#the void mcu

[undyingdecay]

pairings: the void x reader, robert reynolds x reader cw: pwp, smut, afab reader, light cnc, no use of condoms, breeding, vaginal fingering, talks and mentions of mental health issues. 

bob sees you twice a week.

mondays and fridays, sharp. three times every other week when the team’s schedule loosens, and he slips in on wednesdays—quiet and early, like he doesn’t want anyone noticing he’s here. you pretend not to, but you always clock the way his shadow crosses the frosted glass on your door before he knocks. there’s a peculiar reverence to it. like he’s stepping into church.

once in a while, you run into each other outside the four wide walls of your therapy room. the space is neutral by design: soft taupe couches, warm light, two large plants you’ve kept alive with a stubborn devotion—like it’ll mean something if they make it through the year. but the grocery store has none of that softness. no boundary. no title. no safe distance. just fluorescent lights, silence, and aisles that feel too narrow when he’s in them.

you had been scanning the back of a cereal box—reading ingredients out of habit more than necessity—when you felt it. that dense, unmistakable pull. not quite like being watched. more like being studied.

you follow the weight of it with your body first, spine stiffening under the quiet pressure. you turn. and there he is.

to your far left, past two rows of dry goods, bob. or rather—robert. his eyes, usually so tightly sealed behind politeness and wariness in your sessions, are blown wide with something he hides too late. you catch the exact second he sees you seeing him. the sharp pivot of his gaze, the twitch in his jaw. guilt.

you almost laugh. not out of mockery, but out of the strange tenderness of it. that a man like that—cosmically powerful, thickly built like the sculpted edge of a greek myth—could look so much like a boy caught staring at his crush from behind a locker door.

you press forward with your cart. as you pass him, close enough to catch the faint ozone-and-laundry scent that always clings to him, you murmur, soft but amused, “i’ll see you later, bob.”

you don’t look back—but you don’t need to. you can feel the electricity shift behind you, sharp and rattled.

the beginning had been difficult.

tense isn’t quite the word. the tension in those first five sessions had been less like discomfort and more like entering a room where a sleeping animal lay coiled in the corner—you couldn’t see it, not really, but you felt it. you knew it was there.

for the first three sessions, he hadn’t come alone.

she came with him. yelena. at first glance, you thought she hated you—her eyes hard, her accent sharp, her whole body language defensive like she was guarding something delicate inside a glass box. turns out it was just her face. that, and a thin layer of hypervigilance that seemed bone-deep. she watched bob closely. sat across from him in the chair like an anchor in human form. said almost nothing unless she felt you were pushing too far. then she’d step in—not harsh, but firm, like she’d had to learn how to drag people back from edges they didn’t know they were standing on.

your second “session” wasn’t much of a session at all.

an hour and thirty minutes of awkward silence padded with small talk so stiff it could’ve been stitched together from a textbook. you had tried—god, had you tried.

“how are you feeling today, bob?”

“i’m okay. and you?”

“i’m good. thank you for asking. did you do anything this weekend?”

“it was fine. how was yours?”

a mirror. he was a mirror. every question you sent across to him came back reflected. no cracks. no entry point. the only emotion he’d shown—if you could call it that—was when he first stepped into your office and complimented your plant. a small, unexpected kindness. you remembered it clearly. the way he’d looked at the pothos on the windowsill like it was more alive than he felt.

but he wouldn’t meet your eyes for long. not really. he kept glancing at the small analog clock that hung above your shelves. you’d caught him counting seconds more than once, his jaw flexing, fists resting tight on his knees. you had started to wonder if you were doing something wrong.

were you pushing too hard? too soft? was it you?

at the end of that session, it was yelena who stayed behind.

she stepped close enough that her voice was low, but not threatening. “he doesn’t trust this yet,” she said. “one of our teammates—he had a bad experience with therapy. put a bad taste in bob’s mouth before he even walked in.”

she’d almost said “friend.” you could feel it in the pause. but she changed the word at the last second to “coworker,” like putting emotional distance would make it safer. you didn’t ask questions. just nodded.

you were starting to understand that bob came with wounds you wouldn’t see right away. that maybe he didn’t want to be saved. maybe he was only here because someone else thought he should be.

and still—he came back.

infact, bob comes back the following friday. alone.

no yelena. no buffer. just him—broad shoulders hunched like a man who’s spent the whole morning clenching something invisible between his teeth, jaw stiff like it’s locked around something unspeakable. the kind of tension you feel in men who have seen too much and had nowhere to put any of it.

he doesn’t say hello. just steps into the quiet space of your office like a man walking into weather—unprepared, but moving forward anyway.

he sits without a word, his long legs folding awkwardly into the same corner of the couch he always chooses, like routine is the only lifeline he trusts. the leather creaks beneath him, and for a moment the only sound is that, and the ticking of the small wall clock behind your desk.

there’s a smell that trails faintly behind him. not unpleasant, but strange—metallic, electric. burned ozone, scorched copper wiring. the scent of power that has nowhere to go. power that doesn’t belong in a body still pretending to be human.

and he’s in a brown knit sweater.

that’s what you notice first, and you’re not even sure why. he wears sweaters often—neutral tones, soft materials that stretch just slightly over his chest and arms, as if he’s always one breath away from tearing through them. but you’ve never seen this one before. the texture of it is heavier, coarser, like it was meant for colder places. you recognize the color before the cut. a warm, earthy tone that lives folded in the back of your own closet. you think—absurdly—you might have the same one. you wonder if he’d noticed. if this is coincidence or something closer to longing.

before you can stop yourself, you speak.

“i like your sweater.”

bob’s head lifts slightly. not all the way, just enough for you to see a flicker of something unfamiliar in his eyes. not surprise. not confusion. something quieter. hesitation.

his mouth opens, then closes. a second too long. then finally, he responds.

“thanks. i… thought maybe it looked comfortable.”

he doesn’t say on you. he doesn’t say like yours. but something in the way his eyes move—a tiny drag of his gaze over your arms, to your collarbone—tells you everything you need to know.

and suddenly you’re both sitting in a room that feels too small for what isn’t being said.

you nod, gently, like you’re not about to fall into whatever soft place just opened between you.

“it does,” you murmur. “it suits you.”

bob exhales through his nose. a shaky thing. almost a laugh. his hands rest on his thighs, fingers splayed. not clenched. not balled into fists. just there. palms down. like he wants to ground himself. like he’s trying not to touch anything too hard for fear it’ll break.

you let the silence stretch again. safe. waiting.

eventually, he speaks.

“i didn’t want to come today,” he admits, voice low, almost lost in the quiet. “i didn’t want to sit here and say nothing again. i thought if i just stayed home… if i skipped it…”

he trails off. you wait.

“but then i kept thinking about that plant,” he finishes softly. “the one in the corner. and your chair. and the sound of the pen you use when you write things down.”

he swallows, eyes flicking down to the floor.

“i think i missed it.”

you don’t rush in. you don’t wrap his words in praise or comfort. you just breathe through the gentle ache blooming in your chest and respond, softly, truthfully:

“i missed you, too.”

and just like that—just barely—his shoulders drop. not completely, but enough. a fraction of a man letting himself be held by a room.

you can feel it in the air now, like something shifting under old floorboards: the intimacy, the beginning of a quiet, tangled dependency. and somewhere else, unseen—something in him watches this unfold. not entirely him. not entirely separate.

the air chills for half a second. the light in the room dims not visibly, but emotionally. like a presence turning its head.

and then it’s gone. or maybe it never really left.

what the fuck were you thinking?

the words slice through the steamy hush of your bathroom, your own voice muted by the toothbrush in your mouth and the soft gurgle of water running faintly in the background. you lean forward into the mirror, one hand braced against the counter, your reflection fogged slightly but not enough to hide the haunted irritation carved into your expression.

suds gather at the corners of your mouth like guilt trying to froth its way out. you spit, rinse, and stare at yourself for a long, accusing moment. you look… normal. too normal. like someone who hadn’t said something wildly inappropriate to a patient just two days ago.

‘i missed you, too.’

you groan, dragging a towel over your face, as if you could scrub the memory clean.

jesus. what the hell was that?

he’d been vulnerable. tired. exhausted from holding back something bigger than even he could name—and you? you’d gone and injected the moment with intimacy. loaded the air with suggestion. he didn’t say he missed you. he said he missed your fucking plant. your chair. the sound of your pen scratching on your notepad, as if that alone could tether him to reality.

and yet.

yet you couldn’t stop thinking about the way he looked when he said it. not just the words. but how he said them. soft, low, eyes not quite meeting yours like it hurt to be seen too clearly.

you rub at your jaw with the towel, then toss it aside. the feeling has settled into your bones now, heavy and warm and unwelcome. unprofessional.

maybe it’s the way his lips part just slightly when he’s concentrating. or the fact that when he smiles—even if it’s a small, awkward thing—you can tell it’s real. that’s what gets you. the distinction. the knowledge that you’re one of the few people who’s learned to tell the difference.

and his eyes. jesus. those eyes. wide and dark and painfully soft when he’s not shutting the world out. he looks at you sometimes like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered. like you’re something safe. like he wants to curl into your palm and just breathe.

but it’s monday now. the weekend’s over. whatever inappropriate fantasies or intrusive thoughts you wrestled with in bed at night, or sitting alone with your tea while re-reading your notes—those had to go.

you’re a professional.

which is exactly why you’re currently sitting in your office wearing the exact same sweater he had on friday.

you hadn’t even realized it at first—just pulled something warm from your closet, an old favorite, worn soft at the cuffs. but now, seated in your chair, notebook on your lap, you can feel it like a confession clinging to your skin.

same warm brown. same slightly oversized sleeves. it smells faintly of lavender and detergent and your skin, and suddenly you’re wondering—what if he notices?

you tell yourself it’s harmless. coincidental. a shared preference in clothing. nothing more.

but then you remember the way his eyes had lingered—not on your face, not on your words, but on the texture of your sleeves, on the shape of you wrapped in softness. like maybe, for a second, he wasn’t thinking about loss or pain or the terrible weight of what he is.

maybe, for a second, he was thinking about you.

and that’s what scares you most. not his power. not the rumors—how walker and ross speak of him like he’s a nuke that hasn’t gone off yet. not even the void itself, the shadow that lingers just beneath his skin like a second pulse.

no. what scares you is the feeling that if he looked at you just once—really looked—you’d let him in.

even if it meant letting something else in, too.

because there’s something in him. you’ve felt it. just at the edge of the room, just behind his shoulders when he’s quiet. it watches you. it knows your name, even though you’ve never spoken it aloud in sessions. the void. you don’t say it, even in your notes. but it knows.

and some terrible part of you wants to know it back.

your clock ticks gently toward the hour. you glance toward the door just as the handle moves—quiet, deliberate.

bob is early.

of course he is.

the door opens with that soft metallic click, and bob steps in like he’s afraid to take up too much space. his shoulders are drawn in, a silent fortress of muscle and tension. he’s early—twenty minutes early—and he doesn’t make eye contact at first. he rarely does when something’s eating at him, when he’s walking around with thoughts that feel too big for his skull.

he closes the door behind him with quiet precision, the kind of gentleness that feels practiced, not natural. like he’s afraid of making noise that might echo wrong. then he just stands there for a second, hovering just past the threshold, eyes scanning the room—like he’s waiting for something. permission, maybe. a sign that he’s welcome.

you look up from your notes and offer him a smile. it’s soft. undemanding.

“hey, bob.”

he lifts his gaze just slightly, and in that flicker of eye contact there’s something tentative—like a man brushing his fingers against the surface of warm water, unsure if it’ll burn or soothe. then he looks away again, jaw tight, eyes flicking across your space like he’s grounding himself in the details.

then he sees the sweater.

and pauses.

“that’s… new?” he says, his voice low and a little hoarse, like it hasn’t been used much today. it’s not a question. not really. 

you glance down at yourself, feigning casualness you don’t quite feel. “you wore something like this on friday. i guess i have the same taste and forgot.”

his lips twitch at that—just a ghost of a smile, quick and uncertain, like it surprised him by rising at all. “looks better on you,” he murmurs, and then drops his gaze again so fast you almost wonder if he regrets it.

you don’t let yourself react. not outwardly. but there’s a warmth under your skin now, spreading slow like heat from a cup of tea cradled too long in your hands. it lingers in your chest, unfamiliar and dangerous.

you gesture gently toward the couch. “sit?”

he does, and there’s something different about how he moves today. less rigid. less performative. he sinks into the cushions with a breath that sounds closer to relief than restraint, his hands settling on his thighs with fingers open—not clenched into fists, not folded into his sleeves. just there. present. like he’s trying.

“so,” you say quietly, “you’re early.”

he nods. “didn’t sleep. thought i’d just come.”

you study him. he looks tired, but not destroyed. there’s a kind of emotional fatigue around his eyes that tells you he hasn’t been resting—though he hasn’t been spiraling either.

“still having nightmares?”

“not really,” he says. “i keep thinking… if i close my eyes too long, i’ll hear it again.”

“what do you hear?”

he breathes in through his nose, chest rising beneath the worn black fabric of his t-shirt under the cardigan. he shifts slightly on the couch. “it’s not a voice. not exactly. it’s more like… pressure. like a thought that isn’t mine, but it knows where mine live.”

there’s a gravity in that sentence that makes your stomach tighten. you nod slowly. “does it speak to you?”

“no,” he says, but there’s a strange uncertainty in the way he says it. “but it waits. it wants to. i feel it sometimes when i’m walking down the street. at stoplights. it waits for me to be alone. it waits for me to be tired.”

you keep your voice even, your gaze soft. “and what does it want?”

his eyes finally meet yours. fully this time. and there’s something so raw in them—something that sits at the jagged intersection of pain and need. you feel it in your chest, like a tide pulling forward.

“i think it wants to be known,” he says. “like it’s… jealous.”

the air shifts in the room. a low, invisible shiver moves across your arms, like static brushing skin.

“jealous?” you echo.

he nods again. “friday… when you said you missed me… i haven’t heard that in a long time. not like that. not like it mattered.”

“i meant it,” you say. gently. without hesitation.

he exhales, shaky and almost laugh-soft. “i know. that’s the part that scared me.”

you tilt your head. “scared you why?”

he looks down at his hands, those big, open hands resting on his knees like he doesn’t trust them anymore. then, quietly: “because i don’t know what part of me heard it first.”

you inhale, slow and controlled.

there’s silence between you now, but it’s different. it’s not avoidance. it’s mutual stillness, like two people listening for something just outside the window.

bob leans forward slightly. his voice, when it returns, is small and unguarded.

“i think… it likes your voice.”

that lands deep in you, low and soft. not just the content of what he said, but how he said it—carefully, like a secret being handed over instead of confessed.

you stare at him, and for a moment you’re not sure which of you is more vulnerable.

then, carefully, you close your notebook and meet his eyes. “you’re not alone in this. not in here.”

he blinks, and something in him slips just a little—like a crack along old stone letting light bleed through.

“can i stay a little longer?”

you smile softly. “you can stay as long as you need.”

and for the first time, he doesn’t check the clock. doesn’t glance at the door. just sits back into the couch, letting the quiet settle, as if he’s not afraid of it anymore.

he glances at the corner shelf, then back to you. “you read a lot?”

you nod. “when i can. i don’t sleep much either, so it helps fill the space.”

bob leans back slightly, and for the first time, the lines around his eyes seem to ease. “what do you read?”

“neuroscience, mostly. some poetry. case studies. sometimes trashy fiction with bad romance and worse science.”

he actually smiles at that. not forced, not brief—just soft and real. “i used to read a lot. college stuff. research. i liked the weird cases. the ones people couldn’t explain.”

“oliver sacks?” you ask, half-teasing.

he points at you. “yes. that guy. i never finished the book. felt too close.”

you lean forward slightly. “want to borrow it?”

his expression shifts again—something uncertain, something boyish. “you’d let me take one?”

“just bring it back.”

bob nods, and something in his face flickers—like an old memory brushing against the edge of the present.

“i will.”

you both sit in the quiet that follows, but it’s no longer awkward. the clock ticks gently, the soft hum of the heater filling in the blanks. there’s no sign of the void in that moment. no second skin. just two people sitting in a room built for listening.

peace doesn’t last long. 

you’ve long accepted that. you’ve studied the brain’s circuitry enough to know we aren’t built to live in it. we chase peace like a high, yet once it settles into our skin too long, we start picking at it—doubting it, mourning it before it’s even gone. it’s a brief visitor, peace. kind, but impermanent. you only ever really notice its presence when it leaves.

it’s the thought playing through your head as you sit curled into your office chair, gaze unfocused on the small news stream rolling across your tablet. you’d promised yourself you wouldn’t keep watching this channel—it’s too much, always too much—but you let it play anyway. background noise, you tell yourself. just static to fill the room.

“the new avengers put a swift and permanent end to this morning’s armed robbery attempt. one confirmed fatality—officials calling it a clean takedown by the enhanced member of the team, sentry.”

you don’t react right away. the words feel like they land through molasses. permanent end. fatality. clean takedown. sanitized language for violence, for another body left cooling on concrete. you shut the tablet off and look down at your lap, heart tightening.

you know who they mean.

and you know who’s about to walk through your door—it’s wednesday after all.

the knock comes late—nearly ten minutes past the hour. you rise and answer it quickly, afraid he might bolt again like that first week. but bob stands there, rain-soaked, sweater clinging to his chest like it forgot how to fit him. his hands hang useless at his sides. he doesn’t meet your eyes.

he says nothing as you let him in. he walks past you like he’s underwater and takes his usual place on the couch—only this time, he doesn’t fold himself into the corner like he usually does. he sits stiffly, forward, elbows on his knees, shoulders tight like cables strung to snapping. you don’t go to your chair. you sit down quietly in the middle cushion beside him.

you wait.

the silence feels like it breathes, alive with something fragile and dark. you glance over, but his face is bowed. all you see is a fist clenched against his mouth, the tremor running along his jaw.

you shift slightly, giving him your full attention, careful not to crowd him. “do you want to tell me what happened?”

bob swallows.

the words crack on his tongue before he can even let them out, brittle and uneven. you see the tremble at his knuckles, the way his knees bounce like he’s trying to keep himself from bolting.

“he had a gun on someone. she was… she looked like a kid. and i—” his throat cinches. “i thought i could stop him without… i didn’t think. i didn’t mean to crush his chest in.”

then it all unspools.

the sob that breaks from his chest isn’t quiet. it’s the kind that fractures. that echoes. his body hunches, fists pressed into his eye sockets like he’s trying to force the tears back inside where they came from. but it’s too late.

bob cries like he hasn’t been allowed to cry in years.

your breath catches—not because he’s weeping, but because of how he weeps. it’s not heroic. it’s not stoic. it’s raw. terrified. embarrassed. human.

you slide from your chair before thinking, moving to the couch, your movements slow and purposeful. you sit beside him—not touching at first, not imposing—and wait.

but then your hand reaches out. gently. you cradle his face, thumb brushing along the high crest of his cheekbone, wiping away the warm, salt-heavy tears trailing toward his jaw.

bob flinches.

only slightly. but enough. a twitch like an animal unsure of whether touch means comfort or pain.

and then—slowly, achingly—he leans into it.

his weight tips forward, and he folds into your body with a kind of desperation you’ve only ever seen in those teetering on the edge. he slides forward and sideways, arms clutching at your waist, and then he’s pressing his face into the soft cotton of your shirt, right between your breasts. not with any intent—there’s nothing lewd about it. he folds into you like something hunted, like a child who’s run out of ways to hold himself together. his arms wrap tight around your back. you feel the hot press of his cheek, the way his breathing shakes against your ribs, shallow and uneven.

you hold him, firm but gentle. your fingers card through his hair, wet from the rain and sweat, and you murmur soft things—words you don’t plan, things like:

“you didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

“you were scared.”

“you’re not a monster.”

“you’re still here.”

each word lands like balm on an invisible wound.

his cries taper eventually, but his grip doesn’t loosen. you keep your hand stroking through his golden hair, down the broad stretch of his back, like grounding wire. he stays pressed to your chest, breathing unevenly, and for a long moment neither of you speak.

then, finally, his voice returns—smaller than you’ve ever heard it.

“i’m so tired.”

you press your chin to the crown of his head.

“i know,” you whisper. “i know you are.”

“i don’t want to be him,” he mutters. “i don’t want to be that man on the news.”

“you’re not,” you say softly. “you’re still trying. that’s what makes you different.”

the room settles into quiet again, not peaceful, but real. human.

eventually, his sobs soften. the shaking subsides. his breath grows heavy, slowed by exhaustion. he doesn’t pull away from you. you don’t ask him to.

and then—something shifts.

you feel it before you see it. a pressure. a disturbance.

you glance toward the far wall, drawn to the faint gleam of the rain-slicked window. your eyes catch the reflection.

and your heart stops.

there, behind your own shoulder—not behind you in the room, but in the glass—stands a figure that is not bob. it is not a man.

the shape is human only barely. towering, made of endless shadow. shoulders stretched like smoke, chest heaving like it feels something too large for flesh. where its face should be is only depth—void, endless and swallowing. 

the eyes glow like the dying blinding white of a star. brighter than flame. not neutral. not blind.

they are feeling.

you can’t name what they express. but it’s more than rage.

there is sorrow in that stare. wound-deep. ancient.

and worse—there is a possessiveness that coils in your gut like cold water down your spine. not jealousy, not quite. something older. hungrier. like the monster has seen you—has seen what you are to him, to bob—and it has already decided you belong in its story too.

you blink.

it’s gone.

just the window. just the rain.

just bob, soft against your chest, quiet now. fragile. alive.

and still holding you like the only real thing in the world.

you stare into the blinding white light of your phone screen, thumb frozen over yelena’s name.

the two of you weren’t close. not in a way that gave you room to say what you really wanted to say now. your exchanges had always been brief—punctual, neutral, like coworkers passing paperwork across a desk.

“he hasn’t been sleeping again.”

“he says the meds taste like chalk.”

“they switched him to something stronger.”

never real. never personal.

never once about the void.

you tap the message field. pause. backspace. then stop entirely.

what would you even say?

hey, did you ever see something standing behind him, watching with white eyes full of terror and doom?

hey, have you ever felt like he’s not alone in the room even when he is?

a low groan escapes your throat as you toss the phone face-down on the nightstand. the charger clicks into place. the soft glow vanishes.

you’re alone now. the kind of alone that hums. that presses into your thoughts the moment the noise dies out.

except—it doesn’t feel like alone.

not really.

your body is tense. restless. bob’s face flickers across your mind again: pressed to your chest, hair matted with sweat, breath rattling like it hurt to breathe. he’d clung to you like something drowning. your fingers had curled at his nape, feeling the tremor in his spine. his voice had broken on your collarbone like a child’s.

i didn’t mean to.

you shouldn’t feel the way you do.

but you do.

the guilt makes it hotter. shame spreads like syrup in your chest. you shift beneath the covers, legs tangled, thighs clenched tight. your skin prickles with that first slick wave of arousal, thick and deep-rooted.

your hand slips low.

you tell yourself it’s just to relieve the pressure. to get to sleep. to forget. but when your fingers skim the damp patch between your legs, something sparks and you know—you’re not stopping.

you bite your lip. your other hand fists the sheets as your fingers drag slowly over the soaked fabric. your clit pulses beneath the damp cotton, sensitive to the lightest pressure. you rub it in slow, tight circles—just once. just again. then again.

a moan slips out before you can stop it, and suddenly it’s not slow at all. your hips buck into your hand as you grind harder, faster. you picture his hands, broad and trembling. his voice, cracking apart as he cried. you feel sick. you feel alive. you press two fingers beneath the waistband, slide them into the wet heat gathering between your folds, and groan into your pillow.

you’re so wet it’s obscene. your fingers slide easily, curling inside as you start to fuck yourself in rhythm—fast, shallow thrusts that never quite satisfy. your clit throbs, desperate for more friction, but you can’t bring yourself to stop fucking your fingers.

he’d feel different. you can’t stop the thought. bigger. rougher. he’d ruin you just by holding on too tight.

“filthy,” a voice murmurs. you ignore it.

it’s just your imagination. just stress. your subconscious chewing through the detritus of trauma and lust.

but then—

your hand falters.

because the fingers inside you shift—deeper than you can reach. a pressure you didn’t create. your eyes fly open. your palm hasn’t moved. but the fingers—longer, thicker, calloused—are still moving inside you.

the thrusts become punishing. the stretch too much. it hurts. it burns. but it’s good—so good you choke on the sob clawing up your throat.

you want to stop. you should stop.

but your hips rock helplessly into the touch, chasing the burn. your clit is throbbing now, begging for friction. and then it’s there—a pad, rough, not your thumb, not your skin, circling it with maddening precision.

“such a mess,” the voice croons again. and suddenly, there are hands—hands you didn’t summon, didn’t imagine—pawing at your chest, yanking your sleep shirt up, fingers twisting your nipples until pain blooms through the pleasure like light through stained glass.

“fucking slut.” rough hands close around your breasts, fingers digging in as they cruelly twist your nipples. you bite back a startled cry, muffling soft ‘ow’s and slurred ‘stop’s, but beneath the sharp sting, a trembling moan escapes you—if it hurt so much, why didn’t you pull away?

“feels good, doesn’t it?” the voice murmurs, low and taunting.

against all reason, your lips part, and a shaky, breathy “uh-huh” slips free, betraying the mix of pain and desperate pleasure flooding your body.

you’re crying now. tears streaking hot down your temples as you moan, gasping please, and more, and don’t stop like a prayer.

you’re beyond language. just friction. just heat. the fingers fuck into you brutally, hitting something deep and soft that makes your whole body seize. the palm circles your clit faster now, harder, rougher, like it knows what you need better than you do.

it climbs. higher. higher. you’re going to break apart. it’s too much.

and then you come—shuddering, curling, a sob breaking through your lips as your cunt clenches around the phantom fingers, pulsing, gushing, trembling like a violin string drawn too tight.

“good girl.”

the voice exhales in your ear, close enough to feel.

and this time—you feel it. the whisper. the breath.

your hand flies to your ear.

dry.

your fingers are bone dry.

you’re gasping, body spent, heart pounding like it’s going to give out. sweat slicks your spine, and your thighs ache from the tension. you feel the wetness between your legs—thick, hot, real.

you push yourself upright, blinking blearily. the shadows in your room seem darker now, richer. your gaze drifts toward the window. the reflection meets you there.

not yours.

not bob’s.

it stands behind your own ghostly silhouette, just slightly offset. like a smudge on the mirror of reality. a tall figure, draped in black that shimmers like liquid night. shoulders hulking, body indistinct—except for the eyes.

red.

deep.

not empty.

not hungry.

but yearning.

possessive.

wounded.

you stare. you don’t scream. you don’t move. you’re not sure you can.

some part of you understands now—without words, without certainty—that it had always been watching. 

waiting.

friday comes around far too quickly. 

you’re no stranger to patients flaking on sessions—ghosting with half-hearted apologies, or none at all, when the weight of unpacking their own mind became too heavy. some would rather vanish into the dark than face the shape of their feelings under sterile office lights. you’d grown used to that. what you weren’t used to was the shift in yourself. a quiet dread, thick and strange, coiling in your chest as the hour approached. you’d had days before when you didn’t want to go in—when the weight of holding everyone else’s pain felt too much—but this was different. this wasn’t burnout. this wasn’t exhaustion. this was hesitation, sharp and personal. it was knowing you’d see him again.

and not being entirely sure which version of him you’d be seeing.

but when the hour and a half mark comes and goes, when the clock’s minute hand stretches past his session time and he still hasn’t walked through the door, you feel something strange twist in your stomach.

not disappointment—no, something closer to shame.

you sit in silence for a while longer, pretending to read over notes from earlier in the day. but your pen hasn’t moved in ten minutes, and the air feels heavier by the second. you begin to wonder if you’d crossed a line on wednesday. if that embrace—the warmth of his body melting against yours, the way you let your hand cradle his jaw like something precious—had been too much. too familiar. too not clinical.

because in those few moments, he hadn’t felt like your patient. he hadn’t even felt like bob. he’d felt like something else. like someone you shouldn’t be touching the way you did. and yet you had.

maybe he felt it too. maybe that’s why he hadn’t come.

or maybe this was punishment. karma, manifest. some cosmic weight crashing back onto your shoulders for what you’d let happen in the dark, what you’d let touch you when you were alone in your room, mind flooded with guilt and heat and a whisper that wasn’t yours. the thought of him sobbing into your chest should’ve haunted you. but instead it had stained your sheets.

and something had known. had seen. had felt it too.

it’s friday again now.

bob had missed two sessions. you hadn’t texted yelena — perhaps that was your first mistake. your first being even taking him when you’d been requested for this high risk case. you wanted to do good though, be good, god it was pathetic. some part of you still believed you could reach inside a broken mind and coax the light back out. but you weren’t sure what you’d been reaching for when it came to him. or what had been reaching back.

you’re pulled out of your thoughts as you hear a gentle knock on your door.

expecting dr. lavish to come in and ask if she could borrow one of your pillows for the child patient she had — or maybe even the janitor giving you your fill of lysol wipes again — you look up, words already forming on your tongue.

but it isn’t them.

the figure standing in your doorway is taller than you expect. shoulders slightly hunched like he’s trying to take up less space, hair somewhat damp, clinging to his temples like he’d come in out of the rain — though the forecast had been clear all day. his eyes flicker up to meet yours, and the room seems to contract. the air thickens. the shadows in the corners deepen.

it’s bob.

or — at least, it looks like him.

there’s something too still about him. something stretched too thin across the bones of his face, like a mask left out in the sun too long, warped and brittle at the edges. his shoulders hang wrong, his skin damp and pale under the dull overhead light. and though the shape of him is the same, you sense immediately that you aren’t alone with him.

not really.

you shift in your seat, the stiff leather sighing beneath you, and force a small, brittle smile onto your face. you are glad to see him. you tell yourself that. but the memory of that last session clings to you like wet cloth — the way he’d clung to you, sobbing into the hollow of your chest, face pressed against the curve of your breast like some half-drowned thing desperate for air. the way your hand had cradled his jaw without thinking. the heat of his skin. the sound of your heartbeat in your own ears, too loud, too fast.

and then… the other thing.

the thing that found you alone later that night. that climbed into your skin with a whisper you pretended not to hear.

he moves to sit down, and you watch as he bypasses the end of the couch — his usual spot, where he could angle himself half away, where there was distance — and instead settles into the middle. dead center. like an animal too exhausted to keep running.

and neither of you speak.

the clock ticks too loud.

a minute. two. long enough for the air to thicken, for your chest to ache with it.

“you missed your sessions,” you say at last, voice quieter than you intended. you don’t ask why. you’re afraid of the answer.

bob drags a hand through his hair, damp strands clinging to his skin. his other hand grips the side of his neck, thumb pressing into his pulse point like he’s trying to steady himself.

“i know,” he murmurs. his voice sounds different. thinner. like it’s traveling from too far away. “i… i couldn’t. not after… not after what happened.”

you feel it then. the ghost of his weight against you. his face against your chest. the way you hadn’t pushed him away. the way you’d held him.

the way it hadn’t felt clinical.

the way it hadn’t felt like bob, or like a patient at all.

“i crossed a line,” you say, a faint tremor at the edges. “i shouldn’t have—”

“it wasn’t you,” he cuts in, sharp and sudden. his head snaps up, and for the first time, he looks at you.

and god.

there’s something else behind his eyes.

something ancient. hungry.

something that knew you long before bob ever stepped into your office.

“i mean… it was,” he stammers, softer now, shaking his head. “but it was me too. and… him.”

your stomach turns to ice. you don’t have to ask who he means.

you try to swallow, but your throat’s too tight. the room feels too warm, the overhead light too bright, painting sharp hollows beneath his cheekbones. his jaw flexes, and you catch the subtle tremor of it — the tension working beneath his skin like something barely restrained.

then he parts the pretty pink of his lips, sucking in a slow, ragged breath through his teeth, and it’s only then — when your gaze flickers downward, like some cowardly thing seeking escape — that you see it.

obvious. heavy against the fabric of his pants.

your breath stutters.

his face colors instantly, a flush blooming high on his cheekbones, and for the first time in what feels like days, bob moves with something almost like instinct. embarrassed, he reaches for the pillow beside him, his movements sharp and jerky, and drags it into his lap like some flimsy barrier. like it could hide what both of you have already seen.

a sick, guilty thing twists in your stomach — and deeper than that, something warmer. a cruel little spark that shouldn’t be there.

neither of you speak.

the clock on the wall ticks so loud it’s unbearable.

“i’m sorry,” he says at last, and his voice is wrecked. frayed. like the apology costs him something. “i… he’s — it’s hard to—” bob stops, squeezing his eyes shut, as though he could wring the thought out of his head by force.

and you feel it again. that pressure. that presence. a cold, unseen palm at the nape of your neck, trailing down your spine like a lover’s touch. a voice — no, a thought, or the suggestion of one — breathing against your ear.

look at him.

and you do.

the pillow’s doing nothing now. the poor thing crushed between trembling fingers, knuckles white, the fabric tented and betraying every inch of his arousal. and his eyes — god, his eyes — glassy and feverish and desperate, flicking between your face and your mouth like he’s seconds from breaking apart.

“i can’t stop thinking about you,” bob whispers, his voice barely there. “about… what it felt like. that night. the way you held me. the way you… the way you smelled, the way you—” his breath shudders out, and he grips the pillow tighter, as though afraid of what his hands might do. “he shows me things. tells me to do things to you. things i don’t even wanna admit i—”

do it.

the command slithers through the room like smoke.

and you don’t know if it’s him or you that moves first — can he even hear the voice? surely, right? the way his breath catches, the way his eyes dart to the empty corner of the room like something’s watching. or maybe that’s just you. maybe it’s always been just you.

but a second later you’re on the couch beside him, so close the heat of him bleeds into your skin, your lips brushing the crook of his neck. his skin tastes like salt, like sweat and the faintest trace of something metallic beneath — like ozone before a storm.

your hands slide down, finding the rough fabric of his jeans, and he whines. the sound punched from his throat, raw and helpless. mumbles spill past the pretty pink of his lips, words half-slurred and broken: “feels… s’good… oh fuck… you—ah… you…”

your name, somewhere in there, buried beneath need.

his hips twitch up into your palm without meaning to, a desperate, unconscious thing, and you feel the thick, aching heat of him through denim. 

you reach a hand behind him, diving your fingers into those golden locks — soft, sweat-damp at the nape — and you tug, sharp enough to make his breath catch. this time he lets out a helpless little mewl, the sound raw and sweet in a way it shouldn’t be.

“i’m sorry — please,” he whimpers, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows the desperate plea.

the sound hits you low in your belly. some awful, electric pulse of satisfaction.

and bob groans like it hurts, his free hand fumbling at the waistband of his jeans, so frantic now it’s almost pathetic. he gets them halfway open — the button popping loose, the zipper dragging down — but the fabric snags on his thighs. too tight, too rushed.

your hand is there before he can even ask. diving beneath the band of his boxers, the heat of him heavy against your palm. when your fingers wrap around his cock — flushed, flushed and pretty, the tip wet and slick with need — he gasps, a sharp, broken sound. his head falls back against the couch with a dull thunk, pupils blown so wide they swallow the blue of his irises whole.

you press your mouth to his pulse point, feeling it hammer under your lips.

“bob,” you murmur, the name thick on your tongue, tasting unfamiliar now. sacred. defiled. both.

and he shudders, hips arching into your palm, chasing every slick stroke.

“please,” he rasps, voice cracking clean in half around the word. “i… i need—i can’t—”

and there it is again — that impossible pressure. the cold touch at the edge of your perception. a phantom hand curling around bob’s throat, tilting his head just so. the void’s attention thick in the air, a purr like silk against your ear.

yes. more.

your hand works him slow at first — teasing, cruel — watching the way his thighs tremble, his lips parting in little wrecked gasps. and when his breathing stutters, when his fingers clutch the couch like he’ll fall through it, you tighten your grip, pace quickening.

“you’re doing so good for me,” you whisper, because you have to. because you need something to anchor yourself to. something to make you human in the middle of this.

and he shakes his head, whole body trembling, fists clenched so tight his knuckles go bloodless.

his voice is wrecked when he manages, “h-he wants me to do bad things to you.” you can feel him get impossibly harder under the weight of his own words, leaky pearly pre spilling out of his tip.

it spills out like a confession, shame and hunger and terror twisting the words.

your thumb brushes over the leaking head of his cock and he keens, teeth catching his bottom lip so hard it goes white.

“what kind of things, bob?” you murmur, dragging your lips along his jaw, your own pulse a thunderclap in your ears.

he chokes on a sound halfway between a sob and a moan. “h-he… he wants me to—fuck—hurt you,” bob whimpers, the words broken, sticky with fear and want. “says… says you’d like it. says you’re already his.”

the air thickens. you can feel it, heavy and cold and waiting.

let him. you’ll thank me.

and before you can answer, bob’s hands are on you — clumsy, desperate — hauling you fully onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips. his cock throbs against you, slick and flushed, leaving wet heat wherever it drags against the thin cotton barrier of your panties. the act is out of pure, feral need, his strong arms locking around your waist like if he let go, you might slip away, vanish into the ether.

he bucks up into you with a broken sound, rutting against the damp heat of you, though you’re still fully clothed. the friction’s maddening, a tease and a promise both. his hands shake where they grip you, fingernails digging into flesh.

you coo softly at him, an almost pitying sound as you try to still his desperate movements.

“slower, baby,” you murmur, fingers brushing through sweat-damp locks, watching the way his pupils blow impossibly wide at the word. “let me—”

you fumble with your clothes, shoving your pants down your legs, panties dragged aside, blouse hiked carelessly up your chest. your bra’s plain — nothing made for this kind of thing — but bob doesn’t care. his gaze devours every new inch of skin, lips parted, breath coming in sharp, shallow bursts.

you tug his sweater over his head and he’s beautiful in that reckless, ruined way, hair mussed, skin flushed, a thin sheen of sweat glinting along his collarbone. you let yourself fall back against the couch, your body a pliant offering.

his mouth is on yours a second later, rough, uncoordinated, all teeth and tongue. his cock drags against your bare slit, slick and searing hot, the head catching against your clit in a way that makes your hips jerk.

he pulls back just enough to pant, “do you have a—condo—”

the words barely form before it cuts through the air like a blade.

fuck her.

a voice not his. not yours. low and cold and hungry.

you feel yourself clench, empty and aching, around nothing.

your head lolls against the couch cushions, eyes fluttering shut, chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. the void presses against the room’s edges, thick and suffocating, coiling tight around both of you. the weight of inevitability.

bob groans like he felt it too. his hand cups the back of your neck, thumb brushing your jaw as if to steady you — as if to apologize — but his other hand’s already guiding himself to your entrance, cock nudging against your entrance, the tip sliding through your slick folds, catching against your clit just long enough to make your hips stutter up into him. his breath hitches, a soft, shattered sound against your throat.

“wanna make you feel good,” he breathes, the words half-spoken, half-prayer, clinging to you like something holy in a place meant for sin. “‘s good… so good,” he mumbles again, lips dragging against your neck, teeth grazing sensitive skin. his voice is ruined, thick with everything he can’t say.

and then he’s pushing inside — thick, flushed, leaking — the stretch sudden, greedy, obscene. it burns in a way that makes your head tip back, a sharp gasp ripped from your throat as your nails bite into the curve of his shoulders. there’s no caution, no tentative easing. he sinks in to the hilt with a desperate, jerking thrust that has both of you crying out.

the void purrs its approval, the sound vibrating through the room like a pulse, thick as fog.

bob’s face buries into your throat, his hips snapping against yours, sloppy, relentless, the wet sound of him moving inside you lewd in the suffocating quiet. you’d forgotten about his strength — the way his body dwarfs yours, how easily he cages you beneath him, how every thrust makes the couch shudder beneath you both.

“too tight,” he whines, voice breaking on the words. “god—so tight—i c-can’t—”

but he doesn’t stop. can’t stop.

and it isn’t dominance. no, it’s desperation. raw, pitiful, a boy unraveling by the second, chasing the feeling like it might save him.

you hadn’t realized your eyes had fallen shut until you feel it — that heavy, unmistakable knowing of being watched. your lashes flutter open and there he is.

the figure. the presence. the void.

standing just behind bob, a shadow clothed in the suggestion of a man, towering and lean, one pale, long-fingered hand splayed across the back of bob’s neck. guiding him. possessing him. and worse — looking directly at you. not bob, not the trembling wreck he was making of himself, but you.

its head tilts, like it’s curious. or amused.

keep going, it croons, voice a cold whisper against your ear though its mouth never moves. she’s feeling so good, isn’t she?

you don’t answer. can’t. your lips part, but all that escapes is a choked moan when the void’s grip tightens on bob’s neck and his hips slam harder into you, the couch groaning under the force.

bob sobs out a breath, tears hot against your skin. “wanna be with you forever,” he pants, the words tumbling from him like they’d been waiting in his throat for years. “d-don’t wanna go… wanna be yours, wanna be inside you, wanna—”

breed her.

the command is silk-draped violence.

fill her up. make her carry you inside her. tie yourself to her in every way that matters.

bob sobs like the words struck something primal in him, his thrusts growing frantic, uncoordinated, as though possessed by it. his body no longer his own. a vessel for want, for worship, for something older and crueler than love.

his cock drags against every aching, oversensitive nerve inside you, and you can feel how close he is — his breathing ragged, hips jerking, muscles tensing as the heat builds.

“i—i wanna… fuck, i’m gonna—” bob chokes out, teeth sinking into your shoulder as if he can hold the moment in his mouth. his voice breaks completely. “let me… let me c-cum in you… p-please.”

you’re not sure if it’s him asking. or if it matters anymore.

the void’s hand slides from his neck to his jaw, tilting his face up, forcing his tear-streaked, blissed-out gaze to yours.

his hips jerk, needy, helpless, cock twitching inside you as he rocks deeper still, as if the sheer act of possession could anchor him to something real. something solid.

but nothing is solid anymore.

not the room, not your sense of self, not the man trembling above you.

there’s a part of you — some tiny, flickering ember of rational thought — that should scream. should shove him off, should demand your space back, your body back.

but it’s smothered, buried under the heady crush of heat and breath and the delicious, terrible pull of being wanted this badly.

you feel the void’s presence lean in close — not touching, but still there, its hand a phantom weight at your throat, fingers brushing the pulse hammering just beneath your skin.

bob whimpers as your walls flutter around him, his eyes rolling back, his grip on your hips bruising now. “i—i can’t… fuck, i’m gonna—”

do it, the voice hisses. take it.

and bob shatters.

his body tenses, cock throbbing as he spills inside you in thick, searing pulses, a raw, broken sob tearing from his throat as he clutches you like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to this world. his face is wet against your skin, tears mingling with sweat, with spit, with everything filthy and sacred between you.

you feel it flood you — hot and thick and endless — and the sensation is overwhelming, tipping you into your own release with a gasp you barely recognize as your own. your body arches, every nerve alight, and you swear you can feel it: something more than physical, something ancient and cruel and impossibly tender claiming you both.

bob’s voice is a hoarse, frantic whisper against your throat, words slurred and frantic. “i love you… i love you, i—please don’t leave, please—”

your hand moves in slow, aimless circles against the damp, feverish skin of his back. his breathing’s slowed, chest rising and falling in unsteady swells, face buried in the hollow of your neck like a child hiding from the dark. you wonder if he’s drifted to sleep — or if sleep for him is something else entirely now, a place the void follows him into.

the room is thick with it still. not just sweat and sex, but something heavier, cloying. the unseen weight of a presence unwilling to leave.

you feel it then — not imagined this time, not a trick of nerves frayed thin by loneliness and guilt. cool, incorporeal fingers brush against your lips, two of them, familiar now in a way that makes your stomach knot. the same touch you’d felt deep inside you nights ago, when the world had gone still and your room had filled with the scent of earth and dying stars.

he doesn’t have to speak.

doesn’t have to coax.

your lips part for him on instinct. a quiet, shivering surrender.

and something pushes past them. not flesh, not air. a taste like dark water, like the hour before dawn. it’s cold, at first, but it warms as it settles on your tongue, curling against your teeth, and you realize with a terrible, aching certainty — he could take anything he wanted from you in this moment.

but he doesn’t.

instead, the presence cradles your face — not physically, not in a way the waking world would see, but you feel it. an unbearable tenderness, like the hush before a storm, like the first touch of rain on parched earth.

“mine,” it murmurs, not in command, not in triumph.

but in something closer to awe.

and for a moment — just a moment — you understand. loneliness isn’t just a human thing. even the dark wants company.

even the old, endless things.

and so you let him stay. let him settle in the hollow parts of you, curl around your heart like a second pulse. because you don’t have it in you to be alone anymore. and neither, it seems, does he.

somewhere beside you, bob stirs in his sleep, mumbling your name like a promise.

and above it all, the void hums.

content.

satisfied.

yours.

and in its own impossible, monstrous way;

loving you.

[trainer-from-unova]

void

Ⓢ english ao3 Ⓢ spanish ao3 Ⓢ masterlist Ⓢ

ship: the void x mutant black widow reader (x robert reynolds)

summary: they were getting used to bob and void. most of the time they dealt with bob, who was shy and respectful — and on the other side was void, who thought he was superior to everyone (or almost everyone) and could get on their nerves a lot of the time, but they had learned that, for some reason, most of the time he only showed up when the former was alone with _______, so they tried not to let those situations happen.

au: antonia lives / bob and void are a system

c/w: post-canon, lack of communication, consensual sex, oral sex, piv sex, masturbation, alcohol, light angst

a/n: english isn't my first language / I wrote this before watching the movie (and edited version after watching the movie: Ⓢ)

word count: 3818

Dealing with a system could be difficult, let alone living with it — fortunately, they were getting used to Bob and Void. Most of the time they dealt with Bob, who was shy and respectful — and on the other side was Void, who thought he was superior to everyone (or almost everyone) and could get on their nerves a lot of the time, but they had learned that, for some reason, most of the time he only showed up when the former was alone with _______, so they tried not to let those situations happen.

At first she was confused that such a thing happened, then it began to annoy and even sadden her. She thought he hated her for some reason, and she thought it made the most sense that he hated her for being a mutant.

"He doesn't hate you for that," Yelena said in her typical annoyed tone. She and the others knew it wasn't personal.

It was girls' night out and the four of the team were drinking in a bar in Manhattan as Carrie, Samantha, Miranda and Charlotte.

"Oh, so you confirm he hates me," she said in the same tone.

"No, he doesn't hate you- well, I think," she hastened to correct herself.

Of all of them Yelena was the closest to Bob, but she didn't know why he was giving her the cold shoulder; she just knew that if she asked him directly it would be too suspicious. The few times Yelena brought up the subject when the two of them were alone together he tried to quickly change the conversation, saying he didn't want to talk about it, and she accepted in defeat because she didn't want to make him uncomfortable, let alone provoke a trigger for Void to come out. Every time they commented on these attempts she or the others said that maybe Bob thought there was a possibility that it was _______ posing as Yelena with a mask and wig, and that would explain why he didn't want to talk about it even with her.

"I'm sure he hates me for that reason," she said referring to her mutation, not wanting to say it explicitly because she was in public.

"If your theory were true, wouldn't it make more sense for him to hate me too," Ava asked, "even more than you?"

"Exactly!" said Yelena pointing and agreeing with her, understanding her point. Antonia nodded slowly and silently as she sipped her drink.

"I mean, even if it's not..." she stopped and waved her hand, and they all understood that she meant "mutant" "I think my power is scarier than yours, and he doesn't treat me like he treats you," said Ava.

"Yeah, but I don't know..." She shrugged her shoulders. "That's the only logical explanation I can see, or maybe I have done or said something that upset him too much without meaning to and he doesn't dare tell me."

"You'd have the explanation if you got inside his mind," Antonia reminded her.

"But I don't want to do that," she said.

They all knew why she didn't want to do that, it wasn't the first and wouldn't be the last time they would talk about him and that subject, so there was no need to remind them.

At the beginning, when they were together with all the group, she would catch Bob looking at her, and their gazes would cross — not when they were on a mission, but when they were in calmer, more domestic settings she would sometimes smile at him, but he would always, no matter the situation or the place, look away seriously and quickly. Now it was she who looked at him from a distance, and he didn't even look her in the eye when she spoke. Luckily they both tried to be cordial in group, not wanting to make the others uncomfortable — they didn't speak directly but they spoke, and if someone were looking from the outside, probably no one would notice what was, or rather, what was not between them.

The one she did speak directly to and make eye contact with was Void, the few times they were together. He even dared to come dangerously close to her and scan her from top to bottom without any disguise whatsoever. It didn't bother her — even though she knew it wasn't technically him, she found the difference curious and it was better than nothing. It wasn't him, but his body was the same.

She knew she probably shouldn't make a big deal out of the situation, if he didn't want to get along with her for whatever reason that was his problem, but she couldn't help but feel frustrated. She wanted to get along with him — not because she felt the need to make everyone think well of her, but for the sake of coexistence and above all because she did like him, even if it didn't make sense.

It was on a sleepless night that she approached the answer that was keeping her awake — as she couldn't sleep as the hours passed she became thirsty, so she quietly left her bed and her bedroom for the kitchen to get something to drink. It was when she reached the living room on her way down the stairs to the first floor of the complex that she saw that the chandeliers were on, and stopped dead in her tracks as she saw Bob walking away from the kitchen, heading towards where she was in just his pyjama bottoms. When he noticed her he stopped in front of her and looked at her in surprise, but quickly changed his expression — she knew it wasn't him anymore.

"It's been a long time," she said in a calm tone, slowly approaching him.

"You can visit me if you miss me so much," he said in his typical mocking smile and tone, slowly approaching her as well. "As easy as knocking on Bob's door and waiting for me to open it for you," she laughed, snorting through her nose as she folded her arms.

"He'd have a heart attack."

"I'm here to protect him," and that answer made her furrow her brows in frustration and curiosity.

"Why doesn't he like me?" she asked once and for all. She didn't really want to discuss the subject with him, it was personal and emotional, but clearly she couldn't ask Bob directly either. "Why do you have to protect him from me? I don't understand."

"You've never entered his mind?" he asked still with that mocking tone, as if it was ridiculous for him to ask such a question because she could easily get the answer doing that.

"No, I'd rather not, if possible..."

"Afraid of not making it, as in my case?" He asked, reminding her of the time she tried it when he got out of control and blacked out Manhattan.

"It's not that," she said, rolling her eyes, "I don't like to do it, specially with people I'm close to."

"Then you'll never get an answer."

"Let me talk to him," she pleaded.

"Why so much interest in him?" he asked slightly more serious and even a little annoyed. "At least I like you."

"Is that another reason why I can never be alone with him?" she asked surprised and confused by the sudden and ambiguous confession.

"Maybe," he replied mockingly again.

He was starting to get on her nerves, but at the same time she couldn't help raising her eyebrows and laughing incredulously, looking in another direction. In their conversations there always came a moment when she didn't know whether to give in or play along, but that night she decided to play along.

"Oh yeah?" she asked looking at him, imitating his tone and dropping her arms.

"Yeah."

"I don't think you like me as much as you say you do," and she wasn't partly lying, but she wanted to know how much truth there was in his words.

"Do you want me to prove it to you?" He asked daring to stand dangerously close to her as he lowered his gaze to her lips. She was surprised by his proposal and his boldness, but decided to be expressionless at the moment.

"Alright," she replied averting her gaze to his lips and being aware of what was likely to happen a few seconds later. What she didn't expect was for him to bring his fingers to her chin to lift it even higher as he closed the small distance between their lips.

They got straight to the point: the kiss was intense and desperate from the start. Unconsciously she moaned and brought her hands to his shoulders as he brought the hand that cupped her chin to one of her cheeks, and with the other he pulled her closer to him by her waist.

When they parted for lack of air he raised his hand to turn off the lights with his powers, and then grabbed her hand and guided her hurriedly to his bedroom, where in complete darkness they quickly took off all their clothes and got into bed to continue kissing there, with him on top of her. When he tired of kissing her lips he settled down next to her to kiss her neck while he slid his fingertips down her abdomen, creating little spasms until he reached where he wanted: her clitoris.

He began to move his index finger in circles. Her breathing began to hitch, and she tried not to moan, but it was impossible. She bit her lip and put a hand to her mouth to silence herself, but he grabbed her with his free hand, intertwined her fingers and placed it against the mattress.

"There's no reason to hold back, the walls are theoretically sound proof," he said against her neck, tickling her with his voice. He was loving her moans, and he was getting hard just listening to her moan and feeling her writhe in pleasure beneath her, and she could easily feel it against her thigh.

Wanting more he began to move his finger faster, making her moan more often and harder. She also began to feel a warmth inside her abdomen moving down to her crotch and she began to spasm harder — it was obvious to both of them what was happening. She ended up exhausted even though she had done nothing, having to catch her breath.

Then he released her and slid down, where he put his hands on her thighs to spread them open and kissed his way down to her crotch. Noticing what he intended to do she opened her eyes like plates and blushed like hell, almost having to stifle a gasp of shock — she wouldn't complain about not having to do anything and be sexually pleasured, but she was embarrassed to have someone get that close there. He was a first in that sense, none of the few men in her sexual history had dared to do so — unfortunately it wasn't common for normal men, but he was clearly not a normal man, in many ways.

Unconsciously her hips bucked against his mouth and nose, and her body began to tremble as he thrust his tongue into her, making her even wetter than she already was inside. She closed her eyes, threw her head back and grabbed him by his long hair, tousling it even more. She found it hard not to writhe in pleasure and he could tell she was about to make her climax again by her uncontrollable moans, which grew louder as she clung even tighter to him.

After that he climbed on top of her and she noticed him settling back on top of her and between her legs, and she cooperated by wrapping her legs around his back. He didn't put on a condom as he knew it wasn't necessary.

He slid the tip of his member across her entrance as if he were painting on a canvas with a brush, causing her lips to open slightly, and then he inserted his member slowly, causing her to clutch at his back. She was very wet, but it was still hard to make her way in. "Fuck, you're tight..." he growled, his forehead resting on her shoulder and making her blush. "I thought you Black Widows had a lot of experience."

"What a subtle way to call me a slut," she said now slightly offended as he began to thrust into her, slower and then faster. Her moans were rising again, as she heard his hips grinding against her buttocks, and most of all, the bed frame bumping against the wall and the wetness inside her.

She decided not to hold back her moans as he began to thrust harder and faster, and soon after she felt that warm sensation again, moving down her belly and into her crotch. A few more thrusts and they were both on the verge of orgasm — she was moaning uncontrollably from her throat and begging him to please make her cum as she arched her back and tightened her fingers. He finished the same way, sighing and cumming inside her as her walls closed around him, her hips spasming before coming to a complete stop.

When they were done, exhausted and lying on their backs, they stared at the pitch black ceiling as they caught their breath.

"Okay, so..." she said suddenly, now calmer and after wiping herself with a packet of tissues that he took out of one of the drawers of the small table next to the bed. "You like me sexually, that's for sure, but... In general, why do you like me?"

"You're very curious," he said laughing quietly, "aren't you?" he asked as he turned his neck to the left even though he couldn't see her.

"If you were- if you two were" she corrected herself quickly, adding Bob to the equation as she did the same with her neck, only to the right, "clearer, I wouldn't have so many doubts," she said slightly annoyed.

"Well," he turned his neck towards the ceiling again, "you're attractive in many ways and you're the most powerful one here- after me, of course."

"Of course..." she repeated sarcastic, doing the same. "Thank you, I suppose...? Though I'm not the most powerful among the others by far."

"That's what you think," he said surprisingly serious, "but you have potential. Maybe with proper training you could have gotten into my mind back then."

After that she was silent and thoughtful for a few seconds, and decided to change the subject.

"When... can I talk to Bob?" she asked turning sideways.

"Do you really want to talk to him right now?" he grumbled, to which she now laughed quietly.

"No, but soon, okay?" she said poking him in the arm.

"Okaaay, okay."

She was exhausted, and he let her sleep there, in his bed. They both suffered from insomnia, but after all they had done, falling asleep was easier, especially for her. She was the first to fall asleep and the last to wake up — the last to fall asleep was Void, and the first to wake up was Bob.

He woke up slowly, and opened his eyes in surprise and confusion when he noticed that he was completely naked. The confusion got worse when he noticed someone next to him, and that someone wasn't just anyone — it was _______ and just like him she was naked, he could see it because there was some morning light coming in through the window of the bedroom. He blushed and panicked, having her there with him and guessing what happened in the night between her and Void. As usual he didn't remember anything and thought that, as usual, Void would take control of his body — but to his surprise he didn't, so he panicked even more.

He stretched out his arm until he could reach for his mobile phone on the small table to his right, trying not to move too much or make too much noise so that the sleeping woman to his left would not wake up. He looked at the time, but that wasn't really the information he wanted to get — he wanted to go to the notes app in case there was a message from Void explaining the situation, but there was nothing there. The situation took a turn for the worse when he noticed her stretch and move towards him, curling up next to him.

"Good morning," she whispered tiredly, her eyes still closed.

"Uh... Good morning...?" he asked extremely confused, almost scared.

The moment she heard that, noticing his change of tone and his complete confusion, she opened her eyes wide and sat up, not caring that she was bare-chested and looking at him just as confused and scared as he was.

"Bob?" she asked nervously.

"Um yeah," he answered and did the same.

"Oh God, that bastard appears and disappears at the worst times!" She exclaimed annoyed, referring to Void as she sat cross-legged under the sheets.

"Tell me about it..." He whispered, "What... happened last night?"

"Oh, well..." She blushed as she remembered what happened, averting her gaze in another direction as she bit her lip. "A lot of things, actually..." she laughed nervously.

"I mean, you don't have to give me all those details," he said nervously and blushed as he sat down in the same way as her, "I just want to know what led to this..."

"Okay, so..." She sighed deeply and prepared to launch into the monologue that would be the explanation. "Well, I was having trouble falling asleep so I went to the kitchen to get a drink," she said looking into his eyes, but she got nervous so she looked down, and she wasn't the only one as he did the same while listening to her explanation, "but there I ran into you and Void appeared, then we greeted each other and mentioned you. He said that he protects you from me and that confused me, even more because I've been annoyed for months now by the fact that you've been ghosting me and whenever we're alone he literally always appears..." She said, gesturing with her hand and looking in another direction. "I wanted to talk to you about it but since I couldn't I asked him, and he asked me if I'd gone into your mind..." he tensed and looked at her again, even though she was crestfallen. "I said no, not because I can't as in his case, but because I don't want to, it seems to me an intrusion..." she said, now looking in the other direction. "Like sneaking into someone's house," she shrugged her shoulders. "So, all of a sudden... I think he confessed to me that he likes me...?" she asked confused, now finally looking him in the eyes — he was listening to her intently, but also confused, surprised and embarrassed. "Because he told me that and that literally that maybe that was also a reason why he always showed up when we were alone," she said looking down again and pointing at him with one hand, "so I decided to play along and he told me that if I didn't think he liked me that much he could show me, so we kissed, came here and... Well, the rest is history," she looked back into his eyes as she laughed nervously and shrugged, waiting for him to finally say something, but he was too busy sighing deeply and taking it all in to say anything.

"So, let's be clear... You really wanted to...?" He gestured with his hand, pointing at her with his index finger and then at his chest, and so on a couple of times.

"What?" she asked confused. "Fuck? Uh yeah, you're- you two are hot, and I had three orgasms..." she whispered, smiling but blushing.

"Oh..." he said surprised and blushing. "I'm glad, I guess..." She nodded silently and slowly, and they both stood in silent, crestfallen for a few seconds, not knowing what to do or say.

"Um, Bob..." she said nervously to get his attention as she craned her neck to look at him, and he did the same, "Have I ever done or said anything to you...? Or do you hate me because I'm a mutant...?" she said trying to hide her distress as much as possible, wanting to make it seem more like curiosity, but her tone and facial expression really gave her away.

"Hate you!?" he asked nervously. "No no, for God's sake! I don't hate you."

"Then... Why don't you talk to me? Why don't you look at me? Why do you disappear every time we're alone?" she asked as her voice broke and her eyes began to water. It broke his heart to see her like this, so vulnerable because of him: she was literally naked in body and soul.

"I... I'm afraid of your power," he confessed chagrined and defeated as she looked at him without understanding what he was referring to. "My mind it's a chaos, and... I don't want anyone to see that part of me nor my past, especially you all... Knowing that you have the power to do it and that you can't get into Void's mind... Two plus two equals four, I guess... Even when we're in a group I try to think of other things in case you're hearing my thoughts."

"I've never gone into your mind or any of the team's," she said shaking her head, "I don't generally like to do it because of what I said before, it's very invasive and none of my business... I wouldn't want anyone to enter my mind without my permission, without warning. I only do it on missions. And I don't listen to your thoughts or anyone else's, otherwise I wouldn't be able to go anywhere. That's more like... Mm..." She paused to look for a good example, "like going on Spotify and hitting play on a song — you have to go into the song and hit the button, if you don't you don't hear it..."

"Good to know..." he said sighing deeply again, but calmer.

"Yeah..." she did the same.

"I'm sorry I gave you such a hard time, I really couldn't imagine it was affecting you so much..." he said embarrassed.

"Don't worry about it anymore, the past it's in the past," she said trying to smile in a convincing way.

"Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

"Void made up for enough last night, but if you want another round..." She joked, causing him to blush again, more than at any point in the entire conversation. "I'm kidding!" but she wasn't completely kidding. "Let's get some breakfast, come on," she said as she laughed.

© trainer-from-unova / alicent burton | don’t plagiarise or translate any of my work

[simpofhans]

IT HAS BEEN 3 WEEKS AND I CAN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT BOBLENA.... THAT MEANS SOMETHING 💕💕💕😭😭😭 (they are one of my new otps definetely 🥹🥹🥹🩷💕)

Remember my words until 2026, they will be canon, I promise you 💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚💚

I just fell in love with them and I won't hesitate to say they are soulmates 💕

[highinhardtown]

He's just a little guy.

Meme redraw, please credit me if you use anywhere, alternate/spoiler versions under cut

[i-punch-on-pedos]

Yo I don’t post obvi but I just wanted to say smth about Bob, Thunderbolts, and people writing for Bob. I’ve seen a lot of people complaining about how Bob isn’t a child and such and such. Yet all they are referring to are fanfiction of him being submissive… Be deadass please, if you correlate childlike behavior with SÈXUAL submission you’re a weirdo. God forbid after years of implied drug abuse a man wants to be taken care of.

I’m tired of the complaining seriously, if you don’t like how someone is writing something don’t fucking read it? It’s even weirder for you to go to someone else’s blog, talk shit about another writer, and then move on. Helping would be giving feedback instead of tearing other people down.

Don’t read what you don’t like and grow up.

Anyways Here are some good writers for Sub Bob content: @sgfgmichaelrry @undyingdecay @lewmagoo @swordgrace @mutantg1rl (Not all good writers btw just the ones that come to mind)

[starymoondoodles]

ɪᴛ ᴄᴀᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ | BӨB'Ƨ VӨID

╔═══════☆♡☆═══════╗

Program: Clip Studio Paint EX

DON'T REPOST ON OTHER PLATFORMS WITHOUT PERMISSION

GIVE CREDIT IF U USE IT AS A PFP!

╚═══════☆♡☆═══════╝

The playlist I made and just kept listening to while making this so I hope you enjoy not only the art but the curated playlist <3

I wanted to do songs that I think he would listen to as well as kinda fuel his angst and pain, something he would listen to wide awake lying in bed.

[imdonnalynn]

Agatha All Along & Wanda Maximoff "Scarlet Witch" My Thoughts and Speculations!

"Every witch with a beating heart can hear you now." This is what Agatha Harkness told Billy Maximoff in S1E6 Familiar By Thy Side

If my theory about Wanda Maximoff "Scarlet Witch" not being dead is right and she's just in hiding, self isolation (possibly the Void or some other plane of existence that hasn't been seen in the MCU. You can't ignore the blast of red power when it collapsed) based on Agatha's own words Wanda will be able to sense her son now...and we know how determined and protective she is of her children...I just feel a grand cameo coming toward the end. Maybe even a post credit scene of some kind in the form of a voice cameo where she's THERE but she's off screen.

There are rumors galore that Wanda is about to become the forefront of the MCU into the Mutant Saga and it would be so cool if Wanda and Agatha became witch companions, their own coven. Wanda could keep Agatha in line I think.

AHHH! I'M SO EXCITED OF THE POSSIBILITIES!!!!!

[simpofhans]

I LOVE HIM SO MUCH 😭😭😭💕💕🖤🖤

Bob

[coralinejones]

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

[eyelessfaces]

[phoenixes-and-wizards]

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

[undyingdecay]

pairing: robert reynolds x reader cw: smut, bob has sensory issues, afab reader, faint talks and mentions of mental health, very faint non-con aspects, oral (female receiving) vaginal fingering, nipple play, humping, dry humping.

after consuming the serum, bob became extremely hypersensitive and aware of things—so much so that even the faintest kind of touch could send his whole nervous system reeling.

he didn’t snap, didn’t yell, didn’t push you away in frustration. never. he would just murmur softly—almost apologetically—that he “couldn’t be touched right now.”

there was always a pause before he said it. like he was trying not to disappoint you. like he was ashamed of the way his body betrayed him.

the sensitivity extended to the mundane—fabric on his skin, loud ambient noises, even too many lights in a room. sometimes, in the tower, he’d forgo wearing a shirt entirely, just letting his skin breathe. his golden skin, speckled with sweat and goosebumps, would gleam under the artificial lights, flushed in pinks and reds where the air felt too cold. more often than not, he’d pace barefoot in nothing but drawstring pants, arms crossed over his chest like a barrier, avoiding eye contact with anyone who passed by in the halls. it earned him glances. side comments.

especially from walker, who never quite understood that bob’s vulnerability wasn’t weakness—it was survival.

you caught one of those glares once—when you’d been walking down the hallway beside bob, your hand ghosting near the small of his back but not quite touching him. john’s voice, muttered low, just enough to catch your ear:

“isn’t he a little delicate for a guy who can tear satellites out the sky?”

which, naturally, meant john wanted you to use his tower card for a little shopping spree. you told yourself it was reparations. he slept like a boulder, so slipping the card from his wallet was easy enough, and by the end of the afternoon, you were $1,500 deep in a blur of textures and fabrics, cotton shirts so soft they felt like clouds under your fingertips, corduroy pants that didn’t snag against his skin, jeans carefully vetted so they didn’t “feel weird,” sweatshirts knit from the kind of threads that wouldn’t spark his nerves alight. 

you didn’t tell bob how much you spent. not for lack of him trying. he always asked to see the receipt—voice so careful, so earnestly sweet, like he was hoping it didn’t trouble you too much. but you just kissed his forehead and told him to focus on how good it all felt.

clothing was easy. sex was harder.

because bob was always easy to overstimulate. that part wasn’t the serum. that part was just… bob.

now, sometimes—when his body couldn’t regulate anything, when his chest felt like it was cracking open from the inside out—you could barely blow air across the flushed head of his cock before he was gasping, crying out, arching up into the empty space like the very air was too much. milky-white cum painting his abs, tears streaking down his cheeks as he gasped—“holy—fuck!—shit,” or “please—’m sorry i am—i’m so sorry—!”

and god help him, the one time you’d tried to sink down onto him during one of those episodes, he’d cum in you twice before you’d even managed to bottom out. his face had crumpled, eyes screwed shut, bottom lip bitten raw as he choked out little whimpers. you’d barely been able to move without hurting him, the hypersensitivity turning pleasure into something agonizing. 

and when you finally slid off of what little you’d taken, it was messy—cum leaking out of you, dripping down his shaft, and pooling hot between your thighs. his body trembled under yours, head thrown back against the pillow, adam’s apple bobbing with every sharp swallow. he whimpered, voice wrecked, saying he wanted you to keep it inside—like it meant something. like it mattered. he’d made this broken little sound, throat bobbing as he begged you to leave it in, trembling hands trying to push it back inside you with his fingers.

“i need it—i… jus’ wanna keep it there, please—”

you’d figured out workarounds since then. bob was desperate to give you pleasure, to feel useful in that way, to prove to himself he wasn’t a burden. his fingers would tremble as he pushed them inside you, skin prickling with sparks like every nerve ending had a live wire attached. his tongue — too hot, too greedy — left him shaking after, the taste of you almost too much, something primal unspooling inside him until his hands clenched the sheets like he was drowning.

just like now.

he was between your thighs, eyes glassy, lips slick and flushed, the muscles in his jaw tight as his tongue worked in slow, heavy drags. every time he swallowed, you could feel it — the tremor that ran through his body, like the flavor of you was too much, like it short-circuited the careful defenses his body tried to maintain. he was too vocal. he always was. little choked-off whimpers and desperate sounds spilling out between licks.

you’d warned him earlier—told him he didn’t have to. but he wanted to. he always wanted to.

eventually, you had to take him by the roots of his brunette hair and pull him back, gently. not because it hurt—but because it was too much. for him.

he didn’t even gasp for air. didn’t complain. just blinked up at you, pupils blown so wide his eyes looked almost black in the low light, tongue peeking out to taste your arousal off his lips.

“was i… not good?” he asked, voice soft, cracked, like it physically hurt to even suggest he might not have pleased you.

you sighed, brushing damp hair off his forehead. “it’s too much for you. i can’t tell if you’re okay when you look like you’re about to pass out.”

his brows pulled together, lips twitching like he wanted to argue, to tell you it didn’t matter, that he wanted this — needed it. “i wanna make you feel good. it’s fine, i swear—”

he reached for you, to part your thighs again, and you tugged his hair a little harder in warning. he froze.

“lay down, bob. let’s sleep.”

“don’t do this… please,” he whispered, voice breaking in the middle like a little boy told he couldn’t have something shiny in the store window.

you didn’t have to say another word. he sighed, defeated, crawling up the bed, big body moving slow like every muscle ached. you pulled back the comforter and let him slip beneath it, sheets freshly washed, and you could feel his eyes boring into your back like a heat lamp as you turned off the lamp. you knew he was pouting. you could practically hear it in the tight huff of his breath, in the way he curled up closer behind you but didn’t touch.

this could wait until morning.

except it didn’t.

four hours later, sleep a heavy fog in your skull, you felt a hand shaking you. gentle. careful. but persistent. you cracked an eye open to see bob’s face in the moonlight, curls mussed, pupils still wide and dark as he bit his lip.

you shifted, instantly aware of the slick between your thighs, panties pushed halfway down, skin damp and sticky like you’d been worked over while you slept. bob’s fingers glistened faintly in the low light.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered, voice so low it barely stirred the air. “i… i knew you still needed me. you’re wet, look—”

“bob,” you groaned, hand dragging down your face. “it’s too much for you to even finger me, baby. i can take care of myself.”

he made a choked sound, eyes glossy. “i don’t want you to.” it was a whine, petulant and achingly sincere, like the idea of you touching yourself was betrayal.

he moved, laying back flat, curls spilling over the pillow, pink lips slick, and you couldn’t tell if it was from your slick or his own spit. he patted his thighs, coaxing.

you sighed, sliding over to straddle him, body curling down against his chest. it wasn’t new. bob liked the weight of you. said it grounded him. you kicked your panties the rest of the way off as his arms wound around your waist, holding you tight.

it stayed like that a while. long enough you thought he might fall asleep. until his hand ghosted down, fingers dipping to your cunt, finding you still wet, the contact making you jolt.

he looked up at you like he was working out a math problem, then without a word, tugged his own shirt up, exposing the pale pink of his nipples, flushed and damp with sweat. you swallowed, arousal stirring.

he was beautiful like this—golden even in the moonlight, carved like myth, the kind of man gods were modeled after. you told him that once, and he’d given you that shy smile he always did—boyish, bashful, like it embarrassed him to be seen.

and then, all at once, his hands found your hips—gripping them with a strength you forgot he had. big palms wrapping around your flesh, fingers splaying across the softness of your sides like he was trying to memorize the shape of you by feel alone. he lifted you with barely any effort, drawing you up his body until your clit nestled into the firm dip between his abs. a sudden swell of heat flushed through your core as your skin met the slick warmth of his stomach—his skin clammy, trembling, and sticky with a sheen of sweat that caught the light from the half-open window.

the contact made you gasp.

it wasn’t just friction. it was everything.

that perfect, ridged line between his abdominal muscles pressed hot and smooth right where you needed it, and your cunt responded instinctively—throbbing, aching, wetness renewing in a slow, sticky seep that soaked between your folds and onto the tight muscle of his stomach.

bob’s breath hitched beneath you. you felt it.

his whole body went tense again—legs rigid beneath the sheet, shoulders straining against the pillows—but he didn’t stop you. if anything, his grip on your hips tightened, almost needy, thumbs stroking up and down like he was soothing himself even as he guided you forward.

“jus’ want you to feel good,” he whispered again, voice half-gone, eyes wide and blue and wet beneath the mess of dark curls.

you rocked your hips gently—just once, just to test how much he could take—and his head thumped back to the pillow like gravity had stolen his spine.

his breath broke out in a ragged whimper.

that little movement had smeared your slick along the soft trail of hair beneath his navel, and the effect it had on him was immediate—his cock twitched where it lay heavy in his boxers, untouched and already leaking from the tip, precum surely pooling messily against the fabric.

“you’re—fuck,” bob stammered, brows scrunching like the world was ending. “you’re dripping on me.”

he said it like he couldn’t believe it. like the heat of your cunt against his stomach was some kind of religious punishment.

you rolled your hips again, slower this time, dragging your clit along the taut groove of muscle running diagonally across his belly. the sensation sent a low, needy ache spiraling down your spine, and bob felt it—he gasped, one hand flying to grip the pillow beside his head while the other stayed anchored to your waist, grounding himself with the warmth of your skin.

“i can’t—i can’t even move or i’ll—” his voice cracked with shame and lust all tangled up in the same breath. “but you can… you can keep going. want you to. need you to.”

“just like this?” you asked softly, dragging yourself over him again—longer this time, letting your clit grind into the top of his abs with a rhythm that was more deliberate, more dangerous.

bob nodded frantically, curls bouncing against the pillow. his lips parted but no real words came out—just these sounds, these desperate little ahh—hhuh noises, like his whole body was unraveling under you.

his thighs twitched. his hands flexed.

you looked down and saw the trail of slick glistening across his stomach—shining in the moonlight like something holy. it smeared across the center of his chest now too, where you’d balanced your hands earlier. his whole body looked like it had been marked by you. like you’d been anointed onto him.

“you’re doing so good,” you whispered, and bob’s breath stuttered out of his lungs like it shattered something in him. “so good for me, baby…”

“don’t stop—don’t stop, please—i can take it,” he said, but it was a lie. a beautiful, reckless lie. his voice cracked on every syllable. his abs trembled beneath your cunt, muscles seizing and jerking in overstimulated flinches with every grind of your hips.

and still, he held you there. still, he kept pulling you forward with the tips of his fingers, even as tears started to well in the corners of his eyes again.

you leaned down—kissed the corner of his mouth, then the flushed apple of his cheek—and his head turned instinctively to follow you, mouth brushing against your jaw with a needy little sound. his cock lay untouched between you, neglected and twitching

the more you moved, the wetter everything became—your arousal slicking his stomach, pooling along the contours of his abs, hot and glistening in the moonlight. his skin beneath you grew slippery, sticky with your need, and every tiny roll of your hips only made it worse—only made it better. every pass of your clit over that shallow dip in his midsection sent jolts ricocheting up your spine, and the more friction you fed yourself, the more you lost the ability to form full thoughts. you could feel it building fast—too fast. not from penetration, not from anything more than pressure and heat and the sound of him.

and bob—god, bob—he was trembling now. the muscles of his arms, his thighs, even his neck—everything was twitching, caught in a crosswire of overstimulation and restraint. he couldn’t even hide it. broken, messy whines kept slipping from his mouth, each one spilling out in the same staggered rhythm as your hips. he was trying so hard to stay still beneath you, to let you ride it out the way your body so clearly needed, but it was killing him.

then there was his cock—helplessly twitching, swollen and soaked. so much precum had spilled out of him, it’d long since leaked through the thin white cotton. you didn’t even have to touch it—you could see the blushing pink of his tip pressing against the wet fabric, throbbing.

“‘m—cumming,” you managed to gasp out—voice cracking, more of a sob than a warning. you were shaking, bracing one hand against his chest, and immediately bob’s hands flew to your hips, grabbing on tight.

he didn’t ease you through it—he pushed. rocked you harder, faster, more desperate than he had any right to be. like it was his orgasm you were having. like he could feel it inside his own body. bob’s hands fly back to your waist like instinct. like his body was made to respond to yours. his fingers press deep into your flesh as he starts rocking you—violently, desperately—dragging your soaked cunt forward and back across the slick plane of his stomach, chasing your orgasm like it’s his own. like if he works hard enough, fast enough, good enough, he can feel it through you. with you.

“come on,” he begged under his breath, head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut. “come on—please—wanna feel it—give it to me—”

his voice broke on the last syllable.

and through the heat and the overwhelming wave crashing through you, you reached down—your fingers shaking—and dragged them through the mess coating his abs. your slick clung to the ridges of his muscles, warm and thick and yours, and you brought it straight up to his chest.

he didn’t even flinch.

you thumbed the arousal over one nipple, then the other, and bob jerked beneath you—hips spasming, mouth falling open in a wet, stuttering moan. his hands tightened at your waist like he didn’t know if he wanted to pull you closer or throw you off—but he didn’t do either. he just endured it. just let himself fall apart under you.

the sounds he made—god. soft, desperate whimpers spilling over into tears, gasping little hitching breaths every time your fingers circled one pink, flushed bud, your wetness smearing across his chest like it belonged there.

“does that feel good?” you whispered, barely able to speak as your own orgasm ran hot through your bloodstream. your body pulsed over him, your thighs trembling, your clit pressed so tightly to his skin you were practically convulsing. “you like it when i rub it into you, baby?”

he nodded, head lolling against the pillow as his breath stuttered out of him. “fuck, yes—yes—i love it, please don’t stop,” he moaned, eyes fluttering open just to find your face. he was glassy-eyed, like he’d cry if you even breathed the wrong way.

your fingers pinched one of his nipples, just lightly, and his entire body shook.

the mess between you was obscene now—your slick streaking across his abs, his chest, the faint trail of his cum still leaking through the fabric of his boxers and sticking to your thighs. you could feel it—hot and slick—when you rolled your hips forward just a little more, just enough to grind back down against that perfect dip in his body that made you twitch.

“feels like i’m gonna—gonna—” he gasped out, voice strangled, hips bucking uselessly beneath you. he was rutting against nothing, no friction, no stimulation to his cock at all except the wet cling of his ruined underwear and your body grinding above him. he looked frantic. like his brain was short-circuiting just from watching you unravel.

you leaned down, pressing your forehead to his, your noses touching. your breath mingled. you could smell yourself on him, taste it in the air, and that only made your stomach clench tighter.

“you wanna cum too?” you asked, low and coaxing, the softest ache curling around your voice. 

“i—i c-can’t—” he stammered, his voice breaking so completely you felt it vibrate against your lips. “didn’t even touch me—didn’t touch—and i’m—”

you felt it then—the sudden twitch of his thighs beneath you, the way his body jerked. he came. without ever being touched. just from the scent of you, the warmth of you, the taste still lingering on his lips and your slick soaking into his skin.

the sound he made was unlike anything you’d ever heard—half-sob, half-praise, trembling with so much feeling it made your chest hurt.

you rocked against him once more, gently, as he spilled himself into his underwear, the front of the fabric darkening even more, clinging lewdly to the outline of his cock. your cunt was still throbbing, still pulsing against his belly, but now you felt that soft little aftershock ripple up your spine. it made your fingers tremble where they still rested on his chest, your hand smearing another stripe of wetness over his nipple. he twitched again. whimpered again.

your orgasm crashes over you so hard it nearly knocks the wind from your lungs. you grind harder—shaking, crying out—as your clit pulses against his stomach. you feel your own slick gush again, dripping down over his abs, down his sides, pooling beneath you. and still—still—he’s dragging you through it, milking every second of your orgasm like it’s a shared act of devotion. like it hurts him not to give you more.

you collapse forward, arms trembling as you brace yourself against his chest, mouth falling open, forehead brushing against the hollow of his throat. he’s so warm. and he smells like salt and sweat and the faintest trace of his body wash—the kind you bought for him, the one that doesn’t make his skin itch.

bob’s heart is pounding beneath your cheek. you can feel it slamming into your ear like it’s trying to escape his chest. his breathing is short and erratic, the skin of his abs flexing under your hips with every aftershock he suffers just from the stimulation of you—not even being touched.

his arms fold around you, trembling but firm. protective. possessive.

you shift just slightly, and your slickened pussy brushes the very top of his briefs where his cock is still twitching visibly beneath the soaked fabric.

bob lets out a sound—half moan, half sob. “i’m gonna—fuck, i think i—please don’t move—!” his voice ringing from overstimulaton.

you freeze immediately.

you pressed a soft kiss to his nipple, an breathlessly giggle out a faint apology.

“wanna feel you all the time,” he mumbled, still dazed, his voice sleepier now, like he was crashing from the high. “you make me feel full. even when i’m empty.”

that made your chest squeeze. that sentence. the truth in it.

and for once, the tower was quiet.

no lights. no noise. just the faint moonlight casting long, gentle shadows against the wall. the echo of breathing that slowly began to steady. the heartbeat under your ear.

you stayed there for a long while, sticky and raw and satisfied—your bodies cooling down together, your minds settling into something quiet. bob’s fingers twitched at your back, still reflexively trying to keep you close.

eventually, he whispered again.

“i like when you leave your mess on me.”

you smiled, your lips brushing his skin.

“i know.”

[trainer-from-unova]

The small white dots in his eyes...

[absencecfpresence]

welcome back 2014 marvel tumblr

[highinhardtown]

My other Bob playlist that is more so Sentry and Void, hence the title. Enjoy!

[rummikubcube]

What if you were a METH ADDICT, who came from an ABUSIVE HOUSEHOLD, and then you decided that you wanted to TRY AND BE GOOD (OR/AND FIND NEW DRUGS), so you went to a shady lab in MALAYSIA, and then you kinda DIED, and then you RESUSCITATED with GODLIKE POWERS, and some shady Russian blonde presented you with ADOPTION PAPERS, and saved you from your crushing evil alter ego depression with the POWER OF FRIENDSHIP-