pixiexdusts-world

[pixiexdusts-world]

Underneath the metal

Thunderbolts* Bucky Barnes x teammate!reader

Summary: After you’re injured on a solo mission, Bucky—your enemy-turned-teammate—steps in to take care of you, revealing feelings neither of you can ignore.

Word count: 1,965

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You and Bucky Barnes didn’t get along. From day one, it had been glares, snide remarks, and the kind of tension that made everyone else on the Thunderbolts team either exit the room or place bets.

He was brooding and cold. You were fire and sarcasm. Oil and water—if oil had a metal arm and a hundred-yard death stare.

Which is why it was almost funny—almost—that you got shot on a mission you’d begged to be sent on instead of him.

You’d been tracking a rogue scientist through an old Hydra compound in Slovakia, determined to bring him in without backup. But things went sideways fast. You barely made it out alive, collapsing just inside the hangar of the Thunderbolts’ safehouse, soaked in blood and pride.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You wake to pain.

A bright, aching throb in your side. Something tight around your ribs. The sterile smell of disinfectant.

And Bucky.

He’s sitting next to your cot, face grim, arms crossed. That stupid metal one glinting in the dim light.

You blink slowly. “If this is hell, it’s disappointingly sarcastic.”

His eyes shoot to yours. Blue and burning.

“You almost died,” he says, and it sounds more like an accusation than concern.

“Yeah, well. Almost doesn’t count.”

You try to sit up and immediately regret it. Your ribs scream in protest. Bucky’s hand shoots out to steady you, warm fingers surprisingly gentle as they press to your shoulder.

“Lie back.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

You glare. “Didn’t ask for your help.”

“No,” he snaps, “you didn’t. You just snuck off like an idiot and bled all over the compound.”

You open your mouth for a biting retort, but something in his expression stops you cold.

He looks—wrecked.

His jaw tight. Hands clenched. And his voice, when he speaks again, is low and raw.

“Who did this to you?”

The question hits harder than the bullet did.

You glance away, throat tight. “It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t.”

He leans forward now, and there’s no teasing in his face, no smug grin or sarcastic jab. Just worry. Sharp, undiluted worry.

“Tell me.”

You swallow. “It was one of the guards. Saw me before I saw him. Got a lucky shot. I handled it.”

His metal hand curls around the edge of the bed. “You didn’t handle it. You nearly bled out alone.”

“I didn’t want to risk dragging anyone else into it.”

He lets out a sound between a scoff and a growl. “So instead you’d rather die being a goddamn martyr?”

You bristle. “You don’t get to lecture me.”

“I do when I’m the one who carried you back.”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“I found you in the hangar. Barely breathing. You passed out before you even saw me.”

He stares at you like he’s memorizing your face, as if making sure it’s really you.

“I thought you were gone.”

Something inside you cracks.

You’ve spent months trading barbs and pushing each other’s buttons, but right now, none of that matters. Not when he’s looking at you like you’re the last thing tethering him to this world.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “For going alone.”

He doesn’t reply right away. Just looks at you, searching your face.

Then, softer than you’ve ever heard him, he murmurs, “You scared the hell out of me.”

You blink, stunned.

And then, because the painkillers are still fogging your brain and your heart is wide open and aching, you whisper, “Why do you even care?”

He stands abruptly, pacing once before turning back. Frustration radiates off him.

“Because I do,” he says, exasperated. “Because somewhere between you calling me a fossil and nearly blowing my arm off during sparring, I started giving a damn.”

You stare at him, pulse hammering.

He rubs a hand down his face, eyes tired. “I know we’ve never been exactly… civil. But I’d rather take a thousand of your insults than lose you.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t know you felt—”

“Well, now you do.”

His voice is quiet again. And something about his vulnerability—that bare, open honesty—feels heavier than anything Hydra ever put you through.

You shift in the bed, trying not to wince. “Can you… stay? Just for a bit?”

His gaze softens. “Yeah. Of course.”

He settles back into the chair beside you. For a moment, the room is still. The air between you has changed, no longer charged with animosity but with something tentative, delicate.

You break the silence with a smile. “Still hate you a little.”

He snorts. “Yeah, well. You’re a pain in my ass.”

But his fingers brush yours on the edge of the cot, feather-light. And you don’t pull away.

You let them rest there.

Warm. Steady.

Real.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Two Weeks Later

You’re back on your feet, still sore, still healing—but training again. Bucky watches you from across the gym, arms folded, pretending not to look. Which is a lie, because he hasn’t stopped looking since you stepped onto the mat.

You fake a punch toward the bag and glance at him. “You stalking me now, Barnes?”

He smirks. “Making sure you don’t get yourself killed again.”

You toss your gloves onto the bench and walk toward him, towel slung over your shoulder. He doesn’t move as you stop in front of him.

“You’re a terrible liar, too.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

You nod, stepping close. “You don’t want me alive just because we’re teammates.”

“No,” he agrees, voice low. “I don’t.”

You’re close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him.

“You gonna do something about it?” you murmur.

He hesitates, eyes flicking to your lips. “Only if you want me to.”

You lean in just a bit. “I do.”

His lips brush yours, tentative and reverent. It’s not a fireworks explosion. It’s something softer—like a wound finally healing.

And when he pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he whispers,

“Next time you run into danger without me, I’m chaining you to the jet.”

You grin. “Kinky.”

He groans. “Regret. Instant regret.”

But he’s smiling, and so are you. Because for the first time since this whole twisted Thunderbolts mission started, you’re not just surviving.

You’re living.

And maybe—just maybe—falling in love with the man you once thought was your greatest enemy.

[pixiexdusts-world]

Underneath the metal

Thunderbolts* Bucky Barnes x teammate!reader

Summary: After you’re injured on a solo mission, Bucky—your enemy-turned-teammate—steps in to take care of you, revealing feelings neither of you can ignore.

Word count: 1,965

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You and Bucky Barnes didn’t get along. From day one, it had been glares, snide remarks, and the kind of tension that made everyone else on the Thunderbolts team either exit the room or place bets.

He was brooding and cold. You were fire and sarcasm. Oil and water—if oil had a metal arm and a hundred-yard death stare.

Which is why it was almost funny—almost—that you got shot on a mission you’d begged to be sent on instead of him.

You’d been tracking a rogue scientist through an old Hydra compound in Slovakia, determined to bring him in without backup. But things went sideways fast. You barely made it out alive, collapsing just inside the hangar of the Thunderbolts’ safehouse, soaked in blood and pride.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You wake to pain.

A bright, aching throb in your side. Something tight around your ribs. The sterile smell of disinfectant.

And Bucky.

He’s sitting next to your cot, face grim, arms crossed. That stupid metal one glinting in the dim light.

You blink slowly. “If this is hell, it’s disappointingly sarcastic.”

His eyes shoot to yours. Blue and burning.

“You almost died,” he says, and it sounds more like an accusation than concern.

“Yeah, well. Almost doesn’t count.”

You try to sit up and immediately regret it. Your ribs scream in protest. Bucky’s hand shoots out to steady you, warm fingers surprisingly gentle as they press to your shoulder.

“Lie back.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

You glare. “Didn’t ask for your help.”

“No,” he snaps, “you didn’t. You just snuck off like an idiot and bled all over the compound.”

You open your mouth for a biting retort, but something in his expression stops you cold.

He looks—wrecked.

His jaw tight. Hands clenched. And his voice, when he speaks again, is low and raw.

“Who did this to you?”

The question hits harder than the bullet did.

You glance away, throat tight. “It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t.”

He leans forward now, and there’s no teasing in his face, no smug grin or sarcastic jab. Just worry. Sharp, undiluted worry.

“Tell me.”

You swallow. “It was one of the guards. Saw me before I saw him. Got a lucky shot. I handled it.”

His metal hand curls around the edge of the bed. “You didn’t handle it. You nearly bled out alone.”

“I didn’t want to risk dragging anyone else into it.”

He lets out a sound between a scoff and a growl. “So instead you’d rather die being a goddamn martyr?”

You bristle. “You don’t get to lecture me.”

“I do when I’m the one who carried you back.”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“I found you in the hangar. Barely breathing. You passed out before you even saw me.”

He stares at you like he’s memorizing your face, as if making sure it’s really you.

“I thought you were gone.”

Something inside you cracks.

You’ve spent months trading barbs and pushing each other’s buttons, but right now, none of that matters. Not when he’s looking at you like you’re the last thing tethering him to this world.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “For going alone.”

He doesn’t reply right away. Just looks at you, searching your face.

Then, softer than you’ve ever heard him, he murmurs, “You scared the hell out of me.”

You blink, stunned.

And then, because the painkillers are still fogging your brain and your heart is wide open and aching, you whisper, “Why do you even care?”

He stands abruptly, pacing once before turning back. Frustration radiates off him.

“Because I do,” he says, exasperated. “Because somewhere between you calling me a fossil and nearly blowing my arm off during sparring, I started giving a damn.”

You stare at him, pulse hammering.

He rubs a hand down his face, eyes tired. “I know we’ve never been exactly… civil. But I’d rather take a thousand of your insults than lose you.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t know you felt—”

“Well, now you do.”

His voice is quiet again. And something about his vulnerability—that bare, open honesty—feels heavier than anything Hydra ever put you through.

You shift in the bed, trying not to wince. “Can you… stay? Just for a bit?”

His gaze softens. “Yeah. Of course.”

He settles back into the chair beside you. For a moment, the room is still. The air between you has changed, no longer charged with animosity but with something tentative, delicate.

You break the silence with a smile. “Still hate you a little.”

He snorts. “Yeah, well. You’re a pain in my ass.”

But his fingers brush yours on the edge of the cot, feather-light. And you don’t pull away.

You let them rest there.

Warm. Steady.

Real.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Two Weeks Later

You’re back on your feet, still sore, still healing—but training again. Bucky watches you from across the gym, arms folded, pretending not to look. Which is a lie, because he hasn’t stopped looking since you stepped onto the mat.

You fake a punch toward the bag and glance at him. “You stalking me now, Barnes?”

He smirks. “Making sure you don’t get yourself killed again.”

You toss your gloves onto the bench and walk toward him, towel slung over your shoulder. He doesn’t move as you stop in front of him.

“You’re a terrible liar, too.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

You nod, stepping close. “You don’t want me alive just because we’re teammates.”

“No,” he agrees, voice low. “I don’t.”

You’re close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him.

“You gonna do something about it?” you murmur.

He hesitates, eyes flicking to your lips. “Only if you want me to.”

You lean in just a bit. “I do.”

His lips brush yours, tentative and reverent. It’s not a fireworks explosion. It’s something softer—like a wound finally healing.

And when he pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he whispers,

“Next time you run into danger without me, I’m chaining you to the jet.”

You grin. “Kinky.”

He groans. “Regret. Instant regret.”

But he’s smiling, and so are you. Because for the first time since this whole twisted Thunderbolts mission started, you’re not just surviving.

You’re living.

And maybe—just maybe—falling in love with the man you once thought was your greatest enemy.

[pixiexdusts-world]

Hope you're doing well! I read some of your Bucky x Reader fics and I was wondering if you could do an Enemies to Lovers fic? Maybe with the prompt "Who did this to you" with some classic cheesy angsty and hurt/comfort?

I loved this idea so much!

Read it here <3

[pixiexdusts-world]

Underneath the metal

Thunderbolts* Bucky Barnes x teammate!reader

Summary: After you’re injured on a solo mission, Bucky—your enemy-turned-teammate—steps in to take care of you, revealing feelings neither of you can ignore.

Word count: 1,965

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You and Bucky Barnes didn’t get along. From day one, it had been glares, snide remarks, and the kind of tension that made everyone else on the Thunderbolts team either exit the room or place bets.

He was brooding and cold. You were fire and sarcasm. Oil and water—if oil had a metal arm and a hundred-yard death stare.

Which is why it was almost funny—almost—that you got shot on a mission you’d begged to be sent on instead of him.

You’d been tracking a rogue scientist through an old Hydra compound in Slovakia, determined to bring him in without backup. But things went sideways fast. You barely made it out alive, collapsing just inside the hangar of the Thunderbolts’ safehouse, soaked in blood and pride.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You wake to pain.

A bright, aching throb in your side. Something tight around your ribs. The sterile smell of disinfectant.

And Bucky.

He’s sitting next to your cot, face grim, arms crossed. That stupid metal one glinting in the dim light.

You blink slowly. “If this is hell, it’s disappointingly sarcastic.”

His eyes shoot to yours. Blue and burning.

“You almost died,” he says, and it sounds more like an accusation than concern.

“Yeah, well. Almost doesn’t count.”

You try to sit up and immediately regret it. Your ribs scream in protest. Bucky’s hand shoots out to steady you, warm fingers surprisingly gentle as they press to your shoulder.

“Lie back.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

You glare. “Didn’t ask for your help.”

“No,” he snaps, “you didn’t. You just snuck off like an idiot and bled all over the compound.”

You open your mouth for a biting retort, but something in his expression stops you cold.

He looks—wrecked.

His jaw tight. Hands clenched. And his voice, when he speaks again, is low and raw.

“Who did this to you?”

The question hits harder than the bullet did.

You glance away, throat tight. “It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t.”

He leans forward now, and there’s no teasing in his face, no smug grin or sarcastic jab. Just worry. Sharp, undiluted worry.

“Tell me.”

You swallow. “It was one of the guards. Saw me before I saw him. Got a lucky shot. I handled it.”

His metal hand curls around the edge of the bed. “You didn’t handle it. You nearly bled out alone.”

“I didn’t want to risk dragging anyone else into it.”

He lets out a sound between a scoff and a growl. “So instead you’d rather die being a goddamn martyr?”

You bristle. “You don’t get to lecture me.”

“I do when I’m the one who carried you back.”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“I found you in the hangar. Barely breathing. You passed out before you even saw me.”

He stares at you like he’s memorizing your face, as if making sure it’s really you.

“I thought you were gone.”

Something inside you cracks.

You’ve spent months trading barbs and pushing each other’s buttons, but right now, none of that matters. Not when he’s looking at you like you’re the last thing tethering him to this world.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “For going alone.”

He doesn’t reply right away. Just looks at you, searching your face.

Then, softer than you’ve ever heard him, he murmurs, “You scared the hell out of me.”

You blink, stunned.

And then, because the painkillers are still fogging your brain and your heart is wide open and aching, you whisper, “Why do you even care?”

He stands abruptly, pacing once before turning back. Frustration radiates off him.

“Because I do,” he says, exasperated. “Because somewhere between you calling me a fossil and nearly blowing my arm off during sparring, I started giving a damn.”

You stare at him, pulse hammering.

He rubs a hand down his face, eyes tired. “I know we’ve never been exactly… civil. But I’d rather take a thousand of your insults than lose you.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t know you felt—”

“Well, now you do.”

His voice is quiet again. And something about his vulnerability—that bare, open honesty—feels heavier than anything Hydra ever put you through.

You shift in the bed, trying not to wince. “Can you… stay? Just for a bit?”

His gaze softens. “Yeah. Of course.”

He settles back into the chair beside you. For a moment, the room is still. The air between you has changed, no longer charged with animosity but with something tentative, delicate.

You break the silence with a smile. “Still hate you a little.”

He snorts. “Yeah, well. You’re a pain in my ass.”

But his fingers brush yours on the edge of the cot, feather-light. And you don’t pull away.

You let them rest there.

Warm. Steady.

Real.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Two Weeks Later

You’re back on your feet, still sore, still healing—but training again. Bucky watches you from across the gym, arms folded, pretending not to look. Which is a lie, because he hasn’t stopped looking since you stepped onto the mat.

You fake a punch toward the bag and glance at him. “You stalking me now, Barnes?”

He smirks. “Making sure you don’t get yourself killed again.”

You toss your gloves onto the bench and walk toward him, towel slung over your shoulder. He doesn’t move as you stop in front of him.

“You’re a terrible liar, too.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

You nod, stepping close. “You don’t want me alive just because we’re teammates.”

“No,” he agrees, voice low. “I don’t.”

You’re close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him.

“You gonna do something about it?” you murmur.

He hesitates, eyes flicking to your lips. “Only if you want me to.”

You lean in just a bit. “I do.”

His lips brush yours, tentative and reverent. It’s not a fireworks explosion. It’s something softer—like a wound finally healing.

And when he pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he whispers,

“Next time you run into danger without me, I’m chaining you to the jet.”

You grin. “Kinky.”

He groans. “Regret. Instant regret.”

But he’s smiling, and so are you. Because for the first time since this whole twisted Thunderbolts mission started, you’re not just surviving.

You’re living.

And maybe—just maybe—falling in love with the man you once thought was your greatest enemy.

[pixiexdusts-world]

More than this

Stray Kids Changbin x bestie!reader

Summary: Changbin confesses his feelings to you, his best friend, and everything changes between you two.

Word count: 872

You’ve always been close to Changbin. The kind of close where silence feels comfortable and late-night convenience store runs are a routine. You’ve been by his side through trainee years, comeback stress, and even those moments when he forgets to sleep for days because he’s too busy producing music.

But tonight feels different.

It’s late—well past 1 a.m.—and you’re both sprawled on the studio couch, half-asleep, surrounded by empty snack wrappers and the soft glow of his laptop screen. He’s been working on a new track, but somewhere along the way, you started playing guessing games with his lyric drafts and teasing him about the cheesy lines.

“You always write about heartbreak,” you mumble, picking at the corner of a granola bar wrapper. “What happened to the fun, flirty Changbin?”

He lets out a soft laugh, leaning back and glancing at you. “Maybe I write heartbreak songs because the person I like doesn’t even know.”

You blink. “Ooh, are we finally naming names?”

“Nope.” He grins, but his eyes linger on you a little too long.

Your heart flutters—just a little—but you push it down. Changbin flirts with everyone. That’s just him.

You yawn, stretching your arms above your head. “Maybe she’s clueless. Maybe you should just tell her.”

He watches you quietly, then shifts closer. “What if I did?”

You snort. “I’d probably choke on my drink from shock.”

“Noted,” he says with a smile, but his voice dips lower. Softer. “You ever think about us… being more than this?”

Your brain stalls.

“More than…?” you ask, not daring to finish the sentence.

“More than best friends.” His eyes search your face, like he’s waiting for permission to say more. “Because I do. A lot.”

The air stills between you.

You want to joke, to deflect like always—but his expression is serious. Nervous, even.

“I didn’t want to ruin anything,” he adds quickly, fidgeting with the ring on his finger. “But the truth is… I like you. I have for a while.”

Your heart skips.

You sit there, stunned, as the seconds stretch long between you. You try to find words, but they’re lost in the warmth rising to your cheeks.

“I didn’t know,” you finally whisper.

“I figured,” he says, his smile turning sheepish. “You’re kind of oblivious. It’s cute.”

You laugh, covering your face. “You’re the worst.”

“But you like me too?” he asks, gently nudging your leg with his.

You peek out between your fingers. “Maybe.”

He leans in, resting his head lightly on your shoulder. “That’s enough for me.”

And just like that, best friends doesn’t quite cover it anymore.

[pixiexdusts-world]

Collateral Hearts

Bucky Barnes x enemy!reader/lover!reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes and a fellow Thunderbolt go from clashing on missions to falling for each other, slowly trading tension for trust—and eventually, love.

Word count: 3,611

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The mission brief was simple: extract the Hydra scientist before the mercs got to him. Keep it quiet, keep it clean. But nothing about the Thunderbolts ever stayed that way.

You had barely touched down in Kazakhstan when Bucky Barnes started irritating you—again.

“You’re standing on my shot,” you muttered, settled on a ridge with your sniper rifle nestled into your shoulder. Your scope was locked onto the compound below. “Again.”

“I’m securing the perimeter,” Bucky replied, deadpan, not moving an inch.

You rolled your eyes. “This isn’t your solo mission, Barnes.”

He didn’t respond, but the tight line of his jaw said enough.

You exhaled, steadying your finger on the trigger. “You were two seconds from tripping a motion sensor. You’re welcome.”

He glanced down, saw the faint shimmer of the hidden laser grid. His jaw clenched harder. You’d bet money he hated that you caught it before he did.

“Relax, Soldier. I’ve got your back.”

The words came out with more bite than you intended, but you didn’t regret them. You were tired of him acting like everyone on this team was either incompetent or a liability. Especially you.

Yelena’s voice crackled through the comms. “Please don’t kill each other before we even breach the building.”

Ghost chimed in, dry as always. “Betting odds say they either kiss or stab each other by the end of this.”

“Ten bucks on both,” Red Guardian added with a chuckle.

You smirked to yourself. Bucky, in turn, clicked his comm off.

Childish.

The team moved into position. Yelena and Ghost flanked the west side of the compound. Red Guardian was backup near the extraction point. You and Bucky were tasked with infiltrating the lab from above.

As you moved silently across the rooftop, Bucky walked a few steps ahead, not even checking if you were keeping up.

“I’m fine, thanks,” you whispered. “Appreciate the teamwork.”

“You’re loud,” he replied, eyes scanning the rooftop. “You kick your boots down harder than a rookie.”

You bristled. “Wow. It’s like you’re trying to be insufferable.”

“Trying?” He gave you a humorless half-smirk, the closest thing to an emotion you’d gotten from him in weeks.

You wanted to shove him off the roof.

The skylight above the lab was secured with an outdated lock system. Easy. You knelt beside it and pulled a device from your belt. Within seconds, the latch clicked open.

“You gonna keep glaring or help me lower down?” you asked.

Bucky clipped a line to the roof anchor and held it out wordlessly.

“Thanks for the enthusiasm,” you muttered as you rappelled down into the lab.

The lab was dimly lit, full of overturned equipment and hurried paperwork. Whoever had been here last left in a panic. No bodies—yet.

You landed softly, drawing your weapon.

Bucky followed, landing silently behind you. You heard him before you saw him. Of course. Super-spy.

“Data drive’s not here,” you whispered after scanning the cluttered desk. “He either took it or they already got to him.”

Bucky pointed to a blood trail leading out of the far door. “Guess we’re going hunting.”

You crept through the corridor, careful not to step in the smears. The trail led into a sub-basement lined with cracked concrete and rusted pipes. The tension between you and Bucky pulsed like static electricity—unspoken, simmering, sharp.

You hated that he didn’t trust you. Hated that you had to prove yourself on every op. You weren’t some reckless recruit. You’d survived hell to be here—same as him.

A door creaked ahead, and you both froze.

Then: footsteps. Fast. Desperate.

You moved first, raising your weapon. Bucky reached for your arm—too late.

The door burst open and a Hydra agent lunged. You fired. Clean shot. But two more came from behind.

Bucky intercepted one, slamming him into the wall with his vibranium arm. You handled the second, ducking low and sweeping his legs out before cracking him across the skull.

More were coming.

“Time to go!” you shouted.

You grabbed the bloodied scientist from the corner of the room—barely conscious, barely breathing—and threw his arm over your shoulder. Bucky covered you, firing sharp bursts that echoed off the concrete.

He led the way back to the extraction point, clearing the path with brutal efficiency. You hated to admit it, but he moved like a damn machine—precise, unstoppable.

Outside, Yelena was already at the evac vehicle, gun in hand. “Get in! Get in!”

Red Guardian fired into the tree line as Ghost appeared from the shadows, dragging a second unconscious Hydra goon behind her.

You shoved the scientist into the back seat and turned to help Bucky, who was still covering your rear.

A bullet grazed your shoulder just as you ducked behind the van.

“Shit,” you hissed, grabbing your arm.

Bucky was instantly beside you, eyes scanning the wound. “You okay?”

You blinked. Concern? From him?

“Yeah,” you muttered. “Just a graze. Not your fault, if that’s what you were about to say.”

He didn’t reply—just reached for your arm. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he checked the bleeding.

“Don’t need you babysitting me,” you said, your voice sharp even as your pulse skipped under his touch.

“I’m not babysitting. I’m keeping my teammate alive,” he said lowly, meeting your eyes.

Something passed between you—tense, charged, undeniable.

You were the first to look away.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The flight back was quiet, except for Red Guardian’s occasional snoring and Yelena poking him with a pencil every time he drifted off.

You sat across from Bucky in the Quinjet, nursing your shoulder. He hadn’t said a word to you since the van—just sat there, arms crossed, staring at nothing.

You hated how aware you were of him. How your eyes kept drifting to the scar on his jaw. How you remembered the exact way his hand felt when it brushed your skin.

The worst part? You were starting to realize he didn’t hate you.

He just didn’t know how to let anyone in.

“You did good,” he said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence.

You looked up, startled. “Sorry?”

“Back there,” he said, meeting your gaze. “You did good.”

You stared at him. Was that… praise?

“Are you feeling okay?” you asked, raising a brow.

He huffed a short laugh. “Don’t make me regret saying it.”

You smirked despite yourself. “Don’t worry. I’ll cherish this rare moment forever.”

There was a long pause. Then, softer:

“I don’t think you’re reckless.”

You blinked.

“I used to,” he admitted. “But you’re not. You’re sharp. And you saved my ass more than once today.”

Your heart stuttered a little.

“…Thanks,” you said quietly.

He gave a slow nod and leaned back, eyes drifting shut.

And you were left wondering how someone so cold could make your chest feel like it was burning.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Two weeks later, and he was still on your nerves.

Since the mission in Kazakhstan, Bucky had shifted from cold indifference to… whatever this new phase was. Less glaring, more hovering. Less insulting, more frustratingly observant.

Like now.

You were in the Thunderbolts’ training facility, wiping sweat from your brow as you caught your breath. You’d been sparring with Ghost, and the match was brutal—satisfyingly so.

Bucky stood against the far wall, arms crossed, watching.

“I can feel you staring, Barnes,” you called, walking to grab a towel.

“You drop your right guard when you spin out of a choke,” he replied, casual like he wasn’t clocking every move you made.

Ghost smirked from the mat. “He’s right.”

You shot her a look. “Traitor.”

She shrugged. “He’s not wrong. Just annoying.”

“That’s his specialty,” you muttered.

But you still caught the way Bucky’s lips curved slightly at that.

He was becoming a problem. Not because he was a pain in your ass—he always had been—but because lately, he made your heart do stupid things. Like flutter. And race. And soften.

You hated it.

Especially because the next mission would be just the two of you.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The drop zone was outside Prague—an abandoned hydropower plant that had become a black-market weapons depot. The job: tag the cargo, ID the buyer, and get out without triggering an all-out war.

You and Bucky moved through the rusted catwalks like you’d trained together for years. No wasted words. No missed signals. It was infuriating how well you worked together now.

At least until he started hovering again.

“Your foot’s bleeding,” he said as you crouched near a vent.

You looked down. A shallow slice through your boot. “It’s nothing.”

“Could get worse. Let me—”

“I said I’m fine.”

He paused, kneeling beside you anyway. “You never let anyone help you.”

You stiffened. “Because I don’t need help.”

“That’s not true.”

You turned to him, close enough to see the small scar just below his left eye. “Why do you care all of a sudden?”

“I’ve always cared,” he said, low and steady. “You just didn’t want to see it.”

Your breath caught.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then: voices above you. Mercs. You both froze, instinct kicking in.

They passed without spotting you, but the tension remained—thick, humming between you.

Later, after tagging the cargo and slipping out through the underground turbine tunnels, you stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“What you said. About caring.”

He looked at you, unreadable. “Yeah?”

You swallowed hard. “Why now?”

Bucky was quiet for a long beat. Then: “Because I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel something every time you walk into a room.”

You stared at him.

“That’s not nothing,” he said, voice quieter now. “Not to me.”

Your mouth opened—then closed. Your pulse was hammering. This wasn’t how things went. Not with him. Not with you.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said honestly. “Especially with someone who spent the first three months acting like I was a grenade waiting to go off.”

“I was scared of you,” he admitted.

That made you laugh, shocked. “Seriously?”

“Not like that. I was scared of… what it’d mean if I let you in.”

You blinked. Something in your chest cracked open.

“You gonna let me in now?” you asked, soft.

He stepped closer. “You already are.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The kiss came fast. Surprising. But it made perfect sense.

His hand was in your hair. Yours gripped the front of his tac suit like an anchor. The heat between you flared, electric and urgent, until your earpieces burst to life.

“—code red! You two better be back at the jet or I swear I’m flying it into the river!” Yelena’s voice cut in, sharp.

You both pulled back, panting.

“I hate her timing,” you muttered.

“She’ll make fun of us for weeks,” Bucky added with a sigh.

You smirked. “Let her. She called this.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Back at the base, the teasing began immediately.

“See?” Yelena grinned. “I told you. They were one near-death experience away from ripping each other’s clothes off.”

“We didn’t—” Bucky started.

Ghost raised a brow. “Yet.”

Red Guardian simply clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “Proud of you. It’s important to experience messy feelings.”

Bucky looked vaguely traumatized. You just sipped your coffee and refused to confirm or deny anything.

But that night, he found you on the rooftop. No words at first—just the shared silence of two people learning how not to guard themselves.

“You ever think about leaving?” you asked, watching the moonlight spill across the clouds.

“Used to,” he said. “Not so much now.”

You turned. “Why?”

He looked at you then, all that old sorrow tucked into the corners of his eyes—but softer now. Softer with you.

“Because for the first time in a long time, I’ve got something to stay for.”

Your breath hitched.

You stepped close, brushing your fingers along the edge of his vibranium hand. “Guess we’re both stuck, huh?”

His lips quirked. “Could be worse.”

“Could be a hell of a lot worse,” you agreed.

He leaned in, forehead resting against yours.

“Still think I’m insufferable?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” you whispered.

And then you kissed him again—slow, certain, burning with everything that had built between you for months.

Enemies? Once.

Lovers? Maybe not quite. Not yet.

But something was beginning.

Something real.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The mission in Berlin had gone sideways—again.

You were both limping, bruised, and covered in soot when you finally got back to the safe house, the adrenaline crash hitting like a freight train.

“You sure your ribs aren’t broken?” you asked as Bucky peeled off his jacket, wincing.

“Pretty sure,” he grunted. “Only cracked.”

You tossed a med kit on the couch. “Let me guess—‘I’m fine, I’ve had worse.’”

“I have had worse.”

“You’re still an idiot.”

He smiled at that. “Your idiot, though.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the casual softness of it.

“My idiot,” you repeated, like you were testing the phrase.

“Only if you want me to be,” he added, quieter now.

You didn’t answer—not with words. Just leaned in, your fingers brushing over the side of his jaw, then up into his hair as your lips found his. It was slower this time. Familiar. Like breathing.

When you pulled back, he looked at you like he was still catching up.

You grinned. “You talk a lot more now.”

“Only to you,” he said, lips curving.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

By morning, the bruises were darker, but the ache in your chest was something different. Something warmer.

He made coffee while you bandaged your shoulder. You stole his mug. He didn’t complain.

Yelena called, her voice echoing through the comms. “You two lovebirds alive or should I send Ghost to retrieve the bodies?”

“We’re alive,” Bucky replied dryly. “Barely.”

“Good. I had money riding on it.”

You laughed as he shut the comm off, shaking his head.

“You realize they’re never going to let this go, right?” you said.

“They’re the Thunderbolts. Teasing is how they show affection.”

You tilted your head. “So… you gonna tell them we’re official?”

Bucky sipped from your—well, his—mug and raised a brow. “We’re official?”

You shrugged, trying to look casual. “Unless that’s not what this is.”

He was quiet for a beat, then stepped closer, cupping your jaw with a hand that was warm and steady and real.

“It is. And I’m in,” he said simply. “All in.”

You smiled into the kiss that followed—messy, aching, perfect.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Later, as the Quinjet carried you both toward the next assignment, Ghost sat beside you with her hood down for once.

“You and Barnes,” she said. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“Neither did I,” you admitted.

She looked at you for a long moment. “He’s different with you.”

You blinked. “Good different or… scary different?”

She almost smiled. “Soft.”

You glanced across the jet, where Bucky sat dozing lightly, head tilted toward you like gravity itself kept him close.

Your chest tightened in the best way.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “He is.”

Not a happy ending. Not yet.

But something better.

A beginning.

[pixiexdusts-world]

Collateral Hearts

Bucky Barnes x enemy!reader/lover!reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes and a fellow Thunderbolt go from clashing on missions to falling for each other, slowly trading tension for trust—and eventually, love.

Word count: 3,611

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The mission brief was simple: extract the Hydra scientist before the mercs got to him. Keep it quiet, keep it clean. But nothing about the Thunderbolts ever stayed that way.

You had barely touched down in Kazakhstan when Bucky Barnes started irritating you—again.

“You’re standing on my shot,” you muttered, settled on a ridge with your sniper rifle nestled into your shoulder. Your scope was locked onto the compound below. “Again.”

“I’m securing the perimeter,” Bucky replied, deadpan, not moving an inch.

You rolled your eyes. “This isn’t your solo mission, Barnes.”

He didn’t respond, but the tight line of his jaw said enough.

You exhaled, steadying your finger on the trigger. “You were two seconds from tripping a motion sensor. You’re welcome.”

He glanced down, saw the faint shimmer of the hidden laser grid. His jaw clenched harder. You’d bet money he hated that you caught it before he did.

“Relax, Soldier. I’ve got your back.”

The words came out with more bite than you intended, but you didn’t regret them. You were tired of him acting like everyone on this team was either incompetent or a liability. Especially you.

Yelena’s voice crackled through the comms. “Please don’t kill each other before we even breach the building.”

Ghost chimed in, dry as always. “Betting odds say they either kiss or stab each other by the end of this.”

“Ten bucks on both,” Red Guardian added with a chuckle.

You smirked to yourself. Bucky, in turn, clicked his comm off.

Childish.

The team moved into position. Yelena and Ghost flanked the west side of the compound. Red Guardian was backup near the extraction point. You and Bucky were tasked with infiltrating the lab from above.

As you moved silently across the rooftop, Bucky walked a few steps ahead, not even checking if you were keeping up.

“I’m fine, thanks,” you whispered. “Appreciate the teamwork.”

“You’re loud,” he replied, eyes scanning the rooftop. “You kick your boots down harder than a rookie.”

You bristled. “Wow. It’s like you’re trying to be insufferable.”

“Trying?” He gave you a humorless half-smirk, the closest thing to an emotion you’d gotten from him in weeks.

You wanted to shove him off the roof.

The skylight above the lab was secured with an outdated lock system. Easy. You knelt beside it and pulled a device from your belt. Within seconds, the latch clicked open.

“You gonna keep glaring or help me lower down?” you asked.

Bucky clipped a line to the roof anchor and held it out wordlessly.

“Thanks for the enthusiasm,” you muttered as you rappelled down into the lab.

The lab was dimly lit, full of overturned equipment and hurried paperwork. Whoever had been here last left in a panic. No bodies—yet.

You landed softly, drawing your weapon.

Bucky followed, landing silently behind you. You heard him before you saw him. Of course. Super-spy.

“Data drive’s not here,” you whispered after scanning the cluttered desk. “He either took it or they already got to him.”

Bucky pointed to a blood trail leading out of the far door. “Guess we’re going hunting.”

You crept through the corridor, careful not to step in the smears. The trail led into a sub-basement lined with cracked concrete and rusted pipes. The tension between you and Bucky pulsed like static electricity—unspoken, simmering, sharp.

You hated that he didn’t trust you. Hated that you had to prove yourself on every op. You weren’t some reckless recruit. You’d survived hell to be here—same as him.

A door creaked ahead, and you both froze.

Then: footsteps. Fast. Desperate.

You moved first, raising your weapon. Bucky reached for your arm—too late.

The door burst open and a Hydra agent lunged. You fired. Clean shot. But two more came from behind.

Bucky intercepted one, slamming him into the wall with his vibranium arm. You handled the second, ducking low and sweeping his legs out before cracking him across the skull.

More were coming.

“Time to go!” you shouted.

You grabbed the bloodied scientist from the corner of the room—barely conscious, barely breathing—and threw his arm over your shoulder. Bucky covered you, firing sharp bursts that echoed off the concrete.

He led the way back to the extraction point, clearing the path with brutal efficiency. You hated to admit it, but he moved like a damn machine—precise, unstoppable.

Outside, Yelena was already at the evac vehicle, gun in hand. “Get in! Get in!”

Red Guardian fired into the tree line as Ghost appeared from the shadows, dragging a second unconscious Hydra goon behind her.

You shoved the scientist into the back seat and turned to help Bucky, who was still covering your rear.

A bullet grazed your shoulder just as you ducked behind the van.

“Shit,” you hissed, grabbing your arm.

Bucky was instantly beside you, eyes scanning the wound. “You okay?”

You blinked. Concern? From him?

“Yeah,” you muttered. “Just a graze. Not your fault, if that’s what you were about to say.”

He didn’t reply—just reached for your arm. His hands were surprisingly gentle as he checked the bleeding.

“Don’t need you babysitting me,” you said, your voice sharp even as your pulse skipped under his touch.

“I’m not babysitting. I’m keeping my teammate alive,” he said lowly, meeting your eyes.

Something passed between you—tense, charged, undeniable.

You were the first to look away.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The flight back was quiet, except for Red Guardian’s occasional snoring and Yelena poking him with a pencil every time he drifted off.

You sat across from Bucky in the Quinjet, nursing your shoulder. He hadn’t said a word to you since the van—just sat there, arms crossed, staring at nothing.

You hated how aware you were of him. How your eyes kept drifting to the scar on his jaw. How you remembered the exact way his hand felt when it brushed your skin.

The worst part? You were starting to realize he didn’t hate you.

He just didn’t know how to let anyone in.

“You did good,” he said suddenly, his voice breaking the silence.

You looked up, startled. “Sorry?”

“Back there,” he said, meeting your gaze. “You did good.”

You stared at him. Was that… praise?

“Are you feeling okay?” you asked, raising a brow.

He huffed a short laugh. “Don’t make me regret saying it.”

You smirked despite yourself. “Don’t worry. I’ll cherish this rare moment forever.”

There was a long pause. Then, softer:

“I don’t think you’re reckless.”

You blinked.

“I used to,” he admitted. “But you’re not. You’re sharp. And you saved my ass more than once today.”

Your heart stuttered a little.

“…Thanks,” you said quietly.

He gave a slow nod and leaned back, eyes drifting shut.

And you were left wondering how someone so cold could make your chest feel like it was burning.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Two weeks later, and he was still on your nerves.

Since the mission in Kazakhstan, Bucky had shifted from cold indifference to… whatever this new phase was. Less glaring, more hovering. Less insulting, more frustratingly observant.

Like now.

You were in the Thunderbolts’ training facility, wiping sweat from your brow as you caught your breath. You’d been sparring with Ghost, and the match was brutal—satisfyingly so.

Bucky stood against the far wall, arms crossed, watching.

“I can feel you staring, Barnes,” you called, walking to grab a towel.

“You drop your right guard when you spin out of a choke,” he replied, casual like he wasn’t clocking every move you made.

Ghost smirked from the mat. “He’s right.”

You shot her a look. “Traitor.”

She shrugged. “He’s not wrong. Just annoying.”

“That’s his specialty,” you muttered.

But you still caught the way Bucky’s lips curved slightly at that.

He was becoming a problem. Not because he was a pain in your ass—he always had been—but because lately, he made your heart do stupid things. Like flutter. And race. And soften.

You hated it.

Especially because the next mission would be just the two of you.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The drop zone was outside Prague—an abandoned hydropower plant that had become a black-market weapons depot. The job: tag the cargo, ID the buyer, and get out without triggering an all-out war.

You and Bucky moved through the rusted catwalks like you’d trained together for years. No wasted words. No missed signals. It was infuriating how well you worked together now.

At least until he started hovering again.

“Your foot’s bleeding,” he said as you crouched near a vent.

You looked down. A shallow slice through your boot. “It’s nothing.”

“Could get worse. Let me—”

“I said I’m fine.”

He paused, kneeling beside you anyway. “You never let anyone help you.”

You stiffened. “Because I don’t need help.”

“That’s not true.”

You turned to him, close enough to see the small scar just below his left eye. “Why do you care all of a sudden?”

“I’ve always cared,” he said, low and steady. “You just didn’t want to see it.”

Your breath caught.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then: voices above you. Mercs. You both froze, instinct kicking in.

They passed without spotting you, but the tension remained—thick, humming between you.

Later, after tagging the cargo and slipping out through the underground turbine tunnels, you stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“What you said. About caring.”

He looked at you, unreadable. “Yeah?”

You swallowed hard. “Why now?”

Bucky was quiet for a long beat. Then: “Because I’m tired of pretending I don’t feel something every time you walk into a room.”

You stared at him.

“That’s not nothing,” he said, voice quieter now. “Not to me.”

Your mouth opened—then closed. Your pulse was hammering. This wasn’t how things went. Not with him. Not with you.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said honestly. “Especially with someone who spent the first three months acting like I was a grenade waiting to go off.”

“I was scared of you,” he admitted.

That made you laugh, shocked. “Seriously?”

“Not like that. I was scared of… what it’d mean if I let you in.”

You blinked. Something in your chest cracked open.

“You gonna let me in now?” you asked, soft.

He stepped closer. “You already are.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The kiss came fast. Surprising. But it made perfect sense.

His hand was in your hair. Yours gripped the front of his tac suit like an anchor. The heat between you flared, electric and urgent, until your earpieces burst to life.

“—code red! You two better be back at the jet or I swear I’m flying it into the river!” Yelena’s voice cut in, sharp.

You both pulled back, panting.

“I hate her timing,” you muttered.

“She’ll make fun of us for weeks,” Bucky added with a sigh.

You smirked. “Let her. She called this.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Back at the base, the teasing began immediately.

“See?” Yelena grinned. “I told you. They were one near-death experience away from ripping each other’s clothes off.”

“We didn’t—” Bucky started.

Ghost raised a brow. “Yet.”

Red Guardian simply clapped Bucky on the shoulder. “Proud of you. It’s important to experience messy feelings.”

Bucky looked vaguely traumatized. You just sipped your coffee and refused to confirm or deny anything.

But that night, he found you on the rooftop. No words at first—just the shared silence of two people learning how not to guard themselves.

“You ever think about leaving?” you asked, watching the moonlight spill across the clouds.

“Used to,” he said. “Not so much now.”

You turned. “Why?”

He looked at you then, all that old sorrow tucked into the corners of his eyes—but softer now. Softer with you.

“Because for the first time in a long time, I’ve got something to stay for.”

Your breath hitched.

You stepped close, brushing your fingers along the edge of his vibranium hand. “Guess we’re both stuck, huh?”

His lips quirked. “Could be worse.”

“Could be a hell of a lot worse,” you agreed.

He leaned in, forehead resting against yours.

“Still think I’m insufferable?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” you whispered.

And then you kissed him again—slow, certain, burning with everything that had built between you for months.

Enemies? Once.

Lovers? Maybe not quite. Not yet.

But something was beginning.

Something real.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The mission in Berlin had gone sideways—again.

You were both limping, bruised, and covered in soot when you finally got back to the safe house, the adrenaline crash hitting like a freight train.

“You sure your ribs aren’t broken?” you asked as Bucky peeled off his jacket, wincing.

“Pretty sure,” he grunted. “Only cracked.”

You tossed a med kit on the couch. “Let me guess—‘I’m fine, I’ve had worse.’”

“I have had worse.”

“You’re still an idiot.”

He smiled at that. “Your idiot, though.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the casual softness of it.

“My idiot,” you repeated, like you were testing the phrase.

“Only if you want me to be,” he added, quieter now.

You didn’t answer—not with words. Just leaned in, your fingers brushing over the side of his jaw, then up into his hair as your lips found his. It was slower this time. Familiar. Like breathing.

When you pulled back, he looked at you like he was still catching up.

You grinned. “You talk a lot more now.”

“Only to you,” he said, lips curving.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

By morning, the bruises were darker, but the ache in your chest was something different. Something warmer.

He made coffee while you bandaged your shoulder. You stole his mug. He didn’t complain.

Yelena called, her voice echoing through the comms. “You two lovebirds alive or should I send Ghost to retrieve the bodies?”

“We’re alive,” Bucky replied dryly. “Barely.”

“Good. I had money riding on it.”

You laughed as he shut the comm off, shaking his head.

“You realize they’re never going to let this go, right?” you said.

“They’re the Thunderbolts. Teasing is how they show affection.”

You tilted your head. “So… you gonna tell them we’re official?”

Bucky sipped from your—well, his—mug and raised a brow. “We’re official?”

You shrugged, trying to look casual. “Unless that’s not what this is.”

He was quiet for a beat, then stepped closer, cupping your jaw with a hand that was warm and steady and real.

“It is. And I’m in,” he said simply. “All in.”

You smiled into the kiss that followed—messy, aching, perfect.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Later, as the Quinjet carried you both toward the next assignment, Ghost sat beside you with her hood down for once.

“You and Barnes,” she said. “Didn’t see that coming.”

“Neither did I,” you admitted.

She looked at you for a long moment. “He’s different with you.”

You blinked. “Good different or… scary different?”

She almost smiled. “Soft.”

You glanced across the jet, where Bucky sat dozing lightly, head tilted toward you like gravity itself kept him close.

Your chest tightened in the best way.

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “He is.”

Not a happy ending. Not yet.

But something better.

A beginning.

[pixiexdusts-world]

Incorrect quote

John: Hey, what’s up?

Bob: The sky.

John: No, I meant like, what are you doing?

Bob: Oh, Y/n .

Y/n : *highfives Bob* Nice!

[pixiexdusts-world]

Incorrect quote

John: Hey, what’s up?

Bob: The sky.

John: No, I meant like, what are you doing?

Bob: Oh, Y/n .

Y/n : *highfives Bob* Nice!

[pixiexdusts-world]

Shattered Light

Bob Reynolds x thunderbolts!reader

Summary: Bob Reynolds, the Sentry, struggles with his powers and the Void within him. He develops a quiet crush on a new Thunderbolts* teammate, and through their shared battles and moments of vulnerability, he learns to trust her and himself. In the end, he finds peace and love, anchored by her steady presence.

Word count: 5,636

Notes: slight thunderbolts* spoilers. This is the longest fic I’ve ever posted….. I’m scared 😓

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Bob Reynolds wasn’t used to the noise.

Not just the missions, the guns, the explosions—he could handle that. It was the silence after that got him. The moments when he stood in the Thunderbolts* briefing room, his skin buzzing with too much energy, while everyone else peeled off armor or traded barbed jokes like nothing ever touched them. Like they were used to the dark.

But you? You were something different.

You didn’t talk much either, but your silence didn’t feel like weight—it felt like calm. Like a harbor in the middle of a storm he couldn’t name. Bob had no idea how someone could move through this twisted team with such certainty, but you did. Graceful. Focused. Untouchable.

And it terrified him.

He noticed you on the second day after joining the team officially. You were leaning against the wall outside the mission debrief, arms crossed, eyes sharp but not cold. You nodded once at him when he passed by. Just a nod. No smile. No words. But it short-circuited something in his brain anyway.

So he nodded back.

And then he avoided you for three days straight.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

He wasn’t good at people. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

He’d been someone once—a husband, a neighbor, someone people liked. But now he was this barely-contained nuclear reaction in a hoodie and gloves, pretending he still knew how to exist.

And you… you were real. Not some experiment. Not a symbol. Just a person. A fierce, beautiful one who could take down three mercs with a single baton strike and then walk off without waiting for applause.

So naturally, Bob couldn’t speak to you without tripping over himself.

Like today, for example.

You were in the gym, wrapping your hands. He walked in, trying to seem casual, like it wasn’t a coincidence. Like he hadn’t checked the schedule five times to make sure no one else would be around.

You didn’t even look at him at first. Just finished your wraps and stepped onto the mat.

He hovered by the weights for a minute, pretending to stretch, pretending not to watch.

You turned, finally. “You training?”

Bob’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“I, uh… yeah. Yeah.”

Smooth.

You raised an eyebrow. “Want the mat?”

He shook his head quickly. “No, no—you go ahead. I like, uh, I like observing. Not in a weird way. In a normal… healthy way.”

You stared at him.

He felt his face go red.

You tilted your head slightly. “Right.”

You started your warm-up. Bob sat on the bench press machine with a towel draped over his knee, clutching it like a lifeline.

He kept stealing glances while you moved. There was a fluidity to your strikes that made the air feel sharper around you. And every time your fist hit the practice dummy, Bob felt like he flinched harder than the target did.

He didn’t even realize you were speaking until you turned and asked, “You box?”

He blinked. “I… used to. Kinda.”

“You want a round?”

Bob’s heart went into full lockdown mode. “Spar? With you?”

You gave a half-smile. “Yeah. Unless you’re scared.”

He almost blurted, Terrified, thanks for asking, but instead mumbled, “Sure. Why not?”

He took off his hoodie. His arms tensed, golden power flickering faintly beneath his skin, and he hoped—desperately—that you didn’t notice. He stepped onto the mat.

You stood across from him, already in a stance. “No powers?”

He nodded quickly. “No powers.”

You lunged first.

And you were fast.

He blocked, barely, and stumbled a little, awkward on his feet. He wasn’t afraid of getting hit—it was everything around the hit. How close you were. How serious your eyes were. How your braid snapped behind you like a warning.

“You’re stiff,” you said mid-punch.

“I’m trying to be respectful,” he said through gritted teeth, parrying your strike.

“This is respectful,” you replied, throwing a knee he dodged just in time. “I don’t want you to hold back.”

Bob let out a shaky breath and nodded. “Okay. No holding back.”

He wasn’t a natural fighter like you. His power made everything unfair—so when he stripped it away, he just felt… awkward. Heavy. Out of sync.

But he tried.

He managed a decent jab that made you smirk. And for a moment, he felt it—that flicker of pride.

Then you swept his leg.

He hit the mat with a loud thud, blinking up at the ceiling.

You leaned over him, breath light, hands on your hips.

“You okay?” you asked.

He nodded, stunned. “Yep. Just… thinking about life. My choices. Gravity.”

You laughed. You actually laughed.

And it hit him harder than the fall.

You held out a hand. He took it, and your grip was firm. Real. Grounding.

“Thanks,” he said as you pulled him up.

You shrugged. “You’ve got potential. You just need to stop thinking so much.”

“That’s like asking water not to be wet.”

You tilted your head again. “Then maybe it’s time you dried off.”

Bob grinned, heart pounding.

You were impossible. And he was absolutely screwed.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Bob wasn’t sure what was worse: being thrown on his back in front of you or having to face you the next morning like it hadn’t completely scrambled his nervous system.

He spent twenty minutes pacing outside the Thunderbolts* cafeteria, clutching a travel mug he didn’t even want. He’d filled it just to have something to hold. Something to do with his hands so he wouldn’t look like a malfunctioning android if you showed up.

He was debating whether to fake a phone call and bolt when he heard footsteps.

You.

Walking in like you didn’t set his brain on fire 24 hours ago.

“Morning,” you said, pulling open the door and brushing past him without hesitation.

“Morning,” he squeaked—then cleared his throat and said it again, lower. “Morning.”

You stopped near the coffee machines and glanced over your shoulder. “You coming in or guarding the hallway?”

He shuffled in. “Just, you know. Scoping the perimeter. Very important hallway.”

You smirked slightly but didn’t say anything.

He watched you fix your coffee. Black, no sugar. Brutal. Efficient. Of course.

Bob looked at his own mug. It had too much cream and some experimental caramel drizzle he regretted. It looked like dessert next to yours.

You nodded toward an empty table in the corner. “You sit, or pace?”

He followed. Sat. Then realized he was gripping the mug like it was trying to escape and forced his fingers to relax.

Silence.

But not a bad one.

You took a sip of your coffee and leaned back. “You hit harder than you think.”

Bob blinked. “I do?”

“Yeah. You held back. But your stance was better by the end.”

He felt something warm in his chest. Praise. From you.

“That’s… that’s good,” he said. “I’ve been trying not to—well. Not to accidentally punch through walls. Or people.”

“Sounds like you’re doing okay.”

He smiled faintly. “That might be the first time anyone’s ever told me that.”

You didn’t laugh. You just looked at him—really looked at him. And for once, he didn’t want to shrink from it.

He wanted to stay.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The thing about crushes, Bob had learned, was that they made everything feel like a bomb about to go off.

He saw you everywhere now—in briefings, across the gym, stalking down the hallway in that sharp, efficient way you moved. He noticed the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were annoyed, or the way you tapped your knuckles on the table when bored.

You probably thought he was quiet because he was shy.

Really, he was quiet because he was terrified that if he spoke too much, you’d hear what he wasn’t saying.

That he liked you.

A lot.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

A week later, Valentina sent half the team on recon in Berlin. You and Bob were stuck at base, on reserve duty. The building was practically silent.

Bob was trying to read something—a mission report, maybe. But his eyes kept drifting to the security feed. You were on the sparring mat again. Alone. Practicing with a bo staff.

His stomach did a weird somersault. He hated how easily his body betrayed him.

He walked in casually. Or tried to.

You looked up and nodded. “You bored?”

“Desperately.”

“Want to learn?”

He blinked. “The staff?”

You twirled it once. “Why not?”

Bob hesitated. “I have a strong personal record of being impaled by my own lack of coordination.”

You grinned. “That’s what training is for.”

He stepped onto the mat and took the staff you offered. It was heavier than it looked. Or maybe his palms were just sweaty.

You stepped close. Too close. Your hand reached over his to adjust his grip and Bob nearly forgot how to breathe.

“Here. Like this.”

“Yep. Hands. Got it.”

You laughed softly, and Bob’s heart did that thing again—like it wanted to leap out of his chest and curl up next to you.

“Relax,” you said. “You’re too stiff.”

“Pretty sure I’m 83% tension at this point.”

You guided him through the motion, your body behind his. He tried to focus, but the heat of your presence short-circuited every logical thought.

“Better,” you murmured.

He turned a little to glance back at you. Mistake.

Too close.

Your faces were inches apart.

He froze.

You didn’t move either.

It wasn’t a charged moment exactly—it was quieter than that. Like the air between you had shifted. Like something had been acknowledged, even if neither of you said it out loud.

Then you stepped back.

“Not bad,” you said, voice neutral.

Bob tried to say something clever. Something cool. Instead, he squeaked out, “You’re a good teacher.”

You smirked. “You’re a terrible liar.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

That night, Bob couldn’t sleep.

Not because of the usual chaos in his head. Not even because of the voice of the Void, which had been unusually quiet lately.

No—it was you.

You and your calm confidence. Your dry humor. Your hands adjusting his grip on the staff.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall.

He was in trouble.

But for the first time in a long, long time… he didn’t mind.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Thunderbolts* missions were chaos. That was the rule.

It wasn’t even controlled chaos most of the time. It was sharp, brutal, and messy—like a machine built by broken people. Bob understood that now. And he was one of the broken parts, too.

But this mission? This one was personal.

A rogue enhancement cell. Leftovers from a HYDRA spinoff. They were experimenting on civilians, warping them into living weapons. Bob knew that playbook too well.

Val sent you, Bob, and Ghost to extract survivors from an underground lab in northern Italy. The intel was shaky, but the urgency was real.

It was raining when you dropped in. Hard.

Bob’s earpiece crackled with static. “Two minutes to breach,” came your voice—calm, steady.

He breathed out slowly, standing behind you in the dark. “Copy.”

“You okay, Bob?” you asked.

No one else ever called him just Bob.

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to be fine.

But he wasn’t.

The building below vibrated with something unnatural. Something sick. Whatever was inside was reacting to him—or to what was inside him.

“I will be,” he finally said.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glance at him. Rain streaked your cheek, but your expression stayed grounded. “Stay close.”

He would. Always.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The lab was worse than expected.

Not because of what was left—but because of who wasn’t.

The scientists were gone. The patients, missing. What remained was destruction: cracked walls, smashed equipment, blood.

You and Ghost cleared the lower levels. Bob stayed near the reactor core, drawn to the hum pulsing in the air.

Something called to him. Faint. Familiar.

He stepped through a shattered security door—and there it was. A chamber, scorched black. Something had exploded from inside.

He reached out to touch the wall when—

“BOB!”

Your voice. Urgent. Sharp.

He turned just in time to see a creature lunge from the shadows—twisted, half-human, pulsing with unstable energy.

Bob reacted instinctively. He caught the thing mid-air, slamming it into the ground hard enough to crack the concrete.

It writhed, snarling.

But Bob didn’t move.

Because you were there.

You had your weapon drawn, breath heaving. You’d been running. For him.

“I’m okay,” he said quickly, holding up his hands. “It’s down. I didn’t—I’m still me.”

He saw the tension in your body ease, but your eyes stayed locked on him. Studying.

“Didn’t feel like you for a second,” you muttered.

Bob winced. “Yeah. I know.”

You stepped closer. “It’s not your fault. You held it together.”

“Barely.”

You were close again. Always close. Close enough that Bob could feel the heat from your body, even in the cold concrete tomb of this place.

“Bob,” you said softly, voice lower now. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

That nearly broke him.

Because he was trying to prove something—to you, to himself, to the parts of him that were still afraid of what he might become.

But you just… saw him.

And that was worse than any punch to the gut.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

You tilted your head, eyes still scanning his face. “You okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

You hesitated.

Then—like it cost you something—you reached out and placed a hand lightly on his arm.

Not the glowing one. The real one.

The human one.

It was the gentlest thing anyone had done for him in years.

And it felt like his world tilted.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

After extraction, Val kept the debrief short. Ghost disappeared. The others dispersed.

But you waited.

Outside the ops room, arms crossed, leaning against the wall like you weren’t waiting for him at all.

Bob almost walked past.

Then he didn’t.

You looked up. “You hungry?”

That was how your invitations always came. Simple. Undramatic. Honest.

“Starving,” he said.

The ramen bar you picked was twenty minutes off base, small and tucked away between abandoned warehouses. It wasn’t fancy, but it was quiet. Safe.

You didn’t talk about the mission. You asked him about music.

He didn’t expect that.

“I used to like jazz,” he said, staring into his bowl.

“Used to?”

He shrugged. “Hard to enjoy it when your brain won’t turn off.”

You nudged your bowl aside. “What does quiet your mind?”

Bob hesitated.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m still looking.”

You nodded, thoughtful. “I like late-night walks. Empty streets. Rain.”

“Rain,” he echoed. “I like rain, too.”

It was dumb. Trivial. But it felt like something.

A thread pulling tighter between you.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You walked back together. Slow.

Bob kept stealing glances at you, like he was afraid you’d vanish. Or worse—turn and tell him none of this meant what he hoped it did.

When you reached the compound gates, you stopped.

“I’m not good at this,” he blurted.

You blinked. “At what?”

“People. Feelings. Talking.”

You tilted your head slightly. “You’re doing fine.”

He looked down at his hands. “I keep thinking… if I get too close to anyone, I’ll hurt them. Or they’ll see too much. I don’t know which is worse.”

You didn’t look away.

You didn’t flinch.

“I see you, Bob,” you said.

The words were simple.

But they cracked something open.

He took a step closer. Barely breathing.

And for a second—just a second—it felt like you might move toward him too.

Like your hand might find his.

Like something unspoken might finally rise between you, real and fragile.

But then a door slammed across the lot, and the moment passed.

You stepped back.

Not far. But enough.

“I should get some rest,” you said.

He nodded, covering the pang in his chest. “Yeah. Me too.”

You paused. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Always.”

You gave him the faintest smile.

And walked away.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The next mission was supposed to be simple.

Secure an intel cache. Quiet in, quiet out. A few old enemies looking to cash in on Thunderbolts tech. The kind of job Ghost could ghost through in her sleep.

But nothing ever stayed simple with this team.

And Bob had a bad feeling from the moment they landed.

“Keep the perimeter tight,” you told the group, adjusting your holster. “We’re in and out. If anyone breaks formation, you signal.”

Bob nodded like always. But today, it felt different.

Maybe it was the way your voice tightened before you spoke. Or the way your eyes lingered on him just a little too long. Like you were watching for cracks—worried they might already be there.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The facility was half-collapsed, old wires hanging like vines from broken beams. Dust choked the air. No heat, no light, just the faint hum of old machines keeping something dangerous alive.

You and Bob moved together. Unspoken rhythm. He matched your pace, your angles, your breathing.

But then something shifted.

A noise behind the wall. Bob’s head snapped toward it—too sharp, too fast.

And suddenly the room exploded into gunfire.

You shoved him down just in time as the ambush triggered—mercs pouring out from hidden rooms, armed with prototype weapons that lit up the walls like lightning.

Bob’s power surged.

He held it down—barely—but it clawed against his ribs, furious, hungry.

“Bob!” your voice cut through the chaos. “Take the left flank!”

He launched forward, fists glowing faintly as he cleared a path through concrete and steel. The mercs fell back, scrambling, but one of them fired a pulse round that tore through the floor behind you.

You fell—fast—into the darkness below.

“NO!”

The word ripped from his chest louder than the blast.

He dove after you.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You were conscious, but barely.

The lower level had caved in like a sinkhole, and you were pinned beneath a steel beam. Your leg was twisted at a wrong angle, blood dripping from a cut on your temple.

Bob hit the ground beside you hard enough to crack it.

“Hey,” you croaked, trying to move. “I’m—don’t freak—”

He was already lifting the beam. Hands trembling. Golden light bleeding from his skin.

“No powers,” you whispered, even as pain laced your voice.

He clenched his jaw. “I can’t—you’re hurt—”

“You’ll blow the whole level if you lose control.”

He froze.

Breathing hard.

He didn’t want to lose it. But he was scared—terrified—because if anything ever happened to you, he wasn’t sure who he’d become.

He reached down with normal strength. Human hands. Shaky, but steady.

The beam groaned as he braced his shoulder under it and lifted just enough for you to crawl free.

You cried out in pain—but didn’t scream. You never screamed.

When you collapsed into his arms, his heart nearly broke.

“I got you,” he said, voice rough. “I’ve got you.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Back at base, medics patched you up.

Torn ligament. Concussion. You’d be out of the field for a while.

Bob hovered outside the infirmary, pacing like a ghost in a place he wasn’t sure he belonged.

He wasn’t supposed to care this much.

But you weren’t just a teammate. Not anymore.

The second the medic gave the okay, he slipped inside.

You were sitting up on the cot, bandaged and grumpy. Your arms were crossed.

“You look like someone just told you there’s no more caffeine on Earth,” he joked.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m fine. They’re being dramatic.”

“You fell two stories and almost got crushed.”

“I’ve had worse.”

He sat on the edge of a nearby stool. “You scared me.”

You blinked.

The room got quiet.

And Bob realized maybe he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“I mean—of course you did, that kind of fall is—uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I just… I didn’t like it. Seeing you like that.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

His mouth went dry.

He couldn’t lie to you.

But he wasn’t sure he could tell you the truth either.

“Because you matter,” he said quietly.

You looked at him.

Really looked.

And then, so softly he almost missed it, you said, “You matter too.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Later that night, Bob sat on the roof, staring at the stars through a haze of cloud.

He felt it building inside again—that pressure. The Void. It always came when he felt too much.

He dug his fingers into the concrete.

“Not tonight,” he whispered.

The door creaked behind him. Soft steps followed.

He didn’t turn. “Thought you were on bed rest.”

“Thought you were gonna shatter the railing.”

You walked up beside him and sat. Quiet. Steady.

Your shoulder brushed his.

And something in him settled.

“You really scared me, you know,” he murmured.

“I’ve scared worse,” you said, smirking faintly.

Bob gave a quiet laugh. “Not me.”

You looked at him again, and this time he let himself meet your eyes.

No running.

No hiding.

“I like you,” he said.

Blunt. Raw. Honest.

You didn’t flinch.

You just nodded.

“I know.”

The wind shifted.

He wanted to kiss you.

He wanted to reach out and pull you close and pretend, just for a second, that the world wasn’t ending inside his chest.

But you leaned your head on his shoulder instead.

And it was enough.

For now.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The Void was speaking again.

Bob stood in the Thunderbolts* training chamber at 3 a.m., fists clenched, golden energy pulsing under his skin like lightning trapped in glass.

“You know how this ends,” the Void whispered inside him. “She’ll see you for what you are. A monster in a hero’s skin.”

He shut his eyes, trying to breathe through it, trying to remember your voice instead of the Void’s.

You mattered.

You mattered so much.

And that was the problem.

Because now you were in danger—from the outside, from enemies, from him.

Bob slammed his fist into the wall. It shattered on impact, a spiderweb of cracks blooming through reinforced concrete.

Behind him, the door creaked open.

He didn’t have to turn to know it was you.

You were always the only one who walked in when everyone else walked away.

“You ever sleep?” you asked softly.

“Doesn’t stick,” he muttered.

You stepped inside slowly, watching the fractured wall, then his fists. The light had dimmed in them, but it still flickered faintly.

“Bad night?”

“Getting worse.”

He finally looked at you.

And his chest tightened.

You were wearing that old hoodie—the one you’d stolen from the supply locker, two sizes too big, sleeves pushed halfway up your forearms. Comfortable. Casual. Safe.

He couldn’t speak.

You walked closer.

And closer.

“I know what you’re fighting, Bob,” you said.

He shook his head. “No. You don’t.”

“I do.” Your voice dropped. “And you’re not losing.”

He stepped back. “You shouldn’t be here. Not when I’m like this.”

“And yet I am.”

The Void writhed inside him, snarling.

“She makes you weak.”

But he didn’t feel weak.

He felt alive.

Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t doomed to be what the world feared.

“You don’t understand,” he said again. “I could break the sky in half. I could level cities if I stop holding back. And you—”

“I’m not afraid of you,” you said.

He stared at you. “Why not?”

You walked right up to him and placed your hand over his heart.

Because that’s what you always did. You touched the part of him that was still human.

“Because you’re afraid of you,” you said softly. “And that means you’re still fighting.”

His breathing hitched.

“I want to protect you,” he whispered.

“You already do.”

“But what if I fail?”

You smiled. Sad. Honest.

“Then I’ll remind you who you are.”

His hands trembled.

The Void shrieked.

But you stayed still.

No fear in your eyes.

Just trust.

Just him.

He didn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

But you stood forehead to forehead in the center of that broken training room—his powers humming just under the surface, your hands on his shoulders like you could anchor the sun itself.

He felt like the storm.

You felt like the shelter.

And for the first time in years, he believed he could stay.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Weeks passed.

You healed.

He learned to breathe again.

You trained together—this time not just sparring, but syncing, learning each other’s rhythms in battle like music.

You ate late-night ramen again.

Watched old movies together when the insomnia got bad.

And somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a crush.

It started feeling like home.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

One night, you were both on roof watch.

The city lights flickered below, and Bob leaned against the railing like he was finally learning to relax.

You sat beside him, sipping coffee from a thermos.

He glanced at you. “You’re the reason I’m still here.”

You didn’t joke this time. You didn’t brush it off.

“I know,” you said.

He looked down at his hands. No glow tonight.

No cracks.

Just steady breath and warmth and you.

“I’ve been thinking,” he murmured. “About trying something.”

You raised a brow. “Like what?”

He turned to you. Nervous. Hopeful.

“Letting myself have something good.”

Then he reached for your hand.

Slow.

Gentle.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your fingers curled into his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because it was.

You smiled at him, soft and sure.

“You already do.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

It was early.

Not mission-early, not chaos-early—just the kind of early where the world hadn’t quite woken up yet. The sky was soft and gray, and the sun hadn’t cracked the horizon, but the edges of the clouds were already touched with gold.

Bob liked this hour best.

Not because it was quiet, but because it felt possible. Like nothing had gone wrong yet. Like maybe, for once, nothing would.

He sat on the balcony just outside your shared room, legs stretched out, a hoodie zipped halfway up over a t-shirt with a frayed collar. His hair was messy. He hadn’t bothered to fix it.

He didn’t have to anymore.

Inside, you were still asleep—one arm draped across the pillow where he used to be. You didn’t stir when he slipped out earlier, but you would soon. You always found him.

You always found him.

And that still amazed him.

Not the powers. Not the Void. Not the fact that he could hear satellites humming in orbit if he focused hard enough.

But you.

You, choosing to stay.

You, brushing past the fear and the damage and all the sharp edges no one else wanted to touch.

You, reaching for his hand like it was never even a question.

Bob leaned back in the chair and watched the light grow.

He didn’t glow like he used to. Not all the time. The energy was still there, but he’d learned how to hold it gently—like you’d taught him.

That was what you were to him: balance. Anchor. The one thing in a fractured life that made sense.

He smiled faintly at the memory of your first real mission together. How he couldn’t even speak without tripping over his words. How he thought he might implode just from sitting next to you.

Now, all he wanted was to be close.

Not because it calmed the Void.

But because it made him feel human.

Behind him, the door creaked open.

He didn’t have to turn to know it was you—bare feet soft on concrete, blanket draped around your shoulders, hair a little wild from sleep.

You stepped up behind him and rested your chin on his shoulder.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said softly.

“You didn’t,” you murmured. “I always know when you’re not next to me.”

He reached up and touched your hand gently.

“I’m still not used to this,” he admitted.

“To what?”

“This,” he said. “Peace. You.”

You smiled against his shoulder. “You’ll get there.”

Bob closed his eyes and leaned into you.

And for the first time in a very, very long time… he believed you.

Because the Void was quiet now.

And the morning was golden.

And your hand in his was enough to keep the whole world from falling apart.

[pixiexdusts-world]

Shattered Light

Bob Reynolds x thunderbolts!reader

Summary: Bob Reynolds, the Sentry, struggles with his powers and the Void within him. He develops a quiet crush on a new Thunderbolts* teammate, and through their shared battles and moments of vulnerability, he learns to trust her and himself. In the end, he finds peace and love, anchored by her steady presence.

Word count: 5,636

Notes: slight thunderbolts* spoilers. This is the longest fic I’ve ever posted….. I’m scared 😓

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Bob Reynolds wasn’t used to the noise.

Not just the missions, the guns, the explosions—he could handle that. It was the silence after that got him. The moments when he stood in the Thunderbolts* briefing room, his skin buzzing with too much energy, while everyone else peeled off armor or traded barbed jokes like nothing ever touched them. Like they were used to the dark.

But you? You were something different.

You didn’t talk much either, but your silence didn’t feel like weight—it felt like calm. Like a harbor in the middle of a storm he couldn’t name. Bob had no idea how someone could move through this twisted team with such certainty, but you did. Graceful. Focused. Untouchable.

And it terrified him.

He noticed you on the second day after joining the team officially. You were leaning against the wall outside the mission debrief, arms crossed, eyes sharp but not cold. You nodded once at him when he passed by. Just a nod. No smile. No words. But it short-circuited something in his brain anyway.

So he nodded back.

And then he avoided you for three days straight.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

He wasn’t good at people. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

He’d been someone once—a husband, a neighbor, someone people liked. But now he was this barely-contained nuclear reaction in a hoodie and gloves, pretending he still knew how to exist.

And you… you were real. Not some experiment. Not a symbol. Just a person. A fierce, beautiful one who could take down three mercs with a single baton strike and then walk off without waiting for applause.

So naturally, Bob couldn’t speak to you without tripping over himself.

Like today, for example.

You were in the gym, wrapping your hands. He walked in, trying to seem casual, like it wasn’t a coincidence. Like he hadn’t checked the schedule five times to make sure no one else would be around.

You didn’t even look at him at first. Just finished your wraps and stepped onto the mat.

He hovered by the weights for a minute, pretending to stretch, pretending not to watch.

You turned, finally. “You training?”

Bob’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“I, uh… yeah. Yeah.”

Smooth.

You raised an eyebrow. “Want the mat?”

He shook his head quickly. “No, no—you go ahead. I like, uh, I like observing. Not in a weird way. In a normal… healthy way.”

You stared at him.

He felt his face go red.

You tilted your head slightly. “Right.”

You started your warm-up. Bob sat on the bench press machine with a towel draped over his knee, clutching it like a lifeline.

He kept stealing glances while you moved. There was a fluidity to your strikes that made the air feel sharper around you. And every time your fist hit the practice dummy, Bob felt like he flinched harder than the target did.

He didn’t even realize you were speaking until you turned and asked, “You box?”

He blinked. “I… used to. Kinda.”

“You want a round?”

Bob’s heart went into full lockdown mode. “Spar? With you?”

You gave a half-smile. “Yeah. Unless you’re scared.”

He almost blurted, Terrified, thanks for asking, but instead mumbled, “Sure. Why not?”

He took off his hoodie. His arms tensed, golden power flickering faintly beneath his skin, and he hoped—desperately—that you didn’t notice. He stepped onto the mat.

You stood across from him, already in a stance. “No powers?”

He nodded quickly. “No powers.”

You lunged first.

And you were fast.

He blocked, barely, and stumbled a little, awkward on his feet. He wasn’t afraid of getting hit—it was everything around the hit. How close you were. How serious your eyes were. How your braid snapped behind you like a warning.

“You’re stiff,” you said mid-punch.

“I’m trying to be respectful,” he said through gritted teeth, parrying your strike.

“This is respectful,” you replied, throwing a knee he dodged just in time. “I don’t want you to hold back.”

Bob let out a shaky breath and nodded. “Okay. No holding back.”

He wasn’t a natural fighter like you. His power made everything unfair—so when he stripped it away, he just felt… awkward. Heavy. Out of sync.

But he tried.

He managed a decent jab that made you smirk. And for a moment, he felt it—that flicker of pride.

Then you swept his leg.

He hit the mat with a loud thud, blinking up at the ceiling.

You leaned over him, breath light, hands on your hips.

“You okay?” you asked.

He nodded, stunned. “Yep. Just… thinking about life. My choices. Gravity.”

You laughed. You actually laughed.

And it hit him harder than the fall.

You held out a hand. He took it, and your grip was firm. Real. Grounding.

“Thanks,” he said as you pulled him up.

You shrugged. “You’ve got potential. You just need to stop thinking so much.”

“That’s like asking water not to be wet.”

You tilted your head again. “Then maybe it’s time you dried off.”

Bob grinned, heart pounding.

You were impossible. And he was absolutely screwed.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Bob wasn’t sure what was worse: being thrown on his back in front of you or having to face you the next morning like it hadn’t completely scrambled his nervous system.

He spent twenty minutes pacing outside the Thunderbolts* cafeteria, clutching a travel mug he didn’t even want. He’d filled it just to have something to hold. Something to do with his hands so he wouldn’t look like a malfunctioning android if you showed up.

He was debating whether to fake a phone call and bolt when he heard footsteps.

You.

Walking in like you didn’t set his brain on fire 24 hours ago.

“Morning,” you said, pulling open the door and brushing past him without hesitation.

“Morning,” he squeaked—then cleared his throat and said it again, lower. “Morning.”

You stopped near the coffee machines and glanced over your shoulder. “You coming in or guarding the hallway?”

He shuffled in. “Just, you know. Scoping the perimeter. Very important hallway.”

You smirked slightly but didn’t say anything.

He watched you fix your coffee. Black, no sugar. Brutal. Efficient. Of course.

Bob looked at his own mug. It had too much cream and some experimental caramel drizzle he regretted. It looked like dessert next to yours.

You nodded toward an empty table in the corner. “You sit, or pace?”

He followed. Sat. Then realized he was gripping the mug like it was trying to escape and forced his fingers to relax.

Silence.

But not a bad one.

You took a sip of your coffee and leaned back. “You hit harder than you think.”

Bob blinked. “I do?”

“Yeah. You held back. But your stance was better by the end.”

He felt something warm in his chest. Praise. From you.

“That’s… that’s good,” he said. “I’ve been trying not to—well. Not to accidentally punch through walls. Or people.”

“Sounds like you’re doing okay.”

He smiled faintly. “That might be the first time anyone’s ever told me that.”

You didn’t laugh. You just looked at him—really looked at him. And for once, he didn’t want to shrink from it.

He wanted to stay.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The thing about crushes, Bob had learned, was that they made everything feel like a bomb about to go off.

He saw you everywhere now—in briefings, across the gym, stalking down the hallway in that sharp, efficient way you moved. He noticed the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were annoyed, or the way you tapped your knuckles on the table when bored.

You probably thought he was quiet because he was shy.

Really, he was quiet because he was terrified that if he spoke too much, you’d hear what he wasn’t saying.

That he liked you.

A lot.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

A week later, Valentina sent half the team on recon in Berlin. You and Bob were stuck at base, on reserve duty. The building was practically silent.

Bob was trying to read something—a mission report, maybe. But his eyes kept drifting to the security feed. You were on the sparring mat again. Alone. Practicing with a bo staff.

His stomach did a weird somersault. He hated how easily his body betrayed him.

He walked in casually. Or tried to.

You looked up and nodded. “You bored?”

“Desperately.”

“Want to learn?”

He blinked. “The staff?”

You twirled it once. “Why not?”

Bob hesitated. “I have a strong personal record of being impaled by my own lack of coordination.”

You grinned. “That’s what training is for.”

He stepped onto the mat and took the staff you offered. It was heavier than it looked. Or maybe his palms were just sweaty.

You stepped close. Too close. Your hand reached over his to adjust his grip and Bob nearly forgot how to breathe.

“Here. Like this.”

“Yep. Hands. Got it.”

You laughed softly, and Bob’s heart did that thing again—like it wanted to leap out of his chest and curl up next to you.

“Relax,” you said. “You’re too stiff.”

“Pretty sure I’m 83% tension at this point.”

You guided him through the motion, your body behind his. He tried to focus, but the heat of your presence short-circuited every logical thought.

“Better,” you murmured.

He turned a little to glance back at you. Mistake.

Too close.

Your faces were inches apart.

He froze.

You didn’t move either.

It wasn’t a charged moment exactly—it was quieter than that. Like the air between you had shifted. Like something had been acknowledged, even if neither of you said it out loud.

Then you stepped back.

“Not bad,” you said, voice neutral.

Bob tried to say something clever. Something cool. Instead, he squeaked out, “You’re a good teacher.”

You smirked. “You’re a terrible liar.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

That night, Bob couldn’t sleep.

Not because of the usual chaos in his head. Not even because of the voice of the Void, which had been unusually quiet lately.

No—it was you.

You and your calm confidence. Your dry humor. Your hands adjusting his grip on the staff.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall.

He was in trouble.

But for the first time in a long, long time… he didn’t mind.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Thunderbolts* missions were chaos. That was the rule.

It wasn’t even controlled chaos most of the time. It was sharp, brutal, and messy—like a machine built by broken people. Bob understood that now. And he was one of the broken parts, too.

But this mission? This one was personal.

A rogue enhancement cell. Leftovers from a HYDRA spinoff. They were experimenting on civilians, warping them into living weapons. Bob knew that playbook too well.

Val sent you, Bob, and Ghost to extract survivors from an underground lab in northern Italy. The intel was shaky, but the urgency was real.

It was raining when you dropped in. Hard.

Bob’s earpiece crackled with static. “Two minutes to breach,” came your voice—calm, steady.

He breathed out slowly, standing behind you in the dark. “Copy.”

“You okay, Bob?” you asked.

No one else ever called him just Bob.

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to be fine.

But he wasn’t.

The building below vibrated with something unnatural. Something sick. Whatever was inside was reacting to him—or to what was inside him.

“I will be,” he finally said.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glance at him. Rain streaked your cheek, but your expression stayed grounded. “Stay close.”

He would. Always.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The lab was worse than expected.

Not because of what was left—but because of who wasn’t.

The scientists were gone. The patients, missing. What remained was destruction: cracked walls, smashed equipment, blood.

You and Ghost cleared the lower levels. Bob stayed near the reactor core, drawn to the hum pulsing in the air.

Something called to him. Faint. Familiar.

He stepped through a shattered security door—and there it was. A chamber, scorched black. Something had exploded from inside.

He reached out to touch the wall when—

“BOB!”

Your voice. Urgent. Sharp.

He turned just in time to see a creature lunge from the shadows—twisted, half-human, pulsing with unstable energy.

Bob reacted instinctively. He caught the thing mid-air, slamming it into the ground hard enough to crack the concrete.

It writhed, snarling.

But Bob didn’t move.

Because you were there.

You had your weapon drawn, breath heaving. You’d been running. For him.

“I’m okay,” he said quickly, holding up his hands. “It’s down. I didn’t—I’m still me.”

He saw the tension in your body ease, but your eyes stayed locked on him. Studying.

“Didn’t feel like you for a second,” you muttered.

Bob winced. “Yeah. I know.”

You stepped closer. “It’s not your fault. You held it together.”

“Barely.”

You were close again. Always close. Close enough that Bob could feel the heat from your body, even in the cold concrete tomb of this place.

“Bob,” you said softly, voice lower now. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

That nearly broke him.

Because he was trying to prove something—to you, to himself, to the parts of him that were still afraid of what he might become.

But you just… saw him.

And that was worse than any punch to the gut.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

You tilted your head, eyes still scanning his face. “You okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

You hesitated.

Then—like it cost you something—you reached out and placed a hand lightly on his arm.

Not the glowing one. The real one.

The human one.

It was the gentlest thing anyone had done for him in years.

And it felt like his world tilted.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

After extraction, Val kept the debrief short. Ghost disappeared. The others dispersed.

But you waited.

Outside the ops room, arms crossed, leaning against the wall like you weren’t waiting for him at all.

Bob almost walked past.

Then he didn’t.

You looked up. “You hungry?”

That was how your invitations always came. Simple. Undramatic. Honest.

“Starving,” he said.

The ramen bar you picked was twenty minutes off base, small and tucked away between abandoned warehouses. It wasn’t fancy, but it was quiet. Safe.

You didn’t talk about the mission. You asked him about music.

He didn’t expect that.

“I used to like jazz,” he said, staring into his bowl.

“Used to?”

He shrugged. “Hard to enjoy it when your brain won’t turn off.”

You nudged your bowl aside. “What does quiet your mind?”

Bob hesitated.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m still looking.”

You nodded, thoughtful. “I like late-night walks. Empty streets. Rain.”

“Rain,” he echoed. “I like rain, too.”

It was dumb. Trivial. But it felt like something.

A thread pulling tighter between you.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You walked back together. Slow.

Bob kept stealing glances at you, like he was afraid you’d vanish. Or worse—turn and tell him none of this meant what he hoped it did.

When you reached the compound gates, you stopped.

“I’m not good at this,” he blurted.

You blinked. “At what?”

“People. Feelings. Talking.”

You tilted your head slightly. “You’re doing fine.”

He looked down at his hands. “I keep thinking… if I get too close to anyone, I’ll hurt them. Or they’ll see too much. I don’t know which is worse.”

You didn’t look away.

You didn’t flinch.

“I see you, Bob,” you said.

The words were simple.

But they cracked something open.

He took a step closer. Barely breathing.

And for a second—just a second—it felt like you might move toward him too.

Like your hand might find his.

Like something unspoken might finally rise between you, real and fragile.

But then a door slammed across the lot, and the moment passed.

You stepped back.

Not far. But enough.

“I should get some rest,” you said.

He nodded, covering the pang in his chest. “Yeah. Me too.”

You paused. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Always.”

You gave him the faintest smile.

And walked away.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The next mission was supposed to be simple.

Secure an intel cache. Quiet in, quiet out. A few old enemies looking to cash in on Thunderbolts tech. The kind of job Ghost could ghost through in her sleep.

But nothing ever stayed simple with this team.

And Bob had a bad feeling from the moment they landed.

“Keep the perimeter tight,” you told the group, adjusting your holster. “We’re in and out. If anyone breaks formation, you signal.”

Bob nodded like always. But today, it felt different.

Maybe it was the way your voice tightened before you spoke. Or the way your eyes lingered on him just a little too long. Like you were watching for cracks—worried they might already be there.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The facility was half-collapsed, old wires hanging like vines from broken beams. Dust choked the air. No heat, no light, just the faint hum of old machines keeping something dangerous alive.

You and Bob moved together. Unspoken rhythm. He matched your pace, your angles, your breathing.

But then something shifted.

A noise behind the wall. Bob’s head snapped toward it—too sharp, too fast.

And suddenly the room exploded into gunfire.

You shoved him down just in time as the ambush triggered—mercs pouring out from hidden rooms, armed with prototype weapons that lit up the walls like lightning.

Bob’s power surged.

He held it down—barely—but it clawed against his ribs, furious, hungry.

“Bob!” your voice cut through the chaos. “Take the left flank!”

He launched forward, fists glowing faintly as he cleared a path through concrete and steel. The mercs fell back, scrambling, but one of them fired a pulse round that tore through the floor behind you.

You fell—fast—into the darkness below.

“NO!”

The word ripped from his chest louder than the blast.

He dove after you.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You were conscious, but barely.

The lower level had caved in like a sinkhole, and you were pinned beneath a steel beam. Your leg was twisted at a wrong angle, blood dripping from a cut on your temple.

Bob hit the ground beside you hard enough to crack it.

“Hey,” you croaked, trying to move. “I’m—don’t freak—”

He was already lifting the beam. Hands trembling. Golden light bleeding from his skin.

“No powers,” you whispered, even as pain laced your voice.

He clenched his jaw. “I can’t—you’re hurt—”

“You’ll blow the whole level if you lose control.”

He froze.

Breathing hard.

He didn’t want to lose it. But he was scared—terrified—because if anything ever happened to you, he wasn’t sure who he’d become.

He reached down with normal strength. Human hands. Shaky, but steady.

The beam groaned as he braced his shoulder under it and lifted just enough for you to crawl free.

You cried out in pain—but didn’t scream. You never screamed.

When you collapsed into his arms, his heart nearly broke.

“I got you,” he said, voice rough. “I’ve got you.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Back at base, medics patched you up.

Torn ligament. Concussion. You’d be out of the field for a while.

Bob hovered outside the infirmary, pacing like a ghost in a place he wasn’t sure he belonged.

He wasn’t supposed to care this much.

But you weren’t just a teammate. Not anymore.

The second the medic gave the okay, he slipped inside.

You were sitting up on the cot, bandaged and grumpy. Your arms were crossed.

“You look like someone just told you there’s no more caffeine on Earth,” he joked.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m fine. They’re being dramatic.”

“You fell two stories and almost got crushed.”

“I’ve had worse.”

He sat on the edge of a nearby stool. “You scared me.”

You blinked.

The room got quiet.

And Bob realized maybe he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“I mean—of course you did, that kind of fall is—uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I just… I didn’t like it. Seeing you like that.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

His mouth went dry.

He couldn’t lie to you.

But he wasn’t sure he could tell you the truth either.

“Because you matter,” he said quietly.

You looked at him.

Really looked.

And then, so softly he almost missed it, you said, “You matter too.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Later that night, Bob sat on the roof, staring at the stars through a haze of cloud.

He felt it building inside again—that pressure. The Void. It always came when he felt too much.

He dug his fingers into the concrete.

“Not tonight,” he whispered.

The door creaked behind him. Soft steps followed.

He didn’t turn. “Thought you were on bed rest.”

“Thought you were gonna shatter the railing.”

You walked up beside him and sat. Quiet. Steady.

Your shoulder brushed his.

And something in him settled.

“You really scared me, you know,” he murmured.

“I’ve scared worse,” you said, smirking faintly.

Bob gave a quiet laugh. “Not me.”

You looked at him again, and this time he let himself meet your eyes.

No running.

No hiding.

“I like you,” he said.

Blunt. Raw. Honest.

You didn’t flinch.

You just nodded.

“I know.”

The wind shifted.

He wanted to kiss you.

He wanted to reach out and pull you close and pretend, just for a second, that the world wasn’t ending inside his chest.

But you leaned your head on his shoulder instead.

And it was enough.

For now.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The Void was speaking again.

Bob stood in the Thunderbolts* training chamber at 3 a.m., fists clenched, golden energy pulsing under his skin like lightning trapped in glass.

“You know how this ends,” the Void whispered inside him. “She’ll see you for what you are. A monster in a hero’s skin.”

He shut his eyes, trying to breathe through it, trying to remember your voice instead of the Void’s.

You mattered.

You mattered so much.

And that was the problem.

Because now you were in danger—from the outside, from enemies, from him.

Bob slammed his fist into the wall. It shattered on impact, a spiderweb of cracks blooming through reinforced concrete.

Behind him, the door creaked open.

He didn’t have to turn to know it was you.

You were always the only one who walked in when everyone else walked away.

“You ever sleep?” you asked softly.

“Doesn’t stick,” he muttered.

You stepped inside slowly, watching the fractured wall, then his fists. The light had dimmed in them, but it still flickered faintly.

“Bad night?”

“Getting worse.”

He finally looked at you.

And his chest tightened.

You were wearing that old hoodie—the one you’d stolen from the supply locker, two sizes too big, sleeves pushed halfway up your forearms. Comfortable. Casual. Safe.

He couldn’t speak.

You walked closer.

And closer.

“I know what you’re fighting, Bob,” you said.

He shook his head. “No. You don’t.”

“I do.” Your voice dropped. “And you’re not losing.”

He stepped back. “You shouldn’t be here. Not when I’m like this.”

“And yet I am.”

The Void writhed inside him, snarling.

“She makes you weak.”

But he didn’t feel weak.

He felt alive.

Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t doomed to be what the world feared.

“You don’t understand,” he said again. “I could break the sky in half. I could level cities if I stop holding back. And you—”

“I’m not afraid of you,” you said.

He stared at you. “Why not?”

You walked right up to him and placed your hand over his heart.

Because that’s what you always did. You touched the part of him that was still human.

“Because you’re afraid of you,” you said softly. “And that means you’re still fighting.”

His breathing hitched.

“I want to protect you,” he whispered.

“You already do.”

“But what if I fail?”

You smiled. Sad. Honest.

“Then I’ll remind you who you are.”

His hands trembled.

The Void shrieked.

But you stayed still.

No fear in your eyes.

Just trust.

Just him.

He didn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

But you stood forehead to forehead in the center of that broken training room—his powers humming just under the surface, your hands on his shoulders like you could anchor the sun itself.

He felt like the storm.

You felt like the shelter.

And for the first time in years, he believed he could stay.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Weeks passed.

You healed.

He learned to breathe again.

You trained together—this time not just sparring, but syncing, learning each other’s rhythms in battle like music.

You ate late-night ramen again.

Watched old movies together when the insomnia got bad.

And somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a crush.

It started feeling like home.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

One night, you were both on roof watch.

The city lights flickered below, and Bob leaned against the railing like he was finally learning to relax.

You sat beside him, sipping coffee from a thermos.

He glanced at you. “You’re the reason I’m still here.”

You didn’t joke this time. You didn’t brush it off.

“I know,” you said.

He looked down at his hands. No glow tonight.

No cracks.

Just steady breath and warmth and you.

“I’ve been thinking,” he murmured. “About trying something.”

You raised a brow. “Like what?”

He turned to you. Nervous. Hopeful.

“Letting myself have something good.”

Then he reached for your hand.

Slow.

Gentle.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your fingers curled into his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because it was.

You smiled at him, soft and sure.

“You already do.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

It was early.

Not mission-early, not chaos-early—just the kind of early where the world hadn’t quite woken up yet. The sky was soft and gray, and the sun hadn’t cracked the horizon, but the edges of the clouds were already touched with gold.

Bob liked this hour best.

Not because it was quiet, but because it felt possible. Like nothing had gone wrong yet. Like maybe, for once, nothing would.

He sat on the balcony just outside your shared room, legs stretched out, a hoodie zipped halfway up over a t-shirt with a frayed collar. His hair was messy. He hadn’t bothered to fix it.

He didn’t have to anymore.

Inside, you were still asleep—one arm draped across the pillow where he used to be. You didn’t stir when he slipped out earlier, but you would soon. You always found him.

You always found him.

And that still amazed him.

Not the powers. Not the Void. Not the fact that he could hear satellites humming in orbit if he focused hard enough.

But you.

You, choosing to stay.

You, brushing past the fear and the damage and all the sharp edges no one else wanted to touch.

You, reaching for his hand like it was never even a question.

Bob leaned back in the chair and watched the light grow.

He didn’t glow like he used to. Not all the time. The energy was still there, but he’d learned how to hold it gently—like you’d taught him.

That was what you were to him: balance. Anchor. The one thing in a fractured life that made sense.

He smiled faintly at the memory of your first real mission together. How he couldn’t even speak without tripping over his words. How he thought he might implode just from sitting next to you.

Now, all he wanted was to be close.

Not because it calmed the Void.

But because it made him feel human.

Behind him, the door creaked open.

He didn’t have to turn to know it was you—bare feet soft on concrete, blanket draped around your shoulders, hair a little wild from sleep.

You stepped up behind him and rested your chin on his shoulder.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said softly.

“You didn’t,” you murmured. “I always know when you’re not next to me.”

He reached up and touched your hand gently.

“I’m still not used to this,” he admitted.

“To what?”

“This,” he said. “Peace. You.”

You smiled against his shoulder. “You’ll get there.”

Bob closed his eyes and leaned into you.

And for the first time in a very, very long time… he believed you.

Because the Void was quiet now.

And the morning was golden.

And your hand in his was enough to keep the whole world from falling apart.

[pixiexdusts-world]

Shattered Light

Bob Reynolds x thunderbolts!reader

Summary: Bob Reynolds, the Sentry, struggles with his powers and the Void within him. He develops a quiet crush on a new Thunderbolts* teammate, and through their shared battles and moments of vulnerability, he learns to trust her and himself. In the end, he finds peace and love, anchored by her steady presence.

Word count: 5,636

Notes: slight thunderbolts* spoilers. This is the longest fic I’ve ever posted….. I’m scared 😓

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Bob Reynolds wasn’t used to the noise.

Not just the missions, the guns, the explosions—he could handle that. It was the silence after that got him. The moments when he stood in the Thunderbolts* briefing room, his skin buzzing with too much energy, while everyone else peeled off armor or traded barbed jokes like nothing ever touched them. Like they were used to the dark.

But you? You were something different.

You didn’t talk much either, but your silence didn’t feel like weight—it felt like calm. Like a harbor in the middle of a storm he couldn’t name. Bob had no idea how someone could move through this twisted team with such certainty, but you did. Graceful. Focused. Untouchable.

And it terrified him.

He noticed you on the second day after joining the team officially. You were leaning against the wall outside the mission debrief, arms crossed, eyes sharp but not cold. You nodded once at him when he passed by. Just a nod. No smile. No words. But it short-circuited something in his brain anyway.

So he nodded back.

And then he avoided you for three days straight.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

He wasn’t good at people. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.

He’d been someone once—a husband, a neighbor, someone people liked. But now he was this barely-contained nuclear reaction in a hoodie and gloves, pretending he still knew how to exist.

And you… you were real. Not some experiment. Not a symbol. Just a person. A fierce, beautiful one who could take down three mercs with a single baton strike and then walk off without waiting for applause.

So naturally, Bob couldn’t speak to you without tripping over himself.

Like today, for example.

You were in the gym, wrapping your hands. He walked in, trying to seem casual, like it wasn’t a coincidence. Like he hadn’t checked the schedule five times to make sure no one else would be around.

You didn’t even look at him at first. Just finished your wraps and stepped onto the mat.

He hovered by the weights for a minute, pretending to stretch, pretending not to watch.

You turned, finally. “You training?”

Bob’s mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“I, uh… yeah. Yeah.”

Smooth.

You raised an eyebrow. “Want the mat?”

He shook his head quickly. “No, no—you go ahead. I like, uh, I like observing. Not in a weird way. In a normal… healthy way.”

You stared at him.

He felt his face go red.

You tilted your head slightly. “Right.”

You started your warm-up. Bob sat on the bench press machine with a towel draped over his knee, clutching it like a lifeline.

He kept stealing glances while you moved. There was a fluidity to your strikes that made the air feel sharper around you. And every time your fist hit the practice dummy, Bob felt like he flinched harder than the target did.

He didn’t even realize you were speaking until you turned and asked, “You box?”

He blinked. “I… used to. Kinda.”

“You want a round?”

Bob’s heart went into full lockdown mode. “Spar? With you?”

You gave a half-smile. “Yeah. Unless you’re scared.”

He almost blurted, Terrified, thanks for asking, but instead mumbled, “Sure. Why not?”

He took off his hoodie. His arms tensed, golden power flickering faintly beneath his skin, and he hoped—desperately—that you didn’t notice. He stepped onto the mat.

You stood across from him, already in a stance. “No powers?”

He nodded quickly. “No powers.”

You lunged first.

And you were fast.

He blocked, barely, and stumbled a little, awkward on his feet. He wasn’t afraid of getting hit—it was everything around the hit. How close you were. How serious your eyes were. How your braid snapped behind you like a warning.

“You’re stiff,” you said mid-punch.

“I’m trying to be respectful,” he said through gritted teeth, parrying your strike.

“This is respectful,” you replied, throwing a knee he dodged just in time. “I don’t want you to hold back.”

Bob let out a shaky breath and nodded. “Okay. No holding back.”

He wasn’t a natural fighter like you. His power made everything unfair—so when he stripped it away, he just felt… awkward. Heavy. Out of sync.

But he tried.

He managed a decent jab that made you smirk. And for a moment, he felt it—that flicker of pride.

Then you swept his leg.

He hit the mat with a loud thud, blinking up at the ceiling.

You leaned over him, breath light, hands on your hips.

“You okay?” you asked.

He nodded, stunned. “Yep. Just… thinking about life. My choices. Gravity.”

You laughed. You actually laughed.

And it hit him harder than the fall.

You held out a hand. He took it, and your grip was firm. Real. Grounding.

“Thanks,” he said as you pulled him up.

You shrugged. “You’ve got potential. You just need to stop thinking so much.”

“That’s like asking water not to be wet.”

You tilted your head again. “Then maybe it’s time you dried off.”

Bob grinned, heart pounding.

You were impossible. And he was absolutely screwed.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Bob wasn’t sure what was worse: being thrown on his back in front of you or having to face you the next morning like it hadn’t completely scrambled his nervous system.

He spent twenty minutes pacing outside the Thunderbolts* cafeteria, clutching a travel mug he didn’t even want. He’d filled it just to have something to hold. Something to do with his hands so he wouldn’t look like a malfunctioning android if you showed up.

He was debating whether to fake a phone call and bolt when he heard footsteps.

You.

Walking in like you didn’t set his brain on fire 24 hours ago.

“Morning,” you said, pulling open the door and brushing past him without hesitation.

“Morning,” he squeaked—then cleared his throat and said it again, lower. “Morning.”

You stopped near the coffee machines and glanced over your shoulder. “You coming in or guarding the hallway?”

He shuffled in. “Just, you know. Scoping the perimeter. Very important hallway.”

You smirked slightly but didn’t say anything.

He watched you fix your coffee. Black, no sugar. Brutal. Efficient. Of course.

Bob looked at his own mug. It had too much cream and some experimental caramel drizzle he regretted. It looked like dessert next to yours.

You nodded toward an empty table in the corner. “You sit, or pace?”

He followed. Sat. Then realized he was gripping the mug like it was trying to escape and forced his fingers to relax.

Silence.

But not a bad one.

You took a sip of your coffee and leaned back. “You hit harder than you think.”

Bob blinked. “I do?”

“Yeah. You held back. But your stance was better by the end.”

He felt something warm in his chest. Praise. From you.

“That’s… that’s good,” he said. “I’ve been trying not to—well. Not to accidentally punch through walls. Or people.”

“Sounds like you’re doing okay.”

He smiled faintly. “That might be the first time anyone’s ever told me that.”

You didn’t laugh. You just looked at him—really looked at him. And for once, he didn’t want to shrink from it.

He wanted to stay.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The thing about crushes, Bob had learned, was that they made everything feel like a bomb about to go off.

He saw you everywhere now—in briefings, across the gym, stalking down the hallway in that sharp, efficient way you moved. He noticed the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were annoyed, or the way you tapped your knuckles on the table when bored.

You probably thought he was quiet because he was shy.

Really, he was quiet because he was terrified that if he spoke too much, you’d hear what he wasn’t saying.

That he liked you.

A lot.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

A week later, Valentina sent half the team on recon in Berlin. You and Bob were stuck at base, on reserve duty. The building was practically silent.

Bob was trying to read something—a mission report, maybe. But his eyes kept drifting to the security feed. You were on the sparring mat again. Alone. Practicing with a bo staff.

His stomach did a weird somersault. He hated how easily his body betrayed him.

He walked in casually. Or tried to.

You looked up and nodded. “You bored?”

“Desperately.”

“Want to learn?”

He blinked. “The staff?”

You twirled it once. “Why not?”

Bob hesitated. “I have a strong personal record of being impaled by my own lack of coordination.”

You grinned. “That’s what training is for.”

He stepped onto the mat and took the staff you offered. It was heavier than it looked. Or maybe his palms were just sweaty.

You stepped close. Too close. Your hand reached over his to adjust his grip and Bob nearly forgot how to breathe.

“Here. Like this.”

“Yep. Hands. Got it.”

You laughed softly, and Bob’s heart did that thing again—like it wanted to leap out of his chest and curl up next to you.

“Relax,” you said. “You’re too stiff.”

“Pretty sure I’m 83% tension at this point.”

You guided him through the motion, your body behind his. He tried to focus, but the heat of your presence short-circuited every logical thought.

“Better,” you murmured.

He turned a little to glance back at you. Mistake.

Too close.

Your faces were inches apart.

He froze.

You didn’t move either.

It wasn’t a charged moment exactly—it was quieter than that. Like the air between you had shifted. Like something had been acknowledged, even if neither of you said it out loud.

Then you stepped back.

“Not bad,” you said, voice neutral.

Bob tried to say something clever. Something cool. Instead, he squeaked out, “You’re a good teacher.”

You smirked. “You’re a terrible liar.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

That night, Bob couldn’t sleep.

Not because of the usual chaos in his head. Not even because of the voice of the Void, which had been unusually quiet lately.

No—it was you.

You and your calm confidence. Your dry humor. Your hands adjusting his grip on the staff.

He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall.

He was in trouble.

But for the first time in a long, long time… he didn’t mind.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Thunderbolts* missions were chaos. That was the rule.

It wasn’t even controlled chaos most of the time. It was sharp, brutal, and messy—like a machine built by broken people. Bob understood that now. And he was one of the broken parts, too.

But this mission? This one was personal.

A rogue enhancement cell. Leftovers from a HYDRA spinoff. They were experimenting on civilians, warping them into living weapons. Bob knew that playbook too well.

Val sent you, Bob, and Ghost to extract survivors from an underground lab in northern Italy. The intel was shaky, but the urgency was real.

It was raining when you dropped in. Hard.

Bob’s earpiece crackled with static. “Two minutes to breach,” came your voice—calm, steady.

He breathed out slowly, standing behind you in the dark. “Copy.”

“You okay, Bob?” you asked.

No one else ever called him just Bob.

He wanted to say yes. He wanted to be fine.

But he wasn’t.

The building below vibrated with something unnatural. Something sick. Whatever was inside was reacting to him—or to what was inside him.

“I will be,” he finally said.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to glance at him. Rain streaked your cheek, but your expression stayed grounded. “Stay close.”

He would. Always.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The lab was worse than expected.

Not because of what was left—but because of who wasn’t.

The scientists were gone. The patients, missing. What remained was destruction: cracked walls, smashed equipment, blood.

You and Ghost cleared the lower levels. Bob stayed near the reactor core, drawn to the hum pulsing in the air.

Something called to him. Faint. Familiar.

He stepped through a shattered security door—and there it was. A chamber, scorched black. Something had exploded from inside.

He reached out to touch the wall when—

“BOB!”

Your voice. Urgent. Sharp.

He turned just in time to see a creature lunge from the shadows—twisted, half-human, pulsing with unstable energy.

Bob reacted instinctively. He caught the thing mid-air, slamming it into the ground hard enough to crack the concrete.

It writhed, snarling.

But Bob didn’t move.

Because you were there.

You had your weapon drawn, breath heaving. You’d been running. For him.

“I’m okay,” he said quickly, holding up his hands. “It’s down. I didn’t—I’m still me.”

He saw the tension in your body ease, but your eyes stayed locked on him. Studying.

“Didn’t feel like you for a second,” you muttered.

Bob winced. “Yeah. I know.”

You stepped closer. “It’s not your fault. You held it together.”

“Barely.”

You were close again. Always close. Close enough that Bob could feel the heat from your body, even in the cold concrete tomb of this place.

“Bob,” you said softly, voice lower now. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

That nearly broke him.

Because he was trying to prove something—to you, to himself, to the parts of him that were still afraid of what he might become.

But you just… saw him.

And that was worse than any punch to the gut.

“Thanks,” he whispered.

You tilted your head, eyes still scanning his face. “You okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

You hesitated.

Then—like it cost you something—you reached out and placed a hand lightly on his arm.

Not the glowing one. The real one.

The human one.

It was the gentlest thing anyone had done for him in years.

And it felt like his world tilted.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

After extraction, Val kept the debrief short. Ghost disappeared. The others dispersed.

But you waited.

Outside the ops room, arms crossed, leaning against the wall like you weren’t waiting for him at all.

Bob almost walked past.

Then he didn’t.

You looked up. “You hungry?”

That was how your invitations always came. Simple. Undramatic. Honest.

“Starving,” he said.

The ramen bar you picked was twenty minutes off base, small and tucked away between abandoned warehouses. It wasn’t fancy, but it was quiet. Safe.

You didn’t talk about the mission. You asked him about music.

He didn’t expect that.

“I used to like jazz,” he said, staring into his bowl.

“Used to?”

He shrugged. “Hard to enjoy it when your brain won’t turn off.”

You nudged your bowl aside. “What does quiet your mind?”

Bob hesitated.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m still looking.”

You nodded, thoughtful. “I like late-night walks. Empty streets. Rain.”

“Rain,” he echoed. “I like rain, too.”

It was dumb. Trivial. But it felt like something.

A thread pulling tighter between you.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You walked back together. Slow.

Bob kept stealing glances at you, like he was afraid you’d vanish. Or worse—turn and tell him none of this meant what he hoped it did.

When you reached the compound gates, you stopped.

“I’m not good at this,” he blurted.

You blinked. “At what?”

“People. Feelings. Talking.”

You tilted your head slightly. “You’re doing fine.”

He looked down at his hands. “I keep thinking… if I get too close to anyone, I’ll hurt them. Or they’ll see too much. I don’t know which is worse.”

You didn’t look away.

You didn’t flinch.

“I see you, Bob,” you said.

The words were simple.

But they cracked something open.

He took a step closer. Barely breathing.

And for a second—just a second—it felt like you might move toward him too.

Like your hand might find his.

Like something unspoken might finally rise between you, real and fragile.

But then a door slammed across the lot, and the moment passed.

You stepped back.

Not far. But enough.

“I should get some rest,” you said.

He nodded, covering the pang in his chest. “Yeah. Me too.”

You paused. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Always.”

You gave him the faintest smile.

And walked away.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The next mission was supposed to be simple.

Secure an intel cache. Quiet in, quiet out. A few old enemies looking to cash in on Thunderbolts tech. The kind of job Ghost could ghost through in her sleep.

But nothing ever stayed simple with this team.

And Bob had a bad feeling from the moment they landed.

“Keep the perimeter tight,” you told the group, adjusting your holster. “We’re in and out. If anyone breaks formation, you signal.”

Bob nodded like always. But today, it felt different.

Maybe it was the way your voice tightened before you spoke. Or the way your eyes lingered on him just a little too long. Like you were watching for cracks—worried they might already be there.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The facility was half-collapsed, old wires hanging like vines from broken beams. Dust choked the air. No heat, no light, just the faint hum of old machines keeping something dangerous alive.

You and Bob moved together. Unspoken rhythm. He matched your pace, your angles, your breathing.

But then something shifted.

A noise behind the wall. Bob’s head snapped toward it—too sharp, too fast.

And suddenly the room exploded into gunfire.

You shoved him down just in time as the ambush triggered—mercs pouring out from hidden rooms, armed with prototype weapons that lit up the walls like lightning.

Bob’s power surged.

He held it down—barely—but it clawed against his ribs, furious, hungry.

“Bob!” your voice cut through the chaos. “Take the left flank!”

He launched forward, fists glowing faintly as he cleared a path through concrete and steel. The mercs fell back, scrambling, but one of them fired a pulse round that tore through the floor behind you.

You fell—fast—into the darkness below.

“NO!”

The word ripped from his chest louder than the blast.

He dove after you.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You were conscious, but barely.

The lower level had caved in like a sinkhole, and you were pinned beneath a steel beam. Your leg was twisted at a wrong angle, blood dripping from a cut on your temple.

Bob hit the ground beside you hard enough to crack it.

“Hey,” you croaked, trying to move. “I’m—don’t freak—”

He was already lifting the beam. Hands trembling. Golden light bleeding from his skin.

“No powers,” you whispered, even as pain laced your voice.

He clenched his jaw. “I can’t—you’re hurt—”

“You’ll blow the whole level if you lose control.”

He froze.

Breathing hard.

He didn’t want to lose it. But he was scared—terrified—because if anything ever happened to you, he wasn’t sure who he’d become.

He reached down with normal strength. Human hands. Shaky, but steady.

The beam groaned as he braced his shoulder under it and lifted just enough for you to crawl free.

You cried out in pain—but didn’t scream. You never screamed.

When you collapsed into his arms, his heart nearly broke.

“I got you,” he said, voice rough. “I’ve got you.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Back at base, medics patched you up.

Torn ligament. Concussion. You’d be out of the field for a while.

Bob hovered outside the infirmary, pacing like a ghost in a place he wasn’t sure he belonged.

He wasn’t supposed to care this much.

But you weren’t just a teammate. Not anymore.

The second the medic gave the okay, he slipped inside.

You were sitting up on the cot, bandaged and grumpy. Your arms were crossed.

“You look like someone just told you there’s no more caffeine on Earth,” he joked.

You rolled your eyes. “I’m fine. They’re being dramatic.”

“You fell two stories and almost got crushed.”

“I’ve had worse.”

He sat on the edge of a nearby stool. “You scared me.”

You blinked.

The room got quiet.

And Bob realized maybe he hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“I mean—of course you did, that kind of fall is—uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I just… I didn’t like it. Seeing you like that.”

You tilted your head. “Why?”

His mouth went dry.

He couldn’t lie to you.

But he wasn’t sure he could tell you the truth either.

“Because you matter,” he said quietly.

You looked at him.

Really looked.

And then, so softly he almost missed it, you said, “You matter too.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Later that night, Bob sat on the roof, staring at the stars through a haze of cloud.

He felt it building inside again—that pressure. The Void. It always came when he felt too much.

He dug his fingers into the concrete.

“Not tonight,” he whispered.

The door creaked behind him. Soft steps followed.

He didn’t turn. “Thought you were on bed rest.”

“Thought you were gonna shatter the railing.”

You walked up beside him and sat. Quiet. Steady.

Your shoulder brushed his.

And something in him settled.

“You really scared me, you know,” he murmured.

“I’ve scared worse,” you said, smirking faintly.

Bob gave a quiet laugh. “Not me.”

You looked at him again, and this time he let himself meet your eyes.

No running.

No hiding.

“I like you,” he said.

Blunt. Raw. Honest.

You didn’t flinch.

You just nodded.

“I know.”

The wind shifted.

He wanted to kiss you.

He wanted to reach out and pull you close and pretend, just for a second, that the world wasn’t ending inside his chest.

But you leaned your head on his shoulder instead.

And it was enough.

For now.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The Void was speaking again.

Bob stood in the Thunderbolts* training chamber at 3 a.m., fists clenched, golden energy pulsing under his skin like lightning trapped in glass.

“You know how this ends,” the Void whispered inside him. “She’ll see you for what you are. A monster in a hero’s skin.”

He shut his eyes, trying to breathe through it, trying to remember your voice instead of the Void’s.

You mattered.

You mattered so much.

And that was the problem.

Because now you were in danger—from the outside, from enemies, from him.

Bob slammed his fist into the wall. It shattered on impact, a spiderweb of cracks blooming through reinforced concrete.

Behind him, the door creaked open.

He didn’t have to turn to know it was you.

You were always the only one who walked in when everyone else walked away.

“You ever sleep?” you asked softly.

“Doesn’t stick,” he muttered.

You stepped inside slowly, watching the fractured wall, then his fists. The light had dimmed in them, but it still flickered faintly.

“Bad night?”

“Getting worse.”

He finally looked at you.

And his chest tightened.

You were wearing that old hoodie—the one you’d stolen from the supply locker, two sizes too big, sleeves pushed halfway up your forearms. Comfortable. Casual. Safe.

He couldn’t speak.

You walked closer.

And closer.

“I know what you’re fighting, Bob,” you said.

He shook his head. “No. You don’t.”

“I do.” Your voice dropped. “And you’re not losing.”

He stepped back. “You shouldn’t be here. Not when I’m like this.”

“And yet I am.”

The Void writhed inside him, snarling.

“She makes you weak.”

But he didn’t feel weak.

He felt alive.

Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t doomed to be what the world feared.

“You don’t understand,” he said again. “I could break the sky in half. I could level cities if I stop holding back. And you—”

“I’m not afraid of you,” you said.

He stared at you. “Why not?”

You walked right up to him and placed your hand over his heart.

Because that’s what you always did. You touched the part of him that was still human.

“Because you’re afraid of you,” you said softly. “And that means you’re still fighting.”

His breathing hitched.

“I want to protect you,” he whispered.

“You already do.”

“But what if I fail?”

You smiled. Sad. Honest.

“Then I’ll remind you who you are.”

His hands trembled.

The Void shrieked.

But you stayed still.

No fear in your eyes.

Just trust.

Just him.

He didn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

But you stood forehead to forehead in the center of that broken training room—his powers humming just under the surface, your hands on his shoulders like you could anchor the sun itself.

He felt like the storm.

You felt like the shelter.

And for the first time in years, he believed he could stay.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Weeks passed.

You healed.

He learned to breathe again.

You trained together—this time not just sparring, but syncing, learning each other’s rhythms in battle like music.

You ate late-night ramen again.

Watched old movies together when the insomnia got bad.

And somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a crush.

It started feeling like home.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

One night, you were both on roof watch.

The city lights flickered below, and Bob leaned against the railing like he was finally learning to relax.

You sat beside him, sipping coffee from a thermos.

He glanced at you. “You’re the reason I’m still here.”

You didn’t joke this time. You didn’t brush it off.

“I know,” you said.

He looked down at his hands. No glow tonight.

No cracks.

Just steady breath and warmth and you.

“I’ve been thinking,” he murmured. “About trying something.”

You raised a brow. “Like what?”

He turned to you. Nervous. Hopeful.

“Letting myself have something good.”

Then he reached for your hand.

Slow.

Gentle.

You didn’t hesitate.

Your fingers curled into his like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Because it was.

You smiled at him, soft and sure.

“You already do.”

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

It was early.

Not mission-early, not chaos-early—just the kind of early where the world hadn’t quite woken up yet. The sky was soft and gray, and the sun hadn’t cracked the horizon, but the edges of the clouds were already touched with gold.

Bob liked this hour best.

Not because it was quiet, but because it felt possible. Like nothing had gone wrong yet. Like maybe, for once, nothing would.

He sat on the balcony just outside your shared room, legs stretched out, a hoodie zipped halfway up over a t-shirt with a frayed collar. His hair was messy. He hadn’t bothered to fix it.

He didn’t have to anymore.

Inside, you were still asleep—one arm draped across the pillow where he used to be. You didn’t stir when he slipped out earlier, but you would soon. You always found him.

You always found him.

And that still amazed him.

Not the powers. Not the Void. Not the fact that he could hear satellites humming in orbit if he focused hard enough.

But you.

You, choosing to stay.

You, brushing past the fear and the damage and all the sharp edges no one else wanted to touch.

You, reaching for his hand like it was never even a question.

Bob leaned back in the chair and watched the light grow.

He didn’t glow like he used to. Not all the time. The energy was still there, but he’d learned how to hold it gently—like you’d taught him.

That was what you were to him: balance. Anchor. The one thing in a fractured life that made sense.

He smiled faintly at the memory of your first real mission together. How he couldn’t even speak without tripping over his words. How he thought he might implode just from sitting next to you.

Now, all he wanted was to be close.

Not because it calmed the Void.

But because it made him feel human.

Behind him, the door creaked open.

He didn’t have to turn to know it was you—bare feet soft on concrete, blanket draped around your shoulders, hair a little wild from sleep.

You stepped up behind him and rested your chin on his shoulder.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he said softly.

“You didn’t,” you murmured. “I always know when you’re not next to me.”

He reached up and touched your hand gently.

“I’m still not used to this,” he admitted.

“To what?”

“This,” he said. “Peace. You.”

You smiled against his shoulder. “You’ll get there.”

Bob closed his eyes and leaned into you.

And for the first time in a very, very long time… he believed you.

Because the Void was quiet now.

And the morning was golden.

And your hand in his was enough to keep the whole world from falling apart.

[pixiexdusts-world]

Incorrect quote

Y/n, to Yelena: Look at you! All cute and small! I could just eat you up!

Yelena: *proceeds to kick them in the shin and run away*

Bucky, walking past: Rule number 1, don't call Yelena cute or small.

[pixiexdusts-world]

The Edge Of Something Real

Bucky Barnes x thunderbolts!reader

Summary: Bucky Barnes falls for a tough new Thunderbolts* teammate and risks everything to save her when she’s injured on a mission, revealing their growing bond.

Word count: 1,490

Notes: no thunderbolts* spoilers :)

Bucky Barnes wasn’t one for first impressions anymore.

He’d learned long ago that people were complicated, layered, and often disappointing. But the new recruit on the thunderbolts* team? She shattered every expectation from the moment she walked in.

Her name wasn’t important at first. What stood out was how she carried herself—calm, controlled, eyes like fire. She didn’t try to impress anyone. She didn’t talk much. And when Valentina tossed her into a sparring match with Ghost during her first week, she didn’t flinch. She won.

She was fast, brutal, and efficient. Bucky knew killers when he saw them. And she was one.

So maybe it made sense that he couldn’t stop watching her.

⸻

The first time they actually spoke was in the training room.

Bucky was working the punching bag with quiet precision, sweat dripping from his brow. She walked in without a word, unzipped her jacket, and started stretching on the mat beside him.

“Nice work with Taskmaster yesterday,” he offered, not looking at her directly.

She raised an eyebrow. “You saw that?”

“I hear everything.”

She smirked. “You always this chatty, Barnes?”

That made him glance over. “Only when someone impresses me.”

She tilted her head slightly. “Then you’re hard to impress.”

“Exactly.”

She let out a dry laugh, then started wrapping her hands. “Good. Wouldn’t want things to be too easy around here.”

They trained in silence after that, but it was a comfortable one. Bucky couldn’t help glancing over at her form—sharp, purposeful, never wasting energy. She didn’t just fight well. She moved like someone who survived things most people couldn’t imagine.

And that… he understood.

⸻

Weeks passed, and the team started gelling in that broken, violent way the Thunderbolts* were known for. The missions were ugly, high-risk, and rarely clean. But she never hesitated. She kept up with the chaos, stood her ground with Yelena and U.S. Agent, and even earned Taskmaster’s rare nod of respect.

Bucky watched her more than he admitted. Not just in combat, but in the little things. How she patched her gear herself. How she didn’t talk about her past but carried it in her posture. How she always volunteered to scout ahead alone.

She was a lone wolf. Just like he used to be.

So when she got hit—really hit—during a botched extraction in Prague, Bucky’s reaction surprised even himself.

She was bleeding, her shoulder torn open, pinned down by gunfire.

“I got her!” he shouted before anyone else could respond, already breaking formation.

He reached her under heavy fire, shielded her with his body, and hauled her behind a wall.

“You’re an idiot,” she grunted, wincing as he checked the wound.

“Probably,” he muttered. “But I’m your idiot now, so shut up and let me stop the bleeding.”

She blinked at him, stunned—not just by the pain but by him. For once, she didn’t argue.

⸻

Back at base, after stitches and silence, she found him alone, cleaning weapons.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she said softly.

He didn’t look up. “Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

Finally, he met her gaze. “Because you’re not just another soldier to me.”

She swallowed hard. “Then what am I?”

Bucky set the gun down and stood. There was a storm in his eyes, the kind that carried decades of regret—and something else, something fragile.

“You make me remember I’m still human.”

She didn’t respond right away. She didn’t need to. The look in her eyes said it all.

So did the way she stepped closer, reached for his hand, and didn’t let go.

⸻

They didn’t talk about it much. Not in words. Their connection grew in looks, in quiet touches, in the way Bucky stood a little closer to her in the field. In how she learned to read his silences.

They started sparring more—sometimes as an excuse to be alone, other times because it was the only way they knew how to connect. When she knocked him down one afternoon, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her on top of him.

They stared at each other, breaths shallow.

“Gonna kiss me or keep pretending we’re just teammates?” she whispered.

Bucky chuckled, voice low. “Depends. You gonna let me?”

She didn’t answer. She kissed him instead.

It was sharp and slow and messy in all the ways that made him feel alive again.

⸻

Of course, nothing stayed easy for long.

During a covert mission in Madripoor, she got separated from the team—and vanished.

They searched for hours. Then days.

Valentina declared her MIA. The team prepared to move on.

But Bucky refused.

“She’s not dead,” he snapped. “I know she’s not.”

“You’re letting feelings cloud your judgment,” Taskmaster warned him.

“Good,” he growled. “It means I’m not a damn machine anymore.”

He found her two days later, trapped in a holding cell underground, barely conscious. He broke the lock with his metal arm and carried her out himself.

Her voice was weak. “Took you long enough.”

“You knew I’d come?”

She smiled faintly. “You always do.”

⸻

After that, something shifted. She didn’t push people away as much. She let him in, piece by piece—her real name, the reason she joined the team, the life she lost before this one.

And Bucky? He opened up in return. Told her about the nightmares, the guilt, the weight of being someone the world used and feared in equal measure.

They weren’t perfect. But together, they weren’t alone anymore.

One night, as they lay in bed in some safe house far from war, she whispered, “You think we deserve this?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, fingers tracing lazy circles on her back. “But I want it anyway.”

She closed her eyes and rested her head on his chest.

And for once, neither of them dreamed of blood.

[pixiexdusts-world]

people are making edits. everyone is getting shipped with everyone. there was cheering at the post credits scene. avengers tower fan fiction is being written. marvel is SO BACK

[pixiexdusts-world]

Safe with you

Yelena Belova x girlfriend!reader

Summary: Yelena breaks down after a mission, and her girlfriend comforts her, reminding her she’s loved and safe.

Word count: 387

Notes: slight thunderbolts* spoilers but not really anything big

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

The night was quiet—too quiet for Yelena Belova’s mind to settle. The mission had ended hours ago, but her heart was still pounding from the adrenaline—and the guilt. Another one of Valentina’s lies had unraveled. Another line they’d crossed. Another memory she couldn’t silence.

She sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on her knees, face buried in her hands. You stepped quietly into the room, holding a mug of tea in one hand.

“You haven’t taken off your boots,” you said softly.

Yelena didn’t look up. “I’m not tired.”

“You don’t have to be tired to rest.” You placed the mug on the nightstand, then sat beside her, the mattress dipping under your weight. “Talk to me.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” she whispered. “I thought I was doing something good with the Thunderbolts. I thought we were fixing things.”

You didn’t say anything—just scooted closer until your shoulder touched hers.

“I keep thinking about what I did before,” Yelena continued, voice cracking. “All the people I hurt. And now, even with this team, it’s like… I’m still just someone’s weapon.”

“No, you’re not,” you said quietly but firmly. “You’re someone’s person. Mine.”

Yelena turned her face slightly, as if trying to hide the tears she hadn’t meant to show. “But I don’t know how to be normal. I don’t know how to be soft. Not even with you.”

You reached up and gently cupped her face, guiding her to look at you. “You don’t have to be soft all the time. You don’t have to be anything but real. And right now, I see someone who’s trying so hard to be better—even when no one else sees it.”

Yelena blinked rapidly. “You see it?”

“I always see you.”

And for the first time that night, Yelena let herself lean in. Her forehead touched yours, her breathing slowed, and the weight of the world—if only for a little while—felt lighter.

Wrapped in your arms, she finally closed her eyes.

Safe. At least here, with you.

[pixiexdusts-world]

I can’t do this. I did NOT mean to post the edge of something real 😭😭 I was editing it and meant to schedule it for tomorrow 😫😫😫😫😫 welp guess I better start writing something else now ✍️

Also would anyone care if I wrote for Bob? I loved him in thunderbolts* and he deserves all the love ✊🏻