#But if we must do it. Then set it up this way | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

shiningsuki · 7 hours ago

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maybe something more - bob reynolds x reader

WARNING: CONTAINS SPOILERS FROM MARVEL’S THUNDERBOLTS*.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Fem!Reader Summary: 6 months after the Void spread across New York, the New Avengers play house in the Watch Tower. You notice Bob’s always got a book in hand, and you have an idea. Warnings: Light mentions of anxiety, depression, mental health issues, trauma, both Bob and reader struggle to start any type of intimate relationship beyond friendship at this point Content: Fluff, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Artist!Bob, Bookworm!Bob, the Thunderbolts* as a dysfunctional family unit AO3 🔗 <- read it on ao3! Word Count: 6.3k A/N: Thank you so much for reading my first Bob fic! He and Thunderbolts* got me back into fic writing. I hc that Bob is an artistic soul and has a few outlets to calm his mind, so please do enjoy. And also please be kind since I haven't written in over a year :') Reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated 🖤 More Bob to come soon~~

6 months after New York

The penthouse suite in the New Avengers facility, the Watch Tower, faces an interior design crisis. You watch the argument in front of you with amusement, feet up on the ottoman in front of the couch you’re sitting on, arms crossed. Yelena sits on your right, head in hands. Bob’s on your left; you sneak a glance at him. He’s reading a book, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, and a vanilla milkshake sits on the coffee table beside the armchair. How on earth he manages to understand the book’s content with the ruckus, you have no idea.

“It should be white,” Walker grumbles. The ex-soldier faces the empty wall in front of the couch, his back facing your row. You hear the grimace in his expression.

“No, green. Like grass outside. Inviting presence; when people walk inside, they say, ‘Oh, I feel so warm and fuzzy.’ Subconscious from wall color — that is psychology, right, Lena?”

Alexei flashes a toothy grin at his daughter. She groans quietly in response, head still in her hands. You glance at her in pity, then focus back on the two men. Their voices start to rise in volume.

“No, white. Green is too mucky.”

“Green is good color. Why do you not want it?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“You are not painter. We tell Valentina’s crew to paint. Lena, tell him we should have it green.”

“God, you’re insufferable,” Walker throws his hands up and saunters into the kitchen. Alexei gives Yelena a hopeful look, and she groans again before getting up to stand next to him. Their debate continues, but you shift your attention to the quiet man next to you. All conversation fades into the background, and it’s just Bob, his nose in a book and his mouth hovering slightly over the milkshake straw in his hand.

You gently bump into his arm. “Whatcha reading now, Bob?”

Bob starts, nearly spilling his milkshake. He quickly sets it down on the coffee table before looking back sheepishly at you. You stifle a chuckle and watch him smooth his hair back with his fingers. Bob clears his throat, darting his eyes between you and the open book.

“Oh, it’s uh, Catch-22,” Bob turns the book to its cover, and you peer at the blue canvas. “World War II fiction. Interesting history stuff. It’s about this antihero, Captain John Yossarian, and discusses the absurdity of war and bureaucracy. Basically, he and his crew have to follow this Catch-22 rule: to be relieved from duty, they have to be declared mentally unfit, but if they request it themselves, they’re deemed sane and so must continue flying missions.”

“Ah, hence the phrase,” You reply. “With a Catch-22, there’s no win either way. You’re stuck in an impossible situation.” You slightly frown, remembering the last few months, but your mouth quickly shifts into a smirk. “Sounds familiar.”

“Exactly,” Bob’s eyes brighten as he chuckles. “I was super into reading about this stuff as a kid. Actually, what got me into it was…”

Bob trails off, his expression following suit. A shadow clouds his face, and you see his jaw protrude in and out from his chin. You tense inadvertently, but force yourself to relax. Bob hasn’t had an episode in months. Chill out. Still, you take a deep breath in before speaking.

“It’s alright,” You assure him. A tiny smile flickers on your face. “I understand.” Bob glances at you and closes the book, resting it on his lap. You stare at the cover, letting the silence stretch. Bob clears his throat again.

“Thanks. Uh, I like the book so far. I’d recommend it if you’re into that kind of stuff.”

You nod, looking back up at him. “Thanks, I’ll have to add it to the list. I haven’t read much lately, but I used to like it a lot. Gives me an escape from all this—” You pause, gesturing around your head. Bob smiles at that, and you’re relieved to see his expression lighten.

“That’s cool. It’s always there for you when you’re ready.”

You look at him, feeling your chest tighten. You inhale another deep breath. Bob seems like an aloof guy upfront, but sometimes he says the most profound things without knowing it. It infuriates and intrigues you at the same time.

“Thanks again, Bob.” The conversation happening by the couch fades back in, and you barely realize Alexei and Yelena have been arguing back and forth for the entire time you and Bob were chatting.

“Lena, green is beautiful color! It matches your eyes.”

“Alexei, my eyes are not green. And we are not painting the wall that color. It doesn’t match the rest of the suite.”

Alexei’s face is a mixture of shock and hurt. “Your eyes aren’t green?’

You glance at Bob, sharing a look of mirth, before you both burst out laughing. Yelena looks at you both with murder in her eyes, which only propels you to laugh harder. The blonde lets out a string of curses in Russian and stomps out of the room. Alexei chases after her, pleading. You wipe your eyes after you calm down and look back at Bob. He’s smiling ear to ear and genuinely looks happy. It makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside.

You blink. Okay, Alexei’s rubbing off on me. That’s a problem. You stand up and adjust your clothes.

“I’m gonna go out for a bit.”

Bob nods. “Okay, see you later.”

You salute him and start walking away. Then, an idea springs into your head and you shuffle back to him, stopping in front of his knees. Bob looks up at you again, round saucers for eyes, and you smile.

“Hey, do me a favor? Write down all the books you want to read. Or the books you love and want to have. Text it to me, or just give me the list, whatever you want.”

Bob quirks an eyebrow up. “Ooo-kay. May I ask why?” A hint of suspicion laces his voice, but amusement takes over his face, seeing your energy.

“No reason,” You respond in a singsongy voice before twirling around and walking away again. “Thanks, Bob!” You call over your shoulder. You just hear him laugh in response, and you can picture him shaking his head, his bangs falling over his eyes. You smile again even wider, excitement bubbling in your stomach from your plans.

You give Bob a week and some change before you see his bedroom door ajar, and you knock on it. He’s sitting on the floor, crisscrossed, hunched over a sketchbook with pages of drawings surrounding him on the floor. You lean on the doorframe and cross your arms, watching him for a few moments. He’s so immersed that he didn’t hear you. You give it another second or two before knocking again, although this time it’s more akin to pounding on the frame. You’ve never been much of a patient person.

Bob jumps and his pencil flies out of his hand, then rattles onto the floor. He looks up at you with wide eyes, frazzled, and relaxes when he sees you. He swipes his hair back, and you glimpse a dark smudge on the side of his drawing hand. He starts to gather his things, muttering under his breath.

“Jesus! Could you not keep doing that?” Bob glances up at you, his tone serious, but you catch a teasing glimpse in his eyes. “You know I have a fragile heart.”

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. You can handle a jumpscare or two, I know it.” You walk over to Bob’s bed and plop down at the end of it.

Bob winces. “I just folded that.”

“Oh, sorry.” You make to stand up and Bob waves his hands, gripping his sketches.

“No, no, it’s alright. You’re already sitting. Please.” Bob motions downward, and you follow suit.

You glance at the papers. “May I see?”

Bob looks back and forth between you and his hands for a few moments. You see in his face the gears turning in his head. He swipes his hair back again, and his foot starts to shake back and forth. He’s nervous. You give him a reassuring smile.

“You don’t have to show me anything. But I’d still love to see the artist of the group’s work, if you’re willing to share.”

Bob chuckles sheepishly, shaking his head. “I’m no artist. Most of these are just sketches, really. But they’re messy. And unfinished. It just… helps clear my mind. You know…”

Bob trails off, gesturing around his head, looking at you expectantly. You laugh at that, touched by the subtle mirroring of you from before.

“I get it. Everyone needs an outlet. It’s cool that you draw, though—I’m so bad at it.”

“I’m sure you’re not that bad,” Bob replies. He shuffles the papers a few times before resigning to hand the stack over.

You grin at him and snatch them away. Bob avoids your gaze as he moves to clear the rest of the floor. You look down at the sketches and start rifling through them. There are some landscape images, mountains, flower fields, the like. Then you see portraits of the team, some in motion, some stills. You notice that every image is from a certain point of view, which you can only assume it’s Bob watching the rest of you interact while he stays quiet in the background, ever the observant one.

The last few sketches are the team’s individual pictures. None of them are smiling, but there’s a sereneness and simple beauty captured in them.

“These are amazing, Bob. You capture us so beautifully.”

Bob rubs the back of his neck, still avoiding your gaze. “Nah, they’re nothing special.”

“Of course not. They’re special, because you’re special.”

You wink at him, which thankfully he catches. Bob immediately looks away again, his hair falling in front of his eyes. His body seems to shrink in embarrassment, and you laugh. You look down again and shuffle to the next paper.

You can’t hold in your gasp. All the sketches were stunning, even the mundane ones, but this—a portrait of you, laughing, looking off into the distance with a spark in your eye. It’s the twinkle of hope, of real joy, something you’re fortunate enough to feel in sporadic moments the last few months, after everything. You didn’t know if you would feel that way again.

Honestly, you don’t even recognize yourself.

You look up at Bob, who wears an anxious yet expectant expression on his face. You look back and forth at him and the drawing, struggling to form words.

“What is it?” Bob asks.

“This… this is beautiful, Bob. I’m…” You trail off, clearing your throat. “I’m flattered. But there’s no way I look like this in real life. This person is—”

“She’s you. It’s how I see you.” You stare at Bob as he plays with his fingers in his lap. “All of those sketches, that’s how I see everyone here. This team.”

Bob pauses, chuckling. “I’ve said this way too many times, but you guys saved me. You saw me for who I am, and you still reached out to save me. So, the least I can do is portray how I see all of you as best as I can—and do the dishes.”

You let out a laugh, in shock, awe, disbelief. Words escape you again as you and Bob share a look of understanding. You let the comfortable silence stretch before whispering out the few words you can only think of to say at this moment.

“Thank you, Bob,” You look down at your lap, chest tight again, before gathering the papers and handing them back. “That really means a lot.”

Bob nods, a small smile on his face, and takes the papers, but a sketch that you hadn’t seen before falls out of the stack. It flutters to the ground and lands face up. You inhale sharply, chest threatening to burst.

An almost black page, scribbles upon scribbles melting into one another, with two small circles in the middle. Your body reacts before anything: hands ball into fists, shoulders tense, and your breathing starts to quicken. Bob snatches up the drawing immediately and hides it in his sketchbook. He glances up at you, terrified, and retreats into his body, looking so small on the floor like a child.

“I’m– I’m sorry!” Bob exclaims, hugging his knees. “That– you weren’t supposed to see that. You shouldn’t have seen that.”

You shake your head, unballing your fists and shaking them out. You try not to notice the tremor in your fingers as you settle your hands in your lap. “No, it’s okay, Bob. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. It’s just… when I think about that day…”

Empty, endless darkness. Falling into a room, then another room, then fighting your way through those painful memories before finally finding Bob, in his own room, and seeing no escape. Just… a void. You swallow hard. You still have no idea how long everyone spent in there, but it felt like eternity. Sitting in the pain. The shame, the disbelief. Revisiting what you never wanted to see again. But you had to, to save Bob. You all had to. And you know you would do it again and a hundred times over if you could.

Bob nods. “I know. Obviously, you know that I know better than all of you.” He pauses to gesture at the sketchbook. “Not all of these drawings are good. But like I said, they help clear my head. To regain lost memories. To try and remember all the bad things I did when I was… him. It’s cathartic, in a way. I try not to beat myself up over it. Some days are better than others.”

Bob shrugs, and you sigh. “Of course.” You get off the bed to sit beside him and place a hand on his shoulders. For a millisecond, Bob shrinks away, but relaxes since you’re not really touching him, skin to skin. You haven’t tried that, but from Yelena and Walker’s accounts, it’s kind of like a mini Void experience, but still not pleasurable.

You grimace to yourself. You don’t want to be afraid of touching Bob. You’re not really—he seems more afraid of contact than any of you do. So you keep your distance and close it when you can, just like now.

“Anything that helps you, I’m game. Do you have more good days than bad?”

“Yes,” Bob nods. “Thankfully. It’s not perfect, but it’s a step forward. I just haven’t used my Sentry powers since the incident. I’m… afraid to. Because then he… He might come out again.”

Bob swallows, and you squeeze his shoulder. “I know. We’re just trying to be cautious, that’s all, and what you’re feeling is totally understandable.”

Bob shakes his head, frowning. “I just wish I could be more useful. You know, help you guys out. All I do is wash dishes and clean up around the penthouse.”

You clap Bob’s shoulder before letting go. “And that’s all you need to do, for now. And be a friendly face. And share your book reviews and drawings with us. It really helps, you know. Everything you’re doing is enough, I promise.”

Bob lights up at that, smiling widely. You smile back and let out another sigh.

“Okay, dreamboat,” You say, standing up and brushing off your pants. You coined that nickname for Bob at some point, and it just stuck. He never seemed to mind. “I meant to ask you if you have that list of books for me yet.”

“Oh yeah,” Bob stands up and searches his desk for a moment. He turns to you and hands over a folded sheet. You take it and unfold it, skimming through the list.

“Those are all the books I could think of. I can send you more if I remember something I missed.”

“Great,” You say, folding it and tucking it in your pocket. You point at Bob and turn to walk out of this room. “Tolkien, Hemingway, Butler—some good reads. Thanks!”

“Wait, you never told me what you’re going to do with that list!” Bob calls after you.

“You’ll find out soon enough, dreamboat!” You reply over your shoulder. You glance behind you and turn to walk backwards, saluting. Bob’s head sticks out of his room, confusion clouding his face, and you just laugh.

“Seriously, you should think about showing everyone your drawings. They’re really something, Bob!” You salute to him before turning around fully to walk away.

Before you head out to pick up the furniture order you placed a few weeks ago, you stand in front of the newly painted beige wall. To Alexei’s dismay, the crew outvoted him and received a nice, monotone cream wall that matches the rest of the suite’s colors. Every wall is starting to be covered by various memorabilia, courtesy of members collecting random displayable knick-knacks to be showcased throughout the place. You’re standing in front of the empty space, which you had insisted that everyone keep empty for your plans, picturing the new furniture in front of it.

A pair of boots passes behind you. “Morning,” Ava’s voice chimes.

You motion without looking back at her towards you. “Ava, come here. Do you think mahogany will look good with this?”

Ava moves to stand next to you and tilts her head at the wall. “Yeah. They’re both neutral tones and don’t clash with each other.”

“Okay, good.”

“Wait,” Ava turns to face you fully, hands on her hips. “Didn’t you order the bookshelf already?”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, I did. I’m just making sure, and I’m getting it today.”

“Oookay,” Ava replies with amusement. “Is Bob still here? Won’t he see everyone assembling this?”

“No, Walker and Alexei took him out already. Sightseeing. He really hasn’t seen much of New York since the incident.”

Ava hums in assent. “Yeah, fat chance of that the last few months. Hope those boys have their wits about them and don’t leave Bob anywhere.”

You roll your eyes. “Unfortunately, I have close to zero faith in them, but we can only hope at this point.” You look back at the wall in front of you, determined. “This should take some time, but we’ll get it done before they get back.”

A few hours later, you wish you hadn’t said that out loud.

It took nearly an hour to coordinate the furniture drop-off and lug it inside the building. You don’t have superhuman strength, but you were stubbornly determined to drag the box into the elevator. As soon as you made it to the penthouse, the doors opened to Bucky, who gave you and the box a once-over.

“How the hell did you get this inside?” Bucky asked.

“Don’t,” You say, pointing a finger at the man. Bucky rolls his eyes and puts his bionic arm under the box, lifting it out of the elevator with ease.

“You could’ve just called, you know.”

“Shut up.” You strut past him and put a middle finger up behind your shoulders.

You exchange a look with Ava, who’s sitting on the couch with a book open. Her face wears a confused expression before you wave her away, exasperated. Bucky puts down the box by the wall with a gentle thud and wipes his hands.

“Hope nothing’s broken in there,” He muses.

You glare at him and refuse to entertain the notion. Your eyes sweep the living room, which conveniently does not have any of the books you ordered.

“Where’s Yelena?” You ask.

Ava shrugs, nose still buried in her book. “Dunno. Haven’t seen her all day.”

You groan, slapping your hand on your forehead. “She was supposed to pick up the books.”

You grab your phone from your back pocket and dial her number. After a few rings, your foot taps impatiently on the floor when Yelena picks up.

“Hello?”

“Where are the books, Yelena?”

“What books?”

You grit your teeth and start to pace back and forth. Ava and Bucky’s eyes follow your footsteps. “The ones for Bob. I told you to pick them up today from the used bookstore.”

“Oh shit,” Yelena replies. You let out another groan and rub your eyes.

“Dude!”

“Don’t dude me!” She exclaims. “I forgot, I was running other errands.”

“What other errands?” Your voice begins to rise, and Ava closes her book, crossing her arms while tracking your end of the conversation.

“Doesn’t matter,” Yelena says. You can just picture the blonde waving her hand in dismissal, like it’s no big deal. “I’ll get them now.”

“Hurry,” You hiss through the speaker. “Walker and Alexei can’t keep Bob occupied forever. I’m not even sure if Walker can stay sane with those two the entire time.”

“Roger.” Yelena hangs up, and you shove your phone in your pocket again. Taking a deep breath and closing your eyes, you pause just to breathe. Then, clarity washes over your body. You open your eyes and whip around.

“Ava, come with me. We’re waiting for Yelena in the lobby to help her bring the books up,” You motion at her to follow. Then you point at Bucky.

“Bucky, start unpacking the box and arranging the parts.” The man frowns at you at first, probably not liking the tone in your voice. You pivot and smile sweetly, albeit feeling a strain in your forehead. “Please. It’ll be great if you can start assembling the shelf too, thanks so much!’

“Hey, now wait a minute—”

“See ya, Buck!” You grab Ava’s arms to pull her quickly out of the common room.

What feels like hours pass by before Yelena arrives. You see a car pull up to the front, and she hops out, strolling leisurely to the back seat to pull out the first box.

You’re fuming as you step outside the building door and shove past Yelena, not bothering to say a word as you lift up another box.

“Hello to you too,” Yelena greets you, and you can only muster squinting your eyes at her in response.

“Now, now, ladies, play nice,” Ava says, walking up behind you with a box in hand. “Jesus, this is heavy.”

“How many more boxes are left?” You ask, leading the charge to the elevators again.

“Only two. We can grab them,” Yelena offers as she presses the close doors button.

That marginally makes you feel better, and you nod, giving her a strained smile. Yelena notices your expression and flashes a bemused grin.

“Hey, he’s gonna love it. And we’re here to help you assemble everything.”

“Ha, that’s funny,” Ava laughs. “You know, ‘Assemble’—”

“No.”

“Don’t even start.”

You and Yelena speak at the same time and let out a bout of laughter as the elevator doors close fully in front of you and start taking you upwards.

After the two women leave for the last boxes, you’re sorting through the books as Bucky continues to assemble the shelf. He says it’s easy to follow the instructions, grumbling the entire time, but you have a feeling he enjoys taking first responsibility in completing the task at hand.

Ava and Yelena return and start helping you sort. You’re unsure of how much time passes when you hear your phone ring. You grab your phone and hold it up to your ear.

“We are coming back,” Alexei whispers into the phone. “ETA 20 minutes.”

Shit. “Oh okay, uh…”

You glance behind you and see Bucky working on the last row. Ava catches your eye, quirking her eyebrow up.

“Try to stretch that as much as possible. We’re almost done - thanks!”

You hang up and toss your phone on the couch. “They’re here in 20.”

Yelena shoots up from her seat. “Let’s get to it, then!”

She joins Bucky to help him lift the last shelf row to the top and screw the bolts in. You and Ava start lugging piles of books near the shelf and placing them haphazardly in neat rows. You’ll worry about presentation later.

Bucky and Yelena join soon after. None of you speak, focused on filing the books away. Eventually, nearly every row is filled, with empty spaces to display any fun knick-knacks lying around. You grab a statue that was sitting out of place in the kitchen. Ava brings a fancy mug, Yelena stacks some of Alexei’s figurines next to each other, and Bucky brings over a small succulent.

You eye it as he places it on the shelf, and he looks at you. “What?”

“Where did you get that?” You ask, curious.

Bucky shrugs and murmurs, “Just had it in my room. I keep some plants in there.”

You feign shock, gasping and putting a hand on your chest. “James Buchanan Barnes is a plant dad?’

“Shut up, kid.” Bucky reaches out to ruffle your hair, and you duck, side-stepping him as he tries again to shove you.

The elevator dings, and all of you whip towards the sound. Everyone shuffles in front of the bookcase and waits for the men to step into the room. You take one last look at the shelf, admiring everyone’s quick work and how neat everything looks already before turning again just as the trio walks in.

Alexei’s hands hover in front of Bob’s eyes as they walk slowly towards your group. Walker trails behind, his arms crossed and his face bearing a curious look. You catch his eyes widening at the bookcase behind you, and he locks his gaze on yours. He gives you a small smile and thumbs up, which makes you stand up straight, nodding at him.

“Okay, guys, what is this?” Bob asks, his voice light. You see his hands wringing together nervously and you crack your knuckles, sharing the sentiment.

With a gulp, you nod at Alexei, and he moves his hands away from Bob. Ava and Bucky step to the side to show the bookcase in full, and Bob’s eyes widen to saucers, shining.

The mahogany shelf stands at least two heads taller than you. You’re on the shorter side, so it doesn’t seem like much, but from your point of view, it looks majestic. The case spans the entire wall and is lined with books. They’re mostly used, although you were able to bargain with the store owner for some rare collectibles. Valentina’s pockets run deep, and you’re determined to utilize her as much as possible.

You step to the side as Bob walks up, his fingers running across book spines and his eyes taking it all in. You don’t take your own eyes off him, gauging his reaction. You nervously squeeze your palms together, anxiety growing as the silence stretches.

Does he love it? Hate it? Bob wears the same awestruck, lost look that he’s usually susceptible to having, but you can’t tell if it’s more or less of a degree than normal. You’re tempted to break the silence until Bob’s wandering gaze finally lands on you.

“Is this… for me?”

You sigh in relief. “Yes.”

You respond so quickly that the breath leaves your body before you can think of more words to say. Almost immediately, you realize how personal that response comes across, how intimate, and glance around the room. Everyone has some degree of amusement on their face—from Yelena’s smirk to Alexei’s proud smile and Walker’s shit-eating grin. You glare at him before softening your gaze back on Bob. He looks at you, eyes still shining.

“I mean yes, I– well, we–” You gesture at the group. “–know you love books. So uh, I asked everyone if they would like to, um, have some of their own favorite books in the mix along with yours. So that you can read them whenever you want.”

You smile at Bob, then catch yourself. “I mean, you and uh, everyone here! Obviously.”

You cringe inwardly, but Bob only smiles. “That’s… amazing. So that’s why you were asking me for a list.” He smirks down at you, and you look away, feeling your cheeks flush.

Bucky clears his throat. “This was actually all her idea. We just went along with it.”

You turn to him with wide eyes, shaking your head. Bob looks at Bucky, then back at you. You freeze, feeling even more heat rush up your neck. Bob looks at you for a few more moments, stunned. Your face burns, but you don’t want to look away. After a few more agonizing seconds, Bob’s face melts into a soft smile.

“Thank you so much,” Bob whispers, and you part your mouth, taking a deep breath. His eyes flash with something indescribable, looking over you once more before he returns his attention to the group. “Everyone, this is so thoughtful. I really appreciate it.”

The team walks up to Bob, greeting him and admiring the collection. On the other hand, you start to slowly back away from everyone. You enjoy seeing them appreciate the plans you’ve had for weeks finally come to fruition, but you also feel an itch to run off and hide. After a few more slow steps, you turn your heel and march out to the balcony.

The blast of fresh night air cools your face, and you gasp. You make your way to the railing and lean heavily on it, bending down with arms stretched out and head facing the ground. After a few more deep breaths, you straighten, still slightly leaning on the railing while looking out at the view.

What the hell was that? Your heartbeat betrays your slowing breaths; you feel like you could run a marathon.

As you gaze out into the horizon, New York City greets you with twinkling lights, and your thoughts drift to the past few months. Finding out you’re no longer the hunter, but the prey. Forced into close proximity with other quote-unquote criminals and having to band to together to survive. Discovering a lonely man with powers beyond your comprehension. And fighting for your life to pull him out of the darkness, your own darkness and his, with a group of unlikely allies turned friends.

And everything afterward. Bonding with this group of people. This team. Never in a million years would you imagine. You’ve never been great at teamwork. But now, you have no idea where you’d be without these people. Probably dead, or in a worse place. Especially after getting to know a certain someone…

You can’t imagine a life without him.

“Hey.”

Speak of the devil. You turn around and see Bob standing near the doorway, leaning against the frame. You cross your arms and mirror his pose, smiling.

“Hey, dreamboat. Tired of the bookshelf already?”

Bob shakes his head vehemently. “No, no, not at all. I don’t think I could ever tire of it.”

He joins you by the railing, leaning forward and taking stock of the view. Your eyes wander to the group inside, animated conversation floating out the doors in a rumbling noise.

You nod. “That’s good. I was worried I’d need a refund.”

Bob chuckles at that. You look at him and smile, and see that his gaze is locked on yours. Intense, brewing again with something you can’t explain. You wait a few moments before opening your mouth to speak, but Bob beats you to it.

“Is it true what Bucky said? That it was your idea to get a bookshelf and all these books?

Again, you nod, although you avoid Bob’s penetrating gaze. “Yes. I… I know books help you. And it’s been fun when we talk about what you’re reading, what I’m reading, et cetera. So I thought everyone could have a space to escape, like we do.”

You look up at that, catching Bob’s eye. “The bookshelf is for everyone, but you’re my primary inspiration for getting it.”

Inadvertently, your chest tightens up after saying that. Your stomach flips and clenches into a ball, trying to decipher Bob’s expression. He gives away almost nothing, minus the glimmer in his eye that always seems to be there when he looks at you.

Finally, he speaks up. “That’s very kind. And I’m honored to be your muse.”

Oh. Your mouth forms a tiny circle, small waves of shock coursing through your body. You never thought of it like that—with Bob being an artist, you guess that’s one way to put it. You look away, out into the city again, suddenly feeling shy.

Bob lets the silence envelop the two of you, the city’s noises of cars honking and shuffling pedestrians filling the gap. Gears turn in your head—you want to say more, somehow, but you’re not sure what. Every now and then, you see Bob glance over at you in your peripheral, but he still remains quiet. That’s one of the things you admire about him—he’s observant, and good at latching onto others’ feelings. Perhaps to his own fault that he forgets about his own, but you try your best to keep him accountable.

Swallowing, you look back at Bob, who’s also looking out into the city. His hair blows back gently with the breeze, and he wears a serene expression. You’ve noticed that too, how much more relaxed he is after just a few months spending time in this watch tower, with this mismatched team taking care of each other. Selfishly, you’d like to think you had a lot to play in that change.

Kind eyes. Firm lips. Handsome, rugged, and soft all at once. More descriptions of Bob you’ve filed away in your brain, but you’d never admit to him or anyone else out loud—at least not yet. Finally, you steel yourself, breaking the quiet.

“Bob?”

He looks at you. Tonight, it seems a soft glow emits around him, covering his silhouette with a halo and making you feel like you’re in a dream. You blink—or maybe you’re finally losing it, bursting at the seams with everything left unspoken.

“Yes?”

He looks at you, dreams in his eyes, and fear fills you head to toe, threatening to drown you and pull you under. You grip the railing in front of you until your knuckles turn white, hopelessly trying to remain calm. Bob glances at your hands and reaches forward, stopping just inches from them. His eyes widen before he jerks back, looking away. Shame flashes in his features before it disappears just as quickly.

You feel a short wave a pity for him before you force it down. Bob doesn’t need pity—far from it. He wouldn’t want to be pitied. He just wants to be understood.

After you take a deep breath, you shut your eyes and let a flurry of words out before you think too much about them.

“I don’t know where we’re at and I don’t know if I’ve completely read the room wrong this whole time, but please let me know I’m not delusional, and that maybe, just maybe, we could be something more in the future.”

Silence. That’s all you’re met with for what feels like long, agonizing seconds. Blood rushes to your ears, your pulse quickens, and it takes all of you to steel yourself and keep your breathing even.

“Hey.”

You open your eyes. Stars dance across your vision before it settles on Bob again. Does he seem closer to you? Bob slides his hand along the railing until his fingers are inches from yours. He looks at them for a few moments before looking back up at you again.

“I’m going to be honest,” He starts, and your stomach drops. You swallow and start nodding, about to acquiesce, but Bob continues. “Let me finish.” He laughs, shaking his head, amused. You cock your head to the side, a flicker of hope blooming in your chest.

“I’m severely fucked up. And—I won’t speak for you—but you may or may not be on the same page. Am I correct in saying that?”

You laugh too. “Yes, that sounds about right.”

“Right. I’m getting better, but I still have a lot to work on. And to learn to control. And… I don’t want all of my shit to jeopardize whatever comes next.”

You try to stand tall, but feel your body caving as your resolve crumbles. You let out a sigh. “I understand, Bob. I don’t want any of mine to jeopardize our anything either.”

“But…” He trails off and sweeps back his hair with his free hand. His other one on the railing doesn’t budge.

“You’re not delusional. Everything you’ve felt in the past months, I’ve felt it too. I promise.”

Bob’s steady gaze threatens to topple you over. All you can do is nod in reply.

“Let’s make a deal. We work on ourselves until we’re less fucked up, or at least until we’re ready. Then maybe, just maybe…”

Bob’s tone is teasing, and you roll your eyes at his gentle mockery, but also smile.

“Maybe we can be something more.” You whisper.

Bob smiles from ear to ear. You’d do anything to capture this moment of happiness and keep it in your pocket forever. You smile back.

“We’ve got a deal, Robert Reynolds.”

You bump into his shoulder lightly, brushing your fingers a hair’s width from his. Bob sucks in a breath, and you look at him in reassurance. You scoot as close to him as he’s comfortable and settle into another long silence.

Giddiness bubbles in your chest. With another shared glance, you see a lonely man, saved by love and friendship, and a future where you and all your friends are truly happy and free. It seems like a flight of fancy, but when you look back out into the city, the possibilities are endless.

You’re in trouble, and Bob may lead you into a whole other fucked up-ness you’re unprepared for, but you’d ride out any storm with him. And you know he’d go to hell and back for you just the same.

182 notes · View notes

benispunk · 2 days ago

Text

Safety Net

logan howlett x reader

Logan experiences a rage episode.

A/N: hello everyone!!!! am I back??? well...I guess we can kinda say that? So, life hasn't been good, like, at all, and a whileeee ago I saw a post about mental health and Logan and I saw the "rage episodes" part and I cannot find this post anymore which is killing me ughhhh but ANYWAY, this is my rendition of a rage episode. this was very therapeutic to write because of the things I went through recently and over the past few years as I have witnessed someone in my family have a rage episode like the one depicted in this fic. I really hope I do not offend anyone with this??? cause this is based on personal memory and also I've done a lot of research on it and as I said, I felt lots of different emotions while writing this....anyway...I hope you have a good time?? reading this or like...you didn't choke on your tears or whatever. my exams are ALMOST over which means....more fics soon?? see you!!

Masterlist

Logan never thought he’d make it this far.

He wasn’t the type for relationships—not real ones, not the kind that lasted. The ones he’d had before were brief, messy, and built on things that never stuck. But Y/N was different. She didn’t just put up with him; she understood him in ways that no one ever had. And somehow, despite everything, she was still here.

He didn’t say it much—not in words, anyway—but he cared about her. More than he should. More than he knew how to handle. He’d show it in other ways instead. Walking her home when she worked late. Holding her a little tighter in his sleep when he thought she wouldn’t notice. Memorizing the way she took her coffee, the songs she hummed under her breath, the way her nose scrunched up when she was thinking.

She saw through all of it.

"You’re not as grumpy as you think you are," she’d teased him once, her fingers lazily tracing patterns on his forearm.

He’d just snorted, shaking his head. "You sure about that?"

"Mhm. You just pretend to be."

And maybe she was right. Maybe, with her, he didn’t feel the need to pretend so much.

Which is why, one night, tangled up together in her apartment, she had said something that stuck with him.

"I was thinking… maybe one day, we could live together."

It wasn’t a question, not really. Just an idea, something she had tossed out so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. But Logan had frozen for just a second too long, and she must have noticed because she quickly added, "Not now, obviously. Just, you know… one day. If you’d want that."

He forced himself to relax, to keep his voice even. "Yeah… someday."

That had been enough for her. She had smiled, kissed him, and let it go.

But he didn’t.

It stayed with him, gnawed at him from the inside out. Someday. What did that even mean? A month? A year? What if she asked again? What if she expected something from him?

What if he said yes and fucked everything up?

At first, he managed to push the thought aside.

Days passed, and nothing changed. They still met up when they could, still spent nights tangled in each other’s arms, still fell into that easy rhythm that had become so natural.

But then, the idea started sticking.

It crept up in quiet moments—when he was alone in his apartment, staring at the ceiling. When Y/N texted him goodnight, and he imagined what it would be like if she was just… there.

And that’s when it started. The overthinking. The doubts. The realization of everything that could go wrong.

Logan had never had anything that lasted. Not a home. Not a real future. Not someone who stayed. And if he let himself believe—even for a second—that this could work, that he could have something good, then he’d just be setting himself up for the inevitable.

Because eventually, he would hurt her.

Not on purpose. Never on purpose. But he knew himself. He knew what he was.

His nightmares alone were enough proof of that.

The thought of waking up next to her after one of those nights—claws unsheathed, sheets shredded, breath ragged—made his stomach twist. What if he lashed out? What if she got caught in it?

What if one of his rage episodes got out of hand?

No.

He couldn’t let that happen.

So when months later she asked about it again—actually asked—he hesitated.

They were sitting on her couch, her legs thrown over his lap, a movie playing in the background. It was the kind of easy, quiet moment that usually put him at ease. But this time, he could feel her looking at him, like she was weighing her words before speaking.

"You never really answered me before," she said finally. "Do you actually want us to live together?"

Logan’s jaw tightened. He could hear the uncertainty in her voice, like she was scared of his answer.

He should have told her the truth. That it had been eating him alive for months. That he wanted to say yes, but his fear screamed louder than anything else.

Instead, he said, "I just need some time to think about it."

Y/N’s expression didn’t change. She just nodded slowly, studying him in that way that made his skin itch.

"Okay," she said, like she didn’t believe him.

And then she squeezed his hand. Just briefly. A small, warm reassurance.

But to Logan, it didn’t change anything.

He could only see what he thought was disappointment behind her understanding. He convinced himself she was just trying to be strong about it, pretending it didn’t hurt her when really, she was just waiting for him to figure himself out.

The guilt settled in his chest, heavy and suffocating.

That’s how it started.

The beginning is always subtle. He stayed out later, made excuses when she asked to meet up. His texts became shorter, more infrequent. He spent more time alone in his apartment, staring at the walls, trapped inside his own head.

And the longer it went on, the worse it got.

Logan convinced himself it was nothing. He was just thinking. That’s all.

But the thoughts never stopped.

Every time Y/N messaged him, guilt curled in his stomach like a sickness. He’d stare at his phone for minutes at a time, fingers hovering over the keyboard, before locking the screen and tossing it onto the couch.

He didn’t want to ignore her. But if he answered, he’d have to talk, and if he talked, she’d hear it in his voice—how torn he was, how he could barely keep himself together. And he couldn’t let that happen.

So he let the distance grow.

He told himself it was for her own good. That he was doing her a favor.

That lie worked for about a week.

Then came the restlessness.

The apartment, always too small, started feeling like a cage. Logan found himself pacing the length of it, muscles coiled so tight they ached. He tried training to burn it off—push-ups until his arms gave out, running until he couldn't feel his legs—but it didn’t help.

The frustration built like pressure under his skin, like a ticking bomb he couldn’t disarm.

And worst of all, he felt it creeping up—an old, familiar feeling, something he’d kept at bay for months.

The anger.

It started small. A twitch in his fingers. A tightness in his jaw. A heat in his chest that never fully went away.

The second week, it got worse.

His hands trembled when he wasn’t paying attention. His breathing came too fast, too shallow, like something was crawling under his skin. He felt his temper snap quicker, his patience wear thinner.

And then, one morning, he caught his reflection in the bathroom mirror and barely recognized himself.

Dark circles burned under his eyes. His face was drawn, sharp, his shoulders tense. He looked haunted.

It was getting bad. Too bad.

He needed to see Y/N.

The thought hit him like a slap. His first instinct was to shove it down, bury it under everything else, but it wouldn’t leave.

He missed her. But worse than that—he needed her.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Because what if he showed up, and she looked at him the way he looked at himself?

What if she finally saw him for what he really was?

A monster. A wreck. A lost cause.

The fear made his blood run cold.

The first punch isn’t planned.

One second, he’s gripping the sink, breath ragged, jaw locked so tight it aches. The next, his fist slams into the mirror with a force that shatters it instantly.

Glass rains down like ice. Tiny shards bite into his knuckles, but he barely feels it.

His chest heaves. His heartbeat pounds against his ribs. He stares at his own fractured reflection—his face split into a dozen broken pieces, each one warped, wrong.

It’s not enough.

The rage claws higher, burning his veins, crushing his ribs. He steps back, breathing sharp and uneven. He moves away from the bathroom, into his small living room. And then he snaps.

The lamp goes flying first. It crashes against the far wall, exploding into pieces. The chair follows. He barely registers the sound it makes as it shatters.

His claws threaten to unsheathe, but he fights it—barely.

Instead, he tears through the apartment with nothing but his hands.

The table gets overturned. Books get ripped from shelves. His dresser—too heavy, too solid—takes three violent attempts before it topples over with a thunderous crack.

Still, it’s not enough.

He needs to break something. To hurt something. To feel it.

His breathing is ragged, his vision tunneling. His hands tangle in his own hair, yanking, as if he could pull himself out of his own skin.

The storm inside him is suffocating.

It doesn’t stop until there’s nothing left standing.

And then, silence.

His shoulders tremble. His hands curl into fists at his sides, still shaking.

He looks around, blinking through the haze, and finally sees it—

The wreckage.

His apartment is destroyed.

He stares, breath coming too fast, too shallow. His head is spinning. His chest aches.

What have I done?

The thought slams into him, knocking the air from his lungs.

He wants to scream. To punch something again. To disappear.

And then—

A soft knock.

His stomach drops.

He goes rigid, pulse hammering in his ears. He barely has time to process before her voice follows—gentle, uncertain.

"Logan?"

No. No, no, no.

She can’t be here. Not now. Not when the air still vibrates with rage. Not when his body still hums with it.

He staggers back, breath shaking, trying to make sense of anything.

She knocks again. "I know you’re here."

Panic surges through him.

He grips the edge of the still standing counter, heart hammering. Think. Think.

But his mind is blank.

She can’t see this. She can’t see him.

But she’s already here.

And it’s too late.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. If he stays completely still, maybe she’ll leave. Maybe she’ll assume he’s out and walk away.

But then—

His phone rings.

The sound shatters the silence like a gunshot.

His stomach drops.

Shit.

His body jolts into motion, eyes darting wildly through the wreckage. Where the hell is it? He moves without thinking, shoving aside broken furniture, tossing clothes and debris out of the way. His hands are unsteady, frantic, as he digs through the mess.

The ringing continues.

Come on, come on—

His fingers finally close around the device, and he scrambles to turn it off, but—

The damage is done.

Outside, Y/N goes silent.

A few seconds pass, then—

"...Logan?" Her voice is softer now. Knowing.

His chest tightens.

He grips the phone so hard it creaks in his hand. His breathing is too loud, his pulse a hammer against his skull.

She knows.

"Logan, open the door."

No. No, no, she can’t.

"You can’t come in," he blurts out, his voice hoarse. He clears his throat, tries to steady himself, but it’s useless. His hands are still shaking. His entire body is.

"Please." Her voice is so gentle it cuts through him like a blade.

"Just—just go home, alright?" He forces the words out, presses his back against the door like he can physically hold her out. "I’m fine."

He knows how it sounds. Knows she doesn’t believe it.

"Logan…"

There’s something in her tone—something aching—that makes his stomach twist.

"You’re not fine," she says, quiet but firm. "Please. Just let me in."

He squeezes his eyes shut. His head is spinning.

She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t see this.

But she is.

And deep down, he knows. She’s the better option. She always has been. And with a sharp breath, his fingers fumble with the lock.

The second it clicks, the door opens.

And Y/N steps inside.

The air was thick with dust and the sharp scent of splintered wood.

The apartment—once messy in a charming, lived-in way—was destroyed. Furniture overturned, glass shattered across the floor.

In the middle of it all stood Logan. Frozen. Shaking. Like an animal cornered after ripping itself apart.

Y/N didn’t hesitate. Her heart ached so violently in her chest it almost knocked the air from her lungs, but she didn’t hesitate.

Carefully stepping over the broken glass, she made her way to him. Her hands reached out—gentle, slow—like approaching something fragile.

“Logan,” she breathed.

He flinched at her voice. His hands, bloody and trembling, curled into fists at his sides, as if trying to hold himself together. He wouldn’t look at her. Couldn’t.

But Y/N wasn't afraid. Not of him. Never of him.

She checked his hands first, ghosting her fingers over his knuckles, over shallow cuts that were already starting to heal. It didn’t matter—they could have hurt. She still touched him with the same care she would have used on something broken beyond repair.

“Come here,” she whispered, finding a chair that hadn’t been completely wrecked. She kicked aside some debris, made enough space, then turned back to him.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even seem to breathe.

So she went to him and she led him by the hand—gently, so gently—until he sat down with a heavy, defeated thud.

Y/N disappeared into the kitchen for a second, somehow finding a clean cloth and wetting it with cold water. When she came back, Logan hadn't moved. His eyes were empty, far away, like he wasn’t really there.

Kneeling in front of him, she pressed the damp cloth to his face, wiping away the blood, the dirt, the sweat.

He flinched again at first—then, slowly, surrendered to her touch. His head bowed forward, his whole body trembling under her hands. Tears fell down his cheeks. Silent. Endless. He didn’t even seem to notice them.

Y/N caught every tear with the cloth, and when that wasn’t enough, with the soft brush of her thumb against his skin. She kissed the corner of his mouth so lightly he barely felt it, her hands cradling his face like he was something precious.

“It’s okay,” she murmured, over and over again. “I’m here. You’re okay.”

Logan let out a breath that sounded like it hurt to release. His shoulders collapsed inward, and for a moment, he leaned into her, desperate and broken. But even then, even shattered, a part of him tried to pull away. He didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve her.

“You shouldn’t be,” he rasped, voice thick with guilt and misery.

Y/N’s heart twisted, but she didn’t loosen her hold. She shook her head and pressed her forehead gently to his. Her hands threaded through his hair, slow and steady, grounding him.

"I’ll always be here," she whispered.

And that—That broke him all over again.

Logan choked on a sob, rough and ugly, and Y/N gathered him close. She guided him toward the bedroom, somehow navigating the wreckage without letting go of him, like if she let go, he might fall apart completely.

They reached the bed—half wrecked but still standing—and she urged him to sit.

He obeyed, dazed and exhausted.

She climbed behind him, pulling him against her chest, holding him the way you would hold someone drowning. Her hands never stopped moving—through his hair, over his face, down his chest—silent promises written into every touch.

Logan tried to speak—tried to tell her he was sorry, that he was dangerous, that he should be alone—but the words tangled in his throat.

Instead, he cried.

For everything he was.

For everything he wasn’t.

For everything he was terrified to lose.

And she listened. Patient. Endless.

Her tears fell into his hair as she presses soft kisses there and whispered, “I’ve got you, Logan. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

For the first time in days—maybe longer—he believed her.

He stayed there, trembling in her arms, every breath a struggle. He was exhausted—but he couldn’t close his eyes. Couldn’t let himself fall into sleep, not yet. Not when every part of him screamed that he didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve her.

Y/N must have sensed it—the way he was still locked in the fight, even as his body sagged against her. Because after a long moment, she leaned back just enough to look at him, her fingers brushing through his hair again, slow and soothing.

"Logan," she said softly, "let’s go to my place, okay?"

Her voice was a balm, warm and certain, like she was offering him a lifeline he didn’t think he deserved.

"We’ll come back here when you're ready," she promised. "We'll clean up together. But right now, you need a place that feels safe."

Safe.

The word hit him like a punch.

Logan stiffened, guilt flaring so hard it made his stomach churn. He shook his head, tearing away from her touch even though it hurt to do it.

"I can’t," he rasped, his voice cracking. "I’ll... I'll just wreck that too."

Y/N’s chest squeezed painfully. Logan’s fists curled again, self-hatred bleeding out of every line of his body.

"I could—" he swallowed hard, his throat burning, "I could hurt you."

He didn’t say again. But it was there, unspoken.

He was a monster. A ticking bomb. Someone who could tear everything good apart without even meaning to.

But Y/N. She just reached for him again, steady and unwavering, like a lighthouse cutting through the storm.

"You won’t," she said, firm but gentle. "You won't because you're not alone. Because you don’t have to fight this alone anymore."

She squeezed his hand, grounding him back into her.

"And even if you still don’t believe it," she whispered, "even if you push me away, even if you try to shut me out... I’m not leaving you, Logan. Not now. Not ever."

Logan’s breathing hitched. He shook his head again, broken. "You don’t get it," he choked out. "I’m not... I'm not worth it. You should walk away. You should've walked away the second you saw—" He gestured weakly at the wreckage, at the wreck of himself.

But Y/N only moved closer. Closer until he couldn't look anywhere without seeing her. Feeling her.

"I saw you," she said, voice thick with emotion. "Not the mess. You."

That shattered something deep in him. Not in a violent way. In a way that stripped him down to the raw truth beneath all the pain: He needed her. He wanted her. He loved her more than he even knew how to say.

And she loved him right back, with a kind of love so fierce it scared him more than anything else in the world. But it also saved him.

Slowly, hesitantly, Logan reached for her again. His hand fisted in the back of her shirt like he was terrified she might vanish if he didn’t hold on tight enough. And when she leaned into him, wrapping him up in her arms again, he buried his face in her neck, letting himself finally, finally fall into her.

Maybe he didn’t deserve her. Maybe he never would.

But she was here. And for tonight, at least, that was enough.

She kept her arms around him for a long moment, just breathing with him. When she finally pulled back, it was only to cup his face in both hands, her thumb brushing gently across his cheek.

"Stay here," she whispered. "Don’t move, okay? I’ll be right back."

Logan didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He just nodded faintly, like a man barely clinging to the surface.

Y/N kissed his forehead so softly it made his chest ache, then she stood up, stepping carefully over the wreckage as she made her way back into the main room. He watched her go, guilt gnawing at him.

In the living room, Y/N moved quickly but carefully. She picked up the sharp shards of the broken mirror first, wrapping them in a towel before tossing them safely into the trash. She pushed splintered wood and broken glass out of the pathways, clearing a narrow, safe space from the bedroom to the front door. She closed the shattered shutters as best she could, dimming the room so that when Logan would come back here later, it wouldn't feel so raw. So exposed.

She worked with quiet determination, her heart breaking a little more every time she caught sight of the destruction. Not because she cared about the mess, but because she could feel how much pain Logan must've been in to cause it.

When she was satisfied that nothing dangerous remained, she made her way back to the bedroom.

Logan was still sitting exactly where she left him, on the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped and hands loosely clenched in his lap.

Y/N’s heart squeezed.

She didn’t say anything at first. Instead, she moved around the room, finding a worn duffel bag tucked under the bed. She gently packed what she could: clothes that weren’t destroyed, a couple of small things she knew mattered to him.

In the bathroom, it was harder—cracked tiles, broken shelves—but she found his toothbrush, some of his toiletries, a couple of personal items, and tucked them into the bag too.

The whole time, Logan stayed silent, waiting on the edge of the bed.

It felt unreal. Like he wasn’t sure any of this was happening. Like any second now, she’d realize who he really was and walk out that door forever.

But she didn’t. She zipped the bag closed, slinging it over her shoulder and when she turned to him, her expression was still soft. Still his.

"Alright," she said gently. "Let’s go."

Logan hesitated, his body locked between guilt and the pull of her voice. But then she held out her hand to him and after a long, trembling second, Logan reached out and took it.

Her fingers wrapped tightly around his, like a promise.

She led him out of the bedroom, guiding him carefully around the worst of the wreckage she’d cleared, never letting go of his hand. Out the door. Out of the prison his fear had made.

The walk to Y/N’s apartment was quiet.

She kept a steady hand on Logan the whole time, whether it was gripping his hand, brushing his arm, or gently guiding him through doors and up steps.

Logan didn’t speak. He felt hollowed out and brittle, like if she let go of him even for a second, he might just blow away with the night wind.

When they finally reached her door, she unlocked it quickly, ushering him inside with a tenderness that made his throat ache.

The apartment smelled like her. Warm. Safe.

Home.

She kicked off her shoes by the entrance but didn’t ask him to do the same. Instead, she led him straight to the couch, easing him down carefully like he might break if she moved him too fast.

"Stay right here," she said softly, brushing his hair back from his forehead. "I'll be back in a second."

He nodded numbly, watching her flit around the small space. She pulled out a fresh blanket, fluffed a pillow behind him, checked the thermostat to make sure the place was warm enough. Every move was made with him in mind—with the kind of care he didn’t think he deserved.

And maybe he didn't. Maybe he was fooling himself to think he could have this. Have her.

As she moved into her bedroom to grab some extra clothes he could borrow, Logan’s eyes wandered without meaning to.

Her apartment was small but filled with life—books, photos, cozy little touches everywhere. He caught sight of something pinned to the fridge and frowned. He pushed himself up a little and squinted.

It was a photo. Worn and creased from being touched so often.

It was him. Him and her.

A candid photo from some random night he barely remembered, probably taken when they'd gone out for drinks with some of her friends. In it, he was looking off to the side, a rare, unguarded smile on his face. And she was laughing, leaning into him like she belonged there. Like she'd always belonged there. Someone had drawn a little heart under the picture.

Logan's chest tightened so hard it hurt. He hadn't even known she had that picture.

Y/N came back just then, carrying some sweatpants and a soft hoodie, but paused when she saw him up, looking at the fridge.

"Logan?" she said gently, setting the clothes down.

He shook his head, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. Trying to breathe past the crushing guilt and the unbearable love that wrapped around him like chains. He sat back down on the couch.

"I..." he started hoarsely. He dragged a hand down his face, then gritted out, "I don't deserve this. I don't deserve you."

Y/N didn’t hesitate. She dropped to her knees in front of him, cupping his face in her hands again, forcing him to look at her.

"Listen to me," she whispered, voice trembling but sure. "You’re not a monster. You’re not broken beyond saving. You are good, Logan. And you don’t have to do this alone anymore."

He squeezed his eyes shut, a broken sound escaping him—part sob, part plea.

"I could hurt you," he rasped. "I could—"

"You won't," she said fiercely. "I trust you. I know you."

Her thumbs brushed away the tears he didn't even realize were falling again.

For a long, trembling moment, Logan didn’t move. Didn't even breathe.

And then, like a man surrendering a battle he never wanted to fight in the first place, he leaned into her touch. Collapsed against her.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he let himself believe he wasn't beyond saving.

Not as long as she was here. Not as long as she was holding him like this.

Logan’s body was heavy against hers, all tense lines and shuddering breaths. For a moment, he let himself rest there, forehead pressed to her shoulder, letting her hands ground him—gentle strokes along his back, soothing circles at the nape of his neck.

But then, as always, the guilt clawed its way back up his throat.

He shifted, starting to pull away.

"I—I should go," he muttered roughly, not even knowing where he thought he could go in this state. "I’ll just—I’ll sleep on the floor. Or— or the couch."

Y/N immediately tightened her hold.

"What are you talking about..." she said, firm but gentle, her hands sliding up to cradle his face again. "You're not going anywhere."

He shook his head, a pained sound escaping him, "You don’t—You shouldn't have to—" His voice cracked under the weight of it. "Look at me, Y/N."

"I am," she whispered, her thumb stroking just beneath his eye, brushing away a tear. "And all I see is the man I love."

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing ragged.

She didn’t let him turn away. Didn’t let him fall back into that pit.

"You're staying right here," she said again, softer this time, like a promise. "With me."

For a second, he was frozen.

Then Y/N pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, lingering there.

"Come on," she murmured against his skin. "Let’s get you comfortable, alright?"

He nodded weakly, too exhausted to resist anymore.

She helped him out of his ruined jacket, guiding him with slow, careful movements like he was made of glass. He let her pull the sleeves down his arms, let her tug the hoodie over his head. Every touch was tender, every glance full of nothing but care and patience.

She handed him the fresh sweatpants and shirt she'd found earlier, giving him the dignity of changing in the bathroom if he wanted— but he just stood there, trembling, needing her near.

So she stayed. Helping him change, steadying his shaking hands when they fumbled with the fabric.

Once he was in clean clothes, Y/N led him to her bed.

The second he sat down, the mattress dipping under his weight, he seemed to lose what little strength he had left. He dropped his head into his hands, shoulders heaving with silent breaths.

Y/N knelt down again in front of him, brushing her fingers through his hair with infinite gentleness.

"You’re safe now," she whispered. "You’re safe. I’ve got you."

Logan swallowed hard, blinking back another wave of tears. He was so fucking tired. Of fighting. Of hurting.

Tired of believing he didn’t deserve this.

Slowly—so slowly—he lifted his head.

And she was there. Still there. Still looking at him like he was worth staying for.

"I’ll stay," he rasped, voice breaking.

Her smile trembled, but it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Good," she breathed, wiping another tear from his cheek. "That's all I want."

She climbed into bed beside him, pulling the blankets over them, never once letting go of his hand.

And for the first time in what felt like a lifetime, Logan let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have to be alone anymore.

XXX

feel free to comment if you want a part 2 or any other request!!

#fanfiction #fandom #ao3 #logan howlett x reader #deadpool and wolverine #marvel cinematic universe #logan howlett #wolverine x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett imagine #xmen fanfiction #xmen x reader #deadpool 3 #logan x reader #x men movies #xmen fanart #x men

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drabbletron · 1 day ago

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Time of Need: First Aid X Reader FLUFF

|| Just having fun with some friends (@hoiststowline and @dommiso) and a prompt we made while we were chatting on discord. Enjoy! ||

Prompt: A bot runs an important item up to your place of work.

It was pretty easy to miss if he hadn't seen you with it before. An inconspicuous black notebook, spiral bound and plenty used if he had to guess sat tucked under a data pad at his work station. You'd kept it with you at all times, so he's certain you had to have been in a rush to forget it like that. He picks it up and turns it over to see pen scribbles all over the back of it. Little doodles of plants and animals and a few sketches of his medic badge. He's be hard pressed to admit that he did the same thing. First Aid knew you had to be busy today too, what with all the new environmental laws in place. He'd better get this to you so you can do your work proper. He tells Ambulon and the others he's taking a break and sets off to your work site. By the time he's made it to rolling down the dirt road you've already called him three times. The first time to see if he'd seen it, the second to ask him if he's sure he wants to bring it, and the third to check and make sure he knew where he was going. Patience it's your strong suit it seems. No matter, he will be the one to put you at ease when he brings you that much needed notebook. Once he's pulled up outside the low building he's rethinking how out of place he actually looks. A red and white ambulance, no sirens or lights, just parked at a building with what looks to be not a lot of employees in the middle of nowhere. Good thing he's determined to help you. First Aid sucks up whatever reservations he has and activates his holomatter avatar. A moderate looking female human with bright red hair, big blue glasses, and a surgeons mask. He gives himself a once over in his mirror and heaves a sigh. Maybe the mask is too much? You're a scientist though and this is a lab. Humans wear those here right? Before he can question he's appearance you're already calling him a fourth time. "Hello, I'm outside." "I can see that," you laugh. Of course you would laugh, "People are wondering what an ambulance is doing out here. I'd get inside if I were you." The folks at your work must be bored or something because he's only been out here for a few minutes at most. "I'm on my way." First Aid hops down from his cab and makes his way to what he assumes is the front doors. You're already standing at just inside and opening the door to meet him. "Ooh! Who's this cutie coming up to my work?" First Aid tries to stop the smile from spreading over his face. He always did like them a little flirty. "I have your notebook," he reaches into his lab coat and fishes it out to give to you, not failing to notice you grazing his hand in yours as you take it. "Thanks Aid. You really didn't have to. I know you're busy and all." "It's no trouble, really. I'm glad I can help, and if I'm being honest," he steps forward to invade your personal bubble while pulling down his mask, "I'm glad I get to see you." Without a second thought you lean in and plant a sweet kiss over his scarlet lips. There's an odd tingle considering the avatar is made of light, but it's still real enough to give you and him both butterflies. "I'll see you at base then?" "Maybe after one more kiss," you smirk pulling him in again by the lab coat.

#maccadam #mtmte #transformers #mtmte x reader #transformers x reader #tf mtmte #valveplug #tf first aid #mtmte first aid #idw first aid x reader #idw first aid #mtmte first aid x reader #first aid x reader #tf first aid x reader

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polychaeteworm · 2 days ago

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Yeah this is a common sentiment among the garden folks in my area. The pest control culture is a symptom of colonialism and the way it disconnects humans from the environment, but I'm sure that's obvious on this thread.

I'm willing to bet that guy thinks red paper wasps are aggressive because wasps remember faces and exterminators are clearly genocidal murderers in their eyes. They attack threats. Just don't be a threat. It's easier than you think.

The waps at my garden center workplace are very smart about people.

Because I give them space and understanding, They land on me and drink my sweat sometimes (I'm not a fan but it's harmless and I try to be chill about it, I'm sharing electrolytes after all) but otherwise the only reason they even get close is because I'm holding a plant they are interested in.

They can see me stocking and they will stick to the plants I set down once I'm in a rhythm. They sometimes seem excited for certain plants. I must look like a meadow building creature to them or something.

They prevented the kale from getting devoured by green caterpillars because they were constantly hunting among the leaves. I call them coworkers.

When people say they hate wasps, in order to get them to even begin to understand, I'll ask:

"do you hate cabbage white flies eating your crops more?" And they usually go "oooooh they eat the caterpillars????? Omg I had no idea. That's actually pretty awesome"

Yes, things eat things and bugs do exist to do other things besides bother you! It's so cool and I love to watch people realize it.

But honestly the most disconnected take I've ever heard was

Customer: I'm looking for flower seeds

My manager: oh you're a little late for our flower seeds, they get bought up in February. We do have this honey bee mix tho-

Customer: oh no! No! I don't want bees!

Me and manager together: *surprised Pikachu face*

Me: all flowers attract bees I'm sorry to say.

Customer: well I'm just not looking to encourage it.

Ok.

Like ma'am.

What the fuck do you think flowers exist for? And you don't want to encourage your flowers to be pollinated? Are you ok?

If you're allergic to bees or something serious, keep a fern! Or one of those fussy tropicals that doesn't give you a flower until you pray and cry upon it for ten years.

The busy little ladies are making honey and collecting pollen, they care not about you. Look at how fuzzy they are, how can you fear something that must kill itself to harm you?

That poor pest control guy did not know what he was getting into, but given the state of my yard i feel like he should have known what he was getting into.

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starrythroat · 2 days ago

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hard vs soft rant

So I had a big draft on my opinion on soft magic systems vs hard magic systems, but after giving it some time to breath I decided to make a shorter one instead

Disclaimer: I won't talk here about how I believe people should write their fictional settings or to behave with each other or what are the differences between writing for yourself vs writing for yourself and sharing vs writing for others or when criticism is appropriate etc etc. In general, I strongly believe that people should worldbuild the way they want

I don't go there, but i get this vibe from some worldbuilding communities that soft magic systems in tandem with high fantasy is for lazy or not intelligent enough people and is equal to avoiding research, because real chads do tectonic plates maps and plan out planetary system and every magic Is just a technology we don't understand etc

And I don't like this approach very much. As a person who does map plate tectonics for their settings, I'm not talking about lore writing mode itself, but rather about how it's presented to other people sometimes as something superior, especially in such discipline as writing magic systems

Yes, I agree that researching in general can make your setting more rich, because I believe the more interesting things you know the more you can share with people or ponder with yourself, and also as someone with very poor fantasy I have hard times imagining people being able to make up stuff without research. BUT i have some points of my opinion i want to share:

well-researched setting doesn't necessary mean natural sciences research or hard magic system presence. example: history of esotericism, sociology, psychology, history of sciences, religion etc etc

well-researched natural science does doesn't necessary mean this science is used as it is, for building a planet for example. instead it can be placed as a metaphor or subject of thoughts \ praise etc

hard-magic system are often praised for being more realistic, close to our universe. but in most cases i think it might feel realistic because of thought put into logic of it and because of familiar to audience pop science concepts. I don't believe something built on like university course number of hours in science research for a setting has high chances of being "realistic", especially when in final product you can see magic action and be able to immediately "understand" how It works from for example physics pov after reading only through few pages! If it was true, everyone could get up to date phd in all sciences in like one year of studies and you wouldn't need science communicators

or in other words: when you're able to explain to the reader your "science-based" magic system in a few pages of lore drop, any other fictional magic logic will do as well. yes, throwing in some stuff that reader might recognize might create a little bit of extra illusion of "ohh were speaking REAL research here" but you must realize that's a trick and not something that makes you better than other worldbuilders

humanity haven't deciphered how "our world works" if it's even possible. yet a lifetime of 24\7 studying won't be NEARLY enough for you to read about all the data we have gathered and what theories we have built, but some people believe that supplemental research for your fictional setting, often done not full-time, without doing math and studies, through pop science 20 min long videos, can somehow almost close the gap and elevate people who do that above people who spend time on other stuff in their setting

I might even argue that realistically all the "hard magic systems" should look like soft magic for at least in-universe non magic users, and for the readers themselves, unless you want to make magic manual from pov of learning wizard without any narrative, if we're playing the game at being very pedantic about this

It's not a new thought, but in my opinion, as in drawing, creating satisfying for brain magical system is about composition: harmony of order and disorder, actions with predictable outcome vs actions with unpredictable outcome in a nice proportion, weaved in narrative in a pleasing way in a same manner as any other possible event is treated in the story, because any magic will feel unnatural in the story if it's placed in a wrong place

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the-gnoblin · 2 days ago

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Dracula Daily Digest: May 5

Annotations:

Jonathan is back in business which is to say he keeps writing down recipes.

I saw this posted somewhere else but the number one thing about reading Dracula is just appreciating the dramatic irony of all the characters in Dracula not knowing they're characters in Dracula. Case in point: "(Mem., I must ask the Count about these superstitions)" in regards to the landlady and the coach driver discussing vampires and the occult. Like, Jonathan, you've got a big storm coming.

Speaking of big storms coming, uhh, Jonathan, let's think about our life and the decisions that led us to this point. A crowd just "made the sign of the cross and pointed two fingers towards [you]." That's nOT GOOD.

We have some more Jonathan characterization which is to say further emphasis on his curiosity. Even with all the locals acting like he's a dead man walking, he's able to become so entranced in the countryside that he forgets about all the bizarre happenings of the last three days. He even gets distracted in his distraction by sharing fun trivia about the region! He's too precious for this world, and this preciousness is 100% being established for some juicy character contrast later.

I can sense something significant in Jonathan being offered so many outs by the people surrounding him. Of course there's the immediate significance of "hey idiot that's Dracula's castle you're going to, I'm a human person with an at least half-functioning conscience and I don't want you to die," but I feel like there's some thematic significance that I'm too tired to legitimately ponder.

Another top comedy moment: Dracula pretending to be a service worker.

"...a long, agonised wailing, as if from fear." I am the number one fan of this imagery. Holy cow. Stunning. I don't even know why I like it so much. I think it's because of the chilling tone it helps to establish, but honestly it could be just how classically "horror" it reads.

Initially I thought that Jonathan just kind of brushing off Dracula's weird little Road Moments was really confusing and frankly dumb on his part, but it's actually made more sense to me on this read through, particularly with my emphasis on the "otherness" of this world. Over the last three days, we've seen Jonathan be constantly bombarded with strange and unsettling and unfamiliar behaviors, all of which he seems to be simply chalking up to regional differences. He doesn't find Dracula's behavior on the road to be dangerously odd because he's already been inoculated to confusing behaviors by the townspeople.

"I stood in silence where I was, for I did not know what to do." Me too, bud, me too.

I find Dracula's first explicit introduction to be very uncanny. I think he falls really interestingly into the uncanny valley. He's described in a far more traditionally western way than the rest of the setting so far, which puts Jonathan and by extension the reader into much more familiar territory, but there's something off about him that raises our hackles a bit. His clothes, though nice and more familiar, are all black without a speck of color. His hair, though neatly trimmed, is starkly white. A really concise example of this contrast can be found in Jonathan's description of his speech: "...in excellent English, but with a strange intonation...." Dracula is simply so close and yet so far from Jonathan's known world that he is able to plunge into new depths of his unknown world.

This unsettling nature is only emphasized by Jonathan's later careful examination of the Count's appearance. There is something viscerally upsetting to me about the way Dracula is described here, and that's definitely on purpose. This description also serves to establish a physical baseline for Dracula (specifically his "general [affect of] extraordinary pallor"), the contrast of which will be used to create creeping horror later on in the novel.

Dracula's comments about the wolves and their "music" also helps establish that uncanny contrast I talked about earlier. Up until this point, the Count has been a welcoming and fairly normal host. These comments of his serve as an additional reminder to Jonathan that he is not in a familiar place, and certainly not a safe one.

"I doubt; I fear; I think strange things, which I dare not confess to my own soul." Glad to see that that famous Jonathan Harker Repression was able to make an appearance.

Sorry for the longer notes. My brain was absolutely flowing in terms of stuff to yap about today so I had a grand time. Today is also definitely a really important moment in the story because you know things are about to get real when you meet your titular character.

#dracula daily #dracula daily digest #dracula daily may 5 #dracula #jonathan harker #i can see my man's hope slipping out of his fingers #hes beginning to change

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onewit-torulethem-all · 2 days ago

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*cracks knuckles*

Our watchwords here are Inaccessible and Uninteresting. What we're gonna do is build a group of monasteries far away from each other. Let's say five monasteries. The kind of places on mountains, on islands, deep in forests. The Amulet of the Dark Lord is going to a random one of these monasteries. Like, make four identical Amulets, put each into a box, mix up the boxes, and send them with the rest of the materials. The boxes are filled with rolls of rough flimsy toilet paper. (Why rough toilet paper? Because it's too important to throw out or leave on the side of the road, but not desirable enough to get used. It will be kept in case toilet paper runs out, but we will supply each monastery build site with a lot of much nicer toilet paper.) The boxes are each guarded by elite guards disguised as plain clothes builders among the rest of the workers - with two subgroups within each group of builders who don't know about each other. That way, if the corrupting force goes for one or both groups, they will be busy fighting each other long enough for cooler heads to notice and swoop in and stop it.

Then, we have each of those five toilet paper boxes put in the basement, under floorboards, with a few barrels of dried boring foods on the floor where they're hidden. It should be food appropriate to the region, but unappealing, and ideally heavy to move.

Then we invite all the builders to celebrations in an unrelated area, and we cast mind-altering spells on them that eliminate any knowledge of the toilet paper boxes.

Next, we start the monks on their religious journey. But here's the thing: monasteries attract former criminals seeking redemption, third sons of nobles with no lands to inherit, people who just got out of pyramid schemes, those types. These people will easily be corrupted. So how do we prevent this? Obviously, we have to introduce something that makes this religion unpopular, something no one would want to do to achieve spiritual enlightenment. No drinking doesn't work, some people don't like alcohol. Celibacy doesn't work, asexuals exist and are valid. My suggestion: practitioners of this religion must not scratch any physical itch they have. Head itchy? Don't scratch. Got a mosquito bite? Don't fucking scratch it.

Obviously, this religion will not get popular. We're hoping it dies out in ten, maybe twenty years. We help it along by sending tax collectors to both check in on the place and take whatever money or valuables the monasteries have.

Now we have five crumbling monasteries in ancient, forgotten parts of the world with no earthly goods in them, dedicated to the world's most boring and unappealing religion, and with no one in existence who remembers that there's a supply of bland and unappealing food in the basement, and under that supply of bland and unappealing food is a box, and in that box is a bunch of flimsy scratchy toilet paper, and under that flimsy scratchy toilet paper is an Amulet that has a one-in-five chance of having a Dark Lord in it.

Game, set, match.

Ok, ok, hypothetical. You and your party have sealed the great evil demonlord in an amulet.

You are a canny adventurer, and have heard many a tale of artifacts like these that end in tragedy, either from some corruptive force emanating from them or some dickhead finding where the thing was hidden and breaking the demonlord free.

You're going to be smarter than those chumps. What do you do to safeguard the amulet and keep the evil sealed for good?

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the-astronome · 2 days ago

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Found a curious little thing in P3 Quarantine, which took me aback ngl

This is going to be quite a post, but I won’t place a tldr because I’m an annoying asshole (scroll down the post, the aforementioned detail is there)

Those who played P1 know that the game was always very vague about its time period. I covered it in another post of mine, but basically Patho Classic takes different features and aesthetics from several decades, namely from the 1910s and up to the 1940s. This is augmented even more by the subtle references to real literature/media/events, which created a sense of the game world being weirdly familiar but you couldn’t grasp what exactly made you feel this way.

Patho 2 (especially the Marble Nest) writing became less subtle, with open (or not that obscured) references to real events and literature. One of the brightest examples is Artemy’s mentioning of the Civil War continuing for the third year already ("Уже третий год идёт гражданская война.". That's a touch quote for the revolver). And this immediately “lands you back to earth” in a way; you understand “Well, this must be the early 1920s then” (obviously with the assumption that it's the Russian Civil War we're talking about). This replica of Haruspex doesn’t necessarily break the immersion, but it makes the storytelling a bit more direct.

And then comes Patho 3 Quarantine. All that I’m going to talk about below started as a mere joke for myself: on Day 8, when the Bachelor tries to board a train, we find ourselves in the middle of the Steppe at night. A bright, full moon is shining.

We know that Pathologic takes place in September. Moreover, on Day 5, at Stillwater on Bachelor’s desk, there is a calendar, which indicates September 3rd (я календарь переверну-AHEM sorry). If this detail is anything to go by, this means the game starts on August 30th, therefore, Day 8 is September 6th.

You might say, “OP, but this might be just a random detail, that doesn’t mean anything”. HAHA do you think I’m called the astronome for nothing? Remember the full moon on Day 8? Assuming that we constrain our range of years to 1910-1940 (explained above), we can calculate for what years the moon was at its brightest on Day 8. Moreover, just the phase is not enough. We need to make sure that the moon was seen at night on that day (i.e. wasn’t below the horizon) on that latitude. I’m taking northern latitudes between 51 and 55 degrees, a typical coordinate for major Siberian cities (I’m taking Novosibirsk, Irkutsk and Ulan-Ude as references here).

I’m using Stellarium, but you can check it just with Google really (I did that as well), it will all have the same result. We have a full moon (or at least a phase close enough to it) for 1914 (phase 95.4%), 1922 (99.6%) and 1933 (96.8%). The moon is above the horizon, and tbh if I had the exact time when the Day 8 sequence happens, I would've tried to approximate the latitude used in the game (if there is one). Anyway, this is just a set of years. That's not that interesting, right? Would have been so, if not for the Bachelor's replica in dialogue with Filat.

(yea it's in russian ik) I'm talking about the second answer option (the highlighted one). There, Daniil inquires if the Termitary has been closed for the sixth day already, since Tuesday. This dialogue takes place on Day 5, September 3rd. Do you see where this is going? If September 3rd is the sixth day since the Termitary's closure, then it was sealed on August 29th. And it was Tuesday. Using New Style (i.e. Gregorian Calendar), August 29th was Tuesday in... 1922 and 1933. Using Old Style (after all, it was used in Russia until 1918), the closest ones are 1923 and 1934. In all honesty, if I were to choose just one of these years, it would be 1922. It makes sense in terms of the moon phase (it got the closest illumination percentage to the full moon, 99.6%). It coincides nicely with that Tuesday situation, assuming that in their country a Gregorian calendar is utilised. The game's aesthetics, Capital's architecture, and overall design are a clear reference to the European 1920s. More importantly, do you remember Artemy's note on the Civil War duration? Yes, technically, the Russian Civil War started in 1917/1918 (thus the third year is 1919/1920). However, I think this is where Pathologic gets back to its usual subtlety in writing. Indeed, the dates are not exact, but it's close enough to ring a bell for most players. Why did IPL include this in Quarantine? There is a certain chance that all the aforementioned details are not intentional and are just a mere coincidence. Maybe it's deliberate. This is, imo, a choice of the player. Eye of the beholder and all that. (for people who scrolled down without reading) Regardless, Pathologic 3 seems to take place in 1922 or, less likely, 1933. Now you are also burdened with the knowledge of it.

#ну давайте скажите мне что они не угорали всей студией когда ставили этот календарик с третьим сентября #im a professional overthinker as you can see #also when i see moon in media the first thing to do is to calculate the year #what astronomy does to a person #oh it never leaves you fellas #pathologic #pathologic 3 #мор утопия #pathologic 3 spoilers #даниил данковский #daniil dankovsky

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fanfic-obsessed · 2 days ago

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Time of His life

These last few weeks I have been drawn to strange reel apps where they appear to be taking hour to two hour long Korean dramas, breaking them up into 1-3 minute chunks and charging way too much after the first sevenish free reel (14-21 minutes). I have been drawn in because the Facebook Algorithm has apparently been paid to show these apps to me and I am a sucker for drama.

There was one that I watched last week where I thought, after it was done, ‘What if this…but Jaytim’. All the normal warnings about how this is not canon apply. Also I honestly don’t remember what the drama was called and everytime I watched clips the name of the characters was different.

Let's start off with a synopsis of the drama. We start with the death of the Heroine who had an arranged marriage to a man that is both very rich/powerful and has some kind of supernatural affliction that causes madness filled fits. Before her death, the Heroine did not like her husband. She considered him cold, controlling, and somewhat monstrous. The Heroine is then killed by her uncle, who had raised her but all he and his family wanted from her was her money. As a ghost the Heroine watches as her husband killed the people who killed her and her uncle, who paid for her to be killed. Then the husband surrounded her body with her favorite flowers and committed suicide by fire to join her in death. Watching as a ghost, the Heroine realized that her husband truly loved her and felt regret for how she treated him. As the fire burns the Heroine wakes up years earlier, on the day she was meant to marry her husband. She vows to treat her husband better and cut off the greedy family that would kill her. As the drama goes on she falls in love with her husband and they navigate life with the schemes of the greedy family members as well as an ex of the husband who wants to get back together with him (the husband is not interested). There is a twist toward the end where it is revealed the Ex’s family was the one who poisoned the husband with a poison that caused the supernatural powers and the fit of madness. At the end the husband also remembers what happened in the previous timeline, and the Heroine gets to apologize properly for her behavior and they live happily ever after.

Now Picture this: Jason is in the role of the heroine, Tim as the husband. I know what you are all thinking because I initially thought of Tim as the heroine as well. Bear with me a moment and let me set up how this works.

In the initial timeline Jason does not go searching for his mother. Between suspecting Jason of murder, though Bruce does eventually clear him, and the normal growing pains of teenagehood Jason and Bruce relationship is damaged but his birth certificate is just a little bit more damaged. When Jason is 16 Willis Todd gets out of prison, he and Sheila reconnect and realize that their son is now part of the Wayne family. At the same time Damian, aged up a few years (to be 10 years old when he arrived) to work for this timeline, arrives at Wayne manor and directs all of his aggression on the current Robin (Jason). Damian also, as it seems to Jason, replaces Jason in the entire family’s affection.

Willis and Sheila use this, playing Jason’s insecurities to draw him just far away from the Waynes that they can use him to access the Wayne family fortune (a lot of ‘oh they must pity you’ or ‘you are not really family to them’ kinda things). Shelia is good at maintaining that careful balance that would not see Jason break ties completely, and thus lose their access to the money, but also having Jason distrustful of the Wayne family and their motives, and likewise extremely trusting of Willis and Sheila. Jason even gives up Robin to Damian without being asked.

The Batfam do realize something is going on for Jason to be pulling away, but they are trying to be respectful. By the time they realize how far he has pulled it seems impossible to bridge the gap. In desperation Bruce arranges for Jason (age 20) to marry Tim Drake (let's pretend that this is considered a reasonable thing for Gotham Elite), hoping to tie him closer to the family. Willis and Sheila, realizing Tim Drake's net worth, encourage Jason to go through with it with the same disdain for Tims motives.

In this one Tim never becomes a Robin, but instead his hacking skills get the attention of Oracle whom he apprentices as Apollo. He is closer to the Birds of Prey than the Bat family in this but his character and skills are very well regarded by Batman and his brood. He has also been in love with Jason Todd since Tim was fifteen (Tim is two years younger than Jason). Jason is displeased and distrustful, borderline cruel to his new husband, encouraged by Willis and Sheila. Tim continues to treat Jason well but Jason is predisposed to taking the worst possible interpretation of everything Tim, the batfam (now including Cass and Steph), and particularly Bruce ever does.

This goes on until Jason is about 23 when he starts to lose trust in Willis and Sheila. Neither are stupid and realize that their gravy train is coming to an end. They decide to make one final score and drug Jason, selling him to a gang. The gang, in turn, sells Jason to the Joker (who was looking for someone to kill to blow off steam). The Joker beats him to death and is gone by the time that Apollo (Tim) finds Jason’s body. The entire process takes less than four hours. Unseen by the living Jason’s ghost is standing next to his corpse and gets to watch first hand as Apollo crumples at sight of Jaosn’s corpse and how carefully Tim picks up his body to bring him back to the manor.

Jason gets a front row seat to how the Batfam grieves him, and how his death destroyed them.

Though they all spread out to track down his murderers, it is Dick that finds the Joker. Dick beats the Joker to death with his bare hands but the Joker gets a few good hits in and Dick succumbs to his injuries moments after the Joker stops breathing.

Cass, Steph, and Damian (who had grown to love Jason as his brother) hunt down the gang that had sold Jason to the Joker, even Cass has no intention of abiding by the no kill rule. In their grief they are reckless. Between the three of them they kill 90% of the Gang, but there are just too many and all three die with a wish to join their dead brother. Unseen Jason’s ghost is sobbing in the corner.

It is Bruce Wayne, in the Batman suit but missing the cowl, that tracks down Willis and Sheila. It is Bruce and Batman together that breaks his no killing rule to slaughter the two people who had betrayed and hurt his son. The killing does the damage he always feared it would and sparked off a 12 hour rampage that ended with Commissioner Gordon having put Batman/Bruce down, permanently.

Back at the manor Babs had been coordinating when needed between Tim, who had only left Jason’s body long enough to collect Jason’s favorite flowers, and the hunting teams. She listened while everyone fell. She was the one to report the successes and deaths. When everything else was done, Tim very calmly hired Deathstroke to kill the remainder of the gang, and gave both Barbara and Alfred a final out before his end game. Neither left, there was no one left for them.

Tim went to the room where Jason’s body was, unaware that Jason’s ghost was following behind. He laid down with Jason’s corpse, and without flinching set the flowers, and subsequently Wayne manor, on fire, intent on joining Jason. Alfred and Barbara waiting on the floor below for the end.

Jason, now outright sobbing, vowed that if he met any of them in the afterlife he would treat the mall so much better, seeing how much they loved him.

Then Jason woke up. He was back at the morning of his Wedding to Tim Drake, and he remembered everything. He does not confront Willis or Sheila right away, knowing that ‘it came to me in a dream’ would not be accepted. However he decides that he will not be alone with either of his birth parents again.

He still goes to marry Tim, but instead of seeing Tim as a cold, monstrous man trying to trap him, Jason realizes that his new husband is both smitten and shy, coming off as cold to hide his awkwardness. Frankly it is endearing. Since Tim stated in both timelines that he would not touch Jason without his consent, Jason decides to treat this as if they were dating, for all that they were married. Jason had to admit, there was something powerful in the fact that Jason could make this nearly all powerful man’s (at least in Gotham) brain ground to a halt with just a few teasing words and a smile. Even better was the times when Tim, rather than getting flustered, responded in kind with his own teasing smile.

It turned out that, now that Jason was not up in arms, Tim was exceedingly easy to fall in love with.

Jason also began to rebond with the family he had left behind. The first time he showed up for a family dinner, Tim in tow, it seemed like Dick would vibrate out of his seat, he was so excited. It was nice to know that, even beyond the grief of death he had been missed. He even found himself mentioning that he was looking to go to college, though he was not sure for what yet. In the previous timeline he had brought the idea up to his biological parents who had shattered his confidence that he was capable. This time he got an overwhelmingly positive response and enthusiasm, with Dick teasing Bruce about dropping out of medical school. Damian, 13 years old and approximately four apples tall, tells Jason that it is good that Jason is going to college so that Damian will have an actual respectable source for how good whatever college Jason goes to when the time comes. Steph is cheering about possibly having a friend on campus, or someone to complain about classes with, while Bruce and Tim get into a play argument about who ‘gets’ to pay for Jason’s schooling (as in both are claiming that it is their privilege).

The B plot is, behind the scenes, Jason is working to distance himself from his bio parents without letting on that he knows they are using him or to let them do something that is so obvious that he can cut ties without having to explain (because he does not want to deal with I have memories of a future). He is careful not to meet with them alone any longer, but is also aware that, as Tims husband, his reputation and how he is viewed is somewhat more important than it used to be (No that Tim would care, but Jason had already hurt Tim enough in the other timeline, he didn’t want to do anything to cause him harm in this one).

If we wanted to lean fully into the source Drama, we could cast Ra’s Al Ghul as the ‘Ex’ (they were never together in anything but Ra’s delusions) trying to harm or humiliate Jason to clear the place at Tim’s side, to Tim’s obvious disgust.

In this one Jason never picks up a mask again, having found he likes civilian life. But he bonds with his family and uses both Tim and Bruce’s money (with their full approval) to improve life in Crime Alley and the Bowery, notably doing it without gentrification. Jason also discovers Duke and brings him home for Bruce to adopt (‘Get the batdoption papers, old man’ ‘I told Dick we were not calling them that...’). So any attempt by Willis and Sheila, or by Ra’s, to slander/humiliate Jason fails badly and keeps failing, because Jason is well liked at every level of society. Jason also gets to go to college, accidentally ending up on a watch list because he got into a PHD program in Gotham (In Theatre Arts, which is second only to Psychiatry in ‘Degrees likely to result in a rogue, why do we keep offering these programs?’).

On the day that Jason would have died in the original timeline, Tim and the rest of the Batfam (barring Duke) do get their memories of the original timeline. This results in a cuddle pile at the Manor where everyone needs to reassure themselves that Jason was still there. By that time Ra’s has been soundly removed from the picture (Possibly killed by Talia, no one knows). Willis and Sheila are back in jail for life for their crimes against Jason Drake-Wayne.

Then they get their happy ending.

#jaytim #jason todd #bruce wayne #batman #fanfiction prompt #dick grayson #batfam #tim drake #alfred pennyworth #damian wayne #jason todd lived #Tim drake is not robin #time travel #fanfiction #drama #arranged marriage #willis todd #shelia haywood

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sammy8d257 · 10 hours ago

Text

[ TUNNEL VISION ]

-( | )-

[Excerpt from an old, worn journal]

[The date is unreadable under the eligible scribbles]

It's been about a week since Mango King, has left me in charge of this, colony kingdom thing. I should be happier because this proves he trusts me enough to let me run this by myself.

And he obviously wouldn't leave me anywhere dangerous so he must have done something to ensure this desktop is safe but, I don't know.

These villagers are nice. They're still a little wary of me but that makes sense. I'm a little wary of them myself. They're friendly though so I think we'll be fine once we all get comfortable with each other.

But where is he?! It's been a week and I haven't heard from him at all. He wouldn't leave me here. I know he wouldn't.

And I get that he's busy doing other kingly shit and setting up new side kingdoms and all that but

What if he doesn't care about me anymore? That's ridiculous right? He must still care otherwise he wouldn't have reached out on that cliff-

He cares. I know he does.

He cares. He cares. He cares. He cares.He cares hecareshecares-

[the next section is a scribbled mess of "He cares" written several times]

I just have to find a way to keep his attention.

He's not allowed to leave me.

-( | )-

I guess you could say, Purple got their wish

ALSO!!

New Character Trait just dropped!!

And it's Toxic Codependency!!

Featuring a journal entry from Purple's first week on the MAC!

Fun fact, I was originally going to have Purple be like, so normal before they slowly go insane due to the End Void

But after revamping their backstory and how they initially meet MT, having abandonment and codependency issues just makes sense

Oh how far friendships can fall

-( | )-

AvM Mad King AU Masterpost

#Sammy8D art #AvM Mad King AU #AvA Mad King AU #Mad King AU #alan becker #Mad King Purple #AvM Purple #animation vs minecraft au #servant!mt #avm king #MK!MT #avm au #purple stick figure #ava green #ava red #although tbf Green and Red aren't really the focus of this #Sammy8D Stick Stuff

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leaawrites · 1 day ago

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Your Girlfriend

Eli Hewson x fem!reader

Summary: when Eli meets up with an old friend, he's far more interested in the girlfriend

Warnings: toxic relationship (not Eli), misogyni, swearing, indications of wanting someone to break up with their partner, angst, fluff

Wordcount: 2.1k

Masterlist, Inhaler Masterlist

Eli had always been observant.

His eyes flicking over every person's head. Watching the way someone lifted up their cup or how they were holding their pen. Watching someone's eyes move to every side when talking or focusing straight ahead.

Noticing the people sitting on table across the room that would stay unnoticed by most people on a sunny Wednesday morning while waiting for an old school friend of his. Searching for no face in particular but finding hers instead.

Eyes focused on the pages of her book, coffee in front of her. Sitting all alone and he would've walked over, said hello and tried getting her to agree on a second cup he'd pay for. Bu then the door opened and a face whose details were still familiar to his mind came walking in. Eyes darting across the room. Finding his first.

Lifting his hand, Eli tried waving him over. But instead of straight walking over to the window seat, his friend walked to the right. Knitting his eyebrows Eli watched where he went to. Trying to see if he recognized anyone else. He didn't. There was no one else around he would remember.

The cafe was almost empty, still the air felt heavy as Eli watched where he was walking. Over to her. Hand on the back of her chair, getting her attention by a knock on the wooden table. Looking up, a bright smile etched itself on her face. Standing up to kiss him. A ring smirking at him from where her hand rested on his friend's cheek. The diamond reflecting in the sunlight he was sitting under.

They walked over together, her taking her coffee and trying to balance it with her book in the other hand and not spill a drop that was still in it. Walking over to him.

Eli stood as quick as he took back control of his mind. Making his hand move towards the two of them. Hugging him, shaking her hand, saying hello. "Nice to meet you," when they were introduced.

"That's my partner," Tom, his friend, had introduced her as. Her name following swiftly after, like he had to prove that he knew it. She was smiling at him. Cup set down. Book stuffed into her bag like she wasn't fully invested in the story two minutes ago.

My partner. Not girlfriend. Not fiancee. Wife. Just partner.

Still the diamond clung to her ring finger, mischievously mocking him. Left hand over the right one. Engaged, clearly.

"How have you been?" Tom asked, hand resting on her thigh for a second before patting the flesh and taking it back onto the table. Fingers clutched together.

"Good," Eli answered, eyes focused on his friend's hands. Why would he touch his own skin if he could touch hers? "The band's doing great. We just finished the North America Tour. Europe's next." Why was he leaned so forward. No arm draped around the back of her chair, smoothing out the tension in her shoulders. "How about you?"

"Yeah, good," Tom answered. "Work's great. It is really busy though lately. I barely have time to do stuff I like." He's gonna say, 'spend time with my fiancee', right? Eli thought of the words so clearly he barely comprehended what he answered instead. "It's so hard staying away from golf for so long. I miss flying out over the weekend."

Eli's eyes flew over to her, watching her sucked lip between her teeth, fingers anxiously tapping against her bicep. Eyes never focused on one thing for too long to take notice of it's details.

"Must be heartbreaking," he answered, leaning back, sarcasm dripping down his tongue. "Anything else?"

"It is, let me tell you that," Tom answered. "We've only gotten our membership to one of the most private clubs in France and all of a sudden I need to do something at every hour."

"You two?" Eli pointed between the couple who seemed to sit a mile apart from each other around the small table.

"Oh no, she doesn't play. Way too focused on those little articles of hers." Tom waved it off like nothing else.

Her head falling down in shame, not surprise. Past conversations that went the same flashing back into her mind. Laughter falling from the other side most times, an 'why does she need to work with a man like you?' coming from others. Never a genuine interest in talking to her. She was just there to sit still, look pretty and help him seem like a good person. One worth staying for.

"What do you write about?" Eli asked instead, the table standing in silence. His whole body was now turned towards her as her head perked up again. Trying to make sure she was spoken to before answering.

"Just this and that," she vaguely said.

"Nothing on great importance," Tom answered. "Nothing you'd find in a good paper at least. Neither informative or intelligent. Mostly just shoes, make up. The usual stuff only women are interested. She's gonna stop with it though, once we get married, have kids. It's gonna be too much for her."

And then the conversation wore on. Tom's voice filling the whole cafe as the other two bodies sat in silence for most of the time. Her with her head down. Eli with a thousand ideas of how they could escape this. Breaking the window with his chair and the two of them running out together, her spilling her coffee over Tom's trousers to excuse herself to the bathroom but instead the two of them would run away. A robber would walk in - Ryan could probably pull it off. A car could crash into the shop.

The ideas got more absurd the longer he sat and listened. His eyes always focused on the way her arms were crossed over her chest, chest falling up and down with every deep breath she took. Her face falling into her face but she didn't push it away. It only hid her more from Tom.

Until his daydreaming found an end by a phone ringing. Tom's phone. Finally making him shut up about the deal he'd made with one of their old teachers.

"Hello," he answered, straightening his tie as soon as the voice on the other end spoke. "Shit." Another beat of silence, muffles treating out from the speaker. "Yeah, I'll be there."

And then he stood up, phone stuffed in his jacket pocket, money thrown on the table. An rushed, "Sorry, guys. Work's calling me." A hasted kiss on her cheek as he stood up and a rushed wave as he walked out the door until the ding over it finally announced his departure.

Now they were sat alone, two throats that were dry from the silence they had left in the conversation. Eyes darting around the room as they both waited for the other to say something. Dismiss themselves or asking the other to leave as both their cups were still half full.

"How the fuck do you get on with him?" Eli finally said, head thrown back into his neck as he let out a groan.

A laugh bubbling out of her as she watched his dramatic play.

"I mean, I never liked him the best back in school but, man, has he fallen off." Shaking his head, he finally looked at her. A kind of relief of Tom's absence clearly visible in her eyes. The tension in her shoulders finally released.

"There are actually a lot of people who enjoy his company," she said back and he couldn't get it into his head. Why was she still defending him after the conversation he'd just witnessed?

"I'm in the minority then," he shrugged, sitting up straighter. "At least I got good company there." At the confused look that passed over her face, he leaned on the table, closer to her now. "You didn't seem to keen on listening to him talk too."

Keeping his attention on her, he couldn't miss the guilty look washing over her face.

"It's only because I've listened to that conversation about a hundred times before already," she defended him still.

"So you've listened to him belittle your work about a hundred times too?"

"It doesn't come up that often," she said, swirling the cold substance in her cup.

"You wanna have another one?" Eli asked as he already stood up and walked over to the counter. Walking back with two coffees in hand. Putting one of them in front of her. Sitting down on the chair Tom once occupied. Moving closer to her, knees almost touching. One arm propped up on the table, his head laying in his hand as he looked at her. "So what do you write about?"

"I think he summed it up pretty perfectly already?" she said, shoulders slumping down, a slight pink coloring her cheeks as he sat so close she could smell his cologne and the faint rain from the morning still etched on his hoodie.

"I don't think he did." Eli shook his head. Tilting his head a bit more. "What do you write about? Who do you write for? Why are you gonna stop doing it?"

"You're very interested in other people's life, huh?" she chuckled, taking a sip of her new, warm coffee.

"I'm always interested in pretty and intelligent girls," he said back, shrugging like it was nothing.

Leaning back in his chair, legs stretching out in front of him. Trapping her own leg between them. One of his legs moving between her own, their knees touching. His thigh pressed against hers. Leaving her space to answer but not to breath properly.

Straightening her spine, she composed herself, but didn't move her leg away. Relaxing the muscles in her body once she found her voice again, still slightly wavering as she answered. "I mostly write about fashion, trend predictions and costume analyses from movies or celebrities. All that stuff. Sometimes also on music, album or single reviews as well as interviews. Kind of everything that interests me. Working for magazines like Vogue or Dork kind of takes up a lot of time, I won't be able to manage all my time once Tom wants to have kids."

"Kids you don't want?" he guessed, making her eyes narrow at him. "At least not now, right? Or am I wrong?"

"I could wait a few more years," she confessed, falling back into herself. "But he wants them and his mother has been asking non stop lately."

"But it's still your body," he reminded her. "It should still be your decision."

"It is my decision," she said, voice growing louder. Her mind growing more frustrated. Words tumbling over each other.

"If you say so," he said, taking his own cup and falling back into silence with her.

Thinking the topic had died on both their tongues until she let out, "I mean, what would you do in my situation? I can't just say no every time someone asks about it."

"The same way you couldn't say no to the ring on your finger?" He knew he was pushing her over an edge now. They both knew it, though neither was totally sure what would be on the bottom if she fell. Still he didn't stop. "Or was the obnoxious big diamond your decision too?"

"OK, thanks for the coffee, but I don't think talking to you any longer is an idea I find entertaining," she said, packing up her stuff and getting ready to leave. The coffee now empty.

Squeezing his eyes shut and running his hand over his face, he knew he fucked up. "Wait!" he called out after her, standing up too. Pocketing Tom's left over money that wasn't needed since you pay directly after ordering. "I'm sorry, alright?"

Following her in a quick pace, Eli caught up to her fast step and avoidant eyes in only a few seconds. Catching her head turning away from him in the corner of his eye. Taking her shoulders in his hands and making her stop walking. Slightly tumbling into his chest at the force with which she was stopped.

"I didn't mean to put you down like that, alright?" he started apologizing, turning her head towards him so she would look at him. "It's just - Why are you with a guy like him?"

"If he doesn't talk about himself, what does he talk about? From what I've witnessed I don't think it's you. Or anything you're interested in," Eli continued talking, keeping her in place and unable to run away. "Look, I'm not saying you should dump him and break through with some guy you just met. I just think you could do better."

"Oh yeah, like who? Some guy who will be sweet and kind and caring until I show the slightest bit of personality that isn't being a silent body to look at? I think I'll pass. Thanks though." Trying to walk away once more, he caught her wrist with a slight grip. Tucking her closer.

"We have an additional show here tomorrow," Eli offered, his grip slightly losing itself from her skin. Still his touch burned inside her chest. "Come by if you want to, alright? Maybe with an answer to my question?"

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fqolai · 8 hours ago

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thinking about the new avengers first fight. they have a million firsts together and a million fights. but i mean their first really big, really bad fight. like team is breaking up kind of fight. it’s bound to happen and probably already did in those fourteen months we skipped.

i’m not a fic writer at all but here’s how i think it would play out...

with no one taking them seriously as the new avengers, tensions are high. especially for valentina. she banked everything she had left, which was admittedly, not much, on this whole sham. everyone’s doubting them. no one believes they measure up to the old avengers. and to top it all off, sam wilson is threatening to sue.

feeling pressured to get them good publicity, valentina arranges — what should’ve been — a layup for them. some small community assignment. all they had to do was show up, smile for the cameras, shake a few hands, etc. but one thing led to another and boom: utter catastrophe.

the press is having a field day. fourteen year olds on tiktok are having the time of their lives. reddit users have never felt so employed.

everyone on the team is arguing. the worst in everyone is coming out. alexei is trying to keep the team positive but it’s only making things worse (and everyone more annoyed). it’s getting bad and bob is frightened.

yelena… who has finally got a taste of what walking in her sisters footsteps felt like — who finally had a shot at a real family, at belonging — can see it all crumbling. she’s trying to hold them together (maybe even trying too hard). it comes from a place of love, of desperation, but she can’t express that in the moment.

ava can see the end coming and she’s seen enough to know it’s better to leave than to be left behind. so she’s the first to throw in the towel.

john follows quickly after. he should’ve known this would never work out. alexei, confident that he can bring them back around, rushes after them.

bucky had been silent the whole time. and yelena, in her anger, lashes out at him. she accuses bucky of not really being a part of the team. of never really letting any of them in. of never getting to know them or letting them get to know him. oh, how he must be so relieved that he can go back to sam wilson now that the whole charade is over. no pesky complications getting in his way.

yelena storms out and bucky doesn’t bother to follow.

and mel? mel needs a raise. again. cleaning up valentina’s messes is never an easy task. but this might just be her toughest assignment yet.

in talking with bucky, mel realizes that they’re all still dealing with their traumas and regrets and that maybe they just need a push in the right direction.

and quickly. valentina is seriously considering creating a world-ending event to bring them all back together. that cannot happen.

so she goes to yelena first. makes it clear val didn’t send her and asks how she’s doing. yelena insists she’s fine. who needed the avengers anyway? not her. and what a relief to no longer have to worry about valentina or the public breathing down their necks and judging their every move.

mel asks after bob. how is he doing? it must’ve been hard on him with the team breaking up and all. yelena stops to realize that in her anger, she didn’t check in on him before leaving. she had promised him they would stick together. yet, she had broken promise.

she sets out to find him and make things right.

she finds bob in his room in the tower. the darkness creeping up on him. she pulls him back. they’re still a family. sometimes family fights. but it will work out in the end. yelena does her best to sound more confident than she feels. she thinks bob can probably see right through it though.

mel finds alexei after. he’s inconsolable. he’s lost yelena again. he couldn’t stop their team from breaking up. he had to watch the light slowly fade from yelena’s eyes as the arguments got louder and louder. mel points out that he hasn’t lost anyone yet. yelena or the team. but he could, if he doesn’t do something about it. alexei leaves, convinced that a grand gesture is the only way to bring the team back together and bring some light back to yelena's eyes.

next, mel goes to john, who is spiraling into new levels of self-hatred. she thinks she sees him arguing with a reddit user under a burner account before he manages to hide his phone screen from her.

mel asks about his ex-wife. how are the custody negotiations going? she heard he got visitation once a week. that olivia was finally starting to trust him again. though, being an avenger after all, it may be hard to keep to a regular schedule. but, hey, on the bright side, if the avengers are done, that means john has free time on his hands. he can go back home, make things right with olivia, get a regular 9-5, watch the rest of the action play out on social media like everyone else these days. maybe that would be enough?

john sees through what she’s trying to do, but he supposes that she’s not wrong. he wouldn’t be satisfied with that life. she leaves him with a lot to think about.

then mel goes to find ava. she asks her why she was the first one to walk out. mel understands. it’s scary to let people in and know that they’re the only ones with the power to hurt you as a result. but if ava recalls, no one had mentioned leaving until she had brought it up. it was only after ava had left, that the others had followed.

was she too ready to give up at the first sign of strive? to protect what was left of her already fragile heart. perhaps, she had been too hasty...

bucky goes to see sam. to tell him… he was right? it all blew up in their faces? it was never gonna work out? whatever he meant to say, he doesn’t get a chance.

you see, sam has some opinions on this so-calle d‘team’ if that’s what they still are. he doesn’t know them. not really. he only sees what anyone else on the outside does:

yelena, an assassin, who loves being an avenger and all the glory that comes with it. who’s never had to work to make up for the bad things she’s done. and didn’t she just try to kill clint last christmas?? (sam doesn’t know how much she regrets what she’s done. that being an avenger is how she begins to make up for it all. and the whole killing clint thing, well… bucky can’t really defend that and if he’s being honest, it’s the first he’s heard of it)

alexei, a former soviet asset, working for one of america’s biggest enemies for most his life, and seems to want nothing more than to go back to the good old days. (sam doesn’t know about alexei’s biggest mistakes. and maybe that’s a blessing in disguise. but he doesn’t know alexei’s regrets. of allowing natasha and yelena to be taken to the red room. of not being there for his daughter who died worlds away. of almost losing yelena right in front of him. of failing both his daughters, time and time again, and trying to get it right this time)

john walker, a murderer, an asshole, who killed a man with steve’s shield. who’s wife left him and took custody of his child with her. whose ego won’t allow him to admit that he’s a terrible person. (sam knows john more than the others, certainly, but he hasn’t seen what bucky has over the last year... sam doesn’t know that john hates himself more than anyone could ever hate him for all those reasons and more. and that’s not to say he’s absolved of his sins because he feels bad about them. but bucky had heard from yelena about john nearly walking straight off the edge of the elevator shaft when faced with those regrets… hard to argue about the asshole part though)

ava starr, who sam knows has some history with scott before going completely off the grid. she seems to have as much trouble playing with others and making nice as the rest of them. self-isolating. alone. doesn’t really spell ‘reliable teammate’ does it? (sam wasn’t there during the fight. he doesn’t know that she was the first to suggest going after yelena in the void. he doesn’t know that she’s the first one to throw herself into danger to protect the people she cares about. that she would always come back for them and never leave anyone behind in battle)

and who the hell is this bob guy anyway???

it was all wrong. they were never a real team. not to sam. not to the public either. they're not cut out to be heros and everyone knows it.

but bucky? bucky who was the winter soldier. who was a former asset, though, against his will. who's killed a lot more people than john walker ever could. who has trouble nurturing his friendships and is alone more times than not. who is lucky enough to be one of bob’s friends.

for the first time since this had happened to them all, bucky gets defensive. protective of this thing they had made their own. hearing sam speak about all the reasons why the others weren't good people and realizing how much he has in common with them really puts things into perspective.

sam doesn’t mean to offend bucky. bucky isn’t like them after all. he’s different. but bucky isn’t so sure that’s true.

defensive and faced with their differences, bucky decides to leave without telling sam that the team was done and goes for a long walk. he has a lot to think about.

back at avengers tower, ava, the first to come back, finds yelena and bob asleep on opposite ends of the couch. a movie still on the tv. she turns the volume down and settles into the reclining chair for the night.

the next morning they awake to john loudly complaining about the mess left out. bob volunteers to clean up and do the dishes.

ava and john quietly acknowledge the other came back. but they don’t make a big deal about it.

bucky returns to the tower next. yelena teases him. says that he looks awful. like he hasn’t slept. bucky knows it's her way of saying that it was good to have him back. her way of apologizing for how they’d left things. bucky keeps the mood light. jokes that this is where is bed was so of course he didn’t sleep. they don’t talk about it any further, just an unspoken agreement to let bygones be bygones.

this is when alexei returns. he teases yelena about how cute she and bob were, snoring away on the couch. sleeping like the dead. yelena tries to protest that she doesn’t snore but doesn’t get the chance — not that anyone would have believed her.

alexei ushers them into another room where he's set up a huge party while they were sleeping, with mel’s help, of course, to celebrate their 1 year anniversary as a team. it hasn't been one year yet technically, but alexei insists it’s close enough (and "happy anniversary" was the only cake topper left at the market so they’d just have to go with it).

alexei gets emotional about how much the team means to him. and about how much he knows it means to yelena. how they need to do better. to really be there for one another.

yelena, teary-eyed, accepts a hug from her dad. says she doesn’t blame anyone for their mistakes at valentina’s stupid publicity event. being honest, they never should’ve agreed to go to begin with.

bob repeats what yelena had told him the night before. that family fights but they always come back together.

ava apologizes for being the first to leave. she promises not to assume the worst anymore and to stick around, even when it gets tough.

john jokes that the team is better with him on it anyway. what with his practical skillset. no one is amused. but he admits that maybe, just maybe, he’s better with the team at his side too.

everyone turns to bucky. it’s his turn now.

it looks painful for him, but bucky opens up about how being open to friendships is a reoccurring issue for him, according to his therapit anyway. this is the first time he’s had people who truly understand the things he’s been though. who have been through some of those same things. this is all new to him: the whole letting people in thing. but he's making an effort to learn to trust them. they'll just need to be a little patient with him.

john commends him for the beautiful speech. bucky tells him to shut up. they enjoy alexei’s party.

mel calls valentina to let her know the crisis has been averted. and to cancel the attack she was planning for new york, for god's sake.

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idrawweirdstuffnominors · 2 days ago

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Pls pls pls can we have an Epilogue BillJer NSFW fic??? Your writing is so awesome af and these nerds need some form of attention! Keep up the great work!!!

(ASK AND YE SHALL RECEIVE)

“Should’ve Said Something Sooner”

epilogue Bill x Jerry | NSFW | Angst, Confession, Rough-Edged Tenderness

It starts with a fight.

Because of course it does. Especially with these two

Jerry’s pacing like a pissed-off cat in Bill’s garbage-scattered living room, eyes darting behind those blonde messy bangs, teeth grinding. Bill's planted on the couch like he’s grown into the damn thing, arms crossed, mouth set in that familiar, infuriating scowl.

“You don’t get to mock me for trying to get my life together, Bill,” Jerry snaps. “Not when you’re still marinating in your own filth like it’s a badge of honor.”

“Oh, forgive me, Jerome, for not jerking it to self-help podcasts and guilt-repentant sex shame journals like some sad abstinence teen.” Bill leans forward, eyes gleaming with that awful sharpness. “Must be nice—rewriting your sad sack story and pretending it wasn’t just you who blew everything up.”

“You were the one who blew—ugh do you think I wanted to fall apart?”

“No, I think you liked it. You liked having something broken to fix. You liked being the victim.”

The silence that follows is brutal. The kind of silence that could kill a lesser man. Jerry’s nostrils flare. Bill looks away first.

“…Thats why you stopped calling?” Jerry asks. “You tell yourself I liked being broken, so you didn’t have to admit you missed us?”

Bill laughs. But there’s no bite in it. Just a dull ache.

“I missed you like an ulcer,” he mutters.

“That’s not a no.”

Something shifts then.

Jerry’s standing in front of him before either of them can register it. Breathing shallow. Face hard. But his eyes… his eyes are wrecked. Raw.

“I hated that you let me go,..we were all we had.” Jerry whispers. “And I hated myself more for hoping you’d come back, knowing you'd pull the same shit again.”

Bill doesn’t move.

Because if he moves, he might do something stupid.

Then Jerry touches his face.

Just fingertips. A graze along the rough edge of his jaw, over stubble and regret. And that’s it.

Bill snaps.

His hand fists the front of Jerry’s jacket, dragging him down. Their mouths crash—hard, clumsy, almost angry. It’s not sweet. It’s not careful. It’s years of silence and unspoken shit exploding in a kiss that tastes like ash and too-late.

Jerry groans into it, biting Bill’s lower lip, and Bill growls low in his throat like a dog that hasn’t been fed right in a decade. Their teeth clash. Their tongues fight. It’s sloppy and it hurts, and it’s so goddamn real it makes Jerry’s knees buckle.

They break apart, panting.

“This doesn’t fix anything,” Jerry says hoarsely.

“I’m not trying to fix anything,” Bill snarls. “I just need you. Now.”

Clothes are shed with frustration, not finesse. They don’t undress—they tear. Years of tension and buried want unraveling at the seams. Jerry’s leaner than Bill remembers. Tighter. Still warm. Still trembling.

Bill pushes him to the wall. Jerry doesn’t resist. Their bodies collide again, skin on skin, heat radiating like a fever. Bill’s hand finds Jerry’s cock, already half-hard, and gives it a rough stroke that makes Jerry hiss through his teeth.

Jerry’s back hits the wall with a grunt, but he doesn’t complain. He’s too busy clawing at Bill’s shirt, dragging it up over his belly. It gets caught at the armpits, and Bill rips it the rest of the way with a scowl like it personally offended him.

“Fucking nerd,” Bill mutters, biting at Jerry’s neck hard enough to leave marks. “You come in here with your therapy voice and your clean fingernails and think I won’t wreck you?”

“God,” Jerry groans, “please wreck me.”

That breaks something in Bill.

He drops to his knees, dragging Jerry’s jeans down with urgency, exposing a messy happy trail, pale thighs and a cock already flushed and dripping.

“Fuck. This what you’ve been hiding under your sad little apologies?” Bill growls, wrapping one hand tight around the base. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

Jerry opens his mouth to answer, but all that comes out is a choked, “Oh—fuck—” when Bill sucks him down halfway without warning. His knees damn near buckle.

Bill’s not gentle. He’s messy and mean with it, using his tongue like a weapon, hollowing his cheeks and taking him deep with a low growl in his throat like he’s angry Jerry tastes this good.

Jerry fists both hands in Bill’s greasy hair, trying not to fuck into his mouth, but then Bill glares up at him with those sharp, furious eyes and moans around him, like a challenge.

Jerry loses it.

“Jesus, Bill—God—gonna—”

Bill pulls off with a wet pop, spit connecting his lips to the tip. “Not yet,” he pants, jerking him slow and tight. “You come now, we’re just getting started.”

He shoves Jerry down onto the couch before he can protest. Crawls over him, mouth slick, face flushed, cock hard and heavy between his thighs. There’s no lube (always use lube)—just spit and desperation. Bill drags his fingers through his mouth, slicks them up, and reaches between Jerry’s legs with zero grace.

“Shit—Bill—”

“You wanted filthy, right?” Bill snarls, voice strained, breath hot in Jerry’s ear. “You think I spent ten years jacking off to the memory of your fucking voice just to be sweet about it?”

He preps him quick, rough, barely enough, just like everything else he does. But Jerry doesn’t care—he wants it like this. Raw. Ugly. Real.

When Bill finally thrusts in, it’s brutal.

Jerry’s whole body arches. “F-fuck—”

Bill grits his teeth, holding him still, pressing in inch by inch like he’s trying to claim every piece of him he lost. He doesn’t stop until he’s seated fully, breathing ragged against Jerry’s neck.

Then he moves.

Snapping hips. Harsh rhythm. No rhythm. Just need. It’s not porn. It’s not fantasy. It’s years of repression and fury and wanting someone so bad it hurts.

“Missed this,” Bill growls into Jerry’s skin. “Missed you. Fuck, Jer—why didn’t we do this sooner—”

“Because we’re idiots,” Jerry gasps, clinging to him. “Because you ruined everything.”

Their mouths find each other again, messily. Sloppy kisses between swears and groans. Jerry’s legs wrap around Bill’s waist, pulling him deeper, harder. Bill reaches between them, strokes him in time with his thrusts.

It doesn’t take long.

Jerry comes first—shaking, gasping, mouth slack. Bill’s right behind him, groaning low in his throat like he’s finally letting himself feel something for the first time in years.

When it’s over, they collapse in a tangled heap, sweat-slick and quiet.

No pillow talk. Not yet. Just the sound of their breathing and the realization that nothing will ever be the same again.

They’re still catching their breath, tangled up on Bill's ratty old couch. Bill’s half-naked and sweaty, staring at the ceiling like it just insulted him. Jerry, meanwhile, looks dazed—in that stupid, blissed-out way he always did after getting off. Like sex rewires his whole nervous system.

Bill hates it.

Not because it’s gross. Because it’s true. And it means this wasn’t just some horny mistake.

Jerry glances over, lazy grin on his face. “You okay?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Bill—”

“I said shut up,” he snaps, suddenly sitting upright, dragging his pants halfway up like it’ll put some distance between him and what just happened. “God. I can’t believe I sucked your dick.”

Jerry lifts an eyebrow. “You didn’t seem to mind at the time.”

“I was—caught up in the moment.” He runs a hand through his sweat-matted hair. “Jesus. You’re such a fucking fag.”

Jerry blinks. “I’m the fag?”

“Yeah, well—you’re the one who moaned like a bitch in heat.”

“You had your mouth on my dick.”

“That doesn’t make me gay!”

Jerry snorts. “Okay. Sure. You just did it for funsies.”

Bill glares, red creeping up his neck, rage and embarrassment and something else all bubbling in his chest. “It was stress relief. Don’t get fucking romantic about it.”

Jerry sits up slowly, still half-naked, still a little too calm. “I’m not the one romanticizing anything. You’re the one who looked like you were gonna cry when you came.”

“I did not cry.”

“Your voice cracked.”

“Shut up, Jer. I swear to God—”

But Jerry just grins again—soft, smug, fond. Like he’s not scared of Bill’s temper. Like he sees through every damn mask he puts up.

And that’s the real problem.

Bill stands abruptly, fumbling for his flannel. “I’m going.”

“Of course you are.”

“Fuck off.”

“You coming back?”

Bill pauses at the door. Doesn’t turn around. Just says, low:

“I don’t fucking know.”

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#eltingville epilogue #the eltingville club #eltingville fanart #epilogue bill #epilogue jerry #bill dickey #jerry stokes #bill x jerry #no minors #minors dni

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