rosedaie

[rosedaie]

THE FABULOUS FOUR

( aka the soft boy supers in apartment 4A)

( Johnny Storm, Bob Reynolds, Peter Parker & Clark Kent end up sharing an apartment in NYC)

Yes, it’s DC x Marvel. No I don’t care. No warnings or angst. Only vibes and himbos.

The apartment doesn’t look like the pictures.

It had appeared spacious and large and well-off for the price. Cleaner, wider. Now it was filled with what could only be described as Boy-Junk-Bachelor-Apparel. The makings of a probably lost to time frat boy? Who hadn’t understood the true price and location of an apartment such as this.

For one, it smells like someone recently microwaved eggs in a mug. For another, it’s too quiet. Not horror-movie quiet, but like... sleeping dog quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you tiptoe even if you don’t know why.

Peter hesitates in the hallway, one overstuffed duffel bag digging into his shoulder, the other dragging against his ankle with the sad, floppy sound of wheels that don’t roll correctly. He’s pretty sure his left sock is damp, and he’s not emotionally ready to investigate that.

The address was right. The building number is right. The location? Perfect for after hours super activities! The key—sent in a weirdly glittery envelope with a smiley face sticker on it—works. But the guy he’s supposed to meet, the “Johnny Storm” from the listing, isn’t answering his texts.

Or his email.

Or his very polite voicemail that he rehearsed three times before actually leaving.

So. Cool. Perfect.

Peter pushes the door open slowly, half expecting music or movement or at least the sound of a video game menu screen humming in the distance.

Instead: silence.

And then, just as he’s about to backtrack and reevaluate every life decision that led him here, a voice from the far end of the apartment calls out—soft, slow, almost apologetic.

“You���re early.”

Peter blinks. A lithe, vaguely disheveled man stands near the hallway that leads to what looks like the kitchen. He’s holding a mug with a chipped rim and wearing a sweater that’s too big in the sleeves. His hair is sleep-mussed in a way that looks natural, not styled, and his eyes are kind. Tired, but kind.

“Oh—uh, yeah,” Peter says quickly. “Sorry. I can come back if—”

“No, it’s fine. You’re Peter?”

“Yeah. Peter Parker. I’m here about the room?” He adjusts the strap on his duffel, heart doing that irritating am I intrudingflutter.

The man nods slowly. “I’m Bob.”

“Bob…?”

A pause. “Just Bob.”

“Oh. Cool. Like Madonna.” Peter mentally kicks himself the second it’s out of his mouth.

But Bob just smiles a little and says, “More like... Bob.”

Okay. Great. Mysterious roommates. Love that for me.

Peter steps further into the apartment, letting the door click softly shut behind him. It’s surprisingly warm. A little cluttered—books on the windowsill, an open cereal box on the counter, a plant that may or may not be alive perched crookedly on top of the fridge—but it feels…lived in. Not in a gross way. In a blankets-on-the-couch-and-no-one-judges-you-for-eating-cereal-at-midnight way.

“I thought I was meeting Johnny?” Peter asks, shifting his bag as Bob leads him toward the narrow living room. A sagging couch sits under the window, flanked by a crooked floor lamp and an IKEA shelf that’s clearly been assembled by someone with overconfidence and zero patience.

“You are,” Bob says, settling back onto the arm of the couch with his mug. “He’s out. Probably buying lightbulbs and forgetting why halfway through. He’ll be back.”

“Oh. Okay. Cool. He mentioned you in the email?” Peter lies. Johnny’s email was mostly emojis and a photo of the apartment’s “vibe,” which was just a selfie of Johnny in sunglasses drinking from a mason jar. Caption: 🏡 LIVE YOUR DREAM — low rent, big windows, ✨ great energy ✨. No narcs. Must love breakfast.

“Did he?” Bob raises an eyebrow and sips his drink. “That’s generous of him.”

Peter squints. “So…how long have you lived here?”

“A week.”

Peter blinks. “Oh.”

“I thought the ad was a joke,” Bob continues. 

“But I showed up and there was a key under the mat, and a note that said ‘hope you’re chill 💛’ and…well. I didn’t have a better option.”

Peter lets out a laugh before he can stop himself. It’s short, surprised. “Yeah. That’s about the level of professionalism I got too.”

They lapse into silence for a beat, but it’s not uncomfortable. Just…muted. Like the room is still warming up to him.

Then, just as Peter’s about to ask if it’s okay for him to drop his bags in the den—or “the cozy alcove with rustic potential” as Johnny described it in the ad—there’s a loud bang as the front door swings open, and in walks the human embodiment of a Too Hot Day at the Beach.

The idiot looks like he should be someone mildly offensive on that Love Island show —- that Peter Totally Hasn’t Watched?

Johnny Storm looks exactly like his email signature suggested. Sunglasses (inside), button-down shirt open over a ribbed tank top, jeans intentionally ripped in precisely three places, and the casual arrogance of someone who has never paid full price for anything in his life.

“Gentlemen,” Johnny says, arms wide. “Did we miss the orientation, or is it time for me to make some drinks?”

Peter just stares. “You’re Johnny.”

“You’re Peter,” Johnny counters, pointing finger-guns at him. “And you’re early. Bold move. I like it.”

Peter glances at Bob, who just shrugs like this is your circus now.

Johnny drops a brown paper bag on the kitchen counter with a dramatic flourish, then opens the fridge and winces. “Okay, Bob, why does the milk have anxiety?”

“I told you,” Bob says, entirely deadpan. “It’s oat milk. It doesn’t like being perceived.”

Johnny spins on his heel and grins at Peter. 

“So, roommate-to-be. Do you have dietary restrictions? Allergies? Deep emotional wounds you want to unpack over waffles?”

Peter blinks. “I—I’m good, thanks.” Many. Too soon. Let’s not?

Johnny nods solemnly. “Cool. You’ll probably want to crash in the den for now. I still haven’t put a real door on it, but I hung a tapestry.” He smiles like he did something, “It’s got dolphins.”

“Dolphins?” Peter looks to Bob for confirmation, but Bob looks like he’s trying to remember what a Dolphin is.

“They symbolize emotional intelligence.”

Peter doesn’t even try to process that. He just nods and lifts his bag. “It was gonna be my second closet but I decided it’s enough to fit a human instead.”

Bob stands again and gives him a small, almost shy smile. “I’ll show you where to put your stuff.”

Peter follows him down the narrow hallway, trying not to trip over a box labeled “MYSTERIES & SPICES”, and wonders—not for the first time in his life—if he’s made a huge mistake.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s going to be fine.

He’ll give it a week.

Maybe two.

The den is a real room.

Peter was braced for disaster—an actual closet, maybe, or a glorified hallway with a curtain—but it’s actually… kind of okay. It’s tucked in the back of the apartment, just big enough for a twin bed, a desk that wobbles slightly to the left, and a narrow window that opens to the fire escape and, beyond that, the gray-pink skyline of Brooklyn rooftops.

It’s still early, but the September light slants warm and sleepy across the floor, which is scuffed but clean. The walls are plain white. 

Nothing on them yet. No posters, no shelves. 

No real proof that someone lives here, other than the sad heap of Peter’s stuff next to the desk and the one pair of Converse by the bed.

There’s a quietness to it—not a bad quiet, just... neutral. Like the room is waiting to become something.

It’s giving Bob.

Peter glances over at the second bed, neatly made, sheets plain and gray, one mug on the nightstand with the word bookswritten on it in lowercase Courier. There’s a folded cardigan on the corner. Not in a fussy way. In a “this person makes tea with intention” way.

And Peter—who’s starting his sophomore year of college again under a new name with a student ID that no one will question because reality itself decided to move on without him—doesn’t know what to make of that.

He unzips his duffel and pulls out his laptop first, even though he won’t use it right now. It’s just muscle memory—marking territory. He sets it on the desk. Places his one framed photo facedown beside it without meaning to. Leaves it there.

It’s Aunt May, he just doesn’t really wanna look into her eyes just yet.

Bob had helped him carry his bag in, silent most of the way. Not in a weird way—just... quiet. With a heavy air around him that Peter couldnt quite place.

He’d nodded when Peter asked which bed was his and said, “Whichever you want. I don’t mind.” Then left with the same soft energy he arrived with, like he didn’t want to be a weight on the room.

Peter respects that.

Also: he has no idea what to say to that.

He doesn’t know how to do roommates again. 

Not after Ned. Not after... everything. He’s scared to get too close, which is stupid because Bob seems like the human embodiment of a warm blanket and a library corner. But still. Peter’s already lost too much. 

He can’t lose more.

So for now, the room stays neutral.

He unpacks a hoodie. Folds it on the bed. Sets his toothbrush on the desk for no reason. Stares at it. Moves it.

“So is Johnny rooming with any one too?” He begins easily.

“Nah,” Bob waves off, sitting back against the desk. Arms crossed. “He’s got the master. And I guess the other guy is too hulking to room comfortably—“

Then the door swings open again—no knock, just bold, careless momentum—and Peter startles as Johnny strides in, sunglasses still on, holding a spoon and a yogurt cup like he owns the world and maybe invented lactose.

“Hey, dolphin boy,” Johnny says. “Den looking sexy or what?” And he’s definitely replacing that tapestry the first available second he can.

Peter lifts an eyebrow. “It’s a room.”

Johnny plops down dramatically on Peter’s bed, completely uninvited. “It’s more than a room. It’s a blank canvas. I see a lava lamp. Mood lighting. Bean bag chair? Maybe some string lights?”

“Are you designing my room now?”

“I design vibes, Parker. You’re welcome.” He scoops a bite of yogurt, then makes a face. 

“Why does this taste like regret?”

“Did you read the label?”

“No.” Johnny shrugs. “I live in the moment.”

Peter opens his closet—which is somehow already filled with three random hangers, one of which is broken—and sighs.

“You’re tense,” Johnny says. “You always like this on move-in day?”

“No,” Peter lies. Then, “I mean, I haven’t done this in a while.”

“Well. Welcome back to humanity.” Johnny finishes the yogurt, tosses the spoon into Peter’s trash can with perfect aim, and stretches. “Bob says Cal’s moving in today.”

“Cal?”

“Other room. Last guy.”

“Wait—you own the apartment, right?” Peter asks, turning. “Why’d you post the ad like you were just another roommate?”

Johnny grins, bright and vaguely chaotic. 

“Because if I wrote ‘Seeking tenants to pay rent because I have zero impulse control and a car made entirely of poor decisions,’ no one would’ve shown up. People want mystery.”

Peter blinks. “You sent me a smirking emoji and said ‘good vibes only.’” Kind of suggestive, now looking back at that.

“Exactly.”

Before Peter can respond, the front door creaks again—followed by a long silence than a polite, “Hey there?” and the sound of also very polite footsteps.

Johnny lights up. “That’s our corn-fed cardigan.”

Peter sticks his head out of the den just in time to see the final roommate step in: tall, clean-cut, wearing a slightly-too-perfect flannel and carrying one worn duffel bag slung over his shoulder like he’s auditioning for a documentary about Heartland Values.

“Ohio!” Johnny exclaims.

“Kansas, actually. Hi,” he says with a smile so genuine it makes Peter’s stomach ease. “I’m Cal. Sorry I’m late—I took the scenic route.”

Johnny groans. “Did you say that on purpose?”

Cal shrugs, nervous. “Maybe. It sounded charming in my head.”

“Of course it did.” Johnny’s already walking past him toward the kitchen. “I’m making eggs. You want in?”

“Only if you let me help.”

“Ugh. Gross. We’re gonna get along fine.”

Peter watches them go, then looks at Bob, who’s just stepped into the hallway with his mug of herbal tea.

“This is gonna be...” Peter says slowly.

Bob nods. “An experience.”

Peter finally smiles. “Yeah. That.”

And then he steps back into his room, the beads clicking behind him, and—for the first time in what feels like a very long time—lets himself start to breathe.

[rosedaie]

SHOW STOPPER

clark meets Y/N (a mysterious new girl who just moved here from Gotham City) at an art gallery for a piece he’s doing. not realizing the criminal infront of him until it’s perhaps too late 💙

He saw her before she saw him.

Or at least, he liked to think so.

She stood near a brutalist sculpture in the shape of a screaming angel—half obsidian, half light. All sharp edges and impossible grace. Fitting, really. So was she.

A red dress clung to her like smoke. Her arms were bare, her earrings were daggers, and she held her champagne like it might shatter if she looked at it too hard. But it wasn’t the dress or the diamonds that caught Clark Kent’s eye.

It was how she watched people.

Not like she wanted them. Not like she judged them.

Like she was memorizing their pressure points.

She hadn’t looked at the art once.

Clark adjusted his glasses and crossed the room. There was something about her—the stillness. The silence wrapped around her like silk. In a room full of people pretending to matter, she was the only one who didn’t try

She didn’t move when he approached. Just turned her head, slow and feline, and took him in with a single sweeping glance.

“You don’t belong here,” she said, voice soft but steel-threaded. Amused. Like she’d already decided she was going to let him stay anyway.

Clark raised a brow. “That obvious?”

She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “You’re wearing shoes that can survive a subway. That puts you in the bottom ten percent of men here.”

“I’ll take it,” he said, smiling, easy and bright. 

“I’m Clark.”

“You’re late,” she replied, clinking her glass lightly against his before he could finish reaching out his hand. “The party’s nearly over.”

“I didn’t know I had an invitation.”

“You didn’t,” she said, eyes gleaming. “But you showed up like a man who thinks he’s supposed to save something.”

He looked at her for a beat. “Are you in need of saving?”

She laughed—not a delicate giggle, but a dangerous, low-throated sound that made him feel like he’d just stepped somewhere he shouldn’t.

“Oh, no, darling,” she said, leaning just close enough for him to catch the faintest trace of sandalwood and sin. “I’m the reason people run.”

He blinked. She tilted her head.

“You’re not with the gallery,” he said, almost to himself.

“No.”

“You’re not with the investors.”

“God, no.”

“You’re watching everyone like you’re here to rob them.”

She smiled. Didn’t deny it.

“And yet,” Clark said, “you let me walk right up to you.”

“Journalists,” she said, circling him now, like they were dancing at a ball no one else could see. “Always so curious. So earnest. So sure they’re in control of the story.” She looked him up and down. “But I’ve read your work, Mr. Kent. And you’re not like the others.”

“Because I wear subway shoes?”

“Because you ask better questions,” she said, eyes narrowing slightly. “And you’re not pretending you’re not watching me back.”

He swallowed. “Should I be worried?”

“Only if you stay,” she murmured.

A beat passed. She turned, about to walk away.

Then he said, “Wait—what do I call you?”

She looked over her shoulder. The lights caught her face like fire on water.

“Pick a name,” she said. “I never keep them long.”

And then she vanished into the crowd, red silk trailing behind her like a promise. Or, perhaps, a warning.

[rosedaie]

[rosedaie]

SWAN SONG

BUCKY X Y/N

( aka when Bucky goes into the void he gains a traumatic scene he doesn’t quite remember. The Red Room, the Winter Soldier, and a girl he now can’t forget )

I’m finally writing a Bucky fic omg! Lmk if you want more or like this at all. Only trigger warnings are for blood and violence.

We love torturing Bucky and a Y/N widow he doesn’t know is still alive cmonnnn

The Void doesn’t whisper to him like it did to Yelena. It didn’t scream at him like it had done to Bob.

It sung.

Music, an eerie little melody, an eerie little song like a music box that winds up again and again.

It sung in the creak of his bones, in the high-pitched hum of Red Room electricity. It sings in the sharp, crystalline notes of a ballerina’s music box—sweet, soft, sugarcoated terror. A lullaby sharpened into a weapon.

Bucky’s boots echo on marble that isn’t real. His fingers twitch, metal hand reacting before his brain can. Instinct again. The kind they trained into him. A mission is happening. Or has happened. Or is him.

He’s back in the Red Room. Or something wearing its face.

There’s a stage. A circle of Soviet officials watching silently, all of them faceless, features smeared like old oil paintings. There’s blood beneath their chairs but none of them notice.

Onstage, young girls dance.

Perfect little soldiers in white tutus, spinning like clockwork.

He realizes before it happens. He doesn’t remember any of this — but, oh! He does. 

It strikes him like a wrong violin cord struck. A vibration ringing through out his bones.

Her—

One stumbles.

She doesn’t fall. 

She recovers beautifully, with a spin so graceful it silences the room. But she made a mistake. He knows what that means. Everyone in this memory does.

Her name catches in his throat. But he doesn’t know it. He looks around at faces he doesn’t remember and doesn’t want to. He wants one of them to say her name.

Her eyes land on him—him, the Winter Soldier, standing still as a stone, gun slung across his chest like a crucifix. She looks directly at him like she remembers him. Not the Winter Soldier. Him.

He used to watch her dance. He used to watch her for hours, even when she wasn’t looking. 

His little dancing swan.

Something twists in his chest.

Then—suddenly, she's on the floor. Not from the stumble.

A crack. A punishment.

Blood soaks through the satin of her slippers. Her legs curl beneath her like snapped stems. She reaches out—not in fear—but recognition.

“Don’t forget me this time, James.”

He staggers back. The faceless men don’t move.

How did she know his name? His old one — his real one. Not Bucky, not Buck, not Soldier.

The music box plays again. Slower now. 

Dissonant. The ballerina rises—not dead, not broken, just wrong. She’s dancing again. Not because she was told to.

But because the memory demands it.

He remembers — or at least the void does

He spins. 

He remembers having to punish her. Those splatters of blood — how he would stop. How they would punish him worse when he had.

Trigger words. He’d forget her. Again and again and again on command. Her face, her name, her voice gone…

But never her dancing.

The room is empty. No lights. Just the hum of The Void’s endless hunger.

Then the music starts again. That goddamn melody.

He turns.

She’s there.

The ballerina. His ballerina.

Older now. Her tutu’s gone, replaced by a Red Room shift stained at the hem. Her feet are bare. Blood pools with every step she takes on the cracked floor.

But she still dances.

En pointe, perfectly balanced on broken toes.

“You used to watch me,” she whispers, spinning. “But you never saw me.”

He wants to scream that he didn’t know. That he was just a weapon. That he didn’t remember.

She pirouettes closer.

“You held my arm while they injected me.”

“I didn’t—“

“You looked away when they beat me.”

“Please,” he rasps. His voice sounds like it’s made of dust.

She smiles.

“Did you know I kept dancing in my cell?” she asks. “Every night. Even when my feet bled. I told myself: if I could still dance, I was still me.”

She presses her palm to his chest. Cold. 

Gentle. Like snow falling on a grave.

“You killed me slowly. Every time you forgot me, I died again.”

The music box winds down.

Tick. Tick. Tick—

Click.

Darkness.

His hands are on her throat. She’s gasping for air. She’s gasping for air but her eyes remained soft, resilient.

Her eyes. Her remembers her eyes—-

Just as the life left from them.

[rosedaie]

THUNDERBOLTS BUCKY X Y/N HCS

Bucky definitely has a crush on you and is handling it like a cat that doesn’t know how to accept affection.

You walk into a room and his whole vibe shifts—suddenly standing straighter, arms crossed, jaw clenched like sir it’s not that serious.

Makes zero moves but glares at anyone who flirts with you like you’re his emotional support espresso and someone’s trying to steal it.

If someone asks if you’re close he says, “No.”

You call him and he answers before the second ring.

Remembers every tiny thing you say (your favorite snack, your allergies, that one offhand comment about loving the rain).

Will literally throw himself between you and danger while insisting, “I’m not protective. It just made sense tactically.”

If you're hurt? Dead silence, jaw ticking, and then he disappears for hours. You don’t ask where he went. You know.

Leaves voice memos that are way more tender than he means them to be. You can hear the hesitation. The softness. The breath he takes before saying your name.

Finds excuses to touch you casually—passing you a weapon, steadying you on rough terrain, brushing something off your jacket.

You share a secret snack drawer in the kitchen that no one else is allowed to touch. Yelena steals from it constantly. Bucky installs a lock.

Does dishes while you talk and nods silently like “this is fine, this is totally platonic, I am unaffected.”

Hovers near your door when you have nightmares but won’t knock unless you open it first.

He watches you from across the briefing room like he’s memorizing you.

If you ever catch him staring, he looks away fast and starts fake-reading his mission file upside down.

When you talk, he really listens. Always. You could be talking about socks or world politics—he’s locked in like it’s gospel.

He lets the others think he’s cold and detached. But you? You see him soften every time your voice says his name.

Acts cold when he’s really just scared of breaking something pure.

Johnny Blaze flirts with you once. Bucky knocks his shoulder so hard he nearly falls while walking past. “Oops.”

You knock on his door at 2 a.m. “Can’t sleep.” He grunts, moves over, lets you sit on his bed.

You watch dumb reality TV until you fall asleep against his shoulder. He doesn’t move for hours. Barely breathes.

the urge to write one shots is so real but idk 😂

[rosedaie]

BOB X READER HCS

🖤 Bob (Void) x Reader – “I Like You So Much It’s Physically Unnerving” Headcanons 🖤 (he’s floating again. that means he’s nervous.)

Bob has a huge crush on you and it’s obvious to literally everyone except you.

He talks to everyone else once a day. He talks to you and malfunctions like a broken Roomba.

Calls you by your full name because nicknames feel “too familiar” and it freaks him out.

Tries to make casual conversation like “hello. you consume food. that’s… cool.”

Has a secret folder of things you’ve recommended (songs, books, weird YouTube videos). He treasures it like an ancient relic.

If you fall asleep near him, he does not move for hours. Barely breathes. Scared he’ll wake you.

Will offer you tea or coffee and pretend it’s not a big deal. It is. He made six test batches to get it right

Bob texts you way more confidently than he speaks to you. Uses punctuation. Proper spelling. Little dry jokes.

Will say things like “be careful” or “don’t get hurt” in that haunted monotone that feels… weirdly intimate.

If you compliment him? He short circuits. Looks away. Phases into a wall. Might drop a “you too” even if it doesn’t apply.

Starts fixing your stuff (silently) because that’s how he shows affection. You think the kitchen light magically repairs itself? No. It’s Bob at 2am, glowing softly and being in love.

Glitches when you touch him accidentally. Like. Literally sparks.

Once phased directly through a vending machine because you smiled at him.

You ask “hey, are you okay?” and he answers, “I have no idea.”

Eyes go brighter when he’s flustered. No one’s brave enough to point it out.

When you leave the room, he watches for 0.2 seconds too long and then panics about it for 3 days.

[rosedaie]

PART 2

🕷️ Thunderbolts in the New Avengers Tower: Headcanons No One Asked For 🕷️

(But here they are anyway because trauma makes found family taste better)

There’s an unsaid rule: if someone’s having a breakdown, someone else makes grilled cheese.

Yelena tried to teach them Russian drinking songs/games. Now there’s a hole in the wall.

Bucky sits on the floor like an emotionally repressed golden retriever.

Everyone once voted on who would survive a horror movie. No one picked Bucky. Bucky picked the toaster.

Bucky once caught Bob making mac & cheese at 3am, wearing socks and absolutely nothing else. He now announces himself walking into every room.

Game nights get way too intense. Knives have been thrown. Feelings have been hurt. No regrets.

They all pretend to hate each other, but if one of them is even slightly threatened, the others will burn down a building.

The group chat is 90% memes, 5% logistical nightmares, 5% someone asking where their charger went.

Someone (probably Yelena) keeps gluing googly eyes on all the security cameras.

They hosted a “team bonding” trust fall exercise. Ava didn’t catch anyone. She went invisible.

Tower therapist quit. Twice.

Alexei adopted a raccoon for a “Tower FamilyPet”. They sit on the couch and eat garbage together 

Yelena gave her a knife. The raccoon has a knife now.

Bob accidentally fell asleep on the couch with his head on someone’s shoulder. Hasn’t mentioned it since. Thinks about it constantly.

The coffee machine is sentient now. No one talks about it.

The therapist has now quit three times.

They keep a whiteboard tally of who’s caused the most explosions indoors.

Everyone pretends to hate each other. They would absolutely die for each other.

Walker & Alexei argue the most over which one of them should get the most Brand Deals

Electricity flickers when Bob’s anxious, but he swears it’s “just bad wiring.”

Mornings? Bucky sharpens his knives in silence while the others eat cereal and pretend not to notice.

Ava eats plain toast and judges everyone’s posture. Loudly.

Ava phases through the fridge door. The milk is always gone. Always.

🚨 Tower Rules (that nobody follows):

“No weapons at the table.” Violated daily.

“Don’t use the Widow’s Bites to open soda cans.” Yelena: “Why not?”

“If you kill a training dummy, you clean it up.” Bucky: buries it like a pet

[rosedaie]

BOB & BUCKY HAVE A CRUSH ON Y/N

✨ NEW AVENGERS TOWER ADDITION ✨

———————————

👁️ Bob (+ Void)

Bob never meant to catch feelings—he literally thinks he can’t, or shouldn’t.

But Y/N sees him. Like really sees him. Not just the void-entity thing he’s tangled with, but Bob, the guy under the hoodie who makes bad coffee and likes old alien punk vinyl.

He doesn’t flirt traditionally. He just...starts showing up wherever she is. Quiet, watchful, kind of awkward. Will ghost out of the room the second he catches himself smiling.

He once phased halfway through the floor mid-conversation when she complimented his haircut. John made fun of him for a week.

Lowkey leaves weird little gifts in her workspace: alien tech she might find interesting, her favorite snacks from other dimensions, a mixtape he swears he didn’t make for her.

He absolutely gets jealous when Bucky makes her laugh. He won’t say anything—just goes a little quieter. A little darker. (Maybe makes the lights flicker. Oops.)

The Void? Protective of her. Not dangerous, but definitely possessive. Y/N's safety is top priority. Bob pretends it's just because she’s “mission critical,” but everyone knows better.

💪 Bucky (Winter Soldier)

Bucky definitely has a type, and apparently it’s "kind, competent, and mildly unimpressed with his reputation."

He tries to act chill, but he's so obvious—he'll sit in the room Y/N is in even if there's literally nothing to do.

Doesn’t want to go to any press events. Y/N there? Oh why didn’t you tell me! He’s out the door.

He has a soft spot for how she doesn’t treat him like he’s fragile or dangerous—just…human.

Every time she fixes a piece of gear he broke, he makes a dumb excuse to hang around and talk to her about it. "Just wanna learn, doll." (He absolutely forgets everything she tells him.)

Constantly asks her if she’s eaten. If she’s sleeping enough. “You look tired” is code for “I worry about you when you’re not around.”

Started using the gym when she’s on shift there. Doesn’t make a move, just hopes she notices.

Thinks Bob is weird, but also suspects Bob’s into Y/N too. It makes Bucky super competitive in that awkward-labrador way. Cue petty arguments over who gets to fix the coffee machine.

He would never sabotage Bob… but if the Void short-circuits something near Y/N, he’s ready to throw hands with an interdimensional entity.

[rosedaie]

RANDOM NEW AVENGERS TOWER HCS

I finally saw the movie and wanted to post some random brain rot ideas because I miss Avengers Tower era:

Yelena sends TikToks at 3am that are either deeply cursed or deeply insightful. There is no in-between.

Bucky doesn’t text — just reacts with thumbs up or skull emoji.

Everyone has personalized mugs. Yelena uses all of them and doesn’t notice. (John gets mad when anyone touches his)

Red Guardian thinks every meme sent is a personal attack. Responds with long voice notes in Russian.

Bucky is the unofficial den dad who makes sure everyone has eaten but still won’t go to therapy. … Instead, he lets Yelena put glittery under-eye masks on him while talking about “the war.”

Yelena makes weekly “Team Bonding Events” no one wants to go to — things like “group knife-throwing followed by cucumber sandwiches.”

John Walker insists on “training montages” that are actually just him playing Eye of the Tiger while doing 7 push-ups.

Red Guardian unironically hosts movie nights. He thinks The Incredibles is a documentary.

Ghost (Ava) disappears during team breakfast and reappears mid-dinner like nothing happened.

Everyone submits one song anonymously to a shared Spotify playlist titled “Emotionally Stable AF

John adds Nickelback. Gets banned from adding songs for a week.

There’s a special playlist for Bob for when he’s feeling stressed, too. He probably also listens to ASMR to silence his brain

There’s a weekly movie night where Ava, Bob & John try to update Yelena & Bucky on modern media/films they’ve missed

Alexei is banned from movie night for talking/screaming too much

One time Red Guardian tries to cook, sets the fire alarm off, and they all end up ordering 17 different cuisines because no one could agree.

Ghost only eats snacks. Yelena keeps feeding her protein bars like she’s a stray cat.

Bucky cooks in silence with headphones on. If someone talks to him, he stops and walks away dramatically

They once did a dramatic reenactment of the original Avengers battle for “tactic research” that quickly turned into make believe ;

Yelena as Iron Man. Refuses to fly. Just walks around shouting “PEW PEW” while throwing pretzels.

Bucky was cast as Cap. He left the room immediately. John threw a fit because “he even has a shield guys!”

Red Guardian played Loki and took it way too seriously. Kept trying to get everyone to kneel

Ava walked through the background mid-battle eating a granola bar. Everyone said it added tension.

Bob narrated on the couch with his legs crossed.