#when everything you are belongs to the world

[sosa2imagines]

Are you mine?

Warnings- Angst, Steve and Bucky are idiots.

Being in love with Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes felt like living in a dream.

A dream so perfect, so utterly untouchable, that even the ghosts of the past couldn’t tarnish it. The three of you had fought wars together, bled together, and survived against impossible odds. You trusted them with your life and, more importantly, with your heart.

Steve, ever the protector, held your hand through the nightmares, his voice a quiet promise in the dark. Bucky, all sharp wit and unspoken devotion, pressed kisses into your hair when he thought you weren’t paying attention. They made you feel safe, like nothing in the world could shake the foundation of what you had.

You belonged to them, and they belonged to you.

The compound had always been your sanctuary, a place where the weight of being an assassin and an Avenger didn’t feel so heavy.

Missions were brutal, but coming home to them made it worth it. Your mornings were tangled limbs and soft murmurs, their warmth pulling you from restless sleep. Your nights were laughter and whispered confessions, hands intertwined beneath the sheets.

Everything was fine, until she arrived.

A trainee named Cassidy.

Sent to the compound for a few days of “intense training” with the Avengers. Young, eager at least, that’s what Fury had said. But from the moment she walked through the doors, it was clear training was the last thing on her mind.

You caught the way her eyes lingered on Steve's broad shoulders, the way she smiled just a little too sweetly when Bucky grunted in response to something she said. You noticed the way she conveniently positioned herself between them whenever she could, the way her touch lingered just a second too long.

It was nothing. Just admiration, maybe even hero worship. You told yourself that, again and again. Steve and Bucky were yours. They loved you.

And yet… doubt had a way of creeping in, even where trust once lived.

For the first time in a long time, you felt something unfamiliar in your own home.

Unease.

You weren’t the jealous type, you had no reason to be, not when Steve and Bucky had given you every reassurance, every reason to trust them. And you did trust them. You trusted them blindly.

But can you trust the world?

Trust didn’t stop the ache in your chest when you saw Cassidy wedged between them on the couch, laughing at something Bucky said. It didn’t stop the sting when Steve placed a comforting hand on her back, so absentmindedly, so effortlessly, like it was second nature.

Like it was something he used to do for you.

You stood frozen in the doorway, fingers tightening around the edge of your jacket. That was your spot. That had always been your spot. Between them. Their arms around you. Their warmth surrounding you.

Now?

Now Cassidy sat there, twirling a lock of her hair, giggling, her body angled towards them like she belonged. And Steve and Bucky?

They didn’t even notice you standing there.

“You’re imagining things, Y/n.” Natasha leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping her coffee as she watched you pick at your food. She didn’t say it dismissively, but there was caution in her voice. Careful, Y/n. Don’t spiral.

“I’m not...” Your voice was hollow. You pushed your plate away and exhaled shakily. “She’s always there, Nat. Always with them. Always touching them...” You swallowed hard, shame burning in your throat. “I feel like… like I don’t exist anymore.”

Natasha sighed, setting her cup down. “Come on. You know Steve and Bucky. They’d never…”

“I know they wouldn’t.” Your fingers curled into fists. “But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.”

Natasha studied you, eyes softer now. “Talk to them, then.”

You nodded. You would. Of course, you would.

But deep down, you were terrified they wouldn’t see it, because they never seemed to see you anymore, ever since Cassidy came.

At first, it was small things.

A conversation cut short because Cassidy had a question. A training session where she suddenly needed Bucky to correct her stance, his hands on her wrists, her waist. A mission debrief where she sat beside Steve, too close, her voice too soft.

Then the canceled plans started.

“I’m sorry, Doll, but we promised we’d show Cassidy the training simulations today.”

“I’ll make it up to you, sweetheart. I swear.”

“We’ll take you out tomorrow, okay?”

Tomorrow never came.

And suddenly, your nights felt emptier. You’d wake up reaching for them, only to find cold sheets where they should have been. You weren’t sure what hurt more.

The loneliness or the fact that they didn’t even realize you were lonely.

They were still yours, weren’t they?

Then why did it feel like you were losing them?

It had been days, days since you had a proper conversation with either of them. Days since they held you like they used to. The only time you got them was at night, in bed.

And yet, there she was again, always there, standing too close to Steve as he poured coffee in the kitchen. Bucky leaned against the counter, smirking at something she said, arms crossed over his chest.

“God, Steve, I still don’t know how you carry that shield around all day.” Cassidy reached out, brushing her fingers over his bicep. “Guess it helps that you’re, like, all muscle.”

Steve laughed, shaking his head. “Occupational hazard, I guess.”

“What about you, Bucky?” She turned to him, eyes bright. “I mean, that metal arm has to be heavy, right? Can I?”

“Nah, sweetheart, it’s lighter than it looks.” Bucky smirked, flexing his vibranium fingers.

Sweetheart.

Your stomach dropped, that was your name. He called you that. Not her.

Your blood ran cold as Cassidy laughed, playfully nudging Bucky’s arm. Steve smiled, amused. Not once did they notice you standing there. Not once did they feel the air shift, the way your entire world was starting to crumble.

That night, you laid in bed alone. Again.

Because, Steve and Bucky had been in the common room with Cassidy, and you couldn’t take it anymore. So you had left.

You curled into yourself, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the sob from escaping.

They were just being nice. Right?

They didn’t see what you saw. Didn’t feel what you felt. Didn’t see how much it was killing you. Right?

And you were too afraid to ask the question burning inside you, “What if they don’t miss me like I miss them?”

You didn’t know how long you had been sitting all alone in the common room.

The compound was quiet, save for the faint hum of the ventilation system. You sat curled up on the couch in the dark, staring at nothing, arms wrapped around yourself as if that could hold you together. The weight in your chest felt heavier than usual, pressing down, suffocating.

You had spent the entire day alone. Again.

They hadn’t noticed. Again.

The cushion beside you dipped, and you didn’t need to look to know who it was. Natasha.

“You’re doing that thing again…” she murmured.

You blinked. “What thing?”

“Shutting down.”

You inhaled sharply, dropping your gaze to your lap.

Natasha sighed, shifting to face you. “Sweets, talk to me.”

Natasha always called you that name, and her reason was you were the only sweet person in her life.

You shook your head. “There’s nothing to say.”

“Bullshit.” She reached out, squeezing your knee. “I see you, you know. The way you’re fading. The way you barely eat. The way you don’t sleep until you’re too exhausted to fight it anymore.”

You swallowed hard, fingers gripping the fabric of your pants.

“They love you, Sweets.” Natasha’s voice was gentle but firm. “This… whatever this is, it’s temporary. They’ll see what’s happening.”

You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. “No, they won’t…” Your throat burned as you whispered, “They don’t see me anymore, Nat.”

Silence.

Natasha shifted closer, resting her forearm on the back of the couch. “We survived worse, you and me. Remember?”

You knew where she was leading the conversation, but you didn’t care.

“I wish I could remember.” The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Natasha frowned. “Remember what?”

You exhaled shakily, gaze unfocused. “How they trained us. How they made us feel nothing.”

Natasha tensed. “Don’t do that,” she warned. “Don’t go there.”

You lifted your head to meet her eyes. “Why not? It would be easier.” Your voice cracked. “I wouldn’t have to feel like this. Wouldn’t have to wake up reaching for them only to remember I don’t exist to them anymore.”

Natasha’s grip tightened on your knee. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Your smile was hollow. “They canceled our date today, Nat. Again. I was supposed to spend the evening with them. Instead, I spent it watching Cassidy laugh at Bucky’s jokes and touch Steve’s arm and…” You sucked in a shaky breath, voice barely above a whisper. “And they let her.”

Natasha’s expression darkened, but she said nothing.

You turned your gaze back to the floor. “I just… I don’t want to feel this anymore.”

She was quiet for a long time before she whispered, “You’re not in the Red Room anymore, Sweets. You have them. You have me.”

You nodded. But the ache in your chest remained, because deep down, you weren’t sure if you still had them at all.

The bed felt massive. You lay curled up on one side, facing away from the door, the covers pulled tightly around you. The scent of Steve and Bucky still lingered on the sheets, but it brought no comfort.

Then the mattress dipped.

First on one side, then the other. Warm bodies slid in beside you, their familiar presence surrounding you.

“Doll?” Steve’s voice was soft, hesitant.

Bucky shifted behind you, his arm resting loosely around your waist. “We’re sorry about earlier, sweetheart.”

Your throat burned.

“We’ll make it up to you,” Steve added quickly. “We’ve got a whole day planned for you tomorrow. Just the three of us. No interruptions, promise.”

Tomorrow.

You closed your eyes.

They had said that last time.

And the time before that.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, willing yourself to stay silent.

Bucky pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “Come on, talk to us, Doll. We know you’re mad.”

Mad.

Was that what they thought this was? Your lips parted, but no words came out. Because what was the point? Tomorrow would come, and it would be the same.

Cassidy would be there.

Steve and Bucky wouldn’t notice.

And you? You would be alone again. A tear slipped down your cheek, but you kept your eyes closed. If you stayed quiet, maybe they wouldn’t hear how badly you were breaking.

Morning passed in a blur.

You moved through training sessions on autopilot, barely speaking, barely feeling. Natasha watched you carefully, her sharp gaze catching every falter, every moment you hesitated before leaving the gym. You knew she wanted to say something, but you weren’t sure if you had it in you to listen.

So you just kept going.

Kept pretending.

Kept waiting for Steve and Bucky to remember.

And then they did. Or so you thought.

“Doll, come on! Movie night’s all set up!”

Bucky’s voice rang through the hall as you made your way toward the common room, a flicker of hope stirring in your chest.

They remembered. They finally remembered.

For the first time in days, your heart didn’t feel so heavy. You ran your fingers through your hair, exhaling softly as you reached the doorway, ready to sink into the warmth of your boys.

And then you saw her.

Cassidy.

Sitting between them.

Again.

Your body locked up, breath catching in your throat. She was curled up comfortably, her legs tucked beneath her as she laughed at something Bucky whispered in her ear. Steve sat relaxed beside her, arm draped over the back of the couch, so damn close, so damn easy, like she belonged there.

Like she belonged with them.

You forced yourself to speak, though your voice barely carried. “What is she doing here?”

Steve turned, smiling at you. That easy, oblivious smile that used to make your heart race.

Now?

It made you feel sick.

“She didn’t know it was just meant to be us,” he said lightly, rubbing the back of his neck. “And we didn’t wanna be rude, so…”

You didn’t hear the rest, your ears were ringing.

They didn’t want to be rude to her. You stared at them. At her. And then you swallowed down every emotion clawing its way up your throat. “Enjoy the movie.”

That was all you said before turning on your heel and walking away.

They didn’t call after you.

Didn’t chase you.

Didn’t even notice the way your hands were trembling as you pushed open the door.

The tears came before you even reached the elevator, but you didn’t stop walking, didn’t wipe them away, didn’t care if anyone saw.

Not that they would. No one ever did.

You should have gone to your room. You should have buried yourself under the covers and let the ache consume you in silence.

But the walls were closing in too fast.

So instead, you climbed, up the emergency stairwell, up to the roof, where the air was sharp and cold, where the wind bit at your damp cheeks, where no one could see you break.

Your hands gripped the ledge as you sucked in deep, desperate breaths.

They had remembered and it still hadn’t mattered.

A hollow laugh escaped your lips, bitter and broken. You should have known, you should have known it would end up like this.

You closed your eyes, head tilting back as the city lights blurred beneath the weight of your tears.

You had never felt more alone.

By the time you came down from the roof, your tears had dried, but the weight in your chest remained, suffocating and unrelenting.

You stepped into the hallway, head down, steps quick, just wanting to reach your room, just wanting to breathe without feeling like you were drowning.

But the moment you turned the corner, you froze.

Steve.

Bucky.

And her.

They were standing there, talking, laughing.

Cassidy’s hand was on Bucky’s arm, her body tilted toward him in that way she always did, like she was drawn to him. Steve stood beside them, relaxed, like the world wasn’t crumbling around you.

Like they hadn’t just broken your heart a little more.

Their laughter died down when they saw you.

You knew they noticed your red, swollen eyes. Knew they saw the way your shoulders tensed, the way your fists clenched at your sides.

But they didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask if you were okay.

Didn’t ask where the hell you had gone.

No, Steve just frowned slightly, like he was trying to piece something together. Like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

You didn’t give him the chance, you walked past them without a word, without a glance.

Without acknowledging them at all.

And still, still they didn’t stop you.

The compound doors slammed shut behind you as you ran, your feet pounded against the pavement, muscles burning, lungs heaving, but you didn’t stop.

Didn’t slow down, didn’t care where you were going, as long as it was away.

Away from the suffocating silence, away from them, away from her.

You pushed yourself harder, faster, as if you could outrun the pain clawing at your chest, the unbearable ache of being unseen by the two people who were supposed to know you best.

They had always seen you, hadn’t they? Then why did it feel like you were fading? Why did it feel like you were already gone?

You were so lost in your own head, so consumed by the roaring in your ears, that you didn’t hear the footsteps behind you until a firm hand grabbed your arm, yanking you to a stop.

“Enough.”

Natasha.

You blinked at her, breathing hard, vision blurring. But she didn’t let go. Didn’t loosen her grip. She just stared at you, her green eyes filled with something sharp, something dangerous.

Something like determination.

“I let this go on for too long,” she muttered. “That’s on me.”

You swallowed hard, chest still rising and falling in ragged breaths. “Nat…”

“No.” Her voice was steel. “You’re not doing this. You’re not running until your body gives out just because they’re too damn blind to see what’s happening.”

Your throat tightened. “I don’t know what to do...”

She sighed, her hand loosening slightly but not letting go. “Then let me do something.”

Your breath hitched, but you believed in her.

Natasha had always been your anchor, your constant. You had survived hell together. She knew you better than anyone, sometimes even better than Steve and Bucky.

So when she said those words, when she looked at you like that, like she was done watching you suffer, something inside you cracked.

You swallowed hard, voice barely a whisper, “Okay.”

You hadn’t spoken much since that night, since the roof. Since Natasha found you and promised to do something.

You weren’t sure what you had expected, but you hadn’t expected him.

You sat on the rooftop again, legs pulled to your chest, arms wrapped around your knees. The city stretched out before you, endless and glowing, but all you saw was the emptiness.

The way you had been fading, the way they had let you, the way it still hurt.

You exhaled shakily, trying to push it all down, trying to keep yourself from breaking again.

“Bub.”

Your breath caught, your heart stopped, that voice.

Rough. Low. Familiar.

A voice that belonged to only one person.

You turned slowly, the cold air biting at your tear-streaked face and there he was.

Logan.

Your brother.

Standing there, broad and tense, his sharp eyes scanning you with a fury you hadn’t seen in a long time, his jaw clenched.

SNIKT.

The sound of his claws unsheathing was sharp, deadly, cutting through the silence like a blade to the heart.

His eyes darkened, fists trembling, rage radiating from his very being.

“Who?”

It was just one word, just one syllable, but it carried the weight of a storm. You swallowed hard, dropping your gaze.

Logan stepped closer, his boots heavy against the rooftop, his presence overwhelming.

“Who did this to you, Bub?” His voice was lower now, dangerous. “Tell me. I’ll gut ‘em.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Logan...”

“Look at me.”

You did and the moment his eyes met yours, whatever restraint he had left snapped.

“Those sons of bitches!” he snarled, pacing now, breathing ragged. His claws flexed, his shoulders heaved, pure, unfiltered rage pouring from him. “You’re telling me those two idiots, our idiots did this? Made you feel like this?”

You couldn’t answer.

Didn’t have to, because your silence was enough.

Logan let out a rough, guttural growl, his fists clenching so tightly that his knuckles went white despite the metal already tearing through his skin.

“I’ll kill ‘em.”

“No, you won’t.” Natasha’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and unwavering.

You turned just in time to see her step onto the rooftop, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“Why the hell not?” Logan snapped. “They hurt her.”

“I know,” Natasha said evenly. “That’s why she’s leaving.”

Your breath hitched, “What?”

Natasha walked toward you, gaze softening as she reached out and brushed her knuckles against your cheek. “Pack a bag, Sweets. You’re going with Logan.”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

Logan’s brows furrowed. “Wait, you’re actually letting me take her?”

“She needs to get away from here,” Natasha murmured, eyes never leaving yours. “From them.”

You stared at her, then at Logan, your throat tightening so painfully you thought it might close entirely.

“Tasha…”

“No arguments,” she said softly but firmly. “You’re not okay. And I won’t stand here and watch you disappear.”

A single tear slipped down your cheek.

You felt Logan’s heavy hand settle on your shoulder, grounding you, steadying you.

“C’mon, Bub,” he murmured, voice softer now, almost pleading. “Let’s go.”

You hesitated, not because you didn’t want to leave.

But because leaving meant giving up. Leaving meant accepting that they had chosen her, that they had chosen everyone but you.

But maybe... maybe they had already made that choice a long time ago.

You inhaled sharply and nodded.

And this time, you didn’t look back.

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[pukefactory]

yall wait

hear me out, yandere eternal sugar???

idk i just think that would be interesting

₊˚⊹⋆ ♡〜 YOU’RE GONNA GIVE IN 〜♡ ₊˚⊹⋆

˗ˏˋ ♡ Summary: A Compilation of Headcanons Featuring Yandere Eternal Sugar Cookie X Reader

˗ˏˋ ♡ Character(s): Eternal Sugar Cookie (Cookie Run Kingdom)

˗ˏˋ ♡ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

˗ˏˋ ♡ Warning(s): Obsessive Behaviour

˗ˏˋ ♡ Image Credits: @Devsisters

❤︎ Eternal Sugar’s obsession begins not with a thunderclap but a sigh. You caught her attention by not seeking it. In a realm where everyone flocks to her laughter, her light, her sin-dipped honey voice—you dared to look away. A quiet little thing. Skipping festivals in the Garden. Sitting in the shadows of marble pillars. Oh, darling. That made you irresistible. “Happiness,” she murmurs, lipsticked lips curving, “was never supposed to hide from me. But if you won’t come to me… I’ll simply have to come to you~”

❤︎ She knows everything. What flower you sniffed last. The exact second your breath hitched at her passing touch. The unspoken prayers you whispered when no one was listening. Eternal Sugar listens. “You like jasmine, don’t you?” she’ll ask one day, gently threading a blossom into your hair. You won’t remember ever telling her that. But she remembers everything. Every twitch of your fingers. Every downward glance. She’s building the blueprint of your soul.

❤︎ When Eternal Sugar speaks to you, her voice thickens like syrup and the world around you still. No sound dares interrupt her. No breeze dares brush your cheek unless she wills it. “You make me feel… curious, sweetling. And I hate not knowing,” she purrs, lyre twinkling behind her like a warning bell. You’re not hers yet, but that doesn’t stop her from acting like it. Touching your wrist a second too long. Sitting beside you even when there’s space elsewhere. Daring anyone to meet her eyes when she has you in her arms.

❤︎ The jealousy is not loud. It’s quiet. Lethal. Polite. She doesn’t scream, doesn’t threaten—not yet. She just smiles when someone else talks to you too long. “Oh? I didn’t know you were fond of company,” she murmurs sweetly, though the petal she was holding between her fingers snaps in half with a little crack. That Cookie you were giggling with? Gone the next day. “The Garden has a way of… pruning what isn’t needed,” she hums.

❤︎ She builds a shrine. No, a sanctuary. A secluded corner of the Garden of Delights. Forbidden to all but you. Marble steps carved with your name. A velvet lounge seat in the shape of your favorite flower. Fruit that never rots, drinks that never empty. “Do you like it, darling?” she whispers, voice dripping in honey. “Now you’ll never need to leave.” The walls are beautiful. Too beautiful to notice they’re closing in.

❤︎ When she sings with her lyre, the music wraps around you like a spell. It’s always been like that. But now… the notes are laced with something deeper. Her power. Her need. It tugs at your heartstrings like they’re tuned to her own. “You belong to me, sweetheart,” she whispers between verses, and for a moment—you believe her. Because how could something so lovely be wrong?

❤︎ She dreams of your wedding constantly. Every color, every vow, every breathless moment under starlit vines. Sometimes, she’ll forget you aren’t married yet. “Darling,” she’ll hum absentmindedly, trailing fingers down your arm. “My spouse…I’ll be yours, and you’ll be mine. Forever.” There’s a glint in her eye that doesn’t match the smile. A trembling underneath the serenity. She already considers you hers. She’s just waiting for you to accept it.

❤︎ She does not tolerate rivals. Not even imagined ones. A Cookie compliments your robe? That Cookie suddenly forgets who they are for three days. Someone asks if you’re “free tonight”? She smiles and answers for you. “No, honey. My little darling is taken. Busy. So very busy being adored.” If you ever ask why she intervenes so often, she’ll tilt her head and sigh. “It’s just love, sweetheart. I’d die without you. Don’t you want me to live?”

❤︎ When she starts unraveling, it’s soft. Barely noticeable. She stops brushing her hair. Sleeps less. Sings in minor keys. Her voice gets too sweet, too sharp around the edges. “They’re going to take you from me,” she’ll whisper one night, holding you so tightly it hurts. “Aren’t they?” And if you reassure her—say you love her, say you’re not going anywhere—she breaks into tears, clinging to your words like air. “Say it again,” she begs. “Say you want me. That you need me. Please, sugar. I’ll be good. I can be good.”

❤︎ Her final warning is always velvet-lined. If you try to leave—really leave—she won’t scream. She won’t even cry. She’ll walk toward you with a smile, halo tilted like a dagger. “No no no,” she sings, brushing your cheek with trembling fingers. “Don’t make me be the villain, sweetheart. I’d rather die than hurt you. But I’d rather hurt everyone else than lose you.” She laughs softly. “Now, sit. Let’s have a drink. One little toast before we forget this ever happened, alright?”

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

Mydei's golden eyes were filled with that burning intensity as he hovered over you, the aftermath of your sex hanging in the air like a lingering perfume. He could still taste you on his lips, the heat of your body still radiating between the two of you. But that wasn’t enough for him. No, not when he felt the need to claim you, to make you feel just how deeply he wanted you.

Without a word, he shifted his focus to your feet, big hands gently holding them, his touch reverent as he gazed down at them like they were the most precious thing in the world. His cock, still thick and swollen from the pounding he’d just given you, twitched in anticipation as he pressed soft, lingering kisses to your feet, letting his lips graze over your skin. He didn’t have a foot fetish, but worshipping you in every way he could felt like a damn necessity.

His lips brushed over your skin, a contrast to the roughness in his tone. “You’re mine,” he muttered, barely above a whisper, but there was no mistaking the weight behind his words. “Every inch of you… belongs to me.” The heat of his breath was almost unbearable, and it made your pussy clench involuntarily, still sensitive from everything he’d done to you.

You couldn’t hold back a shiver, the sensation of his mouth against your foot making your whole body tighten. His lips, soft yet insistent, kissed every inch of your delicate skin like it was a treasure he couldn’t get enough of. His movements were slow, calculated, savoring each touch, each kiss as if he were marking you in some secret, sacred way. And as much as you loved it, you needed more.

When he finally moved back up to kiss your lips, he was rougher now, his mouth devouring yours in a heated kiss that was full of the hunger he’d always kept hidden. His cock, still rock hard, pressed against your pussy, rubbing along your folds, making you gasp. You could feel the tip of it against your entrance, teasing you with its warmth, still coated with the remnants of your sex, and the sensation of him like that—so close but not enough—made your entire body tremble in need.

His voice came out in a low growl. “I’m not done with you yet,” he whispered against your lips, his hands sliding down your body, feeling the softness of your skin, the way your body responded to him. “You’re perfect. Fucking perfect.” And then, before you could even say anything, he was sinking into you again, his cock pushing slowly into your pussy, filling you with that overwhelming sensation you loved so much. He wasn’t gentle now. Not when he had you like this—vulnerable, his to claim.

[mandoalorian]

where you end, i begin [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: you didn’t expect sam wilson to be the one to pull you off the street, or to offer you a place to stay when you had nowhere else to go. but what you least expected was to come face-to-face with the leader of the new avengers — bucky barnes. you didn’t trust him. he didn’t trust you. but when sam sent you both on an errand together, something shifted. not enough to fix the past. just enough to start the fire.

word count: 7000

warnings: 18+ for eventual smut, enemies to lovers, thunderbolts* spoilers, sam/bucky are fighting, mention of family member death, details of physical and emotional abuse, grumpy!bucky, avengers tower fic

masterlist

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It had been fourteen months since the bar. Fourteen months since Shane broke a glass against your wrist, since a stranger in sunglasses asked if you were okay, and since the world met its new set of so-called heroes.

You still thought about that night sometimes—the way your heart raced not from fear, but from certainty. You’d seen it in Shane’s aura before it happened: the pressure rising, the colour deepening to that dangerous red you now knew too well. You’d seen it coming, just like you always did. And you still hadn’t stopped it.

Not really.

Now, you moved through your days like a ghost. A few bar shifts here, a couch to crash on there. Shane always came back around. He always had just enough charm, just enough regret, to get the door open again. And you always gave in—because it was either that or sleep in the cold.

What you didn’t know was that someone else had been watching, too.

Sam Wilson wasn’t a shadowy man by nature, but he had grown good at disappearing when he needed to. He didn’t make noise when he followed you out of the bar late at night, checking that you made it home. He didn’t flinch when he saw you stumble out of Shane’s apartment with a fresh bruise blooming along your collarbone.

He just kept notes. Kept watching.

He told himself it was because he saw something in you—something bright beneath the ache, something sharp. Power wrapped in grief, hidden behind cracked lips and tired eyes.

He told himself it wasn’t pity.

It wasn’t until the alley fight that he was sure.

You’d only meant to get your phone back. That was it. Shane had taken it—again—and you were done playing the patient game. But when you walked into that alley behind the bar, he was already drunk. Already yelling. Already grabbing for your wrist.

You felt it before he touched you: the spike in his chest, the tangle in his thoughts. His aura snapped like a live wire—violent, chaotic, erratic. You saw the shape of the blow before it came.

So you moved.

For once, you didn’t hesitate.

You caught his wrist, twisted, stepped into his chest with your palm flat over his heart. You didn’t know how you did it—but when you pushed, something surged from you. His body slammed into the dumpster with a crack loud enough to make the rats scatter.

You stared at your hands like they didn’t belong to you.

And Sam, across the street behind the windshield of his parked car, finally made the call he’d been putting off for over a year.

You didn’t go back to Shane after that. You didn’t have a choice. The door was slammed shut, your clothes thrown into the gutter. No phone, no money. You wandered all night. By morning, you were curled on the curb outside the bar, your hoodie soaked through from a burst of April rain.

That was where Sam found you again.

And this time, he didn’t keep walking.

You didn’t hear him approach.

Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the ache in your body or the way your hands were still shaking from everything you’d finally escaped. Or maybe it was because part of you had stopped expecting kindness. Kindness never walked up without a catch.

You hadn’t cried yet. Not since the fight.

Not when Shane shattered your phone against the apartment wall. Not when he screamed loud enough to wake your neighbours and you had to run barefoot with your backpack half-zipped and nothing but a crumpled twenty-dollar bill in your coat pocket. Not even when the woman at the shelter said there were no open beds, no space, no time.

You sat on the stoop of the corner store across from your old block, your coat soaked through at the shoulders and a plastic bag of your remaining things resting by your feet. You hadn't eaten since the night before. Maybe longer. The sky above had turned a familiar kind of gray—the kind that made the city feel quieter than it actually was. Like something was holding its breath.

Then, a voice.

“You always sit out here in the rain, or just when you’ve got nowhere else to go?”

You looked up sharply, instinct sparking under your skin. The man stood just out of reach, hands half-raised in a non-threatening gesture. Worn jacket. Scuffed boots. Cap pulled low over his eyes, sunglasses despite the storm clouds overhead. A paper bag dangled from one hand like a peace offering.

You narrowed your eyes. “You got a habit of bothering women who are clearly not in the mood?”

He cracked a faint smile. “Only when they look like they need a sandwich.”

Your stomach twisted at the word. A memory of warmth. Of feeling full. He stepped forward slowly and extended the bag.

“Double sausage, egg, extra cheese. They gave me two. You want it?”

You hesitated. But then the wind picked up, and you felt yourself flinch, thin fabric clinging to your soaked arms. Pride didn’t warm you. Hunger didn’t wait.

You reached out and took the bag without saying thank you. He sat down next to you, close enough to be companionable but not so close you’d mistake it for intimacy. Just a quiet presence.

You peeled the sandwich open and took a cautious bite.

He didn’t speak again until you were halfway through it.

“I’ve seen you fight.”

That stopped you cold.

You turned your head, chewing slowly. “Excuse me?”

He adjusted his sunglasses slightly but didn’t meet your eyes. “About a week ago. The alley behind McCready’s. That guy tried to grab your arm. You moved before he could. Like you felt it coming.”

You didn’t say anything. Just stared at him, tense and still.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you. Not in a weird way,” he added quickly, as if realising how it sounded. “More like… a protective one.”

You snorted. “Yeah, ‘cause that doesn’t sound weird at all. And I don’t need protecting.”

“Yeah, I figured that much,” he muttered. “I saw you in that bar. Fourteen months ago.”

You blinked. “What?”

“The night that guy smashed the glass. Screamed at you like he wanted to break something more than the tumbler. You handled yourself. Scared him off before anyone else could even move.”

You stared at him. Memory unspooling. A man at the bar, alone in a booth. Cap, sunglasses. You hadn’t looked twice.

But how could you forget meeting Captain America.

“I thought you looked familiar,” you muttered.

“I wanted to check in that night. Say something. But I figured you didn’t need another man in your face. Especially not one you didn’t ask for.”

You frowned. “So why now?”

“Because I don’t think you’ve got anyone else.”

There it was. Brutal. True.

You looked down at your bag. Damp. Pathetic. Full of useless things like books and makeup and a single cracked hairbrush. The shelter turned you away. Your phone was in pieces. You had no money. No room to go back to. No friends.

No plan.

And yet still… “You could be a creep.”

“I could,” he said honestly. “But I’m not.”

You looked at him again. Studied his posture, the way he sat steady and relaxed, unthreatening. Something in your gut told you he was telling the truth. That soft, rare little voice that hadn’t failed you yet.

“…You’re really him?”

He smiled.

Then, he pulled off his sunglasses.

The recognition came in slow, like fog rolling off a lake.

Sam Wilson.

You’d seen his face on screens. Back when there were still screens in your life. The man who took the shield. The man who walked away from it. The one who didn’t ask for the spotlight but carried the weight anyway.

“Why would someone like you help someone like me?”

He shrugged. “Because someone once told me power doesn’t always look like flight suits and laser beams. Sometimes it’s the kind of power you can’t explain—but you feel it. When I saw you fight… I saw something real.”

You exhaled, long and slow.

“I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“I know.”

You looked away, then back.

“…Couch or floor?”

He grinned. “Guest bedroom. I’ll even throw in a working shower and some clean towels.”

You smirked, even though your heart was racing. “That’s a bold offer.”

“I’m a bold guy.”

You stood, slowly, and gathered your bag. “So what are you now? A social worker?”

“Nope,” he said, standing beside you. “Just a guy trying to build something better. And maybe… recruit a few misfits along the way.”

You eyed him. “I didn’t know you were part of the Avengers again.”

He looked toward the clouds, thoughtful. “It’s a work in progress.”

────✪────

Sam’s apartment was warm. Too warm. Or maybe it just felt that way because you hadn’t been inside a home that didn’t scream danger in every corner.

The floors were wood, worn but clean. A stack of mail sat on the counter. The living room had a strange mix of modern and hand-me-down furniture. A dark leather couch. A navy throw blanket. The kind of space someone tried to make liveable without giving too much of themselves away.

You stood near the doorway with your damp bag clutched in both hands while Sam disappeared into the kitchen. You heard a fridge open, something fizz, and then his voice: “You want water, soda, beer?”

You hesitated. “…Water’s fine.”

He returned, handed you a bottle, then nodded for you to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

You didn’t move right away. Not until he added, “It’s just us for now. My roommate’s out — his name’s Joaquin. Works late sometimes.”

You followed, wary but quiet. He pointed to a room down the hall. “That’ll be yours. The bed’s clean. Closet’s empty. You can stay as long as you need.”

You blinked at him. “Why are you being so… nice?”

He didn’t stop walking, but his voice lowered just a touch. “Because I’ve seen too many people fall through cracks no one’s willing to patch. If I can offer you a few bricks and some glue, I will.”

You didn’t have a response for that.

The bathroom was spotless. The cabinet had backup toothbrushes and unopened soaps. The bedroom wasn’t big, but it was safe. You stared at the freshly made bed like it might vanish if you blinked too hard.

“I can take you shopping tomorrow,” Sam said gently. “Clothes, food. You can make a list of what you like. We usually cook in, unless Joaquin tries to microwave fish again.”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Sam grinned.

“See? You’re already fitting in.”

You looked down, the smile fading. “I’m not used to people doing this. Being… decent.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

There was a knock at the door.

Sam’s entire energy shifted.

He gave you a quick glance — nothing panicked, just measured — and stepped toward the door.

“I’ve got it,” he said over his shoulder. “Sorry, he said he was coming later.”

You stood awkwardly in the hallway, unsure whether to retreat or wait. Then the door opened, and a voice drifted in.

Low. Familiar. Tightly controlled.

“You called.”

You couldn’t see him from where you stood, but something in your chest twisted anyway.

Sam sighed. “Come in, Barnes. Take your boots off. I just got this floor waxed.”

Boots thudded on the mat. Footsteps crossed the living room.

Then—he was there.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The Winter Soldier.

You knew his face. Had seen it splashed across news reports, dossiers, nightmares. His hair was longer now, thick and wavy. Honestly, he might have blow dried it. But the eyes were the same—steel blue, tired, sharp.

You froze.

He didn’t notice you at first. He was too busy handing Sam something—a file, maybe. Paper clipped, sealed tight.

“It’s a peace offering,” Bucky muttered. “Figured you’d want it before the next press conference.”

Sam looked unimpressed. “You mean the one where your girlfriend Val tries to trademark the term ‘heroic vigilante’?”

“I don’t even like her,” Bucky snapped. “You think I asked to be part of that PR stunt?”

Sam scoffed and turned away, muttering something under his breath about damage control.

And that’s when Bucky saw you.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak.

But his eyes locked on you like he’d sensed something.

Like your name was written in the air.

Sam noticed the shift and turned, his tone lighter now. “Right. Uh, Bucky, this is—”

You cut in. “You don’t have to.”

He raised a brow and introduced you anyway.

Sam stepped between you slightly. “She’s staying here. Guest room.”

Bucky tilted his head. “She your new protégé or something?”

Sam smiled, calm but pointed. “Let’s just say she’s got potential.”

There was silence, thick as oil.

Then Bucky gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, voice unreadable.

You didn’t say it back.

You barely heard them after that. Something buzzed in your ears—sharp and thick like static. You felt Bucky’s presence in the room even after he stepped out of it, like the imprint of something heavy and permanent.

You didn’t remember walking to the guest room. Didn’t remember closing the door.

But suddenly you were inside it, alone, your fingers clutching the edge of the desk like it might anchor you to the floor. Your breath came in short, shallow bursts.

He’s here. He’s here. He’s in this house.

Your skin felt too tight, like your body wasn’t built to contain what was happening inside it. You closed your eyes, trying to will your powers still, but it was no use.

The room lit up in invisible colours—his aura had followed you.

It was like burnt silver wrapped in thunderclouds. Regret. Guilt. A pressure that scraped like glass beneath the ribs.

You couldn’t tell if it was his or yours.

The memories flooded in too quickly—your brother’s laugh, your mother’s scream, the news report, the blood. You couldn’t catch your breath. You couldn’t see without seeing him. That metal arm. That gun. That empty stare.

Your knees gave out.

You sank to the floor, hands over your ears as your powers bloomed wild and brutal. The light behind your eyes fractured like mirrors breaking underfoot. You felt the energy of the house—Sam’s steadiness, Bucky’s conflict, your own panic—a cacophony of emotion clawing to be named.

You bit your tongue hard enough to taste metal.

Then you screamed into your palms. Not loudly. Just enough to bleed something out of yourself.

And then—you shut it down.

You focused on the floor beneath you, the air in your lungs, the silence between heartbeats. You counted.

One. Two. Three.

Again.

One. Two. Three.

Eventually, the trembling stopped. Your aura dimmed. You forced yourself to crawl onto the bed, blanket pulled up to your chin like a child trying to disappear.

Outside the room, muffled voices.

Bucky stood just inside the doorway of the apartment, the air thick with unspoken things. He hadn’t seen Sam in over a year, and somehow this hallway—this ordinary patch of tile and light—felt heavier than any battlefield.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” Bucky said first, voice low, rough with dust and memory.

Sam gave a quiet laugh, though there was no humour in it. He leaned a shoulder against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. “That so? Funny. Last I heard, you were naming teams after yourself and making a mess of the cleanup.”

Bucky frowned. “You think I wanted this?”

“I think you wanted control.” Sam’s tone was measured, but the bite beneath it was sharp. “Wanted to be something that didn’t belong to Steve.”

That landed like a punch, and they both felt it.

Bucky didn’t flinch, but he looked away.

Sam pressed on. “You disappeared, man. Fourteen months. No calls. No check-ins. Just… vanished.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked. “You think I had the luxury of checking in? I was doing damage control. You don’t know the shit Valentina’s been pulling—”

“You were my friend, Bucky,” Sam snapped, stepping forward now, heat rising in his voice. “I’ve been here. On the ground. Watching what’s happening, watching people get twisted into weapons again—”

“I was one of those weapons,” Bucky shot back. “Don’t preach to me about it.”

The room held its breath.

Bucky exhaled, ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t come to dig all this up. I came to talk.”

“About what?” Sam asked, voice flatter now. “About making peace? Mending fences? About maybe being on the same side again?”

“Something like that.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, gaze cutting straight through him. “You show up with your tail tucked, looking to ‘talk,’ and you don’t even know what kind of shitstorm you walked into.”

Bucky raised a brow. “What storm?”

Sam hesitated. Just for a moment.

“…Never mind,” he said finally, pushing away from the doorframe. “Doesn’t matter. You want peace, you’ll have to earn it.”

“I’m not looking for forgiveness,” Bucky muttered.

“Good,” Sam said, turning toward the fridge. “Because I’m not giving it.”

The silence between them lingered even after the heat of the argument cooled. Sam busied himself with pouring water, the clink of glass the only sound for a long stretch. Bucky just stood there—arms crossed, steel-eyed, jaw tight. But something about his stillness looked more like guilt than anger.

Finally, Bucky exhaled. “What can I do to make things better?”

Sam didn’t look at him right away. Instead, he turned to the window, watching the late afternoon sun stretch shadows across the floor.

“You can start by showing up when it matters,” Sam said quietly. “Start by taking responsibility without hiding behind guilt.”

“I am taking responsibility.”

“No, you’re doing what you’ve always done, Buck. You’re trying to fix everything without facing it.”

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly bristling. But before he could fire back, Sam cut in again—calmer this time.

“She needs clothes. Shoes. A damn toothbrush.” He glanced back at Bucky. “Take her to the mall. Walk beside someone again. Start there.”

Bucky groaned under his breath. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. You want a way back in? You earn it.” Sam gestured toward the hallway. “Start with her.”

Bucky muttered something under his breath, then reluctantly trudged down the hall. Sam followed, but it was he who knocked—twice, gently—on your door.

Inside, you were curled under your blanket, aura flickering dimly like a bruise trying to fade. Your eyes were puffy, but alert, scanning the shape of Sam’s shadow beneath the door.

“Hey,” he said, soft but clear. “I know today’s been… a lot. But I was thinking maybe you could get out for a bit. There’s someone here who can take you shopping. Just for essentials.”

You stiffened. “I don’t want to go. You said you’d take me tomorrow.”

“He’s not—he’s not Shane,” Sam said gently, misunderstanding the tightness in your voice. “I wouldn’t let anyone near you if I thought they’d hurt you. This guy… I trust him with my life. I mean that.”

You didn’t answer. The silence grew teeth.

Eventually, Sam added in a hush, “He’s not a monster.”

But he was.

You stood slowly, your hand grazing the wood of the door. Through the thin barrier, you could sense it: the man standing just behind Sam. The storm in his aura, the tension in his breath. His presence buzzed against your nerves like static before lightning.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The man who killed your brother.

You pressed your forehead gently to the door. Sam thought you were scared of men. That you'd been broken by Shane, fragile and flinching.

But that wasn’t it.

You were finally close. Closer than you ever expected. You’d seen the headlines, watched the broadcasts—but nothing could compare to the sheer proximity of him. His heartbeat, his shadow.

You took a slow breath and opened the door.

Bucky was standing there, arms crossed, leaning on one hip like this was the last place he wanted to be.

His eyes flicked over you and then away, like you were another problem to solve. Maybe you were.

Sam smiled, clearly relieved. “Good. Just a quick trip. Get what you need.”

You gave the former Winter Soldier a long, measured look.

This was where your plan began.

“Fine,” you said.

And you stepped past the threshold.

────✪────

You hadn’t spoken since leaving Sam’s apartment. The silence in the car was thick, choked with unsaid things. Bucky drove like he wanted it over with—hands tight on the wheel, jaw clenched, eyes fixed straight ahead.

You didn’t thank him. He didn’t offer small talk.

By the time you stepped into the fluorescent haze of the mall, the air between you was already crackling.

“So,” Bucky muttered, holding the door open with the flat of his vibranium hand, “what exactly do you need?”

You stepped past him without looking. “I dunno. Soap. Clothes. Dignity.”

He huffed a quiet laugh under his breath. “That last one might be out of stock.”

You paused, turned, arms folded across your chest. “Was that supposed to be funny?”

He gave a shrug that might’ve meant anything. “You’re the one who said it.”

You narrowed your eyes, studying him—his posture, his expression, his aura. That storm inside him hadn’t lessened. If anything, it swirled darker now. A tension in his gut. Something like guilt. Or resentment. Maybe both.

You turned and walked faster, weaving into the crowd of shoppers.

“You always this pleasant?” he asked, trailing behind.

“Only when I’m with charming company.”

His voice stayed low, a little amused despite himself. “Is this because you don’t like me, or because you don’t like anyone?”

“I don’t know you,” you said sharply. “And let’s keep it that way.”

“Sure,” he said, falling into step beside you, “except I’m the guy stuck helping you pick out deodorant.”

You stopped abruptly in front of a store.

“Let’s get one thing straight.” You turned toward him. “I didn’t ask for your help. I didn’t want this. I had a life. I was getting by. And now I’m stuck here—with you.”

“You were getting by?” Bucky quirked an eyebrow. You froze, unsure of how much Sam had told him about your situation. Never the less, it wasn’t his business.

“I was getting by.” you lied through your teeth.

His brow furrowed slightly, annoyed but... curious. “And… Stuck?”

“Yes. Stuck. With some half-retired war hero babysitting me like I’m some charity case.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “You think Sam’s doing this out of pity?”

“I think you don’t want to be here.”

“That’s true,” he said without missing a beat.

You scoffed and turned toward the nearest clothing rack, shoving through the hangers harder than necessary.

“Then why come?” you asked after a beat, your voice quieter now. “Why agree?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was flat and honest. “Because I owe Sam.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him. “That’s all this is?”

He held your gaze for just a second too long. “What else would it be?”

You didn’t have an answer.

So you grabbed a few shirts off the rack and stormed toward the fitting rooms. When you emerged ten minutes later, arms full of items, Bucky was exactly where you’d left him—leaning on a bench, arms crossed, looking like he'd rather be in a war zone.

“I need sneakers,” you muttered, brushing past him.

“Lead the way,” he said with a sigh.

The shoe store was quieter. You sat down on the little bench, trying on a pair of black high-tops, when Bucky finally said something that caught you off guard.

“So what do you like to do? When you’re not yelling at me, I mean.”

You glanced up at him with a sharp look. “You’re joking like you’re part of the circus— Not an Avenger. Although…”

He was too unbothered. “You’ve got a lot of sharp words for someone who can’t decide between a pair of shoes.”

You shifted on the bench, adjusting your stance as you reached down for the other shoe. But before you could slip it on, a cry pierced the air.

You froze. The sound of a baby wailing echoed through the store, followed by frantic footsteps as a mother rushed to comfort the child.

Bucky’s head snapped toward the noise. He raised an eyebrow, glancing at you.

You didn’t move. You barely breathed, your pulse quickening as the panic in the child’s aura swirled like an impending storm. The baby was in distress—too much of it, too quickly.

“Everything okay?” Bucky’s voice broke through your concentration, but you didn’t look at him. You couldn’t, not yet.

The crying grew louder, escalating, and before you knew it, you were standing, your body tight with an involuntary urge to do something about it.

You took a deep breath, eyes squeezed shut. You felt the pressure in your chest. The emotions of the baby bleeding into the atmosphere. You reached out, not physically, but with your senses, and tried to calm the child.

It was only for a second, but in that moment, the energy shifted. The crying stopped abruptly, as if the child’s distress had been soothed. The air seemed to calm with it.

When you opened your eyes, you saw Bucky watching you, expression unreadable.

“You... you felt that, didn’t you?” His voice was low, quiet. “Before it even happened.”

You didn’t answer right away, lowering your gaze to the shoes in your hands. “Black or blue?”

Bucky stared at you for a long beat, his gaze flickering over you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. He could tell there was more to you than what met the eye. And though he didn’t fully understand it, the way you had handled that... there was something almost unnatural about it.

But he didn’t press. He was still trying to understand everything about you—the quiet walls you put up, the sharpness in your words. And yet, he could see past all of it.

“Black,” he said after a moment, his tone less tense than before.

You shrugged, deliberately ignoring his suggestion and putting the black sneakers back on the shelf. You took the blue pair to pay at the cashier.

Bucky didn’t say anything else for a while. He just kept walking beside you through the store, quiet, observant.

Finally, after a few more minutes, you turned to him with a look that could’ve cut glass.

“You can’t always just fix everything.”

He looked down at you, his lips quirking into a half-smile. “Who says I’m trying to fix anything?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but instead just let out a frustrated huff.

He watched you with a growing curiosity.

And for the first time since you’d gotten in the car, you both felt like maybe—just maybe—the quiet was starting to break.

The drive back to Sam’s was nearly as awkward as the drive to the mall.

Rain drizzled against the windshield, thin and cold, painting the world outside in gray streaks. You sat pressed against the passenger door, your eyes on the window but your senses—your aura—locked on him.

Bucky didn’t speak. Not at first. He just gripped the steering wheel like it might splinter in his hands if he eased up.

“You moved before that kid even started crying.”

His voice broke the silence like a stone in still water.

You blinked, feigning confusion. “What?”

“At the shoe store,” he said, glancing sideways. “The baby. You stood up before it happened. Like you knew.”

Your pulse ticked in your throat. “Lucky guess.”

He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. You could feel the flicker of his suspicion—quiet but sharp, like a blade being unsheathed slowly.

“You’re not normal,” he said.

Your head snapped toward him, heart pounding. “That’s rude.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the road. “I’m not normal either. Neither’s Sam. Or anyone trying to do what we’re doing now.”

“What you’re doing?” You laughed, bitter and sharp. “Please don’t lump me in with your little project.”

He arched a brow. “It’s not my project.”

“Right. You’re just the face of it.”

“Val’s the one in charge,” Bucky said carefully, testing the waters. “And Sam? He’s just as much part of it as anyone else. He just doesn’t realise it yet. He brought you in. Hey, maybe you can get him to sign—“

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snapped. “Sam gave me a place to sleep, that’s all. I’m not here to be anyone’s weapon.”

The word hung between you, heavy and unspoken.

Weapon.

Bucky stiffened. You felt it. A ripple in his aura—like regret twisted with something darker. Guilt, maybe.

“The Avenger’s aren’t weapons.” Bucky said straightforwardly but solemnly.

“That’s all you are.” you bit back, narrowing your eyes.

“We’re peacekeepers.” Bucky mellowed.

“You’re liars.”

“Sam been putting those thoughts in your head?” he asked, too calm.

You scoffed. “No. Sam’s the only one who hasn’t lied to me.”

A tense silence passed.

Then you said, quietly, “The only Avengers that ever mattered were the first six. Bruce Banner. Natasha Romanoff. Clint Barton. Thor. Tony Stark and Steve Rogers. That’s what my brother used to say.”

You didn’t know why you told him that. Maybe because the car felt too quiet again. Maybe because your throat ached with words that never got said.

“Steve Rogers was his hero,” you murmured. “Wanted to be just like him. Told everyone he’d join the Avengers one day, even when the world stopped believing in them.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on the wheel. But he said nothing.

You glanced at him. “So no offence, but you don’t get to walk around calling yourself an Avenger like it means something.”

You didn’t mean to cut so deep.

But you meant every word.

When he finally pulled up to the curb outside Sam’s apartment, he turned off the engine, but didn’t move.

“You know,” he said slowly, “Your brother wasn’t wrong. About Steve.”

Your breath caught.

“But Steve believed in people. He believed in me. Doesn’t that count for something?”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you had nothing to say—but because you didn’t trust your voice.

If Bucky hadn’t murdered your brother in cold blood, you figured your brother might have actually liked the man.

Bucky opened the door without looking at you. “Let’s go. You’ve got clothes to unpack.”

You didn’t speak when you walked in. Just kicked off your shoes, dropped the shopping bags by the door, and beelined for the hallway without glancing back.

“Hey—” Sam started from the kitchen, but your footsteps were already retreating down the hall.

Your bedroom door shut with a soft click. Not a slam.

You didn’t have the strength to slam it.

The lights were off. That was good. You needed quiet. Dark. Stillness.

But it didn’t help.

Not really.

You pressed your back to the door, sinking slowly down until you were sitting on the floor, knees pulled to your chest. Your breathing was shallow, erratic. That thing in your chest—the one that always knew more than you wanted it to—was pounding like a second heartbeat.

Your skin pulsed with it. Like a wave just beneath your flesh.

Aura sensitivity.

You couldn’t switch it off. Couldn’t silence the pull of emotions around you. Couldn’t stop your body from picking up on the tension bleeding from the living room, the faint echo of Bucky’s anger still clinging to the hallway like smoke.

The mention of Steve clearly struck a chord. Good.

The room dimmed at the edges. Or maybe it was just your vision faltering, warping with the tremble that started in your fingers.

He knew.

Not everything. Not why you hated him. Not who he’d taken from you.

But he’d seen something.

That wasn’t part of the plan.

Your hands curled into fists, fingers trembling. You tried to regulate your breath, slow it down. In for four. Hold. Out for six.

But your lungs didn’t want to listen. They fluttered, panicked.

And then it started.

Soft at first. The glow beneath your skin. Pale and golden and sickly-sweet like syrup. It traced your veins, pulsing like fireflies trapped just beneath the surface.

You were spilling.

No one could see it. Not yet.

But if they did—

You scrambled off the floor and into the en suite bathroom, flicked the cold water on and splashed your face, hands, neck. Anything to shock your body back into focus. The chill bit at your skin. You welcomed it.

And behind you, barely audible through the wall, you heard the low hum of voices.

Sam.

And Bucky.

“She slammed the door?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow as he leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

Bucky shrugged, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge and twisting the cap. “Didn’t slam it. Just… walked off.”

Sam watched him.

“She said something about the OG Avengers,” Bucky added quietly, gaze fixed on the bottle label. “Her brother was one of those kids. Worshipped Steve. Thought he’d wear the suit one day.”

A long pause.

“She told you that?” Sam asked, eyes narrowing.

Bucky nodded once. “Slipped out. Didn’t mean to.”

Sam’s brow furrowed.

“You do realise,” Sam said slowly, “she doesn’t trust you. At all.”

Bucky looked up. “I figured that out around the part where she said I don’t get to call myself an Avenger.”

Sam didn’t laugh.

He just exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. “Then earn it. Show her she’s safe here. That this isn’t just some recruitment stunt.”

Bucky leaned back against the counter, jaw flexing. “What if I can’t?”

Sam looked toward the hallway, where your door stayed closed and the air felt just a little too heavy.

“You can. You just need to start being better.”

────✪────

The apartment was quiet, but you couldn’t sleep.

Too much noise in your head. Too much you didn’t understand.

You found Sam on the balcony, sitting in one of the cheap plastic chairs, staring out at the skyline like it owed him answers.

You hesitated in the doorway.

He glanced back once and patted the chair beside him. “Can’t sleep?”

You shook your head and stepped out.

It was cooler out here. Wind in your hair, city alive beneath you, but far enough away that it felt like someone else’s problem.

You sat. Pulled your knees up to your chest, arms wrapped around them. “Thanks. For earlier.”

Sam just nodded. “You did fine. Held your own.”

“I mean for letting me stay.”

He shrugged, eyes still on the horizon. “You needed a place. I had one.”

You glanced sideways at him. “You always do that? Help strays off the street?”

His lips twitched at that. “Only the special ones.”

That earned a quiet laugh from you. Barely.

Then came the pause.

The one you weren’t sure how to fill, until the words came out before you could pull them back.

“What’s his deal?”

Sam turned to you. “Who?”

You didn’t answer. Just gave him a look.

Sam sighed and leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. “You don’t wanna get into that.”

“I kind of do.”

He was quiet a long moment, considering.

“Bucky’s… complicated,” Sam said eventually. “He’s trying. Has been. But he’s got a long shadow behind him. Not everyone sees past that.”

“Do you?”

“I try,” Sam said softly. “We’ve been through a lot together. Doesn’t mean I excuse everything. But I know what it’s like to be rewritten.”

You nodded slowly, heart twisting.

“I’m not afraid of him,” you murmured.

Sam gave you a long look. “Good. But you should know—he’s not like the man you see in headlines.”

You considered his words only briefly.

Your throat tightened. “Why me?”

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted honestly. “But when I saw what you could do, I knew you didn’t belong where you were. And I don’t think you want to be there again.”

You swallowed hard.

“I don’t.”

The apartment was dim and still. Only the occasional whir of the refrigerator broke the silence, but it wasn’t enough to quiet your thoughts.

Trying to go back to sleep had been impossible.

You’d really tried to go back to bed when Sam did, after your conversation on the balcony. You figured you might sleep better knowing that everyone else was sleeping too. But none of this felt right.

Too much noise behind your eyelids. Too much weight on your chest. The bed felt foreign, like if you stayed in it too long, you’d vanish into the sheets and never come back.

So, again, you padded quietly through the apartment, wrapped in a hoodie two sizes too big and thick socks that muted your steps.

You didn’t expect anyone else to be awake.

But there he was.

Barnes.

Sitting at the kitchen table, elbows on the wood, long fingers curled around the neck of a bottle. He looked like he’d been carved out of the dark itself — broad shoulders hunched, tired eyes fixed on the manila folder splayed open in front of him. His jaw tensed as he read something over again, and again, like the words were mocking him.

The soft creak of the floor made him glance up.

You froze.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

Finally, you shifted your weight. “Do you live here or something?”

His brow lifted faintly. “No.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He sighed. Rubbed a hand over his jaw and looked back at the papers. “Just overstaying my welcome.”

You hesitated in the doorway before stepping inside. Opened the cupboard for a glass, filled it with water from the tap. His eyes tracked you once before settling back on the folder.

Your curiosity gnawed at you.

“What is that?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at it like it personally offended him.

“A file,” he said at last. “A peace offering.”

You leaned against the counter, arms folded. “For Sam?”

Bucky nodded once. “Proposal. Co-leadership. New Avengers. Shared responsibility.”

Your brows rose. “That sounds… mature.”

He huffed a bitter laugh. “Apparently not mature enough to be taken seriously.”

You watched him for a long beat.

“So instead of signing it, Sam sends you shopping with me.”

He didn’t laugh at that. Just let his head tip back, eyes on the ceiling like he was praying for patience. “He’s testing me,” Bucky muttered. “Seeing if I’ll break. If I’ve changed. I don’t blame him.”

“Why not?”

“Because I did a lot of things,” he said. “Things that don’t go away just because I want to do better now. Sam thinks I betrayed him.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the glass. You didn’t know what to say to that.

Then he looked at you.

“I just want to fix things.”

Something in his voice made your chest pull tight. It wasn’t desperation. Not quite. It was quieter than that. Lonelier.

You crossed the space and sat at the edge of the table, far from him, but close enough to feel the tremor in the air.

“Maybe,” you said carefully, “you should stop trying to be a hero.”

That caught him off guard. His eyes narrowed, a frown tugging at his lips. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” you murmured. “You’re just not very good at it.”

He blinked. “Wow. Thanks.”

But you weren’t teasing.

You were looking at him too closely now, and he could feel it.

You didn’t see the Winter Soldier.

You saw something else. Something broken.

“I see sadness,” you said softly. “Big, heavy grief. Not loud. But deep. You carry it like it belongs to you.”

He tensed. “You reading my energy?”

This time, you tensed. Oh, he knew.

“No. Just your face.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away.

You held his gaze, and something passed between you. Unspoken. Uneasy. Familiar.

You looked down. Swirled your glass.

“Heroes don’t always look like the people we loved,” you said, almost to yourself.

Then you pushed back your chair and stood.

Bucky didn’t stop you. But he watched you go, with something tired and heavy etched into every line of his face.

And when you glanced back before disappearing down the hallway, he was still staring at that folder, like if he read it enough times, the words might finally save him.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

Fic taglist: @ruexj283 @avengemepercy @espressovz @sebastians-love

Want to be added to a taglist? Let me know which one!

[rafessecret]

I have a request so Rafe and reader are together and Rafe is very sweet at the start of their relationship, but then he starts turning creepy and a stalker and follows her everywhere without her knowing and just gets very possessive and controlling when she confronts him he always denies it

⋆˚࿔ girlfriend¡ reader && obsessed¡rafe cameron

YOU'LL ALWAYS BE HIS.

Rafe was golden back then—clean-shaven and smelling like sea salt and sun. He’d drive out to your place just to sit in your driveway and leave notes in your mailbox with folded little hearts. He memorised your coffee order, kissed your hands, and made you playlists like it was 2010. He’d look at you like you were it. Like every other girl, she disappeared when you walked into the room. He’d tear up during sex sometimes—whisper how you were everything he never thought he’d deserve. ❝Don’t ever leave me, okay?❞ he’d say, his voice cracking. ❝I won’t survive it.❞ And you believed him.

You miss that version of him sometimes. The soft one. The sweet boy who sent you songs at 2AM and held your face like you might break. But now, all you feel is this constant pull in your chest—fear laced with something darker. You borrow his laptop. Just for a second. You weren’t snooping—you swear. But you click the wrong folder and see pictures of yourself. Hundreds. Some from weeks ago, some… from moments you never even noticed being watched. Your bedroom. Your dressing room at the boutique. In your towel. Asleep.

You freeze.

Your throat tightens, heart thudding so loud it drowns out the world. You can barely breathe. You want to scream and throw something, but your hands just tremble over the keys. He’s behind you suddenly. You don’t even hear him come in. ❝Why are you looking through my stuff, baby?❞ he asks softly, voice low and measured.

You change your locks. You ghost him for a week. You need time. You need air. You barely sleep, your heart racing every time you hear footsteps behind you, every time your phone lights up. You tell yourself you're overthinking. You want to believe he didn’t mean it. That you’re just imagining things.

But Rafe shows up at your job with your favourite drink, smiling like nothing’s wrong. ❝Thought you’d need a little pick-me-up, angel.❞ You force a smile, but inside, your stomach churns.

When you get home that night, there’s a gift waiting inside your apartment. A necklace you mentioned once in passing. A note in his handwriting that reads, ❝I missed you.❞

You know you locked the door.

Your heart is in your throat. Your eyes sting, your hands shake. You press your back to the door and slide down, trying to breathe, trying not to fall apart. You don’t call the cops. You don’t tell your friends. Because you don’t know how to explain it. Because some small, sick part of you still remembers the way he used to cry when you kissed him.

The next night, you hear something. A creak. The tiniest sound. And when you turn around, Rafe is standing in your kitchen like he’s always belonged there. Like he never left. Like you didn’t ask him to. ❝Don’t push me away again,❞ he says sweetly, like you didn’t just cry the whole cab ride home.

❝You’re just anxious. I hate when you get scared. Come here.❞ You back away, voice cracking as you tell him to leave. But he doesn’t. He tilts his head, that soft smile stretching into something darker.

❝I’d never do that to you. You know me, baby. You trust me, right?❞ You try to break up with him. You cry, gently, like you’re scared he might shatter. You say it’s not working. That you need space. He listens and nods, eyes glassy but calm. Doesn’t yell. Doesn’t grab. Just nods. But that night, your bedroom window creaks open. You wake up with Rafe in your bed, holding you like nothing happened.

❝You don’t mean it,❞ he whispers, brushing your hair back. ❝You’re just upset. You’re mine, baby. You’ll always be mine.❞ You try to pull away, but his grip tightens around your waist. ❝Don’t make me remind you who you belong to.❞ And he will—slow and rough, all night long, until you’re too wrecked to argue. Until your body remembers what your mind wants to forget.

You’re at a party. You swore Rafe wasn’t invited; you made sure. You laugh too loud at some guy’s joke and sip a drink someone else poured. And then you see him—leaning against the wall across the room, watching you. Not blinking. Not smiling. Your blood runs cold.

You check your phone. A text lights up: ❝Funny joke. Not as funny as I’ll look with my cock in your throat tonight. Leave now.❞

You freeze. He shouldn’t know you’re here. But he always knows. When you finally run outside, heart racing, he’s already waiting by your car—smiling like he’s been there the whole time. ❝I told you, angel. You’re mine. I’ll always know where you are.❞

You try to scream, but the sound catches in your throat. You want to run, but you know it’s pointless. He’ll always find you. And the worst part? Some part of you still remembers the boy who used to cry when he kissed you. The one who called you his miracle. The one who held your hands like they were made of glass.

But that boy is gone.

Now you’re left with this.

── ⋆ 𝐲𝐚𝐩 : hey guys, i’m feeling a little unmotivated right now, not gonna lie . . . this piece was a bit of a struggle for me. i had a hard time with it and honestly, i hate it a little because i feel like i should’ve just picked one section and made it its own fic. but i still really wanted to get it out there for you, so thank you so much for the request and for being patient. i really hope at least some of you like it

── ⋆ 𝒕𝒂𝒈𝒔 : @scne-vampire @browniepop62 @urcoolgf

©RAFESSECRET ⋆˚࿔ est. 2025

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

Everything’s Fine | Pairing: Thunderbolts x Reader x Robert Reynolds/Sentry/Void | Warnings: ED themes, Mental Spiral

They call again.

Your phone buzzes against the cracked kitchen counter, the screen flickering weakly like it’s as tired as you are. Another call — another name flashing. Bucky this time. Or maybe it’s Yelena. Maybe it’s Ava again. You’ve stopped checking.

You let it ring. You always do. Because everything’s fine. Everything’s fine. Bob just needs time.

Your reflection in the window says otherwise.

Hollow eyes. Skin tight against sharp bones. Bruises blooming dark and sickly along your arms, your ribs — marks of walls hit in your sleep, fists slammed against doors when you were trying not to scream.

Your hands shake as you clutch the phone. Don’t answer. Don’t let them come. Don’t let them hurt him.

Void is watching.

You feel him even now, a shadow curling at the edges of the room, a low thrum in your skull. His voice — deep and poisonous and soothing all at once — whispers: "They’ll take him from you. They’ll destroy what’s left. Only you can protect him. Only you understand."

You swallow hard. You haven’t eaten in days — not really. Nibbles here and there, just enough to stay on your feet during training. But your body is screaming now, muscles weak, stomach gnawing itself hollow.

And still, you whisper back: "I can do this. I can be strong. I can fix this. For Bob."

It’s been a week. A week since Robert vanished inside himself, swallowed by the Void. A week since you last saw the golden flicker of the Sentry in his eyes. A week since you locked the doors of the old Stark Tower and told the world outside that everything’s fine.

The Thunderbolts have been patient. Too patient. But today they stop waiting.

The knock at the door isn’t a knock — it’s a battering ram of authority.

You flinch so hard you drop your phone, heart slamming against your ribs.

Void growls in your ear: “They’re here to take him from you. Are you going to let them? Weak, pathetic little thing. You couldn’t even hold your own in training — always second-best, always failing. You’ll fail him too.”

Your hands clamp over your ears. “Stop. Stop—”

But the door crashes open before you can sink deeper.

They see you.

Ghost. Bucky. Walker. All of them — frozen in the doorway as they take in the wreck you’ve become.

The once-proud Siren, shining and strong, now gaunt and gray-skinned, trembling in too-big clothes, dark circles so deep they look like bruises. Your lips are cracked. Your cheeks are sunken.

And still you smile weakly at them, voice hoarse as you croak: "Everything's fine. Bob’s just… he just needs more time. Don’t fight. Don’t make this worse—"

But your body betrays you. Your knees buckle and Yelena lunges forward to catch you before you hit the ground. Your pulse is weak. Your skin is cold.

And when she pulls you close, she can feel the fine tremble of someone who’s been running on empty — no food, no sleep, just adrenaline and sheer willpower that’s finally running dry.

"Where is he?" Bucky’s voice is sharp and cold. His jaw ticks.

You try to answer, but the shame chokes you — thick and heavy.

Void curls around your spine, hissing: “Look at you. A disgrace. You call yourself a Siren? You’re nothing but bones and failure. Couldn’t even beat your class. Couldn’t keep him safe. Couldn’t save your own damn self.”

Your hands claw at your chest as the spiral starts — ugly and familiar: "You’re worthless. You let them down. You let Bob down. You let yourself rot away because you thought if you just got smaller if you just got better, it would fix everything—"

"Hey!" Yelena snaps, voice cracking through the storm. She grabs your face and forces your glassy eyes to meet hers. "Stop it. Come back. Don’t let him do this to you."

Somewhere in the shadows, Void snarls — the presence flaring so dark and cold it makes the lights in the room flicker.

"You don’t touch what’s mine," the Void rumbles, using Bob’s voice but twisted, guttural. "She belongs to me."

The team braces, weapons out. And you — shaking, crying, bones aching — still try to stand between them and the Void.

"Please… don’t fight… he just needs time… I can fix this—" But your body gives out.

You collapse into Yelena’s arms, sobbing, the weight of a week’s worth of starvation, bruises, failure, and love gone toxic finally crushing you down. And that’s when they know. This isn’t just about saving Bob anymore. It’s about saving you, too. Before the Void swallows you both whole.

"Don’t touch her." The Void’s voice slithers out from the darkened corners of the old Stark Tower, slick as oil and cold as space. Black tendrils pulse and writhe, the air humming with that low, oppressive static that makes your skin crawl.

Your body is deadweight in Yelena’s arms — but it’s not Yelena this time. It’s Ghost, Ava, her glitching form flickering as she crouches beside you, whispering sharp, fast words you can barely process.

"Focus. Breathe. He’s in your head. Fight back."

But you can’t. Your chest is tight. Your stomach is empty. Your throat is raw from nights spent sobbing into your own shaking hands while the Void crooned lies about love loyalty and sacrifice.

Above you, the Thunderbolts fan out like wolves.

Bucky’s metal arm flexes, gun already aimed dead center at the biggest tendril. His mouth is set in a hard, grim line — soldier mode. Zero tolerance.

Yelena flips her baton in her hand, eyes sharp as razors. She glances at you and flinches — just a little — at the sight of how wrecked you look.

Red Guardian cracks his knuckles, broad shoulders rolling back. "We take Void down, we take Bob back," he grunts. "Simple." But his eyes flicker toward you too, and there’s a flicker of something pained behind all that bravado.

And John Walker — US Agent — is already itching for a fight. "About damn time we shut this thing down," he snaps, shield slamming against his forearm. "Look at her. She’s falling apart. You let this thing keep her like some goddamn hostage? Not today."

"You’re weak." Void's voice spikes again, cruel and coiling, directed at you. “Couldn’t even finish your training. Couldn’t even keep food down. All that power they promised you — wasted. Useless. Not worth saving.”

Your breath hitches. Your fingernails dig into your palms, so hard you feel the sting of broken skin. Not worth saving. Not worth saving.

Yelena’s voice cuts through like a blade. "Get up."

You blink through tears. She’s standing over you now, her baton crackling with electricity, gaze locked on yours — sharp and merciless.

"I said, get up." she growls. "You are not dying here. You are not letting that thing keep you down. You are Siren, yeah? Then act like it."

Ghost’s hand clamps around your wrist, grounding you. "Breathe. In. Out. You know how. Come back."

Bucky’s voice, gruff but steady: "We’ve got Bob. You get you."

Void shrieks — the walls shudder. Black energy lashes out, slamming into Red Guardian, who grunts and stumbles back but stays standing.

"You can’t save her. She belongs to me."

John Walker’s had enough. He charges, shield-first, slamming into the tendrils with brute force. "Get the hell outta here, freak!" he snarls. "She’s not yours!"

And something breaks inside you.

Because for the first time in a week — after starving, breaking, crying yourself raw —you hear someone say it: You’re not his.

Your breath shudders in. Your hands flex weakly.

Yelena sees it. She crouches down, grabs your face roughly, cheeks hollow and bruised under her grip. "You hear me? You are not his. You are ours. Thunderbolt. Fighter. You get up now, or I swear to god I drag your bony ass up myself."

Above you, the Void roars. "Lies. Lies. She’s mine—"

Your voice cracks, hoarse and trembling but yours: "No… I’m not… I’m not yours—"

Bucky fires. The shot slices through a tendril, black mist hissing as it evaporates. Red Guardian wades in, fists swinging, bellowing curses in Russian. Walker slams his shield again and again, driving the Void back with sheer stubborn violence. Yelena doesn’t let go of you. Her fingers dig in harder. "Get. Up." she snarls.

You scream. A raw, broken, ugly sound — all your shame, all your failure, all the self-hate Void fed you — ripping out of your throat. And you push yourself up. Shaking. Crying. But standing.

"Bob—" you gasp. You can feel him now, buried deep under the Void’s storm, small and flickering like a dying ember. "Bob, come back—"

Void lashes out, enraged — but the Thunderbolts are already on him, battering down every inch of black with fists, batons, bullets, and shields.

Yelena shoves you forward. "Call him back. Now!"

Your voice breaks again as you scream through the static: "ROBERT REYNOLDS—COME BACK TO ME!"

For a heartbeat — everything stops.The Void freezes. The tendrils flicker. And then—gold light. Faint. Weak. But there. Behind the black.

"…Y/N?" His voice. Small. Cracked. But Bob.

You fall to your knees, sobbing, as the Thunderbolts keep fighting, buying you those precious seconds to reach him — to drag him back from the dark.

"Please, Bob—please—come back—"

Void howls — but you don’t hear it anymore. Because for the first time in a week, the gold light gets brighter.

The Void shrieks as it breaks apart. Like tar peeling off burning gold.

Your knees hit the floor hard — but you barely feel it. You’re too busy clawing through the dark with your voice, hoarse and cracked and desperate. "Bob—please—come back—"

And then—light. Not blinding, not golden, and godlike like he used to be. But soft. Flickering. Human.

Robert Reynolds collapses out of the storm like a broken angel. Face pale, sweat-soaked, trembling. Blonde hair matted and tangled, golden aura flickering weakly around him.

His eyes open — blue, dazed — and the second they land on you, they shatter.

"Y/N—" he croaks, voice breaking. And then louder, panicked, raw: "Y/N—oh my god—"

You flinch. Instinct. Too used to pain, too used to the Void’s voice crawling down your spine. Your body, thin and shaking, tries to curl in on itself like you can disappear.

But Bob is already scrambling toward you, crawling on his hands and knees like a man on fire.

"No—no—look at me—" His hands grab your face, gentle but shaking as if he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he squeezes too hard.

His eyes take you in, the sharp bones under your skin, the bruises blooming like wilted flowers, the way your lips are cracked and bleeding because you chewed them raw trying to stay silent.

"I didn’t know—" His voice breaks on a sob. "I didn’t know he was doing this to you—"

Behind you, the Thunderbolts stand down. Walker’s breathing hard, Yelena turns her back, giving you privacy. Bucky lowers his gun. Red Guardian mutters something soft and bitter in Russian, but even he looks away. They give you this. Because they know this is your moment.

"I’m sorry—" Bob sobs, pulling you into him. His body shakes so hard it rattles your ribs. "I let him—I let him get into your head—oh god, Y/N—"

You’re crying, too hot, messy, choking sobs that scrape your throat raw. Your hands clutch at his shirt, thin fingers knotting in the fabric like you’re drowning.

"You left—" you sob against his chest. "You left me alone—I—I didn’t know what to do—"

His arms crush you tighter, desperate. "I’m here—I’m here now—I’m sorry—I didn’t know—I swear—"

His fingers map over your battered body like he’s trying to count every bruise, every scar, every rib poking out from weeks of not eating.

His voice cracks again: "You’re so thin—what did he—god, what did I—"

Your knees give out completely. But he holds you up. Both of you shaking. Both of you crying. Both of you broken. But together.

You don’t even notice the others moving — Ghost pressing a protein bar into Bucky’s hand, and Bucky quietly, carefully, setting it down next to you.

Walker grunts. "We’ll handle clean-up. You two… fix this." Yelena just mutters: "Idiots." But her voice is rough. Emotional.

Bob cups your face again, and presses his forehead to yours, golden light flickering weakly between you like a dying flame trying to catch.

"You didn’t fail." His voice is soft but fierce now. "You didn’t fail me. You didn’t fail yourself. You fought. You stayed."

You hiccup through tears. "But I—I couldn’t eat—I couldn’t sleep—I thought if I just got smaller—if I just waited—"

His sob chokes out. "No—no, baby, no—you don’t have to do that—you never have to do that—"

His hands tremble as they cradle your head. "We get better now, okay? Together. I’m getting you help. I’m staying. No more Void. No more lies. No more hurting yourself for me. Please—"

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. Your voice is barely a whisper: "Don’t leave me again."

His answer is instant. "Never."

He kisses your forehead, tears dripping onto your skin. "Never again."

Behind you, the Thunderbolts give you that space. They know the fight is over —and the healing begins now. Messy. Slow. Painful. But real. Because this time… you’re not doing it alone.

[rongloa]

please make the most gut wrenching fanfic ever. i want mark to be like a crappy bf or like a messy breakup PLEASEEEE i need to cry or something

𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐰𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐭 — m.grayson drabble

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠(𝐬). mark grayson x gn!reader

𝐰𝐜. 1.6k

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭. break up, swearing, mark being a fucking dick (slightly ooc), mentions of depression, mark hurts you, heavy arguments, use of the word ‘hate’ (you can see where this is going)

𝐚/𝐧. frick you anon (ily don’t stop), why’d you send this ask in? :(

You remember the first time he looked at you like you were something soft. Like the world hadn’t chewed him up yet. Like he hadn’t already seen its insides, bleeding and brutal. His eyes were wide and brown and impossibly open, like a door you didn’t realize you were walking through until it closed behind you.

It was late—he was late, always—but you had waited anyway, curled up on the concrete steps outside his house in your oversized hoodie and mittens, tapping your foot to some song in your head to distract from the cold. He said he was at a group project meeting. It sounded fake, but you trusted him. You always trusted him.

He jogged up, breath fogging in the air, cheeks flushed from the night wind. He looked surprised to see you. “You waited for me?” he asked, like he hadn’t been the one to promise, “Just an hour, tops.”

And you laughed—so stupidly, stupidly in love. “Obviously,” you said, as if the answer could’ve been anything else.

As if your body didn’t already know what it meant to belong to him.

Before he became a ghost in your inbox, before the silence grew claws and wrapped around your throat, Mark had been good to you. Not perfect—never perfect—but good in the way that mattered, in the way you could build a life around.

He held your hand even when no one was looking. Tucked your hair behind your ear like it was instinct. You remember the way he’d fumble over his words when he was excited, how his cheeks flushed when he saw you across a room like he still couldn’t believe you were his. How he used to walk you home, even if it meant doubling back two neighborhoods. Just to make sure you got there safe. Just to have those last few minutes of quiet with you.

There were Sunday mornings when the world felt small enough to hold in your palm—his voice soft from sleep, your legs tangled beneath thin blankets, the smell of coffee you never drank but he always made, just in case you changed your mind. He’d sit on the couch in his old t-shirt, hair messy, face buried in some comic book you couldn’t name, and you’d watch him like you were afraid to blink.

He made you mixtapes, real ones—burned CDs with tracklists scrawled in sharpie and titles like “For the Coolest Person I Know (Don’t Roll Your Eyes).” Songs he thought you’d like. Songs that reminded him of you. Sometimes he’d get the lyrics wrong, but he’d sing them anyway, horribly off-key, like it didn’t matter if he sounded dumb as long as it made you laugh.

And he listened. Really listened. Back then, you could tell him about the weird dream you had or how your coworker was annoying you and he’d actually care. You’d talk for hours, about nothing and everything, until the sun dipped low and your voices were hoarse from too many words. He remembered little things. Your favorite brand of cereal. The way you hated the sound of styrofoam. How you always got cold after you cried, even if it wasn’t winter.

He used to kiss you like he thought it might save him. Like if he just held you close enough, long enough, he could outrun whatever waited on the other side of the sky.

But then the world crept in. Bit by bit, like water under a locked door. You didn’t notice it at first.

You excused the first time he forgot your birthday—he was fighting a villain halfway across the country. You got it. Really, you did. You said it was fine and meant it, even if you cried in the bathroom at work.

Then came the days he didn’t check in after disappearing mid-dinner. The lies got easier for him to tell. Easier for you to swallow. He wasn’t just a person anymore. He was someone. Someone the world needed more than you did. Or so you started to believe.

You told yourself you were lucky. Blessed, even. To love someone who mattered. To matter to someone who could move mountains and outrun lightning. But somewhere along the way, he stopped seeing you as part of his world, and more like a pit stop. A soft place to land when the mantle got heavy.

You used to be his secret. Then his comfort. Then his burden.

You remember the last time he touched you like he wanted to. It was almost accidental—his fingers brushing your wrist as he took the mug from your hand. There was no heat. No ache. No softness. Just contact. You looked at him, trying to find that old spark—the boy who used to look at you like you hung the damn stars—and all you saw was someone who’d already left.

It didn’t fall apart all at once. It never does. It was a thousand tiny breaks. A slow erosion of everything you thought you had. A fading. A flicker. A final, quiet extinguishing.

You used to think love was something you could hold together if you just tried hard enough.

But some people hand you broken things and blame you when they don’t work.

Of course you didn’t know he was Invincible.

No one did. He looked like a kid still trying to grow into his body. He winced when he laughed too hard and couldn’t cook for shit. There was no part of you that thought he was saving the world between algebra quizzes and late-night cartoons.

But he told you. Right before he left.

The first thing you notice is that he doesn’t look surprised to see you.

He opens the door like he was already waiting for this. For you. For the end.

Mark’s hair is unkempt. There’s a bruise healing on his jaw and a dried line of blood near his ear. He smells like the cold night air and smoke, you can smell it from the threshold of his room. You don’t ask what happened. You don’t care. Or maybe you do, but not in the same way you used to.

You step inside. Quiet. Slow.

His room is dark, save for the small desk lamp. Everything is half-unpacked, like he never really came back. Like his body is here, but the rest of him never made it down from orbit.

“I thought you were dead,” you say softly.

Mark flinches.

“You were just gone. For months, Mark. No messages. No explanation. Not even a goddamn voicemail.”

He doesn’t move. Just stands there, hands in his pockets, staring at the floor like it might split open and swallow him.

“I checked the news every day. I asked Eve, I asked your mom. Nobody knew where you went. Nobody knew if you were even coming back.”

You’re already crying and you didn’t notice until your voice cracks, until your chest hitches. You wipe your face roughly, like you’re angry for feeling this much.

“I—I couldn’t sleep,” you go on, choking it out. “I thought maybe—maybe you’d call, or come home, or—or say something. Anything. But you didn’t.”

Mark’s breathing is shallow. His fists are clenched. His voice is low when he finally says, “I didn’t know how.”

“That’s bullshit.”

He looks up.

“That’s bullshit, baby,” you say again, louder now, louder than you mean to. “You always know what to say to everyone else. To save everyone else. But when it’s me, suddenly you go silent?”

“I was trying to protect you,” he snaps, like it’s a reflex. A shield he throws up before the words can cut too deep.

You let out a sound that’s halfway between a sob and a laugh. “No. No, you don’t get to say that anymore. You don’t get to act like I’m some fragile thing you had to put on a shelf and forget about.”

Mark’s eyes are glassy now, too. Red-rimmed. Shining in the low light.

“I love you,” you say, the words breaking apart in your mouth. “I love you so fucking much, and you left me to grieve you like you died. You made me grieve you while you were still alive.”

He crosses the room in two strides, arms reaching, but you step back before he can touch you. Fingers grazing the wool of the your sweater— the one he gave you with its blue and yellow stripes.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Please just don’t.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, shaking. “I thought—God, I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought—”

“You didn’t think about me.”

There it is. The truth. And it lands like a thunderclap between you.

Mark stares at you like he’s watching something beautiful collapse.

“I don’t even recognize you anymore,” you whisper. “You used to be kind. You used to show up. Now you disappear and expect me to just keep… waiting.”

“I never stopped loving you.”

You close your eyes. The tears won’t stop coming. “Then why didn’t you come back for me?”

He doesn’t have an answer.

And maybe that’s the worst part. Because you wanted to hear something. Anything. A reason big enough to make this hurt mean something. But there’s just silence.

You move towards the door, out of the his room. The one you’d spend hours in just to be with him.

Mark’s voice breaks behind you. “Please don’t go.”

Those same big brown eyes you’d fallen in love with in home economics, staring right back.

You move toward the door with tears streaking down your cheeks, fingers trembling as you reach for the handle. You can barely see straight. The lump in your throat is thick enough to choke you.

“I don’t think I can stay anymore,” Your voice cracks on the last word, “not when I’m the only one who was still trying.”

You open the door.

But before you can take a single step, you feel his hand close around your arm.

Fast. Too fast.

Mark yanks you back—not roughly, not enough to hurt, but enough to stop you in your tracks. His grip is iron. Not human. And it makes you feel even smaller than you already do.

You whip around, tears flying. “Let go of me!”

He’s breathing hard. Face flushed. Eyes frantic. “No. No, we can’t—we can’t end it like this.”

“You don’t get to decide that!”

You try to pull free, but his fingers won’t budge. It’s like being caught in a bear trap. You shove him, slap at his chest with your free hand, tears falling hot and fast.

His grip tightens to the point you follow the hand that holds you, pinned. “Let go.”

“I still love you!” he shouts, voice shaking. “Please just—just talk to me, please—”

You hit him again, fighting against him. Weak punches to his chest. You don’t care if it hurts him. You want it to. Even though you know it won’t.

“You don’t get to do this!” you cry. “You don’t get to leave me, disappear for months, break me down to pieces—and then decide you love me when it’s too late!”

Mark’s face crumples. He tries to reach for your face, but you pull back as hard as you can from the unyielding grip and push it out through pursed lips, “Don’t touch me!”

“Please do–“

“You’re HORRIBLE,” you sob, voice cracking apart as you watch your wrist twist at an angle you know it shouldn’t. “You are the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. I loved you. I trusted you. I waited and I waited and I WAITED, and you never come back!”

“I was trying to protect you—!” Crack. It burns, and it hurts in a different kind of way to what you feel in your chest. And you can’t help the wail that burns its way out of your mouth.

He drops your hand like it burned him, like he’s finally realising that maybe he’s the bad one. He hurt you, he was hurting you and he didn’t even realise it. And it fills a rage in you that burns wild. It fucking hurts, hurts so bad and you can’t express it in just one meeting of your eyes.

“No, you were protecting yourself! You were a coward, Mark! You were a COWARD, and I hate you for it!”

The words echo.

He looks like you shot him—he had the gun loaded and cocked all by himself. It’s like something inside him breaks right there. His arms fall to his sides, limp. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks as he looks as what he’s done for fucking once.

And finally, finally, you’re free.

You back away, shaking. Hand dangling at your side with fingers twisted unnaturally.

“I don’t want an apology,” you whisper. “I don’t want your love. I don’t even want you to look at me ever-fucking again.”

You pull open the door and this time—this time he doesn’t stop you.

You walk away. Sobbing. Trembling. Sick with the kind of grief that only comes when someone you love turns out to be the reason you’ll never be the same again.

Behind you, you can hear his knees hit the floor.

But you don’t turn around. Don’t even look back because if you met those big brown eyes you’d fallen for in home economics, you’d run back. You’d comfort him because that’s all you ever wanted to do.

You don’t save him.

Not this time.

The hallway of the house feels louder than it should.

And Mark kneels there alone, in the dark, finally crying by himself.

[bueckersleftbraid]

”— The Weight of Staying

part 3

WC: 5.8k

singer/songwriter!azzi x nylibertyplayer!paige

warnings: none, jst fluff again!

Some people are bad at letting go. Others are even worse at walking away for good. Paige and Azzi have always been a little bit of both.

authors note —> hi loves, tysm for all of the love on the first and second parts!! This is the final part to this mini series and I hope you love it!! Feel free to send requests for my next one shots /series!!

By the time they made it to the hotel, the last traces of sunlight were gone, and the city had turned into a glittering sea of headlights and neon.

Azzi trailed a step behind Paige as they walked through the sleek, polished lobby, sneakers squeaking softly against the marble floors. She tugged the sleeves of her sweatshirt down over her hands, not out of nerves — just habit. Beside her, Paige moved with that casual, easy confidence Azzi had always loved — hoodie up, duffel slung over her shoulder, smiling at her like the world had finally tilted into something right.

They checked in quickly, the front desk clerk handing over two keys with a polite smile.

Paige caught one and handed it to Azzi without hesitation, their fingers brushing. A familiar warmth sparked at the contact — nothing shocking anymore, just something steady and known.

They rode the elevator up in comfortable silence, Paige leaning lightly against the wall, thumb tapping an idle rhythm against her thigh. The elevator filled with her scent, one Azzi was familiar with. The subtle notes of a woody and salty scent overwhelmed Azzi’s senses. It was Valentino, Paige’s favorite— and Azzi’s favorite too. When the doors slid open, the brunette let out a breath she didn’t even know she was holding before Paige led the way down the hall, keycard in hand.

Azzi realized only as they stopped at the door that Paige had booked just one room.

"You got us a suite?" Azzi said, glancing over at her.

Paige grinned, swiping the keycard with an easy flick. "Yeah. Figured it'd be nicer that way."

Azzi raised an eyebrow. "One bed?"

"And a couch," Paige said, nudging the door open. "But honestly... I was kind of hoping you'd stay close."

Her voice was lighter than it had been in the car, but there was a realness underneath it— the kind of thing they didn’t have to be scared of saying anymore.

Azzi smiled, heart doing that stupid soft flutter it always did around Paige. "I think I can manage."

They stepped inside, greeted by floor-to-ceiling windows that opened onto a breathtaking view of the city. Everything was muted gold and deep navy, plush and welcoming. The massive bed was the centerpiece, but the big sectional couch in the corner didn’t look half bad either.

Azzi dropped her duffel near the couch without thinking, drawn immediately to the window.

Behind her, Paige tossed her bag onto the bed and kicked off her sneakers, moving around the room like she already belonged there — like they both did.

"You want the bed or the couch?" Paige called over, stretching her arms above her head.

Azzi turned, resting her hip against the windowsill. "You’re taller. Take the bed."

Paige gave her a playful look. "You just want to burrito yourself into the couch cushions, don't you? Also— I’m literally like an inch taller than you at most.”

Azzi laughed. "No comment."

Paige crossed the room in a few easy strides, bumping her shoulder lightly against Azzi's.

"You can sleep wherever you want. Just—" she hesitated, then, a little softer, "stay close."

Azzi leaned into her without even thinking. "Always," she murmured.

They stood there for a second, looking out over the city together, the low hum of LA life rising up to meet them. It didn’t feel scary anymore, being close like this. It just felt like breathing.

Finally, Paige pulled back, grinning. "Alright, movie night or food first?"

Azzi raised an eyebrow. "Or we could multitask."

Paige laughed, tossing her hoodie onto the back of a chair. "You're speaking my language, Az."

Azzi grinned back, feeling lighter than she had in months. Like this — this right here — was exactly where she was supposed to be.

They ended up sprawled across the big bed, a hotel-provided room service tray balanced precariously between them — half-eaten fries, a milkshake Azzi kept stealing sips from, and a mini pizza Paige was defending like her life depended on it.

The TV across the room glowed faintly, muted city lights leaking in around the heavy curtains. Paige had let Azzi pick the movie— "Your turn, you always complain about my choices," she'd said, grinning— and now The Princess Bride played out in soft, flickering colors.

Azzi was curled up against the headboard, legs tucked beneath her, wearing a pair of Paige’s oversized sweats and her own rumpled sweatshirt. Paige was stretched out beside her, one arm flung lazily across the mattress, the other absently feeding herself fries without looking away from the screen.

It was easy like this. Warm. Familiar in a way that made Azzi's chest ache a little.

Halfway through the movie, Paige shifted, her foot brushing against Azzi's. She didn’t move away — just let the contact stay, something small and steady between them.

"You know," Paige said, voice low and casual, "I forgot how good this movie is."

Azzi smiled, tipping her head to the side so she could see her better. "I think you just like the sword fights."

Paige shot her a mock-offended look. "Excuse you, I appreciate the romance."

Azzi laughed, soft and a little disbelieving. "Since when?"

Paige reached over and plucked a fry from the tray, popping it into her mouth like she hadn't just said something vaguely heart-melting.

"Since you," she said around the fry, grinning when Azzi immediately flushed.

Azzi ducked her head, a slow, involuntary smile tugging at her mouth. "You’re such a dork."

Paige bumped her knee again under the covers, gentle. "Yeah, but I’m your dork."

The words were easy now — still a little playful, but without the weight they used to carry. They'd already chosen each other. Azzi felt it settle in her chest, warm and sure.

The movie kept playing — Wesley scaling the Cliffs of Insanity, Inigo Montoya practicing his fencing stances — but Azzi wasn’t really watching anymore. She was watching Paige. The way her lashes caught the light, the way her mouth curled when she was trying not to laugh too loudly, the little dimples that appeared when she was relaxed like this.

Without thinking, Azzi reached over and stole one of the fries off Paige’s plate.

Paige immediately gasped, scandalized. "That’s a violation of trust."

Azzi popped the fry into her mouth, grinning around it. "Finders keepers."

Paige narrowed her eyes in mock challenge, but then — without warning — reached out and gently tugged Azzi closer by the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

Azzi went willingly, collapsing against her side, both of them laughing as they adjusted. The tray wobbled dangerously, and they scrambled to move it onto the nightstand before disaster struck.

Once it was out of the way, Paige settled back against the headboard, Azzi tucked against her chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.

For a few minutes, they just breathed together, the movie playing quietly in the background. Paige’s hand found Azzi’s again, fingers weaving through hers without hesitation.

Azzi closed her eyes for a second, breathing in the faint scent of Paige's shampoo — something clean and citrusy, familiar in a way that made her heart ache a little.

When she looked up, Paige was already looking at her, eyes soft and a little sleepy.

"Thanks for coming with me," Paige said, voice low and honest.

Azzi smiled, reaching up to trace the curve of Paige’s jaw with the backs of her fingers. "Wouldn’t be anywhere else."

Paige’s answering smile was slow and crooked — the kind she only ever gave to Azzi.

The city hummed quietly outside the windows, the soft sounds of laughter and traffic and distant music filtering up from the streets below. But in here — in this room, with Paige — everything else faded away.

It was just them.

They lingered in the warmth of the bed for a long time after the credits rolled, neither of them really wanting to move. But eventually Paige yawned — a real, jaw-cracking one — and Azzi laughed against her shoulder.

"Come on, grandma," Azzi teased, nudging her side. "Let's get ready for bed before you fall asleep right here."

Paige grumbled something unintelligible but let herself be pulled up by Azzi's tug on her hand. They moved through the suite lazily, brushing shoulders and hips as they gathered their things — Paige digging around for her toothbrush, Azzi stealing one of Paige’s shirts without asking, tugging it over her head with a satisfied little hum. It was huge on her, soft and worn-in from too many washes.

It smelled like Paige — clean laundry and something a little sharper, like cedarwood.

When Paige turned around and caught sight of her, she just stopped and stared for a second, toothbrush paused halfway to her mouth.

Azzi raised an eyebrow, pretending not to notice the way Paige’s cheeks turned pink. "What?"

Paige shook her head, grinning around her toothbrush. "Nothing. You just—" She shrugged, looking suddenly a little bashful. "You look good."

Azzi felt her own cheeks heat up, but she covered it with a mock bow. "Thank you, thank you. I accept all compliments in writing."

Paige snorted and turned back to the mirror, mouth full of toothpaste, but she kept sneaking glances at Azzi through the reflection, like she couldn’t help herself.

They stood side by side at the sink, shoulder to shoulder, brushing their teeth in sleepy silence.

The kind of easy, intimate silence that only came from knowing someone so well it didn’t need to be filled.

Azzi caught Paige’s eye in the mirror and grinned, foam-covered mouths and all.

Paige cracked up first, nearly choking on her toothpaste, and Azzi followed a second later, muffling her giggles into her sleeve.

Once they’d finished, Azzi leaned back against the counter, watching Paige tug her hair up into a messy bun, leaving a few soft strands falling around her face.

There was something so quietly beautiful about her like this — loose, sleepy, completely unguarded. Azzi didn’t even try to stop herself from staring.

Paige caught her again and smiled, a small, knowing thing, before reaching out to tug gently on the hem of Azzi’s — well, technically her — borrowed shirt.

"Come here," she said, voice low and fond.

Azzi let herself be pulled closer, stepping between Paige’s open arms. Paige wrapped her up without hesitation, one hand splaying over Azzi’s back, the other resting lightly on her hip.

For a minute, they just stood there, breathing each other in. The city outside the window was still wide awake, but here in the hotel bathroom — under soft yellow light, wrapped up in each other — it felt like they were the only two people in the world.

"You’re not gonna steal all the blankets again, are you?" Paige mumbled into her hair.

Azzi smirked against her collarbone. "No promises."

Paige laughed, squeezing her tighter. "You’re lucky you’re cute."

Azzi pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, the words slipping out before she could overthink them. "So are you."

Paige’s smile was slow and a little sleepy, her thumb brushing absent-minded circles against Azzi’s back.

They didn’t need to say anything else.

Eventually, Paige tugged her toward the bed, both of them crawling under the covers without bothering to turn off the bedside lamp. It glowed softly above them, casting everything in a warm, buttery light.

Azzi curled into Paige’s side, her head tucked neatly under her chin, Paige’s arm looping around her waist without a second thought.

"You tired?" Paige asked, voice barely a whisper.

Azzi hummed in response, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall of Paige’s breathing against her cheek.

"I like this," Azzi said after a moment, her voice soft and a little shy.

"Me too," Paige whispered back, pressing a kiss to her temple.

They fell asleep like that — tangled up in each other, the city humming quietly outside, a whole world waiting for them tomorrow. But tonight, they had everything they needed right here.

____

Azzi woke to the soft, golden light of morning filtering through the curtains, the faint sounds of the city already coming alive outside. For a moment she didn’t move — just lay there, warm and wrapped in the sleepy haze of waking up somewhere new. Somewhere safe.

Paige was still asleep beside her, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other draped across Azzi’s waist like she had anchored them together during the night. Her face was completely relaxed in sleep — all the little furrows and tensions Azzi had grown used to seeing smoothed out, leaving her looking younger, almost impossibly soft.

Azzi smiled to herself, reaching up to gently brush a stray piece of hair from Paige’s forehead.

She hadn’t meant to wake her, but at the lightest touch, Paige stirred, blinking blearily.

For a second she just looked at Azzi like she couldn’t quite believe she was real.

"Morning," Azzi whispered.

Paige smiled, slow and lazy, her voice rough with sleep. "Morning."

They stayed like that for a few minutes, quietly waking up together, stealing the kind of slow, easy moments they rarely got back home.

Finally, Paige stretched — a full body thing that made the bed dip and creak — and rolled onto her back with a soft groan.

"I feel like I got hit by a truck," she mumbled, rubbing at her eyes. "Why am I sore?"

Azzi laughed, stretching too. "Probably because we were basically pretzels all night."

Paige grinned without opening her eyes. "Worth it."

Azzi’s heart flipped over in her chest, but she just bumped her shoulder against Paige’s and slid out of bed, padding toward the bathroom.

"Come on, sleepyhead. I need coffee before I become a danger to society."

Paige groaned again but followed, dragging her feet dramatically.

They took turns brushing their teeth, laughing at their shared bedhead in the mirror, before throwing on soft hoodies and sweatpants — Azzi, once again, shamelessly stealing one of Paige’s.

The lobby coffee shop was a little overpriced, a little too sleek, but they didn’t care.

They grabbed two massive iced coffees, a few pastries wrapped in wax paper, and wandered outside into the bright, already-bustling LA morning.

Azzi tugged on a pair of sunglasses she’d impulsively grabbed from the hotel gift shop — oversized, dramatic, absolutely ridiculous. Paige immediately stole them off her face and put them on herself, striking a cheesy model pose on the sidewalk.

"How do I look?" she asked, tilting her chin up like she was posing for a perfume ad.

Azzi nearly choked on her coffee. "Like a celebrity trying to hide from TMZ."

Paige beamed. "Perfect. That’s the vibe I’m going for."

They took their time walking nowhere in particular, sipping their drinks and soaking up the sunshine.

It was still early enough that the air felt crisp, but Azzi could already feel the promise of heat tucked into it, the way LA always had that slow burn under everything.

"I forgot how much I missed this," Azzi said after a while, taking a deep breath.

"The weather? The coffee? Me stealing your sunglasses?" Paige teased.

Azzi laughed, bumping their shoulders together. "All of it. But mostly just... this. Being somewhere new. Feeling like everything’s a little less heavy."

Paige was quiet for a moment before she said, voice soft, "I’m glad you’re here."

Azzi looked over at her — the messy bun, the huge sunglasses, the iced coffee clutched in both hands — and felt something settle in her chest.

A kind of rightness she hadn’t realized she’d been missing.

"I’m glad too," she said, bumping their hands together lightly.

They kept walking, their shadows stretching out ahead of them on the sunlit sidewalk.

They didn’t have any solid plans yet — just a vague list of things they wanted to do: visit some of Azzi’s old favorite spots from college, find the best taco truck within a ten-mile radius, maybe even sneak in a sunset beach trip if they had time.

For once, the lack of a plan didn’t feel stressful. It felt like freedom. It felt like a beginning.

____

The ride to the studio was short — just a few streets over — but Azzi could feel the energy in the car shift the closer they got. Paige, usually so loose and playful, had gone a little quieter, bouncing her knee lightly against the door. Not nervous, exactly. Just focused. Serious.

"You’re gonna kill it," Azzi said, reaching over to squeeze Paige’s hand where it rested on her thigh.

Paige glanced over, giving her a small, grateful smile. "Thanks, Az."

The studio itself was sprawling and airy, all clean white walls and skylights, bustling with people adjusting lights and cameras and backdrops.

As soon as they stepped inside, Paige was swept away— ushered toward wardrobe and makeup, the small army of stylists and assistants orbiting her like she was the sun.

Azzi stayed back, tucked near the lounge area, nursing a coffee someone had handed her at check-in.

She watched Paige from a distance for a while— watched the way she moved, the way she laughed with the crew, the way she shrugged off her nerves the moment she stepped onto the set. It was mesmerizing, seeing her like that. Seeing her be that.

But after a while, when it was clear Paige was deep into it— shifting between outfits and running through different drills— Azzi pulled out her phone. Her notes app was still open from the night before, blinking up at her like it was waiting.

The last thing she’d written sat stark and unfinished on the screen:

"You only call when the silence hurts. I only answer when I’m breaking— we don’t love, we just revert."

Azzi stared at the words for a minute, chewing the inside of her cheek.

She hadn’t touched the song in days.

Hadn't really wanted to.

But sitting here, in a city that didn't quite feel like hers, watching someone she loved chase something bigger— Maybe it made her brave enough to try again.

She adjusted her phone in her hand and started typing, thumbs slow, cautious:

"Words like splinters, bury deep in the night. You call it love, I call it a fight."

She paused, read it back.

Then kept going, the words spilling a little faster:

"You miss me most when you’re lonely, I miss you most when I'm free. Still we stay— Not to heal, Just to bleed."

Azzi blinked down at the screen, heart knocking a little unevenly in her chest.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t even good yet. But it was something.

She tucked her phone away after a few more minutes, smiling a little to herself as she watched Paige from across the studio.

Paige was mid-laugh, hair wild from running drills, hoodie sleeves shoved up her arms, eyes lit up from the inside out.

Azzi sank back into the couch, letting the warm hum of the studio wrap around her.

Whatever this was — whatever they were building — it felt real. 

It felt like a beginning, not a bleed.

____

The hotel room was still filled with the hazy gold of the afternoon sun when they got back, both of them kicking off their shoes and peeling off their jackets almost immediately.

Azzi yawned, stretching her arms over her head. "I’m gonna shower real quick," she said, already wandering toward the bathroom, tugging the tie from her hair.

"Take your time," Paige said, smiling as she collapsed onto the edge of the bed.

She watched the bathroom door swing shut, the sound of water starting a few seconds later, a soft hum behind the walls.

For a minute, Paige just sprawled there, content, absently scrolling her phone. But then she caught sight of Azzi’s phone, sitting abandoned on the nightstand, the screen still lit up.

She smiled to herself, reaching for it— fully intending to take a few dumb selfies, maybe set one as her contact photo or leave a surprise for Azzi to find later.

But when she picked it up, her thumb brushed the screen just enough to pull up the open app.

The Notes app.

Her smile faltered.

At first she didn’t even register what she was looking at— just saw Azzi’s familiar typing style, the lowercase letters, the uneven line breaks.

And then the words hit her all at once:

"Words like splinters, bury deep in the night. You call it love, I call it a fight.

You miss me most when you’re lonely, I miss you most when I'm free. Still we stay— Not to heal, Just to bleed."

Paige’s heart twisted so fast and sharp it left her a little breathless.

She blinked, rereading the lines again and again, willing herself to find something she was missing.

Some kind of context. Some hint that this wasn’t about them.

But it felt personal. It felt real.

And it felt... like a wound she didn’t know they still had.

She sat there frozen, still holding Azzi’s phone loosely in her hand, her chest tightening with every passing second.

They'd been good lately. Better than good.

Paige had let herself believe that whatever had broken between them before — the hurt, the distance — had started to heal.

But reading this...

It was like finding a hairline fracture in something you thought was solid, spiderwebbing just beneath the surface.

The sound of the shower cut off.

Footsteps padded against tile.

Panicking a little, Paige set Azzi’s phone back down exactly where it had been and scrubbed a hand over her face, trying to school her expression.

When the bathroom door opened, Azzi emerged, hair damp and curling around her shoulders, one of the hotel’s fluffy white robes wrapped around her.

She smiled when she saw Paige, crossing the room to flop onto the bed beside her.

"You okay?" she asked lightly, nudging Paige’s leg with her own. "You look all serious over here."

Paige forced a smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"Yeah," she said. "Just tired, I guess."

Azzi didn’t seem to notice anything wrong— just curled up beside her, tugging the comforter over them both.

But Paige sat stiffly for a beat longer, feeling the weight of words she wasn’t supposed to see press heavy against her ribs.

Words that made her wonder— Was Azzi still waiting for them to break? Was she still convinced they weren’t enough?

Paige closed her eyes, breathing out slow and shallow.

Maybe she was overreacting.

Maybe she was wrong.

But the doubt had already slipped in, silent and sharp.

And now, she didn’t know how to ask without breaking whatever fragile peace they’d finally found.

Paige lay under the comforter, staring at the ceiling as Azzi tucked herself closer, head resting lightly on Paige’s shoulder.

It should’ve been easy— simple— to wrap an arm around her and drift off into that warm, sleepy peace they’d been falling into more and more lately. But her body wouldn't move. Because her mind wouldn’t stop.

The lyrics replayed like a bad loop in her head, stubborn and sharp:

You miss me most when you're lonely, I miss you most when I'm free.

A knot twisted tight in her stomach.

God, how stupid had she been?

She thought they were building something again— something real, something steady. She thought this was different— that all the broken parts had been acknowledged, repaired, bandaged carefully over with late-night talks and soft promises.

But maybe she’d been wrong.

Maybe Azzi was still stuck in the same place she used to be — one foot out the door even while she held Paige's hand.

Maybe Paige was the fool, believing in all the small, fragile moments without realizing how much Azzi still doubted them underneath.

She didn’t want to think that way.

Didn’t want to be that person— suspicious, insecure, needy.

But old instincts flared up too easily. The memory of nights spent waiting for a call that never came, the weeks of silence that stretched out too long, the way Azzi used to drift in and out like it cost her nothing.

Paige had told herself they’d changed. She believed it.

But now the seed of doubt had been planted— and no matter how much she told herself not to jump to conclusions, it was already blooming inside her, dark and fast.

Because if Azzi really still felt that way— that their love was just an echo of loneliness, a bad habit neither of them could break— then what the hell were they even doing?

Paige swallowed hard against the lump rising in her throat, forcing herself to breathe slowly, evenly, so Azzi wouldn’t notice anything off.

She couldn’t ask. Not yet.

Because if she asked, if she said the words out loud, she might hear an answer she wasn’t ready for.

And if there was one thing Paige knew about herself— it was that she’d rather drown quietly than beg someone to love her the right way.

Especially not Azzi.

Not after everything.

Azzi shifted against her, sighing in her sleep, her fingers curling lightly into Paige’s shirt like she didn’t want to let go.

The simple, unconscious gesture should have reassured her.

Instead, it made Paige ache even worse.

Because love wasn’t always enough. Not if one of them was still afraid of it.

And Paige didn’t know if she could survive losing Azzi again— not when she’d only just gotten her back.

They decided on takeout after Azzi’s nap— neither of them had the energy to find a restaurant after the long day.

Azzi sat cross-legged on the hotel bed, picking through a box of noodles, while Paige lingered near the small table by the window, absently stabbing at a container of rice with her fork.

The silence between them was heavy in a way it hadn’t been in days.

Not comfortable.

Not peaceful.

Heavy.

Azzi noticed it almost immediately, glancing up once, then again, watching the way Paige moved like she was trying to take up less space, like she was shrinking into herself.

Normally Paige would be cracking some dumb joke about the amount of food they ordered, tossing her chopsticks at Azzi’s head, laughing until Azzi mock-groaned and threatened to revoke her dessert rights.

But tonight?

Tonight Paige was quiet.

Careful.

Distant.

Azzi set her takeout container aside, wiping her hands on a napkin before scooting to the edge of the bed.

"Hey," she said softly, catching Paige’s eye across the room. "You okay?"

Paige blinked like she'd forgotten Azzi was even there.

"Yeah," she said quickly. Too quickly. She forced a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. "Just tired."

Azzi wasn’t buying it.

"Paige."

The way she said her name— low, steady, certain— made Paige’s chest tighten all over again.

Azzi shifted to sit at the end of the bed, closer now, feet dangling over the edge, body turned toward her like she was ready to stay there all night if that’s what it took.

"Talk to me," Azzi said, softer now. "Please."

Paige swallowed around the words clawing at her throat.

She didn’t want to say it. Didn't want to shatter whatever fragile peace they’d been building.

She wanted to pretend everything was fine, let the fear rot quietly inside her where it couldn't hurt anyone else.

But Azzi was looking at her like she deserved the truth. And maybe she did.

Paige set her fork down with a quiet clink, exhaling slowly.

"I saw... your notes," she said finally, voice barely above a whisper.

Azzi froze.

"My notes?"

Paige nodded, not trusting herself to look away from the tiny crack forming between them.

"The song you were working on. The lyrics."

Azzi's face paled slightly, her hands curling into the comforter like she needed something to hold onto.

"I wasn’t—" Azzi started, then stopped, biting her lip hard. "I didn’t mean for you to see that yet."

"Yeah," Paige said, the word tasting bitter in her mouth. "I figured."

Azzi looked stricken, like she wanted to fix it but didn’t know how, and for a second Paige almost backtracked— almost apologized for reading something Azzi hadn’t meant to share.

But the hurt was still there, raw and aching under her skin.

Paige dragged a hand through her hair, staring at the floor. "Is that still how you feel?"

The question hung between them, sharp and fragile, daring either of them to move.

Azzi opened her mouth — then closed it, as if the weight of the answer was too much to speak aloud without choosing every word carefully.

Paige waited, heart pounding, bracing for impact.

Because no matter what Azzi said next — they weren’t walking out of this the same way they walked in.

Not this time.

Flashback: Earlier that Day

The lobby of the studio was all glass and sunlight, sleek chairs no one actually sat in, and the occasional faint sound of a shutter click from upstairs where Paige was still shooting.

Azzi tucked herself into a corner near one of the big windows, oversized hoodie pulled over her head, earbuds in even though she wasn’t listening to anything. She just needed the world to feel a little smaller for a second.

Needed to catch her breath.

The morning had been a whirlwind— hair, makeup, stylists fluttering around Paige while Azzi lingered just out of the way, smiling when people looked her way but never stepping too far forward.

She was used to being background noise.

Sometimes she even preferred it.

Still, watching Paige step in front of the camera— all fire and sharpness and unmistakable beauty— had stirred something inside her.

Pride, mostly.

But also fear.

Fear because loving someone like that— someone who could light up every room, someone the world wanted a piece of— felt like trying to hold sunlight in your bare hands.

And Azzi knew better than anyone what happened when you thought something that bright belonged to you.

She opened her notes app, thumb hovering for a second before starting to type without thinking too hard.

you only call when the silence hurts. i only answer when i’m breaking— we don’t love, we just revert.

The words spilled out without asking permission, tugged from somewhere deeper than she wanted to admit still existed.

They weren’t about Paige.

Not really.

Not anymore.

They were about all the ways she'd learned to guard herself, all the versions of love that had left her bruised and hollow, back when she didn’t know how to ask for more— didn’t believe she deserved more.

But habits had a way of clinging, even after the reasons for them were long gone.

Even now, sitting in the sunlight, knowing Paige was just upstairs— laughing, dazzling, hers— the fear still whispered sometimes:

What if it all breaks again? What if you do?

Azzi didn’t notice how tight she was gripping her phone until her knuckles ached. She forced herself to breathe, thumb hovering over the screen like she might delete it all.

She didn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, she tucked the phone into her lap and let her head fall back against the cool glass behind her, letting the sun warm her face.

Maybe one day those words would be a song — a finished one, not just a scratchy, bleeding note she buried in the dark.

Maybe one day she’d be able to look at them and say, I survived this.

But not today.

Not yet.

Today was about Paige.

About them.

Azzi closed her eyes and told herself that was enough.

(Back to the hotel room - Present)

Azzi blinked back to herself, heart hammering as she sat across from Paige — who still hadn't moved, still hadn't looked away.

And for the first time, Azzi realized how much not explaining would cost them. How much she'd already let the past get in the way of what they were trying so hard to build.

She opened her mouth, no longer sure where to start, but knowing she had to try anyway.

Azzi swallowed hard, the lump in her throat making it difficult to speak at first.

"Paige," she said, voice barely above a whisper, "those words— they’re not about you."

Paige didn’t react, just watched her, still too quiet, too careful.

Azzi pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes for a second, like she could squeeze the right words out if she tried hard enough. 

"I— I wrote that— well felt like that— a long time ago. Like, months ago. Maybe even before we— before we were even really... us."

She dropped her hands back into her lap, curling them into fists to keep them from shaking. "It’s just... sometimes I get these lines in my head. About who I used to be. About how everything used to feel. And if I don’t put them down somewhere, it’s like they rot inside me."

Paige’s mouth twitched— not quite a smile, not quite a frown either— but she still didn’t say anything.

Azzi’s heart thundered, terrified of the silence.

"I swear," she said, desperate now, the words tumbling out faster, "I wasn’t thinking about us like that. Not today. Not lately. It’s just a habit, I guess. Writing out the ugly parts. Even if they aren’t real anymore."

She squeezed her eyes shut again, voice cracking around the edges. "You make me feel like— like the opposite of that, Paige. I need you to know that. I need you to believe that."

A long, brittle silence stretched between them.

Azzi was almost afraid to open her eyes, afraid she’d find Paige slipping away like everyone else had eventually done.

But when she finally did— Paige was still there.

Still looking at her.

Still hers.

There was something tight around Paige’s mouth, something wounded, but her eyes were soft. Searching.

"Then why didn't you tell me?" Paige asked, voice rough. "That you still feel like that sometimes."

Azzi's shoulders sagged. She hadn’t expected the question to be so gentle.

"Because I didn’t want you to think you had to fix me," she said quietly. "Or that I wasn’t trying. I am. I swear, I am."

Paige leaned back against the headboard, dragging a hand through her hair. For a second, she just breathed, slow and steady, like she was trying to settle something inside herself.

Finally, she said, "I don’t need you to be perfect, Azzi."

Azzi blinked, a tear slipping free before she could stop it.

Paige caught it with her thumb, brushing it away like it was nothing. Like it didn’t scare her.

"I just need you to trust me enough to let me see the parts you’re scared of," Paige said, softer now. "I’m not going anywhere, okay? I choose you."

Azzi let out a shuddery breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding.

"I choose you too," she whispered.

And she meant it — not just with the bright, easy parts, but with the cracked, haunted pieces too.

All of her.

All of them.

[erwinsvow]

I think with the combination of all the Abbot fics I've been consuming and your pope x babysitter fic that has possessed my mind body and soul I've been ruminating on what pope would think or do if he was working and babysitter and Lena got into some kind of medical emergency, like an accident or assaulted (not sa) or something silly (traumatic) like that and he gets the call to come to the ER. The rage, the panic, the guilt, the floof. It's been my end of the day "time to world build a silly situation before I go to sleep" daydream.

oh this made me UNWELL. unwell.

his phone goes off while at smurf's—unusual, but not enough to make him panic immediately. you sometimes like to text or call to check in on him throughout the day, ever since you both made the jump from babysitter and dad to... whatever you are right now. he wants to say girlfriend and boyfriend but it sounds so silly in his head. you're more his wife and he's more your husband than anything else.

he knows that because your apartment's lease is ending next month and you have no plans to renew. he's been moving clothes around in baz's to make room for your belongings, and looking at other properties to see if there's somewhere bigger and nice he could get for you and lena.

so when his phone goes off, he thinks its you. when he sees the number flashing from the local hospital, he gets up right away, steps out briefly to take the call and ignoring his family in the other room. and his blood runs cold—hi, is this mister andrew cody? yes, i'm calling from the emergency room, your daughter and wife were hurt in a car accident—

and he has tunnel vision, not listening to smurf and craig yelling after him, getting in his truck and speeding to the hospital as fast as his feet can take him. he parks somewhere he probably shouldn't, brings his gun tucked into his waistband because someone is going to pay for this, and runs straight to the counter where he asks for you and lena. begs, demands, pleads. he needs to make sure you're both okay, expecting the worst, thinking he's ruined yet another good thing, that the only good things in his life are disintegrating with each passing minute.

and you're sitting behind a curtain, getting stitches on your forehead and arm. lena is okay, with a bruise that makes andrew angry the longer he looks at it. he goes in first to hug her, holding on too tightly, he's sure, checking her head for anything they could have missed. and then you—seeing blood on your pretty skin makes him irrationally upset. he's thankful he brought his gun inside.

"this lady," you start, after thanking the doctor and the nurse and lena taking her side by you on the bed. "she was old, i think maybe she didn't see the stop sign. but she feels terrible. i hope she's okay—"

"i don't," andrew interrupts. you gape at him, eyebrows furrowed.

"don't say that! it was an accident. we're fine, that's all that matters-"

"you could have not been fine," he says, the very idea that some demented old lady two seconds away from knocking on death's door could have taken both of you away from him making his vision blurry.

"but we are," you press, taking andrew's hand into yours. even in this state, even with everything going on, you still remember to take care of him. "we're okay, right, lena?" and she smiles up at him.

he doesn't deserve you.

"you got here fast," you say, rubbing your fingers on his knuckles, his racing heart steadying. you were okay. maybe that would have to be enough today. the metal of his gun feels cool against his skin.

he wants to say it. didn't exactly stop at red lights or listen to the speed limit. but nothing comes out, so he just stares. like he wouldn't—like he would linger where he was, take his time coming to see you. like you and lena being hurt in this hospital bed wouldn't mean that his life was over too.

you smile up at him, your other hand firm on lena's. and he smiles back, and for now, that'll have to be enough.

(though, a few days later, the insurance concludes it wasn't your fault. your poor car is totaled, and they'll be paying more than you expected to help get you a new one. and when you ask about the old lady, the one who hit you, if she's okay now, the agent laughs uncomfortably. she's fine, but she won't be driving anytime soon. someone stole her keys and punctured three tires, and well, insurance only covers it if all four are ruined at once.)

[yetrop]

Good Omens is autistic—here’s why!

First off, there’s the angelic/demonic nature of the protagonists

They’re trying to blend in with humanity, but have to pick things up as they go along

Because of this, the way they interact with and view people is different from the expected norm

Which also means they're often confused by human customs and find it difficult to read social cues (think Aziraphale asking Maggie if she actually thinks she isn’t crying later on in this scene)

Crowley has to hide his eyes, a part of his identity, from everyone except Aziraphale and the other demons for fear of seeming different/threatening/not human (masking in the most literal sense of the word)

Muriel is concerned with acting and speaking “correctly” to be seen as human

Even though both main characters don’t fit in with humanity because of their angelic/demonic nature, they also don’t fit in with their respective sides, who view them both as strange and don’t understand them. The only place they find acceptance/belonging is with each other. If that isn’t a neurodivergent (and very queer) storyline, I don’t know what is.

Next up, there’s Aziraphale as a whole

The way he stims

Loves routine, dislikes change

Gets uncomfortable when he has to break rules/disrupt order

Taking things literally— “You can’t drive my Bentley.” “I can— I have a license!” (also, this scene is another example of his insistence on order and rules— he insisted on getting a license before they were even legally required)

Paces back and forth talking to himself, planning out what he’s going to say before a conversation (scripting)

The way he suppresses stimming around Heaven by clasping hands behind back, feels uncomfortable and overstimulated there

Bookshop is super cluttered, he has an organizational system that is comprehensible to basically exclusively him

Clumsy, often sucks at motor coordination

Easily startled

He loves alone time, especially when he’s in his own space— he does everything he can to keep customers away from his bookshop

Attaches a lot of sentimental value to inanimate objects (“I’ve kept this in tip-top condition for over 180 years!”)

Incredibly passionate about his interests, especially magic and books

Black and white thinking and rigid morality— He loves and trusts Crowley more than the other angels, but still has tendency to categorize Heaven, Hell, angels and demons as exclusively good or bad (“of course you didn’t go back to Hell— you’re the bad guys!”)

Crowley’s definitely got something neurodivergent going on too (leaning towards ADHD, but potentially AuDHD)

The way he sits in chairs

Hell, (…or Heaven, whatever…) even just the “ducks!” moment alone is enough to show that that his mind jumps around a lot to unexpected loose threads rather than focusing on the subject at hand

Impulsivity

Creative and has a vivid inner world. As pointed out by God Herself, he has what the other demons don’t— an imagination

Craves novelty, frequently changes appearance

Stimming starmaker

This one is from the book, but it’s too good not to point out: the way he idolizes characters like Bond and copies his behaviors off of what he thinks a cool human would do. He has a new computer because it’s “the sort of thing Crowley felt that the sort of human he tried to be would have” (pg 239)

His understanding of how humans fall in love is based on a Richard Curtis film he’s seen

His insistence on asking questions when things don’t make sense to him, knowing why things are the way they are rather than blindly accepting them

And of course, there’s the themes of the story

Black and white thinking vs shades of grey

Breaking away from a world that doesn’t accept you to find love, belonging, and safety

And, as demonstrated time and time again by our two protagonists: intelligence isn’t synonymous with interpersonal skills (…or common sense.)

Thanks for reading all of that! This isn’t the kind of post I normally make, but I have so many thoughts about this that have been on my mind for almost two years now, so I decided to share them.

While there are of course a lot of plot-related reasons for why they behave the way that they do and many of the traits I brushed on could be explained by other factors, I still find it interesting to explore it through a neurodivergent lens. I also think the existence of angels with physical disabilities (like Saraqueal) adds credibility to the idea that other types of disabilities or neurodivergence is at the very least possible for angels and demons in this universe.

Feel free to point out anything I forgot to include (which I have no doubt is a lot) and let me know your own thoughts in the comments or tags— I’d love to hear them!

[jjwolves]

ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ LOVE UNDER WILL ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ

This headcanon list was commissioned by @master-eclectic ! Thank you so much for your support, it means the world to me <3

What: Headcanons of ENA as a Yandere X Reader

Who: ENA by Joel G

How Much: ~700 words, ~2 mins

Credits: Banner Image -> Joel G, Divider -> @aquazero

You like ENA a lot—perhaps more than anyone else you’ve met in this constantly fluid world. She cares deeply for you right back, albeit in her own strange way, always bringing you gifts and comforting you when times are tough. Sometimes she does the comforting, sometimes you do the comforting. It’s nice. It’s simple. It’s kind of weird. ENA is kind of weird in everything she does, so her more alarming patterns of behavior end up being a drop of static in a sea of missing signal. You don’t notice that her infatuation with you runs deeper than her usual childlike curiosity—it’s something psychological, and fiercely jealous.

You don’t find it odd how she stares at you, because she stares at everyone, smile unchanging. But one day, when you’re watching a drive-in movie where the vehicles are projectors with legs, you turn to ENA halfway through to find that she’s been staring straight into you the entire time, a placid smile resting on her face. “You’re seeming very action-adventure today. If I held your hand, would you let the cosmic wheel creak to a stop?” Heart thumping, you give her your hand. She turns doom and gloom in a heartbeat, clutching your hand tightly, blue interlocking with yellow. Tingling tears fall onto your knuckles. “So beautiful… I don’t deserve to hold this! But I don’t care! I’m gonna hold it anyway!” You get annoyed glances from neighboring robots trying to watch the movie.

She starts stalking you in ways which are very uniquely hers. Once, when you were brushing your teeth, the chill of being watched ran up your spine. You whipped around to your window to find nothing there, but when you turned back around to the mirror, ENA was inside, startling at being seen and scurrying off to hide somewhere less visible in the mirror-realm. You hang a curtain over it just in case. Another time, you walked past one of the paintings hung up in your hallway and suddenly realized that there was something off about one of them once you reached your room. You ran back and found ENA posing inside one of the paintings, shifty eyes the only giveaway that she knew she was caught (and being slightly creepy). “Ah, dearest… You must admit that I gel well among the firmaments!” You reluctantly agreed that, yes, she did look like she belonged in a painting. ENA blushed and gave the closest thing to a bashful chuckle you’d ever heard out of her.

ENA normally isn’t obsessive, but her love, her adoration for you, sharpens the hazy, vivid colors dwelling in her heart into something screeching and unpredictable. A yellow that threatens to burn and a blue that promises to drown. Being near you has her flying high, bright as ever, spinning you around and keeping you to herself in a tight embrace. “You’re the dawning spring of my heart. And I’ll never let you go!” She stills and looks deep into you. “Ever,” she adds, but with a tone light and airy. She wouldn’t want to scare you away, now!

When you spend time with other friends a little more than with her, she sinks into mental storm. She’s not used to this feeling, so she doesn’t know what it is, but anyone else would tell you it’s jealousy. And it’s intense. Her blue side starts getting a lot more talkative when ENA feels like you’re paying too much attention to other people. She wails and cries on your shoulder, not so subtly smelling your hair in between sobs. “It’s—not—fair! Why do you spend so much time with them?!” She slumps forward and looks upwards, her blue eye meeting one of yours. You explain that you’ll always like her the most, but that there are other people who are important to you as well. “NO!! Boo-hoo… You’re only supposed to love ME! All those other people should just disappear!” You’re perturbed, to say the least, and not by the fact that your clothes have essentially become ENA’s impromptu handkerchief. (That part’s par for the course.) Either way, you hold ENA tighter as her floating hair pieces gently brush against your ear.

[multific]

The Crown and the Flame

Aegon Targaryen x Reader

Summary: Promised to one brother, it was the other who watched you like you were the moon itself.

You were never meant to love him.

Aegon was everything you were taught to avoid.

Wild. Unpredictable. His words like daggers, his silences worse.

But it wasn’t his wine-soaked laughter or his recklessness that drew you in, it was the way he looked at you when he thought no one else would see.

You were betrothed to Aemond, the quiet, calculating prince. The one who watched the world like a strategist studies a gameboard. Aemond had chosen you, perhaps for your name, perhaps for your mind, perhaps for something he’d seen in you. You didn’t know. But you had accepted it, and the court praised the match.

Except Aegon couldn’t stop looking at you.

At first, you thought you imagined it. A simple glance across the dinner table. A breath that caught in his throat when you smiled politely.

But soon, it became something more. Aegon’s gaze lingered. His lips twitched when you laughed. And sometimes you caught a softness in his expression that made your heart beat far too fast.

He never touched you. He never said a word.

But his silence was louder than anything.

You sat between the brothers, a placement chosen by Queen Alicent herself, to encourage harmony.

Aemond had his hand resting lightly atop yours, speaking quietly of the upcoming tourney. You nodded, tried to listen, but your eyes wandered, only to meet Aegon’s.

He looked away too late.

And gods, something twisted in your chest.

He was drunk. As usual.

But his smile didn’t reach his eyes. Not when he looked at you. Especially not when Aemond leaned closer and whispered something that made you blush.

That night, Aegon left early. And you couldn’t sleep.

The breaking point came with a storm.

Rain battered the Keep, thunder shaking the windows. You had been in the gardens, seeking silence only to run into Aegon, soaked through, sitting on the stone bench like he wanted the sky to swallow him whole.

He looked up, blinking rain from his lashes.

"You shouldn’t be out here," you said softly.

He laughed. “Neither should you. You’ll catch something and ruin my brother’s pretty future bride.”

You flinched.

He noticed.

“I didn’t mean-” He stood, swaying. “Fuck. I didn’t… gods, I didn’t mean to fall for you.”

You stopped breathing.

"I never wanted this," he muttered, voice cracking. "You were his. I wasn’t supposed to look. Wasn’t supposed to care. But I do. I care, and it’s killing me."

You stared, heart pounding.

And you ran.

You didn’t make it to your chambers before the tears spilled. You turned into a quiet corridor, pressed your back against the cold stone, and let it all fall from your eyes.

Aegon’s voice echoed in your head.

You didn’t hear the footsteps until he was there.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I said it. I’m sorry I feel it. I’m sorry I can’t stop.”

Your hands trembled. “You shouldn’t say those things. I’m promised to Aemond.”

“I know,” he said softly. “But do you love him?”

You didn’t answer.

He took a breath. “Do you love me?”

And this time, you couldn’t lie. “Yes.”

He stepped closer. Carefully, reverently. Like you were a flame and he was begging to burn.

“I would have left it alone,” he whispered. “If I thought you were happy.”

His lips brushed yours like a prayer.

And when you kissed him back, it wasn’t soft. It was everything you had swallowed for months. All the ache, all the guilt, all the longing. It came rushing out like a wave too strong to stop.

It didn’t come without pain.

Aemond knew. He saw the change in you. In Aegon. And one night, he confronted you — eyes like ice.

“I loved you,” he said. “But he always got what I wanted.”

“I never belonged to either of you,” you said, voice shaking. “But I chose him.”

Aemond turned away. And for once, he didn’t fight.

Aegon held your hand in the godswood weeks later, both of you dressed in silver and black. A wedding done quietly. Not royal. Not grand.

But sacred.

He kissed your forehead, your jaw, your knuckles. And when he looked at you, it wasn’t with lust or guilt or shame.

It was love. Real, steady, bone-deep.

“You’re mine,” he said. “Not by duty. Not by force. But by choice. And gods help me, I’ll spend every breath trying to deserve it.”

You smiled.

“You already do.”

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

ꪆৎ SWORD PLAY , ft. Phainon.

tws : nsfw, power play, mild degrading, soft!dom phainon, knife play / kink, mild dubcon vibes, creampie, unprotected sēx and weapon kink / sword play (non-penetrative).

Phainon presses the flat of his sword between your thighs, right against your soaked pussy.

“Gods… look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and amused, eyes flicking down to where the metal kisses your slick folds through your ruined panties. “Dripping like this for a blade? Not even my cock yet, and you’re already making a mess.” The sword’s not cutting—just resting there, heavy and deliberate, cool against flushed heat. He watches every twitch of your thighs like it’s entertainment.

He tilts the blade slightly, dragging the flat edge up, slow and steady. Your body jerks, breath catching when it bumps your clit. “Sensitive,” Phainon hums, leaning in, hair brushing your cheek. “Bet if I pushed this just a little more, you’d start grinding on it without even thinking.”

His free hand settles on your waist, holding you in place. “You want my cock, don’t you?” he asks, all gentle mockery. “But here you are, squirming like the sword’s enough.” He rubs it down again, the edge never dangerous, just a wicked substitute that keeps you teetering.

By the time he finally pulls it away, your cunt’s aching, desperate. And all he does is smile, like he’s got all the time in the world. “If you can act this desperate for a blade,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your ear, “you’d better be ready for what I’ll do once I’m actually inside you.”

He tosses the sword aside like it’s nothing—like you weren’t just grinding yourself on it like a bitch in heat—and suddenly his hand is between your legs instead. Fingers sliding through the mess you made. “Fucking soaked,” he breathes, more to himself than to you, baby blue eyes glowing as he watches his fingers glisten. “All that from teasing? You’re so easy.”

He pushes you down onto the bed, his heavy armor falling away piece by piece. You barely notice it hitting the floor—all you can see is him, cock already hard and flushed as it presses against his stomach. “Spread your legs,” he says, but you’re already doing it before he finishes the sentence.

“Needy thing,” Phainon chuckles, climbing between your thighs. His cock drags over your folds, thick and hot and real this time, not cold metal. He doesn’t thrust in—not yet. Just rubs it there, back and forth, watching the way your body twitches every time the tip bumps your clit. “What’s better?” he murmurs. “The blade or this?”

You whine, trying to buck your hips, but he pins them down with one hand, firm and unrelenting. “That’s what I thought,” he says, finally lining himself up and sliding the head in, slow, deliberate. The stretch is everything—your back arches, your fingers curl into the sheets, and he just groans above you, deep and satisfied. “Fuck… warm little pussy feels so much better than cold steel.”

“You gonna cum for me this time?” he teases, sinking in deeper, inch by inch. “Or should I grab the sword again?”

Phainon groans softly as he bottoms out, hips pressing flush against yours, his cock buried deep and warm inside your soaked cunt. He leans over you, bracing himself with one hand beside your head, the other still cradling your waist like you’re something delicate—something treasured. His breath fans across your cheek as he murmurs, “There we go… finally where I belong.”

He doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, letting you feel him—how full you are, how slow and careful he’s being. “You’re so tight,” he whispers, brushing your hair from your face. “Like you were made for this. For me.” His lips ghost over your temple as he starts to move, slow, deep rolls of his hips that have your toes curling and your breath catching in your throat.

Every stroke drags along your walls just right, each movement smooth and unhurried, like he’s savoring it. “So good, just like that,” he murmurs, pressing kisses along your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “You take me so well… so fucking perfect.” His voice is low and tender, no teasing now—just soft praise, his eyes never leaving your face.

Your hands find his shoulders, fingers curling into the muscle there, and he lets out a soft sound when you clench around him. “That’s it,” he breathes, fucking you just a little deeper, just a little slower. “Let me have you like this… don’t think about anything else. Just this. Just us.”

He’s so warm inside you, so close, his body pressed to yours, with every breath, every slow thrust, every sweet word, he’s pulling you closer to the edge—holding you like he never wants to let go.

He stays inside you, still warm, still hardening again despite the soft tremble in his breath. One of his hands runs up and down your side, soothing, like he’s making sure you’re still here with him—still grounded. “Did I go too far?” he asks quietly, voice low and thick with concern.

You shake your head, fingers dragging slowly down his back. “Mm-mm,” you mumble, boneless, completely wrapped up in him. “Wanna stay like this.”

That earns a soft chuckle. He pulls back just enough to look at you, still close, his hand sliding to your thigh to squeeze gently. “I was serious earlier,” he says, voice dipping again. “About being mine. Not just for tonight.”

His hips shift slightly, just enough for you to feel the slow drag of him inside you again, already starting to move even before you're fully recovered. “Still so wet for me,” he whispers, more to himself than you. “Think you can take more?” His tone is tender, never pushing—he’d stop in a heartbeat if you said no. But you don’t.

Instead, you wrap your legs around him again, tugging him closer, and whisper, “Want it.”

His smile is soft as he begins to move again—gentle, unhurried, like you’ve got all the time in the world.

He groans when you wrap your legs around him again, your cunt still hot and dripping, clenching just from the feel of him shifting inside. “Fuck… you’re still so tight,” he mutters, dragging his hips back, just enough for the thick tip to stretch your entrance again before pushing back in, rougher now. “You really can’t get enough, can you?”

His hands grip your thighs and spread them wider, pulling you open as he begins to thrust harder—still careful, but no longer holding back. Each stroke fills you deep, sharp little slaps of skin on skin echoing in the space around you. “You take me so fucking well,” he growls, watching your body bounce slightly with every roll of his hips. “This pussy was made for me.”

Your moans slip out freely now, messy and desperate, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pounds into you. Not cruel—just relentless, focused, fucking you like he knows exactly where you’re most sensitive. “Right there?” he pants, dragging his cock along that perfect spot that makes your legs shake. “Feels good, huh? All stuffed and dripping.”

His thumb finds your clit again, circling it with slick, practiced motions while his cock drives in over and over, hitting that perfect rhythm that leaves you speechless. “You gonna cum again?” he murmurs, voice strained now. “Want to feel it. Want to feel this pretty pussy milk my cock.”

You can’t answer—not with your mind fogged, your body trembling under the pace he's set. It’s all too much and not enough at the same time, your orgasm building again like a fire in your gut. He can tell. He feels it—every clench, every cry—and he fucks you through it, his thrusts going rougher, deeper, until you're cumming again, hard, soaking his cock with a sweet cry of his name.

He groans, hips snapping into you with more force now, chasing his own release. “Shit—fuck—you feel too good,” he gasps, grinding deep as he cums inside you again, cock twitching, spilling warmth deep inside. He keeps moving through it, hips rocking lazily as he lets the waves of it fade.

And then he stills, pressed deep, his breath hot against your throat as he stays wrapped around you, buried in your body like he belongs there. “Not letting you go,” he murmurs, one hand stroking your thigh while the other holds you close. “Not after this. Not ever.”

© 2024-2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog all rights reserved. pretty please, do not steal my dividers, translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking, thank you!

[pankowcrumbs]

Back to You X Lando Norris (Requested)

MasterList

F1 Masterlist

request: Lando Norris x Reader They are actually exes, but realize they can not be without eachother.

They say time heals everything, but no one ever tells you what to do when the missing doesn’t go away when it lingers, quiet and constant, like background noise you can’t quite shut off.

It had been five months since Lando and I broke up.

Five months of pretending I was fine. Smiling at brunches with friends, replying to texts with fake laughs, and scrolling past his Instagram stories like they didn’t make my chest ache. But truthfully? Every part of my day felt just slightly… off. Like the world kept spinning but I’d been knocked half a step behind.

So when I walked into that Monaco party not expecting to see him, not prepared to I froze the second I caught his profile near the bar.

Same messy curls. Same easy grin. Same Lando.

He looked up like he felt me watching him, and our eyes locked. A beat passed. Then another. And I knew.

He excused himself from the conversation he was having, heading straight for me. My stomach turned with nerves, with hope, I couldn’t tell.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, cautious.

“Hi,” I breathed, heart pounding in my chest like it still hadn’t learned we were supposed to be strangers now.

“You look good,” he added, flicking his eyes over me, as if trying to commit every part of me to memory.

“You too,” I managed, even though the lump in my throat was growing.

We stood in silence for a second too long.

“This is weird, isn’t it?” I asked with a small laugh, trying to break the tension.

“It is,” he agreed. “I wasn’t sure if I should come say hi. I didn’t want to...”

“Hurt me?” I offered.

He nodded, looking down at the drink in his hand. “Yeah.”

I bit my lip. “Lando, I’ve been hurt since the day I walked away.”

His head snapped up, eyes meeting mine. “So have I.”

We slipped outside onto the terrace, away from the noise and the music and the stares. The air was cool, the sea shimmering under the moonlight.

“I thought letting you go would make things easier,” I admitted, wrapping my arms around myself. “I thought we’d drift apart and it would stop hurting.”

“But it didn’t,” he finished for me.

I shook my head. “No. I miss you.”

His jaw tightened. “God, Y/N… I miss everything. The way you laugh. The way you always bring a book on flights. Even the way you steal half my hoodies.”

“I still wear them,” I confessed. “That grey one with the faded print? I sleep in it.”

He gave a breathy laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I thought I was going mad. Every time I saw something funny, I’d reach for my phone to text you. Every time I had a bad day, you were the person I wanted.”

“You were always my person, Lando,” I whispered. “Even when we weren’t… working.”

He stepped closer. “We stopped working because we stopped talking. We let the schedules and the travel and the pressure get between us. But I never stopped loving you.”

My eyes burned. “I didn’t either.”

“Then let me fix it,” he said, voice cracking slightly. “Let’s stop pretending we’re better off without each other when we both know that’s a lie.”

A pause. A breath.

And then I nodded.

He took my hand, fingers curling around mine like they belonged there like they never should’ve let go in the first place.

“I don’t want perfect,” I said softly. “I just want you.”

He leaned in slowly, giving me time to pull away if I needed to. But I didn’t. I tilted my head, meeting him halfway in a kiss that tasted of relief and late-night tears and every word we’d never said.

When we pulled apart, he rested his forehead against mine.

“We’re doing this differently this time,” he murmured.

“Better,” I agreed.

That night, under the stars and the sound of waves crashing somewhere below, I fell back into the arms I never truly wanted to leave. And for the first time in months, I felt whole again.

[pedge-page]

I think Joel would be so turned on by Preggo wife doing absolutely simplestest domestic stuff. Like holding baby Ellie on her hip and flipping pan cake while Sarah is talking to her about her preschool life.

Maybe Joely has woken up to a cold bed, and walked into their kitchen seeing wifey with a messy hair bun and his flannels on her, sleepy eyes bt so fucking happy. And bonus points if he sees a teeny weeny peeky of her tattas...

In conclusion, Uncle Tommy is goin' to be forced as a baby sister tonight.

Hes been sleeping so damn hard too. Now that Ellie is less fuzzy, more consistent sleep. He doesn't realize your side of the bed is empty when he wakes. His hair still fuzzy, he rubs his eyes and slips out of the covers, off to look for you because damnit where's his morning kiss? His brain doesn't fully turn on until he sees you so there's very little floating through his mind at the moment. As he makes his way downstairs, he can hear your soft humming. You're holding Ellie at the hip, with her own binky in held between her chubby cheeks as you fiddle at the stove. Sarah is seated at the table, even her hair fuzzy as she tells you about the field trip they had yesterday at the zoo. You somehow manage to listen and respond to her accurately while plating eggs with one hand, and constantly swaying your hips to rock Ellie to peaceful comfort. You don't seem disturbed at all. In fact, you seemed natural to it all.

Unfortunately, Joel's not as good as you are at multitasking, because all he can focus on is the way you look: wearing his long red flannel shirt, only half buttoned in the middle. The buttons didn't even line up, not that you cared to fix it it seems. It just barely covered the lower portion of your butt. He could tell too, as the top portions was disheveled from just having breastfed Ellie a moment ago. When you turned a bit to the sink, still not noticing him, he could see your breast from the sliver of the exposed shirt. You were barefoot too, your legs exposed.

The girls don't care. Why would they? Their mom is doing mom stuff.

Joel? Yeah. Joel notices. Wife doing mom stuff.

You finally see him standing there, and smile. He looks very out of sorts: his hand rested on his belly, brows scrunched almost in a dazed confusion, not sure what planets he's on, bags underneath his lids and the widest fluffy hair style he's ever had.

"Good morning bear," you giggle, patting over to give him a quick kiss. He softly growls into it, and before you can pull away, he wraps his hands around your waist, sucking you back in for a deeper kiss. He presses your body flush against his, feeling everything.

"Ew," Sarah groans, closing her eyes with her hands.

You pull away to take a breath, but his hand remains on your lower back, holding you close. Those eyes are lidded, but a little more alert with intention as he grins at you. "Good morning," he hums darkly.

You bite your lip a little, eyes flicking down to his plush lips again. They belong on you a lot more than--

"AH" says the little thing sitting in your arms at the present moment. Ellie has a scowl across her face, sucking her binky furiously as she stares at Joel. Who hasn't even addressed her yet.

He sighs with a chuckle. "Good morning to you, little miss." He sucks her chubby cheeks into his lips and let's go with a pop, causing the baby to erupt in giggles. Suddenly very pleased.

Joel clears his throat, back on you. "How about... Tommy makes breakfast for them this morning?" His eyes fit down to you again.

"They're already eating breakfast baby. Besides ..."

Tommy does get a lot of baby sitting he doesn't ask for. It's really unfair of you two to just put them off to him whenever you and Joel want some alone time--

"How about dinner?"

"Yeah. Yeah he'll take em for dinner tonight." You nod, absolutely no care in the world to your previous thought.

[kingdom-of-peace]

Spotlight. pt.3 | N.R

Older!News Anchor!Natasha x Younger!Female!Professor Reader

Masterlist

Summary: Natasha Romanoff, one of the most recognized faces in television, finds herself under unexpected scrutiny when a young academic’s lecture on media ethics gains traction online — setting the stage for an unlikely rivalry that blurs the line between enemies and something else entirely.

Warnings: 18+, age gap (natasha laste 30s. reader 27ish), implied smut

Word Count: 5.3k+

A/N: Honestly, I struggled a bit with this chapter, but here it is. Also, university has started again, so I’m not sure how regularly I’ll be able to update. FYI English isn’t my first language.

As you step onto the stage, the applause still lingered in the air, a faint echo from Natasha’s introduction. Your nerves were frayed—your thoughts scattered. Though the applause had begun to fade, you were almost certain you hear a few excited cheers from the back. The lights hit you full force, momentarily blinding, but then you see her—already seated, composed, back straight and expression unreadable under the stage glow. Your eyes meet for a split second. It’s fleeting, but unmistakable: the glint of a challenge in her gaze, as she seems to look right into your soul. 

In that moment, you’re fairly certain you forget how to breathe. You don’t even recall shaking Karen Page’s hand—somehow, you’re just suddenly seated between Carol and Wanda, heart pounding in your ears. Natasha remains at the far end of the panel, her gaze unwavering. You cast her a quick glance again and just as quickly look away. 

The blonde moderator opened the talk with a few light questions, easing the panel into a comfortable rhythm. But for you, everything blurred into background noise. Your thoughts were spinning, your focus slipping. Of all the people in the world, why did it have to be her? Sitting there like she owned the space— back straight, composed, unreadable, Natasha Romanoff was the last person you wanted to see tonight.  

Maybe she hadn’t seen the lecture. Maybe she didn’t connect the dots —just one more critic lost in the noise. But from the way she looked at you, calm and razor-edged, you already knew better. Then you remembered Wanda’s words from earlier—her oddly specific interest in your work, the way she lit up when talking about your thesis. It hit you like a punch. Wanda worked for the same network. Of course she did. And if Wanda knew... Natasha definitely knew. They could be colleagues. Friends, even. 

Your stomach sinks. 

Two full hours. Two hours of sharing a stage with a woman who might very well despise you. And if she didn’t before, she might by the time this is over. A soft nudge pulls you out of your thoughts. Wanda, seated beside you, gives you a subtle look—Karen had asked you something. 

You blink, scrambling to re-enter the moment. “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?” you ask, offering a sheepish smile. The audience chuckles, the tension lightened for just a moment. But on the far end of the table, Natasha doesn’t laugh—she just watches. Still. Quiet. Waiting. 

Natasha could hardly believe what she was seeing. You, sitting across from her, drawing laughter from the audience with that nervous charm and awkward humility—as if you belonged here. As if this wasn’t some elaborate stunt. Her jaw tightened. She would absolutely be having a word with the event manager and Pepper. Why hadn’t anyone warned her? A heads-up, even a vague mention, would have spared her the whiplash and she could have prepared, maybe even not attended at all. 

Theories surged in her mind, each more irrational than the last but fuelled by the unmistakable sting of anger and betrayal. Had you tracked her? Dug up where she’d published, manipulated connections, pulled strings? Maybe you had gotten cozy with the right people—slept your way into a book deal just to ride the same wave she had. And now here you were, smugly seated across from her, like this panel was some twisted stage you’d orchestrated just to taunt her. 

Well, if it was mind games you wanted, you were about to learn exactly how far Natasha Romanoff would go when someone tried to outmanoeuvre her. 

Then your thesis comes up. 

“Professor, in your recent paper, you argue that modern journalism blurs the line between information and branding. Some would say that’s a direct critique of network television—and perhaps even of our own Ms. Romanoff. Would you agree?” 

You feel the bottom drop out. Of course, everybody on the damn planet had seen it. 

Your voice is even, but inside, you're scrambling. “The argument wasn’t about individuals,” you begin carefully. “But about the system. News anchors—intentionally or not—can shape public perception through their tone, their language, their posture. That kind of influence comes with a responsibility we often overlook.” 

Natasha leaned forward, her smile razor-thin. Just as Karen opened her mouth to speak, she cut in—calm, composed, but unmistakably firm. “That’s an interesting perspective,” she says smoothly. “Though it’s easy to critique the system when you’re not the one inside it. The pressure, the immediacy, the responsibility to tell the truth—those aren’t abstract ideas in a newsroom. They’re our job.” 

You nod slowly. “I understand. But responsibility doesn’t vanish under pressure. If anything, it grows.” 

Her eyes narrow. “So, visibility equals corruption? Or just when it applies to people like me?” 

Wanda tried to defuse the tension with a diplomatic interjection. “I think what she’s getting at is institutional, not personal. We’ve all seen the shift—news turning into entertainment, anchors into personalities. It’s not about us. It’s about the landscape of media in general.” 

You pick up the thread, grateful. “Exactly. I didn’t mean it personally. It’s about systemic trends.” Natasha chuckles, but there’s no humour in it. 

“Funny. It felt personal yesterday evening, when my name was trending all over the internet. Or maybe just scrolling through hundreds of comments accusing me of selling out—after your lecture aired.”

The room stills. You open your mouth to respond, but Natasha cuts in. 

“But I suppose someone barely old enough to rent a car wouldn’t understand the weight of public trust. The world isn’t a paper you can edit until it says what you want it to.” A few murmurs ripple through the audience. 

The age jab lands harder than it should. 

Your jaw clenches. Maybe you were young. Maybe you didn’t have two decades of newsroom experience. But you had fought for your place in the world—sleepless nights, self-doubt gnawing at your insides, deadlines you thought would break you. And you made it. On your own merit. 

Karen tries to pivot, sensing the heat, but you find your voice again—clearer this time. Sharper. “Maybe you’re right,” you say, tone steady. “But critical distance gives people like me perspective. When you’re too deep inside a machine, it’s easy to stop questioning how it works. Or who it’s serving.” 

A beat of silence. Karen blinks, searching for a lifeline. Wanda stiffens. Steven shifts uncomfortably. Carol looks longingly towards the exit. But Natasha leans in, voice low and lethal. 

“So now I’m complicit? Part of a corrupt system? Tell me—do you think I enjoy lying to the public?”

You hold her gaze. “I think you stopped asking yourself if you were.” Gasps ripple through the audience. 

Phones go up. Live streams start. Someone in the back mutters “Oh my god. It’s happening”

And that’s when it truly begins. Not a shouting match. Something colder. Sharper. Like duelling match but with two intelligent women at the forefront. You trade backhanded insults. Philosophical jabs. Ethically loaded hypotheticals. Every word is laced with meaning—some direct, some so subtle only the two of you could hear the real message. 

Wanda watches like she’s witnessing the final round of a high-stakes tennis match. Stephen Strange throws in a joke or two to lighten the mood, but they don’t land. 

Karen finally steps in, voice strained, redirecting the conversation with white-knuckle control.  “Let’s shift gears for a moment. We’ll now open the floor for audience questions.” 

Hands shot up. 

The panel moderator silently hoped the audience questions might shift toward safer ground—perhaps touching on publishing trends or media literacy in schools—but of course, the spotlight remained locked on the two women. A few polite questions were tossed toward the other panellists, but it was clear where the room's tension—and attention—truly lay. 

A woman in the third row stood. “This is for both the Professor and Ms. Romanoff. Do you think the rise of personal branding among journalists is helping or hurting public discourse?” 

Natasha answered first. “It’s both. We live in an age where people expect authenticity. They don’t trust faceless institutions. A strong personal voice cuts through the noise.” 

You replied a beat later. “And that’s true—but the danger is that sometimes that voice becomes the story. And when that happens, we lose the ability to separate opinion from fact.” 

The audience member raised an eyebrow. “So, are you saying Ms. Romanoff is contributing to that confusion?” 

You hesitated. “I’m saying the system rewards performance more than accuracy. And she’s a Master of Performance.”

There it was. 

The crowd leaned in. 

Natasha didn’t flinch. “Better a master of performance than a theorist who’s never seen the battlefield.” 

The audience let out a collective gasp at both veiled insult, the tension now drawn tight like a wire stretched to its limit. Sensing the rising intensity—and with several more questions circling the same charged dynamic—Karen Page eventually cleared her throat and began steering the panel toward its closing remarks. “Thank you to our panellists for such a vivid discussion. We’ll end the formal portion here. Audience members are welcome to stay for a reception in the lobby, where you can meet the authors and speakers directly.” 

You exhaled slowly, unsure if you had survived or ignited something irreversible. 

The applause is cautious, like the audience isn’t sure if it should clap—or brace for the aftershocks. But even as the cameras shut off and the studio begins to clear, you can feel her watching you. Still. And this time, you don’t look away. 

But then, without a word, she turns abruptly—shoulders stiff, pace brisk—and disappears behind the stage curtain. You hesitate for only a second before walking in the opposite direction, the echo of your footsteps swallowed by the quiet hush of backstage. 

You took a breath and stepped back into the corridor, where a few assistants were already guiding the panellists toward the reception area. Wanda gave you a soft pat on the shoulder as she passed—no words, just a knowing glance that said you survived, somehow. Carol offered a half-smile, but even she looked mildly shell-shocked. 

You stood off to the side of the stage, applause still echoing faintly in your ears. The panel had ended—technically. But inside, you were still unravelling. 

You weren’t sure what the crowd had seen. A debate? A spectacle? A duel?

What you did know was that her words were still humming in your chest, sharp-edged and carefully aimed. And your own—honest, maybe too honest—had landed too. 

- - -

The reception hall was already filling with people—readers, students, faculty, media professionals, all buzzed from the evening’s tension like they'd just witnessed something barely contained. A few tables had been set with drinks and finger food, but no one was really eating. Too many eyes scanning the room. Too many whispered conversations. 

You felt Darcy’s hand slip into yours from the side. 

“Okay, I take it back,” she whispered. “That was not just a panel. That was academic Thunderdome.” 

You tried to laugh. It came out as a weak exhale. 

People started approaching. Some with wide eyes, offering praise about your “courage” and “sharpness,” others asking polite, half-veiled questions about whether the clash had been staged. A few people tried to steer the conversation toward the thesis itself, but inevitably, it circled back to Natasha. 

“You really held your ground,” someone said, admiration mixed with morbid curiosity. 

“I don’t know how you weren’t intimidated by her,” another added. “She’s like a myth.” 

You smiled where appropriate, answered what you could, but your eyes kept drifting to the entrance. Natasha hadn’t come out to mingle yet. Either she’d slipped away entirely or she was somewhere behind closed doors, recalibrating. You couldn’t blame her. You were half considering doing the same. 

At some point, a well-dressed man from the publisher approached you with a glass of wine and a proud smile. “You’ve stirred quite the conversation tonight,” he said. “You may want to prepare for a few interview requests this week.”

Great. Exactly what you wanted. 

More cameras. More scrutiny. More chances for Natasha Romanoff to see your face and remember what you’d said. 

Darcy leaned in again. “Please tell me we can go get pizza after this.”

You nodded faintly, your gaze still on the door. “If I make it out alive, first round’s on me.” 

You were halfway through your third interview—this time with a podcast producer who introduced herself as “just here to amplify sharp women”—when it happened. 

The energy in the room shifted. Not subtly. Not gently. 

It was like someone flipped a switch and every head in the reception turned. The low murmur of conversation softened, then sharpened again—but now it was different, laced with excitement. 

You didn’t need to look to know. Natasha Romanoff had entered the room. 

You kept your focus on the question being asked—something about how your academic work translates to non-scholarly spaces—but your voice faltered for a beat as the sound of camera shutters, screams and faint enthusiastic greetings swept in like a wave. Since when where news anchors precepted like superstars, maybe you judgement of her influence was false, people seemed to worship her.  

“Miss Romanoff, can we get a picture?” 

“Could you sign this?” 

“Your last broadcast was incredible—I never miss The Hour!” 

Natasha’s voice rose softly above the rest, gracious and calm, expertly controlled like the rhythm of her show. You glanced up, just for a second. 

She was glowing in the spotlight of attention. Not performatively—effortlessly. Every gesture efficient. Every smile precise. She signed autographs with ease, posed for a few selfies, exchanged short, perfectly worded compliments with admirers. A young journalism student nervously asked about her career path, and Natasha offered a few polished sentences that somehow sounded both spontaneous and quotable. 

She never once looked your way. 

But the smirk curled at the corner of her lips said enough. 

She was enjoying herself—enjoying the control, the admiration, the way the audience moved to orbit her again, as they always did. You recognized it not as arrogance, but something sharper. Intentional. 

She was reminding everyone—and you—why she was the face of network journalism. 

Your interviewer, oblivious to the spiral tightening in your chest, leaned in again. “Sorry, what were you saying about bridging the gap between theory and practice?” 

You blinked, tore your gaze away, and forced the academic answer back onto your tongue, even as the weight of her presence settled at the edges of your thoughts like a shadow stretching across the room. 

Because whether she looked at you or not—she was there. And somehow, that felt louder than anything she’d said on stage. 

-- 

Natasha hadn’t stormed off stage, but her exit had been swift—unapologetically so. Down the corridor, past the waiting crew, into the solitude of her dressing room. Her name was printed in gold lettering on a paper placard taped to the door. The door clicked shut behind her with a soft finality, shutting out the residual noise of applause and questions and commentary. 

The lights above the mirror hummed as she stared at herself—flawless on the outside, but her mind was still echoing with your voice, your phrasing, your carefully veiled barbs. 

She didn’t sit. She paced. 

Pepper was already inside, arms crossed, phone in hand, the expression on her face far from pleased. “Well,” she said flatly, “that could’ve gone worse. But not by much.” Natasha didn’t respond. She took a bottle of water from the counter, twisting the cap without drinking. Her jaw was set. 

Pepper’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, sighed audibly, then looked up. “ I’m not going to lie—you two are trending again. And this time with significantly more people live-commenting on your little sparring match.” Her tone was clipped, restrained but sharp. “I need to get back to the office and get ahead of it before someone runs a headline that says you started a live debate club.” 

Natasha’s lips twitched, not quite a smirk, not quite regret. 

Pepper went on. “And when you go out there please — don’t start another discussion with her. Your public image is the most important thing right now, and you already gave them enough content for the week.” 

“She came for me first,” Natasha muttered, more to the mirror than to Pepper. “She knew exactly what she was doing.”. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Pepper snapped. “You lost your cool, Natasha. You let it show. That’s not you.” 

A knock came at the door—two quick taps. “Uh… hi, it’s Peter?” came the tentative voice from the other side. “Pepper said to check if—”.

 “Now’s not the time, Peter,” Pepper cut in, not raising her voice, but making it final. 

There was a short pause, followed by an awkward, “Got it. I’ll… just grab the equipment outside.” They listened to his footsteps retreating down the hall. 

Pepper sighed again, rubbing her temples. “You’re walking into a reception room full of people who already think they witnessed the cold open of a scandal. Smile. Shake hands. Be charming. And whatever you do, keep your comments to small talk and selfies.” 

Natasha finally sat down, tilting her head toward the mirror.“She wanted a fight,” she said quietly, more to her reflection than to Pepper. “So I gave her one.”

Pepper sighed, grabbing her clutch, adjusting her coat. “That doesn’t mean you have to back down—but you need to lead with your head, not your ego. That’s why people love you, Natasha. Just don’t give them a reason to stop.” A moment of silence passed between them. Then, with one last look, Pepper headed for the door. “You’re brilliant, Natasha, but reckless. I can’t keep cleaning up after both.” 

And just like that, Natasha was alone again—just her, her reflection, and the simmering aftertaste of a public clash that had left her rattled in ways she wasn’t ready to admit. 

She gave herself exactly thirty seconds. Then she stood, smoothed her suit, and walked toward the door—every step measured, every movement a reset. 

Time to reclaim the room. 

By the time she entered the reception hall, the shift was immediate. People turned, like they always did. Natasha gave no indication she’d just been dissected on stage by a woman ten years her junior in front of hundreds. Her smile was sharp, her posture relaxed, and her presence deliberate. 

She posed for pictures, offered autographs, shook hands. A familiar rhythm. Performative, yes—but she knew how to make performance feel personal. A few compliments here. A dry joke there. She could see the tension melt in shoulders, the way admiration returned to eyes that had earlier been watching the clash like a sport. 

And still, she did not look at you. 

Not once. 

But she felt your presence—like static at the edge of a broadcast. She could feel your gaze flickering her way in intervals, could hear your voice in conversation a few feet over. 

She didn’t need to look. 

She knew you were watching. And that was enough. 

- - -

On the other side of the room, you had finally broken free from the string of interviews, now standing beside Darcy, who was doing her best to distract you from what had happened on stage barely thirty minutes earlier—with little success. Every few minutes, your gaze involuntarily drifted across the room toward the news anchor. 

People moved past you in waves. Some offered sympathetic or quietly encouraging glances, the kind that said “you did your best” without saying anything at all. Others, however, looked at you as though you’d just set fire to a national monument. Those ones were easy to spot—their shirts bore Natasha’s face, or they clutched glossy photos of her with pens in hand, waiting for a signature like she was a headlining act, not a journalist. 

Since when were news anchors treated like celebrities? 

You couldn’t imagine anyone lining up for autographs from another host—not with that kind of devotion. Not with merch. But when you looked back in Natasha’s direction, she was thriving. Not smiling widely or basking in the spotlight in some cliché way—but entirely in control. Every word she spoke seemed to land with precision. People leaned in closer, laughed on cue, watched her like she was the only person in the room. 

And that’s when it hit you. 

Maybe she wasn’t just a well-known journalist. Maybe she wasn’t just the polished face of a primetime news slot. Maybe Natasha Romanoff had influence that ran far deeper—cultural, not just professional. And maybe you had underestimated that power far more than you’d care to admit. 

Shortly after Natasha had left with Wanda, soon followed by Carol, only Stephen Strange remained, casually engaged in conversation with one of the senior editors. Most of the audience had dispersed after Natasha’s exit, and with no one approaching you or Darcy any longer, you took it as your cue to leave. After exchanging brief goodbyes with a few familiar faces, you made your way to the dressing room. 

On the way home, the two of you grabbed a pizza from your usual spot. Once you reached your apartment building—conveniently located just across the street from Darcy’s—Darcy immediately kicked off her heels, having spent the entire walk back complaining about how badly her feet hurt, and made a beeline for your couch. You headed into the kitchen, grabbing a couple of drinks, ready to unwind and put the whole ordeal behind you. Naturally, however, Darcy had other plans. 

She was already sprawled across the couch by the time you returned from the kitchen, two cold drinks in hand. Her heels had been unceremoniously abandoned by the door, and she had claimed the entirety of the sofa like a victorious general post-battle. 

"You know," she began, accepting the drink you offered her without looking up, "for a panel supposedly about “Media’s Role in Modern Discourse”, that was an absolute circus."

You sank into the armchair across from her, letting out a long breath. "It derailed the moment Natasha answered that question about institutional accountability." 

Darcy snorted, nearly choking on her drink. “She didn’t just respond—she unloaded. I swear, for a moment I thought Karen Page was going to dive under the table. And then she zeroed in on you like you were the main course.” 

You exhaled slowly, fingers tracing idle circles through the condensation on your glass. “I knew it might get tense, but I didn’t expect her to go that hard. Or for it to get so personal.” 

Darcy swung her legs down from the couch, sitting upright, her expression shifting from amusement to something more thoughtful. “She’s intense, yeah. But damn—Romanoff doesn’t back down. It’s kind of impressive, in a terrifying way.” 

You glanced over at her. “You’re not wrong.” 

“But you held your own,” she added quickly, pointing at you with a half-empty bottle. “You didn’t let her push you off balance, and you made her work for every comeback. Honestly, I think that’s why she went for the jugular. You didn’t play along.” 

There was a pause—less charged, more reflective. 

“I just wanted to talk about the media system,” you murmured. “Not become the evening’s main event.” 

Darcy offered a dry smile. “Yeah, well, you challenged the queen on her home turf and didn’t get burned alive. That’s its own kind of win.” 

You managed a quiet laugh, the weight of the night still hanging over you. The silence that followed was heavier this time, settling between you like dust after impact.

Then Darcy smirked faintly and raised her bottle in mock solemnity. "You know, I always thought she was an eleven out of ten—but as your friend, I can honestly say she’s dropped to a ten." 

You let out a laugh, low and involuntary. Classic Darcy—an ill-timed joke right when the air got too thick. 

Another pause stretched out, quieter now. Darcy lifted her bottle again, this time with less irony and more reverence. "To the red-headed storm."

You clinked bottles softly. But your eyes drifted to the window, toward the dark street outside. Across it, lights glowed softly in Darcy’s building. Beyond that, the city exhaled into the night. You hadn’t checked social media. Not yet. You knew it was out there—the clips, the discourse, the commentary. The moment Natasha leaned in and made it personal, the internet had probably exploded. You could feel it in the way people looked at you after at the reception. Curious. Charged. Entertained. 

But for now, the silence of not knowing felt safer. 

Still, any lingering guilt about how the panel unfolded had mostly faded. You hadn’t gone in with a grudge. You’d been nervous, thoughtful, maybe even hopeful. But she was the one who’d made it a battlefield. She was the one who turned critique into accusation, disagreement into insult. 

If she wanted it to be a game of control, she should’ve known making it personal never sat well with you. And as the day settled behind you and the night drew in, you weren’t angry. Just tired. But you knew somewhere out there, Natasha was already ten steps ahead—again. 

--- 

The car was quiet for the first few blocks, the hum of the engine and the occasional flicker of passing headlights casting long shadows across the leather seats. Natasha sat with her arms folded, her posture as composed as ever, though her gaze remained fixed out the window. 

After the evening’s events, Natasha felt a quiet sense of confirmation settle in her chest. Everything about you—the pointed phrasing, the subtle jabs cloaked in theory, the way you held the room’s attention with a calculated ease—only reinforced what she’d suspected from the start. You weren’t naïve or overwhelmed. You were deliberate. Strategic. Beneath the academic polish was someone who knew exactly where to press. And Natasha had seen that kind of ambition before. It rarely came without sharp edges. 

Wanda was seated beside her, headed to the same destination—she lived just one floor below Natasha. The younger woman broke the silence first. "You didn’t have to go that hard," she said gently, her voice low but not reproachful. "She wasn’t ready for that public conversation, and you knew it." 

Natasha didn’t turn her head. "Exactly."

Wanda exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh. "You think that makes it better?"

"It makes it honest." Natasha’s tone was clipped, but not cold. "I’m not interested in waiting for everyone to catch up. They invited me to speak. I did." 

"You spoke," Wanda agreed, her eyes on the passing cityscape. "But she didn’t hear you. You didn’t want her to hear you. You wanted her to flinch." 

Natasha didn’t reply immediately. The silence returned, heavy but not uncomfortable. She’d spent a lifetime sitting in silences much worse. Wanda had a way of always being plausible—never forceful, never wrong—like she saw through Natasha not with judgment, but with an unsettling kind of clarity that made evasion feel pointless. 

After a moment, she said, "They build these panels to look like they’re welcoming hard questions, but they only want palatable truths. Sanitized, symbolic. I’m not going to wrap everything I know in polite euphemism just to make her feel enlightened." 

Wanda nodded slowly. "You’ve always had a talent for cutting through the script." 

Natasha turned toward her then, just slightly. "And you always try to soften the blow." 

"Someone has to," Wanda said, not with judgment, but a hint of sadness. "Not because you're wrong. But because people shut down when they feel exposed." 

"Maybe they should," Natasha said. "Maybe that's the only way anything changes—when they're uncomfortable enough to stop pretending." 

The car slowed in front of the building. The driver didn’t ask questions; he knew better. Natasha stepped out first, Wanda following close behind. They entered the lobby without speaking, the muted elegance of the space doing nothing to diminish the weight of the evening. 

Inside the elevator, Natasha pressed the button for the top floor. Wanda hit the one just below. The doors slid shut with a soft chime. 

The elevator began to slow. Wanda turned toward her, searching her face for something—softness, regret, anything. But Natasha remained still, eyes forward, calm and unmoved. 

"Don’t turn your clarity into isolation," Wanda finally said softly, as the doors opened on her floor. "You don’t have to be at war with everyone to be right."

Natasha gave the faintest of smiles, not bitter, but resolute. "I’m not at war, Wanda. I'm just done bending over backwards." 

The elevator chimed softly as the doors slid open. Wanda stepped out, pausing just before the doors closed. "Good night, Natasha."

"Good night," she replied, already watching the numbers shift as the elevator resumed its climb. 

Alone now, Natasha let the stillness settle in again. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t shaken. She had said what needed to be said—without apology, without compromise. The city stretched beneath her feet, full of noise and noise masquerading as dialogue. 

As Natasha stepped into her apartment, the first and only to greet her was Liho like every night, weaving figure-eights around her legs with a soft, insistent purr. The scent of something warm still lingered in the air. Dinner had been left out—neatly covered, precisely arranged. Her household assistant had already come and gone, as usual. No note, no conversation. Just the quiet presence of care left behind in the form of a rice and salmon dish kept warm on the stove. 

Natasha sat at the kitchen island, picking at the rice dish. Liho, already well-fed, stationed himself at her feet with the air of a creature who hadn’t seen a meal in days. She rolled her eyes and flicked him a piece of salmon. He caught it mid-air like a practiced thief. 

Her mind was far away, drifting back to the panel, to your voice, to the tension that had gripped the room like a wire strung tight between two opposing poles. She’d won, hadn’t she? Public perception was on her side. The photos, the compliments, the attention—they had reassured her of her position. 

Then the buzzer broke the silence. She walked to the speaker and pressed the button. “Yes?” 

“It’s downstairs, Miss Romanoff. There’s someone here to see you,” came the familiar voice of the Concierge. 

Natasha didn’t hesitate. “Send her up.”

A couple of minutes later, a pretty blonde was standing in her doorway. A journalist she’d met briefly at the reception, to whom she’d slipped her address with a note scribbled in the margin of her business card: “Come by later if you want to talk off-record.”

It wasn’t about talking. Natasha didn’t need conversation. She needed distraction—something soft, something simple, something that didn’t ask questions. And the woman was all of that. 

Later, when the apartment was dark and quiet, and the woman lay sleeping beside her, Natasha stared at the ceiling, wide awake. And her thoughts, traitorous as ever, circled back to you.

You—seated across from her on that stage, too composed for your age, too sharp for someone so new to the public eye. You, who had looked at her not like a myth, but like a problem to be dissected. You, whose words still echoed in her ears despite the champagne compliments that followed her all evening. 

She had won the night. But somehow, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she hadn’t won the war. You were still there—lodged somewhere beneath her skin. And Natasha Romanoff didn’t like leaving things unresolved.

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A/N: Thanks so much for reading and for all the feedback on the last part! The story will start picking up the coming chapter. Natasha will get whiplashed poor thing lol.

Tags: @nebthetautora @womenarehotsstuff @doddledoo @caramelcat123-blog @jassgunner