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helaintoloki · 4 months ago

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Winter Flower

pairing: Bucky Barnes (Winter Soldier) x reader

warnings: themes of kidnapping, drugging, violence, trauma, suggestive content. mentions of pregnancy, eventual happy ending

notes: wanted to try writing something out of my comfort zone so pls let me know what you think and if you’d like to see more!

summary: fate binds you to the Winter Soldier, but will it be enough to keep you together when you’re constantly being pulled apart?

“We’ve decided to give you a new pet.”

The Winter Soldier isn’t sure what to make of the barely conscious woman that’s been carelessly thrown at his feet by his handlers, but he knows better than to ask questions by now. His handlers seem to find his predicament comical as they laugh at a joke the Asset is not a part of and watch the scene unfold with malevolent smiles.

The woman, unbeknownst to the soldier, had undergone weeks of physical torture and anguish as various Hydra doctors poked and prodded at her mind and body until there was not a single ounce of fight left in her body. She’d been battered and bruised until she was almost nothing, and in the end it had all been a complete waste of time. Their hopes for a new weapon were diminished by the discovery that her body had not taken to the serum; her brute strength and aggression had only lasted for three days before she had crashed and returned back to normal. The experiment had failed, and Hydra now looked to their prized possession to dispose of her properly.

“We will let you have your fun,” his handler had snidely remarked before slamming the door shut behind him, leaving the Winter Soldier locked in his holding cell alone with her. She hadn’t moved in the time since she’d arrived, so the man felt it necessary to firmly nudge her ribs with his boot to wake her up. He didn’t want her here, didn’t enjoy a stranger in the only space he could remotely consider his own, and he wanted this to be known.

Slowly, the failed experiment uses every ounce of strength she has left to lift her head and will herself to look up at the man tasked with terminating life. Unlike the soldier, she knows why they have thrown her in here with their deadliest killer, and the trembling of her bottom lip reveals her trepidation. He initially expects to feel disdain and disgust for this supposed pet that lies at his feet, but when her wide eyes meet his own something inside him shifts.

The Winter Soldier was never one for compassion or empathy; he was programmed to kill without remorse, to void himself of any warmth or humanity, but as he looked down at her his chest swirled with emotions he could not name. It wasn’t pity or mockery, but a compulsive need to protect her from harm the way one wishes to protect a helpless animal from awaiting predators. She is not a pet, but he decides in that moment that she will be his to look after.

Wordlessly, the soldier scoops her limp form off of the tile ground and rests her in the small cot he calls a bed. A pathetic whine of pain leaves her body at the discomfort of being moved around, causing his chest to tighten unbearably. This shouldn’t be happening, there shouldn’t be a sense of longing suffocating his entire being when he gazes upon her weakened form, and yet the man finds himself taking extra care to tuck her under the blankets.

He lets her sleep, keeping careful watch over her form like a guard dog as he seats himself in front of the metal door and basks in her presence.

The Winter Soldier had a new purpose now.

~~~

No one had expected the Asset to become so taken with you.

When the guards came to see if the Soldat had finished the job, they were stunned to find you fast asleep in his bed while he stood watch. They had tried to terminate you themselves only to be met with gruesome ends after just looking at you. The Winter Soldier was adamant that you were not going anywhere, and no one could understand why he had become so fond of you within such a short span of time.

The answer had been discovered a week later by the scientists tasked with creating the new weapon. Though your body had not taken to the physical changes of the serum, they found that it had permanently altered your inner body chemistry and DNA as a result. Your new genetic makeup had triggered something within the Winter Soldier as soon as your eyes had locked with his own, almost as if your blood spoke to his. You were bound together on a biological level by this new serum, and this bond could not be broken.

The deaths of twenty men left Hydra with no choice but to let him keep you as the ordeal was not worth losing more valuable resources than necessary. Your survival did not come without cost, however, and they made it clear that you were expected to earn your keep. The Winter Soldier’s handlers had decided that you could be quite useful in forcing the Asset to comply. The cost of any mistakes or failures were yours to pay, and the possibility of your torture or isolation from one another proved to be a good motivator for the Soldat to execute missions without flaw.

You are an unwilling prisoner in all of this, your freedom taken from under you with no regard to your autonomy, but you know that this is the best possible outcome to have happened to you. Being a pet is much better than being a weapon to abuse or a failed experiment to get rid of, and you know that no real harm can come to you under the protection of the Winter Soldier. You have no choice but to make the most of the course life has chosen for you, and so you fall into your role as his companion.

“I don’t like when you leave,” you utter quietly while making careful work of combing his hair. He is scheduled to be sent away to Italy to locate and execute a deserter known to have important Hydra files with them, and your soldier will be gone for a week. His absence is isolating, and you know that once he is gone a nurse will arrive to hold you down while the doctors drug you to prevent you from causing any problems while he is away. Your brain becomes foggier and foggier with each dosage, and as time goes on the details of your life before the Winter Soldier become hazier until you almost forget everything.

“I must,” is his gruff reply. “It will keep you safe.”

“I want to leave, too,” you whisper despondently, taking great care to ensure your words cannot be heard by anyone other than him. He stiffens, and for a moment you fear being reprimanded, but his quiet utterance in reply has you hopeful for a chance at something better.

“You will.”

~~~

You wake to a man violently grabbing you by the hair and dragging you out of bed. You kick and claw at his arm in a fruitless attempt to free yourself, but he remains unfazed as he drags you to your destination. You know these hallways well enough to know where you are going, and despite your groggy state at having just been woken up from your drug induced slumber you are aware enough to know what is about to come.

Your soldier is waiting for you when you finally arrive to his handler’s office, eyes wide with fury and helplessness as he watches the man lift you by the hair before slamming you back down onto the ground. You cry out in agony and reach for your companion only to have a heavy boot land down onto your hand. The Winter Soldier moves to attack only to have several guns pointed at him, and he is forced with no choice but to stand down and watch you take on the abuse.

“You did not comply with orders, Soldat,” the man says simply, casting an irate glance your way at the sound of your pathetic cries. “I asked you to return with those stolen files and instead you lost them. What good are they to me now?”

A swift kick is driven into your ribcage and you curl into yourself with a sob. His entire body is vibrating with anger, each blow landed only fueling his need for vengeance, and yet he cannot save you. This was the arrangement made, the only reason you were allowed to still be alive, and it was his fault that this was happening to you. A single tear slides down his face at the sound of bone cracking when you take another hit to the ribs, and just when he thinks he can’t take anymore the man raises a hand to signal the assailant to cease his abuse.

“Do not fail again, or next time she will endure worse than a broken rib.”

The guards file out until all that remains is the Winter Soldier and his battered pet that lies unmoving in the center of the room. He’s on you in an instant, hands that were built to kill being used to gently lift your broken form from the ground. Every movement sends painful jolts throughout your body that make you let out pained shrieks and cause his chest to tighten as a result. The Asset cradles you to his chest like a child would their favorite teddy bear and does his best to console you. His metal fingers gingerly comb through your hair as you sob into his chest, and his mind is frenzied with thoughts of how he could ever possibly make this better.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into your neck, his salty tears staining your skin when he presses his face against you. “I’m sorry, my pet.”

You are a prisoner just like him, and he cannot help you when he himself is bound to Hydra forever.

~~~

A week has passed and your injuries have improved gradually overtime, though your Soldat still takes great precaution when touching you or holding you close at night. He handles you with care, and it will never cease to amaze you how a man who was created to be the perfect weapon can be so tender with a woman who would mean nothing to him if not for the serum running through her veins.

He has been gone more often as of late, assisting in the training of a new batch of soldiers. At times you worry he might take to one of them the way he did you, might abandon you in place of a new pet, but from what you have gathered from overheard conversations the scientists had fixed this issue when creating the new serum. They couldn’t risk him showing loyalty to others and chance him deciding to fight back. He was yours, and admittedly you liked it this way. Perhaps it was the constant drugs being put in your system or the isolation of being confined to this building forever, but you loved him.

“I want a name,” you tell him when he returns from a grueling day of training. He looks at you almost puzzled as he removes his tactical clothing in preparation for a shower.

“Name?” He repeats with furrowed brows, planting himself in front of where you sit on the edge of the bed. You open your legs to allow him refuge in between them and hum in approval when he reaches down to gently run his metal fingers along the lines of your jaw.

“I don’t remember mine anymore, or anything before I came here, not completely. I need a name now.”

The Winter Soldier had never stopped to consider these details before you’d brought them to his attention; he didn’t know anything about himself, and he’d forgotten that this was considered abnormal. You had a life before him, an identity, and yet he’d never stopped to try and ask you.

“цветок.” You tilt your head in confusion and he smiles, a rare laugh escaping him as he explains, “Flower.”

He bends forward to press a kiss to the crown of your head, and in that moment you decide you like your new name.

You prefer being his Flower over his Pet, and you make sure to express your gratitude for this change when joining him in the shower.

~~~

Your privileges, while not many, have increased with your time spent as the Winter Soldier’s companion. You aid Hydra in keeping the man in line and ensuring optimal execution on missions, and your permanent bond to him means you never once have tried to escape in his absence. Thus, they felt it appropriate that you finally be able to leave the four walls of your bedroom.

You now have the ability to follow the soldier once a week to training, and you accompany one another to doctor’s visits rather than having them send the physician to you. So long as neither of you screw up, you can continue this routine of leaving your confinement to enjoy a small taste of freedom.

One of your new privileges is the responsibility of grooming the Winter Solider. Now that you can fully be trusted around sharp objects, you can trim his hair and shave his face while he sits back and enjoys how sweetly you fawn over him. Hydra had lost several workers to this task as one accidental tug of hair or cut to his chin could cost them their life, so this was one job they were happy to rid themselves of.

His blue eyes stare intensely up at your scrunched features as you carefully frame the pieces around his face. You work with practiced ease like you’ve done this before, and maybe you have, but there’s no way for either of you to find that out now. Your tongue pokes out discreetly from between your lips while you trim his ends, and the soldier envisions pulling you into his lap then and there to steal a kiss. He’d never do so in front of watchful eyes such as those of the guard who supervise your activity, it’s too intimate and he refuses to share you in such a way, but it brings him solace to envision a word where he can love you without inhibition or fear of putting you in harm’s way.

“I wish they would let you keep it long,” you hum thoughtfully, voice followed by the quiet snipping of the scissors.

“Not good for missions, Flower,” he reminds you before allowing his eyes to flutter shut at the feeling of your fingers combing through his hair.

“You’re leaving again?”

“Not for long,” the man consoles, flesh hand coming to rest on your thigh before giving it a comforting squeeze. “Hydra says I must complete this one last task, and then we both will go to sleep.”

“Sleep?” You repeat hesitantly, pausing your ministrations to meet his steely gaze. His silence has you unnerved, and you return to your previous work in order to distract yourself from the nerves that begin to settle into the pit of your stomach. “Winter, I don’t want to-“

“It is an order, so we must,” he interrupts. He doesn’t mean to be harsh, but he needs you to understand that even with these new freedoms you are still under Hydra’s commands. He cannot risk you becoming bold, becoming defiant, because he knows better than anyone what Hydra does to those who step out of line. He will not have that for you, and he would rather you understand to comply now than have it beat into you later.

You set the scissors down and step back to admire your work. His blue eyes follow your every move as you begin to clean up the mess, and his chest tightens with yearning as he pictures a life of normalcy. If he tries hard enough, he can pretend that you are a normal couple living a regular life- you’re with him because you love him and not because your biology had been programmed to yearn for him only, and your trimming of his hair is an act of love rather than a necessity forced upon him by his handlers. You’ll never know just how much it pains him to know you will never truly be his, and it is his fault you have been subjected to this life.

“Winter,” you call out gently, breaking the man from his obvious turmoil. You say his name so gently, different from what he is used to. His lips barely quirk into a smile, and for you that is a win. “I love you.”

Placing his metal hand on the back of your neck, he carefully pulls you closer so that your foreheads are pressed together. You can feel the gentle fanning of his breath on your face as his nose gently brushes against your own and inhales your scent. One day he will free you from this cage, even if it is at his own expensive.

“I love you.”

~~~

Your Winter returns to you in shambles and it scares you.

You’ve never seen him so frenzied, so unsure of himself and the world around him. His eyes are welled with tears, and he’s on you the moment he spots you, nearly yanking you out of bed as he pulls you impossibly tight to his chest and begins to comb his fingers through your hair.

“Winter?” You whisper meekly while scrambling to find purchase in his hold. You feel his hot tears trickle down onto your neck and the tremble of his hands as they splay across your back, but his hold never relinquishes.

“There was a man,” he shakily whispers into your hair, faltering to swallow the rising bile in his throat, “a man on a bridge.”

“What happened?”

“I knew him,” he whispers agonizingly, the turmoil evident in his tone. His shoulders tremble with each sob he fights to hold back, but the feel of your fingers gently rubbing circles into shoulders allows him the strength to continue. “He called me- he called me Bucky.”

Your features contort into a frown as you hold the sobbing man impossibly tight. You know just how difficult it is to have no semblance of your past or your identity before Hydra, but you can’t imagine just how awful it is to be given a piece of the puzzle only to have nowhere to place it. You want to help him but you don’t know how, and it pains you to be so useless.

“I think he knew you, too,” you reassure him quietly in case of any prying ears. “Maybe Bucky is your name, and this man is a friend. Maybe… maybe he can help us.”

The soldier stiffens at your words, carefully pulling himself out of your grasp to meet your gaze. You fear that perhaps you’ve misspoken and angered your companion, but once you see the rare glimpse of hope shining through his tears you realize your words have struck a chord within him.

With feverish movements he pulls your body back to him and slams his lips onto your own, swallowing your startled gasp and pushing you back towards the mattress. You accept him willingly and without complaint; you let him take you over and over again to the point of exhaustion until neither of you can hold yourselves up any longer. He worships you, comforts you, ensures to you that he will take this new lead and run with it until he can gain your freedom. His mission has always been you, and you trust him with your entire being to complete it.

They come for him hours later. The door to your room slams open, and two guards stand on the other side. Despite your entangled limbs and state of undress, you know well enough to immediately move yourself out of the way by pressing yourself as far back into the corner of the wall as possible. They grab him roughly by the arms before dragging him out of bed, and you watch helplessly from behind the cover of the sheets as he is taken from you once more. Despite the roughness in which they handle him, his eyes remain gentle as they look upon you fondly, and your heart sinks in your stomach when you note how differently this gaze feels. The door shuts harshly behind him, and a part of you fears that the look on his face wasn’t an expression of love.

It was his way of saying goodbye.

~~~

You haven’t seen your Winter in three weeks, and no one has come to check on you in five days.

You feel like you’re losing your sanity with each second that passes- you never thought you’d miss the interactions that came with your daily injections or the physical touch of the nurse holding you down. You’re thirsty, starving, dirty, delirious, and spiraling in your isolation. What could have happened to make them abandon the Winter Soldier’s pet? What could have happened to make him abandon you? Maybe he’s dead, or maybe he had never truly cared about you enough to get you out of this place, and you’re not sure which is worse.

You think you’re dreaming at first when the door to your prison slowly begins to creak open, and the sudden downpour of light is so blinding you can barely make out the figure standing before you. You whine and tightly shut your eyes, but you’re still able to hear the careful footsteps that approach you as if you’re a scared animal who might bite at any sudden movements.

“I’ve got something,” the feminine voice murmurs. “East Wing, last door to the right. They left someone behind.”

You attempt to open your eyes again and are met with the kind features of a woman. She offers you a comforting smile and attempts to reach for you only to flinch, but she’s quick to immediately retract her hands and hold them up in surrender. It’s clear she doesn’t want to scare you, but your bouts of torture and mental scarring don’t allow you to trust so easily. The Hydra nurses had often smiled at you the same way before strapping you down and aiding in your torment.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she coaxes softly, “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Are you with Hydra?”

She shakes her head. “My name is Natasha, and I’m an Avenger. My friends and I are here to help you. Can you tell me your name?”

The name strikes a chord within you, but it isn’t impactful enough for you to truly grasp her importance or bring recognition to your mind. It is enough, however, for her to gain your trust and answer her with a quiet utterance of the word, “Flower.”

She hums thoughtfully before extending her hand to you again, and this time you take it without trepidation. Natasha slowly helps you to your feet, but your lack of nutrition and dehydrated state causes you to keel over immediately. The woman catches you in her arms and keeps you upright by allowing you to lean against her, but there’s evident worry on her features now that she fully knows the extent of your physical state. You appear weak and frail, delirious, and she hates to even think about what has happened to you during your stay at the Hydra base.

“Nat,” a new voice calls, and you muster up enough strength to lift your head and lock eyes with the man in the doorway. His features are kind and his eyes blue like your Winter’s, and his build nearly takes up the entire frame. His brows are etched with concern once they catch sight of you, and he’s quick to assist Natasha in guiding you out of the room.

“Flower, this is Steve,” she introduces in a hushed tone, “can he pick you up so we can get out of here faster?”

“I can’t leave,” you murmur hoarsely, eyes beginning to well with tears.

“It’s okay, no one is going to hurt you now if you leave,” she tries to assure you only for you to vehemently shake your head.

“If I leave he won’t know where I am o-or how to find me.”

“Who won’t know?” Steve presses gently, catching your figure as you stumble into his grasp before bursting into a fit of sobs.

“Winter,” you choke, too lost in your crying fit to note the way Steve’s body stiffens at the mention of the man. He shares an uneasy glance with Natasha before composing himself and offering you comfort through the careful rubbing of your back. Your cries echo throughout the abandoned Hydra base and send chills through the Captain’s spine.

He isn’t sure what the next step is or what to even make of this situation. They had been sent here to explore the Hydra base in search of any remaining personnel or files after the aftermath of Pierce, and while he had hoped to find some trace of Bucky he hadn’t been prepared for a battered woman to be the only link left to his missing friend.

Carefully lifting your frail body off the ground and into his arms, Steve trails closely behind Natasha as the two make their exit. You’re an inconsolable mess, but Steve does his best to offer the only words he can think of.

“We’ll find him, I promise.”

You never thought you’d ever get to see the sunlight again, but when Steve carries you over the threshold of the base and out into the open world you find yourself being blinded by its brightness. The feel of fresh air is jarring, its warmth kissing your skin as you are carried into their awaiting jet and set on the softest gurney you’ve ever been on. A multitude of voices surround you, but you can’t seem to focus on anything but the simple fact that no longer are you a prisoner to Hydra and their abuse.

You are free.

~~~

It took hours for Natasha to settle you so Bruce could properly examine you, but no one could blame you for your aversion to doctors and fear of needles. No one had ever been as patient or kind with you as they had been during the process of running blood tests, conducting a psychological profile, and settling you in with an IV to get you hydrated again. You clung to the Black Widow like a lifeline, but she never once seemed to mind. You almost got the impression that she understood the horrors that you’d been through, and that was enough for you to put your entire trust in her.

While your tests are being conducted, Tony and Steve sit in the intelligence room staring at the profile before them on the screen. Your innocent face stares back at the two men, a stark contrast to the woman who sits in the exam room with Banner and Romanoff. Your face is youthful and full of life, and the longer Steve stares at your photo the more the knot in his stomach twists.

“Her name is y/n y/l/n. She was a hairstylist in Manhattan before she was declared missing,” Tony reads along solemnly.

“Does she have any family we can contact?” Steve asks only for his counterpart to shake his head dejectedly.

“Parents passed away when she was in college and there’s no immediate family left. Hydra knew what they were doing when they picked her for their program.”

Sighing, Steve pinches the bridge of his nose in rumination before leaning in back into his chair. He felt a sense of responsibility when it came to your wellbeing; though he didn’t know the exact nature of your relationship with Bucky, he knew you must have been important to him considering how worried you were about him finding you, and that mean you were important to Steve now too. But there was so little to work with when it came to helping you enter back into the real world again, and who knew how long it would take for you to reacclimatize to your newfound freedom.

“This poor girl was tortured for who knows how long. If I could have found her sooner-“

“Hey, don’t do that to yourself,” Tony interrupts with a deep frown, “that doesn’t help anyone. We have her here now, and we’re going to get her the best treatment money can buy to help her get through all of this.”

Before Steve can reply, the two men are interrupted by the presence of Dr. Banner who holds a folder of tests results in his hands. The Captain is on his feet immediately, looking at Bruce expectantly with bated breath as he waits for the prognosis.

“As we suspected, there is super soldier serum running through her veins. However, it appears dormant since she showed no signs of increased strength or aggression or any other possible abilities. We’re not sure what effect it has on her, but I think she should be able to live a relatively normal life despite it being active in her system.”

“You couldn’t remove it?” Tony questions.

“She didn’t want me to. She said it’s what keeps her connected to Barnes, what kept him from killing her when Hydra dumped her on him.”

“I didn’t know that was possible,” Steve murmurs quietly. “Will she be okay?”

“Well, it’s going to take some time for her to psychologically recover from the torture and the isolation she endured, but there is a good chance her memories can be restored with time as well. Physically I’d say she’ll recover, and I’ll ask again when she’s in a better mental state about removing the serum, but…”

The hesitation in his voice is clear, prompting Tony and Steve to exchange uneasy glances before urging him to go on.

“What is it, Bruce?” Tony presses. Sighing, Banner adjusts the frames of his glasses and looks between the two men before landing his eyes on your holographic picture. He doesn’t want to voice the reality of the situation, but he knows he must if they want to help you.

Finally, he replies, “She’s pregnant.”

The room becomes deafly silent as the doctor’s words hang in the air, and it feels like ages before Steve finally works up the nerve to speak.

“Pregnant?” He nearly gawks in astonishment, clearly not believing the words he’s hearing.

“The blood tests and an ultrasound both came up conclusive,” Bruce confirms solemnly.

“And the father?” Steve hesitates to ask.

“Based on the details she shared with Nat, I think it’s safe to say that Barnes is the father.”

“So you’re telling me this woman is carrying a baby super soldier?” Tony questions bluntly much to Steve’s chagrin.

“It would be appear that way, yes,” Bruce replies almost annoyed at Tony’s poor choice of words.

“Is it safe?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I think the serum running through her veins increases her chances of survival and the possibility of a relatively normal pregnancy. We’ll just have to keep an eye on her in the meantime and hope for the best.”

“Well, Rogers, it looks like you’re going to be an Uncle,” Tony congratulates with a hearty clap to his back in an attempt to lighten the mood. Though Steve doesn’t exactly appreciate the jokes, his nerves are somewhat put at ease when he continues, “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure she gets everything she needs for the super tyke.”

It seems that finding Bucky is more important now than ever, and Steve is determined to do whatever it takes to reunite you with the man you love.

No matter the cost.

~~~

It’s been two months since you were freed from Hydra’s prison, but sometimes it only feels like just yesterday you’d been tangled in the sheets with your lover planning your escape. Should you even call him that? You’re not sure anymore. Your new therapist had affirmed you were an unwilling participant in all that had happened to you, but so was he, and he had taken care of you as best as he could given the circumstances you found yourselves in. You think you do love him even if she says you’d only forced yourself to feel that way as a means to survive.

Along with a new therapist, you’d been given all the resources possible to start your life over. Despite their insistence that you were welcome to stay at the Avenger’s compound while you healed, you were adamant about wanting the autonomy that came with having your own apartment. You wanted to learn to be your own person again, to live in your own space by your own schedule, so Tony had helped you find the perfect apartment in a quiet part of town.

Steve visited nearly every day to ensure you and the baby were doing alright considering he felt you were his responsibility now in Bucky’s absence. No leads have been found yet on the whereabouts of the Winter Soldier, but he is doing his damndest to find Bucky by all means. Natasha stops by every once and while when Steve cannot, offering you company and support during your transitional period.

Your body has healed from the grueling abuse you’d endured, but it’s taking your mind a little longer to catch up. You remember your name now, your real name, and vague remnants of your past, but it isn’t enough for you to complete the full picture. Bruce says it will take some time for you to regain your memories, but you’re not oblivious to the possibility that your mind might not ever be fully restored.

Natasha had accompanied you to another ultrasound appointment to check on the health of the baby and your own before taking you grocery shopping. The doctors say you’re almost three months along with a perfectly healthy baby, and Nat had cooed sweetly at the grainy image displayed for you both on the screen. You never knew how exactly to feel every time they showed you the baby- you didn’t hate it or detest the fact that you were pregnant, but the circumstances in which it had all occurred certainly weren’t ideal, and it served as a reminder that you would be going into this alone.

Once you were coherent enough, Steve had sat you down and carefully explained that your Winter once went by the name of James Barnes, though most people just called him Bucky. He told you of their friendship and how he had thought him to be dead all these years until the incident on the bridge, and he assured you he was doing everything in his power to bring you both together again. Of course, that had been a month ago, and Bucky was nowhere to be seen. It pained you to know that he wouldn’t be here to experience any milestones with you, to see his child grow inside you, to hold them and love them and enjoy his chance at having a family. You were supposed to start a new life together, but instead you and your little one are all alone.

You step out of the elevator and head towards your apartment with an arm full of groceries after finally making the trip home. Natasha had offered to help you bring them up, but you insisted you’d be fine on your own. You look forward to the hearty soup you plan to make for dinner and to frame the latest ultrasound on your fridge, and you don’t mind the fact that most days you dine alone. You’ve learned to get used to solitude once more, though it helps when it’s out of your own volition and not because you’ve been locked away in your own personal prison cell.

The apartment is quiet and untouched when you enter and hang your keys on the wall, but it’s only once you make it to the kitchen that you realize there is an intruder standing in your home. Your newly bought groceries fall to the floor with a deafening thud, fruits and vegetables scattering everywhere as you stare at the familiar pair of blue eyes that pierce straight through you. His hair has gotten longer again and his features are covered in stubble, but you know it is him.

“Winter?” You whisper in a trembling voice, afraid that if you speak any louder he might just disappear.

“Flower,” he breathes out, and before you can even blink he’s on you in an instant. Your frame is lifted from the ground when he picks you up in a bone crushing hug, one hand wrapped around your midsection while the other cradles the back of your head. He breathes in your scent as you nestle your face into the crook of his neck and begin to sob with the amalgamation of emotions within you. You missed him terribly, but you hated him for abandoning you and for loving you so much that Hydra had decided you were too valuable a resource to lose, and yet you were so relieved to see him alive and breathing in your little apartment.

“You left me,” you sob into his neck which prompts him to tighten his hold on you in response. “You promised you’d come back.”

“I could never leave you,” he hushes you, trembling lips brushing against the shell of your ear, “I could never ever leave you. I tried to come back for you but you were gone, and I couldn’t risk coming near you with the Avengers around or else they might take me away from you.”

“They wouldn’t do that, Steve has been looking for you. He promised we’d get to be together.”

“That isn’t his promise to make,” the man utters solemnly, finally relinquishing his hold on you so he can step back and admire your beautiful tear stained face. You look so different from the last time he’d seen you; your face was fuller and brighter, and the length of your hair had changed, but you were still just as beautiful as ever. “Flower-“

“Y/n,” you interrupt him. He falters at the name and furrows his brows in confusion until you clarify, “my real name is y/n. And yours is James, but Steve calls you Bucky.”

A look of recognition washes over his features and he nods. “We were… friends.”

“Steve can help us,” you attempt to reassure him again, but Bucky is not so easily convinced.

“No, no, I can’t… I can’t stay here. Many people want me dead, so it’s better to just disappear.”

“Disappear?” You blanch, already feeling the panic beginning to bubble within you. Your hands begin to tremble and you take a step away from him as you desperately try to process his words. “No, you can’t- you can’t leave me again!”

“I came here to say goodbye,” he admits solemnly before gently taking your shaky hands in his own. “You deserve to have a life without me in it.”

“I don’t want that!” You insist through tears only for him to shush you.

“My Flower, the serum bound us together, but it doesn’t mean that I have the right to ruin your chance at freedom. There is no future with me, a life on the run is not what you deserve. I will not put you through torment again. I-“

“I’m pregnant,” you finally blurt to get him to shut up. His wide eyes and stunned silence prove that your methods are effective. You feel his hold on you tighten as he takes a pensive swallow and slowly looks you up and down.

“Pregnant?” He repeats quietly in disbelief.

“I’m pregnant, and that means I do deserve a life with you in it. I deserve to raise our baby with you, to have you by my side. Please don’t leave me again.”

Tears steadily fall down your cheeks, and Bucky is quick to cup your face in his hands so that he may wipe them away. The apartment is quiet as he soaks up the news he’s just been given. He once thought he’d spend the rest of his life a slave to Hydra with nothing to lose and nothing to keep, but then he’d met you and everything had changed. You were his mission, his reason to fight, and now so was this baby. The answer is clear right in front of him, so he takes it.

“Pack a bag,” he urges you gently. “Pack a bag so we can leave and start over somewhere else together.”

Your breath hitches in your throat at his insistence, but you don’t think twice about scurrying off to your room and gathering whatever items will fit in your bag. You did want a new life, a fresh start, but no apartment in New York would fill the hole within you caused by Bucky’s absence if he left you behind. You are grateful to the Avengers, to all they have done for you, but Bucky is right. Your chance at a happy life is not their promise to make.

You leave a note for Natasha and Steve to find explaining that you are safe and will be okay on your own, that they don’t have to look for you and can rest assured knowing you are perfectly happy wherever it is you are. You thank them for everything and leave behind the keys to your apartment, taking one last look at the place before following Bucky to his getaway vehicle.

“Where will we go?”

He rests a comforting hand on your thigh and gives it a gentle squeeze before meeting your gaze. The hopeful glimmer in your eyes fills his heart with warmth and only further fuels his need to protect you and ensure your happiness. He hopes he’s doing the right thing by bringing you along with him.

“Romania,” he finally answers. “I think you’ll like it there.”

~~~

The soft cries from the bassinet rouse you from your slumber, but Bucky is gently pushing you back into bed before you can even remove the covers.

“I got it,” he murmurs hoarsely, sleep still evident in his voice when he speaks. The sun is barely beginning to rise as its warmth seeps through the curtains, and you comfortably stretch yourself awake in bed as Bucky brings the mewling infant to your awaiting embrace. “Hungry again.”

“It feels like she always is,” you jest with a fond smile while lifting your shift and allowing the infant to nurse. Bucky presses a kiss to your temple and repeats the act to your child before retreating into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee for the start of your day.

Your life in Bucharest has been relatively quiet for the past year. As Bucky had promised, you’d made a fresh start in a new home for yourself, a home of your choosing where you could live in peace with your daughter and without worry of anyone finding your hidden paradise. Time had helped heal you both, and though there was still much progress to be made, becoming parents had softened you both and given you all the more motivation to be better versions of yourselves for your daughter.

Natalia Rose Barnes had been born eight months ago in a small hospital room and was deemed perfectly healthy despite your initial concerns of how the serum might affect her growth. She was the most beautiful little creature Bucky had ever seen, and his heart had bursted with pride when you’d handed her to him for the first time. He never once thought it possible for him to have a family, to take part of the creation of something so innocent and sweet after years of atrocities committed by his own hands, and yet here he was watching her tiny hand wrap tightly around his metal fingers.

Your days consisted of staying home to take care of Rosie while Bucky completed odd jobs around Bucharest to earn money. You practiced journaling often to keep track of old memories that would resurface with time to allow you to continue piecing your life together, and Bucky did the same. The thought of the Winter Soldier reawakening always lingered at the back of his mind, but he made it his mission that he would never show that part of himself to your daughter or to you ever again. You were no longer Winter and Flower but Bucky and y/n, and he was determined to keep it that way at all costs.

“I have to go out into town for groceries today,” he informs you whilst holding the cup of coffee to your lips and allowing you to take a drink. “Rose needs diapers, and we’re out of plums.”

You hum thoughtfully in response and reply, “If there is enough money leftover can you stop at the bakery for muffins?”

“Of course,” Bucky replies with a gentle grin, gently brushing his knuckles against your chin. “Anything you want.”

“I think Rosie and I will go for a walk in the park today,” you tell him. “Maybe you can join us once you’re done and we can walk home together.”

“I’d like that,” he affirms. You know how paranoid Bucky gets when you and Rose are alone, especially when it’s out in public, but he tries not to restrict your freedom too much and allows you to do certain things on your own.

You both prepare separately for your days and accompany one another out of the apartment. Bucky assists you in setting up the stroller and strapping a sleeping Rose in her seat, and he gives you a tender kiss before parting ways with you. The day is bright and beautiful, and your heart is content as you walk through the streets of Bucharest and to the local park.

You don’t have any friends or family in Romania, so you appreciate the friendliness of locals that greet you in passing or simply offer a smile your way. Many people especially like to stop and fawn over Natalia, so your guard is down when a woman seats herself next to you on the park bench and interrupts your journaling by cooing at your daughter.

“She’s beautiful.”

“Thank you, I-“ you begin to say only to freeze once you look up from your writing to acknowledge the stranger. She gives you a pointed look, but her smile is playful as she watches you process her presence before you. “Natasha?!”

“You’re hard to find, you know,” she quips with a raised brow, but she isn’t given a reply when you instead choose to throw yourself into her arms and hold her impossibly tight.

“I-I can’t believe you’re here,” you breathe in disbelief, eyes welling with tears at the comfort that comes with seeing a familiar face.

“I can’t believe you already had the baby,” she replies before pulling out of your hold to take in your face. “Are you alright? Banner was worried it might be hard on you because of the serum.”

“It was perfectly safe, Rose and I made it out fine.”

“Rose?” Natasha repeats before casting her gaze to the cooing baby sitting in the stroller.

“Well, her middle name is Rose, but her first name is Natalia,” you correct with a sheepish smile after seeing the way Natasha looks at you in surprise. “I wanted to name her after someone important, and after everything you did for me it only felt right.”

“I’m�� honored,” she expresses, still getting over the initial shock. A new emotion flashes across her face for a split second before becoming unreadable again, but you detect the change before she can hide it.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that without asking you first,” You immediately jump to apologize in fear of upsetting her. You’d been so excited to see her you hadn’t even considered the fact she might be irritated with you for leaving without a trace and not bothering to reach out with your new location.

“No, it’s not that. It’s just… well, it makes this next part a little harder,” she admits mournfully, taking in the way your eyes widen slightly and lips begin to pull into a frown at her sudden change in demeanor. “As much as I wish I could say I’m here for a friendly visit, I’m actually here to bring you in for questioning.”

“What?” You gape in quiet bewilderment. You can already feel the unease beginning to grow at her serious tone, and your mind is racing with possibilities of what you could possibly be in trouble for.

“A bomb was recently planted at the Vienna International Centre and killed several UN representatives including King T’Chaka of Wakanda. Security footage revealed that the person responsible for this was Barnes.”

“That’s… that’s impossible!” You immediately argue, mind scrambling to catch up with the news Natasha has just dumped on you. Your heart is racing in your chest and body beginning to feel the oncomings of a panic attack when you realize your peaceful little life in Bucharest has been abruptly ended by a false accusation. “He couldn’t have done that, we’ve been together almost every day with Rosie.”

“They have him on camera, y/n. My hands are tied. I’ve been asked to bring you in because of your connection to Barnes, but if you can honestly say he’s been with you here in Bucharest this entire time then that might help him out. Steve and Sam should be with him right now.”

You can almost feel the hope draining out of you as you process the fact that the life you’d built for yourself was crashing down all around you. No matter how far you run, the past continues to catch up to you both. Bucky isn’t the Winter Soldier anymore, he’s trying to be better, and you wish others could see him for who he is rather than for what he has done.

“I’ll go with you if you promise they won’t take Rosie away from me,” you urge her. Natasha frowns.

“I can’t promise that, but I can promise that no matter what happens she’ll be safe. Can you trust me on that?”

You do, and that’s why you follow her willingly to Berlin for questioning. Bucky is already there when you arrive, and your heart breaks when you see how they have chosen to restrain him. His eyes are filled with sorrow at the sight of you and Rosie being escorted to a separate room, and he wants nothing more than to be there for you both, but he can do nothing as you are taken from him once again.

The prime focus is on Bucky, so you sit alone in the interrogation room for some time before the door finally opens and Steve enters. He has a tired smile on his face meant to hold up his facade while he hands you a glass of water.

“I thought you might need this,” he offers before taking a seat across from you.

“Are you here to question me?”

“No, I’m here as a friend. I don’t think you should be locked away in a room like this on your own.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” you offer bluntly. You don’t mean to be crass, but you’re beginning to become fed up with constantly having your life uprooted without any consideration of your feelings or autonomy. You didn’t choose this life for yourself or plan for it to be this way, yet it seemed you were always being punished for loving a tortured man who was trying to do better.

Despite your brashness, the air is void of tension and instead filled with the happy babbles of Rosie who continuously tries to reach across the table for Steve. She has Bucky’s eyes and his smile, and Steve feels a sense of protectiveness wash over him every time he looks at her. He has a duty to you and to Rosie to help prove Bucky’s innocence, and he hopes you’ll be able to see that he is on your side no matter what.

“Would you like to hold her?” You ask him after noting the way he eyes her so intently. He happily obliges, and you’re filled with a sense of ease to see your baby being coddled by Captain America. At the very least Rosie has a super powered support system, and this fact helps alleviate some of your stress.

“She’s gorgeous,” Steve compliments, allowing the girl to press her hands against his face in exploration. “This is all I ever wanted for Bucky. A chance to have the life that was taken from him, to start a family with a nice girl who loved him despite all he’s endured. I just wish it could have happened differently.”

“I know,” you reply solemnly before casting your gaze to your hands resting in your lap in order to hide your welling tears. “I do too.”

Steve opens his mouth to reply only to be interrupted by the blaring sounds of an alarm. The interrogation room is coated in red, and Rosie begins to shriek at the assaulting noise. You look to Steve with wide and fearful eyes when he quickly rises from his seat and hands you back your daughter. The alarms are reminiscent of the ones at the Hydra base, and it takes everything in you not to fall apart for the sake of your baby. Steve rests a gentle hand on your shoulder and provides you a reassuring squeeze before instructing you to stay put.

“I’ll be right back, I promise,” he avows before bolting out of the room. Your breathing comes in quick gasps as you press yourself to the furtherest corner of the wall and slowly sink to the floor with a crying Rosie to the floor. Your mind attempts to retrieve the therapeutic techniques you’d been taught to help you deal with such episodes, but none of them come to fruition fast enough for you to settle. You feel like you can’t breathe, and the blaring alarm has turned into a distant ringing as you curl in on yourself with the baby pressed tightly to your chest.

You don’t know long you’re stuck waiting in that room, unable to differentiate between minutes or hours, but you’re finally freed from your prison when the door swings open and Natasha rushes to your side.

“We gotta go,” she urges you whilst helping your trembling figure off the ground.

“Natasha, what’s going on?! Where’s Bucky?!” Your press for information falls on deaf ears as she uses one arm to keep you close to her form while the other holds out her gun for potential attacks. “We can’t leave him!”

“Someone activated the Winter Soldier,” she finally answers you after ensuring the area is secure and urging you forward. “It’s not safe for you or the baby.”

“No…” you breathe out before stopping in your tracks, “no, that’s not right.”

“Y/n, we don’t have time-“

“He wouldn’t hurt me, Natasha. The serum, it-“

“I’m not taking any chances,” she states adamantly before forcing you along with her to the exit. You can only stumble after her quick pace and follow her to safety while Bucky wreaks havoc on the building. The next few moments are a blur once you’re shoved into the back of a military van and sped off to a secondary location. The building grows further and further away, separating you and Bucky once more.

~~~

A warm breeze brushes through the grass around you, serene and comforting while you stare pensively at the lake before you. You’d sat at a lake like this once years ago with your parents when they were still alive, and it brought you the same comfort then that it did now. The world is calm here in your bubble, and you think you can finally breathe.

Rosie sits a few feet away from you in the grass playing with two of the local girls from the nearby village. The children adore your toddler and flock to visit her nearly everyday, but you don’t mind. This is what you had always wanted for her, to see her play with other children and know a world of peace where no harm could come to her. This was the most relatively normal childhood she could have, and you were grateful to be here in Wakanda.

After the Winter Soldier had been activated that fateful day, Natasha had stashed you and Rosie into a safe house while she dealt with the aftermath. Days passed before Steve finally came to get you, and you were promptly taken to be reunited with Bucky in Wakanda where T’Challa had granted you both asylum. They would work to erase his programming while you were there, and you would get to raise Rosie without the fear of having to up and leave at a moment’s notice. You’ll be forever indebted to the King for his kindness towards your family, and you truly think this could be the end of all your worries.

Your rumination is interrupted by the shifting of the grass when a new presence joins your side, and almost by instinct do you immediately lean into his side and rest your head upon his shoulder. You sometimes still expect to feel the sensation of cool metal against your cheek, but his appendage is gone now along with the Winter Soldier. Time has healed your husband, and there is no chance of anyone using him as a weapon now.

“I never thought life could be like this,” he voices aloud, a small smile forming on his lips at the sound of Rosie’s echoing laughter.

“It’s nice here,” you agree quietly. “Peaceful. We don’t have to run anymore.”

There’s a pause of silence following your words before he speaks again. “I don’t think I ever thanked you.”

His comment has you turning to look at him in puzzlement, your brows furrowing with uncertainty at what he’s trying to convey.

“Thanked me?”

He nods before shifting his gaze to you. His face is melancholic and full of sincerity when he reaches for your hand to take in his own. His eyes are swimming with devotion and admiration, and it has your stomach doing a nervous flip at the sudden shift in his demeanor.

“For giving me this second chance, for giving me a family. Hydra brought our paths together and the serum bonded us to one another, but Banner could have removed it from your system so you could live a normal life in Manhattan without a connection to me. You refused it. And when I returned you followed me to Romania despite me trying to set you free. You loved me anyway despite all you’d been through with me, you never gave up on me. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

You smile up at him with complete adoration and devotion before resting a hand upon his cheek. He immediately melts at your touch, eyes fluttering shut as he releases a relaxed breath and savors the feel of your palm against his skin.

“You’ll never have to thank me for that,” you assure him with complete sincerity. “I will love you for the rest of my life with or without some stupid serum. We came into each other’s lives for a reason, and this is it.”

You pull him towards you for a passionate kiss that both of you ensure to savor before returning your gazes to the landscape before you. The sun sparkles on the water while the wind rustles through grass, and Rosie begins to make her clumsy ascent towards you both with hands outstretched for her father. Bucky is quick to pull her into his chest and hold her securely in his lap as your little family enjoys a peaceful afternoon in Wakanda.

Life is still and perfect, and for now you can continue to remain in your peaceful bubble blissfully unaware of the dangers yet to come.

#mel writes #bucky barnes #winter soldier #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier imagine #avengers #avengers x reader #mcu #marvel #mcu x reader #mcu imagine

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angelseraphines · 6 months ago

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ೃ⁀➷ playing dangerous ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🦢 ꒱

╰┈➤ hwang in-ho x player!reader imagine

a/n: i would like to give a special thank you to @lumillsie for the layout of this post and for the filter used on the header!

˚ ༘♡ player 177. your assigned number. the three digits stitched in stark white thread on the coarse forest-green tracksuit now clinging to your body. you didn’t remember putting it on. you didn’t remember anything between falling asleep in your cramped apartment and waking up in this sterile, alabaster void. the tracksuit was loose in some places, tight in others, the fabric rough against your skin, a similar sensation for the discomfort that had settled deep into your bones.

˚ ༘♡ the air here was heavy, oppressive. tension hung over the room like a storm cloud, pressing down on everyone in its path. you sat on the thin mattress of your cot, the iron bars of the bedframe biting into your back as you leaned against them. your throat was dry, your lips chapped, and a faint crust of dried blood clung to the edge of your mouth, an unpleasant reminder of the chaos you’d barely survived. in your lap rested a cold metal bento box, unopened. the thought of eating its contents of rubbery eggs and starchy rice, made your stomach churn. it wasn’t hunger gnawing at you but dread. eating felt like acknowledging the possibility of another day here, in this place where death lingered so close you could almost taste it.

˚ ༘♡ death. it wasn’t something you’d ever had to think about seriously before. you were young, healthy enough, aside from the occasional winter flu. life’s struggles had been mundane, bills, work, nothing quite noteworthy. you’d thought financial trouble was the worst of your problems. how naive that seemed now. the sharp crack of gunfire still rang in your ears, and the memory of bodies crumpling mid-run played in an endless loop in your mind. every scream, every desperate gasp for air as life left someone’s body, was etched into your mind.

˚ ༘♡ this wasn’t life. it was survival, twisted into something grotesque. children’s games weaponized against desperate people for the amusement of others, with the promise of money as bait. one hundred million won for every life taken. your own life, reduced to a figure on a balance sheet. you’d survived the first game, the horrifying version of red light, green light, but at what cost? surely, after witnessing such carnage, the others would have voted to leave. you’d been certain of it. but the desperation was stronger. greed was stronger. most players had chosen to stay, ignoring the horrors of what lay ahead.

˚ ༘♡ “the next game,” player 456 had said, “will be cutting shapes out of dalgona candy. pick the triangle. it’s the easiest.” his voice had carried a strange conviction, and he claimed to know these games intimately, even to have won before. but how could you trust him? maybe he was lying, or maybe it didn’t matter. maybe none of you were meant to leave this place alive.

˚ ༘♡ “hey, 177!” the crude voice shattered your thoughts, dragging you back to the present.

˚ ༘♡ you glanced up to see player 230, “thanos,” as he called himself, sauntering toward you. his garish purple hair stood out like a bruise against the sterile backdrop, and his brightly colored nails flashed as he gestured. he’d painted them to match the infinity stones, leaning fully into the nickname he’d given himself. behind him, player 124 followed, all sharp angles and slicked-back hair, his grin as eager and sly as ever.

˚ ༘♡ “why didn’t you vote for one more game, huh?” thanos sneered, his voice laced with mockery. “you had no problem playing foul last round.”

˚ ༘♡ you frowned, rising slowly to your feet. “you and i both know it was an accident,” you replied steadily. “everyone was running for their lives. i didn’t block your way on purpose. we both finished in time, didn’t we? no harm done.”

˚ ༘♡ he rolled his eyes, his expression exaggerated and spontaneous. “yeah, sure, whatever. typical cold-hearted bitch behavior.”

˚ ༘♡ player 124 cackled at the insult, his laughter harsh and grating. “that’s right. cold, stuck-up bitch,” he echoed, his voice dripping with scorn.

˚ ༘♡ their taunts were designed to provoke you, but you refused to give them the satisfaction. your hands curled into fists, but you forced yourself to relax them, forced yourself to breathe. these two thrived on conflict, and the best thing you could do was walk away. you turned on your heel, ignoring their shouts, and started to move toward the far corner of the room.

˚ ༘♡ “hey! i’m talking to you!” thanos barked, stumbling after you with heavy, uncoordinated steps. he didn’t get far. player 001 stepped into his path, his expression stoic and unyielding.

˚ ༘♡ “don’t you boys have any respect?” player 001 asked, his voice quiet but firm. there was something about him, an emanation of authority that made everyone within earshot pause.

˚ ༘♡ thanos bristled, his arrogance faltering for just a moment. “mind your own damn business, old man,” he snapped, jerking forward.

˚ ༘♡ player 001 didn’t flinch. when thanos lunged at him, the older man moved with startling precision, sidestepping the punch with ease. he grabbed thanos by the wrist mid-swing and twisted sharply, forcing a guttural yelp from the younger man as his knees buckled. with a swift motion, player 001 yanked him forward and drove an elbow into his chest, the dull, cracking impact echoing in the room. thanos collapsed onto the floor, clutching his ribs and coughing violently.

˚ ༘♡ player 124 scrambled forward, his face twisted in fury. “bastard!” he yelled, charging with reckless abandon. player 001 turned just in time, catching the younger man by the collar and using his momentum against him. a sharp twist and a well-placed shove sent player 124 sprawling into the edge of a nearby cot, the metal frame rattling as he hit it with a thud.

˚ ༘♡ the fight wasn’t over. thanos struggled to his feet, his face contorted in pain and rage. “you’re gonna regret that, old man,” he spat, lunging again. this time, player 001’s response was more deliberate. he ducked under thanos’s wild swing, stepped inside his reach, and delivered a devastating blow to his lower torso. the younger man doubled over, gasping, before player 001 swept his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor once more.

˚ ༘♡ not finished, player 124 staggered up again, charging at player 001 with fists raised. the older man sidestepped and grabbed player 124 by the arm, wrenching it behind his back and forcing him to the ground with a hoarse cry of pain. he planted a knee firmly against player 124’s spine, holding him there as the younger man squirmed and cursed.

˚ ༘♡ thanos, blood now trickling from his nose, crawled toward his friend, wheezing apologies and swearing obscenities all at once. player 001 released player 124 with a shove, stepping back as the two younger men lay crumpled together on the floor.

˚ ༘♡ the room was silent, every player watching in stunned awe. then, slowly, the silence broke into cheers and clapping. player 001 straightened his posture, his expression as calm and inscrutable as ever. without a word, he turned and walked back to where player 456 and a few others were gathered, leaving the two troublemakers to nurse their wounds.

˚ ༘♡ you hesitated, then followed him. when you reached his side, you spoke softly. “i wanted to thank you, sir. if you hadn’t stepped in, they wouldn’t have stopped harassing me and disturbing the peace. you’ve done us all a favor.”

˚ ༘♡ player 001 turned to look at you, his dark eyes meeting yours briefly before he nodded. he said nothing, his expression unreadable. there was something deeply weary about him, a weight that seemed to press down on his shoulders. his posture was rigid, his face lined with exhaustion, and though he was relatively handsome, it was the kind of masculine appeal eroded by time and hardship.

˚ ༘♡ you wondered what had brought him here, what had led him to the point where he’d chosen, or been pushed into, to enter this place. you didn’t ask. prying into his past would be an impolite gesture and an indignity for what he had done for you.

a/n: my first squid game fanfiction! i definitely want to write more for hwang in-ho in the future so let me know if you have any requests! 🤍

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yandere-daydreams · 2 months ago

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Title: The Flight Response.

Pairing: Yandere!BatFam x Reader (DC).

Word Count: 5.7k.

TW: Non/Con, Dub/Con, Fem!Reader, Kidnapping, Prolonged Imprisonment/Isolation, Mentions of Stalking, Age Gap (Reader is Mid-Twenties, Bruce is Late Forties), Obsessive Behavior, Suicidal Ideation, Non-Graphic Suicide Attempt, And Gratuitous Pseudo-Incest. DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three]

You could hear them through the walls.

Jason’s voice was clear – crystal, even. You doubted you’d ever be able to forget the sound of it, the way it dipped at the edges as he moved between his family’s authoritarian barking and the last remaining traces of his downtown Gotham drawl, how it reverberated against your throat as he muttered some fractured version of your name. Dick took a little longer. You tried not to think of him when it wasn’t absolutely necessary, but it would’ve been hard not to recognize that confidence, that carelessness, that charm layered on so thickly, it was hard to believe he wasn’t choking on it. If you hadn’t already felt so sick, you might’ve gagged.

“It’s bad. Barbara’s keeping him occupied with surveillance footage, but that’ll only buy us another hour or so.” They were talking about the manor. Bruce must’ve gotten home, by now. “Where is she?”

“Things aren’t going so fucking great here either, man.” They were getting closer. “She’s in the bedroom. It felt the safest – fewest ways out.”

You balled a sheet in your fist, aware for the first time that you were, in fact, in a bedroom. It must’ve been Jason’s apartment, but you couldn’t remember how you’d gotten here. There’d been the fairgrounds, the backseat, but nothing else. You guessed it didn’t really matter what came that. Your life had already ended. The landscape of your purgatory was inconsequential.

Fighting against the soreness, you pulled yourself up. The space was sparsely decorated save for a few cardboard boxes and a corkboard dotted with grainy pictures, but there was a door near the foot of your bed and, more importantly, a window on the other side of the room, made accessible by a plastic, fold-out card table. It took a few steps to remember how to use your legs, but finding the latch was easier, the glass pane sliding upward with only a slight amount of resistance. The opening wasn’t huge, but you could fit your shoulders through, and it opened up into an utterly deserted, utterly desolate alleyway. Judging from the fire escape on the opposite wall, you were a few stories up – four, at least.

The frame bit into your stomach as you leaned out, palms planted on the exposed brick of the exterior wall. Your feet were on the card table, and then, they weren’t – your body hanging unsupported in the air, levitation before free fall. You shut your eyes, but you never quite reached the plummet. An arm was already around your waist, a chest already against your back. You were jerked out of the window and onto the floor unceremoniously, the fall broken only by Dick. Jason was still in the doorway, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Dick, if nothing else, had the decency not to look so surprised.

“Was she trying to…?”

“She was trying to run,” Dick finished, and just like that, Jason’s expression lightened, relief taking the place of abject horror. They really were family, no matter what either of them might’ve said. A few words from his older brother, and what the younger knew to be true was rendered false, replaced with a more palatable reality.

“Can’t let you out of our sight for a second, can we?” He was talking to you now. Great. With an airy grunt, you were lifted off of the floor and deposited back onto Jason’s cot of a bed, your shoulder resting against the metal headboard. Dick knelt in front of you, smiling. That seemed to be his resting expression, as annoying as it was. “Your apartment’s not far from here, right? Don’t tell him I said anything, but B still pays the rent. I think he wants you to have somewhere safe to run off to if you ever decide to leave home.” He paused, laughed. “Not that you’d have a reason to. He’s just worried, like that. Fuck, he’s worried about you right now, even though you’re safe with us.”

Dread coiled in the pit of your stomach. You should’ve begged them to take you back to the mansion, back to Bruce, back to someone who could protect you. You should’ve made a run for the door – fight, kick, scream until you got out and caught a cab to somewhere far, far away. You had to go back, but you couldn’t go back. He could keep you safe, but he was going to kill you.

They were going to kill you.

Your gaze moved to Jason, silent and pleading. He didn’t notice, his own eyes locked on the floor. “Don’t expect much. I’ve been getting the silent treatment since—”

“Since you fucked her.”

Not the word you would’ve used, but you weren’t really in the mood to correct him. Jason set his jaw. “Yeah,” he said, after a beat. “Since that.”

Dick hummed. “Could you step out for a minute? I’m just going to do a quick check-over, make sure nothing’s damaged.”

Immediately, Jason bristled. “I’m not going fucking anywhere. Not if it means leaving you alone with her.”

For the first time that could remember, Dick’s smile faltered. He glanced over his shoulder, resting a hand on your knee in the same motion. “You called me, little wing. Do you want my help or not?”

You watched Jason intently, never once looking away. He played the role of a cornered creature well – shifting his weight from one foot to the other, crossing his arms only to let them fall to his sides a second later. When he did answer, though, it came a little too easily, a little too painlessly for the act to be believable. You couldn’t believe you’d ever fallen for it, before. “Do what you have to, but I’m staying.”

For a split second, something like hatred flashed across Dick’s expression. It cleared up quickly enough, though.

“Whatever you say.” He shrugged, pushing himself to his feet. “Just don’t move. You’ve already scared the poor thing half to death.”

You were wearing Jason’s jacket. Your shirt had been torn beyond use, and your bra was probably still on the floor of his car – in the same tangled heap as your panties, most likely. Dick eased the zipper down with care, letting the fabric slide off of your shoulders. Skin exposed to cool air, you moved to curl into yourself, but Dick caught you by the arms, holding you in place as his eyes raked over your collarbones, your chest, the string of dark, bruising marks trailing from the base of your throat to your navel. A few were from Bruce, a few from Jason. It was hard to remember which. Apparently, they liked the same spots.

Dick let out a low whistle. Your shorts were next, pulled low on your thighs, allowed to drop to your ankles only after Dick spared a glance in Jason’s direction. He fell onto the mattress next to you, arm wrapped loosely around your waist. His thumb dragged over the bruising, following the path down until he reached your—

“Don’t,” you muttered, hoarsely. “Please.”

“So she can speak,” he laughed, pressing a kiss into your temple. If he’d heard what you said, it was deemed too unimportant to acknowledge – his hand slipping between your thighs. You thought about screaming, but didn’t. You considered trying for the window again, but decided that if they were just going to stop you from toppling over the edge, it wasn’t worth the effort.

What Jason did to you hurt because you hadn’t expected it. It’d been dumb of you not to, sure, but you hadn’t. It hurt because you expected him to be better than that, expected him to care about you more, expected him to be different from the family he took such surface-level pains to distance himself from. When two of Dick’s fingers dragged over your slit, gathering the remnants of slick and cum Jason had left behind, it hurt differently – more of a cold ache than stabbing burn. You’d never liked Dick. Of all the things he could violate, your trust wasn’t on the list. This hurt because you’d known it was going to happen and tried to stop it. This hurt because it meant that you failed.

You didn’t realize you were still staring at Jason until Dick caught your chin, turning your head towards him. “It’s just you and me,” he murmured, circling your clit once, twice before forcing his digits inside of you. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s already gotten his time with you.”

You opened your mouth, but the only thing that escaped was some strangled, alien noise as Dick spread you open. There was another kiss, this one to the corner of your jaw. “You don’t have to say anything – you know I’ll always be here to look out for you, right? It doesn’t matter what kind of—” Calloused pads grinding against the walls of your pussy, his voice low and easy in your ear. “—messes the others make, you’ve got me. Since the first day B asked me to walk you to work. Tim just wants something to point his camera at, and Jason would love anything that smiled at him, but me – I’m here for you. I’m always gonna be here for you.”

Jason grunted. “You’re a dirty fucking liar.”

Dick didn’t seem to notice him, grinding the heel of his palm into your clit. You jerked away from him on reflex, but his free hand shot to the side of your head, drawing you into his side and forcing you to rest your head on his shoulder. Proximity seemed to be his main goal, your body pressed into his at every odd angle, his face buried in your neck and his hand tucked between your all-but shut legs. He reminded you of Bruce, like that – so convinced that everything would be alright if he could just pry open his ribcage and stuff you inside. Or, maybe, Dick was the opposite, desperate to burrow a hole in your flesh and live there. Either way, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

He pulled out of you abruptly, leaving your abused cunt empty, throbbing and confused. Absentmindedly, you glanced towards him, and your mistake was swiftly punished by the feeling of teeth against lips, his mouth against yours as he took you by the waist and dragged you onto his lap. You shook your head with as much strength as you could manage, but again, Dick played oblivious, only groaning into your mouth as he rutted against your hips, grinding into your cunt through the denim of his jeans. Jason raised his voice, barking something unintelligible, but Dick was already fumbling with his fly, already—

The lights cut. There was the sound of shattering glass, a rush of cool air before they clicked on again, flooding the room with brightness.

The first thing you noticed was that Dick was standing – leaving you alone on the cot while he scrambled to his feet, a child dropping the toy he wasn’t supposed to play with. The next thing was Jason, suddenly rigid at the foot of the bed, the remaining color drained from his pale face.

Finally, you twisted towards the window, following both of their eyes. There was a spray of glass and wood on the floor where the pane had been broken away, the frame itself now filled by an amorphous, black shape – identifiable only by the aura of pure, unadulterated rage radiating off of it.

Ah.

You’d been wondering when Bruce would come for you.

The drive back to the manor was short, endless, and quiet. Dick and Jason promised to find their own way back, meaning you were alone with Bruce. That was fine. At least, this way, you’d have the mercy of a private death.

For the first leg, he didn’t talk to you at all. He kept spare clothes in one of a thousand bottomless compartments – sweatshirts, drawstring pants, loose-fitting articles that could be handed out to those who’d been forced out of their homes by fire and flood without the chance to dress themselves for Gotham’s bone-deep chill – and you shuffled into something thick and shapeless while he drove. It was only after he’d slipped out of the city and into one of the many darkened, lifeless tunnels that connected his estate to the city that he sighed, let autopilot take over, and turned to you.

“Are you hurt?”

“I think I’m dying.” And then, with a shallow exhale, “I should be fine.”

He pursed his lips, resting a hand on your thigh. Involuntarily, for the first time that you could remember, you flinched away from him, throwing your body against the passenger-side door. Suddenly, it seemed like too much to be trapped in a car, too much to be so close to another person, too much to be searching for a handle and not able to find one and—

“Breathe.” It wasn’t a suggestion; it was an order. You sucked in a few staggering breaths until the pulsing in your lungs was manageable and you could think about something other than throwing yourself out of a vehicle going well over ninety miles per hour. Bruce didn’t recoil, but his grip tightened around your thigh – any pretense of affection lost in the wake of his control. “How do you feel?”

“Jason, he—I didn’t want to, but—”

“I know what happened. How do you feel?”

“Bad.” You buried your face in your hands, shaking your head. “And stupid. And so— I knew this was going to happen. I just thought, because the others were so much worse, he wouldn’t be the first to crack. And, god, he practically called me his mom right before it happened. I don’t even think they have a word for that.” You weren’t crying, but you wiped at your eyes before resurfacing. “Are you going to do anything?”

Bruce didn’t respond, not immediately. He’d already taken off his cowl, but he was still wearing the rest of his pitch-black suit – still recognizable as the hero you loved, rather than the man you hated. The scales tilted a little further towards Bruce, though, as he leaned towards you – wrapping an arm around your shoulders and locking you against his chest. You felt him bury his face in your hair, inhaling your scent. As if there was any way you didn’t reek of someone else’s, by now.

“Jason was missing, and you were gone. For half the night, I had no way of knowing if you were alive or dead.” Warm air fanned over your scalp. “This can’t happen again.”

“Does that mean you’re going to…?”

“We’ll see.”

He held you for the rest of the drive, and you let him. It was only when you pulled into the open, underground chamber he shared with his vigilante hell-spawn that he reluctantly let you go and stepped out. Bracing yourself, you followed shortly after.

You’d only seen their hideout (hideout, because you weren’t going to call it the ‘Batcave’, no matter how many times you were asked to) once, the night Bruce first brought you to the manor. That day, it’d been empty, his kids still keeping a measured distance and Bruce still too wary to let anyone get that close to you. Tonight, though, Stephanie and Tim haunted the outskirts of the sparing ring while Barbara and Harper held court in front of the largest computer you’d ever seen – scrubbing through security camera footage from outside Jason’s apartment. Duke lingered nearby, and spared you an apologetic smile as you came into sight. You weren’t sure how much he knew, but it couldn’t be a lot. The poor kid probably thought you’d been kidnapped, or better yet – actually managed to get away.

Dick and Jason were already here. They kept their distance, tactfully positioned just behind Stephanie and Tim, but you still made sure to keep Bruce between you and them. As if that’d ever done you any good.

Bruce wasn’t so thankful for the space. Raising a hand, he gestured to Dick, already moving towards the elevator. “Nightwing. Upstairs. With me.”

You flinched into yourself. “Bruce, I really—”

“This will only take a few minutes.”

It might’ve been more reassuring if he’d stopped to smile, to squeeze your shoulder, to glance at you at all. Instead, you watched as he and Dick disappeared behind titanium elevator doors, neither of them ever looking back.

The cave suddenly felt a little smaller than it had, a few seconds ago. A little more crowded.

Unsure where to go or what to do, you stayed where you were – arms crossed anxiously over your chest. Your mind drifted back to the car you’d arrived in, to the tunnels that connected you so intimately with Gotham proper, but you weren’t left to your own devices for very long. Behind you, Steph mumbled something to Tim, nudging his side. He cleared his throat before saying something to Jason, nearly too muted to be heard. “So, do you know if we’re good to…?”

“To do what, Drake?”

“You know.” And then, after a beat of silence, “What you did.”

You weren’t facing them, but you didn’t have to be. You could feel the drop in the temperature, the tension in the air. You ducked your head half a second before Jason’s fist barreled into Tim’s check, knocking him to the floor. Jason was on him before he’d even hit the ground.

The others rushed past you – Stephanie’s shocked laugh, Barbara’s raised voice, Harper’s barked threats. You were rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to hear beyond the beating of your own heart and the violent collision of skin against skin. You might’ve stayed there forever, until they killed each other, until someone was kind enough to kill you if it hadn’t been for a feather-light hand wrapping around your wrist, a gentle tug forward. You raised your head and found, surprisingly, Cassandra. Of course. You couldn’t blame yourself for not noticing her before – she tended to keep to the shadows, like that.

“Come on.” Again, she tugged at your wrist, as if it was only natural that you’d follow after her. When you failed to react, she grinned and without making a sound, pulled you into an effortless bridal carry. If you had any faith at all in the idea of safety in numbers, you might’ve screamed, thrashed, done anything to stop her. Right now, though, you just wanted to be alone, and being alone with Cas was about as close as you were going to get.

The elevator was empty by the time she reached it, Dick and Bruce having disappeared into some other part of the manor. You let her carry you to the bedroom you shared with Bruce and, rather unceremoniously, drop you onto the foot of your bed. Whatever she was looking for, it required a lot of touching to find – a palm pressed against your forehead, two fingers underneath your chin, checking your pulse. When she reached for your wrist, you waved her off, not bothering to hide your agitation, your discomfort. There wasn’t a point in playing nice, anymore.

Cassandra wasn’t so downcast. Light on her feet, she fell into a crouch, staring up at you from a little over a few feet away. “Bruce was scared you were hurt. Terrified.” Her smile never wavered. “Should be calming down, now. Jason’s safe – part of the family.”

You dragged your knees into your chest. “That’s what I thought, too.”

She started to shake her head, but didn’t get a chance to spit anything out. The bedroom door swung open and Stephanie barged inside, shutting it again after taking a discreet look down the hall. Her attention shifted to you, next – her smile nearly as bright as Cas’.

“Tim’s getting his ass handed to him.”

“Good. I hope he and Jason tear each other’s throats out.”

“Someone’s grumpy.” She fell onto the mattress next to you, arms crossed behind her head. “Is it just ’cause Jason lost his cool?”

Shrinking into yourself wasn’t enough. You were on your feet in a second, riffling through the contents of a writing desk in another. Cas turned her head, owl-like, and Stephanie rolled onto her side to watch you. “You can be honest with us. Who were you hoping for? Dick? Tim? Me?”

“A mouthful of broken glass.”

“That wasn’t one of your options, sweetheart.” You pulled open a drawer, finding little more than scraps of paper and a few abused pens. You left it open and moved onto a bedside table. “I would’ve gone with Tim. He’s the voyeur type – very hands off.”

Nothing in the bedside table, either. You grabbed the closest corner and pushed as hard as you could, but the damn solid oak only swayed once before falling back into place. Fucking rich people. You couldn’t even take your anger out on their furniture.

“Do you hate us?”

It was Cas, this time, her tone purely curious. You crossed the room to Bruce’s walk-in closet, populated dominantly by the designer suits he’d wear once or twice a month when his socialite reputation forced him to actually show his face in public. He would mention taking you to one of his events, every now and then, kiss your neck and have you try different colognes as he mused how much more bearable the night would be if he had you by his side. It would never actually happen, obviously. Bruce still had reservations about letting you walk through the garden on your own. A crowd of drunk socialites with wandering hands and ulterior motives was never really an option.

“She doesn’t.” Stephanie answered on your behalf. You shoved a hand into one of Bruce’s less frequently worn jackets, then patted down the one hanging behind it. “She’s just a little tense, that’s all. It took us all a little while to come around to family life.”

Jackpot. You felt something hollow and cylindrical through an interior pocket – a pill bottle, the contents untouched and the dosage strong. You could remember Bruce mentioning it months ago, something about staging a scandal to push a story about Batman out of the news cycle. You scanned over the label just thoroughly enough to catch the words ‘anti-anxiety’ and ‘sedative’ before pulling the container into your sleeve, letting it settle against your wrist. Whatever it was, you’d make it work.

You spun on your heels and immediately went still. There hadn’t been any footsteps, any voices, any shift in the lighting, and yet, when you turned around, Cassandra was looming above you, caging you against the wall. If she’d noticed the bottle, she didn’t seem to think anything of it. Her attention was on you – just you,dark eyes prying into the very core of your being. You spared a glance towards the doorway, now occupied by Stephanie. “Go on,” she encouraged, her gaze just as cutting. “Tell (Y/n) what you told me.”

“I’ve never had a mom, before.” She edged closer, and you moved away – your back pressing into the bar. “It’s fun.”

It was annoying. They were annoying –so fast, and so strong, and so willing to ignore your attempts to dart around her as she cupped your face and smashed her mouth into yours. Neither Bruce nor his sons had ever been the embodiment of gentleness, but Cassandra was uniquely rough around the edges, uniquely oblivious to how easily her lips bruised yours. You remembered someone mentioning that her first kiss was with one of the Supers, which made sense. She never seemed to consider that her partner may not be invincible.

Her attention span gave out before your panic-induced paralysis. You felt her teeth against the corner of your jaw, then your neck, her face eventually finding a home in the crook of your neck. Scarred hands drifted under the back of your jacket, pressing into the column of your spine, and then there were more – another pair on your shoulders, Stephanie’s voice in your ear. “I think I’ll have to wait a while longer. In-law rules – we laid them out while you were gone.” Cassandra bit into the base of your throat hard. You could feel her tongue moving over your skin as Stephanie went on. “You don’t mind if I hang around for this, though, right?”

Stephanie giggled, Cassandra’s teeth broke fresh skin, and then, you were on the floor, back slumped against the wall, staring up at Bruce as he held Cassandra by the shirt collar, having forcefully pulled her away from you. She could get away if she wanted to, lash out if she wanted to, but she didn’t seem angry, or surprised, just alert to the abrupt change in dynamic. Stephanie was crouched next to you, still smiling. After making sure you hadn’t blacked out, she pushed herself to her feet, patting Bruce’s shoulder. “Just keeping things warm for you, B.”

She made her exit hastily, despite her bravado. Bruce watched her leave before letting go of Cas. “Find the others.”

Blunt. Neat. Direct. Even that was more than she needed, really. Cassandra nodded once, then she was gone, leaving you and Bruce alone.

You wanted to yell at him. You wanted to scream. You wanted to run. You might’ve, too – raised your voice, scrambled to your feet, seen how far you could make it through the labyrinthine halls of his manor before you were caught by another set of groping hands and gnashing teeth, but all fantasies of such explicit5 resistance abandoned you the second you actually looked at him. He didn’t look cold, or irritated, or any of the awful, selfish things that would’ve made him an appropriate pincushion for the jagged needles of your anger. He looked tired.

And you were tired, too.

He held out a hand, trying to help you up. You stared at it for a second, then another, before finding your voice.

“Please don’t touch me.”

The weariness knit into his expression darkened. Sighing, he leaned forward and took you by the wrist, dragging you upright. As you stumbled onto your feet, your chest ached and the pill bottle burnt into your arm.

You walked ahead of him, back into the bedroom proper. He was still in-uniform, but the armor was slowly falling away – the gloves, the belt, then enough little, disparate parts to leave him more Bruce than Batman in front of you. Eventually, he closed what little distance there was between you. A hand on your hip, another cupping your cheek. He kissed you delicately, as if he suddenly felt the need to pretend you were made of glass. As if you couldn’t still feel the blood and saliva dripping down your chest.

Your borrowed clothes were discarded quickly enough, thrown into some shadowed corner where he wouldn’t have to think about them until morning. Your body was posed on the edge of the mattress, where he could kneel in front of you as he fucked his tongue into your cunt and sucked on your clit – a believer worshiping their idol to absolve themselves of sin. You considered telling him to stop, trying to relish that new freedom. Maybe you did. Like everything else you did, it didn’t seem to make much of a difference.

“I think they’re…” He trailed off, pushing a lingering kiss into the inside of your thigh. “I think they’re confused. Disoriented. Dick says he’s in love with you – has been since before I brought you home. Jason thinks you’ve shown some kind of preference for him.”

He usually liked to be on top, favored positions that let him fold your knees against your chest or force you to look into his eyes. Somehow, tonight, you found yourself in his lap, head resting against his chest and thighs straddling his as he guided your hips slowly, carefully. “They’re all so young. It’s not an excuse, but it can’t help.”

“Dick and I are only a year apart,” you muttered, absentmindedly. “We could’ve been in the same class.”

Bruce didn’t respond. There was another kiss, this one pressed into your forehead, and a soft groan as he rolled his hips against yours.

He came inside of you. He usually did, but still. Salt in the wound and all.

When it was over, you let him hold you, counting out the seconds. When you reached a number that felt appropriately innocuous, you squirmed and asked if you could use the bathroom.

Bruce sat up immediately. “I’ll run a bath. There’s a new bottle of vintage downstairs if you—”

“Later.” You smiled, going slack against him before picking yourself up. “Honestly, I think I just need to be alone for a minute. To put things together.”

He hesitated, but not for very long. You could feel his eyes following you as you flitted through the room, picking up a few odds and ends – a hairbrush, one of Bruce’s shirts, your discarded clothes – before slipping into the en-suite, locking the door, and dropping everything save for the little, orange pill bottle.

You got the shower running and stood in front of the sink, fiddling with the child-proof cap. In place of doubt, you felt resignation – pure, neutral awareness of what needed to be done and how to go about doing it. Any hesitation was only reflex, born of some base animal desire not to do harm to oneself. You didn’t like pain, but you’d had a win condition, a clear line between what you would tolerate and what you wouldn’t. You didn’t want to do this, but you didn’t want to find out what was on the other side of that line, either.

The pills tasted bitter. They left a layer of chalk on your tongue, a knot the size of your fist in your throat, but you did your best to wash it down. Tossing the now-empty bottle in the sink, you laid on the tiled floor, pulled your knees into your chest, and waited.

You woke up crying.

Not out loud, and not for any reason you could remember, but still – crying. Dried tears formed stiff tracks down your cheeks, saliva wetting the corners of your lips. The inside of your mouth tasted sour, acidic, like you’d thrown up recently. You weren’t sure whether or not you should’ve been surprised by that.

You weren’t in the manor. The ceiling was too low, too white, your surroundings distinctly unrecognizable despite the haze over your vision. You glanced down and found your own body in a similarly alien state. You were wearing a hospital gown, with a small collection of monitors and needles attached to your left arm. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, groaning internally. Somehow, you’d managed to screw up this, too.

You tried to sit up, but only succeeded in sinking further into the paper-thin mattress. Nothing hurt, but your body was beyond your control, still rebelling after your brain’s mutiny. With some effort, you managed to turn your head far enough to see a window, half-expecting to find the Wayne Manor courtyard outside. Instead, Gotham’s skyline stretched on as far as the eye could see – a collection of misshapen skyscrapers and sparkling city lights fighting against the early morning fog. That, if nothing else, caught you off-guard. You’d assumed that Bruce would rather watch you die than trust anyone else to take care of you.

Not that he’d ever let you out of his sight. You felt a weight settle onto the edge of your cot, heard someone let out a deep breath. You didn’t have to guess who it was.

“You took me to a hospital.”

“You didn’t leave us much of a choice.” Us. You wondered who got the privilege of carrying your body out to the ambulance, if there’d even been one. You wouldn’t put it past Bruce to rush into the emergency center, your limp form slung over his shoulder, playing the good Samaritan as he rattled off some story about finding you unconscious in an alleyway or unattended in the back of a club. Anything to keep his family’s public image under control. “You put yourself in danger.”

“You didn’t leave me much of a choice.”

His thin-lipped scowl deepened. “That’s not funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be.” This time, when you tried to sit up, Bruce was there to help you – one hand on your back and the other on your shoulder as he guided you into a more respectable position. You might’ve flashed him a smile by way of gratitude, if you’d been feeling more thankful. “You knew what I was afraid of, Bruce. You must’ve been able to guess what I’d do in a worst-case scenario.”

“You never came to me about this. You never told me the kids were—”

“I did.” Your voice was muted, strained, but he went quiet as soon as you opened your mouth. He wanted a martyr, not a fight. “Please, don’t pretend this is my fault.”

For once, he seemed to listen to you. Nodding, he drew in a long breath, his expression callousing over into something rational, something beyond emotion. “It would be short-sighted to leave you unattended. During your recovery, especially.” Recovery, like you’d broken a limb. You stifled a laugh as he went on. “As the manor would present too many unknown variables, I’ve found a safe house in the city. It should be ready by the time you’re released.

A penthouse in the city. Just like you’d always wanted. “What’s the catch?”

“There is no catch. This isn’t a game.” He drummed his fingers against the over-starched sheets, wrinkling them. “The others have been generous enough to divide their patrols. They’ll be able to monitor when I can’t be there.”

Your heart dropped. “Bruce.”

“They’re as concerned for your safety as I am.”

“Bruce.”

“That’s enough.”

“It’ll kill me. They’ll kill me.”

“They’re trying to make sure you don’t get yourself killed.” At least he had the decency to sound like he believed it. “They care about you.”

You felt something rise into the back of your throat – sick and acidic and gnashing. You opened your mouth to scream, to cry, to argue, but nothing came out, your desolation silent in its totality. Bruce only sighed, resting his hand on your thigh. A small smile came to rest across his lips – exhausted, but still terrible in its sincerity.

“You’re part of the family, love.”

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beloveds-embrace · 4 months ago

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(A bit more of feral reader x poly 141 bc i genuinely have no idea how I’ll be putting it all together lmfao)

The nightmare begins as it always does- dark, suffocating, thick with the stench of sweat, rot, and filth. The walls are damp and the air is heavy, pressing down on you like a weight you can never escape. Distant voices murmur beyond the metal door, the sharp cadence of a language you barely understand, but their meaning is clear. You know what comes next. You know what they want.

But they don’t get it.

They don’t get anything. Not this time. Never again.

The first body drops before the alarm is even raised. His throat opens up beneath the knife you’d stolen like a torn seam, spilling warmth down your fingers, and yet it doesn’t feel like victory. It doesn’t feel like the justice you’d prayed for.

It feels like- breathing for the first time. The next one claws at your face, his nails raking across your skin as you drive the knife up, under his ribs, twisting until he stops moving. The blood is hot, splattering against your clothes, against your arms, against the inside of your mouth as you bite down on the hand that tries to silence you.

You don’t stop. You can’t. Freedom is too close to let go of, and you don’t care for the red that begins to paint everything in your vision.

You carve through them like an animal, like something that was never meant to be human in the first place. The walls are slick with red, the floor a graveyard of the ones who thought they could own you. The screams fade into silence, and in the end, there is nothing left of them but ruin.

Yet, when you step into the cold night, into the world beyond their grasp, you don’t feel free.

You feel empty.

You feel wrong.

And you never stop feeling that way.

You wake in silence.

Your breathing is slow, measured, trained into something calm and controlled despite the chaos still and constantly thrumming through your body. The muzzle is tight around your face, pressing into your jaw, a familiar weight you should be used to by now. The collar is snug against your throat, a cold band of control that denies you even the simplest of instincts. There is no comfort in scent, no safety in familiarity- just the stale, lifeless sterility of a world that refuses to let you be.

It’s either this, or being put down like an animal.

The room is dim, the soft hum of the temporary base’s lights above barely cutting through the darkness. You don’t move. You don’t shake or shudder or gasp for air like someone who just clawed their way out of a nightmare. You simply exist, the way you always do.

But they see.

Price is already awake, seated across from you with sharp eyes that take in everything- the way your fingers press into the thin blanket, the slight tension in your shoulders, the way your breaths come just a fraction too quickly before you rein them in. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches, the quiet weight of his presence grounding in a way that words never could be.

Soap notices next, his own sleep-lightened expression sharpening when he sees you sitting so stiffly on the cot. He’s up before he even thinks about it, his movements quick but not rushed, careful as if not to startle you. He doesn’t touch, doesn’t get too close, but his scent- warm, soothing, meant for pack- lingers just within reach like always.

And it always means nothing.

Because you can’t smell it.

Not through the collar’s inhibitors, not through the steel and leather of the muzzle that keeps you locked away from the most fundamental part of what it means to be.

Soap’s jaw tenses, and for a moment, his hand twitches at his side like he wants to reach for you, like he wants to offer something, anything, to ground you the way a normal Omega should be able to. He knows that if he could just scent you, if he could press his cheek to yours and let you feel something real, the weight of the nightmare might ease.

But he can’t.

He lets out a slow breath, forcing himself to relax even though everything in him hates this- hates what they’ve done to you, hates that they treat you like a machine instead of a person, hates that he can’t even offer the smallest comfort because of those damned restraints.

Ghost lingers near the door, silent but watchful. He sees it too. The tension in your frame, the way you haven’t moved since waking, like you’re still trapped somewhere else. His hands flex at his sides, his instincts clawing at him, demanding he do something, but what is there to do? Even if he sat next to you, even if he pressed his forehead against yours and let you feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, you wouldn’t get the reassurance it was meant to give. The muzzle makes sure of that.

Gaz is the last to stir, but he reads the room quickly, taking in the way everyone else is coiled tight with unspoken frustration. His expression shifts, softens, but there’s anger there too- not at you, never at you, but at the situation. At the rules that keep them from offering what should be natural, what should be easy.

“You okay?” Soap asks finally, his voice gentle but firm, trying to draw you out without pushing too hard.

You don’t respond.

Not because you don’t want to, but because the words feel useless and pointless. The muzzle makes speaking difficult- deliberately so- and lately, you’ve stopped trying. It’s not worth the effort when no one really wants to hear you outside of battlefields anyway.

Soap sighs quietly, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Bad night?”

Still, you say nothing, but your fingers tighten slightly around the blanket, and that’s answer enough.

Price leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, expression unreadable. “Do you dream often?”

It’s an innocent question, but it settles in the air like something heavier.

Dreaming isn’t something that belongs to you anymore. Dreams are for people who have something left to hope for, something left to chase beyond survival. You aren’t sure what yours mean anymore- if they’re just memories trapped in your skull, or if they’re something worse, something rotting in the places you can’t reach.

Still, Price doesn’t look away. None of them do. They wait, giving you space, giving you time, even if they can’t give you what they truly want to.

It’s frustrating how much you can feel them, how badly they want to comfort you the way pack should. Their scents are muted, diluted by the inhibitors, but they’re there and lingering beneath the surface and desperate to reach you. You don’t know that if you were free, if you weren’t locked behind the military’s restrictions, they’d already be curled around you, offering the warmth and safety that’s been denied to you for so long.

But instead, they sit there, helpless.

And you sit there, silent, unsure what to say in answer.

The tension lingers, thick and unspoken, before Gaz shifts slightly, breaking the heavy quiet. “Here,” he murmurs, reaching into his pocket. He pulls out something small, something smooth and solid, and presses it into your palm- a small stone, worn from being turned over in his hands countless times before. A grounding point. A tether.

You stare at it, unmoving, before your fingers finally curl around it.

And for now, that’s enough.

It has to be.

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butchizuku · 5 months ago

Text

Untouched ᥫ᭡; Caleb

ᨳ Synop. Questions swirl around your mind as you reacquaint yourself with Caleb, but the most pressing? What was this feeling he stirred within you?

໋𓈒 Details. 18+ minors dni, gn afab reader, slight lore implications regarding Caleb's arm, kissing, heavy petting, general intimacy, dry humping, run time; 1k ৎ

(՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞) Director's Note. Happy Caleb day lovers <33 Just a lil something inspired by his limited five star card.

The mechanical flex and low hum of Caleb’s new fangled arm is disconcerting. Goosebumps prickle your tender skin as it grows closer, the robotic fingers flexing and outstretched. The ample, overwhelming urge for touch choked you, drowning out the strangeness of the past few days. Blood rushes against your ear drums as you tentatively meet him halfway, your fingers curling over the cool, stiff metal of his hand.

“I can’t feel you,” Caleb murmurs, peering at you through his lashes.

His fingers slip between yours but he doesn’t reach out with his other hand. You stand for a moment in limbo, too timid to make another move when pinned beneath his smouldering gaze. His name sits heavy on your tongue, waiting for your lips to part.

“Caleb, I-” you start, quickly trailing off, shrinking into yourself.

Gliding your other hand up the length of his bare abdomen, you struggle to find the right thing to say. You figure, your actions might speak louder than any number of words could. His skin is warm to the touch and smooth with little blemishes to disturb your path from his stomach to his chest. The rhythmic thrum of his heart grows stronger as you place the palm of your hand flat against him for a moment. Pressing himself closer to you, Caleb cups your hand with his.

“You can still feel this,” you murmur, your bottom lip pressed between your teeth, “And this.”

Stepping between his thighs, you press your chest to his. Caleb’s breath grows laboured, it fans across your skin. You can’t help but shiver, in spite of the heat that covers your body like a heavy blanket. It’s surprising how hard the plains of his body are, against yours. Somewhere in the back of your mind, he’s still the pudgy faced kid you grew alongside, though he hadn’t been that child for sometime. Caleb hardened sometime between then and now but you hadn’t seen it, perhaps in part due to the soft gaze he always reserved for you.

“And, I can feel you, Caleb.”

Your words land somewhere between a gasp and a whisper, whisked quickly into the air.

“I’m right here,” Caleb shudders in your grasp, his jaw slack, “And so are you.”

A sound wretched from the deep recesses of his throat slipped forth, vulnerable and frighteningly familiar– thick with wanton desire. Caleb burrows his face into your chest, his nose nestled against the length of your collarbone. His bottom lips drags against your skin, slick with spit, as he speaks.

“Right here.”

His hands glide over your waist and travel up your spine.

“Please,” he murmurs into you like a prayer, half baked and rushed in desperation.

There’s that ache again, deep in the pit of your stomach, thrumming and yelling within you for a modicum of your attention. It seeks the very thing you’ve continued to deny yourself, the thing you’ve forced yourself to see as repulsive. But, was there anything quite as pure as your first love? Could, it really be shameful to want him.

“Caleb,” you breathe, fighting off the trembling nerves that make your fingers shake.

They still shake as you dig them into the flesh of his shoulders, using all your force to push him down onto the flimsy cot. The legs wobble and creak for a moment as the weight shifts and you throw your thighs on top of his. Hair dangles in your face as you peer down at him, your gaze flickering between his lidded eyes marred with confusion and his gently parted lips. They’re chapped and have begun to crack along the edges.

“Kiss me.”

You can’t bring yourself to lean in any closer, your heartbeat drowning everything else out. Your chest heaves with an anxious breath and you have half a mind to whisper, “please.”

The metal of his hand is cold against your flush skin, but it’s feather light in its touch. Creeping over your spine and lightly curling around the base of your neck, Caleb pulls you closer until your lips are but a ghost over his. Bracing your hands on his bare pecs, his other hand keeps you steadied by pressing itself into the dip of your lower back.

Kissing Caleb is akin to what you imagine dipping yourself into molten lava. Your body melds into his, perfectly. There is no trace of the awkward pretense that plagued you or even the confusion turned anger that tinged your vision when you first set your eyes upon him, the first time in months. His tongue slips between your lips like he’s kissed you a thousand times before, and maybe he has in another lifetime or even a dream, but the ease makes your head spin. There is nothing to vocalize as Caleb swallows each and every little sound you make with his kiss, suckling you down to the bone with just his mouth.

Whatever single, precarious thread of respect and distance that kept the two of you at arms length snaps. His hands slide from the small of your back to grip your hips, his fingers jabbing into your doughy flesh. His bulge brushes against your crotch, eliciting a groan from Caleb. Your body moves on its own accord and you find yourself grinding against him even as the bed squeaks obnoxiously. The seam of your jeans pulled taunt and pressed snugly to your clit forces a moan to stumble off the tip of your tongue.

“Show me how sorry you are,” you pant, pressing your nose to his neck, “And how much you missed me.”

Caleb chuckles, nipping at your bottom lip, “You want me so bad it makes you look stupid pipsqueak,” he murmurs with his lips curled up in a grin.

Your protests and the squealed, shrill call of his name is buried into another kiss and pulled from the forefront of your mind as he bucks his hips into yours. He’s hard, you can feel his cock straining against the confines of his slacks, begging for release.

“I’m kidding, I’ll do whatever you wish, my sweetheart.”

His promise is melded against the shell of your ear as he grazes the lobe between his teeth.

“Just so long as I can have you here in my arms.”

#caleb x reader #caleb x mc #love and deepspace smut #lads x reader #lads smut #caleb smut #love and deepspace x reader #lads caleb #lads x you #caleb x you #᭄᭡⠀written word

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myfictionaldreams · 5 days ago

Text

⁀➷ Property of the Asset // Winter Soldier x F!Reader

Summary: They trained you to be his match. But you became his obsession. And he became your only truth.

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, dark, reader is an assassin, angst, slight dub-con, murder, torture, violence, memory-wiping, primal/feral sex, rough sex, breeding kink, pain kink, slight somnophilia, knife play, possessive, marking, hair pulling, exhibitionism, restraints, trauma bonding.

Words: 5.3k

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

The handlers never gave you a name. Not a real one, anyway. HYDRA called you Spectre-03. A designation. An echo. Like a ghost, able to disappear. You stopped missing your old name the moment they took it.

You were made for this, just as he was—the Winter Soldier.

The compound is buried beneath concrete, steel and ice. Somewhere in Siberia, or maybe not. You stopped keeping track of places after the third brainwash.

There’s no day or night here, just endless fluorescence. Surveillance eyes in the corners. Footsteps behind soundproofed walls. Metal doors that lock and seal without a sound.

Your cell is across from his. You both have beds, but rarely use them. You both wear uniforms, black and tactical, sterile, with endless pockets—no personal effects. No comfort. Just silence.

But you know he watches you. Sometimes, through the narrow glass of his door, you feel his gaze like a phantom weight across your throat. You don’t look back. Not often. But you always feel him.

They make you spar every three days. Or every time you’re punished. Sometimes both. The white room has no mirrors, only cameras.

You’re matched in every way: speed, strength, training. He’s taller, but you’re faster on your feet. His strikes are heavier, but yours are sharper.

Your fights are violent, exquisite. The kind of precision that makes the scientists mutter behind the glass. They tell you to win. But they never expect you to.

You’re not supposed to be as good as him. Not against the Assett. But you are, you always have been.

It wasn’t just the fighting. The fucking. The primal need to use each other for pleasure, satisfaction and another way to best the other.

The first time he’d issued you your lip was split from his fist. He’d knocked you down, bloodied your mouth, then dropped to his knees between your legs. He kissed the wound before fucking you through the pain.

You came like your body had no choice. He didn’t speak. Not until you were gasping beneath him, hands scrabbling for purchase against the cold white mat.

Then he whispered it. “Little Ghost.” A nickname, only for his lips.

Now, it’s become routine. They pair you deliberately now. They’ve seen the efficiency. When the Soldier fucks you, heperforms better the next day. Sharper, more focused and faster. The same applies to you.

So they schedule it. Allow it. Observe it. They leave the doors unlocked.

You never initiate. Never have to. He comes when he needs it.

Like tonight. You’re half asleep, body aching from a sparring match that left your ribs bruised. You’re on your stomach, face buried in the thin pillow. The cot beneath you is cold, the air colder. You feel the moment he enters. No footsteps, no sound.

Only heat. Then a hand in your hair. A sharp yank. Your head snaps back and your body tenses, but not in fear.

You gasp as your throat is bared to the air. Then a bite at your shoulder, deep and punishing. “Mine.”

He doesn’t wait. He never does. You feel his cock, hard andhot, as he pushed your sleepwear aside and drives into you with no warning. The pillow muffles your scream. Your body, already raw and used to him, accepts the intrusion with a broken whimper. There’s no care, just claiming. No prep. No softness.

He fucks you hard, brutal, the slap of his hips against your ass loud in the silence. One hand grips your hair, the other your hip, flesh and metal, binding you open.

He snarls above you, every thrust pounding into the bruises already on your thighs. Your knees burn against the mattress. You don’t move away. You never move away.

It’s always like this. Pain first, then the heat, the need, the mid-numbing want that eats you from the inside out.

You drool into the pillow as he presses harder, deeper.

“Little ghost,” he hisses. “Fucking take it.”

Your body obeys. It always does, accustomed to his harsh touch. You flinch when he bites again, this time on the neck, shoulder, and spine. He leaves teeth indents where no one can see them. Places only he can touch.

Your orgasm hits you without warning, hard and electric. It rips through your spine like lightning, your vision flashes white, and your entire body tenses as the pulses of pleasure consume you.

He doesn’t stop. Not even when you tremble, begging into the sheets. He pulls out, flips you over, yanks your legs apart, and drives back in.

You scream. Loud and broken, echoing off the metal walls. Your eyes roll back as your body lights up again. Tears slip down your temples.

You want more. You always want more. He groans as he fucks into your absued body, eyes locked on yours now, wild, glassy and burning. The soldier isn’t allowed to feel. It's not allowed to want.

But he does with you. He slams in one last time and stays there, buried to the hilt, chest heaving. You feel him spill. Heat floods you—his metal arm trembles.

And for a second, just a second, he closes his eyes: peace–or something like it.

Then he pulls out. Slowly. You twitch from the sensitivity, your thighs shaking, your skin burning with bruises.

He kneels beside you, pressing your knees apart. Inspects the mess between your legs. Runs his fingers through the slick, spreading it and checking for blood.

He finds a cut, a scrape from training. He leans down and kisses it. Your breath catches sharply.

He tugs your sleep shirt down over your body and covers your legs with the blanket. Brushing sweat and matted hair from your face. You don't speak. Neither does he.

But when he reaches for your hand and clasps it in his, you don't pull away. And when he whispers, “little ghost,” against your temple before leaving silently into the hallway, you wonder how much of him is left. You wonder how much of you is still yours.

—--------------

The lights never turn off in the compound. White fluorescent lights are behind your eyelids even when you sleep. The walls are covered in sterilisation chemicals. The guards are ghosts, the scientists quieter still. You hear them sometimes, whispering as you’re led down the corridor barefoot and bruised.

“Put the Spectre in again. She responds faster to the Soldier.”

“It’s not attachment. It's conditioning. Proximity reward loop.”

“They rut like animals, but the kill rate goes up. That’s what matters.”

You’re not led to the training ring this time. This door is made of metal, thick, and sealed from the outside. Inside, the room is whitewashed and windowless, with no mirrors or mats.

Just a cot. Two cuffs, mounted on the wall. And him.

The Winter Soldier stands at the far side of the room, shirt discarded, chest rising slowly with each breath. His left hand flexes, the metal one. His face is blank, expressionless.

But his eyes find you the second you step inside. And they burn—the door seals behind you with a hiss.

They’ve done this before, licking you together like animals in heat. Sometimes after long missions. Sometimes after punishment. They think it’s effective. They’re not wrong.

The moment the air goes still, you know he’ll take you. You know you’ll let him. It's not just instinct anymore. Not just blood and body. It's him.

You cross the room without speaking. His eyes track every step. When you reach him, you don’t touch. You just tilt your head slightly, offering your throat. A gesture of submission. One you never give to anyone else.

A snarl curls his lip. He slams you into the wall hard enough to rattle your bones. Your breath punches from your chest, but you don’t resist. You never resist him.

His mouth crashes against yours, bruising and brutal. No grace, no softness. He licks into you like he's trying to consume you from the inside out, teeth scraping your lips until you taste copper.

You man, arching again him. Your bodies collide, uniforms still on, gear buckles grinding together. His metal hand grips your throat, not choking, just holding. Claiming.

Your hips grind against his. He growls. “You need it.”

You nod, panting.

“Say it.”

Your voice is broken, “I need you.”

He spins you, slamming you against the wall. One hand tears at your pants, the other rips the fabric of your top. It doesn’t matter. They always give you new ones.

He doesn't prep you. He fucks you hard, bare and against the cold steel, each thrust punishing a sound from yoru mouth that echoes in the sterile room. His hips slap you with punishing force.

You’re sore. Already stretched from last time. But your body welcomes him. It always does. The pain is part of it—the ache. Your hand braced against the wall as he drives into you, growling filth into your ear in Russian and English and something in between.

“Fucking made for this–made for me. You’re mine—my little ghost. Mine to break. Mine to fix.”

He comes first, hot and deep, buried to the hilt, but he doesn’t stop. His cock stays hard. Still inside you as he pulls you back, grabs you to the cot, and shoves you down. Your knees hit the edge. He flips you onto your back.

You see it in his eyes. This time, he wants to watch.

He strips you fast, tearing open the rest of your uniform until you’re bare beneath him. He kneels, wide and hulking, between your thighs. Sweat gleams on his chest. His cock glistens with a mix of you both.

Then he spits on it. Strokes himself once. And slides back in. his rhythm is punishing.

Each thrust knocks you higher on the cot, your back scraping against the thin sheet, knees pushed to your chest. You sob into the stale air, nails clawing at his arms, flesh and metal, hot and cold. He's everywhere.

He’s inside you. And he's not stopping. He's already come one. You felt it. The heat spilling inside, the tremble in his breath, the shudder of his hips. But it only made him worse.

Now he's chasing yours but not giving it. He pulls out just as your body behind to foil just before it crests. You cry out, broken and desperate.

He grins. A real one. Cruel and controlled.

You slap at his chest, panting. “Please– Fuck– don’t stop–”

He grunts, “Not yet.” he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. The sweat on his skin drips onto your mouth. His eyes are locked on your face, watching every twitch, every whimper.

His thumb drags through yoru slick, presses down on your clit in cruel, slow circles. You choke on a moan, thighs trembling.

He watches that too. “Hydra’s watching,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek.

You flinch. Of course they are. Cameras blink silently in the corners. Mics pick up every sound, every filthy word, every cry, every slap of skin on skin. Your body’s not your own in this place.

But when he's inside you, it feels like his. That somehow, it means something. He pulls back, just enough to line himself up again, then slams into you so hard your breath vanishes. You cry out, your voice cracking.

“Please, fille me up, just fucking fill me again–”

His hand slams beside your head. His voice drops. Low, primal and dangerous.

“You want it?”

You nod frantically, “Yes–yes–please–”

“You want me to fill you up like they told me to? Stuff you full and make you–” he snarls against your throat, “fuckign taking it all?”

Your whole body convulses under him. “Yes,” you gasp. “Want it– need it– need your cock– nee dyour cum–”

He groans like it hurts, like your words punch something human in his chest. And then he gives it to you. His thrusts are erratic now. Deep. Merciless. The metal fingers of his left hand slide down to grip your throat, squeeing just enough to make you dizzy. Your legs lock around his hips. You milk him.

He watches your eyes go wide as you start to orgasm.

“Now,” he demands roughly. “Now, little ghost, cum for me– fuck–”

You break. Your orgasm tears through you like fire, molten and endless. Your nails draw blood down his back. You scream, clenching around him, and he loses it.

He follows you over the edge with a goram, loud, real, human. His cock jerks inside you, pumping more heat into yoru cunt, so much it leaks down your thighs. His body collapses against yours.

And still, the cameras blink. Still, HYDRA watches.

You don't know how long he stays inside you. Minutes, hours, maybe just seconds that feel stretched. His breath is still ragged. Yours doesn't return to normal at all. Your skin buzzes with the violence of it, your thighs sticky, your body bruised and open.

He finally pulls out. You whimper at the loss. At the emptiness. But then he kneels again, knees spreading your legs wider, palms pressing your thighs open. His head dips low. He doesn't ask permission.

But his tongue presses into yoru slit slowly. Not for pleasure. To taste, clean and claim. He groans low in his chest as he laps up the mess of both your bodies, tongue dragging through your folds until you twitch and tremble and gasp.

You push a shaky hand into his hair. “Mine,” you say barely above a whisper.

He freezes. His eyes rise to meet yours. You expect rage or for him to try to take control, or another round of rough, punishing use.

But he just stares. Like he heard something different in our voice. Like the word mine rewrote something inside him. He exhales, low and tight. His jaw clenches. And then he rests his head between your thighs, cheek pressed to your inner leg. Like he's listening to your heartbeat, it calms him just for that moment.

You stroke his hair again in a gentle, tender touch. Then he speaks, barely audible. “Don't let them take you from me.”

You don't reply because you know they’ll try.

OBSERVATION DECK 04 – HYDRA COMPOUND

The glass is one-way. The air is cold and clinical. Dr. Koenig finishes scribbling in his file and sets the tablet down.

“Well?” another agent mutters. “You saw what I saw.”

Koenig nods once. “The efficiency remains. Physical performance unchanged.”

“And the other issue?”

Koenig’s jaw tightens. “They’re bonding.”

A pause. “That wasn’t part of the program.”

“No,” Koenug says flatly. “It wasn’t.” He taps the comms button. “Schedule a rest. Just the Asset for now. Strip the sentimentality before it spreads.”

A moment’s pause. “And if it has spread?”

Koenig lifts his eyes, watches the way the Soldier nuzzles into her thigh like it’s the only safe place in the world. “Then we pursue the Spectre too.”

—------------

You aren’t supposed to flinch. Not when the knife grazes your cheek, not when the dislocation in your shoulder hasn’t reset, not when a mission fails and the punishment follows. You’re not supposed to feel.

But lately, you do.

It’s barely there, at first. A split-second pause before you stab your target. The way your breath hitches when you see his blood. The ache that lingers too long after he leaves your body.

You think it's an infection, contamination. Corruption of the programming. You feel it more when you sleep in the dead quiet of the corridor outside your cells, where only breath and memory live.

And him. The way he watches you when he thinks no one sees. The way your skin burns hours after his fingers have left it.

—-----------------

Missions grow bloodier. Not because you’re sloppy, never that. But because you hesitated. Just the once. Your last target was a civilian contact, and for one heartbeat, his face flickered into someone else’s.

It was gone in a blink. But HYDRA noticed. You know they did.

The pain chip lodged behind your ribs screamed white through your spine the moment the exfil team arrived. You bit through your tongue rather than scream.

The Winter Soldier broke a handler’s jaw in response. They dragged him away. You didn’t see him for three days. And when they brought him back, he wasn’t looking at you.

They put you back into training cycles. Side by side. Then, across from one another. Then against.

The sparring room is frigid. Your bare feet sting against the floor. Your body still aches from punishment, but you stand straight.

He stands opposite you, half-shadow, half-statue. The metal arm gleams dully under the overhead lights. He doesn't blink.

“Begin.”

You lunge first. He meets you head-on. You clash like war drums. A blur of limbs, blades and violence. His fists land hard, but so do yours.

But something’s wrong. He’s not finishing it. Not like before. Every strike he lands is slightly off, controlled. Calculated not to break, only bruise. His hands pull. His eyes flicker to your shoulder, still tender and sore.

He's holding back. So are you. Your knives locked between you, gritted teeth inches apart. His breath is hot on your face.

“I saw you bleed,” he growls.

You twist the blade. “You always do”

“I smelled it.”

Your pulse flutters. “And?”

He slams you to the mat, hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. But his hands cage your head, protect it. His eyes burn. “I thought you were gone.”

An hour later, you’re fucking in the weapons locker.

Quick and brutal. Half-dressed. His cock slams into you with savage need, your bodies hidden between racks of combat gear. He bites down on your neck so hard your legs give out, and he carries your weight liek its nothing, fucking you into his metal hand.

You cum on his cock in near silence, his lips swallowing your gass.

He doesn’t say a word. But he stays this time, rubbing your thighs and tucking your T-shirt back into place and caressing the nape of your neck.

It makes your throat tighten. It makes your chest ache. And it makes HYDRA furious.

—-----------------

OBSERVATION DECK 02 - INTERNAL RECORDING REVIEW

“They hesitated. Again.”

“We’ve scrubbed them twice this month. What's the degradation rate?”

“Unclear. This isn’t chemical.”

“Then what is it?”

“Instinct. Pair bonding. Reinforcement loops gone feral.”

“We need them reset.”

“We can’t. Not until the next phase concludes.”

“And if they start choosing each other over the mission?”

“Then we terminate both.”

—-------------

You’re in the cell when he comes. Not like before, no heat or stalking. He slips through the door and kneels by your cot like he’s seeking something.

His blue eyes search your face, then your body. His metal hand rises and pauses over your temple. “A man. Earlier tonight, he called me a name. It’s a name I’ve seen before, in my file. For me.” You hold your breath. “Bucky.”

The word tastes strange in his mouth, unnatural, like poison he’s been trained not to take. But it rings inside you. Familiar in a way.

Your hand rises and touches his jaw, and you nod. He flicnhes.

You whisper it. “Bucky.”

He looks at you like you've handed him fire, and for a moment, for one still breath between the walls, you see a glimpse of him. Not the Soldier, not the asset, but just a man.

—-------------

It's raining when the mission begins. Hard, slicing rain, cold enough to bite under the collar of your uniform, wet enough to make blood smear across pavement like paint.

You and the Asset land silently and unseen on the ground, dropped from the stealth helicopter five blocks from the extraction site. Target: a weapons dealer tied to former SHIELD assets. Secondary targets: irrelevant. The orders were simple. In. Kill. Out.

No deviations. But you knew the moment your boots hit the ground that tonight wouldn’t go clean.

Because he's been watching you. Too much. Even in the dark, especially in the dark.

The target’s compound is a crumbling fortress of concrete and chain-link fences. Guards patrol in loose formations. Cameras and alarms. You both move through it like smoke.

There’s a knife in your hand before you even see your first mark. You slit a throat in one smooth pull, and he does the same behind you. Two bodies fall. Two shadows remain.

No hesitation or time for thought. But tonight, there’s something off.

You feel it between your ribs, that burning that remains there.

His eyes keep drifting back to you. You don't speak, can't talk, but your bodies hum at the same frequency. It's always been like this, but now there's heat seeping beneath it.

You feel it in the way his arm brushes yours when he passes you a detonator. The way his breath lingers by your ear when he whispers the sweep pattern—the way your heart pounds when you smell blood on him.

The mission was doomed the moment he looked at you and didn't look away.

You're almost at the objective when it happens. He’s behind you, covering your back, when you feel his hand grab your hip. Not urgent, not mission-based.

Hungry.

You spin, knife in hand, but his is already at your throat, flat, not cutting, just a warning.

And then his mouth is on yours. Hard, brutal, nothing romantic about it. Your blade clatters to the ground. You shove him back into the wall of the hallway, breathing hard.

“This is–” you pant, “--not the time–”

His metal hand fists in your collar, pulls you closer. His mouth presses to your ear urgently. “You're soaked.”

You freeze. He drags his glove fingers over your covered core, pressing them into the wet heat between your thighs, through the suit, through everything. “You’re soaked, little ghost.”

And you snap. You shove him back, hard, hand flying to your side to draw your backup blade. He grins, fucking frins and pulls his own.

The two of you collide in a dance of violence and lust, blades clashing in the darkened hall. You slash at each other like it's foreplay. Your knife slides across his arm, and he doesn't even flinch. His blade catches your hip and tears fabric, grazing skin.

Then he's on you. Pinning you to the wall, blade pressed between your ribs, metal arm wrenching your thighs open. You kiss like you want ot kill each other. You want him inside you. You need it.

He doesn't even pull the suit off. He just unzips enough to free himself, shoves your gear down to your knees, and drives into you in one brutal thrust.

You cry out, high and broken, biting your fist to stay silent as his cock stretches you wide. The hallway is empty, but not secure. You both know this. You both don't care.

His hips slam into you again and again, grinding you into the concrete wall. The knife is still in your hand, and you press it to his chest.

He snarls. “Do it.”

You press harder, but not enough to pierce. He growls and fucks you deeper, harder, hands clawing at yourgear, your ass, your breasts, everywhere.

His mouth finds your ear. “You want my cum again?” he rapss. “Want me to fill you out here where they can see?”

You nod, panting, moaning through gritted teeth. “Fuck me full,” you grunt. “Breed me like you need to.”

And he does. He pins your writs, fucks you like the mission never mattered, like the only target thats ever existed is the wet heat of your body, the way it clenches andbegs and rembles around him.

You cum first and unexpectedly, squeeing him tight, whimpering his name.

He follows with a low groan, hips stuttering as he fills you deep, cock pulsing, teeth digging into your throat. And when it's done, when the blood and com drip down your thighs, you both hear the click of a surveillance drone overhead.

Too late.

The target still dies. You slit his throat five minutes later, face impassive, body still aching from the way the Soldier just claimed yo uagainst the wall.

You extract without speaking. But the silence in the jet isn't like before. Because, you know, they watched like they always do. And this time, they won't let it go.

—------------------

HYDRA NORTH COMMAND – DECONTAINMENT WING

The chamber smells of ozone and bleach—cold water jets down your body from overhead pipes. You’re naked, shivering and numb.

Hands cuffed behind your back. Across the room, he kneels. Unmoving. Unseeing.

The metal chair clamps around his limbs. The rest technician raises the neural needle.

“We warned you,” she says flatly, to no one in particular.

“You both degraded.”

She looks at him first. “No more distractions.” The needle plunges into the base of his skull. He screams, and you do too. Even though you swore you never would.

You lose him. Not to death, that would be easier. You lose him to silence. They caused the static. After the needle sinks into the base of his kill, you're dragged away in restraints and left naked in a cryo cell for thirty-six hours: no light or sound.

Just the echo of his scream. It plays on a loop in your head, like you're stuck in your own personal hell.

They don't reset you. Not yet, but they watch your every move. You feel the eyes, always watching and waiting to see what you do without him.

You don't cry, not where they can see. But when the door opened and they dragged you out again, hair wet, lip split and wrist raw, you looked for him. Your eyes search everywhere. And when you find him in the training ring two days later, standing in full tactical black, knife in hand, silent and cold, your breath stutters.

“Assett,” one of the techs' commands. “Eliminate the Spectre. Sim round only.”

He doesn't move. He doesn't blink. But he looks at you. Not at your face, or your throat that he liked ot mark. He looked at your hands, where your fingers tremble.

The blade in his hand doesn’t waver. Not at first, but you see it, the tension in his arm. The stiffness in his stance. His breathing is too controlled, too shallow. Not like him.

Not like the man who fucked youa gainst a concrete wall, who cleaned you with his tongue and whispered mine.

This version is off, wiped. But something in his eyes hasn't been entirely erased. He takes a step toward you. Then another.

You raise your fists automatically, out of instinct, not aggression. You don't hurt him. Not unless he makes you, but your heart is screaming behind your ribs.

“Bucky,” you whisper, too soft for the techs to hear.

His entire body jolts like you shot him. He blinks. The knife lowers, but only slightly, and it's enough.

The tech behind the glass slams the intercom. “Asset– engage! Do not hesitate!”

You take a step forward, slowly. Hands still raised, palms out.

“It’s me,” you say, louder now. “You know me. You always have.”

His jaw tightens. His eyes flick to your lips, but he still doesn't move. So you decide to move towards him instead.

You whisper again, trying to trigger his memories. “It’s me, you're little ghost.”

His breath stutters. Then his hand twitches, and the blade drops a few inches, and his metal hand reaches out, like he's not sure why.

Like he's trying to break through his memories, your fingers brush. And in that half second, before the guards floor the room, before the tranquillisers hit, you see him. Bucky.

—-----------

They put you in a different kind of cell this time. No cot or blankets. Just four white walls, a drain in the floor and a single overhead light that never dims.

You sit with your back to the corner, bruised knees drawn to your chest, wrists still cuffed behind your back. The silence is heavier than pain. It eats your breath. Your thoughts.

And still, you whisper his name. Bucky. It's nothing louder than breath, but every time it leaves your lips, something in you aches. Wants to claw through the walls and find him.

They know that. That's why they left you alone. Not to forget.

The speaker on the wall cracks after eight hours. A voice, one you don't recognise, clinical and dispassionate.

“Your presence is disruptive to the Asset’s stability. We assumed sexual bonding would enhance performance. We were incorrect. He is not recovering post-reset. Every time he sees you, something breaks.”

You stare at the wall.

“You are not a person, you are not his partner, you are an echo of malfunction. He was never yours to begin with.”

You want to scream, but you keep your composure. And you just whisper it again. Bucky.

Later, maybe hours or maybe days, they drag you back into the dark: a corridor, a low hallway, boots echoing behind you.

And at the end of the corridor, you see him. Cuffed, muffled, and with a metal arm trembling.

They're preparing him for cryo.

Your knees buckle. He looks up as you’re dragged past. Your eyes lock. And in that moment, his body lurches forward, violently, crashing into two guards, shoving them back, roaring into the metal restraint on his mouth.

You don't speak, just look, and for that second, he stops fighting them. Just long enough to watch you disappear behind the closing door.

—---------

The world outside burns quietly. HYDRA is collapsing, not all at once, but in cracks, like ice splitting beneath the weight of something ancient. Something true.

It started with a leak, the files, and then the names. One by one, ghosts came clawing up from beneath the floorboards, screaming for vengeance.

Now? The compound trembles under the weight of consequence. Not that you feelt it. You float, half-conscious. Sedated. Limbs strapped down to a gurney, heartbeat slow.

You're underground, two levels below the holding cells, where there's no sound or contact—just white noise and restraints.

“Too unstable to reassing,” you heard them say. “Too bonded to the Asset. Put her down, but keep her breathing.”

Not dead, not alive. A test subject. A failure. But even now, even here, you feel him. You always do, like he’d become a part of you.

—------------

At first, it’s nothing more than a flicker of red light against the white ceiling. Then– gunfire. Screaming.

The groan of steel bending and the snap of one. Doors crash open above you: radios fizzle, and boots run in every direction.

You blink hard through the haze. Your chest burns. Something isn't right.

But then, finally – “little ghost.”

The door blows open in a cloud of smoke and fractured metal. He stands in the doorway, barely human. Blood down his jaw, hair matted, tactical gear torn to shreds. Eyes wide and wild but burning with something read.

You can’t speak, you just look.

And he moves, crossing the room in four steps, cutting through the restraints like paper. His metal hand cradles your neck, trembling. His other hand lifts your chin, checking your pulse.

“Bucky,” you croak. He stops. For one breathless movement, he freezes.

Then he loses his eyes, as if hearing breaks something inside him.

“I didn’t forget,” you say pleadingly. His fingers tighten, his forehead drops to yours.

“They tried to take you from me.”

“They almost did.”

“Never again, little ghost. I’ve told you, you’re mine. Always.”

He lifts you into his arms as you look into his eyes. They're different, still the same clear shade of blue, but the lifelessness of the Soldier no longer resides there. Something in between human and Assett. Something different.

He carries you through the burning compound, past bodies and smoke and fire. Sirens wail, gunshots echo. He doesn't flinch, doesn't look back.

Your arms wrap weakly around his neck, and you don't ask where you're going. You only know it's away, and you're safe because you are with him, the only life you've ever known.

#winter soldier #winter soldier x reader #winter soldier smut #bucky barnes #bucky #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #marvel smut #mine*

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rayayraphael · 9 months ago

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They really will let me scan ANYTHING huh?Including tiny pieces of paper.

#cot(0)#sonic the hedgehog #metal sonic #evil art tag #scanner my beloved #traditional art

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barnesonly · 19 days ago

Text

˗ˏˋ ★ Little Dove ★ ˎˊ˗

winter soldier x empath!reader

summary: Hydra sends you — a broken empath — into the Winter Soldier’s cell to keep him calm. You’re supposed to soften him. Control him. But instead, something starts to unravel. In both of you.

word count: 6187

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI— disclaimer: contains dark themes. read at your own discretion! angst, slowburn, captivity, tortures, hydra, violence, sa (mentioned), brainwashing, non-consensual experimentation, hurt/comfort, trauma, possible smut in future chapters? we’ll see.

Chapter Seven | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Present day.

The room is quiet. Too quiet. No humming lights. No screaming orders through metal speakers. No blood on the floor. Just stillness — the kind that makes your bones ache.

You sit in a chair that’s too soft. The window behind you is open, and the air smells like rain.

They say that’s a good thing — that you’re safe now. That you’re free.

You didn’t know what freedom meant anymore.

But they gave you a name. Official. Registered.

Apparently, people who escape captivity after vanishing for years make for messy paperwork.

The blip only made it worse. Too many questions. Too many forms.

Eventually, though, you got it.

A name.

You didn’t think long about your first name — you knew instantly.

Dove.

He gave it to you. It was the only real thing about you. Symbolizes freedom you would always say.

Across from you, the therapist waits. She’s not pushy. Not like them. She watches you with a calm, patient gaze, as if nothing you say could ever surprise her.

When she breaks the silence her voice is soft — too soft — you’re not used to that.

“Why don’t we start today’s session with the last thing you remember? Before it ended.”

You stare at your hands. Your fingers still tremble sometimes — like your body never got the message that the war is over.

You breathe in slowly. The air feels too clean.

Before it ended…?

———

Everything was blurry.

Tortures, pain, orders.

Calm him. Soothe him. Soothe her.

Tortures again, more pain, more commands spat like bullets.

Make his pain go away. Reach him. Break him.

You did as you were told.

One face after another — agents, soldiers, broken things barely holding together. You reached into their minds. Quieted their storms. Wrapped soft light around them just long enough for Hydra to patch them up and send them back out to bleed for the cause again.

You never saw the same face twice — that was the rule now.

No attachments. No names. No bonds.

Just your hands pressed to temples slick with sweat, your voice barely above a whisper, telling strangers it’s okay, it’s okay, you’re safe — all while screaming on the inside.

At some point you stopped knowing which memories were yours and which were theirs.

Which screams were your own and which you pulled from someone else’s head.

It drained you. It hollowed you.

And Hydra knew exactly what they were doing.

They didn’t need to break you anymore.

They just let you rot.

No one mentioned James anymore. Not even Kern.

He wasn’t coming back.

Why would he?

You lied to him. Betrayed him. Broke something you could never put back together.

He looked at you like you were his whole world, and you still chose to play Hydra’s game.

Maybe you didn’t know what you were doing at the time — maybe you thought you were protecting him. But in the end, it didn’t matter.

The damage was done.

And he was free.

Out there. Somewhere far from this place. From you.

And you were still there.

Still caged.

Still wearing their mark like a brand.

You would lie on your cot with your back to the wall, eyes open in the dark, and try not to remember how his hands felt in yours. How he once looked at you like you were real.

But it came anyway.

It always did.

And when it did, the ache in your chest was worse than any pain they could ever inflict.

Because there’s no greater agony than knowing he got out — and still didn’t come back.

———

“I didn’t know he was going to leave me, never come back for me,” you tell her.

Silence.

“But I should have.”

The words slip out like a secret — not for her, but for you. Like they’ve been rotting behind your teeth for years, waiting.

“Is this the last thing you remember? Him not coming back?” she tilts her head, her gaze locked on you.

“No.”

“Was it the blip?”

“It was the chaos.”

———

Months turned into years.

But you didn’t know exactly how long it’s been — just long enough to use that term — years.

They wouldn’t ask if you’re ready anymore.

They’d just open the door.

No words. No looks. Just the soft hiss of metal and the figure waiting on the other side — another Hydra agent, another soul unraveling at the seams.

You didn’t ask his name.

You never did.

He’d walk with you down the corridor, twitchy fingers, dead-eyed stare. You knew the signs. You’ve felt them all before — panic buried so deep it starts to bleed out of the skin.

They sat him across from you. Same room. Same walls that weren’t walls. Same silence, heavy as chains.

You didn’t speak.

You just… breathed.

And reached.

You found it quickly, like always. Fear shaped like a wire inside his chest, humming, burning. You circled around it, loosen it gently. Like pulling a thread from your own heart.

His shoulders relaxed. His eyes cleared, just a little.

Then they took him back to his cell. Called it a success.

They called you useful again.

Back in your cell, you curled against the cold wall and stared at nothing. There was a cot, but you didn’t sleep on it anymore. It was too soft. Too clean.

You missed the dirt. The blood. The one hand that ever touched you without hurting you.

You didn’t cry. That stopped after year two.

What you did now was worse.

You remembered.

His voice. That one word — Don’t — spoken like it cost him something.

His eyes, rimmed with red when he flinched away from your hand.

His silence, heavier than any scream.

You remembered how it felt when you tried to reach him and couldn’t. How empty it was. How cold.

Kern said once, “You still miss him.”

Not a question. Not a cruelty. Just fact.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

The missing lived in your ribs. It breathed through you, slower every year. Like it was trying to teach your body how to forget oxygen.

And maybe it’s not even him you missed. Maybe it was the version of yourself he saw — something worth protecting. Worth saving.

———

“Miss Dove?”

The voice snaps you back to reality.

“You zoned out again.”

“I’m sorry,” you straighten in the chair.

“No need to be sorry.” She smiles at you and it sends a shiver down your spine. Her smile is… genuine. It’s not like Kern’s. It’s real. Her voice doesn’t come with consequences. It doesn’t make you brace for pain. You don’t know what to do with that. “Can you tell me about the blip? The chaos, you mentioned?”

———

The light flickered.

Just once. Quick. Sharp.

You noticed straight away.

You sat up.

There was something in the air. A shift. Like the world inhaled and forgot how to exhale.

You looked at your hand.

And it was… gone.

It wasn’t pain. Not fear. Just a sensation — like warm static. Like falling asleep with your eyes open.

You looked up, into the buzzing light above.

The last thing you thought before everything dissolved was—

James.

And then, nothing.

———

You pause.

Not because you don’t remember — but because it’s the only part that still feels like a dream.

———

You came back in a hallway.

Not a room, not a cot — but in motion. As if the universe hit resume mid-sentence and dropped you back into the middle of something.

The light above you was broken. It flickered and sputtered.

You smelled smoke.

Not chemical. Not controlled.

Burning.

Screams echoed from down the corridor — real ones. Human ones. Not the kind you used to soothe.

You didn’t know what was happening — only that the air was different. Thinner. Warped. Like the building had a heartbeat now, and it was racing.

You pressed your back to the wall, blinking hard. Your fingers tingled — not from your powers, not from pain — but from life. It surged up your arms like adrenaline.

For the first time in years, no one was telling you what to do.

No voice in your ear. No boots stomping toward you. No door locking behind you.

Just chaos.

And opportunity.

You ran.

Barefoot. Silent. Faster than you should’ve been able to. The panic in the air fed you like oxygen. You followed it. Let it pull you.

Alarms shrieked. Somewhere, a pipe burst. You heard Kern’s voice barking orders — not at you. You weren’t his concern anymore.

You were gone.

And they didn’t know it yet.

You slipped past bodies — some screaming, some not moving at all. You didn’t stop to check. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t.

All you knew was you had to reach the exit.

Even if you didn’t know where it was.

Even if Hydra had changed the halls a dozen times since the last time you let yourself care about the layout.

You just moved.

You moved like someone who had nothing left to lose.

———

In the chair, your throat tightens.

You realize your hand is gripping the armrest.

Hard.

“You got out,” the therapist says softly. “That’s how you escaped.”

You nod once.

Barely.

Her voice drops lower. “Was anyone with you?”

Your voice is a whisper.

“No.”

She waits a beat. Then asks the thing you’ve been waiting for.

“Did you look for him?”

You laugh, but it’s not really a laugh.

You stare at the window again.

“I didn’t know where to look,” you say.

And then, quieter—

“I didn’t know if he’d even want to be found.”

The words sit between you like something living.

You don’t take them back.

You mean them.

You still do.

Because it’s not just about what he would do.

It’s about what you did.

And some things feel too heavy to come back from.

The therapist doesn’t say anything right away.

She just watches you — gently, like someone waiting for a bird to land, not spook it.

“I think he would’ve wanted you to survive,” she says, eventually. “Even if he wasn’t there.”

You blink, slowly.

“I did.”

It comes out quieter than you expect.

“I survived.”

A pause.

“He didn’t save me.”

You lift your gaze now, meet hers.

“But I saved myself. I like to think it’s a good thing.”

She nods — and it’s not pity. It’s not praise. Just understanding.

“Where did you go after?” she asks.

You exhale. Your shoulders curl forward before you realize you’re doing it.

You remember—

———

The woods smelled different than anything inside Hydra.

Rot and leaves. Rain and earth. Life.

You don’t know how far you ran, only that you didn’t stop. Not when your lungs burned. Not when your bare feet bled. You just kept going.

Because if you stopped, they might remember you existed.

You moved by instinct.

Away from roads.

Away from sound.

Away from everything.

The woods didn’t welcome you. But they didn’t reject you either.

You ran until your legs gave out. Until your vision blurred. Until the only thing you could feel was motion.

There was no plan.

No direction.

Just away.

You stumbled through mud, thorns, uneven ground. You bled, you bruised, you crawled. And when you couldn’t go any further, you laid beneath the trees, chest heaving like something broken.

You thought maybe you’d die there.

And for the first time… you weren’t afraid of that.

At least you’d die free.

But the stars came out.

And you were still breathing.

And something in you refused to stop.

So you got back up.

You kept walking.

You stole clothes off a line when you reached some abandoned chalet. You slipped into crowds like a ghost. You didn’t speak, didn’t sleep, didn’t trust.

It took weeks before anyone asked you your name.

You lied. Of course.

But you were alive.

And no one was dragging you back.

———

“You saved yourself,” the therapist says, repeating it like truth. “That’s a powerful thing.”

You nod, once. Your throat is too tight for words.

She watches you for a moment longer, then leans forward slightly.

“What was it like?” she asks. “When you got back. When the world had moved on without you.”

You blink.

What was it like?

The question sounds simple.

It’s not.

———

The world was… loud.

Too loud. Too bright. Too alive.

It wasn’t like before. Not like Hydra.

You stepped into streets that smelled like food and car exhaust and perfume. Neon lights buzzed overhead like electric wasps. Screens screamed news, music, smiling faces that didn’t look real.

People brushed against your shoulders without apology. Laughed too loud. Tapped glowing rectangles like they were casting spells.

You hated it.

You loved it.

You couldn’t breathe.

You spent three nights in a shelter and never slept. You curled up in the corner and flinched every time someone opened a door. You didn’t talk. You didn’t eat. You just watched the exit.

They called someone — a volunteer, they said. Government-appointed. She showed you a badge. Spoke gently, like you were made of glass.

You didn’t trust her.

But you followed her anyway.

She took you somewhere quieter. A small room, a bed, soft blankets. You stood in the doorway for ten minutes before sitting down.

You waited for the door to lock behind you.

It didn’t.

You were no longer a prisoner.

Now you were just… someone they didn’t know what to do with.

———

“It was like trying to live in someone else’s dream,” you say. “Everything felt fake. Too easy. Too clean.”

The woman nods, her gaze steady. “Did anyone help you adjust?”

You shrug. “They tried.”

There were programs. Government stuff. Trauma recovery. Reintegration.

People asked questions you didn’t know how to answer — about your past, your name, your family.

Sometimes they looked at you like they pitied you.

Sometimes like they didn’t believe you.

“You got a name,” the therapist says gently.

You nod.

“Dove.”

She smiles. “It suits you.”

You want to believe her.

You want to believe you’re someone new.

Or someone you were — when you were good, when you were with him.

But some nights, you still hear it — the electric hum of the door. The scream of metal restraints. The voice in your ear telling you what to do, who to be, who to love.

Some nights you wake up and your hands are glowing.

“I’m trying,” you say. Quiet.

And you are.

You really are.

The therapist’s pen pauses.

She tilts her head. “What about before Hydra?”

Her voice is careful. Measured. Like she already knows the answer but needs to hear you say it.

You don’t answer right away.

You look down at your hands again — always your hands — palms still lined with stories you’ll never remember.

“No,” you whisper. “I never got it back.”

“Nothing at all?”

You shake your head.

There’s a beat of silence between you, thick and patient.

Then, finally, “Sometimes I think maybe that’s worse than anything else.”

She doesn’t speak. She lets you keep going.

“I don’t know what I lost. What kind of person I was. If I had people. If they missed me. If I was even… worth missing.”

You laugh softly, bitter and low. “Maybe I was nobody. Maybe they didn’t need to erase me. Maybe I already didn’t exist.”

You say it like it’s a joke, but it isn’t.

You’ve lived entire years with borrowed memories humming in your skull like bees. Images that weren’t yours. Feelings that didn’t belong to you. You’ve drowned in the weight of other people’s sorrow, but your own past—

It’s a locked room with no door.

The therapist writes something down. You don’t ask what.

Instead, you lift your gaze and meet her eyes.

“Do you think I’d still be me,” you ask, voice rough, “if I got it back?”

She thinks about it. Then her voice softens — again — which only breaks you more.

“I think you’re already you, Dove.”

You don’t know how to take that. So you look out the window instead, at the clouds rolling in over the city.

The world outside feels too open, too clean. The clouds move freely. The trees sway like they don’t know what it means to be caged. Everything out there just… exists. And you don’t know how to be part of that.

But you’ve stood in too many storms to be afraid of a little rain.

“Kern said it was easy to wipe me,” you murmur. “That they didn’t even have to try hard.”

Across from you, the therapist doesn’t flinch. She just sets her pen down. Gently. Like she knows this part matters.

“Who was Kern?” she asks.

You stare down at your hands.

“Kern was…” Your voice tightens. “He was the one who studied me. Broke me down. Piece by piece. He said I was Hydra’s gentle hand. That I made the pain go quiet. Made them easier to use.”

You flex your fingers once. They still remember the cold of the floor. The blood. The way James used to hold them.

“He told me things like he was helping. Like he knew me. But he didn’t. He just… watched. Every time I cracked, he smiled like I was finally doing something right.”

You press your palms into your knees to stop the shaking.

“He liked me better before I started fighting back.”

“What did he do to you?”

A strange sound builds in your throat. Not a sob. Not quite.

“He made me think I was choosing,” you say, voice hollow.

She waits.

You glance up. Just once. Her eyes don’t flinch. She’s not like the others.

“He told me I had power. That I was important. Special. But it was always for their cause. For Hydra. Not for me.” You laugh — low and bitter. “He’d give me choices that weren’t choices. Punishments dressed as lessons. ‘Say no, and someone else suffers. Say yes, and you live another day.’”

The silence stretches.

“He made me think it was my fault,” you whisper. “Everything. Every time James forgot me. Every time I failed. He said it was because I wasn’t strong enough. That I didn’t matter enough.”

You can feel it — something sharp and ugly trying to rise up from your chest, but you force it down.

Then her voice comes again, soft but firm.

“Do you think about him now?”

This time, your answer is instant.

“I want him dead.”

Stillness.

You don’t flinch. You don’t look away.

You just breathe, slow and careful.

“I don’t care if that makes me sound unwell. I want him to pay. Not because of what he did to me. But because he’ll do it again. He is doing it again. Somewhere. To someone.”

You shift in the too-soft chair, crossing your arms before you even realize you’re doing it.

“I don’t like this,” you murmur.

The therapist looks up from her notes. “What don’t you like?”

You hesitate. Not because you don’t know the answer — but because saying it out loud feels like admitting it still has power over you.

“This,” you repeat. “The questions. The quiet. The way you look at me like you’re waiting for something. It reminds me of…”

You trail off. You don’t need to finish.

She does, gently. “Kern.”

You nod, jaw tight. “He asked questions too. Pretended it was for my good. But it wasn’t. It was about control. Always.”

The therapist doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t deny the similarity.

You appreciate that.

“It still feels like a trap,” you admit, voice lower now. “Like there’s a right answer and a wrong one. And if I say the wrong thing, something bad will happen.”

She leans forward, slow and careful, like approaching a wounded animal. “And what would happen, if you said the wrong thing?”

You don’t answer.

Because you know what would happen.

Pain.

Isolation.

Kern’s voice in your ear saying:

You did this to yourself.

You stare at the window again. At the gray sky beyond it. You’re free now. You know that. But knowing doesn’t mean feeling.

“You don’t have to trust me yet,” she says. “Or ever. But you’re not trapped anymore, Dove. You can walk out of this room anytime you want. You can say nothing. You can scream. You can refuse.”

The words make something ache in your chest — not relief, but the terrifying ache of possibility.

Because you’ve never had that before.

Not really.

You swallow hard. “It’s going to take time.”

“That’s okay,” she says. “You have time now.”

Time.

What even is that?

After years spent without a clock on the wall, without a window to tell day from night, time stopped meaning anything. Days bled into one another like spilled ink, indistinguishable and heavy. There was no before, no after. No future to long for, no past to remember.

There was only the present — raw, immediate, inescapable.

Pain didn’t keep track of hours.

Neither did silence.

You shift in the chair, uneasy beneath the weight of a word that once meant something. That maybe could again.

“It’s not just that it reminds me of him,” you say eventually. “It’s… something else.”

Her gaze stays steady, patient.

You shift again, pressing your palms together. “With him… everything was layered. Every smile had a motive. Every word was a test. A trick.”

You look at her now — really look.

And it’s not the same.

There’s no cruelty folded into the corners of her mouth. No glint of control behind her pupils. No manufactured softness waiting to snap shut around you like a trap.

“There’s nothing false in your face,” you murmur, almost to yourself. “And that’s why it scares me.”

She tilts her head, curious but not surprised. “Why does it scare you?”

“Because I don’t know how to trust that. I don’t know what to do with something that doesn’t want anything from me.”

You blink, and your voice breaks just slightly.

“No one’s ever asked how I feel. They just told me what I’m supposed to be.”

The room is still. The quiet kind again — not empty this time, but full of something.

Understanding.

She doesn’t fill the silence. She just lets it hold you. Lets you be.

And somehow, that feels more dangerous than anything Hydra ever did.

Because it means there’s a you in there somewhere.

One worth listening to.

Then her voice cuts through, low and careful as she changes the topic.

“We’ve talked about him before, James,” she says. “Not much. But… you always refer to him like he was the only real thing in all of that.”

Your throat tightens. You don’t look up.

“He was,” you say quietly. “He still is.”

The therapist nods, waiting. Not pushing.

“He grounded you?”

You nod once. It’s almost imperceptible.

“It was like… like the whole world was breaking apart and rearranging itself around me every second. But he… he stayed the same. Despite the tortures, the brainwash, the pain. He didn’t even have to try. Just breathing the same air as him made it easier to survive.”

She doesn’t write anything down. She doesn’t move.

“He probably doesn’t even know,” you add, voice low. “That he did that for me. That he kept me human.”

There’s a pause, and then the question you knew would come, eventually.

“Do you want to see him again?”

You don’t answer right away.

You trace the seam of your sleeve with your thumb. The silence stretches thin, trembling.

“Yes,” you say, finally. “I would like to see him.”

It slips out softer than you meant it to, but it’s the truth.

The therapist doesn’t smile this time. She just nods, slow and deliberate. Like she understands what it cost you to say it.

“You said… you don’t know if he’d want to be found,” she says after a moment. “But do you?”

“Yes,” you say softly. “I think I do.”

There’s a pause — not surprised, not expectant. Just space for your truth to breathe.

“He was the only thing that felt real. Back then. And sometimes still now.”

You don’t look at her. You keep your eyes on your hands. Safer that way.

“I don’t know if I’d say anything. Or if I could. But I want to know if he’s okay. If he made it. If what we had meant anything to him… even after…. Everything. Or if I made it all up in my head to survive.”

The therapist doesn’t answer right away. She just sits there, that same gentle presence.

And for once, you don’t feel dissected.

Just… seen.

She shifts slightly in her chair. Not leaning forward — not closing in — just anchoring herself in the space between you.

Then, gently, “What do you imagine would happen, if you met him again?”

You don’t answer at first.

Not because you don’t know — but because you do.

You picture the way he used to look at you. How he stopped looking at you. That moment behind his eyes when something familiar slipped away for good.

“I don’t know,” you say. It’s half a lie. “Maybe nothing. Maybe it would just… hurt more.”

The therapist nods, not pushing. “Sometimes we think we need closure from someone else. But often what we’re really looking for is a way to make peace with how things ended.”

Your gaze drops for a moment.

“I think I’d still want to see him,” you say finally. “Even if he didn’t look at me the same. Even if he walked away.”

Another pause. Not uncomfortable — just space.

“I miss who I was with him,” you admit. “And I don’t know if that version of me exists without him.”

“That’s something we can talk about,” the therapist says softly. “Not just him — but you. That version of you. What she felt. What she lost. And what she still carries.”

You exhale slowly. It’s not relief, not yet — but something close.

You nod.

“I carry his name for me,” you admit with a weak smile. “He gave it to me. James. He called me Dove. Back when we were still…” Your voice fades, and you press your lips together. “It was the only thing that ever felt real. He made me feel like a person. Not a number.”

The therapist doesn’t interrupt. She doesn’t have to.

“In that place, you don’t get to be real. You’re a tool. A thing. And he—he looked at me like I was more than that. And he said it like it meant something.”

You lift your gaze toward her, just for a moment.

“I kept it after. When I got out. When they registered me, asked what name I wanted… I didn’t even think. I just said it.”

You try to smile, but it’s faint. “I like to think it means something now. That maybe I made it mine.”

The therapist’s voice is low, steady. “It sounds like you did.” Her eyes soften. She leans forward just slightly, enough to show she’s listening — not pressing, not pushing, just there.

“It sounds like you’ve held onto that name the way someone holds onto a lifeline,” she continues gently. “What do you think it means to you now? Not then, when he gave it to you—but now, when you choose it every day.”

You hesitate.

That’s the kind of question that feels too big. Too layered. Like there’s no way to answer it without unraveling something you’ve spent years keeping stitched together.

Your thumb presses harder into the seam of your sleeve.

“I think…” Your voice is low, barely audible. “I think it used to be about hope. Or maybe freedom. He used to say it like I wasn’t stuck there. Like I could still fly.”

A pause.

“And now?” the therapist prompts, voice quiet as breath.

You swallow. It’s harder to say out loud.

“Now it’s… survival. A reminder, maybe. That I got out. That I’m still here.”

You let out a dry breath of something that might almost be a laugh. “Sometimes I think I keep it so I don’t forget I used to mean something to someone.”

The therapist doesn’t flinch.

“And do you think you mean something now?”

You look at her. Her eyes aren’t calculating. There’s no clipboard, no mirrored glass behind her. Just quiet attention.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “But I want to.”

You don’t look at her when you speak next.

“Do you think…” your voice catches, but you push through. “Do you think it’s possible? That he could ever forgive me?”

The words sit sharp in your mouth. Too raw. Like they’ve been festering in the back of your throat for years, waiting for someone safe enough to hear them.

The therapist doesn’t answer right away. She doesn’t fill the silence with platitudes or optimism. Just gives it space.

“What would he be forgiving you for?” she asks gently, not to test you — but to let you define it.

You shift in your seat.

“For betraying him,” you say. “For letting them use me. Use him. For doing what they told me. For not stopping when I should’ve. For not stopping them.”

A pause.

“For choosing them over him.”

The weight of it sits in your chest like stone. You still can’t bring yourself to meet her eyes.

The therapist’s voice is steady.

“I don’t think you chose them, Dove. I think you did what you had to do to stay alive. That’s not betrayal — that’s survival.”

You shake your head. “It doesn’t matter what I meant to do. It’s what I did. And he trusted me.”

Finally, you lift your eyes. There’s no tears — not now. Just something quieter. Something older.

“I don’t know if I’d forgive me.”

The therapist leans back slightly, giving you space again. “Sometimes forgiveness isn’t about what we deserve. It’s about what the other person needs.”

A pause.

“And sometimes… it’s about what you need.”

You almost scoff — almost.

“But I used him.” Your voice is low. “He trusted me and I let him down.”

You don’t try to dress it up. No justifications. No blurred lines. You’ve rehearsed this admission in your mind so many times, it no longer feels like something you’re confessing — just something that is.

“I was sent in to manipulate him. That was the mission. Make him calm. Make him listen. Make him easier to control.”

Pause.

“Then I got attached to him, I cared for him, I started developing feelings.” You swallow. “Real feelings,” your voice cracks. “And I still took the deal when they offered it. Because I thought I was doing the right thing. Because—“

Silence.

“Because I was selfish and I didn’t want to lose him.”

Your fingers dig into the fabric of your sleeve again, knuckles pale.

“I knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway. I thought maybe… maybe I could protect him if I stayed close. But I lied to him. Over and over. And when he finally started to wake up—when he started to remember—I got scared. I tried to shut it down. Tried to pull him back instead of letting him go.”

You look at her then. Force yourself to.

“That’s not survival. That’s cruelty.”

The therapist holds your gaze, steady and quiet.

“You were a prisoner,” she says. “You were surviving in the only way you could.”

You shake your head again, harsher this time. “It doesn’t change the truth.”

“No,” she agrees gently. “But maybe it changes how you carry it.”

You let the words sit. Not because they comfort you — but because, for a second, you want to believe them.

Then:

“I didn’t save him,” you murmur.

“No,” the therapist says. “But you loved him.”

You don’t respond right away.

The room is too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes your heartbeat feel loud in your ears.

“I think,” you say eventually, “I didn’t even know what love was. Not really. Not until it was already too late.”

You don’t look at her when you say it. You stare past her, into a corner of the room where the paint chips faintly at the edge of the wall. You wonder how many others have sat in this same chair, staring at that same corner, hoping to outrun ghosts.

“I thought it was something soft. Gentle. But what I felt for him—” You shake your head. “It wasn’t soft. It was desperate. Fierce. I would’ve torn the whole world apart for him. And that scared me.”

Your nails press into your palm now, hard enough to sting.

“Hydra taught us to weaponize everything. Our bodies. Our minds. Our emotions.” You huff out something that isn’t quite a laugh. “Even love.”

The therapist says nothing — just lets you speak.

“Sometimes I wonder if that’s all I ever was to him too,” you murmur. “A trigger. A command. A safety valve. Something useful.”

Now you glance at her, briefly.

“And I wonder if he thinks about me the way I think about him. Not like a person. But like something lost.”

Silence stretches again. This time, you don’t fill it.

Until finally, the therapist speaks — soft and steady:

“Do you think you’re a person now?”

The question hits harder than you expect. And not because it’s cruel but because you don’t know the answer.

Do you think you’re a person now?

The words echo.

Not in the room — in your chest.

It’s not the kind of question that floats gently to the surface. It crashes. Splinters. Like glass striking tile. You almost wince.

Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again.

“…I don’t know,” you admit, hoarse.

The truth of it unsettles you more than it should.

“I can play the part,” you continue after a second. “Eat meals. Make conversation. Walk down the street like I belong there. But sometimes I still feel like I’m watching from behind glass.”

You draw a slow breath.

“I thought freedom would feel like air. Like a clean slate. But it’s more like—” Your fingers twitch against the hem of your sleeve, trying to name it. “Like being untethered. No one telling you who to be. No one deciding what you’re worth. And you’d think that would feel good.”

A beat.

“But mostly it just feels like falling.”

The therapist nods, not interrupting. Just listening. You feel her presence like a weight meant to anchor, not to hold you down.

You try to smile. It doesn’t quite land.

“I spent years being nothing but what they told me to be. A ghost in someone else’s machine. And now…” You gesture vaguely at yourself. “Now I have a name, but no past. Feelings, but no map. I have a body, but sometimes it doesn’t feel like mine.”

Then, quieter:

“I think I want to be a person. I just don’t know how.”

The therapist leans forward slightly, her voice still gentle, but more grounded now. “Maybe you don’t have to know yet. Maybe you just have to keep choosing it.”

You swallow. Your throat feels too tight.

You don’t cry.

But your fingers keep pressing into the fabric of your sleeve like it’s the only thing keeping you here.

Like you’re trying to hold yourself in place.

Your voice comes smaller this time, almost like it’s not meant to be heard.

“No one told me how overwhelming the feeling of freedom would be.”

The therapist doesn’t move, doesn’t speak too quickly. She lets the weight of it settle in the room, lets you breathe through the admission.

“It’s supposed to be this… beautiful thing,” you murmur. “You imagine it’ll feel like light pouring in. Like something sacred. But it’s not like that.”

You look at her, and this time, your smile is bitter.

“It’s terrifying. There’s too much space. Too many choices. Too many ways to be wrong.”

A pause.

“And after everything… after all the things I’ve done… I don’t even know if I deserve it.”

The words hang there, hollow and sharp.

The therapist doesn’t flinch. She lets a few breaths pass, her gaze steady but soft.

“You talk about deserving like it’s something you earn,” she says quietly. “Like it’s something you can lose.”

You don’t look at her, but you’re listening.

She smiles just a little, voice steady. “But freedom isn’t a reward. It’s a right. One they took from you. One you’re still learning how to reclaim.”

You say nothing. But your hands have stopped moving.

“You survived, Dove. That wasn’t weakness. That wasn’t cruelty. That was strength.”

A beat.

“You’re not the things they made you do. You’re the person who walked out anyway.”

That finally makes you look at her again.

Your mouth parts — to argue maybe, or deny, or say something sharp to push it all away — but nothing comes.

Just that unbearable ache behind your ribs.

Just the thought — What if she’s right?

Interview over.

Chapter Eight 🕊️

tags (tysm for all the love and support, If you asked to be tagged and I didn’t tag you it means I couldn’t for some reason 💔): @tfamidoingwithmylife @stell404 @shakysif @unicornqueen05 @carolinianmermaid @zoroforlife @beforemdnight @nicksolemnlyswears @mistalli @blazeflays @storystorktwo @its-in-the-woods @blv3rd @starkglory @diabolicaldinosaur @elisha-chloe @miyababbby @cats-chaotic-mind

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pixiexdusts-world · 21 days ago

Text

Underneath the metal

Thunderbolts* Bucky Barnes x teammate!reader

Summary: After you’re injured on a solo mission, Bucky—your enemy-turned-teammate—steps in to take care of you, revealing feelings neither of you can ignore.

Word count: 1,965

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You and Bucky Barnes didn’t get along. From day one, it had been glares, snide remarks, and the kind of tension that made everyone else on the Thunderbolts team either exit the room or place bets.

He was brooding and cold. You were fire and sarcasm. Oil and water—if oil had a metal arm and a hundred-yard death stare.

Which is why it was almost funny—almost—that you got shot on a mission you’d begged to be sent on instead of him.

You’d been tracking a rogue scientist through an old Hydra compound in Slovakia, determined to bring him in without backup. But things went sideways fast. You barely made it out alive, collapsing just inside the hangar of the Thunderbolts’ safehouse, soaked in blood and pride.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

You wake to pain.

A bright, aching throb in your side. Something tight around your ribs. The sterile smell of disinfectant.

And Bucky.

He’s sitting next to your cot, face grim, arms crossed. That stupid metal one glinting in the dim light.

You blink slowly. “If this is hell, it’s disappointingly sarcastic.”

His eyes shoot to yours. Blue and burning.

“You almost died,” he says, and it sounds more like an accusation than concern.

“Yeah, well. Almost doesn’t count.”

You try to sit up and immediately regret it. Your ribs scream in protest. Bucky’s hand shoots out to steady you, warm fingers surprisingly gentle as they press to your shoulder.

“Lie back.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

You glare. “Didn’t ask for your help.”

“No,” he snaps, “you didn’t. You just snuck off like an idiot and bled all over the compound.”

You open your mouth for a biting retort, but something in his expression stops you cold.

He looks—wrecked.

His jaw tight. Hands clenched. And his voice, when he speaks again, is low and raw.

“Who did this to you?”

The question hits harder than the bullet did.

You glance away, throat tight. “It doesn’t matter.”

“The hell it doesn’t.”

He leans forward now, and there’s no teasing in his face, no smug grin or sarcastic jab. Just worry. Sharp, undiluted worry.

“Tell me.”

You swallow. “It was one of the guards. Saw me before I saw him. Got a lucky shot. I handled it.”

His metal hand curls around the edge of the bed. “You didn’t handle it. You nearly bled out alone.”

“I didn’t want to risk dragging anyone else into it.”

He lets out a sound between a scoff and a growl. “So instead you’d rather die being a goddamn martyr?”

You bristle. “You don’t get to lecture me.”

“I do when I’m the one who carried you back.”

Your heart stutters. “What?”

“I found you in the hangar. Barely breathing. You passed out before you even saw me.”

He stares at you like he’s memorizing your face, as if making sure it’s really you.

“I thought you were gone.”

Something inside you cracks.

You’ve spent months trading barbs and pushing each other’s buttons, but right now, none of that matters. Not when he’s looking at you like you’re the last thing tethering him to this world.

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “For going alone.”

He doesn’t reply right away. Just looks at you, searching your face.

Then, softer than you’ve ever heard him, he murmurs, “You scared the hell out of me.”

You blink, stunned.

And then, because the painkillers are still fogging your brain and your heart is wide open and aching, you whisper, “Why do you even care?”

He stands abruptly, pacing once before turning back. Frustration radiates off him.

“Because I do,” he says, exasperated. “Because somewhere between you calling me a fossil and nearly blowing my arm off during sparring, I started giving a damn.”

You stare at him, pulse hammering.

He rubs a hand down his face, eyes tired. “I know we’ve never been exactly… civil. But I’d rather take a thousand of your insults than lose you.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t know you felt—”

“Well, now you do.”

His voice is quiet again. And something about his vulnerability—that bare, open honesty—feels heavier than anything Hydra ever put you through.

You shift in the bed, trying not to wince. “Can you… stay? Just for a bit?”

His gaze softens. “Yeah. Of course.”

He settles back into the chair beside you. For a moment, the room is still. The air between you has changed, no longer charged with animosity but with something tentative, delicate.

You break the silence with a smile. “Still hate you a little.”

He snorts. “Yeah, well. You’re a pain in my ass.”

But his fingers brush yours on the edge of the cot, feather-light. And you don’t pull away.

You let them rest there.

Warm. Steady.

Real.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Two Weeks Later

You’re back on your feet, still sore, still healing—but training again. Bucky watches you from across the gym, arms folded, pretending not to look. Which is a lie, because he hasn’t stopped looking since you stepped onto the mat.

You fake a punch toward the bag and glance at him. “You stalking me now, Barnes?”

He smirks. “Making sure you don’t get yourself killed again.”

You toss your gloves onto the bench and walk toward him, towel slung over your shoulder. He doesn’t move as you stop in front of him.

“You’re a terrible liar, too.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

You nod, stepping close. “You don’t want me alive just because we’re teammates.”

“No,” he agrees, voice low. “I don’t.”

You’re close enough now to feel the heat radiating off him.

“You gonna do something about it?” you murmur.

He hesitates, eyes flicking to your lips. “Only if you want me to.”

You lean in just a bit. “I do.”

His lips brush yours, tentative and reverent. It’s not a fireworks explosion. It’s something softer—like a wound finally healing.

And when he pulls back, forehead resting against yours, he whispers,

“Next time you run into danger without me, I’m chaining you to the jet.”

You grin. “Kinky.”

He groans. “Regret. Instant regret.”

But he’s smiling, and so are you. Because for the first time since this whole twisted Thunderbolts mission started, you’re not just surviving.

You’re living.

And maybe—just maybe—falling in love with the man you once thought was your greatest enemy.

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pedropascallme · 9 months ago

Text

☆Kinktober 2024☆

Day 9: Size kink

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!Reader

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI!!!!) size difference/size kink, mentions of masturbation (f), oral (m receiving), fingering, p in v sex, creampie, kinda fluffy? almost? If I missed anything please let me know!

You’d always considered yourself average as far as Tattooine was concerned. For a human, you were average height, average build—average, average, average.

But Din had a way of carrying himself that made you feel more important by proxy. People moved out of your way, averted their gaze, as if you were an extension of the hefty Mandalorian soldier.

And for once, you felt tiny; puny compared to the heap of man and metal that walked by your side.

You didn’t know how tall he was without his armor, how broad his shoulders would be without the pauldrons that framed him, but the manner in which he walked—brooding and aloof, confident in every step despite the near constant gunfire aimed his way—made you feel as though the beskar only served to heighten his already looming stature.

It drove you insane.

The nagging voice in your head got louder every day; he could kill you with one hand, he could squash you where you stood—he’d probably fuck you out of your own mind.

And what were you to do about it? A glorified babysitter who kept ship and dressed wounds; who occasionally found a spot by the Mandalorian’s side in the cockpit, leaning against him without protest from his modulated voice.

You were a business measure. You were a way to ensure nothing went awry when Din was busy or away. Or worse.

But it didn’t stop you from spending sleepless nights in your cot with your hand in your pants, stuttering out his name when you pressed your fingers to the sweet spot you knew so well, curling up and imagining how the rhythm of his breathing would feel through his armor.

Now, as you made your way to the cockpit, you felt a chill run over you—the cold air of space sunk into the ship and settled in your bones.

You pushed down the urge to imagine the way Din’s unobstructed skin would feel against you, warming you, protecting you from the harm of the vacuum surrounding the ship.

“Kid’s asleep.” You stood at the entrance of the cockpit, not necessarily expecting a response.

You’d come to enjoy your one-sided conversations.

Din didn’t look up, but his head bobbed slightly in acknowledgement.

“I thought he’d never get to sleep…he was hungry, then he wasn’t, then he was toddling like he owned the place.” You sighed, “He was especially grabby tonight. For someone with three fingers, he’s got quite the grip. Should probably teach your son that noses aren’t for pulling on.”

“Not my son,” Din tilted his head, visor pointed over his shoulder as he responded to you, “Just…my kid.”

“Right…” In all the time you’d spent on the ship, you still hadn’t managed to figure out what connection the two had to each other. “Well, either way, I think he’s getting a little better at recognizing when he’s tired himself out—knowing what he wants.”

Din nodded again, just enough for you to recognize that the conversation was over. You turned to leave, cursing yourself for your inadvertent conversational faux pas.

At least you had your bedtime daydreams.

“And you?” Din spoke before you managed to exit.

“What about me?” You stood still, waiting for him to provide an explanation.

“Do you think you’re getting better at recognizing what you want, mesh’la?”

You remained unsure of what that word meant, or why he used it to address you—several times when he’d first taken you in, you’d corrected him, reminding him your name, and every time he’d just stared, nodded, and thanked you.

Din still didn’t look at you, and it was somewhat unnerving that he was so good at playing the part of a statue.

“I don’t…” You took a few steps forward, the gap between the two of you still seemingly endless, “I’m not sure what you mean…”

“Mmh,” was his only response.

But you stayed behind him, curiosity getting the best of you.

“Was there—what are you trying to say?” You pressed for clarity. His quiet intensity made you nervous.

There was a long pause. You momentarily wondered if he would even grace you with an answer. He did that sometimes, staring down at you through his visor as you mulled over something he’d said, refusing to muster a reply to your line of questioning and leaving you to figure it out yourself.

“You’ve done work on the walls.” Din leaned in his chair, pressing his body to the chair’s back and spreading his thighs as if to stretch them.

You swallowed, trying not to watch him move, though your stomach flipped a little when one of his gloved hands came to rest near his crotch.

“I’ve done work that you asked me to do…” You still weren’t sure where he was going with this—if he was going anywhere at all. “Wiring and welding…is there something else? Because it wouldn’t be a bother, ‘specially since the kid’s asleep.”

You were greeted with another long pause, only disturbed by the sharp breath Din let out that caught in the modulator.

It sounded almost as if he was laughing.

You shifted on your feet, uncertain and growing more tense by the minute. Was he unhappy with your work? Was he going to make you rip out what you’d done, start all over again—berate you for your shortcomings?

“You’ve noticed that they’re thin.” Din’s words made your anxious musings of being out of a job vanish, replacing them with entirely different anxieties.

You wondered if he could see you shaking like a leaf.

“I w—Din it’s not…” You couldn’t think of an excuse, and you were suddenly hit with the notion that perhaps he wasn’t even talking about that; maybe he was simply asking you to be quieter as you rummaged through cabinets and closed doors.

“I like the way you say my name.” He turned the chair around, facing you. You stared at him dumbly, his legs still spread in a shamefully alluring manner. “What do you think about?”

Your lips parted as you considered his question.

On one hand, there was still a chance to argue back, plead your innocence, feign ignorance; a chance for you to ignore him, to walk out of the cockpit and crawl into bed.

On the other hand, you didn’t want to walk away.

“You…” You mumbled, looking down at the floor. You fiddled with your hands in an effort to feel less awkward. “I think about you.”

“And?” He wasn’t going to let you omit details.

“I think about…about how much bigger and—and stronger than me you are.”

He stayed silent, and you searched for ways to fill the gap he would otherwise fill in the conversation.

“I think about how you make me feel so small when you stand next to me—sometimes when you give me instructions, you stand so close to me, crowd me against the wall, and I—I like…I like your shoulders.”

You cringed at your words. I like your shoulders? You wanted to kick yourself.

“And I think about how your hands would feel—always think about how big they are, how they’d, um, how you’d probably be able to grab me…play with me and use me so easily.”

Din let you stew in your words for a moment longer before speaking.

“Come.” He tilted his head back, a small gesture to bring you forward.

You obliged, forcing your legs to move, settling to stand between his knees.

“Sit, mesh’la. On your knees.” He watched you, and though you looked at him skeptically at first, you did what was asked of you.

When you’d gotten yourself comfortable, shifting on your knees between his legs, you looked up at him. His face was tilted down, watching you acquaint yourself with the position you’d taken on the floor.

“You are easy to play with.” He said it so robotically, a monotonous acknowledgement of the scene before him as you clung to his every word.

“I knew it,” you offered a sheepish smile, hoping that making light of the situation would help the tension dissipate.

Din reached out to hold your chin, tilting your head up to force your line of sight directly into his visor.

“What else do you think about?” The worn leather of his gloves felt smooth on your skin, and you let out a shaky breath of appreciation at the contact.

“Think about…” You reached up hesitantly, letting your palms rest on the armor plating his thighs. “How you’d feel. How heavy you’d be on my tongue and how—how deep you’d be…inside me…”

You heard him groan, an intensely human sound beneath his helmet, and it spurred you on, suddenly aware of the power you held and the mutual need that both of you were experiencing.

“I think about how thick you are—always imagine that my hands would be too small to fit around you properly. And how much effort it would take for you to fit.” You let your fingers spread over the cloth of his flight suit.

Din removed his hand from your chin, both of his palms coming to rest on top of your own hands. He gripped them loosely, pushing them back onto the armor on his thighs.

You felt a pang of disappointment until you realized that he was giving himself the space to undo the clasp of his suit to give you what you wanted.

He sat up a bit straighter, fumbling with the fastener before managing to undo it with a grunt. He paused, looking at you between his legs for a moment, and then he pulled his cock from its confines.

He was beautiful; long and thick, tan shaft holding up a red, rounded tip. Veins ran down the underside of his length, decorating him.

You tried not to let the feeling of shock show on your face, but he laughed lightly, validated by your obvious astonishment.

“Is it what you thought it would be?” Din’s voice was low as he began stroking himself with a gloved hand.

You whimpered, unable to contain the startled glee in your voice. “Din—”

“Yes,” he cut you off, sighing, “Please.”

You let out a hum, bringing your hands up to his cock, met with the thrilling revelation that your fantasies had been grounded in reality—your hands were insufficient in engulfing his length, fingers struggling to close around him, several inches of him remaining untouched.

You leaned forward, hesitantly sticking your tongue out and swirling it around his tip.

Din’s head fell back as he cursed, fingers flying to grip at your hair and follow you as you began to bob your head up and down over what you could fit into your mouth without choking.

“You’re—you’re warm…” He grunted out, gathering strands of your hair into a makeshift handle. “Did you think about this, mesh’la? Did you think about having me in your mouth like this?”

Your response was muted by his cock, but the happy sound that bubbled from your chest let him know everything he needed to.

You let the spit that dripped over him coat your palms, using it as a lubricant to slide your hands over his cock while your continued to force more of him down your throat.

Din hissed at the feeling, the way your wrists jerked in sync with the movement of your tongue over him, and he tightened his grip on your hair.

He let you continue for a while, before deciding to pull you off. You rested your head on his thigh, one hand still trailing the veins of his cock while you tried to catch your breath, drooling.

“Look at me,” he urged, tugging at your hair to tilt your face up. Your lips were puffy, chin coated in your drool, and there were tears glazing your eyes. He stared, content with how easy it was to get you cockdrunk. “Perfect.”

“I wasn’t done…” You whimpered an argument, pouting.

“Yes, you were.” Din coaxed you up from the floor, hands on your arms lifting you to stand.

He let his arms drop, looking at you, how wrecked you were while still fully clothed before him, and his fingers moved to toy with the buttons of your trousers.

“Alright?” He froze, awaiting a sign that what he was doing was ok, that you were willing to let him continue.

“Din, if you don’t take them off, I will.” You let yourself drag a hand down the side of his helmet, and though you felt cold metal in place of skin and hair, you still felt as though the gesture was intimate, fitting for this scenario.

Din had heard what he’d needed to hear, finally undoing the buttons and letting your pants pool around your ankles. You stepped out of them awkwardly, playing with the hem of your shirt and looking at him expectantly.

He nodded, a more obvious signal this time, and you shed the shirt from your body, too, leaving you fully exposed. You began to lean forward into him, but he placed a hand on your shoulder, pushing you away.

“Turn around.”

You spun, turning your back to him. Without warning, you felt leather-clad fingers squeezing your skin, roaming your hips before gripping harshly at your ass.

“Now sit.” He put both hands on your hips and tugged you back to him, letting you adjust as you fell into his lap. He helped you spread your legs, hooking your knees over him and opening you to the cold air of the ship.

“Bite.” Din pressed a finger to your lips, “I want to feel you.”

You whimpered, carefully biting down on the tip of the glove and letting him pull his hand out. He grabbed the fabric that hung from your mouth and tossed it to the side.

“Good.” His newly ungloved hand roamed your body, groping your tits and squeezing roughly at any untouched skin he could find. His other hand gripped your hip, keeping you steady.

You whined, trying to grind down against him. The pulse of his cock, still hard and coated with your spit, pressed into your back, and it made you impatient and dizzy.

“Stay still.” Another command that had you whining, but you acquiesced.

Din’s bare hand wrapped around your thigh, pulling it further to give him ample room to touch you where you needed him. He pressed one finger to your clit, and though the touch was somewhat soft, you bucked your hips into the feeling.

“Such a little thing,” he mused, “It’s so easy for me to keep you where I want you.”

That made you moan: his acknowledgement of your size difference and the way he used it to his advantage. You squirmed in an effort to get him to give you more of what you wanted.

Din’s finger dropped lower, teasing your slit and hovering over your hole. He dipped the tip of his finger into you, growling at the slick feeling that coated him.

“All this from nothing.” He thought aloud before plunging the finger into your cunt, curling it to jab into your most tender spot.

“Oh m—Din!” You hadn’t expected the intrusion, but you welcomed it all the same. You writhed on his finger, much thicker than your own and filling you in a much more satisfactory way. “More—another, please.”

“You can handle more?” You thought you heard him smiling.

“Even if I can’t, you can make me,” you whimpered, “I want more.”

Your response earned a rumble from Din, a low growl that vibrated through his chest. He pressed another finger into you, leaning over your shoulder to watch your cunt swallow the digits and coat them with your juices.

“Look,” he grunted, “Look how much you struggle with two fingers. How are you going to take my cock?”

And you were struggling, but it was wonderful; his fingers pressed against your walls, stretching you out in preparation for what was to come, and you brought your own hand to your clit to rub circles over yourself.

But Din grabbed your wrist, leather digging against you as he tugged your hand away from your core.

“Mine.” His voice was animalistic, so lost in the way you squeezed his fingers and the way you listened to his demands. He tossed your own hand to the side, replacing it with gloved fingers that pressed rhythmically into you in time with the fingers he had working you open. “Had plenty of time to touch. Thought you wanted the real thing.”

“I do—Din, I do, I do,” you were pleading, begging for his help in getting you to your high. “Please, I do.”

“Cum.” It was all he said, pressing his fingers roughly against your clit and curling those he had inside you to tease your orgasm from your delicate spot.

And you did; with a loud yelp and a chant of his name, you were coming undone on his hands.

You rocked against his cock where it nestled against your ass, whimpering as you let your head fall back against his shoulder.

“Good, mesh’la.” He stroked your hair.

He pulled his fingers from you slowly, and you shuddered, hit with the feeling of emptiness as your body clenched around nothing. He brought his fingers to your lips, and you welcomed them into your mouth, sucking on them and gathering the remnants of your slick on your tongue.

“Din,” you gathered yourself together, releasing his fingers and breathing deeply. You pressed your back to his chest. “More.”

“You’re being greedy.” He couldn’t hide his delight at your eagerness, the modulator picking up on the amused breaths he let out. “Stand up. Face me.”

On shaky legs, you obeyed.

You felt your thighs, gluey against the air, stick together as you moved, evidence of your pleasure that lingered on your skin.

When you turned to face him, went wide-eyed with fascination. His ungloved hand had wrapped around his cock, slowly stroking himself as he watched you.

“On my lap.” His free hand patted his thigh, and you approached enthusiastically.

You maneuvered yourself on top of him, straddling him and letting your knees press into the crevices between the armrests of the chair and his body. He placed a hand on your hip, rubbing his thumb over your skin, trying to feel you through the leather of his glove.

You settled against him, feeling the movement of his arm as he continued to jerk himself off. The tip of his cock brushed against your clit, and you mewled, rolling your hips against him.

“What do you want?” He urged you to speak, his fingers digging into your side.

“You—want your cock, Din.” You were shameless, desperate to feel him split you in half.

“And if it doesn’t fit?” He slapped his cock against you, making you whimper above him. You shifted your hips to savor the feeling of his skin on yours.

“You’ll make it fit.” You found the confidence to look into the visor, certain that you were gazing into his eyes behind the shield.

He groaned, pulling you closer to him as he lined himself up with your entrance.

“I will.” He reassured you, beginning to push into you.

You moaned at the stretch, the pressure of his body against yours as your cunt swallowed the head of his cock. You clawed at the armor on his chest, and he let out a throaty sound.

“So tight,” he seemed almost as breathless as you felt, “Taking me so well.”

“Feels—it feels so good,” you whispered, bouncing on the tip of his cock, “Give it to me, please. All of it.”

With a growl, Din removed his hand from the base of his cock, gripping your hips, manhandling you to contort your body the way he wanted you.

He pushed you down onto him, thrusting his hips upward until he was buried to the hilt in your cunt.

You screamed, head falling into the crook of his neck and writhing as your body accepted the invasion of his length. Despite the suddenness and the extent to which you had been filled, you craved more, dragging your hips against him and trying to see just how deep he could get.

Din cursed, rasping and desirous. “Look at you taking all that cock,” he was transfixed, obsessed with how your cunt gripped him. “You think a lot about having me force it in, little one? Forcing you to take it how I wanted? Ruining you?”

“Y—es,” you sobbed into him, “Wanted you to—wanted you to break me open.” You were choking back moans, arms wrapped around his neck.

He had engulfed you completely, dwarfing you and turning you into nothing but a toy—a doll at his disposal that he used with no regard.

And you loved it. You loved the texture of his veins running down your walls, the filthy wet sounds that he pulled from your cunt with every deep thrust, the way his balls bounced heavy against your ass when he forced you down onto him.

He brought a hand to the nape of your neck, pulling you back and encouraging you to look down at where your bodies connected. He released you, opting to grab your hand and press it into your stomach.

“You know what that is?” There was a smugness to his tone, one that made you feel lightheaded, “That’s my cock.”

You moaned, but he wasn’t done speaking.

“That’s my cock wrecking you—breaking you how you wanted. Not your fingers, mesh’la. Do you hear the pretty sounds you’re making for me? I never heard you scream like that when you were trying to fuck yourself.”

Your jaw went slack, legs aching and hot with the effort you had to put into keeping up with his pace.

“S—o much—so much better,” you choked out, “You feel so much better than my hands, Din.”

“I know I do. Tell me,” he kept your palm pressed against your stomach, watching as you bulged with him every time his cock punched into you. “Tell me how it feels.”

“Din—oh!” You were so far gone, so focused on the pleasure of having him so close, so deep. You managed to breathe a one-word response. “Big…”

“Big,” he laughed, “That’s right.”

His thrusts became slower, his cockhead nudging your g-spot at a delicious pace that made you give up your attempts at keeping up with him.

You fell against his body, happy to let him do the work while you succumbed to his movements.

“Tight little pussy—only cock you need,” he was speaking rhetorically, not posing it as a question or statement for you, per se, but a general agreement spoken into the cockpit that he was certain you would find truth in. “Only cock that’ll ever fit again.”

You felt drool puddle from the corner of your lips, having gone so completely dumb for him.

There was a fire spreading throughout your body, heat licking at your core as it threatened a deluge of bliss.

“Only you, Din,” you mumbled against him, “Please, only you.”

He had resorted to dragging you over him, pulling and pushing your hips over his length and watching his cock split you open. The action ensured that your clit pushed against him, giving you the friction you’d need to reach another high when paired with the stretch of his cock.

“Cum,” his voice had dropped just above a whisper, “Let me feel you squeeze me tight, mesh’la.” He squeezed your hips hard, bucking into you.

You came with a delighted squeal, gripping his shoulders and grinding yourself down into him. He hugged you to his body, further enveloping you, and you felt safe and fulfilled.

His thrusts quickly became more erratic, searching for release. You felt him stiffen against you, not out of discomfort but due to the imminent high he faced.

“Din…Implant,” you whispered, hoping he could hear your voice over the panted breaths you took. “Please. Inside.”

Your words were all it took, and his hips stuttered into you. He moaned, head falling back against the chair and arms hauling you even closer to his body.

You felt the warmth of his spend in your abdomen, painting your walls and filling you with him. You moaned softly, squirming on his lap in a display of contentment.

He brought a hand up to feather through your hair, letting you rest against him as you both settled.

“How do you feel?” He asked, after the silence had become too much even for him.

“So good,” you nuzzled against his pauldron, “You made me feel so good, Din.”

He turned to look down at you. “As good as you thought it would feel?”

“So much better.”

#kinktober 2024 #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal x you #din djarin #din djarin smut #din djarin x reader #din djarin x you #the mandalorian #mandalorian fanfic #mandalorian smut #mandalorian x reader #mandalorian x you

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sixeyesonathiel · 29 days ago

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soldier satoru & nurse reader <3

it starts with a cough. not yours, not his, but the guy in the cot beside him—loud, hacking, dramatic. satoru barely notices it anymore. he's grown used to the chorus of war: the whine of distant mortars, the metallic clink of stretchers being wheeled past, the low moans of feverish men tangled in thin sheets. sometimes the wind pushes in through cracked windows, carrying with it the bitter scent of gunpowder and wet soil. sometimes, it’s just the stale, heavy air of waiting.

but then you walk in.

and suddenly, everything stills. not in silence, not quite, but in focus. it’s like the background noise takes a polite step back, just for a moment, to let the sight of you settle into his brain.

he's supposed to be asleep. or pretending to be. he has a routine for it: eyes half-lidded, an arm thrown dramatically over his forehead like he belongs onstage, a faint groan timed just right. it worked like a charm with every nurse before you. earned him extra blankets. sometimes dessert. once, even a pity letter home signed with a heart.

but then you happened.

you didn’t even blink at his performance. just came to a stop at the end of his cot, jotting something on your clipboard with the smooth, steady ease of someone too tired to be impressed. “private gojo,” you said flatly, “if you’re dying, at least wait until after i finish this shift. i don’t have time to clean up a dramatic corpse.”

he blinked.

and then he was gone.

he didn’t know it then, not really. just that your voice cut through the clamor in a way nothing else did. that your hands, when they pressed against the back of his neck to check for fever, didn’t flinch. they were cool. precise. careful in a way that made his pulse jump. like he might shatter if handled wrong. like he was something real, not just another body taking up a cot.

no one's ever treated him like that before.

he starts getting progressively worse. intentionally.

not in any life-threatening way—just enough. a button undone here, so you’ll fix it. a limp there, just to see you crouch, frowning, hands warm against his shin. once, he even faked a nosebleed with beet juice from the mess hall, just to see if you’d touch his face.

“you’re limping on the wrong leg, dumbass,” you murmur one afternoon, barely glancing up from your chart. your brows don’t even lift, but the corner of your mouth twitches.

“no i’m not,” he counters, switching legs mid-step with zero shame. “i’m ambidextrous.”

“that’s not what that means.”

“sure it is. look it up.”

“i’m going to hit you with this clipboard.”

he grins, soft and lopsided, a lock of silvery-white hair falling over one eye as he leans back on his cot, utterly pleased with himself. she’s so mean, he thinks, nearly giddy. he might be in love.

“you are the worst patient here,” you mutter another morning, tugging his blanket up far too tight, knuckles brushing against his chest in a way that makes his breath catch. the corners of your mouth twitch like you're trying not to smile.

“and yet,” he drawls, his voice low, playful, teasing, “you keep coming back. makes a man wonder.”

your sigh is exaggerated, practiced, but your fingers brush his wrist as you check his pulse—a beat too long. he doesn’t move. just watches your profile, the way your lashes flutter when you read, the way a strand of hair slips loose from your bun and clings to your cheek. he wants to tuck it behind your ear but knows better.

he notices everything.

the soft whistle in your nose when you’re concentrating. the way your lips part when you’re thinking. the little nicks on your knuckles from a day too long, a blade too dull. how, by the end of each shift, you smell faintly of antiseptic and mint and something warm he can't name. how your shoulders sag just a little more with each hour that passes, but your voice never wavers.

her kindness is blinding, he thinks one night, lying on his side and watching you from across the ward. you kneel beside a boy no older than fifteen, whispering something low as you bandage a wound that’s far too wide for his body. your hands don’t shake. but when the kid vomits beside the cot, you gag. audibly. eyes watering, face turning green.

“you okay there, florence nightingale?” he calls, lips twitching, voice slurred with sleep and stifled laughter.

“do not talk to me right now unless you want puke on your boots,” you bite back, a hand clamped dramatically over your mouth. your other hand is still stroking the boy’s hair.

you’re all thorns and sunshine. it’s disorienting. it’s you.

he's not used to kindness that doesn't want something. not used to someone who sees him, really sees him, and still rolls their eyes instead of looking away. you treat him like he’s not special. it makes him want to be.

“you ever think about running away?” he asks late one evening. the air smells of iodine and gunpowder. there’s a new hole in the ceiling and a bird nest in the rafters. your shadow is cast long over him as you tape gauze across his ribs. his breath hitches when your fingers graze his skin.

“every day,” you reply, your tone flat. then you glance up, eyes catching his—steadily, quietly. “but someone has to keep you from dying of man-flu.”

he winces theatrically, pushing his lower lip out in a pout. “it was a real fever. you said so yourself.”

“you microwaved the thermometer.”

“resourcefulness is a survival skill.”

“idiocy is not.”

your eyes crinkle. just barely.

he thinks he’s in love.

no—he knows it.

and maybe, if the sky doesn’t fall, if this godforsaken war ends, if the world lets them both live—he’ll tell you.

maybe.

if you haven’t already figured it out from the way he only fakes injuries when you are on shift.

#gojo satoru #gojo drabbles #gojo fluff #gojo x reader fluff #gojo x reader #gojo x female reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n

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brookghaib-blog · 2 months ago

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The ghost I left behind- III

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x reader

Summary: Y/N and Bob had a life before he disappear, full of love, hope, and a lot of chaos, but they managed each other, she was the only one who truly could make him avoid the void inside his mind. How could he turn his only light into a shadow in his mind ?

Note: I kinda wanted to make this more of a filler chapter, because I didn't want to write the whole movie when it doesn't really make sense for this idea, I promise you a more fullfilling chapter next, and the emotions and action will be there!

Word count: 6.3k

Chapter II, IV

O.X.E Research Lab. - Malaysia

The hum of fluorescent lights was constant — like static pressed against Bob’s skull. The air was cold, colder than it should’ve been for a place buried under the jungle. Concrete walls closed in around him like a tomb.

He sat alone on the cot in the corner of his cell — no, not a cell, they called it a room. White-walled, sterile, like something out of a hospital, only there was no comfort here. Just observation windows and cameras that never blinked. On the wall across from him, a single metal shelf held the only thing they’d let him keep — a small, worn photograph of Y/N, curled slightly at the corners. She was smiling in the picture, standing barefoot in their kitchen, holding a mug of coffee. Her hair was messy, her eyes tired but warm.

Bob stared at that picture like it was oxygen.

He hadn’t seen her in months. He hadn’t heard her voice, hadn’t felt her hand on his back when the nightmares got bad. But he remembered everything — the sound of her laugh when she teased him about the chicken suit, the way she’d breathe when she fell asleep next to him. The feel of her lips against his shoulder. The way she’d told him she was pregnant — shaking, terrified, and hopeful all at once.

He remembered what he’d said to her that night.

“I’ll get clean. I’ll be better. I want to be the kind of man our kid looks up to.”

And then he left.

He hadn’t told her. Hadn’t said goodbye. He boarded a plane with a one-way ticket and a pocket full of cash he’d scraped together, believing that leaving would present her with a greater good. They promised change. Power. Control. All the things he’d never had. All the things he thought he needed to deserve her.

And now?

Now the power was eating him alive.

The door to the room opened with a hiss. Two armed guards stepped aside as Dr. Lenhart entered, clipboard in hand, eyes cold behind her glasses.

“Subject 44. The team is ready.”

Bob didn’t look at her. His fingers grazed the edge of the photograph once more before standing. He didn’t resist as the guards strapped a control collar around his neck and led him down the corridor.

The room he entered was massive. Sterile. Circular. Glass walls separated the observation deck from the inner chamber. Bob stood in the center, machines humming to life around him, sensors pulsing against his skin.

“Begin neurological synchronization,” a voice echoed overhead.

Bob closed his eyes.

At first, there was silence.

Then came the whispering.

Not in words — not exactly — but in feelings. Rage. Hunger. Emptiness.

He clenched his fists, his breath growing erratic. The air around him shimmered, warped. Lights above flickered, then dimmed to nothing. A black mist seeped from beneath his feet like smoke rising in reverse.

“Restrain output—he’s losing control!” came a panicked voice behind the glass.

But it was too late.

The shadow lashed out like lightning — instinctive, desperate, alive. It slammed against the walls, shrieking with a sound that wasn’t made by any throat. Two technicians in hazmat suits tried to flee, but the black tendrils struck faster than thought. One hit the floor, his body shriveling in seconds. The other screamed — then there was only silence.

And in the middle of it all stood Bob, hovering inches above the ground, his eyes pitch-black, veins glowing faint blue beneath his skin.

Then — darkness.

Bob woke up on the floor, shivering.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. Minutes? Hours?

He pulled himself to his knees, the collar around his neck heavy like guilt. His head pounded, his limbs ached, but worse was the silence in his mind — not peace, but absence. Like something had used him, then left.

He looked up and saw the bloodstains. The security footage, replaying silently through the tinted glass window. Two lives lost. His hands.

“No,” he whispered, scrambling back, pressing his back to the wall.

His breath hitched as he fumbled for the shelf — for the photo.

There she was.

Still smiling. Still beautiful.

Still waiting.

“I didn’t mean to…” His voice cracked. “I didn’t want this. I didn’t want this, Y/N. I just wanted to be enough.”

He buried his face in his hands, shaking.

“I miss you,” he whispered into the silence.

A sob broke loose. He clutched the photo against his chest like it could stitch his soul back together.

“I’m trying to fix this. I swear I’m trying. I just… I thought that I would be dead by now.”

No answer. Only the sound of the distant hum of machines and the slow drip of water somewhere in the corner of the room.

He leaned his head back against the cold wall, eyes glassy, voice no louder than a prayer.

“Please… wait for me.”

2 months after

The corridor had no way out, and the new team was looking for an exit, Bob just stays put.

“Bob,” Yelena snaps over her shoulder, pausing. “You’re falling behind.”

He doesn’t answer. His eyes are hollow, shoulders hunched under the weight of guilt and grief. The ground beneath them trembles—security drones are drawing near.

“I'll stay” he finally says, voice like crushed gravel. “I’ll just slow you down. It's better for everyone if a just...stay put.”

Yelena walks back toward him. “No, Bob, if you stay you will die.”

“Well it's...whatever” he breathes out. His jaw is tight, his fists clenched. “I don't deserve people saving me, I'm just being a burden to you guys, it's ok, go.”

Yelena’s expression softens, barely perceptible beneath her hardened demeanor. She steps closer.

“Hey, hey, wow, ok, I get it, we all have a void inside of us, we all feel like shit, and alone, but don't let that consume you, you are someone. You just have to control it.”

Bob doesn’t answer. His jaw trembles.

“What do you do to control it?”

Yelena gives him a small smile. "You push it down, like down, you push it."

Walker turns, a huge hole he punched in the wall. “Hey! If the therapy session is over, we have to go.”

She walks ahead without waiting for a response.

He starts walking behind her.

Back in New York

Across from her, Mr. Cooper grunted as he settled onto the floor with a sigh of relief, one leg stretched out, the other bent to cradle his back.

Sunlight poured through the open windows, warming the small apartment with its soft, golden glow. The living room was a mess of wooden planks, screws, and folded instructions spread across the floor like a chaotic puzzle. In the center of it all, Y/N sat cross-legged, squinting at the manual with a furrowed brow and a pencil tucked behind her ear, like that somehow made her more capable of interpreting the impossible hieroglyphs IKEA had decided passed for “assembly instructions.”

“I think I pulled something just by looking at that Allen wrench,” he muttered, rubbing his hip.

Y/N giggled softly, setting down the manual. Her belly, now visibly showing as she reached five months, shifted with the movement, and she instinctively rested her hand on it. “We’re not even halfway done. Are you telling me you’re tapping out already?”

“I’m old, sweetheart,” he said with a gruff smile. “I tap out every time the weather drops below seventy.”

She shook her head with a grin and leaned over to pick up a wooden side panel of the crib. It was pale honey-colored oak, sanded smooth, gentle with age. It had once belonged to Cooper’s granddaughter, and now it would belong to her baby.

“You really didn’t have to give me this,” she said, her voice softening.

“Yes, I did,” he replied without missing a beat. “No child deserves to sleep in one of those plastic nightmares. And no mother should go through this alone.”

That word — mother — still settled strangely on her shoulders. Like a coat she was trying on, not quite fitted yet.

She glanced at him, her smile more subdued now, thoughtful. “Thank you.”

He waved it off, leaning back against the wall. “Enough of that. Tell me how the new job’s going. Still wrangling tiny lunatics all day?”

Y/N laughed, genuinely this time, the sound echoing off the walls of the small room. “Yeah. It’s chaos, but kind of... perfect chaos. I mostly work with toddlers. I feed them, change them, read stories. Try to keep them from painting on the walls or eating glue. It’s exhausting sometimes, but... I really love it.”

Cooper watched her closely as she spoke, the weariness on her face dulled slightly by something new—something lighter. Peace, maybe. Or the distant shape of it.

She picked up a small wooden bar and held it like a sword. “Today one of them tried to put mashed peas in my shoes. Another fell asleep on my lap mid-story and started snoring like a little old man. And during snack time, this one girl kept hugging my belly like she knew. Like she knew, you know?”

Her voice softened. “And every day I’m there, I realize more and more... I want this. I want to do all those things with my baby. The feeding, the stories, the naps. I want to see them take their first steps. Hear their first words. I don’t want to miss that.”

She paused, tears stinging lightly at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away before they could fall. “I stopped looking for couples. I think I knew deep down I couldn’t go through with it. I was just scared... not of the baby. Of doing it alone.”

Mr. Cooper didn’t speak right away. He reached over and gently patted her hand. His weathered fingers were rough but warm.

“You’ve been through hell and back, Y/N. And you’re still here. That baby’s lucky already.”

She gave a teary smile. “Sometimes I still hope he’ll come back. That Bobby will just... walk through the door one day, stupid grin on his face like nothing happened.”

“That kind of love,” Cooper said, after a long moment, “is the kind people go their whole lives never finding. But love’s only half the battle. Raising a child, choosing to stay... that’s the rest. That’s the hard part.”

Y/N nodded, looking down at the crib pieces. Her fingers grazed over the smooth wood, the future taking shape beneath her hands. She felt a soft flutter inside her, the baby moving, stretching gently like they knew she was talking about them.

“I just want to give them a better start,” she whispered. “Better than what I had.”

“You already are,” Cooper said.

They sat in quiet for a while, sunlight casting long shadows on the floor. The crib still unfinished, the future still uncertain—but for the first time in a long while, the air felt different.

A thought crossed her mind. "You think he's okay Mr. Cooper?"

He looked at her, a sad smile in his face, "I hope so sweetheart, I really do."

Bob was indeed not okay

The room was colder than he remembered.

There were no windows. No clocks. No reflections. Only the hum of warm orange lights above. He was laying on a bed, rather confortable if he's allowed to say.

The door creaked open, slow and theatrical, and in walked Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, a ghost in high heels and silk. She didn't sit immediately. She liked to hover, to stalk, her movements measured and deliberate.

“Hi Bob! How are you? <Are you confortable?” she said casually, as if they were old friends catching up over coffee.

Bob didn’t answer. His jaw tightened, but he kept his eyes on the floor. The room felt like a trap, but he was too tired to pretend he wasn’t already caught.

“I imagine you’re wondering why you’re still alive,” she continued, circling him. “I thought you were another failure, turns out here you are.”

His breath hitched. “Where am I?”

“Home, for now” she said sweetly.

She finally took the seat across from him, folding her arms on the table like a therapist in disguise.

“You’re a miracle, Bob. My miracle. A walking success story. Do you know how many billions were poured into the O.X.E. Project before we got it right? You’re the first. You’re what we’ve been trying to make for years. You’re the product of patience. Genius. Sacrifice.”

“Don’t,” he muttered.

Valentina’s voice sharpened. “I’m not here to coddle you. I’m here to offer you purpose.”

“You signed up for a medical study, which was, as advertised, at the cutting edge of human improvement. But not everybody could handle the amount of greatness that we had in mind—”

His gaze flickered up to her, hazy and wet. “You used me.”

“We made you,” she snapped, then caught herself, letting the corners of her mouth twitch back into a smile. “And you’re more than even you realize. You just need someone who believes in you. Someone who knows what you’re capable of.”

Bob swallowed, teeth gritted. “Where's Yelena ?..., they’re good people. They don’t deserve whatever you’re planning.”

Valentina tilted her head. “They’re weapons, Bob. Trained killers. Criminals really. You think they’ll stop if I tell them to go after someone? You think they won’t? That’s the kind of world you’re in. And that’s the kind of world she’s in, too.”

She slid a photograph across the table.

His heart stopped.

It was her.

The same photo he almost forgot he had on his room in the facility he went to for the experiment.

Bob reached for the photo like it might disappear if he blinked. His fingers trembled as they hovered over it, then finally closed around the edge.

“She’s okay,” Valentina said, almost kindly. “Five months now. Still looking for you. Still crying over you. Still believing in you. Kinda of a bummer that she's alone isn't it?”

A tear slipped down Bob’s cheek as he stared at the image. “I never wanted to leave her. I—I thought if I got better, if I could just fix myself, I could come back. I wanted to come back.”

Valentina leaned in, voice low. “You can.”

He looked up at her. "Where is she? How did you find her?"

“I know a lot about you. I know about your mom’s mental illness, I know about your addiction,your fathe. But does that matter? You can come back stronger. Better. As someone who can protect her. Provide for her. Be a real father. A real partner. But you have to work for me, Bob. You have to give me loyalty. Just a little time. Just a few assignments. And then, I promise—on my name—she’s yours again.”

Bob shook his head slowly, horror creeping in. “You’re threatening her.”

“I’m protecting her,” Valentina said calmly. “From you. From the others. From this world that doesn’t care who she is or what she’s been through. You want to keep her safe? You work with me. You do what I say. Because if you don’t... there are people out there who won’t hesitate to use her against you.”

Bob’s hand clenched around the photo, crumpling the edge.

“You don’t understand my love,” he said, voice cracking.

“I don’t have to,” she replied. “But I can use it.”

He looked at her then, really looked. The truth was a blade in his chest. He was powerful, but powerless. Strong enough to rip holes in the sky, but too broken to say no.

“She’ll hate me.” he whispered.

Valentina stood, brushing invisible dust from her lapel. “Maybe. But hate is a lot like love, Bob. It sticks. It burns. It means you still matter.”

She walked to the door, heels clicking.

“I'll be back when you're feeling better, it's your best interest to control yourself and all your powers.”

The door closed behind her with a final click.

And Bob sat there in silence, holding the photo of the only person who ever saw him as more than his darkness.

His fingers trembled as he whispered her name.

“How did I ended up here baby...”

Y/N's pov

The lights were dimmed in the small examination room, a soft hum of fluorescent bulbs vibrating overhead. Y/N lay back on the cold, paper-covered chair, the crinkling noise far too loud in the silence. Her shirt was rolled up, exposing the gentle curve of her belly. She was twenty weeks now, and this was her first real appointment.

She hadn't meant to wait this long, but money and despair had a cruel way of making even basic things feel unreachable. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Cooper, gently reminding her, pushing through her deflection, she might’ve kept pushing it off until she gave birth alone.

The doctor entered with a warm smile, her presence calm and kind, a middle-aged woman with soft eyes and a practiced touch.

"Hi, sweetheart. I’m Dr. Hale. Let’s have a look at this little one, okay?"

Y/N nodded, her throat too tight for words. She tucked her hair behind her ear and tried to relax. She hated that her hands trembled.

Dr. Hale squirted the cold gel onto her stomach, and Y/N winced. "Sorry about the chill. It’ll warm up in just a second," the doctor said, already moving the wand across her skin.

The screen flickered to life beside her. Grainy black-and-white shapes slowly came into focus — shifting, fluttering motion, something alive. Her baby.

Y/N stared. She forgot to breathe.

"There we are," Dr. Hale whispered, smiling at the screen. "Look at that heartbeat. Strong little one, isn’t he?"

Y/N blinked. “He?”

"It’s a boy," Dr. Hale said gently. “Congratulations, mama.”

Y/N’s mouth opened but no sound came out. Her eyes welled up fast, tears rising before she had time to prepare for them. Her lips trembled and she brought a hand up to cover her mouth, the other resting gently over her belly.

A boy. She was having a son.

“He’s measuring well, right on time,” the doctor continued, her voice soft, respectful of the emotion clouding the room. “You’ve done a good job, keeping him strong.”

But Y/N was crying now — quiet, broken sobs — as she stared at the screen. Her baby. Bobby’s baby. And she was seeing him for the first time. A little fluttering shape that would one day have Bobby’s eyes. Maybe even his shy smile.

Dr. Hale handed her a tissue. “It’s okay. First appointments can be overwhelming.”

Y/N laughed softly through the tears, nodding. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”

“Your partner must be so happy too,” the doctor added casually, glancing at the monitor. “First-time dads are always in awe during these appointments.”

Y/N’s face froze. She didn’t correct her. She just offered a small, practiced smile. “He is. He… just couldn’t be here today. But he..he's really happy.”

Dr. Hale nodded, not pressing. “Well, this little boy is lucky. You clearly love him very much.”

Y/N looked back to the screen, to the blurry shape moving softly on it, and swallowed hard. Her fingers tightened around the paper sheet beneath her.

“He’s everything.” she whispered.

2 years ago

The scent of warm fries lingered in the car, mingling with the soft hum of the engine and the quiet tune playing from the radio—something 90s, something nostalgic. Rain tapped gently on the windshield, coating the windows in glistening beads that shimmered under the glow of the streetlight outside the McDonald’s parking lot. The inside of her old sedan was cozy and dim, fogging slightly from their breath and the comfort of shared laughter.

Bob was in the passenger seat, slightly turned toward her, his long legs awkwardly folded into the too-small space. A crumpled paper bag sat between them, half-spilled fries poking out. He held a burger in both hands, but he hadn’t taken a bite in at least a minute—too caught up in the way she was telling her story, animated and full of wild hand gestures, her eyes lit with mischief.

“No, no, wait,” Y/N laughed, nearly choking on her own drink as she swatted his arm. “You have to picture it—this man, right? Full suit. Hair greased back like he’s somebody’s boss. He’s barking at me because his order had pickles when he said no pickles—like it was a personal betrayal. So I’m standing there, biting my tongue, trying not to say ‘Sir, I don’t make the sandwiches, I’m just handing them to you.’”

Bob chuckled, already smiling because he could hear how this story ended. “And then?”

She grinned, pausing for dramatic effect, fries in hand like a microphone.

“He turns too fast, slips on his own spilled soda, and I swear to God, it was like a slow-motion movie scene. Both arms flail, legs go out, and bam—on his ass. The sandwich goes flying. The drink lands on his lap. And everyone just… stares.”

Bob was wheezing, struggling not to spit his drink out. “You’re lying.”

“I swear,” she said, holding up two fingers in mock oath. “The ketchup packet even exploded. Right on his white shirt. Like something out of a damn Tarantino film.”

They both laughed so hard it hurt, leaning toward each other in the cramped space of the car. Bob wiped a tear from his eye and looked at her, still giggling with her hand pressed to her chest, eyes watery from the laughter.

He couldn’t stop looking at her.

He’d never met anyone like her before—someone so unapologetically alive. She wasn’t like the people from his past, people who only spoke in hushed tones and looked at him like he might break. She was loud and kind and brilliant and chaotic in the most mesmerizing way. And somehow, for reasons he still didn’t understand, she liked him.

Y/N caught him staring, mid-fry. She tilted her head. “What?”

Bob blinked, startled. “Nothing. You’re just…”

“What?”

He gave a shy shrug, reaching down for the last fry in the bag. “You’re just…funny.”

“Funny?” she repeated with a smirk. “That’s it?”

“And cool,” he added quickly. “And smart. And, uh—” he hesitated. “Your storytelling is…top-tier.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes playfully and leaned back in her seat. “You’re weird, Bob.”

He smiled at the dashboard, face warming. “Yeah. I get that a lot.”

She nudged his arm with hers, shoulder to shoulder. The warmth of her touch buzzed through him. “Wanna come back to my place?”

His eyes snapped to hers.

“I mean,” she added, lifting an eyebrow. “We could watch something. A movie or whatever.”

Bob turned red instantly, so red it almost glowed through his hoodie. “Uh…”

“Oh my God,” she laughed, leaning toward him with her lips curled in amusement. “What were you thinking I meant?”

“N-Nothing!” he stammered, though his voice cracked. “Just—just a movie. Yep.”

She tilted her head and smiled wider, teasing. “You totally thought I was seducing you.”

“No, I didn’t!” he said, his voice too high, too defensive.

“You absolutely did.” She laughed again, softer this time. “I could see it in your eyes. You went all deer-in-headlights, Bobby.”

He looked away, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean… It’s our third date…”

“And we haven’t even kissed,” she said, more gently this time. She was looking at him, really looking. “That’s okay, you know.”

Bob nodded slowly, still not meeting her eyes. “Yeah. I know.”

The car grew quiet for a moment. The kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward—just full of unspoken things. The rain was heavier now, soft and steady, a lullaby on the roof.

Then Y/N leaned over slightly, not enough to make it too serious, just enough that her shoulder brushed his again. “So… you wanna come over or not?”

He turned toward her again, finally smiling that crooked, shy smile of his. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

She winked and started the car.

Y/N unlocked the door with one hand and flicked on the hallway light with the other, her apartment filling with a warm, amber glow. It was a small space—cozy more than cramped, cluttered with personal touches: a stack of books that lived on the coffee table, mismatched throw pillows that had clearly been collected over time, a framed Polaroid of her and some friends stuck to the fridge with a glittery magnet shaped like a donut. It smelled faintly like vanilla and old incense.

“Home sweet home,” she said, kicking off her sneakers and tossing her keys into a little ceramic bowl by the door.

Bob stepped in behind her, moving like he didn’t want to disturb the air. His eyes flicked around the space, taking in everything, silently noting how her this place felt. It was lived in. Warm. Safe.

“Nice,” he said with a shy smile. “It’s… you.”

She grinned. “That better not be your way of calling it messy.”

“Messy’s charming,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, uh… where’s the TV?”

She pointed to the living room. “Couch is yours. I’ll get the snacks. No movie night without popcorn, it’s illegal.”

Bob shuffled into the living room and plopped onto the couch, sinking slightly into the cushions. A large fuzzy blanket was already thrown over one armrest, and the TV remote rested on the other, just waiting for someone to grab it. He picked it up and started scrolling through her cable channels—no Netflix login anywhere in sight.

From the kitchen, she called out, “Don’t bother looking for Netflix, by the way. I refuse to pay for it on principle.”

Bob blinked. “Wait, what principle?”

“The principle that I already pay for internet, rent, utilities, and my crippling caffeine addiction. Something’s gotta give.”

He laughed, glancing toward the kitchen where she was pouring kernels into an old stovetop popper like a professional. “So, no Netflix. What are our options then?”

She popped her head out from behind the doorframe, holding up a giant metal bowl with flair. “Cable roulette, baby. Let the gods decide.”

Bob chuckled as he continued to flip through. A couple of random sitcoms, a rerun of a baking competition, something that looked like a low-budget horror movie.

Then he paused.

“Oh—this one,” he said, perking up. “It’s just starting.”

It was one of those timeless adventure films—part comedy, part heart, with a little magic thrown in. The kind of movie people quote years later like it shaped their childhoods.

She returned a minute later, carrying the giant bowl of buttery, still-warm popcorn, and proudly presented it to him.

“Tada.”

Bob looked up at her, eyes soft. “Is it bad that all your surprises are food-related?”

She gave him an offended gasp. “Food is a great love language.”

He took a handful of popcorn and grinned. “I’m just saying—at this rate, our next date’s gonna have to be a jog.”

“You calling me out on my snack habits, Reynolds?”

“Just looking out for future me,” he joked. “Don’t want to get fat and slow while trying to impress you.”

They both laughed as she curled up beside him on the couch, pulling the blanket over their legs without even asking. She sat close, the bowl between them, legs pressed lightly against his. He tried not to think about how good that felt—how even the slightest brush of her thigh against his sent a heat curling into his chest.

The movie played on, and they made the occasional sarcastic comment under their breath, snickering over cheesy dialogue or pointing out ridiculous plot holes. Bob tried to focus on the screen, but every so often, his eyes drifted to her. The flicker of the TV cast soft shadows across her face, highlighting the curve of her cheek, the way her mouth twitched when she was trying not to smile. She didn’t know she did that. He found it endlessly fascinating.

And then, their knees bumped again—just slightly—and she turned her head, catching him.

He froze, mid-popcorn bite, like a raccoon in a trash can caught with a flashlight.

She raised an eyebrow. “Something you like ?”

He flushed instantly, face going pink. “Wasn’t— I wasn’t—”

“I’m gorgeous, I know,” she said with a grin, bumping his leg. “You’re so lucky.”

He let out a small, bashful laugh, looking down at his lap, embarrassed beyond belief.

But then, she shifted.

Her teasing smile softened into something quieter. She reached out, gently brushing her hand against his arm, and leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, then slowly, against his chest. She tucked herself under his arm like she belonged there, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I really do like you, Bobby,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Like, a lot.”

Bob didn’t breathe for a second. He just stared down at the top of her head, her hair catching the light. He felt her heartbeat, steady and close, against his ribs.

And he knew.

He wrapped his arm around her, holding her close, letting himself melt into the moment he didn’t think he’d ever deserve.

“Guess I was the one who got the lottery ticket in the end,” he whispered.

The soft flicker of the television still lit the room, casting warm shadows over the now half-empty popcorn bowl that had long gone cold on the coffee table. The movie had played on quietly in the background, its third act slowly winding into an emotional crescendo neither of them saw coming—because somewhere between one of her whispered jokes and his quiet chuckles, they had both drifted off to sleep.

Y/N stirred first.

A sudden loud crash from the film’s climax jolted her upright, eyes wide and heart pounding. She blinked a few times, trying to process where she was. The room was dim now, just the blue glow from the credits rolling across the screen. Bob, still curled up beside her with his head resting slightly back against the couch cushion, blinked awake seconds later, startled.

“Wha—what happened?” he mumbled groggily, sitting up, his voice rough with sleep. “Did something explode?”

Y/N grabbed her phone from the armrest and squinted at the screen, the harsh light making her wince. “Shit—it’s past 1 a.m.”

Bob straightened up quickly, suddenly aware of the late hour. “1 a.m.?” he echoed, rubbing at his face with both hands before reaching for his jacket on the couch arm. “I should get going then. Damn, I didn’t mean to pass out.”

She sat up beside him, still blinking the sleep from her eyes. “Wait—are you seriously going to walk home right now?”

He was already halfway standing, slipping his phone into his pocket. “I mean... yeah? I live like forty minutes away, but it’s not that bad—”

“Bob,” she said, more firmly now, placing a hand on his arm to stop him. “It’s freezing outside, it’s stupid late, and you’re literally half-asleep. I’m not letting you walk home like that. Stay.”

He looked at her, hesitating, his hand resting awkwardly on the back of his neck.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice softer now, uncertain. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not,” she said without missing a beat. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want you to.”

He opened his mouth to protest again, but she was already grabbing the blanket from the couch.

“You can take the bed,” she said over her shoulder. “It’s comfier. I’ll grab some blankets and crash here.”

Bob's eyebrows shot up. “Wait—what? No, no way. You’re not giving up your bed for me.”

“Bob—”

“I’ll take the couch. Seriously. You already cooked the popcorn and laughed at all my dumb jokes. I’m not about to kick you out of your own bed.”

Y/N stopped mid-step, holding a pillow against her chest.

She looked at him, a little sheepish now, something almost shy in the way she bit her lip.

“Well…” she started slowly, “the couch isn’t exactly five-star hotel material. Springs kinda poke you if you sit the wrong way.”

Bob blinked.

She hesitated, clearly fighting her own nervousness, and then said it:

“We could just… share the bed?”

Bob froze.

It wasn’t a suggestive offer—it was soft, hesitant, spoken with a touch of nervous laughter that told him she wasn’t trying to rush anything or make it weird. Her cheeks were pink, and she wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.

“I mean,” she continued quickly, “we could do the whole back-to-back thing, or throw a pillow wall in the middle. Just sleep. It’s really not that big of a deal, right?”

He could feel the heat rising in his face, all the way to the tips of his ears.

“I—uh…” He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Okay. That makes sense.”

She looked up at him now, really looked at him, and smiled—gentle, reassuring.

“We’re comfortable with each other, right?”

Bob nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

A few minutes later, they were both in her bedroom.

It was small and soft, the kind of room that smelled like lavender detergent and something warm and feminine. There were string lights hanging above the bed, giving off a golden glow, and the sheets were already turned down from earlier.

Y/N had quickly slipped into a pair of pajama shorts and an oversized t-shirt in her bathroom, her hair tied up messily. Bob stood at the edge of the bed looking impossibly awkward, holding a folded blanket in his arms like it was a shield.

“I promise not to snore,” she teased lightly, climbing into her side of the bed and fluffing her pillow.

“I make no promises,” he mumbled, still blushing, as he awkwardly lowered himself onto the other side of the bed, fully clothed, stiff as a board.

They lay there for a moment in silence.

Then she turned to him slightly. “You okay?”

He exhaled. “Yeah. Just, you know… never done this before. Like this. Not with someone who—” he paused, “—who makes it feel like something more.”

She smiled faintly, turning her face toward him in the dark.

“Good. Me neither.”

For a moment, they just looked at each other—barely visible under the soft fairy lights, but everything was clear in their expressions. They were still new, still learning, but something about it already felt like home.

Bob shifted slightly, adjusting to face her fully. His arm folded beneath his head, and hers rested lightly on her pillow, fingers curled near her chin.

“That movie sucked,” Y/N whispered with a grin.

Bob laughed under his breath. “You were the one who picked it.”

“Excuse you, you said it looked ‘promising.’ I distinctly remember that.”

“Only because the poster had, like, three explosions and a dramatic tagline,” he teased.

She snorted. “Yeah, and it delivered… exactly none of that.”

They giggled together quietly, their voices softened by the late hour and the closeness of the room.

Bob let the laughter fade into a quieter breath, and for a beat, he just watched her.

She noticed.

“What?” she asked softly, her lips curving gently.

He hesitated, visibly battling the nerves crawling under his skin. His fingers twitched slightly on the sheets between them.

“I…” he started, voice quiet but sincere, “Can I kiss you?”

Her breath caught slightly, a small smile forming — but not a teasing one this time. It was soft, touched with warmth and surprise.

“Yes,” she said, her voice just as quiet. “Yeah. Please.”

He moved closer, slow like he was approaching something sacred. Their noses brushed, and he hesitated one last second—then kissed her.

It was gentle. Soft. The kind of first kiss that made the world feel like it shifted ever so slightly beneath you.

She responded immediately, her fingers lifting to gently brush his jaw, encouraging him, guiding him. The kiss deepened slowly, breath mingling, hands finding each other. It was warm, explorative, delicate — but full of something real.

Bob’s hand slid around her waist, his thumb stroking just under the hem of her shirt. Her own hand, featherlight, slipped under his t-shirt, her fingers skimming across his chest. The touch made him gasp softly against her mouth, his heart racing.

Then he froze.

Just for a second.

He pulled back slightly, breath shaky, eyes searching hers with something between awe and panic. “Sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean to—was that too fast? I didn’t want to mess anything up, I—”

She only looked at him, calm and radiant in the glow of the lights, and leaned forward to press a kiss to his forehead.

“Hey,” she murmured, brushing her fingers through his hair. “It’s okay.”

His eyes blinked up at her in awe, lost for words.

Then she shifted, slowly, confidently — straddling him with ease and grace, the quiet rustle of the sheets following her movement.

She pulled her shirt over her head and let it drop to the floor beside the bed, the strands of her hair falling loose around her shoulders. There was no nervousness in her gaze—only love. Trust. And a bit of playful spark.

Bob's breath hitched, his hands hovering as if afraid to touch something so precious.

She leaned down and kissed him softly, her lips brushing his cheek before she whispered close to his ear:

“Do you want me, Bobby?”

His voice came out in a breathless rush. “Yes. Yes.”

She smiled at his answer, biting her lip. “Then you’ve got too many clothes on, Bobby.”

He looked up at her, stunned and overwhelmed in the best way, his heart thudding so hard it echoed in his ears.

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