#you step up and be the shield
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COBRA KAI SEASON 5 EPISODE 10 / SEASON 6 EPISODE 1
+ bonus
#cobra kai#miguel diaz#robby keene#kiaz#kenny payne#shawn payne#what i love about this is that we know robby can and HAS individually beaten both kenny and shawn#but the difference is in both these situations 1. he doesn't WANT to fight them and 2. he's being tagteamed#and both times miguel steps in to act as a shield#to say 'hey robby might not wanna do this but i'll do it for and with him if you keep this up'#and it's refreshing!! because robby has always had to fight his own battles!!#anyway i support kenny and shawn's rights and wrongs
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rewatched madoka magica again today bc i fucking hate myself and to absolutely no one’s surprise i went through all five stages of grief in a single evening
#let’s talk about sayaka miki for a second#genuinely the fact that her whole character is centered around tragedy almost to a shakespearean extent#she’s selfless and brave and values her justice and righteousness above all. calls herself an ally of justice#in fact i think it’s rather intriguing how her whole character is centered around “justice”#her story being a more twisted retelling of the original little mermaid#how she is initially portrayed as a very heroic and confident character even before becoming a magical girl. always shielding madoka#selling her soul to heal the boy she loved out of a selfless desire to see him well again#her being absolutely distraught abt being robbed of her humanity and betrayed by kyubey#she combats this harrowing realization by immersing herself in her duties not caring that she is slowly deteriorating in the process#becoming numb with pain and fighting recklessly and psychotically trying to drown out the pain#finally coming to the sickening conclusion that humanity doesn’t deserve her saving and she succumbs to a fate of her making#last words being “i was so stupid” which trumps her previous statement of “there’s no way i’d regret this”#ALSO? the fact that her costume and weapon are symbolic of a knight. she rly portrays this hero of justice who will protect and defend ☹️#i think abt the fact that homura said that sayaka’s wish was so selfless it was only a matter of time before she died#sayaka being the example of what happens to magical girls who go through the entire cycle and eventually become witches is so sad to me#genuinely just like. sick and twisted#very very fucked up.#characters who have their own misconstrued interpretation of “justice” or who are centered around justice in general.#you will always be dear to me.#sayaka reminds me a lot of akechi in some ways ngl#harboring an almost idealized vision of justice but it slowly rots and festers and corrupts their hearts the more immersed w it they become#actually losing their sanity when they fight bc of how much pain they’re in but refuse to acknowledge it until they break#refusing any help and wallowing in misery despite having ppl who love them and want to save them#last words are those expressing regret for being such a fool. for being ignoring#being used by yhe main villain as a stepping stone towards their true goal. they were merely a pawn#also doomed in every version of their reality. always doomed by the narrative no matter what choices they make#i have a type i fear#HAHAHAH ALSO the fact that they’re both dressed so regally compared to everyone else in their respective series#meant to portray them in a virtuous and princely light. only made more apparent by the sword being their weapon of choice#i’m gonna shut up now but they’re soo eerily similar its unnerving tbh 💀
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final photodiary post from my second playthrough. it was a blast and i enjoyed the game so much more than my first time, having the context of kcd1 now. what a beautiful, stunning, emotional game
#kingdom come deliverance#kcd2#henry of skalitz#carey plays kcd2#these screenshots span all of the final game questlines and the dlc too#i also paralleled the erik duel to my istvan duel. i took the same screenshot with the same angle. because i'm insane#and the suchdol siege. god. it doesn't matter that you know they'll survive it was still so anxiety inducing#hans perking up the little step on the walls to shoot with his bow is also a self indulgent screenshot. i'm not sorry#and also! thanks to the shield painting from voyta you can finally see my final henry design#with his beloved shield. symbolic for himself and his affection for hans. but everyone with a pair of eyes knows what it means#man. lmao. what a game. what a brilliant fucking game#next screenshots i'll post will be literally just me taking henry out on dates in the forest visiting lakes and rivers and streams :)#can't wait to take more photos ingame. it's so fucking gorgeous everywhere you turn
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Tomarry AU
Where Tom wakes up in a world as a canon fodder, no named villain who is fated to die a horrible death in the hands of the hero. He is that one villain that is just destined to die and oh boy, does he hate it.
And so, like the logical man he is; he decides to kill the hero. Or to be more precise, he tries to. But, he is stopped. No, no not by the hero. The hero is weak, still. He hasn't gone through his “character development arc” which happens after the hero's best friend dies. And you see, that is the problem. The problem is the hero's best friend. Everytime, every single time, when Tom is sure that he will be successful, that damn Harry Potter has to come running.
Poison? Harry is the one who gets poisoned because he decides to eat what was meant for the hero. Assassination? Harry pushes the hero away. A burning tower? Harry jumps in and saves the guy.
And Tom hated that guy. The guy who literally wasn't given a personality in the book. The guy who's personality was basically "sacrificed himself for the hero". The guy who looks at Tom like he knows what he is doing. The guy, Harry Potter was infuriating.
But does it stop Tom from killing the main character? No. Cue to him making the most convoluted plan there is to get the hero to die. And the plan? Get Harry kidnapped. And lure the hero into a place where he could finally get him to die.
Alas, as always — it doesn't work. And just like always, Harry Potter finds a way to destroy his plans. Again.
Because,
“I know what you are, Riddle.” Harry, with blood dripping down his chin and green eyes glowing (always glowing), says as he stares at him from the place Tom had him tied.
#like everytime#its harry or tom who's the villain or the hero#why not there be a twist#why not make harry that one best friend (bc let's be real he is) whos always dying for his friends#and why not put tom in a situation#where he has to obsess over killing someone else for a change#but somehow#its harry still who ends up becoming the reason why his plans fail#like always#as if they are fated#hmmm#tomarry#harrymort#tom riddle#harry potter#also why dows he not kill harry?#bc he cant lolol#harry doesn't die sadly (for tom)#like all the traps for mc? are stopped by harry because he stepped on them not because he somehow intercepted them lol#or maybw he did intercept them by turning himself into a shield#hmm#who knows#if it makes you feel better#tom does either
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Not to sidebar from Doc Who again but I’m rewatching Much Ado 2011 (again) and I’ve just noticed how several times in the wedding scene Benedick moves to physically intervene on Hero’s behalf and is ordered to stop by Don Pedro. He is told by his prince to stop and then to leave and yet he still rushes back to help as soon as the others are gone how does this scene keep getting better Jesus CHRIST
#much ado about nothing#much ado about nothing 2011#wedding scene my beloved#like listen#listen#I’ve been hung up on how Benedick shields Hero from Leonato in the next scene#since the first damn time I watched this#man self-admittedly doesn’t know WHAT is going on#but knows that it’s wrong#and steps in to protect both Hero and Beatrice#(and don’t get me STARTED on Beatrice in these two scenes and how she’s doing her level best to do the same as Benedick but can’t)#(Beatrice my LIFE)#and David Tennant’s ability to go from joking to observing to ‘don’t fucking try it’ instantaneously#is just#beyond comprehension#but I hadn’t noticed this bit before#Pedro at one point physically holds him back#which#fuck you pedro#fuck you your shoes and the horse you rode in on#but that’s another post#man Benedick rushing back to help has always been great#but now with not just the implication but the CONTEXT that he’s been TOLD NOT TO#even better#11/10#no#1100/10#fucking hell I love this play
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@shouga-nai liked for a starter!
"My, what a wonderfully pathetic display, Kannonzaka!" With a titter, Honobono slides her half-lidded gaze over to Doppo. It would almost be seductive if it isn't for the sadistic delight plain in her eyes. "With that power, I would've expected you to take out at least one opponent. Couldn't even avenge your teammates properly, hmm~?"
#shouga nai#a thorn's sweet kiss (honobono)#[you said bring it on and I said fucking bet YAHOOO]#[this is either gonna be a short thread or it's gonna involve a fistfight. place your bets on what it ends up as]#[I got so excited with this idea that I forgot that the 2nd drb ending isn't translated in the manga yet LMAO]#[basically either with ichiro or jiro's rap ability bb attacks mtr and hifumi steps up to be a shield]#[but doppo n jakurai still got some of the damage and bc everyone had been bullying jakurai earlier]#[both hifumi n jakurai got knocked out. alas]#[so doppo used berserk and managed to make fp hit the arena wall (but none of them got knocked out)]#[and saburo used his negate ability for no damage to bb. and then doppo fainted. rip]
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I just rewatched The Winter Soldier for the nth time and it's just such an amazing movie. The perfection of the weapons designed to 'stop threats before they can happen' shooting themselves down because they, and the philosophy they symbolize, are the real threat, and that Captain America, who uses a shield instead of a weapon, leads the charge against them. It messes me up every time.
#it's the only marvel movie i still care about#something about the way friendship is at the center of a movie all about betrayal#as SHIELD realizes it's own philosophy of compartmentalization and lack of trust lead to it's own downfall#when infiltrated by an enemy who uses it against them#and then there's all the people who step up and try to fight back anyway#thr tech who refuses to launch the helecarriers#the pilots who try to help bring them down#the guards who block the insight crew#and I literally just realized this watch through that#the reason hydra needed bucky barnes for the winter soldier#is because the super soldier only works properly on truly good people#otherwise it gives you the red skull treatment#i knew all this i just never put it together why hydra would prefer a mind controlled good guy to one of their own#winter soldier#winter soldier meta#winter soldier analysis#fandom#fandom stuff#fandom meta
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MY NEW BOOTS ARE HERE HELL YEAH
#I feel. so powerful. I will step on you. these boots are armored steel and probs weigh like ten pounds#but my weirdly muscular tennis calfs are up for the job bay beeee#steel toe + internal metatarsal shield I could prop up a car on these bad boys#and they are so big and heavy they have that good Villain Walk vibe + make me tall
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Every single video I see abt “fixing” the companions specs makes me roll my eyes a bit. Trickster cleric isn’t meant to be a frontline class, it’s a super versatile support class. Rogues have fantastic damage output if you only make sure you know how to maneuver your characters for advantage. I think multiclassing and changing classes and stuff can be super fun and always go for what is gonna make a more fun game for you, but it’s not “fixing” it if you just don’t understand how a class is supposed to be used
#like my main party is karlach astarion and shadowheart bc karlach and astarion are lethal in terms of damage#all karlach has to do it stand there in astarion can pick off everyone around her with sneak attack#and I just keep a shield on shadowheart to bump up her ac to a ridiculous amount so she can stand there and mass heal and provide buffs and#debuffs while piff immediately misty steps to a high place and deals damage/uses her arcane ward from there#and I don’t use heavy armor bc I’m all about that rogue lifestyle but shadowheart is so equipped to help with that play style#change her into a war cleric if you just want to point and click kill go for it. but don’t insult my very good classes#ramblings
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let me start by saying, I'm okay to agree to disagree on this, and I respect you greatly as my queer elder. I hesitate to even send this because I don't think this cause is worth dogpiling (and not even the fun way) on anyone against and , like , I will continue to follow and admire you as a mutual who has been through a lot of the hell that I'm going through right now and got to a place I want to someday be. (for context, I am currently housing & food insecure and am trying to live in a queer-accepting city)
Posting will never be praxis, you are my brother in arms no matter what you call trump or cops or whatever. There are some fat liberation blogs that take issue with calling cops "pigs" for a lot of the reasons I bristle at calling Trump a fatass, and like, if someone is actively fighting cops who can and will actively hurt me and my found family, I don't care what names they shout while doing it. So I see where you are coming from and I'm glad you fight for me. I fight for us too, in what little ways I can while I keep me and my found family afloat. I do better work in the community just by existing around people as a living breathing transgender than I could do in a million posts on this website.
I do think that this is a valuable conversation to have, though, even though you are completely right that this is a trivial thing and not at all the bigger, more real issue at hand. I think it's still important, on online platforms such as this, to talk about how we refer to the other people on this planet.
Think about why you didn't call Trump a "retard". You certainly could have, it doesn't *not* apply to some of his behavior. I know people of our generations once used that word a lot, and we don't anymore. Why and when did we change that? I honestly don't remember. For me, my aunt was medically classified as "retarded" and she was the best person I'd ever met, so I decided that word shouldn't mean bad things. The first time I ever hit someone was over them using that word in a derogative way. it wasn't about "mental illness positivity" it was about humanizing the people that word has been used against - people who have been stigmatized and oppressed with that word.
Right now, hopefully, the same thing is happening to the word "obese". Fat people are less likely to be hired, granted loans or secure housing. they can be kicked out of airplanes and fired from their jobs because of their body size. There have been laws proposed to take fat children away from their parents and "treatments" proposed to wire children's jaws shut and starve them to make them thinner. They are often medically mistreated and misdiagnosed. I once went to a doctor with an ear infection and instead of antibiotics, he prescribed me *bariatric surgery.* I have been refused transgender top-surgery because of my BMI, which keeps me at a passively higher risk for self-injury and worse.
I do not care about body positivity. Honestly, between being fat, trans, and poor, I'm at a point where I've given up on ever feeling good about my body again. All I care about is getting jobs and meds and keeping a roof over my family's head and food on our table. Normalizing the idea that fat is a bad thing that anyone can change continues that stigma. When you use Fat as an insult, you are saying fat=bad. Fat is a neutral thing that some bodies can be, like short or tall or lean. The revolution needs to be intersectional, and body size is another axis of oppression that needs to be acknowledged, just like sexuality, gender, race, class, disability, etc.
If you've gotten this far, thank you for hearing me out. I'm sorry that others are just performatively parroting the same things over and over. Civility is bullshit, and if you still want to use body shaming as one of the ways you fight against bigotry, it doesn't really matter to me. Just as long as you acknowledge anti-fat bias as part of that bigotry too.
Thank you for writing and sharing your life experiences with me, and for your solidarity as well. You're striving to make your way as part of a despised minority in a world that's turned unspeakably harsh toward you in an aggressively mean way seemingly overnight, and I admire you for the life you have lived, for your courage and perseverance during this difficult time where resources are scant and your housing and food security is uncertain at best.
(FWIW, after I was bombed out of my Lower Manhattan home on September 11th, my income went from six figures down to nothing overnight, and I was homeless and destitute for years. Twenty years ago, I was where you are now, and I can tell you that what you're enduring today will not last forever, that there is light and hope and blessing in your future, that you're not as alone as you might think, that you must never give up.)
What more can I do to make the point that "fat" has nothing to do with this? As I've said, I grew up obese, and it wasn't until I enlisted in the Army at age 17 that I was able to free myself from my violent and abusive family and unlock the potential of the body that had been hidden under layers of fat and shame all my life. I know that my path is not for everybody, that many others are not so fortunate, and I ceased long ago to think that fat equals bad or lack of character or any other pejorative attitude that society has attached to it for generations. I hope I've made that clear and that you take my word as truth.
I am not saying "let's fat-shame Donald Trump to make him feel bad." I am saying that I'm deeply troubled by the LGBTQ+ community prioritizing hurt feelings over the very real damage that's being done to us right now all over the country by Trump, his minions, his proxies, and his cult of bloodthirsty followers and worshippers. Trump's accomplices in Congress and state legislatures and Moms For Liberty are taking over school boards all over the country, banning books and emptying library shelves and harassing teachers and librarians to the point where they're being run out of town, where the State of Missouri has defunded its entire public library system rather than follow a court order to restore books banned just for featuring LGBTQ+ characters.
DeSantis and Abbott have put in place policies that are unspeakably brutal, that are forcing trans people in Florida to slowly and brutally revert to their pre-transition state, that have given health care providers in Florida the right to deny treatment to you and me and all LGBTQ+ people because we are gay, lesbian, non-binary, trans... but God forbid we should call Trump mean names!
We've seen what happens when we buy into the "when they go low, we go high" fantasy pipe dream. This is not the way the world works, it has never been, and we need to put this loser idea in the trash bin where it belongs once and for all.
We're being attacked and harmed in unspeakable ways that are happening now. This is not theoretical or hypothetical. It's happening to us, to those we love, this minute and every minute of every day. And worse is in the pipeline - they're writing laws that will place us under virtual house arrest, that will regulate where we're allowed to go in our own cities and towns, when we're allowed to be seen in public, when and where we can shop, how we're allowed to dress, even what we're allowed to say and SING, for Christ's sake!
And I'm supposed to be concerned about some minuscule hypothetical percentage of my own people being OFFENDED because I'm somehow being insensitive and violating some trivial picayune social justice warrior philosophy, because there's a possibility of some fragile flower taking it personally, and that I should shut my mouth and let the MAGA nutjobs run roughshod over us? Oh, come let Daddy kiss it! while our brothers and sisters are suffering in real time. Sickening.
Anyone who has a problem with my stance doesn't have to follow me or emulate my proven effective tactics as an activist with 37 years of successfully defending our rights under my belt if they're so dainty and delicate and easily bruised. Everyone else that sees this for the strawman bullshit it is, get ready to hit the streets with bullhorns and whistles once again. We've got work to do.
Your arguments are strong and well-reasoned, and I accept and acknowledge everything you're saying. We can disagree on this, certainly, and still work together to turn back the progress that the MAGAs are making, restore our rights, and protect ourselves and each other. But that will require the snowflake contingent among us to get their collective head out of their collective ass, stop whining, and get with the damn program. Calling me names and telling me I'm being a bad gay activist is a waste of time and energy that should be spent fighting the fascists and the haters who are out to kill us.
And to you, my friend and fellow traveler with a radiantly beautiful soul and spirit, I urge you to hang in there, to keep the faith, to keep caring about life, to work with me to secure our own future and the future of our kind. I send to you my very best wishes, energy, and prayers that you will find your way to a place of health, security, stability, and love for yourself and for this precious community to whom we've both dedicated our lives, who mean the world to us.
Yours In Service, Animal J. Smith
#what more can i do to protect you all#to get you to realize the mortal danger we're in#to put the suffering of our own people ahead of our feelings#to join me in this fight that's eminently winnable#to get you off your butts and your high horses and get to work#to do something - anything - to help save us and save yourself from what they're planning to do to us and are already doing#to think of anyone but yourself for a damn change#to show me and the world your incredible courage in the face of evil#to restore our rights and roll back this tide of hatred and death that's about to overpower us#to make sure that my life's work these past four decades has not been wasted#to let me at long last step back from the front lines and cherish my time left on earth at 61 with AIDS and love my family#to be the dog and the man they need and deserve and long for#to lay down my sword and shield at last#please please please do this for me - it would be your greatest gift#for god's sake wake up#queer activism#queer is not a slur#it's a fucking battle cry#god i am so scared for us all#information gladly given
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Selena really blowing mind rn. She gonna delete her ig and saying she taking a break from social media. Because she was caught liking a post in support of Israel and avoids taking a stance. She really making this genocide about herself when she could’ve spoken about it on her big ass platform. Or use it to reach out to people who actually have the power to actually help Palestinians. I thought she would do better smh. Pls tell me what you think about this.
girl she makes the same boohoo ass post every month like you’re 31 babes!!!! Get a grip!!!
like u don’t need to announce ur taking a break every single month 💀… just do it… like idg the point of announcing stuff like that… girl just take the break… u dont need to explain it every time lol it’s giving loser feel sorry for me and my troubles as a rich (white) powerful person as I sit and cry in my mansion
but yeah she has doodoo for brains, and her commitment to keep centering herself in these types of instances, playing innocent and both/neither-siding shit just shows how complicit she is in regards to injustice and does not actually care bc it doesn’t affect her
but this doesn’t surprise me she did the same thing with the BLM movement and it’s like okay girl just say u hate poor ppl and blk ppl and go lol
#anon#she’s just like any other rich white hollywood cushioned celeb who hasn’t stepped outside of their bubble their entire life#yes I know she’s technically Latina but she operates with whiteness as a shield constantly…#like being a unicef ambassador and donating to charity to keep up your reputation doesn’t mean ur a good person lol it’s about your morals!!#and using your celeb/rich status to help those in need!! to help other have their voices heard#like u cannot avoid being political in todays climate: it’s just impossible you can’t get away with it anymore and you shouldn’t!!#politics show where your morals lie and people deserve to know that if they’re supporting u
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Thank! YOU! This decent into madness was a BLAST to read, haha!
When you actually break down and contextualize the Inquisitor and their actions during in-game... romanced or not, they're a NUT job! x,D
And I am going FERAL over "Inquisitor Lavellan is not the Dread Wolf's prey, she is his hunter." AAHHHHH, so good!
I'm always interested in analyses that portray a romanced Solas as a predatory hee hee trickster god manipulating a young and impressionable Lavellan into falling for him and if that's your world state go ahead and live your truth b/c it's frankly none of my business, but I sincerely think there are those who forget that for a lot of people, a romanced Lavellan is (with all due respect to my own Solasmancing Inquisitor Rielle Lavelllan) batshit crazy. Having her boyfriend turn out to be a wolf god is honestly the least of her problems but oh boy is she unafraid to become one to fix this mess.
This is a woman who woke up in a dungeon with a glowing hand, figured out she could fix the world, and thought "fuck it, it's not like I'll have anything else better to do if Corypheus sticks around. Also. Everyone here kind of looks like they want to kill me, so maybe I'll stick with the protective powers that be for a minute." And then all of five seconds later she gets her hand snatched by a sketchy elven apostate who knows exactly what to do with her shiny new powers and cannot stop himself from having a Mr. Darcy level hand-flex after he lets it go (in my heart and soul this happens just out of the camera's gaze) and goes "hmm maybe there's something to be said for this world saving thing."
This is a woman who brought an entire fucking avalanche down on herself and three of her closest friends (and I do mean closest as in physical proximity, she doesn't know these people who are looking at her like she's Thedas' Next Top Idol) because even if it killed her it was the proper middle finger to send to the wannabe god bringing his army tap-dancing down the mountain pass towards her on the one night she had scheduled off to celebrate finally taking a W.
This is a woman going Take 2 Electric Boogaloo on waking up with no idea where she is and learning she was successful in spite-dragging herself up a different fucking mountain in a blizzard. Except now everyone is fighting wait nope now they're Kumbaya-ing a song Andraste's Herald should really probably be familiar with whoops, oh thank God, time for a side convo with the same apostate who's been trying to turn her entire life into a history class only for her to dive in headfirst (much to his initial abject horror) and get that good good discourse she needs since she can't go around arguing with everyone else like she wants to. "The orb is ours." You know what? Of course it is. But if they need the world saved from an elven oopsie, who better to right things than an elf? Fuck it, we ball.
This is a woman who misses being close to nature and goes positively feral at Skyhold, yeeting herself over balconies and banisters and turning the ancient fortress into her personal parkour playground because she's got energy to work off and shit to do, and if the path of least resistance to hunt down everyone she needs to talk to is coincidentally the same path that will absolutely wreck her knees by the time she's sixty, that's just how it has to be.
This is a woman who finds herself back at Haven with a man she's found it possible to be unfetteringly unabashedly herself with and thinks, "hey, maybe there could be more than the flirations we've exchanged over heated discussions and philosophical deep-dives, maybe I can have just one smooch as a treat." And when she feels her slowly unfurling passion reciprocated only to be shut down? She resolves herself to fight for this fledgling love and all the fade tongue that comes with it. This is a woman who gets the tiniest glimpse of what a retirement plan might look like after this whole saving the mortal world thing and buys all the way in.
This is a woman who has Grey Wardens to save from themselves, an empire trying to self-cannibalize, and still finds the time to go rescue a spirit because she, as a fellow comrade caught up in this mess, knows damn well that no innocent deserves to suffer if she can help it while she's got this insane amount of power she never asked for. And if that happens to lead to the man she feels safe enough to nap on the library couches with confessing at last the feelings she knows he's been smothering beneath his all-too-collected surface? Yeah, she'll take that W.
This is a woman who gets absolutely blasted head-over-ass into the fade and goes "honestly things were going a little TOO well." This is a woman who sneaks a peak at the closest fears of the companions she's come to know and love and goes "not on my fucking watch." This is a woman who sees that the man she forces herself to learn the old language for, her vhenan, fears being alone more than anything in the entire knowing world and resolves herself to ensuring it never comes to pass.
This is a woman who gets the opportunity to shape the government of a straight up country and runs around collecting wooden fucking halla in a palace full of elven servants with no time to dwell on that particularly cruel irony because out here it's scheme or be schemed. This a woman who collapses against a balcony railing after putting out some of the sickest literal and metaphorical dance moves The Game has ever seen, resigned to bear her ever-increasing burdens alone, only to find her heart and his horrible horrible hat extending a hand, promising her that if he is not alone, then neither is she.
Like, do you feel me here?
And then he dares to think something as sudden and damning as the truth is enough to keep her away? The queen of tough conversations and tougher choices? No, no, dear readers who have made it this far into my descent into madness.
Inquisitor Lavellan is a master-class in encouraging the odds against her to fuck around and find out. She is a rift-mending false-god-bashing politcally savvy terror upon all of Thedas. Solas (and all of the living breathing world) is lucky she took time out of her busy schedule to notice the way his smile softens when talking about spirits or appreciate the fluidity of his form when they're obliterating venatori out in the field. This man cradled her cheeks in his shaking hands, looked into weary and wide eyes and called her beautiful, and had the audacity to steal her heart before trying to peace out and take it with him.
If she's got to track down a real god this time and frog march him into the fade to reclaim both her heart and the future she fought for because all he wants to do is launch himself like a meteor towards achieving his greatest fear, if she has to spend hours lecturing him on the sheer audacity of his ass while spirits float by and realize they're grateful they never had the chance to take on a body and subject themselves to a verbal lashing this brutal, if she has to do cartwheels around him while dropping all sorts of sweet nothings in the language she is now quite proficient in until he gets it through his luminous gleaming skull that when she said "var lath vir suledin" my girl meant it? Then that's what she's going to do.
"I wish it could, vhenan."
Oh it's going to, buddy. Buckle up to get wrecked, to get absolutely loved and cherished you fool, because Inquisitor Lavellan is not the Dread Wolf's prey, she's his hunter.
#“Sure Solas is a god- but she's the one crazy enough to love one”#TRUUUUUUUUTH!#“The queen of tough conversations and tougher choices? No no dear readers who have made it this far into my descent into madness”#<- Took me the F OUT xD#this also just feels so accurate to my lavellan?#like i think of her not as some demur or wise maiden (nothing wrong with that btw)#she grew up in a nomadic dalish clan and gets THRUST into society not by her choice and has to suddenly be a master at political posturing?#heck no. girly is constantly speaking her mind and is pretty unconventional#like shes doing her best but she does come off as completely batshit insane to the inquisition#like everything above almost is Emmerie Lavellan's *vibe*#ESPECIALLY the “goes feral and jumps over the balcony once she gets to Skyhold” xD#Because she was ALREADY doing that before she got to Skyhold haha#Fun fact! Literal game play in the Open World#While you're running around: if you cast Shield on yourself and then jump off a really high ledge- YOU TAKE NO FALL DAMAGE!#And if you cast Fade Step right on the edge of said cliff; you can slingshot your character sometimes a fair distance#and STILL take no fall damage because of the shield! because the shield absorbs the damage delt! And it eats a LOT of damage!#Soooo as one does#I have that be a core character trait for my Lavellan haha. She has given all the character's heart attacks with her parkouring antics#Literally an insane spit fire of a woman#She will not back down from a fight if she thinks you're in the wrong 100%#Also another thing that is kinda making me cackle because of this post#my lavellan's spiritual animal so-to-speak is a mountain lion? Which is a predator#that does not get along well with wolves#and has been known to hunt and kill lone wolves... right?#So that last line... it made me GRIN#my lavellan never felt like a proud and gentle halla to me (though i do understand and why that imagery is so popular)#nah. my girl is a cunning and agile hunter of the mountains#and after 8 years... she finally catches her quarry. finally pounces on him when he's weak and injured; his fight given up#she's going to enjoy 'devouring' this lone wolf immensely#dragon age
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camera zooms into my head and it’s two guys beating the shit out of each other
#I’m playing DnD by myself and the girls are fightingggg#(making my characters scrap for combat fun reasons)#and I would like to shout about it but this is unlikely to be interesting to anyone so you all get to see it <3#I made a wildfire druid the other day who’s super fun and I was playing with an archfey warlock I made a while ago#tragically the only two characters I have with full sheets so if I wanna do more I gotta make more. however.#it was kinda insanely evenly matched#oh fuck. my warlock won but I just realised that’s partly bc I forgot to give my druid a 3rd 2nd level spellslot. that would’ve changed stuf#¯\_(ツ)_/¯ but god it was wild bc my druid was burning through spells but doing almost no damage#especially bc warlock had refreshing step and kept getting temp hp. he just needed to close distance and start swinging with booming blade#fiery teleportation + jump is the only reason druid could keep up but warlock cast mirror image right at the start and once the spellslots#were gone druid only had cantrips with attack rolls to deal damage#also turns out throwing a pact trident + extra attack imp familiar 1d4+3+3d6 poison is kinda fucked. didn’t need to close he just rolled wel#druid had been rolling spectacularly bad damage though. idk but I have grown to appreciate spells which let you add modifier damage#so you don’t roll like 8 damage from a fireball. 2/3 burning hands hit 1+2+2 from 3d6 ON A SAVE.#sorry baby I was rooting for you but at least you didn’t get eldritch smited <3#oh man and every hit from the warlock being out of shield range#if he’d had a third second level spell things would’ve gone differently (scorching ray <3) but alas. I’m so proud of my haunted lil guy#proud mother of 2 cheering on his sons as they do bloodsports#ROUND TWO#dnd tag#luke.txt
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The Soldier and His Mission
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader
Word Count: 1K
Summary: When a trigger sends Bucky back into the grip of the Winter Soldier, he shadows you with an unyielding protectiveness that leaves the team on edge, though he doesn't harm anyone. After days of tension and careful steps, Bucky finally breaks through the icy barrier, returning to himself in a quiet, tender moment, finding solace in your presence.
You should’ve known something was wrong the moment Bucky went still.
One second, the mission was wrapping up—just another Hydra facility wiped off the map, just another set of goons taken down. The next, something triggered him. A phrase muttered in Russian over a radio, the faintest crackle of a long-dead handler’s voice. You saw the shift in his posture before he even turned around, the telltale tightening of his jaw, the blankness overtaking those usually warm blue eyes.
Bucky Barnes was gone.
The Winter Soldier stood in his place.
And yet—he didn’t hurt you.
Not when he turned to face the team, his body language bristling with danger. Not when Steve hesitated before stepping forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. And certainly not when you cautiously called his name, your voice softer than the others.
Instead, the Soldier moved between you and everyone else.
A shield.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Back at the Tower, you thought the episode would pass. That maybe, after a few hours, after enough familiar sights and sounds, Bucky would shake it off like he always did.
But the Soldier wasn’t leaving. And he had decided you were his mission.
Not to eliminate.
To protect.
At first, it was just hovering. You moved—he followed. You sat—he stood at your back, ever watchful. The others gave him space, exchanging worried glances when they thought you weren’t looking. Steve was tense, obviously trying to figure out how to break through, while Tony was less patient about it.
“This is a problem,” Stark declared after the first few hours, arms crossed as he leaned against the counter. “I mean, I hate to be the one to say it, but we have a fully armed, brainwashed assassin in the Tower again, and we all know how that went last time.”
“He’s not attacking anyone,” Natasha pointed out.
“Yet,” Tony shot back.
You ignored the argument as best you could, focusing instead on cooking something for Bucky—something normal, something familiar, something that might ground him. His eyes tracked you the entire time.
Then you miscalculated the heat on the stove.
The oil in the pan hissed and spat, and a second later, you hissed too as a sharp sting bloomed across your palm. You barely had time to react before there was a sudden blur of motion.
Bucky was on you instantly.
His flesh hand gripped your wrist, his metal one hovering protectively over the stove, as if it had personally attacked you. His face was unreadable, but his grip was firm, his hold gentle as he examined the burn.
“I’m okay,” you assured him, but he wasn’t listening.
Instead, he took the cold pack you hadn’t even reached for yet and pressed it carefully to your palm, his jaw tight, his brows furrowed in focus. You exchanged a look with Steve over Bucky’s shoulder, and the Captain exhaled, something like relief flashing in his eyes.
He was still in there.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
The Soldier continued shadowing you for the next two days, much to Tony’s frustration. But as Natasha had pointed out—he wasn’t hurting anyone.
Unless they posed a threat to you.
That was something Steve learned firsthand during a sparring session. You had barely landed a hit before Bucky, watching from the sidelines, had moved. The next thing you knew, Steve was on his ass, blinking up at the ceiling, while Bucky stood between you like a human wall, eyes cold and calculating.
“For the record,” Steve grunted as he sat up, rubbing his ribs, “I was letting her win.”
Bucky wasn’t convinced.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It wasn’t until you needed a medical checkup that things really came to a head.
“Barnes, I have to actually examine her,” Dr. Cho said patiently, eyeing where Bucky stood between you and the med bay’s equipment.
“No,” he replied flatly.
“Bucky—” you tried.
“The room is secure.”
“That’s not the—”
“She does not require assistance.”
“I do require assistance,” you corrected. “Because I burned my hand and twisted my shoulder thanks to a certain super soldier overreacting in the gym.”
Bucky didn’t move.
You exhaled slowly.
“Okay,” you said, shifting tactics. “Then stay.”
That got his attention.
“If you want to make sure nothing happens to me,” you reasoned, “then you can stay here. But you have to let the doctor check me out.”
His expression was unreadable for a long moment. Then, after what felt like an eternity—
“…Understood.”
Progress.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
When it finally broke, it wasn’t dramatic.
There was no grand trigger, no huge revelation.
Just a moment of quiet.
You had fallen asleep on the couch, exhaustion finally winning after two days of Bucky’s overprotective hovering. When you woke up, it was to warm hands gently brushing over your wrist—both flesh and metal, but softer this time, as if relearning the feeling of touching you.
And then you heard it—his breath hitching.
A tiny, barely-there sound, but one filled with something raw.
You blinked sleepily, looking up.
Bucky was staring at you. Not the Soldier. Bucky.
His face was pale, his jaw tight, his eyes wide—his real eyes.
“…Doll?” His voice cracked over the word, like it had been caught in his throat.
You smiled sleepily, shifting so your fingers curled around his. “Hey, Buck.”
His exhale was shaky. His shoulders sagged. And when you tugged him down to you, he didn’t resist.
He just buried his face in your neck and held on.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
“You scared the hell out of me, you know,” you murmured later, your fingers absentmindedly running through his hair as he rested against you.
“I know,” he admitted, voice rough.
“You threw Steve like a ragdoll.”
“…Yeah.”
“…Kind of hot, not gonna lie.”
A laugh. Quiet, but real.
And just like that, Bucky Barnes was back.
#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky x reader#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes x you#self insert#winter soldier#winter soldier x reader#winter soldier x you#winter soldier x y/n#james barnes x reader#James barnes#james barnes x y/n#james barnes x you#bucky barnes self insert#bucky barnes imagines#bucky barnes fic#bucky barnes fanfic#bucky barnes fluff#fluff#marvel mcu#mcu fandom#marvel imagines#marvel fanfiction#magical-reid
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the complete knock — bob reynolds



⟢ synopsis. you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.
⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, takes place during the 14 month later period. nothing too crazy, mostly plot. reader is described as female. bob is a cutie!! reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :(
⟢ wc: 9.7k+
⟢ author’s note. wrote this with a vague idea and a dream. i don't know. don't ask pls.
You were here strictly for business.
The lobby was all polished glass, military-grade charm, and propaganda dressed in gold. Cameras flashed like fireworks along the crimson carpet, catching every inch of shine from designer suits and sharp smiles. A towering digital screen looped the promo again: "The New Avengers: Built for Tomorrow." You watched from the fringe as the montage played, the images slicing together in quick succession—John Walker throwing the shield with over-practised precision, Yelena Belova dismantling a room of dummies in under twelve seconds, and Ava Starr phasing through a concrete wall with a smirk. Hero shots. Sanitized. Manufactured. All of them.
You didn’t blink as you were ushered to an elevator.
Growing up, the Avengers Tower never really felt real to you. Sure, you’d seen the photos, the documentaries, the endless footage of press conferences held on its front steps. Hell, you’d even walked past it with your parents whenever you visited New York—but it still felt like it belonged to another world entirely. Untouchable. Almost mythic.
You never imagined you’d walk inside.
And yet now, riding the elevator up with a slow-climbing hum and nerves that prickled beneath your skin, all you felt was dread.
It was a strange kind of emptiness—the feeling of finally reaching something you once admired, only to realize it had been gutted and repainted in someone else’s image. The marble floors had been waxed clean, but the history here wasn’t. You could still feel the ghosts under the polish. Somewhere between the seams of the rebuilt walls and reprogrammed elevators, there was once a legacy. Real one. But it didn’t belong to the people in charge of this event.
You were crammed in with a handful of Congress members and defence contractors, all of whom smelled like cologne and quiet greed. Congressman Gary was there too, smiling too much, already half-drunk from the limo ride there. (He said it would be the only way he’d survive an entire night listening to people praise Valentina Allegra de Fontaine). Gary had been the one to suggest your attendance might smooth things over. It might make the New Avengers feel like someone from Sam’s camp was willing to listen. Get on their good side—that whole thing.
But you were here for an entirely different reason. His invitation was exactly what you needed to get in, though.
Underneath your gown—sleek, formal, and designed to draw no conclusions—you had a mic stitched into the seam of your strapless bodice. Hidden, but live. Your earpiece buzzed softly with Joaquín’s voice, casual as ever.
“If Sam finds out we’re doing this, we’re so dead.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be overheard as the elevator operator gave a rehearsed speech about the tower’s restoration—how it stood now as a symbol of “unity, rebirth, and strength.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The tower didn’t feel like a symbol. It felt like a stage.
“He’ll take away your wings at most,” you murmured, gaze fixed forward. “Relax.”
You could practically hear Joaquín pouting through the comms.
“I just got them back.”
“Then let’s not make a scene. Gary said it’d be good optics to have someone on our side here. We’re doing Sam a favour.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I’m surprised you didn’t want to come with me. You’re cleared for field work.”
“No, thanks. As much as I adore red carpet politics, I don’t think I can be in the same room as de Fontaine without committing a felony. Might get myself in trouble.”
“And I won’t?”
“You’re better at smiling.”
“You’ve never seen me smile.”
“Exactly.”
You exhaled through your nose, the tiniest edge of a grin forming before you could stop it.
“Just... try not to piss anyone off for five minutes, yeah?”
You didn’t answer. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a muted ding, and you stepped into a wall of flashing lights and artificial warmth.
The event space had been reconstructed on the upper floors, a showroom designed to impress donors and government officials alike. White marble floors stretched endlessly beneath towering banners that hung from the ceilings like monuments. Each one bore the new emblem of the team—sleek and stylized, but hollow. You could see the press eating it up already.
A digital display behind the podium read:
WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.
MEET EARTH’S NEWEST MIGHTIEST HEROES.
Your stomach turned.
“You still with me?” Joaquín asked.
“Yeah.” You nodded once, moving deeper into the room as your eyes scanned the crowd for familiar faces. “I’m here.”
“I’m gonna need camera access,” he said. “There’s a chip tucked under the gem on your bracelet. If you can slide that into an outlet somewhere, I’ll be able to map out the floor’s electrical system. Should help me locate the control room.”
“Guy in the chair,” you muttered, lips twitching into a faint grin. It was impressive—his gadgets, his confidence. Typical Joaquín.
Congressman Gary had vanished into the crowd, but you didn’t mind. Better alone than attached to a man who introduced you as a pet project. You plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray, the cold stem grounding in your fingers, and sidestepped toward the edge of the room.
An outlet revealed itself by a floor-length curtain. You knelt, as if adjusting your heel, and casually broke the gem from your bracelet, slipping it into the socket with practiced ease.
“Okay,” Joaquín said, voice clearer now. “Give me a minute to get my bearings. While I’m working on this, try not to look like a loser in the corner. Mingle or something.”
You scoffed under your breath. “Easy for you to say—you can talk anyone’s ear off.”
“You calling me annoying?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. Go see if you can find Bucky while I work on this, would you?”
Right. Bucky Barnes.
You weren’t here to mingle. You weren’t here to sip champagne or shake hands or sweet-talk your way into the New Avengers’ good graces. You were here for Sam. And more specifically—for Bucky. Wherever the hell he was hiding.
The plan was simple enough in theory: Get a read on what Valentina was playing at. Try to talk to Bucky. Get ahead of whatever fallout was brewing between him and Sam before it turned into a full-blown civil war again. You’d offered to go because no one else would.
Joaquín was trying to stay neutral (and failing). Isaiah had dismissed Bucky as a long-lost white man with too many ghosts. And Sam refused to speak to Bucky since the news broke about the New Avengers. And Bucky hadn’t said a damn word back.
So here you were. You were the only one left who might still be able to stand in the space between them without setting off alarms, even if you were biased.
You still didn’t understand how Bucky could do it. How he could go from testifying before Congress about accountability and reform, to standing beside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine like she hadn’t personally undone everything they’d fought for. Like he hadn’t been there when Ross tried to throw his friends all in cells. (Sure, you weren't there for it either, but Sam told you all about it; the accords were one of the reasons the Avengers broke up.)
Valentina wasn’t just dangerous—she was calculated. Clever. The kind of dangerous that worked in the shadows, smiling for cameras while quietly tying strings around people’s necks. She had her ex-husband arrested, sabotaged Wakandan outreach missions, and picked through the wreckage of post-blip heroes like she was drafting a fantasy football team. The fact that she now had a unit of enhanced individuals marching under her payroll and calling themselves the New Avengers made your stomach turn.
And Bucky was one of them.
You believed Valentina was guilty the second Bucky first mentioned she’d recruited John Walker. Walker—who had murdered a man in public, with blood still wet on the shield—and somehow walked free. Charges vanished. Headlines redirected. Now he was being repackaged as a hero again, and Bucky was standing next to him like nothing had happened.
You couldn’t wrap your head around it. No matter how many angles you looked at it from, it didn’t make sense. And the more you thought about it, the more it burned in your chest.
What was he thinking?
Why hadn’t he said anything?
Why wasn’t he here?
You pulled in a slow breath as you stepped further into the room, letting the sound of clinking glasses and diplomatic small talk wash over you like static.
The room was grand in a gaudy way—shiny surfaces and marble floors that reflected the chandelier light too harshly. Everything screamed polished excess, like they were trying to distract from the blood under the polish.
You tried to scan the crowd for Bucky, but there were too many faces, too many government suits and PR smiles, none of them him. You told yourself that when you did find Bucky, he’d have some kind of explanation—something to loosen the knot in your chest, something that could push down the rising anxiety. Something that could explain how the man you once trusted was now parading around in a suit under Valentina’s thumb.
Instead, you found Congressman Gary. Or rather, he found you.
He was already three glasses of champagne deep—five, if you counted the shots you’d seen him down on the way—and he beamed like he’d found a shiny toy in a sea of suits.
“There she is,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder like you hadn’t just been avoiding him for fifteen minutes. “You have got to meet some of these people. Big names. Big wallets.”
You were too polite to shrug him off, even as he dragged you into a circle of De Fontaine’s investors. Their grins were just a little too sharp, their eyes a little too eager. The way they looked at you made your skin crawl, like you were a chess piece they hadn’t quite decided how to play yet.
You smiled tightly. Shook clammy hands. Answered vague questions. Nodded while they spoke about “opportunities,” “rebuilding legacy,” and “rebranding heroism.”
One man leaned in closer, his breath thick with bourbon. “You know,” he said, voice oily, “with your background, you’d be a perfect candidate for the new team. Valentina has a real eye for talent, and we’re building something bigger than what came before. Something better. You could help shape it from the inside.”
You swallowed your disgust with a sip of champagne. “I’m not really looking to join anything right now.” That was a lie. You already had a seat in the team Sam was putting together. But he did not need to know that.
He chuckled, as if that wasn’t an answer.
“Okay, I’ve got eyes,” Joaquín said suddenly in your ear. His voice broke through the haze like a rope thrown across stormy water.
You exhaled in relief. “Excuse me,” you told the group, already turning away. “I need to grab a drink.”
They nodded, already moving on to the next opportunity in heels. Gary wasn’t too happy, though.
You drifted from the circle, walking slowly toward the open bar. On the way, you passed a tray of themed hors d’oeuvres—tiny “Avenger” sliders with edible logos, cupcakes shaped like shields and guns.
A mounted camera in the corner caught your eye, its red light blinking lazily above a velvet-draped sculpture.
“See me?” you muttered.
“Yeah, I see you,” Joaquín replied.
“Still no sign of Barnes.”
“Scanning crowd pings now,” he said. “Either he’s ghosting the place or he got another haircut and I can’t recognize him. Which would be so like him, by the way.”
You sighed and accepted another drink from a passing server, something dry and too expensive, and kept moving.
You figured you’d shaken at least six hands tonight that belonged to people who’d love to see your head on a stick—if not for the lucrative optics of you standing here at all. You were an opportunity to them. A symbol. A bargaining chip in a war they didn’t even understand.
Your dress caught suddenly.
You stumbled—only a step, but enough for the chilled drink to slosh dangerously near the edge of the glass. You turned on instinct, hand rising to fix the silk scarf that had slipped from your neck and shoulder.
A man stood behind you, wide-eyed, hand half-raised like he’d been about to catch you.
“I—I’m so sorry,” he stammered. His voice was low, a subtle rumble barely audible over the layers of clinking glass, conversation, and ambient music. “—stepped on your dress. Sorry.”
You blinked, caught off guard.
He looked like he didn’t belong here. Not in the way the others did. No glossy name tag, no designer smugness. His suit was clean, but not flashy. Understated.
“It’s fine,” you said quickly, instinctively adjusting your scarf where it had slipped from your shoulder. You shook out the fabric of your dress around the ankles, heart skipping in the echo of that voice. Something about the way he said it—apologetic, soft, like he genuinely meant it—caught you off guard.
“Sorry,” he mumbled again, even quieter this time, eyes dropping to the floor. His dark hair fell over his face, almost like he was trying to shrink three sizes. You could hear a faint, awkward laugh in his voice. “Uhm… yeah. Sorry.”
He didn’t linger. Just turned and slipped back into the crowd before you could even process anything. No second glance. Just a gentle pivot and a few long strides back into the crowd, swallowed instantly by the sea of shoulder pads, press passes, and sharp perfume.
You stood there for a second, staring after him.
He moved differently from the others. No performative swagger. No politician’s posture. No tray in his hand, so he’s definitely not a server. He was quiet in a way that made you feel like you’d imagined him, like he’d only brushed through this reality for a second before vanishing into another.
You didn’t recognize him.
And you should have.
For all the files you’d scoured, the profiles and photos, the research you’d buried yourself in to prepare for tonight, you’d made it your job to know every player in this room. Who to watch. Who to avoid. Who might be useful.
But not him.
You turned back toward the bar, but your mind didn’t follow. Not entirely.
Who the fuck was that?
You were just about to ask Joaquín to pull a facial scan when something in your periphery stopped you cold.
John Walker.
He was only a few steps away, mid-conversation with some high-level sponsor, until his gaze landed on you. And then he froze.
The look that crossed his face was quick, recognition, discomfort, maybe a flicker of guilt, but he buried it just as fast, turning away without a word. He pivoted like a man avoiding a ghost, ignoring the way the sponsor he spoke to called after him.
“Walker just made a hard left into the hors d’oeuvres,” Joaquín muttered in your ear, low and amused. “You see that?”
You exhaled, more irritated than surprised. “We’re not here for him.”
“Yeah. I think he knows that too. That’s why he’s pretending he’s got important shrimp to eat.”
That pulled a faint smile from you, biting down the urge to laugh.
Typical. The last time you’d seen Walker in person, he was seated in a courtroom with his jaw clenched so tight you thought he’d snap a molar. You’d testified in his case, alongside Sam, Bucky, and everyone else who had to witness what happened in Madripoor—what he did to that man in the square. The shield, slick and red. The silence afterward, heavier than any explosion.
You never fought him. Never had to. But you'd been on opposite sides of that mess, and he knew it. Hell, you’d spoken directly to his discharge. Your words were probably still echoing in the back of his skull.
The way he turned away just now… yeah. He remembered you.
“I’m surprised he didn’t start barking about national security,” Joaquín quipped in your ear again. “Do you think we should trail him?”
You hesitated. You didn’t want to. Just the idea of following in Walker’s smug footsteps made your jaw clench.
But Joaquín pressed, “He might know where Bucky is.”
And that was the problem—he was right. And you hated how much sense it made. Of course, Walker would know. You also hate how Walker and Bucky were probably friends now.
A camera flash caught your eye, and you instinctively straightened your posture, smoothed your expression. No time for a scowl, even if that’s all you wanted to wear.
You adjusted your gown, tugged lightly at the hem, checked the wire hidden at your waist, and started walking in the direction Walker and that ugly barret he wore had vanished.
The crowd shifted around you like tidewater—polished politicians and strategic handshakes, investors with too-white smiles and drinks that cost more than your rent. Every few steps, someone waved. A few shook your hand like they knew you, like you were an old friend they’d been waiting for. A woman asked for a photo. Another leaned in and whispered, “Are you joining the new team?” like it were a secret worth selling.
You deflected with a nod and a vague smile, each interaction leaving a layer of static behind your eyes.
It was strange how quickly the attention shifted now that you were in the spotlight. Recently, you’d spent most of your career standing behind Isaiah while Joaquín and Sam did the talking. You liked it there. It was quieter. Easier to breathe. Now, suddenly, they were holding out chairs for you at the table.
The whole thing felt like theatre. Scripted and glassy. Lines rehearsed. Costumes ironed. Every player doing their part beneath the blinding stage lights.
You still weren’t sure what was worse—that Bucky accepted Valentina’s funding, or that he and his new friends let her call them The Avengers.
Sam was right to be angry. He should be. He’d already turned down President Ross’ private offer to hand him the reins of a military-funded global response team. The same offer that Valentina had repackaged, repurposed, and handed off to people who were too coward to say no.
“He’s on the east end, talking to Ava starr and another woman. I think she’s Valentina’s assistant. Oh—shit. He just pointed at you.”
Your chest tightened. You turned too fast, momentarily losing your bearings in the rotating lights and mirrored walls. East—east—
And then someone stepped into your path.
A wall of a man appeared in front of you so suddenly, you nearly collided with him; broad-shouldered and bearded, dressed in a burgundy suit that looked just a size too tight across his chest.
He smiled widely, eyes bright like he’d been waiting for a moment like this all night.
“I know you,” he said, voice thick with a Russian accent. “I’ve seen you on the televisions. You shake hands with the new Captain America.”
You blinked. “I—uh, yeah.”
“Ah!” He laughed, clapping one heavy hand to your shoulder with surprising gentleness for a man who looked like he could punch through drywall. “Very brave of you. Very good. You look different in person. In a strong way. Like a panther. Or mongoose.”
You tried for a diplomatic smile. “Thanks, I think.”
“Oh! Where are my manners,” he said, dramatically straightening and offering his hand. “I am Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian.”
You knew that, but you didn’t know he’d be so... loud.
You took his hand, his grip warm and firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Alexei.”
“Kind. Very kind,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You remind me of my daughter! You have same fire in eyes. Around same age, too—you could be friends! Yelena is always looking for new friends.”
Yelena Belova. That name lit something up in the back of your mind. You’d seen the files. The attempted murder of Clint Barton. Her brief status as an independent threat before being absorbed, quietly and conveniently, into Valentina’s new game.
And suddenly, Alexei’s smile widened even more.
“Yelena!” he bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth as if you weren’t standing in the middle of a very public, very polished gala. “Come meet new friend!”
Several heads turned. Cameras flashed—bright, blinding. You winced against the burst of lights, regretting everything from your dress colour to your decision to show up at all.
But it was too late. He leaned in beside you, one arm suddenly draped over your shoulder like you were posing for a family Christmas card. “Smile!” he boomed, and before you could protest, he struck a dramatic flex, biceps pressing into your back like steel girders.
You caught a whiff of expensive cologne and vodka.
In the corner of your eye, a flash of short, bleached blonde hair was making its way through the crowd with frightening determination. Elegant, yes—but there was no mistaking the sharpness in Yelena Belova’s gaze. She wore a sleek black suit like it was made of knives, a funky eyeliner design, hair slicked back and every step carved with purpose. And beside her—
Your heart dipped.
Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.
Poised. Smirking. Watching everything.
“Be careful. Yelena is coming your way with Valentina.”
Thanks for the warning, Joaquín. Delayed. But thanks nevertheless.
You stood up straighter, willing your heartbeat to slow down even as Valentina’s eyes zeroed in on you like a predator clocking a foe.
Wonderful.
You leaned slightly toward Alexei, trying not to seem as panicked as you felt. “Can I ask you something? About Bucky Barnes?”
“Ah!” he exclaimed, cutting you off before you could finish the question. “Bucky! Yes, yes. The Winter Soldier. Very cool. Very handsome. Like Soviet James Dean.”
You blinked. “I mean—do you know where he is?”
But Alexei was already on another tangent. “We fought in Uzbekistan once, did you know this? I threw him through a door. He did not like that. But I like him. I like him very much. Quiet, serious type. You know he never answers my texts?”
“Right. Yeah. That tracks.”
And then—
“Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” said a voice sharp as champagne fizz and just as bitter. De Fontaine. She cut into the conversation with the smoothness of someone who was always in control, grinning like she knew a secret you didn’t. A glass of bubbly dangled between her fingers, catching the light just enough to draw attention. As if she needed help with that.
“I was just about to introduce you all,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Yelena’s arm as the blonde finally joined your little nightmare circle.
“What is this?” Yelena asked flatly, eyes flicking between you and Valentina.
Valentina didn’t bother to answer—just gave a smug little hum and tugged Yelena closer, corralling her between you and Alexei. The four of you shifted automatically into position, an unspoken reflex in rooms like this.
You could feel the cameras turning like sharks in bloodied water.
Flashes burst across your vision. The moment was already captured—your stiff shoulders, your frozen smile. A picture-perfect lineup of cooperation.
And you could feel it: this wasn’t a coincidence.
This was intentional.
Valentina leaned in, voice cool and sugary against your ear as more bulbs burst. “I am so pleased to see you here,” she cooed, “considering how close you and Sam are.”
“I mean, I had to come congratulate you,” you said tightly, lips barely moving. “Recreating the Avengers. That’s… big.”
She beamed at the cameras, teeth white and wolfish. “Someone had to.”
“Of course.”
Another flash. Another frozen pose.
You winced. Sam is going to kill you.
Valentina fielded the sudden swarm of questions like she was born in front of a podium—deflecting, redirecting, charming. Every answer was deliberate, each word chosen like a chess move. Stability. Legacy. Global confidence. Alliances.
They lapped it up like champagne, snapping photos, nodding, laughing. You stood beside her, barely blinking, jaw tight behind your polite smile.
You weren’t meant to be part of this show. You were supposed to be on the outside looking in from the in the crowd.
When the flashes finally began to die down and the clamour shifted elsewhere, Valentina turned with that too-perfect, too-white grin. She glanced at Yelena and Alexei like she were dismissing children.
“Would you two mind?” she asked, breezy as ever. “I’d like to have a quick little chat.”
Yelena’s gaze flicked toward you. Not unkind. But cautious. Reading you like a live wire.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, her brows subtly knitting.
“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine,” Valentina replied before you could speak, her hand already at your back. “Go fetch a drink. Mingle.”
It wasn’t a suggestion.
You barely had time to glance back at Yelena—at the slight, suspicious narrowing of her eyes—before the crowd swallowed her and Alexei whole.
Your earpiece crackled to life. “She’s taking you to the balcony,” Joaquín said, voice low and taut. “There are no cameras there. I won’t be able to see, but I can still hear you.”
There was a pause, then: “I’ll keep looking for Bucky.”
You barely managed a breath of relief before Valentina cut in, sharp and smiling.
“Bucky’s not here tonight, if that’s really why you’re here.”
You stiffened mid-step.
Joaquín swore in your ear. Something heavy hit a surface—maybe his fist against a table—and you heard the scrape of a chair.
“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice light, falsely sweet. “I came to celebrate you.”
You crossed the threshold to the balcony.
It was quieter out here, eerily so. The muffled pulse of the gala was dulled by glass and distance. The cold kissed your skin through your dress. You could feel it biting at your exposed arms, but you welcomed the sting. It was honest.
Below, the city stretched like a glowing circuit board. Skyscrapers hummed with light. Traffic moved in golden veins. It was beautiful in the kind of way that felt removed. Untouchable.
Valentina’s heels clicked once against the stone floor, then stopped.
“Cut the bullshit,” she scoffed, voice low now. “We both know that’s not true.”
You turned your head, slow and steady. Her eyes were already on you. Unflinching.
“Where’s your friend?” she asked casually. “The little Mexican one?”
You flinched—just barely. Your jaw clenched tight.
Valentina smiled wider at that.
You opened your mouth to answer, to lie, to throw her off, to say something clever, but she leaned forward before you could, voice barely above a whisper.
Her lips were close to your collarbone, eyes locked on your chest. On the mic she couldn’t see.
“Hola, Joaquín,” she murmured, velvet-smooth. “¿Cómo estás? How’s the arm? Still broken?”
She pulled back with a grin full of satisfaction. Joaquín didn’t respond—not a breath. But you felt the burn of it in your gut. He heard her. She knew he was listening. And that was the whole point.
She got what she wanted. You could see it in the eyes, the tilt of her head, the calm sip from her glass, the curl of smugness just under her lipstick.
Valentina turned her back to the railing, facing you fully, her glass catching the amber light of the city. Her smile didn’t crack once.
“You know,” she began, like she was catching up with an old friend, her voice silked with charm, “you don’t have to keep playing both sides. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”
You said nothing. Not because you didn’t have something to say, but because the words wouldn’t form. Your brain was too busy calculating exits, signals, whether Joaquín could hear any of this, or if he was already doing something stupid like storming into the gala uninvited.
“You show up with a wire,” she continued, waving her champagne flute like it weighed nothing, “a dress like that, pretending you’re just here to smile for the cameras.”
Her eyes dipped slowly, then back up.
“You do look stunning, by the way,” she added casually. “But we both know you’re not here for the press or to butter yourself up to me or my team. You’re listening. Recording. Digging...”
The flute met her lips again. Sip. Deliberate.
“Looking for Barnes,” she said. “Like he’s going to whisper some grand truth that’ll fix whatever little crisis your friends are having.”
You could feel your jaw tighten. Every word she spoke landed like pressure against a bruise you didn’t want to admit was there.
Valentina tilted her head, studying you with the kind of gaze that belonged in an interrogation room, not a rooftop party. “You’re sharp,” she said. “Good instincts. It’s why Sam keeps you close, right?”
Still, you stayed silent. Because anything you gave her, she’d twist. She already was.
“But let me ask you something,” she said, voice a shade lower, softer. “What’s loyalty really worth—if the people you serve are always the ones left bleeding in the dirt?”
A pulse of heat shot up your neck. You didn’t move, but she saw it.
Of course, she saw it.
“And for the record,” she added, twirling the stem of her glass, “I don’t have anything against Sam Wilson. Poor guy. I pity him, actually. The shit he’s put up with just for carrying that shield—God.”
She clicked her tongue with exaggerated sympathy.
“I’d kill to have Captain America on my team. The real one. Not Walker. That man is a pathetic as it gets. Hair-trigger temper, zero emotional intelligence—”
“Sam would never work with you,” you said, sharper than intended.
Valentina’s smile widened because you finally said something worthwhile. “Oh, I know,” she said, almost gleefully. “He’s a purist. One of the last. His morals are steel-tight. Fucking unshakable. A real Boy Scout. Steve Rogers made a good choice.”
And that was the part that hurt—the part that made you swallow back a flicker of doubt you hadn’t expected to feel.
“Where’s Bucky?” you asked, voice quieter now. “I just want to talk to him.”
She didn’t even hesitate.
“Bucky’s not missing or anything,” Valentina said. “He’s busy. Doing a job for me in Pennsylvania. Cleaning up some loose ends, you know the deal.”
You felt it before you could stop it—that tiny, invisible shift in your expression. Something cracked. Something gave her an answer you hadn’t meant to give.
“That supposed to scare me?” you asked, though it already kind of did.
“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to make you think. About options. About what someone like you could do with the right resources. With the right funding. Imagine it: you with your own team. Autonomy. Access. No more red tape. You make your own shots. We clean up whatever mess you leave behind. And, get this, you even get paid for it.”
You glanced toward the city, anything to avoid her eyes. Lights. Windows. Warmth. All of it felt so far away.
“And if I say no?”
“Then someone else says yes.”
She stepped back, brushing something from her blazer sleeve. “Just think about it,” she said, all silk and sugar again. “We could use someone like you. You belong in rooms like this, you know. Not chasing ghosts, or waiting for Wilson to approve your next move. You’re already breaking. I can see it. You wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t. I’m sure Captain America won’t be happy seeing your name in the headlines tomorrow morning: The Next Potenital Avenger.”
Her smile held, framed in the cold, glittering dark of the balcony. Then she turned and walked past you, the soft graze of her shoulder against yours more intimate than it had any right to be. A mockery of closeness.
“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said, already stepping back through the doors. “Tell Sam I said hi.”
The glass door shut behind her with a quiet click.
And the cold came in fast.
Not just the air, but the after. The silence. The wrongness of being left alone up here, the wind biting now that you weren’t so focused on not showing fear.
Your body finally remembered it was yours. Your fingers hurt from gripping the railing too hard. You eased your hands free, flexed them, saw the white draining slowly from your knuckles. You still couldn’t feel them.
Your mic hissed faintly to life, and Joaquín’s voice filtered through the static like someone calling out to you underwater.
“…you okay?” he asked, strained. Urgent.
You didn’t answer right away. Your mind was still racing through what Valentina had said, how easily she’d dodged your defences, how easy she was to turn your presence into a publicity stunt, how well she knew you—or at least thought she did.
She must be blackmailing Bucky. That must be it.
You kept staring out at the skyline like it might give you an answer. It didn’t. Just glass and steel and lights that blinked too slow to feel alive.
“No,” you finally muttered.
It didn’t come out strong. It came out cracked. Like the inside of your chest had gone hollow, and you were just now realizing it.
Joaquín exhaled through the comm, like he’d been holding his breath.
“I think legal action is our next step,” he said, tone snapping back into focus like a lifeline. “We can sue them for the name. Trademark it. Or maybe—maybe Sam tries to talk to Bucky again? We’ve still got options.”
You didn’t respond. Not yet.
The railing under your palm felt like ice. You blinked hard, fighting back the sudden sting in your eyes. Not from fear. From frustration. From the way every word she said still echoed in your head, sticky and sharp, leaving splinters behind.
You dragged in a breath.
“…that fucking bitch,” you scoffed.
“Yeah… I don’t like Valentina either.”
You jumped.
The voice came from somewhere behind you, softer, unsure. You spun around on instinct, stepping away from the railing.
That man.
The one who stepped on your dress earlier. He was sitting now, low in one of the patio couches near a sleek electric fireplace that flickered lazily against the dark. The flames glinted off the patio doors and caught the edge of his profile—brown hair, downturned mouth, eyes wide like he was the one who got caught.
You hadn’t noticed him when you came out here. And now that you really looked… you realized why.
He wasn’t trying to be seen.
He sat in the farthest corner of the couch, hunched slightly, knees close together, hands clutched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like someone had planted him there and told him to wait. The firelight danced across his face, softening him. He didn’t look threatening. Just... startled. And oddly apologetic for existing.
He offered a small, nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like… scare you.”
There was genuine concern in his voice—concern for you, not about you. That was rare.
“It’s fine,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.
“Who’s that?” Joaquín's voice cracked through your earpiece.
You didn’t answer right away.
Your eyes stayed on the stranger, and for a moment, you debated whether or not to even breathe too loud.
“I don’t know…” You muttered.
“Okay, uh… I’ll try to do a voice match or something—see if anything comes up. Keep them talking.”
The man must’ve noticed the way you were half-turned, the way your fingers brushed against your ear.
He shifted slightly. “Who’re… who’re you talking to?”
You froze. And then, with a wince: “Uh… just… myself. Thinking out loud.”
There was a pause.
“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I do that too. All the time, actually.”
You weren’t sure what to do with that. You weren’t sure what to do with him.
He looked different now compared to earlier. Still awkward, still nervous—but less like he was trying to shrink into himself and more like he was trying his best to meet you where you were. His eyes held yours this time. Not for long, though. They dropped to his hands and shoes after a while. But it was long enough to feel it.
You took a cautious step forward, angling yourself toward the fire, toward him, but still keeping a healthy distance.
“You um… You know Valentina?” you asked. Stupid. Of course, he did. Everyone at this party did.
“Uh… yeah. Something like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t like… eavesdropping or anything. It’s just—there’s a lot of people in there. And it’s… quieter out here.”
He hesitated, then added: “I’m Bob, by the way.”
His voice wavered, but not from dishonesty. He said his name like he wasn’t sure it would mean anything to you. Like he just told you his name to be kind.
You gave him a nod. Not a smile. But not cold either.
“Hi, Bob.”
A beat passed.
You debated telling him your name. Joaquín would probably advise against it. But you weren’t feeling tactical anymore—you were feeling tired. Bruised in a way you couldn’t name. And maybe you just needed to feel like a real person again. Like someone who wasn’t being puppeteered.
So, after a pause, you gave him your name.
Bob blinked. Then he offered a small, shy smile that cracked at the edges.
“Cool. Hi,” he said, breathless. His brows furrowed as his gaze dropped lower, his eyes catching on your waist, your hips. “Uh—sorry again, about your dress. I didn’t mean to step on it earlier. You looked like you were in a rush and I—well, I was definitely in your way.”
You felt your lips twitch. The barest curve, not sharp or defensive. A faint grin. Delicate. “It’s alright,” you said. “Bound to happen at places like these.”
His head tilted slightly, curious. “You come to stuff like this often?”
“Not often. Just sometimes.”
And it was only then that you realized you’d stepped closer.
Your arms had casually found their place against the back of the couch across from him, hands gripping the cool metal frame as your scarf drifted with the breeze behind you. You weren’t leaning in exactly, but the distance had shrunk.
When did that happen?
You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger a little longer now, more curious than guarded. You assessed him with a little more attention now.
“I’m guessing you don’t come to these events much?”
Bob immediately shook his head, a nervous, breathy laugh escaping his lips like it was running away from him. You could see the cloud of it in the cold night air, swirling and vanishing between you.
“God, no. This is my second one and it’s—it’s been a lot. I think I’m gonna ask to just stay in my room next time.” He gave a little shrug, slouching a bit. “It’s not like I do much anyway. I mean, I’m allowed to talk to people, and I like talking to people, but I’d rather not sometimes.”
That made you blink. Allowed?
The word snagged on something in your mind. There was something disarming about the way he said it, like he didn’t mean to offer that information but also didn’t think it was worth hiding. You couldn’t tell if he was joking, oversharing, or both. But it was too strange to ignore. Like it slipped past a filter that wasn’t built right. It made you hesitate, if only for a breath.
But he wasn’t watching your reaction. He was staring at the flicker of the fire, letting the silence sit between you like it belonged there.
You folded your arms gently across your chest, the smooth material of your dress whispering beneath your fingertips.
“You seem to be talking just fine with me,” you pointed out, softer now.
Bob looked down at his hands. Then back at you. Then away again.
“I… well…” he stammered, voice catching on another shy, almost embarrassed laugh.
And then you saw it.
The blush. A warm pink crawling up from the collar of his white shirt to the apples of his cheeks. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. Especially not in the glow of the firelight, which danced over his skin like it had a crush of its own.
“I… yeah, I... I don’t know. Some people are easier to talk to than others, I guess.”
Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.
“Yeah,” you said, “I’d say so.”
The smile that tugged at your lips came easier than you expected. Not just polite. Not guarded. Honest. Probably the first one you’d let slip all night.
Seriously, who the hell is this guy? And why did he make the night feel a little less awful?
He was cute. Not the kind of handsome that announces itself the second someone walks in the room, but the kind that sneaks up on you, quiet, awkward, totally unsure of how much space he takes up and trying not to be a bother. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at for too long and didn’t know where to put himself when he was.
You’d seen a lot of people in this world wear confidence like a costume. Bob didn’t even try. He wore uncertainty like a second skin, and somehow, it made him feel… real.
You liked the way he didn’t crowd you. Didn’t puff out his chest or pretend to have all the answers. He sat with his knees slightly knocked together, most of his hands swallowed by the sleeves of his jacket, like even they were too bold to leave out in the open. Maybe he was anxious. Maybe a little broken in the places that never healed right, but he felt safe. Your gut told you so.
And that made you more nervous than anything else tonight.
You caught yourself watching him again. The way he kept his hands mostly hidden in his sleeves, shoulders rounded forward. His suit was clearly tailored but still seemed a size too big, like someone had tried to wrap him in something expensive just to prove he belonged. And still, it worked.
His hair was brown and shaggy, a bit longer than most people would have it at these events, barely even styled, but you kind of liked it. It gave him a strange charm, even if the loose curls hid his eyes whenever he ducked his head.
You weren’t used to thoughts like this. Not ones this soft. Not ones that fluttered in your chest like nervous birds. Not often. Not like this. Not here. Not in places like these.
You came for Bucky. That was the plan. Show up, find him, talk. Clear the air. Maybe start patching things up with your broken little found family—cracks and all. But Bucky wasn’t here. Valentina played you like a fiddle, and now the whole night had soured. Tomorrow, you’d wake up to press statements and headlines, scrambling to explain why your name wouldn’t be on the next New Avengers roster. You’d spin it clean, of course. That’s what you did.
But none of that mattered yet.
In this strange little pocket of quiet, just outside the hum of power plays and champagne politics, you kind of just wanted something normal. Not mission normal. Not cover-identity normal. Real normal. A conversation that didn’t hinge on leverage or patriotism. A moment that wasn’t already weaponized.
Maybe you could stay for another half hour before you disappeared and joined Joaquín in the van downstairs, counting your losses.
And maybe it was the firelight, a flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and glow dancing in the night that influenced you. But you found yourself leaning forward a little more, walking around the couch, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. You straightened your spine, trying to will yourself into being brave.
“Would you...” You paused, “um. Do you wanna grab a drink with me?”
Bob blinked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He sat up straighter at the invitation, startled, like a puppy hearing its name for the first time. His lips parted. For a split second, you swore he looked excited. Maybe even hopeful.
But then he deflated.
His shoulders fell, his expression shifting to a quiet sort of apology as his eyes darted away. “I... I can’t. Sorry—”
“Oh.” You blinked, trying not to let your smile falter.
“I want to,” he rushed to say, almost stumbling over the words. “I do.”
“It’s okay—”
“No. No. I would. It’s just... I’m—I’m sober now.”
Your mouth opened. Then closed.
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry—” he added quickly, like he was terrified he’d ruined something.
But you shook your head, even stepping a little closer without realizing it.
“No. Don’t be sorry,” you said gently. “Seriously. Congratulations. That’s a big deal.”
He smiled at that, small and grateful. A little crooked and thin-lipped. It was cute.
“Thanks.”
You hesitated a moment, then tilted your head. “Can I ask how long?”
“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking upward like he was counting the months with the stars. “I think about a year now. I’ve only really started keeping track since I moved here, so... maybe like, seven? Eight months?”
You smiled softly, your heart unexpectedly warm.
“That’s still a long time.”
He gave a sheepish shrug, and his cheeks pinked again, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your praise. Like no one gave it to him often enough for it to feel normal.
“Some days feel longer than others,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching at his own tease.
You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, quiet, but real.
“What are you…?”
Joaquín’s voice fizzled to life in your ear, cracking the quiet like a crowbar to glass.
“Are you flirting right now?”
You froze, the smile instantly tugging at your lips again despite yourself.
When you didn’t answer, he laughed.
“Oh my god, you’re totally flirting right now! It’s so bad, but you so are! Who even is this guy?”
You turned ever so slightly, subtle as you could manage, and pressed a knuckle into your ear to mute him. Your cheeks warmed in tandem with Bob’s.
Bob blinked. “Sorry… did I, um—was that weird?”
“No, no,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “That wasn’t you.”
He just nodded, like your word was more than enough. Like you could’ve told him the moon was fake, and he’d say, huh, never really thought about that before.
You moved to take a seat across from him, the fireplace crackling softly between you like a low, slow heartbeat. The warmth of the flames painted him in golds and ambers, the flickering light catching the softness in his eyes and the loose fall of his hair.
You fidgeted with your fingers out of instinct. And across the fire, he mirrored the motion—thumb twisting around his knuckle, pinky tapping rhythmically against the inside of his sleeve. There was something strangely reassuring in that shared nervousness, like you were both waiting for the same storm to pass.
You let out a quiet breath, tension easing from your shoulders. “You said you moved here? Like, New York?”
“Yeah,” he said, nodding. His shoulders dipped too, visibly relaxing just a touch, like your voice permitted him to breathe. “I… uh, I lived in Malyasha for a while. But I’m from Florida. Born and raised. Where—where are you from?”
You tilted your head slightly, watching how intently he tried to keep eye contact and how quickly he broke it again. “I flew in from Washington.”
“D.C.?” he asked, and you nodded.
His eyebrows lifted, eyes wide for a split second. “Wow. Do you work in the White House or something?”
You huffed a laugh, smiling into your words. “Sure. Something like that.”
His head bobbed along with the answer.
“So you’re like… a really important person here.”
You laughed again, this time wider. Your teeth showed. It surprised you how easily you let your guard down. “I wouldn’t say that.”
But he was smiling too, softer now. Less anxious.
“You are,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I saw the way people looked at you tonight. Not—not that I was watching you or anything… just, it’s hard not to. You’re, um…”
You saw the moment he lost his words, saw them spill and scatter like marbles across a floor. His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks in a full, unmistakable deep red colour. He ducked his head, eyes falling to his shoes again, and you watched him fight a shy, apologetic smile.
“…I can see why they’d want your picture.”
And just like that, your heart softened.
You leaned in a little, elbows resting against your knees. “Thank you, Bob. You’re really sweet, you know that?”
Bob looked up again, startled by the compliment, his mouth parting slightly like he didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t sure if anyone had ever told him that before, and if they had, you could guess they didn’t mean it the way you did now.
He didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Not with people like Valentina, not with cold smiles and polished lies. Not with mercenaries, politicians, and millionaires who hide behind their money. You could see it in the way he sat too stiffly on a velvet chair meant for lounging, in the way he tugged at his sleeves or tucked his hands away when he felt exposed.
“What’re you doing in a place like this, Bob?”
He blinked, tilting his head like he wasn’t sure what you meant.
You smiled, eyes squinting a little as you leaned forward more. “I mean, are you like, a sponsor? Investor?”
The words didn’t even sound right on your tongue, not when directed at him. The image of him swirling champagne and talking stocks was so laughably out of sync with the shy guy currently pressing himself into the couch cushions like he wanted to disappear.
“I don’t think you’re here for the politics,” you added, and there was a touch of something playful in your voice.
He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Me? Gosh, no. I don’t… I don’t do politics.” He scratched the back of his ear, sheepish again. “That’s Bucky’s thing. I’m here for my friends.”
And just like that, your whole world tilted.
Your smile dropped before you could stop it. A subtle shift, but you felt it everywhere: in your spine, in your lungs, in the weight of your hands resting suddenly still on your knees.
You straightened. Slowly.
“…You know Bucky?”
The question came quieter than you intended, and Bob must’ve heard the change, the sudden stillness in your voice. His smile faltered, and he went still, too, sensing the tension without understanding it. His posture shrank, as if unsure what he’d stepped into, as if trying not to take up more space than he already had to upset you.
He nodded, a cautious kind of affirmation. “Yeah. He’s my friend.”
That stunned silence stretched long between you.
“I… I know he’s your friend too,” Bob added quickly, the words spilling out like he was trying to fill the void before it grew too wide. His voice was quieter now, softer around the edges, almost apologetic. “I heard you talking about him to Val, I—I thought maybe��”
You weren’t sure why he kept talking. Maybe because you hadn’t said anything. Maybe because your smile had disappeared too fast, and he could feel the way the mood had shifted even if he didn’t know why. His nervous ramble wasn’t meant to hurt, you could tell that. But it did. It did because the moment he said Val, something in you knotted tight again.
The warm glow you’d felt around him moments ago started to dim, curling in on itself like a candle snuffed out mid-flicker. Your heart gave a small, stupid lurch—embarrassed at how quickly you’d let your guard down. Of course he knew Bucky. Of course he was close to Valentina. The pieces slid together too easily now, fitting into a picture you didn’t want to look at.
You tried to pull yourself back together, quickly and quietly. You reminded yourself this wasn’t supposed to be about comfort. It wasn’t about soft smiles or normal conversations or maybe asking someone out for a drink. You came here with a mission, no matter how personal it was. To find Bucky. To set the record straight. This—this moment of peace with a stranger who felt safe—wasn’t supposed to happen.
He called her Val. Like they were friends. Like they knew each other beyond just work. Like he wasn’t just some shy, nice guy who complimented you under his breath and blushed when you smiled at him. Jesus, were you that easy?
A strange bitterness bloomed in your mouth. Not anger, more like disappointment. At yourself, maybe. For forgetting, even just for a second, what kind of place this really was.
You stood up.
The decision was sudden, impulsive, a small motion made louder by the way Bob flinched. His eyes followed you, something tentative and uncertain flickering across his face.
You reached for your earpiece, thumb brushing over the button to unmute Joaquín.
But Bob stood, too. Slowly, almost clumsily, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow you or stay where he was.
“Did I—did I say something wrong?” he asked.
You froze. Your fingers stilled over the earpiece. You hadn’t expected that.
You turned, not quite facing him fully, but enough to catch the look on his face. His brows had drawn together, confusion etched faintly into his expression, and one of his hands was lifted just slightly, hovering in the air between you like he’d started to reach out and changed his mind halfway through. There were still several feet of space between you. The fire crackled low between you both, casting shadows across the expensive furniture and marble tiles.
“I’m sorry if I did,” he said, voice smaller now. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”
That stopped you. “No… you didn’t…” You said, the words stumbling out, half-formed. You didn’t know why you tried to soothe him. Maybe it was the way his eyes had gone wide or the way he seemed to dread the thought of you walking away just when he was finally starting to settle into himself. It stirred something in you. Something that made your chest tighten.
You could’ve said never mind. You wanted to. Pretend his words hadn’t struck a nerve, hadn’t made your heart twist in your chest. But they did. It bothered you.
“You didn’t upset me,” you repeated, softer now. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”
Bob blinked at you. “Oh,” he said, so gently it almost got carried off by the breeze.
A silence fell between you again. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the wind as you turned to look at him.
“Who are you, Bob?”
He straightened, caught off guard. “I’m... I’m Bob,” he said. “Just... just Bob.”
You tilted your head. “That’s it?”
He opened his mouth like he was about to say more, but nothing came out. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, the words retreating back into him like they were scared to be seen. He just shrugged helplessly. Like that’s all he had left.
And yet he kept looking at you like he was begging you not to go. Not yet.
You sighed, bringing your fingers up to your temple, pressing cold skin to your warm forehead. There was a pulse pounding there now, dull and insistent.
“I just…” You started, voice cracking faintly. “I came here looking for Bucky. I thought maybe I could get him to come home.”
“Home?” Bob asked carefully, his eyes soft.
“Yeah. With Sam. With us.” You hesitated, glancing through the tall windows behind him. The light inside spilled gold across the floor, where laughter echoed and people clinked glasses without a care in the world. Your eyes landed on the group you’d been avoiding all night—Bucky’s new team, huddled together with drinks, grinning like it was just another night to celebrate.
It made your chest hollow out.
“Ever since he joined Valentina’s little fuckass team or... whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala behind you, “everything’s just been so... shitty.”
You looked back at Bob, surprised to find that he’d stepped a little closer. Just enough that you could see the way his jaw twitched, like he was working through something he didn’t know how to say.
“Sorry,” you muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Not to, like, dump all that on you.”
The cold bit into your arms. You rubbed them quickly, wishing you’d brought a coat.
“It’s not...” Bob started, and then, more firmly, “It’s not a fuckass team.”
You blinked. “Sorry?”
“They saved me,” he said, voice trembling just a bit. “Lena. Bucky. The others. They’re my family. We... we take care of each other.”
You stared at him, something icy curling low in your stomach. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he said again, earnest. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it from the outside, but... they gave me a chance when no one else would. They didn’t treat me like I was broken. They... saw me.”
You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it felt like trying to swallow glass.
“Right,” you muttered, too tired to argue. “I have to go.”
You turned, reaching for your earpiece.
“Wait,” Bob said suddenly, like he’d only just realized this was goodbye. “Will I... will I see you again?”
You paused, fingers still hovering near your ear. The balcony lights flickered faintly behind you, and the sound of the city buzzed low in the background, as if the world were holding its breath.
You didn’t turn around right away.
Part of you wanted to say no. Make it easy. Clean.
But when you finally looked back at him, at the boyish worry carved into his face, the way he stood there with his hands half-raised like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go, you felt that ache again. The one that whispered that maybe, despite everything, he meant what he said. That maybe there was still something worth salvaging in the strange, quiet warmth you’d felt earlier. Something real.
And you desperately wanted it to be real. You wanted it to mean something.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.
Bob swallowed. Nodded like he understood.
But his eyes lingered on you like he hoped the answer might change.
part two.
#faye’s writing ⭑.ᐟ#bob reynolds#bob reynolds x reader#bob reynolds x you#bob reynolds x y/n#bob reynolds x fem!reader#bob reynolds fanfic#bob reynolds fanfiction#bob reynolds imagine#bob reynolds oneshot#bob reynolds blurb#bob reynolds fic#marvel#marvel thunderbolts#marvel x reader#marvel x you#mcu#mcu x reader#mcu x you#thunderbolts#thunderbolts x reader#thunderbolts x you#thunderbolts fanfic#thunderbolts fanfiction#thunderbolts fic#thunderbolts*#thunderbolts x y/n#robert reynolds#robert reynolds x reader#bob’s void
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to add on for the oblivious wife fic w nanami (when she was trying on the bathing suit) u should do one when they’re finally at the beach
𓂃୨ৎ mdni. freaky nanami

“isn’t it gorgeous?” you call out to your husband kento, twirling in the sand, arms wide. the bikini top strains, triangles shifting, a sliver of nipple teasing the edge, and kento’s cock throbs painfully, tenting his swim trunks.
the beach stretches out under a merciless sun, waves crashing lazily, and your husband is already regretting this vacation. he’s sprawled on a towel under an umbrella, sunglasses fogged with sweat, gripping a book so hard the spine creaks.
you, his sweet, oblivious wife, are the problem—prancing around in that neon pink bikini he bought in a haze of desperation at the store, the one that barely contains your curves and has been torturing him since you stepped out of the hotel room.
every jiggle of your ass, every bounce of your tits, is a fresh assault on his sanity, and now you’re out there, glistening with sunscreen, drawing every eye on this damn beach.
kento shifts, book slamming over his crotch, a pathetic shield against the wet spot blooming dark from his leaking tip. fuck, he thinks, jaw locked, teeth grinding. he wants to pin you to the sand, rip that scrap of fabric off, and fuck you raw until you’re sobbing his name, public be damned—but he can’t, and it’s killing him.
you’re oblivious to his problem, laughing as you kick at the waves, ass rippling with each step. the thong bottom rides up, exposing more of that plump, perfect curve, and his eyes track it, feral, imagining sinking his teeth into it, spanking you red, then burying his cock deep until you’re dripping with him.
his balls ache, heavy, and he presses the book harder, the pages crumpling under his grip. every giggle, every sway of your hips, mocks his control, and he’s one deep breath from losing it.
then you come back, holding a dripping ice cream cone, vanilla soft serve already melting in the heat. “got a treat!” you chirp, plopping down cross-legged on the towel, thighs spread just enough to make his vision blur.
you lick the cone, tongue swirling slow, and a thick drop of cream slips free, landing square on your chest, right above the swell of your tits. it slides, slow and obscene, down the curve, pooling in the bikini’s pathetic triangle, and your nipples harden under the cold, poking through the fabric.
“oops!” you giggle, looking down, and the sound—fuck, that sound—sends a jolt straight to his cock. you wiggle, making your tits bounce, the ice cream smearing further, a sticky trail glistening in the sun.
kento chokes, a strangled groan trapped in his throat, and he’s picturing it: licking that cream off, tongue dragging slow over your skin, sucking your nipple into his mouth, biting just hard enough to make you gasp.
his cock leaks again, precum soaking through his trunks, and he presses the book so hard it’s practically embedded in his lap.
“lemme get that,” he rasps, voice raw, reaching for a napkin with a trembling hand. he leans closer—too close—your scent hitting him, coconut sunscreen and sweet vanilla, and his mouth waters, aching to lap up every inch of you. his fingers brush your shoulder as he dabs at the mess, napkin shaking, and you shiver, all innocent, smiling up at him.
“thanks, honey!” you say, taking another lick of the cone, and another drop falls, this time landing right on the swell of your breast, sliding toward the nipple he’s dying to suck. his control snaps like a frayed thread, and he freezes, napkin crumpled in his fist, fighting the urge to throw you down, lick you clean, and fuck you into the sand until the whole beach hears you scream.
“it’s so sticky,” you pout, swiping at it with your finger and popping it in your mouth. your lips close around it, sucking slow, and kento’s vision whites out. he’s imagining those lips around his cock, your throat full of him, gagging as he fucks your face, cum dripping down your chin onto those perfect tits.
his book’s a lost cause, pages warping under his grip, and he shifts, thighs flexing, trying to hide the huge bulge.
“stay still,” he growls, low and tight, grabbing another napkin. he dabs at your chest, every brush of his fingers against your skin a test of his restraint. he’s so close to saying fuck it, to dragging you behind the umbrella and stuffing you full, consequences be damned. your tits jiggle with each swipe, and he bites his cheek, blood sharp on his tongue, to keep from groaning.
“all clean?” you ask, tilting your head, eyes wide and sweet. you take another lick, ice cream smearing your lips, and he wants to shove his cock past them, make you choke on it until you’re crying. his trunks—thank god for the book—are a prison, cock throbbing, balls tight, and he’s leaking so much it’s soaking through to the towel.
“yeah,” he lies, voice cracked, tossing the napkin aside. he leans back, book still clamped over his lap, and exhales hard through his nose. he can’t watch you anymore, not without breaking, so he stares at the horizon, counting waves, willing his cock to calm down. you hum happily, licking away, and every slurp is a dagger to his control.
the beach is too public, too crowded, and he’s too close to ruining you right here. he needs to get you back to the hotel—now—before he cums in his trunks or does something he’ll regret.
“we’re leaving soon,” he mutters, already picturing you bent over the bed, bikini shredded, screaming his name as he fills you again and again, his cum dripping down your pussy, pooling on the sheets, only for him to fuck it back in, deep and relentless, until you’re so full it leaks out with every thrust.


#—amy writes : kento nanami ★#nanami kento smut#nanami smut#kento smut#nanami x reader smut#kento nanami smut#jujutsu kaisen smut#jjk smut#jjk x reader smut#nanami x reader#nanami x you#nanami x y/n#nanami kento x reader#divider by cafekitsune
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