#Bob. (OC)

[basketobread]

we need your magic words, white girl... we can't camp just yet we still have a little bit of fight left in us... save us, white girl... (also i haven't cured karlach yet but just imagine she won't burn lae'zel alive and is fully healed here. they're still in the underdark LOL)

[houseofaegon]

Bob and a reader who bruises easily and when they have sex the reader is usually marked up the next day?

Marked ✩ Bob Reynolds

Pairings: Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolt!Reader

Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. explicit sexual scenes, bruising (reader bruises easily), rough sex, possessive!bob, protective older brother!bucky, strong language, secret relationship, minor angst, fluff, found family, chaotic thunderbolts energy, family dynamics, violence (threatened),

Summary: You and Bob had been sneaking around for months, the thrill of secrecy only fueling the fire and desire. But bruises from the night before threaten to unravel everything—especially when Bucky Barnes sees them and goes into full protective big brother mode.

Author's Note: omg you guyssssssss!!! i had so much fun writing this one. i am so obsessed with the whole secret relationship setup, and bucky going full protective older brother mode???? ughhhhhh I'm obsessed. i love my boyfriends<3 yelena my baby I love love love writing her so much she's sooo ughhh I love her!!!! i love myself some found family<3 keep the requests comingggggg!!!! i’ve got so many on my inbox already i’ve been planning out all of the fics so they’ll be posted soon<3

You woke up tangled in sheets, muscles aching, skin kissed with tenderness. Bob's arm was drapped heavy over your waist, the rise and fall of his chest pressing your back into him, grounding you, like he needed the contact to breathe. He always held you like that after—like if he let go, you might vanish.

A dull ache throbbed deep in your thighs, your hips, the slope of your neck. Each mark a reminder of the night before. Of how careful he tried to be. Of how easily he lost himself in you when the door was closed and the rest of the world disappeared.

It had started slow, like it always did.

Quiet knock on your door, late enough for the others to be asleep or buried in their own distractions. Bob would linger in the hall, hoodie thrown over his head, hands in his pockets like some kind of teenage boy sneaking into his girlfriend's room.

The moment the door clicked shut, the tension would snap. You’d throw yourself at him—starving, always starving—and he’d catch you every time.

Last night was no different. You'd been watching him all day, practically squirming on the sidelines of the gym while he trained with Yelena.

That damn white shirt clung to him, soaked through sweat, riding up every time he moved. His biceps flexed with every punch, his golden curls damp and wild. You caught him watching you more than once, eyes dark, mouth parted.

He looked wrecked before you even touched him.

By the time he showed up at your door, you didn’t say a word. You grabbed him by the collar of his hoodie, yanked him into your room, and kissed him like he was oxygen.

His hands trembled when they touched your waist. “I’ll be careful,” he whispered, even as you guided him to the bed, tugging his clothes off, already breathless.

“You don’t have to be,” you said. "I don't want you to be."

He kissed down your neck, hands gripping your thighs like he was anchoring himself. When his mouth found your pulse point, he sucked just hard enough to draw a moan—and the bruise bloomed seconds later.

He pulled back to look at the mark, already forming, then looked up at you with something feral in his eyes. “You’re so fucking soft,” he groaned. “I’m gonna mark every inch of you. Mine. All of you.”

You gripped his hair, kissed him harder. “Then do it.”

His fingers laced with yours, pinning them above your head as he pushed into you slowly, the stretch of him drawing a gasp from your lips. He watched your face like it was the only thing that mattered.

His thrusts were slow, deep, patient at first—until you begged.

“Harder, Bob. Please. Don’t hold back.”

He shuddered. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I do,” you gasped. “I want all of you.”

His mouth crashed into yours, and the dam broke.

You swore the headboard cracked. The bed groaned beneath you. Your name was a prayer on his tongue, murmured between bruising kisses and gasped apologies he didn’t need to make.

Because you loved the marks. The ache. The secrecy.

The thrill of sneaking out of his room at 3AM, hair a mess, lips swollen. Of pretending nothing happened in the halls the next day. Of brushing fingers under the table during briefings, eyes meeting like a promise.

And in those moments—when no one else knew, when it was just you and him—you felt more his than ever.

You traced a bruise on your collarbone absently as you slipped out of his bed, one of his t-shirts falling to mid-thigh. You bit your lip to hide the satisfied smile. Bruised and adored. Just how you liked it.

The tower was still quiet as you crept back to your room to change, slipping into gym shorts and a hoodie for morning training. You paused once, catching your reflection in your bathroom mirror—faint marks painting your hips, the curve of your neck, the inside of your thigh.

Heat flushed through you at the memory. His hands gripping your waist. His voice—“You’re mine.”

You tugged the hoodie tighter and headed down to start training.

The gym was already humming with low music and the sound of punches hitting pads. Bucky was setting up on the mat, hoodie off, sweat darkening the collar of his black shirt. He gave you a quick nod when you walked in—his version of a good morning.

Bucky Barnes had been like a brother to you since day one. Not in the forced “everyone on a team is family” way—no, this was different. Real.

He was rough around the edges when you first joined the Thunderbolts, all tight-lipped commands and watchful eyes. Cold. Distance. Guarded. But something in you cracked through that hard soldier shell. Maybe it was how stubborn you were. How warm. Unafraid to rile him up, to poke the bear. Maybe it was how you asked too many questions. Or the way you always saved him a seat in the briefing room. Or how you reminded him—without meaning to—what it felt like to care about someone without it turning into war.

You sometimes reminded him of Steve.

He saw him in you. In the way you saw people. In how you never gave up on anyone, not even him. In the way you could smile even after a mission gone sideways and still say, "We're okay. We'll figure this shit out."

You were brave. Kind. Loyal.

You were the thing Steve used to fight for.

And Bucky—he didn’t say it, couldn’t say it—but he clung to that. To you. Because if someone like you could believe in him, then maybe there was still something worth saving inside him.

That’s why he called you “kid,” even though you weren’t.

That’s why he tossed you his hoodie when you were cold, sat beside you when you couldn’t sleep, and taught you how to break a man’s wrist with a flick of your body weight.

He watched over you in the field. Back-to-back in a firefight. A quiet hand on your shoulder after a tough mission. His voice, always steady, always low: “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”

He wasn’t your teammate. He wasn’t a friend.

He was your brother. Your family. Not by blood. But by bond. By choice.

And that made what happened next inevitable.

Because when he saw those bruises, the ground shifted underneath his feet. All he could see was someone hurting you. And he'd spent decades trying to protect people like you, people he cared about. He had lost Steve. He wasn't going to lose you.

“You’re late,” he said.

“Barely,” you said, grinning. “Try smiling once in a while.”

He rolled his eyes. “Try not tripping over your own feet.”

“Rude,” you said.

He tossed you a set of gloves. “Let’s go. Standard drills.”

You started slow. Footwork. Blocks. He moved easily, but watched your form like a hawk, correcting gently with a hand at your hip, your wrist, your shoulder.

“Looser on the right,” he murmured. “You’re tightening up too much, kiddo.”

“I’m fine.”

“Mm-hmm.” His tone was skeptical. “Take off the hoodie.”

You froze.

“It’s hot in here,” he added, too casually. “And you’re sweating like hell.”

“Bucky—”

“Off, Y/N.”

Shit.

You sighed, peeled it off, revealing the tank top beneath—and the faint, fresh constellation of bruises that peppered your collarbone and shoulders.

The moment the hoodie dropped to the mat, everything stopped.

Bucky’s whole body tensed.

His eyes locked on the marks. A slow, terrible realization crawling across his face like storm clouds. His voice was suddenly razor sharp.

He stopped breathing.

“What the fuck is that?”

You blinked, already knowing where this was going. “It’s nothing, Bucky.”

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice dropped, deadly quiet. “Who did this?”

“I said it’s nothing—”

His gaze narrowed. “Don’t bullshit me. Y/N, what is that?” He stepped forward, fingers brushing the side of your neck. His touch was soft, but his jaw was tight. “Who the fuck did this to you?”

“I—” You swallowed. “It’s fine, Bucky. It’s—just mosquito bites, that's all.”

“I'm not stupid. I know what bruises look like,” he snapped, his voice rising. “And those? They didn’t come from sparring.”

You stepped back. "Please don't do this."

“Do not follow me unless you’re gonna tell me the truth.”

And then he was storming down the hall, headed for the common room. Straight into the storm.

Because to him? This wasn’t just bruises.

It was his kid—his sister—hurt, marked, and silent about it.

And he’d tear down the whole damn team to protect you.

But of course, you followed him. You fumbled to put the hoodie back on, trying to catch up with Bucky.

You caught up to him just as he stormed into the common room, boots stomping accross the floor. You barely had time to catch your breath before all hell broke loose.

Bob was sprawled on the couch, legs stretched out, hoodie pulled halfway over his head, curls messy on his forehead. Yelena sat beside him eating chips straight from the bag, one boot resting on the coffee table. Walker was slumped on the other, flipping channels again and again.

"Just pick a damn channel already, jeez," Yelena scoffed.

"We have Netflix you know?" Bob chimed in softly.

The second Bucky entered, everyone looked up.

“Do you know who fucking did this to her?” Bucky barked, voice sharp enough to cut metal.

Yelena blinked, slow and unbothered. She raised one perfectly arched brow and held up her bag of chips. “Wow. Good morning to you too, soldier boy. Want a chip?”

Walker frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about this!” Bucky turned, grabbed your armg gently, always gently, and tugged the hoodie sleeve up to show the fading bruise near your wrist. “And that,” he pointed to your neck. “And that.”

“Bucky, please—” you tried, stepping in front of him, but he wasn’t hearing it.

“You better start talking,” he growled, pointing at each of them like they were suspects in a murder trial. “Because if one of you laid a hand on her—”

“Okay, this is very dramatic,” Yelena said, popping another chip in her mouth. “I love it. Are we in a movie right now? Because damn, the drama.”

“I’m being very fucking serious right now, Yelena.”

She shrugged. “Just trying to defuse the tension.”

“And you're not helping!”

“I know,” she said sweetly.

Bucky whirled on Walker next. “Was it you?”

Walker sat up straighter, blinking. “What? No! Jesus—”

“I swear—if you even looked at her wrong—”

“Oh, come on, man!” Walker snapped, tossing the remote on the couch. “I’m not suicidal.”

While Bucky and Walker bickered, Yelena turned to you slowly, her eyes cool but curious. Then—subtle as smoke—her gaze dropped to the bruises peeking from your hoodie, then flicked to Bob.

Bob hadn’t moved. But he was watching. His shoulders tense. His jaw clenched.

Yelena raised one perfectly arched brow. You saw the moment it clicked for her.

Of course she knew.

She wasn’t stupid. She’d seen the way you looked at each other during debriefs. The way you flushed when Bob’s fingers brushed yours in the kitchen. She’d definitely heard the sounds coming from your room last night—because, shocker, spies hear everything.

But she wasn’t going to rat you out to Bucky. No. She gave you the look—the look—tilting her head with the tiniest smirk like, girl, really? him? damn okay.

Then she turned back to her chips like none of this concerned her.

Meanwhile, Bucky was still in full interrogation mode.

“I will find out who did this,” he said, voice rising again. “And when I do—”

“You’re going to do what, Barnes?” Walker snapped back. “Ground us? You're not her dad.”

“I don’t have to be,” Bucky growled. “She’s family. I raised her on this goddamn team while you were still figuring out which way the bathroom was!”

“Oh my god,” Yelena said through a mouthful of chips, “this is better than anything on TV.”

You rubbed your hands down your face and slowly met Bob's eyes, just for a second.

It was enough.

He stood up. Violently. Almost knocking off the entire coffee table.

Yelena sat up straighter, chip bag rustling. "Oh, here we go."

Walker looked from Bob to Bucky, then back. “Wait. Wait wait wait—are we fighting now? In the middle of the living room? Are you guys serious?"

Bucky turned toward Bob, chest puffe like a feral bull. "Say something. I dare you."

“Enough!” Bob’s voice cracked like a whip across the room, thunderous, vibrating in the air like it came from somewhere deeper than his chest.

Yelena froze, chip halfway to her mouth. “Well, there goes the drywall.”

Bucky took one menacing step forward. “What did you say?”

Bob didn’t flinch. His voice was low. "It was me."

Dead. Silence.

Oh, fuck.

You could've heard a pin drop.

Yelena whispered, “Oh my god, I knew it.”

Walker blinked. “Hold the fuck on.” He gasped like he just found out Santa wasn’t real. “Wait—you two?! You’ve been doing it?”

“You?” Bucky spat, stepping forward. “You think that’s fucking funny?”

“No,” Bob said calm. Too calm.

And that snapped Bucky.

He lunged. “I’m going to kill you right now!”

“Bucky!” you shouted, throwing yourself between them just as Bucky’s fist came up.

You caught him mid-swing, grabbing his wrist, bracing your weight against him with everything you had.

“NO! No, no, no—Bucky, stop!” you yelled, pushing back on his chest, eyes wide.

Bob didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. His hands stayed at his sides, jaw set like he was ready to take it.

“You did this to her?” he hissed. “You put your hands on her?”

“I didn’t hurt her,” Bob bit out. “I’ve never laid a hand on her in anger—”

“You left bruises!” Bucky shouted, jabbing a finger toward Bob like he was issuing a death sentence. “You don’t get to decide what hurting her looks like! You don’t get to be the one who touches her and makes her lie to me about it!”

“Bucky, please,” you pleaded, voice breaking.

“I didn’t hurt her,” Bob snapped. “You think I don’t know what I’m capable of? I’ve been terrified of it since day one. Every time I touch her, I’m scared shitless I’ll lose control—but I don’t. Because I’d rather die than ever cross that line.”

Bucky’s jaw locked. “That’s not comforting.”

“She’s not a child, Bucky,” Bob bit out. “She knows what she wants."

"But she's my child, Bob! Mine," Bucky roared, voice cracking with something other than rage, like fear. "I've been protecting her since she joined this team. I've bled for her. I would take a bullet for her if it meant keeping her safe. You think you can just crawl into her bed—what? Expect me to shake your hand? Pat your back? You're fucking delusional."

"She's not yours to own!" Bob roared. "You don't get to decide who touches her, who loves her. She’s not some piece of property. She made a choice. I made my choice."

Bucky’s breathing was ragged, fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white. “She’s my family!" he hissed. "And you didn’t even have the balls to tell me.”

“I wanted to,” Bob snapped. “She told me you’d do this.”

“She was right!” Bucky barked, his eyes glossing over with betrayal. “Because I trusted you. You were supposed to be safe.”

“I am.” Bob’s voice dropped. “I love her. I’m careful with her. You know she bruises easily. Everyone knows it. I try. I always try. But she wanted it. She asked me to. I never forced her. I’d never do that to her.”

You stepped in closer, your hand sliding to Bucky’s chest. “He’s telling the truth.”

Bucky stared at you like he didn’t recognize you for a second. “You let him…”

“I wanted him,” you said simply. “And I still do.”

Walker stood up slowly, blinking like a deer in headlights. “Oh my god,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. “Is this… is this a thing? Like a regular thing? You two just… sneak around and… Jesus Christ, you two fuck?”

Yelena nearly choked on her chips.

She turned to him slowly, eyes wide with disbelief. “Walker. My guy. You live here. How have you not noticed?”

“I thought the noise was the pipes!” he said, flailing.

Yelena tilted her head. “You thought the pipes moaned her name at 2AM?”

“HOW WAS I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!”

She blinked. "Walker, if your pipes ever sound like that, you call an exorcist. Not maintenance."

He shook his head, exhaling hard. Then he looked at Bob, fury simmering low. “If you ever cross a line—if you so much as make her flinch or cry—I will end you. You break her heart, I break your face. Deal?”

“Deal,” Bob said without hesitation.

Bucky stared at Bob, his jaw ticking. But then his eyes shifted—back to you. Still tight with anger, but… softer now.

“You okay?”

You smiled—small, soft, but sure. “I promise,” you said. “I’m more than okay.”

You glanced back at Bob. He was still watching you like the room didn’t exist.

“He makes me happy, Buck.”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Goddammit.”

He yanked you into a hug, a little too tight, one arm slung around your neck like he was both scolding you and shielding you. You melted into it as he pressed a kiss to your head.

“I swear to God, Y/N,” he muttered, voice low in your ear, “if he hurts you, I’ll kill him myself.”

You chuckled against his chest. “I know you would.”

Bucky sighed and pulled back, plopping down onto the couch like the last ten minutes had aged him a decade. “And for the love of all that is holy—use protection.”

Yelena snorted next to him. “And do not fuck in the communal shower. Please. I beg you.”

Walker looked horrified. “Wait—have they?!”

You and Bob exchanged a look. He blushed. You smirked. Then you crossed the room, and without missing a beat, Bob reached out and pulled you into him. His arm slid over your shoulders like muscle memory, tucking you against his side with an ease that made everyone in the room groan. He looked down at you with that soft, dopey grin, like a damn teenager who just scored the girl of his dreams.

Yelena let out the loudest groan of all. “Oh my god, you’re disgusting. Look at you—so in love. Yuck!” She made a dramatic gagging noise. “This is vile. I feel violated.”

Bob chuckled.

Bucky didn’t even look. He just threw his head back. “Jesus Christ, please stop this. I can’t take it anymore.”

Yelena didn’t miss a beat. “Honestly, Buck? I’m surprised she can still walk after what I heard last night.”

Bob choked violently.

You burst into laughter, burying your face in his hoodie, muffling a wheeze.

Bob cleared his throat, red as a tomato. “Okay, wow.”

Bucky clapped his hands, hard. “OKAY! Great. That’s enough. Breakfast. Anyone?”

Walker, still pale, raised a hand. “I need alcohol.”

Bucky didn’t even hesitate. “You know what? Make it two. Double.”

Yelena leaned back, completely unbothered, tossing a chip in her mouth. “God, I love this team.”

And you? You looked around—at the chaos, the bickering, the laughter—and felt it settle deep in your chest.

You loved them too.

With all your heart.

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[shortnspidey]

CONTAINMENT BREACH

Bob Reynolds X female!reader || WC: 6.6K

SUMMARY: Ever since the day he accidentally voided all of New York City, Bob’s kept his circle tight, trust was a luxury he can’t afford. His teammates were the only ones who get close. That is, until Bucky’s cat sitter shows up. Charming, unshakable, completely unexpected, and completely slipping past Bob’s defenses with alarming ease. Now he’s questioning everything he thought he knew about trust, about himself, and maybe even about second chances.

WARNINGS: Slight Thunderbolts* spoilers! Talks of mental health, depression, self-depreciating thoughts, character death (not reader or Bob) platonic Bucky x reader, Alpine being a little menace and matchmaker, lots of time skips, angsty fic but fluffy ending!

A/N: Just like everyone else, Bob Reynolds has had such a hold on me ever since I watched Thunderbolts, which is how this came to be written! I love that Marvel gave us such a relatable and real character. Enjoy! Divider by @luxifrv <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ bob reynolds masterlist

It wasn’t often that the Watchtower had visitors. From time to time, Valentina or Mel would swing by, typically armed with sharp suits and sharper words, checking to make sure the New Avengers hadn’t shattered another city block or, God forbid, triggered another diplomatic incident. But personal guests? Those were rare. Especially for Bucky Barnes.

Lately, even Sam didn’t visit much, tensions still stretching between them. Which is why the silence in the Watchtower’s main floor was deafening when the elevator chimed and opened with a soft hiss… and Bucky smiled. Not just the tight-lipped, guarded smirk that passed for a grin these days. A real smile. The kind that started in the eyes and softened his whole face, made him look like someone who’d once known peace.

He stepped forward before the doors had even fully opened and wrapped the woman inside in a firm, familiar embrace. She returned it just as easily, arms winding around his shoulders like this was far from the first time. “Thank you for doing this,” Bucky murmured. You pulled back slightly, but not before affectionately squeezing his forearm, flesh, not metal, and giving him a look full of warmth.

“Just add it to the tab of favors you owe me, Barnes.” You teased. The sound of someone clearing their throat behind you broke the moment. You turned, finding a semi-circle of curious, and clearly surprised faces staring back at you. These were the teammates Bucky had told you about over late-night calls. John with the cautious eyes, Ava standing slightly apart from the group, Yelena who assessed you from head to toe, Alexi wearing that unmistakable grin, and then—

Bob.

He stood a little off to the side, arms crossed. He didn’t say anything. Just watched. You gave a small, sheepish wave. “I’ve heard a lot about all of you.” There was a beat of silence. John and Ava exchanged a look that said we’ll be talking about this later. Alexi nodded approvingly, his grin widening like this was the most entertainment he'd had in weeks. And Bob… Bob tilted his head slightly, something unreadable passing through his expression.

You were pretty, he thought, objectively so, but more than that, you seemed to carry an energy that didn’t belong in a place like this. You radiated optimism like it was your default setting. No armor, no edge, no practiced emotional detachment like the rest of them had learned to wear like skin. It unsettled him and intrigued him at the same time. Because in a tower full of jaded heroes and haunted soldiers, you stood out like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“Wish we could say the same,” Yelena drawled, her Russian accent curling around the words. She leaned casually against the edge of the table, eyes glinting with mischief as they flicked to Bucky. “But Bucky here hasn’t told us anything about you.” Alexi’s laugh followed a beat later, loud and delighted. “About time you brought your lady over and introduced her to us!” You and Bucky exchanged an immediate, mutual grimace.

“Oh, we’re not—” You said at the same time he blurted, “No, she’s—” You motioned vaguely between the two of you, stepping slightly away from Bucky’s side for emphasis. “We’re not together like that. He’s like the overprotective big brother I never had. Annoying, broody, and occasionally helpful.” Bucky rolled his eyes, but didn’t argue. At your words, Bob felt something inside him unclench, something he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

His shoulders eased slightly, tension leaking out like air from a valve. But just as quickly, his own mind betrayed him. Stop it. She would never look at you like that. The thought hit like a sucker punch to the gut. A harsh voice, well-rehearsed and heavy with truth. His posture shifted again, the weight of it all settling across his shoulders. He ducked his head slightly, eyes lowering as he avoided looking in your direction altogether. Across the room, Ava’s sharp gaze never wavered.

She tilted her head, brows drawn together ever so slightly. “Then what are you doing here?” You met her scrutiny without flinching. “Cat-sitting,” You replied simply, lips curving upward into an easy smile. As if on cue, the cat in question trotted into the room. Her white fur gleamed under the overhead lights, tail held high and confident as she padded across the floor. A single approving meow escaped her as she reached you, rubbing against your leg with practiced affection.

“There she is.” Your voice softened immediately. “Hi sweet girl.” You crouched, scooping her into your arms and pressing her against your chest. She purred, loud and satisfied, immediately tucking her face into your neck like she'd missed you for days. Bob’s eyes lifted without permission, drawn to the scene despite himself. Something about it, the calm in your touch, the quiet joy you didn’t bother hiding.

It wasn’t the kind of thing he got anymore. But here you were, in a tower full of ghosts and ex-assassins, holding a damn cat like it was the most natural thing in the world. It made him want to look away. And also made it impossible to. “That monstrous feline is not sweet.” John Walker’s voice cut in like a sawblade, his words practically dripping with contempt as he stared Alpine down like she’d personally offended him. You gasped, clutching the cat closer.

Alpine blinked at John with the casual disdain of someone absolutely unbothered. “Monstrous?” You echoed his words with exaggerated disbelief, gently scratching her under the chin. “I think you’re talking about a different cat. Alpine wouldn’t hurt a fly.” She responded with a low, delighted purr that vibrated against your chest.“Alpine is selective,” Bucky clarified, dry as ever, stepping in like the overprotective big brother he was determined to be.

“Only likes very specific people. Don’t disrespect my cat just because she doesn’t like you.” John scoffed and crossed his arms, muttering something under his breath that you were pretty sure included “spawn of Satan.” Alpine simply blinked again completely unbothered. You bit back a grin and looked down at her. “She’s definitely a good judge of character.” Before John could retaliate, Bucky shifted the conversation. “We should be back in a few days,” He interjected, tone casual.

At those words, Bob, silent, still as ever in the background, tensed so subtly only someone who really knew how to look would have noticed. But it was there. That flicker of alarm. Of dread. Because if everyone was leaving… then it would be just you. And him. In this tower. Alone. “I even got you that god-awful grass drink you like,” Bucky added, smirking slightly. “It’s in the fridge.”

You rolled your eyes dramatically, reaching out to smack his arm. Which, predictably, felt like smacking concrete wrapped in tactical gear. “Disrespect matcha one more time, Bucky,” You warned, faux-serious. “And you’ll see what happens.” The super-soldier simply laughed even when you narrowed your eyes. “This is so weird,” Yelena muttered, arms folded as she eyed the scene.

“You being soft. It’s unnatural.” She gestured vaguely to Bucky, making everyone else in the room nod in agreement. With one final check of their gear and Bucky thanking you for the tenth, or maybe hundredth time, and pulling you into one more hug, the team moved out. The elevator doors hadn’t even fully closed before you heard a chorus of muffled voices instantly bombarding him with a flurry of questions:

“Who is she, Barnes?”

“How long have you been hiding her?”

“Why did the demon cat cuddle her and hiss at me?”

You smiled faintly, shaking your head. Then the quiet settled. Just you, Alpine… and Bob. You cradled Alpine as she adjusted herself like a baby, utterly at peace. You crossed the room, shoes soft against the polished floor, and stopped a few feet in front of him. “Hi,” You offered, voice warm but not too pushy. “I’m Y/N.” Your hand extended between you. Bob glanced at your hand, then at your face, then down at his own sleeves, pale knuckles twisting the hem of his oversized hoodie.

His posture was withdrawn, hunched in a way that felt almost apologetic, like he was constantly trying to make himself smaller. “Bob,” He whispered back quietly, avoiding your eyes, your hand, and pretty much all signs of contact. Then, without another word, he turned and slipped out of the room like a shadow trying not to be noticed. You didn’t take it personally. Bucky had warned you he was quiet.

But still, your smile faltered as your hand dropped, a soft exhale slipping through your lips. You glanced down at Alpine, who pawed at your shirt and yawned dramatically, as if she were unimpressed by the exchange. “That went well." You muttered under your breath. But you didn’t give up. You never really had that in you. You turned the lights down low and settled on the plush couch with Alpine nestled into your side.

You flipped through the Watchtower’s extensive movie archive until you found something comforting, a favorite you’d seen a dozen times, familiar enough to be background noise, comforting enough to combat the eerie silence that blanketed the place once the others left. The quiet was different now. Less filled with activity. You curled up under the soft throw blanket Bucky had left out for you, Alpine’s warmth keeping your chest grounded even as your thoughts began to spiral.

Eventually, the low murmur of the film and the rhythmic rise and fall of the Alpine’s breathing lulled you toward sleep. But even as you drifted off, one image kept slipping into your mind: Doe eyes. A slouched frame in too-big sleeves. A boy trying to be invisible in a room full of larger-than-life heroes. And the ache behind his silence that you couldn’t quite stop thinking about for the rest of the foreseeable future.

The next morning, the Watchtower was nearly silent, save for the occasional soft thud of Alpine jumping from one surface to another. Sunlight poured through the expansive windows of the kitchen, casting long golden rays across the sleek countertops and polished floors. You moved through the space quietly, barefoot, hair tousled from sleep, wearing one of Bucky’s old henley's over your pajamas.

Alpine trailed behind you, tail flicking with approval. You hadn’t expected Bob to be awake yet, which is why you froze for just a second when you saw him. He was sitting on the far end of the kitchen island, hunched over a mug of tea like it might anchor him to the world. His hoodie was the same as yesterday, slightly too big, sleeves pulled down over his knuckles, hair a little mussed like he hadn’t slept much, if at all.

He looked up as you entered. For a brief moment, your eyes met. Then he quickly looked back down, as if the connection had startled him. “Morning,” You greeted gently, not wanting to startle him further. He gave the slightest nod. “Morning.” Progress. You moved with quiet purpose, grabbing a pan and a few things from the fridge. “I hope you don’t mind, I thought I’d make something.” No reply.

“Can’t live off matcha and croissants the whole time I’m here.” He didn’t respond, but he didn’t leave either. That had to count for something. You worked efficiently, the smell of browning butter and cinnamon soon filling the air as you began prepping a small stack of French toast, humming softly to yourself. You noticed the way Bob’s posture shifted slightly, still guarded, but curious.

Alpine perched herself on the windowsill nearby, watching like a supervisor. Occasionally, she meowed at Bob, almost like she was trying to coax him into joining the moment. “I don’t bite,” You smiled softly, keeping your tone light as you slid a plate across the island toward him. “Unless someone badmouths my emotional support drink.” That got a soft huff of air from him. Almost a laugh. He didn’t touch the plate yet, but he looked at it, and that was a start.

You grabbed your own plate and settled onto a stool nearby, not too close, just within conversation range. You didn’t push. Just let the silence stretch comfortably between you as you both started to eat. Eventually, you spoke again. "Do you like the quiet?" His fork paused. For a moment, you thought he might shut down again, but then, his voice, low and unsure whispered. "It's comforting," He paused swallowing the lump in his throat.

“But not always, I-I get too lost in thought, spiral." You looked up, heart catching on the simple truth in his voice. “That’s fair,” You murmured. “Sometimes quiet with the right person is… kind of perfect, makes the voices go away.” His fork didn’t move. You could feel it in the air, the shift, the wall going up behind his eyes even though he hadn’t physically moved a muscle. That one word, voices had tapped something deep, something raw. You didn’t need to ask to know where his mind had gone.

You saw it in the sudden tightness of his jaw. The way his gaze didn’t land on you, but somewhere around you, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for you to recoil. Waiting for the disgust or fear he was sure would come. He didn’t speak, but his body did, stiff, guarded, breath shallow. Then finally, with your voice quiet and even, you spoke again. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” His eyes flicked to yours, fast, searching. “I just know sometimes… the quiet can feel more like a trap than a comfort,”

“Especially when your thoughts won’t turn off.” His posture eased. Barely. But it was enough for you to notice. “I didn’t mean your voices,” You clarified, almost a whisper. “I meant mine.” You reached for your mug, sipping slowly to let the weight of your words land without pressure. You weren’t here to interrogate him. You weren’t here to fix him. You were just… here. He watched you. You could feel it, his gaze heavy and unmoving.

As if he was seeing you for the first time without the filter of assumptions. You were still radiating light, he thought, but it was softer now, not the blinding kind. A more human kind. Like sunlight after rain. Warm, but gentle. His brows drew together as if something inside him hurt a little. You watched his jaw twitch, the flicker of conflict in his features as your words processed. There was no way, he thought. No way that someone like you could carry shadows, too.

Yet there you were, cracks and light, both and you weren’t hiding either. He stared at you like he didn’t understand what he was seeing. How had this happened? How had someone like you, all open warmth and gentleness, who cooed at cats and smiled like it didn’t cost you anything, gotten in? His guard was steel-reinforced. Always had been. It had to be. That’s how he survived, how he kept others safe from him, and himself safe from the world. But somehow, without him even realizing it, you’d slipped right past it, in less than twenty’s four hours no less.

Not with force. But with kindness. With patience.

And now, there you were, sitting across from him with your mug and your quiet understanding, and the wall that had taken years to build suddenly had cracks in it wide enough for sunlight to bleed through. He hated how fast it had happened. And how natural it felt. And yet… he didn’t want to rebuild the wall again. Not right now at least. “I’m not afraid of you, Bob.” He blinked. Once. Twice. His eyes darted to yours, then away again, like the truth of that statement was too much to look at head-on.

You weren’t afraid of him. And that terrified him more than anything. Because if you weren’t afraid… that meant you saw him. Not the Void. Not the Sentry. Not the stories people whispered behind closed doors. Just Bob. Just the broken, stitched-together, half-repaired version of a person who wasn’t sure if he was worth caring for. His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Something sharp and bitter lodged itself somewhere behind his sternum.

Why did his walls let her in?

Why her?

And why, for the first time in a long time… did he not want to push her back out? His fingers twitched on the table, restless, as though caught between the urge to retreat and the aching need to stay. You didn’t press. Didn’t push him to speak or to make some grand declaration. You just watched him, quiet, calm, like you were willing to wait. Like he was worth waiting for. And for the first time, maybe ever… he started to believe someone, most importantly you had meant it.

Later that night, you found yourself curled up on the couch once more, Alpine nestled along your side. The glow of your phone lit your face as you scrolled aimlessly through social media, half-reading posts, half-dozing off. Then you heard it. A soft, pained whimper, almost like a cry. Muffled, strangled, fragile. You sat up instantly, ears straining. Alpine’s head lifted too, eyes alert.

“Bob?” You called out gently, not loud enough to startle, just enough to be heard. No response. But the rustle of bedsheets and the creak of the floorboards told you enough. You didn’t hesitate. Padding barefoot down the hallway, you knocked once on his door. No answer. Another whimper. You slowly opened it. The room was dark save for the spill of moonlight across the floor. Bob was tangled in his sheets, face damp, brow twisted in agony, chest rising and falling like he was drowning in air.

“Bob,” You tried again, a little firmer now. He jolted awake with a gasp, eyes wide and wild, but unfocused. Disoriented. Still halfway in whatever nightmare he had just clawed his way out of. His breath came in sharp, panicked gulps. He shoved himself upright, fists clenched in the sheets like he was bracing for impact. “Hey, hey…” You coaxed, crossing the room slowly, palms lifted. “It’s okay. You’re safe.” He blinked rapidly, vision clearing.

When he saw it was you, just you, the panic didn’t vanish, but it changed. Turned inward. Like he was ashamed to have been caught so exposed. “I’m sorry,” He rasped. “I didn’t mean—” You shook your head. “You don’t need to apologize,” You interrupted softly, settling on the edge of the bed. “You had a nightmare. It happens.” He turned his head, jaw tight, avoiding your eyes. But you saw the way his hands trembled. The way his body practically vibrated with the need to pull away and collapse at the same time.

“You’re shaking,” You murmured, not accusing, just acknowledging. “Would it help if I got Alpine?” His head whipped around at that, confused. You offered a faint smile. “Animals help. They can bring your nervous system back down. Petting them, just being near them, it grounds you.” He looked at you then. Really looked. Eyes still wide and full of something raw. “…How do you know all this?” He whispered.

“I work at the VA,” You replied quietly. “That’s how I met Bucky.” Something in his face shifted, not a crack this time, but a softening. Like your words had just unlocked a door he didn’t even realize had been sealed shut. “I’ve seen people fight battles even after the war’s over,” You added. “And I’ve seen what helps, even if it’s momentarily. Let me help.” He didn’t answer. Not with words. But when Alpine padded into the room moments later, hopping gracefully onto the bed, he didn’t flinch.

Didn’t turn her away. His trembling hand hovered for a second before he hesitantly laid it on her back. She pushed into his palm instantly, as if she knew. Purring loud enough to fill the silence. You stayed still. Let the quiet do what it needed to. After a while, Bob’s shoulders sagged. The tension bled out of him slowly, like air leaking from a balloon. His breathing evened out. And though he wouldn’t meet your gaze, he didn’t ask you to leave either.

So you didn’t. Instead, you shifted closer, careful not to overwhelm, but near enough to offer warmth. “You don’t have to talk, just… let someone be here. Let yourself not be alone tonight.” Your voice was soft, softer than the darkness around you, yet it filled the space like a promise. Not loud, not forceful. Just steady. Just there. You didn’t reach for him, didn’t press closer. You waited.

Tentatively, you watched as his hand inched along the rumpled bedding, fingers twitching. He moved slowly, like he was afraid the act of reaching out might break him. His index finger brushed yours, barely a whisper of contact almost like he hadn’t meant to, or wasn’t sure he had the right. Your breath caught, but you didn’t move. Not yet. Then your fingers slid closer, bridging the gap. And this time, he didn’t pull away. It wasn’t a full grasp. Not a hand-hold. Just the side of your fingers against his, warm and unmoving.

A silent offering. A quiet, unwavering truth: you were here. His hand was cold. A little clammy. But he didn’t retract. He let the touch stay, as if testing the idea that maybe, just maybe, physical touch didn’t have to hurt. The fear hadn’t left him. Not entirely. But it had receded enough to let something else in. Peace, maybe. Or at the very least… permission to breathe. He just sat there, pale in the moonlight, shadows clinging to the hollow angles of his face.

With Alpine curled trustingly in his lap and you by his side, your fingers brushing his in quiet solidarity. You didn’t say anything else. You didn’t need to. And as the minutes passed and Alpine’s purring filled the air, you swore you saw something in Bob’s shoulders, not relax exactly, but release as his head lolled to the side, fighting sleep. Almost as if he wasn’t carrying the weight alone anymore. Not tonight.

It was safe to say that after that night, something had shifted between you and Bob. Nothing dramatic, nothing loud, but it was there. Real. He didn’t flinch when you entered a room anymore. He didn’t avoid eye contact or disappear without a word. His hoodie still swallowed him whole, but now he stood a little straighter. Walked a little closer. He didn’t speak often, not at first, but he stayed. And that meant more than any words could. You’d become something like a routine for him.

A calm one. Mornings started with pancakes, a small victory you were still gloating over. He claimed he didn’t know how to cook, and yet, he took to it like muscle memory, flipping with quiet precision while you chattered beside him. Perks of the Sentry serum, he claimed. Sometimes, you caught him sneaking chocolate chips into your batch when he thought you weren’t looking. He never admitted it. You never called him out. Evenings belonged to the couch.

You and Bob, Alpine curled between you, and whatever movie series you’d decided to marathon. You weren’t sure when he started sitting closer, or when the silence between you stopped feeling awkward and started feeling like safety. But it had. And you weren’t about to question it. Tonight was no different. Blankets tangled around your legs, Alpine’s tail flicking lazily over Bob’s thigh, and the familiar glow of another Twilight movie painting the room in silver and shadow.

"Twilight is a cinematic masterpiece," You declared with mock-seriousness, eyes fixed on the screen as Edward Cullen and Bella Swan made their appearance. Bob’s brows furrowed, eyes narrowing in both confusion and disbelief. “I don’t know about that.” He muttered dryly, the corners of his mouth twitching in what might’ve been the very beginning of a smirk.

You turned your head sharply, gasping as if personally insulted, hand flying to your chest in dramatic offense. “Excuse me?” Your smile had dropped instantly, but only for show. He could tell. Still, there was an almost guilty flicker in his gaze as he looked at you, unsure if he’d crossed a line until you threw a kernel of popcorn at him. “Jacob just imprinted on a baby,” He added flatly, motioning to the screen. “You’re calling that a masterpiece?” You blinked.

“That’s Breaking Dawn, and that’s not the point, Bob.” You huffed, throwing a pillow into his lap. His laugh, quiet, breathy, but real slipped out before he could stop it. It was soft and short-lived, but it froze you in place all the same. You turned toward him slowly, smile creeping back in its full, delighted form. “Was that a laugh?” you asked, eyes shining. “Did I just hear you, Robert Reynolds laugh at Twilight?” His face flushed instantly, but he didn’t deny it.

He simply just rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, slumping back into the couch like it could absorb him. “Alpine, did you hear that?” You stage-whispered, petting her head. “History was made tonight.” Bob glanced down at the cat now lounging half on his lap, half on yours, and then to your surprise looked back at you with the faintest trace of warmth in his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.” He scoffed, but there was no bite to it. If anything, it sounded like affection.

You leaned your head against the cushion, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “Maybe. But I’m also right. Keep watching, it gets better trust me.” He didn’t argue. Instead, he let himself lean ever so slightly into your side, not enough to seem intentional, but not accidental either. Some time during the movie, right as Bella stared longingly at Edward for the hundredth time your fingers brushed his again, both of you reaching for more popcorn.

It should’ve been nothing, just another soft moment in the quiet rhythm you’d found together. But in an instant, everything shifted. The room vanished. Gone was the flickering TV light, the warmth of the blankets, the hum of Alpine’s purring. Instead you were back in that sterile, humming hospital. The air was too clean, too sharp, filled with the muted beeping of machines that had haunted your nightmares for years.

God, the sound. Steady. Constant. Mocking. In the corner of the room, your mother was laid out in the hospital bed like a stranger, tubes in her nose, bruises blooming along her collarbone from too many IVs. Her skin was dull. Her hair thinned. The woman who used to dance barefoot in the kitchen with you to 80s music was just… fading. And you stood frozen in the corner of the room, watching. Always watching. Too afraid to move.

Too afraid to touch her, as if you might cause the last thread holding her here to snap. The doctor had already given the odds. Words like “aggressive,” and “systemic,” and “prepare yourselves.” But you clung to hope the way a child clings to a blanket, desperate, naïve, and fraying at the edges. Then she turned her head just slightly and looked at you. Really looked at you. She smiled. And it was wrong. Too calm. Too peaceful. Like she knew something you didn’t.

Like she had already made peace with the fact she was leaving, and all that was left was to make you okay with it, too. Suddenly, the room went quiet. The memory ended. But the ache in your chest didn’t. And just as quickly as it came, it was gone. You were back on the couch, but breathless, your chest tight, your hand trembling where it still hovered above the popcorn bowl. The movie still played, but the world felt distant.

Bob had already pulled away, his entire frame hunched and tense like he was waiting for a blow. “I—I’m sorry,” He stammered, voice cracking under the weight of shame. “Shit, I’m so sorry, Y/N. I s-still don’t know how to control it, sometimes when I feel too much or get distracted it just… happens.” You blinked back the tears stinging your waterline, still trying to catch your breath as your reality settled again around you.

The last image of your mother still echoed in your mind, but it wasn’t jagged or cruel. It wasn’t weaponized. It was just… a part of you. A scar you’d kept covered. Your gaze snapped to him, to the way he had recoiled from you like your touch had burned him. His arms were wrapped tight around himself now, fingers clutching the sleeves of his hoodie as if he could shrink himself small enough to disappear. He couldn’t meet your eyes. He was braced for disgust. For fear.

But you didn’t feel either.

“Hey,” You whispered, the word breaking the silence like glass. Still, he wouldn’t look at you. You couldn’t handle it, not again. You shifted closer, slow and deliberate, reaching out to gently rest your hand on his knee, grounding both of you. “Bob, look at me.” He hesitated, eyes flickering to yours, filled with panic and self-loathing. “It wasn’t your fault,” You stated firmly, voice steady despite the slight shake in your hands.

“I’ve been carrying that moment for years. You didn’t force it out of me. It was… already there.” Yet he shook his head, mind spiraling right in front of you. “I didn’t mean to invade your thoughts,” He rasped. “I hate that I do that, just rip people into their worst—” You squeezed his knee, stopping him mid sentence. “You didn’t rip me into anything,” You cut in softly. “You touched my hand, and for a second, my mind gave in. That’s all. You didn’t show me something I didn’t already live through.”

He stared at you like you were speaking another language. Like kindness itself didn’t make sense coming from someone who had every reason to walk away. His eyes were glassy, wide, as if he was expecting you to scream, to flinch, to at him curse. Instead you didn’t move. You didn’t raise your voice or look away. “Bob,” You called his name softly, your voice full of a tenderness he’d only ever seen in other people’s lives, never his own.

“Sweetheart, come here.” The nickname hit him like a freight train. He blinked, stunned, like he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. Your arms were open, welcoming. No threat. No edge. He didn’t move. “I’m sorry,” He whimpered again, like it was all he had left. His voice cracked in the middle, fragile and full of every emotion he couldn’t name. “I didn’t mean to—” You shook your head gently, shushing him like, and then you reached.

Your fingers found his wrist, slowly, gently, and when he didn’t pull away, you guided him forward. The moment his body made contact with yours, he froze. Stiff. Breath held. He didn’t know what to do with it, your warmth, your hands in his hair, your chest rising and falling against his. But he didn’t stop it. Couldn’t. Your nails scratched delicately into his scalp like a grounding rhythm, the other hand running in soft, steady circles between his shoulder blades.

His breath hitched. It had been so long since someone touched him like that. Not out of obligation. Not for necessity. Just to comfort. And God, he hadn’t realized how much he needed it. His arms, wrapped around you tightly, too tightly, like if he loosened his grip even a fraction, you’d disappear. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, breath shaky and uneven. Every part of him trembled under your touch.

You held him tighter. “It’s okay,” You whispered into his hair. “You’re okay. You’re here. I’m here.”He made a sound then, a quiet, broken noise that wasn’t quite a sob, but close. Maybe it was relief. Or grief. Or both. You felt it in your own throat, that heavy lump of emotion neither of you could name yet. Minutes passed. Maybe more. Neither of you moved. And finally, in the low hush of the living room, Bob spoke.

So quietly you might’ve missed it if you weren’t already tuned to every fragile part of him. "I d-don't deserve you." It wasn’t just guilt in his voice, it was certainty. Like it was fact. Like someone, somewhere had etched it into his bones and he’d spent every day since then believing it was true. That sentence alone shattered something inside you. Because you had fallen, not in the surface way, not in some passing infatuation, but in a slow, aching unraveling for the man in front of you.

For his quiet strength, for the storm of self-hate he carried in silence and the flickers of hope he didn’t know he was allowed to hold. You’d fallen for all the versions of Bob, the terrified one, the broken one, the funny one who made dry little comments at the screen when he thought you weren’t listening. You saw every cracked piece of him and loved him more for it. And he thought he wasn’t worthy. Your hand gently cupped his cheek, guiding his gaze to yours.

“Don’t say that,” You whispered, voice barely audible, like you were afraid the moment might break if you spoke too loud. “Don’t ever say that again.” He flinched, eyes flickering between yours, and you saw it, the war behind them. That desperate need to believe you, battling a lifetime of voices that told him otherwise. You leaned in just a little, your forehead resting gently against his.

“You deserve everything, Bob,” You declared, eyes closing as the gravity of your words landed. “You deserve safety. And peace. And someone who sees all of you and stays.” You felt him exhale, a slow, shuddering breath that seemed to come from the deepest part of him. Your lips barely brushed his cheek when you spoke again, softer now. “And if you'll let me… I want to be that someone.” He didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

But his eyes searched yours like he was trying to memorize them, like they might be the one thing anchoring him to the present. And then, slowly, cautiously, his hand found the side of your neck, warm and trembling, thumb brushing just under your jaw. You tilted your head, giving him space, and that was all it took. His lips met yours with the hesitancy of someone who hadn’t kissed in a long time, or maybe had never kissed like this. It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t hurried.

It was a whisper of vulnerability. Your hand slid behind his neck, drawing him closer, and he exhaled into the kiss like it physically hurt to let go of the air between you. He tasted lwarmth and fear and something unbearably tender, like he’d been waiting his whole life for someone to meet him in the quiet, in the ache. You tilted your head, deepening it just a fraction, your lips molding to his with a tenderness that made his shoulders sag.

Like the weight he’d carried for years had just been handed off, piece by piece, into your keeping. His breath hitched against your mouth, and your fingers slid into his curls, anchoring him to the moment. He melted under your touch, leaning into you like you were something breakable he wanted to protect but didn’t know how. When his other hand found your waist, it was clumsy and careful at once. He held you like you might vanish, like this might all be a dream, and kissed you again, slower this time, more certain.

When you finally pulled back, foreheads still touching, you whispered. “You’re not alone, Bob. Not anymore. I'm not going anywhere, I promise." He didn’t cry. Not exactly. But he closed his eyes, nodded, and exhaled like he’d been holding that breath for years. “C’mere, let me hold you.” You coxed, voice thick with tenderness and exhaustion as you tugged him gently down onto the couch with you.

There was no hesitation anymore. No flicker of doubt in his eyes. Bob let himself be pulled, let himself fall, not just onto the cushions, but into the warmth of you, into the safety net of this fragile, blooming thing between you. Your arms wrapped securely around his waist, hands smoothing over the soft cotton of his hoodie, anchoring him like a lifeline. Without needing to be asked, he folded himself around you, holding you like something precious.

One arm around your back, the other settling protectively along your waist. Your legs tangled together as if they’d been doing that for years, as if your bodies already knew how to fit together. He clutched you gently but firmly, like he still didn’t quite trust the world not to take you away. “You’re warm.” You sighed, nuzzling into the space beneath his collarbone. His scent, faint cedar, old cotton, a whisper of something herbal from the tea he always made, filled your senses.

“I—um, I run hot. S-sorry.” His voice was muffled by your hair, and his hand twitched nervously against your back. You shook your head where it rested against his chest. “Don’t you dare apologize,” You scolded playfully. “You’re perfect.” He didn’t say anything at first, but you felt it. The way his chest rose and fell differently, heart thumping under your ear, as if your words had hit something he didn’t know how to name.

And then, soft and uncertain, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. His face flushed, visible even in the dim light of the television screen still flickering forgotten in front of you. He pressed one last chaste kiss to your forehead, lingering there. Then, finally, you both surrendered to sleep, curled up and wrapped around one another like if it were second nature. The elevator hummed to life hours later, the quiet of the Watchtower broken by the low clunk of boots on metal.

Bucky stepped out first, duffel slung over one shoulder, scanning the empty common space for any sign of Alpine’s prancing form or your cheerful presence. His brow furrowed. The lights were dimmed, the room untouched. Not even a half-drunk mug of matcha in sight. Then his gaze landed on the couch, and the corner of his mouth curled. There you were. Tucked into Bob’s chest like you belonged there, legs intertwined, his chin resting atop your head.

His arms were locked around your waist with the kind of protectiveness Bucky hadn’t seen in Bob since… well, ever. And the kicker? Bob’s lips were still pressed softly against your forehead in sleep, the image of peace incarnate. “Are they—?” Yelena’s whisper broke the stunned silence as the rest of the team piled in behind Bucky, slowing to take in the sight. “They are." Bucky nodded, unable to keep the grin off his face.

Ava blinked, completely stunned. “Wow.” Alexei gave a low whistle, while John looked vaguely like he wanted to protest before Yelena elbowed him in the ribs. Hard. Bucky raised a finger to his lips, motioning for them to be quiet. He stepped forward, carefully scooping Alpine into his arms from her perch at the foot of the couch. She purred instantly, tail flicking with smug satisfaction, as if to say I told you this would work.

Then without another word said, Bucky promptly ushered the entire team out of the room, leaving you and Bob undisturbed in the glow of something new, something fragile and hard-earned, something definitely worth holding on to. And as the door slid shut behind them, the only sound that remained was the steady rhythm of two heartbeats, finally at peace in each other’s arms.

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Remember you are NEVER alone! Do not hesitate to ask for help if you are struggling with your mental health, reach out to your loved ones, check in on people who have been too quiet, and always remember to be kind because you never know what other people may be dealing with! 🤍

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[bbybluemochi]

[OC] 🎸 sinner

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Callsign: Heartbreaker [B. F.]

Bob Floyd x fem!reader

wc: 1.3k summary: Jake runs his mouth. You do something about it.

Hangman was, to say the least, a tremendous pain in the ass. He had been annoying the entire squad for weeks since you guys had arrived at TOPGUN, and that night at The Hard Deck wasn't about to break his streak. Maverick had given you the night off, and you all agreed to meet at the bar to relax, share laughs, and, for once, behave like normal young people and not like human weapons ready to take off.

But, as usual, the atmosphere ended up turning in an uncomfortable direction.

“You know what, Bobby? I’ve always wondered…” Jake began with his snake-like grin, leaning his elbow on the bar and twirling his beer glass between his fingers. “How is it possible that someone so boring, so… a glasses-wearing model, made the cut for TOPGUN?”

Bob looked up from his soda, confused, as if he really thought he'd heard him wrong.

"Sorry?"

“Yeah! I mean, just look at you,” Jake leaned toward him, with the enthusiasm of someone who thinks he’s about to say something brilliant. “We have pilots with incredible reflexes, combat instincts, good looks… and then there’s you.”

The entire group looked at him in annoyance. Phoenix snorted. Rooster put down his glass with a thud. No one had the energy for another one of those nights.

“Maybe the filter measures talent,” Bob replied calmly. “Not cheap charisma.”

“God! What a virginal answer,” he let out a husky laugh, taking a long drink of his beer. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way… but I’m curious.”

Suddenly he turned to the rest of the group, his words slurred with some alcohol already on his tongue.

“Do you think if I walked up to the ladies at the bar and asked if they’d sleep with Bob, anyone would say yes? Anyone? Just one?”

Phoenix, sitting next to Bob, tensed.

“Shut up already”

"Come on, I'm talking about science! I'm sure they wouldn't even choose him in a simulation with limited oxygen."

“Yeah, Hangman. You’re not in high school,” Rooster muttered, rolling his eyes.

"I'm serious," he insisted, growing more and more satisfied. "You've probably never been kissed without eyes closed, and I bet no one asked you to a dance in high school. Am I right?"

Fanboy, crossing his arms, decided to intervene:

“Do you have any medical needs or are you just afraid of going unnoticed?”

Jake shrugged in mock humility.

“Nah, I'm fine. I just don't want anyone to get confused and think he represent the standard of what women want.”

Then, with the elegance of a Casanova-like idiot, he turned toward a group of girls sitting nearby.

“Ladies,” he said, pointing at each other with his thumbs, “who would you rather spend the night with: the cowboy with the perfect smile… or Bob?”

The girls laughed, amused by the show, but said nothing. Jake took it as a victory.

“I think you have your answer there.”

He was about to take another sip of his beer when you stepped forward. Without a word, you firmly took the bottle from his hand, brought it to your lips, and downed the entire thing in one gulp. When you were finished, you set it down in front of him with a thud.

The sound rang like a bell.

The group fell silent. Everyone looked at you. Jake raised his eyebrows, puzzled. You stood up slowly, with that dangerous calm that comes before a storm, and walked over to Bob. His eyes widened in surprise.

Once there, you sat sideways on his lap, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He immediately tensed, as if he'd just been thrown into a burning cockpit.

“Hey, what are you…?”

“You have beautiful eyes. Has anyone told you that before?” you asked with a sweet smile, tilting your head.

Your hands gently moved up to his cheeks, as if you were about to fix something delicate. He swallowed, motionless. Then your fingers slid to the gold frames of his glasses.

“Let me get this out of the way, ‘kay?”

You carefully placed them on the table, though your fingers trembled slightly. Not from nerves, but from anticipation. Then you leaned in and kissed him.

But it wasn't a tender or symbolic kiss. It was a kiss with intention. Your lips pressed firmly against his, pushing in without asking permission, as if you'd been waiting for an excuse to do so. It wasn't sweet. It was slow. Deliberate. With tongue.

Bob froze at first. Literally frozen. As if his system was trying to process what the hell was going on. But when you felt him exhale against your mouth, exhausted, you knew you'd broken him.

His hands flew to your waist. He held you awkwardly, and in the next second, he pulled you tightly against him. He sat up straighter in his chair, his lips began to respond more decisively, and his fingers crept up your back as if he wanted to memorize every inch of you through your clothes. You shifted slightly on his lap, searching for a better angle, and you felt him tense even more.

You bit his lower lip. Hard. He gasped, barely audible, and took the moment to slip his tongue in, slowly, uncertainly, but hungry. He touched yours tentatively, then more boldly, and you moaned softly against his mouth.

Your hands tangled in his hair, gently squeezing the back of his neck as you kissed him deeper. He held you more firmly, and your hips moved against him once more, intentionally. He moaned. It was noticeable. And it wasn't from discomfort.

When you pulled away, both of you were breathless. Your lips were wet. His too. The tension was still there, vibrating between the two of you.

Fanboy's eyes were wide open. Rooster choked on his beer, staring at Hangman as if he'd just seen his soul leave his body. Phoenix was smiling as if a wish had just been granted. Everyone else watched in surprise.

Slyly, without moving yet, you decided to speak:

“You’re a good kisser, Lieutenant.”

Bob was completely flushed. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, as if he'd just run ten miles. You retrieved his glasses from the table and, without taking your eyes off him, put them on him yourself. You took your time, adjusting them as if it justified touching him one more time.

Then you calmly climbed off his lap. Your legs were slightly trembling, but you pretended not to. As you passed Jake, you looked down at him—because he was always taller, but never bigger—and narrowed your eyes.

"Keep messing with him and I’ll take him to my room and won’t stop until he’s wrecked and exhausted. Capiche?"

Jake didn't move. His forced smile failed to hide the tension in his jaw. Embarrassment burned across his face.

“Oh, and by the way…” you added without looking back “If you want someone to pay attention to you, stop using teasing people as a flirting technique. You just look pathetic.”

The group tried to hold back, but the laughter was too much. Until Fanboy blurted it out, in a broadcaster's voice:

“And the award for the most insecure pilot disguised as arrogant goes to…!”

The collective laughter was thunderous. Jake said nothing. He turned toward the bar, as if he needed to hide in his own reflection.

Congratulations to Bob were not long in coming.

"Who would have thought the shyest guy could win over the hottest pilot on the team? No offense, Phoenix..."

"Do you want any more of us to keep bothering you, Bob? We can do that. Maybe she'll make good on her threat."

Between whistles, jokes, and pats on the back, Bob could barely contain his smile. His eyes never left yours. They sparkled. As if the world had changed color.

You winked at him, flirtatiously.

And that was all it took to shatter him.

[nobitchs-world]

Me after explaining the multiverse of different people and characters where I have different ocs in my head to my sisters

[museshitsngiggs]

rhett abbott imagine

backing you up against his truck after you accuse him of eyeing another girl at dinner. slipping his hand up your dress and never breaking eye contact because he wouldn’t want to miss the way your eyes widen and your mouth opens up to let out a small gasp.

working his fingers inside of you slowly making you lose yourself to him and shuddering as he curls them, allowing you to have your release.

“If i wanted someone else, I wouldn’t be here fucking you with my fingers.” He would whisper in your ear, leaving kisses down your neck and collar bones.

[wayeasier]

COUNT TO TWENTY-TWO — part one

⋆˙⟡ robert (bob) reynolds x reader (thunderbolts*)

summary: You're working under Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. Now, trapped miles under the Utah's desert in a strange vault, surrounded by even stranger people. You're forced to team up with this group of strangers. Among them is one particular stranger. A brown-haired man with slightly overgrown hair, who is quiet and noticeably nervous. But for some reason, he's drawn to you. More than he should be.

(this part is just slight introduction to the backstory of the reader!)

warnings: canon-typical violence, swearing, thunderbolts* spoilers (obviously)

author's note: english is not my native language, so i apologize for all grammatical errors / mistakes in my writing (if there are any)

PART ONE | PART TWO ...

The year 2015.

Another cruel year to pass by. Treated less and less like a person and more of a subject. A subject for the death's wish. You are kept alive another year. Not because they care about you, about your health, it's becoming more an obsession. They want to understand death by breaking you and by using you. They wouldn't really call you immortal. You do die. You are their offering to death. Over and over again, they kill you and you die. Shot, burnt, drown and so many more experimental deaths to be used to kill you.

You have become the prototype, the subject, of the most impossible: unkillable.

You are undying.

And each return feels a little less human.

There is thumping. Loud thumping. It sounds like footsteps nearing closer, the steps falling angrily against the ground, making the sound echo around. The clamor of boots slamming against the ground. They are fast and forceful. Hurrying somewhere. It sounds like dozen of footsteps. Not just footsteps of one or two people, but it's a large group of people.

The ground beneath you is stone-cold and rough beneath your body. There is an ache you’re long accustomed to. A familiar one. The cold isn't hurting. It just exists around you. You've come to find it comforting after a while. It's something you've grown to appreciate. It is something to remind you that you're still alive.

The footsteps then draw closer. The sound of the weight of bodies and their forceful footsteps, the metallic clink of gear, the friction of their tactical cloth sounds out as they're the nearest than before. The sounds then pass by your door. The hurrying loud steps fading away as they pass by. The forceful sounds of their footsteps moves beyond you. The sound fades down the corridor and the silence creeps back in.

There is no light in this place. There never is and you don't remember if there even was. But your eyes have memorized it. The exact lines where the wall meets the cold stone floor, the exact distance from your place on the ground to the door where the footsteps sounded, the place where a little tray with nearly rotten food is located at. You do not need light to see it. It is all etched into your memory, deeply embedded. There is not a single window, no light peeking out.

Time is lost there. There is no point in counting the seconds, minutes or hours. You don't know how long you've been stuck there, in and out. You don't know how long you've been sitting on the cold ground with your back against the stone wall behind you, in the darkness.

Then suddenly, the ground underneath you shifts. It begins as a soft tremble, barely more than a shiver beneath your skin. You think it's you at the first, the coldness finally getting to you. It shakes, the floor tilts and you hear the tray with the food move as well. Then in a blink of an eye, it eases. It stills. But the stillness doesn't last, another shaking tremor starts. It feels a lot heavier and domineering than before.

The floor beneath you convulses. It feels as if it's nearing closer to you. Your legs ache as you move them for the first time in what feels like days. They’re stiff. They're trembling from cold and maybe from the blood finally flowing through them. The actual weight of your own body feels unfamiliar as you slowly slide your knees forward. Moving from the curled position you’ve been in for so long. Pain slowly moves from your body.

Your hand unhooks itself from around your knees and then drags behind you, palm slowly feeling over the cold ground beneath your body and afterwards your palm finds the wall and its cold surface. With a low, involuntary groan, you press against it, using the leverage to push yourself upright. Your muscles protest but you rise anyway. You don't raise yourself to your full height, but just enough to hover, the wall helping you stand on your shaky legs.

The shaking doesn't ease. It feels as if something is getting demolished. Feels like the walls are collapsing, ceilings falling, everywhere everything falling apart. Yhe ground beneath you then suddenly feels like it had vanished. The floor rips itself away from your feet and the floor feels so far away underneath your legs.

You then fall. Your body slams against the stone ground, hard. Breath is knocked out of you, you let out a strangled gasp as you collide with the floor. Your head slams against the floor, the pain shots through your head and through your whole entire body. Everything is moving. The walls, the entire room, is not collapsing and shaking. It feels like it is falling. The room you're trapped in falls downward, dropping down, falling.

Then the world comes to a halt. Into a very angry one.

The entire room crashes against something solid with a force that whips your body sideways. You’re thrown with no time to brace yourself. Your shoulder hits another wall with a loud noise. Another shot of pain explodes right through you. You slide down to the floor, your shoulder aching. Air is knocked from your lungs again. You didn't even get air into your lungs before getting it knocked out again. Your every breath hurts and burns. Your head throbs with a deep pulsating sensation. Everything aches.

There is a silence again. But above you, there is a faint heavy sound. Something else, many other things, are falling outside the room that you're trapped inside. Slamming into the ground one after another. The room has stopped moving. But you haven’t. You’re trembling uncontrollably, breath shallow, burning sensation in your throat, your chest tight.

You don’t know what just happened.

Maybe the doctors who played with your life finally played with someone else's and did something worse to them. You hope so. You hope the doctors got the worst of it. Especially the ones who were so ruthless with you, who threw you around, killed you many times, gave you the worst time of your life.

Maybe the weapons they had been experimenting with had exploded, making the whole building collapse, make it disappear and have it gone. Fallen on itself. You hope the grounds have opened under their feet and swallowed them in a slow agonizing pained speed so that they would remember how it felt dying. You hoped they got the absolute worst of it.

You close your eyes, not like you intended on. You feel your consciousness slipping away. You can feel your eyes rolling back, your body going slack against the floor. The last thing you remember is the absolute pain in your shoulder, head and neck.

You don’t know how long you’ve been unconscious. There is no real sky here to measure by. No sun above you, no clock ticking on a wall and no watch hanging on your arm. There is only darkness surrounding you, the same familiar one.

You stir when you hear it. A recognizable language from behind the walls, voices of living creatures. Faint and muffled. Human voices sounding out after you don't know how long. You cannot make out what they're saying. You recognize the accent and the rolls of their words. It's your language. A language that you've grown up with.

Then comes another sound. A sound of grinding screech of metal comes next. It sounds depressing to you, as if they're trying to make something work. They're trying to pry something that was meant to stay closed. You roll your head, the motion dragging absolute death-like agony across your whole body. Everything hurts. You turn towards the sound, towards the door.

You open your eyes. It stings, you feel wetness slipping from them down your cheeks. Then you hear it, a loud click noise. The door hisses. You prepare to feel the light, you haven't seen it in days. Then it comes. It isn't soft, warm or comforting. It's torment, awful pain to your half-opened eyes. Your body recoils, your head reflexively moves away, but your eyes stay on the door. You're terrified to what to see in the light. In that light before you, something or someone moves. There are silhouettes of figures, more than a few. Their voices are louder now, they sound urgent and scared.

The final move of the door makes the light even more intense. It's now wide open, the room around you finally coming into the light. You squint into the light, still laying on the floor. You want to speak out, to ask them something, but your whole throat is burning and you cannot form any words without a pain shooting down and up.

Then someone steps forward, through the door, into the room you were trapped in. Blurred outlines of figures in the haze. Then a voice rings out, urgent.

"Tu je človjek!" There is a person! You feel like you're imagining it, those aren't rushed and professional words like the doctors yelled at you. It's your language. Human words said by a human voice.

You manage to lift your head, just barely above the ground. The motion sends another pain down your spine, but you hold it up. You squint through your own watering eyes with the light still burning, but you begin to see them more clearly.

They look like civilians, not the doctors. Not the ones who stuck you against the table, needles in your arms with an unknown serums going into your blood; which made you scream until you couldn't even remember what it was like to be quiet. Those people in front of you are not them.

Two more step into the room, brushing aside dust and smoke in front of them inside the room. One of them breaks away from the others and strides directly towards you without any hesitation. They drop to their knees beside your laying body. Then their open their mouth and the familiar words come out.

"Hej—hej! Jesi li poraneny?" Hey—hey! Are you hurt? Their voice sounds urgent, but it's low. You squint your eyes and blink up at them, their face hovering above yours.

Your throat is so dry, it feels like its burning when you even try to open your mouth. But you force yourself to move. Just a little. Enough to answer without any words. You gather the last bits of your strength and you nod your head. You are definitely hurt.

The person above you exhales and motions for the two other figures to come in, they walk right over to you and your head tips back slightly, just enough to see the faint outline of the stretcher settling beside you which they've brought in.

"V redu je... Ne pomeraj se preveč. Zdaj si v bezpetsi." It's okay... Don't move too much. You're safe now. You want to believe the words, you wish to be safe. Their voice is gentle, caring. As if they’re speaking to a child, who's scared and hurt.

"Zdaj te podniesieme. Bedzie bolelo, ale ćemo biti oprezni." We’re going to lift you now. It’ll hurt, but we’ll be careful. You hear quiet instructions pass between them after the person tells you that they're going to lift you onto the stretcher. A hand slides beneath your back under your shoulders and the other person sneaks their fingers under your knees and grabs you there, you feel their fingers shaking slightly.

Then you brace yourself because you see the person above you nod to the other one. They lift you up and the pain flares through you. Your body moves from the cold floor onto a different material, much comfortable. A groan slips from your lips, painful. The figure who found you first walks beside the stretcher as the other two lift it. Their face comes into focus at last, blurred through wetness in your eyes and brightness of the light from outside.

"Bit ćeš redu, neboj se." You'll be fine, don't worry. They glance down at you and smile softly at you. Then the light finally comes in a warmer tone, they take you outside and you finally adjust to the light. But what you see makes your heart ache, the street is... Gone. Buildings are fallen, cars are destroyed, there are holes everyrwhere and it looks like there was a war. Cars are overturned, their tires in the air. The whole city is in ruins. Everything is in ruins.

"Što se stalo?" What happened? You stutter out, the words barely sounded out, but the person above you heard it.

"Sokovia je pao. Avengeri nas nemogli sve spasiti vseh." Sokovia has fallen. The Avengers couldn't save us all. Your heart felt hard, as if it had stopped. The only place you knew, the city, the country, that held your memories, your nightmares, your whole life has fallen.

The word fallen can barely cover what you're seeing right now. This is devastating. Absolute devastation. Everythign is gone, you remembered the roads, the buildings, the parks, the people. But this, this is nothing. Even though you spent nearly your whole life stuck somewhere in a hidden facility in the city, where the doctors and scientists made their own choices on other bodies. Trying new serums, new experiments, new protocols. You vividly remembered the short life before, it was beautiful.

It wasn't like this. With buildings spilt in half, the roads with craters in them. Every second reveals another piece of the past reduced to ash and destruction. A shattered playground that you never visited during your childhood days, a small flower shop with its windows shattered and roof fallen inside, a billboard with a smiling family now torn.

The person who was walking beside you sees your eyes scanning the wreckage and leans a little closer to tell you something.

"Do you understand English?" the person asks you softly and your eyes flicker to him. His voice had an accent. It wasn't Sokovian accent, something more western. You nod to him that you understand and let out a groan as another pain shoots through your neck.

"It had happened so fast. Something lifted our city into the sky. It was ripped from the ground. There... There was a machine, or that's what they've said. Under the city or inside. It was sort of a bomb. The Avengers tried to stop it..." They tell you what happened. Your chest tightens, you want to ask something, anything. But you don't know what you would ask. You haven't been up in the city for nearly your entire life. You were trapped inside with doctors who were trying on making you a new experimental patient. They filled you with unknown medications, drugs, serums and other sort of chemicals, which were supposedly helping you to become something. Then they killed you. All over again. Different ways. And then they made you come back alive. It was terrifying and inhumane.

You lie there on the stretcher, barely breathing. Behind you, around you, lies the final scene of Sokovia and its aftermath. There is nothing. You realize you don’t know where they’re taking you. You don’t know where you're going to go after this. You were never alone, there was always a doctor, or someone beside you to keep track of you.

And now, you were left with nobody and no place to live in. The city, Novi Grad, was gone, the experimental facility was gone. Everything was gone. Whoever had hurt you before though, was left with nothing but death. Buried with the city and its ruins.

The time passed by.

It's been years since the fight at Sokovia. Many years since you got freed from the unkown facility that you were trapped in and moved to s different country after a month in the hospital. The world kept moving and spinning, the Avengers went on and fought more, then they had to sign the accords sent by the Sokovians after they've ruined their country, fought about it and then something else happened. The Blip, how they called it. The five long years where half of the population had vanished from the entire world and turned into just a piece of ashes in a mere second.

And yet somehow, after all those years and events throughout them, you are still there.

After you were free to go from the momth in the hospital near Novi Grad, the capital city of Sokovia, you left the country entirely. You moved to the west. It wasn't really by your choice, though. The evacuation protocols moved what remained of Sokovia’s displaced citizens across the border or into a smaller cities in the country.

The Slovak government, with the help of the Sokovian government, placed the Sokovian refugees who made it out into a small apartments scattered through the capital city. Your apartment was on the second floor of a building that looked like it came from a very old depressive eastern european movie.

Inside the apartment, the space was barely enough for one person. It was clearly meant with no humor when they said that it was a small apartment. There was a mattress sat in the corner of the room on the wooden floor. A bathroom that could fit only you and only if you didn’t try to move much. The sink was just beside the tub. The tub next to it was yellowing. The washing machine was most likely older than you and you usually had to barricade it with a chair because it kept moving out of its place when it was turned on. Then there was a tiny kitchen a pair of burners, a very narrow counter, one cupboard that creaked when you opened it and refrigerator that had this weird annoying noise.

After you moved into the city, you were given papers with a new false birthdate and a new false name along with a last name. You started to learn the country's language slowly, from the street signs, from overheard conversations in the streets and from television playing in the next apartment over, where an old, nearly deaf, man lived.

You spent whole afternoons laying on the mattress on the floor, staring at the ceiling until the light of the sun came down and the night came up. The city iself was beautiful, even though many people disagreed with the fact. Said that it was boring. But you thought very otherwise. You came to care for it.

And still, despite the quiet, despite the anonymity, despite the new life, you never felt safe. Not really. You flinched when footsteps came too close behind your apartment's door. You kept a knife under your mattress, telling yourself it was just there in case something may happen.

After a year and a half in Bratislava, you realized that you had enough. The city had given you space to remember how to live, even if you hadn’t quite managed it. The days in the city didn’t feel like days. You lost tracks of days and weeks, you were getting bored. Not of the city, but of yourself. You felt stuck. The world outside was changing and you were not. You were still stuck in the version of yourself that had gotten out of facility, its wreckage and finally tried how to live outside again.

So when the message came you took it. It was from the Sokovian government, specifically from the ones who cared for their refugees and their current situations. There was another refugee, a woman from Novi Grad, who had spent the last year in another city in different country, Budapest, and she wanted to switch her current location, the city not being her right place. You agreed to switch places. The papers were signed quickly. Your bag was packed before the message even came. You got on the first train the next day and travelled to the next country and next city. You felt it the moment the train crossed into the city, Danube on the side in the windows, the towering buildings on the other side. Everything seemed a bit different here.

The apartment they gave you was just in the centre of the city. The building that the apartment was in was tall, narrow, and pressed between two other buildings. The flat itself was a lot better than the one you had back in Bratislava. You had a real bed now, not just a mattress on the floor. There was a tiny desk under the window with a small brown-cushion chair nearby. It was still pretty small, but it was enough. After a few weeks, you signed up for another small language course during the week. You already knew many languages, but not this one. After a while, you could speak just well to understand others and start a conversation. Which you did not plan on doing.

Budapest gave you a space not just to exist, but to begin something new.

And something new did start one day during your stay in Budapest. When you reached the subway entrance, you barely glanced at the world behind you. You were tired, you had walked around the city for the whole day, looking for something to do. That was when it happened. The loud sound came first, from behind you. A roar of metal on pavement, followed by screaming of civilians somewhere there.

A black car came down into the station. It came down hard across the stone steps of the station and slammed into the lower platform with an impact that sent debris flying around, the car on its roof. Screams erupted from behind you. You were nearly on the end of the escalator, near where the subway was, you didn't know if you should go up, see what happened or maybe even help them.

You finally got off the escalator and stood at the end, looking up from where the sounds came from. People were turned as well, the escalator descending slowly. Then another yells errupted as two women slide down the escalator railing fast. One wore black clothing, a red haired braid whipping behind her as they slid down the railing. The other woman had blood on her hands, gripping it in a cloth as they both slid down, her blonde hair in a tight ponytail. They both landed just ahead of you with a thud against concrete, rolling over.

Before you could think, something roared behind them. You dropped down instinctively, your body moving before you even registered what you were avoiding. It hit the wall behind you, cracked right into the concrete pillar. You turned towards it, still crouched. It was a shield. Not the famous one, blue, red and white with a star. This one was matte, dark-blue-like with a three ended orange symbol in the middle.

When you looked back, the two women were already running away. Leaving a smeer of blood along the floor of the station. You stood still, confused. You looked back at the shield and observed it for a moment.

Before you could reach out and touch it, a sound of heavy footsteps grew behind you. You quickly whipped to the sound. There was a person behind you, their head tikted to side and they were towering over you. A skull-like silver mask staring down at you. Tactical gear strapped around their whole figure, their entire body covered in combat clothing. The figure didn't speak and didn't move. Their head was slightly tilted to the side, observing you curiously.

Then, after a moment, they stepped forward, their tactical boot making contact with the station's floor. The figure came closer. They raised their arm and it came just next to you. Behind you, a loud sound ripped through, something being pulled from the pillar. Their shield. The figure kept their eyes on you. You couldn’t really tell if they were curious, or if they were assessing, or trying to decide whether you were worth something. For a moment, you both just stared. Then, the figure took a step back, rolling their shoulders slightly and turned away from you with a one last glance. With no words, they turned and walked deeper into the station, where the two other women retreated into.

That was one of the days, which made you remember that you were still living. Which made you think about your past, from when you were stuck in the facility with vials in your arms and experiments done on your daily. Gun against your temple, knife in your abdomen, a poisoned cloth against your nose and mouth and many, many other ways to kill you.

Those years in Bratislava and Budapest changed you in many ways. Bratislava taught you how to live with silence and offered you a new start when you finally left your home country. Budapest has welcomed you the same way. It was another new start. It taught you how to be afraid again. And so, one day, after the years you've spent in Europe, you packed everything you had and paid an absolute price to board a plane straight to the United States.

You didn’t know what waited on the other side of the world, but you knew what you were leaving behind.

Sokovia became a shadow, stuck somewhere far into your mind. The person who had crawled out of that terrifying hole of an unknown experimental facility in the middle of the city, who had watched the city crumble traped inside a dark room, was someone else now.

You were starting over. Once again.

hope you liked this! if yes, comments and feedback are really appreciated! <3

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Endgame

bob floyd x fem!reader

You noticed him right away.

It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon, just you and the soft hum of the AC, until the bell above the bookstore door chimed. You looked up from restocking the poetry shelf behind the counter and spotted him stepping inside—tall, broad-shouldered, golden hair a little tousled from the breeze outside.

But it was his glasses that caught your eye first.

Rounded wire frames, a little fogged from the humidity, which he gently wiped on the hem of his shirt before pushing them back up his nose. He didn’t look like the usual customer. Something about the neatness of him, the calm. Like he was always five seconds ahead of whatever was happening.

“Hi,” you offered with a smile. “Looking for anything in particular?”

He glanced up, eyes warm and a little shy behind the lenses. “Uh… not sure yet. Just browsing, if that’s okay.”

“Of course,” you said. “Fiction’s on the right. Non-fiction’s on the left. And the hidden gems are back there,” you added, gesturing to the narrow room behind the register. “Used books. Chaos. Treasure.”

That got a small smile out of him—barely there, but enough to make you pause.

He wandered for a while. Quiet, thoughtful. Hands in his jacket pockets, his fingers brushing against spines like he was familiar with the texture of every title. You got distracted with a few customers, and by the time you looked back up, he was standing in front of the register again.

“Find something good?” you asked.

He held up a copy of Slaughterhouse-Five.

You grinned. “Classic. Solid choice.”

“Never read it,” he said, shifting his weight a little. “Felt like I should.”

“Well, you picked a good copy. That one’s survived three owners and one coffee spill.”

He let out a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling. “Perfect.”

You rang him up, slid the book into a paper bag, and handed it over. “Thanks for stopping in.”

He nodded. “Thanks… uh—” He glanced at your name tag. “Y/N.”

And then he left.

That was it. First day.

But then he came back.

Once, then twice, then regularly. Always soft-spoken. Always polite. You learned his name on his third visit—Bob Floyd.

“You military?” you asked one afternoon when he came in with a badge clipped to his waistband.

“Yeah,” he said. “Navy.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a WSO,” he said, shrugging slightly. “I fly in the backseat of jets. Kind of boring.”

You blinked. “You fly in a jet and you think I have the exciting job?”

He smiled—wide this time. A real one.

After that, the rhythm started. Every few days, he’d stop by. Sometimes he brought coffee. Once, when the place was slammed and you looked visibly overwhelmed, he walked in with a sandwich from the deli next door and just handed it to you without a word.

You looked at him, stunned. “Did you—?”

“Figured you hadn’t eaten,” he said. “The guy behind the counter said turkey’s your favorite.”

You stared. “You asked?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Seemed important.”

Eventually, he started lingering longer. Sometimes he’d sit in the chair near the window and read while you worked. You got used to him being there. Looked forward to it, even.

And then, one day, with the rain tapping the windows and a stack of books half-sorted in your lap, you looked over and said, “I’ve never been on a base. You guys have tours?”

He looked up from his book. “I could… probably show you around. If you want.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You’ve got a good recommendation record,” he said, holding up the book you’d handed him last week. “Figured I owe you.”

And just like that, something shifted.

———

You weren’t sure what you expected from a military base, but it wasn’t this much sun. The light bounced off the concrete as you stepped out of Bob’s truck, shielding your eyes and squinting up at the massive hangar doors ahead.

“Big, huh?” Bob asked, stepping around to your side with his hands shoved in his pockets. He wasn’t in uniform today — just a navy tee, jeans, and his glasses perched comfortably on his nose — but he still somehow looked more official here. Like this place belonged to him.

“Very big,” you echoed, still staring. “How do you not get lost?”

“Trial and error.” He smiled. “C’mon. I told Phoenix we’d stop by.”

He held the door open for you, and the second you stepped into the hangar, it was like walking into a different world — hot, alive, and buzzing. Jets lined up like sleeping giants, tools clanking in the distance, voices echoing off the walls. A few heads turned when you entered, but no one said anything right away. Just curious glances — flickers of recognition.

Bob didn’t notice. Or if he did, he didn’t flinch.

You stayed close to his side, your eyes darting everywhere, soaking in the unfamiliar world with quiet awe.

“This is where I work,” he said simply. “Over here is the simulator room, but you’re not missing much. It’s just a dark box that makes you nauseous.”

“Sounds… thrilling.”

“You’d love it,” he said with a chuckle. “I threw up my first day.”

You laughed softly, and Bob glanced at you — and maybe it was just the hangar light, or the sound of your voice, but something in his face softened.

From across the floor, someone whistled. “Baby on board!”

Bob exhaled through his nose, already looking like he regretted everything.

You blinked. “Was that—?”

“That’s Hangman,” Bob muttered, under his breath. “Don’t… don’t ask.”

Jake Seresin was making his way over with that smug, golden-boy energy radiating off him like a second sun. But before he could get to you, Phoenix intercepted, striding up like she’d been waiting all morning.

“About time,” she called. “I’ve had three people ask if they’re allowed to stare.”

“Please tell me you said no,” Bob said.

“I said wait five minutes and act casual.” Phoenix grinned at you, warm and surprisingly relaxed. “You must be the bookstore girl.”

You nodded, shaking her hand. “That’s me.”

“C’mon,” she said, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. “Bob’s going to get mobbed in about sixty seconds, and I’m not babysitting. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

You looked at Bob, a little hesitant, but he smiled.

“I’ll be right here,” he said, nudging his head toward a small crowd of pilots heading his way. “Don’t let Phoenix talk you into anything illegal.”

Phoenix snorted. “I only did that once.”

As she led you deeper into the hangar, you glanced back just once. Bob was already in conversation, but his eyes flicked to you briefly. Just a second — but long enough to say still here. I see you.

And somewhere near the back of the hangar, Hangman leaned in to Bob’s side.

“So,” Jake said, voice low and too casual. “Baby on board. That your girl?”

Bob didn’t look at him. Just stared at the hangar doors where you’d disappeared with Phoenix. His mouth tugged into a small, shy smile.

“Not yet,” he said. “But I’m manifesting it.”

Phoenix didn’t need to say she was giving you the VIP tour—you could feel it in the way she walked. Confident, steady, a little protective. You’d barely stepped onto the hangar floor before she’d whisked you off, casually tossing a “You’ll be fine, you’re with me,” over her shoulder like that was supposed to ease your nerves.

Spoiler: it kind of did.

You jogged a couple steps to catch up with her as she led you toward the fighter jets gleaming under the bright lights. She was already pointing out a few things—flight groups, gear lockers, a very expensive-looking toolbox someone definitely wasn’t using correctly.

“Okay, full disclosure,” she said, glancing at you with a little smirk. “I don’t usually do tours. But Bob asked if someone could show you around, and I figured—I fly with the guy every day. Might as well do him justice.”

You smiled. “I hope that’s a good thing?”

“Oh, it’s a great thing. You’re in the hands of the best pilot-WSO duo on base. He’s got my six every time we’re in the air.”

You followed her gaze to one of the jets. It was sleek and deadly, all power and precision. Your eyes widened a little.

“This is ours,” she said, hand resting lightly on the frame. “Well—ours in the sense that the Navy owns it, and we abuse the hell out of it on a daily basis. But she’s good to us. And Bob—he makes her better.”

You raised a brow. “How so?”

“He’s got the kind of instincts you can’t teach. Reads the radar like it’s a second language. Calls out threats before I even see them.” She shrugged. “We’ve flown through some crazy stuff together. Not once have I ever questioned if he’s got me.”

There was something honest in her voice—real trust, real admiration.

You looked back at the plane, trying to picture it: Bob, in a helmet, locked in, calm under pressure. You’d never seen that version of him. The Bob you knew wore soft flannels and brought you sandwiches on your busiest days. The Bob who always asked how your shift was and remembered which books made you cry.

Phoenix crossed her arms, glanced sideways at you. “And outside the cockpit? He’s the most grounded person I know. Loyal to a fault. Always thinks things through. And he’s the kind of guy who’d rather sit through a three-hour rom-com than make someone feel alone.”

That made you laugh.

“Let me guess—he’s done that for you?”

She grinned. “He once sat through The Notebook on a deployment. I cried harder than I care to admit, and the whole time, he just kept passing me tissues like it was nothing.”

You smiled down at your shoes, cheeks warm.

Phoenix nudged your shoulder gently. “Just saying—guys like that don’t come around often. And when they do? You hold onto them. Even if it starts with just… spending time.”

You looked back at the plane, then toward the far end of the hangar where you could just barely make out Bob’s figure, deep in conversation with someone.

“I didn’t think someone like him would even notice someone like me.”

Phoenix raised a brow. “Then clearly, you don’t know how often he talks about you.”

You blinked. “He talks about me?”

“Mmhm. Said you’ve got a laugh that could shake the dust off his worst days. And that no one’s ever looked at him like he mattered until you did.”

Your breath caught a little, heart tugging.

Phoenix gave you a warm, knowing smile. “Come on. Let’s get you back to your not-quite-boyfriend before Jake tries to convince him to go skydiving again.”

The second Bob spotted you across the hangar, something in his shoulders eased.

You were walking alongside Phoenix, chatting easily, your arms swaying at your sides. From where he stood—half-listening to Coyote explain something about flight telemetry—it was like time clicked into place. Like the sun came out just a little brighter.

You caught his gaze before he could look away, and your face lit up in that quiet, devastating way that always made his heart race a little faster. You gave him a little wave.

“Hey, there you are,” you called as you reached him, Phoenix peeling off with a smug smile and muttering something about giving you two a minute.

Bob cleared his throat, trying not to grin too hard. “Hey. You, uh—have fun?”

“I did,” you said, brushing a piece of hair from your face. “Phoenix gave me the rundown. Told me you’re basically her better half in the sky.”

His ears went a little pink. “She said that?”

“She also said you cried during The Notebook, but we can unpack that later.”

His smile cracked wide open. “She told you that?”

“Oh yeah,” you teased. “Said you passed her tissues and everything. Real stand-up guy behavior.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, glasses slipping just a little. “Well… she was crying pretty hard.”

You tilted your head at him. “You’re kind of the whole package, huh?”

That caught him off guard. His lips parted slightly like he was going to say something, but all that came out was a soft, surprised laugh. “I—I try.”

“Trying’s working for you,” you said, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Everyone here kind of thinks we’re a thing, you know.”

He swallowed. “I know.”

You raised a brow, heart suddenly fluttering. “Does that bother you?”

Bob stepped a little closer, voice lowering just enough to make your stomach twist in that delicious, dangerous way.

“Not if it’s true.”

Your breath hitched.

Before you could say anything, Hangman’s voice cut through the moment: “Hey, Baby on Board! You bringing your girl to poker tonight, or are you too chicken to lose in front of her?”

“Tell him I’ll clean him out,” you said over your shoulder to Hangman, but your eyes never left Bob’s.

He chuckled. “That’s my girl.”

Neither of you said anything after that—not right away. But he didn’t need to. The look in his eyes said everything.

And when his hand brushed yours as you both started toward the others… you didn’t pull away.

———

The pool table had been pushed aside, replaced with a worn wooden table and a scattered deck of cards. Around it sat Hangman, Phoenix, Coyote, Payback, Bob — and you, somehow coaxed into joining despite claiming you hadn’t played poker since college.

Real cash was spread across the table in uneven little piles. Singles, fives, tens. Phoenix had set a buy-in cap — twenty bucks max — to keep things friendly. Still, competitive fire burned hot, especially in Jake Seresin’s eyes.

“You sure you wanna sit in?” Hangman grinned, tossing in his first five. “I play for blood.”

You raised an eyebrow. “It’s literally ten-dollar max bets.”

“Blood,” he repeated, grinning wide.

Bob sat beside you, shoulders slightly turned your way, quiet and observant. He hadn’t bought in tonight. “She’s playing for me,” he told the table earlier, soft and proud.

The first few hands? You folded quick. A couple clumsy raises. Easy bluffs. Hangman leaned back, smug, convinced you were just learning.

Then came a quiet hand.

Three players in.

The pot slowly growing.

And you cleaned them out.

“Full house,” you said, flipping your cards like it was no big deal.

Hangman blinked at his pair of aces. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” you said sweetly, dragging the pile of bills toward you.

After that, the game shifted.

Jake stopped talking. Coyote narrowed his eyes every time you lifted your cards. Phoenix just watched in growing amusement, sipping her beer like she knew.

And you?

You kept winning.

Not every hand — but enough that by the end of the hour, you had a neat stack of bills in front of you. Seventy dollars total. Most of it from Jake, who now had three singles and a crumpled five left to his name.

“This is highway robbery,” he muttered. “You played me.”

You smiled. “I didn’t do anything. You bet into it every time.”

“She’s terrifying,” Coyote whispered to Phoenix. “How is she so calm?”

Jake shook his head in defeat as you slowly counted your bills, pausing at the fifty mark. You picked up a crisp ten and a five, and held them out toward him.

He frowned. “What’re you doing?”

“Giving you back your dignity,” you teased. “Or at least fifteen bucks of it.”

Jake narrowed his eyes. “You don’t want it?”

“I want a free drink and maybe a soft pretzel,” you said. “Not a reputation.”

Jake huffed, but he took the money. “I don’t know whether to be insulted or impressed.”

Bob was definitely the latter.

He leaned toward you, voice low, grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. “You really only kept fifty?”

You nodded, slipping it into your jacket pocket. “That’s more than enough.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hangman lose that gracefully.”

You laughed under your breath. “I’m sure he’s just holding in the tantrum for later.”

Bob chuckled. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

“You’re fine,” you said, nudging him lightly. “You backed me up from the start.”

He gave you a look — one that held a quiet kind of admiration. Not loud, not flashy. Just a warmth that said he saw you.

And maybe, just maybe, his fingers brushed yours under the table. Not on purpose. Not at first.

But neither of you moved away.

———

(6 months later) 

The hum of the overhead lights blended with the low clatter of forks against ceramic plates. It was nearing midnight, and the old 24-hour diner on the edge of town had mostly emptied out, save for a few regulars and the two of you tucked into a corner booth.

Bob stirred his coffee absently, eyes darting from his cup to the half-eaten slice of pie you were insisting he finish. You were grinning, warm and carefree, wearing one of his old academy hoodies over your dress from earlier in the night. And Bob, for once, looked a little uneasy.

You noticed.

“Alright, Lieutenant Floyd, what’s going on?” you asked gently, nudging his knee with yours under the table. “You’ve been chewing on that coffee stirrer like it personally wronged you.”

He smiled sheepishly, cheeks coloring. “I’ve just been thinkin’,” he said, eyes still not quite meeting yours.

You tilted your head, curious but patient.

He sighed and finally looked at you, the weight of something important softening his voice. “It’s been six months. Half a year. And I know we’ve said we’re taking things slow, and I love the pace we’re going, I really do. But I’ve been telling my family about you.”

Your eyes lit up just slightly. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “A lot. I mean—Phoenix calls you my girl at work and I don’t even bother correcting her anymore. I don’t want to. And my mom, she… she keeps asking when she’ll get to meet the person who makes me sound this happy on the phone.”

You softened. “Bob…”

“I want you to meet them,” he said, finally. “I’m nervous, don’t get me wrong. I think I’m more nervous about this than I was flying solo the first time. But they’re important to me. And you’re… God, you’re everything. I want them to know you.”

There was a long pause before you leaned over the table and squeezed his hand. “I’d love to meet them,” you said, voice just above a whisper. “And for the record, I think your mom’s gonna love me.”

Bob let out a quiet, relieved laugh and shook his head. “Oh, sweetheart, she’s already halfway planning the guest room.”

You grinned. “Guest room, huh? So I’m staying over?”

He blushed. “I mean… if you want to.”

You kissed the back of his hand and whispered, “I want to.”

————

Bob pulled his truck up the long gravel drive, tires crunching beneath them as the familiar white farmhouse came into view. A breeze made the wind chimes on the porch sing, and the golden hour light turned the sky soft and hazy.

Y/N sat in the passenger seat, completely frozen.

Bob glanced over. “You good?”

“Nope,” she said too fast. “Definitely not.”

His brows creased, concern flashing in his eyes. “Talk to me.”

“I’m about to meet your family, Bob. Like—your actual family. Your mom, your siblings, people who knew you before you were Lieutenant Floyd. What if they don’t like me?”

He turned toward her, resting his forearm on the steering wheel. “They’re gonna love you.”

“You don’t know that,” she whispered, eyes wide. “I mean—I’m not from here. What if I say something dumb? What if I mess up a handshake or like… I don’t know, accidentally insult your mom’s green beans or something—”

Bob laughed softly. “You’re not gonna insult anybody’s green beans.”

“You don’t know that!” she half-whined, hands clutching the skirt of her sundress.

He reached across and took one of her hands gently, grounding her. “Y/N. They are going to love you. My momma’s been cleaning the house since I told her we were coming, and she already made sweet tea, pot roast, and probably more bread than either of us should legally be allowed to eat. She’s excited. I’m excited.”

Y/N looked at him for a long moment before nodding, even if it was hesitant. “Okay. I’m okay. I’m ready.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

He gave her a smile and hopped out, coming around to open her door like he always did. She let him help her down, her hand lingering in his as they walked up the porch steps. She could hear voices inside—faint laughter, a dog barking somewhere in the back.

Before they could knock, the front door swung wide open.

“Bobby Ray Floyd, you get yourself over here and hug your momma!”

Bob grinned. “Hey, Momma,” he said, pulling her into a tight hug. His mother was shorter than she sounded, but sturdy and warm like she’d spent her whole life feeding people and loving hard. Her gray-streaked hair was pulled back in a soft braid, and her floral apron still had flour dust on it.

Then her eyes landed on Y/N.

“And you must be the sweet girl I’ve been hearin’ so much about,” she said, already reaching forward with open arms. “Come here, sugar!”

Y/N blinked but smiled, hugging her back. “Hi, Mrs. Floyd. It’s so nice to meet you.”

“Oh, honey,” the woman said, pulling back and cupping her face in both hands, “Just call me Margaret. Mrs. Floyd makes me sound like I’m ninety and mean as hell.”

Y/N laughed nervously. “Okay. Margaret.”

“That’s better. And look at you—Lord have mercy, you’re even prettier than Bobby said you were.”

Bob blushed behind them.

Margaret waved them inside. “Come on in. Dinner’s almost done and everyone’s dyin’ to meet you.”

The house was warm and lived-in, smelling like roast chicken, biscuits, and cinnamon. Bob’s siblings were already coming out of the woodwork—two of his younger brothers giving him hell, his sweet younger sister introducing herself right away and pulling Y/N into conversation.

But not everyone was smiling.

From the hallway, a woman leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. Her tone was flat as she said, “So. This her?”

Bob stiffened slightly. “Yeah. Hannah, this is Y/N.”

Y/N stepped forward and offered a polite smile. “Hi.”

Hannah gave her a once-over. “Hm.”

That was all.

Y/N’s smile dimmed for just a beat before Bob gently placed a hand on the small of her back and steered her toward the kitchen.

“Don’t you mind her,” Margaret said brightly. “She’s been in one of her moods. Been that way since she was old enough to steal Bobby’s toys.”

“Momma,” Bob mumbled under his breath, but Y/N squeezed his hand.

Dinner was loud and warm—Bob’s siblings trading stories and teasing him about everything from his slow drawl to the time he accidentally glued his own hand to a model plane in fourth grade. Margaret kept slipping more food onto Y/N’s plate. Bob just kept looking at her like he couldn’t believe she was really here, really sitting beside him.

And all through it, Hannah said almost nothing. When she did, it was pointed. Dry. Not loud enough to make a scene, but enough that Y/N felt it like a pebble in her shoe.

After dessert, when everyone wandered toward the porch, Bob stayed behind to help his momma with dishes. Y/N sat with his sister, watching the sun sink lower in the sky.

“She likes you,” Bob’s sister whispered, nudging her.

“She doesn’t act like it,” Y/N said softly.

“She’s just… guarded. Don’t let it get to you.”

“I’m trying,” Y/N admitted. “I just want to make a good impression.”

“You already have.”

Inside, Bob wiped his hands on a dishtowel and looked out the window—his girl, sitting on his momma’s porch, in his old rocking chair, like she belonged there.

And God help him, she did.

———

The sun had long set by the time everyone gathered around the big oak table in the Floyd family dining room. Someone had unearthed a battered Uno deck from the junk drawer, rubber-banded and worn, like it had lived through generations of Floyd family game nights.

Margaret poured everyone sweet tea in mismatched mason jars. “Uno always brings out the truth in people,” she warned playfully.

Y/N sat beside Bob, heart still fluttering from dinner and all the warm welcome she’d been shown—almost all of it. Hannah sat at the far end of the table, arms crossed tight and expression unreadable.

Will shuffled the deck dramatically. “Y’all ready to lose?”

“I don’t know,” Bob said, grinning at Y/N. “She’s got a good poker face.”

Hannah snorted. “Guess some people are just good at bluffing.”

Y/N blinked. She wasn’t even sure that one was meant to land—but it did.

The game began. Will talked the most trash, naturally. Margaret cheated a little, blatantly dropping extra cards and daring anyone to call her out. Bob sat close, letting his hand rest on the back of Y/N’s chair, his knee brushing hers now and then.

And Y/N? She was destroying them.

One by one, they folded, groaned, drew four. Y/N didn’t gloat. She just smiled, almost shyly, stacking up her winnings—a mix of fives, tens, and twenties everyone had tossed in to make the game interesting.

“Beginner’s luck,” Bob’s younger sister joked.

“I think it’s just quiet confidence,” Margaret chimed in warmly. “She’s got that strength in her. Like she’s used to holding her own.”

Hannah rolled her eyes. “Or maybe she’s just lucky enough to keep landing in the right places.”

Bob stilled.

Y/N’s smile faltered, just for a second, before she folded her hands in her lap and looked down.

Margaret frowned. “Hannah—”

“No, it’s fine,” Y/N said quickly. “Really. I’m just good at card games. I used to play a lot growing up.”

“You sure you weren’t playing people, too?” Hannah muttered under her breath.

That did it.

Bob sat up sharply. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Everyone went silent.

Hannah raised a brow, acting innocent. “What? I’m just making conversation.”

“No, you’re being mean,” Bob said, voice low but firm. “You’ve been like this since we walked in the door. She’s done nothing to you.”

“Maybe I’m just being cautious,” Hannah snapped. “You fall fast, Bobby. You always have. Someone needs to think straight when you can’t.”

“She’s not someone,” Bob said. “She’s Y/N. And she’s not like—”

He stopped himself. The room hung heavy with that pause.

“She’s not like her,” he said finally. “You know that.”

Margaret stood, her voice sharp. “That’s enough. We treat guests like family in this house, and we sure as hell don’t humiliate them at our table.”

Will muttered, “This is awkward,” trying to break the tension, but it didn’t land.

Bob’s younger sister gave Hannah a disgusted look. “What is your dealtonight?”

Y/N stayed quiet through all of it, eyes on the table, hands still neatly folded. Until Bob’s older sister—Sophie—stood up gently and nudged her arm.

“Come on,” she said softly. “Let’s go for a ride.”

Y/N glanced at Bob, who gave her a little nod. And then she followed Sophie out to the porch, where the summer air wrapped around them like a humid blanket.

⸻

They drove through the quiet country roads in Bob’s dad’s old pickup, windows rolled down. Neither spoke for the first few minutes. Then Sophie finally broke the silence.

“She’s not usually like that,” she said. “Hannah. She’s just scared.”

Y/N looked over, brows drawn. “Scared of what?”

“Of you,” Sophie said honestly. “Of how much Bob cares about you. Of what happened the last time he fell for someone.”

Y/N stayed silent, sensing more was coming.

“Six years ago,” Sophie went on, “he dated this girl. Real sweet. Beautiful. She came around once. We all liked her. But then she just… vanished. Called him from another state and ended it. Said she couldn’t do this kind of life. Couldn’t be second to the Navy.”

Y/N’s heart cracked.

“He didn’t cry,” Sophie said. “Didn’t yell. Just… shut down. For almost a year, it was like he disappeared, even when he was home. Hannah took it the hardest. She’d go sit in his room and just… watch him be quiet.”

Y/N bit her lip. “I didn’t know.”

“She’s being a brat. Don’t get me wrong,” Sophie said. “But she’s not trying to hurt you. She’s trying to protect him. Even if she’s doing a really shitty job of it.”

Y/N gave a tiny nod. “I’d never do that to him. I’d rather die than hurt him.”

She paused.

“…Though I guess that would also hurt him.”

Sophie let out a laugh. “Yep. That’s how we know you’re in it for real.”

Y/N smiled softly, watching the road roll out in front of them.

“Come on,” Sophie said. “Let’s get you back. He’s probably pacing the porch already.”

By the time Sophie’s truck pulled back up the long gravel driveway, the front porch light was glowing like a beacon, and there he was—Bob, standing on the steps in his hoodie and jeans, wringing his hands like he’d been waiting for hours instead of just thirty minutes.

Y/N barely had her door open before he was at her side, his voice low and anxious.

“You okay? I—I wanted to come with but I figured—”

“I’m okay,” she said, smiling softly, and reached out to brush her fingers against his. “Sophie filled me in.”

His jaw twitched, a million things on the tip of his tongue he wasn’t sure how to say.

“She told me everything,” Y/N added gently. “About her.”

Bob lowered his gaze. “I didn’t want that to be the first story they ever told you about me.”

“I’m glad I heard it,” she whispered. “I’m glad I know what you’ve been through.”

He looked up then, and there was something glassy in his eyes he tried to blink away.

Sophie gave them a moment, then cleared her throat. “I’m heading in. Try not to start another Uno war, alright?”

Y/N laughed softly as Bob guided her up the steps with a hand at her back. The house was quieter now. The tension from earlier still lingered, but it felt like the air had been cracked open, like maybe—just maybe—something had started to shift.

They sat on the back porch for a little while, shoulder to shoulder, Y/N’s head leaning against Bob’s arm, both of them watching the stars.

Then the screen door creaked open.

It was Hannah.

Bob immediately stiffened.

“Hey,” she said, not looking at him. Her gaze was locked on Y/N.

“Hey,” Y/N said back, not unkindly, just cautious.

Hannah took a few slow steps out, arms folded, like she wasn’t sure if she should even be standing there.

Bob stood. “If you’re gonna say anything else that—”

“No,” she cut in quickly. “I’m not.”

She looked between them, jaw clenched.

“I came out here to apologize,” she said finally. “To you.”

Y/N blinked. “Oh.”

“You didn’t deserve the way I treated you. Not at dinner. Not at game night. Not… at all.” Hannah shifted her weight. “I was being a bitch. And I knew it.”

Y/N opened her mouth, but Hannah raised a hand.

“I was scared. Not of you. Of what you could do to him. You don’t know what he was like after she left. He didn’t even come home for Christmas that year. Didn’t answer our calls for two months. I thought—I swore—he’d never come back from it.”

She swallowed hard.

“And then you showed up. And I saw the way he looked at you. Like his whole world just… lit up again. And I got scared all over again.”

Y/N stood slowly, walking a few steps toward her. “I understand,” she said quietly. “But I’m not her. I’m not gonna hurt him.”

“You say that now,” Hannah whispered.

“I mean it now,” Y/N replied.

A long silence.

And then—surprisingly—Hannah cracked a tiny smile. “You know… it pissed me off how good you were at Uno.”

Y/N grinned. “You should’ve seen me at poker night with the team. I made Jake Seresin hand over a hundred bucks.”

Bob let out a quiet, wheezing laugh. “You gave most of it back.”

“She kept the twenty with the barbecue sauce stain on it,” Bob added proudly.

Hannah blinked. “Wait, you’ve got the barbecue bill?”

Y/N’s brows furrowed. “Is that a thing?”

“It’s a Floyd family tradition. You win that, you run the table.”

Y/N bit back a laugh. “Well. Guess I’m part of the family now.”

Hannah looked at her for a long moment, then finally nodded.

“I still don’t trust easy,” she said. “But… I believe you love him.”

Y/N’s voice was soft. “I do.”

“And you hurt him…?”

“I’d never forgive myself.”

Hannah nodded once more, then gave Bob a very sisterly death stare. “You better not mess this up, Baby on Board.”

Bob groaned, rubbing his hands down his face. “Why did I ever tell you about that?”

Y/N was already giggling. “Wait, you told her?”

“I told everyone,” Hannah said. “He called you his endgame, Y/N. Don’t let that go.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed pink.

Then—tentatively—Hannah held out her hand. Not quite a hug. But a start.

Y/N took it, and it was enough.

[4bsurdcreature]

These two idiots

[stargrillzz]

Can’t help it, he’s so cute

summary: Bucky, knowing the team needs a new place to hide, turns to the only person he knows will support him. You didn't expect him to bring an entire team with him.

note: OMG BOB IS SO CUTE. xoxo

The makeshift safehouse reeked of dust and distrust.

It was someone’s abandoned cabin off-grid in the middle of Wyoming—too many pine trees, not enough coffee. The floor creaked when Yelena shifted her weight, sitting cross-legged on a rickety table while eating sunflower seeds like she was born for the apocalypse. Ava was pacing like a caged animal near the window. John Walker had his arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the place. Bucky sat in the middle of the room, elbows on knees, fingers threaded into his hair.

And Bob Reynolds… well. Bob stood shirtless in the corner, looking like an accidental god. His shoulders didn’t fit into normal space. His glowing eyes flicked around the room like he was still trying to figure out how reality worked. Or maybe he was just bored. Hard to tell with him.

“So what now?” Alexei grunted from the only real chair, arms stretched wide like a king. “We camp here and wait for the government to find us again? Bad plan. Terrible plan. I’ve been in Russian prisons with more dignity.”

“No one asked you,” Walker muttered.

“We need somewhere better,” Ava cut in, her voice sharp but tired. “Somewhere we can lay low. Where they wouldn’t think to look.”

“Well unless one of you has a vacation home in the Alps,” Yelena said dryly, “we’re pretty much screwed.”

Bucky didn’t move. His jaw ticked once, like a switch flipped in his brain. Slowly, he stood up, eyes distant. “I might know someone.”

That got everyone’s attention. Bob tilted his head, blinking once. Ava stopped pacing. Yelena actually paused mid-sunflower seed.

“You know someone?” Alexei asked.

“Who?” Walker asked, skeptical.

“Just—give me a minute,” Bucky said, already walking outside. He tugged his jacket tighter around him, heading into the cold with a phone already in his hand. His thumb hovered over a number he hadn’t dialed in a long time. Not because he didn’t want to—but because he wasn’t sure he should.

Your contact lit up his screen: Cutest Stark💋 Obviously you saved your contact under that name when you were helping Bucky use his new phone, he just laughed an decided keep it that way.

He sighed and hit call.

Meanwhile, in New York City…

In the gleaming kitchen of Stark Tower—your inherited kingdom—you stirred a bubbling sauce with one hand while balancing your phone between your shoulder and cheek. Morgan’s face filled the screen. She was giggling at something offscreen, probably one of the robots you still kept around.

“—and then I told him,” Morgan said between snickers, “if he thinks he’s smarter than me, he can explain why he just fell for the oldest prank in the book.”

You laughed, warm and full, moving around the kitchen barefoot in one of Tony’s old MIT sweatshirts. “God, you’re such a Stark it hurts.”

“I know,” Morgan beamed. “You taught me well.”

Before you could respond, a second call tried to interrupt. Your screen flashed with a name you hadn’t seen in weeks. Maybe months. James. F. Barnes.

You froze.

Morgan squinted. “Is that who I think it is?”

You smiled, heart stuttering, sauce forgotten. “Yeah. I—hang on, peanut.”

You switched the call, pressed video, and Bucky’s face filled your screen, framed by pine trees and late afternoon light. His hair was longer. His stubble thicker. He looked tired… but your name made him smile.

“Hey,” he said softly.

“Bucky!” You nearly dropped the spoon. “Oh my god, it’s so good to see your face. Where have you been? Wait—never mind, I don’t care. I missed you. Are you okay? Are you safe?”

He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I missed you too. I, uh… I wouldn’t be calling if it wasn’t important.”

Your expression softened immediately. “Whatever it is, I’ve got you.”

“We’re in a tight spot. New team, no allies. We need a place to lay low for a bit.”

You didn’t hesitate. “You’re coming home.”

He blinked. “You sure?”

“Bucky,” you said gently, “I kept this place running for a reason. Your room’s still here. The tower’s secure. FRIDAY still knows your coffee order. Come home.”

He exhaled slowly, like the weight of the world finally slid off his shoulders. “Thank you.”

“You don’t even have to ask.” You paused, smirking a little. “But when you get here, you will have to explain why the hell it took you this long to call me. I mean, seriously. I thought you died. Again.”

He chuckled, that low, gravelly laugh that used to echo through the Tower halls. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You better.”

Then your voice softened. “I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me too.”

The call ended, but your chest stayed warm. Morgan peeked back on the screen, smirking. “So… do I get to meet your war criminal boyfriend now?”

You groaned, but couldn’t stop smiling. “He’s not my—oh, shut up.”

Because yes, obviously, you always liked Bucky.

Who wouldn't?

It was just a crush though.

He was clearly a man who wasn't ready for anything with anyone, and you were a person who wanted everything with someone. Clearly, you weren't a good match. The point here, the sweet tone you used with him and the tender way you looked at him, was because he was your last lifeline. The last thing you had left connected to your father, Steve, Nat. Bucky is the last thing you had left, the only living proof that everything that happened really happened and wasn't in vain.

“We have a place,” Bucky said flatly, stepping back into the cabin’s main room. Everyone looked up.

Alexei blinked. “You do?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nodded, pulling his glove tighter. “It’s secure, off-radar, not government-controlled. We’ll be safe.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Where?”

He hesitated just long enough for them all to stare.

“…Stark Tower,” he finally muttered, and immediately regretted how that sounded.

Walker nearly choked. “You’re taking us to Tony Stark’s skyscraper? The Stark Tower? Didn’t that thing light up like a Christmas tree every time someone sneezed near Manhattan?”

“It’s under new management,” Bucky grumbled, grabbing his bag. “Let’s go.”

The quinjet landed on the private helipad atop Stark Tower at sunset, the entire skyline of New York painted in golden pinks and fire. The building glowed from within — a quiet kind of warmth, like someone had taken a monument of history and turned it into a real home.

The moment the team stepped into the elevator, surrounded by polished chrome and holographic glass panels, Bucky turned to face them all like an exhausted dad.

“Okay,” he said, lifting his hands. “I mean this — please. Behave.”

Yelena gave a little shrug. “You act like we are not capable of being polite.”

“You’re not,” Bucky shot back.

“Who exactly lives here now?” Ava asked, watching the floor numbers tick upward.

“That’d be…the older Stark,” Bucky said carefully. “Tony’s oldest daughter.”

The group went quiet.

“Oh,” Alexei said. “That Stark.”

“Wait wait wait,” Walker held up a finger. “Like Stark-Stark? The billionaire genius daughter of Iron Man who disappeared from public life after he—”

“Yes,” Bucky cut him off sharply. His voice lowered. “She was like family to Tony’s team. She stayed behind to keep the place safe. And she’s letting us stay, so try not to ruin it.”

Before anyone could reply, the elevator chimed — and the doors opened.

You stood there.

Hair soft and glowing in the evening light. Wearing leggings and a loose tank, barefoot but radiant, like the Tower itself breathed easier when you were in it. You held your breath the moment you saw Bucky, your eyes wide, lips parted, like you weren’t sure if he was real or a memory.

“Bucky,” you whispered.

He barely had time to register your name before you ran.

You launched into his arms like muscle memory, clinging to him with your face buried in his shoulder, and he caught you without hesitation, arms winding around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world. His grip was tight, grounding, a little desperate.

“God, I missed you,” you murmured against his neck.

“I missed you too,” he said into your hair. “You look—Jesus, you look beautiful. You always do.”

You pulled back, eyes glossy but full of a grin. “You really ghosted me, Barnes.”

“I know.” He grimaced, brushing your cheek. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

“You better.”

You finally turned your attention to the crew behind him, all still in the elevator like they were watching a rom-com unfold in real time.

“Wow,” you breathed. “You brought… everyone.”

He cleared his throat, hand still on the small of your back. “Right. Uh—guys, this is Y/N Stark. She’s letting us crash here.”

You smiled. “Welcome to Stark Tower, or what’s left of it. Now a semi-chaotic haven for misfit vigilantes, apparently.”

Alexei stepped forward and shook your hand with a grin. “Is honor to meet small Stark daughter.”

“Oh no,” you smiled. “I’m not small. I’m just the older sibling now.”

Yelena stepped out next, and the moment your eyes locked with hers, you froze mid-breath.

“…You okay?” Yelena asked gently, brow creased.

You nodded slowly, swallowing hard. “It’s just—Natasha… she was like an aunt to me. We lived here together. She’d braid my hair in the mornings. Seeing you—it’s like a part of her walked back through the door.”

Yelena’s gaze softened instantly. She stepped forward and pulled you into a quiet, firm hug. “She would’ve loved that,” she said into your ear. “And I think she’d be glad you’re still here.”

You clung to her a second longer than expected, heart full. Bucky smiled to himself, a weight lifted.

Then John Walker strolled forward, flashing you his best smug grin. “So… you’re telling me a gorgeous, genius Stark lives in a high-rise all alone? How’s that legal?”

Before you could answer, Bucky’s voice cut through the room like a blade. “Back off.”

Walker blinked. “What? I’m just saying hi.”

“Say hi to the wall,” Bucky muttered.

And then—

You turned.

And saw him.

Bob Reynolds stood awkwardly near the elevator’s edge, towering, golden-haired, built like a titan and blinking like he didn’t know where to put his hands. His eyes met yours, and then traveled—slowly, reverently—across every inch of you.

And then, aloud—without even realizing:

“…She looks like a goddess.”

Everyone went still.

Bob’s face froze. His mouth dropped slightly.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, eyes wide in horror. “I—I thought that. That was supposed to stay inside my head.”

You laughed, hand covering your mouth as your cheeks flushed. “You’re sweet.”

Bob blushed so hard it looked like his skin might combust.

“I—I didn’t mean to—like, you are, but—oh no, I should stop talking.”

“It’s okay,” you said, grinning. “You’re adorable. You can talk.”

He looked at Bucky for help. Bucky looked like he wanted to throw him off the balcony.

You clapped your hands. “Okay! Quick tour before someone combusts. Everyone gets a private room with a bathroom. There’s a training floor on level 12, a kitchen that doesn’t explode anymore thanks to FRIDAY, and a living space where you can yell at each other like a dysfunctional family. Just—don’t break anything expensive, or sentimental. Or, y’know, the structural integrity of the building.”

Yelena raised her hand. “Do weapons count as sentimental?”

“Only if they were gifted,” you winked.

---

It was late.

The kind of late where the city had gone quiet, even the Tower’s hum softened like it was tucked under a blanket. You were curled into the corner of the oversized couch in the common room, legs folded, one of Tony’s hoodies hanging loose off your shoulder. The only light came from the floor-to-ceiling windows, where the skyline blinked in a million tiny stars.

And Bucky was sitting beside you.

Not close enough to touch — not yet — but close enough that your knees almost brushed, that the weight of his presence filled the space in ways silence never could.

You smiled softly, looking out the window. “Morgan asked about you again today.”

He glanced over. “She did?”

You nodded. “She thinks you’re my boyfriend. Keeps insisting on it, actually. Says she’s seen the way I smile when you text.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Smart kid.”

You bumped his knee. “She gets it from me.”

He looked over, finally meeting your eyes. His were tired, but soft. "I missed this. I missed you."

“I missed you too,” you whispered, and you meant it like it had been carved into your chest.

A pause stretched between you — not awkward, just heavy. Heavy with time. With words you hadn’t gotten to say.

“How’ve you been?” you asked gently.

He exhaled, leaning back. “Weird. Floating. Sometimes I feel like I’ve figured things out. Then I wake up and I’m right back where I started. The team helps, but… I’m still figuring out who I am when I’m not being used. When I’m not fighting.”

You nodded. “I get that.”

He looked at you for a long beat. “How about you?”

You hesitated.

Then you told the truth.

“I’ve been lonely.”

It came out quieter than you meant it to. You stared at your hands. “At first, it was just grief. For my dad, for Nat, for Steve—God, even Thor. I don’t know where the hell he is. Clint’s with his kids. Bruce is off somewhere being Bruce. Everyone left. Or died. And I… stayed.”

Bucky watched you like the world might shatter if he blinked.

You gave a small smile. “I kept this place alive, Bucky. I filled the Tower with warmth again, but it didn’t feel like home. Not without any of you here. So I got used to it. The quiet. The space. The ghosts.”

Bucky moved closer, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded thing.

“You’re not alone,” he said, his voice steady. “Not anymore. Not as long as I’m here.”

You looked at him.

“I mean it,” he whispered, reaching for your hand. His metal fingers brushed against your skin like he was still afraid to break it. “You and me, we’re gonna stick together.”

“‘Til when?” you asked, a small smile playing at your lips.

He squeezed your hand.

“‘Til the end of the line.”

You closed your eyes. That old phrase — it still made your heart ache in the sweetest way. You turned your hand to link your fingers with his, soft and sure.

And then you whispered back: “I’ll love you 3000.”

His breath caught.

And he smiled.

Like something lost had just come back to him.

Like a promise he’d almost forgotten was suddenly real again.

---

The training room of Stark Tower was nearly empty — just the quiet whir of air conditioning and the thud of your feet hitting the mat as you moved through a practiced series of kicks and strikes. You’d been at it for an hour, sweat glistening down your neck, your breathing even, controlled. The Tower’s AI, FRIDAY, had the playlist low in the background, something smooth with a beat you could punch to.

You weren’t showing off.

But you weren’t holding back either.

Your dad started your training when you were a kid — when you were still small enough to sit in the lap of one of his Iron Man suits. And when Natasha took over, it became second nature. Your body knew the dance of it. Every twist, every dodge, every controlled exhale.

And then—

You felt it.

The eyes.

You stopped mid-kick, chest rising and falling.

“…You know,” you said without turning around, grabbing a towel from the bench and dabbing your forehead, “if you’re gonna stare at me like that, the polite thing to do is say hi.”

A pause. Then a very deep voice stammered—

“I wasn’t—staring. I mean—okay, I was. But not in a weird way.”

You turned.

Bob Reynolds stood in the doorway, sheepish and impossibly sweet for a man who could melt steel with his pinky. His hair was tousled like he’d just run a hand through it out of pure nerves, and he was already blushing, even before you smiled.

You cocked your head. “That so?”

He blinked. “I mean—you were… doing that spin-kick thing. It was really impressive.”

You took a few steps closer, casually. Your sports bra clung to your ribs, the black fabric soaked in a way that definitely wasn’t helping Bob keep his thoughts PG. “Thanks. I’ve been training since I was little.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I could tell. You move like a storm.”

You raised a brow. “That supposed to be a compliment, or a warning?”

His eyes widened. “Compliment! Definitely. A very respectful—intense—uh, not creepy compliment.”

You laughed, crossing your arms loosely. “Relax, Bob. I’m not gonna kick your ass.”

“…I’d probably let you.”

Your smile froze for a second, caught off-guard — and then widened.

“Oh?” you teased. “You into that sort of thing?”

Bob’s face went bright red. “N-no! I mean, I—I don’t know if I’m—uh, maybe? Oh god, I said that out loud again, didn’t I?”

You laughed so hard you had to brace your hands on your knees. “You really need a filter.”

He groaned, half-hiding behind a training dummy. “I swear I used to be cool.”

“I think you’re pretty cute like this.”

That got his attention.

He peeked out at you, blinking like he wasn’t sure you were being serious. “You… do?”

You took a step closer again, slow and smooth. “You’re like a golden retriever with godlike powers. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Bob laughed, rubbing the back of his neck again, his voice a little softer. “Yeah, well… you’re like… if a goddess got bored of Olympus and decided to just casually ruin me on a Tuesday.”

You tilted your head, genuinely curious. “Ruin you, huh?”

He looked like he might spontaneously combust. “I—I mean emotionally. I think.”

You leaned in just a little. “You say the sweetest things.”

Bob’s breath caught as your fingers brushed his arm, just lightly.

Then you backed up, letting him breathe, and turned your attention back to the training mat.

“I’m done here,” you said, tossing your towel over your shoulder. “You coming?”

He blinked. “Coming where?”

You looked over your shoulder, your smile slow and teasing. “Kitchen. You owe me a smoothie. For the compliments. And the stare.”

Bob followed like a puppy. “Yeah. Yeah, I can do that. I make a killer smoothie. Or, like… an aggressively average one. But I’ll give it emotional effort.”

You snorted. “Just don’t explode the blender.”

“No promises.”

As the elevator closed behind you both, he looked at you again — still soft, still wonderstruck — and whispered, “You really are something else.”

You didn’t answer.

You just leaned a little closer, brushing his knuckles with yours.

---

The kitchen was full of sunlight and chaos.

Alexei was digging through the fridge like it personally offended him. Yelena was perched on the countertop, already eating cold pizza with no shame. Ava stood in the corner like a ghost who had opinions but refused to share them. John Walker was trying — and failing — to figure out how to use the espresso machine.

And Bob?

Bob was making pancakes.

Or attempting to.

“Is this… normal?” Yelena asked, watching with a crooked grin as Bob poured another lumpy circle of batter onto the skillet, half of it splashing onto the stove.

“It’s either breakfast,” you said, tying your robe a little tighter around your waist as you stepped into the room, “or a science experiment.”

Bob turned around at the sound of your voice and lit up. “You’re up!”

You smiled. “Didn’t think I’d sleep through a kitchen explosion.”

He beamed like you’d just handed him a Nobel Prize. “I made you pancakes!”

You walked over, inspecting the pile. “…You tried to make me pancakes.”

“They’re… heart-shaped?” he offered hopefully.

“They look like they’re bleeding.”

He laughed, bright and boyish, and you couldn’t help but laugh with him.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Bucky’s voice came from behind you — low, casual, watchful.

You turned just in time to catch him entering, hair still damp from the shower, black T-shirt clinging to his chest, dog tags tucked out of sight. His eyes flicked from you to Bob, then to the pancakes, and then back to Bob again.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “That for her?”

Bob straightened. “Yeah! I mean—yeah, I wanted to make her something. As a thank-you. For letting us crash here.”

Bucky’s tone stayed polite. Too polite. “Right. Real thoughtful of you.”

Bob swallowed, and you quickly stepped between them.

“He’s just being nice,” you said with a smile, brushing Bucky’s arm as you passed. “And I did promise to let him cook something after that smoothie yesterday.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “He cooked?”

“Well… he blended.”

Walker wandered in with a cup of badly frothed coffee. “We talking about Bob’s pancake massacre? I give ‘em 4 outta 10. Points for optimism.”

“You put ketchup on eggs,” Yelena muttered.

“That’s freedom flavor.”

You rolled your eyes and slid onto a stool, sipping the orange juice Ava had silently placed beside you. “Thank you, Ava.”

She nodded, her version of a hug.

Bob placed a plate in front of you, his proudest smile yet. “Okay. Taste test.”

You picked up the fork dramatically, took a bite… and paused.

Bob leaned in. “Well?”

“…It’s not the worst thing I’ve put in my mouth,” you said.

Yelena choked. Walker snorted. Bucky froze mid-sip of coffee, eyes locked on you.

You turned to Bob with a sweet smile. “That was not meant to sound that filthy.”

Bob, very red: “I—uh—I wasn’t thinking anything. I mean I was, but not that—well, okay, I was but I—”

Bucky stepped between you both, casually, placing a protective hand on your back and subtly guiding you away from the stove like it was radioactive.

“She doesn’t need to eat any more of that,” he said firmly. “I’ll cook something decent.”

“Hey,” Bob protested. “They’re edible!”

“Barely,” Bucky muttered, already cracking eggs into a bowl. “She deserves real food.”

You leaned on the counter, grinning at him.

“Overprotective much?”

He glanced at you sideways, his voice dropping low enough that only you could hear. “You’ve had enough men treat you like something to win. I’m not letting him be one of them.”

You stared at him, heart skipping just a bit.

“…You know I can take care of myself, right?”

“I know.” He handed you a fork. “Doesn’t mean I won’t still try.”

You bit your lip, hiding a soft smile.

And Bob — poor Bob — watched you both with a mixture of awe and panic, like he’d just stumbled into a Netflix rom-com and realized he might be the side character.

“Uh,” he said finally, “I can do dishes!”

Yelena patted his shoulder. “That’s probably safer.”

---

The training room was charged.

You were in leggings and a fitted tank top, wrapping your wrists in tape, jaw set with a hint of a smirk. Across from you stood John Walker, cocky as ever, bouncing on the balls of his feet like this was a warm-up. Ava and Yelena sat off to the side, watching with sharp eyes and popcorn-level interest.

Bob was leaning on the far wall, arms crossed, pretending not to watch too hard. He was failing.

And Bucky?

He was there too. Silent. Focused. Leaning against the glass with arms folded tight across his chest, jaw clenched, eyes glued to you.

“I go easy on Stark’s kid, or what?” Walker joked as he stepped forward.

You smirked. “If you need to.”

The match started.

Walker was good — strong, fast, overconfident. You was better — precise, fluid, cool as ice. He threw a hook. You ducked. Spun. Grabbed his wrist, twisted, and swept him flat onto his back in one breathless second.

“Jesus,” Walker groaned, staring at the ceiling. “You marry me and we rule the world or what?”

From the corner, Bucky pushed off the wall.

“No.”

Walker blinked up at him. “Uh—wasn’t really asking you.”

Bucky didn’t answer. He stepped into the ring without a word, eyes locked on you. The tension in the room crackled. Even Bob stood straighter.

You tilted your head. “You wanna go?”

His voice was low. “You need a real challenge.”

You smiled. “Alright, soldier.”

You circled each other slowly, like a dance you’d done before. Bucky moved with sharp grace — watching, calculating, and when he struck, it was fast. You blocked. Countered. Moved into his space. He grabbed your waist during a fake-out — held you a second too long — and flipped you.

You hit the mat with a laugh. “Cheap.”

“You love cheap.”

“You love controlling.”

He smirked. “Only when it keeps you safe.”

You were breathing fast, skin flushed, limbs burning with adrenaline — and you knew what this looked like. The way he lingered in your space. The way your hand lingered too long on his chest when you got back up.

And Bob?

Bob had gone very, very quiet.

When the match ended, you caught your breath and turned — but Bob was already gone.

---

You found him on the balcony outside the Tower gym. His back was to the wall, hair tousled, long legs stretched out, eyes on the sky.

You stepped out, closing the door behind you. “You ghosting me?”

He didn’t look at you. “Wasn’t trying to.”

You sat beside him, knee brushing his. “You left kind of fast.”

“I figured you and Bucky needed… space.” He forced a laugh. “Looked like you two had your own language going on.”

You were quiet for a second. Then—

“He’s protective,” you said gently. “Always has been. But that doesn’t mean—”

Bob cut you off, voice low. “You let him touch you like that.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“I know it’s not my place,” Bob went on, rubbing his palms together like he was trying to wring something out of them. “I just… I see how he looks at you. And you let him get close. Real close.”

You swallowed. “He’s family, Bob.”

“Family doesn’t look at you like that,” he whispered. “Like they’d burn the world down just to keep you for themselves.”

You turned to him — really turned.

And for the first time, Bob didn’t meet your gaze. He stared straight ahead.

“I’m not stupid,” he said. “I know what I am. I’ve been broken. Rebuilt. Ripped apart inside. I know I’m not the guy someone like you is supposed to end up with.”

“Don’t say that.”

He exhaled, a bitter edge curling into his voice. “You laugh at my stupid jokes. You let me make you smoothies. You smile like I’m more than just some weird science accident with a god complex. And I don’t even know if you mean it or if you’re just—being nice. Because you’re kind.”

You reached out, gently cupping his jaw. That got him to look at you.

“I meant every smile, Bob. Every time.”

He blinked, breath hitching.

You leaned in, forehead brushing his. “If I didn’t… would I be out here with you, when I could be inside with him?”

He closed his eyes. “You make me feel like I’m not a mistake.”

You kissed his cheek — soft, lingering. “You’re not.”

And in that moment, something shifted.

He didn’t kiss you. Not yet.

But he stayed close.

And he didn’t look at the sky again.

He only looked at you.

---

It was late.

The city was quiet in the way it only gets around midnight — the hum of traffic in the distance, a breeze threading between tall buildings, neon lights flickering against puddles.

You were walking with Bob, hands brushing now and then, neither of you saying much.

You didn’t have to.

He’d shown up outside your door after dinner with two milkshakes and a hoodie that was definitely his and had asked if you wanted to take a walk. No big mission. No team. Just you and him.

And now you were here. Calm. Close. Every few seconds, he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.

You turned to him with a smile. “You keep staring.”

Bob flushed. “Sorry. You just look…”

His voice trailed off.

You raised a brow. “Look what?”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Like you should be illegal.”

You laughed. “Is that your way of flirting?”

He grinned shyly. “I’m new to it.”

You were about to respond when you heard it — footsteps quickening behind you, a camera flash, and then—

“Hey! Hey, wait—aren’t you Stark’s daughter?”

A man with a phone stepped in front of you, suddenly way too close. He wasn’t paparazzi — just some guy. Early twenties, beer on his breath, and eyes darting up and down your body like you were on display.

“Holy sh*t, it is you,” he said, stepping closer. “Damn, I thought you were hotter on the news, but—Jesus, you’re—”

“Back up,” Bob said sharply.

The man blinked, finally looking at him. “Relax, dude, I’m just trying to get a picture—”

“I said back the f*ck up.”

You grabbed Bob’s arm, gently. “It’s okay—”

But it wasn’t.

Because the air changed.

The golden hum started in Bob’s chest — soft, at first. His breath hitched, eyes flickering. You saw the power curling at his fingertips, glowing like a warning.

He stepped between you and the stranger, voice like steel. “You don’t get to touch her. You don’t get to talk to her. You don’t even get to look at her like that.”

“Jesus, alright,” the guy muttered, backing off. “Freak.”

And then he was gone.

Bob didn’t move.

“Hey,” you said softly, stepping around to face him. “Hey, look at me.”

His jaw was tight. Hands shaking. Power still crackling in his veins.

“I’m okay,” you said, placing both hands on his chest. “I’m okay, Bob.”

He looked at you like he was barely holding it together. “He was looking at you like you were a thing.”

“But I’m not,” you whispered. “I’m yours. Right?”

Something in him broke.

In a second, his hands were on your hips, gripping hard like he needed to feel you to believe it. He pulled you close — flush against him — and kissed you like he couldn’t breathe without it.

You gasped, and he groaned, deep and rough, backing you up against the nearest wall, his body covering yours. The city faded. There was only him.

His voice was low, shaking. “Say it again.”

“I’m yours,” you whispered, lips brushing his.

He kissed down your neck, open-mouthed, desperate. “I want you so bad. I want to keep you like this — close. Always.”

“You can,” you said, tugging his hoodie until he was practically on top of you. “You already do.”

“I’ll protect you,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours. “I’ll never let anyone get near you like that again. Not even him.”

You shook your head. “Bob…”

He smiled, eyes soft now. “I know. It’s not about him. It’s just—when it comes to you… I go a little feral.”

You kissed him again — slower this time, deeper, and when you pulled back, his eyes were glowing with heat and something softer too.

“You make me feel like I’m someone worth loving,” he whispered.

You cupped his face, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “You are.”

And right there, in the quiet dark of the city, Bob Reynolds kissed you like a promise:

That you were his. And he was yours. And no one would ever touch you again — not unless they wanted to burn.

---

The front door clicked shut behind you.

The tower was dark, lit only by the city glow bleeding in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. You kicked your shoes off, tossing your jacket on the bench near the elevator.

Bob followed behind you, quieter than usual, hoodie sleeves pushed up, jaw tight.

Neither of you had said much since that moment in the alley. His hand had hovered at your lower back the whole walk home, but he didn’t touch you again.

He hadn’t needed to.

The air between you was thick.

You glanced at him now as you padded toward the kitchen. “You want something to drink? I think there’s still some—”

Bob grabbed your hand.

You turned.

He was right there.

Close. Eyes burning. His thumb brushed your wrist, and when he spoke, it was low and aching.

“Tell me to stop.”

You didn’t.

You stepped into him instead.

His hands found your waist, slow and reverent. “I almost lost it earlier,” he whispered. “The way he touched you. Looked at you. I—I saw red.”

“I know,” you said softly, reaching up to touch his face.

Bob leaned into your hand. “It scared me. How fast I’d burn down the whole world for you.”

Your chest rose and fell, breath catching.

“Bob…”

“I don’t want to be careful with you anymore,” he said, voice rough. “I want to be yours. I want to show you what it means to be wanted—not just protected. Not just looked after. Claimed.”

A beat passed.

Then you whispered: “Then take me.”

That’s all it took.

He kissed you.

Not the sweet, nervous kisses from before. This was hungry. Deep. Desperate. Like he was memorizing the taste of your mouth in case the world ended tomorrow.

You gasped as he picked you up effortlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist, walking you backwards down the hallway toward your room — his hoodie riding up your thighs, your fingers twisted in his hair.

He dropped you onto the bed like you were the softest, most sacred thing he’d ever touched.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he breathed, crawling over you, every line of his body pressed to yours. “You walk into a room and I forget who I am.”

“Bob���”

He kissed your neck. Your collarbone. Worshipping. “Let me take care of you. Let me show you what it feels like to be mine.”

You nodded, chest rising and falling fast. “Please.”

He pulled back just long enough to tug the hoodie over your head — and then paused.

His eyes swept over you. Slowly. Reverently.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. “You’re perfect.”

You reached up, tugging at his shirt, and he let you peel it off. And when his skin touched yours — warm, flushed, shaking — he groaned like he’d just come home.

Everything after that blurred into heat and light and him:

His mouth tracing every inch of your body. His voice in your ear, thick with praise: “You’re so beautiful… so sweet… so mine.” His hands holding you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. And when he finally pushed into you — slow, deep, trembling with how badly he needed it — he buried his face in your neck and whispered, “I’ve never felt anything like this.”

You clung to him, breathless, lost in the feel of him, the weight of him, the way he filled you so completely it felt like he’d marked your soul.

And when you came undone — shivering, gasping his name — he followed seconds later, holding you tight like he never wanted to let go.

After, you lay tangled together, sheets kicked down, the city glowing outside the window.

Bob kissed your forehead, still breathless.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured. “Not now. Not ever.”

You smiled, eyes heavy, voice soft. “Good.” Because now? You were his and he was yours.

---

The next morning in Stark Tower felt unusually quiet.

You were in the kitchen, making coffee, wrapped in one of Bob’s oversized hoodies, the fabric soft against your skin. The scent of fresh brew filled the air, a small comfort in the sprawling, empty space.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you with a careful gaze that had grown sharper over the past few days.

At first, he thought it was just the normal relief of seeing you safe — but lately, there was something different.

The way you smiled at Bob across the room, the easy way you let him touch you, the way Bob’s eyes lingered on you like you were the only thing that mattered.

It hit Bucky like a punch to the gut.

He cleared his throat.

“Morning,” he said, voice a little rough.

You turned, bright-eyed and warm. “Hey, Bucky. Coffee?”

He nodded, stepping inside. “Thanks.”

There was a pause.

Bucky scratched the back of his neck, suddenly feeling awkward. “Look… I just wanted to say… it’s good to see you smiling again.”

You smiled softly, reaching out to touch his arm. “I’ve missed this. Missed all of you.”

He gave a short laugh. “Yeah… well, some things don’t change. I still don’t like the idea of anyone—” He glanced toward Bob, who was casually lifting weights nearby, “—getting too close.”

Your smile faltered just a bit.

Bob caught the glance and grinned, waving a dumbbell like a trophy.

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything else.

Later, as you and Bob settled in the training room, Bucky lingered nearby, watching from a distance.

He noticed how Bob’s hand found yours easily, how your laughter sounded lighter when you were with him, and how Bob’s protective gaze never left you, even in moments when no one else was around.

The realization was sinking in.

Something had changed.

And Bucky wasn’t sure if he was ready for it.

[basketobread]

i was reminded of the wolf meme shirt yesterday and was like "that is sooo lunara coded" but then realized that it would NOT sit well with shadowheart by any means

+ a lot of people have been asking what would make the other companions make this silly face i keep drawing so i thought this was the perfect opportunity to show shadowhearts reasons!!

im sorry to do this to you shart </3 (also lunara would never willingly show wolves to sh, this is prior to all her secrets being revealed)

[houseofaegon]

PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE write jealous bob reynolds

Too Fucking Close ✩ Void!Bob Reynolds

Pairings: Void!Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolt!Reader

Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. use of y/n, fem!reader, dubious consent (void's possession), rough sex, dominance, power play, bob aware during void's control, jealous!void, jealous!bob, possessivenes, emotional aftermath, guilt, dark themes, slight fluff at the end.

Summary: The press tour was hell. Cameras, fans, and a predatory interviewer who got far too handsy—all under the watchful, simmering gaze of Bob Reynolds. You played the part. You smiled. But someone else was watching, someone darker. Void had been caged inside Bob for too long, feeding off his jealousy, his longing, his failure to act. But tonight, he took control—and he wasn’t gentle. He claimed you with feral need, fueled by everything Bob had denied himself. When Bob returned—shaking, terrified of what Void had done—you grounded him. You reminded him it wasn’t just Void you wanted. It was him. All of him.

Author's Note: i need void. need him biblically to destroy me physically, mentally, emotionally, all of the above. he's so he's so he's so arrrrggghhhh smash. double smash. completely sober. take me. take me. oblitaterate me!!!!!!! thank you for the ask!! I'm actually so overwhelmed with the love and support my last bob fics have been receiving and the amount of requests I'm getting, I promise I will be getting to them and writing them as soon as possible!! I've got more fics coming up from your requests and some other's I've been drafting <3 I hope yall like this. feel free to scream in the comments or tags! <3

The press tour had been a whirlwind and fucking exhausting—bright flashing lights, high tensions, shouts from fans, and the sharp bite of too many eyes on you. You'd done this dance before. You'd gotten good at it by now, but something about this one was off. Maybe it was the number of cameras and eyes on all of you. Or the nerves. Maybe it was the interviewer—slick smile, too much cologne, handsy in a way that wasn’t subtle.

His jokes were lame. His touch, constant. Always hovering close. His hand kept brushing your knee, his smile widening every time you tried to politely shift away. Cameras were rolling. You had to keep it together. You couldn’t risk a scene—not with Valentina’s knife-edge patience and a multi-million-dollar PR contract on the line. "I've spent a lot of money on all of you. Do. Not. Fuck this up. Okay? Now, big smiles, everyone. Big smiles," she'd say with a huge grin on her face and her eyes twitching with anxiety.

Fucking bullshit.

But you just smiled through it. Laughed when he flirted, because the cameras were watching. All eyes on you. You knew how to play the game. You couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk having a public meltdown. Couldn't risk Valentina's wrath unleashing on you after spending a goddamned fortune on forcing you, and the rest of the team, to take some PR training.

So you played your part, sat pretty and smiled like the good girl you were. The good soldier. The charming teammate. You laughed. Smiled. Let him touch you without cracking his ribs. But inside?

Your blood was boiling.

One more touch. Just one, and you'd have buried a pen through his eye socket.

But you weren’t the only one at the edge.

Bob sat beside you, deathly still. Not speaking. Barely blinking. His entire focus fixed—not on the cameras, not on the fans—but on him. On the man touching you. Every time the interviewer leaned in, Bob’s knuckles whitened on the mic. His leg bounced with barely contained fury. His eyes? Scorching.

After the panel, the team scattered back to the hotel, and the tension of the day finally started to lift.

"God, this was awful," you groaned, walking down the hotel hallway with Yelena.

Yelena snorted. "Awful? Please. I've had dental appointments more enjoyable than that."

You chuckled, grateful for her presence. "Seriously, though. That interviewer was a creep."

Yelena raised an eyebrow. "You mean Mr. 'Let me invade your personal space'?"

"Exactly," you said, shuddering at the memory.

Yelena smirked. "I was this close to 'accidentally' spilling my drink on him. Or shove a chair leg up his ass. Diplomatically, of course."

You snorted. "Would've paid to see that."

Yelena bumped your shoulder. “You were perfect though. Valentina’s favorite little asset. Good smile, no bloodshed.”

“Barely.”

“You coming to bed or plotting a revenge arc?”

“Bed. Barely.”

As you reached your room, Yelena gave you a quick hug. "Get some rest, babe. Tomorrow's another day of fun and games."

"Can't wait," you replied sarcastically, opening the door. "Good night, blondie."

"'Night, rage princess. I'm down the hallway. Scream if you get murdered. Or text. Whatever works," she blew a kiss and walked away.

You laughed, shaking your head as you entered your hotel room.

The lights were off, but the moonlight painted a pale silver across the carpet. At first, it felt normal—quiet, still. But then your body tensed. Your skin prickled. That deep, primal knowing.

You weren't alone.

Something was wrong.

Your body tensed, a flush of adrenaline rushing hot and fast through your veins. You reached blindly for the lamp on the side table, gripping the base like a weapon, heart pounding. But as your eyes adjusted, you saw it—a figure standing motionless in the far corner. Just beyond the reach of the light.

And then—movement.

A figure stepped from the corner shadows. Tall. Broad. Familiar.

"Bob?" you asked, heart in your throat. "Jesus fucking Christ—you almost gave me a heart attack."

You lowered the lamp slowly, setting it on the side table. Your breath came fast. "What—what are you doing in here? Are you okay?"

Silence.

No movement. Just that same heavy presence. You swallowed hard.

"This a bit, or are you trying to give me an actual heart attack? Because I gotta say, the serial killer act isn't really your usual vibe…"

Then he laughed.

But it wasn't Bob's laugh.

It was rough. Deep. Feral. It rumbled through the room like thunder. You froze.

He stepped forward slowly, each movement deliberate, predatory.

His silhouette was familiar, but not his. The shoulders were too squared. The stance too confident. That glint in his eye—hungry. Possessive.

“Bob—” you whispered, voice trembling.

“No, baby.” He stepped into the light, shadows clinging to his frame like a second skin. “Not Bob.”

Your heart dropped.

He was in black from head to toe. Energy pulsing off him in waves. The shadows moved with him, like they were part of him.

“Void,” you whispered.

He smiled. A slow, dangerous curve of lips. “Correct.”

“Fucking finally,” he muttered, stalking toward you. “I’ve been inside that coward long enough. Watching him drool over you like a kicked dog. Too afraid to touch. Too afraid to speak. He's been wanting to do this for so long. Bob. That pathetic little coward. He dreams about you. Whispers your name when he jerks off in the shower. But he can't say a word. Can't even look at you the way he wants to.

He stopped inches from you. Close enough to feel the heat of his body. “But I’m not afraid.”

Your knees wobbled. He radiated heat, danger, want.

“You think I didn’t see him?” he snarled. “That little fuck with the mic? His hands on you. His fucking eyes. You smiled at him. Laughed. While I sat there, tasting Bob’s rage. Feeling his need. His jealousy.”

Void leaned in, brushing your cheek with his lips. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this. How many nights he’s touched himself thinking about you while whispering your name.”

Your breath hitched.

“But now?” he growled. “Now I’ve got you. All to myself. And I’m going to make sure every inch of you remembers me.”

He didn't touch you. Not yet.

Void just stood there, too close, the shadows pulsing off his body like black heatwaves. The air was thick with him—his presence, his power, that deep, vibrating tension that curled your toes and locked your knees.

“You’re scared,” he said softly, almost amused. “But not enough.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His voice wrapped around you like velvet, smooth but cutting. “You should be running. Screaming. Calling for help.”

You swallowed, hard. “Why aren’t you stopping me?”

He tilted his head, smile widening. “Because you don’t want to leave, don't you, baby?”

The room darkened—not just metaphorically. The shadows shifted, swallowing the corners of the suite, making the world smaller, pressing in. His power curled through the space like smoke, thick and electric, and it wrapped around you like a lover’s arms.

“I felt it,” he murmured. “Every little flinch. Every time you wanted to slap his hand away. Every time you bit your tongue. You wanted to lose control.”

He leaned closer. Close enough that your lips almost brushed. “You wanted someone to see. And, baby, I saw. Everything. It made me want to rip that fucker's eyes out."

Your hand moved before you could think, pressing against his chest to push him back. But it was like shoving a wall. Solid. Unyielding. Void caught your wrist gently, slowly. His fingers closed around it, strong, possessive.

“And what does the good girl do?” he asked softly, stepping between your legs. “Smiles. Sits still. Takes it. But I see the truth. I feel it. You’re sick of holding it in.”

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “You want to be taken.”

You gasped. And that was all he needed.

He snapped.

Void slammed you against the wall in a blur, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he devoured your mouth in a bruising kiss. Tongue, teeth, claiming. His hands were everywhere—rough, demanding—gripping your hips, sliding under your shirt, pushing it up.

Your back arched against him, mouth open, moaning into him as he dragged your clothes off piece by piece. His voice never stopped, never softened.

“Say it,” he growled against your throat, licking over your pulse. “Say you want me to break you.”

You whimpered. “I want—fuck, I want—”

“Say it.”

His growl was feral.

He carried you to the bed and threw you down, following instantly, his weight pinning you to the mattress. His cock, heavy and thick, pressed hard against your thigh. You reached for him, but he grabbed your wrists, pinning them above your head.

“Mine,” he snarled. “No one else gets to look at you like that. No one else gets to touch you. I’ll burn this entire fucking planet before I let someone else have you.”

And then—he was inside.

Deep. Hard. All of him.

You screamed.

He didn’t give you time to adjust, hips snapping into yours with brutal precision. Every thrust hit that perfect, devastating spot, your body writhing beneath him, crying out as your wrists twisted under his hold.

“Fucking perfect,” he hissed. “So fucking tight. You were made for me.”

You were already close—your body strung so tight from the tension, the fear, the want—and when he growled, “Come for me, baby. Let me feel it. Let me feel you come undone."

Your orgasm hit like a bomb, ripping through you, leaving you breathless, limp, trembling.

But Void didn’t stop. He fucked you through it. Harder. Faster. Pushing you to the edge again with every punishing thrust.

“You’re not done, baby,” he growled. “Not until I say.”

You sobbed, pleasure bordering on pain, mind white-hot.

And when he finally came—deep, pulsing inside you—he bit your shoulder, marking you, growling your name like a promise.

He finally collapsed over you, breathless. You were his now. And you loved it. Every single second of it.

And then the world came back slowly. The shadows retreated. The heat lingered. Your skin still trembled, slick with sweat, muscles twitching from the wreckage he’d left behind. The room was quiet now—no growling, no ragged threats, no snapping hips. Just breath. Slowed. Softened. Almost… human.

Then his body stilled completely.

“...Y/N?”

It was barely a whisper. The voice was fragile. Barely a whisper. So unlike what had just devoured you whole. He lifted his head—slowly, like he wasn’t sure what he’d see. Not black, not fire. Blue. Soft. Frightened. Aching Bob.

And he looked like he was about to break.

“Shit,” he rasped, his throat dry, lips parted. “I—fuck, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Your heart cracked. He looked wrecked. Pale. Shaking. You didn’t hesitate—your hand rose to his face, gently brushing your fingers along the sharp line of his jaw.

“Hey,” you whispered. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

He blinked rapidly. His body was still buried deep inside you, and now he was aware—completely and entirely. You saw the realization hit him like a freight train. Shame. Fear.

He didn’t relax. If anything, his panic deepened.

His gaze darted down between you—where his body was still inside yours. His breath hitched, like the very fact was too much to comprehend. Like the guilt physically hurt. He was panicking.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Y/N—did… did he hurt you?”

“No, Bob,” you said quickly, shaking your head.

His hands were shaking as he pulled back just slightly, enough to cup your hips like you were made of glass, to look. His eyes scanned your body frantically—your thighs, your neck, your wrists where Void had pinned you down. His fingers skimmed a bruise forming low on your ribcage and he flinched like he felt the pain.

“I didn’t—he—fuck, I tried to stop him. I swear, I tried to stop him—”

“Bob.”

“I heard everything. Everything, Y/N. And I couldn’t move. I couldn’t make him stop touching you—I couldn't protect you.”

“Bob,” you said more firmly, reaching for his face again, forcing him to meet your eyes. “Look at me.”

“I wanted it,” you said softly.

He froze.

“I wanted him. I wanted you. Both of you. I knew it wasn’t just you, and I didn’t care. I didn’t want to stop.”

His jaw trembled.

You stroked your thumb over his cheek, grounding him. “I’ve always wanted you, Bob. Even with Void. Especially with Void. Because he is you. Just the loud, angry part that says the things you won’t.”

Bob let out a choked sound, half laugh, half sob, dropping his forehead to yours. “I’m still sorry,” he murmured. “For not stopping him. For… liking it. For needing you so fucking much I couldn’t push him away. For letting him take over."

You smiled, small and real. “I liked it, too. Every single second. And I like all of you. Even the growling, bitey, wall-slamming part.”

He laughed, broken but warm. His thumb traced the edge of your cheekbone.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

“But you’ve got me,” you said, brushing your lips over his. “Now what are you gonna do about it?”

He kissed you—slow and reverent this time. Soft. Grateful.

When he pulled back, his brows furrowed. “He was right, you know.”

You tilted your head. “About what?”

His throat bobbed. “About… how long I’ve wanted you. About what I think about when I… when I’m alone.”

You felt your pulse thrum.

Bob kept going, quiet and intense. “About how jealous I was. Of that guy. Of anyone who got to touch you, talk to you, be near you. I felt like I was going to lose it out there. I did lose it. Void just… finished what I couldn’t start.”

You smiled, slow and teasing. “Well then.”

He blinked, wary.

You arched a brow. “I might have to make you jealous more often.”

Bob groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder. “Please don’t.”

“No promises,” you whispered into his hair.

And for the first time that night—he laughed.

For real.

And then he held you. Finally whole. Finally yours.

    ⊹             ⊹            ⊹             ⊹            ⊹          ⊹             ⊹             ⊹

taglist ⊱☆⊰ @uraesthete @abbysbenchpr @sammystarswrite @pey2618 @qardasngan @lunaoieoie @orithyia-eriphyle @amatiswayland @madzzz6958 @all-by-myself98 @dark-silhouette @ghost-ghost-13 @wyvernthekriger @gayfiretruck @watermeezer @lvmxla @novausstuff @mommymilkers0526 @natureartisian @feralgoblinbabe (if you want to be tagged in my future bob/lewis works lmk!<3)

[sillygoose067]

Hii!! Ive never sent a request so I hope im doing this right lol. I was wondering if you could write some hurt/comfort for lewis pullman with a reader who is getting a lot of hate online for her looks and he comforts her? No worries if not! Love ur writing!

Hey! I'm pretty sure there's no wrong way to send requests, but this is great! Sorry about this taking so long, I just had a hard time putting my thoughts into writing for this one— I love hurt/comfort, but it's slightly more of a lengthy process since I try to put more real-life based experiences into these fics (key word: TRY).

I hope this is something along the lines of what you were looking for!

———————————————————————————-

This Is How You Fall In Love

Lewis Pullman x Reader

You sat on the edge of the bed, frozen. Eyes vacant. Your phone buzzed relentlessly beside you, the screen lighting up every few seconds like it was mocking you.

The photos from your beach trip—sunlight warming your skin, Lewis’s arm draped around your waist, you in a bikini you’d worn bravely for the first time—had turned into a battlefield. A flood of hateful comments poured in.

“She’s lucky Lewis even looks at her.” “Stretch marks? No thanks” “Why does he settle for someone so ordinary?” “She’s just using him for clout.”

You swallowed hard. Each word sank deeper, cutting in places you’d worked so hard to heal.

The bathroom door creaked open behind you.

“Babe,” Lewis called casually, towel around his neck, water still dripping from his hair. “You won’t believe how soft this shampoo makes my—”

He trailed off.

You didn’t respond. Didn’t flinch. Just kept staring at a distant corner of the room, trying not to cry.

“...Babe?”

Concern threaded through his voice. He stepped closer, taking in your silence, the blank stare, and the phone beside you buzzing like a warning light.

He picked it up, glanced at the screen, then unlocked it.

The comments stared back at him.

“Those thighs are working overtime.” “She has the body of a school lunch lady.” “How did he end up with that?” “Stretch marks aren’t sexy. Sorry.” “There’s brave, and then there’s delusional…”

Lewis didn’t speak at first. His jaw tightened. His shoulders stiffened.

When he finally did, his voice was quiet—but it carried weight.

“They said this to you?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just lowered your head.

“They’re right,” you whispered. “I thought I was finally okay with how I looked… but maybe I was just deluding myself.”

Lewis gently set the phone aside and sat beside you, his expression stormy but softening as he reached for you.

“Sweetheart.”

You blinked. A tear slipped free before you could stop it.

He pulled you into his arms like he could shield you from all of it.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmured, cradling your head. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

You buried your face in his chest, breath hitching as the emotions cracked open. “I thought I looked okay.”

He held you tighter.

“You looked beautiful. You are beautiful,” he said, with quiet certainty. “You wore that because you felt good. Because you felt free. That’s not something to be ashamed of—that’s something to be proud of.”

Your voice was raw. “You made me feel good in my body. And now I feel stupid for ever thinking I could be.”

Lewis’s hands trembled slightly as they stroked your arms. “Don’t let them take that from you.”

You gave a weak, broken nod.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. “You think those stretch marks are ugly? I think they’re beautiful. They tell your story. I kiss every one like it’s a secret I’m lucky to know.”

He slid a hand along your hip, his touch reverent.

“Your hip dips? I could trace them forever. They’re you. Not flaws—features. Art. The thick thighs I hold when you’re cold, the softness I rest against when I need comfort—everything about you is something I love.”

Your eyes brimmed with new tears, voice cracking. “I never thought anyone could love those parts.”

“I do,” he said. “All of you. Without exception.”

After a long, quiet moment, he kissed your forehead.

“Go splash some water on your face,” he said gently. “Take a second. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

You hesitated, then nodded and rose from the bed, walking slowly into the bathroom.

Lewis sat still for a beat, staring at your phone as the screen lit up again and again.

And something in him snapped.

He picked it up, opened Instagram, and tapped the Live button.

The screen blinked to life.

Lewis stared straight into the camera—hair still damp, eyes sharp, jaw clenched with controlled fury.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and steady. “Lewis Pullman here.”

He let the silence hold for a second, letting his presence settle before he continued.

“I know a lot of you follow this account because you want glimpses of me. I get it. I’m an actor. That’s part of the job. But if you’re here just to tear her down—my girlfriend—because of how she looks, or because you think she’s not ‘good enough’ for me? Then do us both a favor and unfollow right now.”

His gaze hardened.

“She is not a side character in my story. She’s not a prop for your fantasies. She’s a real person. And you have no idea what it takes to be that open, to show herself the way she did.”

He leaned closer.

“If you think you get to rip into her because you don't like seeing someone real and unfiltered, if you think her stretch marks, her curves, her body make her less deserving of love—then go. Unfollow her, if that’s what you think love looks like.”

He shook his head.

“I don’t want fans who tear down the person I love. If you can’t respect her, you don’t respect me. And I don’t need your attention.”

His voice dropped, quieter but intense.

“I’ve seen her when she’s glowing. I’ve seen her when she’s broken. And she is still the most breathtaking person I’ve ever known.”

He exhaled slowly.

“She’s in the next room right now, trying to put herself back together because of some of the things you’ve said. And even after all that, she still has more grace in her pinky finger than any of you do behind your anonymous usernames.”

He stared at the screen a moment longer.

“She doesn’t owe you beauty. She doesn’t owe you perfection. And she sure as hell doesn’t owe you her pain.”

You stood still in the doorway. Barely breathing. Warmth bloomed quietly in your chest—deep and full and aching in a good way.

This was Lewis, as he was, standing between you and the world’s cruelty like it was second nature.

You pressed a trembling hand over your mouth.

This was love, if you'd ever witnessed it—in its rawest form.

He finally exhaled and glanced down at the screen. “That’s all. She doesn’t owe you anything.” A pause. Then, quieter: “She’s in the next room right now trying to put herself back together after what some of you said. But she’ll be okay. But I hope that you guys really reflect on yourselves.”

He tapped the screen to end the live.

Silence fell.

You stepped into the room, and he turned—eyes widening slightly when he saw you standing there. “Oh,” he breathed. “You—how long were you…”

“Long enough,” you said softly.

“I just—I had to say something. I couldn’t let them—”

“I know,” you said.

And you meant it. You felt it. Deep in your chest, where shame had been living a moment ago—something new had taken its place. Something steadier. Warmer.

You crossed the room and climbed into his lap. He embraced you instantly, pressing kisses to your temple.

“Thank you,” you murmured.

He looked at you with so much love it almost hurt. Almost. Because he would never let anything—anyone—hurt you.

[gyugraphy]

psyche (1)

— synopsis. After the catastrophe in New York-when the Void tore through the city-the Thunderbolts know it can't happen again. Bob Reynolds doesn't need another collar or containment spell. He needs help. Enter her: a psychiatrist with an unusual gift, capable of stepping into the mind itself. No one expected her to reach him-least of all, him. "You're just going to leave me the moment it gets too hard, aren't you?" he says. She meets his gaze, steady and unshaken. "I've walked through nightmares to get to you. I won't walk away now."

— pairing. robert reynolds (sentry/the void) x reader

— warning/s. mentions of trauma, mental illness, depression

— word count. 5.1k

masterlist ⊹ part 1 ⊹ part 2 ⊹ part 3 ⊹ part 4 ⊹ part 5 ⊹ part 6

⋆˙⟡

“Strange called,” Christine Palmer said, not looking up from her tablet.

You glanced in her direction but didn’t respond. You felt like there isn't anything worth saying. Instead, you focused on the soft, familiar sounds around you—the quiet clatter of metal instruments being cleaned at the nearby sterilization station, the steady shuffle of footsteps on polished hospital floors. A monitor beeped somewhere down the hall, keeping time in the way only machines could. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead, that you never really noticed, added to the background noise.

In the corner, a few patients sat hunched in plastic chairs, wrapped in hospital blankets that offered more symbolism than warmth. Their faces were drawn, tired, a mix of exhaustion and quiet anxiety. Some waited for scans, others for pain relief, a few just for answers that might never come tonight. They all shared the same energy, that tension that lived in the bones of everyone who passed through the ER after dark. You knew it well.

You were supposed to have clocked out an hour ago—your shift technically ended at midnight—but no one really left on time in this place. The ER didn’t care about schedules. It held you in its grip until it was ready to let go, and sometimes, not even then. Not when a life could still slip through the cracks—because of a missed bleed, a bad stitch, or the wrong word spoken at the worst possible time.

Christine tapped her screen a few times, then added, “Apparently, Bucky Barnes asked him to help find a psychiatrist.”

That made you pause, your fingers hesitating on the chart you were holding. Still, you didn’t look up. The case wasn’t serious—just a minor injury with a straightforward treatment plan. You met Christine’s gaze briefly, then looked back down, eyes scanning through lines of notes more out of habit than need.

“You know I’m not practicing anymore,” you muttered. “Psychiatry, I mean.”

Christine leaned a hip against the counter beside you, folding her arms. “Since when? You’re double-boarded. And don’t give me the ‘I’m just a surgeon now’ line. I’ve heard it too many times to believe it.”

“It’s not a line. It’s a preference,” you said, your voice flat. “Organs are a lot simpler than people's minds.”

“Sure,” she said, the sarcasm thin but present. “You can cut them open, take out what’s broken, sew them back up, and call it a day. But that’s not why you switched.”

Your hands stilled mid-note. The chart blurred for a moment, your pen hovering above the page.

“Tell Barnes to find someone else.”

“Actually, he didn’t call,” Christine said quietly. “Strange didn’t either.”

You looked up, and she turned the tablet toward you.

“They just sent me this.”

Your name was there in bold, black text at the top of the screen—accompanied by layers of encrypted clearance codes, redacted fields, and a formal request for psychiatric consultation. It wasn’t just a note. It was government-level. Serious. Sealed. No fluff. No context. No diagnosis.

Just one name buried in the lines of classified language.

Robert Reynolds.

You stared at it. The name carved through you like a scalpel—sharp, precise, and deep. Your chest went tight. Not with fear exactly, though it wasn’t far off. Christine watched you too carefully now.

You said the name aloud, almost to yourself. “Reynolds. Sentry? The Void? The man who turned Manhattan into literal shadows?”

Christine’s voice softened. “He’ll could probably eat you alive,” she said. “Whoever it is. You know that.”

You didn’t answer. You glanced at the clock hanging on the wall beside you. You reached for the gloves on your hands, peeled them off one by one, and tossed them into the biohazard bin beside the counter. The silence between you stretched.

“You’re not going to do it,” Christine said, trying for a steadier voice. “Right?”

But you were already moving. You grabbed your coat, your badge, and turned toward the hallway that led to the staff exit.

“Right?!” Christine repeated, this time louder. You only waved her off by raising one hand as you continued to walk.

Christine sighed under her breath, watching you go.

“Oh, she’s in trouble,” she mumbled, more to herself than anyone else.

⋆˙⟡

The city didn’t feel real when you stepped outside.

Maybe it was the late hour. Or the way the streetlights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a dim, unnatural gold. The sidewalk gleamed with recent rain, and the night air clung to your skin—cool, damp, electric. Maybe it was just the words still echoing in your mind.

Bob Reynolds.

You heard that name before—not whispered behind closed doors, not even in passing. People avoided it deliberately, like saying it out loud might stir something sleeping. Might invite the dark back in.

He doesn’t need containment. He needs healing.

That was what the message had said.

But you knew what it really meant. You could read between the encrypted lines. Reynolds wasn’t just unstable—he was a ticking bomb they didn’t know how to disarm. He wasn’t a patient; he was a problem no one wanted to admit they couldn’t fix.

They were looking for someone to step into the fire and hope they didn’t burn.

You had no intention of being that someone.

Not anymore.

It was just past two in the morning when the elevator doors slid open on the surgical floor. Most of the hospital was asleep or pretending to be. You were still on your feet—finishing post-op notes in the nurses’ station, trying to tether yourself to something routine. The soft tap of keys, the faint smell of coffee gone cold, the distant echo of an intercom down the corridor. These were the things that kept you grounded when your hands weren’t cutting. When your mind threatened to drift.

The hallway was quiet. Empty.

And then, something shifted.

You didn’t hear him at first. You felt him. A subtle change in pressure. A ripple through the air, like the building itself had gone tense.

You looked up.

There he was.

Bucky Barnes. Standing in the middle of the hallway like a ghost. Dressed in black, that metal arm catching the flickering light overhead. Expression unreadable. Posture coiled.

Your fingers hovered over the tablet.

“Subtle,” you said dryly.

He didn’t smile.

“I’m not here to make a scene.”

“You’re five seconds from getting tackled by security.”

“I turned off the cameras on this floor.”

Of course he did.

You sighed and slid the tablet aside. “You could’ve sent a message.”

“You would’ve ignored it.”

He wasn’t wrong.

You stood, slowly. Kept a polite amount of distance between you. “You want a consult.”

“No,” he said. “I want you.”

That gave you pause. He saw it.

“I read your work,” he continued. “The old stuff. Before you scrubbed it. Neural pathway immersion. Psychogenic structure mapping. Entering the subconscious. Rewriting trauma loops from the inside.”

You kept your expression still. “That research was never meant for clinical application.”

“It saved people.”

“No, it delayed their collapse. That’s not the same thing.”

He took a step closer. “You walked into the mind of a patient mid-psychotic break and helped him walk back out.”

“That patient relapsed two weeks later. Nearly took out his care team with him.”

“But he lived,” Bucky said. “That’s more than Reynolds has right now.”

Your chest tightened, but you didn’t let it show. Not much, anyway.

“So let me get this straight,” you said, voice cool. “You want me to crawl into the mind of the most powerful bipolar the world’s ever known? A man who once turned half of Manhattan into literal shadows? You want me to walk into that and—what? Talk him down?”

“He’s not just the Void.”

“No. But the Void is part of him. You don’t separate the two.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped.

“He’s trying, okay? He’s lucid. Or close to it. He’s afraid of what he’s done. He wants to be better—but no one can reach him. They’ve all stopped trying. Except me.”

You studied him then. Not just his words, but everything else—the tight set of his shoulders, the wear in his eyes, the quiet tremor under all that steel. This wasn’t just a mission for him.

“You care about him.”

His breath hitched. “I know what it’s like to be controlled by something inside you. Something you didn’t choose. Something you hate.” His voice cracked just a little. “So yeah. I care.”

You looked away. The floor felt suddenly distant under your feet.

“I’m not a miracle worker, Barnes. I’m not some psychic surgeon. I can’t promise I won’t make things worse.”

He hesitated. “Would you try… if he asked you himself?”

That stopped you.

Your throat went dry.

“You think he wants me?”

“I think he’s afraid of you,” Bucky said. “Which is exactly why I think he needs you the most.”

You exhaled slowly. The kind of breath that emptied your lungs and still didn’t feel like enough.

The name echoed again in your mind like a wound reopening.

Robert Reynolds.

You crossed your arms instinctively, bracing against the words. Against everything they meant. You weren’t ready to say yes—but you couldn’t walk away yet. Not when the puzzle Bucky had thrown at you was already rattling around in your mind like a loose coin.

"Tell me more about him," you said, before you could second-guess yourself.

Bucky blinked, clearly expecting you to brush him off, maybe even shut him down. But you hadn’t done that. Not yet.

He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice as if the air itself might carry his words further than he wanted. "Bob... he's not what you think."

You could feel the weight in the silence between you, the hum of fluorescent lights and distant beeping from another part of the Tower, but it felt miles away. The shift in Bucky’s voice wasn’t a demand. It was a plea—one you weren’t sure you could ignore.

"He's always been complicated," you said, trying to keep your tone neutral. "Sentry and the Void aren’t easy to separate."

Bucky nodded slowly. “I know. But right now? He’s more fractured than ever. The Void doesn’t just come out and take over anymore. It’s... it’s slipping into him, little pieces at a time. He doesn’t know where the man ends and the monster begins.”

You stared at him, thinking of everything you’d heard about Bob over the past few months—the whispers, the rumors, the stories that came with living in a world of meta-humans. The Sentry, a hero with the power of a god, the man who’d nearly torn apart the world itself in a breakdown. The Void, a primal force of destruction that had no regard for morality or life.

But hearing the weight of that confusion in Bucky’s voice was new. And it unsettled you more than it should have.

"Where is he?" you asked, voice quieter now.

"He’s here, in New York," Bucky said, his eyes flicking away. "Living on the same floor as the rest of the Thunderbolts— or the new Avengers. We’re all on the top level of Avengers Tower, trying to keep him from... from himself."

You blinked. Here? With the Thunderbolts? In Avengers Tower? That was... an entirely new layer to the situation. You weren’t sure what was more surreal: the fact that Bob Reynolds was living under the same roof as some of the most dangerous people on the planet or the fact that you’d just been asked to walk into his mind.

“How is that even... manageable?” You asked the question, but you weren’t sure if you were asking Bucky or yourself.

Bucky’s jaw clenched. "We try to keep him grounded. When he’s not... when he’s lucid, he’s like any other person. He talks about everything—sports, movies, some of the stuff that made him happy before everything broke down." He exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated. "But the minute he starts spiraling, it all goes wrong. The Void starts leaking through the cracks. And it’s not just him anymore. He reflects everyone else’s fears. He mirrors them. It’s like we’re all living in his nightmare when that happens."

The implications hit you like a truck. A man who could turn his fear into destructive power was now having his own breakdown while everyone around him became collateral damage.

You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of Bucky’s words settle deep in your chest. “Is anyone else in danger?”

Bucky hesitated. “Not unless we provoke him. But... it’s getting harder to contain. We don’t know what he might do when he finally snaps, and we can’t keep him isolated forever. Not without breaking him completely.”

You shook your head, barely processing the words. Living with the Thunderbolts? This wasn’t just a clinical case anymore. This was a man in desperate need of help who could bring the whole team down with him if things went sideways. And you were being asked to wade into the heart of it.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” you muttered, more to yourself than to Bucky. “You want me to just walk into his mind, face whatever twisted version of reality he’s experiencing, and fix it? I’m not a magician.”

“You’re the only one who’s ever been able to do something like that,” Bucky pressed, voice low but insistent. “You helped people when it seemed like no one else could. Even when it wasn’t perfect, they stayed alive. And you’re the only person who can actually get in there, see it from the inside. No one else has that ability. No one else can.”

You pressed your palms against your face, exhaling sharply. Your mind spun. This wasn’t just about fixing someone. This was about getting close to a raw, broken mind—an unstable mind that could tear apart everything around it if pushed too far. You’d been in this position before. You’d seen minds crumble and break. You’d been the one to pull them back—but not without a price.

“Why me, Bucky?” you said, the question finally spilling out. “You know this isn’t going to be easy. I’m not some miracle worker. I can’t promise I won’t make it worse.”

Bucky’s expression softened. “Because you’re the one who never gave up on the people everyone else walked away from. You see them. Really see them—without the fear, without the labels. You don’t treat people like they’re lost causes. You treat them like they’re still worth saving.”

You took a step back, your chest tightening. You’d made it clear years ago that you wouldn’t practice psychiatry anymore. You weren’t the kind of person who specialized in people’s mental health, not when it carried so much emotional weight, not when the cost was too high.

"He's afraid of himself," Bucky said, almost as if he were reading your thoughts. "He’s terrified that he’s going to lose himself again, that the Void is going to take him completely. But there’s still some part of Bob in there. He wants to be better. He wants to make it stop. I know he does."

You swallowed. “So where does that leave me?”

Bucky stepped closer again, lowering his voice. “I need you to help him. Not fix him. Just help him understand he’s still in control—if he is. If there’s still a way to reach him before it’s too late.”

You closed your eyes again, the pressure in your chest rising. But when you opened them, Bucky was still there, his gaze steady, waiting for something.

And you knew, despite everything, you were already halfway in. Even if you didn’t want to be.

⋆˙⟡

The Avengers Tower loomed like a monument against the night sky, its gleaming windows reflecting the city lights below. As you stepped inside, the difference hit you immediately. It wasn’t the usual cold, sterile atmosphere of hospitals or military facilities. No, this place was warmer—not in temperature, but in feel. It had a kind of lived-in quality you weren’t expecting. The faint smell of coffee lingered in the air, mixed with the scent of old books and worn leather furniture. Shoes were scattered by the door, someone’s guitar leaned against the wall in the corner, and someone had scratched “Yelena was here, losers” into the corner of the counter.

"This is the Thunderbolts' floor," Bucky said as he swiped the access panel, letting you both pass through. There was a strange undertone to his voice, a quiet sort of pride—or maybe wariness. "It’s... a work in progress."

You raised an eyebrow. “A rehab wing for ticking time bombs?”

Bucky gave a small, tight smile. “Something like that.”

The elevator doors opened to a wide living area that was surprisingly quiet, dimly lit. The hum of music thudded faintly from another room, but the space itself was calm—almost peaceful. You noticed how the walls weren’t bare and cold like the rest of the building had been. Bookshelves lined the walls, mismatched furniture sat comfortably in corners, and discarded snack wrappers sat on the coffee table. It didn’t feel like a headquarters for elite soldiers and heroes; it felt more like... home.

Before you could take it all in, a voice rang out, piercing through the quiet.

“Bucky!” The voice was sharp, teasing. “Who’s the new blood?”

You turned to see Yelena Belova striding toward you. Barefoot, dressed in sweatpants, her braid half undone, and a crooked grin on her face, she looked like she didn’t have a care in the world. She took a long look at you, her grin widening.

“She’s not mine,” Bucky said quickly, as if almost to assure you—or himself.

Yelena shot him a knowing glance. "Pity," she said, her grin only growing wider. Then, her eyes shifted to you. “I’m guessing you’re here to meet Bob?”

Bob. That nickname.

You nodded, but you could feel the weight of Yelena’s gaze. Her expression shifted slightly, and you didn’t miss the subtle change. It wasn’t fear, but something much more calculated—like someone who knew the danger that came with being in close proximity to a ticking time bomb, and what could happen if that bomb ever went off. There was wariness in her eyes now, something you hadn’t expected after the teasing remark.

Bucky didn’t miss it either. “I’m bringing her to meet him.”

At the mention of Bob Reynolds, Yelena’s expression changed again. Her playful smile slipped just a fraction, and the playful tone in her voice dimmed. She didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at you with a kind of guarded understanding, before finally speaking.

“Be careful,” she said, her tone softer now, though still carrying an edge. “He’s a bit sweet. Until he’s not.”

You paused, the weight of her words sinking in. Sweet. Until he’s not. That one sentence sent a chill down your spine. You’d heard the name Bob Reynolds before, the Sentry, the Void—the rumors about his mind and his power were legendary. But this? This was a whole different level of complication. Sweet until he’s not. You couldn’t ignore the warning, not when you were about to walk into that very storm.

Bucky stepped forward, breaking the moment of quiet tension. His voice was quiet but firm. “I’ll be with you. You’re not going in alone.”

You didn’t say anything right away, your mind already racing. You weren’t sure if you were relieved or more uneasy now that you had confirmation Bucky would be there. It didn’t make it less dangerous.

“Thanks,” you finally said, though you weren’t entirely sure what you were thanking him for yet. Maybe it was just for getting you this far.

Yelena took a step back, a small smirk still tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m just saying,” she added casually, “you don’t have to rush in. No one will blame you if you need a minute to run.”

You chuckled lightly, though the humor didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Right,” you said, your voice tight, “I’m sure that’ll be helpful.”

Bucky didn’t linger, turning toward a door at the far end of the room. It was heavy, imposing. You could tell this wasn’t just any door; it was the kind that kept the more... unpredictable things behind it. Bob Reynolds, the man who had lived through the collapse of his own mind, who carried the weight of the Void in him. You had an idea of what kind of danger he represented, but standing in this place, it felt much closer than you had ever imagined.

“Ready?” Bucky asked, looking over his shoulder. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes—maybe it was concern, maybe it was just routine. Either way, it didn’t settle your nerves.

You took a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be,” you said, but even as the words left your mouth, you felt the truth of them slip through your fingers. This wasn’t about being ready. This was about what you could handle when everything fell apart. You didn’t have any illusions about how this might go.

With a quiet hum, Bucky led the way to the door. You followed, feeling a kind of coldness creep into your limbs despite the warmth of the room around you. Whatever was waiting behind that door wasn’t just about Bob Reynolds. It was about everything that had led him to this moment. The Sentry. The Void. The man who had been both savior and destroyer. And now you were about to walk into that darkness.

The door to Bob’s room was slightly ajar when you arrived, and Bucky didn’t hesitate. He knocked once, then pushed the door open.

Inside, Bob sat at the edge of the bed, his posture tense, hands clasped tightly between his knees. His blonde hair was a little too long, and his shirt was wrinkled, like he hadn’t bothered to care about his appearance in the last few hours—or days. He was staring at the floor as though it might somehow provide answers to whatever was going on in his head.

When you stepped inside, his eyes flickered up to you. The movement was slow, almost as if it took him effort to pull himself away from whatever was haunting him in the depths of his mind. And then—he blinked.

“Oh,” he said, the word soft and distant, like it didn’t quite belong to him.

Bucky stepped forward, giving you a glance before offering the introduction. “This is her,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “The one we talked about.”

Bob stood, his movements awkward, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He was tall—broad in the shoulders, built like a man who could break cities—but he moved like someone terrified of knocking something over, of breaking something fragile.

“You’re… the mind walker,” he said quietly, his voice low, tentative.

You nodded, crossing the room slowly to close the distance. “And you’re the man with the monster inside him.”

Bob’s lips twitched—a ghost of a smile, fleeting and uncertain. “Guess we both come with warnings,” he muttered, the humor in his voice strained but there all the same.

The air in the room felt thicker now, the weight of his words hanging in the space between you. You studied him for a moment longer, the tension building like an unspoken agreement that neither of you could escape. You stepped closer. Without saying anything more, you both sank into the floor, sitting cross-legged across from each other. The distance between you was minimal, just your knees nearly brushing. But it was enough to feel the tension crackling in the air between you.

“I need your permission,” you said softly. “To go in.”

Bob didn’t hesitate, though his eyes were dark with uncertainty. He nodded once, the smallest motion.

You closed your eyes.

At first, there was nothing. Calm. His mind opened before you like a gate, as if it was letting you in—but something was wrong. Behind that gate, you could feel a storm building, growing, ready to unleash.

And then—

You were in.

It was worse than you had expected. The space around you was dark, twisting. The architecture was impossible—floating staircases, walls that screamed, mirrors that bled shadows. It felt like a mind split in two: one side terrified, the other hunting. The chaos was dizzying, the sensation of being swallowed whole by something far larger than you.

And then you felt it.

Something massive, coiling around the core of his mind. It was there, lurking. Watching you.

The Void.

It turned its head, and you felt its eyes on you—it smiled.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” it whispered, its voice like shards of glass scraping against your skull.

Pain bloomed instantly. A searing throb behind your eyes. Your nose started to bleed, the pressure inside your head unbearable.

“Get out,” Bob’s voice said, faint, distant—not the Void’s. “Get out now!”

And before you could even process the command, your body snapped back. Your eyes flew open, and you gasped for air, choking on it as blood dripped from your nose. You blinked, disoriented, and found yourself back in the room with Bob.

He stumbled backward, pale, his breath ragged, eyes wide with fear. “You saw it,” he said, his voice trembling.

You wiped the blood from your face and sat back, trying to catch your breath. “I felt it,” you said quietly, the weight of the experience still heavy in your chest.

Bob’s eyes searched your face, his expression torn. “Did it… did it touch you?”

You shook your head slowly. “No. But it came close. Too close.”

He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know it would go after you.”

You exhaled, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of the Void’s presence. “We’re not ready,” you said, your voice a little steadier now. “We need to know each other first. Establish a connection before diving into something like that.”

Bob didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just stared at you, like you had said something that didn’t quite register in his mind. His expression was still unreadable, but there was something there—a glimmer of hope, perhaps, that you could give him something he’d lost. Something he didn’t think he could ever get back.

“Okay,” he said softly, as if testing the words. “We can… get coffee or something.”

You gave him a small, understanding smile. “Let’s start with daylight.”

Later, back in the common room, you nursed a pounding headache and a steaming cup of tea. Yelena was sprawled across the couch, her feet resting on the armrest, eyes half-closed. Her gaze flickered over to Bob, who lingered just inside the doorway, watching you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he looked away.

Yelena’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. She lowered her voice, but you could still hear the teasing note in it. “Someone’s got a crush.”

Bob’s face flushed instantly, his eyes widening in embarrassment. “I do not,” he muttered, like a kid caught in the act.

Yelena raised an eyebrow, her smirk turning smug.

For the first time all day, you couldn’t help but laugh. It was the kind of lightheartedness you hadn’t felt since stepping into this mess, and it felt like a small, precious thing in the middle of all the chaos.

You finished your tea, Yelena stretched across the couch like she owned the place, eyes flicking between you and Bob with far too much interest. Bob hovered by the doorway, visibly trying to gather the nerve to speak, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like a schoolboy.

You stood, brushing off your hands. The day had been long, and you were more than ready to go.

Just as you stepped toward the elevator, Bob moved quickly, blurting, “Uh—wait!”

You turned to him, surprised.

He looked like he instantly regretted speaking so loud. “I just—uh, I think we should talk again. Tomorrow. If you want. About… you know. Everything.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Alright. Where?”

Bob blinked. “I—uh, I don’t actually know where you work…”

You let out a breath. “Metro-General Hospital”

His eyes lit with recognition. “Right, yeah. That makes sense. I’ll be there. I’ll wait until your shift’s over.”

You studied him for a second. He was tall and intimidating by most standards, but right now he looked like someone nervously asking their crush to prom.

“Okay,” you said, biting back a smile. “I’ll see you then.”

Bob nodded too many times. “Cool. Good. Great. Okay.”

You stepped into the elevator. As the doors started to slide shut, you heard Yelena’s voice behind you—lazy and far too entertained.

“She said yes, Romeo,” she drawled. “You can breathe now.”

Bob muttered something unintelligible.

Yelena’s laughter echoed down the hall just before the elevator doors closed. You shook your head, grinning to yourself.

Tomorrow was going to be something.

⋆˙⟡

The Sanctum-like glow of protective wards hummed low along the ceiling as Stephen Strange poured tea into two mismatched cups. The room they were in wasn’t grand — no spell-casting library or mystical relic chamber — just a quiet observation lounge. It had a clear view of the city below, and right now, the skyline looked distant and unbothered by the storm they were preparing for.

Wanda Maximoff stood by the window, arms crossed. Her reflection in the glass looked tired.

“You didn’t tell them everything,” she said without looking back.

Strange let out a quiet sigh as he set the teapot down. “I told them what they needed to hear.”

“No,” she said, turning slowly. “You told them just enough to believe this was still safe.”

Strange didn’t flinch under her stare. He simply raised his cup and sipped.

“She’s walking into a fractured mind with something ancient wrapped around its spine. The Void doesn’t just destroy—he consumes. She’s not just risking injury. She’s risking... unmaking.”

He nodded, gently. “I know.”

Wanda stepped closer. “So why send her?”

“She’s not like us,” Strange said.

Wanda frowned. “That’s not a reason.”

He looked up at her, finally setting the cup down. “It is. You, me, even Charles—we bring power, force, structure. She brings something else. She listens. She understands how to walk with someone in their madness, not just force them out of it.”

Wanda studied him for a moment, then said, quieter, “What’s the best-case scenario?”

“She reaches Reynolds. Helps him stabilize. Creates a bridge between him and the monster he’s trying to cage. If she succeeds… the Void stays dormant.”

“And the worst?”

Strange was quiet for a long moment.

“If the Void latches onto her,” he said finally, “we lose both of them.”

Wanda looked down.

“She doesn’t know how dangerous she really is, does she?” she asked.

Strange gave a faint, unreadable smile.

⋆˙⟡

A/N: :)

[moonlightsolo]

thunderbolts where you're exhausted to the brim and they're worried

lights out | thunderbolts* x reader ⋆｡°✩

pairing: thunderbolts* x fem!reader (with a slight hint of bucky x reader)

warnings: unhealthy coping mechanisms, insomnia, reader being kinda strung out lol

word count: 2.1k

note: okay wow. it’s been two years since i actually wrote anything and posted it on here so i’m glad to be back!! i hope u like it <3

It’s been four days since your last mission. Four days since you’ve felt the relieving bliss of a full night’s rest. 

96 hours. 5760 minutes. 345,600 seconds. 

But it’s not like you’re counting anyway. 

Usually you’re fine after an assignment, maybe a little sore or winded— but not this exhausted; mentally and physically. 

It’s almost like clockwork now as you lie in bed throughout the night. Your thoughts loud as you listen to your own breathing, and thrumming of your heartbeat beneath your ribs. How the air conditioning kicks on and blows cold air onto your face, causing you to bundle up under the covers. 

The only source of light in your dark room is coming from your phone as you scroll through numerous social media apps. Your eyes dancing over the screen, switching between tiktoks and instagram reels as you doom scroll. 

And then your eyes begin to flutter shut, hand going limp as your phone drops beside you on the bed. Your body allows you all but twenty minutes of sleep before your heart constricts with anxiety. 

You wake up gasping for air, sitting straight up in your king-sized bed. Your oversized pajama shirt is drenched in sweat and stuck to your body as if it’s clinging to the sleep you’ve been so rudely disturbed from.  

Your eyes dart around your dark room before following the beam of light coming from your phone. The same video has been playing on repeat, along with a song as someone dances to it on the screen. 

With a loud sigh and a deep breath, you reach over to check the time on your phone. In the top corner it reads, ‘2:18’ a.m. With your heart still beating heavily against your ribcage, there’s no way you can try to sleep now. You might as well go watch some tv instead of mindlessly scrolling on your tiny phone screen. 

You rub your eyes with your fists, eyes watering desperately as you stifle a yawn. Your feet kick the covers off as your legs swing over the side of your bed. Shuffling your feet into your slippers, you use your phone screen as a flashlight to direct yourself to your door. 

Your head peeks out as you slowly open it, looking down the dark hallway. You listen for any movement, any sign of life from your other comrades. 

Sometimes you wonder if they can tell you haven’t been getting enough sleep, maybe it’s the dark circles or how you space out more often. 

Or maybe it’s that you’ve skipped training five times in the last four days. It wasn’t a rare occurrence to have bouts of sleepless nights, they knew that too— but this has been the longest and most exhausting four days of your life. There’s no way that they haven’t caught on yet. 

As you make your way to the living room, your body viscerally shivers from the crispness of the air in the tower. The sweat on your skin cools, and the dampness of your shirt turns chilly. You need warmth, and you know exactly what will suffice. After snatching a blanket off the couch and wrapping it around your shoulders, you shuffle into the kitchen. 

Yawning as you pop a pod into your coffee maker and quietly pulling a mug from the cabinet. It reads, ‘I ♡ NYC’, which makes you smile and scoff at the irony of it. The coffee maker splutters and spits out coffee as it brews the liquid gold into your cup. 

The aroma almost does the job of energizing you itself. You wrap your hands around the hot mug, hissing from the heat, but you allow it to warm your cold hands as you make your way to the living room. 

Tucking yourself into the far corner of the plush couch, you pull your knees close to your body to drape another blanket over your legs. Your hand clicks buttons on the remote as you sip on the hot coffee, humming from the taste and how it warms you from the inside out. 

Some late-night sitcom is on, so you resort to watching that for now. Quietly giggling along with the laughter in the background of the show. You don’t even notice soft footsteps padding down the hallway towards you as you stare wide-eyed at the tv screen. 

A deep voice calls out your name, making your eyes snap towards the sound. It’s Bucky. 

“What are you doing up?” His voice is scratchy from sleep as his half-lidded eyes squint from the brightness of the tv. His hands are on his hips as he stares at you, almost like a disappointed dad. 

“Oh shit. I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” Your hand grips the remote as you hurriedly turn it down. 

His feet drag as he walks into the living room, still standing up as his eyes watch the screen. The light casts over his features as you stare at him from your position on the couch, “No, no, it’s okay. I heard the tv but I just wanted to make sure everything was okay…” He trails off and turns toward you with his eyebrows wrinkled in the middle, “Well, uh… Are you okay?” 

Your eyes nervously dart from your coffee in your lap to him, and then back to the tv. Your body shudders, urging you to word vomit about how you haven’t slept in four days and how your stupid mind won’t shut up. 

“Y—yeah, Buck. I’m good.” You send a quick, insincere smile his way before looking back down at your steaming mug. You can still feel his eyes on the side of your face, refusing to look up at him. He knows. 

The couch dips beside you, making your breath catch slightly as you side-eye him. 

“Well, I’m gonna sit out here with you and watch whatever the hell you’re watching.” He almost chuckles, his hand motioning toward the tv. 

He looks over at you as his metal arm folds behind his head, the other sprawling out on the back of the couch toward you. Almost like he’s inviting you to move closer to him. 

It’s not weird for you and Bucky to cuddle—especially during your low points, but you can’t give in.

“It’s called friends.” You mumble, still staring into the mug. 

“Hm?” He hums and adjusts himself so he’s a little closer to you, his head leaning forward so he can hear you clearer. 

“The show. It’s called friends.” You speak up, and turn towards him now before taking a sip of your coffee. 

Bucky watches you intently, how you bring the mug to your lips, how your bloodshot, purple-rimmed eyes flick to the screen and back to him. 

“Is that coffee?” He questions with a raised eyebrow, his hand reaching out for it, and you hand the mug over to him. He takes a sip out of your cup before handing it back to you, settling himself into the couch with a satisfying tsk and an, “Aah.” 

“So why haven’t you been sleeping?” He asks with his eyes trained on the tv. You start to fumble over your words, stuttering and wiggling in your spot. “I-uhhh.. wha-?” Your voice trembles. 

Why can’t you just admit it? 

“We’re all worried about you, ya know. Missing training, showing up to meetings late, stumbling into the kitchen for food… or coffee. You've been hiding in your room for days now.” He tilts his head toward your cup to prove a point. 

Tears begin to well up into your eyes, your bottom lip shuddering and your hands trembling. Bucky watches as your walls start to crumble, the exhausted, beaten, and bruised version of you seeping through. “Hey hey. It’s okay, doll.” He sits up now, taking the mug from your hands to set it on the coffee table. 

Once the coffee is safely put to the side, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you from your cocoon of blankets. Your face is smushed into his soft cotton tee shirt, tears soaking the fabric as you silently weep into his chest. 

“I-I jus-just can’t sl-sleep.” You stutter out, arms still by your side, his strong arms caging you in, “My-my mind, my th-thoughts… I just can’t anymore.” 

Bucky shushes you, one of his hands rubbing circles into your back. “I know, I know.” He hums. 

Bucky lets you cry into him until it turns into quickened breathing, and then your body starts to go slack. He’s been through this with you so many times, too many times. 

Your head moves from his chest, wiggling your way up to fit into the crook of his neck. Your soft breath fans across his warm skin, and your arms hesitantly wrap around his solid waist. 

Bucky pulls you closer, his lips pressing a kiss to your temple as you snuggle in close. The sound of footsteps breaks you from your little bubble with Bucky, your watery eyes lifting to see Yelena standing at the edge of the couch. 

“Everything okay?” Her usual strong, accented voice is soft as she stares at you with tender, yet tired, eyes. 

Bucky pulls back slightly to turn, his flesh arm still holding onto your waist as he looks at Yelena. A small smile plays on his lips before turning back to you, tapping your hip as his grip loosens. 

“Yeah, she’s good now. Can’t sleep.” Bucky yawns at the end of his sentence and covers his mouth with the back of his hand. You move back slightly, still pressed against his side but not in an embrace. 

“Good. We were worried about you.” Yelena comments, which makes you snort. Both of them turn towards you, looking confused. 

“Bucky said that earlier.” You poke at him jokingly, and he swats at your hand. Yelena lets out a raspy laugh and plops down on the chaise lounge, kicking her feet up as she looks at the tv. “Friends, really?” She rolls her eyes and motions for the remote with her hand. 

You toss the remote to her, and she catches with ease—not even looking as it flew toward her. She flips through the channels as Bucky pulls you closer, your head gravitating towards his lap. You keep telling yourself this is a normal thing for you and Bucky to do; he helps you. But this time, it just feels different. 

You lay on your side, head on his thigh as you curl up into yourself. His hand instantly goes into your long flowing hair to play with it before he pulls a blanket over your body. You can feel yourself relax, your chest warming up as your nervous system resets itself. 

You can feel yourself growing sleepier by the second as Bucky’s hand cards through your hair. Yelena and Bucky’s quiet conversation is slowly drowned out as your ears start to ring, blinking slowly as you try to fight the weight pulling down your eyelids. 

The tv in front of you blurs out of view as your eyes shut, finally succumbing to the sleep your body has been begging for. 

-

You wake up to a bright room around you, sunshine illuminating the walls shining through the floor-to-ceiling windows. You can feel wetness around your mouth, almost as if you’ve been drooling. 

Wait, where are you? And what is that delicious smell?

Your eyes fully open and you suck in a deep breath of fresh air. It smells of breakfast, like bacon and maple syrup. You’re surprisingly still in the living room, but the tv’s volume is lowered and Bucky isn’t under you anymore. Your coffee cup has been cleaned up, and you’re still covered in a blanket or two. 

As you sit up, you groan, muscles aching from sleeping in a weird position on the couch. You move your neck side to side, yawning as you stretch your arms above your head. 

“Ah! Sleeping beauty is awake!” Yelena’s voice shouts, making you jump as you spin around to face her. 

Bob is sitting at the kitchen island alongside Bucky, while John is at the stove cooking. Yelena is sitting on the counter, laughing at something Bob said as she bites into a piece of bacon she has in her hand. 

The sound of something sizzling catches your ears, and suddenly your stomach grumbles. Bucky swivels on his chair to turn toward you, his face beaming when he sees you’re awake. 

Your lips twitch upwards into a smile, sliding off the couch to shuffle over to him. His arm wraps around your waist from his seated position, “How ya feel?” He asks, looking up at you. 

“Pretty good, still tired but much better.” You sigh happily, smiling around at your teammates who return the same expression.  

John sneakily eyes Bucky’s hand sitting comfortably on your waist, winking at you which makes you blush. 

You know you’ll start to feel better, slowly but surely. Especially with everyone around you being so supportive. They’ll make you feel more like yourself again, and you know you’ll be back to a regular sleep schedule soon. Hopefully with Bucky’s help again.