#shield agent reader

[vigilante24ish]

A Thorn By Thy Side

Agatha Harkness x Fem!Reader

[A/N] - This story sounded better in my mind. Yet again, I might be a harsh critic of myself. So, I will let you all decide if you like it and if I will continue.

Summary:

Your parents were seasoned Shield Agents who perished in the line of duty when you were younger. They left you at their place, and Shield quickly recruited, trained and perfected you into one of their best agents. Following in their footsteps, the mission was easy enough for you; the percentage of your successes few could match. So, it was not a surprise when Director Fury entrusted you with a team to capture a very dangerous target... the Succubus Witch Agatha Harkness. Or A short story in which Agatha eventually develops a personal interest in you after realising why you are so difficult to get rid of.

Word Count: 2548

Chapter 1:

The Shield HQ was rather busy that particular day, with many agents being called back from their missions or short vacations to focus on more important issues. After the last terrorist attack on New York, the world was on edge and rightfully so.

It was one thing to handle internal threats, human to human and something completely different when you had to handle extraterrestrial beings and, apparently, gods. One would think with the newly formed Avengers, things would quickly turn back to normal, but they were also busy with different kinds of missions to handle.

You had grabbed the past few days that the focus was on the Avengers to get some alone time, something rare in your line of duty. Yet that alone time had brought you back to the only place you knew and dared to call home.

Being an orphan was tough, and being the orphan child of seasoned, skilled agents was tougher. Back then, you did not understand why they took risks and ended up leaving you all alone, but today, you understand.

As you stared at the memorial dedicated to all fallen agents, you could not help but let your eyes remain longer on the engraved names of your parents. The marble structure reflected your reflection, and you wondered what they would think of you, seeing you following their footsteps with the same insanity and dedication they apparently had.

Sometimes, when the lobby emptied, you would come and faintly talk to them, for there was no true grave and no bodies for you to see. That particular day, you just felt like visiting them, even if no words would be exchanged.

The sound of footsteps against the tile floor caught your attention, eyes narrowing faintly as you focused on their speed. Despite the people passing around you, your training allowed you to detect certain pairs you had been told to always look out for.

This pair was heavy, long strides that emitted confidence, and you knew of only one person walking in such a way. Your suspicions were proven correct when you heard a male voice close by.

“Thought I would find you here.”

You did not turn to face the visitor, their dark-skinned reflection visible on the marble memorial. “Director Fury,” you greeted him. “Am I becoming that predictable?”

“To some of us, you are. Don’t think of it as a bad thing. Makes it less of a hustle to find when I need you,” he responded, not commenting on your lack of eye contact. “I have a mission for you.”

Now that he had captured your interest, you finally graced him by turning to face him. Your gazes locked. “So soon?”

It was not long since you had come from a rather dangerous mission in Russia, tasked with infiltrating a Hydra Terrorist Cell. The mission was a success, but it cost you men and many days of life. Not to mention, you came more than once close to joining your parents on that grim memorial.

“This cannot wait any longer. Follow me,” he said and started to walk, knowing too well you would follow him without him having to repeat everything.

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When you entered his office, you remained standing while you got comfortable on his director's chair behind the desk. He tapped something on the holographic screen, and the information was projected up, allowing you to see it in detail.

You took notice of a woman, her face popping up in different pictures across different times; no sign of ageing, and you doubted all those women were just descendants of one another. Your attention went to different articles and secret memos, all around big catastrophes that had taken place in the last century.

“We have been monitoring unusual cases long before the New York invasion. Just in case it was Hydra trying to mess up again,” Fury started to explain, tapping a few things on the pad. “What we found recently was the fact that all big catastrophes had one thing in common; this woman, Agatha Harkness.”

You took a few steps closer, fingers stretching as you tried to read the ever-shifting articles. You frowned as you realized what situation your director was discussing.

The Twin Towers, Chornobyl, the Gas Explosion in 1966... even the Titanic was listed.

“Are we sure this is the same woman? How can she even be responsible for all of those events?” you asked, adverting your attention to the dark-skinned man.

“She has been spotted in every single one, and I know she is behind it. So, unless she is some sort of Grim Reaper waiting to do her job, I say she had been causing them.”

Your next question sounded dumb even in your head, but over the years, you had developed the skill of not really caring and simply speaking what you wanted. “Do we know why?”

“If you ask me, I say she has some sadistic motive, or she simply enjoys causing chaos and death. Wouldn’t be the first one,” Fury said as he pressed something,g and all the holograms disappeared. “But in order to make sure, we need to capture and interrogate her. Perhaps stop her from causing yet another mess with hundreds of casualties.”

“I understand. But why ask me and not someone else? Why not the Avengers?”

“The Avengers are busy as we speak, and I am not sending you there alone. You will take a small team and go capture this bitch before it's too late.”

“Yeah, but why me?” you asked again, not liking how he avoided your question in the first place.

Fury leaned forward, his face as serious as it could get. “Because if words are true, Agatha Harkness falls under the category of a Witch.”

That new piece of information made you part your lips in surprise, not expecting such an answer. Yet, you found no further comments or questions; Fury’s answer was more than enough for you at the moment.

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It was a small team consisting of five agents in total, including you. You had worked with them quite a few times before, and you knew each other well enough for the mission to go smoothly.

The plan was simple.

Agatha had been also associated with quite a few missing person reports, women who allegedly followed her in search of a mystical road and never returned. So, what better way to approach and isolate her than by arranging a meeting with an interested-to-the-road woman.

The meeting would occur in a small forested area, away from the nearest little town, to ensure no casualties or curious passersby. Fury wanted this to be done silently and quickly, to capture and leave.

You waited for a while in a small clearing, hands in the pockets of your civilian clothing. Your team had been camouflaged and positioned close by, tranquiliser darts and nets ready to be used upon being given the command.

At last, you felt you were no longer alone, and you adverted your gaze towards the source of crushed leaves, getting a first close look at the famous Agatha Harkness. You inhaled faintly, realizing that the pictures taken of her did her little to no justice regarding her beauty.

The thick, slightly curled dark brown hair, those pink lips, and you could not even start talking about her piercing blue eyes.

If she truly did look like this, it was no wonder women willingly trusted and followed her blindly to their dooms.

“You are alone,” Agatha pointed out, clearly unhappy. “Where are the others?”

You had managed to fake an invite, informing you had other women interested in the Road; which was perhaps what had made her come in the first place.

“They are a little bit late. They should arrive soon,” you skilfully lied, offering a charming smile to throw away any suspicions she might have started to form about you.

Agatha did not truly like the answer. She was not a big fan of having her plans changed, even though she could easily improvise in worst-case scenarios.

“Is that so?” the witch questioned, taking a few confident steps towards you.

Unbeknown to her, this was what you wanted as she openly became an easier target for your team.

Your hand lazily moved towards your head, pushing a few strands behind your ears as your skilful fingers pressed on the little earpiece hidden there. “Fire.”

The order did not have to be repeated as your team made their move, guns up and aim stable. The first wave came for Agatha fast, tranquillized darts aimed for her neck and face, intended to bring her down without much of a fight.

Of course, Agatha was not a novice witch, and it was not the first time someone had tried to sneakily attack her. Her purple magic came alive and quickly stopped the little darts in mid-air, preventing them from harming her. She narrowed her blue eyes, and with a wave of her hands, she sent those pesky darts back to their senders, forcing the hidden agents to move to avoid getting hit.

At the same time, you pulled your sleeve up and exposed the little gadget wrapped around your wrist. Blue light glowed, and you steadied your aim before shooting a few thin projectiles packed with enough electricity to stunt a simple human with ease.

That little accessory had been a prototype, a gift from Natasha after you two spent a few months as prisoners. Your teamwork made it possible not only to escape but eventually take down your original target. Admiring your courage and your skill, she agreed and helped you get a prototype version of her spider bites, a gift that had saved your life more than once in a mission.

Agatha similarly used her magic, blocking your little attempt to take her down, only to see you smirking and giving yet another order. Before she could comprehend or prepare herself, you started shooting again, keeping her busy until it was too late.

A heavy net came from her blind side, the weighted edges pinning her to the ground as the steel cables that formed it pressed her down.

You smirked in satisfaction and covered your little gadget as your team started to walk carefully towards the trapped target, guns up and aimed at her.

“Call Fury, tell him the mission was a success,” you ordered one of the agents, one hand on your waist.

Agatha started to cackle, for a moment truly reminding you of those children's stories about evil witches who pursued children.

“Oh, how cute. You really think it would be so easy to take me down, hon?” she asked, fully confident despite being trapped by the net.

Before you could order the electricity to begin, you watched with wide eyes as Agatha dissolved into purple smoke and disappeared from where she was originally trapped.

“What?” you exclaimed, quickly looking around as her cackle echoed across the quiet clearing. “Keep your guards up. Change to stun bullets, now!”

Agatha appeared in the same purple smoke, right behind an agent. One hand was placed on her shoulder and the other on his head. His eyes changed to purple as she easily influenced his weak mind, ordering him to lift his gun and aim at his comrades.

The first shot grabbed your attention, a female agent close by falling unconscious on the ground; the stunt bullet glowing faintly as it paralyzed her nervous and mobility system.

“Agent, stand down!” you ordered even though you doubted your words would pass through, not after spotting his usual brown eyes having changed to a bright purple. “Stand down!”

Realizing this would get you nowhere, you prepare and shoot two spider bites at him, just as another agent shot him with the same stunt bullet. The hypnotized agent attacked as well, taking down his comrade before succumbing to the combined attacks.

“Oh, this is pathetic,” Agatha comments as you spot her leaning against a tree. “I mean, I had been attacked before, but this... so pathetic.”

Your eyes blaze with anger, and you dare to pull the gun you had hidden in your back pant pocket. “Orders say to get you alive, not unharmed,” you say and remove the safety. “Last chance, Harkness. Come at peace or come bloodied.”

Agatha laughed at your brave words, finding your attempt to sound threatening both stupid and adorable. What she did not know was that you were simply buying time for your last team member to make his move.

Before Agatha knew it, she felt the sharp pain on her back as the stunt bullet threatened to bring her down, having failed to spot the silent agent standing two feet behind her. He was ready to attack her again, ensuring she would go down, but the Witch had other plans in mind.

The stunt bullet did pack quite a punch, and if she was a normal, weak human, she knew she would be on the ground by now. But she was Agatha Harkness, one of the most powerful witches to ever leave, and no stupid invention would take her down.

Deciding to put an end to this, Agatha’s eyes flashed purple with magic, and all it took was one swing of her hand for her magic to attack the agent from point-blank range. The force was strong enough to send him back, his body crashing against a tree, his neck breaking upon impact.

You watched with wide eyes at the attack, and by instinct alone, you started to shoot, only for the same purple magic to block your bullets.

“Haven’t you learnt anything so far?” Agatha questioned. “Let me give you a quick reminder.”

You saw the gathered amount of her purple magic heading your way, concentrated into a blast that crashed against your chest and stole the air from your lungs. The force sent you flying back, the ground rough against your landing, pieces of dirt scratching your clothes.

That blast should have killed you or knocked you down, yet you could still feel your heart pumping and your brain working. Your fingers twitched, and you could hear Agatha’s footsteps through half-open eyelids as she approached you.

When she was close enough to inspect if you had perished like you had to, you opened your eyes and went for the attack. You brought your legs, and with newfound energy, you kicked the side of her knees, causing her to fall to the ground rather ungracefully.

You crawled back, and once you had enough space and time, you jumped on your legs, wiping some dirt from the corner of your lips. Your chest heaved faintly as adrenaline finally rushed through your veins... veins that seemed to have grown paler against your skin.

“How?” Agatha exclaimed as she pushed her thick locks out of the way, her dark-painted fingers catching your attention. “Never mind, that!”

Another blast of purple magic was thrown your way, but this time, you were prepared. Bringing your hands up, you formed an X that protected your face and neck.

Chapter 2

[anxiety-prime-max]

The Cut That Always Bleeds

A/N: Had this chapter in mind since I've thought of smokeshow, don't know if I'll write that but here you go! A marvel x spn crossover! Part of Smokeshow but can be read as a standalone!

Smokeshow Masterlist

Summary: Your world tilted on its axis. "Sam's dead," you said automatically, staring at the photograph as if you could will it to change. It had been over a year since he'd died, since Dean had chosen Lisa and Ben over you, since you'd walked away from hunting and back into the arms of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Pairing: Ex!Dean Winchester x Agent!Hunter!Reader

Word Count: 10k approx Warnings: Kidnapping, Imprisonment, Emotional Distress, Mentions of Death / Resurrection, Angst, Violence, Torture, Language

Dean woke up to a piercing throb in his head and an uncomfortable weight on his wrists. He blinked several times, his eyes struggling to adjust to the dim lighting. As his vision cleared, he saw his younger brother Sam to his left and his supposedly dead grandfather Samuel Campbell on his right. Both were unconscious, chained to chairs similar to his own.

The room was sparse but oddly well-maintained—not the typical abandoned warehouse or dingy basement most monsters preferred. The walls were a sterile white, the floor polished concrete. An industrial light fixture hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows across their faces. This place looked like it had a budget behind it.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered, testing the restraints. The metal bit into his skin as he twisted his wrists, searching for any weakness.

What made his stomach knot wasn't just the situation—it was the realization that his captors had been thorough. Every hidden weapon he normally carried was gone: the lock pick in his boot heel, the silver knife usually strapped to his ankle, the small backup pistol normally tucked into his waistband. Even the paperclip he habitually kept in his jacket pocket. Whoever had them knew their routines.

Dean's eyes fixed on the small camera mounted in the corner of the room. The red light blinked steadily, someone watching their every move. He stared directly into it, letting his defiance show even as fear churned in his gut.

Sam groaned beside him, consciousness returning slowly. "Dean?" he asked, voice thick with disorientation.

"Yeah," Dean rasped. "Still here." He studied his brother carefully, checking for injuries. Besides a small cut above his eyebrow, Sam seemed intact.

"You remember anything?" Sam asked, blinking hard as he took in their surroundings, his hunter's instincts kicking in despite the fog of whatever drug they'd been given.

"We were grabbed," Dean muttered. He rolled his shoulders, trying to work out the stiffness. "You okay?"

Sam nodded slowly. "Yeah, just... fuzzy. Head hurts like hell."

"How long have we been out?" Sam asked, trying to rotate his wrists within the cuffs, wincing at the raw skin already forming.

Dean glanced at the window, noting the position of sunlight filtering through the blinds. "Few hours, I'd guess. Last I remember, we were walking back after I got the cure. It was around midnight then."

"So they know," Samuel said grimly. "About vampires, about hunters. This isn't random."

"No," Dean agreed, "this is targeted. Professional. Question is—by who?" A cold weight settled in his chest as possibilities flashed through his mind: demons, angels, any number of supernatural creatures with grudges. Or worse, humans with knowledge of their world. Those were often the most dangerous.

"Could be anyone," Sam sighed. "We're not exactly short on enemies."

"Crowley?" Samuel suggested.

Dean shook his head. "Not his style. He'd be in here gloating by now."

A heavy silence fell over the room as each man retreated into his thoughts, calculating odds and possibilities.

"You know what I keep thinking?" Dean finally said, his voice quiet.

Sam raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"This is the kind of situation where we could use..." Dean's voice trailed off, unable to say your name aloud. The wound was still too fresh, the guilt too heavy. He'd made his choice a year ago, walked away from hunting, from the life. From you. For a shot at normal with Lisa and Ben.

And here he was, right back in it. The cruel irony wasn't lost on him.

Sam's expression softened with understanding. "Yeah," he agreed quietly. "She always was good with the impossible situations."

"Who are you talking about?" Samuel asked.

Neither brother answered.

The sparring room at the S.H.I.E.L.D facility echoed with the sounds of combat. You moved with precision, driving your knee lightly into Ward's ribs—enough pressure to make a point without causing injury. In one fluid motion, you hooked your leg around his ankle and sent him tumbling to the mat, following him down to pin his hands above his head, your breathing barely elevated while his came in ragged gasps.

"I kinda like this," Ward flirted, a smirk playing across his lips despite his defeat. "Reminds me of last week."

The memory flashed unbidden—vodka burning your throat, his hands in your hair, the desperate attempt to feel something, anything besides the hollow ache that had become your constant companion. The morning after, you'd slipped out before dawn, avoiding his gaze in the hallways for days.

You didn't bother responding to his comment, simply released his wrists and pushed yourself up, walking toward your gear. The towel was rough against your skin as you wiped away sweat, your mind already drifting elsewhere—back to memories you'd been trying to drown in work and training and meaningless encounters.

"You're even quieter than usual today," Ward noted, coming up behind you. His voice held something between concern and frustration.

"Not in the mood for talking," you replied flatly, taking a long drink from your water bottle. The cold liquid did nothing to soothe the perpetual tightness in your chest.

"You're never in the mood for talking," he countered, grabbing his own towel. "But you used to at least pretend."

You stared at your reflection in the mirrored wall. Dark circles under your eyes, skin paler than it should be. You looked like someone haunted, and perhaps you were, haunted by green eyes and a crooked smile that you couldn't seem to exorcise no matter how hard you tried.

You weren't exactly emotionally available, and no one could blame you for it either, since the one you thought was the love of your life left you for someone better, someone more normal, someone who wasn't as fucked in the head as you were.

So you came back to S.H.I.E.L.D, asked them to take you on again, like you had when Dean first died and went to hell. You came here to escape the memories that had haunted you back then, and now when Sammy died, you were back here again—you didn't think you could feel pain like you did when Dean had died, but this was worse, so much worse, because he was alive, he was okay—he just wasn't yours. He didn't want to be yours. As soon as he had a semblance of an option, he chose someone over you.

"What do you want from me, Ward?" you finally asked, voice low and tired.

Ward stepped closer, his expression softening. "I just want to know if you're okay."

"I'm fine," you lied automatically, the words so practiced they almost sounded true.

"Bullshit," he replied softly. "Nobody who spends sixteen hours a day in the gym or on missions is fine. Nobody who drinks themselves to sleep is fine. Nobody who looks at the world like it's already ended is fine."

Something hot and dangerous flared in your chest. "I don't remember asking for your psychological evaluation."

"No, you just asked for everything else," he shot back, frustration breaking through. "My body, my time; but god forbid anyone actually try to reach the person underneath."

You were saved from responding when a nervous-looking intern appeared at the doorway, clipboard clutched to his chest like a shield. "Agent Coulson would like to see the two of you in conference room eight," he announced, his voice wavering slightly. "He says it's a mission. Priority level."

You and Ward exchanged glances, the tension between you momentarily forgotten.

"We'll be right there," you told the intern, who nodded quickly before scurrying away.

"Think it's serious?" Ward asked, grabbing his own towel, professional mask sliding back into place.

"Coulson doesn't call meetings over parking violations," you replied, gathering your things. "Come on."

The walk to the conference room was silent, your mind already shifting into work mode, the only place where you felt anything close to peace these days. Mission parameters, threat assessments, tactical strategies- these things made sense in a world where nothing else did.

When you pushed open the door, you found Rumlow, Romanoff, and Barton already seated around the table. The air held that particular tension that always preceded a high-stakes assignment.

"Wow," you muttered under your breath as you slid into an empty chair. "They're pulling out the big guns for this one."

Clint caught your eye and gave you a subtle nod. He'd been like a brother to you for years, and when he'd brought Natasha in from the cold, the three of you had become inseparable—"The Three Musketeers," as Coulson called you.

"You look like hell," Natasha whispered as you took the seat beside her.

"Always the charmer," you replied with a ghost of a smile that didn't reach your eyes.

"Now that we're all here," Coulson began, his expression serious as he entered the room, "I'll get straight to the point. This isn't a standard op."

"When is it ever with this crew?" Rumlow quipped, leaning back in his chair with casual arrogance.

Coulson didn't smile. "Three individuals on S.H.I.E.L.D.'s watchlist have disappeared. We believe they've been captured."

"How do you know?" Clint asked, his posture straightening, eyes alert.

"Because we received a message demanding ransom," Coulson replied, his eyes flickering toward you for just a moment, but long enough to send a chill down your spine.

"What's the demand?" you asked, reaching for the file in the center of the table, trying to ignore the sudden tightness in your chest.

Coulson hesitated, then said simply: "You."

The room fell silent. You felt everyone tense, could sense their eyes on you as you slowly opened the file. Three familiar faces stared back at you: Sam and Dean Winchester, and a third man you'd never met but whose name you recognized instantly—Samuel Campbell.

Your world tilted on its axis. "Sam's dead," you said automatically, staring at the photograph as if you could will it to change. It had been over a year since he'd died, since Dean had chosen Lisa and Ben over you, since you'd walked away from hunting and back into the arms of S.H.I.E.L.D.

"Apparently not," Natasha said softly beside you, her hand coming to rest on your arm.

You looked up to find Coulson's gaze steady but apologetic. In that moment, understanding crashed over you like a wave, he'd known. Known that Sam was alive, and hadn't told you.

"How long?" you asked, your voice deadly calm even as your insides churned with betrayal.

"Almost a year," Coulson admitted. "We've been monitoring the situation."

"A year," you repeated, feeling Natasha's hand tighten on your arm, subtle but supportive. "And you didn't think I deserved to know?"

"It wasn't my call," Coulson said, though his expression suggested he might have disagreed with that decision. "The order came from higher up."

You swallowed the bitter taste in your mouth. "Fury?"

Coulson's slight nod confirmed it.

"Why tell me now?" you demanded, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

"Because now we need you," Coulson said simply. "Whoever has them knows about your connection to the Winchesters. They want to trade—you for them."

"What's so special about these guys anyway?" Rumlow asked, leaning forward to peer at the file. "They're on our watchlist, why?"

"They're hunters," Natasha explained before you could. "Specialists in supernatural threats."

"And apparently someone valuable enough to S.H.I.E.L.D. that we're having this conversation," Ward added, studying your face carefully.

You stared at the photos, mind racing. Sam was alive. Had been alive for a year. And Dean... had he known? Had he chosen to keep this from you too?

"We have a plan," Coulson said, pulling you back from the edge of your spiraling thoughts.

"I'm listening," you said, crossing your arms, fighting to keep your expression neutral despite the storm raging inside.

"We make the exchange, with conditions," Coulson explained. "You'll be wired, tracked, and we'll have teams in position. The moment the Winchesters are clear, we extract you."

"And if something goes wrong?" Clint asked, the concern in his voice unmistakable.

"Then we move to plan B," Coulson replied.

"Which is?" you pressed.

"We take out everyone except you and the targets," Rumlow said with a predatory smile.

As the others began discussing strategy and extraction points, your mind drifted to the last time you'd seen Dean, his face when he told you he was going to Lisa, that he was done with hunting, done with the life. Done with you. The pain and betrayal on your face that you'd tried so hard to hide. The way he'd looked away first, unable to meet your eyes.

You wondered what he would think when he saw you again, if he even wanted to see you at all. You wondered if Sam knew you'd never been told he was alive. You wondered how much more your heart could take before it shattered completely.

Before you could sink your mind deeper in that wormhole, you heard a name, Blackwood.

You stopped them from discussing further. "Blackwood?" you asked Coulson, your body suddenly alert.

"Ellen Blackwood. She is the one who made the demands. You know her?" he asked, looking at you with renewed interest.

You closed your eyes, trying to think back to the case years ago. The memories came flooding back with startling clarity—the way they always did when it came to your past cases. You remembered every detail, every death, every mistake, every victory. It was both a blessing and a curse.

"Blackwood," you repeated, opening your eyes. "Yes, I know her, or rather, knew her brother."

"Care to share with the class?" Rumlow prompted when you fell silent.

You remembered it clearly, remembered every single one of them. Fury had assigned you the case years ago—an Ex-S.H.I.E.L.D agent who had gone rogue and killed several of their agents, taking help from a witch. That's why Fury had called you in—you didn't really get involved until it was supernatural back then, not wanting to get caught up in S.H.I.E.L.D politics, but you had needed something from Fury: information about the faith healer that saved Dean all those years ago, in exchange for completing this mission.

"It was a mission for S.H.I.E.L.D., I wasn’t officially working for them back then." you explained, eyes fixed on the table. "James Blackwood, Ellen's brother. Former agent turned rogue. He'd had some arrangement with a witch, started eliminating his old team members one by one."

"I remember that case," Clint said with a frown. "How many dead?"

“One hundred and fourty seven people over the course of five years” You told them, and took in the horrified expressions “It started when he still worked here. Then he left and his old teammates started dying, so they investigated, they couldn’t do much with what they found, so they sent me.” You replied, looking at all of them. All of them took betrayal seriously, and if this asshole was killing people, people who trusted him, then he didn’t deserve to live. 

"Fury brought me in because of the witch connection. I had just met the Winchester boys back then, but I'd known their father for way longer. I felt I owed it to him, to his boys, to help them with something they were dealing with. So I made a deal with Fury—information they needed in exchange for taking care of his witch problem."

Clint calling out your name brought you out of your head. "I killed her brother," you said flatly, looking down at the file in front of you. "He was using a witch to kill people. I put him down like the rabid dog he was."

"This explains why they want you," Nat shrugged, her eyes filled with anger at Blackwood.

"Revenge," Ward concluded. "Classic."

"It's been years," you said, shaking your head. "Why now?"

"Because the Winchesters are back in play," Coulson suggested. "They've been more active lately. Perhaps she's been watching, waiting for the right leverage."

Your chest tightened with a toxic mixture of emotions: fear for Sam and Dean, anger at being kept in the dark about Sam's return, anxiety about seeing Dean again after all this time, and underneath it all, a bitter, unwelcome spark of hope.

"So what's the plan?" you asked, straightening your shoulders. "When do we move?"

"We have twenty-four hours to respond," Coulson said. "The exchange is set for tomorrow night."

Natasha's hand found yours under the table, squeezing gently. "You don't have to do this," she said quietly. "We can find another way."

But you both knew there wasn't one. Not really. Not in time.

"Yes, I do," you replied, meeting her gaze. "I owe them that much."

And maybe, a small voice whispered in the back of your mind, maybe you owed it to yourself too. To finally face the ghosts that had been haunting you for the past year.

"Then it's settled," Coulson said with a nod. "Prep begins immediately. Barton, Romanoff, you'll be primary backup. Ward and Rumlow, you'll coordinate the perimeter team. We move at 2200 hours tomorrow."

As the others began to file out of the room, Coulson caught your arm.

"A moment," he said quietly.

You waited until the others had left before saying, "You should have told me."

"I know," he admitted. "For what it's worth, I argued that you deserved to know."

"Doesn't change anything," you replied, the betrayal still raw.

"No," he agreed. "But there's something else you should know before you go in there."

You steeled yourself. "What?"

"Sam Winchester doesn't have a soul."

The words hit you like a physical blow. "What are you talking about?"

"When he came back, something was... wrong," Coulson explained. "Our intel suggests he's been hunting with this Samuel Campbell for the past year. Dean only rejoined them recently, after leaving the civilian life behind."

Your mind raced. "How is that even possible?"

"I don't know," Coulson admitted. "This is beyond even S.H.I.E.L.D.'s understanding. But you need to be prepared. The Sam Winchester in that room may not be the man you remember."

You nodded slowly, processing this new information. "Thank you for telling me."

As you walked out of the conference room, your mind was already shifting into mission mode—compartmentalizing emotions, focusing on tactics, on survival. It was what you did best, after all. It was how you'd survived this long.

But underneath it all, a voice whispered: Dean. You're going to see Dean again.

And despite everything—the pain, the betrayal, the year of silence—your heart still skipped a beat at the thought.

Dean paced the length of the small room for what felt like the hundredth time, muscles tense with restless energy. They'd been moved from the chairs to a more comfortable but equally secure setup, a room with two beds, basic facilities, and a door that remained stubbornly locked.

"Wearing a hole in the floor won't get us out of here any faster," Samuel remarked from where he sat on one of the beds, methodically checking the bandage on his forearm where their captors had drawn blood.

"Neither will sitting on your ass," Dean shot back.

Sam looked up from his position by the window, where he'd been studying the security measures. "Dean," he said calmly, "you need to conserve your energy. We don't know when we'll get a chance to move."

Dean knew Sam was right, but the enforced stillness was making his skin crawl. Three days they'd been here, with regular meals and no abuse beyond the initial capture, which made no sense. Monsters tortured; humans interrogated. These people were doing neither.

"What kind of kidnapper provides three squares and medical attention?" Dean muttered, running a hand through his hair.

"The kind that needs us alive and well for something," Samuel replied.

The sound of footsteps outside drew their attention. The door swung open to reveal a woman flanked by two armed guards. She was tall, elegant in an austere way, with dark hair pulled back in a severe bun and eyes that seemed to hold no emotion whatsoever.

"Mr. Winchester. The elder one, I presume?" she said, her gaze fixed on Dean.

"Depends who's asking," Dean replied, tension radiating from every line of his body.

"Ellen Blackwood," she offered with a cold smile. "Though the name likely means nothing to you."

"Should it?" Dean asked, eyes flicking to the guards and their weapons, calculating odds.

"No," Ellen replied. "But it meant something to someone you once knew quite well."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Ellen said, "that your freedom has been arranged. Conditionally, of course."

"What's the catch?" Sam asked, his voice lacking the emotional inflection it should have had.

Ellen's eyes traveled to Sam, and something like distaste flickered across her features. "The catch, Mr. Winchester, is an exchange. One life for three."

"We're not interested in anyone dying for us," Dean said firmly.

Ellen laughed, a sound devoid of warmth. "How noble. But unnecessary. You see, the exchange has already been agreed to. Your former associate has quite the hero complex."

Dean's heart stuttered in his chest as understanding dawned. There was only one person she could mean. "No," he said, his voice rough with sudden fear. "Whatever deal you think you've made, it's off."

"That's not your decision to make," Ellen replied calmly. "The exchange happens tonight. I simply came to inform you of the arrangement... and to give you this."

She nodded to one of the guards, who stepped forward and handed Dean a small device.

"What is it?" Samuel asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

"A live feed," Ellen explained. "I thought you might want to see your rescuer in action. Consider it a courtesy."

With that, she turned and left, the guards following and the door locking behind them with a definitive click.

Dean looked down at the device in his hand, a small tablet that flickered to life at his touch. The screen showed a security feed of what appeared to be the facility's entrance. And walking through it, flanked by men in tactical gear, was you.

"Son of a bitch," Dean breathed, his face draining of color.

"Is that..." Sam began, moving closer to look at the screen.

"Yeah," Dean confirmed, his voice tight. "It's her."

Samuel peered over their shoulders. "Who is she? Some hunter?"

Dean didn't answer, couldn't answer. His eyes were fixed on your face—the face he'd tried so hard to forget over the past year. You looked different, harder, colder, your movements precise and controlled as you walked through the security checkpoint. Your hair was different, your clothes were different, but the way you carried yourself was unmistakable.

"She works for the S.H.I.E.L.D now," Sam said when Dean remained silent. "She left hunting after..." He trailed off, glancing at his brother.

"After I told her to go," Dean finished, guilt churning in his stomach. "After I chose Lisa and Ben."

Samuel raised an eyebrow. "And now she's walking into a trap for you? Must have been some goodbye."

Dean shot his grandfather a glare that could have melted steel.

"We need to get out of here," he said, turning to Sam. "Now. Before she reaches us."

"Why?" Sam asked, genuinely perplexed. "She's obviously here to get us out. Why not let her?"

"Because it's a trap, Sam!" Dean exploded. "This Blackwood woman, she's not just going to let us walk out of here. She wants revenge for something, and she's using us as bait."

"For what?" Samuel pressed.

Dean ran a hand down his face. "I don't know. But I'm not letting her sacrifice herself for us. Not again."

The unspoken history hung heavy in the air between them. All the times you'd put yourself in harm's way for the Winchesters. All the scars you carried because of it. Dean had sworn the last time would be the last—it was part of why he'd walked away. To keep you safe. To give you a chance at something better.

And now here you were again, walking straight into danger for him.

"We're getting out of here," Dean said with renewed determination. "And we're going to find her before Blackwood does."

In the tactical van parked two blocks from the Blackwood facility, you checked your weapons one last time. Standard S.H.I.E.L.D. issue sidearm, plus your own personal arsenal: silver knife strapped to your ankle, holy water flask in your jacket pocket, and an angel blade concealed along your spine. Old habits died hard.

"Comms check," Natasha's voice came through your earpiece.

"Reading you," you replied, adjusting the fit.

"Remember the extraction plan," Clint said from the driver's seat. "Once the Winchesters are clear, head for the southeast exit. We'll be waiting."

You nodded, though anxiety gnawed at your insides. Ellen Blackwood had been specific in her demands: you alone, unarmed, or the deal was off. The weapons and backup were insurance, but if she was as thorough as her brother had been, she'd know they were there.

"If this goes sideways—" you began.

"It won't," Natasha cut you off. "But if it does, we've got your back. Always."

The simple declaration threatened to crack the careful composure you'd built over the years. These people—Natasha, Clint, Coulson—they'd become your family when your old one fell apart. They'd picked up the pieces Dean left behind.

"Time to move," Clint announced, checking his watch.

You took a deep breath, centering yourself. "Tell me about the building again."

"Three stories, underground parking level," Natasha recited. "Main entrance is north face. Security checkpoint, then a corridor leading to the central atrium. That's where the exchange is supposed to happen."

"And the Winchesters?"

"Being held on the second floor, east wing, according to the intel."

You nodded, committing the layout to memory. "If I'm not out in thirty minutes—"

"We're coming in," Clint finished. "Guns blazing if necessary."

"Try not to need us," Natasha added with a small smile. "Paperwork's a bitch when we have to explain bullet holes."

A ghost of a smile touched your lips. "I'll do my best."

With one final check of your equipment, you stepped out of the van into the cool night air. The walk to the Blackwood facility felt simultaneously too long and too short, your mind racing with possibilities and contingencies.

What would you say to Dean when you saw him? What could you possibly say after a year of silence? After he'd chosen someone else? After Sam had been alive all this time and no one had told you?

No. Focus. The mission came first. Feelings could wait.

The security guards at the entrance eyed you warily as you approached.

"I'm expected," you said simply.

One of them spoke into his radio, received confirmation, and nodded. "Arms out, please."

You complied with the cursory search, grateful they weren't being thorough enough to find your concealed weapons. They confiscated your visible sidearm, as expected, then escorted you through the entrance and down a long corridor.

The building was eerily quiet, your footsteps echoing on the polished floor. Your escort led you to a large central area—the atrium Natasha had mentioned, with a domed glass ceiling and minimalist furnishings. Ellen Blackwood stood in the center, flanked by her own security detail.

"Right on time," Ellen remarked as you approached. "I appreciate punctuality."

"Where are they?" you asked without preamble.

Ellen smiled, a cold expression that didn't reach her eyes. "Straight to business, then. They're being brought down as we speak. But first, I thought we might have a chat."

"I'm not here to chat," you replied coldly, your posture deceptively relaxed. "I'm here for the exchange. Bring them out."

Ellen's smile widened, something predatory in her eyes. "The exchange? Oh, I'm afraid there's been a slight change of plans."

You sensed the trap too late. The prick of a needle in your neck sent ice through your veins, your enhanced reflexes dulled by whatever drug was now coursing through your system. As you staggered, two guards moved in, catching your arms before you could reach for any of your concealed weapons.

"You didn't really think I'd let a S.H.I.E.L.D agent walk in here without precautions, did you?" Ellen asked, her voice distant through the growing fog in your mind. "I've been planning this for years."

Fighting against the drug's effects, you tried to activate your emergency beacon, but your fingers wouldn't respond. The room tilted and swayed, Ellen's face blurring in and out of focus before darkness claimed you entirely.

You woke to pain, sharp and insistent. Cold water dripped down your face as consciousness returned in agonizing increments. The room swam into focus—sterile white walls, harsh fluorescent lighting, the tang of antiseptic barely masking the metallic scent of blood. Your blood.

Your arms were secured above your head, shoulders screaming from supporting your weight. Your feet barely touched the ground, toes straining for purchase on the smooth concrete floor. The tactical suit you'd worn was torn in places, dark with blood both dried and fresh.

As your vision cleared, you realized you weren't alone in the room. Across from you, chained to chairs bolted to the floor, sat Sam, Dean, and Samuel Campbell. Dean's face was bruised, a split lip crusted with dried blood. He strained against his restraints when he saw your eyes open, panic written across his features.

"About time you joined us," Ellen's voice came from behind you as she stepped into view, a knife twirling between her fingers. Not just any knife—the same one you'd used to kill her brother. The irony wasn't lost on you.

You didn't respond, using the silence to assess your situation. The comms unit was gone, as were all your weapons. The wound in your side throbbed, caused by whatever they'd done while you were unconscious. But your mind was clear—the drug had worn off.

Your eyes met Sam's across the room. There was something calculating in his gaze, something cold that confirmed Coulson's warning about his missing soul. No emotion, just assessment. Samuel watched with wary interest, but Dean—Dean looked wrecked, his eyes never leaving your face.

"You know," Ellen continued, circling around to face you, "I've been telling her about my brother. About how I found him after she was done with him." The knife traced a line down your throat, not quite breaking skin. "Seven stab wounds. Throat cut. And for what?"

You finally spoke, your voice hoarse but steady. "Yeah, and he died like a fucking pussy."

The room went silent. Ellen's eyes widened with shocked rage before she backhanded you hard enough to split your lip. The metallic taste of blood flooded your mouth as your head snapped to the side.

"You shut your mouth," Ellen hissed.

You spat blood onto the floor, a cold smile curving your lips. "He killed 147 people in five years, good people, people that trusted him to have their backs." You met Ellen's gaze unflinchingly. "And he cried at the end. Begged. Hardly the soldier you're making him out to be."

Ellen's face contorted with fury as she drove the knife into your shoulder, a quick jab that had Dean roaring threats from across the room. You didn't make a sound, didn't even flinch, your eyes never leaving Ellen's face.

"You're lying," she snarled, twisting the blade before yanking it out.

"Read the mission report," you replied calmly, as though you weren't hanging by your wrists with blood streaming down your arm. "It's all there. Every pathetic detail."

Ellen slashed the knife across your midsection, opening a shallow cut that immediately began to seep blood through your already torn tactical gear. "My brother was a hero."

"Your brother was a coward who couldn't handle the job," you countered. "He broke under pressure and took out his failures on innocent people. Just like you're doing now."

The knife sliced again, this time across your thigh. Through the haze of pain, you heard Dean struggling violently against his restraints, the metal cuffs clanking against the chair.

"Stop it!" he shouted. "Ellen, this isn't going to bring your brother back!"

Ellen ignored him, her focus entirely on you. "I'm going to carve you apart inch by inch while they watch. And then I'm going to start on them."

You laughed, the sound hollow and cold. "You won't live that long."

"Is that a threat?" Ellen asked, pressing the tip of the knife beneath your eye. "From someone in your position?"

"It's a statement of fact," you replied. 

A flicker of unease crossed Ellen's face before she masked it with a sneer. "Your backup isn't coming. We've taken precautions."

"Not good enough ones," you said with certainty.

Ellen's jaw tightened as she stepped away from you, walking over to Dean. She pressed the bloodied knife—your blood—against his throat. "Maybe I should start with him? Would that loosen your tongue?"

"Go ahead," you said, your voice eerily detached. "One less complication in my life."

Dean's eyes widened slightly at your words, hurt flashing across his face before understanding dawned. He knew you were playing for time, trying to keep Ellen's attention focused on you rather than following through on her threats against them.

Ellen studied your face for a long moment before laughing. "You really have changed, haven't you? The woman I researched would have torn the world apart for him."

"That woman died a year ago," you replied flatly. "When he chose someone else."

The words hung in the air between you and Dean, weighted with a year's worth of unspoken pain and resentment. His expression crumpled, guilt written in every line of his face.

Ellen looked between you, a slow smile spreading across her features. "Oh, this is delicious. He doesn't know, does he? About what you've become?"

She turned to Dean, the knife still pressed against his throat. "Did you know your ex has the highest kill count of any S.H.I.E.L.D agent in the field this year? Thirty-seven confirmed eliminations in twelve months. They call her 'the Ghost' now. No hesitation, no mercy." Ellen's eyes gleamed with malicious delight. "She's more like my brother than she'd ever admit."

"She's nothing like your brother," Dean growled. "Your brother killed innocents. She protects them."

"Such loyalty," Ellen mocked. "Even after she just offered you up as a sacrifice."

A commotion outside the door drew Ellen's attention. Muffled shouts and what sounded like gunfire echoed from somewhere in the building. Her eyes narrowed as she pressed a hand to her earpiece, listening to a frantic report from one of her men.

"Secure the perimeter!" she snapped into the comm. "I don't care how, just keep them out!" She turned back to you, fury etched into every line of her face. "Your friends are persistent, I'll give them that."

"You have no idea," you replied, a cold smile playing at the corners of your bloodied lips.

Ellen turned toward the door, knife still in hand, her composure fracturing at the sounds of combat echoing through the building. "Looks like your friends didn't get the memo about coming alone," she snarled.

"I never come alone," you replied, your voice steady despite the pain radiating from your wounds.

In that moment of distraction, you made your move. With a sharp intake of breath, you pulled your body upward, using the chains as leverage to swing your legs up and wrap them around Ellen's neck in one fluid motion. The move sent fresh waves of agony through your wounded shoulder and abdomen, but adrenaline pushed it aside.

Ellen gasped, the knife clattering to the floor as her hands flew to your legs, trying desperately to break your hold. You tightened your thighs around her throat, twisting your body to use the momentum to your advantage.

"Stop her!" Ellen choked out to her two remaining guards who stood by the door.

They rushed forward, weapons raised, but you were already in motion. With a powerful twist of your hips, you used Ellen's body as a human shield. The first guard hesitated, unwilling to shoot his boss, and that hesitation cost him. You swung Ellen's body around, forcing her to collide with the guard. As they stumbled, you released your leg hold, dropping back to your hanging position for just a second before using the chains to swing yourself up again.

Your feet connected with the second guard's chest in a powerful kick that sent him flying backward into the wall with a sickening crack. He slumped to the floor, unconscious or worse.

Ellen was scrambling to her feet, gasping for air, her hand reaching for the fallen knife. You twisted your body, ignoring the screaming pain in your shoulders, and wrapped the chains around your wrists for better leverage. With a violent jerk, you pulled yourself up, the metal digging into your flesh as you strained against the restraints.

One of the bolts securing the chains to the ceiling groaned, then gave way with a metallic screech. Your right arm came free, the sudden release almost making you lose your balance. With one arm still chained, you swung down, your feet hitting the floor just as Ellen lunged with the knife.

You caught her wrist with your free hand, stopping the blade inches from your ribs. The force of her attack pushed you back against the wall, chains rattling. Ellen's face contorted with rage as she pressed the advantage, using her body weight to drive the knife closer.

"I've waited years for this," she hissed.

"You should have waited longer," you replied coldly, before smashing your forehead into her nose.

Blood sprayed as Ellen stumbled backward, momentarily stunned. You seized the opportunity, twisting your body and using the remaining chain as a pivot point to swing your legs up, wrapping them around Ellen's arm. With a vicious jerk, you heard the satisfying crack of bone breaking.

Ellen screamed, the knife falling from her useless fingers. You released her arm only to grab her by the throat with your free hand, squeezing just enough to keep her in place.

"Now listen carefully," you said, your voice dangerously quiet. "You're going to release them, or I'm going to finish what I started with your brother."

"Go to hell," Ellen spat, blood from her broken nose dripping down her face.

"Been there," you replied with a cold smile. "Didn't take."

With a swift, calculated movement, you slammed her head against the wall, rendering her unconscious. As her body slumped to the floor, you turned your attention to the remaining chain, searching for weaknesses in the link.

The first guard was stirring, reaching for his sidearm. Without hesitation, you used the chain as a whip, catching him across the face with enough force to send him back to unconsciousness.

Dean watched the entire sequence with a mixture of awe and horror, while Sam's expression remained analytically detached. Samuel's eyebrows were raised in grudging respect.

"Anyone got a paperclip?" you asked casually, as if you weren't bleeding from multiple wounds and hanging partially from a chain.

The door burst open and you tensed, before relaxing when you realised it was Ward.

Ward lowered his gun, his eyes quickly assessing the room before landing on you. "So," he said to Dean, his voice deceptively casual as he trained his weapon on Ellen, "you're the Dean Winchester."

"Ward," you acknowledged, relief coloring your voice despite your best efforts to remain detached. "You're late."

"Traffic was hell," he replied, stepping fully into the room. Behind him, you could see more S.H.I.E.L.D agents securing the corridor. "Looks like you started the party without us.” he commented before adding, “Romanoff and Barton are clearing the west wing. Should I be concerned that you're hanging from the ceiling?"

"Nothing I can't handle, you know I hate waiting." you replied, ignoring the blood dripping steadily onto the floor beneath you.

Ward holstered his weapon, moving quickly to where you hung. "Medical's on standby," he said as he reached up to cut through the ropes securing your wrists. "Try not to bleed out before they get here."

As the pressure on your shoulders released, pain shot through your arms like fire. You collapsed forward, Ward catching you before you hit the ground. He lowered you carefully to the floor, propping you against the wall as more agents flooded the room, some moving to free the Winchesters and Samuel.

"I had it under control," you muttered, pressing a hand against the wound in your side.

Ward's eyebrow arched skeptically. "Clearly."

Across the room, Dean was freed from his restraints. He immediately pushed past the agents tending to him, making a beeline for you. You tensed as he approached, your expression carefully blank despite the pain radiating through your body.

"Are you okay?" he asked, dropping to his knees beside you, hands hovering uncertainly as though afraid to touch you.

"I'm fine," you replied automatically, the lie obvious given the state of your body.

Dean's face was a storm of emotions—guilt, fear, concern, and something deeper that you refused to acknowledge. "You're not fine," he argued. "Jesus, look at you."

"Nothing that won't heal," you said dismissively, turning your attention to Ward. "Extraction plan?"

Ward nodded toward the door where Natasha had appeared, her expression darkening as she took in your condition. "Quinjet on the roof. We move as soon as Medical clears you for transport."

"I don't need clearance," you insisted, trying to push yourself up only to have both Ward and Dean reach out to stop you.

"Don't be stubborn," Dean said, his hand gentle but firm on your uninjured shoulder. "You've lost a lot of blood."

You jerked away from his touch, the movement sending fresh waves of pain through your battered body. "Don't," you warned, your voice low and cold. "Just... don't."

The hurt that flashed across his face should have given you satisfaction, but you felt nothing. The emotional walls you'd built over the past year were too thick, too necessary for survival.

Sam approached, his expression more curious than concerned as he surveyed the room. "We should move," he said pragmatically. "Ellen might have had more men in the building."

"Already cleared," Natasha reported moving in, her eyes never leaving you. "You look like hell."

"You should see the other guy," you quipped weakly.

"I did," she replied with a glance at Ellen's body. “Clean up is on the way.” 

The medical team arrived shortly after, their efficiency a stark contrast to the chaos that had preceded them. You winced as they examined your wounds, refusing the offered painkillers with a curt shake of your head.

"Three lacerations requiring immediate attention, possible shoulder dislocation, multiple contusions," the lead medic reported to Ward, who hovered nearby. "She needs to be moved to the Quinjet now."

"I can walk," you insisted, already pushing yourself to your feet despite the protests of both the medic and Dean.

Natasha stepped forward, her expression brooking no argument. "Either you let them carry you, or I sedate you myself. Your choice."

You glared at her, but the look she returned was equally unyielding. With a resigned sigh, you nodded to the medics, who quickly moved to prepare a stretcher.

"The Winchesters and Campbell come with us," you said to Ward, your tone making it clear this wasn't a request.

Ward nodded. "Already arranged. Coulson wants a full debrief anyway."

As the medics secured you to the stretcher, your eyes met Dean's across the room. His face was a mask of conflicted emotions—concern warring with guilt, relief tangled with regret. You looked away first, unable to bear the weight of that gaze.

The journey to the Quinjet passed in a blur of pain and the clinical voices of the medical team working to stabilize you. By the time you were loaded onto the aircraft, your tactical gear had been cut away, replaced with temporary bandages and an IV drip that you'd finally relented to.

The interior of the Quinjet was dimly lit, the hum of the engines a familiar comfort as Clint prepared for takeoff from the pilot's seat. The Winchesters and Samuel were seated across from you, Dean's eyes never leaving your face despite your determined efforts to ignore him.

Natasha sat beside you, her presence a silent support as the medical team continued their work. "Ellen?" you asked quietly.

"In custody," she confirmed. "Along with the remaining members of her security team. Fury wants them interrogated at the Triskelion."

You nodded, wincing as the medic tightened a bandage around your thigh. "Any casualties on our side?"

"Two agents wounded, none critical," Ward reported from nearby. "Could have been worse."

"Much worse," Natasha agreed, her eyes flickering briefly to the Winchesters.

The Quinjet lifted off, the slight jolt sending fresh pain through your battered body. You bit back a groan, unwilling to show weakness, especially with Dean watching so intently.

"You should rest," Natasha advised, noting the strain on your face. "We've got a two-hour flight back to base."

"I'm fine," you insisted, though the words lacked conviction even to your own ears.

A shadow fell across you as Dean rose from his seat, approaching despite the warning look Natasha shot him. He knelt beside your stretcher, keeping a respectful distance but close enough that you could see the flecks of gold in his green eyes, the same eyes that had haunted your dreams for the past year.

"Thank you," he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. "For coming for us. You didn't have to do that."

You stared at the ceiling of the jet, unwilling to meet his gaze. "It was a mission, Dean. Nothing more."

A flash of hurt crossed his features before he masked it. "Right," he said, clearly not believing you. "Still... thank you."

Before you could respond, Sam appeared beside his brother, his expression clinically curious rather than genuinely concerned. This close, the difference was jarring—the Sam you remembered had been empathetic, kind. This version studied you like an interesting specimen.

"You work for S.H.I.E.L.D now," he stated rather than asked. "Since when?"

"Since you died," you replied coolly. "Or didn't, apparently."

An uncomfortable silence settled between you, broken only by the steady beeping of the medical equipment monitoring your vitals.

"I hear you've been busy," Sam continued, seemingly oblivious to the tension. "Thirty-seven confirmed kills this year?"

Dean shot his brother a warning look. "Sam—"

"It's forty-two now," you corrected flatly. "Ellen's brother wasn't the only monster I've put down."

Sam's lips quirked in what might have been approval. "Impressive."

"That's enough," Natasha intervened, her voice carrying a subtle threat as she positioned herself between you and the Winchesters. "She needs rest, not an interrogation."

Dean nodded, rising to his feet. "Sorry," he said, directing the apology to you rather than Natasha. "We'll talk later?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken history. You closed your eyes, exhaustion suddenly overwhelming. "Maybe."

As they returned to their seats, you felt Natasha's hand on your uninjured arm, a gentle squeeze of support. "You okay?" she asked quietly.

"No," you admitted, the honesty surprising even you. "But I will be."

The rest of the flight passed in relative silence, the hum of the engines lulling you into a state somewhere between consciousness and sleep. The painkillers had finally begun to take effect, dulling the sharp edges of your injuries to a more manageable ache.

When the Quinjet touched down at the S.H.I.E.L.D facility, you were immediately transferred to the medical wing, Natasha and Clint flanking your stretcher like protective shadows. The last thing you saw before the doors closed was Dean's face, watching you with an expression that spoke of all the words left unsaid between you.

Hours later, patched up and stubbornly refusing to remain in the medical bed, you stood in one of the observation rooms, watching through the one-way glass as Coulson debriefed the Winchesters and Samuel Campbell. Your body protested every movement, the fresh stitches pulling uncomfortably beneath the clean S.H.I.E.L.D-issued clothing, but you ignored the pain with practiced ease.

The door opened behind you, and you didn't need to turn to know who it was. "Shouldn't you be resting?" Fury asked, coming to stand beside you.

"Shouldn't you have told me Sam Winchester was alive?" you countered, not taking your eyes off the scene in the interrogation room.

Fury sighed, his one good eye fixed on the Winchesters as well. "It was a judgment call."

"It was the wrong one," you replied coldly.

"Perhaps," he conceded, surprising you with the admission. "But it's done now. The question is, what happens next?"

You finally turned to look at him, your expression carefully neutral despite the turmoil of emotions beneath the surface. "They go back to hunting, I go back to my job. Nothing's changed."

Fury studied you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Everything's changed," he corrected. "And we both know it."

Before you could respond, the door to the observation room opened again, revealing Ward. "They're asking for you," he said, his eyes flickering between you and Fury.

"I'm busy," you replied dismissively.

Ward raised an eyebrow. "Winchester was pretty insistent. Said something about owing you a conversation."

Fury nodded toward the door. "Go. That's an order. Medical tells me you're pushing yourself too hard anyway. Take some time."

With a resigned sigh, you moved toward the door, each step a careful study in controlled pain. Ward fell into step beside you, his presence a silent offering of support.

"You don't have to see them alone," he said quietly as you made your way down the corridor.

You almost smiled at that. "I've faced worse than Dean Winchester."

"Have you?" Ward asked, his tone suggesting he knew better.

You didn't answer, pausing outside the interrogation room door to gather yourself. Through the small window, you could see Dean pacing while Sam sat calmly at the table, Samuel looking increasingly impatient in the corner.

"I'll be fine," you assured Ward, though whether you were trying to convince him or yourself remained unclear.

With a deep breath, you pushed open the door and stepped inside, immediately feeling the weight of three pairs of eyes on you. Dean stopped pacing, relief washing over his features as he took in your appearance—still bruised and battered, but standing.

"You should be in medical," he said by way of greeting.

"And you should be thanking me instead of criticizing my choices," you replied, crossing your arms carefully to avoid aggravating your injuries.

Samuel chuckled from his corner. "She's got you there, Dean."

Dean shot his grandfather an irritated glance before turning back to you. "Can we talk? Alone?"

You hesitated, considering refusing. It would be easier to maintain the walls you'd built if you kept your distance. But something in his expression—a vulnerability you rarely saw in Dean Winchester—made you nod.

"Five minutes," you conceded. "Then I have a debrief with Coulson."

Dean looked to Sam and Samuel. "Give us the room?"

Samuel nodded, moving toward the door without argument. Sam remained seated for a moment, studying the interaction between you and Dean with clinical interest before finally rising.

"Don't forget we have our own problems to deal with," he reminded Dean as he passed.

Once the door closed behind them, an awkward silence filled the room. Dean ran a hand through his hair, a nervous gesture you remembered all too well.

"How are you feeling?" he asked finally.

"Like I got stabbed multiple times," you replied dryly. "But I'll live."

Dean winced at your bluntness. "Look, I—" he began, then stopped, seeming to struggle with his words. "Thank you. For coming for us. I know you didn't have to, especially after..."

"After you left me for Lisa and Ben?" you finished for him, the words more bitter than you'd intended.

Dean's expression crumpled slightly. "Yeah."

You sighed, some of the anger draining away despite your best efforts to hold onto it. "It was a mission, Dean. You got captured cause of me. I had to come."

"Bullshit," he said, taking a step closer to you. "You could have sent a team. You didn't have to come yourself."

"Maybe I wanted to see if Sam was really alive," you countered. "Since apparently everyone knew but me."

Guilt flashed across Dean's face. "I wanted to tell you," he said quietly. "But he's... he's not Sam. Not really. Something's wrong with him."

"He doesn't have a soul," you stated flatly.

Dean's eyes widened in surprise. "How did you-"

"S.H.I.E.L.D has been monitoring the situation," you explained. "Coulson told me before the mission."

"And you came anyway," Dean said, a hint of wonder in his voice.

You looked away, unable to bear the weight of his gaze. "Like I said, it was a mission."

Dean took another step closer, close enough now that you could smell the familiar scent of him, leather and gunpowder and something uniquely Dean. "I missed you," he admitted softly.

The words hit you like a physical blow, your carefully constructed defenses cracking under the weight of them. "Don't," you warned, your voice barely above a whisper. "Please, don't."

"I made a mistake," Dean continued, ignoring your plea. "Walking away from you... it was the biggest mistake of my life."

You finally looked at him, allowing him to see the pain and anger you'd been carrying for the past year. "You made your choice, Dean. You chose them."

"I was trying to keep a promise to Sam," he explained, his voice rough with emotion. "I was trying to have the normal life he wanted for me. But it wasn't..." He swallowed hard. "It wasn't right. It wasn't where I belonged."

"And where do you belong, Dean?" you asked, hating the tremor in your voice. "Because from where I'm standing, you seem to bounce between whatever option hurts me the most."

Dean flinched as if you'd struck him. "That's not fair."

"None of this is fair," you replied, gesturing between the two of you. "It never has been."

A heavy silence fell between you, filled with all the words neither of you seemed able to say. Finally, Dean broke it.

"Come back," he said suddenly. "Help us hunt. Help me fix Sam."

You stared at him in disbelief. "Are you serious? I have a life here, Dean. A job. People who depend on me."

"People like that Ward guy?" Dean asked, a hint of jealousy in his tone.

You almost laughed at the absurdity of it. "That's none of your business."

"It is if you're..." He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

"If I'm what, Dean? Moving on?" you challenged. "Because that's what you told me to do, remember? 'Go live your life,' you said. 'Be happy,' you said. So that's what I've been trying to do."

Dean's jaw tightened. "And are you? Happy?"

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with implication. Were you happy? The honest answer was no, not really. S.H.I.E.L.D gave you purpose, a way to channel your skills and rage into something productive. But happy? That was a luxury you'd stopped expecting long ago.

"I'm alive," you answered finally. "That's enough."

Dean shook his head, taking another step toward you until he was close enough to touch. "It's not enough," he insisted. "It's never been enough for either of us."

Before you could respond, the door opened, revealing Natasha. Her eyes quickly assessed the situation, noting your tense posture and Dean's proximity.

"Time's up," she announced. "Coulson's waiting for the debrief."

Dean looked like he wanted to argue, but something in Natasha's expression made him think better of it. "This isn't over," he said to you, his voice low enough that only you could hear.

"It has to be," you replied just as quietly, before turning to follow Natasha out of the room.

As the door closed behind you, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts, you couldn't help but wonder if you were trying to convince him or yourself.

[siconetribal]

Beyond the Bookshelves (12)

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: Workplace drama

Summary: You’re a Resource Management Specialist at S.H.I.E.L.D. normally referred to as “The Librarian”. You’ve been assigned the nightmarish task of digitizing all the physical resources currently owned by the agency, with a few new computers and one extra helper.

A/N:

Life really hit me with major events back to back since mid May. The dust has finally settled though, and I've got a better handle on my schedule. I'll try to update more routinely.

Please comment/like/reblog. If you’d like to be tagged moving forward, please let me know! (If I missed any tags, please let me know, I’ll add you right away!) I’d also greatly appreciate it if rebloggers remember to add the tags (or some at least).

The lovely banners used in this fic are from @cafekitsune.

If you’re new to the story, please check out the master post for the rest of the chapters.

“Good afternoon agents, Avengers, and the one probationary member,” Agent Pruyn greeted the team cheerily until his gaze landed finally on Loki. There was a subtle snarl to his lips, a look that amused the trickster god instead of offending him. The lack of reaction at the obvious jab only further troubled Pruyn and Loki lavished in his irritation.

“How magnanimous of you to greet me in particular. You are too kind, agent.” Loki flashed him a charismatic politician smile that had some female agents in present company dazzled.

“Loki,” Black Widow’s voice was stern, but it held a tinge of exasperation. Something he thought was misdirected at him, since the one who started all this was Pruyn. The prince said nothing, he merely shrugged his shoulders and turned his palms upwards.

“Why are we here?” Hawkeye redirected the attention back to the question that was on most of their minds. 

“It's about the changes to the mission. There’s too much risk.” Agent Pruyn cut to the chase. “We’re going to be behind and will most lose valuable time wasted in running unnecessary logistics, scenarios, and covenant countermeasures. We've already mapped out everything, and all plans rehearsed to perfection. Going back to start from scratch is pointless and a promised failure.”

“Is it truly such a waste when we minimize the chances of failure through the redistribution of tasks and placing the proper soldiers in optimal positions in which they will excel?” Loki raised one of his eyebrows, sitting back against his chair,  hands steepled, elbows resting on the arms of the chair. He was completely unbothered by the remarks made intentionally to hurt him. “The spider and bird are perfect for infiltration and retrieval of the data we aim to possess. Though I’m capable of doing so as well, there’s no point in arguing the point because you don't trust me with that intel. You will question me forever, and if anything were to happen later on, it will automatically fall upon me as the reason for failure. I rather that that time and energy be spent more wisely. A prime example of wasting time is this highly unnecessary meeting. Instead of the team adjusting what is needed based on the last meeting and reconvening after all research has been completed, you are here feeling jilted because my adjustments make more sense. Am I wrong, Agent?”

Pruyn grit his teeth to swallow the anger rising from the humiliation he just experienced. Each word of that vitriol was a razor sharp blade cutting into his pride and reputation, exposing his hatred towards the second prince, which he did his best to mask with neutrality and false kindness. “You misunderstand me,” he plastered a pressed smile on his face. Don’t let him get to you.

“Oh? What did I misunderstand? The part that the team as a whole agreed the change in plan was best between the two plans, or the fact that you wish to set us up with an increased risk of failure? Or did you think I misunderstood the fact that you intend to have me in a position of scrutiny and be used as a scapegoat if things were to not go as we anticipated?” Though he was seated and Pruyn was standing, the verbal undressing easily told the room that it was Loki looking down on Pruyn.

“Agent Pruyn, we all agreed to these changes, did we not?” Natasha cut in, breaking the tension building between the two.

“Yes, but afterwards some of us reconsidered due to doubts.” He softened, humbling himself before the famous Black Widow.

“What doubts? Let’s clear the air now and move in. We're wasting time with all these side conversations.” Clint looked around the room at everyone. Small mumbles of ‘well’s and ‘it’s’ rose up and quickly died down as no one could really pinpoint the reasons for the hesitation.

It’s because none of you wish to accept the fact that I came up with this plan, and I was supported by both of your ‘precious’ Avengers. Loki withheld himself from rolling his eyes in response to the idiocy. “It seems I’ve managed to dispel whatever concerns there were.” 

“Right, so if there’s nothing, get this done as soon as possible. You already got Fury’s approval, so why second guess?” Clint reminded them, an awkward silence instantly fell over them. “You did get Fury’s approval, right?” He frowned.

“Is it pending approval? We can talk to Fury to expedite the review process.” Natasha assured them, but the silence only grew heavier, and Loki felt his irritation at such incompetence rise up. He did not care for their approval or expect any kindness without earned merit, but to stall and cause unnecessary delays and under his name was an insult. “We told you to submit this change for approval weeks ago. Get it done so we can move on.” She sighed in exasperation.

“This is the waste of time you were so set on avoiding.” Clint stood from his seat. “The next time we meet better be a proper strategy meeting, or we might need to hand this off to another team if you can't manage it.” He looked at Pruyn who was the lead agent on this. 

“Of course, an oversight like this won’t happen again. I hadn’t realized it wasn’t already submitted and pending.” He bowed his head and rubbed the back of his neck, the other agents lowering their heads as well. That arrogant asshole, who the hell does he think he is coming in and changing my mission plan? I've been doing this for years, I’m one of the best! He should be locked away in the Raft!

“There better not be.” Natasha stood from her seat. “We can end this meeting here. Get to work.” Loki silently stood from his seat and was the first to leave the room.

Peace and quiet, that is how he preferred his days as a whole. Sadly, in a tower filled with chattering Midgardians and his own energetic brother, finding such solace was a Herculean task. Even the sanctity of the library was marred with noise from time to time. It was hardly as loud, but it was always so much more vexing; especially after a meeting earlier in the week with the insufferable Agent Pruyn trying to create holes that he could not find in Loki’s proposed plan that was supposed to be enacted.

What a farce this all is, strutting around like swans, when they are nothing but frogs. Trying to deceive me, the god of deception? He scoffed. The pitiful Midgardian, picking a fight with someone who has fought battles and strategized far before he was even a thought for conception. He flipped the page of the book in his hands, looking up at the sound of footsteps coming his way. The employees jumped and scurried away quickly, and he frowned. This was the tenth time he has looked up at the sound of steps. Each time it broke his concentration on the page. He was on edge and there was no logical reason as to why, which only irritated him further. The next set of steps had him looking up, again, only to see someone unknown to him, again. “Dammit,” he snapped the book shut and slammed it down on the table. The person let out some high-pitched sound and fled from the scene like some field mouse, but that did not matter to the prince. “Why, in all the Nine Realms, am I unable to concentrate? That imbecilic agent is hardly worth ruining my precious reading time!” He muttered to himself, glaring at the cover of the book. Something was amiss, and it was not of his doing. Could it be, no! That’s utterly preposterous! What do I have to do with that? He dismissed the fleeting though before it could fully form. “Idiocy is a plague that will vex me for eternity. My talents and insight were wasted because of them.” He reasoned, standing from his seat. With the flick of his hand, the book jumped into the air and slid back into its place on the shelf. Training will help me release this nagging. With his mind set, he made his way out of the library without even glancing at the Librarian’s desk.

The famous city was quickly coming to life as people and critters began their morning routines. Among the moving parts stood Y/N, looking up at the towering building she called work. The one day of rest had quickly unraveled into a week. When was the last time she took a day off? Even when she felt like a radioactive snotty sludge monster, she made sure to look alive enough to make it in.

But there was no star-spangled hero rushing to the infirmary for attention those times. The rumor reels should've died down enough by now, right? She tightened her grip on her bag and stood as tall as she could. There was only one way to find out. Bracing herself, she walked in through the main entrance and greeted the receptionists warmly. The reply back was a robotic one, but it was promising. No funny looks or asking too many questions, that's good! That means things have settled. Obviously, they’ve realized that it's nothing more than him doing his duty helping a coworker. She sighed with relief and made her way through the employee entrance to head to her post.

When she finally got to her office, she sat in her chair and stared at the black computer screen, her darkened reflection staring back at her. No one seemed to care about her presence, one way or another. It’s great that no one in particular is asking about that day and Captain Rogers, but they aren’t asking anything? I was out for a whole week. She frowned at the monitor. “Did no one even notice? I know I’m not that important that my absence would cause all hell to break loose, but someone had to have noticed, right?” She thought to herself aloud, as if her reflection would respond and help soothe the sting of expendability. It was the chime of the door opening that dragged her from the self-pity as she turned on the desktop. “Good morning, welcome to the library. Do you need me to assist you in finding anything?"

“Y/N, is that you?” The voice had her standing up from her seat as she looked up.

Tags: @vbecker10 @huntress-artemiss @softestqueeen @thegodofnotknowing @princess-ofthe-pages @firedrakegirl @rcailleachcola @cabingrlandrandomcrap @lotrefcp @lwtannie @jainaeatsstars @msdjsg7 @tom-hlover @kneelingformyloki @gruftiela @gigglingtiggerv2 @kats72 @mischief2sarawr @evalynanne @wolfsmom1

[anika-ann]

Back and Forth - masterlist

Pairing: Steve Rogers x agent! Inhuman!reader

Type: enemies-ish to lovers series

Summary: Calling yourself an Avenger would be overstatement, even if you have been joining them on missions quite frequently lately. Calling them your friends would be an overstatement also. Calling you and Steve Rogers friends, now that would be an insult to the entity of friendship – though unlike him, you have enough self-awareness to admit that he isn't the only one to blame for that. Most of the time anyway.

However, the Avengers need your abilities and so you and Steve tolerate each other – or at least you’re trying, your back and forth visibly annoying your colleagues and exhausting you both.

And then you’re thrown into a situation where mere tolerance isn’t an option. That should end well, shouldn’t it?

Characters to appear: Steve Rogers, ‘reader’, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Tony Stark, Sam Wilson, mentions of Phil Coulson, Daisy Johnson and few others

Setting: slight AU 'cause everyone lives thank you very much, no Civil War or further, references to Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D without a fixed timeline

Warnings: besides canon-typical violence, this series deals with topics which might be trigerring for some people - please, read with caution and resposibility

Playlist 🎵

STORYLINE:

Prologue 

Part 1 

Part 2 

Part 3.1 // Part 3.2

Part 4.1 // Part 4.2 

Part 5 

Part 6.1 // Part 6.2

Part 7

Part 8

Epilogue 1 // and 2

UPWARD AND ONWARD (extras and bonuses) ✨:

Shelter - part 1 // part 2

Bonus 2: 'Endearments'

Bonus 3: 'That's How (Superheroes Learn to Fly)'

Dividers by firefly-graphics, moodboard by me - and created for the vibes, for it does not necessarily reflect the reader's appearance.

Taglist open 🥰

[lowrisemiller]

ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜ-ꜱᴛᴀʀᴠᴇᴅ

bucky barnes x fem! shield agent!reader

first time writing for bucky <333

safe house, during a storm. after a long mission, you’re stuck sharing a room with bucky. you’ve always assumed he keeps his distance because of his past. but when the storm knocks out the power and you curl up on the couch, cold and shivering, he finally opens up — and his hands, calloused and careful, don’t stop at comfort.

masterlist | 3k words | soft!dom Bucky, praise kink, reader receives oral (f), unprotected PIV(she on da pill), morning sex, deep emotional intimacy, touch starvation themes,, reader is referred to as “sweetheart” and “baby”, slow and loving sex, post-orgasm cuddling, mentions of past loneliness, body worship, Bucky is obsessed and down bad, vulnerable!Bucky, safehouse setting, canon-typical trauma referenced, no use of y/n

The rain hasn’t let up in hours.

It batters against the tin roof like it’s trying to get in — thunder rumbling over the hills like a warning. You’re curled on the couch in a pair of flannel pajama pants and a worn S.H.I.E.L.D. hoodie, one knee pulled tight to your chest, a book in your lap you’ve read the same page of five times. The fire’s dwindled to glowing coals.

And Bucky’s sitting across the room like a statue.

He hasn’t said much since you both got in hours ago —wet, bruised, exhausted from the mission. Just stripped off his tac gear and sat down on the edge of the bed, mechanical hand flexing like it couldn’t settle. He’s been like that ever since you joined his team —polite, helpful, quietly protective. But always… distant.

Like if he got too close, he’d ruin something.

Another crash of thunder shakes the cabin. You flinch without meaning to, hand clutching the blanket tighter.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Come here,” he says, voice low but solid.

You blink up at him.

“What?”

“You’re cold,” he murmurs. “Don’t argue, I can tell. C’mere.”

You hesitate. He looks so serious, dark hair still damp from the rain, black T-shirt hugging the hard lines of his chest. His expression is guarded, but his eyes are warm — warmer than you’ve ever seen them.

You cross the room slowly. He shifts, leaning back against the headboard, lifting the blanket beside him in invitation. Something tight coils in your chest. You’ve slept in the same room before — hotel rooms, bunkers, quinjet corners — but never like this.

You sit beside him. He wraps the blanket around your shoulders, pulls you in.

And suddenly you’re tucked under Bucky Barnes’ arm, your head resting against the soft fabric of his shirt, the sound of his steady breathing in your ear.

Your body relaxes before your mind can catch up. He’s warm. Unbelievably warm. And strong. You feel it in every inch of him —the way his arm curls protectively around your back, the subtle press of muscle as you lean into him.

“You okay?” he asks after a while.

You nod, barely. “Yeah. Just… long week.”

His chuckle is barely audible. “Understatement of the century.”

For a moment, it’s just the storm and the soft rhythm of your breathing. Then he speaks again — so quietly it barely registers.

“I hate seeing you scared.”

You look up. His jaw is tight, his gaze focused on the firelight.

“I wasn’t—”

“You were,” he says gently. “It’s okay.”

You swallow. There’s something aching in his tone —something raw.

“You don’t talk this much,” you say softly.

“I know.” He turns his head, meets your eyes. “Doesn’t mean I don’t think it.”

Your breath catches. His eyes are ocean-deep, stormy like the night outside, but warm — so warm.

“Can I tell you something?” he asks.

You nod.

“I think about touching you all the time.”

Your heart stops.

He keeps going, voice steady but trembling at the edges.

“Not just sex. Not even that, really. I think about… brushing your hair out of your face. Holding your hand. Pulling you onto my lap just because I can. I think about waking up next to you.”

He swallows hard.

“But I don’t. Because I don’t want to scare you. And because I don’t know if you’d want that. Want me.”

The rain seems to hush for a moment, like the world is listening.

You reach up slowly, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. His eyes flutter closed like he’s afraid to believe it’s real.

“I’ve been waiting for you to touch me,” you whisper. “I thought you wouldn’t want to.”

His eyes snap open —like you just lit a fuse.

“Don’t move,” he says hoarsely.

You stay still.

His hand —warm, broad, careful —comes up to cup your face. His thumb brushes your cheek, then your lip. His other hand, the metal one, rests on your thigh with featherlight pressure, like he’s scared you’ll flinch.

You don’t.

You lean in.

And he kisses you.

It’s gentle at first —lips soft and reverent against yours, like he’s still scared he’ll wake up. But then you press closer, fingers tangling in his shirt, and he deepens it —groaning into your mouth, tongue brushing yours, hunger bleeding into every movement.

You shift into his lap, straddling him instinctively, and Bucky grabs your hips like he’s grounding himself —like if he lets go, he’ll wake up alone again.

His pupils are blown wide, lips swollen from kissing, and the look he gives you is hungry —like you’re the first warm thing he’s touched in years.

“You’re driving me insane,” he growls. “You know that, right?”

You rock against him gently, and his jaw goes tight.

“You can touch me,” you whisper, hands in his hair. “Anywhere. However you want.”

He huffs a breath like he’s trying to keep from losing it.

“Fuck, sweetheart…”

His metal hand grips your thigh, spreading you wider over him. His other hand slides under your hoodie and up your back, warm and solid, tugging the fabric over your head and tossing it aside.

When he sees you —bare, flushed, breathing hard —he curses under his breath and cups your chest with both hands, thumbs dragging over your nipples until they stiffen. You gasp, grinding against the hard line of him beneath his sweatpants.

“Lay back for me,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

You do —breathless, already aching —lying back on the bed as he kneels between your legs.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your flannel pants.

“Every inch of you.”

He drags them down, slow and deliberate, along with your panties —eyes never leaving yours as he exposes you. When you’re naked and spread out under him, he runs his hands up your thighs, parting them wider with firm, reverent pressure.

Then his mouth is on you again.

Warm, slow, worshipful.

He kisses your inner thigh, then the crease of your hip, teasing you until you’re trembling, trying to press yourself against his mouth. But he pins your hips with his metal arm and groans, low and broken, like the taste of you has him spiraling.

He laps at you slowly, teasing your clit with the flat of his tongue before sucking softly. You moan—high and sharp —and tangle your fingers in his hair. His tongue circles, flicks, licks deeper until you’re whimpering, thighs trembling.

“You’re so wet for me,” he breathes, voice muffled against your cunt. “So perfect, so good…”

You try to respond, but your hips buck when he slips one thick finger inside you, curling it just right.

“Oh—fuck, Bucky—”

“That’s it, baby,” he growls. “Let me hear you.”

He adds a second finger, fucking you slowly with a perfect rhythm as he sucks your clit again. The pressure builds like a wave — deep and hot and inevitable.

“I—I’m gonna—”

“Do it, sweetheart. Come for me.”

You fall apart on his mouth, writhing, gasping, your hands pulling hard at his hair. He doesn’t stop — licking you through it, holding you firm until your body finally slumps back against the mattress.

He looks up at you, lips slick, eyes glazed with want.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You reach for him, dazed. “Need you inside me.”

That’s all it takes.

He strips fast — sweatpants gone, briefs gone — and your eyes go wide at the size of him, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip.

“Condom,” he mutters, reaching for his bag—

“No,” you whisper. “I’m on the pill. I want to feel you.”

His eyes darken. “You sure?”

You nod, pulling him in. “Please.”

He lines himself up, rubbing the head of his cock through your slick folds, and groans like he’s barely holding it together.

Then he pushes in —slow, stretching you inch by inch, until he bottoms out and you’re both gasping.

“Jesus Christ,” he pants. “You’re so tight. So fuckin’ perfect.”

He stills, letting you adjust, kissing your shoulder, your cheek, your jaw. “You okay, baby?”

You nod. “Move.”

And when he does —slow and deep at first, then faster, rougher —it’s like the world narrows to just the two of you. His hands grip your hips, his mouth never leaves your skin, and every thrust drives you higher.

He murmurs praise like a prayer—

“So good for me.”

“You feel like heaven.”

“I could stay inside you forever.”

When he feels you tighten around him again, he fucks you through your second orgasm — hard and deep — before groaning into your neck and coming inside you with a shudder that rocks his whole body.

He doesn’t pull out. Not yet.

Just stays there, buried deep, breathing against your collarbone.

“I’ve never—” he murmurs. “Never had this. Not like this.”

You stroke his back, warm and damp with sweat.

“You have it now.”

He kisses you then —soft and slow, like a promise.

And this time, it’s not about hunger.

It’s about home.

The fire’s burned down to embers.

Outside, the rain has stopped. All that’s left is the gentle patter of water dripping from the eaves and the faint glow of early morning light peeking through the curtains.

You’re warm —so warm —tucked beneath the threadbare sheets, wrapped in Bucky’s arms.

His body is solid heat against your back, chest rising and falling steady with sleep. One hand is splayed across your belly, the other curled under your neck, holding you close like he still doesn’t quite believe you’re real.

You shift slightly, and his breath catches. The hand on your stomach tightens, thumb brushing your skin like a reflex.

“Did I wake you?” you whisper, voice soft.

“Mmm,” he hums sleepily, lips brushing your shoulder. “Been awake. Just didn’t wanna move. S’too good.”

You smile, turning in his arms to face him. He’s a mess of tousled hair and morning stubble, blue eyes heavy-lidded and soft.

“Hi,” you murmur.

“Hi.” He leans in, noses at your cheek. “Can I kiss you?”

“You never have to ask.”

The kiss is slow —tender and lazy, mouths fitting together like they’ve always known how. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye, and you melt into him like you’ve been waiting all your life to be held like this.

When you shift again, your bare thighs brush his —and you feel it.

He’s hard. Already. Pressed warm and thick against your stomach.

You pull back to look at him.

His cheeks are pink. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t be sorry.” You reach down, wrap your hand gently around him. His hips twitch.

“I want you again,” you whisper. “Just like this.”

He swallows hard, eyes locked on yours. “You sure?”

You nod. “Slow n soft.”

His jaw clenches, just a little. Then he exhales and kisses you again —sweeter this time, deeper, like a slow ache.

Like gratitude.

The sheets fall away as he shifts over you, pushing your legs apart with his hips. He slides his metal hand beneath your thigh, lifting it gently as he rolls his body over yours.

He’s big —broad and warm and so careful —and you feel yourself open for him all over again.

“I didn’t hurt you last night, did I?” he murmurs, brushing your hair back.

“No,” you whisper. “You made me feel so good and safe.”

He groans softly, like that this alone is enough to undo him. Then he reaches between you, guides himself to your entrance, and sinks in slow.

The stretch makes you sigh —familiar now, but no less intense. He presses deeper until your bodies are flush, his cock buried inside you, and stays there for a moment, unmoving.

His forehead rests against yours.

“I could stay like this forever,” he breathes. “You feel so good. So warm. So perfect.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist.

“Then stay.”

He moves slowly, rolling his hips in deep, rhythmic strokes —not chasing release, just feeling you. Making love like he has nowhere else to be, like your body is the only place he’s ever felt peace.

The way he looks at you —like you hung the stars —has your whole chest aching.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. “Can’t believe I get to touch you like this.”

You kiss his cheek, his jaw, his shoulder. “Touch me more.”

And he does. Big hands exploring your body all over again —your waist, your breasts, your thighs. He never stops moving inside you, never pulls all the way out. Every thrust is slow and deep and intimate, like he wants to leave a piece of himself inside you.

When you start to tremble beneath him, he cups your face with both hands.

“Let go, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

You come with a soft cry, clinging to him as your body shudders. He follows moments later, gasping your name, cock pulsing inside you as he buries himself one last time and spills deep.

You stay tangled together afterward — skin flushed, breath slowing, heartbeats syncing.

“I think I’m addicted to you,” he murmurs against your neck.

“Good thing we’re stuck here another day.”

He chuckles, pulling you tight against him. “Don’t tempt me.”

But his voice is soft. Sweet. Like he wants to be tempted. Like he already is.

divider by @cursed-carmine 🏷️ @zevrra

[purifiedclitoris69]

Statements

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Shield agent!reader

Summary: Assumptions are made about the relationship you have with Natasha, so you took it upon yourself to make a statement :)

Your relationship with Natasha is built on years of trust, mutual respect, and an unspoken understanding that comes from living in the shadows of espionage. You met when she first joined SHIELD, and while she was still finding her footing within the organization, you were already established as a specialist sniper—someone who worked alone, took the impossible shots, and disappeared before anyone even knew you were there.

At first, your relationship was purely professional. You recognized each other as dangerous and highly capable, but there was always a quiet pull between you. Over time, through shared missions, late-night debriefs, and the rare moments of quiet in a world full of chaos, that pull became something more. It wasn’t dramatic or rushed—it was a slow burn, a natural evolution of two people who understood each other better than most and yearned to show one another a genuine love.

Now, after almost 3 years together, your bond is unshakable. While the Avengers see you around the compound, they don’t truly know the depth of what you and Natasha have. They assume your relationship is casual, just a convenience in a life full of uncertainty. But in reality, Natasha loves you fiercely, and you love her just as much. You’re her safe place, the person she trusts with the parts of herself she doesn’t show anyone else. When the world feels too heavy, she turns to you—not for protection, because she doesn’t need it, but for the rare comfort of knowing she’s not alone.

You don’t need grand gestures or constant declarations. Your love is in the quiet moments—the way she always finds her way to you after a mission, the way you instinctively reach for her hand under the table, the way she relaxes against you when no one is watching. To the outside world, you might just be another agent who occasionally lingers at the compound. But to Natasha, you’re home.

—————————-———

Wanda was the first to recognize the depth of your relationship.

It was early—early enough that most of the team was still asleep or barely functioning. The compound was quiet, save for the soft hum of the coffee machine in the kitchen. You stood by the counter, leaning against it, eyes still heavy with sleep as you waited for the coffee to finish brewing.

Natasha, still in her sleep shorts and one of your old SHIELD t-shirts, wandered in with a yawn, her hair slightly tousled from sleep. She didn’t say anything as she approached—you felt her presence before you saw her. Without hesitation, she walked straight into your space, wrapping her arms around your waist and burying her face into your chest.

"Mm. Too early," she mumbled against you.

You huffed a quiet laugh, your hand instinctively coming up to rub slow, soothing circles on her back. "You say that every morning, but you’re always up before me."

She hummed but didn’t respond, just tightening her grip around you as if she could steal some of your warmth. You didn’t mind. In fact, moments like this were your favorite—the ones where she let her guard down, where she wasn’t the Black Widow or an Avenger, just Natasha, just yours.

Neither of you noticed Wanda standing by the doorway, frozen mid-step. She had come in for coffee but stopped in her tracks at the sight of Natasha—fierce, guarded Natasha—melted completely against you.

Wanda had always assumed your relationship was casual. Everyone had. You weren’t around often, and Natasha never entertained deep conversations about her personal life. But standing there, watching the way she clung to you, the way your hand moved over her back with the kind of practiced ease that spoke of years of familiarity, Wanda realized they had all been wrong.

This wasn’t casual. This was love—deep, unwavering, and so achingly real.

She wasn’t sure how long she stood there, but eventually, Natasha stirred, tilting her head up to look at you. "Coffee ready?"

"Almost," you murmured, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. The gesture was so gentle, so natural, that Wanda almost felt like she was intruding.

Before Natasha could move away, you leaned down, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead. "Go sit. I’ll bring you a cup."

Natasha didn’t argue, just gave you a sleepy, content smile before releasing you and making her way to the kitchen table.

Wanda finally decided to make her presence known, clearing her throat as she stepped fully into the kitchen. "Morning," she greeted, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips as she grabbed a mug and you unpromptedly filled it for her greeting her with a kind smile and filling Nat’s next, starting another pot for anyone else who might want it.

Natasha, already seated, just raised an eyebrow. "What?"

Wanda glanced between the two of you, then just shook her head, her smirk widening. "Nothing. Just... you two are cute," she blew on her coffee.

Natasha rolled her eyes, but there was no real heat behind it. Meanwhile, you simply handed Natasha her coffee before grabbing your own along with d the morning crossword, completely unfazed.

Wanda took a sip of her drink, still smiling to herself. Maybe the rest of the team had been blind to it, but now she knew the truth—Natasha Romanoff was hopelessly, completely in love.

—————————-———

The next person was Steve. You had gone on another lengthy mission; it had kept you away for weeks longer than either of you liked. You had kept in touch when you could, brief calls and cryptic messages, but it wasn’t the same. And now, finally, you were back.

Steve wasn’t looking for either of you when he entered the common room. He had just been passing through, planning to grab something from the kitchen before heading to the gym. But as soon as he stepped in, he stopped in his tracks.

The lights were dim, the soft crackle of the old record player filling the space. An oldie—something slow, something familiar. And in the center of the room, barely swaying to the rhythm, was you and Natasha.

She was pressed against you, arms loosely wrapped around your shoulders, her fingers idly playing with the hairs at the back of your neck. Your hands rested on her waist, holding her close as if you needed to feel her warmth to believe this moment had finally come after weeks of waiting.

Neither of you spoke. There was no need. The way Natasha clung to you, the way you held her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered, it said everything.

Steve had never seen her like this. Sure, he had seen her care about people, had seen her protect and fight for those she loved. But this? This was different. This was Natasha Romanoff, the Black Widow, completely at peace. Safe. Home.

He felt like he was intruding on something sacred, so he took a quiet step back, turning to leave—only to nearly bump into Bucky.

“what’s with the face?” Bucky asked, raising an eyebrow at the look on Steve’s face.

Steve exhaled, shaking his head with a slight chuckle. “Nothing, just—” He glanced over his shoulder, then looked back at Bucky. “You and Sam better stop checking Nat out so much.”

Bucky scoffed. “What? We don’t—”

Steve gave him a knowing look.

Bucky shifted. “Alright, maybe Sam does. I just—y’know, appreciate a good—”

Steve cut him off. “Don’t.”

Bucky smirked. “Okay, but why the sudden warning?”

Steve shook his head again, that small smile still lingering. “Because they’re in love. Like, really in love.”

Bucky frowned. “I mean, yeah, I figured they were serious, but—”

“No,” Steve interrupted. “Not just serious. Not just together. In love.”

Bucky studied him for a second, something unreadable passing over his expression before he nodded. “Alright,” he said simply.

Steve gave him a final glance before clapping him on the shoulder and walking off, leaving Bucky standing there, a little quieter than usual.

Because if what Steve was saying was true, then it wasn’t just Natasha they had underestimated. It was you.

—————————-———

The true statement was made in the compound gym.

The gym was alive with movement—punching bags swinging, the clatter of weights, and the rhythmic sound of fists meeting training dummies. You had just finished some shooting drills when you decided to swing by, knowing exactly where Natasha would be.

Sure enough, there she was, moving like a force of nature. Every strike was precise, every kick sharp. She was a sight to behold—dangerous, powerful, and effortlessly graceful.

Apparently, you weren’t the only one who thought so.

You noticed Sam and Bucky standing off to the side, arms crossed, observing her with a little too much focus. Eyes tracked her every movement, and while you weren’t necessarily the jealous type, and were well aware how gorgeous Natasha is; people couldn't help but be enamoured by her, however weren’t about to let this slide.

You strolled up beside them, tilting your head. "Enjoying the view?"

Bucky, to his credit, immediately raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, don’t look at me. I was admiring the technique, alright?" He nodded toward Natasha. "She’s one of the best fighters I’ve ever seen."

You eyed him for a second before nodding, accepting the explanation. Bucky was a lot of things, but he wasn’t dumb enough to cross that line.

Sam, however—

"Look, I’m just saying," Sam started, his eyes still trailing Natasha as she wiped sweat off her forehead. "It’s not my fault she moves like that. That’s a distraction."

You raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

Sam glanced at you, then seemed to realize way too late that he had just said that to the one person who could make him regret it. "Uh—"

"You know what?" You rolled your shoulders, tossing your towel aside. "I feel like I haven’t sparred in a while. What do you say, Wilson? A little one-on-one?"

Sam hesitated, looking between you and Bucky, who just took a step back, clearly enjoying the fact that he wasn’t involved.

"You sure you wanna do this?" Sam asked, crossing his arms. "I mean, no offense, but I’ve got wings, I’ve fought aliens—"

"You’re standing here watching my girlfriend train. I just want to see how you train too." you cut in, smirking.

The room went silent for half a beat before Bucky let out a low chuckle. "Oh, this is gonna be good."

Clint grinned, nudging Wanda. "Five bucks says Sam regrets this immediately."

Natasha, who had been too focused on training to notice the exchange earlier, finally turned toward the group, eyebrow raised. "What’s going on?"

Wanda smirked. "Your sniper just challenged Sam to a sparring match because he got caught staring at you."

Natasha let out a small laugh, tossing a towel over her shoulder as she walked closer. "Oh, I have to see this."

Sam exhaled, shaking his head. "Y’all are ridiculous. But fine. Let’s do this."

You stepped onto the mat, rolling your shoulders as Sam joined you. He gave a cocky smirk. "You sure you wanna do this? I am pretty fast, you know."

You just smirked back. "We’ll see."

Steve, ever the responsible one, clapped his hands. "Alright, keep it clean."

The second Steve gave the go-ahead, you moved—fast.

Sam barely had time to react before you were already in his space, effortlessly dodging his first strike. You didn’t just block—you controlled. Every punch he threw was sidestepped. Every kick, redirected. You weren’t just fighting Sam. You were toying with him.

The smirk on his face started fading as frustration crept in. "Damn," he muttered, throwing another punch. You caught his wrist, twisting him off-balance before sweeping his legs out from under him.

Sam hit the mat with a grunt.

From the sidelines, Bucky let out a whistle. "That looked like it hurt."

Clint was grinning beside Nat.

Wanda shook her head in amusement. "He walked right into that one."

Sam groaned but pushed himself back up. "Alright, alright—lucky shot."

You didn’t respond. You just motioned for him to try again.

This time, he put more effort into his attacks, but it didn’t make a difference. Every move he made, you were already three steps ahead. You parried, countered, redirected—all with ease.

After a few more humiliating takedowns, Sam finally dropped to the mat, breathing hard, lying flat on his back. "Damn. Alright. Message received."

You crouched down beside him, grinning. "Good. Maybe next time, you’ll keep your eyes to yourself playboy"

Sam exhaled, closing his eyes. "Noted."

You stood up, offering him a hand. He took it, groaning as he got to his feet. "You really don’t like people looking at her, huh?"

You shrugged, "I know she can handle herself, I just felt like making a statement today," you smiled stepping off the mat and walking to Nat

"Possessive looks good on you," Natasha said with her signature smirk

Without a second thought, you grabbed her by the waist and kissed her—really kissed her—right in front of everyone. It was slow, deep, and left no room for doubt. Natasha, normally composed, melted into you, gripping your bicep to steady herself.

When you pulled back, she was a little breathless, a rare blush dusting her cheeks.

You smirked. "See you at dinner, love."

And with that, you walked off, leaving Natasha still catching her breath.

Clint let out a low whistle. "Damn."

Wanda smirked. "That was a statement,” Natasha throwing a towel at her, mumbling out a whatever and heading to the lockers

Bucky clapped Sam on the shoulder. "So, you still gonna stare?"

Sam rolled his eyes taking a tired seat on the bench "I hate you all."

[softlymaximoff]

Head canons of Agent Romanoff and new SHIELD recruit, Agent Y/N. Part 2

18+ ONLY MEN & MINORS DNI (blank blogs will be blocked you do not have my permission to republish my work onto any platform.

Oliver (the polydactyl cat) has a nasty habit of stealing Natasha’s Nerf Darts, to the point where at the end of each passing week, Nat tallies off how many he’s stolen and gives you that amount of jumping jacks. You’ve never caught on and she’s not gonna tell you until you come clean about housing a stray, yes she saw you rescue it out of a crushed milk carton when he was an angsty teen cat.

Truly hilarious to watch you gentle parent the most bratty and mouthy cat. The day you turned up for training with a sour face and a full sleeve workout shirt, she mentally giggled to herself. But you had a heart of gold and the love of an angel’s warmth so she wasn’t surprised you wrangled with that thing. Impressed almost.

Catnip. Natasha loves feeding Oliver his happy herbs and the cat turns into a complete menace, the zoomies, the race car purrs, the parkour, everything. A sight to see when she hold the gremlin in arms reach and his tail is partaking in a helicopter blade audition with his purrs rumbling through his chest.

You thought it was just orange cat behaviour, the internet feeding you all sorts of lies (somewhat cause orange cats are feral). Nights when he’d return from the edges of the building (you also had a suspicion he was doing recall but who knows) he’d be all hyper and vocal, more than usual.

On rainy days in the compound, most SHIELD recruits would hang out in their common area, a game of ping pong here and there, pool, darts, Nerf Wars around the lounge, anything to have some sort of team bonding experience. You simply read old English or History books in your room or on undercover terrace on the roof, Ollie lounging out with you, working up a bakery with his paws.

Natasha knew, she watched, she learned. She understood.

One afternoon, the stray refused to go anywhere with you, hissing and whinging on his bed of crushed cardboard boxes, (yes you actually had a small cat tree tucked away in the corner but no, Oliver liked his cardboard, old habits never die you concluded). You flipped the stray off, his paw swatting the air in defiance and you retreated up to the rooftop to clear your head.

You had an intel mission within a few days and you were to go with Wanda just out of town. You were stressing, hard. Who would take care of Oliver? What happens if he got out of the compound? What would happen if things went south and you didn’t come back? All these thought were becoming messy and panicky hindering your reflexes when the rooftop door swung open.

A strangled curse made you jump and spin around, coming face to face with your evil child. Behind him was Natasha with a much less impressed expression, “The little fucker climbed into my room and jumped me like his tree. Wouldn’t stop yapping and chirping. I think he’s broken”

Your face, red as ever, turned into a harsh glare towards Oliver. “What is with you today. Some days I think you take me too much for granted little dude” you sighed as the spy shoved the cat into your arms, not missing the way the animal burrowed its head in the crook of your neck. “Traitor” she whispered, a little accent dripping into her tone.

She gave you a smirk and left the rooftop before you could defend yourself with the feline.

When the day came for your intel mission, his cardboard box empty save for a small note tucked away under the top sheet, “He came in to mine this morning. Leave him with me, he’ll be okay. We have enough milk and ham, don’t worry. If he eats it all I’ll teach him how to hunt mice, maybe even scare Clint in the vents x N.R”

You shook your head in amusement and slight offence at the traitorous cat but packed your bags anyway. Wanda came through mid morning, smiling brightly and introducing herself. You greeted her with a nervous wave and introduced yourself, not missing her eyes when they darted over to the cardboard boxes and left over kibble next to the set up.

“Do I even wanna know?” She teased at your flushed cheeks and you shook your head, once again, being caught red handed about owning an animal in the compound. “C’mon Clint’s waiting downstairs, he’d gonna drop us off. I’m sure your little friend is in safe hands. And besides, it’s not often you hear a Russian curse out a cat. The walls are thin, honey, very” the witch chuckled as she helped you pick your bags up.

Safe to say, when you passed the main rooms in the compound on your way to the front entrance, a faint string of Russian curses could be heard followed by “Stop chewing on my Nerf Darts you little-!” Yes. The walls were extremely thin.

[lefteagleblizzard]

𝔅𝔢𝔱𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔫 𝔱𝔴𝔬 𝔡𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩𝔰

Mike Munroe x male reader x Grant Ward

Summary: The lodge burned, sealing away the horrors inside until S.H.I.E.L.D. arrived, determined to uncover the truth. You swore your feelings for Mike Munroe would never be returned. But after a charged encounter with a certain agent, you find yourself caught between two men. One wants to tame you. The other wants to break you.

Tags: Male reader. He/him pronouns are used towards the reader. No use of Y/N. Friends to lovers. Strangers to ???. Angst. Lots of sensual tension. Jealousy. Love corner. Gay smut. Top Mike munroe. Top Grant Ward (Pre-Hydra). (No selfcest). Bottom male reader. Blowjob (reading giving). Anal sex. Double penetration.

ℳ𝒶𝓈𝓉ℯ𝓇𝒾𝓈𝓉

Words count: 8000 words

You adjusted the weight of the gun in your belt, a gift from Mike that he stubbornly insisted you take. You still weren't sure why he'd been so adamant, but at this moment, you were almost grateful for it.

You jumped down from the rocky ledge, the freezing water swallowing your lower body again and forcing a sharp hiss of pain through your clenched teeth that clattered against each other. The water ripple beside you as Mike jumped in as well.

He cursed under his breath, a sharp ‘fuck’ cutting through the still air, but he adjusted quickly, stepping closer to rub your arm with his hand, the friction a weak attempt at warmth. You managed a small, tight smile, your lips trembling from the cold.

"I'm fine," you forced a smile, ignoring how your teeth clacked together. "You should worry more about Josh."

Mike's hand didn't leave your arm.

Even as you lied through your teeth about being fine, his fingers stayed curled around your sleeve, thumb tracing slow, absent-minded circles over the damp fabric. His brows were drawn tight, lips pressed into a thin line like he was searching for something in you.

But whatever he was looking for, he didn't seem to find it. He gave a single, stiff nod.

"Alright," he muttered, voice rough, like he didn't even believe himself.

Another splash echoed behind you. Josh had followed, his mumbling barely intelligible over the sloshing water, his head tilting this way and that, movements erratic. He wasn't here with you, not mentally.

Mike's grip on your arm lingered, just a second too long before he moved forward and you took the chance to move towards the rocks on the side, feeling the merciful relief of shallower water as you reached a cluster of jagged rocks.

It happened in an instant. A sudden splash and Mike disappeared beneath the dark water.

Panic surged in your chest as your eyes darted wildly across the water's surface, trying to catch a glimpse of him until something rose from the depths.

The thing that emerged was not human. It had once been, maybe, but what stood before you was something twisted beyond recognition, something starved, stretched, monstrous. Its skin clung too tightly over its skinny frame, stretched thin over bones that jutted at jagged, unnatural angles. And the eyes. Sunken pits of milky white, rolling wildly in their sockets as the head snapped towards Josh, neck cracking with the motion. The jaw hung open far wider than it should have, an unhinged, gaping maw lined with jagged teeth.

The sheer wrongness of it paralyzed you. Your body refused to move, breath lodged somewhere between your ribs, mind caught in the primal terror of staring into something that simply should not be.

An arm locked around your waist, yanking you backward with such force that your frozen muscles finally snapped into motion. You gasped, twisting in the grip and found Mike, soaked and terrified. His grip was iron, pulling you toward cover, away from that thing.

Its claws snapped around Josh and he screamed, dragging him from the water like he weighed nothing.

Mike hauled you behind a large rock, his body pressing into yours,pinning you between his heat and the cold, wet stone and holding you against him, arms tight and firm. His heartbeat pounded beneath your cheek, rapid, erratic, just as shaken as you.

He moved to reach for something at your waist.

The gun.

His fingers brushed your belt, pulling the cold weight of it free.

Your fingers twitched as if trying to recall a missed opportunity, the crushing realization slamming into you like a freight train. You had a way to fight back, and instead you stood there, useless, frozen in fear while Josh was taken

Mike cursed under his breath as he raised the gun with his injured hand and aimed where Josh was.

Nothing. Neither him or the wendigo were there.

He swore under his breath, dragging a rough hand down his face, frustration evident in the lines of his body. Then he turned, locking onto you again, softer this time.

"Are you hurt?" His voice was quiet, but insistent, hands gripping your shoulders. His thumbs rubbed slow, grounding circles into your soaked jacket.

You shook your head. Your throat was tight, something thick and painful building there. "It's my fault." The words barely came out. "I could've—should've—"

"Stop." His voice was firm, not allowing space for doubt. "I unloaded hundreds of rounds into those things at the sanatorium. They don't fucking die." His fingers tightened, forcing you to meet his gaze. "If you shot it, all it would've done is kill you next. There was no point in both of you dying."

Your chest was too tight, breathing uneven, and rapid. His arms locked around you with force, pressing you flush against him protectively, body radiating heat despite the cold seeping into your clothes. Your face met his chest, his soaked, dirt-covered shirt and his sturdy chest against your skin, he held you like he needed it just as much as you did

The hum of the aircraft was a dull, constant vibration beneath you. The lodge was gone, reduced to embers and the wendigos—what was left of Hannah and those poor miners experimented on at the sanatorium—were nothing but charred skeletons buried in the wreckage.

SHIELD had arrived before the police even had a chance.

You hadn't even processed how they got there so fast before you were ushered onto The Bus, this massive military transport plane. Instead of immediate safety, you were met with cold professionalism agents in black tactical gear, armed with sidearms that wanted to know everything.

One by one, you and the others were being interrogated. The idea of recounting the night in painful, graphic detail made your stomach twist, but exhaustion sat heavy on you, making it difficult to do much more than sit back and wait.

Mike was beside you and that was enough to keep you grounded. Your body ached, bruises forming where you'd been slammed against walls, dragged through frozen water, thrown to the ground.

You glanced across the cabin. Sam sat a few seats away, elbows on her knees, hands over her face. She was probably thinking about Josh, about Hannah, about everything. The truth had hit her harder than anyone else.

Ashley was already being interrogated, locked away in some windowless room on the aircraft, probably struggling to explain to an agent how cannibalism had turned people into monsters with supernatural strength and speed.

Emily sat across from you and Mike, staring down at the metal floor, her hands gripping the fabric of her torn pants. She muttered curses under her breath over and over, her rage and grief bubbling under the surface, directed at Matt. Whether for leaving her, abandoning her, or not making it out alive, you weren't sure.

You still didn't know if Jessica and Matt made it.

Beside you, Mike shifted. The seat creaked under his weight as his shoulder brushed yours.

It felt stupid how good it felt just the contact alone and you didn’t think twice before leaning into him, resting your head against his shoulder, instinct overriding hesitation.

For a moment, you thought he was going to pull away but then, hesitantly, his arm slid around your waist, pulling you closer.

Mike's jaw clenched. He hadn't thought past the constant static in his chest every time he looked at you.

There was a weight between you, something unspoken but heavy pressing at the edges of whatever this had always been. You swallowed hard, a quiet, bitter chuckle slipping past your lips in a desperate attempt to ease the tension. "At least we both made it out in one piece," you murmured, your voice hoarse.

Mike scoffed, shifting slightly to wave his injured left hand in front of you. The crude bandage was still wrapped tight around the stump where his fingers used to be, the fabric stained with dried blood.

"I wouldn't say one piece, exactly."

You rolled your eyes, nudging him lightly "You know what I mean, dumbass."

The teasing was easy. It almost felt normal, like the two of you were back at some party, throwing banter across the room. But Mike's fingers brushed over your wrist, his thumb tracing small, absentminded patterns against your skin.

His mind was racing.

If this night had taught him anything, it was that life was too fucking short. If he was willing to fight monsters for you, if he was willing to nearly die for you, what the hell was stopping him from saying what's been on his mind for months now?

His grip on you tightened slightly. His throat felt dry.

"I won't tell anyone about what happened in the mines."

The words weren't what he meant to say. Not even close.

He cursed at himself immediately when he felt you tense. There was a moment of silence that stretched painfully, then you whispered, "You shouldn't do that."

Mike turned to look at you fully. Your face was so close to his, barely millimeters apart. He took it all in at once, the dirt and dried blood on your skin, exhaustion clung to your expression and the sharp line of your jaw. It made his chest feel too full.

Your voice was strained. "You shouldn't possibly ruin your life for something I did."

Mike clenched his jaw. He hated the way you blame yourself. It wasn't your fault. If you had tried to save Josh, you'd be fucking dead. He was doing this because he wanted to, because the idea of you getting dragged into something worse than what you'd already suffered made him sick.

Mike swallowed hard. "It's not up for debate."

"It's not your responsibility."

Mike shook his head, jaw set. "I don't care."

Another stretch of silence that felt longer than it really was. Then, slowly, you turned your head to look at him. Your faces were too close and Mike's breath caught in his throat.

You were exhausted, bruised. Blood streaked across your temple, a smudge of dirt on your cheek. But you still looked perfect in his eyes.

You swallowed, breath shaky. "Why are you doing this?"

Mike clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the way his pulse spiked.

You could see the dirt and blood streaking his face, the cuts and bruises from his fights. His lips were split, his cheekbones shadowed with fatigue and grime, and his sharp but tired eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach twist.

Mike exhaled sharply, his breath unsteady, pulse hammering like a war drum in his chest. The words clawed at his throat, desperate to be freed, but his tongue felt heavy, his mind a battlefield of hesitation and raw emotion.

This was it. No more second-guessing. No more biting his tongue. He had to say it now before the moment slipped through his fingers.

He loved you. He fucking loved you.

If it meant keeping you safe, he would have faced a hundred more of those wendigos with nothing but his bare hands if that’s what it took.

His breath hitched as the weight of it settled between you both, hanging thick in the air, electric and undeniable.

He opened his mouth—

"Jesus," Chris groaned suddenly, dropping into the seat in front of you both. "That was terrifying. I think I aged ten years in the last ten minutes. That woman is scary."

Mike clenched his jaw so fucking hard it hurt.

You blinked, lifting your head from his shoulder and he immediately hated the loss of warmth. His arm was still around your waist and his grip twitched, fingers digging in slightly as if he could silently tell you to stay where you were.

But you were already looking at Chris, frowning. "Who?"

Chris rubbed his temple. "The one who interrogated me. Dark hair, totally deadpan face. I thought she was gonna flip the table over when I took too long to answer."

You recalled all the agents that swarmed you when they arrived and circled all of you, your mind settling on a stern-looking Asian woman with sharp, no-nonsense eyes, her posture rigid with the kind of discipline that made it clear she didn’t tolerate any bullshit. Beside her there was a man with neatly combed brown hair, a slight receding hairline that did nothing to diminish the quiet authority he carried. His composed expression barely shifted, save for the occasional flicker of dry amusement in his gaze, as if he was already ten steps ahead of everyone in the room.

You stifled a laugh. "What, you got interrogated by an adult Emily?"

Emily scoffed, shooting you a glare but didn't argue, too preoccupied muttering about Matt under her breath.

Then someone called your name.

Your stomach dropped as you realized that it was your turn.

You groaned, pushing yourself to your feet and squeezing Mike's shoulder in reassurance.

Mike looked up at you and it was easy to pick that your smile wasn't real. Your eyes were too tight, anxiety flickering behind them.

You turned and walked away and all Mike could do was watch until you stepped inside the room.

It was cold not just in temperature, but in presence as well.

A man was seated with calculated ease, fingers interlaced on the metal table between you. He was handsome in a way that was almost unfair, like someone had sculpted the sharp lines of his jaw with the intention of making people stare.

His suit was crisp, tailored to broad shoulders and a lean, solid frame, emphasizing the lean muscle beneath. The sleeves were rolled up enough to expose his forearms, the fabric pressed neatly against defined muscle that flexes subtly as he tapped a pen once against the metal table. The name ‘Grant Ward’ placed on the right side of his suit.

He didn't greet you. Didn't offer a single word of pretense.

Instead, he studied you. No unnecessary movement. Just an unwavering gaze as you took your seat.

Goddamn. Was it too late to request the terrifying woman Chris had mentioned?

Ward exhaled through his nose, gaze flickering over your face like he was assessing something. Then, finally, he spoke.

"Start from the beginning." His voice was sharp, commanding. "Tell me exactly what happened on this mountain."

The sheer weight of the question hit you like a sledgehammer.

Your body screamed with exhaustion, every muscle sore from the night's horrors with your mind in an even worse state.

And now, you have to relive it all again. But Ward's expression made it clear that there was no room for evasion.

So you started talking.

About a year ago Hannah ran into the woods, Beth chasing after her. About how neither of them came back. Then came the present. The stranger with a flamethrower that helped all of you. The sanatorium and the notes you and Mike found about the experiments. The Wendigos.

Every fucking detail, laid bare before him.

You could see Ward's hand moving occasionally, jotting things down, but his face barely moved. His expression remained unreadable, eyes locked onto yours like he was watching for the moment you slipped up.

But when you got to Josh you hesitated.

Just for a second. A single, sharp second.

And he noticed. His pen stilled.

You forced yourself to keep going, but you carefully didn't mention what had happened in the mines. You spoke about how Josh had planned revenge, the fake deaths and the psychological torture.

"You're leaving something out about your friend," he said smoothly.

Your jaw tightened, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. "It's a hard thing to talk about."

Ward leaned back slightly, tapping his pen against the table with a thoughtful rhythm. "That's understandable."

You exhaled slowly.

"But," he continued, "what I don't understand is why, out of all the things you just told me, this is the part you struggled with."

Your fingers curled into fists. "Because he was my friend.”

The words came out sharper than you intended, the exhaustion making your patience wear too thin, and that was when you realized that you just walked straight into his trap.

Ward didn't blink. "That didn't stop you from telling me about Hannah."

He tilted his head slightly, watching you like you were an interesting puzzle he was beginning to enjoy putting together. Ward knew he had you.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to hold his gaze. "Josh wasn't the bad guy."

Ward made a soft, considering sound. "So you're saying he's innocent?" His tone was too neutral, too practiced. "Then why did you tie him up in the barn and left him for the Wendigo?"

You inhaled sharply through your nose, forcing control. "You're twisting my words," you shot back.

"Am I?" A flicker of something subtle, dark amusement.

"Yeah," you said, leaning forward now, refusing to back down. "You weren't there. You don't get to act like you know what we all went through."

Something about that seemed to interest him. "You seem defensive."

You scoffed, shaking your head. "You seem like a pain in the ass."

Ward's smirk fully formed, a slow, deliberate curve of his lips that sent something sharp through your chest.

Your body had already betrayed you, but your mind? Your mind was a fucking traitor.

Suddenly you ended up thinking about his hands. Big and strong fingers that could wrap around your throat with the same practiced ease he used to hold a gun.

Or pin you down, bent over this fucking table, pressing you down against the cold metal with his body flush against yours.

Your jaw clenched, nails dug into your thighs beneath the table.

If he really wanted answers, how far would he go?

Would he whisper in your ear, that same mocking lilt in his voice as he asked his questions while his fingers traced down your spine? Would he take his time, make you beg to speak, make you squirm under him until you gave him every secret, every confession, every fucking moan?

Or would he be impatient? Would he press you down harder, his breath hot against your neck, hips pinning you in place as he made it clear that this was about breaking you completely?

"Something on your mind?" He was watching you unravel and he liked it.

Your breath hitched, and of course he caught it. You saw the flicker of amusement in his expression, the way his gaze dropped so briefly to your throat, watching the way you swallowed, like he was considering something and your skin burned with the realization.

Your nails dug harder into your thighs. "Fuck you."

Ward chuckled, low and deep and you hated how fucking good it sounded

"Careful," he murmured, tilting his head, "I might think that's an offer."

He stood abruptly, the movement was fluid, precise, the scrape of the chair's legs against the floor sharp in the too-quiet room. He didn't hesitate, didn't break eye contact.

And in seconds, he was at your side.

A strong hand clamped down on your shoulder, the calloused pads of his fingers pressed against the fabric of your shirt, squeezing not in aggression, but in something worse.

"You're free to go," he said.

Except he didn't move. He stood directly in front of you, his frame blocking the path.

You could have stepped to the side and walked past him, left without a second glance.

So why the hell couldn't you move?

He leaned forward. Hands braced on either side of the cold, metal table behind you.

Caging you in.

Your back hit the table as you involuntarily backed away, but there was nowhere left to go.

Ward was too close now. The heat radiating from his body was at odds with the sterile chill of the interrogation room, his presence swallowing the space between you. The scent he had was something like faint gunpowder and expensive cologne that wrapped around you and fuck, your heart was pounding.

"It wouldn't take much for me to find out what you're hiding." A whisper that came low and rough as he spoke.

You swallowed hard, the knot in your throat tightening as his presence loomed closer.

His eyes, dark and piercing, never wavered from yours. They held a promise of retribution that made your skin prickle with unease. A slow, deliberate step brought him nearer, the barest smirk curling the corner of his mouth as he studied your reaction.

"And when I do," he continued, his voice dropping further, almost a growl now, "I'll give you exactly what you deserve."

A sharp wave of heat rolled through you, unwanted, undeniable.

Your breath hitched and you knew he fucking felt it.

His gaze flickered down to your lips.

Voluntary? Involuntary? You had no fucking clue.

Your pulse thundered in your ears as your body moved before your mind could catch up.

You tilted your head slightly. Let your gaze flicker to his lips just for a brief, fleeting second enough to let him notice.

You moved so goddamn slowly, closing the space between you inch by inch, breath by breath.

His was warm. It ghosted over your lips, mingling with your own and he didn't pull away.

Your chest was tight, skin burning, and just when you felt him shift slightly—

"Leave."

You flinched. The word hit like a slap, rough and sharp, dragging you out of the haze of whatever the fuck this was.

Ward was already pulling away, his face was yet again cold, controlled and detached.

He turned toward the files on the table, attention already elsewhere like you were nothing.

Your legs felt weak, heart hammering so hard you could barely breathe as you forced yourself to get the hell out of there before you lost all composure.

You didn't let yourself look back.

Mike was already waiting for you when you stepped out, leaning against the wall, arms loosely crossed over his chest, his head tilted downward in deep thought. His fingers tapped idly against his bicep, brows furrowed.

The second his gaze landed on your face, something in his expression shifted.

His brows pulled together, eyes narrowing and scanning your face in quick, sharp flicks like he was trying to read you. He pushed off the wall instantly, straightening up, body already moving toward you before he even realized it.

Your shoulders were too tight, body wound up like a coil ready to snap. You wouldn't meet his eyes, and made his stomach twist.

"You good?" His voice was lower than usual, careful.

You shrugged. "I'm fine."

He didn't believe you. Not for a fucking second.

His gaze flickered over your shoulder, toward the interrogation room door.

The agent was leaning against the doorframe, posture too relaxed, as if he had no real interest in you at all. But Mike wasn't an idiot. He saw the way Ward was watching you, gaze lingering for just a second too long before finally flicking toward Mike.

The ghost of a smirk was barely there, but it sent something sharp through Mike's chest.

His fingers curled into fists as he forced himself to tear his eyes away from Ward before he did something fucking stupid.

Instead, he turned his attention back to you.

"You don't look fine." His voice was firmer now, pressing.

You exhaled sharply "Mike, I said I'm fine."

He definitely didn't believe you now. His hands clenched inside his pockets, nails biting into his palms as something ugly curled in his chest.

"What the fuck happened in there?" His voice was low, sharp, his patience running thin.

You ran a hand down your face, frustration creeping into your tone. "Mike."

He stepped too close to you now and you stiffened, instinctively leaning back, as his broad frame looming.

"I'm serious," he said, voice quieter now, but somehow more intense. "What did he do?”

"I said nothing happened," you snapped, the exhaustion making your voice too sharp, the words coming out too fast. "Jesus Christ, what is this, round two? I've had enough of being interrogated, okay?”

The second the words left your mouth, regret hit you immediately.

You hadn't meant to say it like that, hadn't meant to make it sound like you were pushing him away.

Mike exhaled harshly through his nose, his fingers flexing like he was fighting the urge to lash out—not at you, never at you, but at something, someone, at the situation, at himself.

He had let his emotions get the better of him and he backed off immediately, the heat of his presence suddenly gone, the absence of it making your skin prickle. He scrubbed a hand down his face, forcing himself to breathe, to calm the fuck down.

"Shit." His voice was quieter now, rough. "That was—fuck, I didn't mean to—" He cut himself off, shaking his head like he was pissed at himself.

Mike swallowed hard, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he took a step back. He turned on his heel, rolling his shoulders back.

"I should go. Get this shit over with."

The words were calm, but the tension still hung thick in the air, something unfinished between you.

Leaving you alone with nothing but the sharp regret in his expression and the lingering heat of his body that still clung to your skin.

A whole night awake was definitely something that would make anyone fall asleep the second they would spot anything to lay on.

Your body was beyond exhausted, beaten, bruised, still aching from the hell you had barely survived, but your mind refused to let you rest. Every time you close your eyes, you see those wendigos ready to tear you apart. Their screech mingled with Josh’s scream of pure terror.

It was too much so you had given up. Restless, drained and unable to fight the battle in your own mind, you quietly slipped out of the makeshift 'room' SHIELD had provided you on The Bus, wandering into the dimly lit corridor.

The hallway was dimly lit, lined with reinforced steel doors and you weren't surprised when you spotted Mike already there.

He was standing just a few feet away, like he had been about to come find you. Arms that were crossed over his chest, head tilted downward, lost in thought.

Your chest tightened at the sight. Still, you mustered a small, careful smile as you stepped closer. "Can't sleep either?"

His lips quirked into a nervous, almost shy smile, something you rarely saw from him. "Not a chance," he murmured, shifting on his feet.

He had cleaned up since earlier, finally able to wash away the grime and blood that had clung to his skin since the sanatorium. His injuries had been properly patched up, bandages wrapped neatly around the places that had once been a mess of hastily-tied cloth and dried blood.

The slightly too tight black shirt SHIELD gave him hugs his torso in a way that's... distracting.

Mike has always been fit, but this is just unfair. His broad shoulders, the solid muscle beneath the fabric, the way his arms look even stronger now without the oversized jacket hiding them.

You slid down the wall, settling onto the cool metal floor. Mike followed suit, sinking down beside you, his body warm where it pressed just slightly against yours.

The silence that followed was comfortable, almost peaceful, a stark contrast to everything you had been through.

"I was scared," he admitted suddenly, voice quieter now. "Back at the lodge. When everything started going to shit. I was losing my mind, man. Thinking about where you were, if you were okay. Fuck, I could barely focus on anything else.”

You turned your head slightly, watching him. His fingers flexed against his knee, his good hand idly fidgeting with the hem of his too tight SHIELD issued shirt.

"Hell, I was this close to torturing Josh if he didn't tell me what the fuck he did to you." He clarified.

The warmth that sparked in your chest was almost overwhelming. You barely even noticed that you had leaned closer, your shoulder pressing against his, most likely driven by the fact that you had always felt something for him that never really went away.

He seemed to lean in too, his breath mixing with yours, gaze flickering downward for half a second before snapping back up.

All at once, the words tumbled out

"I fucking like you, okay?" Mike blurted, rubbing a hand down his face as if trying to physically wipe away his nerves. "Like, really like you. And I know this is probably— No. it’s definitely the worst time for this, but I've been sitting on this for so long and after almost dying I can't not say it anymore."

You kiss him.

It's instinct. A desperate reaction, wordless way of shutting him up before he drives himself insane.

Your lips press against his hesitation at first, but the second it happens, the second Mike registers what's happening, he melts into it.

His hand moves to your face, fingers threading through your hair as he kisses you back, harder, deeper.

It's hungry. Messy. Like he's been waiting forever for this and can't hold back anymore.

Your hands find his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his too-tight shirt, pulling him closer, feeling the solid muscle beneath your fingers.

The moment his tongue slips past your lips, you shudder, a low sound escaping the back of your throat. Mike groans at that, shifting, pressing even closer, his body half on top of yours now as he deepens the kiss.

His fingers tighten in your hair, his other hand gripping your waist, breath heavy as his tongue brushes against yours, slow, deliberate, teasing.

As you back away to recover your breath, the heat of Mike's mouth is still on yours. The warmth of his body still lingers where it had pressed against you.

You swallow, dragging in a breath that does nothing to calm your nerves, because the second you pull away, you realize you need to tell him.

"I'm sorry. For earlier."

Mike's brows furrow slightly. "What?"

You swallowed hard. "When I snapped at you. That was—"

"Don't," he interrupted, shaking his head. "You don't need to apologize, I—"

"No." Your voice was firm, and this time he shut up. "Something happened during my interrogation and it left me speechless."

The shift in Mike's demeanor was immediate. One second, he was soft, open, vulnerable. The next his entire body tensed like a coiled spring.

"What did he do?" His voice was sharp, low, ready to fight.

You quickly cut in before he actually tried to throw hands with a SHIELD agent. "Nothing," you reassured, a half-hearted chuckle escaping. "Come on, man. You really think you could take down a trained—"

"I don't fucking care who he is. What the fuck did he do?" His voice dropped into something low, dangerous, controlled but barely. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the muscles in his forearms tightening visibly beneath the too tight fabric of his SHIELD-issued shirt.

"Nothing like that," you said quickly, knowing exactly what he was thinking.

But that didn't calm him. If anything, it made him more on edge.

"Then what?"

You hesitated for a second too long before breaking it down to him, explaining everything that occurred in that cold room.

"Hey." His voice is quieter now, rougher. His fingers twitch before moving, hesitantly, to your face. His thumb brushes over your cheek, and the second he does, you lean into it.

Like it's the most natural thing in the world and fuck, that makes something warm ache in his chest.

"You know not to let that guy get into your head, right?" he murmurs, voice lower now, softer, but still edged with something firm. "Whatever mind games he was playing? That's all they were."

Mike's voice was rough, raw, pleading beneath the sharp edge of his frustration. His hand was still on your face, fingers warm against your skin, thumb barely brushing your jawline.

You knew what he was asking and you should have said yes. Should have reassured him and pushed every thought of Ward out of your mind.

But you hesitated and Mike saw it.

His entire body tensed, fingers twitching against your skin before he abruptly pulled away, ripping his hand back from.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he muttered under his breath, his good hand dragging through his already-messy hair, his movements sharp, frustrated. He let out a harsh exhale, shaking his head like he couldn't fucking believe this.

You swallowed hard. "Mike, I—"

"No." He cut you off fast, voice low, sharp. "Don't. Just—don't.”

He pushed himself up off the floor, standing so fast it made you flinch. His body radiated tension, shoulders tight and stance stiff. His fingers flexed at his sides like he was barely holding himself together.

"Mike," you said quickly, scrambling up after him. "Please, don't—don't be mad, I—"

He spun to face you and for a second you froze.

His expression is intense and menacing, brows slightly furrowed and eyes locked in a piercing, almost predatory stare. His lips are pressed together and the shadows on his face emphasize the sharpness of his features, making him look intimidating and unreadable. The dim, moody lighting of the hallway adds to the overall eerie and threatening atmosphere. But more than anything he looked hurt.

His voice was quiet when he spoke, but lethal in its intensity.

"I protected you. For hours. Through all that fucking shit. I never left you. Not once." His voice was shaking, just slightly, but his anger held steady.

“Tonight I finally got the balls to tell you about how i felt and you—" he let out a harsh exhale, shaking his head. "And you're sitting here, thinking about fucking some other man?"

His voice cracked slightly at the end and that broke something in you.

You didn't know what to say because he was right.

Your stomach sank. You had ruined this like everything else.

Your breath came in shallow, uneven pulls as you took a step forward, fully aware of how dangerous his expression had become. Something you never thought you'd see directed at you.

You wet your lips, forcing yourself to speak, to carefully form the words you needed.

"Mike." Your voice was softer now, controlled, but not fake. "Everything I feel for you is real." You stepped closer, slow, cautious, searching his face, watching every flicker of emotion behind his eyes. "Nothing has changed that. "

Mike inhaled through his nose, his jaw twitching, arms crossing tightly over his chest like he was physically holding himself back from reacting.

A long silence.

"It's hard to believe that," he murmured, "when you're fantasizing about getting fucked by another man while saying those things to me."

Your breath caught, his words sinking deep, hitting your chest, your stomach, making something coil inside you.

Softer, but somehow worse, his voice dripping with something bitter and almost mocking. "Even after all the things that I did for you."

Your fingers twitched at your sides, irritation flaring up like a spark against dry kindling.

The words slipped out before you could stop them, sharp, cutting, your emotions pushing too hard to keep your voice controlled.

"I never asked you to protect me from what happened to Josh!"

The second it left your mouth, you saw the way his entire body locked up. His face twisted, something raw and pained flickering across his features for just a second before it was buried beneath something darker.

His teeth clenched and for the first time in your life, Mike Munroe was looking at you like he didn't recognize you.

Silence.

Horrible silence.

A flicker of movement behind Mike.

Even before your eyes locked onto him, you felt him.

Grant Ward was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, exuding that same calculated stillness as before. Not surprised. Not irritated. Just watching.

"Trouble in paradise?" His voice was smooth. Controlled and mocking in that way that made your skin prickle, your breath hitch.

Fuck. He had heard everything.

Mike stilled in front of you. You barely had time to process it before your mouth moved on instinct, your voice sharper than intended. "What do you want?"

Ward's gaze never left you.

Mike stepped forward immediately, his entire body moving like instinct, slotting between you and Ward, his stance tight, protective, like he was physically blocking you.

"Fuck off."

Mike's voice was low, dangerous, practically dripping with barely-contained rage.

And Ward just chuckled. A slow, quiet thing, his lips twitching just slightly, his eyes flickering between you and Mike like he was enjoying the show.

"I didn't know you were so eager to sleep with a criminal."

The words landed like a fucking grenade.

Mike’s entire body tensed, his breath shuddering out uneven, his bandaged hand clenching into a fist too tightly.

The bandages around the healing wound where his pinky and ring finger used to be started to tear, the fabric pulling apart under the sheer pressure of how fucking hard he was gripping.

"Mike, what is he talking about?"

His shoulders tightened.

He turned, his eyes flickering to your face, mouth parting like he was going to say something but no words came out.

Silence that Ward filled eagerly.

"He told me," he said smoothly, gaze locked onto yours, "that it was his fault Josh was taken."

Your stomach dropped.

"He heard screaming," Ward continued, voice even, clinical, like he was repeating evidence, "and urged you to follow him. Since there was no point in both of you dying."

The words hit and your chest ached. Mike had twisted the truth to protect you and keep your name out of it.

"What the fuck do you want?" Mike’s voice was hostile as he barked back at Grant. "You already have everything you need."

Ward tilted his head slightly. Then, simply. "I want the truth."

You stepped forward before you could think, moving until you were right in front of Grant, your chest nearly brushing against his.

"You want the truth?"

Mike's voice called your name sharply behind you, irritation and something dangerously close to desperation in his tone.

But you ignored him.

Grant’s expression remained calm, still, unreadable, but his eyes were locked onto you like he was analyzing every shift, every breath, every flicker of emotion that passed through you.

"It wasn't Mike's fault." Your voice came out stronger than you expected, but your throat felt tight. "It was mine."

Grant raised an eyebrow.

"Josh—" You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to say it. "Josh is gone because of me. I could've saved him. I froze. I did nothing."

The words felt like broken glass on your tongue, sharp and bitter. He studied you for a long moment, the weight of his gaze was suffocating, inescapable, pressing down on you like a physical force.

And then he spoke. "We found your friend. Deep in the mines," Ward continued, voice perfectly level. "Alive. Fully intact."

Your breath hitched. Josh was alive. Even after you had left him to whatever nightmare awaited him in those tunnels.

Your body moved before your mind could catch up, your feet shifting, breath stumbling, turning sharply toward Mike.

His eyes were already on you, his shock mirroring your own.

The sound of a boot clicking softly against metal. A shift in the air, something subtle, something felt before it was heard.

A firm grip wrapping around your shoulder, pressing down enough to remind you who was in control.

"Told you I keep my promises."

Ward's voice was low, smooth, too close, edged with mockery as he leaned in just slightly. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting against your ear.

"You lied to me." His voice was sharper now.

Ward's gaze flicked up past you to Mike.

You felt the way Mike stiffened, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles going white.

"It’s almost endearing how willing he was to throw himself under the bus for you." He mused to you. His fingers curled slightly, dragging along the fabric of your shirt before his grip tightened again.

"Despite everything he's done for you—" his voice was smooth, casual, but dripping with purpose as he angled his head toward Mike, twisting the knife deeper. "You still have room in that pretty little head of yours for me."

Heat flooded your body, something sharp, something foul, something filthy curling deep in your stomach.

Your entire body felt hot, your pulse pounding in your fucking dick, because fuck, fuck, you shouldn't—

"Maybe he needs to be taught a lesson."

The words slammed into you like a physical force, knocking the breath from your lungs, making your fingers tighten against your sides.

You knew exactly what he was implying.

Exactly where this was going.

And fuck—you wanted it.

Heat. Everywhere. It clung to your skin, thick and stifling, rolling off you in waves as strong hands kept you pressed between two bodies that left no room to breathe. Your head was spinning, vision hazy, barely able to register whose lips were on you at any given moment.

The air was filled with the sounds of ragged breathing and the low, guttural groans of satisfaction. Hands roamed greedily, possessively, sliding under your shirt and tugging at your waistband. Grant’s fingers dug into your hips, pinning you back against his sturdy chest while his free hand snaked down inside your underwear, squeezing your ass painfully.

Mike was in front of you, his grip firm as he tilted your chin up, forcing your half-lidded gaze to meet his. His lips crashed against yours and the kiss was anything but gentle. It was demanding, a collision of hunger and dominance as his mouth slanted over yours. His teeth caught your bottom lip between them, sharp but not enough to hurt, just enough to make you gasp and he used that moment to push his tongue past your lips, sweeping inside and dragging along the roof of your mouth, tangling with yours in a messy, desperate exchange.

He sucked at your tongue, drawing a groan from deep in your throat that only made him press closer, body flush against yours, chest heaving. One of his hands cupped your jaw roughly, keeping you exactly where he wanted you, while the other had already made its way between your legs, gripping your cock through your pants, fingers pressing just enough to make you squirm.

Grant's touch was almost cruel in contrast to Mike's reckless desperation. His mouth was on your neck, hot breath fanning over your skin before his teeth sank into the flesh of your shoulder and the jolt of pain only made the pleasure sharper. You moaned into Mike's mouth, the sound swallowed eagerly as he deepened the kiss.

"Look at you," Grant murmured against your skin, his voice smooth, low, full of dark amusement as he squeezed your ass hard enough to make you hiss. The heat in your stomach twisted tighter at the rough touch, at the way his fingers slid possessively over your flesh, teasing, testing, like he was savoring the way you twitched at every squeeze. "Didn't take much to get you pliant, did it?"

Mike broke away from your lips just long enough to glare over your shoulder, breath hot and heavy against your skin. "Shut the fuck up," he growled, his grip on your cock tightening, his strokes more deliberate now, fingers teasing the outline of your length through your pants.

Grant chuckled, dark and knowing, but the way his fingers dragged lower, circling where you needed them most, made your breath hitch. Your body betrayed you, arching instinctively into his touch, and the satisfaction that rumbled from his chest made it clear he'd noticed.

Mike let his lips trail teasingly downward, nipping at the sensitive skin there, his tongue darting out to soothe the bites he left behind while his hand gave your cock a slow, deliberate stroke that made your knees go weak, each stroke perfectly teasing, dragging his fingers just right over the sensitive tip, making you whimper into his mouth as he kissed you hungrily again.

One of Grant’ hands slid up your spine, pressing you further into his chest. The other was still firmly cupping your ass, fingers pressing into your flesh and when it dipped lower, his fingers pressing inside you, that the air left your lungs entirely.

The stretch was sudden, practiced, his fingers scissoring, curling with high experience, hitting exactly the right spot to send a wave of pleasure rolling through you. Your moan was swallowed by Mike's mouth again, his tongue eager as he licked inside, owning every sound you made.

"We'll see if you're this eager when it's my cock stretching you open." Grant murmured against your ear, voice dripping with approval and something dark.

Your body was on fire, stretched between them, caught in their hands as they kept pushing you closer and closer to the edge. Every inch of your skin was burning and the way their bodies were pressed against you only made it worse. You could feel both of them hard and thick, their cocks pressing into you from both sides, undeniable reminders of what was coming next.

They moved you through the room without a pause in their assault, hands stripping away every last piece of clothing until you were completely bare, caught between them, exposed and theirs. Grant's fingers never stopped working you open with ruthless precision, while Mike's hand kept you throbbing and aching, keeping you right on the precipice of release but never quite letting you tip over.

By the time Grant bent you over the bed, your body was trembling, your mind a haze of pleasure and desperation. His big hands kept you steady, one firm on your hip, the other still working inside you, dragging more obscene noises from your lips with every twist and curl of his fingers.

His breath was hot against your neck, lips brushing the fresh bruises he had left before his teeth sank in again, making you jerk and groan as he lapped at the red spot like a hungry animal savoring its claim as he ground his cock against your ass.

Behind you, the unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone cut through the haze of pleasure, sharp and clear despite the heavy drumming of your heartbeat in your ears.

Grant leaned in, his solid chest pressing against your back, heavy and unyielding. His body was heat and strength, trapping you beneath him, his breath fanning against your ear as he shifted just enough to settle into place. You felt him big and hot, pressing right against your entrance, the blunt head teasing you just enough to make you whimper. The pressure alone was a sharp reminder of just how thick he was, how much he was about to give you.

He didn't waste time. His hand came up, fingers gripping the back of your neck with firm possession as he spat into his other hand, stroking himself once, twice, enough to spread the slick heat along his length before lining himself up again and pushing in.

A guttural grunt ripped from Grant's throat as he sank into you, his cock stretching you wide, forcing your body to take every inch of him in one slow, unforgiving thrust. He bottomed out completely, his hips pressing flush against your ass, his chest rising and falling heavy against your back as he exhaled a rough, almost shaky breath. His fingers tightened against your neck, keeping you exactly where he wanted you as he pulled your head back, his lips dragging over your jaw before kissing you.

A bruising clash of lips and teeth that stole the breath from your lungs. His tongue pushed past your lips immediately, licking into your mouth with the same dominance he was using to claim your body. His teeth scraped over your bottom lip, biting down to sting painfully before swallowing your gasp, thrusting his tongue deep into your mouth to chase the sound.

His hips moved in tandem with his kiss, pulling back only to slam forward again, setting a rhythm that sent waves of pleasure rippling through you. His hands were everywhere, both of them gripping your ass now, spreading you wider, fingers digging into the flesh with bruising force as he fucked into you harder. Every drag of his cock inside you made your brain blank, moans spilling into his mouth only to be swallowed whole.

"Fuck," Grant growled against your lips, his thrusts turning rougher, faster, as he held you firm in his grasp. His fingers dug into your skin, marking and claiming you.

Then he moved you, shifting your body like you were nothing in his grasp and pulling you up so that you were no longer on your stomach but leaning against his chest, fully exposed, fully on display. Your back pressed against the solid heat of him, his arms wrapping around you to hold you in place as he thrust into you harder, making your cock bounce with every snap of his hips.

Mike was right in front of you now, kneeling on the bed, his eyes dark and heavy lidded as he watched.

Grant's lips ghosted over your ear, his breath hot, full of amusement as he spoke to Mike all while still fucking into you, his thrusts slow and deliberate, dragging every inch of his cock against your walls. "You see that?" he murmured, voice deep, controlled, laced with smug satisfaction. "How easy he falls apart for me?"

Mike's jaw clenched, his fingers twitching against the sheets, his own arousal painfully obvious, pressing against his pants as he took in the sight of you your body trembling, your cock leaking, your lips already swollen from Grant's bruising kisses.

Grant chuckled lowly, biting at your neck again, his tongue flicking over the bruises he was leaving behind as he picked up his pace, fucking into you harder and making sure Mike saw every single thrust.

Mike exhaled roughly, then made his move. He surged forward, one hand tangling into your hair as he crashed his lips against yours, stealing you from Grant's kiss with a hunger that bordered on feral. His mouth was hot, tongue forcing its way in to claim you, fighting for dominance, taking what he wanted as his free hand found your cock and wrapped around it without hesitation.

His strokes deliberate, teasing the sensitive tip before sliding down with an unrelenting pace that sent pleasure shooting through your core. His fingers were slick with the pre-cum already dripping from you, making every movement easier as he pumped you in time with Grant's cock driving into you hard, deep, the thick stretch rearranging your insides with every powerful roll of his hips, engulfing your entire being in this overwhelming sensation consuming you.

His thumb circled the head, pressing enough to make your whole body jolt, his grin widening as he felt the way you twitched in his grasp.

Behind you, Grant let out a low, approving hum, his fingers digging into your hips as he pulled you back hard against every thrust, making sure you felt every inch of him splitting you open.

Your nails scratched against the sheets, body trembling between them, the pleasure winding so tight inside you that you felt like you might break apart at any second. Mike pulled back slightly as you weakly reached for his waistband, your fingers fumbling to undo his zipper.

His breath hitched and his eyes flickered to your face, watching as you struggled to form words between the brutal rhythm of Grant fucking into you. The desperate pleading look in your eyes was enough.

Mike's smirk was instant, sharp with amusement and desire. "You want it that bad?" He teased, lifting his hips slightly, allowing you better access.

He made quick work of the rest himself, shoving down the last of his clothes, his cock springing free, thick and flushed with arousal. His hand wrapped around the base, stroking himself lazily as he watched you, his other hand reaching out to squeeze your cheek playfully, tilting your head up toward him.

"C'mon," he murmured, voice thick with anticipation. He guided his cock to your lips, tapping it against them, smearing pre-cum across the softness before pressing in, slow but insistent. "Show me how much you want me," he murmured.

You didn't hesitate. Your lips wrapped around the tip, tongue swirling over the head before sliding lower, taking as much of him as you could in one eager motion. The thick weight of him settled against your tongue, and you moaned around him, the vibration making him groan above you, his hand tightening in your hair as your mouth stretched around his length.

Behind you, Grant's thrusts didn't slow-not even for a second. If anything, he fucked you harder, clearly enjoying the way you struggled to keep up with both sensations at once. His fingers dug into your hips, each thrust sending another spark of pleasure tearing through you.

Mike let out a breathless hiss, his grip tightening as he started rolling his hips, fucking into your mouth with slow, shallow thrusts, his cock hitting the back of your throat with every movement.

Your whole body was trembling, caught in their grip, every nerve set on fire as you were being filled from both ends, ragged groans and curses spilling from both of them.

Mike’s free hand slid into your hair, guiding your pace, his hips starting to move faster, his cock pushing deeper.

Behind you, Grant grunted, his thrusts turning rougher, harder. He was close, you could feel it in the way his fingers gripped you tighter, his breathing turned ragged with thrusts that started to lose some of their precision.

"Gonna make sure you feel me for days,” Grant growled, his voice dark and wrecked as he slammed into you, the force making you choke slightly on Mike's cock.

The words sent a sharp pulse of heat through your gut and Mike groaned at the that feeling, his fingers tightening in your hair as his own rhythm stuttered. You hollowed your cheeks around him, sucking harder and that was all it took.

Mike panted, his head tilting back slightly as he let himself savor the wet heat of your mouth, his grip tightening as he groaned low and deep, cock twitching in your mouth before he came, thick and hot, spilling down your throat. His body trembled, a string of curses falling from his lips as he watched you swallow, his fingers brushing over your jaw as he panted, his pupils blown wide.

Grant’s pace turned brutal, his hips slamming forward as he bottomed out inside you one last time, his cock buried deep as he let out a rough, guttural groan as his cum flooded you, filling you up, making you feel impossibly full. You could feel it dripping from where he was still buried inside you. His grip on your hips was iron as he held you still, making sure you took every last drop.

The pleasure had built to a breaking point, your entire body trembling and right on the cusp of unraveling. Your cock throbbed, aching, so damn close until Grant's hand clamped around you, squeezing at the exact moment you were about to let go.

White-hot frustration shot through you like a bolt of lightning, your breath catching in your throat as your orgasm was ripped away with cruel precision. You whined, the sound breaking free before you could even think about suppressing it, hips twitching in a desperate attempt to seek friction, to chase the release he had just stolen from you.

But Grant laughed. Low, condescending, his breath fanning against your ear as he mocked you. "You really thought I'd let you come that easily?" he murmured, a patronizing sound that only made the humiliation sharper. He let go completely, leaving your cock aching, denied, your entire body shuddering from the ruined pleasure.

His hands gripped your shoulders, fingers digging in deep and he pulled, hauling you up in a seated position. You were too wrecked to fight him as he maneuvered you. His arms wrapped tight around your frame, one hand sliding lower to cup your ass possessively, fingers squeezing the abused flesh.

Then he kissed you. It was ravenous, all tongue and teeth. His lips were hot, rough from how hard he kissed, leaving no space for you to breathe. His tongue shoved past your lips, licking deep into your mouth, controlling the kiss just like he controlled everything else.

A sharp, brutal slap against your ass. The force of it making you jerk against him, a muffled, involuntary noise escaping against his lips. A brief and satisfied grin against your mouth, a silent acknowledgment of just how much he enjoyed making you react like this.

He bit your bottom lip, tugging roughly before diving back in, swallowing every sound you made. His hands held you in place, one still gripping your ass possessively while the other found your hip, fingers pressing deep enough to bruise.

Without breaking the kiss, he shifted you again, pulling you forward until his back met the mattress and you were sprawled on top of him, your own back resting against the solid, defined heat of his chest. The sensation of his abs beneath you, all tight muscle and strength, was dizzying, every movement making you feel the hard ridges of him against your skin.

Mike crawled on top of you, his hands finding your waist while his body pressed you down further against Grant's chest. His thick, leaking and already achingly hard cock dragged against your entrance, circling and sending sharp sparks of anticipation burning through you.

His breath came in short, ragged gasps, matching yours. His lips descended, claiming yours in a greedy and scorching kiss, tongue sweeping into your mouth just like how, with one slow, deliberate thrust, Mike pushed inside.

Your whole body shook, pleasure crashing over you in an overwhelming wave as he sank in fully, the stretch perfect, the mess Grant had left inside making it effortless. No resistance or pain, just the overwhelming heat of being completely filled again, your walls stretching yet again to accommodate his size.

Mike groaned against your lips, his forehead pressing against yours, his body shuddering as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours. "Fuck," he breathed, voice thick with pleasure, with awe.

He started moving in and out, dragging himself out almost completely before sinking back in. A slow pace at first like he wanted to savor every single second of being inside you. Firm hands held you in place, his breath coming in soft ragged gasps as he kissed you between every thrust, drowning in the feeling of you wrapped around him.

Soon enough the rhythm changed, he adjusted his hips, angled himself before slamming into you.

A guttural scream tore from your throat, only to be swallowed instantly by his lips, his tongue tangling with yours as he drowned in the sound. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, locking tight, holding him in place and keeping him against you.

His cock drove into you with relentless force, hitting deep with movements turning desperate, hungry. His hips snapped forward again and again, your whole body shaking, muscles burning, everything wound so tight you could barely breathe. Mike was pounding into you, his cock hitting deep, every thrust sending white-hot sparks of bliss ripping through your body.

You were right there, teetering on the brink, the pleasure building, rising, twisting into something uncontrollable-

Just as you felt yourself teetering on the edge, body tightening, breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps—Grant's hand clamped down, fingers digging into your hip, stopping Mike's relentless thrusts in an instant.

A strangled, frustrated groan ripped from your throat, echoed by Mike, who cursed under his breath, his grip tightening on you as if willing himself to move despite Grant's interference. "Not yet," his breath hot against your ear as he murmured, voice dripping with cruel satisfaction as he shifted beneath you, his hands locking tight around your hips, forcing you still.

The blunt, thick head of his cock pressed against your entrance again, your entire body going rigid as he started to push in.

Mike groaned, his forehead dropping against yours, hands gripping your waist so tightly to leave bruises when he felt Grant forcing his way in, stretching you even further, pushing in alongside him, splitting you apart in a way that should've been impossible.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—" your and Mike’s voice broke into a snarl, his fingers digging into your skin as his cock twitched inside you, overwhelmed by the sensation of Grant joining him.

Grant bites into your shoulder, muffling his own deep, ragged groan as he buried himself inside you.

The stretch was blinding.

Your walls clamped down tight, forced to accommodate both of them, the impossibly full sensation setting every nerve ending on fire.

"You're taking us so fucking well," Grant murmured against your skin, though his voice was anything but gentle, more of an order than anything else.

Mike grunted, a wrecked sound that he barely managed to contain, his forehead still flush against your away, body shaking on top of yours. "Holy shit—He's so fucking tight like this—" His hands slid up your sides, palms skimming your overheated skin.

Grant growled low in agreement, his grip tightening. "He can take it. That’s all he’s good at."

Your whole body was trembling, overwhelmed, completely at their mercy. Every inch felt too stretched, too full. And the feeling didn’t went any better when they started to move.

A slow, teasing rock of Grant's hips, pushing even deeper, a grind from Mike, rubbing up against everything inside you and your vision went white.

A broken, wrecked moan tore from your throat, all muscles clamping down around them while they dragged against each other inside you, stretching you to your absolute limit. The way they alternated with one pushing in as the other pulled out, fucking you in tandem, making sure you never got a moment to breathe or a second of reprieve.

Mike was getting rougher, more desperate, his movements turning erratic, his forehead pressed against yours as he panted, his breath shaky, uneven, grip tightening more, his hips pounding against yours.

Grant’s fingers wrapped around your throat, tilting your head back just enough to claim your mouth in another devouring kiss. His thrusts turned brutal, matching Mike's, filling and owning you.

The pleasure twisted, sharpened, built, your entire body rocked between them, completely at their mercy until you finally came hard.

Your vision blacked out, pleasure so intense it was almost painful, your entire body convulsing between them as your release spilled, untouched, onto Mike's stomach.

He lets out a strangled, wrecked groan as he buried himself deep, his cock twitching deep inside you as he spilled, thick, hot cum flooding your insides as he pressed in deep as he filled you completely, painting your walls with everything he had left.

The moment Mike came undone, Grant followed, his grip crushing, his breath ragged as his hips snapped forward in a few final, deep, brutal thrusts. His cock throbbed, pulsed until he came as well.

The heat of it was scalding, overwhelming, pouring into you in thick, endless spurts, so much that it leaked out around their cocks, slick and messy, dripping down your thighs, making you feel just how full they had made you.

They didn't pull out. Their bodies pressed against you, cocks still buried deep and twitching, filling you with more and more, stretching you to your absolute limit.

Your whole body was shaking, overwhelmed, overstimulated, your breath coming in rapid, sharp gasps. You felt them inside you, the weight of their releases thick, dripping, claiming you completely.

The dim glow of the night watch flickered softly on the bedside table, time had become meaningless here with no windows, no frame of reference for morning or night, only the distant, ambient hum of The Bus and the steady rise and fall of Mike's breathing beside you.

His arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his other tucked beneath your head like a makeshift pillow. Warmth radiated off him in steady waves, seeping into your skin where it pressed against his bare chest. Every inhale and exhale brushed softly against your hair, each slow rise of his ribs against your back grounding you in the present, in him.

The soreness in your body was a dull and pulsing reminder of what had happened before you'd both collapsed into this tangled heap. The ache ran deep, bruises left from hands that had gripped too hard, mouths that had bitten too eagerly. The dull burn in your lower back sent a shiver through you as you shifted slightly, the movement dragging a quiet groan from your throat.

Mike stirred immediately, his grip tightened first, followed by a sleepy mumble against the back of your neck. Then his eyes cracked open, bleary but alert, scanning your face in the dim light. Naked just as you were, he murmured a sleepy, raspy, "Hey," his voice rough from disuse, cracking slightly at the end.

You swallowed down the warmth that curled in your chest at the sound. "Hey"

A deep chuckle rumbled through him as you groaned, twisting to ease the soreness in your muscles. Mike grinned at your wince, his amusement entirely too smug. "That bad, huh?"

You scoffed, rolling your eyes even as a small smirk played at your lips. "What do you think?"

His laughter was quiet but genuine, his arm beneath you shifting, curling further around you. "I think you sound like an old man," he teased.

You shot him a look. "Oh, fuck off."

You turned your head enough to catch the sleepy, half-lidded gaze of Mike Munroe. Messy haired, bare chested, eyes heavy with the remnants of exhaustion. He was unfairly handsome like this, stripped of his usual cocky bravado, blinking at you with something softer.

His fingers flexed lazily against your waist, tracing over where bruises had likely already begun to bloom.

You rolled your body so that you were on top of him now, hands playfully on both of his to keep them grounded with your weak and absent strength as he stared up at you with a grin. You shifted your head enough to scan the bed.

No Grant

The realization settled in quickly and you tried to keep it subtle, tried to avoid letting Mike notice, but you weren't fast enough. Your movements slow and clunky from tiredness.

His grin faltered barely, the cocky expression slipping into something tighter and slightly forced. You caught the tension in his jaw before he muttered, "He's gone. Got called for a mission or whatever. Some really important work shit." His voice dropped, dripping with sarcasm. "Hopefully won't make it back."

You snorted at that, his lips twitching into a grin despite himself. You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, and whatever sharp response he had died instantly in his throat.

Mike melted into it immediately, hand coming up to rest behind your neck, lips moving slowly and deliberately.

His hand drifted lower, fingers ghosting over your waist before gripping it fully. He got into a seated position, his upper body resting on his arms with you still on top of him and was about to kiss you again, lips just barely brushing yours when—

"You were really gonna let yourself get incriminated because of me?"

The words hit him like a bullet and he froze. "Jesus," he muttered, dragging a hand down his face, "you really had to kill the mood, huh?"

You gave him a look. "Mike."

He groaned, flopping down on the pillow dramatically, one arm still curled around your body. Mike inhaled sharply, his chest rising with the weight of his breath, then exhaled slowly.

“I’d do anything for you,” he confessed, a vow edged with devotion and an intensity that burned in his every syllable. His fingers trailed up, cradling your face like you were something precious and irreplaceable. The rough pad of his thumb traced slow, reverent circles over your cheek. “And I’d do it again,” he murmured, his tone unwavering, absolute. “A hundred times over.”

His nose brushed against yours, the space between you nonexistent. His lips hovered just a hair’s breadth away, teasing, tormenting. “Because I fucking love you.”

You swallowed thickly, staring down at him, your pulse roaring in your ears. His body pressed into yours, heat radiating off him and you felt the way he trembled slightly, how his breath hitched when your hands threaded into his hair.

“Now tell me,” he murmured, voice rough, a command, but you could hear the uncertainty beneath it.

Your breath stalled. “Tell you what?”

Mike’s jaw clenched, his fingers digging into your waist. “Tell me it didn’t mean anything. Tell me you’re mine.”

His voice cracked on the last word.

Your stomach twisted painfully. It would have been easy to lie, to tell him what he wanted to hear. But he deserved the truth.

You exhaled shakily, closing your eyes for the briefest second before forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “He got under my skin,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Mike inhaled sharply through his nose, but you pushed forward before he could react.

“And yeah, I let him.” you continued, your voice unsteady but firm.

Mike’s entire body went rigid against yours.

“I wanted him because he reminded me of you.” You admitted, your throat bobbing as you forced the words out.

Mike’s breath hitched. His grip on you was firm, like he was grounding himself, barely holding himself together.

You swallowed, pressing on. “I thought I’d never have this,” you whispered, voice raw, cracking slightly. “I thought we were never gonna be this. So when he got in my head and looked at me like that, I wanted to feel something back. Because it was familiar. It reminded me of you and it was the closest I thought I’d ever get.”

Grant didn’t just challenge you. He saw you, tested you and in some twisted way, made you feel wanted in a way you never thought Mike would.

Mike made a sound, something between a sharp breath and a curse, his hands sliding up, framing your face, tilting your head up to force you to look at him. His pupils were blown wide. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he rasped, voice thick. “If you think for a second that there was ever a chance I didn’t want you.”

Your breath hitched, and before you could process it, Mike dragged you closer, his lips hovering just over yours, heat rolling off him in waves.

“You want me?” His voice was low, rough, testing, searching.

You swallowed hard, your pulse hammering against your ribs. “Yes,” you breathed.

Then he flipped you. In an instant, you were on your back and Mike was above you, his body caging you in, knee pressing between your legs. His fingers curled tighter, voice taking a huskier tone. “Say it again.”

“I want you.”

His lips crashed into yours. Deep, slow, deliberate. Like a promise of something real that believed wholeheartedly.

[passionatefanficgirl]

Unintentional

Pairing: Loki x shy!autistic!fem!reader

Summary: Accidentally getting caught up in a chain of events outside your control was not on your bucket list. But neither was working for SHIELD. Or being able to read the mind of a certain Asgardian captured by SHIELD…

Warnings/tags: Fluff, soft Loki, angst, reader hates their job, mind-reading, implied concussion, mention of stabbing, minor character death, mentions of injuries, probably OOC Loki? (I don't really know…), probably confusing dialogue, morally questionable SHIELD

A/N: I'm so sorry I haven't posted in so long, life's just been really busy lately.

*******************************************************************

Working for SHIELD was not on your bucket list. In fact, you didn't even know that the organisation existed until you'd dropped out of school, and started looking for work. You'd started as a lab intern, but you got promoted to lab assistant - and then you got onto SHIELD's radar.

In a good way, fortunately. You ended up getting a job there, and now you're one of the top lab assistants. You've worked with (well, for) some of the best scientists in the world. Some were nice, some not so nice, some just average.

Like your previous employer, Dr Selvig, who mysteriously disappeared quite recently.

And now you're stuck being a lab assistant to Dr Banner, who's probably the most dangerous person on the whole ship. Sure, he's not the worst scientist you've ever had to be a personal assistant to; in fact, he's actually really nice. One of the best, in fact.

Even so, you're pretty on edge around him. You're not the best with people, and the only reason you even agreed to the position of lab assistant in the first place was because, well, you thought that it would be only a few people that you'd have to interact with that would all be as awkward as you.

Unfortunately, that's not the case. Apparently, being a lab assistant also means acting as a mediator between the agents and the scientists - something you've never been great at, as it requires, well, people skills. Good people skills.

Fortunately, Dr Banner doesn't seem to be having any trouble like that, so far, and another guy's helping him out with whatever they're supposed to be doing (SHIELD is annoyingly 'hush-hush' about that sort of thing), which renders you pretty much useless as far as helping is concerned.

That's why you're glad that Banner lets you do pretty much whatever you like. He doesn't like being disturbed while he's working, he doesn't want to talk with the agents until he's found something of value - and that other guy, Sparks or something, is already playing assistant.

But still, knowing that he could lose control, and turn into a giant green rage monster at any point has been doing a pretty good job of keeping you on edge.

Sure, there's a dangerous guy locked up in the cage downstairs, who's apparently from another planet, and is ridiculously overpowered by all accounts, but - he's locked up. Banner isn't. And - well, you don't really know how the whole Hulk thing works. Does he get a nasty mood swing that turns him into Hulk? Is it under immense stress? Or does it just come on randomly?

One of the advantages of having pretty much free rein on a SHIELD hideout is that you can find out some pretty interesting stuff about the history of SHIELD, past cases, etc., and if anyone asks, you can just say it's for your job. It's just unfortunate that you aren't allowed to use your knowledge in trivia quizzes, and have to play clueless like other people.

"L/N? Where are you going?" You bite back a groan as you turn around.

It's just unfortunate that Agent Romanoff's seen you leaving the lab. You've never really been sure what to make of her. She's never been overtly mean to you, but she does have a habit of sticking her nose into your business, which you find kind of annoying, especially as you're a fairly private person.

"Aren't you supposed to be helping Dr Banner?" she asks.

You have to fight the urge to sigh. "He doesn't want to be disturbed while he's working."

"You should still stick around, though."

You shake your head. "He told me he doesn't like having people hovering over him unless they're actually helping."

Romanoff considers this for a moment, before nodding. "Okay, well, I actually have a job for you. I know it's not exactly in your skill-set, but - well, we still don't know what Loki's planning to do, so I need you to go and talk to him for me, see if he lets anything slip about his plans."

You nod. "Yes, Agent."

As you walk off, your mind's racing. I've got to talk to Loki, the second most dangerous person on the entire ship, a guy so powerful that it took the combined efforts of Sparks, Richards, Romanoff, and a couple others to even capture him? What if he attacks me? What if he gets inside my head? What if-

"L/N?"

Wonderful.

It's Agent Hill. "What are you doing?"

"An errand for Agent Romanoff."

You're surprised at how quickly her manner becomes more approving when she hears Romanoff's name. This could be a get-out-of-jail-free card for the next time I get caught snooping!

But even after that delightful discover, you're still very nervous by the time you reach the cage where Loki's being held, so much so that you end up debating with yourself about whether to even open the door.

Come on, Y/N, you have to open the door. You have to talk to him.

But he's dangerous! He might kill me!

He's in a cage that'll drop out of the helicarrier if he tries to break it, much less attack you.

But the mechanism might fail!

There's a button on the control pad that you can press that will do the exact same thing.

I don't want to do this!

Look, you promised Agent Romanoff you'd do it. You don't have to stay very long. Just ask him a couple questions, and then run away. You don't even have to stay to hear his answer; they can probably see him on the security cameras anyway.

Even so, for all your rationalising, you're still pretty scared when you finally push the door open, and step inside.

Maybe he won't hear me if I keep quiet. Maybe I can jumpscare him.

No such luck. Loki snaps his head around the minute you step inside.

He's actually a lot less scary-looking than you imagined he'd be.

Well, apart from his eyes. They're a glowing, unnatural blue that reminds you eerily of that weird spear-scimitar hybrid that Sparks and Banner are working on.

You can hear your heart pounding in your ears. Your lungs are struggling to fill with air, making you hyperventilate.

What am I even supposed to ask him? 'Hi, how's your day going? Oh, and by the way, could you very kindly tell me what exactly your plans are for invading Earth?'

Bang!

You jump back as Loki slams his fist on the glass.

"How did you get into my head?" he hisses.

Your first instinct would have been to run away, but you're so terrified that you can barely think straight, let alone run away.

He thumps the glass again. "Answer me!"

Tears begin to fill your eyes, partly from the shock, but also from his manner. You can see now why he's so dangerous; he can be absolutely terrifying when he wants to be.

"I - I don't know what you're talking about," you gasp, trying hard to hold back your tears.

"Don't lie to me." Loki's voice is quieter now, but more menacing. "Tell me how you got into my head!"

"I didn't!" Your voice is getting more and more high-pitched. "I swear!"

"Then why did I hear your voice while your lips weren't moving?"

"You can read thoughts?"

"When I choose to."

So he didn't-

"Why would I bother myself with the thoughts of a mere mortal?"

Darn. I forgot he could read thoughts.

"I'm not trying to read your thoughts, mortal," snaps Loki. "Now would you say something?"

You open your mouth, but it's completely dry, so you close it again, while trying to work out what you're going to say.

Then a wave of anger hits you.

You know what? you decide. Screw Romanoff. Screw Fury. Screw SHIELD. I'm sick of them, pretending like they're better than everyone else just because they work for the government.

You can tell Loki's listening in, but you don't care. Let him listen. Let him hear exactly what goes on inside my head.

"Tell me about yourself," says Loki suddenly, in a much more civil tone than before. "How did you start working for SHIELD?"

I got too good at my job, so Fury forced me to work for him. Outwardly, you say, "It was an internship."

Loki nods. "What do you want from me?"

Well, not from you specifically, but I'd quite like to quit this job, and go back to being a civilian. "Why… why would I tell you that?"

Loki just smirks. "I think you know why, mortal."

I don't want to tell you.

Loki chuckles. "Don't you trust me?"

I don't know who to trust anymore. "Why would I trust someone fighting the organisation I work for?"

Loki's suddenly serious. "Do you trust SHIELD?"

I thought I did. But after I read the files… "Of course." You're shocked at how easily the lie slips off your tongue. What have I become?

"L/N!"

It's Fury. And he looks like he's living up to his name quite well.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Your mind goes blank for a moment. "Uh… Romanoff asked me to interrogate Loki."

"Well, it doesn't look much like an interrogation to me. Seems like Loki's doing most of the asking."

Maybe there's different types. "Well - I'm - I'm going to ask him questions."

Fury sighs. "Fine. Just - don't get too close. He's a master of manipulation, L/N. He'll get inside your head, if you let him."

Well, I wasn't letting him. "Yes, sir."

After he's left, you turn back to Loki with a sigh. "Where were we?"

L/N, I need you to pay attention to me. In a few minutes, Barton will be breaking in with enemies of SHIELD, who work for me. I need you to stay low, draw as little attention to yourself as possible. Stay near me if you can. And get rid of that uniform, or they will kill you.

You try hard to keep your emotions in check. Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?

There's no time to explain. Are you with me or not?

You consider for a moment. What has SHIELD ever done for me? For any of its agents? I don't even like the organisation, so why…

Loki sighs. What have you to lose?

Everything, if you lose. But… you know what? Screw SHIELD. I was planning to leave them anyway, at least once this mission was over, so why not leave now?

Loki smirks. "You have no questions for me, L/N?"

It's Y/N. "I did, but then Fury interrupted, and I forgot."

"Well, I'd rather like to hear some questions, all the same." What do you have to offer me, Y/N? I'm not doing this purely out of the goodness of my heart.

If we fail, I act as a double-double agent, and see if I can get you the lightest sentence possible. You'd still be incarcerated for a while, but it would be shorter than life - and better than going to the electric chair. If we succeed - well, I'm not sure. "How - how old are you?"

Loki chuckles again. "What a silly question. I am around one thousand and fifty years old - which is equivalent to around twenty-one of your years." That sounds fair enough.

How do I know you'll keep your word? "Um - well - do you have any siblings?"

"A brother. His name's Thor. You may have seen him." I promise to you, Y/N, on all I hold dear, I will protect you.

Cross your heart? "The blonde guy carrying the big hammer?"

Loki nods. "Yes." Cross my heart?

It's a kind of promise. Cross my heart, hope to die. Or you could swear on your mother's life. "Well - um… he mentioned you were adopted."

"That's correct." Well, if it makes you feel better - cross my heart, hope to die. But I already promised on my mother's life.

And you'll keep that promise? "How old were you when you were adopted?"

"I was a baby." I will.

Should I leave? "So, like, a birth adoption?"

Loki shakes his head. "I don't want to talk about it." No, stay here. You'll be safer near me.

But what about my uniform? "Well - um…"

"No more questions, hm? You don't seem to have learned very much about me." When I get out, I can cast an illusion to hide your uniform.

Should I help you break out? "Well, I learned a bit about your family and childhood. That's something, right?"

"But you still have no idea of my plans." Do you know how?

I think I could figure it out. Or Barton could get you out. "That's true…"

Crash!

The whole aircraft gives a massive shudder, the impact knocking you to the floor.

For a moment, you're dazed, unsure what to do next.

Looking up, you see that the security cameras around the cage are broken. Not that it matters whether anyone sees you now.

Struggling to your feet, you stagger to the control panel, and try to figure out which button to press to open the cage.

After trying a few random buttons, which fortunately do nothing untoward, you find the right one, and press it.

Stepping out, Loki takes a long look at you, before putting his hand on your shoulder.

"There," he says softly. "You should be safe now. Just stay with me."

Looking down, you see that your SHIELD uniform is gone, replaced by plain black clothes. "Thanks."

"Don't thank me yet. Do you have a weapon?"

You shake your head. "I'm not allowed."

Loki points to your belt. "You are now."

That's when you realise there's a holster on your belt - with a gun in it. Taking it out, you take a good look at the gun. You don't know very much about guns, but it looks pretty powerful.

"Come on," mutters Loki. "We can't just stand here."

"Sorry," you mumble, hastily putting the gun back into the holster.

You feel Loki tense behind you before you hear the heavy footsteps entering the room.

Stay still.

You obey without question, your mouth dry, as you watch Loki cast an illusion.

"No!"

Clang!

It's Loki's brother, Thor. And he's locked in the cage.

"Are you ever not going to fall for that?"

Loki's words make you want to laugh. Despite everything, it seems that he and Thor still have a sibling dynamic.

"Brother-" Thor's voice is low, threatening.

An illusion of Loki walks up to the control panel. "The humans think us immortal. Should we test that?"

In desperation, Thor throws his hammer at the cage wall. It manages to crack the glass, but then the bars holding the cage in place start to give way.

Loki's hand hovers over the button, ready to press it.

"Move away, please."

You turn, and - oh, of all the miserable luck!

It's Coulson. And he's holding a pretty lethal-looking weapon.

"You like this? It's a prototype we started working on after you sent the Destroyer to Earth. I don't even know what it does, but I'm pretty interested in finding out."

Loki begins to back away - and then disappears.

The real Loki appears behind Coulson, stabbing him in the chest.

"No!" yells Thor.

Ignoring him, Loki walks over to the control panel, and pushes the button.

You have to suppress an audible gasp as Thor is thrown out of the aircraft.

Loki gestures to you. "Come on."

You obey, scuttling up to him, trying not to look at Coulson's body, which is now slumped on the floor.

"You're going to lose."

Both you and Loki turn around to see that Coulson's still alive.

Loki lets out a soft laugh. "Am I?"

"It's in your nature."

Loki shakes his head. "Your heroes are scattered; your floating fortress falls from the sky. Where is my disadvantage?"

"You lack conviction."

"I don't think I-"

Bang!

Coulson fires his weapon, which sends you and Loki flying through the wall.

Fortunately, Loki was standing in front of you, and took the brunt of the blast, but you're still in a lot of pain, and you're pretty sure you've cracked some ribs.

"Y/N!" Loki gets up, and rushes towards you. "Are you alright?"

You nod. We should go.

"Come." Loki helps you up.

You're grateful for his concern, but you're not planning on telling him how you really feel. Not yet, anyway. Your whole body hurts, which makes you wonder if you're more injured than you first thought. Maybe the adrenaline's masking it.

Your suspicions are confirmed when your knee buckles, nearly sending you down a flight of stairs.

Loki catches you before you can fall. He gives you a look, but picks you up in his arms without a word.

You nearly yelp at the unfamiliar sensation, but you're grateful for the support. You're pretty much certain that you're badly hurt, and you doubt you could have gone the rest of the way by yourself.

A jet's waiting for you when you finally get out of the aircraft.

Loki's still holding you as he steps onto the jet, maneuvering you onto his lap as he sits down.

As the jet takes off, Loki gives a few orders, before turning his attention back to you.

Let's have no more lying, please, he begins, rather sternly. Now, how do you really feel?

You stare at the floor. I don't know. I know I'm injured, but…

Loki's face softens slightly. I'll get a medic to see to you once we land. You do need to rest, so just try to relax for now.

You try to do as he says, but it feels kind of weird. It's been a long time since you've had this much physical contact, even longer since you've sat on someone's lap, and even longer since you've been held in someone's arms.

Loki…

Yes?

Why are you helping me? I'm literally supposed to be a SHIELD agent. Or are you just taking me hostage for ransom or something?

Loki sighs, shifting you into a more comfortable position. I'm not taking you hostage, sweet. Look, Y/N, I know you won't believe me, but - I really am helping you - I really want to help you. But I can't tell you why. Not yet, anyway.

Couldn't you tell me at least one reason?

Loki's mouth turns up slightly. Well, it's been a long time since someone confided in me.

But what about your brother? Hasn't he confided in you before?

Not for a long time. Loki's arms tighten around you as the jet dips. And listen, once this is over, I will tell you why I'm helping you. But for now, you need to trust me.

Well, I don't really have much of a choice, do I? I'm injured, you're about a hundred times stronger than me, and I'm in a jet with a load of guys who'll kill me if I attack you.

Loki brushes a strand of hair out of your eyes. You should rest. I doubt you could attack even a human right now, let alone me.

Sighing, you close your eyes, and rest your head on his shoulder, suddenly feeling very tired. Your whole body's really hurting now, and it's getting difficult to breathe, but you're too exhausted to care.

You're painfully jolted awake when the jet lands.

You hear Loki curse under his breath. "Are you alright?" he asks you.

You're too tired to respond.

Answer me. Are you hurt?

I don't know. Leave me alone…

You feel Loki's hand rest on your forehead, before moving down to cup your cheek. "We need to get you to a healer."

And then everything goes black.

*****************************************************************

Part 2

As always, I do not give permission for anyone to copy my work, post it elsewhere, etc.

[vbecker10]

The Storm

Pairing: Steve Rogers x female reader (Y/N)

Summary: Your mission with Steve is at an end but a series of massive storms heading towards your location has grounded the jet. The two of you seek shelter in an abandoned cabin for the night and after a quick dinner of SHIELD rations, your focus shifts to pretending you're not terrified of the storm, barely noticing the super soldier is happy to finally have some alone time with you.

A/N: This was a pretty random idea... that I am not supposed to be working on but here we are🤦‍♀️ I hope you all like it! ❤️

"It's just a little further," you say over your shoulder, the super soldier nods in response as he follows you through the dense trees. The sky continues to darken as the wind howls around you, a shiver runs up your spine but it's not just from the gradual drop in temperature or the steadily falling rain. You can feel the slowly building panic you always sense when a storm gathers and you have no idea how you'll make it through the night without your teammate finding out your secret fear.

"You did really great finding this place, Y/N," he says with a proud smile when the cabin comes in to view a few minutes later.

"Thanks captain," you respond, thankful your cheeks are already red from the weather so he wouldn't be able to notice your blushing at such a minor compliment.

This isn't even close to your first field mission but his approval always makes you feel a bit excited. You've been with SHIELD for a little over two years and have been accompanying the Avengers for almost as long but this mission is different. It's the first time you and your long time crush have been sent together with no other backup. Most missions require five or six people but this mission was fairly straightforward and could be completed with just a team of two.

"Steve," he reminds you with a friendly smile as he climbs the three steps to the moss covered porch behind you.

"Steve, right, sorry," you grin awkwardly and look down, kicking a small rock off the porch to avoid eye contact with him.

You can feel his eyes on you but you don't look up until you hear him breaking the knob on the door to the cabin. "After you," he says politely, swinging the door open so you can get dry and hopefully warm.

"Well this is cozy," you say sarcastically as you step out of the driving rain and wind into the musty cabin. Your eyes try to adjust to the dim light as you move your flashlight slowly back and forth across the small space. Rain pounds on the metal roof overhead but thankfully there don't seem to be any leaks.

Steve walks in behind you, pulling the door shut and leaning his shield against it to keep it closed now that the lock is broken. "Didn't think that part through," he chuckles as he rubs the back of his neck.

"I wouldn't worry about it, it looks like the lock might have been the only thing in this place that works," you giggle in response.

Steve flicks on the light switch next to the door you missed and smirks as the cabin is illuminated, "Not the only thing."

You groan in embarrassment and put away your flashlight. "I would have figured that out," you tell him and he hums in response as you walk in opposite directions.

In the far corner stands what you hope is an empty refrigerator, a leaky sink and hot plate on the scratched and cracked butcher block counter. You head towards what was once a quaint little kitchen and place your pack down next to the hot plate without bothering to open the cabinets. If there is any food in there, you can already tell you wouldn't want to eat it. Who knows how long this place has been abandoned, you think

Steve walks to the large stone fireplace in the living room and his voice draws your attention from your thoughts of how romantic this place could have been years ago. "Firewood looks dry," he tells you, touching a few of the round logs that rest to the side of the fireplace.

"Oh great," you say cheerfully then your mouth falls open in amazement.

The super soldier picks up a piece of wood from the pile and tears in it half with his bear hands as easily as you would tear a piece of paper. He chuckles and you put your hand over your mouth when you realize you said, "Wow," outloud and not in your head. Thankfully, he doesn't turn to look at you, continuing to tear the next two logs then place them in the dusty hearth.

He runs his fingers through his damp blonde hair and looks around for a box of matches, smiling when he finds them on the mantle. Once the fire is lit, he stands up and undoes the brown leather harness he uses to secure his shield to his back. You can't help but watch as he pulls off the leather top of his blue stealth suit to reveal a white undershirt that clings to his muscles.

Steve looks at you over his shoulder and smirks when his eyes meet yours. You immediately flush at being caught watching him and focus on the bag you brought from the jet. You hear him walking towards you, the old wooden floorboards creaking under his heavy boots. Unzipping the bag you check the SHIELD issued rations.

"Anything good?" he asks, looking over your shoulder.

"Cream of onion soup or... cream of mushroom soup... or cream of chicken soup," you tell him as you pull out each can, unable to hide your disappointment by the selection.

"You pick first," he offers with a shrug.

"I guess I'll go with the one," you pick up the soup which you hate the least then groan, grabbing the broken bag of crackers at the bottom. A sudden loud clap of thunder cause you to jump, dropping the bag with a fearful gasp.

"You alright?" Steve asks, his voice full of concern at your reaction to the sound.

"Yeah, yep, fine," you say unconvincingly as your heart hammers in your chest.

The super soldier bends to pick up the now completely broken crackers and puts his hand gently on your shoulder. "You sure?"

You nod quickly and take the crackers back from him. "I'll heat up the soup," you change the topic, hoping he can't hear how much your voice is shaking. "Can you radio SHIELD and tell them where we are?"

"Yeah," he agrees but his gentle blue eyes remain on you. You keep your head down, setting up the portable stove that came with the kit from the jet. After a moment, Steve walks to the living area and calls Agent Hill to give her your location.

Your hands shake as you light the sterno, holding your breath to try and steady yourself when a flash of lightning illuminates the cabin. Please pass quickly, your silent prayer is interrupted by a crash of thunder that shakes the cabin.

You sit cross legged on the floor in front of the fireplace, finishing the last of your soup completely convinced that SHIELD just added random labels to each can. Although you checked the cans twice to make sure you had made yourself and Steve the correct ones you were sure in a blind tasting no one could tell the difference.

"Well, that was terrible," Steve jokes from his seat on the floor next to you.

You laugh and nod in agreement, your mood light since the thunder and lightning stopped just as you finished cooking. "I'm normally a way better cook than this, I promise," you tell him as he gets up, taking your empty bowl to clean up.

"Maybe when we get back, you can cook something for me that's not cream of leather soup," he suggests with a smile.

"Yeah, that would be fun," you answer eagerly, hoping he really means that. When he walks back towards you, you cover your mouth to hide a wide yawn.

"Tired?" Steve asks and you nod again. "I guess the bedroom is that one," he points to the only interior door in the cabin. You both walk towards the room, silently hoping for two beds or a least a bunk bed. He opens the door and you bite your lip at the sight of the single bed in the middle of the room. "I'll sleep on the couch," Steve offers without a pause like the gentleman he is.

"Are you sure? I don't mind sleeping out there," you insist. To be fair, the couch and bed were equally old and neither was likely to be comfortable.

"Yeah, I'll probably end up sleeping on the floor honestly," he laughs lightly and you smile.

"Okay," you look around the room, noticing only one small window and a dresser with two broken drawers.

"I'll see you in the morning," Steve says, his hand on the door handle. You tell him goodnight before he closes the door, almost hoping he'll leave it open at least a crack so he'll seem closer.

Rain falls heavily on the metal roof but that's not what wakes you from your light sleep. The room lights up as lightning flashes and thunder crashes almost instantly causing you to sit up, breathing heavily as your heart races. You look towards the window then check your watch, immediately wishing it was closer to morning but it's barely 2 AM.

You shiver, the sound of your rapid heartbeat in your ears drowned out momentarily by another clap of thunder. This is silly, you try to remind yourself. You're nearly thirty, you can't still be this scared of- your thought is interrupted by the howling wind throwing sticks and debris at your window. You curl up on the mattress and hold yourself, giving into your fear. Since you were a little kid, you've been terrified of storms and no amount of rational thinking has changed that. Not even becoming friends with the literal God of Thunder made you feel more comfortable when the rain fell in heavy sheets and the sky lit up with lightning followed by the deafening boom of thunder.

You groan and roll over, facing away from the window as if that will magically make the storm go away. Closing your eyes tightly, you can't help but wish the thin mattress came with a sheet or blanket you could hide under. Even with your eyes closed, you can see the room becoming lighter in a flash then let out a terrified scream as a nearby tree is struck and shatters loudly. You cover your mouth, hoping your scream was drowned out by the thunder that followed but the sound of the bedroom door creaking open tells you it wasn't.

Steve doesn't say a word but you can feel him standing at the edge of the bed, watching you. Your fear of the storm raging outside is stronger than your embarrassment and you are unable to pretend you're fine. The bed dips and squeaks but you keep your eyes closed, unsure of what's happening until you feel Steve's breath on your cheek lightly. He lays on his side facing you, his strong muscular arms wrap around your body as he gently pulls you towards his warm body.

He holds you silently, no hint of judgment, no treating you like a child promising everything will be alright or that you're okay. He doesn't say anything, he just holds. You squeeze your eyes shut tightly as the room lights up, your body tensing while you wait for the thunder that always follows. Steve's hand gently rubs your back in slow circles as he tries to calm you, his lips touch your forehead so lightly you're almost not sure it happened. Your fingers grip the back of his shirt tightly and you bury your face against his chest when the thunder crashes violently.

The rain falls heavily on the roof, the sound of the water hitting the metal seemingly in neverending waves but it's Steve you try to focus on. Pressing your ear to his chest, you force yourself to listen to the sound of his steady heartbeat, his chest rising and falling evenly as he remains unaffected by the storm that is terrifying you. His hand continues to rub your back and you feel your body relax under his smooth, repetitive touch. Gradually, you loosen the death grip you have on the back of his shirt but you keep your arm around him as you begin to feel safe. He breathes calmly despite the storm and you feel your eyelids growing heavy as your heart rate slows, your adrenaline fading.

Lightning flashes but you don't tense up, instead you keep your eyes closed and nuzzle against the super soldier's firm yet surprisingly comfortable chest. His hand rises to the back of your head, his fingers running through your hair and you can't help but let a sleepy smile slip free. You yawn against his body and Steve whispers, "Go to sleep Y/N, I've got you."

The morning sun filters through the only window in the bedroom as you open your eyes. You yawn and try to sit up but quickly realize you can't. Steve is laying on his back on the small mattress and your head is resting in his chest. One of his strong arms holds you around your waist and his other hand rests on your back.

You bite your lip, quickly filling with embarrassment not just at how scared you had been of the storm but at the fact that Steve saw you. You wrack your brain trying to come up with a valid excuse for how you acted while gently try to untangle yourself from his grasp.

He groans lightly when you twist and his hand falls from your back. "Stay," the super soldier mumbles without open his eyes, his hand moving back in place. Before you can come up with an excuse to move again he adds, "I just want to enjoy holding you a little longer before we have to go home."

You're silent, looking at him as you try to process what he said when his eyes open and his gaze finds you. "I'm really sorry about last night-" you immediately begin to apologize but he shakes his head and you stop.

His fingers run slowly through your hair the same way they had last night and you close your eyes, resting your head on his chest. "I'm sorry you were so scared," he says, his voice low and you can tell he's moments from falling asleep again.

"I don't like storms," you mumble the understatement of the century.

"I noticed," he chuckles lightly and you tense as a wave of embarrassment floods through you but then you feel him place a soft kiss to your forehead. You open your eyes, sitting up enough to look at him when you remember he had kissed you like that last night. He strokes your cheek gently, looking into your eyes and suddenly seeming much more awake. "I didn't mean to laugh," he tells you and you nod, believing him easily since he's never lied to you before.

A part of you still wants to pull free from his hold and never talk about last night again but then he smiles and you feel your heart race for a different reason. "I've wanted to cuddle you like this for so long," he admits causing you to wonder if this is all part of a very realistic dream. "I asked Agent Hill to assign you for this mission so we could have time together but I hadn't planned on the storms hitting or-"

"Or my ridiculously childish fear," you interrupt him, sitting up out of his grasp.

"That's not what I was going to say," he shakes his head and sits up against the wooden headboard. He sighs then looks away, "I had everything I wanted to say to you planned out in my head before you woke up but it's not coming out right." He lifts his head to look at you and you feel yourself fighting the urge to curl up in his arms again.

"Start over," you suggest with a small smile. "I won't say a word," you mime zipping your mouth shut and he laughs.

"I really enjoyed cuddling you last night and I hope I was able to make you feel safer," he says a bit more confidently. "When we get back, I'd love to take you up on your offer for dinner... preferably as a date."

You giggle when he adds the last bit and nod.

"Is that a yes to a date?" he asks, his voice more unsure.

In response to his question, you cuddle against his chest then look up, kissing his cheek. "Yes, and I promise not to make soup," you reassure him.

He laughs again, his arms wrapping around you comfortably then he leans down slightly to press his lips to yours. You kiss him back and can't help but groan when he pulls away before you want him to. He smirks at your reaction and reaches over to grab his radio which is blinking and beeping to get his attention. Steve doesn't let you move from his hold while he talks to Agent Hill and when he's done he kisses your cheek. "Time to go home," he releases you and you instantly miss being in his arms.

The sound of thunder rumbling in the distant causes you to freeze in the middle of the bedroom, your smile fading quickly. Almost as soon as the fear begins to set in, you feel Steve's arms around you. He presses his chest to your back and rests his chin on your shoulder when you place your hands on his arms. "I can tell Agent Hill we're going to stay here until the storm passes if you need?" he offers, his voice gentle but you shake your head.

"I'll be okay as long as you stay with me," you look up at him.

"I wouldn't want to be anywhere else," he leans down, kissing you again as the thunder rumbles again.

I hope you liked this!! Please like, share and comment if you did ❤️❤️ Please let me know if you want to be added to my taglist!

(I wasn't really sure who to tag for this cause I don't really have a Steve list)

@soubi001 @mochie85 @lokiswife-dark-fox-queen @multyunervisesuperfan @cabingrlandrandomcrap @lulubelle814 @goblingirlsarah @alexakeyloveloki @siconetribal @jiyascepter @eleniblue @muddyorbsblr @alyeskathewave @loz-3 @firedrakegirl @km-ffluv @biodegradable-glitter-fest @wolfsmom1 @hopefuldreamers-world @anukulee @trojanaurora @babygirl-panda19 @catsladen @stargazer-luna @gruftiela @bolontiku @scrumptious-finicky-illusion @crimson25 @lokiandbuckysdoll @holdmytesseract @wolfsmom1 @peaches1958 @michellewgrt @jaidenhawke @mochie85 @itscomplicatedx @motherofmischief @lethallyprotected @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes

[natashaslesbian]

Happy House | NR | I

Summary: Natasha suspects something is seriously wrong when you suddenly hand in your notice as a S.H.I.E.L.D agent

Word Count: 2.9k

Warnings/Content: Domestic Abuse / Verbal Abuse / Physical Abuse / Violence / Sexual Assault / Rape

—————————————————————————

“Sorry to interrupt Director Fury, Hill said I should pass this on to you myself” you said as you snuck around the door to Nick’s office, surprised to see another agent with him. “What is it?” He said “My resignation sir” you answered, not missing the glance from the redhead at Nicks side “I’m sorry to hear that Miss Y/L/N, we will miss you in the offices” Fury sighed with full authenticity “Thank you Sir, I will work my weeks notice with the most attention” you spoke through small shakes. “Well I wish you all the best” Nick rose from his chair to shake your hand “Thank you Sir, Agent Romanoff, apologies for the interruption” you nodded to the agent and director “Not at all” you heard behind you as you closed the door. “What was that?” Natasha said the second the door was shut “what was what?” Nick questioned “you’re just gonna let her leave?” The redhead exclaimed “she’s handed in a resignation Romanoff, there’s nothing I can do” Nick said “she’s your best office agent! I mean her reports are superior not to mention her tech skills!” Natasha pleaded “Well I didn’t know you took such interest in every member of the office Nat” Nick teased with a suspecting look “shut up” Nat said as she smacked him lightly in the arm, also giggling.

You trudged home through the snow that night, having given up on your boyfriends lift home. There were no lights on, visibly from the outside of your small apartment, you hoped that Dylan would be sleeping. You crept in quietly, shaking off as much snow from your boots as you could. Walking silently through the hall you came to the living area, a sudden overhead light alerting you to someone’s presence “where have you been?” Dylan said, slurring his words “baby you scared me” you smiled, hoping to defuse the tension. “I said, where have you been?” Your boyfriend said again, rising to his feet on shaky legs “you said your shift finished at 4:30, and what time is it now?” Dylan asked “it’s 6, but you see I had to stay late there was so much to do and I-“ you began to mumble before Dylan cut you off “oh shut up!” He screamed as he launched his beer can towards your head. You managed to doge it at the last second “if I find out that you’ve been with that Romanoff, I’ll kill her, then you’ll realise what happens to bad little girls” your boyfriend raged as he closed the Space between you both. “No baby, I wasn’t” you mumbled, feeling the cold wall against your back “she doesn’t even know my name, but you know I did give in my resignation, just like you asked” you could smell the alcohol on Dylan’s breath as he leaned in to give you a harsh kiss. “Good girl” he grumbled “now why don’t you get dinner started, I’m starving” he finished as he finally backed away.

“Natasha come on” Clint groaned “you said you’d be done with the report by now” he said. “I am done with the report” Nat said, her eyes still glued to her laptop. “So what are you doing?” Clint asked, “I’m just… looking into some of our agents” the redhead said. Clint came to his best friends side hovering over her shoulders “and why would you be doing that?” He asked. Natasha paused for a moment, debating if she should tell Clint the real reason she was looking over your file. “There’s this girl, from the offices downstairs, and something just seems off” the redhead said. “How do you mean?” Clint said with intrigue. “She’s been with shield for 5 years and last week she handed in her resignation. I’ve only spoken to her a few times but she seems so dedicated like she really loves it here. She’s never had a sick day she’s always in early but in the last few months somethings changed.” Natasha explained. “How so?” Clint asked. “She’s sheepish, tired, frail. She’s different” Natasha said, keeping some of the information from her own eyes to herself. “So what are you thinking” Clint asked as he eyed the laptop screen. Nat pointed towards your relation details “she updated her profile 6 months ago, added some boyfriend as her emergency contact” the widow said. “It’s the only noticeable change along with her personality” she finished. “You think there’s something wrong?” Clint said. “Maybe” Nat sighed.

You were backed into your bedroom as Dylan walked towards you. “I told you, you’re not going out tonight” he said as he continued to stomp at you. “I got tonight off work so we could be together” he said, faux sweetness in his voice. “I know” you whispered “but my friends they wanted to throw me a leaving party” you said. “What friends?” Dylan asked as he took hold of your shoulders. “My work friends” you whimpered as his grip tightened. “Romanoff?” Dylan shouted as he twisted in his stance and threw you against the bedroom wall “I thought I told you what would happen if you went mingling with that freak” he hissed at you. “No no it’s not her, just my friends from the office” you said through shaky breaths “friends?” Dylan scoffed “who’d wanna be friends with you?” He laughed. Dylan trailed his hands down your body and pushed his fingers into your hips pinning you against the wall “I thought we’d stay here and… you know” he said as he lent forward, his breath got against your face. “Dylan I’m gonna be late, everyone’s waiting for me at the restaurant” you whispered “you are not going anywhere” your boyfriend said as he gritted his teeth. Dylan took a step back and slowly walked towards the door, pushing it shut and locking it “get on the bed” he instructed. You knew better than do disobey him.

Clint put the car into park and leaned over to stop Natasha from climbing out “I don’t think this is a good idea” he said “we can’t just crash her leaving party” Natasha shrugged “we’ll just say it’s a coincidence” she said, opening the door and jumping out before Clint could say anything else. Of course Natasha had this planned out, she had called the restaurant this morning and booked a table so it was no trouble when she walked right in dragging Clint behind her. The two were sat at a small table near the back of the small restaurant, and it didn’t take long to find out where your party was sitting, the only problem was, you weren’t there. “She’s probably just stuck in traffic” Natasha heard one of your coworkers say “no she only lives round the corner she’d usually walk” Sarah, another of your coworkers, said. Clint flashed Natasha a worried glance, having been listening in to the conversation as well.

You rolled slowly over to your side of the bed, your thighs sore and your hips throbbing. “See that wasn’t so hard was it?” Dylan said as he leaned over to kiss your cheek “it’s always best when you listen to me” he said. You pulled the duvet up above your shoulders as Dylan got up out of bed “right I’m going out” he huffed “and you are staying here” he said as he pulled the duvet off your bruised body “make me something nice to eat” he demanded. You stayed frozen as you listened to Dylan shuffling through your apartment, flinching suddenly when the front door slammed shut. You pulled your legs up to your chest as you sat up, bringing your hand up to cover your mouth as you cried. There was no way out of this hell, you’d tried again and again. Taking a job at S.H.I.E.L.D was supposed to be your ticket out but when you were passed over for a promotion to field agent you knew it wouldn’t be that easy.

On his way out, Dylan took a look at your phone and found the name of the restaurant your co workers were at. He made his way down the apartment building stairs and onto the street, taking a short walk around the corner to the restaurant. He strode through the doors and brushed off the waitress flashing him a kind smile. “Dylan!” Sarah, your colleague called “what are you doing here where’s y/n?” She asked “oh she’s not feeling well, she sends her apologies and sent me along to make sure you were all having a good time” your boyfriend said as he pasted a smile across his face. “The boyfriend?” Clint quietly asked, Natasha nodded her head yes as she watched Dylan from the corner of her eyes. “Oh that’s such a shame!” One of your colleagues said as she moved to hug your boyfriend. “Somethings not right” Natasha said having been tuned into the conversation “she wouldn’t miss this, she’s too much of a people pleaser” she said. “Sounds like someone else I know” Clint remarked, attempting to defuse Natasha’s tension. The widow glared at him with a hint of humour before an idea came to her mind. “Let’s go” Natasha said as she stood up “go where?” Clint asked. “Well if Dylan’s here and y/n’s not then I have a pretty good idea where she might be, and she’s there alone” the redhead said as she stealthily made her way towards the exit.

You hobbled around the kitchen slowly, a slight limp in your steps. The room was filled with the sizzling of the steak atop the pan, you moved around on auto pilot cutting up vegetables for a salad. You focused on the throbbing pain in your hips and watched as a small purple bruise began to form along your arm. You were used to this by now, completely alienated from your body as you recovered until the next time. The kitchen fell silent as you took the steak off the heat, reminding you of the presence of the ticking clock on the wall. Too focused on the thoughts circling in your head, you failed to notice the gentle click of your front door and the almost inaudible squeak of its hinges. You winced as you opened the freezer door with your sore arm, cursing under your breath at your own stupidity. You reached for the frozen vegetables when a voice from behind startled you. “Y/n?” you spun round in shock and your eyes met the same redhead you admired so much. “Natasha?” You asked with wide eyes “what are- how did you get in here?” You stuttered as your breathing picked up a rapid pace. The widow took in your dishevelled appearance and the smudged mascara underneath your eyes. “Did he do this?” She said as she reached out for your bruised arm “what?” You shrieked as you pulled away from Natasha “who? What are you talking about?” You asked as you felt the panic rise into your chest. “Dylan” Clint said, speaking up from behind the concerned redhead. “How long has this been going on?” Natasha asked as she took a sceptical step towards you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about” you said dismissively.

Avoiding eye contact with the concerned avengers you continued to potter about the kitchen. “I think you should leave, Dylan’ll be back for his dinner soon” you said. “What, he’ll be back from your leaving party” Natasha countered as she followed your footsteps. “Yeah, I’m not feeling great so I sent him along by himself” you grumbled in annoyance. “Oh right but you’re well enough to cook him a steak” the widow said becoming increasingly more angry. “What are you implying?” You asked “I’m not implying anything, I’m telling you that I know what’s going on” the furious redhead said. “Nat” Clint warned at his friend’s increasing temper. “Nothing is going on! Get out!” You yelled “y/n look at yourself!” As she took the empty plate from your hands. “Natasha” Clint sighed as he stepped forward “how did you get that bruise?” The widow asked “and before you lie, remember what it is that I do” she said. “I…I fell over the other day” you stuttered. Natasha let out a frustrated sigh as she turned away from you, not wanting to hear anymore lies. “Y/n that’s a recent bruise” Clint said calmly. “No it’s not” you argued “and the limp? You’re gonna tell me you got that when you fell over too right?” Natasha said as she twisted around to face you again. “Ye-yes…I…tripped on the stairs” you said anxiously. “Liar!” Natasha yelled.

The room was silenced when the front door slammed with a large bang; Natasha didn’t miss the way your body flinched. “Y/n?” Dylan said as he stomped into the kitchen “what’s going on?” He asked with faux sweetness. “Sorry, I’m Clint from S.H.I.E.L.D” the archer said as he extended his hand “we just wanted to see if y/n here would consider extending her notice. She’s an exceptional agent and will be a huge loss for us” Clint said. “Well I think she’s made up her mind, right honey?” Dylan nodded as he slipped his hands back into his pocket “yeah” you huffed quickly “yeah that’s right”. Natasha watched closely during this exchange, eyes running the length of Dylan’s hand to examine them for any signs of harm. “Okay” Clint sighed “then we’ll get out of your hair” he smiled “keep in touch okay kid” he said to you as he handed over a card with his phone number. Dylan stepped aside as the two agents headed for the door “goodnight y/n” Natasha said as she turned back to you, a sad smile pasted on her face. “Goodnight” Dylan said for the both of you, silencing your words and ending the conversation. You watched as red hair cascaded down the corridor, you wondered if that would be the last time you saw Natasha.

You avoided Dylan’s gaze as you began serving up his food “dinner’s ready” you said “do you want a beer? Or is water fine?”. Your boyfriend eyed you suspiciously as you frantically ran around the kitchen. He reached for your arm as you passed him, using his fingers to dig into the fresh bruise on your skin “I don’t remember saying you could have guests over” he spat at you. “They…they were ju-just” you stuttered nervously “yeah yeah they were just asking if you’d extend your notice” Dylan said, annunciating each word with his harsh voice. “They just showed up I didn’t know they were coming” you whimpered as his grip began to hurt you. “Do you honestly think I would believe anything you say?” Dylan asked calmly, alerting you to what was coming next. “You are nothing but a lying, selfish little slut!” He suddenly screamed, releasing you from his hold but using that same arm to batter you in the stomach with each of his insults. “You were whoring yourself out to that fucking redhead weren’t you? But she didn’t want you so you invited that prick over too!” He yelled “what was the plan? They were gonna fuck you while I was out? Cause it’s all you’re good for bitch!” He continued to shout as his fits became rougher, knocking the air out of your lungs.

You managed to shuffle backwards away from your boyfriend “it wasn’t like that I swear!” You pleaded as you held your arms up in surrender, giving Dylan perfect access to wipe you out with a simple kick to your legs. You hit the floor hard, the room was starting to spin as you felt yourself being dragged across the cold tiles. This was it, he was finally going to do it. “You are the most worthless piece of shit on this planet!” Dylan spat as he placed his weight on top of your sore ribs “you know I only kept you around because you were a good fuck. I would’ve killed you a long time ago if you didn’t have anything to offer” he said as he roughly placed his hands on your chest. You had to get out of here, and not in a body bag. Your boyfriend became overwhelmed with his sexuality, lifting his weight up to lean down to your neck and litter it with harsh kisses. It was the fastest decision you ever made, but you knew it was now or never. Using all your strength you flipped your body to one side and used Dylan’s surprise to push him away. The hallway was small so it didn’t create much distance and he was sure to be even more mad at the way he hit the wall.

You scrambled to your feet as Dylan groaned on the floor. Sprinting through the house, you didn’t bother to grab anything before heading straight to the door. Your boyfriend was on his feet now, he was going to catch up unless you stalled him. When you passed through the doorway you turned on your hells and dragged down the tall cabinet leaning against the wall. It came crashing down and blocked the only exit from your apartment. You decided to take the stairs, not the elevator, there was no way you could stop now, your adrenaline wouldn’t let you stand still for one second. You finally made it to the lobby of your building and hurried straight past all the concerned faces looking your way. You came out into the cold night, wearing nothing more than shorts and an oversized shirt. You didn’t have a plan. You didn’t know where you were going. You just knew you had to run. So that’s what you did. Ran. You just ran.

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A/N: If this story has affected you in anyway please know you can always message me if you want to! Equally, there are so many resources available if you need support🤍

I’m an asshole for leaving you all with this cliffhanger before I take a break, see you in February hehe

- Astara Bell

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[Taglist]

@saraaahsstuff / @dannipotatoo / @tobiaslut / @nev-valkyriesdottir / @marvelnatasha12346 / @yelenasdiary / @mousetheorist / @ashadash0904 / @strange-night-owl / @acciowriting / @hatergirl-69 / @lovelyy-moonlight

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[fandomnerd9602]

Y/N walks the plane…

Y/N: so Daisy’s going by the call sign Quake?

Jemma: yes

Y/N: well she can rock my world any time

Daisy grabs Y/N’s arm as she walks by…

Daisy: my room. five minutes. I’ll rock your world hot stuff (winks)

Y/N:

[anxiety-prime-max]

Habits of the heart

Warnings: Grief/Loss, Trauma, Emotional Hurt, Sexual Content, Angst, Mentions of Death, Alcohol Use, Emotional Manipulation, Unhealthy Relationship Dynamics Part of smokeshow but can be read as a standalone

Smokeshow Masterlist

Word Count: 7.2k approx

Pairing: Tony Stark x Reader, Past Dean Winchester x reader

A/N: Hey ho, it has been a while, and I am severely unmotivated for everything because I have been unable to get a job these past three months, and will kill myself if i have to stay home any longer, anyways, can you tell i love angst and hurt no comfort? As always like, comments, reblogs are appreciated!

The mission report's edges had gone soft under your fingertips from twenty minutes of mindless handling. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in that particular shade of institutional beige that made even the most hardened agents look slightly corpse-like. You'd been staring at the same paragraph about ammunition expenditure when footsteps echoed down the corridor—hesitant, squeaky-soled footsteps that belonged to someone trying very hard not to make noise.

The intern appeared in your doorway like a deer caught in headlights, his collar damp with nervous sweat despite the building's aggressive air conditioning. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard, and you caught the faint scent of cheap aftershave mixed with pure terror.

"Agent," he began, his voice cracking on the single word like he was thirteen again. You raised an eyebrow, more amused than annoyed. The kid looked like he'd rather be anywhere else—root canal, tax audit, apocalypse.

"Take a breath," you said, not unkindly. "The building's not on fire."

He managed a shaky laugh. "Agent Coulson needs you in his office."

"Did he say why?"

"He doesn't tell me why he does anything, ma'am. I just run messages and try not to trip over my own feet."

You stood, the folder crackling as you tucked it under your arm. "You're doing fine, kid. Here the bark is worse than the bite."

"That's what everyone says," he muttered, already backing away. "But their bark is pretty terrifying."

The elevator ride to Phil's floor was silent except for the mechanical whir of cables and the soft jazz that someone had decided made waiting less torturous. Phil's office smelled like coffee and the particular brand of stress that came from managing superhuman personalities on a government salary.

Austin, Phil's assistant, looked up from his computer with the kind of smile that suggested he genuinely enjoyed his job, a rarity in this building. "He's expecting you. Fair warning, he's been on conference calls all morning."

Phil was indeed on the phone when you entered, his tie slightly loosened, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that spoke of weekend rock climbing or some other wholesome hobby that helped him decompress from his day job of managing chaos. He held up one finger as you approached, and you caught fragments of his conversation—something about "acceptable losses" and "public relations nightmare."

"Let me call you back," he said into the phone, his voice carrying that particular brand of diplomatic exhaustion that suggested the conversation hadn't been going well. He gestured to the chair across from his desk as you placed the mission report in front of him.

The leather squeaked softly as you sat down. Phil's office was warm, too warm, and you could feel your shirt beginning to stick to your back. He steepled his fingers, studying you with the kind of measured attention that had probably made him excellent at poker before it made him excellent at espionage.

"You've been burning through missions like they're going out of style," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "Three high-priority assignments in two weeks. That's... aggressive, even for you."

You shrugged, the gesture feeling heavier than it should. "Just staying busy. Idle hands and all that."

"Devil's workshop," he finished. "I'm familiar with the saying. I'm also familiar with agents who use work as a way to avoid dealing with personal trauma."

The words hit a little too close to home. You shifted in your seat, the leather making soft protesting sounds. "Is this going somewhere, Phil?"

He didn't answer immediately, just opened the mission report and scanned the first page. His expression gave nothing away—a skill that had probably saved his life more than once in his line of work.

"Fury wants to see you," he said finally. "And before you ask, no, I don't know what it's about. But..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "He's been getting pressure from above."​

There was only one person above Fury who he would actually listen to. Pierce.

"For what?"

"An asset." Phil closed the file and looked at you directly. "Be careful up there. And whatever he offers you, make sure you're taking it for the right reasons."

The elevator to Fury's floor was faster, sleeker, with that particular hum that suggested serious money had been spent on its construction. The doors opened with a whisper, revealing Maria Hill behind a desk that probably cost more than most people's cars. She looked up from her computer screen, took one look at you, and waved you through without a word.

Fury's office was a study in controlled intimidation. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the city that made you feel like you were floating above the world, untouchable and slightly godlike. The air smelled faintly of expensive leather and the kind of cologne that suggested power rather than seduction.

"Agent," Fury said, not looking up from the file he was reading. His desk was massive, black glass that reflected the city lights like a dark mirror. "How do you feel about Malibu?"

The question caught you off guard. You'd been expecting another overseas assignment, another chance to put distance between yourself and the ghost that followed you everywhere.

"It's..." you started, then stopped. "Sunny?"

Fury's mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but something that might have been one in different circumstances. "Stark needs a liaison. Someone to keep him from blowing himself up while he plays with his toys."

Tony Stark. The name conjured images of magazine covers and press conferences, of a man who seemed to treat the world like his personal playground. You'd read the files, of course, watched the news coverage of his dramatic escape from Afghanistan and his even more dramatic decision to become Iron Man.

"I'm not a babysitter," you said, the words coming out sharper than you'd intended.

"No, you're not." Fury finally looked up, his single eye focusing on you with laser intensity. "You're a highly trained operative who happens to be very good at managing difficult personalities. And Stark is..." He paused, drumming his fingers against the desk. "Let's just say he's not what you'd call a team player."

"From what I've read, he's also not what you'd call stable."

"Stability is overrated," Fury said. "What matters is results. And Stark gets results. The question is whether he'll get them in a way that doesn't cause an international incident."

You leaned back in your chair, studying his face. "What's the real reason you're sending me?"

"You're smart," Fury said, closing the file and sliding it across the desk to you. "You'll figure it out."

The file was thick, heavier than you'd expected. As you flipped through it, you caught glimpses of psychiatric evaluations, medical reports, surveillance photos. Tony Stark, genius billionaire playboy philanthropist, reduced to data points and risk assessments.

"When do I leave?" you asked.

"Your flight's in three hours," Fury said. "Pack heavy. This could be a long assignment."

Malibu hit you like a sensory overload the moment you stepped off the plane. 

The air was warm and slightly salt-tinged, carrying the scent of ocean and expensive cars. Even the airport smelled different here—less industrial, more... optimistic somehow. The kind of place where people came to reinvent themselves.

The drive to Stark's house took you along the Pacific Coast Highway, past beaches where impossibly beautiful people played volleyball in the afternoon sun. Your rental car's air conditioning struggled against the heat, and you found yourself rolling down the windows just to feel the ocean breeze.

Stark's house was exactly as ridiculous as you'd expected—all glass and steel and impossible angles, perched on a cliff like a monument to excess. The kind of place that whispered "I have more money than God" in a dozen different languages. As you pulled up the winding driveway, you could hear the faint sound of music drifting from somewhere inside, something classical and complex that suggested the owner had expensive taste.

The woman who answered the door moved with the kind of controlled grace that suggested she was used to managing chaos. Strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a style that was professional but not severe, and eyes that took in everything without seeming to judge. She smelled faintly of vanilla and something crisp—expensive perfume applied with a light hand.

"You must be Agent..." she said, extending a hand that was soft but firm.

You gave her your name, studying her face. Pepper Potts was beautiful in an understated way, the kind of woman who could command a boardroom without raising her voice. But there was something in her eyes when she said Stark's name—a flicker of something that might have been concern or affection or both.

"He's in the workshop," she said, leading you through a house that felt like walking through a magazine spread. Everything was clean lines and expensive surfaces, but there were small touches of humanity—a coffee mug on a side table, a book left open on a chair, the kind of lived-in details that suggested someone actually called this place home.

The smell changed as you descended toward the workshop—less vanilla and expensive furniture polish, more motor oil and ozone, the particular scent of electronics working at full capacity. You could hear music down here too, but it was louder, more driving, the kind of thing you played when you needed to drown out your thoughts.

"Fair warning," Pepper said, pausing at the bottom of the stairs. "He's been down here for thirty-six hours straight. He gets... intense when he's working."

The workshop was controlled chaos made manifest. Workbenches covered in mechanical parts that gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, holographic displays showing schematics that seemed to shift and change as you watched them. The air hummed with electricity and possibility, and underneath it all was the smell of coffee gone cold and the particular musk of someone who'd been working too hard for too long.

Tony Stark stood in the center of it all, wearing a tank top stained with oil and what might generously be called pants. He looked nothing like the man on magazine covers—this version was rumpled and slightly manic, holding a soldering iron like it was a weapon. His hair was sticking up in odd directions, and you could see the faint tremor in his hands that spoke of too much caffeine and too little sleep.

He looked up when you entered, and for a moment his eyes went wide, like he'd forgotten anyone else existed in the world. Then his expression shifted to something more guarded, more calculating.

"Let me guess," he said, setting down the soldering iron with more force than necessary. "Fury sent you to make sure I don't do anything stupid."

"That would be a full-time job," you replied, and something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or the beginning of approval.

"Ha." He wiped his hands on a rag that had seen better days. "I like her already, Pepper. She's got that perfect combination of honesty and insubordination that makes life interesting."

"Mr. Stark," you said, stepping closer. The workshop smelled even more intense up close—metal and sweat and the ozone scent of arc reactor technology. "I'm Agent—"

"I know who you are," he interrupted. "Question is, what's your story? Military? CIA? Reformed international jewel thief?"

"Classified," you said, because it was easier than explaining that your story involved too much death and not nearly enough closure.

"Classified," he repeated, and there was something in his tone that suggested he recognized the deflection for what it was. "Right. Well, in the interest of full disclosure, I should probably mention that I'm not exactly what you'd call a team player."

"I noticed," you said, gesturing at the workshop around you. "This screams collaboration."

He laughed, the sound sharp and genuine. "You're funny. I wasn't expecting funny."

"I'm full of surprises."

"I bet you are." He was studying you now, the way you imagined he studied his inventions—looking for weak points, design flaws, places where the structure might fail under pressure. "So what's Fury's real angle here? What's he actually after?"

The directness of the question caught you off guard. You'd been expecting deflection, charm, the kind of verbal dancing that let both parties avoid saying anything real. Instead, he was cutting straight to the bone.

"Insights mostly,” you shrug, “Making sure you don't get yourself killed," you said, deciding on honesty.

"And what do you want?"

The question hung between you like a challenge. What did you want? To stop feeling like you were drowning every time you closed your eyes? To stop seeing Dean's face in every crowd? To feel human again instead of like a walking wound pretending to be a person?

"To do my job," you said instead.

Tony nodded slowly, like he was hearing all the things you weren't saying. "Right. Your job." He turned back to his workbench, dismissing you with the gesture. "Well, don't let me keep you from it."

It was a clear dismissal, but you didn't move. There was something about the set of his shoulders, the way he was gripping the soldering iron, that reminded you of yourself in those first terrible weeks after Dean died. Holding on so tightly to routine, to work, to anything that felt solid, because letting go meant falling apart.

"When's the last time you ate?" you asked.

He glanced back at you, eyebrows raised. "Food is for people who don't have deadlines."

"That's not an answer."

"Pepper brings me smoothies. Very efficient delivery system for nutrients."

"Smoothies aren't food."

"They're nutrients in liquid form. Perfectly adequate for basic biological functions."

You walked over to the nearest workbench and started moving components, handling them with the kind of care that suggested you knew what you were doing. The metal was warm under your fingers, and you could feel Tony watching you, trying to figure out what you were up to.

"What are you doing?" he asked, a note of something—surprise? concern?—in his voice.

"Making space for actual food," you said, pulling out your phone. "Thai okay with you?"

He stared at you for a long moment, like you'd just suggested something completely foreign. "You don't have to—"

"I know," you interrupted. "But I'm hungry, and eating alone is depressing, and you look like you're about to fall over."

Something shifted in his expression—a crack in the armor, barely visible but there. "I don't usually... I mean, I'm not good at the whole..."

"Letting people take care of you?"

"Yeah. That."

You placed the order, then turned back to him. "Lucky for you, I'm not trying to take care of you. I'm trying to eat Thai food without having to watch you collapse from malnutrition."

He laughed, and this time it sounded almost real. "You're really not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"Someone more... I don't know. Bureaucratic. The kind of person who uses words like 'synergy' unironically and thinks casual Friday is a radical concept."

"I save the synergy talk for special occasions," you said, and he grinned.

The food arrived forty minutes later, carried by a delivery driver who looked slightly stunned to be standing in Tony Stark's workshop. You ate in companionable silence, sitting on stools at the cleared workbench like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Tony attacked his pad thai like a man remembering what hunger felt like, and you found yourself cataloging details—the way his hands shook slightly when he thought you weren't looking, the way he startled when a piece of machinery beeped in the background, the way he kept glancing toward the workshop entrance like he was expecting something to come through it.

"So," he said eventually, twirling noodles with the kind of precision that suggested engineering training, "what's your damage?"

The question was casual, but you caught the weight behind it. He wasn't asking about your qualifications or your mission parameters. He was asking about the thing that was broken inside you, the wound you were trying to pretend didn't exist.

"Classified," you said again, but gentler this time.

"Right." He nodded, accepting the boundary. "Well, mine's all over CNN, so I guess that makes us even."

You wanted to ask about Afghanistan, about the three months he'd spent in captivity, about the man who'd died so he could live. But you recognized the look in his eyes—the same one you saw in the mirror every morning, the one that said "I'm holding myself together with determination and spite, and if you push too hard, I'll shatter."

So instead, you asked about the suit.

His whole demeanor changed when he talked about it—the repulsors, the flight system, the HUD interface. It was like watching someone come alive, and you realized this was what he did, what you both did. Throw yourselves into work, into purpose, into anything that kept you from sitting still long enough to think about what you'd lost.

"Want to see it?" he asked, and there was something almost shy in the question, like he wasn't sure you'd say yes.

You did say yes, and he led you to another part of the workshop where the suit stood in its cradle. Red and gold and somehow both beautiful and terrible, it was clearly a weapon, but it was also something more—a second skin, a way to be something other than Tony Stark, genius billionaire former weapons manufacturer, man who'd built bombs that killed people and hadn't cared until it was almost too late.

"It's incredible," you said, meaning it.

"It's a work in progress," he replied, but you could hear the pride in his voice. "The Mark III is going to be even better. Faster, more efficient, improved targeting systems..."

He trailed off, realizing what he'd just said. Improved targeting systems. Better ways to kill people. The thing he'd supposedly given up.

"It's different," you said quietly. "When you're the one wearing it."

He looked at you sharply. "How do you—"

"I've been in the field," you said. "I know what it's like to be the weapon instead of the one making them."

Something passed between you in that moment—recognition, maybe, or understanding. You were both killers, both people who'd learned to live with blood on their hands, both trying to figure out how to be something other than what the world had made you.

"It is different," he said softly. "Everything's different when you're the one who might not come home."

The first time you sleep with Tony Stark, it's not planned.

You've been working together for three weeks, and you've fallen into a routine that feels almost normal. You show up in the morning with coffee that actually tastes like coffee instead of the burnt offering they serve at SHIELD, and files that need his attention. He ignores the files and tries to bribe you with increasingly elaborate gadgets to leave him alone—a watch that can hack into most security systems, a pen that's also a taser, a pair of sunglasses that can identify faces from a hundred yards away.

You refuse the bribes with varying degrees of amusement and make him eat actual food. He pretends to be annoyed and shows you whatever he's working on—improvements to the suit, new weapons systems, a holographic interface that responds to thought patterns.

It's a strange kind of partnership, built on mutual avoidance of anything resembling real conversation. You don't talk about Dean, about the nightmares that leave you gasping awake at 3 AM, about the way you sometimes catch yourself listening for his voice in empty rooms. He doesn't talk about Afghanistan, about the shrapnel in his chest, about Yinsen and the choice that saved his life at the cost of another's.

But you both recognize the damage in each other, the way trauma reshapes a person from the inside out. You've both learned to function despite the cracks, to smile and joke and pretend you're not bleeding internally.

The night it happens, you're both working late. The workshop is quiet except for the hum of machinery and the soft patter of rain against the windows—unusual for Malibu, but the sound is oddly comforting. You're hunched over your laptop, working on a threat assessment that's probably going to keep you up until dawn, when you hear Tony swear softly.

"Shit," he mutters, dropping his tools with a clatter that echoes in the quiet space. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, his breathing sharp and uneven. "I can't... I can't focus."

You look up from your screen. He's been getting progressively more agitated over the past hour, his movements jerky and imprecise, his usual fluid grace replaced by something that looks almost frantic. Classic signs of an anxiety attack, though you doubt he'd appreciate the diagnosis.

"When's the last time you slept?" you ask, saving your work and closing the laptop.

"Sleep is overrated," he says, but there's no humor in it this time. His voice is raw, like he's been holding back a scream. "Every time I close my eyes, I'm back in that fucking cave, and Yinsen is dying, and I can't... I can't save him."

The admission hangs in the air between you, raw and unguarded. You've seen him deflect and charm and joke his way out of uncomfortable moments, but this is different. This is honest in a way that makes your chest tight with recognition.

"I know," you say quietly, and you do. You know what it's like to carry the weight of someone else's death, to replay the moments when you might have done something different, been faster or smarter or just fucking there when it mattered.

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you see the exact moment when he recognizes the truth in your voice.

"Who was it?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Someone I should have saved," you say, because that's as much as you can manage without falling apart.

"How long?"

"Two months, one week, three days." The precision of your answer tells him everything he needs to know about the shape of your grief.

He nods slowly, understanding. "Three months, two weeks, four days. Since I got out."

"But not since it happened."

"No. Not since it happened."

You stand up and cross the workshop to where he's standing. Up close, you can see the lines around his eyes, the way his hands tremble when he's not concentrating on keeping them steady. He smells like motor oil and expensive soap and something uniquely him—warm and slightly electric, like the air before a storm.

"I'm not good at this," he says, and you're not sure if he means grief or recovery or just being human.

"Nobody is," you reply, and then somehow you're close enough to touch, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes.

"I keep thinking I should be over it by now," he says, his voice cracking slightly. "It's been months. I should be... I don't know. Better."

"That's not how it works," you say, thinking about Dean, about the way grief ambushes you at the strangest moments—in the middle of a mission briefing, while you're brushing your teeth, when you hear a song on the radio that he used to sing off-key in the car.

"How does it work?"

You consider the question seriously. "I don't know. I'm still figuring it out."

He laughs, short and bitter. "Great. The blind leading the blind."

"Maybe that's enough," you say, surprised by your own words. "Maybe we don't need to know how to fix it. Maybe we just need to know we're not the only ones who are broken."

Something shifts in his expression, and suddenly he's stepping closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his skin. When he reaches up to touch your face, you don't pull away.

"This is probably a terrible idea," he says, his thumb tracing along your cheekbone with infinite gentleness.

"Probably," you agree, but you're already leaning into the touch.

"We're both disasters."

"Complete disasters," you whisper, and then you're kissing him, or he's kissing you, or maybe you're both just falling into each other like drowning people reaching for anything that might float.

It's desperate and messy and nothing like the careful, controlled person you've trained yourself to be. His lips are soft and warm, and he tastes like coffee and something darker, more complex. When he deepens the kiss, you feel something inside you crack open, some carefully maintained wall crumbling under the weight of need and loneliness and the simple human desire to feel connected to another person.

When you break apart, you're both breathing hard, and his forehead is resting against yours like he's trying to memorize the moment.

"We should probably talk about this," he says, his voice rough.

"Probably," you agree, and then you're kissing him again, because talking means thinking, and thinking means acknowledging that you're using each other as a band-aid for wounds that might never heal.

Later, tangled in sheets that probably cost more than most people's cars, you stare at the ceiling and listen to Tony's breathing gradually even out into sleep. The bedroom is all floor-to-ceiling windows and expensive minimalism, but somehow it feels warmer than your sterile hotel room, more like a place where people actually live.

Part of you wants to slip out before he wakes up, before you have to navigate the awkward morning-after conversation. But a larger part of you doesn't want to leave, doesn't want to go back to your empty space and the dreams that leave you gasping awake and reaching for someone who isn't there.

So you stay, and when Tony wakes up an hour later, disoriented and panicked until he remembers where he is, you're there to remind him that he's safe, that he's home, that the cave is thousands of miles and a lifetime away.

"This is complicated," he says, his voice rough with sleep and something that might be vulnerability.

"Very complicated," you agree, but you don't move away from the warmth of his body.

"We should probably set some ground rules."

"Probably."

But you don't. Because ground rules would mean defining what this is, and neither of you is ready for that conversation. Instead, you exist in the space between definitions, two people who understand that sometimes comfort doesn't come with conditions, that sometimes you take whatever peace you can find, however you can find it.

The next three weeks pass in a blur of stolen moments and careful avoidance of anything resembling emotional intimacy. You perfect the art of being physically close while maintaining psychological distance, of sharing a bed without sharing the dreams that wake you up gasping.

You learn Tony's tells—the way he gets hyperverbal when he's anxious, rattling off facts and figures like they're incantations against panic. The way he throws himself into work when the nightmares are particularly bad, staying in the workshop for days at a time. The way he sometimes stares at his hands like he's surprised they're not covered in blood.

He learns yours—the way you check locks twice and always sit with your back to the wall, the way you go completely still when you hear a dog bark, the way you sometimes wake up calling a name you won't explain.

It's not a relationship, exactly. It's something else—a mutual aid society for the emotionally compromised, a safe harbor for people who've learned not to trust safety. The sex is good, better than good, but it's not really about the sex. It's about the moments after, when you're both too tired to maintain your defenses, when you can almost pretend you're normal people who sleep peacefully through the night.

You're careful to keep it separate from work. During the day, you're Agent whoever-you-are, professional and composed and completely in control. You file reports, coordinate with other agencies, make sure Tony shows up to the meetings that matter and skip the ones that don't. You're good at your job, good at managing him, good at making sure he doesn't accidentally start an international incident.

But at night, when the workshop is quiet and Pepper has gone home and the rest of the world feels very far away, you're just two people who've learned that sometimes the only way to survive is to help each other shoulder the weight.

Tony never asks about Dean, and you never ask about Yinsen, but you both understand the shape of survivor's guilt, the way it sits in your chest like a stone. You both know what it's like to carry the weight of someone else's sacrifice, to feel responsible for a death you couldn't prevent.

"I dream about him sometimes," Tony says one night, staring at the ceiling. The moonlight streaming through the windows turns his skin silver, making him look like a statue come to life. "Yinsen. He's always disappointed in me."

"What does he say?"

"That I'm wasting the life he gave me. That I'm not... I don't know. Enough."

You turn on your side to face him, and from here you can see the faint scar on his forehead, the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. "What do you think he'd really say?"

Tony is quiet for a long moment, his breathing the only sound in the room. "Probably that I'm being an idiot. That I'm letting guilt make my decisions instead of hope."

"Sounds like a smart man."

"He was. Smarter than me, in all the ways that mattered."

You reach out and take his hand, threading your fingers through his. His skin is warm, slightly callused from working with his hands, and you can feel his pulse beating steady and strong.

"I think he'd be proud of you," you say softly. "The suit, the choice to stop making weapons, the way you're trying to be better."

"What about you?" he asks, turning to face you. "What would he say? The person you lost?"

The question hits like a physical blow. You've been so careful not to think about what Dean would say, what he would think about the choices you've made, the person you've become.

"I don't know," you admit, your voice barely audible. "I'm not sure I want to know."

"Because you think he'd be disappointed?"

"Because I think he'd understand," you say, and the words surprise you with their honesty. "And I'm not sure I'm ready to forgive myself enough to let him."

Tony squeezes your hand, and the simple gesture feels like an anchor. "Maybe that's the point. Maybe we're not supposed to be ready. Maybe we're just supposed to keep going until we are."

"When did you become so wise?"

"Must be all the near-death experiences. Very clarifying."

You laugh despite yourself, and he grins at you in the darkness. These moments are dangerous—when he's funny and kind and lets you see the man behind the armor, when you can almost imagine what it would be like to be with him for real, without the weight of loss hanging over everything.

But then morning comes, and you're back to being professionals, and you both pretend that whatever happened in the darkness doesn't exist in the light.

The beginning of the end starts with Pepper.

You're in the workshop, the familiar hum of arc reactor technology vibrating through the floor beneath your feet, when she appears in the doorway. The scent of ozone and hot metal fills the air—Tony's been welding again, despite your repeated warnings about proper ventilation. Blue holographic displays cast dancing shadows across the concrete walls, and you can hear the soft whir of servo motors as Tony manipulates the security schematics floating before him.

But it's the silence that follows Pepper's entrance that makes your stomach drop. Even JARVIS seems to hold his breath.

"Tony," Pepper says, and there's something in her tone—a careful restraint, like she's been rehearsing this moment for weeks. The click of her heels against the workshop floor seems unnaturally loud.

"Can it wait?" Tony asks, not looking away from the holographic display. His fingers dance through the air, adjusting parameters with practiced ease, but you notice the slight tremor in his hands. "I'm kind of in the middle of something here. Board meeting security protocols don't exactly write themselves."

The smell of his cologne mingles with the workshop's metallic tang—something expensive and woody that you've grown to associate with sleepless nights and whispered conversations in the dark.

"No, it can't wait," Pepper says, and now you can hear the steel beneath the silk in her voice. "We need to talk about what's going on here."

The 'here' hangs in the air like a physical presence. You feel heat creep up your neck, can practically sense the weight of her gaze as it moves between you and Tony. The workshop suddenly feels smaller, more intimate, as if the walls themselves are closing in on your carefully constructed secret.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean," Tony says, but his voice carries that defensive edge you've learned to recognize—the same tone he uses when reporters ask about his drinking, or when Fury questions his methods.

"Don't." The word cracks through the air like a whip. "Don't do that. Don't pretend like I'm stupid, Tony. I've known you for too long."

You clear your throat, the sound rough and too loud in the tense silence. "Maybe I should—"

"No." Pepper turns to face you, and you can smell her perfume—something floral and expensive that speaks of boardrooms and power lunches. "You should stay. This concerns you too."

There's something in her expression that makes your mouth go dry. Not anger, exactly, but hurt. The kind of deep, aching hurt that comes from watching someone you love make choices that you know will destroy them. Her usually perfect composure is cracked, revealing something raw underneath.

"I don't know what you think is happening," you say carefully, each word measured and professional, "but I can assure you that my relationship with Mr. Stark is entirely appropriate."

Pepper laughs, but the sound is hollow, bitter. It echoes off the workshop's metal surfaces, coming back distorted and strange. "Professional relationship. Right. Is that what we're calling it?"

"Pepper," Tony says, a warning threading through his voice. The holographic display flickers as his concentration breaks, blue light dancing across his face.

"No, Tony. I'm not going to pretend I don't see what's happening here." Her voice rises slightly, and you can hear the tremor of suppressed emotion. "I'm not going to stand by and watch you self-destruct because you're too stubborn to actually deal with what happened to you."

The workshop's ventilation system kicks in with a soft whoosh, stirring the air around you. You can taste the metallic tang of recycled air, feel the slight breeze against your heated skin.

"I'm dealing with it," Tony says, but even he doesn't sound convinced. His hands have stopped moving, frozen in mid-gesture above the holographic controls.

"By sleeping with your handler?" Pepper's words cut through the air like shards of glass. "By using her as a distraction so you don't have to actually process anything?"

The words hit like a physical blow. You've been telling yourself that what you and Tony have is mutual, that you're both getting something out of it, that it's not destructive or unhealthy. But hearing it laid out like that, in Pepper's crisp, no-nonsense tone, makes you realize how it must look from the outside.

The workshop's ambient hum seems to grow louder, filling the silence that follows her accusation.

"That's not—" you start, but Pepper cuts you off with a raised hand.

"Isn't it?" she asks, and her voice is gentler now, but somehow that makes it worse. The kindness in her tone is almost unbearable. "Look, I don't know what your story is, and I don't need to. But I can see that you're hurting, and I can see that Tony's hurting, and I can see that neither of you is dealing with it in a healthy way."

You can hear your own heartbeat in your ears, feel the pulse of blood through your veins. The workshop feels too warm suddenly, the air thick and hard to breathe.

"What we do is none of your business," Tony says, but there's no real fight in his voice. He finally turns away from the holographic display, and you can see the exhaustion etched in the lines around his eyes.

"It is my business," Pepper replies, stepping closer. Her heels click against the floor with each step, a sharp counterpoint to the workshop's mechanical symphony. "Because I care about you. Because I've been watching you slowly destroy yourself for months, and I can't stand by and watch it anymore."

The word 'destroy' hangs in the air between you like an accusation. You think about the past few weeks, about the way you've been using Tony as a buffer against your grief, about the way he's been using you as a distraction from his trauma. About the way you've both been so careful not to actually talk about anything that matters.

"We're not destroying anything," you say, but the words sound hollow even to you. They echo strangely in the workshop's space, bouncing off metal and concrete and coming back changed.

"Aren't you?" Pepper asks, and now she's close enough that you can see the unshed tears in her eyes. "When's the last time either of you slept through the night? When's the last time you had a conversation that wasn't about work or... whatever this is? When's the last time you let anyone else in?"

The questions hit too close to home. You can feel the truth of them in your bones, in the exhaustion that's been dogging you for weeks, in the way you've been avoiding Natasha's concerned glances and Fury's probing questions.

"I should go," you say, standing up abruptly. The chair scrapes against the floor, a harsh sound that makes you wince.

"Wait," Tony says, reaching for you. His fingers brush against your wrist, and you can feel the warmth of his skin, the calluses from years of tinkering with machinery.

But you're already moving toward the door, your footsteps echoing in the workshop's cavernous space. "This was a mistake," you say, not looking back. "All of it."

You hear Tony calling your name, but you don't stop. You can't stop, because if you do, you'll have to face what Pepper just forced you to see—that you've been using Tony as a way to avoid dealing with your grief, just like he's been using you as a way to avoid dealing with his trauma.

The workshop door slides shut behind you with a soft hiss, cutting off the sound of Tony's voice. The hallway beyond is cool and sterile, a stark contrast to the workshop's warm chaos. Your footsteps echo off the marble floors as you make your way to the elevator, each step taking you further from the mess you've made.

You make it to your car before the tears start. The leather seats are cold against your back, and you can smell the new car scent of the rental, all artificial and chemical. Your hands shake as you try to get the key in the ignition, and you sit there for a moment, breathing hard, trying to get control of yourself.

You can't pretend anymore. Sitting here in Tony Stark's driveway, you feel like you're ten again, raw and exposed and completely out of your depth.

Your phone buzzes with a text from Tony: We need to talk.

But you don't respond. Instead, you drive back to your hotel, the city lights blurring past the windows. The hotel room smells like industrial cleaning products and loneliness, and you pack your things with mechanical precision, folding clothes and organizing files as if your life depends on it.

By the time you request a transfer back to DC, your hands have stopped shaking. By the time Fury approves it, you're already on a plane, running away from the mess you've made, from the feelings you're not ready to face, from the realization that maybe Pepper was right about everything.

The fight happens three days later over the phone, when you're in your apartment that you share with Natasha, staring at a picture of you and the Winchester brothers. The glass of wine in your hand catches the light from the window, casting red reflections across the coffee table.

You almost don't answer when your phone rings, but something in you can't quite let go. The sound of his voice fills your apartment, carrying with it the memory of late nights and whispered conversations.

"You left," he says without preamble, and you can hear the hurt beneath the accusation.

"I requested a transfer," you reply, keeping your voice steady. The wine tastes bitter on your tongue. "It seemed like the professional thing to do."

"Professional," he repeats, and you can hear the anger building in his voice like a storm gathering on the horizon. "Right. Because that's what this was about. Professionalism."

"What did you want me to do, Tony? Stay and pretend like nothing happened? Pretend like we weren't using each other as a distraction from our actual problems?"

"Using each other?" His voice is sharp now, cutting through the phone line like a blade. "Is that what you think this was?"

"Wasn't it?" you shoot back, setting your wine glass down with more force than necessary. The sound of crystal against wood echoes in the quiet apartment. "Be honest. If we hadn't both been completely fucked up, would this have happened? Would you have looked at me twice?"

There's a long pause, and you can hear him breathing hard on the other end of the line. In the background, you can hear the faint hum of the workshop, the sound of machinery that never sleeps.

"That's not fair," he says finally, and his voice is quieter now, more vulnerable.

"Isn't it? You said it yourself—we're both disasters. We found each other because we were both broken, not because we actually..."

You trail off, not sure how to finish the sentence. Not because you actually what? Cared about each other? Had feelings? You did care about him, you realize with a jolt that makes your stomach drop. Somewhere in the mess of physical comfort and mutual avoidance, you'd started to actually care about Tony Stark the person, not just Tony Stark the distraction.

"Actually what?" Tony asks, voice dangerously quiet.

"Nothing," you say, but you can tell he's not going to let it go. Your apartment feels too small suddenly, too quiet except for the sound of your own heartbeat.

"No, finish the sentence. We found each other because we were both broken, not because we actually what?"

"It doesn't matter," you say, but your voice cracks on the words.

"It does matter," he says, and now he sounds angry again, but there's something else there too—something that might be hope. "It matters because I actually thought... fuck, I thought maybe this was something real. Maybe we were helping each other heal instead of just avoiding our problems."

"Were we?" you ask, and you genuinely don't know the answer. The wine has left a sour taste in your mouth, and you can feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like we were just two people who didn't want to be alone with our grief."

"And what's wrong with that?" Tony demands, and you can hear the desperation creeping into his voice. "What's wrong with finding comfort with someone who understands? What's wrong with not wanting to be alone?"

"Nothing," you say, and you mean it. "Nothing's wrong with it. But it's not... it's not sustainable. It's not healthy. It's not..."

"It's not what?"

"It's not love," you say, and the words feel like a confession and a betrayal all at once. They hang in the air between you, carried by radio waves and satellites, connecting you across the distance.

The silence on the other end of the line stretches so long you think he might have hung up. You can hear your own breathing, can feel the weight of the words you've just spoken.

"No," he says finally, voice flat and empty. "I guess it wasn't."

"Tony—"

"You know what? You're right. This was a mistake. All of it. We're both too fucked up for this to work, and I was stupid to think otherwise."

"That's not what I meant—"

"Isn't it?" he interrupts, echoing your earlier words. "Because it sounds like you've already made up your mind. It sounds like you've already decided that whatever this was, it wasn't worth fighting for."

"There's nothing to fight for," you say, and you hate how cold you sound, hate the way the words taste on your tongue. "We're not... we were never..."

"We were never what? A couple? In love? Planning a future together?" His voice is bitter now, defensive, and you can hear the walls going up, brick by brick. "You're right. We were never any of those things. We were just two people fucking to avoid dealing with our trauma."

The crude words hit like a physical blow, even though you know he's saying them to hurt you, to push you away before you can reject him completely. The apartment feels cold suddenly, and you pull a blanket around your shoulders, trying to ward off the chill.

"Fine," you say, matching his tone. "I'm glad we're on the same page."

"Great. Fantastic. Glad we could clear that up."

You both fall silent, and you can hear your own heartbeat in your ears, can feel the pulse of blood through your veins. Outside your window, the city continues its nightly symphony, but it feels distant and muted, like you're hearing it through water.

You want to take it back, want to tell him that you didn't mean it, that you were scared and defensive and saying things you didn't mean. But the words stick in your throat, trapped by pride and fear and the terrible certainty that maybe you were right the first time.

"I should go," you say finally, and your voice sounds strange to your own ears.

"Yeah," Tony says, and you can hear the exhaustion in his voice, the weight of everything you've both said and left unsaid. "You should."

He hangs up before you can say goodbye, and you're left staring at your phone, feeling like you've just made a terrible mistake but not sure how to fix it. The apartment is quiet except for the sound of your own breathing, and you sit there in the dark, surrounded by the ghosts of everything you've lost.

[siconetribal]

Beyond the Bookshelves (1)

Pairing: Loki x Reader

Warnings: Some swearing, work stress, impossible tasks

Summary: You're a Resource Management Specialist at S.H.I.E.L.D. normally referred to as “The Librarian”. You've been assigned the nightmarish task of digitizing all the physical resources currently owned by the agency, with a few new computers and one extra helper.

A/N: I honestly do not know where this is going and why I even started this. It was an idea that sort of popped into my head while at work. I hope you enjoy it! Please comment/like/reblog. If you'd like to be tagged moving forward, please let me know!

The lovely banners used in this fic are from @cafekitsune.

Papers fluttered to the ground around Loki as stared down at the young woman who ran into him. He cocked an eyebrow as he heard a low hiss of pain come from her gritted teeth. The impact could not have been that painful, but how was he to know? He was minding his own business, walking down the fairly empty hallway reading a book when something had come crashing into him. It was not the first time he had been assaulted, but it was certainly the first time to be tackled in the middle of an empty hallway. Glancing around, he noticed there were a few people lingering about, watching to see what he would do or see what transpired.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going.” Her voice drew his attention back down to the ground to see her on her knees trying to gather the scattered sheets of paper. He slid his right foot back as she reached for one near it.

“You are excused,” he responded in a level tone that held little emotion, if any at all. She looked up at him in wide-eyed shock which had him raise an eyebrow yet again at her. He hesitated for a moment to speak, feeling the eyes on them.

“Is there something else you wish to say?”

“Huh? Oh, no, just surprised to hear you say anything. I’ve never heard you speak before, so I thought that maybe you couldn’t.” She admitted, tapping the bottom edge of the sheets to make the pile more uniform. “You have a nice voice.” She added, carefully inspecting the surrounding area, oblivious to the bewildered look of the prince before her. “Ah-ha!” She grinned, crawling forward and reaching between his feet. Startled by her actions, Loki quickly took a few steps backward, leaving a noticeable shoe print on the paper she had been reaching for. “Thank you, this was the last one I needed.” She smiled at him, though when she saw the print, her lips quickly curled downwards into a noticeable frown. “That’s not good, Fury’s not gonna be happy.” She mumbled, carefully placing the dirtied sheet on the top as she stood up with her sizable stack of folders and binders in her arms. “Well, it was a pleasure speaking to you, Mr. Loki, I hope you enjoy the rest of your day.”

He watched as she casually resumed her walk down the hallway, unperturbed by the fact that she had just walked straight into him, Loki, the monster that had wreaked havoc in the world and destroyed their precious city. The very city they were currently in now. What an odd Midgardian, but I suppose this would be the place to find plenty of odd ones. He turned to look at some spectators and watched them visibly flinch or stumble as they met his gaze, scrambling to leave the vicinity and get away from here, away from him. Opening his book once more, he continued on his way towards his destination.

Just as she had anticipated, Fury was not pleased with the surprise print on one of the report pages. He looked between it and her in silence, sliding the packet across his desk in her direction as he leaned back and turned his chair slightly.

“Mind telling me why you suddenly decided to decorate such a vital report with a shoe?”

“It was an accident, sir. While on my way here, I was reviewing the content and ended up crashing into someone on the way. They unintentionally stepped on the sheet while trying to avoid the others. I didn’t have time to reprint the documents prior to this meeting. I will be submitting a clean copy into the record and have this one shredded.”

“I’ll let it slide this time only. Next time, watch where you’re walking and leave reviewing for when you’re at a desk. Everything looks to be in order, reprint and file it.”

“Thank you sir, I’ll have it done right away.” She bowed her head and picked up the report.

“Don’t let this happen again.” He sternly remarked. “The next time it does, you’ll have to deal with the consequences. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, sir.” Y/N nodded. “The next item for discussion is the transition of all physical resources into digital. I do understand that many have requested that all resources be scanned and made digital, but that task is a lot larger than many realize. Also, not all of our sources are safe to scan due to age or they need to be translated and checked prior to scanning. It is not impossible, but a sizable team would be needed in order to have it completed. I propose that the physical sources we have are properly cataloged and organized so they are easier to be found. We can have them scanned in the process, but again, we run into the issues of needing to translate and verify that the translations are correct.”

“Y/N, just get to the fucking point. Can it be done?” Fury cut her off, looking at her pointedly with his good eye.

“In an ideal situation, yes.” She let out a small sigh.

“And what is an ‘ideal situation’?” 

“A team of at least five agents per letter, several translators for the various languages we have to make sure we have them properly translated, and a warehouse filled with scanners and computers to scan, name, and upload. With such a team and ideal conditions always, it could take about five to ten years to complete.”

“Oh just that?” His voice was dripping with sarcasm, his frown more pronounced than usual. Y/N knew he was not pleased with her answer, but there was no use in trying to make it lighter than it really was. They had an extensive library in house and warehouses of delicate and confidential artifacts, which included tomes and scrolls. She was the head librarian and managed all of this with only a handful of others spread across the various locations.

“Ideally, yes.”

“And if it wasn’t ideal?”

“Depends on what factors are not present, but without those minimum requirements it could take decades.”

“But it can be done.” He flatly responded, sitting forward in his seat and resting his elbows on the desk. “We won’t destroy any of the physical resources, but you’ll have to make do with what you get. We don’t have the luxury of just handing over a slew of agents for this. We need boots on the ground globally to keep an eye out on things out there bigger than us.” A weight suddenly dropped in the pit of her stomach. Though she was not expecting anything close to what she listed as an ideal, there was something in his tone that screamed out that she was going to hear the worst case scenario.

“And what would I get to work with?” She managed to keep her voice steady.

“State-of-the-art technology per library staff member per location and a god.”

Silence fell over them as she stood there, slowly blinking at her superior. This had to be some sort of sick joke. She knew the organization could not give what was needed, but this? This was hardly anything at all.

“I’m sorry, did you just say new computers and a god?”

“That’s what I said.” He nodded his head.

“You must be joking, right? This task would take more than just decades to do, and what does ‘a god’ even mean? A ‘god’ per person or location, or just one god? And what sort of ‘god’ Do you just have deities on demand or something? Are they just going to snap their fingers and things will be done magically? What can they do for me and this lifelong assignment I have now been tasked with?” She paced in front of his desk, muttering to herself on how this could work and what sort of person this ‘god’ was. He cannot be serious, right? But Fury isn’t the type to just say shit or joke around. She turned and looked at her boss. No, not a joker. She frowned.

“Y/N, calm down. We’ve got two Asgardian gods that have a knack for understanding all languages. You don’t need a team of translators when they can do it on the spot just like that.” His sharp tone made her stop and turn to face him. “So that whole crap can be cut, and you can work with one of them to get all this done faster with fewer people and just get to organizing shit. You’re getting what you get, end of discussion. Anything else?”

“No sir,” she sighed and shook her head.

“Good, I’ll get Agent Hill to talk to them and reach out to you. You’re dismissed.”

“Yes sir.” She slightly bowed her head and left the office, her shoulders dropping the moment the door closed behind her. This was not going to be easy.

Tag list: @vbecker10

[queerocfandomer]

"Mission First Kiss"

The Story of the undercover mission that resulted in you and Natasha's first kiss. Set in 2011 around 6 months prior to Avengers.

One Shot - 4909 Words - NatashaxReader/OC - Reader is SHIELD Agent with Enhanced Hearing and Sight (L/N=Jensen)

READ ON A03 HERE :)

"your attention shifted to the main doors as a group of about a dozen young women entered. Not an uncommon sight, of course; however, it was the bright red hair that had immediately caught your attention. A smirk spread across your face as you wondered what kind of trouble Natasha Romanoff was inevitably bringing with her."

As you returned to the second floor, the music reverberated through your entire body, and you took a brief moment to steady yourself, straightening out your suit jacket. Even after almost six months, it still took a fair amount of concentration to keep control of your abilities in this atmosphere. This mission had ended up being quite helpful for practice; it did feel as though you had made significant progress in controlling your ability to differentiate between sounds and block out unnecessary ones. 

You were currently running the club and the drug operation it was a cover for while Klein was away on business. You were usually placed in less desirable positions, often the target of capture—the exact opposite of your current mission—and you had to admit you found yourself enjoying the power. 

You were here because, even the drug operation was somewhat of a front, Klein was working with someone you knew only as ‘The Pedlar,’ funneling top-secret information to criminal organizations across the globe. Although Klein had not yet brought you fully into that aspect of the work, your abilities had allowed you to gather a fair amount of information, and you were sure that this was a kind of test that would result in your being brought further in upon his return. 

Everything had been going well so far; the most important part of the weekend, a large cocaine delivery, had progressed without issue last night, and now you just had the evening to relax until his return tomorrow. Marcus, the club manager, approached as you walked along the rail of the balcony. He was young, barely out of high school, and honestly too innocent to be taking up this kind of life, but he did what he was told. 

“Jeremiah is here again. He’s insisting on speaking with you.”

“Couldn't handle it yourself, Marcus?” 

you tilted your head in return, and as he replied, your attention shifted to the main doors as a group of about a dozen young women entered. Not an uncommon sight, of course; however, it was the bright red hair that had immediately caught your attention. A smirk spread across your face as you wondered what kind of trouble Natasha Romanoff was inevitably bringing with her. 

“It’s fine, Marcus. You can bring him up, and while you're down there, find out about this group of women that just came in for me, would you?” 

“Yes, boss, of course.” 

You kept your eyes on the women as they made their way to a set of tables in the corner, and Natasha positioned herself in the booth between the tables, an easy exit and good vantage point for the room as she conversed with the others, her eyes subtly taking in the surroundings. She was wearing a simple black asymmetric dress, with her left shoulder fully exposed and the hem falling just below the knee, a reasonable length aside from the drastic slit running nearly the full length of her right thigh. 

Whatever the issue was, it must be serious; otherwise, they would have simply waited until your weekly check-in. Yet of all the agents they could have sent, it just had to be her. At least you could take advantage of your abilities; you just hoped that the benefit would outweigh the distraction she always managed to cause within you.

Marcus returned with Jerimiah following closely behind. He was in his early 40s with a disheveled appearance. 

“If you are hoping to get any special treatment because Klein is away, you are very, very mistaken.” 

“No, no, of course not, Jayce. I, ah, I know you run a tight ship. I, ah, I’m just here to, like, apologize. I know I messed up, but I can make it up. I can, if you just give me a chance.” 

“Ahhh, you want MORE,” 

you respond as you walk closer to the man. 

“We are not in the business of supplying to people who like to sample the product, and by the looks of you right now, that is still a problem.”

“No, no. Jayce, I swear I’ll pay full. I will. I just can’t survive off 200; I need to bring in more. Please, I can do it. I can.” 

Reaching out, you grab him by the shirt and move him against the nearby wall before continuing, 

“Clean yourself up, and you'll make more by actually selling what you’re taking for yourself. Three months at 2, and then I’ll consider it. But if you show up here again asking for more before then, it will be the last time you get anything. You hear me?” 

He only nodded as you released him, and he made his way back down the nearby stairs. You turn to Marcus. 

“You don't have to do much, you know, Marcus, just be firm and always follow through.” 

“Right, got it, boss. Also, those women you asked about? They are from the local sorority—semi-regulars—but have a couple of new members with them, apparently. No red flags, though.” 

“Good. Send a round to their table from me.” 

“I’ll get right on it.”

Grabbing your drink from the table, you returned to the railing. You knew it wouldn't take Natasha long to spot you, yet you figured it would be better to make it as easy as possible. Marcus approached the table, and after divvying up the drinks among the women, he gestured to you above, and they all cheered in your direction. 

You and Natasha locked eyes as you shared a small smile and raised your glasses before you rested your forearms on the railing, holding your drink in front of you. She raised her glass to her lips, pretending to drink as she spoke, 

“Long time no see, Jensen. You good to hear me from up there?” 

You nodded and tugged at your ear to signal her to go ahead. 

“Sorry to intrude, but we have a problem that they wanted relayed ASAP. Klein was taken in by the FBI yesterday, and it sounds like he’s making a deal. Fury wants to know if you are able to access the record system so we can get the data out before they take this place down.” 

You stretched your neck out and downed the rest of your drink, pointing at the dance floor before turning around. Heading down the stairs, you stopped at the edge of the bar and advised the VIP waitress to send some champagne up and to be ready to supply full service. 

Natasha is easily spotted on the dance floor as you approach, offering her a hand and immediately pulling her in close. Her arms wrap around your neck as you take hold of her hips and move your head above her shoulder to speak into her ear.

“Aren't you getting a little old to be taking the role of a college student?” 

You find yourself overly aware of just how close your bodies are as you move to the music. You both pull away slightly to face each other, a smirk on her face as she raises an eyebrow and responds, 

“Maybe. But it sure caught your attention pretty quick.” 

You raise a hand and run it through the hair flowing over her shoulder as it runs halfway down her bicep. 

“Your hair is longer.” 

“It does that. But I have been thinking about cutting it short.” 

“Well, either way, you always look stunning.” 

“You clean up pretty well yourself.” 

Her hand moves down the lapel of your suit jacket slowly before she turns, pressing her back to your front as you continue to dance. 

“We can do it, but it has to be tonight, and it will break my cover.” 

“We suspected it might. We have the go-ahead to break if you're sure we can get it, but Fury says we can have four days.” 

“I'm head of the house until Klein gets back tomorrow, and once he does, it will be much harder. Do you have a USB on you?” 

“I do.” 

“Good. Then let's party. Introduce me to your new friends.”

****************************************************************

You spend the next hour or so back up on the second floor with the dozen college students as they continue to drink and dance. Settled into the corner of one of the couches with your arm around Natasha, your fingers running along her bare arm while hers rest on your thigh, playing your parts. 

She continues to play up her intoxication, switching between conversations with the others and whispering in your ear. With anyone else, you're sure you would have had to actively remember to keep up with the ruse even to simply look relaxed in this position. However, with Natasha, it wasn't even really a ruse; the positioning, the physical closeness, the movements just felt natural. 

The thought of which causes you pause, you had hoped that perhaps some more significant time away from her would have diminished some of these feelings, but it seemed as though they were as prevalent as ever. Shifting slightly, Natasha moves her hand up to the base of your neck, drawing your attention back to her. 

“So when are we gonna get out of here?” 

“Soon,” 

you reply, moving your own hand up to tuck her hair behind her ear and slowly pulling it back across her face. Staring into each other's eyes, you can't help but find yourself drawn to her. Unsure if it was on purpose or not, her gaze quickly jumps to your lips and back. Causing your breath to hitch slightly as you both look away, and you bite your lip. 

Considering the play you were trying to put on, it would have made sense for you to have kissed her by now, probably more than once, and yet you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. As you try to sort through the thoughts of why you are holding back, the announcement for the last call rings out. You shift to get up, seeing Marcus against the wall nearby. 

“Come on, Marcus, let loose a bit! You did well this weekend, so have a bit of fun to celebrate. I know I'm going to.”

You wink at him as you turn to Natasha, holding out your hand. She takes it and rises to her feet, adding a slight stumble for dramatic flair. You lead her to the elevator doors and make your way up to the third floor. It’s slightly more narrow and runs around the perimeter of the building, similar to the second; however, it is fully enclosed with one-way glass, the sound of the music greatly diminished. 

You head down the hallway, stopping briefly at the security room. You open the door, and multiple screens fill the wall with two people seated inside. The older of the two has already turned to face you. 

“James, I'm going to the office for a while, and I DO NOT want to be disturbed, got it?” 

His eyes flicker between the two of you with a satisfied grin. 

“You got it, boss.” 

Closing the door behind you, you continue on to the final room, reaching your hand up to glide your ring over the access panel light, which turns green before you enter the code and it clicks open. Once inside, you release Natasha and direct her to the desk at the center.

“This is the only room in the building not monitored. Everything is in there. I only have access to the primary system; however, it shouldn't be hard to break into the rest, so have at it.” 

You finish entering your login information and gesture to Natasha toward the computer as she pulls a USB drive out from her clutch.

“Admitting that I'm better than you, Jensen?” 

“Maybe. But then again, faster isn't the same as better.” 

“I suppose that depends on who you ask.” 

As she works her way through the computer, you take off your suit jacket and toss it onto one of the chairs, then swipe your arm along the edge of the desk, causing some papers and office supplies to fall to the floor. Natasha shoots you an amused look while you untuck your shirt. 

“Might as well make it look convincing,” 

you muse as you remove your ring and toss it in the garbage can.

“Okay, I'm in, but it's a lot. It could take up to 15 minutes to download. Think we have that?” 

“Should be fine. Just one wildcard.” 

She moves to the front of the desk and leans against it as you look on from the window. 

“Certainly not the kind of place I usually find myself extricating you from.” 

“It certainly is not. It has been an interesting change of pace.” 

“The power looks good on you.” 

“Careful, Romanoff; I might start to think you actually like me.” 

You share a look before you turn your attention back to the window.

“We will be able to walk away from here with no issue. They won't even notice anything, not until Klein gets back, and we are hopefully long gone so we can stop at my apartment and collect the relay supplies before we head out. It will also be good for the car tracker.”

“Sounds good. I'm set up at a hotel downtown and can contact HQ when we arrive to arrange travel.” 

“When did you get in?” 

“About this time yesterday.” 

“And still took you this long to come visit?” 

“Well, I did expect to have a few more days to plan after contact, but I also didn't expect it to be quite this easy.” 

“Yeah, me too. I mean, they will mess you up, but if you're in, you're in. Honestly, I think the Pedlar might have picked them as an access point because the operation is just so- average none would expect big things from them”

Then you see Allison talking with Marcus on the second floor, her typical irritating self, asking where you are. 

“Well, of course there's the wild card. How much time do we have left?” 

Natasha leans back to look at the screen as you walk towards her, listening to the pair reach the top of the elevator. 

“87%. Should only be a couple of minutes, max.” 

“Okay, we should be able to handle that then,” 

you finish as you approach her space, smirking as you lift her onto the desk to sit just in front of the computer, positioning yourself between her legs. She subtly places her left hand at your waist, within easy reach of your holster. 

“Don’t get trigger happy; it’s just the second in command. I had her taking care of distribution downstairs. She's annoying but won't cause issues unless we do. Trust me, Natalie , I can talk us out.” 

“Don't worry, Jayce , I’ll follow your lead.” 

You look into each other's eyes again, bodies against each other, face so close you can feel her breath on your lips. You find yourself having to focus on controlling your breathing as she raises her right hand to your face. You can hear James arguing with them as they approach the door, and you brace yourself to move. 

Hesitating for a moment, you begin; however, instead of a forward motion, you move drastically to her left and lay your lips on her neck. She stretches away from you, looking at the ceiling as she moves her hand past your ear to grip the back of your head. You find yourself a little lost in the taste of her skin as you slowly move, then hearing the security panel activate, you move your right hand to her exposed thigh. 

As your fingers slide under the fabric of the slit, you notice her breath catch, causing you to tighten your grip. The sudden hum that escapes her throat immediately elicits the same effect in yours, taking you by surprise as the door opens. You glance at the USB, still glowing red, before you turn your head to the right, remaining in the same position and speaking towards the wall. 

“I recall specifically telling you that I did not want to be disturbed, James.”

It’s Allison who responds, irritation lacing her voice. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t be fucking around on the job.” 

“I’ll fuck around when and wherever I want.” 

You turn your head back towards Natasha’s shoulder, taking a glance at the computer just as you see the glow turn green. You plant another kiss on her shoulder, continuing to speak as you move your right hand from her thigh to her hip and lean forward slightly so that you can remove the USB from the computer. 

“But there is no need to be jealous, Allison.” 

As you turn to face the trio, you run your hand up Natasha’s back and tuck the USB into the band of her bra before running your fingers along her hair. 

“Excuse me for a moment here, darling.” 

You walk across the room towards the three standing at the door. Marcus and James have slight concern etched on their faces while Allison continues to look at Natasha. 

“James, I find myself disappointed in you, and trust me, you will not like what happens if you do that a second time. Get back to your post.”

“Yes, boss. Won't happen again.” 

He turns and leaves the room as you turn to the others. 

“Might you please remind me who Klein left in charge?” 

“That would be you, Jayce,” 

Marcus responds with a clearing of his throat as Allison turns her gaze back to you. You move to stand in front of her, only a step away. 

“But of course, you think it should have been you.” 

“I've been here for over a year; I should have been next in line when Alaris left.” 

She raises her arm, and you quickly catch her wrist in a firm grip. 

“Perhaps you should have done a better job of proving yourself then, mmm?” 

She moves to pull away from your grip while attempting to strike you with her free arm, and you easily block her. Quickly, you strike an elbow into her jaw and spin her in your grip before pinning her to the wall, one arm behind her back, with your knife now pulled from your belt and pressed into the wall beside her head. 

“You really need to learn to keep your attitude in check.” 

Moving the knife down to her shoulder, you slowly press in until drawing blood and slide back, leaving an inch-long cut. 

“Truly Allison. You should think about how to better prove yourself, because when Klein returns and finds out that you gave Jerimiah another 200 after I specifically told him no, well, let’s just say he’s not going to be very happy with you.” 

“How did you…” 

Before she finishes, you pull her back from the wall a couple of inches before pushing her back into it with force and kicking out her knee, letting her fall to the ground. 

“I, unlike some of us here, am actually good at my job.” 

You turn around, sheathing your knife, and throwing Natasha a roll of the eyes as you walk back towards her. 

“It was, ahhh, Niomi?” 

She stands from the desk. 

“Natalie.” 

“Right, Natalie, sorry. What do you say we take this back to my place, where we won’t get so rudely interrupted?” 

She simply nods coyly and takes your hand, both turning to leave as Allison stands from the floor.

“You think you can do better? Have at it. Close up for the night, and if I find anything out of place come morning, I'll show you what a real scar looks like.” 

Walking back out of the club and heading down toward the garage, you notice Marcus coming down behind you. 

“Just close up and head home as usual, Marcus. She shouldn't give you any trouble.” 

“I was just wondering, was there anything I could — I mean, should — have done differently, Jayce? I know I shouldn't really ask. I'm just really trying, and I want to do better. Be more like you.” 

You share a quick glance with Natasha as you approach the car. 

“Honestly, if you want to be more like me, then you're in the wrong place.” 

You open the passenger door for Natasha and close it behind her before turning to the young man. 

“Why do you even want to be in this business, Marcus?” 

“Well, I mean, you know I'm good with the books, and it's lucrative, so why not?” 

“Look, kid, I'm going to be straight with you for a minute, okay? You have some good skills and potential, but those can be put to good use in a lot of different areas, and you could do some good out there. So I'm just saying, if an opportunity presents itself, you should seriously consider it.” 

You placed a hand on his shoulder briefly before heading over to the driver's side and opening the door. 

“Oh, and Marcus?” 

“Yeah, boss?” 

“This conversation never happened.” 

He nodded, and you entered the car and drove away.

“Getting soft spots for criminals now, Jensen?” 

Natasha smirked as you drove. 

“I wouldn't call it that. But I would be lying if I said I didn't see a bit of myself in him.” 

******************************************************************

It didn't take long to get to your nearby apartment. Upon entry, you began to strip down, tossing articles of clothing onto the floor as you walked to the bedroom and removed the blanket. You pulled off and reset the sheet in a more disorganized position, and before removing your pants, now only in your underwear, Natasha spoke from her position leaning against the doorframe. 

“Always putting on a show.” 

You shrugged as you made your way to the closet, noting her gaze lingering on you. 

“Why not? They will look here eventually; might as well keep up the act as much as possible. You know, you could take that off and add to the ploy.” 

You sent a wink her way as you donned more casual attire. 

“I could. But I think you would enjoy it too much; best to keep free of distractions.” 

“You say that as if just being here isn't a distraction.” 

You purposefully avoid looking at her during the exchange. This style of banter is not out of the ordinary, but it was getting more difficult to keep a straight face. She simply watched as you finished your task, collecting the relay equipment from its hiding place inside the vent before emptying the gun magazine and leaving it on the counter with the knife, phone, and keys. You left through the fire escape in order to avoid the front door security cameras and walked a couple of blocks before hailing a cab and heading to the hotel.

Once you arrived, Natasha went to change and called to arrange transport back to DC while you made some tea. She exited the washroom wearing jeans and a simple red tank top, her hair tied up in a ponytail and cell phone tucked against her shoulder. You handed her a mug, and she nodded with a smile as you passed by, heading to the balcony with your own in hand. 

The early morning stillness was always something you enjoyed, as long as it was the end of a day and not the start of one. You realized you must have gotten quite used to standing on a balcony from your time at the club, as you naturally leaned against the rail. 

After a few minutes, Natasha joined you, advising that they had been able to reroute a nearby Quinjet, which would arrive in just a couple of hours. She stood a few steps away from you, leaning her back against the rail as she drank. You stood in silence for several minutes, simply breathing the fresh air before she spoke. 

“Can I ask you a question?” 

“You know you can, but whether or not I answer is another story.”

You turned your head to look at her as you replied with curiosity, wondering what it would be, as you could tell her tone was more serious in nature. She broke eye contact, looking up at the sky briefly before continuing to look forward. 

“I was just curious. Earlier in the office. Why didn’t you kiss me?” 

You couldn't help but release a small huff of amusement as you looked down. 

“It ah, certainly would have made sense.” 

“It would have. Probably even before the office.” 

“Maybe I wanted to minimize distractions.” 

“So my lips are a distraction, but my neck isn't?” 

She smirked as she looked at you this time, and you turned to face her, leaning a hip against the railing as you returned the look with a shrug of your shoulder. 

“Well, I guess you've got me there.” 

You paused for a moment as you considered your thoughts and took a breath. 

“I was going to, and then I, ah, I had a thought, and so then I didn't.” 

“What was the thought?” 

“Natasha…” You took another deep breath as you shook your head. “Why do you want to know so badly?” 

She crossed her arms and turned to face you, mirroring your position, hip against the rail. 

“I, ah, had a thought too. When it seemed like you were going to.” 

“Ah, I see, so you'll tell me if I tell you.” 

You gestured with your hands as she shrugged. 

“Only seems fair.” 

You continued to shake your head and turned again to face the room, leaning your back against the rail and taking a drink, looking up at the sky for a moment as you thought. 

“Because it was just a mission. An act we were putting on; something that had to be done. And I knew we needed to do something, but I couldn't shake the thought that I just... I didn't want our first kiss to be that—to be just a part of a mission.” 

“Our first kiss?” 

You tilted your head to look at her again. 

“I said what I said.” 

You watched her chest rise as she took a deep breath and then spoke, barely above a whisper. 

“I wanted you to.” 

She looked up at you, and you locked eyes as she continued more clearly. 

“The thought that I had when it seemed like you were going to—it was that I wanted you too.” 

“mmm, in the moment or in general?” 

She didn't respond at first; you just looked at each other for a couple of seconds before she pushed away from the rail, putting her cup on the table beside you and moving to stand in front of you. 

“Is this just a part of the mission?” 

she asked, her face stern as a flash of confusion crossed over yours.

“What?” 

Her demeanor broke as she scrunched her features slightly. 

“Right now. Here. Do you consider this a part of the mission?” 

You felt your heart beating as you realized what you thought she was implying, and as she ran her tongue along her lips, you found yourself having to swallow before you responded. 

“No. It isn't.” 

You only managed to stand up from your lean before she closed the distance between you, running her hand across your cheek as she leaned forward, pausing for only a second before making contact.

Her lips moved slowly against yours in the moment before you reacted, your free hand reaching for her hip and pushing harder against her. Tender yet fierce you moved firmly against each other, the tension of the last few years finally released. 

Lost in the heat of the moment for only a minute before the need to touch her overtook you, you pushed your body forward a step, causing her to stumble back slightly, gripping your hip to stabilize herself. You pulled away for air and leaned to place your cup onto the table, finding yourself distracted enough that it tipped to its side rather loudly, causing you both to smile and huff. 

Your attention turned back to her as you raised your now free hand to her face, running your thumb along her jawline. Silent for a moment, you simply took in her features in a way that you had stopped yourself from doing since you first met. As your hand completed its trip across her face, you moved it to the back of her neck and lightly pulled her back towards you. 

You wouldn't even be able to estimate the number of times you had thought about this moment. Yet it was like nothing you could have imagined—the feeling of her body against yours, her lips smooth and full, the softness of her skin and hair in your hand, her grip as her hand slid up your back. You found yourself completely lost in the moment, hearing only the rapid thumping of your hearts. 

Unsure how many minutes passed before the sudden ringing of the phone startled you. Pulling apart, your foreheads leaned against each other to breathe, she was the first to speak. 

“That's probably the notice that our car has arrived.” 

“Yeah. We should. probably get it.” 

“Yeah. We probably. should.” 

You pulled away enough to look into each other's eyes again as you moved a stray hair behind her ear and softly declared, 

“First kiss?” 

She smiled and nodded. 

“Yeah. Just the first one.”

[esmerxyaugusta]

[ maria coming back from a mission ]

nat: are you okay? are you hurt?

maria: *shaking her head* but i think i need sleep

nat: what, why? we have a date tonight *pouts*

maria: blood loss

nat: I THOUGHT YOU SAID YOU WEREN'T INJURED

maria: i mean my period, vagina blood loss