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twentyonetornmyheart · 2 months ago

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Past the Darkness, There was Us

Yelena x Fem! Plus Size Reader

Word count: 3,681

Genre: angst, fluff

Summary: You waited like you always do.But this time, the dark came first.And somehow—through all the wreckage—you both still found your way back.

Warning:PTSD, dissociation, childhood trauma, emotional abuse, self-harm ideation, bullying, fatphobia, panic attacks, body image issues, alcohol abuse (mentioned), parental abuse (verbal and implied physical), Red Room trauma, recovery/healing themes

AN: Hey again! I wanted to write something for Thunderbolts because this movie really hit me—it was so emotional and powerful. This fic follows the same general plot, but I definitely added my own spin.

And I know it says plus-size reader, so I want to say this again:

there aren’t a lot of fanfics that center plus-size characters, and I always want to write stories for those of us who want to see ourselves in them. I know it’s not for everyone, but if it is for you—I hope it means something.

I’m still pretty new to writing, so I truly appreciate feedback. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

You didn’t realize what was happening—it all felt so sudden, so utterly unplanned. You weren’t prepared for what was to come.

At that moment, you were sitting at home, curled on the couch, waiting for Yelena to return from her mission.

Lately, she had thrown herself into work like it was the only thing keeping her alive. Days would pass with no contact, and then she’d walk through the front door like a ghost—here, but not really. Her body, a mere shell drifting through this world, her mind somewhere far from here. When she was home, her presence was mechanical—a routine she performed out of muscle memory.

“Hey, baby. How are you? How was your day? I missed you too. Uh huh. Food smells good.”

The words were automatic, shallow echoes of what they used to mean. A kiss on the cheek, a brief squeeze around your supple waist—and then she’d vanish into the home office. Gone for hours.

You’d find her slumped in the chair, half an empty bottle of vodka dangling from her fingers, her expression vacant. You had always known when she left. Her face would become a blank slate, unable to form any emotion. It was almost as if the light in her eyes had dimmed to complete darkness. You’d whisper her name into the room, hoping to pull her out of this catatonic-like state. But no matter your efforts, it was no use. It was as if the Yelena you loved had been swallowed whole by silence.

It killed you to see her like this. Shattered your heart into unmanageable pieces.

You wanted to help. To mend it. To bring her back to herself. But you knew how she was—push too hard, and she’d retreat even further. You were left with no choice but to adapt. You had to teach yourself how to care without pressing. You’d gather the bottles without a word. Kneel to take off her boots. Guide her to bed with gentle, loving hands. You’d carefully use a warm washcloth to rid her face of any dirt or sweat. You’d press your lips softly to her forehead, leave gentle kisses, and run your fingers through her golden tresses with delicate care—hoping she could feel it through the fog.

You missed the way she used to laugh. The way she filled a room with her chaotic, radiant energy. Now, she barely spoke. Barely looked at you.

But still, you stayed.

You weren’t going to leave her—not at her lowest.

T This mission, though… this one felt different.

You remembered the day she told you about it. Something in her eyes—soft, hopeful—had flickered back to life. You could see the light slowly return to her gaze, like she believed in something again.

“This’ll be the last one,” she’d said. “When I come back, everything’s going to change.”

She meant it. You could feel it in your bones, in the quiet certainty of her spirit.

You had held her face in your hands so softly, as if holding too tightly might make her crumble, and whispered, “No matter what happens, I’ll be right here. Waiting for you to come home.”

She had wrapped her smaller, athletic frame around your plush one, squeezing you close, as if trying to remember exactly how you felt against her. As if she was grounding herself in the softness of your body.

But that day hadn’t come yet.

Three days had passed.

No calls. No texts. No heavy footsteps echoing in the hall.

You tried calling Alexei—only to be met with his ridiculous voicemail about his limo business. Your brain was too wired to let you sleep. Your stomach too nauseous to let you eat. You just sat, phone in hand, watching the news like it might somehow save you from your spiraling thoughts.

Like a church in the dark hours before morning, everything was still…

Until it wasn’t.

A breaking report: a massive explosion in the desert. Something had fallen from the sky. A crater had been left behind—immense, smoking, unnatural.

Your heart dropped. You could feel it thudding against the curve of your belly.

You didn’t want to believe it was connected. You tried to come up with every reason imaginable to convince yourself it had nothing to do with the love of your life. But your mind wouldn’t stop racing.

Then it came—the darkness.

It spread across the sky like spilled ink over a bright white canvas, stretching over the city—thick, black, and endless. You stood frozen in your apartment, convinced it would pass you by. That your walls would hold it off.

But they didn’t.

It seeped in through the windows. It bled through the walls. You could feel it breathing against your skin.

You ran.

Out the door, into the hall. But the darkness followed. It curled around you, pulled you under—

And then you were gone.

⸻

Suddenly, you were in your childhood bedroom. You had no recollection of falling asleep or passing out, your brain so confused on how you returned to this place.

The faded green floral wallpaper. The pink bedspread still lined with stuffed animals. Your bookshelf—filled with old, worn stories you used to disappear into.

While you were still puzzled about how you came to be here, it all looked innocent. Sweet, even. As if you were in one of the safer places, compared to others.

Until you saw the girl.

Dark, coily curls crowned the top of her head, delicate and untamed. Her thick, tender cheeks—meant for holding laughter and light—were streaked with warm, salty tears instead of the bright, carefree smile a child should wear.

She sat crouched by your dresser, small and trembling, as if she were trying to retreat into her own skin.

You took a step toward her—

And the door rattled. It was as if the walls around you started to shift, to vibrate.

Fists slammed against it. A voice screamed through the hinges.

“Y/N! OPEN THIS GODDAMN DOOR!”

Your father.

You hadn’t heard his voice in years. You’d tried to forget it. Tried to erase the memories, or push them deep, deep down—as if the things that happened to you in your childhood had never happened.

But they were back now, sinking their claws in deep, clawing their way to the surface, leaving behind angry trails of red—raw and burning.

You knew this day. You remembered what was to come.

The sobbing child on the floor—you.

Tears continued to soak her cheeks. Her hands shook as she clutched a small blade, raising it to her thick thigh.

You remembered the day it hit you—really hit you—that there was no way out of the hell inside your own home. No saving grace. No hero at the door. Just you. And the noise. The chaos. You couldn’t stop the yelling, couldn’t dodge every hit, couldn’t make yourself small enough to disappear. So you did the only thing you could: you learned how to forget. You trained your mind to slip away, to tune out the shouting and the slamming doors. To float above it all like it wasn’t happening to you.

Because somehow, the bruises faded faster than the words.

And physical pain? That was easier.

That, at least, made sense.

You ran to her, dropping to your knees.

“Don’t do it, sweetheart. It gets better, I promise you. This isn’t the way.”

You begged her like your life depended on it—because in some ways, it did. You wanted so desperately for your younger self to believe it. To understand that this wasn’t the answer. That hurting yourself wouldn’t fix the hurt they caused. That even though the sting of physical pain might feel like relief in the moment, it would never ease the weight of the emotional scars buried beneath it.

She looked at you with hollow eyes—so much like Yelena’s sometimes—eyes with no light left in them, only darkness.

“It’s the only way. I can’t do this anymore. It’s too late.”

You reached for the blade—

But something grabbed you.

Hands—cold and unseen—wrapped around your wrists, yanked them back, and tied you to the bedposts. Splintered wood dug into your skin, holding you there as you thrashed, screaming.

“STOP! PLEASE! DON’T!”

You screamed through tears, kicked at the floor, clawed at anything that might make it stop.

And somehow—by some miracle—you broke free from the bindings.

⸻

You stumbled into the closet, desperate to escape the nightmare—but instead of solid ground, there was nothing. Just air. And then you were falling, fast and hard, like the floor had vanished right out from under you.

And you landed on freezing tile.

You looked up.

Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead at an annoying pitch. Wet, broken tile beneath you. You heard it before you saw it—eerie laughter echoing all around.

You started to recall more memories from your adolescence—your middle school gym locker room.

You turned and saw the group of girls—around twelve or thirteen—gathered in a circle, laughing cruelly.

You stood on shaking legs, your body already remembering what your mind begged to forget. You knew what was coming—had seen it before—but nothing could prepare you to face it again. Not like this.

They parted. And there she was again.

You.

You at the age of twelve, noticeably bigger than the rest of your classmates, your face once again blank of emotion.

You were lying on the floor, surrounded by shredded clothes. Barely breathing.

The humiliation burned like acid in your chest.

You remembered the whispers. The stares. The way they laughed at your body. Called you names. Said you needed motivation. Said if you had nothing to wear, maybe you’d lose the excess weight.

Willing your legs to move, you walked toward your younger self as the sea of girls parted for you. You knelt beside her.

Her eyes were glassy, tear-streaked. Her face blank. You softly laid your hand on her shoulder in quiet comfort, trying to be as calming and supportive as you possibly could.

Silence suddenly fell—a stark contrast to the loud cackling that had filled the room.

The group of girls surrounded you both, forming a wall of shadows.

You stood. Shaking. But unflinching.

You were not backing down. You were tired of giving in, tired of not fighting back. You were done letting others make these decisions for you.

They lunged.

Hands in your hair. Fingernails on your arms. Screams in your ears.

You fought your hardest—kicking, punching, tearing them away from you, lashing out as strong as your body would let you. But still, they overpowered you.

Ten girls pinned your limbs to the shower wall, stopping you from defending yourself—keeping you from fighting back.

You screamed for help until your throat felt shredded, raw like it was bleeding from the inside. Your lungs burned with every gasp, like you were breathing in smoke. And your heart pounded so hard it felt like a war drum echoing in your chest.

But no one came.

⸻

You were too busy fighting for your life—you didn’t notice someone else had entered the scene.

A thunderous boom shook the walls. More broken tile and debris flew through the air, creating a cloud of white dust. A figure charged through the smoke—fierce, focused, furious.

You couldn’t see what was happening, but they moved like a force of nature, knocking the girls away one by one.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t talk. Couldn’t stand. Your body had completely shut down. You were curled on the floor, vision swimming, breath stolen.

You wanted to go home. You wanted it to stop.

It hit like a shadow swallowing the room. Your chest locked up, every breath clawing its way out like it didn’t belong there. The air felt thick, poisonous—like you were inhaling smoke or drowning in silence. Your vision warped, edges pulsing and closing in. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking, like something had crawled beneath your skin. Your heart thrashed against your ribs like it was trying to break free.

And worst of all—you weren’t sure if you were dying, or just losing your mind.

Either way, it felt like the end.

And then—you were being held.

Wrapped tightly in strong arms—unyielding as vibranium—your body was pressed against warmth, something achingly familiar, like home you’d forgotten you had. The scent of metal and cedar curled into your lungs, grounding you, coaxing you back to yourself.

A low, raspy voice whispered in your ear, thick with a Russian accent, every word rough and trembling with urgency.

“I’ve got you. Breathe. Just breathe, moya lyubov.”

It was steady. Anchoring. Pulling you back from the edge—back from the panic that had swallowed you whole.

“I’ve got you. I’m here.”

Yelena.

You turned your head, breath hitching.

“Lena?”

Her hazel eyes locked with yours. Dirt and cuts marred her once pristine complexion, but she was real. Solid.

“I’m here, baby. I got you,” she whispered, her accent thick with emotion. “But we need to go. Now. Can you stand?”

Her hands cradled your face with such aching gentleness, like you were the most fragile, precious thing in the world—something she couldn’t bear to lose.

“I… I think so.”

You were exhausted—your body trembling, on the verge of collapse, the last remnants of adrenaline bleeding out of your system. Every step felt impossible.

But the beautiful thing about having a partner who used to be a Widow? She was impossibly, almost unfairly strong.

Even though you were nearly twice her size, she lifted you to your feet without hesitation, as if you weighed nothing at all. Her arms wrapped securely around your soft, curvier midsection, anchoring you to her body as she took on nearly all your weight.

And just like that, she led you—step by steady step—out of this hellhole of a memory.

The hallway outside was chaos—walls cracking, floors trembling. Five figures waited ahead. Two familiar. The others strangers.

“We need a way out,” Yelena snapped, her voice sharp and sure, directed at a tall man with dark hair and soft brown eyes. You’d learn later that his name was Bob.

Right now, he looked as lost as you felt.

But for some reason, they were all looking to him—like he held the final answer. Like he was the one who could pull them through.

He hesitated. You could see the conflict etched into his features, his doubt unraveling the certainty everyone so badly wanted to believe he had.

Before you even realized what you were doing, your body moved. You stepped forward into his space, close enough for your presence to feel intentional.

“Hey,” you said gently. “It’s okay. Whatever this is—we’ll get through it. Together.”

You reached out and touched his arm—light, steady, grounding. A silent promise. That you were here. That all of you were. And that no one was going anywhere.

His eyes finally met yours, and in them, you saw something shift. Just slightly. The weight he was carrying didn’t vanish—but maybe, for the first time, he wasn’t carrying it alone.

You all ran

⸻

You all made it out.

Through dust and darkness and fear—you escaped The Void.

You were all still clinging to one another in a collapsed group hug when the darkness finally began to fade—and the warmth of the New York sun broke through, kissing your skin like a promise.

After that day, everything changed.

Yelena introduced you to the rest of the team: Ava. Walker. And of course, Bob—the man you’d felt an instant, unspoken bond with. You already knew of Alexei and Bucky, their reputations larger than life.

As time passed, something beautiful happened. The dynamics between you all began to shift—not just as teammates, but as something deeper. Closer. Like a strange, chaotic, but loving family you never knew you needed.

Alexei, loud and proud, had never looked more like a dad.

Yelena still rolled her eyes and groaned every time he opened his mouth—but you saw it. The way her expression softened. The way she didn’t actually want him to stop. Their thick Russian bickering had somehow become your favorite background noise.

Bucky took longer to warm up. He watched everything in silence at first—stoic, guarded, always standing just slightly apart. But you never pushed him. And somehow, that earned you a place.

Now, he checked in more than you expected. Threw you quiet looks across the room when he could tell you were anxious. Offered gruff, one-word encouragements that meant more than full speeches.

And on the rare days when he actually let himself relax? He made you laugh in ways that surprised even him.

You and Ava grew close—tag-teaming against Walker to tease him about everything. You swore you and Walker were long-lost siblings the way you two went at it.

And Bob?

Bob became something sacred. Quiet. Reserved. Careful with his words. But with you and Yelena, he found space. He found peace.

The three of you formed a rhythm of your own—painting in companionable silence, playing video games for hours on end, sharing ice cream when the days felt too heavy to carry alone. He didn’t always say much, but he didn’t have to. His presence spoke volumes.

You and Yelena built a home around him—one stitched together with patience, warmth, and safety. A home where he didn’t have to explain himself. A home where he was finally allowed to just be.

Your relationship with Yelena deepened in a way that both scared and thrilled you.

You had the hard conversation—the conversation—about what you each saw in The Void. There were tears, of course. But once the words were spoken, once the silence broke, the weight of it all felt… lighter. Shared.

You held each other with a tenderness that was new, but unshakable. It created a shift between you—opened a new door. One where love wasn’t something you had to work up the strength to give—it simply was. Constant. Unspoken. Necessary.

Because at the end of the day, it wasn’t about choosing each other.

It was that you couldn’t imagine being without each other.

You didn’t have to stay—you wanted to.

And that made all the difference.

Some days, one of you only had twenty percent to give.

The other gave eighty.

You learned how to fill in each other’s gaps. How to carry the weight when the other couldn’t.

When Yelena missed Natasha… when the Red Room crept back into her chest and shattered her calm—you were there. With her favorite mac and cheese drowned in hot sauce, your fingers slowly combing through her hair, your voice quiet as you guided her through steady, grounding breaths.

Sometimes she needed to talk.

Sometimes, she didn’t want to say a word—just needed you near, breathing in the same silence.

You did both. Gladly. Every time.

When your own spirals hit—your body image, your trauma, your fears—she was there.

On the days when you felt self-conscious about your size—when your tummy felt too soft, your thighs too wide, your body too much beside hers—you tried to hide it behind a quiet smile and lowered eyes. You feared that one day she might see you the way the rest of the world had always tried to: as something unworthy of being wanted.

But Yelena never looked away. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t reassure you with hollow words.

She wanted you. Desperately. Completely. And she made damn sure you knew it.

She’d cup your face gently, her voice steady, almost angry that you couldn’t see what she saw.

“You are beautiful. Every inch of you. Your soft belly, your thick thighs, those arms that hold me better than anything ever had—I want all of it. I want you.”

She kissed your stretch marks like they were sacred. Let her hands wander across every part of you the world told you to shrink. She touched your tummy with reverence, squeezed your thighs like they were her favorite place to be.

“They didn’t know how to see you. But I do. And I love every part they told you to hide.”

And when your doubt still lingered—when old voices tried to claw their way back into your head—she pulled you into her lap, wrapped her arms around your body like she was anchoring herself to you, and whispered right into your skin,

“You’re not too much. You’re everything.”

Because to Yelena, your body wasn’t something to look past.

It was something to cherish. Something to crave.

Something to love out loud.

“You’re not too much. You’re everything.”

Because to Yelena, your body wasn’t something to look past.

It was something to cherish. Something to crave.

Something to love out loud.

You both made it a priority to treasure what you had—to nurture the relationship, protect it, and keep the romance very much alive. Neither of you wanted to slip back into what it once was—distant, routine, or fractured by silence.

There were quiet dinners by candlelight, just the two of you and soft music playing in the background. Lazy cuddles on the compound couch, legs tangled together under a shared blanket. Spur-of-the-moment trips to places you two had always dreamed of—because now you both could, and you both deserved to.

Even when tension rose or disagreements surfaced, you never let it break you. You spoke with care. You listened with patience. You argued like people who loved each other—never to win, only to understand. And every time, you found your way back to each other. Stronger. Closer.

As time continued on, there was laughter from Ava in the background. Arguments over nothing with Walker. Bucky trying to stay serious, but always softening for you.

Alexei declared you his daughter-in-law long before Yelena proposed.

“Why wait?” he said. “You’re already family.”

And it was true.

You and Yelena had found something most people spend a lifetime searching for.

Unconditional love.

Undeniable peace.

A life worth fighting for.

———————————————-——

Thank you so much for reading!!!💖

#yelena belova #marvel #thunderbolts #bucky barnes #ghost #mcu #red guardian #taskmaster #yelena belova x reader #yelena belova x plus size fem reader #yelena belova x you #yelena belova fanfiction #yelena belova fic #yelena x y/n #wlw fanfic

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ibettergetthisoffmychest · 6 years ago

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Sorry not sorry... (warning:PTSD/sexual abuse)

So I recently found out that my father died.

No, he hasn’t been in my life for a very, very long time- yet he loomed over it like a long, dark shadow for all these years.

You see, my dad was in prison for 37 years, convicted of Criminal Sexual Conduct in the First Degree. His victim? My then-2 year old baby sister.

He took over 100 polaroid pictures detailing his abuse, not only against my sister, but our family dog as well. I won’t go into any further detail but... Yeah, sickening. Trust me, I know.

I was the one who FOUND the pictures. And I REMEMBER. And I hate that I do.

I was 9, and visiting my dad for the weekend at his home. My parents had split up and my dad stayed in town at his job as a producer/Disc jockey at a radio station, while my mom took my sisters and I and moved 2 hrs away, back home.

During one of my visits, while my dad left me alone to run to work for a couple of hours (yes, people did that alot back in the 70′s and 80′s) I was in the bathroom about to shower and was looking under the cabinet for a bar of soap.. and found something else...

And then I found more. And more.... and even more...

I didn’t understand what I was seeing, but somehow I knew that whatever this was, it was very wrong. Evil. And I couldn’t get over how much the little girl in the pictures looked like my little sister...But my 9 yr old mind wouldn’t allow me to process the fact that this WAS my little sister. I didn’t understand any of this, but my guard was up. And when he came back home, I remember not wanting him to touch me. But I didn’t know why. He took me home the next day and I wouldn’t hug him. He told my mom that he didn’t think I was feeling well, but seemed very irritated with my sudden dismissiveness toward him. He left.

My mother knew something was wrong, and asked me repeatedly that night, but I was scared. I didn’t know how to explain it. I didn’t know how to explain the things I saw. I thought I was going to be in trouble for going through my father’s things. So I kept quiet for a few days. But I couldn’t get it out of my head. ANY of it. Whatever “it” was, because I didn’t know what it was. I knew nothing of sex, or what a male appendage looked like. When I say that I truly didn’t understand- I mean that, in the most literal sense of the word. Kids today learn of things so early. They hear things, they have the internet. I was sheltered. It was 1980 and the internet didn’t exist for us yet. I was unprepared, but felt I needed to tell her.

So I did... in the clearest, most literal way I could.

As you can imagine, it boggled her mind. Scrambled it, even. It took her a few minutes to process what it was that I was saying to her. To make sure that she was understanding what I was trying to relay to her. She turned flush faced and red all over, and left the room without a word and ran to the bathroom. I heard her sobbing out loud. My older sister asked me what I’d done.. I told her I didn’t know. i told her what I had just told my mother, and she immediately asked me WHY I said that-WHY did I have to make our mother cry.. I began crying. I still didn’t understand.. But I soon would..

My mother devised a plan to make my father believe that she was interested in reconciling. So she set up a visit with him one weekend, JUST she and him, when she knew he would have to go to work, at least for a little while.

As soon as she was sure he was gone, she began searching his house. She tore it apart. She found the pictures where I told her I’d found them. She found more under his bed. More in the back of the kitchen cabinets. She ran from the house to a neighbor’s home and asked them to take her to the police station.

As fate would have it, that same day, at the radio station where my father worked, the station manager went into my father’s office to look inside his desk for some paperwork that needed to be done, and found pictures in the back of his desk drawer. MORE pictures. The station manager called the police, who already had my mother at the station.

My father was arrested at work and jailed. He later bonded out of jail and ran to Florida, but was extradited back to our home state to face charges and stand trial. He was sentenced to life. And there he would stay, until he was too frail from injuries sustained in a prison fight to remain in General Population, and was sent to the medical wing where he continued to deteriorate.

In August of 2018 he was paroled to a state run nursing facility, bedridden, unable to speak. He died in October, but we weren’t notified due to some “clerical error” until March of 2019.

No, I didn’t “get to say goodbye”. I didn’t WANT to. And believe it or not, some people don’t understand that. They can’t understand the detachment. Some of those people are his family members. I had nothing left for this man by this point. He died alone in a hospital in an unfamiliar city and was cremated. And I’m not sorry. For this crime, and so many others he committed against me and mine- I’m NOT sorry.

#Survivor #ptsd

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