Do You Know How Fucked Up Your Team Has To Be For Bucky Barnes To Be The Most Stable Member

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

bob sees you twice a week.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the beginning had been difficult.

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

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

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

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

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

“how are you feeling today, bob?”

“i’m okay. and you?”

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

“it was fine. how was yours?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and still—he came back.

infact, bob comes back the following friday. alone.

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

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

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

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

and he’s in a brown knit sweater.

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

before you can stop yourself, you speak.

“i like your sweater.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you let the silence stretch again. safe. waiting.

eventually, he speaks.

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

he trails off. you wait.

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

he swallows, eyes flicking down to the floor.

“i think i missed it.”

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

“i missed you, too.”

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

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

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

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

what the fuck were you thinking?

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

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

‘i missed you, too.’

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

jesus. what the hell was that?

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

and yet.

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

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

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

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

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

you’re a professional.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

even if it meant letting something else in, too.

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

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

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

bob is early.

of course he is.

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

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

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

“hey, bob.”

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

then he sees the sweater.

and pauses.

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

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

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

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

you gesture gently toward the couch. “sit?”

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

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

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

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

“still having nightmares?”

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

“what do you hear?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“jealous?” you echo.

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

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

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

you tilt your head. “scared you why?”

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

you inhale, slow and controlled.

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

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

“i think… it likes your voice.”

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

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

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

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

“can i stay a little longer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“just bring it back.”

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

“i will.”

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

peace doesn’t last long. 

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

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

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

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

you know who they mean.

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

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

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

you wait.

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

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

bob swallows.

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

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

then it all unspools.

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

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

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

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

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

bob flinches.

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

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

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

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

“you didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

“you were scared.”

“you’re not a monster.”

“you’re still here.”

each word lands like balm on an invisible wound.

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

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

“i’m so tired.”

you press your chin to the crown of his head.

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

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

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

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

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

and then—something shifts.

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

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

and your heart stops.

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

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

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

they are feeling.

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

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

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

you blink.

it’s gone.

just the window. just the rain.

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

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

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

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

“he hasn’t been sleeping again.”

“he says the meds taste like chalk.”

“they switched him to something stronger.”

never real. never personal.

never once about the void.

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

what would you even say?

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

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

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

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

except—it doesn’t feel like alone.

not really.

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

i didn’t mean to.

you shouldn’t feel the way you do.

but you do.

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

your hand slips low.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but then—

your hand falters.

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

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

you want to stop. you should stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“good girl.”

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

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

your hand flies to your ear.

dry.

your fingers are bone dry.

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

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

not yours.

not bob’s.

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

red.

deep.

not empty.

not hungry.

but yearning.

possessive.

wounded.

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

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

waiting.

friday comes around far too quickly. 

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

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

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

not disappointment—no, something closer to shame.

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

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

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

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

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

it’s friday again now.

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

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

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

but it isn’t them.

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

it’s bob.

or — at least, it looks like him.

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

not really.

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

and then… the other thing.

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

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

and neither of you speak.

the clock ticks too loud.

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

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

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

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

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

the way it hadn’t felt clinical.

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

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

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

and god.

there’s something else behind his eyes.

something ancient. hungry.

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

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

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

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

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

obvious. heavy against the fabric of his pants.

your breath stutters.

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

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

neither of you speak.

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

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

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

look at him.

and you do.

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

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

do it.

the command slithers through the room like smoke.

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

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

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

your name, somewhere in there, buried beneath need.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

yes. more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

let him. you’ll thank me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

fuck her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but he doesn’t stop. can’t stop.

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

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

the figure. the presence. the void.

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

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

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

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

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

breed her.

the command is silk-draped violence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but nothing is solid anymore.

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

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

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

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

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

do it, the voice hisses. take it.

and bob shatters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

he doesn’t have to speak.

doesn’t have to coax.

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

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

but he doesn’t.

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

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

but in something closer to awe.

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

even the old, endless things.

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

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

and above it all, the void hums.

content.

satisfied.

yours.

and in its own impossible, monstrous way;

loving you.

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.

If mentally unstable why pookie shaped?

15 dollars in hot topic

Sharing a Blunt with them

A/N: I honestly feel like out of all of them Tim would be the only one to smoke butttt this is fiction and I do what I want so I hope you all enjoy. Also I went to my first ever county fair today and I got licked by a cow. I can die happy now.

Dick Grayson x gn!reader, Jason Todd x gn!reader, Tim Drake x gn!reader

Content warnings: Weed, descriptions of getting high, Jason’s and Tim’s get smutty (my bad), oral sex (but it’s not detailed)

————

Dick Grayson

So this man would only get high if he’d been with you for a while. At first he out right refused to do anything with you, which you had respected. Over time however he sees how it affects you and he gets… curious.

It’s a lazy Saturday evening, Dick had gotten some of his many siblings to cover his patrol for him so he could take the night off with you. He’s watching you roll a blunt when he speaks so softly you can barely hear him.

“Could I try it?” He asks softly, watching the way you roll the paper with practiced precision.

You blank for a moment, stopping your movements as you glance up at him. When you’d first gotten together he’d been adamantly against doing it, and yet here he was… asking for a hit.

“Sure.” You say softly as you finish rolling it. You reach for a lighter and let the flame lick against the end of the blunt. You take a small hit and exhale into the air above you before passing the blunt to Dick.

“You ever hit anything before?” Dick shakes his head dumbly, like all thought had left his brain just from thinking of getting high.

“Alright.” You say as you gently guide his hand, and thus the blunt, towards his mouth. “Just suck on it like a straw for a half second, and then take a deep breath in.”

He hesitates a moment, looking at you for confirmation. When he gets it in the form of a gentle nod from you he follows your instructions and inhales carefully.

You wait a moment before pulling his wrist back, not wanting him to get to high right off the bat. You watch as he exhaled shakily, hesitating a moment before keeling over in a coughing fit. “Shit, sorry baby I forgot to warn you about the coughing.” You exclaim, rubbing his back gently in an attempt to soothe him. “You’ll be okay. Just breathe through it babe. Just breathe.”

It takes a few moments but he does stop coughing, and when he sits up he has a slightly glassy look in his eyes. “Holy shit.” He mummers. “I didn’t think that’d do anything.”

You can’t help but laugh gently as you take another hit, still gently rubbing his shoulder. “You okay baby?” You ask as you exhale, smoke billowing out of your mouth as you speak.

He nods, gazing upon you in what seems to be awe. “I uh- I really didn’t think that’d do anything.” He repeats and he leans forward to rest his forehead against your shoulder. You run your fingers through his hair as you finish off the rest of the blunt, Dick sitting still against your side.

As you finish off the blunt and toss the end into a nearby ash tray you carefully refocus your attention on the pile of vigilante that’s glued to your side. “You sure you’re okay baby?” You ask carefully, getting a half awake nod in response.

In the future when Dick gets high with you it goes much the same, he takes one, maybe two hits and he is out for the count. He gets clingy and touchy while high, not capable of doing much outside of craving skin contact and rambling about how pretty you are. Give him some water and don’t leave him alone until he’s more or less sober again and he’ll be just fine.

Overall, as long as you know what you’re doing, 7/10 to share a blunt with.

————

Jason Todd

This man has gotten high before, but he only does it once in a blue moon when he’s really stressed and his options for stress relief are either getting high or brutally killing someone. He knows it’s not healthy, but that’s never stopped him before. And besides, he still feels it’s better than the alternative.

I feel like the first time you get high with him would be on a stormy night, you’re lounging in bed in one of Jay’s T-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts. You’re on your phone, waiting until your common sense kicks in and tells you to put it down and go to sleep.

You’re lazily scrolling when you jump out of bed due to the sounds of crashing, stomping, and cursing coming from your living room. You carefully creep down your dimly let hallway, the baseball bat you keep under your bed gripped tightly in your hands.

You visibly relax at the sight of Jason in your living room, Red Hood helmet thrown on the floor and fiddling with something in his hands.

“You’re back early.” You say softly, resting your baseball bat against the wall as you walk behind him, resting your hands on his leather-clad shoulders.

He makes a vague grunt of acknowledgment at you and you peer over his shoulder to see what he’s doing. You stare in shock when you see him rolling a blunt.

“Uh, you gonna smoke that Jay?” You ask blankly, your grip on his shoulders loose in shock.

“Well I’m not messing with this shitty paper for fun.” He grunts quietly, laser focused on what his hands were doing.

You hop over the back of the couch to land next to him, resting your head on his shoulder as you watch him finish rolling the blunt, light it, and take a long drag. He exhales deeply before offering it to you.

You take the blunt and take a drag before passing it back to him. “Didn’t know you smoked Jay.” You mumble, pressing yourself against his side. He responds by leaning against the back of the couch with a groan, wrapping his arm around your shoulder while man-spreading shamelessly.

“Not normally.” He explains as he takes another hit. “But people were being fucking stupid today.” As he speaks his arm tightens around you slightly

You let out a hum of acknowledgment as he hands you the blunt, taking another hit as you look him up and down thoughtfully. “I could help take your mind off that.” You comment, already moving to lower yourself between his meaty thighs.

If this man is getting high, you know he’s very stressed. Give him some sloppy head and let him rut into you tiredly to help take his mind off it.

Overall 8/10 to get high with.

————

Tim Drake

Now this man is a whole different story, this man gets high at least 3 times a week. He comes home from a hard patrol? He’s pulling out a cart and taking a blinker before researching his latest case (he’s a firm believer he does his best work while blasted).

You want to spend a night in and get high? Sign him the fuck up. He’s not really a fan of blunts, he says they’re too much work, but he only gets the best of the best quality carts.

He’s fun to get high with too, he’ll lay across your lap, eyes tinged red as he takes another hit and coughs out a laugh before going on a rant about moth man and how he’s about 47% certain that’s he’s real. Say anything that vaguely sounds like a contradiction and he’ll launch into a rant about how you’re supposed to be on his side (all the while practically trying to bury himself in your skin).

Oh and you’ll be in for a long night if you get clingy while high. You lightly run your finger tips over his hip bone, trace a finger nail over the muscle of his arm, practically anything, and the next thing you know you’re on your back, your pants are nowhere to be seen, and you’re getting head so good you’re seeing stars. Tim normally has something to prove, Tim while high sees nothing wrong with showing you just why he’s the best. And if you can barely walk tomorrow? Well that’s just an added bonus.

You should definitely get high with Tim if given the chance, he’s bound to make you laugh and otherwise enjoy yourself. But whatever you do, make sure you have no plans tomorrow morning.

Overall 10/10, hope you don’t like walking cause you won’t be doing much of it.

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

y’all ever fantasize about a fictional character a little too hard to the point you’re convinced you should be admitted to a mental hospital?