#& same with tonys design

[rotdecaydraw]

artfight revenge for @saszor & @piratechaos !!

dividers made by @ eimogji !

[babacontainsmultitudes]

Squinting intensely at Will as he says that after thousands and thousands of years the bigfoot world suddenly looks like the 1950s (albeit like the Jetsons version). Mr. Campos that's a rather suspicious thing to say paired with that other suspicious thing people picked up on you saying in episode 1. You know, this:

🤨 Anything you want to share with the class, Will?

[pastelliek]

IKNOW YOU GUYS HATE THESE BUT IVEDRAWN SO MANY OF THEM SO HERES MORE DOODLES 😭 (READ THE TAGS P L E A S E)

[michdoodles]

More work doodles, but these revolve around peaceful au Scourge’s eventual wife. I’m thinking of naming her either Alice or Alicia. Anyway, she has a punk motorbike girl look to her and is close in age to Hailey so they become besties… I came up with her concept months ago but the og design I had was just Sonic the Comic Amy in a leather jacket with no bangs so I felt a redesign was in order

[puhpandas]

GGY better get a graphic novel not even because it’s one of the most important stories from the Tales besides the other Mimic ones but like it answers SO MANY questions about Sb

it would be crazy if it didnt since it's like the actual biggest more straight forward story of TFTP lol. but also the idea of it happening is scary. what if the novel artists dont make greg look enough like Gregory and people start saying they're not the same person. what if they make tony becker look like a simpleton with a simple green tshirt or something and no sleep deprived eyebags. what if they make ellis really light

[eggpea]

Ps2 version of sonic unleashed is great and nobody can change my mind

The wii tho.... Eugh

[blythesarchives]

Подарок. | W.S

summary: You give the soldier a present for Christmas.

warnings: Fluff & Angst | Fem!reader | Winter Soldier!Bucky | Post!CA:TWS | PTSD mentions | Mention of medical treatments | Recovery | Brief talk of nightmares

a/n: Sort of unofficial part two to Sugar Plums since I had a few people asking for a part two. Same universe I guess, with some time between. Uhh probably rushed idk. To be edited later. ;; wc: 3.3k

Recovery.

Fickle, fragile, exhausting.

He gradually accepted being called Bucky, though the name stirred something uncomfortable within him each time it reached his ears. Steve, ever persistent and hopeful, would use various versions of the name - Bucky, Buck, or sometimes James - in his unwavering attempts to resurrect the friend he once knew, unable to accept that the Bucky from his memories had faded away like footprints in snow.

Winter had completely erased the old Bucky.

While these names would trigger a subtle internal struggle, he maintained an almost perfect mask of indifference, with only the slightest furrowing of his brow betraying any sign of his inner turmoil.

You, however, carefully navigated between calling him Bucky and Soldat, aware that using his old code name might reinforce programming you wished to help him break free from. Yet there was a slight relaxation in his shoulders when you used the familiar designation, the way it seemed to ease the constant tension he carried made it impossible to completely abandon - his comfort, however small, had become your priority.

Even if that comfort stemmed from a dehumanizing name.

It required negotiation and persistent discussions to convince Tony to finally allow the soldier access to the medbay wing for his necessary medical treatments. Despite the soldier's extended stay in the tower passing without any concerning incidents, Tony maintained a strong hesitation about providing medical assistance. His deeply-rooted skepticism and apparent distrust were sources of frustration for you, though you consciously chose to avoid escalating the situation into a full-blown argument, knowing it would only make matters more complicated.

You had already gotten into intense scuffles with Tony over the soldier’s stay, how he needed to be looked over, physically and internally. The dislocated arm Steve caused never healed, and he had been carrying his arm awkwardly close to his body. Other physical injuries on top of the apparent dehydration and malnourishment, he was constantly under a veil of sickness.

The situation was particularly delicate because Soldat struggled with being in the presence of the other tower residents. He was acutely aware of how everyone seemed to cautiously moderate their behavior around him, treating each interaction as if they were navigating through a minefield of potential triggers. Like they were walking along eggshells every time they were near him.

It felt like he was walking on glass.

You were his only source of comfort, though traces of caution still lingered in his demeanor. He knew you posed no threat to his wellbeing. You had been patient and gentle the entire time, regardless of his panic or prone sense to lash out if he got stressed enough.

Long nights stretched endlessly in the sterile medbay rooms, where you faithfully maintained your vigil in the uncomfortable chair positioned beside the standard-issue medical bed. The soldier’s bed remained empty, as he consistently chose to rest on the cold floor instead. Sleep was an elusive companion for him, a nightly battle he rarely won. More often than not, his rest was violently interrupted by his own terrified screams or desperate shouts, his body jerking upright with defensive movements, arms swinging at invisible threats.

You would spend countless minutes trying everything in your power to bring him back to reality and calm his frantic state. Sometimes, despite your best efforts and gentle words, the situation would escalate beyond your ability to manage, forcing the medical staff on standby to intervene with sedatives to prevent him from unintentionally causing harm during these episodes.

Luckily his recovery progressed slowly but surely, transitioning from those intensive IV treatments in the clinical environment of the medbay to the more comfortable setting of your personal quarters. His sleeping arrangements evolved as gradually as his treatment; first from the hard floor, then to the modest couch tucked against the far wall, and finally to your bed.

These days, he found his rest beside you each night, his body instinctively seeking comfort by curling close to yours, desperately trying to make up for all those decades of disturbed sleep and haunted dreams.

Over time, his attachment to you had grown increasingly intense, and he began experiencing waves of jealousy whenever your attention was directed elsewhere. You helped around the tower a lot, so you tended to be distracted with tasks or aiding in another’s need. The soldier didn’t like it, so he began leaving his mark on you. It started subtly at first, he would rub your clothes on himself, in his mind it was good enough that you smelled like him. He saw it in a documentary once, of animals, but he had been in such a dehumanized state for so long, it made sense to him. His body’s scent on you, others would back off. That would work.

But, no, it wasn’t enough.

One day, crossing an unspoken boundary between you, he started placing love bites along your skin, positioning these tender marks from your neck down to your shoulders, eventually becoming bold enough to venture lower, marking your chest with these plum bruises.

The possessive displays sent warmth coursing through your body, and you willingly accepted his territorial behavior. After all, you had become his sole source of comfort and security in this world, making it perfectly natural for him to want to claim you in some way - whether through his distinctive scent (you knew about him rubbing your clothes on his body) or these carefully placed marks. His need to establish this connection, to make his claim visible, he was terrified you’d be taken from him.

Progress was being made in your relationship.

While he was still cautious with physical contact, he had begun to allow gentle touches and brief moments of closeness, though always within carefully maintained boundaries. He was like a cat, deciding when he wanted physical attention and when he wanted it to stop. The challenge of memory recovery remained a significant hurdle in his healing process. You had to help him remember specific things, he often mixed Russian and English, or plainly forgot the simplest of words.

He couldn’t for the life of him remember what a pillow was.

When Steve would speak to him, sharing stories and memories of their past, Bucky would often find himself lost in confusion, unable to connect with the vivid recollections that Steve so enthusiastically shared. The determination in Steve's eyes was evident as he tried desperately to help his lost friend remember the bond they once shared, but for Bucky, these memories remained frustratingly out of reach.

Steve's enthusiasm was well-intentioned, but sometimes, it manifested as an overwhelming flood of information and expectations. You could sense Bucky's growing distress during these interactions, the way his shoulders would tense, how his eyes would dart anxiously around the room. The stark reality was that Bucky's memories of Steve were minimal at best, yet Steve continued to share detailed accounts of their past experiences with increasing intensity.

Your became a careful mediator, providing emotional support to Bucky while gently helping Steve understand that his passionate approach was more hindering rather than helping the delicate process of memory recovery.

Bucky would get frustrated with himself during his journey of recovery. His collection of journals became a sanctuary for his fragmented memories, filled with carefully preserved photographs (provided by Steve), detailed notes written in an unsteady hand, and hastily scrawled thoughts or recollections that would suddenly surface from the depths of his consciousness throughout all hours of the day and night. These journals became both a source of comfort and torment, evidence of his struggle to piece himself back together like a puzzle without a photo.

Even with help from you or Steve, he maintained strict control over his recovery process. He deliberately chose not to document anything that Steve mentioned or tried to convince him of, instead focusing solely on recording memories that emerged organically from within his own mind.

Having experienced decades of mental manipulation, he didn’t want anyone influencing his thoughts or memories ever again. He couldn't bring himself to simply accept Steve's version of events without questioning them, needing to verify everything through his own recollections.

You knew it hurt Steve to see Bucky this way, how he refused to listen or believe him, but you couldn’t blame the man. Either of them, really. It was delicate, it took a lot of patience on everyone’s part.

Bucky’s dedication to recovering his past manifested in sleepless marathons that would stretch on for days at a time. The soldier within him approached the task with military precision, attempting to reconstruct his shattered memories in a specific manner. Yet despite his efforts, the majority of his recollections remained disjointed and fractured, with memories of his time with HYDRA dominating his consciousness more than anything else.

While Bucky was trying to recall his elusive past, you dedicated yourself to helping him build new neural pathways and retain more recent experiences, hoping to make his daily life more manageable and give him a sense of independence. The simplest tasks had become foreign territory for him - the muscle memory and basic understanding of everyday activities having slipped away like water through cupped hands. Modern appliances like microwaves, coffee makers, or the oven had become objects that he approached with confusion.

His relationship with food had become particularly concerning. Unable to prepare proper meals, you would find him furtively consuming makeshift sandwiches, but only when he believed he could finish them before being discovered. His posture during meals was hunched, protectively positioning himself over his plate or bowl, shoveling food into his mouth at an alarming pace, his entire body tense as though preparing to defend his meal from unseen threats.

Food aggression, apparently, wasn't restrictive to just animals.

Among the numerous concerns, his recurring nightmares stood out as the most troubling and pressing issue. The frequency and intensity of these night terrors had become increasingly worrisome, regardless of how well he had progressed otherwise.

Night after night, his anguished screams would pierce the darkness, and these episodes gradually evolved into extended periods where sleep became completely impossible for him to achieve. Bucky would remain awake for days and nights at a stretch, fighting against his own exhaustion, scribbling nonsense into his journals until his body would finally surrender and he would collapse into a brief, troubled slumber.

This cycle would repeat, each time more severe than the last.

Your began looking into different methods that might help ease his troubled sleep so that Bucky could experience the simple luxury of peaceful rest. Your research led you through a wide array of options; from various herbal teas and natural sleep remedies to more conventional medical interventions. However, given his strong aversion to pharmaceutical solutions, you deliberately steered clear of medication-based approaches, knowing they would likely be met with resistance.

Over time, you discovered that a soothing routine of warm herbal tea and gentle companionship proved to be an effective remedy for his nightmares. The nightly ritual of sharing your sleeping space had become second nature, and you observed how this consistent presence brought him the comfort and stability his life lacked for seven decades. His sleep patterns were delicately intertwined with his emotional state, thus during periods of anxiety or perceived threat, his rest would become noticeably disturbed and fitful.

However, your unwavering presence served as a constant source of reassurance, creating a safe haven where he could finally find peaceful rest. Plus, it helped him regain new memories to write down and you could see how proud he was every time he recounted something from his past.

Christmas morning.

Every corner and crevice of the tower sparkled with festive décor, tinsel draped from every available surface, and twinkling lights illuminated the halls in a dazzling display. It was an extravagant winter wonderland that bordered on excessive, but that was exactly Tony's style - he approached every holiday with unbridled enthusiasm, and Christmas was undoubtedly his crowning achievement.

With his seemingly limitless resources at his disposal, there was nothing holding him back from creating the most elaborate celebrations possible.

Aka…he was rich so he could.

In contrast to Tony's lavish approach, you took a more modest approach when it came to gift-giving. The act of receiving presents always made you somewhat uncomfortable, as you found far more joy in being the one doing the giving. You selected meaningful presents for each team member, carefully considering their individual interests and preferences. You couldn't match Tony's extravagant spending (something he never failed to remind everyone of that morning), but you firmly believed that the genuine thought and personal consideration behind a gift carried far more significance than its monetary value (Tony disagrees).

Bucky perched uncomfortably at the far end of the plush couch, his posture tense and rigid while the other team members enthusiastically tore through their wrapped presents with childlike excitement. Your general annoyance with Tony's characteristic swagger and showmanship failed you this morning, a warmth spread through your chest at the genuine joy radiating from Pepper's face when she discovered the exquisite diamond ring he had carefully selected for her and presented after she freed it from the tight wrapping paper.

You stayed by Bucky all morning, carefully observing his reactions to the bustling holiday atmosphere. It was clear he was struggling to process the overwhelming sensory experience and you didn’t blame him. The twinkling lights and shimmering tinsel to the constant chatter and laughter of the group, on top of holiday music and the smells of breakfast and baked goods from the kitchen, were surely a lot to process. His discomfort grew and you recognized the telltale signs of sensory overload in his slightly widened eyes and shallow breathing. The social expectations was clearly taking its toll.

He had wanted to try, he wanted to sit down with you that morning, but he had been struggling.

Your gift pile was modest, exactly as you had requested. You insisted that presents weren't necessary, you found yourself the recipient of a generously stuffed Christmas stocking and an assortment of small, meaningful items carefully chosen by your teammates in a way that made it impossible for you to object to their kindness.

When Steve presented Bucky with a collection of carefully preserved mementos from their past, but the soldier's response wasn’t what he wanted. His eyes fixed on the items that should have sparked recognition, should have ignited memories of happier times, but instead were met with blank confusion and growing distress. You sensed the uncomfortable scene and noticed the mounting anxiety in Bucky's expression, you decided to intervene with a present you got for him.

"Here, I got this for you." You handed him a carefully wrapped bag with delicate tissue paper peeking out from the top, rustling softly with each movement. "Nothing all that special but...I figured it might be nice to have something like this." You replied gently, your voice carrying a hint of nervousness as you watched him, waiting with anticipation for him to open the gift.

Bucky held the bag tentatively, his eyes fixed on the festive baby blue packaging adorned with an intricate pattern of darker blue ornaments. The glitter-coated decorations caught the light as they spiraled across the surface of the bag. He had to blink a few times to refocus his eyes, his hand slowly reached up and grasped the white tissue paper that had been carefully arranged at the top, concealing the gift. He pulled it free, soft crinkling sounded as he removed it.

He reached into the depths of the bag, his fingers brushing against something soft before grasping it. As he drew it out, his hand revealed a charming stuffed elephant, its plush grey body soft to the touch. The toy was perfectly proportioned, with endearing fat limbs that dangled naturally from its tear-shaped body. Its oversized ears flopped gently and its trunk curved in a friendly manner that seemed to welcome embrace. The stuffed animal sat comfortably in his hands, sized just right for holding close and cuddling.

"Elephants are known for their memories, you know." You gave him a gentle, encouraging nudge, your voice soft and hopeful. "Who knows? Maybe having this elephant around will help spark some of those lost memories of yours. They say elephants never forget, after all."

Bucky turned to face you, his expression one of confusion and curiosity. His eyes held that familiar, guarded look the soldier usually carried - a careful blend of wariness and interest that never quite revealed his inner thoughts. He examined the stuffed toy with an almost childlike fascination, as if encountering one for the first time.

His flesh hand explored every detail of the plush elephant with careful attention, fingers trailing along the soft fabric. He wrapped them around the trunk, testing its flexibility, then moved to rub the floppy ears between his thumb and forefinger, then squeezing the body gently as if checking its softness.

"There's something else too." You smiled warmly, gesturing toward the bag with enthusiasm. "Go ahead, take another look." He complied, reaching in until his hand emerged clutching a brand new journal. Following the theme, the journal was decorated in a soothing light blue shade, its cover stamped with a delicately printed elephant in the center. "I noticed your other journals were getting pretty full, so I thought you might need a fresh start. This one's got plenty of space, lots of room for all those thoughts and memories you want to keep safe."

His hands gently set the items down after examining each one carefully, his eyes lingering on every detail as if trying to memorize them. Then he turned to you, his expression unreadable. "You...got these...for me." Bucky spoke slowly, each word carefully chosen, as if he was having trouble processing the simple act of kindness. "To help me remember?"

"And, the elephant will be a nice cuddle buddy for those long nights you tend to have," you explained softly, watching his reaction. "It has special infusions of lavender and bergamot oils that I picked specifically to help you sleep better. The aromatherapy might even help soothe away those bad dreams you've been having. Well, at least according to the sales clerk." You reached out and lifted the soft plush elephant, bringing it to your nose and inhaling deeply. "See? It's really calming, isn't it?"

He took the toy back and smelled it deeply, letting out a contented sigh as the aroma filled his nose and sent waves of comfort through his body, making him feel warm and fuzzy inside. He carefully lowered the elephant into his lap, treating it as if it were made of delicate porcelain. His throat tightened with emotion as he swallowed hard and looked back at you, his eyes wide with disbelief and gratitude.

"All this for me?" he whispered, his voice barely audible as he struggled to process the reality that someone would think to get him anything at all (Steve didn’t count). The concept of receiving gifts was so foreign to him, so far removed from his perception of what he deserved, that he could barely wrap his mind around it.

You thought maybe it looked sill to some people, but it was more about why you got it, not what you got him.

You nodded, offering a warm smile, "Yes...I got this just for you."

The soldier's gaze slowly drifted back to his lap, his fingers lingering momentarily on the thoughtful gifts before carefully pushing the journal and elephant to rest beside him. He then leaned forward quickly, closing the distance between you and wrapping his arms around you in a tight embrace. The display caught you off guard, given his usual hesitance to initiate any form of contact beyond nightly cuddling or his possessive love-bites.

After you recovered from the sudden gesture, your arms encircled him in return. You drew him closer as he nestled himself against your body, seeking comfort in your warmth and smell. It was one of the only things he could consistently rely on.

A knowing smile played across your lips as you whispered against his ear, "I take it you like it?"

"...Да."

Thanks for reading. -em 🌿

Dividers by @/strangergraphics | Images found on Pinterest.

[never-quite-buried]

“2) to make real amends to her primary victims. Also, having her sit and talk to Tony about her anger against the American military industrial complex (which was what killed her parents) and how she conflated that with Stark.”

In what way does IM1 not tell us that Stark IS the MIC? Like. This scene is pretty explicit.

_____________________________________________________________

anonymous  asked:

1) Re: Wanda and her lack of redemption arc- One of the MCU’s biggest fuck yous was that they allowed Zemo to apologize to T'challa for his Father’s death as collateral in his revenge scheme, but didn’t have the decency to allow Wanda to do the same to the Avengers for stripping them of their autonomy and using them to hurt other people (of which the primary victims were Tony and Bruce). If they wanted to redeem her and make her more sympathetic, they really should have allowed her _____________________________________________________________

ambitious-witch  answered:

I’m really sorry that I didn’t answered this last night, nonny but it was very late here and I was on mobile.

1) Exactly. But honestly I like Zemo more than Wanda for that. They allowed him to apologise, but also they showed him not being so bat-shit hateful blaming all the evil on his life to the Avengers (just the death of his family) and he neither played the victim. Like Wanda did.

The problem with Wanda lays directly in her “tragic backstory”, I mean, just listening to it, it’s ridiculous:

This is a backstory that doesn’t work for an anti-villain/anti-hero to go straight up a hero. Because it’s illogical. The audience that has a minimal knowledge of how the world works knows that blaming the person that made the weapon is stupid an illogical.

Second part of the ask:

2) to make real amends to her primary victims. Also, having her sit and talk to Tony about her anger against the American military industrial complex (which was what killed her parents) and how she conflated that with Stark. She has serious trauma that needs to be laid out. I mean, Tony could have talked about how he too realized the faults in the MID and is trying to make amends for his ignorance and inaction. How it has led him to believe in accountability and checks and balances

Part three:

3) LIKE THE FUCKING ACCORDS. It would have been 10x better than Steve’s convo w/ her in the beginning of Civil War, where he treats her unintentional murder of 12 ppl as a small hiccup that can be corrected w/ “try try again”. But no, all we end up w/ is a character marketed as a child half the time, and an adult the other half. It’s character assassination and it sucks. Either show her struggle w/ redemption and accountability as a member of the Avengers, or keep her a villain.

The problem here nonny, it’s that the dynamics are terribly flawed and bad placed. With Wanda, her deed of joining the Avengers it was not for goodness, it’s was common sense and self-preservation. We never see her re-thinking about Tony or showing a single little remorse about hurting him, neither she seems to want to stop and think about the situation. Tony talking to her would have required she trying to go closer and talk but to the first moment that we see her on screen with him her intention are clearly hostile:

Look at the corporal language of this part. This is a hero? No.

This is an anti-hero? No.

This is someone who is conflict?

I dare say: no.

The point about anti-heroes and anti-villains is they know, very deep in them, they have a doubt, a conflict. Wanda doesn’t. She knows what she is doing. She knows that she is hurting someone and she knows what she did. Take a look to Bruce too:

Also take her reaction when he calls her out for mindfucking him:

Her expression seems to be the one of someone who regrets her bad deeds.

But…

Her face hardens when he threatens her and she doesn’t speak about the topic again. Not with him, not with Clint in their oh so marvellous pep talk.

Someone that answered one of my posts said that showing Wanda’s struggles were that ridiculous scene whit with her crying in front of Clint, so the audience have to see her as a poor misunderstood child that was very scared and didn’t know what she was doing…

That’s not how it works!

Wanda should have showed struggle and conflict since the beginning of the movie! She should have interacted with people that she hurt as you said but she didn’t!

And before somebody says something…

Clint doesn’t count! Steve doesn’t count!

Clint was not attacked by Wanda, he didn’t suffered in her hands. Steve? He forgave her at the instant. He attacked his armour-less teammate because of her word. He told Natasha, one of Wanda’s victims “she with us”, like she hadn’t some right of feeling uncomfortable by her presence!

They don’t count!

The base, the point for an anti villain to be redeemed and made an ally or friend in front of their enemies is the interaction and and the villain admitting that they hurt the protagonists. It’s simple, take Regina Mills in Once Upon A Time. She never became in a full hero but she earned trust by admitting her bad deeds. She showed struggle and doubt. She became a wondeful anti-hero Wanda didn’t.

Just look at the moment when she decides to side with the Avengers:

What choice do we have?

This is someone that learned form her mistakes. No.

No.

No.

No!

This is somebody that wants to fucking live. She wants to keep herself and her brother alive. There’s no doubt here. Not struggle in the loyalties. No conflict! She switched sides in the beginning and she does it again because it’s convenient for her. Not for goodness or anything that changes that she hurt people during all the movie!

She doesn’t doubt for a fucking instant to go to the “winning side”:

What kind of anti-hero can you get of that?

Which leads to CW. You said that she siding with Tony would have been the better, and yes, it would have been a good character development she being remorseful and keeping her initial supposed believes about accountability but with motherfucking Johannesburg, how it’s that possible?

How?

Like, that’s what the Russo and M&M tried to to do and failed miserably. They tried to sell us an anti-hero. They washed her awful deeds and make her look as conflicted when she never hesitated at the beginning.

They tried to us to believe that she can’t control her powers.

And that

is

bullshit.

And just bullshit.

They also made her clothes more clear, her hair too. Miss Elizabeth was wearing a wig, it was not difficult have one as her hair was in the previous movie.

They tried to vanish the darkness of her. Why? Because it its more difficult present a redemption for villain than a anti-hero. Or as that idiotic writers seem to think: that poor kid that did no wrong.  

Because it was more easy to forgive this:

Than this:

So, they invented this new Wanda, and put all the blame in Tony’s shoulders. The funny thing it’s that the audience it’s stupid enough to believe it. That might talk about the power of the female characters of being forgiven for everything as long they have a pretty face and a delikate body.

Even if it’s a character without struggles or good intentions, or remorse.

So, nonny, my opinion is firm. Wanda Maximoff’s redemption arc was a fuck you because she didn’t deserved or needed one.

Because Wanda Maximoff is better as a villain.

______________________________________________________________

An interesting take, to be sure, @ambitious-witch​. But as with most of these types of posts, you’re leaving out a few key details that vastly change the meaning of the extracted clips.

Let’s start at the top.

Wanda as a villain in AoU had one stated goal - destroy Tony Stark in revenge for her parents’ death. (The Avengers were kind of lumped into that revenge plan because they were acting as ally and protector to Tony.)

However, what you’re failing to mention is that this isn’t just a ten-year-old girl experiencing an intense, two-day long trauma that scars her for life and imprints the name that she had to stare at the whole time in her mind as the culpable party.

This is an entire country that believes that Tony is at fault for their loss.

In the beginning of AoU we are shown the Avengers attacking Strucker’s lab. In one of the scenes, Tony lands the Iron Legion in the middle of Sokovia and has them announce to the citizens that the sector is not safe.

The citizens are extremely wary - a few of them fleeing the area - but as soon as they figure out that the suits are just standing in place talking, they all start throwing things and attacking the suits.

Why is this?

Because HYDRA has been set up there for years, using stolen (or purchased) Stark tech to terrorize the city and kill people.

This isn’t just one random bomb. This is years of weapons emblazoned with the Stark logo being dropped on the city, knock-off iron legion suits shooting people in the street…this is and has been an all-out war, and the only clue that anyone’s had is that all of the weapons say “Stark” on them. And coming from an American weapons tycoon, that’s pretty damning evidence, as far as they’re concerned.

So damning, in fact, that when Strucker is looking for human test subjects for a highly dangerous and potentially deadly experiment, he gets dozens of volunteers, all of which die at his hands.

Except for the twins.

Destroying Tony is Wanda and Pietro’s main goal, yes, however at this point it is no longer just about revenge for their parents.

Maria shows video clips to Cap of the two of them leading riots in the street, trying to fight back. In response to Maria’s comment of “we aren’t at war anymore,” Steve tells her “they are.”

This isn’t two kids with a crazy revenge plan. This is two young adults who have suffered bitterly and are determined to see the cause of that suffering stopped before it can do any more damage to anyone else, even at the expense of their own lives. Because even if Tony Stark is not the one personally pushing the “fire” button on the missiles, he is the one creating them. And with no arms supplier, there will be no more weapons to use on Sokovia.

If the story had been shot from the perspective of someone in Sokovia, Wanda and her brother would have been the heroes of this story all along.

We as viewers are purposefully kept in the dark about what’s been going on there until the twins are established as the “villains” of the story - making sure the revelation is received as a sad explanation of why they’ve set themselves up as opponents to the Avengers as opposed to starting with a goal that we as viewers can get behind.

In fact it’s not until near the end that we figure out that Sokovia isn’t just some HYDRA-loving anti-Avengers stronghold, but victims of numerous and immeasurable crimes committed in the Avengers’ names.

Making Wanda and her brother “unlikable” before making them sympathetic was done purposefully to make sure that the viewers didn’t pity them or sympathize with them too quickly, or else the Avengers would seem far too harsh going into later fights.

The twins had to throw the first stone, or the Avengers would come across as unsympathetic.

More importantly, we are only ever shown the twins acting villainous toward the Avengers.

Maria states that Wanda only ever seems to inflict non-lethal damage to her victims, leaving them temporarily traumatized but alive and more than able to recover. (Ultron is the only one killing when they are stealing their resources, and he is leaving very telltale signs that it was him.)

A number of the places they hit up are run by HYDRA or smugglers - all of them “bad” people doing bad things.

The twins are kind to and friendly with the poor people in Sokovia. Wanda is protective of Dr. Strucker. The two of them are hesitant and uncertain when Klaue doesn’t immediately cower in fear, not wanting to escalate the situation any further than they have to.

And the second that they find out that Ultron’s goal is more than just the death of the six Avengers, they pull a 180 and attack him.

They follow a very common movie arc: fight against problem, join “ally” to fix problem, find out that “ally” is lying/backstabbing and that enemy isn’t quite as bad as we thought, team up with former “enemy” to stop the bigger threat, form a new alliance with once-enemy, save the day.

(Hell, a number of these themes show up in the plot-line of movies like Iron Man and Black Panther.)

These two are not villains. They’re a pair of teenagers fighting in a war to save their people.

A pair of teenagers who have been manipulated and abused and made to think that they were doing the right thing since they were ten.

(And yes, I realize that the actors are in their mid twenties, but canonically Wanda and Pietro are closer to 18 or 19 during the events of this movie, and thus are not yet legally “adults.”)

I don’t see you throwing a fit over Zemo torturing and eventually drowning that one HYDRA agent. Or Stark blowing up a terrorist group. Or Fury shooting the people attacking his ship in Avengers.

The difference? We as the audience know that they’re bad guys, so it’s okay to do whatever to them, because they clearly deserved it.

We don’t care, nor are we made to care, if the person being thrown down a flight of stairs or stabbed in the face was just a desperate man who needed money for his family, or someone who was there because some higher-up had blackmail over their head.

We don’t know, and quite frankly (as far as most viewers are concerned) it doesn’t matter.

This is the same situation, just seen from the other side of the coin for once.

Wanda and Pietro know that the Avengers are bad. Therefore why would they question if what they’re doing - attacking them - is wrong?

The other problem with painting these two as hardened criminals is that they don’t ever really act it. Every scene that they’re in, the two of them are hovering around one another, uncertain. Seeking reassurance. Comforting. In Wanda’s’ case, quite often, hiding.

In fact, Wanda’s always shown to be the more hesitant of the twins.

Pietro is quick to rush off into a fight, while she lingers behind until it comes to a confrontation that she cannot avoid. This is shown three times. First, in Strucker’s lab, where Pietro rushes outside to mess with the Avengers and Wanda hides in the base until Steve tries to get Strucker. Second, in the scrapyard, where Pietro zips off and Wanda hesitates at Ultron’s side until he tells her “time for some mind games.” Third, in the tower scene, where Pietro is first to take action when he unplugs the cradle, but Wanda doesn’t join the fight until she’s the last one on her side that’s still standing.

Even in the very first scene, you see them holding hands, and Wanda chewing her nails with nerves.

Immediately after that we get a close up of their faces, showing the two of them looking scared when they hear that the Avengers are on their way.

They aren’t out there actively hunting the Avengers down. They’re waiting for orders, because they don’t really know what they’re doing. They’re frightened of what’s about to happen. They’re both in this way over their heads.

They may not be ten anymore, but a lot of what they do is very child-like because of the rough and traumatic childhood the two of them had. They never grew out of it.

These two put on a bold act, but the minute the real teeth come out they’re just a pair of frightened and uncertain children. Often, until Ultron shows up as the “adult leader” of the group, the two of them don’t even take action.

And again, I’ll bring up the scene with Klaue.

The two of them step into his office and pull their go-to “be afraid of me” act to get info, but Klaue straight up brushes it off.

He laughs at their threats. Talks down to them. Offers them candy. Teases them. Dares them to do their worst.

And Wanda and Pietro are at a complete and utter loss because they don’t know how to approach a situation where their threats have not been enough. Ultron’s instructions did not include a caveat for “if the dude straight up laughs at you instead of spilling everything he knows and begging for his life.”

Therefore, the two of them are left standing in the doorway, looking to one another in confusion for what to do next, and Wanda even starts moving back into the shadows where she’ll be more safe.

Similarly, in the end fight, Wanda constantly looks to Clint - the nearby adult - for instruction.

Wanda and Pietro don’t even attack the Avengers at the scrapyard until Ultron gives the command.

It’s the same scenario in the scene right after they go to the tower with Steve, when they confront the other Avengers alone - the twins ultimately let Steve make the calls for them.

Unfortunately, the still-shot you have of Wanda doesn’t quite do justice to her reaction in the scene.

This isn’t “closing off.”

See the way she leans back a little? The little hitch in her chest? The way her throat tightens? This isn’t this isn’t her hardening off, this is her trying not to show fear. She’s seen the Hulk. She knows that Banner is the only one who might be able to tear her in half despite her powers.

It’s why she immediately stops fighting and freezes up when he grabs her.

You can clearly see the terror in her eyes the second she realizes who it is that’s got their arm around her throat.

In this scene, the twins have walked into the lion’s den - the Avengers’ home base - and even though they’re trying to look tough and keep their cool, they’re both terrified for their lives.

You can hear the fear in Wanda’s voice when Clint shoots the floor out from under Pietro. You can see the two of them sticking right by each other’s sides and looking around nervously in case they’re attacked.

They don’t argue or make excuses when they’re confronted, they back down because they know that they’ve wronged these people and the Avengers are under no obligation to listen to them.

The two of them are risking death at the Avenger’s hands so they can try to warn them about Ultron and prevent things from getting any worse.

And I would beg to differ with your interpretation of this scene. This is in no way self-preservation. This is suicide.

Her last little act of defiance barely a scene before nearly wound up with her and Pietro being shot.

And yet here she is, standing up to Ultron again. But this isn’t her siding with the Avengers to save her skin.

This is her picking death with the losing team.

Because in this scene?

ULTRON IS THE WINNING SIDE.

Ultron’s plan for a new world included Wanda and her brother. He was going to wipe the slate clean, and leave the two of them as the “better” humans in his new world. The “evolved” race that would rule at his side. If they’d stayed with him, they would have been guaranteed safety, because as we saw at the scrapyard, the Avengers are no match for the three of them, and Ultron is fond of the twins in his own strange way.

But they don’t stay with Ultron, where they are guaranteed life and safety.

This line here is Ultron’s last warning that she either assist him, or die with the rest of the Avengers trying to fight him. This was far less “oh well, Ultron is losing, guess I’ll change sides because I’ll get to live” and more “I don’t see how there is a choice here because unless I stop him he’s going to destroy the world.”

“What choice do we have” is a statement of morals, because as far as she’s concerned, there IS no choice. She has to stop him or die trying.

Helping him any longer is not even an option.

Now, as far as your point about Steve and Clint’s trust in her being “worthless” because:

“They don’t count!“

It’s quite frankly ridiculous.

There is one person who even comes close to fully trusting them before the final battle starts in, and that is Steve.

Steve has been playing devil’s advocate this whole movie, because he understands what the twins are going through. He’s not so caught up in his own country and his own issues that he can’t look at a situation from another perspective and say “I understand why they’re doing this.”

In fact, he even offers the twins a chance to walk away right before the fight at the scrapyard.

He didn’t magically start trusting them out of the blue, he’s been willing to hear their side of things from the start.

“Clint was not attacked by Wanda, he didn’t suffered in her hands. Steve? He forgave her at the instant. He attacked his armour-less teammate because of her word. He told Natasha, one of Wanda’s victims “she with us”, like she hadn’t some right of feeling uncomfortable by her presence!”

And here is where you start leaving out key details again.

Of the Avengers, Clint was the only one to fully escape having Wanda play with his fears, because he beat her to the punch. However, despite the fact that he’s the only one unscathed, he’s the most vocal about not trusting her.

It is not until much, much later - when Clint has already seen her in action, desperately trying to save the civilians from Ultron’s clones despite her own fear - does he step in to talk her down and keep her from having a panic attack because he realizes her heart is in the right place.

Even then he doesn’t actually decide to trust her until she saves him from being cornered and killed by the robots.

Out of the remaining Avengers, three of them suffered major trauma from Wanda’s actions, and two of them got off relatively okay.

The one who got off with the least damage from the encounter was ironically Tony Stark, who was shown a vision of what was supposed to be his worst fear - him being responsible for the death of his team - and who proceeded to shake it off and walk away, none the worse for wear.

(Note, this is one of Wanda’s early attempts at this kind of thing, a point which relates to a section further down about Wanda’s skill with her powers. She’s not very good at the whole nightmare vision thing just yet in the story, but by the time the scrapyard scene rolls around she’s gotten plenty of practice.)

Tony never actually voices any opinion on whether or not they should trust the twins. He just rolls with it.

The other Avenger who got off pretty light was actually Thor, who took his vision as a warning that something big was coming and went to investigate further. He also doesn’t specifically voice an opinion on the twins, but seems to be A-okay with trusting the two of them.

Of the three that had it pretty bad, Steve was able to recover the best. Perhaps this is part of the serum - his body fixing the physical symptoms of mental trauma - or perhaps he’s just better at coping with his particular fear because he’s been doing it since he awoke in the present. Either way, Steve is at least relatively functional after his run-in with Wanda.

He’s also the first one to trust her, because she and her brother risked their necks fighting Ultron to save both him and the innocent people that Ultron tried to kill as a distraction. Like I’ve mentioned before, Steve is still willing to give them a second chance because he knows there’s backstory there and he can sympathize.

The two that had it the worst were Natasha and Bruce.

Natasha, who straight up went out of commission when all of her heavily repressed trauma got dragged back to the forefront, isn’t really around for the scene where the twins switch sides. She comes in after the fact, when they’re already mid-fight, to find that the twins are fighting against Ultron with them.

Steve reassures her that the twins are on their side, and Natasha rolls with it.

She takes Steve’s word for it because she trusts Steve as much as she trusts Clint - absolutely and entirely.

You forget, these two just went through the events of Captain America: Winter Soldier together, where “everybody we know is trying to kill us.” Natasha and Steve had to trust in each other completely, it’s the only way they lived to see the end of that movie. Natasha’s trust in Steve is not reset just because the film title changed.

However the real key here is that Natasha’s trust in the twins is not complete.

She’ll trust the twins for this fight, because Steve said they were there to help, and then she’ll make her own call on whether or not she feels like forgiving them. This wasn’t Steve saying “I’ve cleared these two, I expect you to magically be okay with that.” It was Steve reassuring her that during this fight, their only attacker would be Ultron, and that the twins were helping to fight back.

In a battle situation, that’s all Natasha needs to know before her attention turns to saving people, because there is no time for a debate or questions during an all-out attack.

There is, however, a good amount of time that passes between the end of the Sokovia fight and the credits scene where we see Wanda with the other “new recruits,” and we are left to assume that something has been worked out between everyone because they all seem okay with each other now.

It is also a full year before we really see Wanda again, in Civil War, and the first thing we see is Natasha coaching her through a stake out, as a mentor.

Clearly there is no lingering animosity here.

As for Banner, well…

Bruce basically says that he could kill Wanda without remorse. He’s pissed, and rightfully so.

However, he ALSO doesn’t deny needing the twins’ help when fighting Ultron. He never says “we shouldn’t trust them” or “we shouldn’t let them come with us;” and Hulk flies off into space (literally) before Banner gets a chance to actually sit down and think about whether or not the twins should be allowed to join the Avengers.

In fact, the only one who straight up says that he doesn’t trust anything to do with the twins is Clint…

The only one who didn’t get affected by Wanda’s nightmares.

So I’m honestly not quite sure where you’re getting your argument from.

As far as I make it out, the people who got the nightmare treatment were aware that they were seeing their own memories and thoughts and fears played back to them. Wanda wasn’t showing them anything new, so most of them didn’t take the attack as anything personal, and in fact we see Natasha having a bit of a personal crisis over the not-so-great bits of her past that are being shoved back in her face for the second time since CA:tWS.

She’s not mad at Wanda for bringing it up, she’s mad at herself for being the way she was before Clint saved her.

Clint, who isn’t sure what the others saw and is watching everything from the outside, is pissed. He watched his friends suffer because of whatever the witch did to them, and he’s not only angry with her, but dead set on not forgiving or trusting her, either.

At least until she and her brother both save him, and he starts wondering if they might not be so bad after all.

”You didn’t see that coming.”

As for Wanda being in control of her powers, I would say it depends on what aspect of her powers we’re talking about.

In AoU she has been sitting in a cell for God knows how long, practicing the same four moves:

Move small solid object. Shield. Look through people’s heads and pull certain thoughts to the forefront. Throw her power around like an energy burst.

Of these four, by the time Civil War rolls around, we only ever see her use the first two.

Age of Ultron:

Civil War:

When she does this trick, she does it with great proficiency and incredible accuracy. She’s good at this one. Her shield has also improved to the point where she can multitask while holding it.

In Civil War, however, she’s picked up a number of new moves:

Levitation/flying with her powers. Moving non-solid objects like poisonous gasses. Forming a net with her powers to lift teammates. Manipulating large solid objects with her telekinesis. Manipulate object behavior.

However, we no longer see her using throwing her power directly at anyone anymore. She picks up objects to throw at them, or grabs them by a hand or foot and tosses them back, but she no longer throws the raw energy around.

She also doesn’t go into anyone’s heads.

Do you have any idea how easily she could have pulled something like this at at the airport battle? Re-routed team Stark on some wild goose chase while Team Cap all waltzed over to the jet and flew off with no problem?

Stark and Co. wouldn’t have even known what hit them until Team Cap were loooong gone.

But she doesn’t.

Because Wanda doesn’t do that anymore. She’s not that person anymore.

Even with Vision, she’s not going inside his head, she’s just changing his density - first to de-materialize him and make him let go of Clint, and second to make him so heavy that he fell through the floor.

Wanda doesn’t throw her raw powers at people anymore because it’s too dangerous and unpredictable, and she doesn’t go into anyone’s heads anymore because of privacy issues and “brainwashing” and the other negative connotations that come with it, even if it means taking the hard way out of a situation.

She’s changed up her whole fighting strategy.

That being said, I would argue that she is NOT in control of her powers as a whole.

She is in control of certain aspects of her powers to certain extents - namely the ones that she’s practiced repeatedly - but in the grand scheme of things, she really has no idea what she’s actually capable of, therefore she cannot control exactly what her powers will react like if she tries something that’s not on her list of “the eight tricks I’ve practiced for the past six months.”

Thus, Lagos.

She probably didn’t even realize that she could bubble that much raw kinetic energy into such a small space - she was just reacting to the fact that a bomb had gone off in the middle of a packed marketplace and she needed to do something or hundreds of people would have died…likely including everyone in the building, had the foundation gotten destroyed by the blast.

(And would you demons please stop saying that she murdered people in Lagos? I mean really. Do you consider it murder when firefighters can’t get everyone out of a burning building? Or when rescue workers can’t find everyone buried beneath earthquake rubble in time to save them? Or when ambulance workers can’t rescue everyone from the remains of an awful car wreck? Wanda was stopping a bomb from killing people by containing it, and couldn’t get it far enough away to save all of them before the bomb went off. She did not murder anyone.)

In the grand scheme of things, no, Wanda doesn’t know how to control her powers, because she’s not entirely sure just what her powers can DO.

She’s still learning.

I also understand where you’re trying to go with the “lightening the color scheme” angle, but I highly doubt that’s a “nefarious plot to trick the audience into thinking she’s good when she’s not” so much as it’s a stylistic choice to show that she’s in a better place now, both mentally and physically.

Her hair is not only lighter, but has far fewer tangled curls at the bottom, and sports two highlights at the bangs. This isn’t an attempt to portray her as “suddenly good now” so much as an attempt to make her look a bit less like an orphaned street rat. Her hair is clean and brushed and bright and with an actual style, much like Bucky’s hair was actually kept when we saw him in Civil War as opposed to Winter Soldier. It’s to show that she’s taking care of herself better now because she now has the means and mental presence to do so.

Case in point: Her hair appears lighter here than at the final battle. It’s all cinematic, to make her look more or less filthy as the scene requires.

As for the outfit, she’s wearing lighter clothing in that one picture because it’s summer and she’s trying to blend in. Just like how Natasha, who normally sports black, is dressed in pale colors and wearing very little makeup.

In many other scenes in the movie, Wanda retains the black/grey/red color scheme that she’s had going since AoU, such as in the knife clip I linked above:

Black clothing in a similar overall style (short dress, boots, and jacket) just with less heavy eyeliner because she’s grown up a little and is keeping herself a bit more maintained than before.

Claiming cinematic trickery here is really reaching for threads.

So, to wrap this incredibly long post up…

NO, Wanda is not, and never was, a villain.

Up until the truth is revealed, each party (the twins, and the Avengers) believes themselves fully in the right. When the truth does come out, it is revealed that to some extent, both parties are in the wrong.

Wanda is not conflicted about facing the Avengers because she’s fighting to protect innocent people from them. She becomes conflicted when it turns out that the Avengers weren’t fully to blame for what was going on in Sokovia. (Side-eyeing Stark, here.)

Wanda is neither villain nor anti-villain…

She’s the hero of her own side of the story.

Wanda and Pietro are both heroes, whose story - through the lies and manipulation of people claiming to be allies - intersected with that of the Avengers.

Case in point: these two are alone.

The other Avengers have left the area.

If they were really doing this to save their skin and not to help people, wouldn’t this be the ideal time to say something like “make sure you get on the ship before it leaves” or “as soon as the Avengers aren’t looking, we run” or “the minute the crisis is over, we turn on them?”

There is no reason for Wanda to lie in this situation.

This is why I argue that she was never truly a villain.

In fact I’d go so far as to say that these two are no more the villains of this story than the Avengers were the villains for them.

It was all a big misunderstanding.

Wanda and Pietro were only ever in this to help the people of Sokovia, and they got screwed by the lies and manipulation of the only adult influences they’ve had in their lives since they were ten.

The second that they found out Ultron’s real plan they tried to stop him, even going so far as to approach their enemies for help.

They both act selflessly to rescue civilians and even to rescue the Avengers in the fight for Sokovia.

Throughout the film Wanda and Pietro rather pointedly avoid all collateral damage where they can, and never intended to cause any harm to innocents in their quest for revenge.

(And because I know this is your main screaming point: Johannesburg was 300+ miles away from the shipyard. How was Wanda to know that Hulk was going to run over 300 miles to attack a city when all of her other victims went comatose when shown their greatest fears? It doesn’t logically follow that she would expect anything else, because only the audience knows that making Banner agitated enrages the Hulk, and Banner even says in the movie that Johannesburg was when the world saw the “real Hulk” for the first time. The destruction in Johannesburg was never Wanda’s intended outcome when she went after Banner so you really can’t treat that as intentional.)

In the end, they were willing to overlook their own lust for revenge in order to do the right thing.

And both of them were willing to die fighting to fix what they’d done wrong.

Wanda missed the escape boat because she went to finish off Ultron.

She is shocked when Vision comes back to save her, because at this moment she was entirely ready to die.

Pietro does die.

They were both willing to put their lives on the line to make what they’d done right, and Wanda just got lucky enough to get saved.

Because of all of the above reasons, I think we can firmly state that Wanda was never meant to be a villain in the MCU.

Although on that topic, let me ask you…what exactly do you think would have happened if the writers had decided to go your route? If they’d decided to make her the villain instead of going the redemption route?

She single-handedly takes out every member of Team Stark at the airport battle in Civil War. The only one who even managed to land a hit on her is Rhody, and he only did so by sneaking up behind her while she was preoccupied holding up thousands of tons of rubble, and shooting her point-blank in the back.

And all of that was Wanda being gentle and holding back.

If she was a villain - if she was actually going all out - would any of the Avengers even survive a fight against her?

Based on the way she disintegrated those robots with just a second of lost control, I severely doubt it.

You do not want her as a villain in any capacity. I guarantee you that.

That being said, by strict definition, no, Wanda is not an anti-villain.

But she’s not a villain either.

She’s a unique and complicated character, whose story was approached at a fairly new angle as far as script writing is concerned, and who managed to be both protagonist and antagonist at once.

There is not a doubt in my mind, however, that by the end of Age of Ultron, that girl was just as much of a hero as anyone else on that screen.

Chirpingtiger out.

[amethystarachnid]

heyy could i request marvel bingo with Natasha x fem!reader with “it was all a bet” but with a twist? so it’s like tony bets that the r and natasha can’t pose as a married couple for a mission without their feelings becoming real? If you don’t like that idea feel free to do whatever you want! Thank youu

NO PRETENDING NOW

⤷ NATASHA A. ROMANOFF

ᯓ★ Pairing: Natasha A. Romanoff x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: fluff, romance

ᯓ★ Word count: 7.4k

ᯓ★ Summary: Assigned to pose as Natasha’s wife on a mission, you never expect the lines between act and reality to blur. What starts as undercover roles turns into real feelings neither of you can deny. After one night changes everything, you return to the compound knowing your life will never be the same.

ᯓ★MARVEL Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ TW(s): Internalized sexuality denial, small spicy scene (consensual, first-time with a woman)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The conference room smells faintly of burnt coffee and Stark’s cologne, sharp and expensive, the kind that sticks to the back of your throat. You sit with your arms folded, trying to look more awake than you feel, and you’re half-listening as Steve flips through the mission brief on the screen. Words like "infiltration," "secure intel," and "deep cover" float past you, all routine until Natasha’s name shows up next to yours on the projected file.

"—which is why the two of you will be the primary operatives," Steve says, glancing your way, then to Natasha, who sits with her legs casually crossed like this is just another Tuesday. For her, maybe it is.

You blink, straightening in your seat. "Wait. Us?"

"That’s right," he confirms, like it’s no big deal, like this isn’t the first time the two of you have ever been paired up for something like this. "You’ll be posing as a married couple."

The room goes quiet. For a moment, the only sound is Tony sipping loudly from his coffee mug, the obnoxious slurp designed to fill the silence.

Married.

The word sits there in the air, heavy and foreign, settling against your chest in a way that makes your pulse skip. You glance at Natasha, but her expression doesn’t flicker — she’s the picture of unbothered, maybe even slightly amused, as if the idea of pretending to be your wife for God knows how long is nothing more than a line item on her to-do list.

"Married," you repeat, just to be sure your brain isn’t short-circuiting.

"Yup," Tony chimes in, leaning back so his chair creaks, that shit-eating grin of his growing wider. "New identities, new rings, matching couple tattoos if you really want to sell it. I hear Vegas has some nice ones."

You open your mouth to protest, to ask why the hell it has to be you and Natasha, but Steve cuts in before you can build a sentence. "The targets only deal with other couples. They’ve got an entire social network of 'perfectly ordinary' married business partners. We’ve tried approaching them as buyers, suppliers, even security consultants. The only people who get close to the inner circle are the ones who look like they’ve got their personal lives wrapped up in a nice, boring, domestic bow."

"And you think we look domestic," you say, dry.

Natasha tilts her head, glancing sideways at you. "You clean up well."

The heat rises uninvited to your cheeks, and you quickly glance away, pretending to reread the mission summary on the tablet in front of you, but the words blur together. Married. To Natasha. For weeks, maybe months, depending on how long this mission drags.

Tony leans forward, elbows on the table. "I’ll do you one better," he says, voice practically dripping with mischief. "I bet you two can’t last the whole op without one of you catching real feelings."

Your head snaps up, and you glare at him. "That’s not how this works."

"Sure it is," he counters, all easy charm. "I’ve seen enough movies. Undercover couples, confined spaces, emotional vulnerability, a few candlelit stakeouts... hearts start doing stupid things. Science."

You scoff. "That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

Natasha doesn’t answer immediately, just picks up her coffee and takes a slow sip, watching you over the rim of her mug. There’s a glint in her eye — that same playful, knowing look she gets when she’s already figured out how a fight is going to end before it even starts. She sets the mug down, smooth and deliberate.

"Maybe Tony’s right," she murmurs.

You whip your head toward her, fully prepared to tell her where she can shove Tony’s bet, but she’s not even looking at you now, fingers absently twisting the thin bracelet on her wrist, like she’s just making conversation.

Steve clears his throat, pulling the room back to the task at hand. "This isn’t about your feelings. It’s about getting inside the target's compound, staying invisible, and gathering intel. Keep your personal lives out of it."

"Not a problem," you mutter, leaning back in your chair.

But the thing is — your chest is still tight. Your palms still feel clammy. Because somewhere deep down, under the layers of self-control and well-practiced denial, you know Tony isn’t making that bet for his own entertainment. He’s making it because everyone else sees it. Maybe even Natasha. Everyone but you.

And maybe the most dangerous part isn’t the mission at all. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re starting to wonder if Tony’s right.

The briefing ends, but your thoughts don’t.

You’re the last to leave the room, lingering by the table, fingers tapping against the cool metal surface like the rhythm might steady your head. Natasha stays, too, but she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move to leave. You feel her eyes on you before you hear her voice.

"Cold feet already?" she asks, soft, a little teasing.

You glance at her. She’s standing with her arms folded, leaning against the wall, relaxed in a way that makes it obvious she isn’t worried. Not about the mission. Not about pretending to be your wife. Probably not about the bet, either.

"I don’t get cold feet," you reply, a little sharper than you mean to.

"Sure," she says, pushing off the wall, closing the distance between you in slow, measured steps. "You’re just thinking about the wedding dress."

The corner of her mouth quirks up, and your stomach flips — that same damn reaction you’ve been trying to ignore since the first time she smiled at you like that, months ago. Maybe longer.

"I didn’t realize the mission came with vows," you shoot back, trying to sound unaffected.

She stops close enough that you catch the faint scent of her perfume — clean, sharp, with a hint of something darker underneath. "We’ll improvise."

You should walk away. You should say something smart and sarcastic and get the hell out of the room before your thoughts spiral any further. But you don’t move. You don’t say anything. You just stand there, letting the silence stretch between you, letting her look at you like she knows. Like she’s always known.

"See you at the fitting," she murmurs, brushing past you, and you’re left standing there, pulse hammering in your throat.

The next morning is a blur of fake IDs, forged marriage licenses, and wardrobe fittings. Stark’s tech team spares no detail — new credit histories, social security numbers, medical records. Matching bands that sit heavy on your left hand even though the metal is light, and it feels strange, wrong, like you’re wearing someone else’s life.

Natasha doesn’t flinch once.

She slides the ring onto her finger like it belongs there, like this is all just another role in her long list of identities, and maybe for her it is. But every time you catch the glint of gold on her hand, it sends your brain into another loop, because pretending to be married is one thing. Being close to her every second of the day, sharing a bed, a house, little intimate domestic details you’ve never shared with anyone — that’s something else entirely.

You tell yourself you can handle it.

You’ve lied to yourself about worse.

That night, the team gathers in the common room. The mission clock starts tomorrow, and Tony’s already got the scotch out, pouring generous glasses for anyone who wants them. You sip slowly, the burn of it a welcome distraction, until his voice cuts through the low buzz of conversation.

"Still taking bets, by the way," he announces, swirling his glass lazily. "Anyone else think our happy couple won’t make it out without falling head over heels?"

Rhodey groans. "Jesus, Tony."

But the seed’s been planted, and the others aren’t immune to curiosity. Even Steve looks faintly amused, though he tries to mask it behind a long sip of water.

"I’m serious," Tony insists, turning toward you now, eyes sharp under the humor. "You think you’ve got nerves of steel, but even the best cracks under the right conditions. I’ve seen it happen."

"I’m not the one you should be worried about," you mutter, trying to sound confident.

Natasha, lounging on the other end of the couch, lifts an eyebrow. "No?"

Her voice is light, but there’s something behind it — something that makes your chest ache and your throat go dry all at once.

"No," you repeat, steadier now, because admitting the truth — even to yourself — isn’t an option. "I know how to keep my feelings in check."

Tony lifts his glass in a mock toast. "Famous last words."

The conversation drifts, but the bet lingers, unspoken and heavy. You know Tony well enough to realize he’s not going to let it go — not until he’s proven right. And some part of you, deep down, is terrified that he will be.

Because if you’re honest with yourself, the feelings have been there all along.

You’ve just been too scared to name them.

You don’t sleep the night before the mission.

The ring digs into your finger every time you turn over, an alien weight, like your skin hasn’t accepted the lie yet. The apartment’s quiet except for the occasional hum of New York traffic bleeding through the windows, but your mind is too loud for the silence to soothe you. Images of the mission cycle on repeat — false smiles, fake dinners, pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife in public and, worse, behind closed doors.

You tell yourself you’re just being thorough, that the mental rehearsals will help you slip into character once you land. But you know better. The unease isn’t about the mission.

It’s about her.

When the morning comes, you meet her at the airstrip.

Natasha’s already there when you arrive, leaning against the sleek black SUV that’s going to carry you both away from the world you know. Her hair’s pulled back, her casual clothes pressed and perfect, and her duffel slung over one shoulder. She looks like she’s done this a thousand times. She probably has.

When her eyes flick over to you, her mouth curves slightly at the corners, but there’s no teasing in it this time. Just quiet acknowledgment.

"Ready, Mrs. Romanoff?" she says, voice low, only for you.

The name knocks the air from your lungs for a second, sharp and unexpected, even though you knew it was coming. You recover fast, but not fast enough to miss the glint of something amused — or maybe something softer — in her gaze.

You clear your throat. "As I’ll ever be."

The jet’s engines hum to life as you climb aboard, and the reality of it finally locks into place. Once you land, there’s no out. No ‘just kidding.’ No walking it back. You’re her wife until the mission says otherwise.

The flight is quiet, comfortable in the way only practiced professionals can be, but the silence between you isn’t empty. It’s full of unsaid things, unacknowledged tension, the unspoken history you’ve both worked so hard to sidestep until now. You don’t talk about Tony’s bet. You don’t talk about the way her shoulder brushes against yours as you sit side by side, or how your pulse jumps every time it happens.

You focus on the mission.

You have to.

The house is tucked away in a wealthy, suburban neighborhood just outside D.C. White picket fences, manicured lawns, two-car garages — the kind of place where the neighbors are nosy and the barbecues are mandatory.

It’s picture-perfect. So perfect it makes your skin crawl.

SHIELD set up the paperwork weeks ago. The house is "yours" now. New names. New jobs. A fake history built brick by brick. You’re supposed to be recent transplants from Chicago, moving here for a fresh start. Married three years. No kids. "Madly in love" — the profile says so, clear as day.

The moment you step inside the house, the air shifts.

You drop your bags in the entryway, glancing around. It’s fully furnished, every room dressed for the part. Two toothbrushes already waiting in the bathroom. A coffee maker with two matching mugs. The bed, large enough to be convincing, sits in the master bedroom with crisp, untouched sheets.

This is where the real mission begins.

Natasha moves through the space like she’s already lived here for years, checking windows, doors, security feeds. You stand by the staircase, hands still gripping your bag like it’s the only real thing left in the world.

She glances over her shoulder at you.

"You can breathe, you know," she says lightly.

You exhale, slow and unsteady, and let the bag slip from your fingers.

"I’m fine," you lie.

Her lips tilt up, not calling you on it. She doesn’t have to. She walks past you, close enough that her shoulder brushes yours again, and you wonder how long it’ll take before you stop noticing every time she touches you.

The first few days are the easy part.

Neighborhood introductions, casual smiles, hand-holding when the eyes are on you. You learn the script — where "you met," the inside jokes "you share," the story of "your honeymoon" that Natasha tells with such perfect ease it almost convinces even you.

She’s good at this. You expected that. What you didn’t expect was how natural it feels when her hand slips into yours on cue, how your body starts to memorize the rhythm of it, how your heart doesn’t seem to understand the difference between the role and reality.

The nights are the hardest.

The bedroom is too quiet. The bed is too big. And she’s there, so close you can feel the warmth radiating off her, but not close enough to touch. You lay awake, night after night, the ceiling fan whirring overhead, your mind circling the same impossible thought:

What if Tony’s right?

A week in, the first phase of the mission finally begins.

The targets — the Callahans — host their monthly couples’ mixer, an event designed to vet potential new members of their inner circle. Suburban espionage at its finest. You dress the part: tasteful jewelry, a sleek cocktail dress, heels just tall enough to make you feel unsteady even though you’ve been through worse.

Natasha helps you zip the back of your dress. Her fingers graze the bare skin of your spine, light and unhurried, and you feel the contact like a matchstrike down your nerves.

"You’re tense," she observes.

"Thanks for the update," you reply, dry.

Her hands pause at the small of your back. The air between you stills, heavy, before she leans in just slightly, her lips brushing your ear.

"You’ll be fine," she says. "I’ve got you."

The words settle in your chest, soft and dangerous.

You wonder if she means them for the mission or for something else entirely.

The Callahans are exactly the type of people who wear fake smiles like armor. They host in their sprawling backyard, wine glasses in hand, laughter that’s a little too loud, compliments that sound rehearsed. You and Natasha fall into step effortlessly, her hand on your waist, your laugh just the right amount of affectionate when you introduce yourselves as "Nat and Y/N Romanoff."

Every time you glance at her, she’s already looking at you.

Every time your hand brushes hers, your skin buzzes like a live wire.

You start to forget the lines between the role and the truth.

It’s Natasha who anchors you through it, steady as always. She whispers little observations against the shell of your ear, her fingers idly tracing along the curve of your waist, playing the part of a lovesick wife so perfectly that, for a moment, you let yourself believe it.

And that’s the problem. You believe it too easily.

The car ride home is silent, but not empty.

Her hand rests on your thigh, casual, but her thumb moves in slow circles against the fabric of your dress, absent-minded or intentional — you can’t tell anymore. You don’t move away. You just sit there, staring out the window, pretending the flush in your cheeks is from the wine and not from her.

The days bleed together after that.

Breakfasts in a sunlit kitchen, brushing shoulders while you pretend to fight over who gets the last cup of coffee. Grocery trips, hands entwined. Laughing at something on the TV you’re not really watching because she’s lying too close, her head tipped back against your shoulder.

It’s so easy to fall into the fiction.

But every time you let your guard down, it feels less like fiction.

And that’s when the real danger starts.

It’s two weeks in when the mission takes its first sharp turn.

The Callahans extend an invitation — dinner at their private estate. Intimate, exclusive. A sign you’ve earned their trust. It’s everything you’ve been waiting for, the real start of the operation, and yet the thought of another night playing house with Natasha feels more dangerous than any weapon you’ve ever faced.

You dress carefully. So does she.

The drive is quiet, both of you braced for the night ahead. But as you pull up to the wrought-iron gates, Natasha’s hand slips into yours — not for show this time, not because anyone’s watching.

Just because.

Your fingers tighten around hers, and for once, you don’t let go.

The night is a blur of wine and veiled threats. The Callahans’ smiles stretch thinner the longer the evening drags on, and the more questions they ask about your marriage, the more you feel the walls closing in. Natasha, as always, answers effortlessly. Her hand rests on yours on the dinner table, thumb stroking slow, grounding you through every half-lie, every false story.

And the scariest part isn’t how convincing she is.

It’s how convincing you feel.

When you finally get home, the air between you is taut and heavy, stretched thin from the night’s performance. You kick off your heels, moving to the kitchen, fingers fumbling for a glass of water, but she doesn’t let you slip back into distance.

Her voice is quiet behind you.

"You were perfect tonight."

You turn, leaning against the counter, heart still thudding too hard against your ribs. "I’m just doing my job."

She steps closer, the space between you shrinking until her hand comes to rest against your jaw, her thumb brushing your cheekbone, the gesture soft and deliberate.

"Sure," she says, voice low. "If you say so."

The moment lingers, unspoken but undeniable, before she finally steps back and leaves you standing there, throat dry, the glass still empty in your hands.

You lie awake that night, staring at the ceiling, and for the first time you wonder if the lie’s already won.

Time does strange things on this mission.

The days stretch long, soaked in the kind of domestic quiet you’ve spent your life avoiding, and the nights feel shorter, heavier, loaded with unspoken tension that hums beneath every shared glance and every brush of fingers. The house you’ve been planted in feels less like a safe house and more like a cage the longer you’re in it, but the strangest part is — you don’t want to escape.

Or maybe you just don’t want to escape her.

The Callahans invite you over more often now. Casual drinks on their patio, afternoon barbecues, double dates with other couples from the neighborhood, the kind of social life designed to dig its hooks into your cover until the fiction starts feeling real. Natasha makes it look easy. You tell yourself you’re just following her lead.

But each day makes the act harder to separate from the truth.

You’re sitting on the Callahans’ back porch one warm Saturday afternoon, sunglasses perched on your nose, glass of wine balanced loosely between your fingers. The conversation hums around you, harmless on the surface — vacation plans, new furniture, which country club is worth the membership fee — but the subtext is always there, coiled beneath every perfectly polite smile.

You feel Natasha shift beside you before you see her move.

Her hand drapes lazily over your knee, thumb grazing the inside of your thigh in a way that looks casual to anyone else, but sets your pulse hammering behind your ribs. You tilt your head just slightly toward her, enough to catch her mouth tugging into the faintest smile.

One of the Callahans — Evelyn — leans forward, resting her chin on her hand, studying you both over the rim of her glass.

"You two are sickening, you know that?" she says, voice light but sharp at the edges. "Still looking at each other like it’s the honeymoon phase."

You force a smile, your throat dry, but Natasha’s voice slides in before yours can.

"Guess we’re just lucky," she says, turning her head toward you, her eyes holding yours, steady and unblinking.

And then she kisses you.

It’s soft, easy, the kind of practiced affection couples build over years, but it steals the air from your lungs all the same. Her lips move against yours with the barest hint of pressure, long enough to convince the audience, short enough to leave you wondering if it meant something more.

When she pulls back, her thumb brushes your cheek, lingering for a heartbeat too long.

You laugh, the sound brittle in your own ears, and glance back at Evelyn, who looks vaguely amused, swirling her wine.

"Disgusting," she teases.

"Can’t help it," Natasha murmurs, her voice low enough that only you can hear. "It’s the company I keep."

The conversation drifts on, but you don’t hear much of it after that. Not with your pulse still roaring in your ears, not with the ghost of her lips still lingering on yours.

It doesn’t stop there.

After that afternoon, the casual affection becomes part of the routine. Little things at first. Her hand finding yours on the armrest during dinner parties. Her fingers brushing against your jaw when you laugh at something, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Lingering glances. Private smiles. Lips pressed to your temple when the others aren’t looking — and sometimes when they are.

The strange part is how natural it starts to feel.

Like your body is learning a new language, one you’ve never let yourself speak before. One that feels terrifying and safe all at once when it’s her.

At night, the space between you shrinks.

You still lie on opposite sides of the bed, but the gap isn’t what it used to be. Some nights your hands brush in the dark, knuckles grazing, and neither of you moves away. Sometimes her breath is close enough to stir the fine hairs on your cheek. Sometimes you fall asleep wondering what it would feel like if you closed the distance.

Sometimes you wake up wondering if you already did.

Another week passes.

The mission threads itself deeper into your bones. The Callahans grow more comfortable around you. Their conversations become more relaxed, less guarded, but the danger sharpens in the spaces where they lower their smiles. You catch little fragments of the real reason you’re here: encrypted shipments, payments routed through shell companies, names that don’t appear on any official record.

You and Natasha are close. So close you can taste the finish line. But the closer you get, the harder it is to ignore the fact that the mission isn’t the only thing changing.

It’s a Thursday evening when Evelyn invites the two of you for drinks, just the four of you, no other couples, no pretense of neighborhood charm. The conversation is sharp, deliberate, the subtext clear — this is the final vetting. The last test before you’re allowed fully inside.

Halfway through the night, Evelyn leans back on the plush sofa, swirling her whiskey, eyes trained on you both.

"You know," she muses, "I’ve always been good at spotting fake couples."

Your spine stiffens, but Natasha doesn’t even blink.

"Is that so?" she asks, tilting her head slightly.

Evelyn’s lips curve into a knowing smile. "Mhm. Most people don’t even realize when the act slips. There’s always a tell. A moment when you forget to hold hands. Or your gaze doesn’t follow when they leave the room. The body knows, even when the mind’s trying to lie."

Her gaze flicks to you, sharp and assessing.

"So tell me," she purrs, "what’s your tell?"

You don’t get a chance to answer, because Natasha leans in and kisses you.

There’s nothing casual about it this time. It’s deliberate. Slow. Her hand cups your jaw, guiding your face toward hers, and her mouth moves against yours with the kind of quiet certainty that makes your head spin.

When she pulls back, her voice is soft but steady.

"We don’t have one," she says simply.

Evelyn hums, swirling her drink, and after a long moment, she leans back with a satisfied smile, like she’s found what she was looking for.

"Good answer."

The conversation moves on. You’re not sure how. You’re not sure when you start breathing again. But the whole drive home, Natasha doesn’t speak. And neither do you.

When you get back to the house, you stand in the dark of the entryway, the front door clicking shut behind you, your heart still racing.

"That was risky," you say finally.

Natasha’s standing by the staircase, her expression unreadable. "It worked."

"Yeah," you murmur. "It did."

She starts up the stairs, but her voice floats back to you before she disappears from sight.

"You kissed me back."

And you can’t argue with that.

The next day is quiet.

You go through the motions. Morning coffee, light conversation, casual touches. The routine you’ve spent weeks perfecting. But the air between you feels different, stretched thin and humming with something you’re not ready to name.

By the time night falls, the silence is suffocating.

You stand in the bathroom, brushing your teeth, staring at your own reflection like you might find answers there. You don’t. You never do.

When you step into the bedroom, Natasha’s already lying on her side of the bed, one arm tucked beneath her head, eyes half-lidded but awake. Watching you.

The space feels smaller than usual.

You slide under the covers, lying flat on your back, staring at the ceiling.

"Nat," you say, barely above a whisper.

She hums, a soft acknowledgment, waiting.

"You didn’t have to kiss me like that."

A pause. Long. Heavy.

Her voice is quiet when it finally comes.

"I know."

You swallow, your throat dry, heart pounding in your chest. "So why did you?"

You feel her shift beside you. Closer. Close enough that her hand finds yours beneath the covers, her fingers sliding between yours, warm and steady.

"Because I wanted to," she says.

And for the first time in weeks, you stop pretending.

The mission doesn’t slow down, but the lies do.

Every day you spend in that house, every smile you fake for the Callahans, every staged moment of affection you put on for the world outside — it all starts to blend into something you can’t separate from the real thing. The glances aren’t rehearsed anymore. The touches linger longer. The kisses, when they happen, aren’t always part of the job.

And the scariest part is you don’t care.

You’re not sure when it happens, exactly. Maybe it’s the night you fall asleep tangled together, her breath warm against your neck, her hand resting low on your waist. Maybe it’s the morning you wake up and her lips press against your bare shoulder before you’ve even opened your eyes. Maybe it’s every moment in between.

But at some point, the mission stops feeling like the dangerous part.

And your feelings start to do the rest.

You know the mission is almost over.

You can feel it in the way the Callahans act around you now — the easy smiles that no longer hold suspicion, the conversations that slip from surface-level charm into quiet confessions. You’ve done your job. You’ve won their trust. Any day now, the op will reach its end, and the files you’re after will be in your hands.

But the thought of the mission ending doesn’t feel like victory.

It feels like loss.

Because when the mission ends, the world snaps back into place — and this, whatever this is between you and Natasha, will disappear with it.

That night, the air inside the house is heavy. Too quiet. The kind of stillness that presses against your chest and makes you restless.

You’re curled on the living room sofa, barefoot, wearing one of her old T-shirts — part of the cover, you told yourself at first, but the comfort is real, the way it smells like her is real. Natasha sits on the other end, one leg tucked under herself, thumbing through her phone without really looking at it.

It’s late, but neither of you moves to go upstairs. The TV plays some muted documentary you stopped paying attention to twenty minutes ago. You sip your wine slowly, trying to drown the nerves coiled tight in your stomach.

She notices.

"Talk to me," she says softly.

You glance over at her, meeting her eyes, the glow of the TV catching the warm flecks of green in them. The words stick in your throat, the weight of everything you’ve spent weeks burying pressing too hard for you to swallow.

"You keep looking at me like that," you say, your voice low and a little shaky, "and I’m going to start thinking you mean it."

Her lips twitch, just slightly, but her gaze doesn’t waver.

"What if I do?" she murmurs.

The room tilts. Or maybe it’s just your heart, tripping over itself. You set your glass down, your fingers unsteady, and force yourself to breathe. The silence stretches, the space between you shrinking without either of you moving.

"You’ve done this before," you say. It’s not a question.

"Done what?"

"This," you gesture, your voice softer now. "Falling for someone during a mission. Blurring lines. Pretending until it stops feeling like a lie."

Her head tips to the side, studying you like she’s seeing through every deflection, every wall you’ve ever built.

"I’ve had my share of mistakes," she admits. "But this isn’t one of them."

The words settle deep, heavier than you expect. Because you’ve never let yourself think about it in those terms — not the mission, not her, not yourself.

But here you are. And here she is. And there’s nothing left between you but the truth.

You stand, legs unsteady, crossing the space to her, your heart thudding so hard you’re sure she can hear it. When you stop in front of her, her hands reach for your hips, guiding you gently into her lap. You straddle her, your hands curling against her shoulders, your forehead resting against hers.

"This is different for me," you whisper. "You know that, right?"

Her hands slide along your waist, steady and slow, her touch grounding you.

"I know," she says quietly. "I’ve known since the beginning."

And then her lips find yours.

It’s soft at first — a question, not a demand. Her mouth moves against yours with unhurried care, coaxing you to relax into the moment. You kiss her back, tasting the unspoken promises in the way her lips part for you, the way her hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair.

When she deepens the kiss, your heart stutters, and a soft sound escapes you before you can stop it. Her other hand traces the curve of your back, anchoring you against her, your bodies fitting together like the final piece of a puzzle you’ve spent your whole life pretending didn’t exist.

When she finally pulls back, her breath is warm against your cheek.

"We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to," she says softly.

You shake your head, your voice a whisper. "I want to."

Her thumb strokes along your jaw, slow and patient. "Are you sure?"

And you are. Even if your chest feels too tight, even if your hands shake a little. Because it’s her. Because it’s always been her.

You nod.

She kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, her hands guiding you gently. She doesn’t rush — she never does. Everything about her is patient, steady, like she understands the way your mind is spinning and knows exactly how to quiet it. Her lips trail from your mouth to your neck, soft and lingering, and your body arches toward her without conscious thought.

When she stands, lifting you easily in her arms, you let out a breathless laugh, your hands clinging to her shoulders.

She carries you upstairs, the house silent except for the soft sounds of your breathing, the pulse pounding in your ears. The bedroom feels different when you step inside, like the walls themselves are holding their breath.

She lays you down on the bed, hovering over you, her hand brushing your hair back from your face.

"You okay?" she murmurs.

You nod, your voice barely steady. "Yeah."

Her lips curve into a soft smile, one you’ve never seen from her on a mission before. It’s real. All of it is real.

Her hands map your body slowly, tracing the lines of your figure like she’s memorizing every inch. Clothes slip away, layer by layer, and every brush of her skin against yours sends sparks through your veins. She takes her time, coaxing every sound from your lips, reading your body like a language you never knew you could speak.

It’s overwhelming. But it’s perfect.

And when she finally makes you fall apart beneath her hands, beneath her mouth, you don’t feel scared. You don’t feel unsure. You feel safe.

You feel wanted.

When it’s over, you lie tangled together in the soft dark, your head resting against her chest, her fingers idly tracing patterns on your back.

"I’ve never..." you start, your voice soft, unsteady. "With anyone. I’ve never done this. Not like that. Not with—"

"A woman," she finishes for you, voice gentle. "I know."

You tilt your head, looking up at her. Her expression is open, unguarded, and there’s no judgment in her eyes. Just quiet understanding.

"I didn’t think it’d ever happen," you admit. "I didn’t think I’d ever want it to."

Her hand brushes along your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth.

"You just didn’t meet the right person yet."

And you think, maybe, that she’s right.

The next morning, the mission ends.

It happens quietly. Efficiently. The intel drops into your hands on a flash drive, the Callahans none the wiser, and SHIELD pulls the plug before the sun even sets. There’s no fight, no fireworks, no dramatic farewell.

Just a text.

Extraction in 2 hours. Pack light.

You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the message, your chest heavy. Natasha’s quiet as she folds the last of her things into her duffel, her movements precise, practiced. But when she glances over at you, her eyes soften.

"You okay?" she asks.

You nod, even though you’re not sure. "Yeah."

But you both know the truth. The mission ending isn’t what’s making your hands tremble. It’s the question you’ve been avoiding since the moment you let her touch you.

What happens now?

She crosses the room, standing between your knees, her hands resting on your shoulders. You tip your head back, meeting her gaze, searching for something — reassurance, an answer, anything.

"This doesn’t have to be the end," she says softly.

Your throat tightens. "You don’t have to say that."

"I’m not saying it because I have to." She leans in, brushing her lips against your forehead. "I’m saying it because I want to."

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

The compound feels like another life when you step back through its doors.

No more matching coffee mugs. No more sunlit kitchen mornings. No more pretending to be Natasha Romanoff’s wife.

But the space between you doesn’t snap back the way you expected.

She still stands close. Her hand still brushes yours when you pass each other in the hallway. Her glances still linger, heavy and unspoken, and yours do too.

And when Tony greets you both in the briefing room, all smug and self-satisfied, you know he can see it written all over your face.

"Well, well," he drawls, folding his arms over his chest. "Look at you two. Almost makes me wonder who owes who money."

Natasha’s mouth curves into a knowing smile, her gaze flicking to yours for a split second before she answers.

"Let’s just say," she says, voice smooth, "the mission was a success."

And as her hand brushes yours under the table, fingers curling lightly around your own, you know it wasn’t the mission she meant.

It was everything else.

The days after the mission feel like waking up from a long, strange dream.

Everything’s back to normal on the surface: briefing rooms, morning runs, mission debriefs, shared dinners with the team that taste like old habits. But underneath it all, something lingers. Something warm and unfamiliar.

She lingers.

Natasha doesn’t push. She never does. She just waits, steady as gravity, her presence as easy and quiet as it was back in the safe house — only now there’s no act to lean on, no neighborhood barbecues or suburban smiles. Just you, her, and the weight of everything unsaid.

You find yourself looking for her more than usual. Not because you need to. Because you want to.

And every time your eyes meet hers, you feel it all over again. That night. Her hands, her mouth, the way her voice had wrapped around your name like it was something precious.

You’re sitting on the compound’s rooftop three nights later when she finds you. The air is cool, the city stretching quiet and endless beyond the edge of the building. You hear her before you see her — the soft scuff of boots on concrete, the familiar weight of her presence sliding in beside you.

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. The silence isn’t awkward, though. It’s comfortable, the kind that sits between two people who already know the conversation is coming, but neither wants to force it.

Finally, she breaks it, voice low and careful.

"You’ve been avoiding me."

You glance at her, meeting those sharp green eyes, and even now — even with everything that’s already passed between you — she still makes your heart trip over itself.

"Not avoiding," you say softly. "Just… thinking."

Her lips twitch at the corner, but there’s no judgment in her expression.

"About us?"

The word sits heavy between you. Us.

You nod, looking back out at the skyline.

"I don’t know how to do this," you admit, your voice barely more than a whisper. "I’ve never done this. Not like this."

Her hand moves, slow and unhurried, resting on top of yours. Her thumb strokes the back of your hand, steady and warm, grounding you the way she always does.

"You don’t have to know," she murmurs. "You just have to want to."

You let out a quiet breath, one you hadn’t realized you’d been holding.

"I do."

And just like that, the tension slips from your shoulders.

She shifts closer, her knee brushing against yours, her fingers sliding between your own.

"So do I."

The simplicity of it knocks the air out of your chest. Because for all the nights you spent lying awake, trying to make sense of your feelings, trying to pretend they weren’t real — she’s known. She’s always known. And she’s never once rushed you.

You tilt your head, studying her in the soft moonlight, and the question tumbles out before you can stop it.

"What happens now?"

Her smile is slow and easy, but her gaze is steady, unwavering.

"Now we stop pretending."

She leans in, her hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek. The kiss is soft, unhurried, tasting of unspoken promises. When she pulls back, her forehead rests lightly against yours.

"Now I get to take you out on a real date," she says, her voice low and teasing, "and kiss you like I’ve been wanting to since day one."

Your breath catches, heat curling in your stomach, your body leaning into hers before you even realize it.

"And here I thought you were already doing a pretty good job at that."

Her fingers trail down your neck, her touch featherlight but loaded with intent.

"That was just the warm-up, sweetheart."

The flush rises hot on your skin, but you don’t pull away. Not this time. You tip your head slightly, giving her the silent invitation you’ve been too scared to voice for days.

She takes it.

Her lips find yours again, deeper this time, slow but certain. The kind of kiss that’s meant to undo you, and it does. Your hands tangle in her hair, pulling her closer, your body arching into hers as the kiss turns hungrier, the space between you dissolving.

When she finally pulls back, both of you breathless, her voice dips lower, her thumb tracing lazy circles on your thigh.

"I want this to be real," she says. "Not just a mission. Not just one night. You. Me."

Your chest tightens, but this time it’s not fear. It’s hope.

"Okay," you whisper, voice soft but steady. "I want that too."

And just like that, it’s decided.

She leans in again, pressing a kiss to your neck, slow and lingering, making your stomach twist and your breath hitch. Her hand slips beneath the hem of your shirt, palm splayed against your skin, and the warmth of her touch sends sparks through you.

"Then let me take you inside," she murmurs against your skin. "Let me remind you exactly how real this is."

Your heart stumbles, your body answering before your voice does, your fingers tightening in her hair, pulling her mouth back to yours.

The kiss is all heat and wanting, all slow teasing and quiet desperation, the rooftop air cool against your flushed skin. When she finally pulls away, her breath is ragged, her eyes dark and hungry.

She stands, offering her hand, and you take it without hesitation.

The walk back to her room is quiet, your hands laced together, the air between you humming with unspoken promises.

The moment the door clicks shut, her mouth is back on yours, her hands framing your face, holding you steady as your world tilts around her. Your fingers fumble at the hem of her shirt, and she lets you take your time, guiding your hands, her patience making your heart ache.

When her shirt slips away, you step back for just a second, your gaze roaming over her, equal parts nerves and awe. She watches you, her lips curving into the softest smile.

"You’re allowed to look," she teases, her voice low, sultry, but tender underneath. "I’m not going anywhere."

You close the space between you, pressing your lips to her shoulder, tasting her skin, your hands finding their way along the curve of her waist. She shivers beneath your touch, and the quiet, breathy sound she lets out sends heat pooling deep in your stomach.

She takes her time with you, undressing you like it’s an art, like every piece of clothing is a boundary falling away. When you’re finally bare beneath her, stretched out on her bed, her body covering yours, her lips brushing along your throat, the nerves melt away — leaving only want.

Her hands map the shape of you, relearning you, coaxing every soft sound from your lips with each lingering kiss, each slow slide of her fingers. And when her mouth trails lower, her lips and tongue replacing her hands, your body arches into her without shame.

It’s different this time. Not rushed. Not born from the mission’s pressure.

It’s real.

And when you fall apart beneath her, breathless and shaking, her name the only thing you can manage, you realize you’ve never felt more wanted, more known, more safe.

After, you lie tangled together in the quiet, her fingers brushing lazily along your bare arm, your cheek resting on her shoulder, your heart still racing.

"So," you murmur, your voice low and sleep-heavy. "Does this make you my girlfriend?"

You feel her laugh more than you hear it, soft and warm against your skin.

"If you’ll have me," she says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You tilt your face up, meeting her eyes, your smile soft and unguarded.

"I already do."

She kisses you, slow and sweet, her fingers threading through yours under the sheets.

And for the first time, there’s no pretending. Just you, her, and the beginning of something real.

help I hope this Makes sense...

[tldrthor]

things we shouldn't have said | steve rogers

Summary: The Captain has a scathing outburst that puts their already rocky relationship six feet under for good. He reaps the consequences when she gets hurt while looking out for him.

Part one // She was watching my back, and I wasn't watching hers. // word count: 3k

enjoyed? please like/reblog! you can find my masterlist here <3

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I am sick and tired of you endangering yourself and others, (y/l/n)!” The shouting started from behind the frosted panes of the meeting room. Tony, sitting on one of the benches outside, wondered if he had considered that the meeting room wouldn’t be soundproofed enough to stop people hearing sensitive information, or, if you were Steve and (y/n), insanely loud arguments nearly every day. It seemed like a design flaw.

“You were the one who made the wrong call! They weren’t on the left wing, they were on the right, who knows what could’ve happened if I hadn’t followed my instincts?!”

“It doesn’t matter, you flung yourself headfirst into danger, and disobeyed a direct order.”

“I’m not your soldier, Rogers. And I told you exactly what was happening, you just didn’t listen!”

Natasha banged the back of her head repeatedly on the wall she leant on. “How long do we reckon this ones going to take? I need a shower.” She sighed, sniffing at her armpits and wincing a little at the result. 

Tony looked at his watch, responding: “If I am correct in my estimation (y/n) will storm out right around …” The door to the meeting room burst open, and out barrelled a seething Agent (y/l/n). “Now.” Tony concluded, as the others laughed at his uncanny ability to predict how a Rogers-(y/l/n) fight went. He waved his hand and lowered his head in a fake bow.

“Do you think they’ll ever get along?” Young, innocent, naïve Peter asked. He had previously been fast asleep sitting upright in the uncomfortable waiting chairs. The sound of the door hitting the plasterboard on the wall had startled him awake.

Sam chuckled. “Kid, those two have been at each other’s throats since you were in middle school. It’s just what they do.”

Peter seemed to accept that answer, nodding slowly before covering a yawn with his hand. “That's classic enemies to lovers stuff.” He was nearly asleep again by the time the others had processed his statement enough to question what it meant.

The door opened again. “Come on, let’s debrief.” Cap pulled an anxious hand through his hair, clearly in turmoil. The Captain looked exhausted, his eyes nearly bloodshot. The bags under his eyes were some of the worst Tony had ever seen, and that was saying something. When his eyes landed on Peter, he shook his head, “Pete, head to bed. You’re beat.”

Peter nodded again, but fell asleep in the exact same position, approximately 0.3 seconds after the door closed behind the other Avengers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Good morning." (Y/n) muttered, walking into the briefing room with a coffee in hand. It wasn’t like her to be late, especially not with coffee. Tony realised that lately, she had been more and more demoralised after every mission. Especially after every argument with Cap. He was worried there was more going on with her than they knew. 

Nevertheless, he couldn’t resist a dig.

"Don't you hate it when someone turns up late to a meeting with Starbucks in hand?" Tony tilted his head and spoke with sarcasm coating nearly every word.

"Bite me, tin man." She joked with her mentor. It wasn’t her usual chipper humour, but rather much more subdued, more pointed. She looked more tired than usual as well, Tony noted. But he had a meeting to present, and an interview in an hour, so there wasn’t much time to mull it over.

Steve didn’t pick up on anything strange, blinded by his annoyance. He shook his head silently in the corner, jaw tensed, eyes sending daggers into her with every step she took.

"Young lady, you are in a terrible mood this morning. And, I'm about to make it worse." Tony flashed her a charming but sarcastic smile. "We've got a code red recon mission over in Europe, and only you and our dear fearless leader are available to man it."

Her face immediately fell, but she wasn't the first to find her voice.

"Nope. There's no way." Steve responded to the news. She sent him a foul look at his rude outburst, before chiming in with her own.

"Rude, Rogers. But agreed, you send us on that mission, one of us is coming back in a body bag." And it won't be me. She thought.

He wouldn't meet her eyes, his tense posture maintaining an intense gaze on Tony. His arms, crossed, shoulders raised nearly to his ears.

Tony rolled his eyes at their reactions. "You guys need to stop your middle school bullshit. We're the Avengers, and at the end of the day, we've got each other's backs."

She decided to bite her tongue, opting for a vicious look towards Tony instead. Sure, it would be awful, but she wouldn’t mind a chance to prove to Steve that she was a valuable member of the team, and shove it in his face that he was wrong about her. 

She looked towards him, expecting him to have a similar disposition. Mr. Upstanding, the moral preacher. To her shock, he didn’t. And god, was he vocal about it.

“No, she’s a goddamn liability.” He turned to her with a withering, disdainful look. “She messes up every mission, and I’ve had enough. I’m not putting a code red in her hands, she doesn’t have the skills for it.” He immediately turned to face her, expecting her to fire back with the same passion.

He didn’t expect her neutral, almost – almost – hurt expression. She pressed her lips into a straight line, and his heart dropped when he thought maybe there were tears in her eyes. For just a second.

He might have gone too far. He didn’t think he would ever miss her rebuttals, her constant nitpicking, her endless talking back. But at this moment, he knew he would have preferred it. 

She looked away from him, and back to Tony, who watched the outburst with an open mouth. It wasn’t very often he was rendered speechless, but it took a solid ten seconds for him to clear his throat, pick his jaw up off the floor and continue.

“Unfortunately, there is no other choice, um, so hopefully that will go smoothly. You will leave at 8am sharp tomorrow. Uh … onto other business…”

(Y/n) drowned the rest of Tony’s briefing out as she replayed the Captain’s outburst over and over again. Liability. Messes up every mission. Doesn’t have the skills. It was all of her worst fears come true, packaged up neatly coming from the mouth of someone she had always secretly admired. Not that she would ever tell him that.

She wasn't sure why, but his words had cut her to the core.

An excruciating thirty minutes later, Tony concluded his meeting. “Okay, everyone out. Except Cap, we have to talk about logistics for tomorrow.” He watched with eagle eyes as (y/n) ran out of the room, lowering her face and ignoring anyone who sent pitying looks her way.

He turned to the Captain, who covered a bright red face with his hands.

“Now what the hell was that?” He asked.

Cap groaned, “I messed up.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

8am. Sharp. She took a deep breath as she left her room, locking the door behind her. Her pack wasn’t too heavy, considering they were only supposed to be gone for a couple of nights max. Her chest felt tight, walking to the aircraft hangar, a pit of dread growing and growing with every step.

Before she met the hangar, she passed by Tony’s office. It was one of Tony’s off days, so she knew he wouldn’t be in. She slipped an envelope under the door, hoping he would only see it once she was long gone.

“See ya later.” She whispered to no-one.

Trudging to what felt like the executioner’s block, she was dismayed to see Steve already fully ready and waiting for her. She braced herself for the lecture, for the ‘we said leave at 8am, not arrive.’ But it didn’t come. 

“Good morning.” He spoke cordially, almost upbeat. Making up for something.

She could only manage a polite smile in return. He frowned at the lack of response, but she didn’t see it. 

“All systems ready to go.” She said, once she had got a seat and checked all her listed items. Steve nodded, and made a call through the radio to air control. “Alpha base control, this is Eagle and Wunderkind, ready to take off.” She hated hearing him say her nickname from Tony, which had become her official callsign for all base activities. 

Through the headset, she heard the confirmation from ATC, and watched as the Captain piloted the quinjet up and away from the base. God, it was going to be a long trip. 

As soon as she could, she took off her harness and retreated back to the seats further away from him. She heard the gentle click and mechanical thrum of the auto-pilot being put on, and the movement of the leather seats as Steve moved away from the cockpit.

She felt his presence over her as she tried to focus on her kindle. She had been reading and re-reading the same page, over and over, desperately trying to take in the words. But it was futile. 

“(y/n).” He sighed, knowing that she was purposefully ignoring him. “I want to apologise for my outburst at the meeting yesterday.”

She shrugged. He desperately searched for some kind of anger, some kind of white-hot hurt that she would respond with. It was what he deserved, after he had embarrassed her and doubted her in front of the whole team. 

“You told me how you really feel. It’s okay.” She still didn’t look at him.

“That’s not –” He huffed. “That’s not what I think. I was out of line.” It seemed that the words he wanted eluded him. What do you say to someone after you’ve put out their spark? How do you ‘fix’ a quenched fire?

“It’s fine, Captain. Honestly.” 

Rogers sighed and understood that he was being subtly asked to leave. He understood, really. But there was something about her dejected manner, her slumping posture and her big, sad eyes that made him feel like more of a villain than he already did. Like he had kicked a puppy, or stolen candy from a baby or…

Completely humiliated one of the newest Avengers in front of the whole team.

“I’m sorry.” He managed to stutter out, before turning and leaving to fiddle with some of the controls on the quinjet’s interface. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The rest of the six hours were long. Painfully, achingly long. The tension in the atmosphere was only marginally cut by the quiet hum of the engine and the tap, tap, tap of the Captain getting some work done. The captain spent a longer time staring at his comrade than he would ever admit, watching as she frowned at her book. She turned one page approximately every five minutes, her eyes continually moving from the top to the bottom of the same page, over and over again. Her frustrated sighing the only sign of emotion coming from her.

He took a deep breath, trying to remove the suffocating guilt from his chest.

Standing, he waved a hand in her line of sight, interrupting her ‘reading’ session. She slid her headphones off, looking up at him expectantly. “We’re going down.” He spoke. “Thought you would like to get ready.”

The problem with recon missions was that a quinjet was a dead giveaway. So, they had to take their large, heavy packs, and camp out in the forest surrounding the castle. Why was it always a castle?

The hike was hard. The frost on the path made it difficult to get a proper grip on the near-vertical slope, and she realised quickly she had forgotten her gloves. The frost nipped at her hands, growing more painful with her step. She cursed Tony for sending them here in the dead of winter.

She threw her pack up a ledge, scrambling up behind it. While scrambling up the side, she made the mistake of grabbing on to a bundle of brambles. She hissed and retracted her hand, a line of crimson appearing straight across her palm, a precious droplet splashing down onto the snow. 

“You good?” Steve turned to watch her as she folded and unfolded her palm. He reached a hand out to help her up, his eyes focusing on the blood drip, drip, dripping.

She wiped the wound on her trousers, and took his offered hand with her opposite one. “I’m good.” She seemed agitated, nervous. “Do you feel like something’s not right?”

When she said it out loud, just for a second, his heart rate raised. He had convinced himself through his inner dialogue that he was just being overly cautious, but as she said it, he realised that she was right. If there was one thing Steve had learned, a true philosophy of his, it was that one Avenger’s intuition can be wrong. But two Avenger’s instincts are always correct. The unique blend of pattern recognition and situational awareness made the Avengers the closest thing on earth to fortune tellers. Or, so he believed.

“I agree. Let’s hunker down for a minute.” They settled in some of the brush, making themselves as invisible as possible. She was thankful to have a rest, she couldn’t lie. The tossing and turning all night, and every night for weeks, had truly taken its toll.

“Do you think it's bad intel, or a set-up?” She asked, her heart beginning to race at the sight of Steve becoming more and more stressed. She realised that the forest was absolutely silent. No wind, no birds, nothing. She hated it.

He took a second to respond, “I’m not sure. I don’t think we should keep going.”

“What? Then we’ve come all this way for nothing?” 

“I would rather us have come for nothing than die for nothing.” He spoke, trying desperately to manage his tone. How did this girl have such a way of getting under his skin?

She scowled. “Aye, aye, Captain.” A sarcastic salute followed.

With a futile deep breath, he snapped. He rolled his head in disbelief, incredulous that she would choose now to be obstinate. “Are you serious, (y/l/n)? You want to walk straight into something we have no idea about?” He gesticulated, hands flying wildly through the air. 

Both of them were too annoyed to realise that they were on a recon mission while quite loudly arguing in a forest. The Captain, blood boiling, didn’t hear the snap of a distant twig.

“I didn’t even say anything, Rogers! Don’t pretend like you care about my opinion anyway.” She scoffed. “Let’s just fucking go back.” She grabbed her pack, hauling it onto her back, standing from their spot in the brush.

“Shit!” She exclaimed as a bullet past her ear by less than an inch, the sound startling her down. The Captain instantaneously jumped over her, pulling her into him and covering them both with the shield. 

For the record, he smelt like cedarwood and rosemary.

“Came from the East.” He smouldered into the distance. If she hadn’t been so focused, she would have scoffed. He turned to her, his mouth mere centimetres from her ear, his warm whispers tickling her neck. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, no. Aside from the goosebumps, she had luckily been missed. The eye contact he made had something behind it… something she didn’t recognise. Something she had never noticed before.

The moment was shattered by more gunfire.

So, they did the avenging thing. He covered her, she shot as much as she could. Bullets sprayed in every direction, missing them both by the narrowest margins possible. They battled on and on, seemingly endless waves of agents appearing as soon as they thought they were almost through with it.

That’s when she saw it. The bullet heading straight for him. 

“Steve!” She screamed. She didn’t know why she called him by his first name. They weren’t friends. Hell, soon, they wouldn’t even be colleagues. 

He snapped to attention, spinning quickly to ricochet the bullet off of his shield. The bullet was so close to hitting him, he realised she had potentially just saved him from dying in the snow, 5,000 miles from home.

He looked to her to thank her and it all happened in slow motion. She screamed, a shrill, ear-splitting scream that turned his stomach. “No!” He shouted, still fighting through the hordes, sprinting to where the snow turned maroon.

His thrown shield thudded through the undergrowth, distant shouts of soldiers nearly split in half by the metallic disc. He grabbed the gun that had fallen from her hands, unleashing the last of its bullets on those who still dared to try him.

And the forest fell silent.

“(Y/n)!” He looked at her, her usually rosy face growing greater pallor by the second, her chest moving ever-so-slightly, and with growing effort. The black stain on her suit grew larger, and larger, and larger. Any and all medical training he had escaped him, as he realised that now, this moment, was where his regrets were fated to culminate. This was his punishment, his comeuppance.

He didn’t hate her. As he watched this hollow form of her, he realised he would give his own life to bring her back. He would bargain with anything and everything he could for this to be a nightmare that he would wake up from. He would fight with everything he had left to give to her.

Grabbing his pack from behind him, he tipped out its entire contents. 

God, what had he learned on those courses? What was going to kill her first?

“(Y/n), if you can hear me, this is going to hurt. I don’t… I don’t have anything to stop the pain. You’re bleeding out.” He spoke into the void, using scissors to remove her outer layer, exposing the wound. He noticed the blood slowly trickle from her mouth and nose, only worsening his anxiety.

It was worse than he thought, in fact, too deep for him to even suture… He used an antiseptic wipe to clean the area, before packing it with cotton swabs. He swore to himself. They had left the quinjet so far away, and he didn’t know if she would make it all the way back to the compound. 

He had to get her out of here. It was cold, and wet, and there could be even more enemy agents on their way there, right now.

“God, you’re going to have to hold on for just a little while longer, (y/l/n).” He whispered to her, picking her up bridal-style and running for the jet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The other avengers weren’t expecting them to be back for a couple of days, so when Sam ran into the room with news that the quinjet was on the way back, they were pleasantly surprised. Each had finished their missions or meetings early it seemed. Which meant that just maybe they would be able to have some time as a team. Something they were in dire need of.

Tony smiled at his friends, but for a change wasn’t chatting. He sipped his coffee, and smoothed his hand over the handwritten note in his pocket. The note that he thought would never come.

Steve's voice over the intercom. “Mayday, mayday. Eagle to Alpha Base Control, we have a critical medical incident on board. Ready the medbay for severe blood loss and potential hypothermia. Wunderkind is compromised. Wheels down in 10.”

A panicked hush fell over the group.

“Okay, code red.” Sam jumped into the procedures they had all been trained on. “Bruce and I will go down to the hangar and help out. The rest of you stay here and we’ll keep you updated.” The four named avengers immediately ran to their stations, as the others tried to busy themselves doing other tasks that could be useful. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The quinjet came into land at a near-dangerous speed. Bruce and Sam burst open the door as the back door of the jet opened and Cap ran out with a limp (y/n) in his arms, jumping over the ramp before it had even reached the ground.

“What happened?” Sam shouted, running in front of the Captain up the stairs to the nearest Medbay, making sure the way was clear. FRIDAY has thankfully opened all doors in advance.  

“Gunshot wound to the chest, severe haemorrhage. I’ve managed to pack it but not stalled the bleeding nearly enough, she needs help now.”

“Have you got vitals?” Bruce ran along, slightly behind them, not quite as fit. 

“She’s still breathing on her own, weakly. Low pulse. Unconscious since the event.” 

As they reached the medical room and Steve laid her down on the surgical table, it hit all of them how severe the situation was.

“Oh my god.” Whispered Sam, as he saw not only the extent of her wounds, but the volume of blood that covered every inch of the Captain. The colour of skin on his hands could not be seen from the crimson staining covering every inch of them, and his once-blue suit looked more like an inky black, even under the fluorescent lighting of the medical ward. 

More than that, the expression on Steve’s face was something he could only recall seeing on him once. When they discovered that Bucky was alive. He was shell-shocked.

“You guys need to clear the room.” Commanded Dr. Cho, scrubbed in and ready to operate. “We’ll keep you updated.”

“We trust you, Doctor.” Bruce spoke, as he realised the others weren’t going to. Both men grabbed Steve’s shoulder, gently directing him back through the double doors. Steve couldn’t tear his eyes away, as Dr. Cho made demands to the other members of her team, beginning surgery immediately.

“Come on, bud. Let’s get you cleaned up.” Sam was trying not to treat him like a ticking time bomb. But he knew that the Captain was going to snap out of his stupor eventually, and the consequences could be disastrous.

Steve’s eyes didn’t move from her lifeless body on that cold, steel table until they were well past the doors. When Sam tried to lead him out of the medical wing in general, his feet stopped just short of the door.

“I can’t, I - I have to wait.” He turned back around. He looked to Sam, almost asking permission. “I can’t leave her.”

It wasn’t lost on Sam that Steve had to have been keeping her alive by himself for at least six hours, over the Atlantic. That’s not only an impressive feat, but a damn near miracle. It was beyond dedication, it was lunacy. And something like that will make a pretty strong bond between people.

There was something deeper at play here. And as the pieces started to click into place, he wondered how he had never seen it before. The reason Cap was so hard on (y/n), and had been since the beginning.

“Okay, okay.” He guided him to a seat, as an unspoken compromise. “Bruce, could you grab a wet towel?” He spoke softly.

Banner nodded, and wandered off to find ways to help Steve be a little more comfortable. When Bruce returned, Sam gently took his bloody friend’s hands and wiped away the crusted blood that stained them.

Cap watched the red as it left his hands. He couldn’t help the sinking feeling that with every smear of dark brown on the towel, she was slipping away. 

Sam’s adrenaline could only abide the silence for so long. “Cap, you gotta talk to me. Are you hurt?”

“She saved me, that’s how she got shot.” He didn’t make eye contact, instead staring towards the doors, behind which she lay on death’s door.

“It’s not your fault.” Steve didn’t have to say anything for Sam to know that’s what’s running through his mind. A hazard of being an Avenger – the unending and relentless guilt.

“It is my fault. She was watching my back, but I wasn’t watching hers. And I had the damn audacity to call her a liability.” He scoffed, bitterly. 

“It’s nobody’s fault, Steve. These things happen, it’s part of the job. She’s going to pull through.” Sam hadn’t even considered the fact that the last proper interaction they had had, was rather… vitriolic in nature. He didn’t dare ask if anything else had happened on the mission. Not for now, at least.

Steve felt like he was being crushed by his own ribs, like his own body was depriving him of oxygen he didn’t deserve. He didn’t dare move, didn’t dare think, except to chastise and punish himself for what he had done.

And not once did he take his eyes off those doors.

================================================

part two: promises we intend to keep

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[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Anti-Villain

An anti-villain - (unlike their evil counterparts) are not complete monsters.

This makes them particularly hard to hate, despite all their terrible deeds.

In the character’s minds, they have justifiable, noble goals—how they go about achieving those goals is what eventually becomes a problem for the hero.

Their means don’t justify their desired ends.

Every villain has their own morality.

A key principle to remember is that making a decision between good and evil is never really a choice: All humans will choose good as they see it.

Your villain chooses their own good, which to readers, and the hero, appears evil in opposition.

This creates a moral dilemma at the heart of the novel’s conflict.

Types of Anti-Villains

Villainy comes in shades of gray.

One that starts out good. This anti-villain is a good person who has been pushed to the brink of their personal limits.

The one you feel for. A sympathetic anti-villain may do bad things, but they are ultimately a product of their circumstances or environment. They may have had a terrible upbringing, where people acted evil towards them as children making them evil as adults. They deserve to seek different circumstances, and were their means not so terrible, you might root for them.

The one who means well. When good intentions go crooked, and heroic qualities like tenacity and cleverness are aimed at the wrong target, you get your “well-meaning” anti-villain, who often takes things a step too far in pursuit of a noble goal. These anti-villains typically have a plan to save the world, with many, many casualties along the way in the name of the “greater good.” Think of Marvel’s “Mad Titan” Thanos and his plan to clear half the universe in order for the remaining half to thrive.

The one in the wrong place at the wrong time. This designated “villain” in name only typically falls into this category as a result of the existence of the hero. Their acts might be totally justified—vengeance for a loved one, or carrying out the corruption required of them by their job—but the protagonist doesn’t give them a free pass.

Examples of Anti-Villains

Sometimes, the only difference between the “bad guys” and the “good guys” is a point of view.

Carrie from Stephen King’s book Carrie is a sympathetic anti-villain. As a teenager in a small town, she is an outcast because of her beliefs and the way she dresses. Bullies at school make fun of her incessantly, building to the point where she turns her rage into telekinesis (mind power) to kill everyone in her school, then goes on a killing rampage through the town.

While The Joker in Batman is fairly straightforward in his villainy, it’s his tragic backstories—at different points, either driven insane by grief after the death of his wife, or disfigured after a fall into a vat of poisonous chemicals—that makes him compelling to watch. The audience suspects that if they were pushed to the edge of their sanity, they might act in the same way—and that’s all it takes to create an anti-villain worth of the caped crusader.

Anti-Villain vs. Anti-Hero

While an anti-villain might be a villain with some redeeming features, an anti-hero is a heroic character without the conventional charms.

They might do the right thing, but mostly out of self-interest.

They are often portrayed as a principled, but somewhat isolated figure, and their heroism is usually a product of their surroundings and circumstances.

In some narratives, the anti-hero may be subject to a shift of perspective—like the twist in Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl that reveals the truth about Amy Dunne’s actions—that paints them as an antagonist.

Other examples of an anti-hero include:

Tom Ripley of The Talented Mr. Ripley (1955) by Patricia Highsmith

Huckleberry Finn in The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1885) by Mark Twain

Tony Soprano of The Sopranos (1999)

Walter White of Breaking Bad (2008)

Lisbeth Salander in The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo (2008) by Stieg Larsson

Source ⚜ More: References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[hurtspideyparker]

Emotional Support Intern Peter Parker

Tony and Peter finally arrive in the large room, polished leather Oxfords and stained-lace Converse making their way through the crowd of professionals. Tony has a hand on Peter's back guiding him, because no matter how many meetings, conferences, and office buildings they traverse together, Peter always manages to get lost the second Tony lets go. 

Thankfully Pepper is easy to spot, shaking hands with some blah blah from wee woo Industries. Her hair is the only splash of colour in the constant white black grey of everyone's pencil skirts and collared shirts. 

"Hi Ms. Potts!" Peter greets as soon as the woman turns and spots them. 

"Hi Peter—Tony. I told you to stop bringing the kid to these things. No offense Peter."

"None taken! You look lovely, did you get your hair done?"

Pepper's hair cascades over her shoulder in perfect curls, splayed out over her white button-up. 

"Yes actually, a trim and some highlights. I think she went shorter than I asked though, because I always get half an inch, and this does not look like half an inch."

Peter steps a bit closer and squints at the piece of copper hair she's holding out. 

"I think it's just because she curled it. You usually get it blow dried after."

"Hm. I think you're right actually."

Tony rolls his eyes, "I'm so glad you guys are having such a great slumber party. C'mon kid I have to avoid that senator and he's starting to glance this way." He tries to head over to some tall plants that happen to be great blind spots. 

"Ah ah ah Tony! We are talking about this. I told you to stop dragging Peter to all of your work responsibilities. I'm sure he's bored to death with these meetings and work events."

"Pep, he's an intern, he's supposed to be bored and taken advantage of. Besides, if you take away my emotional support intern then I simply wouldn't show up! So."

"You aren't even paying him for his time!" Pepper says at the same time Peter mumbles "emotional support intern?"

"Um excuse me, that 3 million dollar suit he stuffs between his math homework and Go-Gurt begs to differ. And anyways, I pay him with experience. I brought him to that seminar in LA on Saturday, and he's following me to Tokyo for that week long conference in July. I highly doubt he's complaining," he squeezes the boy's shoulders, Peter looking up and beaming at him and Pepper. 

"I'm really fine with it Ms. Potts. Besides, the more of these things I go to the more lab time I get!" Peter pipes in.

Pepper glares at Tony. "Really, bribery?" 

"Okay well, if us grown adults don't want to be here how else am I supposed to get a 15 year old to talk about environmental reform to people who don't even believe in climate change." 

Pepper and Tony hold each other's stares.

"You mean he spoke to Mr. Ellis about the generator you designed for his carbon plant, and it didn't end with him calling us a pansy corporation and you calling him a decrepit geezer who's business is the only thing that's going to die quicker than he is?"

There's barely stiffled hope supressed under Pepper's professionalism. 

Tony smirks. "Yep, I think Mr. Ellis even smiled. The kid's got charm! Who knew."

Pepper glances at Peter in consideration. 

"Peter have you ever considered pursuing anything further in business? Engineering is great, but if you really want to be successful it's incredibly important to build interpersonal skills, leadership, and even current market and finance knowledge. I mean you might want to sell your designs one day, or start a company." 

"Oh, I haven't really-"

"You could shadow me! I mean interning with a CEO is a once in a lifetime opportunity, it would give you a glowing resume, and I know a lot more about this stuff than Tony. He didn't even perform his executive duties when he actually was the CEO."

Pepper has that gleam in her eyes, the one she gets when men call her sweetheart, or when Tony isn't even dressed for their reservation that started ten minutes ago. 

It means she's already had the argument in her head. 

Peter is still stuttering, flustered with this side of Pepper. Her business face isn't usually directed at him, and it's a far cry from the woman who sends him home with leftovers from dinner. 

"Wait wait wait, are you trying to steal my intern?" Tony asks incredulously. 

"If anyone even needs an intern Tony it would be me. I have to babysit you and the company, meanwhile you just need him to hand you wrenches. Competent help is hard to find these days and you're wasting his talents." 

"Um, excuse me, he's the only thing keeping me together. You already have your fancy day planner and Excel spreadsheets, I need him to get me out of the house. He's the only thing keeping me a responsible adult, if you take away my emotional support intern then I will not attend a single meeting for the rest of the quarter." 

"You are such a man child!"

"La la la la can't hear youuu," Tony says with his fingers in his ears.

"Um, guys, I think people are staring."

Peter tugs on the corner of Tony's sleeve to get him to unplug his ears, glancing nervously at the groups of people sending them judgemental stares. The three of them give a wave and pleasant smile, most of the crowd continuing to move along on the grey carpet at the sight of their unsettling synchronicity and false turn of the lips. 

Pepper speaks through her teeth, a grin still presented at passers-by. "Fine, you can keep him, but only because he's doing half my job for me. The only person you can emotionally regulate around and it's a teenager. I'm glad you finally found someone who can keep you entertained." 

"Love you too honey," Tony says while putting a hand on the small of her back and kissing her cheek. He sighs, looking around the room at all the government officials who think these tech companies are spying on them. 

Apparently a surveillance state is only cool when they do it to manipulate their incarceration numbers, rig elections and lobby votes, and not for data mining and targeted ads. 

"I say we hit the cheese and crackers, take an awkward amount of sips from those tiny water bottles, and then speak to some old ladies till we have to do our presentation."

"Sounds great Mr. Stark. Will you make sure they don't grab my face again? I smelled like old lady perfume at school and Flash started making fun of me for stealing people's grandmas."

Tony looks into Peter's eyes questioningly and finds nothing but sincerity and resignation in them. 

"Well. Not my fault your cheeks are so gosh darn cute. But I'll do my best," he wraps an arm around the shorter and starts heading through the room again. 

The weight is comforting. Peter used to get anxious at these events, but Tony never leaves his side and is always looking at him like he's the Michaelangelo in the center of every room. He became accustomed to being Mr. Stark's favourite part of the event. While that may not seem difficult, especially considering the droning lectures and snooty company, it always feels special making jokes about people's ridiculous work jargon, and comparing the staleness of crackers at conferences. 

"Emotional support intern huh?" he says smugly. 

Tony glances at him, but instead of scoffing or denying anything, he just speaks with honesty. "You and Pepper are the best, most important things to this company. And to me. I'm really glad you're here kid."

Peter doesn't know what to say. The words stick in his throat while Tony hands him a water bottle with the lid already cracked. 

Peter has super strength; It's completely unnecessary to open his bottle for him. He doesn't point this out. Tony will do it at the next meeting, just like he did at the last one, and Peter will never mention it.

[emeraldserenade]

Rebuilding ~ Joaquín Torres

synopsis: Sam get's a package that leads both him and Joaquín to a building with a lot of history.

tw: fem!reader, stark!reader, cabnw spoilers, limited use of y/n, cursing, barely edited.

fic, ficlet, drabble, request

➽──────────────❥

Sam was rebuilding the Avengers, the news spread quickly. It somehow made it to you last, you weren't even mad. You were happy that they were being rebuilt, you had to make a decision about what to do with the compound anyway.

Sam was at home, Joaquín staying with him for a bit after getting out of the hospital, when his doorbell rang.

"Sam Wilson?" The man in a suit asked Sam at the door, he was holding a beautifully wrapped package.

"That's me," Sam affirmed. Joaquín was behind him, curious about what was happening.

"This is a gift from y/n Stark," the man handed Sam the package before turning around and leaving.

"What is it?" Joaquín asked and Sam gave him a look.

"I don't know yet, man," Sam replied, heading to his table to open it. Sam opened it inside was two key rings, covered in keys and two keycards. In a smaller box, one just as prettily wrapped as the larger one, sat a Stark Industry audio recorder.

"Hey, Sam. I haven't seen you since my dad's funeral, I'm glad to hear that you've gotten your bearings on being Captain America. Steve would be proud of you. Anyway, I heard that you're rebuilding the Avengers and thought the first two members of the new Avengers should have the first set of keys to the compound. When you have time, come up to the compound. I think you'll like what I've done, and Joaquín Torres, I hope you didn't get too messed up at Celestial Island," your message ended and Sam smiled at your words.

"You feeling up for a roadtrip?" Sam looked over at Joaquín, handing the aforementioned man the extra set of keys and the keycard with his name on it.

"Let's go," Joaquín walked away to grab his things, Sam doing the same.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

You were driving up in one of your dad's old Audis, Sam and Joaquín had shown up only a few moments ago. Still getting their things out of the car.

"Sam Wilson and Joaquín Torres," your voice floated through the air, causing them both to look over at you. "It's nice to formally meet you, Joaquín," you smiled at them as you shook their hands. "Come inside," you locked your car before heading inside.

Sam and Joaquín walked behind you, both shocked when the door swung open for you.

"Why is there keys if the door just opens?" Sam asked, genuine curiosity lacing his voice.

"Because the door won't just open for anyone that isn't wearing EDITH glasses," you spun on your heel to face the two, the EDITH glasses perched on your head now. "As I said in the recording, I think you'll like the renovations I've made," you explained, turning back around and walking again. "You two can look around, I have a meeting I have to call into. If either of you need me, I'll be in one of the old meeting rooms," you told them. Leaving them both to have wander around.

"Do you know if she's single?" Joaquín tried to seem casual but the laugh that erupted from Sam told Joaquín that he didn't sound as causal as he wanted.

"I don't know, I haven't had contact with her up until the package showed up at my door," Sam told Joaquín. "You could ask her, she won't be offended," Sam told Joaquín, knowing even if you weren't, you'd be flattered.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

"Hey boys," you made them both jump as they were in the newly renovated gym. "Liking the new gym?" You pushed the tinted glasses to perch on your head.

"It's all glass, it makes for good lighting," Sam shrugged and you raised your eyebrow.

"EDITH, enter flight mode," you called out.

"Yes, Miss," EDITH affirmed and you pointed to the roof. The two boys looked up and gasped as the roof started to open.

"You think this would be a normal glass gym? I may not be Tony Stark but I do have all his old designs and the smarts to go with it," you told him, laughing as Joaquín looked back at you with pure amusement. "The walls slide open in specific spots too, it's so the outside property can be used too," you gave them both a smile.

"How long do you want us to stay?" Sam questioned and you scrunched your eyebrows at him.

"How long do you want to stay?" You questioned.

"I," Sam cut himself off and you just spun to walk away.

"You two can stay as long or as little as you'd like," you told them both. You were turning out of the room when Joaquín ended up next to you.

"I asked Sam but he told me to just ask, so," Joaquín cut himself off when you stopped walking to give him your full attention. "Are you single?"

"I am," you affirmed, a raised eyebrow and amused smirk on your face.

"Would you like to go out with me?"

"I would love to, but first, you need to heal a bit more," you gave him a smile, knowing that he's supposed to take frequent breaks.

"Sounds like a plan," his smile lit up his face and your heart fluttered.

✧°˖ . ݁˖︵‿❀‿︵˖ . ݁˖°✧

"Angel, EDITH told me you were still in here," Joaquín walked into the workshop, you were tinkering with something for Sam.

"Hey, baby," you looked up at him with a smile, you two had been dating since your first date and now it's been months.

"Have you checked the time?"

"Uh, no?" You looked over at the clock and gasped. "Fuck," you sighed, rubbing your forehead. "I'm sorry, love. I lost track of time," you placed the things in your hands down.

"It's fine, I was warned about the Stark habit of getting too into building," Joaquín walked over to you and wrapped his arms around your waist. "Sam has the popcorn popping and the movie is already up and ready to play in the movie room," Joaquín moved to stand next to you, one of his arms still securely around your waist. He guided you out of the shop with the arm around you.

"Has Sam gotten calls back about who he wants to be on the team?" You questioned, knowing that Sam had been trying to get some calls back.

"Not yet," Joaquín told you and you nodded.

"He managed to get you out," Pepper's voice made you slightly jump as you two entered the movie room. Sam laughed at your scared face and the way you moved closer to Joaquín.

"Pepper? What are you doing here?"

"I got a call from Happy, he said you haven't been in the office for months now. I came to see why but I understand it now," Pepper looked between you and Joaquín with a smile. "Your dad did the same thing, just don't try and make Joaquín CEO like he tried to make me," Pepper smiled and you gave her a slightly guilty one. "I've got to go, but at least make a point to show at the office once a month," Pepper pointed at you and you nodded at her. She left the room, and presumably the building.

"I'll forget and she'll be back before she just resigns to just coming to get me once a month to go to the office," you stated like fact before you and Joaquín went to sit down, Sam following suit.

➽──────────────❥

Masterlist | Requests

[hapuchika]

Whispers of the Dead

Summary: Wanda expected the new recruit with death powers to be cold and distant. She didn’t expect her to be warm, awkward, and wearing a Scarlet Witch hoodie.

Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Death, Dead souls, some creepy (maybe scary) scenes?

Main Masterlist

X--X--X--X--X

Thud thud thud

The sound of her boots against the treadmill was almost like meditation to Wanda at this point. The witch barely registered the music playing through the speakers of the gym. She was far too engrossed in her run to notice Tony and Natasha entering.. or that they were calling out to her.

The abrupt silence shunted Wanda’s consciousness back into her body, causing her to stumble a little. She suppressed her annoyance as she hopped off and walked towards the pair.

Tony was holding a device that looked suspiciously like a cochlear implant while Natasha held a water bottle for Wanda.

Wanda grabbed the bottle, giving Natasha a brief smile of gratitude, and turned to the billionaire.

“This is for you, witchy”, Tony said, giving the device to Wanda.

Wanda merely raised an eyebrow as she took the device.

“It’s to help you shut down your unwanted telepathic side. The newbie is coming today, and apparently, telepaths don’t react well to her presence.” Natasha explained.

Wanda frowned but allowed Natasha to stick part of the device near the nape of her neck and place the rest above her ear.

The Witch had briefly heard about a new member joining the Avengers, but only briefly. As far as she knew, the new girl’s powers had something to do with death.

She walked to the shower, her head filled with thoughts about this new member.

X—X—X—X—X

Whatever Wanda was expecting, you certainly weren’t it. She may have thought that the new member, you, might have been more emo with all black clothing, black chipped nails, and perhaps an air of doom and gloom with a constant brooding expression.

What she was confronted with, instead, was you, grinning and joking with Steve while wearing, possibly, every kind of Avenger merch possible. To Wanda’s surprise, the largest piece of merch was the red hoodie, which had her wimple and design on it.

As though you had heard her, your gaze left Steve and searched the area until they landed on Wanda. Your eyes widened for a second before a wide grin took over, and you ran to the witch.

“Oh my god, it’s really you. Hi. Hello. Fuck wait no. Hi, oh my god. Hello, Ms Maximoff. Or um. Ms Wanda? Um, Mrs. Wanda? Fuck no wait I wasn’t supposed t-“

“Breathe, kid”, Nat cuts in, placing a hand on your shoulder.

You snap your mouth shut before taking a deep breath and looking back at Wanda. Your eyes seem a lot more settled now.

“Hi, I’m Hades.” You say, raising your hand.

Wanda shakes your hand and introduces herself.

She sits down on the sofa adjacent to yours as some of the members leave, while others sit to get to know you better.

“So.. Hades, huh? Like the god of the underworld?” Tony asks.

A shadow crosses your face, but before anyone can notice, it’s gone.

You nod, “I don’t really remember the name I was given. It’s been a while since I heard it. So I just go by Hades now. Makes sense, you know? With the scope of my powers.”

“How old are you, if I may?” Natasha asks smoothly, an iced cup of coffee in her hand.

You think for a second, the expression you made almost made it seem like you were listening to someone right beside you. 

“24.” You say confidently.

Wanda’s eyes shoot up, “Same age as me”, she notes.

“So what can you do?” Steve asks a little while into the conversation.

You think for a moment before you answer.

“I heal really quickly. Like really quickly. I can sometimes use the souls of the recently dead to do what I say.”

Wanda frowns. That didn’t make sense.

“Why did you ask Tony to make it so I can’t accidentally hear your thoughts?” She asked.

You froze, your eyes locked onto Wanda’s. Everyone noticed the drop in temperature in the room as you stared at Wanda.

“I don’t want you to hear them.” You whispered.

Wanda’s breath hitched. “Hear wha-“

A loud crash at the kitchen island brought everyone’s attention there, including Wanda’s. It seemed that the coffee pot had fallen to the ground, shattering on impact.

“Oh, I’ll get that.” You say as you get up and begin to pick up the pieces.

Nobody really moved, to be fair, nobody knew how to react to that. Once the pieces were picked up and cleaned, you sat back down and looked at everyone with the same grin you had entered with.

“So when do I get to go on my first mission?” You ask the group excitedly.

Natasha chuckled, “You gotta train before you’re mission ready, kid.”

You pouted but didn’t object.

The rest of the time was spent with the team getting to know you by asking you light-hearted questions. It seems nobody really wanted to address what happened earlier.

Wanda, on the other hand, could not get that interaction out of her head. There was something eerie about the way you looked at her. Not necessarily dangerous, but Wanda got the feeling that there was more to what you were showing.

Unable to get the feeling off her mind, she quickly excused herself and headed to bed. Unaware of the pair of eyes that followed her out of the room.

X—X—X—X—X

Thud thud thud thud

Wanda once again found herself jogging on the treadmill, her workout nearly complete. She glanced at herself in the mirror and felt the slight warmth of pride in her chest. She had been working out religiously for a couple of years now, and the fruits of her labour were finally showing. Her muscles were visible through her compression tee and leggings.

She removed her tee as she went to finish off her workout with a few light stretches. Just as she had begun, the door was swung open.

You, Natasha, and Steve entered the gym. Wanda held back a snort as she took in your outfit. You were once again wearing a Scarlet Witch oversized tee, black widow leggings, and some bright purple shoes.

You hopped around and explored the gym while Nat and Steve started running on the treadmills.

You grinned when you made eye contact with Wanda, gesturing, “Can I come over?” When Wanda nodded, you practically skipped to her and began copying her.

To Wanda’s surprise, you were able to keep up with the intensity of her stretches. You grinned and tried to make conversation, but were only met with short replies.

When Wanda was done, you waved goodbye and walked to where Natasha was standing on the mats. Wanda sat there looking at you as you and Nat discussed something. 

She watched the two of you take your places on the mat, getting ready for a sparring session. The witch’s jaw practically dropped when the fight began.

You were no novice, that was for sure. From Wanda’s years of experience sparring with Natasha, she could tell even Natasha was hard pressed with the fight. It wasn’t that you were particularly strong or fast. You merely adapted faster than Natasha could keep up with. Your style of fighting kept changing. It seemed as though you had years of experience fighting; each kick and block seemed practised, not a single ounce of energy was wasted. You fought efficiently.

Even Steve had stopped his run to witness the match. The flexibility that you had shown Wanda was definitely being used; you would evade Natasha’s grapple attempts and kicks with moves that would hurt even the most flexible of people.

Wanda hadn’t even noticed that 10 minutes had already passed when the bell rang for the timer. Natasha was impressed, red in the face, while you grinned at her, a slight sweat coating your face.

“Nice moves, kid.” Nat complemented, “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

You shrugged noncommittally, “Here and there.”

Nat nodded in understanding and decided to proceed with her workout.

You smiled at Wanda when she approached you. You grabbed a bottle and walked with her to the exit.

“You’re not going to work out more?” Wanda asked.

You shook your head, “I already worked out earlier in the morning. They just wanted to test my combat skills.”

Wanda nodded.

“So what do you like doing in your free time when you’re not being completely awesome saving the world?” You ask.

Wanda huffs in amusement, “I like to cook, read, and watch TV. The usual. I really like learning, too.”

Wanda wanted to be unnerved by the look you were giving her, but she couldn’t help but find it adorable. You were listening so intently, your eyes were practically sparkling.

“I see that you’re a fan,” Wanda noted, nodding to your attire.

You gave her a sheepish grin, “Yeah… I- you- um.. You’re my favourite.”

Wanda raised an eyebrow.

“And Natasha, of course.” You added.

Wanda felt herself smiling.

“Of course.” She confirmed.

“Woah. He was definitely wrong. Your smile is way cuter.” Wanda heard you mutter under your breath.

Blushing, she glanced back at you, “Who was wrong?”

Your face dropped as you panicked, “Um—Tony. He had said that his smile was cuter than yours.”

Wanda scoffed as she entered the elevator. While she wasn’t sure you were telling the truth, it did seem like something Tony would say.

“I’d love to watch TV with you.. If that’s something you’d be open to.” You said, with a slight nervous edge.

Wanda looked at you for a moment, the barest hint of a smirk on her face.

“We have movie night tonight, anyway. We could start with that.”

You looked at her hopefully and grinned.

X—X—X—X—X

2:44 AM

Wanda sighed as she saw the clock. There was no way she was going to bed right now. 

As was her ritual, she wore her robe and made her way to the kitchen on her floor. She was glad that there were only three people per floor. This one happened to be just her, Natasha, and you.

With tea in her hand, she made her way back to her room before she heard your voice.

“No, Hank, I won’t be adding an inscription you utter simp.”

“Jean, sweetie, it’s a little too early in the morning for that.”

Wanda frowned. It had been a few weeks since movie night, and the two of you had become pretty good friends. Yet, you hadn’t once mentioned friends outside of the compound. In fact, if Wanda were to think of it, she didn’t really know much about your past at all.

Wanda practically had her ear to the door as she strained to listen to your voice even more.

“I really hope she likes it. Thanks- wait, what?”

Wanda frowns. You seem to have gone silent. She was given no alert before your door opened. She hadn’t realised how much she was leaning on the door until it opened. Wanda fell right on top of you, who let out a surprised ‘Oof’ as you both hit the ground.

Wanda looked at you, completely mortified. Not only was she spying on you, but you knew it.

“Fuck, I- I’m so s-“

“Are you okay?”

Wanda looked at you, surprised; you didn’t seem the slightest bit upset or disappointed. You gave her a look of pure concern.

Wanda nodded, noticing the major dark circles under your eyes. You looked down briefly and then rested your head on the floor, staring at the ceiling.

It was Wanda’s turn to be concerned. You suddenly avoided all eye contact with her, and your body was completely rigid underneath her.

Oh.

Right.

You were underneath her, and she hadn’t moved. One quick look down confirmed her suspicions; she was wearing a robe that was not covering a lot in this position.

With a bright red face, Wanda stood up and adjusted her robe while you lay on the ground, staring at the ceiling.

Wanda was unsure why her heart was beating so fast. She’s been naked in front of Natasha before, even in one-night stands. But she’s never felt like this.

You stand up, your eyes everywhere except on the witch. An act she did not like one bit. She had gotten far too used to having almost all (if not all) of your attention whenever she was around, even when the entire group was present, she could always feel you next to her or your gaze on her.

“Hades, can you look at me, please?” Wanda asked.

The tone of Wanda’s voice made it clear she wasn’t upset. You look into her eyes, and Wanda is, once again, hit by the sheer intensity and depth in them.

The two of you look at each other, the atmosphere overwhelming in the best possible way.

Suddenly, as though you’ve been caught, you startle into motion.

“Please come in.” You say, gesturing for her to enter further into your room.

Wanda gives you a slight smile and enters further. She allows herself to look around her room and is pleasantly surprised by how cosy it is. Given your personality, she had expected the room to be covered in Avengers’ merchandise or really bright and loud colours.

Instead, she was faced with gorgeous art on the walls, filled with warm tones. The couch, cushions, and bedsheets had a stunning emerald colour that complemented the more red paint on the walls.

Wanda walked to one of the walls, her breath caught in her throat as she saw what it was—a gorgeous sunset overlooking a city- not just any city… her city.

“That is…” Wanda started.

“Novi Grad.” You said softly, having made your way beside her.

Wanda could practically feel the warmth of the sunset. Her eyes glistened, memories of a childhood she never considered the best. But right in that moment, it was everything. She could see the little stalls of the market; she could even see the building she was in. The painting filled her with more than just nostalgia.

The view, the angle.. It was somehow exactly where she and Pietro used to go when things got bad. They had spent many sunsets looking at their city. Hopes and promises to make it better.

When the memories threatened to overwhelm her, she reached for your hand. Finding it immediately, as though it was simply waiting for her to reach out.

It was exactly the grounding she needed. Your touch allowed her to enjoy the good without the threat of the bad.

She turned to you, and whatever tears she had held back threatened to burst forth again. The look you gave her was so soft, so comforting, so understanding.

It was as though you knew exactly how she felt. It held a promise. One to keep her safe. Happy.

She knew then you weren’t just a friend. She knew you were more. Even if she wasn’t ready for it, she wanted to be there with you. She wanted to know how one person could hold so much comfort, how one person could make her feel so much without overwhelming her in the slightest.

“I.. how..” She started, unable to voice herself.

You squeeze her hand gently, smiling and looking back at the painting.

“A… close friend of mine lived there. He spoke about the place he grew up in. So much so that I wanted to give him a taste of home, he helped me paint this, giving me the exact instructions and details needed to make it. His home meant a lot to him.”

Wanda looked back at the painting, understanding the emotions your friend wanted from it. It was very similar to how she wished to remember her country.

You look back at her with a soft smile.

“Can I interest you in some tea? Now that yours is all over my carpet?” You ask.

Wanda looks at you with a slight, shy look and nods, continuing to admire the painting.

Understanding that she needed some time with it alone, you went to the mini kitchen in the main hall of your room.

Meanwhile, Wanda admired every little detail about her city. She smiled at the one little shop that would give her and Pietro snacks for free. Or rather, the woman would overlook Pietro’s quick hands as he stole a few snacks.

Wanda looked everywhere except the building where she was raised. Unlike the rest of the timeline, it was before the bombing. She couldn’t do that to herself; it would have hurt too much for it to look like every other building.

She slowly walked away from the wall, unaware that the very place she avoided looking at had two children, a little brunette and a silver-haired boy, smiling and watching TV.

X—X—X—X—X

Wanda was nervous. She was nervous for you. You were way too casual for the fact that it was your first mission.

It was a simple op. A rescue mission and intel gathering. 

Last night changed the dynamic between the two of you. She found herself smiling more at your jokes. The really bad ones earned you a slight chuckle.

You were your usual jovial self. Commenting on Steve’s outfit and how it highlighted his butt a little too much.

You looked at Tony and giggled, a sound Wanda instantly wanted to hear more of.

“Hey Tony, I have a question.” You called out.

Tony looked at you and sighed, mentally preparing for whatever you were going to say. Nobody could tell with you, it would range from intellectual to absurdly inappropriate.

You looked at him and down. “Is there space in your Iron Man suit for when you get a boner?” You ask seriously.

Natasha, who was drinking the blasphemous dark red Gatorade, spat it out on you.

Even Wanda couldn’t help but snort out loud at that.

You looked at Natasha, Gatorade dripping down your black widow sweatshirt (something Wanda didn’t appreciate in the slightest).

Wanda used her magic to get the Gatorade off you. She felt a grateful squeeze on her thigh, an action that made her tummy flutter.

Soon, everyone landed, and Tony donned his Iron Man suit.

It did not take a genius to realise that everybody was subtly trying to look at his crotch and see if there was enough space.

Tony sighed, his eyes falling on Steve.

“Not you too, Steve,” Tony complained.

Steve’s gaze snapped up, his ears burning red.

When Tony flew up there was a short silence before the comments started.

“There’s definitely not enough space”

“Nope, definitely not. How does he breathe in that???”

“Um, I don’t think he’s breathing from there.”

“You know what I mean.

“We need an expert opinion. Steve?”

“I’m not commenting.”

“Oh, come on. He can't hear us.”

“…”

“… It’s too tight-“

“RIGHT”

“I fucking knew it.”

“I CAN HEAR ALL OF YOU. AT LEAST TURN THE COMMS OFF.”

X—X—X—X—X

You sighed. Tony had returned, unable to find exactly how many soldiers or mercenaries were in the facility and where they were.

You walk a little distance away, bringing the attention of the rest of your team.

“Hades, you okay?” Wanda asked.

You look at her and nod. Your expression uncharacteristically solemn.

“I’m going to use my powers when I do. Nobody touch my cloak.” You said.

The team nodded and watched in fascination as you closed your eyes and concentrated.

The effect was immediate; the temperature dropped several degrees in the surrounding area, a shadow enveloped the place despite it being the middle of the afternoon.

Dark shadows spread from your feet in a circular radius and began to rise, clinging to you and covering you in a cocoon until they dispersed. Leaving you wearing a deep black cloak, so dark it had no reflection. Dark vapour seemed to rise from the material as though it were made from shadows and death itself.

Wanda blanched the moment she saw your face. Your eyes glowed an unnerving green, the rest of your head covered by the shadows in your cloak.

“I’m going to use my powers now”, you warn them.

Wanda braced herself, your voice sounded eerie, as though it wasn’t just you talking but rather hundreds of souls giving you voice. Tony muttered something about circuitry and took a few steps back. Natasha and Steve followed his lead.

“Souls of those wronged. Souls of those damned. Those who know no rest. Those who wish to amend. Be my arms. Be my soldiers. Come forth and earn your redemption. Arise.”

The moment you finished speaking, the temperature plummeted even more. Wanda could see her breath fog in front of her.

More than fifty shadows erupted from the ground. It wasn’t pretty; these humanoid black blobs were screaming. An unnatural, guttural scream that made Wanda cringe inwardly and her skin crawl.

The screaming intensified, turned into wails so loud Wanda had to cover her ears.

She saw you glance at her briefly and bristle in anger.

“QUIET”, you roared, the black fog from your cloak turning almost sharp in response to your rage.

Not only the souls, but everything from the birds to the insects. All of them were quiet. No living creature dared to defy your command.

You look at the souls who stand in attention, staring at you, waiting for their next command.

“Go and find the hostages. Eliminate all those who get in your way.” You ordered.

They immediately dispersed. Wanda let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

She watched as the inky black cloak faded into the ground, nature corrected itself, leaving you in your black widow sweatshirt, leggings, and bright purple sports shoes.

Wanda saw you turn to her with an expression that clearly conveyed, “Are you scared of me now?”

It was an expression Wanda was all to familiar with, it was the same expression she wore after she had used her powers in a flashy way in front of others.

Wanda didn’t hesitate to walk to you and envelop you in a hug. Her heart clenched at the obvious relief you felt as you melted into the hug.

“.. Well, that was dramatic,” Tony stated, effectively breaking the tension.

You let out a watery chuckle as you loosened your grip around Wanda. Wiping your eyes and clearing your throat, you looked at the team. Wanda tried not to pay too much attention to the fact that your hand was around her waist. You just needed comfort. That’s all… Right?

“You okay, kiddo?” Steve asked as he put a hand on your shoulder.

You smiled and nodded. 

“Using my powers can get a bit intense sometimes.” You saw weakly.

“Do you want to go sit in the quinjet?” Wanda asks, concerned.

You look at her with a reassuring smile and shake your head.

“While we wait for my soldiers to do some recon, Wanda, can I speak to you privately in the jet, please?” You ask.

Wanda nods, a little excited, and follows you into the jet.

She watches you rummage in your bag and bring out a gorgeous ring with a stone the colour of Wanda’s eyes.

Wanda looks at it in admiration and looks at you.

“I.. I made this for you.” You say shyly, “My friends Hank and Jean helped me with it. Jean used to be a telepath, and Hank.. well.. he w- is a brilliant inventor. Just as good as Tony, if not better.”

Wanda brought out her hand and watched as you held it gently, placing the ring on her middle finger. The intimicy of the action brough shivers down Wanda’s spine.

“You can remove the accessory that Tony made for you. This will work better. Now you can hear others’ thoughts. Just not mine.” You say gently.

Wanda looks at you with such affection she, herself, is not used to feeling that it takes your breath away.

While maintaining eye contact, she reaches for the accessory and slowly removes it. She sighed in relief when she felt her power working again.

While she wasn’t particularly a fan of having to read people’s minds, wearing the device made her feel as though she was constantly wearing a gas mask. It was stifling and prohibited her from ‘breathing’ properly.

Wanda frowned when she took your hand; it was incredibly cold.

“Detka, you’re freezing.” She said, placing her hand on your forehead.

You looked at her, incredibly flustered. Your mouth opened and closed like a fish as you attempted to talk.

“I- uh- I- um- it’s- actu- uh”

Wanda smiled and removed her hand.

“Cat got your tongue?” She teased.

You just looked sheepish. Your head perked up, and you grinned at her.

“They made contact!” You say excitedly as you grab her hand and run outside.

Wanda ran with you, trying to hide her smile when you didn’t let go of her hand. A fact that Natasha noticed, based on her smirk.

“Okay, so there were originally around 70 guards. We’ve now got 10. The hostages are four children and two adults. Three of the children have been tested on, and one adult is in critical condition. The hostages are on the lowest floor”

You continued to give them the information as everyone made their way into the facility.

Tony was taking fire from the automatic weapons from the facility to prevent them from hitting the team.

Wanda and Natasha made their way to the lab to gather the intel. Steve went with you to rescue the hostages.

As they entered the lab, they were confronted by seven soldiers. They were easily disposed of, most by Wanda and two or three by Natasha.

The spy immediately plugged a device into the computers and began working on it. Wanda stayed on guard, looking around for traps and such.

“She made this op pretty easy, you know. Your girlfriend.” Natasha said, without looking away from the screen.

Wanda paused, her face burning.

“She’s not- I- um- we’re not- I mean.. She’s just a friend.” Wanda stammered.

Nat smirked, “You sure about that? You two aren’t really subtle with the looks you give each other.”

Wanda sighed, well aware of how useless it was to lie to the superspy.

“I just.. I really like her, Nat.” Wanda confesses.

Nat paused for a moment, resuming her work as she spoke.

“You should let her know. Hades doesn’t strike me as a particularly perceptive woman.”

Wanda shook her head, “That’s where you’re wrong. She’s.. masking all the time. I see it when she thinks no one is looking. When nobody is around. There’s something she’s keeping from us.. perhaps even herself. There’s something she’s not telling m- us.”

Natasha looked at Wanda for a moment, resting her hip against the counter. 

“Is she dangerous?” Natasha asked.

Wanda scoffed, “Which one of us isn’t?”

“You know what I mean, witchy. Is she a threat?”

Wanda shook her head. Despite the powers you demonstrated today. Despite everything. Not once has Wanda suspected malicious intentions.

Natasha nodded in agreement; she, too, had been observing you from the beginning. She agreed with Wanda’s assessment of you. All you ever did was look at Wanda with heart eyes when the witch wasn’t looking.

Soon, the data collection was complete. The pair headed out only to meet up with a very pale Steve.

He was carrying the injured adult and had two kids on his shoulders while the other two ran beside him.

Wanda wordlessly used her magic to carry the injured man and walk towards the exit.

“You okay?” Natasha asked the super-soldier, concerned for her friend.

Steve gulped and nodded.

“Hades, she’s.. she’s something else entirely”, he said, his face ashen.

“What happened?” Wanda asked, doing her best to sound a platonic amount of concerned, but Natasha’s smirk informed her she had failed.

“One moment she’s joking and talking, and the next, she’s got that cloak of hers on and those black soul things are crawling from the ground and pulling those hydra soldiers into that… black hole with them.”

Steve shudders at the memory; you had grinned at him afterwards as though nothing particularly interesting had happened.

They brought everyone back to the quinjet where you and Tony were waiting for them. You jumped up and grinned at everyone’s safe return.

When Wanda placed the injured man on the med bay, you immediately began to analyse and operate.

Wanda stood beside you, helping you whenever you asked.

While the others sat down as the jet made its way back, Wanda watched.

She watched how effortlessly you stitched the hostage back. Working tirelessly, focus never wavering. It was as though she were watching a professional. Each stroke, stitch, move. All practiced to perfection.

How could a twenty-four-year-old seem so experienced with so many things?

Once the man was stabilised, you and Wanda sat down next to each other. She leaned into you, craving the comfort you so effortlessly seemed to provide her. Unable to keep her eyes open any longer, the warmth of your shoulder had her falling asleep.

X—X—X—X—X

It was late at night. Wanda sat at the edge of her bed. The mission had been successful, and nobody was injured. Having not done much, most of the team went out for drinks. Only you and Wanda had said no.

When she asked you to hang out, you told her that you had to go somewhere to meet a friend and that you’d only return later at night.

She didn’t want to admit it, but she missed you. For a while now, she had been fidgeting and thinking of you.

The ring you had given her was cool against her skin. Her thumb brushed along its edge again and again. It was as though she was trying to draw meaning from the metal itself. The silence in her room was thick, her mind not any better.

Wanda hadn’t really gotten the chance to study the ring before. She’d worn it, admired it, even felt comforted by it. There was something about the way it muted only Hades. The feeling wasn’t uncomfortable like the device Tony had given her. It was a subtle suppression, a gentle breath of distance between Hades’s abilities and her mind.

But tonight, right now. Something felt different. The ring felt heavy, as though waiting.

She slowly slipped the ring off her finger and held it in the soft glow of the moonlight.

She admired the shape and colour as she turned it.

Etched on one side of the inner band, in a delicate, almost invisible script:

“The dark isn’t so scary when you’re not alone.”

Wanda froze. Her heart stuttered. It was… familiar. Too familiar. A whisper from a long-forgotten dream.

She turned it again, on the opposite side:

“I’m faster than fear. Remember?”

A shattered breath escaped her lungs as her world crumbled.

Hydra. The cold darkness. The screams. The pain. Pietro’s gentle embrace, his voice, broken but soft:

“I’m faster than fear. Remember?”

She blinked rapidly, unable to keep the tears from falling. She could see it so vividly: the scent of blood and smoke, the warmth of his embrace, his gentle hand stroking her shoulder as she shook under the pale, flickering light. Her only solace in the hell of their choosing.

“You scared?” He’d ask, his voice a mere whisper, tired but still teasing. “Don’t worry, sestra.  Nothing has ever outrun me. Not even fear. I’m faster than fear. Remember?”

Her world tilted.

Only he knew what that meant.

Her brother had been gone for so long, but that phrase… it was him. It was undeniably him.

She rose, her knees practically buckling under the weight of her emotions. She slipped on the ring and ran. The hallway blurred as she rushed out, her bare feet pattering against the cold compound floor. 

The distance between her room and Hades’s wasn’t too great, but under the weight of her heart, it felt like a chasm she couldn’t cross fast enough.

She didn’t knock, slipping into your room wordlessly.

She’d seen the painting. Of course, she had. She’d spent a few hours admiring the light, the angles, the softness of your brushwork. But she never looked at that building. The one she and Pietro called home. Arguably, the happiest place in her life. She couldn’t bring herself to.

But now..

Her eyes scanned the structure until she found it. The window. The worn-down walls. The flickering light.

The inside? Captured with a gentle, aching accuracy:

A little brown-haired girl is sitting with her knees to her chest.

A silver-haired boy, laughter frozen mid-motion, pointing towards the TV.

The paint here was softer, warmer, and more delicate than the rest. A reverent kind of care.

Hades hadn’t just recreated Novi Grad- she had listened. She had seen Pietro. His memories, his longing, his grief. She had seen it all, and she turned them into something beautiful, something breathtaking. A gift.

Each brick of their home was textured with layered brushstrokes, muted and so lived-in. The curtains hung slightly askew, exactly as they had been. The lamp near the couch flickered a familiar golden hue.

This wasn’t just a memory… This was a resurrection. It was a slice of time, captured and made eternal.

Wanda crumbled. Knees hit the floor, arm wrapped around herself as a sob escaped her.

He had been here. He had talked to you. He had seen her.

And he’d left her a message. Through the ring. Through the painting… Through you.

A scream made its way through her trembling body.

Grief filled her heart. But for the first time, it was cradled by something else, too.

Hope.

She clenched her hand into her fist, the twisted ring on her finger grounding her as it bit into her palm.

She didn’t hear you come in. But she felt you sit beside her. You said nothing.

You didn’t need to.

She leaned into you, still shaking, still sobbing. And you held her like you knew. Like you always did.

Like you had promised him you would.

And for the first time in years, Wanda felt something begin to loosen. Some ache in her she hadn’t even known she was carrying. Something buried so deep within that it was rotting without ever revealing itself.

And now. Here. In your arms. She could finally heal.

X--X--X--X--X

A/N: HI PLEASE TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK THANK YOU

Should I write a part two?

[puhpandas]

Who's your favorite design for a fnaf character that you've made?

my gregory design he is so special 2 me

[cece693]

Why Me Though?

pairing: tony stark x gender neutral reader tags: you're a normal civilian who's dating Tony stark, media is ruthless and mean, Tony comforts you, fluff overall, reassurance that Tony loves you

You feel the heat of a thousand camera flashes on your skin as you step out of Tony’s sleek Audi. The press is swarming, forming a wall of flashing lights and insistent shouts. Tony stands next to you—three-piece suit, tie slightly askew, that signature smirk in place. You can sense the tension in the air, a ripple of quiet disbelief that Tony Stark, billionaire, genius, superhero, would be dating…you. Just an ordinary civilian.

Despite the whirlwind, Tony’s hand wraps securely around yours. When he speaks, his tone is confident as ever, “Let’s give them something to talk about.” He always exudes that fearless swagger, the unstoppable Tony Stark bravado. On most days, you love him for it. On others, you wonder how you ended up on a stage for the world to judge.

You learn quickly that the public is split—though “split” might be generous. Whenever you two appear in public, tabloids scream, “What does Tony Stark see in them?” or “Has the hero of New York City lost his touch?” Some people keep their disapproval subtle, with raised eyebrows and snide comments on social media. Others are more vocal—outlets tear you down as unremarkable, undeserving, or even a nuisance to Tony Stark’s busy life.

In the corner of your phone’s screen, a text notification from your best friend pings: You’re way out of his league, TBH. It’s meant to be a joke, but there’s an underlying note of seriousness. Your friends and family whisper about Tony Stark’s reputation. Playboy. Hotheaded. A trouble magnet who can’t keep himself away from the center of destruction. Why would you hitch your wagon to someone always on the brink of the next cataclysm? Even your mother, usually optimistic and supportive, had asked over Sunday lunch, “Are you sure you’re ready for that lifestyle, dear? Tony seems… complicated.”

And complicated he is. But no one else sees how Tony’s sharp wit softens when the lab doors close behind him, or how he stays up late checking in on you just to make sure you’re sleeping well. They don’t see how earnestly he listens when you talk about your day, or how he takes your opinions seriously—even against his own stubborn ideas. Above all, they don’t see the quiet moments—moments of sincerity where he silently promises he would protect you from the storms of his world.

One evening, you’re swamped under a pile of grocery bags when you arrive home, heart heavy with the day’s news cycle. You open the door to find Tony in the kitchen, wearing an apron over his designer shirt. The smell of tomato sauce and fresh herbs fills the air. He looks up, half-embarrassed at being caught red-handed in domestic territory.

“Um…I tried,” he says with a sheepish shrug. “I didn’t burn the kitchen down, so that’s a plus.”

You set the groceries down and offer a tired smile. “Must be a new record for you, Mr. Stark.”

He pretends to wince. “Ouch. You wound me.” He’s joking around, but you can tell he’s worried about you. He can see the exhaustion, the stress etched into the corners of your eyes. His face softens in that way that only you seem to notice. “You okay?” he asks, voice quiet.

“Just…people,” you say, giving a noncommittal shrug. “Same old: ‘Why us?’ ‘How could Tony Stark—’” You pause when your throat constricts, a thousand unspoken frustrations clogging your voice. “It’s exhausting.”

Tony sets down the spoon he’s been wielding like a scepter. The moment he pulls you into a gentle embrace, your tension eases. He doesn’t even care if sauce stains his expensive suit. He’s there, fully and completely. “Let them talk,” he murmurs into your hair. “They don’t know what we have. Why care about them?”

You exhale, letting yourself melt into the warmth of his arms. Tony’s easy confidence is a shield—a reminder that he has weathered far worse. He’s told you a million times that the world’s opinions don’t matter. Sometimes you wish your heart believed that as fully as he does.

A few days later, you’re invited to a small gathering at the Avengers Compound. A rare, quieter evening with a few of Tony’s closest allies. Despite the negativity swirling in the outside world, there’s a surprising acceptance among the team. Rhodey greets you warmly. Sam teases Tony about finally settling down. Even Natasha offers a subtle nod of approval across the room. But when you pass by a reflective window in the corridor, you see flashes from outside. The press has found you again. Across social media, you know the headlines are forming. Your phone buzzes with new notifications that make your stomach twist.

Tony, noticing your expression, quietly takes your phone from your hand and pockets it. “Let’s keep your attention on me tonight,” he says with a small grin. “I promise, I’m way more entertaining than any rumor mill.” You let him lead you back to the common area, where the hum of conversation wraps you in comfort. The negativity doesn’t evaporate—it never does—but for a moment, you’re reminded why you stay.

Later that night, you’re perched on the couch in Tony’s private corner of the compound, an oversized blanket draped across your legs. The day’s tensions swirl in your mind, and you find yourself blurting out the question that’s plagued you since all of this started: “Tony, why me?” you ask softly, eyes trained on the glowing city skyline through the window.

He sits beside you, gaze following yours out toward the distant lights. For a second, the bravado flickers, and you see the man beneath the persona. “Because you remind me that I’m more than Iron Man,” Tony says simply, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “Because you see me—the good, the bad, the complicated—and you don’t run away. You don’t see some grand hero or a walking paycheck. You see me as I am.”

He turns to face you, expression earnest in a way that still surprises you sometimes. “And because I’m a selfish jerk who wants to keep the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You breathe in, letting his words settle around your heart. The negativity from the outside world, the skepticism from your family, the prying tabloids—it’s a harsh reality. But the warmth in Tony’s eyes tells you exactly why this is worth it. Sliding closer, you reach for his hand, twining your fingers together. “Okay, hotshot,” you whisper, a small smile forming. “We’ll face them together.”

His smirk returns—cocky, but also filled with genuine affection. “That’s all I ask.”