#the void

[1300marshall]

he’s asking for more cuddles

[gazpachito]

But I have so many.

[redundantz]

[ilovemilestellersmoustache]

Save a Horse, Ride a Bob

Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: Taking someone to your hometown is a huge milestone for you, and seemingly Bob fits perfectly with everyone and everything, except for the fact the he managed to unknowingly place upon the “hat rule�� on you. But hey? At least it works out in his favour.

A/N: This 100% was based on when John said “ride Bob into the sky”

WC: 2.7K

⸻

Bringing someone home had always felt… foreign.

Not because you weren’t proud of where you came from, quite the opposite. It was stitched into your bones, the red dirt roads, the smell of warm rain on fence posts, the summer nights heavy with fireflies and the distant lowing of cattle. But this town, with its long memory and watchful eyes, didn’t forget things easily. And it didn’t take kindly to people who didn’t understand its rhythm.

You’d never wanted to share it with anyone. Not really.

Until Bob.

It started small, the way he’d lean in to listen when you talked about riding horses at dawn, or how his lips quirked when you mentioned growing up in a place where the diner served pie before noon and the deputy coached Little League. He never interrupted, never made fun of it. Just listened like he was storing every word somewhere private.

And maybe that’s when you knew.

That if anyone was going to see where you came from, the soft underbelly of your story, the place where your heart had first learned how to beat… It should be him.

Bob Reynolds, with his soft voice and calloused hands, with his quiet smile and wide, storm wrecked heart. He was timid in the way kind people often are, like he didn’t want to take up too much space. But you knew, deep down, that this town would take one look at him and fold him into its patchwork soul like he’d always belonged.

⸻

You and Bob would drove up the winding roads in your beat-up truck, talking about your plans to show him the ranch, have dinner with your folks, maybe take him riding the next morning.

But then as the old house came into view, porch light already glowing golden against the falling sun, there were more than just your parents waiting. A half-dozen trucks were parked haphazardly near the barn, lawn chairs sprouting like dandelions around the fire pit, and you could hear laughter and screen doors slapping shut before you even killed the engine.

Bob looked at you, startled.

“…I thought it was just your family?”

You winced, a smile pulling at your mouth. “It was I guess, until I told my mama I was bringing someone home.”

He blinked. “You told her this morning.”

“Exactly.”

Bob’s brows lifted in slow, dawning realization.

⸻

When he stepped out of the truck, the warm twilight hit him first, that kind of golden dusk you only get in wide, open places. Crickets just beginning to chirp. The slow hum of cicadas. Dust kicking up around boots. The porch steps creaked under familiar weight as your mom came flying toward you, apron still dusted with flour, arms thrown wide. She hugged you like you’d been gone years instead of months.

And then she turned to Bob.

“You must be Robert.” she said, using his full name like she’d already claimed him.

He opened his mouth, but your father stepped up next, tall and sun-worn, giving Bob a long look before offering his hand. “You ride?” he asked, like it was a greeting.

“I… don’t think so?” Bob admitted sheepishly.

Your dad nodded once. “We’ll fix that.”

And just like that, it began.

Neighbors streamed in with casseroles and lemonade. Old classmates you hadn’t seen since graduation hugged you tight and gave Bob speculative, amused once-overs. Kids ran wild near the pasture fence, and someone’s dog had already claimed Bob’s shoes as a pillow. Your best friend from high school elbowed you with a grin, murmuring, “Damn, girl. You did good.”

Bob stood beside you, stiff at first. He wasn’t used to being the center of attention. Not like this. Not like someone’s person. But every time he reached for your hand, you gave it to him, steady and sure.

And slowly, he began to unfurl.

Someone offered him a cold sweet tea. Another told him he would look good in flannel. The neighbor’s teenage daughter asked him what he did, and when he gave her the world’s gentlest answer. “I’m just trying to be a good man” She sighed like she was about to write a love song about him.

You caught him later on the porch swing, ankles crossed, Henrietta the Chicken glaring at him from across the yard like she was sizing him up.

“Do I pass?” he asked you, voice low, amused.

You leaned into him, head resting on his shoulder.

“No one’s ever passed faster.”

⸻

That Friday night, you took him to The Spur, the town’s only bar-slash-dancehall, where the beer was cheap, the music was loud, and the wooden floor had seen generations of boots scuff it up with laughter and two-step.

You made sure Bob was dressed right. It took effort. He had the boots now, worn and scuffed. You made him wear jeans that actually fit. And a pearl-snap shirt in dark navy that made his shoulders look criminally good. The hat was the finishing touch, black, low-brimmed, rugged.

When he stepped out of your room, adjusting the collar and looking shy as hell, you damn near whistled.

“I feel like a theme park character.” he said.

“You look hot.” you corrected, walking a circle around him.

“Do people… wear this for real?”

“Every weekend,” you said. “Now c’mon, Reynolds. Let’s teach you how to dance.”

⸻

Inside the bar, it was all twang and laughter and the thick smell of fried food and whiskey. The band played fast and wild, and people hollered out each note. Bob stuck close to you like a lifeline, eyes wide as folks clapped him on the back, calling him “Hollywood” and “City Man” and asking how he landed you.

You taught Bob how to two-step.

Well, kind of.

“Left foot, then right. No- Bob. Other right.”

“I am using my right!”

“You’re stepping on my foot!”

“Sorry!”

You ended up just swaying with him in the middle of the dance floor, flushed from beer and embarrassment, his hands tentative as they found your waist. You tugged them tighter, grounding him, and that’s when something shifted. The tension in his shoulders loosened. His smile changed, real now.

He smelled like cedar and soap and just a trace of the cologne you told him to wear, the one with the little notes of vetiver and pepper that made your knees weak. The heat between you crackled with something unspoken, and for a few minutes, everything around you blurred into music and motion.

At some point during the night, after another dance, Bob tugged off his hat to run a hand through his damp hair. His face was shiny with sweat, his curls stuck to his forehead, and he looked dazed in that beautiful, happy way, like he still couldn’t quite believe he was here. Then, without thinking, he reached over and plopped the hat down onto your head, shaking his hair out to cool off…

It was a small, tired gesture.

But the moment it happened?

Electric.

The entire bar erupted.

Someone behind the bar bellowed, “WOOOOOO-EEE, RIDE THE COWBOY!”

“HOLY HELL!” someone else shouted. “BOBBY KNOWS THE HAT RULE!”

You stood very, very still.

More hooting. Boots stomping the floor. Someone whooped loud enough to rattle the windows.

Bob blinked, clearly lost, clearly panicking.

He looked at you, eyes wide. “I- uh- what did I just do?”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear with a smirk. “You don’t know the hat rule, do you?”

“…No.”

You reached up, adjusted the brim so it sat just right on your head, and said sweetly, “If a cowboy puts his hat on someone else’s head, it means they’re going home together.”

Bob turned scarlet. You’d never seen a man blush that fast.

“Oh.” he said, voice tight. “That’s- uh. That’s a rule?”

You shrugged, already spinning away with a teasing smile. “Town doesn’t make the rules. We just enforce them.”

Bob watched you walk toward the bar like you’d just turned his whole world upside down.

And from behind him, someone slapped his shoulder and howled, “Better saddle up, Bobby boy! That hat rule’s legally binding!”

He just stood there for a long second, still blushing, mouth parted in that stunned little way he got when you caught him completely off guard. Then you glanced back, cocked your head, and gave him a wink.

⸻

You drank, you danced, you laughed until your stomach hurt.

The old dive bar buzzed with warmth and off-key covers from the town band playing on the makeshift stage. Sticky floors, half-priced beers, and a neon sign that flickered like it had a secret, it was the kind of place that didn’t care what time it was, only that you were having a good time. And you were. Maybe more than you had in months.

Bob didn’t stop smiling, not once. Not when someone spilled a drink down the back of his jeans, not when the bartender got your orders wrong three times, and definitely not when he nearly tripped over the jukebox cord trying to avoid Henrietta, who had somehow followed you to the bar like a bad penny . His cheeks flushed pink, more from laughter than embarrassment, and he mouthed a frantic “save me” before ducking behind you like you were his personal shield. You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your beer.

The night wore on in golden, blurry edges. You danced like no one was watching, even though they definitely were. Arms loose around his shoulders, his big hands hovering just shy of your waist like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. But with every song, he drew in closer, more confident, until you were moving as one. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell beneath your fingertips, the soft warmth of his breath near your ear when he leaned in to tell you something stupid or sweet or both.

And hours later, when the crowd thinned out and the music turned slow and drawling some old country love song that could’ve been from your parents’ wedding, Bob didn’t ask. He just offered his hand, gentle and sure, and you took it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He pulled you into a quiet dance, his movements tender and deliberate, as if he was afraid to break the moment. Not once did he step on your feet. Not once did he falter. His arms wrapped around you like a safety net, loose but strong, and for a long time, the world felt small, just you, him, and the soft hum of a steel guitar in the background.

The cowboy hat stayed firmly on your head the entire time. Bob gave it a reverent little tilt when he looked down at you, like it was some kind of crown, like you were someone special, someone he’d waited years to find. And under the dim bar lights, with your head resting against his chest and his heart beating a little too fast, it was then he decided you really were.

⸻

The night air was warm and thick with the scent of wildflowers and summer sweet honeysuckle on the breeze, earth still holding onto the day’s heat. Crickets sang in the tall grass, and fireflies blinked like they were keeping time with your footsteps.

You walked back to the ranch under a million stars, boots crunching gravel, Bob’s fingers twined with yours like he never wanted to let go. He kept glancing over at you, smile crooked, eyes glassy with just enough of a buzz to make him bold. You were both a little tipsy. The good kind. The kind that made everything shimmer around the edges, like the world had softened and spun itself into something just for the two of you.

He bumped his shoulder against yours as you neared the porch. “This was… a really good night.”

“Even with Henrietta managed to track you down into the bar?”

He laughed loud, boyish, real. “Especially because of that. I got to hide behind you like a damsel. Very dignified.”

You giggled, heart drumming somewhere in your throat. And then you were at the door, old, creaky, paint chipped from years of weather and wear, and the moment you pushed it open, something shifted in the air between you. Something quiet and charged, like static before a storm.

Bob kissed you before you’d even kicked your boots off.

It wasn’t tentative or careful, not anymore. His mouth was warm and insistent, and you gasped against him, your fingers sliding under the hem of his shirt, tugging it loose. You stumbled backward into the hallway, knocking into a console table and nearly sending a mason jar of flowers tumbling.

“Door.” you murmured, laughing between kisses, trying to remember where your old bedroom even was.

“Where?” Bob’s voice was low and ragged, one hand splayed wide across your lower back, the other still cupping your cheek like you were breakable and sacred all at once.

“Left- no, other left- BOB-!”

You both slammed into the wall beside the staircase, right beneath your childhood photos, your third-grade rodeo ribbon nearly fell off its nail. You couldn’t stop giggling, and Bob kissed the sound right out of your mouth, breathing hard like he’d been waiting days to stop being so damn respectful.

He finally found the door, flinging it open with more enthusiasm than grace. You tripped over the threshold in a tangle of limbs and laughter, landing on the bed in a puff of quilted covers and heat. Bob followed, all long limbs and broad shoulders, kissing you like a man starved.

Clothes came off in messy, half-laughing pulls. His shirt over his head, your dress yanked down around your hips. Boots hit the floor with loud, lazy thuds. He paused to help you with the stubborn zipper, grinning when it caughtand you laughed so hard he had to hush you with another kiss, mouths brushing and breath mingling in the dark.

Then he pulled back, just for a second. Long enough to look at you.

To really look.

You were flushed and glowing, chest rising and falling beneath the thin cotton of your bra, his cowboy hat still perched crooked on your head. You blinked up at him, lips kiss swollen, eyes wide and a little wild.

Bob stood there like he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

He breathed out a shaky laugh. “Gotta live up to the hat rule, right?”

You bit your lip, reaching for him. “You better, Reynolds.”

And with a soft, reverent touch, he leaned forward and set the hat straight again. Like it belonged there. Like you belonged there with him, beneath him, in every version of the life he hadn’t dared to picture before now.

And then he kissed you slow. Not the urgent kind from the hallway, but something deeper. Something that lingered. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask,it told. That you were wanted, worshiped, known.

The mattress creaked beneath you as he joined you, the old springs singing their familiar tune. You let your hands roam his back, mapping muscle and freckle and scar, and he whispered your name like a saying. Over and over. Until it was the only thing that mattered.

His fingers trailing down your spine, gentle but certain, pulling you closer until every breath you took was shared. The warmth of his body pressed against yours was like coming home, steady, real, grounding. His lips moved from your mouth, to your jaw, to the curve of your neck, leaving soft promises with every touch.

You tilted your head, exposing more of yourself to him, your breath hitching when his teeth grazed your skin just enough to stir a fire. His hands cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheekbones, steadying you in the sweet chaos of your shared desire.

You didn’t rush. You let the moment stretch, every heartbeat syncing between you. There was no need for haste, no need for words—just the quiet music of two people who had found something worth holding onto in a world that often felt too loud.

When his mouth finally met yours again, it was slow and deliberate, a dance of trust and tenderness. Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, deeper, as if to memorize every inch of him.

And outside, the stars burned on. Quiet witnesses to the beginning of something you didn’t have a name for just yet. Something real.

Something that felt a lot like home. He was home.

⸻

[koitosoup]

black hole sun

[heimheim7]

Bob love u so much, protect him 😭❤️

[em1i2a3]

Bob and falling asleep on his chest while he reads to you??

Late For The Sky

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

Summary: You and Bob have a nightly routine where he reads to you the latest book he’s decided to buy.

Warnings: No Warnings, just pure fluff

Author's Note: I really liked this request, and after a whole weekend of writing smut, I thought a nice little fluff piece would be great to start off the week. I’ve got a lot of pieces on my platter this week, and I’m really looking forward to putting them out for y’all ❤️

Word Count: 4,040

It started innocently enough–just Bob leaning against the threshold of your workshop at the end of a mission debrief, with a well-worn paperback tucked under one arm and a sheepish sort of smile playing on his mouth like he was teetering on being excited but nervous all at the same time.

You were hunched over your workbench, goggles pushed up into your hair, sparks spitting gently from a soldering iron in your gloved hand. The air smelled like burnt copper and machine oil, and your concentration was laser-focused–until you sensed that he was hovering.

You didn’t look up right away. There was no need to. You knew he would start the conversation in his own time.

”I, uh…” Bob cleared his throat, fingers drumming lightly on the book’s cracked spine, “I finished t-that one about the guy with the g-genetic disorder where he’s able to t-time travel but it’s at unpredictable times.” You paused what you were doing, and glanced over your shoulder, pulling your goggles off to look at him–and to also give the skin around your eyes a rest.

“Already?” You asked, with your eyebrows raised. You were impressed, because you had taken a stab at reading that book but it took you weeks to finish it–that was more due to you getting busy with repairs, not because you didn’t like that book itself. Bob nodded at you, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly, more confident now that he actually had your attention.

”Y-Yeah, I couldn’t put it down. I-I didn’t really like how it jumped around a lot at first b-because i-it was a bit hard to keep up with things, b-but once it really got into the crazy stuff and a-all the elements started coming together I r-really needed to see how it e-ended.” That was Bob when he talked about books. He never just read them, he sunk himself into it and got lost in it. He spoke with his whole body when he really got into the nitty gritty details about the story itself–animated hands, wide eyes, and that faint breathless awe that made you want to reread books or add them to your mile long list that you had barely touched because you barely had time.

Bob hadn’t always been this way though.

He used to pace the compound, and wear down the floors until it creaked beneath his feet. When he was still under mandatory observation. When he felt like he was in a strange version of purgatory where everyone treated him well but he felt imprisoned in the walls that were supposed to keep him safe.

You had been unofficially tasked with keeping an eye on him during those first few weeks–mostly because you were the only one not actively going on missions, and you were behind on fixing some tech for the compound anyways.

At first, Bob would just linger in the background–standing in the doorway with his hands tucked up into the sleeves of his hoodie, watching the blue sparks of your arc welder with the quiet intensity of someone afraid to ask if they could stay or if they could help. But you learned pretty quickly that Bob didn’t do well with silence. Not for long.

So one rainy Tuesday, when you were sick of watching him pace and sigh and pretend like he wasn’t bored out of his skull, you told him to get ready and you dragged him into the city–to your favorite secondhand bookstore.

It was tucked between a locksmith and an old bakery, it was the kind of place that smelled like cracked leather and warm dust, where the aisles were narrow and the ceiling was low, and where books were stacked in precarious towering columns that made the air feel scarce. You had told him to look around while you spoke to the owner.

That day you saw it–you saw something in him soften. It was like his muscles were unclenching somewhere deep in his chest. He walked through every aisle, pausing to brush his fingers over cracked spines like they were ancient artifacts. You’d glance behind you once in a while to check to see if he was okay, and when you saw his face buried in the first few pages of a book, you knew the choice to bring him there was a good one.

He left that day with three books, and then he asked you the next day to take him back there to get more.

Ever since that day, it had become his thing–tucking paperbacks into the crook of his arm, disappearing into them for a few hours, and then, without fail, finding you when he finished to divulge every last thought he had about them.

It didn’t matter if your hands were elbow-deep in fried wiring or if you were halfway through fixing tactical gear–if he finished a book, he needed to talk to you about it, and only you…Because you truly listened to him.

You didn’t nod along blankly or tell him to save it for later. You engaged with him, you asked questions and remembered characters’ names. You pressed him on parts that made him anxious or thrilled or tear up a little, even if he pretended like it didn’t happen. You didn’t tease him when he stumbled or stuttered over his words from excitement. You leaned in and gave him the attention he wanted, because in your own odd way, you needed those moments too.

You never said that out loud, but Bob could tell. He could see it in the way your shoulders dropped an inch when he entered the room, or the way your lips twitched when he fumbled over a complicated plot. He could see it in how you never asked him to leave.

Then one night you knocked on his bedroom door.

You were worn out. Bone-tired, yet you couldn’t sleep because of how wound up you had been that week. Your voice had gone hoarse from an afternoon arguing with Val over calibration specs, and you’d barely made it through dinner. Your plate had gone mostly untouched, more because you kept taking calls and arguing with whoever was on the other end of the line. Your eyes had looked sunken beneath the weight of the lack of sleep.

So to say he wasn’t expecting a knock on his door–let alone a knock from you of all people would be an understatement.

It was past midnight, and the compound was quiet–save for the rhythmic hum of the ventilation system and the soft creak of the page he just turned. His lamp was still on, casting a golden spill of light across his comforter and the open paperback in his hands, spine worn and corners curling from hours of reading. His tea had gone cold but he hadn’t noticed or cared.

The knock was gentle. Barely there.

He blinked himself out of his trance, frowning faintly, before reaching up to rub at his dry eyes. He let out a small sigh and set the book beside him like a loyal dog, half-forgotten for the moment, getting up from the pile of linens and duvets that surrounded him.

When he opened the door, it was like the hallway itself had gone still.

You stood there, barefoot on the wooden tile, wearing a pair of soft sleep-shorts and a baggy old Thunderbolts t-shirt from that one disastrous PR event last year–the one where everyone was forced into color-coded teams and awkward staged interviews. The shirt hung off your frame like you were a ghost, the cotton threadbare in places from being worn and washed too many times. Your hair was damp, like you’d given up halfway through drying it, and there were faint creases along your cheek from a pillow you hadn’t quite managed to fall asleep on. Bob’s brows lifted, as concern bled into his expression before he could stop it.

”Hey…A-Are you…?” He glanced past you instinctively, then at the digital clock on his nightstand that glowed dimly behind him, “Is everything okay? I-It’s pretty late, I didn’t think–“

”I couldn’t sleep,” You interrupted quietly, rubbing at your forearm. Your voice was still scratchy but it wasn’t as bad as it was during dinner time, “I thought I heard you…” You added.

Bob squinted at you, more confused than anything else, “Heard me?”

“Yeah,” You nodded faintly, a ghost of a smile touching your mouth, “Heard you laugh, or–or something that sounded like it at least.” He felt the tips of his ears go warm at your comment, remembering that about half an hour before you came he had almost thrown the book across the room in excitement because of how good the plot was getting.

”Oh…Uh…Yeah s-sorry about that. There was–t-there was a plot twist.” Your smile grew a little at that.

”No need to apologize,” You replied, “I’ve had those moments before. When something hits you so hard you have to squeal…Or throw the book out the window.” This earned a small laugh from Bob, as you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed in the easy, tired sort of way that said you weren’t really in a rush to end the conversation any time soon. Your eyes flicked past him, just for a moment–curious, unassuming–but Bob caught it.

And then, you asked the burning question of the night.

”Can I come in?” Bob didn’t say anything at first, he just stared at you with a look of surprise plastered on his face, because he wasn’t expecting you to ask that, nor want that in general. After what was probably far too long, he stepped aside.

”Y-Yeah, of course.” You stepped past him slowly, and all your senses immediately started working overtime. The first thing that hit you though, was the smell.

It was Warm. Complex. Spiced, almost. Like cracked pepper and worn paper and the faded traces of his cologne lingering in the fibers of the room. It wasn’t overwhelming–wasn’t artificial or sharp–it was lived-in. Masculine in a gentle, quietly steady way. Like the soft base notes of cedarwood and clove that had sunk into the blankets and pillows mixing with the faintest wisp of black tea and honey.

It smelled like him, and it startled you–because you knew him. You knew his hands and his laugh and the way he stumbled through his excitement when he got overwhelmed. But stepping into his room felt like opening the cover of a book you thought you already read–only to find unfamiliar pages.

You had not seen the inside of his bedroom before. You had caught glimpses of it for sure. A cracked door when he was carrying his laundry. A half-glance from down the hall when he’d leaned into the doorframe to talk to you. But this–this was his inner sanctum and it was all of him.

There were books everywhere. Piled on the floor in loosely sorted stacks, balanced on windowsills, stuffed into a long shelf that sagged slightly under the weight. They ranged from battered sci-fi paperbacks with alien landscapes on the covers to dense philosophical texts and dog-eared literary fiction. A few comics peeked out from beneath the bedside table, alongside notebooks with half-tucked pens and sticky tabs poking from the edges like colored confetti. They looked damaged and battered, but it was from extensive use rather than carelessness.

The bed was massive. Not in a luxurious sense, but in a way that suggested someone needed space–maybe to move, maybe to breathe. The comforter was thick, gray-blue, rumpled from how he must’ve been lounging on it. A fleece throw was tangled near the bottom corner, and a pile of pillows–none matching–leaned against the headboard like they’d been shoved there without much thought. On the nightstand beside the bed there was a mug of tea on a heating coaster that was turned off–probably from being used for too long.

You turned back to him with a softer look than before, taking all of the little details in.

”This is pretty cozy,” You offered. Bob rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks going a deeper red now, suddenly sheepish and nervous that you were standing in the middle of his room at this time of night.

“Sorry i-it’s a little m-messy, I wasn’t really expecting–”

”No, no, it’s okay I meant that in a nice way…I wasn’t judging your room or anything.” Bob blinked at you, lips parting slightly like his brain short-circuited for just a moment. You could practically see the mental reboot happening behind his eyes.

“I actually came to ask…” You trailed off as you turned back toward the bed, brushing your fingers along the edge of the blanket, still warm from where he’d been lying. “If you had another chapter left in you.” Bob’s head tilted just slightly, his eyes widening, “Kind of thought you could read to me…Or talk me to sleep. Y’know.” The realization hit him like a gust of warm air straight to the chest, and his face felt like it was going to burst from how hot his cheeks were starting to get.

”Y-You want me to…Read t-to you?” He echoed, as if he was trying the words out on his tongue just to make sure they weren’t just a hallucination. You gave him a small nod, looking down at your feet.

“Only if you want to of course,” You said quickly, your voice gentle, in a casual way that always came out when you were asking for something that you pretended not to care about, “I just figured…You are always into the book and everything…And your voice is…Soothing. I thought maybe hearing you read would help turn my brain off.” Bob swallowed hard at the way you complimented his voice, how you found it soothing. He didn’t think that way, but it sure made his heart seize when you said it.

He had to consciously remind himself to breathe as you stood there, soft and sleepless in the dim light of his room, asking him to read to you like it was the most normal thing in the world. Like it didn’t unravel something in him to have you standing here, in his space, barefoot and tired and trusting him with the last moments of your day. He cleared his throat too quickly and nodded.

”S-Sure. Yeah, o-of course. I mean–I’ve never really done that b-before, but I could…I-If that’s what you want.” Your eyes met his, and they crinkled a little at the corners.

”First time for everything, right?” Bob gave a nervous laugh and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, motioning to the bed awkwardly.

”D-Do you…Do you wanna sit? Or–or I could make tea or something if that would help, I can warm mine up too–“ You shook your head gently.

”No…This is perfect,” You said, lowering yourself onto the edge of the bed with a quiet, grateful sigh “No tea…I think I just want…” You paused, fingers brushing the comforter again before you looked up at him with a soft, bleary gaze, “The chapter.” He smiled at that–small, crooked, and bashful.

”O-Okay…” You pulled your legs up under you and moved towards the headboard, settling against the fort of pillows he had made against the hardwood, while Bob grabbed the paperback and climbed in beside you. There was a bit of shuffling at first–he wasn’t sure how close was too close, or where to angle his body, or how to sit without making it weird–but eventually you both found the perfect positioning. He left a bit of space between you and him, about an arm’s length, and just like you he rested himself against the headboard, only he cross-crossed his legs.

Bob cleared his throat–too loud in the silence of the room–and adjusted the book in his hands, fingers curling slightly around the spine like he needed something to hold onto. His thumb brushed the crease between chapters as he flicked his gaze over to you again, nestled against the headboard like you belonged there, half-draped in the worn comforter.

“Okay…Chapter twelve,” He murmured, and began.

His voice was soft at first–shy, uncertain, as if afraid the words might shatter the quiet between you. But a few lines in, he found his rhythm. He always did. The cadence of his voice fell into step with the prose, rising and dipping in the right places, drawing the imagery to life as his thumb ghosted along the edges of the page. When he would take in a breath all he would smell was worn paper and your bay leaf and blueberry shampoo, and that felt like it was all he needed to settle himself.

Then–around three pages in–he heard it.

A soft exhale.

A breathy, wheezing little sound that made his voice falter for just a second.

Bob glanced over at you instantly, almost to confirm the inevitable.

Your head had tilted down toward your chest, mouth slack in the most exhausted kind of sleep. Your lashes rested on your cheeks, breath coming slow and just a little uneven, like your whole body had simply…Powered down. The sentence he had been reading drifted off into silence.

”Oh,” He whispered, more to himself than to you, “…Wow…You’re o-out.” He stared at you for a long second, book still in hand, watching the way your fingers were curled into the fabric of the blanket near your knee. You didn’t stir–not even when he gently reached over to the end of the bed and grabbed the lonesome blanket from the corner to settle it over your bare legs. You were deeply, and blissfully asleep.

And now he didn’t know what to do.

He glanced at the book in his hands, back at you, then sighed softly and reached for the top corner of the page. He dog-eared it carefully–marking exactly where he noticed you were asleep. Just in case you wanted to pick it up again tomorrow.

If you came back.

He closed the book, resting it on the nightstand, and stood slowly–carefully–like he was trying not to make any sound at all. You didn’t move. Your breath stayed soft and steady, and there was something about that that made Bob’s chest tighten.

He didn’t want to wake you.

So, instead, he grabbed an extra blanket from his closet and quietly padded out of the room, heading for the couch in the living room. It wasn’t as comfortable as his bed, and the cushions were flat–but he didn’t mind. He wanted to make sure you got some rest, and that mattered more to him than his comfort.

Much to Bob’s surprise you came back the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that.

Every time, the both of you got a little closer–a little softer. You started bringing a pillow from your own room, just for routine. You’d press your cheek against his shoulder sometimes as he read, and he’d try not forget what words were. Sometimes you didn’t even wait for him to start–you’d curl up under his covers like it was normal, and let your breathing even out, but he read anyway. For himself. For you. For the comfort of it. He never stayed after you fell asleep, he took refuge on the couch every time, and he’d be careful and quiet about his escape to make sure you didn’t wake up.

It became your shared ritual.

And then one night, everything shifted into place.

You came in quietly, curling up beside him, adjusting your pillow near his. Bob had his book open on his chest, waiting for you to get yourself situated, smiling at you like it was muscle memory. And without saying a word, you stretched out beside him–much closer this time–and gently rested your head on his chest, right over his heart. It was almost like you were silently communicating to him you wanted him to stay this time around, so you made it harder for him to make his usual escape.

Bob froze immediately at the contact, and at the warmth of you settling against his chest, the crown of your head brushing just beneath his collarbone. One of your arms snuck around his waist like it was second nature, and one leg curled over his like it always belonged there.

When you pressed your ear to his chest, his heartbeat was soft, steady and loud–embarrassingly eager to be heard by you. He looked down at you slowly, book still resting on his chest, his free hand clutching the edge of the page he hadn’t yet turned. You didn’t look at him–you were too focused, nestled in against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

”Wh-What are you doing?” You smiled into his shirt, just faintly.

”Want to read along with you,” You said, your voice soft and sleepy. He knew that must’ve been a lie, but he didn’t protest.

”O-Oh…Okay.” He murmured, shifting a bit.

Then, without lifting your head, you mumbled, “You can put your arm around me, y’know?” Bob could feel his breath stilling in his chest, and you heard the way it halted in his throat. You couldn’t help but smirk at his reaction, almost like he had to process your suggestion.

Then he very gently, very slowly slid his arm around your shoulders. His fingers brushed the curve of your upper arm, curling lightly around you until he held you snug against his side, cradled with just enough pressure to let you know he wouldn’t let go.

You exhaled through your nose–peaceful, like the tension had melted from your spine the moment he touched you.

Bob’s heart was racing.

But his hand stayed steady.

You shifted just slightly to get comfortable, your forehead now pressed to the center of his chest, your ear perfectly aligned with the rhythm of his heart.

And God, the way you heard it–felt it. That low, thudding warmth beneath his ribs. Steady, slow, like a drumbeat underwater. A living lullaby. You could hear every flutter, every quiet catch of breath when he turned the page. It was stronger than the ventilation hum, stronger than the turn of the fan, stronger than the slow rasp of the blanket as you moved against him.

It was him.

The cadence of someone who had spent years trying to hold himself still–and was now unraveling just enough to let you rest against the places that hurt.

Bob picked up the book again, adjusting it slightly in his hand, but he didn’t start reading right away.

He was listening too.

To your breathing.

To the way your fingers gently fisted the fabric of his shirt like you wanted to keep him close.

To the stillness.

Then he began to read–low and careful. He didn’t project. Didn’t fill the room the way he did when you were sitting up and alert. He just read for you. For the closeness. For the moment.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t shift.

You just listened.

And slowly, your hand went slack against his side. Your body softened. Your lashes lowered, then fluttered still.

You fell asleep on him, breath warm against his chest, face half-pressed into the fabric of his shirt like it was a pillow. You looked peaceful. Safe.

Bob didn’t stop reading right away.

He finished the page.

Then the next.

Eventually, he dog-eared the corner, turned the lamp off, and sank back into the pillows behind him, adjusting just slightly so you were fully wrapped in his arms.

He stayed.

For the first time, he stayed.

And when sleep took him, his last thought was simple, small, and true:

Please come back tomorrow.

[scampdoodle]

Alright okay, the reason might have been so I could draw them kissing

[starktonyx]

NYC psychologists after the void took over the city with infinite shame rooms looping people’s worst traumas.

[delopsia]

A silly little "Which Lewis Pullman character am I to you?" game, because I've always wanted to make one of these 🥳

[wooserr]

Bob

[carm4rt]

The Void and Yelena :3

my first post in a year 😭 i forgot about this app... but now i'm back so here's a tumblr exclusive (i didn't post the yellow background version anywhere else) 🤫

[phoenixes-and-wizards]

no because it’s really really important to me that in a world where we’re so used to the heroes punching and shooting their way to victory, thunderbolts* went out of its way to show us that the void is still very much a part of bob, and bob is their friend, so they’re going to accept every facet of who he is and give him a soft place to land, even if that means they’ll have to be the ones to pull him back from the darkness every single time. because that’s what friends family will do for each other, no questions asked.

[ilovemilestellersmoustache]

Home Is Where The Heart Is

Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!reader

Summary: Wanting to feel more included Bob decides to help on a mission but in efforts to protect you he injures himself leaving him with amnesia. Your boyfriend not remembering isn’t the biggest problem because he’s always going to find you again, even in a hundred lifetimes.

WC: 5.9K

⸻

The team had been crouched in that half-collapsed factory for what felt like days, waiting on a deal that intel swore would be “low-risk.” Off-grid. Lo-fi. Not worth a full Avengers pull.

Bob had practically begged to come.

“I’ll carry gear, patch wounds, whatever you need. I just- please- I need to feel useful.”he’d told Valentina.

She rolled her eyes but nodded. “Don’t get in the way, Goldilocks.”

So now, with dusk bleeding into night, Bob was in medic-mode. His hair was pushed back, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he passed out water, adjusted bandages, and murmured encouragements. His eye, however, never strayed too far from Y/N.

His girl. His light in all the noise. She’d joined him on this mission reluctantly, her usual grace exchanged for tension in her jaw. She didn’t trust the “low-risk” label and she had good instincts.

She was halfway up the ramp to the team’s transport jet, ready to head home with no sign of enemy lines for days. Ava right behind her, when it happened.

The building cracked.

A sound like the world being split open echoed across the premise. The kind no one expected. The kind Valentina explicitly said wouldn’t happen.

“AMBUSH!” John screamed, diving behind a shipping container.

Yelena flipped backward, drawing her pistol mid-air. “I KNEW THIS FELT WRONG!”

Bob didn’t think.

Didn’t hesitate.

His eyes scanned for Y/N and found her on the ramp, instinctively moving to cover Ava behind her. But she was exposed. Too exposed. A chunk of the building’s upper ledge shuddered, then gave way, right above her.

“Y/N!”

Bob was already sprinting, shoving through smoke and static. His boots hit the ramp just as the slab of concrete dropped.

Time slowed.

He threw himself forward, arms outstretched, not to push her, but to shield her.

He caught her eyes. Hers widened.

“BOB-!”

And then-

CRASH.

The slab connected with his back, hard. The force sent him flying into the side of the jet, head colliding with the reinforced wall. A wet, dull hit echoed beneath the chaos. He fell on the floor with a thud, hair tangled in blood.

Y/N screamed his name, crawling toward him, bullets ricocheting around her.

“BOB! NO, no no no- Bucky, HELP ME!”

Bucky was already sliding beside her, laying down cover fire with one hand, dragging Bob’s limp body back into the jet with the other.

“He’s breathing,” Bucky snapped, but barely. “We need to lift now.”

Alexei and Yelena were already firing back, bodies moving as one in furious rhythm. John threw himself behind the controls while Ava climbed into the jet’s hatch.

As the engines roared to life, Y/N knelt beside Bob, hands trembling. Blood was running down his temple, soaking into the collar of the utility jacket she’d tailored for him before the mission. His pulse was shallow.

“You stupid idiot.” she whispered, voice cracking. “Why would you- why would you do that?”

His eyes fluttered, just for a second. A hint of gold flickered in the whites. Weakly, through split lips, he breathed.

“Had to make sure…you were safe…”

Then darkness took him again.

⸻

The fluorescent hum of the Thunderbolts medbay lights was too clean. Too sterile.

Bob blinked slowly, vision swimming back to clarity as the haze of sedation lifted from his limbs. Everything felt wrong. The bed beneath him, too firm. The blanket, military-issue, rough. The equipment around him, futuristic, foreign. It wasn’t the room that disturbed him most, though. It was himself. The reflection in the monitor screens a man with soft brown hair, a faint scar on his temple, eyes too heavy with something he couldn’t name.

And then, her.

She stood by the far wall, posture sharp in a dark tactical jacket, arms folded. Not cold, not distant- just… restrained. She looked like she had practiced stillness as a defense. Her face was familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Like a song heard in another language.

“Hey.” she said gently when their eyes met, moving off the wall inching closer to him. Her voice carried a weight behind the calm. “You’re awake.”

Bob swallowed hard, cheeks turning a slight shade of pink at this breathtaking woman gazing at him in this state he was in. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

Doctors immediately rushed in, swarming around him with tests and clipped questions, their voices overlapping in a blur of medical urgency. Monitors beeped. A flashlight flicked across his eyes. Blood pressure. Reflexes. Vitals.

After what felt like hours, the pace slowed. One doctor, older, composed asked what should have been a routine memory check, his voice calm as he turned to the patient.

“Do you know who she is?” he asked, gesturing toward Y/N, who stood a few feet away, arms folded tightly across her chest, her expression unreadable beneath furrowed brows.

Bob blinked, his gaze landing on her with a faint frown. “I- No. Should I?”

The silence that followed wasn’t loud. It was quiet. Devastatingly so.

There was no desperate rush to his side. No trembling hand reaching for his. No whispered reassurances, no kiss to his forehead. Just a pause. Then a slow, measured nod from Y/N, her face still guarded, her eyes glassy but dry.

The doctor exhaled gently. “He has retrograde amnesia.” he explained, his tone careful but clinical. “It’s not uncommon with head trauma. The memories may come back gradually, or they might not. It’s too soon to tell.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just kept nodding, as if she’d been expecting this. As if she’d already mourned the version of him who used to know her.

⸻

Bob learned quickly that no one blamed him for the memory loss. Not Yelena, who perched on the edge of his bed, slicing an apple with deliberate focus while muttering something about experimental tech frying brain cells. Not Ava, who wordlessly handed him a protein bar like it was the only thing she knew to offer. Not Alexei who was trying to force a collection of polaroids he’s taken over the last phew months into his vision. Even John, ever the smartass, only gave him a half-hearted, “Actions have consequences,” before softening with a quiet, “Glad you’re alive, man.”

Bucky tried though, and Bucky didn’t try for just anyone. Calm. Steady. The way someone might be when they’ve seen too much and somehow lived through it. He spoke like he’d walked people through this kind of grief before, the kind where you can’t even name what you’ve lost.

“You were with her.” Bucky said simply, arms crossed over his chest. “The two of you… it was real. Solid.”

Bob nodded, but the words floated past him like smoke.

With her?

The phrase felt like it belonged to someone else’s story, someone else’s life.

He could still see the way she looked at him earlier, cool, unreadable, posture tight like she was bracing for impact. She didn’t rush to him. Didn’t touch him. Didn’t fall apart.

That was the woman he was with? That he loved? That loved him?

But she hadn’t looked at him with love. She’d looked at him like he was made of glass, fractured and razor-edged, something you didn’t dare hold too tightly in case it shattered.

⸻

That night, sleep evaded him. The sterile sheets felt foreign, the shadows too still. The silence was heavy, not peaceful, but oppressive. Bob decided to get up and wandered the halls of the tower like a ghost, barefoot and cautious, as though the quiet might break beneath his steps. No one stopped him. Maybe they trusted him. Maybe they pitied him. Either way, he moved unnoticed, a stranger in a life that was supposed to be his.

He drifted toward the faint whistle of wind slipping through steel beams, drawn by something instinctive. Not memory. Just a pull. When he stepped out onto the upper balcony-level watch post, the night stretched out before him, wide and quiet. And there she was.

Y/N stood at the edge leaning against the rails, her silhouette sharp against the backdrop of city lights and stars. She wore a lightweight jacket, shoulders squared, eyes trained forward through night-vision lenses. Her presence was steady, unshakable. A soldier on alert. But there was a stillness in her posture that said more than readiness. It was grief, maybe. Or exhaustion.

A breeze swept past, and a faint scent clung to it, lavender, soft and nostalgic. It hit him like a blow to the chest. Not a memory, not quite. But a feeling. Something warm. Familiar. Safe.

She didn’t flinch when he approached. Didn’t acknowledge him, but didn’t move away either. He took it as an invitation. He settled beside her, placing his arms across on the cold metal railing, careful to keep his distance. He didn’t want to crowd her. He didn’t even know if he could anymore.

They stood like that for a while. The kind of silence that wasn’t awkward, but reverent. Like they were both trying to listen for echoes of something long gone.

Eventually, he broke it. Quietly, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right.

“What were we like?”

Her body tensed. Not visibly, not dramatically, but enough. He saw her jaw shift, her hands subtly clench at her sides. When she finally responded, her voice was caught somewhere between startled and guarded.

“What? Who- who told you?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I just… I thought maybe it would help. Jog something.”

Y/N exhaled through her nose, gaze still fixed ahead. For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t answer.

“…We were quiet.” she said at last. “But not in a bad way. It was the kind of quiet that felt… easy. You always made me laugh. Not loud laughs, just those little breathless ones. The kind that slip out when you’re trying not to smile.”

Her voice was steady, but he could feel the cracks beneath it.

Bob turned to look at her. Her expression didn’t shift, but her throat moved when she swallowed. She was holding something back. She had been holding it back since the hospital.

“You used to make breakfast.” she continued, voice softer now, like she was afraid if she spoke too loud, the memory would disappear. “Badly. You’d burn toast every time, and then get all dramatic when I didn’t want to eat it. And you always made coffee, made mine every morning. Just the way I liked it. Never forgot.”

There was a pause. Then her voice wavered, almost imperceptibly, on that last word.

Bob looked down at his hands. They felt unfamiliar. Like maybe the man who used to hold her hand, who used to make that burnt toast and pour her coffee, was someone entirely different.

“I don’t remember any of that.” he whispered. The admission tasted bitter. Hollow.

“I know,” she said. Not accusing. Not bitter. Just tired. Just sad.

The words hung between them, fragile and final.

And then, silence again. But this time, it wasn’t easy.

⸻

Later in the night, when he decided to head back, sleep finally took him, it wasn’t gentle. It dragged him under like a riptide. The sterile white noise of the tower faded, and in its place came fragments, uninvited and half-formed. Not memories, not quite. But echoes of something once real.

The first was laughter. Not his, hers. Light and effortless, like water trickling over smooth stone. It filled his chest with a warmth that bordered on pain. He didn’t know what had made her laugh like that, but he knew, somehow that it had been him. And he knew he would give anything to hear it again.

Then, sunlight. Her face turned toward him, golden and radiant. Eyes crinkling at the corners. Lips parted, like she was just about to say something teasing or tender. There was a weightless joy in the image, but it slipped too fast, like a leaf on the wind.

Another shift.

His heart pounded. The dream turned sharp. He saw her leaning over him, breath close to his cheek. Her hand, warm and trembling, pressed to his chest, not in fear, but in relief. She was giggling, the sound laced with adrenaline, tears clinging to her lashes.

“Don’t do that again, Reynolds.” she whispered, her voice cracking with everything she wasn’t saying. Her fingers fisted his shirt like she was holding him together with her bare hands.

And then-

Lavender. Not a color, but a scent. It hung in the air like a memory all its own. A pillow. Her pillow. It carried the comfort of something known, something intimate. It flooded him with longing. He could almost feel the curve of her body pressed beside his beneath cool sheets.

Then came the sound. Quiet. Distant.

Humming.

A melody. Familiar but unplaceable. Maybe something from her childhood. Maybe something she sang when she thought he wasn’t listening. It was the kind of tune you’d hear while doing the dishes or tying your shoes, mundane, but sacred. A sound of home. Her voice, wordless, soft, wrapped around him like a blanket.

He tried to follow it. To hold on. But the dream began to dissolve, slipping through his grasp like fog.

Bob jolted awake in the dim pre-dawn light, lungs tight, fingers clenched in the sheets. It took him a moment to realize the wetness on his face wasn’t sweat. It was tears, fresh and hot, sliding silently down his cheeks.

He didn’t remember. Not truly. Not enough to hold onto. But the ache was real. Bone deep. He felt hollowed out, like his heart was trying to mourn a life he’d never lived but somehow missed all the same.

He pressed a shaking hand to his chest, right where she’d touched him in the dream.

And for the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, he felt the true weight of what he’d lost.

Not just memories.

Her.

⸻

Over the course of the next week, Bob found himself drawn to her in ways he couldn’t quite explain.

It wasn’t fear that made him watch her from across rooms, from training mats, from the dining table he shared with others but never truly listened to. It wasn’t suspicion either. It was something quieter, something closer to longing, even if he didn’t yet understand why.

Curiosity, maybe. Or recognition. The soul’s memory, even when the mind forgets.

She moved like someone who had been forged in fire and didn’t flinch at the heat anymore. There was nothing soft or performative about her presence, no wasted gestures, no unnecessary emotion. Every movement had purpose. Every word she spoke during briefings was clipped and precise, stripped of anything sentimental. She was a soldier, yes but there was something beneath the discipline. Something deeper. She wasn’t cold. Just… contained.

He noticed how she never hovered. Never lingered too long after meetings or volunteered small talk to fill the gaps. She didn’t crowd him with the weight of what had been. She never asked if he remembered her, or them, or the way her voice sounded when she called him by name.

She simply stood back. Present. Measured. Waiting.

And maybe that was why he started coming to her.

First it was subtle. He’d take the seat next to her in mission briefings, even when there were other chairs open. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to hear her quiet breath, to catch the lavender scent that still clung to her jacket.

He started showing up earlier. Hanging back after meeting. Sharing his seat without asking. Once, he handed her a towel after watching her spar in a match without even realizing he’d done it. She took it silently. But her fingers brushed his just a second too long.

In the dining room, he noticed she rarely ate her full plate. The others didn’t comment, but Bob did. Casually offering her his extra bread roll or protein bar. She would scoff, wrinkle her nose, roll her eyes like he was being ridiculous, but sometimes, she accepted. And sometimes, when she thought he wasn’t paying attention, he caught her smiling.

Not big. Not wide. But there. Barely there creases at the corners of her mouth. A warmth that hadn’t surfaced in days, maybe weeks. And always, always gone before he could say anything.

He wasn’t sure what any of it meant.

Only that, in the stillness of his new life, her presence anchored him.

And that the ache in his chest grew sharper every time she walked away.

⸻

His confusion, once sharp and disorienting, gradually melted into something gentler. Something warmer.

It was a strange kind of torment to feel so deeply for someone you didn’t remember. Because it wasn’t just the absence of memory that haunted him anymore. It was the presence of emotion. The heart, it seemed, didn’t wait for proof. The body didn’t require context. The feelings arrived without invitation, and they came in waves, sudden, steady, and impossible to ignore.

She would laugh at something Ava said, usually something dry and unexpected and it would hit him square in the chest. Not because the moment was funny, but because her laughter felt like a melody he used to know by heart. A sound that once lived in the private corners of his life.

He’d catch her braiding her hair before a mission, standing in front of a window or mirror with practiced ease. And every time, his hands would twitch. The muscles moved without command, a ghost-memory that didn’t belong to his mind but to his body. He knew those braids. Knew the rhythm of her breath when she leaned back against him. Knew the weight of her trust when she let him close enough to touch.

Sometimes she’d pass him in the hallway, her shoulder barely brushing his and his breath would hitch, the hairs on his arm rising like he was expecting the graze of her fingers, the low murmur of his name in a voice only meant for him.

But it never came.

She didn’t reach for him. Didn’t slip notes into his hand or steal glances when she thought no one was watching. She didn’t cling to hope or pressure him with memories he hadn’t recovered.

Instead, she gave him space.

Too much space.

And yet, somehow, the ache kept growing.

Every time she walked away with that same quiet grace, every time her expression stayed carefully unreadable, it carved a little deeper into him. A hollow expanding behind his ribs where something important used to live.

He didn’t remember their first kiss. Their inside jokes. The late nights or shared scars.

But something in him missed her, all the same.

And worse still-

He was starting to fall for her all over again.

Without even remembering why he did the first time.

⸻

A week later, he found her again, alone, tucked away in the quiet hum of the tech bay. She sat beneath a low-hanging heat lamp, sleeves rolled to her elbows, forearms smudged with pencil marks as she adjusted the inner circuitry of her weapon. Her hair was messy, hastily tied back. No makeup. No armor of sarcasm or sharpness. Just her.

Raw. Real. Beautiful.

“You look tired.” Bob said gently from the doorway.

She didn’t flinch. Just glanced up with a dry smile and replied, “So do you.”

He didn’t argue. Just stepped inside and leaned against the wall, watching her hands work in silence for a beat. The room buzzed with the faint sound of tools…

Then, finally, he spoke again. Softer this time.

“Is it weird if I say I think I’m starting to… feel things? About you?”

She paused, fingers stilling over a coil of wires. Her eyes lifted to his, cautious but not cold.

“What kind of things?” she asked, voice carefully neutral.

Bob looked down, almost embarrassed, before he met her gaze again. “Good ones. Familiar ones. Like… maybe my heart remembers, even if my head doesn’t.”

Her breath caught. And for the first time in weeks, she let the exhaustion show. Let it settle in her shoulders, in the delicate downturn of her mouth. Her fingers curled around a tool like she needed something to hold on to.

“I miss you.” she said, barely above a whisper.

He took a step closer. Then another. Still careful. Still slow. But he wasn’t afraid this time.

“I’m still here.” he said. “Even if I don’t remember who I was… I think I still want to be him.”

For a moment, she didn’t speak. Just stared at him like she was trying to memorize this version of him too, this half-stranger with familiar eyes and a voice that sounded like home.

Her hand lifted slightly, hovered midair as if it might reach for his cheek. But she stopped herself. Just inches away.

Not yet.

Still, her voice was softer now. It trembled just a little around the edges. “Then let’s take it slow. Start over, if we have to.”

Bob nodded, a small, earnest smile curling his lips as he extended a hand like it was the first day of something real.

“Hi. I’m Bob.”

Y/N blinked. And then she laughed, gentle and quiet, like the echo of a memory he couldn’t quite catch but never wanted to stop chasing.

“Hi, Bob.” she said, slipping her hand into his.

“I’m Y/N.”

And just like that, something shifted. Something healed.

Not fully. Not yet.

But it was a start.

⸻

And somewhere, deep in the fog of his fractured mind, a thread of gold began to glow. Subtle. Elusive. But unmistakably there.

Bob’s recovery was steady. Methodical. Predictable in the way a machine recalibrates itself, just input, output, routine. His vitals stabilized. His strength returned. The neurologists nodded solemnly over scan results and EEG charts, murmuring about neuroplasticity and “hopeful signs of cognitive repair.” The Void within him, the chaos fused to his cells like a shadow stitched to his soul, remained dormant for now, but pulsed quietly in the marrow of his bones. Like a storm cloud on the horizon, waiting.

But none of that, none of the science or tests or data, could explain the way his pulse quickened when she walked into the room.

She would start bringing him water without being asked. Left briefing notes folded neatly beside his tray, her compact handwriting a strange comfort in a world where everything else felt unfamiliar. She checked the charge on his comms unit before every debrief and stood silently beside him during med scans, as if her presence alone could ground him.

And every night, when she thought he was asleep, she sat beside his bed. Just for a little while. Just long enough to keep the nightmares away.

But she never touched him.

Not once.

No graze of her fingers across his knuckles. No guiding hand at the small of his back. No welcome back hug when he stumbled through the door after his first real training session, bruised and soaked in sweat but alive. Alive and somehow still not enough.

He noticed the way her hands twitched sometimes. Just the slightest flinch when he got too close. Like her muscle memory wanted to reach for him but her heart had already buried the version of him that belonged to her.

Because she kept telling herself even if he wanted to try, she’ll never get back the old him.

The man who braided her hair. Who burned her toast. Who held her in the quiet moments between chaos.

He was a ghost in his own skin. A stranger with his voice and his eyes and none of the history.

And she didn’t know how to grieve someone who was still breathing.

So she kept her distance.

Kind. Careful. Controlled.

And utterly heartbreaking.

But Bob-

He saw her.

Not with the eyes of the man she once loved, but with something new. Something fragile and blooming.

And somewhere deep inside, that golden thread tugged again.

A whisper. A memory.

A promise he hadn’t made yet.

But still intended to keep.

⸻

It was Ava who finally gave voice to the thought neither of them had dared to speak aloud, the unspoken weight that had settled between them like a shadow neither wanted to face.

They sat on the rooftop between missions, legs dangling over the edge as the world below slowly awoke. The city was a blur of distant sounds and shifting lights, but up here, it felt like time had paused, delicate and still, suspended in that fragile space just before a heartbeat.

Ava tossed a small pebble into the air, catching it effortlessly on the back of her hand, her eyes never leaving the softening sky as dawn’s first light spilled pale gold across the horizon. Her voice was calm, steady, but carried an undeniable certainty as she finally spoke.

“You act like he’s not still yours.”

The words landed quietly but with a force that stirred something deep inside Y/N. She blinked, her chest tightening, a sudden ache blooming in the hollow spaces she hadn’t yet admitted existed. “He doesn’t remember.” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the gentle breeze rustling around them, fragile and tentative.

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.” Ava said without hesitation, her gaze finally meeting Y/N’s with a softness that held understanding, compassion.

Y/N remained silent. Her jaw clenched as if holding back a flood, her breath catching in her throat. The truth in Ava’s words washed over her slowly, like a cold tide creeping in, unrelenting and undeniable. She had been holding herself apart, convinced that without memory, the connection between them was broken beyond repair. But now, confronted with the possibility that feelings could endure without facts, her walls began to crumble, piece by fragile piece.

The silence stretched out between them, vast and heavy, carrying the weight of unspoken fears and lingering hope. Finally, Ava reached out, a tentative hand brushing a stray lock of hair from Y/N’s face, a small act of comfort, a bridge across the distance.

After a long, quiet pause, Ava’s voice softened further, a gentle whisper carried on the wind. “You know, most people would kill for the chance to fall in love with the same person twice.”

The words hung in the air, delicate and shimmering like morning dew on fragile leaves. They were raw, hopeful, and aching all at once, cutting through the quiet like a promise. As the sun climbed higher, casting its warm light across the cityscape, something shifted between them, an unspoken invitation to believe in beginnings anew, to let the past and the present intertwine, fragile but real, like the slow bloom of dawn itself.

She felt it, of course, how could she not? The way Bob lingered, how his gaze clung to her like it hurt to look away. How his voice gentled when he said her name, how he remembered every little thing about her without even realizing it.

And it killed her.

Because she wanted to run to him. She wanted to bury her face in his chest and let the months of grief, fear, and waiting break open between them like thunder.

But she didn’t.

Because this wasn’t a fairytale. This was real. Messy. Fragile. Bob had lost everything, even himself. What he was feeling now wasn’t grounded in memory. It was instinct. Pull. Echoes of something he couldn’t touch. And if she leaned in too fast, too hard…

She’d break both of them.

⸻

Bob caught himself watching Y/N more often than he was willing to admit.

Observing her, getting ready to re learn all the things that made him fall for her in the the first place. Tactical necessity. Her habits, the subtle language of her body and gesture.

He noticed the way she tied her left boot tighter than her right, the deliberate care in each knot. How she tapped the corner of her datapad twice, always twice, before slipping it under her arm like a secret. The faint scar tucked beneath her jaw, visible only when the light caught her just so, small and sharp, like a whispered story.

When she spoke, he felt the ghost of a feeling, the memory of how it once was to listen to her voice, as if he’d shaped himself around its cadence long ago.

He learned to read her moods by the music she chose in the mess hall, Fleetwood Mac when exhaustion weighed on her, the jittery energy of Talking Heads when she was wired and restless. He noticed the way her eyes blinked three quick times when she fought back tears, the barely perceptible quiver in her hands during briefings.

He stored these fragments away like precious secrets, little clues she’d left behind just for him.

And then, quietly, without warning, it happened he started fully head first (no pun intended) falling for her all over again.

Not because of memories or history, but because this was something new. A slow, hesitant kind of longing, a fragile second chance his heart couldn’t ignore, even if his mind still wavered.

Late one night, after the rest of the team had long since retreated to their rooms, Bob found himself in the weight room with Bucky. The dull hum of machines and the steady clink of weights filled the space, but between them there was a comfortable silence, one that felt safe enough for truths to slip out.

Bucky handed Bob a towel, the gesture simple but steady, like a lifeline. Bob took it and sank back onto the bench, shoulders heavy, not just from the workout, but from something far more weighty inside him.

He exhaled slowly, trying to gather the words. “I can’t stop thinking about her.” he said finally, voice rough and low, like admitting it made the feeling more real.

Bucky’s eyes flicked up, sharp and curious. “Y/N?”

Bob nodded, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yeah. It’s weird. It’s like my body remembers her. All these little things I don’t actually recall, the way she laughs, the way she gets serious when she’s worried, how she always taps her datapad twice before putting it away.”

He paused, searching Bucky’s face for judgment or dismissal, but found none.

“It’s like this echo inside me that won’t shut up. Even if my brain can’t pull up the memories, the feelings are still there. I don’t know what that means, but it’s driving me crazy.”

Bucky nodded slowly, as if he understood that ache too well. His voice was quiet but sure. “Maybe that’s the part that really matters, the part that sticks around after all the rest gets lost. Sometimes the heart remembers before the mind catches up.”

Bob looked up at him, a flicker of hope mixing with the confusion in his eyes. For the first time in a long while, maybe there was a path forward, even if it was just one small, fragile step.

⸻

It came to a head one evening, late.

The others had cleared out after a long debrief. She stayed behind to finish reports. Bob… didn’t leave either.

He stood in the doorway for a moment before walking in. She heard him, but didn’t look up.

“You always work this late?” he asked quietly.

She smiled faintly, still not looking at him. “Someone’s gotta clean up your mission notes.”

He chuckled, soft and warm. “That bad, huh?”

“No,” she said, softer now. “Just… messy.”

A beat of silence.

Then, his voice. “I remember how you take your coffee.”

Her hand froze mid-type.

“I didn’t realize it.” he continued, stepping closer. “This morning, when I was making a cup, I poured two. Yours, black, one sugar. I didn’t think. I just did it.”

She finally looked at him.

Bob’s eyes held no confusion. No uncertainty. Only wonder. And something deeper.

“I don’t remember everything. I wish I did.” he admitted. “But every time I look at you, I feel like I’m home. Like you’re the part of me I’ve been missing.”

Her eyes filled. She blinked fast, pressing her lips together to keep them from trembling.

“Bob-“

“You don’t have to say anything.” he cut in gently. “I just… I wanted you to know I’d find you again. In a hundred lifetimes. Even if I didn’t remember your name, I’d still know you.”

She shook her head, tears slipping down now. “Don’t- don’t say that. Please. Because if you fall again and something takes you from me again, I don’t think I’ll survive it.”

Silence. Thick. Raw.

Then, he stepped closer, slower than slow, and stopped just short of touching her.

“I think.” he said, voice low and rough, “we both survived the first fall. Maybe that means we’re meant to do it again.”

Y/N looked at him for a long moment, heart shattering open in her chest.

And for now… she didn’t run.

She just breathed.

And stayed.

“I love you.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. Not yet.

“Even if all those moments we had are still fog to me, I love you now. Not because I did. But because I do.”

She closed her eyes. The ache inside her chest expanded like a dam threatening to break.

She stared at him, lips parted, a thousand emotions crashing behind her eyes. And for a second, she hesitated. As if the love she’d locked away so tightly might shatter everything if she let it out now.

But then, she broke.

Her hands cupped his jaw, and she kissed him like it was the last time and the first. Like the end and the beginning had always been the same. Her mouth trembled against his, but she kissed him with years of ache, of waiting, of love that had refused to die even when everything else had been taken.

And he kissed her back like he’d been waiting a lifetime.

Maybe he had.

⸻

They didn’t say anything when they re-entered the living room, hand in hand, flushed and quiet and overwhelmed.

They didn’t have to.

Yelena looked up from her spot on the couch and offered a half-smile, knowingly. Bucky gave a small nod of approval.

Even Alexei, wiping his eye a little too aggressively, muttered, “Dust. Stupid American dust.”

John and Ava exchanged a look but said nothing. Respectful silence wrapped around them like a blanket. The team didn’t tease. Didn’t pry.

They just let them be.

⸻

[Epilogue — 2 Months Later]

The morning light fell golden across the compound grounds, glinting off the dew-soaked grass and filtering through the windows of the common room. Someone had put on music, Fleetwood Mac, soft and low.

Bob sat on the steps just outside, a cup of coffee in hand, watching as Y/N barked a laugh across the courtyard, playfully tossing a sparring mat at Alexei, who pretended to stumble like he’d been shot.

Her hair was pulled up messily. She wore one of his old shirts, sleeves rolled, collar stretched. She looked free. She looked like home.

He didn’t have all his memories. Some things were still missing, like half-remembered dreams just out of reach. But he was okay with that.

Because this, now was real.

They had rebuilt something not from memory, but from the heart. From the quiet comfort of relearning one another. From the gentle rediscovery of touch, trust, laughter.

And they were better for it.

She turned then, sensing his gaze, and their eyes locked across the distance. Her smile softened. Not flashy. Not forced.

Just full of love.

Bob smiled back, heart full.

He’d crawl back home to her.

And he would.

Every single time.

⸻

[spaceycat]

Can you do some more Bob/sentry/void p links please 🥺

YES, YES, YES YES!!!! i'm going to try something that i've never done before and do three sets of p links for bob/sentry/void on this post!! this'll be chaotic but yknow

two links arent working! i will fix asap

previous bob p links post!

════ ⋆★⋆ ════ 

₊˚✧ ɴᴏᴡ ᴘʟᴀʏɪɴɢ ...  ╰┈➤ 𝚋𝚘𝚋 𝚛𝚎𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚜 / 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚢 / 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚍 𝚙 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 ᝰ.ᐟ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: must be signed into twitter to view these links ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴏᴘᴇɴ ɪɴ ᴘᴜʙʟɪᴄ !!

════ ⋆★⋆ ʙᴏʙ ʀᴇʏɴᴏʟᴅꜱ ⋆★⋆ ════ 

✰ sitting on bob's face took some convincing, but it was worth it. ✰ 69ing with bob after he told you just wants to be close. ✰ fucking the stress out of him after he trained for hours, the man whimpers. ✰ soft sex with bob in the morning. ✰ riding bob in the tower's living room after you returned home from a week long mission, he missed you :( ✰ stroking needy!bob's cock on camera and he's embarassed.

════ ⋆★⋆ ꜱᴇɴᴛʀʏ ⋆★⋆ ════  ✰ fwb!sentry taking his stress out on you after valentina got angry with him. ✰ sucking sentry off as he praises you endlessly. ✰ playing with his pretty girl. ✰ sentry being obsessed with your tits during sex. (not working, need to fix) ✰ sentry eating you out after a rough mission. ✰ riding sentry's thigh when he's busy doing work.

════ ⋆★⋆ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴏɪᴅ ⋆★⋆ ════  ✰ tummy bulge. ✰ size difference with void, becoming painfully aware and turned on by it. ✰ the void fingering you after you begged. ✰ void making you work for his cock, even after you begged so nicely. (not working) ✰ he just needs to get it all out of his system, and if that means using you - so be it. ✰ fucking you infront of the mirror so you can see how much of a slut you are for him.