When He’s Him | Bob Reynolds
Summary: The line between Bob and Sentry blurs, and you’re caught in the middle until he finally chooses you as himself.
Warnings: sex. sex sex and more sex. perverts.
A/N: this is another request that i LOVE from @tittittoee i really hope i did it justice i kinda took the idea and went RUNNING with it and made it extra angsty just for fun heheheheh
─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───
The bathroom mirror does not lie.
You stare at the faint bruises blooming along your collarbone and ribs, the kind that look almost pretty if you do not think too hard about where they came from. They are not painful. That is what bothers you most. They should hurt more. They should mean something. But instead you look at them day after day, new ones blooming over the old, and you remember everything you got up to the night before.
You turn sideways, tugging your shirt aside just enough to see the shadows under your skin. Love marks. Power marks. Proof of something you would rather pretend never happens. You scoff at your reflection, a quiet sound in the empty room.
“Get it together,” you murmur, then yank your shirt back into place, strategically covering yourself and heading for the door.
The tower is already awake, and quite loud. The hallway hums with distant voices and the clatter of plates. When you step into the kitchen, the smell of burnt toast and cheap coffee hits you first. You scan the room, smiling at your friends gathered. Your smile falters however when it lands on him.
He sits at the far end of the table, hunched over his mug like it is the only thing tethering him to reality. His shirt is rumpled and crooked. His hair looks like he dragged a hand through it too many times. He does not look at you, and do not look at him, a regular routine you’ve created each morning. Walker, unfortunately, looks at everyone. He squints the second he sees you, eyes tracking the way you move like he is trying to piece together a puzzle.
“Wow,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Either you got into a bar fight with a freight train, or you really need to ease up on whatever sadistic training routine you’re on.”
“Good morning to you too,” you reply flatly, already reaching for the coffee pot.
Alexei appears at your side like a human wall, sliding a plate into your hands before you can refuse it.
“You are too small,” he declares. “Always too small. Eat more. You fight like angry kitten but bones are like little breadsticks.”
You tilt your head up and kiss his cheek just to watch him blink in surprise.
“Thanks for the pep talk,” you say sweetly, then pivot away before he can recover.
Your gaze flicks, traitorous, toward the far end of the table.Bob finally looks up. It is a mistake. His eyes sharpen the second they land on you, like he is bracing for impact. You wonder if he fully remembers coming into your room night after night and doing…What you both did. Something bitter rises in your chest and you lean into it before you can stop yourself.
“Staring again, Reynolds?” you ask.
“Careful. People might think you’re obsessed.”
His jaw tightens. “Hard to ignore a walking health violation.”
You smile thinly. “Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about your posture.”
Walker lets out a low whistle. “And the award for most emotionally constipated morning exchange goes to-“
“Shut up,” you and Bob say in unison.
You drop into the chair beside Bucky, deliberately turning your back on Bob like he does not exist. Across the table, Yelena is watching you with a look that is far too interested.
“You two are like married couple who despise each other,” she says. “It is very entertaining. Also very loud at night.”
You choke on your coffee.
Bucky does not look at you, but his shoulder bumps yours just enough to steady you. He does not say anything while you eat, which somehow feels louder than any lecture. You focus on your plate, chewing without tasting, aware of Bob’s presence in the room like a static charge. When you stand to rinse your dish, Bucky is already on his feet.
“Come on,” he says, hand closing around your wrist before you can protest.
He does not stop walking until the kitchen noise fades behind heavy walls. Then he turns to face you, eyes dropping immediately to your hands. Your knuckles are bruised, split in a way that tells a very specific story.
“Training,” you say before he can ask.
He raises an eyebrow. “You trying to punch the building down?”
You shrug. “Wouldn’t be the worst renovation idea.”
His gaze drifts, careful and brief, to your collar where your shirt has slipped just enough to reveal the edge of one of those marks. His expression does not change. That makes your throat tighten.
“Those too,” he says quietly.
You scoff. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” he replies. “I just don’t like when you look like you’re losing a fight with yourself.”
For a moment, you almost tell him. Almost let the words crack open in your mouth. He was truly your best friend, and not telling Bucky what goes on at night between you and Bob felt like lying. Instead you roll your eyes and tug your wrist from his grip.
“I’m fine. You worry too much.”
He studies you a second longer, then sighs and steps aside.
“Alright,” he says. “But I’m not buying it. Not today, not ever. You’re a bad liar.”
He lets it go, but the concern in his eyes follows you all the way back down the hall until you disappear from his sight.
You take your seat near the far wall of the briefing room with Bucky and Yelena, folding your arms and fixing your attention on the tablet in Ava’s hands like it contains the secrets of the universe. You do not look at Bob, per usual.
Across the room, he sits beside Walker, shoulders tense, fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles have gone pale. You are not in his line of sight, but you exist in every other way. In the echo of his pulse. In the way the air feels too warm in his lungs. In the quiet reminders that do not care if he is awake or asleep. He does not hear Ava explaining entry points or tactical formations. He is busy remembering pinning your wrists above your head last night, the way you had said his name like it was a challenge instead of a plea. He remembers the smell of your pillows, something clean and soft that makes no sense with the way you treat each other when the sun is up.
He hates that he remembers. He hates that it was him and also not him.
Walker nudges his knee with his own. “Earth to Reynolds.”
Bob blinks, slow and heavy. “What?”
Walker glances toward Ava, who is still mid-sentence, then back to Bob. “You with us, or should I start taking notes in crayon?”
Bob exhales through his nose and stares at the table. “I’m fine.”
Ava says your name, and the sound hits Bob like a slap to the face. His shoulders jerk, breath catching before he can stop it. For half a heartbeat the room disappears and all he can feel is the memory of pinning your wrists down, of your pulse jumping beneath his thumbs like he was holding something fragile instead of fighting someone who claims to hate him. From across the room, you notice. Not the memory, obviously. Just the flinch. The way his body reacts to your name like it is a wound instead of a word.
He leans closer, voice low enough that it does not carry. “What the hell was that.”
Bob swallows. His mouth is dry. His hands will not stop shaking.
Walker studies him, jaw tightening. “You look like you haven’t slept in a week.”
Bob almost laughs. It comes out as a breath instead. “Feels like longer.”
Walker doesn’t pry any longer as Ava finishes the briefing and closes her tablet. Chairs scrape back. The room fills with the sound of people standing, talking, moving on like nothing inside Bob has just splintered.
“You need to get your head straight before we go out there,” Walker says quietly. “Whatever’s going on, it’s bleeding through.”
Bob nods because it is easier than answering. Around you, the team filters out of the room, already shifting into mission mode. You pass his row without looking at him, close enough that he catches the faintest trace of your shampoo, clean and impossible. Then you are gone, and the mission drags him with it whether he is ready or not.
Smoke clings to the ceiling of the research wing like a low storm cloud. The corridor you are in narrows into something barely wide enough for two people to pass shoulder to shoulder. Somewhere ahead, a warning alarm pulses in an uneven rhythm, the random building complaining about injuries it never had time to heal.
You had been right behind Bucky pretty much the whole mission until the floor shuddered around you. Not violently, just enough to shift the debris piled against the walls. The path you were supposed to take collapses inward with a sound like a held breath being released. Concrete and wiring drop between you and the rest of the team in a choking plume of dust.
“Seriously,” you mutter, coughing. “You have got to be kidding me.”
The comms crackle. Bucky’s voice cuts through the static, filled with panic. “You guys okay?”
“I’m fine,” you say immediately. “Just stuck with Reynolds. Living the dream.”
Bob steps up beside you, scanning the blockage with an unreadable expression. He holds his hand out to help you up but you ignore it. “We go around,” he says. “There’s a service stairwell off the west wing.”
“Oh, now you’re taking charge,” you reply.
“Thought you were still in zoning-out mode.”
He shoots you a look. “I wasn’t zoning out.”
“You flinched when someone said my name,” you say. “That’s not exactly locked in.”
His jaw tightens. “Drop it.”
“Why,” you press, brushes pieces of rubble and dust from your gear. “Hit a nerve?”
“Can you just focus,” he snaps. “For once.”
You push past him into the narrow passage without waiting for an answer. “I am focused. On not babysitting you.”
The stairwell is worse than the hallway. Lights flicker overhead, and the metal railing rattles every time the structure shifts. You take the first step two at a time just to get it over with.
Bob grabs your arm. “Slow down.”
You jerk away. “Don’t touch me.”
“You don’t get to run into a collapsing building like it’s nothing,” he says. “You are not invincible.”
“I never said I was,” you shoot back. “But I don’t freeze every time something goes wrong either.”
His mouth tightens. “That’s not freezing. That’s thinking.”
“Oh please,” you scoff. “You think I don’t notice how you hover. How you look at me like you’re waiting for me to screw up.”
“Because you keep trying to,” he snaps.
The stair beneath your boot groans.
Then it gives. Your foot slips into empty space, heart lurching as your weight pitches forward. You grab for the railing and miss, the world tilting too fast to make sense of it.
Bob catches you. His hand clamps around your harness and rips you backward so hard you slam into his chest. For a breathless second, everything stops.
You shove him away immediately. “What the hell is wrong with you!”
“No, what is wrong with you,” he fires back. “You almost fell!”
“You were one bad step from breaking your neck.”
“So now you’re my personal safety briefing,” you say bitterly. “I don’t need you hovering over me like I’m made of glass.”
“I am trying to keep you alive,” he says, voice rising. “You act like you don’t care if you come back from these things.”
“Maybe I just don’t need someone breathing down my neck every second,” you shoot back.
“You don’t stop,” he says. “You don’t slow down. You push harder every time like you’re daring something to happen. You might not care but either people do! What about Bucky? Yelena? Everybody else?”
“Stop pretending you know me.”
“I know you’re destroying yourself,” he snaps. “And I’m sick of watching it.”
Footsteps echo at the top of the stairwell.
Bucky rounds the corner first, skidding to a halt when he takes you in, breathing hard, eyes bright with worry. Yelena follows, gaze flicking instantly between you and Bob. Walker lingers behind them, already shaking his head at hearing the arguing.
Bucky grabs your arm and pulls you back from Bob. “Enough,” he says, planting himself between you. “This is not the time.”
At the same moment, Yelena steps directly into Bob’s space and presses her hand flat to his chest, firm and unmoving. Not aggressive. Just a wall. Bob freezes under her touch.
“You are both being very dramatic,” Yelena says calmly. “But you are about to get someone killed.”
Walker exhales. “Can we maybe not have the meltdown in the collapsing stairwell.”
You rip your arm from Bucky’s grip and storm past them down the corridor.
“Don’t,” Bob calls after you.
It is not angry, it is scared.
The jet hums steadily beneath your feet, a low vibration that usually lulls everyone into sleep or sarcastic commentary. Tonight it does neither.
The cabin is wrapped in a strange quiet, the kind that settles after something goes wrong in a way no one has words for yet. Yelena and Walker are the only ones breaking it, arguing in hushed tones over whether Walker tripped over a cable or whether the cable was clearly trying to assassinate him. It should be funny. It barely registers.
You sit with your shoulder pressed against Bucky’s arm, the way you have since the moment you boarded. He had not asked. He had simply taken the seat beside you and stayed there like it was the most natural thing in the world. You drop your head onto his shoulder, trying to keep yourself from glancing up the aisle.
Bob sits alone near the back, head bowed, hands clasped together between his knees. He has not looked at you once. That almost hurts more than if he had. Bucky notices your glances. He always does. He does not say anything at first, just shifts a little closer, like he is reminding you he is there.
After a few minutes, he murmurs, “You okay?”
It is not a question that expects honesty.
He waits. You can feel the weight of it, his patience, his refusal to let things slide when they matter.
“Those bruises,” he says quietly. “And your hands. That’s not from today, they’re old.”
Your throat tightens. You stare at the floor between your boots. “It’s nothing.”
He leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. You don’t budge off of his shoulder. In fact, you wished he would just be quiet so you could nap, but you knew that would never happen. “You’ve been saying that since we met.”
You huff a small laugh. “Guess I’m consistent.”
“Guess you’re miserable.”
You finally look at him then, ready with a retort, but it dies when you see his expression. He is not annoyed. He is not judging you. He is worried.
He lowers his voice even further. “I’m not stupid. I see the way you two look at each other. The way he freezes when you talk. The way you won’t say his name anymore.”
Your pulse thuds in your ears. “Bucky, don’t.”
“Is it Bob,” he asks gently. “Or is it something else?”
Your fingers curl into the fabric of your pants. You glance down the aisle again. Bob is still staring at the floor.
“It’s not technically Bob,” you whisper.
Bucky’s brow furrows. “What does that mean.”
You hesitate, then lean closer so your shoulder brushes his. Your voice drops until it is almost lost in the engine noise.
“A few weeks ago I thought he came into my room. We were arguing like usual. And then I realized it wasn’t him.” You swallow. “It was the Sentry.”
His jaw tightens. He does not interrupt you.
“It’s been happening since. That’s where the bruises come from. He remembers. Bob doesn’t act like he does, but I know he does.”
Bucky leans back slowly, eyes on the ceiling now, like he is trying to steady himself. When he looks at you again, something protective flashes through him that makes your chest ache.
“You should have told me,” he says quietly.
“I didn’t want to admit it out loud,” you reply.
He reaches out and squeezes your knee, brief but grounding. “Just be careful. I don’t care what version of him it is. I care about you.”
You nod because it is easier than arguing.
Later, you leave the jet without looking back.
You feel Bob’s eyes on you anyway, burning between your shoulder blades like something unfinished. It makes your skin crawl, makes your chest tight with a mix of anger and something you refuse to name.
The tower is too bright when you get back, the world below completely alive. You curse it, begin to wish you could be the last person on earth as you trudge towards your room.
You strip off your gear in your room and drop it in a heap by the door. Your clothes smell like smoke and sweat and dried blood that is not all yours. You do not shower, that sounds like too much work for your energy level. Instead, you plant your feet in front of the punching bag and hit it. Once. Twice. Again and again until the impact rattles the chain in the ceiling. Your knuckles sting almost immediately, skin splitting open where it was already raw, but you welcome it. Pain is honest. Pain does not pretend to be anything else.
You picture his face when you swing, like you do every night. Not the one he shows everyone else, the one everybody seems to love. The one that looks at you like he is waiting for you to give him permission to exist. You hit harder. The door opens behind you, and you don’t bother to turn.
You know the sound of him entering your space. The way the air changes, the way the room feels suddenly too small. Normally he would already be behind you by now, crowding you, stealing your focus with sheer presence alone, running his hands slowly up your sides until they’re pressing your body against him. Tonight he does none of that.
The silence stretches until it feels like something is going to snap. You finally stop throwing punches, breathing hard, sweat sliding down your spine. You reach for your water bottle without looking at him, taking a long drink just to buy yourself another second.
“What do you want,” you say, voice sharp. “You come in here and then just stand there like you’re waiting for applause.”
He still does not answer. You turn then, slow and irritated, ready to tear into him. He is clean. Fresh clothes. Hair still damp. He looks nothing like the version of him that usually finds you here, all heat and static and barely contained violence. He looks controlled. And he’s wearing that t shirt you mentioned liking him in that one time, and you mentally curse him for it.
Your stomach twists. “Don’t do this,” you warn.
He takes a step closer. Then another, measured, careful. Not the way he usually moves when he is here. You feel smaller under his stare, not physically, but emotionally, like he is peeling something open without touching you. You hate him for it.
“Say something,” you snap. “Or get out.”
He stops a step away from you, eyes dark and unreadable. His voice, when he finally speaks, is low and steady.
You don’t know how to react to this. You stutter, ready to argue, but nothing comes out. Instead you swallow, suddenly feeling a bit more confident. You take a few steps back, not breaking the eye contact from him. Your skin shudders as you reach down and pull your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere in the corner.
The rest of the night was a complete blur.
Morning does not feel like a relief, but instead feels like a hangover you cannot remember earning.
Your room is quiet when you wake, too quiet. The space beside your bed is empty, sheets cold where something enormous and impossible had stood only hours ago. Bob is gone. Of course he is. He always is by the time the sun comes up. You sit up slowly, muscles screaming in protest. Your knuckles are worse today, swollen and split open, dried blood dark against your skin. The punching bag looms in the corner like it is daring you to start again.
Instead you drag yourself into a hoodie and pad down the hallway, the tower barely awake. The common room is empty except for the hum of lights and the faint smell of coffee, and Bucky is already there. He is perched on the arm of the couch with a first aid kit balanced on his knee like he knew you would come looking for him. He looks up when you shuffle in, taking in your posture, the way you cradle your hands.
“Morning, trouble,” he says softly. “You look like you fought a lawnmower.”
You drop onto the couch beside him. “It started it.”
He gives you a look that says you are not funny, but there is a hint of a smile there anyway. He takes your hands gently, inspecting the damage like he has done this a hundred times before.
“You know,” he murmurs as he cleans the cuts, “most people don’t wake up bleeding.”
“You hang around the wrong people then.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “And I like them too much.”
His touch is careful, grounding. You watch him work, the lines around his eyes softening when he is focused like this.
“You sleep at all?” He asks.
He does not press you, but he knows you’re lying. For being such an expensive place, the tours walls are incredibly thin. He tapes your knuckles, then sits back, studying you.
“You’re not alone in this,” he says finally. “Even when you act like you are.”
Your throat tightens, but you do not trust yourself to answer. From the hallway, footsteps echo faintly. You do not need to look up to know who it is. Bob passes the doorway, moving too quickly, not glancing in. His shoulders are drawn in, posture tight like he is trying to make himself invisible in his own home. Your gaze follows him before you can stop yourself, and Bucky notices.
He squeezes your knee once, grounding you back in the room.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “One step at a time.”
The gym smells like metal and sweat and something burnt. Bob has been there a while. You can tell by the dark patch spreading across the heavy bag, by the way his breathing is already too loud for the empty room. He isn’t training. He is trying to erase something. You stand in the doorway longer than you mean to, watching the way his shoulders hitch with every strike, how there is no pattern to it anymore. Just anger.
“You’re going to rip it off the ceiling,” you say at last.
He doesn’t answer. The bag takes another hit, the chain shrieking in protest. You step farther in, irritation crawling up your spine.
“Did you hear me,” you snap. “Or are you just planning on punching your way through every problem now?”
That gets his attention. He turns so fast you almost flinch. His cheeks are flushed red, hair plastered to his forehead, eyes burning with something that looks too close to panic.
“Maybe I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t pretend nothing is wrong all the time,” he shouts.
You blink. “Oh, I’m the one pretending now?”
“Yes,” he fires back. “You walk around like yesterday never happened. Like I don’t exist unless it’s convenient for you.”
Your laugh is loud and ugly. “You think this is about convenience? You think I’m choosing when you matter?”
“I don’t know what you’re choosing,” he says. “But you don’t talk to me. You glare at me. You shut me out like I’m already gone. And then at night time it’s a completely different story! And it’s not even really me..”
“Maybe because every time I try to let you in, you disappear. You Bob, not the other guy.”
His mouth opens, then closes again, like the words are stuck somewhere painful.
“I don’t disappear,” he says hoarsely.
“You do,” you yell. “You’re here one second, gone the next, and I’m left picking up whatever mess you leave behind. You use me!“
He steps closer, hands shaking. “You have no idea what it’s like in my head.”
“Then explain it,” you demand. “For once in your life, explain it instead of hiding behind that sad, confused look.”
The bag swings behind him, forgotten, the chain clanking like a warning.
“I don’t know how,” he admits, voice cracking through his anger. “Every time I get close to you, everything in me locks up. I don’t know what to say without making it worse.”
“So you just stop trying,” you shout. “You think silence is safer than honesty? You think being constantly mean to me gets you anywhere?”
“You’re just as mean back! I think I’m going to lose you either way,” he yells back. “And I don’t know how to stop it.”
Your chest heaves, tears threatening despite how furious you are.
“You already are losing me,” you scream. “You don’t get to act surprised about it now.”
The gym door slams open. Yelena stands there, eyes wide as she takes in the two of you, mid-explosion.
“What is happening in here,” she asks sharply.
You don’t even look at her. You jab a finger over your shoulder at Bob, hands shaking with adrenaline.
“Ask him,” you shout, then storm past her, shoving the door open so hard it rattles the frame.
The echo of your footsteps hasn’t even faded when Yelena turns back to Bob.
He is still standing in the middle of the gym like the floor might give out under him.
“You do not sleep,” she says, softer now but no less direct.
He drags a hand down his face. “I’m fine.”
“You look like ghost that forgot how to die.”
He lets out a broken laugh. “That bad, huh?”
She steps closer. “You are breaking yourself. And she is breaking herself. So tell me why.”
His shoulders slump. “Because I hate her,” he says. “And I can’t stop thinking about her. Because I want her even when I’m furious with her. And I hate that it isn’t me. And I hate that I don’t actually hate her.
Yelena’s eyes narrow. “Not you?”
“I don’t have the courage to go to her as myself,” he whispers. “I keep letting the strongest part of me make the choices.”
She places her hand over his chest, grounding him. “You cannot keep splitting yourself in half and expect love to choose the part you abandon.”
His eyes close. “She said I was already losing her. I didn’t even know I had her to lose! What if it’s like that forever?”
“Then you lose her as yourself,” Yelena replies quietly.
Yelena does not move her hand from his chest right away. She watches his face like she is reading something written too faintly for anyone else to notice.
“You think you are protecting her,” she says. “You think keeping distance is kindness.”
Bob lets out a humorless breath. “Isn’t it?”
“No,” she replies simply. “It is fear wearing better clothes.”
He looks at her, eyes rimmed red, exhausted down to his bones. “I don’t know how to fix this.”
“You stop letting power do your living for you,” she says. “You stop waiting for version of you that is not scared.”
He shakes his head. “She hates me.”
“She hates that you hide,” Yelena corrects. “There is difference.”
Silence settles between them, thick and heavy. Somewhere in the tower a door slams, faint but unmistakable. He knows without being told that it is you.
“She is not angry because you do nothing,” Yelena continues. “She is angry because you almost do something. Over and over again.”
His jaw tightens. “What if I make it worse?”
“You already are,” she says gently. “At least this way you will be honest about it.”
Bob closes his eyes. For a moment he looks like he might fold in on himself, like the weight of everything is too much for one body. Then he straightens, and without another word he turns and leaves the gym.
He does not remember the hallway.
He remembers the way his heart feels like it is trying to claw its way out of his chest, the way his palms keep going slick even though the air is cool. He changes in his room without really seeing what he is doing, stripping out of damp clothes and into something clean, something that feels like him instead of like armor. By the time he reaches your door his breathing is unsteady again. He stops with his fist raised, knuckles hovering inches from the wood.
He cannot knock. He leans closer instead, forehead pressing lightly against the frame, like he is afraid the door might vanish if he does not anchor himself to it.That is when he hears it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a faint, broken sound from the other side, like you are trying very hard to keep something contained. His chest tightens as he opens the door and steps inside.
Inside, your room is too small for everything you are carrying. Once the anger burns off, it leaves behind something sharper. Confusion. You sit on the edge of your bed with your hands knotted together, staring at the floor like it might give you answers if you look hard enough.
You cannot tell where the hatred ends and the wanting begins anymore. You have spent weeks convincing yourself that Bob is the problem, that you cannot stand him, that every fight is proof that whatever lives between you is poison. But now you cannot ignore the other questions that have been piling up quietly in the back of your mind.
Does he even want you? The real you? Or does he only want you when he is not really himself? Like when he comes in your room at night, is it just to get off? You assume so.
Your body complains when you stand, a dull chorus of aches from the mission, from overtraining, from nights Bob would come in here as the sentry. You told yourself you liked it, and for a while you truly did. The rough, careless, hate sex. You didn’t care if you woke up sore, or if you both woke up with bruises the next day because it proved how much fun you had having sex all hours of the night. But after weeks of it happening, weeks of bruising and being tired, the feeling got incredibly old. And now? All you felt was used. Hurt. Tired.
You shake the thoughts away tug on a pair of worn pajamas, wincing when the fabric brushes against bruises you try not to look at. As you sit down, the first tear falls down your face and surprises you. It lands on your hand and suddenly you are crying in a way you cannot remember starting, shoulders curling inward as you sink back onto the bed. Usually you never let yourself cry, and you just take it out in training instead. But this time you just let it happen. You press your palms to your face, embarrassed even though you are alone.
The door opens behind you. You do not look up. You know the routine too well, as it was happening pretty much every night now. You couldn’t do this tonight, you needed rest. And not only that, but you do not want him to see you like this, not the version of you that is tired and small and hurting. He always sees the angry, sexy, ready to go side of you. So you stay exactly where you are, head in your hands, waiting for the usual shift in the air that comes with him taking over the room.
Instead, the mattress dips beside you.
Carefully. Hesitantly. Nothing happens for a moment until you feel a hand settle at the center of your back. It is warm, uncertain, nothing like the overwhelming presence you have come to expect. You tense, ready to pull away, but the touch does not demand anything from you.
You lean into it before you can stop yourself.
Your breath stutters. The crying eases, turning into quiet, uneven inhales against his shoulder. He does not move, does not rush you, just lets you exist there like it is allowed.
When his thumb brushes beneath your eye to catch a stray tear, you finally understand.
You lift your head slowly. He is close enough now that you can see the fear he never lets anyone else notice, the way he is trying to be still so he does not scare you away.
“I’ve wanted to come here like this for a long time,” he says after a moment. “But I didn’t know how to show you any of this without hiding behind something stronger than me.”
Your voice is rough when you answer. “It feels like you’re using me. Like you only want me when you’re not really you. Like you can only tolerate fucking me when it’s a different version of you.”
His eyes close briefly, like the words hurt. “That isn’t it. I want you so much it scares me. So I let the part of me that isn’t afraid be the one who reaches for you.”
The room feels heavier with every truth laid between you.
“All those fights,” you whisper. “All that hate.”
“They were never just hate,” he replies quietly. “They were the only way I knew how to feel this without falling apart.”
His hand is still on your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your eye like he is memorizing the shape of you. He is breathing shallowly now, like he is afraid a deeper breath will make you disappear.
“You don’t hate me,” he says, not as a question but a realization that scares him.
Your chest aches. “I don’t think I ever did.”
Something in him finally gives. He leans in, not careful this time, not asking for permission with his eyes. The space between you collapses like it was never meant to exist. His mouth finds yours with a desperate kind of relief, like he has been holding his breath for months and only now remembers how to breathe.
It isn’t gentle. It isn’t neat. It is all the words you threw at each other finally running out of places to hide.
You grip his shirt like you might lose him if you let go. And when you finally pull back, foreheads pressed together, you are both shaking in exactly the same way. Bob's breath mingles with yours, warm and ragged, his blue eyes locking onto your gaze with a vulnerability you have never seen before. No more snarls or glares between you two, just this raw honesty that makes your chest ache.
He cups your face gently, thumb brushing your cheek as if you are something precious he fears breaking. "I love you," he whispers again, the words still fresh and trembling on his lips, and you nod, tears pricking your eyes because you feel it too, this shift from fury to fire to something deeper.
You lean in, kissing him slow and deep, tongues sliding together in a rhythm that speaks of forgiveness and need. His hands roam your body with care, peeling away your clothes layer by layer until skin meets skin. It feels incredibly different from his usual rough and needy touch. This was so much better in a way. You felt cared for, like you were a real person and not just a warm body for him.
He lays you back on the bed, the sheets cool against your heated flesh, and you pull him down with you, legs wrapping around his waist to keep him close. Bob settles between your thighs, his weight a comforting press, his cock growing hard and throbbing against your clothed core.
You arch up, spreading your legs wider, but he takes his time, kissing along your neck, your collarbone, murmuring your name like a prayer.
"I want to make this right," he says softly, his voice rough with emotion, and you thread your fingers through his hair, guiding him back to your lips.
He reaches for your hands, interlacing your fingers, and pins them gently above your head against the mattress. This was reminiscent of your sex with the other version of him, but again it felt so much better. The hold is firm but not forceful, a promise of trust rather than dominance, his grip warm as he uses his other hand to gently tug down your pants. They come down easily, your panties going with them, and you’re impressed by the skill he has with just one hand.
You never pictured Bob this way, taking charge but in a gentle way. He nibbles on your neck as you feel him slowly position himself at your entrance. You didnt even notice him strip himself out of his own clothes. You gasp as the thick head of his cock nudges your folds, parting them slowly, and he pushes in with a deliberate thrust, filling you inch by inch.
It's not the frantic hate you knew before; this is measured, intense. He waits awhile before bringing to move, just enjoying the feeling of you wrapped around him. Soon he began to move, each roll of his hips driving deep and hard but lingering, savoring the way your pussy clenches around him. You moan into his mouth, the stretch exquisite, his length hitting that spot inside you that sends sparks through your veins. Bob groans low, his forehead resting against yours again, eyes half-lidded as he watches your face, drinking in every flicker of pleasure.
He thinks about all the time he’s missed with you. All those nights he could’ve spent actually doing this instead of just seeming to watch it from afar. He never knew it could be this way. Bob thrusts again, harder this time, but unhurried, grinding against your clit with each press forward, building the heat between you like a slow-burning flame.
Your bodies move in sync, sweat-slicked and trembling, his hands squeezing yours in rhythm with his hips. You feel every ridge and vein of his cock as he buries himself to the hilt, pulling back just enough to tease before slamming home once more, the impact jolting pleasure up your spine.
“You feel so good," he breathes, lips brushing your ear, and you whimper, legs tightening around him to pull him deeper.
The tenderness in his touch contrasts the power in his thrusts, his free hand sliding down to caress your breast, thumb circling your nipple until it peaks under his attention.
Tension coils tighter in your belly with each sensual drive, his pace steady and relentless, fucking you with a loving ferocity that makes your heart swell. You rock up to meet him, the friction igniting every nerve, your pussy fluttering around his thickness as the edge approaches. Bob's breaths come in harsh pants now, his control fraying but never breaking, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Come with me," he urges softly, thrusting harder, deeper, the bed creaking under the force.
The world narrows to his cock pulsing inside you, your hands locked in his, the shared rhythm pushing you both toward release. You shatter first, crying out his name as waves of ecstasy crash over you, your walls milking him in tight spasms. Bob follows seconds later, a guttural moan escaping him as he spills hot and deep, his hips stuttering through the climax, filling you completely.
He collapses gently onto you, still holding your hands, both of you panting and spent.
For a few seconds neither of you speaks. The room feels like it is catching its breath with you, the earlier chaos reduced to the soft sound of his heartbeat where it presses against your palms. You stare at the ceiling, suddenly afraid to move in case the moment breaks. When you finally look at him, his glasses are crooked again and there is the faintest, disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth.
“Guess we’re really bad at hating each other,” he murmurs.
You let out a shaky laugh, the kind that surprises you by turning into relief instead of tears. Your fingers tighten around his like you are making a promise you do not have words for yet. Outside your door, the tower hums on like nothing has changed.
i’m sorry the ending SUCKS i really truly didn’t know how to finish it off.
