Edward wanders through the building, something had happened, he'd passed out and woken up different, having been hit by some strange magic that had changed him back into a child.
Edward hums to himself as he stumbles into a room, looking around with wide eyes, he's confused, he can't remember anything. He spots someone and hurries over to them, holding up his arms. "Up!" He whines softly, his eyes watery with tears, he doesn't know where he is.
(normal modern au, teen Carlos, Hydra doesn't exist)
A young Carlos runs down the beach, laughing happily. It's spring break and he's happy to get away from everything for a bit, his life isn't exactly stable. His parents are divorced, and it's messy with custody.
"Come on!" He calls out as he stops by the ocean, taking a deep breath and just taking it all in. It was nice to get away from the city, his time is spent split between New York and London.
Carlos turns around to face the person with him, chuckling softly, his sandy blond hair falling into his face. "Isn't this perfect?"
Setting: A little before the events of Thor (2011)
Loki doesn’t consider a lot of things perfect, but as he watches you it’s hard to come up with anything else to describe you.
Most Ljósálfar (Light Elves) don’t come close to your beauty. The darkest part of you being your skin tone - warm and velvety under the pure white locks of hair cascading down your back. Your ears peak through the curls, pointed and decorated with the finest jewels.
“What? Marriage? Father-” Thor’s words register to him when he whips his head to side. Marriage? What did he miss?
It’s not hard to piece together what was said. The All-father at the head of the table, your father - Freyr at his right. Thor’s mumbling shock, your silently stunned stature and his mother.
Frigga stands to the left of her husband, hands clasped in front of her as she appears elegantly calm. But, her eyes express what her mouth can’t - something Loki has inherited from her.
The sadness, the guilt and slight despair he finds in them as she looks between you, and himself.
Your fathers want you to marry…
Loki’s eyes move towards yours but you’re already looking at him with a wide stare filled with painful acceptance.
Your fathers want you to marry Thor.
The doors burst open despite the calls of your name, it was all too much.
Loki would never admit it but he wishes for once Odin would entrust him for a duty such as this. His oaf of a brother would never appreciate you, not like he would.
Does Thor even know you? Surely not like he does.
Does he know that you wear your arm cuffs only on your left arm because you your mother did the same? Does he know your ears wiggle when you laugh? Does he know you have the tinniest mole above the right corner of your upper lip?
Loki could go on for ages about the things he knows about you. Not because you’ve told him, no. Because he watches, he listens and observes.
Thor would never be devoted to you as he would. Thor would never worship the ground you walk on, or lay his life down for you. His brother is a gentleman, that is certain. Thor would protect you, spoil you but he could not love you as Loki would.
With these thoughts flowing through him, Loki ignores the call of Thor and the calls of the All-father to find you.
Hurrying through the halls now is much different to how it was when you all were much younger, but he’s just as quick to find you as he’s always been.
There you are, hunched on a stone pillar of the veranda. Hands clutching the intertwining vines cascading around the pillar as your chest heaves up and down. Quick paced and irregular.
At first Loki believes you’re crying, his heart twitching at just the thought of it. But it takes him less than a second to realize the panic you’re experiencing.
There’s a deafening rip that tears through the air, something you ought to be more worried about but your to busy sucking in the air you so desperately need. The panic had ripped its way through you as soon as you burst through the double doors. How could your father ask this of you? How could he suggest such a thing? Of all people? Thor? There could be worst choices, but he’s not…
“Loki.” You gasp out, a free hand of yours holding the front of your dress to your chest. Did you burst your dress in your panic? What a mess.
“I’m here.” The velvety voice of your savior tickles the shell of your right ear.
Loki’s hands mold your sides, he needs to feel the air pushing into your body and traveling to where you need it most.
Your knees threat to give out next at just his presence, but you relent in favor of turning your head to catch his eyes.
What a compromising position you find yourselves in and yet, you two can’t muster up the care.
“Lok-” You start after a thick gulp, voice slightly shaky as you begin to feel the weight of him around you. His back to your chest, his hands on your waist, and his face threaten to cross every boundary that’s ever laid between you.
“Don’t do it.” He breathes out as he cuts you off, quickly as if the words had been begging to burst out. “Don’t marry him.”
Loki wishes he had the courage to tell you sooner. That he’s loved you for thousands of years, that he should’ve been brave.
If only it were that simple, if only you both could go against the wills of your fathers. It wouldn’t be a losing game.
You manage to turn in the tight hold your in, and whether you meant to or not, you cage yourself between Loki and the pillar again.
His eyes, your favorite part of him tells it all. You use your free hand to caress the side of his face, your fingers smoothing over the crease between his eyebrows. No words are exchanged as you both savor this stolen moment. Loki’s head nuzzles into your touch, craving more.
“I wish it was you.”
He almost feels as if he imagined the whisper that leaves your lips as it drowns beneath the sound of feet shuffling down the corridor. He wants to wrap you in his arms and take you away, somewhere you both could be alone. But he can’t, and he may never get to.
The call of your name by Frigga is gentle yet borders on a hint of warning only Loki could pick up on. She’s your together and she’s not alone.
It takes everything in him to pull away, to place distance between you both again after confessing what could’ve been this entire time.
A foot is as much as he can muster but it’s enough for him to see the damage. Your body is still pinned to the pillar where he had you and your hand holds the front of your dress from falling.
He hadn’t meant to ruin your dress, but nothing would stand in the way of him making sure you’re alright. His cloak slips off easy, barely a twist of his hand before the fabric falls over your shoulders.
“My dear girl, there you are.” You’re barely listening as Frigga rounds the corner with her lady’s maids. How could you when the man you want is looking at you like you’re everything he needs but can’t have?
“What happened to your dress? Oh dear, we’ll get you fixed up.”
His fingers flex against his side, he could still feel your warmth under his palms. And the silky fabric of your dress straining against his hold as he pulled at the strings of your corset.
He watches you be guided away, his cloak around you, your eyes on his and your words imbedded into his mind.
Is it good, chat?? I couldn’t get this out of my mind!
It comes out of nowhere. Rory's out and about, looking for groceries she can buy with what's left of the $700 she made from the acting gig she'd managed to land, when she turns into an alleyway and suddenly sees a person holding a knife to someone's throat. Her reaction is immediate, as if her body's doing it before her brain can even think about it. She brings her hand to the assailant's chest, charging it on the way, and "slightly" electrocutes him with a shove. It's a little bit stronger than she'd intended, but he pulls his hand and the knife back either way.
"Leave them the hell alone," she grumbles as she leaves the alleyway, not paying attention to the person behind her.
— synopsis. After the catastrophe in New York-when the Void tore through the city-the Thunderbolts know it can't happen again. Bob Reynolds doesn't need another collar or containment spell. He needs help. Enter her: a psychiatrist with an unusual gift, capable of stepping into the mind itself. No one expected her to reach him-least of all, him. "You're just going to leave me the moment it gets too hard, aren't you?" he says. She meets his gaze, steady and unshaken. "I've walked through nightmares to get to you. I won't walk away now."
— pairing. robert reynolds (sentry/the void) x reader
— warning/s. mentions of trauma, mental illness, depression
— word count. 5.1k
masterlist ⊹ part 1 ⊹ part 2 ⊹ part 3 ⊹ part 4 ⊹ part 5 ⊹ part 6
⋆˙⟡
“Strange called,” Christine Palmer said, not looking up from her tablet.
You glanced in her direction but didn’t respond. You felt like there isn't anything worth saying. Instead, you focused on the soft, familiar sounds around you—the quiet clatter of metal instruments being cleaned at the nearby sterilization station, the steady shuffle of footsteps on polished hospital floors. A monitor beeped somewhere down the hall, keeping time in the way only machines could. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead, that you never really noticed, added to the background noise.
In the corner, a few patients sat hunched in plastic chairs, wrapped in hospital blankets that offered more symbolism than warmth. Their faces were drawn, tired, a mix of exhaustion and quiet anxiety. Some waited for scans, others for pain relief, a few just for answers that might never come tonight. They all shared the same energy, that tension that lived in the bones of everyone who passed through the ER after dark. You knew it well.
You were supposed to have clocked out an hour ago—your shift technically ended at midnight—but no one really left on time in this place. The ER didn’t care about schedules. It held you in its grip until it was ready to let go, and sometimes, not even then. Not when a life could still slip through the cracks—because of a missed bleed, a bad stitch, or the wrong word spoken at the worst possible time.
Christine tapped her screen a few times, then added, “Apparently, Bucky Barnes asked him to help find a psychiatrist.”
That made you pause, your fingers hesitating on the chart you were holding. Still, you didn’t look up. The case wasn’t serious—just a minor injury with a straightforward treatment plan. You met Christine’s gaze briefly, then looked back down, eyes scanning through lines of notes more out of habit than need.
“You know I’m not practicing anymore,” you muttered. “Psychiatry, I mean.”
Christine leaned a hip against the counter beside you, folding her arms. “Since when? You’re double-boarded. And don’t give me the ‘I’m just a surgeon now’ line. I’ve heard it too many times to believe it.”
“It’s not a line. It’s a preference,” you said, your voice flat. “Organs are a lot simpler than people's minds.”
“Sure,” she said, the sarcasm thin but present. “You can cut them open, take out what’s broken, sew them back up, and call it a day. But that’s not why you switched.”
Your hands stilled mid-note. The chart blurred for a moment, your pen hovering above the page.
“Tell Barnes to find someone else.”
“Actually, he didn’t call,” Christine said quietly. “Strange didn’t either.”
You looked up, and she turned the tablet toward you.
“They just sent me this.”
Your name was there in bold, black text at the top of the screen—accompanied by layers of encrypted clearance codes, redacted fields, and a formal request for psychiatric consultation. It wasn’t just a note. It was government-level. Serious. Sealed. No fluff. No context. No diagnosis.
Just one name buried in the lines of classified language.
Robert Reynolds.
You stared at it. The name carved through you like a scalpel—sharp, precise, and deep. Your chest went tight. Not with fear exactly, though it wasn’t far off. Christine watched you too carefully now.
You said the name aloud, almost to yourself. “Reynolds. Sentry? The Void? The man who turned Manhattan into literal shadows?”
Christine’s voice softened. “He’ll could probably eat you alive,” she said. “Whoever it is. You know that.”
You didn’t answer. You glanced at the clock hanging on the wall beside you. You reached for the gloves on your hands, peeled them off one by one, and tossed them into the biohazard bin beside the counter. The silence between you stretched.
“You’re not going to do it,” Christine said, trying for a steadier voice. “Right?”
But you were already moving. You grabbed your coat, your badge, and turned toward the hallway that led to the staff exit.
“Right?!” Christine repeated, this time louder. You only waved her off by raising one hand as you continued to walk.
Christine sighed under her breath, watching you go.
“Oh, she’s in trouble,” she mumbled, more to herself than anyone else.
⋆˙⟡
The city didn’t feel real when you stepped outside.
Maybe it was the late hour. Or the way the streetlights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a dim, unnatural gold. The sidewalk gleamed with recent rain, and the night air clung to your skin—cool, damp, electric. Maybe it was just the words still echoing in your mind.
Bob Reynolds.
You heard that name before—not whispered behind closed doors, not even in passing. People avoided it deliberately, like saying it out loud might stir something sleeping. Might invite the dark back in.
He doesn’t need containment. He needs healing.
That was what the message had said.
But you knew what it really meant. You could read between the encrypted lines. Reynolds wasn’t just unstable—he was a ticking bomb they didn’t know how to disarm. He wasn’t a patient; he was a problem no one wanted to admit they couldn’t fix.
They were looking for someone to step into the fire and hope they didn’t burn.
You had no intention of being that someone.
Not anymore.
It was just past two in the morning when the elevator doors slid open on the surgical floor. Most of the hospital was asleep or pretending to be. You were still on your feet—finishing post-op notes in the nurses’ station, trying to tether yourself to something routine. The soft tap of keys, the faint smell of coffee gone cold, the distant echo of an intercom down the corridor. These were the things that kept you grounded when your hands weren’t cutting. When your mind threatened to drift.
The hallway was quiet. Empty.
And then, something shifted.
You didn’t hear him at first. You felt him. A subtle change in pressure. A ripple through the air, like the building itself had gone tense.
You looked up.
There he was.
Bucky Barnes. Standing in the middle of the hallway like a ghost. Dressed in black, that metal arm catching the flickering light overhead. Expression unreadable. Posture coiled.
Your fingers hovered over the tablet.
“Subtle,” you said dryly.
He didn’t smile.
“I’m not here to make a scene.”
“You’re five seconds from getting tackled by security.”
“I turned off the cameras on this floor.”
Of course he did.
You sighed and slid the tablet aside. “You could’ve sent a message.”
“You would’ve ignored it.”
He wasn’t wrong.
You stood, slowly. Kept a polite amount of distance between you. “You want a consult.”
“No,” he said. “I want you.”
That gave you pause. He saw it.
“I read your work,” he continued. “The old stuff. Before you scrubbed it. Neural pathway immersion. Psychogenic structure mapping. Entering the subconscious. Rewriting trauma loops from the inside.”
You kept your expression still. “That research was never meant for clinical application.”
“It saved people.”
“No, it delayed their collapse. That’s not the same thing.”
He took a step closer. “You walked into the mind of a patient mid-psychotic break and helped him walk back out.”
“That patient relapsed two weeks later. Nearly took out his care team with him.”
“But he lived,” Bucky said. “That’s more than Reynolds has right now.”
Your chest tightened, but you didn’t let it show. Not much, anyway.
“So let me get this straight,” you said, voice cool. “You want me to crawl into the mind of the most powerful bipolar the world’s ever known? A man who once turned half of Manhattan into literal shadows? You want me to walk into that and—what? Talk him down?”
“He’s not just the Void.”
“No. But the Void is part of him. You don’t separate the two.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. His voice dropped.
“He’s trying, okay? He’s lucid. Or close to it. He’s afraid of what he’s done. He wants to be better—but no one can reach him. They’ve all stopped trying. Except me.”
You studied him then. Not just his words, but everything else—the tight set of his shoulders, the wear in his eyes, the quiet tremor under all that steel. This wasn’t just a mission for him.
“You care about him.”
His breath hitched. “I know what it’s like to be controlled by something inside you. Something you didn’t choose. Something you hate.” His voice cracked just a little. “So yeah. I care.”
You looked away. The floor felt suddenly distant under your feet.
“I’m not a miracle worker, Barnes. I’m not some psychic surgeon. I can’t promise I won’t make things worse.”
He hesitated. “Would you try… if he asked you himself?”
That stopped you.
Your throat went dry.
“You think he wants me?”
“I think he’s afraid of you,” Bucky said. “Which is exactly why I think he needs you the most.”
You exhaled slowly. The kind of breath that emptied your lungs and still didn’t feel like enough.
The name echoed again in your mind like a wound reopening.
Robert Reynolds.
You crossed your arms instinctively, bracing against the words. Against everything they meant. You weren’t ready to say yes—but you couldn’t walk away yet. Not when the puzzle Bucky had thrown at you was already rattling around in your mind like a loose coin.
"Tell me more about him," you said, before you could second-guess yourself.
Bucky blinked, clearly expecting you to brush him off, maybe even shut him down. But you hadn’t done that. Not yet.
He stepped a little closer, lowering his voice as if the air itself might carry his words further than he wanted. "Bob... he's not what you think."
You could feel the weight in the silence between you, the hum of fluorescent lights and distant beeping from another part of the Tower, but it felt miles away. The shift in Bucky’s voice wasn’t a demand. It was a plea—one you weren’t sure you could ignore.
"He's always been complicated," you said, trying to keep your tone neutral. "Sentry and the Void aren’t easy to separate."
Bucky nodded slowly. “I know. But right now? He’s more fractured than ever. The Void doesn’t just come out and take over anymore. It’s... it’s slipping into him, little pieces at a time. He doesn’t know where the man ends and the monster begins.”
You stared at him, thinking of everything you’d heard about Bob over the past few months—the whispers, the rumors, the stories that came with living in a world of meta-humans. The Sentry, a hero with the power of a god, the man who’d nearly torn apart the world itself in a breakdown. The Void, a primal force of destruction that had no regard for morality or life.
But hearing the weight of that confusion in Bucky’s voice was new. And it unsettled you more than it should have.
"Where is he?" you asked, voice quieter now.
"He’s here, in New York," Bucky said, his eyes flicking away. "Living on the same floor as the rest of the Thunderbolts— or the new Avengers. We’re all on the top level of Avengers Tower, trying to keep him from... from himself."
You blinked. Here? With the Thunderbolts? In Avengers Tower? That was... an entirely new layer to the situation. You weren’t sure what was more surreal: the fact that Bob Reynolds was living under the same roof as some of the most dangerous people on the planet or the fact that you’d just been asked to walk into his mind.
“How is that even... manageable?” You asked the question, but you weren’t sure if you were asking Bucky or yourself.
Bucky’s jaw clenched. "We try to keep him grounded. When he’s not... when he’s lucid, he’s like any other person. He talks about everything—sports, movies, some of the stuff that made him happy before everything broke down." He exhaled sharply, clearly frustrated. "But the minute he starts spiraling, it all goes wrong. The Void starts leaking through the cracks. And it’s not just him anymore. He reflects everyone else’s fears. He mirrors them. It’s like we’re all living in his nightmare when that happens."
The implications hit you like a truck. A man who could turn his fear into destructive power was now having his own breakdown while everyone around him became collateral damage.
You closed your eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of Bucky’s words settle deep in your chest. “Is anyone else in danger?”
Bucky hesitated. “Not unless we provoke him. But... it’s getting harder to contain. We don’t know what he might do when he finally snaps, and we can’t keep him isolated forever. Not without breaking him completely.”
You shook your head, barely processing the words. Living with the Thunderbolts? This wasn’t just a clinical case anymore. This was a man in desperate need of help who could bring the whole team down with him if things went sideways. And you were being asked to wade into the heart of it.
“I don’t even know where to begin,” you muttered, more to yourself than to Bucky. “You want me to just walk into his mind, face whatever twisted version of reality he’s experiencing, and fix it? I’m not a magician.”
“You’re the only one who’s ever been able to do something like that,” Bucky pressed, voice low but insistent. “You helped people when it seemed like no one else could. Even when it wasn’t perfect, they stayed alive. And you’re the only person who can actually get in there, see it from the inside. No one else has that ability. No one else can.”
You pressed your palms against your face, exhaling sharply. Your mind spun. This wasn’t just about fixing someone. This was about getting close to a raw, broken mind—an unstable mind that could tear apart everything around it if pushed too far. You’d been in this position before. You’d seen minds crumble and break. You’d been the one to pull them back—but not without a price.
“Why me, Bucky?” you said, the question finally spilling out. “You know this isn’t going to be easy. I’m not some miracle worker. I can’t promise I won’t make it worse.”
Bucky’s expression softened. “Because you’re the one who never gave up on the people everyone else walked away from. You see them. Really see them—without the fear, without the labels. You don’t treat people like they’re lost causes. You treat them like they’re still worth saving.”
You took a step back, your chest tightening. You’d made it clear years ago that you wouldn’t practice psychiatry anymore. You weren’t the kind of person who specialized in people’s mental health, not when it carried so much emotional weight, not when the cost was too high.
"He's afraid of himself," Bucky said, almost as if he were reading your thoughts. "He’s terrified that he’s going to lose himself again, that the Void is going to take him completely. But there’s still some part of Bob in there. He wants to be better. He wants to make it stop. I know he does."
You swallowed. “So where does that leave me?”
Bucky stepped closer again, lowering his voice. “I need you to help him. Not fix him. Just help him understand he’s still in control—if he is. If there’s still a way to reach him before it’s too late.”
You closed your eyes again, the pressure in your chest rising. But when you opened them, Bucky was still there, his gaze steady, waiting for something.
And you knew, despite everything, you were already halfway in. Even if you didn’t want to be.
⋆˙⟡
The Avengers Tower loomed like a monument against the night sky, its gleaming windows reflecting the city lights below. As you stepped inside, the difference hit you immediately. It wasn’t the usual cold, sterile atmosphere of hospitals or military facilities. No, this place was warmer—not in temperature, but in feel. It had a kind of lived-in quality you weren’t expecting. The faint smell of coffee lingered in the air, mixed with the scent of old books and worn leather furniture. Shoes were scattered by the door, someone’s guitar leaned against the wall in the corner, and someone had scratched “Yelena was here, losers” into the corner of the counter.
"This is the Thunderbolts' floor," Bucky said as he swiped the access panel, letting you both pass through. There was a strange undertone to his voice, a quiet sort of pride—or maybe wariness. "It’s... a work in progress."
You raised an eyebrow. “A rehab wing for ticking time bombs?”
Bucky gave a small, tight smile. “Something like that.”
The elevator doors opened to a wide living area that was surprisingly quiet, dimly lit. The hum of music thudded faintly from another room, but the space itself was calm—almost peaceful. You noticed how the walls weren’t bare and cold like the rest of the building had been. Bookshelves lined the walls, mismatched furniture sat comfortably in corners, and discarded snack wrappers sat on the coffee table. It didn’t feel like a headquarters for elite soldiers and heroes; it felt more like... home.
Before you could take it all in, a voice rang out, piercing through the quiet.
“Bucky!” The voice was sharp, teasing. “Who’s the new blood?”
You turned to see Yelena Belova striding toward you. Barefoot, dressed in sweatpants, her braid half undone, and a crooked grin on her face, she looked like she didn’t have a care in the world. She took a long look at you, her grin widening.
“She’s not mine,” Bucky said quickly, as if almost to assure you—or himself.
Yelena shot him a knowing glance. "Pity," she said, her grin only growing wider. Then, her eyes shifted to you. “I’m guessing you’re here to meet Bob?”
Bob. That nickname.
You nodded, but you could feel the weight of Yelena’s gaze. Her expression shifted slightly, and you didn’t miss the subtle change. It wasn’t fear, but something much more calculated—like someone who knew the danger that came with being in close proximity to a ticking time bomb, and what could happen if that bomb ever went off. There was wariness in her eyes now, something you hadn’t expected after the teasing remark.
Bucky didn’t miss it either. “I’m bringing her to meet him.”
At the mention of Bob Reynolds, Yelena’s expression changed again. Her playful smile slipped just a fraction, and the playful tone in her voice dimmed. She didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at you with a kind of guarded understanding, before finally speaking.
“Be careful,” she said, her tone softer now, though still carrying an edge. “He’s a bit sweet. Until he’s not.”
You paused, the weight of her words sinking in. Sweet. Until he’s not. That one sentence sent a chill down your spine. You’d heard the name Bob Reynolds before, the Sentry, the Void—the rumors about his mind and his power were legendary. But this? This was a whole different level of complication. Sweet until he’s not. You couldn’t ignore the warning, not when you were about to walk into that very storm.
Bucky stepped forward, breaking the moment of quiet tension. His voice was quiet but firm. “I’ll be with you. You’re not going in alone.”
You didn’t say anything right away, your mind already racing. You weren’t sure if you were relieved or more uneasy now that you had confirmation Bucky would be there. It didn’t make it less dangerous.
“Thanks,” you finally said, though you weren’t entirely sure what you were thanking him for yet. Maybe it was just for getting you this far.
Yelena took a step back, a small smirk still tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m just saying,” she added casually, “you don’t have to rush in. No one will blame you if you need a minute to run.”
You chuckled lightly, though the humor didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Right,” you said, your voice tight, “I’m sure that’ll be helpful.”
Bucky didn’t linger, turning toward a door at the far end of the room. It was heavy, imposing. You could tell this wasn’t just any door; it was the kind that kept the more... unpredictable things behind it. Bob Reynolds, the man who had lived through the collapse of his own mind, who carried the weight of the Void in him. You had an idea of what kind of danger he represented, but standing in this place, it felt much closer than you had ever imagined.
“Ready?” Bucky asked, looking over his shoulder. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes—maybe it was concern, maybe it was just routine. Either way, it didn’t settle your nerves.
You took a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be,” you said, but even as the words left your mouth, you felt the truth of them slip through your fingers. This wasn’t about being ready. This was about what you could handle when everything fell apart. You didn’t have any illusions about how this might go.
With a quiet hum, Bucky led the way to the door. You followed, feeling a kind of coldness creep into your limbs despite the warmth of the room around you. Whatever was waiting behind that door wasn’t just about Bob Reynolds. It was about everything that had led him to this moment. The Sentry. The Void. The man who had been both savior and destroyer. And now you were about to walk into that darkness.
The door to Bob’s room was slightly ajar when you arrived, and Bucky didn’t hesitate. He knocked once, then pushed the door open.
Inside, Bob sat at the edge of the bed, his posture tense, hands clasped tightly between his knees. His blonde hair was a little too long, and his shirt was wrinkled, like he hadn’t bothered to care about his appearance in the last few hours—or days. He was staring at the floor as though it might somehow provide answers to whatever was going on in his head.
When you stepped inside, his eyes flickered up to you. The movement was slow, almost as if it took him effort to pull himself away from whatever was haunting him in the depths of his mind. And then—he blinked.
“Oh,” he said, the word soft and distant, like it didn’t quite belong to him.
Bucky stepped forward, giving you a glance before offering the introduction. “This is her,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “The one we talked about.”
Bob stood, his movements awkward, like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He was tall—broad in the shoulders, built like a man who could break cities—but he moved like someone terrified of knocking something over, of breaking something fragile.
“You’re… the mind walker,” he said quietly, his voice low, tentative.
You nodded, crossing the room slowly to close the distance. “And you’re the man with the monster inside him.”
Bob’s lips twitched—a ghost of a smile, fleeting and uncertain. “Guess we both come with warnings,” he muttered, the humor in his voice strained but there all the same.
The air in the room felt thicker now, the weight of his words hanging in the space between you. You studied him for a moment longer, the tension building like an unspoken agreement that neither of you could escape. You stepped closer. Without saying anything more, you both sank into the floor, sitting cross-legged across from each other. The distance between you was minimal, just your knees nearly brushing. But it was enough to feel the tension crackling in the air between you.
“I need your permission,” you said softly. “To go in.”
Bob didn’t hesitate, though his eyes were dark with uncertainty. He nodded once, the smallest motion.
You closed your eyes.
At first, there was nothing. Calm. His mind opened before you like a gate, as if it was letting you in—but something was wrong. Behind that gate, you could feel a storm building, growing, ready to unleash.
And then—
You were in.
It was worse than you had expected. The space around you was dark, twisting. The architecture was impossible—floating staircases, walls that screamed, mirrors that bled shadows. It felt like a mind split in two: one side terrified, the other hunting. The chaos was dizzying, the sensation of being swallowed whole by something far larger than you.
And then you felt it.
Something massive, coiling around the core of his mind. It was there, lurking. Watching you.
The Void.
It turned its head, and you felt its eyes on you—it smiled.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” it whispered, its voice like shards of glass scraping against your skull.
Pain bloomed instantly. A searing throb behind your eyes. Your nose started to bleed, the pressure inside your head unbearable.
“Get out,” Bob’s voice said, faint, distant—not the Void’s. “Get out now!”
And before you could even process the command, your body snapped back. Your eyes flew open, and you gasped for air, choking on it as blood dripped from your nose. You blinked, disoriented, and found yourself back in the room with Bob.
He stumbled backward, pale, his breath ragged, eyes wide with fear. “You saw it,” he said, his voice trembling.
You wiped the blood from your face and sat back, trying to catch your breath. “I felt it,” you said quietly, the weight of the experience still heavy in your chest.
Bob’s eyes searched your face, his expression torn. “Did it… did it touch you?”
You shook your head slowly. “No. But it came close. Too close.”
He let out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t know it would go after you.”
You exhaled, trying to shake off the lingering feeling of the Void’s presence. “We’re not ready,” you said, your voice a little steadier now. “We need to know each other first. Establish a connection before diving into something like that.”
Bob didn’t say anything for a long moment. He just stared at you, like you had said something that didn’t quite register in his mind. His expression was still unreadable, but there was something there—a glimmer of hope, perhaps, that you could give him something he’d lost. Something he didn’t think he could ever get back.
“Okay,” he said softly, as if testing the words. “We can… get coffee or something.”
You gave him a small, understanding smile. “Let’s start with daylight.”
Later, back in the common room, you nursed a pounding headache and a steaming cup of tea. Yelena was sprawled across the couch, her feet resting on the armrest, eyes half-closed. Her gaze flickered over to Bob, who lingered just inside the doorway, watching you like he was afraid you’d vanish if he looked away.
Yelena’s lips curled into a mischievous smile. She lowered her voice, but you could still hear the teasing note in it. “Someone’s got a crush.”
Bob’s face flushed instantly, his eyes widening in embarrassment. “I do not,” he muttered, like a kid caught in the act.
Yelena raised an eyebrow, her smirk turning smug.
For the first time all day, you couldn’t help but laugh. It was the kind of lightheartedness you hadn’t felt since stepping into this mess, and it felt like a small, precious thing in the middle of all the chaos.
You finished your tea, Yelena stretched across the couch like she owned the place, eyes flicking between you and Bob with far too much interest. Bob hovered by the doorway, visibly trying to gather the nerve to speak, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like a schoolboy.
You stood, brushing off your hands. The day had been long, and you were more than ready to go.
Just as you stepped toward the elevator, Bob moved quickly, blurting, “Uh—wait!”
You turned to him, surprised.
He looked like he instantly regretted speaking so loud. “I just—uh, I think we should talk again. Tomorrow. If you want. About… you know. Everything.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Alright. Where?”
Bob blinked. “I—uh, I don’t actually know where you work…”
You let out a breath. “Metro-General Hospital”
His eyes lit with recognition. “Right, yeah. That makes sense. I’ll be there. I’ll wait until your shift’s over.”
You studied him for a second. He was tall and intimidating by most standards, but right now he looked like someone nervously asking their crush to prom.
“Okay,” you said, biting back a smile. “I’ll see you then.”
Bob nodded too many times. “Cool. Good. Great. Okay.”
You stepped into the elevator. As the doors started to slide shut, you heard Yelena’s voice behind you—lazy and far too entertained.
“She said yes, Romeo,” she drawled. “You can breathe now.”
Bob muttered something unintelligible.
Yelena’s laughter echoed down the hall just before the elevator doors closed. You shook your head, grinning to yourself.
Tomorrow was going to be something.
⋆˙⟡
The Sanctum-like glow of protective wards hummed low along the ceiling as Stephen Strange poured tea into two mismatched cups. The room they were in wasn’t grand — no spell-casting library or mystical relic chamber — just a quiet observation lounge. It had a clear view of the city below, and right now, the skyline looked distant and unbothered by the storm they were preparing for.
Wanda Maximoff stood by the window, arms crossed. Her reflection in the glass looked tired.
“You didn’t tell them everything,” she said without looking back.
Strange let out a quiet sigh as he set the teapot down. “I told them what they needed to hear.”
“No,” she said, turning slowly. “You told them just enough to believe this was still safe.”
Strange didn’t flinch under her stare. He simply raised his cup and sipped.
“She’s walking into a fractured mind with something ancient wrapped around its spine. The Void doesn’t just destroy—he consumes. She’s not just risking injury. She’s risking... unmaking.”
He nodded, gently. “I know.”
Wanda stepped closer. “So why send her?”
“She’s not like us,” Strange said.
Wanda frowned. “That’s not a reason.”
He looked up at her, finally setting the cup down. “It is. You, me, even Charles—we bring power, force, structure. She brings something else. She listens. She understands how to walk with someone in their madness, not just force them out of it.”
Wanda studied him for a moment, then said, quieter, “What’s the best-case scenario?”
“She reaches Reynolds. Helps him stabilize. Creates a bridge between him and the monster he’s trying to cage. If she succeeds… the Void stays dormant.”
“And the worst?”
Strange was quiet for a long moment.
“If the Void latches onto her,” he said finally, “we lose both of them.”
Wanda looked down.
“She doesn’t know how dangerous she really is, does she?” she asked.
Torture. Punishment. Discipline. That was what he was good at, or at least what HYDRA thought he was good at. So whenever there was an asset, or even an agent on rare occasion, acting out or disobeying they where sent to him for some... behavioural training.
And that was exactly what had happened to the sobbing mess on the floor infront of him. Bruised and bleeding and crying. His boot roughly connected with their side, "Stop crying, mutt. You deserve this." He snapped and took a slight step back as if the person on the ground was the most disgusting thing he knew "On your feet, now."
// woah.. mun is actually doing a starter????? thats crazy dude..
I'd like to make a fluffy/angst Loki request if possible. The reader and Loki have been together for a while. The reader is constantly knitting gifts for others, but has not made anything for Loki. He's asked and she kinda avoids giving a real answer about making him something. Loki constantly hides his sadness over it. The reader doesn't knit Loki anything because they believe in the boyfriend sweater curse. It's a superstition that if you knit a sweater or any sort of time consuming project for your signifignant other the relationship will end. They end up having a heartfelt talk and the result is the reader finally knits Loki a beautiful gift.
Ｔｈｒｅａｄｓ Ｏｆ Ｕｓ
Summery: A cozy, heartfelt romance where Y/N’s fear of the “boyfriend sweater curse” keeps her from knitting for Loki—until love proves stronger than superstition.
Characters: Loki x f!reader
||Main Master List|| ||Oneshot Master List||
You always had a pair of knitting needles in your hands. On long missions with the Avengers, during lazy Sunday afternoons, even when Loki lounged in your apartment reading some dusty tome of magic, the steady click-clack of your needles was the background music of your shared life.
Scarves for Natasha. Socks for Clint. A hat for Sam. You even made a blanket for Bruce once, and he’d cried into it when he thought no one was watching. Everyone had something.
Everyone except Loki.
He didn’t say anything at first. Loki was clever at disguising emotions, centuries of training turning every flicker of feeling into a mask. But he noticed. He always noticed.
“Darling,” he’d murmur while pretending to skim through his book, “you’ve made another hat. Interesting choice of yarn. Very warm. Who is it for?”
You’d hum distractedly, tying off your last stitch. “Steve. He said he’s cold all the time, so I figured why not.”
Loki would smile. Or at least, his lips curved. His eyes, though, dimmed.
Weeks passed like that. He asked again, gently. Sometimes teasingly. Sometimes as though it were a joke he didn’t care about. “No creations for me, then? I suppose I am less deserving than Wilson’s ears.”
You always dodged. Always gave a little laugh, brushed it off. He’d shrug, pretending it didn’t matter. But later, when he thought you weren’t looking, you saw the way his fingers lingered on the soft wool scarf you’d draped over Natasha’s chair.
And your heart twisted.
Because the truth wasn’t that you didn’t want to make him something. You did. You wanted to wrap him in something that was yours, something that would keep him warm when you couldn’t. But you couldn’t bring yourself to do it.
Not because you didn’t love him—God, you loved him more than you ever thought possible—but because of the curse.
The Boyfriend Sweater Curse. The superstition that if you knit your partner a sweater, the relationship would end. Every knitter you’d ever known swore by it. And if it wasn’t true? Well, you weren’t willing to take the risk. Not with him.
It all came to a head one winter evening. The two of you curled up on the couch, Loki’s arm draped lazily over your shoulders, your latest project in your lap. A pair of baby socks—Maria’s sister had just had a baby.
“Adorable,” Loki said softly. “Utterly adorable. Another gift for someone else.”
Something in his voice cracked, just a little. You froze, needles mid-stitch.
He noticed. He always noticed.
Setting down his book, Loki shifted so he was looking right at you, his eyes soft but searching. “Tell me, dearest. Why not me? Have I offended you? Am I so… unworthy of the devotion you stitch into every loop?”
Your chest tightened. “Loki—”
He gave a sad smile, trying to turn it into jest. “I am a god, love. I’ve survived war, exile, even death itself. And yet, I find myself undone by yarn.”
That broke you.
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” you whispered, voice trembling. “It’s that I’m terrified.”
“Terrified?” His brows knit together.
You set your needles down and buried your face in your hands. “There’s this superstition—this stupid curse—that if you knit something big for your partner, like a sweater, they’ll leave you. The relationship falls apart.”
Silence.
When you finally looked up, Loki’s expression was unreadable. Then, slowly, he leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours.
“Oh, my love,” he murmured, his voice so tender it nearly shattered you. “Do you truly think such a fate could unravel us?”
You blinked back tears. “It’s silly, I know. But you mean so much to me. I don’t want to risk losing you over something as stupid as… wool.”
Loki tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes glistened, green and fierce. “You could knit me a thousand sweaters, and still I would remain. Do you not understand? I am bound to you more tightly than any stitch. No curse, no fate, no foolish superstition could take me from you.”
Your throat closed. “Promise?”
He smiled, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “I swear it. If anything, I would sooner be cursed without your gift. For every scarf you knit another, I only wish one thread tied to me.”
That was it. That was all it took for the dam to break inside you.
It took you weeks. You poured yourself into it, every night by the fire, every morning with a cup of tea and Loki watching you with quiet anticipation. You picked a deep emerald green, the color of his magic, the color that reminded you of him.
And finally, one snowy night, you presented it.
A sweater. Hand-knit. Beautifully patterned. Sturdy, warm, and unmistakably made with love.
His breath caught as he held it, his hands trembling just slightly. “You… you made this for me?”
You nodded, suddenly shy. “I wanted you to have something of me. To carry me with you. Always.”
For the first time in ages, Loki was utterly speechless. He pulled the sweater on immediately—it fit perfectly—and then pulled you into his arms so tightly you could barely breathe.
“You foolish, wonderful creature,” he whispered into your hair. “This is no curse. This is the greatest blessing I have ever known.”
And when he kissed you, it felt like every stitch, every loop of yarn, had been woven into this moment. Into forever.
From that day on, Loki wore the sweater often—not just because it was warm, but because it was proof that your love for him was strong enough to defy any curse.
