subby Walker truther @joaqutie - Tumblr Blog

John helping Bob when he's dissociating during sex, during every day activities etc. Grounding him 💓🥺🥺

i'm so sorry i am unbelievably behind but this means SO much to me. so much. i wrote a gen scene where john helped bob while he was dissociating and i genuinely think that is what made me start shipping them. the whole concept of john being an asshole except he also has the capacity to be gentle and understanding when it's needed. to me this is canon. look at his little pinky kiss with olivia. my man is soft as hell with his partner. i just adore the idea of him recognizing what it looks like when bob dissociates and learning how to help him. especially during sex when other men always ignored it or even took advantage of it to hurt him more. not john. never john. he will never keep going if his bobby isn't in a mindset to consent to what they're doing. anyway. the first part of this is sft bob dissociating at breakfast, the second part is nsft bob dissociating during sex 🫶

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i.

John couldn’t quite explain what he picked up on.

There was just something about Bob that wasn’t right. He was sitting at the kitchen counter, trembling thumbnail stabbed through an orange he wasn’t peeling. His eyes stared straight ahead through tangled curls, barely blinking as his chest rose and fell unnaturally slowly.

“Hey.” Bob did not respond. He didn’t look at John, didn’t mumble a greeting, didn’t even resume his work peeling his fruit. John squeezed Bob’s shoulder, then leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “Bobby. You hearing me okay?”

“Mmhm.” But he didn’t nod, didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge John beyond the soft sound. John rubbed Bob’s shoulder gently, fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck. He noticed what was wrong on the counter seconds before Bob mumbled, “I spilled my coffee.”

“All right. That’s all right.” He glanced at the mug shattered on the floor to the right of Bob’s stool. The sound of breaking dishes was one of Bob’s biggest triggers. “Did it scare you when the mug fell?”

Bob nodded just a little. “It burned my arm. It felt like— like my dad. When he called me— He called me—”

“I know. You’re okay.” There was no reason to make Bob say the words if they weren’t coming to him. John understood too well. He knew about the circular scars on Bob’s biceps; remembered every detail about the stories Bob told of being used as an ashtray. “Can I see your arm?”

His hand was shaking badly. Really badly. John actually took a second to stop and watch the way it moved, unsurprised to realize that the rhythm was more in line with his tremors than just anxiety. That was probably what caused the accident in the first place. Bob was trying to peel his orange, but his hands were shaking and he bumped into his mug.

John carefully took the orange from his fingers and set it aside, then urged Bob to stretch his right arm in front of him. Given Bob was the invulnerable Sentry, John did not expect to find anything and he didn’t. A little pink splotch on his skin from the warmth but no actual burn. Bob wasn’t injured, just startled by the combination of the heat and the sound of ceramic shattering.

“You’re not hurt,” said John. Bob’s nod was just as small as the first time. “Can you take a deep breath for me?”

“I need to clean up the coffee,” Bob muttered. “My dad—”

“He’s not here. You don’t have to do anything. I will clean it up, all right? Just breathe.”

Bob’s breath was stunted but he tried and that was what mattered. John guided him for a few breaths, then walked around the kitchen island and grabbed an ice cube from the freezer. He set it in Bob’s palm and carefully closed his fingers around it. Bob’s eyes fluttered, jolted by the sudden rush of cold.

He kept breathing deeply while John cleaned the counter and then the floor. Once the mess was taken care of, he went to the coffee maker and brewed a fresh pot. Rather than a mug, he filled one of Bob’s bamboo travel cups with the sturdy grips. He didn’t expect anything when he set it in front of Bob, but when he leaned down to kiss Bob’s hair again, Bob whispered,

“I love you.”

John wrapped his arm around the front of Bob’s shoulders and kissed him again. “I love you too.”

ii. (nsft)

There was a reason John jokingly called Bob a pillow princess.

Especially when he was in that position on his back, all comfy against the pillows with his knees completely supported by John, Bob loved to just lay back and take it. And John loved to give it. He loved to press his fingers deep into Bob’s thighs, to listen to Bob’s little moans and whines as he pounded into his warm hole.

John groaned beneath his breath, sweat dripping down his chest, unable to be heard over the sounds of his flesh slapping against Bob’s. He wet his lips, staring at Bob’s throbbing cock, mesmerized by the way white spurts of cum painted his abs with every good thrust over his prostate. Bob swallowed his moans, cock twitching as his back arched off the mattress.

He pushed harder, chasing his own pleasure but also chasing Bob’s; desperate to milk more from his slit. John rolled his hips forward, knees aching as he rocked on the mattress. The pressure kept slowly building inside him, warm and intense in all the right ways. A harsh breath escaped him as a jet of precum spilled out of his cock, lightly coating Bob’s insides.

Bob’s silence was loud.

Though John hated the term, there was no denying that Bob was one hundred percent a cumslut. John had always been a little bothered by the stickiness, but Bob was very, very into it. He loved it when John came on him. It didn’t matter if it was on his face, his abs, his dick, or seven inches deep inside of him. He loved it. Any cum inside of him, even precum, should’ve earned John a pleasured moan or a “fuck” with a smile. But it didn’t.

John stopped all movement immediately, gaze shifting to Bob’s face. The fact that there were tears on his cheeks didn’t mean anything on its own. He often cried when he bottomed because of the endorphins. But combined with his inexplicable silence and the way his head tilted, staring at the wall instead of John, it was concerning.

“Bobby?” Nothing. He didn’t speak, didn’t even turn his head. John carefully lowered Bob’s feet to the mattress, cock sliding halfway out as he did. He fully pulled out when he leaned over Bob, hard cock dragging over Bob’s stomach. Bob finally whimpered when John accidentally brushed against his tip, causing Bob’s cock to twitch and spill more cum between them. “Bob. Bob, look at me. Bob. Bobby.”

The silence physically hurt. John lay at Bob’s side, stiff erection practically forgotten. Both his hands immediately reached for Bob’s hair. He slowly combed his fingers through it, thumbs brushing away Bob’s tears as he did. Bob’s head stayed tilted to the right, not looking at John. Not responding to him. John kept trying anyway, scratching his scalp, kissing along his jawline.

“You’re all right. You’re safe.” He nuzzled his cheek against Bob’s, hoping the texture of his beard might help drag him to the present. It was hard to know what to do when he didn’t know what triggered Bob. “Breathe. Keep breathing. You’re safe. I’m here.”

Bob still didn’t speak. His cock dripped lamely on his stomach, sticking firmly to his skin. His left thumb slid between his teeth, a self-soothing mechanism he’d once explained used to be satisfied with a pipe.

They stayed that way for a few minutes, John slowly shifting Bob’s body until his ear was resting against John’s bare chest; until John’s breathing and heartbeat were the loudest things that he could hear. He hugged Bob tight, fingers clinging to his back like he might slip away at any second.

When Bob finally slid his thumb from his lips, it felt like a relief. But then when he spoke, what he chose to say was, “You can finish.”

“What?” asked John. Not because he hadn’t heard but because he wanted to be told he was understanding wrong.

“You didn’t finish. You… You can finish.”

He didn’t mean ‘you can finish,’ he meant ‘you can finish inside of me.’ John was absolutely not going to do that. “No. You’re done. You’re overstimulated.”

“No, you didn’t come.” Bob put a hand on John’s shoulders like he was trying to push him back down toward his hole. Thankfully, he was out of it enough that he didn’t actually use his full strength. “We’re not… it’s not… it’s not over until you come.”

“It is over. We’re done. You’re all right. You don’t have to do anything else.”

“You didn’t come.”

“I don’t care.” Genuinely, he didn’t. Not one bit. There was no bigger turnoff than seeing his partner in pain. He dragged his thumb over Bob’s cheek to catch a fresh tear, all too aware of how distant his gaze was. John kissed the top of his head softly. “Bobby, it’s okay. You’re done. We’re not doing anything else while you’re like this. Breathe.”

A small, strangled sob escaped Bob with his breath. “I’m sorry. I tried.”

“It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“It hurt.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” John squeezed his left hand around Bob’s shoulders, his right sliding up to hold the back of Bob’s head. He slowly scratched his scalp, trying to keep his own breaths even for Bob to follow. “Just breathe with me, okay, baby? Breathe. Here.”

It was hard. Harder than usual. Bob kept twitching under him, toes curling and uncurling uncomfortably. He clearly tried hard to breathe but he couldn’t keep it even, choking on a good third of his breaths.

John’s last ditch idea was a stupid one, but he decided to try it anyway. He grabbed the bottle of lube from the bedside table, dripped a little on his thumb, and smeared it on Bob’s cheek. Bob flinched but then something in his eyes changed, almost softening at the unexpected texture.

“You put lube on my face,” Bob mumbled, tone devoid of emotion.

“Yeah,” whispered John, “I did.”

The tiniest smile tugged at Bob’s lips. “It’s cold.”

“That’s what I was hoping for.”

He wrapped his arms around Bob tight and didn’t let go until they both fell asleep.

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