find a man who cherishes you enough to cut off the dick of the man who has scorned you in order to use it to tenderly make love to you after proposing with a peach ring so that you do not have to die a virgin and can instead live on forever with him while he regularly brings flowers to your gravesite and tends to your undead body's electrocution wounds as he reads percy bysshe shelley's poetry to you. do NOT settle for less.
Does anyone else think that if ennead could be just found family instead of BL it would’ve been better?
I’m rereading since like year ago but I still remember thinking briefly to myself that Horus just never had a father figure and projects it on Seth during his young age backstory moment?
Call me crazy but I just think that with that backstory, it would’ve been jsut better that instead of the whole season 1 rape and “romance” that’s supposed to happen between them, it should’ve been better that this comic should’ve just been about
Seth repenting his crimes and you know everything else but as his character develops he begins to cherish some people around him. Also I hate the fact that Anubis’s character was jsut thrown out of the window. There are so many unexplored dynamics for this said “romance”.
⟢ 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.
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.
THIS WAS AMAZING WRITING. Your descriptions are so rich, and you captured each character so well. This is now canon as part of the multiverse for me.
The interaction with Bob was so brief but oh my lordy lord, it was such a genuine, tender conversation (beyond dialogue as well) between two strangers.
Togashi Yoshihiro (Hunter x Hunter) X Ishida Sui (Tokyo Ghoul) Special Talk & Release of Ishida Sui’s Treasured Hisoka Storyboard!
The first talk between Hunter x Hunter’s Togashi Yoshihiro and Tokyo Ghoul’s Ishida Sui is released through “Shounen Jump +”! And Ishida Sui has drawn a story about Hisoka…?! First have a look at this epic discussion!
im gonna be so honest right now and say that i don't understand the hate for m/f ships. i would love to hear reasons from people who hate m/f ships on why they hate m/f ships, but i just don't get it. sure they can be corny at times and dominate media, but i wouldn't say that the entire concept is bad. if someone could tell me why that'd be great.
I’ve been in fandom spaces most of my life, and one of my fav moments about queer ships as a straight person is that it’s ambiguous.
Straight ships in modern day writing are treated badly, like characters rarely have the chemistry or the ‘soulmates’ feeling without author straight up telling you.
On the other hand when author wants to portray close friendships (in anime) most of the time they feel more than friendships because the way the two characters can understand each other with one look or are never seen without one another or other very subtle things that are VERY romantic. Simply they can’t live without each other.
So they are on this ambiguous line, they won’t kiss or say I love you but every action towards one another is more than a simple I love you.
Obviously there are some straight ships that also feel that way, notably nautica and skids I think? Furuta and rize and so on, but authors really should level up their romance game because I don’t want a ship where I can easily tell that they have something going on, I need them on that fucking ambiguous line.
Whenever fandom disses on straight ships, I feel like chewing off my own limbs because all that sort of mindset is doing is enforcing the belief that there ARE and there naturally SHOULD be assigned gender roles in relationships. WHY is it so bad to ship straight people? Because the wattpad girlies wrote misogynistic one direction mafia fics? If you don't like it write the ship differently then, write the characters with obvious gender equality, make the guy soft, gentle and sweet and make the girl a bloodthirsty murderer, write them in love and happy, write them treating each other well, write them understanding each other, write them loving each other. Don't scratch straight ships as a whole.
Because if we treat straight ships like some toxic, icky thing then it's very telling that we'll never see men and women as equal, that we believe a straight ship cannot by nature be healthy and that's messed up because the problem isn't men and women getting together, it's the patriarchal standards insisting that women be seen as helpless, weak and inferior to the man. All it's doing is reinforcing those standards and saying "writing straight ships is gross and weird because a straight ship can't be healthy and loving"
im gonna be so honest right now and say that i don't understand the hate for m/f ships. i would love to hear reasons from people who hate m/f ships on why they hate m/f ships, but i just don't get it. sure they can be corny at times and dominate media, but i wouldn't say that the entire concept is bad. if someone could tell me why that'd be great.
I’ve been in fandom spaces most of my life, and one of my fav moments about queer ships as a straight person is that it’s ambiguous.
Straight ships in modern day writing are treated badly, like characters rarely have the chemistry or the ‘soulmates’ feeling without author straight up telling you.
On the other hand when author wants to portray close friendships (in anime) most of the time they feel more than friendships because the way the two characters can understand each other with one look or are never seen without one another or other very subtle things that are VERY romantic. Simply they can’t live without each other.
So they are on this ambiguous line, they won’t kiss or say I love you but every action towards one another is more than a simple I love you.
Obviously there are some straight ships that also feel that way, notably nautica and skids I think? Furuta and rize and so on, but authors really should level up their romance game because I don’t want a ship where I can easily tell that they have something going on, I need them on that fucking ambiguous line.
kaledo-art
kianamaiart
andulkaphoto
tangentwithtanner
areudirty
yousharknotpass
