⋆˙⟡ the handler or more? : bob reynolds x afab!reader
summary: after the almost destruction of new york city and the formation of the new avengers, the thunderbolts team decides to get a handler for bob; just a way to keep him grounded and open with his feelings. yes, but what happens when those feelings change for you? when he can't pretend anymore?
taglist: @ryyvkkr @prismozo @dionnesthedoll @alexxavicry @bonesofall @dumbbandpoetic @i-cant-stfu @minminswag04 @rogersbarber ( to be added )
The Tower felt quieter at night. Not the usual kind of quiet you’d expect from a skyscraper in New York city, but the hush of something suspended—like the city held its breath whenever Bob walked the halls.
Your job was to make sure he didn’t lose himself again. After New York nearly collapsed under the weight of his power, the Thunderbolts had agreed: Bob needed a handler. Someone to remind him where he was, who he was, to ground him in the moments when the Sentry or the Void threatened to swallow him whole.
That someone was you.
You hadn’t known what to expect the first time you’d met him. A man whose power could level continents ought to have felt terrifying, but Bob was… quiet. Tall, broad-shouldered, eyes too soft for a body that carried the weight of gods. He fumbled with his hands when he spoke, looking at the ground more than he ever met your gaze.
Handler felt like the wrong word most days. You weren’t taming a weapon; you were tending to a man who didn’t quite believe he deserved to be alive.
Most of your nights together blurred into rituals: walking him through breathing exercises, reminding him that the world was still intact, that he hadn’t torn it apart in his sleep. Sometimes you’d sit across from him in the Tower’s glass-walled lounge, coffee between you both, and just talk. About nothing, about everything—until you realized Bob liked listening more than he liked speaking, his gaze tracing your mouth when you rambled about books or old films.
And slowly, things started to feel different; like tonight.
The Tower was empty, save for you and him. The Thunderbolts were off on an assignment somewhere, and the floor that usually buzzed with tense energy now lay silent. You found him in the lounge again, his long frame folded onto the couch, fingers pulling at a loose thread on his sweatpants.
“You don’t have to stay up with me,” he said softly, though he didn’t look at you when he said it. You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, smiling faintly. “And let you spiral alone? Not a chance.”
That got him to glance up, a flicker of warmth breaking through the stormclouds of his expression. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You make it sound like I’m dangerous even sitting here.”
“You’re not dangerous,” you countered, stepping into the room, “you’re restless. That’s different.”
When you sank into the couch beside him, the air shifted. The distance between your thighs and his wasn’t much, but you could feel the heat radiating off him, the nervous twitch in his knee. Bob swallowed, jaw tightening, as though even this closeness was something he wasn’t sure he deserved.
“You don’t have to watch me all the time,” he said after a long silence. “You deserve… normal. A normal life. Not babysitting someone like me.”
You tilted your head, studying him. His voice cracked on deserve, as if he meant it for himself more than you. “I don’t see it as babysitting,” you murmured. “I see it as making sure someone I care about is okay.”
That word—care—hung between you like static. Bob’s breath hitched, and though he tried to look away, you caught the faintest flush crawling up his neck.
The silence stretched, but not the uncomfortable kind. You could hear the city outside the glass walls—the hum of traffic, the occasional wail of a siren. But here, next to Bob, it felt like the Tower was its own little world.
You watched him worry at the thread on his sweatpants until it finally snapped. He frowned at the frayed edge, muttering under his breath, “Can’t even hold myself together, huh?” Your chest tightened. He said it like a joke, but you could hear the truth bleeding through.
“Hey,” you said softly, reaching out before you could think twice. Your hand landed on his, stilling his restless fingers.
Bob froze. His whole body went taut under your touch, like a deer caught in headlights. But he didn’t pull away. Instead, his gaze dropped to where your hand rested over his—small compared to his broad palm, but steady.
“You’re not broken,” you said, keeping your voice low, even. “You’re human. That’s allowed.” His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “Most people wouldn’t call me that.”
“Well,” you murmured, thumb brushing over his knuckles, “I’m not most people.”
For a moment, he just stared at you. His eyes were wide, searching, like he was trying to figure out if you really meant it. The air between you was warmer now, thicker somehow, carrying the weight of things you hadn’t said out loud.
You could almost hear his heart hammering in his chest—or maybe it was your own. “I shouldn’t…” Bob’s voice cracked, his free hand curling into a fist against his thigh. “You’re supposed to be—my handler. Not…”
“Not what?” you pressed, keeping your tone gentle but firm.
His lips parted, but no sound came. He looked away again, his cheeks coloring, his jaw clenched tight. It was almost endearing, seeing a man who could crush steel struggle to form a simple sentence.
“Bob,” you said, squeezing his hand, grounding him. “It’s okay to want things... to want someone.”
That got him. His head snapped toward you, eyes wide, like you’d just said something forbidden. His breath came quicker now, shallow, his chest rising and falling under the worn cotton of his hoodie.
“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he whispered, but it wasn’t conviction—it was fear. Fear of hope.
“I know exactly what I’m saying.” You shifted closer, your thigh brushing against his this time, deliberate. His body jolted at the contact, his breath stuttering. And still—he didn’t move away.
When your hand slid up from his to his wrist, his forearm, you felt the tremor running through him. His muscles tensed under your touch, but he leaned into it, just slightly, like a man starved for closeness but terrified of consuming it too quickly.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, voice hoarse.
“You won’t,” you promised. “I trust you.”
The words seemed to break something open inside him. His shoulders sagged, like the weight of the world slipped just a fraction off his back. And for the first time tonight, he let himself look at you fully—eyes soft, vulnerable, and burning with something he couldn’t hide anymore.
The way he looked at you made your pulse quicken. Wide-eyed, almost reverent, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real and right here in front of him. His hand twitched where yours still rested on his arm, like he wanted to hold you but didn’t dare.
“Bob,” you murmured, tilting your head just enough that your shoulder brushed his chest. “It’s okay.” He swallowed, gaze darting down to your mouth, then back up again. He looked like he was fighting with himself, every muscle in his jaw tight.
And then, with a shaky exhale, he leaned in.
The first press of his lips was feather-light, almost clumsy, like he was terrified of breaking you. He kissed you the way he handled everything—with caution, restraint, as if waiting for you to push him away. But you didn’t. You leaned into it, catching his bottom lip between yours, coaxing him to follow. A soft sound rumbled in his chest, almost a whimper, and the restraint faltered.
Suddenly his hand was on your thigh, fingers splayed wide, trembling but desperate for anchor. His other hand hovered awkwardly in the air, unsure where to go until you guided it up, sliding it to your waist.
“See?” you whispered against his mouth. “You’re not hurting me.”
That did it. His lips parted, and the kiss deepened—messier now, hungry in a way that betrayed how long he’d been holding himself back. His breath mingled with yours, hot and uneven, as his tongue brushed tentatively against yours before retreating.
You smiled against his mouth, nipping gently at his lower lip. “You can take more, Bob.”
The groan that tore from him was unsteady, almost pained with need. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer until your chest pressed to his. He kissed you harder now, still unpracticed but full of raw urgency, like he was worshipping you with every messy press of his lips.
“God, you’re…” He broke the kiss, forehead dropping to yours, voice thick with awe. “You’re so soft. So good.”
Your heart clenched at the sincerity in his tone. It wasn’t just lust—it was relief, reverence, a man who didn’t believe he deserved something gentle finally tasting it.
“You’re good too,” you breathed, brushing your thumb over the back of his neck. “Better than you think.”
His whole body shivered, and before you could say more, he was kissing you again. Sloppier this time, desperate, his mouth moving against yours like he couldn’t get enough. His teeth scraped yours by accident, his nose bumped clumsily, but none of it mattered. It was real, it was him, and every stuttered exhale had you aching for more.
When his hand slid higher on your thigh, just beneath the hem of your shorts, his knuckles skimmed bare skin. He froze instantly, pulling back with wide eyes.
“Sorry—” His voice cracked, panic threatening to spiral.
You caught his wrist before he could retreat. “That was perfect,” you said firmly, kissing the corner of his mouth. “You don't have to stop.”
The relief in his expression nearly undid you. His lips parted, breath ragged, as if he couldn’t believe someone would give him that kind of permission.
And then, like gravity itself had shifted, Bob leaned back in and kissed you like he meant it.
The way he kissed you—messy and reverent all at once—left you breathless. His lips trailed from your mouth to your jaw, feather-light and uncertain, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to taste you beyond your lips. “You can touch me, Bob,” you whispered, threading your fingers into his hair. “Anywhere you want.”
He shivered at your words, a sharp intake of breath rushing against your skin. His hand, still resting tentatively on your thigh, inched upward. His palm was wide and warm as it skimmed the curve of your hip, slipping under the hem of your shirt.
When his fingers brushed your bare skin, he froze again, eyes darting up to yours like he needed confirmation.
“Yes,” you murmured, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “I want you to.”
The sound he made was half groan, half sigh, relief and hunger mingling. His hand splayed against your waist, exploring slowly, reverently, as though memorizing the shape of you. His thumb traced small circles over your ribs, then higher—hesitant, trembling—until he cupped the side of your breast over your bra.
“God…” The word fell from him like a prayer. His gaze dropped, watching the way his hand barely encompassed you, awe etched across his face. “You feel… you’re so soft. I can’t—” He cut himself off with another groan, burying his face against your neck as if overwhelmed.
You guided him with a gentle tug of his wrist, pressing his palm more firmly against you. “It’s okay,” you soothed, your own breath hitching as his fingers flexed. “I like when you touch me there.”
That spurred him on. His thumb brushed tentatively over your nipple through the thin fabric, and when your back arched in response, he gasped like he’d just discovered something miraculous.
“Did that feel good?” he asked, voice cracking with sincerity.
“So good,” you promised, tangling your fingers in his hair. “Do it again.”
He obeyed instantly, rolling your nipple gently between his fingers, this time watching your reaction. The heat in his eyes when you moaned softly nearly undid you. He looked like a man starved, marveling at every small sound you made, like each one was a gift.
When you tugged your shirt up over your head, his breath caught audibly. Your bra barely concealed you, and his gaze locked on the swell of your breasts, his pupils blown wide. “You’re…” His voice broke, reverent and raw. “You’re beautiful.”
You reached back to unclasp your bra, letting it fall away. His hands twitched at his sides like he didn’t dare touch yet. You caught one and guided it back to your chest.
“Touch me, Bob.”
His fingers spread wide, cupping you carefully, almost shaking. Then, bolder, he leaned down, lips brushing over the curve of your breast before wrapping around your nipple. His tongue flicked hesitantly, experimental, and when you moaned, he groaned against you, the vibration sending heat pooling low in your belly.
He alternated between sucking gently and laving his tongue over your sensitive skin, switching to your other breast with clumsy eagerness. Every whimper you gave had him tightening his grip on your waist, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to make you sound like that. “You taste…” He broke away just long enough to breathe, chest heaving. “God, you taste so good.”
“More,” you urged, tugging him back up for a messy kiss, your bare chest pressed against the fabric of his hoodie. “Don’t hold back, Bob.”
His groan against your lips was guttural, like the very thought unraveled him. His hands roamed lower again, teasing at the waistband of your shorts, lingering just at the edge of going further.
But he didn’t cross it yet. Not until you told him to.
Bob’s hand hovered at the hem of your shorts like it was a threshold he wasn’t sure he deserved to cross. His chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts, his lips still swollen from kissing you.
“You’re sure?” he whispered, voice so raw it made your heart twist. “If I touch you there—”
“Bob.” You cupped his cheek, guiding his gaze back to yours. “I’ve never been more sure.”
His throat worked around a hard swallow, but he nodded. The hand at your hip slid lower, trembling as he edged beneath your shorts. His fingertips brushed the bare skin of your thigh, inch by inch until they found the heat of your core, still covered by the thin barrier of your underwear.
The groan that tore out of him was almost pained. “God, you’re—” He cut himself off, forehead pressing to your shoulder, his voice muffled. “You’re warm. You’re already wet.”
You smiled faintly, tilting his chin back so you could see the awe painted across his face. “That’s because of you.”
His pupils blew wide, breath catching like he couldn’t believe it. His fingers stroked tentatively over the damp fabric, tracing the outline of you, and every tiny shiver that rippled through your body had him watching intently, cataloging each reaction.
“Does this—” He paused, fingers pressing just slightly firmer. “—feel good?”
“Mmhm.” You let your head tip back against the couch, a soft moan spilling from your lips. “So good, Bob. Don’t stop.”
The praise lit something inside him. His hand pressed more firmly now, exploring every inch of you through the fabric. He found your clit and brushed against it, accidentally at first, but the gasp you gave made him freeze.
“That was that okay?” His voice was hoarse, shaky, like he thought he’d broken you. “That was perfect,” you panted, grabbing his wrist and urging him to circle again. “Do it again.”
He obeyed, tentative circles at first, then firmer when your hips arched up to meet his hand. Each sound you made had him groaning softly in return, his lips ghosting over your temple like he couldn’t stop himself from worshipping you with every breath.
“You’re so beautiful like this,” he murmured, almost reverent. “I can feel you shaking.”
Your fingers tangled in his shirt, tugging it upward, desperate for more skin. “Inside,” you whispered. “Please, Bob—put your fingers inside.”
His breath stuttered, but he obeyed. Slowly, carefully, he hooked his fingers under your underwear, pushing the fabric aside. The first brush of his bare fingers over your folds made him gasp, his hand trembling like he was touching something holy.
“You’re so wet,” he groaned, almost in disbelief. “For me?”
“All for you,” you promised, hips rolling into his touch.
That was all it took. With painstaking care, he pressed a finger inside, the stretch making you gasp. His eyes flew to your face instantly, searching for any sign of pain. “You okay?”
“So good,” you whispered, breathless. “Don’t stop, Bob.”
Encouraged, he pushed in further, then curled his finger experimentally. Your cry of pleasure made him whimper, his forehead dropping to your shoulder again. “God, I can feel you clench around me,” he groaned. “You’re—fuck—you’re perfect.”
When he added a second finger, slower, deliberate, you gasped and clutched at him tighter. He stroked your walls carefully, finding a rhythm, every brush of his knuckles against you pulled moans from your mouth that made his own resolve crumble.
“You’re shaking,” he whispered, his voice breaking with awe. “You’re gonna come for me, aren’t you?”
“Don’t stop,” you begged, grinding into his hand. “I’m so close, Bob—”
He pumped his fingers deeper, thumb brushing your clit in shaky circles, his own breath ragged as though he was the one on the edge. “Come for me. Please—let me feel it.”
Your release hit hard, your body clenching around his fingers as waves of pleasure crashed through you. You cried out his name, and the sound made him groan, nearly undone himself just from watching.
“That’s it,” he whispered fiercely, kissing your temple as his fingers worked you through it. “That’s it, you’re perfect—you’re so perfect.”
Bob is still shivering against you, skin damp, heartbeat pounding so loud you can feel it where his chest presses into yours. You stroke the back of his neck, soothing, until the storm of your release quiets into soft breaths.
When you kiss him again, it’s different—slow, steady, grounding. His lips part for you automatically, and you feel him sigh into the kiss like he’s giving you everything he has left.
You pull back just enough to whisper, “Do you want more, Bob?”
His eyes flutter open, wide and uncertain, but beneath the nerves there’s a hunger so raw it makes your thighs clench. He swallows hard. “Yeah. God, yes. But—” His cheeks flush deeper. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
You smile softly, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “You won’t. I’ll take care of us.”
Reaching over, you unzip your bag by the couch, fishing out a condom you’d stashed there more out of habit than expectation. Bob’s eyes track every movement, pupils blown wide, chest rising faster as realization sinks in.
Your hands moves to pull his sweatpants down with his boxers and Bob's hips shifts up to help you. His cock is hard, pink at the tip and already glistening with pre-cum. You see him twitching, as if his cock was begging for your attention already. “Shh,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Just relax. Let me.”
You roll the condom down over him slowly, your fingers trembling a little, both from nerves and the sheer anticipation curling low in your belly. Bob hisses softly at the contact, hips twitching again, but he keeps still for you, hands clutching the cushions at his sides like he’s terrified of grabbing you too hard.
Then you straddle him, thighs bracketing his hips, and his breath catches audibly. He looks at you like you’re the most impossible vision he’s ever seen, hands hovering at your waist but not daring to grip. Your shorts are finally discared to the side, followed by your damp panties, leaving your bare on top of him.
“You can touch me, Bob,” you reassure gently, guiding his hands to your hips. “I want you to.”
He exhales shakily, fingers curling into your skin, reverent, almost worshipful. “You’re… God, you’re beautiful.”
You sink down slowly, guiding him inside you inch by inch. Bob’s head tips back against the couch, a groan ripping out of his chest so deep it makes your pulse stutter. He’s thick, stretching you sweetly, and you have to pause halfway, catching your breath.
“You okay?” he rasps, panic flickering across his face.
“Perfect,” you whisper, rolling your hips just enough to seat him deeper. The stretch burns in the best way, and you hold his gaze as you take him all the way in, until your thighs meet his. His cock stretches your walls and you feel like seeing stars.
Bob’s jaw drops, a strangled sound leaving his throat—half moan, half prayer. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”
You settle against him, both of you shuddering, and press your forehead to his. “See?” you murmur, brushing your lips across his. “Not hurting me. Just filling me up perfectly.”
Bob groans again, clutching you closer, overwhelmed and undone.
You rock your hips gently, finding a slow rhythm, and the way he looks at you—awed, needy, desperate—makes your whole body thrum.
Your walls clutching tight around his length as you move, and the sound that leaves Bob’s throat is nothing short of holy. A raw, broken groan that makes you clench harder just from hearing it. His hands are still tentative at your hips, like he’s terrified of overstepping, but his grip trembles with the effort of holding back.
“Bob,” you murmur, rocking your hips slowly, “you feel incredible inside me.”
His eyes fly open at your words—wide, almost undone from praise alone. “You’re so warm,” he stammers, voice breaking. “You’re perfect, you’re—God, I don’t even—” His rambling dies into a whimper as you circle your hips, grinding down until his head tips back against the couch.
You kiss along his throat, drinking in the taste of salt and skin, before catching his mouth again. The kiss is messy, almost desperate—his lips parted, his tongue clumsy against yours, tasting of awe and need. You moan into it, rolling your hips, and feel him shudder beneath you.
“Don’t hold back,” you whisper against his lips. “I want all of it. Every sound, every shiver. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”
He groans deep, clutching your waist tighter, the words striking through him like lightning. “You—oh God—you make me feel alive. Like I’m not broken.” His voice cracks, and he presses his face to your collarbone, kissing, sucking lightly as if in apology for the words spilling out of him.
You cup his face and tilt it back up to yours. “Bob, you’re not broken.”
The whimper that breaks free from him is almost too much. His hips lift instinctively into yours, shallow thrusts that make the friction spark, but you keep the rhythm slow, controlled. Worshipful.
Your hands trace over his chest, slipping beneath his shirt, dragging your nails down the hard planes of muscle until you reach the hem and tug it over his head. He’s all heat and trembling breath beneath your palms.
Then you guide his hands up, press them over your breasts again. He swallows hard, eyes darting between your face and where his palms rest, like he can’t believe he’s allowed to touch them more. “Squeeze,” you encourage softly, rolling your hips again. “Touch me the way you want to.”
He obeys slowly, carefully, his fingers closing over the curve of your breasts. A shaky moan leaves him, and his thumbs trace tentative circles over your nipples. You gasp, leaning forward to kiss him harder, messy, wet, until he grows bolder.
His hands moves more, skin to skin. The contrast of his rough palms against the softness of your breasts makes you arch, moaning into his mouth. He pinches lightly, testing, then groans when your hips stutter in response. “You like that?” he asks, voice hoarse, almost astonished.
“Yes,” you breathe, rocking harder for a moment, chest pressing into his hands. “Don’t stop, Bob.”
He doesn’t—if anything, he worships. His mouth trails down to your collarbone again, then lower, until he’s mouthing at your breasts, sucking lightly onto your skin as his thumbs tease your nipples. The reverence in his touch, the way he looks up at you with his lips swollen and wet, makes your core clench around him, pulling a strangled groan from his chest.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, kissing between your breasts. “So perfect… I don’t deserve it.”
You cut him off with another kiss, dragging his mouth back to yours, hips grinding down in a slow, steady rhythm that makes you both whimper. Your slick coats him, every movement easier, hotter, deeper, until you’re trembling in his lap.
“Say it again,” you pant against his lips, dragging his lower one between your teeth. “Say I’m perfect.”
“You are,” he gasps, hands kneading your breasts reverently. “You’re perfect—more than perfect.” His words crumble into another groan when your walls flutter around him.
The world feels narrowed down to the heat between your thighs, the messy wet slide of your kisses, the way his hands tremble over your breasts like he’s holding something sacred. Every thrust, every whisper of praise, winds you tighter, higher, until you’re not sure where he ends and you begin.
The rhythm you’ve kept steady, soft and measured, starts to unravel as Bob’s hips buck upward. The control he’s clung to slips through his fingers with every wet grind of your hips, every moan you let him swallow into your mouth. His big hands grip your waist more firmly now, no longer hesitant, guiding you down harder onto him.
“Fuck—” he gasps, breaking the kiss to bury his face in your throat, breath hot against your skin. “Can I move, please—please let me—”
You roll your hips faster in answer, and the strangled groan that rips out of him makes you clench down around him. His hands fly back to your breasts, kneading, thumbs dragging over your nipples until you arch into his touch. The sharper pace rocks through your body, jolting little gasps from your lips each time he thrusts up to meet you.
“That’s it,” you whisper, fingers tangling in his messy hair as you ride him harder. “Take what you need, Bob.”
Your words snap the last thread of his restraint. He grips your hips tight now, helping you slam down onto him faster, deeper, the wet slap of your bodies filling the empty tower around you. Each thrust hits a spot inside you that makes your vision blur, your nails raking across his shoulders as you cry out.
“God, you’re so tight,” he moans, eyes squeezed shut as if the sensation is too much to look at. His thumbs circle your nipples, pinching lightly, sending shocks of pleasure straight between your thighs. “You’re squeezing me so good, can’t—oh fuck—can’t hold back.”
“Don’t,” you gasp, riding him harder, faster, your breasts bouncing in his hands as he worships every inch. “Don’t hold back. I want all of it. I want you.”
That praise undoes him—his eyes fly open, glassy and desperate, and he captures your mouth in another messy kiss. His tongue is clumsy, his lips wet, but the hunger in it makes your whole body quake. He groans into your mouth with each slam of your hips down onto his, your walls fluttering around him, pulling more and more raw sounds from his throat.
“Look at you,” you pant against his lips, rocking harder, “losing control for me. You’re so perfect, Bob.”
His hands squeeze your breasts harder, thumbs pinching your nipples until you keen, head falling back. He takes the opportunity to mouth at your chest again, sucking at one peak, tugging it lightly with his teeth until you cry out. The wet pull of his mouth combined with the relentless rhythm makes your whole body burn, pleasure building in hot waves.
“Gonna—gonna make you come again,” he groans against your skin, voice raw with need. “Wanna feel you—wanna feel you fall apart on me while I’m inside you.”
Your nails dig into his shoulders, your hips jerking helplessly as he slams up into you, meeting every frantic roll of your body. The wet sounds of your joined bodies echo through the tower, messy and loud, and you know you’re close—so close—because Bob’s messy praise and desperate touch are too much to resist.
Your body is wound so tightly it almost hurts, every thrust dragging you higher. Bob’s hands are everywhere—at your waist guiding your rhythm, at your breasts squeezing and teasing, one thumb still brushing over your nipple until you gasp. His eyes never leave your face, like he needs to memorize every flicker of your pleasure.
“God—you feel so good,” he breathes, voice breaking with effort. His hips buck up to meet yours harder, less controlled. “You’re perfect, you’re perfect, you’re everything.”
The words push you over the edge. Heat explodes inside you, your pussy clenching down around him, thighs trembling as you cry out his name. Your orgasm tears through you raw and wild, stealing your breath, making you see stars.
That’s all it takes to break him.
Bob groans, a desperate, guttural sound, and thrusts deep and messy, hips stuttering as he finally lets go. His release floods into the condom, his whole body shuddering beneath you as he clings to your waist. “Oh God—I’m coming, I'm coming! Fuck...”
You collapse against his chest, both of you shaking, breathless. The room fills with the sound of your mingled moans and the messy kiss he drags you into, tasting your cries. Your pulses sync, both of you riding the wave together until there’s nothing left but trembling limbs and soft gasps.
Bob holds you tight through it, lips pressed to your cheek, whispering, “So perfect, so beautiful, I never want this to end.”
And for a moment, with both your bodies spent and tangled, it feels like the world outside doesn’t exist—just him, just you, and the heat that binds you.
You’re both still trembling, bodies slick with sweat, breaths ragged in the quiet room. Bob doesn’t pull away yet—he keeps you seated in his lap, his arms tight around your waist as if he can’t bear to let go. The condom is still snug between you, but his focus is all on you.
His hand trails slowly up your spine, grounding you, until it cups the back of your neck. He presses soft kisses to your jaw, to your temple, murmuring praise against your skin.
“You’re incredible,” he whispers, voice hoarse but reverent. “I didn’t know it could feel like that… I didn’t know I could feel like that.”
You shiver, overstimulated but alive, every nerve sparking with the aftershocks of your orgasm. When his thumb grazes lazily over your nipple again, you gasp, hips twitching involuntarily. He pauses, startled, then meets your eyes with a shy smile.
“Sensitive?”
“Mm,” you hum, but don’t push him away. Instead, you arch slightly into his touch, letting him explore.
He takes it slow—gentle circles over your breast, a soft roll of your nipple between his fingers. The kind of teasing that doesn’t push you into another climax, but keeps you floating in that dizzy space between pleasure and tenderness. You moan softly into his shoulder, clutching at him, and he beams at the sound like it’s a gift.
“You're so perfect, really,” he murmurs, kissing your damp forehead.
Eventually, Bob shifts carefully, helping you off his lap, disposing of the condom with shaky hands before returning to you immediately, like he can’t stand even a few seconds of distance. He pulls you down into the couch again, tangling your limbs together.
For a beat, he just stares at you—like you’re a miracle he can’t believe he’s allowed to touch. His fingers trace reverent lines along your cheek, your collarbone, down the curve of your breast.
“You don’t know what you’ve done to me,” he admits, voice breaking with raw honesty. “I thought I was just… dangerous. A job for you. But now? You make me feel like I’m worth something. Like I’m…” He swallows hard, eyes shining. “Like I’m a man again, not just a weapon.”
Your chest tightens, and you cradle his face in both hands, pulling him down for a messy, wet kiss. “You are, Bob. You’re so much more than that. I won't let you fall.”
The words break him open. A strangled whimper escapes, and he buries his face in your chest, arms wrapping around you like you’re the only anchor in the world. You hold him just as tight, stroking his hair, whispering reassurance into the dark.
And when he finally falls quiet, it’s not because the fear is gone—but because, for the first time in a long time, he believes he isn’t alone in carrying it anymore.
currently having a new hyper-fixation on this dude (been reading lots of headcanons and stuff here too ₍^. .^₎⟆) and, well-- I just had to draw him! so here :DD
I'm also currently binge watching the mcu movies and series so like gluck on me for that fr
(Might change my header too, for now I'm usimg this LMAO)
It's doing the rounds of tumblr and its thunderbolts/boblena spaces, and op doesn't disclose that it's AI in the tags. If you check his blog it's full of AI generated "fanarts" (not tagged as such) and he trolls people who call him out on that.
Please support real artists and don't share AI generated "fanarts".
