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let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
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currently editing a bucky (kinda) forced (but not really) proximity summer fake dating fic that i made like 6 months ago......... should i just post it
The love songs and misconceptions fic was so good!!
Just after reading that, I came across this
https://www.instagram.com/reel/DTjFrY7EaEg/?igsh=MWp0cnJjbnM1MGlwYg==
Maybe reader decided to perform one of her concerts with this costume after bucky and her relationship is officially public??
omg this is so cute!! đ can def see this worn by her on a halloween special performance aCHK
stay tuned for the ((mini)) part 2 ! đ«Ą
tagging part 1 here
funny cuz i didn't completely know how tumblr works a year ago and i'm just finding out NOW that some of y'all messaged me đđ
love songs n' misconceptions (b.b.)
synopsis : Youâre a pop star, and the world is convinced you and Steve Rogers are the ultimate it couple. So when you headline a festival, everyone expects the final song to be about him, especially when you start walking through the crowd.
But you donât stop in front of Steve, you stop in front of Bucky Barnes.
pairing : james/bucky barnes x reader , winter soldier x reader
content : popstar!reader, boyfriend!bucky, SLIGHT secret dating ??
warning/s : none fs, pure flufffff
word count : maybe around 5.8k oh no
hi how r y'all, sorry for being inactive đââïž just watched fantastic four today!!!
May I request a Bob Reynolds x Villain!Reader who -despite being a villain and doing villain things- they treat Bob really well,?
Like- if they heard about how Walker treats Bob, they'd already be planning to go after him first or smthng,?? Idek,,, just food for thoughts()
ferra (r.r.)
synopsis : Youâre a weapon, feared, used, and long past redemption. The jobs donât feel like victories anymore, just noise between silences. Then you meet Bob Reynolds. Too quiet, too powerful, and far too familiar. You should have walked away. Instead, you saved him, and now youâre in deeper than you meant to be.
pairing : bob reynolds x reader
content : slight angst, action, villain!reader (?),
warning/s : violence, swearing, mentions of past trauma
word count : 3.5k
A/N: thank you sm for the request! @d3adbr3inc3lls teehee i hope u like this one !!
You werenât born a weapon.
But metal always loved you more than people did.
You learned that early, maybe too early. When your mother screamed and the bullet bent before it hit her, twisting midair like it had changed its mind. You remember her terrified face more than anything else. Not the blood. Not the man who ran. Just her, backing away from you like youâd grown claws.
You were seven.
Thatâs how it started.
Your power didnât manifest gently. There was no warm glow, no magical accident. It wasnât kind. It was messy and sharp and loud. You were loud. You cried for days afterward, not because you hurt someoneâbut because no one ever held you again.
By nine, you stopped flinching at sirens.
By eleven, you stopped waiting for help.
By thirteen, you were untraceable. Gone like smoke through every foster file, every underground program that wanted to âtrainâ kids like you. The labs wanted you. The recruiters whispered your name like it was prophecy. The mercenary networks put a price on your head before they even met you.
Not because you were dangerous.
Because you were useful.
You learned quick that the world didnât care if you were scared. Only if you were strong.
So you became strong.
By sixteen, you stopped caring about names altogether. You didnât need one when they called you âthe Iron Witch,â âthe ferromancer,â âthe girl with the gods-damned mind-magnet hands.â You didnât care what they thought, as long as they feared you. Fear was safe. Fear made people back off. Fear paid the bills.
And the bills were always coming.
Youâve twisted steel into chains and walls and coffins. Youâve stopped bullets mid-flight, melted guns into slag while still in their ownerâs grip, crushed skulls inside helmets without lifting a finger. Youâve dropped tanks from the sky. Youâve walked through warzones and left no survivors. Youâve been paid in gold, blood, and silence.
Because someone asked you to.
And thatâs the thing about power. Once people know you have it, they stop asking if you want anything else.
No one ever asked what you wanted.
Not peace. Not forgiveness.
Certainly not love.
For a while, you thought you didnât want anything else. You made a home out of silence. Built your bones out of iron and called it evolution. You convinced yourself that thisâthis mercenary, steel-skinned, blood-washed lifeâwas freedom.
But freedom starts to rot when itâs just isolation in a prettier cage.
Then came the nights where even metal couldnât drown out the silence. The weight of your own armor started to feel like a coffin. The kills got too easy. The jobs got too clean. You stopped sleeping well. Stopped laughing. Stopped pretending you liked the person you saw in the mirror. All you saw were sharp edges. All you heard was the sound of your own breath and the hum of weaponized walls.
You started to wonder if youâd always feel this alone.
And now?
Now youâre standing in a half-collapsed weapons facility in the Balkans, chasing something that might be worse than all the other jobs youâve done put together. A âgraviton pulse stabilizerâ with phase-bending capabilitiesâsomething the wrong buyer could use to rewrite physics. To erase the laws of reality like a chalkboard. You donât even want it. You told yourself you took the job because it was dangerous, and because if you didnât get there first, someone worse would.
Thatâs the excuse you gave yourself.
But really?
You came because the Thunderbolts were coming too.
Because he was coming.
You wanted to see what second chances looked like.
You wanted to see him.
Bob Reynolds. The golden boy turned nuclear ghost. Youâd read about him. Watched the footage.Somehow both the strongest and the most unstable of the bunch. You heard the whispers. The rumors. The fear that trembled behind closed doors.
He wasnât what they called him.
Not just âThe Void.â Not just a bomb in human skin.
No. Youâd seen his file.
You saw the way he disappeared from fights more than he started them. The way he volunteered for backline duty, always carrying what the others needed. The way he stood slightly behind the rest, as if afraid of taking up space. The way he looked down in every surveillance clip, like the camera might flay him open if he met its gaze.
Someone like that⊠you understood.
Power that big didnât come without breaking something first.
You wonder what broke in him. And whether it was the same thing that broke in you.
You move silently through the rusted remains of the upper floor, your boots gliding over warped steel catwalks. The old facility breathes around youâmetal pipes groaning, floor beams shifting beneath the weight of history. The air is heavy with the scent of damp concrete, rust, and something darker beneath itâgunpowder, old smoke, dried blood trapped in stone.
Your fingers ghost along the wall. The pipes hum beneath your skin. Thereâs iron in the paint, copper in the wire, fragments of old blood in the dust. It listens when you touch it. The whole building does. The girders shiver at your passing. The screws twist a little looser, as if happy to see you.
This broken, half-dead ruin of a war machine. And for now, youâre the only god it worships.
But you didnât come to rule, you came to watch.
You came to find the one man who might understand what it feels like to be a weapon no one asked to make.
You came to see if thereâs still something in this world that doesnât turn to steel when you reach for it.
And if there isnât?
Then at least youâll know.
Far below, across the fractured ribcage of the facility, something shifts.
Not the team. Youâd recognize their weightâtoo heavy, too clumsy, too loud in the way soldiers always are. This is something else. Quieter. Hesitant.
You pause at the edge of a collapsed stairwell and feel the breath of metal shift through your lungs. It tells you before your eyes do.
Heâs close.
Bob doesnât hear her at first.
He feels her.
The echo of something magnetic. Not literal magnetismâheâs immune to that. But something more primal, like a thread tugging at the corners of his awareness. His skin prickles beneath the sleeves of his black tactical shirt, the borrowed Thunderbolts insignia feeling suddenly too snug across his shoulder blades. The weight of the portable containment unit slung across his back should ground him, but it doesnât.
Somethingâs off.
Heâs not one to say that aloudâheâs already the weird one, the twitchy one, the backliner with a temperamental nuclear god curled up in his ribcageâbut he knows what it means when his instincts twist like this.
Heâs being watched.
He adjusts the strap on his shoulder and slows his steps. His boots scuff against the concrete, careful and measured. The corridors here are tight, long-abandoned, gutted of anything valuable decades ago. Walls of peeling paint, corroded metal, broken signage in Cyrillic. The lights on his suit flicker faint blue against rust and shadow.
He doesnât call for the others.
If somethingâs waiting for him, itâs not for them.
He rounds the corner. And there she is.
Propped casually against the metal frame of a broken doorway, arms crossed, a lazy smirk blooming like a bruise across her mouth.
Sheâs not dressed like the mercs they were briefed on. No heavy gear, no visible weapons. Just combat boots scuffed silver at the soles, black utility pants cinched with magnetic buckles, and a dark fitted jacket with plates of reinforced alloy glinting faintly beneath the fabric. She looks like she built her own armor and made it look good doing it.
Her eyes are lit with something half-feral, half-amused.
âHey, cutie,â she says, voice silk-wrapped iron. âBob, isnât it?â
His mouth opens. Closes.
He blinks like a man short-circuiting.
âYou have something I want.â
The containment unit on his back suddenly feels very, very heavy.
He shifts slightly, posture tightening. âWe canât just give it to you.â
âI figured youâd say that.â She shrugs, lazy and unbothered, like sheâs got all the time in the world to toy with him. âBut I thought itâd be polite to ask first. You seemed like the polite one.â
âHow do you know who I am?â he asks, quiet but direct.
She grins wider. âOh, Bob. You donât know how many people watch you. Most of them are scared.â Her gaze rakes himâslow, analytical, amused. âIâm just⊠curious.â
He swallows hard. The hallway is too narrow. The air too thick. And her presence is loud without raising her voiceâmetal curls toward her like ivy to sunlight. The rusted screws in the wall vibrate when she shifts her weight. Even the broken pipes seem to listen.
Thenâ
âBob?â Yelenaâs voice cracks through his comm. Distant, somewhere on the west wing. âDo you copy? Got movement near Sector C.â
His head turns slightly, just for a second. But when he looks backâ
Sheâs gone.
Just a faint vibration in the walls. A memory left in the air.
He breathes out slowly.
And for some reason, it almost feels like disappointment.
Bob stands frozen, his chest heaving slightly, still staring at the empty space where she stood a second ago. His ears ring from the silence she left behind, sharper than any explosion. Then the comms crackle againâYelenaâs voice cutting in, crisp and impatient.
âBob? Youâre lagging. Talk to me.â
He forces a breath out, fingers tapping his earpiece.
âYeah. Iâm here.â
âYou sound weird.â
He hesitates, gaze still searching the shadows.
âJust⊠thought I saw someone.â
Thereâs a pause on the line. Then, with the unmistakable smirk in her tone:
âWas she hot?â
He doesnât reply. Because yes. She was. But it wasnât just that.
She felt like an unfinished sentenceâboth unsettling and magnetic. Something about her clung to the edges of his thoughts, even after sheâd slipped back into the dark like sheâd never been.
He breathes out through his nose, tension tightening between his shoulders.
Thatâs when the first shot cracks through the air.
Far off at first. Then closer.
Itâs followed by another. And anotherâuntil the air is vibrating with it. A shuddering percussion of automatic gunfire rattling through the steel skeleton of the building.
âContact! Third floor westâtwelve targets, at least!â Avaâs voice bursts through the comms, loud over the staccato gunfire. âUnknown affiliation. Theyâre not on our list.â
âCopy that.â Bucky, already moving.
Bob spins toward the source of the noise, his boots scuffing over cracked concrete. His grip tightens on the sleek black pack strapped to his chestâthe one carrying the weapon they were sent to retrieve. He can feel it pulsing faintly beneath the reinforced layers, like something alive is trying to wake up.
The hallway stretches ahead in ruin, flickering lights casting erratic shadows across warped steel beams. Dust filters down like ash from the upper levels, stirred by the footfalls of something heavy. Bob breaks into a run, rounding the cornerâ
And freezes.
Dozens of them.
They move like a hiveâ dark armored figures flooding into the space from a breached service door, their weapons raised. No symbols. No identifiers. No hesitation. They arenât part of any team heâs briefed on. These guys donât want the weapon for a mission, they want it for power.
Bucky is already engaged, trading blows with two attackers. Ava blinks in and out of visibility, phasing through solid walls and reappearing behind enemies with knives drawn. Yelena throws a flashbomb that sends sparks scattering. Alexei grabs a man by the torso and slams him into the ceiling like heâs swatting a fly.
Bob ducks behind a crumbling pillar, heart pounding, trying not to crush the pack as stray bullets ricochet dangerously close.
Another burst of gunfireâcloser nowâsends debris raining over his head. He risks a glance toward Ava, just in time to see a sniper lining her up in their sights.
And then the bullet stops.
Not misses.
Stops.
Frozen in midair like it hit a wall made of thought.
Time doesnât stop. But for a moment, the air feels thick with staticâevery sound distorted, every motion just a fraction too slow. Bobâs eyes snap to the origin.
And there she is again. Unannounced. Unbothered.
Standing in the chaos like she belongs to it.
The bullets hover around her like planets orbiting a sun. She doesnât even flinch. Her hand is raised lazily, her fingers poised like sheâs playing a piano only she can hear. Her coatâblack leather, long and battle-wornâflares around her knees. Dust settles in her hair like a crown.
She turns her wrist. The bullets drop.
One by one. A clattering rainfall of lead hitting the floor.
Bob stares. Not just at what she can do, but at the way she chooses to do it.
She stopped them.
She didnât retaliate. Didnât redirect. Just⊠stopped it all.
âSheâs not with them!â Bob shouts, rising from cover. His voice is loud, cutting through the gunfireâbut whether the others hear him or not, theyâre too deep into the fight to pause.
Walkerâs already mid-charge. His shield slices the air in a clean arc, sailing toward her like a buzzsaw.
She doesnât move.
She doesnât need to.
The shield twists midflightâsnatched from its path and slammed down at her feet with a sharp clatter, controlled like it never belonged to him in the first place.
She doesnât speak.
But her expression shiftsâirritation blooming across her face like a storm cloud.
Her eyes flick to Bob.
Walker doesnât back down. He lunges again, faster this time, less thinking, more brute force.
And thatâs when she lifts her hand, just two fingers, and the metal beneath Walkerâs boots rises.
A spike of iron twists out of the floor like a fang. It slices through his tactical vest and cuts a shallow line across his ribs, stopping just short of real damage.
He stumbles back, wide-eyed.
âEnough!â Bobâs voice breaks through again. He pushes forward, hand out, trying to reach her before this gets worse.
She doesnât raise another weapon. Doesnât retreat.
She turns to face him fully for the first time.
And in that moment, Bob sees the truth that the rest of the team is missing.
The set of her shoulders. The control in her stance. The restraint on her face.
Sheâs helping them.
Sheâs choosing not to kill them.
Before he can say anything else, the wall behind her explodesâmercs breaching from the south wing. Three of them, armed with heavy artillery, firing wildly.
She doesnât flinch.
Instead, she yanks an entire sheet of ceiling metal down with a sweep of her arm, twisting it into a makeshift shield that curves around Bob, Yelena, and Ava before the bullets can make contact.
The noise is deafening. Rounds hitting steel like a drumline.
And she holds it.
One hand. Breathing steady. Eyes locked on Bob the entire time.l
He watches the metal glow faintly red from the heat of impact, then cool beneath her control. When the storm dies down, she lets it fall with a thunderous slam.
Sheâs covered in dust now. Smudges of soot on her jaw, blood on her sleeveâsomeone elseâs, he thinks.
She takes a single step forward.
Bob does too.
Then Walker, furious, yells from behind them, âSheâs right here and you let her go? What the hell do you even do, Reynolds?!â
And before Bob can answerâbefore he can even breatheâ
The shield twitches.
Lifts.
Spins in the air like it remembers who really listens to metal.
And flies straight back at Walker.
But it stopsâmidairâhovering just an inch from his sternum.
Held there by invisible strings.
Sheâs glaring now, shoulders tight, mouth hard with fury.
âYou want to try that again, asshole?â she snaps.
Bob doesnât think. He movesâcrossing the few feet between them and grabbing her wrist before she can hurl the shield with lethal force.
Her pulse thrums under his hand.
Her gaze flicks to his.
And just like thatâthe metal drops.
The air stills.
And in that space between violence and choice, something clicks.
Theyâre the same kind of dangerous, but maybe not to each other.
The moment her fingers leave the edge of Bobâs wrist, sheâs moving again.
No words. No thanks. Just a flick of her eyes toward the scattered remains of the facility and the sharp metallic whine of something rising.
Bob whirls around just in time to see the security vault breach openâtwisted apart like a peeled tin can. The weapon they were sent to retrieve, the one tucked behind five layers of biometric locks and reinforced alloys, floats to her open hand.
Itâs not what he expected.
No glowing core, no sleek casing. It looks almost ancientâcylindrical, faintly humming, etched with equations even he canât parse in the second he glimpses it. Like it doesnât belong in any timeline.
âWaitâ!â Bob starts.
But sheâs already backing away, the weapon cradled against her hip like it was always meant for her. She gives him a lookâequal parts regret and something warmer, softer, like she had considered staying.
Then she vanishes.
Metal peels back from the ceiling above her, forming a narrow escape tunnel. She rises with itâher shadow trailing like smokeâuntil the darkness swallows her whole.
This time, she doesnât leave a bullet behind to stop.
Two hours later. Thunderbolts debrief room.
Val paces in front of the team like a drill sergeant with a caffeine addiction, tablet in one hand and sarcasm in the other.
âSo let me get this straight,â she begins, boots clicking sharply across the metal floor. âYou all fought off an unknown mercenary group, nearly died, and then let some goth scrapheap Barbie steal the very weapon we were sent to secure?â
Yelena slouches in her seat. âTechnically, she helped.â
âShe robbed us.â
âShe saved us, then robbed us,â Ava offers flatly. âImportant difference.â
Alexei grunts. âShe was⊠very fast.â
John scoffs, arms crossed. âShe made me bleed.â
âGood. Youâre overdue.â Yelena doesnât even look at him.
Val pinches the bridge of her nose. âYou guys are unbelievable.â
Her eyes dart to Bob. Heâs seated at the far end, hands folded too neatly, staring at the dark smear of dried blood on his boot like itâs got answers.
âAnd you,â Val barks. âOur backpack boy. The hell were you doing while she made off with the prize?"
Bob looks up. Quiet. âTrying not to get anyone killed.â
âOh, well, round of applause,â she snaps. âMaybe next time you try a little harder not to help the enemy.â
âSheâs not the enemy,â Bob says without thinking.
Val freezes. âOh no?â
âShe didnât shoot us. She stopped them from killing us. She had our backs.â
âShe had our weapon.â
Valâs voice rises. âFor all we know, sheâs going to sell it to the highest bidder or crack open a wormhole in her living room. We donât know anything about herââ
A door hisses open behind them.
They all turn as a figure steps through the threshold, calm as a gunshot in the dark.
Long coat. One eye.
Nick Fury.
He doesnât say anything at first. Just strolls in, takes in the chaos, and raises a brow.
Val gestures wildly toward the screens behind her, which are replaying grainy footage of you stopping bullets mid-air and folding a blast door like paper. âDo you know what this is? Who the hell helped who out there?!â
Fury doesnât flinch. He steps forward, tilts his chin at the paused screen.
âWe call the subject: Ferra,â he says evenly. âReal name: unknown. Age: estimated early twenties. First surfaced in Moscow when she was around thirteen, leveling a black market tech ring in under five minutes. SHIELDâs been tracking her ever since.â
Yelena blinks. âYou mean you knew she existed this whole time?â
Fury nods. âSheâs a ghost with a kill record that puts most of your dossiers to shame. She doesnât work for anyone. She doesnât like anyone. Which means if she showed up, it wasnât for the money.â
Bob straightens. âThen why?â
Fury glances at him. Thereâs something unreadable in his expression.
âThatâs what weâre going to find out.â
Val sighs, dragging a hand down her face. âYouâre telling me SHIELDâs Most Wanted just walked into our mission, saved your asses, stole the target, and now weâre justâwhatâgonna go look for her like a goddamn scavenger hunt?â
Fury just turns to the team, hands behind his back.
âNext missionâs simple. You find her. You figure out what she wants. And if thereâs even a chance sheâs planning to use that thingââ
He meets Bobâs eyes again.
ââyou stop her.â
Silence settles again.
Bob exhales slowly.
And for the first time since she vanished, something flickers behind his sternum.
She didnât hurt them. She chose not to.
And whatever came nextâŠ
He wasnât going to let her face it alone.
A/N : first request! :>>> lmk what u think!
A/N 2 : not proofread yet ik im sorry
i'm suffering from writer's block y'all what do i do
scarlet johannson did not spend an entire decade fighting tooth and nail to make natasha into an actual character instead of the sex object writers wanted her to be while also having to endure the most vile, misogynistic questions during press tours for people to now disrespect her legacy because yelena is 'better'. the only reason why that is, is because of everything scarlet went through. natasha singlehandedly paved the way for every other female superhero in the mcu and don't you forget that
the popcorn incident (r.r.)
synopsis : You hate Bob Reynolds. Or at least, thatâs what you keep telling yourself â ever since he pulled away and got closer to Yelena. Now you spend most of your time ranting about him to BuckyâŠ
Meanwhile, Bob spends most of his time avoiding you. (Because heâs pretty sure you like Bucky. And heâs very sure heâs in love with you.)
pairing : robert 'bob' reynolds x reader / sentry x reader
content : pure fluff (again lol don't hate me on this), slight enemiestolovers!au , friendstolovers!au , jealous!bobreynolds
warning/s : kinda cheesy idk
word count : 4.6k
not me giggling at bucky edits on tiktok đ„¶
if youâre looking for a sign to write a friends to lovers bob x reader fic here it is!!
(or better yet one where he has a massive crush on reader but assumes itâs unrequited)
SHOULD I SHOULD I ?
rip 2012-2014 tumblr, you would have LOVED thunderbolts*
do you realise how fucked up this group has to be when bucky barnes is the most stable out of all of them
between book pages and baked pies (r.r.)
summary : He came in on Thursdays. Always looking for new books to read. Always smiled like he didnât quite belong anywhere. Then, you asked him to pretend to be your boyfriend for one night. And he said yes.
Then you found out heâs the Sentry â
and suddenly, pretending doesnât feel so simple anymore.
pairing : robert 'bob' reynolds x reader / sentry x reader
content : basically just fluff, fakedating!au, fakeboyfriend!au
warnings : none
word count : 7k
Thursday, 10:43 am.
You glance up, and there he is.
Youâve seen him before. Always on Thursdays, always around the same time. Always with that same energy â like he doesnât quite belong to this world, or maybe just doesnât expect to be noticed in it.
He has messy hair, a too-worn jacket, and the kind of posture that says please donât ask me anything, but Iâm also not in a hurry to leave.
Today, for the first time, he meets your eyes.
You smile. âBack again. Thatâs three Thursdays in a row.â
He blinks, like heâs surprised youâve been keeping count.
ââŠI like it here,â he says, voice quiet but not shy. Just gentle.
âMost people say that when theyâre avoiding something,â you joke lightly, leaning your elbows on the counter. âBad day?â
He shrugs. âItâs a day.â
Fair.
He heads toward the fantasy section, the same corner he always drifts to. You try not to stare â you really do â but itâs hard not to watch the way he slows down at the shelves like theyâre familiar terrain.
After a few minutes, he returns with two paperbacks â both epic fantasy, both with weathered covers and dramatic titles like The Hollow Crown and Ash and Sovereign.
You ring them up, sneaking a glance. âYou like the ones where the world almost ends?â
He gives a faint smile. âSometimes I like when it doesnât.â
You pause, curious. âYou a writer?â
He shakes his head. âNo. Just⊠a fan.â
âI get it,â you say, handing him the bag. âBooks are a safer way to live dangerously.â
He smiles at that. A little more real.
Then, on impulse, you ask, âSo, what do you do?â
He hesitates just a second longer than most people would.
ââŠSometimes I help save the world,â he says, deadpan.
You blink. And then you laugh, because thereâs something about the way he says it â so dry and sincere â that itâs obviously a joke. Or at least⊠you think it is.
âWow,â you grin. âThatâs bold. You a firefighter or a Marvel cosplayer?â
He shrugs one shoulder. âSomething like that.â
You hand him his receipt, eyes narrowing playfully. âWell, mysterious world-saver, if you ever want book recommendations, let me know. Weâve got a great section for heroes with identity crises.â
He nods, turning toward the door. âIâll keep that in mind.â
Heâs almost gone when he pauses and looks back.
âWhatâs your name?â he asks you, and you tell him.
He nods once. âIâm Bob.â
Then heâs gone.
The bell chimes again â sharper this time. Final.
You stand there for a moment, watching the door swing closed behind him. Then you shake your head and go back to restocking the display.
Still, for some reason, you keep thinking about him.
Bob.
âËâĄ
Your phone lights up with the most dangerous contact in your list: Mom.
You stare at it for a second, debating whether to let it go to voicemail.
Then you sigh, hit accept, and brace yourself.
âHi, sweetheart!â your momâs voice practically sings as you answer. âI was starting to think youâd forgotten how to use a phone.â
You smile, mouth full of lukewarm noodles. âHi, Mom. You called me yesterday.â
âI know, I just missed you. So sue me.â
Thereâs a beat where you brace yourself. And sure enoughâ
âSo, listen,â she continues, far too casually. âNext Saturday weâre doing dinner at our place. Just the usual â your aunts, cousins, possibly Grandma if we can coax her out of her crosswords. Nothing formal, but, you know, nice.â
âMmhmm.â You sip your drink, waiting.
âWe were thinking 6 oâclock. And of course weâll do something vegetarian for youâoh, and listen, your cousin Chelsea is bringing that new boyfriend. Super cute. Works in finance. Wears suits on weekends. Can you imagine?â
There it is.
âAnyway,â she adds, far too lightly, âI just thought Iâd ask â are you seeing anyone these days? Anyone worth bringing?â
You snort. âBringing where? Into the lionâs den of a family dinner?â
âOh come on,â she laughs. âWeâre not that bad.â
You give her a look she canât see. âLast time Aunt Diane tried to set me up with her neighborâs chiropractor, and Uncle Marty asked if Iâd frozen my eggs.â
âShe meant well. He didnât, butâstill.â
You roll your eyes. âNo, Mom. Iâm not bringing anyone.â
âYouâre not?â Her voice dips into gentle disappointment. âNot even just as a friend? You have such a sweet personality. I feel like people must just gravitate to you.â
You hum noncommittally, casually glancing toward your bookshelf. Your eyes drift to the spot where you keep returns and holds â including two fantasy books still waiting for a certain quiet customer to pick up.
You think of Bob, his soft smile, the way he said âSometimes I help save the worldâ like it wasnât even strange.
But you say nothing.
âAnyway,â your mom chirps on. âNo pressure. Just⊠you know. Youâre not getting any less amazing with time.â
âThatâs not how time works, Mom.â
âSemantics. Just let me know, okay? Weâll keep a seat open. Just in case.â
You sigh and mutter, âOkay.â
Sheâs already launching into a story about a raccoon in the neighborâs shed by the time you close your eyes and groan into your throw pillow.
You definitely donât have a date.
You definitely donât need one.
âŠBut your brain is already wondering what Bob looks like when heâs not rain-damp and bookstore quiet.
âËâĄ
Tuesday, 11:07 am.
The bell over the door rings, and â like clockwork â you glance up.
There he is.
Bob.
Same as always, but also⊠not. His jacketâs still weathered, but he looks a little more put-together today. Hair slightly neater. Like maybe he didnât get caught in a wind tunnel on the way over. Less cryptid, more mysterious traveler passing through town.
He doesnât say anything at first. Just gives a quick scan of the room before heading straight for the back... for the fantasy section. His usual.
You try not to smile.
Try.
âTuesday this time?â you call out from behind the counter, tone light. âSwitching it up?â
Bob glances over, mouth tugging up slightly. âHad some time.â
You nod, watching as his hand drifts over the table display near the entrance â new paperbacks, some with gold foil titles and overdramatic taglines. He doesnât stop there long. Just a brush of his fingers across the covers before moving on.
âYou sure itâs not just the emotionally damaged swordsmen calling to you again?â you add, moving toward a nearby shelf with a stack of returns.
He raises a brow, pausing in front of a familiar book. âMaybe I like consistency.â
âBold choice in this economy.â
That gets you a huff of amusement, soft and unexpected.
He picks up The Lantern War â you know the one. Mid-trilogy. Sad prince. Betrayals. Youâve read it twice and cried both times. He opens it, flipping through the first few pages with surprising care, like heâs searching for something he might have missed the last time he held it.
You lean against a nearby shelf, casually.
âYou know,â you begin, tone half-teasing, âyou donât talk much, but youâve got this whole mysterious loner with a tragic past thing going on.â
Bob looks up â startled, but not annoyed. Just a little caught off guard.
âPeople pay for that kind of vibe on dating apps,â you add quickly, before you lose your nerve.
He blinks.
You wince. âSorry. That was weird. Iâve just⊠been talking to my mom too much lately. Sheâs on this campaign to get me to bring someone to a family dinner and now I think Iâm starting to project âpotential boyfriend materialâ onto every semi-normal customer.â
Bob doesnât laugh, exactly â but something close. A breath. A smile. Small and real.
âIâll take that as a compliment,â he says, gently placing the book under his arm.
You nod. âIt was meant to be one.â
The air shifts then. Not awkward â not yet â but quieter. You both stand there for a beat too long, not speaking. The store is still around you: soft music playing low, dust motes catching in the light near the windows, the occasional creak of the building settling. Cozy, lived-in quiet.
You watch him for a second longer than you should.
He always lingers when heâs here. Not like heâs killing time. Like heâs⊠catching his breath.
You donât say it â not aloud, not now. But something clicks. The beginnings of an idea. Stupid, insane, utterly desperate.
Still.
As he approaches the counter, you glance at him sideways.
He wouldnât. Thatâs insane. Would he?
He pays in cash, always cash, and nods politely.
âThanks,â he says.
âSee you Thursday?â you ask, voice light, playful.
He pauses, then shrugs. âMaybe.â
You watch him step back out into the sunlight, his silhouette framed by the door before it swings closed behind him. The bell chimes again. He disappears down the street, a figure in motion.
And youâre still watching the door when the next customer steps up and gently clears their throat.
Right. Work.
You turn back to the register, hands moving automatically â scanning books, making small talk â but your brainâs somewhere else.
âËâĄ
âHi, honey!â she sings the second you answer. âDonât panic â this is not a âguilt you into bringing a boyfriendâ call.â
You snort. âYou literally said the word âboyfriendâ in the first sentence.â
âOkay, technically,â she says, unfazed, âbut Iâm just calling about the family dinner this Saturday.â
You sigh and lean against the counter. âI know, I know. 6 p.m., casserole, deeply invasive questions from Aunt Dianeââ
âOh, speaking of Aunt Diane,â she says sweetly, which shouldâve been your warning, âshe knows this great guy from her pickleball leagueâworks in insurance, divorced once, only a little bitter. She wants to bring him to dinner for you to meet.
Your stomach sinks.
You stare at your fridge like it might offer an escape hatch.
âIâMom, no.â
âWell, honey,â she says, trying for innocent, âyou havenât said youâre bringing anyone. And if youâre still singleââ
âIâm not.â
Silence.
Your heart drops into your socks. You scramble.
âI mean. I am. Seeing someone. Kind of. Itâs been, like, a month.â
A pause. Too long.
âYou are?â she says slowly.
You wince. âYeah. I didnât want to bring him because, you know, the whole interrogation-by-relatives thing. I didnât want to scare him off. Heâs⊠kind of shy.â
Your mom gasps like you just told her sheâs finally getting a grandchild.
âOh my god, why didnât you tell me sooner?! Whatâs he like? Is he nice? Where did you meet? Does he like dogs?â
âMom, calm down,â you say quickly, pacing now. âHeâs just⊠quiet. And really kind. And, you know. Nice.â
You mentally kick yourself.
âWell, now you have to bring him,â she insists. âIf heâs already survived a month with you, heâs clearly got staying power.â
You laugh sharply. âGee, thanks.â
She chuckles. âIâm just saying â you never bring anyone. This is a big deal.â
You force a smile into your voice. âLet me talk to him first, okay? Iâll see if heâs up for it.â
âPromise me youâll try.â
ââŠPromise.â
You hang up, staring at your reflection in the microwave door.
Mouth open. Brain screaming.
You just fake-dated someone in a conversation.
Now all you have to do is actually find someone to play the boyfriend youâve apparently been dating for a month.
You think of Bob. The quiet guy who reads about broken heroes and once joked about saving the world.
And for some godforsaken reasonâŠ
âŠyou think he might actually say yes.
âËâĄ
Thursday, 12:45 pm
Itâs raining again.
Of course it is.
A slow, steady drizzle beads against the front windows, softening the city outside into watercolor shapes. Inside, the shop smells like paper and cedar polish, with a hint of peppermint from the tin you cracked open after lunch. A jazz cover of something vaguely familiar plays from the old speakers near the register, barely audible over the patter of rain and your quiet muttering.
âTwo days late on the shipment, again, and if they swap my fantasy order with true crime one more timeââ you grumble under your breath, balancing a stack of returns against your hip as you shuffle toward the front display. âWho even wants twelve copies of Stabbing for Dummies?â
You sigh, crouch to fit the bottom shelf, and toss a glance at the fogged-up door.
âI swear, if one more teenager asks where we keep the smut, Iâm moving to the mountains. Iâll sell rocks. Iâll become a rock girl.â
The bell above the door chimes.
Right on cue.
You straighten just a little too fast and nearly drop a paperback. âWelcome in,â you call absently, trying to sound composed â but you already know.
Itâs him.
You donât need to look.
Still, you do â and there he is.
Bob stands just inside the doorway, rain misted in his hair, the shoulders of his dark green hoodie slightly damp beneath a black denim jacket. His jeans are worn in the knees. The laces of his boots are uneven. He looks like he walked through the rain on purpose, like the storm outside didnât even try to stop him.
Thereâs a quietness to him that doesnât feel awkward anymore. Just familiar.
âBack to your usual Thursday shift?â you ask, setting a book down and turning toward him fully now.
He gives a one-shoulder shrug. âIt felt wrong not to.â
Thereâs something steadier about him today. He still carries that bone-deep kind of tired â like his bodyâs been holding something heavy for too long â but his gaze doesnât flick away as fast when your eyes meet. He lets the quiet settle for a beat before moving deeper into the store.
You catch yourself smoothing your shirt before following him.
âLet me guess,â you say as he veers toward the back. âFantasy section?â
âAlways.â
You trail a few paces behind, grabbing a book thatâs been reshelved in the wrong genre. Thereâs no one else in the store right now. Just the two of you, and the occasional whisper of rain against the windows.
He stops in front of a display and picks up The Sword Beneath the Throne. Studies the cover like it holds some secret he hasnât cracked yet.
You rest your elbow against a shelf. âThat oneâs going to wreck you emotionally,â you warn, teasing. âBut, you know. In a noble sacrifice kind of way.â
Bob glances over. âGood to know.â
You hesitate â just for a second. Then you inhale, let the moment linger, and say: âHey⊠can I ask you something kind of weird?â
His eyes shift to yours â cautious, but open.
âSure.â
You clear your throat, suddenly aware of every sound in the store. âSo⊠hypothetically,â you begin, with what you hope is a breezy tone, âif someone were being â letâs say â aggressively pressured by their entire family to bring a boyfriend to a dinnerâlike, a big oneââ
âOkay,â he says slowly, still holding the book.
âAnd they may or may not have panicked and told said family theyâd already been dating someone for a month⊠someone who does not, technically, existââ
Bobâs brow arches slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching.
âGo on."
âWould it be completely unhinged to ask you to maybe⊠pretend to be that person? Just for a night. Three hours max. Thereâs pie.â
Silence.
Bob doesnât laugh. Doesnât recoil.
He just watches you.
And you, of course, rush in to fill the quiet.
âI know itâs weird. And probably creepy. And I swear Iâm not dangerous. You donât even really know me. But youâre the only person I know who could pull off being quiet and normal enough to not scare my mom or make my aunts think Iâm secretly dating a war criminal.â
His expression shifts â thoughtful now, not unreadable. Still holding the book, but not looking at it anymore.
âAnd if it helps,â you add quickly, âI already told them youâre shy. So you wouldnât even have to say much. Just⊠look human. Maybe compliment the stuffing. Smile once. Pretend Iâm charming.â
He tilts his head slightly.
âYou want me to pretend to be your boyfriend?â
âJust for a night,â you say. âNo pressure. No long con. Just mashed potatoes and survival.â
ââŠBecause your mom threatened you with a pickleball player.â
You blink. âWait. How do youâ?â
âYou talk while you shelve books,â he says simply, mouth quirking. âI pick things up.â
You gape at him for a beat. Then snort.
And then laugh. A real one. It escapes before you can stop it â bright and ridiculous and yours.
Bob⊠smiles.
Itâs small. A blink-and-youâll-miss-it thing. But itâs there.
âSo?â you say, biting your lip. âWould you consider it? I canât offer much. Just pie. And probably embarrassing levels of gratitude.â
He sets the book down.
Looks at you.
A long moment passes.
âOkay,â he says.
You blink. âWait â really?â
He nods, like itâs the simplest thing in the world. âWhy not.â
âYou didnât even ask what kind of pie.â
âI trust your judgment.â
You squint at him. âYouâre either the nicest person alive, or wildly unhinged yourself.â
Bob shrugs. âCanât it be both?â
Something in your chest tightens â in a good way.
âDinnerâs Saturday,â you say softly. âAt my parentsâ. Here's... the address?â you added as you handed him a yellow post-it note with your parent's address in red ink, which was actually written not even ten minutes before.
You wrote it thinking that there's an 80% chance he'll accept it.
And he actually did.
He nods. âShould I wear something nice?â
âHonestly,â you say, âif you show up looking like less of a cryptid than usual, my family will be thrilled.â
âIâll see what I can do.â
He turns to leave, hood pulled up lazily as he disappears into the rainy street â a figure blurred by drizzle and glass.
And you?
You stand behind the counter, staring after him.
Your hands are a little shaky. Not from nerves.
From relief. And something else.
Excitement, maybe.
Because somehow, against all logic and odds â
Bob said yes.
âËâĄ
Saturday, 5:49 pm
âNot too much sugar,â your mom says over your shoulder, peeking into the mixing bowl as if she doesnât trust you with a spoon.
You hold the measuring cup up dramatically. âMom, youâve raised me. If I die of poor pie proportions, itâs on you.â
She snorts and hands you the nutmeg. âDonât tempt me.â
You smile, despite yourself. The kitchen is warm in that nostalgic way â cluttered, golden light filtering in through the curtains, something soft playing from the old speaker by the fridge. Youâre elbow-deep in pie filling, sleeves rolled up, and trying not to think about how insane this all is.
Youâve told everyone youâve been dating someone for a month.
That heâs meeting your family.
That heâs sweet and shy and real.
And in about fifteen minutes, Bob â your fake boyfriend â will be at the door.
Youâre 85% sure heâll show up. Maybe 90.
âŠOkay, 75.
âDo you need help with the crust?â your mom asks, and for once, she sounds like sheâs trying not to pry.
You glance at her. Sheâs avoiding eye contact. She definitely wants to pry.
âNope,â you say, pressing the dough into the pan. âUnless this is a metaphor for my love life, in which case, yeah, I could use a full support team.â
She hums noncommittally and starts slicing apples, her back to you.
âSo,â she says, âyou never told me how you met him.â
You hesitate. âThe guy Iâmâbringing tonight?â
She nods. âMhm.â
You stall by rinsing your hands.
âItâs kind of a quiet story,â you say carefully. âWe kept running into each other. Same place, same time. It just⊠kind of happened.â
âHm.â She tosses apple slices into the bowl. âAnd you like him?â
You look down at the dough beneath your fingers. Think about his awkward smile. The way he listens like it costs him something. The warmth in his voice when he said, âThanks for inviting me.â
You nod. âI think I do.â
Your mom looks over, something soft in her face now.
âWell,â she says gently, âI canât wait to meet him.â
You smile and slide the pie into the oven just as the doorbell rings.
Your heart stops.
Your mom turns toward the sound.
You wipe your hands on a towel and take a breath.
âOkay,â you mutter to yourself, âmoment of truth.â
You walk to the door.
And open it...
You expected nerves.
You did not expect him to look like this.
Bob stands on your porch like he walked out of a cologne ad and got lost on the way to GQ. His dark button-up is rolled at the sleeves, fitted just enough to draw attention to muscles he normally hides under worn hoodies. His hairâusually floppy and rain-wreckedâis now styled neatly back, just messy enough to look effortless.
You blink. âH-hi.â
He smilesâbashful, but sure of himself. âHi.â
Before you can gather your thoughts or your dignity, he leans in and kisses you on the cheek. Itâs warm, brief, but confident. His hand grazes your waist like muscle memory.
âI hope Iâm not too early,â he murmurs.
âNoâuhâno, perfect. Youâre perfect. I mean, the timing. The timing is perfect.â
You step back to let him in, praying no one heard that.
As he crosses the threshold, he glances around, eyes scanning photos on the walls, shelves stacked with family memories. You take his coat. His scent lingers â fresh and faintly minty.
âMy momâs in the kitchen. Brace yourself.â
He chuckles. âNoted.â
You walk him into the war zone of casserole dishes and cousin chaos.
Your mom spots you both from the dining room and gasps like sheâs just been cast on a reality show. âThere he is! You must be Bob!â
Bob blinks for a moment, surprised she already knows his name. You shoot her a look that says Mom, please, I am begging.
He recovers quickly. âYes, maâam.â
âAnd polite!â she says, delighted, patting his arm like sheâs already ordering him to call her âMomâ by dessert.
Dinner unfolds in a blur. Plates are passed, stories fly around the table like darts, and somehow Bob navigates it like a pro. He even laughs at your uncleâs tired jokes. When your grandma comments on his posture, he adjusts with a quiet âYes, maâamâ that makes her beam.
At one point, your youngest cousin, Milo, squints at him from across the table.
âYou look really familiar,â Milo says, tilting his head.
You freeze mid-chew. Bobâs fork pauses halfway to his mouth.
âI get that a lot,â Bob says calmly.
Milo frowns. âLike, weirdly familiar. Likeâsuperhero familiar.â
âMilo,â your mom cuts in, âeat your green beans.â
Milo shrugs but keeps sneaking glances.
You let out the breath you didnât know you were holding.
And about halfway through dessert, something happens.
The TV is on behind your momâs head, low volume. Just the news playing â no oneâs really watching. Your dadâs closest to it, half turned in his chair, focused on his pie.
Youâre listening to your aunt ramble about her new garden mulch when the news anchorâs voice shifts tone.
ââdramatic footage of the Thunderboltsâ mission this past Wednesdayââ
Your brain barely registers it.
You glance at the screen.
Explosions. Screaming. Concrete cracking like bones.
A familiar flash of red and blackâJohn Walker. Then Ghost phasing through debris.
And thenâ
Golden light. Blinding, unmistakable.
The Sentry.
A blurred shot becomes a close-up.
Heâs floating mid-air. Hair wild, cape tattered, jaw clenched in focus. Glowing.
Itâs not grainy enough to deny. The face is clear. The posture. The jawline.
You choke on your pie. Eyes widening.
Bob.
You snap your gaze toward him.
He doesnât move, but his fork slowly lowers.
Your eyes dart to your dad. Heâs starting to turn toward the screen.
Before he can reactâclick.
The TV cuts off.
Silence.
Your dad frowns. âDid the TV break again?â
Bob shrugs, wiping his mouth with his napkin.
Your relatives resume their conversations without a second thought. Bread is passed. Laughter resumes. No oneâs the wiser.
Except for you.
And Milo, who is now staring at Bob with slack-jawed awe.
You place your fork down slowly. Your pulse is in your throat.
Bob meets your gaze across the table. Calm. Cautious.
You clear your throat.
âHey,â you say sweetly, plastering on a smile. âCan you excuse us for a second? I just need to talk to my boyfriend for a minute.â
He rises without protest.
You grab his arm, steer him down the hallway... past photos of you in braces, past the coat rack, past everything normal, and into the dim, quiet hallway near the laundry room.
Then you turn, look up at him, and whisperâ
âWhat the hell, Bob?â
You shut the door behind you.
Bob leans casually against the wall â too casually â like he isnât literally the man you just saw hovering over a burning building on national television.
You cross your arms. âOkay. Start talking.â
He looks down at his hands, fingers laced. Thereâs a strange stillness to him, like heâs waiting for a storm he knows is coming.
âI didnât lie,â he says quietly.
You stare. âBob. I watched you on the news. You turned off my parentsâ TV. With your mind.â
âI said I help people,â he replies, looking up at you now. Calm. Earnest. âSometimes I help save the world.â
You gape. âI thought you meant you were a firefighter. Or a teacher! Or like, I donât know, a really good therapist!â
He huffs a soft laugh. âSorry. That probably wouldâve been easier.â
âYouâreââ You lower your voice, leaning in. âYouâre The Sentry. Youâre an actual Avenger. OrâThunderbolt. Orâwhatever the hell team youâre on.â
âTechnically, Iâm sort of on loan.â
You give him a look. âThat's not the point.â
Heâs quiet again. But not defensive. Not evasive. Just⊠waiting. Letting you process.
And you are processing.
All the little things you overlooked:
The quiet strength in how he moved.
The weird evasiveness.
The stormy energy he sometimes carried like he was trying to keep it bottled.
You exhale, the adrenaline finally catching up.
âWhy didnât you tell me?â you ask, softer now.
âI didnât want you to treat me differently,â he says. âI liked the bookstore. I liked that you didnât know. You talked to me like I was just⊠Bob.â
You blink. âIs that your real name?â
âYes.â
âAnd you really read fantasy novels?â
He actually smiles. âEspecially the sad ones.â
You hesitate. Your heart is still pounding, but your voice softens even more.
âYou came to dinner,â you murmur. âYou sat through my uncleâs knee replacement story. You complimented my grandmaâs brooch.â
He lifts a shoulder. âWasnât hard. I meant it.â
You stare at him.
The man who eats lemon muffins on Thursdays.
The man who shyly kissed your cheek.
The man who casually shut off a television with his brain.
You rub a hand over your face. âI dragged The Sentry into a fake dating scheme because my mom thinks Iâm undateable.â
His voice is gentle. âYou didnât drag me. I said yes.â
You glance up at him. âWhy?â
His gaze softens. âBecause you asked.â
You swallow.
He takes a step closer. His voice lowers, almost shy again. âIf you want to call this off now, Iâll understand. Iâll tell them we broke up before dessert. I can cry if it helps.â
You laugh â a short, startled sound â but it breaks some of the tension.
You look up at him. âYouâd really do that?â
âIâm a very convincing fake ex.â
Youâre quiet for a moment. Heâs still standing there â not defensive, not cocky â just Bob. The same Bob who buys fantasy novels and waits for you to recommend the good ones.
The same Bob who just blew your entire reality to pieces.
And yetâŠ
You find yourself saying, âLetâs just get through dessert.â
His brows raise slightly. âYou sure?â
You nod. âWe can panic later.â
He smiles. A real one. Small. Grateful.
âOkay,â he says. âBack to the pie.â
You nod, open the hallway door, and walk back toward the dining room together â fake-dating The Sentry, one awkward spoonful of whipped cream at a time.
You return to the dining room with Bob beside you, and despite the mini-crisis that just played out in the hallway, somehow⊠everything continues like nothing happened.
The pieâs been sliced. Plates passed around. The table is filled with the comforting hum of your family talking over each other, laughing, sneaking bites of dessert before their coffee cools.
Bob slips into his seat beside you, and when your mom asks if he wants whipped cream, he nods and says, âYes, maâam,â with a small smile.
She beams.
You stare at him for a second longer than you should.
Heâs calm. Almost too calm. Like heâs pretending to be human in a sitcom, and somehow nailing the part.
Milo wonât stop glancing over, like heâs replaying the Thunderbolts footage in his head. But thankfully, he keeps his mouth shut.
You press your knee against Bobâs under the table.
He glances at you.
You mouth: Thank you.
He just nods.
âËâĄ
When the dishes are finally cleared and your aunts start hunting for their coats, you help your mom carry plates to the kitchen. Sheâs humming. Actually humming.
You try not to let guilt claw at your chest.
After a few minutes, coats are zipped, goodbyes are exchanged, and your mom pats Bobâs arm like heâs already part of the family. Your dad claps him on the back and says, âYou handled the chaos pretty well, son. Thatâs promising.â
Youâre still not sure whether thatâs a compliment or a threat.
Finally, itâs just the two of you at the door.
You walk Bob out onto the porch. The skyâs dark, but the porch light gives his face a warm glow. You wrap your arms around yourself, partly from the cool air, partly because you donât know what to do with them anymore.
âIâm sorry,â you say quietly, leaning against the railing. âI dragged you into that mess because I panicked and lied to my mom and I never expected you to actually say yes or look like that orââ
Bob steps forward and kisses you.
Soft. Sure. Warm.
It happens in the span of a heartbeat â his hand resting gently on your cheek, the kiss itself lingering just long enough to make you forget where you are.
When he pulls back, he whispers, âSorry.â
You blink, stunned.
He jerks his thumb toward the window beside the front door.
You turn.
Your mom is standing there, mostly hidden behind the curtain â watching. Her expression is somewhere between victorious and smug.
You groan. âOh my god.â
Bob chuckles. âSheâs committed. I respect it.â
You shake your head, trying not to smile. âThat was mean.â
âThat was method acting,â he teases.
You hesitate, then reach out and fix the collar of his jacket. âYou really didnât have to do all this.â
âI wanted to,â he says. âI meant what I said â I liked being asked.â
A beat.
âI still do.â
The air between you shifts â warmer now, quiet but honest.
You nod once, not sure what to say. Not sure what this is becoming.
He opens the gate and starts to walk down the path. Just before he disappears into the dark, he turns back.
âIâll see you Tuesday?â
You smile. âTuesday.â
And then heâs gone.
You close the door gently, heart fluttering like itâs trying to tell you something. You lean against the wood for a second, exhale, and whisper to no one:
ââŠOh no.â
âËâĄ
Sunday, 7:36 am
It starts like any other day.
You stop at your usual corner café, order your iced coffee (half sweet, extra ice, just the way you like it), and wrap your hands around the plastic cup like it might ground you.
For a moment, the world feels normal.
You walk the next block with your earbuds in, the playlist soothing, the city humming gently around you. It isnât until you pass the magazine stand by the subway entrance that something feels⊠off.
Your eyes drift lazily over the covers as you walk by.
And then you see it.
Front and center. Bold red font. A full-page photo.
âWHO IS THE SENTRYâS MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND?â (Shocking New Romance Revealed â Civilian Involved?)
You stop mid-step. Your breath catches.
Your own face stares back at you from under a blur of porch lights and lipstick smudged from a very real, very public kiss.
You nearly drop your coffee right there.
But it only gets worse.
Because as you turn the corner toward the bookstore â just a normal Tuesday morning â you donât see the usual handful of early customers waiting for the shop to open.
You see a crowd.
No â not a crowd. A swarm.
Microphones. Cameras. People standing on tiptoes, phones raised high, shouting questions at⊠nothing, because the store isnât even open yet.
Your stomach drops.
Your name gets shouted from somewhere in the noise.
And then, mercifully â your brain does the one logical thing.
It panics.
You spin around. Your foot hits the curb. Your coffee slips from your hand, hits the sidewalk, and explodes in a cold, sticky splash.
âHeyâhey! Thatâs her!â someone yells behind you.
You donât look back.
You duck into the narrow alley between the bookstore and the laundromat, heart hammering, air slicing sharp into your lungs.
Your mind is racing with every terrible headline, every awkward question your mom is probably getting right now, and how very not normal your life has become.
And thenâ
âHiii.â
You scream.
A figure drops from the fire escape like itâs nothing, landing in front of you with the elegance of a spy movie villain and the expression of someone who just finished a cinnamon roll.
Blonde. Tactical jacket. Combat boots. Sunglasses perched on her head like she accessorized mid-mission.
She smiles. âSo. Youâre the girlfriend?â
You stumble back a step, heart in your throat. âIâIâmâwho are you?!â
âYelena,â she says cheerfully, offering a hand like this is a brunch date. âBobâs teammate. Sometimes assassin. Donât worry, Iâm nice-ish.â
You donât take her hand. You just stare.
âI was sent to retrieve you,â she continues, already walking past you like she owns the alley. âBig mess. PR nightmare. Possibly global. Thought you might need help.â
âIâIâm fine,â you lie, inching toward the wall.
Yelena glances down at your coffee-covered shoes. âYouâre not fine.â
You exhale shakily. âHow is this real?â
She grins. âYou kissed The Sentry on your porch. Now youâre in a tabloid warzone. Welcome to superhero dating.â
You press your palms to your face.
Behind you, the voices are getting louder.
Yelena tilts her head toward the street. âWanna escape this circus?â
ââŠYes.â
âCome on.â She tosses you a hoodie from her bag â black, oversized. âPut this on. Youâre going to Thunderbolts HQ.â
âWhat?â
âBobâs waiting,â she adds casually, âand he looks very stressed. Itâs adorable.â
Your heart thumps harder.
You pull the hoodie over your head, the scent of leather and something faintly metallic catching in your nose. Yelena nods approvingly, then leads you toward a black SUV idling around the corner â quiet, sleek, and somehow completely unnoticed by the mob.
As you duck into the backseat, she climbs in beside you and shuts the door.
She tosses a protein bar in your lap.
âYouâre going to need energy,â she says. âTheyâre gonna love you.â
The SUV pulls away.
The shouting fades behind you.
And your life? Well. Itâs never going to be quiet again.
The SUV glides through a checkpoint, into an underground tunnel, then up a ramp. You think you see a guard tower disguised as a billboard. Or maybe youâre hallucinating. Thatâs possible too.
Yelenaâs sitting casually beside you, texting someone, while you clutch your protein bar like it might shield you from public scrutiny and government agencies.
Finally, the vehicle stops. The door swings open.
Yelena hops out and waves you after her. âDonât look nervous.â
âI am nervous.â
âThen pretend youâre not. Thatâs what we all do.â
You step out into a huge glass and steel atrium. Sleek floors. Tall ceilings. Giant screen with the Thunderbolts logo rotating in slow, dramatic fashion. Men in suits, agents in gear, someone zipping by on rollerblades like this is normal.
You? Youâre in someone elseâs hoodie, dried coffee on your pants, and your brainâs still processing âBob is the Sentry.â
Yelena leads you through a corridor like sheâs returning a library book. âTry not to look directly at Valentina unless you want to end up as the face of the teamâs diversity initiative.â
ââŠWhat?â
âJust smile and nod.â
Yelena leads you down a bright hallway, past glass walls and security doors, through what feels like the inside of a top-secret airport crossed with an IKEA showroom. Youâre still in someone elseâs hoodie, your coffeeâs long gone, and you havenât quite recovered from the kiss-seen-round-the-world.
She swings open a door, and inside itâs surprisingly normal â couches, a kitchen, the sound of a blender whirring. A few Thunderbolts glance up.
Ghost gives you a quiet nod from her seat at the counter.
John Walker grins, already sharpening a teasing remark.
Bob stands awkwardly by the sink, like he just got caught sneaking a cookie.
âWell, damn,â Walker says, leaning against the counter. âI thought Bob was making you up. Or buying girlfriend stock photos online.â
âJohn,â Bob says flatly.
âIâm just saying, weâre happy for you, man. Itâs cute. Weird, but cute.â
Ghost sips her tea. âHeâs been checking his phone like a teenage girl since Saturday.â
Bob looks like he wants to phase through the wall. You try not to laugh â and fail. A little.
Then the doors behind you slide open, and Valentina Allegra de Fontaine enters like the final boss in heels.
She smiles, perfectly calm. âGlad you made it. Cute outfit. Hope you like government buildings.â
You blink. âUh⊠thanks?â
Val flips open a sleek tablet and doesnât look up. âSo hereâs the deal. We canât exactly walk this story back without making it worse. Youâre already part of the narrative. The kiss happened. The porch photos are out. Bob looked⊠well, shockingly competent.â
Bob mumbles, âThanks?â
Val finally meets your eyes. âSo. Option one: go home, brave the cameras, and let Reddit guess your social security number. Or option two: we give you a place to stay. Quiet. Safe. With a door that locks and, if you ask nicely, a reading lamp.â
You glance at Bob. âWould I⊠be staying with him?â
Bob visibly stiffens.
Val shrugs. âYouâd have your own space. This isnât The Bachelor. Weâre not trying to force anything.â
Bob relaxes.
You think about it for a long moment. The tabloids. The porch. The look on his face when he saw you today.
ââŠOkay,â you say. âBut I want a real lock. And maybe snacks.â
âDone,â Val says, already walking away. âYelena, get her something from the vending machine. And no shrimp chips.â
Once the others drift off, you find yourself alone with Bob again â sort of. Youâre standing near the couches, and heâs holding a mug like itâs a prop he forgot how to use.
You glance at him. âSo.â
He looks up. âSo.â
âYou, uh⊠handled that well.â
âI was sweating the entire time.â
You smile. âDidnât show.â
Thereâs a pause. The good kind.
âIâm sorry you got pulled into this,â he says.
âIâm not,â you admit, then quickly add, âI meanânot the whole national-news part. That sucked. But, you know. The bookstore. The pie. That stuff.â
He looks at you like you just handed him a book he didnât know he needed.
He fidgets. âFor the record, I didnât just kiss you because your mom was watching," he says. You tilted your head.
Then, again, he softly says: âDo you think⊠once this blows over⊠maybe we could try the real thing?â
You consider it, heart full but calm.
ââŠWeâll see,â you say.
He grins.
So do you.
A/N: i have SO MANY prompts/scenes in my head for bob that i had to list it down on my notes (this is one of them). PS i wrote this when i was suffering from a writers block in the middle of writing the second part of Psyche. PSS i cant stop writing about bob (not that i want to) it's making me crazy
psyche (2)
â synopsis. After the catastrophe in New York-when the Void tore through the city-the Thunderbolts know it can't happen again. Bob Reynolds doesn't need another collar or containment spell. He needs help. Enter her: a psychiatrist with an unusual gift, capable of stepping into the mind itself. No one expected her to reach him-least of all, him. "You're just going to leave me the moment it gets too hard, aren't you?" he says. She meets his gaze, steady and unshaken. "I've walked through nightmares to get to you. I won't walk away now."
â pairing. robert reynolds (sentry/the void) x reader
â warning/s. mentions of trauma, mental illness, depression
â word count. 6k+ ?
masterlist âč part 1 âč part 2 âč part 3 âč part 4 âč part 5 âč part 6
psyche (1)
â synopsis. After the catastrophe in New York-when the Void tore through the city-the Thunderbolts know it can't happen again. Bob Reynolds doesn't need another collar or containment spell. He needs help. Enter her: a psychiatrist with an unusual gift, capable of stepping into the mind itself. No one expected her to reach him-least of all, him. "You're just going to leave me the moment it gets too hard, aren't you?" he says. She meets his gaze, steady and unshaken. "I've walked through nightmares to get to you. I won't walk away now."
â pairing. robert reynolds (sentry/the void) x reader
â warning/s. mentions of trauma, mental illness, depression
â word count. 5.1k
masterlist âč part 1 âč part 2 âč part 3 âč part 4 âč part 5 âč part 6