vampishnes

[vampishnes]

Sanguine Hunger: Feel the Rain On Your Skin

Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four, Chapter five, Chapter six, Chapter seven, Chapter eight, Chapter nine, Chapter ten. Pairings: Bob x FemThunderbolts!ExAvenger!Reader, Platonic!Thunderbolts & Fem!Reader Summary: You wanted to grow from your guilt; you wanted to stop hiding from the past you wished every night you could change. You wanted this life. Tags: No use of ‘Y/N’. Female reader. Slow burn! Found family, 'slice of life', Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Mildly suggestive content at the start. Word count: 3.5k A/N: And with that? We are finished. This is the first fic I have written to completion in the last 5+ years. This chapter was almost called "the rest is still unwritten" but I was told that would make it seem like I just didn't finish it, lol. I have a lot of fics lined up for this OC and more OC's in reader inserts, but this will likely be the last multi-chap Bob Reynolds one I write. Thank you for all the love.

You began to shift slowly out of bed, careful not to stir Bob beside you. There was a sweet soreness to every movement; it echoed in every place he’d touched, kissed, claimed. You let your legs hang off the side of the bed for a moment, body laid bare underneath the beams of light. The air was warm on your sun kissed skin, and that warm fuzzy feeling furrowed inside you too.

You stood up and padded along the cold wood floor towards the bathroom. Your thighs brushed together with each step — still unclean from last night. The memory made your breath stutter, feeling every phantom feeling of him.

You clicked the door behind you and reached beside you to click on the lights. The morning seeped through the frosted window and mingled with the faint pale lights above.

You leaned against the sink and stared at the wrecked reflection before you. Your hair was a complete mess, tousled each and every way. You titled your head, revealing the splotches dotted in light red down the curve of your throat. You could still feel the faint heat of his tongue down your throat, the way it travelled down from your collarbone to the cusp of your breast. You raised a soft finger to the mark; it felt no different, but the heat that curled in the depths of your stomach told you all you needed to know.

You reached for the shower knob and twisted it. The pipes groaned before warm water began to stream down, steam already starting to fog the mirror.

The water hit your sore muscles like a salve; it travelled down the most bruised parts of you and coated you in warm showers of relief. You rolled your aching shoulders under its touch and began to rub yesterday's grime off. You leaned forward and let your head fall under its heavy downpour. 

For a few quiet seconds, you just stood there, letting it all rush over you, before grabbing a few pumps of soap and lathering your fatigued body. You watched the water pool at your feet before swirling down the drain with a gurgle. You ran your soapy hands over your arms, your legs, across your stomach; feeling each ripple of scars and each new memory etched into your skin. The scent of him hadn’t washed away, not that you wanted it to.

You titled your face up to the stream, feeling the sharp spray slap across your face, but even the water couldn’t wash away the lingering feelings of yesterday. You heard the bathroom door creak open slightly and angled your head to the door.

“Hey,” Bob’s voice came gently from the other side of the glass. “Just wanted to make sure you’re alright.” “I’m okay, just needed a rinse,” you called back, letting your fingers trail down your body. “Didn’t mean to wake you.” “You didn’t,” he said, “I couldn’t stay in bed without you.”

You reached for the glass door, sliding it open just a few inches, and watched the steam rush out in a swirl. “Did you want to join me?” You peeked around the edge and met his eyes. “I’m sure you’re just as dirty as me.”

His brows lifted in response, his gaze raking across your body. “Oh, uh—yes. Yes I would.”

You stepped aside and turned around to continue washing your body. For a moment, he didn’t touch you; he simply stood behind you. You could feel the heat of him, the way the rhythm of your own breathing changed. His hand came to rest gently on your hip. You let yourself lean back against him, your wet skin sliding against his as his arms came around you. He was so warm, his chin brushing the top of your shoulder as he exhaled against your neck.

“If you’re feeling better today, I was thinking we could start on the garden.”

You turned in his arms, watching the water catch on his lashes as he looked at you. His hair was darkened with water, straightening across his face at the ends. 

You reached up and ran your thumb across his cheekbone. “That sounds great.”

Bobs eyes softened as you spoke, a smile peeking at the corners of his mouth. He leaned down, the only sound between you was the soft rhythm of water falling. He gave a soft kiss to your head before reaching for the soap beside you. He squeezed a dot on his hands before lathering it on his hands.

“Turn around.”

You did, slowly, and let your eyes fall shut as his hands touched your back. His fingers moved with gentle pressure, the pads of them tracing suds along the curve of your spine. “You always take care of everyone else,” he said quietly. “I wanted to take care of you.” He moved lower, kneeling slightly to run his hands down your calves. When he rose, he pressed a soft kiss between your shoulder blades.

You turned again to face him, lifting your hand to his chest. “Let me?”

He nodded. You took the soap and began to work it into his skin, your touch as slow as his had been. As you rinsed him off, he caught your hand and brought it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of your fingers.

Bob reached past you and turned the knob off. He grabbed two towels from the hook and handed you one. You wrapped it around your body, and watched as he draped his own towel around his hips.

You followed him out the bathroom, and walked to your wardrobe as he reached in his bag to grab his own clothes. You tugged on a pair of soft cotton underwear along with a comfortable bra before rummaging around for more clothes. Eventually, you landed on a simple black tank top, along with a well-worn pair of denim jeans.

Bob passed behind you, brushing a hand against your lower back as he moved toward the desk. You glanced at him in the mirror as you buttoned the soft flannel shirt halfway up. You tugged a pair of socks on before slipping on your boots.

When you looked up, Bob was watching you. His jeans were only half-buttoned, his shirt still clutched in one hand.

“What?” you asked, unable to suppress the smile growing on your face.

He blinked like he’d been caught. 

“Nothing,” he said. “You just look good.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’d be happier with some food in me.” He quickly pulled his shirt over his head before walking over to you and pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

He finished up remarkably fast, and before you knew it, you were sat on the kitchen stool again. By the time you got into the kitchen, however, it was already bustling.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Yelena muttered, gesturing to the eggs sizzling in the pan as Walker added protein powder. You winced at the sight before feeling that familiar hungry growl in your stomach.

“I have a physique to maintain.” He shot back, adding another large scoop of white dust to his pot. Yelena rolled her eyes and grimaced at him before turning back to her tablet.

“Why not just eat powder by itself?” Alexei asked through a mouthful of cereal, the brand with all of your faces on, of course. Milk caught in his moustache before dribbling down his chin. Walker snapped his head behind him in shock, unsure how to respond to such an absurd question.

“Wait, are you just eating the powder?” Ava looked up from the cupboards below the counters with a pot in her hand.

“Yes?” Alexei responded, shrugging. Ava shook her head in disgust before turning around to shimmy herself between Bob and Walker for her own spot at the stove.

“Do you not choke?” You asked, rubbing your temple slightly as he spoke. “You’re just eating dust.”

“My throat is incredibly moist,” Alexei added, earning a unanimous groan from the rest of the team. Bucky, especially, who sat on the stool beside you as Alexei continued to try to explain himself.

“That’s disgusting,” Bucky said. “I’m talking to you as well, Walker.”

Walker put his hands up in disbelief, the spatula in his hand flinging small bits of egg. “It’s called being healthy.”

You locked eyes with Bob across the kitchen; he’d just finished setting up the coffee machine — meaning you’d have to spend another ten minutes coffee-less with the constant bickering.

Bob moved across the kitchen and opened a cupboard above Ava’s head. He rummaged around before his shoulders deflated. “Where’s the bread?”

“I finished it off this morning.” Yelena said, not tearing her eyes up from her tablet. Bob groaned before making his way over to the freezer.

“Yelena, you need to write it down on the board after you finish something,” Walker said, further scrambling his protein-eggs.

“That system is stupid,” She responded, finally tearing her gaze from the screen and taking a sip from her mug. “Why don’t we get someone to program an automatic checker-thing?” She wildly gestured with her hand as she spoke.

“Because it takes two seconds to write down.” Walker bit back, scooping his food onto a plate.

Bob handed you your mug at last, steam curling into your face as you wrapped your hands around it. You took a long sip and sighed. “Mood improved?” Bob asked, pouring himself a mug of coffee before being flagged down by Ava and Alexei for a mug.

You nodded. “Still hungry.”

“Waffles are in the toaster,” Bob responded, taking a gulp from his own mug.

You turned to look around the table and saw Bucky staring right at you, almost through you. Something churned, as if he could see everything that went down last night.

“Me and Bob are going up to the garden after breakfast, if anyone would like to help us.”

“I forgot you guys were still doing that” Ava commented, raising an eyebrow.

“It’ll be fun” You said.

“Fun is a strong word for having to carry around heavy shit all day,” Yelena muttered, but she didn’t say no.

“I’ll help,” Bucky offered with a shrug, finishing the last bite of his own breakfast. “Might as well help with what you guys spent all our money on.”

After a few more minutes of back-and-forth, everyone had agreed to help with the heavy lifting you knew you couldn’t do, especially not in the state you were in. You finished up your waffles and chugged down the remainder of your coffee before moving to the roof.

As you stepped out the elevator door and onto the rooftop, the warmth hit you like a wave. There was still a slight breeze to the air and grey clouds in the sky; you could feel the way spring was slowly turning into summer. You knew the others would be at least another fifteen minutes of eating their own breakfasts and talking between themselves.

The rooftop was still bare, albeit with the porcelain floor tiling put down. Only the mountain of boxes beside you broke the emptiness, a sight that sent a familiar knot of dread tightening in your chest – so much still to do.

You began to rummage through the boxes. With a grunt of effort, you hauled one away from the pile, dragging it towards the centre. It landed with a soft thud, and you sank down beside it, winded.

You grabbed the nearest sharp object you could and cut through the tape before tearing open the cardboard box. You couldn’t start planting without the plant beds being done. Piece by piece, you unloaded the raw wooden components onto the cool tiles, spreading them out with the instruction sheet.

Bob joined you a moment later, quietly handing over the toolbox. The two of you worked in peaceful silence for a while. The clouds shifted above you, casting soft shadows across the rooftop.

“I hope it was okay I asked the others to join us?” You said, hammering in a nail to the wood beneath it.

“No, I was going to ask myself. Between just us two?” He looked around, wincing slightly at the large pile of things still needed to be done. “This would’ve taken until next spring.”

You let yourself laugh at his words, settling your head down on his shoulder. “I wouldn’t have minded if it took that long.”

“Me neither,” Bob replied, settling another piece of wood down. “But I’ll be happier knowing our little safe space is done quicker.”

You nodded, brushing sawdust from the instruction sheet to double-check your work. Perfect. Then came the familiar sound of the elevator opening behind you.

You stood and dusted your hands off. “Took you guys long enough,” you crossed your arms across your chest and smiled.

“Yeah, yeah, I still think this is a terrible idea.” Walker said, picking up another cardboard box and putting it down beside Bob with ease.

The others followed suit; grabbing a box, setting it down, tearing it open and then spending the next half hour trying to figure out the instructions and eventually putting it together.

Bob stayed close by, occasionally glancing your way to check you hadn’t overexerted yourself. When he offered water, you took it. When he brushed your back gently after you stood too fast, you didn’t pull away.

Soon enough, you had thirty raised plant beds of different sizes and shapes, just less than half of what you needed. You helped bring a few over to the placement spots that the worker had allocated for you but most of the heavy lifting was taken over by Bucky and Walker.

You stepped back to admire the rows of wood; it had created a maze of sorts, a beautiful pathway to what would eventually be a lounging space covered by green. But the work was hardly close to being finished.

With a grunt, you bent and hefted the nearest heavy bag of soil into your arms. Before you could get far, a pair of arms reached around you from behind, bracketing yours and lifting the weight out of your hands.

“You promised you’d take it easy,” Bob murmured. You hadn’t even heard him step up behind you. “Let me.”

Reluctantly, you let go and watched him walk over to the wooden plant beds. His shirt clung to his back, and you stared at the sharp definition of his back muscles. You caught Bucky’s eye as you turned, and he just raised his eyebrows knowingly.

“Alright,” Ava called. “Where do we dump this stuff?”

“Start filling from the back,” you said, pointing toward the row of larger beds near the edge. “Then work forward. The planters need to be about two-thirds full before we start mixing in compost.”

“Alright,” Yelena grabbed one of the smaller bags with a grunt. “You better feed us for this.”

“I promise that I’ll make dinner tonight,” you replied. “Nothing with protein powder.”

“Rude,” Walker grumbled, emptying his own bag into a raised bed beside Bucky. “You’ll be begging for my protein pasta by next week.”

“I’d rather starve,” Ava replied.

Soon, that became the routine. Ava and Yelena would hand over another bag of soil to Bucky, Walker, and Alexei, who would pour it into the plant bed. Every hand over was filled with bickering.

You and Bob stayed off to the side, preparing the manure along with readying the already grown plants to be planted into new soil. Sweat clung to your forehead, and dampened your shirt in patches.

“You okay?” Bob asked, lifting his head up from detaching the chunks of soil from the roots of a plant.

“Yeah, thanks,” you tugged your flannel off, the muggy air having got to you. You’d never wished more to be a super soldier than now.

“Thanks for what?”

“For keeping an eye on me,” you said, meeting his gaze. “Even when I pretend I don’t need it.”

His expression softened. “I don’t mind looking after the person I care about.”

You shot him a smile before returning to the manure in your hands, breaking the big clumps down as much as you could before carrying the first tub over beside Bucky’s legs.

By the time the last bed had been filled with soil, manure and a large chunk of plants, the rooftop smelled like earth. You stood at the edge, your boots caked with dirt, hands resting on your hips, your chest rising and falling with fatigue.

Behind you, the others sprawled across the rooftop in various states of exhaustion. Yelena sat cross-legged on an empty soil bag, glaring at her filthy nails. While Ava had collapsed onto the patch of fake turf you’d yet to lay out.

You could hear their voices talking behind you, but they’d become a pleasant sort of background noise. The kind you didn’t mind listening to forever.

“Still think it’s a terrible idea, Walker?” you called over your shoulder.

“Yes,” he replied without hesitation. “Doesn’t mean I’m not enjoying it while it lasts.”

You smirked and shook your head. Bob bumped his shoulder gently into yours and then you felt it, a single drop of water hit your bare arm. You looked up. The sky had thickened since you’d first come up; the sky no longer teased the threat of rain but promised it. Another drop hit your nose.

“Fuck off,” Ava groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Rain’s gonna come down hard,” Bucky said, pushing off the wall and grabbing a nearby tarp.

“We should cover what we can,” Bob said quickly. “The new soil and the compost shouldn’t get soaked.”

You helped toss tarps over the piles of compost and seed boxes, while Bob secured the edges with bricks. The first spatter of rain turned to a steady drizzle, soaking through your shirt in seconds.

Ava wiped her face, groaning loudly. “Nope. I’m out. This garden is your problem now.” Slowly, the rest trickled into the elevator as well, most of them thoroughly soaked.

Bucky gave a short nod toward you and Bob, brushing his damp hair from his eyes. “You two good?”

“Yeah,” Bob answered for you. “We’ll finish up here.”

“Alright.” Bucky turned, grabbed his jacket, and was the last to disappear behind the elevator doors.

You could see the garden start to take shape now, even through the blur of falling rain; the rows of wooden beds, the baby plants tucked safely in their new soil. You turned to face Bob, a smile plastered on both of your faces as rain kept drenching you further. Even as the rain continued heavy, and dragged down on your eyelashes, you couldn’t stop staring at him.

You laughed quietly, taking in the sight of him standing in the rain with that same wide-eyed look he always had when he looked at you, like he couldn’t believe you were real, that what was between you was real.

“You know,” you said, voice soft but steady, “I used to think this place would never feel like home again.”

Bob tilted his head. “Because of Tony?”

You nodded. “All he ever wanted was for me to be happy, he wanted Avengers tower to be mine after he died.” Bob reached for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. “When I left after the Sokovia accords, I thought I was leaving this all behind.”

Your throat tightened the more you let spill out. “I think he would be proud of me. Of who I’ve become.”

“He would be, and now we can grow something new, together.”

You tried to speak, but instead you laughed through the lump in your throat. “I feel like I’m in a rom-com.”

You stepped in closer, your hands sliding up his soaked chest to rest just below his collarbones. His arms circled your waist, pulling you in until there was no space between you. “I think I could spend the rest of my life, with you, like this.”

“Me too,” he responded, holding you in tight. “You don’t have to say anything back, but… I think I’ve known for a while, but it really hit me—in the shower, looking at you, at how beautiful you are. I realized I love you.”

You blinked. For a moment, all you could do was stare at him, the rain slipping down your cheeks. It wasn’t a word you’d allowed yourself to touch in a long time; you’d buried it beneath years of pretending you didn’t want it.

“I don’t-” you shook your head, trying to find the words. “I haven’t let myself love in a long time.” You took a breath to steady yourself. “But with you?” You met his eyes. “I love you too.”

The rain poured down harder now, flattening your hair to your cheeks, but neither of you moved. Bob reached up slowly, his fingers brushing a strand of wet hair from your face. His hand cradled your jaw as you lifted your chin to meet him. You relished in the feeling of his mouth on yours, the rain falling around you and when you finally pulled away, breathless, you rested your forehead against his. “I really love you.”

[vampishnes]

Sanguine Hunger: Picture You

Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four, Chapter five, Chapter six, Chapter seven, Chapter eight, Chapter nine, Chapter ten. Pairings: Bob x FemThunderbolts!ExAvenger!Reader Summary: Sexual tension resolved. Tags: No use of ‘Y/N’. Female reader. Slow burn! Found family, 'slice of life', Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, Unprotected P in V Word count: 2.2k A/N: This is my first time writing smut so i apologize if it isn't amazing! The next chapter is the last so thank you to everyone who's been sticking around :)

Outside the window, the city’s noises had faded to a murmur, but you barely noticed, your world having narrowed to the overwhelming presence of Bob. The scent of his shampoo clung to the sheets, the taste of him on your mouth.

The bedside lamp was the only thing casting light between you, and with every movement, your shadows swayed across the wall. Your body ached as you wrapped around him, yet the discomfort was easily drowned out by the way he held you. Your bare calf brushed against the heat of his back, and a warmth flowed through you with each touch.

You could hear the rhythm of his breathing and beneath it, you caught the frantic flutter of his heart. Where your shirt had ridden up, his fingers skimmed the delicate skin exposed around your waist in a feather-light touch; his rough callouses against you drew a soft gasp from your lips. 

In response, you slipped your hand beneath his shirt, your fingertips grazing the firm lines of his stomach. His muscles jolted, his breath hitching as you traced the lines of his stomach, memorizing the way his body shifted under your hand. His mouth withdrew from yours, but his eyes stayed locked onto you, his pupils dark and wide. 

Without a word, he leaned back, peeling his shirt away in one swift motion before throwing it to the side. Your gaze lingered on him, drinking in every inch now that nothing stood between your touch and his skin. You reached out again, your fingertips brushing the curve of his collarbone, trailing slowly down over his chest and leaving goosebumps in its wake. A fragile exhale broke from him, like his body was starved for what only you could give. 

Finally, he reached his lips back down to yours. His hand cradled the side of your face, you opened your mouth, tongue sliding against his even as your teeth clicked together in a desperate plea for more. Your hands travelled up his broad back, one resting at his waist while the other tangled in his hair. 

His fingers crept beneath the hem of your shirt, lifting it higher until the fabric caught under your chin. You raised your arms wordlessly, and he peeled it away with a kind of lightness that left your mouth dry. Leaving you in wine-red lace, delicate and nearly sheer, hiding almost nothing. 

His eyes swept over you slowly. He looked at you like nothing about this moment was insignificant, as if he could burn the image of your body forever in his mind. 

And when his eyes met yours again, they said what he didn’t: You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

His fingers brushed the lace at your shoulder, tracing the thin strap where it met your skin. He looked up, tensing his muscles as if he expected to be stopped. But you didn’t move him away, and so his touch deepened.

His thumb passed just beneath the curve of your breast, grazing the edge of the fabric. A soft gasp escaped you, and he paused, clearly enthralled by the sound; you watched his lips part slightly. He was learning you, teaching himself the gospel of your body. His fingers stretched further apart, exploring the shape of you through the barrier of lace. His hand slipped lower, fingers dipping beneath the edge of the bra. 

His other hand came to rest against your ribcage, anchoring himself as he explored you, gently tracing circles, waiting for each response. You exhaled shakily and tilted your hips ever so slightly toward him. A soft moan left your lips as he continued to knead the tender skin of your breast. 

His thumb brushed over your nipple, and the sound you made, sent waves through him. His mouth found your collarbone, trailing open-mouthed kisses down the line of your throat. Every inch his mouth felt seemed to warm your skin with the ache for more. 

He began kissing lower, his mouth brushing the top of your breast, before his hand came up from your ribcage to cup the bottom. He mouthed against you through the fabric, teasing your hard nipples. And still, his eyes were on you: through every shift in your breath, every tremble.

His mouth continued to swirl over your chest, making you arch with every exhale of warm air on your wet skin. You could feel the lace of your underwear dampening the longer he stayed. Your hips tipped up again, inviting him to take more, but his hand paused on the waistband of your shorts. You gave him a small nod. He grabbed the band tighter and tugged the thin cotton down. 

The fabric slid over your thighs, then your knees, then off entirely. Now, you lay bare in red lace, entirely dressed for him. You watched as his tongue darted from his mouth to lick the side of his lips, as if he could taste you just by looking. 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, the words blurring into a shaky exhale.

You wanted to deflect, to push the thought away, but the way he said it dragged you under; made you want to believe it. You reached for him, your fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants. His breath caught at your touch but he didn’t stop you. He raised his hips to help you as you shimmied the fabric further down his legs. 

Your mouth went slightly agape at the sight of him. He was hard, straining against the fabric of his boxers. The shape of him was thick, his cock defined in a way that made your thigh clench. He shifted under your gaze, uncertain of the meaning behind your staring.

You reached forward, placing your hand at his hip, and traced a line down his hipbone with your finger. You continued your path up his abdomen, reveling in the feeling of his muscles twitching as you teased him. He leaned forward again, kissing you desperately. His mouth tasted like stale toothpaste and warmth as you sucked his bottom lip into your mouth. 

He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down your neck, nipping lightly at the spot just beneath your ear before dragging his mouth along the curve of your shoulder. You felt heat bloom at the tips of your ears as his hand slid around your back, fingers searching for the clasps of your bra.  

He fumbled briefly before unfastening it. Instinctively, you brought a hand up to catch it before it could fall, and then, with a slow exhale, you freed your grip. His palm cradled your breast again, thumb brushing across your nipple. Then his mouth followed, lips brushing, tongue flicking gently over the sensitive peak. 

You couldn’t stop the string of moans that fell from your lips, his touch felt intoxicating. He hummed against your skin, you could feel the vibrations deep to your core. His hands never stopped moving, instead, travelling down your thigh, one of his fingers poking underneath the lace. He stroked the edge of the underwear, as if testing how much you’d allow him to have.

You spread your legs for him; his fingers curled around the band of the lace and dragged it down your legs. His eyes dragged over every inch of your newly exposed skin, and you didn’t cover yourself. His eyes moved slowly, achingly slow, down your body. 

He traced your collarbones with just his gaze, lingered at the swell of your breasts, over the softness of your stomach, the curve of your hips, the inside of your thighs. He ran a hand through his hair, visibly losing his composure, and let out an exhale. Then, finally, he reached for you, palm settling on your waist, his thumb brushing the dip just above your hipbone. 

You felt so bare — completely naked under him. You reached for his boxers and slid them down, peeling the fabric from his hips. His cock sprang free, flushed and heavy. You let your eyes trail over him, taking in every detail: how hard he was, where the tip gleamed with precome, how his chest rose and fell, how his hands curled into the sheets. 

You reached out with a tentative hand, wrapping your fingers around the base of him. He sucked in a breath through his teeth, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before locking back to yours. You leaned forward just enough to press your lips to his, lingering there while your hand moved with gentle strokes. 

His hand moved slowly, fingers dragging down from your waist, and sliding between your thighs. He touched you over the softest part of yourself, his fingertips gentle as he brushed the wet of you. Your grip faltered on his cock, your head falling into the crevice of his shoulder as you bit back a moan. 

“You’re already so…” He bit his lip, unable to hold back the moan escaping him as you continued to stroke him. 

His fingers continued to draw gentle, continuous circles on your clit. Your back arched, your body pushing itself further into his touch. You already felt breathless and unravelling under his steady touch. The heat continued to build slowly, but you wanted this to last. You released his cock from your grasp and pulled his hand away. 

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

You shook your head, trying to push down the desire to come from his fingers alone. “I don’t want this to end yet.” 

A soft gasp left his lips. “What did you want?”

“You. I want to feel you,” you couldn’t handle the space between you any more, you laced your fingers through the back of his hair and pushed him into you. “Please.” You moaned into his mouth and grabbing his cock in your grip again, which twitched in response. 

Gently, he pushed you back down into the mattress. His body covered yours in one steady motion, his chest brushing yours; skin meeting skin. 

He paused, “I don’t have any protection.”

“Me neither.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes darted between yours, trying to look for any trace of doubt that you wanted this as much as him. “I want this,” he said. “God, I need you, but I need to know you’re okay with… no protection.”

“I want this.”

A slow, approving nod, then he leaned in, lips brushing yours again. He wrapped his hand around yours and lined himself up with your slit, rubbing himself on your clit. Your breath hitched, a delicious ache rising inside you. 

His erection lined with your entrance. 

He looked down at you once more, making sure you were certain you wanted this. When you nodded and kissed him again, he delved in you. The stretch was tender, deep, and overwhelming. Your breath caught in your throat as he filled you, inch by inch, your body adjusted around him, every nerve alight. You clung to him, your forehead press to his as he began to move. 

He moved unhurriedly, trying to savour every moment. He had yearned for this exact moment. After weeks of whispered conversations, stolen glances, this was the moment when all the waiting and longing poured out. Now, all that quiet longing spilled over in waves of heat. Your lips met his in a harsh, yearning kiss.

A heat climbed higher with every stroke, every brush of skin. His hands roamed your body, fingers tracing slow circles over your breasts, flicking over your nipples until you gasped for more. 

His breath hitched with every deep plunge, as he drove himself deeper and deeper, filling you completely, his need more than desperate. You could feel your tightness around him, how desperately he needed you.

“I need you,” he purred, your name pouring from his mouth alongside a string of urgent murmurs, each one a confession of his need as he began to empty himself inside you. 

His pace became almost frantic, and the constant brutal pace became overwhelming. The intensity built in your core as he slid in and out; the feeling of his come filling you, a torment that pulled you to the edge.

Then, suddenly, waves of bliss crashed through you in a flood. It stole your breath and left you trembling, you couldn’t stop the twitches of your hips against him. A choked sob escaped your lips as you clung to him. His body shuddered within you, pulsing with the last tremors of his release. 

He shifted gently towards you, pulling his head from the pillow beside you to look you in the eyes. He reached for one of the many out-of-place hairs and tucked it behind your ear.

He pulled you closer, resting his forehead against yours. “I've wanted you for so long,” he murmured, “I just want to hold you forever.”

You smiled, giggling at his tenderness, and you reached up to give him a quick peck on the forehead. “Me too.”

His thumb brushed softly over your cheek. “You’re so beautiful.” You leaned into the touch, your heart swelling. Slowly, he pulled away from you, leaving you dripping with him. You couldn’t hold back the sigh that left you at the sudden emptiness. 

He reached over to the nightstand, grabbed a bottle of water, and offered it to you. You took a small sip before collapsing back onto the pillows. “I don’t think Walker would call that ‘resting’” 

Bob took the bottle from you and laughed as he took a sip of his own. “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him?”

[vampishnes]

Sanguine Hunger: Called Ourselves Lovers

Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four, Chapter five, Chapter six, Chapter seven, Chapter eight, Chapter nine, Chapter ten. Pairings: Bob x FemThunderbolts!ExAvenger!Reader, Platonic!Thunderbolts & Fem!Reader Summary: Figuring out the complexities of a 'relationship'. Tags: No use of ‘Y/N’. Female reader. Slow burn! Found family, 'slice of life', Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Mild Sexual Content, References to Past Trauma Word count: 2.6k A/N: There will be no tag list for this chapter and the next, as they both include sexual content/smut. Also, my asks are now open! If anyone wishes to send a fic request, I'd be more than happy to write it for you! :)

The world had gone soft around the edges, hazy. Your thoughts had dissolved, leaving only the anchoring reality of Bob beneath you, his lips moving in perfect rhythm with your own. You’d shut your eyes again, losing yourself in the numbing feeling of being worshipped. 

And then, of course, your stomach had growled, mortifyingly loud. A breathy laugh escaped Bob, his air ghosting over your tingling lips. Every nerve screamed to pull him back, to taste him again, it took all your strength not to ignore the growl. Instead, you'd found yourself laughing against his shoulder, fingers clenched tightly to the side of his arms. 

“Waffles?”

So now you found yourself shuffling toward the kitchen, Bob at your side with his arm an anchor for your unsteady steps. It was empty, no sign of Walker or Bucky or anyone else who might ask or grill you about your condition and lecture you about rest. You climbed onto a stool at the island, tugging your shorts further over your thighs as you watched Bob move around.

His hair was a complete wreck, curls and waves flattened in places, especially where your fingers had tangled and lingered. You caught yourself smiling, half satisfied of the mess you’d left behind.

He rummaged through the freezer, before peeking back with a familiar box held up. “Frozen waffles okay?”

“Perfect.”

Bob moved smoothly, opening cabinets as he looked for plates and syrup. You watched his hands, the relaxed way he carried himself. Like this domesticity could be forever. He turned to you, plate in hand, a soft smile on his lips as he stepped closer. “Bon appétit.” 

You reached out, but instead of handing you the plate, he leaned in and kissed you again, gentle. You kissed him back without hesitation, sinking into it with a hand placed behind his head. 

“Finally.”

You didn’t need to turn to recognize it was Yelena. She leaned casually in the doorway, one brow raised and a cup of, presumably, coffee in hand. Her expression said she’d been waiting for this moment for some time and was not above gloating.

“I thought I was going to have to lock you both in a closet,” she said, crossing the room. 

You sighed and took a bite of waffle instead. “Good morning.” 

Yelena grinned as she sat on the stool beside you. “Don’t expect me to act surprised.” 

You rolled your eyes, chewing one waffle piece while drowning another in an absurd amount of syrup. You knew Yelena well enough; she wouldn’t tell-all to the rest of the Thunderbolts about you and Bob. If not for your sake, then definitely for Bob’s. 

Bob fidgeted with the hem of his jumper sleeve. He must’ve been thinking the same thing you were, yet his expression held something more. Pride, perhaps? Pride that he’d won you at all, and that now, someone else knew. 

Yelena took a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes flickering between you and Bob. “Ugh, you two are so sappy.” she said, gesturing towards his face with her mug. 

Bob’s cheeks flushed slightly, but the warmth in his eyes didn't fade. He stopped fidgeting with his sleeve, instead he let his hand rest on the counter near yours, his pinky brushing the side of your hand. 

Hiding whatever this was between you and Bob felt utterly pointless. Bucky had already caught on, and apparently, so had Yelena. You wouldn’t be surprised if the rest of the team were just waiting for you two to slap a label on it.

A label. The thought hit you. You’d confessed and kissed, sure. But you could do that with anyone. Did he want to be your boyfriend? You shook your head—too juvenile. Partner? Lover? Friends who kiss? The options circled, each creating a dozen questions you desperately wanted to ask. But you’d rather take a flamethrower to the spine again than have that conversation in front of Yelena.

Something churned within you, a sense of uncertainty. The thought that maybe everything was moving too fast and that Yelena knowing was actually a terrible idea. You dropped the last syrupy piece of waffle back on your plate, suddenly not hungry. The stool's hard surface became intolerable beneath you; you had to leave.

“I think I need some fresh air.” 

You slid off the stool, a little too quickly and the soreness hit you immediately. It felt the sharpest at your ribs, but that pain dragged all the way down to your legs. Bob walked around the island to you, his hand behind your back, ready to catch you if your knees gave out again.

“I’ve got it,” you muttered, sending a quick goodbye to Yelena, who had already gone to sipping from her mug and scrolling her phone, the only indication of her knowing what you were feeling being her raised eyebrow. 

The walk to the elevator was slow as you moved together in a steady rhythm. His hand never left your lower back. When you reached the elevator and got in, you leaned your shoulder against the wall. You were already worn out, your breath coming out fast and shallow from just that short walk.

When the elevator doors finally opened to the roof, the cool, clean air felt like a balm on your worn skin. You stepped out together into the open space where stacks of boxes and supplies for the garden sat.

Heat radiated from the concrete under the morning sun, carrying its sharp, dusty smell. Moving carefully, your boots scraped against the rooftop floor, every step pulled at your worn muscles, but you pushed it aside. It wouldn’t hold you back, not now.

Bob stayed beside you, his hand slipped away, like he was giving you the space to breathe while staying close enough to catch you if you stumbled. You walked closer to the boxes, scanning all their contents. The supplies had been delivered just as promised: there were rows of planters still sealed in plastic, toolboxes with shiny new trowels and gloves. 

Your hand paused near one of the planters, and let your fingers trail along its edge. It was cold to the touch, untouched by the sun’s full warmth. 

You sat down slowly on one of the soil bags sprawled on the floor, its uneven surface surprisingly forgiving against your weight. Bob settled beside you, elbows on his knees, while his eyes stayed on the skyline.

Neither of you spoke, instead you just listened. Listened to the hum of traffic below, the high whine of a distant siren, the rustle of wind catching on the edge of the Tower. 

You rested your face in the palm of your hands and glanced beside you. “It’s quieter than I expected.” You felt a gust of wind travel through the holes in your shorts and suppressed a shiver. 

Bob nodded, his gaze fixed on the horizon. “I like it up here.”

You followed his gaze for a moment, but the sun pulled you instead—tilting your face up, you let the warmth brush your skin. “Sorry I left like that.”

He glanced at you. “It’s okay, I get it,” he turned to face you, shoulders shifting. “The kiss…Yelena…It’s a lot.”

“A good lot or a bad lot?”

“Good.”

The uncertainty bled in again, like it always did when things felt too good. You turned to face him fully, chewing on the question that had haunted you since his fingers laced with yours in the kitchen. “Do you want something more?”

It came out fragile, not because you were unsure of him, but because you were unsure of yourself. Because if he said no, you wouldn’t know how to bury the ache.

Bob let out a soft laugh, barely a breath. “It probably sounds dumb, but yeah. I do. I want this.”

Then his voice faltered, and you saw it, what he wasn’t saying.  “It’s just…” he hesitated. “There’s Bucky.”

The wound wasn’t fresh, but it was still tender. You’d felt it even before he said it, the uncertainty in the way his fingers hovered near yours before the kiss, the way he watched you like you might still yearn for someone else.

You took a long, slow breath. “Buck’s someone I’ll always care about. He was there when no one else was, but for a long time, I think I mistook that for something else.”

You looked down at your hands, then back up to him. “I do love him,” you said. “But not like this. It’s not the same feeling I have for you.”

“I’ve never really done this before.”

“Never?”

He shrugged, a little embarrassed. “Not in a way that mattered. Not where I actually showed up for someone, or let them in.”

A breeze stirred, tugging at your hair. Without thinking, you reached out and placed your hand over his. “Me neither.” 

“So… what do we call this?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered. “But I know I want it to last.”

His lips found yours again, soft and asking. This time, you didn't just feel it – you melted into it kiss. And at that moment, the truth settled over you: this was yours.

This space. This quiet, unexpected safety you hadn’t dared to hope for. It was something real, something good, blooming in the middle of your own chaos.

When you finally pulled back, breath just a little uneven, your eyes drifted, drawn by something small. Just this little, ordinary thing. Almost without thinking, you leaned over, and let your fingers brush the papery envelope. 

You pushed yourself up, your knees giving their usual protest, and tore the packet open. Grabbing a small, empty pot, you dug your nails into the bag of soil beside it, tearing it easily. You scooped a handful of the rich earth and filled the pot. Then, with care, placed the seeds on top. 

Wiping your gritty hands on your shorts, you sat on your heels, eyes on the small pot. It looked like nothing. And yet—“Our first flower.”

When you looked up, Bob was already watching you. The blush warming his cheeks wasn’t shyness or embarrassment; it was awe. That look, the quiet understanding of this small thing you'd just started together. It wasn’t just a plant, it wasn’t just soil and seeds.

“Let’s make a deal.”

“A deal?” You asked, trying to pick the remaining dirt from beneath your nails. 

He nodded toward the planter. “Every time we go through something hard. We meet back here.”

The wind stirred again, surprisingly warm against your skin. You managed a small nod. “Deal.”

Later that day, the light in your room had turned golden, the last remnants of sun slowly disappearing behind the earth. You stood at the sink in your ensuite, brushing your teeth in slow, absentminded circles. The steam from your shower still clung to the corners of the mirror, fogging your reflection. Your body ached in places you were now learning to live with, you’d had a few blood transfusions and drunk even more blood bags. 

You spat, rinsed, and leaned against the counter with both hands, letting the cool marble press into your palms. Your thoughts drifted, inevitably, to Bob. The hesitant wonder of his touch, those large hands tracing your skin with restraint, as if he was holding back a tide. 

A soft knock broke your thoughts. You turned toward the door, towel-drying your hands on your sleep shirt. A flicker of heat crept up your neck as you saw a peak under your shirt. To anyone else, it was just pajamas: a simple top, ordinary shorts. But beneath the cotton lay a secret – deep wine-red lace, unworn for years. You were almost surprised you still had them after all this time, they were a little present to yourself. A relic of a different self, bought on a whim, a "just in case," as you bought them and never threw them out.

The bra was delicate lace, its underwire cups wrapped in see through lace, sheer in all the places that drew the eye. Tiny satin bows sat at the base of each slender strap, and a soft ribbon rested at the centre between the cups. 

The matching underwear had the same dark crimson hue, cut in a low-rise silhouette that hugged your hips. 

“Yeah?”

The door opened just a little, and Bob’s voice followed. “Hey. Just wanted to check on you.”

He stepped in without waiting for more permission, though his movements stayed cautious, like he was still measuring what was okay and what wasn’t. He wore sweatpants and a clean hoodie, hair slightly damp from a shower of his own. 

You crossed the room before you could talk yourself out of it, taking his hand and tugging him in further. “Stay tonight?”

He hesitated for only a breath, then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

He kicked off his slippers as you folded back the covers, your pulse drumming. The bed dipped with your weight first, the cool sheets brushing your legs as you settled in. The bed dipped again as Bob followed. 

You turned on your side to face him, elbow bent beneath your head. He mirrored the motion, his fingers idly toying with the edge of the blanket. “So,” you said softly, “this is what couples do at night. They… talk in bed.”

A soft chuckle escaped Bob, his hand slid beneath the covers, searching in the warm shadows. His fingers brushed yours, then laced through them, intertwining slowly. Deliberately, his thumb stroked the sensitive skin of your knuckle. “What do they talk about?” His voice was husky, drawing you closer.

“Sappy things?” Your gaze held his, the playful lilt in your voice covering the sudden hitch in your breath as his thumb continued its gentle path. “Taxes? Vampires or werewolves?”

“Easy, werewolves.” His answer was quick, but his eyes weren't on the debate. They kept drifting down, lingering on your lips as you spoke.

“You’re joking.” 

He laughed again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “As much as I clearly adore vampires…” His free hand lifted, and the back of his knuckles found the curve of your cheekbone in a feather-light caress. He lingered there, his touch impossibly tender, tracing the line towards your jaw. “…werewolves are objectively cooler.” The words were an afterthought, his focus entirely on the softness of your skin. 

You scoffed, eyes narrowing. “You’re just saying that to provoke me.”

“Is it working?”

“Maybe.”

His hand was still at your jaw, his thumb grazing slowly beneath your chin, but the spark in your eyes shifted. You wriggled under the sheets and poked him lightly in the side with one finger. “You’re lucky I’m not at full strength.”

“Oh no,” he said, mock horror coating his voice. “The vampyra strikes.”

The words barely left his mouth before he moved. In one swift, smooth motion, he rolled on top of you, pressing you down into the mattress with a soft grunt. You squealed as your back hit the sheets, your legs tangling beneath the blanket and wrapping around him. His body hovered just above yours, braced on his forearms, but close—so close. 

He dipped his head and kissed you, soft at first, then deeper. Your hands slid up from his chest to his shoulders, curling into the fabric, pulling him just a little closer. When you shifted beneath him, his breath caught. When you parted, your noses brushed and you felt the rise and fall of his chest against yours.

You reached up, brushing a curl from his forehead, “I want this,” you whispered, “but only if you do.”

“I’ve never wanted anything more.”

[vampishnes]

Sanguine Hunger: We're Just Human

Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four, Chapter five, Chapter six, Chapter seven, Chapter eight, Chapter nine, Chapter ten. Pairings: Bob x FemThunderbolts!ExAvenger!Reader, Platonic!Thunderbolts & Fem!Reader Summary: All the yearning finally pays off. Tags: No use of ‘Y/N’. Female reader. Slow burn! Found family, 'slice of life', Hurt/Comfort Warnings: References to Past Trauma, Kissing and Feels. Word count: 2.6k

The first thing you felt was pain.  

Not sharp, just dull and heavy. Like something was pressing down on you from the inside out, it was a not-so-gentle reminder with every breath that you were still here, still in one piece. Mostly.  

Your body registered the softness beneath you of familiar sheets, your bed. The clean scent of sun-dried cotton hung in the air, then vanished beneath the rich aroma of hazelnut coffee. You shifted your head, slowly. Every muscle protested, especially your back. There was a cup, left near the edge of your night stand, still steaming. Your favourite mug, the one with the chip on the handle and a faded Hulk face on it.  

Your vision cleared slowly, piecing the room together. The soft morning light spilled through the curtains, casting gentle amber over the floor. Beside the bed, a basket of clean laundry sat, and a gardening book lay sprawled face-down beside it, its pages bent.  

You pushed yourself up, groaning slightly, and drew the mug close. Steam rose, curling warmly against your face as the scent enveloped you. Hazelnut and something else, cinnamon, maybe. The first sip was too hot, burned your tongue a little. You cradled the mug against your chest and let yourself breathe.  

The sheets shifted softly as you moved your legs. Your body felt like crude repairs had held it together overnight, functional, but strung tight with fraying wire. Every movement reminded you that you were not invincible, just durable.  

Your gaze snapped to the night stand – the empty space where your mug once was. Then you saw it: a second mug. Empty, stained with old coffee droplets and faintly damp. Very much not yours.  

Something felt ready to snap inside you, held together only by sheer, trembling will, and you weren't sure how much longer you could keep it contained. You closed your eyes and pressed the mug to your lips again. You wanted him here, and yet you didn't want him to see you like this.  

Your gaze fell to the laundry basket near the foot of the bed. At first, it was just background decor, the usual clutter forced into temporary order. But then your fingers tightened around the mug as the details hit you. Everything inside was folded. Not in your style, not the half-hearted, crumple-and-shove job you usually did when pretending to have it together. These were proper folds; someone else’s hands had been here, your tank tops and soft T-shirts were squared at the edges.  

He had done your laundry.  

You stared at it longer than you meant to, long enough to feel the edges of your eyes sting. It was not that you had never been cared for—but never like this. Never with this quiet invasion of the smallest, most intimate chores.  

You set the mug down on the night stand, fingers reluctant to let go. Your body creaked in protest as you pulled your legs around. Your feet met the floor, bare skin flinching against the cold wood's sudden touch. You kept one hand braced against the mattress as you stood, one breath at a time.  

The curtains were only half-drawn, a sliver of light carved a line across the floorboards, narrow and golden. You moved toward it, limping. The steps eased slightly, a small mercy against the wide, throbbing map of pain claiming your side. Reaching out, your fingers brushed the heavy fabric, then slowly drew it aside.  

Light flooded the room, slow and soft. It spilled over your plants on the desk, over the faded rug, over your still-steaming mug. And it spilled over you. You blinked against it. The city was quieter this time of morning, fewer cars, fewer horns.  

You hated feeling like this: soft and exposed, aching in places no blood bag could fix. But you stood there anyway.  

You heard the door before you saw him; it was just a soft creak, then the faintest click of it closing again. There were no loud footsteps, just careful and soft ones, like someone who had spent the past few hours trying not to wake you.  

“Oh, you’re up,” Bob said, voice quiet but threaded with something that sounded dangerously close to relief. “Slept well?”  

You turned at the sound of his voice. There he was, in his typical lounging attire: worn grey sweats paired with an orange jumper, faintly wrinkled. It was his ‘uniform’ for the in-between hours.

You answered with a stiff nod. You tried to look away from that soft smile, failed, then let the silence hang heavy between you. You shifted your weight against the windowsill.  

“You did laundry,” you said, motioning vaguely toward the basket. Bob shrugged, but there was pink blooming high on his cheeks.  

“I felt bad doing nothing after I woke up.”  

“Coffee's good too,” was all you could reply with.  

“Good. I uh—wasn’t sure if you’d be up for food, but if you want some… I could make you some.”  

You held his eyes, and your heart thumped a traitorous, frantic drum against your ribs, too loud, too fast, as if it already knew. You wanted him. Not just here. Not just today.

So you looked down at your hands, pressed your palms flat against the windowsill, and said as casually as you could manage, “I might risk waffles later.”  

He grinned slow and crooked; just truly relieved. Like he was afraid you’d push him away the moment you woke up.  

“Okay,” he said. “Good. No pressure. Just… glad you’re up.”  

You didn't know if it was the light, or the silence, or him, but something in your body started to give out again, something similar to all the other pain you’d been feeling today. The kind of weariness that comes after holding yourself too tightly for too long. Your grip on the windowsill was just enough for your balance to shift, and he was at your side in seconds.  

“Whoa—hey, I’ve got you,” Bob said, steady hands finding your elbow and waist like instinct. He didn't flinch at the way your breath caught, didn't loosen his grip unless you asked him to; you didn't.  

“I’m okay,” you mumbled, even though your knees felt like shattering glass. “Just stood too long.”  

You let out a shaky breath, and let him guide you to the bed. His touch was gentle, and each step back toward the bed was slow and steady. You hated how much you leaned into him. You hated that it felt good. Bob crouched slightly and helped ease you down; his hand lingered at the small of your back longer than it needed to, just enough to make your pulse spike.  

You sank onto the mattress, the edge dipping beneath you. “You gonna sit?” you asked, softly.  

His gaze flicked to yours, like he hadn't realized he was still standing. Then he nodded and lowered himself to the bed, just beside you. The light continued to spill across the floor, across your hands. Your heart hadn't slowed. You were aware of every inch of him: the heat of his arm, the way his breath sounded louder in this quiet.  

“You scared me,” he said finally.  

You turned your head slightly, unsure whether to deflect or brace. “During the mission?”  

He nodded once. “I thought we’d lost you. And I didn’t know—” He stopped and cleared his throat.  

You looked down at your lap, fingers curling over the edge of your pyjama shorts. “I’ve lost a lot of people,” you murmured. “I never want to put anyone in that position.”  

Bob glanced at you. His expression was soft, but there was something behind his eyes. There was silence again, but this one felt different. You thought he might look away, or back off.  

Instead, Bob shifted slightly, turning his body just enough to face you. His voice was low when he spoke. “If being in that position means I get to be close to you like this… I’ll take it.”  

Your breath caught. You smiled, but it faltered around the edges. “I don’t know how to do this,”  

Bob nodded, gently. “I don’t either,” he said. “But I want to try. I want to be here.”  

There it was again. That unbearable, terrifying tenderness, that look on his face like he had already seen the worst of you and stayed anyway. You inhaled, slowly, and when you spoke, it came out quieter than you meant it to.  

“I want to be with you,” you said. “I think I’ve known for a while. But I’m…” You trailed off. You didn't know how to say the rest, that you were scared, terrified of handing him the weapon of yourself and praying he never aimed it.  

“I’m scared too,” he admitted. “But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”  

Your hand twitched against your leg. You wanted to reach for him, wanted to close that distance, but the ache in your chest warned you not to rush it. Bob didn't move either. But he was looking at you like you were something holy. Like he was still bracing for you to vanish or change your mind.  

You met his eyes. There was no rush in the way you leaned in, no urgency, and especially no dramatic swell. Just a breath, a moment between two broken people trying to learn how to care for themselves again. Your nose grazed his and he exhaled, shakily, and you heard it; the sound of someone who was not quite sure if they deserved this yet.  

Then, finally, your lips met. It was so soft, barely a press at first — just two lips slotted together like they were scared of crossing over that dangerous precipice of intimacy. You paused there, the two of you breathing into each other’s mouths. His lips parted and you followed, deepening the kiss with an aching slowness.  

His hand rose to cup your jaw, thumb sweeping the line of your cheek like he was memorizing the shape of you. You leaned into the touch like you had been starving for it, and you had.  

It was not frantic and it was not desperate. It was deliberate. Drawn out like a confession, like a wound being wiped clean. Like years of torture and lacerations were being stitched back together.  

You shifted closer, and your knees were touching now. You found your fingers curling into the fabric of his jumper. It was so soft under your fingertips and you dreaded all the time you had missed not holding on to him like this.  

The soft pink of his lips tasted faintly of coffee; you couldn't tell if it was the lingering trace of yours or his from this morning. The realization bloomed heat in your cheeks, the thought that you were now so intertwined you didn't know where he began and you ended.  

He kissed you with the reverence of an answered prayer, as if he knelt in chapels, begging for this grace. He kissed you without fear of your troubles, embracing you like a holy vow. As if he prayed for the very mess of you.  

When you finally pulled back, just barely, foreheads resting together, breath mingling in the space between, you felt it: The soft, unbearable truth of being wanted and finally not for what you could do. For who you were, scars and all.  

You let your eyes fall closed. You let yourself live in that quiet, suspended second.  

“I can’t,” you whispered and you felt him freeze under your touch. He didn't pull away, but his hand dropped from your face, and rested instead between you on the bed.  

You straightened slowly, putting more space between you; you couldn't meet his eyes. “I’m sorry,”  

You shook your head, more at yourself than him. “It’s not that I didn’t want to,” you murmured. “I did. God, I do. But that’s the problem.” You looked up then, and your voice wavered. “Because wanting you, letting myself feel that, means I have something to lose again.”  

“I’m not asking you to fall all the way,” he said. “I just… want you to know I’m not going anywhere.”  

He shifted slightly, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped, like he needed to hold himself together to get the words out. “I spent most of my life running. First, from my father. Then from home. Then from the kind of person I didn’t want to become. I got tired of fighting, so I just… kept moving. Kept looking forward, terrified of what I’d see if I turned around.”  

He glanced at you, and there was a softness in his eyes that nearly undid you. “For the longest time, I didn’t have anything real. Nothing that stuck. And then the Thunderbolts happened. You happened. And for the first time, I didn’t feel like I had to run.” A pause. “You showed me a kind of kindness I didn’t think I deserved. And I care about you more deeply than I know how to explain. So no, you don’t have to say anything now. You don’t have to give me anything you’re not ready for.”  

He looked at you, steady and sure. “But if you ever want to let someone in… let me in. I won’t run from it. I won’t run from you. And I’m here, if you’ll have me.”  

You swallowed hard, eyes fixed on the place where his hands were folded, knuckles pale from the tightness of his grip. He was trying to hold still, trying not to push, and that only made you want to reach for him more.  

“I’ve spent years building walls out of everything that hurts. All the guilt, all the people I’ve lost. The things I’ve done. Every single person I’ve failed.” You glanced at him, then quickly away. “I think, deep down, I’ve made myself unloveable. I’ve spent so many years ensuring that no one could care for me, that I’m just this sharp, pointy rock.”  

He didn't rush to reassure you, or contradict you, or fill the silence with words just to make all the pain flooding out you easier. “I don’t think you’re unloveable.” He said. “I think you’re terrified. And with good reason.”  

His voice stayed soft and gentle. “And I’m sorry I can’t fix it. But you don’t have to carry all of it alone. That fear — we all feel it. I’ll wait as long as you need.”  

You turned slowly, finally meeting his gaze. Heat bloomed across your cheeks, a terrible, tender hope trembling within you. You leaned in, but it was not like last time; this time it was less uncertain. Your lips ghosted against his and when he didn't pull away, you kissed him again.  

This time, there were no trembling fingers hovering between should-we and shouldn’t. You kissed him like you’d already decided and he kissed you back like it was the only decision he’d ever made with certainty. You kissed him with everything you’d been holding in, all the guilt, all the hunger. All the aching loneliness that had followed you from battlefield to bedroom. You kissed him like it might stitch everything broken back together.  

You lost yourself in the feel of his mouth, in the quiet noise he made low in his throat when your hand slid up and into his hair. That sound nearly undid you.  

You shifted again, until you were practically in his lap, knees tucked beside his. You didn't care about the soreness pulling at your side or the way the room tilted slightly with the movement. You only cared about his hands, the one at the nape of your neck, grounding you.  

All you cared about was him.

TAG LIST: @non-anonymous-anon @ara-a-bird, @navs-bhat @artandpunishment @sillymilly17 @ravenwayghwitch @qardasngan

[vampishnes]

Sanguine Hunger: Caring About Ourselves

Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four, Chapter five, Chapter six, Chapter seven, Chapter eight, Chapter nine, Chapter ten. Pairings: Bob x FemThunderbolts!ExAvenger!Reader, Platonic!Thunderbolts & Fem!Reader Summary: Waking up in the medbay Tags: No use of ‘Y/N’. Female reader. Slow burn! Found family, 'slice of life', Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Graphic Depiction of Medical Trauma, Blood & Injury, References to Past Trauma, Loss of Bodily Autonomy. Word count: 3.1k

You stirred before your eyes opened. You hardly registered the subtle weight of a blanket tucked around your body and the uncomfortable stinging at the inner edge of your arm.

The lights above you were dimmed to a low hue, probably on account of whoever dragged you in knowing the last thing you’d want to see was bright hospital lights. Your lashes fluttered open slowly; your vision adjusted in broken pieces: a blood bag suspended beside your head, the unmistakable silhouette of Bob in the corner.

His head slumped over to the side, arms crossed loosely over his chest in a way that said he’d been waiting for hours. There was a small pile-up of books on the floor beside him; how long had he been here?

Questions spun in your head, but all you heard was the primal scream to rip out the needle. Now. Common sense dissolved beneath the urge as your hand frantically clawed at your inner elbow, nails dug into the tape that secured the needle. The moment the adhesive gave, you yanked.

A hot jolt of pain surged, and blood welled instantly — you forced the blood back in before it could threaten to spill over the white hospital sheets. Your breath hitched as you tried to will the blood to clot with your powers, but you were too weak, barely able to coax even the smallest scab into forming.

Your throat rasped with every breath. Slipping your legs off the side of the bed, they didn’t feel like yours; sluggish and aching with every move. That didn’t stop you as you shoved off the mattress, bare feet hitting the cold floor like you could outwalk the bitter memories gnawing at the corners of your mind.

Your knees buckled on impact. Bob caught you before you could hit the ground, arms looped around your waist with your back flush against his front. “You’re not strong enough yet,” he said, voice low. “You need rest.”

“I can’t stay here, Bob. I can’t.” You instinctively curled away from him, arms scrambling for the bed to brace yourself. His hands lingered for a moment at your waist before slowly withdrawing; he lowered himself into the chair beside the bed.

You gritted your teeth, jaw clenched as your arms shook from the effort of holding yourself up. Your fingers pressed cold against the rough mattress. “What happened?” you asked. “How long was I out?”

Bob didn’t answer right away. He stared down at his hands, his thumb brushing over a crease in his jeans. “Three days,” he said finally. “You’ve been in a coma for three days.”

You blinked, staring at the floor as if it could somehow make sense of the lost time. “Three days?” you repeated. “I was only… I thought—”

“You hardly made it into the Quinjet,” Bob cut in. “Your vitals were crashing, your powers were… all over the place. You were burning through blood faster than we could get it in you.”

Three days where your body had been a battlefield without your mind present to witness it. Three more days stolen, tacked onto the seventy-year coma you'd already endured. Your body convulsed in a sudden, involuntary shiver.

“I hate hospitals.” You turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes for the first time. His eyes were rimmed in red, not from crying, no. Bob didn’t wear his grief so obviously, but from nights spent in a chair with no sleep and too much silence.

Bob leaned forward, slowly lifting a water bottle from the bedside stand. “Sip?” He offered gently. You hesitated, then nodded. He twisted the cap open and offered it to you, waiting patiently as you brought it to your lips. The water was lukewarm but soothing, washing the bitterness from your throat. You only managed a few gulps before your arms started shaking again. He took the bottle wordlessly, setting it down as if this was all perfectly normal.

“Have you even left?”

“I didn’t want you waking up alone.”

The words you needed to say felt out of reach. Thank you. I'm sorry. Anything that didn’t feel like blood in your mouth. Instead, the confession that came out was, “I kept dreaming I was back there, and suddenly I woke up, and I'm in another lab. I can’t stay here.”

Bob’s brows twitched, but he didn’t speak; he didn’t need to. You both knew what “there” meant: the cold marble, the needles, the white coats, the scalpels slicing every vein in your body.

“I couldn’t move,” you continued, voice thin. “Like my body wasn’t mine. Like I was just… feeling it happen all over again.”

Bob reached forward, his hand curling around yours where it lay limp on the bed. It wasn’t a squeeze, just a presence. A tether. “You’re not there,” he said. “I have you.”

You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to believe him. But rage clawed its way up your throat — the thought of being forced into a coma, of losing even more time, was unbearable. You knew it wasn’t anyone’s fault, least of all Bob’s, but that didn’t stop you from pulling your hand away from his gentle touch and running your fingers through your hair. Needing something to do with the tension humming under your skin.

A knock came shortly after, two short raps against the metal frame of the door before it creaked open. Bob straightened but didn’t rise. You turned your head toward the sound, heart kicking hard in your chest.

Yelena poked her head in first. “We are ok to come in, yes?” she said, already halfway inside before waiting for permission. “You are looking remarkably less dead than earlier.” She sat beside you, eyeing you up and down. A small sound escaped you, not quite a laugh. Still, Yelena’s mouth tilted into a satisfied smirk.

Alexei, vibrating with barely contained anticipation, produced a large black garment bag from behind his back. “We bring gift!” You tilted your head, genuinely bewildered. With a sharp tug, he ripped the zip down. The bag’s front panel fell away, revealing your tactical gear. Albeit, a slightly different version of it. “Your old one was destroyed!”

You closed your eyes and the memory surged: flames devouring the Kevlar fabric, stitch by agonizing stitch. Almost instinctively, your fingers drifted behind you, tracing the skin of your back. Only smoothness met your touch. No scars. The coma had erased even that.

A headache pulsed behind your eyes as you forced your gaze forward. Your gear was nearly identical to pre-incident, except for the bold 'New Avengers' emblem now embroidered on the side.

“Were you just waiting for me to die so you could make me officially part of the team?”

Ava’s voice cut from behind Bob’s shoulder. “You’ve been official for eighteen months.” She stood rigid, arms locked tight across her chest. The sterile, medical air seemed to press on her just as heavily as it did on you.

“Don’t remind me,” you muttered, offering Alexei a weary nod of thanks as he set the gear aside. “Someone kill me again.”

Yelena rolled her eyes beside you and tapped your thigh twice before standing up; her eyes fluttered to the hanging needle and the gash in your arm. “I have a strange feeling you’re not going to stay here once we leave.”

“Correct,” you responded.

John cut in, exasperated. “The doctor ordered bed rest. A week, minimum. You just woke up.”

“I can recover in my own room,” you countered, meeting his gaze head-on despite the persistent throb in your head.

“You needed help sitting up ten minutes ago,” Bob murmured, his voice unexpectedly joining the fray. Your head snapped toward him, a jolt of confusion tightening your chest. Now he chimed in?

“Fine,” you bit out. “Bob can stay with me. In my actual room.” Exhaustion made your head feel stuffed with cotton. “He can babysit. Make sure I don't crack my head open or whatever bullshit you all think I'm gonna do.”

Bob’s head snapped toward you. Yelena stared, her expression raw with genuine shock. Around the room, you could almost hear the suppressed jokes straining behind clenched teeth. Ava had raised her eyebrows sky-high, looking faintly amused.

Only Bucky remained motionless. He’d been a brooding silhouette against the door frame since the start, arms locked across his chest. His gaze was heavy and unyielding beneath fiercely knitted brows as he pinned you with a judgmental look.

Bob pushed himself up with a groan, stretching the stiffness from his limbs. “I’m going to shower then,” he announced, scrubbing a hand over his face. His gaze flickered over the group before settling on you. “I can help you upstairs when I'm done?”

“I've got her, Bob. Take a break,” Bucky said, stepping away from the door frame where he’d been leaning.

One by one, the others began to move out the door as well. Yelena gave a small nod, folding her arms tighter, the smirk fading into something softer. Alexei hoisted the garment bag over his shoulder; John lingered a moment longer, shooting a look at Bucky before turning to you. “Rest is non-negotiable. You hear me?”

You gave a tired nod. He was right, of course. But following orders, even sensible ones, had never exactly been your strong suit.

As the others footsteps faded, leaving only you and Bucky in the sterile quiet, the air thickened with everything he’d held back. Bucky crossed the small distance; the chair sighed softly as he took his place beside you.

“How are you?” His voice was low, rough gravel scraping against the quiet.

You stared at the ceiling, the fluorescent lights blurring in your vision. “Like shit, and if I spend one more minute trapped in this fucking room, I swear I’ll crawl out that window.” The words tasted bitter. “A coma? Really, Bucky? My body heals. It always has.”

He didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened. “You were dying. There wasn’t time for consent forms or debates. Your organs were shutting down.”

“And the only reason those doctors knew how to save me,” you shot back, turning your head to pin him with a sharp look, “was because you told them. You knew. You knew what it meant to me – to lose control like that. After everything. Again.”

“The choice wasn’t easy.”

“Well, isn’t that fucking rich?” A brittle, humourless laugh escaped you. “At least you got a choice.”

That finally broke something in him. He leaned forward, his metal hand clenching on his knee. His gaze, when it met yours, was stripped bare.

“You think I could stand it? Watching you die? I tried, God, I tried to turn away. Tried to tell myself it was what you’d want, that I should respect it. But I couldn’t.” His voice fractured. “I couldn’t stand the look on Bob’s face when they held him back – the sound he made when you stopped taking the blood. I couldn’t… I can’t lose you. Not after Wakanda. Not after Siberia. Not after every damn time you dragged me back from the edge. I had a chance. Just one chance to save you. How could I walk away from that?”

“You could’ve walked away,” you said, voice tight with accusation, “I wish you did.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, a flicker of regret in his eyes. “I wish I could say I’m sorry,” he admitted, voice low. “But I’m not. This team wouldn’t survive without you. Hell, I don’t even know what I’d do without you. And Jesus… Bob.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “Bob would be fine without me.”

He shot you a look, half exasperated, half amused. “You must be an idiot or lying to yourself. You don’t think I see you two always together? The poor kid wouldn’t leave this room unless I promised to stay in his place.”

“We’re not together,” you muttered, eyes flickering away.

Bucky leaned closer, his voice softening. “Do you want to be?”

Your breath caught. “I—I don’t…” 

You trailed off, eyes flickering away. Your fingers twitched, brushing against the edge of the bed, then curling into a loose fist. For a moment, your mind raced through every stolen glance, every quiet moment with Bob, the way your pulse quickened, the warmth that lingered long after he’d left the room. You bit your lip, swallowing the denial curling in your throat, unable to meet Bucky's steady gaze.

“Look, don’t be stupid like we were. Just tell him. He cares about you, even if you don’t see him the same way.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “I never said that.”

“Enough with your relationship problems,” Bucky grumbled, standing and offering a hand. “Let’s get you to your room.”

You smirked despite yourself, “You sure you’re going to be able to help me up, gramps?”

“You do remember you’re only eight years younger than me, right?”

You stared at his hand hesitantly for a moment, not because you didn’t trust him but because you didn’t trust your legs. But you slid your fingers into his anyway. His grip was solid, the callouses on his palm felt familiar. He helped you ease to your feet with careful patience, his metal arm sliding under your waist.

It anchored you physically, but your thoughts drifted helplessly back to the encompassing warmth of Bob’s hold, the surprising gentleness of his hands. Bucky’s blunt question resurfaced, churning in the silence between steps: Do you want to be?

The ache in your limbs flared, sharp and immediate, but you gritted your teeth and nodded. One foot in front of the other. Your bare feet were ice against the cool tile, and you were suddenly hyper-aware of the too-thin hospital gown and the sharp draft that cut through the halls.

You made it to the elevator just as your knees threatened to fold again. Bucky reached forward and hit the call button. The doors opened with a mechanical ding, and he guided you in.

You glanced up at the mirrored panel above the buttons and caught your reflection: exhausted. “You’d think three days of sleep I’d look a little less terrible.”

The elevator hummed to life, and you leaned against the cool metal railing, letting it carry your weight, while Bucky watched you from the corner of his eye. The elevator dinged, your floor.

Bucky reached out again, hand gentle as he helped you through the hallway. The lights here were warmer, dim gold rather than sterile white. You hated how grateful you were for it. Your door slid open as you approached, and the familiar scent of your own space hit you.

Hobbling towards the end of the bed, you lowered yourself down with a wince. “Pyjamas,” you managed, the word clipped. Bucky crossed to the wardrobe in two strides, flung it open, and rifled through the contents. He emerged moments later, tossing a worn pair of shorts and an oversized top onto the mattress beside you.

“I'll leave you to it,” he said, already at the door. “Doubt Bob will be long.” His hand paused on the frame. “Call if you need me. And don't forget what I said.” The door clicked shut behind him.

Gritting your teeth, you pushed yourself upright again, the simple motion sending fresh waves of dull ache through your core and back. Every muscle protested. Getting the gown off was its own humiliating ordeal. Your fingers fumbled with the ties, clumsy and weak.

Finally free of your previous clothes, you reached for the shorts. Lifting your legs felt like moving through tar. You braced one hand heavily on the mattress, knuckles white, as you awkwardly manoeuvred one foot, then the other, through the leg holes. Pulling them up over your hips required a risky lean and a surge of effort that left you panting. Leaning back against the mattress, your eyes closed against a brief wave of dizziness.

Bob’s arms holding you… the warmth… the softness…

Shoving the thought down, you grabbed the oversized top. Slipping it over your head was easier, the soft, familiar cotton swallowing you whole.

Outside the door, muffled footsteps sounded in the hallway. Your breath hitched. Bob. A flutter of something entirely new – nervousness? Anticipation? Dread? — joined the exhaustion churning in your gut. The quiet room suddenly felt charged again, waiting.

“It’s open.”

The door slid open and Bob stood in the doorway, freshly showered. His damp hair was darker, pushed back from his forehead, and he wore clean, soft-looking grey sweatpants and a plain black t-shirt that stretched slightly across his shoulders.

He stepped inside, the door hissing shut behind him. His gaze swept the room, taking in the familiar clutter, the dimmer lighting you preferred, the view out the window at the city lights below, before finally landing on you. He hovered near the door for a moment, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “Made it up okay?”

“Yeah. Bucky's a pretty good crutch,” you replied, managing a weak shrug that hurt more than it should. He took a tentative step further into the room, stopping near the foot of the bed. His eyes darted to the empty space beside you, then back to your face.

He looked strangely uncertain, maybe even a little lost. The Bob who’d held you steady in the warehouse, whose voice had trembled with emotion. Bucky’s words echoed: He cares about you.

“Bob,” you started, your voice catching. You quickly cleared your throat before continuing. “About… about me asking you to stay…” He held up a hand, stopping you.

“You don't need to explain. Or apologize.” He met your eyes directly, the blue seeming clearer in the warm light of your room. “I get it. The medbay… it’s suffocating. Especially after…” He trailed off, not needing to name the nightmares. “If being here helps, then I'm here. Babysitting duty accepted.”

He finally moved closer to you, settling himself down on the empty space beside you instead of the chair further off.

“I slept for three days, but I don’t think I’ve ever been so tired.”

“I know the feeling,” Bob murmured. “Sleep, if you can. I'll be right here.”

The warmth you’d remembered from his hold in the medbay seemed to emanate from him now, a quiet, steady heat. The nervous flutter settled, replaced by a different kind of ache, a longing for that warmth, for the safety it promised.

Bucky’s question wasn't just churning; it was pounding against the walls of your heart. Do you want to be? Looking at him, the lines of worry etched around his eyes, the quiet strength in his posture even as weariness pulled at him, the sheer, unwavering presence of him… the answer, terrifying and undeniable, rose within you.

Yes.

TAG LIST: @non-anonymous-anon @ara-a-bird, @navs-bhat @artandpunishment @sillymilly17 @ravenwayghwitch @qardasngan

[vampishnes]

Sanguine Hunger: Soft Skin

Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four, Chapter five, Chapter six, Chapter seven, Chapter eight, Chapter nine, Chapter ten. Pairings: Platonic!Thunderbolts & Fem!Reader, Bob x FemThunderbolts!ExAvenger!Reader Summary: Duty calls. Tags: No use of ‘Y/N’. Female reader. Slow burn! Found family, 'slice of life', Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Graphic depictions of blood, graphic depictions of violence, alcohol usage, references to past trauma, self-harm (Reader uses a knife to prick their palm and draw out alcohol using her powers.) Word count: 4.0k A/N: This one took a little longer because I wrote 2,000 words of it and realised I did not like it! This chapter is a hefty one, but we are officially halfway done. This slow burn is killing me! But the payoff will be great (for those who are interested, there will be a smut chapter, probably in chapter 8 or 9; if you're not interested, it will be easily skippable).

You felt the alcohol surge through your veins, seizing the part of your brain that held common sense. Normally, you controlled every inch of your blood, but tonight, there was something mind-numbingly peaceful about surrendering to the alcohol’s slow burn and feeling lighter. Freer.

Which is exactly how you ended up seventy-five percent done with your own bottle of Jack Daniel's, your body hanging upside down from the Avengers tower couch, just one wrong move away from collapsing onto the floor. 

Bucky sat across from you, tilting his head in comical concern. It gave you a perfect view of his exasperated expression. 

The room was spinning before you. Just barely in your peripheral vision, you caught Yelena lining up and shooting down another row of shots. 

You felt like a teenager again, the only difference was the people in front of you (and the legality of your drinking). But beneath the buzz, something prickled, a reminder that this lightness was temporary. 

Someone knocked over a can, and the sticky sound of the liquid meeting floor made the group collectively groan, though no one moved to clean it up.

The bass thumped in your chest. You couldn’t tell who had control of the playlist. You weren’t even really listening any more. But someone clapped along off-beat. Probably Alexei.

The room swelled with life, and for once, you didn’t feel on the outside of it. You didn’t feel like a monster, or a relic, or a weapon that needed to be caged. You were just another body in the mess of it all.

Surrounded by people who were too cruel for kindness yet too merciful for true monstrosity.

Yelena slumped on the couch beside you, her face flushed with tipsy satisfaction. She bumped her shoulder into you, hard enough to jostle your balance.

“Careful,” she said, smirking. “You fall? I’m not helping you back up.”

“I’ll take you down with me,” you slurred. You gave a little kick with your legs before squirming around to settle them across Yelena's lap, your shirt edging upward with the motion.

You twisted your head and saw Bob crouched on the floor, fiddling with the speaker, his cheeks red. He glanced up. His eyes held that soft, familiar worry he always wore when looking at you, like you were something fragile. He turned his head to face you as he rose. His gaze held yours a beat too long, tightening something in your chest. You looked away first. 

You reached for your bottle, only to find it empty. Then came the critical mistake: your eyes met Bob's again. Silently, he lifted a water bottle toward you in offering.

You rolled your eyes but snatched the bottle anyway. With exaggerated flair, you unscrewed the cap and took a deliberately loud gulp. Yelena latched onto your ankle and gave it a shake as she flashed you a mocking thumbs-down, her verdict on your 'responsible' drinking. 

“You’re boring now,” she declared. “I thought you were cool and dangerous.” 

“She still is,” Bob’s voice, quiet, came from behind you, prompting a snort from Yelena. You twisted just enough to glance back. He stood by the speaker, watching everything unfold from his usual place — on the sidelines. Always observing, only loud when it mattered.

“Bob, come sit down,” Yelena said. She patted the open space on the couch behind your back. He moved slowly, careful with his long limbs as he settled beside you. The couch dipped under his weight, and the shift made your back fall naturally into his side. Without thinking, you let yourself lean into him, head brushing his collarbone, his familiar scent settling around you.

Across the room, Walker huffed. “You guys are ridiculous. This is why no one takes us seriously.” 

You snorted and turned toward him. He was sprawled on the seat beside Ava, drink in hand. You blinked at him for a moment, brain buzzing from the alcohol, and a question played in your mind. When did he get here? 

You remembered the door sliding open, and Walker standing there like he was about to scold all of you for drunken behavior. He'd taken one look at the mess; half the team already drunk, the other half super soldiers who were just partaking in the drinking on instinct and immediately frowned and crossed his arms over his body. 

“No, thanks.” He'd said stiffly, tossing his hands up and turning to leave.

But then Yelena had raised her shot glass like it was a challenge. “What’s the matter, Captain?”

Walker had muttered something under his breath, and then you remembered it: Ava, tossing him a beer.

He’d caught it on instinct.

She’d said, “Drink or leave, I don’t care. But we’re not stopping.”

You remembered the way he’d hovered by the door after that. Like someone waiting to be invited in even after saying they didn’t want to be. Then, he’d cracked the can and sat down.

Didn't say much after that, but he stayed.

You blinked yourself back to the present, gaze landing on him again. He looked grumpy, yes. Like someone who’d never admit he belonged here, but didn’t want to leave. 

Before you could say anything, before anyone could, really. It happened. 

BEEP. 

One sharp, electronic tone sliced through the room, severing the music and silencing the chatter. The comfortable atmosphere ruptured. In response, Yelena let out an exaggerated groan and flung her head back against the cushions.

“Nooo,” she whined. “I’m off the clock.” 

“I don’t think the Avengers get to be ‘off the clock’.” You said as you sat up, or at least tried to. 

Your body protested the sudden lurch, but Bob’s hand was instantly there, a solid anchor at your back. Around you, the room snapped into action.

Yelena fished out the tablet from under an empty box and squinted at the glowing screen. Her brows pulled together. “Some black market warehouse,” she read aloud.

Walker stood up slowly, his beer can forgotten. “Party’s over.”

The warmth turned heavy. Like the buzz was starting to wear off. Your breath faltered as you leaned into Bob’s side. You felt the warmth radiate off his body. “I’m gonna sober up,” you muttered. 

You peeked over your shoulder as you stood, watching the rest of the team take their own leave to prepare for whatever came next. They knew the drill. Fun never lasted long.

You reached the kitchen mostly by muscle memory, even as the world spun. The fridge light bathed you in a glow when you opened it, you scanned over the contents before pulling out a bottle of water.

Bob stood a few paces behind you, standing in the doorway, arms crossed.

He didn’t ask if you were okay. He never did. Which was good, because you weren’t and if he did, you wouldn’t know how to answer.

You took a long sip. Then another, until you came to terms with the fact a whole bottle of Jack Daniel’s would need more than just water to filter out

“God, I do not want to fight today.” you grumbled between sips.

“If I could fight for you, I would.” Bob said softly. You let yourself want it, before cold clarity struck: Void or Sentry fighting for you would unleash far worse problems than it solved.

You smiled at that, small and strained. Trying to ignore the sharp pang curling deep in your chest. 

The kind that comes when you realize being seen is scarier than being alone. 

You pivoted toward the drawer. The one you weren’t supposed to use for this any more. Fingers brushing aside utensils, grabbing the one thing you knew would work.

Steel met skin. You hadn’t even lifted it fully before Bob’s breath caught behind you.

He crossed the room in an instant. He moved toward you without hesitation, reaching out to gently cover your hand. His eyes flickered between yours, searching for your intent.

You rested your hand over his, then slowly attempted to ease it away from your grip on the knife.

“I just need a prick.” Your voice cracked, fingers tight around the knife’s handle. “I can draw the alcohol out like that.”  

His gaze dropped to your palm. You knew what he saw. The constellation of scars left by desperate nights and poor decisions.

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” His words came out hoarse, like they’d scraped his throat raw on the way up.  

“I’ll hurt either way,” you said, not looking at him. “At least this way is fast.” You pressed the blade’s tip lightly against your skin, but his hand didn’t budge.

“Can I?”  

“What?”  

“I can do it.” His eyes locked onto yours. “I’ll go slow. I’ll—If I do it, I can make sure it’s just a prick.” His voice cracked, the fear beneath the calm slipping through.

You stared at him. He wasn’t just scared for you. He was terrified of what you were willing to do to yourself.

You nodded, the movement jerky. Your fingers loosened, and you let him take the blade.

You led him to the sink, he moved behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his heartbeat frantic against your spine. His left hand cradled yours, palm upturned, while the right hovered with the blade. 

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, his breath stirring the hair by your ear. “You can tell me.”

“I trust you.” You whispered.   

You hissed, but his thumb was already there, circling the sting before the blood could well. His heartbeat steadied yours, breath matching breath, until the knife clattered softly into the sink.

The pain was sharp. Controlled.

A drop of crimson beaded from your palm, then flowed as your powers flared. The alcohol bled out with it, burning faintly as it fled your system.

You turned your hand over slowly, palm still tingling. The crimson drop traced down your wrist before you wiped it away on a paper towel. The sting was fading, but the ache in your chest wasn’t.

Bob stayed behind you, close but not touching now, like even that moment had cost him something.

“I should go get ready,” you mumbled, eyes still on the sink. He didn’t stop you. Just nodded once and moved his body to let you have space. 

Your boots echoed faintly against the tile as you slipped out of the kitchen, leaving behind the hum of the fridge and the ghost of Bob’s hands on your skin. You didn’t pass anyone, just the sound of people hurrying to sober up and get ready in their own rooms.

Plus the sound of your own pulse, still erratic.

By the time you reached your door, the weight of it all had settled in your chest.

You peeled off the remnants of comfort: your oversized shirt, the feeling of warmth from Bob’s chest pressed to your back. For a moment, you stood there in just your underwear, letting the cold air of the room kiss over your bare skin.

Then you reached for the suit.

It waited at the end of your closet, folded: matte black lined in deep crimson. You stepped in legs first, the fabric clinging tight as it slid up your thighs. You adjusted the knee guards, then pulled the upper half over your shoulders. The polo-neck wrapped around your throat. Reaching behind you, you found the zip and drew it up your spine. The torso zipped up smooth, sealing you in, chest compressed beneath the armour-mapped ribbing.

The deep V-cut that peekaboo’d across your chest left the barest section of skin exposed. You used to be a seductress, you thought, a vampire of the night. But now you were an Avenger again. You should probably start dressing like one.  

You shook the thought off as you reached for your gloves.

Fingerless, open-palmed. You flexed your hands through the fabric, you could already feel the hum of power waiting beneath, blood stirring in your fingertips. 

You slid a holster on each leg before thrusting a curved blade into the right, and two smaller ones into the left. You walked over to the mirror and saw the black, calf-high boots beside it. Thick soles built to absorb impact. Reinforced for breaking ribs. You crouched, the suit tightening across your joints as you reached for one. You slipped your foot in and tugged the boot up over your calf. 

You rolled your ankles, flexed your toes. Everything fit. 

You caught your reflection in the mirror as you fastened the final buckle, and quickly decided you were missing something. You crossed the room in three strides and dropped to your knees by the dresser, yanking open the second drawer with a strong tug. Your fingers closed around the small makeup bag at the back.

You skipped the mirror entirely. Just popped open the eyeshadow pot, and dipped a finger into the metallic pigment and swept it across your lids in swift strokes. You blended it in with the edge of your finger until your eyelids gleamed like shiny metal. 

Then came the lipstick. Glossy crimson, so dark it was almost black. The colour of blood that had sat on your tongue countless times before. You dragged it over your lips, then dabbed the edges with the tip of your finger. With a quick swipe of mascara, you were finished. 

You glanced one last time in the mirror and then turned away from the ghost in the glass. No more time to hesitate. 

You strode down the hall, the light at the end of the corridor blinked red. Urgent. Urgent. Urgent. 

The elevator ride up was brief. As the doors slid open, the rooftop's frigid air hit you like a slap. Simultaneously, the Quinjet gusted wind, whipped your hair across your face. 

Yelena already sat inside, boots swinging, and her hair gelled into a slick back. Bucky and Walker were locked in a heated argument, likely another debate over mission plans. Bucky stood behind the pilot's seat, bracing one hand against its headrest while pinching the bridge of his nose. Eventually, he crossed over to the copilot seat, the discussion raging on.

Off to the side, Ava scanned over the mission brief on the tablet in Yelenas hands. 

Bob was sat on the furthest away seat, body tucked into the straps of the aircraft seatbelt. His eyes scanned the skyline but when you stepped into the Quinjet, he turned. His gaze met yours and lingered.

“Finally,” Walker barked, readjusting his grip on the yoke. “Let’s move.” The door hissed closed behind you and the rest of the world shut out. 

You dropped into the seat next to Bob. Buckling in, your elbow nudged his bicep. The fleeting contact sparked a sudden, unsettling question: Since when did his every touch pull in your focus like this?

The Quinjet lurched, engines roaring, before settling into a steady cruise. You sat in silence, staring out at the evening sun stretch out in the sky. Bob didn’t speak, his shoulder bumped yours with every subtle tilt of the aircraft. 

“Alright, listen up,” Walker called over his shoulder as he reached cruising altitude. "ETA to site: thirty minutes. We’ll scope the place out before blowing up shit.”

“I’m actually going to blow shit up just to spite you.” Yelena said, lounging in the row across from you. 

Bucky let out a tired sigh“Let’s just keep it clean. In and out.”

Alexei snorted. “Where is the fun in that? I say we storm the place.”

“Yeah, and get killed by black-market tech,” Ava replied, setting the tablet down beside her. “We don’t even know what they’re transporting.”

The voices faded to a low hum around you, background static to the thoughts spiralling in your own head. You anchored yourself in the thrum of engines beneath your feet and the crisp air from the vents, until the warmth radiating from Bob’s arm against yours pulled you in, undeniably soothing.

You didn’t speak, but at one point, he shifted slightly, angling himself just enough so your knees brushed.

Thirty minutes passed in a blink.

A dull warehouse compound came into view, no lights and roof panels rusted and uneven. No external movement. 

You unfastened your seatbelt as the Quinjet touched down with a soft jolt, the momentum pulling you forward slightly. Beside you, Bob was already rummaging into the pack he’d stashed, searching through its contents until he pulled out a familiar, worn book.

You smiled. Of course, he brought it.

You didn’t need to ask why he wasn’t coming with you. The risk of calling on his powers, the risk of him becoming something else, was too great. The Void. The Sentry. Whatever name it took, it wasn’t worth unleashing.

But that didn’t mean he wasn’t part of this.

Even if he couldn’t step onto the battlefield, he was still one of you. Still an Avenger. Still family. And you’d make damn sure he knew that.

You watched him flip the book open, thumb brushing the folded corner of a page. He didn’t look up.

You leaned in, voice low, just for him. “Be good.” 

His eyes flicked to yours. “I will.” 

You swallowed, nodding once and patting him lightly on the shoulder before stepping out of the Quinjet to join the rest of the team. 

Bucky was already moving ahead, crouched low near a stack of rusted shipping containers. You swept your eyes over the compound. It was quiet. Too quiet. No patrols, no guards.

Walker’s, who had split up with Alexei, voice crackled in your ear from the comms. “No signs of movement from this angle.”

Bucky’s voice came next. “Go in, grab the tech, and get out. If anyone starts shooting, you know what to do.”

You approached the side of the warehouse, now separated with just Yelena. Every step synched with your breath, your pulse steady beneath the suit. It was different now, no hunger fogging your mind.

At the wall, Yelena pulled a thin blade from her side and wedged it under the lockbox on the side door. It sparked once, then clicked open.

“You’re up,” she said, tilting her head at you.

You moved in silence, slipping past her and into the dark with practiced ease. Inside, it smelled of mildew and dust. 

You crouched behind a column, eyes adjusting. Two figures paced near a crate stamped with a Stark Industries logo caught your eye. One held a bulky rifle across his chest, the other dragged a wheeled cart stacked with glowing tech components. Great, tech enhanced mercenaries. 

A sharp pulse rippled through the air. You staggered slightly, your balance shifting as something inside your chest twitched.

You hissed through your teeth, gripping the beam as the vibration clawed at your blood. It didn’t hurt, but your control wavered for just a second. Enough to feel the sound stabbing through your brain.

You clicked the comm on your ear down, voice a sharp whisper: “Ava, status?” No response, you looked behind you expecting to find Yelena, but it seemed she’d gone out on her own path.

Time to do this yourself.

Your body kicked into training as you crept closer, quiet and low. The thrum of the ultrasonic hum still echoed in your bloodstream, but it wasn’t enough to slow you down.

You lunged.

The first merc never saw you coming. Your elbow smashed into his temple, and as he staggered, you followed with a swift sweep to the back of his knee, dropping him like dead weight. You slammed your fist into his throat before he could call out, and he went limp with a groan. You resisted the muscle memory urge to finish him off with a quick slice to the throat.

The second turned fast, rifle raised. You ducked under the barrel, spun, and drove your boot into his ribs. Blade drawn, you darted forward and slashed across his thigh, just enough to draw blood. 

You could feel it. The pulse in his leg, the blood leaking. With a single thought, the blood coiled up like smoke, you pulled it toward your hand. The red strand twisted in the air between you.

You stepped toward him slowly, the blood still hovering in midair. Then you closed your fist. The blood lashed forward, crushing into his head with enough force to crumple him to the floor, out cold.

“Two down,” you said into the comm. “Room is—”

Pain.

White-hot, searing pain.

It hit you from behind. Your body arched forward instinctively as the heat carved across your back, spreading like liquid fire. Your knees buckled, a broken scream tearing out of your lungs.

You rolled onto your side, gasping. The world tilted around you. You caught a glimpse of the attacker, another merc, armour thicker than the others. 

He stepped forward with intent. No words, just another beam charging at his wrist.

You moved on instinct, rolling behind cover as the next blast hit the floor where your head had been. Everything smelled like burning flesh. 

Your comm crackled.

“Report!” It was Ava.

You couldn’t answer, the pain was too strong, and her voice was muffled over the sound of your beating heart. 

A second blast clipped your shoulder, and this time it was worse. The beam carved through the edge of your suit, searing the exposed skin beneath. 

With a grunt, you twisted and slashed at the air behind you. Your power responded instantly, blood rippling from the cut on his thigh.

The blood twisted midair and shot backward in a sharp arc, wrapping around his weapon-hand. He shouted in surprise, stumbling back, trying to raise the cannon again.

You were already pushing yourself up. You were shaking and panting, but upright.

He swung wildly, but you ducked under it and brought your blade up. Another cut, chest this time.

More blood.

You reached out with your non singed hand and closed it into a fist. His blood locked in his body and stilled before constricting around his lungs like a noose. He gasped. Then gagged. You released him and he slumped forward onto the concrete floor.

You staggered back, the floor met your side hard, jarring your wounded shoulder. You groaned as your vision dimmed at the edges. Once you opened your eyes again, you could see a pair of legs beside you.

“Hey, hey. Stay with me.” The voice was low and urgent. Familiar.

“Bob,” your head rolled to the side. His face swam into focus, pale with worry, his blue eyes wide. You coughed out a weak laugh, hysterical with pain or blood loss? You didn’t know. “Hi.”

He shook his head in disbelief, arms attempting to cradle around you in a way to anchor himself. “You’re okay, I’m here.” 

You coughed up a clot of blood from your throat, feeling the clump dribble down the side of your lip. “You shouldn’t have come,” you said quietly, voice ragged.

“I could see your vitals on the Quinjet, I wasn’t going to watch you die.”

Ava’s voice chimed on the comms: “Someone check on Vamp!”

“She’s here,” Bob replied. “I’ve got her.”

The silence on the other end of the line was brief, but heavy. Footsteps resonated nearby. The others were close.

Bob looked up and called out. “Over here!”

Yelena appeared first, crouching beside you and giving you a once-over. Her brows furrowed. “Jesus. You smell like burnt toast.”

“Do I look hot?” You managed a bloody, fractured smile. Bucky crouched beside you, his head bowing as his gaze swept your wounds. 

“Let's get her to the Quinjet. Now.” The tremor in his voice was a silent plea. Don’t die here. Not like this.

TAG LIST: @non-anonymous-anon @ara-a-bird, @navs-bhat

[vampishnes]

Sanguine Hunger: Like Real People Do

Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four, Chapter five, Chapter six, Chapter seven, Chapter eight, Chapter nine, Chapter ten. Pairings: Platonic!Thunderbolts & Fem!Reader, Bob x FemThunderbolts!ExAvenger!Reader Summary: Garden centre, Walmart, and absurd amounts of alcohol. Tags: No use of ‘Y/N’. Female reader. Slow burn! Found family, 'slice of life', Hurt/Comfort Warnings: References to past trauma. [This is a lighter chapter, as a treat.] Word count: 2.5k A/N: I have done major edits to the grammar and structure (+ a little more content on each chap) to every single chapter of this fic. I hope it will be a lot nicer to read now, and I apologise for how it looked before. Also, this work now has a tag list! If you wish to be added, you can send me a message or comment below! :)

The moment you stepped foot into the garden centre, the overwhelming scent of earthy soil overtook you. The air was thick with humidity.

Rows upon rows of plants stretched out before you, and they felt almost overwhelming after the sterile confines of the Tower. It was most definitely too early to be outside, but after your late-night rendezvous with the rest of the Thunderbolts, you passed out as soon as your head hit the pillow.  

Bob walked beside you, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, eyes wide as he took in the sight. “Wow, this place is huge,” he murmured, voice nearly lost among the rustling leaves. His gaze darted around the room, and you followed it to the giant Monstera. Every leaf looked pampered: no brown edges, no sad yellow spots. But even so, they spilt over the stacks of shelves like they were too heavy for their own good. Some hung lazily, others curled at the tips until the shelves disappeared under all the untamed green.  

The bell sounded behind you, its iron-wrought chimes jingling against each other as you shut the door. There was no one around, unsurprising considering the time, but you could hear a faint clambering sound slowly getting louder. 

“One moment!” a voice called from somewhere within the greenery. You snapped your head around, your fingers clenched in anticipation.  

A younger man ducked his head into view, long hair frazzled as if he’d just completed a marathon. Sweat glistened from his forehead, though most of his face was hidden behind a massive fern.

He licked his lips, set the plant down with a thunk, and wiped his palms on his apron. You squinted to try to decipher the half-removed text, ‘Grab your balls. It’s canning season.’ He caught you staring and grinned. “Vintage,” he said, tapping the words. You nodded, lost in your curiosity and confusion. “How can I help?” Bob reached into his back pocket and produced the now completely crumpled piece of paper. It was the same list as earlier, but you could see there had been a few revisions in a different-coloured pen.  

“We’re complete beginners,” Bob pressed the list into the worker's hands, eager as much as anxious to have a professional opinion. “Well, actually, that’s if there isn’t anything below beginner because we’re probably closer to that.”  

“What exactly are you working on?” he asked, eyes skimming over the simple items on the list. “A small starter patch?”  

“Avengers Tower rooftop garden,” you replied matter-of-factly, as simply as if you were discussing the weather and not a practical national landmark. The worker blinked, his grin becoming a look of manic shock.  

“No shit? I thought I recognized you.” His voice pitched upward, finger pointing right down your chest. “Why are the Avengers buying plants, couldn’t you just hire someone to do this?”  

“Because we’re the Avengers with a ‘z’,” You tugged the paperback from his grasp and tried to soothe the oncoming headache. “And we just want to grow some of our own shit.” The worker nodded insistently, clearly coming down from his enthusiastic high. He walked around the desk and rummaged around in the drawer before returning with a ballpoint pen and a scraggly-looking notebook.  

“Well, if you’re building an entire rooftop garden, you’ll be needing more than just seeds and dirt.” He frantically wrote down in his notebook until the paper had almost completely disappeared under the ink. “Building a garden sounds simple, but one of that calibre will probably make you regret not just hiring someone.” He shot up and shimmied his pen into his apron’s pocket before dashing off into the labyrinth of plants.  

“Sorry, I thought this would be a lot more simple,” Bob whispered to you, eyes wide, as he watched Jeremy — whose name you only learnt from his askew name tag — work in front of him.  

“No, this is good,” you said, tapping Bob gently with your hand. “I mean, it’s just some plants, it can’t be that difficult.” Bob gave you a crooked smile, softening at your reassurance.  

As it turned out, it could be that difficult. 

You wouldn’t just be sitting around, digging up dirt and waiting until buds started to grow. It was far more architecture-based. An hour after setting foot in, you’d added a multitude of what you’d deemed ‘random’ items to your basket.

Including but not limited to: galvanized-steel containers, powder coating for said steel so it’d ‘fit in’ with the aesthetic, porcelain floor tiling, and far more seeds and pots that could reasonably fit inside your car. Which was how you now owed roughly more than half your monthly budget to a moving company called “Broke Back Movers”, who’d be hauling your garden-to-be onto the Avengers Tower roof next week.  

“This has been extortionate,” you said, taking a long sip of your black coffee as you glared at the receipt. “You know Bucky is going to give us an earful, right?” The garden centre café was bustling with life, humming with the clattering of silverware and the constant buzzing and grinding of coffees being made.  

Bob stared into his own cup of drink. The way his shoulders slumped, not tired, just… quietly defeated, said everything you needed to know. “I’m sorry I dragged you out here,”  

“Why?” you asked, softer this time. “You having second thoughts?”  

“Yes. No. I don’t know,” he fidgeted at the sugar granules on the table, scattering them onto the floor. “It’s a lot more work than I realized.”  

You swirled your cup before taking another sip. “Does that mean it’s not worth it any more because it’s a lot of work?”  

“I just don’t think either of us knew what we were really signing up for,” he gestured vaguely to the receipt.  

“I do now.” The admission felt dangerous, like it was more than just plants and planning permissions. “And I still want it.”  

“It’s going to take months,” Bob’s gaze drifted past you to the pest control aisles. “Could be at it until summer.”  

“Good,” you nudged his foot under the table. “It gives us something to do, other than saving the world, of course. But that gets boring.” He snickered in response, burying half of his face in his coffee cup.  

“We should probably bribe Bucky with something. Maybe the whole team, since we’ll probably end up dragging them all into this mess.”  

“I saw a Walmart on the way here,” you flicked the empty sugar packet at him. “I doubt spending more money is the answer, but maybe absurd amounts of alcohol will be.”  

The drive over was only a few minutes. When you arrived, the shop's fluorescents hummed above you, their glare bouncing off rows of glistening alcohol bottles. A sudden chill from the AC sent shivers down your spine and goosebumps racing up your exposed skin. You reached for another bottle of Jack Daniel's whiskey and threw it in the cart, where it joined two others and a disordered assortment of spirits. You grabbed a fourth Jack, because why not, and lobbed it in. You walked further down the aisle, eyeing all the colourful cocktail mixers and throwing some in for good measure.  

Bob trailed behind you, pushing the increasingly heavy cart with growing concern. “Are we planning to get everyone blackout drunk?” he asked, watching you add yet another bottle of drink to the collection.  

“That's the idea,” you replied, grabbing a box of premixed drinks and examining the flavour selection on the label. “Team bonding,” you said, turning to face him fully. “Plus, half of you guys are super soldiers, not like you’ll even feel it.”  

Bob considered this for a moment, then shrugged and resumed pushing the cart. “Yelena will probably still manage to drink us under the table.”  

“Now that,” you said, tossing in a bottle of vodka that looked expensive enough to justify the inevitable lecture from Bucky, “would be entertaining to watch.”  

The checkout line was mercifully short compared to all the other lines, though, the cashier did a double-take when she started scanning the bottles. Her eyes flicked between you and Bob, clearly trying to place your faces. “Having a party?” she asked, the scanner beeping rhythmically as bottle after bottle passed through.  

“A crazy one,” you replied, pulling out your card as the total climbed higher. Bob winced visibly when the final number appeared on the screen.  

“That'll be $347.82,” the cashier announced, and you could practically see Bob's soul leaving his body. You handed over your card without flinching, sliding it down the side of the reader. The bagging process was a struggle in itself, you tried to shove as many bottles in the few bags you’d bought but still needed to grab more to carry it all.  

The parking lot was filled, and your car sat packed between two other trucks. Bob loaded the bags into the trunk, while you slid into the driver's seat and started the engine.

The radio crackled to life as Bob came around and settled into the passenger seat. You reached over to change the station, swapping between a range of different genres, from songs about love to a radio host complaining about ‘Spider-Man the Spider-Menace’.  

The drive back to the Tower felt different from the morning trip, more relaxed, almost teetering on excitement. The city was busier now, morning settling into early afternoon, and you found yourself stuck in traffic only five minutes after pulling out from the store.  

“The garden centre was nice, glad I didn’t have to go alone,” Bob said suddenly. He was looking out the window, but you could see his reflection in the glass, the small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.  

“I should tell you something, though,” you said, glancing over at him as you stopped at a red light. “I’ve been lying to you.” Bob’s eyebrows furrowed as he stared into you.  

“What?” he stammered, adjusting in his seat so he could give you his full attention. “Lying about what? Did you not want to do this?”  

You shook your head, fingers grasping steadily on the wheel, arms fully outstretched. “No, I want to do this.” The light turned green, and you pressed the accelerator, the tower coming into view ahead. “I’ve gardened before.” Bob laughed, and the sweet sound filled the car and warmed your beating heart. You pulled into the Tower's underground garage, the familiar hum of the building's systems welcoming you home. “I know, I know. I’m a lying cheater.” As you turned off the engine, Bob was already reaching for the door handle, but he paused.  

“What did you grow?” he asked, turning back to you. Something bitter unfurled in your chest, dangerous and painful and terrifying all at once.  

“I planted a flower. On Tony’s grave,” you said, confession pouring out of you, more painful than anything else in a very long time. “Used my blood to grow it. So it’d… last.” 

You shoved the car door open, desperate for the garage’s cold air to swallow you whole. But Bob’s hand closed around your forearm, gentle and unyielding. No yank, no demand—just stay. You sank back into the seat, the door hanging open like a held breath. His thumb brushed a slow arc over your sleeve, the friction soft. The quiet between you thickened, alive.  

You could hear it all: the traitorous drum of your pulse, too loud, too raw. The flower would never wilt. You’d made sure of that. Its roots would coil deep, fed by the same power that kept your hands stained. A monument, 'look at what I lost'.  

“Lily of the valley,” you stared at the garage stone wall. “Started small. Now it’s… God, it’s taller than me.”  

Bob’s thumb stilled on your sleeve. “You go back to see it?”  

“Not since I moved here,” the words tasted like ash. “Fourteen months.” The silence pooled, heavy, until you couldn’t handle the weight any more. “The roots… They’ve wrapped around everything, I could feel it. Like I was forcing him to stay.” The admission clawed up your throat. You let out a breath, not shaky, not steady, just something in between, and then, slowly, you pulled your arm free.  

“It’s cold,” you said, though it wasn’t. “Let’s get this stuff inside,” and Bob let you stand. You stepped out, boots scuffing against the concrete floor. Bob moved with you, opening the trunk and pulling out the first bag, the bottles clinking together under his grip. He didn’t comment on your deflection, didn’t ask if you were okay, he just worked, handing off bags one by one, like this was the only thing that mattered right now.  

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime, and Bob stepped in first, shifting the bags in his grip before leaning against the railing. You stared at your reflection in the mirror; you’d managed to throw some of your clothes in the dryer last night, so now you weren’t running off the bottom-of-the-wardrobe scraps. Even still, you’d picked out just a simple gray spaghetti strap tank top, paired with a blue-grey plaid flannel shirt and a rugged brown denim jacket thrown over.  

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open to reveal the hallway leading into the Tower’s common space. The moment you stepped through, the shift in the atmosphere was immediate. Alexei was slouched on the couch, legs sprawled, as he bellowed a story at Yelena, who was sipping from a mug as if she was merely tolerating his nonsense. Across the couch, Ava sat absent-mindedly beside Bucky, who was scowling at his phone.  

The second they clocked you and Bob, more specifically, the bags of alcohol in your arms, the reaction was instant. Alexei sat up, eyebrows shooting up in dramatic delight. “You have come bearing gifts!”  

Bucky, however, narrowed his eyes at the sheer amount of bottles. “How much have you two spent?” He put his finger up to stop Bob from responding. “No, don’t tell me. Plausible deniability.” Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, already resigned.  

Bob hoisted his bags onto the counter with a quiet grunt, shaking his head. The receipt peeked out from between his fingers, still absurd enough to make him grimace.  

“You know,” he muttered, “I really thought gardening was going to be the most expensive part of this week.”  

Alexei let out a loud ha! And slapped Bob’s back with enough force to make him stumble. “Oh, my friend, you have clearly never purchased alcohol in bulk. It was investment!” Yelena snatched a bottle of vodka from the pile, inspecting the label like she was judging its quality.  

Ava plucked a bottle of whiskey from the mess, twisted off the cap, and took a casual sip. “Less talking. More drinking.”  

Between the six of you, the unpacking process was surprisingly smooth, bottles sorted into neat(ish) rows across the counter, mixers shoved toward the fridge, discarded packaging tossed haphazardly into the bin.  

You reached for a bottle at the same time as Bob, fingers brushing lightly against his. Neither of you pulled away; it wasn’t intentional, exactly, but you couldn't help but linger. Bob cleared his throat. You gave the bottle to him without comment, your own hand flexing slightly before moving on to unpack another.  

“Y’know,” you said, slapping a tequila bottle down, “we’ve got enough here to play every drinking game ever invented.”  

Alexei grinned wide, gesturing grandly. “Now you’re speaking my language!”  

TAG LIST: @non-anonymous-anon @ara-a-bird

[vampishnes]

Sanguine Hunger: About Time

Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four, Chapter five, Chapter six, Chapter seven, Chapter eight, Chapter nine, Chapter ten. Pairings: Platonic!Thunderbolts & Fem!Reader, Bob x FemThunderbolts!ExAvenger!Reader Summary: Movie night with the Thunderbolts leads to old memories. Tags: No use of ‘Y/N’. Female reader. Slow burn! Found family, 'slice of life', Hurt/Comfort Warnings: Graphic depictions of a panic attack, vague descriptions of vomiting, references to past trauma. Word count: 2.4k A/N: There is now a chapter count for this work. There will be 10 chapters in total. Thank you for all the love on this; it means the world to me.

The common area couch was large enough to fit all of you, but somehow never felt spacious enough when everyone squeezed together. That was how you found yourself on the floor in front of the couch instead. Your shoulders were crushed between Bob and Walker; your back slumped uncomfortably on Bucky's knee. He was lucky enough to grab a spot on the couch first.

Yelena’s bleached blonde hair obscured your view of the screen slightly. You stifled a sigh; mentioning it started another bickering session.

“What are we watching?” Bucky asked, his leg dug further into you. The remote lay abandoned on the couch’s arm, waiting for someone to claim it. Alexi reached for it before anyone else could grab it.

“Hand it over,” Walker demanded, setting his plate down and lunging across you and Bucky. Alexi yanked the remote away, holding it out of reach. “Please, you’re gonna make us watch some old Russian movie.”

You used one hand to lift Walker’s elbow away from your plate and the other to stuff a bite of food into your mouth. Your left side dug into Bob as John fell further atop you. You hissed in discomfort, your body twisted awkwardly to avoid Walker’s armpit.

“Children, please,” Bucky grumbled, yanking the remote from Alexi’s grasp. “Let’s just see what they have.” Walker reluctantly sat back, dropping his hand from your knee, which he had used as leverage. Bucky flicked through titles with the intensity of someone personally offended by bad movie covers.

“Jesus, can you just pick something?” you spat, dipping your soft taco in sauce. Bucky kicked you in reply, just enough to annoy, not hurt. “Fine. What if we close our eyes and see what we land on?” you suggested, placing your empty plate down. Surprisingly, the room went silent.

“That’s actually not a bad idea,” Yelena said, flopping her head back and covering her eyes. One by one, the rest of the group followed suit, mostly begrudgingly and with heavy sighs.

“Ava, count to ten, then Bucky hits select,” you directed, slapping a hand over your own eyes. Ava began counting, theatrically slow at first, until ten seconds suddenly felt too long. Her voice sped up until—“Now.” A soft click followed, and you opened your eyes to see what fate had chosen.

“About Time,” Bucky announced, his tone confused. The title screen appeared, the Netflix ‘bad-dum’ barely audible over the team’s collective groan.

“No way,” Walker protested, immediately reaching for the remote. Yelena smacked his hand down before he could start another wrestling match.

“Rules are rules, Walker. We agreed to this system.”

“I’ve never seen it,” Bob admitted, his body relaxing beside you. You tilted your head toward him, close enough that your whisper wouldn’t carry.

“Me neither. I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Bob tipped his fries your way with a smile. You grinned and grabbed a handful. “If it’s not, though, it’ll be good to point and laugh at.”

“Shut up,” Ava hushed, surprising you with her sudden interest. “I can’t hear it.” You raised your eyebrows in amusement before settling your eyes on the screen.

As the movie progressed, the team's reactions went from protest to enthusiastic engagement, filled with the occasional chime in from someone asking ‘why doesn’t she just kill him?’ or ‘I hate this man,’ which was immediately met with a unanimous hush. It wasn't until the credits rolled that the trance seemed to break.

Alexi was sniffling, desperately trying to hide his face behind a throw pillow. No one spoke; the room was blanketed in a thick cover of sad tension.

“That was…” Ava began, scratching her head as she tried to think of the right words. Bucky nodded beside her, head settled low.

“Terrible.” Walker finished, his voice trembling despite the clenched effort to steady it. Yelena furrowed her eyebrows upon hearing him, snapping her head around.

“You’re literally crying.”

“There’s something in my eyes.” Walker swiped at his face with a rough, hurried gesture.

“Yeah, tears.” You added, turning to the side to see Walker's reddened cheeks.

You were just as affected; love had never been kind to you. Before the snap, when the Avengers still felt like home, there were more chances. You had been so close to Bucky for the few years you spent together in Wakanda that if Thanos never erased everything you once knew, a fragile almost could’ve bloomed.

Those five years alone transformed you, hollowed you out entirely. You swore never to kill again after the night your powers first manifested. Fate had other plans, and you found yourself covered in blood, clawing animalistically at anything that got in your way: alien gore and sweat sticking to your tainted skin.

Maybe if you had won the battle, you could have justified what you did, who you’d become. Then Bucky crumpled to dust in your arms, and whatever remained of your old self went with him.

You tried to reconcile after the final battle with Thanos. You held Bucky so tightly that your nails dug their own crevices into his skin, carved out where home used to be. But watching Tony, the only father you had left, sacrifice himself for the betterment of the world solidified the truth into you: you were always meant to be this. 

Bile swarmed in your cheeks as the thoughts poured out of you, from the deepest pits you shoved them down. You jolted up, standing shakily like a newborn deer. You placed one foot in front of the other, tiptoeing through the symphony of limbs.

Bob lightly tugged at your arm, and you found yourself leaning into it, but the comfort itself was what terrified you. How easily you could depend on it. How easily it could be taken away. You jerked away with more vigour than intended, immediately regretting it when hurt flickered across Bob's face. How could you explain that you were terrified of the possibility of loss that came with caring?

“You ok?” he asked, his blue eyes piercing into yours. He looked so small on the floor, body huddled into himself, as if trying to curl himself into a tiny ball no one would notice. You nodded, mouth tightly wound together. You stumbled out of the room, hardly noticed by anyone else now that conversations had started again, but you could feel his eyes still following you.

The room spun around you, and blood pounded in your ears. You could feel your heart drumming beneath your ribcage, as if begging to be let out. You gripped tightly at your shirt, hand shaking relentlessly; your heart continued pounding painfully against you. Am I dying? You thought, vision narrowing as you stumbled down the stairs. I must be dying. 

A drop of sweat crept down your spine; the air blew against it, and the clash of heat and cold stung painfully. You didn’t know where you were going, only that you needed to leave. You continued down the empty hallway, hands stumbling for anything to ground yourself. You clutched against the door handle for the bathroom, pushing it in with the rest of your body. You pulled yourself up against the bathroom sink, facing your bitter reflection in the mirror.

Acid crawled up your throat again, and you couldn’t stop the influx of sickness that washed over you, a wave of shame and rot. You could hear his voice in your ears, Tony's voice. You wound your eyes tight; you could almost see the blue hologram playing in front of you, his voice clawing at your skull. 

‘You’re not the monster they made you.’ The thought slipped from your grip as you hurled yourself over the sink, lungs spasming as you heaved, body violently punching each breath from you. Warm tears slipped down your face, creating a rhythmic tapping against the porcelain sink.

Your fingers gripped the edge of the sink, knuckles white. You could taste the faintness of blood and were unsure if it was yours or just the memory of it. A soft knock on the door broke through your thoughts. “Hey,” you tried to respond, but your throat constricted. The tears came faster now, and you pressed your palms against your eyes. Another knock, this one more insistent. “Can I come in?” 

You turned on the sink, letting the cold water shock your system; you splashed your face once, then twice, until the reflection in front of you didn’t look so wrecked. Your eyes were still red, bloodshot. How many times had you seen this face staring back at you? How many nights had you spent washing blood from your hands, wondering if you'd ever be clean again?

“I’m fine,” you said, voice cracking in a telltale quiver. Not even an idiot would believe you. Your knees crumbled from beneath you; you fell down into a squat, using the sink to keep your weight up.

You couldn’t face Bob. You knew he’d see right through you. There was no reply other than silence, a part of you was relieved, but that familiar sting of loneliness nipped at you. Your brain ached, a sharp headache furrowing its way into your skull. You took a deep breath, holding the heavy air in until it burst out of you like a dam. With shaking hands, you quickly tugged the door open.

Bob stood across from you; when he saw you, he didn't crowd you. He just remained there, offering you the choice to come closer. You stood in front of the closed bathroom door, arms crossed. Your legs gave way beneath you, and you slid down the door, crumpling to your knees with a humiliating surrender. 

Bob surged forward, hands outstretched to catch you, but you stopped him with a trembling hand. Unable to lift your head, your body folded in on itself, and you sank further to the floor, the bottom half of your back pressed against the cold bathroom door. “Do you want to talk about it?” He asked, stepping back and slinking back onto the wall in front of you. You shook your head, waving your hand vaguely.

“I’m fine.” You swallowed hard, throwing your head back, resting it against the wall. You felt the steady thrum of your pulse begin to calm. He gave you a closed-mouth smile, one that said, ‘I don’t believe you.’ “I don’t need your pity.” You spat, rolling your eyes. You pushed your hand against your forehead, trying to will the headache away.

“It’s not pity.” The words came slowly. “I’m not good at this. Saying the right thing, finding the right words.” He took a shaky breath. “But you, you’ve been there for me, even when I hurt you. You still chose to save me, so let me do this. Let me care.” His words lay heavy between you, a desperate plea—no, a vow.

“It’s stupid.” The silence stretched, your hands trembling as you pressed them firmly into your lap.

“It’s not stupid,” Bob said gently. “It’s not stupid if it hurts.” You let out a hollow laugh.

“That’s the problem, isn’t it? I’m not supposed to be hurt. I’m supposed to be stronger than this. I’ve been alive for a century, but I can’t handle a stupid movie?” Bob watched you with those gentle eyes of his, peeling back every lie you’d told.

“It wasn’t about the movie, was it?”

“Tony. It made me think of Tony.” The name felt foreign on your tongue. “And Bucky. And everything I lost. Everyone.” Bob nodded, giving you the space to continue. “That whole time during the Snap, I…” Your voice cracked, and you cleared your throat. “I became someone I swore I’d never be again. I killed, Bob. I killed so many. I hunted them down like animals.” Bob’s gaze didn’t waver.

“You were lost.”

“Stop,” you shook your head, words tearing out of you. “No. I had a choice. I could have stayed with the Avengers. I could have helped people. But I was so angry, so empty.” You ran a trembling hand through your hair.

Your fingernails dug into your palms, anchoring you to the present as the past threatened to drag you under. Your jaw ached from clenching it so tightly. Bob shifted his weight, the soft rustle of fabric against the wall echoing in the empty corridor. His patience was another form of torture, giving you time to reveal the inhumanity hiding beneath your skin. You shut your eyes. Faces flickered. Strangers. People you’d ended because Valentina pointed and said guilty. Because you’d stopped asking why.

“I mean… we all suck.” Bob said, voice low. Your eyes snapped to his. “But we’re trying.” The hallway light flickered above, casting shadows across his face.

You’d seen it personally: his regrets, his past, all the cruel truths that made him who he was now. You could still feel the way his skin felt gripping tightly on your throat, how the floor felt as your body collapsed on it. Now those same hands dried the dishes beside you, offered you comfort and warmth when you needed it most.

Those hands weren’t the Sentry’s, nor were they the Void’s. They were Bob’s, cracked and scarred. Just like the rest of you were.

You’d all killed; none of you denied it. None of you had the luxury of pretending to be anything other than what you were: broken things trying to be better. You both sat in comfortable silence, the Tower quiet around you except for the distant sounds of the team still gathered in the common area. “We should go back,” you said, though you made no move to stand.

“We could,” Bob agreed, equally still. Somewhere above, a muffled crash echoed. “Or we could just… not.” Another beat of silence passed before you spoke again.

“We’re starting the garden.” He hummed, gaze drifting to the dust swirling in a sunbeam. “Is there anything else you wanted to do?” Bob thought for a moment.

“Yeah.” He admitted, a small smirk flickering. “I’ve never been camping. I’ve been homeless, though, so yeah… I’d probably hate it.”

“Glamping, then?” You offered. “Or a remote cabin, make it a bonding exercise with the rest of the team.”

“That sounds amazing, but we’d never have the time.” He snorted, but his eyes softened.

“You’d be surprised.” You pushed yourself up from the floor, offering a hand to help Bob. He took it, his grip solid and warm. For a heartbeat longer than necessary, you held on, feeling the rough calluses of his palm against yours.

[vampishnes]

Sanguine Hunger: Molten Gold

Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four, Chapter five, Chapter six, Chapter seven, Chapter eight, Chapter nine, Chapter ten. Pairings: Platonic!Thunderbolts & Fem!Reader, Bob x FemThunderbolts!ExAvenger!Reader Summary: Late night garden planning with Bob and takeout night with the Thunderbolts. Tags: No use of ‘Y/N’. Female reader. Slow burn! Found family, 'slice of life', Hurt/Comfort Warnings: References to past trauma. Very, very slight suggestive content. Word count: 2.9k

Small peeks of molten gold began to seep through the night's blue shading, a thin layer of dark orange emerged over the curvature of Earth and poured into the small crevices of Bob's bedroom curtains. The light was a small respite against the straining of your eyes as they tried to focus on the ‘Gardening For Idiots’ book balanced precariously on your lap.

The bedside lamp, a sleek Stark relic, bathed the pages in a dim glow that covered the words in fuzzy shadows and made them just beyond perceptible. Bob softly asked if you wanted the big light on, and you naively denied the offer in your edging-on-exhausted state.

You glanced at the clock beside the bed: 4:43 AM. You’ve been up for hours. You shifted positions on the mattress, trying to will yourself awake with sudden jolts of movement. Your eyes burned with dryness, each blink a heavy drag.

It wasn’t until Bob’s voice cut through the silence that your spine jerked upright, jolting your posture as blood surged back to your sleep-starved mind. “We could start with these,” he pointed to the picture of cherry tomatoes. “Not too demanding, looks delicious too.” He added, licking the dry skin on his lips. Shifting positions, he leaned closer to point at the picture below it, his shoulder brushing yours. “The garlic looks good, too.”

The warmth of his skin bled through his thin jumper and onto your cold skin. You tried to focus on the writing beside the images, but you could only get a few lines in—something about ‘full sun’—but the scent of him, distinctively shea butter soap and permeating chocolate from your earlier kitchen rendezvous, threatened to draw your attention away. “Garlic looks perfect, seems resilient. We’ll need that.” Your finger traced the edge of the book's page. You glanced sideways and watched his eyelashes cast shadows against his cheeks in the lamplight, his lips parted slightly as he studied the illustrations.

The pulse in your throat fluttered. You wound your eyes tightly shut, blaming your wandering thoughts on the intensifying fatigue. Bob smiled warmly, grateful for confirmation.

"I had an aunt who grew garlic in her garden. Always smelled amazing." He said as he rubbed his eyes, the sleepless night catching up to him too, but neither of you suggested ending this comfortable bubble you found yourselves in.

“I’ve never planted anything. I grew up pretty…” You thought back to your old life—lavish gowns, back to when the most pressing matter in your life was finding a potential suitor. “Well off.” Bob's gaze lingered on your face a moment longer, curiosity brewing behind his tired eyes.

“Well off?”

“Old money. Very old. I had private tutors for everything: piano, Latin, dancing, singing. Gardening never came up, though.” You scrunched your nose quickly, shaking your head at the very thought of doing something so hands-on back then. Bob nodded, his eyebrows furrowing as he tried to absorb the small fragment of your past.

“Do you miss it?” He asked simply, tearing his eyes away from yours. “Who you were before?”

“I used to. I used to beg God to take me back.” You gulped harshly, feeling the sides of your throat convulse in response. That bitter ache welled over you, restless nights after your rescue spent weeping in bed, begging for some sort of salvation. You inhaled steadily before continuing. “Not any more. People always need saving. I don’t think I could live with myself, knowing what I know now, if I just sat in the backlines while others suffered.” You looked back at Bob. Silence settled between you; you expected the usual platitudes, awkward sympathy that made you want to crawl into yourself.

“I know that feeling, of wanting to be someone else, of wishing for something else.” The lamplight caught the faint shake of his hands, a reminder of who he was now. Your eyes caught the way his thumb smoothed over the knuckles of his other hand.

“I like who you are.” The words felt insufficient, like nothing you could say could even begin to chisel through the years of self-loathing you both felt. You wanted to take them back, to find better words. To say that you were both worth saving. His shoulders relaxed a fraction, smiling gingerly.

“I don’t.” Bob’s thumb stilled and retreated underneath his hand. “But when you say it, I almost believe it.” The air thickened in response; his vulnerability hung between you, delicate as early winter's snowflakes. Your breath caught in response, all possible words dying on your tongue.

An alarm clock blared distantly through the hall, shattering the fleeting moment. Bob jerked back, cheeks flushing. “Every morning. Five-thirty AM on the dot, Walker's alarm.” He ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, the spell broken between you.

“Yeah, I'm in the room beside him. So loud every fucking morning.” Your voice came out hoarse as you rolled your eyes. You cleared your throat, forcing the emotions down. “We should start a list. For the garden. Supplies and… things.”

“There's a garden centre a few blocks away, opens at 6 am.”

“Who’s buying seeds at 6 am?” A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth.

“Us.”

The Tower began to stir. Walker's alarm had, as always, woken others. Soon the communal areas would fill with your teammates, and the thought of escaping to the garden centre until you woke up a bit more, with the strength to see them, was exceptionally appealing. Bob moved to get up.

Standing from the bed, he stretched his hands above his head, revealing the tiniest sliver of skin. Your eyes fluttered down in response, the ‘v’ trail leading to below his hips. No matter how many times you tried to look away, your gaze kept pulling back. The harsh curvature of his stomach was overwhelmingly appealing, each sculpted contour an invitation to stare. You clenched your jaw tight, trying to drag your eyes to the now suddenly interesting colour of the curtains.

“I’m gonna get changed, meet back here in fifteen?” Bob nodded in response, looking back at you as you moved toward the door.

Unfortunately, for you, Walker had just exited his room. Gym shorts way too tight, 3-inch inseam tight, to be exact. You couldn’t help the grimace that crawled across your features. His eyes narrowed on yours as you closed the door with a soft click. His gaze flicked from your face to Bob’s door, then back. 

“Late night bonding?” He crossed his arms, the fabric of his shirt straining over his biceps.

“We’re planning a garden.” You leaned against the wall, feigning indifference. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling like the world itself sat on his shoulders.

“Not Bob’s plant idea again.”

“Problem?”

“Yeah, problem!” He said, raising his voice an octave higher as he gestured toward the ceiling. “This place literally gets attacked once a month, it’s going to last like four minutes.”

You shrugged. “It’s a good enrichment. Bob needs it.”

“Is he a dog?” Walker barked out a sharp laugh, scratching at his rough stubble.

“Jealous you weren’t invited?” He scoffed in response, scowl deepening into something dangerously close to a pout.

“No. Do you know how many hostiles could breach through the roof? It’s a liability.”

“Well, good thing you’re here to protect us.” You said, voice dripping with faux sweetness. His head shook slightly, taking the compliment straight to his head.

Too exhausted to endure another second of him, you shimmied through him and the door, shoulder-checking him lightly. You’d just wasted five minutes explaining yourself to Walker as if he were your dad, catching you sneaking in through the window. Ten minutes left to get ready.

You closed your bedroom door, shedding your comfortable clothes off as soon as you heard the faint chime of the automatic lock behind you. You rifled through your wardrobe, half of your clothes sat dirty in your laundry basket, so your options were limited. You settled on a white tank top, faded blue boot-cut jeans, and a worn-out green motorcycle jacket.

You zipped up your jacket halfway, revealing the moth-bitten tank of your once-lace collar. Sitting on the edge of your bed, you hastily tugged on a pair of slightly heeled combat boots, lacing up the damaged leather strings you’d replaced so many times now.

After a quick trip to the kitchen, you brewed the strongest coffee you could manage, grabbing an extra mug for Bob. When you returned to his room eight minutes later—two cups of drinks balancing in one hand—you found a note taped to his door: ‘In shower. Feel free to come in and wait’ with a small poorly drawn smiley face beside it. You pushed the door handle down with your elbow and stepped into the now-familiar room.

The air hung heavy, muggy from the heaps of steam that seeped from underneath the ensuite, leaving a distinct smell of green tea permeating. You spotted the garden book still on the night stand, now with a notepad stuck on top, half-covered in rushed, sloppy scribbles. You grabbed it between your fingers, placing the cups down beside it as you sat on the edge of the bed. Squinting as you tried to decipher the writing: tomato seeds (cherry?), garlic bulbs, pots (different sizes), soil (ask about best type), small trowel, soap.

A slow grin spread as you slipped the sticky note back into place. You leaned back, you could just make out Bob's humming, something faint that you couldn’t make out the tune for. The mattress felt much more comfortable than yours, but maybe that was just the softness of the duvet below you or the warm, familiar scent of his room.

The surrounding noises blurred, the shower running, the birds chirping just outside, someone's alarm beeping down the hall. Everything started to fade, like someone was turning down the volume of the world. Your last coherent thought was that you should force yourself up, that you needed to be ready when Bob came out. But your body had other ideas, shutting down before you could follow through.

“I was thinking we could stop by the-” Bob's voice cut off abruptly as he stepped out of the bathroom, towel rubbing his damp hair, dressed in fresh clothes. He stared at the sight before him: you.

You sprawled halfway across his bed, mouth slightly agape, feet dangling off the edge of the mattress, completely and utterly asleep. He stood there for a moment longer, torn between waking you or letting you rest in the rare moments you could.

Quietly and carefully, he tiptoed to the edge of the bed, grabbed the thin blanket from the side of you and gently placed it atop you. You stirred, mumbling something incoherent before falling back into rhythmic snoring. 

He moved carefully to the armchair beside the bed, grabbing the open book beside him. Sinking into the cushions, he reached for one of the coffee cups, grimacing when the dark brown liquid sloshed around his mouth.

He flipped through the pages to where he last left off, he tried to focus on the proper drainage etiquette. Yet, as the time slipped by, the text blurred into a haze, and his eyelids began to sag. His thoughts drifted as pieces of your conversation echoed in his head. I like who you are. They burrowed deep into his mind, he hadn’t realized how much he needed to hear them. Not until you. 

Despite his efforts to stay awake, his eyelids grew heavier, and the unrelenting in and out of your breathing had soothed him into sleep. He jerked awake moments later, his head having lulled forward and tugged himself out of his peaceful rest.

He shook his head, trying to reorient himself: his feet were cold, and his neck would be sore if he tried to sleep like this for the next few hours. He thought about going to the common area couch, but didn’t want to explain to anyone the reason he was there, and he was certain that he wouldn’t be able to sleep with the coming and goings of everyone else.

With a resigned sigh, he pushed himself up from the hard sofa and padded his way to the soft, vacant side of the bed. The mattress welcomed him with a faint creak, moving you slightly to the bend of his weight as he tried to settle.

He lay on his back at first, blanket half over himself and pillow uncomfortably propped under him. As he drifted back to sleep, his head tilted to yours, and he hoped when you woke, you’d steal a pillow, curl into the space he’d left warm and make yourself at home. 

The faint golden hue of sunset shone directly into your sleep-filled eyes as consciousness slowly returned to you. Your shirt clung to damp skin, socks bunched awkwardly around your toes. At first, you’d wondered if you managed to fall asleep after the garden centre trip, until it hit you all at once.

You haven’t left the tower.

You shot up, eyes widening in panicked distress. You needed to tell Bob, your hands reached frantically for your phone, instead finding the hard lump of someone else. You jerked your hand back, peeking over the lump to find Bob laid inches away, curly hair poking in up in every different angle imaginable. Your breath faltered, eyes darting around the unfamiliar room as you tried to put all the pieces of the puzzle together.

Your head snapped to the left of you, the alarm clock now reading 5:53 PM. You’d slept for almost twelve hours. You groan louder than intended, wiping a grimy hand over your face as you start to remember it all. At some point, in your sleepy haze, you’d taken off your jacket and shoes and settled into bed correctly. 

“Hey,” You jolt in response to the rough voice, placing a hand over your heart. “Sorry. You were out cold, didn’t want to wake you.” You plopped the hand back on your lap, craning your head upwards as all the memories hit you again. 

“Garden centre’s closed now, isn’t it?” You mumbled, voice thick with embarrassment. You couldn’t believe you’d manage to fall asleep, you who survived multiple sleepless nights no matter how exhausted you were, passed out when it mattered the most. 

“It’s ok, we can go tomorrow.” He reassures, propping himself up with his elbow, smiling up at you. “I am starving, though.” You nod in response, feeling that familiar grumbling in the depths of your stomach. You were sustained in terms of blood, but nothing sounded better than an actual meal. You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, stretching your arms above your head.

“Maybe we can convince the team to get takeout?” 

Half an hour later, you managed to slink into your room, tore off the sweat-dampened outfit, and threw on another tank top and an old pair of tennis shorts. You sloshed around two caps full of mouthwash before deeming yourself clean enough to face anyone else.

The common area was unusually bustling for a Thursday evening. Bob already made his way to the couch, with Bucky and Alexi huddled around his small phone screen. Yelena perched on one of the kitchen stools, scrolling through her phone with a look of deep concentration.

“That burger looks delicious! Yes, we will get burgers,” Alexi announced. His palm slammed the sofa cushion beside Bob's ear, causing him to jump. Bucky didn’t glance up from Bob’s phone.

“We got burgers last time, we should get pizza,” Bucky responded, eyebrows furrowed as he shook his head. Ava finally tore her eyes from her screen and rolled her eyes.

“God save me,” she groaned. “But I agree with Alexi.” Alexi barked a sharp ‘Ah-ha!’ in response, jabbing a triumphant finger at Bucky. You crept behind the sofa and peered down at Bob’s phone. Uber Eats in bright green letters filled you in on all that happened while you were away. Bob caught your stare and flashed a tired smile, tilting the screen your way.

“Hungry?” he asked, feigning innocence as if it wasn’t your idea to get takeout.

“Anything sounds good as long as it’s ordered in the next five minutes,” you pleaded, walking around the sofa to sit between John and Ava. Peeking at their phones, you saw the same Uber Eats screen.

“You guys do know we can just order different things and buy it at the same time, right?” Walker said, clicking his phone off as he gestured with it. “Plus, the taco place looks the best.” Yelena quirked an eyebrow at Walker, her eyes flicking briefly to you before she shrugged and returned her gaze to her screen.

“I want pizza,” Yelena offered. “Bob. Send me the link to the order together thing.”

You glanced at Walker, who offered you his phone to add your own choices to the basket. “Just get me two hard shell tacos, two soft shell. Spiciest options they have,” you said, pushing the phone back his way. 

An hour later the kitchen counter disappeared beneath the sprawl of takeout containers, tacos pizza boxes, burger wrappers near containers of fries, and a concerning amount of sauce packets forming a chaotic arrangement.

The warm, mingled aromas of spices, cheese, and grilled meat filled the common area as you all grabbed your orders. "That's my taco," you said, slapping Walker's hand away as it hovered too close to your food. He raised his hands in mock surrender, backing away to claim his own order. 

"Christ, I was just moving it closer to you," he grumbled, grabbing his own set of tacos. “We should watch a movie.” 

[vampishnes]

Sanguine Hunger: Ptichye Moloko

Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four, Chapter five, Chapter six, Chapter seven, Chapter eight, Chapter nine, Chapter ten. Pairings: Platonic!Yelena & Fem!Reader, Bob x FemThunderbolts!ExAvenger!Reader Summary: Late-night cravings drive you to the kitchen, where you find unexpected solace. Tags: No use of ‘Y/N’, Female reader, Reader is a mutant with blood manipulation powers that require her to have regular blood consumption. Slow burn! I have around 10k words of lore for this reader insert, so strap in. Beta read. Warnings: Graphic depictions of blood/blood consumption. (very) Slight descriptions of body horror. References to past trauma/violence. Word count: 3.1k

Some days were easier than others. That sanguine hunger that churned in the depths of your stomach was only a distant hum, a sound so quiet you had to tune the rest of the world out to hear. That was before the Thunderbolts, when Valentina still held both the carrot and the stick.

When Valentina dangled fresh meat over your nose, and you devoured it like the pathetic dog you were. You were always fulfilled, at least in terms of blood; you always had a victim you bled dry, and another lined up. The last eight years as a mercenary was mindless work with a simple objective: kill. Valentina used you as a warning to anyone who didn't play nice.

Things were different now as a 'New Avenger'; killing was usually frowned upon, and deaths were few and far between. So, the hum grew louder, eating at your insides like the parasite your power was.

The Thunderbolts tried to work together to find a solution, trying to think back to your old Avengers days when you had weekly blood transfusions, but after being fed for so long, it wasn't enough any more. After trial and error, the Tower's refrigerator became your own personal blood pantry—rows of crimson bags organised by type, each one a salvation from the need you fought harder than any enemy to keep contained.

Although transfusions were more desirable for everyone else to witness, feeding directly into your stomach was the most potent way to get blood into your system. At first, you took to carrying a matte black tumbler everywhere, but eventually, you grew tired of Walker's lingering gaze whenever you took a sip, his eyes fixating on the ruby stains between your teeth, his expression a shade of disgust, though he tried to hide it.

So now you only drank in the dead of night, in the comfort of your room.

But tonight was different. The day had been a special kind of hell—cameras flashed in your face during the press conference, and fighting the 'villain of the week' drained you mentally and, from using your powers, physically.

Now the kitchen, your last lifeline, remained frustratingly occupied. The rest of the Thunderbolts found themselves orbiting in the kitchen long into the night, some impromptu debriefing (that you refused to attend) became aimless conversation, their voices drifting down the hallway like a barrier between you and salvation.

It wasn't until the bright, glaring red numbers on the clock beside you read 2:12 AM that silence settled, and the telltale sound of footsteps began fading.

You waited for twenty, painstakingly long, minutes. Counting each second like a prisoner counting down the days until sweet release. You slipped from underneath the silk covers of your blanket, your mattress groaned against your weight, as if telling you to stay. Your feet made no sound against the marble flooring of the tower. The hallway stretched before you, room after room, two with light peeking out from under the cracks of the door.

Your senses picked up on the smell of fresh exposed blood just two floors down, and you could almost taste the metallic tang dancing on your tongue. You took the stairs, descending with irregular clumsiness, one hand trailing the wall for balance as a wave of dizziness reminded you how desperately you needed blood. The communal floor was supposed to be empty, dormant like the rest of the Tower.

Yet as you approached the kitchen, your nostrils flared as they caught something. Something sweet, a flavourful mixture of cocoa powder, sugar, butter, and the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. You froze mid-step, cursing silently. Someone was still awake.

Yelena was in clear view, her head buried deep into a cookbook. For a second, you thought about turning around and retreating into the confines of your room, but the painful stab of your veins convulsing brought you back to your senses. "You're not as quiet as you think," Yelena said without looking up.

Her hair was messily piled behind her head, and she wore comfortable-looking faded flannel pyjama pants and an old, beat-up white tank top. "I could hear you pounding down the stairs," Yelena continued, now looking up. Her eyebrows furrowed deep into her glabella, her top lip arching upwards in slight shock. "You look like shit. You okay?" You remained in the doorway, caught between pain and the unexpected intimacy of seeing Yelena do something so domestic.

"Drained," you replied, quick and rougher than intended. Pattering down to the fridge, you swung it open with shaking hands. Yelena nodded in quiet understanding and looked back down at the bowl in front of her. You scrambled for any bag you could reach, your hands gripping tightly at the first one you touched. The liquid sloshed around in the clear bag as you twisted the valve at the top and wrapped your lips firmly around the nozzle.

The first mouthful hit your system like electricity, flooding your withered veins with life. You tried to suppress the small sound of relief that escaped your throat, but failed. Behind you, Yelena continued working, the rhythmic sound of a whisk hitting against the side of a bowl providing a strangely soothing backdrop. No questions. No staring. No judgment.

“What are you making?” you asked after a moment, your voice already stronger, the tremor in your hands subsiding as the blood worked its magic. 

“Ptichye Moloko," Yelena replied, her hand working tirelessly, whisking a white, sweet-smelling mixture. “Couldn't sleep.” You nodded, understanding without needing elaboration. You all had your coping mechanisms. You stepped around the kitchen island and sat on a stool in front of Yelena. 

“My mother used to bake,” you offered quietly, “Challah, mainly.” You smiled crookedly, your thoughts trailing off, unprepared for the memory's sudden vividness, the smell of your mother's kitchen from a century ago. You finished off the rest of the blood bag and placed it to the side; your veins were fuller now, yet the relief was fleeting. You recognised the hollow echo still reverberating beneath your skin. You had stretched yourself too far this time, waiting until you were running on fumes.

One bag merely took the edge off; your body, depleted from your powers' exertions, demanded more.

Yelena didn't push for more, instead responding with, “If you're still awake in an hour, you can try it.” You bobbed your head; you should have returned to the solitude of your room, hidden behind the walls you had spent so long meticulously building, but instead, you found yourself walking beside Yelena to get a better look at the cookbook. It was in Russian, of course. 

“I can help, but my Russian is rusty,” you said, your eyes scanning over the words you understood. Yelena's eyebrow arched slightly, but she nodded toward the refrigerator.

“Fridge. Third shelf. Heavy cream. I hope your arm isn't weak.” A small laugh escaped your lips, unexpected but genuine. You retrieved the heavy cream from the fridge, grabbing another blood bag. You placed it on the counter beside you, trying to be casual about it. Yelena's gaze flicked to it briefly, then back to her bowl without comment. “Put it in a bowl and whip it, I'll say when you're done.” You poured the cream and began whisking it by hand; the repetitive motion was almost meditative, and for a moment, you forgot about the blood bag sitting inches away. 

“You said you knew Russian?” Yelena asked, now adding the layer of pale, thick cake into a pan. 

"Yeah. Natasha taught me. Taught me English, too," you replied tentatively, hand gripping your spatula slightly tighter in anticipation of Yelena's response. A shaky breath left Yelena's nostrils, but her mouth remained tightly shut. 

"She liked Ptichye," she said, eventually, her throat closing. "You're almost done." You felt the familiar ache rising again, eyeing the blood bag. "Just drink it," Yelena said without looking up, her hands reaching underneath a cupboard, returning with a small pot. Heat flushed in your cheeks at the notion of being caught staring. You stuttered for a moment, fumbling around for a reply. 

"I usually don't have it in front of others." 

"Why?" Yelena asked, "Because Walker? He's disgusted by everything. Yesterday I saw him scowling at my guinea pig." A laugh bubbled up from your chest. 

"People think it's weird, disgusts them. Reminds them I'm…" You drifted off, trying to focus all your attention on the stiff peaks forming in your bowl.

"Different?" Yelena finished, shaking her head. "When I was young, they made us sleep with our ankles tied to the bed frame. Every morning, my skin was raw." She lightly pressed one of the stove's digital buttons, which beeped in response. "Everyone has their scars. Some are easier to hide than others." You reached across the kitchen island as you twisted the valve and brought it to your lips; you braced yourself for the recoil you'd come to expect, but Yelena continued pouring chocolate chips into the warmed pot atop the stove, completely unfazed.

"Smells good in here," a small voice said quietly from the kitchen's door frame. You jumped lightly, immediately wiping any remnants of blood from around the rim of your mouth. Bob stood stock still on the cold flooring, his bare feet restlessly fidgeting. His hands twiddled around with the bottom seam of his blue pyjama jumper. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. Couldn't sleep. Could smell someone cooking."

He lingered in the doorway, backlit by the dim hallway light, his shadow stretching across the kitchen tiles. He shifted his weight awkwardly for a moment longer before walking in and sitting on a barstool. His eyes fluttered to the blood bag in your hand before snapping back up to your eyes. You smiled back at him, revealing your blood-stained teeth. 

"Bird latex," you said, presenting your bowl of whipped cream to Bob. Yelena burst out in laughter, her eyes creasing in the corners. She shook her head, her hand preoccupied with mixing the melting chocolate. 

"Bird milk. Ignore her, Bob, she is terrible at Russian." Bob's mouth hung open, his brow furrowing as if decoding a cypher. A soft "oh" escaped him. 

"It's just mousse and chocolate icing, I think." You took another mindless sip from the blood bag as you thought, moving to sit beside Bob, "Yelena's right, my Russian is terrible." The kitchen fell into a comfortable silence, only broken by the soft clinking of Yelena's spoon against the pot of melting chocolate. 

"Do you want to help?" Yelena asked, glancing at Bob quickly from behind her shoulder. Bob straightened, his shoulders tensing slightly before he nodded. "You can start assembling," Yelena instructed, pointing to the pan with cake layered at the bottom. "Cakes in. So start cream, then cake again. When I'm done, we'll put the chocolate on top." As Bob moved to help, you watched with silent amusement. He hadn't commented on your drinking, nor cared that your teeth were stained, or your breath gave off a metallic tang with every word. His eyes shot up to where your eyes watched him. 

A drop of blood dripped from your mouth and trickled down the side of your lip. Bob watched it slowly descend the curvature of your lip before your thumb swooped it up, sliding a red streak across your chin. Your tongue darted from the side of your mouth and lapped it from your finger in one careful swoop.

His Adam's apple bobbed slowly in his throat, mouth suddenly dry from watching your unintentional performance. He shook his head repeatedly, trying to remove the inappropriate imagery from his thoughts. Trying to focus on scooping up the spoonfuls of cream into the pan, his brow furrowed in concentration, as if he was defusing a bomb rather than forming a cake.

"You know," Bob said as he waited for the dessert to settle before adding another layer, "I've been thinking about starting a garden on the rooftop. Growing things. Walker says it's a waste of time, but…" He shrugged, leaving the thought unfinished. 

"Walker," Yelena rolled her eyes, "has a heart of wet cardboard." You laughed in reply and discreetly dipped your finger into the bowl of whipped cream in Bob's arms, gesturing to him in a silent plea not to tell Yelena. 

"I could help. I think it'd be a good use of all that space," you replied, and Bob's face brightened in response. 

"Really? Do you know anything about plants?"

"No," you admitted, bluntly. "But I'm a quick learner." You shrugged your shoulders and leaned back on the stool. The stove turned off with a distinctive 'beep', followed by Yelena holding a warm pot of melted chocolate. 

"You had some, didn't you?" Yelena accused, her head tilting sideways as she stared down at you. 

"No," you lied, raising the blood bag to your lips with deliberate nonchalance. You gestured with the half-empty pouch clutched in your other hand, as if its very existence disqualified your involvement. "Ask Bob." Yelena's gaze shifted to your teammate, whose guilty expression hung between you. Before words could leave his lips, you corrected yourself, "Don't ask Bob," your voice softening as a smirk bloomed across your face. Bob's laughter mingled with the clink of his spoon against glass as he settled it down, his work finished.

Yelena poured the warm chocolate over the layered dessert in one smooth motion, creating a glossy coating that immediately began to set against the cold layers. She picked it up by the base of the tray, opening the fridge with her spare hand. "It needs to set," Yelena stated, sliding the dessert into the refrigerator. "Forty minutes. Minimum."

You groaned in response, finishing off the rest of your blood bag, and you placed it beside the other empty one. You felt your power flow back into your veins, you could hear everything again - the subtle heartbeats underneath layers of clothes and skin and the sound of blood rushing through veins and travelling through hearts. All of it under your command. 

"I'll wash," you offered, sliding off your stool. The least you could do was help clean up after they'd accepted your feeding without comment.

"I'll dry," Bob added. He brought all the utensils he could gather at once to the side of the sink and grabbed one of the dish cloths. Yelena looked momentarily surprised before stepping back and raising her hands.

You settled into a rhythm, washing each utensil haphazardly and passing it to Bob, who dried it with practised fluency. It was repetitive, boring, but oddly comforting. No mission plans, no next steps, just bubbles and wrinkled hands.

Yelena had taken her temporary leave upstairs at some point, stating she'd be back down when the cake was done, leaving just you and Bob washing dishes side-by-side. "This is nice," Bob said, his voice so quiet that if you hadn't just turned off the water, you wouldn't have heard it. 

"What is?" you asked, although part of you already knew. 

"This," he gestured vaguely around the kitchen, a dripping cup still in his hand. "Normal things. Together." You smiled in response, dipping your hands back into the water-filled sink. You handed Bob the last bowl and drained the sink, watching the soapy water swirl away. 

"The garden," you said, turning to Bob. "What would you grow?" His eyes stayed focused on the bowl in his hands. 

"Anything I couldn't kill easily. I have a black thumb." You laughed in reply, tucking a piece of loose hair back with your shoulder. You couldn't help but stare at him for a moment, his face was slightly flushed, a light shade of pink.

Your ears focused on the rhythmic pattering of his heartbeat against his rib cage, steady but fierce. Your bottom lip found itself slowly trapped beneath your front teeth as you stared him down. You gulped hard, feeling the thick saliva crawl down the crevice of your throat.

"I'll buy a book," you grabbed the cloth from Bob's hands, gently pulling it from his grasp. "Start simple. Tomatoes, onions, garlic." You wiped your hands with the moist cloth, and Bob's eyes followed the movement. 

"I have a book in my room, got it a long time ago when I first had the idea." He trailed off and, realising he was starting to ramble, attempted to backtrack. "But, I mean, you can still get a book. My one is probably dusty by now, I don't even think I remember where I put it." You stopped him with a light touch on the shoulder.

"If you're not tired, after cake, we can go to your room and start planning. No clue when we'll get the next chance." His thin lips twisted into a stunned smile, and he nodded repeatedly.

The sound of footsteps interrupted your conversation, and Yelena reappeared in the doorway, a thick cardigan over her tank top. "Cake's probably done."

"Never thought I'd see the day," you said, turning around. "Yelena Belova, deadly assassin, waiting impatiently for cake to set." Yelena shot you a look. 

"And I never thought I'd see the day when the notorious bloodhound 'Vampyra' would be washing my dishes." She bit back.

"Not a Bloodhound any more," you corrected. The nickname didn't sting like it used to. "Just a regular dog. House-trained and everything." Bob laughed, and even Yelena's lips bent up. Yelena walked down to the fridge and observed the cake - it still needed more time. Instead, she pulled out the dessert and examined it. 

"It'll do," she decided, setting it on the counter. She took a knife and cut into it with no technique at all, revealing the uneven layers of cake and cream. She handed a crumbling slice to Bob and you. The stickiness attached to the skin on your hands, leaving chocolatey brown stains in its wake. You took a bite, the sweetness of the chocolate juxtaposing the stark taste of blood still resting on your tongue. It wasn't unpleasant. Bob took a much larger bite, his expression instantly softening into delight.

"This is amazing," he mumbled through the mouthful. You nodded in agreement, taking another bite of your slice. "Do you think we should do this more often?" You looked down at the cake in your hand, uncomfortable with the tenderness. 

"Why not?" Yelena said, her expression unperturbed, her voice slightly muffled by her mouthful of cake. "Kitchen's always here." You looked up to find Bob eyeing you, waiting for your verdict. 

"Sure, I'm up most nights anyway." 

[vampishnes]

“I knew you in another life. You had that same look in your eyes”