#Marvel bob

[redundantz]

Problematic found family

[sketchnskribbles]

Soooo, uuuuhhhhh, am I the only one making a theoretical connection. That this might just be Bob, the Hydra Agent?

I haven’t seen anyone else talking about it so I wanted to bring it up.

ya’know…. This guy

It would make sense with all the popularity of the Deadpool movies. And it seems that Peter has replaced Bob as Deadpool’s sidekick. I would presume they didn’t want a reformed Hydra agent to be in those movies.

But maybe Bob has moved forward to become a Thunderbolt instead?

More Bob ft. Deadpool and Wolverine below:

AN UPDATE: I now realize that Bob is The Sentry. I’ve gone ahead and found the mini-series that originally introduced him to the world and read it. I’m intrigued and can only hope that they do the character justice. Since it seems, from all the articles, reviews, and YouTube videos I’ve read. That no one has been able to really write the character well after his initial comics.

[almendriww]

I loved Thunderbolts*, that moment when you have to defeat god with a knife and a gun

[kaci-doodles]

first flight

[absencecfpresence]

welcome back 2014 marvel tumblr

[mevrouwrozestudios]

I want to believe Yelena gave Bob that guinea pig ~ it’s his emotional support buddy and he named him Thunder~⚡️

[trainer-from-unova]

[jesssart]

Drawing Bob from thunderbolts 👁️👁️ (wip)

[tinymintywolf]

saw thunderbolts a second time this weekend 😀

[skj-weebmam]

So I trased the outline of the void, so I could do a simple background study. I ended up kinda giving up on the background at putting a multiply layer over it and holy fu-

Still sucks at background thou…

[artist-issues]

Is Thunderbolts anything like the caliber of movies Marvel Phase 1 or even Phase 2 was coming out with? No

Like Yelena should not end her monologue to a hostage by explaining to that hostage that she needs his face to get through the scanner. Out loud. That feels like something pure-exposition, for the audience’s benefit. What Phase One Marvel would’ve probably done with that was cut to a close-up of Yelena’s face, it looks like she’s looking down, confessing something, and then it switches to a full-body shot and the person she’s talking to is the hostage, but she’s actively talking to him while she’s jamming his face into the scanner, and it’s not working, so she ends their little “conversation” and drops him on the floor. Marvel Phase One would’ve just shown us her quirky little casual-espionage expertise, dropped us into the scene and trusted us to figure it out, instead of having her say it out loud.

But! Here are some Good things I noticed.

Every part of the adventure that the Thunderbolts* are going on has something to do with the idea of “We’ll Fall into the Void Without Sticking Together.” Like when they’re Kuzcoing it up the elevator shaft, and have to rely on one another, and if they don’t they fall into a literal void (they can’t see the bottom.) Or when Yelena’s whole plan is to use light followed by teamwork to blind their attackers.

When they’re walking up that shaft, they’re focusing on The Bad. They identify with their sob stories. “Kidnapped child assassin. I win.” Like Alexi says later, when they look at themselves they see only the Bad.

Alexi’s all about his own glory, until Bucky says “this isn’t right” while Bob is pummeling the Void. Then Alexi literally works together with Yelena to lift the rubble and get her free, to have the Big Hero Moment, leaving himself trapped. He lets her do the cool backflips and rush to save the day, which means he both a) is giving her the spotlight and b) really does believe in her to fix it. Like he always said he did.

This one’s obvious but Yelena’s silhouette being framed by the only light in Bob’s Shame Attic while she holds his hand and sits with him, and everything else in the shot is in shadow.

Bucky being the one to describe to the Thunderbolts* how running doesn’t work, the things you’ve done always catch up to you.

In the Shame Shadow Network Yelena can only see Bob through each room’s mirrors or reflective surfaces, just like how thematically you can only reach someone lost in dark thoughts by proving to them that you know what they’re going through—relating to them. Reflections, mirror images, get it?

Another obvious one but the idea that Yelena only sees the bad which leads to the dark void inside of her—and Void, the supervillain’s, powers being a physical manifestation of that—he reduces people to the shadow they cast, when the whole idea is that that’s not the true them, it’s just their shadow. (That’s not a worldview that lines up with reality, I’m just saying the movie was thematically consistent.)

Bucky being the only one to laugh at Valentina’s villain monologue in the group-reaction shot, probably because Sebastian Stan knows that Bucky is thinking of Steve Rogers predicting this exact use of “superheroes” by a corrupt government power.

Bob being Alone consistently = Bad. First time I noticed it was when they put him in the back of the truck and she says “you going to be okay back here?” And he says “yeah,” but no. Because then he gets cagey and runs out and tries to save the day on his own and gets riddled with bullets. Alone Bob always = Bad Stuff.

The whole larger setup of the movie being that the world, all the innocent people, culture at large, is missing the Avengers. Thinking that there’s nobody coming to save the day. “We’re on Our Own.” And then on a smaller character-level that’s Bob’s problem, that’s Yelena’s problem, that’s Void’s mantra: “you’re alone.” So the movie set us up to remember how much we miss the Avengers so that it could fill the gap. And it fills it with characters like Alexi who are so happy to try and fill the gap, the audience can’t help but be happy for him even though we know they can’t be our Avengers.

All that was well-done. Not Avengers-caliber or even Guardians-caliber or geez, barely Agents-of-Shield-caliber well-done. But still, well done enough to have heart and be enjoyable

[reveryfics]

Provider

Robert Reynolds x Male Reader

Summary: Haunted by inexplicable intrusions of alien emotions and energy, you encounter another who shares the unsettling experience, leading to the terrifying realization that their realities are dangerously intertwined.

A/N: So a few things, I never intended to post this like at all, as I think it's not canon to him, but I liked it to much not to. It's also angst which messes up my intent to post domestic fluff for awhile. A little over 4k words.

TW: Angst - Mental health

The hum of the refrigerator was a discordant drone in the suffocating silence of your apartment. Each cycle felt like a drawn-out breath you couldn't quite take yourself. Your chest was a tight knot, a familiar resident that had taken up permanent lodging. Outside, the pre-dawn quiet of the world pressed in, amplifying the chaos within. You sat on the edge of your worn armchair, the rough fabric a faint, almost imperceptible sensation against your clammy skin. Your gaze was fixed on the chipped paint of the opposite wall, but you weren't really seeing it. The edges of your vision felt fuzzy, like looking through water, and the sounds of the world were muted, distant. It was happening again.

Then, a jolt. Not a physical one, but a sudden, overwhelming pressure behind your eyes, a surge of raw, untamed power that wasn't yours. It was like a phantom limb twitching with an energy that threatened to shatter you. Along with it came a wave of pure, unadulterated fear, a primal terror that clawed at your throat, making it hard to breathe. It was a feeling of being impossibly vast and terrifyingly fragile all at once. The sensation lasted only a few heartbeats, but it left you trembling, your already frayed nerves singing. What was that? It had happened before, these inexplicable bursts of alien emotion and energy, but this time it felt… closer. More insistent. You wrapped your arms around yourself, a futile attempt to contain the spiraling anxiety. The refrigerator hummed on, oblivious to the silent storm raging within and, you suspected with a growing unease, somewhere just beyond the thin walls of your fragile reality.

The lingering residue of that alien dread clung to you like a damp shroud. You tried to rationalize it – a vivid dream bleeding into wakefulness, a particularly nasty spike in your anxiety manifesting in bizarre ways. But the sheer force of it, the alien quality, felt different. Your own anxieties were a familiar, if unwelcome, guest – a gnawing unease, a racing heart, the suffocating certainty of impending doom. This was something else entirely, something vast and powerful, tinged with a sorrow that felt ancient.

Days bled into weeks, each one a muted echo of the last. You navigated your small apartment like a ghost, the simple act of making tea feeling monumental. The outside world remained a blurry, distant stage. But the intrusions persisted, subtle at first – a fleeting image of blinding gold in your peripheral vision, a whisper of a name you didn't recognize, a crushing sense of responsibility for something you couldn't comprehend. They were like glitches in the fabric of your perception, momentary tears in the veil of your dissociation.

Then came the nightmares. They weren't your usual anxiety-fueled scenarios of social failure or imagined catastrophes. These were different. You were soaring through blinding white light, feeling invincible, yet simultaneously terrified of the darkness that lurked at the edges. You saw flashes of a ravaged city, heard screams that echoed with a cosmic sorrow, and felt the crushing weight of a world resting on your shoulders. You woke up drenched in sweat, your heart pounding, the phantom sensations lingering like a phantom limb. The line between your own fragile reality and these borrowed nightmares began to blur, leaving you disoriented and questioning what was truly yours. Were these echoes of your own buried trauma, or something… else? Something external, bleeding into your vulnerable mind?

One stifling afternoon, the oppressive humidity finally drove you out of your apartment. The fluorescent lights of the local grocery store felt harsh and alien against your sensitive eyes. You moved through the aisles like a sleepwalker, your focus narrowed to the items on your list, a small anchor in the swirling uncertainty of your mind. As you reached for a carton of milk, you saw him.

He was standing by the frozen foods, a man who seemed too large, too intense for the quiet normalcy of your life. His shoulders were broad, his posture rigid, and there was a restless energy about him that seemed barely contained. But it was his eyes that caught you. They held a profound weariness, a deep, almost cosmic sorrow, and a flicker of something volatile, something barely leashed. For a fleeting second, as your gazes met across the frozen peas, you saw a flash of gold flicker around him, like heat haze on asphalt. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, and you told yourself it was the harsh lighting, your overactive imagination. But something about him resonated with the strange sensations that had been plaguing you, a discordant chord striking a familiar unease within your chest. You quickly grabbed your milk, your heart hammering against your ribs, and hurried to the checkout, the image of the man with the haunted eyes seared into your awareness. The feeling of being watched, of being somehow connected to him in a way you couldn't understand, settled like a cold weight in your stomach.

The encounter at the grocery store rattled you more than you cared to admit. Back in the perceived safety of your apartment, you found yourself constantly glancing at the window, a knot of unease tightening with each passing hour. The strange sensations intensified. Fragmented thoughts, not your own, would surface unbidden – a desperate plea for forgiveness, the chilling whisper of "the Void," the agonizing weight of failure. They were like radio signals bleeding into your own frequency, static that made it harder to hear your own thoughts.

One evening, as the bruised purple of twilight bled across the sky, you sought refuge in the familiar embrace of sound. The music you chose was a tempest of raw feeling, a landscape of soaring highs and guttural lows that usually resonated with the storm within you, offering a strange sense of understanding. Tonight, however, as the melody unfolded, the themes of offering and burden took on a sharper edge. A line, though unspoken in this moment, echoed in the chambers of your mind: I will carry you. And with it came that familiar jolt, the alien pressure, but this time laced with a profound sense of obligation, a desperate yearning to provide solace to someone shrouded in immense, unseen pain.

The intensity of the feeling propelled you from your chair. You moved restlessly within the confines of your small apartment, the unspoken melody a haunting refrain in your thoughts, the weight of this borrowed emotion pressing down with suffocating force. It felt inextricably linked to the man at the grocery store, the man with the haunted eyes and the fleeting shimmer of something otherworldly about him. Logic argued for coincidence, for the tricks your anxious mind played, yet the feeling persisted, an invisible thread pulling you towards an unknown source of anguish.

Days later, an inexplicable impulse drew you to the local community center, a place you usually avoided like a live wire. A hastily printed flyer, tacked to a weathered lamppost, advertising a sanctuary for troubled minds, had snagged your attention like a fishhook. You’d told yourself it was a fragile hope for grounding, a desperate grasp for connection to your own fractured reality.

The room was a dim haven, thick with the unspoken anxieties of strangers seeking solace. You retreated to the back, a shadow hoping to blend into the gloom. Then, he entered. The man from the grocery store. His very presence felt like a disruption, his powerful frame and intense gaze a stark contrast to the quiet vulnerability of the others gathered there. He chose a solitary corner, his jaw a hard line, his eyes darting around the room with a caged alertness.

As the meeting unfolded, your gaze remained fixed on him, an invisible tether drawing you in. He remained silent, his gaze averted, yet his palpable distress hung in the air like a suffocating humidity. And then it struck you again. The familiar pressure behind your eyes, the surge of alien emotion, but this time, it was acute, focused. A wave of crushing guilt washed over you, a phantom memory of a terrible failing, of letting down those who had placed their trust in you. The sensation was so vivid, so real, that a strangled gasp escaped your lips, your hand flying to your chest as if to contain a physical wound.

Your involuntary reaction broke the invisible barrier. The man in the corner finally lifted his head, his gaze locking onto yours across the dimly lit room. For a fleeting, unsettling moment, you saw a reflection of your own inner turmoil in the depths of his haunted eyes, a spark of recognition in the shared abyss of suffering. It was a silent, terrifying acknowledgment, an inexplicable connection forged in the unseen fires of mental anguish. You didn't know his name, couldn't fathom the weight he carried, but in that instant, you felt a sliver of it, as if his fractured spirit had brushed against your own. And a cold certainty settled within you: your paths, however inexplicably, were now intertwined.

The weight of his gaze lingered even after he’d looked away, a phantom touch on your skin. The support group leader droned on about coping mechanisms and self-care, words that felt hollow and distant in the face of this strange, burgeoning connection. You wanted to look away, to bury yourself in the anonymity of the room, but an invisible tether held your gaze, pulling it back to the man in the corner. He remained a statue of barely contained tension, his knuckles white as he gripped his knees, his eyes fixed on some unseen point beyond the peeling paint of the far wall.

As the meeting drew to a close, a nervous energy filled the room. Chairs scraped against the linoleum floor, and hesitant conversations began to bubble up. You found yourself rooted to your spot, a strange paralysis gripping you. Then, the man rose. He moved with a quiet intensity that belied his stillness during the meeting, his eyes scanning the room one last time before settling briefly on you. It wasn't a look of accusation or recognition, but something more akin to a flicker of shared understanding, a silent acknowledgment of a burden only the two of you seemed to carry in that room.

He turned and walked towards the exit, and an inexplicable impulse seized you. You rose, your own movements feeling jerky and uncoordinated, and followed. You didn't know why, what you intended to do or say. It was a pull, pure and simple, a response to the strange resonance you felt with this troubled stranger.

He stepped out into the cool evening air, the streetlights casting long shadows. You hesitated at the doorway, the sounds of the small town – a distant car, the chirping of crickets – seeming amplified in the sudden quiet. He paused by a beat-up pickup truck, his hand resting on the door handle. For a moment, he seemed to be wrestling with an internal conflict, his shoulders slumping slightly before he straightened.

Taking a deep breath, you found your voice, a hesitant whisper that felt foreign even to your own ears. "Excuse me?"

He turned, his eyes, shadowed in the dim light, fixing on you. There was a wariness in them, a guarded defensiveness that seemed almost instinctual. For a long moment, he simply stared, and in that silence, you felt another flicker of that alien emotion – a profound weariness, a longing for peace that seemed perpetually out of reach.

"Yes?" His voice was low, gravelly, carrying a hint of something… broken.

You swallowed, your mind a blank canvas. All the carefully constructed walls you had built around yourself felt like they were crumbling. "I… I just… I felt something in there." The words tumbled out, clumsy and inadequate.

A muscle twitched in his jaw. He studied you for another long moment, his gaze intense and unsettling. You braced yourself for dismissal, for the confirmation that you were simply losing your grip on reality.

Instead, a flicker of something akin to surprise, or perhaps even… recognition, crossed his features. He hesitated, then let out a long, weary sigh. "Yeah," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Me too."

The simplicity of his reply hung in the cool night air, a fragile thread connecting your disparate realities. "What… what was it?" you managed, the question barely a breath.

He shifted his weight, his gaze flicking away for a moment, as if searching for an escape route in the quiet street. "I don't know," he admitted, his voice rough. "It just… sometimes… it bleeds through."

Bleeds through. The phrase resonated with the strange incursions into your own mind, the alien emotions and fragmented thoughts that had become your unwelcome companions. Could he be experiencing something similar? Something connected to the overwhelming sensations you had felt in his presence?

A fragile tendril of hope, mixed with a healthy dose of trepidation, unfurled within you. Could you finally have found someone who understood, even if they couldn't explain it? Someone who wasn't going to dismiss your experiences as mere anxiety-fueled delusions?

"It feels… like it's not my own," you ventured, the words hesitant, testing the waters. "Like… like I'm feeling things, emotions… that don't belong to me."

He finally met your gaze again, and this time, there was a flicker of something beyond wariness – a raw vulnerability that mirrored your own. "Yeah," he said softly, a hint of something akin to relief in his voice. "Exactly."

A long silence stretched between you, punctuated only by the chirping of crickets and the distant hum of traffic. In that silence, an unspoken understanding began to form, a fragile bridge built on shared, inexplicable experience.

Then, he sighed again, a sound that spoke volumes of exhaustion and inner turmoil. "Look," he said, his voice regaining some of its earlier guardedness. "This… this is probably nothing. Just… a bad night for both of us, I guess." He moved towards his truck door again, a clear signal that the conversation was over.

But the connection, however brief, had been made. The shared acknowledgment of something strange and unsettling hung in the air, a silent promise of something more.

"Wait," you blurted out, the word sharper than you intended. He paused, his hand on the door handle, his back to you. "Do you… do you ever feel like you're supposed to… provide something?" The question felt foolish the moment it left your lips, a direct echo of the feeling you felt, but you had to know.

He went still. For a long moment, he didn't move, didn't speak. The silence stretched, taut and heavy. Then, slowly, he turned back to face you, his eyes narrowed, a flicker of something intense – recognition, perhaps even a hint of fear – crossing his features.

"What did you just say?" His voice was low, dangerous, the broken quality replaced by a raw edge. The air between you crackled with an unspoken energy, a silent acknowledgment of a shared secret, a terrifying and fragile link forged in the shadows of your intertwined realities. The quiet of the night suddenly felt charged, the ordinary street transformed into the precipice of something extraordinary and potentially perilous.

The intensity in his gaze sent a shiver down your spine, a primal instinct screaming for you to retreat. But the shared experience, the validation of the strange feelings that had plagued you, held you rooted to the spot. You swallowed hard, trying to find the courage to repeat your question.

"I just… sometimes I get this feeling," you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. "Like… like I need to offer something. Comfort, maybe? Or… protection?" The words felt clumsy and inadequate, yet they echoed the deep, inexplicable yearning that had been growing within you.

His eyes searched yours, as if trying to decipher the truth behind your hesitant words. The wariness hadn't completely vanished, but there was a flicker of something else now – a desperate curiosity, perhaps even a sliver of hope.

"Protection?" he repeated, the word laced with a bitter irony. He let out a short, humorless laugh. "Funny. That's… that's usually my job." He ran a hand through his dark hair, his gaze drifting away for a moment, lost in some internal landscape of his own.

The casual way he said it, the inherent authority in his tone, sparked a flicker of recognition within you, something buried deep beneath the layers of your anxiety and dissociation. It was a fleeting impression, like a half-remembered dream, but it hinted at a past, a role, that didn't quite fit the image of the troubled man you saw before you.

He looked back at you, his expression unreadable. "Look," he said, his voice softening slightly. "This is going to sound crazy, but… sometimes I feel it too. That pull. That… responsibility." He hesitated, as if searching for the right words. "Like I'm supposed to… keep something safe. Provide… something."

The shared language, the echo of the very feeling that had been tormenting you, sent a wave of relief washing over you, so potent it almost made you weak. You weren't alone. This strange, unsettling connection wasn't just a figment of your fractured mind.

"So you… you feel it too?" you asked, the disbelief evident in your voice.

He nodded slowly, his gaze intense. "Yeah. Sometimes it's… overwhelming. Like a weight I can barely carry." He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if trying to physically grasp that invisible burden.

The air crackled with a newfound understanding, a fragile bridge spanning the chasm of your individual struggles. You didn't know who this man was, what haunted his past, or why you felt this strange connection to him. But in that moment, under the dim glow of the streetlights, you knew that something significant had begun. The bleeding between your realities wasn't just a torment; it was a shared experience, a terrifying and potentially life-altering link to a man burdened by a power and a past you couldn't yet comprehend. And as he looked back at you, a silent question in his eyes, you knew that your quiet, isolated existence was about to be irrevocably changed.

A silent question hung between you, an unspoken inquiry into the nature of this shared burden. The cool night air, once a neutral backdrop, now felt charged with an unspoken energy. You could see the conflict warring within him – the weariness that longed for anonymity battling with a flicker of something akin to recognition, a desperate yearning for understanding.

"Who are you?" you asked, the question a hesitant probe into the mystery that had suddenly intertwined with your own fragile reality.

He hesitated, his gaze flicking around the quiet street as if expecting someone to appear, to silence him. "My name is Robert," he finally said, the word feeling heavy, reluctant. "Robert Reynolds."

The name sparked a faint, almost imperceptible flicker in the recesses of your mind, a whisper of something familiar, yet just beyond your grasp. It was like trying to recall a half-forgotten dream, a fleeting image on the periphery of your consciousness.

"And you?" he asked, his voice softer now, a hint of curiosity replacing the earlier guardedness.

You told him your name, the sound of it feeling strangely small and insignificant in the face of the unfolding strangeness.

"Look," Robert said, taking a step closer, his voice low and urgent. "This… this is going to sound even crazier, but… have you ever felt like you… you could do things? Things that aren't… normal?"

The question hit you like a physical blow. The strange surges of power you had felt, the fleeting images of blinding light and terrifying darkness in your nightmares – could they be connected to this? Could this man be experiencing something similar, something that was somehow bleeding into your own perception?

Fear mixed with a desperate yearning for answers churned within you. You had always dismissed those sensations as manifestations of your anxiety, elaborate tricks of a mind struggling to hold onto reality. But his words… they offered a terrifyingly plausible alternative.

"Sometimes," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "Sometimes I feel… a pressure. Like something vast… trying to get through."

Robert's eyes widened, a look of dawning recognition – and perhaps a touch of alarm – spreading across his face. "Vast?" he repeated, the word hanging in the air.

He took another step closer, his intensity almost overwhelming. "Tell me," he urged, his voice urgent. "What else do you feel? What else do you see in your… in these moments?"

The dam of your carefully constructed isolation began to crack. The need to share, to understand, to finally make sense of the unsettling intrusions into your mind, overwhelmed your fear. You began to speak, hesitantly at first, then with a growing urgency, describing the flashes of golden light, the crushing weight of responsibility, the terrifying emptiness that sometimes threatened to consume you. As you spoke, Robert listened intently, his gaze never leaving yours, his expression a mixture of disbelief and a dawning, unsettling understanding. In the quiet of the night, under the watchful gaze of the streetlights, two fractured individuals began to piece together the terrifying truth of their intertwined realities, a truth that stretched far beyond the confines of their own minds and into a world of unimaginable power and devastating consequences.

As your hesitant words painted a picture of fractured perceptions and borrowed emotions, a chilling realization dawned in Robert's eyes. The pieces, disparate and unsettling, began to click into place. The raw power he struggled to contain, the echoes of a past life as a golden guardian, the constant battle against the encroaching void – it wasn't just his burden. It was somehow… leaking. Bleeding into the vulnerable consciousness of the quiet man standing before him.

"It's me," he whispered, the admission raw with a mixture of guilt and a dawning horror. "It's… my power. My… other side. It's not contained. It's… reaching out." He looked at you, his gaze filled with a desperate plea for understanding, for forgiveness for something he hadn't consciously done. "You're… you're feeling what I feel. The good… and the bad."

The revelation hit you with the force of a physical blow. The alien emotions, the terrifying nightmares, the crushing weight of responsibility – they weren't random figments of your anxious mind. They were echoes of him, of this powerful, tormented man standing before you. Your anxiety, your dissociation, had somehow created a conduit, a fragile bridge across which his fractured psyche could bleed into your own.

Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through the fragile understanding that had begun to form. You weren't just sharing a strange feeling; you were being invaded, your very sense of self compromised by the turbulent inner world of a stranger.

Robert saw the fear in your eyes, the dawning horror mirroring his own. "I… I didn't know," he stammered, his voice filled with anguish. "I never meant for this…"

But the intent didn't matter. The connection was there, a terrifying and undeniable link forged in the shadows of shared mental anguish and unimaginable power. The quiet streets of Lancaster no longer felt safe, the ordinary night air thick with an unspoken threat. You were tethered to something vast and volatile, a force that could shatter both your fragile realities.

As Robert reached out a hand, a gesture of desperate apology or perhaps a plea for help, you instinctively recoiled. The touch felt like it would be a further intrusion, a deeper merging with the chaos that emanated from him.

"What do we do?" you whispered, the question filled with a desperate uncertainty.

Robert's eyes, filled with a profound sorrow and a terrifying understanding of the potential consequences, met yours. "I don't know," he admitted, the words hanging heavy in the air. "But we have to stop it. Before it consumes us both."

The answer offered no comfort, only the stark realization of the perilous path that lay ahead, a path forged in shared suffering and the terrifying potential of a power neither of you truly understood. As the distant wail of a siren cut through the quiet night, an ominous harbinger of a world about to be irrevocably changed, you knew that your quiet life in Lancaster was over. The golden cage had shattered, and you were both now exposed to the terrifying vastness beyond.

[theocanhavemyheart]

Bob: I'm allergic to death.

[shiftingwithmars]

So in conclusion, I love Bob🫶🫶🫶

[kaci-doodles]

more bobs

[local-crying-boy]

Ahem, ahem… here’s a little smth I’m working on

Maybe the writing motivation has come back?