspidey]

MISS POSSESSIVE

Bob Reynolds X Female!reader || WC: 8.6K

SUMMARY: It’s clear to anyone watching that you and Bob like each other. But whether it’s fear of rejection or comfort in the familiar will-they-won’t-they tension, neither of you dares to make the first move. Then comes the night of the charity gala, pushing both of you to your limits. Will it finally be the moment one of you breaks the stalemate, or will you keep pretending not to notice what’s right in front of you?

WARNINGS: Includes slight Thunderbolts* spoilers! Jealousy, idiots in love, mutual pining, slight angst, steamy kiss, self-deprecating thoughts, fluff galore, cursing, meddling teammates, lots of POV time skips, Bob is literally husband material, suggestive ending but no smut (sorry)!

A/N: I have been wanting to use this song on a one-shot ever since it came out!! Jealous!Bob has to be my favorite to write so far! Hope y'all enjoy, thanks for all the love on my first Bob fic! Divider by @luxifrv <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ bob reynolds masterlist

➩ read part two here!

For once, the Watchtower was silent. Not the eerie kind of silence that meant something was wrong, but a rare, peaceful quiet that settled over the usually chaotic space like a warm blanket. No echo of Walker and Bucky bickering over strategy. No sharp, exasperated Russian-accented scolding from Yelena as she tried, again, to convince Alexei that inside voice was not a myth.

Bucky was the only one moving. You could hear the soft rustle of pantry doors opening and closing, the metallic clink of a spoon against a mug, the hush of a coffee machine heating up. His movements were deliberate, quiet, almost tender, like he didn’t want to wake the moment. You and Ava sat perched on the cool granite countertop, shoulders bumping occasionally as you both tried to blink away sleep.

Ava cradled a mug of tea in both hands, steam curling into the space between you. You had your legs tucked beneath you, hoodie sleeves draped past your fingers as you absentmindedly picked at the assorted berries Bucky had placed in front of you. The quiet hum of appliances and the rhythmic sound of Bucky moving around the kitchen felt almost domestic, like the kind of normal you rarely got here.

Then, with a cheerful ding, the elevator doors slid open. The calm broke, but not in a bad way. Yelena was the first to step in, eyes sharp and expression unreadable as always, though a rare smile tugged at her lips when she spotted the three of you. Behind her, John carried an armload of grocery bags that looked one second away from slipping out of his grasp. Bob trailed in behind them, slightly out of breath, balancing two bulging paper sacks filled with produce.

Alexei, true to form, was juggling what looked like an oversized bag of kettle corn and an entire watermelon. “Hey, how was the farmers market? Get anything good?” You asked, eyes flicking between the group as they deposited their haul onto the counter. Normally, this would be the part where Yelena launched into a dramatic monologue about Alexei’s inability to stick to a list, usually punctuated by her chucking a random jar of pickled something at him.

But this time, she stayed surprisingly quiet. Too quiet. You caught the quick glances exchanged between her and John, an amused smirk on both their faces, like they were in on something you weren’t. Before you could even raise an eyebrow in question, you heard the shuffle of footsteps and turned just in time to see Bob making a beeline for you. You straightened up instinctively, suddenly very aware of your appearance, sleep-mussed hair, oversized hoodie, and socks that didn’t match.

Yet Bob didn’t seem to mind. His cheeks were dusted with the softest shade of pink, like he’d jogged over from the elevator, or maybe, maybe it was something else. He held a small paper bag in one hand and a cup in the other, both trembling slightly. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, then immediately dropped to the cup, as though he needed the courage to keep going. “H-Hi,” He greeted softly, his voice shy but laced with warmth. “They, uh… had a matcha booth. I got you a kit so you can make it at home.”

Your breath hitched, but he wasn’t done. “I, um, also got you one for now,” He added, extending the cup toward you like it was an offering. “Since I remember you said you ‘can’t function’ without it in the mornings. Extra matcha foam, a splash of vanilla, whole milk, not oat milk, because, well you hate it.” You blinked. He remembered all of that?God, could he be any more perfect? You laughed, a soft and breathless, fingers brushing his as you took the cup from him. The contact sent a spark up your arm, subtle but unmistakable.

“Thanks, Bob,” You murmured, your voice low and sincere as you looked up at him. “That was really sweet of you.” He opened his mouth to respond, but words never made it past his lips. Because in a rare burst of bravery, or maybe recklessness, you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his warm cheek. You felt the way he froze for half a breath, how his shoulders stiffened, and then relaxed with a nervous chuckle as his other hand came up to scratch the back of his neck.

Across the room, John looked like he was trying not to fist-pump the air, and Yelena shot you the world’s most obvious finally face before elbowing Alexei, who just looked confused and whispered something about “young love” under his breath. “I don’t know how you drink that.” Bucky muttered from the kitchen as he grimaced at your bright green drink, breaking the moment with all the timing of a sledgehammer. He lifted his mug of black coffee in judgment.

You took a dramatic sip, eyes fluttering shut as if it was the best thing you’d ever tasted just to spite him. “Touché,” You scoffed, pointing at his cup with mock offense. “Although, you drink battery acid.” Bucky raised his brows in mock offense. “I drink coffee. You drink grass.” Ava chuckled beside you, shaking her head. But your attention drifted back to Bob, who was still standing just a little too close, still looking at you like he was stunned by what just happened.

His fingers lingered at the edge of the counter, tapping nervously. You took another sip of your matcha, watching him over the rim of the cup. That blush hadn’t faded. And the way he kept sneaking glances at you, like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t trust himself not to fumble it, made your chest ache in the best way. “Are you lot mentally prepared for the gala tonight?” Ava asked, her voice too casual to be innocent as she popped a grape into her mouth and leaned against the counter.

Her words cut clean through the pleasant haze you’d been floating in, one brought on by Bob’s lingering smile and the subtle hum of his presence next to you. Your gaze snapped away from him. “Shit,” You muttered, eyes widening as the reality slammed into your brain like a freight train. “I forgot that was tonight.” You let out a groan and dropped your head into your hands, the cool skin of your palms pressing against the heat rising in your face. The gala. Of course.

Between the back-to-back missions, late-night debriefs, and that impromptu grocery run, the fancy evening fundraiser had completely slipped your mind. Somewhere, buried beneath a pile of laundry you hadn’t had the emotional stamina to fold, was a garment bag Mel had sent over weeks ago. You hadn’t even unzipped it yet. It was probably crumpled and hiding behind your winter coats, tangled in a forgotten scarf and a rogue SHIELD-issued jacket.

“Who isn’t ready for an evening of kissing up to potential new investors and getting glares from Valentina across the room because we’re somehow 'misbehaving' and 'ruining our image'?” Yelena scoffed, rolling her eyes as she flopped into the nearest chair like it had offended her. “Don’t forget making small talk with politicians who couldn’t care less if we saved the planet or set it on fire.” Bucky added dryly.

The banter swirled around you, loud and familiar, but your mind was already spiraling, mentally calculating how much time you had to shower, tame your hair, find that dress, steam that dress, fix your eyeliner after inevitably smudging it, and somehow look like a person worthy of attending a gala where half the room would be dressed in five-figure gowns and tailored tuxedos. And Bob. Oh god. Bob would be there too. You dared a glance at him from the corner of your eye.

He was still beside you, watching the group with quiet amusement, his fingers lightly tapping the paper tea cup in his hand. You could just barely see the curve of a dimple when he smiled at something Bucky had said. He hadn’t said much about the gala, just that he’d remembered and already arranged to pick up his suit. Of course he had. He probably knew where his cufflinks were too. Probably even had a backup tie.

Meanwhile, you were a sleep-deprived goblin with chipped nail polish, half a to-do list scrawled on your hand in blue pen, and absolutely no idea what jewelry matched your dress, or if the strappy black heels you wore to last year’s gala were even still intact. They were probably at the bottom of your closet, missing a buckle, or chewed on by the mysterious Watchtower dust bunnies that lived beneath your bed. “Kill me.” You muttered under your breath, dragging your hands down your face until your cheeks were warm from the friction.

“I can fake a head injury,” Ava chimed in helpfully, straight-faced as she leaned back on her elbows. “You’ll be out for the rest of the week. No questions asked. We’ll even throw in a dramatic backstory.” You let out a weak snort. “Tempting.” You replied, voice muffled through your hands, though your attention was already drifting again, gravitating toward the quiet figure moving just a few feet away. You glanced over in time to catch Bob as he bent to retrieve something from one of the grocery bags.

The hem of his navy hoodie lifted just slightly, revealing a flash of worn flannel waistband and a sliver of skin at his hip. The way the fabric stretched across his back, the way his strong shoulders shifted beneath the soft cotton, it was criminal, honestly. He straightened and absentmindedly tucked a strand of hair behind his ear with the kind of casual grace that shouldn’t have affected you as much as it did. But it did. Oh, it did. The simple act sent your heart into an entirely unreasonable flutter.

You quickly averted your gaze and took a long, too-large gulp of your matcha to distract yourself. The condensation of the cup in your hands was the only thing grounding you. Well, that and the caffeine threatening to jumpstart your entire nervous system. “I’m gonna need a lot more of this if I’m going to survive tonight.” You grimaced, holding up your half-drunk cup like it was your savior. “It’s a good thing Bob has you covered then.” Yelena sang, her voice teasing and smile positively feral as her eyes bounced between the two of you.

Your cheeks instantly flushed with heat. Across from you, Bob choked slightly on the sip of water he’d just taken, coughing once as the tips of his ears turned unmistakably red. Yelena’s smirk deepened. She looked far too pleased with herself. “Yelena.” You hissed through your teeth, but she just wiggled her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders innocently like she’d done nothing wrong.

Bob cleared his throat, recovering admirably, though he was now suddenly very focused on reorganizing a bag of apples. “I can make you another one,” He offered, shrugging a little as his voice dropped to something quiet, gentle, like a secret just for you. “I watched the lady at the booth make them. I, uh... took notes. Kind of. She even showed me how to whisk it so it doesn't clump.” You blinked. He watched the demo just so he could make your favorite drink correctly?

Your heart threatened to leap out of your chest and do a somersault on the kitchen floor. If you weren't already smitten, that alone would have had you swooning. He didn’t meet your eyes, but his voice was soft, hopeful. God, how were you supposed to survive an entire night by his side? Standing beside him during red carpet photos, exchanging polite smiles for photographers, whispering jokes under your breath while pretending to listen to politicians drone on about defense funding.

All while pretending you were a fully functioning human being who wasn’t halfway in love with the boy who remembered your drink order and how you hated oat milk? You were a disaster. No dress plan, no jewelry plan, possibly no working shoes, and absolutely no idea how you were going to stand next to Bob all night without your brain short-circuiting. You were so screwed. It was safe to assure that it was going to be a very, very long night.

The charity gala. Even the phrase sounded intimidating, but nothing could have prepared you for this. The grand staircase unfolded beneath you like something out of a baroque painting, sweeping marble steps carved with painstaking detail, lined with golden banisters that shimmered in the warm light of antique chandeliers. Everything glowed in soft amber, like time itself had paused for this one evening.

The ceilings arched high overhead, frescoed and grand, while the walls whispered with centuries-old elegance. Ornate sconces flickered along the balconies, throwing gentle light across clusters of diplomats, donors, and operatives dressed to the nines. People moved like brushstrokes across a canvas, flowing down the double staircase in slow, graceful waves. Laughter drifted on the air, mixing with the faint sounds of a string quartet echoing from one of the upper halls.

And yet, even surrounded by diplomats, high-profile donors, and operatives in couture, you felt like you were the one out of place. You felt dizzy. The dress Mel had picked out arrived in a box so pristine you didn’t dare touch it until tonight. The sapphire gown hugged your frame like it had been made with you in mind, the fabric falling fluid over your hips and moving like liquid when you walked. A deep neckline drew the eye without giving too much, while the daring open back dipped low enough to make even Yelena raise a brow when she first saw it.

Thin, crisscrossing straps shimmered across your shoulder blades like stars strung in place. A thigh-high slit added an edge of danger, the hem brushing the floor with every step like a promise. And as fate, or fashion, would have it, the color perfectly matched the deep hue of his eyes. Unfair, really. “Stop fidgeting! You look gorgeous.” Yelena snapped behind you, swatting your hand away as you adjusted the neckline of your dress for the fifth time. “I feel like I’m one wrong step away from a wardrobe malfunction.”

“If you do fall, fall into someone rich. Or Bob. Preferably Bob.” Yelena’s deadpan delivery was so casual it made Ava snort. "Would you stop it! I have told you both a million times, Bob doesn't like me like that!" A synchronized eye roll rippled through the room like a perfectly rehearsed performance. Ava arched a brow in your direction. “You are either painfully oblivious, or actively choosing to be stupid, because Bob worships the ground you walk on.” She quipped, adjusting her earrings in the nearby mirror.

“Don’t even get me started on that lovesick puppy look he gives you.” Yelena muttered under her breath, pretending to inspect a non-existent chip in her nail polish. You scoffed, arms crossing defensively over your chest, the thin fabric of your dress pulling taut. “What look?” Ava met your eyes through the mirror, her expression softening just enough to make the jab land sweeter. “The same one you get whenever you’re looking at him.” You didn’t have time to respond, or argue, as if you could, because footsteps echoed down the upper landing.

You turned your head, and there he was.

Bob stood at the top of the staircase like some old-world portrait come to life, dressed in a sleek black tuxedo that fit like it had been sculpted onto him. The crisp white shirt beneath was buttoned perfectly, his tie was tied tight and straight down the center of his chest, and a subtle silver tie clip caught the light as he moved. His hair was swept back neatly, but a few rebellious strands had fallen across his forehead, softening his sharp jawline and giving him that boyish, just-barely-undone look that made your breath hitch.

But it was his expression that really undid you. Because the moment he spotted you, halfway down the stairs, bathed in chandelier light, wrapped in a dress that mirrored the color of his gaze, he stopped walking. Freezing, just for a second, as if he’d been hit by something. His eyes widened just slightly, lips parting, and he didn’t blink until he started moving again, descending the stairs slowly, carefully, like approaching something fragile and sacred. You couldn’t look away and frankly you didn’t want to.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, your fingers clutching your tiny clutch bag like it was the only thing keeping you upright. When he finally reached you, his gaze swept from your heels to your collarbones, and then, almost shyly, met your eyes. “I—” He cleared his throat, his voice low, almost reverent. “You look... incredible.” It wasn’t just a compliment. It sounded like something sacred. Your chest tightened, heat blooming under your skin.

“You clean up really well, Reynolds.” You murmured back, resisting the urge to bite your lip as your eyes traced the lines of his suit. His smile twitched, a little crooked, a little bashful, but the way he offered his arm was nothing short of classic. Chivalrous. “Ready?” You looped your hand into the bend of his elbow, fingers barely grazing the fine fabric of his suit sleeve, but even that tiny contact sent something fluttering under your ribs. “I think so." You whispered, but it sounded like a lie. Because you weren’t ready.

Not for the way he looked at you.

Not for the tension crackling between you like an invisible tether. And definitely not for the idea of surviving an entire night next to him, pretending not to fall deeper every second. As you descended the rest of the stairs together, surrounded by glittering lights and polished conversation, you felt his arm shift closer to yours. Protective. Steady. A quiet promise between the noise. Above you, Yelena leaned toward Ava and whispered with glee. "There’s absolutely no way they don’t crack tonight.”

Not that you or Bob had the slightest clue what was coming.

The grand hall was no less stunning than the staircase. If anything, it was overwhelming. Vaulted ceilings glittered with gold leaf, chandeliers dangled like constellations in glass, and a soft orchestral arrangement drifted from the far end of the room where a quartet played beneath velvet drapes. Candlelight flickered in sconces mounted on carved pillars, casting a warm, amber glow over the polished floor. You and Bob hadn’t taken more than a few steps into the ballroom when— “Group photo. Now.” Came a voice that made your spine instinctively straighten.

Valentina.

She stood to the side of the press station in a gunmetal-gray gown, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, brows raised in expectation. A very polite “smile for the donors” kind of threat behind her smirk. You barely had time to exchange a glance with Bob before the rest of the team was being herded like misbehaving students on picture day. “Let’s make it quick.” Bucky muttered under his breath as he straightened his collar beside Yelena.

You positioned yourself in the middle, as instructed, heels clicking as you moved into place between Ava and Bob. The photographer gestured animatedly behind the lens. “Big smiles! We want you to look like you’re changing the world and having fun doing it!” You barely heard him. Not with Bob standing beside you, his arm ghosting just behind your back, his presence impossibly close. Every time his shoulder brushed yours, your heartbeat fluttered.

Then, as if by accident, but you knew better, Ava shifted, bumping you just enough to send you leaning subtly further into Bob’s side. A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she straightened, eyes fixed ahead like she hadn’t done a thing. He didn’t move away. If anything, you felt him steady you, his fingers briefly grazing the small of your back before settling just out of sight. He didn’t speak, but you could feel his eyes on you every few seconds. You could only hope he didn’t notice how wildly your heart was racing.

Flash. Flash. Flash. Flash.

And then, thankfully, it was over.

Yet before you could so much as step away from the group, a manicured hand slipped into yours. “There you are,” Mel’s voice purred from behind. “I’ve been trying to track you down. Come, there’s someone I want you to meet.” You turned, startled but obedient, catching Bob’s eyes briefly, he looked like he wanted to say something, his brows slightly furrowed, but Mel was already tugging you away with the quiet precision of someone used to getting things done.

You mouthed sorry to him over your shoulder, but then you were gone, swallowed by the swell of chiffon and silk and champagne. She led you toward the bar tucked elegantly into a corner of the room, polished mahogany gleaming under rows of backlit bottles. The crowd had thinned in this pocket, replaced by quiet, murmuring conversations and the occasional clink of crystal glass. “That man there,” Mel murmured low as you both slowed, nodding toward the tall figure at the bar.

“Elias Mercer. Powerful contacts. More interested in policy than politics. Be charming, but don’t make promises. Just listen.” Then she was gone, disappearing like a shadow before you could protest. Elias turned toward you just as you approached, and you understood immediately why Mel had bothered. He was handsome in the well-tailored, effortless power kind of way. He had that cultivated confidence that dripped from every movement: blonde hair slicked back, not a strand out of place; a navy suit pressed so sharply it looked dangerous.

“Well, well,” He drawled, eyes scanning your gown with a slow appreciation that bordered on bold. “They weren’t exaggerating. You’re the prettiest thing this event’s seen in years.” You forced a polite smile, though something in your chest already itched. “I’m not sure if I should thank you or ask who they are.” He chuckled, clearly pleased by your response. “Let’s go with ‘thank you’ for now.” He leaned against the bar casually, lifting a glass of something amber and expensive-looking.

“First round’s on me.” He flagged the bartender before you could protest, ordering for you like it was habit, something sweet, floral, and definitely not your taste. The glass arrived rimmed with sugar, the kind of drink chosen for aesthetics rather than preference. Your eyes flicked to the bar, your brain still playing catch-up with how fast everything had shifted. The hum of music still lingered in the air, and across the room you could just barely make out Bob standing by the photo backdrop, eyes scanning the crowd like he was looking for someone.

Elias leaned closer. “So,” He murmured, voice smooth like silk over ice. “What exactly does a woman like you do when she’s not dazzling rooms like this?” Across the ballroom, laughter rose like a tide, but Bob wasn’t listening to any of it. He stood near the edge of the photo setup, posture stiff, barely hearing a word John was saying about security coverage or potential press questions. His eyes kept flicking through the crowd, scanning for one very specific figure. You.

“I swear, if Valentina drags us into one more round of photos—” John was mid-rant when Bob finally cut him off. “Have you guys seen Y/N?” Bucky, who’d been standing quietly beside them sipping from a lowball glass, lifted a brow at the shift in Bob’s tone. “Didn’t Mel pull her away?” Bob’s jaw clenched. “That was fifteen minutes ago, I haven’t seen her since.” He scanned the crowd again. Something was wrong. He could feel it in his chest, a tension building behind his ribs that had nothing to do with the suit or the heat of the crowd.

The ballroom was crowded, sure, but he knew how to find you. He always did. And then, he saw it. You were near the bar, half-sitting on a velvet stool, your posture angled slightly away from the man seated beside you. Clearly uncomfortable. He also noticed something else, the man’s hand, resting far too comfortably on your bare thigh, fingers splayed against the slit in your dress. Your smile looked tight. Wrong. Bob saw red. But more than that, his eyes actually flashed gold. His jaw locked so tight it might have snapped.

Without another word, he’d already handed Bucky his untouched drink and was moving through the crowd. Every cell in his body buzzed, not with rage, but something deeper. Primal. Protective. “This is about to get really interesting.” John muttered, watching Bob stalk off like a predator. You weren’t even fully sure how Elias’s hand had ended up on your thigh. It had been gradual, subtle, the kind of entitled, calculated confidence that crept in like fog. He hadn’t asked. Just leaned closer, his drink in one hand, the other brushing your skin like it was owed to him.

You shifted away slightly, giving him a tight lipped smile. “I think that’s enough bourbon for you tonight—” But before the sentence could finish, a hand closed firmly around Elias’s wrist and yanked it away from your leg. The man let out a sharp exhale in surprise, and you gasped. Bob. He was suddenly there, towering over both of you with a look you had never seen on his face before. His usual warmth, his steady gentleness, was gone. In its place was something cold, crackling, and barely leashed.

The golden flicker in his eyes, subtle but unmistakable, made your heart stutter in your chest. “That’s enough.” He murmured, voice low and even. Elias blinked, startled. “Excuse me—?” Before he could finish, Bob smoothly stepped between the two of you, placing himself squarely in Elias’s line of sight. One hand still gripped the other man’s wrist, while the other slid gently onto your thigh, right where Elias’s had been. You could feel the heat of him through the silk, anchoring you and igniting you all at once. Only this time, it wasn’t unwelcome. You weren’t scared. You weren’t uncomfortable.

You were dizzy.

The heat of his palm on your skin sent a jolt through your body. Your breath caught in your throat, eyes wide as Bob’s fingers splayed possessively against the slit of your dress. You could feel the shift in him, the quiet tension in his muscles, the steady weight of his presence protecting you. “Didn’t realize she came with a guard dog.” Elias slowly raised both hands in mock surrender, lips twitching in annoyance. “She doesn’t,” Bob replied, voice calm yet razor-sharp.

“She comes with people who know the difference between being charming… and being a creep.” Elias chuckled low under his breath, stood, and tossed back the last of his drink. “She’s pretty, but not worth this much trouble.” With that, he walked off, disappearing into the crowd with the arrogant swagger of someone used to getting what he wants. But you weren’t even looking at him. You were looking at Bob. Still close. Still with his hand on your thigh. His fingers didn’t move, not yet, as if anchoring you, reminding both of you that he had been the one to step in.

To claim what someone else had touched without permission. And suddenly, your skin felt electric. Flushed. Hyper-aware of every point of contact between you. You blinked up at him, throat dry. “You—um, you didn’t have to do that.” Bob’s gaze finally shifted down to yours. His expression softened, but his hand didn’t move. “I know,” He murmured. “But I wanted to.” His voice was rougher now, softer somehow, like something inside him had cracked open and started pouring out. The orchestra swelled somewhere behind you. For the first time all night, you were speechless.

Bob’s hand eventually dropped from your thigh as the two of you walked, slowly, toward the long round table nestled near the center of the ballroom. Candlelight flickered over polished crystal and untouched hors d'oeuvres. A string of golden name cards decorated each seat with militaristic precision. As you approached, you could feel the weight of the group’s attention before you even reached the table. Yelena looked up first, elbowing Bucky with zero grace.

He arched a brow, then glanced between you and Bob, eyes narrowing. John, seated on the far side, was nursing a whiskey and doing a poor job of hiding his smug grin. Ava straightened in her chair, her brows raised high mouthing something behind her wine glass. Only Alexi remained blissfully unaware, focused entirely on buttering a roll with the intensity of a man dismantling a bomb. Bob pulled your chair out for you, subtle, careful, but the gesture burned in the back of your neck.

You could still feel the ghost of his hand on your skin. Your body hadn’t quite calmed down. Every part of you still buzzed like static under silk. He sat beside you, and though his posture had returned to calm, shoulders squared, hands resting easily, there was a tension in his jaw that hadn’t quite gone away. Bob cleared his throat, stiffening slightly as he unfolded his napkin. His cheeks still held the faintest pink hue, though whether it was from possessiveness or proximity, you weren’t sure.

Yelena leaned toward Ava, not bothering to whisper. “Who knew he had that in him?” Ava smirked from beside her. “I’m never letting her live this down.” You pretended not to hear them, focusing instead on the champagne flute in front of you, hands a little too still in your lap. Then the lights dimmed, and a hush swept over the room. A spotlight clicked on above the stage. Valentina glided to the podium wearing the kind of practiced smile only politicians and devils wore well.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to welcome you all tonight. As you know, we are entering a new era. A better era. One guided by clarity, strength, and people who aren’t afraid to do what’s necessary for a safer world.” She gestured toward your table with a graceful sweep of her arm. “The New Avengers.” You felt Bob’s arm brush against yours under the table, his hand resting on his thigh, fingers flexing. He hated this part. You all did. Your eyes flicked toward the others. Ava looked like she was trying not to gag. Bucky had tuned out completely, arms folded as he stared somewhere past the chandeliers.

Even John, ever the polished soldier, looked like he was barely tolerating the performance. But it was all for the donors. The money. The future. And you smiled, because that’s what was expected. Polite applause followed. Investors, politicians, and old money donors gave their obligatory nods and toasts. Valentina basked in it.“With your support, this team will do more than protect borders. They’ll protect ideals. Influence outcomes. Ensure peace. Permanently.” Her voice sharpened on that last word.

You shifted in your seat, feeling Bob shift slightly next to you too. The whole thing was so carefully curated, so slippery in its language. She was selling the image of power. Of control. Of all of you. Eventually, the speech ended. Applause rose again, more enthusiastic this time. Cameras flashed. Servers moved between tables, offering more wine and champagne. That’s when Yelena’s hand snuck into yours beneath the table. “Bathroom. Now.” She whispered, dragging you to your feet before you could process it. Ava followed immediately, muttering something about needing to “re-apply her lipstick.”

You barely caught the way Bob looked at you as you left, his blue eyes warm, slightly curious, like he was still thinking about what had happened the bar. The hallway outside the ballroom was cool and quiet, lit with soft sconces and lined with velvet curtains. “Okay,” Yelena declared as soon as the bathroom door shut behind the three of you. “Are we going to talk about the fact that your man just went full golden-eyed possessive alpha male out there or—?” You rolled your eyes, but the pink hue of your face betrayed you.

“He’s not my man, Yelena.” You blurted, though it sounded hollow even to your own ears. Ava crossed her arms, tilting her head. “You’re glowing. You look like you’re on the verge of short-circuiting.” You groaned, leaning over the sink. “It was just… instinct. Right? He was just protecting me.” Yelena snorted. “Protecting you from thigh-grabby Mercer and staking a very visible claim are two very different things.” You stared at your reflection, heart still beating unevenly.

You took a breath, multiple sips of water, and composed yourself. Then reluctantly stepped back into the ballroom, because you couldn’t hide out in the bathroom for the rest of the evening no matter how much you wanted to. Ava and Yelena right behind you as you visibly froze. Your table was just ahead, and someone else was sitting beside Bob. A blonde woman stood beside him, hips tilted, her red dress criminally low-cut, practically a second skin. Her hand rested lightly on the back of his chair, like she was considering whether to touch his shoulder next.

Bob wasn’t leaning toward her, but he wasn’t exactly recoiling either. Then you saw it. Her fingertips grazed his shoulder, and lingered, before sliding down to his forearm. And Bob smiled. Not the full one, the soft one. The one you knew. The one that had made you fall harder than you wanted to admit. Your lungs didn’t quite expand. A quiet, unexpected knot tightened in your chest. That heat in your chest? It wasn’t embarrassment this time. It was jealousy.

Jealousy hit hard, sharp and acidic, curling beneath your ribs like heat. Hot, sharp, and unrelenting. You took a breath and walked back toward the table, slower this time, heart thudding painfully loud in your ears. The blonde noticed you approaching and barely shifted, still smiling at Bob like he was dessert. But then, before you could psych yourself out, you slid right into his lap. Sideways, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your dress shifted to reveal a little more leg, and the silk of it draped over both of your thighs as you curled an arm loosely around his neck.

The other hand came to rest gently, but possessively, over his abdomen. His entire body went still. The air around the table thickened. Your fingers pressed lightly into the fabric of his jacket, right over his ribs. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to. “Oh,” You murmured innocently, leaning into the curve of Bob’s neck, breath ghosting his skin. “I didn’t realize we had company.” His hand found your hip instinctively, fingers tightening like a reflex. The blonde blinked, her smile immediately thinning. “I don’t think we’ve met—”

“No,” You replied monotonously, effectively cutting her off. “We haven’t.” Bob was absolutely motionless beneath you, save for the subtle flex of his jaw. His arm moved to wrap around your waist like gravity, pulling you just slightly closer. The blonde stood after an awkward beat, murmured something about needing to “go freshen up,” and walked off, her heels clicking sharply on the marble. You didn’t look away until she vanished behind a curtain of guests.

The orchestra struck its first chord, warm and elegant, notes blooming like silk petals in the air. Laughter bubbled from the dance floor as couples swept into each other’s arms, dresses twirling and polished shoes gliding over the marble. Yet, you remained where you were, perched sideways across Bob’s lap, hand pressed to his chest, rising and falling with every one of his increasingly uneven breaths. His arm curled around your waist as if it had been molded there, unmoving, unwilling to let go.

Your pulse stuttered beneath your skin, too fast, too hot. You knew he could feel it. He hadn’t spoken in nearly a full minute, but the tension in his body spoke for him. Then, he cleared his throat. A soft, barely-there sound that somehow made your stomach twist. You didn’t let him get a word in. “Dance with me.” The words came out breathier than intended, but they hung between you like an open invitation. Bob blinked, startled, then hesitated, like he wasn’t sure if you meant it.

You didn’t wait. You rose smoothly from his lap, your hand sliding down his arm until your fingers found his. You didn’t tug. You just looked at him. And of course, he followed. The two of you stepped into the glow of the chandeliers again, the hush of music guiding your steps toward the edge of the dance floor. You slipped your hand into his, placing the other on his shoulder, heart stammering in your chest as his hand settled cautiously on the curve of your waist.

You began to sway. Neither of you were dancers, but it didn’t matter. The moment held its own rhythm. Your dress brushed against his leg with each turn. His thumb caressed a soft, unconscious circle against your lower back. And though your eyes kept meeting, neither of you really spoke. You were both still pretending. Still holding back. Even with the air thick between you. Even with your fingers curling tighter into his jacket, his jaw tightening every time you swayed too close. And for a moment, it was quiet again. Then, Bob cleared his throat, awkwardly, softly, like he wasn’t quite sure he should speak.

“S-So are we just not going to talk about it?” Your gaze flicked up to meet his, and your stomach clenched. “Talk about what, Bob?” The response came sharper than intended, a defense before you could stop it. “The fact that you nearly ripped a guy’s arm off, or the fact that you were eyeballing that girl’s tits as she was blatantly eye-fucking you.” He froze, his hand on your waist tensed. “W-What, Y/N? She came onto me, I wasn’t looking at her, I swear. I was just… caught off guard.” You arched a brow, your voice dipping dangerously.

“So what, you just let her? Let her paw at you like you were on display?” His voice cracked under the weight of his urgency. “And what about you? That guy was making you uncomfortable, I saw it all over your face. I had to do something. I couldn’t just stand there while he—” He cut himself off, jaw clenched, that familiar gold hue resurfacing, swallowing the blue of his eyes. You were quiet. Your chest rose and fell in rhythm with the music, with your own chaotic thoughts. “Just…” You exhaled. “Come with me.” You didn’t give him a chance to argue.

You simply slid your hand down his wrist, fingers curling around his, and pulled him off the dance floor, past the swirling couples and flickering candles, toward a hallway bathed in soft light. Each step echoed with tension, yours, his, shared and unnamed. You reached the terrace doors and pushed through, cool night air kissing your overheated skin. The terrace was quiet, stone beneath your heels, stars scattered across a dark velvet sky. Only the distant hum of the orchestra floated through the open doors behind you. You turned to face him again.

Bob’s chest rose and fell like he’d just finished running, not dancing. His cheeks were flushed, not from embarrassment, but from everything he hadn’t said. The silence wrapped around you was thick and fragile. For once, neither of you spoke first. Your eyes flicked to his tie, crooked now from when you’d pulled him into you. Your fingers moved on instinct, reaching up, smoothing it gently. His breath hitched. “You didn’t have to defend me.” He scoffed incredulously. “Yes, I did.” You looked up at him. “Why?” You knew the answer, you just had to hear it from him.

Bob’s lips parted, and the glow in his eyes deepened, flickering like molten gold behind glass. His jaw flexed, like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. So you did something instead. You stepped in closer. Slowly. Deliberately. Your chest brushed his. You looked at him through your lashes. “Admit it Bob, you were jealous.” His hand found your waist again, stronger this time, steadier. “And you weren’t?” You didn’t answer.

Because the answer was already written in the way you leaned into him. In the way his breath fanned against your cheek. In the way your eyes dropped to his mouth for just a second too long. And maybe, just maybe, you both finally realized this game was nearing its end. You stood so close you could feel every breath Bob took, every shift in the way he held your waist like it grounded him. The silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore, it pulsed with something deep, charged, and entirely unspoken.

The golden flicker in his eyes had softened now, but it hadn’t gone. He opened his mouth. Closed it. And then, finally, he let it out. “I’ve been in love with you for months.” His voice wasn’t loud, but it was solid. Unshakable. A truth he’d been carrying so long it had carved itself into the marrow of him. Your heart stopped. “W-What?” You breathed, barely trusting your own ears. Bob didn’t flinch. Didn’t backpedal. His gaze never left yours. “I know I’m not supposed to say that, not like this, not here,” He murmured, voice rough with the edges of vulnerability.

“But I’ve been trying to keep it down, to keep it quiet, and I can’t anymore. I just, I need you to know.” You could only stare. He took a breath, his thumb brushing absently over your waist like he didn’t realize it was still there. “Ever since that first mission we got benched on together,” He continued, softer now. “You were pissed. You paced the hangar for twenty straight minutes, muttering under your breath, and I—God, I couldn’t stop watching you. Not because of how you looked. I mean, you’re—” He swallowed.

“You’re stunning, but it was more than that.” His voice dipped, vulnerable and almost reverent. “You didn’t treat me like I was fragile. Like I was broken. Everyone else, they hesitate. They talk to me like I might crack if they say the wrong thing. But you? You’ve never done that. You joke, you push back, you talk to me like I’m just, me. And that, that means everything.” Your breath caught in your throat. “I notice everything about you,” He went on, eyes burning into yours now.

“I know you hate oat milk. I know you hum when you’re wiring explosives because it helps you focus. I know the exact look you get when you’re over-caffeinated but pretending you’re not.” He chuckled, low and self-deprecating. “And yeah, I learned how to make that matcha drink exactly how you like it. Extra matcha foam, splash of vanilla, whole milk. Took me five tries before it didn’t taste like chalk.” Your chest was aching. “But it’s not just that,” He coaxed, quieter now.

“It’s the way you light up when you come back from a mission. Even exhausted, you have this, spark. And every time I see you step into a room, something in me settles. Like everything’s okay if you’re okay.” You could feel your throat closing, emotion swelling like a wave. “I leave you those notes because I never know what to say in person. Because you make my brain short-circuit. So I write it down. And when you’re out there getting bruised and saving the world, I refill your water, I tidy your gear, because it’s the only way I know how to say I care.”

His hand slid gently from your waist to your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye, like he’d already guessed you were trying not to cry. “I didn’t mean to fall for you,” He whispered. “But it’s the best damn thing that’s ever happened to me.” You stood frozen, then your voice finally cracked through the silence. “Bob…” You blinked, your lashes wet, your chest tight. “I’ve been falling in love with you this entire time.” His breath hitched. “You… have?” Your laugh was barely a whisper. “Of course I have. You idiot. Do you think I just let anyone touch me like that?”

He laughed through his nose, but you stepped closer, resting your hands against his chest. You felt his heart stuttering beneath your palms, just like yours. “You learned how to make my favorite drink. You leave me the sweetest, dorkiest notes when I get back from fieldwork. And I know you always refill my water bottle even though you pretend you didn’t.” You looked up at him, and this time, you were the one who couldn’t look away. “I notice everything about you too, Bob,”

“The way your voice softens when you're calming someone down. The way you always take the corner booth because you know I hate sitting with my back to the door. How you’re the first one to offer help and the last to ask for any.” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t stop. “I didn’t want to admit it. I thought if I did, I’d ruin what we have. But the truth is, I’ve been yours this whole time.” He stepped forward. “I don’t want to pretend anymore, I’m tired of dancing around it. I want this. You.” His thumb traced slow circles along your ribs. “Then take it.” You breathed.

It happened fast. One step too close, one last look that lingered too long, and then the space between you disappeared like it had never existed. His mouth crashed against yours, months of repressed emotion and barely-contained tension igniting all at once. There was nothing careful or tentative about it, just teeth and heat, lips dragging hungrily over yours, and the immediate slide of his tongue demanding entry. He tasted like the Diet Coke he had been sipping and something utterly Bob.

You gasped into the kiss, but it only gave him more access. He swallowed it greedily, his hand rising to cup your jaw, thumb tilting your chin just enough so he could deepen it, tongue sweeping over yours in a hot, bruising stroke that made your knees buckle. Your hands were already tangled in his jacket, gripping lapels like your life depended on it. When his teeth tugged at your bottom lip, just enough to sting, you whimpered, and that sound broke something in him. The kiss turned desperate. His hands roamed like he’d been dying to touch you for years.

One gripped your waist, pulling you flush against the hard line of his body, while the other slid down, trailing over the exposed curve of your bare back, the silk of your dress offering no resistance. His fingertips skimmed the base of your spine, then lower, slipping under the open edge of your gown. He groaned low in his throat when his palm met bare skin, smoothing over the curve of your hip and down your thigh, fingers grazing the slit in your dress that had tormented him all night. Your leg lifted almost instinctively, wrapping around his as your bodies melted together, the slit parting even further to let him in.

His grip shifted to your thigh, strong fingers curling under it, anchoring you to him like he couldn’t possibly stand the thought of ever letting go, now that he was able to touch you like this. You could feel every inch of him, his chest heaving against yours, the twitch of his jaw as he fought for control, the hard press of arousal against your lower stomach. Your back hit the cool marble of the terrace wall. A gasp spilled from your lips, swallowed by his mouth again in a kiss that burned like wildfire.

He pinned you there with his body, hips flush against yours, one hand braced beside your head, the other still on your leg, pushing the fabric higher so his thumb could drag slowly along your inner thigh. Your breath hitched. A soft, helpless moan escaped, and he echoed it with a guttural noise, his tongue sweeping into your mouth again with a new kind of hunger. It was messy. Urgent. Dizzying. The taste of each other. The soft drag of your nails down his neck. His teeth grazing your lip again. The low, desperate sounds vibrating in your throat. His touch, leaving fire in its wake.

And the way you both kissed like it wasn’t just lust, but the breaking point of everything unsaid finally crashing through. Your body arched into his. His mouth barely left yours long enough to breathe. And the gala went on behind the doors, utterly irrelevant now. "Took you both long enough!" Yelena’s voice cut sharply through the thick fog of lust hanging around you like smoke. You and Bob tore yourselves apart, panting, flushed, his lips kiss-bitten and your dress now visibly wrinkled in spots that revealed far too much about where his hands had been.

"Poor guy almost lost his arm." Walker added with a grunt, nodding toward Bob, whose tie was still clutched tightly in your hand. His smirk betrayed no real annoyance, only amusement. "You gotta admit, it was entertaining as hell though." Ava drawled, one brow raised, arms folded as she leaned against the terrace rail like she’d been watching a soap opera play out in real time. That’s when it hit you. "You guys fucking planned this?" You and Bob yelled in unison.

“It was painful seeing both of you pining over the other, we had to do something.” Bucky stated, entirely unapologetic. "You also think Mel coincidentally got you a blue dress that matched his eyes?" Yelena deadpanned, eyes flicking pointedly to the leg slit and the exposed sweep of your back with zero subtlety. Your brow lifted. You narrowed your eyes. Then, slowly, the grin spread across your face like gasoline catching fire. "Well, I hope you all have noise-cancelling headphones."

They froze. Some blinked. Ava’s mouth twitched. Yelena cocked her head with an intrigued hum. But you leaned in, melting into Bob’s side, fingers slipping past his jacket lapel to trail lazily over the spot where his chest rose and fell in short, uneven breaths. "Cause Bob and I have a lot of lost time to catch up on," You purred, tilting your chin up toward him. His hand dropped to your hip again, almost on instinct. Possessive. Firm. Like he was already thinking about what he was going to do to you the moment the others vanished.

“It’s gonna get real loud.” You didn’t wait for a response. You yanked him down by the tie, lips crashing together with a loud, unapologetic smack. His arms locked around your waist instantly, pulling you up onto your toes as he devoured you right there in front of everyone. Tongue thrusting into your mouth without hesitation. His teeth grazed yours in the heat of it, and a growl, raw and deep, rumbled low in his chest as you dragged your fingers up the back of his neck.

You were keenly aware of the reactions behind you: exaggerated gagging, muttered curses, dramatic footsteps retreating, someone snorting with laughter. But it all faded under the hungry slide of Bob’s mouth, under the way his hand slipped lower, palm pressing just beneath the curve of your ass. They’d planned this? Fine. Only, they had no idea what they’d just unleashed. Because this wasn’t tension anymore, no, this was a reckoning. The night was still young.

It was going to be a very long night indeed.

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[houseofaegon]

Bob and a reader who bruises easily and when they have sex the reader is usually marked up the next day?

Marked ✩ Bob Reynolds

Pairings: Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolt!Reader

Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. explicit sexual scenes, bruising (reader bruises easily), rough sex, possessive!bob, protective older brother!bucky, strong language, secret relationship, minor angst, fluff, found family, chaotic thunderbolts energy, family dynamics, violence (threatened),

Summary: You and Bob had been sneaking around for months, the thrill of secrecy only fueling the fire and desire. But bruises from the night before threaten to unravel everything—especially when Bucky Barnes sees them and goes into full protective big brother mode.

Author's Note: omg you guyssssssss!!! i had so much fun writing this one. i am so obsessed with the whole secret relationship setup, and bucky going full protective older brother mode???? ughhhhhh I'm obsessed. i love my boyfriends<3 yelena my baby I love love love writing her so much she's sooo ughhh I love her!!!! i love myself some found family<3 keep the requests comingggggg!!!! i’ve got so many on my inbox already i’ve been planning out all of the fics so they’ll be posted soon<3

You woke up tangled in sheets, muscles aching, skin kissed with tenderness. Bob's arm was drapped heavy over your waist, the rise and fall of his chest pressing your back into him, grounding you, like he needed the contact to breathe. He always held you like that after—like if he let go, you might vanish.

A dull ache throbbed deep in your thighs, your hips, the slope of your neck. Each mark a reminder of the night before. Of how careful he tried to be. Of how easily he lost himself in you when the door was closed and the rest of the world disappeared.

It had started slow, like it always did.

Quiet knock on your door, late enough for the others to be asleep or buried in their own distractions. Bob would linger in the hall, hoodie thrown over his head, hands in his pockets like some kind of teenage boy sneaking into his girlfriend's room.

The moment the door clicked shut, the tension would snap. You’d throw yourself at him—starving, always starving—and he’d catch you every time.

Last night was no different. You'd been watching him all day, practically squirming on the sidelines of the gym while he trained with Yelena.

That damn white shirt clung to him, soaked through sweat, riding up every time he moved. His biceps flexed with every punch, his golden curls damp and wild. You caught him watching you more than once, eyes dark, mouth parted.

He looked wrecked before you even touched him.

By the time he showed up at your door, you didn’t say a word. You grabbed him by the collar of his hoodie, yanked him into your room, and kissed him like he was oxygen.

His hands trembled when they touched your waist. “I’ll be careful,” he whispered, even as you guided him to the bed, tugging his clothes off, already breathless.

“You don’t have to be,” you said. "I don't want you to be."

He kissed down your neck, hands gripping your thighs like he was anchoring himself. When his mouth found your pulse point, he sucked just hard enough to draw a moan—and the bruise bloomed seconds later.

He pulled back to look at the mark, already forming, then looked up at you with something feral in his eyes. “You’re so fucking soft,” he groaned. “I’m gonna mark every inch of you. Mine. All of you.”

You gripped his hair, kissed him harder. “Then do it.”

His fingers laced with yours, pinning them above your head as he pushed into you slowly, the stretch of him drawing a gasp from your lips. He watched your face like it was the only thing that mattered.

His thrusts were slow, deep, patient at first—until you begged.

“Harder, Bob. Please. Don’t hold back.”

He shuddered. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I do,” you gasped. “I want all of you.”

His mouth crashed into yours, and the dam broke.

You swore the headboard cracked. The bed groaned beneath you. Your name was a prayer on his tongue, murmured between bruising kisses and gasped apologies he didn’t need to make.

Because you loved the marks. The ache. The secrecy.

The thrill of sneaking out of his room at 3AM, hair a mess, lips swollen. Of pretending nothing happened in the halls the next day. Of brushing fingers under the table during briefings, eyes meeting like a promise.

And in those moments—when no one else knew, when it was just you and him—you felt more his than ever.

You traced a bruise on your collarbone absently as you slipped out of his bed, one of his t-shirts falling to mid-thigh. You bit your lip to hide the satisfied smile. Bruised and adored. Just how you liked it.

The tower was still quiet as you crept back to your room to change, slipping into gym shorts and a hoodie for morning training. You paused once, catching your reflection in your bathroom mirror—faint marks painting your hips, the curve of your neck, the inside of your thigh.

Heat flushed through you at the memory. His hands gripping your waist. His voice—“You’re mine.”

You tugged the hoodie tighter and headed down to start training.

The gym was already humming with low music and the sound of punches hitting pads. Bucky was setting up on the mat, hoodie off, sweat darkening the collar of his black shirt. He gave you a quick nod when you walked in—his version of a good morning.

Bucky Barnes had been like a brother to you since day one. Not in the forced “everyone on a team is family” way—no, this was different. Real.

He was rough around the edges when you first joined the Thunderbolts, all tight-lipped commands and watchful eyes. Cold. Distance. Guarded. But something in you cracked through that hard soldier shell. Maybe it was how stubborn you were. How warm. Unafraid to rile him up, to poke the bear. Maybe it was how you asked too many questions. Or the way you always saved him a seat in the briefing room. Or how you reminded him—without meaning to—what it felt like to care about someone without it turning into war.

You sometimes reminded him of Steve.

He saw him in you. In the way you saw people. In how you never gave up on anyone, not even him. In the way you could smile even after a mission gone sideways and still say, "We're okay. We'll figure this shit out."

You were brave. Kind. Loyal.

You were the thing Steve used to fight for.

And Bucky—he didn’t say it, couldn’t say it—but he clung to that. To you. Because if someone like you could believe in him, then maybe there was still something worth saving inside him.

That’s why he called you “kid,” even though you weren’t.

That’s why he tossed you his hoodie when you were cold, sat beside you when you couldn’t sleep, and taught you how to break a man’s wrist with a flick of your body weight.

He watched over you in the field. Back-to-back in a firefight. A quiet hand on your shoulder after a tough mission. His voice, always steady, always low: “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

He wasn’t your teammate. He wasn’t a friend.

He was your brother. Your family. Not by blood. But by bond. By choice.

And that made what happened next inevitable.

Because when he saw those bruises, the ground shifted underneath his feet. All he could see was someone hurting you. And he'd spent decades trying to protect people like you, people he cared about. He had lost Steve. He wasn't going to lose you.

“You’re late,” he said.

“Barely,” you said, grinning. “Try smiling once in a while.”

He rolled his eyes. “Try not tripping over your own feet.”

“Rude,” you said.

He tossed you a set of gloves. “Let’s go. Standard drills.”

You started slow. Footwork. Blocks. He moved easily, but watched your form like a hawk, correcting gently with a hand at your hip, your wrist, your shoulder.

“Looser on the right,” he murmured. “You’re tightening up too much, kiddo.”

“I’m fine.”

“Mm-hmm.” His tone was skeptical. “Take off the hoodie.”

You froze.

“It’s hot in here,” he added, too casually. “And you’re sweating like hell.”

“Bucky—”

“Off, Y/N.”

Shit.

You sighed, peeled it off, revealing the tank top beneath—and the faint, fresh constellation of bruises that peppered your collarbone and shoulders.

The moment the hoodie dropped to the mat, everything stopped.

Bucky’s whole body tensed.

His eyes locked on the marks. A slow, terrible realization crawling across his face like storm clouds. His voice was suddenly razor sharp.

He stopped breathing.

“What the fuck is that?”

You blinked, already knowing where this was going. “It’s nothing, Bucky.”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice dropped, deadly quiet. “Who did this?”

“I said it’s nothing—”

His gaze narrowed. “Don’t bullshit me. Y/N, what is that?” He stepped forward, fingers brushing the side of your neck. His touch was soft, but his jaw was tight. “Who the fuck did this to you?”

“I—” You swallowed. “It’s fine, Bucky. It’s—just mosquito bites, that's all.”

“I'm not stupid. I know what bruises look like,” he snapped, his voice rising. “And those? They didn’t come from sparring.”

You stepped back. "Please don't do this."

“Do not follow me unless you’re gonna tell me the truth.”

And then he was storming down the hall, headed for the common room. Straight into the storm.

Because to him? This wasn’t just bruises.

It was his kid—his sister—hurt, marked, and silent about it.

And he’d tear down the whole damn team to protect you.

But of course, you followed him. You fumbled to put the hoodie back on, trying to catch up with Bucky.

You caught up to him just as he stormed into the common room, boots stomping accross the floor. You barely had time to catch your breath before all hell broke loose.

Bob was sprawled on the couch, legs stretched out, hoodie pulled halfway over his head, curls messy on his forehead. Yelena sat beside him eating chips straight from the bag, one boot resting on the coffee table. Walker was slumped on the other, flipping channels again and again.

"Just pick a damn channel already, jeez," Yelena scoffed.

"We have Netflix you know?" Bob chimed in softly.

The second Bucky entered, everyone looked up.

“Do you know who fucking did this to her?” Bucky barked, voice sharp enough to cut metal.

Yelena blinked, slow and unbothered. She raised one perfectly arched brow and held up her bag of chips. “Wow. Good morning to you too, soldier boy. Want a chip?”

Walker frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about this!” Bucky turned, grabbed your armg gently, always gently, and tugged the hoodie sleeve up to show the fading bruise near your wrist. “And that,” he pointed to your neck. “And that.”

“Bucky, please—” you tried, stepping in front of him, but he wasn’t hearing it.

“You better start talking,” he growled, pointing at each of them like they were suspects in a murder trial. “Because if one of you laid a hand on her—”

“Okay, this is very dramatic,” Yelena said, popping another chip in her mouth. “I love it. Are we in a movie right now? Because damn, the drama.”

“I’m being very fucking serious right now, Yelena.”

She shrugged. “Just trying to defuse the tension.”

“And you're not helping!”

“I know,” she said sweetly.

Bucky whirled on Walker next. “Was it you?”

Walker sat up straighter, blinking. “What? No! Jesus—”

“I swear—if you even looked at her wrong—”

“Oh, come on, man!” Walker snapped, tossing the remote on the couch. “I’m not suicidal.”

While Bucky and Walker bickered, Yelena turned to you slowly, her eyes cool but curious. Then—subtle as smoke—her gaze dropped to the bruises peeking from your hoodie, then flicked to Bob.

Bob hadn’t moved. But he was watching. His shoulders tense. His jaw clenched.

Yelena raised one perfectly arched brow. You saw the moment it clicked for her.

Of course she knew.

She wasn’t stupid. She’d seen the way you looked at each other during debriefs. The way you flushed when Bob’s fingers brushed yours in the kitchen. She’d definitely heard the sounds coming from your room last night—because, shocker, spies hear everything.

But she wasn’t going to rat you out to Bucky. No. She gave you the look—the look—tilting her head with the tiniest smirk like, girl, really? him? damn okay.

Then she turned back to her chips like none of this concerned her.

Meanwhile, Bucky was still in full interrogation mode.

“I will find out who did this,” he said, voice rising again. “And when I do—”

“You’re going to do what, Barnes?” Walker snapped back. “Ground us? You're not her dad.”

“I don’t have to be,” Bucky growled. “She’s family. I raised her on this goddamn team while you were still figuring out which way the bathroom was!”

“Oh my god,” Yelena said through a mouthful of chips, “this is better than anything on TV.”

You rubbed your hands down your face and slowly met Bob's eyes, just for a second.

It was enough.

He stood up. Violently. Almost knocking off the entire coffee table.

Yelena sat up straighter, chip bag rustling. "Oh, here we go."

Walker looked from Bob to Bucky, then back. “Wait. Wait wait wait—are we fighting now? In the middle of the living room? Are you guys serious?"

Bucky turned toward Bob, chest puffe like a feral bull. "Say something. I dare you."

“Enough!” Bob’s voice cracked like a whip across the room, thunderous, vibrating in the air like it came from somewhere deeper than his chest.

Yelena froze, chip halfway to her mouth. “Well, there goes the drywall.”

Bucky took one menacing step forward. “What did you say?”

Bob didn’t flinch. His voice was low. "It was me."

Dead. Silence.

Oh, fuck.

You could've heard a pin drop.

Yelena whispered, “Oh my god, I knew it.”

Walker blinked. “Hold the fuck on.” He gasped like he just found out Santa wasn’t real. “Wait—you two?! You’ve been doing it?”

“You?” Bucky spat, stepping forward. “You think that’s fucking funny?”

“No,” Bob said calm. Too calm.

And that snapped Bucky.

He lunged. “I’m going to kill you right now!”

“Bucky!” you shouted, throwing yourself between them just as Bucky’s fist came up.

You caught him mid-swing, grabbing his wrist, bracing your weight against him with everything you had.

“NO! No, no, no—Bucky, stop!” you yelled, pushing back on his chest, eyes wide.

Bob didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His hands stayed at his sides, jaw set like he was ready to take it.

“You did this to her?” he hissed. “You put your hands on her?”

“I didn’t hurt her,” Bob bit out. “I’ve never laid a hand on her in anger—”

“You left bruises!” Bucky shouted, jabbing a finger toward Bob like he was issuing a death sentence. “You don’t get to decide what hurting her looks like! You don’t get to be the one who touches her and makes her lie to me about it!”

“Bucky, please,” you pleaded, voice breaking.

“I didn’t hurt her,” Bob snapped. “You think I don’t know what I’m capable of? I’ve been terrified of it since day one. Every time I touch her, I’m scared shitless I’ll lose control—but I don’t. Because I’d rather die than ever cross that line.”

Bucky’s jaw locked. “That’s not comforting.”

“She’s not a child, Bucky,” Bob bit out. “She knows what she wants."

"But she's my child, Bob! Mine," Bucky roared, voice cracking with something other than rage, like fear. "I've been protecting her since she joined this team. I've bled for her. I would take a bullet for her if it meant keeping her safe. You think you can just crawl into her bed—what? Expect me to shake your hand? Pat your back? You're fucking delusional."

"She's not yours to own!" Bob roared. "You don't get to decide who touches her, who loves her. She’s not some piece of property. She made a choice. I made my choice."

Bucky’s breathing was ragged, fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white. “She’s my family!" he hissed. "And you didn’t even have the balls to tell me.”

“I wanted to,” Bob snapped. “She told me you’d do this.”

“She was right!” Bucky barked, his eyes glossing over with betrayal. “Because I trusted you. You were supposed to be safe.”

“I am.” Bob’s voice dropped. “I love her. I’m careful with her. You know she bruises easily. Everyone knows it. I try. I always try. But she wanted it. She asked me to. I never forced her. I’d never do that to her.”

You stepped in closer, your hand sliding to Bucky’s chest. “He’s telling the truth.”

Bucky stared at you like he didn’t recognize you for a second. “You let him…”

“I wanted him,” you said simply. “And I still do.”

Walker stood up slowly, blinking like a deer in headlights. “Oh my god,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “Is this… is this a thing? Like a regular thing? You two just… sneak around and… Jesus Christ, you two fuck?”

Yelena nearly choked on her chips.

She turned to him slowly, eyes wide with disbelief. “Walker. My guy. You live here. How have you not noticed?”

“I thought the noise was the pipes!” he said, flailing.

Yelena tilted her head. “You thought the pipes moaned her name at 2AM?”

“HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!”

She blinked. "Walker, if your pipes ever sound like that, you call an exorcist. Not maintenance."

He shook his head, exhaling hard. Then he looked at Bob, fury simmering low. “If you ever cross a line—if you so much as make her flinch or cry—I will end you. You break her heart, I break your face. Deal?”

“Deal,” Bob said without hesitation.

Bucky stared at Bob, his jaw ticking. But then his eyes shifted—back to you. Still tight with anger, but… softer now.

“You okay?”

You smiled—small, soft, but sure. “I promise,” you said. “I’m more than okay.”

You glanced back at Bob. He was still watching you like the room didn’t exist.

“He makes me happy, Buck.”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Goddammit.”

He yanked you into a hug, a little too tight, one arm slung around your neck like he was both scolding you and shielding you. You melted into it as he pressed a kiss to your head.

“I swear to God, Y/N,” he muttered, voice low in your ear, “if he hurts you, I’ll kill him myself.”

You chuckled against his chest. “I know you would.”

Bucky sighed and pulled back, plopping down onto the couch like the last ten minutes had aged him a decade. “And for the love of all that is holy—use protection.”

Yelena snorted next to him. “And do not fuck in the communal shower. Please. I beg you.”

Walker looked horrified. “Wait—have they?!”

You and Bob exchanged a look. He blushed. You smirked. Then you crossed the room, and without missing a beat, Bob reached out and pulled you into him. His arm slid over your shoulders like muscle memory, tucking you against his side with an ease that made everyone in the room groan. He looked down at you with that soft, dopey grin, like a damn teenager who just scored the girl of his dreams.

Yelena let out the loudest groan of all. “Oh my god, you’re disgusting. Look at you—so in love. Yuck!” She made a dramatic gagging noise. “This is vile. I feel violated.”

Bob chuckled.

Bucky didn’t even look. He just threw his head back. “Jesus Christ, please stop this. I can’t take it anymore.”

Yelena didn’t miss a beat. “Honestly, Buck? I’m surprised she can still walk after what I heard last night.”

Bob choked violently.

You burst into laughter, burying your face in his hoodie, muffling a wheeze.

Bob cleared his throat, red as a tomato. “Okay, wow.”

Bucky clapped his hands, hard. “OKAY! Great. That’s enough. Breakfast. Anyone?”

Walker, still pale, raised a hand. “I need alcohol.”

Bucky didn’t even hesitate. “You know what? Make it two. Double.”

Yelena leaned back, completely unbothered, tossing a chip in her mouth. “God, I love this team.”

And you? You looked around—at the chaos, the bickering, the laughter—and felt it settle deep in your chest.

You loved them too.

With all your heart.

    ⊹             ⊹            ⊹             ⊹            ⊹          ⊹             ⊹             ⊹

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[theonewiththefanfics]

Peace in the Darkness (one-shot)

Synopsis: Bob knows Y/N isn't one to go back on her words. So when she doesn't show up to go through with their plans, he starts to worry. Luckily for him, Yelena knows how to break-and-enter. And doesn't mind invading her personal space.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader (ex-Black Widow)

Genre: fluff, lil bit of angst

Warnings: sickness because I've been sick this past weekend and life sucked, swearing, Bob being an anxious little bean, alluding to violence, but nothing else, really :)

Word count: 6623

All characters belong to Marvel. Also - Bob has my heart

If Bob paced any more behind Y/N’s door, he was sure to wear a track into the concrete floor.

            His hand had hovered over the panel separating him from whatever lay beyond, about twenty times in the past hour or so, yet just as his knuckles were about to meet it, he pulled back with a shake of his head and began his pacing once more.

            “I should just knock,” the man muttered to himself, blue eyes warily watching the door, hoping it would creak open without his interference, but alas, it remained as immovable as it had always been. “She’s not gonna mind. You’ve woken her up in the middle of the night before, and she wasn’t angry then. She won’t be angry with you.”

            And even still with those thoughts in his mind, Bob couldn’t get himself to do it, his anxiety overriding his motor skills.

            It wasn’t that he was incapable of action. He was. It was more so getting to the action where he faltered. His therapist, someone Bucky had helped him find, had told him even two steps forward and one step back was still a step forward.

            Like the first time he’d reached out for help after a nightmare, where he could feel the Void curling inside him, just waiting until his emotions reached a bubbling point so he could take over.

            “What did you do?” the therapist, a take-no-bullshit kind of woman, had asked. “To stop the Void from emerging?”

            Bob shrugged, knee bouncing up and down, not daring to make eye contact. “I uh – I went to Y/N. I just… I heard she was still awake and knew if the Void was gonna come out, someone had to… You know… be aware and take me – him – down.”

            “And who is Y/N?”

            Now that was a loaded question he wasn’t fully yet ready to answer, so he settled on the objective truth. “She’s my teammate. We live across the hall from one another.”

            “And how did she help?”

            “She…” Bob bit down on his lip. “She invited me inside her room and we just… talked. She had some music playing… I – I guess she helped me take my mind off it all and… stuff…”

            The woman hummed. “And why was she the first person you thought to go to when things got bad?”

            He wanted to say it was because she was the closest one to him, physically being right down the hall, that they were the only two people occupying the floor, but the truth spilt out before he could even contain it, “Because I knew she wouldn’t be mad at me. If – if I woke her up. She… she wouldn’t be upset I was there.” Because she was one of the few people who wasn’t afraid to touch him, despite his powers and the Void.

            But just because she hadn’t been upset with him those few times he’d sought her out, didn’t mean she wouldn’t be angry with him that specific day. Otherwise, why hadn’t she stuck to her promise?

            The previous week, right before Y/N had been shipped out to Malaga on a mission, she’d promised him that once she was back, the two would go to a bookstore together, Bob’s supply already dangerously low.

            Now, though, three hours had passed from the time they’d set last night, and Y/N was nowhere to be seen.

            He’d let the first hour pass by, thinking maybe she had to catch up on some paperwork the team had to file after a mission. When hour two had come and gone, Bob had started to become anxious, but still, he told himself she was probably just resting, no doubt exhausted by the mission, and he would never be one to take away time she could be using to heal. But as hour three had started to roll, Bob couldn’t help the nervousness entering his body, and that was how he ended up behind Y/N’s door.

            Gently, he placed an ear against it, hoping to hear the slightest sound, maybe a soft movement of her feet padding against the carpeted floor, but the only noise invading the silence was the echo of his heartbeat.

            Bob sighed, head hanging low and fingers plucking at the hem of one of his sleeves as he turned around, ready to go back and wallow in self-pity, when Yelena’s raspy voice made him look over his shoulder.

            “Bobik? Everything alright?” she asked, the nickname Alexei had bestowed upon him, making warmth bloom in his chest. Not ‘Bobby’, a name that made him flinch, but a soft ‘Bobik’, a name that made him feel cherished.

            The blonde was decked out in her combat gear, clearly just having arrived from a mission, so the fact that one of her first instincts was to check in on him made his body flush. He was still trying to get used to the fact that people actually cared about him, not as an experimental subject, not as a wannabe superhero, but just about him. About Bob.

            “Oh, yeah,” he stammered, giving Yelena a tight-lipped smile, but he couldn’t control the way his hands wrung together, betraying the anxiousness he was feeling. “Everything’s A-Okay.”

            For a second neither of them moved or said anything, and just as Bob was about to venture down to his room, Yelena crossed her arms, cocking her hip to the side and raising a single brow.

            All he could do was sigh. She was one of the few people it was hard to lie to, whom he didn’t even really want to lie to. “It’s just that… umm… Y/N and I were supposed to go to a bookstore a while ago, but she uh… well, I haven’t seen her all day… and when I asked around, nobody else has either. Ava even said she didn’t come up for breakfast, and she wasn’t in the kitchen for lunch, so…”

            “That does not sound like her.” Yelena’s nose scrunched as she went closer and knocked against Y/N’s door, a motion that came so easily to her, yet Bob had struggled for ages to even lift his hand. “Lubov moya,” she sing-songed in Russian. “Are you in there?”

             And once again, only silence responded. As the moment stretched, Bob slowly started to roll back and forth on his feet. God, why hadn’t he thought about how she could already have left the tower ages ago!

            But no, it wouldn’t be like Y/N to just leave him hanging or not let at least one person know where she was.

            Unless… unless she’d gone out to do something she didn’t want the others to know about… to tease her about… like maybe she’d gone on a date.

            “It’s – it’s alright,” Bob let out a strangled chuckle, as thoughts whirled inside his head. “She just probably forgot about it, or something more important came up.”

            But the ex-Widow just knocked again, ignoring Bob’s spiralling. “Legushka?” she called out, the nickname rolling off her tongue with a concerned yet teasing lilt.

            There’d been this one time John had called Y/N that, snorting as Alexei had translated the meaning of the word (froggy or little frog), and where usually she’d respond with an eye roll to Yelena or their sort-of-kind-of adoptive father figure, Walker received a bloody nose and grade-two concussion.

            Only Yelena had the privilege of calling her fellow ex-Red Room alumni such absurd names without any consequences. And, well, sometimes Bob could too, but he wrote it off on the fact that Y/N just tried to make him feel included, and no other reason…

            “Snookums? My little pookie-wookie?” Now, Yelena was just making things up as she went, no doubt hoping to get at least some sort of a response from Y/N, but when even that didn’t accomplish anything, with a grumbled, “alright, fine, be that way,” she crouched down, pulling out a picking set from her boot.

            Bob’s eyes widened in alarm, hissing at the woman, “What are you doing? Don’t do that!”

            “Well, we have to get in somehow,” Yelena just shrugged, the noise of metal softly scraping against metal invading his senses.

            “Not by breaking and entering Y/N’s room!”     

            The blonde let out a squeak of indignation. “I am not breaking and entering!” The lock clicked open. “For one – I didn’t break shit. And two – the door is open. Now it’s just entering.”

            “She is going to kill us, and I will not be coming to your rescue.”

            “Please,” Yelena replaced her picking tools back inside her boot. “We have too much history between us in the Red Room for her to decide this is the final drop. As for you…” Yelena smirked. “Let’s just say, I know things you don’t.”

            “Wait, what? What do you know? What things?”

            But she didn’t respond, only opened the door.

            Bob wanted to protest, wanted to say they shouldn’t be invading Y/N’s private space like that, wanted to shake Yelena down for whatever information she might possess. If it had anything to do with feelings he hoped Y/N might have for him. That most likely, there was a reason she wasn’t answering, even if she was there, and that most likely, she just felt bad about not wanting to hang out with him, but didn’t want to hurt his feelings by saying so, which he was totally fine and cool with and –

            Yelena poked her head inside, and where usually, Y/N’s place was brightly lit by the daylight, her curtains drawn back to allow it to be illuminated, pure darkness greeted them, as Bob, shame curling in his stomach at such invasion, peered over Yelena’s head to take a glance.

            He associated Y/N’s room with peace.

            Cream colored walls, dark brown curtains with a plush carpet, emerald settees resting atop it and a large bookshelf taking up a whole wall with softly glowing nightlights in the shape of sprouting mushrooms would be plugged in during the night, and plastic glow-in-the-dark stars creating real and made-up constellations on the ceiling – that was the space he considered his true home.

            Every free inch was covered in some knick-knack or a souvenir, as she had a tendency to collect small things, but she also had a tendency to gift them to others.

            She was kind. Caring. Thoughtful. She was Bob’s safe place.

            Yet now it was pitch black inside.

            Yelena was clearly just as worried as he was, because when she looked up from her still crouched position, confusion marred her face.

            “Malishka?” she called out as she stood, slowly entering the room, Bob following as their eyes adjusted to the lack of lighting.

            He shifted his gaze around only to settle on a large moving mound on the bed, so with Yelena as the lead, they moved towards it, when finally a voice rasped from somewhere beneath the ungodly amount of blankets. “Malishka is dead. Come back tomorrow with a warrant. Or a casket.”

            Every single doubt that’d permeated Bob’s mind vanished at the realisation of what was really going on.

            Y/N hadn’t forgotten about the plans they’d made. She hadn’t found something better to do with her time or decided he was simply not worth her while.

            Y/N was sick.

            And by the sound of it, badly.

            Bob’s heart clenched at the thought. They all seemed so indestructible, but it was moments like those, where he was reminded that some of them, especially Yelena and Y/N – the two people he’d grown to care most about in the weird little team he was a part of – were simply humans. And humans could get ill.

            Gently, Yelena sat down on the side of the bed, her fingers rooting around the coverings before an opening was made, a pair of Y/E/C eyes squinting at the intruders. “Can you please close the door? My eyeballs hurt.”

            “Oh, shit!” Bob cursed softly, padding to the door and closing it, once again plunging the room into complete darkness. “Sorry.”

            He wanted to rebel against the black that now surrounded them, he wanted to panic and spiral, to have at least one of those nightlights be turned on, but somehow, through a sheer sense of will, he steeled himself against the rising tide. Whether it was because he knew light would hurt Y/N, or whether it was because he felt safe with the two women, despite not really being able to see anything that wasn’t an inch away from his face, Bob couldn’t tell. Well… he could, but he wasn’t going to say it out loud, because that would make things real…

            “Can you please breathe quieter, Lena?” Y/N groaned from her cocoon. “My head’s pounding as is.”

            “Oh, sweetheart,” Yelena cooed, placing the back of her hand against the other woman’s forehead to feel for her temperature. “I think you might have the flu, huh?”

            Y/N sniffled. “I dunno what I have, but whatever it is, I blame Walker.”

            Bob looked at Yelena, the man still hovering by the bedside table, not wanting to invade the space between the two. “Has John been sick?”

            “Not that I’m aware.” Yelena ghosted her hand over Y/N’s cheek before standing up and going to what he knew to be the bathroom. After a quick second, she returned with a wet cloth, laying it over her friend’s forehead. “But we can always blame him.”

            A delirious smile appeared on Y/N’s face. “We can, can’t we?”

            “Of course.” Yelena nodded. “Would it make you feel better if I went and beat him up?”

            “I think it would, yeah… Can you stab him too?” Y/N asked as an afterthought.

            “Anything for you, legushka moya.” Yelena brushed a sweaty Y/H/C strand from where it’d plastered itself down against her cheek. Bob’s heart ached at the tender motion, fingers twitching at his side with the want to do the same, but he restrained himself. “But tell you what, before I go and seek revenge on Walker, how about I go and make you some soup, and Bob will keep you company. Sound okay?”

            Instantly, it was like someone had turned the light switch off, Y/N’s smile dropped, and she harrumphed. “Bob can stay, but no soup.”

            “Soup always makes everything better! Besides, Bob said you didn’t go to breakfast or lunch. You have to get something in you,” Yelena scolded the woman. Despite them being barely a month apart, she acted like an older sister to Y/N.

            The sick girl just whined. “I’m not hungry. I’m achy and icky and gross, and I just wanna rot away in my bed.”                             

            “Well, you need to get food in you,” the ex-Widow countered, hands on her hips. “Do not move. I will be right back. Bob, please keep an eye on her.”

            “As if I could go anywhere,” Y/N scoffed, but it fell only on Bob’s ears, as Yelena had already made her exit.

            On instinct, his fingers started fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, a nervousness taking over his body. After a moment of unsurety of what exactly he was supposed to do, a croaky voice whispered, “You should go, Bob. I know Lena said to stay, but I don’t want you to catch whatever wasting disease I have."

            An involuntary smile blossomed on his lips at her care about his well-being, despite being so sick herself. “I uh, I don’t think I can get sick anymore, so no worries there.”

            He noted the small frown on Y/N’s lips as she eyed him up and down. “Show off,” she muttered, but didn’t tell him to leave again, rather said, “ ‘M sorry about today, by the way. Should’ve at least gotten out of bed and told you I wasn’t fit to walk in civilised society. I’m sorry if I worried you.”     

            “No!” he said, trying to quell her guilt, sitting down onto the bed, and to his own surprise, brushing a finger down her cheek without even thinking. “No, no, no… you’re not feeling well, so don’t even worry about me. I’m just glad that, you know, you’re not bleeding out on the bathroom floor or something.”

            Bob’s whole being lit up when, despite Y/N being evidently unwell, she snorted, no doubt remembering how about a month prior when she’d returned to the Watchtower after a mission, she’d pretty much traumatized both Bob and John, as they’d found her half-dead on the kitchen floor, munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, blood pooling around her at a rapid pace.

            “Seriously!?” John had scoffed as he helped Bob lift Y/N up from the floor, the two men supporting as much of her weight as possible as they dragged her to the elevator and then to the med-floor. “PB&J? That was gonna be your last meal?”

            “Hey!” Y/N protested. “It was the only thing I could manage to make before the wooziness set in. You know, from having been turned into a walking-talking shishkabob.” She chuckled deliriously, looking at the man who had the biggest crush on her in the world, yet she didn’t even know about it, and now she could potentially die. “Huh. Shish-ka-Bob.” Then she booped his nose and promptly passed out.

            Safe to say, he’d spent the next few days hovering in the med-bay, and when Y/N had been discharged, off-missions for a while, but allowed to rest in her room, he’d hovered in the hallway behind her door, just to make sure the things he saw during his nightmares, the images that the Void tried to tell him were real, actually weren’t.

            But Y/N didn’t know that.

            She didn’t know the true extent of what went on inside Bob’s mind or heart, didn’t know the real depth of the feelings he had for her.

            She didn’t know how much the nights she allowed him to spend in her room meant to him.

            She didn’t know how much the little trinkets she brought back for him as a souvenir from whichever corner of the world she’d been sent to, mattered.

            She didn’t know that if the tower suddenly caught on fire and he could only save three things, he’d rush inside the flames to take the three little cat figurines sitting on his shelf.

            It had been after she’d returned from a solo mission in Japan, Bob having pretty much worried himself sick, only to have her bound up to him, still dirt-covered and bloodied, but the smile on her face was as bright as the morning sun. “Look!” She presented the white, red and gold porcelain cats. “It’s the three of us! Me, you and Lena! They’re so cute!”

            That night, he’d fallen asleep with the three little waving felines looking over him, golden night-light illuminating the statuettes.

            So, in a moment like this, where Y/N was the one who needed support, he could only hope and pray, she felt it from him.

            Gently, Bob brushed a palm against her forehead, taking off the wet towel that’d now warmed up to her skin temperature. But he hadn’t anticipated that, despite being bogged down by most likely the flu, her reflexes were still Black-Widow-quick, as her hand shot out from underneath the blankets, grabbing onto his wrist and pressing his hand against the skin of her neck. “Oh, you are so warm,” she sighed, cuddling the appendage.

            “S-so are you!” Bob didn’t necessarily know what to do. “Alarmingly so, actually.”

            “Yeah,” Y/N puffed a breath, still not releasing the death-grip she had on his hand. “That’s probably the 103 fever I have going on.”

            Instantly, his anxiety skyrocketed.

            He knew he ran warm. He pretty much always had the AC on in his room, especially at night, as he was a complete contradiction of a human – he was abysmally hot all the time, mainly thanks to the Sentry serum, but he was most comfortable in a sweater and sweatpants while swaddled up like a burrito in a blanket.

            His heart thudded in his chest as Y/N snuggled closer to his touch, while he worried he was doing her harm. Yes, a fever was the body’s natural way of fighting off viruses or infections and whatnot, but a too high a fever was also dangerous, and he'd never forgive himself if he made it worse.

            “Y/N, you’re really burning up.” Bob chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Can you please let me go? Just for a second,” he added on, as she whined when he tried to slip his hand away. “I’m just gonna get you a new cold compress. Please…”

            “But I don’t want you to leave!”

            “I’m – I’m not gonna leave,” he whispered, terrified that if his voice was any louder, any clearer, she might pick up on the emotion he was trying to suppress. “I promise, it’ll be just a second. I won’t even go outside the room.”

            For a moment, Y/N’s grip tightened on Bob, holding him closer than ever, but then, with a sigh of defeat, she released him.

            He was quick, just like he said he would. Even in pure darkness, his eyes having adjusted to the lack of light now, probably thanks to the Sentry serum, he dampened the cloth with cold water and wrung out the excess, getting back to her, in the time it took for Y/N to shift from lying on her side to being on her back.

            She’d somewhat untangled herself from the cocoon of blankets, and Bob had to stop mid-step as he noted what she was wearing.

            It was his sweater. Well, one of the many he had, but it was something of his nonetheless.

            And he could physically feel how something broken and cracked inside him got stitched together. Some deep, still-hurting part of Bob, that always managed to whisper a negative thought, how he didn’t matter, how washing the dishes and doing the chores was nothing compared to what everyone else in the tower did, fused back together, the Void’s incessant noise quietening. With just a simple glance at Y/N, who had found comfort in something of his when she was feeling bad, Bob felt a part of him heal.

            He didn’t comment on it, though, half-terrified if he did, she might think he was mad about it, when in reality it was the complete opposite. And an insatiable need had now settled somewhere in his chest, a want to see her in all of his clothes. And maybe nothing as well…

            “H-here,” Bob stammered out, before taking a deep breath and sinking down next to Y/N on the bed. Gently, he placed the towel along her forehead, and he couldn’t help himself as his thumb brushed along her jawline, tracing a small scar, no doubt from some mission. She leaned into his touch like a sunflower leaned towards the sun. “Is there anything I can get you?”

            “No,” she shook her head, and this time, when her hand met his, she intertwined their fingers, as if afraid he might disappear. “Just stay, please.”

            “Always.”

            And there really wasn’t anywhere else Bob wanted to be.

            The thought of spending the day at a bookstore, some ungodly sweet concoction that resembled a coffee only in spirit, in his hand, was only appealing because he would be going with Y/N there.

            “We’ll go when I get better, I promise,” she muttered, as if having read his mind while snuggling closer to the palm he’d placed on her cheek.

            “Books can wait.” Bob hoped his voice was low and soothing as he spoke, blue eyes still trained on the sweater that covered her body, his own feeling all fuzzy at the image. “Just rest.”

            When he didn’t get a response or even a little hum of acknowledgement, he looked up only to find Y/N’s features slack with sleep, her chest rising in slow and steady breaths.

            Bob wanted to curl up next to her, to have his hands wrap around her waist, and have her head rest on his chest as he buried his nose into her hair, because this was the highest degree of trust anyone could have in him. For Y/N to find peace and safety with him while she was in such a vulnerable state, catapulted Bob onto Cloud Nine. He knew darkness would always try to press in, try to find the cracks and strike when he was unawares, but this time he wasn’t afraid of what might be lurking in the shadows. Not when he knew he would have to be the one to step up, if only to protect the one he loved most in the world.

             He sat there like that, entranced with the sleeping beauty on the bed, a thumb softly grazing her cheek, making sure Y/N was as comfortable as possible. He was so attuned to her and her sleeping form, that when the door cracked open, he was startled by Yelena coming in, a tray in her hands as she blew on a steaming bowl of soup.

            “Okay,” once more the blonde sing-songed as she walked inside the room. “I have chicken-noodle soup for our little sick-bug.”

            There was some grumbling from Y/N as she was brought out from her slumber, but despite all her protests, she rose into a sitting position, Bob’s hand on her back a steady help. She eyed the bowl with suspicion. “Who made it?”

            “Do not worry, Dad was nowhere near the pot. He might be lurking for the leftovers now, but this!” She lifted the bowl above her head like it was a diamond, “is all from yours truly.”

            Y/N sniffed the air. “Well, I guess it smells edible… not that I can smell much.”

            “Then this is exactly what you need.” Yelena slid the tray to rest on Y/N’s knees while Bob helped her adjust against the backboard of the bed and was rewarded with the most gorgeous smile ever. “Here you go, legushka. Now, I’ll go get some paracetamol and VapoRub, and by the time I get back, I expect that bowl to be empty. It will do wonders for your sinuses, trust me.”

            She didn’t argue, just let out a resigned sigh and nodded, taking the spoon in her hand. “You know, back in the Red Room, Mistress Vera said the best kind of medicine is a good beating. Will get you right back on your feet.”

            “Yes, well, that is why Mistress Vera is six feet under.” Yelena fluffed up a pillow behind Y/N before nudging her chin up with a finger. “As is the whole of Red Room.”

            “I mean right now, I think I’d rather get a good beat-“

            “Eat,” Yelena interrupted whatever she was about to say.

            “Fine, fine, Jesus…. You’re worse than Mistress Vera…”

            Slowly, without moving her gaze from Y/N, Yelena stood to hover over her. Even Bob could feel the menacing aura she exuded – an older sister ready to torment her younger one. “And if you don’t eat every single noodle, every single piece of carrot and celery and chicken, you will be wishing Mistress Vera were here. Understood? Legushka moya?”

            Though Y/N was bleary and tired, she was unwavering as the two Black Widows engaged in a stare-off. Unfortunately for her, though, she was the first one to break, as she rubbed at her teary eyes, probably because of the light that was filtering into the room from the open doorway.

            “Damn it, Lena, fine! I’ll eat the stupid soup!”

            “Good.” The blonde straightened out, a self-satisfied smile on her face. “Because Bob will tell me if you don’t. Won’t you, Bobik?”

            His eyes turned so wide he was afraid they might fall out of his head.

            God.

            Oh god no.

            He was stuck between a rock and a hard place as Y/N glowered from below her lashes, sniffling, while Yelena cocked her head to the side.

            Ultimately, though, his loyalty to the blonde and wanting nothing but the best for the well-being of the woman he was in love with, no matter what she might say to counter the effectiveness of the soup, won out. “Yeah. I – I will.”

            Y/N scoffed, turning her head away from him as Yelena pressed a triumphant kiss to the top of her hair before leaving.

            “Traitor,” she muttered.

            Bob looked down at his hands, which he had resting in his lap as he worried the inside of his cheek. “I just want you to get better, Y/N…”

            “And I just wanna lie down and die, but neither of you is letting me.”

            “But who’s gonna go to the bookstore with me if you die?” He gave her a small smile, hoping to elevate her sour mood.

            “I dunno, John?”

            Bob gave her a look, their gazes meeting. “You actually think John can read?”

            If Y/N had been eating the soup, no doubt she would’ve choked with how she threw her head back in a loud laugh, as Bob tried to steady the tray, the broth sloshing a bit out of the bowl.      

            “I’m sorry,” she chuckled, their fingers brushing as she held the platter and pulled it closer. “Didn’t mean to make a mess.”

            “Don’t be.” The smile on his face was probably ridiculous, wide enough to make his cheeks hurt. “Laughter’s the best medicine or uh… something along those lines.”

            “You should tell Mistress Vera that. Might have to use a OUIJA board though.” Y/N winced as the hot liquid slid down her sore throat, slowly chewing on a piece of noodle.

            Admittedly, Bob didn’t know much about her time in the Red Room. He’d seen her shame rooms, just like he’d been privy to Yelena’s and the rest of the Thunderbolts’, as she’d been there when the Void had attacked New York, but once he came out of it, once they told him what he’d done, the feeling of having violated their privacy… he never asked either of them to talk about their time there.

            All Bob knew was that Mistress Vera had been Y/N’s handler, as she’d been trained separately from Yelena and her sister Natasha. Only after the original Avenger had broken her out of the trance induced by the mind-control serum used to keep the Black Widows under the Red Room spell, did Y/N join the two in helping them take down the organisation.

            “Oh… oh shit, I’m sorry,” her words of apology brought him back to the present, away from the thoughts of what she’d had to go through as a child, where a sore throat wouldn’t have been healed by a gentle touch, but a brutal beating.

            His brows furrowed as he looked around, thinking she might’ve spilt the soup, but there wasn’t anything there. “Whatever for?”

            “The dark!” she said, like it was a crime she’d committed. “Bob, you can put in some of the nightlights. They’re by the plugs.”

            “Oh, that’s…” He shook his head, for once happy to be surrounded by mostly shadows because that meant Y/N couldn’t see the furious blush covering his face, while his longish hair obscured his smiling features as he glanced down at his hands. “It’s okay. I don’t mind actually.”

            “But you don’t like the dark…?” The sentence was more of a question than the solid statement it used to be.

            Bob shrugged, pulling down the sleeves of his sweater. “This isn’t that bad… and if it helps you feel better, your eyes to not hurt, I don’t mind.”

            “I don’t want you to ‘not mind’ things. Bob, if you’re uncomfortable, you should put in at least one nightlight. Seriously. They’re not gonna boil out of my skull or something.”

            “My comfort isn’t as important as your health right now.” He shifted on the bed.

            “Of course it is!” The offended squeak Y/N let out would have made him smile, had it not turned into a violent coughing fit.

            After she was done hacking her lungs up, Bob’s hand running up and down her spine, hoping to at least somewhat soothe the ache, he lifted the warm bowl of soup closer to her. “Eat. Or I will tell on you to Yelena.”

            “Stukach,” Y/N mumbled in Russian, glaring at him as best as she could. Alexei and Yelena had introduced him enough to the language (mostly swearwords, which they said were the most important words) for him to understand she’d called him a snitch, but if being a snitch would motivate her to eat and get better, so be it.

            With a fond gaze, he watched as she finally got some food into her, and once she was done, he took the tray away, placing it on the nightstand, a hand of his acting on its own accord as he brushed a finger along her cheek. “Better?”

            “Yes. But don’t tell Lena that. She’ll just be insufferably smug about it.”

            Shaking his head, Bob helped Y/N settle back into bed, tucking the blanket under her chin, but before he could even move a foot, her hand shot out, curling around his wrist once more.

            “Bob?”

            “Yeah?” He looked where the woman lay against the plush pillows, head slowly sinking deeper into the down.

            “Could you… umm… and that is only if you really can’t get sick… could you maybe stay with me? Just until I fall asleep…”

            He was sure his heart had skipped a beat. Or maybe it’d done a full-blown gymnastics routine, somersaults and all, because it definitely wasn’t beating in its normal rhythm in his chest.

            “Y-yeah, of course, if that’s what you want.” Bob swallowed hard, nodding. “Just, uh… let me bring the tray to the kitchen, and then I’ll be right back.”

            And with a small “okay” from Y/N as his dismissal, Bob scurried out of the room like lightning.

            The hallway light was blinding compared to the darkness of the room he’d just spent about an hour in, but for the first time in his life, he craved it. Because in that darkness was safety and peace. In that darkness lay a body, curled up on a bed, covered in his sweater, waiting for him, hoping he’d help her get better.

            He barely acknowledged Ava or Bucky, who called out to him, asking if he was alright, as he grabbed a couple of water bottles from the fridge and some of the pretzels Alexei had stashed behind pots and pans, hoping to hide his hoard. He wouldn’t mind, Bob reasoned. Y/N was like another daughter to him, and if she’d eaten the soup, despite all her protesting, maybe her appetite was gonna be coming back sooner rather than later, and he wanted to be stocked up on snacks. Besides, he could just blame Walker if needed.

            When he returned, he was instantly enveloped by Y/N’s scent as if it were its own form of blanket.

            “Hey,” Bob whispered, not wanting to break the settled peace. “I’m – I’m back.”

            He mostly heard rather than saw shuffling on the bed, but as his eyes adjusted, he noted Y/N had moved to the side furthest from the door, opening up some space on the bed.

            She’d done so before during the nights his mind had been restless, but somehow this felt much more intimate than when insomnia forbade him from sleeping.

            Slowly, as if afraid this moment would be ripped from him if he moved any quicker, Bob placed the waters and pretzels on the ground, sliding in next to her, turning to face Y/N with one hand under his cheek, the other on the mattress between them.

            “Thank you,” she muttered, the ghost of a smile on her face as her hand slid from below the blankets and rested atop his. “For taking care of me.”

            “I–I mean, I didn’t –“

            “You did,” she interrupted his stammering, tightening the grip she had on him. Gently, he flipped it palm up so that her fingers could slide between his. “And you still are. So thank you.”

            And once again, like he’d said before, he simply replied, “Always.”

            With that single word spoken, Bob watched as Y/N’s eyes drooped closed, her breathing evened out, and once again she was deeply asleep. Yet even when in dreamland, her hold on him never wavered. Not when she twisted out from the cocoon and scooted closer to him, not as chills overtook her body and Bob held her through them, not as the fever broke and a small sigh of relief escaped, her body slowly returning to a normal temperature.

            For the first time in his life, Bob had found peace in the darkness, all because of the woman lying in his arms. And when it came to claim him too, he gladly fell, knowing that when he awoke, she would be there, much like she’d be in his dreams.

***

BONUS

“Oh my god! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, this is so cute!”

            It was a harsh whisper-yell that brought Bob out of his slumber.

            He peeked an eye open, noting the unmistakable shape of Y/N’s form in his arms. She was still sound asleep, her body curled around his like that of a koala’s, head tucked below his chin, while one of her arms had a death-grip on his waist, a leg thrown over his hip.

            One of his own arms was underneath her, completely numb. From the feeling of it, it’d probably been there for ages, but if this position meant she was comfortable and could have a good sleep, he’d deal with the pins-and-needles a hundred times over if necessary.

            Turning to look over his shoulder, Bob found the culprit or rather culprits of the noise as he was met with the faces of Yelena, Alexei, Bucky, Ava and John all looking at them through a gap in the door, the Red Guardian with a phone in his hand, no doubt taking pictures of the two cuddling.

            “You guys,” he mumbled, a blush of embarrassment crawling its way all over his body. “Can you pipe it down? Y/N’s asleep.”

            “How is Legushka?” Yelena whispered into the room. “Did the fever break?”

            “Yes!” Bob hissed, turning away from the team and curling tighter around the body he had in his hold. “Now, can you all please leave? You’ll wake her up.”

            “Sorry.” Bucky raised his hands in apology. “I told them not to disturb you. Come on! Out, everyone!”

            Obviously, he more than Y/N, would get mercilessly teased about it, but he could take it, if it meant a bit more time with her in his arms, but just when he thought he’d gotten away with it, Walker just had to shout a loud, “Yeah, fucking get it, Bobik!”, making Y/N spring up.

            She took a confused glance around at the room before her eyes settled onto Bob who was on her bed, red-faced and mortified.

            “The toad did it,” Y/N said, her tone serious as a heart attack.

            Bob blinked once. Twice. “What?”

            “I swear the toad did it,” she mumbled, evidently delirious from sleep and the flu, but slowly moving back to lay down next to him, curling into the man’s body like it was where she belonged. “The toad ate the last strawberry. Damn thieving amphibian…”

            Come morning, he would ask about the toad and the strawberry and if it had anything to do with Yelena’s nickname for her, but for now, Bob just pressed a light kiss against Y/N’s forehead, eyes slipping closed, listening to the melody of her breathing.

            One day, he would tell her how he really felt.

            One day, he would give his heart to her.

            One day, he hoped, she would trust him with her own.

             But for then and there, Bob was content with his present. With the peace he’d found in the darkness.

Tags: Marvel tags: @nerissa98 @asguardiansoftheavengers @crazybutconfidentaf @pizzarollpatrol @desir-ae A/N: we are so back baby, Tower fics incoming! Bob, my love, my life... you bet your ass I'm probably gonna write something where OG Avengers are still alive and living in the tower with Thunderbolts*!!! The chaos that would ensue is giving me life Tags are always open

[pullmecloseman]

KINDA SORTA MARRIED

Summary: You and Bob Floyd are long-term roommates. Not fake. Not temporary. Actual “we share groceries, know each other’s schedules, and argue about laundry” roommates. It started out practical. It stayed comfortable. It accidentally became everything.

Robert “Bob” Floyd

Word count: 3.5k

A/N: Idk how i feel about this but i wish i had a bob. This was requested by one of my absolute fav blogs on here, they have the best fic reqs! @obsessedromancereader. Side note: i just watched people we meet on vacation and omg it was so good i love emily! Which makes me think, Bob or Rooster au?

Warnings: Slow-burn friends-to-lovers/roommates-to-lovers, mutual pining, emotional repression, domestic fluff, mild angst, soft kissing and physical touch, emotional confession, Dagger Squad meddling, eventual mutual love confession, heartwarming domesticity, happy ending.

Living with Bob Floyd is easy.

Which is the problem.

It’s easy in the way breathing is easy. In the way muscle memory is easy. In the way you don’t realize how deep you’re in until someone asks a casual question and your mouth opens on autopilot.

You wake up before your alarm most mornings, not because you’re disciplined, but because Bob moves quietly through the apartment like he’s afraid of startling the walls. The soft click of the kettle. The low hum of the vent fan. The barely-there sound of socked feet on tile.

You don’t even open your eyes when he passes your door.

“Morning,” he says anyway. Always does. Even when you’re half-asleep. Even when you don’t answer.

“Mornin’,” you mumble back, voice rough, face buried in your pillow.

He smiles. You know he does. You can hear it.

By the time you drag yourself out of bed, hair a mess and wearing one of his old Navy hoodies (which is not a big deal, because it’s basically communal at this point), the kitchen smells like coffee and something warm and toasted.

Bob stands at the counter, glasses on, sleeves rolled up, methodically buttering toast like it’s a sacred ritual.

“You’re up early,” he says without turning around.

“You woke me up.”

“I was quiet.”

“You exist loudly.”

That gets a huff of a laugh. He glances over his shoulder at you, eyes soft behind the lenses. “Coffee’s ready.”

You grab a mug from the cabinet you both pretend you don’t have memorized. He already put in the creamer the way you like it. You don’t comment on it. He doesn’t either.

This is how it always is.

You lean against the counter, sipping, watching him move around the kitchen with practiced ease. He’s wearing his squadron tee and gym shorts, hair still damp from the shower. There’s a faint scar along his forearm you’ve traced absentmindedly more than once while sitting on opposite ends of the couch.

You shouldn’t think about that.

“Rooster texted,” Bob says casually. “He’s dragging the squad to the Hard Deck tonight.”

You groan. “On a Tuesday?”

“He says morale is low.”

“Morale is low because Hangman exists.”

Bob snorts, unable to help it. “Fair.”

You tilt your head, watching him. “You going?”

He hesitates. Just a fraction of a second too long.

“I mean,” he says carefully, “only if you want to.”

There it is. That thing he does. Like your opinion weighs more than his own.

You shrug. “I’m in if you are.”

Relief flickers across his face so quickly it almost hurts to notice.

“Cool,” he says. “Yeah. Cool.”

You both sip your coffee in silence, the comfortable kind. The kind that feels earned. The kind that would look suspicious to anyone watching too closely.

-

The thing about being roommates with Bob Floyd is that you fall into patterns.

Domestic ones.

Unavoidable ones.

Like movie nights that start with “we can just watch one episode” and end with you asleep halfway across his chest, his arm automatically adjusting around you without waking either of you up.

Like grocery runs that are supposed to be quick and somehow take forty-five minutes because Bob insists on reading labels.

“This one has more protein,” he says, holding up a box.

“It tastes like drywall.”

He frowns. “It’s… lightly sweetened.”

“You are lying with confidence.”

He sighs, puts it back, and grabs your usual without comment. You notice. You always do.

Like laundry nights where your clothes end up mixed together because separating them feels pointless—and because he once folded one of your shirts without realizing it and apologized like he’d committed a crime.

“You don’t have to ask permission to touch my clothes, Bob.”

“I know,” he said. “Still feels like I should.”

Like the way he always knocks before entering your room, even though you’ve told him a hundred times he doesn’t need to—and the way you still appreciate it every time.

It’s not romantic.

That’s what you tell yourself.

It’s just… Bob.

-

The Squad does not believe this for a second.

You find that out later that afternoon, sprawled on the couches in the ready room while Fanboy scrolls through his phone and Payback argues with Coyote about something deeply stupid.

Bob is next to you, shoulder brushing yours, focused on a Rubik’s cube he’s been trying to solve for twenty minutes.

“You know,” Phoenix says, eyes flicking between you and Bob, “you two have weird energy.”

You blink. “Excuse you?”

“Weird,” she repeats. “Not bad. Just… very married.”

Bob drops the cube.

“What?” you both say at the same time.

Hangman swivels in his chair, immediately interested. “Oh my god, thank you. I’ve been saying this.”

Bob’s ears go red. “We’re not—”

“We’re roommates,” you add quickly.

“Yeah,” Fanboy says, not looking up. “So were my parents for six years before they figured it out.”

You sit up. “Figured what out?”

“That they were in love,” Payback says, smirking. “Duh.”

Bob clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “We’re just… friends.”

Hangman grins like a shark that’s smelled blood. “Friends don’t share hoodies, Robert.”

You glance down at the hoodie you’re wearing.

Bob’s hoodie.

“I have my own clothes,” you protest weakly.

“Name one,” Coyote challenges.

You open your mouth.

Pause.

Bob watches you, expression unreadable.

“…Rude,” you mutter.

Phoenix laughs. “Look, we’re just saying. If it walks like a duck and argues about groceries like a married couple—”

“We do not argue about groceries,” Bob says.

“You bought crunchy peanut butter,” you shoot back instantly. “You know I hate that.”

“That was one time.”

“And it was a betrayal.”

The room goes quiet.

Hangman points between the two of you. “See? That. That right there.”

Bob rubs the back of his neck. “We’re fine.”

You nod, too quickly. “We’re fine.”

No one believes you.

-

That night at the Hard Deck is loud and crowded and smells like spilled beer and bad decisions.

Bob sticks close to you, not in a possessive way—just in a Bob way. Like he’s your anchor in the chaos. You lean toward each other to talk, knees brushing under the table.

Hangman watches with an infuriatingly smug expression.

“So,” he says, leaning back. “You seeing anyone?”

You choke on your drink. “What?”

Bob stiffens beside you.

“No,” you say quickly. “Why?”

Hangman shrugs. “Just curious.”

“Since when are you curious about my love life?”

“Since it started affecting squad morale.”

You glare. “It doesn’t.”

Bob clears his throat. “I don’t think—”

Phoenix kicks Hangman under the table. “Drop it.”

But the question lingers.

You feel it like a weight.

Later, when the music’s too loud and Bob goes to grab another round, Hangman leans in again.

“You ever think,” he says quietly, “that you two are playing chicken?”

“With what?” you ask.

“With your feelings.”

You scoff. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He studies you for a moment, unusually serious. “Yeah. I do.”

Bob comes back then, setting a glass in front of you automatically.

You don’t meet his eyes.

-

At home, the apartment is quiet and dim, the familiar comfort settling around you like a blanket.

Bob kicks off his shoes and pauses. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He hesitates, then says softly, “If Hangman said something—”

“It’s fine,” you cut in. Too fast. Too sharp.

He flinches, just a little.

“Okay,” he says after a beat. “Night.”

“Night, Bob.”

You both retreat to your rooms, doors clicking shut.

And for the first time since you moved in together, the silence feels… loud.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, heart doing something annoying in your chest.

In the next room, Bob stares at his own ceiling, glasses set carefully on the nightstand, replaying every word, every look, every almost.

Neither of you sleeps well.

And neither of you admits why.

-

The problem with pretending nothing’s wrong is that your body doesn’t get the memo.

You notice it the next morning when Bob is already awake—again—and you walk into the kitchen half-asleep, hair a mess, wearing one of his T-shirts this time. You don’t even clock it until he freezes mid-pour, coffee splashing dangerously close to the rim.

“Sorry,” you say automatically. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t,” he lies, setting the mug down too carefully. His ears are red. Again.

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him from under your lashes. There’s something different in the air. Thicker. Like you’re both aware of the same fragile thing and refusing to name it.

“Sleep okay?” he asks.

You shrug. “You?”

A pause.

“Not really.”

That makes your chest tighten. “Oh.”

Silence stretches. The kettle clicks off with a sharp snap that makes you both flinch.

Bob clears his throat. “I’ve got an early brief. I’ll be late tonight.”

“Oh. Okay.”

You hate how disappointed that sounds.

He hesitates by the door, hand on the knob. For a second, you think he’s going to say something—anything—but then he just nods and leaves.

The door shuts softly.

You stare at it longer than you should.

-

Unfortunately your friends seem to have all the time in the world today

By lunch, you’re cornered in the ready room with Phoenix and Rooster while Bob’s stuck in debrief hell.

“So,” Rooster says, popping open a bag of chips, “how’s domestic bliss?”

You glare. “We’re not married.”

“Yet,” Phoenix adds brightly.

You groan. “You guys are impossible.”

Phoenix leans in, elbows on her knees. “Okay, serious question. When was the last time either of you went on a date that wasn’t accidentally with each other?”

You open your mouth.

Close it.

Rooster grins. “That long, huh?”

“We’re busy,” you say defensively. “Work. Life.”

“Bob Floyd schedules his relaxation,” Phoenix says. “You’re telling me he hasn’t penciled in a girlfriend because—what—he forgot?”

Your heart stutters. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” she asks gently.

You don’t have an answer.

-

That night, Bob comes home later than usual. You’re on the couch, pretending to watch something while actually replaying every stupid interaction you’ve had for the past six months.

He stops short when he sees you.

“Oh. Hey,” he says. “Didn’t know you’d be up.”

You shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He sits on the opposite end of the couch, careful. Too careful.

The TV drones on. Neither of you is watching.

After a minute, he exhales. “Listen… about last night.”

Your stomach flips. “Yeah?”

“I don’t want things to be weird,” he says quietly. “If they are.”

“They’re not,” you say immediately.

He looks at you then. Really looks. His gaze is steady, searching, like he’s trying to read something written between the lines.

“…Okay,” he says, but it doesn’t sound convinced.

Another pause. This one heavier.

“Bob,” you start, then stop. Your heart’s pounding too loud.

“Yes?”

You swallow. “Nothing. Sorry.”

He nods, disappointment flickering across his face before he masks it. “Right. Goodnight.”

“Night.”

He disappears down the hall, leaving the couch cold beside you.

You don’t move for a long time.

-

Things get worse before they get better.

There’s a charity event on base the following weekend—volunteer sign-ups, mandatory attendance for optics, the usual. You and Bob end up assigned together because of course you do.

It’s harmless. Easy. Until it isn’t.

You’re sorting supplies when Bob brushes past you in the cramped storage room, his hand landing briefly on your waist to steady himself.

The touch is nothing.

It feels like everything.

You both freeze.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, but his hand doesn’t move right away.

Your breath catches. You can feel the warmth of him, solid and familiar and suddenly too much.

“It’s—fine,” you manage.

His hand drops like he’s been burned.

The rest of the afternoon is tense, quiet, careful. Phoenix watches from across the room with narrowed eyes.

That night, she corners Bob.

“You’re in love with her,” she says bluntly.

Bob blinks. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb. You’re bad at it.”

He rubs his face, exhausted. “It’s complicated.”

“No,” she says. “It’s scary. There’s a difference.”

Across the room, Rooster is saying the same thing to you.

“You like him,” he says gently.

You scoff. “We’re friends.”

“Yeah,” he replies. “And I like my jet. Doesn’t mean I don’t know when I’d crash it for something that matters more.”

You stare at the floor.

-

The breaking point comes quietly.

It’s a Tuesday. Nothing special. You’re both home late, passing each other in the hallway like strangers.

Bob stops. “Hey.”

You turn. “Hey.”

Another pause. You’re sick of pauses.

“Do you ever think,” you ask softly, “that we’re… avoiding something?”

His breath hitches.

“Yes,” he says, just as quietly.

Your heart slams against your ribs. “Why?”

He steps closer. Not touching. Just close enough that you can feel him.

“Because if we’re wrong,” he says, voice steady but eyes anything but, “we lose what we already have.”

“And if we’re right?” you whisper.

His gaze drops to your mouth.

“Then I don’t know how I’ve been living like this,” he admits.

The air between you hums.

You don’t kiss him.

You don’t need to.

Not yet.

But when you go to bed that night, you both know—this isn’t something you can keep pretending away.

-

The night it finally breaks isn’t dramatic.

There’s no argument. No raised voices. No grand, cinematic moment where everything explodes at once.

It’s quiet. Ordinary. Almost cruel in how normal it starts.

You’re both in the kitchen, late again, moving around each other with the kind of familiarity that’s been earned over years—muscle memory and shared space and unspoken rules. Bob is rinsing a mug at the sink. You’re leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching him like you’ve been doing too often lately.

The air feels… heavy.

Not awkward. Not tense.

Weighted.

Like something is pulling at both of you, insistent and patient, waiting for one of you to stop resisting.

Bob dries his hands slowly. Doesn’t turn around.

“You ever feel like the universe is laughing at us?” he asks.

Your chest tightens. “Define ‘us.’”

He huffs out a soft breath. “That’s fair.”

You straighten. “Bob—”

He turns then, finally, and whatever you were about to say dies in your throat.

He looks tired. Not exhausted—just worn in that quiet way he gets when he’s been carrying something alone for too long. His shoulders are tense, jaw tight, eyes searching your face like he’s bracing for impact.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he says.

Your heart stutters. “Doing what?”

“Pretending I don’t feel it every time you walk into a room,” he answers, voice calm but threaded with something dangerously close to breaking. “Pretending I don’t wake up every morning hoping you’ll already be in the kitchen. Pretending I’m not constantly calculating how close is too close and whether I’m allowed to miss you when you’re literally down the hall.”

You swallow hard. “Bob…”

“I know the risks,” he continues quickly, like if he slows down he’ll lose his nerve. “I know we’re roommates. I know this could screw everything up. I know we could lose what we have.”

He takes a step closer.

“But I also know I’m already losing it,” he says quietly. “Because I’m in love with you, and pretending otherwise is killing me.”

The words land softly.

They devastate you anyway.

You don’t speak right away. You can’t. Your throat is tight, eyes burning, heart pounding so hard it’s almost embarrassing.

Bob notices. Of course he does.

“Hey,” he says gently, instantly worried. “You don’t have to—”

You close the distance between you before he can finish the sentence.

You don’t kiss him yet. You just press your forehead to his chest, breathing him in, hands fisting in the fabric of his T-shirt like you need the anchor.

“I was wondering how long it would take you,” you murmur.

He freezes. “What?”

You laugh softly, the sound shaky but real. “To say it out loud.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You… knew?”

“I’ve been in love with you since somewhere between you fixing my sink at two in the morning and you memorizing how I take my coffee,” you admit. “I just thought… if you wanted it, you’d say something.”

“I thought the same thing,” he says helplessly.

You shake your head. “We’re idiots.”

A breath leaves him—half laugh, half relief.

“Yes,” he agrees. “We really are.”

The silence that follows is different this time. Softer. Safer. Like the ground has finally stopped shifting beneath your feet.

Bob lifts a hand, hesitates—then cups your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your jaw like he’s checking if this is real.

“Can I?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You nod.

That’s all the permission he needs.

The kiss is nothing like you imagined—and somehow exactly right.

It’s not rushed. Not desperate. It’s careful and reverent and deeply emotional, like he’s been holding this moment in his chest for years and doesn’t want to break it. His lips are warm, steady, moving against yours with a tenderness that makes your knees go weak.

You melt into him.

When you pull back, you’re both smiling like fools.

“Hi,” he says softly.

“Hi,” you echo.

He rests his forehead against yours again, breathing you in. “So… what does this mean for us?”

You smile, heart full. “It means we’re still roommates.”

He groans. “Tragic.”

“And,” you add, “we’re still best friends.”

He relaxes. “Good.”

“And,” you finish, fingers curling into his shirt, “we’re figuring this out together.”

His smile is slow and sure. “I’d like that.”

-

The Squad finds out within twenty-four hours.

You don’t even tell them. Phoenix does.

She takes one look at the way Bob’s hand rests at your lower back in the ready room and makes a sound of deep, vindicated satisfaction.

“Oh my god,” she says. “Finally.”

Rooster blinks between the two of you. “Wait. You’re—like—official?”

Bob clears his throat. “We’re… yes.”

Hangman squints. “So all that tension was for free?”

You glare at him. “Die mad.”

Coyote grins. “I give it three weeks before they start arguing about thermostat settings.”

Bob doesn’t miss a beat. “We already do.”

Bob doesn’t let go of your hand once.

Later that night, back home, you sit together on the couch—closer than before, but not rushed. Comfortable. Easy. Earned.

Bob kisses your temple.

“You know,” he murmurs, “I don’t regret waiting.”

You tilt your head to look at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, smiling softly. “It made this… right.”

You lean into him, heart steady for the first time in a long while.

And for once, the future doesn’t feel scary.

It feels like home.

-

Six months later, the apartment still looks the same.

Same couch with the crooked cushion. Same coffee table with the wobble you keep forgetting to fix. Same kitchen light that flickers if you don’t smack the switch just right.

The difference is Bob.

And you.

You’re barefoot in the kitchen, standing on a chair because you’re stubborn and refuse to admit the top shelf is too high. Bob is behind you, hands hovering at your waist like he’s waiting for gravity to betray you.

“I can grab it,” he says patiently.

“I’m fine,” you insist, stretching higher.

“You said that last time and I caught you with one arm and a bag of flour with the other.”

“That was one time.”

“That was three days ago.”

You finally snag the box you were reaching for and pump your fist in victory. “See? Independent.”

Bob sighs, but he’s smiling when you climb down and immediately lean back into his chest like you didn’t just prove his point.

“Admit it,” you say. “You like catching me.”

He wraps his arms around you without hesitation. “I like not letting you get hurt.”

You tilt your head back to look at him. “That’s basically the same thing.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Not even close.”

The domesticity of it still hits you sometimes—hard and out of nowhere. How easy this feels. How natural. Like your life quietly rearranged itself while you weren’t looking.

You make dinner together. You argue about seasoning. You steal bites off his plate. He lets you, even though he pretends not to.

Later, you’re curled up on the couch, legs tangled, his arm heavy and warm around your shoulders. The TV is on, but neither of you is paying attention.

Bob’s thumb traces slow, absentminded circles against your arm.

“Can I ask you something?” he says.

You hum. “You always do.”

He hesitates. Just a beat. “Do you ever think about… what would’ve happened if we’d said something sooner?”

You think about it honestly.

“All the time,” you admit. “But I don’t wish we had.”

He looks down at you. “Yeah?”

You nod. “We needed to be us first. The dumb jokes. The shared groceries. The unspoken trust. If we’d rushed it, I think we would’ve been scared.”

Bob exhales, relief softening his shoulders. “I’m really glad it was you.”

You smile up at him. “Me too.”

[musingsofheaven]

⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ﹙ masterlist ⋮ request ˓ ask .ᐟ ﹚

PATIENT 017

kinktober ꒱ cockwarming w/ bob reynolds &. afab!reader

⠀ X-RATED ‎⒅ ꜜ proceed with caution. ⍈ somnophilia. ᝢ dubcon. ᝢ cockwarming. ᝢ unprotected p in v. ᝢ internal ejaculation ⸝ creampie. ᝢ breast play ⸝ nipple play. ᝢ power imbalance. (ㅤ patient ⸝ test subject x nurse ㅤ)ㅤ ᝢ dacryphilia. ᝢ praise kink. ᝢ depiction ⸝ implication of mental instability. (ㅤ 9.2k words ㅤ)ㅤ

⠀ ABOUT? ꜜ It was supposed to be just cockwarming. He tried to stay still. But the way it feels when he’s inside you? You can tell he’s already losing it. He really tried to stay still- really did.

⠀ NOTES ꜜ He’s so needy but i can understand him… like boy have fear of abandonment!!! :(

The facility was cold and always felt that way. It was the kind of cold that sticks to your flesh no matter how thick the fabric of your clothes is. White lights made a quiet sound above and they washed every surface in pale blue light. They referred to him as Reynolds in the reports and subject 017 in the files, but to you, he was just Bob. You were assigned to monitor him after the serum incident. It was a routine job at first, as you only had to check his vitals, write notes, and ensure he ate. Yet it had not stayed routine for long.

Bob talked to you more than he did to anyone else. Some days, it was scattered, as if he was grasping at scraps of thought and throwing them your way, hoping you would catch them. Other days, he barely spoke at all, and he only watched you with that steady gaze that felt too intense for someone who was supposed to be sedated. You started to notice the little things. How he leaned closer whenever you adjusted the monitor on his wrist. How his hand twitched like he wanted to grab yours but he held himself back. How his mood changed depending on whether you walked into the room with a smile or with tired eyes.

“Did you sleep last night?” he asked once with his voice being quiet and almost shy. You’d only meant to take his blood pressure but he kept his eyes fixed on you. He waits for your answer as if it matters more than what you are doing to him right now. “Not really,” you said and he frowned when you admitted that you hadn’t had a good sleep. He shut his mouth for a few moments before he said, “You should. You don’t look… right when you’re tired.” If Bob is just a new patient you’re handling, you will think that he’s weird for saying that, but you know he’s being sincere. So for some (and unknown) reason, it doesn’t leave your mind after you checked his vitals.

He got clingier as days passed. He’d get restless and ask where you were and demand to wait until you came back if another staff member tried to handle him. Bob has this reaction that he will either reek with anxiety or agitation if you ever leave him for too long. Right now his voice is tight when he finally sees you again. It’s like it’s stuck in his throat. He always has this look that he’s afraid that you’ll never return to his room. “I thought you weren’t coming back,” he admitted while he couldn’t even look you in the eyes. His shoulders are tense if he is overthinking this already, because you will probably laugh at him. He relaxed and he almost melted under your attention when you stayed and assured him about his worries because he looked like he needed it to breathe.

There were nights he couldn’t sleep, and he paced the small space of his quarters until the cameras caught it, so they sent you in to calm him. He stopped the moment you stepped through the door. “Can you just… sit here?” he asked once before patting the chair beside the bed. No explanation and no excuse. Just a request that you couldn’t bring yourself to deny. You agreed to sit and pulled the chair close to his bed. The air was heavy with the quiet noise of the machines monitoring him. When you lowered yourself down his shoulders loosened like he had been holding tension for hours.

He didn’t speak at first and he just watched you with that fixed stare of his. His eyes darted from your hands to your face and back again. The quietness stayed until he decided to ask you something. “You’ll stay until I fall asleep, right?” You adjusted your coat and nodded. “Yeah, I’ll stay. Just close your eyes. It’s late.” Bob shifted under the thin blanket as if the reassurance wasn’t enough on its own. His gaze stayed on you and he grew restless before he muttered, “You always say that. That’s fine, that you’ll stay. And then one day maybe you won’t. And I’ll just…” He stopped in the middle of his sentence before he turned his face into the pillow like he was embarrassed to say that because he couldn’t even stop his mouth.

His words made your heart clench because you’re not some kind of monster who doesn’t get affected by the patients’ vulnerability. Still, you reached out to him. You brushed your hand on his arm. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. I’m here now right?” He looked at you again and his face was blank like he didn’t even believe you at all. But after a long silence, he gave the smallest nod and shut his eyes like he wanted to believe you even if he couldn’t fully trust it. His breathing evened out slowly while his hand stayed curled on the sheets close to where your arm rested.

The next morning another nurse came in while you were off rotation. She carried the tray for his vitals and meds. As she clipped the monitor to his finger Bob’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s- where is she?” His voice was hard and more awake than usual so it startled her enough to pause. “She’s busy,” the nurse said while being half distracted by scribbling down notes. “Got pulled to check on the new recruit down the hall. Pretty boy they brought in yesterday.” The assigned nurse gave Bob a smirk if which was intentional and to taunt him. She also said the words came out like gossip to him which made him clench his jaw tightly.

It hit him harder than it should and he doesn’t like it. His body feels so stiffened under that blanket while his eyes are sending daggers to the nurse’s back like he just wants her gone. “She’s supposed to be here,” he said plainly. The nurse blinked because she was caught off guard. “Well she can’t be everywhere at once, Reynolds. You’re not the only one who needs attention.” His hands curled into fists as his eyes burned while he stared past her. His chest rose and fell too fast. He lay back against the mattress when she left muttering about his attitude and he couldn’t get comfortable.

Every sound in the hallway seemed louder and the thought of you tending to someone else dug under his skin in a way that was bitter and cutting. By the time you returned his leg was bouncing restlessly under the sheet. His eyes snapped to you the moment you walked in. “Where were you?” The question came out rough like he had been rehearsing it for hours. You froze halfway into the room. “I was assigned to another patient for a bit. Why? What’s wrong?” His mouth twisted and frustration pulled at his features as he sat up straighter. “They said you were with someone new. Some recruit. Is that true?”

You set the clipboard down and you were careful not to sound dismissive. “Yes, it was just a routine check. Nothing serious.” He scoffed and it was a quick sound that didn’t match the hurt in his eyes. “Routine. Right. Meanwhile, I’m in here-” His voice broke off as he shook his head hard and dragged both hands over his hair like he wanted to pull it out. “You said you’d stay. You say you care. Then you leave the second they tell you to run off.” The weight of his words pressed into the room rough and messy.

You crossed to the bed while keeping your voice steady. “I didn’t leave because I wanted to. You know how this place works, and they tell me where to go, so I just have to do it. But that doesn’t mean I don’t wanna be here with you.” He looked at you like he was trying to find something on your face. The anger started to fade and it turned into something desperate. “You don’t get it,” he said. “When you’re gone it feels like you’re not coming back. Like you got somewhere else to be or someone else to care about. And then I’m just nothing again.”

Your hand found his wrist and you squeezed gently until he looked down at the contact. “You’re not nothing, Bob. I’m back now. Look at me. I’m here.” His throat moved when he swallowed while his eyes remained staring at the fingers on his skin. “Don’t leave me with them again,” he said and his voice was shaking. “Please.” He didn’t let go even when you told him you were back as his thumb pressed harder on your skin. It didn’t leave anything but it was enough to show he wasn’t letting go.

He suddenly pulled you when you tried to move to the chair and you lost your balance. Thankfully, the edge of the bed caught you and Bob dragged you down beside him before you could stand again with more strength than he probably realized he was using. “Bob-” you started but your voice died in your throat when he pulled you in with his chest on your back. His arm went around your waist, and he held you like he was scared you’d disappear if he let go, even for a second. “This isn’t professional,” you said quietly while you tried to move but he just held you tighter.

His breath brushed against your neck as he muttered, “Don’t care. Just stay here. Just for a little.” Your heart beat faster not only from how close he was but also from the thought that Project Sentry was already moving through his veins. If he lost control and if the Void surfaced you’d be the first one caught. You heard his voice go rough and you still couldn’t make yourself push him away. “Bob, I can't stay like this all night. If someone comes in-”

“Then don’t let them in,” he cut in quickly and desperately as if the thought of anyone else seeing you like this set him on fire. His hand slipped lower as he pressed against your hip to keep you still. “Just… don’t go please. It’s quiet when you’re here. When you’re not, I can’t stop thinking, and it gets loud.” You swallowed hard and forced your voice to be gentle. “I know it’s loud. But pulling me in like this- what if they report it? What if they decide you’re unstable again?” His breath caught against your shoulder.

“I don’t care what they say. You’re the only one who looks at me like I’m not just some test subject. When you’re gone it feels like they were right about me. Like I’m just the mistake they keep locked up. But when you’re here I can breathe.” The honesty hit deep, and it settled heavily inside you, and you turned your head slightly as you caught the edge of his face against your hair. “I’m not going anywhere right now. But you have to loosen your grip. You’re holding too tight.” He hesitated for a moment before he slowly eased his arm just enough so you could move a bit.

Still, he didn’t let go completely because his hand stayed firm on your waist as if he was grounding himself with your presence. “I need this,” he whispered while his voice sounded almost ashamed. “Don’t tell me no. Please don’t.” You exhaled and let your body relax against his because fighting him now would only make it worse. “I’m not saying no. I just… I need you to trust I’ll be here without you dragging me in.” Bob pressed his forehead to the back of your head while his voice came out muffled but rough and uneven. “If I don’t hold on you’ll leave.”

“I came back, didn’t I?” you said like you are trying to prove a point by contradicting his words, but how you touch his arm says the opposite. “You don’t have to trap me here. I stayed because I wanted to.” The quiet between you weighed heavily until his breathing turned shaky and he finally muttered, “Then stay a little longer. Just until it stops feeling like everything’s slipping away.” Your chest tightened at the words and the weight of them sank deep in the sterile room. You nodded even though he couldn’t see it. “Alright. I’ll stay.”

His hand doesn’t leave where it is placed and he just pressed it tighter as he let out a shaky breath. How he touches you feels like something he communicates with you. Like he’s touching you firmly because that’s the only way he could express he’s grateful for it. He looked like he might actually rest for the first time since you met him. His arm around your waist feels heavy and suffocating (but not in a way that he’s hurting you) when you try to adjust. You should already expect that he will not let go of you as the bed sank a bit when he moved closer. His chest was pressed against your back and you tried to turn enough to see his face but he tugged again and pulled you onto your back as he climbed over you before you could.

“Bob-” your voice came out soft but startled as his body caged yours in. He dropped his head on your chest and his hair brushed your chin while he pressed on your shirt. His breath went through the thin fabric and his whole body went still like he had finally relaxed. “This isn’t how it works,” you said quietly while your fingers hovered over his shoulder like you were thinking if you should push him away. “I’m not supposed to be in bed with you. If someone walks in-”

“I don’t care,” he said before you could even finish. His face was buried on your chest, and his arms just got tighter and tighter until you couldn't move, and his weight was already on you. “Just let me stay please. It gets so bad when you're not here. Everything just feels wrong. I can’t. I can’t take it.” The way he held you made your chest hurt again and you tried to keep your voice calm when you talked. “Bob, I came back didn’t I? I’m not leaving right now. But this- this isn’t professional. You know what they’d do if they saw us like this.”

His head lifted just slightly until his eyes met yours. They were dark and wild but behind the chaos, there was fear that looked small and shaking. “Then don’t let them see,” he said and it’s almost pleading. “Don’t leave me in here with just the walls. I can’t do it. “Not when I know you’ll just go to someone else.” You sighed while you lifted your hand and ran your fingers through his hair. It felt soft against your skin, and he leaned into the touch right away, like he was starving and would take anything you gave. “You’re not competing with anyone.” You say it softly like you mean it.

“I’m here. You don’t need to hold me like I’ll vanish.” His laugh came out short and bitter as he pressed it into your shirt. “You don’t get it. If I let go you’ll disappear. Everyone does.” The words hit hard and for a long moment, you didn’t answer. You moved your hand down to his neck instead while you felt his muscles tense under your touch. He sighed against your chest like he was breaking a little and he moved closer until his thigh was touching yours. The movement wasn’t sudden or rushed but it was enough to send a shiver down your body.

“Bob, you need to be careful,” you whispered with your voice tight in warning even though you still didn’t push him away. “I am,” he murmured quickly. He clung tighter and his nose brushed the side of your throat. “I’m not doing anything. Just… staying close. Don’t make me move.” His weight pressed him down heavy and steady while your body stayed tense beneath his. Yet when his hand slid over your side to anchor you closer the protest in your chest weakened. You knew the risk and you knew the serum running through him made every second dangerous, but the way he held you wasn’t violent.

It was desperate and almost unsteady, like he was begging for your presence to keep him steady, too. Your fingers curled lightly at the back of his shirt as you whispered, “Alright. Just for a little. But you have to promise you’ll let go when I tell you.” His breath hitched and his face pressed harder against your neck. “Okay,” he muttered. The word was shaky but fast like he would agree to anything if it meant keeping you there. The silence that followed was heavy but not empty. His body shifted a little against yours.

It wasn’t grinding yet it was close enough that the heat of him began to stir something low in you. His thigh was pressed against your hip, and his chest kept moving up and down, and your head started going somewhere it should not. His body was warm and heavy on top of you, and his breathing was slow, so you started feeling sleepy too. It was a long day with too many rounds and too many rooms that were not his.

His chest on you made you feel like you could fall asleep right there. Your hand slid weakly across his back without thought and it was more habit than anything as your head tilted against the pillow. Bob stayed wide awake while his face stayed buried against your shirt as he inhaled the soft trace of soap clinging to your scrubs. Each time your chest rose and fell, he felt it against his cheek, and it was proof that you were real and here. He didn’t move for a long time because even shifting might wake you and send you away. But the longer he held you the more restless his body became.

Heat pooled deep in his stomach, uninvited but impossible to ignore, especially with your legs ending up too close. You felt the heat right away through the thin fabric of his pants and he took a short breath. You could tell he was trying not to react but it did not work. His chest was moving fast as his hand twitched like he had no idea what to do. “Hey,” he said quietly and his voice brushed your neck like a whisper. You moved a bit and let out a sleepy sound and it made his chest feel tighter. His voice dropped softer and it almost trembled. “Can I… can I be closer to you? Just for tonight?”

Still half-asleep you barely processed his words. “Mm? Closer?” you murmured with your eyes heavy and too tired to push him away. “Okay just don't hold me too tight.” That was all it took for him. He breathed in heavily, and his hand went down to your waist, and his fingers started pulling at the waistband of your scrub pants. The sound of the fabric made you move a bit but you were too tired to lift your head. “Bob what are you doing?” you mumbled while your voice was muffled on the pillow.

“Just… just let me,” he pleaded while tugging the fabric down your legs. His voice shook like he was afraid you’d wake fully and stop him. “I promise I won’t move. I just need it. Please, I need to feel you.” The words mixed in your drowsy head so you sighed without really understanding what he meant. “Fine. If it helps you calm down.” That was all he needed. He yanked the pants and your underwear down in one hurried motion while he shoved them low enough to show your cunt. His heart was beating fast as he freed himself by pushing the waistband of his loose hospital pants down just enough to let out his cock.

The head looked dark and wet already. When he pressed it against your folds he groaned quietly into your neck. Your body tensed at the sudden heat of him and it dragged you closer to waking. Yet before you could piece together what was happening he pushed in. The thick push filled you slowly but deep and his whole body shuddered when he bottomed out while he kept himself buried inside you completely. A gasp left your lips and your eyes snapped open. The sudden push of him dragged a broken sound out of your throat. “B-Bob- wait-”

He clung tighter with his hands splayed over your hip like he was scared you would slip away. His voice shook with need but he kept it soft and almost begging. “I’m not moving, I swear. Just… just let me stay here. Please. Don’t make me pull out. I can’t. I need this.” The heat of him inside you was too much and the heavy press of his cockhead went so deep it made your walls grip around him. Sleep still hung on your body and left you weak beneath his hold. You could feel the way his cock twitched in your cunt and it was thick and hot.

“Bob this is…” You tried. Your voice was unsteady as it broke between confusion and the closeness of it. Yet when his lips pressed desperately to your neck as he murmured, “It’s just you. Just you. I won’t do anything else.” Your chest felt tight from how bad it hurt. His cock stayed buried as it kept you open and it throbbed lightly with every shaky breath he took. Though your mind screamed at the danger your body gave in under him while you stayed too tired and too full to push him away.

Inside you, it was too much, and he could barely think because you were so tight around his cock, and it felt like you were pulling the air out of him. He tried to breathe, but every inhale just filled him with your scent, and every exhale almost came out as a sound he didn’t want you to hear. You were soft everywhere. You were soft against his chest and soft against his cock. You were soft in the way your body let him in without even realizing what he’d done. He pressed his forehead into your shoulder while his eyes shut tight.

If he stayed still and if he kept his promise not to move then maybe you wouldn’t notice the way his cock twitched inside you. The pulse betrayed him with small hard reminders that he was buried where he never should’ve been. Each beat made your walls squeeze a little and his fingers curled tighter on your hip like holding you closer might hide it. You hadn’t been wet enough when he pushed in and he knew it. He’d felt the drag and that small pull of resistance. For a second he thought he hurt you. Then there was that light slick slide he’d noticed earlier back when he couldn’t stop grinding himself against your thigh before he begged to be closer.

You must’ve felt something then even if you never said it. Now your warmth spread slowly around him and it got wetter each time his cock pulsed. He could feel the way it built up and stuck to his skin and made the squeeze easier little by little. The thought made his chest tighten badly enough that he had to bite his lip quietly. Every few seconds, his cock jumped without his control, and the twitch pressed the tip against your deepest point while your walls tightened like your body reacted even in sleep.

He whimpered into your skin with a tiny muffled sound he prayed you wouldn’t wake to. If you woke and realized then you’d push him away. You’d be gone. The idea of you pulling out of his arms and leaving him empty made his throat lock tight. So he forced himself to stay still. He told himself he could do this. Just stay inside. Just stay buried in your heat. The way you held him felt like a blanket and it calmed him down. He wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you closer until there was no space left between you.

Your cunt clenched a little again in a sleepy flutter that nearly sent him over the edge. His nails pressed into your hip like he was trying to anchor himself there. Your breathing evened out after a while. Your chest rose and fell beneath his cheek while he realized you were slipping back into sleep even with his cock still inside you. That made something inside him ease because you trusted him enough, even like this, to fall asleep. The thought undid him more than the warmth of your cunt ever did.

His cock jerked again as it leaked against your walls and your body responded with a slicker squeeze. The wetness spread hot and slippery as he shivered at the thought that you were getting wetter around him even while unconscious. Maybe your body wanted him here. Maybe you needed this without knowing. He held onto that idea like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. He let himself sink into you. Twitching and leaking while shaking against your back he buried his face in your neck while the softness of your body calmed him down.

He imagined he could stay here forever with his cock tucked inside you and wrapped so tight in heat that he would never have to face the cold again. The longer he stayed inside you the harder it was to keep still. Your pussy kept squeezing around his cock in slow sleepy waves and it was soft and wet in a way it wasn’t when he first pushed in. His chest moved unevenly because he was trying to tell himself he could take it and he kept saying he didn’t need more because this was already enough. Yet the thought circled back to the same panic. What if you woke and pulled away? What if you never let him touch you like this again?

The fear was louder than his restraint while his hips moved before he could stop them. Just a tiny roll forward, slow and shallow, and enough to make his cockhead slide against the warm walls of your cunt. You stirred and tightened as a small, sleepy sound escaped you, and his eyes closed in relief. He stayed still again as he told himself that one movement was all and that it was safe now. Except it was not. His cock jerked from being squeezed without release while his thoughts twisted on themselves until the pressure burst out as another slow push inside you. He bit back a whimper while your cunt held him wet and snug. He pressed his forehead against the back of your shoulder.

“Sorry… just- just a little. Couldn’t help it,” he whispered like he was confessing. Your voice came soft and slurred with sleep. “Bob… you’re moving.” His body tensed at once as fear jumped hot inside him and his arms tightened around you like holding tighter might keep you from slipping away. “I’ll stop. I swear I’ll stop. Don’t- don’t get mad please.” His voice cracked into a messy sound while your cunt gave another slow squeeze wetter now from the slight rub. He felt like he was drowning between guilt and need as he struggled between keeping still like he promised and the desperate urge to feel you again.

A shaky breath left your lips as you whispered, “Just… not too much I’m tired.” The words nearly undid him as his chest tightened heavily like he was about to break, and you were not telling him to pull out, and you were not telling him to get off, and you were letting him stay. That permission sat heavily on him until it hurt. He nodded fast and messily even though you could not see. “Okay yeah. I’ll be good. I’ll stop now. I’ll stop.” Yet he did not. Not fully. A third thrust slipped out slower than before, as it was more of a grind than a push, and just enough to feel the sticky sound of your pussy sucking around him.

His cock throbbed hard at the sensation as he whispered into your hair, “Feels so good… I can’t- don’t leave, please don’t leave.” You shifted half-asleep with your voice groggy but real. “I’m not leaving. Just… quiet Bob.” Tears burned hot behind his eyes as your words hit him and he held onto it like proof you were not going to disappear even though the fear kept biting at his stomach. His cock twitched inside you again as he forced himself to stop moving this time. He pressed shaky kisses to your shoulder like it could keep the fear out.

“Okay… okay I’ll be quiet. I’ll stay still. I just… need you right here.” He buried his face against your skin while trembling and his cock jumped helplessly inside your soaking cunt as he tried to believe the promise you gave. Not leaving. The words looped in his head over and over as he held you tighter. He was deep in that floaty dumb space where he felt small and safe under you like a boy who just needed to be held. His face stayed on your shoulder and his breath was warm on your skin and a little damp too. His nose pushed deeper into your neck like he wanted to hide there and you could feel how much he needed that.

The weight of his cock inside you was slow and heavy and sometimes it twitched like he was about to lose it. He whispered your name softly and was almost unsure if he should speak at all then went quiet again. When his voice returned it sounded small. “That guy… the one the nurse was talking about. The new patient.” His arms squeezed around your waist like just thinking of it made him hold tighter. “She said you checked on him… said he’s some pretty boy.” The last two words came out uneven and stuck between bitterness and insecurity.

He moved his hips just a tiny bit with one deep dragging thrust that made your cunt clench tight around his cock before he forced himself still again. A rough shaky sound caught in his throat while he pressed his forehead harder to your shoulder. “Is he…? Is he really that?” Your eyes opened just enough to glance back and your voice came soft but steady. “Why are you asking me that right now?” He let out a breath that shook like he was fighting something back. “Because I can’t stop thinking about it. I don’t… I don’t want you looking at anyone else like that.”

His cock twitched inside you again, and before he could stop himself, his hips rolled once more, slow and careful, just enough to make a wet sound fill the quiet room. He gasped like he had been caught and murmured quickly, “Sorry sorry- can’t help it. Just one.” The warmth between your legs pounded steadily as your cunt clenched tight around him and you sighed with your voice groggy but clear. “Bob you’re jealous over nothing. He’s just another recruit.” His chest pressed harder against your back like he wanted to melt into you so you could not pull away.

“But you touched him,” he whispered with his voice breaking into a needy whine. “You checked on him. What if he likes you looking at him? What if you liked it too?” His arms shook while he held you with panic crawling up in his tone. “Don’t… don’t say you liked it. Please.” A soft breath slipped from your lips while he went still again with his cock buried so deep you could feel the head pressed against your softest spot. “Bob. I didn’t like it. He means nothing to me.” The words melted something hard inside him, and relief rushed over his face, though it did not stop the pit in his stomach from eating at him again.

His hips twitched once more with another slow glide that forced his cock deeper while he let out a rough sound. He froze afterward with breath heavy as he feared you would push him off. “I’m being crazy right?” His voice was soft and vulnerable. “You probably think I’m stupid for even asking.” Turning your head slightly on the pillow you spoke in a low murmur. “You’re not stupid. You’re just scared.” The simple truth of it made his chest fold inward and his nose pressed back into your shoulder. His lips brushed your skin as his eyes started to burn.

“I don’t want you to leave me for someone prettier… or stronger… or maybe better.” His next thrust was slow and shaky because he just wanted to feel you around him again. “I’ll be good, I'll stay still. Just… don’t say you’ll leave.” Your hand found his where it clung to your stomach and your fingers wove with his to hold him down to reality. “I’m not leaving.” He whimpered softly at the words so quiet you almost didn’t hear them. His cock pulsed hard inside you and he couldn’t stop another single thrust.

It slid deeper than before as if your reassurance hit straight through his whole body. His lips pressed against your shoulder again while trembling. “Thank you… thank you…” His forehead stayed tucked to your shoulder and his lips brushed against your skin when he breathed. His weight was heavy and clinging. Every few seconds, his cock gave a hard twitch inside you, not enough to push yet just enough to make you tighten around him. He whimpered a bit because you kept squeezing around him like your body couldn’t stop.

You could only hear his breathing and it was shaking a bit like he was trying to calm down. Too loud for his liking considering how silent the room is. He tried to say something, but it just kept breaking out of his throat, weirdly like he couldn’t make it come out right. “I don’t know… I just- I- I can’t… please it’s too much. Can’t stay still-” He moved a bit like he didn’t even know what he was doing then stopped fast because it was already too much. He let out a rough breath that came out shaky (almost like it hurt). “Feels too much. I keep-” his words cracked as his cock twitched again “I keep thinking about moving. Just once. Then again. And again. I don’t know if I can stop.” Your voice came out low and calm even though the twitch of his cock made your cunt tighten hard around him. “Bob, that’s the point of this. You wanted to stay inside to be close not to fuck.”

“I know,” he murmured quickly and almost panicked as his arms hugged your waist tighter like you might pull away. “I know I wanted that. I wanted to stay but it hurts and it burns in my stomach. It’s like my cock is begging.” His hips moved again, slow enough that you felt every inch of him drag against your walls, then he forced himself still with a small grunt. “See? I can’t even stop it when I try. I’m sorry.” You turned your head on the pillow just enough to glance back at him and your voice was soft but steady. “Are you asking me if you can fuck me?”

His head shook quickly against your shoulder then it paused like he didn’t know the right answer. “Not asking. I mean yes, I want to…” He cut himself in the middle and he’s hesitant to finish it if it’s too embarrassing to say those words. “But I-I don’t want to mess it up- don’t want you to get mad at me,” he adds and it sounds like he’s running out of something with the way he tries to hold onto them, but they slip away. “I don’t want to make you mad. I don’t want you to hate me.” You placed your hand to cover his hand that was touching your stomach. You hold him so he can stay still. “Bob. I don’t hate you.” He made a sound close to a whimper and his cock jerked inside you again. Then he gave the smallest thrust deep enough to make both of you feel it.

His voice came out hoarse and needy. “Feels so good I don’t want to stop. Please tell me I can. Please tell me I can move just a little. I’ll be careful. I’ll be slow. I’ll do anything if you let me.” Your body clenched hard around him at the drag of his cock and your breath caught. “You really don’t think you can keep still?” He looked up at you like he wanted to say something else but the words never came and his chest just kept rising fast against yours. “No,” he admitted in a whisper that almost broke into a sob. His nose pressed harder against your shoulder and his whole body trembled against yours.

“I can’t. I thought I could but I can’t. I need to feel you more. I need you to let me. Please.” The second you whispered that he could move his whole body seemed to let out a hard shaky breath he had been holding in. His hips started to rock and at first, they barely moved. It was the slowest careful drag in and out as if he was scared that even that much might be taken away. His face stayed hidden in the crook of your neck and his nose brushed your skin while warm breath spilled across it. You felt the wet press of his lips when he mumbled against you and the words were too soft and messy to make sense.

They sounded more like sounds he couldn’t keep locked in. Your eyes closed, not because you were drifting, but because the way his cock pushed deep so slowly was almost overwhelming. Every careful push sent a heavy jolt through your body and it made your chest rise unevenly. One hand lifted to the back of his head with your fingers sliding into his hair. You brushed it back and soothed him as he moved inside you. He let out this tiny sound when you touched him like that, and his hips twitched once, then slowed down again.

“Don't be too loud,” said it right next to his ear and your stomach went tight thinking someone might hear. “They’ll hear.” He nodded into your neck and his voice was muffled but shaky. “I’m trying. I’m trying, I promise.” The next thrust dragged long and deep and his cock pushed until you both had to bite back a sound. He gave a broken breathy sound that wasn’t words exactly but just a helpless noise. Then he breathed out, “Feels so good. You feel so good, I can’t-” His voice cracked and he cut himself off with another push like maybe words would betray him if he kept going.

Your cunt clenched around him and you breathed out softly and unevenly. “Bob… ngh, slow. You’re doing fine. Just keep it like that.” You can feel his body tremble against your body and you can see how much effort he’s putting into not making loud noises. “I’ll be good. I’ll do it slowly,” he promised you, like he’s eager to let you know about that, and maybe because he wants to earn your approval. “Don’t stop me, please don’t stop me, I can’t- don’t take me out.” His hips pressed forward again just as slow but deeper this time. His cockhead nudged so far inside that your legs jerked a little.

Your nails dragged lightly over his scalp to steady him as his face burrowed deeper against your neck. “I’m not stopping you. Just… quiet, baby. We can’t get caught.” He let out a shaky muffled laugh that broke off into a grunt when your pussy squeezed around him again. “I’ll be quiet. I’ll be quiet for you. Just don’t make me stop. Please don’t make me stop.” He kept moving, and each thrust was patient and careful, but heavy with the way he clung to you. He mumbled against your skin in half-formed words that were nothing but need.

At first, he really did try to keep that slow pace you told him, but the longer he stayed buried inside you, the harder it became for him to keep control. He started to push his hips deeper and his pace became faster. His thrusts are a steady push and pull that makes your cunt clench around his cock as your body jolts every time. The skin slapping from it is almost too loud inside this quiet room. (Those are not so quiet now because of what you are doing with him) His face lifted from your neck and tears clung to his lashes as he hovered over you like he needed to see and needed to feel all of it.

“F-fuck, it’s not enough,” he breathed with his voice cracking as his hips rocked forward harder. His lips parted like he wanted to say more but what came out was just a messy sound. “Ohhh- mmfhh, y-you feel too good, can’t- ahh- can’t go slow.” Your hand shoots up before he can get any louder and your palm presses over his mouth. His moan breaks against it wet and desperate. His head moves against your hand like he’s trying to press himself into you while still fucking into your cunt. “Bob, quiet,” you whisper harshly and you bite down on your lip to keep your own sounds low.

Heat pulled tight in your belly with every hard thrust and it takes all your strength not to cry out too. “If you’re loud they’ll hear.” His eyes squeeze shut and his tears are damp against your skin as he nods desperately under your hand. His hips don’t stop, though, and if anything, he drives harder with his cock twitching inside you with every thrust. He mumbles into your palm with words breaking and slurring together. Some of it isn’t even clear. “Don’t stop me- please please don’t- ohh feels so- hah mmfhh- feels too good don’t take me out don’t-” His voice muffles into nonsense after that with whimpers and broken little sobs vibrating against your hand.

Your other hand slides back into his hair, brushing and tugging gently at the strands as you whisper back, shaky and unsteady. “I’m not stopping you, baby. Just- hnnh- just keep going just stay quiet for me.” He pushes harder at your words, and his cock sinks deep until your walls grip around him, and it makes you muffle a needy sound against your bitten lip. His whole body trembles above you and his forehead drops to your temple as he keeps thrusting. He moves against your hand like he can’t stand not having his mouth on you.

His voice spills again in half-sobs and half-whines into your palm. “Love you- need you- don’t- don’t let me go- ohhh oh fuck- hahhh can’t stop-” You hold his mouth firm while stroking his hair with your other hand as your legs tremble around his waist. “Shhh, I’ve got you, just don’t wake them, just you and me right now.” His tears slide down his cheek and some soak your skin as his thrusts grow rougher. It feels like he’s breaking apart under the weight of having you like this. He keeps whispering into your hand without making sense anymore and it’s just pure need spilling out in muffled moans.

His thrusts lose what little steadiness they had until his hips jerk without any clear pace. Each push feels uneven and messy like he’s chasing the way your cunt tightens around him. His forehead presses down hard against your chest, and his weight folds into you, almost collapsing as his breath turns into shaky little sounds. “Mmffhh- c-can’t- oh god I c-can’t-” his voice shook against your scrub and the words came out between small broken sounds. His hands were all over your waist and moved under the fabric until he found your tits.

His touch was messy and a bit shaky as he grabbed you like he needed to hold on to something. It felt like he was trying to breathe through it while his fingers kept shaking a little and it made your chest twist. You feel his teeth through the fabric when he buries his face harder into you and he bites through the layers like he’s desperate to ground himself. The pressure makes you gasp and your hand instantly sinks into his hair to keep him there while your body jumps with the rough pace of his cock. “Bob- ahh- slow down, baby,” you whisper, though your voice isn’t stern. It’s soft and gentle and your fingers slide through his damp hair while his face trembles against your chest.

His thrusts don’t slow but they just grow weaker and unorganized and messy. “I can’t, I can’t- hnnnnghh- I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please-” His voice cracks as he squeezes your tits tighter and his mouth gnaws softly through your scrub and bra before he cries into the fabric again. “Feels too good ohhh ohhh f-fuck please don’t push me away please-” You bite your lip hard to stop yourself from crying out when he bottoms out deep and your nails drag gently along his scalp to calm him. “I’m not pushing you away,” you breathe and your voice trembles while your cunt tightens around him. “I’m right here. Just fuck me, baby, it’s okay. Just breathe.”

He shakes his head against your chest like he doesn’t believe you and his sobs turn wetter as his thrusts lose all form of control. His cock twitches with every uneven push and it spreads slick between your thighs while his mouth drags across your covered breast in broken kisses and bites. He gasps against the fabric and his voice breaks apart. “Love you love you love you ohhh nnghhh can’t can’t stop please please-” Your own quiet sounds slip through your bitten lip, and they are soft, muffled cries that shake with every harsh drag of his cock.

Your chest rises under his weight as you whisper while stroking his hair. “I know I know- you don’t have to stop, just stay with me. Just me and you.” His teeth catch your nipple through the layers and he bites down with a whimper while his hips stutter. The pace is so messy it feels like he’s breaking apart inside you. His hands clutch at your tits like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he lets go, and his face stays buried in your chest while his tears soak into your scrub as he fucks you in broken, needy thrusts.

His thrusts falter until he’s not really fucking you anymore. He is only grinding down like he’s trying to keep himself buried as deep as possible. Every push makes his cock twitch and the slick spreads more between your folds until it’s messy and wet. His face presses against your chest, and it is hot and damp with tears, while every broken sound he lets out trembles against your skin. Your nails scrape gently at his scalp as your stomach knots and it builds tight with every sloppy roll of his hips. “Bob, ohh god, don’t stop, don’t stop,” you whisper into his hair, and your words spill out shaky and drawn out by the way he keeps grinding clumsily against you.

Your cunt clenches down hard, and your back arches into him when the wave finally crashes through you, and it spills slick around his cock until he’s slipping even easier inside you. He whines at the feeling, and it is a wet, broken noise that shakes against your chest. “Ohh ohhh fuck too much too good nghh.” His whole body trembles as he twitches inside you and his hips keep stuttering like he’s chasing your orgasm even while you squeeze around him. The way you gush makes his cock jerk helplessly and he gasps into your scrub like he’s the one about to come undone.

In the middle of your high his hand fumbles up and he shoves both your scrub and bra up in one rough motion until your tits spill free. The sudden chill of air on your skin makes you shiver but it’s gone the second his mouth latches onto one nipple. His lips close around it desperately, and he sucks hard like he’s starving, while his tears wet your skin and his tongue drags messy circles. He whimpers against your breast with needy little sounds that tremble with every sloppy grind of his cock. “Bob- ah- baby,” you whine, and you hold his head against your chest without pulling him away as he bites down softly, then sucks again like there’s something for him to drink.

Your cunt squeezes around him so tight it pulls another choked cry from his throat. “Need it, need you- don't let go,” he babbles against your tit and his words are muffled as he keeps sucking like he can’t stop. His hips keep grinding with no pace at all and just chase friction while twitching every time your pussy flutters around him. He whimpers again with his voice breaking high. “Gonna ohh ohhh fuck g-gonna cum can’t hold it please please can I-” You’re still pulsing from your own orgasm with your thighs trembling around his waist, but you nod against his hair and whisper, “It’s okay, it’s okay, come inside me baby, I want it.”

The words break him. He moans into your breast and sucks harder while his cock jerks inside you. His whole body shakes as he spills hot and deep with his hips pressed tight against you while his cum fills you in messy spurts. He cries against your chest while his teeth hit your nipple and his hips keep moving even when he has already come. You put your hand in his wet messy hair and pull him close to your chest while his body keeps shaking on you. You whisper, “I got you just let it out. I got you.”

He continues to cry against your skin while his cock is still deep inside your pussy. You could feel it twitch and throb as his mouth is placed on your tit like he needs it to function properly. He keeps sucking on it regardless that he’s already calming down from the orgasm he just had while his hips still move needily. He’s desperate to have every bit of your closeness and he’s willing to take whatever you will let him have. His breathing never steadies right away. Warm little puffs spill against your chest while his mouth stays latched to your nipple and he sucks slow and messy like he doesn’t know how to stop. His cock is still buried deep inside and it softens but refuses to leave while twitching every now and then as though even your walls squeezing down in the aftermath is too much for him.

Instead of pulling away his hips move with these small broken grinds like he wants his cum to sink deeper in you. When you look down, his lashes are wet, and his face is red and messy. His eyes look shiny like a kid who lost something he really wants. He looks up at you and his lips are still on your breast while his tongue moves slowly on your nipple. Then his mouth pulls away with a wet sound. “Don’t… don’t make me move yet.” His voice sounded broken and tired while his hand held your other tit and squeezed it like he wanted to touch all of you at once.

You touch under his eye and stop the tear before it falls. “I’m not making you move,” you say and your voice is soft. His body shakes a little against you like he needs to hear that. “Just stay. You’re fine.” His breath stops for a bit when he hides his face back on your chest. His lips move on your breast again until he finds the same nipple. He sucks harder this time, like he wants something to come out, even though he knows you don’t have it. Your hand smooths over his messy hair and down to his damp neck as you stroke until he melts further into you.

“Feels… feels better when I do this,” he mumbles against your skin and his voice is muffled as his mouth stays busy sucking and biting lightly. His hips twitch again and grind just enough that his cock stirs lightly inside your cunt. “Keeps me in… keeps me close to you.” You let out a quiet breath with your back sinking into the bed as your legs curl around his waist to lock him where he wants to be. “Then stay close,” you answer with heat spreading in your chest at how he clings to you like you’re the only anchor he has.

His eyes flick up to you again and they’re watery and pleading while his mouth still latches to your breast and his hand gropes the other. When you look down his lashes are wet and his face is red. His eyes looked like he had cried a lot. He looks up at you and his mouth is still on your chest while his tongue moves slowly. Then he pulls away and it makes a wet sound. “Don’t let them… don’t let them take me away,” he whispers rough between sucks, and the pain in his voice makes your stomach twist. You press your palm to his cheek to guide him to look at you though he doesn’t release your nipple. “No one’s taking you,” you murmur with weight and you mean it. His hips still move in shallow little rolls that push his cum further inside you like he wants to prove he belongs there. And you don’t stop him.

Because this is what Project Sentry was built on. Dedication, sacrifice, and people giving more than what was asked just to make it succeed. You’ve seen scientists bury themselves in data for weeks, nurses risk their licenses, and handlers ruin their bodies with stress. Everyone offers something. Maybe you’re no different. Maybe you’ve taken it more literally than most. Maybe it stopped being about ethics the moment you realized what he needed from you. Maybe it’s not about what’s right anymore and it’s about what keeps him from breaking.

Because here you are holding Bob against your chest with his cock still warming inside you, and his tears soaking into your scrub you realize you’ve already decided. If this project needs him steady, if it needs him held together, and if it needs someone to keep him calm, then you’ll do it, whatever that means. You’ll give him your body, your time, and your patience. You’ll let him cling and cry, and suck at your tits like he’s starved, because if that’s what it takes to make him the Sentry they want, then you’ll give it. Especially for Bob.

⠀⠀

⠀⠀ twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

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[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Game Night Heat

bob floyd x fem!reader

TW/CW: heavy make-out, intense intimacy, explicit dirty talk (consenting adults), risky semi-public vibe (friends in the other room), creampie implications, praise/begging, post-scene teasing by friends.

The thing about hosting game night is it turns your place into a crowded heartbeat. Cards slap the table. Popcorn rains like confetti when someone laughs too hard. The living room swells with the Daggers’ competitive static—Fanboy doing play-by-play like you’re on cable, Payback pretending he doesn’t care while tracking every score, Phoenix calling fouls with the weariness of a mom of four, and Hangman and Rooster performing a two-man Broadway revival of Doing Too Much.

And Bob—your Bob—sits tucked into you on the floor in front of the couch, knees touching yours beneath the coffee table. He’s quiet in the noise, that steady, big-hearted presence that makes any room feel like a softer place. He smells faintly like cedar soap and clean cotton. It would be wholesome if not for the way his pinky keeps brushing the inside of your knee and then staying there, a little brand of heat.

“New round,” Rooster declares, dealing cards with pizzazz no one asked for. “Winner picks the movie. Losers—plural—do dishes.”

“Bold to assume you can count,” Phoenix says dryly.

Hangman leans back, smirking. “It’s fine, I’m exempt from dish duty. Star power.”

“You are exempt from common sense,” Payback mutters.

The room ripples with laughter. Bob doesn’t quite laugh; he exhales, distracted. His thigh shifts against yours, the tiny friction a spark that catches, runs up your spine, and settles low. You glance at him, catching that focused, faraway look—like he’s trying to keep up with the game but the channel in his head is tuned to you.

“You good?” you murmur, only for him.

He nods too fast. “Mhm.”

You tilt your head. “Mhm?”

He swallows, eyes dipping to your mouth and back. “You look—” He stops, cheeks flushing. “I’m distracted.”

The confession lands like a fingertip sliding down the inside of your wrist. Heat, delicate and dangerous. You shift and your knee kisses his. Under the table, your hand drifts—innocent, not innocent—resting just above his thigh, a light press through denim. His breath stutters.

Hangman slaps a card down. “That, ladies and gentlemen, is what dominance looks like.”

Phoenix peeks at your joined knees, lifts a brow, and deliberately keeps her gaze on her cards. “Sure, Jake.”

Rooster whistles like a middle-school PE teacher. “Focus up! This is championship level—Hey, Hostess, we out of seltzer?”

“On it,” you say too quickly, standing as if the word seltzer is code for rescue.

You make it two steps before Bob’s hand curls around yours. “I’ll help,” he says, voice a notch lower than the room deserves.

Fanboy salutes you with a gummy bear. “Team Hydration!”

You and Bob slip into the kitchen, the noise of the living room folding behind you like a curtain. The fridge hums. The counter holds the still-steaming bowl you forgot to refill with pretzels. You open the refrigerator; cool air spills across your skin. The light paints Bob’s face gold—his jaw working like he’s arguing with himself and losing.

The door soft-closes. The house shrinks to a heartbeat again. Yours.

He moves first—awkward in that careful, earnest way that knocks the wind right out of you. His hands find your hips, then pause like a question; you answer by walking him back into the cabinet and standing between his knees. His shoulders relax, then tense, as if the tension is the only way to keep from shaking apart.

“Distracted, huh?” you whisper.

His mouth curves, wrecked and sweet. “Bad.”

“How bad?”

“Can’t think.” His forehead dips to yours. “All I can hear is you.”

You open, just like that. He kisses you like he’s been starved since he sat down on the floor—no showy sparks, just steady heat that grows and grows until you’re leaning into him to survive it. His breath catches when your fingers slide into the hair at the nape of his neck. He chases your mouth when you try to smile.

“We have guests,” you murmur, lips brushing his. It’s not a no, and he hears it.

“I know.” He swallows. “I—please.”

You don’t make him ask twice. A shared look, a soft laugh, and then you’re padding down the short hall, palms grazing, not quite running. The bedroom door clicks shut—a sound that feels huge and private at the same time.

Dim light spills across the quilt. Your pulse lives in your fingertips. Bob’s shyness doesn’t disappear so much as it burns hot from the inside, melting into need. He backs up, and you go with him, and he’s kissing you on a stuttering inhale, like oxygen, like confession.

Clothes don’t so much come off as dissolve in the heat between you. He’s careful and greedy, both, big hands skimming, pausing, relearning the topography he already knows by heart. The first drag of skin on skin makes your knees give; he catches you, murmuring a helpless sound that vibrates against your mouth.

“God,” he says, voice frayed. “You’re… you’re—” He can’t find it. You kiss the word from him.

You fall into the bed together, a tangle that becomes a rhythm. He presses you down, braced and shaking, the world shrinking to the weight of him, the way he fits along every inch of you like he was made in your exact shape. When he sinks deeper into the moment, your breath breaks on his name.

“Bob,” you gasp, head tipping back when his mouth finds your throat. “You’re so big.”

He shudders. “Don’t—” A cracked laugh. “Sweetheart, don’t say that unless—”

“Unless what?” you tease, and then you can’t tease anymore because the next slow drive of him has you clutching the sheets and him in equal measure. “Oh my gosh— you fill me up so good.”

He’s gone after that, pupils blown, reverence fighting hunger and losing in the best way. His palm slides under your knee, gentling you open. The bed creaks, the streetlight writes soft silver across his shoulder, and the sounds you make aren’t polite anymore—quiet but helpless, pretty and broken at the edges.

“Please,” you whisper, the word catching. “Please, baby, make me—Please.”

“Hey.” He kisses you through it, breathless. “I’ve got you.” His voice dips lower, heat braided with command. “You’re so tight.” His thumb traces a line that makes you jump, cling. “Squeezing me so well.” He groans into your shoulder. “I never want to leave.”

Your laugh is a gasp. “Then don’t.”

His forehead touches yours, eyes open, seeing you, his entire chest in his gaze. “I need to—” He swallows, barely holding on. “I need you to come first. Please—please, I need you to come first.”

You oblige like it’s a favor and a dare and the completion of some old, private vow. The coil climbs, bright and insistent. His voice is soft and rough in your ear, praise meeting persuasion—good girl, that’s it, you’re perfect—until the room tips and the heat breaks and the world dissolves into the weight of him holding you through it. He follows, wrecked, mouth open against your shoulder, breath torn, body finally, finally releasing the way he’d been trying not to since Rooster asked about seltzer.

After, the room is quiet enough to hear the street breathe. He rolls to his side but doesn’t leave your body; he won’t until you pull him there. You don’t. You wrap your leg over his hip and watch him try to remember how to inhale.

“Hi,” you whisper, giddy, drunk on oxygen and him.

He huffs a laugh into your cheek. “Hi.”

You smooth a palm over his shoulder, up the solid line of his neck, thumb tracing the edge of his jaw. His lashes are ridiculously long at this distance. He looks like someone who was shy about asking for dessert and then ate the entire cake.

“Movie night,” you remind him eventually, lips brushed against his temple.

He groans. “Right. Our guests.”

You clean up—the domestic hum of tissue and water and a hastily smoothed quilt—and your pulse steadies while your smile doesn’t. At the door, he pauses like he might apologize to the universe for stealing you away. You put your hand on his chest, feel the thud through bone and breath, and tip your chin. “We’re fine.”

He nods, brave because you are. You crack the door and listen. The living room sounds like itself: Phoenix scolding Hangman, Fanboy rifling through the candy like a raccoon with a 401(k), Payback negotiating remote control custody. Safe.

You step into the light.

Two wolves lift their heads in unison.

“There they are,” Rooster beams, lounging with his socks on your coffee table like a man who has never respected a table. “The Seltzer Patrol. Heroic.”

“Saved us from dehydration,” Hangman sighs, back-of-hand to his forehead. “And… other droughts.”

Phoenix throws a throw pillow at his face. “Don’t be weird.”

“What? I’m celebrating electrolytes.” Hangman lowers the pillow slowly, grin turning predatory. “Did you find what you were looking for in there?”

“Grapefruit and lime,” you say, impossibly cheerful, tossing cans to Payback and Fanboy. “Crisp. Refreshing.”

Rooster leans forward, elbows to knees, eyes glittering. He clears his throat and drops his voice into a gravelly approximation of Bob’s, performing like the ham he is. “Ahem—‘You’re so tight’—” he rumbles, then, with obscene sincerity, adds, “‘Squeezing me so well.’”

Bob stops existing. You feel it. He becomes a blush in a plaid shirt.

Hangman clasps his hands to his chest and, with a falsetto that sounds nothing like you but unfortunately is you, coos, “Bob, you’re so big—oh my gosh, you fill me up so good—please, baby, make me—”

Phoenix sits forward and smacks his shoulder. “Absolutely not.”

Fanboy is wheezing. Payback has his head tilted back like he’s praying for strength and not finding it.

Rooster keeps going, committed to the bit like he’s getting paid. “I never want to leave,” he gravel-purrs, then points a dramatic finger at his heart. “I need you to come first. Please.”

Hangman collapses against the cushions, one hand over his mouth in fake shock. “The poetry. The romance. Shakespeare is deceased.”

You should be mortified. You are, a little. But mostly you’re warm and floaty and mean. You tilt your head, look right at Hangman, and drop it like a bowling ball.

“Oh, Hangman, sweetie,” you say, syrupy and kind. “You only wish you could make me feel a fraction of what big dick Bob makes me feel.”

Silence detonates, then explodes into chaos. Fanboy screams. Payback coughs a kernel into his sleeve. Phoenix’s eyebrows climb so high they need flight clearance. Rooster falls off the couch and then pops up like a meerkat. “BIG what?”

Hangman’s mouth opens and closes, stage-wounded and delighted. “A fraction? A fraction?”

You lean back into Bob’s side and smile up at him, smug and adoring. He is the color of a ripe tomato, eyes huge, hand hovering like he doesn’t know whether to cover your mouth or lift you onto the nearest available surface and ruin game night for good.

Rooster points at him like he’s unveiling a statue. “You hear that, Bobby?”

Phoenix shakes her head, a smile sneaking despite herself. “Congratulations… Big Bob.”

“Big Dick Bob,” Fanboy corrects reverently, already committed to the full government.

“BDB,” Payback says, as if he’s workshopping a patch design. “Clean. Powerful. Memorable.”

“Okay,” Bob manages, hands up, voice climbing an octave. “We don’t have to—uh—no one needs—”

“Pick the movie, Big Bob,” you say, patting his chest. “Winner’s privilege.”

“Winner?” Rooster cackles. “Buddy, you’re winning life.”

Bob clears his throat and reaches for dignity like it’s on a high shelf. “Apollo 13?”

“Classy,” Payback says, nodding like a sommelier.

The room dims. The menu screen hums. You tuck yourself under Bob’s arm, and he folds you in, still blazing. Hangman leans over the back of the couch to stage-whisper, “For the record, I’m fine with Sergeant Big Bob or Captain BDB—”

“Workshop it in silence,” Phoenix says, stealing the remote.

Rooster throws an arm around Hangman’s shoulders, voice dropping again into that absurd baritone. “Hey, man, let the legend breathe.” He mimes zipping his lips, then unzips them because of course he does. “But also, for the record—‘you’re so tight’—wow, what a line—”

“Bradley,” you warn, laughing despite yourself.

He beams. “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

“Then flatter the dishwasher after the credits,” Phoenix says. “Start the movie.”

The rockets roar. The room settles into that comfortable hush of people who like each other. You feel Bob’s heartbeat slow under your cheek, his breath smoothing out. Every time Rooster snickers, Bob squeezes your shoulder like he might collapse and you might catch him. You do.

Halfway through, you slide your fingers under the blanket and find his hand. His thumb traces your knuckles—the quiet, private version of everything you said out loud. He leans, mouth at your ear, voice tiny in the dark.

“You trying to kill me?” he whispers, smiling against your skin.

“Never,” you murmur back. “Just letting them know what I already know.”

“What’s that?” he asks, shy and brave at once.

“That you’re the best thing I’ve ever hosted.”

He exhales, a laugh that’s also relief. Across the couch, Hangman and Rooster are still vibrating with the need to make jokes. They will for months. Years. At the next cookout. At the next wedding. On the carrier deck when they think no one important is listening. Big Dick Bob is immortal now.

But for this hour, with the movie throwing silver light across the coffee table and your friends pressed close by gravity and noise and affection, it feels like the nickname belongs to the two of you first. A private crown. A secret you shouted in a living room that understood what you meant: not bragging. Just truth. Just yours.

Later, after credits and goodbyes and Rooster’s last gravel-voiced “never want to leave” at the door and Hangman’s two-finger salute at your midsection like a menace, Bob locks up the house and leans his forehead to the wood for a second like he needs to reset his soul.

“Hey,” you say, sliding your arms around his waist from behind. “You okay?”

He turns, eyes soft, mouth parted. “I’m—yeah. I am.” A beat. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“I can.” You rise on your toes, kiss him slow, a promise tucked inside it. “Round two, Big Dick Bob?”

He laughs helplessly, already lost, hands settling on your hips like an answer. “Please.”

And you’re gone again—no audience now, no grapefruit seltzer excuses—just the two of you and a room that knows the shape of your names when you say them like prayers.

[adelliet]

Bob reynolds x f!reader

FATAL ACCIDENT

Summary: When Bob accidentally caught you in a deeply inappropriate moment, he decided to make it up to you. He brought muffins and suggested a movie night. Neither of you expected what would happen next… or how everything would change between you.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, strong language, unprotected sex (piv), dry humping, multiple orgasms, stimulating through clothes, cum in pants, soft sex, creampie, sleeping inside of each other, sweet ending, sub!Bob, use of Y/N

A/n: Hi there! I hope you'll like this story/smut! I really tried my best so…anyways, if you have any ideas, suggestions, or anything else, feel free to text me. Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes or phrases that might not make sense—English isn’t my first language :3 But I hope you enjoy the story! <3

Masterlist

It was late, well past midnight, when Bob found himself standing outside your door. The rest of the tower had gone quiet hours ago, wrapped in the peaceful hush that only came once the chaos of the day had settled. Lights were dimmed, hallways empty, and the low hum of distant generators was the only thing keeping him company. But he knew you. You were a night owl, always the last one to go to sleep. That’s what brought him here in the first place.

He told himself it was just a small question about the mission briefing tomorrow. Something minor. Something he could’ve asked anyone else, sure—but not at this hour. And not with the way his brain kept coming back to you, no matter how many reasons he tried to invent.

So, he knocked. A quick, rhythmic tap. Nothing.

He paused, waiting for your voice, footsteps, any movement. Silence. He knocked again—same rhythm, a little firmer this time. Still, nothing.

He called out your name gently, voice soft but just loud enough to carry through the door. Not a yell, but enough that you would’ve heard it if you were in there.

Still no answer.

That ache in his chest started to grow—tight, warm, and completely irrational. He knew you were probably just asleep, headphones in maybe, passed out after a long day. Nothing bad had happened. He told himself that twice, then again, like repetition would make it true.

But it didn’t ease the tension building behind his ribs. It didn’t stop the way his fingers curled against his palm or the faint pull in his stomach as the silence stretched on. And still—no sound from the other side of the door.

Bob’s worry was growing by the second. He knew that you were probably fine. But still, that uncomfortable knot in his chest didn’t go away. He lingered by the door, biting the inside of his cheek before clearing his throat softly.

“Can I come in?” he asked, still hopeful for a response.

Nothing.

He hesitated only a second longer before his hand reached for the doorknob. He turned it slowly, carefully, as though the metal itself might protest. The door creaked slightly as he pushed it open, just a crack at first.

He peeked inside, half-expecting to catch you mid-change or in a situation where he absolutely should not be present. But the room was empty.

No one in sight.

He stepped inside, carefully closing the door behind him with a soft click. The room smelled faintly like your perfume and something warm, like vanilla and fabric softener. Familiar and comforting.

But then he heard it. The sound of running water. A soft, steady stream. His eyes darted toward the bathroom door. It was slightly ajar, just enough for steam to be drifting out and curling into the air.

You were in the shower.

Relief rushed through him like a wave. You were safe. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and smiled to himself, already turning to quietly slip back out of the room. He could talk to you tomorrow. No big deal.

“Y/N?” Yelena’s voice rang out from down the hall.

Bob froze. Panic hit him like a truck. The sound of footsteps rushed toward the door. She was heading this way. Fast.

“Oh no no no,” Bob whispered under his breath, looking around in a frantic circle. His brain went blank. If Yelena saw him in your room, especially this late, especially without you even in the room, well, that would definitely send a message. One he wasn’t ready to explain.

His eyes darted to your closet. No good. Not enough room. Under the bed? He’d never fit. His thoughts were racing. The doorknob outside jiggled slightly as Yelena neared—

And in a moment of sheer panic, Bob made the only decision he could. He turned and slipped into your bathroom. The steam hit him like a wall and before his brain could yell STOP, he realized where he was. Inyour bathroom while you were still in the shower.

Bob’s hands were up like he was surrendering to an armed SWAT team, his fingers trembling as sheer panic rushed through his entire body. His chest was tight, breathing shallow, and every cell in his brain was screaming, Why are you here? Why the hell did you think this would be a good idea?

He stood frozen, wide-eyed and pale, as the sound of the shower continued, taunting him. There was nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. He was in the bathroom. With you. While you were still in the damn shower.

And before he could even string together a plan, or even a thought, he heard her again.

“Y/N!” Yelena’s voice echoed louder now, clearly already inside your bedroom.

Bob’s soul practically left his body. From inside the shower, your annoyed voice finally rang out over the sound of the water.

“I’m coming!” you shouted, clearly frustrated.

Then the stream shut off. Bob’s heart jumped into his throat. His tongue felt dry as sand. His skin was burning and cold at the same time. Oh no. Oh no. Oh God.

He stared helplessly at the fogged-up glass of the shower door, and when you slid it open— he saw you.

Completely naked.

Water still clung to your skin in droplets, sliding down the curve of your neck, your collarbones, gliding along your thighs like liquid silk. You hadn’t seen him yet, but he was already about to combust from embarrassment and sheer secondhand shame.

And then your eyes landed on him.

“WHAT THE FUCK?!” you screamed, your voice pure panic and fury as you instinctively reached for a towel and yanked it around your dripping frame.

“I—I’m sorry—I didn’t—” Bob choked out, immediately spinning around to face the wall, his entire face a violent shade of red. His hands went back up, this time like he was trying to blot himself out of existence.

But fate wasn’t done dragging him through hell just yet. Because just then, Yelena pushed the bathroom door open. And paused.

“Woah. What the fuck is happening here?” she asked in her signature deadpan tone, heavy Russian accent slicing through the awkwardness like a hot knife through shame.

You, still clutching your towel and dripping on the floor, looked absolutely stunned. “I have no idea what he’s doing in here!” you snapped, eyes wide with a cocktail of betrayal and pure what-the-actual-hell.

Bob didn’t speak. Couldn’t. He was practically vibrating with anxiety, lips pressed into a thin, miserable line. His whole body was trembling like a leaf caught in a storm.

He was so unbelievably screwed.

It was the next afternoon when you heard a soft knock on your door. You didn’t even need to ask who it was. You knew instantly.

“Come in,” you called calmly, already anticipating the awkwardness that was about to step through the door.

Bob peeked his head in first, like he was making sure it was safe before fully entering. Then, with a hesitant “Hey…” he stepped inside and quietly shut the door behind him.

He looked… guilty. Shy.

His cheeks were flushed pink, his posture small and careful, and his legs? Slightly shaking. He was holding a plate of something in his hands—and the second he came closer, the sweet scent of freshly baked muffins filled the room like a warm, edible apology.

You were sitting on your bed, a book in your lap, one brow raised as you watched him silently. You weren’t mad anymore—but you were curious. And you were definitely going to make him squirm a little first.

For a moment, the room was wrapped in silence. Bob shifted awkwardly, his weight bouncing between his feet, clearly searching for the right words.

“I, uh…” he started, eyes flicking to yours then immediately down again. “I wanted to apologize… for yesterday. I—I didn’t mean for any of that to happen and… as an apology, I… got you these.”

He stepped forward, extending the plate like a peace offering, holding it out to you with a hopeful look in his eyes.

The muffins smelled amazing—still warm, soft in the center with little chunks of what looked like chocolate and banana. You looked up at him and took a deep breath.

He looked so genuinely remorseful. That kicked-puppy look on his face nearly made your heart melt. You knew he didn’t mean to barge in on you, and you definitely knew he wasn’t some creep.

Still. You had one burning question.

“Why were you even in there?” you asked gently, but there was still a bit of edge in your tone. You needed to hear it straight from him.

Bob’s arms retreated slightly as he clutched the plate back toward his chest, like the question caught him off-guard.

“I—I just wanted to ask if you were coming with us to the England mission,” he said honestly, blinking fast. “That’s all. I swear.”

Ah. That explained it. That put the final puzzle piece into place.

You nodded slowly, letting out a small breath and placing your book aside. You scooted forward, settling on the edge of your bed, resting your hands down on the mattress beside you.

Your expression shifted, now more playful than stern.

“So…” you said, tilting your head just slightly. “How much did you see?”

Bob blinked, clearly caught off guard by your question.

His eyes widened just a bit, and his shoulders tensed.

“Uh—I didn’t see anything,” he said too quickly. Way too quickly. “Like… nothing at all. Swear.”

You raised a brow. Just stared at him. That stare that you knew always made people squirm. Bob shifted awkwardly, the plate of muffins now looking like the only thing anchoring him to the ground.

You didn’t say anything. You just waited and it worked. Eventually, he cracked. His shoulders slumped as he sighed, gaze flickering down to the floor like it was the only thing willing to forgive him.

“Okay… I—I saw a little. But I barely remember, I swear. It was just a second.”

His voice was soft, guilty. And you couldn’t help but laugh. You shook your head with a smile and stood up from the bed.

“It’s fine, Bob,” you said with a gentle wave of your hand. “I’m over it.”

You walked up to him, close enough to smell the sugar and chocolate clinging to the muffins.

“You made these?” you asked, nodding toward the plate.

He nodded sheepishly. You narrowed your eyes, suspicious.

“You don’t bake.”

“I don’t,” he admitted with a shy chuckle. “But… I looked up your favorite recipe. I figured if I’m gonna apologize, I should at least do it right.”

His voice was so genuine, and there was something so… stupidly sweet about the way he stood there, just hoping they were edible.

You smiled again, softer this time, and reached out to pick up one of the muffins. You took a bite. It was warm, fluffy, and the flavor hit perfectly. Just the right balance of chocolate and banana.

Honestly? Kind of impressive.

“They’re actually really good,” you said, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Thanks.”

There was a moment. A quiet beat between you where something sparked. You looked at him. Really looked at him.

“Try one,” you offered, nudging the plate toward him.

“Oh, no, I—” Bob took a tiny step back. “They’re for you.”

Before he could make another excuse, you rolled your eyes, grabbed the plate from his hands and picked up another muffin.

“You’re eating it,” you said, no room for negotiation.

He opened his mouth to protest, but you were already pushing the muffin into it.

Literally.

He choked out a laugh as you shoved it into his face. He bit down instinctively, chewing with his cheeks puffed out like a squirrel, crumbs already on his lips. You giggled, watching him use his fingers to wipe his mouth, and that’s when something shifted.

Suddenly, time slowed. The laughter died down, but that flutter in your stomach didn’t. A pulse between your legs sparked to life, and you became acutely aware of the heat building inside you.

You watched the way Bob chewed, the way his jaw moved, the way his tongue darted out to catch a crumb near the corner of his mouth.

And just like that… you were wet. Soaking.

And all you could think about was how pretty he looked. How soft and gentle.

Of course, Bob had always been cute to you. From the very first time you saw him, with that messy hair and his little giggle that felt too soft for someone who flew jets and handled missions like a pro.

He was sweet. But never hot. Not in a “I want to drag you into bed and ruin you” kind of way. But now? Something had shifted.

You didn’t know if it was the ovulation hormones messing with your brain chemistry, or the fact that he saw you naked in the shower, or maybe it was his maddeningly addictive cologne, but something clicked.

And suddenly… he was sexy. Like, you-couldn’t-stop-thinking-about-his-mouth sexy.

You bit your lip and watched as Bob finished chewing the piece of muffin you’d shoved into his mouth. His lips moved slowly, tongue catching a few crumbs.

He swallowed, glanced at you and said, “It’s not that bad, actually.”

His voice pulled you out of your internal spiral. You nodded a little too quickly, letting out a soft hum in agreement, a smile playing at your lips. He smiled back, a little shy, a little unsure.

“Well…” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. “I should probably let you get back to your book.”

You tilted your head. “You’re not bothering me.”

But he still insisted. “Yeah, but… I mean—you probably wanna, y’know, process everything. I just—yeah.”

He moved toward the door, slowly, awkwardly, and you returned to your bed, settling into the pillows with your book in one hand and another muffin in the other, though your eyes weren’t exactly on the page.

Bob was halfway out the door when he paused and turned back.

“Oh! Uh—one more thing,” he said, his voice just a bit higher than usual. “Bucky finally helped me set up that TV in my room, so… I was thinking maybe, tonight, if you’re not busy, we could watch a movie?”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “You want me to be your test subject?”

He shrugged, smiling nervously. “I just don’t wanna sit there and watch it alone like a loser.”

You laughed softly. “Sure, Bob. I’m in.”

His smile widened, that same boyish grin that somehow made your stomach twist now in a very different way.

“Cool. Uh—great. I’ll… come get you later then?”

You nodded, trying not to look too eager. “Sounds good.”

He gave you one last smile before he disappeared behind the door, and the second he was gone your book was forgotten. Your thighs pressed together, the ghost of that look he gave you still lingering.

The lights were dimmed in Bob’s room, the only real glow coming from the soft flicker of the TV screen. You were both sitting on his bed, technically his bed, but it didn’t really feel like that now. Not with the way you were both perched on the edge of it, backs resting lightly against the wall, a shared blanket covering your legs.

You sat just far enough apart for it to be considered “friendly.” A safe distance. But god, you wanted to move closer.

The movie playing was some classic, older film, one of those feel-good, slightly cheesy ones with warm lighting and 90s nostalgia oozing out of every frame. It was so Bob. Of course he’d like something like this. Comforting, predictable and sweet. Just like him.

From time to time, your eyes would drift toward him. He was so focused on the screen, eyebrows twitching ever so slightly during tense scenes, mouth curled just faintly at the corners when something funny happened.

And maybe that was the problem. Because his pure, oblivious cuteness was driving you insane.

Your eyes trailed down to his hands, resting in his lap. To the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest. To the way his Adam’s apple bobbed whenever he swallowed. You could practically hear the blood rushing in your ears.

You licked your lips, trying to focus on the movie, but the images blurred. You weren’t even listening anymore.

Why the hell was this happening to you? Why are you suddenly feeling like this? Was it the way his thigh was just barely brushing against yours under the blanket? Or maybe it was that familiar soft scent of his cologne, sweet and woodsy and him?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t fair. Not when he looked that innocent, completely unaware of the storm building inside you.

You’d been pretending to watch the movie for the last ten minutes, but let’s be honest—you hadn’t registered a single scene. Your mind was elsewhere. On him. The steady warmth beside you, the way his scent filled your lungs, the shape of his jaw in the soft glow of the screen.

And then… you cracked. You turned your head slightly, looking at him from under your lashes, your voice soft—almost too soft.

“Hey… um, I’m kinda cold. Mind if I scoot closer?”

It wasn’t even cold.

Bob’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, like you’d just asked him to recite Shakespeare in Russian. He blinked, then gave the tiniest nod.

“Y-Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

You moved closer, slow and deliberate. Your shoulder brushed his. He didn’t flinch—didn’t pull away. Good. But his whole body tensed like a drawn bow.

And then came the real move, you gently laid your head on his shoulder.

Bob didn’t breathe. Like literally, he just froze. His fists clenched in his lap, not from discomfort—but from sheer sensory overload.

He could feel you. All of you. Your warmth sinking into his hoodie, your hair brushing his jaw, your scent melting into the air around him. His brain short-circuited.

This wasn’t a dream, right? You weren’t just… doing this?

He swallowed hard, throat dry, trying not to move or ruin the moment. Your thighs were just barely touching under the blanket. That soft friction, the tension—goddamn.

You noticed everything. The way his jaw clenched. The shudder that ran down his spine. The way his breath stuttered ever so slightly.

Your lips curled into a small smile. He was nervous—but not in a bad way. Not because he was uncomfortable. He was nervous because it mattered to him. And maybe that made it all the more intoxicating.

The sexual tension was practically radiating off his skin—buzzing in the tiny space between your bodies, where your arms nearly touched.

You shifted just a little closer. So close now that you could hear his heartbeat pounding like a drum.

The movie was still playing, but your focus had drifted miles away. Not on the screen. Not on the plot. But on Bob.

The air felt thicker somehow, heavier with something unspoken. Every small glance at him only made it worse. That gentle look on his face, the way his eyelashes brushed his cheeks when he blinked, his throat bobbing every time he swallowed—everything was unbearable in the best kind of way. You had this ache, low and steady, impossible to ignore.

So you moved.

Under the blanket, slow and casual, your hand found his thigh. Just a gentle rest, as if you needed a place to land. Bob tensed immediately, his whole body reacting like a live wire being sparked. His breath hitched, but he didn’t stop you. Not even a flinch. He stayed still, as though frozen in place, except for the way his chest was rising just a bit too fast to be calm.

Your thumb began to brush soft circles along the fabric of his sweatpants. Just small, teasing motions, and yet you could feel how it made him react—his thigh twitching slightly beneath your touch, his jaw clenched tight, lips slightly parted as though he didn’t trust himself to breathe through his nose anymore.

You turned your head and whispered, slow and velvety, “By the way… those muffins? They were amazing.”

Bob blinked, once, twice, and barely managed a grunt of a response, like speaking full words would crack him wide open. He gave a slight nod, clearly trying to keep his composure, but failing beautifully.

You smiled, wickedly pleased, and lifted your head from his shoulder so you could really look at him. His eyes locked on yours immediately, wide and uncertain—but undeniably filled with heat. And hope.

“Did you…” you started, voice dipped low like velvet on skin, “like what you saw yesterday?”

He froze.

His lips parted, but no sound came out. His hands, still clenched in his lap, curled even tighter. It was obvious he was trying to say something, trying to figure out if this was real or a fever dream he was about to wake from. The red on his cheeks deepened, and his eyes darted from your face to your lips and back again.

“I—uh—I didn’t mean to—I mean—I didn’t really see—”

You leaned in closer, your hand still warm and steady on his thigh.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “I don’t mind.”

And then you moved your hand. Just a little higher, right where his twitching dick was.

Bob let out a shaky breath—one of those breaths that almost sounded like a prayer, or a curse, or both. He looked like a man on the edge, hanging by a thread spun from every suppressed feeling he’d ever had for you. The tension in his body, the nervous flicker in his eyes, the way his lips parted and didn’t quite close again—all of it screamed one thing:

He wanted you. Badly. And you knew. You leaned in, lips inches from his ear, and asked one last question, barely more than a breath:

“Do you want me to stop?”

Your fingers moved slowly, so slowly it almost felt like an accident. A barely-there stroke through the soft fabric of his sweats. He twitched. You felt it. And still, he didn’t move. He just stayed still, frozen, his breath hitching in his throat and he couldn't even answer you.

Bob’s eyes fluttered shut, lashes trembling. His lips parted slightly, a quiet sound slipping from his mouth—a mix between a gasp and a helpless whimper.

You turned your head just enough to see his face. His brows were drawn together, his jaw tight, and he looked so unbelievably vulnerable. Lost. Struggling. But not stopping you.

“You like it?” you whispered, voice low and warm.

He nodded, quickly, too quickly, but didn’t speak. You kept going, slowly, tenderly, through the fabric, feeling the way his whole body reacted to your touch. He was holding onto the edge of the blanket with white knuckles, his other hand hovering, as if unsure where to go or what to do.

“And did you like yesterday?” you asked softly, meaning the shower incident. You leaned a little closer, lips brushing his ear.

Bob choked on a breath, and his head tilted back slightly. “I-I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to— I mean—” He couldn’t even finish the sentence. His voice cracked.

You smiled.

“I think you did,” you murmured.

And then, just as his breath caught and his hips gave the tiniest, helpless twitch beneath the blanket, you felt it. His whole body tensing, stuttering, a soft, broken noise escaping his throat as he came apart completely under your hand.

Bob froze, then practically curled into himself. Face flushed deep red, breathing erratic, shame washing over him like a wave.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he whispered. His voice was small, strained, like he wanted to disappear.

“No I'm sorry I didn't mean to,” you felt guilty, more than Bob did. You just wanted to tease him a bit, just a few touches. Who knew Bob was that sensitive, but in the end you didn't mind.

“I uh…it's been a while since I've been with someone…” Bob tried to explain himself, even tho he didn't need to. You understand. You smiled at him, sighing.

“It's okay…we can go slow,” your sweet tone calmed Bob down, his chest wasn't raising that fast, and his eyes softened.

The eye contact was so loud, but at the same time so quiet. Soft and gentle, barely brushing your lips against his, just testing the waters, but when you kissed him again, he melted. Your lips were making wet sounds, as you explored your mouths, touching your tongues and mixing your salivas.

After a long make out session, you slowly swung one leg over his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs, the quiet rustle of your clothes and the soft shift of the bed were the only sounds for a moment.

Settling on top of him carefully, you totally made him forget everything else but the feeling of you, the heat between you, the way your mouths moved together like they were made for this.

His hands finally moved to your hips, trembling just slightly, like he needed the confirmation that this was real.

The pressure of you settling onto him was electric. Your bodies fit together like matching puzzle pieces, your chest pressed gently to his, and you could feel the way his breath stuttered beneath you. Your forehead met his for a moment, just a shared breath, your fingers tangling in his tousled hair.

Then, really gently, you began to move. Not urgently, not to finish something, but to explore. The softest grind of your hips into his, dragging fabric against fabric, building friction that made his lips part in a quiet, broken gasp. His eyes fluttered closed, lashes kissing his cheeks, and his hands clutched your sides like he needed grounding.

You could feel it all. The growing heat pooling low in your belly, the ache between your legs intensifying with each shift, and the clear tension in Bob’s body as he whimpered helplessly. His head tipped back against the wall, exposing the long line of his neck, and his thighs tensed beneath yours.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly, your voice breathless but sure.

He nodded quickly, voice cracking. “Y-Yeah. Yeah, please.”

The desperation in his whisper made your stomach flip. You leaned forward, kissed along his jaw, his ear, and then back to his lips—this time slower, deeper, letting him feel how much you meant it. How much you wanted him.

And still, your hips moved. Measured rolls that made his breath catch and his hands dig just a little harder into your waist. The tension between you thickened like honey, sticky and warm, and everything slowed down.

He whispered your name like a prayer, and when you whispered his in return, voice thick with want and wonder, he shivered, completely undone beneath you.

Your fingers moved cautiously, tracing the hem of his shirt. You paused, eyes flicking up to meet his, giving him a silent chance to pull back. But he didn’t, he just nodded slightly, and that was all you needed.

You slid your hand under his shirt, your palm meeting the heat of his skin. He shivered immediately, muscles twitching beneath your touch, and you felt him grip your hips just a little tighter — not to stop you, but to anchor himself.

“Still okay?” you murmured against his lips.

He swallowed thickly, nodding. “More than okay.”

Piece by piece, you began to remove each other’s clothing, slowly, like unwrapping a secret. Every inch of exposed skin felt like a discovery. His shirt first, then yours. His eyes widened when he saw your chest, and for a moment, he just stared, completely speechless.

You smiled softly, brushing his cheek with your fingers. “You’ve seen me before, remember?”

“Not like this,” he whispered, voice rough and reverent.

His hands ghosted over your sides, hesitant at first, as if afraid you might vanish. But you didn’t, you leaned into his touch, and his hesitation melted into something bolder.

The more skin you revealed, the more the tension between you tightened, until it was a living, breathing thing. And when the last layer of clothing fell away, when you were both completely bare, there was nothing left to hold back.

Bob looked up at you, his hands trembling slightly where they rested on your hips. His eyes, full of something deep, searched yours, like he needed your permission again, even though you were already here, already his.

You leaned down to kiss him, slow and deep, your lips moving against his in a way that made both of you sigh quietly into the space between. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell faster, how his body tensed beneath yours as you slowly rolled your hips, letting the sensation build gently, teasingly.

He moaned — not loud, but broken, like the sound had been pulled out of him without warning. His hands flexed against your skin, not guiding you, just holding, grounding himself in the reality that this was happening. That you were here. That you wanted him.

“God… you feel so good,” he breathed, voice low and shaky.

You smiled softly against his neck, then whispered, “So do you.”

When he finally slid into you, it was careful — almost reverent. There was no rush. No hunger to claim. Just the slow, aching press of bodies coming together, like a deep breath being exhaled after being held too long.

Both of you stilled for a moment, your foreheads pressed together, hearts pounding in sync. You were full of him — not just physically, but emotionally. And in that moment, you swore you felt something inside you settle. Like a missing piece had finally found where it belonged.

You began to move together, slow and deliberate, each thrust more about connection than release. His hands roamed up your back, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades, like he couldn’t bear to let go of even an inch of you. Every time your hips met, a soft gasp or whimper left your lips, answered by the way Bob groaned low in his throat, utterly overwhelmed by how good you felt around him.

The air between you was thick with warmth, your bodies slick with sweat but never frantic. The way you kissed him between moans, the way his hands stroked your sides with a trembling tenderness, it all spoke louder than anything you could’ve said out loud.

“I’ve never—” he choked out, voice cracking, “—never felt anything like this.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Me neither.”

Your pace quickened slightly, not from desperation but because your bodies knew each other now, moved together naturally. You could feel yourself getting closer, and from the way Bob’s grip on you tightened and his hips stuttered slightly, you knew he was too.

But neither of you chased it. You let it build, let it take its time, let it matter.

And when you finally came — together, as if perfectly timed — it wasn’t explosive. It was soft. Like sinking into something that had always been waiting for you. You held each other through it, every muscle trembling, your mouths finding each other again and again as if to say, I’m here. I’m still here.

Even as your breathing slowed and your bodies softened, you didn’t pull away. You just stayed there, tangled together in warmth and silence, hearts thudding gently in the same rhythm.

The world had gone quiet. Neither of you spoke for a while. There was no need to. You were both still coming down from the high, your minds slow, your bodies heavy and satisfied.

Bob’s chest rose and fell beneath you, his heartbeat echoing faintly in your ear where your head rested against him. You could feel that he was still inside you, the connection unbroken, and neither of you seemed in a hurry to move.

You shifted just slightly, a tiny sigh escaping your lips as your thighs twitched from the lingering tension. Bob pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder, the gentlest thing, like he was afraid he’d wake you even though you were still very much awake but fading.

Your voice was quiet, half-murmured against his chest. “You okay?”

He let out a breath, almost a laugh, and nodded slowly. “Yeah… I just… I don’t think I’ve ever felt this calm before.”

You smiled, your eyes closing at the sound of his voice, that low, warm rasp that made your chest flutter even now. “Me neither.”

There was a pause. Not awkward, not heavy, just peaceful. The kind of pause where two people are so content, silence feels like part of the conversation.

You felt yourself drifting, your body melting further into his. Your legs tangled with his, your arms limp, every inch of you relaxed in a way you hadn’t known you needed. You were safe. You were full — in every sense of the word. And his presence beneath you was like an anchor, a soft place to land after everything.

Your breath started to slow. Your eyelids fluttered, heavy. Sleep pulled at you like the tide.

And then, just as you began to slip under, Bob’s voice, barely there, a whisper made of breath and feeling, broke the stillness.

“I love you.”

He didn’t say it like he expected an answer. He didn’t even say it like he meant for you to hear. It was quiet. Almost scared. Like a secret that had waited far too long to be set free.

But you didn’t stir. You were already gone, lost to sleep in the safety of his arms, your face soft and peaceful against his chest.

Bob looked down at you, his expression unreadable for a moment, then full of something tender, something real. He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, let his fingers rest against your naked back, and closed his eyes.

He will never forget this moment.

And so do you.

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!

I hope you guys enjoyed it! If you have any suggestions, don’t hesitate to let me know! I’d also be super happy for any feedback; whether it’s a reblog, comment, like, or even a follow.

HAVE A LOVELY DAY,

BYEEE🫑🍋‍🟩