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has anyone done this yet
Fall In Love
Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Fem!Reader Summary: Bob always needs reassurance that he’s pleasing you and doing a good job. Warnings:18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Smut, Smut, Bob is desperate for reassurance and is a whiny mess, Established Relationship, *ahem* very limited plot here lol Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V, messy sex, oral sex (female receiving), overstimulation, breast play, begging, drooling, licking, whimpering/whining, scratching, Slightly Rough Sex, Choking (very lightly), Praise Kink, Use of ‘Good Boy’, Biting till the skin breaks by accident? Author’s note: This was a request/prompt, and I absolutely adored it and couldn’t hold myself back from writing it! I can’t resist whimpering men, what can I say? Hope you guys enjoy <3 Word Count: 7,457
“Right there, Bob…Fuck! That’s so good! Please don’t stop–oh god!” You exclaimed, your voice cracking into a desperate whine, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush as pleasure coiled like a sparked wire through your core. You grabbed onto his wrist with one hand, squeezing it with a fierce grip that betrayed how utterly undone you were, feeling the warmth of his large, calloused palm splaying wide across your belly. His thumb traced lazy, soothing circles over the faint peach fuzz there, a tender caress to reflect the care that he was pouring into you, grounding himself in the small little flexes beneath his touch.
With your free hand, you laced your fingers through his soft, light brown hair–dampened now with a sheen of sweat that made the wavy strands cling to your skin like wet silk thread–tugging firmly at the roots, eliciting a low, vibrating groan from his that reverberated straight into the sensitive flesh he was lavishing.
His body moved in perfect sync with yours, undulating like a wave that mirrored every arch and twist of your hips, as though he had become an extension of you, woven into the very fabric of your being. He anticipated your every buck and shudder, his mouth never breaking contact with your overstimulated core, reading the subtle language of your tremors and gasps as if he’d memorized it long ago–or perhaps he was burrowed so deep into your psyche that he could predict the rhythm of your desire without a single glance.
Bob moaned deeply into you, the sound muffled and hungry, his chin slick and glistening with your arousal as he parted his mouth just a fraction wider. His tongue flattened and stretched, a broad, insistent stroke that covered you entirely, lapping from the pulsing heat of your entrance all the way up to your swollen clit. He savoured you, sucking the sensitive bundle into his mouth, swirling around it with teasing flicks that built into obscene, wet popping sounds each time he released it with a gentle tug.
Your eyes stung as tears welled along your lashes, blurring the dim glow of the room–the soft lamplight casting shadows that danced along Bobs sapphire eyes, his irises striking an azure that seemed to depend with every passing second, reflecting the lust and devotion swirling within him. The pressure in your stomach wound tighter, a relentless knot verging on exquisite pain, the intensity of it all threatening to shatter you. This would be your third orgasm of the night, and your body was teetering on the edge of exhaustion, with every nerve ending setting ablaze and protesting the overwhelming bliss even as it craved more.
Your nails dug into the skin of his wrist, leaving faint crescent marks as a helpless mewl escaped your lips, your thighs quivering uncontrollably against the broad expanse of his shoulders. The muscles there were firm yet soft, like a cushion of flesh, a testament to his strength, the kind that didn’t boast but enveloped you in safety.
Bob ground his hips into the mattress below, the friction against his aching cock drawing out a shudder that rippled through his frame. He could feel the damp spot spreading on the sheet, thick rivulets of his precum soaking the soft cotton and clinging to his pelvis in sticky strands, a humiliating reminder of how desperately turned on he was. A broken whimper slipped from his throat before he could stifle it, humming into your core and sending fresh sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine.
He knew it was pathetic–how consuming you like this brought him so perilously close to the edge, how the sight of you writhing in ecstasy could nearly make him cum untouched–but deep down, he sensed you’d revel in it, that witnessing him finish would only fuel your own desire, even if it flushed his cheeks with embarrassment. He buried his face deeper between your thighs, the soft, corded muscles of his shoulders pressing into the backs, folding you open further until your knees nearly brushed your belly. You were utterly exposed, no escape from the relentless devotion of his mouth, the gentle scrape of his stubble against your inner thighs adding a delicious friction that bordered on too much.
Your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling just enough to make him gasp, as he moaned again–louder this time, more urgent. He shifted his head from side to side, deliberately smearing your slick across his skin, marking himself with you. His tongue sharpened its focus now, zeroing in on your clit with precise, flicking motions that pushed you toward your orgasm, each lap and swirl building the final surges you needed to tip you over the edge.
Little gasps clawed their way from your throat as you tried to writhe beneath him, but his weight pinned you more firmly to the mattress, a comforting heaviness that kept you grounded amid the chaos. Your thighs shook against him, your back arching off the bed in a graceful bow, ankles digging into the taut muscles of his back as a sudden blast of heat erupted from your core. It raced upward like wildfire, igniting every nerve and every inch of skin, until your entire body was aflame with it–consumed, reborn in the ecstasy.
“Oh my fucking god!” You whined, your voice raw and breaking as you clamped your thighs around his head, locking him in place like a vice. Your release gushed forth in a torrent, drowning him in your slick while his tongue lapped greedily, extending the wave of your orgasm with every insistent stroke. His hand pressed down on your belly with just enough pressure to hold you steady, preventing any squirm or retreat; he was determined to capture every drop, letting it coat his tongue, like it was the sweetest essence he’d ever known. He wouldn’t let a single bit go to waste–not when it was coming from you, not when it tasted like heaven distilled.
Time blurred into an indefinable haze as he lingered there, his licks slowing to tender, reverent caresses, drawing out your high until your body softened into a boneless, euphoric melt. Only then did he ease back, pressing soft, grateful kisses along your soaked core–as if silently thanking you for the gift you had bestowed upon him for the third time tonight. He trailed them to the insides of your thighs, where his heavy, hot breaths clung to the damp skin, mingling with the faint salt of your sweat.
“Was…Was that good?” He asked, his voice muffled, the words vibrating through the tender flesh as he pressed his wet lips to it in a caress. His free hand traced featherlight lines along the outside of your leg, fingertips dancing over the skin and coaxing goosebumps to rise in their wake, a gentle contrast to the intensity that had just consumed you both. You were utterly dazed, the cascade of orgasms leaving your mind foggy and your limbs heavy, but the question pierced through the haze. “Good” felt like a laughable understatement; what he’d done had catapulted you to euphoric heights you’d never known before him, a pinnacle of bliss that burned through your veins like liquid fire. Nothing else could compare to his devotion to you, it was unparalleled, and you never wanted to descend from this heaven he had crafted.
“I think the soaked sheets can answer that question for you, Bob,” You replied, your voice winded and ragged, each word pulling from deep within as you fought to steady your breathing. Hyperawareness flooded your senses: the distant hum of the city outside your window, the natural, earthy musk of his skin mingling with the salty tang of sweat and arousal, the lingering heat of his hands and breath adhering to your flesh like a second skin. His gleaming irises locked onto you, their depths swirling with lust and a quiet plea for more reassurance. The room’s dim lighting casted a golden sheen over your sweat-glistened body, highlighting the rise and fall of your chest as you struggled to calm the thunderous pounding of your heart, which echoed in your ears like a drumbeat to a song you couldn’t pinpoint.
It was as if your blood had began to boil, threatening to overwhelm you entirely, making your skin prickle with the threat of overheating. You tried to temper the wild rhythm in your chest, but it was futile with Bob still nestled between your thigh, his face slick with your releases, gazing up at you expectantly. He could see the evidence himself–the dark, damp patch beneath you, a calling to your undoing–and part of him ached to press his cheek against it, to revel in the mess you had made. But he held back, his self-control wearing thin, waiting for your words to weave him back into certainty.
“Please…Tell me,” He whispered, his voice a whiny edge that bordered on desperation, nuzzling his nose against your thigh, “Did…Did I make you feel good? Was I…Good for you?” You sighed softly, sliding your hand from his wrist so you could intertwine your fingers with his, feeling the subtle dryness between his fingers scraping against the smoothness of your own skin. You gave them a gentle squeeze, a silent affirmation that grounded him, before uncurling the hand tangled in his hair. Slowly, you moved it down, flowing down the splatters of cinnamon coloured freckles to cup his cheek, the stickiness of your arousal on his skin transferring to your palm in a slick, warm smear that felt both filthy and profoundly connecting in a way that you couldn’t describe.
He tilted his head toward your touch, leaning into it hard, allowing you to fully absorb the heat radiating from his flesh–flushed from his pridefulness, and deepening when his eyes saw the way your core was clenching around nothing, even now, when his mouth wasn’t on you. His skin was so soft and plush under your fingers, yet it was underscored by the faint rasp of stubble that prickled against your thumb. He often shaved during his little night time routine, but tonight it had all been thrown out the window when you surprised him in a sheer black robe that left little to the imagination, and you relished in that texture, so much so that you continued stroking it mindlessly. He pried his eyes off of your fluttering entrance and drew them up to meet yours with a pleading intensity, waiting for you to speak, knowing your words would hit him right where he needed them to.
“It was incredible, Bob,” Your murmured, your thumb brushing over his lower lip–plump and swollen from the fervent efforts he had poured into pleasing you, the skin there glistening with a mix of your essence and his saliva. “You always make me feel so fucking good. I’m all wrecked because of you…Because of the amazing job you did.” You added, the words laced with genuine awe, watching as his eyes flicked shut at the praise, his lashes casting delicate little shadows on his cheeks. A soft whimper escaped him, vibrating against your thumb as he turned his head slightly, pressing his lips to your palm in a short kiss before his tongue darted out to lick at the stick residue there. He really couldn’t get enough, and he was desperate to savour every trace of you, his body trembling beneath the weight of his own neglected arousal–his cock throbbing insistently against the firmness of the mattress, leaking more precum in thick, pearlescent beads that only soaked the sheets further, the ache building to an almost unbearable crescendo that had him shifting his hips in subtle, needy rolls, hoping you wouldn’t notice, but you always did, and you knew he needed you just as much as you needed him in that moment.
“Now come up here so I can give you a better reward than my touch,” You teased, watching his eyes snap open and widen with a mix of surprise and eager anticipation. A smile tugged at his lips, boyish and endearing despite the heat in his gaze, his entire frame vibrating with excitement like a coiled spring that was finally given permission to release. He lingered for one last moment, pressing a final kiss to the inside of your thigh–sucking gently at the stubble burned skin there, his teeth grazing just enough to leave a faint mark that he soothed immediately with a languid lick of his tongue, tasting the salt of your sweat mingled with the sweetness of your release. Then, with a reluctant pull, he disentangled himself from between your legs and began his ascent up your body.
His solid, muscled frame, slid along yours in a heated glide, the firmness of his chest brushing against your thighs, then your hips, the friction of dampened skin on skin igniting fresh sparks wherever he touched. His mouth charted a devoted path, lips wet and trailing over your pubic bone in open-mouthed kisses that left a dewy trail cooling in the air, up to the soft curve of your belly where he paused to nuzzle, inhaling deeply as if he was committing your scent to memory. His hand released yours, fingers splaying wide to steady himself against the bed, the muscles in his arms flexing subtly, his veins popping out from beneath his skin, pulsing on full display.
“No-Nothing is more rewarding than your touch,” He whispered, shaking his head with an impassioned denial, his nose brushing over the dip of your navel in a caress that made your abdomen flutter. Strands of his hair fell forward around his face like a curtain, the soft tips grazing your skin in ticklish rasps that contrasted the intensity of the moment, sending goosebumps rippling outward in waves. You hummed in response, a low, contented sound that rumbled from your chest, shifting yourself higher against the pillows so you could prop yourself up, giving you the perfect view of him continuing his voyage.
He took his time, relishing in the journey he had travelled many times before, his lips and tongue appreciating every inch of your naked form that granted him such unfettered access: the slight rise of your ribs, the smooth plane of your sternum, and the valley between your breasts where he placed a chaste kiss, feeling the rapid thrum of your heartbeat that mirrored his own.
As he finally reached your chest, his hands joined the exploration, one sweaty palm sliding up the curve of your side, tracing over your flesh before slipping to the underside of your breast. His fingers curled around the soft swell, cupping it fully in a gentle yet possessive squeeze that reignited the heat in your belly. The warmth of his touch seeped into your skin, contrasting the cool air of the room that had begun to gnaw at your exposed flesh.
His mouth found the breast he wasn’t holding, lips brushing the plush yielding flesh in a series of barely there kisses that built with each press. He nipped at the sensitive skin, teeth grazing just enough to draw a gasp from you, then tugged softly with his lips, pulling the tissue taut before releasing it with a wet pop. His hot breath fanned over your pebbled nipple, a humid gust that made it tighten further, aching for more, as a small moan escaped him.
He shifted uncomfortably on top of you, his body adjusting with a subtle rock of his hips, allowing his hot, leaking erection to settle against the soft plane of your belly. The velvety length smeared your skin with his precum, leaving glistening trails that cooled slightly in the air, displaying his mounting desperation. He let out a sigh of relief at the contact, the brief friction easing the insistent throb.
“So-Sorry, it was getting a bit much having it against the mattress,” He admitted, his lashes fluttering as he ducked his head slightly, a flush creeping up his neck to tint his ears pink. You dismissed the notion with a soft smile, bringing your hands to rest on his shoulders, where you traced your nails over the indents of muscles.
“No need to be sorry,” You reassured, your voice a soothing murmur that wrapped around him like a blanket, watching as he licked his lips, the pink tip of his tongue making them glisten before his gaze returned to your breast with a hunger that made your pulse pick up again. HIs mouth followed, placing little peck over the swell, until he reached your nipple. He sucked it into his mouth, the wet heat enveloping you as his tongue swirled in lazy, indulgent circles–flicking, lapping, and teasing the hardened peak with a rhythm that mirrored the way he had eaten you out just moments before. His other hand pinched and rolled the nipple of your neglected breast between his thumb and forefinger with just enough pressure to toe the line of pleasure with a sweet, stinging edge.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails pressing into the warm, taut skin there, leaving faint half-moons that would fade by morning but marked him in this moment as yours. A moan tore from your throat, as you arched your back up toward him, silently coaxing him to take more–deeper, harder. And he obliged immediately, drawing more of your breast into his mouth with a greedy suck, his tongue lavishing the soft tissue. Drool escaped the corner of his lips, trailing down the curve of your breast in messy, silvery streaks that caught the dim light like dewdrops on silk. He shifted back slightly, his eyes half-lidded with lust, and chased the trail with his tongue, lapping it up in a broad eager stroke, before gulping loudly, the sound obscene in the quiet room. Pulling off completely, he revealed the glistening bud, now swollen and shimmering, and blew a thin stream of air onto it, watching with rapt fascination as it hardened even further under the teasing chill.
You slipped your hands from his shoulders and up to the back of his head, threading your fingers through the damp, wavy strands of hair, and with a firm tug, you guided him upward, pulling him away from your chest and up to your face. Leaning up to meet him halfway, you captured his lips in a searing kiss, the heat of it igniting instantly. He melted into it, his lips parting eagerly to allow your tongues to tangle in a desperate, slippery dance–tasting your arousal on him, sweet and intoxicating with the mix of his saliva.
As the kiss deepened–teeth gnashing with each move–he slid his arm under the space between your neck and the pillow, cradling you with a tenderness that belied the fire raging between you, his fingers splaying across the nape of your neck to hold you steady. His other hand left your breast then, trailing upward in a lingering path along your collarbone before coming to rest on your cheek, cupping it as he moaned into your mouth–a deep, resonant sound that travelled down your throat, vibrating inside your chest. You sucked on his tongue, drawing it deeper with a playful pull that made him shiver, and brought your legs up to wrap around his torso, locking your ankles at the small of his back. The move pulled his body flush against yours, the solid weight of him pressing you deeper into the mattress–the comforting heaviness of his frame, all corded muscle and warm skin, enveloping you like a living cocoon.
HIs cock twitched between your bodies at the increased pressure, trapped against your abdomen, the veined length pulsing with need as he whined–a high, broken sound that escaped against your lips. He pulled away from the kiss, his chest heaving with short, ragged breaths, his face a picture of overwhelm: brows furrowed, lips parted and slick, eyes glazed with a desperate haze that looked like he was going to die if he didn’t do something soon. Your legs tightened around him, the muscles in your thighs flexing against his sides, feeling the give of his ribs expanding with each pant, the heat of his skin radiating into yours like a shared fever.
“I...I need you,” He breathed, his voice cracking on the words, his eyes glancing up at you through his lashes, pleading and raw. A small smile crept onto your kiss-bitten lips, swollen and tingling from his mouth.
“Then take me,” You whispered, the invitation hanging in the air like a tantalizing smoke, before closing the scant space between you to kiss him again. You felt the starvation behind the way his lips moved on yours–like he was going to devour you whole, or suck every breath from your lungs until you were hollow, empty of everything but him. HIs kisses turned frantic, tongues battling in a wet, heated frenzy that left you both gasping. His hand slid off your cheek, the tips of his fingers trailing down your torso in a path that skimmed the side of your breast, dipped into the curve of your waist, and settled on your hip with a firm grip, his thumb pressing into the soft flesh there.
Pulling away from the kiss once more, he leaned back slightly, his weight shifting onto his knees as your legs loosened just enough to give him room. His eyes locked onto yours, dark with lust, before dropping lower, watching with rapt attention as he reached for his cock–thick and flushed, the head glistening with a fresh bead of precum that dripped lazily onto your skin. He guided the tip through your folds, smearing his arousal with yours in a slick glide that made you both shiver. Teasing it over your clit in slow circles, he elicited a short, sharp breath from you, your hips bucking instinctively toward the tormenting pressure.
Then finally, he pressed the thick head against your entrance, the blunt warmth nudging at your slick heat. HIs eyes lifted to meet yours in a quiet query–seeking that final thread of consent amid the charged air. You gave him a nod, the gesture simple and laden with trust, and in that instant, his restraint fracture just enough to ease forward.
He pushed in with one gentle thrust, the broad tip breaching you slowly, your body yielding to the intrusion as your walls stretched around him. The sensation was exquisite, a burn that bordered on pure bliss, your inner muscles fluttering in eager welcome, clenching reflexively as if to draw him deeper into the molten core of you. He filled the space inch by inch, his girth parting you with a delicious pressure that made your toes curl against the sheets.
“Oh…Oh fuck,” He moaned, the words tumbling out in a wrecked gasp, as he leaned toward you, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His breath came in hot, erratic puffs against your skin, each exhale a humid caress that raised the fine hairs along your nap, mingling with the faint, clean scent of his shampoo that you used earlier that evening–a subtle lemon rind mixed with orange. A little grunt of approval escaped his lips, vibrating against your collarbone, as if even in this haze of desire, he appreciated the small things that bound the both of you together.
Inch by inch , he moved his hips toward yours, sinking deeper into you with a measured glide that had your breath hitching in your throat. His arms bracketed your head, elbows digging into the pillow on either side, the cords of muscle in his forearms flexing visibly as he fought for a semblance of control, his fingers curling into the sheets.
“Y/N…Y/N, Jesus.” He whimpered into your ear, the sound high and fracture, as his hand squeezed the pillow with a desperate clench, his knuckles whitening against the fabric. His body shuddered when he bottomed out, fully sheathed in your head, the base of him flush against you in a union that felt both primal and tender. You clenched around him, a teasing pulse that drew a choked whine from his throat. In response, you wrapped your arms beneath his, your palms flattening against the broad expanse of his back before your nails dragged down his shoulder blades, leaving tingling trails that made his skin pebble under your touch. Your fingers continued lower, tracing the sweat-dampened surface of his spine.
“Fuck Bob…You fill me up just right…Like the good boy you are.” You praised, feeling him twitch inside you at the words–a visceral reaction that sent a thrill up your own spine. His head turned to the side, his lips seeking out the sensitive skin of your neck in a grateful press, the kiss messy and fervent, as if words had deserted him entirely. He was so lost in you, adrift in the overwhelming tide of euphoria, that even breathing seemed secondary to the need to be closer, deeper, and utterly consumed by you.
He began to move then, pulling back slow enough that you felt every ridge and vein along his length, before thrusting in again, rolling his hips against yours in a fluid, undulating rhythm that built upon itself. The motion was intimate, bodies sliding together in a slick harmony, the faint slap of skin on skin puncturing the quiet. Both of you were breathing heavily, your chests rising and falling in tandem, the air thick with the shared cadence of gasps and sighs. Your nails raked down his back, scoring light red lines across the freckled canvas of his skin, feeling him shake against you. His hands held the pillow tightly, the plushness bunching in his fists as if it were the only thing he could grab that tethered him to the moment, his eyes cinching shut, lashes fluttering against his cheeks. He continued to press kisses against your pulse, each one growing with the craving he had for you–soft at first, then nipping with his teeth that grazed just enough to leave a mark.
He grunted and whined, the sounds blending into a desperate melody that made your ears flutter, growing louder with each roll of his hips, before pushing himself up on his elbows, creating just enough space to look down at you. His gaze roamed, taking in the way your breasts moved with every thrust–the soft bounce and sway hypnotic, drawing his eyes like a magnet. He felt the pressure of your hands squeezing the muscles of his back, fingers kneading into the firm ridges there, like you were trying to hold yourself back from scratching him up even more.
“God you’re so fu-fucking beautiful,” He moaned, the words spilling out in a stuttered rush, his voice thick with awe as he picked up the pace of his thrusts, the rhythm gaining urgency, needing more of your slickness on him. You squeezed around him in response, a flutter that made his stomach flip, the tip of his cock pressing against your cervix each time his hips met yours in a deep grind that blurred the line between pleasure and ache.
You let out a gasp, arching toward him in a sinuous curve that pressed your bodies closer against, while he reached for one of your wrists, sliding your touch off his back. He aided your hand to rest against his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing under your palm as he swallowed thickly, silently indicating what he needed, his pulse thrumming wildly beneath the warmth of his skin. You obliged, your fingers curling lightly around his neck–not enough to constrict, but sufficient enough to apply a teasing pressure that made his eyes flutter half-shut, his whimpers growing louder, more ragged, as he started really picking up the pace.
The thrusts turned messy, his hips snapping forward with a force that shook the bed frame, the wood hitting against the wall to emulate the rhythm like a metronome, the obscene wet sounds of your bodies connecting echoing through the room along with the tapping. His desperation manifested in every strained muscle, every vein that pulsed beneath his skin, and every broken sound that clawed from his chest, like every other time the two of you had been wrapped up in one another.
“Tell me…Tell me I’m good…Tell me I’m ma-making you feel good.” He begged, his voice breaking as if he was on the brink of tears from your silence–which you hadn’t meant, but you were so utterly distracted by him stretching you open and hitting every spot you needed that the thought of talking wasn’t at the forefront of your mine–as you squeezed his neck.
“You’re so fucking good, Bob…Your cock is perfect and you…You’re gonna make me cum again, oh fuck…” It took a lot of willpower to put your words together, but somehow you managed it, each syllable forced out between gasps as your pleasure flooded your brain, overtaking every ounce of focus you had on the moment, like you had handed the controls of your mind to another being entirely.
His movements picked up even more at the praise, building to a frenzy that had the mattress creaking in protest as your hand on his back slid around to scratch against his abs–nails dragging and digging over the defined lines there, leaving welts that flushed a bright pink against his skin, layering one on top of the other. Your eyes closed tightly, feeling your lashes dampen with tears, your walls quivering around him in erratic pulses that signalled your impending release.
He slid his hand to the back of your thigh, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pushed it up, folding your leg so your knee pressed against your belly, changing the angle with practiced ease, granting you more friction and him the sight of his cock pushing into you, seeing how the skin along his shaft was soaked in your arousal. He sank even further into you in those moments, grinding after every thrust so his pelvis could rub against your clit. Every plunge felt like a velvet invasion, stretching you and filling you to the brim, and he could see your jaw go slack.
“I need more…Y/N.” He pleaded, a bead of sweat dripping from his temple to trail down his cheek, glistening like a tear in the low light. Your hand slipped from his neck to join the other in scratching at his abdomen, nails biting into the taut planes of muscle that flexed with each powerful drive.
“You’re the only person who can make me cum, the only person that’s ever done it…You’ve ruined me for everyone else and I’m so fucking happy that I’m yours…That you make me feel like I’m on top of the world, especially when you’re fucking me like this.” He whined at your words, a high, keening sound that dissolved into a groan.
“God, Y/N…Fuck, baby.” He wanted to say more, to try and return the compliments, but he just couldn’t, his mind was just so preoccupied by you. Every finer of his being was intertwining to the symphony of your shared ecstasy–the way your slick heat enveloped him like a slick vice, drawing him in deeper with each desperate plunge, the rhythmic clench of your walls that seemed to echo the beat of his own heart, and yours. He glanced down, mesmerized by the erotic chaos below: your folds glistening like dew-kissed petals around his shaft, dripping in viscous trails that painted your inner thighs, the tops of his, and the sheets beneath in a sheen. The sight was hypnotic, a visual treat to your unravelling, and he could swear he felt you vibrating against him with every thrust, as if your body were whispering secrets of your impending climax in a language only he could decipher. It always fascinated him how effortlessly your form communicated when words failed–how your breaths hitched into staccato rhythms, your muscles quivering like taut strings on the verge of snapping, and how your hips canted upward in silent supplication, urging him onward and meeting him halfway.
He thanked whatever benevolent force watched over him that you were teetering on that precipice now, because his restrain was fraying like an old rope under unbearable tension. Slipping into you had been effortless, a glide into paradise that tested his limits from the start, but now every muscle in his body felt cinched tight by an invisible drawstring, pulling him toward a haze where pleasure blurred into total overstimulation. His skin prickled with electric heat, nerves alight as if lightning coursed through his veins, and the world narrowed to the intoxicating friction of your bodies merging, the scent of your mingled essences–musk and sweet and heady–filling his lungs like an addictive fog.
You slid one hand off his abdomen, the drag leaving stinging echos on his skin as your nails trailed away, reaching down to find his that was holding your thigh in place. Your fingers intertwined with his in a desperate clasp, your palm slick with sweat, as if that grounding contact was going to keep your soul anchored to your body. The wave of your orgasm finally crashed over you in a blinding surge, your outstretched leg wrapping over his like a vine seeking purchase, a shattered sob escaping your throat in a raw, guttural cry that reverberated through the room. Your core squeezed tightly around him in convulsing pulses–relentless, rhythmic waves that milked him with an intensity that made his vision blur at the edges, his frantic thrusts stuttering as he fought to maintain control through the grip.
The wet sounds only grew louder from your release, a lewd orchestration of squelching slaps and slippery glides that filled the air like an obscene chorus. Bob was an absolute mess, his composure shattering into fragments–his breaths coming in ragged, animalistic pants, his face contorted in a mask of agonized bliss, brows furrowed deep and lips parted in silent pleas. Sweat beaded along his hairline, trickling down his temples in salty streams that mingled with the flush staining his cheeks, his body trembling uncontrollably as he chased the edge, hips snapping against yours with reckless abandon, the muscles in his thighs and back coiling in anticipation for the end.
“Bob! Oh fuck…Please! Please cum in me! God, be a good boy for me, give me everything.” You begged, your nails digging into the back of his hand with a fierce, crescent-marking grip, overwhelmed by the way your nerves felt like gasoline had been poured all over them and set ablaze by his deep, quick thrusts–each one a piston-like drive that made your thighs tremble and your body arch towards him.
You could hear his breathing turning into jagged gasps as he leaned forward, the shift in position pressing his sweat-slicked chest against yours in a heated slide, his mouth descending to find your breast with a hunger that felt like it was going to tear him to shreds if he didn’t satisfy it. He latched on, sucking and lapping at the soft, plush flesh like it was going to give him life, a frantic distraction to channel the way he was going to teeter off the edge. The salty tang of your skin mixed with the faint metallic bite of his earlier marks made him groan into you, sucking more to draw up additional blood to the surface so that the love bite could stay there longer.
You felt his rhythm falter, the once-precise undulations devolving into erratic jerks, his muscles tensing against you in a full-body shudder–shoulders bunching, abs clenching like iron bands, the veins in his neck standing out in stark relief. The sweat from his body pressed into yours, creating a slick fusion that made everything feel wet and sticky, your skin adhering and pulling apart with tacky smacks against his. He gasped–a pointed, broken inhalation that caught in his throat like shattered glass–and his hips jerked in a sudden, brutal thrust right against your cervix, the impact sending a jolt through you both. His cock twitched inside you, swelling impossibly thicker for a split second before his cum spilled into you in hot, forceful spurts, flooding your depths with an inferno that seeped into every crevice.
His body shook with the full force of his orgasm, convulsions rippling through him like seismic waves, and he bit down on the soft flesh in his mouth–an instinctive clamp of teeth that pierced just enough to draw a faint coppery tang, the pain blooming into a twisted pleasure for you as a grunt vibrated against the skin there, muffled almost to a complete silence. He fucked every thick pulse of his release into you with shallow, grinding rolls, trying to keep it all in you even as more came. It was as if the prolonged buildup had primed his body to believe this was his final act of surrender and it was determined to empty every last drop, to drain him completely and leave him spent in your embrace. His teeth sunk deeper into your breast, a broken whimper escaping him–like a plea for mercy–as you felt his muscles tense one last time against you, before he broke completely.
His jaw slackened, the tension draining from his features in a visible unravelling, as he released your breast with a wet, resounding pop that echoed off the walls. The mark he left behind bloomed vividly against your skin–a constellation of deep indentations from his teeth, with a very thin trail of blood seeping out from one particularly sharp puncture, a crimson bead tracing a lazy path down the curve of your swell. The cool air of the room kissed the raw spot with an aching sting, but you couldn’t summon the energy to care, not when every fibre of your awareness was riveted to him.
He immediately went limp on top of you, collapsing into your form with the unresisting weight of utter exhaustion, his limbs losing what little control remained, as if the strings holding him upright had been severed all at once. His mass settled over you like a heavy, comforting blanket–solid and enveloping, a cocoon of heated muscle and damp skin that pinned you to the mattress, his chest pressing against your belly as it attempted to sync with your slowing breaths. His cock remained buried deep inside you, a lingering connection that pulsed with faint aftershocks, softening gradually amid the sporadic twitches that made your oversensitive walls squeeze back.
He was breathing heavily and shaking against you, his frame quaking with tremors that rippled from his core outward, like after-quakes following an earthquake of sensation. Soft whimpers escaped him, sounding almost like he was hurt–wordless pleas that tugged at something deep within your chest, raw and unfiltered in their need. He buried his face into the valley of your chest, nuzzling into the warmth there to seek refuge, hiding from the world, from your gaze, from the overwhelming experience the both of you had just shared, his damp hair tickling your skin in disheveled waves.
Instantly, the lingering remnants of euphoria that still pulsed through your veins cleared with startling abruptness, swept away by a surge of pure, instinctive concern that sharpened your senses and quickened your pulse anew. The shift was visceral, and your body transitioned from complete bliss to protective alertness in a snap.
“Bob…Baby, are you okay?” You asked, your voice soft but laced with urgency, as your hands trailed up from his back in a soothing glide, your fingers skimming over the raised welts you’d left on his flesh before reaching his face. You cradled his overheated cheek gently in your palm, feeling the feverish flush radiating from his skin like a banked fire, the heat so intense it bordered on alarming. It was worrying how fast his temperature had spiked, rising in a sudden wave that made you wonder if something was wrong beyond the exertion–if he’d pushed himself too far, or if a sudden illness had came over him.
The thought propelled you to shift beneath him, adjusting your position with a subtle twist to get a better look at his face, your other hand coming up to join the first in framing his features. That’s when you noticed it: a single tear escaping the corner of his eye, glistening like a molten pearl before trailing down his skin. Your thumb brushed it away, the pad capturing the droplet, and you startled at the unnatural heat of it–far hotter than any tear should be, like water on the verge of boiling, searing against your skin before evaporating completely.
“Baby…Talk to me, are you okay? Do you need water? Tell me what you need, you’re starting to scare me.” Your words tumbled out in a rush, as fear tightened your throat, your eyes searching his face for any sign of distress beyond the physical, your fingers now stroking his jawline in gentle, reassuring patterns, willing him to respond.
Finally, he took in a deep, shuddering breath that expanded his chest against you, the inhale ragged but steadying, as if he was drawing in your essence along with the air. His eyes fluttered open slowly, heavy-lidded and glassy, his gaze peering up at you through the veil of tear-soaked lashes–thick and clumped, framing irises that still swirled with the remnants of passion and lust. He took you in, absorbing the sight of you in all your blissed out glory, even though it was all camouflaged beneath the worry etching your features–brows furrowed, mouth set in a concerned line.
“I…I’m fine. Just need a minute. I’m so-sorry.” His voice was a fragile whisper, cracked around the edges, carrying the weight of his apology like an unnecessary burden, as if he had somehow failed you in this moment of honesty.
You let out a little sight of relief, the tension in your shoulders easing as the sound escaped into the air. You rubbed his cheek slowly, your thumb tracing the high plane of his cheekbone in tender circles, nodding gently to affirm his words. The heat was still there, but it seemed to be stabilizing, no longer climbing.
“Don’t apologize, take your time.” You reassured, your tone a soothing balm, as your fingers travelled up to trace along his sweaty brow, brushing back the damp strands of hair that clung there like wilted vines. You kept your eyes locked on him, witnessing the slow recovering unfolding before you–the way his breathing steadied from frantic gasps to deeper, more measured inhales, his body rising and falling against yours in a gentler cadence, the quivers in his limbs subsiding like ripples fading on a pond’s surface. Until, at last, his arms finally moved, stirring from their limp state, his hands sliding along the curves of your torso before burrowing beneath your back, worming their way under you to wrap around your waist in a hold that pulled you impossibly closer.
You could feel the slick sweat on his palms pressing against the valley of your spine, but you kept yourself still, unmoving, knowing that he was seeking his anchor: the steady thrum of your heartbeat, the one constant that never failed to help him truly descend from the overwhelming heights you had climbed together, synching his rhythm to yours like a lullaby for his frayed nerves.
“Di-Did I do good?” He asked quietly, the words emerging in a hesitant murmur, his voice small and seeking despite the overwhelming evidence.
You kissed your teeth softly–a subtle tsk of affectionate exasperation at how he still sought an answer that should’ve been so obvious to him, after all the the ways you’d unravelled under his touch, after the praises you’d already lavished–but there was no real annoyance behind the sound.
“Yes, Bob. You did good, baby.”
they all said "help me" not "weaponize me" btw
Omgomgomg hiiii! can I please req Bob reynolds x reader (fem if thats okay) where Sentry falls before bob if thats okay?
I LOVED this request! Thank you so much for sending it to me <3 I hope you like how I wrote this idea
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You’d always been kind to Bob. That’s where it started. Not with declarations or romance, but with you bringing him coffee during early mornings at the Tower, remembering how he liked it—two sugars, light cream. With you making space for him on missions, never treating him like a weapon, but like a person. That rarest of things. Sentry noticed.
Not Bob. Sentry.
The glowing man with golden eyes who flew ahead of the team, who faced gods and monsters like they were made of paper. He saw the way you spoke to Bob, not with fear or awe, but warmth. Softness. Sentry didn't understand it at first; they never received this treatment before, but he knew he wanted more of it. More of you.
The first time Sentry saw you for himself you were laughing. Not the kind of laugh meant for someone else’s benefit. Not polite. Not strained. It was real—loud, full, your head thrown back, the corners of your eyes creased with joy.
It was something Bob flinched from in the past. But Sentry? Sentry leaned closer. She sounds like sunlight, he thought.
Sometimes, when Bob would retreat inward, when his self-doubt pressed in like the darkness of the Void…Sentry would come forward. To protect him but also to see you…you’re starting to become the main reason.
“I like your hair like that,” he said once—Sentry, not Bob—hovering just outside your window in the dusk, glowing faintly. “It looks… brave.” You smiled. “That’s a strange compliment.” “I mean it.” He hesitated, then asked something Bob never could. “Can I sit with you a while?”
You nodded. That night, he said nothing else. Just sat beside you on the rooftop, watching the stars, bathed in quiet gold. You didn’t ask questions. You didn’t probe. You didn’t call him by the names others whispered with fear or reverence. You just sat with him. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
He visited more after that. Late nights. Rooftop talks. Quiet confessions. His voice, usually so commanding, softened around you. Like your presence gave him permission to be fragile. “Sometimes I think I’m not real,” he said one night, golden aura flickering like a dying star.
“You feel real,” you whispered, brushing your fingers over his. “To me, you’re real.” And that was the first time he ever considered choosing to be more than just power.
It took Bob longer to realize it. He thought it was the Sentry who was drawn to you, that golden half of himself—stronger, bolder, unafraid. Bob told himself that he wasn’t worthy of you. That Sentry could love, and he could only watch. But love doesn’t stay where it isn’t returned. And you never smiled at the Sentry quite the way you smiled at Bob. Not when he made terrible jokes in the kitchen at 2 a.m., or when he forgot how to tie his tie before a briefing and you patiently helped him. Not when he was anxious and hiding it badly, and you leaned into him just enough to say “I’m here.”
Sentry might have spoken first. But it was Bob you were falling for. You had been falling for Bob the whole time. It just took him a while to catch up to the part of himself that already had.
Bob sat on your porch steps one quiet evening, fingers twisting nervously in his lap. “I think…” he started. “I think he fell in love with you before I did.” You smiled, soft and knowing. “I think you were always a part of that love for me. You just didn’t know how to let yourself feel it.” His shoulders dropped. Relief. Maybe something close to peace. And when you kissed him, there was no Sentry. No golden light. No legend. No god.
Just Bob. And this time, he let himself stay.
Thank you so much for reading my work! As always if you like my work, please let me know! Reblogging, commenting, and liking are huge and easy ways to let me know you're enjoying my work, and it keeps me motivated to post way more!!! Requests are open <3
Tagging: @msfirth
@my-name-is-baby
@metalarmsandmanbuns
@live-love-be-unique
@disillusioniary
@you-bloody-shank
@sarcazzzum
@itsjustisa
@qardasngan
A Damsell in Distress
Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader
Summary: In which the team is eager to meet Bob's ''imaginary'' girlfriend, and the chaos just seems to pile up as the time goes by.
Word Count: 9,5k
Warnings: Just a very fluff, slice of life. Y/N is a very, I repeat very emotional character in this one. Also kinda dramatic, but you will love her. John walker being kinda of an asshole but he gets put in his place.
--
The Watchtower had seen its fair share of preparations for missions, briefings, and the occasional begrudgingly shared meal, but never before had it been the stage for something quite like this. Dinner for a girlfriend. A real, flesh-and-blood, voluntarily dating-him girlfriend of Bob Reynolds. The strangeness of the event was not lost on any of them. The mess hall had been hastily dressed up in a manner that could only be described as a patchwork compromise between Alexei’s idea of “proper Russian hospitality,” which seemed to involve serving platters large enough to feed an army battalion, and Yelena’s insistence that this wasn’t a funeral banquet, and for once the table should not look like it had been stolen from the Kremlin in 1974. Somewhere in the middle of those arguments, Ava had slipped in silently, rearranging cutlery with her characteristically meticulous movements, and Bucky had been conscripted into the unfortunate role of furniture mover, which left him muttering obscenities under his breath every time he stubbed his metal arm against the corner of the bench.
It should have been a serious task. First impressions mattered, after all. But the sheer improbability of Bob introducing them to anyone in the capacity of “romantic partner” had broken down any attempt at dignity. “So,” John drawled, leaning back against the wall with his arms folded and a smirk plastered across his face, “what do we think she’s like? Quiet? Mousy? Glasses the size of saucers and hair in one of those messy buns—like she’s fresh out of some library in New England? Maybe the kind who collects bugs for fun?” His tone was somewhere between mockery and genuine curiosity, and though the words earned an immediate groan from Yelena, his grin widened at the reaction.
“You’re disgusting,” she shot back, not even looking up from where she was lighting the candles that Ava had insisted upon, though her lips twitched with reluctant amusement. “And misogynistic. What’s wrong with being quiet and smart, anyway? At least those people have something between their ears, unlike you.” She blew out the match and shook her head, muttering something in Russian about men who believed their entire charm was located in their biceps.
John raised his eyebrows, utterly unrepentant. “I’m just saying—this is Bob we’re talking about. Bob! Mister ‘I forget my own sandwich order because I get lost in thought about quantum mechanics.’ You’re telling me some girl out there saw that and thought, yes, sign me up, I want to marry the human embodiment of a deer in headlights? Color me shocked.” His voice dipped into a chuckle that was almost endearing in its disbelief.
Alexei, who had been struggling with a platter of roast chicken that looked better suited for Christmas than a simple introduction dinner, finally joined in, his booming voice bouncing off the metal walls. “Eh, but maybe she likes the deer look! Some women, they like… how do you say… the shy little puppy man. Makes them feel strong. Protective. Like they could crush him with one hand, but they don’t, because they love him.” He slammed the platter down onto the table with such force that the utensils rattled, then gave a wide grin of satisfaction at his culinary contribution. “Besides, Bob is good man. Strange, yes. Talks like he swallowed encyclopedia. But heart,good heart. And good heart can sometimes get you girlfriend, even if you look like lost accountant.”
Bucky, who had just finished rearranging the chairs for the fifth time, paused to give Alexei a long, unimpressed look. “Lost accountant?” he repeated dryly, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “That’s generous. More like an absent-minded professor who forgot which classroom he’s supposed to be in and ended up at a biker bar instead.” He sat down heavily, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as though the whole affair was exhausting him beyond measure, but there was a faint quirk to his mouth that betrayed amusement.
Ava, who had been unusually quiet even for her, finally spoke from the far end of the table, her voice carrying that clipped tone she often used when unimpressed. “All of you are missing the point. You’re too busy mocking him to realize what this means. He didn’t tell us about her until now. Which means he’s serious. Serious enough to risk letting you people meet her.” She glanced up, her pale eyes sharp and assessing, before she returned to adjusting the napkins with surgical precision. “If he trusts her with that, then maybe you should stop laughing at the idea of her and consider what kind of person she must be to make Bob, of all people, take a leap like this.”
The room quieted for a beat, long enough for the sound of the ventilation system to hum through the silence. And then, inevitably, John broke it with a scoff, shaking his head. “Or maybe she’s just as weird as he is. Birds of a feather and all that. Can you imagine it? Two Bobs, except one in a skirt,sitting at a dinner table, staring at their food, both forgetting to eat because they got lost in a conversation about… about…” He waved a hand vaguely, searching for the right absurdity. “About the mating rituals of microscopic sea life or something because they are probably both addicted to documentaries no onw ever choses to watch.”
Yelena laughed despite herself, covering her mouth with her hand as though to smother the sound, and even Bucky let out a short huff of amusement. Alexei slapped John on the back so hard the man nearly choked. “Yes! Two Bobs! Very shy, very puppy looking, but they mate for life. Ah I love love.” He grinned proudly at his own joke, his thick accent giving the words an extra comedic lilt.
Ava rolled her eyes so hard it was a wonder they didn’t get stuck, but even she couldn’t quite disguise the slight curve of her lips. “Idiots,” she muttered, though there was no venom behind it.
The elevator gave its usual metallic groan before the doors parted, and the room fell into an almost theatrical silence as all eyes snapped toward the opening. There he was: Bob Reynolds, tall and slightly slouched, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a jacket that looked one size too big, his hair in its usual disarray, like he had fought both gravity and a small hurricane before arriving. The anticipation that had been buzzing around the table instantly transformed into expectation, heads craning subtly behind him as though a mysterious silhouette might emerge in his wake. But the elevator doors closed with a dull clank, sealing off the possibility. He was alone.
For a moment, no one said anything. Bob lingered at the threshold, shoulders drawn in, eyes shifting between the candles flickering on the table and the ridiculous abundance of food Alexei had piled up like an altar to hospitality. He gave them the faintest of smiles, halfhearted, distracted , before clearing his throat. “She’s, uh…running a little late,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, carrying that tired softness that made everyone instinctively lean forward just to catch the words. “Got..stuck finishing up a fashion runway. Last show ran over.” And with that vague explanation, he nodded to himself, as if rehearsing the line in his head, and slipped out of the room before anyone could ask a single question. His departure was so quick, so ghostlike, that for a split second they wondered if he had even been there at all.
It left a vacuum in his wake, one filled almost immediately by confusion. “Fashion runaway?” John was the first to break the silence, frowning as he twisted the phrase in his mouth like it was written in a foreign language. “Did he just say runaway? Or runway? Because those are very different things. If his girlfriend’s on the run from the law, suddenly this makes a hell of a lot more sense.” He smirked, but the expression was tempered by the furrow of his brow, as though even he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard.
“No, he said runway,” Ava corrected flatly, folding her arms across her chest. “As in fashion show. As in models.” She delivered the words with all the emotion of someone reciting a lab report, but the raised eyebrow that accompanied them betrayed a flicker of curiosity.
There was a pause while the implications sank in. Then Yelena barked out a short laugh, so sharp it startled even herself. “Wait—no, no, that’s impossible. Bob? Dating a model? That’s not… that’s not how reality works. Models date, I don’t know, rock stars, billionaires, men who at least know how to stand in a room without looking like they wish the wallpaper would swallow them whole.” She shook her head, still grinning, but her tone wavered between amusement and disbelief.
Alexei, predictably, clasped his hands together with a booming chuckle. “Ah! So it is true love! Beauty and the awkward beast! It is classic story. Model falls for shy man with kind heart. Like movie I once saw, very popular in Russia. Except in that one, shy man was tractor mechanic and model was also spy. But close enough.” He slapped the table as if to cement the comparison, nearly knocking over one of Ava’s perfectly aligned glasses.
Bucky leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms, his expression one of deep skepticism. “Or,” he drawled slowly, “he made the whole thing up. Think about it. We’ve never heard a word about this girl before tonight. Never seen her. And now suddenly she’s a model, conveniently busy at some fashion show that none of us can verify? It doesn’t add up. Bob’s a lot of things, but subtle isn’t one of them. If he had a girlfriend, he’d have accidentally blurted it out three months ago over coffee.” His voice was calm, measured, but his eyes narrowed slightly, studying the abandoned elevator doors like they might yield the truth if he glared hard enough.
Yelena tilted her head, half-tempted to agree, though her smirk didn’t fade. “So you think he invented a girlfriend? For what? To impress us? Please. That man doesn’t care what we think. If he did, he’d wear shirts that actually fit.” She gestured vaguely at the doorway where Bob had stood only moments ago, her amusement laced with exasperation. “No. Something’s off, yes. But lying? That doesn’t feel like him.”
John snorted. “Come on, it’s not that far-fetched. Guy probably got tired of us assuming he’d never been on a date in his life, so he panicked and made one up. And if you’re gonna invent a girlfriend, might as well go big, right? Why settle for ‘shy bookstore clerk’ when you can say ‘fashion model on a runaway’ or runway, whatever the hell that was?” He shook his head in disbelief, though the grin playing at his lips betrayed how much he enjoyed the absurdity of it all.
Ava spoke again, her tone clipped, as though she were cutting through the laughter with surgical precision. “You’re all missing something. He looked sad.” Her gaze swept across the table, catching each of them in turn. “Not embarrassed. Not smug. Sad. That wasn’t the face of a man making something up. It was the face of someone who wanted her here and hated that she wasn’t.” She returned her eyes to the neatly folded napkin in her hands, adjusting it a millimeter to the left before setting it down again with finality.
That sobered them for a moment, enough for Yelena to press her lips together thoughtfully. “Or maybe…” she began slowly, “maybe he’s dating someone we’d never expect, and he’s afraid we’ll scare her off. Which, let’s be honest, is very possible.” Her eyes flicked toward John pointedly, then toward Alexei, who was still hovering proudly over his mountain of food. “A model, though. Hm. I don’t know. It’s either a lie, or the plot twist of the year.”
--
Yelena knocked twice against the frame before nudging the door open. “Bob?” she called, her voice lower than usual, lacking the teasing edge she often carried around the others. His room was dim, lit only by the pale glow of his phone screen. He was seated on the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched, thumbs moving absently against the device though his eyes weren’t really focused on it. He looked up at her, startled for a moment, then quickly back down as if embarrassed she’d caught him in that state.
She stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a soft click. “You okay?” she asked, leaning against the wall, arms folded, her tone casual but laced with something gentler.
Bob exhaled slowly, the kind of sigh that sounded like it had been sitting in his chest all day. “Yeah. I mean..I don’t know. It’s been…hard, lately. Y/N’s been so busy with this fashion project—big runway show, new designers, the whole thing. I barely see her anymore.” He shook his head, staring down at the floor as though it had the answers. “We were supposed to get coffee this morning, just an hour together, but then her break got cut. And now it’s been… what? Almost a week and a half since we’ve actually sat down. Just us.”
Yelena tilted her head, studying him. She wasn’t used to seeing him like this, shoulders weighed down with disappointment, words spilling out in a low, self-conscious murmur. Usually, Bob’s sadness was hidden in awkward pauses, in the way he avoided eye contact or mumbled through conversations. But here it was, plain as day.
“You miss her,” she said simply, not as a question but as a fact.
“Of course I do,” he admitted quickly, lifting his gaze at last. His eyes were softer than usual, unguarded, and there was something almost boyish in the way he said it. “We had this whole dinner planned. I thought—finally, she’ll get to meet everyone, you’ll all get to see her, and maybe she’ll understand this part of my life better. But now she’s not here, and I just…” His voice cracked, just slightly, and he pressed his lips together, fumbling with the phone in his hands. “I’m waiting for her to text me back. I just want to know if she’s still coming.”
Yelena pushed off the wall and crossed the room, plopping herself down beside him on the bed with a casualness that belied the weight of the moment. “Listen,” she began, elbow nudging lightly against his arm, “whether she comes or not, you are not alone tonight, okay? You’ve got us. And trust me, we can be as entertaining as ever tonight even if she doesn't come.”
Bob gave a small, reluctant smile at that, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You think so?”
“I know so,” she said firmly, her accent thickening as she leaned into the words. “We have Alexei with his mountain of food, John making an idiot of himself every five minutes, Bucky pretending he doesn’t care when he actually does, and Ava…” She smirked faintly. “Well, Ava is Ava. Deadly and terrifying, but useful with napkins.”
That coaxed a faint chuckle out of him, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Yeah. I guess so.”
“Good.” She turned her head toward him, eyes narrowing in mock sternness. “And if Y/N shows up, great we celebrate, we embarrass you, she gets to see what kind of dysfunctional family you’ve adopted. But if she doesn’t? It’s still okay. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t care, Bob. Just means her world is loud right now. Yours is loud too, in a different way. You’ll find each other again.”
He nodded, quiet for a moment, before glancing back at his phone, the faint glow reflecting in his eyes. “I just…I hope she texts back. I just need to know if she’s still coming.”
Yelena reached over and nudged the phone down gently, her tone softening. “She will, or she won’t. Either way, we’re here. And I promise you, we’ll make tonight good.”
For the first time since stepping out of the elevator, Bob let out something resembling a genuine laugh. “You promise?”
“On Alexei’s borscht,” she deadpanned. “And that is a sacred vow.”
That made him laugh a little harder, and though the worry still lingered in his eyes, it was tempered now by the comfort of being understood.
--
The table groaned under the weight of Alexei’s feast, though the atmosphere was far less hearty than the food suggested. Candles flickered, plates were passed, but conversation stumbled and faltered like a wounded soldier. Bob sat hunched in his chair, phone resting face-down beside his plate, his fork idly nudging at the roast potatoes without actually lifting them to his mouth. Every so often, his eyes darted to the phone, quick and hopeful, only to flick away again when nothing happened.
“So” Yelena began, drawing out the word as if she were stretching a piece of gum. “The chicken. Very..juicy. Good job, Alexei.”
“Of course it is juicy,” Alexei boomed, puffing up proudly in his seat. “I marinated it with secret spices passed down from my babushka! Nobody cooks like Red Guardian!” He grinned, carving off a piece and waving it like a trophy before finally popping it into his mouth.
Bucky muttered, “Secret spices? It’s just salt and paprika, Alexei,” but his comment was drowned under the sound of John’s amused snort.
John leaned back, swirling the wine in his glass with mock sophistication. “You know,” he drawled, “this whole spread’s starting to feel like a wedding reception where the bride never showed.”
The table went quiet. Ava’s fork froze mid-air, Yelena’s eyes immediately narrowed, and Alexei dropped his knife with a clatter.
“John,” Yelena hissed warningly.
“What?” he asked, spreading his hands in faux innocence. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. We’ve been sitting here for over an hour, and Bob’s mystery girlfriend is nowhere in sight. Not even a text. Starting to sound a little fishy, don’t you think?”
“Stop it,” Ava said flatly, her tone as sharp as a blade.
Bob, blinking rapidly, looked around the table, utterly bewildered. “Wait what do you mean ‘mystery girlfriend’? Why would you even...”
John leaned forward, smirk widening. “Come on, Bob. Look, no offense, man, but out of nowhere you mention that you have a girl after we made a couple jokes about you having no dating life? Then suddenly she’s too busy strutting down some fashion runway to even show her face tonight? It’s not exactly adding up. You sure she’s not… y’know…” He lifted his brows, drawing out the pause with deliberate cruelty. “Imaginary?”
The reaction was immediate.
“Walker!” Yelena snapped, slamming her hand down on the table so hard that the glasses rattled.
“Shut up,” Bucky growled, eyes flashing cold steel.
Alexei pointed his fork at him like a weapon. “You are cruel man, Walker. Cruel! You do not say such things to poor Bob when his heart is breaking!”
But Bob didn’t hear them. His face had gone pale, brows knitted tight, lips parted in confusion. “Imaginary? You think I’d…you think I’d lie about her?” His voice cracked halfway, tinged with disbelief more than anger, but his shoulders were stiffening as though bracing against a blow.
John lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, don’t get all bent out of shape. I’m not saying you’re lying, I’m just saying she’s a little… too good to be true, don’t you think? A model dating you? You, who gets nervous ordering coffee? Forgive me if I’m skeptical.”
Bob’s jaw tightened, his eyes flashing for the first time all evening. “She is real,” he said firmly, his voice carrying more weight than usual. “Her name is Y/N, she works insane hours, and no, she’s not a model, you're right about that, she's an art coordinator. And she cares about me. Just because you can’t imagine it doesn’t mean it isn’t true.”
“Bob—” Yelena tried to cut in, voice soothing now, but Bob barreled on.
“I don’t care if it’s hard for you to believe. She makes time for me when she can. She listens to me, she laughs at my stupid jokes, she—she knows me better than anyone else. So don’t you dare sit there and act like she doesn’t exist just because you think I’m not good enough.”
The table fell into a heavy silence. John opened his mouth as if to reply, but Yelena’s glare sliced across the table like a knife, shutting him up instantly. Alexei muttered something furious in Russian under his breath, stabbing his fork into the chicken with unnecessary force, while Ava calmly set her fork down with surgical precision and folded her arms, her stare icy enough to freeze John where he sat.
Bob, breathing hard now, turned his eyes back to his phone, gripping it tightly as though waiting—praying—for it to buzz.
--
-Y/N's pov-
The gallery lights clicked off one by one, plunging the space into shadows that seemed to mock her with their calm. Y/N fumbled with the keys, nearly dropping them in her hurry, her hands clumsy from exhaustion. She had been smiling at strangers for hours, answering questions about artists she barely had time to breathe between, running from display to display to smooth out tiny imperfections that no one else would have noticed. And still, she had stayed too late. Too late to get her hair fixed, too late to change, too late to be on time for the one evening that mattered.
By the time she pushed through the heavy glass doors and into the night air, her phone had already died in her hand, the screen black and unyielding despite her desperate thumb pressing the power button. She cursed softly under her breath, shoving it into her bag as she sprinted toward her car. Her reflection in the windows she passed only made her chest tighten further: hair falling loose in messy tangles from all her running around, makeup faded, and the floral silk satin charmeuse dress she’d chosen so carefully this morning now marred by a mysterious dark stain across the hem. She didn’t even know where it had come from — paint, wine, ink? At that point, it didn’t matter. She looked nothing like the elegant, composed woman she had envisioned introducing to Bob’s team. She looked like a disaster.
Traffic was a nightmare, brake lights stretching out in an endless red river. She gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles ached, trying not to let the tears prickling her eyes spill over. All she could think about was him. Bob, sitting there at the Watchtower, waiting for her. Bob, who had probably told them she was coming, who had probably defended her when they asked questions. Bob, whose soft eyes would have dimmed when she didn’t walk through the door. The thought of him looking disappointed — of him being sad because of her — made her throat close painfully.
She sniffed, wiping the back of her hand across her eyes as a horn blared behind her. “Come on, come on,” she whispered to the line of cars as though sheer willpower could make them move faster. It didn’t help. Nothing seemed to help. The universe had conspired against her: dead phone, ruined dress, endless traffic, and the weight of her own mistakes crushing her chest.
All she wanted was for tonight to be good. The runway had been important, yes — months of planning, a promotion for the gallery that could open so many doors. But she had baked a cake last night, thinking how perfect it would be to end the dinner with something homemade, to show Bob’s team she was serious about being there, about being with him. And now the cake was sitting lonely in the passenger seat, a ridiculous reminder of all the effort she had put into something that might not even matter anymore.
“They must think I’m so irresponsible,” she whispered to herself, blinking back another tear. “They probably hate me. They probably think I don’t care.”
But she cared. God, she cared so much it hurt. She wanted to be there, sitting beside Bob, holding his hand under the table to reassure him. She wanted to prove to his strange, mismatched family of teammates that she was worthy of him, that she loved him. She wanted to see him smile. And instead, she was here, crawling through traffic with mascara smudges and a ruined dress, watching the minutes slip away.
The frustration swelled in her chest, tight and unrelenting, until she nearly sobbed from it. But she forced herself to breathe, to keep driving, to keep moving forward. Because no matter how late, no matter how messy she was, she wasn’t going to let him down completely. She would get to the Watchtower. She would walk through those doors. And maybe, just maybe, Bob would forgive her for making him wait.
Half an hour later, she finally pulled into a parking spot near the Watchtower, her hands trembling as she killed the engine. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears. She took one shaky breath, then leaned forward over the steering wheel. “Okay, okay, you can do this,” she whispered to herself. “Just walk in, smile, apologize, and everything will be fine. They’ll understand. Bob will understand.”
Still, her nerves refused to quiet. She flipped down the visor and checked her reflection for what must have been the hundredth time. The stain on her silk dress glared back at her like a cruel joke. With a groan, she licked her thumb and tried scrubbing at it furiously, only managing to smear it more. “Oh, perfect,” she muttered, tossing her hand in defeat. Her hair looked even worse under the harsh light of the car dome, strands sticking out in every possible direction. She tugged them down, twisted them back, then gave up entirely.
Her eyes darted to the cake sitting loyally on the passenger seat. She lifted the lid of the container as though to reassure herself that at least one thing hadn’t gone horribly wrong. The cake looked fine. Lovely, even. “At least you came through,” she murmured, hugging the box to her chest like a lifeline.
With one last deep breath, she shoved the visor up, slipped out of the car, and made her way to the Watchtower entrance. The building loomed above her, all steel and authority, and for a brief second she wondered if she looked ridiculous walking toward it in her stained dress, clutching a cake like it was some kind of ID badge. But she squared her shoulders, adjusted the box in her arms, and pushed through the revolving doors.
The lobby was colder than she expected, sleek and modern, with a long desk at the far end where a severe-looking woman in a blazer sat typing away at a monitor. Y/N hurried up, forcing her lips into a polite smile. “Hi! Good evening. I—I’m supposed to meet Bob Reynolds upstairs? He told me about the elevator…” She gestured vaguely toward the restricted access doors at the far side.
The secretary didn’t even look up at first. “Restricted access. No visitors without clearance.”
Y/N blinked, the polite smile faltering. “Oh, I know, but—I’m Bob’s girlfriend. He’s expecting me. They’re having dinner, and I’m late, and I really need to get up there.” She held up the cake a little like proof of her identity. “See? I even brought dessert.”
The woman finally glanced up, her expression unimpressed. “Miss, we get fans in here all the time. I can’t let you through without authorization.”
Her stomach dropped. “I’m not—no, I’m not a fan. I really am his girlfriend.” Panic threaded through her voice as she leaned closer, desperate to be believed. “Please, he’s waiting for me. He’s probably worried sick. Just call him and ask, he’ll vouch for me.”
The secretary’s lips pressed into a thin line. “If you don’t step back, I’ll have to call security.”
Tears burned at the corners of Y/N’s eyes, frustration clawing at her throat. “No, please! Don’t do that. I’m telling the truth. My name is Y/N, I’ve been with him for months, I just—please, I just need to get up there. I’m so late already. You can call him.” Her voice cracked, and she clutched the cake tighter, as though that single fragile offering might prove her sincerity.
The woman arched an eyebrow, clearly unmoved. “You’re not the first to make that claim.”
Y/N’s breath hitched. She shook her head furiously, words tumbling out in a rush. “I’m not lying! I swear, I’m not some crazy fan. I know him. I know he likes his coffee with too much sugar, I know he hums when he’s nervous, I know—” She bit her lip, overwhelmed, her cheeks hot with embarrassment and fear. “I know I’ve already ruined everything by being late, but please… just let me in. Please.”
She could already picture Bob upstairs, alone at the table, looking at his phone with that sad, patient expression. And the thought that he might think she had abandoned him, that his friends might be mocking him because of her absence, twisted her heart until she thought she might collapse right there in the lobby.
The silence after her last plea was deafening. The secretary had already lowered her gaze back to the screen, dismissing Y/N with the cold finality of a slammed door. Y/N lingered at the desk, feeling like a child scolded for speaking out of turn, until the woman’s fingers stilled on the keyboard. Without looking up, she said, “Miss, if you don’t step away right now, I’ll call building security.”
Y/N’s heart plummeted. “But I—”
“Now.”
The word cracked like a whip.
Y/N stumbled back a few steps, clutching the cake tighter against her chest, cheeks flaming. Her throat ached with unshed tears as she turned toward the elevators again, as though the doors might magically open for her if she just looked desperate enough. She whispered under her breath, “Please, just let me through, please…”
But nothing happened.
She turned back, hoping the secretary might have softened, but the woman was already lifting the phone receiver, lips pursed in irritation. Y/N froze in horror. “Wait! No, please, don’t do that—”
It was too late. The woman murmured something calmly into the receiver, eyes flicking up to Y/N with a look that said she was more inconvenience than threat.
A few moments later, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed across the lobby marble. Two uniformed security guards approached, both broad-shouldered and looking decidedly uninterested in her explanations. One of them eyed the cake box as though it were a suspicious package.
“Ma’am,” the taller one said, his voice clipped but not unkind, “you’re going to have to leave.”
Y/N shook her head furiously, panic sparking like electricity in her veins. “No, please, you don’t understand—I’m supposed to be here! My boyfriend is upstairs, he’s waiting for me. I can’t just leave.”
“Ma’am,” the other guard interjected, holding up a placating hand, “you can’t just walk in here. If you don’t have clearance, we can’t let you through.”
“But I do have clearance!” Her voice cracked, trembling with desperation. “Bob Reynolds—he’s my boyfriend. I swear I’m telling the truth. Just ask him, just call up and—”
“Ma’am.” The first guard’s tone sharpened, his patience thinning. “We hear this at least twice a week. Someone shows up claiming to know one of the heroes. If we called up every time, nobody would get anything done.”
Y/N’s lips parted in shock, tears stinging her eyes. Twice a week. Twice a week, people barged in, making wild claims—and now she was just another one of them. Just another delusional face in the lobby. “I’m not lying,” she whispered, her voice breaking. She hugged the cake closer, as though it were all she had left. “Please, he’s probably waiting for me, thinking I don’t care. Just one call. Just one.”
The guards exchanged a look, neither moved. The second one sighed. “Miss, you need to leave the premises voluntarily. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
Her chest tightened, breath hitching as frustration and humiliation threatened to swallow her whole. She thought of Bob upstairs, sitting at that table, maybe still glancing at his phone. She thought of the way his friends might be looking at him, skeptical, mocking, wondering if she even existed. And here she was—trying—and no one believed her.
Her grip on the cake wavered, and for one dizzy second she thought she might just drop it and let it smash across the polished marble floor, because wasn’t that fitting? But she held on, trembling, as tears finally broke free and rolled hot down her cheeks.
“I just wanted to be on time,” she choked out, half to herself, half to the strangers who didn’t care. “I just wanted tonight to be perfect.”
The guards stepped closer, one gesturing toward the door. “Ma’am. Please.”
Yelena pushed open the Watchtower doors, stepping into the lobby with her usual purposeful stride, adjusting the cuffs of her jacket like she had somewhere important to be—which, in a way, she did, if she wanted to cheer up Bob, she needed his very specific lemon flavored cookies that seemed to always get him in a good mood. But the moment she reached the front desk, her trained instincts zeroed in on something off: raised voices, hurried movements, a cluster of people she didn’t recognize, and a woman standing in the middle of it all, waving her hands frantically while her voice cracked over every syllable.
The woman’s hair was a wild halo of curls around a face streaked with tears, and even from a few meters away, Yelena could see the stain marring her otherwise exquisite floral silk dress. She looked like she had run through a hurricane and lost half the contents of her purse along the way—except she clutched a cake box to her chest like it was a shield. Yelena’s brow arched. The woman was beautiful, unmistakably so, but more than that there was distress radiating off her in waves that even Yelena’s careful detachment couldn’t ignore.
Yelena stepped closer, her boots clicking against the marble floor. “Hey,” she said, voice calm. “What’s going on here?”
The woman whipped her head toward her, eyes wide and swimming with desperation. “Please!” she gasped, voice wobbling like a high note she was trying not to shatter. “I need to see Bob! I—he’s waiting for me! I—my name is Y/N, and I’m his girlfriend. I was supposed to come for dinner tonight. I—oh, please, you have to help me!”
Yelena’s eyes narrowed slightly, scanning the guards and the woman’s frantic posture, then quickly back at her face. There was no malice there. No games. Only panic and exhaustion, mixed with the faint scent of spilled coffee and perfume that was slightly off from running all over the city. She could feel it: the raw sincerity of someone who cared far too much, and probably blamed herself for things entirely beyond her control.
“Alright,” Yelena said, taking a deliberate step forward, her voice calm but commanding. “Slow down. Take a breath.”
Y/N shook her head frantically, clutching the cake like it was a life preserver. “I can’t! I—he’s upstairs and he’s probably thinking I don’t care, or that I’m irresponsible, or that I just… I just ruined everything! I baked a cake! I tried to get here on time! I—I got stuck at the gallery, my phone died, the traffic was awful, my dress—oh God, I don’t even know where this stain came from! I—” She trailed off, choking slightly, tears threatening to spill over again.
Yelena raised an eyebrow, tilting her head slightly in that way that said she had zero patience for panic that wasn’t paired with actionable solutions. “Okay. First of all,” she said, reaching out and lightly touching the cake box to steady Y/N’s trembling hands, “slow down. You’re not going to explode if you breathe. Second, no one thinks you don’t care, and no one is dying over a stain.”
Y/N’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, words tumbling over one another. “But I do care! I care so much! And I was supposed to be here for dinner, and the team… they’re probably...oh God, Bob...he must be sad, and I don’t even know if they believe me, and I just wanted to make a good impression and—and I love him, I really do, and I just… I wanted tonight to be perfect and I’ve ruined it!”
Yelena’s lips quirked, almost in disbelief at the torrent of words. It was chaotic, messy, completely human, and oddly comical if you ignored the sobbing. “Okay,” she said firmly, placing both hands gently on Y/N’s shoulders, stopping her mid-rant. “Breathe. It’s okay. I’ve got this.”
Y/N blinked at her, sniffing, as if unsure whether she was hallucinating or finally being rescued. “You… you will help me? You’ll let me see him?”
“Yes,” Yelena said, exhaling slowly. “I’m going to handle the security guards. You stay here, and keep the cake intact. Got it?”
Y/N nodded frantically, clutching the box like it was made of gold. “I—I promise I will! I just… I can’t let him think I don’t care.”
Yelena’s eyes flicked toward the guards, who were watching the scene with mild suspicion and a hint of exasperation. She stepped forward, voice sharp and commanding, cutting through their murmurs. “Listen up. This woman is with Bob. She’s his girlfriend, and she is allowed to go upstairs. I’m taking responsibility for her. Step aside.”
The taller guard raised a brow, clearly skeptical, but Yelena’s gaze was lethal, ice-cold. The guard hesitated for half a beat before finally nodding, stepping back. The second guard muttered something under his breath but followed suit.
Yelena turned back to Y/N, a smirk teasing the corner of her mouth despite the tension. “See? Easy. Now, let’s go. You’ve got a long walk to the table to make it up to your boyfriend, and trust me—you don’t want to give him another reason to worry.”
Y/N exhaled a shuddering, relieved laugh, still clutching the cake. “Thank you…thank you so much. I…I was so worried. I thought I blew everything.”
Yelena gave a small shrug, teasing just slightly to cut some of the lingering panic. “Relax. You’re here now. Let’s hope dinner survives the mess, but at least the girl apocalypse is contained.”
Y/N laughed, a tiny, shaky thing, wiping at her tears, still clutching the cake like a lifeline. “I… I just really wanted tonight to be perfect. I love him so much.”
Yelena rolled her eyes, though there was warmth in her expression, and she gestured toward the elevator. “I get it. And he’ll see that, even if you’re a little late and slightly tragic-looking. Come on, Cinderella. Let’s get you to the prince before he loses his mind.”
The elevator doors slid shut with a smooth whoosh, the confined space pressing in slightly as the soft hum of the machinery filled the silence. Y/N clutched the cake a little tighter, her shoulders hunched as if trying to make herself smaller, safer, invisible. Before she could stop herself, the words spilled out.
“Is… is he okay?” she asked, voice trembling. Her eyes darted to Yelena, searching for any hint of reassurance. “I mean… I know I was late, but… is he...mad?”
Yelena’s eyes softened, her usual sharpness muted into sincerity. She leaned casually against the wall, crossing her arms but giving Y/N the space to speak. “He’s upset,” she admitted honestly. “He’s frustrated, maybe a little hurt. But he’s not… I mean, he’ll understand, eventually. Bob knows you care. He just… he expected you to be here on time. That’s all.”
Y/N’s chest tightened, a lump forming in her throat. She exhaled loudly, a shaky, almost defeated sound. Her hands trembled against the cake box, and she pressed it to her chest like a shield. “I…I just…” She stopped, swallowed hard, then let out a long, shaky breath. “I truly love him, Yelena. He means so much to me, more than I’ve ever let myself admit out loud. He’s… he’s like… like the personification of my heart, just walking around. I..I fell in love with him so fast, it’s like it wasn’t even a choice. I can’t explain it, I just…I do. And he treats me so well.”
Her voice cracked as she pressed her forehead lightly to the cake box, trying to contain the flood of emotions threatening to spill. “I promised him I would be here tonight. I promised him, and now… now I made him upset. I can hear it in my chest, the way it tightens thinking about him sitting there, probably staring at his phone, waiting, wondering if I even care, and I…” She shook her head, letting out another deep, trembling breath. “I’m not taking it well. I can’t. I love him. I just—he’s the one I care about, and I messed up. I wasn’t supposed to make him sad.”
Yelena watched her, arms still crossed, but there was a quiet intensity in her gaze that made Y/N feel like she could finally exhale. “Hey,” Yelena said gently, stepping closer, resting a hand briefly on Y/N’s shoulder. “Look at me. You’re here. You didn’t give up. You’re going to see him in a minute, and he’ll know—he’ll know how much you care. Mistakes happen. People get upset. But that doesn’t erase the love. Not for a second.”
Y/N let out a shaky laugh, part relief, part lingering panic, tears still brimming in her eyes. “I just…I didn’t want him to feel like I didn’t care. I would do anything to make him happy, and now I—”
“You are making him happy,” Yelena interrupted, softer now, her hand sliding to steady Y/N’s trembling fingers around the cake. “You’re about to walk into that room, and he’s going to see you. All of this,” she gestured vaguely at the frazzled hair, the stain, the stress, “doesn’t matter. He’ll feel what matters: that you love him, and that you’re here. That’s all he needs to know.”
Y/N’s shoulders sagged slightly, a small, exhausted smile forming on her lips. “You really think so?”
Yelena’s smirk returned, just a flicker of her usual teasing edge. “I know so. Now, wipe your face, fix the hair the best you can with your fingers, and let’s go make him forget he was upset at all. Or at least, let’s try.”
Y/N took a deep, shaky breath, clutching the cake with renewed determination. “Okay. Okay. I can do this.”
The elevator gave a soft chime as it came to a halt, and Y/N’s knees felt like they might give out beneath her. The doors slid open slowly, almost cruelly, revealing the long dining room laid out like a stage. The table gleamed with untouched food, silverware lined up like soldiers, candles flickering faintly against the glass walls overlooking the city. And there—at the far end—sat Bob.
His shoulders hunched slightly, one hand resting on the table while the other clutched his phone like he’d been checking it on a loop. His golden hair caught the light in a halo, but his expression was weary, lips pressed tight, eyes flicking toward the elevator almost without hope.
When he finally registered her standing there—hair frazzled, dress stained, mascara smudged, clutching a cake like it was her passport—he blinked once, twice, and then stood so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor.
“Y/N?” His voice cracked on her name, disbelieving, tender, and utterly shaken.
She let out a strangled laugh that was half a sob, half relief, clutching the cake tighter as she rushed forward. “Bob! Oh my God, I—”
He met her halfway, almost colliding in his eagerness, but the cake wedged awkwardly between them like a stubborn barrier. They jostled, fumbled, nearly dropped it, her arms straining as she tried to keep it balanced.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” Bob admitted, his voice thick, eyes wide and glistening.
That single sentence unraveled her entirely. “I was coming! I am coming! I was supposed to be here an hour ago, but the gallery—my phone—traffic—oh God, I tried, I swear I tried! And then the stain and the cake and the woman downstairs thought I was a crazy fan and she almost called security and I thought you’d hate me because I promised, I promised I’d be here and I love you so much and now you’re sad and I—”
The words tumbled out like a waterfall, her voice rising in pitch until she was practically shouting. Her eyes brimmed over again, tears spilling down her cheeks as she clutched the cake like it was all that stood between her and collapse. “I hurt you, didn’t I? I hurt you! And that’s the last thing I ever wanted to do, because you’re—” her voice cracked, raw, “—you’re my heart walking around outside my chest, and I can’t stand that I ruined everything!”
“Whoa, whoa, hey,” Bob interrupted gently, stepping closer, his large hands covering hers to steady the trembling cake box. He used the cuff of his sleeve to swipe at her tears clumsily, his movements so tender it almost made her cry harder. “You didn’t hurt me. You didn’t ruin anything.”
“But I did!” she wailed, voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room.
Bob huffed softly, then—because he never knew what else to do—he leaned forward and blew a puff of air directly at her tear-streaked face. The sudden breeze startled her mid-sob, making her hiccup and blink rapidly.
“See?” he murmured, smiling faintly, almost shyly. “Now you’re breathing again. Better.”
She let out a broken laugh, hiccupping as more tears slid down her face. “That’s— that’s not how breathing works, Bob!”
“Maybe not,” he said, eyes crinkling with the smallest hint of mischief, “but it distracted you, didn’t it?”
He carefully slid the cake from her arms, placing it reverently on the table like it was an artifact of untold importance. With his hands finally free, he pulled her against him, wrapping his arms tight around her trembling frame. She buried her face in his chest, clutching his shirt as though she might dissolve without the anchor of his embrace.
“I’m here,” Bob whispered against her hair, rocking her gently. “That’s what matters. You’re here. I don’t care about the rest.”
Her shoulders shook as she tried to swallow the sobs, his shirt dampening under the press of her tears. “I thought..I thought you’d think I didn’t care,” she mumbled into the fabric.
“I know you care,” Bob reassured softly, his cheek resting atop her messy curls. “I’ve never doubted that. Not for a second.”
Behind them, at the table, the entire team sat frozen in stunned silence.
John was the first to break it, leaning back in his chair with an incredulous laugh. “Holy hell. She’s real. The girlfriend actually exists.” He gave a low whistle, eyeing Y/N openly. “And she’s hot. Damn, Bobby, didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Walker” Bucky muttered warningly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
Alexei squinted, leaning sideways for a better view. “Well that's a...an emotional lady...”
“She is crying,” Ava corrected flatly, though her tone held a flicker of confusion. “very violently...yes.”
Yelena, slipping into her seat, shot them all a pointed glare. “Shut up, all of you, they're cute.” But her smirk betrayed the fact she was, in her own way, proud of how this had unfolded.
--
By the time the candles had burned an inch lower and the food on the table had finally cooled enough to be eaten, the atmosphere in the Watchtower’s dining room had shifted completely.
Y/N sat between Bob and Yelena, her cheeks still flushed from crying earlier, but her face was freshly washed, her hair finger-combed into some semblance of order. Instead of her ruined silk dress, she wore one of Bob’s sweatshirts , a comically oversized, faded blue thing that looked like it had been washed one too many times, and a pair of joggers cuffed awkwardly at the ankles. On her, though, it somehow looked endearing. Almost model-off-duty, if model-off-duty involved cake crumbs stuck at the corner of her mouth.
She was, however, beaming now. One hand clutched a fork, the other hovered protectively over the cake she’d brought, which had been served in generous slices to everyone. To the team’s surprise, it was good. Really good. Moist, perfectly sweet, and decorated with a slightly lopsided swirl of frosting that only made it feel more genuine.
“So,” Alexei said, fork in hand, leaning forward with the air of a man settling in for a show. “You two. How did this happen? Because” he gestured vaguely between them with the fork, letting out a little giggle “I look at Bob. Then I look at you. And I think: how? No offense to Bob you are ahm.. very handsome.”
Y/N laughed, a little too loudly, cheeks pink. “Oh! Oh God, the story is...it’s...it’s a disaster. Right, Bob?”
Bob gave a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of his neck. “It was..yeah. Kind of catastrophic.”
“No, no!” Y/N waved her fork dramatically, nearly flinging frosting onto John’s shirt. “Don’t undersell it. It was a cosmic disaster. Like, one of those moments where the universe basically throws a pie in your face and says surprise, this is your soulmate.”
John groaned. “Oh boy. This is gonna hurt.”
Y/N didn’t even notice. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “So. Picture it. It’s raining. Like, actual buckets, biblical-flood levels. And I—being the genius that I am—decide I can run across the street in heels. Heels.”
“Already a bad idea,” Yelena muttered, smirking into her cake.
“I know! And of course, I slip. Like, full cartoon banana-peel slip. And who do I grab onto for balance?” She threw her arm toward Bob with a flourish. “Him. This poor man, just trying to drink his coffee.”
Bob winced at the memory. “And I fell with her, I dropped it all over myself.”
“And me!” Y/N said, jabbing her fork at her chest. “So now we’re both soaked, covered in coffee, trying to get up in the middle of the street while cars are honking, and I’m trying not to cry because I ruined this beautiful silk blouse I borrowed from my friend and I just embaressed myself.”
“Ruined is an understatement,” Bob added softly, a tiny smile tugging at his lips.
Y/N gasped, scandalized. “It was tragic! A tragedy! And then, because the universe wasn’t done humiliating me, I realize my heel snapped clean off and the strap from the other one just broke on my fall. I’m literally hobbling like a wounded gazelle, coffee dripping from my hair, mascara running, and this man...” She pointed at Bob again, eyes already glassy with emotion. “this man takes off his shoes and gives them to me. In the rain. On the street. While he’s standing there in his socks.”
The table fell silent.
“You’re kidding,” Bucky finally said flatly.
“No!” Y/N cried, tears welling again. “And then,then!—he says ‘You can’t walk home barefoot.’ Like, like some kind of saint! Who even does that anymore?!” She sniffled loudly, dabbing at her eyes with Bob’s sleeve because she’d apparently commandeered it as a tissue. “I knew right then. I knew. My heart just,just did this thing.” She slapped her hand against her chest for emphasis, nearly knocking over her water glass. “Like boom! That was it. I was gone. Done for. Hook, line, sinker. I didn't let him go until he gave me his info so we could meet again.”
Bob chuckled softly, glancing down at her with a shy, almost bashful fondness. “You cried in the middle of the crosswalk,” he reminded her gently.
“I did!” she said, nodding fervently, tears spilling over again though she was laughing now. “I cried because I thought, ‘Oh my God, no one has ever been this kind to me in my life,’ and it was raining so hard I couldn’t tell which tears were mine. And then he—” her voice caught, growing thick with emotion, “he walked me home. In his socks. All the way. Like some… some ridiculous, beautiful idiot.”
The table groaned in unison.
“Oh my God,” John muttered, stabbing his cake like it had offended him. “They’re actually worse together than I imagined.”
Alexei squinted at Y/N, then at Bob, then back at Y/N. “So… you saw him, dripping wet, in socks… and you thought, yes, this is man of my dreams?”
“Yes!” Y/N said passionately, slamming her hand on the table. The glasses rattled. “Because it wasn’t about the socks! It was about the heart! His heart! He gave me shoes when I was a total stranger! Who does that? Who does that except someone who’s… who’s just...” she gestured helplessly at Bob, tears streaming again, “perfect? Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”
Yelena sighed, muttering under her breath, “It's starting to click.”
Ava simply shook her head, muttering, “Emotional chaos attracts emotional chaos.”
--
The team had retreated to the living room once the plates were cleared, leaving Bob and Y/N still lingering at the table, whispering about whether the cake should be wrapped up for tomorrow or eaten entirely tonight.
From the couch, John leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his voice low but sharp. “Okay. So we’re all in agreement that she’s real, right? Because I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and find out this was some mass hallucination.”
“She is real,” Ava said dryly, sinking deeper into the armchair, arms crossed. “Too real. She cried twice just telling a story.”
“Three times,” Yelena corrected, smirking. “But who is counting?”
Alexei raised his hand solemnly. “I counted. It was four. And one of those times was about socks.”
John dragged his hands down his face. “Exactly my point! This girl—this emotional hurricane is supposed to be with Bob? Bob! The man who has a split personality disorder ping ponging between a God and a violent raging human depression? Oh God..I hope he didn't hear me... I don't wanna go back there.”
“She looked at him like he hung the moon for her” Yelena said shrugging one shoulder. “And he looked at her like she… baked it into a cake for him.”
“That’s disgusting.” John muttered.
“That’s love,” Alexei countered with a smug grin. “Beautiful, snotty love. Maybe if you were like that you would still have a wife.”
John just look directly at Alexei, almost too offended. "Jesus."
Ava tilted her head, studying them from afar as Bob leaned over to brush frosting off Y/N’s cheek, Y/N laughing through tears like it was the most romantic gesture in the world. “It makes sense in a broken, absurd way,” she murmured. “Like two puzzle pieces that don’t look like they’ll fit, but then you realize they do. Perfectly.”
John groaned again. “Please, spare me the poetry. They’re ridiculous.”
Yelena shot him a look. “You’re just mad because you owe me twenty bucks. You said she didn’t exist.”
John blinked. “…damn it.”
--
Bob led Y/N to the balcony outside the Watchtower’s lounge. The city stretched out below them, alive with twinkling lights, the night air cool against their skin.
Y/N leaned into the railing, hugging her arms around herself, still swimming in Bob’s sweatshirt. She looked out over the skyline, then up at him, her voice softer now. “I really thought I ruined everything tonight.”
Bob shook his head, stepping close enough to drape an arm around her shoulders. “You didn’t. You came. That’s all that mattered.”
She pressed her cheek against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart. “I just wanted them to like me. I wanted you to be proud of me.”
“I’m always proud of you,” Bob said simply, as if it was the easiest truth in the world. He tilted her chin up gently so she would meet his eyes. “And they liked you. More than you think. They’re just… them. But they saw it. Us. They get it now.”
Tears welled again, but softer this time, spilling not from panic but from relief. She laughed shakily, swiping at her eyes. “I don’t know how you do that. Just…say something simple and suddenly I feel like the whole world’s okay again.”
He smiled faintly, brushing her hair back from her face. “Guess we balance each other out. You feel everything. I keep you steady.”
“And I keep you feeling,” she whispered back, before kissing him—slow, tender, a little messy because she was still sniffling, but all the more real for it.
Behind them, the muffled sound of John yelling about his lost twenty bucks broke the moment just enough for both of them to laugh into the kiss.
Can you do some more Bob/sentry/void p links please 🥺
YES, YES, YES YES!!!! i'm going to try something that i've never done before and do three sets of p links for bob/sentry/void on this post!! this'll be chaotic but yknow
two links arent working! i will fix asap
previous bob p links post!
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₊˚✧ ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ... ╰┈➤ 𝚋𝚘𝚋 𝚛𝚎𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚜 / 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚢 / 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍 𝚙 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 ᝰ.ᐟ
ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: must be signed into twitter to view these links ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ !!
════ ⋆★⋆ ʙᴏʙ ʀᴇʏɴᴏʟᴅꜱ ⋆★⋆ ════
✰ sitting on bob's face took some convincing, but it was worth it. ✰ 69ing with bob after he told you just wants to be close. ✰ fucking the stress out of him after he trained for hours, the man whimpers. ✰ soft sex with bob in the morning. ✰ riding bob in the tower's living room after you returned home from a week long mission, he missed you :( ✰ stroking needy!bob's cock on camera and he's embarassed.
════ ⋆★⋆ ꜱᴇɴᴛʀʏ ⋆★⋆ ════ ✰ fwb!sentry taking his stress out on you after valentina got angry with him. ✰ sucking sentry off as he praises you endlessly. ✰ playing with his pretty girl. ✰ sentry being obsessed with your tits during sex. (not working, need to fix) ✰ sentry eating you out after a rough mission. ✰ riding sentry's thigh when he's busy doing work.
════ ⋆★⋆ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴏɪᴅ ⋆★⋆ ════ ✰ tummy bulge. ✰ size difference with void, becoming painfully aware and turned on by it. ✰ the void fingering you after you begged. ✰ void making you work for his cock, even after you begged so nicely. (not working) ✰ he just needs to get it all out of his system, and if that means using you - so be it. ✰ fucking you infront of the mirror so you can see how much of a slut you are for him.
juno
pairing. bob reynolds/sentry/void x fem!reader
summary. little drabbles on the boys' fav positions! "have you ever tried this one?"
warnings. sub!bob, breeding, dacryphilia? (sentry), choking (sentry & void), rough sex (void), slightly ooc void
mcu masterlist. | 💋 short n' sweet collection.
> reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated 🩷
— bob | cowgirl (wc. 336)
bob loves when you take control of him. it makes him feel loved, wanted, and worshipped for the first time in his life. you'll place kisses all across his upper body, hands tangling in his hair to gently tug his head back and expose more of his pretty pale neck. you'll whisper soft sweet praise— "you're such a pretty boy," "my good boy," "you're so handsome, bob," "i love you so much," — into his ear while you move your hips across his lap.
his cock slides in and out of you, slowly and deep as you bounce on him. most times you have sex it's unhurried, loving, and deliberate— you want him to know just how much he's loved.
bob's hands grip your hips, subtly aiding your bounces when your legs start to ache. and his head will dip down to meet your chest; kissing and sucking and biting tenderly on your breasts.
his noises are so so pretty. the cutest whimpers, raspiest groans, and loudest moans leaving his mouth despite his embarrassment and insistence to stay quiet. the pleasure is just too good— your pussy squeezing tight around him, quivering at the thickness of his cock. his tip prods so deep inside you, just about grazing your g-spot.
you moan out bob's name, wrapping your arms around him in a hug. he meets your lips in a love-filled kiss as tears gather in his eyes.
"feels so good, baby." he whines into your mouth, "i love you, hic, so much."
you just nod in agreement, too focused on chasing your pleasure to form a proper response. and when you finally come, squeezing and pulsing around him, your back arches and pushes your breasts right against his chest.
"oh, shit, 'm gonna cum— baby, baby, fuck, 'm cumming!"
he whimpers, hands grabbing at your waist as his hips thrust mindlessly up into you. he tries to pull out in time but you just plant your hips firmly onto his lap.
"come for me, pretty boy. inside."
— sentry | mating press (wc. 518)
sentry's favourite thing to do is test your limits. whether that be your patience, or your flexibility. he'll bend your body in ways that shouldn't be possible for a human. and his favoured way to do that is with a mating press.
stretching your legs back until your knees almost touch your face, calves resting on his shoulders, he'll roughly manhandle you to get the best position. only one of his hands hold him up, gripping the sheets beside your head, and you're ashamed to admit how much wetter you get at the display of his god-like strength. his other hand lightly grips your throat, fingers pressing into the sides and somewhat cutting off airflow.
cock sliding in and out of your wet heat, harsh slaps of skin meeting skin mix with the squelches and pants filling the room. your moans are loud, as are his grunts and whimpers.
"oh, fuck. sunshine, you're so— tight."
he leans down closer to your ear, blond hair falling into your eyes, as his thrusts speed up. his hand unconsciously tightens on your throat and you're bound to have marks show up there later.
"gonna let me fill you up? shit— w-want me to fill up this p-pretty pussy, huh?" he all but growls. you can't speak so you resort to nodding wildly, mouth dropping open in a silent scream when his hand slips from your throat to instead grab at your hair. he tugs your head up until you can meet his eyes, and he quickly leans down to capture your lips with his.
it's barely a kiss; sloppy and wet, teeth crashing and noses bumping.
"please! sentry, god, p-please fill me up. don't stop, need 'ur cum." you manage to whine, feeling the coil tighten in your abdomen until it snaps and you pulsate around his cock with a moaned "'m cumming!".
your moans quickly turn into sobs, tears streaking tracks of salt down your cheeks at the overstimulation as he just continues thrusting into you— chasing his own pleasure. to your shock, he leans further into you and licks his tongue up the tear stain. that's when his hand tightens in your hair and he comes... hard.
rope after hot rope of seed shooting into your walls as he moans your name. "oh, fuck! 's good, sweetheart, feels so good."
he doesn't stop; thrusting deeper as he just keeps coming, plugging his cum back into you as you feel it start to overspill.
he suddenly pulls back until he's sitting on his knees, and your legs are finally free of that relentless ache as they are peeled off of your sweaty shoulders. though he moves his hands to grip your calves, dragging them back over his own shoulders so your back is hovering over the mattress. you feel his cum drip out of you steadily at the new position, despite his thick cock still plugging you, and he starts gently thrusting again to push it all back in.
"fuck," he breathes, head tilting to press a loving kiss to the side of your shin, "love you so much, sunshine."
— the void | doggy (wc. 375)
void is possessive. when fucking, his hands will grip all over your body— leaving dark bruises and red marks on your soft skin for everyone to see. for people to know that you've been claimed, you're his.
grabbing at the flesh of your ass as he pounds you from behind might just be one of his favourite things in the entire universe. squeezing and kneading harshly there, or slapping it and leaving bright red handprints in his wake.
sometimes he'll lean over your body, shadowy figure pressed to the sweat of your back, and reach around to grasp one of your breasts in the roughness of his hand— kneading as he did to your ass not even seconds earlier. he'll roll your nipple through his fingers with a firm pinch, sending shocks of pleasure throughout your body.
when you get the courage to start moving your hips back to meet his thrusts, his hands quickly fly to your sides to manhandle your body on his own. void doesn't want you doing anything, just continue laying there for him to use.
that once perfect arch you had has now disappeared; you're half way collapsed onto the bed with your face smushed into a pillow and only his hands and subconscious powers holding up your bottom half. you can barely breathe, especially when a black slender hand slithers up your front to grab your neck, squeezing on the sides a lot rougher than sentry would.
when void comes, his thrusts are ruthless. fast and deep, repeatedly hitting spots inside you that you didn't even know exists, and he growls loudly as he finishes. his hands squeeze tighter— whether that be on your hips or breasts or even your neck (you swear you've passed out during sex more times than you can count).
he fills you, and it feels like hours until he stops. cum steadily drips from your pussy when he pulls out, and you properly collapse onto the mattress from the loss of your only support.
void doesn't do much in ways of aftercare— usually letting bob come back to do that sort of thing— but he always presses a kiss to the crown of your head with a whispered "rest well, my dearest." before leaving.
sns taglist. @articel1967
Bob smut thing <3 18+ content. MDNI
You could always tell when Sentry was trying to break through. By now Bob had a grasp on him, months of training and therapy actually helping him keep it all in without tearing him apart.
It was different than the slight glow in his eyes, the gold ring that appeared any time him and John got in an argument. Sure that happened, but it wasn't what gave it away anymore, it didn't show the fight behind it.
Sentry was not a fan of Bob being, well Bob. He wasn't weak like people made him out to be, the softer, demeanor a comfort more than anything considering his past. He that way in most aspects anymore, especially when the situation involves you.
He could take charge, if you asked. It wasn't like he hadn't done it before with you or previous relationships. It just, wasn't Bob. Sentry showed up whenever he was, not enough for Bob to notice the difference but enough for you to feel it.
Bob preferred it the opposite way. He liked being on his knees, looking up at you with your hand gently carding through his hair. The soft praises when his tongue was doing exactly what you wanted it to, wanted him to.
He felt safer like that, comfort in you telling him what to do at every step. He couldn't mess it up that way; knew what he was doing made you feel good.
Sentry made his presence evident during those moments. He hated the way Bob was so easily submissive, how he loved being controlled. Sentry was not one to go down without a fight and Bob just didn't fight.
You could tell in the way he'd pause, not really needing to breath due to his abilities. The way he'd sink his nails into the skin of your thighs for a fleeting moment, harsher than the time called for. How Bobs hips would buck harshly into yours as you were on top of him, a smirk flashing across his lips before dropping open again with wide eyes.
You didn't mention it to anyone, didn't want to scare them. But, it somewhat scared you. What if this is how close Sentry was to the surface without anybody realizing? The intensity of things making it so he could break through. What if you were what he wanted?
Well, that last part wouldn't be the worst thing would it.
