*on A Mission*

If mentally unstable why pookie shaped?

the happy end

𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞

robert "bob" reynolds x reader

word count: 1.3k - masterlist

summary: when bob comes to your door late at night, you find a way to comfort him and let him know he's appreciated

contents: artist! reader, fluff, cuddling, bob's depression

author's note: a fic about someone other than five hargreeves? from me? shocking!! but i am so in love with bob rn i've seen thunderbolts twice in theatres already and i cannot get enough of him - not proofread! pleaseeee send bob requests in my inbox 🙃

Late nights were always the best in the new Avengers tower. 

The hallways were incredibly quiet, with everyone residing in their own personal spaces until morning when the team would return to their mission planning and let their snarky comments loose on each other. 

It had been a long time since you lived in New York City. After spending years on the run, then flying around the globe completing missions for Valentina, you were glad to finally have a stable home again. 

Your room was dim, lit solely by a few candles on your nightstand as you lay against your headboard, with your sketchbook and pencil unmoving in your hands as you were undecided on what to draw, yet you held the urge to create. You often did at this hour, when all else is silent, your mind tends to get creative. 

As you tapped the end of your pencil against your page, brainstorming while staring at the bright nighttime lights of Manhattan through your large window, you heard noises that didn’t match up to the taps of your eraser. 

When you paused, holding still to listen, you heard the sound of footsteps, pacing back and forth outside your door. Setting your pencil between the pages of your sketchbook, you gently laid it on the bed next to you as you quietly climbed off the mattress. 

As you peeked slightly under the door, you could see the footsteps. The owner of the socked feet was ambiguous, but you had a strong feeling you knew who it was. 

You tip-toed over and gently opened the door, watching the culprit freeze in his place. 

Bob stood there, with a look of surprise on his face. His brown eyes wide as his brown hair framed his face. He hadn’t expected you to be up at this hour, let alone catch him standing outside your door. 

He was wearing a black crewneck and plaid sweatpants, the same outfit you’d seen him in for the last three days. His face was flush and his brain was still thoughtless as he stared into your soul. 

“Hi Bob,” you calmly greeted, noticing his tense shoulders, “You okay?” 

“Yeah- yeah I’m fine, just um-” his body regained motion as he fidgeted with his fingers, the sleeves of his crew neck pulled over the palms of his hands, “I uh - didn’t expect you to be up this late.” 

“I’m always up this late,” you smiled at him, “Come in, come in.” 

You motioned for him to come inside as you returned to your spot on top of your comforter, picking up your sketchbook, your pencil moving with a mind of its own. 

He shyly walked in, shutting the door behind him. He had never been in your bedroom before, and he couldn’t help but take a moment to observe it. It was like a museum of your entire personality in one room, with evidence of your many hobbies and interests- books, movies, cds, art supplies - covering every inch of your living space. 

Looking up for your initial sketch, you watched as he slowly moved his gaze across your room, tugging his sleeves and absentmindedly smilingly. 

Since you’ve met him, you’ve wanted to connect more with Bob. The two of you had become friends now that you’ve been living together for a little while, but he was still a little shy around you. 

“So what’s up, Bob?” you asked, returning your attention to your drawing, “Couldn’t sleep?” 

He kept looking around as he answered, “I did for a little bit, but I uh- had a nightmare and just, you know.” 

You all had nightmares. Every few nights you heard at least one of your teammates screaming through the walls of the tower. Bob’s nightmares were rather frequent, unfortunately. 

He sat down on the edge of your bed, rubbing his socks along your carpeted floors, creating a static charge, as he stared down at his hands. 

“Same thing?” you asked. He nodded. 

Ever since the day the void took over New York, he had felt so guilty, so sorry for everything he had caused. It haunted his dreams as he closed his eyes, willingly entrapping himself in darkness. Trapping himself with the void. 

The team was always there to reassure him that they were there for him, and that he wasn’t alone. But sometimes he felt they were only saying that so he wouldn’t destroy the world with his new god-like powers. Not that he wanted to, he just wanted to help people, and maybe help himself along the way, but it would take a lot of patience and practice before he was ready for missions. 

On one of your first nights in the tower, you had been walking by his room on your way to the kitchen for a midnight snack when you’d heard him, frantically gasping and trying to catch his breath. That was the night you’d reassured him that he could always come to you to talk about whatever he needed. That offer stuck as the two of you talked more and more, and he slowly grew more comfortable with you. 

“It’s just,” he paused, not knowing how to start, “I just think I’m more trouble than I’m worth.” 

You looked up, about to protest before he continued. 

“I stay around the tower, barely leaving my room, barely contributing anything while your guys go save lives and fight bad guys and whatever else Avengers do.” 

“That’s not true, Bob,” you disagreed, “You might not think we notice, but we really appreciate everything you do. I don’t think any of us know how to wash a dish without chucking it at someone,” you laughed slightly, lightening the mood. 

“And we don’t just keep you around because we think you’ll be good enough for the team one day,” you explained, “You mean a lot to us.” 

His brown eyes shone with a ray of golden as he looked over at you, emotion behind his eyes as your words hit his heart, “Really?” 

“Of course,” you smiled, adding a few finishing touches in your sketchbook  before setting your pencil down on your nightstand. You sat up next to Bob, his shoulder brushing yours, as you handed him your sketchbook to show him the page you’d been working on ever since he’d stepped foot through your door. 

The sketch of him exhibiting a shy smile in such perfect detail made him tear up a bit. He couldn’t believe someone could pay such close attention to him, take such great care in the accuracy of his image, and picture him in such delight. 

He bashfully chuckled as he admired the sketch before turning back to you, “You’re really talented, this looks great,” he complimented. 

“Maybe it’s you that looks great,” you quipped in return, causing his face to flush as he looked back at the drawing. 

A yawn escaped your lips as you looked out the window once more, seeing the dark night sky becoming an increasingly lighter blue. 

“It’s probably time to sleep,” you said, moving under your comforter as you extended an invitation, “You’re welcome to stay if you want.”   

He smiled, closing your sketchbook and placing it on your night stand, making sure to blow out your candles before climbing in next to you. 

He hadn’t felt too tired since waking up from his nightmare, but curling up next to you, feeling your arms wrap around his back as you drifted off to sleep in his arms, allowed him to feel just at peace enough where he could close his eyes, and feel safe in the darkness that surrounded him.

~~~

thank you for reading!

ANYTIME YOU WANT (JUMP BACK TO ME ANYTIME)

husband!leon kennedy x reader

tags: established relationship. you guys are beefing ngl. masturbation (brief reference, m receiving). leon loves his wife a lot. title from eve 6 anytime.

Your therapist takes in the way you both sit on her couch over the rims of her glasses. Your legs and arms are crossed and you don’t dare look in his direction, lest he thinks he’s not in the doghouse. The first fifteen minutes of this session have been an awkward, stilted silence.

Leon’s legs are spread, his arms folded as he sneaks glances at you from the corners of his eyes. His mouth is downturned at the corners, contrasting the thin line yours is pressed into.

Not to stereotype or anything, but she can definitely see which one dragged the other to marriage therapy. She’s just surprised it’s the man wanting to fix something.

Okay. Since neither of you want to speak, she’ll go first. “Would either of you like to tell me why we’re here this week?” She asks, writing the date in the top left corner of the legal pad’s page.

11 - 18 - 17

She watches you scoff and shift where you sit, balancing your temple on two fingers. “You’re a marriage counselor, aren’t you?” You don’t even look at her as you speak, words ground out from your teeth. “Why else does a couple come to you?”

Alright, not a good start. She watches Leon reach over before he stops himself, a hand returning to his lap. Instead, he says your name softly, begging you to look over at him with those big blue eyes.

You don’t look over.

He changes tactics, head lifting. “Be nice.” He says softly, body shifting to face you as he looks over, drinking you in.

You don’t respond, staring angrily into a space over the therapist’s shoulder.

Leon sucks in a breath through his teeth as he leans back, his hand midway between you two on the ugly upholstery.

Your therapist clears her throat, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Why are you two here?”

Leon takes the lead, his eyes sliding over to you. “We’re having… problems.”

You scoff immediately. “Understatement.” You mutter under your breath, arms folding tightly again.

Leon’s mouth presses into a line as he restrains himself from giving into your baiting before he says, “I’ll lay my cards out on the table.”

You bristle, eyes flicking over at him. Your face is stonily neutral, the slight knot of your brows betraying your frustration.

Wife and husband in habit of needling one another.

“I drank. A lot.” Leon leans back, crossing an ankle over his opposite knee. “And she did a lot to try and keep our marriage afloat before I got my head out of my ass.”

Your therapist notes this on her legal pad. “How long ago was this?”

“Three-ish years.” Leon offers, lacing his fingers together. His wedding band glints in the light—yours is conspicuously absent. His eyes land on you, the second time he’s spoken directly to you. “And I’m forever grateful.”

“Mhm.” Therapist writes that husband is apologetic and open, attempting to bridge the gap. Wife is unreceptive. “And how long have you both been married?”

Shit. That’s a better question for you, you have the dates straight, somehow. Your first time, the date you two got married, the day you two met, your first daughter’s birthday, your first son’s birthday, your second daughter and son’s birthday.

He used to tease you about your calendar brain early on. You’d look a little sheepish and he’d kiss it right off you.

Leon sneaks a glance at you like a drowning man looks at a float. “Um…” He can feel his face warming up, a pretty flush spreading across his cheeks.

You shift, sighing through your nose and picking at the seam of your jeans. “Sixteen years.”

Right. Wife seems to defrost when asked how long they’ve been together—sixteen years.

“And how did you meet?” Just so she has the dates straight.

“College.” Your face heats the longer Leon stares holes into your cheek. Wife seems nostalgic of the early days of relationship. “I worked at the campus dining hall.”

A small, helpless smile spreads across Leon’s face. “I came over to the sandwich and pasta stations as much as I could.”

Husband holds affection for wife still.

You don’t look up at him and your therapist can watch the heartache bloom in his eyes before he looks away.

“What’s your perspective, Mrs. Kennedy?” The therapist asks you, crossing her legs.

You stay silent for so long that the therapist wonders whether you heard her before you say emotionlessly, “He did drink.” Your eyes fall to your fingers. “And mope, and feel bad for himself.”

“I went through a lot of things.” Leon says quietly. Your therapist opens her mouth to hush him, but you beat him to the punch.

“Nobody’s saying you didn’t.” You look up at him for the first time. “If you’d let me finish, you’d understand what I’m saying.”

Your therapist holds up her hands before this can devolve into a full-on argument. “Excuse me.” Two pairs of eyes settle on her. “Let’s not interrupt one another, please. And let’s keep the hostility to the minimum.”

“I’m not being hostile.” You retort, brows furrowing in the middle.

“You’re not exactly being gentle, either.” Leon mutters, raising a brow when you look at him with a frown on your face.

Husband and wife have habit of speaking over one another. “Please.” Your therapist says a little louder. “Mrs. Kennedy, continue.” Wife is on defense.

You take a steadying breath and let it out slowly. Wife employs self-soothing mechanisms. “I was going to say that the previous drinking isn’t the issue to me.” You uncross and recross your legs, bouncing the one on top. “The drinking, frankly, wasn’t a surprise.”

“Can you elaborate?”

Your lips part, eyes flicking over to Leon as you attempt to figure out the best way to talk without breaking his confidentiality.

Leon doesn’t look at you, head balanced on two fingers.

“I…” You take another deep breath. “It’s his job. It’s… it’s a tedious and stressful job. And he’d—“ you cut yourself off, glancing at him again.

“You can say it, it’s fine.” Leon says, sounding particularly weary.

You look particularly conflicted when he says that, mouth turning down at the corners. “He’d got the job from a big incident in ninety-eight. He wasn’t supposed to have this job.”

Wife employing vagaries to protect husband.

“Mhm.” Your therapist looks vaguely uneasy at the omission, but lets you go on.

“He hadn’t started drinking heavily until he was working for the President.” You chew on your cheek, eyes on your husband. “Then after that, he tried to go away to Colorado for a week, leaving me pregnant with three kids.”

Leon’s mouth pulls into a line. “So that’s what this is about.”

Husband and wife hold vague resentment for husband’s job.

Your therapist refrains from rolling her eyes, clearing her throat and waiting for you to go on.

“And then,” you say pointedly, eyebrows raising, “you didn’t have a vacation at all because your job called you in. That’s what I was getting at.”

“More like it found me, but close enough.” Leon replies flippantly, crossing his legs.

You squeeze your eyes shut, measuring your breaths. Your therapist is almost tempted to write that husband has a bad attitude, but holds back.

You look away, one hand moving to twiddle your wedding band out of habit before you register that your finger is empty. You pull your hand away. “He sobered up after the Colorado thing.” You say quietly.

Husband’s work takes him away from the wife and kids fairly often.

Your therapist nods, looking between you two. Wife was angry at beginning of session, now looks downcast, switching role with husband who was earlier downcast, now is irritated. “And how many children do you share with one another?”

“Four.” Leon fills in, hand twitching for his phone as if to show pictures. “Two boys, two girls.”

Four children, two boys and two girls.

“And how has this break—“ When she asks, Leon flinches and you look guilty. “in your relationship impacted your children?”

You glance at one another in tandem. Wife and husband still look for support in one another when asked questions pertaining to them as a family unit. Leon looks away first, cheeks turning red.

You sigh, reaching up and rubbing the back of your neck. “Our eldest girl started acting out in school. She’s defiant, she’s antisocial. She…”

Leon waits as you trail off, then picks up. “She’s an extrovert, like her mom. Which is why it raised alarm bells when her teachers told us that she’d been angry about having to do group work because she wanted to be left alone. She had to be taken home one day because she got in a physical fight with some kids who just wanted to play with her.”

“And your other children?” Her eyes flick between the two of you.

“Our youngest two aren’t in school yet.” You inform her, shifting a little and fiddling with your nails. “Our eldest boy—he’s six—had begun isolating himself from everyone. He wouldn’t even sit at his desk, he just wanted to sit in the library area and do his work—which is completely fine and I don’t see why the teacher threw a fit about it, frankly—but he’d also refused to play with other children. He would just watch other kids at recess—and he’s a very energetic kid.”

Your therapist nods slowly. “I see.”

Leon’s mouth pulls into a small smile at all the information you throw at the therapist. That’s his girl, always motormouthing and talking about anything and everything. Though, you could start an argument with your echo, so maybe there’s a drawback to your ability to talk about anything.

Parental relationship affecting children in household.

“Our youngest two don’t really understand why mommy and daddy are fighting.” Leon muses, watching you play with your fingers. He has half a mind to reach over and hold your hand so you stop fidgeting, but refrains.

“How old are your children?”

“Eight, six, four, and two.” You sneakily reference a tattoo on your forearm of the kid’s birthdates with their initials—he knew you were cheating when it came to remembering their birthdates.

Your therapist glances at her watch, jotting down a few more notes before she closes the legal pad, marking it as Mr. & Mrs. Kennedy. “I’m afraid that’s all the time we have this week. If you both are willing to come back, my receptionist out front will schedule you for another session next week.”

Leon watches his cum swirl down the drain miserably, leaning his forehead against the shower tile. What a waste.

That session last week could’ve gone worse, admittedly. It could’ve had you two throwing shit at one another and both of you getting arrested.

The silence during the drive home was excruciating. In the early days, you could fill up the whole fucking car just talking about anything: your coursework, which kid in your class you think is autistic, this new show you watched, anything.

Leon’s a quiet guy, he doesn’t have the capacity to talk about nothing and everything for an hour and you’re his favorite little chatterbox in the world.

He turns off the faucet and shakes his hair out like a dog, raking the curtain aside and grabbing his towel, mopping his face and hair before he dries off his body.

He wraps the towel around himself and steps out of the shower, slicking his hair back and wiping a streak in the foggy mirror so he can somewhat see where he needs to shave.

For good measure, he opens the window and leans forward to the mirror, inspecting his face.

You knock on the door thrice. “Can I come in?”

He turns around, one hand on the knot holding his towel up and the other unlocking the door and pulling it open. You step inside without so much as a glance at him, pausing when you see the streak on the mirror. “I hate when you do that.” you mutter, pulling open the cabinet and rooting around for some disinfectant.

“You hate when I do anything.” Leon mutters back, retrieving the trimmer from the cabinet and being careful not to whack you in the head with it. He jams the plug in the wall, undoing his towel both to dab his cheeks and jaw dry with a corner of it, but also to see if he can get a reaction from you.

You give none, coming back with some rubbing alcohol and cotton pads from the cabinet. Somebody must’ve scraped their knee. You bonk the back of your head on the way out. “Motherfucker!”

Leon puts down the trimmer with a stifled laugh, leaning down and stroking the back of your head gently. “Jesus. You okay?”

You swat at his covered thigh, sitting down on the tile. “It’s not funny.”

“Did you hear me laugh?” Maybe you did. His bad, he should’ve been quieter. He strokes the back of your head one last time before pulling his hand away.

“No, but I know you want to.” You grouse, getting up from the floor and picking up the rubbing alcohol and the cotton pads. Safe, just like a guy stealing a base at the last second.

You walk away without anything further and Leon feels stupidly self-conscious as he watches your ass. Is it the hair? No, you said you liked the body hair. Is it the body? Is he out of shape? Well, he’s not far outside the realm of dad bod. Besides, you told him a couple years ago that you liked seeing the give to his tummy, means he’s eating well.

He shakes his head, leaning into the mirror and picking up the trimmer as he buzzes his stubble down a little more. Your four year old runs into the bathroom with a smile and he pauses, face half-shaven to give some love to one of his three girls, plopping her on the counter as she talks his ear off and he continues shaving.

After a while, he helps her down so she can go run around with her siblings and so he can get changed, hanging his towel up when she’s gone and changing into a pair of boxers. He comes into his bedroom and heads over to his dresser, pulling out a shirt and some sweatpants.

He comes downstairs fully dressed to utter chaos.

Your kids are too busy running around the living room and body slamming one another to listen to you. You stand there frustratedly as you try to configure a game plan, one temple aching. You don’t like raising your voice at them, your voice goes too high and at a certain point, kids tune it out.

“Hey!” Leon, on the other hand, has no qualms about raising his voice. He doesn’t have to do much, he has a lot of diaphragm support.

The kids pause, immediately looking guilty.

Wordlessly, he points out to the back door and they scramble away, shouting and ordering each other around and back to playing with one another.

Leon goes over and shuts the door with a sigh. “They get that energy from you, you know.” He muses, heading over to the kitchen to get himself a snack.

“I know.” You sit down on your humongous couch, rubbing a temple. In the corner is your pillow, your blanket hung over the back of the couch. Leon’s heart dully aches when he sees that setup, he’s not sure it ever won’t. God, he misses cuddling you and his babies.

Your therapist holds up a hand in the last ten minutes of your session after having found a good place to cut you off. “So.” She says after letting out a quiet sigh, looking over her notes.

11 - 25 - 17

Making some headway in conversations about the other’s intentions. Husband and wife very similar: hardheaded, hate to lose, want their voices to be heard. Neither want their children to be in a broken home.

Wife sleeps on couch, lacks wedding ring for second session in a row. Husband longing for connection with her but wants her to give the signal that she’s ready.

She looks up. “I’m going to give you both some homework.” She watches your eyebrow raise and Leon smirk. “First, no matter what either of you is doing, when you first see each other for the day, I want you to hug for at least twenty seconds.”

You frown, Leon’s expression lightening. Amateur advice, or so you think.

“Second, I want you both to start keeping journals of your fights.”

Nevermind.

“Journals of our fights?” You repeat, crossing your legs at the ankle.

“I’m not finished.” The therapist reprimands gently, watching you frown. Wife has issues with authority. “These journals should take place over a week’s time. I want you to write down what the fight was about, what was said, how you both reacted. At the end of every week—Sunday, we’ll say—you’ll exchange the journals and read from the other’s point of view.”

Damn, that’s actually really good.

“Third,” The therapist pins you in place with a look. “I want you to wear your wedding band again.“

She watches the embarrassment cross your face, eyes cutting over to Leon when he looks too smug. “Don’t look so smug, Mr. Kennedy. I want you to recite five things you like about her—“

“That’s easy.” Leon says, meaning every word.

She gives him a look. “When you’re in an argument. Mentally, not out loud. Speaking of, you both need a code word for when the argument is getting to be too much and you need to walk away from it.”

She stands up, putting the legal pad in the folder in the Kennedy file. “I’ll see you both next week.”

After the third session, you move right back into the bedroom, after waking up to Leon laying on top of you on the couch.

Leon’s brushing his teeth as you change into pajamas, leaning over and spitting into the sink before he brushes his tongue. He rinses the bristles and puts the brush back in the holder, coming out and helping you ready the bed before your six year old son comes in, saying his tummy’s upset.

“I’ve got it.” Leon comes over and presses a hand to his son’s forehead. Warm. Five out of the six of the Kennedys tend to run warm, which isn’t a worry. “Let’s get you some Pepto, buddy.”

He takes his son’s hand and leads him downstairs, giving him a dose and taking him back up, laying him back in his bed. “Goodnight. Mommy and daddy love you.” He whispers, going over and kissing his three other children goodnight.

He comes back to your room to find you in bed reading, lights dimmed. Instinctively, he comes over to your side and adjusts the lamp so you’re not straining your eyes to read. He comes back around to his side and turns off his light, lying on his right side and facing you.

When you decide it’s time to sleep, you lean over and turn off the light, putting your book on your nightstand and slipping beneath the covers.

It’s silent for a while before Leon whispers, “Sometimes, I wonder if we should have another baby.”

Your head snaps over to his. “What?”

“Not—“ He scoots a little closer, almost reaching out to take your hand. “not, like, a bandage baby or anything. I don’t think a baby can fix this.” A pause before he gestures in the dark. “Us, I mean.”

You snort despite yourself. “I hope not.”

Leon scoffs, coming a little closer. “You know me. That’s not fair to a little baby. And you said four’s your limit.”

Your heart warms. Maybe you shouldn’t be so surprised he remembered.

“I love you, you know.” Leon murmurs, hesitantly and loosely taking your hand. Even in the dark, you can see him coming.

Your chest aches. “I know.”

Another long pause.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” When your head turns, he’s there, inches from your face.

“That it took me so long to pull my head from my ass. You are… my anchor in this crazy-ass world.” He squeezes your hand, hoping you’ll let him hold it for a while longer. “And I hurt you. You’re the sweetest woman I’ve ever met, and I love you, and I hurt you.”

Your burning eyes scrunch shut as you press your forehead to his.

“I just hope you forgive me—I hope one day, that I’m good enough for you to forgive me.” He whispers, voice wavering. “I want this to work. I want you. God, I miss you.”

Maybe that’s what you needed, you needed to hear him render his heart open.

You come closer, pressing your front to his.

“And even my job—“ He curses, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then the spot between your eyebrows. “I’ll quit.” When you giggle, he huffs. “I’m serious. Give me the word and I’ll quit.”

The tension in his chest eases when you tuck your head beneath his chin. “God, no, don’t do that. At least one of us needs an income.” You mutter, throwing an arm around his waist.

Forgiveness never felt so sweet.

LMAO this dude went outside and got petal'd on by a tree!!!!! WHAT A GOOF

by the roots

warnings: hair pulling, dom/sub themes

robert reynolds never thought of himself as having an affinity for having his hair pulled. in fact, he never even thought about it at all. any trysts between the sheets that he’d had before were rushed and impersonal. they were merely a way to try and fill the void he felt within himself, and to find a quick release and have someone warm his bed, if only for a few hours. but in the end, they’d leave, and he’d remain unfulfilled. there was no time to explore new kinks or desires. no time to establish the comfort required to do so.

but things were different now. he was in a good place. he had a roof over his head. a comfortable place to sleep. food in his belly. more books than he could ever dream of reading. and most importantly, he had a good support system. the team had taken him in as one of their own, forming a mismatched little family that wasn’t perfect by any means. but it was just what he needed. along with that, he’d developed a strong bond with each of them. but most importantly, he’d connected with you.

your romance hadn’t started right away. in the beginning, bob was in too fragile of a state to even entertain the idea of falling in love with someone. you, as well, weren’t ready for such a thing. instead, a friendship blossomed between you. something sweet and delicate, soft and light, like the petals of a rose. you spent time together as you adapted to life in the recently renovated avengers tower. at first, the place had felt cold and sterile, but together, the team had made it into a home. nicknacks and various odds and ends littered each surface. different posters decorated the walls. special touches left by each person. and along with that, came the feeling of home. a comfortable sort of warmth that settled upon your shoulders like a cozy blanket.

you weren’t sure when you started falling for robert. but it happened. gradually. as the tower started to feel more like home, so did he. you began spending more time together. enjoying little moments of peace. reading books together. sitting beside each other at dinner. exchanging shy glances in passing in the halls. and then came the movie nights. in which you would often find yourself curled against his side, warm and content. over time, this turned into shy touches. quiet whispers of “is this okay?” as you slid your hand into his own. and he would nod and smile, and say “it’s perfect.” because it was. you were the only one whose hand he could hold, without being transported into your darkest moment. perhaps it was because, in your presence, the darkness hid. it was still there, to some extent, because it would always be part of him. but it seemed that the light you brought into his life was enough to keep it at bay, if only for a little while.

and because you were the only one who could touch him fully, without fear of reliving unspeakable trauma, he found himself seeking it out more. linking your pinkies beneath the dinner table. sitting knee to knee on the floor as you built lego sets or worked on puzzles together. bumping shoulders as you walked side by side. those touches soon turned into something more deliberate. and as your love for one another progressed, so did your need. shy hand holding gave way to kissing. kissing gave way to lazily making out on the couch after everyone else had gone to bed. making out gave way to a sudden, desperate grinding against each other, fully clothed. things escalated until neither of you could resist stumbling into bed together for a session of tender, shy, giggly lovemaking. and that lit an insatiable fire in bob. he wanted more, more, more.

and you gave it to him. exploring each other’s bodies by the light of the moon shining in through your window. tasting, moaning, moving together as one. learning how the other ticked. what elicited the prettiest sounds, and delicious shivers, and quite pleas for more. and along with that came discovering what kinks you shared. including that of hair pulling. it was an accident at first. an action taken in the heat of the moment, as you straddled him in bed, hurriedly rolling your hips against his, cock seated deeply inside you. your mouths moved lazily against each other, whines and gasps mingling. your hands were tangled in his curls, and as you neared your peak, you involuntarily tugged on the roots. and to your utter amazement, bob squealed in surprise against your mouth, eyes rolling back in his head, and seconds later, you felt it. sticky warmth seeped into the deepest part of you, his cock pulsing as he pumped you full.

he buried his face against the side of your neck as he fell apart, and as he came down, he tensed beneath you. “oh…oh my god,” he whispered hoarsely. “oh no. i-i didn’t mean to do that, i—” but you knew he was seconds from rambling on, so you captured his mouth in a sweet kiss. “don’t you apologize. that was the hottest thing i’ve ever seen,” you admitted. his cheeks flushed red as he blinked up at you. “r-really?” as if he couldn’t believe you’d think such a thing. little did either of you know what you had just awakened. that moment led to many more, in which you would tug on his hair, just to test how he’d react. you’d do it when his head was between your legs, when he was on top of you, when you were riding him, so on and so forth. and he couldn’t get enough.

that was what led you to this very moment. this beautiful man kneeling reverently on the floor of your bedroom, eyes wide and earnest, gazing up at you as if you’d hung the moon and stars. you liked him like this. so willing to do anything you asked. so eager to please. “you’re my sweet boy, aren’t you?” you cooed, as you stroked your fingers down the slope of his button nose. “uh-huh,” he breathed, wishing you’d hurry things along. he was achingly hard, cock heavy and pulsing between his legs. but you wanted a verbal response, so you reached out, fingers curling into his roots, before you roughly (but not enough to hurt him) tugged his head back. he gasped sharply, eyes immediately glazing over, mouth parting. you gasped softly when you realized drool had begun to drip down the side of his mouth. “say it,” you instructed. he swallowed, trying to gather his wits about him, though his brain felt as if it was melting. “i-i’m your sweet boy.”

you couldn’t help but smile as you leaned down to kiss his wet lips. “that you are. and do you know what i do to sweet boys? i ruin them.” the moment you said those words, he nodded his head, as best he could with you holding onto his hair. “please. ruin me, i need it.” he craved it. lovingly, you bumped your forehead against his. “don’t worry, angel. when i’m finished with you, you won’t even remember your own name.” and you’d make good on that promise, that was for certain.

Yelena in Thunderbolts*:

And honestly, same.

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