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asxgard · 21 days ago

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gIRL YOURE NOT ALLOWED TO MAKE ME CRY BEFORE BED🫵😭

Here I was, hoping it would end before she DIED and hoping from the bits you’ve sent me that it would have a happier ending!! and nope, you had to go and rip my heart out. I cried and then I cried more when he read the letter. That was just???

Despite all the tears, I loved it🥹😭Bob deserves all the love!! You write him really well and damn, I’m still crying — loving someone despite a very real, very tragic end was such a lovely message, even if it’s also heartbreaking.

Imma need a whole lotta fluff now after that ooooof

𝐍𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐡𝐞𝐦

𝙍𝙤𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙩 “𝘽𝙤𝙗” 𝙍𝙚𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙨 𝙭 𝘾𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙣!𝙁𝙚𝙢!𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 – 𝙏𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙨𝙖𝙮 𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙨 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚𝙨. 𝙈𝙖𝙮𝙗𝙚 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚. 𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙢, 𝙞𝙩’𝙨 𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙚 𝙢𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙝𝙨—𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩’𝙨 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙜𝙚𝙩. 𝙎𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨 𝙙𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙚𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙜 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙡𝙤𝙬, 𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙗𝙮𝙚. 𝙃𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙨 𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙙𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙣𝙙, 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙖 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜.

𝙒.𝘾. – 7.5𝙆

𝙂𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚 – 𝙎𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣 𝙖𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙜𝙞𝙣𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚𝙧𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙨, 𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚, 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙞𝙘 𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚, 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩/𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩, 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙮, 𝙥𝙨𝙮𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙤𝙜𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙢𝙖, 𝙙𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙖𝙘𝙮, 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚.

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 – 𝙏𝙚𝙧𝙢𝙞𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙞𝙡𝙡𝙣𝙚𝙨𝙨 (𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙡𝙚-𝙣𝙚𝙜𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙢𝙚𝙩𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙘 𝙗𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙧), angst, 𝙨𝙢𝙪𝙩 (𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙨𝙪𝙖𝙡, 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙚, 𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙜𝙚𝙙), fluff, 𝙢𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙖𝙡 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨 (𝙨𝙮𝙢𝙥𝙩𝙤𝙢𝙨, 𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙪𝙨𝙖𝙡, 𝙚𝙣𝙙-𝙤𝙛-𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚), 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙑𝙤𝙞𝙙, 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛 𝙖𝙣𝙙 possible 𝙙𝙚𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙤𝙛 𝙖 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙧, 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙥𝙖𝙨𝙩 𝙖𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙧𝙖𝙪𝙢𝙖, 𝙖𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙧𝙮, 𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙫𝙪𝙡𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮, 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙋𝙏𝙎𝘿 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙩𝙝 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙜𝙜𝙡𝙚𝙨 (𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙡𝙪𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝘽𝙤𝙗’𝙨), 𝙧𝙚𝙛𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙧𝙚, 𝙖𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙛𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙩𝙮, 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙚𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙥𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛, 𝙠𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙣 𝙨𝙝𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙜𝙖𝙣𝙨, 𝙗𝙞𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙬𝙚𝙚𝙩 𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚.

𝘼/𝙉 - 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮 𝙬𝙧𝙚𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙙 𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜—𝙄 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙮 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙁𝙤𝙧 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙤’𝙨 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙧𝙤𝙪𝙜𝙝 𝙜𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙛, 𝙤𝙧 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙨𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙩 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮.

This one is for you, babes @asxgard 🫵🏻👀❤️‍🩹

The folding chairs in the community room at St. Margaret’s Recovery Center were mismatched and creaky, and the fluorescent lights hummed overhead in a way that made Bob Reynolds’ skin itch. But he sat anyway, long limbs tucked in uncomfortably, a cup of instant coffee cooling in his hands.

He was here for them. The others.

A man named Luis was shakily recounting the time he stole a car stereo to buy fentanyl, his voice cracking when he mentioned how he hadn’t seen his daughter in five years. The room stayed quiet and kind. No one judged. That’s why Bob came. It wasn’t always about what he said—it was about the fact that he showed up at all.

The door opened mid-share, a breeze of cold air cutting in.

“Sorry, sorry,” a woman whispered as she ducked in, clutching a canvas tote and a pet carrier, with a dark furball sleeping in it. She looked like she hadn’t slept well, wrapped in a threadbare gray hoodie and baggy jeans. She didn’t smell like perfume—more like laundry detergent and the faintest trace of cat.

Bob looked up briefly, then down again. Something about her felt like gravity.

She sat at the back, exchanging a quiet nod with one of the staff. Her friend, Bob assumed.

After the circle broke and people began to gather in twos and threes—plastic cups refilled, someone passed around store-bought cookies—Bob drifted toward the coffee table. So did she.

They reached for the same sugar packet at the same time. Their fingers brushed.

What a fucking cliché.

“Oh—sorry,” she said, a small smile flickering across her lips. “I’m not actually in the group. I just came with Jules—she works here,” she blurted, as she played with a sugar pocket. “She invited me to come—well, more like she forced me. To leave the house.”

Bob looked at her, really looked this time.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I’m just here to listen.”

She tilted her head. “You volunteer?”

“I guess. You could say that.” He paused. “It helps me stay grounded.”

She nodded as if that made perfect sense. “For-former nursing student,” she offered after a beat. “Used to volunteer, then work nights in a nursing home. Gave good sponge baths, terrible coffee. Dreams of truly becoming a nurse.” She glanced away. “Had to… shelve that.”

Bob’s brow furrowed just slightly. “Why?”

She shrugged, a gesture so simple it hurt. “Life,” she said. “And a body that didn’t keep up.”

A pause stretched between them.

Bob opened his mouth to say something—anything—but her friend Jules called her over. “Hey! We’ve got to be out in five!”

“Duty calls,” she said with a breath of humor. She turned to go, then glanced over her shoulder. “Take care, Bob-the-volunteer.”

He blinked. “Wait—I didn’t catch your name.”

“I guess you didn’t,” she said with a grin.

Then she was gone.

────୨ৎ────

A few weeks later, Bob was standing in line at a small neighborhood pet store near the New Avengers’ Watchtower, holding a giant bag of salmon-flavored kibble that Alpine—Bucky’s very opinionated cat—had decided was the only food she’d touch while Bucky was away on mission. He had offered to take care of her, since of almost all the members of the group, she felt most attached to him after Buck.

As he reached the front, he heard a familiar voice ahead of him at the counter.

“No, not the chicken pâté, the one with the little pumpkin blend. Mayhem gets picky when she’s stressed.”

Bob looked up. And there she was.

She turned, startled, as if she could sense him.

“Oh my god,” she said, grinning. “Salmon man,” she pointed out to the bag of kibble.

He raised an eyebrow. “You again.”

She laughed softly, then noticed what he was carrying. “So you’re cat-sitting?”

“Alpine,” he said. “My friend’s cat. She has opinions.”

“Mayhem’s the same. She’s one of my latest fosters.” She gestured to the small carrier at her feet. A pair of tiny black ears and vivid green eyes peered out from the shadows.

“Foster?” Bob asked.

“I don’t work anymore. So I take care of kittens for the shelter. Temporary residents at my place.” She looked down, brushing imaginary lint off her sleeve. “Figured if I can’t save people, maybe I can save hairballs, with no thoughts behind those striking eyes.”

The way she said it—like it wasn’t meant to sound sad, but it kind of was—knocked something loose in Bob’s chest.

“I never got your name,” he said.

She tilted her head. “Nope. Still haven’t.”

He laughed. “I’m Bob.”

“I know, Bob-the-volunteer.” She smiled at him before telling him her name.

There was a pause. Bob swallowed.

“Would you want to grab dinner sometime?” he asked. “I mean, if you’re not busy saving kittens.”

Her smile softened. “That’s kind of you. But, I… don’t date. Not anymore.”

His face fell slightly, but he nodded. “Okay. Just thought I’d ask.”

They paid, made small talk. She loaded the kitten into a cloth sling at her chest like a sleepy baby. Big green eyes looking around.

As she turned to leave, she hesitated.

“If we ever run into each other here again,” she said, voice low, “maybe we could get that dinner. One dinner. Just so it’s not awkward. T-the hypothetical next time we bump into each other?”

Bob smiled. “Deal.”

He couldn’t stop thinking about her, not until, they did, in fact, bump into each other again four days later.

Their ‘one dinner’ was at a quiet Lebanese place tucked between a laundromat and a bodega. Low lighting, cracked leather booths, and music so soft it barely registered. She picked it because it was close to her apartment and she knew the servers—they gave her free tea when she brought the kittens in to visit.

Bob showed up with his hands in his jacket pockets and an awkward, quiet sort of hope in his eyes.

She wore a simple black cardigan, a bit of color on her lips, and a hesitation that hovered between every breath.

“No flowers?” she joked gently, eyeing his empty hands.

“I figured you wouldn’t want the cliché,” he said, lips twitching. “Besides, I read somewhere lilies are for funerals.”

Her brow lifted. “Morbid.”

��You started it.”

And just like that, the tension cracked.

They ordered too much food. She stole falafel off his plate; he didn’t even pretend to protest. They talked about cats. About movies they loved. About stupid jobs they’d had as teenagers. She told him about the time she had to chase down a dementia patient, while volunteering at the home, who escaped in a hospital gown and fuzzy slippers. He told her about working at Alfredo's Bail Bonds, wearing a chicken suit as the restaurant's mascot.

But near the end, as the check came and the plates sat nearly empty, her smile faltered.

“I need to be honest,” she said, tracing the rim of her glass.

He looked up immediately, attentive.

“I wasn’t joking, that day. About my body not keeping up.”

His posture shifted, ever so slightly. “Okay.”

“I have metastatic breast cancer,” she said plainly. “Triple-negative. Aggressive. It’s already spread. They gave me a timeline.”

Silence settled around the table like dust.

“I’m not in treatment,” she went on. “I tried once. Chemo nearly killed me faster than the cancer. It came back anyway. I decided not to do it again. So—what I’m saying is—I’m dying. And I don’t want pity, or a savior. I don’t want to be someone’s heartbreak project. I want to focus on Mayhem, find her a good family.”

Bob’s face didn’t change in the way she expected. No flinch. No sharp intake of breath. Just quiet understanding. Deep. Anchored.

“You thought that would scare me off,” he said gently.

She met his gaze. “Wouldn’t it scare you? Come on, I've just practically dropped a bomb on you.”

He didn’t answer right away. Then: “I’ve lived through a lot of endings. But I don’t think I’ve ever really lived through love.”

“To drop the word 'love' to a person you've seen only a handful of times, that's intense stuff, Bob."

“Friendship, then. Maybe?”

A pause.

“You don’t have to give me forever,” he said. “Just give me now.”

She looked at him, long and hard. “You say that now. But when I’m in pain, when I’m not able to walk far, or eat, or breathe without help… You’ll wish you hadn’t.”

“Maybe,” he said honestly. “But I’ll still want to be there.”

She didn’t answer. But when they stepped outside into the cold night air, she didn’t pull away when his hand brushed hers.

────୨ৎ────

They began to see each other once or twice a week. Always her place—small, second floor, plants in the windowsill, and a kitten in various states of chaos. Mayhem, claimed Bob’s lap immediately.

They built rituals.

Tea with honey every evening she had energy. Rooibos for her. Chamomile for him.

Late-night walks, slow ones. She got winded easily, so he adjusted his pace without her ever asking.

Rooftop stargazing on the crumbling building above her apartment. She brought a threadbare blanket. He brought the good thermos. Sometimes they didn’t speak at all.

He never pushed.

He stayed even when she warned him again, softly, that she was already slipping. “The decline starts slow,” she said one night. “You’ll notice the tiredness before anything else. Then the brain fog, the forgetting, when this thing gets to my already mushy brain. I’ll start losing my grip on the good days.”

Bob listened. Always. Quietly.

One night, they sat on her couch, her head on his shoulder. Mayhem curled up between them.

“Why don’t you run?” she asked suddenly.

“Because running never got me anywhere good,” he replied. “And because I don’t want to.”

“I’m not your redemption story, you know?”

“I don’t need you to be.”

She looked at him, eyes burning.

“You’re going to love me, and I’m going to die. How is that fair to you?”

Bob’s voice was quiet. “How is it fair to anyone, ever, to love someone and lose them? But we still do it. Because the loving part matters. The caring for someone does.”

And then—frustrated, scared, aching—she said, “You should go. You should find someone whole. Someone—“

He didn’t move.

“Dammit, Bob. Don’t you get it!?” Her voice cracked. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want you to matter.”

He looked at her—soft, steady.

“You didn’t want to matter either,” he said. “But you do, woman.”

And in the silence that followed, she kissed him. Fierce, trembling, like trying to stop the tide with her hands.

He kissed her back like she was something sacred.

When she pulled away, she muttered, “You’re so idiotic—so damn stupid for doing this.”

“Maybe,” he whispered. “But I’m here.”

────୨ৎ────

She didn’t say “I love you.”

She thought it sometimes. Quietly. When he curled around her at night like he could guard her from what was coming. When he hummed to Mayhem in the kitchen while scooping kibble into a bowl. When he kissed her wrist instead of her mouth on the days her breath was short and her mouth tasted like metal. She thought it when he stayed past midnight cleaning up after a nosebleed, never flinching. Never backing away.

But she didn’t say it.

Saying it felt like handing him the knife and asking him to hold it to his own chest.

It wasn’t fair. It would never be.

So instead, she said things like “I like you being here,” and “I sleep better when you’re around.”

Bob understood. He didn’t push.

He just stayed.

────୨ৎ────

The first time she collapsed, it was a Tuesday.

She was walking from the kitchen to the bedroom with a mug of tea in hand, and then she wasn’t. She was on the floor, blinking up at the ceiling, breath shallow and mug shattered beside her.

Bob had been in the bathroom trimming his beard. He ran to her like the floor had opened beneath him.

“No—hey, hey, I’ve got you, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

She was shaking. Disoriented. Embarrassed.

“Blood pressure,” she whispered. “Too low, again. It’s happened before, nothing new.”

He carried her to the couch, got her a cool cloth, and knelt beside her like a soldier kneeling before his commander.

When she was lucid again, she found his hands trembling. His eyes red-rimmed.

“You shouldn’t have to see this,” she said, voice hoarse.

“I want to see it,” he said. “I want to be here for all of it. The good and the shit. You don’t get to push me out just because it’s scary.”

She reached up and touched his cheek, thumb swiping the faint trace of moisture.

“I’m not scared for me,” she said. “I’m scared for you. This is not fair, Robby.”

Robby.

He leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

“I’ve survived worse,” he whispered. “But I won’t survive walking away.”

After that, he started staying over more often.

At first, she called it “a couple nights a week.”

Then it became most nights.

He never made a big deal of it. He brought his favorite hoodie and a spare toothbrush, quietly folded his missions around her appointments, slipped into her world like he’d always belonged.

It became their home.

On good days, they walked to the little corner market together. On really good days, they danced in the kitchen to Nina Simone and Otis Redding while Mayhem batted at their feet—she was so chaotic and mischievous, such a little demon, that requests to adopt her were almost conspicuous by their absence.

On bad days, he read to her—his voice low and calm—even when she couldn’t keep her eyes open. On worse days, he held her hair back while she vomited into the sink and said, “You’re okay. I’ve got you,” over and over like a prayer.

And sometimes—just sometimes—when his hands started to tremble, or his vision narrowed, or a news headline triggered something in him he couldn’t name, she would pull him down into her lap and run her fingers through his hair, slow and steady, until the shaking stopped.

They carried each other like sacred things.

────୨ৎ────

The first time they made love was on a soft night in early spring.

The window was cracked open just enough to let in the cool breeze, and the smell of rain that had passed through earlier still clung faintly to the world outside. The sky was that deep blue right before dusk settles into true night, and in the kitchen, warm light pooled around her as she plated dinner—just pasta and roasted vegetables, simple and comforting, the only kind of cooking she felt up for lately. She wore a soft sweater that slipped off one shoulder and a pair of threadbare leggings. The scent of basil and garlic clung to her skin.

Bob arrived just as she was lighting a candle for the table—unnecessary, but it made the room feel gentler, like time had slowed. He carried a bundle of fresh lavender tied up with kitchen string, and a tiny paper bag from the bakery she loved, the one with the lemon cookies dusted in sugar.

“You’re spoiling me,” she said, smiling.

“I like watching you smile,” he said simply. “Figured I’d give myself a gift.”

He looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes, the kind that didn’t just come from sleep deprivation. A faint bruise bloomed near his collarbone, just above the neckline of his shirt—he’d been on a mission the day before, one that had gone sideways, he said, but it was fine now, nothing to worry about. Still, his eyes lingered on her like she was the only soft place left in a world made of sharp edges. She caught him staring at her once, halfway through dinner, and he didn’t look away.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Now I am,” he murmured, and reached for her hand across the table.

Later, in bed, the hush between them was reverent, like the air before a storm or a cathedral at dusk.

They kissed for a long time first, half-under the covers, half-tangled in each other’s limbs. The kind of kissing that made the world drop away—slow and searching, a conversation of mouths and sighs. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing lightly across her cheekbone, grounding her. She curled her fingers into his shirt, then under it, dragging her nails across his back in a silent ask.

He groaned, quiet and breathy, like he didn’t mean to let it out.

When they undressed each other, it wasn’t rushed—there was no tearing or frantic fumbling. Just gentle discovery. Reverence. Her sweater caught at her elbow and he helped her out of it, kissing the bare skin of her shoulder as it was revealed. She pushed his shirt up slowly and pressed her lips to the bruise just below his collarbone, lingering there like she could kiss the pain away.

“You sure?” she asked again, barely above a whisper, searching his face.

“I want everything,” he said, voice low and steady. “I want you. You have no idea how fucking much.” He almost whimpered, shaking in need now.

“Did you just whimpered—? Fuck, that was hot.” She pulled him down to her again.

Their bodies met in slow, tender rhythm, the kind that built not from urgency but from knowing. He started above her, hands braced on either side of her head, his forehead resting against hers as they moved together, breath synced. Her legs curled around his waist and she arched up into him, gasping when he filled her—stretching and grounding her in equal measure. Her nails dug lightly into the backs of his shoulders, not from pain, but from the sheer feeling of it.

He kissed her through every shiver and sigh. Her mouth, her jaw, the spot just beneath her ear that made her whimper. She bit his shoulder once, playful and unthinking, and he huffed a soft laugh before groaning, grinding deeper into her like it undid him.

“Damn, you’re gonna kill me,” he murmured against her throat.

“Good—well, maybe not.” she breathed, smiling, and kissed him hard.

At some point, she rolled him onto his back, straddling his hips, bracing herself on his chest. Her hair spilled over her shoulder and tickled his face. He looked up at her like she was a miracle. Like he couldn’t believe she was real and here and choosing him.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said, running his hands over her thighs, up her waist. His thumbs traced the curve of her hipbones like they were holy.

“Right back at you, cowboy.”

She rode him slow, their movements fluid and unhurried, more about closeness than climax. He sat up halfway to meet her, one hand splayed across her lower back, holding her to him as he kissed her again—deep and aching.

Then, they increased their pace, making it a bit messy and rough, but not too much.

When she gasped, he caught it with his mouth. When she moaned, he kissed it into something sacred. His fingers found the back of her neck, the curve of her lower spine, the soft place where her pulse fluttered.

She leaned forward, and he caught her lower lip between his fingers, caressing it with a gentleness that nearly undid her. His thumb brushed across it, then he leaned up and kissed her again—tender at first, then deeper, nibbling gently until she gasped against his tongue.

They moved again—sideways this time, shifting instinctively into something even softer. She lay on her side, back to his chest, and he curled around her like a shelter, one arm under her head, the other cupping her hip, guiding her with slow, rolling thrusts that made her tremble and whisper his name like it was a secret.

Tears slipped from her eyes—she didn’t even know why. Maybe because it felt too good. Too real. Too much like something she’d never get to keep.

Bob kissed them away, murmuring against her skin, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

When they finally fell apart together, it wasn’t fireworks—it was warmth and stillness, a kind of peaceful unraveling. She pressed her forehead to his and breathed with him until everything settled.

Afterward, they lay tangled in the sheets, her head on his chest, their legs still knotted. His fingers traced circles on her bare shoulder, and she played lazily with the ends of his hair. Her skin felt tender, loved. So did her heart.

“I wish we had more time,” she whispered into the silence.

Bob didn’t lie. He never did. He just kissed her temple and whispered, “Then let’s live the hell out of the time we do have.”

She nodded against his chest, a soft hum of agreement.

And in that quiet, candlelit room, under the hush of spring, it felt—for a moment—like time had finally decided to wait for them.

────୨ৎ────

It was in the way her hands trembled while trying to stir the honey into her tea.

How she missed words sometimes, reaching mid-sentence into silence with furrowed brows and a quiet, “What was I saying?”

It was in the bruises that bloomed easier, darker, as if her skin was giving up secrets before her lips did.

Her body betrayed her first.

And she tried to keep it quiet at first—playing it down, calling the fatigue a “bad day,” brushing off the coughing fits and the bruises, the slurred words, the fall she swore “was nothing.”

But Bob saw it. He saw it all.

One night she collapsed in the hallway between the bathroom and the bedroom. He heard the soft thump—barely audible, like a pillow hitting the floor—but his instincts kicked in like a lightning bolt.

He was on his knees beside her in seconds.

“I’m fine,” she gasped, flushed, breath short, one wrist already swelling. “I just got dizzy. I—”

“You’re not fine,” he said, voice breaking. “And it’s okay.”

He held her close. She cried into his shoulder.

He carried her to bed, and stayed up watching her chest rise and fall all night long, counting every breath like a sacred vow.

The hospital stays began after that.

Short ones at first. A few nights for dehydration, an infection that wouldn’t clear, a chemo-related complication even though she wasn’t on chemo anymore. Then there was a seizure scare—brain metastases, they said gently, words wrapped in sterile white light and soft voices.

Bob hated hospitals. He hated the smell, the sounds, the memories. The taste of too many days lost in places just like this.

But he sat by her side every time. Brought Mayhem’s favorite blanket. Taped a drawing she made on the IV pole—a stick figure of a black kitten with heart that said, “still here.”

He read to her when she was too tired to talk. He played music on his phone, soft old jazz, classic rock, movies soundtracks, warm indie folk. He made bad jokes about hospital food and wonky bed remotes. He brought chamomile tea from home because she swore hospital tea tasted like regret and piss.

When she was lucid, they talked.

Really talked.

About death. About what came after. About what didn’t.

“I’m not scared of dying,” she said one night, voice fragile in the hospital dark. “I’m scared of leaving too little behind. About leaving you behind, Robby.”

Bob took her hand, thumb grazing her wrist.

“You’ve already left more than most people ever do,” he whispered. “You made me want to live, darling.”

At home, she wrote letters.

One for Bob. One for Mayhem: “To be read by your next forever mom or dad, you rascal”, it said. One for her friend Jules, who dragged her to that recovery center meeting where she met him. A few for other patients she’d met during her own cancer journey—notes of hope, humor, brutal honesty.

The one for Bob took the longest.

She kept it in a small envelope, hidden inside a book she knew he would read after—the one they read aloud together some nights, alternating pages, voices low and tender.

She never told him she was writing them.

He found out later. Much later.

────୨ৎ────

The night she said “I love you,” it came out of a dream.

She woke up gasping, hand clenched in the sheets, tears wet on her cheeks.

Bob sat up instantly, heart hammering, reaching for her.

“I’m here. I’m here.”

She blinked at him, disoriented. Scared.

“I was… I was gone. And you were still looking for me.”

He held her face gently, thumbs brushing her temples.

“I’ll never stop looking for you,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against hers.

And then she said it. “I love you.”

It wasn’t a whisper. It was fragile and clear and raw, like cracked porcelain cradled between them.

Bob leaned in and kissed her forehead, “I love you,” he replied, voice thick. “Since the pet store. Since the first night you gave me your favorite mug and told me to not drop it.”

She laughed a little, hiccupping, and pulled him down until they lay curled around each other like the world might break but this moment wouldn’t.

────୨ৎ────

He didn’t propose marriage. He proposed presence.

It was one evening, while they sat on the rooftop wrapped in layers of blankets, stars blurry through light pollution but still there.

She was thinner now. Color draining from her skin, as the days went by. Her voice came and went, rough and hoarse. But her fingers were warm when he held them.

“I know you’re still trying to protect me,” he said, quiet, without accusation. “But it’s not about sparing me. It’s about what I want, too.”

She looked at him, tired but still sharp.

“And what do you want?”

“You,” he said. “To the end.”

He didn’t need a ceremony or rings. Just permission.

After a long pause, she nodded. “You already have me,” she said. “But okay. You can stay. Even when it gets really bad.”

He kissed her knuckles.

“It’s already really bad,” he said softly. “But it’s also the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

They lived the hell out of the time they had left.

He held her when she cried. She steadied him when his mind frayed. They watched stars when she could, and on the nights she couldn’t leave the bed, he pointed out constellations from memory on the ceiling with his fingers, drawing them in the air. Sometimes he would make them up.

She told him once that she didn’t think she could ever feel lucky again.

Then she looked at him: “But then you walked in.”

“And I stayed, which has been the greatest honor of my life.”

────୨ৎ────

The day before she died was a good day.

The kind of day that had become rare—precious. She woke up without nausea. Her hands trembled, but not so badly she couldn’t hold a spoon. Bob made tea and toast while Mayhem patrolled the windowsills like a sleepy little gremlin, her mews grumpy and loud.

“Ekekek-“ she would chirp as she watched with frustration a bird in the other side of the window.

They watched an old movie—one she loved and half-quoted even though her voice was slower now, her sentences softer, occasionally trailing into silence when fatigue crept in. Bob didn’t mind. He filled in the lines when she forgot them.

They danced again. Barely more than swaying, her arms around his waist, face tucked against his chest.

“I don’t want it to end yet,” she murmured, her voice nearly inaudible beneath the low hum of the record spinning in the corner. The soft crackle of vinyl filled the space between words like breath between heartbeats. “I know I don’t have much time left.”

Bob held her tighter, arms wrapped fully around her as they swayed gently in the living room. Her cheek was pressed to his chest, right over his heart.

“Then don’t go,” he said, his voice attempting levity—but it cracked slightly at the edges.

She laughed against his shirt, a quiet exhale that sounded like surrender and affection and inevitability all braided into one.

That night, she reached for his hand as he cleared the mugs from their late tea. Her fingers curled around his, tugging him toward the bedroom. “Come to bed early,” she said softly.

He tilted his head, a gentle smile tugging at his mouth. “Tired?”

She shook her head. “Not because I’m tired,” she murmured, and something flickered in her eyes—mischief, desire, memory. “Because I want you. Like that. How can I not? I mean—have you seen yourself lately? That stubble of yours is driving me crazy, my love.”

Bob chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You like that, huh?”

She leaned up on her toes, brushing her lips against the scratch of his jaw. “I love it,” she whispered. “And I need to feel… me. Just for a little while. Not sick. Not dying. Just a woman who wants her man.”

And he understood. God, he understood. She wanted to reclaim her body, her desires. To feel like herself again—not the version disappearing by inches, but the one who still craved closeness, who still chose him. Not as her nurse, or guardian, or someone just waiting for the end—but as her partner. Her love.

Their lovemaking that night was quiet. Reverent. Like a prayer whispered beneath blankets, made of skin and breath and memory.

He touched her slowly, taking his time with every inch of her. Not out of caution—but out of reverence. His fingertips traced the curve of her shoulder, down her arm, across her ribs—delicate, yes, but still her. Still strong. Still alive. When his hand moved over her stomach and down between her legs, he watched her face the entire time, gauging every flutter of her breath.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice deep and low, hoarse with emotion. “We can stop.”

She shook her head immediately, voice trembling but sure. “Don’t stop,” she whispered. “Please—don’t you dare.”

Bob nodded, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Okay. I won’t.”

He undressed her gently, peeling away fabric like it was woven from moonlight. Her body had changed—softer in some places, thinner in others—but she was still breathtaking. Her eyes locked onto his as she undid his shirt, her hands slow and certain, brushing over his chest, down the trail of hair toward his waistband. He caught her lower lip between his fingers, tracing it once with his thumb, then leaned in and kissed her—first sweet, then deeper, until she sighed into him, her hands rising to cradle his face.

Their bodies moved together slowly, wrapped in soft linens, her legs around his hips, her hands tangled in his hair. She arched under him with a quiet gasp when he entered her, her mouth falling open. He kissed her then, deeper, his fingers laced with hers as he moved in rhythm with her breath, with the ache between them. She bit his neck once, playfully, and he groaned softly, grinning into the kiss. He bit her lip once again, in the same way.

“I missed this,” she whispered. “I missed you like this, Robby.”

“I’m right here,” he said, voice thick. “I never left.”

She kissed him again, deeper now—urgent, not desperate. Her fingers traced his jaw, moved across his chest, down his back like she was trying to memorize every inch of him all over again. Her body trembled beneath his, but it was strength, not weakness. Willpower. Want.

When he whispered, “I love you,” into her mouth, she didn’t answer in words. Her eyes brimmed with tears instead, her lips pressing harder against his like she could pour the truth back into him without speaking.

After, they lay tangled in the quiet, their skin warm from shared breath, her head nestled against his chest. Bob’s fingers moved slowly down the curve of her spine, over the small of her back. Every few moments, he leaned down to kiss her hair, just to prove to himself she was still there.

“I’m not scared tonight,” she whispered eventually, voice feather-soft.

He swallowed. His throat was tight. “I am,” he admitted into her hair.

She tilted her face up, eyes dark and tender, and pressed a kiss to his chin. “Then stay close,” she said.

And he did.

He held her as she drifted into sleep, her breathing slow and steady against his ribs. His arms wrapped around her completely, like if he held tight enough, the dawn might forget to come. And in that quiet, dark room, the only thing that existed was the warmth of her against him, and the fragile, sacred gift of still being here.

He didn’t sleep right away. Just watched her. Counted each slow rise of her chest. As if unconsciously he knew the end was near.

Didn’t expect that near.

It was Mayhem who told him something was wrong.

Bob woke to her frantic meows, paws nudging at his side, climbing over the blanket. At first, he thought she was being her usual chaos demon, demanding breakfast. She was relentless—pacing, pouncing, crying louder now.

He reached a hand across the bed. Her side was cool.

The light was strange. Early. Pale. Still.

Her body—still. Too still.

He turned.

She was facing him. Eyes closed. One hand curled loosely over his chest where it had been when she fell asleep.

Her lips parted. No breath.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Hey—baby, wake up. Darling?”

He touched her cheek. It was cold.

Her hand slipped from his chest like a leaf falling from a branch.

He didn’t cry. Not at first, but the will to do so was there.

He sat there, silent. A slow-motion fracture through the middle of his ribs.

He smoothed her hair back, kissed her temple, her forehead, the corner of her mouth. He rested his forehead against hers, as her head was resting on his pillow.

“I love you,” he whispered. Again. And again. And again. “Thank you. I love you. I love you. I-I love you, darling. Oh, baby.”

Mayhem settled beside her, tiny purring rumbling low and constant, a feline vigil.

Bob didn’t move her. He just stayed and clung to her as much as possible, to her naked, now cold form.

The sun rose. He didn’t notice. He didn’t care.

She was gone, and his gravitational axis, thrown completely off balance. Because of that small detail.

She was gone, truly gone.

────୨ৎ────

The funeral was small. Quiet. Her friend, Jules, gave the eulogy. Bob stood beside the casket, but he didn’t speak. Didn’t trust himself to. His teammates joined him, to support and care for him.

He moved part-time back into the Watchtower after. The apartment felt like walking barefoot across broken glass. Her slippers still tucked by the bed. Her favorite mug on the windowsill. The book she never finished halfway open on the coffee table.

Mayhem was his shadow. Always following him around.

One week later, the now adolescent cat, knocked down a stack of books from the nightstand, batting them one by one onto the floor with feral delight.

Bob sighed, kneeling to pick them up.

"You won't give a day's truce, eh, you little devil?"

A small, battered book they have half read together, slipped out and landed face down. Inside, tucked between the pages, was a folded letter.

His name in her handwriting.

He sat there for a long time, hands shaking, just staring at the curve of each letter.

He opened it.

“Hi, Bob. Robby, my love, lover boy, sweetheart, my darling.

If you’re reading this, then I guess Mayhem finally completed her villain origin story and brought down a bookshelf. Good for her. I hope she didn’t eat the corners of this letter. She tried once. I saw her. I told her no. She blinked at me and did it anyway. Absolute chaos. She’s your cat now. Sorry.

Also—yeah, I left this where I knew she’d eventually find it. Figured if anyone could make you laugh on a day like this, it’d be her.

So… hi. Deep breath. You, not me. I’m—you know. Past breathing now.

I’m sorry. I wish I could’ve said goodbye better. I hope I held on long enough that you weren’t alone. I hope you weren’t scared. I hope it was peaceful. I hope you know I didn’t want to go—not from you. Not from this.

I’ve been thinking about this letter for a long time, and still… no words feel big enough. Not for what we had. Not for what you gave me. But I need to try, so here it goes.

I love you.

God, I love you.

I loved you in a way that terrified me. In a way that healed me. In a way that made me feel more alive than any scan or countdown ever could. You didn’t look at me like I was dying. You looked at me like I was still here. Like I was worth staying for.

You gave me more than comfort, Bob.

You gave me days.

Real days. Golden, messy, stubbled, kitten-clawed days. Days with tea and laughter and record players and forehead kisses. You gave me mornings I wanted to wake up for. Nights I didn’t want to end. You gave me time that felt like living, not waiting. Not surviving. Just being. And loving. And being loved.

You never ran. Not when it got hard. Not when I got scared or small or angry or hollowed out by the chemo. You stayed. You chose me, over and over, even when I couldn’t have blamed you for needing to look away.

Especially then.

If you’re hurting now—and I know you are—it’s only because it was real. Because we were. And I hate that I’m the reason your chest aches right now, but… if it means we got to have this? I wouldn’t change a thing. Not for more time. Not even forever could make me trade what I had with you.

But I need to ask you something. One last thing.

Stay.

Stay here. Stay soft. Stay kind. Stay messy and honest and you.

Don’t shut yourself down just because this ended. Don’t pull away from love just because it hurts. Let it in. Let it hurt. Let it heal.

You carry light and ache in equal measure, Bob, and the world needs people like you. The world needs you.

Broken and trying. Soft and brave. Still showing up.

Cry when you need to. Laugh when it surprises you. Keep stargazing from rooftops. Put honey in your tea. Dance in the kitchen. Let someone hold your hand someday. Let them see you.

And take care of Mayhem, please.

She’s a menace, but she loves you.

She’ll sleep on your chest again. You’ll wake up to claws in your ribs and fur in your mouth and know she’s watching over you in her gremlin little way. Feed her the expensive treats. Not too often. She’ll get ideas.

And when it gets too quiet—play the records I liked. Even the sappy ones.

Especially the sappy ones.

You were the last good thing I got to love.

The best part of my last chapter.

And if there’s more after this—for me, for you—I hope we find each other again.

I’ll be looking.

Thank you for loving me.

Thank you for letting me love you.

Thank you for making it all count.

I love you, my darling.

Always,

Yours.

P.S. I love you. I love you.”

He laughed. It broke into a sob halfway out. He folded the letter against his heart and sobbed.

Something inside him cracked. And softened.

“Fucking hell…”

────୨ৎ────

Grieving was a funny thing. Unpredictable. Cruel. Soft. Sometimes it came in like a scream and other times like silence that wrapped around your throat.

But still—

He started showing up again.

It didn’t happen all at once. He didn’t wake up one morning and feel whole. But the ache didn’t stop him from moving, either. He just started.

First, it was the recovery center. Quiet mornings, soft hellos. He told stories now—not about gods or galaxies or things that shattered, but about people. About love that arrived like lightning and stayed like breath. About grief that cracked you open without warning. About the way someone’s laugh could still echo in your bones long after they were gone.

He never spoke her name to the group, but somehow everyone knew she existed.

He began visiting the oncology ward, too. Not for answers—he wasn’t that naïve anymore—but just to be. He brought warm things: fleece socks, old paperbacks, little packets of herbal tea she’d once loved. He didn’t try to fix anyone. He didn’t promise miracles. He sat by hospital beds, held hands when asked, and listened when silence was all there was to offer. Sometimes he’d hum under his breath. Sometimes he’d let them talk about the fear. Other times, they’d just breathe in tandem for a while.

Presence. That was enough.

He kept fostering kittens. More than he meant to. Sometimes naming them after her favorite old movies—one little tuxedo cat was dubbed “Ripley” and refused to sleep anywhere but on his back. Sometimes he let Mayhem decide. She was choosy, with opinions like firecrackers. If a kitten made it past her glare, it was a keeper.

He stayed in the apartment less. Too many ghosts in the shadows. Too many memories clinging to the mug she’d chipped, the blanket she’d wrapped around both of them, the spot on the floor where she’d once slow-danced him through tears.

Mayhem and Alpine struck an uneasy truce at the Watchtower. Alpine, regal and disdainful, ruled from the bookshelf with the air of a monarch. Mayhem, all teeth and chaos, played the part of court jester with far too much enthusiasm. They would never admit they liked each other. But more than once, Bob walked in to find them curled up together in a patch of sun, like the war between them had been forgotten for a few sacred hours.

And when it got too heavy—when the weight of her absence pressed in until he could barely breathe—he’d take out her letter. The paper was soft at the creases now, well-worn, well-loved. He knew every line by heart. Still, he’d read it again. Her voice rose in his mind like a tether, grounding him, keeping him from vanishing into the hollow places.

Stay, she had said.

So he did.

Some time passed. Weeks? Months? Grief made time slippery.

It was dusk when it happened—one of those golden, velvet evenings that stretched slow and soft. The light outside melted across the walls like spilled honey.

Bob sat cross-legged on the hardwood floor, sorting through a shoebox labeled with her name in his blocky handwriting. Mayhem snoozed on the back of the couch, curled into a comma of contentment, tail twitching in her sleep. Alpine lounged on the armrest like a sphinx, judging everything in the room with half-lidded eyes.

He pulled out a photo—creased in the corner, a little blurry. She was laughing, mid-sentence, Mayhem tucked under one arm like a wriggling gremlin. Her hair was a little messy, sunlight caught in the strands, her smile so full it hurt to look at.

He smiled back at her.

“You’d yell at me for keeping your cracked mug,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the edge of the photo. “But I can’t toss it. Feels like tossing you.”

A soft chirp interrupted him. Mayhem stretched, yawned with drama, then launched herself like a missile under the table.

“Mayhem—don’t—don’t even think about chewing that cord—”

A crash. A thud. The wobble of something precious trying not to fall.

Bob groaned. “Mayhem, you diabolical little thing, the lights are on but no one’s home, huh?” He ducked under the table just in time to see her batting at a cable like it had personally insulted her. She blinked up at him, wide-eyed, unrepentant. “Hey—don’t bite me—”

He laughed. It broke out of him unguarded, warm and aching. “You’re a menace,” he said, scooping her up. She flailed briefly in protest before settling, purring like a tiny engine against his chest.

He stood there for a moment, arms around her, the photo still in his other hand. The light outside was soft, stained gold and blue. A plane passed overhead. Someone two floors down was playing a familiar song through their open window—one of hers. A quiet ache curled around his ribs, but it didn’t hollow him out this time. It held him.

He looked toward the window.

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Not to the cat.

To her.

Always to her.

Then he tucked the photo back into the box, flicked on the lights, and carried Mayhem into the kitchen.

It was time for dinner.

And he was still here. Still staying. Still loving.

Just like she asked.

He didn’t know the storm that was coming.

Didn’t know the name Victor Von Doom.

Didn’t know the sky would split again, and this time, it might take him too. Maybe, then, she would welcome him.

But for now—

There was light. There was a cat.There was dinner.

And there was still time.

Just enough. Almost.

So about that ending—I’m sorry? 😃

@sarcazzzum @cupid4prez @qardasngan @kmc1989 @trelaney

#bob reynolds x reader #bob reynolds x you #bob reynolds #robert reynolds x reader #robert reynolds x you #robert reynolds #sentry x reader #sentry x you #sentry #the void

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asxgard · 23 days ago

Text

YOU WRITE HIM SO WELL

I love a soft, quiet romance. And with Bob??🥹

𝐓𝐨 𝐁𝐮𝐢𝐥𝐝 𝐀 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞

𝙍𝙤𝙗𝙚𝙧𝙩 ‘𝘽𝙤𝙗’ 𝙍𝙚𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙨 𝙭 𝙁𝙚𝙢!𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧

𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 - 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙒𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙩𝙤𝙬𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙪𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙣𝙤𝙞𝙨𝙚—𝙪𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙡 𝘽𝙤𝙗 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙚𝙩 𝙞𝙣 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙘𝙚. 𝙄𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙞𝙙𝙙𝙡𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙤𝙨, 𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙦𝙪𝙞𝙚𝙩. 𝘼𝙣𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙨𝙚𝙨 𝙝𝙞𝙢. 𝘼 𝙨𝙡𝙤𝙬, 𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧 𝙪𝙣𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙮, 𝙢𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙮𝙨 𝙬𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮.

𝙒.𝘾. - 2.9𝙆

𝙂𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚 - 𝙎𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙗𝙪𝙧𝙣, 𝙝𝙪𝙧𝙩/𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙩, 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙙 𝙛𝙖𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙮, 𝙙𝙤𝙢𝙚𝙨𝙩𝙞𝙘 𝙨𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙡𝙞𝙛𝙚.

𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 - 𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙋𝙏𝙎𝘿, 𝙚𝙢𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡 𝙫𝙪𝙡𝙣𝙚𝙧𝙖𝙗𝙞𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮, 𝙢𝙞𝙡𝙙 𝙞𝙣𝙟𝙪𝙧𝙮 𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨, 𝙨𝙡𝙤𝙬 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙡𝙤𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 𝙤𝙛 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙖𝙡 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙡𝙩𝙝 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙜𝙜𝙡𝙚𝙨, 𝙣𝙤 𝙚𝙭𝙥𝙡𝙞𝙘𝙞𝙩 𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩, 𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙤𝙛 𝙑𝙤𝙞𝙙 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙎𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙧𝙮.

𝙃𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙛𝙞𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙡𝙮-𝙡𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙖 𝙜𝙡𝙖𝙨𝙨 𝙞𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙥𝙤𝙘𝙠𝙚𝙩 𝙤𝙧 𝙖 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙠𝙞𝙨𝙨 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙡𝙙'𝙨 𝙩𝙤𝙤 𝙡𝙤𝙪𝙙. 𝙈𝙮 𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙨𝙩 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧 𝙛𝙞𝙘 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙝𝙞𝙢. 𝙄 𝙟𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙖 𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙘𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙨𝙩, 𝙩𝙤 𝙗𝙚 𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙙, 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙚𝙖𝙡 𝙖 𝙗𝙞𝙩. 𝙄 𝙝𝙤𝙥𝙚 𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙨 𝙩𝙧𝙪𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙬𝙝𝙤 𝙝𝙚 𝙞𝙨, 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙞𝙛 𝙣𝙤𝙩-𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙠 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙛𝙤𝙧 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙜𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙚𝙙𝙜𝙚𝙨. 🐧🖤

The Watchtower was a cacophony of noise and mismatched personalities—until one knew where to listen.

Yelena’s door slammed open and shut at all hours. John left the hallway lights on like he was allergic to darkness. Ava moved like a whisper, and Alexei bellowed about ping-pong like it was a matter of national pride. Bucky mostly grunted, smirked, or vanished. But Bob Reynolds?

Bob was a different kind of quiet. A quiet that hummed rather than echoed. The kind of silence that filled a room instead of emptying it.

He was a presence noticed slowly—like how a shadow lengthens just before sundown.

The signs came first. The way he made tea like it was both a science and a prayer. The way his hands shook on bad days but still passed over a favorite mug—mint, not chamomile. The way he paused before saying someone’s name, as if needing a second to believe they were real. As if waiting for the dream to dissolve.

There was no flirting. Not from her nor him. But when shoulders brushed in passing, there was a lingering—a moment longer than necessary. He always looked down when smiled at. One might call it politeness.

Everyone else had a different opinion.

“Just kiss her already,” Yelena had muttered once in the lounge, glancing toward the couch where she sat, bruised and quiet, as Bob disappeared into the kitchen like a startled deer.

His ears flushed red. He didn’t say a word.

Later, he was found in the rooftop corner he’d claimed like a cat might claim a sunlit windowsill. Hoodie on. Knees tucked in. Staring across the city like it held answers to questions he couldn’t remember.

She joined him quietly. She always did.

That night was different.

The mission had been bad—Berlin, messy intel, Hydra remnants armed heavier than predicted. She was stitched up and aching, ribs bruised, temple cut, adrenaline still simmering. But Bob had taken it the worst. On the jet, he was distant—staring, gripping the seatbelt too tight, hovering as though unsure how to confirm her survival without touching her.

He hadn’t spoken to her since.

Now he sat perched at the edge of the rooftop like gravity alone was keeping him grounded. She joined him with a soft grunt, ignoring her bruises.

“You’re not supposed to be out of bed,” he said, low and tired.

“Didn’t feel like sleeping.”

Bob didn’t respond right away. He glanced at her, then away. His thumb rubbed the frayed edge of his hoodie sleeve like it could erase the years. The hoodie was old. Pre-Thunderbolts. It hung on him like armor worn inside-out.

“I should’ve—” he began, then stopped.

“You did everything right, Bob.”

His jaw clenched. “You could’ve died.”

She leaned just enough for her knee to brush his. “But I didn’t.”

“I—” He faltered, then pressed his palms flat against the concrete, anchoring himself. “Sometimes I… forget things. Only when it’s really bad now. But… I came back from the fight and I had this mug in my hand. I don’t remember picking it up. Or breaking it.”

She went still.

He didn’t meet her eyes. “And when that happens, I start wondering… if it was me or something else. Him. I know the Void isn’t—he’s not there like before. But I still feel him sometimes. Like an echo in the walls.”

She reached out and touched his hand. His eyes finally flicked toward hers.

“I think it’s okay to still feel echoes,” she said. “That doesn’t mean they control you anymore.”

He looked at her like she’d handed him something sacred. Like the sky might open just for that truth.

She brushed a strand of hair from his eyes, slow and careful. He blinked, confused by the tenderness.

“Right now,” she said softly, “you’re here. With me. That’s what’s real.”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he leaned forward and pressed the faintest kiss to her forehead. Not hesitant. Not forced. Just soft. Steady. Present.

It was as if the city held its breath.

When he pulled back, he looked uncertain. “Was that—”

She pressed her hand over his. “It was good.”

There was a silence. Then:

“You should rest,” she said, motioning to her lap.

Bob hesitated—confused, maybe afraid. But something shifted in his eyes. He nodded and slowly lowered himself into her lap.

His body remained tense at first, expecting rejection. But she only smiled and ran her fingers through his hair.

The first touch made him twitch. The second made him sigh.

“It’s quiet in here now,” he murmured minutes later.

“In your head?”

He nodded, barely.

“Good,” she whispered.

He fell asleep like that. Not all at once, but gradually—his breath slowing, face softening. Her hand moved through his hair again and again. The other rested on his arm.

She didn’t move. Not when her leg went numb. Not when the wind picked up. She stayed. Because in all the madness, Bob Reynolds had chosen to rest in her arms. Not as the Sentry. Not as a ticking time bomb. Just… Bob.

She found him there the next morning, still curled against her, blinking sleepily.

Bucky passed by on his way to the gym and gave Bob a small nod. “You good?”

Bob nodded back, quiet.

“Good,” Bucky said. “You two sleep cute.”

Bob flushed crimson.

Later, Yelena handed them each a mug of tea and muttered, “About time one of you did something. Honestly, this tower has been suffering.”

“From what?” Bob asked.

She shrugged. “Unresolved romantic tension. It’s contagious.”

Even John joined in. “So are forehead kisses your thing now, or was that a one-time medical procedure?”

Bob looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole, but she just smiled and handed him his tea.

That night, before bed, he slipped something into her hand. A small polished stone. Warm from his pocket.

“For when it’s loud,” he said. “If I’m not around.”

She kept it on her nightstand from then on.

But most nights after that… he was around.

A few days after the rooftop—after forehead kisses and whispered truths, after Bob had fallen asleep on her lap like the weight of the world had finally lifted—things didn’t go back to normal.

They got quieter.

Not in a tense way. Not like the silence before a storm. But in that warm, blooming kind of quiet. The kind that settled into your chest when someone finally saw you and didn’t look away.

She hadn’t brought it up. Neither had Bob. But he lingered more now. Sat a little closer during movie nights. Looked for her first in rooms full of people. And when he did, he’d smile—small, soft, shy. Like it surprised even him.

This morning, the kitchen was still half-asleep. The hum of the refrigerator. The occasional thump of John running laps upstairs. A light drizzle tapped against the tower’s glass windows, threading gray through the sunlight.

She sat at the counter, hair mussed from sleep, a mug of tea growing cold by her elbow. In her hands, she turned the small polished stone over and over again—thumb brushing its surface absentmindedly. Warm and smooth, it had lived in her palm ever since Bob had pressed it into her hand like it meant something.

Because it did.

She just wasn’t sure what.

Alexei settled heavily onto the stool beside her, the scent of burnt toast and instant coffee trailing behind him like cologne. He wore socks that didn’t match—one patterned with bears, the other striped—and was already deep into a rabbit hole on his phone, swiping through an article with furrowed brows and absolute seriousness.

“You know, kiddo,” he said suddenly, taking a loud bite of toast, “penguins often have a curious gesture towards someone they care about. Someone they really care about.”

She blinked. “Penguins?”

Alexei didn’t look up. Just scrolled with one hand and waved the toast like a professor emphasizing a point. “Yes, yes. Penguins. You see, some species—ah, I don’t remember exactly which, don’t ask me—but they give stones. As a kind of… gesture. To their partners.”

She looked at the stone in her hand, then slowly up at him, eyebrows lifting.

Alexei grunted. “Not just any stone. They search for the perfect one. And then, if the other penguin accepts it, they build a nest together. It means, ‘I choose you.’ It’s… what do you call it?” He snapped his fingers, as if trying to summon the English word from the ether. “A symbol of attraction. Commitment. Building something.”

She let out a snort. “You’ve really taken to watching National Geographic documentaries, Ale.”

He shrugged, totally unbothered. “It’s peaceful. And educational. Unlike reality television, which melts your brain.”

But she wasn’t really listening anymore. Her gaze had drifted back to the stone in her hand, which suddenly felt heavier, more alive. She turned it again, slower now.

“It’s a simple gesture,” Alexei added more gently this time, his voice softening. “But with very special impact.”

Something warm curled in her stomach. A thought—half-formed and ridiculous—began to take root.

“No way,” she whispered under her breath.

“Hm?”

“No,” she said, blinking hard. “I mean… come on. That’s not what this is. It’s just Bob. He gives people stuff. He’s thoughtful.”

Alexei raised an eyebrow. “Does he?”

She hesitated. “Well. Not—not really, no. But still—”

Alexei pointed at the stone in her hand with a knowing look. “That one’s special. He carried it around, you know. Slipped it into his hoodie pocket after one of his therapy sessions. I saw him fiddling with it for days before he gave it to you.”

She froze.

The sound of the drizzle outside seemed to grow louder, like the world was waiting.

“He said it helped when things got too loud,” she murmured. “That if he wasn’t around, it might help.”

“And yet,” Alexei said, reaching for his coffee with a sly smile, “he’s been around quite a lot, no?”

She didn’t answer. Just stared down at the stone, as if it might open up and whisper all the things Bob never said out loud.

“I think,” Alexei said, draining the rest of his mug, “that someone wants to build a nest with you, my friend.”

She turned to glare at him, horrified. “Alexei.”

He just grinned and let out a booming laugh that echoed off the steel-and-glass walls.

“I’m just saying!” he chuckled, hands raised in surrender. “Us humans are always looking for signs. Meanwhile, this poor boy is practically flapping his metaphorical wings and handing you shiny pebbles.”

She threw a dish towel at him. “Stop.”

But she was laughing too. Because deep down… it didn’t feel ridiculous.

It felt real.

Later that day, when Bob passed her in the hallway—head down, hoodie sleeves covering half his hands—he paused.

His eyes flicked to the stone in her palm.

Then to her.

She smiled.

Bob blinked, stunned for a heartbeat, and then—just barely—smiled back.

Not a big smile. Not a confident one. But the kind that meant everything coming from him. Like he was saying, I remember. Like he was saying, You kept it.

Like he was saying, I’m here.

She kept walking. But the stone in her hand stayed warm all the way back to her room.

The rooftop greenhouse had become Bob’s second sanctuary.

At first, it was just a place for sunlight and silence. Then it became something else—a space he could tend to, filled with green things and warmth and quiet breaths of earth. It reminded him, sometimes, of childhood afternoons before everything turned loud. Before fists and shouting and forgetting. Before the fractures that ran too deep to name.

Now it smelled like tomato vines and lavender. Basil. Damp soil. Like hope trying to grow through concrete.

Bob was crouched beside a row of succulents when she found him—hoodie sleeves pushed up, dirt smudged across one cheekbone, hands cradling a cracked terra-cotta pot like it was something fragile and half-alive. His shoulders were hunched in that way they got when he was thinking too much and feeling even more—his head lost in some place he didn’t know how to name aloud.

She didn’t call his name. Just stepped inside.

The greenhouse door clicked gently shut behind her.

Bob looked up, startled for a second—and then, when he saw it was her, he softened. Like the sun found him through the glass ceiling. His whole posture eased, like his nervous system recognized her before his mind caught up.

“Hey,” he murmured.

“Hey yourself,” she replied, stepping into the filtered light. She moved without rush—barefoot, sleeves swallowing her hands, something small tucked into the pocket of her jeans. The hem of her hoodie brushed her thighs as she walked, her eyes focused on him like he was the only living thing in the room that mattered.

He went back to tending the soil. “You shouldn’t be barefoot up here. Sometimes there’s broken pots.”

“I’ll risk it.”

A pause. Then: “You okay?”

She crouched beside him, close enough for her knee to brush his. “Yeah. Just… wanted to see you.”

Bob blinked slowly, like the words took a minute to root. “Oh. That’s… okay.”

He said it like he wasn’t used to people wanting to see him without a reason. Like it might vanish if he questioned it too hard.

She smiled, gentle and patient. “I brought you something.”

He tilted his head, gaze flicking curiously to her hands.

From her pocket, she pulled out a small object and placed it in his palm—a piece of sea glass, pale gray-blue and speckled faintly with lavender veins. It had been polished smooth by the ocean, or maybe by her fingers, which had fidgeted with it nervously all morning while she tried to decide if this was a stupid idea.

“It’s just a rock,” she said, pretending it wasn’t everything. “But I thought maybe it could keep yours company.”

Bob didn’t answer right away.

He stared at the sea glass like it was something holy. Like she’d handed him a phrase in a language he’d long forgotten, but still knew how to feel.

“You brought me a penguin rock?” he asked, voice somewhere between reverent and dry amusement.

She grinned. “Takes two to build a nest, right?”

His mouth twitched like he might smile, and his eyes finally met hers.

“I don’t know what I’m doing most days,” he admitted, barely louder than the wind brushing the glass panes above them. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to give. Or say.”

She reached out and curled her fingers gently around his wrist. “You don’t have to give or say anything,” she murmured. “You just have to be here.”

He looked at her then—really looked. Like she might vanish or float away or become too good to be true.

And then she leaned in. Slow. Sure.

Her hand brushed his hair from his forehead—the same motion he’d made on that rooftop not long ago. But this time, her lips followed, pressing to his skin with a warmth so quiet and full it stole the breath from his lungs.

It wasn’t showy. Wasn’t meant to be anything more than what it was: I see you. I care. I’m here.

Bob froze beneath it.

She started to lean back, afraid she’d gone too far—but his hand came up, soft but firm, fingers brushing her jaw.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t frantic or unsure. It was steady. Careful. Honest. A promise whispered against her lips, answering every unspoken thing she’d ever said without words.

When they pulled apart, their foreheads rested together, their breath shared between the inches of space.

She smiled, eyes still closed. “Was that okay?”

Bob exhaled like it had cracked something open inside him—in the good way.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “That was… yeah.”

They stayed that way for a while. The world didn’t ask anything of them, and for once, Bob didn’t ask anything of himself, either.

Eventually, he looked down at the sea glass still resting in his hand. He turned and gently placed it beside the stone he had given her, tucking both pieces on the narrow ledge beneath the greenhouse window. Two little gifts. Uneven and imperfect. Carried from the sea and from silence.

A beginning.

“I really do want to make you a nest,” he said, voice quieter than ever. “Not just… the penguin kind. I mean something real. A place. A life. With you.”

Her chest ached, but in the warmest, deepest way.

“Then let’s build it,” she said softly. “One weird little piece at a time.”

He smiled, a little dazed. “I might start sketching blueprints. Not twig-based, though. Unless you’re into that kind of—”

“You have dirt on your face,” she interrupted, laughing as she reached up to wipe his cheek.

He caught her wrist, then kissed the inside of it with a soft, almost goofy reverence. “You’re not exactly spotless either.”

“I’m aware,” she said, giggling, wiping her own smudged face with the back of her sleeve. “We’re an aesthetic disaster.”

“But,” he added, “we’re a work in progress.”

She leaned into his side, her head against his shoulder, the smell of basil and tomato vines curling around them like a protective cocoon.

And up in that greenhouse, high above the rest of the world, they stayed.

Two broken people. Two stones on a ledge.

Building a nest. Together.

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds x reader

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asxgard · 1 month ago

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Lewis Pullman in Lessons in Chemistry (1x01)

#I’d say I’m looking respectfully #but I’m not #lewis pullman

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asxgard · 1 month ago

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tower fics are so back baby

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asxgard · 1 month ago

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Open Secret | one shot

Dr. Frank Langdon x chief resident!fiance!f!reader

Requested

Summary: A patient just won’t take no for an answer — making your relationship with Frank all the more obvious.

[ Masterlist ]

Anon Request: request for Frank and the reader where they are engaged and enjoy the privacy until the patient the reader is consulting on, continuously asks her out and ignores how she says no. Just making the reader uncomfortable

Note: I apologize for how long this took! I hope you like it

Word Count: 1.5k

Most of my works are 18+ due to adult language and content

Warnings: foul language, hospital setting, medical inaccuracies, patient making reader uncomfortable, reference to past violence against healthcare workers, sexual harassment

not beta read

It had taken Frank a lot of hard work, but he came out on the other side — now an attending in the Pitt. You had been promoted to chief resident, and then came his proposal. Sweet, to the point, after a fancy dinner and a vow of everlasting love. You had, of course, said yes.

The Pitt was known as a gossip mill for a reason, so while you never wanted to keep your relationship a secret, you wanted it private.

Especially to keep as much stress off Frank as possible.

You had seen him through his hardest times, and he had promised you the best after rehab, from there on out. Robby was hesitant and made his caution obvious, but the Pitt ran on as normal.

After busying yourself for most of the morning, you began evaluating the next patient, trying not to ground your teeth in annoyance. You were a pretty woman, but patients flirting with you almost always set you on edge. You had to laugh it off, smile, gesture to the engagement ring on a chain around your neck and try to let them down easy — rinse, repeat whenever necessary.

This patient — a thirty-five year old male with a scruffy beard and a helluva lot of persistence — was only souring your mood further. Frank had been freed from the confines of resident overtime, but you were still expected to pull your fair share, even as chief resident.

“Come on,” he drawled, “I can take you out, relax you real nice.”

His shit-eating grin sent shivers down your spine.

You forced a smile, “I’m sorry, it’s unethical to go out with any patients of mine. And I don’t think my fiancé would be all too thrilled.”

You tried to busy your hands on the computer, going over his history. He had cut himself pretty good on a construction site, and then proceeded to faint, hitting his head on his way down.

“He clearly ain’t doin’ his job! You’re wound tighter than—”

“Excuse me, Mr. Halverton, I’m going to go order your MRI. I’ll be right back.” You were quick to exit the room, throwing a warning glance at Perlah who was coming into the room.

At the charge desk, Frank immediately caught onto your foul mood, as you were typing forcefully like it might calm you.

“What did that keyboard ever do to you?” Frank asked, a smile lilting his voice.

“You know if MRI is backed up?” You asked instead of answering.

“Aren’t they always?”

Your frown deepened.

“Something wrong?”

You let out a long sigh and shrugged, “I can handle it.”

He raised an eyebrow at you but didn’t say anything. You excused yourself to check on a few other patients. You were just wasting time, but why was this patient getting to you? You had certainly dealt with worse. With a huff, you figured to just face your problem head on and move on with it. Once he was stitched, you would have no other reason to see him except to check on him — and surely, you could pass that off to Mel or Whitaker.

“Sugar!” He said as you entered, and you winced.

You reiterated your name to him, repeating your last name twice so perhaps he would catch the hint.

“Aw, your boyfriend not use pet names with you, dollface? You not used to a man’s affection? That’s a damn shame.”

Your jaw tensed, “Fiancé.” You corrected tersely, “Now I don’t talk about any personal matters at work, especially with my patients — so if you could stop, I would appreciate it.”

“Appreciate it enough for a date?”

Your eyes flickered to his chart again, double checking he wasn’t drunk or high. Both negative, so he was just an irritating dick who couldn’t take no for an answer. Had you been at a bar, you would have at least been able to walk away, or leave — but you were getting close to passing him off to Frank or Robby and just be done with it.

“I’m not going to ask again.”

“Feisty! I like it.” He chuckled before wincing, looking back down at the gash along his arm. “Maybe you can kiss it and make it all better? Sure would love that mouth—”

“Mr. Halverton, we need to get you stitched up.” You said, cutting him off, “Let me go get that set up for you.”

While Mel was capable, Whitaker made more sense — plus he was less likely to be flirted with. You could supervise and hopefully that would force the man to shut up.

As always, Whitaker was happy to help — especially when you offered to get him a muffin afterwards. He had been confused by the offering until he stepped into the room.

“Oh, sugar, he ain’t gonna do — I want you.”

Your jaw locked into place and Whitaker looked back at you with wide eyes.

“Mr. Halverton—”

“Ted, please.”

“Mr. Halverton, this is a teaching hospital and Dr. Whitaker is a very capable resident.”

Mr. Halverton’s eyes flickered between you, then he raised a brow. “And I can refuse. I want to be seen by someone who’s not a resident.” He smirked like he had won, “Know you want to get your hands on me, come on.”

A dangerous smile curled on your lips, “Well, if that’s what you want, then I will be sure to do that for you. Whitaker, come with me. I’ll be right back, Mr. Halverton.”

You escorted Whitaker out of the room, eyes scanning for Robby.

“That guy’s a real piece of work.” Whitaker said, glancing back to the room.

“You get used to it.” You told him, leaning on the charge desk.

Whitaker frowned, “You shouldn’t have to.”

You let out a long sigh, “You’re right, but we still do. Can you go find a nurse for me? I’m going to get Robby.”

Whitaker raised a brow in question.

You smirked, “I’m still a resident.”

His eyes lit up at the revelation, smiling to himself. He darted off to find a nurse.

Frank slid beside you, “Looking for someone?”

“Have you seen Robby?”

“Trauma-1. Can I help with something?”

You pursed your lips, “You’re not going to like him.”

He raised an eyebrow and you drank in his handsome features. His smile and blue eyes always seemed to steady you, and the deep breath you took felt like you had finally gotten some air.

“Patient wants someone who isn’t a resident.” You explained with a shrug. “Just needs some stitches and an MRI.”

Frank hummed beside you, “I’m free for a few minutes, want me to take a look?”

You side-eyed him, “You’re really not going to like him.”

“Puh-lease, I could do stitches in my sleep.”

“Alrighty then, Central-5.”

Frank disappeared into the room with Princess trailing behind him with a suture kit. You glanced back up at the board, looking for something on the other end of the Pitt. You made small talk with Dana as you assessed who would be your next patient.

“Give a guy a little warning next time.”

You jumped, startled by Frank suddenly beside you.

“I told you that you wouldn’t like him.”

Frank narrowed his eyes at you. “He kept demanding to see you and I informed him you were a resident — our best resident, but still — and I was going to be handling his case. He was pissy and uncooperative after that. Said he needed your number because I quote, ‘her boyfriend clearly isn’t satisfying her’. Boyfriend.” Frank’s lips set into a deep frown at the last part.

“Why did you think I wanted Robby for a cut-and-dry suture?”

With a frown, he crossed his arms over his chest.

“Are you pouting?”

“No! Just…”

“He was being a pig, Frank. Every time I steered him away from flirting with me, he rounded back with even more persistence and gross comments. Even after I reminded him about the morals of going out with a patient, having a fiancé and being generally uninterested. Several times.”

“You could’ve come to me sooner.” He said. “Could’ve gotten Ahmad to stand in there with you.”

“I was uncomfortable, Frank, not in danger.”

“You know things can escalate from 0 to 100 around here. You deserve to be safe and not be harassed.”

You sighed, remembering all the times it had, “Yeah, I know.”

He rubbed his hands along your arms with a sincere smile, “Gotta ask for help if you need it, sweetheart.”

“Not sure asking my fiancé to come in to fend off guys flirting with me will really deescalate the situation.”

He scoffed, “I’ll defend your honor every day of the week. As your attending…and maybe a bit as your fiancé.”

You chuckled, “Did you give him a piece of your mind, then?”

A sly smirk stretched across Frank’s lips and that was answer enough.

“He wasn’t so subtle.” Perlah said, dropping off a chart.

“So I suppose our engagement will be the shot heard ‘round the world.”

“Engaged? Thought you were only dating, congratulations!” Princess said, coming to stand next to Perlah, who undoubtably had gossiped about Frank’s interaction with Mr. Halverton.

For as much as an open secret you regarded your relationship, Perlah’s voice carrying across the Pitt made it much more open and not so secret.

And honestly? You were okay with that.

want to join any of my taglists? shoot me a message!

The Pitt taglist: @cannonindeez @spoiledflor @kittenhawkk @nessamc @thatchickwiththecamera @sharkluver @loud-mouph @ksyn-faith @sunfairyy @dragonsondragons @mischiefsemimanaged @pastelbunnelby @jetjuliette @that-one-fangirl69 @moonlightmvrvel @andabuttonnose @boldlyherdream @cosmosnkaz @brnesblogposts @concentratedconcrete @satanxklaus @gardeniarose13 @qardasngan @kmc1989 @deeninadream @casualfansoul

All: @nixandtonic @alexxavicry

I’m really struggling to get through these requests huh lol most of my hyperfixation has switched to the mcu whoops

#the pitt #frank langdon #dr frank langdon #frank langdon x reader #asxgard writes #requested

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asxgard · 1 month ago

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Okay so I don't know if you keep taking prompts for Abbott but if u do I really love father-children like friendships/bonds so I would love to read a Jack Abbott x patient!reader where reader is on their teens or so (can be younger I don't really care) and its a patient that seems to be in very bad state and so Jack ocasionally spends time with them.

And I love It even MORE if Jack just HATES reader's parents

Like a lot lmao 😂

If u do take this prompt thank you so much!

Unfortunately, I am not taking any prompts or requests at the moment. I still have several waiting to be written and I’m in a bit of a slump, so I don’t want to stress myself out.

I’m sorry! Thank you for sending it and I hope you find someone to take your request!

#the pitt #asxgard answers

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asxgard · 1 month ago

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@mo-mode you. 👏 are. 👏 a. 👏 GENIUS. 👏 NO WONDER WE WERE ALL GETTING THOSE OG WATTPAD/TUMBLR VIBES UGH I LOVE IT~

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asxgard · 1 month ago

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It’s me. I’m the problem hehe

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asxgard · 1 month ago

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so im pro Abbot being one of the many many people who got their education funded by the military, and enlisted for that - but he enlisted august 2001 - one month before 9/11. what was supposed to be minor things at most ended up being 8 years of hell, getting dropped into Afghanistan only to have his foot fucking blown off

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asxgard · 1 month ago

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rest of Dr Robby tags: @laurenkate79 @woodxtock @rosie-posie08 @artsymaddie @partofthelouniverse @diasnohibng @looneylooomis @happyfestpanda-blog

All: @nixandtonic @alexxavicry

Companionship | pt. 14

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

Previous | Next

Summary: You two have a little getaway.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: This took a hot minute lol I kept rewriting the first bit even after the rest was written, and then my dog got a bad infection (he’s okay now). It’s been a time lol I hope you enjoy!

Thank you for all the comments, likes and reblogs last chapter💜

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: age gap, SMUT (MINORS DNI), p in v, oral (f! receiving), fingering, light dirty talk, pet names (honey, sweetheart, my love)

not beta read

On the night of Michael’s birthday, he grew more reserved. Dinner came and went with you trying to coax him back out of his shell — and you hoped it was only his nerves about you meeting his friends afterwards. You were nervous enough for the both of you, but you began to worry he was having second thoughts.

In the car, he said, “I’m nearly twice your age now.”

You leaned back into the passenger seat with a long sigh. You both sat quietly for several moments, Michael staring out the window while you rubbed your thumb along your other palm. The age gap seemed to hold steady over your heads — even as you were falling in love. He was now closer to nineteen years older rather than eighteen, and would be until your birthday later in the year. It was clear the near two decades were weighing on him.

You reached over to grab his hand, “And so what? We’ve discussed this.”

Michael ran his other hand over his face, letting out a huff of air. “I don’t want to steal your youth.”

“Michael, you’re not stealing anything.” You told him, “This is a two way street. One I’m actively choosing.”

He didn’t say anything, just kept looking out at the parking lot. He squeezed your hand with a heavy sigh.

“Do you feel like I’m stealing something from you? I don’t know…I haven’t fully gotten my life together yet, I’m still waiting to get my certifications…I can’t always be there in a way someone older might be able to—”

His eyes were on you while he shook his head, “Not at all. That’s not…I want you as you are.”

You held his gaze and smiled, trying to convey the same sentiment, “That’s what I want, too.”

“I’m sorry. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy or normal. I don’t want to keep chasing you away, I just wasn’t expecting to feel this way today.”

“Well, I’d rather you tell me what's going on in your head rather than bury it.”

He nodded, “And what happens when I turn 50?”

“That’s five years away. It’s not like I’m immune to aging…I’ll age five years, too.” You said. “And I’d hope we’d have made a life together by that point. We can deal with how you feel about it together.”

“I like the sound of that.”

You smiled, and he leaned over to kiss you.

The drive to the bar was quiet, but nerves had invaded your belly at meeting people from Michael’s life. You had been able to learn how to handle the judgment from strangers, but it felt like a whole new ballgame with people in his life.

Jack was tough to read, and it felt like Dana had been an easier sell. Her husband, Benji, had been easy enough to talk to, and took some of the conversational weight off your shoulders. Perhaps since he also did not work in the hospital, or perhaps he took pity on you, either way, it was relieving.

When asked about it, you told them about school and graduating — but it made you feel too young. One could attend university at any time in their life, but all of them had finished closer to when you were born. You tried not to be uncomfortable about it.

“How did you guys meet?” Benji asked, sipping his beer.

Your eyes flickered up to Michael, trying to conceal your alarm. Why hadn’t you discussed it? Did he want to tell them the truth or—

“Coffee shop. Our orders got mixed up.” Michael supplied, the lie passing easily from his lips.

Though, you had met at a coffee shop, so it wasn’t a straight up lie.

You forced a smile looking back to Benji, “We ended up talking for a while and I gave him my number.” Again, not a total lie, but your cheeks burned.

Dana’s eyes moved back and forth between you, “You could’ve told me she was your girlfriend when she came in, Robinavitch. No need for all that secretive VIP crap.”

You watched Michael cringe slightly at the use of his full name.

“I wasn’t yet.” You interjected, smiling shyly. “It took awhile for us to figure that part out.”

The night continued after with less pressing questions and easier small talk. They each traded stupid stories about patients, or the weirdest thing they found swallowed or inserted on x-ray. With Benji there, it made you feel less out of the loop, and he waved them off.

“Don’t you guys work there enough to not talk about it after hours?” Benji asked.

“Never after hours.” said Jack with a shrug.

Michael rolled his eyes playfully, “Fine, fine — how’re the kids?”

Another hour and they were all departing. Dana pulled you into a quick hug, whispering, “You’re good for him.” in your ear. You had grinned wide, relief flooding your system as you thanked the woman. Everyone parted ways after, and Michael took your hand as you walked to his car.

“They all seem like good people. I hope they liked me.”

Michael kissed the side of your head, “Of course they did. You make it easy.”

Your eyes met his brown, “You think so?”

“I know so.”

Before opening the passenger side door, he turned you around. He was fidgety, his hand growing clammy while the other rubbed the back of his neck.

“You okay?” You asked tentatively, squeezing his hand.

He cleared his throat, “I can’t really even begin to tell you how much I enjoy our time together, how much I enjoy you. I’ve—this hasn’t been easy and we had a rough start, but I’m glad you’re in my life. I love you.”

Your breath caught and you stared at him wide-eyed. Your heart thudded hard against your ribs and you reminded yourself to breathe.

When your thoughts returned, you smiled at him, “I love you, too, Michael”

—

“You sure know how to play the long con.” You said, eyes still bleary from the early morning as trees raced by.

Michael looked over at you with an eyebrow raised, before looking back at the road.

“Murder me in a cabin in the woods?” You elaborated, “Peaceful, quiet. It’d be great if it wasn’t so cliche.”

Michael laughed loudly, shaking his head. “Does that have anything to do with the documentary you insisted on watching last night?”

You had barely been able to fall asleep until Michael had pulled you into his arms, making you feel safe and protected. You loved those documentaries, despite how dark they were, or how many lights you had to turn on to get through them.

You sipped your coffee, “Of course not.”

“I see far too much blood and guts on a daily basis; I’d never spoil the cabin like that.” He said, tone momentarily slipping into something serious. “Besides, I like you too much. Thought I’d keep you around.”

You laughed, “How romantic.”

“I’m plenty romantic!” He said with a smile, “Cabin in the woods, a fire, good wine, the works. I even remembered to snag your favorite rom-coms from your apartment last week.”

You hid your grin by glancing out the window at the world speeding by. “And to think, you did all that to take me fishing…”

“You said you wanted to learn!”

Laughing, you said, “No harm in trying something once.”

He reached over the center console to grab hold of your hand, “I’m glad we’re getting some time away. It’ll be nice to not worry about work for a bit…”

“Or studying.” You added, intertwining your fingers. “Thank you for bringing me, I’ve been looking forward to it.”

He smiled softly, and you thought about all the feelings swirling in your chest. All of them easily spelling out love. Even after confessing it to each other weeks ago, it still felt new and exciting. Like everything had finally clicked into place after dancing around it forever.

His cabin was miles off the highway, found after traveling several winding roads, a long driveway nestled between towering trees. The trees eventually gave way to the cabin, quaint but with plenty of character. A picnic bench sat to the right of the structure, where a set of stairs led into a screened in porch. A large built in firepit sat several feet away from it.

The back door opened onto the porch, which held an outdoor dining table and a few outdoor loungers. The land began to slope downward right where the porch started, free of trees that made the view of the mountains all the easier to take in. The forest picked back up again about a quarter of a mile down, where it seemed the land leveled out again. Jutting out just slightly from the cabin was a storage closet, holding some cushions for said loungers, an umbrella for the table, and some odds and ends.

You took a deep breath in, and leaned into Michael when you breathed out. It was quiet and serene, the silence only filled by birds and buzzing insects. You could only slightly see one of his neighbor’s houses through the trees, but otherwise, it was completely private.

“You sure do know how to pick ‘em.”

Michael looked at you and smiled, “Yeah, I do.”

—

After an unsuccessful fishing trip, a hike and a long soak in the clawfoot tub, you emerged in the kitchen to see what Michael was doing. Uncooked burgers sat on parchment paper on a sheet tray, while Michael was putting a bowl of pasta salad in the fridge.

You followed after him and sat on one of the loungers while Michael cooked the burgers. He was humming an old blues song while you took in the view of the retreating sun over the mountains.

Dinner was spent under the sky, with quiet banter and easy conversation — and you savored more than just the meal. Pittsburgh could be busy, messy and complicated, but stepping back in a secluded cabin, you knew you wouldn’t change a thing about your life.

Cleaning up dinner, you both settled on the couch, turning on one of the rom-coms he had brought — How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days — and you curled into his side.

By the time the credits were rolling, you found yourself in his lap, kissing up his neck while his hands explored your figure. Your heart sped up in your chest, moving your hands to his hair. You tried not to grind your hips into his, trying to be slow — but your mind grew hazy with lust.

“Mike.” You breathed against his lips, half a whine, half a plea.

Like he could read your mind, his hands were on your hips, pushing just enough to where you got the hint and stood up. Your lips never left his, even as he led you to the bedroom, hand in your hair.

Once on the bed, Michael removed your pants and trailed kisses up your inner thigh. Your face heated and you suppressed the urge to beg him to move faster. You never wanted to rush him, to be painfully young in wanting it all without the chance to savor it, but his hot breath on your skin and his teeth nipping at your flesh made you feral. You were already squirming before he even situated himself to your wet heat.

Discarding your panties, Michael left a wet kiss to your clit, and you jolted at the sensation. One of his hands traveled up your torso to grab hold of your breast, fingers twirling around the nipple, while his other was locked around your knee. His eyes flickered up to meet yours, and you took in a deep breath to steady yourself.

Your clit was throbbing, spurred on by the sensation on your nipple. He held your gaze as he licked a stripe from your entrance to your clit. You moaned, gripping the wrist that was at your breast and held onto him like it would keep you tethered.

His tongue was an expert, and always left you seeing stars — your orgasm never taking very long, especially not when his fingers rubbed at that spongy spot inside you. He sucked, licked and devoured everything you gave him like a man starved, and it thrilled you more to know he was enjoying it. Even when he was being slow or teasing, he never seemed to mind how long it took.

Michael’s fingers curled upwards, tongue tracing circles on your clit until the wave took you in. You cried out his name, fingers in the bed sheets while the heat barreled through your system. He had a habit of not stopping, even when you grew overstimulated, sometimes eagerly even trying to coax a second out of you.

This time, though, you pulled him up to kiss him hungrily. The taste of yourself on his tongue made your thoughts stutter, before bringing him closer.

Without warning, you flipped you both so Michael was on his back and he stared up wide-eyed at you. Your shirt was easily discarded.

He smirked, hands going to your hips while you undid his pants. Pulling off his shirt, he pulled you in for a quick kiss. He was straining against his boxers, hard and immediately at attention when you pulled back his boxers. You were quick with the condom before steadying yourself over him. You leaned down to place a delicate kiss to his lips.

You sunk down on him slowly, hissing as you adjusted to his size, hands on his chest. He groaned low in his throat and you pulsed at the sound, your hips meeting his.

“Yeah? Like hearing what you do to me, sweetheart?”

You grinned, nodding dumbly, pulling his hands from your hips up to your breasts. To be so full of him made your eyes water and you threw your head back to try to find your breath again.

“Feels so good.” You moaned, looking back into his eyes.

You moved up slowly, before grinding back down and trying to find a pace you liked. Michael stared up at you, eyes dark, meeting you halfway with thrusts of his own. Heat coiled low again, pooling throughout your abdomen.

Michael moved a hand to your clit to rub lazy circles, and it burned deliciously — overstimulation yielding to pleasure. You moaned, moving up just enough for him to brush against that spot inside you.

“You look so good like that, honey. Fuck, you ride my cock so well.”

Your pussy fluttered at the words, eyes screwing shut. You felt lost in the winding euphoria coiling tighter. Michael gripped your hip while keeping his thumb rubbing your clit, thrusting up into you as you grew tighter and tighter.

Michael choked out a moan, and you hummed a mewl as you approached your climax.

“Mike—Mike—“ you whined, “So close—don’t stop, please.”

“Gonna fill you up, my love, come on. Come on my cock, know you want to.” He ground out. “You look so pretty when you do.”

You moaned low when the coil snapped and the white-hot heat invaded your vision and took over your senses. It rushed throughout your body and a single tear escaped the corner of your eye.

Michael was relentless after that, even as you were whining from the overstimulation, he kept going. Chasing his own high, but he never let up on your clit.

You felt completely blindsided by your third orgasm, rolling off the waves of your second until you were fluttering around him again. Crying out and squirming, you met a few of his thrusts in a cock-drunk daze.

Pleasure contorted Michael's face until he was coming with you, a groan low in his throat. His thrusts grew sloppy until they slowed. He twitched and you felt the warmth of it inside you, blooming upwards.

Your hairline was wet with sweat, and you breathed heavily. You leaned down to lay on his chest, his cock still stuffed inside you, but it had pleasure still echoing in your system.

Moving your head to his shoulder, Michael kissed your forehead. One hand trailed light lines up and down your spine, while you kept your hands on his biceps trying to catch your breath.

“I don’t think I ever wanna leave.”

Michael chuckled lightly, and brought you in for a kiss.

[ Next ]

want to join any of my taglists? shoot me a message!

Companionship taglist: @queenslandlover-93 @clementine111002 @virgomillie @emily-b @kaygilles @lt-jakeseresin @imonmykneessir @kniselle @gabsgabsvaz @rosiepoise88 @calivia @holdonimwalkingmysnail @valhallavalkyrie9 @blahkateisdone @shadowhuntyi @fuckalrighty @elli3williams @yournerdmodziata @i-know-i-can @dickheadturner @dcgoddess @pittobsessed @glamorizethechaos @blueb33ry-cat @whatdoesntkillyoumakesyoustrange @burningpenguinwitch @evienorville @equallyshaw @heyysolsister @justrandomthougt @babygirlagenda @lauracantsleep @rogersbarnesxx @longlivecandice @misshoneypaper @moonshooter @catmomstyles3

Dr. Robby taglist: @cherriready @seeyalaterinnovator @my-soulmate-is-mycroft @bxxbxy @18lkpeters @flyinglama @hagarsays @mayabbot @anakingreys @happyfox43 @dark-twisted-and-mechanical-mind @sarah-the-bird-nerd @girl-obsessed-with-things

(50 tags have been reached with the combo of all three taglists, so unfortunately some of Dr. Robby & all of The Pitt taglist for this series will be added in a reblog right after this is posted - I’m sorry if this is an inconvenience!)

I’ve gotten a lot more comfortable with bigger age gaps since this started. Sometimes I forget I aged Michael down slightly lol

Robby’s Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day up next!

#the pitt #michael robinavitch #dr robby #michael robinavitch x reader #asxgard writes #the pitt x reader

385 notes · View notes

asxgard · 1 month ago

Text

Companionship | pt. 14

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x f!reader

Previous | Next

Summary: You two have a little getaway.

[ Series Masterlist ]

Note: This took a hot minute lol I kept rewriting the first bit even after the rest was written, and then my dog got a bad infection (he’s okay now). It’s been a time lol I hope you enjoy!

Thank you for all the comments, likes and reblogs last chapter💜

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: age gap, SMUT (MINORS DNI), p in v, oral (f! receiving), fingering, light dirty talk, pet names (honey, sweetheart, my love), foul language