violetrainbow412-blog

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Me @ the thunderbolts men

[violetrainbow412-blog]

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Worn Soft [B. F.]

Bob Floyd x fem!reader

wc: 2.3k

summary: Bob invites you to a charity event, but between cameras, persistent admirers, and the sweltering heat, he ends up seeking refuge in the only thing that keeps him calm: your presence.

masterlist

You didn’t have an official role or appear on the Navy’s payroll, but somehow Bob had managed to sneak you in as his assistant for the charity event the Daggers had been invited to. All it took was an access wristband, a name badge, and his "it's just protocol" expression for no one to ask too many questions. You didn’t mind. You were used to accompanying him to all kinds of odd situations—trainings, simulations, awkward dinners—but this was different. More public. More exposed.

The event was being held in San Diego, at a massive racetrack—one of those circuits where F1 engines usually roared and the stands overflowed with cheering crowds. At that time, however, it was all decorated with flags, military-branded banners, and sponsor tents. The goal was to raise funds for a foundation that supported families of fallen naval personnel. The Daggers were invited as the main attraction: young, successful, presentable—the Navy’s friendly face. And Bob, as always, tried to mask his discomfort in front of the cameras… though he couldn’t help scanning the crowd for you every time someone asked for a photo.

Some security guards were watching over the servicemen, and you walked closer to them than to your friend. You didn’t want to get in the way or seem out of place—you were just keeping an eye on anything he might need: sometimes his water bottle, some markers for autographs, something to hold. Even a sweet smile to reassure him that everything was going fine.

Bob walked a few steps ahead, smiling at the crowd. Now and then someone would stop him for a photo or a handshake. Small children got the softest reactions from him, especially the ones holding thank-you signs. With each interaction, he responded with genuine kindness, as always, though by now you could tell when he was starting to feel overwhelmed.

“Floyd!” a woman’s voice shouted from the stands. “I do want to have a baby with you!”

Some people laughed. Others clapped like it was a joke. Bob lowered his head slightly, held back a nervous laugh, and didn’t respond. You just rolled your eyes and kept walking.

A few steps later, another woman handed him a cap to sign. He did, like he did for all of them, but this one lingered longer than necessary. She touched his arm, winked at him. She said something you couldn’t quite hear, but it changed his expression for a split second. He didn’t stop. He kept walking like nothing had happened.

Some others asked him to autograph notebooks that just happened to have their phone numbers in them. Others were more shameless and straight-up asked him to sign their bras.

The rest of the pilots could probably handle situations like that with ease—in fact, you didn’t doubt they were getting hit on twice as much as your friend—but you could tell how overwhelmed it was making Bob. Every time a girl made him an indecent proposal, he’d turn to look at you, like making sure you were still there in case the women went feral and the crowd swallowed him whole.

To be fair, you couldn’t really blame them. Bob was wearing black jeans, a white T-shirt, and a matching jacket, with his callsign stitched on the right side and some orange details. That day, he’d chosen to wear his contact lenses, which made it far too easy to get lost in the blue of his eyes.

He was also wearing his cap. Not just any cap—you’d given it to him a few months back. It was during one of those long afternoons when the weather had grounded flights, and Bob had been stuck in simulators for days. He’d sent you a short text asking if you wanted to go out somewhere, and you’d said yes.

You ended up going out to buy car cleaning supplies—something he’d been putting off for weeks—and stopped by a random auto parts store. While he examined oils with excessive concentration, you got distracted by a display of T-shirts, keychains, and hats. You spotted it immediately: plain, practical, without flashy logos. It was black, with the word MACK on the front and a stitched bulldog above it. You instantly pictured him wearing it.

“I’m buying this for you.”

“Why?” he asked without looking up.

“Because you’re always wearing that hideous gray one.”

“It’s my favorite.”

“And it still can be, but this one has... presence, you know? You can wear it on special occasions. It'll make you look handsome.”

He didn’t argue. You paid for it while he was still browsing for the right cleaner and handed it to him when he dropped you off at home, like it was a throwaway souvenir. Bob wore it the next day. And the day after that, too.

So seeing it on his head that day made you feel happy. In a way, it felt like he was saying something about your bond, even if no one else could really tell.

At some point during the walk, he glanced back at you with a quiet, resigned expression, like he’d been running a marathon for hours.

“This feels like a street market,” he muttered, adjusting the cap. “If one more person asks me to sign a boob, I’m hiding in the pits.”

“If it helps, I think Brad’s already signed three,” you replied, keeping your eyes ahead.

Bob let out a low laugh.

“I should wear a sign that says: I sign hats, not body parts.”

“Or you could just say you’re taken. Sounds more mysterious.”

He glanced sideways at you.

“It wouldn’t be a lie.”

You didn’t say anything. Not because you didn’t know what to say, but because of the way he said it—lighthearted, even a little flirty. The kind of tone that would’ve felt like a joke from anyone else, but from Bob… it was unusual. Unusual, and honest.

You both walked a few more steps, moving slightly away from the main group, until the noise settled a little. In the distance, the loudspeakers still echoed through the circuit and the crowd’s murmur lingered, but right there, the air felt easier to breathe. You looked at him from the side, closely.

“You okay?” you asked, lowering your voice. “Do you need anything?”

Bob shook his head at first, out of habit. But then he looked at you again, more slowly. With that expression he wore when he allowed himself to be honest. You handed him his water bottle before he even had to ask. He took a sip, slow, like he needed that moment.

You reached into your bag again and pulled out a small packet of wet wipes. It hadn’t been planned specifically for him, but you’d packed them just in case.

“Here,” you said, handing them over. “They’re menthol. Should help with the heat a bit.”

Bob raised an eyebrow slightly, intrigued. He carefully tore open the packet and wiped the back of his neck, then his arms. He let out a sharp breath, as if the coolness had jolted him back awake.

“You’re an angel,” he sighed, taking one of your hands like he actually meant it. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t just what he said, but how. Tired, but grateful. Exposed, even if he didn’t want to admit it.

“We can stop if you want,” you added, stepping a little closer and gently wiping his cheek with another towelette. “No one’s going to say anything if you need five minutes.”

Bob hesitated for a second. Then he smiled again, like just the offer alone had been enough.

“No. There’s not much left—we’ll rest soon. Just... stay close, okay?”

He gently wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in. His head rested lightly against yours, like he was going to kiss your forehead but didn’t quite follow through. A soft, contained gesture, without crossing any lines.

“When this is over, let’s go get something to eat. How does that sound?”

“Sounds great,” you replied with a wide smile.

He gave your shoulder a little squeeze, then pulled away and continued walking the stretch still ahead. After the circuit walk, the pilots spoke briefly to the press, thanked the foundation for their support, and also thanked the crowd for making the event possible.

Two hours later, you were finally free from the commitment. The heat had eased, the sun had started to set, and he drove you to a nearby diner. The exterior was metallic, with red neon letters blinking above a wide window. You both sat at a booth against the wall, right under a lazily spinning fan, on burgundy vinyl seats.

Bob ordered a grilled cheese sandwich with fries and a vanilla milkshake, almost like a hungry teenager. You ordered waffles with fruit and an iced coffee. You both laughed when the food arrived and he said it looked like breakfast and dinner at the same time, though he didn’t complain.

“God, I feel like my head’s going to explode. Too much noise, lights, the heat…”

“But think of all the support those families will get,” you said with a smile. “It’s a good cause, don’t you think?”

“Yeah. I think it’s all worth it when you see it that way.”

He took a sip of his milkshake, leaned his elbows on the table, and looked at you with a mix of exhaustion and relief.

“Although I have to admit, the women threw me off a bit.”

“A bit?” you laughed, raising your eyebrows. “One asked if you wanted to get her pregnant.”

“Well, yeah…” He ran a hand over his face, pretending to be resigned. “She was pretty straightforward. I didn’t know whether to laugh or run.”

“You didn’t run,” you said, taking a bite of your waffle. “You handled it well. And honestly, it’s no surprise you have that many admirers. Just look at you.”

Bob looked down slightly, as if the compliment didn’t quite sit right.

“Yeah, but... that’s exactly what makes me uncomfortable,” he said more quietly. “I don’t feel like they’re seeing me. Just... the idea. The uniform. The image. And I know it sounds dumb, but I don’t want that. I don’t want admiration—I want to be known.”

He paused. Then smiled, like trying to soften the weight of what he’d just said.

“I guess I don’t have the kind of personality that stands out. I’m not the funniest, or the most charming. So when someone comes on that strong, I think… it can’t be real. They’re only doing it because of what they think I am.”

He meant it, but without drama. Like someone who’s carried that feeling long enough to speak it without cracking.

“I don’t think it’s strange to want something real,” you finally said in a low voice. “Someone who sees you for who you are.”

Bob nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on his milkshake.

“But you won’t find out unless you give women a chance to be in your life.”

“I don’t want to date those crazies,” he said, making you laugh. “No offense, of course. But someone asking to have my baby doesn’t exactly scream let’s take it slow.”

“They’re smart. You’ve got good genes,” you shrugged. “I mean, look at your dad. He’s still handsome at his age and hasn’t gone bald.”

“Please tell me you didn’t just say my dad is attractive.”

“I’m just stating facts! Anyone you ask would say the same.”

“Yeah, well not everyone has shared Christmas dinner with my family. Where, by the way, my dad was very much present.”

His offended tone made you chuckle quietly, but he wasn’t smiling. He was watching you with a calm, almost calculating expression. Until he said, calmly:

“I look a lot like him, you know? That’s what I’ll look like when I’m older.”

He said it slowly, like it wasn’t just an observation, but a trap. Like saying his dad was attractive meant you were admitting something more.

“Relax, Bobby,” you laughed. “I’m not going to sleep with your dad. I don’t like older men.”

Bob tilted his head, holding your gaze.

“Then that’s lucky,” he said softly, like it was just a casual comment.

You laughed, shaking your head.

“Idiot,” you muttered, amused.

Bob just smiled, lowering his gaze to his milkshake, like he was used to you not taking him seriously when he actually meant it.

There was a brief silence, but a comfortable one. Outside, the sun was setting, and warm light filtered through the diner window. In that moment, Bob looked up again, a little calmer, a little softer.

“Thanks for coming today,” he said. “Not just for the event, but... for everything. For being such a good friend.”

He said it without dramatics, with a quiet sincerity that softened your chest. Without thinking too much, you squeezed his hand on the table.

“There’s nothing to thank, Bob. We’ll always be friends. That doesn’t change.”

He smiled, and then, as you both looked at the empty plates, you asked with a grin:

“But you’re paying for the food, right?”

Bob raised an eyebrow, like the answer was so obvious it didn’t need to be said.

“Of course. I’m a gentleman, after all,” he said in a light, almost teasing tone.

There was a small pause, and then, in a slightly lower voice, he added:

“Are you ready to go?”

“Yes,” you replied. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

He called the waiter, who arrived a few minutes later, and he asked for the check calmly, not letting go of your hand right away. You looked at him with a smile, feeling like that small gesture said more than words ever could.

“When you get back to the hotel, book a massage or something at the spa. It’s on me.”

“Seriously?”

“Of course. You deserve it after everything today,” he said, giving your hand a brief squeeze.

You smiled, amused.

“Are you going to spoil me like this every time I go with you to an event?”

Your friend chuckled, raising an eyebrow at you.

“If you want me to, sure. Just make sure you bring those wipes for the heat.”

“Deal.”

Once he paid, you both stepped out of the diner into the fading afternoon light. Holding on to that warm, quiet feeling of a friendship that, without rush, had become something indispensable.

taglist: @littlemsbumblebee @qardasngan

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Yelena: I'm having salad for dinner.

Yelena: Well, fruit salad.

Yelena: ...Actually, it’s mostly grapes.

Yelena: Ok, it's all grapes.

Yelena:

Yelena: Fermented grapes.

Yelena:

Yelena: It's wine. I'm having wine for dinner.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Obsidian [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds (The Void) x reader

wc: 3k

summary: Bob loves you, but he’s trapped by his own fears and silence. Void, the shadow of his pain, confronts you with the burden he carries—leaving you scared and unsure of what comes next.

warnings: complex emotional themes, mental health struggles, ambiguous supernatural presence, mentions of intense psychological tension, choking (not in the good way, lol) mild language, no explicit violence or sexual content.

masterlist part 1 part 3

Wait for a part three (and final) titled "cobalt" soon with the resolution of this focusing on Bob!

Several days had passed since that night with Sentry, but the memory of it had not faded.

Sometimes it returned in the form of a fleeting image: the liquid gold of his eyes, the contained weight of his gaze, the impossible calm he'd brought with him. Other times, it returned as an awkward silence between Bob and you. One neither of you could name, but one that felt more present than any conversation.

You hadn't mentioned anything to him and had tried, as best you could, to maintain a normal demeanor around Bob. The conversation with his alter ego wasn't something he was aware of, so bringing up the fact that he was in love with you would have felt strange and invasive. Of course, as the days went by, you began to notice tiny actions that hid in the everyday and revealed the feeling.

Sentry wasn't lying when he told you Bob was watching you all the time. Not in a stalker way, of course, but the truth is you'd caught him staring at you more than once when he thought you were distracted.

At times, it even seemed like he avoided you. You thought maybe he didn't know how to handle his affection, which was why he preferred to stay quiet and distant. But little by little, you gained ground. After discovering that he seemed more shy in groups, the times you approached him were often alone, usually to talk about trivial matters.

Some days, you were kind enough to leave a treat in the cupboard for when he had a sweet tooth. You made his tea, shared your meal, or helped him with chores.

However, his signals were too confusing. One day he was laughing with you, chatting like never before, his eyes shining with joy. The next, he barely said hello to you in the morning, spending all day in his room, and his glances seemed to carry reproach rather than tenderness. You couldn't tell what was going on in his head, or why his ambivalent behavior toward you, but you were trying your best. To be patient. To wait for him to be ready, as the golden boy had said.

On one of those afternoons, you didn't expect anything to be different. You were sitting on the floor, one leg tucked under you and the other stretched out, while you idly flipped through a report you'd found on the table.

Bucky was on the couch, lying sideways, one leg dangling over the edge. He held a steaming mug and spoke leisurely, with the raspy voice of someone who'd spent the day giving orders.

“…and when we opened the door, the guy was eating cereal. With a half-assembled rocket launcher on the table. As if that were the most normal thing in the world.”

“Cereal?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Cereal. With banana. And without milk.”

“That’s his real crime.”

“The real crime was him pointing the spoon at me like it was a gun.”

Your laugh was instant, clean, so natural that John—who had just walked in with a bottle of water and a towel over his shoulders—stopped for a second to listen.

“What are you two laughing about?”

“Bucky tells me about a weird guy with a rocket launcher and…”

“Cereal,” John finished, tossing the towel over a chair.

“You were with him, weren’t you?”

The soldier nodded.

“Bucky froze when he saw it. I thought the guy had brained him out.”

“I was just processing the scene,” Bucky defended himself, smiling. “Sometimes it’s harder when there’s no blood. It confuses me.”

“And what did you do?” you asked John.

“I took the spoon away. I offered him oatmeal. And I handcuffed him.”

You laughed again, louder now. You leaned your forehead against your bent knee, still laughing, and when you looked up, Bucky was already staring at you. Not in a stuffy, awkward way. Just… attentive. As if watching your laughter was something worth memorizing.

“You should let me go with you sometime,” you said. “Sounds like fun.”

“You wouldn’t survive,” John murmured, with a half smile.

“Oh yeah? Why?”

“Because you'd befriend the cereal guy before we could arrest him.”

“Don’t underestimate her,” Bucky added. “She has that look that says, ‘I’m listening to you, but I’m really analyzing your weaknesses.’”

“What I have is a good memory,” you replied in a mocking tone, “And a high threshold for human stupidity.”

John laughed and plopped down on the couch next to you. He offered you the bottle, which you accepted without hesitation. Bucky gave you a knowing look.

“You see? That’s why we want you around. You have a tactical spirit.”

“And because you're small. Everyone makes the mistake of dismissing you as a threat,” John added.

“That’s true,” you said, raising the bottle in a toast. “My real secret weapon.”

Bucky chuckled softly, more to himself. Then, in a quieter tone, not intending to be overheard by everyone, he said:

“It’s weird talking to you. I don’t usually laugh like this with anyone.”

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye, smiling softly.

“You should do it more often. Even if it’s not with me.”

He looked down for a second, almost blushing.

And across the room, Bob turned the page. Again. Without having read the previous one.

He didn't look directly at you or participate in the conversation, but he felt everything. The natural flow of your laughter with them. The ease with which Bucky made you let your guard down. The way John touched your arm to emphasize a joke.

He wanted to get closer, but the more he thought about the idea, the more absurd it seemed. It wasn't that any of the three of you were doing anything wrong, it was just... you being yourselves. You could speak calmly, fluently, as if you didn't even have to think about what you were saying. Bucky was a more than experienced super soldier. Walker was another super soldier, although younger, a little more charismatic than his partner. And you seemed happy listening to them. Admiring them.

After a while, you noticed Bob get up from his seat, put his book on the table, and walk toward the hallway. You thought it was strange.

You would have liked to follow him, even without knowing the reasons for his departure, but you thought maybe he wanted to be alone. You never suspected anything had bothered him. There was no reason to think so.

When night fell, things got complicated.

Lying in your bed, you felt restless. At first, it was mild, as if the air in your room had thickened. You'd tried to distract yourself by reading, scrolling through something on your phone, or simply wasting time between empty notifications, but you couldn't focus. You felt a subtle buzzing, like static electricity seeping into the edges of your thoughts. The room was silent, and yet, something vibrated in the air as if you weren't alone.

You convinced yourself it was exhaustion. You tried to sleep, but when you couldn't, you resorted to some insomnia pills that had been forgotten in a drawer on your counter. It took you almost an hour to fall asleep.

It was in the middle of the night that you felt an abrupt change in the atmosphere. You woke up without warning, your chest tight with a surge of fear. Then you saw it.

It wasn't an apparition, nor a clear voice. It was a presence. Cold, like a shadow creeping under a door. Like an absence so absolute it ended up being more tangible than any body. You didn't know if you had closed your eyes for a moment or if the room had darkened on its own, but something in you recognized the energy before your mind could name it.

The room had no open doors, but it didn't matter. Because Void didn't just walk in. He flooded in. Sneaking into your room the same way he did into your mind: stealthily, without asking any kind of permission.

“Who’s there?” you stammered.

The question was awkward. You already knew the answer.

“You still pretend not to know.”

The voice sounded deep, not guttural or monstrous… but soft, too soft. Like torn silk.

“You’re not here,” you whispered. “I must be dreaming. You… can’t.”

“But here I am.” A pause. Then, more slowly: “Like all the thoughts he tries to bury.”

You felt it then. The oppression. The way the air seemed to lean in one direction, as if something invisible was breathing with you. Your skin prickled.

"What do you want?"

“Nothing. Why do you always think I come here for something?” A shadow darker than darkness itself moved across the wall, as if testing the limits of space. “I just came to see you. To understand what’s so special about the thing that keeps me contained.”

“Bob…”

“No. I’m not Bob. He has nothing to do with this.”

For a moment, the shadow moved closer to the edge of the bed, as if it could materialize, but still refused to take shape. You breathed heavily.

"He's sick with you."

"Don't say that."

“Why not? Because it makes it sound… twisted? Like loving you hurts him.” He laughed. It was a hollow sound. “Well, yes. It does.”

You stood there silently, unsure whether to move, whether to speak. Void continued.

“He looks at you as if you were an unattainable promise. As if simply getting close to you is a betrayal of what he believes you deserve. And yet… he can't help it.”

“I’ve never asked him for anything,” you replied. “I don’t… I’m not doing it to hurt him.”

“I know. That’s why it hurts more.”

You felt the mattress give way. Not because of the weight of anything corporeal, but because of the way the darkness seemed to thicken. As if a faceless presence were sitting next to you.

“I saw you laugh today. With them.”

He didn't say their names. He didn't have to. That's when Bob's withdrawal made sense in your head.

“So easy, so comfortable. Dazzled. As if you were part of their world. As if they understood you.”

“They are my friends.”

"Of course."

The sarcasm was palpable.

A shudder ran through you as you felt him closer. Not physically, but… emotionally. Breaking through an invisible barrier you didn't even know you had.

“He loves you, you know?”

“You shouldn’t say that.”

“And why not? Because I'm not him, right? Because you're uncomfortable with the truth coming from a monster.”

A silence.

“Do you think he’s the only victim in all of this? No. He represses. He holds back. He keeps quiet. But all of it… everything he can’t tell you, everything he won’t allow himself to feel, he throws at me. Every thought that shames him, every desire that makes him hate himself, every image of you in his head that he can’t shake off—I carry it.”

Suddenly, you heard his low voice, even closer. That calmness in his speech hurt more than a scream.

"And you know what the worst part is? He does it without guilt. As if I don't feel anything. As if I'm just a pit to dump everything that breaks him. All the shit he can't deal with."

You swore you felt his gaze. But not like Bob's. Never like Bob's.

“I hear everything. I feel everything. He just looks down. But inside, he's screaming. And those screams, he leaves them for me. While he smiles at you, he vomits his guilt at me.”

There's a pause, as if measuring how much more he can let go without breaking.

“Every time he tells himself he doesn't have the right to touch you. Every time he imagines what it would be like to touch you, to kiss you, to have you... and then hates himself for wanting it. Every time he punishes himself for feeling what he feels. He throws it at me. He forces it on me.”

A shadow slid up your arm. You didn't feel a hand, but you did feel a slight chill, as if something were barely gliding over your skin. It wasn't lascivious. It was… analytical.

“And having you here, in front of me, I see you so soft… so alive.”

A shiver ran through your entire body.

“You can’t touch me”

“What if I don’t want to touch you?” his raspy voice spoke. “What if I just want to understand why he thinks he can’t have you?”

You turned toward the void. There was no face. But you felt it as close as if it were breathing on you.

“Why are you angry?”

“Because I exist for him. Because he breaks himself in two so he doesn't love you too much… and yet he loves you more than he can bear.”

A long, uncomfortable silence.

“And you don’t do anything. You just smile. You speak softly to him. As if it doesn’t hurt. As if he could stand it.”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

You were sincere. First, Sentry came to tell you to love him back, and now Void came, scolding you that any attempt to do so was only hurting Bob.

“Maybe nothing. But what if I told you that every time you talk to him, you make me stronger?”

His words slid like blades wrapped in velvet.

“Because you can’t love a man who hates himself.”

And then you felt it. The shadows rose. Like invisible fingers, like branches of smoke that lightly tangled around your arms, your waist, your hips. He was touching you—if you could even call it that—in the way only a lover is allowed to. You couldn't pull away; you didn't know if it was out of fear or because, in some sick way, his caresses were enjoyable.

An inexplicable force compelled you to lie back on the mattress so he could continue exploring you. You felt those fingers—cold and sharp—ride over the soft flesh of your breasts, covered by your pajama top. It wasn't a gentle touch. It was a strong, hard… possessive one.

You held back a moan, one that would have revealed both pleasure and fear, as you felt his presence near your warm core; he spread your legs wildly, gripping your thighs just enough to tease, but not satisfy.

“Do you know how many times I’ve imagined this? Not the pleasure. The stillness. The silence of your body breathing next to his. And knowing it won’t be real is what shapes me.”

There was silence. Then you felt as if he were breathing against your lips.

“He likes you,” the raspy, thick voice made you shiver. “But I need you.”

You were unable to say anything. His hands, still planted firmly on your body, began tracing the curves of your sides up your chest. They ended at your neck. They didn't hurt at first. But they chilled you. And then... they began to squeeze.

"What are you doing?"

Your question went unanswered. A second later, you began to breathe heavily. His presence surrounded you. The invisible hands weren't physical, but they choked you just the same. Not out of force. Out of guilt.

Desperate, you raised both hands to try to free yourself from his grasp, but it was useless. It wasn't something you could touch; it was beyond the tangible. The pressure seemed to come from within, as if your throat were closing on its own.

"Stop…"

“Are you scared now?” his voice softened, as if he truly regretted something. The lack of air made you close your eyes. “It’s not you I want to suffocate. It’s hunger. It’s myself.”

He confessed in your ear. You wanted to ask him to stop, but there wasn't enough air left to form a sentence.

“But you are so close…”

The whisper dissolved into the air like smoke, and then the silence became absolute. Not the silence of a still room, but the silence of an abyss containing all the unspoken things.

The shadows did not retreat.

The cold wasn't just on the surface anymore: it was inside you, spreading through your ribs like a dark tide that was slowly draining you. It wasn't painful. It was worse. It was the sensation of being sucked in.

There was no face. There was no breath. But you could feel his desperation enveloping everything.

The pressure on your throat fluctuated. It wasn't constant, as if he were hesitating. As if every attempt to pull away from you only dragged him deeper into his need to have you near.

Your numb fingers tried to find something to hold on to. A corner of the mattress, the seam of the sheet, anything. But there was no anchor possible when emptiness was what sustained you.

Soon the suffocation, though not complete, became constant. Air came in drips and drips. Your body began to give in to fatigue. And you couldn't even process the situation enough to feel afraid of dying.

It was right there, at that edge, that you felt him stop. The shadows flickered. As if on that last line, where only surrender or destruction remained, he didn't know which to choose.

Then he let you go.

Your breathing returned suddenly, raspy, clumsy, wet with tears you didn't remember shedding. Your hands trembled. And he was still there. Not moving.

The shadow seemed hunched. Surrendered. You might even say resigned.

“He’ll wake up again without knowing I was here,” you suddenly heard. It had become just the echo of a voice in the room again. “But you… you won’t forget.”

He stood there for a few more seconds, wavering, suspended between shadow and reality. Then he began to fade away little by little, like smoke carried by an invisible breeze. The cold in the room gradually dissipated, but the emptiness it left behind continued to throb in your chest, deeper than any visible wound.

You were left alone, trembling, tears streaming uncontrollably down your cheeks. Fear tangled with worry, and although silence returned, his presence continued to pierce your mind.

You didn't know what would happen to Bob, or what part of him had been trapped in that darkness that now seemed to have visited you. But you did know that, for the first time, you felt more lost than ever.

taglist: @littlemsbumblebee @qardasngan @wtfhasmy-lifecometo @calzone-d @jessyimpala @p34ch-tr33 @meiluu

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Golden [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds (Sentry) x fem!reader

wc: 3k

summary: Bob loves you, but he'd never dare say it. Unfortunately, all these repressed feelings fuel Sentry, who decides to do something once and for all.

masterlist part 2 part 3

The house was silent, broken only by the soft murmur of music coming from the cell phone by the sink. A slow, nostalgic piano floated between the shelves as if trying not to disturb anyone. You were barefoot, already in your pajamas—a faded thigh-length T-shirt and athletic shorts—with your hair tied haphazardly and a wooden spoon in your hand. You were making yourself something simple for dinner, not really hungry, as if it were a requirement your body had to fulfill.

Outside, the night hung heavy on the windows, thick and starless. Even though it was cold, your thick socks helped you bear it.

After a while, you had company in the kitchen. You didn't see the person, of course, but you could strangely feel their presence as if the entire room had been impregnated with that essence. The music continued to play, but it no longer filled the space; now it seemed like a distant echo, unable to compete with the sudden density of the air.

Then you felt it: the faint creak of wood under their weight as they rested an arm on the bar, right next to you. They didn't say anything at first; they just stood there, too close, so motionless that for a second you thought you'd imagined it. The warmth emanating from their body contrasted with the cold outside, and the scent—clean, almost electric—confirmed that you weren't alone.

“Hey,” you heard close to your ear, barely above a whisper.

Their voice made you turn your head immediately. You recognized him instantly, of course you did. It was Bob. His body, his silhouette… but not his posture. He was more upright, as if he weighed less. More relaxed. And he was looking at you. Not shyly, not as if he were waiting for your permission, but as if he already knew he was welcome.

What disconcerted you most was the color of his eyes. They shone a liquid gold, soft but impossible to ignore, as if something very ancient and powerful had peeked out from beneath his skin. The proximity made you notice them immediately.

“Bob...” you said softly, unsure whether to ask or affirm. You still held the spoon tightly. The aroma of dinner still wafted through the air, but everything else had stopped. “What are you doing here?”

“I went out to get a glass of water and found you here. That's all.”

“Your… your hair,” you stammered, barely reaching out to stroke a strand of hair, “what did you do to it?”

It was blonde, but not that horrible fake yellow shade Valentina had dyed it a few months ago. This time, his hair looked like it had been kissed by the sun, a color so golden it resembled one of those cherubs portrayed in old paintings. You could also swear it looked a few inches longer than you remembered.

“Don’t you like it?” he exclaimed. The question didn’t sound uncertain, as it should have, but rather amused. “I think it suits me.”

“Yes, you look… you look great, but why did you do it?”

He didn't respond immediately. His attention shifted to what you were cooking, with an almost unusual interest. He leaned a little closer over the counter, just enough to better observe the contents of the pot without invading your space too much... although you felt the warmth of his proximity extending like an invisible line between the two of you.

“What are you doing?” he asked softly, as if the question were more intimate than it should be.

“Nothing, just… something quick for dinner,” you replied, not quite looking at him. You tried hard to sound casual, even though you knew your cheeks had heated a little without permission.

He nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on your hands as you rummaged. He didn't talk like Bob. He didn't move like Bob. And yet, there he was, standing next to you, wearing those wrinkled plaid pajama pants and a T-shirt you'd seen on him before at the back of his closet; the cover of Radiohead's single, Creep, printed on black. Everything was recognizable, but not familiar.

Suddenly, his hand slowly reached out to take a pinch of what you'd left on the cutting board and brought it to his mouth, still looking at you. He did so with disconcerting ease, as if you always shared these kinds of moments.

“Smells good,” he murmured, and for a second, the way he said it didn’t seem to refer to food.

You looked at him, still trying to understand what part of him that was. Because if that was Bob… why did he make you feel like you were a fixed point in his orbit?

“Does your head hurt?” you asked, still unsure. Your voice sounded different, as if it didn't quite come from you.

"No"

"Are you okay?"

A giggle escaped his lips.

“I am,” he assured you. Prompted by your inquisitive eyes, he added, “Don’t worry. You know me, you’ve seen me before.”

The way he spoke to you made you believe he wasn't your friend you were chatting with. He knew you, yes, but he was behaving very differently than usual. The realization hit you suddenly.

“Sentry?”

The name left your lips like a crack in the air. And although he didn't flinch or look away, you saw that faint flicker of acceptance in his eyes. As if you'd finally said what he'd been waiting for since he'd entered the room.

“I was hoping you’d notice sooner,” he said calmly, though not reproachfully.

He didn't sound proud. He didn't sound embarrassed. Just… confident. A confidence that Bob didn't know existed, but was natural to him.

“You weren’t supposed to come out,” you murmured, barely audible, as if naming the abnormality could reverse it. “Bob still doesn’t know how to control you.”

He shrugged with an almost elegant fluidity.

“I don’t need him to control me,” she replied immediately. “I’m not dangerous. In fact, it turns out I'm everything he wants to be."

You remained silent for a second, watching him intently. You didn't know if it was wise to call someone else, walk away, or try to figure out what had brought him to light.

“Don’t fear me,” he continued, as if he had read the doubt in your eyes. “I would never hurt you.”

“Why are you here?” you mumbled. Your back was to the counter, and he was standing in front of you, watching you. “Is Bob okay?”

“Of course,” he smiled at you. His gaze made you feel nervous. “It’s just… he was daydreaming about you. So I thought I’d intervene.”

You froze. When you finally managed to stammer out a response, you asked him to explain what he was talking about.

“I just want to see you up close. He’s watching you the whole time like he’s afraid of breaking you.”

The phrase—and the way he said it—confused you. Why would he have had to show up to get a close look at you? What did that even mean?

Why did it have to be him and not Bob?

“You’re his constant thought, did you know that?” he murmured calmly. “For better or for worse.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“He always worries about you. He wants to be good for you, to improve, to leave behind those weaknesses that torment him. But everything he keeps quiet when he sees you walk by, when you laugh near him, when you touch him… he throws it all at me.”

His voice didn't rise in pitch. It wasn't demanding. It didn't crack. But there was an undercurrent, a weariness so deep it reached your chest.

“And honestly, I feel like it kills me a little more every day.

“I can’t understand you,” you faltered. “Do you mean that he-you are… in love with me?”

A stifled laugh was heard in his throat.

“Obsessed, that's the term I'd give it. But yes, let's say so.”

Sentry didn't look at you like someone expecting a reaction. He didn't seem to be looking for shock value. He was just... saying it. As if saying it out loud would take a weight off his shoulders.

You feared you were delirious. The moment was so sudden and unexpected that it was the only explanation that made sense to you.

“I just thought it was time to let you know,” Sentry continued. “Because he won’t. At least not anytime soon.”

He took a step closer, slow, careful, but not hesitant. His movements were confident, as if he wasn't afraid of rejection, but of breaking something delicate.

His fingers brushed the edge of the bar, right where you'd placed the spoon seconds before. He didn't pick it up. He just rested his fingertips there, as if he needed to anchor himself to something real.

Then he reached out with his other hand toward you, very slowly, and with the backs of his fingers, he barely caressed your cheek. It wasn't an invasive caress. It was… careful. Too careful, as if he feared that you, too, were part of the same fracture he was carrying.

His touch was warm.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, his voice lower. More intimate. “You’re sweet. Attentive. I understand why he’s going crazy for you.”

And you wanted to say something, anything. But his presence weighed more than your thoughts. You didn't know if it was the tone or the content of his words, but something inside you tensed.

You didn't back down. You didn't touch him either. But your gaze dropped to his hand, still suspended in the air, as if you'd suddenly realized the moment had crossed an invisible line.

He noticed it. Of course he noticed it.

“But you’re not ready,” he said, without annoyance.

He didn't sound disappointed, or impatient. He said it as a logical conclusion. An observation. He slowly withdrew his hand, but didn't move away. He just looked down, as if the gesture of touching you had been more for him than for you.

You were in shock, trying to understand what was happening and waiting for his next move.

“I’m not asking you for anything,” he added after a moment. “I didn’t even come looking for anything. I just needed you to see me. To know that I exist beyond fear.”

Your throat closed a little, and your voice barely held as you replied:

“I… don’t know what to tell you.”

Sentry nodded, once, without drama. His golden eyes softened slightly, though the glow remained, pulsing, like a subtle warning that this form of him wasn't human. Not quite.

“You don’t need to say anything. Not now.” For a second, he was silent. “Sometimes Bob stares at the door for hours, wondering if you’ll ever show up.”

The phrase disarmed you more than you expected. You knew him. Not in words, but in actions. In the way Bob avoided eye contact when you greeted him. In the way he seemed to go silent when you sat down near him. In the way he always had something in his hands to pretend he was busy.

Sentry still watched you, patient. Almost serene.

“And all this stuff you’re saying… Does he feel it? Don’t you?”

“Both,” he explained softly. “But if you’re wondering who wants you more, then it would be me.”

You swallowed, looking at him with some surprise. You hadn't asked that, but he'd thought it prudent to mention it. He could have told you he cared or sought your closeness, but no. He said he wanted you.

“Is that why you came looking for me?”

Your voice was a whisper, gently caressing his ears. You no longer seemed scared, but curious, and that stirred something else in the God who watched you intently.

Sentry didn't answer immediately. He lowered his gaze for a moment, as if your question was too intimate even for him. And when he came back from his thoughts, his eyes had not lost their golden glow, but his expression had softened.

“I only came because… I couldn’t stay without doing it.”

His fingers closed in a slight gesture, as if he had wanted to touch you again and held back at the last second.

“Do you know what it feels like to carry something inside that doesn’t quite belong to you?” he asked, not looking at you directly. “A memory. A longing. An image repeated over and over again. And you didn’t create it, you didn’t dream it, but you feel it. It pulls you in. It transforms you.”

You looked at him silently, recognizing in his words not only the intensity of his existence, but the fragility behind it. As if he couldn't sustain himself for long away from Bob's shadow.

“You’re in him,” he continued. “In all his days. In every damn attempt to ignore you. In every night he forces himself not to knock on your room. In all those moments when he has to hold back as if your gaze doesn’t completely disarm him.”

The intensity of his voice didn't rise, but it became thicker. More tangible.

“I don't have their filters,” he admitted, “nor their fears. And if I'm here, it's because Bob wanted it so badly… that I didn't know how to stay silent anymore.”

It wasn't a confession, not quite. It was more like an inevitable outburst. And he was still there, so close, it was hard to think.

“I don’t know if this is real… or if I’m just feeling what you need me to feel.”

“It's very real”

His silence wasn't empty. It was the suppressed sound of something that wanted to explode but didn't dare. The gold in his eyes flickered like a flame about to go out... or burn out completely.

You felt it. Not for what he did, but for what he didn't do.

The way his eyes dropped to your mouth a second longer than necessary. The slight tremble in his breath as he stared at you without blinking. The way his body tilted, barely perceptible, as if the space between you was an obstacle eating him away from the inside.

He didn't touch you. He didn't say anything. But the desire was there, suspended between you both, as clear as the heat between two bodies that aren't touching.

And you, for the first time, didn't back down.

Your lips parted, not in invitation, but in surprise. There was something reverent about him. As if he were approaching you not as a man, not even as a god, but as an echo. Like someone who had been sensing you for too long in another skin, in another mind, in another contained love.

He knew it then. What he saw in your eyes. Not fear, not rejection. Just the certainty that if he did it, something would change forever. In you. In Bob.

Sentry didn't move anymore.

His lips curved into a small, sad smile. One of those that doesn't seek comfort, but acceptance.

“Now that you know… Will you wait for him? Until he’s ready?”

You nodded, out of inertia. The proximity made you feel dizzy, as if his energy were consuming you entirely, and the only thing left in you was that desire for him to finish what he started.

His beauty was nothing like Bob's. He was shy, discreet, cautious in his gestures. Sentry forced you to look at him. Not by imposition, but by nature. Because you couldn't help it. There was something about him that overwhelmed your senses, something that seemed made of light and gravity, and all of it pushed you to the edge of something you couldn't name.

There was no touch. No unnecessary words. Just that suspended instant in which your whole body understood that he could have touched you, and you would have allowed it. Not because he demanded it, but because there was something in you that had already given in without you realizing it.

You didn't know if it was the way he looked at you or how he seemed to be contained within himself, as if the universe were splitting open in his chest, but for a moment you stopped thinking.

You contemplated him as one contemplates something sacred. Not as one desires, but as one recognizes.

And that's where you truly felt it: divinity in its purest form. Not that of miracles or light, but that of the abyss. Of contained fire.

“I’ll go,” he exhaled. He allowed himself to caress your face one last time. “I don’t want Bob to lose his temper. I just… wanted you to know how much you mean. To both of us.”

He took a step back, and you instantly missed his warmth. You found a certain acceptance in his eyes, as if he knew his time had come to an end. It felt as if that version of himself couldn't last much longer in your presence without fading away.

“Can I ask you something?”

"Yeah?"

“Don’t hate him if he doesn’t remember tomorrow,” he said softly. You knew he was referring to Bob. “It’s not that he doesn’t want to do it. It’s that he can’t handle it.”

And with that last truth, he left.

There were no lights, no sounds. Only the faint emptiness left behind by an intense presence as it retreats. And you, standing in the kitchen, dinner cooling on the stove and your heart beating too close to your throat, realized that something inside you had just changed, too.

You didn't know if everything would be back to normal the next day.

But you knew, with absolute certainty, that you hadn't imagined it.

Although a part of you—the most rational, the most scared—would like to believe that it had all been a dream, a delusion, a fantasy brought on by tiredness or your own badly buried feelings.

Because in the end… was it Sentry who came to you?

Or Bob, in a form that even he doesn't understand?

You didn't know. And you probably never would. But the echo of his voice, the warmth of his presence, the weight of that gaze... that was real.

You couldn't tell anyone. Not because they wouldn't believe you, but because there was no way to explain it without breaking them, without exposing them to criticism. And because, at the same time, you were afraid it might break you a little too.

It had to become a secret. There was no other alternative.

taglist: @littlemsbumblebee @qardasngan

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Cobalt [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x reader

wc: 6.7k

summary: Bob loves you, but fear keeps him silent. Void's rage haunts your nights, while Sentry's presence stirs painful truths. Between rejection, longing, and a moment of raw intimacy, you both try to navigate a love shaped by trauma, identity, and everything that threatens to tear you apart.

warnings: +18!! mdni, emotional angst, mental illness (dissociative symptoms, trauma), nightmares, choking imagery (non-sexual), rejection, self-loathing, unresolved romantic tension, intimate apology scene, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, overstimulation, crying during sex, aftercare, emotional vulnerability, fear and trust issues during intimacy, mild language.

masterlist part 1 part 2

You woke up with a dry throat and a cold body, as if you'd been holding your breath for hours. No screams. No shadows. But still—like almost every night since that encounter—with the sensation of Void's hands around your neck, the pressure of his rage vibrating in your ribs.

You sat up in bed, trembling. The nightmares were recurring, and each minute of the night you feared that, upon opening your eyes, you’d find yourself again with the darkness suffocating your room.

You hadn’t told anyone about it. And with every passing day, you only felt more and more confused. Sentry had looked for you. Void had tried to kill you. And both lived within the man who was neither one nor the other.

The confusion pierced your chest like an invisible nail. Who were you supposed to listen to? Who were you supposed to protect? And who, among all those fragments, was really Bob?

You wished you could ask him. Look into his eyes and demand an answer. But you were afraid—almost certain—that he wouldn’t be able to give it to you.

You rubbed your arms, as if that would be enough to ease the sensation that you were still marked by that night. Because you were, on the inside. And you knew it.

Even though your friends noticed the change in your behavior, you assured them everything was fine and that all you needed was a bit more rest.

Bob had been more evasive with you than usual. Most likely, he didn’t know about Void’s visit or, otherwise, he would have come to you, spilling apologies over the incident. Or at least said something about it.

So, why was he avoiding you?

His mind was like a tangled ball of yarn. Finding the end was more complicated than you could handle.

Still, you didn’t want to give up without trying. Void, even when he didn’t speak to you, made it his mission to draw out the worst in your friend. The most reliable words would, of course, come from Sentry. After all, he had described himself as everything Bob wanted to be. But he was also unstable, a megalomaniac who believed the world belonged entirely to him.

Bob was the one who had the final word. He was the only one who could offer you a truth in which the extremes of his personality didn’t interfere with protecting their own interests.

That day, you found him on his favorite couch, reading. He did that almost all the time, in any part of the tower, although you’d noticed he took a long time to finish any novel. After a few weeks of observing him methodically, you discovered he suffered from dyslexia. You had never wanted to bring it up, neither to him nor anyone else, because you feared you might embarrass him in some way.

“Hey,” you greeted, trying to sound casual. Then, carefully, you took the book from his hands. That forced him to look at you.

“Can I talk to you?”

Bob blinked a couple of times, as if he hadn’t expected you to speak to him directly.

“Sure,” he murmured. “What’s going on?”

You sat next to him, your back tense and your fingers intertwined on your lap. You took a deep breath. You didn’t know how to start, but you did.

“Sentry…” you murmured suddenly, your voice barely audible. “Has he appeared lately?”

Bob took a while to respond. His eyes wandered to some invisible point in the room.

“No. But… I feel like he’s close. I mean… I’ve felt him, lately.”

You nodded. You already suspected as much.

“Why are you asking me that?”

“It’s just… he talked to me. He came to me one night… not long ago.”

Bob looked at you then, lips slightly parted. Something in his expression tensed, as if even the name unsettled him.

“He did? I… I don’t remember.”

“I figured,” you said, trying to reassure him. “And then Void came. It was different, of course. But both of them… told me things about you.”

He looked down again. He seemed to be holding his breath, like he was trying hard to remember those episodes, but without any success.

You couldn’t imagine what it felt like to live in his mind for a day. You had faced those disturbing visits, but he had to deal with not remembering anything that his different versions did. God, you didn’t even want to tell him what Void had done, or he’d blame himself for the rest of his life.

“Bob, listen,” you began, “I need to know if what they said is true. Because I’m going crazy trying to understand you. And I need to hear it from you.”

His eyes, when he finally looked at you, were full of something you couldn’t tell if it was fear or sadness. Maybe both.

“What… what did they say?” he asked, his voice rough.

You hesitated a second. You knew that once you spoke the words, there’d be no turning back. In any way.

“They told me that you… feel something for me.”

You didn’t need to say anything more for him to understand what you meant.

The silence that followed was thick. You could hear the pounding of your heartbeat. You wet your lips, nervous, but didn’t look away.

Bob closed his eyes for a moment. He opened them slowly.

“You weren’t supposed to know that.”

His reply was barely a whisper, but it was enough.

“So it’s true.”

Your voice wasn’t accusatory. It was more like a sigh, as if something you’d been holding in for weeks had finally found release. He didn’t reply, but the silence said everything.

“Why didn’t you tell me yourself?” you asked, more hurt than angry. “Why let me find out like this?”

Bob leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands hung loosely, fingers fidgeting as if that helped him think.

“Because I wasn’t going to tell you. And they had no right to do that.”

“I’m not here to blame you,” you added, trying to comfort him. “What I want… is to understand. Because between all these fragments, your silences and evasions… I’m getting lost.”

He looked up, and for a second, the sadness in his eyes made you feel like you were the one who had hurt him.

“It’s just… I don’t know where I am either,” he confessed in a whisper. “Not always. Sometimes I think I’m just the space between the two of them.”

“That’s why I want to talk to you,” you said firmly. “To you, Bob. Not to the things that live inside you. Not to the voices, not to the reflections. You.”

Trying to establish a bond of trust, you gently held his hand. He was still looking at you, but with a certain plea in his eyes, begging you to stop the conversation.

He wanted to avoid the situation, but this time, you weren’t going to let him.

“Why did you say you didn’t want me to find out? Are you not sure of what you feel?”

“I am,” he whispered. He almost sounded ashamed. “It’s just that… I can’t give you what you need.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because every time I think about you, about what I feel, Void stirs. And when he stirs, you’re in danger. And I don’t want that for you.”

Suddenly, the memory of those frigid fingers cutting off your breath sent a shiver down your spine. You knew he was right.

But Void had only attacked out of frustration caused by the internal conflict of his host. You thought that maybe satisfying those feelings would calm him.

“What if I don’t care?” you asked, your voice cracking. “I’m here. Despite everything. I’m still here. It hurts me more that you keep repressing what you feel. And you know it hurts you too.”

Bob lifted his head, his expression broken.

You wanted to cut through the silence with something more definitive. Something clear. But words weren’t what you needed to do that.

You leaned in. Just a little.

And then, unable to keep resisting that pressure in your chest, you did it.

You closed the distance and kissed him.

Your lips touched his with trembling softness. It wasn’t an impulsive gesture—it was a plea. An affirmation. Something that said, I still want you, even if I don’t know how.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he pulled away.

His hands moved to your shoulders, and his forehead pressed gently against yours.

“I can’t,” he whispered. His breath still brushed against your lips. “This… this isn’t right.”

You felt your chest break. You pulled back abruptly, standing in a second, humiliation flushed with anger on your cheeks.

“After all this, after what’s happened between us… you’re just saying no?”

“It’s not because of you,” he said with a frown, as if it hurt him too. “It’s because of what might happen to you if I love you too much.”

“And what about what I want? What if I love you? Does that matter?”

“Of course it matters,” he said, pained “That’s exactly why I’m stepping away.”

He straightened in his seat, staring at you with those enormous blue eyes. His words said no, but his entire body begged for closeness.

But now you were the one who stepped back.

The heat in your cheeks wasn’t from shame, but from the dull sting of rejection.

You felt exposed, vulnerable. Cruelly alone.

“I’m giving you the chance to be with me. To be real,” you whispered bitterly. “But if you’d rather keep hiding behind them… fine.”

He exhaled your name, hoping it would help you understand what was truly happening. That you’d understand his reasons and maybe hate him less.

You were about to leave. You wouldn’t even say goodbye. In a last attempt, he stood up to stop you. His hand reached out to hold the tips of your fingers, touching you like you were made of porcelain.

“It’s just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You held his gaze for a second. Then, without care, you pulled away from his grip. You weren’t sure who it hurt more.

“Again?”

You didn’t look back as you left the room. You didn’t know what you were feeling. If it was pain, or anger, or sadness. You only knew he had left you like that, with everything you felt, trembling in your hands.

The room stayed silent after you left. Bob didn’t move.

His lips were still trembling. The kiss—that brief, heavy instant—hurt more than any blow he’d ever received in his life. Because he knew he hadn’t rejected you out of lack of desire. He had done it out of fear. And fear, in his case, wasn’t an excuse. It was a real warning.

In the days that followed, neither of you said a single word.

You passed each other in the hallways like ghosts trapped in the same house. Sometimes, you lowered your gaze before crossing paths with him. Sometimes it was Bob who turned away, pretending the coffee in his mug required his full attention. Or he simply stopped to stare out the nearest window as if the gray sky had something urgent to say to him.

There were no arguments. No explanations. Just that thick silence that settled between you and refused to lift.

Yelena was the first to notice. She didn’t ask anything directly, but she dropped a few comments out loud that weren’t exactly subtle. Then came John, who frowned every time Bob left the dining room just as you entered, as if the two of you had agreed not to breathe the same air.

Bucky watched you in silence. He noticed the slight tremble in your fingers every time you tried to write a report. Sometimes it looked like he was about to say something… but he stopped himself. You didn’t want anyone to comfort you. Not because you didn’t need it, but because you knew accepting it would be admitting just how much it hurt.

Ava and Alexei, for their part, kept their usual distance, but even they seemed to sense the shift in the atmosphere. In the common room, the air felt heavier, more restrained. Conversations were brief. Meals, tense.

No one said anything. But everyone knew.

Bob, for his part, never stopped punishing himself on the inside. He avoided seeing you not because he wanted to, but because every time he tried, the memory of your voice—cracked, hurt—stabbed at his chest like a splinter.

And the worst part was, Void remembered it too. He brought that scene back to him again and again in dreams, in thought flashes, in cruel whispers that made him feel more miserable than ever.

And still, he did nothing to fix it. And neither did you. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you didn’t know how to get close to him without falling apart in front of him.

Until one day, the mission came.

Yelena was the one who showed up that morning in the training room, the electronic briefing still in her hands. Her gaze went straight to you.

“We need to move. There’s an operation underway. They need you, Bucky, and me.”

Bucky, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, simply nodded. He was already informed. His eyes found yours briefly, as if assessing your reaction, but you said nothing.

You didn’t ask where the mission was, or how long it would take. You didn’t ask if anyone else was going. You didn’t ask if Bob knew.

You didn’t need to know. And you didn’t want to.

You returned to your room in silence, packed your gear with the efficiency of someone who prefers movement over thinking, and when the time came…

You left without looking for him. You didn’t knock on his door, didn’t meet his gaze, didn’t leave a note or a text message. Bob didn’t come looking for you either.

The mission dragged on for a week and a half, a time during which you didn’t establish any communication with him at all. John would sometimes ask how things were going. Even Ava had written to tell you to be careful, but there was no sign of Reynolds.

And it wasn’t due to lack of opportunity, because more than once you caught notifications with his name lighting up on Yelena’s screen. You weren’t angry about it, it just made you think things were more than clear.

“Spit it out,” exclaimed Bucky, the night before you returned to New York. “What’s going on between you and Bob?”

“What do you mean, what’s going on?” you muttered defensively.

The three of you were drinking a beer on the balcony of your hotel room when he brought it up.

“Don’t even try to pretend, you’re not good at it. Something’s going on between you two and we all know it.”

“Did you guys fight?”

“I imagine he already told you.”

“No,” murmured Yelena. She sounded sincere. “He hasn’t said a single word. He avoids the topic every time I bring it up. Even by text.”

A tired sigh left your lips, like someone who knows the battle is already lost. At first you gave short, vague answers. Something like saying you’d just disagreed, that it wasn’t anything serious. Neither of them believed you and, in the end, you had to tell them everything. Sentry’s visit, Void’s harassment, the conversation you had with Bob and how it ended in rejection from his side. You even told them about the kiss.

“So that’s why he’s avoiding me and I’m avoiding him. Though I don’t even care anymore.”

A ridiculous lie. The distance hurt more than they could imagine.

Bucky and Yelena exchanged a knowing glance that made you wonder if they had already discussed the topic. Maybe your friends back home were staging a similar intervention with Bob. Who knows.

“You two need to fix that.”

“What else do you want me to do?” you murmured, defensive again. “He doesn’t want to see me. He doesn’t want to be with me. I think he made that pretty clear.”

“No, I mean…” your friend began. When she couldn’t find the words, she fell silent. “You’re right, it’s a mess.”

“We can’t even look each other in the eye, goddamn it,” you sobbed. You’d spent all those days suffering in silence, and saying it aloud made it hurt even more. “And I don’t even know what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Bucky comforted you. An unexpected empathy tinted his voice. “It’s hard to love someone when you have a mental illness. And for someone like him, it must feel nearly impossible.”

“But that’s not my fault. I gave him a chance, I… told him I was willing to try.”

Your voice cracked at the end. It wasn’t a reproach. It was the wounded confession of someone who felt discarded without knowing why.

Bucky lowered his gaze to the bottle in his hands, as if he were looking for answers in the glass. Then he said slowly:

“I know. And he knows too, believe me. But sometimes… when you’re broken, love isn’t enough. Not even when it’s right in front of you, not even when you want it with everything in you.” He shrugged. “I say that from experience.”

Yelena, who had remained silent, handed you another beer without you asking. Then she leaned her elbow on the railing and sighed.

“You can’t fix it on your own. You can’t love someone enough to heal them. That’s not fair to you… or to him.”

“But I can stay with him,” you said quietly. The words came out without thinking. “I don’t want to save him. I just… I just want him to know he’s not alone.”

“And what about you?” Yelena asked gently, without judgment. “Are you okay with all this? Do you know how much you can carry before you break too?”

That made you fall silent. Because deep down, you didn’t know. You felt like you were walking barefoot on a tightrope, with the storm shaking you from every direction.

“I know it hurts,” Bucky said, calmer this time. “And I know it angers you that he can’t accept something as simple as your affection. But it’s not for lack of love. He’s not rejecting you because he doesn’t care. It’s because he hates himself. And when that happens... the fear of hurting someone paralyzes you.”

“So what do I do then?” you murmured. “Do I just wait? Do I let him go?”

“That’s not something we can decide for you,” Yelena said. “But you can think about what you need. What’s good for you. Because being there for someone in pain doesn’t mean swallowing your own.”

Bucky nodded.

“You can be there for him… without forgetting yourself.”

Silence fell for a moment. Not the awkward kind, but the one that happens when the truth knocks the air out of you.

“He loves you,” Bucky added finally. “And not because Sentry or Void say so. I know because, ever since you came along, he fights harder against himself. He resists more. He wants to be better. We can all see it, just like we could all tell something’s off between you two now.”

You didn’t know when the tears started streaming down your face. Your friends had been through too much; you knew they wouldn’t judge you for sobbing a little, but you still felt ashamed.

Yelena hugged you. Bucky placed a hand on your shoulder, as if that could make the atmosphere feel a little less heavy.

The next day, the return to the Tower was quiet.

The helicopter landed gently, and no one said much as the luggage was unloaded. The sunset was already beginning, since the whole morning had been consumed by paperwork and meetings with Valentina to give a full report.

Bucky was the first to say goodbye with a slight gesture. Yelena touched your arm, as if with that simple contact she was reminding you of what you’d talked about the night before. No more words were necessary.

You didn’t say anything either. You just nodded and walked toward the main hallway.

You didn’t look for anyone. You didn’t ask about Bob and you didn’t wait for him.

You took the elevator up without looking back.

Each floor that passed was another stab to the stomach.

And when you finally entered your room, the silence that greeted you was deafening.

You dropped your bag beside the bed and went straight to the bathroom.

The running water quickly filled the room with steam, and you let the hot stream fall over you without moving much.

As if that could wash off the past days, or somehow prepare you for whatever was going to happen now that you were back.

But it wasn’t that simple.

You dried off slowly, with the sluggish movements of someone who doesn’t know if they’re exhausted or just resigned.

You put on your sleepwear—cotton shorts, a loose T-shirt—and let your damp hair fall over your shoulders as you stepped out of the bathroom.

Then you heard the soft knock on the door.

You froze for a second.

Another knock, more insistent this time.

You didn’t want to open it. You didn’t want to face anyone yet.

But something—maybe a sharp twinge of intuition, or that inevitable instinct of knowing it was him—made you walk toward it.

When you opened the door, he was there.

Standing still, eyes lowered, shoulders tense. He didn’t look like he’d slept much. Maybe not at all since you left.

Your eyes met for a second.

“Can I come in?” he asked, his voice rough. He sounded like he had rehearsed the line a thousand times.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t say yes, but you didn’t say no either. You just stepped aside.

You held your breath the entire time he walked into your room, until the soft click of the door closing behind him. You stayed still, watching him with a neutral expression. And even though you were still mad at him, you could feel your heart pounding erratically — not from anger, but something else entirely.

Bob got straight to the point.

“I didn’t come to bother you. I just… I couldn’t leave it like that. Not after how you left, or what I said.”

You didn’t reply. Part of your silence came from the fear that words might only make things worse. The other part was because you wanted to hear how much he was willing to say.

“I know I fucked it up. But it wasn’t because I didn’t love you,” he exhaled, swallowing hard. He took a step closer. “It’s because I love you so much it terrifies me to ruin you with it.”

“You don’t get to use that as an excuse. What you did hurt. Pushing me away like that… without even giving me a real explanation.”

“There’s no way to explain it without sounding like a coward.”

“Well, I have nothing left to say to you,” you said softly, but not kindly. “I already said everything. And you made a decision — for both of us.”

The sound of his knees hitting the floor was quiet, but it hit you like a slap.

“I’m not here to convince you of anything,” he murmured. “I just want to say I’m sorry. For how I spoke to you. For pulling away. For making you think you weren’t enough… when the truth is, you’re the only good thing in me.”

Your lips tightened. Your heart was pounding so violently in your chest it felt like it didn’t know whether to protect itself or open again.

“Why are you doing this now?” you asked, your voice more fragile than you would’ve liked.

Bob looked up. He looked younger. More broken. Like he was begging you to let him stay — not just in the room, but in your life.

“Because I can’t let you believe I don’t love you,” he said plainly.

His words froze you.

“Then why…?”

“Because I thought leaving was the only way to protect you from me,” he cut in. “Because I’m scared. Because Void doesn’t go away… and when you touch me, when you look at me… I disappear too. I become someone I don’t recognize. And that scares him. It unsettles him.”

The silence between you was thick. Your fingers lowered hesitantly, brushing his. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know if the pain could go away… but you knew he wasn’t lying. That he was shattered. And that all of his fear didn’t come from indifference, but from love — love misunderstood.

He leaned in closer, placing his hands gently on your knees. The touch was warm, almost reverent. He was trembling. You didn’t know if it was from what he felt or what he feared.

“But I’m here now. Because if I’ve already hurt you, if I already failed you… the only thing left is to beg you to let me try and make it right.”

Bob looked down, and for a moment all he did was breathe unevenly. Then he rested his forehead on your knees, like he needed that contact just to keep from falling apart. His warmth seeped through the fabric of your clothes. And slowly, he pressed a kiss there. Just one. Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right.

You didn’t move. But you didn’t encourage him either. The silence between you was an invisible barrier: thin, but sharp.

Bob lifted his gaze slightly, his eyes damp.

“I’m not trying to fix everything. I just… I want you to know how sorry I am. And how much I think of you. Every damn night.”

“I think about you too,” you whispered, barely audible. “All the time. And I don’t know if that’s good… or if it’s part of the problem.”

He nodded, visibly hurt.

His mouth kept tracing trembling kisses on your skin. First your knees, then higher, up your exposed thigh. The contact wasn’t urgent, wasn’t demanding. It was almost devotional.

And still, you felt panic creeping up the base of your neck.

“Bob…” you whispered, tense. “What… what are you doing?”

He stopped instantly. His lips still brushed your skin.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not lifting his gaze. “I don’t want to scare you.”

“You’re not scaring me. It’s just… I don’t know what this is.”

Your hands came down to touch his shoulders, trying to calm the trembling in your own emotions. Your body was split: one part needed him with a physical and emotional urgency you’d never felt before. The other… still carried the fear, the humiliation, the anger. The rejection.

“I’m confused,” you confessed “Everything’s been so weird between us. I don’t know if I can handle it.”

Bob nodded again. He didn’t push. He didn’t justify. He just lifted his head and looked you in the eyes. And there you saw it: the weight of everything he hadn’t said, everything he had buried, was breaking him.

“Please…” he said, voice hoarse and raw with shame, “just let me make you feel good. Not to fix it. Not because I think it erases what I did. Just so you remember how it feels to be touched by someone who loves you. Even if it’s just for tonight.”

Your chest tightened. No one had ever spoken to you like that. Not like your pleasure could be an act of redemption. Not like your pain could be held gently.

“You don’t have to do this,” you murmured, softer now.

Bob shook his head.

“It’s not that I have to. I want to. Because I can’t stop thinking about the way you looked at me that day… about how you walked away. I don’t want you to feel like that. Not because of me.”

Then he lowered his eyes again. Didn’t move closer. Didn’t rush. Just waited. And you stayed there, holding his hands.

Your breathing grew unstable. You weren’t sure if you were going to cry or kiss him. There was something so devastatingly honest in his plea that it felt impossible to say no.

Bob met your gaze, his voice low but steady:

“I promise I’ll be slow... gentle. I’m not Sentry or Void. I’m just me. And I want this to be just for you.”

You hesitated, the uncertainty still heavy in your chest, but eventually, you whispered:

“Okay.”

He nodded with a small smile, as if your trust was the most valuable gift he could ever receive. When you let go of his shoulders, he leaned forward, scattering light kisses on your thighs, planting his palms firmly on your hips.

No man had ever apologized to you on his knees before. And none had followed it with a touch like that. The whole situation overwhelmed you.

Within seconds, his hands traced your curves to your waist, slipping under your loose old shirt. The feel of his warm fingers against your cool skin made you tremble. Your pulse pounded in your temples.

The room felt too quiet for the storm rising in your chest. Your legs started to give way.

It was just a faint tremble — but enough. The kind of unsteadiness you only notice once it's too late. The anticipation, the weight of emotion, the memory of everything he was and had been to you: an abyss. You didn’t fall. Bob caught you instantly, hands gripping you with desperate reflexes.

“Got you?” he whispered, his breath against your forehead.

He did. He had you.

But more than your body, what he held in that moment was the invisible crack between the two of you. One that, if it had opened a little wider, might never have closed.

A shaky laugh escaped your chest. Not out of humor, but out of vertigo. Out of absurdity, fear, tension. And he took it as a breath of relief. His lips found yours with a clumsy tenderness that stung. It wasn’t comfort or apology anymore. It was need.

He kissed you with caged hunger, hands firm on your back like you might vanish if he let go. You kissed him back, sinking into him like maybe you’d find answers there. The wall behind you caught your momentum, and he cornered you without aggression — only urgency. His body trembled just like yours.

His hands didn’t rush. They circled your waist like he was trying to map where he’d broken you. He went lower, leaving a trail of breath on your skin. He didn’t break eye contact until the last second, silently asking for permission.

And when he dropped back to his knees, it wasn’t a grand gesture. It was the posture of a man who knew his place, in that moment, was there: at your feet, ready to honor every part of you like you were the only real thing he had left in the world.

His lips found your skin. He didn’t speak — he didn’t need to. When his hands reached the waistband of your shorts, they paused. He looked up.

“Can I?” he asked, voice rougher than ever.

You nodded, barely, your gaze still locked on his — a bundle of nerves. Bob closed his eyes and rested his forehead against your stomach for a moment, like gathering strength.

He removed your clothes with deft care. The air hit your skin and you almost moaned when his hand planted on your thigh to part them.

“If you need me to stop, just say so, okay?” he whispered.

Then he started.

Your legs, barely steady, locked him in place as if the heat of your body could hold him together too. And as it all unfolded, your thoughts turned into a whirlwind of sensations — fear, tenderness, gratitude, and hunger for something that had been contained for far too long.

His tongue began slowly, as if wanting to explore you first. You let out a choked sigh when he licked up the wetness already gathered there. You were so ready for him, so eager, that he swallowed hard, visibly shaken.

It was in that moment that Bob realized just how much he needed you.

Sentry knew it perfectly — he could have ruined you completely if he wanted to. But for the blue-eyed boy, this kind of desire for you was something entirely new.

What devastated him the most was that it didn’t feel purely physical.

It was intimate. Emotional. It was Bob giving you the only thing he still believed he could offer without breaking you. And you gave in. Because you needed him just as much.

At some point your sighs turned into gasps. And then, into desperate moans. With each sound spilling from your throat, Bob felt more compelled to quicken the pace, to deepen the strokes of his tongue. You didn’t know if it was his first time doing this, but God, he was good.

He was intense, like Sentry. Possessive, like Void. And at the same time, careful and attentive — like himself.

“Bob… fuck… I…” you gasped, trembling.

He, thinking he’d done something wrong, tried to lift his head. But your hand flew to his hair and tugged, forcing him right back into place. The moan that escaped him was pathetic and hot at once.

“Don’t stop. Please.”

Your pleading voice was music to his ears. Instantly, one of his hands gripped your ass firmly, and the other lifted your leg, placing it over his shoulder.

He didn’t just eat you out. He devoured you.

It was getting harder to stay upright — if it hadn’t been for the wall behind you and his hands holding you to the real world, you would’ve collapsed.

You could feel everything about him. His lips, his tongue, his nose rubbing against your clit. You didn’t even know if he was breathing, and frankly, you didn’t care.

It was overwhelming. The heat surged from your cunt all the way to the top of your head.

You were sweaty and dizzy, writhing against him like your life depended on it.

It didn’t take long before you came, hard and intense, all over his face.

You felt him swallow your orgasm completely, like the fountain of youth might be between your legs.

But he didn’t stop there. Soon, two of his fingers joined in, while his mouth devoted its attention to your most sensitive spot.

You begged him to stop, tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let you.

It wasn’t a plea born from discomfort, but from sheer overload.

You were drowning in pleasure, overstimulated to the point you thought you couldn’t take it. But Bob knew you could.

He kept going until a sharp cry escaped your throat and your whole body tensed, your legs squeezing his sides as you tried to push him away.

It was a devastating spasm — an uncontrollable tremor that tore you wide open.

A warm, liquid release, as unexpected as it was unstoppable.

You collapsed onto him, boneless, speechless.

And for a moment, the only thing that existed was the sound of your shattered breaths — him trying to recover the air he had denied himself, and you gasping like all the oxygen in New York still wasn’t enough.

You were still shaking when he rose, breathing unevenly, his face flushed from effort.

Bob didn’t speak at first. He just stayed in front of you with his hands open, as if afraid to touch you without permission.

You looked at him with parted lips, chest rising and falling slowly, and then — without thinking — you leaned forward and kissed him.

It was more of an impulse than a decision: a mix of gratitude, tenderness, a need to reconnect from another place, to offer something in return.

Your fingers reached for the hem of his shirt. You wanted to take him to bed, to give back a bit of what he had just given you, as if balance could be restored that way.

But when you kissed him, he kissed you back with sweetness… and a hesitation you didn’t miss.

“No,” he murmured against your lips, his fingers caressing your cheek. “I don’t need anything.”

You blinked, confused, a little hurt.

“But I want to…”

“This was for you,” he replied, his voice lower, warmer. “I’m the one apologizing here.”

Before you could insist, he stepped back slightly and swallowed hard.

He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Sorry… I need to go to the bathroom for a second.”

He got up awkwardly, avoiding your gaze, but you still caught the small damp spot on his pants before he turned away to enter your bathroom.

A wave of heat flushed your face. You said nothing.

You just watched him disappear and slowly let yourself fall onto the bed, your body still aching from pleasure.

When he came back, Bob had rinsed his face and his hair was slightly wet, like he’d needed more than water to calm himself down.

He found you lying on your side, wrapped in a sheet, your legs curled up on the mattress.

Your eyes met his, vulnerable.

“Can you… help me?”

You didn’t need to say more.

He came closer without asking anything, grabbed a towel he’d found nearby, and cleaned you up with reverent gentleness, as if afraid to hurt you.

There were no words — just his steady hands sliding respectfully over your skin.

“Stay,” you said, barely audible. “Just… to sleep.”

Bob hesitated for a second, as if that request was even more intimate than everything before. But he nodded and climbed into bed with you, leaving a bit of space between your bodies.

He lay on his side, facing you, blue eyes fixed on your face, reading you in silence. The dim light softened his features.

You looked at each other for a while, not wanting to break the stillness.

“Do you still love me?” he asked, barely a whisper.

“Yes,” you answered without hesitation, just as softly.

Bob looked away, like he didn’t know what to do with that answer. It was a small movement, but you noticed the tremble in his chin. You leaned in slightly and raised a hand, gently caressing his face. He didn’t flinch. He closed his eyes under your touch, like he needed it more than he wanted to admit.

And then, you saw a tear slide down his cheek. Then another. You said nothing. You just wiped it with your thumb, slowly, trying to touch his pain into something less real.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice tight. “For everything.”

You shook your head softly. And without thinking, you leaned in. Not a kiss on the lips — something more delicate.

You pressed your nose to his and rubbed side to side, barely breathing. A butterfly kiss, nasal and unhurried.

Bob froze at first, surprised. Then he closed his eyes and returned the gesture, brushing his nose against yours with trembling tenderness.

It was more than any other touch you’d shared. More than skin. It was a truce.

“Do you think we can still be friends… after this?”

The question was fragile, but not afraid. It was an acknowledgment that a new line had been drawn between you, one that couldn’t be erased so easily. You nodded, not moving away from his face.

“I promise,” you said.

Silence settled like a blanket. After a moment, you slowly turned over, giving him your back. Not as rejection, but as trust. As rest. Your hand reached for his beneath the sheets, lacing your fingers with his, squeezing gently. Like a silent promise: nothing has to break.

Bob moved closer without a sound, wrapping you in his arms with a delicacy that made you hold your breath. He held you like that, spooning you, as if he still feared you might vanish. You let him shield you with his body, his chest brushing your back, his warm breath against the curve of your neck.

And there, entangled in the quiet, the two of you fell asleep. Not like people who had solved everything, but like people who, at least for tonight, had decided not to give up.

taglist (tysm!! ily): @littlemsbumblebee @qardasngan @p34ch-tr33 @theoraekenslover @lifeisafreakshow @weponxwrites @articel1967 @mooniesthings @bmyva1entine @lynnieluvsu @96jnie @smok3dpaprika @msun1c0rn @rainymountaindays @yallgotkik @dalu-grantkylo @itzmeme @fourthusername-me

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Misaligned [B. F.]

Bob Floyd x fem!reader

wc: 1k

summary: when you get home, you find your boyfriend has had a little confusion. Still, he's adorable.

masterlist

Coming back to your apartment was always comforting. Coming back when your boyfriend Bob was visiting was even more so.

After the dangerous and classified mission—whose details he hadn’t even been able to share with you—the U.S. government had granted him a few days off. Naturally, he’d decided to return to Lemoore to see you and his family.

When you found out, you were over the moon. Even though your work obligations didn’t let you spend the whole day with him, you tried to make the most of every minute together.

You found him sitting in your living room, completely focused on something on his laptop.

"Are you busy?"

“Mav sent over some reports we have to go through,” he answered without taking his eyes off the screen. “It’s all government paperwork, but we have to make sure everything checks out.”

You started leaving your things as you walked toward him, slowly. When you were finally close enough, Bob leaned in a bit, asking for a welcome kiss like no time had passed at all.

“How was your day?”

“Normal,” you said with a shrug. It was true—nothing worth mentioning. “Just a bit tired.”

You were going to say more, but stopped cold when you noticed something odd. As you sat down next to him, you looked at his face. Perched on his nose were a pair of glasses. That wasn’t unusual—he needed them. But these weren’t his usual square frames. These were smaller, oval-shaped, barely covering his blue eyes.

“Babe… what are you wearing?”

“This?” he asked, tugging gently at the white shirt with beige stripes. “My mom gave it to me. Don’t you like it?”

“I do,” you said honestly. That only made his frown deepen “But I wasn’t talking about that.”

“Then… what?”

A small smile curved your lips as you looked at him, amused.

“Sweetheart… how do I look?”

“Pretty?” he murmured, still confused but clearly sincere. Your laugh surprised him “What’s going on?”

“Bob, you’re wearing my glasses.”

He brought a hand to his face, blinking in disbelief as he quickly took off the glasses to inspect them.

“Oh…” he muttered with a sheepish laugh. “No wonder everything looked so... off. I’m sorry, I was so distracted I didn’t even notice. I must’ve grabbed them this morning without thinking.”

“And you didn’t realize you couldn’t see properly?”

“I thought I was just more tired than usual,” he said, shrugging, and you burst out laughing.

You gently took the laptop off his lap and settled in closer beside him.

“You and your selective vision…”

You stayed there, wrapped in each other on the couch, not saying much for a while. He kept lazily running his fingers along your arm, and you absentmindedly played with the buttons of his shirt. Every now and then, an amused smile crept onto your face.

“You know what the worst part is?” he murmured suddenly, his voice still low.

“What?”

“At one point I adjusted them and thought, Huh, these feel lighter, but just kept working.”

You laughed, leaning your forehead against his shoulder.

“You're hopeless.”

“I know. I’m so out of it, I’m surprised I didn’t accidentally put on your underwear too.”

“I doubt you’d get very far before realizing. My lingerie isn’t exactly built for your frame.”

“You wear it better, no contest,” he added, making you laugh again.

You pulled back a little to look him in the eye. He lowered his gaze to you, and you brushed a loose strand of hair away from his face.

“So… why are you so distracted?”

Bob sighed and scratched the back of his neck.

“I don’t know. I guess I haven’t really landed yet. I’m here, but my head’s still over there. Sometimes it takes me a few days to feel like I’m actually back.”

You nodded. You didn’t need the details. Just seeing him there—alive, a little off-kilter—was enough.

“Do you want me to give you some space tonight?”

He shook his head immediately.

“I want to be with you. Even if we don’t do anything. Just… be.”

“So you’ll let me lie on your chest and fall asleep halfway through your paperwork?”

“Yes. And I’ll pretend to be offended when you stop listening to me halfway through a sentence,” he said, smiling softly.

You leaned in and gave him a short kiss, unhurried.

“Should I heat up the food?”

“No, I’ll do it. You’ve done enough today.”

Bob stood up slowly, and you followed him to the kitchen, saying nothing. He moved at an easy pace, opening the fridge and checking the containers you had prepped. Meanwhile, you sat down at the table, watching him in silence. He opened the microwave, put a plate inside, and started it without checking any buttons.

“Are you sure you know how that thing works?”

“Don’t mock me. I’ve had military training,” he replied without turning around.

“That doesn’t reassure me.”

Bob turned and looked at you for a moment, then walked over and leaned down to kiss you again. This time it was longer. Unhurried. Quiet. It tasted like home, and like things that didn’t need saying.

“Thanks for waiting for me. Not just today… I mean, all the time.”

“Always,” you replied honestly. You stole another kiss before adding, “But give me back my glasses, please.”

He smiled against your forehead.

“Tomorrow.”

“Bob…”

“I’m attached now.”

You just rolled your eyes as the microwave beeped softly in the background and the night kept unfolding—not with grand moments or important words, but with the quiet certainty that, finally, the two of you were here. Together.

taglist: @littlemsbumblebee @qardasngan

[violetrainbow412-blog]

THANK U SO MUCH, HONEEEEY<3

ᯓ ✈︎ robert ‘bob’ floyd

masterlist ● top gun

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ recs

⋆˙⟡ short skirt weather┃@geminiwritten

you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital...

⋆˙⟡ picture you┃@geminiwritten

you met bob back at the academy and fell for him fast—but you never dared risk the friendship... now you're both stationed at north island and for once the timing might be right, until you overhear him say some things that cut deep and make you question everything you thought you knew

⋆˙⟡ the plan┃@geminiwritten

the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps

⋆˙⟡ the kind of girl i could love┃@roosterforme

Bob has a secret admirer, but he's convinced it's actually Jake and Nat messing with him

⋆˙⟡ worst way┃@geminiwritten

being secretly fake-married to your sweet best friend, bob floyd, is almost perfect... until tensions rise, the secret is out, and you both struggle to keep your feelings (and your hands) to yourself

⋆˙⟡ ruin the friendship┃@withahappyrefrain

The night before Bob leaves for Boot Camp, he's learned no one has gone down on his best friend. He's determined to fix that.

⋆˙⟡ Switch up pt2┃ @littleenglishfangirl

you and bob switch up glasses on accident

⋆˙⟡ bobs lonely hearts club┃ @mang0d0ll

bob's all alone on valentines day. but not for much longer

⋆˙⟡ one last gift┃@scarletmika

Living with Bob Floyd was killing you slowly, especially when you couldn't bring yourself to admit how you felt about him. It's your birthday, though, and shouldn't the birthday girl get whatever it is she wants?

⋆˙⟡ hangman’s sister┃@cap-winter-barnes

Y/N is Hangman's little sister - everyone on the Dagger Squad knows she's dating Bob, except for her big brother.

⋆˙⟡ Examination┃ @violetrainbow412-blog

Bob suffers a concussion and Nat insists he get checked out. He doesn't seem convinced until he meets the doctor who will examine him.

⋆˙⟡ call sign: heartbreaker ┃@violetrainbow412-blog

Jake runs his mouth. You do something about it.

⋆˙⟡ hormones are high┃@ilovebabyonboard

You show up to the squad beach day in a bikini that has no business looking that good. Bob's mid-throw when he sees you and straight-up forgets how physics works. The football hits Hangman. Bob's glasses are askew. He spends the afternoon avoiding eye contact—until you ask him to help tie the strings on your top. He nearly combusts.

⋆˙⟡ perilous skies ┃@shortnspidey

Dating Bob Floyd had been nothing short of perfect. The sweet, ever-attentive WSO felt like he’d walked straight out of a rom-com. That’s why, when your scheduled date night arrives and he doesn’t show, your mind immediately begins to spiral. It’s so unlike him, so out of character, that you can’t stop replaying every possible reason in your head. As the hours stretch on, worry takes hold, deep down, you can feel something’s wrong.

⋆˙⟡ Kiss cam┃@scarletmika

The San Diego Padres are saluting the U.S. Navy during their upcoming game, and the Dagger Squad has been invited to attend. Hangman's only goal for the game? Get you and Bob to finally act on your feelings and confess to each other.

⋆˙⟡ B-A-B-Y ┃@the-shedevil-writes

On a Monday morning, Rooster and Hangman bring Bob and Phoenix to a local diner, and Bob’s instantly smitten with the waitress singing along to the jukebox. Next thing he knows, “Diner Mondays” becomes a squad tradition… and so does watching Bob fall harder every week while the rest of the Daggers try to get him to finally ask her out.

⋆˙⟡ juno┃@fanfic-ya-know

⋆˙⟡ Need to know┃ @bussyslayer333

an accidental call to your boyfriend on girls night leaves everyone shocked at a revelation they never thought they would have; bob fucks.

⋆˙⟡ So it goes ┃@scarletmika

From the moment you laid eyes on Bob Floyd, you were head over heels, and he was too. Your overprotective brother, though, was making it increasingly harder for either of you to make a move. Maybe it's time you defy his wishes.

⋆˙⟡ Only exception pt2 pt3 pt4┃@kinzis-writing

Y/N Mitchell swore to herself that she would never allow herself to date or get involved with anyone from any branch of the military. After worrying about her father, the past few years, she knew that she never wanted to experience that worry for a significant other. After her father gets ordered back to California, she may just meet the one that ruins all her plans.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Fluff ☼

Angst ►

Smut *

A little bit of jam ☼

You buy donuts for the team and it all ends in chaos

Bob Reynolds NSFW headcanons ✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Where Soft Things Grow 🌱

When Bob's therapist asks him to find an activity that will help him gain some control, he's forced to turn to you. That's just the first step in a series of events he never thought would happen.

Let them see ☼

You and Bob are forced to attend an event hosted by Valentina, where more is revealed than you would have liked.

The way you hold me ☼

The heater's failing and you're freezing from the rain, so Bob offers to lend you a blanket. Apparently, he keeps you warmer than the fabric.

Shadows Beneath the Light ►☼ (Sorcerer!reader) (part 1)

Valentina contacts you to conduct a complete team assessment regarding the mystical arts. But when Bob's turn comes, it turns out he needs more of your help.

Where Darkness Cradles the Light ►☼(Sorcerer!reader) (part 2)

You land a full-time job at the Watchtower, and over time, you and Bob grow closer. But the shadows of your past soon resurface—and now it’s Bob who must help you find your way back to the light.

Wrapped around you (hurt/comfort)

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

No one else +18! (part 2 of wrapped around you)

Bob agrees to join you at a bar with your friends, but a stranger’s gesture unsettles him more than he expected. Later that night, in the quiet of your apartment, he finally lets himself be vulnerable—and loved.

Espionage ☼ (same reader as above)

A quiet morning on the Watchtower turns into psychic people-watching when Jean, Yelena, and Ava decide to “check in” on their teammates. It’s all fun and teasing, until Jean sees something she wasn’t meant to: Bob, deeply in love, living a secret life no one expected.

Off the Record ☼

After the fallout with the Void and with tensions rising around the New Avengers, all you're really trying to do is hold on to the people who still matter. Joaquín, your best friend, writes from a distance. Bob—unstable but honest—has started to stay close. And before everything breaks for good, you decide it’s time they meet, even if you’re not all on the same side. Even if some wouldn’t approve.

I: Golden

Bob loves you, but he'd never dare say it. Unfortunately, all these repressed feelings fuel Sentry, who decides to do something once and for all.

II: Obsidian ►

Bob loves you, but he’s trapped by his own fears and silence. Void, the shadow of his pain, confronts you with the burden he carries—leaving you scared and unsure of what comes next.

III: Cobalt ► (+18!)

Bob loves you, but fear keeps him silent. Void's rage haunts your nights, while Sentry's presence stirs painful truths. Between rejection, longing, and a moment of raw intimacy, you both try to navigate a love shaped by trauma, identity, and everything that threatens to tear you apart.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Espionage [B. R]

Bob Reynolds x reader

wc: 2.5k

summary: a quiet morning on the Watchtower turns into psychic people-watching when Jean, Yelena, and Ava decide to “check in” on their teammates. It’s all fun and teasing, until Jean sees something she wasn’t meant to: Bob, deeply in love, living a secret life no one expected.

an: the reader is the same in these one shot (wrapped around you), but you don't need to actually read them to understand this one. Although it would add a little more flavor! It's narrated in third person this time, for plot convenience.

Warnings: appearance of Jean Grey (Phoenix) from the mutant universe.

masterlist

Jean Grey never thought she'd end up sharing coffee with two former assassins while a Russian pop playlist played in the background on the Watchtower. But there she was, sitting in the kitchen, barefoot and hair still damp, watching Yelena argue with Ava over whether spying on her classmates counted as an ethical violation if it was "just out of curiosity." She hadn't even been living with them for a week, and she was already considering doing something that not even Scott would have approved of.

After a mental breakdown that nearly reignited the Phoenix threat, Professor Xavier decided Jean needed a break away from Cerebro, from the missions, from the constant pressure of being herself. Valentina, always on the lookout for a helpful move, offered the Watchtower as a safe space for her recovery, on the condition that she not use her powers without authorization. Jean reluctantly agreed, knowing that voluntary exile was the closest thing to peace she could afford.

Yelena was the first to greet her, joking about whether she could read minds or was simply silently judging them. Ava, on the other hand, recognized something deeper in her: a contained energy, the weight of a power she never asked for. Without intending to, the three ended up sharing the beginnings of a friendship and a certain complicity born of mutual recognition: women who hadn't chosen who they were, but who were still here, every morning, trying to laugh a little before burdening themselves with it again.

“Valentina won’t notice! I promise,” Yelena insisted, with a mischievous smile.

The night before, while talking at dinner, they had discovered the extent of telepathy's powers. So the idea had become a dangerous temptation among them.

“But what if something bad happens?”

“Nothing will happen. It’s going to be fun.”

Jean sighed, stirring the contents of her cup with a spoon, and finally nodded. Although she didn't want to endanger anyone, she knew it was a minimal use of her powers.

“So, how does it work? Can you, like, see everyone?” Ava exclaimed, holding the cup in her hands, her eyes glowing like they were about to play a game of Ouija.

“Without Cerebro, no. But it’s easier with them because I already know them. It’s like… tuning into a radio signal, or something,” Jean explained, leaning her elbows on the table. “The more familiar a person is to me, the clearer the channel.”

“Start with Bucky!” Yelena demanded, tapping the table. “I want to know what he does when he’s not here.”

Jean sighed, closed her eyes, and the three fell silent.

Bucky's apartment was simple, mostly white, with functional furniture, perfectly aligned corners, and a plant that seemed to live by sheer force of will. A warm, soft light lighted the bathroom, and there, in front of the fogged-up mirror, Bucky held a round hairbrush in both hands. On the sink lay a procession of bottles: mousse, serum, Anti-frizz, heat protectant, argan oil, and a small black dryer with a diffuser tip. On the tablet, an influencer explained how to achieve ‘perfect volume without sacrificing hydration’. Bucky followed the video to the letter, brow furrowed, tongue between his teeth, strand by strand.

“He’s… styling his hair,” Jean murmured softly. “Very meticulously. He has like ten products, and he’s watching a tutorial on how to prevent frizz while adding volume.”

Ava opened her mouth in disbelief. “Really? Volume?”

“He's using a round brush and a hairdryer. Very professional. And now he's rotating the brush... wait... he just stopped the video and is repeating that section.”

“He must be having a meeting in Congress,” Yelena mocked, leaning back in her chair. “He wants to be the prettiest boy in Parliament.”

“How does his hair always look so silky?” Ava added “I feel like we discovered a government secret.”

“For Christmas,” Yelena said thoughtfully, “we’re going to buy him a Dyson dryer. Limited edition. Matte black.”

Jean laughed, feeling satisfied that she was entertaining her friends.

“Now? Alexei?” she suggested.

“Of course Alexei,” Yelena and Ava said in unison.

Jean took a deep breath and dove back under.

The room was vast, with curtains hanging askew and midday light streaming in. Alexei, a red scarf tied around his neck like a cape, held a wireless microphone while the lyrics of ‘Eye of The Tiger’ (Russian karaoke version) flashed across the screen. He sang as if he were in a final battle, his fists clenched, eyes half-closed, lips trembling with emotion. His cat, perched on the back of the sofa, watched him with feline patience. Alexei tried to spin dramatically, but a misstep made him slip on the carpet and land in an impossible split. He stood there, rigid… and kept singing. Louder. More intense.

“He’s… at a lonely karaoke bar,” Jean said, her voice cracking with laughter. “Red scarf around his neck, microphone in hand, singing Eye of the Tiger in Russian. I think he's crying. I'm not sure if it's from emotion or pain from the split.”

“Did he do a split?” Ava exclaimed.

“Unintentionally. But he’s holding it. Like a champion. The cat is perplexed. He admires it. Or hates it. It’s hard to tell.”

Yelena clapped silently.

“God, he’s a complete dumbass.”

“Walker. Come on, I want to see Walker,” Ava said, all excited. “He’s probably training or something.”

Jean closed her eyes, already entertained.

A park, tall trees, ground covered in dry leaves. John Walker was training in front of a makeshift punching bag hanging from a branch. He wore gloves, headphones, and a sleeveless T-shirt that said: ‘No Pain, No Nation’. He was breathing hard, unleashing quick combinations. In his face: total focus. But then… the ducks arrived. A small group. One approached the bag. Another pecked at his foot. John yelled: “No! Get out!” He kicked the air, tripped over a root, and fell like a log, on his back. He stood there, staring at the sky, until he slowly sat up and brushed the dirt off his shoulder as if it had all been part of the plan.

“He fell because of a duck,” Jean recounted mercilessly “And now he’s pretending it was part of his routine.”

Ava put a hand to her mouth. “Is he okay?”

“He’s outraged. But not physically hurt.”

Yelena held her cup solemnly.

“It gives me peace to know that nature continues to win battles against nationalist pride.”

“Valentina?” Ava exclaimed, like a little rascal.

Jean hesitated for a moment, as if something inside her warned her that this was a mistake. But she closed her eyes anyway.

A conference room. Dark. Screens lit. Five agents logged in, all silent. Valentina, in the center, wearing a violet silk gown, a black mask covering her face, holding a bottle of red nail polish in one hand. In the other, a glass of wine. She painted her nails with surgical precision while eating grapes served on a floating tray held by a drone. One of the agents sneezed. She pressed a button, and her image disappeared from all the screens at once.

“She’s monitoring five meetings while getting her nails done,” Jean said, impressed. “And someone’s holding the grapes for her… or rather, a drone.”

Ava and Yelena were silent, genuinely impressed.

“I want to be her when I retire,” Yelena murmured.

“When do you retire?” Ava said “Do you think we’ll survive that long?”

“Well, now that we know Bucky uses serum antifrizz, I believe in miracles,” Yelena replied, taking another sip from her cup “And Bob? What about him?”

“He didn’t get to sleep last night, did you notice?”

“Yeah, he texted me,” she replied to Ava. “He said not to worry. But it’s still… weird. You know, because it's not the first time”

Jean pursed her lips, hesitating.

“I don’t know if I should…”

Ava insisted. “We already saw John get humiliated by a duck. This can’t get any worse.”

Jean sighed, closed her eyes… and connected.

Bob stood in a small but cozy kitchen, bathed in the soft morning light. He leaned against the counter with a mug in his hands, the steam rising lazily toward his face. He was wearing a pair of long-leg boxer briefs and a loose white t-shirt. His hair, still ruffled from sleep, fell in soft strands over his forehead. He had the expression of someone who hadn't fully slept, but he didn't seem bothered by being awake either. Just... calm. Almost contemplative. He stared out the window as if the outside world weren't a threat, but a distant curiosity.

The apartment wasn't luxurious, but it was full of signs of shared life: a sweater thrown over the back of a chair, two used cups in the sink, a knotted blanket on the couch. On the refrigerator were photos stuck with crooked magnets, a postcard from some beach, and in one corner, a small child's drawing was held together with a star-shaped magnet. Everything spoke of someone else.

Bob yawned and placed his mug on the counter. He leaned over to check a cupboard, muttering something under his breath, when arms wrapped around his back. He immediately tensed, startled, but that reaction dissolved as soon as he turned and saw who it was.

It was a woman. She was barefoot, still sleepy, her hair disheveled, and her eyelids heavy. She was wearing only dark panties and an old flannel that was clearly Bob's–something told Jean it was the same one he'd worn the night before. It was too big for her, the material falling to her thigh, one of the sleeves hanging slightly off her shoulder. Bob looked at her as if his breath had just escaped him. A mixture of surprise, affection, and something more primal, something that ignited in his chest and rendered him motionless.

She leaned her forehead against his back and murmured, her voice dragged by sleep:

“Why did you get out of bed?”

Bob turned, wrapped his arms around her, and gently stroked her hair with an open palm.

“Morning,” he said softly. “I couldn’t sleep anymore. But I didn’t want to wake you.”

She looked at him, her eyes barely open, as he leaned down to kiss her cheek. Not a quick kiss, but a long, warm one that lingered there for a few seconds as if he needed it as much as air. She didn't move, just wrapped her arms around him and rested her head on his shoulder, still half asleep.

“You’re cold,” he murmured against her neck.

“Because I didn’t have this,” he replied, wrapping her tighter.

He took his cup and offered it to her. She took it in her limp hands and took a slow sip, saying nothing, without asking for another cup. Bob watched her with visible tenderness, stroking her back with his thumb as she drank.

“Do you have to go to work?” he finally asked.

She sighed against his collarbone.

“I'm supposed to have a double shift at the store. But I'm considering calling in sick.”

Bob smiled, a little relieved, a little worried.

“You shouldn’t do that.”

“My boss owes me some favors,” she replied with a mischievous smile. “He won’t die if I don’t go today.”

“You’re just looking for an excuse to stay,” he said softly, though inside he wished he would. Every word was a bittersweet contradiction.

"Maybe."

She gave him a playful little push with her hip, and he caught her by the waist, looking at her with that soft, vulnerable glow that very few knew. He lifted her easily and sat her on the counter, still holding her. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, digging her fingers into his almost-blond hair, playing with the strands that fell free.

“I like it when you do that,” he murmured, closing his eyes for a moment.

"What thing?"

“Touching my hair like that.”

She smiled, still half asleep, and pulled him a little closer. Bob was slowly stroking her legs, his thumbs drawing circles on the inside of her thighs, as if he were reading her with his fingertips.

“Do you want me to make you some breakfast?” he asked quietly, staying inches from her face.

She looked him straight in the eyes. Half joking. Half serious.

“I want to eat you.”

Bob laughed. A genuine, warm laugh that came from his chest. He leaned toward her, closing the distance between them, just before kissing her.

Jean looked away. Or rather, she withdrew completely. The intimacy was too much. It wasn't the body, or the desire—it was what was between them. It was how sincere everything was.

Jean opened her eyes with a slow blink, as if she were struggling to return. They both looked at her with expectation.

“Well?” Ava pressed.

Jean took a breath, placed his hands on the table, and said in a low voice:

“Bob has a girlfriend.”

Yelena sat up abruptly, almost choking on her own saliva.

"What?"

“They were together in an apartment, I… imagine it's hers. They were drinking coffee and seemed very used to it. She… was wearing his clothes. Well, his flannel at least.”

Ava froze.

“And him? What was he doing? Did he kiss her or something?”

“Yes,” Jean said, suddenly blushing. “They looked very intimate.”

“But who is she?” Yelena demanded. “Do we know her? Is she an agent? Is she a mutant like you? Is she a spy? Does she have combat training?”

Jean slowly shook her head, still processing.

“I don’t think so. She… said she works at a store. She was going to work a double shift today. And I didn’t sense any altered energy from her. No powers. Nothing weird.”

“So it’s civil?” Ava asked, as if it were hard to believe.

“Yes. She looks… normal. Very normal. Like someone you’d pass on the street and not look twice at.”

Yelena blinked. “And Bob’s in love with someone… like that?”

Jean smiled, almost tenderly.

“She makes him happy. I guess that's what matters most to him.”

The three of them fell silent. A silence that wasn't awkward, but reverent. As if they had witnessed something that didn't belong to them.

A few seconds passed before Ava broke the silence with a murmur: “Should we ask him something?”

Jean shook his head gently, still staring at his mug.

“No. There’s no need. He seems… very comfortable in that relationship. I’d feel awful if we messed it up by making him feel exposed.”

Yelena nodded slowly.

“Then let him keep it. That secret belongs to him.”

The three of them stared at each other for a moment, speechless. And then, as if they'd sealed an unspoken pact, they continued sipping their coffee.

The silence didn’t last long.

“But the dryer, the karaoke, and the ducks… we can use that for mild extortion, right?” Ava asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Absolutely,” Yelena replied without hesitation.

Jean giggled.

“Honor is intact. Dignity, not so much.”

taglist: @littlemsbumblebee @qardasngan

[violetrainbow412-blog]

. ۫ᯓᡣ𐭩 to everyone who complains that there's too much smut . . . maybe give your fluffy and angsty writers some love the same way the smut community does with theirs :))

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Cobalt [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x reader

wc: 6.7k

summary: Bob loves you, but fear keeps him silent. Void's rage haunts your nights, while Sentry's presence stirs painful truths. Between rejection, longing, and a moment of raw intimacy, you both try to navigate a love shaped by trauma, identity, and everything that threatens to tear you apart.

warnings: +18!! mdni, emotional angst, mental illness (dissociative symptoms, trauma), nightmares, choking imagery (non-sexual), rejection, self-loathing, unresolved romantic tension, intimate apology scene, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, overstimulation, crying during sex, aftercare, emotional vulnerability, fear and trust issues during intimacy, mild language.

masterlist part 1 part 2

You woke up with a dry throat and a cold body, as if you'd been holding your breath for hours. No screams. No shadows. But still—like almost every night since that encounter—with the sensation of Void's hands around your neck, the pressure of his rage vibrating in your ribs.

You sat up in bed, trembling. The nightmares were recurring, and each minute of the night you feared that, upon opening your eyes, you’d find yourself again with the darkness suffocating your room.

You hadn’t told anyone about it. And with every passing day, you only felt more and more confused. Sentry had looked for you. Void had tried to kill you. And both lived within the man who was neither one nor the other.

The confusion pierced your chest like an invisible nail. Who were you supposed to listen to? Who were you supposed to protect? And who, among all those fragments, was really Bob?

You wished you could ask him. Look into his eyes and demand an answer. But you were afraid—almost certain—that he wouldn’t be able to give it to you.

You rubbed your arms, as if that would be enough to ease the sensation that you were still marked by that night. Because you were, on the inside. And you knew it.

Even though your friends noticed the change in your behavior, you assured them everything was fine and that all you needed was a bit more rest.

Bob had been more evasive with you than usual. Most likely, he didn’t know about Void’s visit or, otherwise, he would have come to you, spilling apologies over the incident. Or at least said something about it.

So, why was he avoiding you?

His mind was like a tangled ball of yarn. Finding the end was more complicated than you could handle.

Still, you didn’t want to give up without trying. Void, even when he didn’t speak to you, made it his mission to draw out the worst in your friend. The most reliable words would, of course, come from Sentry. After all, he had described himself as everything Bob wanted to be. But he was also unstable, a megalomaniac who believed the world belonged entirely to him.

Bob was the one who had the final word. He was the only one who could offer you a truth in which the extremes of his personality didn’t interfere with protecting their own interests.

That day, you found him on his favorite couch, reading. He did that almost all the time, in any part of the tower, although you’d noticed he took a long time to finish any novel. After a few weeks of observing him methodically, you discovered he suffered from dyslexia. You had never wanted to bring it up, neither to him nor anyone else, because you feared you might embarrass him in some way.

“Hey,” you greeted, trying to sound casual. Then, carefully, you took the book from his hands. That forced him to look at you.

“Can I talk to you?”

Bob blinked a couple of times, as if he hadn’t expected you to speak to him directly.

“Sure,” he murmured. “What’s going on?”

You sat next to him, your back tense and your fingers intertwined on your lap. You took a deep breath. You didn’t know how to start, but you did.

“Sentry…” you murmured suddenly, your voice barely audible. “Has he appeared lately?”

Bob took a while to respond. His eyes wandered to some invisible point in the room.

“No. But… I feel like he’s close. I mean… I’ve felt him, lately.”

You nodded. You already suspected as much.

“Why are you asking me that?”

“It’s just… he talked to me. He came to me one night… not long ago.”

Bob looked at you then, lips slightly parted. Something in his expression tensed, as if even the name unsettled him.

“He did? I… I don’t remember.”

“I figured,” you said, trying to reassure him. “And then Void came. It was different, of course. But both of them… told me things about you.”

He looked down again. He seemed to be holding his breath, like he was trying hard to remember those episodes, but without any success.

You couldn’t imagine what it felt like to live in his mind for a day. You had faced those disturbing visits, but he had to deal with not remembering anything that his different versions did. God, you didn’t even want to tell him what Void had done, or he’d blame himself for the rest of his life.

“Bob, listen,” you began, “I need to know if what they said is true. Because I’m going crazy trying to understand you. And I need to hear it from you.”

His eyes, when he finally looked at you, were full of something you couldn’t tell if it was fear or sadness. Maybe both.

“What… what did they say?” he asked, his voice rough.

You hesitated a second. You knew that once you spoke the words, there’d be no turning back. In any way.

“They told me that you… feel something for me.”

You didn’t need to say anything more for him to understand what you meant.

The silence that followed was thick. You could hear the pounding of your heartbeat. You wet your lips, nervous, but didn’t look away.

Bob closed his eyes for a moment. He opened them slowly.

“You weren’t supposed to know that.”

His reply was barely a whisper, but it was enough.

“So it’s true.”

Your voice wasn’t accusatory. It was more like a sigh, as if something you’d been holding in for weeks had finally found release. He didn’t reply, but the silence said everything.

“Why didn’t you tell me yourself?” you asked, more hurt than angry. “Why let me find out like this?”

Bob leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His hands hung loosely, fingers fidgeting as if that helped him think.

“Because I wasn’t going to tell you. And they had no right to do that.”

“I’m not here to blame you,” you added, trying to comfort him. “What I want… is to understand. Because between all these fragments, your silences and evasions… I’m getting lost.”

He looked up, and for a second, the sadness in his eyes made you feel like you were the one who had hurt him.

“It’s just… I don’t know where I am either,” he confessed in a whisper. “Not always. Sometimes I think I’m just the space between the two of them.”

“That’s why I want to talk to you,” you said firmly. “To you, Bob. Not to the things that live inside you. Not to the voices, not to the reflections. You.”

Trying to establish a bond of trust, you gently held his hand. He was still looking at you, but with a certain plea in his eyes, begging you to stop the conversation.

He wanted to avoid the situation, but this time, you weren’t going to let him.

“Why did you say you didn’t want me to find out? Are you not sure of what you feel?”

“I am,” he whispered. He almost sounded ashamed. “It’s just that… I can’t give you what you need.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Because every time I think about you, about what I feel, Void stirs. And when he stirs, you’re in danger. And I don’t want that for you.”

Suddenly, the memory of those frigid fingers cutting off your breath sent a shiver down your spine. You knew he was right.

But Void had only attacked out of frustration caused by the internal conflict of his host. You thought that maybe satisfying those feelings would calm him.

“What if I don’t care?” you asked, your voice cracking. “I’m here. Despite everything. I’m still here. It hurts me more that you keep repressing what you feel. And you know it hurts you too.”

Bob lifted his head, his expression broken.

You wanted to cut through the silence with something more definitive. Something clear. But words weren’t what you needed to do that.

You leaned in. Just a little.

And then, unable to keep resisting that pressure in your chest, you did it.

You closed the distance and kissed him.

Your lips touched his with trembling softness. It wasn’t an impulsive gesture—it was a plea. An affirmation. Something that said, I still want you, even if I don’t know how.

For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he pulled away.

His hands moved to your shoulders, and his forehead pressed gently against yours.

“I can’t,” he whispered. His breath still brushed against your lips. “This… this isn’t right.”

You felt your chest break. You pulled back abruptly, standing in a second, humiliation flushed with anger on your cheeks.

“After all this, after what’s happened between us… you’re just saying no?”

“It’s not because of you,” he said with a frown, as if it hurt him too. “It’s because of what might happen to you if I love you too much.”

“And what about what I want? What if I love you? Does that matter?”

“Of course it matters,” he said, pained “That’s exactly why I’m stepping away.”

He straightened in his seat, staring at you with those enormous blue eyes. His words said no, but his entire body begged for closeness.

But now you were the one who stepped back.

The heat in your cheeks wasn’t from shame, but from the dull sting of rejection.

You felt exposed, vulnerable. Cruelly alone.

“I’m giving you the chance to be with me. To be real,” you whispered bitterly. “But if you’d rather keep hiding behind them… fine.”

He exhaled your name, hoping it would help you understand what was truly happening. That you’d understand his reasons and maybe hate him less.

You were about to leave. You wouldn’t even say goodbye. In a last attempt, he stood up to stop you. His hand reached out to hold the tips of your fingers, touching you like you were made of porcelain.

“It’s just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You held his gaze for a second. Then, without care, you pulled away from his grip. You weren’t sure who it hurt more.

“Again?”

You didn’t look back as you left the room. You didn’t know what you were feeling. If it was pain, or anger, or sadness. You only knew he had left you like that, with everything you felt, trembling in your hands.

The room stayed silent after you left. Bob didn’t move.

His lips were still trembling. The kiss—that brief, heavy instant—hurt more than any blow he’d ever received in his life. Because he knew he hadn’t rejected you out of lack of desire. He had done it out of fear. And fear, in his case, wasn’t an excuse. It was a real warning.

In the days that followed, neither of you said a single word.

You passed each other in the hallways like ghosts trapped in the same house. Sometimes, you lowered your gaze before crossing paths with him. Sometimes it was Bob who turned away, pretending the coffee in his mug required his full attention. Or he simply stopped to stare out the nearest window as if the gray sky had something urgent to say to him.

There were no arguments. No explanations. Just that thick silence that settled between you and refused to lift.

Yelena was the first to notice. She didn’t ask anything directly, but she dropped a few comments out loud that weren’t exactly subtle. Then came John, who frowned every time Bob left the dining room just as you entered, as if the two of you had agreed not to breathe the same air.

Bucky watched you in silence. He noticed the slight tremble in your fingers every time you tried to write a report. Sometimes it looked like he was about to say something… but he stopped himself. You didn’t want anyone to comfort you. Not because you didn’t need it, but because you knew accepting it would be admitting just how much it hurt.

Ava and Alexei, for their part, kept their usual distance, but even they seemed to sense the shift in the atmosphere. In the common room, the air felt heavier, more restrained. Conversations were brief. Meals, tense.

No one said anything. But everyone knew.

Bob, for his part, never stopped punishing himself on the inside. He avoided seeing you not because he wanted to, but because every time he tried, the memory of your voice—cracked, hurt—stabbed at his chest like a splinter.

And the worst part was, Void remembered it too. He brought that scene back to him again and again in dreams, in thought flashes, in cruel whispers that made him feel more miserable than ever.

And still, he did nothing to fix it. And neither did you. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you didn’t know how to get close to him without falling apart in front of him.

Until one day, the mission came.

Yelena was the one who showed up that morning in the training room, the electronic briefing still in her hands. Her gaze went straight to you.

“We need to move. There’s an operation underway. They need you, Bucky, and me.”

Bucky, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, simply nodded. He was already informed. His eyes found yours briefly, as if assessing your reaction, but you said nothing.

You didn’t ask where the mission was, or how long it would take. You didn’t ask if anyone else was going. You didn’t ask if Bob knew.

You didn’t need to know. And you didn’t want to.

You returned to your room in silence, packed your gear with the efficiency of someone who prefers movement over thinking, and when the time came…

You left without looking for him. You didn’t knock on his door, didn’t meet his gaze, didn’t leave a note or a text message. Bob didn’t come looking for you either.

The mission dragged on for a week and a half, a time during which you didn’t establish any communication with him at all. John would sometimes ask how things were going. Even Ava had written to tell you to be careful, but there was no sign of Reynolds.

And it wasn’t due to lack of opportunity, because more than once you caught notifications with his name lighting up on Yelena’s screen. You weren’t angry about it, it just made you think things were more than clear.

“Spit it out,” exclaimed Bucky, the night before you returned to New York. “What’s going on between you and Bob?”

“What do you mean, what’s going on?” you muttered defensively.

The three of you were drinking a beer on the balcony of your hotel room when he brought it up.

“Don’t even try to pretend, you’re not good at it. Something’s going on between you two and we all know it.”

“Did you guys fight?”

“I imagine he already told you.”

“No,” murmured Yelena. She sounded sincere. “He hasn’t said a single word. He avoids the topic every time I bring it up. Even by text.”

A tired sigh left your lips, like someone who knows the battle is already lost. At first you gave short, vague answers. Something like saying you’d just disagreed, that it wasn’t anything serious. Neither of them believed you and, in the end, you had to tell them everything. Sentry’s visit, Void’s harassment, the conversation you had with Bob and how it ended in rejection from his side. You even told them about the kiss.

“So that’s why he’s avoiding me and I’m avoiding him. Though I don’t even care anymore.”

A ridiculous lie. The distance hurt more than they could imagine.

Bucky and Yelena exchanged a knowing glance that made you wonder if they had already discussed the topic. Maybe your friends back home were staging a similar intervention with Bob. Who knows.

“You two need to fix that.”

“What else do you want me to do?” you murmured, defensive again. “He doesn’t want to see me. He doesn’t want to be with me. I think he made that pretty clear.”

“No, I mean…” your friend began. When she couldn’t find the words, she fell silent. “You’re right, it’s a mess.”

“We can’t even look each other in the eye, goddamn it,” you sobbed. You’d spent all those days suffering in silence, and saying it aloud made it hurt even more. “And I don’t even know what I did wrong.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Bucky comforted you. An unexpected empathy tinted his voice. “It’s hard to love someone when you have a mental illness. And for someone like him, it must feel nearly impossible.”

“But that’s not my fault. I gave him a chance, I… told him I was willing to try.”

Your voice cracked at the end. It wasn’t a reproach. It was the wounded confession of someone who felt discarded without knowing why.

Bucky lowered his gaze to the bottle in his hands, as if he were looking for answers in the glass. Then he said slowly:

“I know. And he knows too, believe me. But sometimes… when you’re broken, love isn’t enough. Not even when it’s right in front of you, not even when you want it with everything in you.” He shrugged. “I say that from experience.”

Yelena, who had remained silent, handed you another beer without you asking. Then she leaned her elbow on the railing and sighed.

“You can’t fix it on your own. You can’t love someone enough to heal them. That’s not fair to you… or to him.”

“But I can stay with him,” you said quietly. The words came out without thinking. “I don’t want to save him. I just… I just want him to know he’s not alone.”

“And what about you?” Yelena asked gently, without judgment. “Are you okay with all this? Do you know how much you can carry before you break too?”

That made you fall silent. Because deep down, you didn’t know. You felt like you were walking barefoot on a tightrope, with the storm shaking you from every direction.

“I know it hurts,” Bucky said, calmer this time. “And I know it angers you that he can’t accept something as simple as your affection. But it’s not for lack of love. He’s not rejecting you because he doesn’t care. It’s because he hates himself. And when that happens... the fear of hurting someone paralyzes you.”

“So what do I do then?” you murmured. “Do I just wait? Do I let him go?”

“That’s not something we can decide for you,” Yelena said. “But you can think about what you need. What’s good for you. Because being there for someone in pain doesn’t mean swallowing your own.”

Bucky nodded.

“You can be there for him… without forgetting yourself.”

Silence fell for a moment. Not the awkward kind, but the one that happens when the truth knocks the air out of you.

“He loves you,” Bucky added finally. “And not because Sentry or Void say so. I know because, ever since you came along, he fights harder against himself. He resists more. He wants to be better. We can all see it, just like we could all tell something’s off between you two now.”

You didn’t know when the tears started streaming down your face. Your friends had been through too much; you knew they wouldn’t judge you for sobbing a little, but you still felt ashamed.

Yelena hugged you. Bucky placed a hand on your shoulder, as if that could make the atmosphere feel a little less heavy.

The next day, the return to the Tower was quiet.

The helicopter landed gently, and no one said much as the luggage was unloaded. The sunset was already beginning, since the whole morning had been consumed by paperwork and meetings with Valentina to give a full report.

Bucky was the first to say goodbye with a slight gesture. Yelena touched your arm, as if with that simple contact she was reminding you of what you’d talked about the night before. No more words were necessary.

You didn’t say anything either. You just nodded and walked toward the main hallway.

You didn’t look for anyone. You didn’t ask about Bob and you didn’t wait for him.

You took the elevator up without looking back.

Each floor that passed was another stab to the stomach.

And when you finally entered your room, the silence that greeted you was deafening.

You dropped your bag beside the bed and went straight to the bathroom.

The running water quickly filled the room with steam, and you let the hot stream fall over you without moving much.

As if that could wash off the past days, or somehow prepare you for whatever was going to happen now that you were back.

But it wasn’t that simple.

You dried off slowly, with the sluggish movements of someone who doesn’t know if they’re exhausted or just resigned.

You put on your sleepwear—cotton shorts, a loose T-shirt—and let your damp hair fall over your shoulders as you stepped out of the bathroom.

Then you heard the soft knock on the door.

You froze for a second.

Another knock, more insistent this time.

You didn’t want to open it. You didn’t want to face anyone yet.

But something—maybe a sharp twinge of intuition, or that inevitable instinct of knowing it was him—made you walk toward it.

When you opened the door, he was there.

Standing still, eyes lowered, shoulders tense. He didn’t look like he’d slept much. Maybe not at all since you left.

Your eyes met for a second.

“Can I come in?” he asked, his voice rough. He sounded like he had rehearsed the line a thousand times.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t say yes, but you didn’t say no either. You just stepped aside.

You held your breath the entire time he walked into your room, until the soft click of the door closing behind him. You stayed still, watching him with a neutral expression. And even though you were still mad at him, you could feel your heart pounding erratically — not from anger, but something else entirely.

Bob got straight to the point.

“I didn’t come to bother you. I just… I couldn’t leave it like that. Not after how you left, or what I said.”

You didn’t reply. Part of your silence came from the fear that words might only make things worse. The other part was because you wanted to hear how much he was willing to say.

“I know I fucked it up. But it wasn’t because I didn’t love you,” he exhaled, swallowing hard. He took a step closer. “It’s because I love you so much it terrifies me to ruin you with it.”

“You don’t get to use that as an excuse. What you did hurt. Pushing me away like that… without even giving me a real explanation.”

“There’s no way to explain it without sounding like a coward.”

“Well, I have nothing left to say to you,” you said softly, but not kindly. “I already said everything. And you made a decision — for both of us.”

The sound of his knees hitting the floor was quiet, but it hit you like a slap.

“I’m not here to convince you of anything,” he murmured. “I just want to say I’m sorry. For how I spoke to you. For pulling away. For making you think you weren’t enough… when the truth is, you’re the only good thing in me.”

Your lips tightened. Your heart was pounding so violently in your chest it felt like it didn’t know whether to protect itself or open again.

“Why are you doing this now?” you asked, your voice more fragile than you would’ve liked.

Bob looked up. He looked younger. More broken. Like he was begging you to let him stay — not just in the room, but in your life.

“Because I can’t let you believe I don’t love you,” he said plainly.

His words froze you.

“Then why…?”

“Because I thought leaving was the only way to protect you from me,” he cut in. “Because I’m scared. Because Void doesn’t go away… and when you touch me, when you look at me… I disappear too. I become someone I don’t recognize. And that scares him. It unsettles him.”

The silence between you was thick. Your fingers lowered hesitantly, brushing his. You didn’t know what to say. You didn’t know if the pain could go away… but you knew he wasn’t lying. That he was shattered. And that all of his fear didn’t come from indifference, but from love — love misunderstood.

He leaned in closer, placing his hands gently on your knees. The touch was warm, almost reverent. He was trembling. You didn’t know if it was from what he felt or what he feared.

“But I’m here now. Because if I’ve already hurt you, if I already failed you… the only thing left is to beg you to let me try and make it right.”

Bob looked down, and for a moment all he did was breathe unevenly. Then he rested his forehead on your knees, like he needed that contact just to keep from falling apart. His warmth seeped through the fabric of your clothes. And slowly, he pressed a kiss there. Just one. Like he wasn’t sure if he had the right.

You didn’t move. But you didn’t encourage him either. The silence between you was an invisible barrier: thin, but sharp.

Bob lifted his gaze slightly, his eyes damp.

“I’m not trying to fix everything. I just… I want you to know how sorry I am. And how much I think of you. Every damn night.”

“I think about you too,” you whispered, barely audible. “All the time. And I don’t know if that’s good… or if it’s part of the problem.”

He nodded, visibly hurt.

His mouth kept tracing trembling kisses on your skin. First your knees, then higher, up your exposed thigh. The contact wasn’t urgent, wasn’t demanding. It was almost devotional.

And still, you felt panic creeping up the base of your neck.

“Bob…” you whispered, tense. “What… what are you doing?”

He stopped instantly. His lips still brushed your skin.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not lifting his gaze. “I don’t want to scare you.”

“You’re not scaring me. It’s just… I don’t know what this is.”

Your hands came down to touch his shoulders, trying to calm the trembling in your own emotions. Your body was split: one part needed him with a physical and emotional urgency you’d never felt before. The other… still carried the fear, the humiliation, the anger. The rejection.

“I’m confused,” you confessed “Everything’s been so weird between us. I don’t know if I can handle it.”

Bob nodded again. He didn’t push. He didn’t justify. He just lifted his head and looked you in the eyes. And there you saw it: the weight of everything he hadn’t said, everything he had buried, was breaking him.

“Please…” he said, voice hoarse and raw with shame, “just let me make you feel good. Not to fix it. Not because I think it erases what I did. Just so you remember how it feels to be touched by someone who loves you. Even if it’s just for tonight.”

Your chest tightened. No one had ever spoken to you like that. Not like your pleasure could be an act of redemption. Not like your pain could be held gently.

“You don’t have to do this,” you murmured, softer now.

Bob shook his head.

“It’s not that I have to. I want to. Because I can’t stop thinking about the way you looked at me that day… about how you walked away. I don’t want you to feel like that. Not because of me.”

Then he lowered his eyes again. Didn’t move closer. Didn’t rush. Just waited. And you stayed there, holding his hands.

Your breathing grew unstable. You weren’t sure if you were going to cry or kiss him. There was something so devastatingly honest in his plea that it felt impossible to say no.

Bob met your gaze, his voice low but steady:

“I promise I’ll be slow... gentle. I’m not Sentry or Void. I’m just me. And I want this to be just for you.”

You hesitated, the uncertainty still heavy in your chest, but eventually, you whispered:

“Okay.”

He nodded with a small smile, as if your trust was the most valuable gift he could ever receive. When you let go of his shoulders, he leaned forward, scattering light kisses on your thighs, planting his palms firmly on your hips.

No man had ever apologized to you on his knees before. And none had followed it with a touch like that. The whole situation overwhelmed you.

Within seconds, his hands traced your curves to your waist, slipping under your loose old shirt. The feel of his warm fingers against your cool skin made you tremble. Your pulse pounded in your temples.

The room felt too quiet for the storm rising in your chest. Your legs started to give way.

It was just a faint tremble — but enough. The kind of unsteadiness you only notice once it's too late. The anticipation, the weight of emotion, the memory of everything he was and had been to you: an abyss. You didn’t fall. Bob caught you instantly, hands gripping you with desperate reflexes.

“Got you?” he whispered, his breath against your forehead.

He did. He had you.

But more than your body, what he held in that moment was the invisible crack between the two of you. One that, if it had opened a little wider, might never have closed.

A shaky laugh escaped your chest. Not out of humor, but out of vertigo. Out of absurdity, fear, tension. And he took it as a breath of relief. His lips found yours with a clumsy tenderness that stung. It wasn’t comfort or apology anymore. It was need.

He kissed you with caged hunger, hands firm on your back like you might vanish if he let go. You kissed him back, sinking into him like maybe you’d find answers there. The wall behind you caught your momentum, and he cornered you without aggression — only urgency. His body trembled just like yours.

His hands didn’t rush. They circled your waist like he was trying to map where he’d broken you. He went lower, leaving a trail of breath on your skin. He didn’t break eye contact until the last second, silently asking for permission.

And when he dropped back to his knees, it wasn’t a grand gesture. It was the posture of a man who knew his place, in that moment, was there: at your feet, ready to honor every part of you like you were the only real thing he had left in the world.

His lips found your skin. He didn’t speak — he didn’t need to. When his hands reached the waistband of your shorts, they paused. He looked up.

“Can I?” he asked, voice rougher than ever.

You nodded, barely, your gaze still locked on his — a bundle of nerves. Bob closed his eyes and rested his forehead against your stomach for a moment, like gathering strength.

He removed your clothes with deft care. The air hit your skin and you almost moaned when his hand planted on your thigh to part them.

“If you need me to stop, just say so, okay?” he whispered.

Then he started.

Your legs, barely steady, locked him in place as if the heat of your body could hold him together too. And as it all unfolded, your thoughts turned into a whirlwind of sensations — fear, tenderness, gratitude, and hunger for something that had been contained for far too long.

His tongue began slowly, as if wanting to explore you first. You let out a choked sigh when he licked up the wetness already gathered there. You were so ready for him, so eager, that he swallowed hard, visibly shaken.

It was in that moment that Bob realized just how much he needed you.

Sentry knew it perfectly — he could have ruined you completely if he wanted to. But for the blue-eyed boy, this kind of desire for you was something entirely new.

What devastated him the most was that it didn’t feel purely physical.

It was intimate. Emotional. It was Bob giving you the only thing he still believed he could offer without breaking you. And you gave in. Because you needed him just as much.

At some point your sighs turned into gasps. And then, into desperate moans. With each sound spilling from your throat, Bob felt more compelled to quicken the pace, to deepen the strokes of his tongue. You didn’t know if it was his first time doing this, but God, he was good.

He was intense, like Sentry. Possessive, like Void. And at the same time, careful and attentive — like himself.

“Bob… fuck… I…” you gasped, trembling.

He, thinking he’d done something wrong, tried to lift his head. But your hand flew to his hair and tugged, forcing him right back into place. The moan that escaped him was pathetic and hot at once.

“Don’t stop. Please.”

Your pleading voice was music to his ears. Instantly, one of his hands gripped your ass firmly, and the other lifted your leg, placing it over his shoulder.

He didn’t just eat you out. He devoured you.

It was getting harder to stay upright — if it hadn’t been for the wall behind you and his hands holding you to the real world, you would’ve collapsed.

You could feel everything about him. His lips, his tongue, his nose rubbing against your clit. You didn’t even know if he was breathing, and frankly, you didn’t care.

It was overwhelming. The heat surged from your cunt all the way to the top of your head.

You were sweaty and dizzy, writhing against him like your life depended on it.

It didn’t take long before you came, hard and intense, all over his face.

You felt him swallow your orgasm completely, like the fountain of youth might be between your legs.

But he didn’t stop there. Soon, two of his fingers joined in, while his mouth devoted its attention to your most sensitive spot.

You begged him to stop, tried to pull away, but he wouldn’t let you.

It wasn’t a plea born from discomfort, but from sheer overload.

You were drowning in pleasure, overstimulated to the point you thought you couldn’t take it. But Bob knew you could.

He kept going until a sharp cry escaped your throat and your whole body tensed, your legs squeezing his sides as you tried to push him away.

It was a devastating spasm — an uncontrollable tremor that tore you wide open.

A warm, liquid release, as unexpected as it was unstoppable.

You collapsed onto him, boneless, speechless.

And for a moment, the only thing that existed was the sound of your shattered breaths — him trying to recover the air he had denied himself, and you gasping like all the oxygen in New York still wasn’t enough.

You were still shaking when he rose, breathing unevenly, his face flushed from effort.

Bob didn’t speak at first. He just stayed in front of you with his hands open, as if afraid to touch you without permission.

You looked at him with parted lips, chest rising and falling slowly, and then — without thinking — you leaned forward and kissed him.

It was more of an impulse than a decision: a mix of gratitude, tenderness, a need to reconnect from another place, to offer something in return.

Your fingers reached for the hem of his shirt. You wanted to take him to bed, to give back a bit of what he had just given you, as if balance could be restored that way.

But when you kissed him, he kissed you back with sweetness… and a hesitation you didn’t miss.

“No,” he murmured against your lips, his fingers caressing your cheek. “I don’t need anything.”

You blinked, confused, a little hurt.

“But I want to…”

“This was for you,” he replied, his voice lower, warmer. “I’m the one apologizing here.”

Before you could insist, he stepped back slightly and swallowed hard.

He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Sorry… I need to go to the bathroom for a second.”

He got up awkwardly, avoiding your gaze, but you still caught the small damp spot on his pants before he turned away to enter your bathroom.

A wave of heat flushed your face. You said nothing.

You just watched him disappear and slowly let yourself fall onto the bed, your body still aching from pleasure.

When he came back, Bob had rinsed his face and his hair was slightly wet, like he’d needed more than water to calm himself down.

He found you lying on your side, wrapped in a sheet, your legs curled up on the mattress.

Your eyes met his, vulnerable.

“Can you… help me?”

You didn’t need to say more.

He came closer without asking anything, grabbed a towel he’d found nearby, and cleaned you up with reverent gentleness, as if afraid to hurt you.

There were no words — just his steady hands sliding respectfully over your skin.

“Stay,” you said, barely audible. “Just… to sleep.”

Bob hesitated for a second, as if that request was even more intimate than everything before. But he nodded and climbed into bed with you, leaving a bit of space between your bodies.

He lay on his side, facing you, blue eyes fixed on your face, reading you in silence. The dim light softened his features.

You looked at each other for a while, not wanting to break the stillness.

“Do you still love me?” he asked, barely a whisper.

“Yes,” you answered without hesitation, just as softly.

Bob looked away, like he didn’t know what to do with that answer. It was a small movement, but you noticed the tremble in his chin. You leaned in slightly and raised a hand, gently caressing his face. He didn’t flinch. He closed his eyes under your touch, like he needed it more than he wanted to admit.

And then, you saw a tear slide down his cheek. Then another. You said nothing. You just wiped it with your thumb, slowly, trying to touch his pain into something less real.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice tight. “For everything.”

You shook your head softly. And without thinking, you leaned in. Not a kiss on the lips — something more delicate.

You pressed your nose to his and rubbed side to side, barely breathing. A butterfly kiss, nasal and unhurried.

Bob froze at first, surprised. Then he closed his eyes and returned the gesture, brushing his nose against yours with trembling tenderness.

It was more than any other touch you’d shared. More than skin. It was a truce.

“Do you think we can still be friends… after this?”

The question was fragile, but not afraid. It was an acknowledgment that a new line had been drawn between you, one that couldn’t be erased so easily. You nodded, not moving away from his face.

“I promise,” you said.

Silence settled like a blanket. After a moment, you slowly turned over, giving him your back. Not as rejection, but as trust. As rest. Your hand reached for his beneath the sheets, lacing your fingers with his, squeezing gently. Like a silent promise: nothing has to break.

Bob moved closer without a sound, wrapping you in his arms with a delicacy that made you hold your breath. He held you like that, spooning you, as if he still feared you might vanish. You let him shield you with his body, his chest brushing your back, his warm breath against the curve of your neck.

And there, entangled in the quiet, the two of you fell asleep. Not like people who had solved everything, but like people who, at least for tonight, had decided not to give up.

taglist (tysm!! ily): @littlemsbumblebee @qardasngan @p34ch-tr33 @theoraekenslover @lifeisafreakshow @weponxwrites @articel1967 @mooniesthings @bmyva1entine @lynnieluvsu @96jnie @smok3dpaprika @msun1c0rn @rainymountaindays @yallgotkik @dalu-grantkylo @itzmeme @fourthusername-me

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Bob: Okay, just close your eyes...

Yelena: Okay.

Yelena: But don’t punch me.

Bob: What?

Yelena: When I was little, my sister would say to me, “Close your eyes, you’ll get a surprise” and then she'd punch me.

Bob: ...I'm not going to punch you.

Yelena: That's what my sister used to say!

[violetrainbow412-blog]

JEEEEEEZ THIS IS SO FUCKING PERFECT GOOOOOOD

I WANT HIM SO BAD

oh, it's hard to leave you (when i get you everywhere!)

pairing: congressman!bucky barnes x pr manager!reader summary: you tweet one (1) mildly unhinged critique of congressman james buchanan barnes’ pr strategy—something about ghosting the press and weaponizing cheekbones—and three hours later he’s in your dms asking if you want a job. now you manage his social media, his public image, and occasionally his existential spirals. he’s got a metal arm, a rescue cat named alpine, and the digital instincts of a dad trying to facetime from the tv remote. somehow, against all odds, he’s good. earnest. dangerously hot. you're so screwed. word count: 10.6k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, soft dom!bucky, sloppy make-out sesh for the win, fingering, oral (f!receiving), face riding, praise kink, unprotected sex, rough sex, size kink, creampie, use of pet names like sweetheart and pretty baby, unprecedented levels of yearning, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, unhinged tweets

You don’t mean to go viral.

You really don’t. It’s not a bit or a career move or a desperate plea to the algorithm gods. It’s just that you were in line for coffee at 8:47 a.m., hungover from exactly one and a half spicy margaritas (because you're a real adult now and your liver hates you), and the man in front of you was vaping indoors. You needed to direct your rage somewhere. That somewhere happened to be Twitter.

Well. That and the soft target of Rep. James B. Barnes.

Your actual tweet really isn't that scathing, in your opinion:

“Not to be rude before 9 a.m., but Rep. James B. Barnes has the digital strategy of a man who thinks ‘radio silence’ is the same as ‘messaging control.’ Ghosting the press isn't mysterious, it's lazy. And the Instagram? Sir, it's giving retired uncle who discovered portrait mode last week. You're hot, sure—but public goodwill isn’t built on brooding black-and-white cat photos and the occasional quote that reads like it was ripped from a thirteen year old's diary. Hire literally anyone.”

You hit post, tuck your phone away, and move on with your morning, which includes trying not to scream during a client call where a fitness influencer earnestly asks if she should “lean into a divorce arc.”

By the time you check Twitter again, it’s… carnage. In the good way.

The notifications are stacked like an avalanche. A dozen quote tweets, then a hundred, then you stop counting because your phone is hot to the touch and your Slack has stopped functioning. You’re about to text your best friend when you see it:

@RepBarnes:

Noted. Would you like to try fixing it?

You stare. Blink. Blink again. Surely not.

Surely the Winter Soldier, now U.S. House Representative for New York’s 9th Congressional District, is not quote-tweeting you like this is a casual Tuesday.

Surely the man who once jumped off a highway overpass and punched a terrorist in the face is not lurking on Twitter Dot Com past midnight, scrolling his name like a sad girl with an ex-boyfriend playlist.

You reread it. 

Then again. And again. Your fingers are shaking a little, like you’ve had three too many shots of espresso, which—fine—you have.

You’re halfway through an existential crisis about how a minor PR manager can possibly be noticed by a former Avenger turned Congressman when your phone starts vibrating off the desk. Nina texts you first:

NINA

DUDE DUDE HE KNOWS WHO YOU ARE do you think he read your pinned tweet where you said you’d marry Thor in a Walgreens parking lot???

You don’t answer. You’re too busy spiraling. Because now your professional website is getting hits. And your LinkedIn. And, insult to injury, your ancient Tumblr blog from college, where you once posted a 2,000-word thinkpiece on how Steve Rogers is a metaphor for millennial burnout. You know this because someone found it and tagged you with a screenshot.

You’re spiraling when your phone pings again.

This time it’s not public.

@RepBarnes has sent you a direct message.

If you’re interested, I could use someone like you. NY/DC split. Health benefits included. Let me know.

You read it once. Then again. Then walk away from your desk, lie down on your kitchen floor, and stare at the ceiling like it might have answers. It does not. It has a water stain from your upstairs neighbor’s failed attempt at DIY plumbing. You feel that deeply.

You, who spent three years post-grad slowly circling the corporate America drain—clutching your Communications degree like it’s a winning lottery ticket while negotiating brand partnerships for YouTubers who think “millennial” means “anyone over 26”—have just been headhunted by Bucky Barnes.

You should probably be flattered. Or terrified. Or calling your mom. Instead, you fire off the only response that makes sense:

are u joking?

His reply comes five minutes later.

No. You’re good. And I’m very tired of people telling me to post more cat content.

You stare at your screen.

You should absolutely say no. This is clearly a trap. At best, a weird stunt. At worst, the kind of surreal pivot that leads to you being mentioned in Politico under “questionable staffing decisions.”

But also… your rent just went up. Again. Your clients are spiraling. You haven’t had health insurance that covers dental since 2021.

And Bucky Barnes wants to hire you?

You exhale. Then type,

i'll clear my schedule. when and where?

A beat.

Meet me in D.C. I’ll have coffee. You bring strategy.

You stare at that last part and—God help you—you start to grin.

You're pretty sure you’ve just accepted a job from the Winter Soldier.

.

Once upon a time, you had hopes.

Real, annoying ones. Back when you still believed in upward mobility and the promise of networking events with warm chardonnay. You were going to climb the ranks. Not to the top, necessarily—you were realistic, not delusional—but to a place with an actual title. "Director" maybe, or "Head of Strategy." Something crisp and important-sounding that could be printed on business cards without irony. You’d wear smart blazers and carry a leather tote that didn’t smell like stale granola bars. You’d have power lunches.

Instead, you’re three years out of grad school with an inbox full of “circling back”s, a calendar that reads like a sacrificial offering to the content gods, and a job that involves convincing lifestyle micro-influencers to stop posting QAnon-adjacent smoothie recipes.

You had dreams. Now you have bills.

Which is why the Bucky Barnes situation feels less like a win and more like a symptom. A brain glitch, maybe. You refresh your inbox. Again. You’ve been doing that for the last hour and a half. The DM is still there, as if it might disappear if you blink too hard.

You open a Google Doc. Title it “Project: Barnes?” with the tentative, quizzical punctuation of someone who is very much not okay. 

And then, like any self-respecting PR person who has just been contacted by a former war hero turned sitting U.S. Representative, you type the most professional research query you can think of:

bucky barnes political platform site:gov

Then:

bucky barnes cat

And then, after five minutes of increasingly weird search results, you cave:

bucky barnes shirtless

For research purposes, obviously. To understand the optics. You are nothing if not committed to analyzing the full spectrum of a person's public persona.

(Also, look. It’s not your fault that James Buchanan Barnes is stupidly, distractingly attractive in a way that should be a federal offense. The man has the bone structure of a war-weary marble statue. The jawline of a vintage cologne ad. And don’t even get started on the arm—the arm—because that’s a whole separate thesis.)

It’s Wakandan tech, sleek and black with gold accents that catch the light like something out of myth. You’ve seen pictures of him at press conferences, sleeves pushed up, glinting like some kind of tactical Greek god. It is, objectively, an optics goldmine. Which makes it even more baffling that his current social strategy is “post like a cryptid and hope people like based on vibes.”

You learn that he’s been in Congress for just under six months. That he ran on a progressive platform with a heavy emphasis on veteran care, climate resilience, and “actually listening to the people,” which, yes, is vague—but less vague than the average politician, so that’s something. You find clips from a debate where he tells a super PAC-backed opponent, with all the calm menace of a man who once fought a Nazi on top of a train, “I didn’t survive a handful of wars to let people like you sell this country for parts.”

It’s not fair. He shouldn’t be allowed to be hot and principled and grumpy in a compelling way. That’s too many character traits. You’re fairly certain it violates some kind of congressional ethics code.

You click out of the tab. Open another. 

Watch a video of him dodging a question on CNN with a non-answer so blunt it circles back around to being honest. He has a dry, clipped delivery. A little awkward. A little old. Not in a cringey, old-man way—but like he hasn’t quite caught up with the TikTokification of discourse. 

You hate how much you want to fix it.

Your fingers twitch. You scroll through his feed. It’s mostly retweets of policy initiatives, local labor union updates, and cat pictures—grainy, candid shots of a very fluffy white feline with the disdainful elegance of old money and the personal boundaries of a cryptid. She’s usually perched somewhere she shouldn’t be: on top of his kitchen cabinets, wedged behind a stack of legislative binders, once half-asleep inside his empty duffel bag. Once in a while, he posts a weirdly poetic thought. Like:

Not all roads lead to war. But I remember the ones that did.

You stare at it.

It has thirty-two retweets, all from mutuals you know to be deeply online. One has responded “who’s running this account and do they need therapy.” Another has written simply: “sir.”

You breathe out a laugh.

You should be panicking. Or preparing. Or calling someone smarter than you. But instead you’re refreshing his feed and scrolling like a girl with a crush. 

Which—no. Nope. Absolutely not. This is research. Professional curiosity. Intellectual rigor.

You check your calendar. Nothing but a call at four with your client who wants to rebrand herself as an “edible wellness guru” and refuses to define what that means. You sigh. Close the tab.

Then reopen it. One more scroll for the road.

In one photo, his cat is curled up in Bucky’s lap, a fluffy white loaf of judgement and chaos, her paw resting on his vibranium arm like she owns both it and the man it’s attached to. The caption reads:

She snored through my security briefing. I wish I could too.

Jesus Christ, you think. I’m in trouble.

.

You spend the next forty-eight hours overthinking everything.

Your research doc is now twenty pages long. You’ve compiled notes on his legislative record, his key voting blocs, public sentiment analysis, and—because you are fundamentally broken—a list of his most viral thirst tweets. There’s one that simply reads “he could kill me and I’d say thank you.” You are not proud to admit it made you snort.

You board the train to D.C. with your headphones in, your anxiety clutched to your chest like a carry-on, and your very best business casual. You don’t even read on the train. You just sit there and wonder what the hell you’re doing.

By the time you arrive, you’re exhausted from spiraling.

The coffee shop is in Capitol Hill—of course it is. Quiet and wood-paneled, with the kind of soft lighting that makes everyone look like they’re about to confess something. 

You’re early. He’s not there yet. You order a black coffee and a croissant you won’t eat and choose the table in the back, where you can see the door.

Five minutes later, he walks in.

And yes, fine. It is a little cinematic.

James Buchanan Barnes in the flesh is not the brooding, hyper-composed figure from press photos. He’s rougher around the edges in person, like someone who never quite got used to peacetime. His hair is slicked back but starting to come undone at the edges. The navy suit jacket he’s wearing is slightly creased, like he’s been rolling up the sleeves and taking it off and putting it back on all morning. No tie. Just the white collar of his shirt open at the throat, exposing the soft brush of stubble across his neck and jaw.

God. This is so unfair.

His eyes land on you and something flickers—recognition, maybe, or skepticism. You can’t tell.

He walks over. You stand too quickly. Your chair makes a horrible screech.

“Hi,” you say, then—because you’re flustered and your brain is full of static—“I almost didn’t recognize you without the strategically vague tweets.”

His brow lifts, just slightly. The corner of his mouth pulls. Could be amusement. Could be confusion.

“You came,” he says, as if the possibility you wouldn’t had been very real.

“Of course,” you reply, forcing a half-smile. “I go where the digital crises call.”

He nods once, slowly. Watches you as you open your laptop and set your coffee down. It’s too quiet for a moment—the hum of the café, the hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of someone stirring sugar behind the counter. You pull up the notes you made at two in the morning while spiral-reading his press history, trying not to fidget.

“I figured,” you offer, “we’d start with a social audit. Clarify some core messaging, maybe put together a soft content strategy for the next two weeks. We’ll do a tone reset, pull the last six months of analytics, identify what’s actually landing—because no offense, but your engagement rates are being carried by your cat.”

A pause.

“I mean, I get it. She’s adorable. But still.”

He huffs something that could be a laugh, if it weren’t so dry. Then leans back slightly, the line between his brows easing as he studies you.

Then he says, slowly, like he’s still feeling out the words: “You actually know what you’re talking about.”

And you blink. “You thought I didn’t?”

He shrugs, glancing out the window for a beat before returning to you. “I kind of thought you were… just someone online. Making noise.”

You sip your coffee. “I mean. I am. But I also have a master’s in communication strategy and ten thousand hours of dealing with manchildren who think posting a thirst trap is a branding pivot.”

His mouth twitches. “Sounds promising.”

You smile. Tight. “So. What exactly do you really need help with?”

And just like that—you’re in it.

You expect him to start with a question. Or a joke. Or maybe something awkward and vaguely threatening, like “how do you know so much about me?” (You don’t. You just have Wi-Fi and a dangerous relationship with your search bar.)

But instead, Bucky leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and says, “It’s just not working.”

You blink. “You’ll have to be more specific. What’s not working?”

“My comms strategy. My messaging. All of it.”

He sounds vaguely exasperated, but not angry. Just tired. You get the sense that’s his baseline. He gestures with one hand, the movement sharp and utilitarian. “I’m supposed to be building a digital presence that connects with people. Makes them trust me. Instead I’m getting tagged in memes about how hot I am.”

You nod, solemn. “To be fair, you do look like that.”

He doesn’t laugh, but he quirks an eyebrow like he’s maybe a little impressed you said it. “Thanks.”

You swallow the lump in your throat with a sip of coffee. It’s going lukewarm. “So what was the issue? Your team too old school? Too hands-off?”

He gives you a look that’s equal parts apology and confession. “I don’t really have a team.”

You blink again. “You… don’t have a team.”

“One guy. Used to run PR for a congressman from Montana. Thought hiring someone low-profile would keep things clean.”

You squint. “You’re a former Avenger. There’s no such thing as clean.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Starting to notice that.”

You press your fingers to your temples. “Okay. So let me get this straight. You have no digital strategy lead, no content calendar, no brand consultant, and you’re navigating one of the most publicly scrutinized jobs in America with a guy whose last success story was getting a local paper to stop calling his boss ‘the Beef Tariff Czar.’”

He shifts. Slightly. Doesn’t deny it.

You put your coffee down. Carefully. Deliberately. Then say, as diplomatically as you can:

“With all due respect, Mr. Barnes—this is a disaster.”

He meets your eyes. Dead-on. “That’s why I messaged you.”

It’s almost… earnest. That quiet, unflinching way he says it. Like he knows just how far in over his head he is. Like he doesn’t enjoy asking for help, but he’s smart enough to do it anyway. 

That, more than anything, is what knocks you sideways.

Because the guy sitting across from you does not radiate “competent politician.” He’s stiff in the way people are when they’re always anticipating a fight. He looks like someone who’s only recently stopped treating doorknobs like potential traps. 

But he also looks at you like he’s listening. Like he wants to get this right, even if he doesn’t know how.

And you hate how that pulls at you.

You fold your hands. Steady your tone. “If I take this job, I’m not just managing your Twitter. I’ll need full access—messaging, public statements, policy framing. You’ll have to be okay with me pushing back. Hard.”

He nods. “Understood.”

“And I’ll need to redo everything your current guy’s done.”

“I was hoping you would.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Including the website that looks like it was designed in 2007?”

A ghost of a smirk. “I designed that one myself.”

“Of course you did.”

A beat. Then—quietly, without the usual edge. “I didn’t expect to win. When I ran. It wasn’t about the campaign. I just thought… if I could stand up, maybe someone else would too.”

It’s not a speech. It’s not even polished. But it hits.

You sit with it for a second. Then say, “That’s the part people need to hear.”

He frowns. “What, the not-expecting-to-win part?”

“No. The rest. The standing up.” You pause. “You want to help. And that’s rare. It’s worth something. We can build on that.”

There’s a shift then, subtle but real. He straightens a little. Like your words have landed somewhere deep. Like maybe—maybe—you’re the first person who’s said that in a while.

You don’t say anything else. Neither does he.

But something’s settled between you. A quiet, unspoken agreement.

You’re in. Actually.

God help you.

.

Your first day working for Congressman James Buchanan Barnes begins with a minor existential crisis and a yogurt you eat standing up.

Capitol Hill is less glamorous than it looks on TV. A lot more beige. A lot more linoleum. Everything smells like government-grade carpet and desperation. You get stopped at security twice. First because of your laptop. Then because you muttered “kill me” under your breath in line and a very serious-looking man with an earpiece asked if you were making a threat.

You’re not. But it’s touch and go.

Bucky’s office is on the third floor of the Cannon Building. It’s functional in the same way a DMV is functional—technically operating, but held together by anxiety and one overworked assistant. The plaque outside his door reads:

REP. JAMES BARNES

New York’s 9th District

Inside, it’s… chaos.

Not loud chaos. Weird chaos. Subtle. Like someone tried to copy a normal congressional office from memory but forgot a few key details. There’s a framed photo of Brooklyn from the ‘40s. A desk with approximately forty-nine paperweights—no papers, just the weights. A bowl of wrapped Werther’s Originals. You are immediately suspicious.

Before you can process that, Bucky appears in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, tie in hand like he hasn’t figured out if he’s putting it on or strangling it.

“You made it,” he says. Deadpan.

“No thanks to Homeland Security,” you mutter, stepping inside.

He gives you the tour, if you can call it that. 

There’s the bullpen (three desks, one of which has a sword leaning against it for reasons no one explains), a coffee station with a “don’t drink this, it’s poison” Post-it, and his actual office, which is larger than you expected and somehow still incredibly bare.

You spot a half-empty bookcase, a red file folder labeled “CRISIS?” and a punching bag tucked behind the door.

“Is that for stress relief or intimidation purposes?” you ask, pointing at the bag.

“Yes,” he replies.

The next hour is a whirlwind of introductions, vague directives, and increasingly unhinged email threads. His comms inbox is a minefield. 

You get a badge, a desk, and a monitor that still has a Post-it from your predecessor that just says, Good luck, you’re gonna need it. You also learn that the thermostat in the office only has two settings: Arctic Military Base and Surface of the Sun.

By the end of your first day, your inbox has refreshed for the fifth time and you’ve flagged three crisis-adjacent threads—one involving a scheduling mix-up, one involving a meme account, and one involving a conspiracy theory about cyborgs in Congress.

Maybe, just maybe, this job might be more than you bargained for.

The next week is only slightly less chaotic.

Your—well, his, technically—first press briefing is scheduled for 2 p.m. sharp, but by 1:17 you’re already mentally preparing the post-mortem. You’ve seen the rehearsal footage, such as it was—him standing in front of his desk, arms crossed like a bouncer, muttering responses like they physically pained him.

When you gently suggested he try smiling, he looked at you like you’d asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon.

“It’ll be fine,” An intern chirps, shoving a protein bar in your hand as they breeze past. “He does better under pressure. Like a reverse soufflé.”

“What does that mean,” you whisper, but she’s already gone.

You’re standing behind the curtain in a room that smells like too many folding chairs and not enough trust in government when he walks in, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt. No tie today. He says it feels like a leash. His sleeves are rolled with military precision, though. His hair’s slicked back. He looks more like a man going to war than one about to deliver a ten-minute statement on infrastructure funding.

“You ready?” you ask, clipboard clutched like a lifeline.

“No,” he says. “But I’ll do it anyway.”

You almost smile.

The press corps is already seated, eyes trained, pens poised. He walks out with the focus of someone trained to enter dangerous rooms. You can see the shift in him—quiet alertness, head high, every movement efficient. There’s still something a little stiff in the way he grips the podium, like he doesn’t fully trust it not to fall apart under his hands.

Then he starts to speak.

And damn.

Okay.

You hadn’t expected this.

It’s not polished. He stumbles over a couple phrases. Uses “ain’t” once. Drops a note card and mutters “shit” under his breath into a hot mic.

But he knows his stuff. Not just the numbers. Not just the bill. The context. The human angle. He tells a story about the neighborhood he grew up in, back when it still had corner shops and streetcar tracks. Talks about a single mom who wrote in last week about her building’s pipes freezing every winter. Doesn’t make promises—just outlines what he’s doing and what he won’t let happen again.

And it’s good.

It’s honest.

He doesn’t charm the press. He earns them.

You see it in the way pens pause halfway through notes. Phones lowered. Eyebrows raised. There’s a moment—a beat in the middle of a sentence—where he talks about reconstruction efforts in Red Hook and says, “We don’t need heroes. We need decent plumbing and warm classrooms,” and it lands like a punch.

You feel it, too.

By the end, they’re asking thoughtful questions. Real ones. He handles them with a dry kind of grace. Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t lie. Says “I don’t know” more than once, but follows it with “I’ll find out.”

When it’s over, he steps backstage, exhales slowly, and immediately unbuttons the top of his shirt like it’s a reward.

You hand him a bottle of water.

He takes it with a nod and says, “Well?”

You blink. “You were… actually incredible?”

He raises an eyebrow. “That so shocking?”

“Yes!” you blurt, then soften. “I mean. A little. You’re not exactly a poster child for press-friendly vibes.”

He leans against the wall, sipping. “Yeah, well. I’m not a fan of the stage.”

“But you like the mission.”

He looks at you. And for once, doesn’t deflect.

“I like helping people. I like when things are fair. And if this is what I gotta do to make that happen…” He shrugs. “Then I do it.”

You file that away. Noted: Bucky Barnes does not enjoy politics, but he endures them for the sake of something bigger.

You offer, “You want to decompress? There’s a decent café two blocks away. You’ve earned, like, three cookies.”

He tilts his head. “You buying?”

“I work for the government now. I’m broke.”

“Fair,” he says. “I’ll buy the cookies.”

You walk the few blocks in relative silence, save for the traffic and your boots scuffing against the pavement. The café is small, warm, full of people with laptops and disillusionment. You order coffee. He orders a black Americano and two oatmeal raisin cookies, like a war crime.

“Don’t judge,” he says, catching your expression. “I like raisins.”

“Of course you do,” you mutter. “You probably eat Bran Flakes and think they’re spicy.”

He gives you a look over the rim of his cup. “Didn’t realize I hired a bully.”

You grin. “Not a bully. Just aggressively helpful.”

He snorts. And you sit there, in the quiet aftermath of his first real public win, watching him pull the napkin apart like it personally wronged him. There's something calming about it—like you’re both still wound a little tight, but not as tight as before. 

You let the silence stretch a beat longer before speaking. “Can I ask you something?”

He glances at you. Shrugs. “You’ve already asked me worse.”

You huff a soft laugh. “Fair.”

He waits.

You roll your cup between your palms. “Why’d you hire me?”

There’s a pause. Not the kind that makes you nervous—just one that feels like he’s actually going to answer. Eventually. When the words are ready.

When he does speak, his voice is low, deliberate. “You were honest.”

You blink. “About what?”

“That tweet,” he says. “About me ghosting the press. Most people either kiss my ass or assume I’m gonna punch them in the face. You didn’t do either.”

You snort. “I did call you hot, though.”

A small tug at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah. That, too.”

Then, quieter, “You said what everyone else was thinking. But you said it like it wasn’t personal. Just... necessary.”

You don’t speak. You’re not sure he’s done.

“I’ve had a lot of people tell me who I am. What I’m supposed to be. Some of them were wrong. Some weren’t. Doesn’t mean I liked hearing it.”

His fingers tap against the cup once. Twice. “But you were right. I didn’t have a handle on any of this. The job, the people watching, the way it all gets twisted. You called it out.”

“And that worked in my favor?” you ask, half-joking.

His gaze flickers to yours. “You didn’t lie to me. That means something.”

It lands heavier than expected.

You look down at your lap. Then, after a second: “I thought you were gonna say it was because I tweeted about your cat.”

He huffs. “That helped.”

You smile, and when you glance back up, he’s watching you. Not like he’s searching for something. More like he’s found something and isn’t sure what to do with it.

“I could tell that you'd keep me grounded,” he says.

It’s simple. Uncomplicated. But your chest goes tight anyway.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

“Don’t get used to the compliments,” he mutters, sipping from his long-cold coffee. “I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

You nudge his shoulder. “You mean the mysterious, broody one?”

He arches a brow. “Better than ex-assassin with a PR manager.”

“Hey,” you say, mock offended. “I'm rebranding you.”

And this time, his smile is small—but real. The kind that says you’re staying.

.

Briefings, memos, social strategy calls take up the next month. You update his official bio, overhaul his campaign site, start a new newsletter format that doesn’t look like it was designed in the throes of dial-up internet. You start drafting tweets in his voice, but you’re surprised at how often he wants to write them himself.

Sometimes he sends them to you first, via email, labeled “draft?” and rarely punctuated.

The kids who emailed about lunch debt were right. They shouldn’t have to be the ones fixing it.

You write back:

it’s missing caps and grammar and polish …it’s also perfect. i hate you a little

He replies ten minutes later:

Good. Keep hating me. Makes your edits stronger.

You start seeing him more. At first, it’s meetings. Then lunch breaks. Then you’re just… there. 

In his office while he sorts through constituent letters. Sitting across from him on the Capitol steps, scrolling through your phone while he mutters about zoning regulations and offers you the second half of whatever sandwich he’s picked up from the Hill café.

One Thursday, around 6:45 p.m., you’re still at the office. Your laptop’s overheating. Your shoulders ache from the stress of trying to politely tell a PAC liaison that no, Bucky will not be attending the “Patriots for Policy” fundraiser, and no, their “Star-Spangled Selfie Station” is not an appealing incentive.

You lean back in your chair, eyes closed, and say out loud, “If one more intern sends me a Google Doc titled ‘shitposts to own the opposition,’ I’m going to walk into traffic.”

“That bad, huh?” comes Bucky’s voice from the doorway.

You open one eye. He’s holding two cups of coffee. It’s late. His sleeves are rolled again—he does that a lot, like he’s always preparing to do something with his hands. He sets a cup on your desk.

“It’s decaf,” he says. “I’m not trying to kill you.”

You sit up. “Decaf? Wow. You are learning.”

He doesn’t smile, but the corners of his mouth twitch. “Baby steps.”

You sip. It’s good. And quiet stretches out between you. The lights overhead buzz faintly. Someone’s laughing two rooms over. The city is folding in on itself outside, another day’s worth of bad traffic and moral compromises settling over D.C. like a weighted blanket.

.

Another few months pass in a rhythm that starts to feel dangerously like routine.

He insists on responding to every constituent letter about veterans’ benefits himself, even the ones written in glitter gel pen. One morning you find him on the floor of his office, surrounded by stacks of envelopes, Alpine curled up on a pile marked “urgent.”

“Just scanning,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the chaos. “She likes the important stuff.”

You start to learn things about him. Little things, dropped like breadcrumbs.

He hates cilantro. Keeps a dog-eared copy of All the King’s Men on his desk. Organizes his paperwork with military precision but leaves mugs half-finished all over the office. He’s still learning to take a break during the day. Sometimes he doesn’t.

One evening, while you’re both trying to pick a header image for the new landing page (he hates stock photos, insists they feel like “hollow propaganda”), he mutters, “I used to think if I could just disappear, I’d stop hurting people.”

You freeze. “And now?”

He doesn’t look away from the screen. “Now I’m trying to build something instead.”

Your throat tightens. You change the subject. You always do.

The tension between you simmers. Unspoken, unnamed. He starts saying your name more often. You start noticing when he does.

He always says it like it matters.

One Friday, he brings you a donut. Doesn’t mention it. Just leaves it on your desk and walks away like a man who doesn’t realize small gestures are dangerous.

You stare at it for a full minute before a staffer walks by, clocks the look on your face, and mutters, “Oh, you’re gone-gone.”

You pretend not to hear her.

One night, you find yourselves outside a community rec center after a Q&A event, both of you too wired to go home. You walk a few blocks together, hands brushing once. Neither of you acknowledges it.

“You ever think about leaving?” you ask, staring up at the streetlight.

“Sometimes,” he says. “Then I remember I already ran for almost fifty years.”

You laugh. He looks over, soft.

And then, quietly, “Not sure I’d want to go anywhere without you anyway.”

You blink. “You mean… as staff?”

He hums, like he’s choosing not to answer that.

He looks at you too long sometimes. Like he’s memorizing you. You assume it’s habit—old instincts. Soldier’s reflex. You don’t let yourself think about what else it could be.

Because it can’t be. He’s your boss. You’re his PR handler. This is all fine. Normal. Entirely professional, except for when he looks at you like that.

Which is how it builds—slow, steady, suffocating.

Until one night he’s sitting too close. You’re laughing too hard. His hand brushes your knee, and he doesn’t move it. And you still don’t realize.

Not really.

.

It’s a Tuesday night.

Well—technically Wednesday. 1:12 a.m., according to your phone. Your apartment is dark except for the glow of your laptop and the soft blue from the streetlamp outside your window. You should be sleeping. Instead, you’re re-reading policy notes and trying not to think about the email from your landlord marked “urgent.”

The city is quiet, but your mind is loud.

Your phone buzzes.

BUCKY

Are you awake

No punctuation. Of course. You stare at it. It’s not like him to text unprompted—especially not at this hour. You wonder for a second if it’s a mistake. Or if something’s wrong.

You call him.

It only rings once.

“Hey,” he says, voice rough with sleep or something that isn’t quite.

“You okay?” you ask, softly.

A pause. “Yeah. Just… couldn’t sleep.”

You settle back against your pillows. “Bad dream?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, quietly. “More like a bad memory.”

You let the silence stretch, but you don’t fill it. You’ve learned that about him—he’s not afraid of quiet. He just doesn’t always know what to do with it. You hear a faint rustle, like he’s sitting down, maybe at his kitchen table. Maybe the couch. Maybe the floor. He’s the kind of guy who sits on the floor without thinking about it.

“You want to talk about it?” you ask.

“Not really.”

You nod, even though he can’t see it. “Okay.”

A breath. Then, with a strange kind of gentleness: “You ever feel like you’re… still in the middle of something, but everyone else thinks you’re past it?”

You exhale, slow. “Yeah. All the time.”

Another pause. And then: “I thought when the shield went to Sam, that was it. That was my end point. Like I’d done my part and now I could just… blend into the wallpaper. Fix things. Be useful. Pay back some debt I can’t ever really name.”

He exhales.

“But I still wake up and feel like I’m waiting for orders.”

Your throat tightens.

“I’m not a soldier anymore,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself. “I know that. But sometimes it feels like I lost the war and no one told me.”

You sit with that. It’s a kind of grief, what he’s saying. The loss of purpose. Of identity. You think about what it means to carry history in your body. To be made of violence and guilt and memory, and still try to build something from it.

“You’re not wallpaper,” you say. “And you’re not a soldier. Not unless you decide to be.”

A faint, surprised sound. “You think I can just choose who I am now?”

“I think that’s what healing is,” you say. “It’s not forgetting. It’s choosing who you are in spite of it.”

It’s quiet again. But softer, this time.

“Thank you,” he says, and he means it.

There’s a beat.

Then he says, “You want to come over?”

Your heart stumbles. “Now?”

“I just…” he trails off. “I don’t want to be alone.”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to. You do. Too much, maybe.

“I’m in sweatpants,” you warn.

“I don’t care,” he says. “I’m in worse.”

.

Which is—not fair.

He’s in flannel pants and a faded Brooklyn Public Library tee, hair damp like he just stepped out of a shower, like this isn’t his worst week in office or the worst day in months. He looks too human. Too close. Not like Congressman Barnes, not like the Winter Soldier—just like a man who lives here. Alone.

“Hi,” you say, because you’re a coward with a communication degree.

“Hey,” he replies, voice low.

He steps back. You step in.

You move past him. He doesn’t touch you, but he lingers close as you settle onto his couch. There’s a record playing low in the background—something instrumental. Maybe jazz. Maybe something older. He sits next to you. Not quite touching, but near enough that you feel it.

Neither of you says much at first.

You sip the tea he makes you. Let your shoulders drop. And after a while, you’re both leaning back, side by side, staring at the ceiling like maybe it’ll explain something.

“I don’t let people in here much,” he says, out of nowhere.

You glance at him. “Why not?”

He shrugs. “Used to be a habit. Kept things safe. Controlled.”

“And now?”

He looks at you. Really looks. Like he’s cataloguing something important.

“I trust you."

The silence sharpens.

You feel it—somewhere between your chest and your breath and the skin of your palms, warm where they rest against your knees.

He turns toward you, like he’s going to say something. His thigh brushes yours. Your heart skips.

You say his name. Soft.

“Bucky.”

He leans in. Slow. So slow it hurts. His eyes flicker to your mouth.

And then—

He stops.

You’re close enough to feel the warmth of his breath.

Close enough to break.

But he doesn’t kiss you.

He just sits there, tension in his jaw, fingers curling against his leg like he’s holding himself back.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says, barely a whisper.

You nod. You understand.

.

You don’t sleep well that night. You don't even know how you got home.

Not because anything happened—and maybe that’s the problem. Something almost did. Something close enough to taste. But close doesn’t keep you up at night. Hope does. Ambiguity. The memory of his breath near your cheek, the exact second he pulled away, and the way your name sounded in his mouth just before it.

You wake up tangled in sheets that smell like lavender detergent and stress. Your shoulder aches from the way you curled in on yourself, as if pretending sleep would solve the question of him.

It hasn’t.

So you do what you always do: you compartmentalize. Ruthlessly. Viciously. Like a goddamn professional.

You slap concealer under your eyes, burn your tongue on gas station coffee, and tell yourself that you’re not thinking about Bucky Barnes. You are not thinking about how he almost kissed you. How his hand hovered at your knee like a promise he wasn’t ready to make. How you wanted him to make it.

No. You’re thinking about agenda items. Press follow-ups. Intern drama. Your inbox, which has gone feral overnight.

You’re halfway through drafting a media roundup from your phone when your car buzzes with an intern's name.

You answer on instinct. “Hey. Yeah, I’m on my way in—”

“Have you seen the op-ed?” they cuts in.

Your fingers still on the steering wheel.

“I—what?”

They don't wait. “I’m sending it now. Check your messages.”

You pull into a spot on the shoulder, the coffee cup sloshing as you brake. Your phone dings.

The link stares back at you. Your thumb hovers.

You already know it’s going to be bad. You can feel it in their voice. In the silence after their breath. You tap anyway.

And there it is.

Is the Winter Soldier Still Lurking Beneath Congressman Barnes?

It’s from a major outlet. Not a fringe blog, not some anonymous account online. It’s written by a seasoned journalist, someone who’s covered politics for two decades. The tone is surgically polite. It doesn’t outright accuse him of anything, but the subtext is razor-sharp: can a man with his past truly be trusted with power?

There’s a pull quote in bold, center-page:

“A reformed weapon is still a weapon. No amount of legislation can erase that history.”

The rest of the article is worse.

It dredges everything. Not just his Hydra years, but the killings. The photo evidence. The old footage. The Wakandan reprogramming is mentioned—briefly, half a paragraph, like it’s a footnote in a larger narrative of violence.

The author's polite language makes it more brutal. Less a hit piece and more… a thesis. Something cold. Inarguable.

You call him. He doesn’t answer.

You call again. Still nothing.

So you go to his apartment.

Bucky answers the door in that old gray sweatshirt and a pair of worn sweatpants that could belong to any decade. His hair’s half-tied, his mouth set. No smile, but no walls up either. His eyes are dark. Tired in a way that goes bone-deep.

He steps aside and lets you in. You don’t say anything about how he looks. You just take off your coat, make yourself at home, and sit down at the kitchen table.

The place is clean, quiet. Too quiet. Alpine is curled on the armrest of the couch like she’s keeping watch. 

“I didn’t read it,” he says eventually. “Didn’t need to.”

“It’s bad.”

He nods.

He doesn’t sit. Just stands there, arms crossed, head bowed like he’s waiting for a verdict.

“You’ve been through worse,” you say. “This is—politics. It’s dirty.”

“It’s not about politics,” he replies, voice flat. “It’s about who I used to be.”

He says it like a fact. Not even bitter—just exhausted.

“I spent so long trying to fix things,” he continues. “Make it right. Every day, I get up and try to be something new. Someone new. And it doesn’t matter. All it takes is one article, one photo, and suddenly I’m the fucking Winter Soldier again.”

His fists are clenched now. You can see the tension in his frame, the way he’s holding himself together like it’s a full-time job.

“They didn’t say anything that isn’t true,” he adds. “That’s the worst part.”

You stand. Cross to him slowly. Carefully. He watches you with that guarded look he gets when he’s bracing for a hit that’s already landed.

“They used the truth to tell a lie,” you say. “You’re not that person anymore.”

“Then why does everyone keep seeing him?” His voice cracks on the last word. It shatters something in you.

You don’t know what to say. Not right away. Because it’s not your job to fix what was done to him.

But maybe it’s your job to remind him what’s changed.

So you touch his arm. The metal one. He flinches—but only for a second.

“You said you didn’t read it,” you say gently. “So you didn’t see the comments.”

His brow furrows.

“Thousands of people,” you say. “Calling it a smear job. Defending you. Saying they trust you more than half the people in office. Veterans. Civilians. Kids who look up to you. People who believe in second chances because of you.”

You feel the shift before you see it. His shoulders slacken, just slightly.

“You’re allowed to be upset,” you add. “You’re allowed to be angry. But you’re not alone in this.”

He looks at you then. Really looks. And whatever wall he was holding up—whatever mask he puts on for C-SPAN and strategy meetings—it drops.

His voice is rough when he finally says, “Can you stay?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course."

You stay right where you are—your hand still resting on metal that hums faintly beneath your fingers, warm from him. He’s quiet, but not calm. Not really. There’s tension in the way he breathes, in the slight tremor running down his arm. Like his body still remembers how to brace for impact, even when it’s just words.

Minutes pass like that. Long enough for the quiet to settle around you. For Alpine to leap silently onto the sill and stare out like she’s keeping watch for both of you.

Then he shifts—just slightly—and the couch creaks under the movement. He leans forward, elbows on knees, head bowed. The line of his spine curved like it’s bearing more than just his weight.

“Bucky,” you say, tone softening. “Talk to me.”

He’s not looking at you. His gaze is on the floor. Like if he meets your eyes, it’ll all unravel.

“I say or do one wrong thing,” he says, “and suddenly I’m a threat again.”

That last part is barely above a whisper.

You pause. Let the silence stretch.

“Hey,” you say, carefully. “You’re not a threat. You’re a congressman.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“I don’t know how to do this without screwing it up,” he says.

“Then let me help,” you say. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do, Bucky. Every day.”

That’s when his eyes meet yours—really meet them.

“You always come when I need you,” he says.

It’s a simple sentence.

But it lands like a match dropped in a dry field.

You stare at him. His face. The way his hair’s falling loose at the front. The soft curve of his mouth, the line between his brows, the glow of his vibranium arm in the lamplight—gold against black against skin.

You stand, like you’re going to fetch water or pace or do something, but you don’t make it far. You’re near his bookshelf—he’s got a handful of novels, mostly well-worn, a few classics. One spine is cracked down the middle. Another’s bent in half. You reach for one, just to touch something, ground yourself.

“You read a lot,” you say, just to fill the space. Just to breathe.

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, and the sound of his voice—that low rasp, Brooklyn tugging at the edges—rakes down your spine. “Helps. When my head’s loud.”

“What’s your favorite?”

There’s a pause.

Then, quietly: “You.”

You blink.

“You,” he says slowly, “you walk into my life and it’s like someone hit the off switch on the noise. Like there’s finally room to think again. To want things.”

Your throat goes tight.

He swallows. You hear it. Feel it.

“I didn’t mean to—” he stops, drags a hand through his hair, fingers brushing over the back of his neck. “I didn’t plan on hiring you. Thought if I kept it distant, maybe I wouldn’t…”

You glance over your shoulder. He’s watching the floor like it holds answers. His jaw is tight, that line above his brow catching the lamplight. He’s flushed high on the cheeks. His hair is curling a little from the heat of the day. It softens him.

You can’t stop looking.

“Wouldn’t what?” you ask.

“Wouldn’t get attached.”

The words fall out of him, too quick, too raw. His accent thickens when he’s like this—unguarded, unraveling.

He looks up at you then. And you swear—swear—you’ve never seen anyone look more exposed.

“I think about you,” he says, voice hoarse. “All the damn time. Your voice. The way you talk when you’re excited. The way you wrinkle your nose when you read something stupid. And I try—believe me, I try—not to want any of it. Because you work with me. And you’re good. And I don’t want to drag you down with my shit.”

“Bucky—” you start, but it breaks apart in your throat.

“But you just kept coming. And you’re kind. And smart. And funny in a way that makes me feel like I’ve been asleep for years. And now I sit in meetings half-listening because I’m wondering if you’re cold. Or if you ate. Or if you still think I’m some idiot with a shiny arm and bad instincts.”

You’re already turning. Reaching for him.

His eyes are so blue. Tired. Beautiful. Like storm glass worn smooth.

And his mouth—God, his mouth—is parted, breathing shallow, like he’s already halfway to ruin.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he whispers.

You don’t want him to.

So you close the space, press your mouth to his like it’s the only thing that makes sense anymore.

He answers in kind. Gentle at first—so careful—but then hungrier, hands finally finding you, clutching like maybe you’re real after all. Like maybe he gets to keep you.

His hands find your waist, one warm, one cool. He breathes you in like it’s the first breath after surfacing. You hold onto him, to the solidness of him, to the truth in everything he just said.

When you part, you rest your forehead against his, breathless.

“I didn’t plan on you either,” you murmur. “But I want this too.”

He opens his eyes. And there’s something there—tentative, but real. Hope, maybe.

You kiss him again, slow and sure, and this time, you don’t stop.

The kiss deepens, and you feel it — the tension of months unspooling all at once. The press briefings, the late-night calls, the shared silences. It’s in the way his mouth moves against yours, all reverence and restraint barely holding.

Then restraint snaps.

​​He groans into your mouth, low and rough, the sound vibrating through your chest. One hand slides to your waist, the other cradling the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair with a kind of reverence that borders on desperate. You gasp when your back hits the edge of the bookshelf, books shifting and thudding behind you. His body presses close, firm and solid, muscle molded to muscle.

You don’t breathe. You inhale him—his scent, his heat, the way his tongue strokes into your mouth like he’s trying to stake a claim.

Your hands are greedy, curled into the soft cotton of his shirt before they slip under, dragging over warm skin and the defined ridges of his back. He shudders, hips pressing forward, and the answering moan that slips from your mouth is embarrassingly loud.

His mouth moves to your throat, hot and open, tongue dragging over the place your pulse stutters wildly. He kisses there once, then again, a third time just to hear the way your breath catches.

The shelves dig into your back, but you don’t care. His mouth is on your throat now, slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your pulse.

“Bucky,” you whisper.

His breath stutters. His forehead rests against your jaw for a second, and his voice is rough when he speaks.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin. “How long I’ve wanted this.”

Your breath catches. Your hands grip his hoodie like you’re afraid the floor might drop out. There’s a pause—something delicate in the air—and then you say, just to ground yourself:

“Wow. That almost sounded like a line.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Eyes dark, lips kiss-bruised. And then—finally—a real smile. Crooked. Devastating.

“You think I say that to everyone I push against my bookshelf?”

You grin. “I don’t know, Barnes. You’ve got a lot of books. Could be a whole system.”

He laughs. Really laughs. And then kisses you again, harder this time, a groan low in his throat when your hands slip under the hem of his sweatshirt. Skin meets skin and he makes a sound that short-circuits your brain.

Somehow, you make it upstairs.

It’s clumsy and desperate in the best way. A trail of clothing, soft gasps, hands mapping territory that’s been off-limits for far too long. He kisses you like you’re something precious and half-forbidden, and you can feel it in every press of his mouth, every whispered praise against your skin.

"Sweetheart, you're killing me," he groans while pressing those lips, those fucking lips, against your collarbone. "Need you to tell me this isn’t a dream.”

By the time you hit the bedroom, you’re breathless. Dizzy. Grinning like an idiot.

And Bucky?

He’s looking at you like he’s just figured out the world’s best-kept secret.

You barely hit the mattress before he’s on you again, mouth dragging down your neck, hands urgent but careful. Like he’s cataloguing every inch of you, filing it away somewhere behind all the noise. His vibranium hand slips beneath your shirt, cool at first but quick to warm against your skin, gliding up your ribcage with reverence that makes you shiver.

“You okay?” he murmurs, breath warm against your cheek.

You nod, maybe too fast. “Yeah. Just—processing.”

He freezes. “Processing what?”

“That I used to mock your social media presence,” you whisper, grinning up at him. “And now I’m about to get railed by the human embodiment of a Roman statue.”

His laugh is choked and surprised. “Jesus.”

“What? You set yourself up for that.”

He drops a kiss to the hinge of your jaw, then your neck, then lower—his stubble scraping just enough to make your breath catch. “Remind me to fire you later.”

“You can’t afford me.”

“Not true,” he says, one hand sliding up the back of your thigh, warm and sure. “You’re already here.”

You open your mouth for a reply, but then his mouth is on you again—tongue tracing a line down your collarbone, fingers tugging at your waistband like he’s been waiting forever.

“Tell me if anything’s too much,” he says, voice low and serious at your ear. “Or if I—”

“You’re not,” you breathe. “You’re perfect.”

That earns you another groan, and then he’s kissing you again, deeper, tongue sliding against yours with filthy precision. You feel him smile against your mouth when you gasp, hands tangling in his hair, thighs bracketing his hips like you were built for this. Built for him.

Clothes disappear in pieces. His sweatshirt, your shirt, the rest in a tangle neither of you cares enough to untangle. And then it’s just skin. Heat. The stretch of him over you, under you, hands braced, mouth hot on your jaw, your throat, your chest. He takes his time. 

"Bucky," You whisper, searching for the right words. "I want you inside me. Please."

He pushes out a sound akin to pain between his teeth. "Getting there." So impatient, goes unsaid.

The moment his hand falls in between your legs, digging past soft cotton and lace, where you're dripping and soft and needy for him, you don't think you'll ever, ever have enough of him. He's slow, at first, just bordering on exploratory. Stroking the pads of his fingers through your wetness until he finds your clit—oh, fuck—and goes to town, making you moan and clench around nothing.

"There you go. That's it," He coos. "You're doing so good."

You close your eyes, his hand pressing in deeper, harder, finding just the right rhythm to drive you insane, switching between your clit and your entrance until you're going mad. Then you hear him spit, the sound obscene and dripping against your skin—then, a slap. "Oh my god," You murmur. "Oh, fuck."

"You're so wet," His brows furrow, like he can hardly believe it. Acting like he's not sinking his fingers inside of you, stretching you open with one, two fingers.  "Soaked. Like I knew you would be, god. You're so tight and I—I bet you'd feel better around my—"

He hits a spot that makes you keen, fast and rough and fucking you open. "Yes, yes, oh my god, please—"

"There?" His breath fans across your cheek. "Right there, huh?"

You nod, delirious and breathless and you black out the rest of the world, lost in the way he looks at you like you're the best damn thing in the world. You clench once, twice around his fingers until you're at the brink and—

Come on my fingers, come on, sweetheart.

And who were you to resist?

For a moment, you just lay in the aftershocks, his fingers granting you enough mercy to slip out. You think that maybe he'll give you a break, maybe just for once second, but then his whole body shifts downwards, momentarily leaving you confused, and then his breath fans across your thighs—"Just want a taste."

Those four words cause something in you to snap.

His mouth is sloppy and hot and wet, more focused on cleaning you up and licking up the remnants of your orgasm, leaving your clit sorely, sorely alone in a way that's too purposeful. In a way that has you bucking against the soft stubble of his face, desperate for any kind of stimulation. 

It doesn't even seem like he's doing it for you, it's like he's doing it for himself. But then you beg and whine, the words reverberating in your throat, "Bucky, please—higher, please, baby, I need you—"

A graze of his teeth and a sharp, tugging suck around your clit then and you cum again. Shaking and sighing and falling apart in his mouth.

When you look down, you can see just how much of a mess you've made, his face glistening with you, even in the dark. And he's looking at you so earnestly, so sweetly, like you've just given him the whole entire world.

"Do you—do you think you can take more?" His eyes look at you, filled with concern, and that's all you need for your legs to start waking up again. "I didn't—I dind't bring a condom and I—"

"I'm clean and I'm on the pill," You smile, lopsided and silly until he's mirroring yours, like he didn't just wrench the two best orgasms of your life out of you. Like he's not about to do it again. Just the way you like it. "And I want you to cum inside me. I wanna feel it. Shut up and get over here."

Bucky clucks his tongue, ever the dutiful man. "Yes, ma'am."

There's a moment—and then he's slotting the head of his cock into your entrance and you try not to be overwhelmed. He's hard and heavy and thick in a way you've never really experienced before, and for a minute, your brain short-circuits, in disbelief. You're doing this. You're really doing this. And suddenly, his cock goes all the way inside you with a pained groan.

His first thrust against you is messy, his hands having to spread your legs wide until you're arching against him. "Jesus, you're so—tight."

Then he's thrusting back in, his hands solid and heavy against your hips, not necessarily like a hammer, but in a way that makes your eyes roll back, slow and steady that you can feel every vein on his cock, lighting you up and finding places that not even your vibrator's been able to reach before. It's mind-numbing, it's relentless, it's perfect.

"Good girl," He whispers, pressing kisses up your neck to soothe the pressure of him inside you. "Taking me so well."

And then, like a reward, his vibranium hand leaves its place on your hip and starts caressing your clit, large fingers made impossibly gentle and finding a rhythm that parallels the way he ruts inside you.

"You're so good to me, so sweet," His words land like a sucker punch, and it makes you clench tighter, his pace faltering just the slightest bit. But he keeps going. "Always looking at me like that, don't know what you do to me, don't know how I can go without this. So much better than my dreams. Fuck."

"Can you come again for me? Pretty baby, can you do it again?"

It takes a harsh, rough swipe against your clit until you arch off the bed, eyes clenched shut and mouth wrenched open in a whine, and you bear down, coming for the third time that night.

And he's right there behind you, it doesn't take long before he speeds up, getting more frantic and desperate, and oh—he's shoving himself inside you as deep as he can go and you can feel him pulse, aching—"God, I love you. I love you so much, take it all for me."

You collapse underneath him, spent and so, so full. So perfect.

.

You go viral again.

Not for a tweet this time, but for a thirty-second clip someone posted from a town hall two weeks later—Bucky leaning in to answer a kid’s question about public transit, earnest as ever, saying something about “freedom meaning more than just car ownership,” with Alpine meowing in the background because she’d escaped her carrier under the table.

The quote is fine. Thoughtful, even. But it’s the look he gives you afterward—off-camera, off-script, soft in a way that has no business being soft—that turns the internet into a firestorm.

The caption?

sir. control yourself. your pr manager is right there.

You wake up to three missed calls, four texts from Nina (two of which are just screaming emojis), and one from your mom:

call me when you’re up

You do. Because you are a good daughter, even when half-asleep and mostly buried in a man’s too-soft duvet that smells like cedar and coffee and very recent sex.

“Morning,” your mom says, casual, like she didn’t text you three times in a row at 6:13 a.m. “How’s the job?”

You blink. “The—job?”

“Yes, the job,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The one you got after insulting a congressman on the internet.”

You glance over at said congressman, currently shuffling out of the bathroom shirtless and towel-damp, rubbing his head with one hand while Alpine chirps at his feet like she owns him. Which she does.

“Uh,” you say, eloquently. “It’s going… well.”

“Good,” your mom replies. “You should call your aunt. She saw him on TV and keeps asking if he’s single.”

“Mom.”

In the background, a faint beeping. “Gotta go. Someone’s coding. Love you!”

The line goes dead.

You flop back into the pillows, groaning into Bucky’s comforter like it can absorb your entire soul.

“Everything okay?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep.

“Yeah. My mom thinks we’re married now.”

He raises an eyebrow. “We’re not?”

You shoot him a look. He grins.

Then, like it’s nothing: “What are you up to today?”

Technically, he’s your boss. A sitting congressman. You manage his image, his agenda, his occasional tendency to go off-script and say things like “burn it all down and start over” to a room full of journalists.

But now he’s shirtless in grey sweatpants, handing you coffee with Alpine perched on his shoulder like a parrot, and asking you to stay.

Not just for breakfast. For the day. Maybe longer. Maybe always.

It shouldn’t hit you like it does. But it does.

“You’re assuming I can concentrate,” you say, taking the mug like it’s a peace offering. “In your bed. With you. Shirtless. Existing.”

He smiles—that rare, lopsided thing he gives you when he’s caught somewhere between amusement and something gentler. “You’ve worked through worse.”

“True,” you mutter. “Once wrote an op-ed from a TikTok house while one of my clients sobbed over a brand deal and a frat boy tried to deep-fry a toaster.”

“See?” He leans down, presses a kiss to your temple like it’s just another part of your morning routine. “You’ll be fine.”

You look at him. At the man with a metal arm, a rescue cat, and a city full of people who expect him to change the world.

And he’s looking at you like you’re the thing that matters.

You exhale. “You’re lucky I believe in workplace flexibility.”

“Is that what this is?” he says, already walking toward the kitchen, voice full of barely contained laughter. “Workplace flexibility?”

You grin into your mug.

God help you, you’re in so deep.

You open your laptop from the warmth of his bed. Bucky pads away, Alpine trailing behind him like a tiny, loyal shadow. You draft emails. Sip coffee. Watch sunlight crawl across his floors. Like this was always where you were meant to be.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Alexei: You don't need perfect people to make a perfect team. You need people whose flaws feed into each other. It's - what do you call it?

Yelena: Codependency.

Alexei: Synergy.

[violetrainbow412-blog]

[crashing sound]

Yelena: What was that?!

Bob: My shirt fell.

Yelena: It sounded a lot heavier than that!

Bob: ... I was in it.