#Autistic!reader

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

Masking

Wandanat x autistic!fem!reader

Summary: You exude confidence when running the tight ship at the Avengers compound, but it's all just a mask.

Word Count: 1K

Warnings: Masking, sensory overload, emotional fatigue, mild dissociation, comfort and care

Authors note: I hope no one minds that I made reader autistic it just felt right as I started writing this that she was autistic and masking. This was a request!

The Avengers compound was a constant whirlwind of movement and noise, but you had long since mastered the art of blending in. You moved through the halls with precision, shoulders squared, steps confident, your words clipped and efficient.

You had to be.

People looked to you for guidance, for leadership, for a presence that commanded the room without hesitation. There was no room for uncertainty, no space for awkward pauses or misplaced words. So, you adapted. You studied the way others spoke, the way they carried themselves, how they reacted in different scenarios, and you replicated it to perfection.

Every interaction was a practiced routine.

Eye contact—just enough to seem engaged, but not too much. Staring was off-putting, but looking away too quickly made people think you were nervous or disinterested. So, you held it just long enough, counting in your head before glancing away naturally.

Tone—firm but not aggressive. You had learned that being too direct made people bristle, but if you softened your words too much, they assumed you lacked confidence. So, you struck the balance, keeping your voice even and controlled, modulating it just enough to sound natural.

Expressions—carefully controlled, mimicking the right amount of stern authority. You had practiced in the mirror, adjusting your face to reflect the reactions people expected from you. A smirk here, a raised brow there, the occasional chuckle when the situation called for it.

Gestures—purposeful. Too much movement made you look nervous; too little made you seem robotic. You had calculated how to stand, how to walk, how to use your hands when speaking so you didn’t come across as stiff or unnatural.

Masking.

It was second nature now, the shield you wore as part of your role. No one questioned it. You were strong, competent, unshakable. That was the version of you the world expected, and so that’s what you gave them.

But it was exhausting.

Every second of the day was a mental checklist, a constant game of social equations running in the background of your mind. It wasn't just about getting through conversations—it was about making sure you performed correctly. That you didn’t linger too long after saying goodbye. That you responded with the right words when someone made a joke. That your body language wasn’t too rigid, but also not too relaxed.

The longer the day stretched, the heavier the mask became.

By the time the sun dipped below the horizon, your limbs felt like lead, your skin raw from the effort of pretending. The lights in the halls were too bright, the voices around you too sharp, grating against your senses like nails on a chalkboard. You were aware of every thread in your clothing, every distant conversation, every flicker of movement in your periphery. It was all too much.

But still, you smiled when necessary. Still, you nodded in understanding when someone spoke to you. Still, you held yourself together, as if the mask weren’t suffocating you with every passing second.

Because out here, you had no choice.

Out here, you were the person they expected you to be.

But behind closed doors?

That was a different story…

By the time you finally stepped into your shared penthouse, the weight of the day dragged at you, your mask slipping the moment the door shut behind you.

Wanda was the first to notice. She always noticed.

"Hey, love," she said softly from the couch, her voice laced with warmth. Natasha glanced up from the kitchen, her sharp green eyes flicking over you, assessing.

And just like that, you melted.

Your shoulders sagged as you toed off your shoes, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. No more forcing yourself to stand just right, no more careful control of your expressions. Here, you didn’t have to pretend.

"You good?" Natasha asked, but she already knew the answer.

"Masking all day," you murmured as you padded toward them, already reaching for the comfort only they could provide.

Wanda opened her arms without hesitation, and you collapsed into her embrace, letting yourself be guided onto the couch. Natasha joined, her hands gentle as she pulled your legs over her lap. You settled between them, head resting against Wanda’s thighs, feet tucked under Natasha’s warm hands.

The tension bled from your body almost instantly.

Wanda’s fingers combed through your hair, her nails scratching lightly against your scalp in a way that sent pleasant shivers down your spine. Natasha traced absentminded patterns against your ankle, grounding you further.

"You wanna talk about it?" Natasha asked, but she didn’t push. She never did.

"Not really," you admitted. "Just need to… exist for a bit."

Wanda hummed in understanding. "Then exist, my love."

And you did.

The three of you fell into a comfortable quiet as a nature documentary played softly on the TV. You stared at the screen, body limp and content between them, your energy slowly recharging in the warmth of their presence.

It wasn’t long before your thoughts spilled over, unfiltered now that the mask was gone.

"Did you know that sea otters have a special pouch in their armpits where they keep their favorite rock?"

Natasha’s thumb stroked lazy circles against your ankle. "That so?"

"Mhm," you nodded, shifting slightly against Wanda’s lap. "And sometimes they pass their rocks down to their pups, like family heirlooms."

Wanda let out a soft laugh, her fingers never pausing in your hair. "That’s adorable."

"You’re adorable," Natasha muttered, her voice fond.

You huffed, but a small smile tugged at your lips. "Also, Mantis shrimp can punch with the same force as a bullet. Their punches are so fast they create tiny bubbles that explode with light and heat."

Natasha let out a low whistle. "So, basically, shrimp with superpowers."

"Exactly! Just like Wanda" You smiled up at your girlfriend who was smiling fondly back at you. 

“Yes, Malyska, exactly like me.”

They let you keep going, let you ramble about whatever popped into your mind, never interrupting, never acting like it was too much. They simply listened, soaking in the way your voice animated with excitement, how your face lit up when you shared something particularly interesting.

And with every fact, every gentle touch, every soft hum of encouragement, your battery slowly recharged.

Here, there was no need to mask. No need to perform.

Here, with them, you could just be.

[urhoneycombwitch]

reader hanging out at Eddie's house with him and it's all fine and dandy but their clothes are just driving them nuts. Like either their jeans are digging uncomfortably into their waist or their bra is just killing them and it's just nagging at the back of their mind until they snap like, "Eddie, I can't do this anymore."

which is a terrible choice of words to suddenly blurt out because now he's panicking like did he do something wrong? You just want to break up all of the sudden?!

and reader's like "No! please can I take my pants/bra off." because they don't want it to be weird that they're just getting undressed at his place (I figure this is probably early days tbh because after a while, r just walks into his room already taking off whatever's uncomfortable)

and Eddie's brain is spinning from the whiplash of thinking he was getting dumped to Oh! Boobs/Legs!

this feels very autistic!Reader coded👆😍

like totally breezing past the fact that you just accidentally delivered the worst news of your boyfriend’s liiiiife because you can’t THINK with how tight the band of your bra is

and while Eddie sputters and chokes on his words like “w-what?! what did I do? 😨” you’re reaching into your shirt to get the clasps of your bra off, sighing with relief as soon as it loosens

“sorry, not you- I couldn’t deal with this.” your bra comes out of your t-shirt sleeve with one smooth pull, like a neat party trick, and you dangle it by its strap on a pointed finger. “sorry, handsome. didn’t mean to scare you.”

Eddie’s adrenaline is spiked again but this time blood travels south, ‘cuz he’s taking the bra from you and laying it neatly over the back of the couch with a gulp. “uh- yeah. yep. sure. all good 😳”

just full staring at your breasts which are now way easier to see through just your flimsy shirt material.

and you’re like “well 🙂 at least you’re being subtle about it like a gentleman.”

[starsofang]

simon riley x autistic!reader requested by anon! <3 tw: none!

When a certain John Price had recruited you under his own jurisdiction, you were cautious yet excited to be joining a new task force. It was an opportunity you simply couldn’t pass up, and you’d be insane to say no. Price had promised you would fill in the gap that seemed to be missing from their team, and for the most part, he was absolutely correct.

Gaz and Johnny were the most welcoming in the beginning. Price was more the serious type with an occasional bad joke here and then, but all in all, everybody approved of you and had your back so long as you had theirs.

None of them seemed to mind when you’d have days where you’d be talkative on one, and quiet the next. They’d listen to your passionate ramblings on specific topics, or they’d allow you to sit in comfortable silence if they knew you needed it.

There was one person in particular who didn’t seem quite fond of you, and that would be Ghost – or Simon, as Johnny called him on occasion. It wasn’t that he didn’t seem to like you, no. He just seemed distant, purposefully keeping you at an arm’s length and only acknowledging you when necessary.

Johnny had told you not to worry about it, that he’d come around eventually. Simon was impartial to new people and it took him a while to open up.

You did notice, though, that Simon was someone who stared. One too many times, you’d catch those brooding eyes boring into you, as if trying to puzzle you together and figure out where the pieces fit. It would always cause a bit of anxiety to well in you when you’d find his eyes across the room, already locked in on you, and you would find yourself avoiding his stare as soon as you felt it.

It wasn’t until a particular mission had gone bad that you completely shut down. In the presence of your new task force, you had successfully masked yourself as much as possible. But now, when Johnny had nearly been killed, all due to an error in your own judgment, that mask was slipping off and you needed time to let it crumble on your own.

You thought that was all you needed – time. But time proved fruitless as you spent the next few days on lockdown, avoiding all conversation and interaction. Your eyes would stray to the ground, or you’d find yourself staring blankly at the walls of the mess hall with your nails picking at the skin around them from beneath the table.

You didn’t think anybody noticed. After all, everybody was on edge and decompressing from the failed mission, and they didn’t have the focus to see your mind eating you up.

Simon did, though.

He’d seen all the signs, from the way you picked at your nails, to the way you’d consistently tuck your hair behind your ear, even if it was already tucked, and to the way you’d tap your foot along the ground in a repetitive motion, leg bouncing wildly underneath the table during breakfast or debriefs.

At first, none of it made sense to him. He thought it was simple signs of anxiety, and for that, he truly thought that if one bad massion made you close up this much, you wouldn’t last long enough to see a second one. But when he returned to his quarters and searched up all of your stims that he’d taken mental notes of over the course of the week, things clicked.

He didn’t know much about autism. To his embarrassment, you were the first person with autism that he’d actively been around on a daily basis. Everything he’d seen made complete sense, and that last puzzle piece he was trying so hard to fit seemed to fall right into place.

Simon took it upon himself to educate himself. He, too, had his own struggles that not many people had an understanding of, and now that he knew what made sense, he didn’t want you to continue hiding yourself away for the sake of the rest of the team.

It started off small.

When Simon would notice you picking at your fingernails, he’d place a large hand over yours to stop you without sparing a glance in your direction. If he wasn’t there to stop you, he’d silently wrap your fingers up in cute bandages he purchased himself, because he noticed you liked them more than the typical brown ones.

If he noticed you zone out and lose a piece of yourself, where your eyes would find the walls and focus in on them as if they were the most interesting thing in the world, he’d gently grab your shoulder with means to snap you out of it and remind you that he was there with you.

At first, you were surprised when Simon began showing you these subtle signs of companionship. He hadn’t shown any interest in you up until this point, but as time went on, you found yourself actively seeking out that safe space that Simon was slowly building for you.

You crawled your way out of that hole you found yourself in and began returning to normalcy; except now, you didn’t feel you had to mask all the time.

When you returned to your rambling moments, your hand would subconsciously find its way to Simon’s, grasping and fiddling with his fingers while you spoke. He’d never pull his hand away, and instead, he’d sit there quietly with his full attention on you, eyes soft and affectionate from beneath his mask.

Often times, when he’d head to the mess hall to grab a snack or a drink for himself, he began to bring you something back as well – cookies, chips, you name it. If he knew you liked it, he’d snag a couple of whatever it was and place it in front of you without a word (and would absolutely ignore Johnny’s childish whines of how he never did that for him).

This back and forth between the two of you didn’t go unnoticed, and when Gaz nudged Johnny when the three of them sat in the debrief room together, claiming that Simon had a crush, he didn’t blatantly deny it.

Simon wasn’t sure what it was he felt for you. He wanted to see you happy, that he knew for sure, but when Gaz and Johnny continued to feed into their teasing remarks, he was beginning to think that, okay, yeah, maybe he had a bit of a crush.

It took him months to even proclaim this confession to you. He didn’t want to overwhelm you, or god forbid you didn’t feel the same way, didn’t want you to close up on him like you had with others before. Being your safe space was something he took pride in, and for a man who had no knowledge months ago on how to approach you in a way that showed he understood, he didn’t want to ruin that.

That wasn’t at all what happened, though. When he had the gall to tell you, you were practically bursting at the seams. Hands moving wildly, feet causing you to bounce with excitement as you eagerly confessed your own feelings for him. He was scared your lips were crack open from how widely you were smiling and babbling on about your affection.

And when he had the chance to kiss you? He did it with so much tenderness, keeping it as gentle as possible, hands only cupping your cheeks when you told him it was okay.

You had never met someone who was so passionate about you, that they’d learn everything about you. He knew your quirks, your hyperfixations, your interests, your stims. He knew more about you than he did himself at this point.

To have somebody cherish you in such a way that they’d go that far for you, even when they themselves aren’t partial to getting attached to people, it was all Simon ever hoped to make you feel, and it was all you ever wanted to feel understood and accepted.

Simon would happily assure you of that any day.

—

thank u for this idea anon!! i really hope it lived up to your standards, i tried to make it as accurate as possible while trying not to make the stims too specific and detailed since i know many people have different ones and that autism is not linear! <3 please enjoy fluffy simon because he’s my favorite

[thekoalapastriesbakery]

SILENT NIGHT

formula one x autistic!male!reader

request: Ik requests are closed, but i wanted to write this down so I don't forget it lmaooo, Oscar, Sebastian, and/or Max with Autistic reader who goes nonverbal and struggles to communicate a lot. Totally not based on real events whaaaat 🦕

summary: non-communicative? no problem.

warnings: mentions of overwhelm, references to mad max (max), implied autistic!oscar, dork!seb that could also easily be interpreted as autistic!seb

contains: max verstappen, oscar piastri, + sebastian vettel

word count: 516 (184/158/174 split)

max verstappen — 184 words:

he could see the signs before you did. little fidgeting, eyes darting around, muscles tensing … all indicators that it wouldn't be long before you went into shutdown.

max did what he could to mitigate the effects on you. he got you out of the chaos of the paddock and into his driver's room. he didn't like seeing you get overstimulated. hated it, in fact. he wasn't shy about setting boundaries on your behalf—he'd shove reporters away from you, make snarky comments about the other drivers if they pushed you too far, demand red bull change their garage to make it accessible for you. (what use is being their golden boy if he can't use it to let his boyfriend come to races?)

you had some unique ways of communicating when you couldn't talk. sometimes, you could type or use assistive technology to get your point across. sometimes you could use sign language or emojis or charades. other times communication itself was so overwhelming that max was forced to guess from your body language.

good thing he was fluent in the language of you.

oscar piastri — 158 words:

he had problems with communicating too. he wasn't terrible at it—not at all—but he had times where he would either have a really bad stutter or feel immense anxiety at the idea of verbalising anything. oscar understood when you went nonverbal. both of you frequently used sign language or picture reaction books/apps when words are particularly distressing.

on the occasions where both of you would go nonverbal, you'd sit together on the couch and watch bluey. sometimes you would cuddle, sometimes you'd just sit on opposite ends and enjoy the show. the simplicity of it took away some of the pressure to discuss whatever happened. regardless of whether or not he was nonverbal at the same time, oscar was very very sweet.

he never pressured you to speak or even verbalise. he didn't initiate too many conversations, but he was also happy to keep a running narrative for you if the silence made you anxious.

sebastian vettel — 174 words:

the best thing about seb was that he never shut up. when you were nonverbal, he was always so happy to just ramble and infodump about whatever new project he was on at the time. sometimes it was bees, sometimes it was formula one history and trivia, sometimes it was just general facts. he loved entertaining you and he never held your communication difficulties against you.

you were almost always happy to listen to him. when all things talking or listening were too overwhelming for you, seb didn't take it personally. he just found a cat (you never found out where he kept procuring them from, but he always was good with animals) and plopped it down on your lap.

if you needed down time, he left you alone. he sent you periodic updates and reminders that he was still thinking of you. formula one had taught him that even when you don't want to talk to someone, you could still get lonely. he always wanted you to know that he wouldn't forget you.

©thekoalapastriesbakery :: please do not copy or rewrite my work on any platform !!

author's note: i have an autistic!drivers agenda if you couldn't tell 🙃 (also totally based on real events for me lol)

comments + reblogs appreciated!

taglist: @raizelchrysanderoctavius @crispysoup318 @op-81-lvr-reblogs @ncrsbrg @spoonfulofmilo @justaf1girl @widow-cevans

[starsofjewels]

GREETINGS!! was wondering if you feel up for it if you could do a tyrion x autistic reader? idk how you could make autism fit into the GoT world but I always feel like an outsider even in the real world and i feel tyrion would be one of the few who'd actually be accepting and not judgemental

A Kitty Cat in the Lion’s Den

Tyrion Lannister x Autistic! Lannister! Reader

(Feat.) Tywin Lannister x Autistic! Lannister! Reader

CONTENT: Autistic meltdown, small! Mention of blood/ injury, self-deprecation, the Lannisters are their own warning

More on the masterpost

Word count: 1.5k (lil pookie bear)

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Hi, beautiful. I absolutely loved this request !! This was only semi triggering to write, and I hope you like it. <3

I’ve just started back at college, so the drip might be dry (not that it wasn’t to begin with). I may or may not have published this during a Free Study period…

This is proof I don’t just write Gregor Clegane fics. But I do love big squishy man and his cock.

I think I probably need to make a masterlist..

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

(A teeny PSA before we begin- I, unsurprisingly given the shit I upload on here, am autistic. I’ve struggled with it my whole life, and this is an interpretation of my own experience with autism. ASD is, as the name suggests, a spectrum, so this can’t really be a generalised fic. I put my own personal experiences with my condition into this, so if you’re also autistic/ otherwise neurodivergent and this doesn’t fit your vibes, that’s why. I can’t really explain it any other way, so yeah, here you go.)

Your entire life has served as a reminder that, whether by your own fault or some cruel will of the Gods, you are not wanted. You are the outsider, the youngest Lannister, not beautiful enough to marry off young and, decidedly, not male. Lord Tywin is consistently busy with his duties as the Hand, Tyrion hides with his wines and his whores, and Jaime has his own place in the Red Keep. You are forced to sit with your sister and her ladies, who talk too loudly and prattle on about nonsense.

Cersei, you have long established, does not like you. You aren’t really sure anyone likes you, in the traditional sense, but you know that your sister only keeps you around for fear of Tywin’s wrath. There is something in the back of your mind that remembers a younger, softer Cersei putting you in her lap, of brushing your hair and putting it in gold bows. But, that was before. Before you could walk or talk properly, before you spouted random facts on unasked for topics, before she realised you were different.

Everyone knows you are different, and no one can explain why. Not even you. All they know is to stay away from you, all they know is they’ll never understand how your little mind works.

So, you sit as nicely as you can on the outside of Cersei’s circle of ladies, and you try to focus on your sewing. You don’t like sewing, but it’s what all of the noblewomen do to pass the time, and all you want is to fit in.

“Your sewing is coming on well, my lady.”

The septa tilts your sewing slightly to look at it just a little more. It’s supposed to be a gift for your father, and it is not good. You see every uneven stitch, all of the oddities and bumps in your work that make it so you can hardly look at it. You hate it, and you hate that you can’t even sew properly.

“The stitching is all wrong…”

She takes your hands as you try, again, to pick out your newest stitch, a learned behaviour with you. Despite being with you near your whole life, since you weaned off of your nurse, you aren’t sure the septa completely understands your fascination of perfection,

“It is fine,” Her voice is soft, but you can feel her disappointment, “you are still learning, my lady, some mistakes are natural. You do not need to pull it apart- again.”

You jump when Cersei’s ladies giggle at some joke you haven’t heard, the woman beside you takes your hand, and you are reminded why you keep her so close. At least, in some way, she understands what you like and what upsets you.

Tea is served for the ladies. They give you what Cersei likes, what her ladies eat, green and red things that squish and squelch in your mouth and taste like you’ve eaten rags. And the queen sees you push them around your plate, and scoffs.

“At least try it, sister,” She sips from her wine. You feel each of her noblewomen shift, in turn, to look at you, “a Lannister lady can’t just survive off of the children’s food you eat, we can’t all eat nothing but cakes and plain bread all day.”

But you don’t, and you starve. Tywin will get you something later, you’re sure of it, as he sighs, and gently suggests you’ll need a more varied diet if you’re to marry a good husband.

The women’s giggles practically turn to cackles, which do not stop for what feels like hours. You wish they’d stop, or that you could understand what they find so utterly hilarious, so at least you may join their hysteria. You’ve put your sewing down in your lap, and you fiddle with your hair. The sept doesn’t like that, she guides your work back into your hands.

“Your father doesn’t like it if you mess your hair, sweet girl, you know that,” Her hands find your hair, carefully untangling the knots you’ve made, “try a few more stitches.”

And then, inevitably, it happens. You prick your finger on your needle, and a soft ruby comes from your noble, incomprehensible skin.

Throwing your project to the ground, you rush off as fast as your legs can manage. No one comes to find you.

You are long practised with the subtle art of trying not to cry. You pace back and forth, away from anything and everything, your hands in your hair as you do. The tears in your eyes hurt, they make you tired, and only add to your humiliation. You can do nothing right, why can you do nothing right?

You think of your sister, of perfect, beautiful, poised Cersei- She has a gaggle of women to do her bidding she is loved, and desires and you doubt she paces the halls trying not to cry. She is the lion queen, and you are her kitty-cat of a sister.

And then, you hear your name called. Followed by hurried footsteps toward you. Tyrion takes your hands in his, but you cannot even look at him.

“Has someone upset you? Cersei?”

All you can do is give him whines in response. You feel a sob bubbling in your throat, and you cannot give him the satisfaction of seeing you weak.

“Tell me.”

So you look down, you watch his eyes change from confusion, to the pity you are so used to seeing. But he is your older brother, and you know he won’t run back to Cersei, like Jaime would.

It comes in one, huge splurge, as tears fall against your skin and ruin the pretty powders your maids spent so long putting on you this morning,

“I- Was making a gift for Father-” You gasp, “And they didn’t give me anything to eat, and- and the sewing was terrible, but Septa is lying and saying it’s good and-” Another. “And I cut myself!”

His arms wrap around you, and he puts his head against you. Though much smaller than you, it offers greater comfort than he knows it does. All you can do is sob. You feel like a child.

No words are spoken as he takes you down to the kitchens, and puts you at the staff table. You are given something you eat with relish, and get a plate of pudding for your effort. There is no need for you to have any medical attention for your injury, but he has it wrapped anyway. A psychological comfort, if nothing else.

Tyrion helps you into bed, letting you reach out for the rag dolls your sister claims you’re too old for. You want your father, you want him to go and tell off Cersei, but you have your brother instead, and he at least semi-understands what it’s like to be different.

“I’m sorry,” you turn and look up at him,

“Sorry?”

He stands, walking to your window to look out at the courtyard below.

“When you look at me, what do you see?”

Tyrion is going somewhere with this, you know that much, but what, you are left wondering,

“I see… my brother.”

“Yes, you do. But the world? What does the world see? They see a drunk, lustful little man with a lion on his chest he doesn’t deserve.”

Something in you knows that it’s true. Tyrion is nothing more than his condition to the eyes of most in the Keep, most of the kingdom.

“You, you look like a Lannister. Your brokenness is inside. And I wish I could understand it.”

“It’s alright-” You sit up, clutching your doll, “It’s just… what it is. I have you, I have Father.”

Tyrion almost scoffs, he comes back from the window, passing you your water,

“Yes, you get Father, but that’s because you are utterly adorable.”

“I am adorable, aren’t I?”

“And humble, it appears.”

When Tyrion leaves, he kisses your forehead, and you know he is going to tell Father. You are the one thing they share something of a common interest in, and you suspect Tywin will make an appearance at some point. You’re right, of course.

It is Tywin’s heartbeat you listen to to calm yourself down for sleep. Your father strokes your hair, half-dozing himself. A soft, sweet moment that you are reminded Tyrion doesn’t have the privilege of.

Cersei is no longer allowed to be your main caretaker, you spend your afternoons out in the gardens, or sit entertaining yourself in Tywin’s solar. Tyrion takes you on walks, and there is something of a peaceful normality brought about.

You are still terribly disappointed in how Tywin’s gift turns out, it looks like a child made it, and when you become obviously quite upset over the manner, you have the Old Lion and his younger son to calm you. He loves it, he assures you, and Tyrion is so enamoured by it he requests his own. You know they are simply making you feel better, but you let it happen anyway.

And, perhaps, life is not so bad after all.

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

Let The Rain Fall | Bucky Barnes x Autistic!Reader | Short Series - Part 4 of 4 - 2.5k

Bucky isn't the only person looking to talk to you after you rescue the jet. But you're feeling far from heroic. But Bucky's seen you struggle before, and he's going to help you again too.

Warnings: description of a meltdown, angst, workplace bullying, negative introspection, but also fluff, Bucky being the softest and the sweetest, and...a kiss!

A/N: thank you to everyone who has read along, I'm so glad I finally shared this fic with you all and I hope you enjoyed it :)

<- Part 3

Masterlist | Let the Rain Fall Masterlist | Bucky Barnes

The compound was calm again, the debris from the attack was being cleaned up by Stark’s crew and everyone was back to their day jobs as if nothing happened. But Bucky couldn’t move, couldn’t go back to the gym or paperwork, and just forget what he’d seen. 

“She was just standing there, Steve, controlling the jet, she saved them all - I- what happened? What is she?” 

Steve didn’t look up from the report he was reading, “I told you, she has her own skills.”

“What skills?” Bucky paced back across the room and in front of Steve’s eyeline. 

“Can you sit down? You’re making me dizzy.” Steve shuffled up slightly to accommodate Bucky on the sofa as well. “Stop. Pacing.”

“Tell me.”

“I don’t know, her envelope is sealed. You’ve managed to get more out of her than any of us combined. So, I’m sure she’ll tell you in her own time.” He looked up at Bucky pointedly before returning to his report. 

"You know, don't you?"

Steve ran a hand down his face and then back up, ruffling his normally neat hair.

"I do, if I tell you, will you promise to leave her alone?"

"Honestly? I won't lie to you... But I still need to know."

"To save you getting in trouble, opening people's files, I'll tell you what you've already seen. But then you have to leave her alone. I can't fight HR about you again."

Bucky sat down finally, watching the side of Steve's face.

"Telekenisis, that's what I heard when she joined." Steve went back to his paperwork, feeling the pressure of Bucky's stare before, turning to him. "Three years at Xavier's before graduating, she worked there for a while, then college, then here. To my knowledge she's only used her powers during emergencies, no field work, never requested it and always turned down our offers. She just likes being here, doing a normal job, and Stark likes having -" Steve paused, unsure of the word to use, "people with powers, on site, none combatant, just in case."

"She came out in the field with us though? Why?"

Steve laughed, pointedly looking Bucky up and down before slapping his friend on the shoulder.

"Why indeed. Now, keep it to yourself, don't go gettin' yourself in to trouble."

Despite Steve’s insistence that you were left alone, his orders didn’t trickle down to the other swat and tactical teams in the compound. 

For the rest of the week you found team leaders, colleagues and even a few other agencies dropping into your inbox and asking you to help. 

After a few days with no responses the Team B chief tactical officer even turned up at your door, banging on the wood and demanding to speak to you. 

“Come on Agent, you know you’d be valuable in the field -” she’d paused, waiting for you to answer. But your words were gone, your mind foggy, incapable of anything but sitting quietly and staring out of the windows.

You could see some trees waving in the distance and focused on the way the top branches danced together. The view wasn't as nice as the one from Bucky's apartment and you tried to tell yourself that's what you were missing, the view, and not the man himself who would surely distance himself from you after this ridiculous display.

Fresh tears poured as your sub-conscious continued to berate you internally.

“Don’t you think it’s selfish to keep your talent to yourself? Think how many people you could save!” 

You gave the Officer nothing, staying silent, the clouds slowly filled in behind the trees, drifting, drifting, your nails biting into your palms, shoulders bumping the chair as you rocked to and fro in time with the trees.

“Alright, think of how many people will die because you’re too fucking selfish and lazy to help them - have it your way, stay here behind a desk, let your fellow agents injure themselves needlessly doing work you should be doing.” 

With that the Team B Tactical Officer stormed off back down the corridor, and you burst into tears. 

“It’s not selfish,” you whispered to yourself, squeezing the blanket tighter around your shoulders, “it’s not selfish, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”

Your corridor was quiet, as it always was. No sign if you were in or not apart from the muddy boots left outside of your door. Bucky heaved in a breath, preparing for you to send him away. He knocked and waited. 

Nothing. 

He knocked again. 

Nothing. 

“Look, I know you’re in there.”

“Go.” 

Your voice sounded broken, tired. 

"Just wanted to let you know we caught that guy, so…everything's safe for you to come out now."

"Okay."

“Are you okay?” 

“Fine.” 

Bucky sighed, “please just let me in, we don’t have to talk, just let me make sure you’re okay and then I’ll go.” 

The handle turned and the door cracked open almost imperceptibly. Bucky pushed it further, quickly stepping in and closing it behind him. You were very particular about your space, so he made sure to leave his coat and shoes by the door before slowly making his way to your living room. 

Like your office, your apartment was cosy and comfortable. He found you curled into an armchair by the window, your furniture the same Stark issued items that were in his own living space. But you’d made everything your own with cushions and throws, blankets neatly folded on every arm and a huge, plush rug demarcating the space. You looked small in the chair, a huge fluffy hoody pulled down over your knees, the hood up so you were just a pair of sad eyes, watching him from your personal den. 

“Hey, Doll.” Bucky gave you a weak smile, perching on the coffee table in front of you. It was littered with books and half full mugs of cold tea, multiple packets of your favourite biscuits, crumbs and ring marks where you’d run out of coasters. It wasn’t like you at all. 

He looked back at your doe eyes, red from crying, staring unblinking at a spot above his shoulder. If it was anyone else he’d think you were staring at his arm, but he knew better than that, you’d never stared at him like that, you weren’t even looking at him now. “Do you need to talk about anything?” He offered. 

Your eyes didn’t move from their fixed spot, but you shook your head from one side to the other, slowly. 

Bucky furrowed his brow in confusion. He’d never seen you like this. Since getting to know him he’d found you chatty and buoyant, excited to share things with him and even if you never looked at him for very long, you certainly didn’t stare vacantly through him. He always knew you were listening, despite your tendency to fiddle and fidget, because you asked him about things later, recalled the most minute details of his day, and it struck him how much he already missed talking to you. 

“Can I get anything for you?” You continued to stare, shrinking into yourself, but silent tears began to track down your cheeks. “I’m going to run you a bath, okay, and light some candles.”

Bucky sat on the edge of the tub, scrolling through playlists until he found one that seemed calming. He liked to use music to make himself feel better, relying on tunes from his childhood mostly, and while he wasn’t sure what you’d like he figured something upbeat and instrumental was probably a safe bet. 

When the bath was mostly full, bubbles spilling over the side and candles lit on the shelf, he went to collect you, expecting you to be in your robe or a towel. But you were still there, staring. 

He sat again and reached out, “your bath’s ready, Doll, do you want me to help get you in it?” 

“They could’ve died.” Your voice was a whisper, almost silent. 

“What?” 

“They could’ve died, if I did it wrong. I took a risk. I could’ve killed everyone. I shouldn’t. I promised.” Tears continued to flow and judging from the pinched line between your eyes you were beginning to get dehydrated.

He bent forward and scooped you into his arms, tucking you into his chest while he allowed your tears to pour out in sobs. Your whole body shook as he held you, rocking side to side and hushing gently in your ear. 

"I don't like doing it, I never controlled it right and it's too much pressure, Bucky, I just can't. Every time is like this - this - weight and-" you sighed, inhaling a shuddering breath, "it's just a lot of responsibility and I don't want it. I didn't ask for it, I just want to be me, in my office, with my paperwork, where I can't hurt anyone."

“No one was hurt, no one was hurt because you helped.” He soothed, “let’s get you in the bath, clean up your cheeks-” he pulled back, rubbing his vibranium thumb under the tears shimmering down your face, “you must be tired, you worked so hard.” 

“It wasn’t enough, I nearly dropped it.” 

“You did a wonderful job.” 

“It wasn’t good enough.” You replied, hotly, stumbling away from his embrace. 

“No one was hurt, you saved the pilot and the ground crew. What more could you have done?” 

“I could have put him down in a safer place, found the attacker, got to the airstrip faster, I could’ve been better. I should’ve been better. If I trained, if I was on a proper team…” You stalked to the bathroom, rubbing at your tear stained face. “This is- this is why I can't be an agent. I can't do this every time something happens, I can't feel this guilt that I should've done better and yet -” you sobbed, “they come here and, they tell me I'm selfish. Maybe they're right. But I can't put myself through this every. Single. Time. I didn't ask for this. I didn't want it. I just wanted to be useful.”

“Doll,” Bucky's voice cracked. Is that really what you thought? That you had to be useful to be worth anything? “You don't have to do anything you don't want to. I just want to help, no one has to be useful to be worthy you know and -"

“Thank you for the bath.” You mumbled, cutting him off and shutting the door with a slam. 

Bucky stared at the door and listened to the sound of you climbing into the bath. He’d been ready to help, he’d wanted to help. But he knew this was for the best and he was two strides towards the door, jacket in hand, when he stopped. 

You been angry when you finally went into the bathroom, but before then it wasn't anger. You’d been sad and withdrawn and he thought back to the lonely evenings he’d spent staring out of the windows after his first therapy sessions. The way everyone had left him alone to his thoughts and it had somehow been so much worse. How he'd turned his own anger in on himself, berating himself for what he should've done.

He paused, putting his jacket back and surveying the now dark room. Light, that’s what you needed, the soft light from your many table lamps. He lit a candle on the coffee table and fluffed up the pillows from your nest of an armchair. 

Taking a risk, he peered into your bedroom and, spotting your pyjamas on the bed, spread them out neatly along with a dressing gown and some soft socks. 

You’d be hot after your bath so he made sure there was a bottle of sparkling water in the fridge, and plenty of cocoa in the jar, in case you wanted something hot. 

Then he waited, trying not to listen to the soft sound of water moving over your body or the way you started to hum along with the song.

"You take as long as you need, okay? I'll be right here when you get out. If you need to talk, if you need to just sit. I'll be right here."

There was quiet, the water still, and then your voice floated out, "thank you…I'm sorry."

"Never had to be sorry to me, Doll, beaten myself up enough times to know you're feeling worse right now. I just want you to remember one thing okay?"

"Okay?"

"You're enough exactly as you are right now."

The water moved again, "thank you." You sighed the words on an outbreath and Bucky heard the faint plash of tears again.

He walked away, as much as he wanted to push the door open and wrap his arms around you, this wasn't the time. So he settled onto the sofa, ready to wait.

You had emerged from your bath to the sight of Bucky passed out on your sofa, a book half open in his lap.

The pyjamas he’d left for you on your bed were so comfortable and for a minute you’d bathed in their scent as deeply as you had your bath. But then you were craving something else, something more grounding than floating away in your thoughts again and suddenly all you could think about was Bucky.

You’d been so rude, slamming the door on him, and part of you dreaded seeing him again and facing up to your behaviour. So finding him asleep in your living room was certainly not what you expected. 

“Oh, hey Doll, sorry, must’ve passed out. You alright?” He blinked awake, pushing himself up again and you watched the way his long shirt  rumpled around his waist, exposing the slightest slither of skin before it was hidden again. 

“I’m really sorry,” you mumbled, “you’ve been so kind and -” 

“I told you, nothing to apologise for,” he gave you a sleepy, lopsided smile and patted the cushion beside him, “come and get comfy, you want a snack?” 

You stared at him and watched the smile fall from his face. 

“I’ve overstayed my welcome, sorry.” 

He stood to go and your thoughts whirled, panicking, he can’t go, you needed him here, stay, stay, stay. Why wasn’t your mouth working? Stay! But nothing came out, you just carried on staring until - 

Your voice was broken, but your body wasn’t, and instead of asking him to stay you went careening into him, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek to the worn material of his Henley. He smelt so good, warm and safe and your thoughts went quiet, your heart stopped racing. You sighed. 

Bucky looked down at you, one arm finding its way around your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck.

You looked up and his lips met yours, gentle, loving, understanding. He tasted of cinnamon and chocolate, his lips perfectly soft against your own.His hands flexed, holding you tighter, pressing into you and drawing you closer against his body.

“Stay,” your voice was swallowed by his kisses and he hummed his agreement, holding you tighter against him. You pulled away, resting your forehead against his. “It’s best -” you twirled his dog tags in your fingers, “if you’re really clear so I understand.” 

“I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me,” he smiled before finding your lips again. 

[mim16s]

Survival in Game

Cho Hyun-ju x Autistic!Fem!Reader

•I'm not autistic, but I have a brother and a cousin who are, so I used my experience living with them to write this character. English is not my first language, but I tried my best to write this without spelling errors. This is my first story on this app, so I hope it is good.

This wasn’t what you wanted for your life. Honestly, you didn’t even understand how you had gotten to this point. All you wanted was to take care of your mother, to repay all the effort she had put into you. And you knew how hard it had been for her.

She got pregnant young and raised you on her own, with no support system. Your father? Well, you never knew him. He disappeared as soon as he found out about the pregnancy. Your grandparents, embarrassed that she had gotten pregnant so young and without even getting married, abandoned her too. That’s how your mother faced the world alone, with you in her arms.

And things got even harder. You knew that being autistic made everything more challenging for her. As a child, you didn’t speak, and your first words came only after many therapy sessions, which were expensive. But she never gave up. You remembered seeing her come home, exhausted after a long day of work, but always with a smile.

— Mom is fine. You’re everything I need to have strength, — she would say, trying to hide her exhaustion.

But you knew the truth. You knew how much she fought, how she struggled to meet all your needs, to make sure you never lacked anything. Everything fell apart when she got sick. You were 19. The illness took all her strength, and she could no longer work. That’s when the weight of the world fell on you. You had to find a job, but no matter how hard you tried, no one wanted to give you a chance. When they saw you weren’t neurotypical, they wouldn’t give you a chance.

Life became a daily struggle. You survived doing small jobs here and there, while some kind neighbors helped with food baskets. But the money was never enough, and the debts started piling up. Your mother’s treatments were expensive, and with each unpaid bill, the despair grew.Then he appeared. The man in the suit.He appeared out of nowhere, as if fate had sent him. With a piercing look, holding a briefcase in his hand. He stopped in front of you while you were resting in one of the subway chairs, with a smile that made you just as uncomfortable as it did curious.

— Looks like you need an opportunity, don’t you?—You hesitated, unsure of what to respond. He seemed to know exactly who you were and what you were going through.

— I want to propose something to you.

And that’s when you got a card with geometric symbols and a phone number. You stared at it, your heart racing without fully understanding it.

---

And now, here you were: in a strange hall, surrounded by people you didn’t know, in a place you had never seen before, wearing clothes you didn’t even remember putting on, and the fabric itched. You weren’t the only one confused. Perplexed looks crossed the room, and nervous whispers filled the air.

Then they appeared: masked soldiers, wearing uniforms that seemed more threatening than functional. You couldn’t help but shrink back, a heavy feeling that something was terribly wrong.They began to speak, explaining what was happening.

— Excuse me! — A voice echoed. Your eyes followed the sound until they landed on a beautiful woman, who seemed just as indignant as she was confident. — They said it would just be some games, but you kidnapped us. And you still want me to believe this?

— We apologize, — one of the masked soldiers replied, the voice distorted by some sort of modifier. — It was a necessary measure to ensure the confidentiality of the games we are organizing.

Questions started popping up from all sides, but the answers provided no comfort, only more tension. You wanted to understand better, but it was hard to follow. The questions, the sounds around you, the smell of sweat and fear in the hall, everything was pulling you in different directions. You began to rock back and forth slightly, trying to focus. It was something that always helped. But the discomfort persisted.

---

You were led to a large open field, surrounded by high fences and cameras that seemed to record every movement. It was announced that the first game would begin soon. When a desperate man screamed that, if anyone was eliminated, they would die, a chill ran down your spine. It couldn’t be true... right? But when the game began, the illusion of safety shattered. The sharp sound of a gunshot cut through the air. Your eyes widened, shock paralyzing you. That sound — loud, deafening to your sensitive hearing — seemed to hammer in your head. You instinctively wanted to cover your ears to block out that deafening noise, but you felt someone hold your hands firmly, preventing any sudden movements.

— Don’t move, it’s dangerous. — The voice came from behind. It was the beautiful woman from before. There was something in the firmness of her tone that managed to cut through your panic, bringing some calm.

— My ears hurt, — you murmured, your voice trembling.

— I know. But you have to hold on. Just a little longer.

Chaos spread around you. People were screaming, some running in desperation, while others were falling to the sound of new gunshots. You felt terror take hold, a heavy knot in your throat. Your legs felt like stone.

— If you don't cross the line in time, they'll still kill you! Look at the doll's eyes! They're cameras that scan for motion! But it's not able to detect you if you're behind something! — screamed one of the players, his voice desperate. — So if you short, line up behind someone who's taller than you!

Your body wouldn’t respond. You were frozen, the noise and the fear trapping you in place.The beautiful woman stopped in front of you, blocking your view of the rest of the field.

— Keep going. — Her voice was urgent, yet gentle. — You need to keep going. Don’t worry, I’ll stay in front of you. Just follow me, okay?

You couldn’t verbalize, but when the music started again, you followed her. Each step behind her felt like an eternity, but she kept her promise, protecting you as you moved forward.

After the game ended, everyone was taken back to the room. The atmosphere was heavy, filled with fear and despair. Lost looks, uncertain steps — everyone seemed terrified, and you were no different.Sitting on one of the beds, you rocked back and forth, an automatic motion, a desperate attempt to find comfort. But it didn’t help. Your breathing was uneven, the sounds around you seemed amplified, and all you wanted was to leave. Your mind raced in circles, always returning to the same question: Why me? You just wanted to help your mother. Everything you did was for her, and now you were trapped here, too scared to do anything.Then the voice of the masked soldiers echoed through the room, imposing order, the man from before who said he had already participated in this game proposed the vote.At first, the idea of voting seemed like an escape. A chance to get out of that terrible situation.

But then they revealed the amount of money accumulated by the people who had died. The sum gleamed in a giant safe suspended in the room. The shine of the money seemed to hypnotize some. Murmurs started to arise. Many were considering staying. You felt a tightness in your chest.

When the vote began, the sound of buttons being pressed was like a constant drum in your ears. You watched the people go to the ballot box, one by one, pressing their votes. Some hesitated, others went with determination.When it was your turn, your hands trembled as you walked up to the ballot box. The panel blinked in front of you: a circle to stay and an “X” to leave. You could barely see properly, your vision blurred by the tears at the corners of your eyes.Your finger pressed the “X.” You wanted to leave, go home. You needed your mother as much as she needed you. But when the final vote was recorded and the numbers were revealed, your heart sank.The majority had chosen to stay.Panic took over you again. Your fingers began to tremble uncontrollably, and you went back to your bed, feeling your whole body tighten. Your mind was in chaos. The rocking movement returned, but this time even more intense, as if your body was trying to compensate for the avalanche of emotions.You felt helpless. You wanted to scream, to cry, but all you could do was try to hold onto the little control you still had.

The terror was greater than anything you had ever felt before. And, even worse, it was just the beginning

Part 2

[deadghosy]

can I ask for a reader who hates loud noises, like what would the SB do?

SB WITH READER WHO HATES LOUD NOISE (Autism & misophonia friendly, representation matters)

Tom Riddle

It’s if loud, most likely the great hall. He has put a charm on your head phones to make sure it’s silent.

You love him for it as you eat happily to the peaceful sound no loud chattering

He always makes sure you are safe and not uncomfortable.

Mattheo Riddle

If it’s someone being loud, he confronts them.

Doesn’t matter if it’s polite or not. He doesn’t like the look on your face when it’s too loud and you fidget.

All he wants is for you to be comfortable.

Plus he bought you some headphone that’s in your favorite color.

Theodore Nott

He takes you out of the room that’s the loudest.

He knows you hate loud sounds and how it makes you jump and even feel stressful. So he could also use his hands over your ears.

Maybe talk over the loud sounds so he can distract you.

He’s such a gentleman!

Lorenzo Berkshire

Just like Theo, he’s taking you out of the room and talking to you.

Maybe you two can isolate from the loudness and just to each other and eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. It’s like a date. Just for different meals ☺️💕

He always reminds you to bring your headphones.

He makes sure you are prepared for anything else

[writtenbymoonflower]

hello! I'm not sure if your requests are open, but could I ask for some hurt/comfort with poly!marauders with an autistic reader?

maybe reader has a meltdown because of sensory overload and they help her through it?

thank you so much! I love your writing xxx

thank you so much for requesting! poly!marauders x autistic fem!reader

cw: description of sensory overload, autistic meltdown/panic attack, brief mentions of unsafe stimming

943 words

By the time your building was in sight, you felt every ounce of adrenaline leave your body. You had been holding on by a fraying thread all day, taking every searing feeling of overwhelm in stride. Your hands were raw and scraped from digging your nails into your flesh, and your jaw was tight and aching from being permanently clenched. 

Usually, work wasn’t this stressful for you. There were difficulties for sure, but it was familiar and predictable. Today however, there had been a company mixer involving all of the branches of your company. The building was hot and crowded with bodies, everyone was talking over each other, there were new people constantly trapping you in mundane conversation, and it was all just too much. It felt like every aspect of the event was scheming for your demise. You made it, though. You were as friendly as you could muster and you hoped your simmering discomfort was mostly imperceptible to your coworkers. Unfortunately for you however, the come down was worse than the overwhelm itself. 

You kicked your pinching shoes off the minute you stepped through the door, wanting to rid yourself of all sensation. You rushed to your room to undress. All of your clothes were itching painfully into your skin and it was enough to make you want to scream. You tugged your blouse off, not even bothering to throw it in the hamper. Your hands were so shaky that you pinched your fingers in the zipper of your skirt. You were already close to tears, but when you punctured your stockings while tugging them off, it all caught up to you. You crumpled into a heap on the floor, shivering from the biting cold in the room. You rolled yourself into a ball as small as possible on the floor, shaking as tears rolled down your face. Everything was too much. You weren’t sure how long you had stayed like that, rocking back and forth and shaking your hands, as if you could shake off the crawling on your skin. In your overwhelmed state you didn’t notice the door open, or the footsteps rapidly approaching your room. 

“Baby?” A voice was panicked, rushing over to you and crouching on the floor. You recognized the smell first, Sirius’ woodsy and fruity scent. His hands reached out to grab you before quickly retreating, not wanting to add to your state. “Baby, did you hurt yourself?” You shook your head rapidly, still choking on sobs. You winced as Sirius yelled. “Prongs! Moons!” They appeared in the doorway almost immediately, recognizing the urgency in his voice. 

“James, get the blanket.” Remus ordered. They had seen this happen a few times before but it didn’t make them panic any less. It was difficult for them to see you in pain, especially when there was no visible injury to tend to. You were still shaking, biting your hand compulsively. Remus was firm but kind as he kept you safe from yourself. “Honey, I need you to be gentle, okay?” You didn’t respond but still obeyed. Soon, a warm and heavy blanket was placed over your shoulders, it helped to calm your shaking, but you were still crying. 

“Will a hug help, lovie?” You nodded, craving the pressure. James pulled you onto his lap and squeezed you tight. The compression was wonderfully grounding, as if you could feel all the pain being juiced from your system like a lemon. He released you too soon, but you knew he was just being cautious. You tended to not know when pressure was too much, especially when you were in this state. It wasn’t rare for you to have bruises on your hands from squeezing or sitting on them when you got stressed. Still, you now felt calmer. 

“Remmy, can you turn the lights off please? The buzzing hurts.” You winced. He scrambled up to do so, in a way you knew likely hurt his aching joints. Your brain began to quiet down, your system being cleansed from the unwelcome and intrusive sensations of the day. “Thank you.” You mumbled, playing with your fingers. 

“Don’t thank us, baby.” Sirius wrapped the heavy blanket further around your shoulders. “Did something happen today?” 

You shook your head. “Not really, just a bunch of little things. It was just a lot, I didn’t expect it to affect me so much.” You said the last part with a bit too much shame for the boys liking. 

“Sometimes you don’t know until it’s happening.” James said gently. “I’m sorry it was a hard day, lovie.” 

“Is there anything more we can do?” Sirius said restlessly. He hates that this happens to you, it makes him wish he could wrap you in warm, quiet darkness and hold you to his chest, shutting all the pain out. 

You thought for a second. “I think I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten yet today. I was too distracted.” You knew the boys were still feeling especially tender, since you weren’t scolded. 

“Why don’t we order a takeaway?” Remus suggested. “That way we can just relax for a bit.” He stroked your exposed knee with his fingers.

“I think that Greek place is open.” James said before you could answer. “I’ll get the menu.” 

“Do you wanna move to the settee, sweet girl?” Sirius wrapped an arm around your shoulders. When you nodded he helped you stand up and ushered you to the sofa, wrapping you in more warm blankets when goosebumps rose. James handed you the remote. 

“Pick what you want, lovie.” James sat on your other side, caging you in wonderfully. You were again covered in sensation, but this time it was welcome and comforting.

[kkayyerr]

Daddy!Rafe x Autistic!little!reader headcanons:

- Rafe would educate himself so he could take care of you better. He isn’t a great learner, but he would try his best for you.

- He would learn to lower his voice and control his temper when he is with you, just so you wouldn’t get scared nor triggered by his impulsive behavior. 

- His friends would also know about not being too loud when you are near. 

- At first, Rafe would be pissed at the fact that you wouldn’t eat „normal“ food. Like, what do you mean the dish that he spent hours making looks „yucky”? However, instead of yelling at you, he would just go and make you something else, because he cares about you too much to just leave you with an empty belly. 

- He might be a little angry if you won’t eat that either.

- He won’t be angry with you, even if you are throwing tantrums. He just knows that your „bratty attitude” is actually emotions that you sometimes can’t control, and his duty is to help you regulate them, even if he can’t regulate his own.

- Rafe would feel honored if you’d let him hold you and wouldn’t push him away while he tried to comfort you. He would accept your trust for him as a true gift. 

- He would probably tell you that your stuffies had run away because you were bad and then console you when you would take that way too literally. 

- He would NEVER let mean jokes about you slide, no matter who was making them. Never.

- Rafe would buy you whatever you want as long as he knew that it’ll bring you comfort. I mean, the boy has a lots of money, so...

- Rafe would never let someone manipulate you or use you because of your naivety. It’s his job.

- He might be a little bit too overprotective sometimes, but it’s just because he feels like you are way too fragile and pure to protect yourself from that nasty world. 

- Rafe won’t let himself tease you, because most of the time it would upset you too much, and he would feel very guilty, looking at your pouty face. 

- To say less, Rafe Cameron would actually show his good sides while being with you, but he would pray that you wouldn’t tell anyone that. 

Author’s note: I am not autistic myself, so I asked my autistic friend for help to make it more accurate! Thank you @th3h0lyr4d14nc3, ily so much.🫶🏻

[fanged-fanfics]

☆ Silent Stars — Starscream x GN Autisitc Reader Fic ☆

Genre: Fluff || they/them pronouns for reader || No warnings needed

──────.𖥔 ݁ ˖˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ──────

Starscream being addressed as just "Screamer" by scornful Decepticons wasn't a coincidence. The mech was known for his shrill shrieking and near-squaking shouts, from indignation to pride. He was widely noted for how loud he gets, and this carried into his relationship with you. He yelled at the TV, at neighbors, not a thing was safe from his boldly proclaimed opinions. After suffering a few bouts of overstimulation because of it, you'd sat down your Conjunx for a conversation. You tried to be gentle, noting that you weren't mad, but explaining the damage loud noises gave you.

Today was the day after, and you picked up that you hadn't seen Starscream as much as you usually would. You'd have been more worried, but you could see him walking around the home, doing small tasks. Not wanting to interrupt his focus, you had your attention on the TV, the channel on your current media fixation. You heard the familiar heavy steps of Starscream going about his day, but you tried to give him space. "Human," he whispered from behind the couch you were sitting on, so quiet you couldn't even hear. He whispered a little louder, "Sweetspark"

You turned with a little 'hm?', meeting his crimson optics with your gaze "Yes, hon?". "I need to ask about your wants for your refuel this evening" Starscream whispered, scooting in a little closer. Dinner is what he meant. "Hmm, I think the same meal as yesterday" you said "There should be some leftovers, I'll heat that up later". Starscream shook his helm, beginning to stand. He went into the kitchen, and you heard the familiar small beeps and whirls of the microwave starting.

"Star, honey, could you come here?" You asked, and your Conjunx immediately sped-walked back to your side. He kneeled before where you were sat. "Yes?" He asked, voice still almost too soft. You cupped his faceplates with your hands as best as you could, leaning in to press a small kiss to his nose. You smiled watching the tension melt from his frame. "You can still talk to me" you said, petting his cheek with your thumb "I love your voice, Star. It's just all the yelling I had trouble with"

Starscream vented a soft sigh, looking up at you "I'm still not used to these.. fragilities" he admitted, speaking at his normal volume. "It's not 'fragilities', love, just boundaries" you gently corrected. "Whatever you call them," Starscream began with a little huff "How am I supposed to know when it reaches a point, hm?". "You could just ask" you said "I'm not gonna lie to you, babe, I'll tell you anything". Starscream still seemed mildly suspicious— honesty and vulnerability were practically foreign words to Decepticons, Ex-Cons or otherwise— but he gave an understanding nod even still.

"Then tell me, my little one," Starscream began, slowly standing "May I join you?". You nodded, patting the cushion beside you. Starscream sat, holding out a servo. He paused mid-air, looking to you in a silent ask of permission. It took you a second to realize what he was alluding to, but you were soon scooting up to his side and leaning against his frame. The Seeker immediately took the opportunity to gently wrap around you as much as he could, chin atop your head and arms holding you as close as possible without being restrictive. You gave an amused hum, returning the hold with one of your own around his waist.

After your bonding, he made you promise not to tell a single spark that he could be as clingy as a hungry scraplet, so moments like this were for you and you alone. He tilted his helm to give you a kiss atop your head, engine rumbling a low purr when feeling you lovingly pet his frame. "Make me aware if anyone breaks these boundaries of yours, dearest" Starscream mumbled "I'll snap them in half". You chuckled a bit, giving his chassis a soft kiss "I appreciate the idea, but remember what we said about fights on earth". "Yes, yes, I recall" Starscream huffed, fondness in his expression despite his attempt at an exasperated tone.

"Seriously though, thank you. It means a lot" you said, nuzzling into him a bit more. He hummed, optics lazily watching the TV as one of his servos moved to cradle your head "Anything for you, My Spark"

"Even your nest?"

"Especially that"

"Evennn.. your energon?"

"You already have my innermost energon, so yes"

"Eve-" you began, getting cut off by a kiss to your cheek. "All of it" Starscream said, mildly seriously, a reassuring but kind firmness "My own frame, spark, and whatever else you desire". Upon hearing the microwave beep faintly, you glanced up at your Conjunx "Then can you get my dinner for me?". Starscream grumbled, upset that he had to detangle from you, but he did just that. Once standing, he gave a big stretch of his arms "Yes, fine, you cunning little scraphead". You grinned, watching as he walked out. You called out to him, "It's why you love me though!". Starscream couldn't help but smile as he made sure the food was to your precise liking. He called back, "Never change, you hear me? Not for anything in this wretched galaxy"

[spacecowboyy0]

crumbling

summary: you and peter go to the avenger's tower on a field trip and you have a breakdown, then get comforted by buck and nat! angsty then fluffy

notes: autistic!little!reader, you and peter act like siblings and i envision them in their last year of highschool, peter’s field trip is a huge trope on Ao3 idk if tumblr people are aware of that 

tony stark isn’t in this because i hate him, he’ll never be in any of my fics, i don’t care!!!

1.6k words

When it was dark, you would sometimes show up at Peter’s window, and stay the night. The habit started in middle school, when things at home were too much to bear alone. After the first few times, the window remained unlocked and May told you that you were always welcome, even if no one was home. Peter knew how important it is that you could rely on him to be there during rough nights, so he felt bad when he started sleeping over at the Tower. Peter also knew how intimidating the Avengers are, but he was sure that you would get along with them. He would talk about you so much that the team kept asking when they could meet you. He knew that you would be welcome to stay over whenever, not only when you were in crisis mode. 

On a regular Wednesday after school, Happy picked the two of you up from school, and drove you to the Tower. That night, despite your intense anxiety, you had a wonderful time. You played card games and ate delicious food that Bruce cooked. It ended with Natasha telling you that if you ever needed help, you could call her. This was the beginning of unconditional love and support from people who could’ve never imagined getting close to. 

Out of everyone on the team (excluding Peter), you latched onto Bucky very quickly, with Natasha coming runner up. You know an autistic person when you saw one, and after one movie night with that man, you knew. Bucky became a huge father figure/big brother role in your life; you just seem to click. It’s Bucky who understands your aversion to certain foods, why you need things to be a certain way, why you can go to loud concerts but want to sob at the sound of chewing.

You can’t really explain why you’re so close to Natasha or when it started. Nat is secretly a huge softie, and you’re one of the lucky few who is shown her warm heart. She feels motherly, in a way that warms your bones and calms your mind. No one can give head scratches as well as she can, or braid your hair as perfectly.

~

You were sitting in Mr. Anderson’s class when the field trip to the Tower was announced. You whipped your head around, meeting eyes with Peter, who sat a few seats behind you. For you, it wasn’t that big of a deal, somewhat funny if anything, but you had a feeling that there would be some special appearances from the team during the trip. Fortunately for you, with the protection of Bucky and Natasha, you knew that whatever shenanigans were pulled during the trip, they’d be targeting Peter rather than you. Peter, judging by the grimace he sported, seemed entirely less enthused by the announcement. Shifting your eyes over to MJ’s (evil) smirk and Ned’s delighted grin, you knew those two were excited for different reasons. 

When school was let out, you followed Peter to Happy’s car, and drove to the Tower together. There, you handed the permission form to Nat, who had been forging your mother’s signature for a while now. You shoved the slip into your bag and forgot about the trip for the next two weeks.

~

Now it’s the morning of the field trip, and you’re already tired of everything. You don’t want to talk. It’s not that you can’t talk, you just don’t have anything to say. You had such a high anxiety week, and now masking is too difficult to keep up, and you really want to feel small. You want to feel a nice fuzzy instead of the anxiety fog you have been feeling way too much of recently. Your brain is buzzing in a way that probably means that you’re very very close to crumbling. While you don’t want that to happen at the Tower in front of your classmates, you know Peter would handle it. You just hope that Bucky or Nat will be around to rescue you. 

~

Everything was going smoothly, you made it through the loud bus ride to the Tower, survived all the beeps at security, and now you’re onto your first activity after getting a tour of R&D. In a group of four, with Peter, MJ and Ned, your group is tasked with coming up with a small robot that would fulfill the two slips of criteria you randomly selected out of a bowl. You got “rainbow” and “do a flip.” As you fold the paper of your 3d prototype (something to keep your hands busy more than anything), you nick your finger on the edge of the sheet. You rip your hands away from the model on instinct, letting it drop onto the table in front of you. There’s a pause as you stare at the tiny bit of raised skin on your thumb. There’s no blood but your eyes well up with embarrassing tears. Peter, who is sitting beside you, stops scribbling for a moment when he sees you still out of the corner of his eye. 

“What’s going on?” To your hyper-sensitive mind, you’re convinced his whisper could be heard from across the room. It’s not helping. You turn to him, and you see his eyes widen when a tear slides down your face. It’s all crumbling down just like you had anticipated, and now there would be nothing stopping your dysregulated, tired mind from exposing your very not-neurotypical needs to anyone who asked. 

“Hey, what are the tears for, bug?” The whimper he got in response, caught the attention of Ned and MJ. While you love them to bits, more eyes on you is not what you need. You put both of your feet on your chair so that you can shove your face into your knees, and hope that it muffles your quiet sobs. Peter pulls out his phone, he had also anticipated this breakdown, so he sends a text to put his plan into action. 

With a nudge from Peter, and MJ’s arm around your shoulders, you walk towards Mr. Harrington where he’s talking to your tour guide. MJ leads you past where Peter stops to talk to your teacher, and into the hallway. Even in the hall with less people around, you’re so in your head that you’re mortified by your red face and the stimming you tried to suppress. After what feels like ages, Peter appears and replaces MJ’s grounding touch, and takes you to the nearest elevator. It’s only a short wait before you step into the elevator, and when the doors close behind you, you both let out a sigh of relief. Although yours is more of a shudder with how fast your breathing is. 

The ride is fast and soon you’re stepping into Bucky and Steve’s living room, where Bucky is waiting for you. Peter watches as you run into Bucky’s awaiting arms and collapse in his embrace. You sob without restraint and bury into his neck. Peter slips back into the elevator and heads up to your room, which is next to his own. Bucky walks around the room, rocking you in his arms as you wait for Peter to come with your stim basket. Peter returns with the basket, picking out a few he thinks you might need before going down to the floor where your class is. 

Now it’s just you and Buck, the sounds of crying and the noise of the city coming from the open windows. Reaching down for a moment, he picks up a squishy for your hands, and a chewy for your mouth that is gnawing on his shirt. He sits down on a couch, and creates a little bit of space between you to draw your attention to the toys. You take the squishy, but reject the chewy after a moment of contemplation. You return to your cozy spot pressed against him, but switch to chewing and sucking on your fingers. Bucky, now trapped with you on his lap and confused as to why you didn’t want the stim toy, signed to FRIDAY to get Nat’s help. 

After a few minutes, the elevator doors slide open silently and Nat walks over to the pair on the couch. Buck points to the basket on the side table, and finger spells “soother.” He suspects that you would have one, considering how much he catches you almost chewing on your fingers on a daily basis. Nat finds a light blue soother in a case near the bottom, takes it out, and hands it over. Buck gently removes the thumb in your mouth and slips in the soother before you realize what he had. He can feel your muscles relax and your heart slow to a natural rate. 

As you wait for Pete to return from his tour, Bucky puts on The Princess Bride, and the three of you enjoy the slow, quiet peace. You, drained from your emotional day, rests your head in Nat’s lap and your legs lie across Bucky’s lap. With your eyes closed, soothed by Nat’s fingers stroking your hair, you listen to the movie and savor the comfort of the moment.

Interrupted by the noise of footsteps, you lift your head to see Peter walking towards you. You smile softly, slip out your pacifier and greet him quietly. “Hi Petey.”

“Hi baby, how are you feeling?”

“I’m ok, mostly tired.” He stops in front of the couch, looking down at you. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a can of cherry Coke. “Stopppppp, thank you!” You smile and take it from his hands. 

“No problem, figured you could use a treat.” He looks at your water bottle and empty bowl on the coffee table. “You don’t need anything else? You’re good with just relaxing the rest of the day?”

“Yeah, this is perfect.”

this might turn into a series??? idk! i'd love to write more, gimme some prompts!

[nightfang22]

Patrick Hockstetter Brainrot

A/N:I can't get the thought of Patrick out of my head at the moment so I'm leaving some of my brain rot here as a paper trail for when I eventually become delirious from the amount of shit I think about this character.

-Let's get two things straight and one thing gay:Patrick struggles with feeling anything in general so when he feels sexual desire?You bet your ass he's clinging to it for dear life.

-Patrick Hockstetter is not some kind, gentle soul so do not expect him to act as such if you engage in any kind of activity with him.Especially if it's sexual in nature.

-Patrick likes to play rough and I do mean rough.

-He obviously has some pyromaniac tendencies so it's only natural to expect that to transfer over into the bedroom.

-Watching your skin blister under the flame of his lighter gets him rock solid in his jeans.

-He loves watching you squirm away from him in fear.And it's not the safe, playful kind of enjoyment either.He gets off on seeing genuine fear in your eyes and intentionally hurting you.

-A thing to remember about Patrick is that he's going to take what he wants from you either way so willing or unwilling, you're still going to belong to him.Mind,body,and soul.

-I think Patrick would also be a knife play kind of guy but you'll have to be good at holding your own if you don't want him to cause too much damage.

-Bondage,too.The less chance of you getting away, the better.

-Patrick thinks the post orgasm glow is more vivd when he sees the rope burns on your wrists and ankles after he unties you.

-Bonus points if you squirm so hard the marks peek from over the restraints.

-But with all that being said?

-He loves a willing participant.

-While Patrick is more than happy to stick his dick in you while you're just dissociating and taking it silently,he'd much prefer if you were actively interested in the activity.

-Now that doesn't mean he's going to give you any control.

-No,ma'am.

-But seeing your face contort in a mixture of pain and pleasure?He didn't know such a beautiful image could exist.

-Even more bonus points if you just wanna suck him off.

-He loves watching your throat swell with the size of his cock as you give small, vibrating moans while you deep throat him.

-The image of your pretty eyes filled with tears makes his stomach tighten at the pit of an orgasm.

-He might just blow his load down your throat right then.

-A total dom.

-Dirty talker too.He loves growling filthy shit in your ear while he fucks you from behind.

He's got your hair in a tight grip as his hips crash against yours with bruising force, your screams completely muffled as he leans over while he fucks you like he wants to break you.And he does.

"You're takin' me like such a good girl.Wish you could see how fuckin' hot your cunt looks clenching around my cock like that.Fuuuuck."

He hears you whimper and whine as tears stream down your cheeks and you can feel his dark laughter before you hear it.

"Aw,look at you cryin' out for my cock.Fuckin' pathetic."

His thrusts punctuated his words.

"So.Fuckin'.Needy."

[starsofang]

poly!141 x autistic!reader

still thinking about that anon that requested how poly!141 would be with an autistic partner, so here’s a sweet little drabble about price with them <3

tw: brief angst before cute fluff, just reader being overstimulated and price offering comfort

The entire room felt like it was closing in on you. It made you feel suffocated, claustrophobic, like all the walls were slowly constricting you and threatening to squeeze you until you exploded into a bloodied mess of splattered red.

Warm flames were trickling into your bloodstream, slowly but surely, heating you up with rage, attempting to scorch you from the inside and out. It was becoming unbearable. It was ruthless.

You loved Johnny and Kyle. Truly, you loved them to death, just as much as you loved Simon and Price. But putting them together could be a youthful night of smiles and laughter, or it could be a recipe for disaster. Right now, it was the latter.

The restraint you had was wearing thin. It was painful, both mentally and physically, to mask your anger and not snap at the two of them for how loud they were being. It wasn’t their fault, they were always the more outgoing types when they were paired together, and a lot of it expressed itself when you were around so you wouldn’t feel excluded or isolated.

But god, it was wearing thin, borderline snapping and shattering into unrepairable pieces.

You were overstimulated. Extremely.

Your mind was poisoned goo, seeping into a puddle in your head, tainting your emotions with a venomous disease. It screamed at you, flooding you with overwhelming exposure.

The air in your lungs felt as if it were monoxide. It didn’t filter through, it didn’t make you feel like you were breathing. It was a strangling feeling, one that made you lightheaded and tuned out.

Johnny and Kyle’s voices mixed together in an agonizing shrill that made your eardrums feel like they were two seconds away from combusting. It didn’t calm you like it normally did, nor did it make you laugh. All it did was make you irritated.

“Please,” you begged, voice raspy and forced through the grit of your teeth. Your hands plugged over your ears, cupping them in attempts to drown out their rowdy jokes. “Can you please just shut up? For two fucking seconds? Please?”

Instantly, the room filled with a deafening silence. The two men stared at you, guilt pooling in their eyes when they realized just how inconsiderate they were being towards you.

They were aware of things that could overstimulate you to the point of blinded exhaustion mixed with rage, but even they could forget sometimes. They’d never hurt you on purpose, nor would they want to make you feel that way.

You were their partner, all of theirs, and with five of you in the mix, it was easy to let the reminder slip.

“Hey,” Kyle called out softly, reaching a hand out to you. When you flinched away from it, an angry glare etched into your eyes, eyebrows taut firm, mouth pressed into a frown, he pulled it away, noting how you were in no mood to be touched. “Hey, we’re sorry, dove. Didn’t mean to get too much, we’ll quiet down.”

Your hands remained over your ears but you could hear him perfectly fine, though made no effort to respond. The little virus in your mind was too occupied with spreading its disease, and you couldn’t cure it in a flash. It would take time to settle.

“Bonnie?” Johnny asked. You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head. It was too much. You needed space to breathe, and surely, they’d understand that.

Stepping away from them and out of the room without another word, the first person who popped in your head was Price. His office was right down the hall, so you stomped towards it, keeping your head low and your ears covered.

You didn’t bother knocking. You never had to with him, and he always kept it unlocked for when you wanted to see him, or needed to, in this case.

“Hey, pretty girl,” Price greeted warmly when you yanked open his door and stepped inside, before promptly hurling it closed.

His eyes followed you as you made your way over to the couch he kept in his office just for you, watching as you plopped yourself on it. Knees to your chest, sour expression, ears covered. It was enough indication for him to read the room.

You needed a quiet space, and that was something he could always give you.

Price silently stood from his desk, crouching down to one of his drawers. Tugging it open, he pulled out one of the blankets he kept on hand for you. Normally for when you’d take a nap in his presence, but this time it was for comfort.

Walking over, he stood in front of you, head tilted and eyes taking in your appearance. You were flustered and disheveled, and his heart ached seeing you shut down. He knew it was just all apart of who you were, but he still felt pained seeing you unhappy.

“Here, bug,” he offered with a kind smile, using careful hands to place the blanket around your shoulders. He wrapped you up in it, before stepping back, allowing you the space you needed until you were ready. “You want some music?”

Shaking your head, you continued glaring down at the floor, tugging the blanket tighter around yourself in a secure cocoon.

“Alright. I’ll be over there, okay?” He gestured to his desk, but when you didn’t respond, he took no offense and returned to his paperwork anyway.

The two of you sat in silence for the duration of your visit. He didn’t mind, and would cast the occasional glance in your direction to make sure you were well, before returning to his work.

The silence was needed. It calmed you, smoothed over your nerves and ceased the thumping of your heart and loud voices in your head. When you came to, you instantly made a mental note to apologize to Johnny and Kyle, but for now, you could welcome the quiet.

It took about an hour for you to move from your spot. An hour for you to calm. An hour for you to become aware.

The wildfire was finally put out, and you could breathe again without the angry smoke of it to strangle you.

Standing up from the couch, you wordlessly walked over to Price. He glanced up at you from his paperwork, placing his pen down and leaning back in his chair. He was patient, not making a first move until you did, but when you stood in front of him with a kicked-puppy expression, he opened his arms.

“C’mon, bug,” he assured lovingly.

You didn’t hesitate, stumbling into his lap and allowing yourself to be embraced in the comforting warmth of his arms. They wrapped around you, holding you to his chest. One hand lifted to lightly stroke through your hair.

“Want to talk about it?” he asked, and you shook your head from where it was buried in the crook of his neck. “That’s okay. Just needed some peace and quiet, hm?”

“Mhm,” you hummed into his skin, eliciting a light laugh from him. It rumbled against you, filling you with glowing warmth and making you sink into him further.

Price pressed a chaste kiss on the side of your head, smiling down at you when you peeked your head out from his neck, gazing at you as if you put all of the stars in the sky.

(You definitely ended up apologizing to both Johnny and Kyle later on, resulting in plenty of hugs and kisses to go around, and a brief smack on each of their heads when Simon found out about what they did.)

[starsofjewels]

Sisterhood

Cersei Lannister x Autistic! Lannister! Reader

Part 4 (?) of the autistic Lannister daughter reader.

CONTENT: Autistic!Reader, usual Westerosi mental health shenanigans, vauge mentions of Joanna's death, potential spoilies for the show (but it came out a decade ago so is it really?).

Lannister warnings

Feat. The High Sparrow, Mace Tyrell and Jaime's need for family therapy.

2.5k (ish)

If you guys like this fic, make sure to check out the masterpost for the rest of the series

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Reposted from 10 minutes ago bc of a mutual who wouldn't stop fecking around in the replies (you know who you are).

This was originally a request but I altered what they asked for so much I didn't feel I could attach it to post.

Thank you for your patience as we deal with my procrastination issues and also the fact I have 0 spare time for fanfic atm.

I'll be back in 7 weeks with the next offering, stay safe kids.

<3

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Cersei Lannister is utterly delighted when, at the grand age of thirteen, she is handed a squirming, complaining lump of pink flesh wrapped up in fine blankets. She knows what it is immediately, a baby sister, her baby sister. As much as she loves Jaime, and tolerates Tyrion, there is something appealing about a little girl. To dress up, to play with, to have all to herself- How wonderful it is, to be a sister and a prince’s betrothed. 

She is very lucky, all her friends, and the low noble girls who will be her handmaidens, tell her so. Cersei is beautiful, virtuous and perfect, and you will be too. Your father calls you the angel, and with those wisps of blonde hair around your tiny, pink face and big, impossibly big, eyes, it is hard not to believe.

When Tyrion was born, he was large and bloody, misshaped like a thing made of clay, not a baby. Cersei couldn’t remember the last time she had seen a real baby, like in the paintings of herself and Jaime wrapped in their mother’s embrace, or of illustrations she can’t quite believe are her father and uncles. She goes to Tywin, Septa behind, insisting you must have come from the Gods, not quite understanding the knowing smiles of the adults around her. And life with this new, precious, thing- For that is really what you are as an infant- Is perfect. For a few days, at least.

Joanna dies four days after your birth. Cersei is not fully old enough to understand why, or what exactly has occurred, but she remembers her mother’s pale face, a hand around Tywin’s shoulder. Sometimes, when she recalls it, she thinks she can hear soft harp, even though the room is silent. You take pride of place, of course, in your mother’s arms, Father’s free arm cradling your head. If it weren’t for that lingering smell of rot, and the ever-growing whiteness of your mother’s face, it might be a pleasant scene.

The maester appears, and Cersei is ushered out of the room, new baby sister in tow. She will not see Tywin smile truly for another many years. At least, not without a very little lady accompanying him.

When you go from a lump of flesh to a truly formed person (if very small, and quite plump), Cersei begins to realise just how wonderful it is to have a much younger sister. She is fifteen, and you are an excellent pawn to get Prince Rhaegar to notice her. Rhaegar is soft and gentle, less like a dragon and more like a dog, and he simply adores infants. He has one coming himself, from his new wife, the Dornish princess, but no-one seems to care much about poor Elia, hidden away upstairs. 

One of your earliest memories is sitting by the fountain in the courtyard as Cersei plaits flowers into your hair, Rhaegar coming by to offer her more, and sitting with your tiny self as you attempt to poke the fish. Cersei remembers you wailing every time the dragon prince took your hand to prevent a fish massacre. Your earliest memory, funnily enough, is Tywin taking you line fishing at no older than three or four.

You, as it transpires, turn out to be an excellent bonding point between herself and Rhaegar. Viserys is just about your age, if slightly older, and so it becomes not an uncommon sight to see the older boy taking you places, wandering about with the Hand’s daughter no differently than the common children. Everyone seems to love you; you are good, obedient, quiet. Glances turn to Tyrion, four years your senior. Loud, and brash and already with a decent-sized collection of swear words. It is no wonder you are everyone’s favourite. 

Of course, women in Westeros do not tend to have a very good lot in life. Women are virtuous, women are prizes, and what is a better prize than Tywin Lannister’s eldest daughter? Cersei stays in the Red Keep when Arryn becomes Hand, when she is married off to a man who would rather spend his nights in foreign beds and wrestle hogs than he would with her. Her gaze falls to Jaime, her babes come Lannister-blond, and she wonders what may have become of you under your father’s influence. 

And like most ideas Cersei has, this one falls apart just the same. There is no little blonde maiden, dressed in Lannister colours and paying more attention to her dolls than the court. She expects a lion, and what arrives is little more than a cat.

The next time Cersei properly sees you, you are at least twenty. Her son, her single pride and joy, rules as a tyrant, even she can admit that. Ned Stark is dead, Renly Baratheon is dead, and the idea that you might have grown up into a proper young lady is gone. 

You, a woman of twenty, are attached to your father like an infant. Cersei remembers you as a young child, and cannot honestly find a difference, aside from the obvious developments of womanhood. You are very pretty, but you are not a Lannister: your hair has darkened, your eyes shift, wide and frightened. 

“Go, child,” She doesn’t quite think she’s ever heard Tywin’s voice so plain, so sweet, “go and see your sister, there is work to do.”

So you do, you sit awkwardly between herself and one of her more favourable maidens. Cersei does not speak to you, only occasionally passing you something or half-explaining an inside joke. Something is wrong with you, she can feel it from even a passing glance, but she cannot quite tell what. 

But you are her sister, so it doesn’t really matter what she wants or thinks. Cersei is, for all intents and purposes, as much under the control of Tywin as she was before her marriage, before he abandoned her in the capital; she will never admit it, but she’d do anything he asked. 

Days become months, and months become the better part of years, she hardly speaks to you. Together, at Tywin’s funeral, she watches you recite all of your prayers, leave him coins and jewels on his person, and she realises that the last time the two of you spoke was Joffrey’s wedding day, if she even wants to remember such a tragedy,

“He always liked you better,” She says, motioning to your father. By now, the Septon has already finished his prayers, and Tywin is well and truly moved to the next place, “Never one conversation didn’t have your little name on the end: how sweet you were, how intelligent you were-” Cersei’s tone takes an edge, even if she doesn’t mean it to, “There was nothing any of us could ever do to win his favour- But you? No-one could tear him away from a princess like you.”

And you sit there, letting her say anything that needs to be. Your eyes just as wide, just as still as ever, and it infuriates her. Perhaps she wants you to fight, or to sob and insist you knew nothing of your father’s favouritism, but you say nothing.

“Do you even speak?” Cersei asks eventually, “Or did Father take your tongue with him?”

She wants some retribution, and she gets none. So she slaps you across the face. There is no Tywin to protect you in this instance, but there is Jaime. He marches over, golden hand glistening in the firelight, and takes her by the wrist, gently, into a side room. Mace Tyrell bumbles over to you. You’ll speak to him, apparently, but not to your own sister.

“What was that for?”

Bitter tears come. The very ones that worked so well against any man other than her brother. He has, and always will, see past it. Hands cup her cheeks, and she almost jumps at the cool metal of a prosthetic she still isn’t quite used to.

“She’s not like us-” Jaime says eventually, “It isn’t her fault she’s different.”

This is not the Jaime she remembers. The Jaime with two hands, who would defend her in an instant. Cersei isn’t quite sure where this has come from, what he’s done, or heard. She assumes Tywin spoke to him, in his usual way, some time before his death,

“Father said-”

“Father said-” He has never argued against her before. Not once, not truly, “That she is our responsibility. What else would you do, Cersei? Ship her down to Dorne with Myrcella? Lose the only remnants of Father we have left? Tyrion is gone, Father is dead. I will not let her go anywhere - Besides, Father would haunt us.”

It is too soon to make such jokes. She falls into his arms, much like a princess would in one of her mother’s old fairy stories. For the first time in years, Cersei wants her mother…

Tommen’s ascension to the throne is marked by religion. The High Sparrow (as he insists upon calling himself) creeps from the outskirts of King’s Landing and places himself, quite comfortably, right within the royal family. Cersei feels her son’s following slipping from her control into the world of religion, and she wonders if this is how her father felt when Joffrey began to stray from command.

But Tommen is not her worry, not really. He is her son, but he is too dense to truly be manipulated. A sweet boy, a good boy, but far too young to have any real sense of coercion.  No, her worry is not Tommen, it is you. 

Quiet, obedient little girls, as it turns out, are essentially gold dust to this new group of robins, or sparrows, or whatever idiotic bird-themed name they’ve given to themselves. Especially a quiet, noble girl. She finds you frequently with Cousin Lancel, applying salve to the hideous star carved into his forehead. She imagines you kissing it as well, that you fulfill a mother’s role for him. Not that she’d be surprised. 

It is one of those strange days that she doesn’t quite remember fully. She hasn’t slept well, not that she has been, and she notices her handmaidens are depleting in numbers. To be married, or to become septas, or whatever it is they do with their lives; she isn’t entirely sure. But it is getting colder, definitely, Winter is coming again. 

“But then it turned out he was scared of them-”

It is your voice, definitely, talking about dogs. She has never heard you so utterly in your element, and nor has she heard the burst of laughter that follows. A man’s, an older man’s. For the first time in her life, Cersei hides herself in the shadows, and you walk past on the High Sparrow’s arm. You seem confident, almost at ease, entirely different from the little girl she’s grown to know, and something like jealousy blooms to see you with a strange, old man, rather than her.

“Which I don’t understand, because it was only a little dog-”

“It was well past your waist, and it had a bird in its mouth- His bird.”

Your laugh is something your father would treasure, her father would treasure. But there is something about this interaction that spurs a rage within her. She doesn’t understand how you, the lady who would not speak a word to her own sister, could be so friendly to that old Sparrow. The two of you go down the corridor, and an hour later you are summoned to the Council rooms. 

“He’s nice to me,” She hears you say, brushing one of the king’s cats. What a childish response. “He wants me to become a septa.”

“And- Do you want to be a septa?”

It is Uncle Kevan who speaks, and Cersei is thankful for that. She isn’t sure she has the correct words to voice exactly how she’s feeling. You look up with big, sweet eyes and tilt your head.

“I suppose it’d be nice to wear the same thing every day, I wouldn’t have to worry about laundering.”

The queen beside you scoffs and rolls her eyes, it is a response she has grown used to from you, your dependence on order. It comes from Tywin, he was exactly the same with money and accounts. At least he had a dresser. 

She does not worry about you personally, particularly, and she knows she ought to. She worries that you’re sleeping with that old zealot, and it’ll look bad on the family’s name. It isn’t entirely implausible, not with how the two of you behave with each other; less like a teacher and his mentor, and slightly more like a young couple in love.

You are devastated when Tyrion arrives with half of his new Valyrian army to take you away to some land beyond. She watches you try to convince your new friend to come with you, but he has his mission, and you yours. A High Sparrow does not belong outside of his nest, he says, and Cersei wonders where he thinks a lioness is supposed to go- Not that you could ever be classified as a lioness. 

And that High Sparrow, your friend as you insist, turns on her as soon as you are out of the picture. She is stripped and lashed and shamed, to such an extent she feels her father roll in his grave on particularly quiet nights. Any other woman might understand that this is how you have felt your whole life; alone, afraid, latching onto any connection you manage to pull from the wreckage. But Cersei is not any other woman, and she unleashes fury like no other. Your High Sparrow crashes to the ground in spectacular, green, fashion, and she doubts you will ever find out.

When Cersei is queen in her own right, before she is killed as a tyrant like her son before her, the last she hears of you is a life of adventure on the Iron Islands, chasing about the now-broken Theon Greyjoy under the watch of his uncle: The pious one, not Euron, who is barred from coming anywhere near you, she discovers. And the three of you have, apparently, formed an odd little family, overseen by Balon and monitored by Yara, or Asha, or whatever the girl’s name is.

She never did understand you, but with the family in tatters, she is relieved you are safe. As one less burden on her shoulders, and not out of love, she assures herself. Perhaps one day you will marry Theon and Balon will stop pissing around. Or, more likely, you’ll stay on that bundle of wet rocks, playing about like a child. Less a lion, and more of a leopard seal. 

At least you have a happy ending, even if she is not there to see it.

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

Let The Rain Fall | Bucky Barnes x Autistic!Reader | Short Series - Part 2 of 4 - 1.9k

Bucky gets a welcome surprise and you finally meet Captain America. But when things don't go quite how you expect, you start regretting your decisions.

Warnings: reader is very obviously uncomfortable, some mention of workplace bullying from other agents and the preamble to reader having a meltdown.

A/N: I just want to say thank you to everyone who has read Part 1, I've been so ovewhelmed by the really personal responses and support, thank you! I also love how much the fabric softener scent has been brought up! This is definitely me and is an Easter Egg I've left in other fics too, so if you do check out any of my other stories keep your eye out!

<- Part 1

Masterlist | Let the Rain Fall Masterlist | Bucky Barnes

The last thing Bucky expected when he pushed the door to the hanger open was to see you sat on the benches with the other recruits. He noted there was a foot of space between youand the agents beside you, their voices loud and echoing. You were wearing the suit he’d brought you, you seemed comfortable enough apart from the zipper, which you were pulling up and down in time to the hum of the fan above your head.  

He was pleased you’d come, but something like guilt twisted inside of him at the look on your face. You looked genuinely pained, agonised, and he wondered, not for the first time that week, whether there was something you hadn’t told him.  

“Good to see you all.” He said, eyes scanning the room but consciously not settling on anyone as he walked past.  It was too tempting to let his gaze linger on you.

A chorus of ‘good morning, Sergeant Barnes’’ followed him as he entered the jet and took his place in the cockpit.  

The day was as uneventful as Bucky had described, a short ride on the jet and then an hour hovering over some empty base while the other recruits worked with Steve.

Each time the comm crackled you had a rush of panic that you’d be expected to join them on the ground, an opportunity you’d shook your head at and then allowed Steve to move on very quickly to the agent beside you. 

You gripped the seat harder, your jaw clenched. Closing your eyes you took a deep, steady, breath trying to imagine your happy place, a safe place, inside a tent, under a blanket and... 

“Are you okay, agent?” Bucky’s low voice echoed through your imaginary tent, breaking your peace. The dark utility of the plane came rushing back. 

“I’m not going down there.”  You said decisively, adrenaline coursing through you, preparing to argue. You could feel it, making your leg shake in anticipation of defending yourself.

“Okay.”  Bucky shrugged a shoulder.

“I’m serious I’m - wait, did you say okay?” You opened your eyes to find Bucky sat in the empty seat next to you, the jet clear of anyone else. His long legs were splayed open as he let his weight rest against the netting behind you.  

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Just came to make sure you’re alright.”  

The lead weight of dread that had been settling in your gut vanished and, weightless, you smiled, “better now.”  Adrenaline still flooding your body you tried to hold back tears of relief.

“Is there anything you did want to see? Steve said you oversee mission debriefs? Maybe you’d like to watch the mission from the cockpit with me?” Bucky stood then, holding his hand out to you briefly before tucking both hands into his pocket awkwardly.  

“I’d like that, thank you.”  

Bucky wasn’t sure he’d ever had such a nice time waiting in the jet. He was often resigned to babysitting the Avengers’ jet, car, boat, horrid little safe house, whenever there was actual teaching to be done. He didn’t mind so much, it gave him the space to read his books, listen to some music or catch up on all the history he’d either missed or inadvertently been a part of. 

But today you were there too, and your presence brought him a sense of calm that had truly surprised him. 

“Make yourself at home.” He insisted, gesturing to the spare seat. 

“Thanks.” You sat carefully.

“I mean it, make yourself comfortable, we’ll be here for a while. You want a drink?” Cautiously you tucked your legs up, crossing them on the seat. Your boots were clean, immaculate even, worn only through the compound and into the hanger this morning, but you were careful to keep them as far off the seat as you could anyway. 

Bucky poured coffee from a large flask tucked into the side of his seat and topped it off with a generous helping of milk. 

“That’s just how I like it.”

He smiled, wide and pleased, “I asked around, wanted to make sure you enjoy your first mission.” 

That flutter appeared in your chest again, the surprising desire to stay close to him that had first made itself known when he'd squeezed himself in to your tiny office.

“Not really a mission if I don’t do anything,” you blew steam from the top of your enamel cup and took a sip, cupping your hands around the warm metal. 

“Well, that's all I’m doing and I’m an ‘Avenger’.” Bucky laughed making his voice deeper as he said Avenger before reaching his arm out to clink your mugs together. “Cheers to the easiest job on the roster.” 

You fell into an easy silence, Bucky read his book for a while until you couldn’t hold it in anymore and told him you’d read it a few weeks before. Before you knew it two hours had melted away and you were curled up comfortably in Steve’s seat, giving Bucky a run down of your favourite books so far that year. He watched you, the wide grin softening into an indulgent smile while you blossomed before his eyes. 

Some of the other agents had been whispering about you, while you boarded the jet, that you were odd, childish, over the top and impossible to be around. But he enjoyed the exuberant way you described each plot, the glimmer of excitement in your eyes when he agreed with you and the blunt dry way you told deadpan jokes before breaking into peals of laughter. 

Silently he prayed that you’d come with him again, just to spend time with him even if you didn’t want to be in the field.  

You surprised Bucky by coming on the next recon as well, even agreeing to accompany him to collect Steve and some other agents from a secondary base. Silently, you followed him into the cockpit and set your bag down next to him, tac suit immaculate apart from one addition, a small toy turtle on a keyring that dangled from the zipper.

“I got you a present,” you said once the jet was at altitude and Bucky had flicked a considerable number of important looking buttons and levers. Steve and the others had parachuted in this time, your stomach had turned just watching them.

Bucky turned to look at you, the clear blue of the sky reflected in his eyes. 

“Really? You didn’t have to do that.” 

“I know, but I saw them in the gift shop in New York and, well, I like mine so-” trailing off you rummaged in your bag, pulling out a paper gift bag sealed with tape. 

Bucky took the little parcel from you and carefully opened it, removing the fluffy socks, striped like his arm, that were tucked up inside and staring at them.  

“Oh god that was stupid, I’m so sorry.” Your heart beat wildly, sweat forming on your brow.

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, a way to keep you focused while you saw your doctor in New York. The city didn’t seem so busy when you were focused on your task, and Bucky had been so kind he deserved a present. But this was a stupid present, stupid, stupid present. You ground your teeth and squeezed your hand together, allowing your nails to bite into your palm. 

Before you could take them back, Bucky unrolled them and held them up, a huge grin growing on his face. “They’re socks! They make socks of me.” He laughed, rubbing his thumb against the soft fluffy fabric. “And you said you like yours - you got my socks have you?” 

“I - no - I -” you stammered and Bucky looked at you properly, a flush of embarrassment appearing on his own cheeks. 

“I’m messing with you ya doll, I love them, thanks.” 

Bucky’s heart

had soared, you’d bought him a present. Something you liked too and you’d thought about him when you weren’t together. He couldn’t deny how addictive your presence had become, the mixture of calm and joy. If you brought him a present surely that meant you liked him too? 

He’d have to talk to Steve later, he seemed to know more about you and where you’d come from.

The rest of the journey went by quickly, you talked about a new show you were watching, a book you finished and how terrible most of the agent’s handwriting was when you were trying to decipher their field notes, not to mention the way they ticked boxes wrong and put things in the wrong files.

He discovered it was you who’d streamlined the paperwork, automated some of the questions and changed the paperwork so it matched across teams. He was somewhat in awe of your ability to see efficiencies as if they were tangible, organising his own Avengers issue tablet to minimise the emails he received and sorting the rest into neat little folders in his inbox, all in the last twenty minutes of the mission.

Too soon the agents themselves were piling into the back of the jet, tired but excited, chattering away. Even Steve was still in a good mood, bouncing into the cockpit, his Captain America smile plastered on but his suit unzipped enough to show his flush chest and the grime of the mission on his neck. 

“Hey Buck, let’s get - oh, hello Agent.” He came up short, as if he hadn’t seen you at all. 

“Hi, Mr Rogers, Sir, Captain?” You fumbled. 

Bucky winced, you hadn’t really met Steve yet, he should’ve introduced you both properly instead of letting you struggle. 

“Steve is fine, Agent, you stay there if you want,” the Captain America smile morphed into his real, Steve, smile, and you looked surprised. He winked and turned to leave the cockpit again.

Before Steve had even shut the cockpit door you could feel the awkward lump of confusion move from sitting in your through with your unuttered words down into the pit of your stomach. Should you have given Steve his seat back? He seemed so insistent that you stay but maybe he was being polite and there was some etiquette rule that you weren’t away of at play.

You looked out at the gathering clouds in the distance and fixed your eyes on one cloud in particular, honing in on the shades of grey that built each bump and groove. 

“Are you alright? You don’t have to stay with me if you don’t want to?” Bucky whispered from the seat to your right, the dark metal fingers of his hand lingered on your arm rest, so close you could feel his presence without him touching you. 

No.

No you were not alright.

It had been too long since you were in your own space, the jet was so loud and the din of the other agents so overwhelming that you thought you might be drowning in noise. You were confused about Steve’s behaviour, he was a superior, yes, but just a man and you didn’t think you needed to bow and scrape to him. But maybe you did?

“You’ve gone again, Doll. I need to know you’re okay.” His hand touched your elbow for just a second and then withdrew.

Oh, shit, you had, you were gone, everything felt weird and heavy and fuzzy, your eyes had drifted back to the clouds, body still, apart from the heaving of your chest as your breaths became more panicked. 

“I - yeah - I’m fine.” You grit your teeth into a false, pained smile and dug your nails into the arms of your chair. “I shouldn’t be here though, I should go back. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry. I’ll get Steve.” Before Bucky could stop you, you’d jumped up and rushed through the door leaving Bucky confused and alone in the cockpit. 

-> Part 3