#lewis pullman

[glenpowelljr]

LEWIS PULLMAN AS ↴ ROCCO — RIFF RAFF (2024)

[jazziejax]

They’re the same guy.

[vivian-rutledge]

LEWIS PULLMAN as Harrison PRESS PLAY (2022) — dir. Greg Björkman

[zottts]

i have NOTHING appropriate to say

[em1i2a3]

Oxygen

Pairing: The Void/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Fem!Reader!

Summary: Your period has come, and you’re feeling extremely moody and down, mix that in with intense cramping and you’re absolutely miserable. But when Bob lets out The Void for the night, he has a solution for all your troubles.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Angsty (kind of), Would I say this is Hurt/Comfort? I mean…Kind of? In the literal sense lol. Reader is in pain and The Void is comforting her…So yeah. Reader has an established relationship with Bob. Void is a bit soft here

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Period Sex (it’s going to get messy), Descriptions/Mentions of Period Blood (it kind of gets everywhere…Do with that information what you will), Oral Sex (Void being a certified munch…Wheew), Fingering, Void gets a little rough, Scratches, Love Bites (that borders on painful while receiving them, but like…A good kind of pain?), Little bit of hair pulling, Nipple/Breast Play, Reader is Hypersensitive so Overstimulation is a thing, Praise Kink, Body Worship, Dirty Talk, A Bloody Good Time (the request asked for filth…I shall deliver as much as I possibly can.), Aftercare (because hell yeah!)

Author’s Note: Wheeeewww….Wowie. This request was a mood and I thought I would oblige. I love writing Soft Void so much that it’s taken over my life, Jesus Christ! Anyways, I know this may not be everyone’s cup of tea, so hopefully I can make it up to y’all tomorrow with some cavity inducing Fluff? RAF is tomorrow too. However! I hope you guys enjoy <3

Word Count: 11,756

When Bob arrived at your apartment, the front door was already unlocked–just like you’d told him in the text you sent thirty minutes ago, when the cramps had gotten so bad that even reaching for your heating pad felt like too much. It wasn’t that you were being reckless or forgetful. It was just that you had finally managed to contort your body into the one exact position on your couch where the stabbing pain in your lower abdomen dulled to a tolerable throb, and there was no force on Earth–nor in your aching uterus–that could convince you to ruin that hard-earned victory just to answer the door.

You were curled into the deepest corner of your couch, half-wrapped in a fuzzy navy throw blanket that clung to your overheated skin with static. One leg was tucked beneath you while the other dangled over the side like a limp vine, toes grazing the edge of the coffee table. A heating pad was crammed against your lower stomach tucked under the waistband of your oldest pair of sweatpants–gray, baggy, and speckled with faded bleach stains from an old laundry mishap. Your hoodie was black, and your socks were mismatched. You were also surrounded by tear stained tissues, half-finished tea, and two little individual Tylenol blister packs you couldn’t summon the strength to throw away.

You had messaged Bob earlier, before the cramps got really bad—“Door is open”—and he’d replied quickly, sweetly, with “Okay :)” like the smiley face might soften the guilt you were already wallowing in.

Because truthfully, you had tried to cancel the whole night.

Your period had come four days early, and you were completely caught off guard by the sudden flush of hormones and ferality, the fatigue that hit like a train, and the emotional fog that crept in as if someone had quietly dimmed all the lights inside you. Within the span of a few hours you had gone from feeling excited for your night with Bob–featuring blanket, popcorn, movies, him sleeping over, and of course the subsequent sex that came from it–to being curled up on your couch in a haze of discomfort and self-loathing, texting him “actually I think I have to cancel, I feel really gross, and disgusting” with trembling fingers and wet lashes.

But Bob didn’t hesitate at all in his response.

”I still want to come over. Period or not. You know how much I want to be around you, and I’ll be happy to take care of you.” You stared at that message for a full minute before replying, chest aching. You’d always made it a point to schedule your hangouts around your cycle. You didn’t want him to see you like this–emotional, bloated, sensitive to the point of irrationality. It wasn’t just about the pain. It was the unpredictability of your own mood. The way everything felt heavier. The way you got clingy and quiet and sometimes cried over the dumbest things, and how much you hated being perceived when you weren’t at your best.

This would be the first time seeing you like this and nervous didn’t even begin to cover how you were feeling about that situation.

You flinched at the sound of the front door opening with a soft click. You didn’t move. Just held your breath and stared at the ceiling, heart thudding as you heard the unmistakable rustle of a grocery bag, followed by the quiet shuffle of Bob’s sneakers on the entryway mat. His presence was always warm, always calm. Even now, as he shut the door behind him and moved towards your kitchen counter, you could feel the atmosphere of the apartment shift–like someone had finally cracked a window in a too-stuffy room.

”Y/N? You here?” He called out. Not loud or overly careful. Just softness…As if he already knew you didn’t have the energy for more than that. You groaned and closed your eyes.

”Couch,” You croaked, raising your hand up like a flag, your voice dry and almost pitiful. You could hear him let out a little laugh as the rustling of bags followed his movements. He took your outstretched hand gently,–warm, careful fingers curling around yours as he brought it to his lips and pressed a few soft kisses to your knuckles. Each one was slow and featherlight, like he was afraid of overwhelming you with too much affection all at once.

”Hey, hun,” He murmured, his voice low and sweet, vibrating through your fingertips, “How’re you feeling?” You let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but it died halfway in your throat and turned into more of a wheeze. Your eyes stayed closed.

”Like garbage,” You croaked, “And…Gross.” Bob let go of your hand with a soft squeeze and circled around the couch until he was crouched in front of you. He set down the grocery bags on the coffee table, the softest rustling of plastic being heard. You could see that there were an array of chips; plain, sour cream, salt and vinegar, all dressed, and if you looked even closer you noticed there were a few bags of candy and chocolate. The other bag seemed a little less full, but you couldn't tell what was in it from the angle you were lying in.

He shrugged off his jacket, and draped it over the back of the couch, before turning his attention back to you with that familiar crease of concern between his brows and his blue irises studying you, scanning over the expression that was plastered on your face–one that he would probably describe as anguish more than anything. You watched him through heavy lashes as he reached out, fingertips brushing against the apple of your cheek.

The touch sent a fresh wave of heat blooming beneath your skin, and you hissed involuntarily, recoiling slightly from the contact. He jerked his hand back immediately in surprise.

”Crap…Sorry. I didn’t mean to–“ You shook your head faintly.

”It’s okay…It wasn’t you. I run super hot when I’m on my person and I literally feel like a raw nerve. You had no idea.” Bob gave a small, guilty sigh and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, his light brown hair a little mussed from where the wind had caught it outside. He looked sheepish, lips parted like he might say something else–like another apology–but instead his gaze flicked toward the grocery bags.

”Well,” He started, clearing his throat, “I-I got you some of your favourite snacks. And some painkillers. And another heating pad in case this one gives out.” His voice wobbled on the last bit like he wasn’t sure it was the right thing to say. Your eyes fluttered open just enough to squint at him.

”You did?” He gave a small, proud nod.

”Of course I did.” You stared at him and felt your throat tighten, something warm and tight rising in your chest like a balloon that was being blown too fast. He leaned forward, took your hand again, and brought it back to his mouth. Another soft kiss, right at the center of your palm this time, “That’s what I would want someone to do for me if I was in pa-pain.” He added softly. You squeezed his hand gently, a tired little grin tugging at the corner of your mouth despite how miserable you felt.

”You’re too sweet, Bob.” His pale cheeks flushed immediately–the tell-tale pink blooming across his face and up the tips of his ears–and he ducked his head just a little, shying away from the compliment slightly.

”It’s the least I can do…” He stated, brushing his thumb along your knuckles, adding in a quieter voice, “I can also help with the heat issue too…If you’d li-like of course.” You raised a brow.

”Oh yeah? And how do you plan on doing that?” He looked up, shrugging slightly, though his fingers twitched slightly in your grip.

”I can call in the re-reinforcements…” You squinted at him, wary.

”Please don’t tell me you’re gonna let Sentry come out…He almost burned a hole through my sheets the last time you let him take over.” Bob let out a short laugh, rubbing his free hand on the top of his thigh, getting rid of the sweat that was building up along his palm.

”No., no. Definitely not him. He’ll make your situation way worse than it already is. You don’t need a sentient sun snuggling you right now.” You snorted softly, even though the vibration slightly disturbed the position you were in, a slight cramp tingling in your abdomen.

”I was actually thinking…” He hesitated, eyes flicking to yours, watching for your expression, “Y’know…The ot-other guy.” Your brows knit for a second before the connection clicked–and your expression shifted, eyes widening just slightly.

”Oh…” Bob gave a faint, awkward little smile like he wasn’t sure how you’d take the offer, but your response was quiet and calm.

“Well…I mean…I’d be okay with that,” You replied, your voice laced with surprising honesty, “He’s an ice cube so that’ll definitely help…And he’s pretty easy to be around.” Bob huffed a soft, disbelieving laugh, squeezing your hand a little tighter

“You know…You still haven’t told me how you made him get all mushy fo-for you,” He muttered, “He gets so angry at the compound when people talk to him, but for some reason he’s a bumbling mess with you, it’s ridiculous.” You shrugged, letting your head tip lazily to the side.

”He’s tethered to you, so technically…He’s just emulating your feelings. Just in a different form. You’re always soft with me and you’re also just…Madly in love with me. So he is too.” You teased, Bob raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, but you weren’t done. “And it’s also probably because I constantly feed him. He practically eats me out of house and home when he’s around.” That made Bob smirk.

”I guess food really is the fastest way to a…Dark entity’s heart.” You both let out tired little laughs, quiet and breathy, the kind that fizzled out gently into a soft silence. There was something tender about it–how even in the middle of your worst pain, you could still laugh with Bob. Still feel the warmth in his presence, the subtle rhythm of comfort his voice offered, like your own nervous system was finally allowed to let go.

Your thumb traced absentminded circles into his palm as the moment stretched, quiet and calm. His fingers were still wrapped around yours, warm despite the cool edge now lingering faintly in the air–residue, no doubt, from the Void’s hovering nearness. Your gaze lingered on him for a beat longer than intended–soft, fond, aching just a little.

Then, leaning forward slowly, careful not to upset the careful position of your heating pad or spark another cramp, you brushed your lips to his.

Just once. A soft, grateful kiss. Chaste, almost–more a gesture of affection than desire. Still, it lingered.

When you pulled back, Bob’s eyes blinked open slowly. The familiar, oceanic blue of his irises struck you all over again, even in the dim light. They were that rare kind of blue–pure and soft, but startling in their deepness and intensity. Almost unreal in a sense, like you’d expect to find this kind of blue painted across the sky on the clearest day of the year. Right now, though, they were a little darker, a little stormier, pupils dilating then constricting ever so slightly as he tried to refocus.

And in the very center of each pupil, you saw it–a pinprick of shifting white. That tiny speck of starlight you’d come to recognize as The Void’s slow, and creeping awareness. You brushed your thumb lightly over the back of Bob’s hand.

“I do want you to stay for a bit though,” You whispered, voice quieter now. “Before you let the ice cube out.” He nodded once, his eyes fluttering shut–hard, purposeful. You could see the tension in his jaw as he exhaled slowly through his nose, steadying his breath, pushing the shadow back down beneath the surface. For now.

“That I can do…” He murmured, his voice a little raspier than before. Then, softer still, “Wa-Want me to hold you? I promise I won’t touch your face again.”

You smiled, heart tugging at the awkward little stammer and the genuine warmth behind his offer. “I’d really like that.”

He didn’t waste time. Just moved slowly, carefully, like you were made of glass. He stood just long enough to toe off his sneakers and ease himself onto the couch beside you. Then, without asking again, he opened his arms.

You curled into his side, rearranging yourself gingerly to avoid jostling your heating pad. Your head settled against his shoulder, your cheek pressing into the soft, worn cotton of his shirt. His arm wrapped around you securely, palm splayed warm and steady across your upper back.

The relief that came from being held like that was immediate. Like a switch being flipped. Not because the pain vanished, but because the isolation of it lifted. You weren’t suffering alone anymore. You were here, in the arms of someone who didn’t flinch from your discomfort or try to fix it with empty words. Someone who wanted to be here, in this quiet, messy moment with you.

You leaned forward again just a little, brushing your lips to his cheek. A brief kiss. Gentle. Grateful.

If it were any other night–if your body wasn’t at war with itself–you knew you’d be all over him by now. He smelled good, like wind and clean cotton and whatever fabric softener he always used that clung to your sheets for days after he left. And he was so close, warm and pliant beneath your hands. There was always something about Bob that pulled at your skin like gravity.

But tonight…Tonight was different.

You felt a familiar ache of desire tug somewhere deep in your core, curling low and hot beneath the cramping you were experiencing still. You knew sex could help–that it might actually alleviate some of the pain. But still, the words stuck in your throat. This was the first time he was seeing you like this, and you didn’t want to risk turning tenderness into tension. Didn’t want him to think you were asking for more than he was ready to give under these conditions.

So instead, you let yourself rest. Let your fingers trace lightly over the stitching on his shirt, your breathing slowly syncing with his. You wondered, idly, if he knew–if he had any idea about the things that could help you feel better. If he’d ever read that article or heard someone say it out loud in passing. But if he did, he wasn’t mentioning it. And you weren’t brave enough to ask.

Not now at least.

You shifted even closer to him with a soft, involuntary hum, the smallest sound of contentment escaping your lips as your body registered the warmth of his side and clung to it. Bob didn’t move, didn’t speak–just tightened his arm around you ever so slightly, his hand resting securely on your back like he was anchoring you to the present, to safety.

You closed your eyes, and breathed him in again. The cramping hadn’t gone away, not completely. But it no longer ruled you. It lingered like a distant storm, rumbling at the edges, while the quiet beat of Bob’s heart offered something steadier to focus on.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

You let the sound cradle you, like a drumbeat in your chest that wasn’t yours but still somehow belonged to you, bringing your leg over his slowly, your hips shifting with the movement. Bob responded immediately to the new position, his own leg adjusting instinctively beneath yours to make a little space for you to settle into.

Your face pressed deeper into the hollow of his shoulder, the heat in your cheeks now less about fever and more about quiet intimacy. You stayed there like that, enveloped in the low murmur of his breath and the steady pulse beneath your ear.

Every now and then, he’d shift slightly to get more comfortable, and the subtle motion–his chest rising, his ribs flexing, his fingertips dragging lightly through the fabric at your back–would draw you back from the edge of sleep, until it finally overtook you.

—————————

The first thing you noticed when you stirred awake was the absence of warmth, and the pressure of arms and hands touching you.

Instinctively you reached for Bob, thinking that maybe in the midst of your nap you had untangled yourself from him, only to find the indentation he’d left in the couch and a faint lingering trace of his fabric softener. The fuzzy navy blanket had slipped down your hip, and the heating pad, long since gone cold, pressed heavy and useless against your lower stomach. You sighed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as your ears registered the low, distant whir of the bathroom fan humming from down the hall.

Slowly, your eyes trailed over toward the clock on the wall.

9:25 p.m.

Somehow it felt later and earlier than that all at once, like time had folded in on itself and it was just an odd loop. You sat up with a soft groan, hands bracing against the couch cushions as you shifted. The cramps had dulled–less a serrated edge now, more a muted throb radiating into your lower back like a tired engine. Still there. Still annoying. But tolerable.

You peeled the cooled heating pad from your skin and dropped it beside the grocery bags on the coffee table, your eyes skimming over them with a faint smile, though you had noticed they weren’t as full anymore.

The all-dressed chips were gone, so were the sour cream ones, meaning Bob must’ve eaten them all on his own. You let out a quiet, amused hum and pushed yourself to your feet, stretching just enough to feel the pull in your shoulders, your hoodie exposing your midriff with the movement.

As you padded across the room, you grabbed the unopened bottle of Advil from the second grocery bag, cracked the seal, and shook out two liquid capsules into your palm, tossing them back and swallowing them dry, wincing slightly at the way they briefly got stuck in your throat.

Then you stood there for a beat, letting everything settle around you.

The apartment was quiet, but not silent. Dim, but warm.

A few lamps cast soft pools of light across the space–one near the couch still glowing amber, another by the kitchen left on at half brightness. The curtains over the windows were drawn tight, muting the outside world to a soft shadowplay of headlights passing every so often. On the kitchen counter, Bob’s keys were resting beside a crumpled receipt and the half-empty bag of gummy worms he had clearly dipped into while you were asleep.

You shuffled down the hallway, arms folded loosely across your chest, each step deliberate and soft. A few hours ago you probably wouldn’t have been able to move like this, so evidently whatever you did had helped.

The further down the hall you went, the cooler the air became–less from the apartment’s thermostat and more from him. That telltale prickle at the base of your neck. Not sinister. Not unwelcome. Just a quiet alertness in the atmosphere. The kind of cold that carried intention.

The bathroom door was mostly shut, but the light bled out beneath it in a thin golden strip across the floorboards. The fan buzzed faintly above it, soothing and constant, and you could hear the quiet sound of water–either running or having just stopped.

You lifted your hand, hesitating only for a moment before gently knocking on the door with the soft part of your knuckles.

“Bob?” You called out, your voice scratchy with sleep. There was a brief pause, and then the fan cut off with a quiet click, and for a moment, all you could hear was the dripping of water and your own breath echoing through your nose.

Then the door opened, and standing in the center of the soft bathroom lighting was The Void. He was unmistakable–tall and defined in that way Bob always was, but rendered in silhouette so precise it looked carved from shadow itself. Smooth and obsidian from head to toe, his features unreadable save for the faint glint of white where his eyes should be–those signature star-pupils glowing dimly in the low light–and the suggestion of a mouth that moved only when he chose it to.

He wore nothing but a towel, slung low around his hips, and the fact that he’d just gotten out of the shower was made abundantly clear by the way water still clung to him in languid droplets, trailing down the lines of his chest and abdomen in slow, shimmering arcs. Each drop disappeared into the dark surface of his skin like ink being swallowed by midnight.

His silky black hair was damp and heavy, hanging over his forehead and temples in wet, tousled clumps. It framed the curve of his jaw, you could see it from the way it flowed out a bit and hung slightly. Somehow, even in his wordless presence, he radiated a kind of calm–but it pulsed with tension just beneath the surface. As if the moment could shift at any second, if he let it.

You blinked, eyebrows lifting, “Oh. I didn’t know you were here.”

He nodded, voice lower and smoother than Bob’s but carrying the same gentle breathiness. “Yeah. Bob fell asleep, so I just…Decided to take over during that.” He paused, tilting his head faintly, water dripping onto the tile from his hair. “Was feeling a bit sweaty though, so I wanted to freshen up a bit. Hope that’s okay.” You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossing lightly over your hoodie, a smirk pulling at your lips.

”Well, what’s mine is yours,” You stated casually, “So…Have at it.” You caught a flash of his teeth–just the slightest curve of a grin in that shadowy mouth.

“You have quite the array of soaps,” He replied, tilting his head with mock gravity, “So I certainly had at it.” You let out a little laugh, stepping into the bathroom a bit further, heat curling low in your stomach just from the sheer sight of him in basically nothing but the towel itself.

”I’m sure you did.” You commented, before raising onto your toes and giving him a soft, lingering peck at the corner of his cold mouth.”Hello, by the way,” You added, with a little smirk on your face. He hummed, low and pleased, the sound vibrating in his chest. Then he wrapped his arms around your waist in a slow, measured motion–cool to the touch, but not unwelcoming. In fact, he felt like relief. Like stepping into shade after being in the sun for too long. His hands slid along your back, fingers dipping under the hem of your hoodie where your warm skin met his coolness.

“Hello to you too,” He murmured–and before you could answer, he leaned forward and kissed you properly this time, and it certainly wasn’t the same type of greeting you had given him. It was slower. Deeper. His mouth was cool but somehow still pliant against yours, parting just enough for his tongue to tease the seam of your lips before he gently sucked on your bottom lip, drawing it between his own like he had all the time in the world. You let out a faint, breathy sound against him, your hands gripping the towel at his hips for balance. You could feel the heat in your stomach ignite almost instantly, curling low and sharp, like a spark catching dry kindling. Every glide of his mouth against yours pulled you closer to the edge of forgetting–forgetting your cramps, your exhaustion, your discomfort. Forgetting yourself entirely.

Which was exactly why you had to stop.

With reluctant fingers still curled around the soft edge of the towel at his waist, you pulled away from his lips, your breath catching as your forehead gently rested against his.

“Void…” You whispered, voice barely above a murmur, “I’m on my period.”Your hands lifted, sliding up to press gently against the cool, velvet-smooth skin of his chest–broad and unyielding beneath your palms. His body stilled for a breath, but not with hesitation. He let out a soft, breathy laugh, his white pupils glinting like distant stars as he gazed at you.

“I know,” He murmured, without shame or judgment. “I’m able to smell the blood.” You opened your mouth to respond, but he leaned in before you could, placing a kiss to your cheek, then another just below your jaw. His lips were cool and reverent, trailing slowly down to your neck. One kiss. Another. Then another.

Each one was featherlight and deliberate, lips barely brushing against your overheated skin–and yet your pulse fluttered, your breath hitched, and your head tilted almost instinctively to the side to give him more room. The contrast between your warm skin and his chilled mouth made your toes curl, a tingling shiver running down your spine like lightning.

Your eyes fluttered closed as he pressed a kiss just beneath your ear, and you exhaled softly.

“You sound like a vampire…” You mumbled, trying to keep your voice steady. Void let out a low, indulgent laugh, the sound vibrating against the hollow of your throat like the roll of distant thunder. Then–without warning–he nipped at your pulse point, sharp enough to make you jump slightly, but not enough to hurt.

“I could be one,” He said slyly, voice curling like smoke. “If you’d allow me to. I already have super senses, so…I’m halfway there…Only thing that’s missing is drinking blood.” The suggestiveness in his tone made your stomach twist into tight, unbearable knots. You were just about to say something back–some equally flirtatious quip to match his vampire fantasy–when he added, entirely too casually:

“Also, with those super senses, I can literally hear your uterus contracting right now. Did I mention that?” You froze. Your head pulling back immediately, brows knitting together in horror as your face twisted into the most incredulous expression humanly possible.

“Jesus,” You groaned, pushing against his chest–not hard, just enough to make him take a step back. “You really know how to ruin a sexy moment.” Void’s mouth curled into a smug smile, the white glow of his pupils sharpening with delight as a low laugh rumbled from his chest.

“Don’t worry,” He murmured, unbothered. “It doesn’t sound weird.”

You stared at him.

“I thought it would be like…Leather gloves squishing together or something–”

“Oh my God–”

“–But it actually registers more like a second pulse of sorts. Slow. Steady. Very, very calming to listen to.” You covered your face with both hands, letting out a muffled sound of despair.

“You have to learn how to keep things to yourself, Void.” You groaned through your palms. He tilted his head, completely unashamed, the way only an immortal void-being could be.

“I find it to be beautiful,” He said earnestly. “It seems like you’re the one who’s embarrassed by a normal bodily function.” You lowered your hands slowly, one brow arched so high it might’ve shot off your forehead.

“Me?” You asked, pointing to yourself.

”Yes. You,” He replied, pressing a cold fingertip to your nose without missing a beat, “I can practically hear the hum of your sexual frustration in your bones–“

”Void–“ You tried to cut in, though he trampled your attempt.

”–But you’re too reluctant to ask me to take care of you because you’re embarrassed about it.” Your mouth dropped open slightly, almost shocked by the forwardness of his statement. He was staring at you, completely composed and unbothered. You gulped loudly, feeling your heart rate pick up under his steady, unblinking gaze. It felt like he was staring through you–like he could peel back each layer of your composure with just a tilt of his head. Void watched the fluttering of your pulse with mild fascination, his eyes gleaming.

”Am I right or am I wrong?” He murmured. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Your lips just parted on a soft exhale, throat working as if your body had forgotten how to form a sentence. Your mouth had gone dry–parched like desert heat–and so you broke eye contact, glanced away from him, ashamed at the burn of arousal coiling through your body in tight, low spirals.

“Void…Listen, I–” He reached up, cold fingers brushing along your jaw until his hand cradled the side of your face. He tilted your chin gently, guiding your gaze back up to his. His touch was soft but steady, almost bordering on firm.

“I asked if I was right or if I was wrong,” He repeated, his voice laced with that subtle, grounding dominance. Calm and unshakeable. “Can you answer me, please?” You stared at him, throat bobbing with another nervous swallow. Your pulse thrummed in your ears. His thumb brushed over your cheek, like he was soothing something only he could sense.

“…Of course I’m reluctant to ask,” You whispered, your voice almost hoarse. “Who wouldn’t be?” He exhaled slowly, a little sigh escaping him–less disappointment, more knowing. He shook his head faintly, and the shadowed strands of his wet hair shifted with the movement.

“Someone who isn’t embarrassed of what they want,” He replied simply, and the smirk that followed was sharp–knowing, dark, fond. You could feel your palms getting sweaty. There was a heat building inside you that had nothing to do with your cramps. It was a different kind of ache now–deep and thick and pressing down on every nerve in your body like it had weight.

“I’m not embarrassed,” You muttered, eyes darting to the floor between you like you were hoping for an escape hatch to open beneath your feet. “I’m just…”

The Void didn’t move nor did he blink. He just waited, and watched you closely.

You glanced up to meet his gaze again, but before the rest of the sentence could fully form, he cut you off–quietly, confidently, like he’d been waiting for the moment to fall apart in your throat.

“Reluctant to indulge in something you want?” He finished your sentence for you, letting the words drop like stones between you.

He leaned forward just slightly, not enough to touch–but enough for the chill of his breath to ghost over your cheeks like frost crawling up a windowpane. You felt it like a current–sharp and soothing at the same time–cutting clean through the haze of your heat-flushed skin. It pulled a shiver from you, involuntary, delicate as a blade of grass bending in the wind. The stars in his pupils shimmered faintly, twin glints of something eternal, patient, and entirely undisturbed.

“…Reluctant to put you in an uncomfortable position,” You corrected quietly, the words trembling slightly as they left your lips. They felt too honest, too exposed–but true all the same. “It’s not that I don’t want to–I do. God, I do. But I’m not gonna beg for something if there’s even a chance it’s gonna make you uncomfortable or…Cross a boundary for you. That’s not who I am. And it’s not fair to you.”

There was a pause–soft and heavy.

Then, he let out a quiet, amused sound. A low, warm chuckle that rumbled deep in his chest and unfurled like black velvet across your skin.

“Y/N,” He started gently, shaking his head. The stars in his eyes brightened slightly. “A little bit of blood would never make me feel uncomfortable.” He dipped closer, the line of his shoulder brushing yours, his mouth nearly at your ear now as he murmured, “You should know that by now.”

Your breath hitched.

His words weren’t mocking or pitying–they were gentle. Certain. Like the idea of your bleeding body repulsing him was so laughably impossible that it didn’t even deserve serious consideration.

He drew back just enough to meet your gaze again, but he didn’t move away entirely. One of his hands trailed down slowly to rest just above the waistband of your sweatpants. The tips of his cool fingers brushed your warm skin where your hoodie had ridden up. The contrast made your stomach twitch.

“All I want is to take care of you…And it would be great if you’d let me.” His voice was low and soft, coiling through air like smoke–cool and deliberate. His fingertips slipped under the waistband of your sweatpants and just rested there, grounding you. You bit the inside of your cheek, pulse quickening. His hand wasn’t moving, wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t trying to talk you out of your nerves, wasn’t seducing you in the typical way–but it still felt seductive, still soothing, the way only Void could be. Your throat worked around the ache in your chest, and your voice came out quieter than you meant it to.

“…You really want to do this?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Of course I do.”

No sarcasm. No smirk. Just certainty.

You brought your hands up slowly to press against his chest–cool, slick, still faintly damp from the shower. The sensation sent a little jolt through your fingers. You closed your eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.

“…Okay,” You whispered. “Just give me a few minutes to get ready at least.” His mouth quirked–barely a smile, but filled with something like affection.

“No problem,” He said, brushing a kiss against your cheek with a softness that made your knees weaken. “I’ll meet you in your bedroom.” And just like that, he slipped past you.

The cool absence he left in his wake was almost startling–the door clicking softly shut behind him as he went. You stood there in the bathroom for a beat, heart hammering, your reflection catching your eye in the mirror.

You looked like a storm had passed through you. Hoodie riding up, eyes sleepy and a bit glossy. Lips kiss-bitten and puffy. You could even feel the shape of his mouth on your neck still. You stared at yourself for a long second, then exhaled hard through your nose and mumbled–

“…What the hell do I do?” Panic flickered just beneath the surface, stuttering hot against your nerves. It wasn’t that you didn’t want this. You did. Badly. Desperately. But then the logistics came crashing in—blood. mess. cleanup. embarrassment. the way your stomach might cramp mid-orgasm. the way you might sob afterward because your hormones were deranged.

You could already feel your anxiety building.

Your gaze darted toward the bottom cabinet beneath the sink, and your body moved before your brain could catch up.

You crouched down and yanked it open, fingers wrapping around a half-used pack of wipes from the last time you’d needed a quick clean-up post-sex. You tossed them onto the counter, then paused.

Okay. Okay. Quick solutions. You’re okay.

You pulled down your sweatpants and underwear, removed your tampon with swift, practiced ease–wrapping it tightly in toilet paper before tucking it deep beneath the mountain of used tissues in the bin. You washed your hands quickly, your fingers trembling slightly beneath the rush of warm water. The stream was too hot on your already overheated skin, but you didn’t care. You needed the sting. Needed the reset.

You paused in front of the mirror again and pushed your hair out of your face, taking a deep breath. You decided to keep your sweatpants off just so they didn’t stain, but your underwear remained on, just for insurance. You tucked the pack of wipes under your arm, before padding back into the hallway, making your way across the hall to your bedroom.

You opened the door to your bedroom slowly, the hinges barely creaking as the light from the hallway spilled across the floorboards in a soft ribbon of gold. But inside–it was all dark.

The only illumination came from the moonlight, cool and silvery, filtering through the slats in your curtains and painting faint stripes across the walls. It caught on the curve of his shoulders first. He was seated at the foot of the bed like a statue carved from night itself, all sharp lines and slick, smooth skin that shimmered faintly under the light.

The towel was still slung low around his hips, just barely clinging to his frame. His posture was relaxed, almost regal, arms resting on his thighs. But the moment he saw you–standing in the doorway, hoodie hanging loose over your body, your legs bare beneath the hem–his head lifted.

Those star-pupiled eyes dragged slowly up your body, deliberate and unhurried. From the tips of your toes, up the line of your calves, your thighs–he lingered there, lips parting ever so slightly–then continued, drinking in every inch of you until his gaze reached your face. The faintest smile curved across his mouth.

“Come here.” His voice was soft, velvety, but there was weight behind it. Command hidden inside kindness. He extended a hand to you, fingers curling ever so slightly, beckoning. You swallowed. Then stepped forward. Your heart beated faster with each movement across the floor, the cool air curling around your exposed legs, your fingertips gripping the edge of the wipe pack a little too tightly. You stopped just in front of him and dropped the pack beside his thigh. He didn’t even glance at it.

He only looked at you.

Your fingers met, and the moment your hand slid into his, his other arm was already reaching to wrap around the backs of your thighs. He pulled you into the cradle of his body gently, slowly, until you stood fully between his knees, the heat of your skin brushing against the coolness of his chest. His hands moved to your ass, slow and possessive–broad palms splaying there with intent. Not squeezing yet. Just holding.

Then he leaned forward.

And kissed you.

Hard.

His mouth was cooler than yours, but it only made the friction sweeter–the contrast sharper. It started with pressure, then parted into hunger. His lips moved with an urgency that surprised you, tongue flicking against yours with teasing precision before deepening the kiss into something that made your knees tremble. He sucked on your bottom lip just enough to draw a gasp from you, one hand slipping higher to squeeze your hip.

You whimpered faintly into his mouth, your fingers finding the slick skin of his shoulders, clinging.

“Void—” You breathed between kisses.

But he just hummed, a low sound of satisfaction, and pulled you forward with firm hands until you had no choice but to straddle his lap. You climbed up instinctively, knees bracketing his thighs, arms looping around his neck. The towel bunched between you, but barely registered. He groaned softly when your weight settled into him, his hands roaming again–palming your ass, your hips, dragging you flush against the line of his abdomen.

“You’re so hot,” He murmured against your mouth, voice dark with awe. “I think I’m going to have to cool you down.” He stood in one fluid, seamless motion–not a jerk or a lift, just a smooth ascension, as if gravity bowed to him. You barely had time to gasp before your legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, arms tightening around his shoulders, breath catching in your throat. His hands supported you easily, one cradling beneath your thighs, the other anchoring your lower back.

And then, without warning, he turned.

Your back hit the mattress with a soft thump, the air catching in your chest in surprise before it dissolved into a giggle. A real one. Light and unguarded. The kind that cracked through the last of your tension and made your head tip back for a second, even as he hovered above you.

He loomed, dark and cold and beautiful in a way that never stopped stealing your breath. Still damp, water beading faintly across his shadow-black skin, the remnants of his shower gleaming like stardust scattered across him. His hair clung to his temples, longer pieces curling at his jaw, giving him an almost feral softness. His glowing white eyes skimmed over your face, then down your body, before flicking back up, his mouth quirking into a sly, knowing smile as he straightened up above you, his fingers ghosting over the towel on his hips. He held your gaze with that impossible, infinite stillness–like the stars themselves had gone quiet to witness this moment–before slowly tugging the towel free.

“Y’know,” He said, the corner of his mouth lifting, “You really should’ve gotten those black sheets you mentioned seeing at the store the other day…” You raised a brow at him from beneath your lashes, still breathless from the kiss, heart drumming against your ribs, “Because now we’re going to ruin this towel.” He added, lifting it in his hand and motioning to it. You let out a soft, startled laugh despite yourself, rolling your eyes as you lifted your hips ever so slightly.

“Then I wouldn’t be able to find you,” You teased, adjusting just enough for him to slip the towel beneath you, “You’d camouflage into the sheets.” That earned a genuine laugh–a low, smoky exhale that brushed against your throat as he lowered himself over you, his shadowed skin cool against the fire of your thighs.

“Mmm,” He mused, his mouth hovering just above yours, “I’m sure you would manage it.” And then he kissed you again.

Slower this time. Deeper. His weight settled between your thighs with deliberate care, the blanket of cold that clung to him seeping into your overheated skin like an offering. It made you shudder, your fingers curling in reflex around his arms as your thighs instinctively tightened around his waist. The contrast was maddening–your warmth against his chill, his steady hands anchoring you while your body throbbed with need and ache beneath him.

His lips moved with worship, with reverence. Not frantic. Not rushed. Just sure–like every press of his mouth had a purpose. You whimpered softly into him, and the sound made him groan low in his throat, his hands sliding up your sides with slow, dragging strokes.

And then one hand rose to the zipper of your hoodie.

You gasped faintly as he tugged it down, tooth by tooth, the faint sound of the zipper somehow deafening in the quiet. His lips never left your skin as he worked, kissing the underside of your jaw, then lower, nipping gently at the curve of your neck until you squirmed beneath him. The zipper reached the bottom. He opened your hoodie slowly, like parting the petals of a flower. You were in your old, soft sleep bra–barely supportive, thin and stretched from too many wash cycles–but he didn’t seem to care. If anything, the sight of you–barely dressed, and so open to him–made his pupils pulse brighter with starlight.

He leaned back for just a second, letting his eyes devour the view of you laid out for him. You saw the moment it hit him–his breath caught. His gaze dragged across your chest, where your breasts rose and fell with each shallow inhale, visibly heavy with heat and swelling from your cycle, from the hormones that rushed throughout your bloodstream.

“Oh, Jesus…” His voice broke over the words, a rasp of awe and hunger curling low in his throat. His cold palms slid up from your ribs, “You’re burning up so much,” He whispered, his hands cupping the underside of your breasts through the thin fabric. The contact made you gasp, hips twitching beneath him. His thumbs brushed softly over your nipples and you arched faintly into the touch, breath hitching as the friction sent sparks skittering down your spine. He hummed low in his throat, the sound curling like smoke between your ribs.

“Sensitive little thing,” He murmured, his voice velvety and warm despite the chill of his body. “I haven’t even touched you properly yet, and already you’re squirming.”

You let out a soft whimper, and he took that as permission–slipping the straps of your bra off your shoulders, letting the cups fall away slowly, exposing the full swell of your breasts to the coolness of his body and the room. The moan that slid out of him was low and long, almost involuntary.

“Look at you,” He breathed, “You look so fucking soft.” He ducked his head without hesitation, brushing his mouth over the top of one breast–just a featherlight kiss at first, then another, then another. His lips were cold but plush, the contrast against your overheated skin making your back arch reflexively off the bed.

Then he sucked.

Not gentle.

Not harsh.

Just deep and slow and possessive, like he was savoring the taste of you, mapping you with his mouth. His tongue flicked at your nipple, then flattened and dragged across it, teasing it into a peak before he latched on and sucked again–deeper this time.

“F-fuck–” You gasped, writhing slightly beneath him. Your thighs twitched, heat pooling low in your stomach like a slow, molten tide. He groaned against your skin, the sound reverberating through your chest.

“You like that?” He asked, pulling back just enough to blow cool air over the wet peak, making you cry out softly. “You’re so fucking sensitive. It’s gorgeous.” His mouth returned to your other breast, lavishing it with the same treatment–licking and sucking, nipping lightly, dragging the flat of his tongue over your nipples until they ached in the most delicious way. He marked you there–soft bruises blooming under the suction of his mouth, kisses that would fade slowly over the next few days. Proof that you were his. That you had been worshipped like something holy.

“You taste like a fucking fever,” He muttered between kisses, “And you make the prettiest little sounds when I suck on your nipples, do you know that?” Your fingers tangled in his damp hair, tugging gently, breathless and whining as your hips rocked against his abs. You could feel the damp patch at the crotch of your underwear growing wetter by the second–not just from your menstrual blood, but from arousal now as well.

“You’re driving me fucking crazy,” You whispered. “Please…Please–”

“Shh,” He soothed, dragging his mouth down your sternum, licking a path down your belly, “I know. I know, little flame.”

He kissed your stomach next, slow and warmly. You felt the points of his teeth graze your skin as he bit lightly–just enough to make you twitch. Each kiss was possessive and deliberate. Your flesh tingled under every scrape his mouth provided, the tension in your core building to an unbearable level.

“You’re beautiful,” He said between kisses. “All of you. Especially like this.” He nuzzled into your navel, then kissed just below it. “Soft. Swollen. Needy.” Your thighs trembled beneath him as he reached the waistband of your underwear. He paused, lifting his head to meet your eyes.

“Lift your hips for me.”

You obeyed without question, breath catching as your muscles clenched and your hips tilted up. His hands gripped the sides of your underwear, and he peeled them down slowly–dragging the fabric over your thighs, your knees, and finally your ankles before tossing them somewhere behind him without ceremony.

Then he stilled, crouched between your legs, and inhaled deeply.

His eyes flickered open–bright white star-pupils pulsing softly with what could only be described as hunger.

“You smell delicious,” He praised, voice dark and rich with awe. His nostrils flared faintly as he leaned closer, dipping his face down toward the apex of your thighs. “I’m going to get so fucking drunk off you.” You whimpered, thighs pressing together slightly at the praise–but he immediately placed his hands on your knees and coaxed them open again, eyes glowing brighter as he gazed down at your slick, glistening core. You knew there was definitely more blood there, mixing with your arousal, but Void didn’t flinch, nor did he hesitate. If anything it seemed like he locked in even more, and his hunger only grew.

His fingers dug gently into your thighs as he leaned closer, his breath skating over your swollen folds.

”Mmm fuck.” He moaned, before leaning in and licking.

A long, deliberate drag of his tongue–flat and firm–starting at your entrance and pulling all the way up through your folds to your clit, where he flicked the tip against the sensitive nub with precise, teasing pressure. The moment his tongue touched you, your entire body jolted, a breathless gasp tearing from your throat as your hips bucked off the bed.

“F-Fuck…Void…”

“Oh, I know,” He purred, already moving back in, his breath cold and steady against your dripping heat. “You’re so fucking sensitive. I can feel it…The way your thighs twitch…The way your heartbeat stutters under your skin…” He buried his mouth back between your legs, licking again–this time slower, messier, his tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth gently. Your hands flew to his hair, gripping tightly as you cried out. The sound that left him in response was somewhere between a growl and a moan, vibrating against you like thunder under your skin.

He didn’t stop.

He licked through the blood and slick like it was nectar–like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. He groaned again, louder this time, tongue plunging deeper, swirling around your entrance before dragging back up to flick over your clit with maddening precision.

”Tastes so fucking good, I wish I could have you this way all the time.” He rasped, pulling back only to speak for those brief seconds. In the moonlight you could see the way his chin was slick. You whimpered, thighs trembling around his head, the pleasure already cresting far too fast. Your body was so sensitive it felt like every flick of his tongue set fire to your nerves. You could feel every nuance of it–every swipe, every suck, every teasing swirl of his tongue through the slick mess between your thighs.

Then he moaned into you again and shoved his face deeper–pressing his mouth hard against your aching core, his tongue working fast and filthy as he wrapped his arms under your thighs and held you still, forcing you to ride his face. You cried out, hips trying to squirm, but he growled–deep and warning–and tightened his grip.

“Don’t run from it,” He grunted against your clit, the vibration making your whole body twitch. “I want you to fall apart on my tongue. Let it happen. Don’t fight it.” One hand pulled free from your thigh and slid beneath him. Two fingers pressed to your dripping entrance, circling once–slick with blood and arousal–before slowly sinking inside you.

You sobbed. The stretch was gentle, but intense–your body already sheened with sweat and tight and overwhelmed. His fingers curled deep, slow at first, dragging against that aching spot inside you with precision only something inhuman could have. Your walls clenched around him instantly.

”Fuck, Y/N,” He muttered, voice dark and rumbling, “You’re so hot inside…Clutching my fingers like you don’t wanna let go.” Then his free hand rose and pressed flat against your lower stomach, right over the ache. Right over the source of your cramps. And it grounded you instantly.

“You feel that?” He whispered, licking your clit with long, slow strokes while his fingers began to pump inside you. “That pressure? That’s me. Right there, where it hurts. Let me fix it, let me fuck it out of you with my mouth.” You choked on a sob, gasping as your hips arched off the bed, the hand on your belly the only thing anchoring you.

His mouth moved faster. His fingers did too–curling, pumping, coaxing the tension in your core into something unbearable. The obscene, wet sound of it all–his tongue working your clit, his fingers squelching inside your soaked cunt, the wet slap of his chin against your blood-slick thighs–it should’ve embarrassed you.

But it didn’t.

It made you dizzy.

It made you cry out his name again, loud and needy and utterly desperate.

“Void…Void, I…Oh my god—”

“That’s it, little flame,” He growled, lips dragging across your clit again, “Give it to me. Let me taste it. All of it. Don’t hold back.” You couldn’t. You were shaking. Gasping. Your thighs clenched around his head as your back arched sharply off the bed, your body locking up like a livewire.

You came.

Hard.

A sob tore from your throat as your body seized with pleasure, tears springing to your eyes unbidden as the orgasm ripped through you. The combination of his fingers pressing deep, the steady weight of his hand against your stomach, and his mouth–cold, slick, merciless–on your clit was too much. You didn’t even realize you were crying until his tongue slowed, and his fingers gentled inside you. He licked you through the aftershocks, slow and soft now, lapping up the mess he’d made of you like it was holy.

And when he finally looked up, his mouth slick, chin gleaming, star-pupils glowing brighter than ever, he whispered–

“Jesus Christ…That was fucking amazing.” He slipped his fingers out of you, before crawling up your body slowly–like a shadow, like a storm, like something that could devour you whole and still beg for more. His mouth brushed your hipbone first, then your stomach, pausing to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss just above your navel, right where your muscles still fluttered from the orgasm he’d wrung out of you. His breath was cool and steady, his lips slick with blood and arousal. He didn’t bother to wipe them.

He didn’t need to.

He wanted you to taste it.

You could see it in the way his glowing eyes dragged up your body, lingering at every mark, every quiver, every trembling inch of your skin as if committing it to memory. As if this was a prayer, and your ruined body beneath him was a sacred altar.

He reached your chest again, kissing a slow trail up your sternum. You could still feel the faint ache in your nipples from earlier, already hypersensitive again as his mouth brushed them, one after the other. His tongue flicked lazily over one, and he smiled when your breath caught.

“Still so reactive,” He murmured, his voice thick with affection and heat. “You always are. Especially when you’re messy like this.”

He finally reached your throat and hovered there for a moment–just close enough that you could feel the wetness of his mouth against your skin, the blood and spit and come-slick humidity of him.

You were still panting, your cheeks flushed, your limbs limp and boneless beneath him.

“You okay?” He murmured, his voice like velvet smoke. “Still with me?”

You nodded faintly, whispering, “Yeah.”

He smiled against your throat and then dragged his lips up your jawline, slow and savoring, until he reached your mouth.

His tongue was cool. His kiss was filthy.

The moment your lips parted for him, he pushed inside–slow and deliberate–letting you taste the blood and slick and heat still coating his tongue. You whimpered at the taste, hips twitching faintly beneath him, even though your body was wrung out and raw.

“There it is,” He breathed, voice breaking as he kissed you deeper. “Taste that? That’s you. All of you. Sweet and bitter and so fucking perfect.”

You groaned into his mouth, hands sliding into his hair, and he moaned like he could live in this–like your kiss, your taste, your breath were oxygen.

His mouth was greedy, slick and open and unrelenting as he pressed closer, slotting his body against yours like he could mold himself into your skin. You could feel the length of him pressing hard between your thighs, his cock thick and pulsing. You grounded up against him lazily, still slick and hot and sore, but wanting.

He pulled back a little bit and looked down at you, letting out a husky laugh against your mouth.

”You’ve got some blood on your face.” He commented. You blinked, dazed and panting, and he grinned—sharp, glowing, haloed in moonlight. He reached behind him with one hand, retrieving the pack of wipes you’d tossed earlier. With a practiced flick, he tore one free and dragged it slowly across his own chin first, wiping away the glistening blood and slick that still coated his mouth. The red stain smeared faintly along the wipe like paint across linen. Then, with the same slow reverence, he leaned in and gently swiped it along your cheek, cleaning where your own blood had transferred to his mouth, then your skin.

He dropped the used wipe off the side of the bed without a glance, not caring where it landed.

Then his hand was back at your cheek, cupping it as he leaned in to kiss you again.

It was softer this time—but no less intense. If anything, the tenderness of it made the heat in your stomach roar back to life. Because there was nothing gentle about the way his cock throbbed between your thighs, brushing hot and heavy against your slit. You felt it, solid and insistent, grinding lazily along your folds as he kissed you deep enough to make your eyes roll back.

Then his hand moved between you.

You gasped as you felt his fingers curl around the base of his cock, the head nudging against your clit in a slick, teasing drag. His mouth pulled away from yours with a quiet, wet sound.

“You okay for us to have sex still?” he asked, his voice low and steady, but his pupils flaring bright with hunger. You didn’t hesitate. Your whole body arched into him, your nails curling into the damp skin of his shoulders.

“Fuck, please,” you breathed, desperate and hoarse.

That got a smile out of him. A real one. Dangerous and soft, his teeth faintly visible in the moonlight, a haze of red still staining the tips. His cock dragged through your folds again, and he let out a slow, pleased groan, hips twitching at the feel of your slick, swollen cunt parting for him.

“You’re soaked,” He murmured, dragging the blunt head of his cock over your clit once before sliding it down to your entrance, “Bleeding, dripping, fucking throbbing for me. You need to be filled, don’t you?” His voice was velvet filth, low and coaxing, and you nodded frantically.

“Yes…Yes, fuck, I need you, Void…”

“Then take me…” He whispered, and with one slow, brutal push, he sank inside you. Your mouth dropped open on a silent scream.

The stretch burned–hot and overwhelming–your walls clenching around him so tight he groaned deep in his chest, closing his eyes tightly as he continued. He didn’t stop until he was all the way in–buried to the hilt, his cock pulsing inside you, dragging against the sensitive, swollen walls of your still-sensitive body.

“F-fuck, baby…” Ge rasped, voice fraying. “You’re squeezing me so tight–I can feel every flutter, every pulse.” His hips jerked slightly, an involuntary grind, just enough to drag the thick head of his cock against your most sensitive spot. You gasped, back arching.

“God, Void–” You choked out, your hands clutching his shoulders like you needed him to hold you down before you came apart again.

He dipped his head to your neck, tongue dragging slowly along the column of your throat before he sank his teeth into the skin–not enough to break it, but enough to make your entire body jerk. He sucked there, slow and hard, until the blood surged beneath your skin, and your breath hitched in a broken moan.

“I love how fucking warm you are inside,” He growled against your neck, licking over the bite to soothe it, “You’re so soft, so slick…I could stay buried inside you forever.” You whimpered under him, grinding your hips upward as best you could, desperate for more friction.

“Please,” You begged, breathless and raw. “Move. Fuck me, please–” That shattered his restraint.

He pulled back slowly, just a few inches, letting you feel the full drag of his cock against your swollen, aching walls–and then he drove back in with a filthy, wet sound, his hips smacking against your thighs. You gasped–loud and helpless–and he did it again. And again.

And again.

Each thrust was a perfectly measured, brutal stroke. Deep. Sure. Possessive. Like he was carving himself into your body with every push of his hips.

“That’s it,” He grunted, fucking you harder now. “Let me hear those little noises–God, you make the sweetest sounds when you’re getting fucked…” You were incoherent beneath him, crying out with every stroke, nails digging into his back, legs trembling.

“Y-you’re so deep,” You sobbed, voice breaking, “I can feel you everywhere…Oh my fucking god.” His mouth found yours again, kissing you like he was starving for you—like your breath was his only tether to reality. He moaned into you as he fucked you, his pace relentless now,.

“I want it messy,” He hissed against your lips. “I want to ruin this bed with you–ruin this whole fucking night with how good I fuck you through the pain.” You sobbed again, overwhelmed by the pressure, the stretch, the heat–and the devotion in his voice that made it all unbearable in the best way.

“You want that?” He demanded, snapping his hips into you, making your breath hitch. “Want me to fuck you through the cramps? Want me to use this cock to fix what your body’s doing to you?”

“Yes…Yes, please, Void…”

“Say it,” He growled. “Say you need it.”

“I need it,” You gasped. “I need your cock, I need you to fuck it out of me–fuck the pain out, please, I’m yours, I’m fucking yours…” A sound ripped from his throat. Feral. Wrecked.

His thrusts got messier, harder. The bed creaked beneath you. His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles, your thighs twitching against him instantly.

“Then cum for me again,” He ordered, voice dark silk. “Cum around my cock while I fill this pretty little pussy…Let me feel you tighten around me.” And just like that–you shattered.

You screamed. Loud. Broken. Beautiful.

Your walls clamped down on him so violently it dragged a curse from his lips, and he snapped his hips into you once, twice, three more times–before groaning like a dying man and spilling into you with a stuttered cry. You felt the warmth of his release, thick and hot, flooding your already filled core, dripping out around his cock.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t even move.

Just stayed there, trembling above you, forehead pressed to yours, breath shaking between parted lips.

“Holy fuck…” He whispered. “You…You’re fucking perfect as usual.”

Your body was trembling, your thighs were sticky and our mouth was kissed raw.

But when you opened your eyes, all you saw was him looking at you like you were the center of the goddamn universe.

And in his orbit–you believed it.

The only sound was the slow, ragged rhythm of your breathing–and the way his heart thundered against your chest. Your arms stayed around his neck, fingers tangled in the sweat-damp curls at his nape. His weight settled over you like a blanket, anchoring you, keeping the ache of emptiness at bay while your body slowly came down.

He nuzzled into your jaw with something almost shy in the way he breathed you in–soft, slow, like he was memorizing the smell of your sweat and your blood and your orgasm. You felt the chill of his skin even through your shared heat, the contrast making you shiver just a little beneath him.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, slowly, with a dazed little smile curling on your lips. “You definitely fucked the pain away… because all I feel is absolute… euphoria.”

His mouth quirked into a knowing smirk, not cocky—just deeply pleased. His voice dropped low and smooth as he leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “I’m gonna pull out,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice quiet, reverent.

You nodded again, whispering, “Okay.”

He moved slowly, carefully, the way you might handle something precious and fragile. And when he finally slid out of you, the heat of his length dragging against your walls one last time, all you felt was a thick, wet rush between your thighs. A flood of warmth and slick, dripping out in slow, messy streams.

You gasped softly at the sensation, and he let out a quiet, breathy laugh as he looked down between your bodies.

“My god,” He muttered, raking a hand through his damp hair. “We really did make a mess…”

You turned your head slightly and followed his gaze. The towel beneath you was utterly ruined–soaked through in deep streaks of red, streaks of slick and cum painting every fold of the fabric. You groaned, embarrassed but not really.

“I don’t think you’ll be able to use this towel ever again,” He added with a smirk, sitting back on his heels.

You opened your mouth to reply, but before you could, he reached over to the side of the bed, grabbed the pack of wipes, and got to work–without a word, without hesitation. His touch was clinical, but gentle, as if he were caring for a wound he revered more than feared. He wiped between your thighs first, slow and careful, murmuring a quiet “Sorry” whenever you twitched from overstimulation. It took five wipes to get most of it–blood and slick and his cum smeared everywhere.

Then he shifted lower, taking his time with the mess on your stomach, dragging a clean wipe across the smeared trails of red that had bloomed beneath your breasts and along your hipbones. His thumb brushed over one of the kiss-marks he’d left–dark, blooming like a rosebud beneath your skin–and sighed.

“These ones might take some elbow grease,” He teased softly.

You let out a little wheeze of a laugh, your voice still hazy with afterglow.

Once you were clean, he finally turned to himself, wiping himself off gently. He bundled all the used wipes in one hand and walked across the room to toss them into the little trash bin near your dresser.

Then he opened your top drawer, rifled carefully through your neatly folded underwear, and selected a soft cotton pair with tiny stars on them–one of your comfiest ones. He smiled faintly at the print, then turned and opened the second drawer–his drawer. The one you had made for him months ago. He pulled out a pair of his black boxer shorts, slid them on, and returned to your side.

��Alright, little flame,” He murmured, scooping you up again with ease, one hand beneath your thighs, the other steady against your back. “Bathroom time.”

You didn’t protest. You let yourself be carried, sleepy and raw and warm in the cradle of his arms. He padded down the hall with you, silent and sure. When you reached the bathroom, he set you gently down on the toilet seat, then opened up the cabinet under the sink and handed you a pad. You blinked at him, slow and grateful, while adjusting it onto the underwear he’d brought.

He leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you with the satisfied look of a man who just cured a century-long affliction with his tongue. The white in his pupils pulsed softly, his expression pure mischief.

“I guess now,” He began, tilting his head, “you won’t be so embarrassed to ask to have period sex, hmm?”

You snorted, letting your head fall forward briefly before looking back up at him with a tired grin.

“I think I’m going to want it until it’s done.”

He pushed off the counter with a pleased little hum, leaned down, and kissed your forehead–soft and cold and grounding.

“Now that’s what I like to hear.”

He lingered there for a second, his lips pressed against your skin like a promise, his hand bracing gently on your knee. Then he straightened up again, reaching for the plush hand towel on the rack beside you.

“Let’s brush your teeth next,” He said softly, that calm authority slipping back into his tone. “Then I’m putting you to bed.” You laughed, wobbly and fond.

“And after that?” You murmured, blinking up at him.

He grinned.

“Then I’ll hold you all night,” He said, matter-of-fact. “And if your cramps come back…” He leaned down again, voice low and filthy, “…I’ll go down on you until you forget how to spell the word pain.”

Your legs trembled just hearing it.

“Deal,” you whispered.

And he smiled–glowing, content, and entirely yours.

[linusbenjamin]

Thunderbolts* 2025 | dir. Jake Schreier

[whumpypepsigal]

Outer Range s02e01: "I'm allergic."

+bonus:

[simp4-lewis]

All a person needs: cozy bed, cats, and lewis pullman

[fleurbies]

lewis pullman as lieutenant keefer in the caine mutiny court martial

[issela-santina]

Slavic sadgirl adopts a pet god

Thunderbolts* (2025) dir. Jake Schreier

[kaizsche]

LEWIS PULLMAN as RHETT ABBOTT OUTER RANGE: "THE VOID"

[vivian-rutledge]

LEWIS PULLMAN as Rhett Abbott OUTER RANGE 1.02 — The Land

[em1i2a3]

Smoke Signals

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Telekinetic!ThunderboltsFem!Reader!

Summary: Bob overhears you having a nightmare and comes to comfort you.

Warnings: Emotional Vulnerability, Reader and Bob are close friends, Readers Telekinesis gets out of control during moments of high stress and emotional moments. Angst

Author’s Note: This was an anon request that I thought I would tackle and check off my ever growing list of requests. I’m trying my best to get around to everything while also making time to write some of my own ideas as well! Bear with me as I try to sort things out! <3 thank you for all the patience and the luv, see you in the next one <3

Word Count: 3,582

Bob’s room was dim but peaceful, bathed in a low amber glow from the lamp beside his bed. It painted the walls in soft gold and deep shadow, casting long streaks of warm light across the wooden floorboards and over the tangle of clothes he hadn’t quite managed to pick up from earlier. He laid half-reclined against the headboard, broad shoulders sinking into the pillow, legs stretched long beneath the thin cotton blanket, toes pressing gently against the footboard as if seeking some anchor. The edge of his book rested against his chest, its worn pages rising and falling with each slow breath. His fingers stayed curled around the spine, but the text had long since lost his attention–he had read the same paragraph twice, his mind too sluggish to absorb anything more than shapes and punctuation.

Sleep hovered just behind his eyes, soft and heavy, dragging him downward with a familiar kind of weight. His body was already surrendering to it, bones aching with the subtle fatigue that came not from battle, but from being–from the long ache of surviving another day with his mind intact and his powers restrained.

He stretched out slightly, slow and languid, letting his spine roll over the mattress as the tension eased from his limbs. A small chorus of cracks sounded from his back–sharp, quiet little snaps of realignment. His lips parted in a relieved sigh, though he didn’t bother shifting much beyond that. The blanket clung low to his waist, bunched where his hips had shifted beneath it, and the thin sheen of sweat across his chest caught the lamplight in a faint glimmer. He was running hot again–uncomfortably so. The cool air in the room moved in gentle currents, brushing over his skin with little effect.

He was going to wake up sticky, overheated, probably tangled in the blanket or having kicked it off entirely. He definitely wasn’t going to be happy about that. He was heavily considering grabbing an ice pack to cool himself down, but he really didn’t want to get up to walk to the kitchen. He was too tired. Too lazy at this point. The sleep haze wasn’t going to help him move down the hallway with ease so he decided against the little trip to the freezer.

With a soft exhale, he reached over to the nightstand, fingertips brushing the familiar edge of his bookmark. A small, glossy strip of Photo Booth film–creased at the corners, smudged with faint fingerprints. Four ridiculous frames, all of them impossibly cramped. You were on one end, squished between Bucky’s stoic glare and Yelena’s ridiculous mid-sneeze face. Bob was in the middle somewhere, head bent slightly forward to fit in the shot, his smile shy and crooked, like he hadn’t expected the flash to go off so fast. The photos were awkward. Overexposed. Ava had her eyes half-closed in one, and John had managed to blink in every single frame, and Alexei could only get his head in most of them because if he sat he would’ve taken up the majority of the bench. But Bob loved the photos regardless though. Loved that even in the smallest, most chaotic snapshot of a moment, you were all together.

He ran a thumb gently over the smooth, glossy strip, lips tilting in the faintest smile, folding the book closed and sliding it between the pages to bookmark where he left off, and just as he was about to turn to put it onto the nightstand, he heard it–the lamp shifted.

It wasn’t much. Just a faint scrape against the wood. It was the kind of sound that wouldn’t register unless the room was perfectly still, and completely quiet. But it was enough to make his spine tighten where it had just relaxed. Then he heard his window push open a little more with a slow, reluctant creak.

There was no breeze, or storm, nor was there movement in the air beyond the low hum of the vents–and even those were whisper-quiet tonight. Bob sat up straighter in his bed, the comfort of his slow descent into sleep now fully disrupted. He scrubbed a hand over his face, dragging his palm down to rest against the hollow of his throat, his fingertips pressing absently against the base of it, like he was searching for something just beneath his skin.

He thought that Sentry was trying to come out at first, but there weren't any tell-tale signs–no golden glow creeping into his vision, no burning white-hot heat crawling up through his bones, he couldn’t even hear his voice. Bob also didn’t feel the pressure building either–the weight at the base of his skull, the vice-like tightening around his ribs–none of it was there.

So it couldn’t have been him.

Which meant it had to be you.

Bob’s hand stilled over his throat at the thought. His brows drew tight, lips parting slightly. His eyes glanced over toward the lamp again, which was now shifting on its own. Controlled, but weakening. A pulse of energy with no visible source, no hand near enough to touch it. He looked at his clock.

1:38 a.m.

You were always asleep by now. He knew your sleep schedule like the back of his hand because he could hear your heartbeat slowing down when rest overtook you, but it seemed like tonight something was happening with you.

Typically, you were the most measured person he knew when it came to your powers–rigidly disciplined, even when the rest of the team teased you for being too careful. You never used your powers outside of the field unless it was absolutely necessary.

And right now, you weren’t on any missions.

You were benched–voluntarily, because you were worn thin. Bob had watched the fatigue settle in your bones after you came back from the last mission, watching you fold in on yourself day by day. Your posture had slouched. Your steps had slowed. You’d stopped arguing with John during debriefs, stopped making Bucky smirk under his breath, stopped teasing Bob about the way he always forgot to bring a pen to mission briefings. You’d gone silent in that quiet, dangerous way that said something was wrong, even if you didn’t have the words for it yet. So when you told the team you needed to sit out for this new mission, they allowed you.

But now, it seemed like you were breaking your own rules, and that worried him.

Bob swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his heartbeat picking up speed. He reached for his hoodie–half-draped over the back of his desk chair–and tugged it on over his head with shaking hands. The floor was cold beneath his feet as he made his way towards his door, swinging it open slowly. He could feel his skin prickling, the nerves beginning to build and climb through his system.

He stepped into the hallways with cautious quiet feet, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. The lights overhead were flickering in quick, erratic pulses–sharp bursts of illumination like a camera flash, but without rhythm or control. It reminded him of how Sentry’s presence used to short-circuit things when it spiked too fast–overwhelming, electrical, untethered.

But this was different. This was trying not to be noticed. Trying to contain itself in some way. It was like…Your energy was leaking. He stepped towards your bedroom, noticing that the door was cracked just barely, a sliver of darkness yawning open in the quiet corridor. And even without fully looking into your room, he could feel it. A low, humming buzz of static brushed along his skin, subtle but unmistakable. The pressure in the air wasn’t heavy in the way Sentry’s powers made things feel–it was dense, like a cloud of something shifting just beneath the surface. You were trying to hold it in. And failing.

Bob moved toward the door slowly, his fingers twitching at his sides as his mind raced ahead of his body. You never lost control. So whatever this was–it was bad.

The moment he stepped up to the door, he paused and peered through the crack. The only light in your room was the silver wash of the moon cutting through the window, soft and pale where it touched the edge of your dresser and spilled across the hardwood. Everything else was in movement–small, subtle, unnerving. He could hear shifting. Scraping. The slow, groaning drag of wood across wood. The faint bump of something brushing the wall and pulling away.

He pushed the door open just enough to slip inside, breath slow and measured, like he was trying not to spook you.

And then he saw it.

The whole room was moving.

Not violently. Not yet. But in that slow, underwater way that made every object seem like it was floating just slightly out of sync with gravity. Your books rotated gently in the air above the shelf, the hard covers opening and closing like breathing lungs. A few small objects–pens, a water bottle cap, a charger–were suspended midair and vibrating. Your desk chair trembled on its legs like it was trying to lift off the floor, and your desk itself was rocking just slightly, dragging back and forth with a soft scrape like it was stuck between two magnets.

And then there was you.

Half-curled in the center of your bed, tangled in the sheets, clutching them hard against your chest. Your fingers were white at the knuckles. Your body trembled under the covers, a sheen of sweat glistening on your forehead in the low light.

And your voice–broken, mumbled, desperate.

“No…No, please, don’t…Can’t–”

Bob’s chest tightened, that creeping pressure blooming in his ribs. He’d heard that tone before–in screams and whispers, in hospital rooms and on missions. It was the sound of someone trapped within the walls of their own mind.

He stepped further in, letting the door close behind him with a soft click. The moment it did, one of your floating books dipped sharply in the air, then crashed to the ground, spine-first, like your subconscious had felt him enter.

”Y/N?” He whispered, moving slowly toward your bed, hands out in front of him in case he needed to catch anything that flew at him accidentally. The drawers of your nightstand began slamming open and shut–sharp, guttural thuds that punched through the otherwise submerged quiet. The sound ricocheted off the walls like gunfire, the force of your power feeding into itself, building tension in the room like a rising tide.

Bob winced at the noise, but didn’t stop moving.

He rounded your bed slowly, methodically, stepping around the floating pens, the spiraling book, the vibrating desk chair–all of it orbiting your form like debris around a collapsing star. He didn’t dare touch anything. Didn’t want to risk unbalancing the fragile containment you were subconsciously maintaining somehow.

He could see your face clearly now in the moonlight, streaked with droplets of sweat, your lips parted as if you were trying to breathe through water. Your brow was drawn tight in pain, jaw clenched so hard he thought your teeth might break. A sound escaped you then–hoarse and fractured, the kind of noise that wasn’t meant for the waking world. It made something in him flinch.

You looked like you were being crushed from the inside out.

Bob swallowed hard and lowered himself down onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. It barely registered through the din of movement around him. His hands hovered in the space between you both, fingers twitching with hesitation.

Then, carefully, he reached for your shoulder.

“Y/N…” He whispered, voice as gentle as he could make it, his body held in tension just inches away. “You’re having a bad dream. You need to wake up.”

No response–just another choked noise from your throat, raw and desperate.

His chest ached.

Bob leaned forward a little more, bracing one hand on the mattress beside you, bringing himself closer to your level. His hoodie shifted against the fabric of the sheets, and he could feel the static buzz of your powers coiled tightly around every thread of the room. It made the air feel electric. Pressurized.

“You have to open your eyes,” He urged again, quieter this time. His voice trembled at the end, caught between panic and something softer.

He reached out, hand trembling slightly as it rose toward your face, then gently pressed the tips of his fingers against your cheek.

The contact sent a jolt up his arm–your power surging in reaction, pushing against him like heat radiating from a live wire. His muscles seized slightly, forearm tightening painfully with the force of it. It didn’t knock him back, didn’t burn, but it gripped him like your pain was trying to keep him out.

Still, he didn’t pull away.

“Hey,” He said again, a little more firmly now, thumb brushing the edge of your cheekbone in a barely-there stroke. “It’s me. It’s just me.”

Your body twitched, then jerked violently.

And suddenly the air snapped–like a cord being cut.

The drawer slammed once more and then stilled. The pens dropped to the floor with a series of soft clinks. The books sagged out of the air and thumped quietly against the rug. Everything fell. Everything stopped.

Your eyes snapped open.

Glowing faintly. Wild. Unfocused.

Your breath came in sharp, ragged bursts–air scraping through your lungs like your chest was lined with glass. It burned. Your whole body trembled, knotted with panic, and your eyes scanned the room wildly like you didn’t recognize where you were. Like nothing around you made sense.

Then, suddenly–gently–you felt the warmth of two palms cradling your face.

Bob’s hands.

Calloused and steady, his touch was careful, reverent, like he was trying to hold a match flame without snuffing it out. His thumbs brushed the edge of your cheekbones, guiding your gaze to his, trying to pull you out of whatever loop your mind was still trapped in.

“Hey…” He whispered, voice cracking a little with how tightly he was holding back. “Hey, you’re o-okay… It’s Bob.” The moment his name hit your ears, your eyes locked on his–wide and dazed, glowing faintly from residual power. Your fingers reached up immediately, latching around his wrist like you needed to physically anchor him there. You gripped tight–not hurting, but desperate.

“B-Bob,” You gasped, your voice barely formed. Raw. Shaky. Real.

He nodded, jaw tightening as he held your gaze. “Yeah. I’m right here.” Your breath shuddered. Then another. And finally your mind seemed to catch up with your body. You looked at him like you were waking up from drowning.

“Are you…Are you okay?” You asked, your eyes scanning his face, his arms, his shoulders. Your gaze moved over him like you expected blood, like you were terrified you’d left a mark on him, “Did I hurt you?”

Bob shook his head instantly. “I’m fi-fine,” He said softly. “I swear. You didn’t hurt me.”

“But I–” you started, and he squeezed your face just a little–firm but gentle.

“You didn’t,” He repeated, more certain this time. “You we-were having a bad dream, and I didn’t want you to hurt yourself by accident.” You exhaled, and it shook–like it was breaking free from your chest. A sob clung to the edges of it, barely restrained, but your grip didn’t loosen. You just looked at him like he was the only solid thing left in the world.

“I”m sorry…I…I usually am able to control it, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Your voice trembled. He shook his head.

”Don’t ap-apologize. I’ve done it plenty of times. There’s nothing to be sorry for. Okay?” Your lip wobbled and you blinked hard, trying to push the tears back, but one escaped anyway, streaking hot down your cheek as you nodded slowly, afraid to use your words. Bob wiped the droplet away with his thumb on instinct, like he had done it before in a dozen other timelines he never got to live out. You swallowed hard, your body still humming faintly with the aftershocks of your dream.

”I could’ve hurt you though.” You whispered. He sighed.

”You know that’s not true. Sentry wouldn’t have let that ha-happen.” There was a pause, as he took in a breath, “And even if you did,” Bob added, voice low and steady, “I would’ve been fine… Now stop worrying about me… Okay?” His tone was soft, but there was no room for argument in it. He meant every word. You knew he did. But it didn’t stop the guilt from crawling up your throat, thick and choking.

You closed your eyes tightly, jaw clenched, as more tears spilled down your cheeks in quiet, unrelenting lines. You didn’t sob–you just broke, quietly, slowly, like a crack running deep and silent down the center of you.

Bob let out a long breath, one hand still cradling your cheek. Then, without a word, he leaned forward and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

The kind that wasn’t rushed. The kind that stayed.

“I’ve got you,” He whispered against your skin, then drew back only far enough to wrap his arms around you.

The moment he did, you clung to him–desperately, instantly, like you’d been waiting for the invisible physical barrier to break. Your arms looped around his torso and buried into the soft cotton of his hoodie, your forehead finding the hollow of his collarbone. You breathed in his vanilla infused fabric softener slowly, nuzzling your face even deeper into him, like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to the present.

Bob didn’t flinch. Didn’t shift. He just held you.

One arm curled tight around your back, the other stroking slowly along your hair–long, steady motions that smoothed down the last tremors still trapped in your bones. His voice was soft and rhythmic near your ear, not quite words anymore–just a hum, a quiet murmur of comfort and breath.

“It’s going to be okay,” He said eventually, squeezing you even tighter against him, “You’re okay now. I’ve got you.” You melted into him at that–like your body finally believed it, even if your mind wasn’t quite there yet. Your breathing slowed, your limbs growing heavier. You leaned more and more of your weight into him until your body was practically draped across his lap, your cheek pressed to his chest.

Bob shifted only when he felt your grip go loose.

Careful, tender.

He guided you down with him as he reclined back onto the bed, maneuvering you under the blanket with the kind of gentleness that made your throat tighten all over again. His body curved around yours protectively, his hand resting over your hip, the other still resting on your hair. Your body curled tighter against his, inch by inch, like you were afraid that any distance between you might pull you back into that place again–the one with no control, no breath, no light. Bob didn’t resist. He made himself pliable to your needs, shifting his frame to accommodate every adjustment you made. When you pulled his arm tighter around your waist, he let it settle there like it had always belonged. When you tucked your head beneath his chin, he tilted his face down, brushing the softest kiss into your hair.

Not rushed. Not expectant. Just there.

His legs tangled gently with yours under the blanket, the warmth of him chasing away the last of the cold sweat that clung to your skin. You pressed your palm flat against his chest, right over his heartbeat–steady, real, yours to count on. And when your breath finally stopped stuttering, when your lashes fluttered shut and the trembling eased from your fingers, Bob didn’t move.

He just watched.

Let his thumb trace slow, soothing arcs over your hip.

Let the silence stretch, peaceful now, no longer sharp or frantic.

Let himself believe that tonight, at least, you were safe.

You fell asleep in pieces.

Not all at once, but slowly–your muscles unlocking one at a time, your grip going slack, your breath deepening against his neck. Bob could feel the moment you truly let go, like the weight of your body settled into him completely. The energy in the room, so volatile just minutes earlier, had calmed to nothing but the slow hum of rest. The kind of stillness that didn’t ask for anything. That just was.

He exhaled, his own body finally softening beneath you.

And in the dark, with the moonlight painting gentle silver over the hardwood, Bob closed his eyes.

Not because he was ready to sleep–but because holding you like this, he could.

And that night, you didn’t dream again.

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

You Promised

Bob Floyd x Fem!Pilot!Reader 

Callsign: Ghost

People always assumed Bob was the soft one in the relationship.

And in a lot of ways, he was. He ironed her flight suits before she could get to them. He left handwritten notes tucked into her locker before early missions. He looked at her like she held the sky together with her bare hands.

But Ghost—his Ghost—was soft too.

Soft when she kissed him goodnight and didn’t pull away until he sighed. Soft when she laid her head on his shoulder after debrief and traced patterns over his chest like it grounded her. Soft in the way she’d whisper “I’ve got you, Bobby,” into his comms even when the mission got loud.

They were quiet about their love. But it was deep. Rooted. The kind that hummed under the surface, steady as a pulse.

⸻

The night before the mission, Bob stood in the kitchen of their on-base housing, boiling water for tea. He wore his glasses, his hair damp from the shower, her favorite navy hoodie slouching off his frame.

Ghost was curled up on the couch in his sweatpants, flipping through the mission packet for tomorrow.

“Too many variables,” she muttered, frowning.

“Terrain or weather?” Bob asked, not looking up as he poured hot water over her peppermint tea.

“Both.”

He brought her the mug and sat beside her, their thighs touching. Her feet immediately sought his under the blanket. He let her.

“You worried?” she asked, sipping carefully.

“I always worry when you fly,” he admitted.

She tilted her head. “Even when we’re on the same mission?”

“Especially then. I see what you do up there.”

She smiled softly. “And?”

“And it scares the hell out of me.”

⸻

Later, in bed, her fingers traced along the inside of his wrist, where his pulse beat steady.

He kissed her shoulder.

“I hate the missions where we’re separated.”

“You’ll have eyes on me,” she murmured, half-asleep. “You always do.”

“That’s not the same.”

She shifted onto her side, draping an arm over his waist and burying her face in his chest.

“You’re clingy,” she whispered.

“You’re mine.”

Her lips curved into a sleepy smile.

“Say it again.”

“You’re mine,” he repeated, more serious now.

She pulled back just enough to look at him. His blue eyes were soft. Honest. Brimming with something unspoken.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

“I know,” she replied, brushing his cheek with her knuckles. “I’ll come back.”

“You’d better,” he whispered. “Or I swear I’ll—”

“—Haunt the Pentagon for me?”

Bob didn’t laugh. He kissed her, long and slow.

Just in case.

⸻

The next morning, they suited up in silence.

In the locker room, he helped her zip the back of her G-suit like he always did. She reached up and adjusted the strap of his vest like she always did. They didn’t need words. Just hands. Movements memorized.

When they reached the tarmac, her helmet was under her arm, the sun reflecting off the GHOST stencil painted in white across the back.

He turned her toward him.

“Bobby,” she said gently. “You’re shaking.”

“I know.”

She lifted her gloved hand to his cheek. “You don’t have to be scared.”

“Yes I do,” he whispered. “Because I love you more than anything in this world. And every time you fly, there’s a chance I don’t get you back.”

She looked at him, eyes steady, and kissed him. Hard.

“I’m coming back. That’s a promise.”

He pressed his forehead to hers.

“You always keep your promises.”

She smiled. “Always.”

And then she turned away.

Helmet on. Visor down. Gone.

———

The briefing was precise. Coordinates, weather, recon estimates. In and out.

They’d done worse. Harder flights. Higher stakes. Ghost and Bob had flown more missions together than most pilots clocked in their careers.

But this one?

This one felt different.

⸻

They weren’t paired together today. That was the first red flag.

Bob was flying Bravo-1. She was Bravo-2—his wing, but separated by air lanes. Two different targets. Two different exits.

“Just this once,” she’d told him with a crooked smile during final check-in. “Can’t have the Navy thinking we’re co-dependent, Lieutenant Floyd.”

He kissed her cheek before climbing into his jet.

“Come back anyway.”

She winked, climbing the ladder with her helmet under one arm.

“Always.”

⸻

Takeoff — 0700.

Clouds were low. Visibility moderate. Winds cutting hard from the west.

“Bravo Team, comms check.”

“Bravo-1, solid.”

“Bravo-2, locked and loaded.”

Her voice, crackling through Bob’s headset, still made his stomach flutter. Even now.

“Ghost,” he murmured, not pushing his comm button. “Please come back.”

⸻

0708.

They split at the ridge.

Her jet veered off low and fast, hugging the terrain. Bob lost visual. But she was good—the best. He trusted her more than anyone.

He focused on his own flight path, breathing slow, steady.

In. Out. In. Out.

Just like she always told him when he panicked.

⸻

0714.

“Bravo-2, sitrep?”

Silence.

“Ghost, do you copy?”

Nothing.

Bob’s fingers clenched around the stick.

⸻

0716.

“Control, I’ve got a signal loss from Bravo-2—requesting coordinates and visual relay.”

The screen blinked. Paused.

Then—

“Explosion detected in quadrant four.”

Bob’s heart slammed into his throat.

“Control, repeat?”

“Satellite confirms fireball. No chute observed. Bravo-2 is—”

“NO,” Bob snapped. “She’s still flying. Maybe she cut signal. Maybe—maybe—”

“Lieutenant—”

“She’s Ghost, dammit! You don’t see her, that’s the point! She disappears!”

Silence.

Then:

“Bravo-2 is presumed down. Initiating recovery.”

⸻

0724.

Bob stayed in the air too long. Had to be ordered to land.

Even as he touched down, he scanned the skies like he expected her to pop back up, laughing in his ear. “Gotcha, Bobby. You really think I’d crash?”

But the air was silent.

And her jet never came.

⸻

0832.

Hangar. Cold. Too bright.

Bob stood alone, helmet still in hand, shaking.

Her name was already being pulled from the roster. He saw the clipboard. Saw the look on Cyclone’s face.

“She’s gone, Bob.”

“No,” he whispered. “She promised me. She promised.”

⸻

0910.

The first piece of wreckage came in. Charred metal. A panel number matching her bird.

They brought it to him like it was sacred.

He dropped her helmet. Fell to his knees.

The scream he let out didn’t sound human.

⸻

0945.

Phoenix found him alone on the floor of their quarters, still in his flight suit, clutching one of her t-shirts to his chest like it could stop him from breaking apart.

“She’s not dead,” he kept saying.

“She’s Ghost. She doesn’t go down.”

But his voice cracked like ice.

⸻

1130.

Her callsign patch was removed from the locker room wall.

Bob punched the steel door so hard his knuckles split open.

When Phoenix tried to stop the bleeding, he pulled away. “Don’t touch me.”

“Bob—”

“She promised.”

⸻

That night.

Bob crawled into their bed. Laid on her side.

Didn’t sleep.

Didn’t cry.

Just whispered over and over into her pillow:

“You promised. You promised. You promised.”

———

It was raining the day they buried her.

Not poetic, gentle rain—the kind that drips off church roofs and makes everything smell like forgiveness. No. This was a storm. Wind shaking the base chapel windows. Water coming down in hard, angry sheets.

Bob didn’t bring an umbrella.

He didn’t even bring a coat.

He stood in the hallway outside the chapel with her helmet in both hands, his flight suit zipped up to the neck like armor. His hair was soaked. His eyes were red. His fingers wouldn’t stop shaking.

Every time someone offered to take it from him, he just said, “No.”

Quietly.

Firmly.

Like if he let go, she’d vanish for real.

⸻

They didn’t find a body.

Just wreckage.

Just enough to put in a box and call it a casket.

The chapel was full. The entire squadron. Pilots from the carrier. Ground crew. Command. A few who barely knew her but came anyway—because everyone knew Ghost. You didn’t have to talk to her to feel her presence. She was one of those people who seemed untouchable, like she flew with death on a leash.

But today?

Death won.

⸻

Bob walked her helmet down the aisle.

He did it himself.

Not the chaplain. Not her CO.

Him.

Because he had to. Because no one else knew how to carry her like he did.

He placed it—gently, reverently—on top of the closed casket, right where her head would’ve been.

Then he sat in the front row and didn’t move.

⸻

Phoenix was the first to speak.

She stood stiff at the podium. Cleared her throat twice. Looked at the crowd, then the casket, then back at the crowd.

“I flew with Ghost for four years. And for four years, I watched her do things I didn’t think were possible. I saw her break records. I saw her disarm missiles mid-air. I saw her fly blind through a canyon and come out without a scratch.”

She paused.

“I also saw her make Bob Floyd fall so deeply in love that the rest of us didn’t stand a chance.”

A soft, broken laugh rippled through the room.

Bob didn’t blink.

⸻

Admiral Simpson spoke next. Short. Precise. Navy language. “A hero.” “Exemplary.” “Irreplaceable.”

She would’ve hated it.

He would’ve told her that later. Teased her. Whispered something like “They’re gonna name a plane after you, sweetheart” just to hear her groan.

But there was no later.

Only now.

⸻

They asked Bob if he wanted someone else to do the eulogy.

He said no.

He stood at the podium with her dog tags wrapped around his fingers and a folded piece of paper in his hand, already damp from the rain.

He looked at the casket. Then at her helmet. Then nowhere at all.

⸻

“She hated funerals. Hated long speeches.

Said if she died, we should burn her flight suit and pour a drink.

She told me that the week we moved in together.

I made her say it again just so I could hear her voice.”

He laughed. Just once. Choked on it.

“She was loud. She was fast. She was terrifying in the air.

And gentle on the ground.

She used to fall asleep on my chest during pre-flight debriefs like it was normal.

Like my heartbeat was the only sound she trusted.

And I—I trusted her with mine.”

The room was quiet except for sniffles.

Bob gripped the edges of the podium like he might fall.

“She told me once… flying made her feel clean. Like the world couldn’t touch her up there.

I believed her.

And now she’s gone.

And I don’t know how to live in a world that doesn’t have her in it.”

He looked up.

Right at the helmet.

Right at her.

“I wasn’t ready.

I wasn’t finished.

I had a ring.

I was going to propose after this mission.”

Someone gasped in the third row.

Bob’s voice cracked.

“I loved her in every lifetime.

And I’ll love her in every one that comes after this.”

He stepped back.

And crumbled.

⸻

He didn’t make it to his seat.

Phoenix caught him halfway down the steps as his legs buckled and the tears hit him like a hurricane.

He didn’t cry pretty.

He sobbed. Hands over his face. Wracked with something too deep for words. Screaming her name like it might bring her back. Screaming “She promised me.”

They had to carry him out.

⸻

They cremated the fragments that night.

Bob kept the helmet.

It still smelled like her.

⸻

He slept on the hangar floor that night.

Right beneath where her jet used to sit.

———

Day 1 After the Funeral

The first thing Bob did was take the dog tags off the pillow and put them around his neck.

They were hers.

He’d never take them off again.

⸻

The house was too quiet.

The coffee pot was still half-full from the day she left for the mission.

Her toothbrush sat beside his.

Her playlist echoed softly from the Bluetooth speaker she forgot to turn off.

Bob sat down on the floor in front of their bed and didn’t move for six hours.

⸻

Day 3

He tried to open her drawer.

Tried.

His fingers curled around the handle. Pulled once. Stopped.

He fell apart before he could see what was inside.

⸻

Day 5

He answered a phone call.

Only to hear her voicemail.

Someone hadn’t gotten the memo.

He sank to the kitchen floor and stayed there all night, arms wrapped around his knees, face pressed to the tiles.

The phone kept ringing beside him.

⸻

Day 8

Her picture frame fell off the desk.

He picked it up and kissed the glass like it might bring her back.

⸻

Day 10

The dreams started.

He’d see her at the hangar. In her flight suit. Telling him to hurry up. Teasing him for how slow he zipped his vest.

He’d reach for her—and wake up to empty sheets and his own broken sobs.

⸻

Day 13

He wrote her a letter.

Ghost,

I wore your hoodie today. Smelled like you for two seconds. Then it was gone.

I think I’m losing my mind.

If you’re out there somehow—please. Just let me know.

Please.

⸻

Day 17

He refused to fly.

Not because he was scared of crashing.

Because flying without her felt wrong. Like stealing something from the sky that belonged to her.

⸻

Day 19

He played the mission footage again.

Her comms. Her last words.

“Bravo-2, locked and loaded.”

Then static.

Then radar blinked red.

Then nothing.

Bob stared at the monitor until it burned into his brain.

⸻

Day 21

Phoenix begged him to take time off.

“I don’t want to rest,” he said, hollow-eyed. “Resting makes it feel real.”

⸻

Day 24

He slept on the couch.

Her side of the bed still smelled like her shampoo.

He couldn’t bring himself to wash the pillowcase.

⸻

Day 27

He lit a candle for her.

Not because he believed in ghosts.

Because it was the only light that didn’t hurt his eyes.

⸻

Day 30

He didn’t cry anymore.

That scared Phoenix more than anything.

⸻

Meanwhile — Ghost

She woke up in a foreign medical ward.

Strapped to a gurney.

IV in her arm.

Bruises across her chest from the ejection harness.

“What—where’s—where is Bob?”

A man in black looked down at her.

“You were presumed KIA. You’re in CIA custody now. You were recovered during an ongoing black ops mission. Your survival is to remain classified.”

She blinked.

“What?”

“You are not to contact anyone. You will be released when the debrief is complete.”

“I need to call him—he thinks I’m dead—”

“No.”

She screamed.

⸻

Days Passed

She fought.

She begged.

She slammed her fists against walls until her knuckles bled.

“You don’t understand,” she hissed. “He watched me die. He’s grievingme.”

“You are not authorized to speak to him.”

“He had a funeral for me!”

⸻

One night, she tore the IV out of her arm and ran.

Didn’t get far.

They tackled her.

She bit one of them.

Sedated again.

⸻

By the third week, she stopped speaking.

Stopped eating.

Only whispered one word whenever someone touched her:

“Bob.”

⸻

Day 30

They brought her back under armed escort.

She wasn’t briefed.

She wasn’t allowed to change.

Still bruised. Still in government sweats. Still trembling.

They handed her a cup of water in the med wing and told her to wait.

⸻

Across the base, Bob sat in their quarters.

Helmet in his lap. Eyes empty.

His phone buzzed once.

“Lieutenant Floyd. Report to the medical wing.”

⸻

He didn’t run. He flew.

Boots slamming against the tile. Heart hammering. Mind racing.

He turned the corner—

And froze.

⸻

She was standing under fluorescent lights.

Thinner. Paler. One arm in a sling. Her bottom lip split.

But it was her.

Bob dropped the helmet.

He couldn’t breathe.

She turned at the sound of it.

“Bobby,” she whispered.

He stumbled forward.

Stared at her like a ghost.

Tears hit his cheeks before he even realized he was crying.

She moved to him. “Baby, I—”

He collapsed into her arms.

Didn’t say a word.

Just held her like he’d waited through death itself.

Because he had.

———

He didn’t speak the entire walk back to their room.

Not when the med tech cleared her.

Not when they handed her a stack of signed release papers.

Not even when she whispered “I’m coming home, baby.”

Bob just held her hand like he was terrified she’d disappear again.

Every so often, he’d glance at her and quickly look away—like her face hurt to look at for too long.

⸻

She sat on the edge of their bed.

Same sheets. Same pillow. Same candle still burned down on the nightstand.

She stared at her boots on the floor like she didn’t recognize them.

Bob stood in the doorway, still in his flight suit, dog tags clutched in one fist.

“I had to leave,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“They wouldn’t let me—”

“I know.”

Silence.

Her voice broke. “Did you keep my stuff?”

His eyes finally met hers. Red. Shattered.

“I didn’t touch anything.”

⸻

That night, they laid in the same bed.

But not together.

Bob stayed on the far side, stiff and shaking under the covers. She laid on her back, staring at the ceiling like she was floating above her body.

He didn’t reach for her.

She didn’t dare ask him to.

⸻

Around 3 a.m., she whispered:

“I tried to come back.”

Bob didn’t move.

“I tried every day.”

Still nothing.

“I screamed for you.”

Her voice cracked. “They sedated me. Because I kept fighting.”

His breath hitched.

She turned to him, finally. “Do you believe me?”

He looked at her like it hurt to breathe.

“I gave your eulogy.”

His voice was raw. “I carried your helmet, Ghost.”

“I know.”

“I—I stopped flying. I stopped sleeping. I don’t even know who I am without—”

He stopped. Shook his head.

“I watched them burn your casket.”

Tears hit her eyes fast and heavy. “It wasn’t my body. You know that, right?”

“I don’t know anything anymore.”

⸻

She reached for him.

Fingers brushing his arm.

He flinched.

Pulled away.

And she broke.

“I’m not a ghost,” she choked. “I’m right here. Please—please don’t look at me like I’m dead.”

Bob covered his face with both hands.

“I don’t know how to hold you without losing my mind.”

“Then lose it,” she begged, crawling closer. “Scream. Shake. Shatter. Just—touch me, Bob. I’m real. I’m home.”

He looked up at her, trembling.

Then finally—finally—he reached out and touched her face.

His palm curled over her cheek like he’d never felt warmth before.

And he sobbed.

He pulled her into his arms and clung to her with both hands buried in her shirt like he expected her to vanish again.

And she whispered every five minutes:

“I’m real.”

“I’m here.”

“You can sleep. I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

⸻

But neither of them slept.

And when morning came, they were still wrapped around each other—silent, shaking, but still breathing.

———

The first few days back, Bob wouldn’t touch her unless she touched him first.

Not even a kiss without hesitation. Not even a brush of fingers without him pulling back like she was made of ash and he was afraid of getting burned.

And she understood—she really did.

He grieved her.

He buried her.

But she was here now.

And if he didn’t stop treating her like a dream, she was going to fall apart all over again.

⸻

The bruises didn’t help.

They were blooming everywhere—along her ribs, down her side, circling her thighs from where the harness had dug in during ejection. Purple, sickly, angry reminders of what she survived.

Bob looked at her like those bruises were his fault.

⸻

She tried to initiate once.

Just a kiss. In the dark. No expectations.

She curled up behind him in bed, arm around his middle, lips brushing his shoulder. She whispered, “I missed you,” and meant it with her whole body.

But he flinched.

“I can’t,” he choked, turning away. “Not when you still look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you died.”

⸻

That broke her.

She curled up alone on the other side of the bed, crying into the mattress, trying not to wake him.

But he was already awake. Listening.

Doing nothing.

⸻

Three nights later, she snapped.

⸻

She came out of the bathroom in one of his old flight shirts—thinner now, clinging to the edge of her hips. Her bruises had faded just enough. Not gone, but dulled.

And her eyes?

Hard.

Determined.

She didn’t look like a ghost anymore.

She looked like a woman who’d been through hell and fought her way out.

Bob looked up from the edge of the bed when she stepped into the room.

And his whole body locked up.

Because she was fire again.

⸻

“I need you to stop being afraid of me,” she said softly.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

She stepped closer.

He swallowed. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“You’re still healing—”

“I was dead, Bob.”

He flinched.

She moved in, climbing onto his lap with practiced ease, straddling his thighs, arms draped around his shoulders.

He was frozen. His hands hovered near her hips, unsure.

She took them and placed them there.

“You already hurt me,” she whispered. “When you stopped touching me.”

He looked like she slapped him. His breath stuttered.

“I need to feel alive,” she said. “I need to feel yours.”

She brushed her lips over his jaw.

“You don’t have to be gentle.”

She dragged her mouth to his ear, soft but urgent—

“Just be mine.”

⸻

Bob cracked like thunder.

His hands tightened on her waist. His mouth found hers. No hesitation this time. No careful angles. Just desperation.

He kissed her like she was drowning and he’d been holding his breath for a month.

He kissed her like he’d buried her.

⸻

He pulled her shirt up slowly.

Paused.

Eyes on hers.

“Say stop if you need to.”

“I won’t.”

“I mean it.”

She took his hand and placed it over her heart.

“Still beating. For you.”

⸻

When he finally touched her—really touched her—it wasn’t soft.

It was shaky. Gripping. Consuming.

Like he needed to feel every inch of her to believe she was still real.

Her thighs. Her ribs. Her face. Her hair. Her breath.

He left kisses over every bruise like apologies. Like prayers. Like please, please never leave me again.

And she took it all.

Moaning his name like a promise.

⸻

They didn’t say “I love you.”

They didn’t need to.

Because that night, when they collapsed together in the sheets—sweaty, panting, still trembling—

He looked down at her, tears pooling in his eyes.

And whispered:

“You came back to me.”

She nodded.

“Always.”

———

The morning after, Bob didn’t let go of her.

Not when the sun crept over the blinds.

Not when the alarm on his phone buzzed.

Not even when she stirred and whispered, “You can go. I’ll still be here.”

“I know,” he murmured, arms tightening around her. “I’m not ready to let you go yet.”

“You’re clingy.”

“You came back from the dead. I’m allowed to be clingy.”

She smiled for the first time in weeks.

⸻

They stayed in bed that entire day.

Not for sex. Not for sleep.

Just… to exist. Together. Side by side.

Bob pressed his ear to her chest more than once, just to hear it—

Still beating.

⸻

Phoenix was the first to knock.

She didn’t say anything when the door opened and Ghost was the one to answer it.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t scream.

She just stared.

And then?

She hugged her. Long. Tight. Shaking.

“You scared the shit out of us,” Nat whispered.

“I know you cried at my funeral,” Ghost teased weakly.

Phoenix laughed—then punched her arm. “You little bitch.”

⸻

The team was quieter when they saw her.

Respectful. Wary. Awed.

They didn’t know what to say.

She didn’t blame them.

What could you say to someone you watched die?

⸻

But Bob?

Bob was never more solid.

He was always in the room.

Even if she wasn’t speaking.

Even when she needed space.

Even when she was in the shower for an hour, sitting on the floor just to feel the water run over her skin.

He never pushed.

But he never left.

⸻

Then came the orders:

“LT. Commander [Y/N]—report for classified debrief.”

Bob’s hands curled into fists the second she read the memo.

“You don’t have to do this now,” he said.

“I do.”

“They kept you prisoner.”

“I know.”

“They watched me bury you and still said nothing.”

Her jaw tightened.

“I know, Bob.”

⸻

When she walked into the debrief room, her bruises were mostly gone.

But her spine?

Still steel.

The agents stared.

She stared back.

One of them asked: “Are you willing to discuss your time in CIA custody?”

She paused. Licked her lips.

Then said:

“I’ll tell Bob. That’s it.”

The room went still.

“You don’t get my story. You don’t get me. He does. He always has.”

⸻

That night, she sat on their bed in an old academy t-shirt, legs pulled to her chest.

Bob dried her hair with a towel like always. Gentle. Focused. Tender.

“I saw the desert,” she said suddenly.

He paused.

“What?”

“When I went down. I ejected too low. Everything burned. I remember choking. I remember thinking—‘this is it.’ And then I saw you.”

Bob set the towel down.

“You were reaching for me. In the smoke. Just… standing there. And I thought, if I die now, at least I see him.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks.

“I died, Bob. I keep dying every night”

He crawled in beside her and pulled her close.

“You did die,” he whispered. “But you came home. You came home to me, Ghost.”

⸻

For the first time in a month, she slept without nightmares.

And for the first time in a month, so did he.

[simp4-lewis]