#bob thunderbolts

[coralinejones]

the difference between their reactions to john falling is killing me 😭😭😭

[em1i2a3]

The Dark Side

Pairing: The Void/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Mutant!Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: Bob is having a really bad depressive episode, and you have been unanimously voted to go and provide him with the comfort that he needs to pull him out.

Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of like…Oddly Fluffy but not much? Bob is going through it, Mentions of a Depressive Episode (in which Bob kind of destroys his room), Mentions of Blood/Bruises (descriptions are given of the injuries…Caused by the destroying of his room), Reader has the ability of Power Negation (rendering them unable to be Voided or sent into a shame room) and Telekinesis, Reader and Bob are very close, The Void is…In a large portion of this, like a huge portion of this…I need to write more Void tbh lol….Hinting at a part 2 possibly? I don’t know yet tho

Author’s Note: Someone requested Bob being the little spoon, and I truly loved the idea, so I took it and expanded it as much as possible to give it some…Bite. Hope y’all enjoy :) (also I’ve been literally waiting to use this song for something…And it’s so fitting)

Word Count: 7,652

The compound kitchen was too quiet for this many people. The silence thrummed with something unsaid, stretched thin and humming like a wire pulled too tight.

Ava sat cross-legged on the counter, shoulders hunched, chewing at the fraying edge of her gloved thumb. Every few seconds came the faint, squelching sound of wet leather between her teeth, rhythmic and uneasy. She didn’t seem to notice the sound–or maybe she did, and just didn’t care anymore. Her eyes were trained on the far wall where a few frying pans hung, staring at the one that was crooked and on the brink of falling.

Walker leaned against the fridge like a fixture, arms crossed so tight it made his biceps strain against the sleeves of his t-shirt. His jaw twitched once. His expression–stone-cold and unreadable–was that same military-grade stillness he defaulted to in times like this. Moments where concern might as well be weakness. Where admitting you were worried meant that something had already gone wrong.

Across the table, Yelena was perched in a chair like she’d rather be standing–back stiff, boot planted against the rung of the seat, fingers drumming out a frantic little pattern against the metal tabletop. It wasn’t idle. It was tight, and sharp. Like she was trying to match the tempo of her heartbeat and couldn’t quite keep up because it just kept changing.

Bucky stood with his weight braced against the sink, one hand wrapped around a chipped Thunderbolts mug–faded red and gray–but he hadn’t taken a sip in the last twenty minutes. Steam had long since stopped curling from the lip. His knuckles were white where they gripped the handle, and every so often, his thumb would twitch like he might lift it to his lips, but he never did.

Alexei was in the chair beside you, the wood creaking with every restless shift of his weight. Normally the loudest in any room, he was unusually subdued now. His thick forearms were folded across his stomach, and his eyes–usually wild and reactive–were narrowed, watching Walker with something unreadable. His fingers tapped once against the edge of his knee, then stopped.

And you…You sat stillest of all.

Watching, listening and waiting. Because you already knew what this emergency team meeting was about. Knew it the second you got the text. The second you stepped into this room and counted the people present. There was only one person missing–and it wasn’t like him to be absent for anything.

”We need to talk about Bob.” Yelena muttered, breaking the silence. Her voice was low, but firm. There was a collective exhale of something heavy settling into the room, like everyone had been holding the thought behind their teeth and didn’t want to be the one to name it.

“He hasn’t come out in two days,” Bucky added, voice hoarse from not talking in a while, “Knocked last night…No answer. Door was locked too.”

“I phased through the wall this morning,” Ava said, voice clipped, jaw tense “Couldn’t even be in there for more than a few seconds. Got thrown into the door…Had to get the hell out pretty quickly.” Walker glanced over at Ava.

”Yeah, cause The Void’s in there, it’s not Bob.” He mumbled grimly. You felt the words before you heard them. That faint pressure behind your sternum. Like something whispering from the edge of a black hole. Bucky’s gaze found the floor.

”Last time it was like this, he didn’t eat for a week, he didn’t sleep, he just sat on the floor staring at the wall until we talked him out of it…This time I heard him breaking things in his room…I truly don’t think speaking to him is going to work this time.” He stated, shifting from one foot to the other.

”So we send someone in.” Alexei suggested, his gruff voice cutting through the tension in the room.

“And what?” Walker scoffed, pushing off the fridge just enough to gesture with one hand “Get them sent to a shame room? I’m not going through that again.” The words hung in the air. Heavy and acidic.

And then the silence came again–heavier than before, only this time there was this sort of feeling like everyone was waiting for something.

That’s when you felt it.

Eyes. Not all at once. Not direct. Just quick, darting glances. One after another. Like everyone had the same thought, but no one wanted to say it out loud. Not until–

“Y/N…” Yelena’s voice was quiet and measured, like she was testing the water of a pool, “Would you be willing to try?” You looked over at her slowly. Her brows were pinched, mouth set, but her gaze didn’t flinch. Not from you, and certainly not from what she was asking. Before you could answer, Walker jumped in.

”Nothing happened to you when he Voided New York, right?” Your lashes fluttered a bit, and you could feel your face heat up. Your fingers twitched where they rested against your thigh, and slowly your gaze dropped to your hands–open, resting palm-up.

“Well…No,” You replied softly, “But I don’t think it would be the best idea to send me in.” Walker opened his mouth, but you lifted your chin and cut him off, voice firmer now, “I think I make The Void angrier…Because he can’t…Y’know–“

”Go through every bad memory you have, and make you relive every single one like it just happened?” Bucky interrupted gently, now taking a loud sip from his mug. You turned your head toward him, and his eyes met yours. Steady and understanding of your point.

”Yeah…Pretty much.” You murmured. Another beat of silence passed.

Then Walker let out a short, incredulous laugh, “Then why the hell do we even have you on this team if you don’t want to use your powers for something as small as this?” Your eyes snapped back to him, eyebrows lifting as your expression flattened into something cool and sharp.

”Last time I checked, Walker,” You started, “I saved your ass from a bunch of mutants in Slovenia.” He opened his mouth to say something, but you went on, “Remember that? The underground lab. The one where they lured you in with fake hostages? The one where Bucky’s arm got fried while you were too busy playing Captain Knockoff to notice the tripwire?” Walker blinked at you, his gaze dropping to the ground.

”And if I wasn’t there to dampen and take away their powers, you’d still be in that goddamn hole,” You stated, voice deceptively calm now, “So–kindly?” You leaned forward in your seat, resting your elbows on your knees, “Sit on it…And rotate.” Bucky let out a sigh, stepping in before Walker could say anything back in retaliation.

”You’re the only one who can technically get close to him without setting him off…I mean, yeah, it pisses him off. But you nullify him, Y/N…He backs off when you’re around…It also has a lot to do with the fact you’re close with Bob too.”

Bucky was right.

If it wasn’t for the fact that you were already close with Bob–closer than most, maybe too close–this would be impossible. And it wasn’t just proximity or shared downtime or familiarity on missions. It was that quiet, tangled closeness. The kind that took root when two people didn’t have to speak to understand each other. When silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but necessary.

Still, that didn’t make any of this easier.

Because even with that closeness…The Void knew who you were. What you were. And it hated you for it.

You’d only interacted with it directly a handful of times. Each one branded into your memory like scars you didn’t wear on the outside.

Once during a medbay blackout–Bob had been unconscious and bleeding, a psychic wound ripping through the space around him, and you’d been the only one able to get close enough to touch him. The Void had flickered into the room with a voice like cold static, dripping something ancient and endless against your bones. It didn’t yell. It didn’t threaten.

It whispered, and challenged.

“You take him from me.”

“He’s safer without you.”

“I could make you feel every moment of your worst night in under a second–want to try?”

Another time, on a rooftop in London, when Bob had collapsed mid-mission, shaking, breathless, clutching his skull with both hands like he was trying to hold himself inside it, The Void had poured through his cracks and stared at you through his eyes. You had been taken off guard, and in the split second that you weren’t aware he had made you see your mother, the way she grabbed you by your hair and slammed you against a mirror–which was how you got the scar above your eyebrow.

You didn’t even flinch, and that made The Void angrier with you.

You bit the inside of your lip, eyes flicking over the room again. Every face trained on you now. Some guarded, some silently pleading, but all of them were waiting.

Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to.

“…Fine. I’ll do it.”

A breath seemed to pass through the team like a wave, though no one dared say thank you. They knew better than to treat this like a favor. This wasn’t a volunteer mission. This was a gamble.

“But don’t hover around the door,” You added quickly, pressing your palms to your thighs as you stood, “I don’t need backup. It’ll just make things worse.”

They all nodded.

Bucky was the first to step back, giving you space. He dipped his chin once in acknowledgment, slow and solemn. Yelena gave you a tight nod, eyes shadowed with concern, but she didn’t argue. Ava dropped her hand from her mouth, the glove damp with spit, and looked at you like she wanted to say something–but didn’t.

Walker crossed his arms again and stayed quiet, which, for him, might’ve been the most meaningful gesture of all.

Alexei stood as well, hand coming to rest lightly on your shoulder as you moved past. His grip was steady. Warm. Protective in the way only he could be–loud without words.

You didn’t say anything else as you left the kitchen. Didn’t look back.

The hallway to Bob’s quarters felt longer than usual. The lights overhead buzzed faintly, the soft hum of the compound’s systems running like a heartbeat in the background. You could feel it–low and dull–the way his presence saturated the air even through the door. That pressure in the back of your head. The coil of unease in your ribs.

You paused outside the room.

No sound from within. No breathing. No shuffling. No glass breaking. Just…Stillness. Heavy and full, like a vacuum waiting to collapse in on itself.

You raised your fist slowly and knocked twice.

“Void…I’m coming in.”You announced, already knowing he probably sensed you from miles away. The lock clicked under the pressure of your mind–an old security latch giving a reluctant little snick as your telekinesis pried it loose with practiced ease. The door creaked open, just wide enough for you to slip inside.

And the second it sealed shut behind you, the weight of the room hit.

Not just silence.

Suffocation.

The darkness was thick–almost physical. It pooled in the corners like oil and clung to the walls, layered and unmoving. The blackout curtains were to blame for that–drawn tight, suffocating what little natural light might’ve softened the edges of the space.

But even the shadows weren’t still. They writhed.

You took a single step forward, and the crunch under your boot broke the silence.

Glass…There was so much glass.

Not just from a shattered mirror, but from everything else in the room–fragments of picture frames, broken mugs, shattered bulbs. Jagged teeth scattered across the floor like a warning. In the far corner, an old desk chair laid toppled on its side, two of its legs snapped clean through, the splinters of plastic jutting upward like a broken rib cage.

The dresser was no longer a dresser.

It was a carcass. Wood panels torn from their seams, drawers ripped apart like kindling. One drawer had clearly been thrown–there were impact marks on the opposite wall where the corner had struck and left a dent, now trailing with paint dust and something darker–blood or ink or both. The walls were pockmarked with fist-sized impressions. You counted at least six from where you stood, each one blooming out in spiderweb cracks.

The air smelled like sweat, iron, static, and something metallic. Burned electronics…The scent of a mind unraveling, and overtaken by something empty.

Though, through all the destruction, the bed–miraculously–remained intact.

Sort of.

The sheets were rumpled, tangled half way down the frame, one corner half-ripped from the mattress, but the structure itself held. Just barely. The headboard was dented. The mattress had dark stains near the middle, but you didn’t want to guess what they were.

But none of that truly drew your eyes…It was him…

The Void.

Curled like a gravitational wound at the center of the chaos. A black mass draped across the unmade bed in something that only resembled the fetal position. Shoulders hunched, limbs drawn in too tightly, like he was trying to curl into the concept of himself and erase what was left. The shadows rolled off his back in slow, deliberate tendrils–molasses-thick and ink-dark. They rose and fell in undulating pulses, brushing against the sheets, licking the edge of the mattress, curling through the air like they were tasting it. He was still, but not inert, like a storm brewing, but just beyond the horizon.

You took one careful breath and moved forward.

Crossing the room meant stepping around the wreckage–splintered furniture, broken glass, ceramics, and fractured memories from the Polaroids that were scattered on the floor from the broken frames. You moved with practiced precision, keeping your steps slow, measured, and balanced. No sudden movements, no sharp noises apart from the cracking and shattering beneath your feet, just you and your presence.

When you reached the far wall, you hesitated–just for a second–then reached for the curtain. Your fingers trembled slightly as it came into contact with the thick, light proof fabric.

You took a breath, and yanked it open.

Sunlight poured into the room like a floodgate breaking.

Warm and red and golden–the last gasp of a sunset bleeding across the compound horizon. It didn’t banish the dark, but it carved a space in it. Lit the motes of dust hanging heavy in the air. Made the wreckage shimmer like a battlefield caught in the golden hour.

And it lit him.

The Void didn’t move. Not fully. But you could feel the shift. The twitch of air. The smallest ripple in the fabric of the room.

When you turned back to him–

There he was.

The Void looked…Almost beautiful in the sunlight.

Not in the way people meant when they talked about beauty. This wasn’t gentle or graceful or soft. It wasn’t something that asked to be appreciated. It was arresting. Unnatural. Terrifying, yes–but stunning in a way that made your breath catch like it had stumbled into your throat and forgotten how to move.

The golden light cut a jagged angle across the wreckage–strewn room, carving past broken drawers and shattered glass and plastic, but it slowed when it hit him.

Not physically, but perceptibly. Like the light hesitated.

The Void’s form didn’t cast a shadow–he was the shadow. A humanoid silhouette, pitch-black and impossibly dark, draped in endless, shifting tendrils that shimmered faintly in the warm light. He wasn’t see-through, not exactly, but he wasn’t solid either. Looking at him felt like peering into the night sky from the bottom of the ocean–inky, infinite, and so far removed from the natural world that your eyes didn’t quite know where to land.

He looked like a silhouette made of star-drenched tar. The only consistent shape was his outline–vaguely human, impossibly still–and the shock of those eyes.

Pale white. Pupils like burning pinholes through reality itself.

And then there were the freckles. Not normal ones. They weren’t skin-deep or superficial, but scattered like constellations across his chest and shoulders and face, splattered in soft gradients of faint violet and ghost-light blue and shocking white. They moved. Barely. Like they weren’t actually part of him, but windows into something else. Into somewhere that didn’t obey the same laws of existence.

Like someone had cracked open the body of the universe and poured it into him until he took its shape.

You took another step closer, your boots crunching on a piece of ceramic that used to be a mug, and that’s when his head turned slightly–just enough for you to meet one pale, gleaming eye.

And then–he growled. Low and guttural. Less vocal, and more…Animalistic.

”…God.” The word rumbled through the air like it had teeth, “Not you.” You blinked, and then smiled. Not unkindly. Not smugly, either. Just…Knowingly.

You shifted your weight onto one leg, arms loosely crossed, letting your gaze roam over him again now that you were closer. It was always a strange thing, seeing him like this–in daylight. You’d only ever caught glimpses. In dreams. In flickers. In the strange reflections that warped when Bob was between states. But never like this. Never with the sunset warm on your face, and him laid out in the middle of it like a void-stained wound stitched into golden light.

It made him look unreal. Like something painted across the world and only half-belonging.

“I figured you knew I was coming,” You said lightly, voice quiet but firm as you took another careful step forward, your knees almost hitting the mattress. “I’m sure of it, actually…You’re all knowing are you not?” He didn’t respond. But he moved–barely. A twitch in his shoulder. A curl of fingers you hadn’t noticed pressed into the sheets. And then slowly, with the kind of irritated dramatism only a god-tier being could muster, he turned over.

Away from you.

It was such a petty, human gesture that you nearly laughed. He curled onto his other side like a sullen teenager pretending to be asleep, the tendrils of shadow snapping faintly around his limbs–like he was swatting the sunlight away.

You sat down on the edge of the bed slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements, careful to keep your voice soft as you spoke again, “I’m not here to fight with you.” A pause. The air shifted again. Like the room was breathing for him.

“I’m just here for him,” You murmured. “You know that.”

No answer.

Just the shadows tightening around his form like a second skin. Flicking sharp toward the light, then recoiling. The silence didn’t just settle this time–it spread. Like a sickness. Like smoke crawling into your lungs, seeping under your skin, and clinging to the corners of your thoughts.

You stared at the pillow beneath his head, your brow slowly pulling into a tight line.

There–just beneath the crook of where his temple met the white cotton–were stains.

Tiny, deep red drops.

Not smeared, or splattered, but fallen and sunken into the fabric.

”…Are you bleeding?” You asked softly, the question curling through the air like the edge of a breeze that didn’t quite reach him. The Void paused for a moment.

And then–he laughed.

Short and dry. Low and splintered. It didn’t echo. It shook. Like the walls of the room didn’t want to carry the sound and were trying to drop it before it could reach too far.

“I do not bleed,” He said, the words scraping over the back of your mind like cold metal dragging across bone, “The shell does.” Your jaw flexed slightly, and your frown deepened.

“…Did he do all of this?” You asked, “The mess I mean…Or was it you?” At first, he didn’t say anything. There was not even the twitch of a shadow.

Then he curled in tighter into himself, the shadows drawing closer like blankets that didn’t warm.

”Mix of both,” He admitted, reluctantly, “I don’t understand why it matters to you.” You let the breath leave your nose in a quiet sigh and dropped your gaze.

“Well…” You murmured, reaching for the zipper of your hoodie, “First, we’re going to have to replace all of this stuff.” The hoodie came off in one fluid motion. You tossed it gently to the side of the bed and leaned forward to untie your boots, voice dropping just a little more casual as you added, “And second… I’d rather be ready when he comes back.” The last boot hit the floor with a soft thud. You stretched your socked toes slightly before curling them back under you and shifting onto the bed more fully, tucking one leg beneath you.

“Because I know I’ll have to bandage his hands now.” The Void shifted again. His back hunched tighter, shadows rippling sharp across his shoulders like hackles rising on an animal trying not to snarl.

“…He’s not coming back,” He replied, so quietly you almost missed it, “He’s in too deep.” You didn’t respond right away, you just tilted your head a bit, and let your eyes linger on the slope of his back, the way the light carved out the glinting star-patterns along his skin. You didn’t let your face harden. Didn’t scoff. Didn’t rush him. You just raised your brow slightly.

“Mm,” You hummed. “We’ll see about that.”

And then–slowly–you reached forward.

The tendrils noticed first. They snapped back from your approach like struck nerves. Sizzling faintly at the edges of your reach, shadows spiraling defensively around his form, curling between your hand and his body like they could block what was coming.

They knew what your touch would do.

But you didn’t stop.

You let your fingers slip through the whorls of shadow like they were ink in water–watching them coil and twitch as they tried, and failed, to recoil fast enough.

And then your palm met his shoulder.

Cold.

So cold your breath caught in your throat. Like placing your hand against dry ice, it was so cold it was…Hot in a way.

He flinched. Hard. The entire bed jostled with the sudden jerk of his muscles pulling tight.

“Ah–!”

The hiss tore out of him unbidden, guttural and strangled like it hurt. Because it did.

You could feel it the moment your skin met his–how the shadows shrank. How the hum of wrongness faltered in the walls. How the pressure around the room thinned slightly. You were draining him. Nullifying the divine static that clung to him like rot.

His body didn’t lurch away immediately, but his breath did. A sharp inhale. Like the pain was new. Like it surprised even him.

“…Don’t,” He rasped. “Don’t touch me.”

But you didn’t pull back.

Your hand pressed firmer to his shoulder.

The shadows hissed.

He jerked again, more violently this time, trying to pull himself away–but you didn’t let him. You didn’t even move. The only shift was in the air–your focus hardening, your mind expanding like a net, invisible but unshakable.

Telekinesis wasn’t always force. It wasn’t about slamming someone across a room or crushing metal with your thoughts.

Sometimes, it was about stillness. Weight. The kind of pressure that settled over bone and muscle like gravity, inescapable and patient.

And so when he tried to move again, the Void grunted–sharp, frustrated, restrained. The bedframe creaked beneath him with the effort of a god trying to disobey the very laws of physics you wove around him.

“I will kill you.” The words were low. Ragged. Meant to shake you.

But you…laughed.

Not loud. Not mocking. Just…Soft. A breathy, disbelieving thing that came from the hollow of your throat and made your shoulders twitch with the absurdity of it.

“If that’s what you truly wanted…” You murmured, your voice a ghost just above his ear as you leaned in close, “You would’ve done it already.”

There was a pause.

Heavy. Stagnant. Tense.

He tried again. You could feel it–his form straining against your hold, his shadows cracking through the air like whips, like rage incarnate, but they couldn’t touch you. Not really. Not with your powers blanketing the space between.

He growled. Animalistic. Teeth grinding, tendrils snapping.

You didn’t flinch.

You just moved.

Slowly, quietly, you climbed onto the bed fully. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, groaning with the shift, and he hissed again–but not from pain this time. From confusion.

And then…You laid behind him.

You felt it instantly. The temperature drop was jarring, biting into your skin through your shirt. It hit your chest first, then your bare arms as you wrapped them carefully around him, curling your body along the edge of his.

You let your arm drape over his side, your palm hovering at first, before pressing flat against his chest.

Gods shouldn’t feel like this.

Shouldn’t tremble. Shouldn’t shiver.

But he did.

His body didn’t accept the comfort–it reacted to it, violently at first. The moment your skin touched his chest, his muscles tensed, his breath caught, and then came the sound.

A broken, pained little gasp.

It wasn’t quite a growl. It wasn’t even a scream.

It was…A whimper.

Low. Raw. And filled with something deeper than pain.

The tendrils thrashed. A few brushed past your cheek, stinging cold, like frostbite in motion. One grazed your lips. Another flicked across your jaw, searching, tasting, confused.

But they didn’t strike.

They didn’t push you away.

In fact, slowly…They began to shift.

Curling, and looping, almost in a tender way. A hesitant winding around your arm. A slow crawl against your thigh. Brushing, nudging, and then stilling. Like they were learning you again. Like they remembered your signature and didn’t quite know what to do with it anymore.

“Just…” Your voice trembled slightly with the cold, but you didn’t stop, “Calm down, Void…Let him come back.” Your breath fogged against the back of his neck, warm in contrast to the chill that radiated off him like a dying sun.

He shuddered. Twitched. His hand moved to grab your wrist, but didn’t squeeze–just held it. Like an anchor. Or a warning.

Then he pushed against your arm once–sharp, desperate, useless.

And then…He sagged, letting out a frustrated, inhuman sound that didn’t belong in a throat. Something halfway between a hiss and a wounded sob. You felt it in his chest more than you heard it. A tremor under your palm. A ripple in your own ribs from how tightly you were pressed to him.

The tendrils wrapped tighter, and your cheek pressed gently to the back of his shoulder.

There was a long moment where neither of you moved.

Not a breath stirred the air between your bodies. Not a word passed your lips.

Your cheek stayed pressed to the curve of his shoulder, eyes half-lidded, lashes brushing the cool shadowed skin. You let your senses drift, quietly reaching–searching–for something deeper. Something alive. You tried to listen again. Tried to find it. That faint rhythm. That human thread. That flicker of Bob.

But there was nothing.

No beat. No pulse.

Just silence.

Like pressing your ear against something ancient and hollow. Something that had forgotten it was ever meant to hold life.

And still…You stayed.

Your arm slowly shifted under the pillow, tucking more securely around the Void’s form, locking him in tighter, folding yourself to him like an anchor trying to hold a black hole still.

He grunted–louder this time–when your hand slipped across his chest again. The heatless cold biting up your wrist, down to the marrow, but you didn’t let go.

“You are hurting me.”

His voice was fractured now.

Still sharp. Still foreign. But softer around the edges. Like something was fraying. Like he wasn’t used to stating pain—only inflicting it.

You shook your head gently, your breath warm against the shell of his neck.

“You’re not used to this,” You murmured, voice steady despite the chill leeching into your skin. “But this is the only way I can get Bob back.”

Your fingers flexed slightly, your grip never relenting.

“You’re not going to go away on your own,” You added, more softly now, “I know you well enough…”

The second the words left your mouth, he moved.

Fast.

The Void jerked against you, his shadows spiking like claws as he tried to break free from your arms with all the force of a universe unraveling. Your powers flared instinctively–holding him, grounding him, caging him without violence.

And then he snapped–

“You don’t know me at all,” He hissed. “You have no fucking idea who I am.” The room trembled. The broken glass shivered on the floor. One of the remaining lightbulbs overhead gave a sick little buzz and blinked out.

But you…

You didn’t flinch.

You didn’t let go.

And you didn’t raise your voice.

Your reply was almost gentle.

“I know the person you live inside,” you said. “I know him.”

You let your forehead rest against the top of his spine, your hand smoothing softly over the cold, trembling surface of his chest.

“And you may not believe it,” You continued, “But you’re a piece of him. Whether you hate it or not.”

He stilled–but not with calmness–with a kind of rigid tension. The kind that only came before collapse.

You pressed on.

“And he…” You said slowly, voice like a thread stitching through the dark, “He likes being touched. And held. And wanted.”

A beat.

“Deep down inside that hollowness, I think you do too.”

The shadows tightened around your arms–an instinct. A warning. But they didn’t pull you away.

“That’s my little key to get into your head,” You whispered, “And bring him back.”

And with that, you pulled him even closer.

You melted into him–your arm cinched tighter under his ribs, your hand splayed flat against the void of his chest, fingers brushing those starlit freckles like they might ignite under the contact. Your thighs curved around the bend of his body. Your breath warmed the space between his neck and shoulder.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t hiss.

Didn’t growl.

But you felt the change.

His grip tightened on your wrist. Not to crush. Not to command. But to hold. Like he was waiting. Waiting for you to falter. Waiting for your guard to drop. Waiting for you to flinch–so he could shove you away and snap the thread.

But you didn’t.

You just held on.

“You’re not going to scare me off,” You breathed. “So go ahead. Try.”

Your voice was calm. Unshaking. Your hand moved without thinking now.

Slow, gentle circles against his chest. Fingers brushing the raised curve of a freckle, then flattening again. Just enough pressure to remind him you were there. Just enough heat to keep the ice from creeping back in too fast. Your thumb traced the faint starlit constellation scattered near his collarbone, following one mark to the next as if mapping a sky only you could read.

You didn’t know how long it took. Time didn’t work right in rooms like this–where the air tasted like static and silence stretched so long it warped.

But eventually…

The rigidness began to leave him.

Not in one dramatic exhale.

Not with a sigh or a shudder.

Just a slow, quiet shift. One vertebrae at a time. One tendon unwinding. His shadows still clung to your wrist and thighs like anchors, but their hold was less…tense. Less venom. More hesitation.

And then–you felt it.

A small, deliberate movement.

His head tilted down. Chin dropped ever so slightly toward his chest, toward your hand. Not fast enough to be startled. Not deep enough to retreat. Just…searching. Studying. Like he was looking at something he hadn’t dared examine until now.

And then–

“…You have a lot of beauty marks on your hands.”

His voice was quieter now. Duller at the edges. Like something inside him had collapsed just enough to let the words out.

“Bob looks at them a lot.”

The admission settled in the air between you like a stone into water–gentle, but heavy with weight.

You stilled for just a breath. Then resumed your tracing, softer this time, almost like you didn’t want to scare the moment away.

“He pretends he’s not,” The Void added. “But he memorized them.”

A pause. “One by one.”

Your throat tightened. Just a little. But you didn’t speak. You waited.

He inhaled once, shallow.

“…Folklore says they represent where your soulmate from a past life used to kiss you.” Your brows furrowed, caught somewhere between surprise and something warmer, softer.

You tilted your head just a little against his shoulder, trying not to let him hear the quiet thrum picking up in your chest.

A moment passed.

And then you said, teasingly–light but careful–

“Seems like a lot of soulmates have kissed you everywhere…” You nudged gently at his side with your fingers. “You’ve got marks all over your body.”

There was a pause.

Then–

A sound.

It wasn’t a laugh. It wasn’t a scoff either.

It was something between.

A sound from deep in his chest. Soft, strange. Like a hum unraveling. Like a thread pulled from a black tapestry and found to be made of silk. Not hostile. Not mocking. Just…Thoughtful.

“…It is not the same,” He murmured.

And the way he said it–

It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t flippant. It was almost longing. Like he knew, with unsettling clarity, the difference between touch and intimacy. Between worship and warmth. You didn’t move your hand from his chest. Just kept brushing your thumb in slow arcs across the curve of one freckle, and then another, as your brow furrowed gently.

“How is it not the same?” You asked, feeling The Void shift beside you–not violently, but with something sharp in the tension of his shoulders, like the question had scraped a nerve. His chin dipped again, the shadows curling tighter along your spine.

“It’s just…” He muttered, clipped now, almost irritated, “…How it looks.” He rolled slightly, enough for the tendrils across his chest to shimmer faintly in the dying sunlight. The freckles pulsed there still–pale, slow-burning starlight in a galaxy of ink.

“You may interpret it as marks,” He added flatly, “But it is just…How it is. There’s nothing more to it.” His voice was distant again. Slipping back into that cold echo, like he was digging himself into a trench of denial. You hummed softly in response. Not convinced. Not arguing. Just…Thinking.

And then, after a beat–

“You’ve never felt love, or anything like that, hmm?” He stiffened entirely. Like you’d cracked a fault line that ran straight through him and threatened to split his chest open.

He didn’t reply.

So you continued–gently, but with a note of something more pointed.

”You just…Live behind Bob’s eyes, and whatever he goes through–whatever he feels–you get the little bites of it…Correct?” It was a truth you didn’t say to hurt him. But it landed that way anyway.

He groaned. Not out of pain. Not purely out of rage either. It was resentment. Pure and concentrated. Heavy in his chest and thick in his voice as he snapped–

“Listen…”

The tendrils twitched against your arms. Coiled with warning.

“I am already stuck in this position because you’re a succubus leech who drains me every time you breathe near me–” He spat, the words acidic and cutting, “I am not going to speak about what I experience through Bob. This is not a therapy session.” You bit the inside of your cheek, just barely, and sat with the sting of it. Let it pass.

“…Okay,” You said quietly, “Touchy subject. Sorry.”

Your voice didn’t waver. But it softened. Like you knew it was a wound. And not one you could cauterize tonight.

A pause fell over you both. He turned his face just slightly, half-hidden in the bend of his elbow, and the tension around him seemed to slow–not dissipate, not ease, but slow. A stalling breath caught in molasses.

And then, without even thinking about your next actions, you pressed your lips gently to his shoulder.

It was a soft kiss. Barely there. Just a whisper of heat against a body that didn’t carry it.

But the reaction was immediate.

The Void flinched–hard. But not away.

And just below where your lips touched his skin, you saw it.

A flicker.

A little fractal of a star.

Tiny. No bigger than your thumbnail. A fractured pinpoint of white-gold, like a nova caught mid-bloom. It shimmered once, flaring faint violet at the edges–like a nerve exposed. It appeared beneath the skin of shadow like light behind thin glass, and then…Stayed. Not fading. Not shrinking. Just there.

And the second your heart clenched–sharp and aching at the sight–he snapped.

“Don’t do that again.”

The voice was low. Cold, but not cruel. He sounded afraid.

You blinked. Sat up slightly behind him. Your hand still rested against his chest, but your expression shifted–watching the star pulsing softly.

”I knew you brought up that folklore stuff for a reason,” You murmured.

The Void twitched beneath your weight–tension returning, but not fury. Something more volatile in its vulnerability. He shifted, trying to roll, but the weight of your powers kept him still, your body pressed too closely against his for him to twist away.

“Jesus Christ,” he snapped, frustrated. “What are you? A rock? A boulder? I—I can’t even move.”

“Exactly,” you said lightly, settling your cheek back against his shoulder. “You’re trying to avoid the conversation… Maybe you should let Bob come back to handle this one.”

He growled low in his throat, shadows snapping once in protest, but nothing struck you.

“I’m not that easily swayed by a thing like you,” he bit out.

But there was hesitation in it now. Thinning resistance. A fracture in the spine of his anger.

You smiled against his skin.

And then—you started kissing him again.

Slow. Gentle. One after the other.

You placed a kiss at the dip of his spine.

Then at the base of his neck.

Then to the spot just beneath his jaw, where the darkness shimmered like ink floating over glass.

And each kiss—every single one—left another starlight bloom.

A pinpoint of white-gold.

A soft violet pulse.

A celestial wound that didn’t bleed—but glowed.

Tiny galaxies emerging under your mouth like his body had forgotten how to hide them.

“Are Bob and I soulmates?” you whispered against his skin, voice just playful enough to burn, “Is that what this is?”

Another kiss. Another nova. Another whimper. Not a growl this time.

He jerked again, but this time–not away.

Something loosened, and you felt it. The tension in the shadows began to stutter.

Their rhythm breaking.

Tendrils untangling.

The air around you shifted–less cold now. Less heavy. And then—you saw it.

Just a glimpse.

A slip.

A patch of pale, trembling skin where darkness used to writhe. Just beneath your hand, on the far side of his ribs, the black slid back like melting paint, retreating under your touch.

His breath hitched.

And then–suddenly–the shadows collapsed inward.

Like a tidal wave rushing in reverse.

Like the vacuum of space had just exhaled all at once.

They peeled off him in layers, the tendrils shriveling and snapping back like overstretched nerves, retreating into the floor, the walls, the bedframe. A vortex of absence pulling itself away from something it could no longer cling to.

And all that was left–was Bob.

He gasped like a man drowned. Choking on the air like it burned.

His whole body trembled–bare skin exposed now, sweat-slicked and shaking, his spine curved, arms drawn in like he was trying to hold himself together.

His fingers twisted into the sheets like he didn’t know where he was.

His eyes were wide. Unfocused.

And then–

They found you.

And the second they met yours, that glimmer of bright, beautiful blue–

You exhaled. All the weight in your chest collapsing inward with a relief so fierce it stung.

“Bob,” You breathed.

He didn’t answer.

His jaw clenched, shaking.

Tears stung the corners of his eyes–not falling yet, but close. His breath was coming too fast, too sharp.

You moved instantly.

Your hand came to his head–gently, reverently–fingers sliding into his sweaty hair, dragging softly over his scalp in long, grounding motions.

He flinched at first–then leaned into it, seeking the comfort that you had given him countless times before from outside of this context. You pulled him back toward you, tucking his head beneath your chin as your arms curled tighter around his chest.

“It’s okay,” You whispered, voice warm, threading through the cold air like gold wire. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.” His fingers clutched at your forearm with sudden, desperate strength.

A choked, broken sob tore out of him as his grip tightened like a vice—raw, panicked, trembling. He clung to you like the room might dissolve if he let go, like you might dissolve. And when you glanced down to where his hand gripped your arm, your breath caught in your throat.

“…Oh my god…Bob.”

His hands were ruined.

The skin across his knuckles was torn open–bloody and cracked like old leather stretched too far. Scabbed-over lacerations split in jagged lines across every joint, with dried blood crusted thick beneath his fingernails and ground into the creases of his palm. The bruising was almost violent in color–black and violet pooled beneath the skin in wide, uneven patches that traveled from the backs of his hands to the delicate tendons along the inside of his wrists.

His palms were the worst.

Torn in places. Split where skin had given out from striking too many hard surfaces–glass, wood, stone. Splinters embedded in the meat of his thumbs. Swollen pads bruised from impact after impact, the raw friction of knuckles dragging across floors and punching through walls. There was a fine tremor in every finger, shaking so subtly it made your chest ache.

You reached for him instinctively, your other hand hovering just under his wrist–

“Let me ge–”

But he cut you off.

“Pl–Please,” He gasped, voice wrecked with sobs, “Don’t–don’t leave me. I…I don’t wa–want to be alone.”

His fingers curled harder around your arm, pulling you in tighter, frantic and shaking. Your heart cracked clean in two.

You softened instantly, forehead resting against the back of his head.

“I can’t just leave your hands like this…” You whispered, barely able to get the words out through the thick knot forming in your throat.

But he whimpered again, voice splintering apart at the seams.

“Ye–Yes you can…I d-do—don’t want to be alone…”

The words hit like a blow.

Not loud.

Not dramatic.

Just honest in the way only raw fear could be. His body was folded in on itself, back pressed to your chest, and you felt every tremble he couldn’t suppress. Every twitch of pain. Every fractured breath.

You closed your eyes and exhaled slowly, letting your brow knit tight, letting the helplessness crest over you–but only for a second.

Then–gently–you shifted back into place behind him.

Your arm curled across his torso once more, anchoring him against you, your legs folding in tighter like you could protect him from the air itself. You kissed the crown of his head–once, then again, softer this time–your lips trembling against the tangled mess of his damp curls.

Your voice came quieter now, steadier, like you were afraid speaking too loud might break him again.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His hand still clung to your arm, shaking, but you moved carefully–slowly–lifting one of his bruised fists with tender fingers. You brought it to your mouth, just above the worst of the dried blood, and kissed it.

One knuckle.

Then the next.

Then lower–across the cracked bend of his thumb.

Another kiss.

And another.

You didn’t flinch at the blood. You didn’t pull back at the bruises. You kissed through them like they were sacred. Like they were his and that made them worth kissing.

“I’m sorry,” He choked suddenly, the words tumbling out in gasps. “I–I’m sorry for the r-room, for everything–god, I ruined everything, I just–I–”

“Hey,” You whispered, cutting him off softly. You kissed his hand again. “It’s fine. Everyone will help you replace everything. You’re safe. You’re okay. Just breathe with me, alright?”

He hiccuped a sob, still trembling, still cradled in your arms.

“Just breathe,” You repeated, your voice like silk threading through the ache in his lungs.

And slowly–painfully–he tried.

You pressed your cheek to the side of his head and spoke quietly against his hair.

“In through your nose…”

You inhaled with him.

“Good. Now out through your mouth.”

You exhaled slow and steady.

Again.

“In…”

He followed, ragged but trying.

“…And out.”

You felt his shoulders shake–but this time, they weren’t recoiling. They were easing. Piece by broken piece.

“You’re okay, Bob,” You whispered. “Just keep breathing with me. I’ve got you.”

[blakellyl]

sweetie just started living a normal life and now mf Doom is going to fucking ruin it for him

[eyelessfaces]

save the date

bob reynolds x reader

summary: bob is gutted to find out you’re looking for love on a dating app, not knowing the only reason you are is because you're convinced he will never make a step in your direction – you’re now both trying to move on from each other while neither of you know how much you actually want each other.

tags: f!reader, friends to lovers, misunderstandings/miscommunication trope, dating apps, oblivious idiots in love, mutual pining though both parts think it's unrequited, angst, alcohol consumption, bob takes care of drunk reader, mentions of bob's former addiction, insecurities, the thunderbolts are very involved, yelena being an amazing supportive friend and an aroace icon, I pick on walker a few times in there but I actually like the guy dw

word count: 6k

masterlist | taglist | ao3 | @eyelessupdates

buy me a coffee ♡

“I made a selection already but I’m not sure how to slim it down and which ones I should pick”

Yelena gives you a single, confident nod that tells you she got this and silently motions for you to hand her your phone, her lollipop standing by itself inside her mouth as she carefully looks through the different pictures you selected to potentially put on your profile, scrolling through them with the same focus she reviews mission plans with. 

She had helped you come up with things to write down for the descriptions on your profile, but you knew damn well that this was the most important part, the main object of attention, the thing that would make your first impression on those men you could potentially date. And you had to admit it was fucking terrifying in some way.

“Oh this one is nice. You look so cute” she says as she picks the lollipop out, stopping on one picture. “It’s definitely going up on your profile.” 

Before you can respond, she swipes again and nods decisively. “Oh and this one too.” she says it like it’s a fact, not up for discussion. “Your eyes look like you might want to kill someone, which is probably attractive to some people”

You huff out a laugh. “You say it like it’s a good thing”

“I told you, I wouldn’t be surprised some would be into it,” she says with a shrug as she sticks the baton back between her lips.

You chuckle and nod in appreciation though you're filled with a strange mix of feelings, caught somewhere between excitement and anticipation. It's all new to you, it's not something you have tried before, and you can feel a stress blooming at the bottom of your stomach – picking pictures for dozens of strangers to see is a bit intimidating, even when your face is already known for working as a New Avenger; it feels widely different to choose how you’re wanting to be seen, to put yourself out there for others to judge.

You watch as Yelena continues swiping to the left. “Oh I took that one!” she exclaims, face lighting up with pride as she points proudly to the screen. “Yeah it’s got a little kick. You didn’t even know the picture was being taken so it looks natural. Brings out your casual charm” 

You snort up a laugh and nod. “Okay thank you,” you grin, picking your phone back to set the couple pictures she chose and add them onto your profile. “Hey, thank you for helping me with this” you nod, giving her a grateful smile. “I know dating is not your thing so I appreciate your involvement even more”

“Sure, anytime” she tilts her head, giving you a shrug and a friendly smile. You go over your whole profile, assessing the final product, watching how it’s all supposed to reflect you for good now. 

Yelena turns around when a couple of knocks hit her door, and she allows entry, her face brightening when Bob reveals himself behind the door, a smile over his face. He greets the both of you sitting cross legged over Yelena's bed, and you reciprocate the smile as he steps inside. 

“Oh Bob, good thing you’re here we need a masculine input” Yelena swiftly takes the phone from your hands, showing Bob the set of pictures over the screen. “This looks alright to you?” 

Bob steps closer, eyes moving across the images slowly. “Yeah?” he shrugs positively, nodding genuinely, eyes darting back and forth between each picture of you on the screen before they land on you for real. “I mean you look great, what’s that for?” he asks, unsure what is expected of him.

“Dating app” Yelena says as she hands you your phone back. You look up at Bob, quickly feeling a slight heat creep up your cheeks before your gaze darts back down at your phone.

“Oh” Bob’s voice drops a little before he catches up with a smile. “Well you’ll do great,” he nods, his voice sincere. “I mean, whoever matches with you, they’ll be lucky”

“Thank you, Bob” you genuinely smile. 

Yelena glances up and watches as he fiddles with the hem of his sweater, and chooses not to say anything. 

Bob lightly clears his throat before he talks again. “Well I was just checking up on you, I’m gonna get going,” he says, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder. “Good luck with that,” he smiles.

You nod, watching as he heads for the door and closes it behind him with a soft click. Yelena raises an eyebrow at you once the sound fades, a little something in her gaze you can’t exactly define. “What?” you ask flatly, but the heat remains on your cheeks as she looks at you accusingly.

“Nothing,” she shrugs. You know she means the whole opposite of it.

—

This past week hasn't been the calmest, but then again, nothing ever really had been – not for Bob. 

He had been used to carrying the discomfort his whole life, tossing it quietly at the corners of his mind, letting the mess grow until he couldn’t handle it anymore. Like everything else, it had just been a matter of dealing with it, pushing through, and trying to come to terms with it. 

Bob sits in his usual spot of the common area when he reads, but now, it's not really what this is about, as he can't seem to focus and rereads the same line over and over again without ever truly grasping its meaning and the image that is supposed to be painted inside his mind. 

Because the only thing he can think about is you, knowing that you're dodging movie night tonight to go on that date.

You had just mentioned it earlier this week – hadn’t made much of a show out of it, just told the team you wouldn’t spend that Friday evening with them the way you did every other Friday, the way your routine as a group had set it. 

And you didn’t even specify what it was, where you were going, what you were doing and who you were doing it with. 

But it made sense and spoke for itself, but still, as Bob heard Alexei ask and you answered him with what was implied, it still hurt.

This whole dating app profile thing shouldn't have him overthinking it so much, because technically, there was no reason for it to.

And the worst and most confusing thing was, it wasn't even jealousy or something – being jealous would imply he had something to lose, but there, he didn't have anything to begin with, not rightfully. 

He knew damn well he could never be enough for you, that was something he had figured out the moment he realized the feelings he had for you. 

So he didn’t feel angry. He felt less than. He felt small.

And he hates feeling so deeply about it, hates that an overwhelming ache grows inside his stomach every time he has to think about it, hates the insecurity that creeps up his thoughts and gnaws at everything else until it's all he can think about, until all he can hear is the distant voice of the Void telling him he could never be worth it, could never deserve someone like you. He’s used to it, but it feels different now that it involves someone else indirectly. Hurts in a whole different way. Especially when he truly wants someone to make you happy, even if it involves it not being him.

“Bob” Bucky calls, watching him from a distance, noticing Bob’s gaze unfocused, away from his book, not even pretending to read anymore. “You alright kid?” he asks once Bob’s head perks up, giving him his attention. The team had taken the habit of snapping him out of it whenever it looked like Bob was too deep inside his own head, to distract him with something else before his thoughts got too intense – though Bucky knew for a fact there sometimes was no use trying to chase it away, that if it had to crawl back and consume you whole, it would. 

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yeah I'm fine” Bob smiles. 

That was the default answer, no matter how he truly felt, despite having been wanting to be more honest about his feelings as per his therapist’s advice – it wasn’t supposed to be that deep in this specific case, it was just some teenage-like feelings, so lying about it wasn’t so wrong, it didn’t feel like the kind of thing worth confessing, wasn’t the kind of pain that deserved air. 

Yet it still hurt.

Bucky nods, barely convinced, but chooses not to say anything, not to push it.

He knows better than anyone else how much it costs to be honest about whatever the hell goes on inside your own head.

—

You stumble out of the elevator, gathering the little focus you have left to try not to trip over your own feet as you make your way inside. Your eyes are glassy, your gaze unfocused and the view around you is scattered from the alcohol poisoning your blood, but the force of habit makes you quick to join the couch and finally sit down. Your limbs somehow feel equally heavy and light, but your legs ache in a whole different way, one that makes you dread the fact that you’re going to have to drag yourself to your bedroom – it makes you consider crashing here, on the couch, without even taking care of removing your makeup and getting into more comfortable clothes, because you swear that once the thought lodges itself inside your brain, it makes you convinced you could fall asleep right then and there. 

That is until a soft shuffle draws your attention, and you notice Bob quietly sitting in his corner, turned to you. “Hey,” you smile, the muscles of your face numb.

“Hey” he responds gently, standing up to join you. “You okay?” he asks as he sits beside you, a worried frown transforming his usually soft face when he sees how glassy your eyes are, how tired the lines over your face make you seem to be.

“I’m so drunk, Bob” you whine softly, hand coming to rub at your eyes, smudging your mascara even further. 

“Happens,” he shrugs with an easy smile.

“‘m sorry, I didn’t want you to see me like this, ‘figured everyone would be sleeping” you apologize. 

He hums quietly and presses a hand at your back. “I’ve seen and been way worse, believe me” he pinches his lips into a small, compassionate smile. “Come on, let me help you get to bed”

“I’m okay,” you wave him off just to be polite, already embarrassed enough that he has to see you in this state. You get up and he’s quick to do the same, grasping your wrist when you almost lose balance.

“Yeah, sure” he snorts a small laugh, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to stabilize you as he starts to lead you towards your room. 

You lean against him, instinctively trusting the way he guides your stumbling feet towards the room. “I just– don’t wanna be a drag” you mutter.

“You’re not,” he assures you. His face grows warm when you wrap your arm around him for more balance, the path of your feet shifting slightly before he rectifies the trajectory. “I would have liked having someone to care for me back when I was using”

Once in your room, Bob turns the light on and helps you sit down on the edge of your bed, a soft sigh of relief escaping you when you're finally there and finally able to rest your aching legs. 

He has already moved to your bathroom before you can thank him for helping you, coming out with a few cotton pads and your bottle of makeup remover. You watch as he sits beside you, the mattress dipping softly under his weight. “Can I?”

You nod, suddenly feeling the urge to remain quiet instead of wanting to apologize once more. 

His hand hesitates with a slight tremble before it gently settles at your jaw, holding your face while the other starts to carefully wipe the makeup away; he can clearly feel the heaviness of your gaze over him while he does this for you, can almost taste the quiet tension filling the air.

Neither of you speaks or attempts to fill the silence, you're way too close to each other to bring yet another layer of closeness, and you're too mesmerized by the way his gaze focuses on you yet remains avoidant anyway.

You're convinced the warmth in your chest has nothing to do with the alcohol anymore – it's intimate in a way that momentarily has you slightly sobering up, anchoring you to reality.

Your eyes flutter shut when he wants to clean the mascara off your lashes, and the gentleness and carefulness he handles you with leaves you weak. 

Bob lightly clears his throat when he’s done, giving you a small, awkward smile. 

“Pajamas” he points out, quickly walking over to your dresser as if to move on and diffuse the tension that has settled. He rummages through, pulling out one of your large shirts and a pair of shorts before he turns back and hands them out to you. 

“Here,” he says, voice dipping, a bit awkward now.

You reach out for them, immediately already pulling your shirt off over your head, not even thinking. Bob practically leaps to turn around, ears burning red. “Oh! Sorry– I didn’t– I’m not looking.”

You giggle tiredly. “You’re fine, Bob.”

The heat in his face barely fades away as he waits, swaying back and forth on his feet, eyes glued to the wall. He only turns back to you once you confirm you’re done, waiting a couple seconds just in case, to avoid further embarrassment.

“Alright,” he huffs out softly. “You all good? Can I do anything else?”

He's too gentle, too devoid of judgement, too caring. You don't answer right away, just stare at him for what you think you would judge to be way too long if you were sober. 

Your tiredness hits you in the face at full force, your stomach tightening in a way that is different to the feeling of needing to spill your guts.

You eventually shake your head slowly, vision still swaying. “Thank you,” you murmur quietly, voice cracking slightly.

You know it's over the moment your tears are flooding your eyes before you can even think to hold them back. 

You start profusely apologizing the moment Bob rushes back to your side when he sees you breaking into soft sobs, sitting down next to you. “I’m sorry, this is so stupid” you apologize.

He shakes his head immediately, hand reaching and hovering over your knee before he decides to put it over your shoulder instead. “Hey. No it’s not. What’s wrong?”

You shake your head, trying to swipe your tears away, ashamed of how freely they fall now that you have no control over them. “It’s just– you’re so nice,” you whisper, a tremble laced through your voice. “And I’m making a fool of myself while you watch and help and it’s so fucking embarrassing, and now that I’m crying it’s even worse” 

Bob huffs out a soft, almost fond laugh. “Come on, I used to be an addict. I’ve embarrassed myself more times than I can count. You think you being drunk and crying a little is gonna change the way I see you?”

You breathe out something between a sob and a laugh, and when you look up at him, his smile somehow makes you mirror it.

Until it all catches up to you and your smile fades as quickly as it came, and the lump that starts forming in your throat seems to be carrying the weight of what you’ve been dragging around for weeks.

You shake your head, letting out a scattered breath. It feels different than the silliness of crying because you’re embarrassed that you’re drunk – it’s like the switch has been flipped, and the precise reason why you got drunk is now floating back to the surface and clawing at your back.

And Bob feels it. He watches you carefully, doesn’t push you, waits for you to say anything, ready to listen.

“It's just– I spent most of the night at the bar down the street after the date” you eventually say. “Just to get drunk and forget about it” you admit, your voice lowering. Bob’s eyes flicker along your face, intently listening. “The guy was nice but I hated it, I think I'm the problem, Bob, and you’re–” you croak out as you look back at him, blinking your tears away when it gets too much before you go on. 

His head instinctively shakes, his hand reaching your face to brush away the hair that sticks to your tears stained cheeks. “I thought that dating app thing would be a good idea but it’s not working and it’s barely… keeping me distracted from the fact that–” 

“Hey,” he murmurs, a frown over his face. “Just because it didn’t work out this time doesn’t mean it never will” he shrugs, eyes roaming along your face. “I’m sure you will get other opportunities and– and I’m convinced you will eventually find the right person” he nods, a reassuring smile over his face when you look up at him, eyes blinking your tears away. “And when you do… I’ll be rooting for you. You deserve it.”

You nod, holding it back. It’s no use telling him more, not when he made it clear he’s not the one waiting for you at the end of this, not when you’re now set on the idea before you could even unburden yourself of it all.

—

Your dating app is a mess of half assed conversations with good looking but painfully uninteresting men – you’re not pretending to be better than them, but it’s an actual torture to try to go through texting some of them, between the stupid and cringe ones, those who take two to three business days to respond, and those who only want to get in your pants and don’t even try to disguise it.

The nice ones make themselves rare but still can’t seem to do it for you, so it pains you to have to go through the whole process again, but you take a chance at trying to match with some new faces. 

You look up from your phone when you hear the sound of Bob’s laugh when Ava says something to piss Walker off, making him roll his eyes and leave the room.

Ava sighs something about him having an ego so massive he can’t even take a joke, and joins you, taking a look over your shoulder behind the couch. 

“Oh my god, what is that” she grimaces as she glances at the screen of your phone, an obviously disgusted expression over her face. 

“I know,” you sigh, immediately clicking the cross on the side of the screen, making the profile vanish, revealing the next one. “I want to give up already”

“You would probably do yourself a favor”

“Is it really going that bad?” Yelena asks from her spot on the couch, gaze still focused on the show on the television. 

“I mean,” you start, taking a breath as you adjust your position on the couch. “I have a date planned in a couple days, and he’s nice and actually cares about me and what I have to say” Ava watches as Bob swiftly picks up his book from the table and flees the scene once he sees the direction the conversation is going, leaving the three of you to it. “But I feel like I need a backup plan in case it doesn’t go so well”

“Okay, I’m gonna need a picture so I know who my next target is if that man hurts you in any way” Yelena casually declares, her slight frown indicating she’s half joking, half serious.

“Mhm, count me in” Ava nods in agreement. “You can also guess their intentions and good faith through their eyes”

You huff out a small laugh before you go fetch the guy’s profile, pulling up his pictures.

Ava sees them first and hurries to climb onto the couch from behind to sit down next to you. “Oh honey, I know what your backup plan is, and he lives with us” she scoffs, mouth hanging in disbelief as she takes the phone from your hands to get a better look. Yelena frowns softly, still waiting to see the pictures, and you’re almost as confused, raising an eyebrow at Ava. “This guy looks just like Bob” she huffs out low enough so no one outside the room could hear if they happened to be nearby, eyes wide as she points at the screen of your phone like she tries to make you see it.

This makes Yelena grab the tv remote and pause her show, reaching to grab the phone from Ava.

“Come on, back me up on this,” Ava urges Yelena.

Yelena’s mouth twists into a small grimace that makes her suspense agonizing. “I mean, they do have the same haircut, yeah” she says before she scrolls to take a look at the other pictures, her head tilting slightly as she goes on. “Yeah he does look like Bob. Like a more pretentious Bob” she eventually declares, surrendering to what’s obvious, giving you an apologetic grin. 

“Thank you!” Ava whisper-shouts. “You have to admit it’s a hell of a coincidence”

You chuckle, unsure what to say for your own defense. “We’re in New York, Bob is bound to have plenty of doppelgangers” you declare matter-of-factly with a shrug.

“I’m afraid this isn’t exactly what this is about” Yelena counters in a mumble, looking away when you glance at her, scratching her temple, teasingly pretending she didn’t say anything. 

You know exactly what she means. But no part of you wants to talk about it, no part of you wants to admit it, because this is all you have been trying to avoid, this is the reason you have been trying so hard to make something out of that dating app. 

“Whatever,” you sigh, suddenly wanting to crawl inside a hole and never come out.

“God, it’s so painful watching you two,” Ava rolls her eyes.

“Ava–” Yelena scolds, throwing her a knowing glance when she guesses where she wants to take the conversation.

“No, come on, I can’t be the only one. I can’t be the only one who sees it, and this evil Bob twin is proof” she insists, trying to get Yelena on her side.

Yelena sends Ava a death glare that you know barely impresses her, but still prevents her from adding more and makes her lift her hands in surrender.

The silence that follows is carrying the weight of everything you don’t want to name out loud, the weight of everything Yelena is trying to hold back from Ava too because it is not their business to resolve, but only yours.

And while you're deep down aware of the problem, you’re not exactly sure how to do it.

—

Things get worse before they get better.

That was all you heard during your whole life, and so far, the saying had proven itself to be true.

Only now, things only seem to get more awful as you go on. 

Because you cannot, despite everything you have tried, stop thinking about how stupid everything gets whenever you try to stop thinking about it and eventually end up only thinking about it more.

Because as you watch Bob dig through the crates of the record store while you’re supposed to do the same, you can't help but face the fact that there is no one else you would rather do this with, and trying to bury your feelings only makes them resurface and hurt tenfold.

You know pulling away isn’t the solution and can barely be considered as an option – he’s still one of your closest friends and you don’t want to hurt him that way, and the idea of losing him altogether is unbearable. 

And maybe all of this is what makes it all the more complicated.

So trying to find someone else to have feelings for still seems like the best solution despite not going great so far, but you have to give it a try, you have to find a way out of this dead end. 

You have to give that date tonight your best chance.

That’s the only solution you see when you stare at Bob.

“I found grace” Bob says suddenly, hands braced on the edge of a crate, tearing you out of your thoughts.

You blink, suddenly snapped back to reality, the distant sound of Soundgarden playing from the speakers of the shop clearer now that it’s not just your thoughts overtaking your brain. You squint at Bob, frowning in confusion. “Huh?”

“The album. Grace. Jeff Buckley” he makes clear as he lifts the record slightly to show you the album cover, chuckling softly when he realizes how it sounded.

“Oh, right” you let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Nice” you smile.

“You can have it,” he offers, pulling it out from the vertical pile. 

“Nah don’t be stupid. You found it” you chuckle, watching as he nods in surrender before tucking the record under his arm. 

It had become a thing, your thing. To go and search through local record stores after you both had established wanting to get a physical copy of all of your favorite albums – sharing the same taste made it a little more interesting, and it felt special to share that activity. Borderline intimate, even. Which in the actual context, makes it worse for you. 

“Are you alright?” he eventually asks, noticing you don’t seem fully present. 

You give him a quiet approval, trying to ignore the front pieces of his hair falling in front of his eyes and how much you would want to push them away if you weren’t actively trying to get over him. 

“We should go to that place you like. The one with the carrot cake” he suggests, smiling when he sees your face light up at the offer. “I think we have enough time before I have to go to my therapy session”

—

Bob enters Yelena's room without even knocking, much against his habits – he considers apologizing for the matter of half a second before the reason he's here floods back at him in urgency and nothing else seems important anymore. “I need to talk to you about something.”

She raises an eyebrow in interest as she quickly glances up from her phone, letting him know that despite being busy, she's ready to listen. “Sure.”

“It's serious,” Bob adds, voice low with gravity. 

Yelena is quick to toss her phone aside and give him her full attention, concerned by his tone, foot pushing to the floor so her chair can spin towards his direction. “Okay, spit it out.”

“I–” he starts, eyes closing momentarily when he lets go of the loose thread he's been pulling at on his flannel to scratch his forehead, an uncomfortable smile over his face. He thinks of backing out, considers it for a moment, but he knows he’s not a coward, knows he shouldn’t be, and knows he has to go through with it before it’s too late.

Yelena waits, watches Bob intently as his mouth opens to no sound, moving like he's unsure how to articulate whatever he wants to say. 

“I know,” she eventually grins before he can begin to talk, too impatient to not pull the rug from under his feet and make it easier for him, guessing what it's all about from seeing the nervous expression over his face just from having to word it out loud. And as much as she would like to hear him say and finally admit it, she's the last person who officially needs to hear about it.

“What?” he frowns, confused. “I didn’t even say anything yet” he chuckles, borderline offended that she caught him off guard with such force and ease.

“I know what you're going to say, and I don't even want you to say it because I'm not the one you should be saying it to” Yelena shrugs, mouth twisting into a grin. 

Bob doesn’t know what to say, not really. His mouth closes in defeat though it’s barely one, his neck suddenly itching from the anxiety growing from the pit of his stomach.

“It’s all over your face, Bob. Has been for a while. And you shouldn’t even need my opinion. Go for it” Yelena nods, a supportive smile tugging at her lips. “You got this.”

—

You set on wearing the exact same thing you did on that previous, disastrous date. 

If you were superstitious, you would probably throw it back into your closet and never pull it out for that kind of occasions again, but it happens to be an efficient outfit on all the other levels aside from whatever factor it was that made your other date bust, and looking good and feeling comfortable is an undeniable privilege that is worth keeping.

You feel strangely excited – it’s so surprising that you start to wonder if there’s not something you’re leaving out of the equation, but you easily roll with the fact that you for once believe things could go well and decide not to question it.

You leave the pieces of clothes folded onto your bed like a physical representation of your procrastination – maybe that the later you will wear it, the later you will start anticipating and feeling nervous about that date, but preparing things so early when your date is far away as four hours already attests to how much you’re deep down overthinking it. 

When you join the common room in hopes you will channel your energy into something and it turns out to be completely vacant, you’re not so sure what your plan is; you’re even starting to wish even Walker was here, which attests to how strange everything feels at the moment. 

You catch glance of a sheet of paper on the floor and immediately assume it got loose from one of Bucky’s files – you know he likes working here on the rare occasions the room happens to be less than half empty, so you pick it up and put it back over the table so he knows it’s here. 

The room is so quiet it has you looking out the window like it is the only thing you can busy yourself with. You’ve grown so used to the view that you sometimes forget how impressive it actually is, that high up above New York. 

When you turn around after a few moments of watching the other buildings and thinking about how intimidating they look as opposed to their view at night, you go and pour yourself a glass of water, picking and filling another one when the light sound of Bob’s footsteps echo through the empty room when he finds you. 

“Don't go on that date tonight”

The unexpected mention of the subject from him shakes something within you, and you still for a second, eyes meeting him as you put the jug of water back down. “What?”

“Please don’t go on that date.” Bob repeats, his voice gentler this time, less firm. 

“Why?” you let go of the glass in your hand.

A short silence hangs for a second before he talks, like he’s waiting and contemplating before the bomb goes off. But there’s no turning back now, he knows that. “I see how much it has you struggling, don’t tell me it’s doing you any good” he frowns softly.

Your eyebrows raise, your gaze shifting back down at your glass of water. He has a point, but in the long run, you don’t want it to remain true, and you don’t even see why it would matter that much to him. “It’s not, but I have to give it a better try, and I’m actually confident about that date, so,” you explain in your own defense, even though it sounds more like you’re trying to convince yourself. “I can’t just sit around and wait for it to happen” you shrug.

“It's happening right now,” he chuckles uncomfortably. 

He forces himself to take a steadying breath when he sees the small frown growing from confusion over your face, and he gathers all the confidence he couldn’t get for months before he says it. 

“I like you,” he declares. 

It should feel like the world stops there, but it doesn’t, so he goes on. “And it’s getting really exhausting pretending I don’t” he huffs out in a nervous admission, hands gesturing at his sides.

No matter how intensely he tries to read your gaze at that moment, nothing gives away the way you’re taking in the information – the confusion is etched all over your face, like a mask that hides everything else. 

Your mouth opens before it closes, opening again just a second later. “Wha– why didn’t you tell me sooner?” 

His mouth tightens into a strained smile. “Uh… I figured I wasn’t worth it” he shrugs indifferently, like what he’s admitting about himself is barely important. “Still kinda do,” he admits, head tilting slightly. “But my therapist– we've been working on opening up. I've been working on opening up” he nods in earnest. “That's what I'm doing right now” he affirms, voice quieter with endearing awkwardness.

It’s what it must feel like when machines short circuit, because you have no idea how to function anymore, how to go on from there, what to say. 

You let out a breath you barely realize you had been repressing, one that holds all the disbelief of the situation, and despite that relief, your chest remains tight from his confession – you don’t think this one feeling is going to go away so easily. 

“Bob I thought you didn’t–” you halt, unsure what to pick out to say out of the whirlwind of things coming and going inside your head. “I’ve been trying to tell you” you blurt out. “That night I came back drunk.” 

“What?” he asks, face twisting in bewilderment.

You nod, lips pinching into a half amused smile. “I thought you would never ask me out, and it’s the exact reason I put myself on that dating app” you explain.

Bob breaks into a stunned chuckle, hand coming to rub at his eyes. “So you’re telling me it was right there and…”

“Mhm,” you nod, huffing out a laugh. 

You both shift into a soft laughter from how you have obliviously made things complicated between you, and when it quiets down, the atmosphere falls back to seriousness again, but now that everything is let loose in between you, the dynamic feels relaxed in a whole other way, like that previous overwhelming tension had been looming over your heads.

“So…” he rests a hand against the table, leaning onto his side. “Date offer can still stand, but, y’know…” his head tilts to the side teasingly. “With me”

Your chest rises with a quiet inhale, shaken by how fast your heart rate has managed to rise. “Okay,” you say softly, grinning at the idea of a proper date with him – it suddenly changes the whole aspect of going on a date for you.

“Okay?”

“Yeah,” you smile.

He blinks, then that smile, the one that makes your stomach flip every single time without fail, grows across his face like he still can't really believe it, like he had stepped into this without expecting anything but walked out with everything. “Okay,” he repeats, voice gentler now, like he’s really taking it in.

“Hey, just one thing,” you ask, making him raise an eyebrow expectantly. “I think we should keep it on the low and enjoy it for a little before the team starts to make fun of us.”

—

any and every feedback/reblog/comment is greatly appreciated and helps more than you think!!

buy me a coffee ♡

thunderbolts taglist:

@majestic-jazmin @eternallymaroon @sillymilly17 @yyiikes @snazzynacho

@harebrained-0

fill the linked form or leave a comment if you want to be tagged in future fics :)

[junipershrubs]

[arougeme]

This had me in tears because that's the only way to describe what happened

This is killing me

[corsued-billy]

I just know that whoever touches yelena in the doomsday movie, bob will spiral into madness, and completely losing control OMG! 😭😭😭

[kudos-si-do]

the power of friendship defeating depression is mcu canon now

[scarletbit]

Sunshine and rain / bob reynolds

paring: bob reynolds x avengers!reader summary: you were sick, tired, bitter, and bleeding. you were the worst kind of patient - he shows up anyway. word count: 1.1k genre: fluff a/n: It felt mandatory to have a sick day drabble.

You were being punished. There was no other explanation for the incessant pounding in your head. Every terrible decision you’ve ever made has manifested in the pressure in your sinuses and the ache that pulsed through your left abdomen.

All your years of guerrilla training had equipped you with all the traits that made a good soldier, but it didn’t prepare you for the cruel combination of having the flu after being shot in the stomach. All because of a one second delay in evading the bullet that wasn’t even directed at you. And no matter what Bucky claims he saw; it was just one second.

“I don’t deserve this” you murmured to yourself, turning over in your blanket riddled cot that would have once been called a bed but was of now what you expected to be your final resting place.

When the knock on your door first came you were sure it was finally your time. For the first time in your life, you thanked whatever higher being was taking mercy on you.

The louder second knock was much more unwelcome.

“What?” you groaned into your pillow, too tired and too annoyed to direct any niceties at whoever stood on the other side.

The door began to open, a familiar figure emerging.

“Hi,” Bob stood in the doorframe. His eyes darted around your room, anticipating a dismissal when you realized it wasn’t some urgent situation, just him.

When it never came, he inched forward. You were still busy trying to comprehend the new presence in your room with that sickness induced haze still clouding your mind.

“Yelena told me to check in on you” he raised his hands “said i should ‘make sure you weren’t dead’” he finished with air quotes, a brief grin adorning his lips.

“A few more minutes and I will be” you mustered out, eyes finally focusing on his figure.

On most days you welcomed Bob’s sheepish charm and attempts at conversation. Today, however, when you felt like severing your head from your spinal cord just to get a respite from your somehow worsening headache, it was much harder to converse.

“Look, Bob” You sighed, trying your absolute hardest to avoid what Ava would (incorrectly, of course) label as an “outburst” and remain calm. Even in sickness, you didn’t want to agitate Bob. Especially when he was simply showcasing his unique style of helpfulness. “I’ll survive” you asserted.

“Yelena said you’d feel better if you left your room” he mumbled, newfound caution surrounded his words.

“I promise if Yelena was in my place she’d shoot you just for suggesting that.” you remarked. You flopped on your back, gaze shifting away from Bob back to the spot on your ceiling you’d very recently designated your favorite.

Bob’s eyes narrowed as he thought about the best way to go about this situation. He wanted to make himself useful. Do this for Yelena and help you feel better. “We could watch a movie” he offered not so much at you but rather at the pile of sheets that resembled your figure.

You groaned loudly, then winced when the sound reverberated in your skull. The idea of listening to more people talking, or worse, the loud explosion that were undoubtedly in whatever action movie Bob was probably thinking about was one you truly couldn’t stomach.

“Please, no more noises” You begged, moving your pillow over your head. You hoped it’d smother you.

“It’s a silent film” he insisted, holding his palms in front of him defensively “no more noises” he reassured you, “promise” he smiled, letting his hands fall when you peaked your head from its hiding place. It wouldn’t be a terrible idea to abandon the tomb you’d been holed up in for the past day.

Sensing your resolve weakening, Bob went in with his finisher “I can make that one soup you like.”

“Sold” no hesitation. You loved that fucking soup, and Bob was surprisingly good at making it. Granted, it wasn’t the most demanding task. You began gathering all your blankets and steading yourself on your right side to finally rise from your bed. Bob leaned forward, hand stretched out to offer you a hand

“Oh, I can…” he started as he reached for you.

“I got it.” you cut him off curtly, shoving his hand away before it touched yours. The worst part about being out of commission was the weakness. Like everyone else who resided in this tower, you really hated being weak. Even more maddening was the idea of being perceived as such.

Bob retracted his arm and straightened his back, standing awkwardly by your door. You realized maybe that was one of those “outburst” Ava liked to mention. Where Yelena, Ava, and even Walker, would call you out when you became cross, you knew Bob was different than all of you. Gentler. You’d seen him get annoyed plenty of time, but unlike the rest of the maverick members that composed the thunderbolts, he was rarely combative. You knew he wouldn’t call you out, even when you really deserved it. For example, like if you were being snappy after he just trying to help you on an especially terrible day. You could’ve apologized, but you lowered your head and started for the door.

Bob turned to let you walk past him through your bedroom door. He smiled as he saw you beeline for the living room couch, relieved you’d accepted his invitation and more relieved he wouldn’t have to report news of your death to Yelena.

A couple hours later, with a warm bowl of a soup in your hand and black and white figures moving about on screen, you turned to Bob.

“Thanks” you murmured.

You meant it, you were thankful for everything. You were thankful that he willed himself to deal with you when you were sick, wounded, and irritable. You were thankful for the movie selection, his attempt at helping you, and for continuing to do so after your ‘outburst’, even though you wouldn’t have blamed him if he retracted the offer altogether. You were thankful that this wasn’t the first time he’d offered a helping hand since you’d both found a home within these walls.

When Bob turned to face you, his eyebrows slightly furrowed as he attempted to interpret the only word you’d said since leaving your bedroom.

You couldn’t decide which part you were most thankful for or how to express that to him. Would there be any point even if you could? When you’d relied on actions your entire life, words had such little meaning. There was so much to thank him for that nothing came to mind at all anymore. So, you landed on the simplest.

“For the soup.”

[caxapthecat]

if u got depression u know the amount of effort it took for him to do those dishes

[weeeyotch]

eager to please pt. 2 ღ r.r.

robert reynolds x f!reader

pt.1

synopsis: after eating you out for the first time, bob wants to take it one step further.

warnings: smut (18+ MDNI), oral (fem receiving), dacryphilia, manhandling, dom/sub dynamics, use of toys (vibrator), nipple play, tit worship, switch dynamics

word count: 2.7k

a/n: i wasn't expecting anyone to want a second part, but here you go anyways besties

His question hangs heavy in the air: "Could you try sitting on my face?"

Your heart stutters in your chest, and you almost forget how to breathe for a second. The hand that had been lovingly stroking his hair freezes, fingers tangled in his messy curls.

You glance down. Bob is still lying with his arms wrapped tightly around you, his eyes wide and glassy as they silently plead with you. The devotion in his gaze—equal parts worship and desperation—makes your thighs clench.

"Baby," you murmur, "are you sure you're ready for that? I don't want you to overwhelm yourself."

He nods, fervent. "I'm ready," he whispers, voice rough with need. "Please."

The raw hunger in his tones sends shivers down your spine. How lucky you were to be loved so fiercely by someone who could burn down the world, yet chooses to worship you instead. Seeing him there, so pliant and needy, made your heart swell with pride.

His fingers trail down your tummy and ghost along your thigh, dragging through the slick sheen on your skin like he was painting with it. It's deliberate and teasing, and you know that he's trying to rile you up again.

And he's doing it so well.

The sight of him like this—his gaze so pure and tender while his hands move in a quiet, unmistakable filth—ignites a fire in you. It's not just desire that blooms in your chest; it's white-hot, blinding power that thrums through your veins, urging you to claim him as yours.

"You want that?" you murmur, fingers tightening just enough in his hair to coax the tiniest gasp out of him. "You want me to use you like that?"

Bob lets out another sound, a cross between a whimper and a plea. He nods vigorously as he presses his lips into a tight line.

"Say it then," you say. "Say what you want, pretty boy."

"I want you to use me like that," he whispers, reverence and want dripping from his words. "I want you to sit on my face. I wanna taste you. I wanna worship you. Please. Please—"

The desperation in his voice snaps something inside you. With a swift motion, you tighten your grip on him and force him to roll over. You straddle him as he hits the mattress with a small ungh. The way he lets you man-handle him, knowing that he has enough strength to do whatever he wants to you, makes heat shoot through your blood like lightning.

It is hot. Wild. Impossible to ignore.

There is something feral taking over you, something that is thrilled at how easily he gave in; how someone so powerful could melt into obedience at your slightest touch.

"You like being tossed around like that?" you ask, low and commanding.

His chest heaves as he looks up at you, eyes glassy and pupils blown wide. "Yes," he breathes, "only by you."

That answer unlocks something darker in you. Something primal—a desire to ruin him, to make him beg and scream without restraint.

You drag a finger down the side of his face to his neck, letting your nail dig in just enough to make him flinch. He twitches beneath you, his breath hitching. Your hand slides back up, and he braces, like he's expecting you to mark him. Instead, you grip his jaw and crash your lips against his.

It's messy and sticky, and tasting yourself on his mouth only stokes the fire in your belly even more.

One of his hands slides up your body to gently lift up your shirt, bunching it at your collarbone. His large, calloused palms find your breasts, cupping them. His thumbs brush over your nipples, slow and deliberate as he coaxes them to harden under his touch. You arch into his hands, craving more.

He rolls one nipple between his thumb and forefinger, a teasing pinch that draws a sharp moan from your lips. His other hand mirrors the motion.

You keen and arch your back further, breaking the kiss. A thin line of saliva stretches between you before snapping and landing on the corner of his mouth.

Bob wastes no time as your breasts are pushed into his face. He wraps his lips greedily around your nipple, sucking with reverence. His tongue kitten-licks your sensitive peak, mimicking the way he teased your clit earlier while his other hand kneads the other breast.

The sensation makes you collapse forward as your body trembles with need.

You couldn't wait anymore.

"I'll give you what you want, baby," you pant. "You're such a good boy. You deserve it."

He sighs contentedly at the pet name, letting his head relax back into the pillows as he drinks in your naked form. A small smile curves his lips, but is quickly replaced by something ravenous as you start to climb up his body.

He licks his lips like you are the first taste of salvation he has had in weeks.

"Tap my thigh if it's too much," you tell him.

Bob nods, eyes locked onto your pussy, pupils dark with desire. Slowly, you lower yourself, inch by inch; you were partly teasing him, and partly giving him a chance to back out.

But mostly to tease him.

The first brush of his lips against you pulls a small moan from your throat.

He groans in response, the sound vibrating deliciously against your core. Bob dives in with the same sloppy enthusiasm from before. Although now, you sense that there's a hunger to it—a need that feels borderline possessive.

His tongue moves in one long, slow stroke, taking forever to climb up your pussy and find your clit with precision. He starts to circle the swollen nub.

"Fuck, Bob," you gasp, gripping the headboard for balance.

Your hips jerk forward. He decides to repeat the movement, over and over, until each jerking of your hips effectively turns into you riding him. His quickening breath, warm against your core, and the scrape of his stubble, urge you on.

Eventually, he stops moving his head, sticking his tongue out so that you can take full control of the pleasure.

Bob's surrender sends power surging through your veins. The sight of him like this—eyes half-lidded, face glistening with your wetness—makes you grind faster against his pliant tongue. Each roll of your hips elicits a groan from deep within his chest, the vibrations shooting sparks of pleasure through your core.

"Good boy," you pant while gripping the headboard tighter. "So good for me, letting me use you like this. My perfect boy."

His eyes flutter close as he whines pathetically, and you can feel his hands tighten on your thighs. Not to guide you, but to anchor himself. You lean back slightly to take in the sight of him: trembling, messy curls sticking to his slick forehead, and completely at your mercy.

Then—

Three taps on your thigh.

Your heart leaps in your chest. The lust was replaced with panic in the blink of an eye.

I pushed him too far, you think. I should've waited. Should've told him no.

"What's wrong? Did I hurt you? Was it too much? Are you oka—" you ramble, lifting off him.

Bob cuts you off with a small, sheepish smile and runs his hands soothingly up and down your hips. "I'm okay, I'm okay. I just wanted to ask if . . ."

He trails off, clearing his throat and darting his eyes away. A blush snakes its way up his round cheeks.

You lean down to brush the damp curls away from his forehead. "Ask what, baby? I need words."

With a nervous swallow, he whispers: "Can you use the vibrator on yourself? While I eat you out?"

Relief washes over you like a wave. You let out a grateful breath, heavy and trembling. A smile tugs at your lips as you stroke his hair, leaning down to press a lingering kiss against his temple. He nuzzles into your touch, sighing contentedly.

How could you ever say no to him?

"Anything you want, sweetheart."

You settle back over his face as his hands gently guide you into place. While you reach for your nightstand to find the vibrator, he busies himself by pressing delicate kisses against your swollen lips. Your fingers finally wrap around the toy that had been thrown underneath piles of clothes. Turning it on, a low hum fills the air, blending with the wet clicking sounds of Bob's mouth against you.

You press the toy lightly against your clit, just above where his tongue circles. The combined sensation rips a sharp gasp from you.

Your hips stutter and Bob moans, feeling you become wetter with every passing second. You rock against him, the steady hum of the vibrator amplifying every flick of his tongue, pushing you closer towards the edge.

But then you notice a subtle shift in his grip, in the way his hands tighten on your thighs.

His eyes, wet with tears and glassy with devotion, flicker with something bolder. Something commanding.

"Give it to me," he says, voice muffled against your core.

It's a demand—raw and unexpected. So unlike the man who, only a minute ago, was embarrassed about asking you to pleasure yourself with a vibrator while riding his face.

The sudden change sends a jolt of heat through you.

You raise an eyebrow, testing his dominance. "You think you can handle it, baby boy?"

He growls in response. "Now." The word is sharp, laced with a tone of authority that is so unlike his usual softness. It makes your breath catch.

One hand leaves your thigh and reaches up expectantly. You hand him the vibrator, intrigued by this new side of him.

Bob takes it with surprising confidence—no doubt after having watched you pleasure yourself with it dozens of times before—and adjusts the angle to press it firmly against your clit. You cry out at the painful precision, hips bucking.

His tongue dives back in. However, it's different than before. This time, he's lapping desperately at your entrance, pushing his tongue deep into your core. He slurps obscenely as he works at your gummy walls.

Then you realize: he's drinking you.

"Bob—fuck—I can't—" your voice breaks while he works you with ruthless efficiency.

He alternates the vibrator's pressure, pulling it back slightly to tease your clit then pressing it back with intensity. His tongue circles and flicks throughout your center, and the sensations are pushing you closer to oblivion.

He's determined to unravel you completely.

His free hand grips your thigh to hold you in place, a reminder of the strength he's choosing to restrain.

"Come for me," he growls, lips brushing against your dripping pussy. "I want it. Come for me."

It's the authority in his voice—thick and uncharacteristically possessive—that sends you spiraling.

The orgasm that crashes over you is sharp and all-consuming. Your hips jerk wildly, grinding against his mouth and the vibrator. A wail of his name echoes throughout the bedroom as your thighs clamp around his head, pleasure surging through you.

Bob keeps the vibrator pressed against you, albeit a little bit lighter now, drawing out every shudder, every whimper, every pulse, until you're a gasping and oversensitive mess.

Finally, he pulls back and switches off the toy, throwing it somewhere on the bed.

His face is a mess; his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and glistening, and his eyes are darkened with pride and hunger.

He gently eases you off, laying you on the pillow beside him. His lips quickly capture yours in a deep, messy kiss that tastes like you. While his usual tenderness lingers, it's laced with a new and possessive confidence.

"You're mine," he murmurs, pulling back just slightly. "Say it."

"I'm yours," you whisper.

Another kiss.

Then he retreats again, looking lovingly into your eyes. You notice his lips curve into a smile, its sweetness blending with a newfound bold satisfaction. This version of Bob was. . .different. But you couldn't say that you hated it.

You pull him closer and guide him to lie beside you, his head resting against your chest. Your fingers thread gently through his damp curls while his breathing slows.

Pressing soft kisses to his forehead, you whisper, "You were so good baby. So perfect for me."

He hums and nuzzles into your breast, finding comfort in the warm mound. "I just wanted to make you feel good."

His gaze flickers up at you, the confidence melting away back into his signature innocent, doe eyes. "Did I. . .did I make you feel good?"

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his tone.

"I felt incredible," you affirm. "I'm so proud of you."

But then, curiosity tugs at you. You smile, a teasing lilt in your voice as you ask, "Where'd that whole thing come from, though? You wanting to be in charge?"

Bob's cheeks flush, and he ducks his head back into your chest. "I-I don't know. . ." he says, barely above a whisper. "I just. . .seeing you like that—I got lost in it. I wanted to give you everything. I guess it just came out."

He pauses, eyes finding yours again. "Was it okay? Did I go too far?"

You laugh softly and cup his face. "Babe, it was more than okay. It was so hot."

Your thumb strokes over his cheek, brushing over the lingering slick. "I'd love it if you did that more."

Relief washes over him as he leans up to bury his face in your neck. "I'll do whatever you want me to. I'm all yours. Just wanna make you feel as good as you make me feel."

His words send a rush of warmth through you.

In the quiet aftermath, a realization settles deep in your chest. This man, with his unwavering devotion and gentle strength, gives you everything. You're struck by how rare it is to have someone who would shatter mountains for you, yet chooses to surrender his heart completely to you.

The thought makes you hold him tighter, gratitude swelling in your heart.

"You already do," you say, words thick with emotion as you press a kiss to his temple. "More than you know."

You start to ease off the bed, wanting to grab a washcloth from the bathroom to clean his face. But as you move, he whines and grips your waist tightly, stubbornly pulling you back.

"I'm only going to the bathroom, baby," you reassure him, brushing a kiss across his cheek. "Just getting a washcloth for you."

With a bratty huff, Bob lets you go and sits up with a pout as he watches you go. Being away from you now, even for a few seconds, was almost unbearable to him.

When you return with a warm, damp cloth, you stand over him and gently tilt his head up. You carefully wipe away the slick coating his face, his chin, and his neck. He closes his eyes and sighs under your careful ministrations.

"You're so beautiful like this," you murmur.

Bob's face somehow turns even redder.

Noticing his evergreen sweater is stained with your essence, you lift it up, and he raises his arms like a child as you peel it off. You toss it into the corner, rummaging around the nightstand for one of your shirts—his favorite; they smelled like you.

You help him slip it on, fabric draping over his broad, sculpted frame. He inhales deeply, humming contentedly.

Back on the bed, you pull the blankets over the both of you and tuck him against your side. You trace soothing circles on his back, and he basically melts into you.

"You okay?" you ask, still wanting to check in.

"Perfect," he mumbles, a sleepy smile spreading across his face. "I love you."

"Love you too."

You hold him close, your steady heartbeat lulling him into a peaceful sleep. As he nestles closer, you can't help but grin when a playful thought flickers through your mind.

"You know, you really are eager to please, aren't you?"

Bob chuckles. You can feel his smile widen into a grin against your skin.

"Always for you."

tag list: @theoraekenslover @alloboinga84

[arougeme]

He is you.

Also you can see so much of Bill in Lewis but Lewis definitely has his mama's features especially her eyes..

Not them being my childhood/teen crushes in films and outing my inclinations for soft cutie patootie, awkward, genuine , sad or and vulnerable men

LEWIS PULLMAN as Robert "Bob" Reynolds / Sentry / Void — Thunderbolts* / The New Avengers (2025)

[athenaluthor]

Golden Boy

pairing: Bob Reynolds/Sentry x fem!reader.

summary: Riding your Golden Boy. Somewhere along the lines, Sentry takes over and has his way with his girl.

warnings: smut, smut and more smut. bob being a soft boy, sentry being self indulgent and taking you within an inch of your life because you asked for it. (i fear i was the one being self indulgent bcs idk sentry is so hot but so is void. but bob has my heart. let me know what yall think. hope yall enjoy this <33)

word count- 2.2k

masterlist

He wants to live inside you forever. Imprint himself on your very soul and on every fiber of your being. You feel good, you feel so incredibly and unbelievably right.

“Oh God, Bob.You’re so big..” you moan as you sink down on his cock. The dangerously adorable man underneath you has the thickest cock you’ve ever had. The stretch overwhelms you and you bury your face in his neck, arms around him, trying to go as deep as possible. Bob hands grip your hips tightly, stopping you from sinking down on his cock too quickly. Mentally, you curse yourself for taking so long to try this position with your golden boy.

Bob feels dizzy too, his head spinning as he watches you. He craves touch, he craves your touch. His entire life, nobody had ever touched him like you, so lovingly and gently, tracing his skin like you were memorising and worshiping him. Instead, he spent a good portion of his years filling this empty space with drugs, getting high out of his mind and doing awful things he wouldn’t even want to tell you.

Leaning up against the headboard, Bob watches you with lustful eyes, his plump lips part as he pants breathlessly. At this very moment, Bob felt like his heart might explode, death would be welcomed since he had truly lived a life worth living, an angel in his arms, wrapped around his cock. Sex before you was meaningless, he had been far too high to care about anything that was happening anyways.

“G-go slow. Don’t have to get it all in.” He whimpers out between moans, groaning at how wet you are, dripping down the length of the cock.

“I-I want to, baby.” you reply shakily before pushing yourself down fully onto his cock. The stretch makes your eyes water, but he feels so good— you could cum right then and there.

Bob’s hands lift from your hips, moving to clutch your head and pull you away from his neck. “G-god, baby. Y-you didn’t– you didn’t have to.” He stutters out, his forehead flush against yours.

You want to ride him, bounce on his cock until you can't remember your own name. Rolling your hips and clenching down on his cock, your legs tremble at how good it feels. Bob, bless his heart, lets out a choked moan.

“B-Baby, baby. You can’t– you can’t do that. I’ll cum too–oh god, too soon!” He moans.

It takes all your might to begin riding your golden boy. Hands on his shoulders you start lifting your hips, then sliding back down in his cock, over and over again. Your pace is slow yet hard and deep. You want to go faster but the blood in your veins feels so hot, you think you’ll explode if you’re not careful.

His head is thrown back, eyes shut, lips parted and face flushed as you ride him. His hands return back to your hips, clutching you like a lifeline. The Golden Boy under you, is unequivocally and irrevocably yours, and fuck— he looks gorgeous under you.

Letting go of his shoulders, you reach to clutch his face. “Bob? Baby, look at me, please.” you whine, wanting those pretty eyes on you.

He blearily opens his eyes, his pupils blown and he looks utterly debased and lustful. His unnecessarily superhuman senses flare, overwhelmed by everything around him. He can feel every touch on his skin, the soft fingertips on his cheeks trying to reel him in, and the drag of your walls around his cock each time you move up and down.

Bob never wants this to end. He wants to be inside you like this forever. His cock pumping deep inside the love of his life.

The sound of your heart pounding in your chest echoes in his ears as he zeros in on you, the way your blood rushes so loudly through your veins.

The pleasure is too much, it throws you off-kilter. Head spinning, your hands drop down to his stomach to steady yourself.Thoughtlessly, his hands move to cup your breasts when yours let go of his face, entranced by each movement they make when you bounce on his cock. The pads of his thumbs toying with your hardened nipples.

His touch spurs you on, the way his eyes lustfully looks at you has you choking on your own saliva. Invigorated by this, you speed up, bouncing on his cock harder and faster. Bob can only take what you give him, mouth parted, moaning and grunting, here and there. You know you shouldn’t overdo it, but God— his cock stretches you out so good and so deep, you know you’ll feel it tomorrow. You want him to wreck you, rearrange you and ruin you for anyone else.

The coil within you winds up, getting tighter and tighter with each bounce of your body. Body tense and hot, you can feel yourself getting closer to the edge, higher and higher. Head light and blood rushing, you’re losing yourself to this pleasure, your legs and thighs begin to cramp but you force yourself to keep going.It's like your mind isn’t yours. You don’t want to stop, you can’t stop.

Bob knows you far too well. He can tell when you’re teetering to the edge of going too damn far. The way your eyes glass over, the way your moans spill out like you're about to cry, and the way you shake. His hands clutch your waist, his grip firm but careful, trying to bring you back to him. “S-Slow down, baby. You’re— fuck! You’re t-trembling.” He says shakily trying not to succumb to how good you feel on his cock.

He says your name so softly, so reverently, trying to rouse you back to him. His arms wrap around you, under your arms, pulling you flush to him. Bob’s hand finds purchase on the back of your head, as it falls into the crook of his neck.

Gibberish falls out of your mouth. Something along the lines of “I want to cum, Robert. Let me make you cum too, please.” if Bob’s superhearing is to be trusted.

“I-I know, baby.” he soothes you. “L-let me do this for you, baby. Don’t— you don’t have to p-push yourself f–for me.” he reasons with you, knowing you wouldn’t stop until both of you had been thoroughly spent.

Too far gone to think straight, you wrap your arms around his neck, letting him take over. Holding your hips tightly, Bob’s hips begin to thrust up into you, his pace is steady but deep.

The way you melt into him makes his heart pound out of his chest, how you trust him to take over, when even he didn’t trust himself. The way your soft moans spill out of your lips could make him cum inside your silky walls right now.

You want him to go faster, harder, make you cum so hard, you see stars. Desire has you so deep within its clutches, you can’t escape. So you beg. “Bob, please. Fuck me harder, please.”

“Shh, I– I don’t want to lose control, baby.” he whines back.

“I don’t care, Bob. Please, just fuck me hard.” You beg him, voice needy.

“I need you to fuck me. Just fuck me hard, Robert.” The words leave your mouth desperately without much thought.

Something shifts in the air and you feel it immediately. The sudden influx of unexplainable energy, it feels sharp and strong. Steady and firm, unlike Bob’s hesitance.

Beneath you, Bob shifts, hands gripping your hips even tighter. Then, he plants his feet down onto the bed, angling himself before thrusting back into you, hard. This new angle hits that spot inside you, the one that makes you scream and see stars

The force of his thrusts has you losing your breath, your arms tighten around his neck as you hold on for dear life. Ecstasy flows through your veins, as he begins to fuck you within an inch of your life while your moans spill wantonly from your lips.

This, you think, is new. Bob has never done this. He doesn’t usually fall into your begging, opting to hold back and not let himself lose. Alarm bells ring in your head, but somewhere between his grunts and the way his cock pounds into you, you forget it.

He’s so deep inside you, pounding your pussy like his life depended on it. The pleasure builds within you, the pressure between your legs borders between too much and just enough.

You don’t have a clue how long he has you like this but the coil finally snaps. Intense pleasure washes through you, sending your body into a state of ecstasy,and leaving you moaning and trembling. Your juices leak down Bob’s cock, coating both your thighs. He doesn’t slow down.

His thrusts don't falter. Bob’s pace is unyielding, grunting as your walls clamp down on him. Utterly spent, your body is limp and pliant atop his as you try to get your bearings, letting him have his way with you.

Before you know it, Bob flips the both of you.

The sudden movement shocks you. Suddenly, you are underneath him. Peering up at your Golden Boy, his eyes are shut and his curls fall haphazardly across his forehead, sticking to the sweaty skin.

Without much thought, your hand reaches up to brush away his curls. You think to ask why he stopped when he hasn’t cum yet.

Then, it clicks. The moment your fingers touch his skin, his eyes open. Otherworldly glow shines from his eyes.

Oh. This isn’t your Bob.

“Sentry?” You breathlessly ask.

The being above you doesn’t reply. Instead, he looks at you with the ferocity of a starved man. Fear rushes through you yet your excitement outweighs it. His cock is still buried inside your sensitive pussy, you don’t know whether to be afraid of him or do you want him to fuck you into the mattress.

Sentry speaks to you, “It’s unfair that he gets to keep you all by himself.”

Now, Sentry takes the reins. He pins you down onto the bed before thrusting into you. His presence is overwhelming, like he invades every inch of your senses.

Your previous climax had already made you sensitive. The sheer force of his unforgiving thrusts sends your body into overdrive. Overstimulation has you arching your back and curling your toes into the mattress.

In your fucked out state, you can’t even comprehend the words that spill out your mouth.

Sentry thinks you look so damn pretty like this. A lover fit for a god like him, moaning and writhing under him as he pounds into you. Only he should see you in this state.

He increases his pace, pounding into you harder. After all, you had asked him to fuck you hard. He can feel your thighs tremble and he can hear how hard your heart is beating.

The blood in your veins rush rapidly through your body as you fall deeper into your sex-induced high. Sentry too gets high on you. His focuses his efforts on bringing to the edge again, too feel you clamp down his cock and wantonly moan for him. Only him.

He knows he’s close to the edge when his balls tighten and the pressure low in his belly becomes too much. You feel yourself losing control, his cock is so big and he’s going too hard and too fast. When you tense and your body arches without your control, he knows your cumming again.

Only this time, he comes too.

He ruts into you wildly, grunting loudly while letting pleasure take over as he spills himself into you. He holds you close, letting your pinned arms go.

Somewhere in your haze, trembles and aftershocks you manage to wrap your arms around him as he spills himself inside you. It’s so much, even in your state, you know it’s too much.

The sheer volume of his thick cum feels so good inside you.

When he comes to, he can tell you’re still dazed. Your body is soft and pliant under him, while your eyes are glassy. His touch on your cheek grounds you a little. It’s like you see that it's him.

“Baby?” You call out breathlessly to him.

“Hmm?” He replies back but he thinks you don’t even notice.

You wince when he slides out of you. Thick fluids both his and yours leak out of you. He holds back the urge to push it back in. He knows that tomorrow that you’ll be sore but he hopes you don’t regret asking him to fuck you hard.

He lays beside you, pulling your weak body into his and letting your head rest on his chest. Sentry feels your body tremble under his touch, the aftershock of your orgasms.

He softly strokes up and down your arm, you are safe and sound here with him. He is the Sentry after all. A God in his own right.

When your breathing slows, he knows you’ll fall asleep soon. Your body is practically melting on him.

Right as sleep pulls you into its grasp, a soft sentence slips past your lips. Barely coherent and understandable but he doesn’t have superhearing for nothing. “Love you, my Golden Boy.”

Your Golden Boy. He likes the sound of that.

As Sentry closes his eyes, he hopes you wouldn’t mind him taking over your Bob next time. After all, it is unfair for Bob to have you all to himself.

Sentry lets sleep take him too, knowing that Bob will wake in the morning with only memories of this.

Sentry- 1, Bob- 0.

Yeah, he thinks. He’s a God, so why not keep a fucking tally.

[brookghaib-blog]

Almost Loved - II

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: Four months of dates, gave Y/N hope that she found the one after hopeless years, Bob looks in love, treats beautiful. There's one step that looks like it's coming. Until Bob breaks it off with her. Encountering each other a year and an half later. What happened ?

Word count: 5,9k

Warning: Bulimia, eating-disorder, eat-shaming (?), drug addiction

--

Y/N lay still in bed, wide awake, staring at the ceiling. Her limbs felt heavy, as if her body had stayed up crying even though her eyes hadn’t shed a single tear. Beside her, Serena stirred with a soft groan, arm flopping across the covers.

“Ugh,” Serena mumbled. “Why does sangria feel like betrayal in the morning?”

Y/N gave a faint smile, a ghost of amusement that never made it to her eyes. “You had three glasses.”

“Four.” Serena blinked slowly, sitting up. Her messy bun hung sideways like it had lost the will to live. “Because someone decided to trauma dump at midnight and ruin my detox week.”

Y/N winced, half laughing. “Sorry.”

Serena paused. Looked at her.

“Hey…” she said more softly. “I’m kidding. Kinda. But also… not really.” She leaned against the headboard, pulling her knees up. “We need to talk about yesterday.”

Y/N groaned and rolled onto her side, burying her face in the pillow. “No, we don’t.”

“Y/N.”

“Serena.”

“I swear to God, if you ‘I’m fine’ me—”

“I am fine.”

Serena stared at her for a long, long second. Then she got up, padded barefoot into the kitchen, and returned with two mugs of too-hot coffee, handing one silently to Y/N. She didn’t speak until she’d sipped enough to burn the roof of her mouth.

“You saw him, Y/N,” she said finally. “Bob. At the grocery store. After a year and a half. And you ran. That doesn’t scream fine to me.”

Y/N exhaled hard through her nose, fingers tightening around the mug.

Serena waited.

“I didn’t run,” Y/N said quietly. “I… retreated. Gracefully.”

“You dropped your basket, almost tripped over a display, and disappeared like a cartoon ghost.”

Y/N laughed, but it broke too fast, cracking in her throat. She looked away, blinking fast at the ceiling.

Serena’s voice softened. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No,” Y/N said immediately. Then, after a second: “Not really. I mean—what is there to say? He was there. He looked… I don’t know. Healthy? Taller? More real than I remembered. I was flirting with someone else, and then boom, he’s just… there. Looking like himself. Like nothing ever happened.”

Serena’s face darkened slightly. “He disappeared on you, Y/N. He ghosted you. No text. No call. Just vanished like some cliché bad boy in a Lifetime movie.”

Y/N gave a dry smile. “Yeah. And I still felt like I was the one who did something wrong.”

She took another sip of coffee, hands trembling faintly now. “You know what’s stupid? I laughed last night thinking about how we met. That party. Him running back to ask for my number after we said goodbye. It was so… stupid and adorable. He was nervous. I remember thinking he was going to trip over his own shoes just to get back to me.”

Serena was quiet.

Y/N looked down into her mug. “I used to love him so much. Not the kind of love you talk about at brunch. The kind you… whisper to yourself at 3 a.m. when everything’s quiet. I think I still do. A little.”

Serena reached over and rested a hand on her arm. “Y/N…”

“No, it’s okay.” Y/N shook her head, trying to smile, though her chin wobbled. “It’s fine. Really. It’s been over a year. I just—I thought I was over it. And then I saw him, and it felt like my lungs stopped working. Like no time had passed at all.”

She pressed her thumb hard into the seam of the mug, as if grounding herself there.

Serena’s voice was gentle. “Do you still want him to explain? Or do you just want to move on?”

Y/N looked away for a long time. Her voice came barely above a whisper.

“I think I just want to not feel like this anymore.”

Silence filled the space between them, thick and heavy.

“I hate that he still gets to live in my head rent-free,” Y/N continued. “I hate that I saw him and my first instinct was to run because I knew my legs would give out if I stayed. I hate that I still care about what he thinks of me. If I look different. If I still laugh the same.”

She stared at the wall like she was trying to burn through it. “I wish he’d just stayed gone. Because now I know what he looks like happy. And I wasn’t there.”

Serena didn’t have any words. She just moved closer and wrapped her arms around her best friend, letting Y/N bury her face into her shoulder, finally letting a tear fall that she didn’t try to wipe away.

It rolled down quietly and disappeared into the soft cotton of Serena’s t-shirt.

"Come have some breakfast, that body ain't going to keep iself looking good with no food." Serena pulled her out of the bed taking her to the kitchen.

“Okay, but you do remember you have a date tonight, right?”

Serena’s voice came out halfway between a warning and a challenge as she stood at the kitchen counter, buttering toast like it was an Olympic sport. Y/N, still in her oversized hoodie and mismatched socks, sat at the table nursing her second cup of coffee like it owed her emotional stability.

Y/N blinked. “Date?”

Serena turned around slowly, dramatically, her face unreadable. “Don’t do this.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re doing the thing,” Serena said, pointing the butter knife like a wand. “The thing where you completely forget you agreed to a dinner with Toby and now you’re pretending like it wasn’t real.”

Y/N groaned, dragging her palms down her face. “God. I forgot. I mean—I didn’t forget forget. I just… emotionally forgot.”

“Emotionally forgot,” Serena repeated. “That’s new. I’ll add it to the glossary of avoidance tactics.”

Y/N shot her a look. “He’s too perfect, Serena.”

“That’s literally the point, babe.”

“No, but like… perfect perfect. He has a 401K. And indoor plants that aren’t dead. And he folds his laundry.”

Serena sat down across from her, raising a brow. “Are you about to spiral because a man uses fabric softener?”

Y/N slumped dramatically, laying her head on the table. “I can’t do this. I’m not ready to be someone's grown-up girlfriend. I’m still emotionally on the floor of a party in 2022, eating Cheetos and telling people Bob had ‘potential.’”

Serena snorted. “Okay, that was actually 2024, but go off.”

Y/N groaned louder into the table.

“I’m serious, Y/N,” Serena said, reaching to gently tap her arm. “Toby is kind. He’s funny. He’s not running some underground science project in a secret lab. And he’s very into you. He told me he already picked the wine he’s going to order tonight.”

Y/N peeked up, forehead creased. “He picked wine? Is he… okay?”

Serena laughed. “I told you, he’s a tech guy. Everything is pre-programmed.”

Y/N sighed and sat back up, hugging the coffee mug again. “It’s just… not fair.”

“What isn’t?”

“That I’m going on this date with a guy who’s doing everything right, and I’m still stuck thinking about the guy who did everything wrong.”

The air shifted. Serena’s smirk faded into something softer, more protective.

“I keep comparing them,” Y/N admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “Not just Toby, but like… every guy I meet. No one makes me feel like Bob did. Like the first time I saw him across that bar. Like that stupid run back to get my number.”

She laughed bitterly. “You remember that? He looked like a lost Golden Retriever in a denim jacket.”

“He was a lost Golden Retriever,” Serena said, fondness and exasperation in equal parts. “But yeah, I remember. He ran into a chair and still managed to flirt.”

Y/N shook her head, tears stinging but not falling. “And now I’m supposed to just… meet someone new. Pretend I’m fine. Put on makeup and smile and act like I didn’t see the ghost of my ex-lover next to the ravioli display at the grocery store.”

Serena gave her the gentlest eye-roll known to mankind. “You make everything sound like a French tragedy. Y/N, you’re not cheating on Bob by going on a date. You’re trying to move on. And please, for the love of God, let this man kiss you if it goes well.”

Y/N blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Serena took a bite of toast. “Toby has been thirsting for you since the charity mixer. You think he asked me for your number because he needed help debugging code?”

Y/N grimaced. “I don’t know, Serena. It just feels weird. I haven’t done… that… with anyone since Bob.”

Serena softened again. “I know, babe. And I’m not saying jump into bed with someone to prove something. I just don’t want you to stay frozen in place. You deserve to feel something again. Even if it’s awkward flirting and mediocre tiramisu.”

Y/N groaned again, burying her face in her hands. “This is gonna suck.”

“It won’t,” Serena said. “He picked a really nice place. There’s a candle chandelier. The pasta portions are disrespectfully small. It’s very datey.”

“Great,” Y/N mumbled. “Tiny carbs and forced chemistry.”

Serena leaned over and kissed her on the top of the head. “Fake it till you make it. Or at least until dessert.”

Y/N let out a weak laugh, staring into her coffee cup as if it held answers.

“Okay but, real talk,” Serena said, swirling the last of her orange juice. “I never got it.”

Y/N raised a brow, still slumped over her coffee like it was her life support. “Got what?”

“You. Him.” Serena gestured vaguely, as if the name “Bob” was some cursed entity she didn’t dare say too loud. “I mean, yeah, he was sweet. Kind of like an emotionally constipated lumberjack with a tragic backstory. But I never understood how you got so hooked.”

Y/N blinked at her, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Serena said slowly, picking at the crust of her toast like she was trying to avoid a landmine, “You’re you. You’re like… color and noise and sparkles. And he was like if a cardigan came to life and forgot how to smile.”

Y/N burst out laughing, snorting into her coffee. “Oh my God, Serena.”

“I’m serious!” Serena grinned, leaning forward. “He was always hovering like he was scared to touch anything. All broody and apologetic, like he broke a vase just by existing.”

Y/N tilted her head back, laughing hard now. “You’re so mean.”

“I’m not!” Serena insisted, trying not to laugh herself. “He was sweet. Like, sweet-sweet. But you—Y/N, you fell hard. I just never knew why.”

Y/N sighed, her smile fading into something softer, almost guilty. She wrapped her hands around the warm mug like it might keep her grounded. “Because he didn’t treat me like I was made of barbed wire.”

Serena blinked, taken off guard.

“Everyone before him either wanted to fix me,” Y/N continued, voice quieter now, “or they wanted to… own the mess. Wear it like a badge. Like, ‘Look at me, dating the hot disaster.’ But Bob…” She trailed off, smile turning wistful. “Bob saw me crying in a parking lot the second time we met and just… sat with me. Didn’t ask me what was wrong. Didn’t push. Just sat there.”

Serena didn’t say anything, letting her speak.

“He treated me like real good,” Y/N whispered. “Like he couldn’t believe I was even looking at him. And maybe that made it easier to believe I was good.”

The silence that followed was soft, a rare peace between the laughter and sarcasm that usually filled their mornings.

Then Serena tilted her head, brow raised. “Okay… but also. Be honest. Was it just the sex?”

Y/N choked on her coffee so hard she slapped her chest like it owed her an apology. “SERENA!”

“I knew it,” Serena declared, triumphant. “I knew there was a ‘he ruins me emotionally but also rearranges my organs’ layer to this!”

“Oh my God, shut up—”

“No, you shut up,” Serena laughed, pointing at her. “I lived with you during that era. I heard the playlists. I heard the walls. I had to sleep with a pillow over my head on Thursdays.”

Y/N covered her face in horror. “Please let me die.”

“No, no. I want you to live in the truth,” Serena said dramatically. “Because if you’re gonna be emotionally haunted by a man, he better at least have made your spine see stars.”

Y/N groaned. “Okay, yes, he was—he was great. Incredible. Like… criminally intuitive. It was like he had some kind of sixth sense for what would make me melt. I don’t know if it was a power or just talent, but—”

“—this is a man who barely talked for 3 hours when we all went to brunch to meet him and you’re telling me he used powers to give you the holy spirit in bed,” Serena deadpanned.

Y/N howled. “You’re the worst person alive.”

“I’m sorry, but I needed to know what I was fighting against here,” Serena said. “If I’m gonna help you emotionally detach, I have to understand what kind of… voodoo wand he was packing.”

“STOP!” Y/N shouted, beet red. “I can’t talk about this anymore or I’m going to text him.”

Serena raised both hands. “No texting the ex-superboyfriend. That way lies chaos.”

“I’m just saying,” Y/N muttered, cheeks still burning, “Toby’s gonna have to perform miracles to get me to forget that.”

Serena leaned back with a satisfied grin. “Then let’s pray Toby brings holy water and a decent jawline to dinner.”

Y/N buried her head in her arms again. “I hate you.”

“You love me. I make your trauma digestible.”

--

Y/N had tried. She really had.

She'd showered twice that afternoon, changed outfits four times, and let Serena give her a pep talk while doing her makeup. Serena had picked out the dress — a dark green slip that hugged her waist and left her shoulders bare — and had styled her hair while they both tried not to mention the ghost in the room. Or rather, the ghost in the Watchtower.

“You’re hot,” Serena had reminded her, squeezing her shoulders in the mirror. “You’re funny. You’re too good to be crying about some emotionally-unstable superhuman who ghosted you.”

And Y/N had nodded. Smiled. Said she was fine.

Now, seated across from Toby in the golden glow of a candlelit restaurant, she was doing her best to act fine.

The place was upscale — softly lit chandeliers, jazz murmuring from overhead speakers, white linen napkins and wine glasses that caught the light like crystal. It was all very… composed. Expensive. Controlled.

Toby looked the part too. Crisp white shirt, blazer, a silver watch that glinted every time he raised his wine glass. He was charming in the kind of way that came from practice — not sleazy, just… polished. Pre-approved. Like someone who had a laminated checklist of first-date behaviors and was determined to hit them all.

He'd picked a bold red wine, one of the best on the menu, and ordered it without blinking at the price. She tried to laugh at his jokes. She tried to smile when he told stories about his job in software development, about conferences and deadlines and venture capitalists she couldn’t quite bring herself to care about. But her laugh came a half-second late. Her smile felt pasted on. Her body sat rigid, her eyes flickering to the shadows between flickering candles as if expecting someone else to appear there.

And underneath it all, she was starving.

She hadn’t eaten all day. Not really. Just a piece of toast in the morning and coffee. She didn’t even realize how empty she felt until the food came — hand-rolled pasta in a rich cream sauce, soft warm bread, olives swimming in oil and herbs. Her stomach had practically sung.

She tried to eat slowly at first, like the women at the surrounding tables — careful bites, delicate gestures — but after the second glass of wine and a little more comfort, she let go just enough to enjoy herself. She dipped bread in the sauce, let the flavors melt in her mouth, even licked a little off her fork, trying to soothe something that wasn’t just physical hunger.

Toby was in the middle of explaining his favorite vacation spot in Capri when he paused, watching her with an amused smile.

“You’re really going at it, huh?” he said, laughing.

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Nothing,” he said, still smiling. “It’s just cute. You’re not exactly shy with your food.”

Her fork hovered in the air.

“I mean, I like a girl who eats,” he added quickly, clearly trying to make it a compliment. “But, you know, moderation is sexy too. Leave a little mystery.”

Y/N froze.

Her heart didn’t shatter — not like glass. It contracted. Twisted in on itself.

She looked down at her plate — half-finished, sauce smeared. She suddenly saw her bite marks in the bread. The little drop of wine on her napkin. Her shoulders tensed.

“Oh,” she said quietly, placing her fork down.

Toby didn’t notice her change. Or maybe he did and didn’t care.

“I mean, if we’re being honest,” he said with a chuckle, “you’re already gorgeous. But if you just trimmed a little, like, this much—” He held his fingers an inch apart. “You’d be lethal, you know what I mean?”

Y/N felt her throat tighten. The wine in her glass was suddenly sour.

He kept talking, unaware, laughing again at his own brilliance. Something about keto. Or intermittent fasting. Something someone on TikTok told him once. His words blurred into background noise, like a TV left on in another room.

She nodded slowly, though she wasn’t listening anymore. She wasn’t even in the restaurant.

She was somewhere else. Somewhere safer.

She was in a small, quiet diner at 2 a.m., with Bob across from her in a threadbare hoodie, his hair a mess. They’d ordered pancakes and eggs because it was the only place still open after their fourth date — after she told him about the worst parts of her past. And Bob, instead of recoiling or turning awkward, had reached across the table with a kind of cautious reverence and said, “You’ve survived so much.”

And then he asked if he could steal a fry.

She remembered the way his eyes had lit up when she laughed, like he’d just heard the sound for the first time.

Y/N swallowed hard.

“I’m not feeling well,” she said suddenly, her voice distant. “I think I need to go home.”

Toby blinked, mid-sentence. “Wait—what? We haven’t even gotten dessert—”

“I know, I just…” She stood, already pulling her bag over her shoulder, trying not to cry. “Thank you. For dinner.”

He said something as she walked away — maybe asked if he said something wrong, maybe tried to smooth it over with another compliment. She didn’t hear it. She was already outside, into the humid night air, her heels clicking against the sidewalk like thunderclaps in her ears.

She didn’t cry right away. Not until she got home. Not until she stepped out of her dress in the silence of her bedroom and stared at herself in the mirror, cheeks flushed from wine and humiliation.

Moderation is sexy too. Trim a little. Leave a little mystery.

She let out a breath like it hurt. Her reflection blurred.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

--

Tampa, Florida - Four dates in

The diner was almost empty, save for the low hum of the refrigerator behind the counter and the crackling of an old jukebox playing something faint and bluesy. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the air smelled of syrup and burnt coffee. Outside, the world was sleeping. But inside, it was just the two of them — Y/N and Bob — tucked into a red leather booth with a plate of pancakes between them and a quiet that felt strangely sacred.

Y/N was curled slightly forward, stirring her coffee with a shaky spoon, her eyes flickering between the sugar packets and Bob’s steady gaze. He had noticed her hesitation when the food arrived — how she’d only pushed a few eggs around her plate, how she’d looked at the pancakes like they were made of glass.

“You okay?” he had asked, softly, not pushing. Just noticing.

She took a breath. It rattled slightly in her chest. Her lips trembled with the beginning of words she didn’t know if she could say out loud.

“You know I used to like… not eat,” she murmured finally, not looking at him. “I mean—I did. But only sometimes. And when I did, I’d… make myself sick after.”

Bob’s smile faded. His posture shifted, leaning in just slightly, his brows furrowing with quiet concern. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t flinch.

She exhaled slowly, her fingers trembling around the spoon.

“It started when I was seventeen. My mom had this way of always commenting on what I ate. Or didn’t eat. It wasn’t even mean, just... little things, you know? Like, ‘Are you really going to finish that?’ or ‘That dress looked better before dinner.’ I didn’t even realize how much it got into my head.”

She laughed once — dry and humorless.

“By the time I was in college, I had it down to a routine. I could pretend I was fine in public. Smile, drink a smoothie, skip meals, throw up in clean bathrooms with scented candles, so there's no suspicion. You’d be amazed at how good you can get at pretending.”

Bob stayed silent, his eyes gentle but focused entirely on her. He wasn’t afraid of her truth. He wasn’t shrinking away.

“I haven’t told many people,” she said, her voice lower now. “I’ve been trying to get better. For a couple years now. But eating around people still makes me anxious. I overthink every bite. I wonder if they’re watching. Judging. Even if they’re not.”

She looked up at him then, as if bracing herself for the change. For the shift in his eyes. For the sudden distance.

But Bob didn’t move. Not away from her.

Instead, he picked up his fork and cut a piece of pancake from the middle of the plate, loaded it with syrup, and shoved the entire thing in his mouth in one go. A huge bite.

Y/N blinked.

Bob chewed exaggeratedly, bulging his cheeks out like a chipmunk before swallowing and letting out a dramatic sigh. “God, that’s good,” he groaned, smacking his lips. “I mean, life-changing. Like... Michelin star stuff.”

Y/N stared at him, confused — then let out a startled laugh. He grinned, syrup at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m just saying,” he continued, casually reaching for another bite, “you could eat this entire plate by yourself and I would still think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met. And I’d help you eat it. Happily.”

Her laugh wavered, turning into something wetter. Something deeper. Her eyes stung.

“You don’t have to say that,” she whispered, trying to keep her composure.

“I’m not saying it to be nice,” Bob said, his voice softening again. “I’m saying it because it’s true.”

He looked down at her hands — still gripping the coffee cup — then gently placed his own over them.

“I know I’m not perfect. I’ve got... my own monsters. Big ones. But if you ever feel like they’re too loud,” he said, voice just above a whisper, “you can tell me. Even if you don’t want me to fix it. Even if you just need someone to listen.”

Y/N didn’t speak. She couldn’t. Her throat was too tight.

“And if you ever feel like eating three stacks of pancakes in front of me,” he added, the teasing lilt returning to his voice, “I promise you — I will never, ever judge you. Even if you unhinge your jaw like a snake. You’ll still be the prettiest person in the room.”

She giggled, half through a sniffle. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grinned. “I’m serious. You could gain thirty pounds and I’d still carry you everywhere.”

“Sure,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You say that now.”

“I mean it,” Bob insisted, puffing his chest. “I’m like super strong, remember? I could lift you if you were made of cement and regret. You think a little ice cream weight’s gonna scare me?”

Y/N finally let out a real laugh, leaning back against the booth. Her face still damp, her eyes still red — but something had lightened in her chest. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time: safe. Seen.

Weird really. How a battle has been inside of her for years and a boy this chaotic had already made her feel so good about it.

It had to be real love.

--

Bob's pov

Bob sat on the end of his bed, elbows braced on his thighs, staring down at his hands. His knuckles were raw again. The skin peeled at the edges where he’d been picking at them without realizing. Nervous habit. The kind Y/N used to catch and gently stop.

He felt her everywhere, even now. Like she was stitched into the seams of his life.

Another knock.

Yelena didn’t wait for a response—never did. She slipped inside like a breeze of sarcasm and intuition.

“I brought tea,” she said, holding up a steaming mug. “Because you look like the tragic ghost of a dead poet.”

Bob blinked at her. “I’m not really in the mood.”

“Don’t care.” She shoved the mug into his hands and sat across from him. “Talk.”

He hesitated. She didn’t blink.

“Who is she?” she asked, softer now. “The one Walker said has you all… scrambled.”

Bob exhaled, deep and cracked, like the breath had been trapped under a mountain.

“Y/N,” he said. “Her name’s Y/N.”

He paused. The name tasted like sunlight and ash.

“We met at a club in Florida. One of those places where everything smells like too much perfume and spilled rum. She was with her friends—girls’ night. I was tagging along with some guys I barely knew. I was already spiraling then. Small stuff, pills mostly. Not that anyone could tell.”

He swallowed hard.

“She was radiant,” he continued. “Black dress, laughing at something her friend said at the bar. I kept staring like an idiot. She caught me, smiled, and waved. That wave... It felt like a lifeline.”

Yelena tilted her head, listening.

“I eventually walked up to her, nervous as hell. I wasn’t good at talking to people then. Especially not women like her. But she didn’t make me feel like a creep or a loser. She smiled like she saw something in me that was good. And that terrified me.”

His voice dropped, quiet and hoarse.

“She gave me her number. We texted the next day. And I remember being more excited about her reply than I’d been about anything in years.”

Bob sat back, eyes clouded, as memories poured like a slow leak from his chest.

“She was… warm,” he said. “The kind of person who’d talk to the barista like they were an old friend. Who would bake banana bread on random Tuesdays and always burned the edges but insisted it was better that way.”

Yelena smirked faintly.

“She talked a lot, especially in the mornings. I liked that. She had this way of waking up and instantly being in full story mode—telling me her dreams, or what she wanted to do that weekend, or what new podcast she was obsessed with. It was chaotic, but it was… home.”

He looked away. Pain flickered in his jaw.

“And I was high for most of it.”

Yelena’s smile faded.

“She never knew,” Bob said. “I kept it together just enough. Told her I was anxious. That I had insomnia. I was good at hiding the tremors and the dips in energy. I always wore long sleeves. Told her I didn’t like the cold.”

He laughed bitterly.

“I was a walking lie.”

“But did you love her?” Yelena asked.

Bob’s eyes snapped to hers.

“I still love her,” he said, voice cracking. “That’s the worst part.”

He stood up, pacing now, restless with the memory.

“She used to make pancakes on Saturdays. Bad pancakes. Burnt, lumpy ones. And I ate every bite because she looked so proud. We’d spend entire Sundays just lying in bed, her feet always cold, shoved between my thighs while she played music and asked me about my favorite songs.”

His chest heaved, eyes rimmed red.

“She asked me once if I was happy. Just out of the blue. She was brushing her teeth. I said yes. But I wasn’t. Because every day I spent with her made the guilt worse. She thought she had this decent guy. And I was using behind her back.”

He paused.

“Once, she brought me soup when I was dope sick. I told her I had the flu. She held my hand while I threw up and kept saying I was the strongest person she knew. And all I could think was, if she knew the truth, she’d leave me right now.”

Yelena said nothing, letting the silence stretch.

“I kept trying to get clean,” he added. “Not for me—for her. But the more I tried, the more I hated myself when I failed. The last few months, I got mixed up with a really bad crowd. Dealers. Violence. She had no idea. She thought I was working longer hours.”

He clenched his fists.

“And then one night, I overdosed.”

The room fell still.

“I didn’t tell her. She didn’t even know I was in the hospital. I just… blocked her. Told her I didn’t want her anymore. And then I disappeared.”

Yelena exhaled slowly. “And now she’s back in your life.”

“Not really,” he said, eyes hollow. “I saw her at the store. She saw me, and she ran. And I can’t even blame her.”

Yelena stood and walked over, her voice gentler than he’d ever heard.

“You think she wouldn’t have stayed if she knew?”

“I know she would’ve tried,” Bob whispered. “But I would’ve dragged her down with me. And I couldn’t do that. Even if it meant losing the only good thing I ever had.”

A long silence passed.

“Do you want her back?” she asked.

Bob didn’t answer right away. He just stared out the window at the stars.

“I want to be the man she thought I was,” he said. “That’s all.”

Yelena stood by the window now, arms crossed, watching the dark skyline of the city through the reinforced Watchtower glass. The silence between them had thickened like fog, dense with things unsaid.

“You ever think this isn’t just a coincidence?” she asked quietly.

Bob didn’t move from where he sat. “What?”

“Seeing her again. After all this time. Not in Florida. Not in a memory. But here. New city. New life. You — sober. Her — still breathing the same air as you.”

He flinched.

Yelena turned to face him, voice more insistent now. “You don’t think that maybe… maybe the universe is handing you one of those cheesy second chances people pray for?”

Bob scoffed, bitter and tired. “She ran when she saw me, Yelena.”

“People run when they’re scared.”

“She’s scared of me.”

Yelena moved closer, unfazed by the rawness in his voice. “Or scared of what you meant to her. People don’t run unless there’s something still burning in their chest.”

Bob looked up at her, eyes glassy.

“You don’t get it,” he said, each word grinding out of him. “She didn’t leave me. I left her. She believed I was good. Kind. Worth something. And I ripped that illusion from her the moment I disappeared without explanation. She doesn’t owe me a single second of her time. And she definitely doesn’t owe me forgiveness.”

Yelena sighed, sitting beside him.

“Maybe not,” she admitted. “But you owe yourself the chance to try.”

He was quiet again. Still. His whole body felt like it was made of stone.

“I used to fantasize about running into her one day,” he murmured. “In the early months of rehab. When the cravings hit so hard I wanted to claw my skin off. When I thought about using again just so I could feel human for five minutes.”

His hands shook slightly in his lap. He didn’t hide it.

“I’d imagine her seeing me all clean, apologizing, holding her hand, telling her everything. And she’d look at me the way she used to. Like I was worth it.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, voice cracking.

“But that’s not how it happened.”

Yelena watched him quietly.

“I saw her face when she recognized me. It wasn’t joy. It was pain. Like seeing a ghost she’d buried and hoped never to see again.”

“Maybe she was just shocked,” Yelena said gently. “She probably thought you were dead.”

Bob flinched again.

“Maybe I was,” he whispered. “And maybe the version of me she loved still is.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees again, fingers pulling at the fabric of his jeans.

“I’m not hiding anymore. I’m sober. And it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But that doesn’t erase what I did. She spent months — years — not knowing why I left. Thinking it was her. Or worse, thinking she wasn’t enough. And the truth is, she was too much — too good, too bright, too patient.”

He shook his head slowly, eyes cast downward.

“I don’t deserve her. Not after the hell I put her through. Not when I let her love a lie.”

Yelena was quiet for a moment. Then, carefully, she said, “But you’re not lying anymore.”

Bob looked up at her, expression hollow.

“Doesn’t matter. Truth or not… some things don’t get to be fixed.”

He stood, walking slowly to the window where she had stood before. He leaned a hand against the cool glass, staring at the city lights below. Somewhere out there, Y/N was breathing. Existing. Living a life that no longer had room for him.

“I saw her with Walker,” he said, his voice barely audible. “And maybe that’s good. Maybe she’ll get the life she wanted, she looks like she moved on just fine.”

Yelena stood behind him, her voice softer now. “Is that what you really want? Walker had a wholw family drama going on...I wouldn't say that's exactly a great option.”

Bob didn’t turn around.

“I want her to be okay,” he said. “Even if it kills me.”

A beat of silence passed. And then —

“But you miss her.”

He nodded. “Every damn day.”

The ache inside him pulsed like a bruise that never faded. He thought of her laugh, her late-night texts, the warmth of her skin under his fingers, the stupid inside jokes, the scent of her coconut shampoo, the way she danced barefoot in his apartment while brushing her teeth. He remembered it all in excruciating detail.

And he remembered the silence she was met with when he vanished.

He thought of all the versions of himself he tried to be — the lover, the liar, the addict, the coward — and how none of them were enough to hold onto her.

“I had the whole world in my hands,” Bob said, his voice breaking. “And I dropped it.”

Yelena stepped forward, placing a hand gently on his shoulder.

“Then maybe it’s time to pick something up again,” she whispered. “Even if it’s just the truth.”

But Bob said nothing.

Because in his heart — beneath the layers of sobriety, regret, and bone-deep yearning — he still believed that redemption was something meant for someone else.

[motteteto]

my beautiful princess with a disorder 🥀

[starrbishops]

⟡Risk⟡

(Bob Reynolds x Reader)

Summary: You and Bob have feelings for each other. Which would be great, considering you're best friends; the problem is neither of you thinks the other likes you back.

Word Count: 3.8k

Notes: Set after the events of Thunderbolts*, friends to lovers, fluff, a little hurt/comfort, terrible wingman Walker, Bucky and Alpine (my beloved), New Avengers movie night, discussion of pipe bombs/mail bombs (not plot relevant but stay with me here), first kiss

a/n: It's me again. Thunderbolts fanfiction author starrbishops. And I'm bringing you another cute, fluffy friends to lovers Bob Reynolds Avengers Tower story that is sure to give you a cavity. I give you, Risk (titled after the Gracie Abrams song of similar themes)

At first you think you’re imagining it. 

The fact that Bob always sits next to you on movie nights, smiles whenever you walk in a room. You chalk it up to friendship. After all, you and Bob have grown close ever since the Void incident. You’ve made sure to let him know you’re here for him, no matter what, any time of the day. He’s taken you up on it a couple times, coming by your room in the middle of the night when the thoughts in his head are too loud. You’ve sat with him, held him till it quiets and he could finally sleep.

Watching Bob sleep, you forget he’s the most powerful being on earth. He’s just Bob, snoring quietly, clinging to you like a koala. He looks peaceful, cute even. It’s one of the things you like most about him. And you like just about everything about him.

Because it’s more than just the late night sleepovers and the kind greetings in the morning. You notice Bob pays just a little more attention to the household chores that pertain to you than to anyone else. He’s doing a load of laundry? Yours is the first done, already folded and left on your bed. Meanwhile, he texts Walker to let him know his clothes are in the dryer and to go get them in 30 minutes.

If you’re doing the dishes after dinner one night? He joins you. Sometimes it takes over completely. You insist you’ve got it; he insists he wants to. After a few nights of this, you give up on trying to stop him; you hate the dishes, and besides, he always seems happy to take over for you. In fact, once you start letting him take over, you find him joining you for the most mundane tasks. When you’re putting the dishes away, he’s suddenly there sorting the utensils. When you’re going to the grocery store, he’s the first to volunteer to go with you.

It’s not that you’re mad about it; you love spending time with Bob. He’s more than just the nervous guy from the vault, he’s sweet, funny, considerate. It’s just that the more he does these things, and the more time you spend with him, the more you fall for him.

It’s like everytime he smiles, your heart stops beating for a second. Any time his hand brushes yours, you feel like electricity is running across your skin. Once when he stretched, his sweatshirt rode up just a little, revealing his cut abs and a sharp v-line dipping into his sweatpants. You swear your brain waves turned into static for a minute.

You don’t know what to do. You could just tell him, except you can’t work up the nerve. It’s a little laughable, actually. You, an Avenger, someone who’s killed and fought more people than you can count, can’t tell a guy you like him.

You’re not even sure if Bob himself likes you back. Sure, he does seem to seek you out in every situation, always putting you first on his to-do list, but that could just be him being friendly, right? Why would he like someone like you, of all people? Besides, he’s still struggling with his mental and physical health after the trauma of the Sentry Project. You don’t want to be the thing that curbs his improvement, or makes him worse. Besides, if he doesn’t like you, you risk ruining the entire team dynamic. You’re a ragtag group of weirdos, but you love these weirdos like family, and you wouldn’t risk anything that might destroy your bond. Even if that means dying inside every time Bob sits a little too close to you.

Like now, as the seven of you sit together in the common room, watching some old Russian action movie Alexei picked. Yelena had begged him to choose something normal for once, but he’d insisted it was, in his words, ‘cinematic excellence.’ Honestly, you couldn’t tell if it was good or not, considering it was entirely in Russian with no subtitles. From Bucky’s confused expression and Yelena’s look of embarrassment, it wasn’t very good.

You couldn’t be paying less attention. You were seated on the couch between Bob and Walker, relaxing against the cushions. It’d been a long week for all of you. You’d just gotten back from a mission in South America, and you all needed to take a load off. The minute you walked in, Bob was sitting on the couch, his eyes lighting up at the sight of you. He rushed over, immediately giving you a hug, making your stomach drop. 

“I missed you.” he whispered in your ear, and you felt like your knees were going to give out.

But you survived, and here you sat, just another Friday movie night to make it through without either snapping and kissing Bob senseless or spontaneously combusting.

“This is an…interesting movie.” he muttered into your ear. 

“Interesting is an understatement.” You chuckled as you watched Alexei cheer as one of the bad guys was blown up with comically bad special effects. “At least he’s enjoying it.” You were enjoying it a little too. Not the movie itself, but the fact you got to spend time with Bob. He'd been whispering comments into your ear all night, ranging from jabs at the poor quality of the film to just random tidbits about his day. You smiled at each one of them, just at the sound of his voice in your ear. You’d missed him too, his comforting presence always beside you, his kindness that lifted just a little bit of weight off your shoulders.

Bob yawned a little, his eyes shutting as he tried to stifle it, lest Alexei hear and pause the movie to explain everything he’d missed. “Tired?” you joked, him nodding in response.

“Long day.” he mumbled, leaning back into the cushions. “Did all the laundry from the mission. Yours is in your room. I left your favorite sweater on your dresser.”

You turned to face him. “The blue one? How’d you know?”

He just shrugged. “You always wear it.”

You felt your face go a little hot at that, turning back to the TV screen to hopefully disguise your blush. This was the kind of thing that Bob just did, small acts of kindness that showed that he knew you, more than you’d even realized you let on.

Bob yawned again, this time stretching his arms out. You focused your eyes straight ahead, fearing another brain buffer like the last incident. Unfortunately, you couldn’t escape it; Bob’s lowered arm landed behind you on the sofa, encircling you, with his hand resting on your shoulder.

Did Bob Reynolds really just do the yawn-arm-around-you trick? The man with the power of a thousand suns just used a middle school dating tactic on you. You felt like a teenager on a first date. Your mind raced as you tried to find a plausible explanation for this. It’s not like physical touch is too out there for Bob. You’ve slept by each other’s sides plenty of times. Still, this feels different. Where that was comfort in the face of pain, this is out of nowhere. Bob touches you because he wants to. Your brain felt like putty, melting down in the heat of his touch around your shoulders. 

You chalked up what you did next to your lack of brain function in the moment. You leaned against him, resting your head against his chest. He felt solid beneath you. You forgot sometimes how strong he was, the way the Sentry Project had changed him. It was strange to say, considering you’d never known him before. Bob felt familiar to you, like you’d known him all your life.

You dared to look up at Bob, seeing how his eyes stayed fixed on the TV. The film on the screen lights them up, revealing the blue hues that appear when the light hits them just right. They’re beautiful.

Neither of you says anything for a while. You just sit together, in comfortable silence, watching Alexei excitedly explain the symbolism of the film to Ava, who sits curled up on the floor half-asleep. Yelena and Walker snack on the popcorn bowl between them, while Bucky appears to zone out as he pets Alpine, lying asleep in his lap. At one point, he glances over at you, furrowing his brow as he sees you and Bob. You and Bob are close, everyone knows that. You’ve just never given the impression of being this touchy together. He tilts his head at you, asking What’s going on here? You purse your lips, giving him a confused expression that says I honestly couldn’t tell you.

And the movie’s over, but neither you nor Bob move a muscle. “Good movie, eh?” Alexei asks as the credits roll, looking over at you and Bob across the couch. “You two look, eh…comfortable.”

You don’t know who moves first, you or Bob, but you both spring up, scooting away from each other. You hear Walker grumble something next to you, probably a teasing joke. Thankfully, Yelena takes the heat off you by beginning her critiques of the movie. It’s like every movie night, she turns into a film critic afterwards. 

You glance up at Bob, seeing that he’s just as red as you are. It calms you a little, seeing him in the same boat of embarrassment as you. But it also skyrockets your anxiety, wondering if he regrets it, if he didn’t actually mean anything by it, if you misread the situation. 

After a few minutes, Bob clears his throat. “I’m, uh, gonna head to bed. Long day.” he chuckles, glancing over at you in the process. John agrees with him, the rest of the team saying their goodnights as the two men walk off to the elevator. 

You try to focus on the lively discussion Yelena, Ava and Alxei are currently having about the logistics of planting pipe bombs, but your thoughts are still full of Bob. The way his arm felt around you, the feel of his breath just brushing past the top of your head. You forgot how big he was, sometimes. He could completely envelop you in his arms when he hugged you. Once you’d compared your hands, his being comically larger than yours. It made your mind drift towards dirtier things, imaging Bob in your bed, the way he could use his hands.

You shook yourself out of it as Bucky plopped down next to you, still holding Alpine. He just sits quietly for a moment, before Alpine meows quietly, causing him to clear his throat.

“I-uh, Alpine, would like to know what was going on there with you and Bob.” his voice is just above a whisper, trying to avoid the others jumping in with their opinions.

You shake your head, facing him. “I have no clue. He just did that.”

“He just…laid your head on his chest?”

“Well, I mean…it’s not…I don’t even know.” you flop back, covering your eyes with your hands. “I don’t know what’s happening anymore.”

You feel a sharp prick against your leg, then another. You move your hand to see Alpine crawl into your lap, setting herself up comfortably. You gently pet her soft fur, the monotony calming you.

“She likes you.” Bucky comments, moving his metal arm to stroke her as well. “It’s no wonder Bob does too.”

You pause for a moment, just staring at Bucky.  “I’m old, not stupid. I know what a guy with a crush looks like.”

You go back to petting Alpine, focusing on the rhythm of your hands on her pale fur. “I don’t know about that…”

“Hey.” Bucky looks you right in the eye, hsi metal hand on your shoulder. “You’re a good kid. So’s he. You’d be good together.” he lays back, yawning slightly. “Besides, I’m tired of watching you too dance around each other. You know, if this was the 40’s you’d be engaged at this point.”

You chuckle, even as your thoughts still swirl with worries.

“Bucky!” Alexei interrupts them, “If Winter Soldier was to send pipe bomb through mail, how would he go about it?”

Bucky looks a mix of shocked and disappointed. “I…don’t know how to answer that.”

“I do!” Ava launches into her own argument. You and Bucky just laugh as you watch them fight, your mind moving away from the brown haired boy to the logistics of bribing the USPS to send a bomb for you.

Meanwhile, Bob is starfished out on his bed, staring into his ceiling.

“I don’t think she likes me.”

“Of course she does!” John insists, continuing his pacing at the foot of the bed. “I thought that trick was sure to work.”

“We’re not in middle school, John!” Bob sits up. “It was stupid. And now she probably thinks I'm a weirdo.”

John shrugs. “I don’t know, it seems like she was into it.”

Bob scoffs. “Yeah right. I’m screwed.”

“Hey.” John joins him on the bed, gripping his shoulders, eye contact unwavering. “You can do this. You are going to get the girl, Bob. It may be hard, but love is worth it.”

Bob just stares back at him for a moment, wondering what his life has come to now that the divorced ex Captain America is his wingman.

“Nice pep talk, Walker.” he pulls away, flopping back down, covering his eyes. “I’m doomed.”

“You are not doomed.” he leans over Bob, moving his hands out of his face. “Look, do you believe in love, Bob?”

Bob is quiet. “I believe she’s gonna think we’re in love if you keep doing shit like this. Get off me.” he shoves John aside. “But yeah, sure. Love, and whatever.”

Bob does believe in love, although he’s never really known it properly. An alcoholic dad and a mentally ill mom will do that to you. For years, he thought love was just some lie that people tell to excuse or justify their terrible relationships. He knew now he was wrong. You showed him he was wrong. 

Sure he’s been in relationships before, but nothing serious. Usually just some casual fun that made the highs that the drugs gabe him just that much better. You were the first person who he really felt a connection to, the first person who he wanted something real with. Part of him still worried he wasn’t good enough for you. After all, you were an Avenger, a hero. Hell, you’d saved him twice over on the first day of knowing him. What could he have to offer you? He was a former meth addict slacker from Florida with no future before the Sentry Project. He was trying to be more, to really find himself, build a life with the team. He wanted you in that life. Still, he wondered if he could ever deserve you, if anyone could, for that matter.

“Listen man.” John grabs his shoulder yet again, a sign of what is sure to be a riveting motivational speech. “You and her, you’ve got something special. I can see it. She’s into you, Bob. You just gotta believe in yourself. Make a move!”

Bob just nods, gripping Walker’s shoulder with his opposite arm. “What do you think I’ve been doing all this time?!” he asks frustratedly.

“Okay, doing her chores for her is clearly not enough. I’m gonna be straight with you Bob my boy, she’s a little oblivious.”

Normally he wouldn’t stand for anyone insulting or speaking remotely ill of you, but Walker did have a point. He’d spent the last few months making a conscious effort to pull your attention, going out of his way just to make you smile. Even Walker managed to pick up that he liked you from that. Yet still, you seemed oblivious.

“Maybe it’s not that” he mutters.

“What?” “Maybe she does know, and she just doesn’t like me.”

Walker sighs incredulously. “Bob, c’mon man. It’s not that, I guarantee you-”

“That’s what you said about the last plan! What do you even know about love, Walker? What makes you such an expert?” Walker goes quiet, clenching his jaw. “Fine. you think you’re the expert. Do it yourself.” With that, he stomps off and out of the room, slamming the door as loudly as possible behind him.

Bob just groans, laying back on his bed. He has no chance. What was he even thinking? You’d never like him. What was there to like?

He drifted off into sleep, his head floating with pity and self-loathing.

The two of you don’t talk about movie might. He chalks it up to disinterest. He tries not to hound you for the next few days. Doesn’t bother you when you’re alone in the kitchen, despite how much he wants to help, just to see you smile, hear your laugh.

You and Bucky are sent out soon on a weeks-long mission. Romania, apparently. You’re off the grid, strictly no contact with anyone. It’s torture. At least he could see you before, put a face to the yearning. Now, it just feels like a black hole inside him, swallowing everything up. He can’t sleep. Barely eats. He just thinks about you. Misses you. 

It’s not like you haven’t been on long missions before. That he could deal with. It’s like withdrawal, mixed with regret at how he avoided you prior to your leaving. The memories of you feel so far away now, leaving him with nothing to hold onto.

One night he woke with a start to the sound of knocking on his door. Rubbing his eyes, he read his alarm clock; 3:18 AM. Who the hell was here at this hour? Maybe Walker coming to force him to train early with him in Bucky’s absence, or Alexei with some middle of the night marketing pitch. He was proved wrong, opening the door to find you standing there, out of breath, still in your tactical gear. You’d just gotten home.

“Hey.” you mumble, quiet and breathy. 

“Hey.” he says back, instinctively reaching for you. “You’re home.”

“Yeah.” you affirm, nodding sharply. “Uh, mission was good, went well, I just…” you cover your mouth, stifling a sob.

“Hey.” he immediately puts his arms around you, one hand moving to stroke your hair. “You’re okay. I’m here. I’m here.”

He hears you sniffle a little, before wrapping your arms around his midriff, clinging onto him like a lifeline. He just holds you tight, mumbles reassurances into the crown of your head. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

He forgets all his doubts, all the ways you are infinitely better than him. He sees you hurting, and he can’t have that. It physically pains him, seeing you in tears. Maybe he doesn’t deserve you. Maybe he has nothing to offer you. But he can do this. He can be there for you in the middle of the night, ready to fight off whatever pain plagues you, anything that could harm you. He can hold you, carefully, as if you’re something precious to protect, because you are.

“I-I’m better now.” you mutter, pulling away slightly. Bob releases his grasp, though his hands remain on your waist and head, blue eyes still looking down into yours. “It’s nothing, I’m just, I’m being crazy.”

“You wanna talk about it?” he questions, hand sliding down to cup your cheek. He can feel the skin is slightly wet from tears. He feels a little part of his heart snap in half.

You shake his head, leaning back into him. Just as before , you rest your head on his chest, just breathing in and out, catching your breath. It’s something you do when you return from missions, he’s noticed. Deep, rhythmic breaths as he hugs you, as if you’re reassuring yourself that this is real.

“You wanna lay down?” he asks, feeling you nod your head against him. “Okay.” he mutters, “I got you.” he steps away, taking your hand in his as he walks to the bed, pulling back the blanket for you to climb in.

You rest your head on his shoulder, letting him put his arms around you once more. He could stay like this forever, he thinks. 

“You’re my best friend, y’know”

He perks up at your words, raising his head to look at you. You just stare blankly off into the expanse of his room. “I am?”

You nod. “You are”

He’s not sure how to respond to this. “Thanks?” he settles on after a brief silence.

“And all that time, I kept having these nightmares that-that I’d come back and you’d be gone, or hurt, or you’d hate me, and I just, it drove me crazy, to the point where I’d barely sleep-”

“Hey.” he cuts you off, one hand pulling your chin up to look at him. “I’m not going anywhere. Ever. And I could never, ever hate you.” he rubs one thumb against your cheek softly, repeating himself quietly. “I could never hate you.”

You finally look up at him. It’s not sadness in your eyes, but something else. Longing. He recognizes it, from all the nights he’s spent alone, thinking of you. The days spent watching you idle about the tower, just grateful to be in your presence. It’s something he’s never been on the receiving end of. It’s a little strange. But addictive.

 You both sit in silence for a moment, unsure what to do next. He leans down, a little closer to you. Fuck it, he thinks.

He kisses you.

And it’s everything he’s dreamed; your lips are soft, your hands run through his hair, pulling him in closer. It’s gentle, not rushed. It’s a culmination, but not yet a climax. A confession, finally, out in the open.

When he pulls back, it’s just barely, his face still mere inches from yours. He can feel your breath against his lips as you laugh, just a little.

“I thought I was crazy.” he hears you mumble. He opens his eyes, and you’re smiling. God, how he’s missed that sight. “I thought you were just being really nice to me because we’re friends.”

“Sorta.” he brushes a loose strand of hair from your face. “I did it because I love seeing you happy.” he smiles, small but real. “Like this.”

You just grin, leaning back in to press another quick kiss to his lips. Almost immediately he pulls you back in, this one deeper, passionate. He puts everything into it. All the yearning, the doubt, the love he feels. He pours it into this. Even if he can’t, won’t say it just yet, he gives you this, he gives you himself in this one kiss.

When you finally pull back, this time you’re left breathless, smiling even wider than before. It warms his heart, knowing he did this, because you want him.

“I like you a lot, you know.” you say. He chuckles at the hilarity of the statement at this point.

“I like you too.” he presses a kiss to your forehead. This one is an affirmation, a promise of more to come. “I like you so, so much.”

a/n: I love Bob. I love the idea of Avengers movie night. Been working on various conepts of this one for a while and it's finally come together and I really like it. Part two w/ smut coming soon >:) It ain't much, but it's honest work.