shinemass522

[shinemass522]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Thunderbolts (Movie 2025) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Robert "Bob" Reynolds/John Walker (Marvel) Characters: Robert "Bob" Reynolds (Marvel), John Walker (Marvel) Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Poisoning, John Walker-centric, Protective Bob Reynolds, Emotional Repression, Soft John Walker (Marvel), internalized feelings, Bleeding Heart Under Armor, POV First Person, POV John Walker (Marvel) Series: Part 3 of Fifty Years Then, Fifty Years Now Summary:

John gets poisoned during a mission, and the Sentry fails to save him in time. While John struggles to survive, Bob stays at his side, overwhelmed with guilt and fear. They argue, avoid each other, and try to pretend nothing happened. But the distance doesn’t last. What began with a mistake slowly unravels into something neither of them can deny.

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Vampire AU where Bob has been in love with John for centuries. John, the relentless hunter, has sworn to destroy creatures like him. Bob has done everything he can to hold himself back, drinking animal blood, keeping his distance, curling up quietly on the couch just to be near John.

But one day, John finds out. Maybe he sees the flash of fangs or feels the shift in the air, maybe he’s scared by his own growing feelings. His hand shakes as he throws holy water at Bob, panic tightening every muscle.

Bob just stands there, trembling, the holy water burning his skin but hurting his heart even more. He realizes in that awful moment that no matter how careful he’s been, no matter how soft and gentle, John will always see him as a monster. When John drops the bottle and stumbles forward whispering apologies, Bob has already gone quiet inside because deep down, he knows this was always the end waiting for them.

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Back when they were still just skimming the edge of something more inside the Tower, John Walker had already passed out during a midday break — fingers half-buried in a bucket of popcorn, one hand loosely clutching the remote. Bob had been watching for what felt like centuries, his gaze cautious, calculating. A sleek black cat circled the couch, pausing here and there to sniff, before carefully scaling up the armrest and curling into a perch. You could hear the agent’s breathing: deep, even, heavy. He was completely asleep.

Bob crept closer, inch by inch, until their noses were nearly touching. The feeling of kissing Walker was strange — dry lips brushing, rubbing, hesitant. Bob didn’t dare go deeper, instead folding his whole body down over John, blanketing him like a dark, quiet storm cloud, his dark sweater wrapping tightly around the man.

John let out a soft sigh in his sleep, his body shifting just slightly — enough to send the little cat skittering away. A few months ago, Bob — the same one who’d nearly slaughtered half of New York — now startled himself, scrambling back fast with wide eyes. Meanwhile, the fool he had just kissed smacked his lips in his dreams, annoyed at something, maybe dreaming his popcorn tasted like cotton candy.

[shinemass522]

Southern farm AU:

His brother’s lips crack easily in the late autumn chill, the wet whitewashed navy tank top clinging to the back of the plastic siding; red maple leaves blow away the last dampness of summer.

The younger brother, Bob, has hollowed eyes, curls drooping on either side of his round ears.

In 1994, they only had one decent car to drive — a worn-down, nearly 140,000-mile Chevy slogging through the mud, dragging long gray streaks like trails of dried tears.

Most of the time, Bob takes care of his older brother John, but when John’s illness flares up, the roles flip. Out here, it’s just the two of them, holding each other up; the sharp-eared, gray-furred shepherd dog stirs the leftover scraps they share.

By the door, Bob’s favorite cowboy hat hangs upside down on a rusted brass hook, the edges frayed, leather peeling — every scuffed, worn patch reminds him of his brother’s bare shoulders, of John straddling the wildest bull, gritting his two rows of sharp teeth, biting down hard on the brim of that hat.

Right now, John lies back in the creaking rocking chair nearby, eyes shut, the scruff on his chin forever uneven, still carrying the faintest trace of the most primal hunger.

[shinemass522]

I’m so obsessed with that trope where Bob opens door after door, fully expecting to humiliate John—only to end up pitying this poor, miserable puppy because his backstory is just that tragic. Like, Bob (or Void) could’ve easily just stood by and watched it all unfold, thinking John was a total asshole—but then. But then—he sees the broken pieces. The silence in John’s eyes. The way he flinches before every touch, like he’s expecting pain instead of kindness. And suddenly it’s not funny anymore. It’s not satisfying. It’s devastating.