Can I request Anaxa, Jiaoqiu, Jing Yuan, and Ratio with a reader who is able to boost other people's powers and abilities by letting them basically use their energy in addition to the characters' own (like a living battery almost), but is unable to use any kind of powers or abilities themself? If the healers are running out of juice, they will immediately offer themselves up as a power source. Their own limitations are not even considered. There are people hurt and they want to help however they can.
To Burn and Be Bright
Tags: Anaxa x Reader, Jiaoqiu x Reader, Jing Yuan x Reader, Ratio x Reader, Power Sharing, Self-Sacrificial Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Soft Angst, Fluff with Emotional Depth, Mutual Respect, Protective, Existential Themes, Slow Burn Elements, Emotional Intimacy.
Warnings: Burnout From Overexertion, Non-Graphic Self-Harm (Magic Exhaustion), Battlefield Trauma, Mentions of Death and War, Medical Distress, Emotional Vulnerability, Power Imbalance (Non-Abusive), Philosophical Themes, Mild Romantic Implications.
Anaxa slammed a scorched tome closed, its golden filigree burning beneath his fingertips.
"The soul-thread is too weak."
Blood dripped from his lip where he'd bitten it, frustration overwhelming calculation. Around you, wounded scholars writhed in agony, their essence destabilized after his reckless experiment to siphon divinity.
“I can help,” you said.
He didn't look at you. “No.”
“But I—”
“No.” His voice was sharper now, cracking like ice across old stone. “Your body wasn't made for this. Your energy isn't refined. You'd burn out.”
You stepped closer, kneeling beside the blood-drenched cipher altar. “And what? Let them die?”
He finally turned, and for a moment—just a moment—his eye glowed behind the gold-etched eyepatch.
“You think I haven’t run the probability? You think I haven’t seen the consequences?” His voice dropped, bitter and fractured. “You're not a tool, damn it.”
You reached out and placed your hand over his.
“I’m not a tool. I’m a choice. Let me choose.”
Anaxa closed his eyes.
Seconds later, the room pulsed with arcane light. His voice chanted in forbidden tongue as your body trembled beside him, energy rushing into his system like a star being born inside his veins.
You blacked out halfway through the ritual.
When you woke up hours later, his coat was draped over your body. His gloved hand clutched yours tightly. His voice, just barely above a whisper:
“Don’t ever call yourself powerless again. Without you… there is no proof. There is no me.”
The tent reeked of blood and ash, and the healing grid was already flickering.
Jiaoqiu’s hand trembled as he stirred the alchemical cauldron, nine distinct broths bubbling in a complex pattern. He was running out of energy—his tail low, ears pinned back, chest rising with every restrained breath.
“I’m here,” you whispered.
His eyes opened—painful, cracked—and though he normally kept them closed, he held your gaze.
“You always come when I’m weakest.”
You smiled. “That’s the point, isn’t it?”
“No,” he murmured, setting down his fan. “The point was to protect you from this. Every time I let you give me your strength, a part of me worries you’ll burn out. Like a candle for everyone else’s fire.”
You didn’t hesitate. You sat beside the cauldron and reached for him.
“I’d rather flicker than watch you break.”
With a solemn sigh, he intertwined your fingers with his, guiding your energy into his own. The broth glowed brighter. Soldiers outside stopped groaning. The battlefield quieted.
His voice trembled, even as his wounds healed. “One day, I want to heal you too. Not just your body. But the part of you that thinks it’s only useful when it's giving.”
You leaned into his shoulder as your strength faded, smiling.
“Then we’ll keep going until you do.”
“General, the formation’s collapsing!”
Jing Yuan stood at the edge of the shattered ridge, blood dripping from his blade, cloak shredded in the wind. A dozen injured Cloud Knights groaned behind him. He had minutes. Less.
Then he felt it—warmth against his back. Familiar. Steady.
You.
“Don’t,” he said immediately, voice like rumbling thunder. “You’ve given too much today.”
“I can give more.”
He turned, his eyes tired. Not from battle—but from worry.
“You’ll collapse.”
“Better me than them.”
His fist clenched, and he looked away. “You do this every time. You rush into my shadow and light it with your soul.”
You touched his arm gently. “Because I believe in you. And because you’ve never once let that light go to waste.”
He didn’t respond for a long moment. Then he gently placed his hand over your heart.
“Promise me something.”
You blinked. “What?”
“When all this is over… when there’s peace… let me carry your burden for once.”
Your lips curved faintly as your energy surged into his form. The storm around him reignited with luminous force.
“I’d like that,” you said softly, before the light overtook you both.
“You are reckless.”
His voice echoed down the marble corridors of the ruined observatory, each word a jagged verdict.
“Don’t start,” you muttered, stumbling from exhaustion. “They needed power. I had it. You would’ve done the same.”
“I wouldn’t have nearly died doing it four times in a row,” he snapped, for once not hiding behind metaphor or philosophy. He pulled you into a chair, unwrapping your burned palms with maddening precision.
“You always say knowledge must be used, Veritas.”
“Yes. By minds capable of wielding it rationally. Not by idealists burning themselves like inefficient fuel rods!”
Your laughter was faint. “You sound scared.”
“I am,” he hissed. “You are the one equation I cannot balance. The one constant I cannot afford to lose.”
You softened.
“I don’t want to be an equation,” you whispered. “I want to be your choice.”
He paused. Then, for the first time, removed the alabaster mask himself.
“I’m not good at emotion,” he said simply. “But if I could rewrite this universe’s formula…”
He leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours.
“You’d be the center of it.”
You passed out moments later, spent.
But when you awoke, his coat was around your shoulders, a steaming cup of nutrient broth on the table—and a newly published thesis titled:
“On the Strength of a Soul that Gives Without Asking: A Dedication.”
I really like the show but I can respect anybody who doesn’t- if they were not so malicious about it..
I get that it’s not everyone’s cup of tea but celebrating the cancellation of something that means a safe haven , a distraction from all that’s going on right now, or just a fun show for a lot of people? And let’s not forget there are REAL people behind this show. They worked insane hours, dedicated their hearts to it and found new friends within this production - so to bash this is so disgusting.
You didn’t and still don’t like this show ? Fine ! But please , please have a bare minimum of decorum and respect these people’s work.
Hi! If you ever feel up to taking another request, I've been thinking. Reader is late 30s-early 40s. Super friendly and crazy competent, works as an armorer for the new avengers, but used to be with SHIELD (or wherever you want to place her past), gone with the blip. She's been around beautiful agents/people and has been flirted with nearly every day (hello, comics Clint). I'm curious as to how Bucky stands out from the crowd, gets her interested and deals with someone who's well established in her life. I'm sure he'd rock her world if she gave him a chance.
Thanks for creating and sharing such awesome stories!
You don’t get flustered easily.
That’s what comes from surviving SHIELD, losing five years to the Blip, and then coming back to a world that decided you were still useful enough to keep. You’re 39 years old and you’ve long since learned the difference between flirtation and respect.
The Avengers Compound armory is your domain now.
You know every weapon’s weight by feel alone. You know which alloys sing under stress and which crack under pressure. You know how to take apart a rifle blindfolded and put it back together better than it was before. You’re friendly—warm, even—but never sloppy. Competence radiates off you in a way that makes people stand a little straighter when they speak to you.
You’ve been flirted with by the best of them.
Agents who grin like they invented charm. Soldiers who think scars are a conversation starter. Men and women who mistake proximity for intimacy. You smile, deflect, keep moving. You don’t need attention. You’ve had it. You’ve outgrown it.
So when James Barnes starts showing up in your armory, you notice him because he doesn’t do any of that.
The first time he comes in, he doesn’t say much. Just a quiet, “Hey,” and a nod toward the bench where his rifle rests. He watches your hands—not your face—as you work, tracking the precision with a soldier’s eye.
“Your left stabilizer’s slightly off,” you tell him without looking up.
He blinks. “It is?”
“Mmhmm. Quarter millimeter. You compensate without realizing it.”
He considers that. Doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t joke. Just absorbs it.
“Can you fix it?” he asks.
That’s it. No swagger. No flirting. Just trust.
You do fix it. And when he takes the rifle back, he tests the balance, eyes widening just a fraction.
“…Feels better,” he says.
You smile then. Not because he’s handsome—though he is, devastatingly so—but because he noticed.
After that, he keeps coming back.
Sometimes it’s for maintenance. Sometimes it’s for advice. Sometimes he just stands near the doorway like he’s deciding whether to interrupt, until you wave him in with a screwdriver clenched between your teeth.
He never leans too close. Never comments on your body. Never asks questions that don’t have a purpose. When he compliments you, it’s always about your work.
“You make this look easy,” he says once.
“It’s not,” you reply.
“I know,” he says quietly. “That’s why it’s impressive.”
That’s when you realize he’s different.
Not because he’s famous. Not because he’s dangerous. But because he sees you as someone established. Someone whole. He doesn’t try to wedge himself into your life—he waits to be invited.
It takes weeks before he asks you anything personal.
“You were Blipped,” he says one evening, handing you back a calibrated pistol. Not a question.
You nod. “Yeah. Came back to a desk that wasn’t mine anymore.”
He hums, understanding heavy in his chest. “Me too. Not the same way. But… yeah.”
You glance up then, really look at him. The way his shoulders stay tense even at rest. The way his eyes flick to exits without thinking.
“You don’t flirt,” you say lightly.
He almost chokes. “Is that a complaint?”
You smile. “Just an observation.”
He hesitates, then: “I wouldn’t know how. Not with someone like you.”
Someone like you.
Not a woman. Not a target. You.
That’s what gets you.
When he finally asks you out, it’s awkward in the best way. No grand gestures. No assumptions.
“Would you want to get dinner sometime?” he asks. “No pressure. I know you’ve got a life.”
You do have a life. Friends. History. A body that knows what it wants and doesn’t waste time on maybes.
But you also have curiosity now.
Dinner turns into conversation that stretches until the restaurant closes. He listens more than he talks. When he does talk, it’s careful, honest, unvarnished.
You don’t feel like you’re teaching him how to treat you.
You feel like he already knows.
When you finally take him home—your place, your choice—he follows your lead with reverence that borders on awe. His hands are strong but controlled, like he’s afraid of overstepping.
“You okay?” he murmurs, forehead pressed to yours.
You laugh softly. “Bucky, I promise—I know how to ask for what I want.”
Something in his chest breaks open at that.
And when you do ask—when you tell him exactly how to touch you, how to move, how to ruin you—he listens with the same intensity he does in the armory.
He doesn’t try to prove himself.
He learns you.
Later, tangled together, you trace the metal of his arm with idle fingers.
“You stand out,” you tell him.
He exhales, almost shy. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” you say, smiling into his shoulder. “You didn’t try to be impressive. You just were.”
He pulls you closer, grounding himself in the weight of you—real, present, choosing him.
