#bob's hellscape | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

babybl00s · 2 months ago

Text

all i need

warnings: smut, kiss kiss fall in love, dry humping (hell yeah) mdni 18+, explicit language etc.

summary: you’ve been working as congressman barnes’ assistant since the start of his campaign. bob has had a thing for you since you showed up one night, giving barnes hell for leaving alpine at your door. he’s smitten, you’re kind of oblivious, and it all comes to a head when bucky has to head out for another mission. (f!reader)

author's note: this is my first smut fic go easy on me. may write a part two to this idk. crossposted on ao3!

update: part two here

It seems like the past few weeks have been filled with nothing but endless stacks of paperwork. You wagered that if you’d stack them all together it’d rival the size of the Empire State Building. You’re so delirious from lack of sleep one night that you almost attempt to test that theory. the thought of it toppling over and you having to reorganize it sobered you up pretty quick, though.

Regardless, it’s a lot. And if it’s not paperwork, it’s responding to emails, and if it’s not responding to emails, it’s warding off the press so your boss doesn’t stumble over his words. Again. He’s gotten better at it, actually, once you’ve given him a bare-bones script of how to give neutral responses that make it seem like he’s saying something of value. Typical politician jargon.

The soft hum of the office today is appreciated. You’d gotten through a bulk of your work last night, so you only have to sift through a couple of files today. Your cubicle is directly in front of Bucky’s office, the paneling high enough to give you some privacy but low enough that you can catch someone slacking off. Decorated with fairy lights and photos of your friends, your dog Ladybug, one of you and Bucky the day he got sworn in. A splash of color in this otherwise grey hellscape.

It’s busy, as it usually is, but not the type of busy that demands frequent coffee runs, or god forbid another all-nighter. The pace is steady, consistent. Your phone buzzes, and you take a quick peek at the screen - Bucky has a meeting in half an hour. You sigh, capping the end of your highlighter and neatly organizing the stack of papers before you. You’d hoped that you didn’t have to bring work home with you again, but that probably was asking too much.

The file containing information about today’s meeting and Bucky’s talking points are stored securely in the bottom drawer of your desk, which you pull out. You stand, clutching the file to your chest, smoothing out the folds of your skirt and tugging it so it’s properly mid-thigh. You grab your purse and stuff it with the rest of the paperwork you’d been working on, careful not to crease anything.

Bucky’s at his desk when you peer through the glass, preparing his own notes for the meeting. Two quick raps at the door gather his attention, and he motions for you to enter when he sees it’s you.

“You have a meeting in 30,” you tell him as you hand the file over to him.

“Thanks,” he gruffs, flipping through the pages. A sense of pride swells within you. You keep the door open as he grabs his stuff, letting it shut behind you as he walks through the office.

You peruse through his schedule as you follow him to the town car. “After that you have lunch with Congresswomanman Diaz; she’s nice, her wife’s a preschool teacher and they have three kids.”

He leans his head back against the headrest, eyes closed, but you know he’s still listening. You’ve been working for Bucky since the start of his campaign, which was just about a year ago now. You were fresh out of grad-school, desperate for a job. You’d stumbled on an ad online, not expecting much. Imagine your surprise when you went in for the interview and it was freakin’ James Buchanan Barnes in front of you.

(You’d almost squealed like a schoolgirl in front of him, but you kept your cool. You didn’t want your potential boss to know you had a crush on him when you were younger).

You’d landed the job and you’re here, a year later, helping keep him afloat and bridging the gap between him and his constituents. He’s a chill boss, lets you take the day off whenever you want (although, he has to kinda force you to take those breaks). He actually cares about the people of Brooklyn, fights for them. Listens to your advice, comes to you with questions. Trusts you to keep an eye on his cat, Alpine, when he’s on missions.

It’s a pretty solid gig.

“We’re here,” you announce as the car comes to a stop. He’s the first to hop out of, opening your door for you before you can even unbuckle yourself. You thank him as you step out, smoothing your skirt as you shoulder your bag on.

Thankfully, his meeting goes by pretty smoothly. He follows your talking points and you’re able to sit on the side and take a couple of notes on your laptop.

He drops you off at the office before his lunch with Congresswoman Diaz. You take the time to have a quick bite yourself before diving back into work.

It’s the end of the workday and the sun is setting. Bucky never came back from his lunch but you’re not surprised; he tends to go home after he’s had a meeting anyways. Most of the office headed out a bit early too, having finished their work. The office is quieter now, but you’ve just wrapped up the final stack of paperwork so you can finally head home with a clear mind and probably a good night’s rest.

The bus ride to your apartment in Bushwick is uneventful. You see a couple of familiar faces and give them polite smiles, but otherwise mind your business until you reach your stop.

When you enter the lobby, you find that the elevator is busted for like, the millionth time this month. You sigh. It could be worse; you’re on the third floor, which isn’t too bad. But you’ve been wearing these heels all day and they’re starting to pinch your feet. You trek along anyways, wincing until you reach the final step.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. It’s Joaquin, the Falcon (!!!) himself asking if you could relay a message to Bucky. You’re halfway through your message when you see it, sitting at your front door.

Alpine’s carrier. With Alpine in it, meowing at you.

Oh, you could kill Bucky.

You hit send on your message to Joaquin. Muttering under your breath as you unlock your front door, picking up Alpine as you step into your apartment. You set her on your couch, opening her carrier and watching as she steps out and gives a big stretch, scratching up your furniture like she owns the place.

The soft sound of nails along your floorboard makes your ears perk up. You feel Ladybug’s form pressing along your thighs, her body wiggling in excitement.

“Hi, Lady,” you coo, turning to greet her appropriately. She pants, wagging her tail in excitement.

You’d adopted her from the shelter not long after you began working for Bucky. A tiny black puppy, shivering in fear in the corner of her kennel. Unusual for a Lab. She pulled at your heartstrings and although you swore you wouldn’t take in a puppy, she had won you over. She’s been thriving at your side ever since.

Luckily, she was still a puppy when you started cat-sitting for Bucky, so she loves the cat like her own. Alpine tolerates her, but you don’t blame her. Ladybug can be a lot sometimes.

Unluckily for Bucky, you were going to murder him.

Cat sitting Alpine was supposed to have been a one-time deal. Months ago, he had dropped the cat off at your doorstep with a bag of her food and nothing else. No note, no text. Nothing. You hadn’t even known he was dropping her off in the first place. You’d grown up with cats, so you knew how to care for her. So it was fine, in that aspect. Ladybug was a quick learner, so that wasn’t a problem either.

What you did not appreciate, however, was the lack of communication from Bucky.

So, after a long day of writing emails and drafting up speeches for him, you were fed up. You (stupidly) had left your apartment and drove all the way to Downtown Manhattan, to the Watchtower. Because if he wasn’t at his apartment in Brooklyn, this was the next best guess.

And there he was, lounged up on the sofa with the other members of The New Avengers. Watching a goddamn movie.

But you didn’t see that; you saw red. You had torn Bucky a new one, right there, in front of everyone. Telling him how irresponsible it was, leaving his cat unattended on your doorstep. You, a new grad, tearing into the Winter Soldier himself. When the anger faded you had been mortified, mentally preparing for the worst. Fired. Killed. You were so embarrassed, you’d hoped it was the latter.

Alexei, the Red Guardian, had broken the silence with his booming laughter. “Oh, Winter Soldier, you are so shaken. Like little kitten left out in the cold. Never seen you so scared.” He’d wiped a tear from his eye, body still shaking with laughter. “That was good.”

Bucky had explained to you he had a mission the next day, and didn’t have anyone to watch Alpine. It had slipped his mind. He promised to never do that again, and you kept your job (somehow).

He hadn’t done it again. Until now.

You should probably let it go. Would, normally. But you’re running on fumes and obviously not thinking clearly because somehow you’ve found yourself at the Watchtower. Again.

You tap your foot impatiently as the elevator brings you to their common room. You can already see him now, sprawled out on the couch sipping on a beer. And if he wasn’t there then you’d march to his bedroom and give him a piece of your mind.

“Barnes,” you fumed as you step out, “what have I told you about -”

You pause. Bucky’s not here. But the figure on the couch jumps at your entrance and turns to you with wide eyes.

“H-hey. Hi,” Bob stutters out, “you’re - wow, um - you’re here.” He stands up and picks up the remote from somewhere on the couch and pauses the movie he’s watching.

Your shoulders drop, and a smile replaces the frown you’d been sporting. “Hey, Bob,” you greet sweetly. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. I was…looking for Bucky. He left Alpine at my place. Without telling me. Again.”

Bob gives you a nod, understanding. He had been there the first time you blew up on Bucky. Kinda hard to forget. But you’d been so terrified afterwards that you didn’t really pay much attention to your surroundings.

But then he was kinda always there, not that you minded. A little awkward, but always so kind to you. Cute, too, which was definitely a bonus. Had that nerdy white boy charm that you definitely fell victim to many times in your life. You’d climb him like a tree if he let you.

You haven’t spent that much one-on-one time with him, given your job. And him being a superhero-in-training, or whatever limbo he’s in right now. But the time you have spent with him showed you he was thoughtful, caring. Came to visit Bucky a few times, bringing snacks for him and the whole office. He’d always sneak in a couple more of your favorites, for you to take home and enjoy later, which you were ever so grateful for.

Sometimes you’d come by the tower, to drop off Bucky’s dry cleaning or an important file he’d left on the desk that he’d need for tomorrow morning’s meeting. And Bob would be there, either in the kitchen whipping up something to eat or by the bookshelf by the floor-to-ceiling windows, sitting on a beanbag chair you’re sure Bucky had you buy. He’d always stop what he was doing, wave to you shyly and pair it with a ‘hi’.

You’re aware of what he’s done. What he…is. A man with more power than the Avengers combined. The guy who made the entire island of Manhattan experience their worst nightmares on repeat. The Blackout.

But you look at him now, in his dark grey sweats and black oversized pullover and a messy head of brown curls and…you can’t see anyone else but Bob. Sweet, soft-spoken Bob.

“He’s not here. They, uh, left. Last minute mission. It’s - it’s just me.” His lips curl up into a smile, but he ducks his head down as if he’s afraid to look at you. You don’t blame him, you kinda stormed in like a bat out of hell.

You sigh, shifting on your feet. You ran all the way over here (lie, you drove here) to give Bucky hell and he’s not even here. And now you’re standing in front of Bob, in your work uniform, probably looking like a lunatic. Ugh. “Any chance he’s coming back soon enough for me to kick his ass?”

That gets a laugh out of him. “I dunno. Maybe. But he’s probably realized by now what he did, right? So he might not be back tonight if he knows that - that you’ll…kick his ass.” You laugh, bringing up a hand to cover your mouth. You don’t see the starry-eyed look Bob sends your way.

You glance down at the time on your watch. It’s getting pretty late. You can kick Bucky’s ass another time, right.

“I should -”

“Did you wanna - sorry, sorry,” he winces, “I didn’t mean to cut you off.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s - you’re fine. Go ahead.”

He takes a minute to respond, looking scared shitless. He wrings his hands together for a bit before he finally says something. “Did you, um, wanna…wanna watch a movie? With - with me?”

You should probably say no, tell him you have to head back and watch Alpine (even though she’s so self-dependent, you doubt she really needs you) and Ladybug (who’s probably asleep). Tell him you have work to do (which you don’t). That you have work tomorrow (true, but you have a late start).

This isn’t…appropriate. You think. He’s your boss’ friend. Slash coworker? Which makes him, like, your boss-in-law? Or your boss once-removed. Well, whatever he is, it has to be inappropriate, right? That whole don’t shit where you eat rule definitely has to apply here somewhere.

You take too long to respond, which causes him to back track. He rubs the back of his neck anxiously and adopts a pained expression. “Sorry. That’s - that’s probably weird. You can say no, I was just - I figured that if you came all - all this way, we could -”

“Yes,” you blurt out. He blinks rapidly at your response, unsure if he heard you right. “Yes, I’ll - we can watch. A movie. I don’t - it’s not weird.” Just probably illegal somehow, but you don’t tell him that. You felt bad, what were you supposed to do? Look him in his sad blue eyes and tell him no? You’re not a monster.

You walk over to the couch, your heels clicking softly on the floor. You settle in the spot next to him, on his right side, toeing off your heels as you make yourself comfortable. You almost cry in relief.

Bob sits back down, blanket in his lap as he quietly resumes the movie. The soft light of the TV casts flickering light around the room. Pulp Fiction; a classic. You’d seen it once or twice, enough to know the plot to a degree. Which helps, because your heart is beating out of your chest right now and if Bob were to ask your opinion on the movie you could choke out a believable response.

Again, cute nerdy guy. Need you say more?

He’s so warm, you could feel his body heat radiating off of him from a foot away. You want to lean into it - lean into him. Your skin feels like it’s buzzing, itching. You shuffle a bit, which catches his attention. He wordlessly shifts in his seat, sitting just a hair closer to you so he can drape the blanket over your stocking covered legs. You feel your face heat up, but thank him regardless. You probably should’ve thrown on a change of clothes before coming here.

You lean back against the cushions, glancing at him from your peripheral. He’s completely absorbed in the movie, eyes unblinking. You swear you see his eyes sparkle, so you’re glad he’s having a good time.

You think back to the last time you saw Bob.

It was a couple of weeks ago, at a Gala thrown by Valentina. You were forced invited by Bucky to be his plus-one. It wasn’t exactly your forté, per say. You didn’t like parties all that much - at least, not the stiff, boring ones thrown by people with way too much money. You’d lost sight of Bucky halfway through, which left you alone. In a room full of people you didn’t know.

Fun.

So you’d sat at a random table, far off from the crowd as you waited for the night to wrap up. Picking at your nails, trying to fight the urge to bite off your press-on’s. Then Bob showed up, in a fitted black and white suit. His hair gelled back, but a few stray curls lay perfectly on his forehead. He cleaned up nicely.

He took a seat next to you, his lips quirking up into a shy grin. You return one to him, happy to have company. Happy it’s him sitting next to you.

“You look pretty,” he muttered, rubbing his hands together nervously. You look down at your dress: a black, thin-strapped, square-neck bodice paired with an A-line skirt that brushes along the floor, even with your heels. You feel a rush of heat over your face, flustered.

“Thanks,” you whispered, chewing on your lip in thought. You nudge his knee with yours. “You look nice, too.”

He’d asked you to dance, which you said yes to. He was a pretty good dancer, to your surprise. Never stepped on your feet and kept his hand respectfully on your waist, never straying too high nor too low. It was…nice. Really nice.

And now you’re here, sitting next to him, wondering if he can hear your heart pounding, because you sure can. You can also feel a flutter in your stomach, which. Okay. Not like you’re nervous as it is already. You lean your head back on the couch, angling it so your head is tilted towards him

He chuckles at something that happens on screen and you copy him with one of your own, but it feels empty even to you. You steal another glance, surprised to see that he’s already looking at you.

“Hi,” you whisper softly.

“Hey,” he returns, just as quiet. He looks back at the TV, finding the remote to lower the volume a bit, then leans back on the couch, mirroring your position. He leans on his side, head propped up by the cushions. “I haven’t…haven’t seen you since the party.”

You trace along the pattern of the couch. “Yeah. It’s been a busy month. Lots of paperwork, trying to keep Bucky on track.”

His eyes flicker down to your lips, just for a second. It’s…probably just the reflection from the TV. You both hold each other’s gaze for a moment, the world around you turning to static. The conversation lulls into a tense silence, and you find your breath hitching in your throat. Bob’s expression shifts; his teeth catching his bottom lip. It’s your turn to stare now, blinking back up at him dumbly.

He shifts the tiniest bit more, his knee knocking against yours.

“Sorry if - if the movie is boring you. I can change it,” but he makes no move for the remote. Keeps his eyes on yours. You trace the flush that develops across his cheeks, down his neck, across his ears. Cute.

You lick your bottom lip. He traces the movement with his eyes. Oh. Okay, so maybe not a trick of the light. You should…probably nip this in the bud. This has to be crossing some sort of professional boundary. Or something, you’re not sure. Bob moves in a little bit closer and it’s kind of hard to think clearly right now. The scent of bergamot overwhelms you.

He raises a hand hesitantly, cups the side of your face tenderly. Rubs your cheekbone with his rough, calloused thumb. Traces it along your cheek, down to your jaw. He cups the back of your neck, stroking your jaw gently. You’re sure he can feel the heat radiating off of your face by now. You bite your lower lip and he follows it again.

He hesitates for a moment, as if weighing his words carefully. “Can I,” he takes in a shuddering breath, “can I kiss you?”

“Yes,” you all but whine.

He leans in, his lips brushing softly against yours. The kiss is tentative at first, the sudden rush of warmth making a gasp get stuck in your throat. His lips are soft, firm. His nose nudges against yours.

You kiss him back, just as eagerly, lips moving against his. Your hand finds purchase on his side, your fingertips grazing along the fabric. You lean into him, the warmth of his lips igniting something within you. Your hand travels up and finds its way into the curls that lay nestled at the nape of his neck. He melts, groaning into your mouth, sliding his hand from your jaw to your waist, his pinky stroking your waist. He pulls you in closer, fingers pressing into your skin. Lips pressing harder against yours.

“You’re so pretty,” he whispers against your lips, “so so pretty.” He tilts his head, deepening the kiss. The softness gives way to a passionate, hungry intensity that makes you breathless.

“Bob,” you gasp, placing a hand on his chest. You’re starting to get a crick in your neck, but you don’t want to stop kissing him.

“Mm?” he muffles, reaching up to place a hand between your shoulder blades, urging you to fall into him.

You push away from him, his lips chasing after yours. He breathes heavily, eyes searching yours.

“I’m - I’m sorry,” he stutters, “was that too much? I -” The words die in his throat as you climb onto his lap, your legs straddling his. The blanket tossed onto the ground. His large hands come up to your waist and steady you.

You wrap both arms around his neck as you pull him in for another kiss, tilting his head back. You feel his lips moving against yours, with a need that mirrors your own. Your fingers find their way into his hair, and his grip on your waist tightens, pulling you even closer.

He bites your lip and tugs on it, sucking on it. You open your mouth to let out a gasp, and he takes this as an opportunity to lick into your mouth. He groans at the taste of you, pulling you in closer. Heat starts to blossom in your belly. You feel your skirt riding up your thighs but you can’t be bothered to care right now.

The kiss becomes frantic, wild. His hands have traveled lower, one firmly on your thigh, his thumb rubbing the bit of skin that’s been exposed, while the other is at the junction where your hip meets your thigh.

“Wanted you for so long,” he pulls away to leave a trail of wet kisses along your jaw, down to your neck. Your hands roam over his broad shoulders, your head leaning against his as you try to catch your breath. You don’t know where he’s gotten this confidence but you are not one to complain.

Bob pulls back and cups your face again, his thumb tracing along your kiss-swollen lips. You give his thumb a tiny peck and he groans, pulling you back in for another kiss. Your giggle morphs into a moan, which prompts him to kiss you with even more fervor.

The sound of the movie continues to play softly in the background, but you’re lost in your own world, blurring with every kiss. You can feel Bob’s hands exploring, tracing light patterns along your back as he pulls you even closer, your chest firmly against his. The heat in your belly is starting to simmer, travel; you can feel it all the way down to your fingertips.

You felt a surge of boldness take over. You press yourself against him, your hips meeting his. A playful teasing of your hips against his makes him whine, which you find that you like very much. Like, a lot. His hands grip the skin of your thighs, right where your stockings end. Right where he can feel the flesh of your thighs.

Bob feels like he’s fucking dreaming.

“Please,” he whimpers against your lips, his breathing uneven and desperate. You give another roll of your hips, relishing in the way he throws his head back against the couch and lets out a pained groan. You stamp wet, loving kisses along the side of his throat, biting down at the junction of his neck. His grip on your thighs tightens, bruising. Encourages your hips to continue that delicious rhythm against his.

You can feel him, below you. Hard, straining against his sweats. Thick. It makes you gasp, stuttering in your movements. The ache between your thighs is becoming unbearable. You press down on him and Bob groans like you’ve killed him.

“Fuck, you’re killing me,” well, maybe you are. His eyes are squeezed shut, jaw clenched as he breathes harshly through his nose. You study his face for a bit; he’s got nice, long lashes. Fluttering against his cheeks. You roll your hips again.

You squeal as the world seems to turn on its axis, your back meeting the soft cushion of the couch. Feel Bob settle between your legs, your calves pressed against his hips. He’s leaning on his forearms, caging your head between them. Your eyes catch his and you watch in wonder as his irises seem to have a golden hue around them.

“Hi,” you giggle.

“Hey,” he parrots back. Brushes a strand of your hair out of your face. Leaves tiny pecks across your forehead, your cheeks, your lips. Pulls you into another kiss - sweeter, this time, but passionate all the same. You sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck.

He starts to grind against you, the head of his cock catching against your clit. You whine, your fingers digging into his shoulders. He buries his head into the crook of your neck, panting against your skin.

This is so risky. Too risky. Anyone could come back at any second. You could - you could lose your job over this. Maybe. Probably. Hooking up with your boss’ friend is grounds for termination, right? You’d die if Bucky saw you like this.

Bob circles his hips, his length dragging alongside your cunt. Whatever thoughts you were having disappear, too caught up in the pleasure. The friction of his sweatpants against your lacy boyshorts makes you gasp, has you wrapping your legs tighter around him, pulling him closer.

Your hand trails down, rubs along the small of his back. You push up the pullover, your fingers meeting his warm skin. His hips stutter, but continue grinding against you. The couch squeaks quietly beneath you. You can feel just how wet your underwear has gotten, sticky and cold against you. It’s filthy. He’s making a mess of you and you haven’t even taken your clothes off.

You trace along the skin of his defined back. Brush along the ridges of his abdomen, nails catching along his abs. Jesus, sleeper build much? The contact makes Bob moan, and he licks a strip up your neck, biting down and sucking at the skin.

“Bob,” you sob, scrunching your eyes in pleasure as he circles his hips just the right way, “fuck, please. Please.”

He whines, leaving a kiss where he’s left a mark on you and pulling you in for a desperate kiss. You feel his cock throb against your cunt.

“I’ll take care of you, baby, I promise,” his lips brush over yours. His hips jerk desperately, losing the steady pace. He’s becoming frantic. “Dreamt of this for so long. Dreamt of you,” he confesses. You whine, feeling yourself clench around nothing, your thighs trembling.

“Mmph, Bob, Bob,” your fingers weave against his curls, pulling tightly. You feel it building up, the pressure threatening to snap. He’s hard, aching. You’re sure he’s feeling it too. “Fuck. Fuck me, I’m -”

His cock catches on your clit again and you lose it. Your squeal is muffled by his lips smothering yours, your body shuddering as your orgasm wrecks through you. Your thighs clamp around him, your hips canting to help him reach his. He reaches under you and pushes you towards his cock, his hand on the small of your back. Soft, broken whines leave you as he grinds his hips faster against you. It’s - it’s almost too much.

“You’re so perfect,” he pants. “Fuck,” he chokes out another groan, longer this time, and his hips start to slow down. Ducks his head into your neck and whimpers so loud you could come at the sound of it. You look down and - fuck, that’s so embarrassing. His sweatpants have a wet spot against him, courtesy of you. But you see a little wet spot where the head of his cock is and a sense of pride swells within you.

He presses his lips against you again, slower this time. Like he’s savoring it. He meets your lips again, pushes his tongue in, licking along the roof of your mouth. You moan, nails digging into his shoulders. You feel a bit of drool sliding down your face but he wipes it along your cheek.

Fuck. He’s so hot it’s ridiculous.

“M’sorry,” he says through kisses, “if it was, mmph, too - too much,” he sucks on your bottom lip again, making you whimper “did it - did it feel good?”

You could kill him. Here you are, trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm and he’s asking you if it felt good?

God. It makes you wanna kiss the shit out of him.

You nod against his lips, tugging his face closer to yours. “Mm-hm,” you add, sucking on his tongue.

He looks like he’s just about ready to make a mess of you again when the elevator dings. He freezes, meeting your bewildered gaze. You spring away from each other, him wiping his face and finding a pillow to hide the mess on his lap, you pulling down your skirt and trying to make yourself look more presentable. But it's too late.

"Hey Bob, Valentina said to - OH MY GOD," Mel hollered, bringing up her clipboard to hide the scene before her. You know you look a mess, swollen lips and mussed up clothes. Bob is no better, face entirely red and refusing to look anyone in the eyes, staring at the TV like the movie didn't end a while ago. "This isn't happening, this isn't happening," you hear Mel mutter to herself. You'd laugh under different circumstances.

Well now you've got nothing to lose. You grab your heels off the floor and scurry to the elevator, apologizing to Mel as you pass her. You press the button that'll take you to the garage. Bob's eyes never leave yours, his hand in front of him like he'd tried to reach out and grab you. The doors close and you give him a pathetic wave, and you have just enough time to see him return it.

You lean against the railing of the elevator, heart racing and toes still tingling.

Fuck. What did you just do?

#bob reynolds x reader #robert reynolds x reader #thunderbolts x reader #bob reynolds x you #robert reynolds x you #sentry x reader

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uyinq · 2 months ago

Text

THE CONTAINMENT INITIATIVE ☆ B.R

chapter 1 — incomprehensible

[bob reynolds x AFAB! reader, psychic!reader, empath?reader,slow burn,fluff,angst,slow burn,eventual smut, messy co-dependent relationships]

❱❱ WORD COUNT ﹕4,652

❱❱ SUMMARY﹕

The Thunderbolts need the Sentry, but they can’t have him without the Void. No matter how hard Bob Reynolds tries to hold himself together, he comes apart again and again, like a runaway train on decaying tracks. Unstable. Unstoppable. Dangerous. They decide he needs an anchor. Valentina finds you by accident, a psychic empath barely holding yourself together, broken in all the right ways to be useful. Your job is simple on paper: connect with Bob before and after each mission. Keep him calm. Keep him grounded. Keep the Void at bay. But the deeper you go, the more blurred the lines become– between Sentry and Void, between duty and feeling, between who’s saving who.

❱❱ WARNINGS ﹕ profanity, violence, trauma, eventual smut, psychological horror, mentions of: needles, injections, torture, and human testing

❱❱ NOTES ﹕ this is such an amalgamation of ideas lord help me

(divider from uzmacchiato)

★ chapters ﹒﹒ masterlist

★ tags - empty for now (ask to be tagged!)

CONTAINMENT INITIATIVE : SENTRY PROJECT — SUBJECT FILE 08L

Designation: [REDACTED]

Classification: Psychic Empath

Status: Operational

Assignment: Psychological support for Sentry [Reynolds, Robert]

Notes:

Subject displays high neural receptivity with touch and proximity to others. Side effects on the Subject have not yet been quantified.

Directive: Maintain controlled contact. Under no circumstances is Subject to engage the Void directly.

— END LOG —

You were lost when Valentina found you.

Living above a dingy laundromat in a 500-square-foot apartment that was far too small to count as a home. She let herself in, turning her nose up at the… quaintness of it all. She plastered on her deceptive little smirk when you poked your head out of the bathroom, furrowing your brows.

“Am I getting evicted or something?”

You remember saying, watching the way her eyes widened as she burst into condescending laughter.

“No, no. Not really. Something much better than that.”

Then she handed you the file. A plain manila folder, “CLASSIFIED” stamped across the front in red. You flicked it open as she spoke, scanning military jargon and vague test logs– impersonal language meant to describe you.

You remember glancing up at her, downright terrified, with a worried crease on your forehead. You thought you kept your head down once you were free from captivity, after Prometheon Labs was outed for genetically tampering with humans and their minds. You thought you could stay unnoticed.

You thought she’d come to kill you. Or blackmail you. Or worse– send you back.

But she gave you that fake motherly smile and touched your shoulder gently.

“We need someone emotionally resilient,” she said. “Someone who can handle the weight.”

You didn’t say yes.

You just didn’t say no.

The more you read, the worse it gets.

His file is thick. Heavy. Dense with information you’re not sure you want, even if you need it.

“A victim of domestic abuse throughout his childhood… was addicted to orally-administered morphine during middle school… history of drug-related arrests for nonviolent crimes…”

You groan at the fine print, even though you’re in the back of a moving cab. The whole thing reads like a warning sign duct-taped over a power plant.

No wonder he went full nightmare-mode and turned New York into a psychic hellscape. You’ll never forget that day– because for a solid hour, you were right back where you started. Clawing at restraints. Crying in silence. Begging for it to end.

When the driver lurches to a stop, you gasp and slap the file shut. The driver gives you a look in the rearview. You mutter a quick apology and pass crumpled bills through the divider before stepping out into sunlight and steel.

The newly renovated Avengers Tower looms overhead — bigger, sleeker, colder than you'd imagined. It feels less like a monument and more like judgment. It’s bustling with activity, analysts and interns buzzing around like bees in a hive.

You scan your temporary keycard– the one Valentina gave you a few days ago – and the elevator dings open. Warm light. Brushed chrome. Sterile peace.

You hesitate.

But your feet don’t.

You step in.

You press the button for the top floor.

Whatever's waiting for you up there, bright future or dark end, you’ll meet it head-on.

When the doors slide open again, your breath catches in your chest. A quiet hallway stretches out ahead. You take one cautious step, then another, until your gut takes over and you start walking with more purpose.

A sharp left turn, and there it is.

A massive steel door, sealed with a gleaming “A,” stands between you and whatever this job actually is.

You scan your card. The center twists counterclockwise with a mechanical groan, and the door yawns open to reveal the newly renovated penthouse.

You know you’re in the right place the moment you feel it– that crushing weight that settles into your bones. The weight of being at the top of the food chain. At the top of the Tower.

You move quietly, footsteps soft as you enter, peeking around corners, instinctively cautious. A few steps down into the sunken center of the room, and you’re already planning your retreat.

You're halfway to turning around when–

“Look who made it!”

Valentina’s voice cracks through the silence like a gunshot.

You jolt, whip around. Her heels clack across the floor as she emerges from a hallway you hadn’t noticed before, all polished smiles and cruel charm.

She’s beaming, arms wide, practically glowing with smug satisfaction, and she’s not alone.

Behind her, the new team follows in her wake.

The Thunderbolts.

It’s not as grand as you expected. They all look vaguely uncomfortable, like Valentina just dragged her children into the living room to show them off to her guests.

You offer a polite smile. A nod. Valentina sweeps through introductions with a breezy indifference, rattling off names and blurting some oversimplified version of their abilities and feats.

Then she grabs someone lurking near the back by the arm.

You hadn’t seen him at first.

He looks… different than he did in the file. Still emotionally wrecked, still carrying that buried-glass kind of tension– but not quite the same. His hair is a sun-warmed shade of gold-brown, catching the light that spills through the penthouse windows.

And there’s something distant in his eyes. Like he’s here, but not really.

Valentina gives his arm a little tug and announces, all cheer:

“And this ball of anxiety is Bob.”

You’d chuckle at his introduction if he didn’t look so confused and uncomfortable.

Matter of fact… they all look confused.

Finally, someone says it.

“And who the hell is this?”

The voice belongs to the petite blonde with a thick accent, Yelena. She’s waving a dismissive hand in your direction like you’re someone’s plus-one at a funeral.

Honestly, it tracks. Very on-brand for Valentina Allegra de Fontaine to make secret plans, to neglect filling anyone in, especially at someone else’s expense.

She just laughs it off, breezy as ever, letting go of Bob only to drape an arm awkwardly around you instead.

“Oh, did I not tell you? Seriously?”

She grins. You brace yourself.

“This is your new team member.”

The groan that echoes around the room is unanimous. A blond man throws his head back dramatically, while someone with a mop of dark hair just shakes his head in defeat. Yelena scoffs in disbelief– and you’re really starting to wish Valentina had maybe run this whole idea past someone before now.

“Team member?” the blonde snaps. “Look at her, Val. She’s dressed like a secretary. What’s she gonna do, ask our enemies for their coffee orders?”

Ouch.

You weren’t going for a secretary look. You were going for the ‘young-but-intelligent therapist’ look.

“I think personal assistants take coffee orders, not secretaries.”

The words are out before you can stop them. Crisp. Clipped. Not exactly friendly.

The room goes dead silent.

Then Bob laughs.

It’s an awkward little chuckle that breaks the tension, and everyone suddenly remembers why they were annoyed in the first place.

Valentina steps behind you, squeezing your shoulders in a way that’s meant to be reassuring, but just feels like control.

“She doesn’t look like much, I get it,” she says, all syrup and smirk. “But she’s got powers. Real ones. She can touch one of you and render you completely useless with a little poke.”

The blond man– John Walker, if you remember right– crosses his arms.

“Do it, then.”

You glance back at Valentina, searching for reassurance.

She just gives you an overly friendly shove and a wide, sharp smile.

“Go on.”

Something about that smile says don’t fuck this up. Or you’ll regret it.

You step forward slowly. Hands loose at your sides. Not threatening– but not exactly sure what you are, either.

He doesn’t flinch. Just watches you with that steely, judgmental stare.

You barely touch him– fingertips brushing the fabric of his uniform– and he hits the ground like a sack of bricks.

Everyone takes a half-step back, one girl laughs, and the big man, Alexei, beams from ear to ear.

“I like her!” The russian bear chimes, already pushing past everyone else to wrap you up in an abrupt, bone-crushing hug. You barely get to wheeze out a breath as he whisks you off your feet, squeezing you like he’s trying to kill you.

“Welcome to the team, zaika!”

Yelena hits him on the arm, her steely gaze fixed on Valentina.

“Put her down, Dad.”

The man pouts before releasing you, making sure you’re stable before he crosses his arms, suddenly remembering that he’s supposed to be angry with the woman standing across from him.

“Fine, she has powers. But why do we need some sort of touch-starved psychic?” The Russian woman gestures wildly as she speaks, her words sharp enough to draw blood. You’d laugh if the target wasn’t you.

Valentina is suddenly beside you again. Too close. Her voice honeyed. Her smile pure performance.

She presses her head against yours, mock-affectionate.

“You don’t need her,” she says. “Bob does.

You get settled into your room without many issues. It’s barren, nothing like your cluttered apartment in Brooklyn. It feels like a hospital room, empty save for the essentials. The bed, the desk, the closet, the bathroom, the nightstand.

You make a point of sorting out the few things you had delivered a few days prior, making sure your clothes are neat and sorted in your closet. That everything on your desk is square or touching a corner.

You plop down on the edge of your bed once you get settled, opening Bob’s file again while you gnaw on your lip.

You flip through the pages, trying to figure out exactly what you can do or say to bring him back to Earth when he starts slipping without having to use your powers.

It feels… wrong. The whole idea of using your ability to pacify his sadistic counterpart.

You flip another page. Then another.

Psych evals. Mission transcripts. Eyewitness reports that were written with trembling handwriting.

There’s a pattern in all of it– not just chaos, not just destruction. It’s pain. Repetition. A man who wants so badly to stay good, and a force inside him that keeps pulling him apart molecule by molecule.

You stare down at one phrase, underlined three times in red.

“Sometimes I feel like I'm watching myself rot from the inside.”

You close the file.

It does feel wrong. To be someone’s leash. Someone’s handler. To reach into someone’s head and force quiet when the storm rises. You didn’t sign up to be a human tranquilizer.

But it’s not like anyone asked him if he wanted to be the Sentry, either.

You’re still chewing that thought when there’s a knock at the door.

Not urgent. Not hesitant. Just… there.

You stand and cross to it, unsure who you’re expecting. When you open it, your heart stutters a little.

Bob Reynolds stands in the hall, hands in the pockets of a faded hoodie, like he just woke up from a nap.

His eyes flick past you, toward the bare room, then back.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Then;

“Is she making you do this?” You shift, leaning against the doorframe with furrowed brows and a soft laugh.

“Define ‘this.’”

Bob shrugs a little, eyes flicking to the side like he’s embarrassed to ask.

“This… ‘anchoring’ thing. The… psychic babysitting.”

You tilt your head, studying him. He looks awkward, not afraid. Uncomfortable in his own skin.

“No. She didn’t make me.”

He nods, slowly, like that answer just raises more questions. You don’t blame him. You’ve got your own.

“Did she tell you what happens...?” he asks, voice quieter now. Like he’s afraid of the answer.

“She gave me a file,” you say. “But I don’t think that counts.”

A beat. Then another.

Then Bob murmurs:

“She thinks I’m a bomb.”

You frown. “Are you?”

He doesn’t smile. Just meets your eyes and says, plain and honest:

“Yeah.”

You don’t flinch. That feels important.

You cross your arms over your chest, considering him, then you give him a soft smile.

“Just tell me which wire to cut.”

The room is white. Or grey. Or something in between. It's hard to tell under the LED lights that hum like bees in your skull.

No windows. One door. A camera in the corner pretending not to be watching.

Bob sits across from you, hands clasped, thumb digging into the edge of his opposite palm like he’s trying not to fly apart. You’re seated opposite him, a tablet on the desk between you. No notes yet. You’ve been sitting in silence for awhile now.

“So,” you start, voice light. “This is the part where we ‘establish baseline compatibility.’”

He looks at you. Then down at his hands.

“Right. Sure. That.”

You tap the tablet. Still not writing.

“I’m supposed to take readings. Monitor your stress levels. Track fluctuations in your–”

You pause and don’t even hold back a grimace. “–psychospiritual field.”

Bob snorts. You roll your eyes.

“Where do they come up with this shit?” You grumble under your breath, scrolling to another blank space that you’ll eventually have to fill out.

The tablet isn’t helping. The room isn’t helping. The silence isn’t helping.

So you just shut the screen off and sink back in your chair, crossing your arms.

“If you could be any animal, what would you be?” The childish question catches Bob off guard, and he glances up to meet your gaze with a perplexed look.

He raises a brow, suspicious. “Seriously?”

You shrug, legs crossed now, thumb tapping lightly on your upper arm. “We’ve been sitting in silence for ten minutes. Gotta start somewhere.”

He hesitates, thinking with a little grunt. “I don’t know. A crow?”

You blink. That’s honestly one of the last answers you expected. You watch him for a moment, the way he stares at you expectantly. You just give him a look that encourages him to continue.

“Well,” he says, sitting forward, elbows on his knees. “They’re scavengers. Messy. Smart. They remember people’s faces.”

There’s a pause. Then he adds, a little softer:

“They carry grief. Like a… like a flock.”

You study him, that quiet weight of something unspoken curling at the edges of his words.

“That’s actually kind of poetic.”

He snorts again, but there’s less edge to it now.

“What about you?” he asks. “What’s your animal?”

You grin. “Opossum.”

That draws an actual laugh from him–brief, involuntary, almost like it surprises him.

You sit up straighter, proud of yourself. “They fake their death when things get stressful. Wish I could do that.”

Bob shakes his head, still smiling faintly. “God help us.”

You don’t answer that. Just let the moment settle. Let the silence fill with something that isn’t heavy.

Eventually, you turn the tablet back on, slowly this time.

“I’ll mark this down as a ‘moderately successful initial sync,’” you say lightly.

Bob raises an eyebrow. “Moderate?”

“Well,” you glance at him sideways, “you haven’t stormed out or vaporized me yet, so I’m counting it as a win.”

There’s a beat of quiet. And then, surprisingly, a murmur:

“Thanks for not… Treating me like a bomb.”

You look at him for a long moment.

“I won’t,” you say. “Unless you start ticking.”

Your sessions with Bob start to feel like therapy. Not just for him, but for you. You’re nowhere near being a licensed psychologist, just because you can feel the way people think and alter the way they think doesn’t mean you know how to fix them naturally.

You haven’t used your powers on him. Not a single time. It feels like a violation. Like you’re reaching into someone’s head and forcing their cells to collide and neurons to fire a certain way– the way you want them to.

Bob doesn’t deserve that. Not when he smiles so sweetly every time you make a joke under your breath or snap back at John like you’ve been on the team as long as everyone else. Not when he finds you in those awkward moments when you feel like a stranger in the Watchtower– like you somehow don’t belong just because you came in later.

Valentina’s been trying to ease him back into missions, letting him monitor the team from the tower while they’re working. You’re with him the whole time, trying to keep his emotions and worries at bay when someone narrowly dodges a bullet or takes a kick the wrong way.

It’s one of those casual afternoons, where the world is quiet and the Thunderbolts can actually unwind. It feels… odd, to say the least. As much as they’d fight tooth and nail to deny it, they like each other. Their banter is effortless, and their smiles and laughter are contagious.

You’re curled up on your corner of the couch, sinking into the cushions and your hoodie, when Bob plops down beside you. He’s fully immersed in the movie from the moment he enters the common area, a bowl of popcorn in his lap as he leans back against the couch.

You watch him longer than you’d like to admit– the way his eyes twinkle in the dim lighting of the room when the scene gets a little brighter. The way the corners of his lips turn up at a poorly written joke or emotionally charged scene.

You turn back to the screen, reaching over for a handful of popcorn, when it happens.

You touch him.

Just a graze of your fingers against his own.

The lights flicker, and a sharp jolt of electricity shoots up your arm and down your spine.

You jump, yelp, and meet Bob’s gaze.

It’s flickering, blue, gold, black.

Gold wins.

And you’re on your back in half a second.

You hit the rug with a thud, the breath knocked clean out of you. Bob is hovering over you, jaw twitching and eyes narrowed.

But it’s not quite Bob, is it?

You had read enough to know it wasn’t him.

It’s Sentry.

He had seen you plenty of times before. Felt your presence like a buzzing fly that wouldn’t quite go away. He didn’t think much of you–you were nothing to him. He didn’t see you as a threat or something that could reel him back in. Not until you touched Bob for the first time.

Then he felt you. Felt what kind of power was lingering in your touch.

Right before he can get his hands on you– the blue comes back.

Your chest heaves. The room spins. Your head is still echoing with static and a thousand half-formed thoughts that aren’t your own. Heavy boots pound the floor. A hand grips the back of Bob’s hoodie and yanks, hard, dragging him off you.

Bob slams into the far wall with a grunt, more startled than hurt. He blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to blink the world back into place.

You flinch at the sound but don’t move, too dazed to do anything but stare up at the ceiling lights–still flickering.

A gentler hand finds your arm.

“Hey. Hey. You with me?”

Yelena’s voice. Grounding. Sharp but not unkind.

You nod, or try to.

“Jesus,” someone mutters. Probably Walker. “That was not normal.”

You sit up slowly, ribs aching. The rug is rough under your palms.

Your eyes find Bob across the room, where Bucky is crouched down talking to him. Probably trying to keep him calm.

He’s sitting with his back against the wall, hands in his hair, curled in on himself. Mute. Shaking.

It wasn’t his fault.

But no one else in the room looks convinced.

Valentina bursts in not two seconds later, and the look she gives you is less concerned and more… calculating. Like she’s doing the math. Wondering just how useful you’re going to be after this.

Now, more than ever, you’re certain.

You have to be his anchor.

The buzzing of the LEDs seems louder than usual.

Bob hasn’t looked at you once. He’s staring down at his lap, hands fidgeting as you type on your tablet nervously.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Your voice cuts through the silence, breaking him out of the invisible box he’s been trapped in for days. He still won’t look at you.

He shifts, fingers curling tighter around the hem of his hoodie. The fabric is worn thin from how often he picks at it. You pretend not to notice.

“Bob,” You whisper his name, hand sliding halfway across the table. You don’t touch him, though.

“It wasn’t you. It was me.”

He swallows hard. His voice is a scrape of gravel when it finally comes.

“It was him.”

You blink. “What?”

“You touched me,” he says. “He noticed. He felt you. That’s why he lashed out.”

His hands tremble. He presses them flat against his knees like he can still feel the leftover electricity there.

“You grounded me,” he adds, and finally, he looks at you. “And Sentry didn’t like it.”

A beat passes. Then another.

Bob takes a shaky breath, reaching out to find your hand. Your fingers touch– but sparks don’t go flying this time. It still feels a little unsteady, like a warped battery waiting to explode.

“He thought he was invincible until you touched me.”

Your fingers twitch beneath his, but you don’t pull away.

You can feel it, even without trying. The echo of something immense. Coiled just beneath his skin like a dormant storm.

But he’s trying. Grounded. Human.

You meet his eyes, your voice barely above a whisper. “And what do you think?”

He hesitates. That flicker of gold threatens to rise again in his eyes, but it doesn’t. He keeps it at bay. For you.

“I think…” He whispers, jaw ticking as he glances off again. “I’m scared he’ll hurt you. Because, as far as I’m aware, you’re his only weakness.”

And that, somehow, doesn’t terrify you.

His words settle over you like smoke, thick and lingering.

You don’t know what to say at first. Weakness isn’t the word you’d use. But maybe it is, to something like him. To something that sees compassion as a fracture. Humanity as a flaw.

“I’m not afraid of him,” you say softly. “I don’t want to lose you to him, though.”

That gets his attention. His eyes snap back to yours, something like surprise flickering there– followed by something gentler. Sadder.

“I lose myself to him all the time,” he says, his voice thick. “I just… don’t want to take anyone else with me.”

“You won’t,” you say, with more certainty than you feel. “Not if we keep doing this. Together.”

His hand tightens around yours again. Firmer this time. Like he’s trying to anchor himself to the words, to you.

“I don’t need a leash,” he murmurs.

“I don’t want to be your leash,” you say, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “I’d rather be your tether.”

That word sits between you for a long moment.

And then he nods.

“Okay.”

The next day, you’re in one of the Watchtower’s reinforced training rooms.

Everything is steel and sterile white. No windows. No warmth. Just flickering fluorescent lights, a two-way mirror, and the quiet hum of surveillance.

Bob stands across from you, arms loose at his sides. His hoodie’s gone. Replaced with standard issue training gear. You hate how clinical it all feels — how observed.

Valentina’s watching behind the glass. So is Bucky. You can feel him.

Your voice is soft, meant just for Bob. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer at first. Just nods once. Tight. Nervous.

You take one step forward, slowly, like you’re trying to keep a cornered animal calm.

“Hold your hand out.”

He listens after a half-second of hesitation, holding his hand out, palm up, low enough for you to reach without struggling. You take a deep breath, your gaze scanning his face as you take another step closer.

“Relax.” You murmur, and he tries his best to. But he’s failing.

“Just… tell me if it’s too much, okay?” You whisper, and he nods once. You realize he’s ready when his gentle features turn a little harsher, brows furrowing and jaw clenching.

You place your hand in his slowly, fingers gliding over his palm before they rest at the edge of his wrist.

This time, the world doesn’t crack. But you can feel it wanting to. Something is simmering beneath his skin like lightning behind cloud cover. His palm twitches beneath yours, but you don’t pull away. You can feel it now– not just the storm, but the fear buried underneath. Not fear of you. Fear for you.

“What are you feeling?”

His throat works as he swallows.

“I don’t know how to let it out without…” he trails off, blinking hard, “...without giving him the reins.”

You nod once. “Then don’t let it out. Just tell me where it lives.”

His eyes meet yours. That gold shimmer is there, flickering again, barely restrained.

And slowly, he lifts your joined hands to rest against the center of his chest.

“Right here.”

Your breath catches. You feel it– all of it. Not just the power. The panic. The pain. The constant hum of restraint.

Behind the glass, Valentina shifts. You feel the sudden spike of her interest.

But you don’t look. You keep your eyes on him.

“You’re doing fine,” you whisper.

And he starts to believe you.

Your fingers are still pressed to his wrist when it happens.

One breath, you’re there– in the sterile training room, the chill of steel underfoot, Valentina watching behind the glass.

The next?

Black.

Not just darkness– absence. The hum of the lights is gone. The air is gone. The room is gone. You're gone.

You're standing somewhere else now, barefoot on damp concrete. The air is thick. Heavy. Pressed against your chest like a weighted blanket soaked through. You see yourself in the corner of the dim room, curled into a ball as you chew at the sleeve of your hospital gown.

Your younger self is a mess. Red-faced, eyes bloodshot, skin worn and covered in angry red marks. She sniffles softly, eyes wide and unfocused as they dart around the room. The door behind you shifts, and it opens with a loud, familiar creak.

You turn around, watching the man who plagues your nightmares saunter into the room. Standing in the hallway is Bob, eyes wide as he steps forward, trying to find your gaze.

This isn’t his void. It’s yours.

“I didn’t mean to–” He croaks.

You don’t look when the memory starts to play out. You– screaming as he holds you down and injects you with whatever he feels like injecting you with that day. The way you try to fight him off is hard to ignore, and Bob is torn between stopping it and trying to distract you.

"Where are we?" he asks, and his voice sounds wrong here. Softer. Distorted, like it's passing through water.

You can't answer. You can't breathe.

But then, something changes.

The pressure begins to ease, not because the void is gone, but because he’s grounding you this time.

Bob lifts a hand, slow and deliberate, he takes your hand. A mirror of what you once did for him.

"I'm here," he says, and the room begins to dissolve.

The voice fades. The shadows recede. The void doesn’t vanish, but it retreats. Yielding.

When you blink again, you're back on the cold training room floor, on your knees. You're gasping. Shaking.

Bob is right in front of you, shaking as he struggles in his mind. He’s scared to touch you again.

Scared to take you right back to that awful place in your head.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean to see.”

You want to believe him. But it’s hard to when there’s a golden twinkle in his eye.

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #reader insert #afab reader #the thunderbolts #thunderbolts fanfic

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unclefathersantateddy · 2 years ago

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Long personal post about my personal life and education!

I told my statistician that I'm feeling very close to burn out & she was COMPLETELY receptive! They told me they think I'm putting too much pressure on myself for everything to be perfect (which, true, I have an anxiety disorder I got that PeRfEcTiOnIsM gene). She also said I should have breaks to actually live life in between studying instead of just moving from one obligation to another (idk how to do that l0l, if I have something to do there is NO rest until it is DONE).

The positivity and unconditional support that this community has given me is indescribably irreplaceable. I genuinely treasure you all. All of your silly little ideas for the silly little burger cartoon, I love them. I love you!! You spark joy in me which I've not experienced for so long🥲 really cannot express the love and adoration I have for you all!

I really appreciate the kind comments and messages you guys sent me, really truly thank you sm! Have a silly little phone doodle as a thank you, you guys really give me drive/life that I haven't been able to give myself for a long time.

Thanks for coming to my tedtalk (oh my god that's what I should call my teddy-focused posts)

AI engineer PhD student 🤝 Psych BSc student

Behaviour analysis

Just two autistic bitches and their dedication to education

#i'd say stay in school kids #but truthfully university is a hellscape #we are lucky for socialised education #rip americans and their for-profit education system #yet i'm still in 50k of debt #better than 100k debt tho #bob's burgers #bobs burgers #bobs burgers fan artists #bobs burgers fanart #bobs burgers art #uni life #uni students #statistics #psychology #burn out #bobs burn out

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hyusun · 1 month ago

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🐯 - Instructions Not Included - L.MK

Pairing: neighbor! mark × yn (university setting)

genre: soft fluff,, domestic chaos ??, friends-to-(maybe)-lovers word count : 3.1k ? warnings: cozy domesticity, soft chaos, excessive use of ikea furniture and that awkward falling in love with your neighbor energy vibe : you’ve known mark lee since freshman year, hallway nod than bestie. but when he moves into the apartment across the hall and drags you into a furniture-building result in muscle-aching mess, things start shifting. you start to wonder if this is just neighborly kindness, or something much more dangerous. like feelings.

a/n : this was supposed to be a short drabble… idk what this is honestly 😭 i just wanted them to build a shelf but now it’s a short fic with muscle pain and dramatic reaction to leg massage . this was inspired by my last-minute OCD arranging mania. i spent the whole saturday cleaning and rearranging my furniture like a sims character in real life, and now i’m left with sore muscles and regrets. anyway enjoy the delulu, i wrote this between muscle spasms and crying over cracked nails. also if u find a mark lee who builds furniture and massages your leg , pls tell him i’m free this weekend 😭 , enjoy the fic, stay hydrated, don’t trust IKEA screws. ok love u bye 💅🛠️🫶

You’d known Mark Lee since freshman year, not exactly best friends, but familiar in the way two tired students orbit the same academic hellscape. You shared a few electives, some tragically awkward group projects, and the occasional hallway nod that said, "We’re barely holding it together, huh?" Conversations between you never strayed far from the essentials: “Hey, when’s this due?” or “Are we even passing this class?” Just enough connection to remember his name, not enough to know his favorite coffee order.

So when you heard that he moved into the unit across the hall halfway through the semester, you didn’t expect fireworks or fate. At most, you predicted a few polite exchanges, maybe a borrowed screwdriver, maybe a smile when collecting mail at the same time. Maybe, just maybe, you were even looking forward to it. A little spark of curiosity never hurt anyone.

That spark turned into a full-blown emergency when Mark knocked on your door one fine Saturday morning. You had the day off, a rare treasure. The plan was simple: rot gloriously on your couch, binge the latest backstabbing k-drama, and maybe fall asleep with crumbs on your shirt. But the universe said, "Haha, no."

Because there he was, Mark Lee, standing at your door with panic in his eyes and desperation in his voice, looking less like your ex-classmate and more like Bob the Builder with a broken spirit. “Hi…” he greeted, voice tentative, eyes darting around like he was afraid you’d slam the door. “Uh, can you help me build my furniture? I asked the other guys but they’re either working or pretending to be. Jeno’s at practice, and Renjun said you’re good with… tools.” He gave you a sheepish smile, like he knew exactly how unconvincing he sounded.

Honestly, he looked like a lost puppy in a hardware store.

And you? Well, against your better judgment, and possibly your will to live, you sighed, stepped aside, and let chaos walk right in.

You regretted offering help the second you stepped inside his apartment.

Boxes were stacked like unstable Jenga towers. An unopened can of paint sat in the corner like a promise never kept. IKEA furniture parts were scattered across the floor, looking less like potential furniture and more like ancient ruins. And in the center of it all stood Mark, sweaty, overwhelmed, holding a screwdriver upside down as if preparing for battle, not a bookshelf.

Mark Lee was crouched in front of what was supposed to be a bookshelf, but currently looked more like a sad abstract art piece. He held a screwdriver, the wrong one, obviously, with the defeated look of someone who’d battled furniture and lost three times.

“Hey,” he mumbled, scratching the back of his head.

“So I think I built this upside down… three times.” You blinked at the Frankenstein shelf and then at him.

“Have you… read the manual?” you asked, already bracing for disappointment.

Mark lifted the instruction sheet, still upside down, and offered a sheepish grin.

“I did, but… apparently not well.” You let out a long, theatrical sigh.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.” That short-circuited him instantly.

He blinked, once, twice, like his internal system had glitched.

“W-what?” he stammered.

“Nothing,” you said quickly, pushing past him with a roll of your eyes.

“Move over. Let me fix it before this bookshelf becomes a safety hazard.”

You ended up spending the next six hours knee-deep in flat-pack chaos and mild existential dread. Between deciphering IKEA hieroglyphics, hammering rogue nails into place, and discovering that Mark couldn’t tell the difference between ivory and eggshell white, it became less of a building project and more of a bonding experience-slash-sitcom episode.

Somewhere between coats of paint, half of which mysteriously ended up in your hair, and Mark’s dramatic reading of the manual like it was Shakespeare, the awkward tension melted into laughter. Real laughter. The kind that left your stomach aching and your cheeks sore. The kind you hadn’t felt in a long time.

When the bookshelf finally stood upright, miraculously not leaning, or squeaking, Mark grinned and it almost knocked the breath out of you. His eyes lit up with the kind of boyish pride that should be illegal. “I couldn’t have done this without you,” he said, wiping sweat and possibly paint off his forehead. “No, seriously. I think I’d be sleeping on cardboard tonight if you didn’t show up.”

You leaned back against the wall, newly smudged with streaks of off-white and fingerprints, arms crossed and barely hiding your smile. “You still might be,” you replied, gesturing toward the mattress frame behind him. “Your bed’s still missing, like, three screws and possibly a soul.”

He laughed, full and unfiltered, the kind of laugh that crinkled his eyes and made your heart feel annoyingly warm. And then, just for a second, he looked at you. Really looked at you. Long enough for it to feel like time paused, just to make things weird for your heart.

“…You’re cool, Y/N,” he said softly, eyes lingering. “I’m really glad you live next door.”

Your heart did a full-blown Olympic backflip, tripped over itself, and then cartwheeled straight into locked territory.

You blamed it on the paint fumes. You had to. Anything else would’ve meant admitting the truth, That maybe, just maybe, Mark Lee was no longer just the guy from group projects. After helping Mark turn his apartment into a Pinterest board, the universe decided you hadn’t suffered enough. That very night, your manager called, desperate, pleading, and emotionally manipulative, to ask if you could cover a last-minute night shift. Someone bailed, and apparently you were the chosen sacrificial lamb. You should’ve said no. You really should’ve. But instead, you dragged your furniture-abused body into work, and by hour three, your muscles were screaming louder than your soul.

You should’ve known they’d come back to haunt you. The soreness had started like a whisper, tight calves here, a dull ache in your thighs there. But by the time you were walking home that morning, it had evolved into full-blown mutiny. Every step felt like a betrayal. Your hamstrings throbbed like they were mourning their own existence. Your calves pulsed with the rage of a hundred gym classes you never signed up for. And your lower back? Dead. Absolutely gone. Probably chilling in another dimension.

You limped through your front door, collapsed into a dramatic heap, and promised your legs you’d never lift another bookshelf for a man again.

Probably.

Maybe.

...Okay, if Mark asked nicely, maybe one more.

A few days after the hazardous diy olympics in Mark’s apartment, you found a post-it note stuck to your front door. It was scribbled in familiar messy handwriting:

“Movie night @ my place. 7PM. Popcorn provided. Presence required. :) —Mark”

Below it, in a different pen and suspiciously neater, someone had added:

“Renjun says bring snacks.”

His place now looked like something off a rental ad for “wholesome urban escape” walls freshly painted, furniture no longer a death trap, soft fairy lights casting a gentle glow over the living room, and enough throw pillows to suggest he had either excellent interior taste or a strong Pinterest addiction.

No way this was Mark’s work.

You strongly suspected someone, Renjun, maybe had a hand in the decorating. That boy is known for his creative mind. Or one of his suspiciously stylish friends. Or maybe a girlfriend. Someone with a Pinterest board, taste, and enough rage to color-code the bookshelf. That thought alone made you did double, no triple thinking into accepting his invitation.

You had some hesitation at first, being in a room full of his friends? Socializing? On purpose? And what about his girlfriend? Is he single? He’s in a relationship? Would it be awkward if I go? But the moment you saw Renjun’s name, you relaxed. You knew him from a shared elective class last semester. He was smart, sarcastic, and the kind of person who always seemed ten seconds away from either solving a physics equation or starting a petty argument for fun. Acquaintance? Yes. Safe zone? Definitely.

So you said yes.

And that’s how you ended up seated in a living room surrounded by the rest of Mark’s friends. One by one, you began mentally dissecting their characters like in a sitcom you hadn’t signed up for but secretly loved.

Renjun was your safe bet, the kind of sarcastic genius with the face of an angel and the soul of a judgmental cat. Sharp-tongued, yes, but weirdly considerate too. The kind of guy who would absolutely roast you for using comic sans, then silently walk you home in the rain so you didn’t slip in your sneakers. You’d worked with him once in a group project. He carried the whole thing on his back while sipping bubble tea and side-eyeing everyone’s poorly aligned slides. Iconic, really.

Haechan, on the other hand… chaos incarnate. The moment you walked into Mark’s apartment, he stood up like a royal herald and declared at full volume, “may I present to you, her highness, neighbour yn ! welcome in!” You blinked. He winked. And just like that, you were trapped in the tornado that was created by Haechan. Loud, mischievous, and dangerously charming, he introduced himself with the confidence of a man who had never known shame and immediately told you Mark once cried during a dog food commercial. You didn’t know whether to laugh or leave. Probably both.

But still, under all the noise and teasing, you found yourself quietly thanking him. Because somehow, he made it easier to breathe. Easier not to feel like an outsider in a room full of inside jokes and history. You weren’t sure if it was the absurdity or the warmth underneath it, but whatever it was… it worked.

In the midst of Haechan chaos, there is Jeno, the popular university's main soccer player. He is quite funny, effortlessly polite, and always somehow holding a snack. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it was either a one-liner that made everyone wheeze or something incredibly practical like, “That candle’s about to catch the curtain.”

And next is Jaemin, He has a pretty face, prettier smile, and absolutely no shame. He was lounging on the armrest like it was a throne, judging everyone’s snack choices and occasionally complimenting your skin. He called you “bestie” five minutes after meeting you and offered to add you to his skincare group chat. You said yes. Obviously. His skin looked pampered, Period.

And then, of course, there was Mark.

The one who invited you. The one whose smile made you nervous. the one laughter is so infectious and charming, and somehow made you feel like this chaotic group of boys wasn’t so scary after all.

The boys had settled across the living room in chaotic harmony, like mismatched puzzle pieces that somehow still fit. The L-shaped couch groaned under the weight of bodies, snack bags on the coffee table , and energy louder than the TV itself. Jeno was already halfway through a bag of chips, lounging like a model off-duty, while Jaemin, legs perched dramatically on the armrest, sat like a decorative statue blessed with judgmental eyebrows and too much skincare knowledge.

Mark was on your right, lounging casually at the far end of the couch with a cushion tucked beneath one arm and a blanket draped around his waist like he lived in a Pinterest board. Meanwhile, Haechan sprawled across the floor in front of the coffee table, surrounded by popcorn crumbs and chaos. Renjun claimed the opposite end of the couch, locked in a heated debate about which movie to play, already calling the director “mid” before the title screen even loaded.

You, ever the guest but somehow not a stranger anymore, sat tucked into the lazy chair beside Mark. Your legs were curled slightly to the side, a burger-shaped plushie in your lap doubling as emotional support and leg buffer. You tried your best to look chill, calm and collected, like your spine wasn’t stiffening into an overly ripe pear and your hamstrings weren’t crying for mercy. But as the opening credits began to roll and the room dimmed into movie-mode, you shifted, just slightly, to stretch your legs into more comfortable position.

And that’s when it snap. A sharp, traitorous cramps shot up your calf like betrayal in muscle form. You hissed softly under your breath, the kind of pain that made you question every life decision that led to IKEA furniture and impromptu night shifts.

“Fuck.”

The word slipped out of you before you could catch it, half whisper, half prayer. A sharp sting pulsed up your calf like your muscles were filing a formal complaint.

Mark noticed. Of course he did. He just an arm away.

He leaned in, voice low, soft as velvet and warm as honey against your ear. “Legs still sore?”

Lucky for you, the others either didn’t notice your silent suffering… or mercifully spared you the embarrassment. Mark, however, noticed. Of course he did.

He chuckled softly, the sound brushing against your skin like warm static. Then, without warning, hesitation, or a shred of social protocol, he shifted closer. His hand slipped past the edge of the blanket, fingers brushing your calf like they’d done it before in a dream.

And then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he gently lifted your sore leg onto his lap... and started massaging. Each movement was deliberate, his fingers pressing into tight knots of tension like he wasn’t just soothing a muscle, he was rewiring your nervous system from the outside in.

He moved slow and focused. Like he was trying to untangle knots in your muscles and your brain. Like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like this was just something he did, massaging your sore muscles in the glow of fairy lights, while his friends argued about movie ratings in the background.

His hands were warm, steady. Firm but unhurried.

You froze at first contact.

Your body went stiff, your brain completely derailed, thoughts screeching into static. This wasn’t just kindness. This wasn’t normal. This was dangerous. This was how the main characters caught feelings and never recovered. You read enough novel to know this is not casual thing, it intimate.

You might’ve enjoyed it for a few blissful minutes, eyes half-lidded, breath caught somewhere between “ouch that hurt” and “that good?” Until, from the floor, Haechan’s voice cut through the moment like a sharp blade.

“ummm ?? Hello?? Is this legal??”

You flinched. Mark didn’t. Because of course he was too busy pretending this wasn’t turning into a public scandal.

Jeno’s head turned, eyes narrowing like he’d just detected the change in atmospheric pressure. Jaemin twisted around too, popcorn nearly flying. His expression morphed from entertained to scandalized in real time.

The room fell silent.

You could hear your existential crisis buzzing in the air like bad Wi-Fi. Lagging. Glitching. Dropping all your emotional signals at once.

The sound of crunching chips stopped. Even the background music from the TV faded into an awkward vacuum of judgment and stunned disbelief.

Four sets of eyes locked on you and Mark like you’d just committed a crime against bro code and public decency.

“Are we just gonna ignore the leg-on-lap situation?” Haechan asked, voice high and dramatic like he’d just walked in on a forbidden office affair.

Mark didn’t even blink. “Yeah,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “She helped me with everything. Her legs are sore.”

“Your hands,” Jeno deadpanned, one brow arched, “are on her inner thigh.”

“They are not!” Mark hissed defensively, ears flushing a telltale pink.

Haechan, ever the voice of calm chaos, gave a solemn nod. “They’re getting there, bro. Like. Real estate’s been claimed.”

You could’ve combusted. Or dissolved. Or slipped into the couch cushions and requested a new life. If someone opened the window, you were 90% sure you’d evaporate on the spot. But Mark, god bless his soft boy stubbornness, he didn’t stop. He just kept going, cheeks pink, jaw set with gentle determination.

“She helped me build my whole apartment,” he muttered, focused on his task. “I think this is… the least I can do.”

You almost cried.

Instead, you buried your face into the nearest pillow and let out a silent scream that could shatter glass.

Renjun, looking utterly over it, sighed like who had seen too much.. “Just get married already,” he muttered, before resume his attention to the movie like this wasn’t the most unhinged domestic tension he’d witnessed in weeks.

Mark finally pulled his hand away after you smacked his arm with a flustered little slap, cheeks burning. “I’m fine,” you lied, breathless. “Perfect, actually. Might go for a jog. Climb Everest. Who knows.”

He grinned, like he could see right through your nonsense, and gave your knee one last pat before tucking his hand sheepishly into the blanket again.

Your heart? that thing was still buffering. Stuck on loop. Replaying the moment Mark Lee touched your leg like he hadn’t just rewritten your entire nervous system with his bare hands.

The rest of the movie blurred past in a fog. Explosions on screen, popcorn rustling, the occasional Haechan commentary, none of it registered. Your focus was shot, derailed somewhere between Mark’s hands and your rapidly developing crush.

When the credits rolled and the room buzzed back to life, you stood, stretched with a quiet groan, and politely excused yourself. Early lecture in the morning, you explained. Responsible student things.

You said your goodbyes, Jaemin extracting a promise for a future café trip like a girl bestie with an itinerary, and stepped toward the door.

Mark was already there. Lingering, like he’d been waiting.

Hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets, eyes flicking to yours, then away again.

He opened the door for you, but didn’t quite meet your gaze. You turned to thank him, for the invite, and the impromptu massage, but he beat you to it.

“Thank you for joining us tonight,” he said, voice a little softer now that it was just the two of you by the door. “And if, uh… if you’re free this weekend,” he added, shifting his weight from foot to foot, “I was thinking of going to IKEA. I need a lamp. Or maybe like… adult supervision.”

You arched a brow, the corner of your mouth tugging up. “Let me guess, you want me to help build it?”

Mark’s smile was soft, lopsided, and dangerous in the way only shy boys with dimples could be.

“Maybe,” he said, eyes flicking up to yours. “Maybe I just… wanna hang out with you again.”

And just like that, your heart short-circuited again.

You didn’t know where this was going.

But you hoped it went somewhere warm, with less back pain, fewer cracked nails, and instruction manuals that made sense.

And if the universe was feeling generous, maybe even somewhere dangerously close to love.

thank you so much for taking the time to read it and I didn't have time to beta prof this so I’d love to hear your thoughts, so any feedback is welcome! - 🌻 📌 💭 checkout my other delulus in the masterlist

All works are copyrighted © HyuSun, 2025. Please do not repost, rewrite, or distribute without explicit permission.

#mark lee #mark lee scenarios #nct mark #mark lee fanfic #mark lee scenario #mark lee fluff

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dogbinary · 4 months ago

Text

Amomaxia┃Helena Eagan/Mark Scout

Read on Ao3 Here

rating: E (MDNI 18+)

wc: 4.4k

tags: car sex, drunk sex, hate sex (kind of), drinking, light choking, multiple orgasms, age gap, dom!Mark Scout, Mark is fully clothed/Helena is not, Severance 2x06 Atilla, post-Chinese Restaurant Scene

summary: based on this post by @kestrel-of-herran

a/n: I can't believe we didn't get nasty Mark/Helena sex in season 2 so this is my way of coping. This was also my first time writing for these two, so it may be a little self-indulgent. Huge thank you to my beta @imaginarydromedary for taking time out of their ridiculously busy schedule to edit this.

It started with a couple of drinks.

Several, actually.

She bought the first two rounds, he bought the third and fourth, then he lost track after that.

The Chinese restaurant had a special going on cheap shots of well tequila. They burned like battery acid going down, but four dollars is four dollars, and despite her reputation Helena didn’t seem to mind the price point.

He remembers watching her wrap her lips around the rim of the fifth glass, her throat bobbing as she downed it without using her hands; no idea where she would have learned something like that. His throat tightened as her tongue peeked out to lick the salt off her wrist.

Mark’s cock had been acting disobediently the whole night, but what really did him in was watching her shake some of that salt on to her finger and line the edge of his lips with it.

He almost crushed her hand leading her out into the parking lot, and she giggled the entire way, like this was all some sort of little scheme and he was falling head over heels for it.

As he hits the unlock button on his key FOB, part of him starts to feel slightly disgusted with himself. A little bit of alcohol and attention from a girl almost 20 years younger than him was really all it took? Well, that and the devastating grief, he supposes. At one point he’d read an article about how people use sex to cope with grief. So in that regard, at least he isn’t alone.

It also doesn’t help that said woman is Helena fucking Eagan.

She climbed onto his lap as soon as he shut the door. The two of them take up all the space his shitty, beat up Volvo had to offer. He only feels slightly embarrassed. She’s the head of his fucking company, which means she probably knows what he makes in a year, so if Helena has a problem with it, she can just ask Daddy to give him a raise.

The taste of the lime lingers on the roof of her mouth, and he’s chasing it as he sucks on her tongue. His hands are all the fuck over her, shaking as she helps him strip off her dark, heavy peacoat. Just that one piece of her outfit has to be worth more than a month of his rent, easily. It looks obscenely out of place tossed in the flaking faux leather of his passenger seat.

Privacy wise, he had been thankful he’d parked away from the imposing glare of the streetlights, but he's cursing himself now, because he has to feel his way through the buttons of her shirt. Her skin is so, so warm underneath. it’s like her body has naturally adapted to living in this freezing hellscape all her life.

“Your shirt too,” she says, pulling the offending fabric over her head. He almost chokes when she aggressively places his hands on her tits.

“No, Helly.”

They don’t know each other like that, so he’s not sure why that name came to mind. It would feel inappropriate if she weren’t grinding down on his dick through his pants. “In case I have to get us out of here.”

He’s mesmerized by her silhouette, the edges of her just barely etched out from the residual light of the parking lot.

No part of this is as careful as it should be. He grabs at her chest like a horny teenager, rubbing and pulling at her nipples until they stiffen under his fervent attention. She runs her fingers through his shitty mop of hair, scrapes the back of his scalp with her disgustingly expensive manicured nails.

The most embarrassing, guttural moan escapes him when she collects the strands at the base of his head and pulls. He’ll blame that on the alcohol later, if he remembers it. That must satisfy her though, because he can just barely make out the glint of her Hollywood smile before she’s licking a hot strip from collarbone to ear.

It’s like she was made in a lab specifically to turn him on, and he’s just along for the ride.

“Help me get out of this thing so you can fuck me,” she whispers, and again, he remembers she’s one of the greatest minds of her generation.

Through his drunken haze, it occurs to him that there’s no way in hell he’ll be able to get her out of these stockings. He’s panting like he’s run a mile, and, shit. The dizzying hot press of her cunt through her underwear is already threatening to make him spill out all over his jeans.

As if she can read his mind, Helena fucking Eagan takes pity on him. “Just rip ‘em,” she instructs, like he’s stupid for not considering it – like they weren’t made in Italy or France or some other place he could never afford to go.

The thin, sheer fabric comes apart with a resounding rip.

When mark’s thumb traces the cloth, no, fuck, the lace of her panties, he finds them thoroughly, devastatingly soaked. Ruined.

Fuck. He’s too fucking old for this. She’s going to kill him.

Helena whines and grinds down to meet his hand, but she’s so wet, the fabric slides to the side on its own, and suddenly he’s rubbing circles into her clit.

She’s whimpering as he teases it out of its tiny hood, like she’s some sort of barbie doll or porn star or something. Every part of her is perfect, because of course it fucking is. His cock is aching where it strains against the denim of his jeans, and he has to bite down on his tongue so he doesn’t cum himself and end this before it starts.

“Fuck, Mark,” she gasps, as if she can’t believe how much she’s dripping onto his wrist. He can’t remember the last time someone said his name like that. This goes far beyond anything he’s ever experienced – even before he became a sad sack of shit, and the endless revolving door of antidepressant cocktails. Did you know that your dick can literally stop working if you’re depressed?

The windows are fogging up against the chilled night air from the two of them panting. There’s enough heat radiating off of them to power his shitty apartment. At least half of it is coming from her drooling pussy. The poor thing is making a mess all over his wrist. He slides his thumb back, wrapping his rough fingers around the meat of her thigh, and dips it into her entrance, teasing and testing the give of it. His digit sinks into her. Another whimper – a shaky breath from Helena as he hooks it into her and fucks her with it, rocking in and out. The skin between his forefinger and thumb catching and grinding on her clit.

Helena presses her forehead to his. A thin sheen of sweat is beginning to form on her brow, face all screwed up, jaw loose and brows pinched in concentration as she chases her high. The fringe of her bangs is almost ticklish. Mark’s other hand traps her head there, gently. He can’t stop staring at her. When she starts to flutter around him, he swallows her breathy moan. She’s coming apart so easily with just his hand, chasing the friction with her hips.

When he pulls away from her mouth, a thin strip of saliva connects them.

Fuck, he can feel her tightening her grip, both on his shoulders and inside. Her nails are digging sharp half crescents into his brown corduroy jacket. He’ll never be able to wear this stupid thing ever again without thinking about her, like the image of her riding his hand is seeping into the fabric. He’ll never be able to wash her out.

“Fuck,” he grunts, “Do it, please. Please,” Mark Scout is begging her to come. It feels like he’ll die if she doesn’t, like the world will collapse around him. A black hole will swallow him up if she doesn’t take what she needs from him. He’s never felt more sure of anything in his life.

“Mark, fuck, I’m –”

“I know, shh.” He has no idea why on God’s green earth he shushes her. If he had his way, she’d be screaming so loud, any good samaritan within five miles would feel the need to call the cops on him, but it’s what feels right at the moment. She’s shivering above him like crazy, twitching in the thighs, making an absolute mess of his pants, dripping all over him. It feels right, though. Everything about this feels right, as fucked up as it is.

He places a grounding kiss to her forehead “I want to feel you, Helly.” Again, it’s something that should feel like an inappropriately intimate thing to say, but it doesn’t. It feels like she belongs in his arms, like whatever this is was somehow inevitable. The alcohol must be clouding his judgement. “Let me feel it.”

With a bit more pressure, Helena comes apart exactly as he would have imagined it – with a strangled cry, head tipped back, and greedy. Her walls have his digit in a stranglehold, gripping him like a vice; experiencing a poor imitation of everything he really wants to give her. Her hips stutter as she gasps for breath in his space, taking the air out of his lungs with her.

He’d give her that, he thinks, a bit deliriously. Anything she asks of him, she could have it. Which would be a dangerous thought if he had anything to actually give. His body, though, at least, is hers. That much is for fucking certain.

It feels like it’s been hers. For months, at least. Maybe it’s been hers ever since that night he almost ran over her in the parking lot, as if being in her presence planted a seed deep inside his chest and it's starting to take root now. The vines are spreading like fingers around each rib and cracking the bones open to make space for her.

She’s still twitching, riding out the last waves of her high, when she places her hands delicately on his face and kisses him like she’s starving. She grabs the bottom of his jaw, tilting his head to deepen it, and her tongue drags across the roof of his mouth like she's staking her claim. The responding groan that escapes him is one of surrender.

Helena makes quick work of his jeans, and doesn't even bother to help him by dragging them down. Her impatient hands pull his flushed and leaking cock straight through the hole in his boxers. It sits hot and heavy in her hand, and Mark hisses as she swipes her thumb across the leaking tip, spreading the wetness she finds there around the head. The small gesture has him gripping her hips so hard he’s surely going to leave a bruise.

He’s not going to last long. He just barely made it this far.

It feels like she can tell. Maybe it’s how pathetically he groans when she rubs her swollen red slit against the length of him, or how his hips cant slightly more towards her when she notches him at her entrance. She’s wearing a slightly amused smile, half of her bottom lip between her teeth while she toys with him.

When she finally takes pity on him and sinks down his cock, it's like all of his breath is strangled out of him. If he thought her skin was warm on the outside, she is absolutely burning on the inside. Every single one of his nerves is on fire. She fits him like a fucking glove, whining as he stretches her open.

The second she’s fully seated on top of him, his hands fly to her waist.

“Wait – wait,” he begs, fuck he’s begging again, his voice is unsteady, “Don’t. Just – shit. Just give me a second.”

“What’s wrong, Mark?” Her voice sounds so innocent. The grin she’s wearing is anything but. Helena giggles, tracing a thumb across his bottom lip. He has to wrench her hand away— the memory of them drinking, the salt, all of it comes rushing back to him in an instant.

A realization slaps him hard in the face: This is just a drunken, sloppy fuck.

She thinks this is funny. This princess in front of him; this girl who's never had to want for anything, rolling around in the dirt with him, dripping wet down to his balls.

He almost forgot how far beneath her he actually is, born into privilege beyond his imagination. Helena Eagan, multi-billion dollar heiress, is going to retire to her solid gold plated mansion tonight with his dirty, low-born fingerprints all over her.

He almost fell for it, didn’t he? That’s what these rich types do, make you feel important and thankful for any ounce of money or attention they deem appropriate to bestow upon you. God, he feels like a fucking idiot all of a sudden. What is he, her pet?

“Hey Mark, where’d you go?” Helena’s concerned eyes scan his face. He blinks back at her, suddenly remembering himself, remembering her wrist is still caught in his crushing grip.

Mark almost apologizes, but then decides against it. That’s not why they’re here. He didn’t drag her out of that restaurant to act all sweet or make love to her, call her fucking nicknames.

He doesn’t answer her at all actually, not with words. Instead, he reaches behind him and pulls the adjustment lever, causing both him and the seat to drop back. The sudden dip causes Helena to lose her balance and fall on top of him, arms caging both sides of his head.

He doesn’t spare her a second glance as he shifts his hips beneath her, pretends she isn’t staring at him wildly as he lifts her up and wrenches her panties to the side.

Mark’s too drunk and angry at himself to care about anything other than fucking the living shit out of her at this point.

No, if she wants to play these little games, she’s not making it out of this car unscathed.

He starts pounding up into her, raising his hips off the seat with every hard thrust to make sure he gets as deep as he can. Helena has to steady herself of her elbows from the force of it, lining her perky little tits up perfectly with his mouth. He takes advantage of the position to suck one greedily into his mouth. There’s nothing nice about this anymore. He’s not interested in taking his time with her, and he’s certainly not going to let her slip back into her little bubble and forget about this, or him.

“Agh fuck –” he bites a bright pink mark roughly into the side of her breast. There’s a responding clench around his dick, and it feels amazing so, fuck it, he does it again. This time, he sucks the skin purple around it— and she replies by gripping him even tighter.

It’s loud now. Every single thrust is punctuated with the weighted slap of his balls. She loves it rough. This would definitely hurt her if her body wasn’t begging for it. He can tell by the way her pussy is swallowing every inch of him up and drenching his cock. Mark’s punching into her so hard he’s sure some of it is going to splash onto the steering wheel. Her hitched breaths are more than enough encouragement to keep him going.

The slap that lands on her ass is ear-ringing. Helena whimpers, drops her forehead onto the headrest, and starts bouncing down in time to meet him.

God, she’s beautiful like this, she’s fucking perfect. He could get addicted to the way her walls squeeze and mold to fit his shape. He’d give up the bottle, hell, he’d give up his job, maybe even his sister if it meant he could have this – have her, wrapped around his dick, keeping it wet and warm twenty-four-fucking seven.

One of Helena’s hands grabs his hair above him and pulls it tightly in her fist. The sudden, sharp pain rips a deep, wrecked moan out from his throat. His balls pull up tighter against his body in warning, and he almost panics, thinking he’s going to come right there.

Mark’s hand moves before he can think about it, wrapping around Helena’s throat. Maybe he did it thinking it would slow things down, or maybe it was to put her in her place. Maybe some part of her really does just fucking want to kill her.

This isn’t really like him. It feels like it’s too much, too dangerous, like holding a lighter too close to the skin. But, as he’s about to remove it, he feels a smaller, more delicate hand land on top of his, squeezing and encouraging.

He does just that, and it’s like throwing gasoline on a fire. He presses his thumb and fingers together until he can feel her racing pulse beneath them.

Mark has never choked a single woman in his life. Not Gemma, not any fleeting girlfriends or one night stands, never.

Similarly, he has never felt more powerful in his entire fucking life than he has in this exact moment.

It’s decided, then. He’s not going to stop until she comes again, not until she’s screaming.

Mark slows his thrusts, and Helena greedily speeds up to compensate.

“Ride it,” he demands in a voice not entirely his own, “Go on, show me.”

He’s acting like a complete asshole, but Mark wants to see it so much it hurts. He wants to watch her use him, to see where his cock disappears inside her. There’s little chance his brain will remember it, not through the swimming haze, but he knows for certain that his body will. Later – when he wakes up hard in the middle of the night from dreaming about this, because he knows he will, and fucks his fist like a cheap imitation of her, he’ll remember. Every drag of his wet first will remind him how she squeezed him within an inch of his life.

Yeah, he’s totally fucked.

She’s a good listener, though, well behaved despite whatever possessed her to seek him out tonight. Helena does as she’s told, rolling her hips in a perfect, steady rhythm, sliding deliciously up and down his length. He could watch her do this forever, the shape of her dark silhouette riding him, deriving pleasure from him. Her pulse jumps beneath his fingers and, fuck, he can feel that same heartbeat in her pussy.

She has one hand on his arm, holding it in place with a tight grip, the other riding up his shirt so she can feel his chest beneath it. Her head is lolling to the side, mouth open with a silent gasp. She’s a vision, taking him so perfectly. He can just barely make out her furrowed dark brows.

He squeezes her throat just a bit tighter.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” It comes out a mean, as if even beneath her like this, he’s trying to put himself above her. He already knows the answer, can feel it in the way her legs are twitching again, how her rhythm is starting to break just slightly, but he wants to hear it for himself. They’re probably never going to see each other again after this, and that makes it matter more to him, for whatever reason.

She nods her head, quick and shallow.

“What’s that?” he asks, positioning his free thumb just barely on to her clit.

The grip on her throat loosens just a bit, “Yes,” she gasps, like she forgot she needed to breathe, “Yes, I’m close.”

“Good girl.” He doesn’t know where any of this is coming from. He’s never fucking said that before. “You look amazing,” he adds, because it’s the truth, “You feel fucking amazing.”

She’s taking him deeper with each pass of her hips. In and out, in and out. It’s going to drive him crazy, being inside her like this, feeling all of her wet heat. It keeps making him forget himself, like she’s soaking into his skin and bones.

As much as he doesn’t want this to end, his back is starting to kill him, and he thinks if he waits any longer he will really be the first known fatal case of blue balls. His sack is genuinely starting to ache from holding it all in, so he decides to take pity on her, pressing quick, deliberate circles into her clit.

Helena doubles over from the sensation, claiming his lips again. They aren’t kissing as much as they’re breathing into each other's mouths. “Fuck, Mark –” she says, grabbing his face.

Tears are beginning to bead in the corners of her eyes, and he begins to wonder how he compares to the laundry list of men she’s likely had in her past. She could have anyone, really. Not just because of the whole money thing, but because she genuinely is one of the most beautiful women he’s ever laid eyes on, especially like this.

She looks even more stunning like this, whimpering directly into his mouth, coming apart and making an absolute mess all over his cock and his jeans. Her pussy is gripping him like a vice, milking him impossibly tighter, soaking him through his underwear as he helps her ride out the waves.

“Fuck, Helly –” The nickname flies out right past his teeth.

He can’t help it. He’s going to come. He has to. He doesn’t have the strength to hold himself back anymore, not after that – not when her cunt is gripping him and literally sucking him in and out every fucking time she clenches. It’s too much. It’s all too much. He’s trembling beneath her.

“H–Helly, Helena, quick,” Mark urgently pats her on the shoulder, “I have to –”

“Shh,” she hushes softly, hotly, into his ear, “It’s okay, go ahead.” Then, she kisses him again, slowly, while grinding lazily against him. It feels less rushed and desperate than before, like she’s exploring his mouth rather than taking from it. She’s taking a moment to just feel him, savor every second she has his cock stuffed inside her before this ends and they have to come back down to reality.

Her hands cradle his head and scratch gently against his sideburns, down his chin. It makes him feel completely enveloped in her, like there’s no escape from the ruinous onslaught of sensation.

Why she would be fine with him coming inside her, he has no fucking idea. They didn’t think to talk this through beforehand, so he doesn’t know whether she’s on birth control or if she’s sterilized or whatever the fuck because he cannot begin to imagine she’d be comfortable with him fucking a baby into her, but Jesus Christ he’s just a man.

The battle within himself is lost when she pulls at his bottom lip, pinching it between her teeth.

Fine, if that’s what the princess wants.

Mark wraps his arms around her and crushes her body against his, pounding into her just a bit wildly. Her tits are rubbing up against his chest, and just out of focus, he can hear Helly giggling between moans.

The heat that’s been building at the base of his spine spreads up to his brain, and Mark comes so hard he blacks out for several seconds. It feels like a part of his soul is breaking off. Helly rides him through it, milking out whatever he has left to give her. It’s a tough angle, since he’s got her trapped in his arms, holding on to her like a lifeline. Every contraction of his balls pumps rope after rope of come into her, filling up her pink, used pussy.

He comes until there’s no more room for him to fill, until she’s so stuffed full of it that their combined mess starts leaking back out onto his jeans.His pants are thoroughly, disgustingly ruined. He’s going to have to fucking burn them when he gets home.

After he settles, they lay like that for several seconds, chests heaving, catching their breath like they’d just run a couples 10K marathon together.

Mark feels noticeably more sober. And younger, honestly. After years of going without, he has no idea how he kept up with this woman. She rang him out though, hung him up to dry like one of her ridiculous 700 thread-count towels – probably has her initials embroidered in the corner of them. He feels a little bit like that too.

They’re still connected when he’s starting to soften up inside her. He gently pats Helena’s back in an attempt to move them both so he can clean them up. There are plenty of tissues in the glovebox, but he’d never imagined he'd be using one like this.

When she turns to face him, he can’t help the ridiculous smile that comes to his face. She’s smiling up at him, too, with her Hollywood whites, and they both start to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.

They don’t get far at all. She seems reluctant to move from her place on his chest.

“Was this some sort of espionage thing?” he asks, running his fingers down her spine. She’s thinner than he thought. Every vertebrae can be felt beneath her skin. Maybe he should invite her over for dinner at some point, though he doubts the frozen meals from the gas station sitting in his freezer would do much to impress her.

“Yeah,” she admits, looking up at him with her ridiculously blue eyes. What the fuck did she see in him, again? “I was really just hoping you’d be more willing to talk about the OTC with me.”

“Drastic measures.”

“Well, anything for Lumon.” Helly rolls her eyes. There’s goosebumps starting to form on her arms. He can feel them, more than he can see them.

He grabs her discarded coat from the passenger's seat and lays it across her back.

Mark wipes just enough fog from the window to take a glance at the empty parking lot. The neon lights of the restaurant are casting a faint red glow, stretching out just far enough to touch the front wheel of his car.

He supposes they can stay there for just a few more minutes.

#markhelena #severance #severance fanfiction #mark scout #helena eagan #markhelly #zufuposting

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heavensenther · 3 months ago

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Thunderbolts* one shot // Not Alone ⚠️ SPOILERS ⚠️

A/n: takes place about a month after the events of Thunderbolts*, I loved Bob and Yelena’s connection no matter if it was platonic or romantic. They have my heart. Enjoy! (P.s. check me out on Wattpad for more consistent updates @_goddess_of_stories !)

The tower is quiet today. Not exactly silent—not like the quiet Bob remembers from the emptiness of the Void. This kind of quiet is nice. Human. Pans clattering in the kitchen, boots hitting tile, Bucky grumbling on the phone behind closed doors.

Bob stands by the window. Not really looking out. Just at. The glass is getting dusty. He could clean it. He probably won't.

Below, Walker stomps in through the side corridor, his training gear still clinging to him like armor he refuses to take off. His mouth moves like he's talking to someone, but no one's there. He's probably just debriefing himself again. He does that a lot. Keeps his self critiques in check.

In the kitchen, Ava's voice rises, sharp and frustrated. "No, no, no, if you flip it now—why are you—Alexei, just listen to me." Alexei rumbles, his accent heavy and unmistakable. "But it is golden brown!"

"You burned it."

"I give more flavor to it, zvezda!"

Bob smiles faintly and turns to Yelena's spot on the couch before remembering she's not there. She had left a scribbled out note on the fridge earlier:

"Visiting Kate Bishop. Back soon. Don't die."

Bob steps away from the window and paces. Not because he has somewhere to go, but because stopping feels like surrender. The Void used to grow in stillness. It still echoes in his bones.

He makes tea. Pours it. Doesn't drink it. Ava watches him carefully. She offers a tight smile, but Bob sees the way she still flinches when he reaches over her head to put the tea box back.

Bucky's still arguing with someone on speakerphone. "No, we're not doing another press tour. You want a soundbite, take Val. She loves cameras. We're busy being human over here."

Human. Bob looks at his hands. They're shaking. Not visibly. Not enough to see. But enough to know.

⧗

It's late. Yelena hasn't returned yet. The tower hums in its sleep. It's nice that the lights are dimmed.

Bob sits on the floor with his back to the couch, knees drawn up. Too tall for the position, too powerful to be this small. His eyes are focused, but not fixed on anything. Like if he lets them close, he'll be back in that hellscape of never ending rooms again.

Eventually, Yelena pads in, half asleep with her sweater hanging off of one shoulder, eyes smudged with makeup. "Look at you," she murmurs, her voice warm and steady. "No one died while I was gone." He offers a tight smile but doesn't answer.

She glances to the mug of tea still full, the half burned candle and abandoned books. The faint tension in his jaw.

"Oh, Bob," she sighs. She sits beside him. Doesn't touch him yet. Just sits, until he breathes again. Then, gently, her hand grazes his—solid and grounding.

"Do you want to talk?" He shakes his head. Words feel heavy in his throat.

"Okay. We don't have to," she concludes. She leans into him, shoulder to shoulder. He feels her heartbeat. Steady. Imperfect. Human.

"It's not as bad," he whispers finally.

"I know."

"But it still hurts. Being... in the middle of everyone. And still... like this."

"Lonely?"

He nods. She exhales, slow. "Me too. Sometimes." He turns to her. "Even with everyone here?" She shrugs. "Even then."

Yelena closes her eyes. "We're all messed up, Bob. That doesn't make us irredeemable."

Bob's voice is barely a whisper. "Then what does?" She shrugs, her tone steady. "Giving up. Letting it win. But you didn't. You're still here."

A pause, then she turns her head slightly toward him. "And when it's bad again—because it will be—call me. I'll come. Even if you can't say anything. Even if all you do is sit here and breathe like small guinea pig." He lets out a small breath of laughter and nods, slowly. It feels like a promise.

They fall asleep like that—slumped together against the couch, the Void held at bay by warmth, contact, and the simple fact of not being alone.

#thunderbolts #marvel fanfiction #marvel #bob reynolds #yelena belova #red guardian #ava starr #john walker #sentry #the void #marvel fanfic #avengers fanfiction #found family

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bobhellscape · 8 months ago

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Ganon work doodle

#ganondorf #doodles #work doodles #artists on tumblr #Bob's hellscape

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fraddit · 8 days ago

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The radio was playing Supernatural songs on my drive so allow me to take you on my thought journey.

A universe slightly different from our own: still a capitalist hellscape obsessed with sequels and reboots, but in this world, Supernatural only ran for five seasons and ended without the stupid Sam reveal. A proper pyrrhic victory, tragic ending. Tack on the gorgeous Bob Seger montage from the start of s6.

Ten to fifteen years go by, and Now they're bringing the show back. Dean's been living a normal life with Lisa and Ben. They were happy together. Well, Dean was as happy as he *could* be, considering how Sam has been heroically and self sacrificingly trapped in Hell for all eternity for the last decade and half.

Apologies, but I'm going to do a misogyny here and say Lisa died of cancer or something a year or two before the start of this new sequel series. I have a terrible love for tragic dead wife stories and I think it works better here. It works better for when Dean is standing alone at Lisa's grave, on the anniversary of her death or her birthday or whatever, and suddenly, out of thin air, next to him is the familiar form of a man in a rumpled suit and trenchcoat. A figure he hasn't seen since that fateful day his brother made the ultimate sacrifice to save the world.

"Dean. I'm sorry," Castiel says in his deep, raspy voice. "I need your help."

#shut up fraddit

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luminouslywriting · 2 months ago

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Chapter 40: Time Bomb—The Prophecy (BoB Fanfiction)

A/N: Soooooooo I admit that this one is war-crime worthy. And the next one? C R I M I N A L. Y'all are gonna come for my head and I know it. So enjoy this shocking one, read the tags, and please let me know what you think!

Chapter Text

To her immense credit, Winnie did well the first three days and nights that they had entered into the treacherous wilderness of winter. She even did well the first week and a half. Everything about the place was bleak and devoid of life and when the snow came down, it didn’t just come down . It blanketed and engulfed as if it were hell itself.

Not a single person in Easy Company had been pleased with Dike’s decision to place her on the line. Perhaps it had something to do with good old moralism or the gendered specifics of her being a woman.

But there was grumbling in Easy Company at a woman, even Winnie, sitting in a frigid foxhole with nothing but the dirt to keep her warm.

That wasn’t the part that bothered Winnie though. She had dealt with the frigid cold before, she had dealt with the elements and she knew that she could survive. She knew how to conserve heat and had no shame in saddling up real nice and close to just about anyone if it meant survival.

No heroes in her family, just survivors.

That was the deal.

And if Nate had made it to a Stalag and survived, then she could survive this hellscape of the wilderness.

No, the worst part was the silence in between the shellings. It seemed to fall around them just as much as the cold did—haunting every visible breath that she gave. Winnie wasn’t used to the muted colors that seemed to make everything colder. The way that the sun didn’t want to appear from out behind the clouds, the way that everything here was grey and white with snow or coated in some sort of crimson.

Fires were impossible here and nothing could be cooked, not even the beans.

And therein lies the first of Winnie’s troubles whilst in Bastogne.

One particular morning, after sharing a foxhole with none other than Joe Toye and George Luz, Winnie had found her stomach tight and curled ready to vomit. It was a strange sensation in her gut—and one that she wasn’t altogether familiar with. It wasn’t food poisoning, or she was certain she would have had issues with the other end of things too.

It wasn’t hunger induced—no, that was a familiar feeling she had known most of her entire life and it hadn’t ever caused her to be nauseous. Not once.

So Winnie quietly excused herself to use the latrine, or whatever the hell passed for that these days (often just a snowy bank that hid her from view from the other men). Any sort of dignity that Winnie had determined to have seemed long since gone.

She carefully pulled herself out of the foxhole, muscles straining and nearly shaking to the point where she was certain that she was sick with something serious. Winnie didn’t shake. She didn’t get the shakes. And she certainly had never once had a problem pulling herself out of the ground before.

It was no sooner that she had made it to the snowbank that she had retched into the snow, the smell of beans and bile filling the frigid air. Her stomach was in violent rebellion, and the convulsions it sent through her stomach nearly made her drop to her knees. Winnie braced a hand against the bark, mentally counting the breaths through her nose to try and keep herself from getting too exhausted as she vomited the limited contents of her stomach.

The sweat her body was exuding was almost worse because now she was warm in the snow and it was causing flashes of hot and cold to go through her like rapid fire. No one called for the medic—she was the doctor, after all.

But that didn’t stop Eugene Roe from hearing the sounds of retching and quietly moving through the snow and the foxholes, making his way to her side.

Winnie was barely aware of him placing a hand on her back and she stiffened at the touch. As soon as she did, his hand was off of her back and he was just standing there, staring at her and trying to figure out what was wrong.

“Food poisoning?” He asked the very thing that Winnie had already mentally eliminated.

“Probably,” She easily replied. It was a lie, a very surgical one. One that only she could give. She wasn’t one to lie usually. And God forgive her, this was a lie she needed to tell until she could be more certain about whatever the hell her body was rebelling against. And she prayed that her first thought was not true.

“You need to hydrate.”

“Said the medic to the doctor who trained him,” Winnie wiped at her mouth, letting out a ragged breath.

At that, he gave a wry smile. “Just concerned.”

“You don’t need to worry about me, Gene,” Winnie insisted firmly. “I’ll be right as rain in a bit. Just you see.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She wished she could say that things got worse, but sitting in a foxhole later with Eugene Roe, since he had practically insisted upon the thing, didn’t make her feel any better. Snow was falling again and they had covered the foxhole with a blanket, making as much of a tarp as they dared to.

Any southern gentlemanly propriety that Roe had went out the window when they crawled into that foxhole, Winnie’s knees knocking against his. He wordlessly pulled her legs into his lap and the two of them tangled together, arms wrapped around one another as she continued to shake.

“You’ve got a fever,” came the soft mumbled reply from Roe.

“Just feel shitty, that’s all. Food poisoning,” Winnie murmured.

The snow fell.

She continued to lie.

“You’re gonna get worse in this weather.”

“I’ve been through worse,” she retorted, pressing her cheek to his neck. It felt wrong, doing this, even to keep warm. He was Reba’s through and through. But this was survival and it was not like that between them.

“I don’t know if I have. Physically, I mean.”

“Tell me about the hottest summer in Louisiana,” Winnie mumbled out, eyes fluttering shut and she felt the frost from the snow on the tips of her eyelashes.

There was a slight pause. “Well the cicadas start to sing,” he murmured, and Winnie could almost hear them now. “And it’s so hot that it feels like moving in molasses or honey. You lay down in the dirt so that the sun doesn’t getcha worse. Made my bones simmer and felt like I was boilin’, honestly.”

“I’d take that any day,” Winnie replied quietly.

Silence again between the two of them. Then the feeling of something wet between Winnie’s legs and she just sat there quietly. Blood. In her trousers. Spotting. Something she hadn’t done in months. Not since before the attack on the hospital.

She should’ve been relieved, but knowing all the sorts of symptoms of pregnancy like she did, Winnie just felt like she was going to be sick again. So there she sat, mentally running through the checklist of things that she had been feeling in this frozen hellscape known as Bastogne.

Nausea? Check.

Inability to eat at times? Check.

Breast tenderness? Check.

Spotting? Check.

Exhaustion that was more than bone-deep? Check.

Dizziness? She had almost collapsed earlier from just trying to get into Eugene’s foxhole for the night. Double-check.

Cramping? Currently experiencing that as she sat there.

Swelling that wasn’t from the cold? Also check.

It was a textbook pregnancy and Winnie just stared at the dirt, the realization slowly sinking over her and dragging her into the depths of its horror. There was a slight pinch to her shoulder and Winnie glanced at Roe, realizing that he had been trying to talk to her.

“Hm?” She mumbled.

“Lost you there for a sec’, Winnie.”

“Just tired,” Winnie murmured.

“Liar,” he retorted softly.

“Yeah,” she admitted after a beat of silence. “Yeah I am,” she murmured, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“What’s goin’ on?” He murmured, breath tickling against her face.

How did she even begin to tell him? That the attack had almost certainly left her pregnant and now she was dealing with the ramifications? How did she tell him that the attack that had killed Reba and Eileen had left her pregnant with a half-Nazi child? How did she tell him that she was stuck here in Bastogne without a way out and suddenly pregnant? How did she deal with any of this?

“Well,” Winnie said softly. “I think I’ve figured out the ramifications of what happened in Holland,” she whispered.

Silence.

The dawn of understanding.

Him glancing her over like she had suddenly grown another head. “No, no, no—you’re not—you can’t be—” He breathed out in a panic.

“Well I think I am,” Winnie retorted, sucking in a sharp breath and trying to gather her wits. “And there’s nothing to be done now.”

They didn’t say the word. It would’ve felt too much like gunfire or a shot being fired at them or a bomb going off. And truth be told, that’s exactly what Winnie was with this sort of thing inside of her now. Just something waiting to go off and implode the entirety of Easy Company, ruining them beyond damnation.

“Nothing to be done—no. No . You’re gonna go to Winters and Nixon and you’re gonna tell them and they’re gonna get you the hell away from this place and you’re gonna figure out options and you can’t be here like this, not you—”

“I know. I know, Gene. I know,” Winnie said quietly. “I’ll tell them in the morning.”

“Do you—”

“Yes, I want you there,” Winnie murmured. “You’re my friend. And I trust you.”

“Do you know what you’re gonna do?”

“Not a clue, Gene. Not a damn clue.”

She didn’t. It was a violation of the highest degree, to be growing something as dark and twisted and haunting as what happened to her that day inside of her. And yet—Winnie was a woman who believed in the sanctity of life. Had she not said when they jumped into Holland that those mothers didn’t deserve to be judged for how they chose to survive?

That those children hadn’t chosen their origins and they were not inherently evil, just made from an act of it.

Winnie was all sorts of tangled in this wrestle with God over the sanctity of life, her professional opinion as a doctor who believed in choice for the mother—as someone who had been through horrors and helped women through them alike—and wanting to be rid of this presence as soon as possible.

She didn’t want it to be real. Didn’t want it to have a heartbeat because she knew that the moment that it did, that it became real, she would want it. She would love it.

That’s just what Winnie did. She had already been a mother five times previous to her brothers. What was one more child on that list of her children? But then the thoughts would come back and swallow her.

This was Bastogne. This was the frontlines. She was in a damn foxhole. There wasn’t an aid station—yet, though they were working on it—and there was no way for her to be evacuated out. She’d be dishonorably discharged—Sink had said as much back when he had first talked to her about jumping on D-Day and some of the consequences that could arise should things go badly for her.

She wouldn’t have pay. Wouldn’t have a husband to go back to. Wouldn’t have anyone for her waiting at home. She certainly couldn’t return to being a trauma doctor in Buford in that small town where everyone knew who she was.

And there was the fact that this child would be half-German—half-Nazi—and it made her want to scream and beat the dirt walls of this foxhole until her fingers bled.

“I’m so angry,” Winnie mumbled out, the words feeling like weakness and a poison on her tongue.

But Roe didn’t say anything. He just wrapped his arms more tightly around her and buried his face in her hairline. He didn’t need to say anything. He wasn’t going anywhere. And since she had held him in his worst moments, he was now doing the same to her. And for Winnie Allen? That was enough.

#band of brothers oc #band of brothers hbo #band of brothers fanfiction #band of brothers fic #band of brothers #winnie allen #the prophecy #ron speirs x oc #ronald speirs x oc

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