#the void

[1300marshall]

he’s asking for more cuddles

[em1i2a3]

Lovers

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

Summary: The Thunderbolts go to a club downtown for the night, and while there Bob and Sentry are having a tough time watching you flirt with a guy.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, and Jealousy (the spicy triforce). Bob and reader are both aware of each other's feelings but want to remain friends to not ruin the team dynamic in case things go sour. Sentry is extremely jealous in this, and we love jealous Sentry I say…He’s also a bit possessive but…That’s him lol, Bob is just trying to be a good guy and keep things calm, but Sentry is really ripping into him for fumbling the ball.

Smut Warnings: Semi-Public Sex (happens in a private washroom, but it’s inside a club), Unprotected P in V (hahahaha…please wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), and a Praise/Worship Kink cause Sentry and Bob are pleasers just trying to stake their claim lol, there’s also light choking, and some dirty talk….And Overstimulation to a degree. And some aftercare.

Author’s Note: Jesus lord, I loved this request, and I loved the ideas that came from it, and thank you so much for requesting it! It was so fun to write this possessive type of Sentry, and I loved writing the clashing dialogue between Bob and Sentry too. Whew, thank you again @leopard-skin-pillbox-hat-ok for such a fun little thing!

Word Count: 10,244

The music was thrumming like a heartbeat Low, slow, and thick with heat. Everything in the club was moving like smoke–dark, senseless, and breathless. The lights stuttered across the floor like strobe-starved lightning, painting bodies in quick colourful flashes of red, violet, blue, and green.

But Bob wasn’t looking at the lights, or the crowd, or the Coke Zero he hadn’t touched, or even his teammates–who were scattered around the booth behind him, too caught up in cheap liquor, bottles of beer, and loud conversation to notice the slow-motion train wreck unraveling across the club floor.

His attention was on you, and it felt like he was two minutes away from being pronounced dead.

You were standing at the bar with your back turned slightly to him, talking to some guy with a drink in his hand and too much confidence in his stance. It looked like he had forgotten to button his shirt up completely and his chest was puffed out and exposed like he was a bird trying to perform a mating call of sorts. It was easy to spot how he was flirting with you, he would lean in close and say something, and you would return the favour by doing the same. Bob swore every time you moved closer to him it felt like the world was shifting beneath his feet.

Because your dress was–

”God made flesh.” That’s what Sentry had called it the moment he saw you walk out of your room tonight, and he hadn’t shut up since.

It was satin, maybe. Something dark and indulgent and soft. It hugged you like heat and spilled ink–clinging to every line of your body like it had been painted there. The hemline flirted with your thighs as you shifted your weight, fluttering like it was in love with your legs.

And those legs–Bob was going to have a stroke. They were crossed casually at the ankle, and the muscle of your calves were perfectly defined in heels that made your whole stance shift in the kind of way that rewired his brain chemistry. They pushed your hips out just enough to make his breath catch. Your waist cinched so elegantly it looked like it had been sculpted. And your skin–which was shimmering in the club lights–looked like something a god would ruin themselves to touch.

And that’s exactly what was happening.

“Look at her,” Sentry hissed from somewhere behind Bob’s ribs. Every syllable was thick with acid, and pure, unobstructed worship, “She’s glowing…And so fucking open tonight. She should be at our side. In our lap. Not fawning over that little man-child with mousse in his hair.” Bob’s jaw clenched at the rage that echoed through his head.

”S-She’s not fawning,” He muttered under his breath, his knuckles going white around the glass of Coke Zero he was holding, “She’s j-just being friendly.” He added, fluttering his lashes in the strobed haze.

“Look at her. She’s leaning in! He touched her hip when she laughed, did you happen to miss that part?” Bob let out a huff.

”I didn’t miss anything.” He replied, bringing the rim of the glass up to his lips to cover the way his mouth was slightly moving.

“Then explain why you’re sitting here doing nothing while he tries to take what’s ours.” Bob exhaled through his nose, slow and shaky, taking a fake sip of the carbonated beverage, feeling his grip tightening around it slightly, like he was going to possibly break it. “You made the choice. Not me. I would’ve taken her in our bed by now. I would’ve lit the fucking sky gold with the sound of her voice.” Bob dropped his hand to his thigh, fingers digging into the loose denim of his jeans–the ones you had convinced him to buy–like he could claw the heat out of his skin.

Across the club, you tilted your head back to laugh. That kind of laugh. The one Bob had heard a hundred times–but never when it wasn’t his words that caused it.

And you looked–God, you looked like every dream he wasn’t allowed to have anymore. One hand resting lightly on the bar, nails painted in something subtle that caught the colored lights like stardust. Your other hand gestured as you spoke, animated and bright, your shoulder dipping as you leaned in again, saying something to the guy–who took it as an invitation to move closer. He was smiling. He was saying something back.

You nodded at him, smiling with the widest one you had, and tapped your glass against his before taking a sip.

Bob’s eyes followed the movement of your throat as you swallowed, his heart beating too loud in his ears.

“She’s not even thinking about us.”

“S-Shut up,” Bob hissed quickly, but it was loud enough to make Walker glance over briefly before going back to his beer and the conversation the rest of the group were having behind him.

“You think you were noble, don’t you? Waiting, respecting her and the team…You think that means something when someone else can just step in and touch her like that?” Bob wiped the sweat off his brow, as the heat began to curl within him, but it didn’t seem to help. He could feel it–the static under his skin, like something golden and furious was trying to claw its way out from inside him.

“You said no to her. You told her she was too important to risk. Now look at her.” You pushed your hair out of your face with a laugh and turned just enough to give Bob a partial view of your profile. The lips gloss he watched you apply at the beginning of the evening in the reflection of someone’s car window glistened. The lights behind the bar lit up your eyes like candlelight through amber glass, and you still didn’t see him looking.

That hurt worse than anything.

He shifted in the booth, uncomfortable in his own skin, and burning hot. His foot tapped against the sticky floor beneath the table, a stuttering rhythm that matched the beat of the music–or maybe it was matching his panic.

“This is when I wish I had my own fucking body,” Sentry growled, “At least then I could make my own decisions instead of running them by a human who’s afraid of his own fucking heartbeat.” Bob flinched. It was small. Barely a tremor across his shoulders. But the heat that followed was almost unbearable, as it sunk into his bloodstream. It pulsed beneath his skin like magma, like light trying to find the cracks in his weak mental armour. His fingers twitched against the table, then he curled them into a fist before dropping it into his lap, trying to hide the shaking in his hand.

“She should be with us,” Sentry snapped, “I’d be on my knees every night for her, I’d hold her in my arms and love her the way she deserves, and she certainly wouldn’t be pressed against some arrogant fuck like that.” Bob’s eyes flicked back to you, just in time to see it. The guy’s hand moved to your waist, sliding around to pull you in closer. His mouth was way too close to your ear, and your face tipped slightly toward him, smile still soft, lips parted.

And Bob–snapped.

His body lurched forward like something had yanked him by the ribs, and the booth creaked. The table shook when his knee slammed into the bottom of it.

Walker and Ava both turned their heads at the sound, but Bob didn’t move forward again.

He sat back down, hard, chest heaving. His elbows braced on the table. His hands pressed flat to the surface to steady himself, shaking. And the golden light beneath his skin flickered–just for a second–visible, crawling like electricity beneath his veins.

“Bob?” Yelena’s voice cut through the haze like a blade. Her brows were drawn, beer still in hand. She leaned across the table. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer, he didn’t even try to look up at her. He was staring at the floor, like it was safer than looking back up at you.

“Tell her to back off. Tell her we’re in the middle of planning out how to quietly rip the arm off that guy touching Y/N…”

“Bob.” Yelena’s voice sharpened, knocking on the table in front of him, “Hey.” His jaw clenched.

”I’m fine. I-I’m fine.” He responded, feeling a bead of sweat dripping down his temple.

”Bullshit.” She shot back. Then she was moving around the table, boots scuffing the floor. Bob tried to avoid her, turning his face away, but she caught him by the jaw fast, fingers sharp and rough, twisting his head toward her. The moment her eyes met his, she immediately connected the dots.

”Oh Jesus Christ.” She hissed, realizing his eyes weren’t just blue anymore, they were streaked with little tendrils of gold exploding in the irises and hazing over the pupils.

“Let me take it from here,” Sentry whispered, “Clearly you’re not handling it.”

“I-I said I’ve got it.” Bob groaned, squeezing his eyes shut like he could shove Sentry back down by sheer willpower.

“Got what?” Walker called from across the table, leaning his arm along the backrest, “What’s going on with him tonight?” He asked, motioning to Bob. Yelena didn’t answer. She was too busy calculating how far they were from the nearest exit. Bob rubbed a hand over his face, trying to cool the flush from his cheeks, trying to breathe through the pulse climbing in his throat.

”I’m controlling him,” He muttered, “He’s pissed but I’m controlling it.” Walker leaned forward a bit, catching the gold that began to shimmer even more in Bob’s irises.

”Doesn’t look like it,” He commented, eyes narrowing at the shimmer that caught in the strobe lighting, then slowly Walker's gaze drifted across the club, over the pulsing bodies, and past the sharp glow of the bar lights–landing on you.

You were still tucked close to that guy, still laughing, and still glowing in that dress, like the universe was trying to punish Bob through you. Walker’s face twisted in understanding, his lips twitching up with cruel amusement.

”Oh,” He drawled, “Ohhhhhh.” Yelena didn’t even look up to him, she kept her eyes trained on Bob.

”Walker, I swear to god.” She warned, already hearing the chaos brewing in his tone.

“You guys look parched. I’m gonna get another beer,” He said, grabbing a spare glass off the table, “And maybe a water for Bob before his brain starts draining out of his ears.” Walker added, pushing himself up from the booth, stretching like he had all the time in the world.

”Walker!” Yelena snapped, but it was too late, he was already moving.

“Oh good,” Sentry crooned inside him, smug and mocking, “Walker. A real man. Watch and learn, Bob. A simple waltz up to the bar, a charming line, a hand on her arm–easy extraction.” Bob let out a long, agonizing groan, pressing a trembling hand to his temple to try and ease the headache that was starting to bloom.

Meanwhile, Walker was on the move. He weaved through the crowd with a practiced ease, long strides–relaxed in the most approachable way possible–glass in one hand, beer bottle in the other. The lights flickered across his white t-shirt and a few girls near the edge of the dance floor gave him lazy once-overs as he passed. He smiled–small, effortless–and tipped his head in greeting, before continuing his journey. He didn’t stop until he was directly beside you.

You didn’t notice him at first, you were too wrapped up in whatever your bar companion was saying. But the moment Walker’s shoulder nudged yours gently, you turned–surprised–and the guy’s arm slipped from behind your back, falling away like it had never belonged there to begin with.

”Hey,” Walker said casually, setting the beer and the empty glass down on the bar, “Fancy seeing you still upright. Thought you’d be buried in that guy’s awful smelling cologne by now.” You raised an eyebrow at him, confused and slightly amused.

”Excuse me?” You said, watching Walker lean in just enough for the crowd and the music to blur around you both, his voice low and loaded with too much amusement to be harmless.

”You might want to ease up on the flirting…Bob’s halfway to going supernova back at the booth.” He said, propping his elbow onto the bar. He smelled like strong wheat from the beer he was nursing, but he still seemed levelheaded enough to know what he was saying to you.

“Bob?” You questioned.

”Yeah,” Walker nodded toward the table, where Bob sat with his head in his hands. From where you stood you could see the faint glow of the veins in his forearms, like someone had poured sunlight into them, with the crown of his hair fluffed and messy–probably from him ruffling it in his hands. “You know–your broody golden retriever…The one who’s got the sleeper build of a house?”

“He’s not–“ You huffed, “He’s not mine…” Walker snorted at the comment.

”Could’ve fooled me. Pretty sure you own at least seventy percent of his emotional stability and sanity at this point.” Your eyes narrowed at him as you took a sip from your diluted tequila pineapple.

”We agreed, okay? It was mutual. We said it would be a bad idea–if things went wrong–“ Walker held up a finger.

”Right, right. Let me stop you there, Professor Logic. Because right now Bob’s glowing like a fucking star over there and Sentry has been pacing inside his skull, dying to come out. So clearly this little ‘mutual’ agreement is not really holding up.” You stiffened.

”He hasn’t;’t said anything.” Walker laughed under his breath.

”Of course not. It’s Bob. He’d rather implode than inconvenience anyone. But maybe you should go get your sight checked, sweetheart, because you’re acting absolutely blind if you think feelings just vanish because you both agreed to not ‘ruin the team’.”

“Hey, that's not fair.” You muttered.

”Isn’t it?” He shot back, standing a little straighter, “You’re over here flirting up a storm while Bob’s swallowing the sun god. He wanted you. He still wants you, and just because he respects the boundaries you two have, it doesn’t mean y’all are fully over things. Get what I’m saying?” You glanced again toward the booth–just in time to see Bob brace his hands against the table like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane of existence. Even across the room, you could see the way his chest was rising and falling too fast. The light beneath his skin had intensified–glimmering like heat lightning under the surface of his forearms.

Your voice dropped low. “What do you expect me to do?”

Walker blinked at you, incredulous. “I don’t know, go over there and calm the guy down? Maybe take him somewhere private and talk to him before he fucking levels the building?” He leaned in a little closer, his tone dropping into something more serious, less flippant. “Y/N, it’s Sentry. He doesn’t particularly have a track record for waiting or being nice about things that don’t go his way…God complex. Remember?”

You swallowed, nerves climbing up your throat like vines. “And you think I have that kind of power?”

Walker didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk. He just looked at you with the flattest, most terrifyingly honest expression you’d ever seen on him.

“I’m very sure you’ve got his soul in your hands by this point,” He said, voice sharp and quiet. “Now go. Before the floor starts vibrating.”

You hesitated, looking back at Bob again–he was shaking. Hands trembling like static was crawling up his arms, light flaring under his skin in pulses that didn’t sync to the music anymore. His jaw was clenched. His whole body coiled like a live wire seconds from snapping.

Walker’s hand landed briefly on your shoulder, grounding. “Go, Y/N.”

You didn’t need to hear anything else.

You set your glass down with a soft clink, the condensation from the cup already dampening your fingertips. Then you moved–shoulders squared, eyes locked, heart racing harder than the music pulsing through the club’s foundation.

The crowd pressed around you like water, dense and shifting. Heat clung to your skin, sticky with sweat and perfume–an overwhelming blend of cheap gin, sugar-rimmed cocktails, body spray, smoke, and that faint metallic tang of overstimulation. Neon light sliced through the dark like a broken kaleidoscope–flickering greens, bleeding reds, and deep violet strobes that stained everything in shadow-glow and fleeting brilliance.

You pushed past a couple tangled together mid-dance, the woman’s laugh sharp and high-pitched, her partner’s cologne a cloud of amber and pine that made your nose twitch. Your heels stuck momentarily to the floor in patches–spilled beer or soda underfoot–but you didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Because you could see him now.

Bob.

He looked like he was breaking open.

Yelena was still in front of him, tense and braced with her arms folded, her whole body coiled like she was trying to intercept a detonation. You reached her, placed your hand firmly on her shoulder. She looked up at you, eyebrows already drawn–but one glance at your face was all it took. She didn’t say anything. Just nodded once, jaw tight, and stepped aside to return to her original spot in the booth.

And then–Bob.

His head lifted, slowly.

And when his eyes found yours–it was like gravity halted in his mind.

The gold in his irises was brighter now, sparking outward like little sunbursts, threads of molten light veining toward his pupils. But it was the look on his face that undid you. The moment he realized it was you, standing there, reaching for him. All of that raw, volatile tension melted into something that looked like disbelief. Like hope.

His shoulders dropped a fraction. Not relaxed–no, he was never fully relaxed when he was like this–but the storm behind his eyes shifted, just enough to make room for something else. Something softer. The glow faltered like a candle wick flicked by breath, almost like it was a display of relief.

Slowly you reached forward–not grabbing, not pulling, but touching–and let your fingertips drag over his forearms, before your hands found his wrists. You could feel his skin burning, damp from sweat, and his pulse was bounding against your touch, as if something was ready to snap beneath the surface. You curled your fingers around his wrists with deliberate gentleness, and leaned forward.

The light behind you turned gold for a moment–just a flare, like the universe was echoing the chaos inside him. Then the shadows returned, and it was just you in front of him, wrapped in heat and pulse and light. Then your scent hit him–it wasn’t perfume in the traditional sense. Not heavy. It was perfectly you.

It was citrus first–sharp, bright, alive. Like cracked-open blood orange rinds in summer. Zest clinging to skin. Tangy and awakening. Then came the softer notes. Something warmer underneath. A trace of sugar and salt and skin–like sunlight on bare shoulders and the faintest whisper of crushed mint leaves. It was dizzying. It was you. The way you always smelled when you were flushed and warm and a little too close. Bob inhaled like he was starved of it, and Sentry sucked it in like it gave him a new life source.

Then you leaned even closer.

Your body was just shy of touching him, but he felt the heat of you radiating off your skin. Like you were burning through your dress, through the space between you. He could see the outline of your shoulder rising and falling with each breath–too fast. Just like his.

Then–your voice.

It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was spoken directly into the space beside his neck, close enough that he could feel the shape of the words before he could understand them. Your breath was warm, and carried the scent of alcohol on it–sweet, sharp, sticky.

Pineapple juice. Cool and sugary. The bite of cheap tequila clinging to the edge. And something cooler than that–mint, from whatever cocktail you’d been nursing. It made the air between you feel electric.

“Come with me,” You said, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear, voice low, tight. Bob’s pulse stuttered. His mouth parted on instinct, like he wanted to say your name, or please, or thank you, or yes, but nothing came out.

Only a nod.

His whole body moved like it wasn’t his own–shoulders curving toward you, the heat in his veins recalibrating, his spine straightening just enough to stand.

You didn’t let go of his wrist as you pulled him through the crowd.

He followed behind like a shadow tethered to your spine–quiet, massive, burning with a light that wasn’t fully human. Every step sent heat crawling along your skin, your grip on him like a lifeline.

You moved fast, past the dance floor and toward the back hallway lined with faux-industrial brick and flickering sconces trying too hard to mimic candlelight. The music was muffled here, pulsing through the drywall like a heartbeat trapped behind ribs.

The private washroom door stood at the end of the hall–sleek, black, and marked with a gold “STAFF ONLY” plaque. You didn’t hesitate. Just reached for the handle, shoved it open, and dragged Bob in after you.

The door shut with a click that sounded louder than a gunshot. Then the lock turned under your fingers–decisive, final.

It was dim inside.

Not in the way that suggested filth or neglect–but in a way that almost felt…deliberate. The club had clearly spared no expense here. There were soft amber bulbs tucked behind frosted glass sconces, casting a faint, honeyed glow that made the marble counters shimmer faintly. The walls were a deep slate gray, matte and textured, broken only by a massive, ornately framed mirror that stretched across the length of the main wall above the sink. The countertop was pristine, black quartz polished to a gleam. A vase of dried eucalyptus sat beside the soap, filling the air with a clean, herbal sharpness that cut through the lingering sweat and smoke on your skin.

The moment you turned to face him, Bob was already braced near the sink, one hand gripping the edge like he needed it to keep standing. His chest was heaving. The golden veins beneath his skin were glowing more than ever–flickering like wire left too long in the fire.

You crossed the room, slow but steady, until you were standing just in front of him–barely breathing–with a bit of space between the two of you so you weren’t crowding him.

“What the hell is going on with you tonight?” Your voice was a mix of caution and heat. Not cold. Not scolding. But demanding in a way only someone who knows the truth of a person could manage.

Bob didn’t answer. His eyes flicked up to yours, and for a second, it wasn’t just him.

It was both of them. Bob and Sentry.

That glow behind his irises was too alive. Too bright. His jaw was locked, his pulse hammering visibly in his throat, the cords in his neck drawn tight like wires on the verge of snapping. When he didn’t speak, you stepped closer.

“I thought we agreed,” You said, softly. “We said it was a bad idea. That it could ruin everything.”

Bob finally opened his mouth, but the voice that came out was not fully his.

“That wasn’t my agreement.” His tone was deeper. Not menacing, but vast. Like something old and radiant had peeled up from beneath the surface of his soul. His shoulders twitched like he was trying to contain something stretching underneath his skin.

You stared at him, mouth parted slightly.

“I didn’t get a say,” Sentry added through him, his tone thick with restrained hunger. “He locked me out of that conversation. Said it wasn’t safe. Said you deserved better than both of us. But I’ve been watching him crumble over you every night since…And it’s not fair to me that I need to watch that when I have no choice but to follow whatever he says!” Bob jerked his head slightly, like he was trying to shake the voice off, but you saw it–the way his pupils dilated, the way his hand on the counter tightened until the stone cracked faintly under his palm.

“That guy–” Bob’s voice finally surfaced, raw and hoarse. “T-The way he touched you–your waist–your shoulder–” His throat bobbed. “I couldn’t breathe.”

You stepped closer to him, still not enough to invade his space.

“I wasn’t going to do anything with him.”

“That doesn’t matter,” He croaked. “Y-You were smiling like that. You were laughing. Not at my words. A-And he got to touch you.” His hands curled, trembling, and you realized then: he wasn’t angry at you. He was in agony.

“Bob…” You breathed.

“I told myself I could handle this. I thought–I thought staying away w-would make it easier,” He whispered, forehead bowing like he was seconds away from collapse. “But then I s-saw you tonight, and you were just–fucking perfect–and all I could think was how badly I-I wanted to touch you. Not Sentry. Not the god. Just me.”

Your breath hitched.

The air in the room shifted–less like breathlessness now, and more like a burn. A shared ache. The kind you only ever get from not touching someone you need.

“You think I don’t want you too?” You whispered, eyes locked on his, not daring to move. “You think that was easy for me either? You think I don’t go back to my room every night and have to lie in a bed that smells like you from your laundry detergent leaking into my sheets?” Bob’s breath hitched–his whole chest trembling with it. His lips parted like he might say something, but he didn’t. He just stared at you with that look. Like you were the only thing keeping him stitched together. Like if he blinked, you might vanish.

Your next breath barely made it out. “I want you. Even when I try not to. Even when I say I don’t.” There was a long pause in the room, just the sound of your breaths and the thumping bass of the music outside the enclosure of the washroom.

Then suddenly, Bob moved.

It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t even rough. But it was immediate. Like something inside him snapped loose and came tearing to the surface. His hands were on your face in less than a second—big and hot and trembling at the edges. One cupped your cheek, the other cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair as his forehead dipped to yours. The air between you ignited.

And then he kissed you.

It was not sweet.

It was not soft.

It was desperate–an open-mouthed, spine-scorching, knee-buckling kind of kiss that tasted like panic and longing and gold-lit hunger all poured into one unsteady breath. His mouth slanted over yours like he was trying to carve your shape into his bones, like he was afraid he’d never get another chance. And God, he kissed like he needed you to keep existing–like he’d die if he didn’t.

You gasped into it, just once–surprised not by the kiss, but by the heat behind it–and the second your knees gave a tremble under your heels, Bob caught you.

He growled low against your mouth, not Sentry, not quite Bob–just that middle place where desire lives. His arm locked around your waist, and he spun you with frightening ease. Your back hit the cool edge of the quartz sink counter, and then his hands were everywhere–gripping your hips, dragging them flush to his, his fingers digging into the hem of your dress like he couldn’t figure out whether to lift it or tear it.

You moaned into his mouth–quiet, bitten off–and he groaned back, kissing you harder, deeper, messier.

It was sloppy. Wet. Your lips sliding together again and again as your breaths came sharp and heated. His tongue brushed yours and it felt like fire jumped between your ribs. You couldn’t even think. You were clinging to his shirt like it was the only thing holding you upright.

Bob pulled back just a fraction–just enough to pant against your lips, his breath catching on every syllable.

“You’re not stopping me,” He whispered, voice shredded with disbelief, “You’re not telling me to stop–”

You kissed him again before he could finish, grabbing his jaw, tilting him into you, dragging your teeth across his bottom lip as his hips pressed tighter against yours. And God, the way he reacted–his fingers twitching against your waist, his hips stuttering forward like he couldn’t help himself.

“G-God,” He hissed, and the heat of it pulsed out of him like an aftershock.

His hands dropped to the backs of your thighs, slowly despite the chaos. His palms swept up your legs–warm, wide, shaking–until he was holding you just beneath the curve of your ass. Then he lifted. You gasped as he hoisted you effortlessly up onto the counter, the cold stone biting against your skin through the dress, the sensation making your spine arch.

Bob stepped between your knees and immediately pressed himself against you again, lips finding yours in a kiss so deep it tilted your head back. His hand slid up the column of your neck, cradling your jaw, his thumb brushing just beneath your ear like he needed to memorize every inch of you.

And then–he moaned.

Not loud, but raw. Pained. Like the taste of you was killing him and healing him at the same time. His tongue swept into your mouth, slow and slick, and your hands tangled in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again–deeper this time, almost guttural.

His hips rocked once into yours, slow and hot, grinding into the space between your thighs, and you gasped against his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders. It felt like every part of him was begging for contact, like he was trying to melt into your skin. His fingertips dug into your waist as he pressed his hips forward again, slower this time, savouring the way your body responded to him, how your thighs widened even more to cradle his body.

Your fingers untangled from his hair, reached down to curl your fingers around the wrist of the hand that held your waist, guiding him toward the skin of your thigh, skin to skin–your dress had ridden up high enough that he could feel the heat of you radiating through the minimal barrier you still wore. His breath caught. You pulled back from the kiss just enough to whisper.

”Touch me.” The syllables broke him open immediately. He didn’t ask if you were sure. Bob’s hand slid upward–slow, shaking–and then it was there. The pad of his fingers brushed the damp, sheer fabric stretched over your aching core, and he gasped so sharply his forehead thudded softly against yours.

“Oh–God–” He whispered, voice breaking on the edges. “You’re already–J-Jesus, you’re so wet.”

You whined, head tilting back slightly, lips brushing his jaw, and Bob nearly lost it right then.

“Is it for me?” He breathed, fingers still resting there, just barely pressing into the heat between your legs. His voice trembled, and it wasn’t just Bob anymore. Sentry laced every syllable with awe and hunger.

“Tell me it’s for me,” He begged.

You nodded, lashes fluttering, as heat crept up onto your cheeks. “Always for you.”

He let out a noise–half groan, half prayer–and his hand moved. Gentle at first, like he was afraid to break you. His thumb found your clit through the soaked fabric, rubbing in slow, languid circles. Just enough pressure to tease, not enough to satisfy. Your thighs tensed around his hips, your fingers curling into his shirt.

“Oh my god, Bob–”

That shattered him.

His mouth dropped to your neck, open and hot, breath thick against your pulse as he worked you with growing intensity. He mouthed at your skin–kissed and nipped his way up to the underside of your jaw while his fingers kept moving, pressing deeper now, sliding the soaked fabric aside with a gentle kind of desperation. His fingertips met your slick heat, and the soft, wet sound of it made him moan like he was being touched instead of you.

“Y/N,” He rasped, “You’re d-dripping… I h-haven’t even done anything to you yet–Jesus”

He slipped two fingers between your folds, not inside–just gliding through the mess you’d already made for him. His thumb resumed its rhythm on your clit, and your whole body jolted in response, a soft cry leaving your lips. Bob was panting.

“I wanna drop to my knees. I wanna taste you. Right here. Right now. Please.” The words were guttural. Frantic. Worshipful. Sentry was behind them, clawing upward like holy fire, but Bob was still there–guiding him with restraint, grounded by the weight of your body in his hands.

You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him towards you, crashing your mouth into his again. He kissed you like he was drowning and your breath was the only oxygen that could save him.

Without breaking the kiss, without warning, two of his fingers slipped inside you–slow, thick, and deliberate.

You gasped into his mouth–sharp and shuddering–your spine bowing against the sink as your thighs clamped tighter around his hips. The stretch made your legs tremble. You fluttered around him, hot and soaked and so desperate for him it almost hurt.

Bob groaned like the feel of you was enough to knock him out cold.

“Oh–God,” He hissed against your mouth, his forehead dropping to yours as he stilled his hand for just a moment, overwhelmed by how tight and wet you were. “Jesus Christ… You’re so perfect inside. So warm–clenching around me like you need it.”

His fingers curled inside you.

You moaned–loud and broken–your body jerking in his grip. The sound echoed in the marble and tile of the washroom, obscene and beautiful.

“Y-Yes,” You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulder blades, “Don’t stop–Bob–please don’t stop–”

His mouth kissed down your jaw, hot and open, and his other hand slid up your throat–giving it a gentle squeeze, holding you steady like he didn’t trust anything else in the room to support you. His fingers began to move inside you–deep and slow, keeping them curled just right, searching for that perfect spot. His thumb stayed at your clit, rubbing in firm, tight circles, coaxing more slick from your body with every grind of his palm. Every stroke was deliberate. Precise. Designed to make you fall apart for him.

“So good for me,” he breathed against your neck, his voice cracking with need, “So fucking pretty like this. Dripping for me, clenching around me—fuck, baby, you’re singing for it.”

You whimpered again, your thighs shaking.

“I knew you’d be like this,” He groaned, thrusting his fingers deeper, harder now, the wet sounds of it nearly enough to make you come on their own. “So fucking sensitive. I bet you could come just like this–on my hand–if I kept going. You want that? You wanna soak my fingers?”

You couldn’t even speak. You nodded, breath hitching, your mouth open in a silent plea.

Sentry surfaced again in his voice–darker, deeper, reverent.

“She was made for this,” He growled from behind Bob’s teeth. “For us. Look at how she falls apart–so soft for us. So fucking holy between her legs–”

Bob kissed your cheekbone, your temple, your jaw, between every ragged syllable, his fingers never stopping their rhythm, driving deeper, stroking harder.

“I’d worship you every day if you let me,” He whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear now. “I’d wake you up with my mouth, I’d pray at your thighs–I’d give up the sky if it meant I could die with you wrapped around my fingers like this.”

Your breath hitched violently, knowing it was still Sentry projecting through Bob’s mouth.

He kissed the hinge of your jaw, and then the corner of your mouth, his thumb pressing firmer against your clit as he felt you start to pulse harder around him.

“Y-You’re close, aren’t you?” He panted, his voice breathless and holy, “I can feel it. God, I-I can feel it. Let go for me, Y/N. Let go–come for us–please.”

And with a soft, choked sob, you did.

You shattered around his hand, back arched, mouth parted in a desperate cry as your orgasm slammed through you like a wave of white-hot electricity. Your walls fluttered and clenched around his fingers as your thighs shook and your hands clawed for purchase against his shoulders, his chest–him.

Bob groaned like your orgasm was something he could feel.

He didn’t pull away.

He kept his fingers deep inside you, slowly working you through it, coaxing every last tremor from your body with soft murmurs against your throat.

“That’s it…You’re such a good girl.” He rasped. The voice had shifted–richer now. Darker. It vibrated behind your ear like a drumbeat made of light and thunder. Reverent. Possessive. Starved.

Sentry, of course it was him.

You barely had time to react before his hand slowly slipped free from you–slick, trembling, and soaked. You gasped as he dragged his fingers up, just enough for the cool air to kiss your wetness and make your thighs twitch. And then–

He lifted them to his lips.

He licked you off himself with obscene patience, tongue flattening to savor the taste, eyes fluttering shut for just a second like he was drinking in divinity.

A low, broken moan rumbled in his chest. “Mmm–fuck, you taste like you were made for me.”

When his eyes opened again, they weren’t just Bob’s anymore.

Still blue–but ringed in a molten glow so vivid it felt like looking at the edge of the sun. Gold flecked and shimmering. Two forces inside one gaze, breathing in sync. Worship and hunger, restraint and ruin.

Both of them.

“You feel that?” He murmured, pressing his forehead to yours as his still-wet fingers traced the curve of your jaw, smearing your slick along your cheek like a mark. “That was you. That light in me. That burn. You’re what keeps us sane.” Another kiss–softer, gentler, but so hot it made your breath hitch.

“I need more,” Sentry groaned, voice rasping like smoke and lightning. “I need to taste it from the source.”

You swallowed thickly, still panting, your thighs twitching as aftershocks rolled through you. He kissed the corner of your mouth again, and then dropped his lips to your throat, mouthing at your pulse point as he whispered, “Help me. Help me take these off you.”

Your panties.

His hands were already sliding beneath the hem of your dress, brushing along the backs of your thighs as he began to drag the soaked fabric of your underwear down inch by inch, reverent as a priest unwrapping holy cloth. It clung to you–drenched, ruined–and Sentry groaned when you lifted yourself up slightly so the fabric slipped past the curve of your ass. You wiggled around, as he slid the underwear off you completely, crumpling them up in his hand, like he was planning on holding them the entire time–or to steal them so he could have them as a keepsake to remember this night.

He dropped to his knees in front of you like a man possessed, the dress bunched up at your hips now, your bare thighs spread on either side of his broad shoulders.

The sight of him down there–gold-flecked eyes wide, flushed lips parted, hair wild from your hands–it was nearly enough to make you come again.

“You’re the altar,” Sentry said, voice low and trembling with need, “And I’m the fucking disciple.”

And then his mouth was on you.

No hesitation.

No teasing this time.

Just devotion.

His tongue licked a long, slow stripe up your dripping slit, and he moaned–loudly–like he was finally allowed to breathe again. Then he latched onto your clit with a kind of desperate reverence, flicking it, sucking it, licking it in the exact rhythm he’d found with his fingers.

His hands slid up your thighs–warm and huge and trembling–and gripped your hips, holding you in place as he worshipped you with his mouth. Every movement, every wet sound echoed in the marble air. His groans blended with your broken moans, his tongue devouring you like he was starving.

You threw your head back, one hand flying to the counter behind you, the other tangling in his hair.

“Sentry–Bob–fuck…Both of you…Please–”You begged, panting like you were in heat. Your voice only fueled the hunger.

He growled into you, the vibration sending another jolt through your spine, and his hands tightened on your hips.

“I can’t get enough,” He groaned between strokes, voice wrecked and thick. “I could die here. Right between your thighs. Heaven and hell, all at once.”

You felt another orgasm building–fast, blinding–your breath catching with each wet circle of his tongue, each drag of his mouth over your clit, each filthy moan he spilled against your folds like worship.

And just before you shattered again, he looked up at you.

Eyes glowing gold. Lips soaked in you. His voice broke the last thread of restraint you had:

“Come for me again, goddess.”

And you did.

Violently. Beautifully. Every nerve ending setting alight with the crash.

You cried out his name–or maybe both their names–as the pleasure crashed through you, seizing your thighs around his head, dragging his mouth deeper as your body gave out.

But he didn’t stop.

He licked you through it, past it, deeper–drinking from the source like he’d promised, moaning like your taste rewrote his soul. When your body finally slumped against the mirror, still trembling, still slick and wide open for him, he rose slowly from his knees.

His lips were red. Glossed in your slick. His breath was heavy.

And when he leaned in again, cupping your face with one hand, you leaned into his touch like your neck had melted, jelly-soft and pliant beneath his palm. Your body still trembled in the aftermath of your orgasm–nerves frayed, thighs twitching, your breath a ghost of what it once was. His touch grounded you, burned you, and worshipped you all at the same time.

His gaze drank you in—lips wet, pupils blown wide and gold, voice dipped into something low and wicked as his mouth ghosted the edge of yours.

“What a great introduction, hm?” he murmured, the words dragging across your pulse like velvet-wrapped sin. “You’ve never really met me before… not like this.”

The tone in his voice was soft. Sweet, even. But beneath it was the weight of something divine. The kind of reverence that made your spine ache and your thighs twitch all over again. He kissed you before you could respond–slow and consuming, dragging the taste of yourself across your tongue as if to remind you what he’d just done.

You whimpered into it, and he smiled against your mouth, a low hum vibrating from his chest.

“But I’m not done yet,” He whispered into your lips–so soft, so sensual, it made you clench reflexively around nothing. His hand slid from your cheek to your throat again, not to grip–just to feel your pulse. To feel how hard it was racing beneath his palm.

“I’ve barely begun to show you what it’s like,” He added, nuzzling his mouth along your jaw, the edge of your ear. His voice was molten honey, golden and dripping into every breath. “To be worshipped by a god.”

His hand on your thigh curled inward again, slowly dragging up the bare, damp skin until his fingers slid between your folds once more. You gasped, your hips twitching against the marble counter as he stroked you lazily, like he was testing to see just how sensitive you were now. His lips ghosted over your jaw, kissing along your cheek until he reached your temple.

“You’re shaking again,” He murmured, tongue peeking out to taste the salt-sweet sweat clinging to your skin. “You gonna fall apart for me one last time, sunshine? Hm?”

You nodded without hesitation, breathless and dazed.

“Good,” He breathed, curling his fingers over your thigh again, dragging your legs open wider. You were still trembling when your hand reached down between your bodies, fumbling with the buckle of his belt.

He hissed quietly, the sound a shudder against your skin as you worked it open. The clink of the metal was deafening in the quiet of the washroom. You felt the tension in his body ripple the moment the leather slid free of the clasp—his hips pressing forward involuntarily as you popped the button of his jeans.

“W-We’re still in the club,” you whispered against his mouth, panting lightly, tasting yourself on his tongue. “People are gonna wonder where we are… I–we should deal with this and then go home. You can fuck me properly at the compound. I’ll let you take me apart in the shower. You’ll have me screaming your name all night, Bob, I promise–”

But he shook his head before you could finish.

One hand came up and cupped the side of your face, the other curled under your thigh again, holding you open with trembling reverence. He leaned in–kissed you hard, deep, so full of hunger it felt like he wanted to swallow your words down and burn them into ash.

“No,” He breathed against your lips. “No more waiting. We’ve waited long enough.” You felt the bulge in his jeans throb against your thigh as he growled, low and full of restrained power.

“I’m gonna fill you right here,” He whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth, then lower–your cheek, your throat, your collarbone–every word pressed into your skin like a brand. “I’m gonna fuck you so slow and so deep, you’ll be leaking with me when you walk back out into that club.” His fingers brushed your jaw again, holding you steady, trembling. “And you won’t be able to do a thing about it.” You gasped as he said it, your fingers slipping under the waistband of his boxers, finding the velvet heat of him–hard, pulsing, so heavy in your hand.

“I’ll make you wait to clean up,” He murmured, kissing beneath your ear now, voice dark and golden, “Let you walk around soaked in me until we get back to the compound. Then I’ll take you again in the shower. I’ll fuck you slow under the water with your thighs shaking around my hips, and I’ll do it just to remind you…”

He kissed you–hard. Deep. With teeth clacking together, and tongues battling, before pulling back.

“…Who you belong to now.”

The words sent a sharp, hot pulse through your spine.

You could barely breathe.

He nudged his jeans down just enough, and you helped–sliding the fabric down over his hips with frantic hands until he was free. The thick length of him brushed your thigh, hot and pulsing, and when you looked down, your breath caught.

The tip glistened in the light from the pre-cum dripping out of it, the head was flushed a blush red as if it was dying to be inside you. He looked unreal–godlike–and you were dizzy from the sight of him alone.

Your thighs spread wider, instinctive. Wanton.

“I’ve dreamed of this,” He whispered hoarsely, his hand gripping the base of himself, guiding the tip to your slick folds. “So many fucking nights. I thought I’d die with the taste of you on my tongue and never get to feel this.”

And then–slowly–he pressed in.

The stretch made your breath catch, your spine arch, your thighs tighten. He was careful. Controlled. Like the act of entering you was a ceremony. You whimpered, body pulsing around him as the thick head of his cock breached your entrance, and then more. Inch by glorious inch. So slow it hurt. So perfect it made your eyes sting.

“Dear l-lord…” Bob groaned, burying his face in the crook of your neck, kissing the sensitive flesh there. “You’re–God–you’re gripping me like you were made for this…” You cupped his jaw, pulled his face up to look at you as he sank deeper, until your bodies were fully joined. Chest to chest. Heart to heart.

And that’s when you saw it.

His eyes.

The constant battle.

Blue–bright, tender, full of reverent awe. But flickering beneath? Gold. Liquid fire. Sentry. The god…Aching for more. Needing to lose control again. And for a moment–just one–Bob blinked like he was trying to hold them both together for you.

“Bob…” You whispered, stroking your thumbs over his cheeks. “I see you.”

He choked on a breath. His hips rolled, slow and trembling, dragging himself out an inch before sliding back in–smooth, deep, deliberate. His eyes fluttered shut and then open again, barely able to hold your gaze. You cupped his face tighter, grounding him. His body shook with restraint.

“You’re both here,” You moaned, barely audible. “And I want all of it.”

Bob groaned into your mouth and kissed you–so slow this time. Like he was memorizing the shape of your lips with his own. Then his hips began to move again. Long, fluid strokes. Deep, sensual. Every grind sent heat coiling through your belly, and every time he slid inside you, the air in your lungs thinned.

Your legs wrapped around his hips.

Your hands held his face like prayer.

And his thrusts grew stronger.

Still aching.

But with that edge.

That divine, desperate edge.

The god was surfacing through every roll of his hips, every whispered groan, every broken syllable of your name. You could feel it in the way he filled you–perfectly. Over and over. Each time deeper. Each time just a little more heated. His body coiled like a storm, the breath behind his moans glowing brighter with every thrust.

“Mine,” He groaned, forehead pressed to yours, “You’re mine. Always been mine…”

You nodded, clinging to him. “Yours.”

His hands gripped your hips tighter.

And the light in the room began to flicker.

As if the whole club could feel what was happening in the dark.

In the holy quiet, where gods and mortals broke together.

His thrusts became less measured–still deep, still slow, but trembling at the edges with something close to ruin. The kind of surrender that came from months of restraint finally breaking. Each roll of his hips ground deeper into you, filling you so completely you swore you could feel him in your chest. The wet sounds of your bodies meeting echoed in the marble air, obscene and beautiful.

You clung to him, fingers dug into the muscles of his back, your thighs tightening around his hips with every thrust. Your foreheads pressed together. Noses brushed. Breaths mingled.

And then his mouth found yours again.

You gasped into it–sharp and high as a particularly deep thrust hit the spot inside you that made your toes curl–and Bob moaned into your mouth like it tore something sacred from him. His tongue slipped between your lips, slick and hungry, tasting you with a reverence that made your chest ache.

You kissed him back like you were trying to memorize every second.

Tongue against tongue. Teeth catching lips. Moans swallowed between gasps.

“Y-Y/N,” He groaned, barely audible. “You feel so good. So fucking good around me–so tight. You’re pulling me in like you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” You whimpered, voice cracking with need. “I want to keep you. All of you.”

And that broke something in him.

His thrusts deepened–slower, but harder now. Grinding into you so completely you could barely breathe. The counter beneath you shook. The mirror behind your spine rattled faintly with each rhythm, like even the room couldn’t hold this kind of heat.

You could feel him trembling–every muscle drawn tight beneath your hands, his hips beginning to stutter with every roll forward. His breath came out in harsh bursts against your cheek, and when he buried his face in the crook of your neck again, he let out the rawest moan you’d ever heard from him.

“I’m close,” He gasped. “Y/N–I’m gonna come. I’m gonna fill you–fuck–I wanna know that you’re going to be dripping me all night.”

You cried out, tightening around him. Your own orgasm was on the brink again–high, searing, right there at the edge.

“Do it,” You begged, voice breaking. “Come inside me, Bob. Please–need to feel it. Need to feel you lose control.”

His hips faltered–just once–and he groaned through gritted teeth, his body coiled like it couldn’t decide whether to detonate or dissolve.

And then–he reached between you again, his thumb finding your clit one last time.

“Come with me,” he whispered, voice burning gold and low and full of promise. “Let go, sunshine. Let go with me.”

You clung to him. Kissed him.

And you shattered.

Your cry tore from your mouth and into his as he kissed you again–hot, open, gasping. Your orgasm hit hard and fast, convulsing through your body as your walls squeezed around him like you never wanted to let him go.

And that’s when he followed.

His hips stuttered, slammed in deep one last time, and then he was moaning into your mouth–loud, guttural, his tongue still tasting you as he spilled inside you. You felt every thick, hot pulse of him, the way his body shook against yours, how he trembled through it like the pleasure was too much, too full, too holy.

You stayed like that.

Locked together.

Mouths still joined, breath shallow, bodies twitching in the aftermath.

When he finally pulled back just an inch, his lips ghosted over yours. His forehead dropped against yours again, and you felt him shake–every exhale breaking against your cheeks.

”J-Jesus…I-I think I was blacking out during that.” Bob laughed softly–still breathless, still inside you, his face pressed into the crook of your neck like it was the only place he knew how to breathe. You could feel him twitch inside you, still hard, still so achingly present even in the aftermath of all that heat. His breath was warm and sticky against your throat.

You laughed, too–just a little–low and shaken but real.

“I couldn’t tell who was in control,” you murmured, dragging your fingers gently through the sweaty strands at the back of his neck. “Hopefully he’s not mad I called him Bob.”

Bob pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, lips curling in a crooked grin that barely held together at the corners. He kissed you once–soft, quick, like a punctuation mark–before resting his forehead against yours.

“I’m sure h-he doesn’t care,” He said, voice hoarse and honey-warm, “He’s definitely shut his mouth now…H-He’s been talking my ear off all night. Especially when you were with that guy.”

You smirked, brushing your thumb along the curve of his cheek. “Sentry… The god of jealousy.”

Bob hummed a low, amused sound in his throat. “We were both jealous. He just…H-Has a really bad w-way of handling it.”

Then he turned slightly–still inside you, and you gasped at the movement—his body shifting as he reached out and slapped the silver button on the paper towel dispenser with the side of his palm. The mechanical whir filled the room in a way that felt both hilarious and wildly surreal.

“What are you doing?” You asked, brows furrowed in amused disbelief. Bob grinned, pressing a kiss to your neck, then leaned forward again to turn the faucet on with one hand.

“Making sure we don’t stain that pretty little dress,” He murmured, grabbing the paper towel and wetting it under the warm water. “It’s p-probably already ruined…But we shouldn’t make it worse, and w-we should at least do some damage control on it…I’ll pay for the d-dry cleaning.”

You laughed–really laughed this time–and he smiled into your skin like it was the best sound he’d ever heard. Bob gently wrung out the warm paper towel over the sink, his body still braced between your thighs, chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The faucet murmured behind him as he turned it off, and the only other sound was the distant thud of club music vibrating faintly through the floorboards beneath your heels.

Then he leaned back slightly, his hands moving to rest lightly on your hips as he looked down between your bodies to assess the aftermath.

He sucked in a quiet breath, eyes narrowing slightly. “Huh.”

You blinked at him, trying not to laugh. “What?”

Bob tilted his head, considering. “It’s not t-too bad,” He said, voice still rough and fond, “But I might have to ask you to c-clench a bit when I pull out–just so I can press this t-there and stop the cum from dripping out before you get your underwear on.”

Your brows lifted. “Sounds like a plan…Speaking of my underwear though…Where are they?”

Bob glanced around like he was replaying the last thirty minutes in his head, then leaned over your shoulder and reached for something just behind the soap dispenser.

“T-Thought they got lost,” He muttered with sheepish relief as he picked up the damp, balled-up fabric, still slightly warm from your skin. “Thank goodness t-that’s not the case… Would’ve been pretty bad if it w-was.”

You bit back a grin, your voice teasing. “Would’ve had to walk back out to the club bare underneath this dress, huh?”

Bob groaned softly, burying his face in your neck for a beat. “Don’t t-tempt me.” Then he pulled back again, lips brushing your cheek as he met your eyes. “Ready?”

You nodded once, steady, and clenched instinctively around him–tight, holding him for one last second. Bob hissed quietly at the sensation, groaned, and then slowly, gently pulled out.

The loss of him made you gasp–a subtle ache, a sudden emptiness–but he was already moving, already bringing the warm, damp towel between your thighs with a kind of reverent tenderness that made your breath hitch. His touch wasn’t clinical or rushed. It was slow. Careful. Like he was scared he’d hurt you if he moved too fast.

You watched him.

Watched the way his brow furrowed in concentration, the way his lower lip was caught between his teeth as he wiped you clean with the warm wet paper towel. It brushed between your folds with gentle pressure, catching his release as it began to spill out of you. He dabbed and swept delicately, making sure not to press too hard, his other hand holding your hip, grounding both you and him to the moment.

And the whole time, he was glancing up at you, watching your face–checking, silently, for any sign of discomfort.

Your chest swelled.

The intensity of it hit you like a fourth climax, softer this time–emotional instead of physical. This was Bob. Always Bob. The way he cared, the way he noticed, the way he never made you feel like you were too much.

You reached up, both hands rising to cradle his jaw as he finished, and his gaze flicked up to you just in time for your mouth to catch his.

You kissed him slowly–no hunger, no urgency. Just tenderness. Just that aching, quiet thing that had been living in both of you for months.

When you pulled back, your voice was hushed, but it carried all the weight of truth behind it.

“So…” You whispered, brushing your thumb over the very very light stubble along his jaw, “I guess we’re throwing that whole ‘no dating for the team’ thing out the window, huh?” Bob’s lips curled into the softest smile, something crooked and reverent and completely undone.

“S-Seems like it,” He murmured.

And then he kissed you again–gold-lit, warm, and entirely his.

[redundantz]

[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 ���𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚜 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.

[heimheim7]

Bob love u so much, protect him 😭❤️

[k9effect]

His ass is NOT listening 🗣

[Click for better quality, reblogs and tags highly appreciated]

[webslinger-holland]

The S*x Talk | Bob Reynolds from Thunderbolts*

Summary: Since Alexei has reunited with both of his daughters, he feels obligated to fulfill his fatherly role to them which includes a safe sex talk.

Warning: 18+ minors DNI, Alexei being himself (slightly vulgar), suggestive content in reference to smut, references to condoms and penis, size comparison, reader getting second hand embarrassment...hard

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Alexei's Daughter Reader

Word Count: 3.1k

Type: Oneshot

The date on the calendar had been circled with a red pen a long time ago. The x's on the days leading up to it only meant the day was drawing closer until the day finally arrived. It was Father's Day.

Quite frankly, Yelena and Y/n hadn't given any thought to the day in particular, despite the constant reminders from Alexei about an important day approaching. He'd point to the calendar enthusiastically and his girls would nod their heads as if they understood what he was trying to tell them.

Now, on the day of, Alexei had made it his mission to make a massive breakfast for his two daughters to enjoy with him. He sat them down at the table next to each other and proceeded to hand them each a plate full of breakfast food.

"Thank you?" Y/n accepted, entirely confused.

"Big breakfast, you like?" Alexei smiled proudly, swiftly moving back to the oven to turn it off.

"I don't want my bacon," Yelena said under her breath and stealthily handed it to her older sister in exchange for more scrambled eggs. The girls eyed the dish suspiciously because their father wasn't known for cooking the most high quality meals.

By the time Alexei was coming back to the table, the two girls hastily grabbed their forks and began eating as if to show him that they were already well invested into their meal.

"It's good, no?" Alexei took his own seat at the table directly across from them.

"Mhmm, so good." Yelena said with a hint of sarcasm. Her face fell as she crunched on a bit of eggshell. She pulled it out of her mouth and placed it on the napkin beside her.

"It's very delicious," Y/n commented plainly. She didn't want to even try his homemade jelly which stood off to the side nor did she have any desire to eat a burnt piece of toast.

"Today is special day, so I make special breakfast for my special girls," Alexei explained with a bright smile before dutifully shoving his own food into his mouth.

"I'm sorry. What's today?" Y/n asked. She glanced between the two of them and her father looked most stunned.

"My solnyshko (little sun)," Alexei looked disappointed and slightly hurt. "It's Father's Day."

"Yeah," Yelena quickly interrupted and nudged her older sister in her side. "I can't believe you forgot. It's been on the calendar for ages."

"Thank you, Lena!" Alexei seemed pleased with the other one. So Y/n sent a glare to her sister because she knew damn well that Yelena had no clue what day it was either.

In the background, Bob had come into the kitchen to make himself some breakfast. He stole a quick glance at Y/n who was already watching him enter the room. He smiled at her and sent a timid wave, which went unnoticed by the others.

Little did Alexei and Yelena know that Bob had spent the night in Y/n's room and only snuck out in the early hours of the morning when nobody was awake. Their relationship was somewhat new and neither of them were ready to make it publicly known to the team just yet.

The only person who did know about them was Yelena and only because she had mistakenly walked in on them while they were 'cuddling' on the couch. But Y/n made her swear that she wouldn't tell anybody, especially Alexei.

Shoveling only three more bites of food into his mouth, Alexei's plate had been scraped clean. He pushed it off to the side and leaned forward to place his elbows on the table.

"Now, we get serious." Alexei leaned even more forward and lowered his voice. "I am your father so it is only fitting that I give you a fatherly talk today."

"About what?" Y/n briefly glanced at her sister.

"Sex," Alexei said it so plainly as if they were all on the same page.

"What?!" Y/n shouted in disbelief and Yelena almost lost it by spitting out her juice. She covered her mouth with her hand, but failed to hide the raspy laughter that spilled past her lips.

Even Bob, who couldn't help but listen to their conversation, somehow managed to drop the jug of juice he was taking out of the refrigerator. He quickly bent down to get it off the floor, thankfully noticing that it didn't spill.

"Your mother was never able to give you 'the talk' growing up," Alexei explained to them, using quotation marks with his fingers. "So I will give it to you!"

"Okay, but we— " Y/n made a point to notion to both herself and her sister. "Are grown up and don't need the sex talk."

Slowly, Bob came to join the conversation and lowered himself to sit down in one of the chairs near the head of the table. He took a sip from his cup of juice. He reached across the table to take one of Yelena's stripes of bacon and she swatted his hand, but let him take one anyway.

"Why don't you want to talk about sex?" Alexei furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. He snapped his fingers together in sudden realization. "Ah, you are scared! That's okay; it's completely natural— "

"No, dad!" Y/n quickly cut him off. "I'm not scared to have sex."

Though, those words came out a little louder than intended. It caused Y/n's face to burn bright red. Both Bob and Yelena stared at her with raised eyebrows. And Alexei just couldn't figure out the issue.

"Listen," Alexei spoke in a calm voice. "Sex is a beautiful thing. Your mother and I would have very passionate sex for hours at a time— "

Bob seemed to nod appreciatively.

"I don't want to hear this," Y/n said, firmly shaking her head in denial.

"Yeah, I'd have to agree." Yelena chimed in, clearly disgusted.

Alexei proceeded with his story, ignoring their comments entirely. He raised a finger to stop them. "But we were always safe!" Alexei added.

As if reading from a script, Alexei reached beneath the table to withdraw two small wrapped boxes and handed them both to his daughters across from him. The girls eyed the wrapping paper suspiciously.

"Go ahead, open them. This is from me," Alexei smiled proudly to himself. Both Y/n and Yelena reluctantly began to unwrap the boxes only to discover that they were each holding a box of condoms.

"Really, dad?" Y/n asked. She couldn't stop the heat of embarrassment rising up her neck and turning her face red. And she certainly wouldn't dare look in Bob's direction.

Yelena couldn't hold back her laughter once again and clutched her side to keep herself from falling over.

"No, see." Alexei reached over the table and tapped the box. "These are special ones for — women's pleasure."

Bob tried to peer at the box from across the table.

"Dad, I really don't need you to buy me condoms. I'm not a teenager," Y/n argued weakly. Her blush growing brighter with each passing second.

"You may not use them today, but one day, you will think to yourself: 'I am going to have sex and need a condom. What is this? A whole box of condoms right here that my dad gave me!' Then you will thank me," Alexei claimed.

"No, I will not think that." She insisted with a shake of the head.

"Lena, yours glow in the dark." Alexei threw out there.

"What? That's so cool," Yelena studied the box and ripped it open.

"And I think Y/n's has different flavors," Alexei added and Y/n only scrunched her nose in disgust. "You can switch a few of them if you'd like."

While Yelena reached into her box and pulled a couple condoms out, Bob was watching the entire interaction with amused eyes. He liked seeing how flustered Y/n was getting, especially since she was only getting flustered because he was there. Yelena tried to hand some of her condoms to her sister.

"Here," Yelena offered. Then she accidentally let it slip. "You need these more than I do— "

Alexei's head snapped up to look across the table and Y/n only sunk back into her chair, burying her face in her hands like she wanted to die from embarrassment. Bob shifted awkwardly in his seat, but nobody seemed to notice him.

"Oopsie," Yelena winced at herself.

"What?! My solnyshko is having sexual intercourse and I was not told," Alexei couldn't have been more happy. He glanced at his other daughter. "Lena, you've been holding out on me."

"I wasn't supposed to say anything," Yelena held her hands up in defeat. "That's her business."

"Well..." Alexei leaned forward with eager anticipation. "Who is the lucky guy—  or girl," Alexei caught himself and chuckled. "...whatever you prefer."

"I prefer not to say," Y/n claimed. Arms crossed over her chest in defense.

"Ah, you are just embarrassed to tell your old man." Alexei waved her off. "This is just like James Anderson all over again."

"Not this again," Y/n groaned with a roll of the eyes.

"Woah, I haven't heard that name in a long time." Yelena glanced at her sister with a sly smile on her face.

"W—Who's James?" Bob nervously perked up from the other end of the table. Their heads turned to look at him blankly.

"James was a boy in Y/n's class in Ohio. She liked him, but wouldn't talk to me about him," Alexei explained with an all knowing smirk on his face.

"Dad," Y/n warned and was turning red all over again from pure embarrassment.

"So I let her do her thing. She teased him and flirted with him and then she kissed him after one of her soccer games. That's when I interfere and scared him off," Alexei stated firmly.

"Oh," Bob said.

"His family moved away a few months later," Y/n replied sourly.

"Her first heartbreak," Alexei claimed and Y/n glared up at him. "Cried for months, poor girl."

"I did not," Y/n shook her head, but she could recall crying herself to sleep at night when she was nine years old. "They moved closer to family, not because Alexei scared them away."

"Now, you have moved on and you have grown up. You have found a new person that you can have safe sex with. Here: I will show you," Alexei seemed to celebrate and motioned to the box of condoms that lay on the table.

With a bit too much excitement, Alexei procured a banana and grabbed one of the condoms. He tore it open with his teeth, which just made his daughters' faces scrunch up in disgust.

"This is how you put condom on," Alexei held the condom up for them to see. "Bob, are you watching too?"

"I--I'm watching," Bob agreed. He was failing to hide the evident smile behind his hand.

"You just...roll it over...the penis," Alexei explained slowly to them as if this was the first time they were hearing about it. Both of them wore evident frowns. "This is not an actual penis."

"Course not," Yelena humored him and Bob nodded in agreement.

"This is merely demonstration," Alexei added while motioning to the banana with a condom on it.

"I have a question," Yelena raised her hand.

"Yes?" Alexei called on her eagerly.

"Are all penises as large as that banana?" Yelena tried to hold back her snicker and Alexei examined it for a moment too long.

"You are making joke," Alexei caught her and Yelena held up her hands in defeat.

"It's a genuine question!"

"Please don't answer that question," Y/n begged. She placed her hands flat on the table and rose to her feet suddenly. "Look, I appreciate the breakfast and all, but I really don't want to sit here and talk about sex with you."

"Solnyshko—" Alexei tried.

"No! I'm not your solnyshko anymore." She cut him off and stared him down. "You said it yourself: I've moved on and grown up. So please— just let me live a little."

With no hesitation, Y/n moved to leave the room and Yelena slid her sister's plate across the table towards Bob. All the while, Alexei's eyes were stuck to his daughter's retreating figure. Then it all seemed to click in his head.

"It's someone I know, isn't it?" Alexei called after her and she froze in her spot. Both Bob and Yelena glanced between the two of them as if mesmerized by the tension in the room.

Slowly, Alexei rose from his spot at the table. He might not have been the smartest person on the new team, but he could read his daughters like a book if he wanted to. He rounded the side of the table and approached her carefully. By the time he was standing behind her, Y/n fully turned around to face him directly.

"You'd tell me if it was, wouldn't you?" Alexei asked with slightly narrowed eyes.

"Why should I tell you, Alexei?" Y/n challenged. The use of his real name started a small fire inside of him.

"Because I will find out; I always do." Alexei whispered and Bob forcefully swallowed the lump in his throat. "And when I do, I'm going to have a very serious conversation with them."

"Oh really?" Y/n wondered. "About what?"

"Safe sex," Alexei enunciated clearly and Y/n rolled her eyes. "Since someone doesn't want to listen to me!"

With a throw of the hands into the air, Alexei stormed out of the room and completely lost interest in the conversation. He was going to get to the bottom of this if it was the last thing he did.

Later, during the late hours of the night, Bob was laying against the headboard in Y/n's room. He studied the new box of condoms, reading the label and taking note of the different flavors listed.

A stolen glance down told him that Y/n was nearly falling asleep beside him, but he really couldn't blame her since they were both winded from their previous bedroom activities.

"Do you think they make cucumber flavored condoms?" Bob wondered out loud curiously.

"Honey," Y/n breathed a small sigh to herself. "We don't even use condoms."

"I know," Bob responded, still staring at the box in hand.

"Plus I don't think I can ever look at a condom again without reliving that conversation so they're kinda ruined for me," Y/n was truly scared for life and Bob smiled at the recollection.

"But it was cute seeing you get all flustered," Bob commented offhandedly and Y/n tried to hide the growing blush on her face by burying herself in the pillow.

"It was so embarrassing; I thought I was going to die right then and there," she confessed.

Peering down at her with a gentle smile on his face, Bob reached down to brush some loose strands of hair out of her face to see her more clearly. She reached up to take the box out of his hands and hastily threw it across the room, which drew a small laugh from him.

Her arms circled around his neck and dragged him down until their bare chests touched. He shifted his body to lay on top of her's; her legs framing his hips on either side and him slotting right into that open space. His fingers teased her sides and his nose brushed the soft spot on her neck where he'd left a mark earlier.

A gentle tugging at his brown curls caused him to draw his head back and look down in her laying beneath him. He took a second to admire the way her hair framed her face and how her eyes sparked up at him. His lips briefly graced hers in a soft kiss until...

The door bursted open and slammed against the wall. The two of them darted apart and hastily covered themselves to maintain a sense of modesty. Standing in the doorway, clad in his iconic orange and blue jumpsuit, was Alexei who was simply beaming with excitement.

"YESSSSS!" Alexei exclaimed for the whole tower to hear; his fists shaking with just as much excitement. "YESSSSSSSS!"

Bob tried his best to keep the blanket covered over their chests, but it failed to hide the evident blush creeping up his neck and onto his face. He couldn't even look Alexei in the eyes.

"Alexei! Get out!" Y/n shouted and pointed to the door, fuming with anger.

If this was what it was like for people who still lived with their parents, then she made a poor choice of staying in the Watchtower. She had enough embarrassment from him for a lifetime.

"Oh, this is a good day!" Alexei exclaimed. He clapped and rubbed his hands together as if desperately wanting to savor the memory.

"I asked everybody on the team. I said: 'Bucky, are you sleeping with my daughter?' And he said no. Then I went to Walker and asked him the same thing. He said no," Alexei dragged on and on.

"Alexei— please," Y/n winced.

A smile crept onto his face. And he gestured to the man in his daughter's bed. "Then...I knew...Bob!"

Coming to the side of the bed, Alexei felt compelled to sit beside them as if wanting to be as close to them as possible and share this moment with them. He even placed a hand on Bob's knee, which Y/n smacked away.

"Bob, listen to me since my daughter won't." Alexei began his little speech. "When a man and a woman love each other— "

"Oh my god, just get out already." Y/n pleaded with him and covered her face from embarrassment.

"Okay, okay. I go," Alexei kept his hands raised in defeat. He stood to his feet and made his way over to the door.

Just before he left, Alexei spun around on the heels of his feet and looked towards the young couple.

"Do you need anything— some more blankets, mood lighting, a glass of water?" Alexei inquired because he simply wanted them to have the best time of their lives.

"Some water might be nice—" Bob began, but was quickly silenced when he felt a nudge in his side. "A—Actually, we're probably all good here."

"Hey, Bob." Alexei pulled something out of his pocket and tossed it towards them only for Bob to clumsily catch it. It was a small golden packet that was unmistakably a condom. "You know, for the safe sex."

With one final wink, Alexei closed the door behind him and left the couple in peace. While Bob couldn't hold back the smile on his face, Y/n only grabbed the pillow behind her and buried her face in it. She screamed into the pillow out of pure embarrassment.

"Best father's day ever," Alexei thought proudly to himself.

[wooserr]

Bob

[koitosoup]

black hole sun

[ilovemilestellersmoustache]

Second Times a Charm

Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary: After a small dog escape, Bob meets you and doesn’t end up exchanging details with you. Thinking it was just meant to be a one time thing till Maisie your dog brings you back together and eventually starts a relationship. But the Thunderbolts are suspicious when Bob lately has been in a too good of a mood so they all decide to track and investigate it.

WC: 3.3K

A/N: Guys… I might redo this it’s def not the best fic ive down, i’m like drained with all the fica ive released in the last week. #grind #slowingdownnow

⸻

Central Park, Late Spring.

Bob wasn’t much of a runner, yet.

He liked walking. He’d only recently learned to enjoy the quiet discipline of it. No heavy footfalls, no pounding heart. Just motion. Just breath. A rhythm he could set. Something calm and human and entirely his own.

The chaos in his head, dark, howling, bottomless, was quieter when he walked. Especially here.

Central Park in the spring was like something from a memory he’d never had. Trees budding green again. Sunlight catching in the ripples of the lake. Children laughing distantly, dogs barking somewhere beyond the trees. The world felt simple when he was out here. Manageable.

His boots crunched lightly against the gravel path as he made his way to his usual spot, a bench by the water, partially shaded by an overgrown maple. The bench itself was old, paint worn off at the edges, wood slightly splintered at the armrests. But it was his bench. The one he rested on during each walk, always at the same point in the loop.

He sat down with a soft sigh, stretched his long legs out, and tilted his face toward the sun. Eyes closed. Breathing even. Peace-

THUD.

Something hit his knee.

Bob startled slightly, blinking down in confusion. A leash, frayed and pink with little daisies on it, was coiled loosely around his shin. And attached to the other end.

A golden retriever.

Tongue out, tail wagging like it was powered by joy alone. Its big brown eyes looked up at him like he was the best thing it had seen all day. The leash dragged behind her like an afterthought.

“Oh- hey, buddy.” Bob said softly, as if afraid to scare her off. “You… uh. You got loose?”

The dog barked once, as if to answer.

Then-

“Maisie!” a voice called out, breathless, somewhere down the path. “You little menace, come back!”

He looked up.

And there you were.

Jogging toward him, your stride uneven from the sudden sprint. A t-shirt clung damply to your back, your hair pulled messily away from your face, cheeks flushed from exertion and probably a little embarrassment. There was something raw and real about you, like you hadn’t had time to smooth yourself into what the world expected yet. Something golden about the way the light seemed to settle on you, drawn in like gravity.

Bob felt the breath knock out of him in a way that had nothing to do with superpowers.

You reached him with a huff, one hand clutching your phone, the other already moving to scoop up the leash.

“I’m so sorry.” you said, slightly winded but grinning as you crouched beside him. “She gets overly excited when people sit down. Thinks everyone’s her new best friend.”

Bob smiled, half-crouched next to the retriever. “She’s not wrong. I could use a friend.”

You gave a short, surprised laugh. It made his stomach do something it hadn’t done in years.

“She didn’t bite you or anything, did she?”

“No, she just… announced herself with enthusiasm.” He gave the dog a fond pat. “Maisie, right?”

You nodded, finally catching your breath. “Yeah. I’m Y/N.”

“I’m Bob.” he said, rising a bit awkwardly and offering a hand. You shook it, firm but warm.

“Thanks for catching her.”

“Of course. It’s not every day someone runs into you with a leash.”

Your smile turned shy at the edges. “No, usually I wait until the third date for that.”

Bob blinked.

You blinked.

Then you both burst out laughing.

The tension in his chest eased. Something about your energy was grounding. You weren’t looking at him like you sensed something was off, like people so often did. You were just… smiling.

You ended up walking together. Slowly at first, letting Maisie sniff her way along the path. You talked about how long you’d lived in the city, how your dog hated pigeons with irrational fury, how the best bagels were always from the sketchy places with no signs.

Bob told you he’d just recently gotten into walking every day. That it helped clear his head. That he liked being outside, in the real world. You asked what he did for work and he gave you the kind of vague answer that didn’t invite more questions, freelance consulting, logistics, a lot of government red tape. You nodded like you understood. Like you weren’t going to pry.

He liked that.

You laughed easily, shared the story of how you got Maisie from a rescue uptown, and how she’d managed to eat an entire rotisserie chicken when you turned your back on her once. Bob listened, enraptured. Every word from you felt like it mattered.

Eventually, the path forked.

“This is me.” you said, motioning left toward a small side path. The sun dappled your skin, your smile soft and open.

He pointed to the opposite direction. “And this is me.”

“See you around?”

“I hope so.”

You both turned, walking away.

Bob finds himself turning around to get one last glimpse of you just to properly engrave your memory into his head permanently. So he can brood and think about the time he was sure he met his future wife but forgot to ask for her number and couldn’t ask for it after because he was far too far already to ask without making it awkward.

Five feet.

Ten.

Twenty-

Then, the clatter of a leash.

“Maisie!” you gasped.

Bob turned just in time to catch the dog as she barreled into him like a guided missile. He braced, kneeling again, catching the leash before it tangled. Maisie’s tongue was already swiping at his face.

You came jogging back, hands on your hips, a groan half-laughing in your throat. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He stood, leash in hand, grinning.

“I think she’s in love with you.” you said, huffing as you reached him.

Bob looked at you, really looked.

His voice was quiet, but sincere. “Yeah. Me too.”

There was a heartbeat of silence between you.

You tilted your head, eyes flickering with interest.

He panicked.

“I mean- I didn’t mean me, I meant her-obviously, she- your dog- I just- uh-“

You laughed. A full, sparkling, head-tossing laugh that made Maisie wag her tail harder.

“Just- give me your phone, smooth-talker.”

He blinked.

You tapped your fingers. “Come on. Before she escapes again.”

He fumbled to pull it out, handing it over. You typed in your number, saved it with a little dog emoji next to your name, and handed it back.

“There. Now next time she escapes, you’ll have someone to blame.”

He looked at your name glowing on the screen.

“I’ll take that risk.”

Maisie barked again, triumphant, like she’d orchestrated this entire meeting with divine precision. Bob was still staring at your contact in his phone, thumb hovering over the screen like it was too delicate to touch, as if the moment might vanish if he blinked too hard.

You watched him for a beat longer, a smile tucked lazily in the corner of your mouth. There was something about him, tall and a little awkward, like he wasn’t used to being seen, really seen, but trying his best not to flinch when he was.

“I’ll, uh, text you,” Bob said, looking up, finally pocketing his phone. His voice was shy, but hopeful.

You nodded, stepping back, tugging gently on Maisie’s leash. “Good. And if you don’t, Maisie has your scent now. She’ll track you down.”

Bob gave a quiet, stunned laugh. “I believe it.”

You gave a mock salute and turned again, this time getting a few full strides before Maisie glanced back one more time, gave a soft whine, and mercifully kept walking with you.

He stood there, still half-smiling, until you and the dog disappeared down the winding path. The sounds of the park filtered back in, the breeze shaking the leaves above him, the faint honk of a distant cab, a couple laughing somewhere nearby.

And yet, everything felt different now.

It wasn’t until he sat back on the bench and

his fingers brushed the screen of his phone again, flicking it on to see your name one more time ”Y/N 🐾” glowing there like a small miracle.

⸻

Several weeks later. Thunderbolts tower.

Something had shifted.

It wasn’t drastic. No dramatic speeches. No cape swirling in the wind. But everyone noticed.

Bob was… different.

Lighter, somehow. More present. Like the edges of him, usually a little frayed from the weight he carried, had softened.

He was humming in the kitchen again, swaying slightly as he flipped pancakes with ease, the scent of cinnamon and maple drifting through the tower. Not unusual for Bob, he always cooked but there was something extra in it now. A rhythm. A bounce.

He didn’t pester John or clap back when John picked on him.

He smiled, a full, crinkled-eyes smile when Bucky called him Bobert.

And he hadn’t once spent the evening perched on the edge of the roof with a faraway look in his eyes.

It was deeply suspicious.

Yelena narrowed her eyes over the rim of her chipped mug, the steam from her jasmine tea curling around her face like mist. “You’re in love.”

Bob, mid-sip of his chalky protein shake, choked. Hard. He slammed the cup down and coughed until his ears turned pink.

“What?” he rasped.

“Don’t play dumb.” She leaned back, eyes sharp as glass. “You’re glowing. Like a woman in a shampoo commercial. Maybe Herbal Essences.”

Ava didn’t look up from polishing her blade. “He does smell like flowers lately.”

“Lavender and bergamot.” John added helpfully, arms crossed, brows raised. “He’s got that post-date aura. Like a dog who got into someone’s picnic basket and is too proud to feel bad.”

He is in love.” Alexei declared, pounding the arm of the couch like it was a gavel. “We must find her. See if she is worthy. Possibly interrogate her.”

Bob set down his smoothie and raised both hands. “Okay. No. First of all, no one’s evaluating anyone’s bloodline. Second, there is no girl.”

Yelena ignored him and reached for her phone. “He always leaves early. Walks the same route. Central Park. South entrance. Between 9:00 to 9:20.”

“You’ve been tracking me?” Bob blinked.

“You radiate suspicious energy.” she said simply. “We go. We spy. We report.”

“Absolutely not.” Bob said, half-laughing, half-panicked. “You are not stalking my-”

He froze.

Yelena’s eyes glittered. “My…?”

Bob sighed, pressing his hands to his face. “This is a violation of privacy.”

“This is family,” Yelena said smugly. “Deal with it, Bobert.”

“Don’t care.” Ava said. “If she broke his heart, he’d black out the sky.”

“She’s not going to break my heart.” Bob said quietly.

Everyone fell silent for a beat.

John grinned, nudging Ava. “Oh, he’s gone. Deep in the fluffy feelings.”

“Leave him alone.” Bucky muttered from the kitchen, pouring coffee. “Let the man have his peace.”

Yelena looked up with a sly smirk. “I will. After surveillance.”

“Yelena.”

“Fine.” she said, tossing her phone aside. “But if she shows up at tower, we’re giving her the talk.”

Bob rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks faintly pink. “She’s not showing up. She doesn’t even know who I really am yet.”

“Oh my God,” John whispered. “You met her as Bob, not The Sentry.”

Bob nodded.

Alexei let out a low whistle. “A civilian. You are in love.”

Bob just smiled softly into his hands, then reached for the waffle iron.

⸻

The Next Morning

The sun hadn’t quite crested over the tops of the brownstone buildings, but the world was already beginning to stir with the soft hum of morning life. The air was crisp and clean, the kind of morning that made everything feel a little more possible.

You jogged at an easy pace, Maisie trotting contentedly beside you, her leash loose in your hand. The rhythmic beat of your sneakers on the pavement echoed faintly through the quiet streets, punctuated only by birdsong and the rustling of early spring leaves dancing in the breeze. Your breath came steady, matching the easy cadence of the run, a ritual that had quickly become your favorite part of the day.

As you rounded the familiar bend, your eyes were drawn to the sprawling oak tree up ahead, the one that sat at the edge of the park like a quiet sentinel. The one where, not long ago, your world had started to shift.

And there he was.

Bob stood beneath it, leaning casually against the trunk like some lost chapter from a storybook, sunlight catching in the soft strands of his hair. He was wearing that same beat-up flannel jacket you’d teased him about, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing forearms that didn’t match his otherwise gentle demeanor. His posture was relaxed, but there was a tension in his hands, like he was trying not to fidget too much, not to overthink how this moment would go.

He saw you and straightened, raising a hand in a shy wave. That smile, the one that looked like it started in his chest before reaching his lips curled faintly at the edges of his mouth.

Your heart stuttered in your chest. Not the jarring kind of panic, but the warm flutter that made your fingers buzz and your throat tighten just slightly. The hopeful kind.

“Morning.” he called out softly, stepping forward.

In his hands, like a peace offering or a promise, was a steaming cup of coffee.

You slowed to a stop in front of him, brushing a few loose strands of hair from your damp forehead as Maisie circled your legs before flopping dramatically at your feet, before giving him sincere kiss on the lips.

Even after the countless times Bob still can’t help but feel himself grow hot and red.

“You remembered my order.”you said with a grin, accepting the cup. The warmth of it bled into your palms instantly.

“Black, two sugars,” Bob said with a quiet nod sheepishly. “Just how you like it.”

There was something almost reverent about the way he looked at you, like he was surprised you were real, standing there in front of him, flushed from your run and smiling at him like that kiss didn’t just make him see stars.

You were about to thank him when a strange rustling noise rose from the dense shrubbery a few feet away. You turned your head, brows furrowed.

Then, you heard it.

“Oh my god, she’s real.”

“Shut up, John.”

“Bob’s got moves?”

“I told you he had game.”

Your eyes narrowed, confusion knitting across your brow. You looked back at Bob, who had suddenly gone still, his expression a blend of horror and resignation. He muttered something under his breath, something that might’ve been a prayer or a curse before dragging a hand down his face like a man preparing for battle.

“…Did your coffee just talk?” you asked, clutching the cup tighter.

And then it happened.

Like the world’s worst magic trick or maybe a particularly ill-conceived prank, five adults dressed in tactical gear emerged from behind the bushes, one by one. They looked like they’d walked off the set of some spy movie, complete with holsters, combat boots, and the deeply awkward expressions of people who had absolutely not been invited to the party.

You blinked. Maisie let out a low, confused whimper and sat up straight beside you, ears alert.

“What the…” you murmured.

Bob let out a breath like it hurt. “No. No, I’m not being hunted.” He gave you a sheepish glance, eyes full of something between embarrassment and silent pleading. “It’s worse. That’s… that’s my team.”

Yelena strode forward like a woman on a mission, sharp eyes locked on you with unsettling precision. She had the look of someone who could kill a man with a paperclip and still be the most charming person in the room.

“You’re very pretty.” she smiles, offering you a firm handshake. “Congratulations.”

You stared. “…Thank you?”

Before you could process that, another stepped forward, a tall man with slightly blonde hair and a sharp face, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. He gave you a polite nod, his voice low and oddly gentle for someone wearing enough gear to storm a bunker.

“I’m John.” he said. “Bobby here has never acted like this around anyone. Ever.”

Your heart rate kicked up a notch. “I’m scared.” you whispered.

Ava moved closer, her approach quieter, more thoughtful. She had a steadiness about her, like she was used to chaos and knew how to navigate it. She gave your arm a soft, almost comforting pat.

“So are we.” she said, deadpan.

Interrupting the two, Alexei decided it was his turn to say something but by grabbing her and picking her up to spin her around all while yelling to Bob who looked like he was going to pass out if he as so much dropped her by an inch. “Robert! Yes! I am so glad you will not be sad lonely sad man rest of your life!”

Finally after being put down to Bob’s protest and mummurs from the team “Too much buddy.” Behind her, Bucky followed, trying to look casual despite the overwhelming energy of intervention. Bucky, simply nodded once, arms crossed, eyes flickering between you and Bob like he was trying to decode a threat level.

Bob sighed audibly, then leaned in just slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t know they were going to do this.”

You stared at him, at his ridiculous, sweet face and the earnestness in his eyes. And against your better judgment, despite the absolutely surreal moment, your lips twitched.

“You’re lucky I love you, i would have ran screaming. Not every you meet The Avengers on your run.” you muttered.

A long beat of silence passed, broken only by Maisie giving a grumble of displeasure and flopping dramatically against your calf. Then Bob looked back at his team, then at you, and offered a half-resigned shrug.

“Well uh- Welcome to the family.” he said softly.

And somehow, despite the thick gear, the ambush, and the fact that your morning coffee had turned into a stakeout, you believed him.

⸻

That night, in the kitchen.

Bob sat perched on the counter, cheeks flushed a soft shade of pink, not from exertion, but from a quiet embarrassment as the team retold the morning’s story for what felt like the fifteenth time.

You had left with a smile and a wave, promising to call. That promise replayed in Bob’s mind, steady and surreal.

He wasn’t sure if it was real. If you were real. If something this ordinary, this good, could really happen to someone like him.

“She liked you.” Yelena said, eyes sharp but kind. “Even after meeting us. That’s real love.”

The words hung in the air, warm and heavy.

And then Bob… cracked.

He pushed off the counter, fingers running through his hair in nervous rhythm. He paced a little, then turned back to them, eyes wide, raw.

“I’m dating her.” he blurted.

Bucky, never missing a beat, deadpanned, “We noticed.”

“No, I mean really dating. She calls me. She texts me. She wants to know how my day went. She laughs at my dumb jokes and all of them. And she… she touches my hand like it’s normal. Like I’m not made of… whatever I’m made of.”

His voice faltered as he took a shaky breath.

“I didn’t think I’d ever get something like this. Not with what’s in my head. Not with what I’ve done or what I could do. But she looks at me like I’m just some guy she met in the park. And I want to keep being that guy. For her.”

Silence settled over the kitchen.

Then Alexei broke it with a loud clap. “Bob is in love.”

John raised his glass with a sly grin. “To leash girl.”

“To Maisie.” Ava added, a soft smile touching her lips.

Bucky simply smiled, steady and warm. “To hope of a regular life.”

Bob sank back down on the counter, dazed, full of it, full of something he hadn’t dared to hope for in a long time.

⸻

[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) 🤫

[em1i2a3]

hear me out- void x reader- reader is depresso, and finds comfort in being held by void, bc maybe void’s darkness feels like home

If I Believe You

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

Summary: The Void gets called by you, and he gets caught up in an odd situation.

Warnings: Mentioning of Depression/Loneliness, I think this would be considered Hurt/Comfort

Author’s Note: I enjoy writing a soft version of The Void lol, or a Void that’s like shocked that someone actually wants him to be present 🤣. Thank you for the request anon! Very fun to write this one between the larger write up I’m working on :) Hopefully it meets what you’re lookin for

Word Count: 3,228

The Void came that night because you called him.

Not with words, not with spells, not with summoning circles etched in blood and candles, but with grief.

With silence so loud it cracked against the walls of your mind and your body. With the kind of stillness that spoke not of peace–but of surrender.

He didn’t mean to stay, nor did he even mean to appear. But your loneliness and sadness reached farther than any scream ever could, so he showed up–against his own will in a way–to feed off of it.

The shadows arrived first. Not crawling or creeping. Just appearing–thicker than absence, and heavier than night. They swallowed the corners of your bedroom, devoured the edges of the moonlight bleeding through your sheer curtains. The walls didn’t move, but the room felt like it was tilting on its axis. It was subtle, like the center of gravity had shifted to something ancient and watching. Then suddenly, he was there.

A god-shaped wound in the fabric of reality. Vast, silent, and unknowable.

He was a figure made of vantablack shadow and negative space–so dark the eye refused to process him fully. His limbs were like smoke, and his body was without boundary. The only visible markers were his eyes–white, glowing, and unblinking–and the smile. Thin, and fixed, with a discomforting calmness.

He waited for you to scream, or for your breath to catch. For your legs to scramble beneath the sheets so you could cower away from him against your headboard, for your voice to break on his name–because like everyone in the tower…You knew it already.

You didn’t do any of that though. You didn’t even look at him right away. You just laid in your bed, on your side, curled in the same position you’d been in for hours–knees drawn up, one arm draped limply over your stomach, fingers slack. The blankets were tangled and halfway off the bed, bunched at your ankles like you had tried to kick them off earlier and didn’t attempt to fix them. One sock was missing. Your shirt was wrinkled and clinging in places, damp with sweat. Your hair was a mess–not the kind that came from sleep, but the kind that came from not caring to fix it.

Then there was your room. It wasn’t trashed or anything, but it looked quietly undone.

There were clothes half-folded on a chair in the corner, that had gone untouched for days. A glass of water on the nightstand beside your bed, that had a fine shimmer of dust that caught in the ambient light from the hallway beneath the door, and there were books that had fallen over, that hadn’t been picked up.

The air smelled faintly of mint and tangerines–coming from your air freshener wall plug of course, or an open candle.

The worst part of all though was that you knew he was there, and you didn’t react at all. You didn’t stiffen from the cold that he brought into the room, your breath didn’t catch or quicken from shock, there was just nothingness. Like you had no energy left to give, or like you had been waiting for him to come.

His white eyes narrowed slightly at you.

The Void had arrived expecting some sort of resistance. The subtle thrill of being feared at the very least. The delicious tension that came when a human stood on the edge of panic, unsure if the shadow at the foot of their bed was real or imagined.

But this wasn’t fear that you were showing, this was familiarity.

You didn’t look at him until he moved–just a fraction, a shift of mass, a slight tilt of the head, like a question unspoken. Your eyes lifted slowly, no shock, no wide-eyed terror. Just two dull orbs in the hollow of your face, rimmed red and dry. Not from crying, but from not crying, from wanting to and finding nothing left in the wells of your eyes.

Your lips parted.

”I was wondering if you’d come.” The Void stilled. His smile didn’t change–how could it? It was carved into the shape of him like the slash of a crescent moon in a sky without stars. But something beneath that eternal grin shifted, it was a twitch behind the silence, a hitch in the interaction. He had not come to be seen. But now your gaze was on him, steady and tired and so impossibly calm. Like you weren’t registering the terror you were supposed to be feeling in those moments. Like you had already made peace with the idea of him before he even appeared in your room.

“…You wanted me to?” His voice was low–lower than sound itself. It vibrated through the floorboards, through the air in your lungs…Like something was whispering from under the bed of the world. The corners of your lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“I didn’t know what I wanted…” You murmured, voice thin, “I just didn’t want to be alone anymore.” The Void was quiet, which was not like him. He was a presence, a force. Even in stillness he was usually oppressive, thick like smoke you couldn’t cough out. But now, the air around him had a strange pause to it. Like the very space around him didn’t know what to do with this moment.

“You didn’t call for help,” He said finally, “You haven’t asked to be saved.” Your eyes stayed on his, as if you were hypnotized.

”Even if I did…Nobody would come.” A silence bloomed between you, but it wasn’t awkward, nor expectant. It was just truthful. The Void hovered forward slowly.

His movement was so fluid it didn’t register as motion at first–he didn’t walk. He simply was closer now. At the edge of your bed, looking down at you with those white, glowing eyes that saw everything. That usually made people realize the horrors that were to come, but once again you only looked back at him, unblinking, frozen in your spot. No cowering, no screaming, no pleading.

”You don’t fear me,” He stated, more to himself than to you. You huffed softly–just a breath of air, but in the quiet of the room, it was a song.

”I think I’m past the point of being afraid,” You replied, “If anything…You’re kind of a relief.”

The Void knew what to do with fear, even with violence. He had tasted it in many forms: the fears that plagued children when they went to sleep, the whispered horror of the people who he had sent off to shame rooms, the cold-blooded terror in gods who realized he could unmake them with just a mere thought.

But to hear you say that he brought relief to you–comfort even–wasn’t right.

“I don’t think you understand,” He said, and his voice wasn’t sharp–but it was colder. Firmer. Like he was reminding you, and reminding himself of what he was, “I am not peace, and I am not hope.” You could feel a small chill curl up your spine, as your teeth chattered at the temperature dropping inside the room.

“May I remind you I turned New York into a mirror. Made every last person vanish into the hollows of their own shame. Remember? I swallowed them whole in rooms made of their failures?” You nodded slowly.

”I know.”

”I drove madness into the minds of people who begged for the images to stop.” He added.

”I know.” You whispered. That halted him again. His head tilted, ever so slightly. Not confused, not angry–just…Studying you. The way someone might tilt their head at an eclipse, unsure if they should be staring directly into it.

He expected fear to bloom now, at least. Maybe awe. Maybe a long-overdue tremble in your voice.

Instead, you gave him something worse.

Something heavier.

You shook your head slowly and said:

“Evidently, you don’t realize what I’ve been going through…If I’m taking comfort in you being around.” The shadows ceased their lazy, swaying bleed across the floorboards, and the hum of the world itself seemed to pause and take one breathless step back. His eyes narrowed–not to threaten, and not in malice, but in genuine concern. And you somehow saw it. For the first time in the conversation, you watched him hesitate.

”You shouldn’t say that,” He spoke quietly, not because he was offended, but because he was unsure what the words meant coming out of your mouth.

“Why not?”

”Because that means something is wrong…Deeply wrong.” He replied, moving even closer, hyper aware that he needed to be careful with you. Like the proximity itself might crack you if he approached wrong, and then he crouched right at the side of your bed, so he was eye to eye with you.

For the first time tonight, you could really see him. Not just as a shape in the dark, or the looming silhouette at the end of your bed–but up close, just a foot away from you. From here the edges of his body weren’t just smoke. They weren’t shapeless. They were alive with something.

The closer he came, the more the blackness rippling over him seemed to hum with a strange, shifting texture–like a starless night sky pulled into motion. Not glossy. Not shiny. But deep. Endless. And there, just behind the absolute black of his form, you saw the faint specks. Pinpricks of light, shifting as if in slow orbit. Galaxies. Entire worlds, whole star systems dying and rebirthing in the folds of his form, hidden in the ripples of shadow.

He was the universe, inverted.

And somehow, even like this, even faced with that terrifying, holy unknowability–you didn’t pull back. You didn’t flinch from the abyss swirling in front of you, from the quiet roar behind his form, from the weightless pressure that made your ears pop and your eyes blur the longer you stared into him.

Then you reached out, with slow purposeful intensity.

Your fingers trembled, but not from fear. Just from the fatigue that wrapped around your limbs like lead wire. The cold around him thickened as your hand breached the last inches between you, but you didn’t stop. Not even when frost bloomed faintly against your wrist like a warning.

His eyes followed your movement–those perfect, glowing voids of white that should have been watching prey.

But instead, they watched you gently.

And when your hand met his cheek–if it could be called that–it was like touching gravity itself.

The surface of him wasn’t skin. It wasn’t smoke. It was something else. Silken, but heavy. Cold, but not lifeless. And beneath your touch, it rippled–like black water beneath a still surface, moving with things too vast and old to name. A soft pulse, like solar winds shifting under your palm.

He didn’t move, he didn’t even breathe.

Because something in him broke open the moment you touched him like you knew him. Your thumb drifted across what might've been the edge of his jaw, letting out a shakily breath.

“You feel like the quiet between stars.” He stared at you, not because he was stunned by the poetic nature of your words–but because you meant it. Because you touched him not with worship, not with fear, but with a familiarity that said ‘I want you here, stay here with me.’ And then it happened.

The moment he saw you back.

Really saw.

Because your touch wasn’t just physical. It reached into him–through that strange tether that had pulled him to you in the first place, that awful ache in the cosmos that rang louder than a scream–and he followed it backward.

And what he found–

What he found made the galaxies in his form slow their drift.

He saw the inside of your silence.

He felt the rooms inside your mind–long, echoing hallways of disappointment, of guilt layered so deep it had calcified over your ribs. He felt the frayed cords of old friendships, stretched to the point of snapping and left to rot, still clutched in your hands like you were waiting for someone to notice. He saw the way you stood behind your teammates, always behind, always out of frame–because you didn’t think you deserved to be seen.

He saw the hunger in you.

Not for food. Not for power.

For stillness. For someone to simply be with you, without asking you to fix yourself first.

And he realized–

You had been holding yourself together with nothing but quiet for so long, you mistook his silence for kindness.

The Void felt something twist in his chest. Not pain. Not exactly.

But something like mourning.

For you. For how much of you had been slowly disappearing without anyone noticing.

Your palm was still pressed to his cheek, eyes soft, half-lidded with exhaustion. You were so close now, your breath fogged faintly in the cold between you, and yet you didn’t stop. You didn’t look away. You didn’t demand anything of him. You just let him be there.

“I’m tired,” You whispered. “And I don’t want to keep pretending that I’m not.”

He lowered his head. Not out of shame.

But something worse.

A slow acknowledgment of your truth. He could feel the fractures in you. The fractures that mirrored his own. And for the first time in his existence, the great devourer of worlds, The Void, realized something terrifying:

He didn’t want to take anything from you. Not your thoughts, not your fear, not your final breath.

Not this time.

Because for the first time in the eternity that was his existence, he understood. Not through logic, or through curiosity, but through the cold and shivering truth of what your touch had laid bare:

You were not calling him to end your world.

You had called him because no one else would come.

And now he was here.

The silence between you deepened, but it wasn’t suffocating. It wasn’t dangerous. It was heavy—like blankets in winter, like the weight of someone finally sitting beside you after a long day of holding it all together. The air didn’t bite the same way it had before. It was still cold—he was still cold—but his presence no longer felt like an invading force.

It felt like a cloak.

A shield.

And then his voice–so impossibly low it didn’t vibrate in your ears, but in your chest–broke through the space between you.

“What do you want me to do?” Your eyes widened a bit, not because the question surprised you, but because of the way he asked it. Not like a being of power. Not like a god offering a favor. He asked it gently, with quiet uncertainty.

Like he didn’t know what you needed.

Your hand was still on his cheek. Your thumb had stopped moving. But neither of you broke the contact. You didn’t need to.

You looked at him–into those impossible white eyes ringed in nothing–and answered, barely above a breath:

“Can you just hold me?” He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t nod, or disappear. He simply looked at you for a long moment.

And then, softly–like dusk agreeing to fall–

“…Okay.” He whispered, slowly shifting in his spot. It wasn’t abrupt, but it also didn’t have the same uncanny fluidity that usually accompanied his movements. This time, there was hesitation. Like he was unsure of how to do this. Like he was afraid he might hurt you by accident–not with his strength, but with the sheer weight of what he was.

He rose to his full height beside your bed, unfolding upward like a stormcloud stretching into shape. Shadows curled off of him and slithered across the mattress, but they weren’t malicious. They moved like fabric. Like velvet.

You stayed still, keeping your eyes glued to him, watching as he–the unfathomable, starless wound in reality–climbed into your bed. He didn’t sink into it, because he didn’t truly have the weight for that, but the space beside you changed the moment he laid down. The air felt thinner, heavier. Like the pressure of the cosmos had narrowed its gaze to your bedroom walls and was watching itself breathe.

He faced you, his body still wrapped in that impossibly dark shimmer. And for a moment… he didn’t touch you.

He stayed just inches away. Close enough to feel the breath fog between you. Close enough to see the fatigue swimming in your eyes. But he didn’t reach–not until you curled slightly into yourself, just a little tighter, as if the night was too wide around your skin.

Then he moved his arm. The shape of it blurred at the edges, trailing starlight and hush, letting it hover over your hip for a moment. It lingered there before slowly lowering it onto you.

His arm wrapped around your body, bracketing you, shielding you. His cool presence seeped in where warmth would normally exist, but you didn’t pull away. If anything, you exhaled, soft and shaky, as if your lungs had been waiting for this. For the permission to let go. His fingers curled gently along your side, and your body followed, shifting into him, until your cheek rested against his chest, where no heartbeat lived, and until your knees brushed against his thigh. He slipped his other arm beneath your neck, and curled it around you, making sure you were surrounded by him.

The shadows rose with him–pulling the twisted blankets up, and tucking them gently around your bodies with inhuman grace. It didn’t warm you, but it made you feel enmeshed with his body and the darkness.

It was awkward at first. Not because he was unfamiliar with contact. But because he’d never given it without intention to devour. To unravel.

But this was different, because it was you.

A small thing. A hurting thing. A precious thing. And suddenly, without warning, he found himself afraid–not of what you were. But of what he might become, if he stayed like this too long.

You murmured something then.

So quiet, it might’ve been a thought.

“…Thank you.”

And he–The Void–felt something like starlight fracture inside his ribless chest.

He didn’t answer.

But the hand at your back began to move. Slowly. Up and down. A soft, gliding motion, like waves lapping against the shore. Like gravity pulling at your spine, reminding you that you could let go now.

Your body went limp.

Not from defeat.

From safety.

Your breathing slowed. Deepening with every inhale and exhale.

Your hands clutched faintly at his chest–at the only thing in the world that wasn’t asking you to be strong.

He listened to the sound of you falling asleep in his arms.

And for the first time in the long history of his existence, he didn’t want morning to come.

[starktonyx]

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

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Wrapped around you [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x fem!reader

wc: 3k

summary: Bob has a secret lover in the city, and that night he feels the need to sleep in her arms.

masterlist

You were making instant soup when your phone buzzed with a text. It was late and you were tired, so you figured whoever it was, could wait a bit.

You'd spent fourteen hours working at the convenience store, covering your usual shift and also the shift of the college student who worked in the afternoons. More than just the money, it was a kind of favor. The poor girl had been sick the past few days, and you'd hate for her to lose her job. Still, the fact that it was an act of good faith didn't help ease your fatigue.

A minute after the first message, another one rang. You ignored it, thinking that if it was something urgent, the person could always call. Two more messages rang through shortly after. And when two more did, it was enough for you to turn away from the stove and search for your phone.

The contact record was flashing in the notification bar.

Bob ♡ : hi Bob ♡ : are you home? Bob ♡ : can i come over? Bob ♡ : I know it's late Bob ♡ : sorry Bob ♡ : you can say no

You knew he hated taking calls, and although the insistence seemed odd to you, you quickly responded. You thought that, after so many months, he would have understood that it wasn't even necessary for him to ask if he could visit you. But he kept doing it, and you kept saying yes.

When you met him, it wasn't under the best circumstances. The man had walked into the store all nervous, and judging by the way he was hyperventilating, you thought he'd been mugged. It turned out he was having some kind of anxiety attack and just wanted to stay somewhere to calm down. You –still afraid he'd escaped from a mental institution– let him. After a few minutes of analyzing him, something in you told you he was just a man who needed a little kindness.

You offered him water, asked if he needed any medication, and suggested he grab something from the store if he was hungry. Bob didn't accept either option, but he appreciated the consideration you were showing him, even though you didn't know him. A while later, when he was in a more decent state, he said goodbye.

You had trouble sleeping that night. You worried about not knowing what had become of that stranger, even if his visit to the store had been so brief.

A few days later, he appeared again. He looked better this time. He still had that shy air, but now he wasn't pale and staring into space. It turned out he'd come back to thank you. You thought it was such a sweet gesture that if you could have, you would have hugged him; you didn't because it would have been too weird.

Bob continued going to the store. At first, he at least pretended he was going to buy something, almost always grabbing the first thing he found and putting it in the checkout, hoping you'd exchange a few words.

You didn't want to bankrupt the poor boy, so after a few weeks, you told him he could stop by and say hi even if he wasn't going to buy anything.

At some point, you invited him out for ice cream. You started spending more time together, and finally, one day you invited him over to your apartment. The first time, you didn't have sex. It was the second time.

From then on, you had something going on, though you still didn't dare put a name to it. Bob didn't want to make you feel stifled or pressured, and you thought talking things out would bring you bad luck.

That's why it wasn't unusual for him to stop by your apartment sometimes, whenever he felt like cuddling. Of course, you two didn't just fuck, but to be honest, the activity was extremely beneficial for producing certain chemicals in your brains that made any difficult situation better. So it was something to relax, yes.

You hadn't told anyone about him. It was like a tacit agreement, almost as if you two were leading a double life where things were less stressful, confined mostly to your couch or bed.

As for him, he also kept you a secret with some suspicion. His friends noticed that he'd been absent more in recent months, but no one had been able to investigate. The few times they wanted to bring up the subject, Bob would excuse himself by saying he was going to the library or running some errands, and the matter was settled.

Now and then, he would sleep over at your apartment. It was always because you were having a good time and you suggested it, insisting that the night could hold many dangers. But both of you knew it was the need for closeness speaking for you.

However, it was unexpected that he would take the initiative to spend the night together. Because at that hour, he was definitely going to stay until the next morning, right?

Knock, knock, knock…

Someone was at the door. You didn't know how long you'd been lost in thought, but the lukewarm soup in your bowl gave you a clue.

Bob always arrived the same way: with that strange mix of imposing presence and quiet exhaustion. Tonight was no exception. He was wearing a dark sweatshirt—one of those old, oversized ones that seemed to have lost their shape from so much use—and faded jeans, his worn boots covered in a fine layer of dust. His disheveled hair fell over his forehead, damp at the temples, as if he'd been walking too far or had just stepped out of a quick shower without drying it completely.

His shoulders were tense, but his eyes… his eyes spoke volumes. Dark circles under his eyes, heavy eyelids, as if he hadn't slept well in days. And yet, when he looked at you as you opened the door, there was a faint flicker of relief in his expression. He didn't fully smile, but you could tell something in him had given way just by looking at you.

"Hi"

He was carrying a small paper bag—probably containing something for dinner, or some absurd craving he was using as an excuse to see you—and his knuckles were red, as if he'd been rubbing them together out of anxiety or cold. He didn't say much when he entered. He only looked at you for a few seconds, as if he needed to confirm that you were letting him into your home.

"How are you?"

“Fine,” you followed him with your eyes, noticing him walking to the counter to leave the package. “And you?”

"Fine"

His answer obviously didn't convince you completely. So you quietly approached him and cupped his face for a kiss.

Bob immediately let out a sigh and his shoulders relaxed under your touch.

"You sure?"

“Yes. I just… wanted to see you. That’s all.”

“Oh, just seeing me? How unfortunate, darling.”

Suddenly, you heard him chuckle, and then he came over to hug you, burying his head in the crook of your neck. A shiver ran through you when he kissed your bare skin.

“Seeing you, hugging you, touching you, kissing you…”

“That sounds better to me.”

Instinctively you leaned further against him, letting his hand settle on your lower back and holding that position for a while.

You noticed that in the paper bag Bob had brought a couple of rolls and a bottle of chocolate milk to share with you. It was odd how he almost always brought something, as if he wanted to show you that he wasn't just going to demand your affection. Even if he had, it wouldn't have bothered you too much.

You sat down in the living room to share a small dinner, and Bob asked how your day had been. He really enjoyed listening to you, though he couldn't exactly explain why, and you were always happy to share things with him. You only stopped when he took it upon himself to brush away a couple of crumbs that had remained at the corner of your lips, doing so with a gentleness that melted your heart.

It was past midnight when you finished eating. Even though the man's presence had lifted your spirits, you still felt like your eyelids would close at any moment and you'd simply collapse. He noticed.

“Do you want me to stay?”

His voice came out in a measured tone, almost as if he didn't want to upset the fragile balance of the night. You didn't answer him immediately, but instead looked at him. The dim light barely outlined his figure, his broad shoulders, his long legs crossed with a comfort that contrasted with the question he'd just asked.

“Are you asking because you really don’t know…” you said calmly, with that kindness you usually reserved only for him, “or because you need me to say yes to feel at peace?”

Bob looked up. That familiar expression appeared on his face: a mixture of honesty and a certain emotional awkwardness.

“Maybe both”

You nodded without saying anything. The tenderness he provoked in you wasn't effusive or naive; it was more like something that knotted in your stomach and spoke to you in a low voice.

“Of course I want you to stay. You can stay as many times as you want.”

With that, you walked toward him, extending your hand in a calm gesture, almost out of habit. It wasn't an invitation: it was a certainty.

He didn't hesitate. He stood up naturally and followed you, as if that was enough to remind him that yes, this was his place. You knew something was happening to him, but you couldn't figure out what it was; there was a sign written on his forehead, in a language you couldn't read.

Your apartment was modest, but—in Bob's words—cozy. Because of this, your mattress was barely bigger than a twin, not quite a queen size, but there was enough room for the two of you.

Throughout the room, there were a few things that denoted his intermittent presence. You had a comforter, white and crisp, that you unfolded whenever he stayed. He'd told you that being covered helped him sleep. You, on the other hand, hated doing it. He slept without a pillow, and you slept with this one. Bob on the left side, you on the right.

The mere knowledge of the opposite routine was proof enough that your relationship was more intimate than either of you would have liked to admit. There was a sweater he'd forgotten, you'd gotten him a toothbrush, and you also had his favorite brand of tea, as a thoughtful gesture. One of his books rested on your nightstand.

Sometimes, in a corner of your bed, he used to forget his heart.

Shortly after wishing him goodnight, you fell asleep. You could barely feel his presence, close in the small space, but far enough away that he couldn't reach your hand or wrap you in a hug. Either way, you were just getting used to it, as neither of you had ever slept in another person's arms. At least not as a regular activity, of course.

Hours passed until, unwillingly, you suddenly woke up. It wasn't due to a noise or a bad dream; it was just your brain deciding to interrupt your sleep. A second later, slightly more conscious, you realized you needed to pee.

Reluctantly, you dragged yourself out of bed, complaining about leaving the comfort of your previous position and hissing softly as your feet hit the cold floor. You crossed to the bathroom and, as you sat down, you remembered that you hadn’t brushed your teeth before going to bed, so, taking advantage of the fact that you were already there, you did. It lasted about five minutes, at most, then you flushed the toilet and forced yourself to walk again.

All the lights were off, except for the faint glow coming through the window from the street, because you didn't want to be disturbed from sleep. The silence of three in the morning accompanied you on your journey.

Then, as you turned down the hall, you saw him.

Bob was sitting up in bed, hunched slightly forward. He hadn't turned on a lamp either. His eyes were half-closed, blinking slowly, as if drowsiness were overcoming him, but he wasn't about to give in. He yawned, long and contained, covering his mouth with a piece of the comforter he was holding.

“Hey, you okay?” you asked, stopping in your tracks, softening your voice.

It took him a few seconds to react. He looked up, staring at you as if he needed confirmation that you were back.

“You left,” he murmured hoarsely, without reproach.

You walked slowly toward, sitting across from him. You took his face in your hands, warm and firm, recognizing that subtle tremor that sometimes appeared in his jaw when something happened to him.

“Did I wake you up when I got up? I’m sorry…”

“No. I just... didn’t feel you.”

He caressed, perhaps unconsciously, the space on the mattress that still held the silhouette of your body. You watched him with a hint of confusion.

“I just went to the bathroom, Bob. I wasn't going to leave. Why didn't you stay asleep?"

He didn't respond. He looked at you as if he were trying to absorb you with his eyes, as if your presence alone wasn't enough to quell the restlessness he'd felt during those minutes of absence.

Bob wasn't an easy man to read, not even when he gave in to exhaustion, as if all his emotions were seeping through a tiny crack. But there, in that barely tense stillness, you understood. He wasn't worried about your absence, but rather reacting to the possibility of being alone. Again. To the fleeting image of an empty bed in the middle of the night.

Suddenly, without a word, he leaned toward you. He rested his forehead against yours, closed his eyes, and then his lips sought yours with a silent urgency. Not hunger, not passion, just need. Like someone clinging to an edge to avoid falling.

You let him do it, without asking any more questions. You responded with slow, sustained kisses, not meant to heal him, just to let him know you were there.

He clung to your waist, wrapped his arms around you, and buried himself against your body as if he wanted to disappear into your skin. He didn't stop kissing you, not even when he laid you back on the mattress. You hugged him back, caressing the back of his neck, his back, his shoulders. You no longer tried to guess what was troubling him; you had learned that he didn't need to be interrogated, but rather to be enveloped.

His caresses weren't meant to be lascivious, but simply a quiet need for contact. When he finished kissing you, he buried his face against your chest and, as if that weren't enough, tangled a leg between yours. You noticed he was still tense, even in that embrace that should have been a relief.

“Is something wrong?” you asked, slowly stroking the back of his neck.

Bob nodded, but hesitantly.

“No, nothing. I just... wondered if this is... too much.” His voice was a broken whisper, as if he didn’t know how to say it without ruining the moment. “Am I being... clingy?”

"Why do you say that?"

“I don’t want to suffocate you”

You let out a low laugh, so soft it barely vibrated in your chest. You kissed his temple and then stroked him again, more deliberately, your nails barely grazing his scalp.

“You don’t, love. I’m fine. Excellent, in fact.”

After your confession, he relaxed a little, but didn't let go of the hug. You, without rushing him, continued to tangle your fingers in his hair.

"I like it when you say nice things like that to me. You know, when you call me love and all that..."

“With that little, pretty face it’s impossible to contain myself.”

Your eyes were already closed when you said that, but both he and you knew there was a small smile on the other one face. After a few seconds, you began to hum a melody without words, soft and repetitive, with the calm rhythm of someone who doesn't need to think.

Bob could feel the vibrations in your throat and tried to focus on it, as if it were a lullaby to help him fall asleep. Eventually, that, along with the massage you were giving him on his scalp, was enough to help him fall asleep. You knew he had done it when you felt his breathing take on a calmer, more steady rhythm against your body.

Even though you were exhausted, you still took a few minutes to meditate. Having him like this, practically fused against you, clinging to you as if he feared you'd evaporate, begging for kisses in hopes of drowning whatever demon was tormenting him now, you wondered how bad it would be to have him in your house more often. Except for your parents, you weren't good at sharing your living space with anyone else. But Bob made you want it, like you suddenly wished you two were serious, formal, and maybe even settled down with him. At first, the thought made you smile. A moment later, it completely terrified you.

Bob wasn't the perfect man, and you definitely weren't the perfect woman. But in that moment, you felt like you were what each other needed. Reflecting, you stroked his head a little more until you felt your own body giving in, surrendering to the rest you so longed for.

Before slipping into unconsciousness, you concluded that, even though you didn't know what the future would hold, you were determined to enjoy the present. For the moment, that was more than enough.

taglist: @littlemsbumblebee @qardasngan

[trainer-from-unova]