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captainmarvel4ever · 3 months ago

Note

I have a request! Where the reader is on her period and she has a lot of cramps and Bob takes care of her 🤧

Affection

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: You’re in extreme pain from your period cramps, and Bob is the first person to jump in to help you.

Warnings: No warnings, just fluff, lots and lots of fluff, and Comfort too (reader and Bob are very close friends)

Author’s Note: Thought I’d give y’all something light…Because ummm…I’m stirring a pot of angst and it’s stewing and simmering…The emotional bricks are at the ready lol. So I thought we’d actually just relax with this one a bit 😂 (thanks for the request BTW anon! :))

Word Count: 3,984

The kitchen was dim, steeped in the kind of quiet that only exists at 2:32 a.m–where the world was pausing between breaths. The under-cabinet lights were casting a soft amber glow against the tile, reflecting faintly off the sheen of sweat along your forehead. The red coil of the stovetop glowed like an ember, pulsing lazy hazes of warmth that didn’t seem to touch the chill in your limbs.

You were bent at the waist, forehead pressed to the cool marble counter as if you could siphon relief from its surface. The stone was slick beneath your skin–smooth and icy–and it did little to ground you. Your breath came shallow and fast through your nose, each inhale shaky, each exhale punctuated by a quiet whimper you couldn’t suppress.

Your shirt clung to your back, damp with sweat, the cotton twisting uncomfortably beneath your arms. You were overheating and freezing all at once–skin clammy, spine prickling, stomach coiled so tightly you swore it was tying itself in knots. The pain wasn’t sharp, not exactly–it was deeper than that. A dragging, molten ache that curled low in your abdomen seemed to radiate down your legs and all the way to your back, it was as if your body had been caught in a vice and someone kept twisting the handle and laughing.

Every few seconds at this point, a new wave crested–hot and unbearable–and your hand flew to your lower belly instinctively, fingers pressing hard into the tender flesh like the pressure alone might hold the worst of it at bay.

It didn’t. It never did.

A low groan slipped from your throat as the kettle finally began to whistle–sharp and rising, like it was mocking the sharpness in your gut. But you couldn’t move. Your muscles were locked in place, spine bowed forward, with your knees trembling beneath you.

You just needed one more minute. Just one more wave to pass. Then maybe you could stand up fully and stop the annoying whistling.

Then. Your ears caught the sound of footsteps, padding in from the hallway behind you.

”O-Oh…Sorry–I-I didn’t think anyone was u-up–“ Your head turned slightly at the sound of his voice, forehead lifting just enough to glance over your shoulder. The amber light from beneath the cabinets spilled across the entrance–and caught Bob standing there in all his soft, sleepy awkwardness.

He froze like a deer in the light, clutching an empty glass in one hand, like he’d just come to get water and stumbled into something he wasn’t sure he should be seeing. His hair was sticking up at odd angles, flattened on one side and wild on the other, and he was swimming in a faded navy hoodie that hung loose around his shoulders. Grey sweatpants clung low on his hips, and his bare feet shifted uncertainly against the tile.

His eyes–still heavy-lidded from sleep–tracked you slowly. From the way your body was braced against the counter to the sweat that began to bead at your temple, to the tremble in your knees. You could see his eyes soften at the sight, almost like he was trying to figure out what was wrong without asking you–because he knew you got frustrated when people were concerned for you.

Bob’s grip tightened slightly around the glass in his hand, knuckles paling. You could tell he was trying to play it cool–not alarm you, not smother you–but there was no mistaking the way his mouth parted, just slightly, like he was about to ask something, though he choked it back.

He took a cautious step towards you, shifting his weight to one foot like he wasn’t sure if he should stay or go–like he was waiting for some kind of cue from you. He didn’t ask if you were okay. He knew you didn’t like being asked that when you clearly weren’t. Instead his eyes continued to move over you, noticing the grip you had around your stomach. His mind immediately jumped to the conclusion it was something you ate–and the dread settled into him quickly. The chicken was the first thing that came to his head.

He’d insisted on making the team dinner, he had even waved off Walker’s offer to order Thai and physically blocked Ana from touching the stove because he said ‘No, l-let me do it! I-It’ll be a surprise!’

You watched his face slowly twist into a horrified expression. The dawning belief that he’d positioned everyone settling in his bone. That he was the reason you were hunched over a countertop at two in the morning like you’d been run over by a semi.

”I-I didn’t…Oh my god,” He blurted, stepping a bit closer to you, his free hand flailing slightly like he didn’t know where to put it, “I-I knew I shouldn’t have tried to make that recipe from memory. I-I mean I checked the chicken so many times. I-I know it was a little dry but…I swear…Wait…Oh crap…If Y-Yelena wakes up p-puking she’s gonna kill me and b-bury me in the woods I–.” Your laugh cut him off from continuing. A short, low wheeze that hurt to let out–but the kind that broke through your clenched teeth anyway. Your whole body shuddered with it, and you winced, but it was worth doing.

”Bob.” You said quietly, turning your head toward him as best you could, one hand still braced on your stomach, “As much as it was dry, and as much as I needed to chug water just to swallow it…Your food didn’t do this to me.” You added, your eyes snapping shut as another surge of pain twisted your insides around, before returning your forehead to the counter.

Bob blinked like he’d just been slapped with a wet towel–stunned out of his guilt spiral by your laugh, your voice, your reassurance. His posture softened almost immediately. The hand that had been flailing now just hovered awkwardly in the air before slowly lowering to his side, fingers curling around the edge of the counter like he needed something to steady him.

”O-Oh…” He breathed, “S-So then…W-What’s happening with you then?” He asked, reaching over to turn off the whistling kettle, his movements clumsy but quiet, his eyes still locked onto your figure, seeing the way you slowly swayed from side to side.

You lifted your head–only an inch or two–to look up at him again, and that was enough.

When his eyes met yours, everything in his face changed.

Tears were forming. They weren’t falling yet, but they were there–thick and glassy, clinging to your lashes like they were holding on for dear life. Your lips were slightly parted, trembling just enough to betray you, and your breath hitched audible as you tried to blink them away.

His brows pulled together instantly. Deep. Concerned. His whole expression shifted like something was cracking behind it–worry rising slowly, curling under his features like a rising tide. His lips parted slightly, jaw ticking with hesitation, but his eyes…His eyes said everything.

It was the look he got when someone on the team was bleeding but too stubborn to say so. The one he wore when he thought he wasn’t allowed to step in–but he desperately, desperately wanted to.

“It’s just cramps Bob…I’ll be fine. You should just…Get what you need and go back to bed.” You sniffled, wiping your eyes off quickly, averting your gaze from him. For a moment Bob didn’t move, he just stood there, staring down at you like it pained him not to get closer. You tried to be casual about the tears streaming down your face now–tried to pretend like your body wasn’t unraveling.

But Bob just shook his head. The kind of quiet refusal that didn’t come with volume–but from depth.

“W-Why…Would I-I do that when you’re n-not okay?” His voice cracked on the last word, and immediately your eyes returned to his, taken back by the softness in his tone–by the way he wasn’t trying to fix anything yet, and by the way he was just being present.

”I don’t need help,” You said barely above a whisper, “It’s just pain…It’ll pass.” Bob took a moment, and let out a short breath, before putting his empty glass on the counter and leaning forward, bringing himself down so he was eye to eye with you. You could feel his breath mixing with yours in the space between you.

The under-cabinet lighting, soft and golden, carved warm halos along the edges of his face. And for the first time since he stepped into the kitchen, you saw the fullness of his eyes–blue like deep water, not just bright but saturated, with something rich and aching caught beneath the surface. The amber glow softened them, turned the outer rim to shadow but made the center gleam, like starlight reflected off a dark lake.

They shimmered.

Not from light alone–but from the way he was looking at you. From the way he saw you.

Not just someone in pain.

You.

Not just a teammate or a friend–you.

The muscles in your jaw tensed as your eyes welled again.

Bob didn’t blink.

His voice, when it came, was soft. Unsteady.

“When…W-When was the last time someone a-actually took care of you, Y/N?” You swallowed hard.

That was the kind of question that shouldn’t have hit like it did. But it knocked the air from your lungs with its gentleness. The honesty in it. The fact that he wasn’t asking to prove something–he was asking because he saw it.

The exhaustion. The weight. The way you always powered through everything because it was easier than asking. Because you thought maybe you weren’t allowed to ask.

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

Your lips parted to try, but no sound came out.

Bob didn’t push.

Instead, he lowered his voice even more–barely audible now, like a secret meant only for you.

“B-Because… I-I want to help. I want to take c-care of you right now. Because I care about you. And I–” He glanced away for a moment, jaw tightening, before forcing himself to meet your eyes again. “And I see you’re s-struggling. And I don’t think you should have to go through this alone.”

The words were simple.

But the sincerity behind them wrapped around you like a blanket–warm and devastating. There was no pity in his voice. No pressure.

Only care.

Only Bob.

You didn’t say anything right away. Your eyes stayed locked with his, and something in your chest cracked open. Not loudly. Not visibly. But something shifted.

Slowly, with a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding, you nodded.

“O-Okay.” You stuttered, feeling your pulse beating in your throat, “Fine…” Bob gave you a small nod, slow and certain–like your quiet surrender meant more to him than anything else.

”I’ll help you to the couch,” He said, already adjusting his stance, “Then I-I’ll make your tea…That…Which one i-is it again?” You stared up at him.

”The gross raspberry leaf one…” You replied, watching a soft, sheepish smile appear over his lips.

”Y-Yeah that one…And then I’ll steal W-Walkers heating pad from the closet…S-Should help you a bit with the pain, alright?” You nodded at his plan, feeling his arm gently slip under yours, bracing your weight against his side.

”C’mon…I-I’ve got you.” Bob helped you to the couch with a kind of patience you didn’t know anyone still had.

Not rushed. Not overly careful. Just present–his arm braced solid and steady around your waist, one hand hovering protectively near your elbow in case you stumbled. The living room was dim, still cast in that same honeyed glow that the kitchen had, and the couch–your favorite end seat–looked like a sanctuary carved out of lowlight and flannel.

Bob eased you down onto it with a reverence that made your chest ache. His hands didn’t linger, but the warmth of them remained even after they left your skin. You slumped back into the cushions with a breath that felt just a little deeper than the ones before, muscles uncoiling slightly now that you weren’t upright anymore.

“H-Hold on,” Bob murmured, eyes flicking to the side.

He crossed the room in quick, quiet steps and tugged the large fleece blanket off of Walker’s ridiculous leather recliner–one of those overpriced monstrosities with fake cupholders and lumbar massage settings he claimed were “good for his spine.” Bob brought the blanket back and unfolded it gently over your shoulders, tucking it in around your arms like he’d done it a hundred times before.

Then he grabbed the remote from the coffee table and flicked the TV on, lowering the volume with a few soft clicks before handing it to you.

“News is on, if you want to change it,”He said, crouching beside you. “I’ll be r-right back, okay? Just going to get the tea, heating pad…M-Maybe a hoodie in case you’re still cold.” He added, repeating the list he mentally made in his head.

You nodded, too overwhelmed to say much more than a quiet “Okay.” Bob brushed his hand over the blanket once more before slipping down the hall. You could hear him moving–cupboards opening, the kettle whistling again. The low, comforting clink of a mug set on the counter. The closet door creaked open, followed by a quiet “shit” when something fell off the top shelf.

You couldn’t help but smile at the sound of it. Even through the pain. Especially through the pain.

A few minutes passed. The TV played on quietly in the background–some late-night anchor talking about overnight weather patterns and airport closures. It was white noise. Background to the warmth slowly returning to your limbs, to the softness of the blanket around your shoulders. The pain was there still, but it had become a little more manageable with the fabric wrapped around you–which was already a good sign that you would actually get a semblance of sleep tonight.

Then he returned.

He had the tea in one hand–the mug carefully braced with a napkin wrapped around the handle– and the heating pad folded in the crook of his arm with a hoodie covering it. He crossed the room in three steps and set the tea down gently on the side table next to you.

“Still p-pretty hot,” He murmured, “C-Careful.” You watched him as he knelt again beside the outlet and plugged in the heating pad. He held the hoodie out to you, but you shook your head. The little orange light flickered on briefly, before turning a dark red. Bob tested the temperature with his hand, feeling around the flat end with his palm, then he shifted closer to you.

“I-Is it okay if I…” he trailed off, eyes flicking to your abdomen, then back to your face. “If I help you with this?”

You nodded wordlessly, the pain still etched into your features but softened now by trust. You didn’t need to speak for him to see it.

He shifted forward slowly, folding one knee onto the couch cushion beside you. The pad was already warm–radiating a low, comforting heat as he carefully uncurled the cord from around the folded fabric. You could smell him now, fully–clean linen, spearmint, and that faint trace of cinnamon that always clung to his hoodie when he wore it throughout the day. It wrapped around you just as much as the blanket did, thick and soothing.

Bob held the heating pad open and reached for the hem of the blanket tucked around you.

“L-Lift up just a little?” He asked, voice low.

You obeyed, slow and stiff, and he slid the pad forward, pressing it gently across the curve of your lower abdomen. His hands ghosted beneath the blanket, through the thin barrier of your cotton sleep shirt–his fingers warm, a little rough from old calluses, but so careful it made your breath catch in your throat.

He smoothed the pad into place with open palms, applying a light pressure–not too much–just enough to let the heat sink into your skin. His thumbs brushed your sides on the way out, knuckles skimming the soft give of your waist through the fabric before he pulled back.

“D-Does that feel okay?” He stuttered.

“Yeah,” You whispered. “Yeah…It helps.”

Bob looked at the pad, frowning a little. “Wish these things worked better. I mean, it’s warm, b-but it doesn’t wrap all the way around, y-you know? Just heats the front.” You let out a dry laugh.

”Probably because Walker cheaped out and bought a throw away…” Bob’s smile flickered, small and crooked.

“I c-could’ve made one better in the fifth grade with a sock and a microwave.”

You tilted your head with a smirk. “Yeah? You gonna patent it?”

His eyes met yours and held. “Only if I can put your name on it too.”

There was a beat of silence. Not awkward–close.

Then, without another word, Bob settled beside you, his body angled slightly so he could still glance at your face while giving you space. The heating pad glowed faintly beneath the blanket, casting soft orange pulses like a heart beating slow and steady in the dark. You took the mug from the side table with both hands—fingers curling around the ceramic for warmth more than anything else.

The raspberry leaf tea was bitter, herbal, not exactly pleasant, but the heat soaked into your chest with each sip, loosening the tightness in your ribs. You cradled the mug and leaned a little into the couch cushions, letting yourself sink further into the moment, into the quiet that had grown easy now between the two of you.

Bob was watching the news like it mattered–eyes narrowed slightly at the forecast ticker running along the bottom of the screen. When he spoke, it was soft, conversational, like he didn’t want to break the atmosphere.

“D-Do you think it’s the s-storms that really c-cause more accidents or if people just…F-Forget how to drive?”

You glanced over at him. His hair was still tousled, his jaw faintly shadowed with very very light stubble. “A little of both,” You said, sipping again. “Storms and stupidity. Dangerous combo.”

He let out a breathy laugh through his nose, then looked down at the mug in your hands. “T-Tea helping?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Not magic or anything, but it’s better.”

You talked like that for a little while. Quiet things. Small things. Bob asked if you’d ever seen a tornado up close. You told him about the one time you had to shelter in a Walmart freezer with a bunch of other customers because they were within a tornado zone. He winced and muttered something about how “no one deserves that.”

Eventually, the tea was gone and you set the mug down with a small sigh, shifting under the blanket to get more comfortable. The pain had dulled but hadn’t left. It had just relocated. Mostly in your back now, a deep, dragging throb nestled in your lower spine.

Bob must’ve noticed your subtle wince, because his head tilted slightly, as concern tugged at his brow again. “Y-You still hurting?”

“Just my back,” You murmured, pressing your palm against the base of it. “Feels like something’s pulling at the muscles though…That’s all.”

He hesitated, then gently peeled off the hoodie he was still wearing. Underneath, he wore a simple black t-shirt–thin enough that you could see the dip of his collarbone, the lines of muscle in his arms. His movements were unhurried, like he didn’t want to draw attention to himself, but you still caught the way he swallowed before glancing at you.

”I–I could help with t-that…If y-you want.” He started, seeing the way you tilted your head at him, raising your eyebrows slightly, “I-I mean…I run pretty hot,” He said, almost sheepish. “L-Like, body temp-wise. I-It’s…It’s kinda just...How it is. S-Sometimes I sleep with the window open even when it’s snowing ’cause I get too warm.” He paused, looking down at you with hesitant sincerity. “So I thought maybe… I-I could just… Lie with you? J-Just hold you, maybe. Like–with my chest against your back, and the blanket and everything might…Y-You know…I-Insulate the heat.” You considered it for a moment, then gave a slow, small nod.

“Okay,” You whispered. “Yeah. That actually…That sounds really good.”

Relief bloomed on his face so quickly it made you want to reach for him. He gave you a quick, grateful smile and then turned, padding over to the wide sill beneath the living room window. The throw pillows you usually kept for decoration were stacked in a lopsided pile, half-flattened by time and sun. Bob scooped up three and brought them back over, crouching beside you again. He carefully arranged them along the edge of the couch, creating a makeshift bed—just enough space for you to curl into without losing the heating pad or the blanket.

“You sure you’re comfortable lying on your side?” He asked, already adjusting one of the cushions to support your knees.

“Yeah,” You murmured, shifting with his help. The motion was slow, a little stiff, but manageable. You rolled gently onto your left side, facing the TV, wincing as the dull ache pulled through your spine. Bob waited until you were settled, then carefully eased himself onto the couch behind you.

His movements were hesitant, precise.

He slid onto his side, chest brushing lightly to your back, one arm stretching out under the pillow you were lying on–so that his wrist dangled off the edge of the couch, palm up, loose in the open air. The other arm came around you, slow and cautious, like he didn’t want to startle you. His hand hovered just above your stomach, eyes flicking to yours.

You gave a small nod, shifting your hips back just an inch–enough to close the space between your bodies without making a show of it.

Bob placed his hand gently over the heating pad. You couldn’t tell if his palm was causing the pad to be warmer, but you could feel the temperature change almost in an instant. The newfound heat sank through the fabric of your shirt like a balm, and you felt your muscles instinctively ease.

His touch didn’t wander. He didn’t stroke or squeeze. He just…Rested there. Solid. Steady.

You felt safe wrapped up in his arms, but then again it was Bob…He was always safe to you regardless of everything that happened with The Void and everything.

You let your hand drift slowly, fingers reaching up the curve of the couch until you found his other hand–the one still hanging just off the side. Your fingertips brushed his wrist first, then his palm. He stilled for a moment, startled, but then his fingers curled up and around yours. No hesitation. Just soft, certain pressure.

No words were exchanged and the quiet deepened around you like a hush after a snowfall, the soft cadence of late-night weather reports humming in the background. Your body, which had felt wrung out and trembling before, began to feel like it might belong to you again–bit by bit.

His chest rose and fell against your back, the rhythm slow, soothing. And when his thumb began to unconsciously trace over your knuckles, your eyes fluttered shut.

“Thank you Bob.” You whispered into the dark. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze.

”You’re welcome Y/N…”

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captainmarvel4ever · 4 months ago

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i love him pls go to therapy king

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captainmarvel4ever · 4 months ago

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pairing: robert reynolds x reader cw: smut, afab reader, breeding, nursing, dry humping, mommy kink without the use of the word ‘mommy’(?).

bob had many bad habits—and calling them “bad” felt almost reductive. it wasn’t so much that they were wrong, but that they were inevitable. necessary evils, like antidepressants that cured one demon only to awaken another—sleep stolen, thoughts sharpened into blades. you knew the risks. knew that there were layers to him, chasms of light and void so impossibly knotted together that pulling one string risked unraveling everything. and yet, not once did you try to stop him.

especially not when he had you like this.

bob had you in what would have been a mating press. he wasn’t dominating you; that would have implied control. no, this was desperation.

you felt the weight of him—solid, large, always too warm. his hips moved in slow, needy grinds, rutting into the softness of your thigh with a barely contained whine. he didn’t even seem aware he was doing it at first, too lost in the hum of your skin against his, the scent of your shampoo, the knowledge that you were here, real, and not another hallucination clawing through the fissures in his fragile reality.

his entire psyche was trembling in the cradle of your touch. that heavy body of his, golden-skinned and too warm, was sprawled across yours, pinning you to the plush comforter of your shared bed. all clothes still on, not even trying to make a move for your underwear, and yet rutting into you like a fevered animal who’d finally found shelter from the storm.

“please… just stay still,” he whined into your neck, voice thick with need, cracked around the edges like a man seconds from breaking. “i need this… need you so bad…”

his hips rocked down, grinding the full length of his cock into the soft swell between your thighs, the friction of denim-on-denim only fueling his urgency. you could feel how soaked the front of his jeans already were, a hot patch of pre-cum bleeding through the fabric and clinging to your skin underneath your own clothes. he wasn’t trying to get off fast—he was trying to feel. the kind of touch-starved desperation that made your breath catch, made your core throb with guilt-tinged arousal.

it always started like this. bob had a serious humping problem, and half the time, he didn’t even seem aware he was doing it. like some old, buried instinct took over and short-circuited everything else. one minute, you were making drinks behind the bar—yelena’s had already been poured, predictably flat beer, though you’d sometimes coax her into a frozen piña colada on hot nights when the mission weight cracked her shell—and the next, bob was there.

you hadn’t even noticed when he moved in front of you. but there he was, subtly grinding the outline of his cock—half-hard, already leaking—against your ass while you stirred a cocktail like it was the most normal thing in the world. his hands crept around your hips, fingers splayed wide, clutching you like you might evaporate.

you could feel the thick heat of him behind you, the slow, indulgent roll of his hips pressing that leaking bulge harder against your backside. he buried his face into your shoulder, just breathing you in—letting the scent of your skin fill his lungs while his cock twitched and spilled again. a low grunt escaped him, like a growl caught in his throat, and you didn’t even need to look to know there’d be another dark patch soaking through the front of his pants soon.

he wasn’t much for words, at least not when he needed you like this. maybe it was psychological. maybe some freudian reflex—except his slips came in the form of motion, not speech. whatever it was, it usually ended the same: with bob flushed, breathing hard, and muttering a barely-there apology as he rushed off to change his boxers, the front soaked through with a spill of pre that just wouldn’t stop.

but that wasn’t even the worst of it.

no, the worst was bob’s obsession with your breasts. or more precisely, the act of nursing from them. you weren’t sure how it started—maybe a mission had gone sideways, maybe something in the void had cracked open inside him—but soon enough, it became a ritual. those pink, pouty lips latched onto your nipples with almost sacred reverence. like the act of sucking was anchoring him here, to this world, to you. he’d nurse himself to sleep on you, mouth slack and warm, eyelashes kissing your skin like they did when he wept.

he’d whimper softly while he suckled, hips occasionally jerking when your hand would trail down and cup the growing tent in his briefs. his tongue would lap at your nipple with slow, wet circles before taking it deeper into his mouth, his lips stretched open with hunger that was never quite satisfied. sometimes, he’d hum—soft, broken sounds that made your stomach clench and your thighs tighten.

it wouldn’t have been a problem, really—until bob started asking for more.

nursing wasn’t enough anymore. he wanted milk.

when you tried to gently explain to him that your body didn’t produce milk unless you were pregnant, something visibly shifted behind his eyes. a glint of understanding mixed with something far more primal. his breathing hitched, his hands went still on your hips—and the moment stretched out like a wire about to snap.

the next second he was rutting into you with such overwhelming need you could barely stay upright. his hands clenched at your waist like you’d disappear if he let go, his hips bucking up to meet yours with a helpless rhythm. you were riding him—gripping his broad shoulders, gasping each time he hit that perfect angle—and he was falling apart beneath you.

you were bare, both of you. his cock slid into you with such effortless heat you swore he was made for this, for you. your slick dripped down over his balls, already soaked from how much foreplay had bled into full-on worship. every grind of your hips forced a hiss through his teeth, his mouth falling open as he grabbed fistfuls of your ass and urged you down harder.

“please,” he sobbed, voice wrecked with sincerity. “please take my cum. i need it—i need you to have it. keep it inside, don’t waste it. don’t let it go, please—!”

the way he said please—like a dying man gasping for water—made you tremble. he was twitching inside you already, leaking thick pulses of pre so hot you swore you could feel it pool deep inside. you tightened around him and he cried out, high and hoarse, rutting up into you with broken rhythm. the slap of skin on skin echoed in the room, his fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise as he chased that final, frantic release.

he didn’t last long. he never did when the idea of forever was involved.

and when he came—god, when he came—it was like watching him detonate in slow motion. his entire body shook, legs kicking slightly under the sheets, and his cock jerked inside of you, spilling thick, hot ropes that filled you to the brim. it felt endless. like he’d saved it all just for you.

he sobbed through it, full-body tremors racking his frame as his arms wrapped tight around you. his tears were hot against your skin, streaming freely as he clung to you like a drowning man.

you didn’t move. you let him be there—in you, around you, breaking apart and coming back together in the shelter of your arms.

you held him as he cried, brushing his sweat-damp blonde curls back from his flushed face. he mumbled something incoherent against your breast, lips brushing the peak of your nipple before gently latching on again. and just like always, his breathing slowed. his body eased. the storm passed.

he drifted off suckling you, as though your body was the only thing tethering him to this plane of reality—and maybe it was.

maybe, in the end, you were his antidepressant. a dangerous kind. the kind that could save him or kill him depending on the dose.

and still, you’d never stop him.

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captainmarvel4ever · 4 months ago

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xerox ; robert reynolds ; part one.

part two. | part three.

pairing ; robert (bob) reynolds x reader, thunderbolts & reader

synopsis ; you had one last job before you were free. no more splitting, no more deaths. unfortunately, that job seemed to rope in four other assassins and a... a man in hospital-wear?

words ; 7.8k

themes ; action, angst, slowburn, the beginnings of romance

warnings / includes ; violence/gore/death, human experimentation, reader has the ability to split into multiple bodies (think dupli-kate from invincible), foul language, walker is an asshole, everyone's mental health sucks!

a/n ; this is part one !!! a second part is already in the works :) this was written all today so apologies if there are any mistakes!

main masterlist. read on ao3!

It didn’t seem a hard task. One kill. One more. Then you could go. Quit the clean-up business for good. You could practically hear Valentina’s sickly sweet smile through the phone.

“You’ll be in and out of there in no time,” her voice crooned. “And I wouldn’t worry too much about your target. After all, you’re rather… disposable, aren’t you?”

You frowned at that. “My self-copies aren’t disposable. I feel it every time one of me dies.”

Valentina laughed—a high-pitched keening noise. You assumed she was waving her hand about in a dismissive manner, as she usually did with you. “You’ll get back up. That’s kind of your thing, isn’t it? Good luck. Try to have some fun. It’ll be your last one, anyway—make the most of it.”

“Yeah,” you said. Your free hand wound around your midriff, almost as if you were cradling yourself. “I’ll take care of it.”

You hung up before you could hear Valentina say one more word.

There were ringing gunshots, muffled grunts, and resounding thuds when you arrived. Who else was here? Your target was only one person—an untouchable woman. A Ghost. Would a thousand of you be able to tackle one of her?

Or perhaps the better question was… were you willing to sacrifice yourself a thousand times to kill one woman? You definitely have before, on previous missions. Over and over again, the bitter taste of death was stuffed into your mouth, dry as a sock, tainting your innards like black tar.

You waited outside the junk room’s entrance, counting the voices you heard. One man, for sure. One unidentifiable. Two women. You split yourself into two, then three. With a begrudging sigh, you spliced once more to make four.

Three copies ran in. One stayed out.

You spotted the ghost immediately. She was phasing between the shield of another masked assassin. Were they also here to kill her? Another copy spotted a woman being pinned down by another man, a blade inches away from her throat. Not your mission, not your problem.

Though, it certainly became your problem when the woman croaked, “There you are!” upon seeing you. “Holy shit, there’s three of you.”

She bucked the man off after tasing him, scrambling towards her gun. A click, a point, a shot. Your copy dove behind a pile of sturdy cases, but clearly not fast enough. You felt the bullet pierce your chest, the warmth of the blood pool across your ribs—and then you were dead.

“Fuck,” you winced, feeling the resounding ache of the gunshot in your own body, eyeing your dead self. Without a second thought, you split once more. Your copies scattered from your assailant, off to find the ghost.

You tackled your white-masked target as soon as she materialized once more, managing to get only one powerful strike in before you fell to the ground, the ghost phasing away and disappearing once more. Then your head pierced with the terrible, agonizing pain of a bullet fracturing your skull, and you were dead. Again. And again, and again. Impaled by a shield, stabbed by the ghost.

You gasped from outside the room, crumpling to your knees. How many more times were you willing to die? How many times could you?

Then there came a nauseous, gagging sound from inside the room. For a moment, you wondered if one of your copies had miraculously survived and was making that sound. You split yourself and crawled inside. Maybe you could save yourself. Spotting you coming in, the man with the shield seemed to realize there was one of you waiting outside. He sent the shield—already covered with your blood—arcing outside and striking you clean across the throat before you could react. Your decapitated head hit the metal floors with a disgusting, bloody noise, lolling to the foot of the entrance.

That left one copy inside the room. You gasped for breath, air painfully dragging within your esophogas as you clutched at your neck, the veins beneath your skin popping. For safety, you duplicated yourself once more.

“Woah,” came a voice beside you. There was a man in… hospital clothes? You scrambled away from him. He watched you with an open mouth, blinking in a manner not unsimilar to an owl.

One of the assassins was dead already, bullet wound in the head, not unsimilar to one of your deaths here. You could see your own bodies scattered about, in varying states of mutilation. The three assassins left were all pointing their guns at each other, then you and your copy, then to the man gagging next to you.

“Which one of you is the real you?” said the blonde woman.

“I’m all me,” the both of you said at the same time.

She shuddered. “Well, that’s not creepy at all.”

The man on the ground made a disoriented noise, as if realizing that he really shouldn’t be in a room full of people with guns trying to kill each other. “Actually, I—” He struggled to his feet, then turned to run. Thick metal shutters fell down over all the entrances before he could leave. It crushed your decapitated head as if it were a grape, your blood splattering all over you, your copy, and the hospital-man.

Shit. If you were still outside, you could have gotten away.

The assassins all trained their guns at the man, spooked by his skittish movements.

“No, no!” he exclaimed, raising his hands in surrender. “I’m—I’m Bob.”

It didn’t look like he had any place to hide weapons. Still, just to be safe, you split yourself again, now three of you. The faux Captain America flinched. “Fuck!”

“Who?” said the ghost, eyes trained on Bob.

“Bob,” said Bob, shrugging.

“Who sent you, Bob?” asked the blonde woman.

“Nobody, why would I be sent?” he said, hands trembling. He was afraid. “You were all… you guys were all sent?”

His question went largely ignored. The woman’s eyes, lined with hazy blue makeup, darted to you. “You—how am I meant to kill you if you can’t die?”

You raised your hands in surrender now, mimicking Bob. “I can die. It’s the one thing I’m really good at.”

Something flickered in her gaze. She lowered her gun just slightly. “Who sent you?”

The ghost rolled her eyes and lowered her gun. “I’m not sure what’s happening here, but my job is done.” She gestured to the dead assassin on the ground and stepped forward to go.

One of your copies blocked her way. “My job isn’t.”

She scoffed, then phased straight through you. You felt a cold chill traverse down your spine.

“Neither is mine,” said the blonde woman, turning the barrel of her gun to you.

“Don’t waste your time,” you snarled. “I have infinite lives. You have finite bullets—do the math.”

The man with the shield tilted his head at the woman. “Convenient cover for someone stealing weapons from O.X.E.”

“I’m not stealing, Copy-Cat here is ste—” She paused, and realization came over her bloodied face. Then, she raised her hands in the same way you did. “Okay. It’s clear we have all worked for Valentina in some sort of shadow ops capacity.”

“Yeah, so?” said the man.

“So all of this shit is O.X.E’s secrets. And so are we.” She gestured to the mountainous stacks of boxes and crates.

You felt your heart sink to your stomach. You should’ve known Valentina would pull something like this with you. It should’ve been suspicious how easily she accepted your request to leave. How could you be so stupid? So naive?

“We’re liabilities no one would miss,” said Ghost.

The man scoffed. “Speak for yourself. I was sent here on a mission.”

“Look around!” said the blonde. “We are the evidence, and this is the shredder! She wants us gone.”

The three began to bicker over who was in the right. From their argument, you learned that the man with the shield was John Walker, officially Captain America for about three seconds before he had murdered a man in public. And the blonde woman—tasked with the impossible mission of eliminating you—was Yelena. Former Red Room assassin.

Bob began to shuffle closer to you, and you tensed.

“Hey—” he said, reaching out a hand to help you up. “Are you okay? I watched you die, like, fifty times or something.” He fidgeted when you hesitantly accepted his hand, pulling yourself up with his help. Bob took turns smiling at you and your clones, all lopsided. He was so… off-putting. You scrutinized him with a narrowed gaze.

“What are you doing here, Bob? You clearly aren’t… like us.”

“Wh… Why not?”

“You’re in a patient uniform. It’s the kind of shit I always wore as a kid,” you said, beckoning to his pants.

Bob was about to respond, but clammed up when John Walker began stalking closer to the two of you. Subconsciously, Bob edged behind you, almost as if he were using you as a shield. You sure as hell didn’t know who Bob was, or what he was doing here, but he certainly didn’t seem deserving of the piercing glare Walker was sending his way.

“I’m not leaving here without completing my mission,” said the man. “Valentina gave me a clean slate, guaranteed—I’m not screwing that up.”

“And you believe her?” you said in disbelief, almost a whisper. You stepped back, bumping into Bob in the process. He felt strangely solid behind you. “She promised to let me go. A rogue, powered assassin let loose out of the cage. I was stupid for letting myself believe her. And you are, too.”

Walker’s face crumpled with anger. “Listen here, you freak. You multiply like… like bacteria. Obviously Valentina doesn’t trust you. She may be lying to you, but she trusts me. And you—” He rounded on Bob. “You were part of my job, so I gotta know. How’d you get in?”

You shifted so you’d be able to see Bob. He seemed to shift with you slightly, unhappy that you were no longer between him and John. Fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve, Bob shrugged. “I don’t… Pfft. I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

One of Walker’s eyes twitched. “Terrific answer. Great. Well, alright!” He beckoned to you, Yelena, and Ghost. “Tie yourselves up. I’m sure there’s rope in here somewhere.”

“Wow,” said Ghost—Ava, you remembered reading her name from your mission casefile. “No.”

“Hey,” whispered Bob, tugging on one of your copy’s utility belts. “I just realized I don’t—I don’t know your name.”

“Now’s probably not the time for niceties,” you said. After staring at him for a moment longer, you sighed. It was pitiful how lost he looked. “I’m known as Xerox.”

“Xerox—that’s a… that’s a cool name. Way better than Bob.”

To your surprise, you found yourself giving him a small twitch of a smile. “Bob’s a palindrome. Same backwards as it is forwards. That earns it at least half a point on the cool scale.”

Bob paused, regarding you with an equally twitchy, uncertain grin. “I never thought about it that way. Yeah, that’s… thanks.” He let out a nervous laugh that was obviously forced—and yet still somehow endearing.

As you spoke with Bob, Ghost walked on ahead, intent on leaving. She phased out of tangibility, so you knew there was no way you could stop her even if you tried. You watched her go passively—you no longer cared if you failed your mission. It was clear it wasn’t a real mission, anyway. You were glad that Yelena had come to the same conclusion. She didn’t seem intent on wasting any more bullets in your copies’ skulls.

When Ghost drew within an inch from the door, a piercing sound echoed throughout the chambers. You and your copies keeled over in pain. The noise made violent shudders ripple through your body. It reminded you of all those times you had to be strapped down when you were a child before you could control your powers, riding out your seizures with a belt across your mouth to muffle your screaming.

You could feel shaking hands drift to cover your ears for you. Bob’s. Your head snapped up, meeting his worried gaze.

Eventually the noise subsided, and his touch fell away.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said, eyeing him cautiously. What did he want from you?

“You were hurting,” was all he said in response, tone hesitant and soft, as if worried he’d done something wrong.

You felt your face soften and you let out a weak exhale, suddenly feeling as if your heart was going to fall out of your chest. Why was he making you so flustered?

The five of you were left sitting around for the next ten minutes. Walker and Ava took to raiding the dead assassin, Taskmaster’s body. Yelena didn’t seem too happy with that, snapping at them to respect the dead, job or not.

“You knew her?” you quietly asked the blonde as she paced to and fro like a caged tiger, watching as Ava took a gun off the corpse.

“I did,” she said, nodding solemnly. Then, she gestured to your own dead bodies strewn about. “Sorry about—”

“It’s fine. Comes with the job,” you mumbled, voice soft.

Yelena nodded grimly. “You live and you die, right? You more than most, I suppose.”

You blinked at her. Before you could say anything back, a siren blared across the room. The lights turned an angry shade of red that made the blood on your hands look black as tar. You felt your stomach roil.

Ghost looked upward. “It’s not a shredder,” she said. “It’s an incinerator.”

There was a large timer by one of the entrances that started to count down from two minutes. “Two minutes before Valentina’s slate is wiped clean,” said Yelena.

“Don’t know that for sure!” John protested. “Could be for when they come to pick me up.”

You could only barely withhold yourself from driving your fist into the smug look on his face. It did, however, make you feel slightly better that you weren’t the most stupid, delusional one in the room.

“Do you not feel that? The temperature rising dramatically, as if heat were involved?” Ghost pointed up at the gaps in the ceiling, where heat was filtering in, so strong that space warped and wobbled looking through the columns of air.

“Oh, boy, that is no way to go,” said Bob, nervously wringing his hands.

Walker scowled. “Well, how would you like to go, Bob? With a hand around your throat choking the life out of you or a bullet to the head? Either could certainly be arranged!”

“Stop,” you barked. “You really want to spend your last moments alive being a complete asshole?”

The man clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Yelena stepped in before another fight could start. “Listen, Ghost-lady—”

“Ava.”

“Sure, whatever. We need to get you through one of the walls so you can open the door.”

“She tried that already,” said John, eyes rolling up to the pipes on the ceiling.

“I know she did, but we haven’t tried shutting off the sound barrier!”

“If they built a barrier specifically for her,” you said, recalling your casefile. Her weakness was high-frequency sounds that caused interference with her suit’s technology. “The emitter must be in close-range. Somewhere inside the room. Outside would be too weak and dampened to work.”

Immediately, you spliced a few dozen times and scattered, looking for some sort of power source.

“What—what exactly are we looking for?” asked Bob, hurrying alongside one of your copies.

“Not stupid questions, Bob!” John said.

“Ignore him. Look for something with circuitry. Wires, a battery cell, that kind of stuff.” You tore through a few crates, feeling up the nooks and crannies of the walls.

Fifty seconds left on the clock, rapidly ticking down. You were no stranger to dying, but this was strangely a different experience altogether. True, complete death. It sounded like both a blessing and the most terrifying thing possible. You could feel the panic rise up like bile in your throat.

To your relief, Ava found the power source, and John immediately hacked away at it without thinking, orange sparks flying with the power of his strike. You would’ve been angry with his impulsive behavior if it hadn’t worked—Ghost successfully phased through the walls and disappeared.

Twenty seconds.

She was going to come back, right?

Ten.

The furnaces above grew hotter and brighter.

Nine.

One of your copies pushed Bob forward, since he was loitering directly beneath one of them. “Don’t stand under there.”

Five.

One of you caught sight of Yelena shutting her eyes in solemn acceptance.

Four.

You heard Walker curse under his breath.

Three.

You braced yourself. Would death be kind to you this time, despite all of its ugly cruelty before?

Two.

And then—a blaring siren. The slabs of metal began to shirk upwards. The four of you dashed out just as the columns of fire began to spew out.

Bob was slow. You split yourself multiple times to keep shoving him forward. You could feel fire engulf your body, shrieking as the searing flames tore through your suit, into your skin, eating at your flesh, burning you to a crisp.

Some of you escaped, thrown by the explosion. One died instantly with a broken spine. Others clung to the walls, injured but alive.

You watched in horror as many of your selves wailed in agony, dying a slow, agonizing death. You curled up into yourself, a few tears silently rolling down your cheeks. You supposed that was another one of your talents—you were very good at crying quietly.

“Thanks for coming back,” you heard Walker say to Ava.

“I had to use someone. They cut the power to the elevator.”

“Hey,” the ghost said, reaching out a hand to you. You looked up at her, furiously wiping the tears away with the back of your hand, trying your best to ignore the pain. “Come on. Up you get. We need to find a way out of here.”

When she helped you up, she noticed that you were shaking violently. “Are you okay?”

“I’ve never been set on fire before,” you murmured. “Burned alive is a new one to add to the books.” You kneeled down to close the eyes of one of your corpses. You caught sight of Bob on the other side of the room, having just woken up from being knocked unconscious beside Yelena. He was uninjured, to your relief.

“You helped me out,” he said, once you neared him. “Why did… Why did you do that? You died for me—so many times. I’m not…” He fidgeted uncomfortably. You could see the guilt weighing heavy in his eyes. “I’m not worthy enough for that.”

You didn’t know what to say. You were never good with sentimentalities.

To your dismay, John cut you to the chase. “I won’t disagree with you on that,” he told Bob. He stormed forward until he was nearly nose-to-nose with Bob, who cowered away just slightly before straightening himself to his full height. “I’m tired of your bullshit! Tell me how you got in here right goddamn now!”

“I swear I just woke up in this place,” he said, placating, as if he were talking to a spooked mare. “One minute I’m having my blood drawn for this medical study, and the next I’m here. I don’t know what’s happening, I really don’t.”

“Okay, then show me where you woke up!”

Bob hesitated, then pointed into the incinerated room. “In—in there.”

“Where everything’s on fire,” John deadpanned. “That’s real convenient.”

“Walker, relax,” said Yelena.

“You don’t remember anything?” asked Ava. “Bag over your head, a needle in your neck?”

“Chokehold? Nerve pinch?” Walker asked. It was beginning to feel terribly like an interrogation of sorts.

Bob stepped back again. “No, none of those.”

“I think he’s just a civilian,” said Yelena, eyeing Bob carefully.

With an edge to his tone, John hissed, “Okay, well, if he’s a civilian, he knows too much and if he’s an agent he sucks. Either way I say we throw him back into the fire!”

“No,” you said, glaring daggers at the man. “I died multiple times just to get him out. We’re not murdering an innocent man.”

“What do you want, a medal? And we don’t know he’s innocent!” Walker fired back.

Suddenly, Bob started to laugh. It was a wheezy, chuckling noise. You looked at him in surprise.

“You said you’re… Captain America?” he said, smiling incredulously.

John’s countenance grew even stonier than before. “What’s funny about that?”

“It’s just, heh, you’re… you’re an asshole,” Bob said between his peals of laughter.

There was a beat of tense silence. Then John smiled, wolfish. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. In an instant, he was an arm’s length away from you and Bob, grabbing Bob by the throat and shoving him back so hard his back crashed into the wall behind him. You scrambled forward, multiplying twice to place enough hands on Walker’s chestplace to shove him back. Yelena also came to help, physically placing herself between the two men.

“Okay, woah!” said Yelena, shooting a warning glare at John. “We swung our tiny dicks—it was a lot of fun, but we need to have some space now. Walker, you go over there. Bob, come with me.”

You watched the blonde woman whisk Bob off to the side, who followed her with no complaint. When you looked back at John, he was toeing one of your burnt corpses with his boot. He caught you staring at him and stopped.

“Sorry,” he said. Even he knew that crossed a line.

“Force of habit?” you taunted him with a tilt of your head.

John apparently had nothing to say to that. He turned away from you. Then, he began hacking at one of the walls with the shield. “There has to be a way out of here if we go in one direction for long enough, right?”

You shrugged. “Go right ahead. Be my guest.”

After a few more pummels, the solid concrete gave in and revealed metal doors. He pried them open, grunting with exertion, revealing an empty elevator shaft. There were no wires or indented surfaces to climb. Just sheer, smooth metal walls for as far as the eye could see. Likely even further than that. You gulped as you stared up.

“Hey, are you guys done with your therapy session yet?” John snarked to Yelena and Bob.

Yelena, after saying a final few words to Bob, let him go. Bob made his way to you. Whatever it was that Yelena said to him, Bob didn’t seem particularly settled. You decided not to dwell on it for too long.

“So, this is—our way out?”

“Looks like it. No way to climb, though,” you said. You glanced at his head. “You okay? That looked like it hurt.”

Bob glanced at you strangely, not used to others being concerned over his well-being. First Yelena, and now you. “Yeah, I’m fine. Can’t have been as bad as you.”

“It’s no competition,” you said, pursing your lips. Then, to the rest of the group, you asked, “Should we all get in there? Maybe we’ll figure something out once we scope it out.”

All of you crowded into the bottom of the elevator shaft, staring up at the endless void above.

“So… none of us fly? All of us just… punch and shoot?” Yelena asked, looking around.

“Don’t worry,” said Walker. “I got this.”

He pushed you and Ava to make more space for himself, ignoring both of your startled noises. Then, he leaped up. An insane distance for a regular human, and what you assumed was just above average for one pumped with super serum. You watched him disappear into the darkness for all about four seconds. And then you heard screaming as he came back down. Bob tugged you back just in time not to get crushed beneath John crashing back down on his shield.

“You should try that again,” Ava suggested, grinning down at him as he struggled back to his feet with a pained groan.

John looked at you and you clones expectantly. “You can multiply. Why don’t you, I don’t know, make enough copies for us to climb up there?”

“You want me to form a human ladder for you guys?” you asked, horrified.

“Well, yes—”

“My clones have limited range,” you interrupted, voice curt. “We’re a collective mind. If we don’t all stick within a few meters of each other, I get seizures and lose control.”

Walker frowned down his nose at you. “Is it not worth a shot?”

“Not unless you want to risk me spazzing out mid-climb and all of us falling to our deaths,” you retorted. “We need to think of something else.”

Then, Walker turned his gaze to Ava. “Can’t you just phase up there and throw down a rope for us, or something?”

“First of all, someone other than you would have to ask me,” she hissed. You had to admit, you were starting to warm up to her. “Second, I’ve only ever been able to hold it for a minute, and who knows how long it would take to get up there—I’d be crushed under the weight of it before I could phase back.”

“Just a minute?” Walker deadpanned. “What is it with you lab rats and your limitations?”

“Shut up!” both you and Ava exclaimed at the same time.

“I… have an idea,” said Bob, raising a tentative hand.

All of you turned to him expectantly.

Your backs were pressed up together, your legs splayed out onto the metal wall as the group slowly inched upward. For the plan to work, there was only space for one of you, so you reabsorbed your copies into one body again. The rest of the group watched you do it in a mix of muted curiosity and horror. Bob gave you an awkward thumbs up, which made you smile despite the ridiculousness of the entire situation.

A part of you wanted to leave a copy down on the ground in case something happened, but you couldn’t risk having a seizure if you got too far away, and with everyone else on the line, too.

“Ew,” said Yelena. “Which one of you is wet?”

“Sorry,” Bob winced. “I run hot.”

You shifted the arm looped around his, grimacing at the sweat dripping down your own face. “I get it. It’s fucking sweltering in here.”

“Someone’s got a weird, hard butt,” Walker groaned.

“That’s not my butt, that’s my suit,” Ava hissed in return. “Pardon me for the inconvenience—I only spent my entire life in labs, hooked up to machines so I could create this physical cage to keep my material body from disintegrating at all times!”

You heard Yelena let out a bark of a laugh. “You don’t want to start the whole sob story game. I’d win. Enslaved child assassin over here.”

For some reason, John said, “Well, you were just a kid, so—”

“Oh!” said Yelena. “Does that make it better? Gee, I wish someone had told me that earlier! That makes me feel so much better.”

“Not that it’s a competition, but I’ve spent my whole life quite literally dying over and over again,” you said.

“Oh, really?” said Walker. “Sounds like you’re making it a competition.”

You fell silent, not wanting to waste your breath arguing. The group, panting in ragged, short breaths, simultaneously decided to fall silent. You were so high up now that you couldn’t see the bottom of the shaft anymore.

After what felt like eons, Walker finally gasped out, “I see a door!”

“Now what?” Yelena asked.

“Uhm—I guess one of us should… go first…” said Ava from your other side, uncertainty weighing her words.

“No, then the rest of us would immediately fall!” protested Yelena, breath trembling with the strain of holding herself up.

“Shit… sorry guys, I guess I didn’t really think this through,” Bob muttered.

“Genius fuckin’ plan, Bob!” Walker exclaimed.

“Always making things worse,” the man on your right muttered.

Your brows furrowed. “Bob, we’re all the way up here because of you. Come on, we’re so close. I can duplicate and—”

“We can’t risk your additional weight,” Walker barked out. “One slip and we all come tumbling down!”

“Then what do you want to do?” you asked.

“Hand me a baton, I can reach it!” he said.

Immediate protesting ensued. “No way, you’re just going to leave us!” Yelena gritted out.

“We have to hurry, I don’t know how much longer I can keep my bloody boots from slipping!” Ghost said. True to her word, you caught sight of her shoes slowly gravitating downward.

Yelena inched upward. “Spin us around and we’ll—”

“No! Are you crazy?”

Bob shook beside you.

“Bob, are you alright?” you asked, wondering why he was tossing his head from side to side like a dog shaking off excess water.

“Cucumber—cucumber, cucumber!” he said, scrunching up his face.

“What the hell is happening?” Yelena asked.

“Growing up, somebody told me if you have to sneeze, you yell out cucumber to confuse your brain. I have to sneeze, but if I do, I’ll lose control and we’ll—”

“This is insane!” Walker bit out. “I can get us all out of here, I just need to go first!”

“NO!” Ava said. “There must be another way!”

Bob tilted his head back, knocking against yours. “Oh, no,” he said.

“Oh—” You began to panic. “Cucumber! Cucumber, cucumber! Bob!”

Yelena and Ava both began chanting with you. John, his patience worn thin, reached behind and grabbed Yelena’s baton. Then, he jumped out of formation.

You felt yourself falling, your heart dropping to the balls of your feet in sheer horror, trying your best to grip onto the slippery metal walls. In your panic, you duplicated yourself in an attempt to slow down your descent. Just above you, Ava punctured the walls with her dagger, braking to a halt.

Then, to your shock, you were abruptly smacked against the wall when Ava grabbed hold of your wrist. But only one of you.

“No!” you exclaimed, watching as your copy plummeted downwards with a blood-curdling shriek. After several seconds, you could feel your mind grow hazy, dizzy with the distance. “No, I’m—”

Your pupils rolled into the back of your head and you began to convulse. You didn’t register that Yelena had grabbed a hold of your ankle as she fell, and she sent a grappling hook down to catch Bob.

He tried his best to catch your copy, but you had streaked past so fast that you slipped right through his arms, and fell into the darkness below.

The rest of the group, minus Walker, who had climbed through the opening, watched as you shook about violently. After several agonizing seconds, there was a resounding thud and splattering noise. It seemed a twisted sort of blessing that the fall had killed your copy immediately. You broke free of your seizure but immediately fell into a bout of pain, doubling over. It felt as if you were on fire all over again, and someone had carved you open, poured honey all over your innards, and released a thousand fire-ants to crawl over you.

You were so out of it that you only barely realized Ava was pulling you through the entrance with John’s help. Yelena hauled herself up after that, Bob shortly following her.

The ghost kneeled down beside you, gently tapping your face as you came in and out of consciousness. “Hey. Don’t fall asleep on me.”

With slow, painful movements, you nodded, sitting back up. It took you another moment to realize that the entire group was huddled around you. “Oh, God. I felt my brains spill out down there.”

“What did you go doing that for?” Walker said in an irritating I-told-you-so tone, kneeling down beside you. “I told you not to duplicate yourself, didn’t I?”

“I really don’t think a lecture is needed right now, thank you,” Yelena told him.

“I’m sorry,” said Bob, looking wearing yet another expression of guilt. “I tried catching you, but—”

“Thanks, Bob,” you said, nothing but sincerity in your eyes. “I felt you. Thank you. And thanks for holding onto me, Ava. Even though I tried to kill you.”

The woman averted her gaze, clearly embarrassed. “Yeah, well. Would have been a terrible weight on my consciousness. So really, I did it for my own benefit.”

“Alright,” you said, not believing her in the slightest, but you decided not to comment on it.

With the help of Ava and Yelena, you stood up on your own two feet, albeit a little wobbly, and completely exhausted from the climb up.

“You selfish prick,” Ava spat at Walker. “If you had just waited for one goddamn second—”

“I made a tactical decision to secure my own safety before ensuring all of yours,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Pretty ungrateful, if you ask me.”

Then, something strange happened. Bob placed a hand on John’s shoulder, saying, “Thanks for saving us, Captain.”

Instead of making a snarky comment, John’s face grew dazed. Unfocused. He turned and stepped closer to the elevator shaft, feet just a few inches away from joining your dead clone on the ground.

“Walker?” Yelena asked, wondering what on earth he was doing. Both she and Ava stepped closer to check him out.

You looked to Bob, one of your brows arched. “What’s up with him?”

Bob spared you a cursory glance. “I don’t know,” he said. You chose to believe him, but frowned nonetheless. “Are you okay, though? You were—you were shaking really badly in there.”

“A seizure,” you whispered. “Sorry I scared you guys. I panicked and duplicated. It wasn’t very smart on my end.”

“No, I get it,” he muttered. “The only one you can truly trust is yourself. I get it.”

You tilted your head, regarding him curiously. As much as you thought Bob was a perfectly ordinary civilian, he said some very cryptic things sometimes. “Right… yeah.”

“I know I haven’t given you any reason to, but… you can trust me,” he offered. His hand trembled, and you could read the anxiety plainly across his features. When you took a second too long to respond, he retracted slightly. “But, I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t—”

“I trust you,” you said, cutting him off. You spared him a downturned smile, which made him relax just a smidge. “You haven’t given me any reason not to, Palindrome.”

The mellow blue of his eyes shone with mild amusement. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Is that my nickname now? Palindrome?”

“If you want it to be,” you said, shrugging. “It is a bit catchier than just Bob. The same forwards as it is backwards.”

Bob looked back to John, who still wouldn’t move away from the shaft's sheer drop. “I guess that’s fitting,” he whispered. “Nothing changes even if I want it to.”

Before you could ask him what he meant by that, John finally seemed to snap out of it. He stumbled back from the edge of the shaft.

“Jesus Christ,” Yelena said, completely bewildered. “Are you crazy? What did you do that for?”

“Do what for?” John grouched, waving her away as if she was a fly. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

“Ugh, nevermind, then,” said Ava. “It’s time we all get out of here.”

Once Ava pressed a button for the exit to slide open, light spilled in from outside. But—it was nighttime. You knew because you arrived at 10 PM on the dot, and you also knew for certain that not enough time had passed for the sun already to be rising. The lights were coming from cars. Multiple of them, at least three dozen. There was chatter as well. Boots. Guns. Tactical armor.

It was an entire squadron out there. No doubt sent by Valentina.

Ava, John, and Yelena then started bickering about a plan and who was in charge.

“I think I might just surrender, probably,” said Bob.

“I suppose she won’t hurt you if you’re just a citizen,” you said. “Maybe it’s for the best.”

“Okay, fine,” John said, shrugging. “Every man for themself, then.”

“Why should you be in charge?” snarked Yelena. “You almost killed all of us right there!”

John propped his fists onto his hips. “Well, let’s see—I’ve been in the trenches of every war-torn country there is, rescued God knows how many hostages, and shook the hands of two US presidents!”

“And how, pray tell, does any of that help us in the slightest way?” you hissed.

Walker ignored you. “What else—oh! High school state football champs, back to back to back. Go bears!”

You stared at him incredulously. You never met Steve Rogers, but you wished you had that Captain America rather than this one in front of you right now. You were sure Steve was infinitely more tolerable than Walker.

Yelena rolled her eyes. “Oh, wow. When I was five, I was in a peewee soccer team named the West Chesapeake Valley Thunderbolts, sponsored by Shane’s Tyre Shop. We won zero games, and one time one of my teammates did a poo midfield! Anyone else have any pointless stories to share?”

Exasperated, Ava pointed to herself. “Grew up in a lab prison.”

Bob scratched the back of his neck. “Meth-addicted sign twirling chicken. Was a… summer job.” He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Had my entire skeleton pulled out of my body once. Took me twelve minutes to die,” you said, bouncing on the balls of your feet. The rest of them turned to you, horrified. “What?”

“... Great,” said Yelena. “Now that we’re all done sharing, here’s the plan…”

It wasn’t a great plan, but it was the only one on the table. You and Walker take out the first wave of soldiers coming through, wait for Yelena (and Bob) to turn the lights off and back on once the second wave of soldiers came in with night vision goggles, effectively blinding them, all while Ava went out to find an escape vehicle.

Naturally, Walker didn’t wait. He went barreling into the wave of second soldiers, knocking them all down with his shield and picking them off one by one. You hadn’t even bothered to step in, watching him punch through all of them on his own.

“Thanks for the help,” he spat at you once he was done.

“Didn’t want to get in your way,” you snarked in return. “Now come on. Let’s get their gear on and head out.”

Eventually, Yelena and Bob came back, the former angry that the two of you hadn’t waited for her. John was quick to defend themself, but you merely tossed Yelena and Bob their own sets of tactical wear.

“No time to argue. We can’t keep Ava waiting.”

Walker sneered. “If she’s even waiting for us at all.”

Once everyone was changed, the four of you walked out, dragging Bob as if he were a fallen soldier.

“I don’t think I want to be carried anymore,” Bob groaned, arms stiff and aching from where they were grabbing him.

“Shut up, Bob. You’re injured, remember?” Walker gruffed, which made Bob fall silent.

“Just a little further. Ava should be here somewhere,” came your gritted mutter.

“We don’t know where she is. She could be halfway to Mexico for all we know,” Walker retaliated. Behind your visor, you rolled your eyes.

And then, from the corner of your vision, you spotted Valentina. Pristine as always, sipping a warm cup of coffee. Envy and white hot rage scratched within your chest, but you swallowed down your anger. It took everything you had in you not to storm right up to her, chug down her coffee, and punch a hole straight through her pearly whites. You had a cover to keep up, after all.

Finally, after a few minutes of dragging Bob, a truck pulled up to the four of you. Ava materialized in the driver’s seat. “Get in,” she said.

You smiled. A small part of you really did think she was going to abandon you. You were glad she came back.

Yelena and John clambered into the front while you and Bob sat in the back of the tactical vehicle, where there was nothing inside but two wooden benches for seats. “Will you be okay back there?” Ava asked, and the two of you sent her tired thumbs-ups.

Both you and Bob swayed back and forth as the truck began to purr to life and rumble ahead. “I wonder what they’ll think once they see all my bodies down there. Can’t be a pretty sight,” you whispered.

Bob gave you a sympathetic grimace. “Do you still feel them? After they…?” He motioned vaguely with his hands.

“After they die?” you finished, sucking on the back of your teeth in thought. “I don’t feel them, no. I feel the pain right before they die, though.”

Bob slumped into the truck’s wall across from you. “Sorry,” he said, to which you just shook your head.

“So…” You started, eager to change the subject. “What did Yelena say to you back in the incinerator after your little argument with Walker? You seemed a bit… downcast.”

Bob squinted in thought, trying to jog his memory. “Oh… that. Well, I told her that sometimes I have… really high highs… and then really low lows… and it’s hard to remember things in the middle.”

“Must be a really low low right now, hm?” you said, a laugh lacing your words.

“Hah… yeah. No, I mean… right now I’m fine, I think. Compared to other times, now is… much better.”

“Yikes,” you said, now only half-laughing. “Glad you’re having a relatively good day, then.”

Bob laughed along with you, awkward as ever, then cleared his throat. “Ahem. And then I, uh, to Yelena I said there’s this… darkness… inside me. Never-ending. Like, uhm, I called it a void. Anyways, she said she felt the same way, so I asked her how she dealt with it.”

You motioned for him to keep going, leaning forward. “And?”

“She—she just said she pushes it down. Deep, deep down. Heh. I mean, i-it makes sense, I guess,” Bob said, stumbling over his words a little. “Like, what else is there to do, even?”

Judging from the way your brows knitted together, Bob came to the conclusion that you didn’t seem to think it made much sense. The thought crossed his mind that you looked rather endearing the way your nose wrinkled in thought. You would be a terrible poker player—the cards were written all across your face. Bob liked how easy it was to read you. It made him feel safer to be around you. But these thoughts were quick to wash away when he remembered that you were just—another bump in the road. You would pass, and everything would go back to being… nothing. A void.

“It makes sense for an ex-red room assassin,” you told him, not unkindly, roping him out of his drifting thoughts. “Doesn’t mean you should take the same advice, seeing as you’re not an assassin. Right?”

Bob itched at his wrist. “Right.”

The truck slowed to a grueling halt when a few soldiers stopped the group. Walker, to no one’s surprise and everybody’s dismay, insisted on being the one to talk. They asked for identification and a reason for leaving the base, since the medbay was northside, and they were currently heading southward. Walker tried to bluff his way through, but it was clear that the soldiers were not buying his story.

Bob’s expression twisted as if he had swallowed something sour.

“I’m sorry for this,” he said.

“What?” you asked, watching in confusion as he softly took your hand.

And then, strangely, you were no longer in the truck.

You were in a hospital. The air smelled distinctly of sterilizing chemicals with the sharp twinge of copper—blood. There was a belt in your mouth. Screaming muffled around the stale leather as they hacked away at your leg. Your copy stood off to the side, also bound, but whole. There were tears streaking down both of your faces. You looked younger then—your hair was longer, your face rounder. The years had weathered you.

“Again,” said one of the surgeons. Your younger, whole self trembled, then split into another copy. It took longer back then. An entire minute of straining yourself just for one duplicate. Now, you could make hundreds of yourself in an instant if you wanted. Nurses came in and took the other copy away. Off for more screenings, more tests, more surgeries, more experiments. That’s what you were to them—an experiment.

“Please stop,” you croaked. You weren’t sure whether that came from the younger you or just—you. “Please… I don’t want to die again.”

“Oh, sweetie,” said the surgeon, coming around the dissecting table to push sweaty strands of hair away from your head. “You’re not actually dying, though. Not really. None of these—xeroxes of you are actually you.”

You broke down into silent, heaving sobs when he returned to the other you, and began hacking away more parts of you. “For science,” they’d always told you.

Present-you turned, desperate to leave. Only, you were met with… Bob?

You searched his face, completely dumbfounded. “Palindrome?” you whispered.

“That’s where Xerox comes from?” he asked, clearly perturbed by the scene he was watching. You didn’t spare him a response.

His lips pursed and he reached out to take your hand again. In this strange, hazy world that you knew not to be real, his touch was cold. You rather liked how it felt against the warmth of your own palms, sticky with blood. Was that yours or one of your copies? You couldn’t remember. Was there any difference at all?

You held onto him tighter, shutting your eyes. Bob’s free hand raised to cradle the back of your head, shielding you from your own memories.

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” he murmured. “I’ll fix it. Leave it to me.”

Then, he pulled away from you despite your protests, and the nightmare realm seemed to spin and spin and spin, caving in on itself—

By the time you came to, Ava was shaking your shoulders and calling your name, as you were passed out on the floor of the truck. You glanced around with glassy eyes, confirming what you already knew to be true.

Bob was gone.

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captainmarvel4ever · 4 months ago

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THUNDERBOLTS* | 2025

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captainmarvel4ever · 4 months ago

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DREAMWALKER

pairing: bob reynolds x enhanced!reader

summary: you use your dreamwalking abilities to try to soothe the storm in bob’s head.

warnings: mentions of nightmares, trouble sleeping, childhood abuse, and themes of despression. very soft with bob getting some more much needed comfort. gen!reader.

word count. 2.3k | masterlist

The Watchtower was bathed in silence as most of its inhabitants slept. You were among them for a while, free-floating through their dreams as your abilities overtook your sleeping form as they did every night. Your body needed the rest, but dreamwalkers’ minds never could, as when their eyes fluttered closed, their minds roamed from dream to dream of whoever was near.

Before you moved in with your newfound team, you simply observed dreams as a passerby when you slept. But since living in the Watchtower, you learned quickly that your tough-skinned roommates suffered from an endless brigade of nightmares, whether they remembered them when the morning sun rose or not.

You felt their fear, their regrets, the cold submergence of dread that flooded the depths of their subconscious. It was invasive, your abilities, something you could not turn off. Instead of watching their nightmares, you busied your wondering mind by re-painting the dark scenes of their minds. Shadow-filled rooms and unforgiving hands, you spun into warm homes and gentle caresses. You spent your nights scrubbing their minds of bloodstained missions and unhealed wounds, replacing them with scenes drenched in hope and reminders of the goodness that resided inside them.

It was your secret, your silent mission to remind your friends both when they slept and when they were awake that they were not too broken that they could not be put back together. You drenched their dreams in lightness, in goodness, hoping that it would bleed into their waking form.

That night, however, as you floated from dream to dream, one was missing. You forced yourself to wake, following your instincts to where the only mind you could not find may be hiding, avoiding the scenes of his mind that were the most complicated you had ever witnessed.

You had never encountered a dream you struggled to fix. Even the darkest, most horrible nightmares you could reshape with ease. Memories of torture, of gut-wrenching deaths, you could soothe and redirect to soft touches and pull the sweetest memories of those lost loved ones to the forefront of that person's mind.

Bob’s mind was the only one you had met that was so resistant.

“You’re up late,” you said, softly approaching the hunched figure at the kitchen counter. Bob’s hands were wrapped around a mug of half-drunk tea, and his eyes looked heavy with each slow blink.

He did offer you a small smile, but he tensed as you caught him awake at such an hour. “Oh, y-yeah.”

You leaned on your elbows across from him at the counter, taking him in. His figure was swallowed in a sweater and hair askew, which told that he had attempted to sleep.

“Trouble sleeping?” you asked.

Bob nodded as his eyes slipped onto his mug. “You too?”

“Not exactly.” His brows furrowed, confusion melting with the clear exhaustion that shaded his face.

You hadn’t told the others of your unavoidable venturing into their minds because you knew how vulnerable dreams and nightmares were. They were personal, uncontrollable by most. While you had no judgment in any of what you had seen, the good, bad, and ugly, you didn’t want them to feel any shame. Perhaps it was wrong, but there was no controlling or preventing stepping inside their dreams unless you gave up on sleeping entirely. You only touched their nightmares, lingering just long enough to reshape the scene to something nice that would not leave them reeling in the morning. The deep, soul-boring personal things you did your best to block out and erase from your mind come morning. You would only tell when it could be helpful.

“I was looking for you, for your dreams, but I couldn’t find them.”

“My dreams?” Bob repeated, his fingers fidgeting with the paper on the end of his tea bag.

You nodded. “I can only control my abilities when I’m awake,” you explained. “When I sleep, I end up in everyone’s head. Since I started living here, I make sure you guys are having nice dreams and I get rid of your nightmares.”

Bob blinked, surprised and still confused, rightfully so. Your abilities were complicated, but he knew what that was like better than most. “You’ve seen inside my head?” he asked quietly, eyes cast downward, and lips drawn in a frown.

“Sometimes, you're a bit trickier than the others.” He closed his eyes briefly at your words, his body leaning forward like it was too heavy for him to carry. “Their nightmares are easy to change. Yours are…are stubborn.”

“Sorry,” Bob apologized like a reflex. It was your turn to frown.

“It’s not your fault. If anything, I’m sorry. I just want to use what I can do for good instead of just peering into people’s heads without them really wanting me there. If I can help, it makes me feel less bad about it.”

Glancing upwards, Bob hesitantly met your eyes that hadn’t left him. “But you can’t control it,” he said, too understanding for you but not for himself.

“I can’t,” you said. “Just like you can’t help that void inside of you. These things are a part of us, Bob. They don’t go away, so we have to do what we can with what we’ve got.”

He seemed to soak in your words, going quiet for a few moments before he shook himself out. “At least you can do good with yours,” he sighed. “I still don’t know how to be Sentry without…the other part taking over.”

You reached out across the counter, gently brushing your fingers over the back of his hand, allowing him the time and space to pull back if he wanted to. Instead, he slowly flipped his hand over, and you grasped it with a comforting squeeze.

“One day you will,” you assured him. “One day you’ll learn how to balance both. But it’s not going to work if you don’t get some sleep.”

He squeezed your hand back. “Yeah, I don’t know if I can do that. I mean some nights are fine, but others are…uh, bad. Really bad,” he said. “I think it’s better if I don’t sleep sometimes, you know?”

“What if I could help you?”

Bob slowly let go of your hand. He never liked to touch someone for too long, too scared he’d pull them back into a shameful, tragic, or agonizing memory. He was working on little touches: hugs from Yelena, pats on the shoulder from John, or holding your hands to calm himself down when everything was too overwhelming.

“You said my mind was stubborn; that you had a hard time figuring it out?” he questioned.

“When I’m free floating through everyone, it is. I don’t have direction really, or an anchor when I’m alone. But if I had a tether, I think I could chase away the nightmares.”

Bob looked hesitant, but curious too. “How would you do that?”

You smiled softly. “Do you trust me?”

Without thinking about it, Bob answered, “Yes,” almost automatically.

With his answer, his trust in you, you led him from the kitchen and into his bedroom. It was an organized mess, a reason for everything's placement in Bob’s eyes but no one else's. Books were stacked all around, and Yelena had bought little plants for everyone’s room as housewarming gifts. Bob had clothes strewn in piles, but the sweaters he wore more often were carefully placed over the back of his desk chair.

You rounded his bed to the side he didn’t look to sleep on, by the way the pillows and blankets were settled. He watched you, lingering and fidgeting in the middle of his room. As you sat on the edge of the mattress, you patted the comforter, beckoning him to join you.

“I-I don’t know about this,” he said. “What if I bump you in the middle of the night, I send you into a nightmare? I don’t know if I can stop that from happening when I sleep, and you could-”

“Bob,” you said his name with such gentleness. It caused the worry on his face to start to melt just slightly. He looked exhausted, too. “You said you trust me. And I trust you. While we sleep, it’s my mind that’ll be in control, not yours, I promise.”

He dragged his feet across the floor, pausing at the edge of his bed before climbing in. His body was stiff as he lay down beside you. You rolled onto your side, studying him. If you also hadn’t been so tired, you could have gazed at him for hours, remembering every curve of his face and curl of his hair. In your eyes, he was intriguing and impossibly handsome.

You brushed some hair away from his face, allowing you to see him better in the low glow of moonlight and the city lights that snuck in through a crack in the curtains. Bob’s eyes fluttered before he forced them open, peering at you with a tense jaw. Dragging your fingers down the side of his face, you rested your hand on his jaw.

“Just relax,” you whispered. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to keep fighting sleep, but as your fingers ghosted against his jaw, his eyes closed.

You did the same, resting your hand on his shoulder as a way to tether yourself to him. It only took a simple touch for you to gain more control over the person whose mind you wanted in. For so long, you had used that ability to manipulate and hurt people, hurting yourself in the process. But you wanted to do good, to be more than a weapon. Instead of causing nightmares, you turned to easing them back into lighter dreams.

You weren’t going to let Bob’s complicated mind fight you when he also deserved beautiful dreams instead of being tormented by the one thing no one would escape.

Falling into someone’s head had become more graceful for you over time as you grew stronger and more sure of your abilities. There was a ghost of resistance that met you, but your sleeping form lightly curled their fingers around Bob’s shoulder and surged on, bypassing the darkness that snaked out from the corners of his mind, determined to remind him that they were still there.

The nightmare that Bob found himself in was similar to the one you recalled occurring through a cracked floorboard in the attic he hid out in when the Void spread across the city streets.

When you were tethered to a person, your person appeared in their head, rather than watching the scene from above in your free-floating state, unable to be perceived by whose mind you were in. You stood in what looked like a little boy’s bedroom, fit with science posters on the wall and toys scattered across a plush rug in the middle of the room.

The toys were abandoned, and there was a coldness that drenched the room. In the corner stood a little boy, a young Bob with unruly hair and matching pajamas. He sat on the ground, holding the side of his face with trembling fingers as a shadowy figure loomed over him. A man three times the little boy’s size screamed, waving his hands around, which elicited a flinch each time from little Bob.

Tears fell down the kid’s face, and a growing, angry redness showed on the skin half-hidden under his hand.

You felt hot with anger and cold with sadness at the same time, the two emotions bleeding into one. You were there to change the scene, but for a moment, you stepped forward, wanting nothing more than to place yourself between the little boy and the angry man screaming how much of a burden he was. You wanted to hold the little boy, tell him how wrong his father was. But instead, you heard your name whispered from behind you.

Spinning around, you came face to face with the grown-up version of Bob, wet eyes and something between embarrassment and heartbreak written on his face. You let out a breath, unraveling the feelings of the nightmare from around you, allowing something else to take hold.

You let Bob’s mind to the talking, telling you the things he associated with goodness, hopefulness. Piece by piece, the nightmare fractured before it was replaced entirely.

When you opened your eyes, a sun-soaked scene took hold. It was warm, smelled like cut grass and a distant barbecue. An empty swing set sat in a bed of mulch, which was soft under your feet.

Young, peaceful, safe. Those words echoed in your mind as you observed the scene.

“I remember this place,” Bob said, wearing a small smile that fit him so beautifully in the sunlight. He approached the swing set, running his hands over the dark green posts that looked freshly painted. “I used to come here when I was little, when my parents would fight. I’d sneak out and wait here until the sunset.”

He grasped the chain of the swing, tension falling from his shoulders as he then took a seat. You joined him at the second swing, lowly pushing yourself back and forth as the chains squeaked.

“Thank you,” Bob rushed out after a beat.

You smiled softly at him. “You deserve more dreams, Bob. Less nightmares.”

“More dreams,” he repeated, chewing on the words in deep thought. Then, he gazed at you, his eyes sparking and cheeks flushed as if he were a young boy who spent the day outside playing. “I-I think I have a few in mind, now.”

Back in his bedroom, you slept with your hand falling down onto his chest, resting over his heart and head comfortably on his shoulder.

The darkness stayed put, cast out for the night as he dreamed of you seated behind him in the one place he found solace in as a child. And as an adult, he started to find solace in you, in his dreams, and when he was wide awake.

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