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Summary: you're on your period and Wade takes cares of you. [wc 874 ] [ao3]
Warnings: period mentions, fluff
Request: @samanddeansannoyingsis Deadpool with reader on her period?? Stomach cramps and a headache. While Deadpool is knawing on himself to try and not be a desperate creep.
The first warning sign is the silence. Which, in your apartment, is never normal. Not with Wade involved. Usually there’s music. Or chiming weapons. Or him narrating something deeply unnecessary like it’s a documentary about his own poor life choices. But today? Just… quiet. Too quiet.
You’re curled on the couch in a blanket fortress of your own making, one hand pressed firmly to your stomach like you can personally negotiate with your cramps.
Your head is pounding. Your patience is nonexistent. And your boyfriend—technically speaking, legally questionable but emotionally established—has been hovering in your kitchen like a man experiencing character development against his will.
“Okay,” Wade says carefully, from the doorway. “I’m just gonna say it.”
You groan into the couch cushion. “If you say anything about crystals or herbal tea, I’m throwing something at you.”
“I was gonna say I brought snacks,” he replies.
You lift your head slightly. “…what kind of snacks?”
There’s a pause. A suspicious pause.
“…the emotionally supportive kind.”
You squint at him. He’s leaning against the doorway like he’s trying very hard not to do something stupid. Which, for Wade, is basically Olympic-level restraint.
He’s holding a bag. And not shaking it. That alone is concerning. “I also,” he adds quickly, too quickly, “did not get you ice cream even though I wanted to. Because you said dairy was a war crime earlier. So I respected that. Growth. I’m growing.”
“You’re rambling,” you say flatly.
“I know,” he says immediately. “It’s because I’m being normal at you.”
“That’s worse.”
“I know.” He steps closer. Stops. Steps back. Then stops again.
You watch this with increasing suspicion. “…are you okay?” you ask.
Wade points at you. “You are in pain.”
“Yes.”
“And I am… a man… in proximity… to a woman in pain.”
“That’s usually how periods work, yes.”
“I am trying VERY HARD not to be weird about it.”
That earns a tired blink.
“…you are currently being weird about it.”
“Correct.” He drags a hand down his mask like he’s physically restraining himself from saying something dumb. “I just—okay—look,” he says. “You’re suffering, and I can fix things. I fix things. That’s my whole brand.”
“You can’t fix this.”
“Wanna bet?”
“No.”
“Smart.” He finally sits on the edge of the coffee table, very carefully not sitting too close. Which is… new. Wade Wilson: personal space enthusiast, apparently.
You narrow your eyes. “Why are you acting like I’m made of glass?”
“I’m not,” he says immediately. Pause. “I’m acting like you’re made of… mildly explosive emotional glass that also hurts a lot and I would like to not be murdered.”
“That’s fair.” You shift slightly, wincing as another cramp rolls through.
Wade notices instantly. Of course he does. He goes still. Too still. Like a dog trying not to jump on furniture it was explicitly told not to jump on.
“I can get you heat pads,” he says quickly.
“I already have one.”
“I can get you another one.”
“I don’t need two.”
“I can get you—uh—painkillers?”
“I already took some.”
“I can get you—”
“Wade.” He stops. Immediately. You sigh, softer now. “I’m okay. Just hurts.”
That does it. Something in him shifts. The energy drops. Not gone. Just… gentler. “…okay,” he says quietly. Then, after a beat: “I hate that I can’t punch it.”
A small laugh escapes you despite yourself. “Yeah. Me too.”
He hesitates again. Then slowly sits down on the floor in front of the couch like he’s negotiating with gravity. “…can I do something stupidly useless but emotionally supportive?” he asks.
You raise a brow. “Define useless.”
“I can insult your cramps.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“I can threaten them.”
“I don’t think they care.”
“I can absolutely fight them.”
You stare at him. “…you’d lose.”
“I would go down swinging.”
That actually makes you smile a little more. Wade sees it. Freezes. Points at you.
“THERE. That. That’s the goal.”
“What is?”
“Not pain. That. The face thing you just did.”
“You mean smiling?”
“I mean your soul stopped screaming for like three seconds.”
You lean your head back. “…you’re weirdly good at this.”
Wade goes very still. Then, “Don’t say that.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes me feel feelings and I don’t like that I have those.”
You snort.
He takes a breath. Then, quieter, like it’s physically painful: “…you want me to stay?”
There’s no joke in it now. No performance. Just him. Trying very hard not to be annoying about caring.
You look at him for a second. Then nod. “Yeah.”
Wade exhales like he’s been defusing a bomb. “Cool,” he says quickly. “Great. Awesome. I will be here. Not emotionally competent. But here.” Pause. “I brought snacks.”
You sigh. “…bring them here, idiot.”
He perks up instantly. “YES. Okay. I knew I was useful.”
“You’re not useful.”
“I am emotionally adjacent to useful.”
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is now.”
And when he finally settles beside you—carefully, like he’s afraid of accidentally making things worse—you let him. Because he’s still rambling quietly about “cramp enemies” and “pain villains” and it’s stupid and loud and completely unhelpful, but somehow it’s exactly what makes the ache feel a little less alone.
Summary: You trusted Soldier Boy. Ran missions with him. Slept next to him in cold bunkers. Loved him in the way people like you didn’t dare admit. But then he left you behind. And now, face to face for the first time since that day, you're ready for answers. But what happens down the line when you're recoverd from the heartbreak and forced to join him on missions yet again?
Warnings: betrayal, angst, heartbreak, lonliness
WC: 2.5K
A/N: prompt came from this long list of mine! title used from my Title Challenge here
Pairing: female! reader x Soldier Boy
Read on ao3!
--
The room was dim, thick with smoke and the hum of fluorescent lights that hadn’t been changed in decades. Your heart thudded like gunfire in your chest, but your hand was steady on the trigger. Soldier Boy stood across from you, blood smeared across his jaw, knuckles bruised, but none of that compared to the look in his eyes.
Like you’d gutted him.
“Do it,” he said, voice gravel and ice. “If you’re gonna shoot me, sweetheart, make it count.”
You didn’t lower the gun. “You left me to die.”
His jaw tightened. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I watched you walk away!” Your voice cracked as rage flared, sharp as shrapnel. “You made the call. You could’ve pulled me out—”
“There wasn’t time!”
“You had seconds, Ben—”
“Exactly!” he snapped, voice booming like a damn grenade. “I had seconds to choose between you and the whole damn team getting wiped. So yeah, I left you.” He stepped closer, eyes wild and furious. “And you know what? I’d do it again.”
You felt like you’d been punched in the chest. The gun dipped slightly.
He shoved a hand through his hair, pacing like a caged animal. “You think I wanted to leave you there? You think I haven’t seen your face every goddamn night since?”
“Don’t you dare act like you’re the victim—”
“I’m not. But don’t act like I betrayed you.” He stopped in front of you, voice low and burning. “I didn’t betray you—I saved you. If I hadn’t done it, we’d both be dead.”
Your lip trembled. “You call that saving me? I was captured. Tortured. Spent months clawing my way out of that hellhole.”
“And I spent months thinking you were dead,” he said, breath ragged. “I went back. Hours later, when the smoke cleared. There was nothing but ash and blood. I buried what was left thinking it was you.”
Silence fell like a weight.
You stared at him, the anger still there but dimmed, tangled now with something raw. Something that hurt worse than betrayal.
“You didn’t even check if I was alive.”
He reached out—hesitated—then pulled his hand back like it’d been burned. “I never stopped looking. I swear to God, if I’d known you made it out…”
Tears blurred your vision. “What happens now?”
He looked like he’d been hollowed out. “That’s up to you. But I didn’t come back to fight. I came back because I never got to tell you…” He faltered, chest rising and falling. “You weren’t just another mission. Not to me.”
You lowered the gun.
But you weren’t ready to forgive him. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
--
You hadn’t said a word in two hours.
Not since you and Soldier Boy climbed into the back of the armored SUV, the mission file dropped between you like a landmine.
He hadn’t tried to talk either—not really. Just sat with his arms crossed, looking out the window, jaw tight enough to crack. Occasionally, his eyes would flick your way. Like he couldn’t help himself.
You pretended not to notice.
The mission was a simple infiltration: an ex-Vought scientist holed up in an abandoned outpost with a dirty bomb and delusions of grandeur. You and Soldier Boy were the only two assets with enough clearance—and firepower—to get close.
But the real powder keg was between the two of you.
“You remember Kamarov?” Soldier Boy said finally, voice rough.
You didn’t look up from the file. “The guy with the cybernetic eye and a superiority complex?”
“Yeah. He’s running security for the target now.”
That made you pause. “You didn’t think to lead with that?”
“I figured you’d read the damn file.”
You glared at him. “Maybe I would’ve, if you didn’t keep breathing down my neck.”
His lip curled. “Didn’t realize I had to stop breathing to make you comfortable.”
“Oh, please. Don’t act like we’re partners. I’m only here because the mission comes first.”
“Right,” he said, leaning back with a bitter laugh. “God forbid you do anything for me.”
You slammed the file shut. “You don’t get to pull that card, Ben. Not after what you did.”
He leaned forward, hands braced on his knees, eyes locked on yours like a battlefield. “I already told you—I did what I had to do.”
“And I lived with it,” you snapped. “Alone.”
Something flickered behind his eyes—regret, maybe. Or guilt he hadn’t buried deep enough.
Before either of you could say more, the SUV lurched to a stop.
Driver’s voice crackled through the intercom. “We’re here. Two klicks out from the compound. You want backup?”
You and Soldier Boy locked eyes.
“No,” you said.
“I got this,” he said at the same time.
A beat of silence.
You rolled your eyes. “We’ll handle it.”
The back doors swung open, cold wind rushing in. You stepped out first, pulse steady, fingers twitching near your weapon. Soldier Boy followed, close enough you could feel his heat at your back.
“Try not to get captured this time,” he muttered.
“Try not to leave me behind again,” you shot back.
He gave you a look that could peel paint.
But despite the venom, your bodies moved in sync as you approached the compound—muscle memory from years of working side by side. Covering corners. Watching each other’s six. Like your bones hadn’t forgotten even if your heart tried to.
The moment the bullets started flying, something shifted. You caught his glance across the field, nodded once, and you were on. Two forces of destruction, unstoppable and precise. The kind of dance only people who’d once trusted each other with their lives could pull off.
At one point, a grenade hit too close. You hit the ground, ears ringing.
Soldier Boy was there in a heartbeat, shielding you with his body, barking your name over the ringing.
When the dust cleared, your hands were fisted in his vest, your breath catching.
“You okay?” he asked, voice rasped, eyes scanning you like he could memorize every wound.
You hated how you nodded.
You hated how his relief softened his face.
But most of all, you hated the way your heart still leapt like it remembered something your mind swore it wouldn’t forgive.
--
The plan was simple. Get in, neutralize the target, extract.
But plans had a nasty habit of falling apart around Soldier Boy.
“MOVE!” he barked, grabbing your arm as gunfire ripped through the air.
You didn’t argue. You both sprinted through the trees, adrenaline roaring in your ears, blood slick on your side where shrapnel had torn through your jacket.
You didn’t know how far you ran—just that eventually, the cold bit harder than the pain, and Soldier Boy jerked you into the half-collapsed remains of a hunting cabin hidden in the trees.
He slammed the door shut behind you, chest heaving. “They’re sweeping the forest. We’ve got maybe five hours before they circle back.”
You leaned against the wall, trying to breathe through the stabbing in your ribs. “You think they saw us?”
He looked at you—really looked—and the color drained from his face. “You’re bleeding.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.” He was in front of you in a flash, ripping your jacket off like you were made of paper. “You got hit. Jesus, why didn’t you say anything?”
“Because I was busy not dying, thanks,” you snapped, wincing as he peeled the fabric back.
He muttered a curse and pulled out a field kit, cleaning the wound with hands that were far too gentle for a man who could crush skulls without flinching.
The silence was thick as he worked.
“Why are you doing this?” you asked finally.
He didn’t look up. “Because you’re hurt.”
“No.” You swallowed hard. “I mean, why are you here, Ben? Really. After everything.”
He hesitated—just for a second—before taping the gauze down.
“Because I still give a damn about you,” he said gruffly. “Even if you hate my guts.”
You didn’t respond.
You didn’t know how to respond.
Instead, you glanced around the cabin. “No food. No heat. No backup.”
“And one bed,” he said, deadpan.
Your head whipped around. “You’re kidding.”
He pointed to the far corner. A narrow cot, dusty and crooked, barely wide enough for one person.
“Great,” you muttered. “I’ll take the floor.”
“The hell you will,” he growled. “You’re wounded.”
You crossed your arms. “So are you.”
He stepped closer, towering over you, voice low. “We’ll both freeze if we don’t share it. You know that.”
You hated that he was right.
You hated how his closeness made your pulse race.
“I’m not cuddling you,” you snapped.
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. “Didn’t say you had to.”
It took a long time to settle.
You lay on the edge of the mattress, stiff as a corpse, back to him. The blankets were thin, and the cold crept in like a curse. Behind you, Soldier Boy radiated heat and tension.
Eventually, you shivered hard enough to make the bed creak.
He cursed under his breath and slid an arm around you. “Stop fighting it.”
“I’m not—”
“Just shut up and let me keep you warm.”
You hated how natural it felt. How your body fit against his like no time had passed. Like you weren’t still carrying the scar of his absence.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
His breath ghosted against your neck.
“I never stopped looking for you,” he said quietly.
You closed your eyes. “Then why does it still feel like you left?”
Silence.
Then—
“Because I did.”
You turned in his arms, meeting his eyes in the dark. There was no armor in them now. Just regret. And something achingly human.
He cupped your cheek. Rough palm, trembling thumb. “I can’t change what I did. But I’d do anything to fix it.”
You didn’t kiss him.
But God help you—you almost did.
--
The morning brought frost on the windows and gunfire in the distance.
You were already halfway out of bed when Soldier Boy grabbed his shield, scanning the treeline through a crack in the boarded window. “They’re here.”
“Thought we had more time.”
“So did I.”
You both moved like muscle memory—packing what little gear you had, ready to run. But when the first bullet shattered the window, you realized too late: this wasn’t a sweep.
It was a f**king ambush.
Soldier Boy barked your name, tackled you to the ground just as the front wall blew in from a concussion blast. Ears ringing, lungs burning—you scrambled, dragging your weapon toward you, but two men were already inside.
You got one with a clean shot.
The second hit you with the butt of his rifle. Everything spun.
Your fingers twitched, reaching blindly—but someone grabbed you, yanked you to your feet.
“BEN!”
Your scream split through the chaos.
You saw him—the look on his face when they dragged you out. The sheer terror in it. Not rage. Not fury.
Terror.
Like he was watching it happen all over again.
“LET HER GO!”
They stunned him with something—maybe modified gas, maybe sonic tech—long enough to force him to his knees. But he kept coming.
Even on fire.
Even screaming.
Even when it was too late.
--
You woke in a cold metal room.
Your head throbbed. Your wrists were cuffed.
But none of that mattered.
Because you knew he’d come for you.
He had to.
-
Back in the forest, Soldier Boy rose from the wreckage like a damn god of vengeance. The forest burned behind him. His shield dripped blood.
He tore through the enemy camp like a weapon unleashed. No mercy. No second chances. Not this time.
Because the last time he hesitated—
He lost you.
And he would never let it happen again.
By the time he reached your cell, alarms were blaring, walls crumbling. You heard the carnage before you saw him.
Then the door exploded.
And there he stood.
Bloodied. Breathing hard. Eyes locked on you like you were the only thing in the world.
He crossed the room in three steps, ripping the cuffs from your wrists like they were paper. His hands cupped your face, frantic, shaking.
“You okay?” His voice cracked. “Talk to me—are you okay?”
You nodded, throat too tight to speak.
His jaw clenched. His forehead pressed to yours. “I thought I lost you again. I saw them take you and—I swear to God, if I hadn’t gotten here…”
“I knew you’d come,” you whispered.
His hands gripped you harder. “You shouldn’t have to.”
For a moment, all the noise outside faded.
And in the middle of the wreckage, with the fire still burning and the enemy in pieces behind him, he kissed you.
Desperate. Raw. Like he was taking back every second you were gone.
--
The safehouse was silent, save for the wind whining through cracked boards and the slow drip of water from a rusted pipe.
Soldier Boy sat on the edge of the table, shirt off, blood streaked down his side. Burn marks. Lacerations. He’d barely flinched during the fight—but now that the adrenaline was gone, he looked tired. Fractured.
You soaked the cloth in what clean water you could find, fingers trembling. You’d already checked the perimeter twice. Laid every tripwire. Set every trap.
And still, your hands shook as you turned back to him.
“Hold still.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he muttered, wincing as you pressed the cloth to his ribs.
The silence stretched, heavy. You cleaned each wound with methodical care, refusing to meet his eyes.
“You should be pissed at me,” he said quietly.
You didn’t answer.
“You should hate me.”
“I did,” you said. “For a long time.”
He went still.
You finally looked at him—really looked. Blood on his face. Bruises blooming along his jaw. And that look in his eyes. Like he was scared of what you’d say next.
“But I never stopped loving you.”
The words hung in the air like a live wire.
Soldier Boy blinked like you’d hit him. “What?”
“I loved you, Ben.” Your voice cracked. “Even after you left. Even after I told myself I didn’t.”
He stared at you like he couldn’t breathe.
You stood, taking a shaky step back. “And I hate that you can still make my heart race. That I still look for you first when the bullets start flying. That I waited—hoped—you’d come back.”
His expression twisted. Pain. Regret. Desperation.
“I never stopped loving you either,” he said hoarsely. “I just... didn’t think I deserved to.”
You turned your face away, but he stood, grabbing your wrist—gentle, but firm.
“I made the call back then because I thought it’d save you,” he said. “But losing you nearly killed me. I’ve walked through fire and blood and hell since then, and nothing ever hurt like that.”
You swallowed hard.
“I thought if I could just get you back—just once—I’d fix it.” His voice cracked. “But I don’t know how.”
You stepped forward, placing a hand on his chest, over the wound you’d just cleaned.
“You don’t fix it in one night,” you whispered. “You show up. You stay. You choose me. Again and again.”
He looked at you like you were the only thing keeping him upright.
“I’m here,” he said. “I’m yours, if you’ll still have me.”
And when he leaned in—slowly, hesitantly—you met him halfway.
This kiss wasn’t frantic like the last. It was quiet. Shaky. A surrender. His forehead pressed to yours after, breath ragged.
You held him like you were afraid he’d vanish again.
@dawn-petrichor-world asked: I have a question.
You know magic exists and one day you meet Draco Malfoy in a library struggling with a computer and secretly he tries to use his wand. Why will you do? Ignore him "destroying" public furniture or act like you didn't see his wand and try to help him. In my case, it depends, if he looks like a furious man I don't want to end up transforming into a frog 😭
A/N: we talked about this back in march of 2023!!!! i've had it saved in my drafts ever since!! lol
Read on Ao3!
The comforting aroma of old books filled the air as you roamed the shelves of the small, independent library tucked in a quiet corner of the city. It was a haven for you—a sanctuary where magic and reality seemed to blur. Of course, you knew real magic existed; you’d seen things you couldn’t explain, whispers of a world beyond the mundane. But you never expected to encounter it here.
At a corner table, a blonde man was glaring at a laptop with the kind of venom reserved for mortal enemies. His sharp cheekbones and tailored clothing made him stand out from the usual crowd of patrons. The tension in his jawline seemed to radiate frustration.
Curious, you wandered closer, pretending to browse the nearby books. That’s when you noticed the odd sight: his hand dipped into his jacket pocket, pulling out... a wand.
Your breath hitched. Was he really about to—?
He flicked the wand toward the laptop, muttering something under his breath. Nothing happened. The screen stubbornly remained blue, its spinning wheel mocking him.
Biting back a laugh, you stepped forward. "Need some help there?"
The man froze, his grey eyes snapping to yours. For a second, he looked almost panicked, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "I don’t need help," he said stiffly, slipping the wand back into his pocket.
"Right," you said, raising an eyebrow. "Because magic definitely fixes laptops."
His face reddened slightly, though he attempted to cover it with a sneer. "What do you know about it?"
"More than you think," you replied, lowering your voice. "I’ve seen magic before. And I’m guessing you’re not from around here, are you?"
His demeanor shifted, suspicion mingling with curiosity. "Who are you?"
"Someone who knows how to make that," you pointed at the laptop, "stop spinning. Want me to show you?"
He hesitated, clearly weighing his options. Finally, with a huff, he pushed the laptop toward you. "Fine. But if you break it, you’re paying for it."
"Relax," you said, suppressing a grin. Sitting down, you navigated the menus with ease. "What are you even trying to do?"
"Research," he said vaguely, his fingers drumming against the table.
"For what?" you pressed.
He hesitated again before muttering, "Muggle technology. My father insists we need to... understand it."
You couldn’t hide your amusement. "So, Lucius Malfoy finally decided to catch up with the 21st century?"
His head snapped up. "You—how do you—?"
"Like I said," you replied, fixing the issue on his laptop with a few clicks, "I know more than you think."
For the first time, a small smile tugged at his lips. "Perhaps you’re not entirely insufferable."
"Gee, thanks," you shot back, pushing the laptop back toward him.
As he examined the now-functional screen, his expression softened ever so slightly. "You’re surprisingly useful for a... Muggle."
"Who said I was a Muggle?" you teased, standing up.
You left him sitting there, his wand forgotten for the moment, as he stared after you with a mixture of intrigue and newfound respect.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
updated June 14 2026. Going through some of the lists sporadically and placing dialogue prompts in their respective sections. My focus this time around is enemies/lovers prompts.
PLEASE reblog if you use any of these/wanna share with your writer friends!!
updated June 14 2026. Going through some of the lists sporadically and placing dialogue prompts in their respective sections. My focus this time around is enemies/lovers prompts.
PLEASE reblog if you use any of these/wanna share with your writer friends!!
South Philippine Temple Viper (Tropidolaemus philippensis), family Viperidae, restricted to just a few isolated pockets of habitat in western Mindanao, Philippines
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: you'd gone to the new lawyers in the city, never expecting much to come from it. [wc 416] [ao3]
Warnings: flirting, a smidge of angst
Request: Fluffy Foggy Nelson with a former client he helped out? -Zombie @thezombieprostitute
Foggy first met you on one of the worst days of your life. You’d come into Nelson & Murdock pale, furious, clutching a folder so tightly the edges bent in your hands. Landlord harassment, illegal lock changes, threats, missing property—the kind of mess designed to make someone too exhausted to fight back. You'd dealt with it for far too long.
Foggy had taken one look at your face and said, “Okay, first of all? Whoever made you cry is now my enemy.”
You hadn’t cried.
“Your eyes were shiny,” he defended.
“That was rage.”
“Honestly, hotter.”
Matt had coughed somewhere behind him. “Foggy.”
Foggy grinned, completely unashamed.
He handled your case with the kind of warmth people didn’t expect from lawyers in movies. He explained everything in plain English, never talked down to you, and somehow made court deadlines sound like mildly annoying brunch reservations.
When the case was finally settled in your favor a few weeks later, you’d shaken his hand across his desk.
“Thank you, Foggy.”
“Please,” he said, hand lingering just a second too long. “Call me if you ever need legal help again.”
You tilted your head. “What if I need help carrying groceries?”
His mouth opened. Closed.
Matt, from the other office: “She’s flirting with you, Fog.”
“I KNOW THAT NOW,” he yelled back.
Three months later, you were standing in your kitchen while Foggy wrestled with a jar of pasta sauce. “You told me this was a simple dinner,” he accused.
“It is simple. You open things, I’m pretty.”
“You weaponized my feelings.”
He finally got the lid off with a triumphant gasp, nearly throwing himself backward. You caught his arm, laughing. Foggy looked at your hand on him like it was something precious. That was the thing about him. Under all the jokes and noise and charming nonsense, he looked at you like you mattered. Like every small thing you did was worth noticing.
“You’re staring,” you said softly.
“I’m allowed,” he replied. “You’re in my top three favorite views.”
“There are other views?”
“Yeah. You, from the left side. You, from the right side. Then you holding bread.”
You laughed so hard you had to lean against the counter.
He moved closer, smile gentling. “Can I kiss my former client, or is that professionally unethical?”
“The case is closed.”
“Great,” he murmured, kissing you slow and sweet. “Because I’ve been wanting to appeal for months.”
You kissed him again before he could admire his own joke too much.
Request: Anonymous asked: Hey !! I just had a request for a Steve Rogers x reader fic Steve and the rest of the team noticed a change in the reader over the last few months, and Steve decides to go and talk to the reader in their room. Instead of finding the reader inside, he finds six suicide letters addressed to the team. Confused, he reads all of them. When the reader returns to the tower, Steve confronts them, hurt and angry. The reader gets defensive and furious first but eventually talks to Steve properly and cries in his arms. Thank you !!
Summary: The team begins to worry when they notice you get more quiet. [wc 1.4K] [ao3]
Warnings: suicidal reader, hurt/comfort,angst
Steve noticed the change long before anyone said it aloud. At first, it was small enough to excuse. You stopped joining them for breakfast. Then you started claiming headaches whenever movie nights were planned. You’d smile faintly in apology, say maybe next time, then disappear down the hall before anyone could protest. Training sessions became rare. You missed one, then two, then nearly all of them. When you did show up, you moved like your body was there and the rest of you was somewhere far away.
Steve told himself everyone went through rough patches. He told himself not to crowd you. He told himself you’d come to someone when you were ready.
Then one night he passed the common room and saw Sam, Natasha, and Bruce sitting in unusual silence. No banter. No TV noise. Just concern.
“She barely touched dinner,” Bruce murmured.
Natasha leaned back in her chair, eyes narrowed toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. “She flinched when I asked if she was okay.”
Sam sighed. “I tried joking with her. Nothing.”
Steve stood in the doorway, unease settling deep in his chest.
Natasha looked at him. “You’ve noticed too.”
It wasn’t a question.
Steve nodded once.
“She’s withdrawing,” Bruce said carefully. “That kind of isolation can get dangerous.”
Steve hated how fast the word dangerous made his mind race.
The next morning, you were gone before sunrise. Friday informed him you’d left for a supply run downtown. He stood in the kitchen for several minutes, coffee untouched in his hand, staring at nothing. Then he set the mug down and walked to your room.
He knocked first. Once. Twice. No answer. “Y/N?” he called. Silence. He should have turned around. He knew that. But something in his gut—something old and sharp and soldier-instinctive—kept him rooted there.
“Friday, unlock the door.”
“Access granted, Captain Rogers.”
The room beyond was neat in the deliberate way messy people cleaned when they were trying to feel in control. Your bed was made too tightly. Books stacked in perfect lines. Laundry folded. Desk cleared except for six envelopes laid carefully side by side.
Steve’s pulse stuttered.
Each envelope had a name written in your handwriting. Tony. Natasha. Bruce. Clint. Thor. Steve. He crossed the room in three strides and stopped short at the desk, suddenly afraid to touch anything.
“No,” he whispered to the empty room. His own name stared back at him. With fingers that felt clumsy and numb, he opened the envelope. Inside was a folded letter.He recognized the tremor in the pen strokes immediately.
Steve,
If you’re reading this, then I couldn’t figure out how to stay.
His vision blurred. He sat heavily in your desk chair and kept reading.
You wrote about exhaustion so deep sleep no longer touched it. About smiling because people worried less when you smiled. About standing in rooms full of heroes and feeling invisible anyway. About shame. About loneliness. About not wanting to be another burden added to shoulders already carrying the world.
You apologized for things no one had ever asked you to apologize for. You thanked him for kindnesses he barely remembered doing. You said he made people feel safe.
And then, at the bottom:
I just didn’t know how to save myself.
Steve pressed a hand over his mouth. He reached for Natasha’s next. Then Sam’s wasn’t there—no, Sam wasn’t one of the six. Tony’s. Bruce’s. Each one different. Each one carrying the same ache.
By the time he finished, his breathing was uneven and anger had begun to mix with the fear. Anger at himself. At the team. At you. At the fact that you had been suffering close enough to touch and none of them had broken through.
He was still standing there, letters clenched in his fist, when the bedroom door opened. You stepped inside carrying two grocery bags. You froze. Your eyes moved from Steve—to the open envelopes—to the letters in his hand.
The bags slipped from your fingers. A jar shattered on the floor. For one long second, the room was silent except for rolling glass.
Then your face hardened. “You went through my things?”
Steve took one step forward. “What the hell are these?”
“My room,” you snapped. “My desk. My business.”
“Your business?” His voice rose despite himself. “You write goodbye letters to everyone you care about and call it your business?”
“Give them back.”
“No.”
Your jaw clenched. “I said give them back.”
“And I said no.”
You stormed forward, trying to snatch them from his hand. Steve lifted them out of reach on instinct. The movement humiliated you. Your eyes flashed with fury. “Of course,” you said bitterly. “Captain America decides what’s best for everyone.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?” you shouted. “Concern? Guilt? Some noble rescue mission because you finally noticed I exist?”
The words struck hard.
Steve’s expression changed. Hurt, immediate and raw. “You think I only just noticed?”
“Yes!” you yelled back. “Because nobody noticed until now!” Your voice cracked on the last word.
The anger in the room turned suddenly thin and brittle. You were trembling.
Steve lowered his arm slowly. “I noticed,” he said quietly. “I noticed you stopped laughing. I noticed you stopped eating with us. I noticed you looked tired all the time. I noticed you kept saying you were fine when you weren’t.”
“Then why didn’t you do anything?”
Because he hadn’t known how to help without pushing. Because he’d been afraid of making it worse. Because sometimes even good people wait too long. His silence answered for him.
You laughed once—a broken, ugly sound. “Exactly.”
You turned away, scrubbing at your eyes with the heel of your palm. “I’m tired, Steve.”
The fight drained out of him at once. He set the letters down on the desk and crossed the room slowly. “Tired of what?” he asked gently.
“Everything.” Your shoulders shook. “Waking up tired. Pretending I’m okay. Feeling guilty for not being okay. Watching all of you save strangers while I can’t even manage myself.”
“You are not failing because you’re hurting.”
“It feels like failure.”
“It isn’t.”
You spun back toward him, tears spilling now despite your obvious hatred of them. “I didn’t want to be one more thing wrong in this tower!”
The confession echoed between you.
Steve’s face crumpled. He reached for you carefully, giving you time to pull away. You didn’t. The second his hands touched your arms, you broke. All the rage, all the pride, all the frantic defensiveness collapsed at once. You folded into him with a choking sob, clutching the front of his shirt like it was the only solid thing left.
Steve caught you instantly. One arm wrapped around your back. The other cradled the back of your head.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, though his own voice shook. “You don’t have to hold it together right now.”
“I’m sorry,” you cried into his chest. “I’m so sorry.”
“No.” He held you tighter. “No apologizing for pain.”
You wept hard enough your knees gave out. He guided you both down to the floor amid spilled groceries and broken glass, sitting with you curled against him.
Minutes passed. Maybe longer. He stayed quiet except for the occasional soft reassurance, hand moving slowly over your hair and back.
When your crying finally eased into shaky breaths, Steve tilted his head down. “Look at me.”
You did, reluctantly. Eyes swollen. Face wet. Exhausted beyond words.
“We’re going to get help,” he said, steady and certain. “Today. Not tomorrow. Not eventually. Today.”
You swallowed. “What if I’m too much?”
His answer came without hesitation. “Then we carry it together.”
Fresh tears welled in your eyes.
“I’m angry with you,” he admitted softly. “Because this scared me. Because I hate that you were alone with this.”
“I know.”
“I’m angrier at myself.”
You shook your head weakly. “You don’t get all the blame.”
A small, sad smile touched his mouth. “Fair enough.” He stood, then offered you his hand.
When you took it, he pulled you gently to your feet. “Come on,” he said.
“Where?”
“Kitchen first. You still need groceries.” He glanced at the broken jar and sighed. “Then we talk to the team. Then we make a plan.”
You hesitated. “You’re staying?”
Steve squeezed your hand once. “As long as it takes.”
And for the first time in months, when he led you out of that room, you let someone help carry the weight.
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