keirskeenknowledge

[keirskeenknowledge]

Apparently em dashes (—) are used a lot in AI writing?? Is that true?? Is that why I had someone literally think I use AI to write my stuff?? Because of my dashes and they think my writing is bad???

HELLO???? GUYS IM SO LOST RN

Y'all I'm over 30. I've been writing longer than this websites existed, and even LONGER still since generative AI really took off in 2022. I had to write in physical notebooks in my early years. I wrote on MYSPACE.

[keirskeenknowledge]

When the world’s quiet

Fandom: Avatar the Last Airbender.

Rating: General Audiences

Characters: Zuko, Sokka, Katara (mentioned), Toph (Mentioned), Aang (mentioned) 

Relationships: Zukka budding romance

Warnings: None

Genre: Fluff | Healing | Budding romance 

Language: English

Synopsis:

Following the defeat of Ozai, Zuko reflects on the heavy toll of victory, feeling the scars of battle both physical and emotional. He finds himself in the Fire Palace, a place once filled with the warmth of childhood now transformed into an echoing chamber of judgment and sorrow. As he recuperates from his injuries, he is reminded of the dangers he faced, and the difficult future he's up against in leading the fire Nation after a 100 years of occupation. As he grapples with feelings of pressure and responsibility he is visited by Sokka who gives him hope.

Requested by: Anon User

Word Count: 2333

        The end had come and gone. Ozai was a memory, a ghost locked in a cold cell, and the world had been dragged back from the brink. But victory was a bloody, bruised thing. Zuko felt it in his bones, in the searing map of his sister’s lightning across his chest. He got lucky. Lucky Katara was there with him. The thought was a constant, grounding refrain. Now, there was only the need for stillness, for a place to let the wounds both seen and unseen finally scar over. He had brought them here, to the one place he knew. And the last place he felt welcome. 

         The Fire Palace was a cavern of gilded silence. Each footfall on the polished obsidian floors wasn't a step, but an accusation. These corridors, once the backdrop of his childhood, now felt alien, their grandeur a suffocating weight. Shadows clung to the corners like mourners, weeping for the dynasty he had helped to shatter. Zuko could almost feel the palace’s judgment—a heavy, wordless reproach for the traitor prince who had led the enemy through its gates. There should have been a celebration. Instead, even the flames in the braziers seemed to shrink from his presence, their light as uncertain as his own claim to this throne.

         Stripped to the waist, Zuko sat in bed and winced as a healer slathered a foul-smelling salve over the raw, puckered skin on his torso. Katara’s healing had been a miracle, pulling him back from the precipice and leaving only the ghost of the lightning’s kiss. It was a shallow agony now, a constant, nagging reminder of how close he’d come.

        “You’ll live, Fire Lord Zuko,” the old woman said, her voice raspy but firm. “But you must rest for now.”

         The title landed like a blow. A muscle in his jaw jumped, a betrayal he couldn't suppress.

         A knowing, not unkind, smile touched the healer’s lips. “You’ll need to get used to it. All things considered.”

         He would get used to the title. He had to. With his father and Azula imprisoned, and his uncle unwilling to step up, the title of Fire Lord was his to bear. A lifetime ago, that honor had been the sun he orbited, the singular goal of his existence. Now, it just felt like a burden. Like a boulder trying to crush him flat. As the healer finished her work, wrapping his chest in clean bandages and getting him to lay down, the door slid open. Zuko turned his head, a flicker of hope for Katara, for his uncle, for anyone familiar, rising in his chest.

         It was Sokka. Not who he expected but Zuko needed a distraction. 

         Sokka was a mess of controlled chaos, leaning heavily on a crutch, his splinted leg wrapped thick with bandages. A flutter of pure, unadulterated panic seized Zuko’s heart. He knew there would be injuries, war demanded them, but seeing it etched so plainly on his friend made the victory feel hollow. He tried to sit up straighter, and the burn on his chest screamed in protest.

        “Evening, Fire Lord Hotshot,” Sokka said. The lopsided grin was firmly in place, a stark contrast to the exhaustion that had carved new lines around his eyes. He somehow managed to swing into the room balancing a lidded soup bowl in his free hand. After setting it on the bedside table with a soft clink, he looked Zuko up and down. “You know, for a guy who’s so good at throwing fire, you’re pretty susceptible to it.”

          Zuko’s retort was automatic, a reflex honed over weeks of travel. “And for a man whose only weapon is a boomerang, you’re terrible at dodging.”

         Sokka’s grin widened. “You got me there.” He nodded toward the bowl. The steam rising from it carried a savory scent. “Five-Flavor soup. Katara said someone should make sure you eat today.”

        “And you volunteered?” Zuko asked, a smirk playing on his own lips.

         Sokka’s bravado faltered for a half-second. He glanced at the healer, who took the silent cue, bowing to Zuko before quietly exiting the room. The moment the door slid shut, the energy in the room shifted.

        “No,” Sokka said, the word suddenly quiet. He lowered himself carefully onto the edge of the bed. “I, uh… I didn’t just come to bring you soup.” He stared at his hands. “Katara told me what happened. How you got hurt.” His eyes lifted, meeting Zuko’s, and they were stripped of all humor. “You took a bolt for her. You saved her life.”

         Zuko just shrugged, the movement pulling at his bandages. “I didn’t think. I just… moved.”

        “Yeah, well. That’s what heroes do,” Sokka murmured, a faint echo of his grin returning. “And idiots. Guess you’re a bit of both.”

         The unexpected honesty of it forced a laugh from Zuko’s chest, a sharp, painful burst of sound. “You got me there,” he echoed, his voice rough. “How is she?”

        “Sleeping I hope,” Sokka’s expression softened. “She’s been helping the healers with everyone. She’s tougher than you, you know. Didn’t even complain.”

        Zuko snorted, a fresh wave of pain making him wince. “She didn’t take a lightning bolt to the chest and get a sneak peek at the spirit world.” He meant it as a joke, a deflection, but Sokka’s gaze fell to the white bandages wrapped around his torso. The humor bled from the room again, replaced by the smell of the burn salve.

       “Does it… hurt?” Sokka asked, his voice barely a whisper.

        Zuko met his friend’s worried eyes and gave him the only truth he had left. “Only when I breathe.”

       “I’m sorry.”

        “It’s not your fault, Sokka.” Zuko held his gaze.

        The silence that followed was heavy, thick with things neither of them knew how to say. A space where unspoken things gathered like dust motes in a sunbeam, each trying to read the other in the quiet aftermath of their shared near-death. Vulnerability was a language they were both still learning.

        “How’s your leg?” Zuko’s voice was raspy, cutting through the stillness. It felt like a debt, asking after Sokka’s well-being when the other boy had shown him such unguarded concern. But it was more than that. The question was a fragile, tentative thing—a proof of his own burgeoning care.

        “Oh, you know. It’s definitely broken.” Sokka sighed, the sound heavy with resignation as he wiggled his toes. “Katara says I got lucky. Clean break. A month of this cast and her nagging should do it. Not like I can do much anyway.” He shrugged, a gesture that seemed too small for his usual theatrics. “Honestly? I feel like I could sleep for a year.”

       “A sentiment we all share, I’m sure.”

        A dry chuckle escaped Sokka. “Think they’ll let us?”

       “You? Maybe,” Zuko countered, a faint ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Me? My coronation is in two weeks. I don’t think ‘Fire Lord’ comes with vacation days.”

        “Fire Lord Zuko.” Sokka tested the words, his voice suddenly stripped of its usual jest. “How does that feel?”

        The title landed like a physical weight. Zuko’s gaze unfocused, the lacquered beams of the ceiling dissolving into the throne room. He saw his father’s cruel, smiling face wreathed in white-hot fire, felt the crushing legacy of a hundred years of war, of genocide, pressing down on his shoulders. A nation built on ashes, and he was supposed to make it whole. To undo all that damage.

        “Heavy,” he finally breathed, “Like I’m trying to wear armor built for an armadillo bear.”

        “So, you’re scared,” Sokka stated. It wasn't a question, it was a solid observation.

        Zuko’s eyes flickered from the ceiling back to Sokka, the raw admission catching in his throat. He could only nod, the movement stiff. “I’m terrified.”

        “Good.”

        The sincerity in that single word was so jarring it made Zuko flinch. “Good?” he repeated, incredulous, staring at Sokka as if he’d sprouted a second head.

        Sokka’s lips quirked, not his usual boisterous grin, but something softer, more earnest. “Okay, that came out wrong. But you being scared… It means you care. It means you won’t be like him.” He held Zuko’s gaze, his blue eyes unwavering. “That’s the best kind of scared to be.”

        Zuko’s chest ached, a feeling entirely separate from his wound. “And you? Are you the best kind of scared?”

        “Nope,” Sokka quipped, the familiar mask of humor sliding back into place. “I’m the ‘babble incoherently until someone shoves a rice cake in my mouth’ kind of scared.”

        A laugh erupted from Zuko, sharp and sudden, forcing him to clutch at his bandaged chest. “Ow—don’t make me laugh.” As the laughter subsided into a quiet warmth, he looked at Sokka, the vulnerability returning. “Do you think… do you think I’ll be a good Fire Lord?”

        “You’re already better than the last one,” Sokka said, his levity softening into reassurance. “That’s a good start.”

        Zuko ducked his head, a curtain of black hair hiding the sudden heat in his cheeks. “Thanks,” he mumbled, his voice thick.

        Sensing the shift, Sokka leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He didn’t want to distress Zuko Further with thoughts of Ozai. “So, what happens now? To uh, To the Gaang I mean,” He asks, “The war’s over. Katara wants to travel, see the world without having to run from it. Probably offer aid like she always does…I think Aang’s going with her. And Toph is talking about opening a metalbending school, which I’m pretty sure is just an excuse to beat people up.” He laughed, but it faded quickly, leaving a contemplative quiet. “And me… I guess I could go back home. Or… I could stay.” He finally looked at Zuko, his offer hanging in the air, fragile and hopeful. “If you needed a strategist. Or, you know, a guy who’s really good with a boomerang.”

        “I’d like that,” Zuko said, the words rushing out before he could second-guess them. “If you stayed.” The admission was a raw nerve. “I used to think I worked best alone. But after… after all this… I don’t think I can do that anymore. I don’t want to be alone again.”

        “Then I’ll stay.” Sokka’s hand moved, covering Zuko’s where it lay on the silken sheets. The touch was electric. For a moment, Sokka seemed as surprised by his own action as Zuko was, a dark blush creeping up his neck. Zuko’s gaze dropped to their joined hands, feeling the rough, familiar calluses of a warrior’s fingers intertwined with his own. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic rhythm he prayed only he could hear. Neither moved to pull away. The silence was an answer in itself.

       “So, I’ll stay.” he repeats, quieter now. “Maybe help you with… you know, rebuilding plans.” A shy, almost playful edge crept into Sokka’s voice, but it was thin, stretched taut over a current of worry. As if he’d already said and done too much. “And hey, if it all gets too heavy? If you want to make a run for it? I’m your guy. Master of getaways. We did escape the boiling rock together after all.”

       A genuine laugh escaped Zuko’s lips, a sound so foreign and light it startled him. Heat bloomed across his cheeks, creeping to the tips of his ears. He could feel the warmth of his own skin, a stark contrast to the cool, steady pressure of Sokka’s hand still holding his. When he met Sokka’s gaze, the playful glint was gone, replaced by an unnerving softness. Sokka’s eyes weren’t just looking at him; they were searching, mapping the lines of his face, the shadows beneath his eyes, dipping to the stark white of the bandage on his chest. A silent question lingered in their blue depths, something vulnerable and raw that made Zuko’s breath catch.

      “Zuko…” Sokka began, his name a quiet exhale.

       The sharp slide of the shoji door shattered the moment.

       The healer stepped inside, her gaze flicking from Zuko’s face to Sokka’s, then landing on their joined hands. A small, knowing smile touched her lips. In a clumsy, tangled motion, they yanked their hands apart, a sudden coldness rushing into the space their palms had occupied.

       “Am I interrupting?” the woman asked, her tone gentle, but it did nothing to cool the flush that now burned on both their faces.

       “Nope!” Sokka’s voice was an octave too high a familiar quirk that made Zuko snort. “No. We were just uh, discussing… future plans. For the Fire Nation.” It hadn’t been a complete lie.. 

         The healer’s laugh was a quiet, rustling sound. She didn’t believe a word of it, and they knew it. “As noble as that is,” she said, moving to check the bandages by Zuko’s bedside, “the Fire Lord needs his rest. And you, Sokka of the Water Tribe, need to report to the infirmary for your own healing session.”

         Sokka let out a put-upon sigh, but the fight had gone out of him. He pushed himself to his feet. “Yes, ma’am.” He hesitated, his eyes finding Zuko’s again, a whole unspoken conversation passing between them in a single glance. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said, his voice dropping back to that serious, quiet tone. “Make sure you eat.” He nods his chin to the covered bowl on the table. 

        “Yeah,” Zuko managed, his throat tight. “I’ll be here. Thanks for bringing me the food Sokka” 

         He watched as Sokka offered one last, small smile before turning and hobbling out of the room. The weight of the crown, the suffocating sense of being an imposter in his own home, settled back onto Zuko’s shoulders. But it was different now. Lighter. The crushing pressure was still there, but it no longer felt like his alone to bear. He was not defined by the ghosts in this palace, not anymore. He had Sokka, and…the other members of the gaang. And for the first time, that felt like enough.

[keirskeenknowledge]

Would you be willing to do a post-canon ATLA Zukka oneshot? I’m thinking it’s immediately post-finale and they’re both pretty much confined to the fire palace while Sokka’s leg and Zuko’s lightning wound heal, so they just hang out together.

INDEED! I love ATLA thanks for the request Anon!

It's done and found here: LINK

[keirskeenknowledge]

how it felt to watch john walker HURL himself in front of bucky to shield him from bullets during their fight against sentry

[keirskeenknowledge]

Not her looking horrified at Bob, The sweet soul she met in that damn vault, turn into a puppet for someone else.

thunderbolts* | 2025

[keirskeenknowledge]

John Walker is a Pillow princess with a serious praise kink. Send tweet

[keirskeenknowledge]

Im so excited for this thunderbolts fic like Ahhh the anticipation. (Im not trying to rush you i just wanted to say i appreciate the artistic process and I love your writing ahahahahah)

Aahhh thanks Nonny. Work has been kicking my ass and I keep squinting at the what I write like "is this good or am I just sleep deprived?"

[keirskeenknowledge]

Someone requested John looking after Ava and Yelena and it has gotten rather wordy. Whoops

[keirskeenknowledge]

I thought I could handle it

Here you go you little weirdos I beat up poor Bob for you.

_

Fandom: Marvel Thunderbolts

Rating: General Audience

Characters: Alexei Shostakov, Ava Starr, Bob Reynolds, Bucky Barnes, John Walker, Yelena Belova

Relationships: None

Warnings: Description of bodily injuries.

Genre: Angst | WHUMP

Synopsis: Bob wanting to prove himself to his team convinces them to let him track down a dangerous fugitive alone. This leads him into a battle with a powerful sorcerer, who effortlessly blocks his attacks with magical barriers. Bob, inexperienced and over-reliant on his seeming complete invulnerability, charges recklessly, only to be met with magic that bypasses his defenses. Left broken and bleeding, Bob is found by his teammates, who rush to his aid.

Language: English

He was invincible, or so Bob and his team believed.

So, when a dangerous target was trying to escape, Bob, in a rare manic state, offered to go after them as his team secured the hostages. After assuring the others he could do this, that they had taught him well and that he had his invulnerability, they agreed to let him go. Bob was ecstatic that he was able to do something to actually help, outside the rare household chore, and those famous last words echo in his mind as he follows behind the one responsible for the chaos:

What could possibly go wrong?

As Bob catches up to the target, he goes to land a punch, but his fist is stopped in mid-air by a shimmering wall of magic. He froze for a second. He'd never fought a magic user before. His opponent seemed to notice his panic and grinned at him, a dark promise of pain to come. With a flick of the wrist, Bob was sent flying backwards, knocking over a few trash cans and landing hard on his back. The attack had stunned him for a second but didn’t hurt. Bob pushes himself back on his feet and charges the magic user again.

As they collided, the energy in the surrounding area shifted, each blow Bob tried to land was masterfully blocked by a shimmering wall of magic. As Bob stumbles back after another failed attack, the magic user finally decides to switch to the offensive. For the first time since getting his powers, Bob experienced pain. Violet bolts of energy whizzed around him, some missing their mark, a few he pushed away with his telekinesis, but most piercing into his skin. Bob had been familiar with pain for as long as he could remember, but this was worse than anything he felt. It was a tearing, a burning that went deeper than flesh, it made his movements slow and his head foggy. Like the bolts weren’t only causing wounds but draining his energy.

As his energy waned, his foe was merciless. A whip, forged from what looked like a living flame, lashed out, cracking against Bob’s chest. Each strike stole his breath, leaving trails of fire dancing across his usually impervious skin. The smell of ozone and something akin to burnt sugar filled the air. Bob’s team flashed in his mind. They were counting on him to deal with this threat. He couldn't let them down, but he was losing ground quickly. Any attempt to advance was met with that flame-like whip and an invisible force that yanked him around like a puppet on strings.

"You... you won’t… won’t get away" Bob gasped, stumbling, his vision blurring at the edges. The world tilted and he fell to his knees.

“This was an adorable attempt,” the sorcerer said, letting out a low chuckle. “But you and your ‘New Avengers’ are out of your depth.”

The New Avengers. His team. His friends. The people who had seen him at his worst and had pulled him out of that dark place. He was letting them down. He was making things worse… Bob let out a shuddering breath, spitting out blood he once more pushed himself to his feet. All he needed was one good hit… Just one.. He charged forward, ignoring the protests of his muscles, the burning in his veins. Just one Hit. He anticipated the whip and the violet bolts of energy. He got closer, ready to grab the man’s jacket. But Bob failed to see the new spell forming. The air crackled around them, an unseen power pulsed between them and made the hairs on the back of Bob's neck stand up. That’s when he noticed the orb, the size of a fist and glowing white-hot.

“You are a fool, Bob Reynolds. You and the rest of those washed-up wannabes are playing at being heroes. You will never be more than nothing,” the Sorcerer's tone had gone from mocking condescension into a chilling certainty. “Killing you will do the world a service.” The orb shot forward, and Bob threw his hands up in front of him, trying to stop it. But along with the bone-deep pain, doubt had trickled into Bob’s mind, cutting him off from the full power of the Sentry.

The orb strikes Bob square in the chest.

There was no sound, not at first. Just a quiet detonation of pure force that vaporized the surrounding air. Then the pain. Oh the pain! He’d never felt agony quite so enveloping, tearing through every cell of his body, stripping away his invulnerability layer by painful layer. He was so consumed by it, he didn’t even realize he was screaming. He was flung backwards, a broken doll tossed aside, crashing through a brick wall with a sickening thud that resonated deep in his bones. Dust and debris rained down on him. He lay there, amidst the rubble, the world a spinning chaotic mess of blurred colors and muffled sounds. He tried to move, to push himself up, but his limbs wouldn't obey. A coppery taste filled his mouth.

“I.. can’t.. Let you get away…” Bob rasped, his voice so soft it couldn’t be heard by anyone else. Much less the sorcerer who’d made a portal in the alley and slipped through it.

_

Ava’s head snapped back, her eyes wide. “Did you all hear that?”

A cold dread, sharp and sudden, pierced through Yelena. “I don’t like the sound of that.” Her voice was tight, a coiled spring of anxiety. “Come on, the hostages are secure.” She gestured, a frantic, jerky movement, urging the New Avengers out. Why did they send Bob alone? The question clawed at her, a frantic bird trapped in her chest. He was the Sentry, a titan in the making, but he was also inexperienced and didn’t seem to like the idea of hurting others…

The alley air, thick with the stench of something acrid, hit them like a physical blow. And then they saw him. The sight punched the air from Yelena’s lungs. Bob. A broken doll tossed amidst the jagged teeth of a decimated brick wall, his form a grotesque splash of crimson and gold against the muted grays and browns of the debris. The sheer, brutal efficiency of the assault was etched into his stillness, a silent, screaming testament to the violence that had exploded here, then vanished. He shouldn’t have gone alone… The thought was a lead weight in Yelena’s stomach.

“Bob?” The name was a breath, a wisp of sound, as Yelena started forward. Each step was a lifetime, the distance between them an elastic band, stretched taut with a rising, suffocating panic. “BOB?!” The yell tore from her, raw and ragged, as she broke into a desperate run. Behind her, the others surged, a wave of grim-faced determination. Ava and John, weapons drawn, their muzzles scanning the oppressive shadows, hungry for a target. John’s jaw was a knot of barely suppressed fury, his knuckles white on the grip of his sidearm. He looked like he was praying for the culprit to reappear.

Yelena skidded to her knees beside Bob, the rough concrete biting into her skin. Her hands, trembling, reached for him, rolling him onto his back with a gentleness that belied the storm raging within her. The others fanned out around them in a tight, protective circle.

“Вот дерьмо…” The Russian curse escaped Yelena’s lips, a shocked exhalation. The full extent of his injuries slammed into her with the force of a physical blow. A constellation of bruises, angry and purple, marred his skin. Puncture wounds and cuts, dark O’s, wept blood. Burns, puckered and raw, painted trails of agony across his torso. And then she saw the worst of it, a deep stab wound in his chest just under his sternum.

“How did this happen?!” Alexei’s voice was a gravelly mix of outrage and disbelief. Bob. Their walking fortress, their supposed paragon of invincibility, rumored to possess the strength of the original Avengers combined, now a broken figure in a rapidly spreading pool of his own blood, his breath a shallow, rattling thing.

“We can worry about the ‘how’ later,” Ava’s voice was a whip crack, cutting through the stunned silence. “He’s hurt badly. We have to get him out of here and back to the tower.”

A shudder ran through Bob’s frame. His eyelids fluttered open, revealing dull, pain-filled orbs. “It’s… it’s my fault.” His voice was a wet, gurgling whisper, each word an effort. “I… I failed. I should’ve been able to catch him.”

“No, no Bob.” Bucky was there, kneeling, his voice a low rumble of reassurance, though his eyes, scanning the horrific tableau of injuries, betrayed his shock. “This isn’t your fault. We should have sent one of us with you.” The unspoken question hung heavy in the air: how to move him without inflicting further damage.

Bob’s head moved, a weak, jerky motion on the rubble-strewn ground, his hair matted with sweat, dust, and something darker. "I should've been stronger. I let the team down." A fresh wave of despair washed over his face. "I... I can't even feel my legs."

“Easy, Bob,” John’s voice, surprisingly gentle, cut through the charged air. "We'll get you out of here. You've taken a hell of a beating, but we'll get you patched up in no time."

“Dad, Ava, help me lift him,” Yelena commanded. The crimson stain on the ground was spreading, a morbid tide. There was no time for a 'perfect plan'. They needed to move, now. Carefully, oh so carefully, they gathered him, their movements slow, deliberate. Yet, as they shifted his weight, a pathetic whimper, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony, was wrenched from Bob’s lips, a fresh jolt of pain tearing through his ravaged body.

“We’ll get him back home,” Ava said, her voice tight, glancing over her shoulder at Bucky and John. “You two see if that Sorcerer is still in the area.”

“Gladly,” John’s reply was a low growl, his eyes burning with a cold, hard light.

“We’ll get it done,” Bucky affirmed, his gaze fixed on Bob’s pale face. “Take care of him.” With them having their new objectives, the team separated. John and Bucky to track down any trace of where the rogue Sorcerer went, and the other’s to get Bob back to the tower.

[keirskeenknowledge]

Y'all really want me to WHUMP the poor retriever of the thunderbolts huh? You monsters.

Chances are I'm going to hurt them all at some point (Especially John Walker) but the people have spoken.

Time to beat up poor Bob

A poll that is based on the previous poll asking if y'all want me to write someone getting badly injured.

Let me write Angst.

[keirskeenknowledge]

Can we please please please get some yelena and team angst???? I loved thunderbolts so so much but considering everyone was hurting it kinda felt like only Bob got shown love at the end? So like the team talking to her about the whole "walking into the void" thing or just a later date her being a little low and needing some comfort? Maybe like, how each team member reacts to that? Thank you so so so much I look forward to getting to read your thunderbolts content <3 <3

Also side note I saw you dont write romantic pairings for canonically aroace charecters and Idk if you know but yelena is aroace? According to her creator \o/ just in case you didnt know.

Yes. YYYEEEEESSSSSSS.

*Eagle Screeches*

And yes I know Yelena is AroAce. I do tend to not write these kinds of character in romantic ships because, while a lot of AroAce people enter relationships, each person had their own unique reason for doing so. I might do a romantic ship for an AroAce Character in the future if I find a valid reason for it.

___

A check in and a promise

Fandom: MCU Thunderbolts

Rating;

Characters: Yelena Belova, Alexei Shostakov

Ships: None

Genre: Hurt/comfort, Cozy

Warnings/triggers: Brief Mentions of suicidal thoughts and tendencies

Synopsis;

The new Avengers team begins to establish themselves within the old tower shortly after saving the city. There was a palpable need for them to stay close together, a sentiment expressed by Yelena, who understood that the team members were grappling with their troubled pasts. The recent traumatic events in the void has left them vulnerable, and the desire to ensure each other's safety is apparent in the small gestures.

In the midst of these adjustments, Yelena found solace in a seemingly simple moment with her father, Alexei, as they share a meal and confronted the weight of the past. Their conversation was laced with grief, regret, and the healing power of family, with hope for the future. 

___

The old Avengers tower was still under renovations when the new Avengers had moved in. 'From now on we stay together' it hadn't just been aimed at Bob when Yelena said that. They all needed to remain close. To keep each other safe. And some of them had no where else to go, their pasts trailing after them like shadows. The past week had been an uneasy mix of camaraderie and silence, an atmosphere thick with unspoken words. The press had flocked to the tower, cameras flashing and reporters clamoring for attention, while heartfelt letters of gratitude poured in from across the city. Yet, amidst the chaos, they were all still learning how to function as a cohesive unit. It was genuinely overwhelming.

Each member of the team cast furtive glances at one another, eyes laden with concern, a silent inquiry into whether everyone was truly okay. The events that had transpired in the void had been harrowing, stripping them bare and exposing their deepest regrets and pains. Yelena had borne the brunt of those stares; after all, she had walked into the Void, her fate uncertain, risking death for a man she barely knew. Something had to change; the tension in the air was palpable, a pressure cooker ready to burst.

Yelena's room smelled of fresh paint and sawdust. She sat cross legged on the floor, reading the instruction for her new Guinea pig enclosure. Her new friend was munching happily on some veggie she had gotten him from the kitchen. She still had to come up with a name for him...

"Might I come in little one?" Alexei's voice sounded from outside Yelena's door.

"Yes, dad the door is open." She called back finishing up the final touches on the Guinea Pig cage. The door swung open and in walked Alexei, plate in hand. As he enters the room his smile fades seeing the photo of Natasha Yelena had taped to the wall. Her only decoration so far, not counting the cage and weapons neatly laid out on the makeshift desk.

"You missed the lunch call," Alexei said putting the plate down and letting out a booming laugh when he realizes how his daughter was eyeing the plate suspiciously. "Do not worry. It wasn't me who made this. It was Walker."

"Walker cooks?" Yelena sounds incredulous as her father sits down beside her on the floor, his large shoulders roll in a shrug.

"I am surprised as you. But it is good, has flavor even," Alexei nudges the plate closer to Yelena's knee. "Eat, eat. Or I will eat it for you."

"Along with the plate no doubt," Yelena laughs as she picks up the fork. She tries the food, and to her shock it is actually very good. Not that she'd ever tell John that. She slowly chews, and Alexei is courteous enough to give her some time to enjoy eating. But the way he's regarding her makes Yelena's skin itch. Alexei folds his arms and takes a deep breath:

"Why did you do it Yelena? Walk into the void? You didn't know if you were coming back."

She stiffened, fork poised halfway to her mouth. The silence now was brittle. “Someone had to,” she muttered, voice low, "someone had to take the risk to get through to Bob."

“Not good enough,” Alexei said he takes a slow shaking breath. "Was.. was it me?" The fraying in his voice was something Yelena had never heard before. She looks at him eyes wide as she puts her fork down and pushes the plate as aide. Alexei wasn't obviously thinking of what she had told him before walking into the void. About being so alone, about how she had no one, that he didn't care enough about her to call.

"No.. Daddy no it wasn't you," Her eyes flicked up to the photo of Natasha on the wall before returning to her father. "It was so much that happened. Things just piled up, I can't say it didn't hurt when you didn't call but.. you weren't the reason I felt so.. lost."

"But I was a part of the reason wasn't I?" Alexei follows Yelena's gaze to the photo, but unlike Yelena he didn't look away from his eldest daughter's photo, "I did not mean to leave you alone. I.. truly thought you didn't want me. After all that had happened.. after I.. gave you girls away." Yelena leans into Alexei, there's a pain in her chest that grew more intense with every word spoken between them. "I am so sorry Yelena. I was always trying to do what I thought you wanted. But I was wrong I should have called."

"You have your own demons, dad," Yelena says quietly. She wasn't the only one in mourning. The only one in pain, drowning in regrets and having hit rock bottom. "You shouldn't have to fight mine to."

"Yelena. That is what family does," Alexei said firmly. He takes one of her hands in his, squeezing it, "I am here now. I promise I am here. And I will make sure that you know you are not alone. And them," he nods at the door indicating the other going about their business, making the tower a home, "They are rough around edges, with history of bad choices, being tricked by other, and all have a sack of regrets but.. I feel they will also be there for you. Especially Sentry. He is like lost sad puppy."

Yelena smiles, feeling the tears prick the back of her eyes. But the tears aren't purely from sadness. Some of it is relief, some of it gratitude. Alexei kisses the top of Yelena's head

"Please finish eating. You also missed breakfast, Ava noticed." Alexei pats Yelena's arm and stands up. "We are all here for you my girl. You are not the only one who can be depended on."

"Thanks Dad, and thank you for plating food for me."

"It wasn't me. Again that," Alexei points at the plate, "All John Walker. He does not say he is worried or that he cares, but he does. Action is more his language. We have that in common." Yelena makes a face but can't help the smile. After making her dad promise he wouldn't try and get Bob to fly or use telekinesis again, Alexei left and Yelena could enjoy her lunch in peace.

"Is this how it felt? When you were with the Avengers?" Yelena questions the photo. Which of course makes no reply. "I hope so.. this.. this is nice. I get why you wanted to stay with them. Hopefully we can live up to your legacy. Or at least a close second."

[keirskeenknowledge]

When someone gives you angst to write

[keirskeenknowledge]

Reminder that I do take requests ~

[keirskeenknowledge]

A poll that is based on the previous poll asking if y'all want me to write someone getting badly injured.

Let me write Angst.

[keirskeenknowledge]

I'll keep that in mind

Fandom: MCU Thunderbolts

Rating: General audiences

Characters: John Walker, Bob Reynolds

Ships: can be interpreted as VoidWalker but wasn't really written with that in mind.

Genre: slice of life, cozy,

Possible triggers? None.

Synopsis

Bob Reynolds, struggling with the weight of his powers and the chaos they can unleash, dedicates himself to the New Avengers by focusing on simple, everyday tasks within the Tower. His quiet efforts attract the attention of John Walker, who enters the laundry room with a playful demeanor, attempting to lighten the mood and check on Bob's mental state. However, as they engage in light banter, Bob's hidden turmoil comes to the forefront as he confronts his past actions under the influence of the Void, revealing his guilt and fear of having harmed his teammates.

___

The door creaked open, and John Walker stepped in, a figure of casual confidence against the backdrop of Bob’s quiet turmoil. The New Avengers had taken to checking in on Bob, ensuring he was ‘doing okay,’ and today, it seemed, it was John’s turn for the task. Bob couldn’t imagine any other reason for John to enter the little laundry room. Leaning against the wall with arms crossed, a half-smirk played on his lips, a stark contrast to the heaviness that hung in the air.

“Well, if it isn’t the Sentry,” John drawled, his voice laced with that signature edge of cocky charm. “Avenger, powerhouse, laundry connoisseur. Didn’t think folding t-shirts and pairing socks was part of the gig.”

Bob glanced over his shoulder, a faint, almost shy smile tugging at his lips, "Hey, someone’s gotta do it,” he replied softly, a hint of playfulness in his tone. “we can't all be out there punching bad guys.”

John chuckled, stepping further into the room. “Yeah, but this? Feels like you’re overachieving. Next thing I know, you’ll be baking cookies for the team.”

Bob let out a quiet, genuine laugh, a sound so rare it almost startled John and something about the older man's eyes softened. But as quickly the laughter started it faded. Unbeknownst to the team Bob had remembered more of the day that Void took over. What he'd let loose. How Void had hurt the few people that showed any interest in his well being.. Bob’s eyes dropped to the shirt in his hands, and his movements slowed. The hum of the dryer seemed louder now, more discordant, filling the silence that stretched between them.

“I hurt you,” Bob said suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper, the words fragile and raw. The shame he felt clawed at him, memories of the shame rooms creeping back in broad, disjointed strokes. He'd caused so much grief.. His darker half.

John blinked, the teasing grin slipping from his face. “What?”

Bob turned, his blue eyes locking onto John’s. “When… when the Void was loose,” Bob continued, his voice cracking under the weight of his confession. “The details are still fuzzy. But I hurt all of you. I know I did. I could… I could feel it. I couldn't control it. I wanted to. Please know I wanted to—I—”

“Hey. Hey,” John stepped closer, the distance between them collapsing. He reached out, squeezing Bob’s shoulder gently, a lifeline thrown into the turbulent waters of his shame. Carefully, John turned Bob to face him, though the younger man’s eyes remained cast down at the shirt crumpled in his fists. “None of us blame you for what happened in that abyss of despair, alright?” His tone was gentle but firm, a steady anchor. “Void was a force of chaos, feeding on the years of shit you’ve been through. And last I checked, you were right there with us through all of that.”

“We were in my mind, Walker,” Bob's voice strained against the weight of his emotions. “It was MY mind! I could feel everything Void was doing, manipulating it to restrain and hurt you guys, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. Do you know how scary that is? To just have no control?”

John lets out a slow heavy sigh. "Yeah.. yeah I know what that's like." He squeezes Bob's shoulder a little tighter before letting his hand drop. "After my friend was killed I was so angry.. someone had to pay. Didn't matter who. So in a blind rage I killed the one guy I could get my hands on. And for a moment... I felt.. vindicated. Like I'd dispensed justice. But after that vindication faded..." John trails off. Bob is giving him that soft sympathetic look that made John's chest ache for a reason he couldn't fully explain. John didn't want pity, maybe some understanding but... he quickly pushed onwards so the conversation didn't stay on him.

"I'm just saying I get it, but none of us blame you. It would be hypocritical if we DID. You don't have to beat yourself up about it Bob," John said a reassuring smile appearing. Bob is still looking at him carefully, as if trying to ascertain some of what was in John's head by taking in his features. God the younger man could turn into a fearsome poker player.... The blond shifts on the balls of his feet not liking how the silence is heavier and the focus is on him now.

"Your friend.. what was his name?" John felt suddenly like he was suffocating.

"Lemar. Lemar Hoskins."

"Lemar." Bob repeats the man's name as if trying to commit it to memory. He smiled at John, "I know you might not be ready now but.. if you ever want to talk about him, I'd love to hear stories about him."

Despite the kindness and good intentions, John felt like Bob kicked him in the chest. It ached and felt tighter than before. Each breath stung like he was sucking in ice water.

"Thanks," it was all John could manage for a long second. The dryer's buzz cut through the tension and Bob jumped at the sound letting out a nervous little laugh. "I'll let you get back to your very important work for the team," John was happy to have an out and slinked to the door as Bob turned to unload the dryer.

"And.. Bob?"

"Yeah ?"

"If you ever want to talk about what we saw in your Rooms... I honestly don't know how much help I'll be but I'll listen," John glances back at Bob. For a second the you get man looks painfully sad, and a little anxious but he shakes it off.

"Thanks John. I'll keep that in mind."

[keirskeenknowledge]

[keirskeenknowledge]

Sad thoughts of the day staring 1 (one) asshole:

You know how John straight up THREW himself in front of Bucky to protect him from the bullets that were ricocheted back at him?

It was because of what happened with Lamar. John refused to be made to stand by helplessly again and watch as someone else possible gets killed.